transcriber's note: minor spelling inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been harmonised. obvious printer errors have been repaired. accents: in french sentences, most of them italicised, accents have been added when necessary according to the french spelling of the time. in an english context, french words have no accents if there are no accents in the original text. in case of an inconsistent use of accents, the french spelling has been favoured. the advertisement for other books in the series have been removed from page to the end of this e-book. _the story of paris_ [illustration: _winged victory of samothrace._] the story of paris _by thomas okey_ _with illustrations by_ _katherine kimball_ _london: j.m. dent & sons ltd. aldine house, - bedford street covent garden, w.c. * * * new york: e.p. dutton & co.-- _ _first edition, _ _reprinted, ; july, _ "i will not forget this, that i can never mutinie so much against france but i must needes looke on paris with a favourable eye: it hath my hart from my infancy; whereof it hath befalne me, as of excellent things, the more other faire and stately cities i have seene since, the more hir beauty hath power and doth still usurpingly gaine upon my affections. i love that citie for hir own sake, and more in hir only subsisting and owne being, than when it is fall fraught and embellished with forraine pompe and borrowed garish ornaments. i love hir so tenderly that hir spottes, her blemishes and hir warts are deare unto me. i am no perfect french man but by this great citie, great in people, great in regard of the felicitie of hir situation, but above all great and incomparable in varietie and diversitie of commodities; the glory of france and one of the noblest and chiefe ornaments of the world. god of his mercy free hir and chase away all our divisions from hir. so long as she shall continue, so long shall i never want a home or a retreat to retire and shrowd myselfe at all times." --montaigne. "quand dieu eslut nonante et dix royaumes tot le meillor torna en douce france." couronnement loys. preface in recasting _paris and its story_ for issue in the "mediæval towns series," opportunity has been taken of revising the whole and of adding a second part, wherein we have essayed the office of cicerone. obviously in so vast a range of study as that afforded by the city of paris, compression and selection have been imperative: we have therefore limited our guidance to such routes and edifices as seemed to offer the more important objects of historic and artistic interest, excluding from our purview, with much regret, the works of contemporary artists. on the louvre, as the richest thesaurus of beautiful things in europe, we have dwelt at some length and even so it has been possible only to deal broadly with its contents. a book has, however, this advantage over a corporeal guide; it can be curtly dismissed without fear of offence, when antipathy may impel the traveller to pass by, or sympathy invite him to linger over, the various objects indicated to his gaze. in a city where change is so constant and the housebreaker's pick so active, any work dealing with monuments of the past must needs soon become imperfect. since the publication of _paris and its story_ in the autumn of , a picturesque group of old houses in the rue de l'arbre sec, including the hôtel des mousquetaires, the traditional lodging of dumas' d'artagnan, has been swept away and a monstrous mass of engineering is now reared on its site: even as we write other demolitions of historic buildings are in progress. care has, however, been taken to bring this little work up to date and our constant desire has been to render it useful to the inexperienced visitor to paris. success in so complicated and difficult a task can be but partial, and in this as in so many of life's aims "our wills," as good sir thomas browne says, "must be our performances, and our intents make out our actions; otherwise our pious labours shall find anxiety in our graves and our best endeavours not hope, but fear, a resurrection." it now remains to acknowledge our indebtedness to the following, among other authorities, which are here set down to obviate the necessity for repeated footnotes, and to indicate to readers who may desire to pursue the study of the history and art of paris in more detail, some works among the enormous mass of literature on the subject that will repay perusal. for the general history of france, the monumental _histoire de france_ now in course of publication, edited by e. lavisse; michelet's _histoire de france_, _recits de l'histoire de france_, and _procès des templiers_; victor duruy, _histoire de france_; the cheap and admirable selection of authorities in the seventeen volumes of the _histoire de france racontée par les contemporains_, edited by b. zeller; _carl faulmann, illustrirte geschichte der buchdruckerkunst_; the chronicles of gregory of tours, richer, abbo, joinville, villani, froissart, de comines; _géographie historique_, by a. guerard; froude's essay on the templars; _jeanne d'arc, maid of orleans_, by t. douglas murray; _paris sous philip le bel_, edited by h. geraud. for the later monarchy, the revolutionary and napoleonic periods, the histories of carlyle, mignet, michelet and louis blanc; the _origines de la france contemporaine_, by taine; the _cambridge modern history_, vol. viii.; the memoirs of the duc de st. simon, of madame campan, madame vigée-lebrun, camille desmoulins, madame roland and paul louis courier; the _journal de perlet_; _histoire de la société française pendant la révolution_, by j. de goncourt; goethe's _die campagne in frankreich_, ; _légendes et archives de la bastille_, by f. funck brentano; life of napoleon i., by j. holland rose; _l'europe et la révolution française_, by albert sorel; the periodical, _la révolution française_; _contemporary american opinion of the french revolution_, by c.d. hazen. for the particular history of paris, the exhaustive and comprehensive _histoire de la ville de paris_, by michel félibien and guy alexis lobineau; the so-called _journal d'un bourgeois de paris_, edited by l. lalanne; _paris pendant la domination anglaise_, by a. longnon; the more modern _paris à travers les ages_, by m.f. hoffbauer, e. fournier and others; the _topographie historique du vieux paris_, by a. berty and h. legrand, and other works now issued or in course of publication by the ville de paris. howell's _familiar letters_, coryat's _crudities_, evelyn's _diary_, and sir samuel romilly's _letters_, contain useful matter. for the chapters on historical paris, e. fournier's _promenade historique dans paris_, _chronique des rues de paris_, _Énigmes des rues de paris_; the marquis de rochegude's _guide pratique à travers le vieux paris_; the _dictionnaire historique de paris_, by g. pessard, and the excellent _nouvel itinéraire guide artistique et archéologique de paris_, by c. normand, published by the _société des amis des monuments parisiens_. for french art, félibien's _entretiens_; the writings of lady dilke; _french painting in the sixteenth century_, by l. dimier; _histoire de l'art, peinture, École française_, by cazes d'aix and j. bérard; the compendious _history of modern painting_, by r. muther; _the great french painters_, by c. mauclair; _la sculpture française_, by l. gonse; _mediæval art_, by w.r. lethaby; the catalogue of the _exposition des primitifs français_ ( ); _le peinture en europe, le louvre_, by lafenestre and richtenberger, and the official catalogues of the louvre collections. all these have been largely drawn upon and supplemented by affectionate memories of an acquaintance with paris and many of its citizens dating back for more than thirty years. may we add a last word of practical counsel. distances in paris are great, and the traveller who would economise time and reduce fatigue will do well to bargain with his host to be free to take the mid-day meal wherever his journeyings may lead him. _april, ._ preface to the second edition the demolition of old paris has proceeded apace since the publication of the _story of paris_ in . the tower of dagobert; the old academy of medicine; the annexe of the hôtel dieu and a whole street, the rue du petit pont; the hôtel of the provost of paris--all have fallen under the housebreakers' picks. as we write the curious vaulted entrance to the old charnel houses of st paul is being swept away and the revision of this little book has been a melancholy task to a lover of historic paris. part ii. of the work has been brought up to date and the changes in the louvre noted: it is much to be regretted that the new edition of the official catalogue of the foreign schools of painting promised by the authorities in has not yet seen the light. _may, ._ contents page _introduction_ part i.: the story chapter i _gallo-roman paris_ chapter ii _the barbarian invasions--st. genevieve--the conversion of clovis--the merovingian dynasty_ chapter iii _the carlovingians--the great siege of paris by the normans--the germs of feudalism_ chapter iv _the rise of the capetian kings and the growth of feudal paris_ chapter v _paris under philip augustus and st. louis_ chapter vi _art and learning at paris_ chapter vii _conflict with boniface viii.--the states-general--the destruction of the knights-templars--the parlement_ chapter viii _Étienne marcel--the english invasions--the maillotins--murder of the duke of orleans--armagnacs and burgundians_ chapter ix _jeanne d'arc--paris under the english--end of the english occupation_ chapter x _louis xi. at paris--the introduction of printing_ chapter xi _francis i.--the renaissance at paris_ chapter xii _rise of the guises--huguenot and catholic--the massacre of st. bartholomew_ chapter xiii _henry iii.--the league--siege of paris by henry iv.--his conversion, reign and assassination_ chapter xiv _paris under richelieu and mazarin_ chapter xv _the grand monarque--versailles and paris_ chapter xvi _paris under the regency and louis xv.--the brooding storm_ chapter xvii _louis xvi.--the great revolution--fall of the monarchy_ chapter xviii _execution of the king--paris under the first republic--the terror--napoleon--revolutionary and modern paris_ part ii.: the city section i _the cité--notre dame--the sainte chapelle--the palais de justice_ section ii _st. julien le pauvre--st. sévérin--the quartier latin_ section iii _École des beaux arts--st. germain des prés--cour du dragon--st. sulpice--the luxembourg--the odéon--the cordeliers--the surgeons' guild--the musée cluny--the sorbonne--the panthéon--st. Étienne du mont--tour clovis--wall of philip augustus--roman amphitheatre_ section iv _the louvre--sculpture: ground floor_ section v _the louvre (continued)--pictures: first floor_ section vi _the ville (s. of the rue st. antoine)--the hôtel de ville--st. gervais--hôtel beauvais--hôtel of the provost of paris--ss. paul and louis--hôtel de mayenne--site of the bastille--bibliothèque de l'arsenal--hôtel fieubert--hôtel de sens--isle st. louis_ section vii _the ville (n. of the rue st. antoine)--tour st. jacques--rue st. martin--st. merri--rue de venise--les billettes--hôtels de soubise, de hollande, de rohan--musée carnavalet--place royale--musée victor hugo--hôtel de sully_ section viii _rue st. denis--fontaine des innocents--tower of jean sans peur--cour des miracles--st. eustache--the halles--st. germain l'auxerrois_ section ix _palais royal--théâtre français--gardens and cafés of the palais royal--palais mazarin (bibliothèque nationale)--st. roch--vendôme column--tuileries gardens--place de la concorde--champs Élysées_ section x _the basilica of st. denis and the monuments of the kings, queens and princes of france_ _index_ illustrations _the winged victory of samothrace (photogravure) frontispiece_ _map of the successive walls of paris_ _facing_ _the cité_ _remains of roman amphitheatre_ _tower of clovis_ _st. germain des prés_ _st. julien le pauvre_ _st. germain l'auxerrois_ _wall of philippe auguste, cour de rouen_ _la sainte chapelle_ _refectory of the cordeliers_ _notre dame and petit pont_ _tower in rue valette in which calvin is said to have lived_ _palace of the archbishop of sens_ _palais de justice, clock tower and conciergerie_ _tower of jean sans peur_ _tower of st. jacques_ _pont notre dame_ _chapel, hôtel de cluny_ _tower of st. Étienne du mont_ _la fontaine des innocents_ _west wing of louvre by pierre lescot_ _tritons and nereids from the old fontaine des innocents_ (_jean goujon_) " _catherine de' medici_ (_french school_) _petite galerie of the louvre_ _hôtel de sully_ _old houses near pont st. michel, showing spire of the ste. chapelle_ _the medici fountain, luxembourg gardens_ _pont neuf_ _the institut de france_ _portion of the east façade of the louvre, from blondel's drawing_ (_reproduced by permission of m. lampue_) " _river and pont royal_ _south door of notre dame_ _hôtel de ville from river_ _chapel of château at vincennes_ _near the pont neuf_ _notre dame--portal of st. anne_ _notre dame--south side_ _notre dame--south side from the seine_ _st. sévérin_ _old academy of medicine_ _interior of notre dame_ _cour de dragon_ _tower and courtyard of hôtel cluny_ _arches in the courtyard of the hôtel cluny_ _interior of st. Étienne du mont_ _diana and the stag_ (_jean goujon_) " _st. george and the dragon_ (_m. colombe_) " _triptych of moulins_ (_maître de moulins_) " _portrait of elizabeth of austria_ (_françois clouet_) _facing_ _shepherds of arcady_ (_poussin_) " _landing of cleopatra at tarsus_ (_lorrain_) " _embarkation for the island of cythera_ (_watteau_) " _grace before meat_ (_chardin_) " _madame récamier_ (_david_) " _the binders_ (_millet_) " _landscape_ (_corot_) " _st. gervais_ _hôtel of the provost of paris_ _west door of st. merri_ _cloister of the billettes, fifteenth century_ _archives nationales, hôtel soubise, showing towers of hôtel de clisson_ _tower at the corner of the rue vieille du temple_ _place des vosges, maison de victor hugo_ _cathedral of st. denis_ _plan of paris_ " _the majority of the photographs of sculpture have been taken by messrs._ haweis and coles, _while most of the other photographs are reproduced by permission of messrs._ giraudon. [illustration: map of the successive walls of paris.] introduction the history of paris, says michelet, is the history of the french monarchy: "paris, france and the dukes and kings of the french, are three ideas," says freeman, "which can never be kept asunder." the aim of the writer in the following pages has been to narrate the story of the capital city of france on the lines thus indicated. moreover, men are ever touched by "sad stories of the death of kings," the pomp and majesty and the fate of princes. by a pathetic fallacy their capacity to suffer is measured by their apparent power to enjoy, and those are moved to tears by the spectacle of a dauphin surrendered to the coarse and brutal tutelage of a sans-culotte, who read without emotion of thousands of huguenot children torn from their mothers' arms and flung to the novercal cruelties of strangers in blood and creed. in the earlier chapters the legendary aspect of the story has been drawn upon rather more perhaps than an austere historical conscience would approve, but it is precisely a familiarity with these romantic stories, which at least are true in impression if not in fact, that the sojourner in paris will find most useful, translated as they are in sculpture and in painting, on the decoration of her architecture, both modern and ancient, and implicit in the nomenclature of her ways. the story of paris presents a marked contrast with that of an italian city-state whose rise, culmination and fall may be roundly traced. paris is yet in the stage of lusty growth. time after time, like a young giantess, she has burst her cincture of walls, cast off her outworn garments and renewed her armour and vesture. hers are no grass-grown squares and deserted streets; no ruined splendours telling of pride abased and glory departed; no sad memories of waning cities once the mistresses of sea and land; none of the tears evoked by a great historic tragedy; none of the solemn pathos of decay and death. paris has more than once tasted the bitterness of humiliation; norseman and briton, russian and german have bruised her fair body; the dire distress of civic strife has exhausted her strength, but she has always emerged from her trials with marvellous recuperation, more flourishing than before. since , when the city, crushed under a twofold calamity of foreign invasion and of internecine war, seemed doomed to bleed away to feeble insignificance, her prosperity has so increased that house rent has doubled and population risen from , , in to , , in . the growth of paris from the settlement of an obscure gallic tribe to the most populous, the most cultured, the most artistic, the most delightful and seductive of continental cities has been prodigious, yet withal she has maintained her essential unity, her corporate sense and peculiar individuality. paris, unlike london, has never expatiated to the effacement of her distinctive features and the loss of civic consciousness. the city has still a definite outline and circumference, and over her gates to-day one may read, _entrée de paris_. the parisian is, and always has been, conscious of his citizenship, proud of his city, careful of her beauty, jealous of her reputation. the essentials of parisian life remain unchanged since mediæval times. busy multitudes of alert, eager burgesses crowd her streets; ten thousand students stream from the provinces, from europe, and even from the uttermost parts of the earth, to eat of the bread of knowledge at her university. the old collegiate life is gone, but the arts and sciences are freely taught as of old to all comers; and a lowly peasant lad may carry in his satchel the portfolio of a prime minister or the insignia of a president of the republic, even as his mediæval prototype bore a bishop's mitre or a cardinal's hat. the boisterous exuberance of youthful spirits still vents itself in rowdy student life to the scandal of bourgeois placidity, and the poignant self-revelation and gnawing self-reproach of a françois villon find their analogue in the pathetic verse of a paul verlaine. beneath the fair and ordered surface of the normal life of paris still sleep the fiery passions which, from the days of the maillotins to those of the commune, have throughout the crises of her history ensanguined her streets with the blood of citizens.[ ] let us remember, however, when contrasting the modern history of paris with that of london, that the questions which have stirred her citizens have been not party but dynastic ones, often complicated and embittered by social and religious principles ploughing deep in the human soul, for which men have cared enough to suffer, and to inflict, death. [footnote : "_faudra recommencer_" ("we must begin again"), said, to the present writer in , a communist refugee bearing a great scar on his face from a wound received fighting at the barricades.] those writers who are pleased to trace the permanency of racial traits through the life of a people dwell with satisfaction on passages in ancient authors who describe the gauls as quick to champion the cause of the oppressed, prone to war, elated by victory, impatient of defeat, easily amenable to the arts of peace, responsive to intellectual culture; terrible, indefatigable orators but bad listeners, so intolerant of their speakers that at tribal gatherings an official charged to maintain silence would march, sword in hand, towards an interrupter, and after a third warning cut off a portion of his dress. if the concurrent testimony of writers, ancient, mediæval and modern, be of any worth, gallic vanity is beyond dispute. dante, expressing the prevailing belief of his age, exclaims, "now, was there ever people so vain as the sienese! certes not the french by far."[ ] of their imperturbable gaiety and their avidity for new things we have ample testimony, and the course of this story will demonstrate that france, and more especially paris, has ever been, from the establishment of christianity to the birth of the modern world at the revolution, the parent or the fosterer of ideas, the creator of arts, the soldier of the ideal. she has always evinced a wondrous preventive apprehension of coming changes. sir henry maine has shown in his _ancient law_ that the idea of kingship created by the accession of the capetian dynasty revolutionised the whole fabric of society, and that "when the feudal prince of a limited territory surrounding paris began ... to call himself _king of france_, he became king in quite a new sense." the earliest of the western people beyond rome to adopt christianity, she had established a monastery near tours, a century and a half before st. benedict, the founder of western monasticism, had organised his first community at subiaco. in the middle ages paris became the intellectual light of the christian world. from the time of the centralisation of the monarchy at paris she absorbed in large measure the vital forces of the nation, and all that was greatest in art, science and literature was drawn within her walls, until in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, she became the centre of learning, taste and culture in europe.[ ] "alone of the capitals of modern europe," said freeman, "paris can claim to have been the creator of the state of which it is now the head." the same authority bears witness to the unique position held by france in her generous and liberal treatment of new subjects, and the late historian, mr. c.a. fyffe, told the writer that when travelling in alsace in the inhabitants of that province, so essentially german in race, were passionately attached to france, and more than once he heard a peasant exclaim, unable even to express himself in french: "_nimmer will ich deutsch sein._" [footnote : _inf._ xxix. - . a french commentator consoles himself by reflecting that the author of the _divina commedia_ is far more vituperative when dealing with certain italian peoples, whom he designates as hogs, curs, wolves and foxes.] [footnote : cobbett, comparing the relative intellectual culture of the british isles and of france between the years and , found that of the writers on the arts and sciences who were distinguished by a place in the _universal, historical, critical and bibliographical dictionary_, one hundred and thirty belonged to england, scotland and ireland, and six hundred and seventy-six to france.] during the first empire and the restoration, after the tempest was stilled and the great heritage of the revolution taken possession of, an amazing outburst of scientific, artistic and literary activity made paris the _ville lumière_ of europe. she is still the city where the things of the mind and of taste have most place, where the wheels of life run most smoothly and pleasantly, where the graces and refinements and amenities of social existence, _l'art des plaisirs fins_, are most highly developed and most widely diffused. there is something in the crisp, luminous air of paris that quickens the intelligence and stimulates the senses. even the scent of the wood fires as one emerges from the railway station exhilarates the spirit. the poet heine used to declare that the traveller could estimate his proximity to paris by noting the increasing intelligence of the people, and that the very bayonets of the soldiers were more intelligent than those elsewhere. life, even in its more sensuous and material phases, is less gross and coarse,[ ] its pleasures more refined than in london. it is impossible to conceive the pit of a london theatre stirred to fury by an innovation in diction in a poetical drama, or to imagine anything comparable to the attitude of a parisian audience at the cheap holiday performances at the français or the odéon, where the severe classic tragedies of racine, of corneille, of victor hugo, or the well-worn comedies of molière or of beaumarchais are played with small lure of stage upholstery, and listened to with close attention by a popular audience responsive to the exquisite rhythm and grace of phrasing, the delicate and restrained tragic pathos, and the subtle comedy of their great dramatists. to witness a _première_ at the français is an intellectual feast. the brilliant house; the pit and stalls filled with black-coated critics; the quick apprehension of the points and happy phrases; the universal and excited discussion between the acts; the atmosphere of keen and alert intelligence pervading the whole assembly; the quaint survival of the time-honoured "overture"--three knocks on the boards--dating back to roman times when the prologus of the comedy stepped forth and craved the attention of the audience by three taps of his wand; the chief actor's approach to the front of the stage after the play is ended to announce to mesdames and messieurs what in these days they have known for weeks before from the press, that "the piece we have had the honour of playing" is by such a one--all combine to make an indelible impression on the mind of the foreign spectator. [footnote : "nous cuisinons même l'amour."--taine.] the parisian is the most orderly and well-behaved of citizens. the custom of the _queue_ is a spontaneous expression of his love of fairness and order. even the applause in theatres is organised. a spectacle such as that witnessed at the funeral of victor hugo in , the most solemn and impressive of modern times, is inconceivable in london. the whole population (except the faubourg st. germain and the clergy) from the poorest labourer to the heads of the state issued forth to file past the coffin of their darling poet, lifted up under the arc de triomphe, and by their multitudinous presence honoured his remains borne on a poor bare hearse to their last resting-place in the panthéon. amid this vast crowd, mainly composed of labourers, mechanics and the _petite bourgeoisie_, assembled to do homage to the memory of the poet of democracy, scarcely an _agent_ was seen; the people were their own police, and not a rough gesture, not a trace of disorder marred the sublime scene. the parisian democracy is the most enlightened and the most advanced in europe, and as of old the netherlanders, in their immortal fight for freedom against the monstrous and appalling tyranny of spain, were stirred to heroic deeds by the psalms of clément marot, even so to-day, where a few desperate and devoted men are moved to wrestle with a brutal despotism, the marseillaise is their battle hymn. it is to paris that the dearest hopes and deepest sympathies of generous spirits will ever go forth in "the struggle, and the daring rage divine for liberty, of aspirations toward the far ideal, enthusiast dreams of brotherhood." "siede parigi in una gran pianura, nell' ombilico a francia, anzi nel core. gli passa la riviera entro le mura, e corre, ed esce in altra parte fuore; ma fa un' isola prima, e v'assicura della città una parte, e la migliore: l'altre due (ch' in tre parti è la gran terra) di fuor la fossa, e dentro il fiume serra." _orlando furioso_, canto xiv. part i.: the story chapter i _gallo-roman paris_ the mediæval scribe in the fulness of a divinely-revealed cosmogony is wont to begin his story at the creation of the world or at the confusion of tongues, to trace the building of troy by the descendants of japheth, and the foundation of his own native city by one of the trojan princes made a fugitive in europe by proud ilion's fall. such, he was very sure, was the origin of padua, founded by antenor and by priam, son of king priam, whose grandson, yet another priam, by his great valour and wisdom became the monarch of a mighty people, called from their fair hair, galli or gallici. and of the strong city built on the little island in the seine who could have been its founder but the ravisher of fair helen--sir paris himself? the naïve etymology of the time was evidence enough. but the modern writer, as he compares the geographical position of the capitals of europe, is tempted to exclaim, _cherchez le marchand!_ for he perceives that their unknown founders were dominated by two considerations--facilities for commerce and protection from enemies: and before the era of the roman road-makers, commerce meant facilities for water carriage. as the early settlers in britain sailed up the thames, they must have observed, where the river's bed begins somewhat to narrow, a hill rising from the continuous expanse of marshes from its mouth, easily defended on the east and west by those fortified posts which, in subsequent times, became the tower of london and barnard's castle, and if we scan a map of france, we shall see that the group of islands on and around which paris now stands, lies in the fruitful basin of the seine, known as the isle de france, near the convergence of three rivers; for on the east the marne, on the west the oise, and on the south the yonne, discharge their waters into the main stream on its way to the sea. in ancient times the great line of phoenician, greek and roman commerce followed northwards the valleys of the rhone and of the saone, whose upper waters are divided from those of the yonne only by the plateau of dijon and the calcareous slopes of burgundy. the parisii were thus admirably placed for tapping the profitable commerce of north-west europe, and by the waters of the eure, lower down the seine, were able to touch the fertile valley of the loire. the northern rivers of gaul were all navigable by the small boats of the early traders, and, in contrast with the impetuous sweep of the rhone and the loire in the south and west, flowed with slow and measured stream:[ ] they were rarely flooded, and owing to the normally mild winters, still more rarely blocked by ice. moreover, the parisian settlement stood near the rich cornland of la beauce, and to the north-east, over the open plain of la valois, lay the way to flanders. it was one of the river stations on the line of the phoenician traders in tin, that most precious and rare of ancient metals, between marseilles and britain, and in the early middle ages became, with lyons and beaucaire, one of the chief fairs of that historic trade route which the main lines of railway traffic still follow to-day. the island now known as the cité, which the founders of paris chose for their stronghold, was the largest of the group which lay involved in the many windings of the seine, and was embraced by a natural moat of deep waters. to north and south lay hills, marshes and forests, and all combined to give it a position equally adapted for defence and for commerce. [footnote : the seine takes five hours to flow through the seven miles of modern paris.] [illustration: the citÉ.] the parisii were a small tribe of gauls whose island city was the home of a prosperous community of shipmen and merchants, but it is not until the conquest of gaul by the romans that lutetia, for such was its romanised name, joins the great pageant of history. it was-- "armèd cæsar falcon-eyed,"[ ] who saw its great military importance, built a permanent camp there and made it a central _entrepôt_ for food and munitions of war. and when in b.c. the general rising of the tribes under vercingétorix threatened to scour the romans out of gaul and to destroy the whole fabric of cæsar's ambition, he sent his favourite lieutenant, labienus, to seize lutetia where the northern army of the gauls was centred. labienus crossed the seine at melun, fixed his camp on a spot near the position of the church of st. germain l'auxerrois, and began the first of the historic sieges for which paris is so famous. but the gaulish commander burnt the bridges, fired the city, and took up his position on the slopes of the hill of lutetius (st. genevieve) in the south, and aimed at crushing his enemy between his own forces and an army advancing from the north. labienus having learnt that cæsar was in a tight place, owing to a check at clermont and the defection of the eduans, by a masterly piece of engineering recrossed the seine by night at the point du jour, where the double viaduct of the girdle railway crosses to-day, and when the gauls awoke in the morning they beheld the bannered host of the roman legions in battle array on the plain of grenelle beneath. they made a desperate attempt to drive them against the river, but they lost their leader and were almost annihilated by the superior arms and strategy of the romans. labienus was able to join his master at sens, and the irrevocable subjugation of the gauls soon followed. with the tolerant and enlightened conquerors came the roman peace, roman law, roman roads, the roman schoolmaster; and a more humane religion abolished the druidical sacrifices. lutetia was rebuilt and became a prosperous and, next to lyons, the most important of gallo-roman cities. it lay equidistant from germany and britain and at the issue of valleys which led to the upper and lower rhine. the quarries of mount lutetius produced an admirable building stone, kind to work and hardening well under exposure to the air, whose white colour may have won for paris the name of leucotia, or the white city, by which it is sometimes known to ancient writers. cæsar had done his work well, for so completely were the gauls romanised, that by the fifth or sixth century their very language had disappeared.[ ] [footnote : "_cesare armato con gli occhi grifani._"--_inferno_, iv. .] [footnote : of some , ancient inscriptions found in gaul, only twenty are in celtic, and less than thirty words of celtic origin now remain in the french language.] but towards the end of the third century three lowly wayfarers were journeying from rome along the great southern road to paris, charged by the pope with a mission fraught with greater issues to gaul than were the cæsars and all their legions. let us recall somewhat of the appearance of the city which dionysius, rusticus and eleutherius saw as they neared its suburbs and came down what is now known as the rue st. jacques. after passing the arches of the aqueduct, two of which exist to this day, that crossed the valley of arcueil and brought the waters of rungis,[ ] paray and montjean to the baths of the imperial palace and the public fountains, they would discern on the hill of lutetius to their right, the roman camp, garrison and cemetery. lower down to the east they would catch a glimpse of a great amphitheatre, capable of accommodating , spectators.[ ] [footnote : the water supply of paris is even now partly derived from these sources, and flows along the old repaired roman aqueduct.] [footnote : part of this amphitheatre was laid bare in by some excavations made for the compagnie des omnibus between the rues monge and linné. unhappily, the public subscription initiated by the académie des inscriptions to purchase the property proved inadequate, and the company retained possession of the land. in , however, other excavations were undertaken in the rue de navarre, which resulted in the discovery of other remains of the amphitheatre which have been preserved and made into a public park.] [illustration: remains of roman amphitheatre.] on their left, where now stands the lycée st. louis, would be the theatre of lutetia, and further on, the imposing and magnificent palace of the cæsars, with its gardens sloping down to the seine. the turbulent little stream of the bièvre flowed by the foot of mons lutetius on the east, entering the main river opposite the eastern limit of the _civitas_ of lutetia, gleaming white before them and girdled by the waters of the seine. a narrow eel-shaped island, subsequently known as the isle de galilée, lay between the isle of the cité and the southern bank; two islands, the isles de notre dame and des vaches, divided by a narrow channel to the east, and two eyots, the isles des juifs and de bussy, to the west. another islet, the isle de javiaux or de louviers, lay near the northern bank beyond the two eastern islands. crossing a wooden bridge, where now stands the petit pont, they would enter the forum under a triumphal arch. here would be the very foyer of the city; a little way to the left the prefect's palace and the basilica, or hall of justice;[ ] to the right the temple of jupiter. as they crossed the island they would find it linked to the northern bank by another wooden bridge (the grand pont) replaced by the present pont notre dame.[ ] in the distance to the north stood mons martis (montmartre), villas nestling on its slopes and crowned with the temples of mars and mercury, four of whose columns are preserved in the church of st. pierre: to the west the aqueduct from passy bringing its waters to the mineral baths located on the site of the present palais royal. a road, now the rue st. martin, led to the north; to the east, fed by the streams of menilmontant and belleville, lay the marshy land which is still known as the quarter of the marais. [footnote : in some remains were found of the old halls of this building, and of its columns, worn by the ropes of the boatmen who used to moor their craft to them. in fragments of the triumphal arch were found in digging the foundations of the new hôtel dieu.] [footnote : in a new bridge was built east of the grand pont by charles the bold and defended by a tower at its head. the money-changers were established on the bridge by louis vi., and it became known subsequently as the pont au change.] denis, who by the mediæval hagiographers is invariably confused with dionysius the areopagite, and his companions, preached and taught the new faith unceasingly and met martyrs' deaths. in the _golden legend_ he is famed to have converted much people to the faith, and "dyde do make many churches, and at length was brought before the judge who dyde do smyte off the hedes of the thre felawes by the temple of mercurye. and anone the body of saynte denys reysed hymselfe up and bare his hede beetwene his armes, as the angels ladde hym two leghes fro the place which is sayd the hille of the martyrs unto the place where he now resteth by his election and the purveance of god. and there was heard so grete and swete a melodye of angels that many that herd it byleuyd in oure lorde." the work that denis and his companions began was more fully achieved in the fourth century by the rude pannonion soldier, st. martin, who also evangelised at paris. he is the best-known of gallic saints, and the story of his conversion one of the most popular in christendom. when stationed at amiens he was on duty one bitter cold day at the city gate, and espied a poor naked beggar asking alms. soldiers in garrison are notoriously impecunious, and martin had nothing to give; but drawing his sword he cleaved his mantle in twain, and bestowed half upon the shivering wretch at his feet. that very night the lord jesus appeared to him in a dream surrounded by angels, having on his shoulders the half of the cloak which martin had given to the beggar. turning to the angels, jesus said: "know ye who hath thus arrayed me? my servant martin, though yet unbaptised, hath done this." after this vision martin received baptism and remained steadfast in the faith. the illiterate and dauntless soldier became the fiery apostle of the faith, a vigorous iconoclast, throwing down the images of the false gods, breaking their altars in pieces and burning their temples. of the roman gods, mercury, he said, was most difficult to ban, but jove was merely stupid[ ] and brutish, and gave him least trouble. [footnote : "_jovem brutum atque hebetem._"] on the th of march , some workmen, digging a burial crypt for the archbishops of paris under the choir of notre dame, came upon a wall, six feet below the pavement, which contemporary antiquarians believed to be the wall of the original christian basilica over which the cathedral was built, but which modern authorities affirm to have been part of the old gallo-roman wall of the cité. in the fabric of this wall the early builders had incorporated the remains of a temple of jupiter, and among the _débris_ were found the fragments of an altar raised to jove in the reign of tiberius cæsar by the _nautæ_, a guild of parisian merchant-shippers, and the table of another altar on whose foyer still remained some of the very burnt wood and incense used in the last pagan sacrifice. the mutilated stones, with their rude gallo-roman reliefs and inscriptions,[ ] may be seen in the frigidarium of the thermæ, the old roman baths by the hôtel de cluny, and are among the most interesting of historical documents in paris. the corporation of _nautæ parisiaci_, one of the most powerful of the guilds, among whose members were enrolled the chief citizens of lutetia, who dedicated this altar to jove, were the origin of the commune or civil council of paris, whose provost[ ] was known as late as the fourteenth century as the _prévôt des marchands d'eau_. their device was the _nef_, or ship, which is and has been throughout the ages, the arms of paris, and which to this day may be seen carved on the vaultings of the roman baths. [footnote : on the former may still be read: tib ... caesare avg. iovi. optvm ... maxsvmo. aram. navtae. parisiaci pvblice. posiervnt.] [footnote : not to be confounded with the royal provost, a king's officer, who in replaced the capetian viscounts. the office was abolished in .] in the great palace of which these baths formed but a part was enacted that scene so vividly described in the pages of gibbon,[ ] when, in , julian, after his victories over the alemanni and the franks, was acclaimed augustus by the rebellious troops of constantius. he had admonished the sullen legions, angry at being detached from their victorious and darling commander for service on the persian frontier, and had urged them to obedience, but at midnight the young cæsar was awakened by a clamorous and armed multitude besieging the palace, and at early dawn its doors were forced; the reluctant julian was seized and carried through the streets in triumph, lifted on a shield, and for diadem crowned with a military collar, to be enthroned and saluted as emperor. in after life the emperor-philosopher looked back with tender regret to the three winters he spent in paris before his elevation to the imperial responsibilities and anxieties. he writes of the busy days and meditative nights he passed in his dear lutetia, with its two wooden bridges, its pure and pleasant waters, its excellent wine. he dwells on the mildness of its climate, where the fig-tree, protected by straw in the winter, grew and fruited. one rigorous season, however, the emperor well remembered[ ] when the seine was blocked by huge masses of ice. julian, who prided himself on his endurance, at first declined the use of those charcoal fires which to this day are a common and deadly method of supplying heat in paris. but his rooms were damp and his servants were allowed to introduce them into his sleeping apartment. the cæsar was almost asphyxiated by the fumes, and his physicians to restore him administered an emetic. julian in his time was beloved of the lutetians, for he was a just and tolerant prince whose yoke was easy. he had purged the soil of gaul from the barbarian invaders, given lutetia peace and security, and made of it an important, imperial city. his statue, found near paris, still recalls his memory in the hall of the great baths of the lutetia he loved so well. [footnote : french authorities believe the scene to have been enacted in the old palace of the cité.] [footnote : the present writer recalls a similar glacial epoch in paris during the early eighties, when the seine was frozen over at christmas time.] the so-called apostasy of this lover of plato and worshipper of the sun, who never went to the wars or travelled without dragging a library of greek authors after him, was a philosophic reaction against the harsh measures,[ ] the bloody and treacherous natures of the christian emperors, and the fierceness of the arian controversy. the movement was but a back-wash in the stream of history, and is of small importance. julian's successors, valentinian and gratian, reversed his policy but shared his love for the fair city on the seine, and spent some winters there. lutetia had now become a rich and cultured gallo-roman city. [footnote : by the law of a.d. it was a capital offence to sacrifice to or honour the old gods. the persecuted had already become persecutors. boissier, _la fin du paganisme_.] chapter ii _the barbarian invasions--st. genevieve--the conversion of clovis--the merovingian dynasty_ in the prologue to _faust_, the lord of heaven justifies the existence of the restless, goading spirit of evil by the fact that man's activity is all too prone to flag,-- "_er liebt sich bald die unbedingte ruh._"[ ] [footnote : "he soon hugs himself in ease at any price."] as with men so with empires: riches and inaction are hard to bear. it was not so much a corruption of morals as a growing slackness and apathy in public life and an intellectual sloth that hastened the fall of the roman empire. owing to the gradual exhaustion of the supply of slaves its economic basis was crumbling away. the ruling class was content to administer and enjoy rather than to govern: unwilling or incompetent to grapple with the new order of things.[ ] for centuries the gauls had been untrained in arms and habituated to look to the imperial legions for defence against the half-savage races of men, giants in stature and strength, surging like an angry sea against their boundaries. [footnote : to protect home producers against the competition of the gallic wine and olive growers, roman statesmen could conceive nothing better than the stupid expedient of prohibiting the culture of the vine and olive in gaul.] the end of the fifth century is the beginning of the evil times of gallic story: the confederation of frankish tribes who had conquered and settled in belgium saw successive waves of invasion pass by, and determined to have their part in the spoils. they soon overran flanders and the north, and at length under clovis captured paris and conquered nearly the whole of gaul. that fair land of france, "one of nature's choicest masterpieces, one of ceres' chiefest barns for corn, one of bacchus' prime wine cellars and of neptune's best salt-pits," became the prey of the barbarian. the whole fabric of civilisation seem doomed to destruction, gaul had become the richest and most populous of roman provinces; its learning and literature were noised in rome; its rhetoricians drew students from the mother city herself; it was the last refuge of græco-roman culture in the west. but at the end of the sixth century gregory of tours deplores the fact that in his time there were neither books, nor readers, nor scholar who could compose in verse or prose, and that only the speech of the rustic was understood. he playfully scolds himself for muddling prepositions and confusing genders and cases, but his duty as a christian priest is to instruct, not to charm, and so he tells the story of his times in such rustic latin as he knows. he draws for us a vivid picture of clovis, his savage valour, his astuteness, his regal passion. after the victory at soissons over syagrius, the shadowy king of the romans, clovis was met by st. rémi, who prayed that a vase of great price and wondrous beauty among the spoil might be returned to him. "follow us," said the king, "to soissons, where the booty will be shared." before the division took place clovis begged that the vase might be accorded to him. his warriors answered: "all, glorious king, is thine." but before the king could grasp the vase, one, jealous and angry, threw his _francisque_[ ] at it, exclaiming: "thou shalt have no more than falls to thy lot." the broken vase was however apportioned to the king, who restored it to the bishop. but clovis hid the wound in his heart, and at the annual review in the champ de mars near paris, as the king strode along the line inspecting the weapons of his warriors, he stopped in front of the uncourtly soldier, took his axe from him, complained of its foul state, and flung it angrily on the ground. as the man stooped to pick it up clovis, with his own axe, cleft his skull in twain, exclaiming: "thus didst thou to the vase at soissons." "even so," says gregory quaintly, "did he inspire all with great fear." [footnote : the favourite arm of the franks, a short battle-axe, used as a missile or at close quarters.] at this point of our story we are met by the first of those noble women, heroic and wise, for whom french history is pre-eminent. in the early fifth century "saynt germayn[ ] of aucerre and saynt lew of troyes, elect of the prelates of fraunce for to goo quenche an heresye that was in grete brytayne, now called englond, came to nannterre for to be lodged and heberowed and the people came ageynst theym for to have theyr benyson. emonge the people, saynt germayn, by thenseignemente of the holy ghoost, espyed out the lytel mayde saynt geneuefe, and made hyr to come to hym, and kyste hyr heed and demaunded hyr name, and whos doughter she was, and the people aboute hyr said that her name was geneuefe, and her fader seuere, and her moder geronce, whyche came unto hym, and the holy man sayd: is this child yours? they answerd: ye. blessyd be ye, said the holy man, whan god hath gyven to you so noble lignage, knowe ye for certeyn that the day of hyr natiyuyte the angels sange and halyowed grete mysterye in heuen with grete ioye and gladnes." [footnote : again we quote from the _golden legend_.] tidings soon came to paris that attila, the felon king of hungary, had enterprised to destroy and waste the parts of france, and the merchants for great dread they had, sent their goods into cities more sure. genevieve caused the good women of the town to "wake in fastynges and in orysons, and bade the bourgeyses that they shold not remeuve theyr goodes for by the grace of god parys shold have none harme." at first the people hardened their hearts and reviled her, but st. germain, who had meantime returned to paris, entreated them to hearken to her, and our lord for her love did so much that the "tyrantes approachyd not parys, thanke and glorye to god and honoure to the vyrgyn." at the siege of paris by childeric and his franks, when the people were wasted by sickness and famine, "the holy vyrgyne, that pyte constrayned her, wente to the sayne for to goe fetche by shyp somme vytaylles." she stilled by her prayers a furious tempest and brought the ships back laden with wheat. when the city was at length captured, king childeric, although a paynim, saved at her intercession the lives of his prisoners, and one day, to escape her importunate pleadings for the lives of some criminals, fled out of the gates of paris and shut them behind him. the saint lived to build a church over the tomb of st. denis and to see clovis become a christian. she died in , and was buried on the hill of lutetius, which ever since has borne her name. the faithful built a little wooden oratory over her tomb, which clovis and his queen clotilde replaced in by a great basilica dedicated to ss. peter and paul,--whose length the king measured by the distance he could hurl his axe--and the famous monastery of st. genevieve.[ ] [footnote : her figure was a favourite subject for the sculptors of christian churches. she usually bears a taper in her hand and a devil is seen peering over her shoulder. this symbolises the miraculous relighting of the taper after the devil had extinguished it. the taper was long preserved at notre dame.] the conversion of clovis is the capital fact of early french history. clotilde had long[ ] importuned him to declare himself a christian, and he had consented to the baptism of their firstborn, but the infant's death within a week seemed an admonition from his own jealous gods. a second son, however, recovered from grievous sickness at his wife's prayers, and this, aided perhaps by a shrewd insight into the trend of events, induced him to lend a more willing ear to the teachers of the new faith. in the franks were at death grapple with their german foes at tolbiac. clovis, when the fight went against him, invoked the god of the christians and prayed to be delivered from his enemies. his cry was heard and the advent of the new lord of battles was winged with victory. [footnote : if we may believe gregory of tours, her arguments were vituperative rather than convincing. "your jupiter," said she, "is _omnium stuprorum spurcissimus perpetrator_."] the conversion of clovis was a triumph for the church: in her struggle with the arian heresy in gaul, she was now able to enforce the arguments of the pen by the edge of the sword. her scribes are tender to his memory, for his christianity was marked by few signs of grace. he remained the same savage monarch as before, and did not scruple to affirm his dynasty and extend his empire by treachery and by the assassination of his kinsmen. to the franks, jesus was but a new and more puissant tribal deity. "long live the christ who loves the franks," writes the author of the prologue to the salic law; and when the bishop was one day reading the gospel story of the passion, the king, _qui moult avait grand compassion_, cried out: "ah! had i been there with my franks i would have avenged the christ." nor was their ideal of kinship any loftier. their realm was not a trust, but a possession to be divided among their heirs, and the jealousy and strife excited by the repeated partitions among sons, make the history of the merovingian[ ] dynasty a tale of cruelty and treachery whose every page is stained with blood. [footnote : merovée, second of the kings of the salic franks, was fabled to be the issue of clodio's wife and a sea monster.] [illustration: tower of clovis.] clovis, in , made paris the official capital of his realm, and at his death in divided his possessions between his four sons--thierry, clodomir, childebert and clothaire. clodomir after a short reign met his death in battle, leaving his children to the guardianship of their grandmother, clotilde. one day messengers came to her in the old palace of the cæsars on the south bank of the seine from childebert and clothaire praying that their nephews might be entrusted to them. believing they were to be trained in kingly offices that they might succeed their father in due time, clotilde granted their prayer and two of the children were sent to them in the palace of the cité. soon came another messenger, bearing a pair of shears and a naked sword, and clotilde was bidden to determine the fate of her wards and to choose for them between the cloister and the edge of the sword. an angry exclamation escaped her: "if they are not to be raised to the throne, i would rather see them dead than shorn." the messenger waited to hear no more and hastened back to the two kings. clothaire then seized the elder of the children and stabbed him under the armpit. the younger, at the sight of his brother's blood, flung himself at childebert's feet, burst into tears, and cried: "help me, dear father, let me not die even as my brother." childebert's heart was softened and he begged for the child's life. clothaire's only answer was a volley of insults and a threat of death if he protected the victim. childebert then disentwined the child's tender arms clasping his knees--he was but six years of age--and pushed him to his brother, who drove a dagger into his breast. the tutors and servants of the children were then butchered, and clothaire became at his brother's death, in , sole king of the franks.[ ] the third child, clodoald, owing to the devotion of faithful servants escaped, and was hidden for some time in provence. later in life he returned to paris and built a monastery at a place still known by his name (st. cloud) about two leagues from the city. [footnote : among the wives of clothaire was the gentle radegonde, who turned with horror from the bloody scenes of the palace to live in works of charity with the poor and suffering, and in holy communion with priests and bishops. she was at length consecrated a deaconess by st. médard, donned the habit of a nun, and founded a convent at poitiers, where the poet fortunatus had himself ordained a priest that he might be near her. radegonde's memory is dear to us in england, for it was a small company of her nuns who settled on the green croft by the river bank below cambridge, and founded a priory whose noble church and monastic buildings were subsequently incorporated in jesus college when the nunnery was suppressed by bishop alcock in .] in the days of siegbert and chilperic, kings of eastern and western france, the consuming flames of passion and greed again burst forth, this time fanned by the fierce breath of feminine rivalry. siegbert had married brunehaut, daughter of the visigoth king of spain: chilperic had espoused her sister, galowinthe, after repudiating his first wife, adowere. when galowinthe came to her throne she found herself the rival of fredegonde, a common servant, with whom chilperic had been living. he soon tired of his new wife, a gentle and pliant creature, fredegonde regained her supremacy and one morning galowinthe was found strangled in bed. the news came to king siegbert and brunehaut goaded him to avenge her sister's death. meanwhile chilperic had married fredegonde, who quickly compassed the murder of her only rival, the repudiated queen, adowere. soon chilperic drew the sword and civil war devastated the land. by foreign aid siegbert captured and spoiled paris and compelled a peace. scarcely, however, had the victor dismissed his germain allies, when chilperic fell upon him again. siegbert now determined to make an end. he entered paris, and prepared to crush his enemy at tournay. as he set forth, st. germain, bishop of paris, seized his horse's bridle and warned him that the grave he was digging for his brother would swallow him too. when he reached vitry two messengers were admitted to see him. as he stood between them listening to their suit he was stabbed on either side by two long poisoned knives: the assassins had been sent by fredegonde. but fredegonde's tale of blood was not yet complete. she soon learned that merovée, one of chilperic's two sons by adowere, had married brunehaut. merovée followed the rest of her victims, and clovis, the second son, together with a sister of adowere, next glutted her vengeance. "one day, after leaving the synod of paris," writes st. gregory, "i had bidden king chilperic adieu and had withdrawn conversing with the bishop of albi. as we crossed the courtyard of the palace (in the cité) he said: 'seest thou not what i perceive above this roof?' i answered, 'i see only a second building which the king hath built.' he asked again, 'seest thou naught else?' i weened he spoke in jest and did but answer--'if thou seest aught else, prithee show it unto me.' then uttering a deep sigh, he said: 'i see the sword of god's wrath suspended over this house.'" shortly after this conversation chilperic having returned from the chase to his royal villa of chelles, was leaning on the shoulder of one of his companions to descend from his horse, when landeric, servant of fredegonde, stabbed him to death. thirty years were yet to pass before the curtain falls on the acts of the rival queens, their sons and grandsons, but the heart revolts at the details of the wars and lusts of these savage potentates. battle and murder had destroyed brunehaut's children and her children's children until none were left to rule over the realms but herself and the four sons of thierry ii. the nobles, furious at the further tyranny of a cruel and imperious woman, plotted her ruin, and in , when brunehaut, sure of victory, marched with two armies against clothaire ii., she was betrayed near paris to him, her implacable enemy. he reproached her with the death of ten kings, and set her on a camel for three days to be mocked and insulted by the army. the old and fallen queen was then tied to the tail of a horse: the creature was lashed into fury and soon all that remained of the proud queen was a shapeless mass of carrion. the traditional place where brunehaut met her death is still shown at the corner of the rue st. honoré and the rue de l'arbre sec. thierry's four sons had already been put to death. in her rival fredegonde, at the height of her prosperity, had died peacefully in bed, full of years, and was buried in the church of st. vincent[ ] by the side of chilperic, her husband. [footnote : (_see_ pp. and .)] amid all this ruin and desolation, when the four angels of the euphrates seem to have been loosed on gaul, one force was silently at work knitting up the ravelled ends of the rent fabric of civilisation and tending a lamp which burned with the promise of ideals, nobler far than those which fed the ancient faith and polity. the christian bishops were everywhere filling the empty curule chairs in the cities and provinces of gaul. at the end of the sixth century, society lived in the church and by the church, and the sees of the archbishops and bishops corresponded to the roman administrative divisions. all that was best in the old gallo-roman aristocracy was drawn into her bosom, for she was the one power making for unity and good government. from one end of the land to the other the bishops visited and corresponded with each other. they alone had communion of ideas, common sentiments and common interests. st. gregory, bishop of tours, was the son of a senator; st. germain of auxerre was a man of noble lineage, who had already exercised high public functions before he was made a bishop; st. germain of autun was ever on the move, now in brittany, now at paris, now at arles, to crush heresy, to threaten a barbarian potentate, or to sear the conscience and, if need were, ban the person of a guilty christian king. by the end of the sixth century two hundred and thirty-eight monastic institutions had been founded in gaul, and from the sixth to the eighth century, eighty-three churches were built. the monasteries were so many nurseries of the industry, knowledge and learning which had not perished in the barbarian invasions; so many cities of refuge from violence and rapine, where the few who thirsted after righteousness and burned with charity might find shelter and protection. "every letter traced on paper," said an old abbot, "is a blow to the devil." the ecclesiastical and monastic schools took the place of the destroyed roman day-schools, and whatever modicum of learning the frankish courts could boast of, was due to the monks and nuns of their time; for some at least of these potentates when not absorbed in the gratification of their lusts, their vengeance, greed or ambition, were possessed by nobler instincts. [illustration: st. germain des prÉs.] to st. germain of autun, made bishop in , paris owes one of her earliest ecclesiastical foundations. his influence over childebert, king of paris, was great. he obtained an order that those who refused to destroy pagan idols in their possession were to answer to the king, and when childebert and his warriors, seized by an irresistible fighting impulse, marched into spain, and were bought off the siege and sack of saragossa by the present of the tunic of st. vincent, he induced the king to found the abbey and church of st. vincent (st. germain des prés), to receive the relic and a great part of the spoil of toledo, consisting of jewels, golden chalices, books and crucifixes of marvellous craftsmanship. in the same reign was begun on the site of the present sacristy of notre dame a great basilica, dedicated to st. stephen, so magnificently decorated that it was compared to solomon's temple for the beauty and the delicacy of its art. the church of ste. marie or notre dame, already existing in , stood on a site extending westward into the present place du parvis notre dame. during this great outburst of zeal and devotion, another monastery (st. vincent le rond), was established and dedicated to st. vincent, which subsequently became associated with the name of the earlier st. germain of auxerre (l'auxerrois). a curious episode is found in gregory's _chronicle_, which is characteristic of the times, and proves that a monastery and church of st. julien le pauvre were already in existence. an impostor, claiming to have the relics of st. vincent and st. felix, came to paris, but refused to deposit them with the bishop for verification. he was arrested and searched, and the so-called relics were found to consist of moles' teeth, the bones of mice, some bears' claws and other rubbish: they were flung into the seine and the impostor was put in prison. gregory, who was lodging in the monastery of st. julien le pauvre, went into the church shortly after midnight to say matins, and found the creature, who had escaped from the bishop's prison, lying drunk on the pavement. he had him dragged away into a corner, but so intolerable was the stench that the pavement was purified with water and sweet smelling herbs. when the bishops, who were at paris for a synod, met at dinner the next day, the impostor was identified as a fugitive slave of the bishop of tarbes. dagobert the great, who came to the throne in , and his favourite minister, st. eloy, goldsmith and bishop (founder of the convent in paris which long bore his name), are enshrined in the hearts of the people in many a song and ballad: st. eloy, with his good humour, his ruddy countenance, his eloquence, gentleness, modesty, wit, and wide charity, singing in the church processions _à haute gamme jubilant et trépudiant_ like david of old before the ark: dagobert, the solomon of the franks, the terror of the oppressor, the darling of the poor. the great king was fond of paris and established himself there when not scouring his kingdom to administer justice or to crush his enemies. he was the second founder of the monastery of st. denis, which he rebuilt and endowed with great magnificence, and to which he gave much importance by the establishment there of a great fair, which soon drew merchants from all parts of europe. he was a patron of the arts and employed st. eloy to make reliquaries[ ] for st. denis and the churches in paris, of such richness and beauty that they were admired of the whole of france. [footnote : the works of art traditionally ascribed to st. eloy are many. he is reported to have made a golden throne set with stones (or rather two thrones, for he used his material so honestly and economically). he was made master of the mint, and thirteen pieces of money are known which bear his name. he decorated the tombs of st. martin and st. denis, and constructed reliquaries for st. germain, notre dame, and other churches.] the monkish scribes who wrote the chronicles of st. denis were not ungrateful to the memory of good king dagobert, for it is there related that one day, as a holy anchorite lay sleeping on his stony couch on an island, being heavy with years, a venerable, white-haired man appeared to him and bade him rise and pray for the soul of king dagobert of france. as he arose he beheld out at sea a crowd of devils bearing the king away in a little boat towards vulcan's cauldron, beating and tormenting him cruelly, who called unceasingly on st. denis of france, on st. martin and st. maurice. then thunder and tempest rolled down from heaven, and the three glorious saints appeared to him, arrayed in white garments. he was much affrighted, and on asking who they were, was answered: "we be they whom dagobert hath called, and are come to snatch him from the hands of the devils and bear him to abraham's bosom." the saints then vanished from before him and sped against the devils and reft the soul from them, which they were tormenting with threats and buffetings, and bare it to the joys perdurable of paradise, chanting the words of the psalmist _beatus quem eligisti_. chapter iii _the carlovingians--the great siege of paris by the normans--the germs of feudalism_ chaos and misery followed the brilliant reign of dagobert. in half a century his race had faded into the feeble _rois fainéants_, degenerate by precocious debauchery, some of whom were fathers at fourteen or fifteen years of age and in their graves before they were thirty. the bow of power is to him who can bend it, and in an age when human passions are untamed, the one unpardonable vice in a king is weakness. soon the incapable, impotent and irresolute merovingians were thrust aside by the more puissant carlovingian race. charles martel, although buried with the frankish kings at st. denis, was content with the title of duke of the franks, and hesitated to proclaim himself king. he, like the other mayors of the palace, ruled through feeble and pensioned puppets when they did not contemptuously leave the throne vacant. in pepin the short sent two prelates to sound pope zacchary, who, being hard pressed by the lombards, lent a willing ear to their suit, agreed that he who was king in fact should be made so in name, and authorised pepin to assume the title of king. chilperic iii., like a discarded toy, was relegated to a monastery at st. omer, and pepin the short anointed at soissons by st. boniface bishop of mayence, from that sacred "ampul full of chrism" which a snow-white dove had brought in its mouth to st. rémi wherewith to anoint clovis at rheims. in the year stephen iii., the first pope who had honoured paris by his presence, came to ask the reward of his predecessor's favour and was lodged at st. denis. there he anointed pepin anew, with his sons charles and carloman, and compelled the frankish chieftains, under pain of excommunication, to swear allegiance to them and their descendants. the city of lutetia had much changed since the messengers of pope fabianus entered five centuries before. on that southern hill where formerly stood the roman camp and cemetery were now the great basilica and abbey of st. genevieve. the amphitheatre and probably much of the palace of the cæsars were in ruins, all stripped of their marbles to adorn the new christian churches. the extensive abbatial buildings and church, resplendent with marble and gold, on the west, dedicated to st. vincent, were henceforth to be known as st. germain of the meadows (des prés), for the saint's body had been translated from the chapel of st. symphorien in the vestibule to the high altar of the abbey church a few weeks before the pope's arrival at st. denis. the cité[ ] was still held within decayed gallo-roman walls, and the grand and petit ponts of wood crossed the arms of the seine. on the site of the old pagan temple to jupiter by the market-place stood the church our lady: to the south-east stood the church of st. stephen. the devotion of the _nautæ_ had been transferred from apollo to st. nicholas, patron of shipmen, mercury had given place to st. michael, and to each of those saints oratories were erected. other churches and oratories adorned the island, dedicated to st. gervais, and st. denis of the prison (_de la chartre_), by the north wall where, abandoned by his followers, the saint was visited by his divine lord, who himself administered the sacred host. a nunnery dedicated to st. eloy, where three hundred pious nuns diffused the odour of jesus christ through the whole city, occupied a large site opposite the west front of notre dame. near by stood a hospital, founded and endowed a century before by st. landry, bishop of paris, for the sick poor, which soon became known as the hostel of god (_hôtel dieu_). the old roman palace and basilica had been transformed into the official residence and tribunal of justice of the frankish kings. on the south bank stood the church and monastery of st. julien le pauvre. a new frankish city was growing on the north bank, bounded on the west by the abbey of st. vincent le rond, and on the east by the abbey of st. lawrence. houses clustered around the four great monasteries, and suburbs were in course of formation. the cité was still largely inhabited by opulent merchants of gallo-roman descent, who were seen riding along the streets in richly decorated chariots drawn by oxen. [footnote : the term cité (_civitas_) was given to the old roman part of many french towns.] charlemagne during his long reign of nearly half a century ( - ) was too preoccupied with his noble but ineffectual purpose of cementing by blood and iron the warring races of europe into a united _populus christianus_, and establishing, under the dual lordship of emperor and pope, a city of god on earth, to give much attention to paris. he did, however, spend a christmas there, and was present at the dedication of the church of st. denis, completed in under abbot fulrad. it was a typical frankish prince whom the parisians saw enthroned at st. denis. he had the abundant fair hair, shaven chin and long moustache we see in the traditional pictures of clovis. above middle height, with large, bright piercing eyes, which, when he was angered shone like carbuncles, he impressed all by the majesty of his bearing, in spite of a rather shrill and feeble voice and a certain asymmetrical rotundity below the belt. [illustration: st. julien le pauvre.] abbot fulrad was a sturdy prince and for long disputed the possession of some lands at plessis with the bishop of paris. the decision of the case is characteristic of the times. two champions were deputed to act for the litigants, and met before the count of paris[ ] in the king's chapel of st. nicholas in the palace of the cité, and a solemn judgment by the cross was held. while the royal chaplain recited psalms and prayers, the two champions stood forth and held their arms outstretched in the form of a cross. in this trial of endurance the bishop's deputy was the first to succumb; his fainting arms drooped and the abbot won his cause. [footnote : the carlovingians had been careful to abolish the office of mayor of the palace.] paris had grown but slowly under the frankish kings. they lived ill at ease within city walls. children of the fields and the forests, whose delight was in the chase or in war, they were glad to escape from paris to their villas at chelles or compiègne. but the civil power of the church grew apace. in the early sixth century the abbots of st. germain des prés at paris held possession of nearly , acres of land, mostly arable, in various provinces: their annual revenue amounted to about £ , of our money: they ruled over more than , serfs. from a list of the lands held in paris in the ninth century by the abbey of st. pierre des fossés,[ ] and published in the _trésor des piéces rares ou inédites_, we are able to form some idea of the vast extent of monastic possessions in the city. the names of the various properties whose boundaries touch those of the abbey lands are given: private owners are mentioned only four times, whereas to ecclesiastical and monastic domains there are no less than ninety references. these monastic settlements were veritable garden cities, where most of our modern fruits, flowers and vegetables were cultivated; where flocks and herds were bred, and all kinds of poultry, including pheasants and peacocks, reared. guilds of craftsmen worked and flourished; markets were held generally on saints' days, and pilgrimages were fostered. charlemagne was an honest coiner and a protector of foreign traders; he was tolerant of the jews, the only capitalists of the time, and under him paris became the "market of the peoples," and venetian and syrian merchants sought her shores. [footnote : st. pierre was subsequently enriched by the possession of the body of st. maur, brought thither in the norman troubles by fugitive monks from anjou, and the monastery is better known to history under the name of st. maur des fossés. the entrails of our own henry v. were buried there. rabelais, before its secularisation, was one of its canons, and catherine de' medicis once possessed a château on its site. monastery and château no longer exist.] in gallo-roman days few were the churches outside the cities, but in the great emperor's time every villa[ ] is said to have had its chapel or oratory served by a priest. charlemagne was a zealous patron of such learning as the epoch afforded, and sought out scholars in every land. english, irish, scotch, italian, goth, and bavarian--all were welcomed. the english scholar alcuin, master of the cloister school at york, became his chief adviser and tutor. he would have every child in his empire to know at least his paternoster, and every abbot on election was required to endow the monastery with some books. the choice of authors was not a wide one: the old and new testaments; the writings of the fathers, especially st. augustine, the emperor's favourite author; josephus; the works of bede; some latin authors, chiefly virgil; scraps of plato translated into latin--a somewhat exiguous and austere library, but one which reared a noble and valiant line of scholars and statesmen to rule the minds and bridle the savage lusts of the coming generations of men. under irish and anglo-saxon influences the cramped, minute script of the merovingian scribes grew in beauty and lucidity; gold and silver and colour illuminated the pages of their books. the golden age of the roman peace seemed dawning again in a new _imperium christianorum_. [footnote : the villa of those days was a vast domain, part dwelling, part farm, part game preserve.] towards the end of his reign the old emperor was dining with his court in a seaport town in the south of france, when news came that some strange, black, piratical craft had dared to attack the harbour. they were soon scattered, but the emperor was seen to rise from the table, and go to a window, where he stood gazing fixedly at the retreating pirates. tears trickled down his cheeks and none dared to approach him. at length he turned and said: "know ye my faithful servants, wherefore i weep thus bitterly? i fear not these wretched pirates, but i am afflicted that they should dare to approach these shores, and sorely do grieve when i foresee what evil they will work on my sons and on my people." his courtiers deemed they were breton or saracen pirates, but the emperor knew better. they were the terrible northmen, soon to prove a bloodier scourge to gaul than hun or goth or saracen; and to meet them charlemagne left an empire distracted by civil war, and a nerveless, feeble prince, louis the pious, louis the forgiving, fitter for the hermit's cell than for the throne and sword of an emperor. in the black boats of the sea-rovers for the first time entered the seine, and burnt rouen and fontenelle. in a fleet of one hundred and twenty vessels swept up its higher waters and on easter eve captured, plundered and burnt paris, sacked its monasteries and churches and butchered their monks and priests. the futile emperor charles the bald bought them off at st. denis with seven thousand livres of silver, and they went back to their scandinavian homes gorged with plunder--only to return year by year, increased in numbers and ferocity. words cannot picture the terror of the citizens and monks when the dread squadrons, with the monstrous dragons carved on their prows, their great sails and threefold serried ranks of men-of-prey, were sighted. everyone left his home and sought refuge in flight; the monks hurried off with the bodies of the saints, the relics and treasures of the sanctuary, to hide them in far-away cities. in charles' soldiers refused to fight, and for two hundred and eighty-seven days the pirates ravaged the valley of the seine at their will. never within memory or tradition were such things known. rouen, bayeux, beauvais, paris, meaux, melun, chartres, evreux, were devastated; the islands of the seine were whitened by the bones of the victims, and similar horrors were wrought along the other rivers of france. in a body of the freebooters settled on the island of oissel, below rouen, and issued forth _en excursion_ to spoil and slay and burn at their pleasure: the once rich city of paris was left a cinder heap; the abbey of st. genevieve was sacked and burnt, notre dame, st. stephen, st. germain des prés and st denis alone escaping at the cost of immense bribes. charles ordered two fortresses to be built for the defence of the approaches to the bridges, and continued his feeble policy of paying blackmail. in st. denis was pillaged. in robert the strong, count of paris, had won the title of the maccabeus of france, by daring to stand against the fury of the northmen and to defeat them; but having in the heat of battle with the terrible hastings taken off his cuirass, he was killed. by order of charles, st. denis was fortified in , after another pillage of st. germain. in began a second period of raids of even greater ferocity under the norwegian rollo the gangr[ ] (the walker), a colossus so huge that no horse could be found to bear him. in the whole christian people seemed doomed to perish. flourishing cities and monasteries became heaps of smoking ruins; along the roads lay the bodies of priests and laymen, noble and peasant, freeman and serf, women and children and babes at the breast to be devoured of wolves and vultures. the very sanctuaries[ ] were become the dens of wild beasts, the haunt of serpents and creeping things. [footnote : the remains of the great viking's castle are still shown at aalesund, in norway.] [footnote : when alan barbetorte, after the recovery of nantes, went to give thanks to god in the cathedral, he was compelled to cut his way, sword in hand, through thorns and briers.] in a great league of pirates--danes, normans, saxons, britons and renegade french--on their way to ravage the rich cities of burgundy drew up before paris; and their leader, siegfroy, demanded passage to the higher waters. paris, forsaken by her kings and emperors for more than a century, scarred and bled by three spoliations, was now to become a beacon of hope. the roman walls were repaired, the towers on the north and south banks were strengthened. bishop gozlin, in whom great learning was wedded to incomparable fortitude, defied the pirates, warning them that the citizens were determined to resist and to hold paris for a bulwark to the land. of this most terrible of the norman sieges of paris, we have fuller record. a certain monk of st. germain des prés, abbo by name, who had taken part in the defence, was one day sitting in his cell reading his virgil. desiring to exercise his latin, and give an example to other cities, he determined to sing of a great siege with happier issue than that of troy.[ ] abbo saw the black hulls and horrid prows of the pirates' boats as they turned the arm of the seine below paris, seven hundred strong vessels, and many more of lighter build. for two leagues and a half the very waters of the seine were covered with them, and men asked into what mysterious caves the river had retreated. on november th, , the attack began at the unfinished tower on the north bank, replaced in later times by the grand châtelet. three leaders stand eminent among the defenders of the city: bishop gozlin, the great warrior priest; his nephew, abbot ebles of st. denis; and count eudes (hugh) of paris, son of robert the strong. the air is darkened with javelins and arrows; bishop and abbot are in the very eye of danger; the latter with one shaft spits seven of the besiegers, and mockingly bids their fellows take them to the kitchen to be cooked. on the morrow, reinforced by fresh troops, the assault is renewed, stones are hurled, arrows whistle; the air is filled with groans and cries; the defenders pour down boiling oil and melted wax and pitch. the hair of some of the normans takes fire; they burn and the parisians shout--"jump into the seine; the water will make your hair grow again and then look you that it be better combed." one well-aimed millstone says abbo, sends the souls of six to hell. the baffled northmen retire, entrench a camp at st. germain l'auxerrois, and prepare rams and other siege artillery. [footnote : it must be admitted, however, that the poet's uncouth diction is anything but virgilian.] abbo now pauses to bewail the state of france: no lord to rule her, everywhere devastation wrought by fire and sword, god's people paralysed at the advancing phalanx of death, paris alone tranquil, erect and steadfast in the midst of all their thunderbolts, _polis ut regina micans omnes super urbes_, a queenly city resplendent above all towns. the second attack begins with redoubled fury. after battering the walls of the north tower, monstrous machines on sixteen wheels are advanced and the besiegers strive to fill the fosse. trees, shrubs, slaughtered cattle, wounded horses, the very captives slain before the eyes of the besieged, are cast in to fill the void. bishop gozlin brings down the norman chieftain, who had butchered the prisoners, by a well-aimed arrow: his body, too, is flung into the fosse. the enemy cover the plain with their swords and the river with their bucklers; fireships are loosed against the bridge. in the city women fly to the sanctuaries; they roll their hair in the dust, beat their breasts and rend their faces, calling on st. germain: "blessed st. germain, succour thy servants." the fighters on the walls take up the cry; bishop gozlin invokes the virgin, mother of the redeemer, star of the sea, bright above all other stars, to save them from the cruel danes. [illustration: st germain l'auxerrois.] on february th, , a sudden flood sweeps away the petit pont, and its tower, with twelve defenders, is isolated. with shouts of triumph the northmen cross the river and surround it. the twelve refuse to yield, and fire is brought. the warriors (a touching detail) fearing lest their falcons be stifled, cut them loose. there is but one vessel wherewith to quench the flames and that soon drops from their hands; the little band rush forth; they set their backs against the ruins of the bridge, their faces to their foes and fought a hopeless fight. the walls of the city are lined with their kinsmen and friends impotent to help; the enemies of god, doomed one day to dine at pluto's cauldron, press upon them; they fight till phoebus sinks to the depths of the sea, so great is the courage of despair. the survivors are promised their lives if they will yield, they are disarmed, then treacherously slain, and their souls fly to heaven. but one, hervé, of noble bearing and of great beauty, deemed a prince, is spared for ransom. with thunderous voice he refuses to bargain his life for gold, falls unarmed on his foes and is cut to pieces. "these things," writes monk abbo, "i saw with mine eyes," and he gives the names of the heroic twelve who went to receive the palm of martyrdom: ermenfroi, hervé, herland, ouacre, hervi, arnaud, seuil, jobert, hardre, guy, aimard, gossuin. their names are inscribed on a little marble tablet over the place du petit pont,[ ] near the spot where they fell. hail to the brave who across twelve centuries thrill our hearts to-day! they were examplars to the land; they helped to make france by their desperate courage and noble self-sacrifice, and to win for paris the hegemony of her cities. the city is at length revictualled by henry of saxony and again the parisians are left to themselves. on the sixth of april bishop gozlin, their shield, their two-edged axe, whose shaft and bow were terrible, passes to the lord. on may th, eudes steals away to implore further help from the emperor, and as soon as he sees the imperialists on the march returns and hews his way into paris, to share the terrors of the siege. henry the saxon again appears, but is ambushed and slain and his army melts away. yet again paris is abandoned by her emperor and seeks help of heaven, for the waters are low, the besiegers are able to get footing on the island, set fire to the gates and attack the walls. the body of st. genevieve, which had been transferred to the cité, is borne about, and at night the ghostly figure of st. germain is seen by the sentinels to pass along the ramparts, sprinkling them with holy water and promising salvation. charles the fat, the lord's anointed, now appears with a multitude of a hundred tongues and encamps on montmartre, but while the parisians are preparing to second him in crushing their foes, they learn that the cowardly emperor has bought them off with a bribe and permission to winter in burgundy. the parisians, however, refused to give them passage and by an unparalleled feat of engineering they transported their ships overland for two miles and set sail again above the city. next year, as gozlin's successor, bishop antheric, was sitting at table with abbot ebles, a fearful messenger brought news that the _acephali_[ ] were again in sight. forgetting the repast, the two churchmen seized their weapons, called the city to arms, hastened to the ramparts, and the abbot slew their pilot with a well-aimed shaft. the normans are terrified, and at length a treaty is made with their leaders, who promised not to ravage the marne and some even entered paris. but the ill-disciplined hordes were hard to hold in and bands of brigands, as soon as the ramparts were passed, began to plunder and slew a score of christian men. the parisians in their indignation sought out and--hurrah! cries abbo--found five hundred normans in the city and slew them. but the bishop protected those that took refuge in his palace, instead of killing them as he ought to have done--_potius concidere debens_. for a time paris had respite; cowardly charles the fat was deposed, and in count eudes was acclaimed king of france after his return from aquitaine, whose duke he had brought to subjection. he counselled a gathering of all the peoples outside paris to make common cause against the normans, and abbo saw the proud franks march in with heads erect, the skilful and polished aquitaines, the burgundians too prone to flight. but nought availed: the motley host soon melted away. [footnote : the tablet has now ( ) disappeared. _see_ p. .] [footnote : abbo's favourite epithet. they were without a head, for they knew not christ, the head of mankind.] at the extreme north-east of paris the rue du crimée leads to a group of once barren hills, part of which is now made into the park of the buttes chaumont. here, by the mount of the falcon (montfaucon[ ]) in king eudes fell upon an army of northmen, who had come against paris and utterly routed them. antheric, the noble pastor, with his virgin-like face, led three hundred footmen into the fight and slew six hundred of the _acephali_. but abbo's muse now fails him, for eudes, noble eudes, is no more worthy of his office, and christ's sheep are perishing. where is the ancient prowess of france? three vices are working her destruction: pride, the sinful charms of venus (_foeda venustas veneris_) and love of sumptuous garments. her people are arrayed in purple vesture, and wear cloaks of gold; their loins are cinctured with girdles rich with precious stones. monk abbo wearies not of singing, but the deeds of noble eudes are wanting; all the poet craves is another victory to rejoice heaven; another defeat of the black host of the enemy. [footnote : in the middle ages and down to montfaucon had a sinister reputation. there stood the gallows of paris, a great stone gibbet with its three rows of chains, near the old barrière du combat, where the present rue de la grange aux belles abuts on the boulevard de la villette.] alas! the noble eudes was now a king with rebellious vassals. paris was never captured again, but the _acephali_ were devouring the land. the grim spectres of famine and plague made a charnel-house of whole regions of france, while eudes was fighting the count of flanders, a rival king, and the ineffectual emperor, charles the simple. he it was who after eudes' death, by the treaty of st. claire sur epte in , surrendered to the barbarians the fair province, subsequently to be known as normandy. the new prayer in the litany, "from the fury of the northmen, good lord deliver us," was heard, and the dread name of rollo vanishes from history to live again in song. under the title of robert, assumed from his god-father, he reappears to win a dukedom and a king's daughter; the normans are broken in to christianity, law and order; their land becomes one of the most civilized regions of france; the fiercest of church levellers are known as the greatest of church builders in christendom. they gave their name to a style of christian architecture in europe and a line of kings to england,[ ] naples and sicily. [footnote : william the conqueror was also known as william the builder.] the people of paris and of france never forgot the lesson of the dark century of the invasions. a subtle change had been operating. the empire had decomposed into kingdoms; the kingdoms were segregating into lordships. men in their need were attracted to the few strong and dominant lords whose courage and resource afforded them a rallying point and shelter against disintegrating forces: the poor and defenceless huddled for protection to the seigneurs of strongholds which had withstood the floods of barbarians that were devastating the land. the seeds of feudalism were sown in the long winter of the norman terror. chapter iv _the rise of the capetian kings and the growth of feudal paris_ from to the coronation of hugh capet at noyon in , the carlovingians exercised a slowly decaying power. the real rulers at paris were hugh the tall and hugh capet,[ ] grandson and great-grandson of robert the strong. they revolutionized the ideal of kingship and founded the line of kings of france which stretches onward through history for a thousand years until the guillotine of the revolution cut it in twain. it is hugh capet whom dante, following a legend of his time, calls the son of a butcher of paris, and whom he hears among the weeping souls cleaving to the dust and purging their avarice in the fifth cornice of purgatory. [footnote : the surname capet is said to have originated in the _capet_ or hood of the abbot's mantle which hugh wore as lay abbot of st. martin's, having laid aside the crown after his coronation.] their patrimony was a small one--the provinces of the isle de france, la brie, la beauce, beauvais and valois; but their sway extended over the land of the langue d'oil, with its strenuous northern life, _le doux royaume de la france_, the sweet realm of france, whose head was paris, cradle of the great french monarchy and home of art, learning and chivalry. the globe of the earth, symbol of universal empire, gives way to the hand of justice as the emblem of kingship. the capets were, it is true, at first little more than seigneurs over other seigneurs, some of whom were almost as powerful as they; but that little, the drop of holy chrism by which they were consecrated of the church, and the support of the french jurists, contained within them a promise and potency of future grandeur. they were the lord's anointed, supported by the lord's vicar on earth: to disobey them was to disobey god: tribal sovereignty was to give way to territorial sovereignty. the people, long forsaken by their emperors, had in their turn forsaken them, in order "not to be at the mercy of all the great ones they surrendered themselves to one of the great ones" and in exchange for protection gave troth and service. cities, churches and monasteries now assumed a new aspect. paris had demonstrated the value of a walled city, and during the latter part of the norman terror, from all parts of north france, monks and nuns and priests had brought their holy relics within it as to a city of refuge. gone were its lines of villas from gallo-roman times extending freely into the country. the ample spaces within gave place to crowded houses and narrow streets held in a rigid ring of walls and moats. the might of the archbishops, bishops and abbots increased: they sat in the councils of kings and dominated the administration of justice; the moral, social and political life of the country centred around them. armed with the sword and the cross they held almost absolute sway over their little republics, coined money, levied taxes, disposed of small armies and went to the chase in almost regal state. the advent of the year was regarded with universal terror in christendom. a fear, based on a supposed apocalyptic prophecy that the end of the world was at hand, paralysed all political and social life. churches were too small to contain the immense throngs of fearful penitents: legacies and donations from conscience-stricken worshippers poured wealth into their treasuries. but once the awe-inspiring night of the vernal equinox that began the year had passed, and the bright march sun rose again on the fair earth, unconsumed by the wrath of god, the old world "seemed to thrill with new life; the earth cast off her outworn garments and clothed herself in a rich and white vesture of new churches." everywhere in europe, and especially in paris and in france, men strove in emulation to build the finest temples to god. the wooden roofs of the merovingian and carlovingian basilicas had ill withstood the ravage of war and fire. stone took the place of wood, the heavy thrust of the roof led to increased mural strength, walls were buttressed, columns thickened. massive towers of defence, at first round, then polygonal, then square, flanked the west fronts, veritable keeps, where the sacred vessels and relics might be preserved and defended in case of attack. soon spaces are clamant for decoration and the stone soars into the beauty of gothic vaulting and tracery. the growth of paris is more intimately associated with the capets than with any of the earlier dynasties, and at no period in its history is the ecclesiastical expansion more marked. under the long reign of hugh's son, king robert the pious, no less than fourteen monasteries and seven churches were built or rebuilt in or around the city; a new and magnificent palace and hall of justice, with its royal chapel dedicated to st. nicholas, rose on the site of the old roman basilica and palace in the cité. the king was no less charitable than pious; troops of the poor and afflicted followed him when he went abroad, and he fed a thousand daily at his table. but notwithstanding his munificent piety, he was early made to feel the power of the church. his union with queen bertha, a cousin of the fourth degree, whom he had married a year before his accession, was condemned by the pope as incestuous, and he was summoned to repudiate her. robert, who loved his wife dearly, resisted the papal authority, and excommunication and interdict followed.[ ] everyone fled from him; only the servants are said to have remained, who purged with fire all the vessels which were contaminated by the guilty couple's touch. the misery of his people at length subdued the king's spirit, and he cast off his faithful and beloved queen. [footnote : a dramatic representation of the delivery of the papal bull, painted by jean paul laurens, hangs in the museum of the luxembourg.] the beautiful and imperious constance of aquitaine, her successor, proved a penitential infliction second only in severity to the anathemas of the church. troops of vain and frivolous troubadours from her southern home, in all kinds of foreign and fantastic costumes, invaded the court at paris and shocked the austere piety of the king. he perceived the corrupting influence on the simple manners of the franks of their licentious songs, lascivious music and dissolute lives, but was powerless to dismiss them. the tyrannous temper of his new consort became the torment of his life. he was forced even to conceal his acts of charity. one day, on returning from prayers, robert perceived that his lance by the queen's orders had been adorned with richly chased silver. he looked around his palace and was not long in finding a poor, tattered wretch whom he ordered to search for a tool, and the pair locked themselves in a room; the silver was soon stripped from the lance, the king hastily thrust it into the beggar's wallet and bade him escape before the queen discovered the loss. the poor whom he admitted to his table, despite the angry protests of the queen, at times ill repaid his charity. on one occasion a tassel of gold was cut from his robe, and on the thief being discovered the king simply remarked: "well, perhaps he has greater need of it than i, may god bless its service to him." the very fringe was sometimes stripped from his cloak as he walked abroad, but he never could be induced to punish any of these poor spoilers of his person. it is in king robert's reign that we read of one of the earliest revolts against the institution of slavery, which was regarded as an integral part of the divine order of things. it was the custom of the church at paris to send serfs to the law courts to give evidence for their bishop or prior, or to do battle for them in the event of a judicial duel. the freemen in the eleventh century began to rebel against fighting with a despised serf, and refused the duel, whereupon early in the next century the king and his court decided that the serfs might lawfully testify and fight against freemen, and whoso refused the trial by battle should lose his suit and suffer excommunication. the prelates exchanged serfs, used them as substitutes in times of war, allowed them to marry outside their church or abbey only by special permission and on condition that all children were equally divided between the two proprietors. if a female serf married a freeman he and their children became serfs. serfs were only permitted to make a will by consent of their master; every favour was paid for and liberty bought at a great price. merchants even and artizans in towns owed part of their produce to the seigneur. in the eleventh century burgesses as well as serfs and jews were given to churches, exchanged, sold or left in wills by their seigneurs. the story of mediæval paris is the story of the efforts of serf and burgess to win their economic freedom. the declining years of king robert were embittered by the impiety of rebellious sons, who were reduced to submission only at the price of a protracted and bloody campaign in burgundy. the broken-hearted father did not long survive his victory. he died in , and the benisons and lamentations of the poor and lowly winged his spirit to its rest. if we may believe some writers, pious king robert's memory is enshrined in the hymnology of the church, which he enriched with some beautiful compositions. he was often seen to enter st. denis in regal habit to lead the choir at matins, and would sometimes challenge the monks to a singing contest. in , towards the end of henry i.'s almost unchronicled reign, an alarming rumour came to paris. the priests of st. ermeran at ratisbon claimed to have possession of the body of st. denis, which they alleged had been stolen from the abbey in by one gisalbert. the loss of a province would not have evoked livelier emotion, and henry at once took measures to convince france and christendom that the true body was still at st. denis. before an immense concourse of bishops, abbots, princes and people, presided over by the king, his brother and the archbishops of rheims and of canterbury, the remains of st. denis and his two companions were solemnly drawn out of the silver coffers in which they had been placed by dagobert, together with a nail from the cross and part of the crown of thorns, all locked with two keys in a chest richly adorned with gold and precious stones, and preserved in a vault under the high altar. after having been borne in procession they were exposed on the high altar for fifteen days and then restored to their resting-place. the stiff-necked priests of ratisbon, fortified with a papal bull of , still maintained their claim to the possession of the body, but no diminution was experienced in the devotion either of the french peoples or of strangers of all nations to the relics at st. denis. the chief architectural event of henry's reign at paris was the rebuilding on a more magnificent scale of the merovingian church and abbey of st. martin in the fields (des champs), whose blackened walls and desolate lands were eloquent of the norman terror. the buildings stood outside paris about a mile beyond the cité on the great roman road to the north, where st. martin on his way to paris healed a leper. the foundation, which soon grew to be one of the wealthiest in france, included a hostel for poor pilgrims endowed by philip i. with a mill on the grand pont, to which the monks added the revenue from an oven.[ ] in the eighteenth century, when the monastery was secularised, the abbot was patron of twenty-nine priories, three vicarates and thirty-five parishes, five of which were in paris. some of the old building has been incorporated in the existing conservatoire des arts et métiers. the gothic priory chapel, with its fine twelfth-century choir, is used as a machinery-room, and the refectory, one of the most precious and beautiful creations attributed to pierre de montereau, is now a library. [footnote : the possession of an oven was a lucrative monopoly in mediæval times. the writer has visited a village in south italy where this curious privilege is still possessed by the parish priest, who levies a small indemnity of a few loaves, made specially of larger size, for each use of the oven.] philip i. brought to the indolent habit inherited from his father a depraved and vicious nature. after a regency of eight years he became king at the age of fifteen, and lived to defile his youth and dishonour his manhood by debauchery and adultery, simony and brigandage. early in his career he followed the evil counsels of his provost Étienne, and purposed the spoliation of the treasury of st. germain des prés to pay for his dissolute pleasures. "as the sacrilegious pair," says the chronicler, "drew near the relics, Étienne was smitten with blindness and the terrified philip fled." philip after a reign void of honour or profit to france left his son louis vi. (the lusty) a heritage of shame, a kingdom reduced to little more than a baronage over a few _comtés_, whose cities of paris, etampes, orleans and sens were isolated from royal jurisdiction by insolent and rebellious vassals. many of the great seigneurs were but freebooters, living by plunder. the violence and lawlessness of these and other smaller scoundrels, who levied blackmail on merchants and travellers, made commerce almost impossible. corruption, too, had invaded many of the monasteries and fouled the thrones of bishops, and a dual effort was made by king and church to remedy the evils of the times. the hierarchy strove to centralise power at rome that the church might be purged of wolves in sheep's clothing: the capetian monarchs to increase their might at paris in order to subdue insolent and powerful vassals to law and obedience. in the duke of burgundy learned that archbishop anselm of canterbury was about to pass through his territory with a rich escort on his way to rome. the usual ambush was laid and the party were held up. as the duke hastened to spoil his victims, crying out--"where is the archbishop?" he turned and saw anselm, impassive on his horse, gazing sternly at him. in a moment the savage and lawless duke was transformed to a pallid, stammering wretch with downcast eyes, begging permission to kiss the old man's hand and to offer him a noble escort to safeguard him through his territory. it was the moral influence of prelates such as this and monks such as st. bernard that enabled the hierarchy to enforce the celibacy of the clergy, to cleanse the bishoprics and abbeys, to wrest the privilege of conferring benefices from lay potentates and feudal seigneurs who bartered them for money, and to make and unmake kings. the end of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth centuries saw the culmination of the power of the reformed orders. all over france, religious houses--the grande chartreuse, fontevrault, cîteaux, clairvaux--sprang up as if by enchantment. men and women of all stations and classes flocked to them, a veritable host of the lord, "adorning the deserts with their holy perfection and solitudes by their purity and righteousness." st. bernard, the terror of mothers and of wives, by his austerity, his loving-kindness,[ ] his impetuous will and masterful activity, his absolute faith and remorseless logic, his lyric and passionate eloquence, carried all before him and became the dictator of christendom. he it was who with pitying gesture as of a kind father, his eyes suffused with tender joy, received dante from the hands of beatrice in the highest of celestial spheres, and after singing the beautiful hymn to the virgin, led him to the heaven of heavens, to the very ecstasy and culmination of beatitude in the contemplation and comprehension of the triune god himself. but religious no less than seculars are subdued by what they work in. already in the tenth century richer complained that the monks of his time were beginning to wear rich ornaments and flowing sleeves, and with their tight-fitting garments[ ] looked like harlots rather than monks. [footnote : he was said to be "kind even to jews."] [footnote : the indignant scribe is most precise: they walked abroad _artatis clunibus et protensis natibus_.] in the polluting atmosphere of philip's reign matters had grown worse. st. bernard denounced the royal abbey of st. denis as "a house of satan, a den of thieves." "the walls of the churches of christ were resplendent with colour but his poor were naked and left to perish; their stones were gilded with the money of the needy and wretched to charm the eyes of the rich." in the task of cleansing the abbey of st. maur des fossés at paris seemed so hopeless, that the abbot resigned in despair rather than imperil his soul, and a more resolute reformer was sought. in the bishop of paris was commanded by rome to proceed to the abbey of st. eloy and extirpate the evils there flourishing, for the nuns, it was reported, had so declined in grace, owing to the proximity of the court and intercourse with the world, that they had lost all sense of shame and lived in open sin, breaking the bonds of common decency. the scandal was so great that the bishop determined to cut them off from the house of the lord; the abbey was reduced to a priory and given over to the abbot of the now reformed monastery of st. maur, and its vast lands were parcelled out into several parishes.[ ] the rights of the canons of notre dame were to be maintained; on st. eloy's day the abbot of st. maur was to furnish them with six pigs, two and a half measures of wine and three of fine wheat, and on st. paul's day with eight sheep, the same quantity of wine, six crowns and one obole. the present rue de la cité and the boulevard du palais give approximately the east and west boundaries of the suppressed abbey, part of whose site is now occupied by the prefecture de police. [footnote : the reformers always discover the nunneries to be so much more corrupt than the monasteries, but it is a little suspicious that in every case the former are expropriated to the latter. the abbot of st. maur evidently had some qualms concerning the expropriation of st. eloy, and wished to restore it to the bishop.] but the way of the reformer is a hard one. at the council of paris, , the abbot of pontoise was severely ill-treated for supporting, against the majority of the council, the pope's decrees excluding married clerics from the churches, and the reform of the canons of notre dame led to exciting scenes. bishop stephen of senlis was sent in to introduce the new discipline, but the archdeacons and canons, supported by royal favour, resisted, and bishop stephen was stripped of his revenues and hastened back to his metropolitan, the archbishop of sens. the archbishop laid paris under interdict and the influence of st. bernard himself was needed to compose the quarrel. on sunday, august , , when returning from a visitation to the abbey of chelles, the abbot and prior of st. victor[ ] at paris were ambushed and the prior was stabbed. some years later, in the reign of louis vii., pope eugene iii. came to seek refuge in paris from the troubles excited at rome by the revolution of arnold of brescia, and celebrated mass before the king at the abbey church of st. genevieve. the canons had stretched a rich, silken carpet before the altar on which the pontiff's knees might rest, and when he retired to the sacristy to disrobe, his officers claimed the carpet, according to usage. the canons and their servants resisted, there was a bout of fisticuffs and sticks, the king intervened, anointed majesty himself was struck, and during the scuffle which ensued the carpet was torn to shreds in a tug-of-war between the claimants. here was urgent need for reform. the pope decided to introduce the new discipline and appointed a fresh set of canons. the dispossessed canons met them with insults and violence, drowned their voices by howling and other indignities, and only ceased on being threatened with the loss of their eyes and other secular penalties. [footnote : _see_ note , p. .] louis vi., the _noble damoiseau_ as he is called by the chronicle of st. denis, enthroned in , was the pioneer of the great french monarchy, ever on the move, hewing his way, sword in hand, through his domains, subduing the violence, and burning and razing the castles of his insolent and disobedient vassals. the famous suger, abbot of st. denis, was his wise and firm counsellor, who led the church to make common cause with him and lend her diocesan militia. the king would have the peasant to till, the monk to pray, and the pilgrim and merchant to travel in peace. he was an itinerant regal justiciary, destroying the nests of brigands, purging the land with fire and sword from tyranny and oppression. wise in council, of magnificent courage in battle, he was the first of the capetians to associate the cause of the people with that of the monarchy. they loved him as a valiant soldier-king, destroyer and tamer of feudal tyrants, the protector of the church, the vindicator of the oppressed. he lifted the sceptre of france from the mire and made of it a symbol of firm and just government. it is in louis' reign that we have first mention of the oriflamme (golden flame) of st. denis, which took the place of st. martin's cloak as the royal standard of france. the emperor henry v. with a formidable army was menacing the land. louis rallied all his friends to withstand him and went to st. denis to pray for victory. pope eugene and abbot suger received louis, who fell prostrate before the relics. suger then took from the altar the standard--famed to have been sent by heaven, and formerly carried by the first liege man of the abbey, the count de vexin, when the monastery was in danger of attack--and handed it to the king: the pope gave him a pilgrim's wallet. the sacred banner was fashioned of silk in the form of a gonfalon, of the colours of fire and gold, and was suspended at the head of a gilded lance.[ ] [footnote : a modern reproduction may be seen in the church of st. denis, but the exact shape is doubtful, no less than three different forms being known to antiquarians.] the strenuous reign of louis was marked by a great expansion of paris, which became more than ever the ordinary dwelling-place of the king and the seat of his government. the market which from roman times had been held at the bifurcation of the northern road near the fields (champeaux), belonging to st. denis of the prison, was extended. william of champeaux founded the great abbey of st. victor,[ ] famed for its sanctity and learning, where abelard taught and st. thomas of canterbury, whose hair shirt was long preserved there, and st. bernard lodged. at the urgent prayer of his wife adelaide, the king built a nunnery at montmartre, and lavishly endowed it with lands, ovens, the house of guerri, a lombard money-changer, some shops and a slaughter-house in paris, and a small _bourg_, still known as bourg la reine, about five miles south of the city. certain rights of fishing at paris, to which louis vii. added five thousand herrings yearly from the port of boulogne, were also granted. the churches of ste. geneviève la petite, founded to commemorate the miraculous staying of the plague of the burning sickness (_les ardents_); of st. jacques de la boucherie; and of st. pierre aux boeufs, so named from the heads of oxen carved on the portal, were also built. [footnote : the abbey was suppressed at the time of the revolution and the site is now occupied by the halle aux vins.] chapter v _paris under philip augustus and st. louis_ during twenty-eight years of the reign of louis vii. no heir to the crown was born. at length, on the nd of august, , adelaide of champagne, his third wife, lay in child-bed and excited crowds thronged the palace in the cité. the king, "afeared of the number of his daughters and knowing how ardently his people desired a child of the nobler sex," was beside himself with joy when the desire of his heart was held up to him; curious eyes espied the longed-for heir through an aperture of the door and in a moment the good news was spread abroad. there was a sound of clarions and of bells and the city as by enchantment shone with an aureole of light. an english student roused by the uproar and the glare of what seemed like a great conflagration leapt to the window and beheld two old women hurrying by with lighted tapers. he asked the cause. they answered: "god has given us this night a royal heir, by whose hand your king shall suffer shame and ill-hap." this was the birth of philip le dieu-donné--philip sent of heaven--better known as philip augustus. under him and louis ix. mediæval paris, faithfully reflecting the fortunes of the french monarchy, attained its highest development. when philip augustus took up the sceptre at fifteen years of age, the little realm of the isle de france was throttled by a ring of great and practically independent feudatories, and in extent was no larger than half-a-dozen of the eighty-seven departments into which france is now divided. the english king held the mouths of all the great rivers and all the great cities, rouen, tours, bordeaux. in thirty years philip had burst through to the sea, subdued the duke of burgundy and the great counts, wrested the sovereignty of normandy, brittany and maine from the english crown, won poitou and aquitaine, crushed the emperor and his vassals in the memorable battle of bouvines, and become one of the greatest of european monarchs. the king, who had owed his life to the excellence of his armour,[ ] was received in paris with a frenzy of joy. the whole city came forth to meet him, flowers were strewn in his path, the streets were hung with tapestry, te deums sung in all the churches, and for seven days and nights the popular enthusiasm expressed itself in dance, in song and joyous revel. it was the first national event in france. the count of flanders was imprisoned in the new fortress of the louvre, where he lay for thirteen years, with ample leisure to meditate on the fate of rebellious feudatories. "never after," say the chroniclers, "was war waged on king philip, but he lived in peace." [footnote : in the ardour of the fight the king found himself surrounded by the enemy's footmen, was unhorsed, and while they were vainly seeking for a vulnerable spot in his armour some french knights had time to rescue him.] two vast undertakings make the name of philip augustus memorable in paris--the beginning of the paving of the city and the building of its girdle of walls and towers. one day as the king stood at the window of his palace, where he was wont to distract himself from the cares of state by watching the seine flow by, some carts rattled along the muddy road beneath the window and stirred so foul and overpowering an odour that the king almost fell sick. next day the provost and the sheriffs and chief citizens were summoned before him and ordered to set about paving the city with stone. the work was not however completed until the reign of charles v., a century and a half later. it was done well and lasted till the sixteenth century, when it was replaced by the miserable cobbles, known as the pavement of the league. whether the city grew much sweeter is doubtful; certainly paris in the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was as evil-smelling as ever. montaigne, in the second half of the sixteenth century, complains that the acrid smell of the mud of paris weakened the affection he bore to that fair city, and howell writes in , "the city is always dirty, and by perpetual motion the mud is beaten into a thick, black and unctuous oil that sticks so that no art can wash it off, and besides the indelible stain it leaves, gives so strong a scent that it may be smelt many miles off, if the wind be in one's face as one comes from the fresh air of the country." horace walpole in the eighteenth century, called paris "the beastliest town in the universe." [illustration: wall of philippe auguste, cour de rouen.] the great fortified wall of philip augustus began at the north-west water-tower, which stood just above the present pont des arts, and passed through the quadrangle of the louvre, where a line on the paving marks its course, to the porte st. honoré, near the oratoire. it continued northwards within the line of the present rue jean jacques rousseau and by the rue du jour to the porte montmartre, whose site is marked by a tablet on no. rue montmartre. turning eastward by the painters' gate ( rue st. denis) and the porte st. martin, near the rue grenier st. lazare, the fortification described a curve in a south-easterly direction by the rue des francs bourgeois, where traces of the wall have been found at no. , and where part of a tower may be seen at no. . the line of the wall continued in the same direction by the lycée charlemagne, no. rue st. antoine, where stood another gate, to the north-east water-tower, known as the tour barbeau, which stood near no. quai des célestins. the opposite or southern division began at the south-east water-tower, la tournelle, and the gate of st. bernard on the present quai de la tournelle, and went southward just within the rues des fossés st. bernard and cardinal lemoine, to the porte st. victor, near no. rue des Écoles. the wall then turned westward above the rue clovis, where at no. one of the largest and best-preserved remains may be seen. it enclosed the abbey of st. genevieve, continued within the rue des fossés st. jacques, and, between the porte st. jacques and the porte st. michel doubled outwards to enclose the parloir aux bourgeois near the south end of the rue victor cousin. the south-western angle was turned near the end of the rue soufflot and the beginning of the rue monsieur le prince. crossing the boulevard st. germain, it then followed within the line of the latter street, and continued within the rue de l'ancienne comédie. in the cour de rouen, entered through the passage du commerce, no. rue st. andré des arts, an important remnant may be seen with the base of a tower, and where the rue mazet cuts the last-named street stood the porte du buci. we may now trace the march of the wall and towers within the rue mazarine and across the rue guénégaud, where in a court behind no. other fragments exist, to the south-west water-tower, the notorious tour de nesle[ ] whose site is occupied by the east wing of the institut. the west passage of the seine was blocked by chains, which were drawn at night from tower to tower and fixed on boats and piles just above the line of the present pont des arts. a similar chain blocked the east passage of the river, drawn from the tour barbeau to la tournelle, crossing the islands now known as the isle st. louis. the wall was twenty years building and was completed in . it was eight feet thick, pierced by twenty-four gates and fortified by about five hundred towers. much of the land it enclosed was not built upon; the _marais_ on the north bank were drained and cultivated for market and fruit gardens. [footnote : jeanne de burgogne, queen of philip le long, lived at the hôtel de nesle, and is said to have seduced scholars by night into the tower, had them tied in sacks and flung into the seine. if we may believe villon, this was the queen-- "qui commanda que buridan fust jetté en ung sac en seine." legend adds that the schoolman, made famous by his thesis, that if an ass were placed equidistant between two bundles of hay of equal attraction he would die of hunger before he could resolve to eat either, was saved by his disciples, who placed a barge, loaded with straw, below the tower to break his fall.] the moated château of the louvre, another of philip's great buildings stood outside the wall, on the site of the old frankish camp or _lower_, and commanded the valley route to paris. it was at once a fortress, a treasury, a palace and a prison. parts of two wings of the structure are incorporated in the present palace of the louvre, and the site of the remaining wings, the massive keep and the towers, are marked out on the pavement of the quadrangle. the king erected also ( - ) two great warehouses at the old market at champeaux: one for the drapers, the other for the weavers, that the merchants might sell their wares under cover and lock up their goods at night. they were known as _les halles_, and the market ever since has borne that name. here too philip caused to be burnt at the stake the first heretics[ ] executed at paris, sparing the women and other simple folk who had been misled by the chief sectaries, of whom one, beyond the reach of earthly penalties and buried in the cemetery of les innocents, was finally excommunicated, his bones exhumed and flung on a dungheap. "_beni soit le seigneur en toutes choses!_" says pigord the chronicler who tells the story. [footnote : it should be remembered that heresy was the solvent antisocial force of the age and was regarded with the same feelings of abhorrence as anarchist doctrines and propaganda are regarded by modern statesmen.] of the impression that the paris of philip augustus made on a provincial visitor, we were able, fortunately, to give some account. "i am at paris," writes guy of bazoches, about the end of the twelfth century, "in this royal city, where the abundance of nature's gifts not only retains those that dwell there but invites and attracts those who are afar off. even as the moon surpasses the stars in brightness, so does this city, the seat of royalty, exalt her proud head above all other cities. she is placed in the bosom of a delicious valley, in the centre of a crown of hills, which ceres and bacchus enrich with their gifts. the seine, that proud river which comes from the east, flows there through wide banks and with its two arms surrounds an island which is the head, the heart, and the marrow of the whole city; two suburbs extend to right and left, even the lesser of which would rouse the envy of many another city. these suburbs communicate with the island by two stone bridges; the grand pont towards the north in the direction of the english sea, and the petit pont which looks towards the loire. the former bridge, broad, rich, commercial, is the centre of a fervid activity, and innumerable boats surround it laden with merchandise and riches. the petit pont belongs to the dialecticians, who pace up and down disputing. in the island adjacent to the king's palace, which dominates the whole town, the palace of philosophy is seen where study reigns alone as sovereign, a citadel of light and immortality." after louis viii.'s brief reign of three years, there rises to the seat of kings at paris one of the gentlest and noblest of the sons of men, a prince indeed, who, amid all the temptations of absolute power maintained a spotless life, and at death laid down an earthly crown to assume a fairer and an imperishable diadem among the saints in heaven. all that was best in mediævalism--its desire for peace and order and justice; its fervent piety, its passion to effect unity among christ's people and to wrest the holy land from the pollution of the infidel; its enthusiasm for learning and for the things of the mind; its love of beauty--all are personified in the life of st. louis. the young prince was eleven years of age when his father died. during his minority he was nurtured in learning and piety[ ] by his mother, blanche of castile, whose devotion to her son, and firm and wise regency were a fitting prelude to the reign of a saintly king. even after he attained his majority, st. louis always sought his mother's counsel and was ever respectful and submissive to her will. when the news of her death reached him in the holy land, he went to his oratory, fell on his knees before the altar, submissive to the will of god, and cried out with tears in his eyes, that he had loved the queen, "his most dear lady and mother, beyond all mortal creatures." [footnote : she was wont to say to her son--"i would rather see thee die than commit a mortal sin."] the king's conception of his office was summed up in two words--_gouverner bien_. "fair son," said he one day to prince louis, his heir, "i pray thee win the affection of thy people. verily, i would rather that a scotchman came from scotland and ruled the kingdom well and loyally than that thou shouldst govern it ill." joinville his biographer tells with charming simplicity how the king after hearing mass in the chapel at vincennes outside paris was wont to walk in the woods for refreshment and then, sitting at the foot of an old oak tree, whose position is still shown, would listen to the plaints of his poorer people without let of usher or other official and administer justice to them. at other times, clothed in a tunic of camlet, a surcoat of wool (_tiretaine_) without sleeves, a mantle of black taffety, and a hat with a peacock's plume, he would walk with his council in the garden of his palace in the cité, and on the poorer people crowding round him all speaking at once he would cry: "silence! one at a time," and call for a carpet to be spread on the ground, on which he would sit, surrounded with his councillors, and judge them diligently. in st. louis was profoundly shocked by the news that the crown of thorns was a forfeited pledge at venice for an unpaid loan advanced by some venetian merchants to the emperor baldwin of constantinople. he paid the debt,[ ] redeemed the pledge, and secured the relic for paris. the king met his envoys at sens, and barefooted, himself carried the sacred treasure enclosed in three caskets, one of wood, one of silver and one of gold, to paris. the procession took eight days to reach the city, and so great were the multitudes who thronged to see it, that a large platform was raised in a field outside the walls, from which several prelates exposed it in turn to the veneration of the people. thence it was taken to the cathedral of notre dame, the king dressed in a simple tunic, and barefoot, still carrying the relic. from the cathedral it was transferred to the royal chapel of st. nicholas within the precincts of the palace. a year later the emperor baldwin was constrained to part with other relics, including a piece of the true cross, the blade of the lance and the sponge of the passion. to enshrine them and the crown of thorns the chapel of st. nicholas was demolished and the beautiful sainte chapelle built in its place. the upper chapel was dedicated to the relics; the lower to the blessed virgin, and on solemn festivals the king would himself expose the relics to the people. st. louis was zealous in his devotion and for a time attended matins in the new chapel at midnight, until, suffering much headache in consequence, he was persuaded to have the office celebrated in the early morning before prime. his piety, however, was by no means austere: he had all the french gaiety of heart, dearly loved a good story, and was excellent company at table, where he loved to sit conversing with robert de sorbon, his chaplain. "it is a bad thing," he said one day to joinville, "to take another man's goods, because _rendre_ (to restore) is so difficult, that even to pronounce the word makes the tongue sore by reason of the r's in it." [footnote : by a subtle irony, part of the money was derived from the tribute of the jews of paris.] [illustration: la sainte chapelle.] at another time they were talking of the duties of a layman towards jews and infidels. "let me tell you a story," said st. louis. "the monks of cluny once arranged a great conference between some learned clerks and jews. when the conference opened, an old knight who for love of christ was given bread and shelter at the monastery, approached the abbot and begged leave to say the first word. the abbot, after some protest against the irregularity, was persuaded to grant permission, and the knight, leaning on his stick, requested that the greatest scholar and rabbi among the jews might be brought before him. 'master,' said the knight, 'do you believe that the blessed virgin mary gave birth to jesus and held him at her breast, and that she is the virgin mother of god?' the jew answered that he believed it not at all. 'then,' said the knight, 'fool that thou art to have entered god's house and his church, and thou shalt rue it,' thereupon he lifted his stick, smote the rabbi under the ear and felled him to the ground. the terrified jews fled, carrying their master with them, and so," said st. louis, "ended the conference. and i tell you, let none but a great clerk dispute; the business of a layman when he hears the christian religion defamed is to defend it with his sharp sword and thrust his weapon into the miscreant's body as far as it will go." st. louis, however, did not apply the moral in practice. although severe in exacting tribute from the jews, he spent much money in converting them and held many of their orphan children at the font; to others he gave pensions, which became a heavy financial burden to himself and his successors. he was stern with blasphemers, whose lips he caused to be branded with a hot iron. "i have heard him say," writes joinville, "with his own mouth, that he would he were marked with a red-hot iron himself if thereby he could banish all oaths and blasphemy from his kingdom. full twenty-two years have i been in his company, and never have i heard him swear or blaspheme god or his holy mother or any saint, howsoever angry he may have been: and when he would affirm anything, he would say, 'verily it is so, or verily it is not so,' before going to bed he would call his children around him and recite the fair deeds and sayings of ancient princes and kings, praying that they would remember them for good ensample; for unjust and wicked princes lost their kingdoms through pride and avarice and rapine." when he was in the east he heard of a saracen lord of egypt who caused all the best books of philosophy to be transcribed for the use of young men, and he determined to do the like for the youth of paris. five thousand scribes were employed to copy the scriptures and the writings of the fathers and classic authors, preserved in various abbeys in france. he had a convenient and safe place built at the treasury of the sainte chapelle, where he housed the books, for a church without a library was said to be a fortress without ammunition. scholars had free access to them, and he himself was wont in his leisure time to shut himself up there for study, reading rather the holy fathers than the writings of the best doctors of his own time. st. louis was a steadfast friend to the religious orders. on his return from the holy land he brought with him six monks from mount carmel and established them on the north bank of the seine, near the present quai des célestins; they were subsequently transferred to the university quarter, on a site now occupied by the marché aux carmes. the prior of the grande chartreuse was also prayed to spare a few brothers to found a house in paris; four were sent, and the king endowed them with his château de vauvert, including extensive lands and vineyards. the château was reputed to be haunted by evil spirits, and the street leading thither as late as the last century was known as the rue d'enfer. st. louis began a great church for them, and the eight cells, each with its three rooms and garden, were increased to thirty before the end of his reign; in later times the order became one of the richest in paris and occupied a vast expanse of land to the south of the luxembourg. the fine series of paintings illustrating the life of st. bruno, by lesueur, now in the louvre, was executed for the smaller cloister of the monastery. the grands augustins were established on the south bank of the seine, near the present pont neuf, and the serfs de la vierge, known later as the blancs manteaux, from their white cloaks, in the marais. they were subsequently amalgamated with the guillemites, or the hermits of st. william, and at no. rue des guillemites some remains of their monastery may yet be seen. the church of the blancs manteaux, rebuilt in the seventeenth century, also exists in the street of that name. in the first of the dominicans were seen at paris. on the th of september seven preaching friars, among whom were laurence the englishman and a brother of st. dominic, established themselves in a house near the _parvis_ of notre dame. in the university gave them a home opposite the church of st. Étienne des grez (st. stephen of the greeks), in the rue st. jacques, and in the following year, when st. dominic came to paris, the brothers had increased to thirty. the saint himself drew up the plans of their monastery and always cherished a particular affection for the paris house. their church was opened in , and being dedicated to st. jacques, the dominicans were known as jacobins all over france. st. louis endowed them with a school; they soon became one of the most powerful and opulent of the religious orders, and their church, a burial-place for kings and princes. the friars minor soon followed. st. francis himself, in his deep affection for france, had determined to go to paris and found a house of his order, but being dissuaded by his friend, cardinal ugolin, sent in a few of his disciples. these early friars, true _poverelli di dio_, would accept no endowment of house or money, and supporting themselves by their hands, carried their splendid devotion among the poor, the outcast, and the lepers of paris. in the cordeliers, as they were called,[ ] accepted the _loan_ of a house near the walls in the south-western part of the city; st. louis built them a church, and left them at his death part of his library and a large sum of money.[ ] they too soon became rich and powerful and their church one of the largest and most magnificent in paris. st. bonaventure and duns scotus taught at their school of theology; their monastery in the sixteenth century was the finest and most spacious in paris, with cells for a hundred friars and a vast refectory, which still exists. st. louis founded the hospital known as the quinze-vingts ( + ) for three hundred poor knights whose eyes had been put out by the saracens. subsequently it became a night shelter for a like number of blind beggars whither they might repair after their long quest in the streets of paris. st. louis at his death left them an annual _rente_ of thirty livres parisis that every inmate might have a good mess of pottage daily, and philip le bel ordered a fleur-de-lys to be embroidered on their dress that they might be known as the king's poor folk. the buildings, now transferred to the rue de charenton, originally covered a vast area of ground between the palais royal and the louvre, and were sold in to a syndicate of speculators by cardinal de rohan of diamond-necklace[ ] notoriety; an act of jobbery which brought his eminence a handsome commission. the quinze-vingts were privileged to place collecting-boxes and to beg inside the churches. since, however, the differences in the relative opulence of churches was great, the right to beg in certain of the richer ones was put up to auction every year, and those who promised to pay the highest premium to the funds of the hospital were adjudicated the privilege of begging there. this curious arrangement was in full vigour until the latter half of the eighteenth century, when the foundation was removed. twelve blind brothers and twelve seeing brothers--husbands of blind women who were lodged there on condition that they served as leaders through the streets--had a share in the management of the institution. luxury seems to have sometimes invaded the hostel, for in a royal degree forbade the sale of wine to the brethren and denounced the blasphemy with which their conversation was often tainted. in they were forbidden to use stuffs other than serge or cloth for their garments, or to use velvet for ornament. [footnote : on account of the cord they wore round their habit.] [footnote : st. louis loved the franciscans, and in the _fioretti_ a beautiful story is told how the king, in the guise of a pilgrim, visiting brother giles at perugia, knelt with the good friar in an embrace of fervent affection for a great space of time in silence. they parted without speaking a word, marvellously comforted.] [footnote : the innocence of marie antoinette in this scandalous affair has been clearly established. see _l'affaire du collier_, by m. funck brentano. paris, .] [illustration: refectory of the cordeliers.] the establishment of the abbeys of st. antoine, of the friars of the holy cross, and of the sisters of st. bega or béguines, were also due to the king's piety, and the whole city was surrounded with religious houses. "even as a scribe," says an old writer, "who hath written his book illuminates it with gold and silver, so did the king illumine his kingdom with the great quantity of the houses of god that he built." st. louis was, however, firm in his resistance to ecclesiastical arbitrariness. the prelates complained to him on one occasion that christianity was going to the dogs, because no one feared their excommunications, and prayed that he would order his sergeants to lend the secular arm to enforce their authority. "yes," answered the king, "if you will give me the particulars of each case that i may judge if your sentence be just." that, they objected, appertained to the ecclesiastical courts, but st. louis was inflexible, and they remained unsatisfied. many were st. louis' benefactions to the great hospital of paris, the hôtel dieu. rules, dating from , for the treatment of the sick poor were elaborated in his reign with admirable forethought. the sick, after confession and communion, were to be put to bed and treated as if they were the masters of the house. they were to be daily served with food before the nursing friars and sisters, and all that they desired was to be freely given if it could be obtained and were not prejudicial to their recovery. if the sickness were dangerous the patient was to be set apart and to be tended with especial solicitude. the sick were never to be left unguarded and even to be kept seven days after they were healed, lest they should suffer a relapse. the friars and sisters were to eat twice a day: the sick whenever they had need. a nurse who struck a patient was excommunicated. viollet le duc was of opinion that in many respects the hôtel dieu in the middle ages was superior to our modern hospitals. among many details denoting the tender forethought of the administrator, we may note that in the ward for the grievously sick and infirm the beds were made lower, and _cottes_ of white fur and felt boots were provided to keep the poor patients warm when they were moved from their beds to the _chambres aisées_. in later times, lax management and the decline of piety which came with the religious and political changes of the renaissance made reform urgent, and in the parlement appointed a committee of eight _bourgeois clercs_ to control the receipts. the buildings were much increased in , but were never large enough, and in the priory of st. julien was united to the hospital. "as many as patients," says félibien, writing in , "have been counted there at one time, five or six in one bed." no limitations of age or sex or station or religion or country were set. everybody was received, and in félibien's time the upkeep amounted to , livres per annum. the old hôtel dieu was situated to the south of notre dame, and stood there until rebuilt on its present site in . st. louis sought diligently over all the land for the _grand sage homme_ who would prove an honest and fearless judge, punishing the wicked without regard to rank or riches; and what he exacted of his officers he practised himself. he punished his own brother, the count of artois, for having forced a sale of land on an unwilling man, and ordered him to make restitution. the sire de coucy, one of the most powerful of his barons, was summoned to paris and in spite of his bravado, arrested, imprisoned in the louvre and sentenced to death, for having hanged three young fellows for poaching. the sale of the provostship of paris was abolished and a man of integrity, Étienne boileau, appointed with adequate emoluments. so completely was this once venal office rehabilitated, that no seigneur regarded the post as beneath him. boileau was wont to sleep in his clothes on a camp bed in the châtelet to be in readiness at any hour, and often st. louis would be seen sitting beside the provost on the judgment seat, watching over the administration of justice. the judicial duel in civil cases was forbidden; the royal watch instituted to police the streets of paris; the charters of the hundred crafts of paris were confirmed and many privileges granted to the great trade guilds. in st. louis put on a second time the crusader's badge, "the dear remembrance of his dying lord," and met his death in the ill-fated expedition to tunis. so feeble was the king when he left paris, that joinville carried him from the hôtel of the count of auxerre to the cordeliers, where the old friends and fellow-warriors in the holy land parted for ever. when stricken with the plague the dying monarch was laid on a couch strewn with ashes. he called his son, the count of alençon to him, gave wise and touching counsel, and, after holy communion, recited the seven penitential psalms: having invoked "monseigneurs st. james and st. denis and madame st. genevieve," he crossed his hands on his heart, gazed towards heaven and rendered his soul to his creator. _piteuse chouse est et digne de pleurer le trépassement de ce saint prince_, says joinville, to whom the story was told by the king's son--"a piteous thing it is and worthy of tears the passing away of this holy prince." the bones of the dead king, from which the flesh[ ] had been removed by boiling, were sent for burial to st. denis, which he had chosen for the place of his sepulture. joinville,[ ] his friend and companion, from whose priceless memoirs we have chiefly drawn, ends his story thus:--"i make known to all readers of this little book that the things which i say i have seen and heard of the king are true, and steadfastly shall they believe them. and the other things of which i testify but by hearsay, take them in a good sense if it please you, praying god that by the prayers of monseigneur st. louis it may please him to give us those things that he knoweth to be necessary as well for our bodies as for our souls. amen." [footnote : it was buried in the church of monreale at palermo.] [footnote : joinville was a brave and tender knight; he tells us that before starting to join the crusaders at marseilles he called all his friends and household before him, and declared that if he had wronged any one of them reparation should be made. after a severe penance he was assoiled, and as he set forth, durst not turn back his eyes lest his heart should be melted at leaving his fair château of joinville and his two children whom he loved so dearly.] king louis was tall of stature, with a spare and graceful figure; his face was of angelic sweetness, with eyes as of a dove, and crowned with abundant fair hair. as he grew older he became somewhat bald and held himself slightly bent. "never," says joinville, when describing a charge led by the king, which turned the tide of battle, "saw i so fair an armed man. he seemed to sit head and shoulders above all his knights; his helmet of gold was most fair to see, and a sword of allemain was in his hand. four times i saw him put his body in danger of death to save hurt to his people." [illustration: interior of notre dame.] chapter vi _art and learning at paris_ two epoch-making developments--the creation of gothic architecture and the rise of the university of paris--synchronise with the period covered by the reigns of philip augustus and st. louis, and may now fitly be considered. the memory of the norman terror had long passed from men's minds. the isle de france had been purged of robber lords, and with peace and security, wealth and population had increased. the existing churches were becoming too small for the faithful and new and fairer temples replaced the old: the massive square towers, the heavy walls and thick pillars of the norman builders, blossomed into grace and light and beauty. already in the beginning of the twelfth century the church of st. denis was in urgent need of extension. on festival days so great were the crowds pressing to view the relics, that many people had been trodden under foot, and abbot suger determined to build a larger and nobler church. great was the enthusiasm of the people as the new temple rose. noble and burgess, freeman and serf, harnessed themselves like beasts of burden to the ropes and drew the stone from the quarry. a profound silence reigned, broken only by the murmur of those who confessed their sins when a halt was made. a trumpet sounded, banners were unfurled, and the silent host resumed its way. arrived at the building the whole multitude burst forth into a song of praise. all would lend their aid in raising the new house of god and of his holy martyrs, and the burial-place of their kings. in maurice de sully, a peasant's son, who had risen to become bishop of paris, determined to erect a great minster adequate to the demands of his time. the old churches of notre dame and of st. stephen[ ] and many houses were demolished, and a new street, called of notre dame, was made. sully devoted the greater part of his life and private resources to the work. the king, the pope, seigneurs, guilds of merchants and private persons, vied with each other in making gifts. two years were spent in digging the foundations of the new notre dame, and in pope alexander iii. is said to have laid the first stone. in , the choir being finished, the papal legate, henri de châteaux-marcay, consecrated the high altar, and in the patriarch of jerusalem celebrated mass in the choir. at sully's death, in , the walls of the nave were erect and partly roofed, and the old prelate left a hundred livres for a covering of lead. the transepts and nave were completed in . [footnote : the relics were transferred to a new church of st. stephen (st. Étienne du mont), built by the abbot of st. genevieve as a parish church for his servants and tenants.] in an ingenious and sacrilegious thief, climbing to the roof to haul up the silver candlesticks from the altar by a noose in a rope, set fire to the altar cloth, and the choir was seriously injured. sully's work had been romanesque, and choir and apse were now rebuilt in the new style, to harmonise with the remainder of the church. by the end of the thirteenth century the chapels round the apse and in the nave, the porte rouge and the south portal were added, and the great temple was at length completed. the choir of st. germain des prés and the exquisite little church of st. julien le pauvre were rebuilt at the end of the twelfth century, and the beautiful refectory of st. martin des champs was created about . but the culmination of gothic art is reached in the wondrous sanctuary that st. louis built for the crown of thorns, "the most precious piece of gothic," says ruskin, "in northern europe." michelet saw a whole world of religion and poetry--tears of piety, mystic ecstasy, the mysteries of divine love--expressed in the marvellous little church, in the fragile and precious paintings of its windows.[ ] the work was completed in three years, and has been so admirably restored by viollet le duc that the visitor may gaze to-day on this pure and peerless gem almost as st. louis left it, for the gorgeous interior faithfully reproduces the mediæval colour and gold. during the revolution it was used as a granary and then as a club. it narrowly escaped destruction, and men now living can remember seeing the old notices on the porch of the lower chapel--_propriété nationale à vendre_. all that remains of the relics has long been transferred to the treasury of notre dame. the old quinze-vingts, the chartreux, the cordeliers, st. croix de la bretonnerie, st. catherine, the blancs manteaux, the mathurins and other masterpieces of the gothic builders have all disappeared. [footnote : the early glass-workers were particularly fond of their beautiful red. "wine of the colour of the windows of the sainte chapelle," was a popular locution of the time.] gothic architecture was eminently a product of the isle de france. "france not only _led_," says mr. lethaby, "but _invented_. in a very true sense what we call gothic is frenchness of the france which had its centre in paris." the thirteenth century rivals the finest period of greek art for purity, simplicity, nobility and accurate science of construction. imagination was chastened by knowledge, but not systematised into rigid rules. each master solved his problem in his own way, and the result was a charm, a variety, and a fertility of invention, never surpassed in the history of art. early french sculpture is a direct descendant of greek art, which made its way into gaul by the phoenician trade route, and the merovingian franks were always in touch with the eastern mediterranean, and with the stream of early byzantine[ ] art. french artists achieved a perfection in the representation of the human form which anticipated by a generation the work of the pisani in italy, for the early thirteenth-century statues on the west front of chartres cathedral are carved with a naturalness and grace which the italian masters never surpassed, and the marvellously mature and beautiful silver-gilt figure of a king, in high relief, found in immured in an old house at bourges and exhibited in among the primitifs français at the louvre, was wrought more than a century before the birth of donatello. some fragments of the old sculptures that adorned st. denis and other twelfth and thirteenth-century churches may still be found in the museums of paris. the influence of the french architects, as emile bertaux has demonstrated in the first volume of his _art dans l'italie méridionale_, extended far beyond the limits of france, and is clearly traceable in the fine hunting-palace, erected for frederic ii. in the thirteenth century, at castello del monte, near andria, in apulia. but of the names of those who created these wonderful productions few are known; the great masterpieces of the thirteenth century are mostly anonymous. jean de chelles, one of the masons of notre dame, has left his name on the south portal and the date, feb. , , on which it was begun, "in honour of the holy mother of christ." he was followed by pierre de montereau, "master of the works of the church of blessed mary at paris," whose name thus appears in a deed of sale dated . the sainte chapelle is commonly attributed to pierre de montereau, but the attribution is a mere guess. [footnote : the researches of professor strzygowski of gratz, and other authorities in the field of byzantine and eastern archæology, tend to prove the dominant importance of the christian east in the development of early ecclesiastical architecture and the subordinate influence of roman models.] nor did the love of beauty during this marvellous age express itself solely in architecture. if we were asked to specify one trait which more than any other characterises the "dark ages" and differentiates them from modern times, we should be tempted to say, love of brightness and colour. within and without, the temples of god were resplendent with silver and gold, with purple and crimson and blue; the saintly figures and solemn legends on their porches, the capitals, the columns, the groins of the vaultings, the very crest of the roof, were lustrous with colour and gold. each window was a complex of jewelled splendour; the pillars and walls were painted or draped with lovely tapestries and gorgeous banners: the shrines and altars glittered like aaron's breastplate, with precious stones--jasper and sardius and chalcedony, sapphire and emerald, chrysolite and beryl, topaz and amethyst and pearl. the church illuminated her sacred books with exquisite painting, bound them with precious fabrics, and clasped them with silver and gold; the robes of her priests and ministrants were rich with embroideries. "people," said william morris, "have long since ceased to take in impressions through their eyes," indeed so insensible, so atrophied to colour have the eyes of moderns grown amid their drab surroundings, that the aspect of a building wherein skilful hands have in some small degree essayed to realise the splendour of the past dazes the beholder; a sense of pain rather than of delight possesses him and he averts his gaze. nor were the churches of those early times anything more than an exquisite expression of what men were surrounded by in their daily lives and avocations. the houses[ ] and oratories of noble and burgess were rich with ivories exquisitely carved, with sculptures and paintings, tapestry and enamels: the very utensils of common domestic use were beautiful. men did not prate of art: they wrought in love and simplicity. the very word art, as denoting a product of human activity different from the ordinary daily tasks of men, was unknown. if painting was an art, even so was carpentry. a mason was an artist: so was a shoemaker. astronomy and grammar were arts: so was spinning. apothecaries and lawyers were artists: so was a tailor. dante[ ] uses the word _artista_ as denoting a workman or craftsman, and when he wishes to emphasise the degeneracy of the citizens of his time as compared with those of the old florentine race, he does so by saying that in those days their blood ran pure even _nell' ultimo artista_ (in the commonest workman). let us be careful how we speak of these ages as "dark"; at least there were "retrievements out of the night." already before the tenth century the basilica of st. germain des prés was known as st. germain _le doré_ (the golden), from its glowing refulgence, and st. bernard as we have seen, declaimed against the resplendent colour and gold in the churches of his time. never since the age of pericles has so great an effusion of beauty descended on the earth as during the wondrous thirteenth century in the isle de france and especially in paris.[ ] [footnote : brunetto latini, in the thirteenth century contrasted the high towers and grim stone walls of the fortress-palaces of the italian nobles with the large, spacious and painted houses of the french, their rooms adorned _pour avoir joie et delit_ and surrounded with orchards and gardens.] [footnote : par. xvi. .] [footnote : another delusion of moderns is that there was an absence of personal cleanliness in those ages. in the census of the inhabitants of paris, who in were subject to the taille, there are inscribed the names of no less than twenty-six proprietors of public hot baths, a larger proportion to population than exists to-day, and dr. gasquet has described in his _english monastic life_ the admirable provisions for personal cleanliness made in mediæval monasteries.] we pass from the enthusiasm of art to that of learning. from earliest times, schools, free to the poor, had been attached to every great abbey and cathedral in france. at the end of the eleventh century four were eminent at paris: the schools of st. denis, where the young princes and nobles were educated; of the parvis notre dame, for the training of young _clercs_,[ ] the famous _scola parisiaca_, referred to by abelard; of st. genevieve; and of st. victor, founded by william of champeaux, one of the most successful masters of notre dame. the fame of this teacher drew multitudes of young men from the provinces to paris, among whom there came, about , peter abelard, scion of a noble family of nantes. by his wit, erudition and dialectical sublety he soon eclipsed his master's fame and was appointed to a chair of philosophy in the school of notre dame. william, jealous of his young rival, compassed his dismissal, and after teaching for a while at melun, abelard returned to paris and opened a school on mont st. genevieve, whither crowds of students followed him. so great was the fame of this brilliant lecturer and daring thinker that his school was filled with eager listeners from all countries of europe, even from rome herself. [footnote : hence the name of _clerc_ applied to any student, even if a layman.] abelard was proud and ambitious, and the highest prizes of an ecclesiastical and scholastic career seemed within his grasp. but fulbert, canon of notre dame, had a niece, accomplished and passing fair, héloïse by name, who was an enthusiastic admirer of the great teacher. it was proposed that abelard should enter the canon's house as her tutor, and fulbert's avarice made the proposition an acceptable one. abelard, like arnault daniel, was a good craftsman in his mother tongue, a facile master of _versi d'amore_, which he would sing with a voice wondrously sweet and supple. now abelard was thirty-eight years of age: héloïse seventeen. _amor al cor gentil ratto s'apprende_,[ ] and minerva was not the only goddess who presided over their meetings. for a time fulbert was blind, but scandal cleared his eyes and abelard was expelled from the house; héloïse followed and took refuge with her lover's sister in brittany, where a child, astrolabe, was born. peacemakers soon intervened and a secret marriage was arranged, which took place early one morning at paris, fulbert being present. but the lovers continued to meet; scandal was again busy and fulbert published the marriage. héloïse, that the master's advancement in the church might not be impeded, gave the lie to her uncle and fled to the nuns of argenteuil. fulbert now plotted a dastardly revenge. by his orders abelard was surprised in his bed, and the mutilation which, according to eusebius, origen performed on himself, was violently inflicted on the great teacher. all ecclesiastical preferment was thus rendered canonically impossible; abelard became the talk of paris, and in bitter humiliation retired to the abbey of st. denis. before he made his vows, however, he required of héloïse that she should take the veil. the heart-broken creature reproached him for his disloyalty, and repeating the lines which lucan puts into the mouth of cornelia weeping for pompey's death, burst into tears and consented to take the veil. [footnote : "love is quickly caught in gentle heart."--inf. v. .] a savage punishment was inflicted by the ecclesiastical courts on fulbert's ruffians, who were made to suffer the _lex talionis_ and the loss of their eyes: the canon's property was confiscated. the great master, although forbidden to open a school at st. denis, was importuned by crowds of young men not to let his talents waste, and soon a country house near by was filled with so great a company of scholars that food could not be found for them. but enemies were vigilant and relentless, and he had shocked the timid by doubting the truth of the legend that dionysius the areopagite had come to france. in certain of abelard's writings on the trinity were condemned, and he took refuge at nogent-sur-seine, near troyes, under the patronage of the count of champagne. he retired to a hermitage of thatch and reeds, the famous paraclete, but even there students flocked to him, and young nobles were glad to live on coarse bread and lie on straw, that they might taste of wisdom, the bread of the angels. again his enemies set upon him; he surrendered the paraclete to héloïse and a small sisterhood, and accepted the abbotship of st. gildes in his own brittany. a decade passed, and again he was seen in paris. his enemies now determined to silence him, and st. bernard, the dictator of christendom, denounced his writings. abelard appealed for a hearing, and the two champions met in st. stephen's church at sens before the king, the hierarchy and a brilliant and expectant audience; the ever-victorious knight-errant of disputation, stood forth, eager for the fray, but st. bernard simply rose and read out seventeen propositions from his opponent's works, which he declared to be heretical. abelard in disgust left the lists, and was condemned unheard to perpetual silence. the pope, to whom he appealed, confirmed the sentence, and the weary soldier of the mind, old and heart-broken, retired to cluny; he gave up the struggle, was reconciled to his opponents, and died absolved by the pope near chalons in . his ashes were sent to héloïse, and twenty years later she was laid beside him at the paraclete. a well-known path, worn by generations of unhappy lovers, leads to a monument in père-la-chaise cemetery at paris which marks the last resting-place of abelard and héloïse, whose remains were transferred there in . it is commonly believed that abelard's school on mont st. genevieve was the origin of the latin quarter in paris, but the migration to the south had probably begun before abelard came, and was rather due to the overcrowding of the episcopal schools. teachers and scholars began to swarm to the new quarter over the bridge where quiet, purer air and better accommodation were found. ordinances of bishop gilbert, , and stephen, , transcribed by félibien, make this clear. so disturbed were the canons by the numbers of students in the cloister, that _externes_ were to be no longer admitted, nor other schools allowed on the north side where the canons lodged. the growing importance of the new schools, which tended to the advantage of the abbey of st. genevieve, soon alarmed the bishops, and the theologians were ordered to lecture only between the two bridges (the petit and grand ponts.) but it was abelard's brilliant career that attracted like a lodestar the youth of europe to paris, and made that city the "oven where the intellectual bread of the world was baked." providence, it was said, had given empire to germany, priestcraft to italy, learning to france. what a constellation of great names glows in the spiritual firmament of mediæval paris: william of champeaux, peter lombard, maurice de sully, pierre de chartreux, abelard, gilbert[ ] l'universel, adrian iv., st. thomas of canterbury, and his biographer john of salisbury. small wonder that the youth of the twelfth century sought the springs of learning at paris! [footnote : afterwards bishop of london.] [illustration: notre dame and petit pont.] there was no discipline or college life among the earliest students. each master, having obtained his license from the bishop's chancellor, rented a room at his own cost, and taught what he knew--even, it was sometimes complained, what he did not know. we read of one adam du petit pont, who, in the twelfth century, expounded aristotle in the back-room of a house on the bridge amid the cackle of cocks and hens, and whose _clientèle_ had many a vituperative contest with the fish-fags of the neighbourhood. the students grouped themselves according to nationalities, and with their masters held meetings in any available cloister, refectory, or church. when funds were needed, a general levy was made and any balance that remained was spent in a festive gathering in the nearest tavern. the aggregation of thousands of young men, some of whom were cosmopolitan vagabonds, gave rise to many evils. complaints are frequent among the citizens of the depredations and immoralities of riotous _clercs_, who lived by their wits or by their nimble fingers, or by reciting or singing licentious ballads:--the _paouvres escolliers_, whose miserable estate, temptations, debauchery, ignoble pleasures, remorse and degradation have been so pathetically sung by françois villon, master of arts, poet, bohemian, burglar and homicide. the richer scholars often indulged in excesses, and of the vast majority who were poor, some died of hunger. it was the spectacle of half-starving _clercs_ begging for bread that evoked the compassion of pious founders of colleges, which originally were simply hostels for needy scholars. on the return of louis vii. from a pilgrimage to becket's shrine, his brother robert founded about the church of st. thomas of canterbury and a hostel for fifteen students, who, in , were endowed with a chapel of their own, dedicated to st. nicholas, and were then known as the poor scholars of st. nicholas.[ ] in a london merchant (jocius de londonne), passing through paris on his return from the holy land, touched by the sight of some starving students begging their bread, founded a hostel for eighteen poor scholars at the hôtel dieu, who in return for lodging and maintenance were to perform the last christian rites to the friendless dead. this, known as the college of the dix-huit, was afterwards absorbed in the sorbonne. in Étienne belot and his wife, burgesses of paris, founded a hostel for thirteen poor scholars who were known as the _bons enfants_. in all, some dozen colleges were in being when st. louis came to the throne. in , st. louis' almoner, robert of cerbon or sorbon, a poor picardy village, founded[ ] a modest college of theology, and obtained from blanche of castile a small house above the palace of the thermæ where he was able to maintain a few poor students of theology. friends came to his aid and soon sixteen were accommodated, to whom others, able to maintain themselves, were added. in a papal bull confirmed the establishment of the _pauvres maistres estudiants_ in the faculty of theology at paris. even when enriched by later founders it was still called _la pauvre sorbonne_. by the renown of their erudition the doctors of the sorbonne became the great court of appeal in the middle ages in matters of theology, and the sorbonne synonymous with the university. some of the hostels were on a larger scale. the college of cardinal lemoine, founded in by the papal legate, housed sixty students in arts and forty in theology. most were paying residents, but a number of bursaries were provided for those whose incomes were below a certain amount. each _boursier_ was given daily two loaves of white bread of twelve ounces, "the common weight in the windows of paris bakers." [footnote : the two churches still existed in the eighteenth century and stood on the site of the southern cours visconti and lefuel of the present louvre.] [footnote : the actual originator was, however, the queen's physician, robert de douai, who left a sum of money which formed the nucleus of the foundation.] in , jeanne of navarre, wife of philip the fair, left her mansion near the tour de nesle and livres annually to found the college of navarre for seventy poor scholars, twenty in grammar, thirty in philosophy, and twenty in theology. the first were allowed four sous weekly; the second, six; the third, eight. if any were possessed of annual incomes respectively of thirty, forty and sixty livres, they ceased to hold bursaries. the maintenance fund seems, however, to have been mismanaged, for we soon read of the scholars of the college walking the streets of paris every morning crying--"bread, bread, good people, for the poor scholars of madame of navarre!" some forty colleges were in existence by the end of the fourteenth century and had increased to fifty by the end of the fifteenth; in the seventeenth, evelyn gives their number as sixty-five. in félibien's time some had disappeared, for in his map ( ) forty-four colleges only are marked. nearly the whole of these colleges clustered around the slopes of mont st. genevieve, which at length became that christian athens that charlemagne dreamt of. each college had its own rules. generally students were required to attend matins (in summer at a.m., winter at ), mass, vespers and compline. when the curfew of notre dame sounded, they retired to their dormitories. leave to sleep out was granted only in very exceptional cases. tennis was allowed, cards and dice were forbidden. the college of montaigu, founded in by archbishop gilles de montaigu, housed eighty-two poor scholars in memory of the twelve apostles and seventy disciples. there the rod was never spared to the _fainéant_; the discipline so severe, that the college became the terror of the youth of paris, and fathers were wont to sober their libertine sons by threatening to make _capetes_[ ] of them. this was the _collège de pouillerye_ denounced by rabelais and notorious to students as the _collège des haricots_, because they were fed there chiefly on beans. erasmus was a poor _boursier_ there, disgusted at its mean fare and squalor, and calvin, known as the "accusative," from his austere piety. desmoulins, the inaugurator of the revolution, and st. just, its fiery and immaculate apostle, sat on its benches. to obtain admission to the college of cluny ( ) the scholar must pass an entrance examination. he then spent two years at logic, three at metaphysics, two in biblical studies; he held weekly disputations and preached every fortnight in french; he was interrogated every evening by the president on his studies during the day. if students evinced no aptitude for learning they were dismissed; if only moderate progress were made, the secular duties of the college devolved upon them. it was the foundation of these colleges which organised themselves, about , into powerful corporations of masters and scholars (_universitates magistrorum et scholiarum_) that gave the university its definite character. [footnote : the montaigu scholars were called _capetes_ from their peculiar _cape fermée_, or cloak, such as masters of arts used to wear. the bibliothèque ste. geneviève occupies the site of the college.] [illustration: tower in rue valette in which calvin is said to have lived.] when the term "university" first came into use is unknown. it is met with in the statutes ( ) which, among other matters, define the limits of age for teaching. a master in the arts must not lecture under twenty-one; of theology under thirty-five. every master must undergo an examination as to qualification and moral fitness at the episcopal chancellor's court. early in the twelfth century the four faculties of law, medicine, arts and theology were formed and the national groups reduced to four: french, picards, normans and english. each group elected its own officers, and in at latest the _quatre nations_ were meeting in the church of st. julien le pauvre to choose a common head or rector, who soon superseded the chancellor as head of the university. the rectors in process of time exercised almost sovereign authority in the latin quarter; they ruled a population of ten thousand masters and students, who were exempt from civic jurisdiction. in some german students ill-treated an innkeeper who had insulted their servant. the provost of paris and some armed citizens attacked the students' houses and blood was shed, whereupon the masters of the schools complained to the king, who was fierce in his anger, and ordered the provost and his accomplices to be cast into prison, their houses demolished and vines uprooted. the provost was given the choice of imprisonment for life or the ordeal by water. then followed a series of ordinances which abolished secular jurisdiction over the students and made them subject to ecclesiastical courts alone. in the reign of philip le bel a provost of paris dared to hang a scholar. the rector immediately closed all classes until reparation was made, and on the feast of the nativity of the virgin the _curés_ of paris assembled and went in procession, bearing a cross and holy water to the provost's house, against which each cast a stone, crying, in a loud voice--"make honourable reparation, thou cursed satan, to thy mother holy church, whose privileges thou hast injured, or suffer the fate of dathan and abiram." the king dismissed his provost, caused ample compensation to be made, and the schools were reopened. the famous petit pré aux clercs (clerks' meadow) was the theatre of many a fight with the powerful abbots of st. germain des prés.[ ] from earliest times the students had been wont to take the air in the meadow, which lay between the monastery and the river, and soon claimed the privilege as an acquired right. in the inhabitants of the monastic suburb resented their insolence, and a free fight ensued, in which several scholars were wounded and one was killed. the rector inculpated the abbot, and each appealed to rome, with what result is unknown. after nearly a century of strained relations and minor troubles, abbot gerard in had walls and other buildings erected on the way to the meadow: the scholars met in force and demolished them. the abbot, who was equal to the occasion, rang his bells, called his vassals to arms and sent a force to seize the gates of the city that gave on the suburb, to prevent reinforcements reaching the scholars; his retainers then attacked the rioters, killed several and wounded many. the rector complained to the papal legate and threatened to close the schools if reparation were not made and justice done within fifteen days, whereupon the legate ordered the provost of the monastery to be expelled for five years. the royal council forced the abbot to exile ten of his vassals, to endow two chantries for the repose of the souls of slain _clercs_ and compensate their fathers by fines of two hundred and four hundred livres respectively, and to pay the rector two hundred livres to be distributed among poor scholars. in another bloody fight took place between the monks and the scholars over the right to fish there. [footnote : there were two prés, the petit pré roughly represented by the area now enclosed by the rues de seine, jacob and bonaparte; and the grand pré which extended nearly to the champ de mars. a narrow stream, the petite seine, divided them.] many circumstances contributed to make paris the capital of the intellectual world in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. france has ever been the home of great enthusiasms and has not feared to "follow where airy voices lead." the conception and enforcement of a truce of god (_trève de dieu_) whereby all acts of hostility in private or public wars ceased during certain days of the week or on church festivals; the noble ideal of christian chivalry; the first crusade--all had their origin in france. the crusaders carried the prestige of the french name and diffused the french idiom over europe. it was a french monk preaching in france who gave voice to the general enthusiasm; a french pope approved his impassioned oration; a french shout "_dieu le veut_" became the crusader's war-cry. the conquest of the holy land was organised by the french, its first christian king was a french knight, its laws were indited in french, and to this day every christian in the east is a frank whatever tongue he may speak. the french jurists were famed for their supreme excellence all over western europe. in the thirteenth century brunette latini wrote his most famous work, the _livres dou trésor_, in french, because it was _la parleure plus delitable, il plus commune à toutes gens_ ("the most delightful of languages and the most common to all peoples"). martin da canale composed his story of venice in french for the same reason, and marco polo dictated his travels in french in a genoese prison. when st. francis was sending the brothers to establish the order in distant lands, he himself chose france, but was dissuaded by his friend, cardinal ugolin. "when inebriated with love and compassion for christ," says the writer of the _speculum_, "and overflowing with sweetest melody of the spirit, ofttimes would he find utterance in the french tongue; the strains of the divine whisperings which his ear had caught he would express in a french song of joyous exultation, and making the gestures of one playing a viol, he would sing in french of our lord jesus christ." never in the history of civilisation were men possessed with such passion for the spiritual life or such faith in the reasoning faculty as in the thirteenth century in paris. the holiest mysteries were analysed and defined; everywhere was a search for new things. conservative churchmen became alarmed and complained of disputants and blasphemers exercising their wits at every street corner. the four camel-loads of manuscripts, the works and commentaries of aristotle, brought by the jews from spain--a monstrous and mutilated version translated from greek into arabic and from arabic into latin--became the battle-ground of the schools. the church at first forbade the study of aristotle, then by the genius of aquinas, christianised and absorbed him; his works became a kind of intellectual tennis-ball bandied between the averroists, who carried their teachings to a logical consequence, and the more orthodox followers of aquinas. for three years the faculty was torn asunder by the rival factions. siger of brabant, whose eternal light dante saw refulgent amid other doctors of the church in the heaven of the sun, was an averroist; siger-- "che leggendo nel vico degli strami sillogizzò invidiosi veri."[ ] [footnote : par. x. . "who lecturing in straw st. deduced truths that brought him hatred."] the rue du fouarre (straw), where siger taught and perhaps dante studied was the street of the masters of the arts. every house in it was a hostel for scholars or a school. it was in the rue du fouarre that pantagruel "held dispute against all the regents, professors of arts and orators and did so gallantly that he overthrew them all and set them all upon their tails." the street still exists, though wholly modernised, opposite the foot of the petit pont. its name has been derived from the straw spread on the floor of the schools or on which the students sat, but there is little doubt that benvenuto da imola's[ ] explanation, that it was so named from a hay and straw market held there, is the correct one. [footnote : benvenuto was certainly in france and possibly in paris during the fourteenth century. at any rate he would be familiar with parisian students, many of whom were italians.] the wonderful thirteenth century saw the meridian glory of the university. it was the age of the great aristotelian schoolmen who all taught at paris--albertus magnus, st. thomas aquinas, duns scotus and roger bacon, their candid critic, who carried the intellectual curiosity of the age beyond the tolerance of his franciscan superiors and twice suffered disciplinary measures at paris. in the fourteenth century the university of paris was as renowned as ever. among many tributes from great scholars we choose that of richard de bury, bishop of durham, who in his _philobiblon_ writes: "o holy god of gods in zion, what a mighty stream of joy made glad our hearts whenever we had leisure to visit paris, the paradise of the world, and to linger there; where the days seemed ever few for the greatness of our love! there are delightful libraries more aromatic than stores of spicery; there are luxuriant parks of all manners of volumes; there are academic meads shaken by the tramp of scholars; there are lounges of athens; walks of the peripatetics; peaks of parnassus; and porches of the stoics. there is seen the surveyor of all arts and sciences aristotle, to whom belongs all that is most excellent in doctrine, so far as relates to this passing sublunary world; there ptolemy measures epicycles and eccentric apogees and the nodes of the planets by figures and numbers; there paul reveals the mysteries; there his neighbour dionysius arranges and distinguishes the hierarchies; there the virgin carmentis reproduces in latin characters all that cadmus collected in phoenician letters; there indeed opening our treasures and unfastening our purse-strings we scattered money with joyous heart and purchased inestimable books with mud and sand." in the number of professors (_maistres-regents_) on the rolls was ; in they had increased to , to which must be added more than masters of theology and canon law. "the university," wrote pope alexander iv. in a papal bull, "is to the church what the tree of life was to the earthly paradise, a fruitful source of all learning, diffusing its wisdom over the whole universe; there the mind is enlighted and ignorance banished and jesus christ gives to his spouse an eloquence which confounds all her enemies." but decadence soon ensued. the multiplication and enrichment of colleges proved fatal to the old democratic vigour and equality. some colleges pretended to superiority and the movement lost its unity. scholasticism had done its work and no new movement took its place. teachers lost all originality and did but ruminate and comment on the works of their great predecessors. schools declined in numbers, scholars in attendance and ordinances were needed to correct the abuses covered by the title of scholar. the jacobin and cordelier teachers, moreover, had exhausted much life from the university; but its fame continued, and luther in his early conflicts with the papacy appealed against the pope to the university of paris. but it made the fatal blunder of opposing the reform and the renaissance, instead of absorbing them, and the interest of those great movements centres around the college of france. in the general decay, however, the jesuit college of clermont, known later as of louis le grand, stood forth renowned and exuberant. during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the erudition of its teachers, their excellent method and admirable discipline, made it the premier college of paris and in the heyday of its fame five hundred scholars crowded its halls, among them the scions of the nobility of france. towards the end of the eighteenth century the university had its seat in the college and concentrated there the endowments, or such as had escaped spoliation, of twenty-six suppressed colleges. the college of louis le grand and nine others of the multitude that clustered around the hill of st. genevieve, were all that survived when the revolution burst forth, and it is not without interest to note that on th june , the central body sitting at the famous jesuit college unanimously awarded a prize of six hundred livres to a poor young _boursier_ of the college of arras, named louis françois maximilian marie robespierre, for twelve years of exemplary conduct and of success in examinations and competitions. before we close this chapter a word of acknowledgment is due to the mediæval church in paris for her careful fostering of elementary education. by the taille of already referred to, we learn that schools for children of both sexes were distributed nearly over the whole of the city radiating from the mother church of notre dame. at the beginning of the fifteenth century twenty-one parishes had one or two of these schools; in a thousand schoolboys took part in a procession to notre dame to render thanks for the recovery of normandy. the church inspected the sanitary condition of the schools and exacted a standard of proficiency for the qualification of masters and mistresses. chapter vii _conflict with boniface viii.--the states-general--the destruction of the knights-templars--the parlement_ in the eyes of europe were again drawn to paris where the fourth philip, surnamed the fair, a prince who, in dante's grim metaphor, scourged the shameless harlot of rome from head to foot, and dragged her to do his will in france, was grappling with the great pontiff, boniface viii.--the most resolute upholder of the papacy in her claim to universal secular supremacy--and essaying a task which had baffled the mighty emperors themselves. the king knowing he had embarked on a struggle in which the greatest potentates had been worsted, determined to appeal to the patriotism of all classes of his subjects and fortify himself on the broad basis of such popular opinion as then existed. for the first time the states-general were summoned, after the burning of the papal bull in paris on the memorable sunday of th february . their meeting marks an epoch in french history, and for the first time members of the _tiers État_ (the third estate, or commons), sat beside the privileged orders of clergy and nobles, and were recognised as one of the legitimate orders of the realm. the assembly was convoked to meet in notre dame on the th of april. the question was the old one which had rent christendom asunder for centuries: was the pope at rome to be supreme over the princes and peoples of the earth in secular as well as in spiritual matters? the utmost enthusiasm prevailed, and though the prelates spoke with a somewhat timid voice, the assembled members swore to risk their lives and property rather than sacrifice the honour of the crown and their own liberties to the insolent usurpation of rome. excommunication followed, but philip had ordered all the passes from italy to be guarded, so that no papal letter or messenger should enter france. "boniface, who," says villani, the florentine chronicler, "was proud and scornful, and bold to attempt every great deed, magnanimous and puissant," replied by announcing the publication of a bull deposing the king from his throne and releasing his subjects from their allegiance. philip at an assembly in the garden of the palace in the cité, and in presence of the chief ecclesiastical, religious and lay authorities, again laid his case before the people and read an appeal against the pope to a future council of the church. the bull of deposition was to be promulgated on th september. on the th, while the aged pope was peacefully resting at his native city of anagni, guillaume de nogaret, philip's minister, bearing the royal banner of france, sciarra colonna and other disaffected italian nobles, with three hundred horsemen, flung themselves into anagni, crying--"death to pope boniface." the papal palace was unguarded: at the first alarm the cardinals fled and hid themselves, and all but a few faithful servants forsook their master. the defenceless pope believed that his hour was come, but, writes villani, "great-souled and valiant as he was, he said, 'since like jesus christ i must be taken by treachery and suffer death, at least i will die like a pope.' he commanded his servants to robe him in the mantle of peter, to place the crown of constantine on his head and the keys and crozier in his hands." he ascended the papal throne and calmly waited. guillaume, sciarra and the other leaders burst into the apartment, sword in hand, uttering the foulest of insults; but awed and cowed by the indomitable old pontiff, who stood erect in appalling majesty, their weapons dropped as though their hands were palsied and none durst offend him. they set a guard outside the room and proceeded to loot the palace. for three days the grand old pope--he was eighty-six years of age--remained a prisoner, until the people of anagni rallied and rescued him, and he returned to rome. in a month the humiliated boniface died of a broken heart, and before two years were passed his successor in peter's chair, pope clement v., revoked all his bulls and censures, expunged them from the papal register, solemnly condemned his memory and restored the colonna family to all their honours. dante, who hated boniface as cordially as philip did, and cast him into hell, was yet revolted at the cruelty of the "new pilate, who had carried the fleur-de-lys into anagni, who made christ captive, mocked him a second time, renewed the gall and vinegar, and slew him between two living thieves." but the "new pilate was not yet sated." the business at anagni had only been effected _spendendo molta moneta_; the disastrous battle of courtrai and the inglorious flemish wars had exhausted the royal treasury; and the debasement of the coinage availing nought, philip turned his lustful eyes on a once powerful lay order, whose chief seat was at paris and whose wealth and pride were the talk of christendom. after the capture of jerusalem and the establishment there of a christian kingdom, pilgrims flocked to the holy places. soon, however, piteous stories reached jerusalem of the cruel spoliation and murder of unarmed pilgrims, on their journey from the coast, by hordes of roving lightly-armed bedouins, against whom the heavily-armed franks were powerless. the evil was growing well-nigh intolerable when, in , two young french nobles, hugh of payens and godfrey of st. omer, with other seven youths of highest birth, bound themselves into a lay community, with the object of protecting the pilgrims' way. they took the usual vows of poverty, charity and obedience; st. bernard drew up their rule--and we may be sure it was austere enough--pope and patriarch confirmed it. their garb was a mantle of purest white linen with a red cross embroidered on the shoulder. the order was housed in a wing of the palace, which was built on the site of solomon's temple, hard by the holy sepulchre, and its members called themselves the poor soldiers of christ and of solomon's temple. their banner, half of black, half of white, was inscribed with the device "_non nobis domine_." their battle-cry "beauceant," and their seal, two figures on horseback, have not been satisfactorily interpreted--the latter probably portrays a knight riding away with a rescued pilgrim. soon the little band of nine was joined by hundreds of devoted youths from rich and noble families; endowments to provide them with arms and horses and servants flowed in, and thus was formed the most famous, the purest and the most heroic body of warriors the world has ever seen. hugh de payens had gathered three hundred knights-templars around him at jerusalem: in five years nearly every one had been slain in battle. but enthusiasm filled the ranks faster than they were mowed down: none ever surrendered and the order paid no money for ransom. when hemmed in by overwhelming numbers, they fought till the last man fell, or died, a wounded captive, in the hands of the saracens. of the twenty-two grand masters, seven were killed in battle, five died of wounds, and one of voluntary starvation in the hands of the infidel. when acre was lost, and the last hold of the christians in the holy land was wrested from them, only ten knights-templars of the five hundred who fought there escaped to cyprus. they chose jacques de molay for grand master, replenished their treasury and renewed their members; but their mission was gone for ever. the order was exempt from episcopal jurisdiction and subject to the pope alone; its wealth, courage and devotion were rusting for lack of employment. boniface viii., with that grandeur and daring which make of him, despite his faults, so magnificent a figure in history, conceived the idea of uniting them with the other military orders--the hospitallers and the teutonic knights--and making of the united orders an invincible army to enforce on europe the decrees of a benevolent and theocratic despotism. they soon became suspected and hated by bishops and kings alike, and at length were betrayed by the papacy itself to their enemies. in , a pair of renegade templars,[ ] who for their crimes were under sentence of imprisonment for life in the prison at toulouse, sought an introduction to the king, and promised in return for their liberty to give information of certain monstrous crimes and sacrileges of common and notorious occurrence in the order. depositions were taken and sent to philip's creature, pope clement v. some communication passed between them, but no action was taken and the matter seemed to have lapsed. about a year after these events the pope wrote an affectionate letter to jacques de molay, inviting him to bring the treasure of the order and his chief officers to france, to confer with himself and the king respecting a new crusade. jacques and his companions, suspecting nothing, came and were received by pope and king with great friendliness: the treasure, twelve mules' load of gold and silver, was stored in the vaults of the great fortress of the templars at paris. some rumours reached de molay of the delation made by the toulousian prisoners, but the pope reassured him in an interview, april , and lulled him into security. on th september of the same year the royal officers of the realm were ordered to hold themselves armed for secret service on th october, and sealed letters were handed to them to be opened that night. at dawn on the th, all the templars in france were arrested in their beds and flung into the episcopal gaols, and the bishops then proceeded to "examine" the prisoners. one hundred and forty were dealt with in paris, the centre of the order. the charges and a confession of their truth by the grand master were read to them; denial, they were told, was useless: liberty would be the reward of confession, imprisonment the penalty of denial. [footnote : the contemporary chronicler, villani, says of one of these scoundrels that he "was named nosso dei, one of our florentines, a man filled with every vice."] a few confessed and were set free. the remainder were "examined." starvation and torture of the most incredible ferocity did their work. thirty-six died under the rack in paris, and many more in other places; most of the remainder confessed to anything the inquisitors required. clement, warned by the growing feeling in europe, now became alarmed, and the next act in the drama opens at the abbey of st. genevieve in paris, where a papal commission sat to hear what the templars had to say in their defence. all were invited to give evidence and promised immunity in the name of the pope. hundreds came to paris to defend their order,[ ] but having been made to understand by the bishops that they would be burned as heretics if they retracted their confessions, they held back for a time until solemnly assured by the papal commissioners that they had nothing to fear, and might freely speak. ponzardus de gysiaco, preceptor of payens, then came forward and disclosed the atrocious means used to extort confessions, and said if he were so tortured again he would confess anything that were demanded of him; he would face death, however horrible, even by boiling and fire, in defence of his order, but long-protracted and agonising torture was beyond human endurance. ponzardus was sent back to confinement and the warders were bidden to see that he suffered naught for what he had said. the rugged old master, jacques de molay, scarred by honourable wounds, the marks of many a battle with the infidel, was brought before the court and his alleged confession read to him. he was stupefied, and swore that if his enemies were not priests he would know how to deal with them. a second time he was examined and preposterous charges of unnatural crimes were preferred against the order by the king's chancellor, guillaume de nogaret. they were drawn from a chronicle at st. denis, and based on certain statements alleged to have been made by saladin, sultan of babylon (egypt). again he was stupefied, and declared he had never heard of such things. and now the templars' courage rose. two hundred and thirty-one came forward, emaciated, racked and torn; among them one poor wretch was carried in, whose feet had been burnt by slow fires.[ ] nearly all protested that the confessions had been wrung from them by torture, that their accusers were perjurers, and that they would maintain the purity of their order _usque ad mortem_ ("even unto death"). many complained that they were poor, illiterate soldiers, neither able to pay for legal defence nor to comprehend the charges indicted in latin against them. it was philip's turn now to be alarmed, but the prelates were equal to the crisis. the archbishop of sens, metropolitan of paris and brother of the king's chief adviser, convoked a provincial court at his palace in paris, and condemned to the stake fifty-four of the knights who had retracted their confessions. on the th of may the papal commissioners were appealed to: they expressed their sorrow that the episcopal court was beyond their jurisdiction, but would consider what might be done. short time was allowed them. the stout-hearted archbishop was not a man to show weakness; he went steadily on with his work, and in spite of appeals from the papal judges for delay, the fifty-four were led forth on the afternoon of the th[ ] to the open country outside the porte st. antoine, near the convent of st. antoine des champs, and slowly roasted to death. they bore their fate with the constancy of martyrs, each protesting his innocence with his last breath, and declaring that the charges alleged against the order were false. two days later, six more were sent to the stake at the place de grève. in spite of threats, the prelates went on with their grim work of terror. many of the bravest templars still gave the lie to their traducers, but the majority were cowed; further confessions were obtained, and the pope was satisfied. the proudest, bravest and richest order in christendom was crushed or scattered to the four corners of the world; their vast estates were nominally confiscated to the knights hospitallers. but our "most dear brother in christ, philip the king, although he was not moved by avarice nor intended the appropriation of the templars' goods"[ ] had to be compensated for the expense of the prosecution: the treasure of the order failed to satisfy the exorbitant claims of the crown, and the hospitallers were said to have been impoverished rather than enriched by the transfer. [footnote : the indictment covers seven quarto pages. the charges may be briefly classified as blasphemy, heresy, spitting and trampling on the crucifix, obscene and secret rites, and unnatural crimes.] [footnote : an approved method of extracting confessions. as late as at the examination of a papal emissary, the titular archbishop of cashel, before the lords justices, archbishop loftus and sir h. wallop at dublin, the easy method failing to do any good "we made commission," writes loftus to walsingham, "to put him to torture such as your honour advised us, which was to toast his feet against the fire with hot boots. yielding to the agony he confessed," etc.--froude's _history_, x. p. .] [footnote : there is a significant entry on page of the published trial: _in ista pagina nihil est scriptum_. the empty page tells of the moment when the papal commissioners, having heard that the fifty-four had been burned, suspended the sitting.] [footnote : _nihil sibi appropriare intendebat._] [illustration: palace of the archbishop of sens.] the last act was yet to come. on th march , a great stage was erected in the _parvis_ of notre dame, and there, in chairs of state, sat the pope's envoy, a cardinal, the archbishop of sens, and other officers of christ's church on earth. the grand master, jacques de molay, and three preceptors were exposed to the people; their alleged confession and the papal bull suppressing the order, and condemning them to imprisonment for life, were read by the cardinal. but, to the amazement of his eminence, when the clauses specifying the enormities to which the accused had confessed were being recited, the veteran master and the preceptor of normandy rose, and in loud voices, heard of all the people, repudiated the confession, and declared that they were wholly guiltless, and ready to suffer death. they had not long to wait. hurried counsel was held with the king, and that same night jacques de molay and the preceptor of normandy were brought to a little island on the seine, known as the isle of the trellises,[ ] and burnt to death, protesting their innocence to the last. [footnote : or the isle of the jews, which, with its sister islet of bussy, were subsequently joined to the island of the cité, and now form the place dauphine and the land that divides the pont neuf. philip watched the fires from his palace garden.] "god pays debts, but not in money." an italian chronicler relates that the master, while expiring in the flames, solemnly cited pope and king to meet him before the judgment-seat of god. in less than forty days clement v. lay dead: in eight months philip iv. was thrown by his horse. seven centuries later the grisly fortress of the templars opened its portals, and the last of the unbroken line of the kings of france was led forth to a bloody death. those who would read the details of the dramatic examination at paris before the papal commissioners, may do so in the minutes published by michelet.[ ] the great historian declares that a study of the evidence shook his belief in the templars' innocence, and that if he were writing his history again, he must needs alter his attitude towards them. such is not the impression left on the mind of the present writer. moreover it has been pointed out that there is a suspicious identity in the various groups of testimonies, corresponding to the episcopal courts whence such testimonies came. the royal officers, after the severest search, could find not a single compromising document in the templars' houses, nothing but a few account books, works of devotion and copies of st. bernard's rule. there were undoubtedly unworthy and vicious knights among the fifteen thousand templars belonging to the order, but the charges brought against them are too monstrous for belief. the call which they had responded to so nobly, however, had long ceased. they were wealthy, proud and self-absorbed. sooner or later they must infallibly have gone the way of all organisations which have outlived their use and purpose. it is the infamy of their violent destruction for which pope and king must answer at the bar of history. [footnote : it is to be hoped that some english scholar will do for these most important records, the earliest report of any great criminal trial which we possess, what mr. t. douglas murray has done for the trial and rehabilitation of joan of arc.] philip's reign is also remarkable for the establishment of the parlement in paris. from earliest times of the monarchy, the kings had dispensed justice, surrounded by the chief churchmen and nobles of the land, thus constituting an ambulatory tribunal which was held wherever the sovereign might happen to be. in philip restricted it to judicial functions, and housed it in his palace of the cité, which on the kings ceasing to dwell there in became the palais de justice. the ancient palace was rebuilt and enlarged by philip. a vast hall with a double barrel-roof decorated with azure and gold, supported by a central row of columns adorned with statues of the kings of france--the most spacious and most beautiful gothic chamber in france--and other courts and offices accommodated the parlement. the tribunal was at first composed of twenty-six councillors or judges, of whom thirteen were lawyers, presided over by the royal chancellor, and sat twice yearly for periods of two months. it consisted of three chambers or courts.[ ] the nobles who at first sat among the lay members gradually ceased to attend owing to a sense of their legal inefficiency, and the parlement became at length a purely legal body. during the imprisonment of john the good in england, the parlement[ ] sat _en permanence_, and henceforth became the _cour souveraine et capitale_ of the kingdom. the purity of its members was maintained by severest penalties. in one of the presidents was convicted of receiving bribes and hanged. twelve years later the falsification of some depositions was punished with the same severity, and in a corrupt chancellor was fined , livres, degraded, and imprisoned for five years. the chief executive officer of the parlement, known as the concierge, appointed the bailiffs of the court and had extensive local jurisdiction over dishonest merchants and craftsmen, whose goods he could burn. his official residence, known as the conciergerie, subsequently became a prison, and so remains to this day. the entrance flanked by the two ancient _tours de césar et d'argent_, is one of the most familiar objects in paris. there the count of armagnac was assassinated and the cells are still shown where marie antoinette, madame roland, and many of the chief victims of the terror were lodged before their execution; where danton, hébert, chaumette, and robespierre followed each other in one self-same chamber. [footnote : in the seventeenth century the councillors had increased to one hundred and twenty and the courts to seven.] [footnote : the term "parlement" was originally applied to the transaction of the common business of a monastic establishment after the conclusion of the daily chapter.] [illustration: palais de justice, clock tower and conciergerie.] chapter viii _Étienne marcel--the english invasions--the maillotins--murder of the duke of orleans--armagnacs and burgundians_ with the three sons of philip who successively became kings of france, the direct line of the capetian dynasty ends: with the accession of philip vi. in , the house of valois opens the sad century of the english wars--a period of humiliation and defeat, of rebellious and treacherous princes, civil strife, famine and plague, illumined only by the heroism of a peasant-girl, who, when king and nobles were sunk in shameless apathy or sullen despair, saved france from utter extinction. pope after pope sought to make peace, but in vain: _hui sont en paix, demain en guerre_ ("to-day peace, to-morrow war") was the normal and inevitable situation until the english had wholly subjected france or the french driven the english to their natural boundary of the channel. never since the days of charlemagne had the french monarchy been so powerful as when the valois came to the throne: in less than a generation crecy and poitiers had made the english name a terror in france, and a french king, john the good, was led captive to england. in paris saw her _faubourgs_ wasted, the palace of st. germain and the fortress of montjoie st. denis[ ] spoiled and burnt, and the english camp fires nightly glowing. once again, as in the dark norman times, she rose and determined to save herself. Étienne marcel, the leader of the movement, whose statue now stands near the site of the maison aux piliers was a rich merchant prince of old family, a member of the great drapers' guild, and elected provost of the _marchands d'eau_ in . he it was who bought for florins of gold the maison des dauphins, better known as the maison aux piliers or hôtel de ville, on the place de grève and transferred thither the seat of the civic administration from the old parloir aux bourgeois, enclosed in the south wall of paris. the dauphin,[ ] who had assumed the title of lieutenant-general, convoked the states-general at paris, but he was forced by marcel and his party to grant some urgent reforms, and a committee of national defence was organised by the trade guilds and the provost, who became virtually dictator of paris. marcel's rule was however stained by the butchery of the marshal of champagne and the duke of normandy before the very eyes of the dauphin in the palace of the cité, who, horrified, fled to compiègne to rally the nobles. during the ensuing anarchy the poor, dumb, starving serfs of france, in their hopeless misery and despair, rose in insurrection and swept like a flame over the land. froissart, who writes from the distorted stories told him by the seigneurs, has woefully exaggerated the atrocities of the _jacquerie_."[ ] there was much arson and pillage, but barely thirty of the nobles are known to have perished. of the merciless vengeance taken by the seigneurs there is ample confirmation: the wretched peasants were easily out-manoeuvred and killed like rats by the mail-clad nobles and their men-at-arms. meanwhile the dauphin was marching on paris: marcel seized the louvre and set workmen to fortify the city. in less than a year the greater part of the northern walls, with gates, bastilles and fosses, was completed--the greatest feat, says froissart, the provost ever achieved. a citizen army was raised, whose hoods of red and blue, the colours of paris, distinguished them from the royal sympathisers. marcel turned for support to the _jacques_, and on their suppression essayed to win over charles of navarre. on th november , charles stood on the royal stage on the walls of the abbey of st. germain des prés, whence the kings of france were wont to witness the judicial combats in the prés aux clercs, and addressed an assembly of , citizens. _moult longuement_ he sermonised, says the _grandes chroniques_, so that dinner was over in paris before he finished. after yet another harangue at the maison aux piliers on th june , he was acclaimed by people with "navarre! navarre!" and elected the captain of paris. an obscure period of plot and counterplot followed which culminated in the ruin of marcel and his followers. froissart accuses the provost of a treacherous intent to open the gates of st. honoré and of st. antoine to navarre's english mercenaries at midnight on st july, and gives a dramatic story of the discovery of the plot and slaying of the provost by jean maillart, his friend and associate. we supplement his version from the chronicle of st. denis: on the last day of july, marcel and his suite repaired to the bastille of st. denis and ordered the guards to surrender the keys to charles of navarre's treasurer. maillart, who had been won over by the dauphin, had preceded him. the guard refused to hand over the keys and an angry altercation ensued between the former friends. maillart mounted horse, seized a royal banner, sped to the halles and to the cry of "montjoie st. denis!" called the royal partizans to arms: a similar appeal was made by pepin des essards. meanwhile marcel had reached the bastille of st. antoine, where he was met by maillart and the royal partizans. "stephen, stephen!" cried the latter, "what dost thou here at this hour?" "i am here," answered the provost, "to guard the city whose governor i am." "_par dieu_," retorted maillart, "thou art here for no good," and turning to his followers, said, "behold the keys which he holds to the destruction of the city." each gave the other the lie. "good people," protested marcel, "why would you do me ill? all i wrought was for your good as well as mine." maillart for answer smote at him, crying, "traitor, _à mort, à mort_!" there was a stubborn fight, and maillart felled the provost by a blow with his axe; six of the provost's companions were slain, and the remainder haled to prison. next day the dauphin entered paris in triumph, and the popular leaders were executed on the place de grève. the provost's body was dragged to the court of the church of st. catherine du val des Écoliers, naked, that it might be seen of all, on the very spot where the bodies of the marshal of champagne and the duke of normandy had been flung six months before: after a long exposure it was cast into the seine. all the reforms were revoked by the king, but the remembrance of the time when the merchants and people of paris had dared to speak to their royal lord face to face of justice and good government, was never obliterated. [footnote : the royal war-cry, "montjoie st. denis," was uttered when the king took the oriflamme from the altar at st. denis.] [footnote : during john the good's reign, the province of dauphiny had been added to the french crown, and the king's eldest son took the title of dauphin.] [footnote : so called from the familiar appellation "jacques bonhomme," applied half in contempt, half in jest, by the seigneurs to the peasants who served them in the wars.] next year the english peril again threatened paris. the invasion of resembled a huge picnic or hunting expedition. the king of england and his barons brought their hunters, falcons, dogs and fishing tackle. they marched leisurely to bourg la reine, less than two leagues from paris, pillaged the surrounding country and turned to chartres, where tempest and sickness forced edward iii. to come to terms. after the treaty of bretigny, in , the parisians saw their good king john again, who was ransomed for a sum equal to about ten million pounds of present-day value. the memory of this and other enormous ransoms exacted by the english, endured for centuries, and when a frenchman had paid his creditors he would say,--_j'ai payé mes anglais_.[ ] ("i have paid my english.") a magnificent reception was accorded to the four english barons who came to sign the peace at paris. they were taken to the sainte chapelle and shown the fairest relics and richest jewels in the world, and each was given a spine from the crown of thorns, which he deemed the noblest jewel that could be presented to him. [footnote : howell mentions the locution in a letter dated .] the dauphin, who on the death of good king john in london ( ) became charles v., by careful statesmanship succeeded in restoring order to the kingdom and to its finances[ ] and in winning some successes against the english. [footnote : charles taxed and borrowed heavily. even the members of his household were importuned for loans, however small. his cook lent him frs. . .] in their camp fires were again seen outside paris: but marcel's wall had now been completed. charles refused battle and allowed them to ravage the suburbs with impunity. before the army left, an english knight swore he would joust at the gates of the city, and spurred lance in hand against them. as he turned to ride back, a big butcher lifted his pole-axe, smote the knight on the neck and felled him; four others battered him to death, "their blows," says froissart, "falling on his armour like strokes on an anvil." by wise council rather than by war charles won back much of his dismembered country. he was a great builder and patron of the arts. the louvre, being now enclosed within the new wall and no longer part of the defences of paris, was handed over to raymond of the temple, charles' "beloved mason," to transform into a sumptuous palace with apartments for himself and his queen, the princes of the blood and the officers of the royal household. the rooms were decorated with sculpture by jean de st. romain, _tailleur d'ymages_ and other carvers in stone, and with paintings, by jean d'orléans. each suite was furnished with a private chapel, those of the king and queen being carved with much "art and patience." a gallery was built for the minstrels and players of instruments. a great garden was planted towards the rue st. honoré on the north and the old wall of philip augustus on the east, in which were an "hôtel des lions," or collection of wild beasts, and a tennis court, where the king and princes played. the palace accounts still exist, with details of payments for "wine for the stone-cutters which the king our lord gave them when he came to view the works." jean callow and geoffrey le febre were paid for planting squares of strawberries, hyssop, sage, lavender, balsam, violets, and for making paths, weeding and carrying away stones and filth; others were paid for planting bulbs of lilies, double red roses and other good herbs. twenty francs were paid to gobin d'ays, "who guards our nightingales of our chastel of the louvre." the first royal library was founded by charles, and peter the cage-maker was employed to protect the library windows of stained glass from birds--it overlooked the falconry--and other beasts, by trellises of wire. in order that scholars might work there at all hours, thirty small chandeliers were provided and a silver lamp was suspended from the vaulting. solemn masters at _grants gages_ were employed to translate the most notable books[ ] from latin into french; scribes and bookbinders of the university were exempted from the watch. an interesting payment of six francs in gold, made to jacqueline, widow of a mason "because she is poor and helpless and her husband met his death in working for the king at the louvre," demonstrates that royal custom had anticipated modern legislation. [footnote : this priceless collection of books, which at length filled three rooms, was appropriated for a nominal sum by the duke of bedford during the english occupation in paris and sent to england. a few, barely fifty, have survived, of which the greater number have been acquired by the bibliothèque nationale.] charles surrendered the royal palace in the cité, associated with bitter memories of marcel's dictatorship, to the parlement, and partly bought, partly erected an irregular group of exquisite gothic mansions and chapels which he furnished with sumptuous magnificence and surrounded with tennis courts, falconries, menageries, delightful and spacious gardens--a _hostel solennel des grands esbattements_, "where," as the royal edict runs, "we have had many joys and with god's grace have recovered from several great sicknesses, wherefore we are moved to that hostel by love, pleasure and singular affection." this royal city within a city, known as the hôtel st. paul, covered together with the monastery and church of the célestins, a vast space, now roughly bounded by the rue st. paul, the quai des célestins and the rue de sully, the rue de l'arsenal and the rue st. antoine. charles vii. was the last king who dwelt there; the buildings fell to ruin, and between and were gradually sold. no vestige of this palace of delight now remains, nothing but the memory of it in a few street names,--the streets of the fair trellis, of the lions of st. paul, of the garden of st. paul, and of the cherry orchard. to charles v. is also due the beautiful chapel of vincennes and the completion of Étienne marcel's wall. this third enclosure, began at the tour de billi, which stood at the angle formed by the gare de l'arsenal and the seine, extended north by the boulevard bourdon, the place de la bastille, and the line of the inner boulevards to the porte st. denis; it then turned south-west by the old porte montmartre, the place des victoires and across the garden of the palais royal to the tour du bois, a little below the present pont du carrousel. it was fortified by a double moat and square towers. the south portion was never begun. in , charles' provost, hugues aubriot, warned his royal master that the hôtel st. paul would be difficult to defend, and advised him to replace the bastille[ ] of st. antoine by a great stronghold which might serve as a state prison[ ] and as a defence from within and without. in the dread bastille of sinister fame, with its eight towers, was raised--ever a hateful memory to the citizens, for it was completed by the royal provost when the provost of the merchants had been suppressed by charles vi. in . [footnote : each gate of the new wall was defended by a kind of fortress called a bastide or bastille.] [footnote : aubriot is said to have been the first prisoner incarcerated in the dungeon of his own bastille.] "woe to thee o land, when thy king is a child!" during the minority and reign of charles vi. france lay prostrate under a hail of evils that menaced her very existence, and paris was reduced to the profoundest misery and humiliation. the breath had not left the old king's body before his elder brother, the count of anjou, who was hiding in an adjacent room, hastened to seize the royal treasure and the contents of the public exchequer. no regent had been appointed, and the four royal dukes, the young king's uncles of anjou, burgundy, bourbon, and berri, began to strive for power. in anjou, who had been suffered to hold the regency, sought to enforce an unpopular tax on the merchants of paris. a collector having seized an old watercress seller at the halles with much brutality, the people revolted, armed themselves with the loaded clubs (_maillotins_) stored in the hôtel de ville for use against the english, attacked and put to death with great cruelty some of the royal officers and opened the prisons. the court temporised, promised to remit the tax and to grant an amnesty; but with odious treachery caused the leaders of the movement to be seized, put them in sacks and flung them at dead of night into the seine. the angry parisians now barricaded their streets and closed their gates against the king. negotiations followed and by payment of , francs to the duke of anjou the citizens were promised immunity and the king and his uncles entered the city. but the court nursed its vengeance, and after the victory over the flemings at rosebecque, charles and his uncles with a powerful force marched on paris. the parisians, , strong, stood drawn up in arms at montmartre to meet him. they were asked who were their chiefs and if the constable de clisson might enter paris. "none other chiefs have we," they answered, "than the king and his lords: we are ready to obey their orders." "good people of paris," said the constable on his arrival at their camp, "what meaneth this? meseems you would fight against your king." they replied that their purpose was but to show the king the puissance of his good city of paris. "'tis well," said the constable, "if you would see the king return to your homes and put aside your arms." on the morrow, th january , the king and his court, with , men-at-arms, appeared at the porte st. denis, and there stood the provost of the merchants with the chief citizens in new robes, holding a canopy of cloth of gold. charles, with a fierce glance, ordered them back; the gates were unhinged and flung down; the royal army entered as in a conquered city. a terrible vengeance ensued. the president of the parlement and other civil officers, with three hundred prominent citizens, were arrested and cast into prison. in vain was the royal clemency entreated by the duchess of orleans, the rector of the university and chief citizens all clothed in black. the bloody diurnal work of the executioner began and continued until a general pardon was granted on march st on payment of an enormous fine. the liberties of the city met the same fate. the maison aux piliers reverted to the crown, the provostship of the merchants, and all the privileges of the parisians, were suppressed, and the hateful taxes reimposed. never had the heel of despotism ground them down so mercilessly; yet was no niggardly welcome given to isabella of bavaria, charles' consort, on her entry into paris in . "i, the author of this book," says froissart, after describing at length the usual incidents of a royal procession--the fountains running with wines, aromatic with orient spices, the music, the ballets, the spectacles, the sumptuous decorations--"i marvelled when i beheld such great foison, for all the grant rue st. denis was as richly covered with cloth of camelot and of silk like as were all the cloth had for nothing or that we were in alexandria or damascus." a curious incident is related by the chronicler of st. denis; charles, desirous of being present incognito at the wondrous scene, bade savoisy take horse and let him ride behind _en croupe_. thus mounted the pair rode to the châtelet to see the queen pass. there they found much people and a strong guard of sergeants, armed with stout staves with which the officers smote amain to keep back the press, and in the scuffle the king received many a thwack on the shoulders, whereat was great merriment when the thing was known at court in the evening. three years later a royal progress of far different nature was witnessed in paris. the king, a poor demented captive, was borne in by the duke of orleans to the hôtel st. paul. in , when he had somewhat recovered from his madness, a grand masked ball was given to celebrate the wedding of one of the ladies of honour who was a widow. the marriage of a widow was always the occasion of riotous mirth, and charles disguised himself and five of his courtiers as satyrs. they were sewed up in tight-fitting vestments of linen, which were coated with resin and pitch and covered with rough tow; on their heads they wore hideous masks. while the ladies of the court were celebrating the marriage the king and his companions rushed in howling like wolves and indulged in the most uncouth gestures and jokes. the duke of orleans, drawing too near with a torch to discover their identity, set fire to the tow and in a second they were enveloped in so many shirts of nessus. unable to fling off their blazing dresses they madly ran hither and thither, suffering the most excruciating agony and uttering piteous cries. the king happened to be near the young duchess of berri who, with admirable presence of mind, flung her robe over him and rescued him from the flames. one knight saved himself by plunging into a large tub of water in the kitchen, one died on the spot, two died on the second day, another lingered for three days in awful torment. the horror of the scene[ ] so affected charles that his madness returned more violently than ever. his queen abandoned him and he was left to wander like some wild animal about his rooms in the hôtel st. paul, untended, unkempt, verminous, his only companion his low-born mistress odette. [footnote : the scene is quaintly illustrated in an illuminated copy of froissart in the british museum.] the bitterness of the avuncular factions was now intensified. the house of burgundy by marriage and other means had grown to be one of the most powerful in europe and was at fierce enmity with the house of orleans. at the death of philip the bold, duke of burgundy, his son jean sans peur, sought to assume his father's supremacy as well as his title: the duke of orleans, strong in the queen's support, determined to foil his purpose. each fortified his hôtel in paris and assembled an army. friends, however, intervened; they were reconciled, and in november the two dukes attended mass at the church of the grands augustins, took the holy sacrament and dined together. as jean rose from table the duke of orleans placed the order of the porcupine round his neck; swore _bonne amour et fraternité_, and they kissed each other with tears of joy. on rd november a forged missive was handed to the duke of orleans, requiring his attendance on the queen. he set forth on a mule, accompanied by two squires and five servants carrying torches. it was a sombre night, and as the unsuspecting prince rode up the rue vieille du temple behind his little escort, humming a tune and playing with his glove, a band of assassins fell upon him from the shadow of the postern la barbette, crying "_à mort, à mort_" and he was hacked to death. then issued from a neighbouring house at the sign of our lady, jean sans peur, a tall figure concealed in a red cloak, lantern in hand, who gazed at the mutilated corpse. "_c'est bien_," said he, "let's away." they set fire to the house to divert attention and escaped. four months before, the house had been hired on the pretext of storing provisions, and for two weeks a score of assassins had been concealed there, biding their time. on the morrow, burgundy with the other princes went to asperse the dead body with holy water in the church of the blancs manteaux, and as he drew nigh, exclaiming against the foul murder, blood is said to have issued from the wounds. at the funeral he held a corner of the pall, but his guilt was an open secret, and though he braved it out for a time he was forced to flee to his lands in flanders for safety. in a few months, however, jean was back in force at paris, and a doctor of the sorbonne pleaded an elaborate justification of the deed before the assembled princes, nobles, clergy and citizens at the hôtel st. paul. the poor crazy king was made to declare publicly that he bore no ill-will to his dear cousin of burgundy, and later, on the failure of a conspiracy of revenge by the queen and the orleans party, to grant full pardon for a deed "committed for the welfare of the kingdom." the cutting of the rue Étienne marcel has exposed the strong machicolated tower still bearing the arms of burgundy (two planes and a plumb line), which jean sans peur built to fortify the hôtel de bourgogne, as a defence and refuge against the orleans faction and the people of paris. the orleans family had for arms a knotted stick, with the device "_je l'ennuis_": the burgundian arms with the motto, "_je le tiens_," implied that the knotted stick was to be planed and levelled. the arrival of jean sans peur, and the fortification of his hôtel were the prelude to civil war, for the orleanists and their allies had rallied to the count of armagnac, whose daughter anne, the new duke louis of orleans had married, and fortified themselves in their stronghold on the site now occupied by the palais royal. [illustration: tower of jean sans peur.] the armagnacs, for so the orleanists were now called, thirsted for revenge, and for five years paris was the scene of frightful atrocities as each faction gained the upper hand and took a bloody vengeance on its rivals. at length the infamous policy of an alliance with the english was resorted to. the temptation was too great for the english king, and in henry v. met the french army, composed almost entirely of the armagnacs, at agincourt, and inflicted on it a defeat more disastrous than crecy or poitiers. the famous oriflamme of st. denis passed from history in that fatal year of . the count of armagnac hurried to paris, seized the mad king and the dauphin, and held the capital. in the english returned under henry v. the burgundians had promised neutrality, and the defeated armagnacs were forced in their need to "borrow[ ] of the saints." but hateful memories clung to them in paris and they were betrayed. on the night of th may , the son of an ironmonger on the petit pont, who had charge of the wicket of the porte st. germain, crept into his father's room and stole the keys while he slept. the gate was then opened to the burgundians, who seized the person of the helpless and imbecile king. some armagnacs escaped, bearing the dauphin with them, and the remainder were flung into prison. the burgundian partisans in the city, among whom was the powerful corporation of the butchers and fleshers, now rose, and on sunday, th june, ran to the prisons. a night of terror ensued. before dawn, fifteen hundred armagnacs were indiscriminately butchered under the most revolting circumstances; the count himself perished, and a strip of his skin was carried about paris in mockery of the white scarf of the armagnacs. jean sans peur and queen isabella[ ] entered the city, amid the acclamation of the people, and soon after a second massacre followed, in spite of jean's efforts to prevent it. burgundy was now master of paris, but the armagnacs were swarming in the country around and the english marching without let on the city. in these straits he sought a reconciliation with the dauphin and his armagnac counsellors at melun, on th july . on th september a second conference was arranged, and duke and dauphin, each with ten attendants, met in a wicker enclosure on the bridge at montereau. jean doffed his cap and knelt to the dauphin, but before he could rise was felled by a blow from an axe and stabbed to death. [footnote : they melted down the reliquaries in the paris churches.] [footnote : in charles, returning from a visit to the queen at the castle of vincennes, met the chevalier bois-burdon going thither. he ordered his arrest, and under torture a confession reflecting on the queen's honour was extorted. bois-burdon was delivered to the provost at the châtelet, and one night, _sans declarer la cause au people_, sewn in a sack and dropped into the seine. the queen was banished to tours, and her jewels and treasures confiscated. furious with the king and the armagnac faction, she made common cause with the duke of burgundy.] in a monk at dijon showed the skull of jean sans peur to francis i., and pointing to a hole made by the assassin's axe, said: "sire, it was through this hole that the english entered france." on receipt of the news of his father's murder, the new duke of burgundy, philip le bon, flung himself into the arms of the english, and by the treaty of troyes on may , , henry v. was given a french princess to wife and the reversion of the crown of france, which, after charles' death, was to be united ever more to that of england. but the french crown never circled henry's brow: on august , , he lay dead at vincennes. his body after being embalmed was exposed with great pomp in the royal abbey of st. denis before its translation to westminster abbey and an infant son of nine months was left to inherit the dual monarchy. within a few weeks of henry's death the hapless king of france was entombed under the same roof; a royal herald cried "for god's pity on the soul of the most high and most excellent charles, king of france, our natural sovereign lord," and in the next breath hailed "henry of lancaster, by the grace of god, king of france and of england, our sovereign lord." all the royal officers broke their wands, flung them in the tomb and reversed their maces as a token that their functions were at an end. the red rose of lancaster was added to the arms of paris and at the next festival the duke of bedford was seen in the sainte chapelle of st. louis, exhibiting the crown of thorns to the people as regent of france, and a statue[ ] of henry v. of england was raised in the great hall of the palais de justice, following on the line of the kings of france from pharamond to charles. [footnote : the statue was mutilated at the expulsion of the english in and was destroyed in the fire of .] chapter ix _jeanne d'arc--paris under the english--end of the english occupation_ the occupation of paris by the english was the darkest hour in her story, yet amid the universal misery and dejection the treaty of troyes was hailed with joy. when the two kings, riding abreast _moult noblement_, followed by the dukes of clarence and bedford, entered paris after its signature, the whole way from the porte st. denis to notre dame was filled with people crying, "_noël, noël!_" the university, the parlement, the queen-mother, the whole of north france, from brittany and normandy to flanders, from the channel to the line of the loire, accepted the situation, and the duke of burgundy, most powerful of the royal princes, was a friend of the english. yet a few french hearts beat true. while the regent duke of bedford was entering paris, a handful of knights unfurled the royal banner at melun, crying--"long live king charles, seventh of the name, by the grace of god king of france!" and what a pitiful incarnation of national independence was this to whom the devoted sons of france were now called to rally!--a feeble youth of nineteen, indolent, licentious, mocked at by the triumphant english as the "little king of bourges." the story of the resurrection of france at the call of an untutored village girl is one of the most enthralling dramas of history, which may not here be told. when all men had despaired; when the cruelty, ambition and greed of the princes of france had wrought her destruction; when the miserable dauphin at chinon was prepared to seek safety by an ignominious flight to spain or scotland; when orleans, the key to the southern provinces, was about to fall into english hands--the means of salvation were revealed in the ecstatic visions of a simple peasant maid. jeanne deemed her mission over after the solemn coronation at rheims, but to her ill-hap, was persuaded to follow the royal army after the retreat of the english from senlis, and on rd august she occupied st. denis. she declared at her trial that her voices told her to remain at st. denis, but that the lords made her attack paris. on the th september the assault was made, but it was foiled by the king's apathy, the incapacity and bitter jealousy of his counsellors, and the action of double-faced burgundy. in the afternoon jeanne, while sounding the depth of the fosse with her lance,[ ] was wounded by an arrow in the thigh. she remained till late evening, when she was carried away to st. denis at whose shrine she hung up her arms--her mysterious sword from st. catherine de fierbois and her banner of pure white, emblazoned with the fleur-de-lys and the figure of the saviour, with the device "jesu maria." [footnote : an equestrian statue in bronze stands at the south end of the rue des pyramides, a few hundred yards from the spot where the maid fell before the porte st honoré.] six months later, while charles was sunk in sloth at the château of sully, jeanne was captured by the burgundians at the siege of compiègne, and her enemies closed on her like bloodhounds. the university of paris and the inquisition wrangled for her body, but english gold bought her from her burgundian captors and sent her to a martyr's death at rouen. those who would read the sad record of her trial may do so in the pages of mr. douglas murray's translation of the minutes of the evidence, and may assist in imagination at the eighteen days' forensic baiting of the hapless child (she was but nineteen years of age), whose lucid simplicity broke through the subtle web of theological chicanery which was spun to entrap her by the most cunning of the sorbonne doctors. "the english burnt her," says a venetian merchant, "thinking that fortune would turn in their favour, but may it please christ the lord that the contrary befall them!" and so in truth it happened. disaster after disaster wrecked the english cause; the duke of bedford died, philip of burgundy and charles were reconciled, and queen isabella went to a dishonoured grave. the english were driven out of paris, and in , of all the "large and ample empery" of france, won at the cost of a hundred years of bloodshed and cruel devastation, a little strip of land at calais and guines alone remained to the english crown. charles, who with despicable cowardice had suffered the heroic maid to be done to death by the english without a thought of intervention, was moved to call for a tardy reparation of the atrocious injustice at rouen; and a quarter of a century after the te deum sung in notre dame at paris for her capture, another, a very different scene, was witnessed in the cathedral. "the case for her rehabilitation," says mr. murray, "was solemnly opened there, and the mother and brothers of the maid came before the court to present their humble petition for a revision of her sentence, demanding only 'the triumph of truth and justice.' the court heard the request with some emotion. when isabel d'arc threw herself at the feet of the commissioners, showing the papal rescript and weeping aloud, so many joined in the petition that at last, we are told, it seemed that one great cry for justice broke from the multitude." the story of paris under the english is a melancholy one. despite the coronation of the young king at notre dame and the rigid justice and enlightened policy of bedford's regency, they failed to win the affection of the parisians. rewards to political friends, punishments and confiscations inflicted on the disaffected, the riotous and homicidal conduct of some of the english garrison, the depression in commerce and depreciation of property brought their inevitable consequences--a growing hatred of the english name.[ ] the chapter of notre dame was compelled to sell the gold vessels from the treasury. hundred of houses were abandoned by their owners, who were unable to meet the charges upon them. in by a royal instrument the rent of the maison des singes was reduced from twenty-six livres to fourteen, "seeing the extreme diminution of rents." [footnote : in and the people of paris had seen henry v. and his french consort sitting in state at the louvre, surrounded by a brilliant throng of princes, prelates and barons. hungry crowds watched the sumptuous banquet and then went away fasting, for nothing was offered them. "it was not so in the former times under our kings," they murmured, "then was open table kept, and servants distributed the meats and wine even of the king himself."] some curious details of life in paris under the english have come down to us. by a royal pardon granted to guiot d'eguiller, we learn that he and four other servants of the duke of bedford, and of our "late very dear and very beloved aunt the duchess of bedford whom god pardon," were drinking one night at ten o'clock in a tavern where hangs the sign of _l'homme armé_.[ ] hot words arose between them and some other tipplers, to wit, friars robert, peter, and william of the blancs manteaux, who were disguised as laymen and wearing swords. friar robert lost his temper and struck at the servants with his naked sword. the friar, owing to the strength of the wine or to inexperience in the use of secular weapons, cut off the leg of a dog instead of hitting his man; the friars then ran away, pursued by three of the servants--robin the englishman, guiot d'eguiller and one guillaume. the fugitive friars took refuge in a deserted house in the rue du paradis (now des francs bourgeois), and threw stones at their pursuers. there was a fight, during which guillaume lost his stick and snatching guiot's sword struck at friar robert through the door of the house. he only gave one "_cop_," but it was enough, and there was an end of friar robert. a certain gilles, a _povre homme laboureur_, went to amuse himself at a game of tennis in the hostelry kept by guillaume sorel, near the porte st. honoré, and fell a-wrangling with sorel's wife concerning some lost tennis balls. madame sorel clutched him by the hair and tore out some handfuls. gilles seized her by the hood, disarranged her coif, so that it fell about her shoulders, "and in his anger cursed god our creator." this came to the bishop's ears, and gilles was cast for blasphemy into the bishop's oven, as the episcopal prison was called, where he lay in great misery. he was examined and released on promising to offer a wax candle of two pounds' weight before the image of our lady of paris at the entrance of the choir of notre dame. the fifteen years of english rule at paris came to a close in . three years before that date, a goldsmith was at _déjeuner_ with a baker and a shoemaker, and they fell a-talking of the state of trade, of the wars and of the poverty of the people of paris. the goldsmith[ ] grumbled loudly and said that his craft was the poorest of all; people must have shoes and bread, but none could afford to employ a goldsmith. then, thinking no evil, he said that good times would never return in paris until there were a french king, the university full again, and the parlement obeyed as in former times. whereupon jean trolet, the shoemaker, added that things could not last in their present state, and that if there were only five hundred men who would agree to begin a revolution, they would soon find thousands leagued with them. jean trolet's loose tongue cost him dear, but the general unrest which this incident illustrates burst forth in plot after plot, and on th april, , the porte st. jacques was opened by some citizens to the duke of richemont, constable of france, who, with knights and squires, entered the city and, to the cry of _ville gagnée!_ the fleur-de-lys waved again from the ramparts of paris. the english garrison under lord willoughby fortified themselves in the bastille of st. antoine but capitulated after two days. bag and baggage, out they marched, circled the walls as far as the louvre, and embarked for rouen amid the execrations of the people. never again did an english army enter paris until the allies marched in after waterloo in . [footnote : the fifteenth-century goldsmiths of paris: loris, the hersants, and jehan gallant, were famed throughout europe.] chapter x _louis xi. at paris--the introduction of printing_ paris saw little of charles vii. who, after the temporary activity excited by the expulsion of the english, had sunk into his habitual torpor and bondage to women. in the wretched monarch, morbid and half-demented, died of a malignant disease, all the time haunted by fears of poison and filial treachery. the people named him charles _le bien servi_ (the well-served), for small indeed was the praise due to him for the great deliverance. when the new king, louis xi., quitted his asylum at the burgundian court to be crowned at rheims and to repair to st. denis, he was shocked by the contrast between the rich cities and plains of flanders and the miserable aspect of the country he traversed--ruined villages, fields that were so many deserts, starving creatures clothed in rags, and looking as if they had just escaped from dungeons. it is beyond the scope of the present work to describe the successful achievement of louis' policy of concentrating the whole government in himself as absolute sovereign of france, by the overthrow of feudalism and the subjection of the great nobles with their almost royal power and state. his indomitable will, his consummate patience, his profound knowledge of human motives and passions, his cynical indifference to means, make him one of the most remarkable of the kings of france. in , menaced by a coalition of nobles, the so-called league of the public good, louis hastened to the capital. letters expressing his tender affection for his dear city of paris preceded him--he was coming to confide to them his queen and hoped-for heir; rather than lose his paris, which he loved beyond all cities of the world, he would sacrifice half his kingdom. but the parisians were far from being impressed by the majesty of their new monarch. "our king," says de comines, "used to dress so ill that worse could not be--often wearing bad cloth and a shabby hat with a leaden image stuck in it." when he entered abbeville with the magnificent duke of burgundy, the people said "_benedicite!_ is that a king of france? why, his horse and clothes together are not worth twenty francs!" and a venetian ambassador was amazed to see the most mighty and most christian king take his dinner in a tavern on the market-place of tours, after hearing mass in the cathedral. the citizens remembered, too, his refusal to accord them some privileges granted to other cities; they were sullen at first and would not be wooed. the university declined to arm her scholars, church and parlement were hostile. the idle, vagabond _clercs_ of the palais and the cité composed coarse gibes and satirical songs and ballads against his person. louis, however, set himself with his insinuating grace of speech to win the favour of the parisians. he supped with the provost and sheriffs and their wives at the hôtel de ville. he chose six members from the burgesses, six from the parlement and six from the university, to form his council, and with daring confidence, decided to arm paris. a levy of every male able to bear arms between sixteen and sixty years of age was made, and the citizen army was reviewed near st. antoine des champs, in the presence of the king and queen. from , to , men, half of them well-armed, marched past, with sixty-seven banners of the trades guilds, not counting those of the municipal officers, the parlement and the university. the nobles were checkmated, and they were glad to accede to a treaty which gave them ample spoils, and louis, time to recover himself. the "public good" was barely mentioned. louis, when at paris, refused to occupy the louvre and chose to dwell in the new hôtel des tournelles, near the porte st. antoine, built for the duke of bedford and subsequently presented to louis when dauphin by his royal father; for thither a star led him one evening as he left notre dame. often would he issue _en bourgeois_ from the tournelles to sup with his gossips in paris and scarcely a day passed without the king being seen at mass in notre dame. "when king louis," says de comines, "retired from the interview[ ] with edward iv. of england, he spake with me by the way and said he found the english king too ready to visit paris, which thing was not pleasing to him. the king was a handsome man and very fond of women; he might find some affectionate mistress there, who would speak him so many fair words that she would make him desire to return; his predecessors had come too often to paris and normandy, and he did not like his company this side the sea, but beyond the sea he was glad to have him for friend and brother." [footnote : at the conclusion of the hucksters' peace at amiens.] louis had long desired to punish the count of st. pol for treachery, and as a result of a treaty with charles of burgundy, in , had him at length in the bastille. soon on a scaffold in the place de grève his head rolled from his body at a tremendous _coup_ of petit jean's sword, and a column of stone twelve feet high erected where he fell, gave terrible warning to traitorous princes, however mighty; for the count was constable of france, the king's brother-in-law, a member of the imperial house of luxemburg, and connected with many of the sovereign families of europe. two years later another noble victim, the duke of nemours, fell into the king's power and saw the inside of one of louis' iron cages in the bastille. the king, who had learnt that the chains had been removed from the prisoner's legs, that he might go to hear mass, commanded his jailer not to let him budge from his cage except to be tortured (_gehenné_) and the duke wrote a piteous letter, praying for clemency and signing himself _le pauvre jacques_. in vain: him, too, the headsman's axe sent to his account at the halles. the news of the humiliating peace of peronne, after the king had committed the one great folly of his career by gratuitously placing himself in charles the bold's power,[ ] was received by the parisians with many gibes. the royal herald proclaimed at sound of trumpet by the crossways of paris: "let none be bold or daring enough to say anything opprobrious against the duke of burgundy, either by word of mouth, by writing, by signs, paintings, roundelays, ballads, songs or gestures." on the same day a commission seized all the magpies and jackdaws in paris, whether caged or otherwise, which were to be registered according to their owners, with all the pretty words that the said birds could repeat and that had been taught them: the pretty word that these chattering birds had been taught to say was "peronne." louis' abasement at peronne was, however, amply avenged by the battle of granson, when the mighty host of "invincible" charles was overwhelmed by the switzers in . a year later, the whole fabric of burgundian ambition was shattered and the great duke lay a mutilated and frozen corpse before the walls of nancy. louis' joy at the destruction of his enemy was boundless, but in the very culmination of his success he was struck down by paralysis, and though he rallied for a time the end was near. haunted by fear of treachery, he immured himself in the gloomy fortress of plessis. the saintly francesco da calabria, relics from florence, from rome, the holy oil from rheims, turtles from cape verde islands--all were powerless; the arch dissembler must now face the ineluctable prince of the dark realms, who was not to be bribed or cajoled even by kings. [footnote : the reader will hardly need to be reminded that this amazing folly forms one of the principal episodes in scott's _quentin durward_.] when at last louis took to his bed, his physician, jacques cottier, told him that most surely his hour was come. confession made, he gave much political counsel and some orders to be observed by _le roi_, as he now called his son, and spoke, says de comines, "as dryly as if he had never been ill. and after so many fears and suspicions our lord wrought a miracle and took him from this miserable world in great health of mind and understanding. having received all the sacraments and suffering no pain and always speaking to within a paternoster of his death, he gave orders for his sepulture. may the lord have his soul and receive him in the realm of paradise!" it was in louis' reign that the art of printing was introduced into paris. as early as the master of the mint had been sent to mainz to learn something of the new art, but without success. in , fust and his partner, schöffer, had brought some printed books to paris, but the books were confiscated and the partners were driven out of the city, owing to the jealousy of the powerful corporation of the scribes and booksellers, who enjoyed a monopoly from the sorbonne of the sale of books in paris; and in louis paid an indemnity of crowns to schöffer for the confiscation of his books and for the trouble he had taken to introduce printed books into his capital. in , at the invitation of two doctors of the sorbonne, guillaume fichet and jean de la puin, ulmer gering of constance and two other swiss printers set up a press near fichet's rooms in the sorbonne. in a press was at work at the sign of the soleil d'or (golden sun), in the rue st. jacques, under the management of two germans, peter kayser, master of arts, and john stohl, assisted by ulmer gering. in the last-named removed to the rue de la sorbonne, where the doctors granted to him and his new partner, berthold rumbolt of strassburg, a lease for the term of their lives. they retained their sign of the soleil d'or, which long endured as a guarantee of fine printing. the earliest works had been printed in beautiful roman type, but unable to resist the favourite gothic introduced from germany, gering was led to adopt it towards the year , and the roman was soon superseded. from to we meet with many french printers' names: antoine vérard, du pré, cailleau, martineau, pigouchet--clearly proving that the art had then been successfully transplanted. the re-introduction of roman characters about was due to the famous house of the estiennes, whose admirable editions of the latin and greek classics are the delight of bibliophiles. robert estienne was wont to hang proof sheets of his greek and latin classics outside his shop, offering a reward to any passer-by who pointed out a misprint or corrupt reading. their famous house was the meeting-place of scholars and patrons of literature. francis i. and his sister margaret of angoulême, authoress of the heptameron, were seen there, and legend says that the king was once kept waiting by the scholar-printer while he finished correcting a proof. all the estienne household, even the children, conversed in latin, and the very servants are said to have grown used to it. in francis i. remitted , livres of taxes to the printers of paris, as an act of grace to the professors of an art that seemed rather divine than human. but in spite of royal favour printing was a poor career. the second henry estienne, who composed a greek-latin lexicon, died in poverty at a hospital in lyons; the last of the family, the third robert estienne, met a similar miserable end at the hôtel dieu in paris. so great was the reaction in the university against the violence of the lutherans and the daring of the printers, that in all the presses were ordered to be closed. in no book was allowed to be printed without permission of the sorbonne, and in an order was made, it is said at the instance of diane de poitiers, that a copy in vellum of every book printed by royal privilege should be deposited at the royal library. after gering's death the forty presses then working in paris were reduced to twenty-four, in order that every printer might have sufficient work to live by and not be tempted by poverty to print prohibited books or execute cheap and inferior printing. chapter xi _francis i.--the renaissance at paris_ the advent of the printing-press and the opening of a greek lectureship by gregory tyhernas and hermonymus of sparta at the sorbonne warns us that we are at the end of an epoch. with the accession of charles viii. and the beginning of the italian wars a new era is inaugurated. gothic architecture had reached its final development and structural perfection, in the flowing lines of the flamboyant style;[ ] painting and sculpture, both in subject and expression, assume a new aspect. the diffusion of ancient literature and the discovery of a new world, open wider horizons to men's minds, and human thought and human activity are directed towards other, and not always nobler, ideals. mediævalism passes away and paris begins to clothe herself in a new vesture of stone. [footnote : flamboyant windows were a natural, technical development of gothic. the aim of the later builders was to facilitate the draining away of the water which the old mullioned windows used to retain.] the paris of the fifteenth century was a triple city of overhanging timbered houses, "thick as ears of corn in a wheatfield," of narrow, crooked streets,[ ] unsavoury enough, yet purified by the vast open spaces and gardens of the monasteries, from which emerged the innumerable spires and towers of her churches and palaces and colleges. in the centre was the legal and ecclesiastical cité, with its magnificent palais de justice; its cathedral and a score of fair churches enclosed in the island, which resembled a great ship moored to the banks of the seine by five bridges all crowded with houses. one of the most curious characteristics of old paris was the absence of any view of the river, for a man might traverse its streets and bridges without catching a glimpse of the seine. [footnote : the drainage of an old city was offensive to the smell rather than essentially insanitary. "mediæval sewers," says dr. charles creighton in his _history of epidemics in britain_, pp. - , "were banked-up water-courses ... freely open to the greatest of all purifying agents, the oxygen of the air."] the portal of the petit châtelet at the end of the petit pont opened on the university and learned district on the south bank of the seine, with its fifty colleges and many churches clustering about the slopes of the mount of st. genevieve, which was crowned by the great augustine abbey and church founded by clovis. near by, stood the two great religious houses and churches of the dominicans and franciscans, the carthusian monastery and its scores of little gardens, the lesser monastic buildings and, outside the walls, the vast benedictine abbatial buildings and suburb of st. germain des prés, with its stately church of three spires, its fortified walls, its pillory and its permanent lists, where judicial duels were fought. on the north bank lay the busy, crowded industrial and commercial district known as the ville, with its forty-four churches, the hôtels of the rich merchants and bankers, the fortified palaces of the nobles, all enclosed by the high walls and square towers of charles the fifth's fortifications, and defended at east and west by the bastille of st. antoine and the louvre. to the east stood the agglomeration of buildings known as hôtel st. paul, a royal city within a city, with its manifold princely dwellings and fair gardens and pleasaunces sloping down to the seine; hard by to the north was the duke of bedford's hôtel des tournelles, with its memories of the english domination. at the west, against the old louvre, were among others, the hôtels of the constable of bourbon and the duke of alençon, and out in the fields beyond, the smoking kilns of the tuileries (tile factories). [illustration: tower of st. jacques.] north and east and west of the municipal centre, the maison aux piliers, on the place de grève, was a maze of streets filled with the various crafts of paris. the tower of the great church of st. jacques de la boucherie, as yet unfinished, emerged from the butchers' and skinners' shops and slaughter-houses, which at the rue des lombards met the clothiers and furriers; the cutlers and the basket-makers were busy in streets now swept away to give place to the avenue victoria. painters, glass-workers and colour merchants, grocers and druggists, made bright and fragrant the rue de la verrerie, weavers' shuttles rattled in the rue de la tixanderie (now swallowed up in the rue de rivoli); curriers and tanners plied their evil-smelling crafts in the rue (now quai) de la mégisserie, and bakers crowded along the rue st. honoré. the rue des juifs sheltered the ancestral traffic of the children of abraham. at the foot of the pont au change, on which were the shops of the goldsmiths and money-lenders stood the grim thirteenth-century fortress of the châtelet, the municipal guard-house and prison; to the north in the rue de heaumarie (armourers) lay the four aux dames or prison of the abbesses of montmartre; further on westward stood the episcopal prison, or four de l'evêque. north-west of the châtelet was the hôtel du chevalier du guet or watch-house and round about it a congeries of narrow, crooked lanes, haunts of ill-fame, where robbers lurked and vice festered. a little to the north were the noisy market-place of the halles and the cemetery of the innocents with its piles of skulls, and its vaulted arcade painted ( ) with the dance of death. further north stood the immense abbey of st. martin in the fields, with its cloister and gardens and, a little to the west, the grisly crenelated and turreted fortress of the knights-templars, huge in extent and one of the most solid edifices in the whole kingdom. this is the paris conjured from the past with such magic art by victor hugo in "notre dame," and gradually to be swept away in the next centuries by the renaissance, pseudo-classic and napoleonic builders and destroyers, until to-day scarcely a wrack is left behind. with the italian campaigns of charles viii., _notre petit roi_, as brantôme calls him, and of the early valois-orleans kings, france enters the arena of european politics, wrestles with the mighty emperor charles v. and embarks on a career of transalpine conquest. but in italy, conquering france was herself conquered by the charm of italian art, italian climate and italian landscape. when charles viii. returned to paris from his expedition to naples he brought with him a collection of pictures, tapestry, and sculptures in marble and porphyry, that weighed thirty-five tons; by him and his successors italian builders, domenico da cortona and fra giocondo, were employed. the latter supervised the rebuilding of the petit pont and after the destruction of the last wooden pont notre dame in --when the whole structure, with its houses and shops, fell with a fearful crash into the river--he was made head of the commission of parisian artists who replaced it by a noble stone bridge, completed in . this, too, was lined with tall gabled houses of stone, and adorned with the arms of paris and statues of notre dame and st. denis. on its restoration in the façades of the houses were decorated with medallions of the kings of france held by caryatides bearing baskets of fruit and flowers on their heads. these houses were the first in paris to be numbered, odd numbers on one side, even on the other, and were the first to be demolished when, on the eve of the revolution, louis xvi. ordered the bridges to be cleared. the french renaissance is indissolubly associated with francis i., who in inherited a france welded into a compact, absolute monarchy, and inhabited by a prosperous and loyal people; for the twelfth louis had been a good and wise ruler, who to the amazement of his people returned to them the balance of a tax levied to meet the cost of the genoese expedition, which had been over estimated, saying, "it will be more fruitful in their hands than in mine." commerce had so expanded that it was said that for every merchant seen in paris in former times there were, in his reign, fifty. scarce a house was built along an important street that was not a merchant's shop or for the practice of some art. louis introduced the cultivation of maize and the mulberry into france, and so rigid was his justice that poultry ran about the open fields without risk of pillage from his soldiers. it was the accrued wealth of his reign, and the love inspired by "louis, father of his people,"[ ] that supported the magnificence, the luxury and the extravagance of francis i. the architectural creations of the new style were first seen in touraine, in the royal palaces of blois and chambord, and other princely and noble châteaux along the luscious and sunny valleys of the loire. italian architecture was late in making itself felt in paris, where the native art made stubborn resistance. [footnote : the good king's portrait by an italian sculptor may be seen in the louvre, room vii., and on his monument in st. denis he kneels beside his beloved and _chère bretonne_, anne of brittany whose loss he wept for eight days and nights.] [illustration: pont notre dame.] the story of the state entry of francis i. into paris after the death of louis xii., as told by galtimara, margaret of austria's envoy, who witnessed the scene from a window, is characteristic. after the solemn procession which was _belle et gorgiaise_ he saw the king, clothed in a glittering suit of armour and mounted on a barbed charger, accoutred in white and cloth of silver, prick his steed, making it prance and rear, _faisant rage_, that he might display his horsemanship, his fine figure and dazzling costume before the queen and her ladies. it was all _bien gorrière à voir_. "born between two adoring women," says michelet, "francis was all his life a spoilt child." money flowed through his hands like water[ ] to gratify his ambition, his passions and his pleasures. doubtless his interviews with da vinci at amboise, where he spent much of his time in the early years of his reign, fired that enthusiasm for art, especially for painting, which never wholly left him; for the veteran artist, although old and paralysed in the right hand, was otherwise in possession of all his incomparable faculties. [footnote : "he was well named after st. francis, because of the holes in his hands," said a sorbonne doctor.] [illustration: chapel, hÔtel de cluny.] the question as to the existence of an indigenous school of painting before the italian artistic invasion is still a subject of acrimonious discussion among critics; there is none, however, as to its existence in the plastic arts. the old french tradition died hard, and not before it had stamped upon italian renaissance architecture the impress of its native genius and adapted it to the requirements of french life and climate. the hôtel de cluny, finished in , still remains to exemplify the beauty of the native french domestic architecture modified by the new style. the old hôtel de ville,[ ] designed by dom. da cortona and submitted to francis in , was dominated by the french style, and not until nearly a century after the first italian expedition were the last gothic builders superseded. the fine gothic church of st. merri was begun as late as and not finished till , and the transitional churches of st. Étienne and st. eustache remind one, by the mingling of gothic and renaissance features, of the famous metamorphosis of agnel and cianfa in dante's inferno, and one is tempted to exclaim, _ome, come ti muti! vedi, che già non sei nè duo nè uno!_[ ] [footnote : the authorship of this famous building is much canvassed by authorities. m.e. mareuse, secretary of the committee of inscriptions, affirms that domenico must be considered the _unique architecte_ of our old municipal palace: other writers claim with equal confidence pierre chambiges as the architect. charles normand after an exhaustive examination of documents, declares that the italian master's design was followed in the south court, but that after his death in the design was ordered to be revised and the great façade was erected in a style wholly different from the original plan. this eminent authority inclines to the belief that the new design was due to du cerceau. certain it is that french masters were associated with domenico, for we know that on the th june , a rescript came from the city fathers to the masters pierre chambiges, jacques arasse, jehan aesselin, loys caquelin and dominique de cortona, reminding them that it would be more seemly to push the works forward and keep an eye on the workmen instead of going away to dine together.] [footnote : "ah! me, how thou art changed! see, thou art neither two nor one."] [illustration: tower of st. Étienne du mont.] after the death of da vinci francis never succeeded in retaining a first-rate painter in his service. andrea del sarto and paris bordone did little more than pay passing visits, and the famous school of fontainebleau was founded by rosso and primaticcio, two decadent followers of michel angelo. the adventures of that second-rate artist and first-rate bully, benvenuto cellini, at paris, form one of the most piquant episodes in artistic autobiography. after a gracious welcome from the king he was offered an annual retaining fee of three hundred crowns. he at once dismissed his two apprentices and left in a towering rage, only returning on being offered the same appointments that had been enjoyed by leonardo da vinci--seven hundred crowns a year, and payment for every finished work. the petit nesle[ ] was assigned to cellini and his pupils as a workshop, the king assuring him that force would be needed to evict the possessor--it had been assigned to the provost--adding, "take great care you are not assassinated." on complaining to the king of the difficulties he met with and the insults offered to him on attempting to gain possession, he was answered: "if you are the benvenuto i have heard of, live up to your reputation; i give you full leave." benvenuto took the hint, armed himself, his servants and two apprentices, and bullied the occupants and rival claimants out of their wits. it was at this tour de nesle that francis paid cellini a surprise visit with his mistress madame d'estampes, his sister margaret of valois, the dauphin and his wife catherine de' medici, the cardinal of lorraine, henry ii. of navarre, and a numerous train of courtiers. the artist and his merry men were at work on the famous silver statue of jupiter for fontainebleau, and amid the noise of the hammering the king entered unperceived. cellini had the torso of the statue in his hand, and at that moment a french lad who had caused him some little displeasure had felt the weight of the master's foot, which sent him flying against the king. but the artist had done a bad day's work by evicting a servant of madame d'estampes from the tower, and the injured lady and primaticcio, her _protégé_, decided to work his ruin. when cellini arrived at fontainebleau with the statue, francis ordered it to be placed in the grand gallery decorated by rosso. primaticcio had just arranged there the casts which he had been commissioned to bring from rome, and benvenuto saw what was meant--his own work was to be eclipsed by the splendour of the masterpieces of ancient art. "heaven help me!" cried he, "this is indeed to fall against the pikes!" now the god held the globe of the earth in the left hand, the thunderbolt in the right. the artist contrived to thrust a portion of a large wax candle as a torch between the flames of the bolt, and set the statue up on its gilded pedestal. madame entertained the king late at table, hoping that he would either forget the work or see it in a bad light; but when francis entered the gallery late at night, followed by his courtiers, "which by god's grace was my salvation," says cellini, the statue was illuminated by a flood of light from the torch which so enhanced its beauty that the king was ravished with delight, and expressed himself in ecstatic praise, declaring the statue to be more beautiful and more marvellous than any of the antique casts around. his enemies were thus discomfited, and on madame d'estampes endeavouring to depreciate the work, she was grossly mocked by the artist in a very characteristic and quite untranscribable way. benvenuto was more than ever patronised by the king, who did him the great honour of accosting him as _mon ami_, and approving his scheme for the fortification of paris. cellini often recalled with pleasure the four years he spent with the _gran re francesco_ at paris. [footnote : the petit nesle comprised the south-west gate and tower: the grand nesle, the hôtel de nesle within the wall. see p. .] "the french are remembered in italy only by the graves they left there," said de comines, and once again the italian campaigns ended in disaster. at the defeat of pavia, in --the armageddon of the french in italy--the efforts and sacrifices of three reigns were lost and the _gran re_, whose favourite oath is said to have been _foi de gentilhomme_, went captive to the king of spain in madrid, whence he issued, stained by perjury, and three years later, signed "the moral annihilation of france in europe," at cambray. during the tranquil intervals that ensued on this rude awakening from dreams of an italian empire, and between the third and fourth wars with the emperor, the king was able to initiate a project that had long been dear to him. "come," says michelet, "in the still, dark night, climb the rue st. jacques, in the early winter's morning. see you yon lights? men, yea, old men, mingled with children, are hurrying, a folio under one arm, in the hand an iron candlestick. do they turn to the right? no, the old sorbonne is yet sleeping snug in her warm sheets. the crowd is going to the greek schools. athens is at paris. that man with the fine beard in majestic ermine is a descendant of emperors--jean lascaris: that other doctor is alexander, who teaches hebrew." the schools they were pressing to were those of the royal college of france. already in erasmus had been offered a salary of a thousand francs a year, with promise of further increment, to undertake the direction of the college, but declined to leave his patron the emperor. the prime movers in the great scheme were the king's confessor, guillaume parvi, and the famous grecian, guillaume budé, who in was himself induced to undertake the task which erasmus had declined. twelve professors were appointed in greek, hebrew, mathematics, philosophy, rhetoric and medicine, each of the twelve with a salary of two hundred gold crowns (about £ ), and the dignity of royal councillors. the king's vast scheme of a great college and magnificent chapel, with a revenue of , crowns for the maintenance (_nourriture_) of six hundred scholars, where the most famous doctors in christendom should offer gratuitous teaching in all the sciences and learned languages, was never executed. too much treasure had been wasted in italy, and it was not till the reign of louis xiii. that it was partially carried out. the first stone was laid in , the works were slowly continued under succeeding reigns, and the project had only been partially carried out when the monarchy fell. the college as we now see it was not completed till . chairs were founded for arabic by henry iii., for surgery, anatomy and botany by henry iv., and for syrian by louis xiv. little is changed to-day; the placards, so familiar to students in paris, announcing the lectures are indited in french instead of in latin as of old; the lectures are still free to all, and the most famous scholars of the day teach there, but in french and not in latin.[ ] [footnote : students in paris in the days of king francis had cause to remember gratefully that monarch's solicitude, for a maximum of charges was fixed, and an order made that every hotel-keeper should affix his prices outside the door, that extortion might be avoided. among other maxima, the price of a pair of sheets, to "sleep not more than five persons," was to be five deniers (a penny).] how dramatic are the contrasts of history! while the new learning was organising itself amid the pomp of royal patronage; while the young calvin was sitting at the feet of its professors and the lutheran heresy germinating at paris, ignatius loyola, an obscure spanish soldier and gentleman, thirty-seven years of age, was sitting--a strange mature figure--among the boisterous young students at the college of st. barbara, patiently preparing himself for dedication to the service of the menaced church of rome; and in , on the festival of the assumption of the blessed virgin, a little group of six companions met around the fervent student, in the crypt of the old church at montmartre, and decided to found on the holy hill of st. denis' martyrdom the first house of the society of jesus. in , says the writer of the so-called _journal d'un bourgeois de paris_, the king began to pull down the great tower of the louvre, in order to transform the château into a _logis de plaisance_, "yet was it great pity for the castle was very fair and high and strong, and a most proper prison to hold great men." the tall, massive keep, which darkened the royal apartments in the south wing, was the tower here meant, and after some four months' work, and an expenditure of , livres, the grim pile, with its centuries of history, was cleared away. small progress, however, had been made with the restoration of the old château up to the year , when the heavy cost of preparing the west wing for the reception of the emperor charles v., induced francis to consider a plan which involved the replacement of the whole fabric by a palace in the new renaissance style, and the picturesque palace with its high crenelated walls, its strong towers, high-pitched roofs, dormer windows, and tall chimneys, its gilded emblazonry, its vanes, splendid with azure and gold glittering in the sun, as painted in the duke of berry's _book of hours_, was doomed. in pierre lescot, seigneur de clagny, was appointed architect without salary, but given the office of almoner to the king, and made lay abbot of clermont. pierre lescot was an admirable artist, who has left us some of the finest examples of early french renaissance architecture in paris. but francis lived only to see the great scheme begun, most of lescot's work being done under henry ii. from the same anonymous writer we learn something of parisian life in the reign of francis i. one day a certain monsieur cruche, a popular poet and playwright, was performing moralities and novelties on a platform in the place maubert, and among them a farce "funny enough to make half a score men die of laughter, in which the said cruche, holding a lantern, feigned to perceive the doings of a hen and a salamander."[ ] the amours of the king with the daughter of a councillor of the parlement, named lecoq, were only too plainly satirised. but it is ill jesting with kings. a few nights later, monsieur cruche was visited by eight disguised courtiers, who treated him to a supper in a tavern at the sign of the castle in the rue de la juiverie, and induced him to play the farce before them. when the unhappy player came to the first scene, he was set upon by the king's friends, stripped and beaten almost to death with thongs. they were about to put him in a sack and throw him into the seine, when poor cruche, crying piteously, discovered his priestly tonsure, and thus escaped. [footnote : the salamander was figured on the royal arms of francis.] after the defeat at pavia, the king became morbidly pious. by trumpet cry at the crossways of paris, we learn from the _journal_, games--quoits, tennis, contreboulle--were prohibited on sundays; children were forbidden to sing along the streets, going to and from school; blasphemers[ ] were to be severely punished. in a notary was burned alive in the place de grève for a great blasphemy of our lord and his holy mother. in june of the next year some lutherans struck down and mutilated an image of the virgin and child at a street corner near st. gervais; the king was so grieved and angry that he wept violently, and offered a reward of one hundred gold crowns, but the offenders could not be found. daily processions came from the churches to the spot, and all the religious orders, clothed in their habits, followed "singing with such great fervour and reverence that it was fair to see." the rector, doctors, masters, bachelors and scholars of the university, and children with lighted tapers, went there in great reverence. on corpus christi day the street was draped and a fair canopy stretched over the statue. the king himself walked in procession, bearing a white taper, his head uncovered in _moult gran révérence_; hautboys, clarions and trumpets played melodiously; cardinals, prelates, great seigneurs and nobles, each with his taper of white wax, followed, with the royal archers of the guard in their train. on the morrow a procession from all the parishes of paris, with banners, relics and crucifixes, accompanied by the king and nobles, brought a new and fair image of silver, two feet in height, which the king had caused to be made. francis himself ascended a ladder and placed it where the other image had stood, then kissed it and descended with tears in his eyes. thrice he kneeled and prayed, the bishop of lisieux, his almoner, reciting fair orisons and lauds to the honour of the glorious virgin and her image. again the trumpets, clarions and hautboys played the _ave regina cælorum_, and the king, the cardinal of louvain, and all the nobles presented their tapers to the virgin. next day the parlement, the provost and sheriffs, came and put an iron trellis round the silver image for fear of robbers.[ ] [footnote : for the first offence a fine; for the second, the lips to be cloven; for the third, the tongue pierced; for the fourth, death.] [footnote : the image was stolen in and replaced by one of wood. this was struck down in , and the bishop of paris substituted for it one of marble.] never were judicial and ecclesiastical punishments so cruel and recurrent as during the period of the renaissance. it is a common error to suppose that judicial cruelty reached its culmination in the middle ages.[ ] punishments are described with appalling iteration in the pages we are following. the place de grève was the scene of mutilations, tortures, hangings, and quarterings of criminals and traitors, the king and his court sometimes looking on. coiners of false money were boiled alive at the pig-market; robbers and assassins were broken on the wheel and left to linger in slow agony (_tant qu'ils pourraient languir_). the lutherans were treated like vermin, and to harbour them, to possess or print or translate one of their books, meant a fiery death. in a young lutheran student was put in a tumbril and brought before the churches of notre dame and st. genevieve, crying mercy from god and mary and st. genevieve; he was then taken to the place maubert, where, after his tongue had been pierced, he was strangled and burnt. a _gendarme_ of the duke of albany was burnt at the pig-market for having sown lutheran errors in scotland. [footnote : "the moral brutality of the renaissance is clearly shown in its punishments. in this matter it reached with perfection its prototype, the times of the cruel roman emperors.... never has 'justice' been more barbarous; not even in the darkest middle ages has torture been more refined, more devilish, than in the days of humanism.... truly it is no accident that immediately after, indeed, even before, the end of the renaissance, everywhere in western europe the fires began to glow wherein thousands of unhappy wretches expired in torments for the sake of their faith; men's minds were only too well prepared for such horrors." gustav kÖrting (_anfänge der renaissancelitteratur_, pp. , .)] on corpus christi day, , a great procession was formed, the king and provost walking bare-headed to witness the burning of six lutherans--a scene often repeated. the fountain of the innocents, the halles, the temple, the end of the pont st. michel, the place maubert, and the rue st. honoré were indifferently chosen for these ghastly scenes. almost daily the fires burnt. a woman was roasted to death for eating flesh on fridays. in , so savage were the persecutions, that pope paul iii., with that gentleness which almost invariably has characterised the popes of rome in dealing with heresy, wrote to francis protesting against the horrible and execrable punishments inflicted on the lutherans, and warned him that although he acted from good motives, yet he must remember that god the creator, when in this world, used mercy rather than rigorous justice, and that it was a cruel death to burn a man alive; he therefore prayed and required the king to appease the fury and rigour of his justice and adopt a policy of mercy and pardon. this noble protest was effective, and some clemency was afterwards shown. but in the fanatical king, a mass of physical and moral corruption, soured and gloomy, went to his end amid the barbarities wreaked on the unhappy vaudois protestants. the cries of three thousand of his butchered subjects and the smoke from the ruins of twenty-five towns and hamlets were the incense of his spirit's flight. one important innovation at court, fraught with evil, is due to francis. "in the matter of ladies," says du bellay, "i must confess that before his time they frequented the court but rarely and in small numbers, but francis on coming to his kingdom and considering that the whole decoration of a court consisted in the presence of ladies, willed to people it with them more than was the custom in ancient times." then was begun that unhappy intervention of women in the government of the state, the results of which will be only too evident in the further course of this story. [illustration: la fontaine des innocents.] chapter xii _rise of the guises--huguenot and catholic--the massacre of st. bartholomew_ "beware of montmorency and curb the power of the guises," was the counsel of the dying francis to his son. henry ii., dull and heavy-witted that he was, neglected the advice, and the guises flourished in the sun of royal favour. the first duke of guise and founder of his renowned house was claude, a poor cadet of rené ii., duke of lorraine. he succeeded in allying by marriage his eldest son and successor, francis, to the house of bourbon; his second son, charles, became cardinal of lorraine, and his daughter, wife to james v. of scotland. duke francis, by his military genius and wise statesmanship; charles, by his learning and subtle wit, exalted their house to the lofty eminence it enjoyed during the stirring period that now opens. in , after the disastrous defeat of montmorency at st. quentin, when paris lay at the mercy of the spanish and english armies, the duke was recalled from italy and made lieutenant-general of the realm. by a short and brilliant campaign, he expelled the english from calais, and recovered in three weeks the territory held by them for more than two hundred years. francis gained an unbounded popularity, and rose to the highest pinnacle of success; but short time was left to his royal master wherein to enjoy a reflected glory. on the th june , lists were erected across the rue st. antoine, between the tournelles and the bastille. the peace with spain, and the double marriage of the king's daughter to philip ii. of spain and of his sister to the duke of savoy, were to be celebrated by a magnificent tournament in which the king, proud of his strength and bodily address, was to hold the field with the duke of guise and the princes against all comers. for three days the king distinguished himself by his triumphant prowess, and at length challenged the count montgomery de lorge, captain of the scottish guards; the captain prayed to be excused, but the king insisted and the course was run. several lances were broken, but in the last encounter, the stout captain failed to lower his shivered lance quickly enough, and the broken truncheon struck the royal visor, lifted it and penetrated the king's eye. henry fell senseless and was carried to the palace of the tournelles, where he died after an agony of eleven days. fifteen years later, montgomery was captured fighting with the huguenots, and beheaded on the place de grève while catherine de' medici looked on "_pour goûter_," says félibien quaintly, "_le plaisir de se voir vangée de la mort de son mary_." the tower in the interior of the palais de justice, where the unhappy scottish noble was imprisoned after his capture, was known as the tour montgomery, until demolished in the reign of louis xvi. there was, however, little love lost between henry's queen, catherine de' medici, and her royal husband, who had long neglected her for the maturer charms of his mistress, diane de poitiers. [illustration: west wing of louvre by pierre lescot.] henry saw lescot's admirable design for the reconstruction of the west wing of the louvre completed. the architect had associated a famous sculptor, jean goujon, with him, who executed the beautiful figures in low relief which still adorn the quadrangle front between the pavilion de l'horloge and the south-west angle, and the noble caryatides, which support the musicians' gallery in the salle basse, or grande salle of charles v.'s louvre, now known as the salle des caryatides. the agreement, dated th september , awards forty-six livres each for the four plaster models and eighty crowns each for the four carved figures. lescot preserved the external wall of the old château as the kernel of his new wing, and the enormous strength of the original building of philip augustus may be estimated by the fact that the embrasures of each of the five casements of the first floor looking westwards now serve as offices. so _grandement satisfait_ was henry with the perfection of lescot's work, that he determined to continue it along the remaining three wings, that the court of the louvre might be a _cour non-pareille_. the south wing was, however, only begun when his tragic death occurred, and the present inconsequent and huge fabric is the work of a whole tribe of architects, whose intermittent activities extended over the reigns of nine french sovereigns. lescot and goujon were also associated in the construction of the most beautiful renaissance fountain in paris, the fontaine des innocents, which formerly stood against the old church of the innocents at the corner of the rue aux fers. it was while working on one of the figures of this fountain that jean goujon is traditionally said to have been shot as a huguenot during the massacre of st. bartholomew.[ ] [footnote : a document recently discovered at modena however, proves that goujon, after the massacre of vassy, fled to italy with other protestants and died in obscurity at bologna.] [illustration: tritons and nereids from the old fontaine des innocents. _jean goujon._] europe was now in travail of a new era, and unhappy france reeled under the tempest of the reformation. a daring spirit of enquiry and of revolt challenged every principle on which the social fabric had been based, and the only refuge in the coming storm in france was the monarchy. never had its power been more absolute. the king's will was law--a harbour of safety, indeed, if he were strong and wise and virtuous: a veritable quicksand, if feeble and vicious. and to pilot the state of france in these stormy times, henry ii. left a sickly progeny of four princes, miserable puppets, whose favours were disputed for thirty years by ambitious and fanatical nobles, queens and courtesans. francis ii., a poor creature of sixteen years, the slave of his wife marie stuart and of the guises, was called king of france for seventeen months. he it was who sat daily by mary in the royal garden, on the terrace at amboise overlooking the loire, and, surrounded by his brothers and the ladies of the court, gazed at the revolting and merciless executions of the protestant conspirators,[ ] who, under the prince of condé, had plotted to destroy the guises and to free the king from their influence. it was the first act in a horrible drama, a dread pursuivant of the civil and religious wars which were to culminate in the massacre of st. bartholomew at paris. the stake was a high one, for the victory of the reformers would sound the death-knell of the catholic cause in europe. there is little reason to doubt that the queen-mother, catherine de' medici, who now emerges into prominence, was genuinely sincere in her disapproval of the horrors of amboise, and in her efforts to bring milder counsels to bear in dealing with the huguenots whom she feared less than the guises; but the fierce passions roused by civil and religious hatred were uncontrollable. when the huguenot noble, villemongis, was led to the scaffold at amboise, he dipped his hands in the blood of his slaughtered comrades, and, lifting them to heaven, cried: "lord, behold the blood of thy children; thou wilt avenge them." it has been truly said that the grass soon grows over blood, shed on the battle-field; never over blood shed on the scaffold. treachery and assassination were the interludes of plots and battles, and the thirst for vengeance during thirty years was never slaked. in the duke of guise was shot in the back by a fanatical huguenot, and as the wounded prince of condé was surrendering his sword to the duke of anjou after the defeat of , the baron de montesquieu, _brave et vaillant gentilhomme_, says brantôme, rode up, exclaiming: "mort dieu! kill him! kill him!" and blew out the wounded captive's brains with a pistol shot. [footnote : one thousand two hundred are said to have suffered death during the month of vengeance.] the treaty of st. germain, which has so often been charged on catherine as an act of perfidy, was rather an imperative necessity, if respite were to be had from the misery into which the land had fallen. its conditions were honourably carried out, and catholic excesses were impartially and severely repressed. charles ix., who was now twenty years of age and strongly attached to coligny, began to assert his independence of the queen-mother and of the guises,[ ] and his first movement was in the direction of conciliation. the young king offered the hand of his fair sister, princess marguerite, to henry of navarre, and received the admiral and jeanne of navarre with much honour at court. pressure was brought to bear upon him, but, pope or no pope, said charles, he was determined to conclude the marriage and himself would take margot by the hand in open church and give her away. the party of the guises, and especially paris, were furious. the capital, with the provost, the parlement, the university, the prelates, the religious orders, had always been hostile to the huguenots. the people could with difficulty be restrained at times from assuming the office of executioners as protestants were led to the stake. any one who did not uncover as he passed the image of the virgin at the street corners, or who omitted to bend the knee as the host was carried by, was attacked as a lutheran. when the heralds published the peace with the huguenots at the crossways of paris, filth and mud were thrown at them, and they went in danger of their lives: now coligny and his huguenots were holding their heads high in paris, proud and insolent and a heretic prince of navarre was to wed the king's sister. [footnote : henry of guise had succeeded to the dukedom after his father's assassination.] jeanne of navarre died soon after her arrival at court,[ ] but the alliance was hurried on. the betrothal took place in the louvre, and on sunday, th august , a high dais was erected outside notre dame for the celebration of the marriage. when the ceremony had been performed by the cardinal de bourbon, henry conducted his bride to the choir of the cathedral, and went walking in the bishop's garden while mass was sung. the office ended, he returned and led his wife to the bishop's palace to dinner, and a magnificent state supper at the louvre concluded this momentous day. three days of balls, masquerades and tourneys followed, amid the murmuring of a sullen populace. these were the _noces vermeilles_--the red nuptials--of marguerite of france and henry of navarre. [footnote : suspicions of poison were entertained by the huguenots. jeanne, in a letter to the marquis de beauvais, complained that holes were made in her rooms and wardrobes that she might be spied upon.] meanwhile catherine and charles had differed on a matter of foreign policy. her support of the prince of orange against spain in the netherlands was conditional on an alliance with england and the marriage of her son the duke of alençon with elizabeth. but the english queen's habitual duplicity made any reliance on her word impossible and when marie learned that elizabeth, while professing her inclination for the duke and her desire to aid the protestant cause in flanders, was protesting to her council that she would never marry a boy with a pock-spoiled face, and was in secret communication with alva, to turn the situation to her own profit, she flung herself into guise's arms and abandoned coligny and the huguenots: for the disastrous defeat of the protestants at mons and the growing fury of the catholic fanatics at paris, threatened to wreck the throne, and while elizabeth was toying with these tremendous issues the furies were let loose. charles still chivalrously determined to stand by coligny. catherine, terrified at the result of her own work, and resolved to regain her ascendency, conspired with her third son, the prince of anjou, the future henry iii., to destroy and have done with the protestants. coligny had often been warned of the danger he would run in paris, but the stout old soldier knew no fear, and came to take part in the festivities of the wedding. the sounds of revelry had barely died away when coligny, who was returning from the louvre, by the east gate, the porte bourbon, to his hôtel, walking slowly and reading a petition, was fired at from a window as he passed the cloister of st. germain l'auxerrois, and wounded in the arm. he stopped and noted the house whence the smoke came: it was the house of the preceptor of the duke of guise. the king was playing at tennis when the news reached him: he flung down his racquet, exclaiming, "what! shall i never be in peace? must i suffer new trouble every day?" and went moody and pensive to his chamber. in a few moments the prince of condé and henry of navarre burst in, uttering indignant protests, and begged permission to leave paris. charles assured them he would do justice, and that they might safely remain: in the afternoon he went with his mother and the princes to visit the admiral. the king asked to be left alone in the wounded man's chamber, remained a long time with him, and protesting that though the wound was his friend's, the grief was his own, swore to avenge him. coligny once again was warned by his friends to beware of the court, but he refused to distrust charles. many and conflicting are the reports of what followed. we shall not be accused of any protestant bias if we base our story mainly on that of the two learned benedictine priests[ ] who are responsible for five solid tomes of the _histoire de la ville de paris_. on the morrow of the attempt on coligny's life, the queen-mother invited charles and his brother of anjou to walk, after dinner, in the garden of her new palace in the tuileries:[ ] they were joined by the chief catholic leaders, and a grand council was held. the queen dwelt on the perilous situation of the monarchy and the catholic cause, and urged that now was the time to act: coligny lay wounded; navarre and condé were in their power at the louvre; for ten huguenots in paris the catholics could oppose a thousand armed men; rid france of the huguenot chiefs and a formidable evil were averted. her course was approved, but the leaders shrank from including the two princes of navarre and condé: they were to be given their choice--recantation or death. by order of the king , arquebusiers were placed along the river and the streets, and arms were carried into the louvre. the admiral's friends, alarmed at the sinister preparations, protested to charles but were reassured and told to take cosseins and fifty arquebusiers to guard his house. the provost of paris was then summoned by the duke of guise and ordered to arm and organise the citizens and proceed to the hôtel de ville at midnight. the king, guise said, would not lose so fair an opportunity of exterminating the huguenots. the catholic citizens were to tie a piece of white linen on their left arm and place a white cross in their caps that they might be recognised by their friends. at midnight the windows of their houses were to be illuminated by torches, and at the first sound of the great bell at the palais de justice the bloody work was to begin. meanwhile catherine, doubtful of charles, repaired to his chamber with anjou and her councillors to fix his wavering purpose; she heaped bitter reproaches upon him, worked on his fears with stories of a vast huguenot conspiracy and hinted that cowardice prevented him from seizing the fairest opportunity that god had ever offered, to free himself from his enemies. she repeated an italian prelate's vicious epigram: "_che pietà lor ser crudel, che crudeltà lor ser pietosa_,"[ ] and concluded by threatening to leave the court with the duke of anjou rather than witness the destruction of the catholic cause. charles, who had listened sullenly, and, if we may believe anjou, for a long while angrily refused to sacrifice coligny, was at length stung by the taunt of cowardice and broke into a delirium of passion; he swore by _la mort dieu_ to compass the death of every huguenot in france, that none might be left to reproach him afterwards. [footnote : félibien and lobineau, .] [footnote : catherine was accustomed to treat of important state matters requiring absolute secrecy in her new garden. the _pourparlers_ between her and lord buckhurst, relative to the proposed marriage of queen elizabeth and the duke of anjou, took place under the trees in the tuileries garden.] [footnote : "that to show pity was to be cruel to them: to be cruel to them was to show pity."] [illustration: catherine de' medici. _french school, th century._] catherine gave him no time for farther vacillation. the great bell of st. germain l'auxerrois was rung, and at two in the morning of sunday, st. bartholomew's day, th august , the duke of guise and his followers issued forth to do their sabbath morning's work. cosseins saw his leader coming and knew what was expected of him. guise, who believed the blood of his murdered father lay on coligny's head, made sure of his vengeance. the admiral's door was forced, his servants were poignarded, and besme, a german in the service of guise, followed by others, burst into his room. the old man stood erect in his _robe de chambre_, facing his murderers. "art thou the admiral?" demanded besme. "i am he," answered coligny with unfaltering voice and, gazing steadily at the naked sword pointed at his breast, added, "young man, thou shouldst show more respect to my white hairs; yet canst thou shorten but little my brief life." for answer he was pierced by besme's sword and stabbed to death by his companions. guise stood waiting in the street below and the body was flung down to him from the window. he wiped the blood from the old man's face, looked at it, and said, "it is he!" spurning the body with his foot he cried, "courage, soldiers! we have begun well; now for the others, the king commands it." meanwhile the bell of the palais de justice, answering that of st. germain, was booming forth its awful summons, and the citizens hastened to perform their part. all the huguenot nobles dwelling near the admiral were pitilessly murdered, and a similar carnage took place at the louvre. marguerite, the young bride of navarre, in her memoirs, tells of the horrors of that morning, how, when half-asleep, a wounded huguenot nobleman rushed into her chamber, pursued by four archers, and flung himself on her bed imploring protection, followed by a captain of the guard from whom she gained his life. she entreated the captain to lead her to her sister's room, and as she fled thither, more dead than alive, another fugitive was hewn down by a hallebardier only three paces from her; she fell fainting in the captain's arms. meanwhile charles, the queen-mother, and anjou, after the violent scene in the king's chamber, had lain down for two hours' rest and then went to a window which overlooked the _basse-cour_ of the louvre, to see the "beginning of the executions." if we may believe henry's story, they had not been there long before the sound of a pistol shot filled them with dread and remorse, and a messenger was sent to bid guise spare the admiral and stay the whole undertaking; but the nobleman who had been sent returned saying that guise had told him it was too late: the admiral was dead, and the executions had begun all over the city. a dozen protestant nobles of the suites of condé and navarre, who at the king's invitation had taken up their quarters in the louvre, were seized; one was even dragged from a sick-bed: all were taken to the courtyard and hewn in pieces by the swiss guards under the eyes of charles, who cried: "let none escape." meantime the catholic leaders had been scouring the streets on horseback, shouting to the people that a huguenot conspiracy to murder the king had been discovered, and that it was the king's wish that all the huguenots should be destroyed. a list of the huguenots in paris had been prepared and all their houses marked. none was spared. old and young, women and children, were pitilessly butchered. all that awful sunday the orgy of slaughter and pillage went on; every gate of the city had been closed and the keys brought to the king. night fell and the carnage was not stayed. two days yet and two nights the city was a prey to the ministers of death, and some catholics, denounced by personal enemies, were involved in the massacre. the resplendent august sun, the fair sky and serene atmosphere were held to be a divine augury, and a white thorn in the cemetery of the innocents blooming out of season was hailed as a miracle and a visible token from god that the catholic religion was to blossom again by the destruction of the huguenots. the murders did not wholly cease until september. various were the estimates of the slain-- , , , , , . a goldsmith named cruce went about displaying his robust arm and boasting that he had accounted for huguenots. the streets, the front of the louvre, the public places were blocked by dead bodies; tumbrils[ ] were hired to throw them into the seine, which literally for days ran red with blood. [footnote : the municipality gave presents of money to the archers who had taken part in the massacre, to the watermen who prevented the huguenots from crossing the seine, and to grave-diggers for having buried in eight days about , bodies.] [illustration: petite galerie of the louvre.] the princes of navarre and condé saw the privacy of their chambers violated by a posse of archers on st. bartholomew's morning; they were forced to dress and were haled before the king, who with a fierce look and glaring eyes, swore at them, reproached them for waging war upon him, and ordered them to change their religion. on their refusal he grew furious with rage, and by dint of threats wrung from them a promise to go to mass. charles is said to have stood at a window in the petite galerie of the louvre and to have fired across the river with a long arquebus on some huguenots who, being lodged on the southern side, in the huguenot quarter, known as _la petite genève_, had escaped massacre, and were riding up to learn what was passing. the statement is much canvassed by authorities. it is at least permissible to doubt the assertion, since the first floor[ ] of the petite galerie, where the king is traditionally believed to have placed himself, was not in existence before the time of henry iv. if the ground floor be meant, a further difficulty arises from the fact that the southern end was not furnished with a window in charles ix.'s time. [footnote : now known as the galerie d'apollon.] on the th of august the king was forced to avow responsibility before the parlement for measures which he alleged had been necessary to suppress a huguenot insurrection aiming at the assassination of himself and the royal family and the destruction of the catholic religion in france. the ears of the catholic princes of europe and of the pope were abused by this specious lie; they believed that the catholic cause had been saved from ruin; the so-called victory was hailed with transports of joy, and a medal was struck in rome to celebrate the defeat of the huguenots.[ ] [footnote : _ugonottorum strages._ inscription on the obverse of the medal.] such was the massacre of st. bartholomew in paris. the death-roll of the victims is known to the recording angel alone. it was a tremendous folly no less than an indelible crime, for it steeled the heart of every protestant to avenge his slaughtered brethren. to "take paris justice" became synonymous with assassination all over protestant europe. many of the huguenot leaders escaped from paris while the soldiers sent to despatch them were pillaging, and the flames of civil strife burst forth fiercer than ever. the court had prepared for massacre, not for war; and while the king was receiving the felicitations of the courts of spain and rome, he was forced by the peace of la rochelle to concede liberty of conscience to the protestants and to restore their sequestered estates and offices. after two years of agony of mind and remorse, charles ix. lay dying of consumption, abandoned by all save his faithful huguenot nurse. the blood flowing from his nostrils seemed a token of god's wrath; and moaning "ah! _ma mie_, what bloodshed! what murders! i am lost! i am lost!" the poor crowned wretch passed to his account. he had not yet reached his twenty-fourth year. chapter xiii _henry iii.--the league--siege of paris by henry iv.--his conversion, reign and assassination_ when the third of catherine's sons, having resigned the sovereignty of poland, was being consecrated at rheims, the crown is said to have twice slipped from his head, the insentient diadem itself shrinking in horror from the brow of a prince destined to pollute it with deeper shame. treacherous and bloody, henry mingled grovelling piety with debauchery, and made of the court at paris a veritable alsatia, where paid assassins who stabbed from behind and _mignons_ who struck to the face, were part of the train of every prince. the king's minions with their insolent bearing, their extravagant and effeminate dress, their hair powdered and curled, their neck-ruffles so broad that their heads resembled the head of john the baptist on a charger,--gambling, blaspheming swashbucklers--were hateful alike to huguenot and catholic. on th april three of them fought out a famous quarrel with three of the guises' bullies at the horse market subsequently converted into the place royale. the duel began at five o'clock in the morning and was fought so furiously that three of the combatants lost their lives. quélus, the king's favourite minion, with fifteen wounds, lingered for thirty-three days, henry constantly at his bedside and offering in vain large sums of money to the surgeons to save him. less than four years after st. bartholomew the peace of gave the huguenots all they had ever demanded or hoped for. in died the duke of alençon, catherine's last surviving son and heir to the throne; henry, in spite of a pilgrimage on foot by himself and his queen to notre dame de cléry from which they returned with blistered feet, gave no hope of posterity and the catholic party were confronted by the possibility of the sceptre of st. louis descending to a relapsed heretic. a tremendous wave of feeling ran through france, and a holy league was formed to meet the danger, with the duke of guise as leader. the king tried in vain to win some of the huguenot and league partisans by the solemn institution of the order of the holy ghost,[ ] in the church of the augustinians, to commemorate his elevation to the thrones of poland and france on the day of pentecost. the people were equally recalcitrant. when henry entered paris after the campaign of , they shouted for their idol, the balafré,[ ] crying, "saul has slain his thousands but david his tens of thousands." the king in his jealousy and disgust forbade guise to enter paris; guise coolly ignored the command, and a few months later arrived at the head of a formidable train of nobles, amid the joyous acclamation of the people, who greeted him with chants of "_hosannah, filio david!_" angry scenes followed. the duke sternly called his master to duty, and warned him to take vigorous measures against the huguenots or lose his crown; the king, pale with anger, dismissed him and prepared to strike. [footnote : examples of magnificent costumes of the order may be seen in the cluny museum.] [footnote : the duke of guise was so called from his face being scarred by a wound received at the battle of dolmans.] on the night of the th may a force of royal guards and , swiss mercenaries entered paris, but the parisians, with that genius for insurrection which has always characterised them, were equal to the occasion. the sixteen sections into which the communal government of the city was divided met; in the morning the people were under arms; and barricades and chains blocked the streets. the st. antoine section, ever to the front, stood up to the king's guards and to the swiss advancing to occupy their quarter, defeated them, and with exultant cries rushed to threaten the louvre itself. henry was forced to send his mother to treat with the duke; she returned with terms that meant a virtual abdication. henry took horse and fled, vowing he would come back only through a breach in the walls. but guise was supreme in paris, and the pitiful monarch was soon forced to yield; he signed the terms of his own humiliation, and went to blois to meet guise and the states-general with bitterness in his heart, brooding over his revenge. visitors to the château of blois, which has the same thrilling interest for the traveller as the palace of holyrood, will recall the scene of the tragic end of guise, the incidents of which the official guardians are wont to recite with dramatic gesture. fearless and impatient of warnings, the great captain fell into the trap prepared for him and was done to death in the king's chamber, like a lion caught in the toils. henry, who had heard mass and prayed that god would be gracious to him and permit the success of his enterprise, hastened to his mother, now aged and dying. "madame," said he, "i have killed the king of paris and am become once more king of france." the cardinal of lorraine, separated from the king's chamber only by a partition, paled as he heard his nephew's struggles. "_ne bougez pas_," said the marshal of aumont putting his hand to his sword, "the king has some accounts to settle with you too." next morning the old cardinal was led out and hewn in pieces. the two bodies were burnt and the ashes scattered to the winds to prevent their being worshipped as relics: it was christmas eve of . the stupid crime brought its inevitable consequences-- "revenge and hate bring forth their kind, like the foul cubs their parents are." the commune of paris and the leaguers were stung to fury; the sorbonne declared the king deposed; the pope banned him and a popular preacher called for another blood-letting. henry, in a final act of shame and despair, flung himself into the king of navarre's arms, and on the st july , the two henrys encamped at st. cloud and threatened paris with an army of , men. on the morrow jacques clément, a young dominican friar, after preparing himself by fasting, prayer and holy communion, left paris with a forged letter for the king, reached the camp and asked for a private interview. while henry was reading the letter the friar snatched a knife from his sleeve and mortally stabbed him.[ ] he lingered until nd august, and after pronouncing henry of navarre his lawful successor and bidding his council swear allegiance to the new dynasty, the last of the thirteen valois kings passed to his doom. catherine de' medici had already preceded him, burdened with the anathemas of the cardinal of bourbon. the people of paris swore that if her body were brought to st. denis they would fling it to the shambles or into the seine, and a famous theologian, preaching at st. bartholomew's church, declared to the faithful that he knew not if it were right to pray god for her soul, but that if they cared to give her in charity a pater or an ave they might do so for what it was worth. this was the reward of her thirty years of devoted toil, of vigils and of plots to further the catholic cause. not until a quarter of a century had passed were her ashes laid beside those of her husband in the rich renaissance tomb, which still exists, in the royal church of st. denis. jacques clément, who had been cut to pieces by the king's guards, was worshipped as a martyr, and his mother rewarded for having given birth to the saviour of france. [footnote : the king had premonitions of a violent end. one day, after keeping easter at negeon with great devotion, he suddenly returned to the louvre and ordered all the lions, bears, bulls, and other wild animals kept in the _hôtel des lions_, reconstructed in for charles ix., for baiting by dogs, to be shot. he had dreamt that he was set upon and eaten by wild beasts.] henry of navarre, unable to carry on the siege with a divided army, directed his course for normandy. the exultant parisians proclaimed the cardinal of bourbon king, under the title of charles x., and the duke of mayenne, with a large army, marched forth to give battle to henry. so confident were the leaguers of victory, that their leaders hired windows along the rue st. antoine to witness the return of the duke bringing the "béarnais"[ ] dead or a prisoner. henry did indeed return, but it was after a victorious campaign. he captured the faubourg st. jacques, and fell upon the abbey of st. germain des prés while the astonished monks were preparing to sing mass, climbed the steeple of the church and gazed on paris. having refreshed his troops, the béarnais suffered them to pillage the city south of the seine, and turned to the west to fix his capital at tours. in he won the brilliant victory at ivry over the armies of the league and of spain which macaulay has popularised in a stirring poem: the road to paris was open and henry sat down to besiege the city. [footnote : so called derisively, because he was born and brought up in the poor province of béarn, in the pyrenees.] the leaguers fought and suffered with the utmost constancy; reliquaries were melted down for money, church bells for cannon, and the clergy and religious orders were caught by the military enthusiasm. the bishop of senlis and the prior of the carthusians, two valiant maccabees, were seen, crucifix in one hand, a pike in the other, leading a procession of armed priests, monks and scholars through the streets. friars from the mendicant orders were among them, their habits tucked up, hoods thrown back, casques on their heads and cuirasses on their breasts. all marched sword by side, dagger in girdle, musket on shoulder, the strangest army of the church militant ever seen. as they passed the pont notre dame the papal legate was crossing in his carriage, and was asked to stop and give his blessing. after this benediction a salvo of musketry was called for, and some of the host of the lord, forgetting that their guns were loaded with ball, killed a papal officer and wounded a servant of the ambassador of spain. four months the parisians endured starvation and all the attendant horrors of a siege, the incidents of which, as described by contemporaries, are so ghastly that the pen recoils from transcribing them. at length, when they were at the last extremity, the duke of parma arrived with a spanish army, forced henry to raise the siege, and revictualled the city. after war, anarchy. in november it was discovered that secret letters were passing between brizard, an officer in the service of the duke of mayenne in paris, and a royalist at st. denis. the sections demanded brizard's instant execution, and on his discharge by the parlement the _curé_ of st. jacques fulminated against that body and declared that cold steel must be tried (_faut jouer des couteaux_). a secret revolutionary committee of ten was appointed, and a _papier rouge_ or lists of suspects in all the districts of paris was drawn up under three categories: p. (_pendus_), those to be hanged; d. (_dagués_), those to be poignarded; c. (_chassés_), those to be expelled. on the night of the th november a meeting was held at the house of the _curé_ of st. jacques, and in the morning the president of the parlement, brisson, was seized and dragged to the petit châtelet, where a revolutionary tribunal, in black cloaks, on which were sewn large red crosses, condemned him to death. meanwhile two councillors of the parlement, larcher and tardif, had been seized, the latter by the _curé_ of st. cosme, and haled to the châtelet. all three were dragged to a room, and the executioner was forced to hang them from a beam; the bodies were then stripped, an inscription was hung about their necks, and they were suspended from the gallows in the place de grève. the sections believed that paris would rise: they only shocked the more orderly citizens. the duke of mayenne, who was at lyons, on the receipt of the news hastened to paris, temporised a while and, when sure of support, seized four of the most dangerous leaders of the sections and hanged them without trial in the salle basse of the louvre. all save the more violent partisans were now weary of the strife and the leaguers themselves were divided. the sections aimed at a theocratic democracy; another party favoured the duke of mayenne; a third, the duke of guise; a fourth, the infanta of spain. it was decided to convoke the states-general at paris in , and a conference was arranged with henry's supporters at suresnes. crowds flocked there, crying, "peace, peace; blessed be they who bring it; cursed they who prevent it." henry knew the supreme moment was come. france was still profoundly catholic: he must choose between his religion and france. he chose to heal his country's wounds and perhaps to save her very existence. learned theologians were deputed to confer with him at paris, whom he astonished and confounded by his knowledge of scripture; they declared that they had never met a heretic better able to defend his cause. but on rd july , he professed himself convinced, and the same evening wrote to his mistress, gabrielle d'estrées, that he had spoken with the bishops, and that a hundred anxieties were making st. denis hateful to him. "on sunday," he adds, "i am to take the perilous leap. _bonjour_, my heart; come to me early to-morrow. it seems a year since i saw you. a million times i kiss the fair hands of my angel and the mouth of my dear mistress." on sunday, under the great portal of st. denis, the archbishop of bourges sat enthroned in a chair covered with white damask and embroidered with the arms of france and of navarre. he was attended by many prelates and the prior and monks of st. denis: the cross and the book of the gospels were held before him. henry drew nigh. "who are you?" demanded the archbishop. "i am the king." "what do you ask?" "i wish to be received in the bosom of the catholic, apostolic and roman church." "is it your will?" "yes, i will and desire it." henry then knelt and made profession of his faith, kissed the prelate's ring, received his blessing and was led to the choir, where he knelt before the high altar and repeated his profession of faith on the holy gospels amid cries of "_vive le roi!_" the clerical extremists in paris anathematised all concerned. violent _curés_ again donned their armour, children were baptised and mass was sung by cuirassed priests. the _curé_ of st. cosme seized a partisan, and with other fanatics of the league hastened to the latin quarter to raise the university. but the people were heartsick of the whole business; and when henry entered paris after his coronation at chartres, resplendent in velvet robes embroidered with gold and seated on his dapple grey charger, his famous helmet with its white plumes ever in his hand saluting the ladies at the windows, he was hailed with shouts of joy. shops were reopened, the artisan took up his tools and the merchant went to his counter with a sigh of relief. a general amnesty was proclaimed, and the spanish garrison were allowed to depart with their arms. as they filed out of the porte st. denis in heavy rain, three thousand strong, the king was sitting at a window above the gates. "remember me to your master," he cried, "but do not return." on the morrow the provost and sheriffs and chief citizens came to the louvre bearing presents of sweetmeats, sugar-plums and malmsey wine. "yesterday i received your hearts, to-day i receive your sweets," the king remarked; all were charmed by his wit, his forbearance and generosity. the stubborn university was last to give way, but when the doctors of theology learnt that henry had touched for the king's evil and that many had been cured, they too were convinced. paris, "well worth a mass," was wooed and won. the memorable edict of nantes established liberty of worship and political equality for the protestants. the war with spain was brought to a successful issue, and henry, with his minister the duke of sully, probably the greatest financial genius france has ever known, by wise and firm statesmanship lifted the country from bankruptcy to prosperity and contentment. [illustration: hÔtel de sully.] henry, like one of his predecessors, had of _bastards et bastardes une moult belle compagnie_, but as yet no legitimate heir. a divorce from marguerite of valois and a politic marriage with the pope's niece, marie de' medici,[ ] gave him a magnificent dowry ( , golden crowns and a yearly income of , ), an additional bond to the papacy, and several children. margot, once convinced that the divorce was not to enable henry to marry that _bagasse_ gabrielle, made small objection and soon consoled herself. in one of her discarded lovers was executed in front of her dwelling in the palace of the archbishop of sens for having shot his rival in her affections, a young page of twenty, as he was handing her into her carriage. [footnote : her majesty, we learn from the _mémoires_ of l'estoile, was of a rich figure, stout, fine eyes and complexion. she used no paint, powder or other _vilanie_.] like all his race, henry was susceptible to the charms of the daughters of eve, but, unlike his descendants, he never sacrificed france to their tears and wiles. when the question of the succession was urgent and he thought of marrying gabrielle d'estrées, sully opposed the union. the impatient gabrielle used all her powers of fascination to compass the dismissal of the great minister, who was present at the interview in her room at the cloister of st. germain, and who has left us a vivid description of the scene. gabrielle burst into passionate reproaches and employed in turn all the arts of feminine guile. her eyes streaming with tears, sobbing and wailing, she seized her royal lover's hand and smothered it with kisses; she called for a poignard that by plunging it into her heart he might behold his image graven there; she appealed to his love for their children and flung herself hysterically on the bed, protesting she could live no longer seeing herself disgraced, and a servant whom so many complained of, preferred to a mistress whom all praised. it was of no avail. "let me tell you," answered henry, calmly, "if i must choose between you and sully, i would sooner part with ten mistresses such as you than one faithful servant such as he." in the king was making great preparations for a war with austria, and, on the th may, desiring to consult sully, who was unwell in his rooms at the arsenal, he determined to spare him the fatigue of travelling to the louvre, and to drive to the arsenal. with much foreboding the king had agreed to the coronation of marie de' medici, which had been celebrated at st. denis with great pomp. the ceremony was attended by two sinister incidents: the gospel for the day, taken from mark x., included the answer of jesus to the pharisees who tempted him by asking--"is it lawful for a man to put away his wife?"--the gospel was hurriedly changed; and when the usual largesse of gold and silver pieces was thrown to the crowd not a voice cried, "_vive le roi_," or "_vive la reine_." that night the king tossed restless on his bed, pursued by evil dreams. on the morrow his counsellors begged him to defer his journey, but nineteen plots to assassinate him had already failed: he gently put aside their warnings, and repeated his favourite maxim that fear had no place in a generous heart. it was a warm day, and the king entered his open carriage, attended by the dukes of epernon and montbazon and five other courtiers; a number of _valets de pied_ followed him. in the narrow rue de la ferronnerie the carriage was stopped by a block in the traffic, and the servants were sent round by the cemetery of the innocents. while the king was listening to the reading of a letter by the duke of epernon, one francis ravaillac, who had been watching his opportunity for twelve months, placed his foot on a wheel of the coach, leaned forward, and plunged a knife into the king's breast. before he could be seized he pulled out the fatal steel and doubled his thrust, piercing him to the heart. "_je suis blessé_," cried henry, and never spoke again. ravaillac was seized, and all the refined cruelties inflicted on regicides were practised upon him. he was dragged to the place de grève, his right hand cut off, and, with the fatal knife, flung into the flames; the flesh was torn from his arms, breast and legs; melted lead and boiling oil were poured into the wounds. horses were then tied to each of his four limbs, the body was torn to pieces and burnt to ashes.[ ] some writers have inculpated the jesuits for the murder, but it may more reasonably be attributed to the fury of a crazy fanatic. certain it is that henry's heart was given to the jesuits for the church of their college of la flèche, which was founded by him. [footnote : in six poor wretches convicted of plotting the assassination of queen elizabeth were dragged to tyburn, "hanged but for a moment, taken down while the susceptibility of agony was unimpaired and cut in pieces afterwards with due precautions for the protraction of the pain."--froude's _history_.] the first bourbon king has left his impress on the architecture of paris. "soon as he was master of paris," says a contemporary, "one saw naught but masons at work." small progress had been made during the reign of henry ii.'s three sons with their father's plans for the rebuilding of the louvre. the work had been continued along the river front after lescot's death in by baptiste du cerceau, and catherine de' medici had erected a gallery on the south, known as the petite galerie--a ground-floor building with a terrace on top, intended for a meeting-place and promenade but not for residence. she had also begun in the palace of the tuileries, which, like the louvre, was designed to be a quadrangular building and of which the west wing alone was ever constructed, but abandoned it on being warned by her astrologer, ruggieri, that she should die under the ruins of a house near st germain.[ ] henry, soon after he had entered paris, elaborated a vast scheme for finishing the tuileries, demolishing the churches of st. thomas and st. nicholas, quadrupling the size of the old louvre, and joining the two palaces by continuing the grande galerie, already begun by catherine, to the west, to afford a means of escape in the event of an attack on the louvre. towards the east the hôtels d'alençon, de bourbon and the church of st. germain l'auxerrois were to be demolished, and a great open space was to be levelled between the new east front of the louvre and the pont neuf. at henry's accession catherine's architects, philibert de l'orme and jean bullant, had completed the superb domed central pavilion of the tuileries, with its two contiguous galleries, and begun the end pavilions, the former using the ionic order as a delicate flattery of catherine, "since among the ancients that order was employed in temples dedicated to a goddess." the gardens, with the famous maze and palissy's beautiful grotto or fountain, had been completed in , and for some years were a favourite promenade for catherine and her court. henry's plans were so far carried out that on new year's day, , he could lead the dauphin along the grande galerie to the pavilion de flore at the extreme west of the river front, and enter the south wing of the tuileries which had been extended to meet it. the pavilion de flore thus became the angle of junction between the two palaces. an upper floor was imposed on the petite galerie, and adorned with paintings representing the kings of france. unhappily the fire of destroyed all the portraits save that of marie de' medici by porbus, and all the subsequent decorations by poussin. henry intended the ground floor of the grande galerie for the accommodation of his best craftsmen--painters, sculptors, goldsmiths, tapestry weavers, smiths, and others. the quadrangle, however, remained as the last valois had left it--half renaissance, half gothic--and the north-east and south-east towers of the original château were still standing to be drawn by sylvestre towards the middle of the seventeenth century. [footnote : the new palace was situated in the parish of st. germain l'auxerrois, the parish church of the louvre.] the unfinished hôtel de ville was taken in hand after more than half-a-century and practically completed.[ ] the larger, north portion of the pont neuf was built, the two islets west of the cité were incorporated with the island to form the place dauphine and the ground that now divides the two sections of the bridge--a new street, the rue dauphine, being cut through the garden of the augustins and the ruins of the college of st. denis. the place royale (now des vosges) was designed and partly built--that charming relic of seventeenth and eighteenth century fashionable paris, where molière's _précieuses_ lived. [footnote : the north tower was left only partially constructed, and was finished by louis xiii.] henry also partly rebuilt the hôtel dieu, created new streets, and widened others.[ ] new fountains and quays were built; the porte du temple was reopened, and the porte des tournelles constructed. unhappily, some of the old wooden bridges remained, and on sunday, nd december , the pont aux meuniers (miller's bridge), just below the pont au change, suddenly collapsed, with all its shops and houses, and sixty persons perished. they were not much regretted, for most of them had enriched themselves by the plunder of huguenots, and during the troubles of the league. the bridge was rebuilt of wood, at the cost of the captain of the corps of archers, and as the houses were painted each with the figure of a bird, the new bridge was known as the pont aux oiseaux (bridge of birds). it spanned the river from the end of the rue st. denis and the arch of the grand châtelet to the tour de l'horloge of the palais de justice. in , however, it and the pont au change were consumed by fire in a few hours and, in , the two wooden bridges were replaced by a bridge of stone, the pont au change, which stood until rebuilt in . [footnote : by a curious coincidence the widening of the rue de la ferronnerie had been ordered just before the king was assassinated.] [illustration: old houses near pont st. michel, showing spire of the ste. chapelle.] we are able to give the impression which the paris of henri quatre made on an english traveller, a friend of ben jonson and author of _coryat's crudities, hastily gobbled up in five months' travell_. the first objects that met coryat's eye are characteristic. as he travelled along the st. denis road he passed "seven[ ] faire pillars of freestone at equal distances, each with an image of st. denis and his two companions, and a little this side of paris was the fairest gallows i ever saw, built on montfaucon, which consisted of fourteene fair pillars of freestone." he notes "the fourteene gates of paris, the goodly buildings, mostly of fair, white stone and"--a detail always unpleasantly impressed on travellers--"the evil-smelling streets, which are the dirtiest and the most stinking i ever saw in any city in my life. lutetia! well dothe it brooke being so called from the latin word _lutum_, which signifieth dirt." coryat was impressed by the bridges--"the goodly bridge of white freestone nearly finished (the pont neuf); a famous bridge that far exceedeth this, having one of the fairest streets in paris called our ladies street; the bridge of exchange where the goldsmiths live; st. michael's bridge, and the bridge of birds." he admires the "via jacobea, full of booke-sellers' faire shoppes, most plentifully furnished with bookes, and the fair building, very spacious and broad, where the judges sit in the palais de justice, the roofs sumptuously gilt and embossed, with an exceeding multitude of great, long bosses hanging downward." coryat next visited the fine quadrangle of the louvre, whose outside was exquisitely wrought with festoons, and decked with many stately pillars and images. from queen mary's bedroom he went to a room[ ] "which excelleth not only all that are now in the world but also all that were since the creation thereof, even a gallery, a perfect description whereof would require a large volume, with a roofe of most glittering and admirable beauty. yea, so unspeakably fair is it that a man can hardly comprehend it in his mind that hath not seen it with his bodily eyes." the tuileries gardens were the finest he ever beheld for length of delectable walks. [footnote : they marked the seven resting-places of the saint as he journeyed to st. denis after his martyrdom.] [footnote : the grande galerie.] next day coryat saw the one thing above all he desired to see, "that most rare ornament of learning isaac casaubon," who told him to observe "a certain profane, superstitious ceremony of the papists--a bedde carried after a very ethnicall manner, or rather a canopy in the form of a bedde, under which the bishop of the city, with certain priests, carry the sacrament. the procession of corpus christi," he adds, "though the papists esteemed it very holy, was methinks very pitiful. the streets were sumptuously adorned with paintings and rich cloth of arras, the costliest they could provide, the shews of our lady street being so hyperbolical in pomp that it exceedeth all the rest by many degrees. upon public tables in the streets they exposed rich plate as ever i saw in my life, exceeding costly goblets and what not tending to pomp; and on the middest of the tables stood a golden crucifix and divers other gorgeous images. following the clergy, in capes exceeding rich, came many couples of little singing choristers, which, pretty innocent punies, were so egregiously deformed that moved great pity in any relenting spectator, being so clean shaved round about their heads that a man could perceive no more than the very rootes of their hair." at the royal suburb coryat saw "st. denis, his head enclosed in a wonderful, rich helmet, beset with exceeding abundant pretious stones," but the skull itself he "beheld not plainly, only the forepart through a pretty, crystall glass, and by light of a wax candle." chapter xiv _paris under richelieu and mazarin_ before coryat left paris he rode a sorry jade to fontainebleau which, "though i did excarnificate his sides," would not stir until a gentleman of the court drew his rapier and ran him to the "buttock." at the palace he saw the "dolphin whose face was full and fat-cheeked, his hair black, his look vigorous and courageous." the dolphin that coryat saw came to the throne, at nine years of age, in , as louis xiii. for a time the regent, marie de' medici, was content to suffer the great sully to hold office, but soon favouritism and the greed of princes, to the ill-hap of france, drove him in the prime of life from paris into the retirement of his château of villebon, and a feeble and venal florentine, concini, who came to paris in the time of marie, took his place. the prince of condé, now a catholic, the duke of mayenne, and a pack of nobles fell upon the royal treasury like hounds on their quarry. in , so critical was the financial situation, that the states-general were called to meet in the salle bourbon,[ ] but to little purpose. recriminations were bandied between the noblesse and the tiers État. the insolence of the former was intolerable. one member of the tiers was thrashed by a noble and could obtain no redress. the clergy refused to bear any of the public burdens. the orator of the tiers, speaking on his knees according to usage, warned the court that despair might make the people conscious that a soldier was none other than a peasant bearing arms, and that when the vine-dresser took up the arquebus he might one day cease to be the anvil and become the hammer. but there was no thought for the common weal; each order wrangled for its own privileges, and their meeting-place was closed on the pretext that the hall was wanted for a royal ballet. no protest was raised, and the states-general never met again until the fateful meeting at versailles, in , when a similar pretext was tried, with very different consequences. among the clergy, however, sat a young priest of twenty-nine years of age, chosen for their orator, armand duplessis de richelieu, who made rapid strides to fame. [footnote : in the hôtel de bourbon, east of the old louvre, sometimes known as the petit bourbon. it was demolished to give place to the new east façade of the louvre.] in the nobles were once more in arms, and condé was again bought off. the helpless court was in pitiful straits and the country drifting to civil war, when richelieu, who, meanwhile, had been made a royal councillor and minister for foreign affairs, took the condé business in hand. he had the prince arrested in the louvre itself and flung into the bastille; the noble blackmailers were declared guilty of treason, and three armies marched against them. the triumph of the court seemed assured, when louis xiii., now sixteen years of age, suddenly freed himself from tutelage, and with the help of the favourite companion of his pastimes, albert de luynes, son of a soldier of fortune, determined to rid himself of concini. the all-powerful florentine, on th april , was crossing the bridge that spanned the eastern fosse of the louvre, when the captain of the royal guards, who was accompanied by a score of gentlemen, touched him on the shoulder and told him he was the king's prisoner. "i, a prisoner!" exclaimed concini, moving his hand towards his sword. before he could utter another word he fell dead, riddled with pistol shots; louis appeared at a window, and all the louvre resounded with cries of "_vive le roi!_" concini's wife, to whom he owed his ascendency over the queen-mother, was accused of sorcery, beheaded and burnt on the place de grève; marie was packed off to blois and richelieu exiled to his bishopric of luçon. de luynes, enriched by the confiscated wealth of the concini, now became supreme at paris only to demonstrate a pitiful incapacity. the nobles had risen and were rallying round marie; the protestants were defying the state; but luynes was impotent, and soon went to a dishonoured grave, leaving chaos behind him. richelieu's star was now in the ascendant. the king drew near to his mother, and both turned to the one man who seemed able to knit together the distracted state. a cardinal's hat was obtained for him from rome, and the illustrious churchman ruled in paris for eighteen years. everything went down before his commanding genius, his iron will and his indefatigable industry. "i reflect long," said he, "before making a decision, but once my mind is made up, i go straight to the goal. i mow down all before me, and cover all with my scarlet robe." the huguenots, backed by the english, aimed at founding an independent republic: richelieu captured la rochelle[ ] and wiped them out as a political party. the great nobles sought to divide power with the crown: he demolished their fortresses, made them bow their necks to the royal yoke or chopped off their heads. they defied the king's edict against duelling: the count of bouteville, the most notorious duellist of his time, and the count of les chapelles were sent to the scaffold for having defiantly fought duels in the place royale in open noonday, at which the marquis of buffy was killed. the execution made a profound impression, for the count was a montmorency, and the condés, the orleans, the montmorencys and all the most powerful nobles brought pressure to bear on the king and swore that the sentence should never be carried out. but richelieu was firm as a tower. "it is an infamous thing," he told louis, "to punish the weak alone; they cast no baleful shade: we must keep discipline by striking down the mighty." richelieu crushed the parlement and revolutionised the provincial administrations. he maintained seven armies in the field, and two navies on the seas at one and the same time. he added four provinces to france--alsace, lorraine, artois and rousillon, humiliated austria and exalted his country to the proud position of dominant factor in european politics. he foiled plot after plot and crushed rebellion. the queen-mother, gaston duke of orleans her second son and heir to the throne, the marquis of cinq-mars the king's own favourite--each tried a fall with the great minister, but was thrown and punished with pitiless severity. marie herself was driven to exile--almost poverty--at brussels, and died a miserable death at cologne. the despicable gaston, who twice betrayed his friends to save his own skin, was watched, and when the queen, anne of austria, gave birth to a son after twenty years of marriage, he was deprived of his dignities and possessions and interned at blois. the marquis of cinq-mars, and the last duke of montmorency, son and grandson of two high constables of france, felt the stroke of the headsman's axe. [footnote : the church of notre dame des victoires commemorates the victory.] in , when the mighty cardinal had attained the highest pinnacle of success and fame, a mortal disease declared itself. his physicians talked the usual platitudes of hope, but he would have none of them, and sent for the _curé_ of st. eustache. "do you pardon your enemies?" the priest asked. "i have none, save those of the state," replied the dying cardinal, and, pointing to the host, exclaimed, "there is my judge." louis heard of his death without emotion, and simply remarked--"well, a great politician has gone." in six months his royal master was gone too. paris, under marie de' medici and richelieu, saw many and important changes. in a new jacobin monastery was founded in the rue st. honoré for the reformed dominicans, destined later to be the theatre of robespierre's triumphs and to house the great jacobin revolutionary club.[ ] in the same year the queen-regent bought a château and garden from the duke of piney-luxembourg, and commissioned her architect, solomon debrosse, to build a new palace in the style of the pitti at florence. the work was begun in , and resulted in the picturesque but somewhat gallicised italian palace which, after descending to gaston of orleans and his daughter the grande mademoiselle, ends a chequered career as palace, revolutionary prison, house of peers, and socialist meeting-place by becoming the respectable and dull senate-house of the third republic. the beautiful renaissance gardens have suffered but few changes; adorned with debrosse's picturesque fountain, they form one of the most charming parks in paris. the same architect was employed to restore the old roman aqueduct of arcueil and finished his work in . in the equestrian statue in bronze of henry iv., designed by giovanni da bologna, and presented to marie by cosimo ii. of tuscany, reached paris after many vicissitudes and was set up on the pont neuf by pierre de fouqueville, who carved for it a beautiful pedestal of marble, whereon were inscribed the most signal events and victories of henry's reign. this priceless statue was melted down for cannon during the revolution, and for years its site was occupied by a _café_. in , during the restoration, another statue of henry iv., by lemot, cast from the melted figure of napoleon i. on the top of the vendôme column, was erected where it now stands. the founder, who was an imperialist, is said to have avenged the emperor by placing pamphlets attacking the restoration in the horse's belly. [footnote : the marché st. honoré now occupies its site.] [illustration: the medici fountain, luxembourg gardens.] in the seventeenth century the pont neuf was one of the busiest centres of parisian life. streams of coaches and multitudes of foot-passengers passed by. booths of all kinds displayed their wares; quacks, mountebanks, ballad-singers and puppet-shows, drew crowds of listeners. evelyn describes the footway as being three to four feet higher than the road; and at the foot of the bridge, says the traveller, is a water-house, "whereon, at a great height is the story of our saviour and the woman of samaria pouring water out of a bucket. above is a very rare dyall of several motions with a chime. the water is conveyed by huge wheels, pumps and other engines, from the river beneath." this was the famous château d'eau, or la samaritaine, erected in and rebuilt in to pump water from the seine and distribute it to the louvre and the tuileries palaces. the timepiece was an _industrieuse horloge_, which told the hours, days, and months. the present baths of la samaritaine mark its site and retain its name. [illustration: pont neuf.] in , henry the fourth's great scheme for enlarging and completing the louvre was committed by richelieu to his architect, jacques lemercier, and the first stone of the pavilion de l'horloge was laid on th june by louis. lemercier was great enough and modest enough to adopt his predecessor's design and having erected the pavilion, continued lescot's west wing northwards, turned the north-west angle and carried the north wing to about a fourth of its designed extent. the pavilion de l'horloge thus became the central feature of the west wing, which was exactly doubled in extent. the south-east and north-east towers of the eastern wing of the old gothic louvre, however, remained intact, and even as late as sylvestre's drawing shows us the south-east tower still standing and the east wing only partly demolished. lemercier also designed a grand new palace for the cardinal, north of the rue st. honoré, including in the plans two theatres: a small one to hold about six hundred spectators, and a larger one, which subsequently became the opera-house, capacious enough to seat three thousand. magnificent galleries, painted by philippe de champaigne and other artists, represented the chief events in the cardinal's reign, and were hung with the portraits of the great men of france, each with a latin distich in letters of gold. the courts were adorned with carvings of ships' prows and anchors, symbolising the cardinal's function as grand master of navigation; spacious gardens, with an avenue of chestnut trees, which cost , francs to train, added to its splendours. in this palace the great minister, busy with a yet vaster scheme for building an immense place ducale to the north, passed away leaving its stately magnificence to the king, whose widow, anne of austria, inhabited it during the regency with her sons, louis xiv. and philip, duke of orleans, the founder of the bourbon-orleans family. the famous architect, françois mansard, was employed by her to extend the palais royal as it was then called, which in was occupied by henrietta maria, charles i.'s widow, whose court ill repaid the hospitality of france by acts of vandalism. in , on the marriage of henrietta anne, her daughter, to the duke of orleans it was assigned to the orleans princes, a portion being reserved for louis xiv. where he lodged his mistress mme. de la vallière. the palace subsequently became infamous as the scene of almost incredible orgies during the regency. in philip ii.'s austere and pious son, prince louis, after having made an _auto-da-fé_ of forty pictures of the nude from the orleans collection, permitted the destruction of richelieu's superb avenue of trees. the buildings were further extended by philip egalité, who erected shops along the sides of the gardens, which as _cafés_ and gambling-saloons became a haunt of fashionable vice and dissipation in the late eighteenth century. the gardens of the royal palaces had always been open to well-dressed citizens, but notices forbade entrance to beggars, servants, and all ill-clad persons under pain of imprisonment, the carcan, and other graver penalties. egalité, however, to win popularity, opened his gardens without restriction, and they soon became the forum of the revolutionary agitation. here camille desmoulins declaimed his impassioned orations and called paris to arms. the gambling-hells, of which there were over three hundred, survived the revolution, and blücher and many an officer of the allied armies lost immense sums there. the palais royal became subsequently the residence of louis philippe, and now serves as the meeting-place of the conseil d'État. in the early seventeenth century nine lovers of literature associated themselves for the purpose of holding a friendly symposium, where they discoursed of books, and read and criticised each other's compositions; the meetings were followed by a modest repast and a peripatetic discussion. the masterful cardinal, who would rule the french language as well as the state, called the nine together, and in organised them into an académie française, whose function should be to perfect and watch over the purity of the french tongue. the parlement granted letters-patent, limited the number of academicians to forty, and required them to take cognisance of french authors and the french language alone. the original nine, however, were far from gratified, and always regretted the "golden age" of early days. richelieu established the jardin des plantes for the use of medical students, where demonstrations in botany were given; he rebuilt the college and church of the sorbonne where his monument,[ ] by girardon from lebrun's designs, may still be seen. he cheapened the postal service,[ ] established the royal press at the louvre which in twenty years published seventy greek, latin, italian and french classics. he issued the first political weekly gazette in france, was a liberal patron of men of letters and of artists, and saw the birth and fostered the growth of the great period of french literary and artistic supremacy. [footnote : in the tomb was desecrated, and the head removed from the body, but in , as an inscription tells, the head was recovered by the historian duruy, and after seventy years reunited to the trunk.] [footnote : a letter from paris to lyons was taxed at two sous.] another of henry the fourth's plans for the aggrandisement of paris was carried out by the indefatigable minister. as early as the bishops of paris had been confirmed by royal charter, in their possession of the two islands east of the cité, the isle notre dame and isle aux vaches. from time immemorial these had been used as timber-yards, and in the chapter of the cathedral was induced to treat with christophe marie, contractor for the bridges of france, and others, who agreed to fill in the channel[ ] which separated the islands; to cover them with broad streets of houses and quays, and to build certain bridges; but expressly contracted never to fill up the arm of the seine between the isle notre dame, and the cité. the first stone of the new bridge which was to connect the islands with the north bank was laid by louis xiii. in and named pont marie, after the contractor. in a church, dedicated to st. louis, was begun on the site of an earlier chapel by levau, but not completed until by donat. [footnote : the rue poulletier marks the line of the old channel between the islands.] the new quarter soon attracted the attention of rich financiers, civic officers, merchants and lawyers, some of whose hôtels were designed by levau, and decorated by lebrun and lesueur. madame pompadour's brother lived there; the duke of lauzan, husband of the grande mademoiselle, lived in his hôtel on the quai d'anjou (no. ); voltaire lived with madame du châtelet in the hôtel lambert (no. quai d'anjou). to the _précieuses_ of molière's time the isle st. louis (for so it was called) became the isle de delos, around whose quays the gallants and ladies of the period were wont to promenade at nightfall. _the isle_, as it is now familiarly known, is one of the most peaceful quarters of paris, and has a strangely provincial aspect to the traveller who paces its quiet streets. in paris was raised from its subjection to the metropolitan of sens, and became for the first time the seat of an archbishopric; the diocese was made to correspond to the old territories of the parisii. among the many evils attendant on a monarchy, which samuel recited to the children of israel, that of the possibility of a regency might well have found place. louis xiv. was less than five years of age when his father died, and once again the great nobles turned the difficulties of the situation to their own profit. by a curious anomaly, while women were excluded from succession to the throne of france, the queen-mother was invariably preferred to all other claimants for the regency, and anne of austria became regent in accordance with old custom. she retained in office cardinal mazarin, richelieu's faithful disciple, chosen by him to continue the traditions of his policy. the new cardinal-minister, scion of an old sicilian family, was a typical italian; he had none of his predecessor's virile energy and directness of purpose, but ruled by his subtle wit and cool, calculating patience. "time and i," was his device. he was an excellent judge of men, and profoundly distrusted "the unlucky," always satisfying himself that a man was "lucky," before he employed him. conscious of his foreign origin, mazarin hesitated to take strong measures, and advised a policy of conciliation with the disaffected nobles. anne filled their pockets, and for a time the whole language of the court is said to have consisted of the five little words "_la reine est si bonne_." but the ambitious courtiers soon aimed at higher game, and a plot was discovered to assassinate the foreign cardinal; the duke of beaufort, chief conspirator, a son of the duke of vendôme, and grandson of henry iv., by gabrielle d'estrées, was imprisoned in the keep at vincennes, and his associates interned at their châteaux. the finances which richelieu had left in so flourishing a condition were soon exhausted by the lavish benevolence of the court, and were unhappily in the hands of emery (a clever but cynical official, who had formerly been a fraudulent bankrupt), whose rigorous exactions and indifference to public feeling aroused the indignation of the whole nation. in , , defaulters lay rotting in the jails, and an attempt to enforce an odious tax on all merchandise entering paris led to an explosion of popular wrath. the parlement, by the re-assertion of its claims to refuse the registration of an obnoxious decree of the crown, made itself the champion of public justice; the four sovereign courts met in the hall of st. louis, and refused to register the tax. anne was furious and made the boy-king hold a "bed[ ] of justice" to enforce the registration of the decree. but the parlement stood firm, declared itself the guardian of the public and private weal, claiming even to reform abuses and to discuss and vote on schemes of taxation. so critical was the situation that the court was forced to bend, and to postpone the humiliation of the parlement to a more convenient season. the glorious issue of the campaigns of condé against the houses of spain and austria seemed to offer the desired opportunity. on th august , while a te deum was being sung at notre dame for the victory of lens, and a grand trophy of seventy-three captured flags was displayed to the people, three of the most stubborn members of the parlement were arrested. one escaped, but while the venerable councillor broussel was being hustled into a carriage, a cry was raised, which stirred the whole of paris to insurrection. in the excitement a street porter was shot by a captain of the guards, the marquis of meilleraye, and the next morning the court, aroused by cries of "liberty and broussel," found the streets of paris barricaded and the citizens in arms. de retz, the suffragan archbishop of paris, came in his robes to entreat anne to appease the people, but was snubbed for his pains. "it is a revolt," she cried, "to imagine a revolt possible; these are silly tales of those who desire it: the king will enforce order." de retz, angry and insulted, left to join the insurrection and to become its leader. the venerable president of the parlement, molé, and the whole body of members next repaired to the palais royal with no better success: anne's only answer was a gibe. as they returned crestfallen from the palais royal they were driven back by the infuriated people, who threatened them with death, and clamoured for broussel's release or mazarin as a hostage. nearly all the councillors fled, but the president, with exalted courage, faced them and, answering gravely, as if in his judgment-seat, said, "if you kill me, all my needs will be six feet of earth": he strode on with calm self-possession, amid a shower of missiles and threats, to the hall of st. louis. the echo of cromwell's triumph in england, however, seemed to have reached the palais royal, and the queen-regent was at length induced to treat. the demands of the people were granted and broussel was liberated, amid scenes of tumultuous joy. [footnote : so named from the wooden seat, or _couche de bois_, covered with rich stuff embroidered with _fleur-de-lys_, on which the king sat when he attended a meeting of the parlement.] in february of the next year the regency made an effort to reassert its authority. the queen and the royal princes left paris for the palace of st. germain and gathered an army under condé: the parlement taxed themselves heavily, tried their hands at organising a citizen militia, and allied themselves with the popular duke of beaufort, now at liberty, and leader of a troop of brilliant but giddy young nobles. the bastille was captured by the parlement, and the university promised its support and a subsidy. thus arose the civil war of the fronde, one of the most extraordinary contests in history, whose name is derived from the puerile street fights with slings, of the printers' devils and schoolboys of paris. the incidents of the war read like scenes in a comic opera. a hundred thousand armed citizens were besieged by eight thousand soldiers. the evolution of a burlesque form of cavalry, called the corps of the _portes cochères_, formed by a conscription of one horseman for every house with a carriage gate, became the derision of the royal army. they issued forth, beplumed and beribboned, and fled back to the city, amid the execrations of the people, at the sight of a handful of troops. every defeat--and the parisians were always defeated--formed a subject for songs and mockery. councils of war were held in taverns, and de retz was seen at a sitting of the parlement in the hall of st. louis with a poignard sticking out of his pocket: "there is the archbishop's prayer-book," said the people. the more public-spirited members of the parlement soon, however, tired of the folly; mazarin won over de retz by the offer of a cardinal's hat, and a compromise was effected with the court, which returned to paris in april . the people were still bitter against mazarin, and invaded the palais de justice, demanding the cardinal's signature to the treaty, that it might be burned by the common hangman. successful generals are bad masters, and the jackboot was now supreme at court. soon condé's insolent bearing and the vanity of his _entourage_ of young nobles, dubbed _petits maîtres_, became intolerable: he was arrested at the louvre, and sent to the keep at vincennes. but mazarin, thinking himself secure, delayed the promised reward to de retz, who joined the disaffected friends of condé: the court, again foiled, was forced to release condé, surrender the two princes, and exile the hated mazarin, who, none the less, ruled the storm by his subtle policy from cologne. condé, disgusted alike with queen and parlement, now fled to the south, and raised the standard of rebellion. the second phase of the wars of the fronde became a more serious matter. turenne, won over by the court, was given command of the royal forces, and moved against condé. the two armies, after indecisive battles, raced to paris and fought for its possession outside the porte st. antoine. the frondeurs occupied what is now the faubourg st. antoine: the royalists the heights of charonne. it was a stubborn and bloody contest. the armies were led by the two greatest captains of the age, and fought under the eyes of their king, who with the queen-mother watched the struggle from the eminence now crowned by the cemetery of père la chaise. "i have seen not one condé to-day, but a dozen," cried turenne, as victory inclined to the royalists. the last word was, however, with the duke of orleans: while he sat hesitating in the luxembourg, the grande mademoiselle ordered the guns of the bastille to be turned against turenne, and the citizens opened the gates to condé. again his incorrigible insolence and brutality made paris too hot for him, and with the disaffected princes he returned to flanders to seek help from his country's enemies--a fatal mistake, which mazarin was not slow to turn to advantage. he prudently retired while public feeling was won over to the young king, who was soon entreated by the parlement and citizens to return to paris. when the time was ripe, mazarin had the duke of orleans interned at blois, condé was condemned to death _in contumacio_: de retz was sent to vincennes. ten councillors of the parlement were imprisoned or degraded, and in three months mazarin returned to paris with the pomp and equipage of a sovereign. it was the end of the fronde, and of the attempt of the parlement of paris, a venal body[ ] devoid of representative basis, to imitate the functions of the english house of commons. the crown emerged from the contest more absolute than before, and louis never forgot the days when he was a fugitive with his mother, and driven to lie on a hard mattress at the palace of st. germain. in the parlement of paris met to prepare remonstrances against a royal edict: the young king heard of it while hunting at vincennes, made his way to the hall of st. louis booted[ ] and spurred, rated the councillors and dissolved the sitting. [footnote : one of the schemes of francis i. to raise money had been to offer the benches to the highest bidders, and under the law of the office of councillor became a hereditary property on payment to the court of one-sixtieth of its value. moreover, the parlement was but a local body, one among several others in the provinces.] [footnote : the added indignity of the whip is an invention of voltaire.] the years following on the internal peace were a period of triumphant foreign war and diplomacy. mazarin achieved his purpose of marrying the infanta of spain to his royal master; he added to and confirmed richelieu's territorial gains and guided france at last to triumph over the imperial house of austria. on th march , after a pathetic scene in his sumptuous palace, where the stricken old cardinal dragged his tottering steps along its vast galleries, casting a despairing look on the marvellous treasures of art he had collected and sorrowing like a child at the idea of separating from them for ever, the great italian, "whose heart was french if his tongue were not," confronted death at vincennes with firmness and courage. mazarin was, however, a costly servant, who bled his adopted country to satisfy his love for the arts and splendours of life, to furnish dowries to his nieces, and to exalt his family. his vast palace (now the bibliothèque nationale), with its library of , volumes, freely open to scholars, was furnished with princely splendour. he left , , livres to found a college for the gratuitous education of sixty sons of gentlemen from the four provinces--spanish, italian, german and flemish--recently added to the crown, in order that french culture and grace might be diffused among them; they were to be taught the use of arms, horsemanship, dancing, christian piety, and _belles-lettres_. a vast domed edifice was raised on the site of the tour de nesle, and became famous as the college of the four nations. it was subsequently expropriated and given by the convention to the five learned academies of france, and is now known as the institut de france. [illustration: the institut de france.] chapter xv _the grand monarque--versailles and paris_ the century of louis xiv., whose triumphs have been so extravagantly celebrated by voltaire, saw the culmination and declension of military glory and literary splendour at paris, and of regal magnificence at versailles. gone were the times of cardinal dictators. when the ministers came after mazarin's death to ask the king whom they should now address themselves to, the answer came like a thunderbolt: "to me!" what brilliant constellations of great men cast their influences over the beginning of louis xiv.'s reign! "sire," said mazarin, when dying, "i owe you all, but i can partially acquit myself by leaving you colbert:"--austere colbert, whose atlantean shoulders bore the burden of five modern ministries; whose vehement industry, admirable science and sterling honesty created order out of financial chaos and found the sinews of war for an army of , men before the peace of ryswick and , for the war of the spanish succession; who initiated, nurtured and perfected french industries; who created a navy that crushed the combined english and dutch fleets off beachy head, swept the channel for weeks, burnt english ports, carried terror into english homes, and for a time paralysed english commerce. louvois, his colleague, organised an army that made his master the arbiter of europe; condé and turenne were its victorious captains. vauban, greatest of military engineers, captured towns in war and made them impregnable in peace, and shared with louvois the invention of the combined musket and bayonet, the deadliest weapon of war as yet contrived. de lionne, by masterly diplomacy, prepared and cemented the conquests of victorious generals. supreme in arts of peace were corneille, molière, racine, la fontaine, lebrun, claude lorrain, puget, mansard, and perrault. we shall learn in the sequel what the grand monarque did with this unparalleled inheritance. none of the great ones of the earth is so intimately known to us as the magnificent histrion, whose tinselled grandeur and pompous egoism have been laid bare by the duke of st. simon, prince of memoirists. never has the frippery of a court been shrivelled by such fierce and consuming light, glaring like a fiery sun on its meretricious splendours. and what a court it is! what a gilded crowd of princes and paramours, harlots and bastards, struts, fumes and intrigues through these memoirs! by a few strokes of his pen, in words that bite like acid, he etches for us the fools and knaves, the wife-beaters and adulterers, the cardsharpers and gamesters, the grovelling sycophants with their petty struggles for precedence or favour, their slang, their gluttony and drunkenness, their moral and physical corruption. external grandeur and regal presence,[ ] a profound belief in his divinely-appointed despotism, and in earlier years a rare capacity for work, the lord of france certainly possessed. "he had a grand mien," says st. simon, "and looked a veritable king of the bees." much has been made of louis' incomparable grace and respectful courtesy to women; but the courtesy of a king who doffs his hat to every serving wench yet contrives a staircase to facilitate the debauching of his queen's maids-of-honour, and exacts of his mistresses and the ladies of his court submission to his will and pleasure, even under the most trying of physical disabilities, is at least wanting in consistency. louis' mental equipment was less than mediocre; he was ignorant of the commonest facts of history, and fell into the grossest blunders in public. like all small-minded men, he was jealous of superior merit and preferred mediocrity rather than genius in his ministers. small wonder that his reign ended in shame and disaster. [footnote : louis used, however, to stilt his low stature by means of thick pads in his boots.] on the th of june , the young louis, notwithstanding much public misery consequent on two years of bad harvests, organised a magnificent carrousel (tilting) in the garden that fronted the tuileries. five companies of nobles, each led by the king or one of the princes, were apparelled in gorgeous costumes as romans, persians, turks, armenians and indians. louis, who arrayed as emperor, led the romans, was followed by a superb train of many squires, twenty-four pages, fifty horses each led by two grooms, and fifty footmen dressed as lictors, carrying gilded fasces. the royal princes headed similar processions. so great was the display of jewels that all the precious stones in the world seemed brought together; so richly were the costumes of the knights and the trappings of the horses embroidered with gold and silver that the cloth beneath could barely be seen. an immense amphitheatre afforded seats for a multitude of spectators, and in a smaller pavilion, richly gilded, sat the two queens of france, the queen of england, and the royal princesses. the first day was spent in tilting at medusa heads and heads of moors: the second at rings. the king is said to have greatly distinguished himself by his skill. maria theresa, his young queen, distributed the prizes, and the garden was afterwards named the place du carrousel. louis, however, hated paris, for his forced exile and the humiliations of the fronde rankled in his memory. nor were the associations of st. germain any more pleasant. a lover of the chase and all too prone to fall into the snares of "fair, fallacious looks and venerial trains," the retirement of his father's hunting lodge at versailles, away from the prying eyes and mocking tongues of the parisians, early attracted him. there he was wont to meet his mistress, madame de la vallière, and there he determined to erect a vast pleasure-palace and gardens. the small château, built by lemercier in the early half of the seventeenth century, was handed over to levau in , who, carefully respecting his predecessor's work in the cour de marbre, constructed two immense wings, which were added to by j.h. mansard, as the requirements of the court grew. the palace stood in the midst of a barren, sandy plain, but louis' pride demanded that nature herself should bend to his will, and an army of artists, engineers and gardeners was concentrated there, who at the sacrifice of incredible wealth and energy, had so far advanced the work that the king was able to come into residence in . in spite of seas of reservoirs fed by costly hydraulic machinery at marly, which lifted the waters of the seine to an aqueduct that led to versailles, the supply was deemed inadequate, and orders were given to divert the river eure between chartres and maintenon to the gardens of the palace. for years an army of thirty thousand men was employed in this one task, at a cost of money and human life greater than that of many a campaign. so heavy was the mortality in the camp that it was forbidden to speak of the sick, and above all of the dead, who were carried away in cartloads by night for burial. all that remains of this cruel folly are a few ruins at maintenon. after the failure of this scheme, subterranean water-courses were contrived. the _plaisir du roi_ must be sated at any cost, and at length a magnificent garden was created, filled with a population of statues and adorned with gigantic fountains. soon however, the king tired of the bustle and noise of versailles, and a miserable and swampy site at marly, the haunt of toads and serpents and creeping things, was transformed into a splendid hermitage. hills were levelled, great trees brought from compiègne, most of which soon died and were as quickly replaced; fish-ponds, adorned by exquisite paintings, were made and unmade; woods were metamorphosed into lakes, where the king and a select company of courtiers disported themselves in gondolas and where cascades refreshed their ears in summer heat; precious paintings, statues and costly furniture charmed the eye inside the hermitage--and all to receive the king and his intimates from wednesday to saturday on a few occasions in the year. st. simon with passionate exaggeration declares that marly cost more than versailles.[ ] nothing remains to-day of all this splendour: it was neglected by louis' successors and sold in lots during the revolution. [footnote : taine, basing his calculation on a ms. bound with the monogram of mansard, estimated the cost of versailles in modern equivalent at about , , francs (£ , , sterling.)] after a life of wanton licentiousness, louis, at the age of forty, was captivated by the mature charms of a widow of forty-three, a colonial adventuress of noble descent, who after the death of her husband, the crippled comic poet scarron, became governess to the king's children by madame de montespan. soon after the death of maria theresa, the widow scarron, known to history as madame de maintenon, was secretly married to her royal lover, who for the remainder of his life remained her docile slave. a narrow bigot in matters of religion and completely under the influence of fanatics, madame de maintenon persuaded louis that a crusade against heresy would be a fitting atonement for his past sins. by the revocation of the edict of nantes, nd october , the charter of protestant liberties was destroyed, and those who had given five out of ten marshals to france, including the great turenne, were denied the right of civil existence. whole cities were depopulated; tens of thousands (for the huguenots had long ceased to exist as a political force) of law-abiding citizens expatriated themselves and carried their industries to enrich foreign lands.[ ] many pastors were martyred, and drummers stationed at the foot of the scaffold drowned their exhortations. let us not say persecution is ineffective; the huguenots who at one time threatened to turn the scale in favour of the protestant powers and to wreck the catholic cause in europe, practically disappear from history. on the whole, the measure was approved by paris; racine, la fontaine, the great jansenist arnault, as well as bossuet and massillon, applauded. louis was hailed a second constantine, and believed he had revived the times of the apostles. but the consequences were far-reaching and disastrous. in less than two months the catholic james ii. of england was a discrowned fugitive, and the calvinist william of orange, the inveterate enemy of france, sat in his place; england's pensioned neutrality was turned to bitter hostility, and every protestant power in europe stirred to fierce resentment. seven years of war ensued, which exhausted the immense resources of france; seven years,[ ] rich in glory perhaps, but lean years indeed to the dumb millions who paid the cost in blood and money. [footnote : the writer, whose youth was passed among the descendants of the huguenot silk-weavers of spitalfields, has indelible memories of their sterling character and admirable industry.] [footnote : marshal luxembourg was dubbed the _tapissier de notre dame_ (the upholsterer of notre dame), from the number of captured flags he sent to the cathedral.] after three short years of peace and recuperation, the acceptance of the crown of spain by louis' grandson, philip of anjou, in spite of maria theresa's solemn renunciation for herself and her posterity of all claim to the spanish succession, roused all the old jealousy of france and brought her secular enemy, the house of austria, to a new coalition against her. woe to the nation whose king is thrall to women. the manner in which this momentous step was taken is characteristic of louis. two councils were held in madame de maintenon's room at versailles; her advice was asked by the king, and apparently turned the scale in favour of acceptance. "for a hundred years," says taine, "from to , every time a king of france made war it was by pique or vanity, by family or private interest, or by condescension to a woman." still more amazing is the fact that, for years, the court of madrid was ruled by a frenchwoman, madame des ursins, the _camarera mayor_ of philip's queen, who made and unmade ministers, controlled all public appointments, and even persuaded the french ambassador to submit all despatches to her before sending them to france. madame de maintenon was equally omnipotent at versailles; she decided what letters should or should not be shown to the king, kept back disagreeable news, and held everybody in the hollow of her hand, from humblest subject to most exalted minister. this was the atmosphere from which men were sent to meet the new and more potent combination of states that opposed the spanish succession. chamillart, a pitiful creature of madame de maintenon's, sat in colbert's place; gone were turenne and condé and luxembourg; the armies of the descendant of st. louis were led by the duke of vendôme, a foul lecher, whose inhuman vices went far to justify the gibe of mephistopheles that men use their reason "_um thierischer als jedes thier zu sein_." the victories of the duke of marlborough and of prince eugene spread consternation at versailles. when, in , the news of blenheim oozed out, the king's grief was piteous to see. scarce a noble family but had one of its members killed, wounded, or a prisoner. two years later came the defeat of ramillies, to be followed in three months by the disaster at turin. the balls and masquerades and play at marly went merrily on; but at news of the defeat of oudenarde and the fall of lille, even the reckless courtiers were subdued, and for a month gambling and even conversation ceased. at the sound of an approaching horseman they ran hither and thither, with fear painted on their cheeks. wildest schemes for raising money were tried; taxes were levied on baptisms and marriages; sums raised for the relief of the poor and the maintenance of highways were expropriated, and the wretched peasants were forced to repair the roads without payment, some dying of starvation at their work. king and courtiers, with ill-grace, sent their plate to the mint and a plan for the recapture of lille was mooted, in which louis was to take part, but, for lack of money, the king's ladies were not to accompany him to the seat of war as they had hitherto done.[ ] the expedition was to remain a secret; but the infatuated louis could withhold nothing from madame de maintenon, who never rested until she had foiled the whole scheme and disgraced chamillart, for having concealed the preparations from her. [footnote : in a previous campaign the king had taken his queen and two mistresses with him in one coach. the peasants used to amuse themselves by coming to see the "three queens."] versailles had now grown so accustomed to defeats that malplaquet was hailed as half a victory; but, in , so desperate was the condition of the treasury, that a financial and social _débâcle_ was imminent. the dauphin, on leaving the opera at paris, had been assailed by crowds of women shouting, "bread! bread!" and only escaped by throwing them money and promises. to appease the people, the poor were set to level the boulevard near st. denis, and were paid in doles of bread--bad bread. even this failed them one morning, and a woman who made some disturbance was dragged to the pillory by the archers of the watch. an angry mob released her, and proceeded to raid the bakers' shops. the ugly situation was saved only by the firmness and sagacity of the popular marshal boufflers. another turn of the financial screw was now meditated, and, as the taxes had already "drawn all the blood from his subjects, and squeezed out their very marrow," the conscience of the lord of france was troubled. his jesuit confessor, le tellier, promised to consult the sorbonne, whose learned doctors decided that, since all the wealth of his subjects rightly belonged to the king, he only took what was his own. towards the end of the seventeenth century, the quarrel between jansenists and jesuits concerning subtle doctrinal differences had grown acute through the publication of pascal's immortal _lettres provinciales_, and by quesnel's _réflexions morales_ which the jesuits had succeeded in subjecting to papal condemnation. in , le tellier induced his royal penitent to decree the destruction of one of the two jansenist establishments, and port royal des champs, between versailles and chevreuse, rendered famous by the piety and learning of arnault, pascal and nicolle, was doomed. on the night of th october , the convent was surrounded by gardes françaises and suisses, and on the following morning the chief of the police, with a posse of archers of the watch entered, produced a _lettre de cachet_, and gave the nuns a quarter of an hour to prepare for deportation. the whole of the sisters were then brutally expelled, "_comme on enlève les créatures prostituées d'un lieu infâme_," says st. simon, and scattered among other religious houses in all directions. the friends of the buried were bidden to exhume their dead, and all unclaimed bodies were flung into a neighbouring cemetery, where dogs fought for them as for carrion. the church was profaned, all the conventual buildings were razed and sold in lots, not one stone being left on another; the very ground was ploughed up and sown, "not, it is true with salt," adds st. simon, and that was the only favour shown. two years after the scene at port royal, amid the heartless gaiety of the court, the angel of death was busy in louis' household. on th april , the old king's only lawful son, the grand dauphin, expired; on th february , the second dauphiness, the sweet and gentle adelaide of savoy, louis' darling, died of a malignant fever; six days later the duke of burgundy, her husband, was struck down; on th march, the duke of brittany, their eldest child, followed them. three dauphins had gone to the vaults of st. denis in less than a year; mother, father, son, had died in twenty-four days--a sweep of death's scythe, enough to touch even the hearts of courtiers. in a few days the king gave orders for the usual play to begin at marly, and the dice rattled while the bodies of the dauphin and dauphiness lay yet unburied. in may , the duke of berri, son of the grand dauphin, died, and the sole direct heir to the throne was now the king's great-grandson, the duke of anjou, a sickly child of five years. on september , the grand monarque made a calm and an edifying end to his long reign of seventy-two years, declaring that he owed no man restitution, and trusted in god's mercy for what he owed to the realm. he called the young child, who was soon to be louis xv., to his bedside, and apparently without any sense of irony, exhorted him to remember his god, to cherish peace, to avoid extravagance, and study the welfare of his people. after receiving the last sacraments he repeated the prayers for the dying in a firm voice and, calling on god's aid, passed peacefully away. none but his official attendants, his priest and physicians, saw the end: two days before, madame de maintenon had retired to st. cyr. the demolition of what remained of mediæval paris proceeded apace during louis xiv.'s lifetime, and, at his death, the architectural features of its streets were substantially those of the older paris of to-day. colbert had taken up the costly legacy of the unfinished louvre before the petrified banalities of versailles and marly had engulfed their millions, and, in , the hôtel de bourbon was given over to the housebreakers to make room for the new east wing of the palace. so vigorously did they set to work that when molière, whose company performed there three days a week in alternation with the italian opera, came for the usual rehearsal, he found the theatre half demolished. he applied to the king, who granted him the temporary use of richelieu's theatre in the palais royal, and his first performance there was given on th january . levau was employed to carry on lemercier's work on the louvre, and had succeeded in completing the north wing and the river front in harmony with lescot's design, when in colbert stayed further progress and ordered him to prepare a model in wood of his proposed east wing. levau was stupefied, for he had elaborated with infinite study a design for this portion of the palace, which he regarded as of supreme importance, and which he hoped would crown his work. he had already laid the foundations and erected the scaffolding when the order came. levau made his model, and a number of architects were invited to criticise it: they did, and unanimously condemned it. competitive designs were then exhibited with the model and submitted to colbert, who took advantage of poussin's residence at rome to send them to the great italian architects for their judgment. the italians delivered a sweeping and general condemnation, and poussin advised that bernini should be employed to design a really noble edifice. louis was delighted by the suggestion, and the loan of the architect of the great colonnade of st. peter's was entreated of the pope by the king's own hand in a letter dated th april . bernini, in spite of his sixty-eight years, came to paris, accompanied by his son, where he was treated like a prince, and drew up a scheme of classic grandeur. levau's work on the east front was destroyed, and in october , bernini's foundations were begun. the majestic new design, however, ignored the exigencies of existing work and of internal convenience, and gave opportunities for criticisms and intrigue, which colbert and the french architects,[ ] forgetting for the moment all domestic rivalry, were not slow to make the most of. the offended italian, three days after the ceremony of laying the foundation stone by the king on the th october , left to winter in rome, promising to return with his wife in the following february. he carried with him a munificent gift of gold louis and a pension of , livres for himself and of , for his son. the pension was paid regularly up to , but the great bernini was never seen in paris again. [footnote : bernini, according to charles perrault, was short in stature, good-humoured, and seasoned his conversation with parables, good stories and _bons mots_; never tiring of talking of his own country, of michel angelo and of himself. for a full history of these intrigues, see ch. normand's _paris_.] among the designs originally submitted to colbert, and approved by him and lebrun, was one which had not been sent to rome. it was the work of an amateur, claude perrault, a physician, whose brother, charles perrault, was chief clerk in the office of works. this was brought forth early in , and a commission, consisting of levau, lebrun, claude perrault and others, appointed to report on its practicability. levau promptly produced his own discarded designs, and both were submitted to the king for a final decision on th may. louis was fascinated by the stately classicism of perrault's design, and this was adopted. "architecture must be in a bad state," said his rivals, "since it is put in the hands of a physician." colbert seems, however, to have distrusted claude's technical powers and on his brother charles' advice a council of specialists, consisting of levau, lebrun, and claude was appointed under the presidency of colbert. charles was made secretary and many were the quarrels between the rival architects over practical details. perrault's new wing was found to be seventy-two feet too long, but the sovereign fiat had gone forth, the new east façade was raised and the whole of levau's river front was masked by a new façade, rendered necessary by the excessive length of perrault's design. the whole south wing[ ] is in consequence much wider than any of the others which enclose the great quadrangle. poor levau's end was hastened by vexation and grief. even to this day the north-east wing of perrault's façade projects unsymmetrically beyond the line of the north front. the work has been much criticised and much praised. it evoked fergusson's ecstatic admiration, was extolled by reynolds and eulogised by another critic as one of the finest pieces of architecture in any age. strangely enough, neither of these ever saw, nor has anyone yet seen, more than a partial and stunted realisation of perrault's design, for, as the accompanying reproduction of a drawing by blondel demonstrates, the famous east front of the louvre is like a giant buried up to the knees, and the present first-floor windows were an afterthought, their places having been designed as niches to hold statues. the exactitude of blondel's elevations was finally proved in by the admirable insight of the present architect of the louvre, monsieur g. redon, who was led to undertake the excavations which brought to light a section of perrault's decorated basement, by noticing that the windows of the ground floor evidently implied a lower order beneath. this basement, seven and a half metres in depth, now buried, was in perrault's scheme designed to be exposed by a fosse of some fifteen to twenty metres in width, and the whole elevation and symmetry of the wing would have immensely gained by the carrying out of his plans. [footnote : levau's south façade was not completely hidden by perrault's screen, for the roofs of the end and central pavilions emerged from behind it until they were destroyed by gabriel in .] [illustration: portion of the east faÇade of the louvre from blondel's drawing, showing perrault's base.] the construction was, however, interrupted in , owing to the king's abandonment of paris. colbert strenuously protested against the neglect of the louvre, and warned his master not to squander his millions away from paris and suffer posterity to measure his grandeur by the ell of versailles. it availed nothing. in , , , livres were allotted to the louvre; in the sum had fallen to , livres; in to , ; in the subsidies practically ceased, and the great palace was utterly neglected until when perrault's work was feebly continued by gabriel and soufflot. two domed churches in the south of paris--the val de grâce and st. louis of the invalides--were also erected during louis xiv.'s lifetime. among the many vows made by anne of austria during her twenty-two years' unfruitful marriage was one made in the sanctuary of the nunnery of the val de grâce, to build there a magnificent church to god's glory if she were vouchsafed a dauphin. at length, on th april , the proud queen was able to lead the future king, a boy of seven years, to lay the first stone. the church was designed by f. mansard on the model of st. peter's at rome, and was finished by lemercier and others. a refuge had been founded as early as henry iv.'s reign in an old abbey in the faubourg st. marcel, for old and disabled soldiers. louis xiv., the greatest creator of _invalides_ france had seen, determined in to extend the foundation, and erect a vast hospital, capable of accommodating his aged, crippled or infirm soldiers. bruant and j.h. mansard[ ] among other architects were employed to raise the vast pile of buildings which, when completed, are said to have been capable of housing , men. a church dedicated to st. louis was comprehended in the scheme, and, in , a second Église royale was erected, whose gilded dome is so conspicuous an object in south paris; the Église royale, which mansard designed, was subsequently added to the church of st. louis, and became its choir. louis xiv., anticipating napoleon's maxim that war must support war, raised the funds needed for the foundation by ingeniously requiring all ordinary and extraordinary treasurers of war to retain two deniers[ ] on every livre that passed through their hands. [footnote : jules hardouin, the younger mansard, was a nephew and pupil of françois mansard, and assumed his uncle's name. the latter was the inventor of the mansard roof.] [footnote : the sixth part of a sou.] the old city gates of the tournelle, poissonnière (or st. anne), st. martin, st. denis, the temple, st. jacques, st. victor, were demolished, and triumphal arches, which still remain, erected to mark the sites of the portes st. denis and st. martin. another arch, of st. antoine, was designed to surpass all existing or ancient monuments of the kind, and many volumes were written concerning the language in which the inscription should be composed, but the devouring maw of versailles had to be filled, and the arch was never completed. the king for whose glory the monument was to be raised, cared so little for it, that he suffered it to be pulled down. many new streets[ ] were made, and others widened, among them the ill-omened rue de la ferronnerie. the northern ramparts were levelled and planted with trees from the porte st. antoine in the east to the porte st. honoré in the west, and in it was decided to continue the planting in the south round the faubourg st. germain. the place louis le grand (now vendôme), and the place des victoires were created; the river embankments were renewed and extended, and a fine stone pont royal by j.h. mansard, the most beautiful of the existing bridges of paris, was built to replace the old wooden structure that led from the st. germain quarter to the tuileries. this in its turn had replaced a ferry (_bac_) established by the guild of ferrymen, to transport the stone needed for the construction of the tuileries, and the street which leads to the bridge still bears the name of the rue du bac. the isle louviers was acquired by the ville, and the evil-smelling tanneries and dye-houses that disfigured the banks of the seine between the grève and the châtelet were cleared away; many new fountains embellished the city, and ten new pumps increased the supply of water. the poorer quarters were, however, little changed from their old insanitary condition. a few years later rousseau, fresh from turin, was profoundly disappointed by the streets of paris as he entered the city by the faubourg st. marceau. "i had imagined," he writes, "a city as fair as it was great, and of a most imposing aspect, whose superb streets were lined with palaces of marble and of gold. i beheld filthy, evil-smelling, mean streets, ugly houses black with dirt, a general air of uncleanness and of poverty, beggars and carters, old clothes shop and tisane sellers." [footnote : twelve alone were added to the st. honoré quarter by levelling the hill of st. roch and clearing away accumulated rubbish.] [illustration: river and pont royal.] it is now time to ask what had been done with the magnificent inheritance which the fourteenth louis had entered upon at the opening of his reign: he left to his successor, a france crushed by an appalling debt of , , , livres; a noblesse and an army in bondage to money-lenders; public officials and fund-holders unpaid, trade paralysed, and the peasants in some provinces so poor that even straw was lacking for them to lie upon, many crossing the frontiers in search of a less miserable lot. scarcity of bread made disease rampant at paris, and as many as , sick poor were counted at one time in the hôtel dieu alone. louis left a court that "sweated hypocrisy through every pore," and an example of licentious and unclean living and cynical disregard of every moral obligation, which ate like a cancer into the vitals of the aristocracy. chapter xvi _paris under the regency and louis xv.--the brooding storm_ under the regency of the profligate philip of orleans, a profounder depth was sounded. the vices of louis' court were at least veiled by a certain regal dignity, and the grand monarque was always keenly sensitive, and at times nobly responsive, to any attack upon the honour of france; but under the regent, libertinage and indifference to national honour were flagrant and shameless. the abbé dubois, a minister worthy of his prince, was, says st. simon, "a mean-looking, thin little man, with the face of a ferret, in whom every vice fought for mastery." this creature profaned the seat of richelieu and colbert, and rose to fill a cardinal's chair. the revenues of seven abbeys fed his pride and luxury, and his annual income was estimated at , , livres, including his bribe from the english government. visitors to venice whose curiosity may have led them into the church of s. moisè, will remember to have seen there a monument to a famous scotchman--john law. this is the last home of an outlaw, a gambler, and an adventurer, who, by his amazing skill and effrontery, plunged the regency into a vortex of speculation, and for a time controlled the finances of france. he persuaded the regent that by a liberal issue of paper money he might wipe out the accumulated national deficit of , , livres, revive trade and industry, and inaugurate a financial millennium. in law's bank at paris after a short and brilliant career as a private venture, was converted into the banque royale, and by the artful flotation of a gigantic trading speculation called the mississippi company, the bank-notes and company shares were so manipulated that the latter were inflated to twenty times their nominal value. the whole city seethed in a ferment of speculation. the offices of the bank in the rue quincampoix were daily besieged by a motley crowd of princes, nobles, fine ladies, courtesans, generals, prelates, priests, bourgeois and servants. a hunchback made a fortune by lending his back as a desk; lacqueys became masters in a day, and a _parvenu_ foot-man, by force of habit, jumped up behind his own carriage in a fit of abstraction. the inevitable catastrophe came at the end of . the prince of conti was observed taking away three cartloads of silver in exchange for his paper; a panic ensued, every holder sought to realise, and the colossal fabric came down with a crash, involving thousands of families in ruin and despair. law, after bravely trying to save the situation and narrowly escaping being torn in pieces, fled to poverty and death at venice, and the financial state of france was worse than before. law was not, however, absolutely a quack; there was a seed of good in his famous system of mobilising credit, and the temporary stimulus it gave to trade permanently influenced mercantile practice in europe. in , louis xv. reached his legal majority. the regent became chief minister, and soon paid the penalty of his career of debauchery, leaving as his successor the duke of bourbon, degenerate scion of the great condé and one of the chief speculators in the mississippi bubble. a perilous lesson had two years before been instilled into the mind of the young louis. after his recovery from an illness, an immense concourse of people had assembled at a _fête_ given in the gardens of the tuileries palace; enormous crowds filled every inch of the place du carrousel and the gardens; the windows and even the roofs of the houses were alive with people crying "_vive le roi!_" marshal villeroi led the little lad of eleven to a window, showed him the sea of exultant faces turned towards him, and exclaimed, "sire, all this people is yours; all belongs to you. show yourself to them, and satisfy them; you are the master of all." the infanta of spain, at four years of age, had been betrothed to the young king, and in was sent to paris to be educated for her exalted future. she was lodged in the petite galerie of the louvre, over the garden still known as the garden of the infanta,[ ] and after three years of exile the homesick little maid was returned to madrid; for louis' weak health made it imperative that a speedy marriage should be contracted if the succession to the throne were to be assured. the choice finally fell on the daughter of stanislaus leczynski, a deposed king of poland and a pensioner of france. voltaire relates that the poor discrowned queen was sitting with her daughter marie in their little room at wissembourg when the father, bursting in, fell on his knees, crying, "let us thank god, my child!" "are you then recalled to poland?" asked marie. "nay, daughter, far better," answered stanislaus, "you are the queen of france." a magnificent wedding at fontainebleau exalted gentle, pious marie from poverty to the richest queendom in europe; to a life of cruel neglect and almost intolerable insult. [footnote : it extended as far as the entrance to the quadrangle opposite the pont des arts. blondel's drawings show a double line of trees, north and south, enclosing a renaissance garden of elaborate design: a charming _bosquet_, or wood, filled the eastern extremity.] the immoral duke of bourbon was followed by cardinal fleury, and at length france experienced a period of honest administration, which enabled the sorely-tried land to recover some of its wonted elasticity. the cardinal was, however, dominated by the jesuits, and both protestants and jansenists felt their cruel hand. during the persecution of the jansenists in a deacon, named pâris, died and was canonised by the popular voice. miracles were said to have been wrought at his sepulchre in the cemetery of st. médard; fanatics flung themselves down on the tomb and writhed in horrible convulsions. so great was the excitement and disorder that the archbishop of paris denounced the miracles as the work of satan, and the government ordered the cemetery to be closed. the next morning a profane inscription was found over the entrance to the cemetery:-- "_de par le roi défense à dieu de faire miracle en ce lieu._"[ ] [footnote : "by order of the king, god is forbidden to work miracles in this place."] before louis sank irrevocably into the slothful indulgence that stained his later years, he was stirred to essay a kingly _rôle_ by madame de chateauroux, the youngest of four sisters who had successively been his mistresses. she fired his indolent imagination by appeals to the memory of his glorious ancestors, and the war of the austrian succession being in progress, louis set forth with the army of the great marshal saxe for metz, where in august he was stricken down by a violent fever, and in an access of piety was induced to promise to dismiss his mistress and return to his abused queen. as he lay on the brink of death, given up by his physicians and prepared for the end by the administration of the last sacraments, a royal phrase admirably adapted to capture the imagination of a gallant people came from his lips. "remember," he said to marshal noailles, "remember that when louis xiii. was being carried to the grave, the prince of condé won a battle for france." the agitation of the parisians as the king hovered between life and death was indescribable. the churches were thronged with sobbing people praying for his recovery; when the courtiers came with news that he was out of danger they were borne shoulder high in triumph through the streets, and fervent thanksgiving followed in all the churches. people hailed him as louis le bien-aimé; even the callous heart of the king was pierced by their loyalty and he cried, "what have i done to deserve such love?" so easy was it to win the affection of this warm-hearted people. the brilliant victories of marshal saxe, and the consequent peace of aix-la-chapelle, brought some years of prosperity. wealth increased; paris became more than ever a centre of intellectual splendour and social refinement, where the arts administered to luxurious ease and to the fair frailties of passion. but it was a period of riotous pride and regal licentiousness unparalleled even in the history of france. louis xiv. at least exacted good breeding and wit in his mistresses: his descendant enslaved himself to the commonest and most abandoned of women. for twenty years the destinies of the people, and the whole patronage of the government, the right to succeed to the most sacred and exalted offices in the church, were bartered and intrigued for in the chamber of a harlot and procuress, and under the influence of the pompadours and the du barrys a crowned _roué_ allowed the state to drift into financial, military and civil[ ] disaster. [footnote : in between th january and th february two hundred persons died of want (_misère_) in the faubourg st. antoine.] "authentic proofs exist," says taine, "demonstrating that madame de pompadour cost louis xv. a sum equal to about seventy-two millions of present value (£ , , )." she would examine the plans of campaign of her marshals in her boudoir, and mark with patches (_mouches_) the places to be defended or attacked. such was the mad extravagance of the court that to raise money recourse was had to taxation of the clergy, which the prelates successfully resisted; the old quarrel with the jansenists was revived, and soon church and crown were convulsed by an agitation that shook society to its very base. during the popular ferment the king was attacked in by a crack-brained fanatic named damiens, who scratched him with a penknife as he was entering his coach at versailles. the poor crazy wretch, who at most deserved detention in an asylum, was first subjected to a cruel judicial torture, then taken to the place de grève, where he was lacerated with red-hot pincers and, after boiling lead had been poured into the wounds, his quivering body was torn to pieces by four horses, and the fragments burned to ashes. a few years later the long-suffering jansenists were avenged with startling severity. the jesuits, to their honour be it said, shocked by the infamies of the royal seraglio in the parc aux cerfs, made use of their ascendency at court to awaken in the king's mind some sense of decency: they did but add the bitter animosity of madame de pompadour to the existing hostility of the parlement of paris. louis, urged by his minister the duke of choiseul, and by the arts of his mistress, abandoned the jesuits to their enemies: the parlement suppressed the society, secularised its members and confiscated its property. the closing years of the well-beloved's reign were years of unmitigated ignominy and disaster. indian conquests were muddled away, and the gallant dupleix died broken-hearted and in misery at paris. canada was lost. during the seven years' war the incapacity and administrative corruption of madame de pompadour's favourites made them the laughing-stock of paris. in the duke of choiseul refused to tolerate the vile du barry, whom we may see in madame campan's memoirs sitting on the arm of louis' chair at a council of state, playing her monkey tricks to amuse the old sultan, snatching sealed orders from his hand and making the royal dotard chase her round the council chamber. she swore to ruin the duke and, aided by a cabal of jesuit sympathisers and noble intriguers, succeeded in compassing his dismissal. the parlement of paris paid for its temerity: it and the whole of the parlements in france were suppressed, and seven hundred magistrates exiled by _lettres de cachet_. every patriotic frenchman now felt the gathering storm. madame campan writes that twenty years before the crash came it was common talk in her father's house (he was employed in the foreign office) that the old monarchy was rapidly sinking and a great change at hand. indeed, the writing on the wall was not difficult to read. the learned and virtuous malesherbes and many another distinguished member of the suppressed parlements warned the king of the dangers menacing the crown, but so sunk was its wearer in sensual stupefaction that he only murmured: "well, it will last my time," and with his flatterers and strumpets uttered the famous words--"_après nous le déluge_." so lost to all sense of honour was louis, that he defiled his hands with bribes from tax-farmers who ground the faces of the poor, and became a large shareholder in an infamous syndicate of capitalists that bought up the corn of france in order to export and then import it at enormous profit. this abominable _pacte de famine_ created two artificial famines in france; its authors battened on the misery of the people, and for any who lifted their voices against it the bastille yawned. in the poor abused and neglected queen, marie leczinska died. the court sank from bad to worse: void now of all dignity, all gaiety, all wit and all elegance, it drifted to its doom. six years passed, when louis was smitten by confluent small-pox and a few poor women were left to perform the last offices on the mass of pestiferous corruption that once was the fifteenth louis of france.[ ] none could be found to embalm the corpse, and spirits of wine were poured into the coffin which was carried to st. denis without pomp and amid the half-suppressed curses of the people. before the breath had left the body, a noise as of thunder was heard approaching the chamber of the dauphin and marie antoinette: it was the sound of the courtiers hastening to grovel before the new king and queen. warned that they had now inherited the awful legacy of the french monarchy, they flung themselves in tears on their knees, and exclaimed--"o god, guide and protect us! we are too young to govern." [footnote : some conception of the insanitary condition of the court may be formed by the fact that fifty persons were struck down there by this loathsome disease during the king's illness.] the degradation of the monarchy during the reign is reflected in the condition of the louvre. henry iv.'s great scheme, which louis xiii. had inherited and furthered, included a colossal equestrian statue, which was to stand on a rocky pedestal in the centre of a new place, before the east front of the louvre, but the regency revoked the scheme, and for thirty years nothing was done. it had even been proposed under the ministry of cardinal fleury to pull the whole structure down and sell the site. the neglect of the palace during these years is almost incredible. perrault's fine façade was hidden by the half-demolished walls of the hôtels de longueville, de villequier, and de bourbon. the east wing itself was unroofed on the quadrangle side and covered with rotting boarding. perrault's columns on the outer façade were unchannelled, the capitals unfinished, the portal unsculptured, and the post-office stabled its horses along the whole of the wing from the middle entrance to the north angle. the royal apartments of anne of austria in the petite galerie were used as stables; so, too, were the halls where now is housed the collection of renaissance sculpture. the infanta's garden was a yard where grooms exercised their horses; a colony of poor artists and court attendants were lodged in the upper floors, and over most of the great halls entresols were constructed to increase this kind of accommodation. the building was described as a huge caravanserai, where each one lodged and worked as he chose, and over which might have been placed the legend, "_ici on loge à pied et à cheval_." worse still, an army of squatters, ne'er-do-wells, bankrupts and defaulting debtors took refuge in the wooden sheds left by the contractors, or built others--a miserable gangrene of hovels--against the east façade. perrault's base had been concealed by rubbish and apparently forgotten. stove-pipes issued from the broken windows of the upper floors, the beautiful stone-work was blackened by smoke, cracked by frost and soiled by rusting iron clamps; the quadrangle was a chaos of uncut stone, rubbish and filth, in the centre of which, where the king's statue was designed to stand, the royal architect had built himself a large mansion; a mass of mean houses encumbered the carrousel, and the almost ruined church of st. nicholas was a haunt of beggars. such a grievous eyesore was the building that the provost in offered, in the name of the citizens, to repair and complete the palace if a part were assigned to them as an hôtel de ville. in madame de pompadour's brother, m. de marigny, had been appointed commissioner of works, and louis was persuaded to authorise the repair and completion of the louvre. gabriel being made architect set about his work in by clearing out the squatters and the accumulated rubbish in the quadrangle, and evicting the occupants of the stables. the ruins of the hôtels de longueville, de villequier, and de bourbon were demolished and grass plots laid before perrault's east front, which was restored and for the first time made visible. the west front, giving on the quadrangle, was then repaired and the third floor nearly completed, when funds were exhausted and it was left unroofed. an epigram, put into the mouth of the king of denmark, who visited paris in , tersely describes the condition of the palace at this time:-- "j'ai vu le louvre et son enceinte immense, vaste palais qui depuis deux cent ans, toujours s'achève et toujours se commence. deux ouvriers, manoeuvres fainéants, hâtent très lentement ces riches bâtiments et sont payés quand on y pense."[ ] [footnote : "i have seen the louvre and its huge enclosure, a vast palace which for two hundred years is always being finished and always begun. two workmen, lazy hodmen, speed very slowly those rich buildings, and are paid when they are thought of."] during louis xvi.'s reign little or nothing was done. soufflot was making feeble efforts to complete perrault's north front when the revolution came to arrest his work. so lost to reverence and devoid of artistic sentiment were the official architects of this period, that a sacrilege worse than any wrought by revolutionists was perpetrated at the instance of the canons of notre dame. louis xiv. had begun the vandalism by demolishing the beautiful old gothic high altar and replacing it by a huge, ponderous anachronism in marble, on whose foundation stone, laid in , was placed an inscription to the effect that louis the great, son of louis the just, having subdued heresy, established the true religion in his realm and ended wars gloriously by land and sea, built the altar to fulfil the vow of his father, and dedicated it to the god of arms and master of peace and victory under the invocation of the holy virgin, patroness and protector of his states. the beautiful fifteenth-century stalls, the choir screen, and many of the fine old gothic tombs of marble and bronze in the church, the monuments of six centuries, were destroyed. but to the reign of louis the well-beloved was reserved the crowning infamy: in the glorious old stained-glass windows, rivalling those of chartres in richness, were destroyed by levreil and replaced by grisaille with yellow fleur-de-lys ornamentation. happily the destruction of the rose windows was deemed too expensive, and they escaped. the famous colossal statue of st. christopher, the equestrian monument of philip le bel, and a popular statue of the virgin, were broken down by these clerical iconoclasts. in the canons instructed soufflot to throw down the pillar of the central porch, with its beautiful statue of christ, to make room for their processions to enter. the priceless sculpture of the tympanum was cut through to make a loftier and wider entrance, and the whole symmetry of the west front was grievously destroyed.[ ] this hideous architectural deformity remained until a son of the revolution, viollet le duc, restored the portal to its original form. after the havoc wrought at notre dame, soufflot's energies were diverted to the holy mount of st. genevieve. louis xv. had attributed his recovery at metz to the intercession of the saint, and in , when the abbot complained to the king of the almost ruined condition of the abbey church, he found a sympathetic listener. soufflot and the chapter, who shared the prevalent contempt of gothic, decided to abandon the venerable old pile, with its millennial associations of the patron saint of paris, and to build a grand domed classic temple on the abbey lands to the west. funds for the sacred work were raised by levying a tax on public lotteries. the old church, with the exception of the tower, was finally demolished in , when the rude stone coffin which had held the body of st. genevieve until it was burnt by revolutionary fanatics, was transferred to st. Étienne du mont. [footnote : the aspect of the west front with soufflot's "improvements" is well seen in _les principaux monuments gothiques de l'europe_, published in brussels, .] [illustration: south door of notre dame.] on th september , the crypt of the new st. genevieve being completed, the well-beloved laid the first stone of the church. scarcely was the scaffolding removed after thirteen years of constructive labour, and the expenditure of sixteen millions of livres, when it became necessary to call in soufflot's pupil rondelet, to shore up the walls and strengthen the columns which had proved too weak to sustain the weight of the huge cupola. but before the temple was consecrated, the revolutionists came, and noting its monumental aspect used it with admirable fitness as a panthéon français for the remains of their heroes; the dome designed to cover the relics of st. genevieve soared over the ashes of voltaire, mirabeau, rousseau and marat. thrice has this unlucky fane been the prize of catholic and revolutionary reactionaries. in napoleon i. restored it to christian worship; in the famous inscription--"_aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante_" was removed by louis xviii., and replaced by a dedication to god and st. genevieve; in louis philippe, the citizen king, transferred it to secular and monumental uses, and restored the former inscription; in the perjured prince-president napoleon, while the streets of paris were yet red with the blood of his victims, again surrendered it to the catholic church; in it was reconverted to a national walhalla for the reception of victor hugo's remains. the pseudo-classic church of st. sulpice, begun in and not completed until , is a monument of the degraded taste of this unhappy time. at least three architects, gamart, levau and the italian servandoni, are responsible for this monstrous pile, whose towers have been aptly compared by victor hugo to two huge clarionets. the building has, however, a certain _puissante laideur_, as michelet said of danton, and is imposing from its very mass, but it is dull and heavy and devoid of all charm and imagination. nothing exemplifies more strikingly the mutation of taste that has taken place since the eighteenth century than the fact that this church is the only one mentioned by gibbon in the portion of his autobiography which refers to his first visit to paris, where it is distinguished as "one of the noblest structures in paris." chapter xvii _louis xvi.--the great revolution--fall of the monarchy_ crowned vice was now succeeded by crowned folly. the grandson of louis xv., a well-meaning but weak and foolish youth, and his thoughtless, pleasure-loving queen, were confronted by state problems that would have taxed the genius of a richelieu in the maturity of his powers. injustice, misery, oppression, discontent, were clamant and almost universal; taxes had doubled since the death of louis xiv.; there were , beggars in paris alone, and from , in the population had in decreased to , . the penal code was of inhuman ferocity; law was complicated, ruinous and partial, and national credit so low that loans could be obtained only against material pledges and at interest five times as great as that paid by england. wealthy bishops and abbots[ ] and clergy, noblesse and royal officials, were wholly exempt from the main incidents of taxation; for personal and land taxes, tithes and forced labour, were exacted from the common people alone. no liberty of worship, nor of thought: protestants were condemned to the galleys by hundreds; booksellers met the same fate. authors and books were arbitrarily sent by _lettres de cachet_ to the bastille or vincennes. yet in spite of all repression, a generation of daring, witty, emancipated thinkers in paris was elaborating a weapon of scientific, rationalistic and liberal doctrine that cut at the very roots of the old _régime_. "i care not whether a man is good or bad," says the deity in blake's prophetic books, "all i care, is whether he is a wise man or a fool." while france was in travail of the palingenesis of the modern world, the futile king was trifling with his locks and keys and colouring maps, the queen playing at shepherdesses at trianon or performing before courtiers, officers and equerries the _rôles_ of rosina in the _barbier de seville_ and of colette in the _devin du village_, the latter composed by the democratic philosopher, whose _contrat social_ was to prove the gospel of the revolution.[ ] jean jacques rousseau, the solitary, self-centred swiss engraver and musician, has described for us in words that will bear translation how an ineffaceable impression of the sufferings of the people was burnt into his memory, and the fire of an unquenchable hatred of their oppressors was kindled in his breast. journeying on foot between paris and lyons, he was one day diverted from his path by the beauty of the landscape, and wandered about, seeking in vain to discover his way. "at length," he writes, "weary, and dying of thirst and hunger, i entered a peasant's house, not a very attractive one, but the only one i could see. i imagined that here as in switzerland every inhabitant of easy means would be able to offer hospitality. i entered and begged that i might have dinner by paying for it. the peasant handed me some skim milk and coarse barley bread, saying that was all he had. the milk seemed delicious and i ate the bread, straw and all, but it was not very satisfying to one exhausted by fatigue. the man scrutinised me and judged by my appetite the truth of the story i had told. suddenly, after saying that he perceived i was a good, honest youth and not there to spy upon him, he opened a trap door, descended and returned speedily with some good wheaten bread, a ham appetising but rather high, and a bottle of wine which rejoiced my heart more than all the rest. he added a good thick omelette and i enjoyed a dinner such as those alone who travel on foot can know. when it came to paying, his anxiety and fears again seized him; he would have none of my money and pushed it aside, exceedingly troubled, nor could i imagine what he was afraid of. at last he uttered with a shudder the terrible words, _commis, rats de cave_" ("assessors, cellar rats"). he made me understand that he hid the wine because of the _aides_,[ ] and the bread because of the _tailles_,[ ] and that he would be a ruined man if it were supposed that he was not dying of hunger. that man, although fairly well-off, dared not eat the bread earned by the sweat of his brow, and could only escape ruin by pretending to be as miserable as those he saw around him. i issued forth from that house indignant as well as affected, deploring the lot of that fair land where nature had lavished all her gifts only to become the spoil of barbarous tax-farmers (_publicans_)." and voltaire, that implacable avenger of injustice, in verse that rends the heart, has in _les finances_, ( ), pictured a peaceful home ruined; its inmates evicted to misery, to the galleys and to death, by the cruel exactions of the royal director of the _aides_ and _gabelles_, with his _sergents de la finance habillés en guerriers_. the elder mirabeau too has told how he saw a bailiff cut off the hand of a peasant woman who had clung to her kitchen utensils when distraint was made on her poor possessions for dues exacted by the tax-farmers. in two poor starving wretches were hanged on the gallows of the place de grève at paris for having stolen some bread from a baker's shop. [footnote : taine estimates the revenues of thirty-three abbots in terms of modern values at from , to , francs (£ , to £ , ). twenty-seven abbesses enjoyed revenues nearly as large.] [footnote : the score of rousseau's opera is still preserved in the bibliothèque nationale.] [footnote : the excise duty.] [footnote : personal and land-taxes paid by the humbler classes alone.] "but though the gods see clearly, they are slow in marking when a man, despising them, turns from their worship to the scorn of fools." half a century had elapsed since that meal in the peasant's house when the nemesis that holds sleepless vigil over the affairs of men stirred her pinions and, like a strong angel with glittering sword, prepared to avenge the wrongs of a people whose rulers had outraged every law, human and divine, by which human society is held together. king, nobles, and prelates had a supreme and an awful choice. they might have led and controlled the revolution; they chose to oppose it, and were broken into shivers as a potter's vessel. after the memorable cannonade at valmy, a knot of defeated german officers gathered in rain and wind moodily around the circle where they durst not kindle the usual camp-fire. in the morning the army had talked of nothing but spitting and devouring the whole french nation: in the evening everyone went about alone; nobody looked at his neighbour, or if he did, it was but to curse and swear. "at last," says goethe, "i was called upon to speak, for i had been wont to enliven and amuse the troop with short sayings. this time i said, 'from this day forth, and from this place, a new era begins in the history of the world and you can all say that you were present at its birth.'" this is not the place to write the story of the french revolution. those who would read the tremendous drama may be referred to the pages of carlyle. as a formal history, that work of transcendent genius is open to criticism, especially on the score of accuracy in detail. indeed to the present writer the magnificent and solemn prosody seems to partake of the nature of a greek chorus--the comment of an idealised spectator, assuming that the hearer has the drama unfolding before his eyes. recent researches have supplemented and modified our knowledge. it is no longer possible to accept the more revolting representations of the misery[ ] of the french peasantry as true of the whole of france, for france before the revolution was an assemblage of many provinces of varying social conditions, subjected to varying administrative laws. nor can we accept carlyle's portraiture of robespierre as history, after louis blanc's great work. so far from robespierre having been the bloodthirsty protagonist of the later terror, it was precisely his determination to make an end of the more savage excesses of the extreme terrorists and to chastise their more furious pro-consuls, such as carrier and fouché, that brought about his ruin. it was men like collot d'herbois, billaud varenne and barrère, the bloodiest of the terrorists, who, to save their own heads, united to cast the odium of the later excesses on robespierre, and to overthrow him.[ ] the thermidorians had no intention of staying the terror and the actual consequences of their success were wholly unexpected by them. but whatever defects there be in carlyle, his readers will at least understand the significance of the revolution, and why it is that the terrible, but temporary excesses which stained its progress have been so unduly magnified by reactionary politicians, while the cruelties of the white terror[ ] are passed by. [footnote : it is difficult, however, to read the sober and irrefutable picture of their miserable condition, given in the famous books ii. and v. of taine's _ancien régime_, without deep emotion.] [footnote : see also bodley's _france_, where the author favours the view that robespierre was not a democrat with a thirst for blood, but rather a man of government, destroyed as a reactionary by surviving revolutionists who saw their end coming.] [footnote : after the thermidorian reaction in , ninety-seven jacobins were massacred by the royalists at lyons on th may; thirty at aix on th may. similar horrors were enacted at avignon, arles, and marseilles, and at other places in the south.] camille desmoulins has described in his memoirs how on th july he was lifted on the famous table, known as the tripod of the revolution, in front of the café foy, in the garden of the palais royal, and delivered that short but pregnant oration which preceded the capture of the bastille on the th, warning the people that a st. bartholomew of patriots was contemplated, and that the swiss and german troops in the champ de mars were ready for the butchery. as the crowd rushed to the hôtel de ville, shouting "to arms!" they were charged by the prince de lambesc at the head of a german regiment, and the first blood of the revolution in paris was shed. the bastille, like the monarchy, was the victim of its past sins. that grisly fortress, long useless as a defence of paris, with the jaws of its rusty cannon opening on the most populous quarter of the city to overawe sedition, and its sinister memories of the man in the iron mask,[ ] symbolised in the popular mind all that was hateful in the old _régime_, though it had long ceased to be more than occasionally used as a state prison. if we would restore its aspect we must imagine the houses at the ends of the rue st. antoine and the boulevard henri iv. away and the huge mass erect on their site and on the lines marked in white stone on the present place de la bastille. a great portal, always open by day, yawned on the rue st. antoine opposite the rue des tournelles and gave access to the first quadrangle which was lined with shops and the houses of the _personnel_ of the prison: then came a second gate, with entrances for carriages and for foot passengers, each with its drawbridge. beyond these a second quadrangle was entered, to the right of which stood the governor's house and an armoury. another double portal to the left gave entrance across the old fosse once fed by the waters of the seine, to the prison fortress itself, with its eight tall blackened towers, each divided into five floors, and its crenelated ramparts. [footnote : a whole library has been written concerning the identity of this famous prisoner. there is little doubt that the mask was of velvet and not of iron, and that the mysterious captive who died on th november in the bastille, was count mattioli of bologna, who was secretly arrested for having betrayed the confidence of louis xiv.] the bastille, which in the time of the english rule, had seen as its captains the duke of exeter, falstaff, and invincible talbot, was first used in richelieu's time as a permanent state prison, and filled under louis xiv. with jansenists and protestants, who were thus separated from the prisoners of the common jails; and, later, under louis xv. by a whole population of obnoxious pamphleteers and champions of philosophy. books as well as their authors were incarcerated, and released when considered no longer dangerous; the tomes of famous _encyclopédie_ spent some years there. from the middle of the eighteenth century the horrible, dark and damp dungeons, half underground and sometimes flooded, formerly inhabited by the lowest type of criminals, were reserved as temporary cells for insubordinate prisoners, and since the accession of louis xiv. they were no more used. the bastille during the reigns of the three later louis was the most comfortable prison in paris, and detention there rather than in the other prisons was often sought for and granted as a favour; the prisoners might furnish their rooms, and have their own libraries and food. in the middle of the seventeenth century, certain rooms were furnished at the king's expense for those who were without means. the rooms were warmed, the prisoners well fed, and sums varying from three to thirty-five francs per day, according to condition,[ ] were allotted for their maintenance. a considerable amount of personal liberty was allowed to many and indemnities were in later years paid to those who had been unjustly detained. but a prison where men are confined indefinitely without trial and at a king's arbitrary pleasure is none the less intolerable, however its horrors be mitigated. prisoners were sometimes forgotten, and letters are extant from louvois and other ministers, asking the governor to report how many years certain prisoners had been detained, and if he remembered what they were charged with. in louis xiv.'s reign persons were incarcerated there; in louis xv.'s, . from the accession of louis xvi. to the destruction of the prison the number had fallen to . seven were found there when the fortress was captured, the remainder having been transferred to vincennes and other prisons by the governor who had some fears of treachery within but none of danger from without. four were accused of forgery, two insane; one, the count of solages, accused of a monstrous crime, was detained there to spare the feelings of his family. so unexpected was the attack, that although well furnished with means of defence, the governor had less than twenty-four hours' provisions in hand when the assault began. [footnote : only five francs were allowed for a bourgeois; a man of letters was granted ten; a marshal of france obtained the maximum.] the bastille, some time before its fall, was already under sentence of demolition, and various schemes for its disposal were before the court. one project was to destroy seven of the towers, leaving the eighth standing in a dilapidated state. on the site of the seven, a pedestal formed of chains and bolts from the dungeons and gates was to bear a statue of louis xvi. in the attitude of a liberator, pointing with outstretched hand towards the remaining tower in ruins. but louis xvi. was always too late, and the place de la bastille, with its column raised to those who fell in the revolution of july, , now recalls the second and final triumph of the people over the bourbon kings. some stones of the bastille were, however, "in order that they might be trodden under foot by the people for ever," built into the new pont louis seize, subsequently called pont de la révolution and now known as pont de la concorde; others were sold to speculators and were retailed at prices so high that people complained that bastille stones were as dear as the best butcher's meat. models of the bastille, dominoes, inkstands, boxes and toys of all kinds were made of the material and had a ready sale all over france. far to the west and on the opposite side of the seine is the immense area of the champ de mars, where, on the anniversary of the fall of the bastille, was enacted the fairest scene of the revolution. the whole population of paris, with their marvellous instinct of order and co-operation, spontaneously set to work to dig the vast amphitheatre which was to accommodate the , representatives of france, and , spectators, all united in an outburst of fraternal love and hope to swear allegiance to the new constitution before the altar of the fatherland. the king had not yet lost the affection of his people. as he came to view the marvellous scene an improvised bodyguard of excavators, bearing spades, escorted him about. when he was swearing the oath to the constitution, the queen, standing on a balcony of the _École militaire_, lifted up the dauphin as if to associate him in his father's pledge. suddenly the rain which had marred the great festival ceased, the sun burst forth and flooded in a splendour of light, the altar, bishop talleyrand, his four hundred clergy, and the king with upraised hand. the solemn music of the _te deum_ mingled with the wild pæan of joy and enthusiasm that burst from half a million throats. the unconscionable folly, the feeble-minded vacillation and miserable trickery by which this magnificent popularity was muddled away is one of the saddest tragedies in the stories of kings. it is clear from sir s. romilly's letters that after the acceptance of the constitution, louis was popular among all classes. but the people, with unerring instinct, had fixed on the queen as one of the chief obstacles to what might have been a peaceful revolution. neither marie antoinette nor louis capet comprehended the tremendous significance of the forces they were playing with--the resolute and invincible determination of a people of twenty-six millions to emancipate itself from the accumulated wrongs of centuries. "_eh bien! factieux_," said marie to the commissioners from the assembly after the return from varennes, "_vous triomphez encore!_" the despatches and opinions of american ambassadors during this period are of much value. the democratic thomas jefferson, reviewing in later years the course of events, declared that had there been no queen there would have been no revolution. governor morris, whose anti-revolutionary and conservative leanings made him the friend and confidant of the royal family, writes to washington on january : "if only the reigning prince were not the small-beer character he is, and even only tolerably watchful of events, he would regain his authority," but "what would you have," he continues scornfully "from a creature who, in his situation, eats, drinks, and sleeps well, and laughs, and is as merry a grig as lives. he must float along on the current of events and is absolutely a cypher." nor would the court forego its crooked ways. "the queen is even more imprudent," morris writes in , "and the whole court is given up to petty intrigues worthy only of footmen and chambermaids." moreover, in its amazing ineptitude, the monarchy had already toyed with republicanism by lending active military support to the revolutionists in america, at a cost to the already over-burdened treasury of , , , livres. the american ambassador, benjamin franklin, was crowned at court with laurel as the apostle of liberty, and in the very palace of versailles, medallions of franklin were sold, bearing the inscription: "_eripui coelo fulmen sceptrumque tyrannis_" ("i have snatched the lightning from heaven and the sceptre from tyrants"). the revolutionary song, _Ça ira_, owes its origin to franklin's invariable response to inquiries as to the progress of the american revolutionary movement.[ ] there was explosive material enough in france to make playing with celestial fire perilous, and while the political atmosphere was heavy with the threatening storm, thousands of french soldiers returned saturated with enthusiasm and sympathy for the american revolution. already before the feast of the federation the queen had been in secret correspondence with the _émigrés_ at turin and at coblenz who were conspiring to throttle the nascent liberty of france. madame campan relates that the queen made her read a confidential letter from the empress catherine of russia, concluding with these words: "kings ought to proceed in their career undisturbed by the cries of the people as the moon pursues her course unimpeded by the howling of dogs." mirabeau was already in the pay of the monarchy; and attempts were made to buy over robespierre, who up to th august was an avowed defender of the constitution, by an offer of the emoluments and the nominal post of tutor to the dauphin in return for his support of the royal cause. [footnote : when sir s. romilly called on franklin in , the latter expressed his amazement that the french government had permitted the publication of the american constitution, which produced a great impression in paris. the music of _Ça ira_, taken from a dance tune, _le carillon national_, very popular in the _guinguettes_ of paris, has been published in the _révolution française_ for th december .] as early as december the court had been in secret communication with the foreigner. louis' brother, the count of artois (afterwards charles x.), with the queen's and king's approval, had made a secret treaty with the house of hapsburg, the hereditary enemy of france, by which the sovereigns of austria, prussia and spain agreed to cross the frontier at a given signal, and close on france with an army a hundred thousand strong. it was an act of impious treachery, and the beginning of the doom of the french monarchy. yet if but some glimmer of intelligence and courage had characterised the preparations for the flight of the royal family to join the armed forces waiting to receive them near the frontier, their lives at least had been saved. the incidents of the four months' "secret" preparations to leave the tuileries as described by madame campan--the disguised purchases of elaborate wardrobes of underlinen and gowns; the making of a dressing-case of enormous size, fitted with many and various articles from a warming-pan to a silver porringer; the packing of the diamonds--read like scenes in a comedy. the story of the pretended flight of the russian baroness and her family; the start delayed by the queen losing her way in the slums of the carrousel; the colossal folly of the whole business has been told by carlyle in one of the most dramatic chapters in history. the assembly declared on hearing of louis' flight, that the government of the country was unaffected and that the executive power remained in the hands of the ministers. after voting a levy of three hundred thousand national guards to meet the threatened invasion, they passed calmly to the discussion of the new penal code. the king returned to paris through an immense and silent multitude. "whoever applauds the king," said placards in the street, "shall be thrashed; whoever insults him, hung." the idea of a republic as a practical issue of the situation was now for the first time put forward by the extremists, but met with little sympathy, and a republican demonstration in the champ de mars was suppressed by the assembly by martial law at the cost of many lives. owing to the aversion felt by marie antoinette to lafayette, who with affectionate loyalty more than once had risked his popularity and life to serve the crown, the court made the fatal mistake of opposing his election to the mayoralty of paris and paved the way for the triumph of pétion and of the dantonists. at the news of the first victories of the invading prussians and _émigrés_, louis added to his amazing tale of follies by vetoing the formation of a camp near paris and by turning a deaf ear to the earnest entreaties of the brave and sagacious dumouriez and accepting his resignation. he sent a secret agent with confidential instructions to the _émigrés_ and the coalesced foreign armies: the ill-starred proclamation[ ] of the duke of brunswick completed the destruction of the monarchy. while the french were smarting under defeat and stung by the knowledge that their natural defender, the king, was leagued with their enemies, this foreign soldier warned a high-spirited and gallant nation that he was come to restore louis xvi. to his authority, and threatened to treat as rebellious any town that opposed his march, to shoot all persons taken with arms in their hands, and in the event of any insult being offered to the royal family to take exemplary and memorable vengeance by delivering up the city of paris to military execution and complete demolition. when the proclamation reached paris at the end of july , it sounded the death knell of the king and the triumph of the republicans. paris was now to become, in goethe's phrase, the centre of the "world whirlwind"--a storm centre launching forth thunderbolts of terror. after the assembly had twice refused to bring the king to trial, the extremists were able to organise and direct an irresistible wave of popular indignation towards the tuileries, and on th august the palace was stormed. while a band of brave and devoted swiss guards was being cut to pieces in hundreds, the feeble and futile king had fled to the assembly and was sitting safely with his wife and children in a box behind the president's chair. [footnote : it was composed by one of the _émigrés_, m. de limon, approved by the emperor of austria and the king of prussia, and signed, against his better judgment, by the duke of brunswick.] no room for compromise now. the printed trial of charles i. was everywhere sold and read. "this," people said, "was how the english dealt with an impossible king and became a free nation." old and new were in death-grapple, and the lives of many victims, for the people lost heavily,[ ] had sealed the cause of the revolution with a bloody consecration. unhappily, the city of paris, like all great towns in times of scarcity (and since scarcity had become almost permanent), had been invaded by numbers of starving vagabonds--the dregs that always rise to the surface in periods of political convulsion, ready for any villainy. when news came of the capture of verdun, of the indecent joy of the courtiers, and that the road to paris was open to the avenging army of prussians, the horrors of the armagnac massacres were renewed during four september days at the prisons of paris, while the revolutionary ministry and the assembly averted their gaze and, to their everlasting shame, abdicated their powers. the september massacres were the application by a minority of desperate and savage revolutionists of the _ultima ratio_ of kings to a desperate situation: the tragedy of king louis is the tragedy of a feeble prince called to rule in a tremendous crisis, where weakness and well-meaning folly are the fatalest of crimes. [footnote : the numbers have been variously estimated from to killed on the popular side.] on st september royalty was formally abolished, and on the nd, when "the equinoctional sun marked the equality of day and night in the heavens," civil equality was proclaimed at paris. chapter xviii _execution of the king--paris under the first republic--the terror--napoleon--revolutionary and modern paris_ an inscription opposite no. rue de rivoli indicates the site of the old salle du manége, or riding school,[ ] of the tuileries, where the destinies of modern france were debated. three assemblies--the constituent, the legislative and the prodigious national convention--filled its long, poorly-furnished amphitheatre, decorated with the tattered flags captured from the prussians and austrians, from th november to th may . [footnote : the académie d'Équitation was an expensive and exclusive establishment where the young nobles and gentlemen of fortune were taught fencing, riding and dancing. it was long and narrow, feet by , and only the most powerful voices could be heard in the assembly. the rue de rivoli between the rues d'alger and de castiglione cuts through the site.] there, on wednesday, th january , began the solemn judgment of louis xvi. by representatives of the people of france. the sitting opened at ten o'clock in the morning, but not till eight in the evening did the procession of deputies begin, as the roll was called, to ascend the tribune, and utter their word of doom. all that long winter's night, and all the ensuing short winter's day, the fate of a king trembled in the balance, as the judgment: death--banishment: banishment--death, with awful alternation echoed through the hall. amid the speeches of the deputies was heard the chatter of fashionable women in the boxes, pricking with pins on cards the votes for and against death, and eating ices and oranges brought to them by friendly deputies. above, in the public tribunes, sat women of the people, greeting the words of the deputies with coarse gibes. betting went on outside. at every entrance, cries, hoarse and shrill, were heard of hawkers selling "the trial of charles i." time-serving philip egalité, duke of orleans, voted _la mort_, but failed to save his skin. an englishman was there--thomas paine, author of the _rights of man_ and deputy for calais. his voice was raised for clemency, for temporary detention, and banishment after the peace. "my vote is that of paine," cried a member, "his authority is final for me." one deputy was carried from a sick-bed to cast his vote in the scale of mercy; others slumbering on the benches were awakened and gave their votes of death between two yawns. at length, by eight o'clock on the evening of the th, exactly twenty-four hours after the voting began, the president rose to read the result. a most august and terrible silence reigned in the assembly as president vergniaud rose and pronounced the sentence "death" in the name of the french nation. the details of the voting as given in the _journal de perlet_, th january , are as follows: "of the members one had died, six were sick, two absent without cause, eleven absent on commission, four abstained from voting. the absolute majority was therefore . three hundred and sixty-six voted for death, three hundred and nineteen for detention and banishment, two for the galleys, twenty-four for death with various reservations, eight for death with stay of execution until after the peace, two for delay with power of commutation." three protestant ministers and eighteen catholic priests voted for death. louis' defenders were there and asked to be heard; they were admitted to the honours of the sitting. at eleven o'clock the weary business of thirty-seven hours was ended, only, however, to be resumed the next morning, for yet another vote must decide between delay or summary execution. again the voice of paine was heard pleading for mercy, but without avail. at three o'clock on sunday morning the final voting was over. six hundred and ninety members were present, of whom three hundred and eighty voted for death within twenty-four hours. to the guillotine on the fatal place de la révolution, formerly place louis xv., the very scene of a terrible panic at his wedding festivities which cost the lives of hundreds of sightseers, the sixteenth louis of france was led on the morning of st january . as he turned to address the people, santerre ordered the drums to beat--it was the echo of the drums reverberating through history which had smothered the cries of the protestant martyrs sent to the scaffold by the fourteenth louis a century before. this was the beginning of that _année terrible_, into which was crowded the most stupendous struggle in modern history. threatened by the monarchies of europe, united to crush the revolution, france, in the tremendous words of danton, flung to the coalesced kings, the head of a king as a gage of battle. a colossal energy, an unquenchable devotion were evoked by the supreme crisis, and directed by a committee of nine inexperienced young civilians, sitting in a room of the tuileries at paris, to whom later carnot, an engineer officer, was added. "the whole republic," they proclaimed, "is a great besieged city: let france be a vast camp. every age is called to defend the liberty of the fatherland. the young men will fight: the married will forge arms. women will make clothes and tents: children will tear old linen for lint. old men shall be carried to the market-place to inflame the courage of all." in twenty-four hours, , men were enrolled; in two months, fourteen armies organised. saltpetre for powder failed; it was torn from the bowels of the earth. steel, too, and bronze were lacking: iron railings were transmuted into swords, and church bells and royal statues into cannon. paris became a vast armourer's shop. smithy fires in hundreds roared and anvils clanged in the open places--one hundred and forty at the invalides, fifty-four at the luxembourg. the women sang as they worked:-- "cousons, filons, cousons bien, v'là des habits de notre fabrique pour l'hiver qui vient. soldats de la patrie vous ne manquerez de rien."[ ] [footnote : "sew we, spin we, sew we well, behold the coats we have made for the winter that is coming. soldiers of the fatherland, ye shall want for nothing."] the smiths chanted to the rhythm of their strokes:-- "forgeons, forgeons, forgeons bien!" on the new standards waving in the breeze ran the legend: "the french people risen against tyrants." toulon was in the hands of the english; lyons in revolt. with enemies in her camp, with one arm tied by the insurrection in la vendée, the revolution hurled her ragged and despised _sans-culottes_,[ ] against her enemies. how vain is the wisdom of the great! burke thought that the revolution had expunged france in a political sense out of the system of europe, and his opinion was shared by every european statesman; but before the year closed, the proud and magnificently accoutred armies of kings were scattered over the borders, civil war was crushed, the revolution triumphant. soon the "dwarfish, ragged _sans-culottes_, the small black-looking marseillaises dressed in rags of every colour," whom goethe saw tramping out of mayence "as if the goblin king had opened his mountains and sent forth his lively host of dwarfs," had forced prussia, the arch-champion of monarchy, to make peace and leave its rhine provinces in the hands of regicides. meanwhile terror reigned in paris. in the frenzy of mortal strife the revolution struck out blindly and cut down friend as well as foe; the innocent with the guilty. at least the guillotine fell swiftly and mercifully. gone were the days of the wheel, the rack, the boiling lead and the stake. under the _ancien régime_ the torture of _accused_ persons was one of the sights shown to foreigners in paris. evelyn, when visiting the city in , was taken to see the torture of an _alleged_ thief in the châtelet, who was "wracked in an extraordinary manner, so that they severed the fellow's joints in miserable sort." failing to extort a confession, "they increased the extension and torture, and then placing a horne in his mouth, such as they drench horses with, poured two buckets of water down, so that it prodigiously swelled him." there was another "malefactor" to be dealt with, but the traveller had seen enough, and he leaves, reflecting that it represented to him "the intolerable sufferings which our blessed saviour must needs undergo when his body was hanging with all its weight upon the nailes of the crosse." [footnote : the term implied rather an excess than a defect of nether garment and was applied in scorn by the fashionable wearers of _culottes_ to the plebeian wearers of trousers.] too much prominence has been given by historians to the dramatic and violent activities of the men of ' to the exclusion of acts of peaceful and constructive statesmanship. the , decrees issued by the national convention in paris from september ' to october ' , included a comprehensive and admirable scheme for national education, with provision for free meals in elementary schools and the moral and physical training of the young. it fulminated against the degradation of public monuments, ordered an inventory to be made of all collections of works of art, and decided that the republic be charged with the maintenance of artists sent to rome. it decreed the adoption, began the discussion, and voted the most important articles of the civil code. it inaugurated the telegraph and the decimal system, established the uniformity of weights and measures, the bureau of longitudes, reformed the calendar, instituted the grand livre, increased and completed the museum of natural history, opened the museum of the louvre, created the conservatoire of the arts and crafts, the conservatoire of music, the polytechnic school and the institute. the convention abolished negro slavery in the french colonies, and wilberforce reminded a hostile house of commons that infidel and anarchic france had given example to christian england in the work of emancipation. in it was reported that the aged goldoni had been in receipt of a pension from the _ancien régime_ and was now dependent on the slender resources of a compassionate nephew: the convention at once decreed as an act of justice and beneficence that the pension of livres should be renewed, and all arrears paid up. this is but one of many acts of grace and succour among its records. the closing months of ' were sped with those whiffs of grape-shot from the pont royal and the rue st. honoré, that shattered the last attempt, this time by the royalists, at government by insurrection. the convention closed its stupendous career, and five directors of the republic met in a room furnished with an old table, a sheet of paper and an ink-bottle, and set about organising france for a normal and progressive national life. but europe had by her fatuous interference with the internal affairs of france sown dragons' teeth indeed and a nation of armed men had sprung forth, nursing hatred of monarchy and habituated to victory. "_eh, bien, mes enfants_," cried a french general before an engagement when provisions were wanting to afford a meal for his troops, "we will breakfast after the victory." but militarism invariably ends in autocracy. the author of those whiffs of grape-shot was appointed in commander-in-chief of the army of italy, and a new and sinister complexion was given to the policy of the republic. "soldiers," cries napoleon, "you are half-starved and almost naked; the government owes you much but can do nothing for you. your patience, your courage do you honour, but win for you neither glory nor profit. i am about to lead you into the most fertile plains of the world; you will find there great cities and rich provinces; there you will reap honour, glory and riches. soldiers of italy, will you lack courage?" this frank appeal to the baser motives that sway men's minds, this open avowal of a personal ambition, was the beginning of the end of jacobinism in france. soon the wealth of italy streamed into the bare coffers of the directory at paris:-- , , of francs from lombardy, , , from parma and modena, , , from the papal states, an equally large sum from tuscany; one hundred finest horses of lombardy to the five directors, "to replace the sorry nags that now draw your carriages"; convoys of priceless manuscripts and sculpture and pictures to adorn parisian galleries. so persistent were these raids on the collections of art in italy that napoleon is known there to this day as _il gran ladrone_ and the chief duty of the new french officials in italy, said lucien bonaparte, was to supervise the packing of pictures and statues for paris. no less than of these works of art were confiscated by the allies in , and returned to their former owners. in less than a decade the rusty old stage properties and the baubles of monarchy were furbished anew, sacred oil from the little phial of rheims anointed the brow of a new dynast, and a roman pontiff blessed the diadem with which a once poor, pensioned, disaffected corsican patriot crowned himself lord of france in notre dame. the old pomposities of a court came strutting back to their places:--arch chancellors, grand electors, constables, grand almoners, grand chamberlains, grand marshals of the palace, masters of the horse, masters of the hounds, madame mère and a bevy of imperial highnesses with their ladies-in-waiting. one thing only was wanting, as a jacobin bitterly remarked--the million of men who were slain to end all that mummery. the fascinating story of how this amazing transformation was effected cannot be told here. the magician who wrought it was possessed of a soaring imagination, of a mental instrument of incomparable force and efficiency, of an iron will, a prodigious intellectual activity, and a piercing insight into the conditions of material success, rarely, if ever before, united in the same degree in one man. napoleon bonaparte was of ancient, patrician florentine blood, and perchance the descendant of one of those of fiesole-- "in cui riviva la sementa santa di quei romani che vi rimaser quando fu fatto il nido di malizia tanta."[ ] he cherished a particular affection for italy, and, so far as his personal aims allowed, treated her generously. his descent into lombardy awakened the slumbering sense of italian nationality. in more senses than one, says mr. bolton king the historian of italian unity, napoleon was the founder of modern italy. [footnote : _inferno_, xv. - .--"in whom lives again the seed of those romans who remained there when the nest (florence) of so much wickedness was made."] the reason of napoleon's success in france is not far to seek. two streams of effort are clearly traceable through the revolution. the earlier thinkers, such as montesquieu, voltaire, d'alembert, diderot and the encyclopedists, whose admiration for england was unbounded, aimed at reforming the rotten state of france on the basis of the english parliamentary and monarchical system: it was a middle-class movement for the assertion of its interests in the state and for political freedom. the aim of the jacobin minority, inspired by the doctrines of the _contrat social_ of rousseau, was to found a democratic state based on the principle of the sovereignty of the people. if the french crown and the monarchies of europe had allowed the peaceful evolution of national tendencies, the constitutional reformers would have triumphed, but in their folly they tried to sweep back the tide, with the result we have seen. for when everything is put to the touch, when victory is the price of self-sacrifice, it is the idealist who comes to the front, and as the nineteenth-century prophet mazzini taught, men will lay down their lives for principles but not for interests. let us not forget that it was the jacobin minority who in the heat and glow of their convictions saved the people of france. led astray by their old guides, abandoned in a dark and trackless waste, their heads girt with horror, menaced by destruction on every side, the people groped, wandering hither and thither seeking an outlet in vain. at length a voice was heard, confidant, thrilling as a trumpet call; "lo this is the way! follow, and ye shall emerge and conquer!" it may not have been the best way, but it was _a_ way and they followed. it is easy enough to pour scorn on the _contrat social_ as a political philosophy, but an ideal, a faith, a dogma are necessary to evoke enthusiasm, the contempt of material things and of death itself. these the _contrat social_ gave. it defined with absolute precision the principles latent in the movement of reform that broke up mediævalism. does power descend from god, its primeval source; or does it ascend, delegated from the people? once stated, the french mind with its intense lucidity and logicality saw the line of cleavage between old and new--divine right: or sovereignty of the people--and bade all men choose where they would stand. the _contrat social_ with its consuming passion for social justice, its ideal of a state founded on the sovereignty of the people, became the gospel of the time. men and women conned its pages by heart and slept with the book under their pillows. napoleon himself in his early jacobin days was saturated with its doctrines, and in later times astutely used its phrases as shibboleths to cloak his acts of despotism. but in that terrible revolutionary decade the jacobins had spent their lives and their energies. a profound weariness of the long and severe tension, and a yearning for a return to orderly civil life came over men's minds. the masses were still sincerely attached to the catholic faith: the middle-classes hailed with relief the advent of the strong man who proved himself able to crush faction; the peasants were won by a champion of the revolution who made impossible the return of the _aides_, the _tailles_, the _gabelles_, and all the iniquitous oppressions of the _ancien régime_ and guaranteed them the possession of the confiscated _émigré_ and ecclesiastical lands; the army idolised the great captain who promised them glory and profit; the church rallied to an autocrat who restored the hierarchy. moreover, the brilliancy of napoleon's military genius was balanced by an all-embracing political sagacity. the chief administrative decrees of the convention, especially those relating to education and the civil and penal codes, were welded into form by ceaseless energy. everything he touched was indeed degraded from the republican ideal, but he drove things through, imposed his own superhuman activity into his subordinates, and became one of the chief builders of modern france. "the gigantic entered into our very habits of thought," said one of his ministers. but his efforts to maintain the stupendous twenty years' duel with the combined forces of england and the continental monarchies, and his own overweening ambition, broke him at length, and he fell, to fret away his life caged in a lonely island in mid-atlantic. the new ideas were none the less revolutionary of social life. the salon, that eminently french institution, soon felt their power. the charming irresponsible gaiety and frivolity of the old _régime_ gave place to more serious preoccupation with political movements. the fusing power of rousseau's genius had melted all hearts; the solvent wit of voltaire and the precise science of the encyclopedists were a potent force even among the courtiers themselves. the centre of social life shifted from versailles to paris and the salons gained what the court lost. fine ladies had the latest pamphlet of siéyès read to them at their toilette, and maids caught up the new phrases from their mistresses' lips. did a young gallant enter a salon excusing himself for being late by saying, "i have just been proposing a motion at the club," every fair eye sparkled with interest. a deputy was a social lion, and a box for the national assembly exchanged for one at the opera at a premium of six livres. speeches were rehearsed at the salons and action determined. chief of the hostesses was madame[ ] necker: at her crowded receptions might be seen abbé siéyès, the architect of constitutions; condorcet, the philosopher; talleyrand, the patriotic bishop; madame de staël, with her strong, coarse face and masculine voice and gestures. more intimate were the tuesday suppers at which a dozen chosen guests held earnest communion. madame de beauharnais was noted for her excellent table, and her tuesday and thursday dinners: at her rooms the masters of literature and music had been wont to meet. now came buffon the naturalist; bailly of tennis court oath fame; clootz, the friend of humanity. the widow of helvetius, with her many memories of franklin, welcomed volney, author of the _ruins of empires_, and chamfort, the candid critic of academicians. at the salon of madame pancroute, barrère, the glib orator of the revolution, was the chief figure. [footnote : mlle curchod, for whom gibbon "sighed as a lover but renounced as a son."] julie talma was famed for her literary and artistic circle. here marie joseph chenier, the revolutionary dramatic poet of the comédie française, declaimed his couplets. here came vergniaud, the eloquent chief of the ill-fated gironde; greuze, the painter; roland, the stern and minatory minister, who spoke bitter words, composed by his wife, to the king; lavoisier, the chemist, who is said to have begged that the axe might be stayed while he completed some experiments, and was told that the republic had no lack of chemists. madame du deffand, whose hôtel in the rue des quatre fils still exists, welcomed voltaire, d'alembert, montesquieu and the encyclopedists. in the street, the great open-air salon of the people, was a feverish going to and fro. here were the tub-thumpers of the revolution holding forth at every public place; the strident voices of ballad-singers at the street corners; hawkers of the latest pamphlets hot from the quai des augustins; the sellers of journals crying the _père duchesne_, _l'ami du peuple_, the _jean bart_, the _vieux cordelier_. crowds gathered round bassett's famous shop for caricature at the corner of the rue st. jacques and the rue des mathurins. the walls of paris were a mass of variegated placards and proclamations. the charming signs of the old _régime_, the pomme rouge, the rose blanche, the ami du coeur, the gracieuse, the trois fleurs-de-lys couronnées gave place to the "necker," the "national assembly," the "tiers," the "constitution"--these, too, soon to be effaced by more republican appellations. for on the abolition of the monarchy and the inauguration of the religion of nature, the words "royal" and "saint" disappear from the revolutionary vocabulary. a new calendar is promulgated: streets and squares are renamed: rues des droits de l'homme, de la révolution, des piques, de la loi, efface the old landmarks. we must now say rue honoré, not st. honoré, and mont marat for montmartre. naturalists had written of the queen bee: away with the hated word! she is now named of all good patriots the _abeille pondeuse_, the egg-laying bee. in the punch and judy shows the gallows gives place to the guillotine. no more emblems on playing cards of king, queen, and knave: allegorical figures of genius, liberty and equality take their places, and since law alone is above them all, patriotism, as it flings down its biggest card, shall cry no longer, "ace of trumps," but "law of trumps," and "genius of trumps." chess terms too were republicanised. furniture becomes of spartan simplicity. the people lie down on patriotic beds and eat and drink from patriotic mugs and platters. lotteries are abolished, regulations launched against the sale of indecent literature, drawings or paintings; the open following of the profession of rahab prohibited; bull fights suppressed. silver buckles are needed by the national war chest: shoes shall now be clasped by patriotic buckles of copper. the monarchial "_vous_" (you) shall give place to "_toi_" (thou); and "monsieur" and "madame" to "_citoyen_" and "_citoyenne_." the formal subscriptions to letters, "your humble servant," "your obedient servant," shall no more recall the old days of class subjection; we write now "your fellow citizen," "your friend," "your equal." every house bears an inscription, giving the names and ages of the occupants, decorated with patriotic colours of red, white and blue, with figures of the gallic cock and the _bonnet rouge_. over every public building runs the legend, "liberty, equality, fraternity or death"[ ]--it is even seen over the cages of the wild beasts at the jardin des plantes. [footnote : the meaning of this much misunderstood phrase was simply that the citizens were ready to sacrifice their lives in defence of the revolutionary principles.] nowhere did the revolutionary ploughshare cut deeper than among the clergy and the religious orders. nearly forty monasteries and convents were suppressed in paris, and strange scenes were those when the troops of monks and friars issued forth to secular life, some crying "_vive jésus le roi, et la révolution_," for the new ideas had penetrated even the cloister. the barbers' shops were invaded, and strange figures were seen smoking their pipes along the boulevards. some went to the wars; others, especially the benedictines, appealed for teaching appointments; many faithful to their vows, went forth to poverty, misery, and death. the nuns and sisters gave more trouble, and the scenes that attended their expulsion and that of the non-juring clergy burned into the memories of the pious. "what do they take from me?" cried the _curé_ of st. marguerite in his farewell sermon. "my cure? all that i have is yours, and it is you they despoil. my life? i am eighty-four years of age, and what of life remains to me is not worth the sacrifice of my principles." descending the pulpit the venerable priest passed through a sobbing congregation to a garret in one of the faubourgs. there were but few, however, who imitated the dignified protest of the _curé_ of st. marguerite. many a pulpit rang with fiery denunciations, which recalled the savage fanaticism of the league. some of the younger clergy and a few of the bishops were on the side of the early revolutionists. the abbé fouchet was the peter the hermit of the crusade for liberty, and so popular were his sermons in notre dame that a seat there fetched twenty-four sous. but the corruption and apostasy of the hierarchy as a whole, and their betrayal of the people, had borne its acrid fruit of popular contempt and hostility, and the fanaticism of the worship of reason answered the fanaticism of the cross. in notre dame and other churches, which became temples of reason, statues of liberty replaced those of the _ci-devant_ holy virgin and every _décadi_ services were held in honour of liberty or of the supreme being. _the rights of man_, the constitution, despatches from the armies and new laws were read. prayers were made to the supreme being and liberty was invoked. patriotic hymns were sung, virtuous acts in the sections recited and addresses on morality, the domestic virtues and other ethical subjects were given. in some, an orator of morality was appointed. births, marriages and deaths were announced and--an essential detail--_collections_ were made in aid of suffering humanity. a _décadi_ ritual[ ] was printed with a selection of hymns and prayers to be used in the temples of reason. the services were crowded, famous preachers often evoked tears, tracts were published and saints of liberty were in course of evolution. but less than eight years after robespierre's solemn festival of the _Être suprème_ all the hierarchy of the old religion returned, sixty archbishops and bishops, and an army of priests, and a gorgeous easter mass in notre dame celebrated the reestablishment of the catholic faith by napoleon, the heir of the revolution. [footnote : the services seem to have been not very dissimilar to a modern ethical society meeting. the notorious festival of the th brumaire was a fête of liberty not of reason, the mistake being due to a careless transcription in the _procès-verbal_ of the convention. a living representative of liberty was chosen as less likely to tend to idolatry than an image of stone. see _la révolution française_, th april , _la déesse de la liberté_.] it is not within the scope of the present work to deal with the later annals of paris. superficial students of her modern history have freely charged her with political irresponsibility and fickleness; no charge could be less warranted by facts. for a thousand years her citizens were loyal and faithful subjects of a monarchy, and endured for a century and a half an infliction of misgovernment, oppression and grinding taxation such as probably no other european people would have tolerated. with touching fidelity and indomitable steadfastness they have cherished the principles of the great revolution, in whose name they swept the shams and wrongs of the _ancien régime_ away. there is a profounder truth than perhaps alphonse karr imagined in his famous epigram, _plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose_. every political upheaval of the nineteenth century in paris has been at bottom an effort to realise the revolutionary ideals of political freedom and social equality in the face of external violence or internal corruption and treachery. twice the hated bourbons were reimposed on the people of paris by the bayonets of the foreigner: twice they rose and chased them away. a compromise followed--that of a citizen king, louis philippe of orleans, once a jacobin doorkeeper and a soldier of the revolution, who had fought valiantly at valmy and jemappes--but he too identified himself with reactionary ministers, and became a fugitive to england, the bourne of deposed kings. the second republic which followed grew distrustful of the people and disfranchised at one stroke , , citizens: one of the causes of the success of the _coup d'état_ of napoleon iii. was an astute edict which restored universal suffrage. during the negation of political rectitude and decency which characterised the period of the second empire, a little band of republicans refused to bow the knee to the new pinchbeck cæsar, "the man," says freeman, "whose lips uttered the words _je le jure_ and kept the oath by a december massacre." inspired by victor hugo, their fiery poet and seer, whose _châtiments_ have the passionate intensity of an isaiah, they braved exile, poverty, calumny and flattery; they "stooped into a dark, tremendous sea of doubt, pressed god's lamp to their breasts and emerged" to witness a sad and bitter day of reckoning, when the corruption and vice of the second empire were swallowed up in shame and disaster at sedan.[ ] the third republic, with admirable energy and patriotism, rose to save the self-respect of france. the first and imperial war, up to sedan, was over in a month; the second national and popular war endured for five months. [footnote : "the collapse of the empire is tremendous. i have no pity for the melodramatic villain who ends as he began, in causeless and wanton blood." lord coleridge, _life_, ii., p. .] dynastic and ecclesiastical ambition die hard, and the new republic has had to weather many a storm in her career of a third of a century. carducci in a fine poem has imagined letizia, mother of the bonapartes, a wandering shade haunting the desolate house at ajaccio, recalling the tragic fate of her children, and, like a corsican niobe, standing on her threshold, fiercely stretching forth her arms to the savage ocean, calling from america, from britain, from burning africa, some one of her hapless progeny to find a haven in her breast. but the assegais of south african savages laid low the last hope of the imperialists, and it may reasonably be predicted that neither the shades nor the living descendants of bonaparte or bourbon will ever trouble again the internal peace of france nor her people be ruled by one "regnant by right divine and luck o' the pillow." throughout the whole land a profound desire of peace possesses men's minds[ ] and a firm determination to effect a material and moral recuperation from the disasters of the empire. [footnote : "we could rouse no enthusiasm," said the head of a state department to the writer at the time of the fashoda incident, "even for a war for the recovery of alsace and lorraine, much less against england."] the beneficent results of the great revolution have leavened the whole world. in no small degree may it be said of france that by her stripes we have been healed. with true insight the revolutionists perceived that national liberty is the one essential element of national progress:-- "when liberty goes out of a place it is not the first to go, nor the second or third to go, it waits for all the rest to go, it is the last." but the great work is yet incomplete. political liberty and equality have been won. a more tremendous task awaits the peoples of the old and new worlds alike--to achieve industrial emancipation and inaugurate a reign of social justice. and we know that paris will have no small part in the solution of this problem. * * * * * it now remains to consider the impress which this stormy period left on the architecture of paris. we have seen that the convention assigned the royal palace of the louvre for the home of a national museum. the neglect of the fabric, however, continued. already marat had appropriated four of the royal presses and their accessories for the _ami du peuple_ and the types founded for louis xiv. were used to print the diatribes of the fiercest advocate of the terror. all along the south façade, print and cook shops were seen, and small huckstering went on unheeded. in the ground floor of the petite galerie was used as a bourse. on the place du carrousel, and the site of the squares du louvre were a mass of mean houses which remained even to comparatively recent times. in the masterful will and all-embracing activity of napoleon were directed to the improvement of paris, which he determined to make the most beautiful capital in the world. his architects, percier and fontaine, were set to work on the louvre, and yet another vast plan was elaborated for completing the palace. a northern wing, corresponding to henry's iv.'s south wing, was to be built eastwards along the new rue de rivoli, from the pavilion de marsan at the north end of the tuileries; the carrousel was to be traversed by a building, separating the two palaces, designed to house the national library, the learned societies and other bodies. the work was begun in , the emperor commanding that the grand apartments were to be prepared for the sovereigns who would come, _à lui faire cortège_, after the success of the russian campaign! of this ambitious plan, however, all that was carried out was a portion of the rue de rivoli façade, from the pavilion de marsan to the pavilion de rohan, which latter was finished under the restoration. some external decorative work was done on the south façade. perrault's colonnade was restored, the four façades of the quadrangle were completed, and a new bridge to lead to the "palace of the arts" was built. little or nothing was done to further napoleon's plan until the republic of decreed the completion of the north façade, which was actually achieved under the second empire by visconti in , who built other structures, each with three courts, inside the great space enclosed by the north and south wings to correct their want of parallelism. later ( - ), henry the fourth's long gallery and the pavilions de flore and lesdiguières were rebuilt, and smaller galleries were added to those giving on the cour des tuileries: after the disastrous fire which destroyed the tuileries in , the third republic restored the pavilions de flore and de marsan. but the vicissitudes of this wonderful pile of architecture are not yet ended. the discovery of perrault's base at the east and of lemercier's at the north, will inevitably lead to their proximate disclosure. ample space remains at the east for the excavation of a wide and deep fosse, which would expose the wing to view as perrault intended it; but on the rue de rivoli side the problem is more difficult, and probably a narrow fosse, or _saut de loup_, will be all that space will allow there. napoleon i.'s new streets near the tuileries and the louvre soon became the fashionable quarter of paris. the italian arcades and every street name recalled a former victory of the consulate in italy and egypt. the military glories of a revolutionary empire, which at one time transcended the limits of that of charlemagne; which crashed through the shams of the old world and toppled in the dust their imposing but hollow state, were wrought in bronze on the vendôme column, cast from the cannon captured from every nation in europe. the triumphal arch of the carrousel, crowned by the bronze horses from st. mark's at venice; the majestic triumphal arch of the etoile--a partially achieved project--all paraded the emperor's fame. of more practical utility were the quays built along the south bank of the seine and the bridges of austerlitz and jena, which latter blücher would have blown up had wellington permitted it. the erection of the new church of the madeleine, begun in , had been interrupted by the revolution, and in , napoleon ordered that it should be completed as a temple of glory. the restoration transformed it to a catholic church, which was finally completed under louis philippe in , and it soon became the most fashionable place of worship in paris. napoleon drove sixty new streets through the city, cleared away the posts that marked off the footways, began the raised pavements and kerbs, and ordered the drainage to be diverted from the gutters in the centre of the roadway. the restoration erected two basilicas--notre dame de lorette and st. vincent de paul. the expiatory chapel raised to the memory of louis xvi. and marie antoinette on the site of the old cemetery of the madeleine--where they lay, until transferred to st. denis, in one red burial with the brave swiss guards who vainly spent their lives for them--is now threatened with demolition. three new bridges--of the invalides, the archevêché and arcole--were added, and fifty-five new streets. under the citizen king, napoleon's arch of triumph of the etoile was completed, and the columns of luxor, on the place de la concorde, and of july on the place de la bastille, were raised. it was the period of the admirable architectural restorations of viollet le duc. the great architect has described how his passion for gothic was stirred when, taken as a boy to notre dame, the rose window of the south transept seized on his imagination. while gazing at it the organ began to play, and he thought that the music came from the window--the shrill, high notes from the light colours, the solemn, bass notes from the dark and more subdued hues. it was a reverent and admiring spirit such as this which inspired the famous architect's loving treatment of the gothic restoration in paris and all over france. to him more than to any other artist we owe the preservation of such masterpieces as notre dame and the sainte chapelle. but the great changes which have made modern paris were effected under the second empire. in , when the haussmannisation of the city began, the paris of the first empire and of the restoration remained essentially unaltered. it was a city of a few grand streets and of many mean ones. pavements were still rare, and drainage was imperfect. in a few years the whole aspect was changed. twenty-two new boulevards and avenues were created. streets of appalling uniformity and directness were ploughed through paris in all directions. "nothing is more brutal than a straight line," says victor hugo, and there is little of interest in the monotonous miles of dreary coincidence which constitute the architectural legacy of the second empire. the sad task of the third republic has been to heal the wounds and cover up the destruction wrought by the civil war of . the chief architectural creations of the third republic are the hôtel de ville, the new sorbonne, the trocadero, and the completion of the magnificent and colossal temple, rich with precious marble and stone of every kind, which, at a cost of £ , , sterling, has been raised to the muses at the end of the avenue de l'opéra. the church, too, has lavished her millions on the mighty basilica of the sacré coeur, which towers over paris from the heights of montmartre. [illustration: hÔtel de ville from river.] but some of the glory of past ages remains hidden away in corners of the city; some has been recovered from the vandalism of iconoclastic eighteenth-century architects, canons, revolutionists and nineteenth-century prefects. let us now wander awhile about the great city and refresh our memories of her dramatic past by beholding somewhat of the interest and beauty which have been preserved to us; for "to be in paris itself, amid the full, delightful fragrance of those dainty visible things which huguenots despised--that, surely, were the sum of good fortune!" "i see ... long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing.... i see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long, long years to come, i see the evil of this time and of the previous time, of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out."--dickens. part ii: the city section i _the cité--notre dame--the sainte-chapelle[ ]--the palais de justice_[ ] [footnote : open - or . closed mondays and chief festivals.] [footnote : open daily, except sundays, - .] if the traveller will place himself on the pont royal, or on the pont du carrousel, and look towards the cité when the tall buildings, the spire of the sainte chapelle and the massive grey towers of notre dame are ruddy with the setting sun, he will enjoy a scene of beauty not easily surpassed in europe. across the picture, somewhat marred by the unlovely pont des arts, stride the arches of the pont neuf with their graceful curves; below is the little green patch of garden and the cascade of the weir; in the centre of the bridge the bronze horse with henry iv., its royal rider, almost hidden by the trees, stands facing the site of the old garden of the palais, where st. louis sat on a carpet judging his people, and whence philip the fair watched the flames that were consuming the grand master and his companion of the knights templars. to the left are the picturesque mediæval towers of the conciergerie and the tall roof of the belfry of the palais. around all are the embracing waters of the seine breaking the light with their thousand facets. the island, when seen from the east as one sails down the river, is not less imposing, for the great mother church of notre dame, with the graceful buttresses of the apse like folded pinions, seems to brood over the whole cité. [illustration: chapel of chÂteau at vincennes.] [illustration: near the pont neuf.] from the time when julius cæsar addressed his legions on the little island of _lutetia civitas parisiorum_ to the present day, two millenniums of history have been enacted there, and few spots are to be found in europe where so many associations are crowded together. in gallo-roman times the island was, as we have seen, even smaller, five islets having been incorporated with it since the thirteenth century. some notion of the changes that have swept over its soil may be conceived on scanning félibien's map, where no less than eighteen churches are marked, scarce a wrack of which now remains on the island. we must imagine the old mediæval cité as a labyrinth of crooked and narrow streets, with the present broad parvis of notre dame of much smaller extent, at a higher level, enclosed by a low wall and approached by steps. against the north tower leaned the baptistery (st. jean le rond) and st. denis of the ferry against the apse. st. pierre aux boeufs, whose façade has been transferred to st. sévérin's on the south bank, stood at the east corner, st. christopher at the west corner of the present hôtel dieu which covers the site of eleven streets and three churches. the old twelfth-century hospital, demolished in , occupied the whole space south of the parvis between the present petit pont and the pont au double. it possessed its own bridge, the pont st. charles, over which the buildings stretched, and joined the annexe ( ), which, until , existed on the opposite side of the river. notre dame. the traveller who stands on the parvis before the church of our lady at paris beholds the embodiment and most perfect expression of early gothic architecture, the central type and model of the new style created by the genius of the masters of the isle de france in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. on the west front the builders have lavished all their artistic powers in a synthetic exposition of their outlook on life and eternity. as the worshipper approaches the central portal his eye is arrested by a representation of the ultimate and most solemn fact of human destiny, the last judgment. on the lintel the dead are seen rising from their graves at the last trump; prelate, noble and serf in one equality of doom. above, the fine figure of st. michael is seen weighing souls in the balance. at his left the damned are hauled in chains by grinning demons to hell: at his right the elect raise joyful eyes toward heaven. crowning the tympanum is christ the judge, flanked by angels, and by the virgin and the baptist kneeling in intercession while he shows his wounded hands. on the archivolts are, to the right of the spectator, demons and damned souls and quaint personifications of death: to his left the heavenly host, choirs of angels, seated prophets and doctors and the army of martyrs. on the jambs are the five wise and five foolish virgins; apostles and saints on the embrasures of the door; below them reliefs of the virtues, each symbolised above its opposite vice. on the central pillar stands christ in act of blessing; below him, bas-reliefs typifying the seven liberal arts.[ ] [footnote : this portal suffered much from the vandalism of soufflot and his clerical employers of the eighteenth century (p. ): all that remains of the original carvings in the tympanum is a portion of the figure of christ and the angels. the revolutionary chaumette, when it was proposed to destroy the gothic _simulacra_ of superstition, protected the carvings on the west portals on the plea that they related to astronomy, to philosophy and the arts. the astronomer dupuis was added to the commission and the reliefs were saved.] we turn to the lovely portal of the virgin under the north tower. in the lower compartment of the tympanum is figured the ark of the covenant attended by prophets and kings; above, is the burial of the virgin, and crowning all, our lady in glory. on the archivolts are angels, patriarchs, prophets, and kings. the jambs and casements are decorated with thirty-seven marvellously vivid reliefs of the signs of the zodiac, the seasons and labours of the year, a kind of almanac of stone of rare invention and execution. on the embrasures of the door are, among others, the favourite parisian saints: denis, genevieve and stephen. on the central pier, below the virgin and child, are the creation, temptation and fall. the whole of this portal will repay careful inspection. st. anne's portal, under the south tower, is more archaic, and indeed some of its sculptures are believed to have come from an earlier romanesque building. along the lintel are seen episodes in the life of st. anne and in the life of mary: in the central band, to the left, are the presentation, the annunciation, the visitation; in the middle the nativity in various scenes; to the right herod, and the adoration of the magi. the whole of these reliefs are twelfth-century work, with the exception of the presentation, which is thirteenth century. in the hemicycle above are the virgin and child under a byzantine canopy with angels and founders on either side. on the central pier stands st. marcel, bishop of paris, banning the horrible serpent that made his lair in a tomb: the retreating serpent's tail is seen on the pier. both on this and on the north portal traces of painting still remain. before leaving, we note the beautiful mediæval wrought hinges (restored) which came from the old church of st. stephen and which have been copied for the central portal. the three portals were completed in . above them and across the whole façade runs a gallery of kings, twenty-eight in number--a perennial source of controversy. authorities are divided between the kings of france and the kings of israel and judah, the royal ancestry of the virgin. from the analogy of other cathedrals we incline to the latter view. the gallery dates not later than , but the statues are modern reproductions. yet higher, on the pierced balustrade, is a group of the virgin between two angels and on either side, over the n. and s. portals, adam and eve. a gallery of graceful columns knits the towers together (which were intended to be crowned by spires) before they soar from the façade. between the towers, in olden times, as we know from an illumination in a froissart ms., stood a great statue of the virgin. the whole of this glorious fretwork of stone, including the tracery of the rose window, was once refulgent with gold and azure and crimson, and the finished front in its mediæval glory has been compared to a colossal carved and painted triptych. [illustration: notre dame--portal of st. anne.] on the central pier of the greater portal of the n. transept, called of the cloister, we note a fine ancient statue of the virgin, famed for its grace of expression. the smaller porte rouge, further eastward, is remarkable for some well-preserved antique sculpture: a coronation of the virgin in the tympanum and six scenes in the life of st. marcel in the archivolt: some old gargoyles and reliefs may be seen on either side of the door. we pursue our way by the east end of the cathedral, where in mediæval times was an open waste, the motte aux papelards, the playground of the cathedral servants, the graceful outlines of the apse and the bold sweep of the flying buttresses ever varying in beauty as we pace around. the south portal (ill seen through the iron railings) called of st. stephen or of the martyrs is decorated with statues of the saint and of other martyrs, with scenes of their martyrdom. the inscription (p. ) may be seen at the base to the r. [illustration: notre dame--south side.] [illustration: notre dame--south side--from the seine.] we may now enter the noble and harmonious interior, unhappily bared of its rich old decorations, its tombs and statues cleared away, its fine gothic altar destroyed by clerical and royal vandals to give place to renaissance and pseudo-classic pomposities (p. ). we approach the choir from the right aisle, noting a fourteenth-century statue of the virgin and child on the left as we reach the entrance, perhaps the very statue before which _povre gilles_ did his penance (p. ) and proceed to examine all that remains of the "histories" in stone on the choir wall round the ambulatory, twenty-three in number, begun in by master jean ravy, mason of notre dame, and finished (_parfaites_) by master jean le bouteiller in , all _dorez et bien peints_. those on the choir screen were destroyed by the cardinal archbishop de noailles in . on the north side are twelve reliefs drawn from earlier new testament history: on the south are nine from later episodes in the life of christ. these naïve mediæval sculptures of varying merit will repay careful examination. the gilding and colouring are modern. of the jewelled splendour of the western rose and of the two great rose windows of the transepts the eye will never tire. with every changing light new beauties and new combinations of colour reveal themselves. those who care to read the subjects will discern in the north transept rose, incidents depicted in the life of the virgin, and eighteen founders and benefactors: in the south are apostles and bishops crowned by angels. [illustration: interior of notre dame.] we return to the porte rouge in the rue du cloître opposite which is the rue massillon, where at nos. and we may note some remains of the cloisters and canons' dwellings, once a veritable city within a city, fifty-one houses with gardens sequestered within a wall having four gates. we continue to the rue chanoinesse, where, no. , is the site of canon fulbert's house: at no. , by the courtesy of messieurs allez frères, we may visit the curious old fifteenth-century tower of dagobert[ ] which marks the site of the old port of st. landry and affords a fine view of the north side of notre dame. we return to no. and descend the rue des chantres to the quai aux fleurs: at no. , the site of the house of abelard and héloïse, an inscription recalls the names of the unhappy lovers, "... for ever sad, for ever dear, still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear." [footnote : now ( ) demolished.] we turn westward along the quai and ascend on our l., the narrow rue de la colombe, across which a double line of stones traces the position of the gallo-roman wall, that enclosed the cité. we continue to ascend, and on our l., no. rue chanoinesse, we enter a small court where we find a portion of the old pavement of st. aignan's church, with the almost effaced lineaments on the tombstones of those, now forgotten, who were doubtless famous churchmen in their time, and where st. bernard wept a whole day, fearing that god had withdrawn from him the power of converting souls. this faint trace of the past wealth of churches remains, but where are the sanctuaries of ste. geneviève des ardents, st. pierre des arces, st. denis of the prison, st. germain le vieux, ste. croix, st. symphorien, st. martial, st. bartholomew, and the church of the barnabites, which replaced that of st. anne, which replaced the old abbey church of st. eloy, all clustering around their parent church of our lady like nuns under their patroness' mantle? until comparatively recent times the church of st. marine was used as a joiner's workshop, and one of the chapels of ste. madeleine, parish church of the water-sellers, served as a wine merchant's store! all that survives of the ancient splendour of the cité are notre dame and some portions of the palais, including the ste. chapelle. we turn r. to the rue d'arcole that has swept away the old church of st. landry, near which, until the reign of louis xiii., a market was held for the sale of foundling children at thirty sous. the scandal was abolished by the efforts of the gentle st. vincent de paul, anne of austria's confessor. turning l. along this street we emerge on the parvis, which we skirt to the r. along the façade of the new hôtel dieu, and reach the rue de la cité. we turn r., cross to the l. and follow the broad rue de lutèce to the palais de justice. the sainte chapelle and the palais de justice. entering the cour du mai by the great iron grille which has replaced the old stone portal, flanked by two towers, a passage on the left leads us to the cour de la ste. chapelle (p. ). we enter by the west porch of the lower chapel. on the central pier is a restored figure of the virgin whose original is said to have bowed her head to the famous scotch theologian duns scotus, in recognition of his championship of the dogma of the immaculate conception, in : in the decoration of the base of the column and of the embrasures of the door, the fleur-de-lys of st. louis is seen alternating with the castilian tower of his mother, blanche of castile, a decorative motive repeated in the painting of the chapel. beautiful as are the vaultings and proportions of the lower chapel, and the decoration, copied, as in the upper chapel, from traces of the original colouring found under the whitewash, the visitor will doubtless prefer to ascend, after a cursory inspection, the narrow, winding stairway to the resplendent upper sanctuary, whose dazzling brilliancy moved an ancient writer to declare that "in the contest between light and darkness in architecture, the creator of the ste. chapelle in the pride of his victory built with light itself." in the apse, flooded by streams of colour falling from the windows, is the platform or tribune where, in a rich reliquary of gold, glittering with precious stones, and under a baldachin, the holy relics from constantinople were exposed in days of old. part of the tribune is preserved and one of the staircases by which it is ascended, that to the n., is said to date from the founder's time, and may often have been trodden by the very feet of st. louis himself. little else of the interior furniture has escaped destruction. the beautiful high altar, the rood loft, the choir stalls, have long disappeared. four only of the statues of the apostles bearing the crosses of consecration are said to be originals--the fourth and fifth on each side of the nave counting from the west door; the relics, or all that escaped the political storms of the _année terrible_, are now at notre dame, and the reliquary that contained them went to feed the hungry war-chest of the revolutionary armies. but the thirteenth-century jewelled windows, as left to us by the admirable restorers of , are of paramount interest. the wealth of design and amplitude of the series are truly amazing. the panels, numbering about eleven hundred, are a compendium of sacred history and a revelation of the world to come: the whole scene from the creation to the apocalypse is unrolled before our eyes, pictured in a transparent symphony of colour. seven windows of the nave and four of the apse deal with old testament history: three at the end of the apse with the new. the eighth window of the nave (the first to the r. of entrance), dealing with the story of the translation of the relics from constantinople, although the most restored--nineteen only of the sixty-seven subjects are original--is perhaps the most interesting, for among the nineteen may be seen st. louis figured by the contemporary artist: receiving the relics at sens; assisting to carry the relics, barefoot; taking part at the exposition of the relics with his queen and his mother; receiving an embassy from the emperor baldwin; carrying the byzantine cross which holds a portion of the true cross. another of the original panels contains a representation of the cité with the enveloping arms of the seine. the rose window at the west end is obviously later, and dates from the fifteenth century. in olden times the lower part of the central window of the apse was made of white glass that the people massed in the courtyard below might behold the relics as st. louis and his successors, after exhibiting them to the privileged congregation in the chapel, turned round to show them. against the south wall of the nave is a little oratory with a squint through which it is said louis xi. used to venerate the relics unobserved. we step out from the west door of the upper chapel to examine the more richly decorated upper portal. the carvings are all modern and, except such as were suggested by traces of the old work, are copied from the west front of notre dame and other churches. many a solemn and many a strange scene have been enacted in this royal oratory; the strangest of all perhaps when charles v. of france, the holy roman emperor charles iv., and his son wenceslaus, king of the romans, in the _rôle_ of the three holy kings, came to venerate the relics and laid oblations before the shrine. before we turn away from the building we should observe on the west façade above the rose window wherein the architect has literally sported with the difficulties of construction in stone a charming design of fleurs-de-lys framed by quatrefoils along the balustrade; the central design is an r. (rex), crowned by two angels. the present spire is a fourth erection. the second, which replaced the original spire in , was one of the wonders of paris, and fell a victim to fire in . a third, erected by louis xiii., was demolished in , and in lassus, viollet le duc's principal colleague in the restoration of the chapel, designed the graceful flèche we see to-day. we return to the cour du mai: on the r., before we ascend the great stairway, we look down on the nine steps leading from the vestibule (now a café restaurant) of the conciergerie, up which those doomed to the guillotine ascended to the fatal tumbrils awaiting them in the courtyard. we ascend to the galerie marchande: the stairway, rebuilt after the fire of , replaced the old flight of stairs at whose feet heralds proclaimed treaties of peace and tournaments, criminals were branded, and books condemned by the parlement, burned. here pantagruel loved to stand and cut the stirrup-straps of the fat councillors' mules, and see the _gros suflé de conseiller_ fall flat when he tried to mount; and here the clercs of the basoche planted the annual may-tree, brought from the forest of bondy, with much playing of drums and trumpets and elaborate ceremony. the galerie marchande, formerly known as the galerie mercière, was once a busy and fashionable bazaar, where lines of shops displayed fans, shoes, slippers and other dainty articles of feminine artillery. the further galleries were also invaded by the traders, who were only finally evicted in . we turn r. and enter the grande salle or, as it is now known, the salle des pas perdus. it, too, was once a busy mart, booksellers especially predominating, most of whom had stations there, much as we see them to-day, round the odéon theatre. vérard's address was--"at the image of st. john the evangelist, before notre dame de paris, and at the first pillar in the grande salle of the palais de justice, before the chapelle where they sing the mass for messieurs of the parlement." gilles couteau's address was at "the two archers in the rue de la juiverie and at the third pillar at the palais." every pillar had its bookseller's shop. in the great chamber, the finest of its kind in europe, with its rich stained glass, its double vaultings resplendent with blue and gold, was gutted by fire, and its long line of statues of the kings of france, from pharamond to henry iv.--the _rois fainéants_ with pendent arms and lowered eyes, the valiant warrior kings with heads and arms erect--disappeared for ever. this was the hall where the clercs of the basoche performed their _farces_, _sottises_ and _moralités_, and where victor hugo has placed the scene of the famous performance of the _moralité_, composed by pierre gringoire,[ ] so vividly described in the opening chapters of _notre dame_. [footnote : notes exist of payments in , to pierre gringoire, _histrion et facteur_ for the mysteries--well and honestly performed--at the entries of madame la reine, before the portail of the châtelet.] debrosse, who built the new salle in , left a noble and harmonious renaissance chamber, which, again restored after the fire of , endured until its destruction by fire during the commune. the present rather frigid hall was completed in by j.l. duc, who respected the traditional form and amplitude of the older structures. nearly opposite the monument to malesherbes (r.) was the position of the old pilier des consultations, where the lawyers were wont to give gratuitous legal help to the poor. the best time to visit the hall is in the afternoon, when the courts are sitting and when the footsteps of the lawyers and their clients are indeed lost amid the buzz of conversation as they pace up and down. the _première chambre_ to the l., in the north-west corner of the hall, is one of the most profoundly interesting in the agglomerated mass of buildings known as the palais de justice. this, now somewhat reduced in size, was the old _grande chambre_, rebuilt by louis xii. on the occasion of his marriage with princess mary of england, which replaced the earlier bed-chamber of st. louis. fra gioconda's sumptuous decorations of , which won for it the name of the _chambre dorée_, the gold used being, it is said, equal in purity to the famous dutch golden florin, have been partially restored. here the kings of france held their beds of justice; here the fronde held its sittings, and here on th april, , the young king louis xiv. strode in, booted and spurred, and is said to have uttered the famous words _l'État c'est moi_. here too, renamed the salle Égalité, the dread revolutionary tribunal held its sittings and condemned victims; here on th october , at half-past four in the morning, appeared marie antoinette, "widow of louis capet," before her implacable judges and heard her doom; hence the twenty-one girondins trooped forth to their common fate; here robespierre, st. just, and, at length, the unwearied minister of death, fouquier-tinville himself, the revolutionary public prosecutor, heard their condemnation. we leave by the cour du mai and note, to our l., the restored clock tower, replacing the most ancient and famous clock of paris. it was renewed by germain pilon in and restored in . demolished during the revolution, the face and decoration were again renewed in . the silvery-toned bell that hung here, called the _tocsin_, cast in and known as the _cloche d'argent_, was accused, together with the bell of st. germain l'auxerrois, before the commune on st august , of having given the signal for the massacre of st. bartholomew, and its immediate destruction was ordered. we turn along the picturesque river façade, and between its two mediæval towers, de césar and d'argent, enter the conciergerie.[ ] the condemned cell of marie antoinette (transformed into a chapel) and the cell of robespierre are shown, together with the chapel where the girondins passed their last night and where their legendary banquet is famed to have taken place. the so-called _cuisine de st. louis_, a remain of the old gothic palace of philip le bel, is no longer shown. the third tower on the river façade, which we pass on our way westward, has been wholly rebuilt. in the original tower was the judicial torture-chamber (an adjunct of every court of justice in olden times), used to wrest confessions from prisoners and evidence from unwilling witnesses, hence its name of tour bon bec or bavarde. the fine western façade and the salle des pas perdus of the cour d'assises, looking on the place dauphine, were completed in . [footnote : permission to visit on thursdays, - , to be obtained by written application to the prefect of police, rue de lutèce.] few law courts in europe have so venerable a history as the palais de justice. from the times when the roman prætor set up his court, more than two thousand years ago, to the present day, a temple of law and justice has ever stood on this spot. section ii _st. julien le pauvre--st. sévérin--the quartier latin._ as we fare s. from the w. end of the parvis of notre dame and cross the petit pont, we behold the old roman road, now rue st. jacques, rising straight before us and on the annexe of the hôtel dieu,[ ] to the l. of the place du petit pont find inscribed their names (p. ), who nearly twelve centuries ago dared:-- "for that sweet motherland which gave them birth, nobly to do, nobly to die." on the site of the place stood the petit châtelet, demolished in , a gloomy prison where many a rowdy student was incarcerated. to the l. of the rue du petit pont[ ] we turn by the rue de la bûcherie and on our r. find the rue st. julien le pauvre. here on the l., hidden behind a pair of shabby wooden gates, stands the modest little twelfth-century church, now used for the uniat greek services, where st. gregory of tours found the drunken impostor (pp. , ), where the university of paris first held its sittings, and where twice a year the royal provost attended to swear to preserve the privileges of the rector, masters and scholars. near by stood the house of buridan (_note_, p. ). at the end of the street we turn r. by the old rues galande and st. sévérin: at no. of the latter, we see a trace of the original naming of the streets by turgot, the marks of the erasure of the word "saint" during the revolution being clearly visible. parallel with this street to the n. is the rue de la huchette, from which opens the curious old rue du chat qui pêche and the rue zacharie, in mediæval times called sac à lie, which communicates with the rue st. sévérin. to our l. is the fine gothic church of st. sévérin, one of the most beautiful and interesting in paris, on the site of the oratory of childebert i., where st. cloud was shorn and took his vows. on the thirteenth-century n. portal of the tower have been replaced the two small lions in relief between which, in olden times, the curés are said to have exercised justice. we note the thirteenth-century w. portal, transferred from the old church of st. pierre aux boeufs, and enter for the sake of the beautiful gothic interior, mainly fifteenth century, with its double aisles and ambulatory and fine stained-glass in the nave. we turn l., on leaving, along the rue des prêtres st. sévérin (no. is the site of the old collège de lisieux) which is continued by the rue boutebrie, in former times the rue des enlumineurs, famous for those who practised the art, "_che alluminare chiamata è in parisi_."[ ] at the end of the rue des prêtres we turn l. along the picturesque rue de la parcheminerie, where we may recall the old poet corneille sitting at a cobbler's stall while his gaping shoe was patched, and where still remain, among other curious old houses, nos. and , which in the thirteenth century were owned by the canons of norwich cathedral, who maintained a number of scholars there. we are now on the very foyer of the university quarter, in mediæval times swarming with poor scholars, the busy hive of knowledge, and so notorious for its misery and rowdy depravity, that charles v. during his regency had the rue du fouarre closed at curfew by strong iron grilles. we pass on to the rue st. jacques, then r. to the boulevard st. germain, again sharply to the l. and descend the new rue dante, r. of which, in the rue domat, are some quaint old houses: at _bis_ is the site of the old collège de cournouailles (brittany). the rue dante is continued by the rue du fouarre (straw street) where siger taught (p. ) and in one of whose colleges the author of the _divina commedia_ probably sat as a scholar. the houses are all modernised and the name alone remains. we turn r. along the rue galande, noting r. the rue des anglais which reminds us that there the english scholars congregated. we pass on by the rue lagrange and reach the place maubert of dread memories, for here were burnt many a protestant martyr and the famous printer philosopher, Étienne dolet, friend of erasmus, of marot and of melancthon, whose statue in bronze stands on the place. dolet's martyrdom is still yearly celebrated there by democratic parisians, and the place has always been famous for its barricades during the fronde and later revolutionary times. we cross the boulevard to the rue des carmes, whose name recalls the carmelite monastery founded by st. louis, and at no. find the site of the old italian college (collège des lombards). much of this "hostel of the poor italian scholars of the charity of our lady," as rebuilt by two irish priests, michael kelly and patrick moggin, still exists, including the chapel, and is partly occupied by a catholic workmen's club it gave shelter to forty missionary priests and an equal number of poor irish scholars, and the earliest disciples of loyola found temporary shelter there. some idea of the vast extent of the ancient foundation may be gained by walking round to rue de la montagne ste. geneviève on the other side of the marché where the principal portal may be seen. we return to the place maubert, which we recross, and descend direct before us to the rue de la bûcherie on our l. this street was the centre of the medical students, and from to the times of louis xiv. the faculty of medicine held its lectures and demonstrations there. at no. still remains the old anatomical and surgical theatre of the faculty erected in , which has been acquired by the municipality, but had a neglected, almost ruined aspect when we last passed (feb. ).[ ] we continue along this street and return to the place du petit pont. [footnote : the annexe, the inscription and the rue du petit pont--all have disappeared ( ).] [footnote : _purgatorio_, xi. .] [illustration: st. sÉvÉrin.] [illustration: old academy of medicine.] section iii _École des beaux arts_[ ]--_st. germain des prés_--_cour du dragon_--_st. sulpice_--_the luxembourg_--_the odéon_--_the cordeliers_--_the surgeons' guild_--_the musée cluny_[ ]--_the sorbonne_[ ]--_the panthéon_[ ]--_st. Étienne du mont_--_tour clovis_--_wall of philip augustus_--_roman amphitheatre_ [footnote : now demolished ( ).] [footnote : open sundays, - .] [footnote : open - or , closed mondays and chief festivals.] [footnote : may be visited thursdays and sundays, - . apply concierge, rue des Écoles.] [footnote : open - or , closed mondays and festivals.] we cross to the s. bank of the seine by the pont du carrousel (or des saints pères). opposite on the quai malaquais stands the École des beaux arts (on the site of the old convent of the petits augustins where lenoir organised his museum), founded by the convention and now one of the most important art-teaching centres in europe. we turn s. by the rue bonaparte, and soon find the entrance, on the r., to the first courtyard, in which we note, on our r., the fine portal of the château of anet, built for diana of poitiers by delorme and goujon ( ): opposite the entrance, giving access to the second courtyard, is placed a façade, transitional in style, from the château of gaillon. an hour may profitably be spent on sundays strolling through the rooms viewing the interesting collection of casts and reproductions of masterpieces of painting by the pupils of the school. delaroche's famous hemicycle, representing the great artists of every age, seventy-five figures larger than life, will be found in the theatre of the musée des antiquités entered from the second courtyard. we continue along the rue bonaparte past the new académie de médecine and on our l. soon sight the grey pile of the old abbey church of st. germain des prés, once refulgent in colour and gold. a part of the great tower is said to have resisted the norman conflagrations, but the church as we now behold it, is that rebuilt - ; enlarged in and restored at various periods in the first half of the nineteenth century. of the great fortress-monastery, with its immense domains of land; its cloisters, walls and towers; its prison and pillory, over which the puissant abbots once held sway, only a memory remains. the fortifications were razed in the seventeenth century and gave place to artizans' houses. the famous fair of st. germain has long been suppressed, where henry iv. on the royal entry of marie de' medici, after promising the merchants that they should grow rich, since his queen had _de l'argent frais_, disappointed them all by chaffering much and buying nothing. over the entrance of the church within the w. porch is a well-preserved romanesque relief of the last supper. some bases and capitals of the triforium date from the twelfth century, but the heavy romanesque capitals of the eleventh century nave are restorations, and the beautiful early gothic choir has also been much modified at various epochs. the interest of the interior is enhanced to the lover of french art by flandrin's admirable frescoes (p. ), illustrating scenes from the old and new testaments. unhappily, they are seen with difficulty, and a bright, sunny day is necessary to appreciate the masterly art, the noble and reverent spirit that animates them. one of the most successful and best seen is the entry into jerusalem, l. of the choir. if we turn by the rue de l'abbaye, n. of the church, we shall find part of the sixteenth-century abbot's palace yet standing, and a walk round the apse and the s. side of the church will afford a view of its massive bulk, its flying buttresses and steep-pitched roof. crossing the place st. germain obliquely to the s.w. we reach the rue de rennes: at no. is the entrance of the picturesque cour du dragon with an eighteenth-century figure of a dragon carved over it. at the end of this curious courtyard, paved, as old paris was paved, with the gutter down the middle, will be seen two old towers enclosing stairways. we return to the rue bonaparte and faring still s. reach the huge fabric of st. sulpice with its massive, gloomy towers and pretentious façade of cumbrous splendour. we enter for the sake of delacroix' fine paintings in the side chapel r. of entrance: jacob wrestling with the angel; heliodorus driven from the temple; and st. michael and the dragon. in this and in many of the numerous chapels are other decorative paintings by modern artists, few of which will probably appeal to the visitor. it was in this church that camille desmoulins was wedded to lucille, robespierre acting as best man. on the s. side of the ample place st. sulpice is the great catholic seminary,[ ] and the whole neighbourhood has an essentially ecclesiastical character. shops and emporiums displaying _objets de piété_; all kinds of church furniture and art (most of it bad art) abound. we continue our southward way by the rue férou, opposite the end of which is the musée du luxembourg containing a collection of such contemporary sculpture and paintings as has been deemed worthy of acquisition by the state. the rooms are crowded with statuary and pictures which evince much talent and technical skill, but the visitor will be impressed by few works of great distinction. the english traveller, perchance, will leave with kindlier feelings towards those responsible for the chantrey pictures, though envious of a collection whose catholicity embraces works by two great modern masters, londoners by option--legros and whistler. but any impression that may be left on the traveller's mind by the inspection of the examples of contemporary french art exhibited in this museum should be supplemented and corrected by an examination of decorative works of greater range in the chief public edifices, such as the hôtel de ville, the sorbonne, the panthéon and the École de médecine. we enter the luxembourg gardens by the gate r. of the museum, turn l., pass the façade of the palace and opposite its e. wing discover the charming old medici fountain. after strolling about the delightful gardens, unhappily by the erection of the observatory in reduced by more than one-third of their former extent, we leave by the gate n. of the medici fountain which gives on the rue vaugirard opposite the odéon theatre, formerly the _théâtre de la nation_, where the _comédie française_ performed for a few years after . the paris booksellers still have their stalls inside the colonnade even as they used to do in the great salle of the palais de justice. [footnote : now suppressed and the building taken over by the state ( ).] [illustration: cour du dragon.] descending (r. of the odéon) the rues corneille, casimir delavigne and antoine dubois, we strike the rue de l'École de médecine where (no. to r.) will be seen the refectory, all that remains of the great franciscan monastery, and now used as a pathological museum (musée dupuytren), for medical students. in this hall was laid the body of marat after his assassination by charlotte corday, and the famous club of the cordeliers, where the gentler rhetoric of camille desmoulins vied with the thunderous declamation of danton to stir republican fervour, met in the hall of theology. we pass to no. , where are some remains of the old school of surgery or guild of ss. cosmas and damian, founded by st. louis; adjacent stood the church of st. cosmas, famous for the fiery zeal of its curé during the times of the league. the surgeons of the guild being compelled by their charter to give professional aid to the poor every monday, the churchwardens obtained a papal bull authorising them to erect in their church a suitable consulting-room for the use of the patients. in the surgeons built an anatomical theatre which, enlarged in , is now used as an art school. we continue our pilgrimage and, crossing the boulevard st. michel to the rue des Écoles, descend on our l. the rue de la sorbonne and find the entrance to the beautiful late gothic palace built for the abbots of cluny in . [illustration: tower and courtyard of hÔtel cluny.] the delightful old mansion, (p. ) now the musée de cluny, is crowded with a selection of mediæval and renaissance objects unparalleled in europe for variety and excellence and beauty. the rooms themselves, with their fine carved chimney-pieces, where on winter days wood-fires, fragrant and genial, burn, are not the least charming part of the museum. many of the exhibits (about , ) are uncatalogued, and the old catalogue, long out of date, may well be classed among the antiquities. the traveller will doubtless return again and again to this rich and fascinating museum. the present installation is provisional, and we do but indicate the chief classes of objects exhibited, most of which are clearly labelled. l. of vestibule, rooms i. and ii. contain a miscellaneous collection of wood carving, statuary, ivories, etc. room iii. has some important examples of carved and painted altar-pieces: is late fifteenth-century work; , flemish of the sixteenth century; , a german domestic altar-piece, near which stands a fine flemish altar-piece (no number), carved with scenes from the passion. on a screen in the centre are some important paintings, carvings and other objects of ecclesiastical art from the rothschild collection. room iv. shows some beautiful renaissance furniture, cabinets, medals, etc. to the r. is the smaller room v. the chief exhibits here are an eighteenth-century neapolitan _crèche_, with more than fifty doll-like figures; a rich tabernacle of plateresque spanish work, and some furniture of interest. we return and descend to room vi. (on the r), a large hall, where many important mediæval sculptures will be seen. at the four corners are thirteenth-century statues from the ste. chapelle. we may also mention: (under a glass case), some lovely fourteenth-century statuettes, mourners from the tomb of philip the bold, by the burgundian artist, claus sluter; a painted statue of the baptist, sienese work; statuette in wood of the virgin, french art of the fourteenth century; , statuette in wood of st. louis from the ste. chapelle. other noteworthy examples of mediæval plastic art by french, italian and netherland craftsmen will be found in this room, and around the walls are specimens of tapestries, carvings, paintings and mosaics, among the last being some from st. denis and one, , by david ghirlandaio from st. merri. we cross a passage to the parallel hall vii., where hang three grand pieces of early sixteenth century flemish tapestry, illustrating the story of david and bathsheba. among the statuary are: , virgin and child, french work of early sixteenth century; , the three fates, attributed to germain pilon, and said to be portraits of diana of poitiers and her daughters. , the forsaken ariadne; , sleep; , venus and cupid; , a small and beautiful entombment, are french work of the sixteenth century. hall viii. here are exhibited the sumptuously decorated robes of the order of the holy ghost (p. ); other examples of fine tapestry; a venetian galley lamp; and some statuary of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. we return to the passage and ascend the stairs to the first floor. here are three galleries devoted to faiences and other specimens of the potter's art of french, italian, flemish, german, spanish, persian and moorish provenance. all are of admirable craftsmanship, the italian (including some from faenza itself, the home of faience ware) being of especial beauty and excellence. among the della robbia ware is an exquisite child-baptist by andrea. we now ascend three steps to the room which contains, among other objects, a matchless collection of limoges enamels; some venetian glass; and the marvellous fifteenth-century tapestries from boussac, probably the finest of that fine period which have survived to us. the upper portion illustrates the life and martyrdom of st. stephen; the lower, the story of the lady and the unicorn, or the triumph of chastity. we descend to the gallery of hispano-moorish and persian pottery, and cross to a suite of small rooms where specimens of jewish sanctuary art, old musical instruments, wedding cassoni and flemish cabinets are displayed. we then turn r. to the hall of francis i., with a stately bed of the period; carved cabinets and cupboards, and proceed direct to the room devoted to the ivories. these are of extraordinary variety and beauty, and range from the sixth century downwards. the next room is crowded with an equally varied collection of bronze and iron work, among which we note a fifteenth-century statuette in bronze of joan of arc. the examples of the locksmith's art shown are of great beauty and excellence. the elaboration of french keys has a peculiar origin. henry iii., as a mark of royal favour, permitted his minions to possess a key of his private apartment: as a piece of swagger the royal favourite was wont to wear the key ostentatiously on his breast, whereby french smiths were spurred in emulation to produce keys of exquisite craftsmanship and design. another kind of interest attaches to the key (no. in the case on the l. as we enter) which was made by louis xvi. the following room contains specimens of the goldsmith's art. is a curious sixteenth-century model of a ship in gilded bronze, with figures of charles v. and his court on the deck: it has an ingenious mechanism for discharging toy cannon. , is a set of chessmen in rock crystal; , the face of an altar, rich gold repoussé work, was given by the emperor, henry ii., to bale cathedral. the glass case in the centre holds nine golden visigothic crowns found near toledo in , the largest is that of king reccesvinthus who reigned in the latter half of the seventh century; is a fourteenth-century italian processional cross of great beauty. we retrace our steps to the hall of francis i., turn r. and enter the private chapel. opposite the charming little apse are placed some admirably preserved fourteenth-century reliefs in stone from the abbey of st. denis. on leaving, we turn r. along the passage, hung with armour and weapons, to the stairway, descend to room vi., ground floor, open a door at its w. end, and in the twinkling of an eye are swept back nigh two thousand years along the stream of the ages, for the frigidarium of the baths of the palace of the cæsars is before us, a fabric of imperial architecture, spoiled of its decorations but yet massive and strong, as of elemental strength, defiant of time, the imperishable mark of rome. we descend and find in the centre the altar (p. ), bearing the inscription of the _nautæ_. a statue of the emperor julian; some thirteenth and fourteenth-century statues are also exhibited. we may enter and rest in the garden where a twelfth-century cloister portal from the benedictine abbey of argenteuil, a fourteenth-century portal from the abbey of st. denis, and other fragments of architecture are placed. [illustration: arches in the courtyard of the hÔtel cluny.] we return to the rue des Écoles which we cross to the imposing new university buildings. the vestibule, grand staircase and amphitheatre are of noble and stately proportions and adorned with mural paintings, among which puvis de chavannes' great composition, the sacred grove, in the amphitheatre, is of chief interest.[ ] we continue along the rue de la sorbonne and soon reach the old chapel, all that remains of richelieu's sorbonne, containing his tomb, a masterpiece of monumental art of the late seventeenth century, designed by lebrun and executed by girardon. the church of st. benoist and its cloister, where françois villon assassinated his rival chermoyé, has also been swept away. we proceed by the rue victor cousin, a continuation of the rue de la sorbonne, and debouch on the broad rue soufflot. turning l., an inscription on no. marks the site of the dominican monastery where the great schoolmen, albertus magnus and st. thomas aquinas taught. opposite (no. ), at the corner of the rue st. jacques is the site, marked by a plan, of the old porte st. jacques of the philip augustus wall. we are now on the mount of st. genevieve, crowned by the majestic and eminent panthéon, whose pediment is adorned by david d'angers' sculptures, representing la patrie, between liberty and history, distributing crowns to her children. among the figures are malesherbes, voltaire, rousseau, mirabeau, carnot, bonaparte, behind whom stand an old grenadier and the famous drummer-boy of arcole. [footnote : the collège de france may be seen further along the rue des Écoles at the corner of the rue st. jacques.] the panthéon has the most magnificent situation and, except the new church of the sacré coeur, is the most dominant building in paris. its dome is seen from nearly every eminence commanding the city, and has a certain stately, almost noble, aspect. but the spacious interior, despite the efforts of the artists of the third republic, is chilling to the spectator. swept and garnished, it has no warmth of historical or religious associations; it is devoid of human sentiment. the choice of painters to decorate the interior was an amazing act of official insensibility. the most discordant artistic temperaments were let loose on the devoted building. puvis de chavannes, the only painter among them who has grasped the limitation of mural art, has painted with restraint and noble simplicity incidents in the story of st. genevieve. jean paul laurens is responsible for a splendid but incongruous representation of the death of st. genevieve. a st. denis, scenes in the lives of clovis, charlemagne, st. louis, and jeanne d'arc, by bonnat, blanc, levy, cabanel and lenepveu, are all excellent work of the kind so familiar to visitors to the salon at paris, but lacking in harmony and in inspiration. the angel appearing to jeanne d'arc seems to have been modelled from a _figurante_ at the opera. the visitor who has perused the opening chapters of this book will have no difficulty in following the subjects depicted on the walls. a more ambitious scheme of decoration was abruptly closed by the coup d'État of napoleon iii.: chenavard, who had been commissioned, in , to decorate the interior by a series of forty cartoons, illustrating the "history of man from his first sorrows to the french revolution," found his gigantic project made abortive by the prince president's treachery. to the l. of the panthéon, the library of st. genevieve stands on the site of the collège montaigu and behind, in the rue clotilde, will be seen the steep-pitched roof of the old dormitory and refectory of the monastery of st. genevieve: to our l. stands the picturesque church of st. Étienne du mont (p. ), whose interior is architecturally of much interest. the triforium, supported by round pillars and arches, in its turn supports a _tournée_, with another row of arches and pillars; some fine sixteenth-century coloured glass still remains. biard's florid choir screen (p. ) or _jubé_ will at once attract the visitor, and the ever-present worshippers around the rich shrine r. of the choir will tell him that there such relics of the holy patroness of paris as survived the revolution are preserved. two inscriptions near by recall the historical associations of the site. leaving by the door this side of the choir, we issue into the rue clovis: opposite we sight the so-called tower of clovis, now enclosed in the buildings of the lycée henri iv., and once the tower of the fine old abbey church of st. genevieve. a closer examination from the courtyard proves it to be partly romanesque, partly gothic. we descend the rue clovis and at no. find one of the best-preserved remains of the philip augustus wall. proceeding to the end of the rue clovis, we turn r., ascend the rue cardinal lemoine, and cross to the rue rollin, which we descend to its intersection with the rue monge: in the rue de navarre opposite will be found the ruins of the old roman arena (p. ). to return, we descend the rue monge, which terminates at the place maubert, where we find ourselves on familiar ground; or we may re-ascend the rue rollin, retracing our steps to the rue cardinal lemoine, cross l. to the place contrescarpe and on our l. find the interesting rue mouffetard with curious old houses: , the site of the palace of the patriarchs of alexandria and jerusalem, is now the marché des patriarchs. the street terminates at the church of st. médard, whose notorious cemetery (p. ) is now a square. we retrace our steps, noting l. the old fountain at the corner of the rue pot de fer, continue to the end of the rue mouffetard, and descend by the rue descartes, where at no. is an inscription marking the site of the porte st. marcel called porte bordet. we pass the École polytechnique, on the site of the old college of navarre, and continue down the rue de la montagne ste. geneviève to the place maubert. [illustration: interior of st. Étienne du mont.] section iv _the louvre[ ]--sculpture: ground floor._ [footnote : the louvre is open from - in summer, from - in winter. on sundays it is open from - . it is closed on mondays and holidays and on thursdays till o'clock.] no other edifice in europe contains so vast a treasure of things beautiful and rare as the great royal palace of the louvre, whose growth we have traced in our story. from periods so remote that works of art sometimes termed ancient are in comparison but of yesterday to the productions of the generation of artists who have just passed away, we may study the varying phases of the manifestation through the ages of the artistic sense in man. from egypt, chaldea and assyria, from persia, phoenicia and greece, rich and marvellous collections afford a unique opportunity for the study of comparative æsthetics. we may safely assume, however, that the traveller will be chiefly interested in the manifold examples of the plastic and pictorial arts, here exhibited, from greece downwards. in the limited space at our disposal we can do no more than indicate the principal and choicest objects in the various rooms, praying those whose leisure and interest impel them to more thorough examination of any one department, to possess themselves of the admirable and exhaustive special catalogues issued by the directors of the museum. the nucleus of the gallery of sculpture and painting was formed by francis i. and the renaissance princes at the palace of fontainebleau, where the canvases at the beginning of the seventeenth century had reached nearly . colbert, during the reign of louis xiv. by the purchase of the mazarin and other collections, added paintings and nearly drawings in ten years. in the cabinet du roi, for so the collection of royal pictures was called, was transferred to the louvre. they soon, however, followed their owner to versailles, but some hundred were subsequently returned to paris, where they might be inspected at the luxembourg palace by the public on wednesdays and saturdays. in bailly, the keeper of the king's cabinet, took an inventory of the paintings and they were found to number . in all were again returned to versailles, and it was not until , when the national convention, on barrère's motion, took the matter in hand, that they were restored to the parisians and, together with the works of art removed from the suppressed churches and monasteries preserved by lenoir, formed the famous gallery of the louvre, which was formally opened to the public on the first anniversary of the memorable th of august. the arrival of the artistic spoils from italy was stage-managed by napoleon with consummate skill and imposing spectacular effect. amid the applauding multitudes of parisians a long procession of triumphal cars slowly wended its way, loaded with famous pictures, securely packed, but each bearing its title in monumental inscription. the transfiguration, by raphael: the christ, by titian, etc. then followed the heavy rumbling of massive cars groaning under the weight of sculptures, these too inscribed: the apollo belvedere: the laocoon, etc. other chariots loaded with trunks containing famous books, precious manuscripts, captured flags, trophies of arms, gave the scene all the pomp and circumstance of a veritable roman triumph. these spoils, which almost choked the louvre during napoleon's reign, were reduced by the return, in , of works of art to their original owners under british supervision, and during the removal of the statues and pictures, ostentatiously effected to the bitter humiliation of the parisians, british sentinels were stationed along the galleries and british soldiers stood under arms in the quadrangle and the place du carrousel to protect the workmen. before beginning our artistic pilgrimage let us pay grateful tribute to the memory of alexandre lenoir, to whose tact and love for the arts we owe the preservation of so many priceless objects here, at st. denis, and other museums of paris. appointed by the national assembly, director of a _commission pour les monuments_ formed to collect all objects of art worthy of preservation during the search for lead coffins to be cast into bullets, he induced the authorities to grant him the use of the monastery of the petits augustins (now part of the École des beaux arts) for their storage. there the admirable official succeeded in rescuing some historical and royal monuments from paris and st. denis and some , pictures from the confiscated monasteries and ecclesiastical establishments, although existing receipts for about pictures reclaimed from lenoir by the revolutionary tribunal and burned, prove that he was only partially successful. in the national convention assigned the petits augustins to lenoir as a museum of french monuments, and the collection was pieced together, somewhat unskilfully it is true, and arranged in six rooms: many of the objects were in due time destined to find their way back to st. denis, others to enrich the louvre. (_a_) ancient sculpture. entering the quadrangle of the louvre and making our way to the s.w. angle we shall see, traced on the granite paving by a line of smaller stones, the outline of the e. and n. walls and towers of the old fortress of philip augustus, the position of the e. gateway, the porte de bourbon, being marked by its two flanking towers. enclosed within these lines, the site of the massive old keep is shown by two circular strings of stones on the asphalt. lescot's and goujon's beautiful façade (p. ) is now before us. although the whole of the decorative sculpture was designed by goujon, only three groups of figures can be safely attributed to his hand; those that adorn the three _oeil de boeuf_ windows of the ground floor: fame and victory; peace, and war disarmed; history and glory. concerning the two first-named figures--fame blowing a trumpet, and a winged victory offering a crown of laurel--on either side of the window in the s.w. angle, it is related that one day as king henry ii. sat at table with his architect, he asked him what he had in mind when he made the design. "sire," answered lescot, "by the first figure i meant ronsard, and by the trumpet, the power of his verse, which carried his name to the four quarters of the earth." ronsard, who was present, returned the compliment by a flattering poetic epistle which he sent to lescot. goujon's figures, destined for the pediment of the attic, were placed by napoleon i. most awkwardly over the entrances to the egyptian and assyrian collections in the e. wing, and utterly spoiled of their effect. the monograms on either side of the windows: two d's interlaced with the bar of an h, or two c's with the whole of the letter h, are variously interpreted as the initials of diana of poitiers and henry ii. or catherine de' medici and henry ii. we enter the palace by the pavilion de l'horloge (the clock pavilion) and, turning l. find on our l. a door which opens to the salle des caryatides (p. ). here, in the old salle basse, memories crowd upon us--the dangling bodies of the four terrorist chiefs of the sections hanged by the duke of mayenne from the beams of the old ceiling; the red nuptials of fair queen margot and henri quatre; the chivalrous and handsome, but ill-fated young hero of lepanto, don john of austria, on his way, in , to the netherlands, his brain seething with romantic dreams of rescuing mary queen of scots and seating her beside himself on the throne of england, taking part in a royal ball, disguised as a moor, and leaving, smitten by the charms of queen margot; the lying in state of the murdered henri; the dying mazarin wheeled in his chair to witness the royal performances by molière. beneath our feet in the _caves_ are part of the foundations of the old feudal château, and pillars and fragments of old sculpture discovered in - . we note goujon's caryatides (p. ), traverse the hall, filled with roman sculpture and, turning r. along the corridor de pan, enter the salle grecque, which contains a small but precious collection of greek sculptures. in the centre are three archaic works: a draped juno, and in glass cases, a head of apollo, and a head of a man, the latter still bearing traces of the original colouring. also in cases are: head of a lapith from the parthenon; and head of a woman attributed to the sculptor calamis, acquired in from the humphrey ward collection. three bas-reliefs from a temple of apollo at thasos show a marked advance in artistic expression, which reaches its ultimate perfection in the lovely fragment of the parthenon frieze, and in a mutilated metope from the same temple. an interesting comparison is afforded by the metopes (the labours of hercules) from the temple of jupiter at olympia, earlier and transitional in style but admirable in craftsmanship. on the walls and in the embrasures of the s. windows are a number of stele, or sepulchral reliefs,[ ] executed by ordinary funeral masons, which will demonstrate the remarkable general excellence of attic sculpture in the finest period: , to philis, daughter of cleomedes, is especially noteworthy. even the inferior reliefs are characterised by an atmosphere of dignified and restrained melancholy. [footnote : the architectural framework is believed to represent the portal of hades.] we return to the corridor de pan and continue past the salle des caryatides through halls filled with græco-roman work of secondary importance, to the sanctuary of the serenely beautiful venus of melos, the best-known and most admired of greek statues in europe. much has been written by eminent critics as to the attitude of the complete statue. three conflicting theories may be briefly summarised: ( ) that the left hand held an apple, the right supporting the drapery; ( ) that the figure was a victory holding a shield and a winged figure on an orb; ( ) the latest conjecture, by solomon reinach, that the figure is the sea-goddess amphitrite, who held a trident in the extended left arm. it was to this exquisite creation[ ] of idealised womanhood that the poet heine dragged himself in may to bid adieu to the lovely idols of his youth, before he lay, never again to rise, on his mattress-grave in the rue d'amsterdam. "as i entered the hall," he writes, "where the most blessed goddess of beauty, our dear lady of melos, stands on her pedestal, i well-nigh broke down, and fell at her feet sobbing piteously, so that even a heart of stone must be softened. and the goddess gazed at me compassionately, yet withal so comfortless, as who should say: 'seest thou not that i have no arms and cannot help thee?'" [footnote : we are credibly informed that this priceless statue was first offered to the english government for , francs and refused! the french government bought it for , francs.] to the r. of the salle de la venus de milo is the salle melpomene, with a fine colossal figure of the tragic muse, and, no. [ ] ( ), an excellent head of a woman. we enter the salle de la pallas de velletri, and ranged along its centre find: , a fine bust of alexander the great; the venus of arles, , said to be a copy of an early work by praxiteles; a magnificent head of homer, ; and , apollo, the lizard-slayer, after a bronze by praxiteles. the colossal pallas, in a recess to the r., was found at velletri in : it is another roman reproduction of a greek bronze. near the entrance to the next room stands a pleasing venus, , and in the centre the famous "borghese gladiator" or _héros combattant_, actually, a warrior attacking a mounted amazon. an inscription states that it is the work of agasias of ephesus. to the r. is a fine marsyas, doomed to be flayed alive by order of apollo; to l. , the borghese centaur, and near the exit, , the charming diana of gabii, a greek girl fastening her mantle. we pass to the salle du tibre, in the centre of which stands the famous diana and the stag, acquired for francis i., much admired and over-rated by the sculptors of the renaissance: at the end is a colossal group, symbolising the tiber and rome. we turn r. and again enter the corridor de pan, pass through the salle grecque and reach the rotonde with the borghese mars in its centre. we turn l., continue direct through rooms xiv. to xviii. the old petite galerie[ ] and the apartments of the queen mothers of france still retaining their ceiling decorations by romanelli. we then turn r. to the spacious salle d'auguste, (xix), at the end of which, in a recess, stands a majestic draped statue of augustus. in the centre are a bust, , said to be the head of antiochus iii., king of syria - b.c., and the stately roman orator as mercury, which an inscription on the tortoise states to be the work of cleomanes, an athenian. in this and the subsequent halls are placed many imperial busts[ ] of much historical and some artistic interest. [footnote : unfortunately the numeration of the sculpture in the louvre is in a most chaotic state. some of the objects are unnumbered; others retain their old numbers, yet others have both old and new numbers.] [footnote : there was originally a fosse between it and the garden which marie de' medici bridged by a wooden structure, known as the pont d'amour, to facilitate interviews with her favourite concini.] [footnote : it may not be inopportune to summarise here, bienkowski's criterion for dating roman busts, which is as follows: augustan and julio-claudian epoch, head only rendered; flavian, shoulders rendered but juncture of arms not indicated; the sculptors of trajan's time included the juncture of the arms, and of hadrian's and the antonines, part of the upper arm. later, the bust developed to a half-length figure. it is necessary of course to exclude decapitated busts subsequently restored or fitted with heads of another epoch.] we return to room xviii. where we find, , the colossal bust of antinous, the beautiful young favourite of hadrian, who in a fit of melancholy flung himself into the nile and (deified) became the most popular of the gods in the panthéon of the later empire: the eyes were originally formed of jewels. this is the bust referred to by j.a. symonds, in his _sketches and studies in s. europe_, as by far the finest of the simple busts of the imperial favourite. in room xv. is a statue, , of the emperor julian, found at paris, some curious mithraic reliefs, and, in room xiv. are interesting roman altars and sacrificial reliefs. we again enter the rotonde, turn l. and proceed across the vestibule daru to the escalier daru, ascending which, we are confronted by the majestic victory of samothrace, one of the noblest examples of greek art, wrought immediately before it had spent its creative force and began to direct a subtle and technical mastery to serve private luxury and pomp. we descend and return to the quadrangle. (_b_) mediÆval and renaissance sculpture. we cross the quadrangle to the s.e. and enter[ ] the musée des sculptures du moyen age et de la renaissance, where the sense of beauty inherent in the gallic race is seen expressed in a medium which has always appealed to its peculiar objective and lucid temperament. we proceed to room i., which contains some typical early madonnas and other figures in wood and stone; a fifteenth-century statuette in marble (no. ), in the embrasure of the second window, is worthy of special attention. the fine sepulchral monument of phil. bot, seneschal of burgundy, an effigy on a grave-stone borne by eight mourners, illustrates a favourite design of the burgundian sculptors. the recumbent figure, , of philippe vi. of france ( ), attributed to andrieu beaunepveu, the art-loving charles v's. _cher ymagier_, is one of the earliest attempts at portraiture. centre of hall, and , recumbent statues of charles iv. and jeanne d'Évreux, fourteenth-century, by jean de liège. the tomb of philippe de morvillier, , in the recess of a window, is an example of early fifteenth-century acrolithic monumental sculpture; the head and hands of the figure being of marble according to a common custom dating from greek times. on either side of the entrance are fine busts of charles viii. and marie of anjou. [footnote : now ( ) entered from the e. portal (_antiquités Égyptiennes_).] rooms ii., ix. and x. should next be visited. in ix. stands the oldest fragment of mediæval sculpture in the louvre, a capital from the old abbey of st. genevieve, whereon an eleventh-century artist has carved a quaint relief of daniel in the lions' den. the virgin and child in the same room, , is late twelfth-century; the painted statue of childebert, , from the abbey of st. germain, is an example of the more mature art of the thirteenth century, as are also in room ii., , a scene in the inferno from notre dame, and two lovely angels from the tomb of st. louis' brother, in the embrasures of the window. the fourteenth-century madonnas in these mediæval rooms possess a peculiar, intimate character and mark the change of feeling which came over french artists of the time. the impersonal, unemotional and regal bearing of the thirteenth-century figures give way to a more naturalistic treatment. the virgin's impassive features soften; they become more human; she turns to her child with a maternal smile (which later becomes conventionalised into a simper), or permits a caress. in room x. are: , , two fifteenth-century statues, admirable and living portraitures of charles v. and his queen, from the church of the célestins, whose preservation is due to the excellent lenoir--statues famous in their day, and mentioned by the contemporary christine de pisan as _moult proprement faits_; , a fifteenth-century statue in wood of st. john; , eve, a fine example of the german school of the sixteenth century, painted and gilded; other works are temporarily placed in this room. we return to room iii., noting in passing (room ix.) , a small thirteenth-century relief of st. matthew writing his gospel at the dictation of an angel. [illustration: diana and the stag. _jean goujon._] the stubborn individuality of french sculptors who long resisted the encroaching advance of the italian renaissance is well seen in room iii. by the works of michel colombe (? - ), after whom this hall is named. the exquisite relief on the l. wall, st. george and the dragon, displays an art touched indeed by the new italian life, but impressed with an intimate charm and spirit which are eminently french. the virgin and child, , and the tombs of roberte legendre and her husband have also been ascribed to this truly great master. the fine effigies of philippe de comines the annalist, and his wife, , are wrought in the traditional french manner, the decorations on the tomb being obviously by another and italianised artist; the shells on the shields denote that the knight had made the pilgrimage to st. james of compostella in galicia. beneath is the tomb of their daughter, jeanne. the sixteenth-century virgin of ecouen, , is typically french in treatment; the large relief on the l. wall from the old church of st. jacques de la boucherie, , is an excellent example of transitional franco-italian sculpture; and the half-reclining bronze effigy of prince carpi from the great franciscan church (the cordeliers) of paris, is wholly italian in style. the gruesome figure, _la mort_, in the embrasure of a window, from the old cemetery of les innocents, and a fine bust, , of john of alesso, will also be noted. we pass to room iv., dominated by the most eminent sculptor of the french renaissance, jean goujon (? - ), whose famous diana and the stag, from a fountain at diana of poitiers' château of anet, marks the increasing influence of the italians, and especially of cellini, who were attracted to fontainebleau by the patronage of francis i. a more intimate example, however, of goujon's genius will be seen in the beautiful bas-reliefs on the l. wall, tritons and nereids, from the fontaine des innocents, executed - , and those (r. wall) from the old choir screen of st. germain l'auxerrois in , happily rescued from clerical vandals.[ ] for sheer loveliness of form and poetry of outline, those reliefs are unsurpassed by any contemporary artist. his younger contemporary, germain pilon ( - ), is well represented in this room. the three graces (_trois grâces décentes_), which catherine de' medici commissioned him to execute, to sustain an urn containing the heart of her royal husband at the célestins, is an early work; the admirable kneeling bronze effigy, , of rené of birague, a maturer production. the four cardinal virtues in oak were executed for the abbey church of st. genevieve: they were originally covered with stucco and held on high the saint's reliquary. the too lachrymose madonna in terra-cotta, , already ushers in the decadence. portrait busts of henry ii., , the vicious henry iii., , and of the feeble charles ix., , are also to be noted. pilon's pupil, bart. prieur (d. ), is responsible for the monument to the constable anne of montmorency and madeleine of savoy, in the recess of a window, and the three bronze statues placed by the opposite wall. with pierre biard the elder, who about executed the elaborate choir-screen of st. Étienne du mont, the french renaissance sinks to a not inglorious end. his fame ( , _bis_), in room iii. and a copy of giov. da bologna's mercury, made for the duke of epernon's tomb, hints at the impending pomposity and extravagance of the later french pseudo-classic school. room v. affords an instructive comparison with some productions of the italian renaissance. , florentine school, is a charming bust of beatrice d'este, the girl bride of lodovico il moro, autocrat of milan. the fine bas-relief, , julius cæsar, was formerly ascribed to donatello; , virgin and child, is also a school work; , the child-baptist, is a good example of mino da fiesole's sweet and tender style, as are some madonna bas-reliefs in the embrasure of the first window. here, too, and in the next window, are some well-wrought early renaissance reliefs in bronze (scenes in the life of a physician), by a paduan artist, from the tomb of a celebrated professor of verona, marc'antonio della torre. in the lunette of the r. wall is embedded cellini's nymph of fontainebleau, and on either side of the noble portal from the palazzo stanza at cremona, which forms the entrance to room vi., stand the divine michael angelo's so-called two slaves, actually fettered virtues intended for the unfortunate tomb of pope julius ii. these priceless statues, given to francis i. by robert strozzi, subsequently found their way to richelieu's garden, and during the later years of the monarchy lay neglected in a stable in the faubourg du roule: when put up to auction in the vigilant and admirable lenoir seized them for his musée national at the augustins. among other objects we note, , a fine bust of filippo strozzi by benedetto da maiano. we enter room vi. the excellent bust of the baptist, , by desiderio da settignano is officially assigned to donatello, and the coloured virgin and child in wood to the sienese jacopo della quercia. room vii. contains many beautiful specimens of della robbia ware, and among the statues and busts we note louis xii. by lorenzo da mugiano, of which the head has been restored. provisionally placed in this room is a recently acquired relief in marble of the madonna by agostino di duccio. [footnote : the canons decided that these were unworthy of the enlightened taste of the eighteenth century and had them cleared away. the relief of the evangelists was discovered in embedded in the wall of a house in the rue st. hyacinthe.] [illustration: st. george and the dragon. _michel colombe._] (_c_) modern sculpture. we cross the quadrangle to the n.w. and find the entrance to the musée des sculptures modernes, where we may trace the rapid decline and utter degradation of french sculpture during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and some signs of its recovery during the revolutionary period. many causes contributed to the decay; the essentially bourgeois and commonplace taste of colbert and the influence of his artistic henchman, lebrun; the slavish worship of græco-roman and roman models, fostered by the creation of the École de rome; and the teachings of critics like lessing and winkelmann, who drew their inspiration not from pure greek models, but from the decadent and sterile art of the empire, stored in the vatican. among the artists whose individuality stands forth from the mass of sculptures in these rooms is charles antoine coysevox ( - ), who gives his name to room i. to the l. of the vestibule. his chief works are in the "royal pandemonium," at versailles, but in the vestibule will be found excellent examples of his art, , nymph with a shell, and , shepherd playing a flute. in room i., , marie adelaide of savoy as diana; , a fine bronze bust of the great condé and a bust of ant. coypel acquired in , are worth attention, as is also , the grand monument to mazarin in room ii. pierre puget ( - ), who gives his name to this hall, began his career as a carver of figure-heads at the arsenals of toulouse and marseilles. he was the chief exponent of the bombastic and exuberant art of the century, and the inventor of the peculiar gusty draperies in statuary known as the _coup de vent dans la statuaire_. , milo (the famous athlete of crotona), attacked by a lion, his most popular work, and , a relief, diogenes and alexander, esteemed by gonse one of the most _éclatante_ creations of modern sculpture, will be found in this room. some bronzes, - , louis xiii., anne of austria, and the child louis xiv., from an old monument on the pont au change by simon guillain ( - ) are of interest. the coustous, nicholas ( - ) and guillaume ( - ), nephews and pupils of coysevox are represented in room iii. , apollo presenting the image of louis xiv. to france (embrasure of window); , adonis (centre of room); , julius cæsar; and , louis xv., are due to the former: the statue of louis' queen maria leczinska, , to the latter, whose masterpiece, the horse-tamers of marly, stands at the entrance of the champs Élysées opposite coysevox', mercury and fame on winged horses, at the entrance to the tuileries gardens. j.b. pigalle ( - ) is but poorly represented by: , a bronze bust of guérin; and , a mercury in lead, which has much suffered from exposure to the atmosphere in the luxembourg gardens. a most talented portraitist in marble was j.j. caffieri ( - ), whose seven masterly busts in the foyer of the théâtre français, paid for by free passes, which the artist promptly sold, will be familiar to playgoers. his diploma work, the river, (l. of entrance), and a bust of the poet nivelle de la chaussée, (embrasure of window), will be found in this room. j.a. houdon ( - ), whose admirable bust of molière, and marvellously vivid statue of the seated voltaire--the greatest production of eighteenth-century french sculpture--will be also known to playgoers at the français, gives his name to room iv. few artists maintained so high and consistent a standard of excellence.[ ] is a replica in bronze of a statue of diana, executed for the empress catherine ii. of russia; , diderot; , rousseau; voltaire; , franklin; , washington; , mirabeau, are busts of revolutionary heroes of which many replicas exist, executed at seventy-two francs each (if with shoulders ninety-six francs), to save himself from starvation during the revolutionary period. two exquisitely charming terra-cotta busts in glass cases of the children, louise and alexandre brogniart, and , , the original busts in plaster of mme. houdon and sabine houdon, will also be noted. like caffieri, houdon was an _habitué_ of the français, and in his old age would totter to the theatre supported by his servant, to calmly sleep the performance out. a favourite exponent of the suave and languishing style that appealed to the decadent tastes of the age was antoine pajou ( - ) here represented by , a bacchante, and , maria leczinska as charity. other two works by pigalle, , love and friendship, and , bust of marshal saxe, may be noticed before quitting this room. room v. is dedicated to a.d. chaudet ( - ), whose diploma work, phorbas and oedipus, , is here shown; , a bacchante, is a rather poor example of the art of claude michel ( - ), known as clodion whose popularity rivalled that of his master pajou, and whose prodigious output of marble and terra-cotta sculpture failed to keep pace with the demands of his clients. is pajou's, the forsaken psyche. by the seductive and sentimental canova are and , variants of a favourite theme, love and psyche.[ ] with some sense of relief we enter the more invigorating atmosphere of room vi., named after the sturdy françois rude ( - ), who flung off the yoke of the roman classicists, and from whose simple, austere atelier issued works instinct with a new life, such as the dramatic group, the departure of the volunteers of , on the e. base of the triumphal arch of the etoile. rude, who rescued the art from the fetid atmosphere of a corrupt society and emancipated it from a hide-bound pedagogy, is here represented by his jeanne d'arc, ; maurice de saxe, ; and , napoleon awakening to immortality, a model for a monument to the emperor. in the centre are , mercury in bronze, and the neapolitan fisher lad (no number). rude's contemporary and fellow-liberator, david d'angers ( - ), chiefly renowned for his pediment sculpture on the panthéon (p. ) is here represented by , philopoeman, the famous general of the achaen league; busts of arago and of béranger; _bis_, child and grapes, and a series of medals in the embrasures of the windows. of antoine barye ( - ), pupil of père rude and another victorious assailant of the "bastille of classicism," this room exhibits three masterly works in bronze; , centaur and lapith; , jaguar and hare; and (no number), tiger and crocodile. a later contemporary and excellent master was jean baptiste carpeaux ( - ), after whom room vii. is named. here stand his models for the famous group, dancing, which adorns the opera façade; and for the four quarters of the world, at the fountain of the observatoire. among others of his productions may be cited a bronze group, ugolino and his children. in a new room (salle moderne) are some more recent works transferred from the luxembourg, among which is chapu's joan of arc. [footnote : _copiez, copiez toujours et surtout copiez juste_ was his favourite maxim.] [footnote : the best criticism passed on this facile artist was uttered by flaxman: "that man's hand is too great for his head."] section v _the louvre (continued)--pictures: first floor._ (_a_) foreign schools. we enter by the pavilion denon, in the middle of the s. wing, opposite the squares du louvre which are bounded on the w. by the place du carrousel and the monument to gambetta. turning l. along the galerie denon we mount the escalier daru to the first landing below the winged victory (p. ), turn r., ascend to a second landing, and on either side find two charming frescoes from the villa lemmi, which was decorated by botticelli to celebrate the nuptials of lorenzo tornabuoni and giovanna albizzi.[ ] to the l., , the three graces are presented to the bride; r., , the seven liberal arts to the bridegroom. the latter fresco is generally believed to have been the work of a pupil. on the wall that forms an angle with this is a fresco, the crucifixion, , by fra angelico from the dominican monastery at fiesole. a door l. of leads to room vii. containing a small but choice collection of early italian paintings, all of which will repay careful study. we note on the entrance wall, , a virgin and child by cimabue--if indeed we may now assign any work to that elusive personality.[ ] l. of this is a genuine giotto, , described by vasari: st. francis receiving the stigmata. in the predella, vision of pope innocent iii.; papal confirmation of the rule; the saint preaching to the birds--each scene portrayed with all the sweet simplicity of a chapter in the fioretti. below is a predella, , by taddeo gaddi: death of the baptist; the crucifixion; martyrdom of the saint. on the r. wall is , a conventional early florentine annunciation by agnolo gaddi, his pupil. among the early sienese on the l. wall is , a charming little simone martini: christ bearing the cross. the gem of the collection and one of the most precious pictures in europe is , on this wall, fra angelico's coronation of the virgin, which vasari declared might have been painted by one of the blessed spirits or angels represented in the picture, so unspeakably delightful were their forms; so gentle and delicate their mien, so glorious their coloration. "even so," he adds, "must they be in heaven and i never gaze on this picture without discovering fresh beauties, nor withdraw my eyes from it, satisfied with seeing." the scenes in the predella are from the life of st. dominic and form an interesting parallel with those of the giotto. other works by the angelic master are (l. of this) , martyrdom of ss. cosmas and damian, and a, the resurrection: r. is , the dance of herodias. r. of is by gentile da fabriano: the presentation, a portion of a predella. to the same is also attributed by crowe and cavalcaselle, , virgin and child and donor, pandolfo malatesta. _bis_, is by pisanello: portrait of a princess of the house of este, identified by mr g.f. hill, from the sprig of juniper in her dress, as ginevra d'este, married to sigismondo malatesta in . r. of is , the apotheosis of st. thomas aquinas by benozzo gozzoli, described by vasari. on opposite wall, , formerly assigned to masaccio: portraits of giotto, the artist himself paolo uccelo, donatello, manetti and brunelleschi; painted, says vasari, "that posterity might keep them in memory." r. of this is , a battle scene by the same, similar to that in our national gallery. both had been badly restored even in vasari's time. l. of are and : a nativity, and a virgin and child with angels and saints adoring, by fra filippo lippi. the former, according to gossiping vasari, was executed at the convent of s. margherita at prato where having been smitten by the _bellissima grazia ed aria_ of one of the novices, lucrezia buti, fra lippo painted her portrait in this picture, fell madly in love, and eloped[ ] with her: the latter exquisite painting vasari extols as a most rare work which was held in the greatest esteem by the masters of his day. opposite on l. wall is , a predella: birth of the virgin, considered by crowe and cavalcaselle an excellent example of luca signorelli's art. r. wall, , the visitation, and , an intimate domestic scene, painted with much tenderness, a bibulous old florentine magistrate bending to embrace his little grandson, are masterly works by domenico ghirlandaio. , virgin and child and st. john, is a beautiful early work by botticelli, and is a like subject by mainardi, in a tondo, a popular form of composition invented by botticelli. r. of exit is , a copy of the master's famous madonna of the magnificat at florence. l. wall, , virgin and child, ss. julian and nicholas by lorenzo di credi, highly eulogised by vasari as the artist's most careful work in oil wherein he surpassed himself. (l. of exit), is an indifferent late painting by perugino. in the lunette over the door is a raphael school fresco formerly attributed to the master and bought for the sum of , francs in ! we now enter the long grande galerie, room vi. and begin with section a. on the r. is , holy family, by perugino. , combat of love and chastity, by the same, was painted in to the elaborate specification of the enthusiastic and acquisitive patron of the renaissance, isabella d'este, marchioness of mantua, for her famous "grotta." the artist's slovenly execution of the work brought him a well-deserved rebuke from the marchioness. , by lorenzo costa, a flattering symbolic representation of the court at mantua was also painted for her. isabella, to whom a cupid hands a laurel crown, is seen standing near a grove of trees, surrounded by poets and philosophers. [footnote : for further details, we may refer the reader to vernon lee's essay: "botticelli at the villa lemmi," _juvenilia_ i.] [footnote : "it cannot be proved that a single picture attributed to cimabue was painted by him." editorial note to new edition of _crowe and cavalcaselle_, i., p. .] [footnote : crowe and cavalcaselle, however, assign the work to pesellino, who is represented in this room by two small pictures, and , on the wall.] among the francias we distinguish, , a crucifixion; is a pietà by cosimo tura in the characteristic hard manner of the ferrarese master, being the upper portion of the central altar-piece, virgin and child enthroned, in the national gallery; , virgin and child with two saints, is a doubtful pinturicchio; , virgin and child between ss. jerome and zanobi is a good example of albertinelli's pleasing but somewhat characterless style; and a are two andrea del sartos; is another lorenzo di credi: christ and the magdalen. last of all we note , a rather inky nativity, in the grand and broad-manner of the later roman school by giulio romano, much admired by vasari. we return to the l. wall and note , signorelli's adoration of the magi; further on are , an excellent fra bartolomeo, the holy family, and , the annunciation, a graceful and suave composition, original in treatment, by the same master. we pass to some more andrea del sartos: , according to vasari, a _nostra donna bellissima_, was painted in quick time for francis i., and , charity, was executed in paris for the _gran re_ and highly esteemed by him. this picture has much suffered by transference from the worm-eaten original panel to canvas, in , and by a later restoration in . we are soon arrested by some masterpieces of the milanese school, and first by the da vincis: is the famous virgin of the rocks, whose genuineness is warmly championed by french critics as against the similar picture in the national gallery stoutly defended as the original by english authorities. professor legros with impartial judgment assures us that both are copies of a lost original; , a doubtful attribution, is a rather effeminate john the baptist, by some critics believed to be a second gioconda portrait; , the supposed portrait of lucrezia crivelli, mistress of ludovico il moro, is also ascribed by the official catalogue to da vinci. it would, however, be hard to persuade us that leonardo had any hand in this portrait, excellent though it be, which seems rather by beltraffio, solario, or another of the milanese masters; , bacchus, is another doubtful leonardo. , l. of , is an admirable work by sacchi: four doctors of the church with symbols of the evangelists. by solario, a younger contemporary of da vinci, are , a crucifixion; , a masterpiece, the much admired virgin of the green cushion; and , head of the baptist. the sweet and tender luini is seen almost at his best in , salome with the baptist's head: other works by him are , silence, and , a holy family. at the end of this section hangs , beltraffio's, virgin of the casio family, esteemed by vasari the painter's best production. we proceed to section b, same wall, where hang two grand mantegnas, painted for isabella d'este's "grotta," towards the end of the artist's career. , parnassus, executed in , represents the triumph of venus over mars, celebrated by apollo and the muses--a delightful group of partially draped female figures dancing to apollo's lyre; , triumph of virtue (_virtù_, mental and moral excellence) over the vices of sensuality and sloth, a less successful composition, executed in . another masterpiece is , our lady of victory, a noble and virile work, painted in to commemorate the defeat of the french at taro in by isabella's consort, francesco gonzaga, the donor, who is seen kneeling in full armour; , is an earlier work, the central and most important of the three sections of the predella of the triptych at s. zeno in verona--a powerful, reverent, though somewhat hard, conception of the cardinal tragedy of christianity. from mantegna to his brothers-in-law, gentile and giovanni bellini and other venetian masters the transition is easy. the school is here represented by a most valuable collection from bartolomeo vivarini, no. , to guardi. , giovanni bellini, virgin and saints; and a, a man's portrait, are however dubious attributions. , two portraits; and , a venetian envoy at cairo, are gentile school works. , by antonello da messina, a condottiere, is an amazingly vivid and powerful portrait. carpaccio's st. stephen preaching at jerusalem, , is part of the _historia_ of the protomartyr, painted for st. stephen's guild at venice. the naïve attempts at local colour--turkish women sitting on the ground in groups as they may still be seen in turkey to-day, and quaint architectural details--are noteworthy. cima is well represented by , virgin and child, with the baptist and the magdalen. , a holy family, by lotto, was formerly assigned to dosso dossi. is an early and charming little work, st. jerome, by the same master. we return to palma vecchio's grand composition, , the adoration of the shepherds, which under a false signature, once passed for a titian. , holy family, with ss. sebastian and catherine, is a form of composition known as a santa conversazione, which palma brought to its ultimate perfection. the official catalogue of persists in ascribing it to giorgione. the claims of palma himself, pellegrino da san daniele, cariani and sebastiano del piombo, have all found protagonists among modern critics. how excellent a standard of craftsmanship was maintained by the venetian school is well exemplified by , a portrait by an unknown artist. , the visitation, by sebastiano del piombo, although much injured by restorers, is a fair example of that master's grandiose style in his roman period. we now reach the titians. and , are good average _sante conversazioni_, the latter is, however, assigned by mr. berenson to a pupil. , the supper at emmaus, a mature and genuine work; and , the much-admired virgin and child with the rabbit, painted in , next claim our attention. and are unknown portraits, the former attributed by crowe and cavalcaselle to pordenone. on the r. wall opposite the carpaccio is hung, , a magnificent work of the painter's[ ] old age, jupiter and antiope, unhappily much injured by fire and by more than one restoration. two characteristic _sante conversazioni_ from bonifazio's atelier may next be noted, , over a doorway; and , skied on the l. wall. the later interpreters of the pomp and grandeur of the venetian state, veronese and tintoret, are represented to l. and r. by several typical canvases. among these we note, (l. wall), an excellent veronese, the supper at emmaus; and , a sketch by tintoret for the great paradiso in the ducal palace. the eighteenth-century masters (following after the jupiter and antiope) are well exemplified in a fine canaletto, , view of the salute church and the grand canal; and several good examples of the more romantic guardi. a last supper, , and other works by tiepolo, the last of the venetian masters of the grand style; and some bassanos-- , by jacopo, giov. da bologna is an admirable portrait--conclude the collection of venetians. we pass to the italian eclectics, the once admired but now depreciated carracci, guido reni and domenichino. , st. cecilia, is a famous picture by the last named. r. of the next section (c), are two peruginos; , a beautiful tondo, virgin and child, saints and angels; and a, st. sebastian, a careful and pleasing study of the nude. we cross to the l. wall, rich with examples of raphael, and of his school; and turn first to a lovely little panel, , apollo and marsyas, of most enigmatical authorship,[ ] bought in from mr. morris moore for , francs. sold, in , as a mantegna, it has since been variously assigned to raphael, perugino, timoteo viti, and francia. perugino's influence, however, if not his hand, is sufficiently obvious. , unknown portrait, is another doubtful raphael, confidently attributed by morelli to perugino's pupil, bacchiacca. we are on more certain ground with , the popular virgin of the diadem, undoubtedly designed by the master during his roman period, and probably executed by his pupil, giulio romano. , st. margaret, painted during the same period for francis i., was also, according to vasari, almost wholly executed by giulio. this unhappy picture was, however, _racommodé_ (mended) in , and since has been severely mauled by restorers. , joan of aragon: the head alone, says vasari, was painted by the master who left the portrait to be completed by his famous pupil. , the charming little holy family, was probably executed by a pupil. , two unknown portraits, has small claim to be classed as a raphael. the exquisite little panels, and , of st. michael and st. george, are, however, precious and genuine works painted in at urbino. they symbolise the overthrow of the hated tyrant cæsar borgia, and the return of the exiled duke guidobaldo to his loving subjects. on the r. wall of section d. are hung some works by the italian naturalists (a seceding school from the eclectics), to whose chief representative caravaggio (called the anti-christ of painting), is due , death of the virgin. this realistic representation of a sacred subject so shocked the pious at rome that it was removed from the church for which it was painted. , portrait of alof, grand master of the knights of malta, brought the artist a chain of gold, two turkish prisoners and a knighthood. salvator rosa's landscape, ; and a characteristic and much-appreciated battle scene, , hang on this wall. [footnote : mr. h. cook has, however, given reasons for post-dating titian's birth from to - , in spite of the master's twice repeated assertion of his great age in letters to charles v. see _nineteenth century_ magazine, , p. .] [footnote : it is, however, accepted by eugène müntz as a genuine raphael, executed at florence about .] we cross to the l. wall, devoted to the spanish school. the recently acquired el greco (no number), king ferdinand, is one of that master's best works outside spain. by ribera, who was obviously much influenced by the italian naturalists are: , st. paul the hermit; , the entombment; and , adoration of the shepherds, the last a masterpiece, wrought in the sombre manner of this powerful artist. from the magnificent show of murillos stands forth, , the immaculate conception, a favourite spanish theme, by the most popular of spanish masters. this grandiose representation of the woman of the apocalypse, clothed with the sun, the moon under her feet, was acquired at the soult sale in for , francs. from the same collection came the superb composition , the birth of the virgin, of which a small sketch in oil is possessed by the national gallery. we cross to the r. wall where hangs , the miracle of s. diego; at the prayer of the saint, angels descend from heaven and prepare a miraculous repast for his needy franciscan friars, to the great amazement of brother cook. other murillos, including a characteristic beggar boy, (l. wall) will be seen on either side. by velasquez, the supreme master of the school are: (l. wall) , meeting of thirteen spanish gentlemen, velasquez and murillo standing left of the group; and , one of the many portraits scattered about europe of philip iv. the sombre zurbaran is represented by and , a bishop's funeral, and st. pierre nolasque and st. raymond de peñafort. four portraits, - b, by the facile and popular madrid artist goya, should by no means be passed without notice. there follows next a small collection of english paintings, rather indifferent in quality, but historically of much interest, by reason of the inspiration drawn from constable and bonington by the barbizon school. bonington, whose untimely death was a grievous loss to modern art, passed much of his time in paris and was the link between the valley of the stour and the forest of fontainebleau. we pass to some productions of the german school. on the r. wall hang and c, episodes in the life of st. ursula by the master of st. sévérin.[ ] opposite is , an earlier specimen of the cologne school, descent from the cross, by the master of st. bartholomew. and a, head of an old man, and head of a child, are ascribed to albert dürer. but the chief glory of this collection are the holbein portraits on the l. wall, four of which are of supreme excellence; , erasmus; , william wareham, archbishop of canterbury; , nicholas kratzer, astrologer to henry viii.; and , anne of cleves. , richard southwell is a doubtful holbein. [footnote : from an age when the personality of the painter was of less importance than the subjects he painted, few names of german artists have come down to us.] section e is filled with flemish paintings. r. hangs, among other of his works, phil. de champaigne's masterpiece, , portraits of mother catherine agnes arnaud and of his own daughter, sister catherine, painted for the convent of port royal. the intimate association of this grave and virile artist, who settled at paris when nineteen years of age, with the austere and pious jansenists of port royal, is also traceable in , the last supper. on the l. are some excellent works by rubens: , flight of lot; , adoration of the magi; , portrait of helen fourment, the artist's second wife, and their two children; , lady's portrait, said to be that of suzanne fourment. the ignoble kermess, , will be familiar to readers of zola. section f on the l. is occupied by a rich collection of rembrandt's works: , the oft-reproduced flayed ox, is a masterly rendering of an unattractive subject; no number, old man reading; in the artist has immortalised his faithful servant, hendrickje stoffels; , tobit and the angel; and , bathsheba, and susannah and the elders are two studies of the nude; , the joiner's family, formerly known as the holy family; , philosopher in meditation. , the good samaritan; and , the supper at emmaus, are painted with profound and reverent piety. opposite the rembrandts are gerard dow's masterpiece; , the sick woman, and other works by the same artist. we now enter at the end of the grande galerie, the new salle vandyck, room xvii. here, among other portraits, by the first of portrait painters (according to reynolds) hangs the superb rendering of charles i., , bought by louis xv. for madame du barry's boudoir on the fiction that it was a family picture, since the page holding the horse was named barry. michelet says that he never visited the louvre without pausing to muse before this historic canvas.[ ] before we descend to the new rubens room we note by this master three large canvases, , , : birth of marie de' medici at florence; her education; the widowed queen as regent of france, which properly belong to the suite of paintings exposed in the salle de rubens, room xviii. to which we now descend. in this sumptuous hall, specially erected for the purpose, are exhibited, with the three exceptions noted, the famous paintings completed in by the artist and his pupils for the luxembourg palace to the order of the regent marie. these spacious and grandiose compositions illustrate in pompous and pagan symbolism the chief events in her career: all the principal figures are due to reubens' own hand. reynolds was wont to say of reubens' colouring that his figures looked as if they fed on roses: these, however, would seem to have fed upon less ethereal diet. l. of entrance, , the three fates spinning marie's destiny; l. wall, , reception of her portrait; r. wall, , her marriage by procuration to henry--the grand duke ferdinand of tuscany, her uncle, places the ring on her finger; l., , disembarkation at marseilles; r., , the marriage at lyons; l., , birth of louis xiii. at fontainebleau; r., , departure of henry for germany, who hands to his consort the symbols of the regency; l., , coronation of marie at st. denis: the dogs are said to have been painted by snyders; r., , apotheosis of henry. like the ascending faust in henry's portly form,-- "bleibt ein erdenrest zu tragen peinlich." l., , marie's journey to anjou; r., , exchange at hendaye of the princess elizabeth of france affianced to philip iv., and of anne of austria, affianced to louis xiii.; l., , felicity of the regency--this picture was hastily improvised at paris; r., , the majority of louis xiii.; l., , escape of marie from the château of blois; r., , reconciliation with her son, louis xiii., at angers; end wall, l., , conclusion of peace; r., , meeting between marie and louis in olympia. r. of entrance, , the triumph of truth. [footnote : the picture subsequently found its way to the apartments of louis xvi., and followed him from versailles to paris. the vacillation of this ill-fated monarch towards his advisers, says michelet, was much influenced by a fixed idea that charles i. lost his head for having made war on his people, and that james ii. lost his crown for having abandoned them.] enclosing this hall are a series of cabinets xx.-xxxvi., containing a large and important collection of works by the netherland painters. we ascend, turn r., and enter room xx., which is devoted to franz hals and contains and , superb portraits of nicholas van beresteyn and his wife; and the same, with their family; , descartes. room xxi., cuyp, after whom the room is named, is seen in four typical works, - ; and are excellent dutch interiors by peter de hoogh. in room xxii. reigns the jovial van steen: two characteristic paintings are here shown; , feast in an inn, and , evil company. is a masterly terburg, the amorous soldier, and a similar subject treated by gabriel metsu. room xxiii. is assigned to van goyen, and room xxiv. to adrian van ostade, hals' pupil. in the latter room, , the so-called family of the painter, and , the schoolmaster, stand forth pre-eminent. and , travellers halting and a winter scene, are by adrian's brother, isaac. room xxv. is rich in landscapes by ruysdael, of which , the forest, and , tempest near the dykes of holland, are masterpieces: , the music lesson, is a fine terburg. room xxvi., dedicated to hobbema, contains his fine landscapes: , a forest scene, and , the mill, and another exquisite terburg, , the concert. some typical paul potters also hang here. we proceed round to room xxix., which holds a precious collection of van eycks and memlings. is an exquisite little masterpiece painted by jean with infinite patience and care, virgin and child and donor. fine memlings are:-- , the baptist; , the magdalen; , marriage of st. catherine; , a triptych--the resurrection, st. sebastian and the ascension here too are hung, , gerard dow's wedding at cana; , van der weyden's descent from the cross, and some excellent flemish school paintings. room xxx. is the quentin matsys room: is the well-known banker and his wife, of which many replicas exist; , by the same artist, virgin and child. the fine example of the fifteenth-century painter, known as the master of the death of mary, , hangs in this room. this profoundly reverent and sincere work consists of: a central panel, descent from the cross, below which is the last supper, and above, in the lunette, st. francis receiving the stigmata; friar leo is seen asleep against a rock. a remarkable work by peter brueghel, the blind leading the blind, will also arrest attention. room xxxi., named after anthony more, contains a miscellaneous collection, among which the artist's portraits ( a) of edward vi. of england, and of ( ) a spanish dwarf, and peter brueghel's village, , and a country dance, b, are of chief interest. the teniers room, xxxii., shows some excellent works by the younger master: , st. peter denies his lord; , the prodigal son; , works of charity; , temptation of st. anthony. we next pass to three rooms in which are hung works by netherland artists, formerly in the la caze collection, among which, in room xxxiii., are , van steen's, family repast; and , nicholas maes', grace before meat. in xxxiv. are two well-known works: , adrian brouwer's, the smoker; and , the gipsy, a masterpiece by franz hals. a fine vandyck, , head of an old man; rubens' portrait of marie de' medici, ; and a sketch in oils, , elevation of the cross, are in room xxxv. we return to the salle vandyck and the grande galerie, along which we retrace our steps and enter, at its further end, the salon carrÉ, room iv. where an assortment of masterpieces is hung from the various schools we have visited. we begin with the raphaels: on the l. (w. wall), , la belle jardinière, painted in , is the most delightful of the florentine madonnas for which it is said a flower-girl of florence sat; vasari relates that the unfinished mantle was left to ridolfo ghirlandaio to complete; , the holy family, styled of francis i. and designed at rome ( ) in the zenith of the artist's power, was presented by pope leo x. to francis' queen; the inky hand of giulio had no small part in the work. in the same year was painted , (diagonally opposite) the dramatic st. michael, a picture which evoked much interest at rome, and whose coloration was adversely criticised by sebastiano del piombo; here also the hand of giulio is all too apparent, and the picture, moreover, has suffered much in its transference from wood to canvas. , n. wall, the masterly and authentic portrait of baltazar castiglione, was executed in . on the same wall among the venetians we find the much-disputed al fresco concert, , here ascribed to giorgione, an ascription which has the support of morelli and berenson. the magnificent titian, , variously known as titian and his mistress, and the lady with the mirror, is supposed to be the portraits of duke alfonso of ferrara and his mistress, laura diante, later his wife, the daughter of a poor artizan who more than once sat to titian as a model. the portrait on the s. wall, , the man with the glove, extolled by vasari as an _opera stupenda_, and , the entombment, on the e. wall, are the two greatest titians in the louvre, where the artist's majesty and power are displayed in their highest degree. , the crown of thorns, e. wall, is a work of the painter's old age.[ ] the sensual features of francis i., , s. wall, were painted from a medal. [footnote : see, however, note to p. .] by tintoret is , susannah; and by veronese, the grand composition that expatiates over the s. wall, , known as the marriage at cana, executed in his most pompous and stately manner for the refectory of the benedictine monastery of st. giorgio maggiore at venice. the artist is seen in the foreground playing a viol: titian a bass viol. many other historical figures are more or less convincingly identified by critics. on the opposite wall is another large refectory composition, , the supper in the house of simon the pharisee. a characteristic ceiling decoration, rebellion and treason, from the hall of the council of the ten at venice; and , n. wall, holy family, are by the same artist. the portrait, , n. wall, by da vinci of his friend monna lisa, wife of fr. del giocondo, known as la gioconda, is the most fascinating picture in europe. a whole symphony of praise has been lavished on this miraculously beautiful creation in which psychical and physical perfection have been blended with potent and subtle genius. , s. wall, virgin and child and st. anne, attributed to the same, though of somewhat doubtful authenticity, is worth careful study. by another milanese master is , s. wall, luini's virgin and sleeping child. of the two fine correggios, and , n. wall, the marriage of st. catherine, and jupiter and antiope, the former is referred to by vasari, in his life of girolamo da carpi, as a divine thing, wherein the figures are so superlatively beautiful that they seem to have been painted in paradise; the latter formed part of isabella d'este's collection, to which we have so often referred. , n. wall, is the marvellous portrait by velasquez of the infanta margarita maria, philip iv.'s fair-haired darling child by his second wife. this is one of the most characteristic of the master's work out of spain, and profoundly influenced manet and the modern impressionist school. the great french master poussin's typical classical subject, , together with jouvenet's masterpiece, , descent from the cross, have also their place of honour in this hall. in the salle duchÂtel, room v. entered from the n.e. angle of this room, we find, r., some luini frescoes: , , the nativity, and the adoration of the magi, and , christ blessing, full of this master's tenderness and charm. some excellent portraits by antonio moro, , and, a most beautiful memling, , virgin and child with donors, will also be noted. as we pursue our way to the escalier daru at the end of the room, we pass l. and r., one of the earliest and one of the latest works of ingres (p. ), , oedipus and the sphinx, painted in ; and the most popular nude in the french school, , _la source_, painted in . (_b_) the french school. the great schools of christian painting in western europe which we have reviewed, were born, grew and flourished in the free cities of the netherlands and of italy. french masters working in paris, tours, dijon, moulins, aix, and avignon, were inevitably subdued by the dominant and powerful masters of the north and south, and how far they succeeded in impressing a local and racial individuality on their works is, and long will be, a fruitful theme for criticism. the collection of french primitifs of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, exhibited in paris in , and the publication of dimier's[ ] uncompromising and powerful defence of those critics who, like himself, deny the existence of any indigenous french school of painting whatsoever, have recently concentrated the attention of the artistic world on a passionately debated controversy. undoubtedly most of the examples of the so-called franco-flemish school which formerly hung unquestioned among collections of flemish paintings, did when massed together, as they were in in the pavilion de marsan, display more or less well-defined extra-flemish characteristics--a modern feeling for nature and an intimate realism in the treatment of landscapes, a freer, more supple and more vivacious drawing of the human figure--reasonably explained by the theory of a school of painters expressing independent local feeling and genius. but even if all the paintings which the patriotic bias of french critics now attributes to french or franco-flemish masters[ ] be accepted, the continuity is broken by many gaps which can only be filled by assuming, after the fashion of biologists, the existence of missing links. [footnote : _french painting in the sixteenth century_, by l. dimier. .] [footnote : a more rational classification into schools would perhaps, as dimier has hinted, follow the lines of racial division--french and teutonic. for many of the flemish artists were french in race, as, for instance, roger van der weyden, who was known to italians as rogerus gallicus, and called himself roger de la pasture.] we make our way to the small but increasing collection of french primitifs possessed by the louvre, along the grande galerie as far as section d. and, turning r., enter rooms ix.-xiii. beginning with room x., devoted to fifteenth-century masters, on the l. wall is , martyrdom of st. denis, ascribed to the burgundian jean malouet, court painter of jean sans peur, and owing its completion to henri bellechose, after the former's death in . to l. of the main subject, the saint is seen in prison, receiving the sacred host from the hands of christ; , a pietà on the l. wall has also been attributed to malouet. , l. wall, a portrait group of jean jouvénal des ursins and his family, by an unknown fifteenth-century artist, is admirable in execution and important for contemporary costumes. below ( a) is the fine picture so admired in the exhibition of the primitifs in by the maître de moulins,[ ] st mary magdalen and donatrix, eminently french in feeling. and , portraits of the duke and duchess of bourbon, are now catalogued under this master's name. the realistic pietà ( b) on the l. wall is assigned to the school of nicholas froment of the papal city of avignon. and at either end of the r. wall, portraits of guillaume jouvénal des ursins and of charles vii., are by the well-known jehan fouquet of tours, who unites the gentleness of the tuscan school with the vivacity of the gallic temperament. d, virgin and donors, is now tentatively ascribed to the master of the legend of st. ursula. we next note a crucifixion, the famous altar-piece ( a) of the parlement of paris recently transferred from the palais de justice. to the l. are st. louis and the baptist, r., st. denis and charlemagne; in the background are seen the old louvre and the abbey of st. germain. c is a similar altar-piece from st. germain des prés, painted about , descent of the cross; in the background are other representations of the old louvre, st. germain and montmartre. a, portraits of good king rené and his second wife jeanne de laval, by nicholas froment of avignon. ( d) st. helena and the miracle of the cross, by an unknown artist, about . r. of entrance, christ, st. agricola and donor, school of avignon; below this hangs a, portrait of the sinister jean sans peur, and b, portrait of philip le bon of burgundy, artist unknown. we pass to room xi. which contains a series of most interesting historical portraits. among the sixteenth-century painters cited by félibien,[ ] the vasari of french painting, most of whom are but names to us, we may distinguish the clouet family of four generations. the senior jehan, born in flanders in , came to france in as painter to the duke of burgundy. his son, also, named jehan, figures in the royal accounts in as valet and court painter to francis i., and was known as maître jehan or jehanet. to him, an artist of great simplicity and charm, are attributed and , r. wall, portraits of his royal master. sons of the junior jehan were françois ( - ), the best-known and most talented of the clouets, who was naturalised in , and jehan the younger, known as clouet de navarre ( - ), court painter to margaret of valois. by the former, who assisted his father during the last ten years of his life and succeeded him as court painter, are two admirable portraits, and , of charles ix. and his queen, elizabeth of austria; , henry ii., and (on the end wall) , the duke of guise, are also attributed to him. to the latter artist is ascribed , louis of st. gelais. each of these elusive personalities, whose flemish ancestry is evident, was known as maître jehanet, and much confusion has thus arisen. we now turn to some portraits by unknown artists of the period, among which may be noted: , henry iii.; , charles ix.; , diana of france, legitimised daughter of henry ii.; , catherine de' medici; , ball given by henry iii. in celebration of the marriage of his favourite minion, anne, duke of joyeuse, with margaret of lorraine in ; the king is seen seated with his mother, catherine de' medici, and his wife, louise of lorraine; the duke of guise (le balafré) leans against his chair. on the same wall are , françois, duke of guise; and , king francis i. on the end wall, , henry iii.; by the window opposite, , the young duke of alençon (p. ), by no means ill-favoured; and , louise of lorraine, queen of henry iii. by a contemporary of the later clouets, jean cousin ( - ), is on the l. wall, the last judgment. cousin was a versatile craftsman, and some stained glass by him still exists at s. gervais and in the chapel at vincennes. among other artists mentioned by félibien is martin fréminet ( - ), whose mercury commanding Æneas to forsake dido, , hangs on the end wall. [footnote : the late fifteenth-century artist, provisionally known as the master of moulins and also as the painter of the bourbons, is the author of the famous triptych of the cathedral of moulins. some critics believe him to be identical with jehan perréal (jehan de paris).] [footnote : _entretiens sur les vies et sur les ouvrages des plus excellens peintres anciens et modernes._ andré félibien. paris, - .] [illustration: the triptych of moulins. _maître de moulins._] [illustration: portrait of elizabeth of austria, wife of charles ix. _françois clouet._] the two years' sojourn of solario in france at the invitation of the cardinal of amboise, of da vinci at the solicitation of louis xii., and the foundation of the school of fontainebleau in by rosso ( - ), primaticcio ( - ), and nicolo dell' abbate ( - ), mark the eclipse of whatever schools of french painting were then existing; for the grand manner and dramatic power of the italians, fostered by royal patronage, carried all before them. this room possesses by rosso, known as maître roux, , a pietà, and , the challenge of the pierides, and primaticcio is represented by some admirable drawings exhibited in cases in the centre of the room. readers of vasari will remember numerous references in his pages to italian artists who went to serve, and agents employed to buy italian works for, the _gran re francesco nel suo luogo di fontainebleo_. but the sterility of the fontainebleau school may be inferred from the fact that when marie de' medici desired to have the walls of the luxembourg royally decorated, she was compelled to have recourse to a foreigner, rubens. neglecting for a moment room xii. and turning to room xiii. we come upon some charming works by the brothers lenain, whom félibien dismisses in a few lines, while giving scores of pages to artists whose names and works have long been forgotten. so little is known of the brothers antoine and louis, who died in , and matthieu, who survived them nearly thirty years, that critics have only partially succeeded in differentiating their works, which are usually exhibited under their united names. obviously dominated by the netherland masters, their manner is yet pervaded by essentially french qualities--a love of nature and a certain atmosphere of poetry and gentleness alien to the flemish and dutch schools. nine of their works are here seen. a smithy, ; peasants playing at cards, ; and return from haymaking, , are good examples. skied in this room is , portrait of louis xiii. by simon vouet ( - ), leader of the new academic french school of the seventeenth century, an artist of prodigious activity and master of the army of court painters who served louis xiv. vouet, who had worked in italy, acquired there the grand and spacious manner of the later venetians, which was admirably adapted to the decorative requirements of his royal patrons. to his pupil, eustache lesueur ( - ), is due , st. bruno and his companions bestowing alms, one of the famous series illustrating the life of st. bruno, of which the greater number are in room xii. whither we now return. this eminently religious and tender artist is well represented in the louvre, and the sympathetic student will appreciate the austere and sincere devotion expressed in these pictures, painted for the brethren of the charterhouse in the rue d'enfer. the finest, a masterpiece, both in beauty of composition and depth of feeling, is , the death of st. bruno. the artist's careful application to his monumental task may be estimated by the fact that preliminary drawings for this series are preserved in the louvre. lesueur's modesty and high purpose went almost unheeded amid the exultant prosperity of the fashionable courtier-artists of his day. we retrace our steps, pass through room xiii., turn r., and enter the spacious room xiv. also devoted to seventeenth-century artists. lesueur is here seen in another masterpiece; , r. wall, st. paul at ephesus, a _mai_[ ] picture; and , same wall, christ bearing his cross. the influence of raphael in the former is very apparent. the hierophant of the school, vouet, is represented in this room by some dozen examples, among which hangs his masterpiece , l. wall, presentation at the temple. a work, , charity, by his short-lived rival, jacques blanchard, ( - ), known in his day as the french titian, may be seen towards the end of this long gallery on the r. wall. a talented artist too was jean de bologne, an italian by birth and known as le valentin ( - ). a good example of his style will be seen in (same wall), susannah. we now turn to nicholas poussin ( - ), the greatest master of his age, whose exalted and lucid conceptions, ripe scholarship, admirable art and fertility of invention, may be adequately appreciated at the louvre alone, which holds a matchless collection of nearly fifty of his works. the visitor, fresh from the rich and glowing colour, the grandeur and breadth of the later italians, will perchance experience a certain chill before the sobriety, the cold intellectuality and severe classic reserve of this powerful artist. let us however remember his aim and ideal: to produce a picture in which correct drawing and science of linear and aerial perspective should subserve harmony of composition, lucid expression and classic grace. to approach poussin and his younger contemporary claude rightly, the traveller will do well to free his mind from ruskin's partial and prejudiced depreciation of these two supreme masters, in order to effect an equally partial appreciation of turner.[ ] the story of poussin's single-minded and stubborn application to his art cannot here be told. after a life of poverty at paris and two unsuccessful attempts to work his way to rome, he at length reached that mecca of french artists, where a commission to paint two pictures, now at vienna, for cardinal barbarini, established his reputation. two of his works executed about during this first roman period hang here; and , r. wall, the rain of manna, and, the philistines smitten by plague. in , after two years' negotiations and the personal intervention of louis xiii., he was persuaded to return to paris to take part in the decoration of the louvre; but in spite of his generous pay and of the fine _palazzetto_ and charming garden allotted to him for residence, the petty jealousies, chicanery and low standard of his rivals, revolted his artistic conscience: he obtained leave to return to rome "to fetch his wife," and never left the eternal city again. two of his works painted during this second and last roman period are (l. of entrance), institution of the eucharist, and (l. wall), a ceiling composition executed for richelieu, time rescuing truth from the assaults of envy and discord, whose subjective interest is obvious; , l. of entrance, rebecca at the well, is described at great length by félibien, who saw it in progress. it was painted ( ) for a rich patron who desired a composition treated like guido's virgin, and filled with several young girls of differing types of beauty. the finished picture so delighted amateurs at paris that large sums were offered in vain to divert it from the fortunate possessor; , l. wall, is the famous judgment of solomon ( ). on the same wall are , echo and narcissus; , his masterpiece, shepherds of arcady--a group of shepherds of the vale of tempe in the heyday of health and beauty, are arrested in their enjoyment of life by the warning inscription on a tomb: _et in arcadia ego_ (i, too, once lived in arcady); - , the four seasons were painted ( - ) for richelieu. these beautiful compositions, more especially the last, the deluge, typifying winter, will repay careful study. on the r. wall are, , the well-known rape of the sabine women; , a most perfect work of his maturity, orpheus and eurydice ( ); and , apollo and daphne, his last work, left unfinished. such are some of the more striking manifestations of this remarkable genius who alone, says hazlitt, has the right to be considered as the painter of classical antiquity. his integrity was so rigid that he once returned part of the price paid for one of his works which he deemed excessive. to the modern, poussin is somewhat antipathetic by reason of his scholarly aloofness and insensibility to the passions and actualities of life. as reynolds remarked: he lived and conversed with ancient statues so long, that he was better acquainted with them than with the people around him, and had studied the ancients so much, that he had acquired a habit of thinking in their way. he saw nature through the glass of time, says hazlitt, and his friend dom bonaventura tells how he often met the solitary artist sketching in the forum or returning from the campagna with specimens of moss, pebbles, flowers, etc., to be used as models. when asked the secret of his artistic perfection, he would modestly answer: "_je n'ai rien négligé._" [footnote : the goldsmiths' guild of paris was accustomed, from - , to present to notre dame an _ex-voto_ picture every may-day, painted by the most renowned artist of the time.] [footnote : the reader may be referred to hazlitt's essay, _on a landscape of nicholas poussin_, as an antidote to ruskin's wayward criticism.] [illustration: shepherds of arcady. _poussin._] claude gelée ( - ) known as claude, and one of the greatest names in the history of modern painting, also spent most of his artistic career at rome. he was the first to bring the glory of the sun and the sun-steeped atmosphere on to canvas. he touches a new chord in the symphony of colour and by his poetic charm and romantic feeling stirs a deeper emotion. he, too, was a strenuous, implacable worker, a loving student of nature, passing days in silent abstraction before her varying moods. the louvre possesses sixteen claudes, among which we may emphasise on the l. wall, , view of a port; , a poetic and glowing representation of the roman forum, before the old campo vaccino, with its romantic and picturesque aspect, had been excavated by modern archæologists. and , landing of cleopatra at tarsis, and ulysses restoring chryseis to her father, are typical imaginary classic compositions and variations on the artist's favourite theme--the effects of sunlight on an atmosphere of varying luminosity and on the limpid, rippling waves of the sea. we now come to the grand monarque of the arts at paris during the century, charles lebrun ( - ), founder of the royal academy of painting and sculpture that finally eclipsed the old painters' guild which, from the thirteenth century, had monopolised the exercise of the art at paris. so tyrannous had the guild become that, in , it ordered the number of court painters to be reduced to four each for the king and queen. an attempt to apply this regulation to the painters lodged at the louvre roused lebrun's hostility, who induced the regent, anne of austria, to found a rival académie royale on the model of the famous academy of st. luke at florence. twelve _anciens_ were chosen by lot and the new academy, lebrun at its head, was inaugurated on st february . the angry guild swooped down on the academy on th march, armed with a police warrant, to seize all its pictures and effects, a blow which lebrun parried by a royal decree annulling the warrant. hereupon the guild organised their own academy of st. luke under the leadership of vouet and mignard, and after some temporary reconciliations and as many bickerings and hostilities, lebrun won mazarin's favour by a judicious gift of two paintings, and the académie royale obtained in a new constitution, an increase of members to forty, free quarters, and pensions, which, under colbert, were raised to , livres. the guild fought hard and won some concessions, but the académie royale remained supreme, and both were finally overwhelmed in the revolutionary storm. [illustration: landing of cleopatra at tarsus. _lorrain._] in lebrun was commanded by louis xiv. to paint cartoons for tapestry illustrating the life of alexander the great. five of these huge canvases hang in this room, r. and l., - ; , r. wall, the family of darius at alexander's feet, so charmed the king that he appointed lebrun first royal painter, and granted him a patent of nobility. for thirty years the royal favourite was sole arbiter of taste and ruled supreme over the arts, until his star paled before the rising luminary, his rival mignard. lebrun's best work is to be seen at versailles, but , r. wall, the battle of arbela, is an excellent example of his facile and adroit style. in the old favourite was commanded by louis to paint a rival picture to mignard's, christ bearing his cross, which was incensed with extravagant adulation by the courtiers. lebrun set to work and in three months completed his christ on the cross, which the king loudly appreciated. both pictures, and , now hang on the l. wall a few paces from each other. pierre mignard ( - ) was a fellow-pupil with lebrun under vouet, and like him in early years a sojourner in rome: his popular madonnas, modelled from his italian wife, added a new word (_mignardes_) to the french language. one such, , hangs a little further along this wall. in he won royal favour by a portrait of the young louis, a branch of art in which he excelled. mignard was a supple flatterer, and louis sat to him many times. once, later in the monarch's life, his royal sitter asked if he observed any change. "sire," answered the courtly painter, "i only perceive a few more victories on your brow." a portrait of madame de maintenon, , is seen (l. wall) in this room. mignard's greatest work, however, great in range if not in art, is the painting of the cupola of the church at the val de grâce, which is not only an indifferent painting, but was the occasion of a bad poem by his friend molière.[ ] two other eminent portraitists, nicholas largillière ( - ), and hyacinth rigaud ( - ), may now fitly be considered. [footnote : _la gloire du dome du val de grâce._ the subject of the picture is la gloire des bienheureux, and contains figures.] by rigaud, who was regarded as the first painter of europe for truth of resemblance united with magnificence of presentment, are: a masterly portrait of bossuet, ; and a superb rendering of the _roi-soleil_, , both on the l. wall. further along, on the same wall, are , portrait of his mother in two aspects painted for the sculptor coysevox; and his last work, , presentation at the temple. rigaud was especially successful with the rich bourgeoisie of paris, and later became court painter, supreme in expressing the grandiose and inflated pomposities of the age. he, says reynolds, in the tumour of his presumptuous loftiness, was the perfect example of du pile's rules, that bid painters so to draw their portraits that they seem to speak and say to us: "stop, look at me! i am that invincible king: majesty surrounds me. look! i am that valiant soldier: i struck terror everywhere. i am that great minister, etc." by largillière, who lacks the psychological insight of his contemporary, is, l. wall, , portrait of the comte de la chartre. he was a master of the accessories and upholstery of portraiture and painted some sitters during his long career, part of which was passed in england as court painter to charles ii. and james ii. a third successful portraitist was jean marc nattier ( - ), whose ingenious and compliant art aimed at endowing a commonplace sitter with distinction and grace, and who generally was able to strike a happy medium between flattery and truth. better represented at versailles, he is but poorly seen here in , r. wall, a magdalen, and a, l. wall, unknown portrait. is an interesting portrait of fagon, louis xiv.'s favourite physician, by jean jouvenet ( - ), known as le grand, a talented and docile pupil of lebrun, whose four large compositions executed for the church of st. martin des champs, - , are hung in this room. , r. wall, resurrection of lazarus, is perhaps the best. his works are a connecting link between the pompous spread-eagle manner of the _siècle de louis xiv._ and the gay abandonment and heartless frivolity of the reign of louis xv. we pass from this room to the collection of portraits in room xv. of which some few possess artistic importance and many historical interest. we bestow what attention we may desire and pass direct to room xvi. devoted to seventeenth-century art. chief among the painters who interpreted the refined sensuality and more pleasant vices of the age, yet not of them, was antoine watteau ( - ), the melancholy youth from french flanders, who began by painting st. nicholases at three francs a week and his board, but who soon invented a new manner and became famous as the _peintre des scènes galantes_. these scenes of coquetry, frivolity and amorous dalliance, with their patched, powdered and scented ladies and gallants, toying with life in a land where, like that of the lotus eaters, it seems always afternoon, he clothes with a refined and delicate vesture of grace and fascination. he has a poetic touch for landscape and a tender, pathetic sense of the tears in mortal things which make him akin to virgil in literature, for over the languorous and swooning air and sun-steeped glades the coming tempest lours. his success, as walter pater suggests, in painting these vain and perishable graces of the drawing-room and garden-comedy of life, with the delicate odour of decay which rises from the soil, was probably due to the fact that he despised them. the whole age of the revolution lies between these irresponsible and gay courtiers in the _scènes galantes_ of watteau and the virile peasant scenes in the "epic of toil" painted by millet. in this room hangs his academy picture, the embarkation for cythera, , l. wall, its colour unhappily almost worn away by over cleaning. his pupils, pater ( - ), and lancret ( - ), imitated his style, but were unable to soar to the higher plane of their master's genius. the former is represented by a fête champêtre, , r. wall: the latter by the four seasons, - , r. wall; on the l. wall, , the music lesson, and , innocence, both from the palace of fontainebleau. the fête galante dies with these artists whom we shall meet again better represented in the salle la caze. a famous contemporary of pater and lancret and first painter to the king was charles antoine coypel ( - ), grandson of noël coypel ( - ), and son of antoine ( - ), both of whom are represented in the louvre (rooms xiv.-xvi., - , and - ), his perseus and andromeda, , hangs r. of the entrance of this room. charles andré vanloo ( - ), known as carle vanloo, (whose grandfather, jacob vanloo, is represented by two pictures, , , hung among the dutch artists in rooms xxiv. and xxvi.), enjoyed a great vogue in his day. his facile drawing and riotous colour temporarily enriched the language with a new verb--to _vanlooter_. , on the l. wall, a hunting picnic, is an admirable specimen of his supple talent. the flaunting sensuality of françois boucher ( - ), and of jean honoré fragonnard ( - ), who lavished undoubted genius and ignoble industry in the service of the depraved boudoir tastes of the pompadours and du barrys that ruled at versailles, are seen here and in the salle la caze in all their eloquent vulgarity. that boucher had in him the elements of a great painter may be inferred from the charming little sketch, , r. wall, diana, and from the excellent interior, a, l. wall, breakfast. his popular pastoral scenes, executed with amazing facility, with their beribboned shepherds and dainty shepherdesses, are exemplified in and , r. wall, and and , l. wall. other works by this fluent servant of la pompadour are , r. wall, venus commanding vulcan to forge arms for Æneas, and , l. wall, vulcan presenting them to venus. boucher with all his faults was a grand decorative artist of extraordinary versatility, but the loose habits and careless methods of his later days are reflected in slovenly drawing and waning powers of invention. reynolds, who visited him in paris, noted the change, and describes how he found the artist at work on a large picture without studies or models of any kind, and on expressing his surprise, was told by boucher that he did in earlier days use them, but had dispensed with them for many years. fragonnard, who on his return from rome, had set about some canvases in the grand traditional style of the earlier masters, of which an example may be seen in , r. wall, coresus[ ] and callirrhoe, soon perceived that fame lay not in that direction, and devoted himself with exuberant talent and unconscionable facility to satisfy the frivolous tastes and refined animality of royal and courtly patrons. for it was a time when life was envisaged as a perpetual feast of enjoyment; a vision of roguish eyes and rouged and patched faces of sprightly beribboned and perfumed gallants, playing at shepherds and shepherdesses, of luxurious sensuality untrammelled by a christianity minus the ten commandments, soon to be hustled away by the robust and democratic ideals of david. another early work of fragonnard in this room is , r. wall, the music lesson: some of his more characteristic productions we shall meet with in the salle la caze. a somewhat feeble protest against the prevailing vulgarity and debasement of contemporary art was made by jean baptiste siméon chardin ( - ) and jean baptiste greuze ( - ) in their rendering of scenes of domesticity and of the pathos of simple lives. chardin is well seen in this room in his laborious studies of still life, and , l. wall, diploma works, and in and , same wall, the industrious mother, and grace before meat. the last, a delightful work, won for the artist diderot's powerful advocacy, and made him the popular interpreter of bourgeois intimacies. other patient studies of still life are: , , , and ; and r. wall . on the same wall hang, , the ape as antiquary, and , the housewife. if chardin touches the border-line between sentiment and sentimentality, greuze (end wall) in , return of the prodigal; , a father's crime; and , the undutiful son, certainly oversteps it. each of these became the theme of extravagant eulogy and didactic preachments by diderot, his literary protagonist, who hailed him as a french hogarth making virtue amiable and vice odious. an even more equivocal note is struck (l. wall) in a, the milkmaid; and , the broken pitcher, where as gautier acutely remarks, the artist contrives to make virtue exhale the same sensual delight as vice had done, and to suggest that innocence will fall an easy victim to temptation. madame du barry was much attracted by the latter picture and possessed a replica of it. other works and studies, r. wall, by the artist are in this room. , end wall, severus reproaching caracalla, was painted as a diploma picture. but greuze essayed here a flight beyond his powers: to his profound disgust the academy refused to admit him as an historical, and classed him as a _genre_ painter. no survey of eighteenth century french painting would be complete without some reference to claude joseph vernet ( - ), the famous marine and landscape artist, whose paintings of the principal ports of france are hung in the musée de la marine on the second floor. here we may distinguish among some score of his works: , the bathers; , a landscape; and , a seascape: the setting sun, all on the l. wall. [illustration: embarkation for the island of cythera. _watteau._] [footnote : coresus, a priest of bacchus at calydon, whose love was scorned by the nymph callirrhoe, called forth a pestilence on the land. the calydonians, ordered by the oracle to sacrifice the nymph, led her to the altar. coresus, forgetting his resentment, sacrificed himself instead of her, who, conscious of ingratitude, killed herself at a fountain.] [illustration: grace before meat. _chardin._] it will now be opportune to make our way to the la caze collection. we pass out from the end of this room and descend the escalier daru to the first landing; then ascend l. of the victory of samothrace to the rotonde, pass direct through the salle des bijoux, and turn l. through room ii. to room i. the la caze collection. we note on the r. wall, an excellent lenain, , a peasant meal, and some admirable portraits by largillière, - , of which the last, portrait of the artist, his wife and daughter, is a masterly work. among the fine portraits by rigaud, - , that of the young duke of lesdiguières, stands pre-eminent. we cross to the l. wall, where the rich collection of works by watteau and his followers is placed: , gilles, a scene from a comedy, is one of watteau's most precious pictures. near it are: , the disdainful; , gathering in a park. , sly-puss, a charming little picture, is followed by , , and , four other studies. is a carefully finished classical subject, jupiter and antiope. near these are grouped: - , four small works by lancret, and - , a like number of typical variations of the _scène galante_ by pater. we next note , a fine portrait group by nattier: mlle. de lambec as minerva, arming her brother the young count of brienne. to the same skilful portraitist are due: , a knight of malta; and , a daughter of louis xv. as a vestal virgin. by boucher are: , r. of entrance, the painter in his studio, and r. wall, , the three graces; and , l. wall, venus and vulcan, and vulcan's forge. fragonnard is represented by some of his characteristic works executed with wonderful sleight of hand, - . the prevailing taste of his patrons may be judged by , l. wall, a sketch of one of his most successful and oftenest repeated subjects. on this same wall are a varied series of chardin's studies of still life; a poor replica, , of his grace before meat; , the ape as painter, and other similar homely subjects. here also are two historical revolutionary portraits by greuze: , the girondin, gensonné, and , the poet-deputy, fabre d'eglantine. among the later venetians are some tintorets, r. wall: , susannah; , virgin and child, saints and donor; , portrait of pietro mocenigo. spanish art is represented by a fine but unpleasing ribera, , boy with a club-foot, and to velasquez are ascribed: , the infanta maria teresa, queen of louis xiv.; , unknown portrait; , l. of entrance, philip iv. and , r. wall, the provost and sheriffs, and jean de mesme, president of the parlement of paris, are excellent examples of philippe de champaigne's austere and honest art. from the studios of boucher and of comte joseph marie vien ( - ) there came towards the end of the eighteenth century the virile, revolutionary figure of jacques louis david ( - ), who burst like a thunderstorm on the corrupt artistic atmosphere of the age, sweetening and bracing french art for half a century. shocked by the slovenly drawing and vulgarity of the fashionable masters, and nursed on plutarch, he applied himself to the study of the antique with a determination to rejuvenate the painter's art and establish a school, drawing its inspiration from heroic greece and rome. the successive phases of this potent but rather theatrical genius may be well followed in the louvre. neglecting for the present his earlier and pre-revolutionary works, we retrace our steps through room ii. noting in passing, , the funeral at ornans (a remarkable, realistic painting by a later revolutionary, to whom we shall return) and enter room iii. on the l. wall of which hangs , david's famous canvas: the sabine women, over which he brooded during his imprisonment in the luxembourg after the thermidorian reaction. david regarded this composition as the most successful expression of his theory of art. he studied whole libraries of antiquities and vainly imagined it to be the most "greek" of all his works. nothing, however, could be farther removed from the tranquil self-restraint and noble simplicity of greek art than these self-conscious, histrionic groups of figures, without one touch of naturalness. the old preoccupation with classic models inherited from poussin and the roman school, still dominates even this revolutionary artist, who best displays his great genius when he forgets his theories and paints direct from life, as in , mme. récamier; and (opposite wall), pius vii. david's fierce jacobinism (he had been a member of the terrible committee of public safety) did not prevent him from worshipping the rising star of the first consul, who, on assuming the imperial crown, appointed him court painter and commissioned him to execute, a, consecration of napoleon i. at notre dame. in this grandiose historic scene, containing at least portraits, the eye is at once drawn to the central actor who, having crowned himself, is placing a diadem on the kneeling josephine's brow. the story runs, that david had originally drawn pope pius vii. with hands on knees. bonaparte entering the studio, at once ordered the artist to represent the pontiff in the act of blessing, exclaiming: "i didn't bring him all this way to do nothing." for this picture and for the distribution of the eagles , francs were paid. [illustration: madame rÉcamier. _david._] among the painters of the new school was pierre prud'hon ( - ), whose fame was made by two pictures, and , on opposite walls, first exhibited in : justice and divine wrath pursuing crime; and the graceful but somewhat invertebrate, rape of psyche. , an assumption, was executed for the tuileries chapel in . other works by this master, whose correggiosity is evident, hang in the room. two famous pupils of david were françois pascal simon gérard ( - ) and antoine jean gros ( - ). by the former, known as the king of painters and painter of kings, are: , love and psyche; and , a charming portrait of the painter isabey and his daughter. by the latter, who owed the imperial favour to the good graces of josephine, are: , bonaparte at arcole; a, lieut. sarlovèze, a typical beau-sabreur portrait; and , bonaparte visiting victims of the plague at jaffa, a striking composition, which advanced the artist to the front rank of his profession. gros was the parent of the grand battle-pictures of the future; the painter of the napoleonic epos. young artists were wont to attach a sprig of laurel to this work in which the first signs of the coming storm of romanticism are discerned. the real champion of the movement was, however, jean louis andré théodore géricault ( - ), whose epoch-making picture, , the raft of the medusa, we now observe. this daring and passionate revolt from frigid classicism and preoccupation with a conventional antiquity was received but coldly by the professional critics on its appearance in , though with enthusiasm by the people. failing to find a buyer at paris, its exhibition in england by a speculator, proved a financial success. - , are military subjects of lesser range by this young innovator: , epsom races, was painted in england in , three years before his premature death. to follow on with the french school we retrace our steps by the rotonde and the escalier daru through room xvi. to room xv., l. of which, is the entrance to room viii. we revert to david whose oath of the horatii, , exhibited in ; and the lictors bearing to brutus the bodies of his sons, , exhibited in the fateful year , hang skied on the r. wall. these paintings, hailed with prodigious enthusiasm, revolutionised the fashions and tastes of the day and gave artistic expression to the coming political and social changes. a on the same wall, the three ladies of ghent, was painted during the artist's exile in belgium, for the old terrorist was naturally not a _persona grata_ to the restored bourbons. jean auguste dominique ingres ( - ), the most famous of david's pupils, two of whose works we have seen in room v., was the bitterest opponent of the new romantic school and steadfast champion of his master's artistic ideal. to him more than to any other teacher is due the tradition of clean, correct and comely drawing that characterises the french school. it is somewhat difficult perhaps for a foreigner, observing the paintings by ingres in this room, fully to comprehend[ ] the reverence in which he is held by his countrymen. more than once professor legros has described to the present writer the thrill of emotion that passed through him and his fellow-students when they saw the aged master enter the École des beaux arts at paris. if, however, the visitor will inspect the marvellous ingres drawings in the salle des desseins (p. ), he will appreciate his genius more adequately. the master's chief work in the present room is , r. wall, apotheosis of homer, a ceiling composition in which the arch-poet, laurel-crowned, has at his footstool seated figures symbolising the _iliad_ and the _odyssey_, while the most famous poets and philosophers of the ages are grouped below him. the odalisque, b, l. wall, is a characteristic nude, and a few other subject pictures will be noted. among his portraits, , cherubini; b, bertier de vaux, are generally regarded as masterpieces. ingres despised colour, he never appealed to the emotions; his type of beauty is external and soulless, and he leaves the spectator cold. [footnote : whistler, while disliking his art, was wont to wish he had been his pupil.] meanwhile the new romantic school of brilliant colourists grew and flourished. ary scheffer, delaroche, delacroix, cradled in the storms of the revolutionary period, are all represented around us. the sentimental ary scheffer ( - ) is seen, l. wall, in , st. augustine and st. monica, an immensely popular but affected and feeble composition. some portraits by this artist may be also found on the walls. greater than he in breadth of composition, opulence of colour and artistic virtuosity, was paul delaroche, whose death of queen elizabeth, , end wall, now asserts itself. his greatest work, however, and one which won him much fame, is his well-known hemicycle in the beaux arts (p. ). a twin spirit with géricault was the impetuous ferdinand victor eugène delacroix ( - ), who is more fully hung in this collection. of the brilliant compositions which with indefatigable industry he poured forth in the heyday of the movement, we may note some excellent examples: , l. wall, the wreck of don juan; , l. wall, jewish wedding at morocco; and, , capture of constantinople by the venetians and franks. earlier works are, , r. of entrance, virgil and dante nearing the city of dis, executed with feverish energy in a few weeks for the salon of ; and , l. of entrance, the massacre of scio, a glowing canvas painted in . jean hippolyte flandrin ( - ), the lesueur of the century, and like him uniting artistic genius and wide erudition with profound religious faith and true modesty, is represented most poorly of all; , portrait of a young girl being the only example of this master's work here. flandrin can only be truly appreciated in the church of st. germain des prés (p. ). before we turn to the barbizon painters, we note gros' fine composition, , l. wall, napoleon at eylau; and , r. wall, francis i. and charles v. visiting the tombs at st. denis. with théodore rousseau ( - ), the all-father of the modern french landscape school, and chief of the little band of enthusiasts who grouped themselves about him at barbizon, we touch the greatest artistic movement of the age. jean baptiste camille corot ( - ), the ever-young and gentle spirit, the tenderest emanation of the century; jean françois millet ( - ), the inspired and cultured peasant, mightiest of them all, grand and solemn interpreter of the fundamental and tragic pathos of human toil, ever discerning god's image in the most bent and ill-shapen of his creatures; constant troyon ( - ), the grandest animal painter of his day; narcisse diaz de la peña ( - ), once a poor errand lad with a maimed leg, painter of forest depths and of the rich hues of summer foliage; charles françois daubigny ( - ), latest of the little band, faithful and tender student of nature, painter of the countryside, of the murmuring waters of the seine and the oise--these once despised and rejected of men have long won fame and appreciation. no princely patronage shone on them in their early struggles nor smoothed their path; they wrought out the beauty of their souls under the hard discipline of poverty in loving and awful communion with nature. they have revealed to us new tones of colour in the air, in the forest and the plain, and a new sense of the pathos and beauty in simple lives and common things. , l. wall, is rousseau's forest at fontainebleau, a fine effect of setting sun and loving representation of his favourite tree, the oak; and , r. wall, are also by this master. on the same wall , millet's spring, whose coloration at first sight may seem forced and strange, is absolutely faithful to nature, as the writer who once observed similar colour effects in the forest can testify. , the gleaners, "the three fates of poverty," is, next to the angelus, the most popular of millet's works. corot, the theocritus of modern painting, is represented by , the lovely and poetical morning, , souvenir de mortefontaine and _bis_, castelgandolfo. r. and l. are, and , two grand and massive compositions by troyon: oxen going to the plough; and, the return to the farm: landscapes that smell of the very earth, and rendered with a marvellous breadth of style and penetrating sympathy; , end wall, and , r. of entrance, grape harvest in burgundy, and spring, are by daubigny. one of the most aggressive, ebullient and individual of painters was gustave courbet ( - ), whose harshly realistic funeral at ornans we have seen in room ii. in courbet, finding his works badly hung in the international exhibition at paris, erected a wooden shed near the entrance, where he exhibited thirty-eight of his large pictures, and defiantly painted outside in big letters--realism: g. courbet. strong of body and coarse in habit, this _peintre-animal_, as he was called, delighted to _épater le bourgeois_, and painted his studies of the nude with a brutal reality that stripped the female form of all the beauty and grace with which the superior ideality of man has invested it. this swashbuckler of realism, who despised the old masters, denounced imagination as humbug, and would have great men, railway stations, factories and mines painted as the _vérités vraies_, the saints and miracles of the age, was, however, often better than his artistic creed, and is here represented by some pleasing fontainebleau pictures: l. wall, , deer in covert; r. wall, , source of the puits noir, and l., _bis_, the waves, a most powerful and original interpretation of the sombre majesty of the sea. for in truth the creed of realism, whether in literature or in art, involves a fallacy, and the creations of the imaginative and idealistic faculty in man are as real as those which result from the faculty of seeing mean things meanly and coarse things coarsely. courbet's violent revolutionary nature nearly cost him his life in and involved him in the commune in , during which he presided over the destruction of the vendôme column (though he saved the luxembourg and the thiers' collection from the violence of the people). poor courbet, mulcted in enormous damages for his share in the overthrow of the column, was ruined and died in exile. a more potent revolutionist, the arch-impressionist manet and founder of the school, has at length forced the portals of the louvre and is represented by the celebrated olympia, , around which so many fierce battles were waged in . we proceed to supplement this small collection of barbizon pictures by a visit to the recently acquired ( ) thomy-thiéry and chauchard collections. returning to the salle la caze by room xvi., and the escalier daru, we issue from it, pass direct before us and continue through the rooms devoted to exhibits of furniture (in hall ii. is a superb specimen of cabinet-work--louis xv.'s writing-table). turning r., we then enter a series of cabinets, containing an admirable and most important collection of drawings, beginning with the early italian masters and following on chronologically to the later italians and to the german, netherland and french masters. if the visitor have leisure he will be repaid by returning at some convenient time to study these carefully. but even the most hurried traveller should not omit to glance through them, and more especially at the lovely da vincis in the second cabinet and the ingres drawings further along. arrived at the end, we shall find on our l. a wooden staircase, which we mount and reach room xxxvii. the salle française de . here are exhibited delaroche's princes in the tower; flandrin's portrait of mme. vinet and some early works of the barbizon school; corot, , the forum at rome; , the colosseum; f, the belfry at douai and others. millet's sketch of the church at gréville, , was found in his studio after his death; another study is , the bathers; a, the seamstress, a is a portrait of the artist's sister-in-law. by rousseau are two small landscapes, and ; and the landes, , a masterpiece. diaz and dupré are seen in a number of studies and paintings. room xxxviii. contains the thomy-thiéry pictures, excellently hung and forming one of the most rich and precious collections in the louvre. on the r. wall as we enter are a numerous series of _genre_ paintings, happily conceived and wrought by alexandre gabriel decamps ( - ). this room holds many excellent rousseaus, among which are: , banks of the loire; , an excellent study of his favourite oak trees; , the pyrenees; , springtide. millet is well represented by a priceless little collection: , the binders; , the rubbish-burners; , the winnower; , a motherly precaution; , the wood chopper. by corot are shown no less than twelve examples: - . all are most exquisitely poetical and delicate, but we may specially note: , shepherds' dance at sorrento; , the pollard willows; , souvenir of italy; , the pond; , entrance to a village; , view of sin-le-noble; , evening. a magnificent set of troyons next claims our admiration, eleven in all, - , of which: , girl with turkeys; , morning; , the barrier; , the heights of suresnes, are superlative. the ten diaz pictures, - , are of perhaps lesser interest, although they will all repay careful attention. of daubigny's intimate landscapes thirteen are offered to our appreciation, - , among which: , the thames at erith; , the mill at gyliers; and , morning, are notable. by the melancholy and poetical jules dupré ( - ), whose landscapes oft breathe the tragic pathos of storm and desolation, and who is said to have broken into a passionate outburst of tears and sobs as he watched the magnificent spectacle of a nocturnal tempest, are twelve compositions, - ; and let us not omit some half-score delacroix, - , among which is a rare religious subject, , christ on the cross. the glass cases in the centre of the room exhibit a numerous collection of bronzes by barye, whom we have seen among the modern sculptors in room vi. [illustration: the binders. _millet._] [illustration: landscape. _corot._] room xxxix. is the salle française du second empire and contains horace vernet's well known, the barrière de clichy, defence of paris in ; and ary scheffer's, death of géricault. is the great caricaturist daumier's portrait of théodore rousseau. numerous examples of the myopic art of jean louis ernest meissonier ( - ) will attract attention in this room. to reach the chauchard collection, provisionally exhibited in the old colonial office, we descend to the first floor, traverse the grande galerie and the new rubens room. this, _prodigieux accroissement de richesses_, as it is termed by the official catalogue, contains a large number of masterpieces by the barbizon painters and raises the louvre collections of that school to supreme importance. no less than eight millet's are included, the most famous of which, if not the greatest, the angelus, , is much faded, but always attracts a crowd of admirers. , woman at the well, is a scene at the artist's birthplace; , is one of the most inspired of the master's creations, the shepherdess watching her flock. , the winnower; , girl with a distaff, and , the sheep fold--a lovely pastoral scene by night. among the twenty-six corots are many of his finest works; , goatherd playing the flute; , the dance of the nymphs; , rest beneath the willows; , the ford; , forest glade: souvenir of ville avray; , dance of shepherdesses; , the mill of st. nicholas-les-arras. some noble rousseaus are included: , avenue in the forest of d'isle-adam; , pond by the wayside; , road in the forest of fontainebleau. troyon's score of canvases make a brave show: , the white cow, painted in , was a favourite of the artist who kept it by him until his death and bequeathed it to his mother. by charles jacque, the painter of sheep, three works are shown including , the great sheepfold. daubigny, descamps, diaz and others of the school are well represented in the collection. admirers of "the little master of little pictures" will find among the twenty-six meissonier's, which the chauchard bequest brings to the louvre, two of the most famous of his works: , the napoleonic picture, campaign of france, ; and , amateurs of painting. all these examples of the most successful but least inspired of modern artists exemplify his patient, concentrated, meticulous style. by an ingenious fiction that the installation is only provisional, six characteristic venetian pictures by the veteran, ziem, have been retained in the collection.[ ] , is, however, wrongly named, and should read scene from the giudecca. [footnote : pictures by living artists are excluded from the louvre.] we have completed our rapid survey of the chief paintings in the louvre, for the more recent developments of french art must be sought in the luxembourg, where they are all too inadequately represented. the self-imposed limitations of this work will not carry us thither, but the most cursory visit to the louvre would be incomplete without some notice of the collections of persian and egyptian art which we may conveniently glance at on our way as we leave. descending to the first floor by the staircase up which we mounted, we turn obliquely to the r. and enter the e. gallery containing the persian terra-cotta reliefs and other objects from the royal palace of darius, and artaxerxes,[ ] his son, at susa, including the marvellous coloured frieze of the archers; one of the colossal capitals (restored), that supported the roof of the throne room; a model of the same; and some fine terra-cotta reliefs of lions and of winged bulls. [footnote : the student of history will not need to be reminded that the famous retreat of the ten thousand, so dramatically described by xenophon, was occasioned by the death in battle of their ally cyrus, in his ill-omened attempt to dispossess his brother, artaxerxes, of the crown of persia.] we pass on through the mediæval and renaissance collections, turn an angle r., and enter the south gallery, where some remarkable specimens of ancient art will be found among the egyptian antiquities. the painted statue (hall iii.) of the seated scribe is one of the most precious examples the world possesses of an art admirable in its naturalism and power of vivid portraiture, and the charming figure of a priestess, known as _dame toui_, exquisitely wrought in wood, is equally noteworthy. a superb example of a royal papyrus of the book of the dead will also invite attention. we pass on through a suite of beautifully decorated rooms filled with a choice collection of etruscan and greek ceramic art, each of which offers a rich feast of beauty and historic interest. at length we reach again the collection of paintings, room iii., whence we may pass through the salle des bijoux with a small exhibit of ancient jewellery, to the rotonde, and turning l., enter the magnificent galerie d'apollon (the old petite galerie of henry iv.), and examine the wealth of enamels; the exquisite productions of the goldsmith's art as applied to the sacred vessels of the church; precious stones; cameos; and such as remain of the old crown jewels. we may leave the palace by returning to the rotonde; pass through the salle la caze and descend the escalier henry ii. to the l., noting the caissons of its ceiling, decorated by jean goujon, and reach the quadrangle under the pavilion de l'horloge, where we began our visit; or we pass from the rotonde down the escalier daru to the exit in the pavilion denon, which gives on the squares du louvre. in the latter case it will be of some interest before leaving to pass for a moment by the exit and along the galerie mollien, where on the r. among the models of roman masterpieces executed for francis i., under primaticcio's supervision, will be found one of the laocoon, which shows its condition before bernini's bungling restoration had deformed the group. to the unsated sightseer there yet remain the rich and comprehensive collections of egyptian and asiatic antiquities on the ground floor of the e. wing entered on either side of the e. portal. section vi _the ville (s. of the rue st. antoine)--the hôtel de ville[ ]--st. gervais--hôtel beauvais--hôtel of the provost of paris--ss. paul and louis--hôtel de mayenne--site of the bastille--bibliothèque de l'arsenal[ ]--hôtel fieubert--hôtel de sens--isle st. louis._ [footnote : open, - , by ticket obtained at the secretary's office.] [footnote : open, - , daily, except chief festivals.] we take the _métropolitain_ to the hôtel de ville station and make our way to the place de l'hôtel de ville, formerly place de grève, a little w. of the station. in a sloping bank of sand (grève), to the e. of the rue st. martin and facing the old port of the nautæ at st. landry on the island of the cité, was ceded by royal charter, to the burgesses of paris for a payment of seventy livres. "it is void of houses," says the charter, "and is called the _gravia_, and is situated where the old market-place (_vetus forum_) existed." this was the origin of the famous place de grève,[ ] where throbbed the very heart of civic, commercial and industrial paris. on its eastern side stood the old maison aux piliers, a long, low building, whose upper floor was supported by columns. here every revolutionary and democratic movement has been organised, from the days of marcel to those of the communes of --when the last provost of the merchants met his death--and of , when the fine old renaissance hôtel de ville was destroyed by fire. the place of sand was much smaller in olden times, and from , when philip the fair burned three heretics, to september, , when the last political offenders, the four serjeants of rochelle, were executed, and to july , when the last murderer was hung there, has soaked up the blood of many a famous enemy of state and church and of innumerable notorious and obscure criminals, including the infamous marquise de brinvilliers, who was burned alive, and cartouche, broken on the wheel. a permanent gibbet stood there and a market cross, and there during the english wars the infuriated parisians tied the hands and feet of hundreds of english prisoners taken at pontoise and flung them into the seine. every st. john's eve--the church and cloister of st. jean stood behind the hôtel de ville--a great bonfire was lighted in the place de grève, fireworks were let off, and a salvo of artillery celebrated the festival. when the relations between crown and commune were felicitous the king himself would take part in the _fête_ and fire the pile with a torch of white wax decorated with crimson velvet. a royal supper and ball in the grande salle concluded the revels. not infrequently the ashes at the stake where a poor wretch had met his doom had scarcely cooled before the joyous flames and fireworks of the feu de st. jean burst forth, and the very day after the execution of the count of bouteville the people were dancing round the fires of st. john. the present hôtel de ville, by ballu and deperthes, completed in ,[ ] is one of the finest modern edifices in europe, and contains some of the most important productions of contemporary french painters and sculptors: puvis de chavannes, carolus duran, benjamin constant, jean paul laurens, carrière dalou, chapu and others. [footnote : the masons of paris were wont to stand on the place waiting to be hired, and sometimes contrived to exact higher wages. hence the origin of the term _faire grève_ (to go out on strike).] [footnote : charles normand, founder of the société des amis des monuments, appeals for information concerning the fate of the old inscription commemorating the laying of the foundation stone of the former hôtel de ville in . it is said to have been appropriated (_se serait emparé_) by an englishman in .] we pass to the e. of the hôtel, where stands the church of st. gervais and st. protais, whose façade by solomon debrosse ( ) "is regarded," says félibien ( ), "as a masterpiece of art by the best architectural authorities" ("_les plus intelligens en architecture_"). the church, which has been several times rebuilt, occupies the site of the old sixth-century building, near which stood the elm tree where suitors waited for justice to be done by the early kings. "_attendre sous l'orme_" ("to wait under the elm") is still a proverbial expression for waiting till doomsday. [illustration: st. gervais.] the lofty gothic interior, dating from the late fifteenth century, is lighted by some sixteenth and seventeenth-century stained glass, and among the pictures that have escaped transportation to the louvre may be noted a lunette over the clergy stalls r. of the nave, god the father, by perugino; and a remarkable tempera painting, the passion, attributed to dürer's pupil, aldegräver, in the fifth chapel, l. aisle. the curious old panelled and painted little chapelle scarron (fourth to the l.) and the sixteenth-century carved choir stalls from the abbey church of port royal are of interest: the beautiful vaulting of the lady chapel is also noteworthy. some good modern paintings may be seen (with difficulty) in the side chapels. the rue françois miron leading e. from the place st. gervais was part of the rue st. antoine, before the cutting of the rue de rivoli, and the chief artery from the e. to the centre of paris. on the r. of this street, no. , rue geoffrey l'asnier, is the fine portal of the seventeenth-century hôtel de châlons, where the whilom ambassador to england, antoine de la borderie, lived ( ). yet further on in the rue françois miron is the rue de jouy: at no. , is the charming hôtel d'aumont by hardouin mansard. we continue our eastward way along the rue françois miron and among other interesting houses note no. , the princely hôtel de beauvais, erected , for anne of austria's favourite _femme de chambre_, catherine henriette belier, wife of pierre beauvais. the street façade has been much disfigured and the magnificent wrought-iron balcony, whence anne, mazarin and turenne, together with the queen of england, watched the solemn entry of louis xiv. and his consort maria thérèse, has been destroyed: but the beautiful circular porch with its doric columns and metopes and the stately courtyard where the architect, jean lepautre, has triumphed over the irregularity of the site and created a marvellous symmetry of form--all this still remains, together with the noble stairway on the l., decorated by the flemish sculptor, desjardins. in the house at the sign of the falcon which formerly stood on this spot, tasso in the splendour of his early years was lodged by his patron, the cardinal d'este, and composed the greater part of the _gerusalemme liberata_. the rue françois miron is continued by the rue st. antoine: at no. , we enter the passage charlemagne and pass to the second courtyard where remains a goodly portion of the old hôtel of the royal provost of paris,[ ] given to aubriot by charles v. at no. is the site of one of the gates of the philip augustus wall and at no. stands the jesuit church of st. paul and st. louis, in the typical baroque style so familiar to visitors to rome. the once lavishly decorated interior has suffered much from the revolutionists. germain pilon's virgin still remains in the chapel l. of the high altar, but the four angels in silver that sustained the hearts of louis xiii. and xiv., and the noble bronze statues from the mausoleum of the princes of condé, admired by bernini, are only a memory. at no. , a malodorous court leads to the old vaulted entrance to the charnel-houses of st. paul, where rabelais and the man with the iron mask were buried;[ ] and to the r. of this vault a narrow street leads to the marché ste. catherine on the site of the canons' houses of the monastery of ste. catherine du val des Écoliers (p. ). at the corner of the rue du petit musc is the magnificent hôtel de mayenne, begun by du cerceau for diana of poitiers and completed for the duke of mayenne, leader of the forces of the league: this too has a fine courtyard. the chamber in which the leaders of the league met and decided to assassinate henry iii. still exists. an inscription over no. marks the site of the forecourt of the bastille where the revolutionists penetrated on th july: on the pavement in front of no. and across the end of the street and in front of no. place de la bastille, round the opposite corner, lines of white stones mark part of the huge space on which the gloomy and sinister old fortress stood. we turn s.w. by the boulevard henry iv., past the imposing new barracks of the garde républicaine, and then l. by the rue de sully. at no. we enter the bibliothèque de l'arsenal, one of the most important libraries of paris, where an attendant will show sully's private cabinet and antechamber, with the rich decorations as they were left by his successor, including a ceiling painted by vouet. many an intimate outpouring of the victor of ivry's domestic woes did sully endure here--complaints of his ill-tempered marie's scoldings, the contrast between his lawful wife's sour greetings and the endearing graces and merry, roguish charms of his mistresses; their quarrels and exactions. all of which the great minister would listen to reprovingly, and exhort his dejected royal master not to permit himself, who had vanquished the hosts of his enemies in battle, to be overcome by a woman's petulancy. to the s. of the library the boulevard morland marks the channel which separated the isle de louviers from the n. bank of the river. we return to the boulevard henry iv. and cross to the quai des célestins, where on our l. stands part of a tower of the bastille, discovered in during the construction of the metropolitan railway and transferred here. at the corner of the rue du petit musc opposite, is the fine hôtel fieubert, erected by hardouin mansard ( ) on part of the site of the royal hôtel st. paul. the principal façade, _bis_ quai des célestins, has unhappily been irretrievably spoilt by subsequent additions. continuing westward, we note no. , the site of the tour barbeau of the philip augustus wall. an inscription bids us remember that there stood the old tennis court of the croix noire, where molière's troupe of the illustre théâtre performed in . turning r. up the rue falconnier, we come upon (l.) the grand old fifteenth-century palace of the archbishops of sens (p. ), now a glass merchant's warehouse. we regain the place de l'hôtel de ville by the quai of the same name, or cross the pont marie, and stroll about the quiet streets of the isle st. louis (p. ), and return by the pont louis philippe at its western extremity. [illustration: hÔtel of the provost of paris.] [footnote : all demolished ( ).] [footnote : under process of demolition ( ).] section vii _the ville (n. of the rue st. antoine)--tour st. jacques--rue st. martin--st. merri--rue de venise--les billettes--hôtels du soubise,[ ] de hollande, de rohan[ ]--musée carnavalet[ ]--place royale--musée victor hugo[ ]--hôtel de sully._ [footnote : open sundays, - .] [footnote : open thursdays at o'clock by a permit from the director.] [footnote : open daily (except monday) - or ( fr.). thursdays and sundays free. closed till . tuesdays.] two parallel historic roads named of st. martin and of st. denis cut northwards through the mass of houses that now crowd the marais: the latter, the grande chaussée de monseigneur st. denis, to the shrine of the martyred saint of lutetia, the former, the great roman street which led to the provinces of the north. [illustration: west door of st. merri.] we set forth northwards from the place du châtelet, at the foot of the pont au change, where stood the massive pile of the grande châtelet, originally built to defend the bridge from the norman pirates as the petit châtelet was to defend the petit pont. it subsequently became the official seat and prison of the provost of paris, where he held his criminal court and organised the city watch, and was demolished in . below this festered an irregular maze of slums, the aggregation of seven centuries, the most fetid, insanitary and criminal quarter of paris, known as the vallée de misère, which only disappeared in . on our r. soars the beautiful flamboyant gothic tower, all that remains of the great church of st. jacques de la boucherie. this fine monument was saved by the good sense of the architect giraud who, when the church was sold to the housebreakers during the revolution, inserted a clause in the warrant exempting the tower from demolition. it was afterwards used as a lead foundry and twice narrowly escaped destruction by fire. purchased by the ville, it seemed safe at last, but again it was threatened in by the prolongation of the rue de rivoli: luckily, however, the new street just passed by on the north. the statue of pascal under the vaulting reminds the traveller that the great thinker conducted some barometrical experiments on the summit, and the statues of the patron saints of craftsmen in the niches, that under its shadow the industrial arts were practised. we ascend the rue st. martin from the n.e. corner of the square, and on our r. find the late gothic church of st. merri, built on the site of the seventh-century chapel of st. pierre, where odo falconarius, one of the defenders of paris in the siege of , is known to have been buried. we enter for the sake of the beautiful sixteenth-century glass in the choir and a curious old painting of the same epoch in the first chapel beyond the entrance to the sacristy, ste. geneviève and her flock, with a view of paris in the background. we continue to ascend the street, noting no. , an old fountain and some reliefs, and soon reach, r. and l., the quaint and narrow mediæval rue de venise, formerly the ruelle des usuriers, home of the law speculators (p. ). at no. , l. of the rue st. martin and corner of the rue quincampoix, is the old inn of the epée de bois (now à l'arrivée de venise), where prince de hoorn and two other nobles assassinated and robbed a banker in open day and were broken alive on the wheel in the place de grève. mirabeau and l. racine, with other wits are said to have met there and mazarin granted letters patent to a company of dancing masters who taught there, under the direction of the roi des violins: from these modest beginnings grew the national academy of dancing. we return e. along the rue de venise and pass to its end; then cross obliquely to the r. and continue e., along the rue simon le franc, traversing the rue du temple, to the rue des blancs manteaux. this we follow still eastward to its intersection with rue des archives. turning down this street to the r. we cross, and at nos. or enter the fifteenth-century cloister (restored) of the monastery of the billettes, founded at the end of the thirteenth century to commemorate the miracle of the sacred host, which had defied the efforts of jonathan, the jew to destroy it by steel, fire and boiling water. the chapel, built on the site of the jew's house in , was rebuilt in , and is now a protestant church. the miraculous host was preserved as late as the early eighteenth century in st. jean en grève, and carried annually in procession on the octave of corpus christi. we return northwards along the rue des archives, and reach at the corner of the rue des francs bourgeois the fine pseudo-classic hôtel de soubise, now the national archives, erected in for the princesse de soubise on the site of the old hôtel of the constable of france, olivier de clisson, where charles vi., after his terrible vengeance on the revolted burgesses, agreed to remit further punishment, and where the duke of clarence established himself at the time of the english occupation. it became later ( ) the fortress of the guises and rivalled the louvre in strength and splendour. the picturesque gothic portal (restored) of the old hôtel de clisson still exists higher up the rue des archives. the lavishly decorated hôtel de soubise, entered from the rue des francs bourgeois, in which are exhibited historical documents and other objects of profound interest, though bereft of much of its former splendour is well worth a visit. the sumptuous chambers contain much characteristic and well-preserved decorative work by boucher, natoire, carle vanloo and others.[ ] opposite the hôtel and between nos. and may be seen a portion of a tower, repaired in brick, of the old philip augustus wall, and in the courtyard of the mont de piété (no. ) the line of the wall is traced: a nearer view of the tower may be obtained from the courtyard to the r. [footnote : at the north end of the rue des archives is the site, now a square and a market, of the grisly old fortress of the knights templars, whose walls and towers and round church were still standing a century ago. the enclosure was a famous place of refuge for insolvent debtors and political offenders, and sheltered rousseau in when a _lettre de cachet_ was issued for his arrest. in the gloomy keep, which was not destroyed until , were imprisoned the royal family of france after the abandonment of the tuileries on th august . the old market of the temple, the centre of the _petites industries_ of paris, has been recently demolished. west of this is the huge museum of the arts and crafts (conservatoire des arts et métiers), on the site of the abbatial buildings and lands of st. martin of the fields, still preserving in its structure the beautiful thirteenth-century church and refectory of the abbey.] [illustration: cloister of the billettes, fifteenth century.] [illustration: archives nationales, hÔtel soubise, showing towers of hÔtel de clisson.] [illustration: tower at the corner of the rue vielle du temple.] we proceed eastward past the rebuilt church of the blancs manteaux and at the corner of the rue vieille du temple find a charming gothic tourelle (restored), all that remains of the mansion built in by jean de la balue. descending the rue vieille du temple to the r., we may examine (no. ) the old hôtel de hollande, erected in , where the dutch ambassadors resided; and ascending, at no. , we find the hôtel de rohan ( ), home of the cardinal de rohan of diamond-necklace fame, now the imprimerie nationale. the salon des singes, charmingly decorated by huet, and other interesting rooms are shown. the fine relief by le lorrain of the horses of apollo in a passage to the r. of the courtyard should by no means be missed. we return to the rue des francs bourgeois, and at no. find an inscription[ ] over the entrance to a picturesque court which marks the place where the duke of orleans was assassinated by jean sans peur (p. ). still proceeding e. we pass yet more interesting domestic architecture--no. , hôtel d'albret, where goody scarron used to visit madame de montespan and where she was appointed governess to the royal bastards; , hôtel de lamoignon, once occupied by diana of france, daughter of henry ii., and where malesherbes was born. [footnote : removed to give place to the name of a firm of wholesale chemists ( ).] nos. and , corner of the rue de sévigné, is the hôtel de carnavalet, a magnificent renaissance mansion, in raising which no less than four famous architects had part--lescot, bullant, du cerceau and the elder mansard. for twenty years ( - ) it was the home of madame sévigné, queen of letter-writers. her _carnavalette_, as she delighted to call it, is now the civic museum of paris. the beautiful reliefs over the entrance, including the two superb lions against a background of trophies, are by goujon, as are also the satyrs' heads on the keystones of the arcades of the courtyard. the four seasons and some of the lateral figures that decorate the courtyard were designed by him. in the centre stands a bronze statue of louis xiv as a roman conqueror, by coysevox, which once stood on the place de grève before the old hôtel de ville. the museum, which contains a collection,[ ] historic and prehistoric, relating to the city of paris, is especially rich in objects, all carefully labelled, illustrating the great revolution, and is of profound interest to students of that period: the second floor is devoted to the last siege of paris. from the museum we fare yet further e. along the rue des francs bourgeois to the place royale (now des vosges), the site of the palace of the tournelles, once a favourite pleasure-house with a fair garden, of the kings of france, and where the duke of bedford lived during the english occupation, projecting to transform it into an english park for his exclusive use. there the ill-fated henry ii. lay eleven days in excruciating agony (p. ), calling for his _seule princesse_, the beloved diana, while catherine, like a she-dragon, watched lest her rival entered. after his death the palace becoming hateful to catherine, she had it demolished. it was subsequently used as a horse-market, and there the three minions of henry iii. began their bloody duel with the three bullies of the duke of guise at five in the morning of th april , and fought on until every one was either slain or severely wounded. [footnote : recently augmented.] how different is the present aspect of this once courtly square! here noble gentlemen in dazzling armour jousted, while from the windows of each of the thirty-five pavilions, gentle dames and demoiselles smiled gracious guerdon to their cavaliers. around the bronze statue of louis xiii., proudly erect on the noble horse cast by daniello da volterra, in the midst of the gardens, fine ladies were carried in their sedan-chairs and angry gallants fought out their quarrels. and now on this royal place, the perle du marais, the scene of these brilliant revels, peaceful inhabitants of the east of paris sun themselves and children play. bronze horse and royal rider went to the melting pot of the revolution to be forged into cannon that defeated and humbled the allied kings of europe, and a feeble marble equestrian statue, erected under the restoration, occupies its place. we cross the square obliquely and at no. , victor hugo's old house, find a delightful little museum of portraits, busts, casts, illustrations of his works in various mediums, and personal and intimate objects belonging to the poet. it was at this house that in the two greatest novelists of their age met. dickens has described how he was welcomed with infinite courtesy and grace by hugo, a noble, compact, closely-buttoned figure, with ample dark hair falling loosely over his clean-shaven face and with features never so keenly intellectual, and softened by a sweet gentility. we leave the place by the s. exit, and entering the rue st. antoine turn r. to no. , where stands the hôtel de sully, built by du cerceau in . the stately but now rather grimy inner courtyard is little altered, but the fine façade has been disfigured by the erection of a mean building between the wings. we return from the métropolitain station at the end of the rue françois miron. [illustration: place des vosges, maison de victor hugo.] section viii _rue st. denis--fontaine des innocents--tower of jean sans peur--cour des miracles--st. eustache--the halles--st. germain l'auxerrois._ from the châtelet station of the métropolitain we strike northwards along the rue st. denis, passing r. and l. the rue des lombards, the italian business quarter of old paris, where boccaccio, son of boccassin, the money-changer, was born. we continue past the ill-omened rue de la ferronnerie and soon reach the square and fontaine des innocents. this charming renaissance fountain was transferred here in from the corner of the old rues aux fers (now the widened rue berger) and st. denis, where it had been designed and decorated by lescot and goujon to celebrate the solemn entry of henry ii. in . the beautiful old fountain has been considerably modified and somewhat debased. the longer side has been divided to make a third, and a new fourth side has been added by pajou. the whole has been elevated much too high by the addition of the terrace steps, and an unsightly dome has been added. five of the exquisite reliefs of the naiads by goujon still remain, and three have been added by pajou. these latter may be distinguished by their higher relief and lack of refinement. the site of the immense necropolis of les innocents,[ ] which for six centuries swallowed up half the dead of paris, roughly corresponds to the parallelogram formed by the modern rues berger, st. denis, ferronnerie and de la lingerie, and one of the old vaulted charnel-houses may still be seen at the ground floor of no. rue des innocents. the huge piles of human remains and skulls that grinned from under the gable roof of the gallery painted with the dance of death were, in , carted away to the catacombs under paris, formed by the old gallo-roman quarrymen as they quarried the stone used to rebuild lutetia. for centuries this enclosure was the refuge of vagabonds and scamps of all kinds, a receptacle for garbage, the haunt of stray cats and dogs, whose howlings by night made sleep impossible to nervous folk; and the lugubrious _clocheteur_, or crier of the dead, with lantern and bell, his tunic figured with skull and cross-bones, bleating forth:-- "reveillez-vous gens qui dormez, priez dieu pour les trépassez." was no soothing lullaby. [footnote : according to sir thomas browne, bodies soon consumed there. "tis all one to lie in st. innocents' churchyard as in the sands of egypt, ready to be anything in the ecstasy of being ever, and as content with six feet as the _moles_ of adrianus." "_tabesne cadavera solvat an rogas haud refert._"--lucan.] a curious early fifteenth-century rhyme is associated with this charnel-house. one morning, two _bourgeoises_ of paris, the wife of adam de la gonesse and her niece, went abroad to have a little flutter and eat two sous' worth of tripe in a new inn. on their way they met dame tifaigne, the milliner, who recommended the tavern of the "maillez," where the wine was excellent. thither they went and fared not wisely but too well. when fifteen sous had already been spent, they determined to make a day of it, and ordered roast goose with hot cakes. after further drinking, gauffres, cheese, peeled almonds, pears, spices and walnuts were called for, and the feast ended in songs. when the bad quarter of an hour came, their sum of sous proving inadequate, they parted with some of their finery to meet the score, and at midnight left the inn dancing and singing-- "amours au vireli m'en vois." the streets of paris, however, at midnight were unsafe even for sober ladies, and these soon fell among thieves, were stripped of the rest of their clothing, then taken up for dead by the watch and flung into the mortuary in the cemetery of the innocents; but, to the terror of the gravedigger, were found lying outside the next morning, singing-- "druin, druin, ou es allez? apporte trois harens salez et un pot de vin du plus fort." pursuing our way n. by the rue st. denis we pass (r.) the restored fourteenth-century church of st. leu and st. gilles, and on our l. two old reliefs of st. peter and st. andrew embedded in the corner of a modern house at the corner of the rue st. denis and the rue Étienne marcel. near by stood the painters' gate of the philip augustus wall. we turn l. by the latter street and soon sight on our r. the massive machicolated tower of jean sans peur (p. ). it was at the hôtel de bourgogne that the confrères de la passion de jésus christ were performing in the sixteenth century, and where in they were forbidden by royal decree to play the mystery of the passion any longer, and limited to profane, decent and lawful plays. from - the comédiens of the hôtel de bourgogne continued their performances, which at length became so gross that complaints were made of the _blasphèmes et impudicités_ enacted there, and that not a farce was played that was not _orde_, _sale et vilaine_. repeated ordinances were levelled at the actors, aiming at the purification of the stage and preventing words of _double entente_. it was here, too, that the most exalted and noble masterpieces of corneille and racine--_le cid_, _andromaque_ and _phèdre_--were first enacted. we turn r. by the rue française, again r. by the rue tiquetonne, then l. by the curious rue dussoubs to the new rue réamur, where on the opposite side, to the l., is the narrow passage between nos. and that leads to the once notorious cour des miracles, so vividly portrayed in victor hugo's _notre dame_. it was here that jean du barry and his mistress, jeanne vaubernier, kept a gambling-hell. jeanne, subsequently married to jean's brother, was the daughter of a monk and formerly known as mademoiselle lange. she it was who became the famous du barry, mistress of louis xv. here also dwelt hébert, editor of the foul _père duchesne_. both perished on the scaffold. we cross the cour and leave by the rue damiette (l.), turn again l. and descend the rue du nil to the rue des petits carreaux. this we follow to the l., and continue down it and the busy and picturesque rue montorgeuil, noting (l.) no. , the curious house at the sign of the rocher de cancale. - were part of the roomy sixteenth-century posting house of the golden compasses, and have quaint reliefs carved on their façades. we may enter at , the spacious old coaching yard, still used by market carts and waggons. the courtyard on the opposite side, no. , was the office of the old sedan-chair porters. we continue to descend, and at length sight the tall apse of the majestic church of st. eustache, which towers over the halles. begun in by pierre lemercier, it was not completed until more than a century later by jacques lemercier, architect of the extended louvre. we enter, by the side portal, the spacious, lofty and beautiful interior with its not unpleasing mingling of gothic and renaissance architecture. it was here that in a friar reciting the story of the execution of mary queen of scots roused his hearers to such a tempest of passion that the whole congregation melted into a common paroxysm of tears. here, too, on th april was celebrated, amid the gloom and sorrow of a whole people, the funeral of their "sovereign-man," mirabeau. not till five o'clock did the league-long procession reach the church in solemn silence, interrupted only by the sound of muffled drums and wailing music, "new clangour of trombones and metallic dirge-voice, amid the infinite hum of men." after the funeral oration a discharge of arms brought down some of the plaster from the vaultings of the church, and the body went--the first tenant--to the panthéon of the heroes of the fatherland. we leave by the west portal--a monstrous pseudo-classic pile, added - . to our l. is the vast area once covered by a congeries of picturesque halles and streets:--the halle aux draps; the marché des herborists, with their mysterious stores of simples and healing herbs and leeches; the potato and onion markets; the butter and cheese markets; the fish market; the queer old rue de la tonnellerie, under whose shabby porticoes, sellers of rags, old clothes, iron and furniture, crowded against the bread market; the marché des prouvaires, beloved of thrifty housewives--all swallowed up by the vast modern structure of iron and glass, known as les halles. the halle au blé, or corn market, last to disappear, was built on the site of the hôtel de la reine which catherine de' medici had erected when frightened from the tuileries by her astrologer ruggieri. the site is now occupied by the bourse de commerce, but one curious decorated and channelled column, which conceals a stairway used by catherine and her italian familiar when they ascended to the roof to consult the stars, has been preserved. the rue pirouette n. of the halles reminds us that there, until the reign of louis xvi., stood the royal pillory, a tall octagonal tower of two floors. the unhappy wretches condemned to exposure there were placed with head and hands protruding through holes in a revolving wheel, and were left for three hours on three market days, to the gibes and missiles of the populace. there, too, was a place of execution for state offenders, the constable of clisson in and _le pauvre jacques_ (p. ) in having perished on this spot. from the place st. eustache we cross (l.) to the rue vauvilliers, formerly the rue du four st. honoré, the west side of which still retains much of its old aspect, and many of the shops, their old signs: _au chou vert_; _le panier fleuri_, etc. descending this street southwards, a turn (r.) up the rue de vannes will bring us to the ruggieri column, transformed ( ) into a fountain, as the inscription tells. resuming our way down the rue vauvilliers we turn r. by the rue st. honoré and opposite, at the corner of the rue de l'arbre sec, find the old fountain of the croix du trahoir, erected in the reign of françois i. and rebuilt by soufflot in . here tradition places the cruel death of queen brunehaut (p. ). descending this street to the rue de rivoli, we note, no. , to the l. an inscription marking the site of the hôtel de montbazon where coligny was assassinated. we cross to the rue perrault and soon reach the church of st. germain l'auxerrois from whose tower rang the signal for the st. bartholomew butchery. the porch was added in for the convenience of distinguished worshippers; for it was the parish church of the château of the louvre and consequently the royal chapel. the saints and martyrs on the portail and porch are therefore closely associated with the history of paris: opposite to us extends perrault's famous e. façade of the louvre. section ix _palais royal--théâtre français--gardens and cafés of the palais royal--palais mazarin (bibliothèque nationale)_[ ]_--st. roch--vendôme column--tuileries gardens--place de la concorde--champs Élysées._ [footnote : open tuesdays and fridays, to .] from the palais royal station of the métropolitain we issue before the great palace begun by richelieu (p. ). to our l. stands the théâtre français, occupied by the comédie française since , on the site of the old variétés amusantes or palais variétés built in , a little to the w. of richelieu's theatre of the palais cardinal. this latter was the scene of molière's triumphs and of his piteous death, and the original home of the french opera whose position is indicated by an inscription at the corner of the rues de valois and st. honoré. it was at the théâtre des variétés, when the staid old comédie française was rent by rival factions that chenier's patriotic tragedy, _charles ix._, was performed on th november , and the pit acclaimed talma with frantic applause as he created the _rôle_ of charles ix., and the days of st. bartholomew were acted on the stage. the bishops tried to stop the performances, and priests refused absolution to those of their penitents who went to see them. the royalists among the comedians replied at the nation (the odéon) by playing a royalist repertory, _cinna_ and _athalie_, amid shouts from the pit for _william tell_ and the _death of cæsar_, and the stage became an arena where political factions strove for mastery. men went to the theatre armed as to a battle. every couplet fired the passions of the audience, the boxes crying, "_vive le roi!_" to be answered by the hoarse voices of the pit, "_vive la nation!_" shouts were raised for the busts of voltaire and of brutus: they were brought from the foyer and placed on the stage. the very kings of shreds and patches on the boards came to blows and the roman toga concealed a poignard. for a time "idolatry" triumphed at the nation, but talma and the patriots at length won. a reconciliation was effected, and at a performance of the _taking of the bastille_, on th january , talma addressed the audience, saying that they had composed their differences. naudet, the royalist champion, was recalcitrant, and amid furious shouts from the pit, "on your knees, citizen!" at length gave way, embraced talma with ill-grace, and on the ensuing nights the revolutionary repertory, _the conquest of liberty_, _rome saved_, and _brutus_, held the boards. in the stormy year of , when the july revolution made an end for ever of the bourbon cause in paris, the comédie française again became a scene of fierce strife. _hernani_, a drama in verse, had been accepted from the pen of victor hugo, the brilliant and exuberant master of the new romantic school of poets who had determined to emancipate themselves from the traditions, long since hardened into dogmas, of the great dramatists of the siècle de louis quatorze. on the night of the first performance each side--romanticists and classicists--had packed the theatre with partisans. the air was charged with feeling; the curtain rose, but less than two lines were uttered before the pent-up passions of the audience burst forth:-- doÑa josefa--"serait-ce déjà lui? c'est bien à l'escalier dérobé--" the last word had not passed the actress' lips when a howl of execration rose from the devotees of racine, outraged by the author's heresy in permitting an adjective to stray into the second line of verse. the romanticists, led by théophile gautier, answered in withering blasphemies; the classicists began to "... prove their doctrine orthodox by apostolic blows and knocks," and the pit became a pandemonium of warring factions. night after night the literary sects renewed their fights, and the representations, as hugo said, resembled battles rather than performances. the year was the ' of the classic drama, but the passions it evoked have long since been calmed and _hernani_ and _le roi s'amuse_, the latter suppressed by louis philippe after its first appearance, have taken their places in the classic repertory of the français beside the tragedies of corneille and racine. at no. rue st. honoré, now café de la régence, beloved of chess players, is the site of the porte st. honoré of the charles v. wall before which joan of arc was wounded at the siege of paris in . the old chess-players' temple where diderot loved to watch the matches; where the author of _gil blas_ beheld in a vast and brilliantly lighted salon, a score of silent and grave _pousseurs de bois_ (wood-shovers) surrounded by crowds of spectators amid a silence so profound that the movement of the pieces alone could be heard; where voltaire and d' alembert were often seen; where jean jacques rousseau, dressed as an armenian, drew such crowds that the proprietor was forced to seek police protection; where robespierre loved to play a cautious game and the young and impecunious napoleon bonaparte, an impatient player and bad loser, waited on fortune; where strangers from all corners of the earth congregated as in an arena where victory was esteemed final and complete; where poles, turks, moors and hindoos in their picturesque garbs made a scene unparalleled even at the rialto of venice; where on sunday afternoons a seat was worth a monarch's ransom--this classic café de la régence which, until , stood on the place du palais royal, no longer exists. we enter the gardens of the palais by the colonnade to the r. of the théâtre français and pass n. along the w. colonnade. on this side was situated the famous café de foy (p. ), founded in , whose proprietor was in early days alone permitted to place chairs and tables on the terrace. there, in the afternoon, would sit the finely apparelled sons of mars, and other gay dogs of the period, with their scented perukes, amber vinaigrettes, silver-hilted swords and gold-headed canes quizzing the passers-by. in summer evenings, after the conclusion of the opera at - , the _bonne compagnie_ in full dress would stroll under the great overarching trees of the _grande allée_, or sit at the cafés listening to open-air performers, sometimes revelling in the moonlight as late as the small hours of the morning. it was from one of the tables of the café foy that camille desmoulins sounded the war-cry of the revolution. every day a special courier from versailles brought the bulletins of the national assembly, which were read publicly amid clamorous interjections. spies found their office a perilous one, for, if discovered, they were ducked in the basins of the fountains, and when feeling grew more bitter, risked meeting a violent death. later the café foy made a complete _volte-face_, raised its ices to twenty sous and grew royalist in tone. its frequenters came armed with sword-sticks and loaded canes, raised their hats when the king's name was uttered, and one evil day planted a gallows outside the café, painted with the national colours. the excited patriots stormed the house, expelled the royalists and disinfected the salon with gin. next day the royalists returned in force and cleansed the air with incense: after many fatalities the café was closed for some days and the triumph of the jacobins at length made any suspicion of royalism too perilous. during the occupation of paris by the allies many a fatal duel between the foreign officers and the imperialists was initiated there. the extremer section of the revolutionists frequented the café corazza, still extant on this side of the garden, which soon became a minor jacobin's, where, after the club was closed, the excited orators continued their discussions: chabot, collot d'herbois and other terrorists met there. the café valois was patronised by the feuillants, and so excited the ire of the fédérés, who met at the caveau, that one day they issued forth, assailed their opponents' stronghold and burned the copies of the _journal de paris_ found there. in the earlier days of the revolution when its leaders looked for sympathy to england, "a brave and generous nation, whose name alone like that of rome evokes ideas of liberty," the people during an exhibition of anti-monarchical feeling went about destroying the insignia of royalty. on coming in the palais royal to the sign of the english king's head over a restaurant, an orator mounted a chair in the gardens, and informed them that it was the head of a good king, ruling over a free nation: it was spared, amid shouts of "_vive la liberté_." later, at the café des milles colonnes, the handsome madame romain, _la belle limonadière_, sat majestically on a real throne used by a king whom napoleon had overthrown. we leave the gardens by the issue in the middle of the n. colonnade, mount the steps and at the corner of the rue vivienne and the rue des petits champs opposite, come upon the palais mazarin (p. ), now the bibliothèque nationale, with a fine façade on each street. in the rue vivienne stood also the princely hôtel colbert, of which only the name remains--the passage colbert. we turn w. along the rue des petits champs and skirt the w. walls of the modernised palace northwards along the rue de richelieu to the main cour d'honneur, opposite the square louvois. hence we may enter some rooms, which contain a magnificent and matchless collection of printed books, bindings and illuminated mss. the second of the two halls where these treasures are exposed, the galerie mazarin, is a part of the old palace and retains its fine frescoed ceiling. as we retrace our steps down the rue richelieu we may enter, on our l. the equally rich and sumptuous museum of coins, medals, antiques, intaglios, gems, etc. having regained the rue des petits champs, we resume our westward way, noting at no. , corner of the rue st. anne, the fine double façade of the hôtel erected by lulli and bearing the great musician's coat-of-arms, a design of trumpets, lyres and cymbals, and soon cross the avenue de l'opéra to the rue st. roch on our l. this we descend to the church of the same name, with old houses still nestling against it, famous for bonaparte's whiffs of grape-shot that scattered the royalist insurrectionary forces stationed there on th october . we descend to the rue de rivoli. to our l., at the place des pyramids, a statue of joan of arc recalls her ill-advised attack on paris, and to our r., on the railings of the tuileries garden opposite no. , rue de rivoli, is the inscription marking the site of the salle du manége (p. ). northward hence extend napoleon's rues de castiglione and de la paix, the regent street of paris, divided by the place vendôme, which was intended by its creator, louvois, to be the most spacious in the city. a monumental parallelogram of public offices was designed to enclose the place, but versailles engulfed the king's resources and the ambitious scheme was whittled down, the area much reduced, and the site and foundations of the new buildings were handed over to the ville. what the allies failed to do in the commune succeeded in doing in , and the boastful column of vendôme, a pitiful plagiarism of trajan's column at rome, was laid in the dust, only however to be raised again by the third republic in . we enter the tuileries gardens crossing the terrace of the feuillants, all that is left of the famous monastery and grounds where lafayette's club of constitutional reformers met. the beautiful gardens remain much as le notre designed them for louis xiv: every spring the orange trees, some of them dating back it is said to the time of francis i., are brought forth from the orangery to adorn the central avenue, and the gardens become vocal with many voices of children at their games--french children with their gentle humour and sweet refined play. r. and l. of the central avenue we find the two marble exhedræ, erected in for the elders who presided over the floral celebrations of the month of germinal by the children of the republic. of the gorgeous palace of the tuileries at the e. end of the gardens, with its inharmonious but picturesque façade stretching across the western limit of the louvre from the pavilion de flore to the pavilion de marsan, not one stone is left on another. we remember it after its fiery purgation by the commune in , a gaunt shell blackened and ruined, fitting emblem of the wreck which the enthroned wantonness and corruption of the second empire had made of france. we fare again westward along the gardens and emerge into the place de la concorde by the gate adorned with coysevox' statues, fame and mercury on winged horses, facing, on the opposite side of the vast area, guillaume coustou's horse tamers from marly. the place, formerly of louis xv., with its setting of pavilions adorned with groups of statuary representing the chief cities of france, was created by gabriel in - on the site of a dreary, marshy waste used as a depot for marble. it was adorned in with an equestrian statue of louis xv., by pigalle, elevated on a pedestal which was decorated at the corners by statues of the cardinal virtues. mordant couplets, two of which we transcribe, affixed on the base, soon expressed the judgment of the parisians:-- "_grotesque monument! infâme piédestal! les vertus sont à pied, le vice est à cheval._" "_il est ici comme à versailles, toujours sans coeur et sans entrailles._" after the fall of the monarchy the place was known as the place de la révolution, and in , louis xv. with the other royal simulacra in bronze having been forged into the cannon that thundered against the allied kings of europe, a plaster statue of liberty was erected, at whose side the guillotine mowed down king and queen, revolutionist and aristocrat in one bloody harvest of death, ensanguining the very figure of the goddess herself, who looked on with cold and impassive mien. she too fell, and in her place stood a _fascis_ of eighty-three spears, symbolising the unity of the eighty-three departments of france. in the directory changed the name to place de la concorde, and again in a seated statue of liberty holding a globe was set up. in the hollow sphere a pair of wild doves built their nest--a futile augury, for in liberty ii. was broken in pieces, and the model for a tall granite column erected in its place by napoleon i. one year passed and this too disappeared. after the restoration, among the other inanities came, in , a second statue of louis xv., and the place resumed its original name. ten years later an expiatory monument to louis xvi. was begun, only to be swept away with other bourbon lumber by the july revolution of . at length the famous obelisk from luxor, after many vicissitudes, was elevated in where it now stands. the place as we behold it dates from , when the deep fosses which surrounded it in louis xv.'s time, and which were responsible for the terrible disaster that attended the wedding festivities of louis xvi. and marie antoinette, were filled up, and other improvements and embellishments effected. the vast space and magnificent vistas enjoyed from this square are among the finest urban spectacles in europe. to the north, on either side of the broad rue royale which opens to the madeleine, stand gabriel's fine edifices (now the ministry of marine and the cercle de la rue royale), designed to accommodate foreign ambassadors. to the south is the palais bourbon, now the chamber of deputies; to the east are the gardens of the tuileries, and to the west is the stately grande avenue of the champs Élysées rising to the colossal arch of triumph crowning the eminence of the place de l'Étoile. as our eyes travel along the famous avenue, memories of the military glories and of the threefold humiliation of imperial france crowd upon us. for down its ample way there marched in and two hostile and conquering armies to occupy paris, and in the immense vault of the arc de triomphe, an arch of greater magnitude than any raised to roman cæsars, echoed to the shouts of another exultant foreign host, mocking as they strode beneath it at the names of german defeats inscribed on its stones. and on the very place de la concorde, german hussars waltzed in pairs to the brazen music of a uhlan band, while a line of french sentries across the entrance to the tuileries gardens gazed sullenly on. to this day the mourning statue of strassbourg with her sable drapery and immortelles, still keeps alive the bitter memory of her loss. to the south of the champs Élysées is the cours de la reine, planted by catherine de' medici, for two years the most fashionable carriage drive in paris. this we follow and at no. find the charming maison françois i. brought from moret, stone by stone, in . to the north, in the cours de gabriel, a fine gilded grille, surmounted with the arms of the republic, gives access to the Élysée, the official residence of the president. it was once madame pompadour's favourite house in paris, and the piece of land she appropriated from the public to round off her gardens is still retained in its grounds. in the avenue montaigne, leading s.w. from the rond point (once the allée des veuves, a retired walk used by widows during their term of seclusion) nos. and stand on the site of the notorious bal mabille,[ ] the temple of the bacchanalia of the gay world of the second empire. in the champs Élysées ended at chaillot, a little to the w. of the rond point, an old feudal property which louis xi. gave to philippe de comines in , and which in sheltered the unhappy widow of charles i. here catherine de' medici built a château, but château and nunnery of the filles de sainte marie, founded by the english queen, disappeared in . s. of the champs Élysées on the opposite bank of the seine rises the gilded dome of the invalides, and to the s.w. stretches the vast field of mars, the scene of the feast of pikes, and now encumbered with the relics of four world-fairs. [footnote : a description of this and of other public balls of the second empire will be found in taine's _notes sur paris_, which has been translated into english.] the paris we have rapidly surveyed is, mainly, enclosed by the inner boulevards, which correspond to the ramparts of louis xiii. on the north, demolished by his successor between and , and the line of the philip augustus wall and the boulevard st. germain on the south. beyond this historic area are the outer boulevards which mark the octroi wall of louis xvi.; further yet are the thiers wall and fortifications of . within these wider boundaries is the greater paris of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, of profound concern to the economical and social student, but of minor interest to the ordinary traveller. the vogue of the brilliant and gay inner boulevards of the north bank so familiar to the foreigner in paris is of comparatively recent growth. in the early nineteenth century the boulevard from the place de la madeleine to the rue cambon was almost deserted by day and dangerous by night--a vast waste, the proceeds of the confiscated lands of the filles de la conception. from the boulevard montmartre to the boulevard st. martin followed lines of private hôtels, villas, gardens and convent walls. a great mound which separated the boulevard st. martin from the boulevard du temple was not cleared away until . from to the boulevard du temple was a centre of pleasure and amusement, where charming suburban houses and pretty gardens alternated with cheap restaurants, hotels, theatres, cafés, marionette shows, circuses, tight-rope dancers, waxworks, and cafés-chantants. in , so lurid were the dramas played there, that the boulevard was popularly known as the _boulevard du crime_. in the early nineteenth century the favourite promenade of parisian _flaneurs_ was displaced from the palais royal to the boulevard des italiens, whither the proprietors of cafés and restaurants followed. a group of young fellows entered one evening a small _cabaret_ near the comédie italienne (now opéra comique), found the wine to their taste and the cuisine excellent, praised host and fare to their friends, and the modest _cabaret_ developed into the café anglais, most famous of epicurean temples, frequented during the second empire by kings and princes, to whom alone the haughty proprietor would devote personal care. the sumptuous cafés tortoni, founded in , and de paris, opened , have long since passed away. so has the café hardy, whose proprietor invented _déjeuners à la fourchette_, although its rival and neighbour, the café riche, stills exists. many others of the celebrated cafés of the boulevards have disappeared or suffered a transformation into the more popular brasseries and tavernes of which so many, alternating with the theatres, restaurants and dazzling shops that line the most-frequented evening promenade of paris, invite the thirsty or leisurely pleasure-seeker of to-day. nowhere may the traveller gain a better impression of the essential gaiety and sociability of the parisian temperament than by sitting outside a café on the boulevards on a public festival and observing his neighbours and the passers-by: their imperturbable good humour; their easy manners; their simple enjoyments; their quick intelligence, alert gait and expressive gestures; the wonderful skill of the women in dress. the glittering halls of pleasure that appeal to so many visitors, the bohemian cafés of the outer boulevards, the folies bergères, the moulins rouges, the bals bulliers, with their meretricious and vulgar attractions, frequented by the more facile daughters of gaul, "whose havoc of virtue is measured by the length of their laundresses' bills," as a genial satirist of their sex has phrased it--all these manifestations of _la vie_, so unutterably dull and sordid, are of small concern to the cultured traveller. the intimate charm and spirit of paris will be heard and felt by him not amid the whirlwind of these saturnalia largely maintained by the patronage of english-speaking visitors, but rather in the smaller voices that speak from the inmost paris which we have essayed to describe. nor can we bid more fitting adieu to lutetia than by translating goethe's words to eckermann: "think of the city of paris where all the best of the realms of nature and art in the whole earth are open to daily contemplation, a world-city where the crossing of every bridge or every square recalls a great past, and where at every street corner a piece of history has been unfolded." section x _the basilica of st. denis and the monuments of the kings, queens and princes of france._ no historical pilgrimage to paris would be complete without a visit to the sanctuary of its protomartyr and the burial-place of its kings. taking train from the gare du nord, either main line or local train-tramway and being arrived at the railway station of the grimy industrial suburb of st. denis, we cross the canal and continue along the rue du chemin de fer and the rue de la république, to the cathedral, architecturally the most important relic of the great age of the early ecclesiastical builders. the west façade before us, completed about by abbot suger, is of profound interest, for here we may behold the round romanesque arch side by side with the pointed, and the very first grip of the new gothic on the heavy norman architecture it was about to overthrow. the sculptures on the w. portals, however, almost wholly and clumsily renewed, need not detain us long. we enter and descend from the sombre vestibule. as we wait for the verger we revel in the airy and graceful symmetry of the nave and aisles; the beautiful raised choir and lovely apse with its chevets and round of chapels, where structural science and beauty of form are so admirably blended. the choir was so far advanced in that mass was sung at the high altar during a heavy storm while the incomplete ribs of the new gothic vaulting swayed over head. in , however, suger's structure was nearly destroyed by fire and the upper part of the choir, the nave and transepts were afterwards rebuilt in the pure gothic of the times, the more active reconstruction being effected between and . a visit to the monuments is unhappily a somewhat mingled experience. owing to the inscrutable official regulations in force, the best of the mediæval tombs are only seen with difficulty and from a distance that renders any appreciation of their beauty impossible.[ ] the monuments are mainly those claimed by lenoir for his museum at paris when the decree of was promulgated, ordering the "effacement of the proud epitaphs and the destruction of the mausoleums, that recalled the dread memories of kings": they were restored to their original places so far as possible by viollet le duc. the head of st. denis is said to have been found when his shrine was desecrated and appropriated by the revolutionists, and in the cant of the time was brought back to paris by "a miracle greater and more authentic than that which conveyed it from montmartre to st. denis, a miracle of the regeneration of opinion, registered not in the martyrology but in the annals of reason." [footnote : we cannot too strongly impress on the traveller the desirability of visiting the admirable musée de sculpture comparée at the trocadero where casts of the most important sculpture and architecture in france, including many of the monuments, here and elsewhere in paris, may be conveniently studied.] [illustration: cathedral of st. denis.] we are first led past some mediæval tombs in the n. transept, then by those of the family of st. louis, which include that of his eldest son, one of the most beautiful creations of thirteenth-century sculpture. our own henry iii. who attended the funeral is figured among the mourners around the base which are only partially seen from afar. the monument to louis xii. and his beloved and _chère bretonne_, anne, is next shown. it is in italian style and was wrought by the justes, a family of tourraine sculptors. the royal effigies are twice rendered: once naked in death under a tabernacle and again kneeling in prayer. before we ascend the steps leading to the raised ambulatory, we are shown across the choir, and r. of the high altar, the fine thirteenth-century tomb of dagobert, with some quaint reliefs, impossible to see in detail, illustrating his legend (p. ) and a statue of queen nantilde also of the thirteenth century. nor should we omit to note the two rare and beautiful twelfth-century statues, in the style of the chartres sculpture, of a king and queen on either side of the portal of the n. transept brought from the church of notre dame de corbeil. to our l. is a masterpiece of the french renaissance, the tomb by lescot and pilon of henry ii. and catherine de' medici, who are represented twice, as in the monument to louis xii. we ascend the steps to the ambulatory and below, to our l., are summarily shown some important valois tombs: philippe de valois, john ii., charles v. and others, by contemporary sculptors, such as andrieu beaunepveu and pierre de chelles--all of great interest to the traveller but utterly impossible of appreciation under the cursory glance permitted by the vergers. a second monument to henry ii. and catherine, with recumbent and draped figures, is next indicated; catherine is portrayed in her old age and rigid devotion. as we pace round the ambulatory we are shown some remains of twelfth-century stained glass in the choir chapels (that in the lady chapel including the figure of abbot suger,) and a modern representation of the oriflamme to the l. of the high altar. opposite the sacristy is a curious twelfth-century tomb from st. germain des prés, with the effigy of queen fredegonde outlined in mosaic and copper. we descend to the gloomy old crypt, with the curious romanesque capitals of its columns, where now lie the remains of the later bourbons. on returning to the church the tombs of philip the bold and philip the fair are shown, and to the l. the grandiose monument to francis i., designed by delorme, with five kneeling effigies: the king, claude his queen, and their three children. the fine base reliefs represent the battles of marignano and cerisole. then follows the beautiful urn executed by pierre bontemps, to contain the heart of the _gran re francesco_. in conclusion, we are permitted to see the tombs of louis of orleans and of valentine of milan, early fifteenth-century, by a milanese artist; and charles of etampes, an excellent work of the middle of the fourteenth-century. before returning to paris we should not omit to walk round the basilica and examine the sculptures of the portal of the n. transept, which have suffered less from iconoclasts and restorers. [illustration: map of paris.] index a abbeys, their foundation and growth, abbo, his story of the siege of paris, - abbots, their power and wealth, , abelard and héloïse, - ; their tomb, ; and house, académie française, _acephali_, the, , adam du petit pont, agincourt, aignan's, st., remains of, alcuin, alençon, duke of, , amphitheatre, roman, , , _ancien régime_, the, , , anselm, story of, antheric, bishop, , antoine, st., abbey of, antoinette, marie, _note_, , , , , , , aqueduct, roman, , aquinas, , aristotle, study of, at paris, armagnac, count of, armagnacs, the, ; massacre of, augustins, the grands, austria, anne of, , , , , b bacon, roger, bailly, balafré, le, bal des ardents, barrère, barry, mme. du, , bartholomew, st., massacre of, , - basoche, the, bastille, the, , , , - ; column of, ; site of, baths, roman, , ; public, _note_, bazoches, guy of, his impression of paris, beauharnais, mme. de, beaux arts, École des, bedford, duke of, _note_, ; regent at paris, ; his death there, béguines, the, bellay, du, benvenuto da imola, bernard, st., , , , , , bernini, , , bibliothèque nationale, , ; de l'arsenal, billettes, cloister of, bishops, their power and patriotism, blancs manteaux, church of, blancs manteaux, the, , boccaccio, bonaventure, st., boniface viii., pope, - , boulevards, the, , - bourbon, hôtel de, , bretigny, treaty of, brunehaut, her career and death, - brunswick, duke of, his proclamation, bullant, jean, burgundy, duke of, ; defeat of, buridan, _note_, , bursaries, foundation of, bussy, island of, _note_, c cÆsar, julius, , , café corazza, café de foy, , café de la régence, , café milles colonnes, _Ça ira_, origin of, calvin, , campan, madame, memoirs of, , capet, hugh, capetians, rise of, cards, playing, renamed, carlovingians, their rise, carlyle, his history, , carmelites, the, , carrousel, the, ; arch of, casaubon, isaac, castile, blanche of, , catholic faith, restoration of, cellini, at paris, , champ de mars, , , , champeaux, william of, , , ; market of, champs Élysées, chapelle, sainte, the, , , - charlemagne at st. denis, ; his love of learning, charles, the bold, ; the fat, , ; the simple, charles v., completes marcel's wall, ; his success against english, ; a great builder, charles vi., minority of, ; narrow escape of, ; his vengeance on the parisians, ; his madness, charles vii., ; his wretched death, charles viii, charles ix., ; his pitiful death, charles x., charonne, charterhouse, the monks of, châtelet, the grand, , , châtelet, the petit, , , chaumette, _note_, chelles, jean de, chenier, marie joseph, childebert, chilperic iii., choiseul, duke of, cité, the, , _note_, , , clarence, duke of, claude lorrain, , clement v., pope, clément, jacques, , clergy, their wealth, clisson, constable of, clootz, clotilde, , cloud, st., clovis, captures paris, ; stories of, , ; conversion of, ; makes paris his capital, ; tower of, cluny, hôtel de, ; museum of, - colbert, , , , coligny, admiral, ; attempted assassination of, ; his assassination, collège, de cluny, ; de france, , ; des jesuits, ; des lombards, ; de montaigu, ; de navarre, ; de la sorbonne, colleges, foundation of, - comédie française, - comines, de, , , commune, origin of, conciergerie, the, , concini, assassination of, condé, prince of, , , , , , , condorcet, constance of aquitaine, contrat, social, the, , convention, the national, its constructive work, cordeliers, the, ; club of, corneille, , cortona, dom. da, , coryat, his impressions of paris, - cour du dragon, ; des miracles, ; de rouen, crecy, , d dagobert the great, , , damiens, dante, , , , , , danton, , dark ages, the so-called, , da vinci, , , debrosse, solomon, deffand, mme. du, denis, st., legends of, ; abbey of, ; body of, exposed, ; church of, , , ; head of, ; tombs at, - desmoulins, camille, , , , diamond necklace, the, dickens, at paris, dionysius, , dolet, Étienne, dominic, st., at paris, dominicans, the, dubois, abbé, durham, bishop of, his praise of paris, e ebles, abbot, , edward iv., of england, egalité, philip, , elizabeth, queen, her crooked policy, eloy, st., ; abbey of, , Élysée, the, emigrés, the, , empire, the second, its fall, ; changes under, at paris, encyclopedists, the, , , english barons at paris, english, occupy paris, ; expelled from paris, erasmus, , estampes, mme. d', estiennes, the, - estrées, gabrielle d', , , , Étienne du mont, st., _note_, , , etoile, arch of, l', eudes, count, , , , eugene iii., pope, at paris, eustache, st., church of, , evelyn, at paris, , f feudalism, rise of, , fioretti, the, _note_, fontainebleau, school of, , francis i., , , ; fixes hotel charges, _note_, ; his morbid piety, ; and death, ; maison de, francis ii., francis, st., franciscan refectory, franciscans, the, franklin, benjamin, , fredegonde, her career and death, - french art, its stubborn individuality, french language, the, its universality, froissart, fronde, the, , fulbert, canon, fulrad, abbot, g galerie, grande, , galerie, petite, , , galilée, island of, gauls, their permanent traits, , genevieve, st., , , ; church and abbey of, , , , , , germain, st., of paris, , germain, st., des prés, church and abbey of, , , , , , - ; abbot's palace of, germain, st., l'auxerrois, , ; church of, , , gervais, st., church of, , gibbon, , _note_, giocondo, fra, girondins, the, , goethe, , , , goldoni, gothic architecture, rise of, , - ; its development to flamboyant style, goujon, jean, , , , , ; his death, _note_, gozlin, bishop, , , , greek first taught at paris, gregory, st., , , , , greuze, , , guillaume de nogaret, guillemites, the, guise, cardinal of, guise, duke of, , , ; assassination of, guises, the, , , h halle aux vins, the, halles, the, , , , , heine, his appreciation of paris, ; at the louvre, helvetius, henry i., henry ii., ; his tragic death, henry iii., , , ; his assassination, henry v. of england, , henry vi. of england, , heretics, first execution of, holy ghost, order of, , hôtel, d'aumont, ; de beauvais, ; de bourbon, ; burgundy, ; carnavalet, ; de clisson, ; dieu, , , , , ; fieubert, ; de hollande, ; de lulli, ; de mayenne, ; de nesle, ; provost of paris, ; de rohan, ; st. paul, , , ; de soubise, ; de sully, ; des tournelles, , ; de ville, , , , hugo, victor, , , , , ; house of, huguenots, the, , , , , , i infanta, the, ; garden of, , innocents, cemetery of the, , , , - ; fountain of, institut, the, invalides, the, iron mask, man of, , isabella of bavaria, her welcome, ; joins jean sans peur, italian art at paris, , j jacobins, the, ; club of, jacquerie, the, jacques, st., de la boucherie, , , jansenists, the, , , jean sans peur, - , , jeanne d'arc wounded at siege of paris, ; her trial and rehabilitation, jefferson, thomas, jesuits, the, , , , , , john the good, , , joinville, , _note_, julian, the emperor, ; statue of, , ; his love of paris, julien le pauvre, st., church of, , , , , justice, bed of, l latin quarter, the, , latini, brunetto, _note_, lavoisier, law, john, , league, the, , , , lebrun, , , , , leczinska, marie, , lemercier, jacques, , lenoir, alexandre, lescot, his work on the louvre, , , lesueur, , , , levau, , lombard, peter, londonne, jocius de, lorraine, cardinal of, assassinated, louis vi., the lusty, , , louis, st., his youth, ; affection for his mother, ; conception of kingship, ; popular justice, ; piety, ; love of stories, ; the jews and, , ; founds library of sainte chapelle, ; his rigid justice, , ; death, ; personal appearance and prowess, louis, st., island of, , ; church of, louis xi. at paris, , ; his death, louis xii. returns taxes, louis xiii., , , louis xiv., , , ; his court, , ; hatred of paris, ; his "three queens" at the wars, ; his death, louis xv., his majority, ; popularity, , ; death, louis xvi., , ; trial and execution of, - louis xviii., louis philippe, louviers, island of, , , louvois, louvre, the, , , , , , , - , - , - , - ; sculpture, ancient, - ; mediæval and renaissance, - ; modern, - ; pictures, foreign schools, - ; french schools, - ; persian and egyptian art, - loyola, ignatius, lutetia, , , , luther, appeals to paris, lutherans at paris, , luxembourg, palace of, ; museum of, ; palace and gardens of, luxor, column of, luynes, albert de, m madeleine, church of, maillart, jean, maillotins, the, maintenon, mme. de, , , , , maison aux piliers, , , manége, salle du, , mansard, françois, , mansard, j.h., , marais, the, , marat, , , marcel, Étienne, - marchands d'eau, provost of, margaret of angoulême, marguerite of valois, , , , , marly, , , marseillaises, the, martel, charles, martin, st., legend of, martin, st., des champs, , , , _note_, maur des fossés, st., _note_, , mayenne, duke of, , mazarin, , , , ; palais, , mazzini, médard, st., church of, medici, catherine de', , , ; her death, medici, marie de', , , , , medici fountain, medicine, faculty of, merovingian dynasty, merri, st., church of, , mirabeau, , ; funeral of, ; the elder, mississippi bubble, the, molay, jacques de, , , , molière, , monarchy, growing power of, ; absolutism of, , monasteries, reform of, ; suppression of, montereau, pierre de, , montfaucon, ; gallows of, montgomery, count of, montjoie, st. denis, war cry of, _note_, montmartre, ; abbey of, morris, governor, morris, william, n nantes, edict of, revocation of, napoleon i., , , , , , , , , napoleon, louis, , navarre, charles of, navarre, henry of, , , ; his conversion and kingship, , ; divorce, ; assassination, ; statue of, , navarre, jeanne of, , _nautæ_, altar of, , necker, mme., nemours, duke of, execution of, nicholas, st., chapel of, , ; church of, _noces vermeilles_, the, normans, the, , norwich, canons of, notre dame, church of, , , , , , , , , , , - ; de lorette, ; des victoires, ; island of, ; parvis of, o odÉon, theatre of the, opera, italian, the, opera, the new, orders, the religious, oriflamme, the, , orleans, duke of, ; assassinated, ; philip of, , orme, philibert de l', ovens, public, p paine, thomas, palace of archbishop of sens, palais de justice, , , , , - palais royal, , , , , ; gardens of, , palissy, panthéon, the, , paris, her essential unity, ; apprehension of coming changes, ; intellectual culture, , ; conquest by romans, ; origin of, - ; geographical position, - ; device of, ; sacked by the northmen, ; siege of, by northmen, ; growth under capets, ; expansion under louis vi., ; evil smells at, ; first paving of, ; capital of intellectual world, ; faubourgs wasted by english, , , ; first library at, ; occupied by english, , ; life at, under english, - ; bridges of, ; sieges of, by henry of navarre, , ; sections of, their insurrection, , ; its dirt, ; misery at, , , , ; a vast camp, , parisian democracy, its enlightenment, parisians, their responsive nature and love of order, ; loss of liberties, ; their loyalty and tolerance, parisii, the, , parlement, the, , - , parloir aux bourgeois, pascal, passion, confrères de la, paul, st., charnel-houses, paul and louis, ss., church of, peasantry, their condition, pepin the short, père la chaise, peronne, peace of, perrault, charles, ; claude, , - , petit, nesle, the, philip i., philip augustus, birth of, ; his entry into paris, ; wall of, - , , philip le bel, , , , philip vi., pierre, st., church of, pierre aux boeufs, st., church of, , pillory, the, place, châtelet, ; de la concorde, - ; de grève, , , , , , ; maubert, , ; royale, , , , , ; vendôme, plantes, jardin des, poitiers, , ; diana of, , pol, st., count of, pompadour, mme., , pont, au change, _note_, , , ; de la concorde, ; grand, , ; marie, ; aux meuniers, ; neuf, ; notre dame, ; aux oiseaux, ; petit, , , , ; royal, ponzardus de gysiaco, pope paul iii., his humane protest, port royal, suppression of, porte, st. antoine, ; st. denis, , ; st. jacques, ; st. martin, poussin, , - prés aux clercs, the, ; students at, printing, art of, at paris, - provost, of marchands d'eau, ; suppressed, ; royal, _note_, puget, , punishments, cruelty of, during renaissance, q quai, des augustins, ; de la mégisserie, quinze-vingts, the, r rabelais, _note_, , , racine, radegonde, st., _note_, ravaillac, reason, temples of, , reformation, the, renaissance, architecture at paris, republic, the second, republic, the third, , retz, de, cardinal, , revolution, the great, its beneficent results, reynolds, , , , , richelieu, , , , robert the pious, , , robespierre, , , , roch, st., church of, rohan, cardinal of, rollo, , romilly, sir s., his letters, ronsard, rousseau, j.j., , , , , royalty abolished, rue, des anglais, ; de l'arbre sec, , ; des archives, , ; du bac, ; des blancs manteaux, ; du dante, ; Étienne marcel, , ; de la ferronnerie, , ; du fouarre, , ; françois miron, ; des francs bourgeois, ; guénégaud, ; des lombards, , ; montorgeuil, ; mouffetard, ; des petits champs, ; quincampoix, ; de rivoli, ; st. antoine, ; st. denis, ; st. jacques, , , , ; st. martin, , ; de venise, ; vieille du temple, , ruggieri column, , ruskin, , s sacrÉ coeur, church of the, salisbury, john of, salons, the, samaritaine, la, _sans-culottes_, the, savoy, adelaide of, saxony, henry of, scholars, poor, at paris, schools, rise of, at paris, ; elementary, scotus duns, , sculpture, french, seigneurs, their lawlessness, sens, archbishop of, , , september, massacres of, serfs, at paris, sévérin, st., church of, , sévigné, mme. de, sick, the care of in middle ages, siéyès, , siger, , signs, old, , simon, st., duke of, , , sorbon, robert of, , sorbonne, the, ; chapel of, soufflot, , , staël, mme. de, states-general, the, , , , stephen, st., church of, , streets, renaming of, stuart, marie, suger, abbot, , sully, duke of, , , sully, maurice de, , sulpice, st., church of, , t talleyrand, , talma, julie, tasso, tellier, le, templars, destruction of, - ; fortress of, , terror, the, , ; the white, thermidorians, the, thomas, st., of canterbury, ; church of, thorns, crown of, redeemed by st. louis, _tiers État_, the, tolbiac, battle of, torture, late use of in england, _note_, tour de nesle, trellises, island of, tribunal, revolutionary, trocadero, the, , _note_, truce of god, the, tuileries, the, , ; gardens of, , ; palace of, ; attack on, turenne, , twelve, the, , , u university, origin of the, ; decadence of, ; the modern, ursins, mme. des, v vaches, isle des, val de grâce, vallière, mme. de la, , valois, house of, varennes, flight to, vauban, vendôme, duke of, ; column of, , ; place, venetian merchants at paris, vergniaud, , versailles, , victoires, place des, victor, st., abbey of, villon, françois, _note_, , , vincennes, chapel of, vincent, st., ; de paul, church of, viollet le duc, , volney, voltaire, , , , , , , w wall, gallo-roman, , ; of philip-augustus, , , , ; of marcel, ; of charles v., wars, religious, watch, the royal, willoughby, lord, workmen, compensation of; by charles v., printed in great britain by richard clay & sons, limited, brunswick st., stamford st., s.e. , and bungay, suffolk. _the mediæval town series_ assisi.* by lina duff gordon. [_ th edition._ bruges.+ by ernest gilliat-smith. [_ rd edition._ brussels.+ by ernest gilliat-smith. cairo.+ by stanley lane-poole. [_ nd edition._ cambridge.+ by charles w. stubbs, d.d. chartres.+ by cecil headlam. constantinople.* by william h. hutton. [_ nd edition._ edinburgh.+ by oliphant smeaton. ferrara.+ by ella noyes. florence.+ by edmund g. gardner. [_ th edition._ london.+ by henry b. wheatley. [_ nd edition._ moscow.* by wirt gerrare. [_ nd edition._ nuremberg.* by cecil headlam. [_ th edition._ paris.+ by thomas okey. perugia.* by margaret symonds and lina duff gordon. [_ th edition._ prague.* by count lutzow. rome.+ by norwood young. [_ th edition._ rouen.+ by theodore a. cook. [_ rd edition._ seville.+ by walter m. gallichan. siena.+ by edmund g. gardner. [_ nd edition._ toledo.* by hannah lynch. [_ nd edition._ verona.+ by alethea wiel. [_ nd edition._ venice.+ by thomas okey. _the prices of these(*) are s. d. net in cloth, s. d. net in leather; these(+) s. d. net in cloth, s. d. net in leather._ scanned images of public domain material from the internet archive. nooks and corners of old paris [illustration: the rue du chaume in (to-day, the rue des archives) soubise mansion--clisson tower _drawing by a. maignan_] nooks & corners of old paris _by_ georges cain curator of the carnavalet museum and of the historic collections of the city of paris _with a preface by_ victorien sardou with over a hundred illustrations london e. grant richards _the translation has been made by_ frederick lawton, m.a. dedicated to a. g. lenÔtre in token of most sincere affection g. c. _december_ . list of engravings . the rue du chaume in (to-day, the rue des archives) _frontispiece_ . the place de la bastille and the elephant xvii . demolition of the rue sainte-hyacinthe-saint-michel, opposite to the rue soufflot xxiii . the town hall in xxvii . the pont-neuf about xxxi . the louvre about xxxv . the courtyard of the carrousel and the museums about xxxix . the garden of the palais royal in xliii . the place de la concorde xlvii . patrol road leading from the barrier of the etoile in (to-day the avenue de wagram) liii . the carnavalet museum lix . the pont-royal, the tuileries, and the louvre (eighteenth century) lxiii . view of the pont-neuf, taken from an oval window in the colonnade of the louvre . workshops and foundations of the city barracks in - . view of notre-dame . the "petit-pont" . the old prefecture of police (formerly jerusalem street) . the sainte-chapelle in . opening up of the space in front of the palais de justice . the cour des filles in the conciergerie . the triumph of marat . the dauphine square in . the pont marie in . the isle of saint-louis . the college of louis-le-grand . the inner courtyard of the École polytechnique . the rue clovis in . the rue de la montagne-sainte-geneviève in . the panthéon, in building . procession in front of sainte-geneviève . the apotheosis of jean-jacques rousseau . the luxembourg, about . fraternal suppers in the sections of paris . fête given at the luxembourg on the th of frimaire, anno vii. . the rue de l'École de médecine in (house where marat was assassinated) . the gallery of the odéon (rue rotrou) . the rohan courtyard in . the rohan courtyard in (second view) . the rue visconti . alfred de musset at years of age . the façade of the institute . view from the louvre quay . paris from the pointe de la cité . the rue des prêtres-saint-séverin in . the passage des patriarches . the rue mouffetard . the rue galande . the place maubert . the old amphitheatre of surgery at the corner of the colbert mansion . the church of saint-nicolas-du-chardonneret and the rue saint-victor . the rue saint-julien-le-pauvre . the jardin des plantes--the cedar of lebanon and the labyrinth . the jardin des plantes in the eighteenth century . the jardin des plantes--cuvier's house . the rue de bièvre . the bièvre tanneries . the bièvre about --the valence mill-race . the constantine bridge and stockade . the pont-royal in . the lesdiguières mansion . commemorative ball on the ruins of the bastille . the sens mansion about . the provost hugues aubryot's mansion--charlemagne's courtyard and passage in . the place royale about (now the vosges square) . the rue grenier-sur-l'eau in . the saint-paul port . the barbett mansion . the rue de venise . the rue du renard-saint-merry . the rue des prouvaires and the rue saint-eustache about . the central market foot-pavement, near the church of saint-eustache, in . the central market in . the central market in . molière's house in the rue de la tonnellerie . the tower of saint-jacques-la-boucherie about . alexander's grand cafè royal on the temple boulevard . fanchon, the hurdy-gurdy player . view of the ambigu-comique on the temple boulevard . the funambules theatre on the temple boulevard . the ambigu theatre and boulevard about . the porte saint-martin . the rue saint-martin in --the green-wood tower . the rue de cléry . the poissonnière boulevard in . the gymnase theatre . the variety theatre about . the boulevards, the hôtel de salm, and windmills of montmartre . the rue de la barre at montmartre . a street in montmartre . the rue des rosiers . the place de la concorde in . ingenuous benevolence . the place de la concorde (second view) . the entrance to the tuileries, over the swing bridge, in . corner pavilion of the louis xv. square about . view in the tuileries gardens in . the rue greuze in . the madrid château . the bagatelle pavilion . a performance at the hippodrome under the second empire . the arc de triomphe about [illustration: drawn by saffrey] preface _grandson and son of two rare and justly-renowned artists, p. j. mène and auguste cain, my excellent friend, georges cain, has abundantly shown that he is the worthy inheritor of their talent. to-day, he wishes to prove that he knows how "to handle the pen as well as the pencil" as our ancients used to say, and that the carnavalet museum has in him, not only the active and enthusiastic curator that we constantly see at his task, but also the most enlightened guide possible in matters of parisian lore; and so he has written this bewitching book which conjures up before me the paris of my childhood and youth--the paris of times gone by, which, in the course of centuries, has undergone many transformations, but not one so rapid and so complete as that which i have witnessed. the change, indeed, is such that, in certain quarters, i have difficulty in recognising, in the city of napoleon iii., that of louis-philippe. the latter would have been uninhabitable now, owing to the requirements of modern life, but it answered to the needs and customs of its time. people put up then with difficulties and defects that were judged unavoidable, no capital being without them. and, in fact, in spite of its drawbacks and blemishes, the paris of that period had its own charms._ [illustration: the place de la bastille, and the elephant _lithographed by ph. benoist_] _most of its streets were very narrow and had no sidewalks. pedestrians were obliged to take refuge, from passing carriages, on shop thresholds, under entrance gates, or else beside posts erected here and there for that purpose. still, even in the densest traffic, one ran fewer risks walking along the road than one runs at present crossing the boulevards.... on these boulevards, where a single omnibus plied between the madeleine and the bastille every quarter of an hour, and where there was practically no danger of being knocked down by a horse, i have seen a crowd watching a fencing-bout on the spot to-day occupied by a refuge-pavement; and, on the bastille square, i used to play quietly, trundling my hoop round the elephant and the july pillar. there was little else to dread, throughout paris, save splashes from the gutters, whose waters flowed in the middle of the streets ... when they flowed at all; for, during the hot summer days, there was nothing but stagnant household slops, which lay in the gutters until the next storm of rain. in winter, as the snow was never swept away, and the employment of salt for melting it was unknown, the thaws were something terrible! every corner--and the houses being hardly ever in line, there were many--was used as a rubbish-heap, or for the committing of nuisances excusable only through lack of modern conveniences. moreover, the streets, by very reason of their narrowness, were more noisy than ours. the rolling of heavy waggons over big, round paving-stones badly set, with jolts that shook both windows and houses; the constant cries of men and women selling fruit, vegetables, fish and flowers, &c. ... and pushing their handcarts, not to speak of dealers in clothes, umbrellas, and hand-brushes, of glaziers and of chimney-sweeps; the din of watermen blowing into their taps; the calls of water-bearers as they loudly clinked their bucket-handles; the clarionets and tambourines of strolling singers that went from one courtyard to another; all this composed the gaiety of the street. what was less tolerable was the incessant noise of barrel-organs beneath your windows from morning till evenings and inflicting on you a torture that it makes me angry to think of even now._ _to crown all, the lighting of the streets was wretched. in most, it was the ancient lamp whose illumination was an affair that stopped traffic while the operation lasted. on the other hand, however, the city was better guarded at night than it is at present, owing to the rounds of the "grey patrols" which, with their indian files of cloak-muffled, slow-walking figures, crept along the walls and crossed one another's beats so as to be within helping distance, at the least alarm. happy time, when, at one o'clock in the morning, in my lonely quarter, i was sure to come across one of them, and when one could stay out late without a revolver in one's pocket. this, it will be said, was because paris was smaller, less populus, and the task of the police easier. but it is the duty of the police to proportion the protection to the danger, and the numbers of its officers to those of the evil-doers that infest our streets, for whom, formerly, little of the regard was felt that is lavished on them to-day._ _as a set-off to its narrow, badly-paved, badly-kept, and badly-lighted streets, paris then had an attraction which it no longer possesses--its gardens._ _the idea formed of the old city is, generally, that of a heap of ancient houses with neither light, fresh air, nor verdure. in reality, the houses of the time, whether recent or old, existed only as a border to the street. behind them, in the whole of the space that extended from one road to another, there were vast enclosures affording the sun, silence and verdure that did not exist in front. many dwellings had fashioned, out of the grounds of mansions and convents parcelled up during the last century or two, large courtyards and private gardens which, separated merely by low fences, mingled their foliage and shade. this was so everywhere throughout the city, except in the part of it properly so called, and in the central portion near the town hall and the markets. a glance at the old plans of paris will suffice to show that these unbuilt-on spaces comprised, under louis xvi., the half, and, under louis-philippe, a third of the city's present area. in the marais and arsenal quarters, in the saint-antoine, temple, and popincourt faubourgs, in the courtille, the chaussée d'antin, the porcherons, the roule quarters, in the saint-honoré faubourg, and along all the left bank of the river, which last was privileged in this respect, there were only scattered dwellings amidst orchards, kitchen-gardens, trellis-vineyards, farmyards, groves, and parks planted with century-old trees. the little that remains of this past is being rapidly destroyed; and, from the health and pleasure point of view, it is a great pity._ _from my window in the rue d'enfer, estrapade square, close to the blind alley of the feuillantines, i used to cast my eyes, as far as i could see in every direction, over a wealth of foliage. in the rue neuve-saint-Étienne, from the place where bernardin de saint-pierre once lived, i beheld the towers of notre dame, beyond avenues of trimmed trees; and i could say, like the good monsieur rollin, in the distich engraved on his door a few yards away:_ ruris et urbis incola, _that i was "an inhabitant both of the town and of the country." through these gardens, through these silent streets so propitious to quiet labour, and scenting of lilacs and blossoming with pink and white chestnuts, new roads have been cut; the saint-germain and saint-michel boulevards, the rues de rennes and gay-lussac, the rue monge which caused the demolition of the rustic cottage where pascal died in the rue saint-Étienne itself; and the rue claude-bernard which did away with the feuillantines, where victor hugo, as a child, used to chase butterflies. soon, the last of the monastic enclosures of the saint-jacques quarter, that of the ursulines, will disappear to make room for three new streets!_ _the use of such small gardens, belonging mostly to private houses, was keenly appreciated by parisians of the lower middle-classes who have always been of a stay-at-home disposition. this characteristic of theirs was satirised, during last century, in a well-known pamphlet: "a journey from paris to saint-cloud by sea and by land." their curiosity with regard to far-off countries was not awakened as it is nowadays by stories of travel, and by engravings, photographs, or coloured advertisements. and getting from one place to another was very expensive. railways had not yet made it easy for every one to go long distances by means of reduced fares and cheap circular tickets. an ordinary working man, in these modern times, will travel more easily to biarritz, switzerland, or monte-carlo, than an independent gentleman of the marais could then have done. during the midsummer heat, paris was as full as in winter's cold; and the theatres reaped their most abundant harvest, especially popular ones like the ambigu, the porte-saint-martin, the gaieti, the cirque, the folies-dramatiques, the petit lazary, madame saqui's, the théâtre historique, &c., which were situated near together about the temple boulevard. the fine weather allowed people living at long distances to come on foot to this dramatic fair, saving the price of a carriage both ways, and to make tail at the doors, without having to fear rain or cold; for the good-tempered public of those days, loving a play for its own sake, had no objection to be penned up so, between two barriers, while waiting for the opening of the ticket-offices, which then used to take place between five and six in the evening; it was one of the conditions, one of the stimulants of their pleasure, something to whet their appetite before the performance._ _even the holidays did not empty paris very perceptibly, except on the left bank of the seine. from may to october, the majority of the middle-class--small shopkeepers, functionaries, retired people, as well as employees, clerks, and workers of every kind--contented themselves, like paul de kock's heroes, with excursions and picnics in the various parisian suburbs--vincennes, montmorency, saint-cloud, romainville, &c. in paris, shopkeepers laid the cloth for a meal out in the open air, in the yard or garden, or, failing that, in the street. when i returned from my sunday walk, at the dinner-hour, between four and five in the afternoon, i used to see, everywhere in the busiest streets, nothing but families at table before their doors, while boys and girls played about the road at shuttlecock, hot cockles, or blindman's buff. occasionally, i was caught as i passed by some little girl with bandaged eyes, who, in order to recognise me, would feel my face, amid shouts of laughter from all the diners. and if, during the long summer evenings, i went with my companions to play at prisoners' base in the rues de vaugirard, or d'enfer, or on the small saint-michel square, the good folk, enjoying the fresh air on their doorsteps, paid no attention to us boys galloping all over the street._ _in a word, paris was no different from the country-town!_ [illustration: demolition of the rue sainte-hyacinth-saint-michel opposite to the rue soufflot _etching by martial_] _these_ "bourgeois" _customs, which one might distinguish briefly by saying that they were "eighteen-hundred-and-thirty customs" survived till the revolution, and persisted even into the second empire, when railway extension, the influx of strangers, great industrial and commercial enterprises, an increasing prosperity, the desire for comfort and luxury, a more active public life, keener competition, and the intenser struggle for life brought into existence our present customs and manners. it was a surprising transformation, one which was no little fostered by the creation of a new paris on the ruins of the old. how often have i congratulated myself on having, from the time when i was fifteen years of age, devoted my holiday rambles to ferreting out, in the old quarters of the city now cut through, parcelled up and destroyed, the slightest vestiges of the past, as if i had foreseen that, within a brief delay, they would be reduced to dust by the demolisher's pick-axe._ _the paris of louis-philippe was very nearly that of the great revolution and the first empire. each step in it awoke souvenirs that people thought but little of in my childhood, romanticism being more interested in the middle ages and the renaissance, and more inquisitive about the massacre of saint-barthelemy than about those of september. it looked with tenderness at the old corner turret of the grève square, but gave no glance at the sign-post on the same square, where the unfortunate foulon was hanged. it deplored the disappearance of the barbette gate which marked the site where charles d'orléans was murdered, but did not suggest going to see, a few steps further, in the rue des ballets, the post where madame de lamballe's corpse was beheaded. artists, novelists, poets, historians disdained these localities still warm from the revolutionary drama, some episodes of which they claimed to relate. ary scheffer purports to show us the arrest of charlotte corday; but does not care to consult documents of the greatest exactitude that would have brought her before his eyes and ours with just her face, her attitude, and her dress. he does not even think to go to the rue des cordeliers and visit marat's dwelling, still remaining as it was, including his bell rope. and he offers us a charlotte of his own invention, cleverly painted, who looks like a chambermaid arrested by the porter, just as she is going off with her mistress's gown on her back!_ _in his_ "stello," _alfred de vigny is quite as indifferent to local colouring as he is to facts. he places andré chénier's scaffold "on the revolution square" after taking him thither in a cart laden with more than "eighty victims, among them being some women with children sucking at the breast"!!!_ _it is the same with the rest!_ _being more careful, i did not disdain the old stones that were humble witnesses of deeds so great; and, thanks to them, i was able to live through the revolution again on the spot. they were fated to disappear. a new city cannot be built except on the remains of the old; and it is hard to reconcile the requirements of the present with the worship of the past. indeed most of the old things, even those that might be saved, would have a sorry air amid the splendours of our modern city. what grieves me is to find that they have often been replaced in such a way as to cause one to regret their disappearance._ [illustration: the town hall in _lithographed by engelmann_] _as for the city, so called, it may be granted that the pulling down of its old buildings, its dark alleys, could only give pain to those whose passion is the picturesque, or to the admirers of the_ mysteries of paris. _yet one must confess that, framed in its old close, notre-dame looked nobler than now at the end of a vast, desert space, where it seems to be stupidly posing before a photographer's camera, between the emptiness of the river and the frightful town hall, that might be taken for a slaughter-house._ _nor was it necessary, when displacing the flower-market, to forbid the sellers' continuing the habit of improvising those pretty bowers of foliage and flowers, and to impose on them those zinc roofs that should shelter only artificial blooms,--not at all necessary, simply to complete the charm of the present administrative arbour._ _it might have also been possible to avoid cutting through the dauphine square, which i have seen in my time as charming as the place royale, with its pink bricks, since all we have in return is the funereal-looking structure forming the entrance of the palais de justice and the horrible balustrade of its staircase._ _since my chance stroll has brought me to the pont-neuf i may just as well pursue in this direction my retrospective way._ [illustration: the pont-neuf about _water-colour by th. masson_ (carnavalet museum)] _the pont-neuf which is newer than ever, may be congratulated on the loss of its high foot-pavements, its shoeblacks, dog shearers, and cat doctors squatting among its pillars, and its haberdashers, stationers, perfumers, fried-potato men and matchsellers, whose stalls, set up in the semi-circular projections of the bridge, have been pulled down, together with the old sentry-boxes that sheltered them, to make room for the benches of the present day. but what vandalism--the whitewashing of the two brick houses that face henry iv.'s statue! they were built for the site they occupy. they are an integral part of the bridge, and contribute greatly to its adornment. if the owners, who have already whitewashed them, take it into their heads to replace them by so-so sort of constructions, it will mean the spoiling of one of the prettiest sights of old paris._ _saint-germain-l'auxerrois, too, might have been spared the proximity of the tower which pretends to be gothic, and of the mairie which believes itself renaissance. in their company, the church loses all its grace, and the group is ridiculous._ _at least, when turning one's back, one has the satisfaction no longer to see in front of the colonnade a waste ground surrounded with rotten palings. only crosses were lacking to give the place the appearance of a cemetery._ _and, as a matter of fact, it was one!_ [illustration: the louvre about _drawn by meunier_ (carnavalet museum)] _in the restoration period, where now the equestrian statue of velasquez stands, egyptian mummies had been buried--mummies that had become decomposed, through too long sojourning in the damp ground-floor rooms of the louvre. in , in the same spot, the corpses of the assailants killed in the attack on the louvre were hastily cast into a common grave. ten years later, when it was desired to give these brave fellows a nobler sepulture, patriots and mummies were dug up pell-mell; and now contemporaries of the pharaohs lie piously buried beneath the column of the bastille, side by side with the july heroes._ _i knew the courtyard of the louvre when it had a statue of the duke of orléans, put away after , one of francis i. by clésinger succeeding it. some fool or other having nicknamed it the "sire de framboisy," the joke was too idiotic not to have the greatest success. and to the nickname is partly due the disappearance of a work of art that deserved a better fate._ _no description can give any idea of what the carrousel square was then, in the intermediate state to which it was condemned, after the first empire, by the joining of the louvre to the tuileries, which joining was still unachieved, though always being planned and replanned. it was nothing but a medley of half-destroyed streets, isolated houses half pulled-down and shored up with beams. the unpaved, uneven, broken ground was a veritable bog in rainy weather. the great gallery of the louvre was flanked with an ugly wooden corridor, for ever ready to flare up! for, as tradition has it, there is always some permanent risk of fire in the vicinity of the museum! on the same side, the civil service had run up temporary buildings which, from the small courtyard of the sphinx to the gate facing the saints-pères bridge, enclosed the ruins of the ancient church of saint-thomas-du-louvre and its dependencies, such as the priory where théophile gautier, gérard de nerval, nanteuil, arsène houssaye, and others, had established their "bohème galante." these buildings, in favour of which extenuating circumstances might be pleaded, were hired out to colour, engraving, picture, and curiosity-dealers of all kinds. i still see a large shop of knick-knacks where, among a most amusing collection of ostriches' eggs, stuffed crocodiles, and red-skins' heads of hair, the amateur used to come across wonderful bargains. and what riches also in the cases exposed by engraving-dealers in front of their doors to the curiosity of those interested in such things! besides the engravings, there were lots of drawings, sketches, red crayon designs, water-colours by cochin, moreau, boucher, lawrence, fragonard, saint-aubin, proudhon, boilly, isabey, &c. i have passed there delightful hours, looking through such cases, the contents of which, alas! i could only admire, being unable to afford to buy masterpieces which i felt would have a future value, and which were then sold for a mere song, the pedants of david's school despising the french art of the eighteenth century, it being too amiable and witty for their taste. "sir," said one of these dealers later to me, "i have rolled up before now engravings of poussin, for which i would not pay two francs to-day, in other engravings of debucourt that i would not sell to-day for a thousand francs!"_ _all this was swept away by the amalgamation of the two palaces and the prolonging of the rue de rivoli, which has, moreover, endowed us with a very fine square in front of the palais royal, in lieu of the old one, so mean, with its fountain of water, decorative enough but all blackened with dirt and slime._ [illustration: the garden of the palais royal in _"gouache" by the chevalier de lespinasse_ (carnavalet museum)] _as for the palais royal, which the duke d'orléans seemed to have had built, so that it might be the forum of the revolution, if it was no longer the rendezvous of politicians, clubmen, gazetteers, open-air orators, and stock-jobbers, the battlefield of republicans and fops, of royalists and half-pay soldiers, the official promenade for the merveilleuses, and courtesans of all degrees, if it no longer had its wooden galleries, its tartar camp, its dutch grotto, its gambling hells, it was still the headquarters of the nymphs of the neighbourhood; and, thanks to its two theatres, its eating-houses, its renowned coffee-houses, its rich shops, especially those of the jewellers, it was still the central point of attraction in paris for newcomers from the country and abroad. with the least shower, it was impossible to walk about beneath its porticoes; and, in all weathers, especially on sunday--the day of meeting_ par excellence--_there were crowds in the glass-covered arcade where, quite recently, i found myself alone--absolutely alone!_ [illustration: the courtyard of the carrousel and the museums about _etching by martial_] _what shall i say of the tuileries palace, except that it once was and is no more? how i regret the magnificent shades of its grand avenue, unrivalled even at versailles, and its clumps of chestnuts that braved the ardent sun rays! nature alone is to blame for their disappearance, but they might have been replaced by trees less pitiable than the inevitable plane and acacia, which latter, without its flowers, is really the silliest and ugliest of trees. it promises a fine foliage for the future, if the future of this unfortunate garden is not to be totally suppressed, or at least to be broken up into lots!_ [illustration: the place de la concorde _original drawing by g. de saint-aubin_ (george cain collection)] _time was when i have seen the place de la concorde without its fountains and its statues, save the four horses of marly--those of coysevox at the gate of the tuileries, those of coustou at the entrance to the champs-elysées. when i was a boy, the socles of the future towns of france were being restored. since the days of louis xv., they had been decked with plaster caps, like saucepan lids, and were despised so much that the one bearing the town of strasburg was flanked with a base stove-pipe. anyway, it was the only one that shocked one's eyes. count those at present that crown the monuments of gabriel! round the square the ditches still remained, which on fête days had already made so many victims through the hindrance they offered to the crowd's getting away. one evenings when some fireworks were being let off on the concorde bridge in honour of the king's birthday, i had only just time enough to take refuge on one of their balustrades, whence i was nearly thrown down into the moat by those that followed my example._ _the obelisk had just been erected in the centre of the square, where its only justification was the fact of its having extricated the july monarchy from an embarrassing position. the authorities did not know where to put it so as to conciliate everybody's opinion. the old stone monument, indifferent to all parties, was a fitting symbol of their concord._ _the champs-elysées are unrecognisable now by any one who saw them under louis-philippe! the avenue was not then, like the boulevard des italiens, the meeting-place for what was called, in foolish anglomania, "fashion." ices were not drunk there as on tortoni's steps. society dames and gentlemen passed along it only on horseback or in a carriage, contemptuously abandoning the side-ways to the more modest walkers, the small folk, who elbowed each other in the dust, to strollers, idlers, strangers, convalescents, scholars, nurses, soldiers, players at ball or prisoners' base on the marigny square, and to the innumerable urchins that disputed with each other the goat-carts and shouted for joy in front of the punch-and-judy shows!_ _in the way of coffee-houses, there were only three pavilions, all unworthy of the name, little ambulating drinking-stalls on trestles, with decanters of lemonade and barley-water, and the cocoanut-beverage sellers shaking their bell; the only eating-houses were two wretched wine-shops, and the places where nanterre cakes, gingerbread, and wafers could be bought from dealers that stood and sold their wares while springing their rattle. for concerts, there were the fiddlers, guitarists, and harpists, the singers of popular songs and the man who was a band in himself; in the way of entertainments, before the opening of the mabille garden, there were franconi's summer circus, colonel langlois' panorama, the swings, merry-go-rounds, and archery galleries, the dutch top, and the game from siam. as illumination, there were a few gas-lamps, the candles used by stall-keepers, and the red lanterns exhibited by orange-women. and with all this, not a bit of lawn, not a clump of trees, not a bed of flowers!--nothing, absolutely nothing, of what to-day constitutes this exquisite promenade._ _paris ended at the rond-point!_ _beyond, it was only a sort of faubourg, with a fine mansion here and there belonging to the previous century, a large garden, land unbuilt on to be sold, tenant houses, sorry-enough-looking, furniture repositories, coach-houses, riding-schools, and carriage-builders' premises--particularly carriage-builders'! near the rue chaillot, the avenue was bordered, on the left, with a broad turf embankment. i have seen, in the fine-weather season, diners cutting up their melon and leg-of-mutton on it, with the naïve joy of city folk enjoying the purer field air._ [illustration: patrol road leading from the barrier of the etoile in (to-day the avenue de wagram.) _etching by martial_] _in the vicinity of the arc de triomphe, the avenue was lonelier and ill-inhabited, and, as soon as one crossed the barrier of the etoile, it was no longer the faubourg but the suburbs. instead of the fine avenues of the bois and of victor hugo, only waste grounds were to be seen, market-gardeners' patches, quarries and uncanny-looking, tumble-down buildings. as for the bois de boulogne itself, it was so ugly by day and so dangerous by night that the less there is said about it the better._ _on the right, the roule quarter was more civilised; but beyond, towards mousseaux, such was not the case. one evening, out of curiosity, i went to see the house that balzac had just had built in the street bearing his name. afterwards, by chance, i strolled into this ternes quarter, which was unknown to me. night came on and i soon lost my way. on my left, i had a big, rascally wall which seemed endless, and, in the light of the pale gas-lamps, separated by long distances, i saw on my right nothing but stables, workyards, dairy outhouses, exhaling odours of poultry and dung, and red-curtained, low-character eating-houses which reminded me that, at the same hour, a professor whom i knew had been collared by a big blackguard that exclaimed to him: "your money, you scamp!" my friend was smoking a cigar. being sly, like the wise ulysses, he pretended to comply by putting his left hand into his waistcoat pocket, while, with his right, he took the cigar from his mouth, knocked off the ashes with his little finger, and stuck it right in the eye of the footpad, who loosed him with a howl that polyphemus might have uttered! this souvenir haunted me; and, after traversing a wretched hamlet, in which i was guided only by the slope of the ground, i at last breathed freely again in the neighbourhood of the pépinière, promising myself that i would never again venture into such a cut-throat locality._ _and yet i live in it now!_ _this cut-throat locality is to-day the monceau quarter, the avenue hoche, the avenue de messine, the courcelles, malesherbes and haussmann boulevards; what was once called "poland" where general lagrange used to tell me he had shot partridges in his youth._ _and the conclusion of this chat--for i must conclude--is that i regret the old paris, but that i am fond of the new._ victorien sardou. introduction paris! what visions this magic word calls up--historic paris, with its palaces, churches, monuments, streets, and squares; the paris of literature and its admirable procession of writers, poets, thinkers, dramatists, philosophers, and humourists; the paris of society, its fêtes, receptions, fashions, elegancies, and snobbism; the paris of politicians, the paris of journalists, religious paris, the paris of the police, bohemian paris, industrial paris. and how many others still! so many passions, events, and interests clash, mingle, and unravel again in it that a study on this admirable and complex city is no sooner finished than it is almost needful to write it over again, the truth of the day before being no longer that of the morrow, the accurate document of yesterday being found incorrect this morning. our ambition is more modest, and our title indicates a programme--"nooks and corners of paris." deliberately neglecting that which is too well known, already too much described--having neither the desire nor the pretension to compose a "guide-book for the foreigner in paris"; seeking only the rare, if not the never-yet-brought-to-light--we would simply give to those who, like us, adore our old city a little of the joy we have each day in "strolling" about this incomparable town. our object is to continue, by means of walks through what remains to us of the dear old paris, the series of documents painted, pencilled, or engraved which are contained in the carnavalet museum. the house that madame de sévigné loved so much has, in fact, become the museum of the historical collections of the french capital. [illustration: the carnavalet museum] it is a delightful nook in which still throbs a little of the old soul of the great city! our predecessors and we ourselves have striven to gather together the documents of every kind that bear traces of paris life. charters, plans, engravings, pictures, autographs, faded placards, and commemorative stones; sign-boards in wrought-iron that guided drinkers of the sixteenth century to the various public-houses; shot-silk costumes worn by pretty parisian women of the time of louis xv.; red caps of the age of terror; girdles that girls adorned themselves with around the funeral car of voltaire; tricolour-bowed shoes that trod the soil of the champ de mars at the moment of the federation feast; the light, black tulle kerchief worn by marie-antoinette when going to sit for her portrait to dumont the miniaturist; the woman-citizen's pike or sabre of honour; the commemorative stone of the bastille; grisettes' caps of the year or buskins worn by the merveilleuses; the warrant for the appearance of "widow capet" before the revolutionary tribunal; a play-bill of the king's great dancers, and convocations to the sittings of the convention; the great periods of the kings, the glorious days of the revolution, the tragedies of the terror, the proclamations of the empire; announcements of victories, requiem masses, joys, griefs, the life in fine of the most impressionable, most nervous, most enthusiastic people that has ever existed--all is found at carnavalet; and the same case or folio, gathering together, with terrible eclecticism, the lightning succession of events that took place on the same spot, shows us, for a lapse of scarcely twenty years and in the same tuileries, for instance, the arrival of louis xvi., the capture of the castle on the th of august, the execution of the king, then of the queen, the feast of the supreme being, thermidor, prairial and the invasion of the convention, the sections annihilated at saint-roch by bonaparte, the carrousel reviews, the apotheosis of the king of rome, the departure of the emperor, the arrival of louis xviii., his flight, the return of napoleon, the coming back of louis xviii., &c. that, i fancy, is a serious lesson of history--and of philosophy. our aim, i repeat, is therefore simply to continue in a few walks, which we will try to render as attractive as possible, the search for documents which, alas! are disappearing more and more every day. we will divide paris into three great sections--the old city and the isle of st. louis; the left bank of the seine; the right bank of the same river. after the document written or pencilled, the living document, or at least what remains of it. this volume "nooks and corners of paris" is, in great part, the re-edition of a work entitled, "sketches of old paris," printed only in a very small number of copies and published in with equal elegance and taste by conard. since then, the volume has been not only revised and added to, but new illustrations were chosen. an artist of great talent, monsieur tony beltrand--too soon, alas! taken away from us by death--had adorned the "sketches of old paris" with a number of admirable compositions, of which, moreover, he had been the clever engraver. we have been compelled to replace these illustrations by a series of reproductions of pictures, designs, etchings, and lithographs borrowed from private collections, museums, libraries--and our very pleasant duty is to remark on the exceeding good grace with which every one has helped us. may our gratitude be allowed to mention the names of messieurs sardou, claretie, detaille, lavedan, lenôtre, bouchot, h. martin, funck-brentano, a. meignan, massenet, pigoreau, ch. drouet, de rochegude, beaurepaire, ch. sellier, j. robiquet, our masters or our friends, not forgetting many, besides, who have lent us most precious aid. indeed, when paris is in question, all doors open and all hearts beat. our task was an easy one, and, if we have not been able to discharge it better, the fault is ours alone. a suitable termination, therefore, to this introduction will be the old formula--more than ever apropos--"excuse the faults of the author." [illustration: the pont-royal, the tuileries, and the louvre ( th century) (view taken from the pont-neuf.) _noël, pinxit._] [illustration: _etching by martial_] the old city paris was born in the isle of the seine, whose shape is that of a cradle, and of which sauval speaks so picturesquely: "the isle of the city is fashioned like a great ship sunk in the slime and stranded at the surface of the water, in the middle of the seine." this particularity must certainly have struck the heraldists of every age, and from it comes the vessel that is blazoned on the old escutcheon of paris. so the city presents itself with its prow to the west and its poop to the east. [illustration: view of the pont-neuf, taken from an oval window in the colonnade of the louvre _water-colour by nicolle_ (carnavalet museum)] the poop is notre-dame, and the prow, joined to the two banks by two ropes of stone, is the old pont-neuf, raised on the extreme end of what was formerly the islet of the cow-ferryman, where, on the th of march , were burnt jacques de molay, grand-master of the templars, and guy, prior of normandy,--the pont-neuf, the foundation of which was laid by henri iii. on the st of may , and was decorated with the coats-of-arms of the king, the queen-mother, and the town of paris. when the first pile emerged from the water, on the side of the quay of the augustines, the king betook himself thither from the louvre in a magnificent barque, accompanied by the queen-mother, catherine de medici, and by queen louise de vaudemont, his wife. henri iii. looked melancholy; on the same morning, he had interred, in the church of st. paul quélus, the dearest of his favourites, who had died from wounds received, some weeks before, in the famous duel of the minions. the irreverent parisians did not hesitate to declare that, out of respect for the royal sadness, the new bridge ought to be called "the bridge of tears." but this opinion did not last; and, as soon as henri iv. had inaugurated it, in june , "still unsafe" and unachieved, the pont-neuf became the gayest place in paris. mondor sold his balsam there, and tabarin spouted his idle talk; there it was that the ape of brioché amused the passers-by; there that the mazarinades were hummed; there that duellists unsheathed their swords, and the bands of cartouche and mandrin gallantly relieved pedestrians of their purses. on the merry pont-neuf all paris took their airings, enjoyed themselves, made appointments; loret went there to gather information for the _rhyming gazette_:-- "if i this week had been the man to visit the samaritan, from jack and tom i should have heard everything that has occurred...." from the seventeenth century, it was asserted to be impossible to cross the twelve arches of the popular bridge without meeting a monk, a white horse, and two obliging women. it was the official route for royal processions proceeding to the parliament; and, at the pont-neuf, rioters assembled when going to burn in effigy, on the dauphine square, such presidents as were suspected of rendering more services than judicial decisions. here also, in , the people compelled those who were in carriages to stop and bow low to the effigy of good king henri, whose statue, supported at the four angles by the four figures of slaves that richelieu had had placed there, stood in the middle of the raised space where, in , were signed the voluntary enlistments, and where the cannon resounded, calling to arms, at tragical moments of the revolution. the whole history of paris has to do with the wonderful old pont-neuf, celebrated throughout the world, the masterpiece of androuet du cerceau and of germain pilon--the pont-neuf which was the main thoroughfare of ancient paris. [illustration: workshops and foundations of the city barracks in - _photographed by richebourg, quai de l'horloge_] it is therefore by the old city that our walks should commence. we shall come across some rare vestiges of the primitive lutecia. on several occasions, behind the apse of notre-dame, fragments of ramparts have been found, and some of the stones forming these antique defences are discovered to have been taken from the arenas constructed by the romans. the benches of the circus had contributed to check the norman invasion; does not the wall of pericles on the acropolis contain broken fragments of antique marble statues?... but the glory of the city is notre-dame! let us follow the winding, picturesque rue chanoinesse, where the great balzac lodged madame de la chanterie, and, at no. , let us climb the tottering staircase of the dagobert tower, an old and precious débris of the canonical buildings that once enclosed the cathedral of paris. a few dozen worn-down steps will bring us to a narrow platform whence we shall behold an admirable sight. [illustration: view of notre-dame _j. c. nattes, del._] notre-dame, radiantly beautiful, rises, like a large stone flower, from a mass of flat roofs, grey or blue, and the majestic outlines of its towers stand out in their immensity against the horizon. beneath every caprice of the hour or light, whether the sun gilds this splendour or its carvings are mantled in snow, while a carpet of spotless flakes stretches below, whether the flaming sky frames its violet bulk in melting gold or the storm wraps it in its copper clouds, ever the noble cathedral appears in its shining beauty and unsurpassed grandeur. the elegant spire that completes it shoots clearly and proudly into the air, and flights of crows whirl, with shrill cawings, round the blossoming roofs of the paris basilica. over there, above a dazzling view of carvings, chimneys, gables, bridges, steeples, and streets, the far-off azures melt into soft tints, and finally mingle, on the horizon, in a vague colouring; the beasts of the apocalypse, which the talented artists of times gone by poised on the tower balustrades, bend grimacingly and jeeringly over the vast paris that feverishly lives and moves below! it is one of the noblest sights of the tower that our enchanted eyes have just gazed upon. on the other side, it is the seine, a silver streak furrowed with boats and barges; then, further on, the noble outlines of the old paris, and, marking its profiles on the low clouds, in the foreground, saint-gervais and saint-protais, an antique and precious sanctuary of the sixteenth century, one of the few remaining that preserve the secret charm of those country churches in which the soul feels itself, within the demi-obscurity of their chapels, more devout, more touched, and closer to the infinite, beneath the painted windows darkened by the dust of centuries and the smoke of incense. in the prolongation of notre dame and behind the hôtel-dieu, before reaching the palais de justice, one formerly came across a labyrinth of winding, narrow, evil-smelling streets--the rue de la juiverie, the rue aux fèves, the rue de la calandre, the rue des marmousets; for centuries this quarter had been the haunt of the lowest prostitution; there, too, dyers had established their many-coloured tubs; and blue, red, or green streams flowed down these streets with their old parisian names. humble chapels nestled under the eaves of notre-dame,--sainte-marine, saint-pierre-aux-boeufs, and saint-jean-le-rond, in which last d'alembert was buried. the hôtel-dieu opened on the right of the cathedral, and formed, with the close of notre-dame, a really imposing setting for it. on this site, the second empire built the new hôtel-dieu and the prefecture of police; and these two ugly structures, without taste or originality, seem to be the natural foils of france's national glory, notre-dame-de-paris. in the rue massillon, at the back of a stone porch which time has covered with moss, a tiny courtyard opens, at no. , over whose damp pavement occasionally passes a sister of charity in her white cap; an old, monumental, wooden staircase, dating back to henri iv., leads there to some poor dwellings in a building up this courtyard. within this humble, provincial-looking house, half monastic in appearance, who would believe himself in the heart of paris, a few yards away from the town hall and the prefecture of police? gone the "cloister," whose gardens at the bottom were still in existence seven years ago. a huge, hideous structure, resembling a barracks, to-day hides all the apse of notre-dame, and the antique "motte-aux-papelards," the ordinary meeting-place for the staff of the metropolis, is replaced by a square, a sort of open-roofed museum, where the bits of carving are arranged that time, or regrettable though necessary restorations, have detached from the cathedral. [illustration: the "petit-pont" _etching by meryon_] along the rue de la colombe passed the gallo-roman belt of the city, near the house inhabited by fulbert, the uncle who employed such cruel arguments with the unfortunate héloïse, abelard's friend. in the rue des ursins, at no. , may still be perceived the remains of a chapel of the twelfth century, by name saint-aignan; st. bernard is said to have preached in it. it was one of the numerous sanctuaries in which, during the terror, refractory priests, under the most singular disguises--water-carriers, national guards, waggoners, masons--came, as they passed through the town, to say mass almost regularly to the faithful, who were frightened neither by the guillotine, nor fouquier's trackers, nor the revolutionary committees' order-bearers. it is an astonishing thing that not for a single day or hour was religious ministration wanting to those who called for it, not even in the terror's most terrible period. at this time, the bishop of agde, disguised as a costermonger, with a long beard, and carrying the sacrament under his carmagnole, scoured paris, officiating, and confessing people in lofts, outhouses, and back-shops. in the rue neuve-des-capucins, mass was said in a chamber above the very dwelling occupied by the terrible conventional baboeuf. did not the abbé emery, the superior of saint-sulpice, from the depths of his dungeon, where he strengthened the courage of the prisoners ("he prevents them from crying out," said fouquier-tinville), organise throughout the paris prisons a ministry of monks that visited all the sinister gaols, disguised as porters, old clothes-dealers, laundrymen, wine-sellers? even on the way to the scaffold, the unfortunates that were being led to execution received the aid of religion: as the death-carts passed by, from certain windows indicated beforehand, priests, placed there, wafted to the condemned the absolution pronounced over the dying. let us go to the other side of the close of notre-dame, where the hôtel-dieu and its dependencies used to stand. there, once was the tower of the foundlings, and the cagnards, that old den of debauch of which meryon has left us such powerful etchings, and before which, as a child, we were accustomed to stop with dread, while we watched the huge rats that hid and roamed there, appearing in broad daylight and eating the heaps of offal. [illustration: the old prefecture of police (formerly jerusalem street) _drawn by a. maignan_] between notre-dame and the palais de justice, there once existed a network of small streets round the sainte-chapelle and the prefecture of police, with gardens that ran nearly down to the water's edge. at the pont saint-michel, some old houses still remain which witnessed the riots of , , and ; another is to be found on the quai des orfèvres, where the celebrated sabra worked; he was a popular dentist who modestly called himself the "people's tooth-drawer." to-day it is one of the spots dear to lovers of old books, with its open-air book-stalls, and also to anglers, who, in the sun and out of the way of the river passenger-boats, can practise their tranquil sport. before describing the conciergerie, let us cross the cour du mai; there it was, in front of the steps leading to the palais de justice, on the right, that every day the death-carts came during the terror, and took, at o'clock, their dismal batch of those doomed to death, while, from his office-window, fouquier-tinville coldly counted, as he picked his teeth, the number of the victims who were going over there. from this courtyard of blood, on a foggy day of november , poor madame roland, with hair cut and hands tied, started for the scaffold. her joyous childhood had been spent in a red-and-white brick house which stood at the angle of the quai de l'horloge and the platform of the pont-neuf, a few yards from the conciergerie! [illustration: the sainte-chapelle in _etching by toussaint_] the charming landscape in which she had dreamed so fondly of glory and liberty, she saw once more as she was being led to the guillotine amid the shouts of infuriated men and women. sanson had taken his ghastly procession along the usual road--the pont-au-change, the quai de la mégisserie, the trois-marie square; and so, turning her eyes to the further bank of the seine, the poor woman, before she died, was able to give a last look at the scenery she had been familiar with in happier years, scenery over which rose the massive walls of the french panthéon--it was the new name of sainte-geneviève's church which the convention had just re-baptized and devoted to the worship of our national glories. the conciergerie was entered by a large arched door, containing a triple wicket as protection, at the further side of a gloomy, narrow courtyard, with mouldy paving-stones, which now is found on the right of the large staircase of the palais de justice. the nine steps that put it on a level with the cour du mai were mounted by all the condemned victims of the revolution. the queen and charlotte corday, madame elizabeth and hubért's widow, the virtuous bailly and madame du bailly, fouquier-tinville and monsieur de malesherbes, danton, robespierre, camille desmoulins, the abbess of montmartre, madame de monaco and anacharsis clootz: princesses and conventional, dukes and hébertists, generals of the republic and "fouquiers sheep," the noblest, purest, bravest, the maddest and most miserable crossed this fateful threshold. sanson, with his death-lists in hand, waited at the top of the staircase, in front of the carts. [illustration: opening up of the space in front of the palais de justice _meunier, pinxit_] the guillotine "tricoteuses" and criers thronged the top-steps of the palace and leaned forward, with shouts and abuse, and often with hand that cast filth, over the unhappy prisoners. the melancholy toilet of the condemned had been effected in the rotunda where the concierge had his quarters, near the small whitewashed room in which the clerk registered the arrival of the newcomers, and to which sanson came to give his receipt for the successive deliveries of those that he conveyed to execution. the clerk's arm-chair, and his table laden with registers, took up about half of the narrow room. sorts of desks placed along the wall sufficed to receive the things which prisoners left behind, their sad relics, the hair that had been cut off. a wooden railing separated the clerk's office, properly so called, from a back portion of it, where these prisoners spent the weary hours that intervened before the fatal summons, so that those entering could talk with them. fierce dogs came smelling round to recognise a master, mistress, or acquaintance, and friends or relatives could try to obtain from the gaoler's pity bits of news concerning dear ones still shut up in the dark prison. "on the day of my arrival," wrote beugnot in his memoirs, "two men were waiting for the coming of the headsman. they were stripped of their garments, and already had their hair thinned out and their neck prepared. their features were not changed. either by accident or with design, they held their hands in the position ready to be tied, and were essaying attitudes of firmness and disdain. mattresses down on the floor revealed that they had spent their night in the place, had already undergone this long punishment. by their side, were seen the remains of the meal they had eaten. their clothes were flung here and there; and two candles that they had forgotten to extinguish cast back the daylight and seemed to be the sole funereal illumination of the scene." in the hundreds of "prison souvenirs" which were published immediately after the fall of robespierre, one may gain an idea of what sort of existence prisoners led, deprived of every necessity, devoured by vermin, brutally treated by drunken or cruel keepers; and one should see the gloomy courtyard where they came to get a breath of fresh air, a narrow triangular space of ground between the walls of the prison and the women's yard. this arrangement had one compensation; a simple iron railing separated the two enclosures, so that friends could exchange looks and language, and even the last kiss and embrace. [illustration: the cour des filles in the conciergerie _schaan, pinxit_] this railing still exists, black, rusty, and ill-looking, creaking as of yore; and it is not difficult to conjure up the images of those that bent over it. madame elizabeth, madame roland, cécile renaud, lucile desmoulins, madame de montmorency, and charlotte corday touched it with their dresses; and du barry, one of the few women who trembled at the prospect of death--"a minute longer, headsman"--also clung to it! this railing, the so-called chapel of the girondins, the passage called the "rue de paris," the small infirmary, and the queen's dungeon are, together with the barred cell in which women awaited execution, the sole vestiges of the ancient prison. farther on, a big wall, newly raised, shuts off the dismal route along which the condemned passed, and closes up the former entrance to the registrar's office in the conciergerie. let us take a hasty walk round the prison, alas! modified and rearranged. let us pause, however, before the door of the dungeon in which marie antoinette was confined during the last thirty-five days of her life. the restoration, which assumed the task of sweeping away many things, began with this melancholy place. abominable coloured panes have been put in the more than half-blocked up and carefully barred window from behind which the queen, whose eyes had suffered from the damp prison and want of care, tried to obtain a little air and light. only the flooring of this room, three yards by five, is intact. a low screen once divided it off from the chamber where two prison gendarmes were continually on guard. there, the unfortunate woman pined, in lack of everything, a prey to anxiety, without news of her family, reduced to borrow the linen she required from the kindness of richard, the porter. her last tire-woman was the humble servant rosalie lamorlière, who, "not daring to make her a single curtsey for fear of compromising or afflicting her," threw over her shoulders a white linen handkerchief, an hour before her departure to the scaffold. in striking contrast, this dungeon is separated only by a thin partition from the apothecary's room, whither robespierre--with fractured, hanging jaw, his stockings down over his ankles on account of his varicose sores, still clad in the fine, blue suit that, a few weeks previously, at the fête of the supreme being, had made so many jealous--was hustled, all over blood and mud, like a hideous bundle. sinister-looking, silent, showing no signs of life save by the twinges of pain he was suffering, impassible in presence of the insults of the cowards who had acclaimed him the day before, the "incorruptible one" waited for them to come and tie him, panting, to the top of the cart that should convey him, amid the cries of a whole population, to the foot of the guillotine. above these dungeons, and connected with them by a narrow, winding staircase, sat the terrible revolutionary tribunal in public audience. strangely enough, there is an almost total lack of documents as to this most interesting corner of the palace, where such great dramas were played. [illustration: the triumph of marat _fragment of a picture by boilly_ (lille museum)] a picture by boilly--_the triumph of marat_--which figures in the lille museum, shows us, however, the entrance to the revolutionary tribunal. the popular tribune, after his acquittal, issues in triumph from the hall, frantically cheered by his habitual escort of criers and adherents! at the back, between two pillars, and underneath a bass-relief representing the law, a sort of forepart in boards opens, with an inscription on it, "revolutionary tribunal!" that is the place. the hall in which the queen, the girondins, and madame roland were tried, was called _the hall of liberty_. in another, called _the hall of equality_, appeared danton, camille desmoulins, westermann, hubert, and charlotte corday. the windows overlooked the quai de l'horloge; and tradition relates that the echoes of danton's powerful voice, when he was on trial, penetrated through the open casements to the anxious crowd massed on the other side of the seine. the last alterations carried out in this part of the palais de justice have, alas! disturbed and changed everything; so that, of the registrar's office, occupied by richard and de bault, which ought to have remained sacred for ever, and of the unique exit from the prison, where such heartrending adieux were witnessed, and of the antechamber of death, whose pavement was trodden by the condemned of all parties, nothing is left to-day! administrative vandals have turned it into the palace restaurant; and cold meat, beer, and lemonade are sold in it. a telephone has been installed, and a "coffee filter"! gaunt spindle-trees struggle in vain to thrive in the sombre, narrow courtyard illustrious for its past scenes of agony! as paul-louis courier used to repeat: _immane nefas._ [illustration: the dauphine square in _drawing by duché de vancy (exhibition of painting, carnavalet museum)_] at the rear of the palais de justice was formerly the delightful dauphine square, where the first "public exhibitions of youth" were held, the exhibits being works of artists not belonging to the official academies. the carnavalet museum possesses a most amusing pencil drawing, signed "duché de vancy," and dated may , which bears this manuscript inscription: "picturesque view of the exhibition of paintings and drawings, on the dauphine square, the day of the lesser corpus christi feast." as a matter of fact, on the sunday of the corpus christi, "when it did not rain," artists had the authorisation--in the morning--to submit their works to the public; if it did rain--and this was the case in --the fête was adjourned to the following thursday. the pictures were exposed in the northern corner of the square, on white hangings fixed by the shopkeepers in front of their shops; and the exhibition extended on to the bridge as far as opposite the good henri's statue. oudry, restout, de troy, grimoud, boucher, nattier, louis tocqué, and, last of all, chardin showed their works there. in an excellent study devoted to these exhibitions of youth, monsieur prosper dorbec details the works that chardin took to this ephemeral salon of the dauphine square. in , when he was twenty-nine, he presented there two masterpieces, _the ray-fish_ and _the side-board_, which to-day are two of the glories of the french school at the louvre museum. up to the time of the revolution, this little artistic manifestation roused parisian enthusiasm; and what a pretty sight must have been offered by the dauphine square, and the pink fronts of the two corner houses and the old pont-neuf--an exquisite, picturesque setting--with the throng of amateurs, saunterers, critics, fine ladies, artists, amiable models in light-coloured costume, full of mirth and busy talk, eagerly gazing, on a mild may morning, at the freshly-hung canvases of the minor exhibitors of the dauphine square. [illustration] the isle of saint-louis the isle of saint-louis is, in some sort, the continuation of the old city. it is a kind of provincial town in paris. the streets are silent and deserted; there are no shops, no promenaders, no business; a few old aristocratic mansions, with their tall façades, their emblazoned pediments and their severe architecture, alone tell the glorious past of this noble quarter. the finely carved spire of saint-louis' church confers an elegance on the somewhat melancholy whole. the quays of orléans and bethune contain vast buildings of grand style. in the rue saint-louis, is the admirable lambert mansion, that masterpiece of the architect le vau, which was lost at the gaming-table in one night by monsieur dupin de chenonceaux, the ungrateful pupil of jean-jacques rousseau. le brun painted the gallery of the fêtes in it, and le sueur the saloon of the muses. at that time, it was the rendezvous of all the wits. madame du châtelet throned there, voltaire lived in it, and the lambert mansion radiated over the length and breadth of dazzled paris. then came darker days. the masterpieces of le sueur were sold--most of them found their way to the louvre--and nothing survives of this great painter's work in the lambert mansion except a grey camaïeu placed under a staircase, and a few panels scattered here and there. last of all--as if to mark its definitive decadence;--the mansion was occupied by some military-bed purveyors. the fine carvings, sumptuous paintings and gilded arabesques disappeared beneath a thick white dust from cards of wool. in the great gallery, so magnificently decorated by le brun and van opstaël, mattress-women set up their trestles and seamstresses began to sew sacking. later, prince czartorisky bought this noble dwelling and thus saved it from ruin. below the lambert hotel, along the river, is the marie bridge, at the foot of which used to moor the famous water-diligence from whose deck disembarked for the first time in paris, on the th of october , a pale-complexioned youth of resolute brow, with eyes that gazed from their depths on the horizons of the immense town. it was bonaparte, a pupil from the brienne school, who had come to continue his studies at the École militaire; and the first glimpse the future cæsar had of the great paris which was ultimately to acclaim him was the apse of notre-dame, the old and venerable notre-dame in which he was to be crowned, and round which, in preparation for the coronation day, the nd of december , eighteen houses were pulled down, so that the pomp of the ceremony might be celebrated without obstacle and in all its magnificence! [illustration: the pont marie in _from a painting by p. shaan_] finally, on the anjou quay, we meet with one of the handsomest mansions of old paris, that bearing the name of lauzun, which the generous initiative of the municipal council has saved from destruction, the lauzun mansion with its inimitable wainscoting, its ancient gildings, its glorious past, which is destined to become the museum of all belonging to the seventeenth century: a fine frame for a fine project. in this old quarter of the isle of saint-louis, at the confluence of the seine's two arms, painters, writers and poets have always dwelt: george sand, baudelaire, théophile gautier, gérard de nerval, méry, daubigny, corot, barye, daumier, all lived there for a long time. in the lauzun mansion, were held the sittings of the hashish smokers' club; and the chipped virgin that looks from her niche at the corner of the rue le-regrattier--formerly known as the street of the headless woman--and saw the passage of the whole romantic pleiad, will long continue to receive visits from lovers of old paris. it is from the bourbon quay that one of the most beautiful sights imaginable may best be obtained: a sunset over paris. the violet-tinted mass of notre-dame stands out with its superbly imposing silhouette against the purpled gold of the fiery sky. all the town dies away in a pink dust of light, whilst the broad roofs of the louvre, the spire of the sainte-chapelle, the pepper-box turrets of the conciergerie, the saint-jacques tower, and the campaniles of the town hall, all this landscape alive with history glows in the last rays of the sinking sun. the seine flows with a surface of liquid gold. the spectacle is sublime. [illustration: the isle of saint-louis] [illustration: building of the panthÉon _fragment of a water-colour by saint-aubin_] the left bank of the seine no less than the old part of the city, the left bank of the river is rich in souvenirs. there the roman occupation left the deepest traces. we find the arenas of lutecia, and, above all, the thermae of julian, saved from destruction by the taste and initiative of du sommerard at the moment when these grandiose ruins, which were being used as coopers' store-rooms, were about to be pulled down, involving in their fall that jewel of the fifteenth century, the marvellous hôtel de cluny. quite recently, remains of roman substructures have been discovered near the college de france, in the rue saint-jacques and the saint-michel boulevard; but the glory of the left bank of the river was, in particular, the university and the sorbonne. little to-day is left of these old walls; but, ten years ago, the hill of sainte-geneviève still preserved much of its whilom picturesqueness. [illustration: the college of louis-le-grand _h. saffrey, sculpt._] there was the rue saint-jacques, with its old book-sellers and seventeenth-century houses, and especially--what dread reminiscences!--the heavy-leaved gate of the louis-le-grand lycée, where robespierre, camille desmoulins, and the future marshal brune had studied under the mastership of the good abbé berardier. i confess that the louis-le-grand of our boyhood was black, and gloomy enough also, with its moss-grown playgrounds, its smoky rooms, its punishment chambers up under the roof, where one was frozen in winter and stifled in summer, its punishment chambers in which tradition relates that saint-huruge was confined; quite near to the saint-jacques blind alley where auvergne dealers sold such fine trinkets, and to the little rue cujas, noisy with the noise of rowdy students--but which rendered us pensive. there was the sorbonne, with its paved courtyard, where we used to wait, pale, feverish and anxious, for the posting of the small white notice bearing the names of those candidates for the baccalaureat that were admitted to the _vivâ voce_; and we were half-dead with fear at the idea of appearing before the terrible monsieur bernès, while we blessed the gods to have given us as examiner the witty and indulgent monsieur mézières, who, at least for his part, has not grown old. [illustration: the inner courtyard of the ecole polytechnique _etching by martial_] further on, in the rear of sainte-barbe, we come to the rue de la montagne-sainte-geneviève, alive and teeming with its old mansions converted into dispensaries or business premises, its petty trades, its popular dancing-rooms, and, last but not least, its celebrated École polytechnique, dear to all parisians, which adds its note of cheerfulness to this somewhat sombre quarter. [illustration: the rue clovis in _drawn by a. maignan_] quite near there is the rue clovis, where formerly stood the abbey of sainte-geneviève, whose square tower still remains and makes us regret the part that has disappeared. in this rue clovis may be seen, crumbling to decay and half-buried under climbing plants--lichens, ivy, sage and moss--a big side of a primitive-looking wall, a fragment of the fortifications of philippe-auguste, the belt of stone and lofty strong towers behind which for centuries were heaped houses, palaces, colleges, churches and abbeys, huddling against one another. the church of saint-etienne-du-mont opens its elegant portal a few yards away from the rue clovis. illustrious dead were buried there: pascal, racine, boileau. a crime was also committed in it. on the rd of january , the first day of the novena of sainte-geneviève, whose relics repose in one of the side-chapels of the church, dreadful cries were heard: "they have just murdered monseigneur," and soon a man of haggard looks, clad in black, with blood-red hands, was seen on the square in the grasp of some policemen who had just arrested him. it was verger, a half-mad, interdicted priest, who had stabbed to the heart monseigneur sibour, archbishop of paris! this charming church should be seen in the early days of january. a sort of small religious fair is then held in front of the porch. a veritable liturgical library is there for sale, under umbrellas resembling those that used to shelter the orange-dealers: "mary's rose-trees," "miracles at lourdes," "synopses of novenas," "acts of faith," "acts of contrition," "lives of the saints," "glorifications of the blessed." chaplets are sold, holy images, devotional post-cards, orthodox rituals, medals, scapularies--and unfortunately these objects have less artistic value than sentiment about them. it is a delightful parisian tableau in one of the prettiest settings of the great town. at the end of the rue clovis, is the rue du cardinal-lemoine, where the painter lebrun possessed a lovely house, still standing at no. , over-run with ivy and honeysuckle, two or three yards distant from the scotch college--at present the "institution chevallier,"--converted into a prison during the terror, like most educational institutions. saint-just was conveyed thither, after being outlawed on the th of thermidor; and his friends came there to fetch him at eight o'clock in the evening, as well as his colleague couthon, who was confined in the port-libre (the old religious house of port-royal). it is easy to imagine the gendarmes, on the steep slopes of the rue saint-jacques, running round the mechanical seat which the impotent couthon feverishly worked and propelled with handles levered to the wheels, and which travelled rapidly over the hard stones, amid shouts and frightened "sectionnaires,"--easy to conjure up before one's senses the call to arms, the sound of the tocsin, under the downpour of the storm that dispersed the robespierrian bands camped about the town hall, and enabled the troops of the convention to invade the "maison commune" without resistance. an hour later, robespierre had his jaw smashed by merda's bullet; his brother sprang through the window; le bas committed suicide; saint-just, haughty and impassible, allowed himself to be arrested in silence; couthon, with his paralysed legs, was flung on to a rubbish heap, and then, bleeding and motionless, was dragged by the feet to the parapet of the quay. he pretended to be dead. "let us cast him into the water," howled a multitude of fierce voices. "excuse me, citizens," murmured couthon, "but i am still alive." so he was reserved for the scaffold. behind saint-etienne-du-mont, there is a nook almost unknown to parisians: a little cloister close to the apse of the church, and containing some admirable painted glass windows by pinaigrier, the great artist, who, in , charged for the "parable of the guests," a three-compartment window painting, which masterpiece now adorns the chapel of the crucifix, " livres sols, including the leading and iron trellis." [illustration: the rue de la montagne-sainte-geneviÈve in _drawn by a. maignan_] it is one of the retreats for poetry and devotion so common in paris, and yet ofttimes so unsuspected amid the city's noise; and one never forgets the impression produced when leaving the latin quarter, with its laughter and songs, and plunging suddenly into this deserted cloister full of dream and melancholy, though so close to the sunny, busy square of the panthéon, where, on the th of july , to the shouts of the people and the army, an actor at the odéon theatre, eric besnard, replaced once more the inscription: "_to her great men the grateful mother country_" on the fine temple built by soufflot, which the restoration had consecrated to the worship of sainte-geneviève. [illustration: the panthÉon, in building] the panthéon is certainly the one parisian building which has been most often baptized and re-baptized. constructed in consequence of a vow made by louis xv. when ill at metz, on the gardens belonging to the original abbey of sainte-geneviève, the money that paid for it was derived from a portion of the funds raised by three lotteries drawn every month in paris. soufflot, whose grandiose plans had been accepted, set to work in . towards , the edifice began to assume shape, and the parisians in enthusiasm admired the magnificent forms that modified the ancient outlines of their city. but cracks and fissures and sinkings-in occurred; a mad terror succeeded to the wonder: "the building will tumble, and its fall will involve a part of the old quarter of the sorbonne," people said. works of shoring up, embanking and strengthening were carried out. paris breathed again; but poor soufflot, in despair, could not survive so many tragic emotions. he died in without finishing his undertaking. in , the constituent assembly set apart for the "honouring of great men" the church primitively dedicated to sainte-geneviève; and mirabeau's body was conveyed thither in triumph "to the sounds of trombone and gong, whose notes, by the intensity with which they were produced, tore the bowels and harrowed the heart," says a chronicle of the time. [illustration: procession in front of sainte-geneviÈve _meunier, fecit_ (carnavalet museum)] the great tribune was destined to make but a short stay in the panthéon,--this was the name given to the secularised church--for on the th of november , at the instigation of joseph chénier, and after study of the documents found in the iron safe, documents that left no doubt as to "the great treason of the count de mirabeau," the convention, "considering that a man cannot be great without virtue, decreed that mirabeau's ashes should be removed from the panthéon, and that those of marat should be buried there." the sentence was carried out by night, and the "virtuous" marat took the place of mirabeau; not for long, however, since, some months later, marat's body, "depantheonised" in its turn, was cast into the common grave of the small graveyard belonging to saint-etienne-du-mont. voltaire and rousseau were, in their turn, triumphantly interred. voltaire's body, after remaining all night in the ruins of the bastille, had been brought to the panthéon on a triumphal car, escorted by fifty girls dressed in antique style through david's care, and by the actors and actresses of the théâtre français in their stage dresses. the widow and daughters of the unfortunate calas walked behind, close to the torn flag of the bastille. in order to make this interment a never-to-be-forgotten fête, its organisers had provided for everything except for the weather. a dreadful storm descended on the heads of those composing the procession: mérope, lusignan, the virgins, brutus, and the delegates sent in the names of politics, the arts, and agriculture, were wet to the skin; and, covered with mud and in wretched plight, were compelled to huddle into cabs or shelter themselves under umbrellas. and thus it was that, on the th of july , voltaire made his entry into the panthéon. [illustration: the apotheosis of jean-jacques rousseau his translation to the panthéon on the th of october _girardet, inv. et del._] jean-jacques rousseau followed him there on the th of october ; his body brought back from ermenonville, beneath a bower of flowering shrubs, to the agreeable sounds of the "village seer," had passed the preceding night on the basin of the tuileries, transformed for the occasion into an "isle of poplars." while yet not so popular as that of voltaire, his triumph was "one of sensitive souls," and "the man of nature" was interred according to the rites he had himself prescribed. later, napoleon peopled the panthéon with the shades of obscure senators and some few artists, admirals, and generals. subsequently, the second republic made a definitive assignment of the edifice to the cult of great men; and there, on a sunny day, the rd of may , victor hugo's body was brought in the humble hearse of the poor, amid the acclamations of an immense concourse of people, after spending a night of apotheosis under the arc de triomphe, which he had so nobly sung. since then, baudin, president carnot, la tour d'auvergne have been buried there; and an admirable decoration, the work of our best contemporary artists, covers the vast walls of this necropolis. puvis de chavannes, humbert, henri-lévy, cabanel, jean-paul laurens are finely represented in it; and, last of all, edouard detaille, surpassing himself, has, in an admirable soaring of art, created on the canvas--in homeric proportions--a mad rush of horses and riders, the old cavaliers of the republic and the empire, towards the radiant image of the motherland, with standards conquered from the enemy by their dauntless heroism. around the panthéon, there used to be, and still is, a labyrinth of little streets, poor and crowded together, once inhabited by those that attended the schools, so numerous in that quarter of the sorbonne. the rue des carmes remains to us as a perfect specimen of the past, with its houses whose shaking walls support each other, its crumbling façades, its dilapidated staircases; and then, here and there, the relics of a vanished splendour, the entrance to two important colleges, to-day dwindled down into dens of misery, into lodgings of the poor. narrow and uneven, the rue des carmes ascends toilingly between shops whose paint has been streaked by storms, faded by dust and wind; and yet it continues to be full of charm and poetry, this sorry-looking street, crowned at the top by the august proportions of the panthéon, and framing at the bottom, with its two lines of dingy houses, mean hotels, and dancing-rooms, the delicate and elegant spire of notre-dame aloft on the horizon of the clear sky. it was at the corner of this rue des carmes and the rue des sept-voies, not far from sainte-geneviève's church, that, at seven o'clock in the evening of the th of march , george cadoudal sprang into the cab that was to take him to the fresh hiding-place which his friends had prepared for him in the house of caron, the royalist perfumer of the rue du four-saint-germain. george was narrowly watched, all the paris police being on the alert. he was recognised, and pursued by the inspectors of the prefecture, two of whom pounced on him at the corner of the rue monsieur-le-prince and the rue de l'observance. the one he killed with a pistol bullet in his forehead, the second he wounded. meanwhile, the assembled crowd hindered his flight; and a hatter of the neighbourhood seized the outlaw and dragged him to the police station. his calmness and dignity and the wit of his replies disconcerted his adversaries. reproached with having killed a married detective, the father of a family: "next time have me arrested by bachelors," he retorted. after he had owned to the dagger found upon him, he was asked if the engraving on the handle were not the english hall-mark. "i cannot say," he replied, "but i can assure you that i have not had it[ ] hall-marked in france." [illustration: the luxembourg, about _maréchal, del._ (national library)] quite near, is the luxembourg, both palace and prison, the luxembourg, where marie de medici gave such magnificent fêtes, where gaston d'orléans yawned so much, and where the grande mademoiselle sulked, sighing for the handsome lauzun; where also the count de provence so cleverly prepared, with monsieur d'avaray, his escape from france, on the same evening that louis xvi. and marie-antoinette made such bad arrangements for the lugubrious journey that was to lead them to varennes; the luxembourg, whose courtyard was used as a promenade by such prisoners as the terror crowded there; the luxembourg, whence camille desmoulins wrote to his lucile those heartrending letters that still bear the traces of tears; the luxembourg whither, a few weeks later, robespierre was brought as a prisoner, and where, "for want of room," hally, the porter, refused to receive him; the luxembourg where, after thermidor, the artist david painted, from, his dungeon, the shady walk in which he could see his children playing at ball; the luxembourg of barras, of bonaparte, of the directory fêtes; the luxembourg, too, of nodier, of saint-beuve, of murger, of michelet, of the students, of the workers of bohemia, of the songs of the worthy nadaud and mimi pinson, near to bullier's and the lilac closerie and also to the observatory and the ill-omened wall "scored with bullets" where marshal ney fell. everywhere, the same mingling of mirth and sorrow, of laughter and blood. the reason is that each street, each cross-road, almost each house has seen some dark procession pass by or some victorious fête celebrated. [illustration: fraternal suppers in the sections of paris on the th, th, and th of may , or the st, nd, and rd of floreal, anno ii. of the republic. _drawn by swebach-desfontaines_ (carnavalet museum)] on all these dingy walls of paris, hands of women or of artists have contrived to put flowers or bird-cages; and no alley is so dismal that it does not harbour a little poetry and dreaming, some gillyflowers and songs. not far away is the carmes prison, in the rue de vaugirard, at the corner of the rue d'assas; and there all the externals are the same as they were at the moment of the terrible massacre of . at the foot of the staircase one sees still the tiled floor of the small room where, between two corridors, maillard placed the chair and table that formed the bloody tribunal of the september slaughter; the balcony covered with climbing plants through which issued the unfortunates that were felled, stabbed with pikes, or shot in the large garden; and, at the top of the first story, on the wall bearing even now the red marks of the blood-dripping sabres used by the slayers, may be read the signatures of the fair prisoners who, day after day, in terrified anxiety, waited, each evening, for the fatal order to appear before the tribunal: mesdames d'aiguillon, terezia cabarrus-tallien, joséphine de beauharnais. at this date, tallien, himself suspected and followed by a band of spies, prowled from eve till morn round the sinister prison in which the woman he loved was confined. one day, on his table, rue de la perle, he found a poniard that he recognised, a gem of spain with which terezia's hands were familiar. it was an imperative order; and on the th of thermidor this note was transmitted to him from "la force." "the head of the police has just gone from here. he came to tell me that to-morrow i shall ascend to the tribunal, that is, to the scaffold. it is different from the dream i had in the night: robespierre dead and the prisons opened.... but, thanks to your signal cowardice, there will soon be no one in france capable of realising it!" as a matter of fact, the fair terezia, being more especially aimed at by the committee, had been mysteriously transferred from the carmes prison to la force; and it was from this latter place that she sent her will and testament of vengeance and death. then, tallien swore to save his country; the mother country for him was the woman he worshipped. mad with love and rage, rousing against robespierre every rancour, terror, and hatred, he spent the night and the day of the th in preparing the dreadful and tragical sitting of the th of thermidor, which was a merciless duel between the two sides. he appealed to fouché, to collot d'herbois as to durand-maillane and louchet, to cambon as to vadier, to thuriot as to legendre, to the few remaining dantonists as to the eternal tremblers of the marais; then, springing to the rostrum with a dagger in his hand, he threatened robespierre, who was nervous, uneasy, distraught, from the presentiment that his power was escaping him; and, at length, after a fearful five hours' struggle, obtained the dread decree outlawing and condemning to the guillotine those who themselves for two years had been mowing down the members of the convention. [illustration: fÊte given at the luxembourg on the th of frimaire, anno vii. bonaparte hands to the directory the treaty of campo-formio] opposite the luxembourg, is the rue de tournon, where théroigne de méricourt and mademoiselle lenormand lived; the countess d'houdetot dwelt at no. , the appearance of which has hardly changed since. if he were to come back and wander about these parts, jean-jacques rousseau would again find almost intact the home of her he chiefly loved, quite near to the rue servandoni, a dark, damp lane lurking beneath the walls of saint-sulpice, where condorcet, during the terror, succeeded in safely hiding himself at the house of madame vernet, no. . there he terminated--under what sorry conditions!--his _tableau of the progress of the human mind_. his wife was living at auteuil and there painted pastels. no industry prospered under the terror. "every one," says michelet, "was in a hurry to fix on the canvas a shadow of this uncertain life." on the th of april, his work being finished, condorcet dressed himself as a workman, with long beard and cap down over his eyes, a "horace" in his hand, and in his pocket some poison, for a case of need, prepared him by cabanis; and escaped from madame vernet's. all day, he roamed about the country, in the vicinity of fontenay-aux-roses, hoping to find with some friends, monsieur and madame suard, a shelter that they refused him. he spent the night in the woods; then, on the morrow, haggard and starved, he entered a clamart public-house. there, he made a ravenous meal, while reading his dear horace. being questioned and suspected, he was carried off to the district, put on an old horse and thus conducted to the prison at bourg-la-reine. at dawn, the gaolers, on going into his cell, stumbled over his corpse. poison had made an end of this noble life of work, glory, and misery. aloft in the same quiet quarter, saint-sulpice rears its two unequal towers, on which chappe planted the great arms of his aërial telegraph. it was in the fine vestry of this imposing church, which has preserved its admirable wood-carvings, that camille desmoulins signed the marriage register, when, on the th of december , he married his adored lucile duplessis. the marriage was a veritable romance; and all paris crowded to the gates of saint-sulpice to see the procession go by. the bride and bridegroom were congratulated; and cheers were given for the witnesses, whose names had already become popular; sillery, pétion, mercier, and robespierre. then, the wedding party ascended the rue de condé to go and breakfast at camille's home, no. rue du théâtre françois (to-day, no. rue de l'odéon), on the third floor. there, on the th of march , the day of his mother's death, he was arrested, bound like a malefactor, and thence was taken to the luxembourg hard by. on the th of april, camille was executed amid the shouts of the people who had so flattered him. lucile followed him to the scaffold a week later! they had sworn to love each other in life and death.... the idyll finished in blood. round about saint-sulpice, one comes across the rue férou, the rue cassette, the rue garancière, the rue monsieur-le-prince, the rue madame, with their ancient names and provincial aspect, devout and silent quarters of monastic and semi-mysterious life, and, for this reason, full of infinite charm. there, on all sides, are heard convent bells and liturgic sounds. the few shops that exist are austere in air and devoted to religious purposes: chasuble makers', holy image dealers', church book and jewellery sellers'. behind long, sombre walls, shoots of verdure, the plumes of a tree joyously bursting forth remind one of large, unkempt gardens, where all grows wild, full of flowers and birds, inhabited by pious persons and old people who pray as they walk and regretfully dream of the times that are no more. in the huge paris, noisy and flippant, mad with sound and movement, tramways and underground railways, it is the refuge of the past, the quarter for prayer, silence, and oblivion; there still seem to live "a few dolent voices of yearnings for the past, which ring the curfew," says chateaubriand in his _memoirs from beyond the grave_. old mansions are numerous. in the rue de varenne alone, each portal awakes a remembrance of the most illustrious names of france's nobility: broglie, bourbon, condé, villeroy, castries, rohan-chabot, tessé, béthune-sully, montmorency, rougé, ségur, aubeterre, narbonne-pelet, &c., and some of the hosts of these aristocratic dwellings were certainly found disguised, dressed up as horse-dealers, drovers, peasants, workmen, in the _golden cup_ hostelry at the corner of the rue de varenne, which was celebrated in the history of the chouannerie: the heroes of _tournebut_, my dear friend lenôtre's interesting work, put up there, says the author, who, himself filled with enthusiasm, knows how to inspire his reader with the same. it was one of the meeting-places used by the sworn companions of george cadoudal, who hid there several times; and there, too, the royalist conspirators met to complete, for vendémiaire, anno iv., their arrangements relative to the abduction of the convention. at some little distance, in the rue canettes, another rendezvous existed, for emigrants and chouans, in the house of the perfumer, caron, where a famous hiding-place was used. hyde de neuville tells us, in his picturesque memoirs, that one needed only to slip behind the picture, serving as signboard to the perfumery--a picture overhanging the street--then to draw over one the shutter of the neighbouring chamber, for all the police fouché employed to be tricked, in spite of searching, as they frequently did, the house through and through. next, we come upon the odéon--the old odéon--still standing on its base, in spite of the countless jests levelled at it, with its famous galleries, where, for many a long year, saunterers have gone to have a look at the last productions of contemporary literature. how often have we lingered in front of the old books or new ones, turning over the leaves, or reading between two pages yet uncut? it was in that, under three arcades of the odéon galleries, the most amiable of publishers, ernest flammarion, installed himself in partnership with ch. marpon; both of them indefatigable workers, benevolent and witty, they spent treasures of contrivance to get into too narrow a space all the nice, fine books they loved so well, and understood so well how to make others love. but soon the three arcades were really inadequate; and, progressively, the untiring flammarion spread round two sides of the big building, before starting out to conquer paris, and to establish in the city so many bookshops. he had his faithful readers: an old book-lover of narrow purse owned to him that he had read the whole of darwin's _origin of species_ ( pages) while standing in front of the stall! other customers less scrupulous have sometimes carried off the volume they had begun; but the good flammarion is infinitely indulgent to such "absent-minded" individuals. "the desire to instruct themselves is too strong for their feelings," he murmurs by way of excuse, and, philosophically, he smiles and passes these petty larcenies to his profit and loss account. [illustration: the rue de l'ecole de mÉdecine in house where marat was assassinated _drawn by a. maignan_] along the rue de l'École-de-médecine, passing by the dupuytren museum, which was formerly the refectory of the franciscan monastery, we reach the boulevard saint-germain, the cutting of which did away with so many precious relics; among others, the abode where marat was assassinated, the mignon college, and the saint-germain abbey, the front of which opened opposite the row of old, curiously gabled houses which so far have been left alone by architects and builders. these latter heard the cries of the victims that were massacred in the september slaughters. they were lighted by the reflection of eighty-four fire-pots supplied by a certain bourgain, the candle-maker of the quarter, in order that the families of the slaughterers and the amateurs of fine spectacles might come and contemplate the work; the shopkeepers of the quarter, who were complaisant witnesses, supplied details. these houses also saw billaud-varennes congratulate the "workers" and distribute wine tickets to them; and maillard, surnamed strike hard, they saw leave, when his work was done, with his hands crossed behind the skirts of his long grey overcoat, and walk quietly back to his home, like a worthy clerk quitting his office, coughing the while, for he had a delicate chest. [illustration: the gallery of the odÉon (rue rotrou)] together with the present presbytery, they form the sole extant witnesses of that dreadful butchery. within a stone's throw, once there was the passage du commerce, where resounded the butt-ends of the guns of the sectionaries who, on the st of march , came at daybreak to arrest danton and conduct him to the luxembourg; and it is easy to fancy what must have been that hour of fright and stupefaction. arrest danton! the titan of the revolution, him whose formidable eloquence had raised fourteen armies from the soil! the danton of the th of august, danton till then untouchable! it was only a few days after the arrest of camille with his cruel wit; the camille of the palais-royal, of the _lanterne_, the _revolutions of france and brabant_, the _brissot unmasked_; the camille of the "_vieux cordelier_," that masterpiece of wit and courage, in which he dared to speak of clemency to robespierre and of respect for his fellows to the ignoble hébert! on the site of danton's house, the tribune's statue stands to-day; we regret the house. [illustration: the rohan courtyard in _water-colour by d. bourgoin_] the rohan courtyard (the word ought to be written _rouen_, for, in the fifteenth century, the yard depended on the old mansion possessed by the cardinal de rouen) joins the passage du commerce, a few steps from the bookshop where the philanthropic doctor guillotin tried on a sheep the knife of his "beheading machine"; it is picturesque and curious, this rohan courtyard, where you can still see the well of the house once inhabited by coictier, the doctor of louis xi.; where, too, the "mule's step" may be found, that sorbonne doctors, who frequented this quarter, used in order to get off their steeds, and which preserved a very old wall round a garden planted with lilac and turf--alas! destroyed last year. the wall, like that of the rue clovis, was a fragment of philippe-auguste's fortification, the base of one of whose towers is still to be made out in the passage du commerce, no. , at the house of a locksmith, who has set up his forge upon it! [illustration: the rohan courtyard in second view] the houses there are old, dilapidated, and sordid, but perfect in their picturesqueness; the strangest industries flourish in them, and quite recently one might read there this characteristically parisian advertisement, "small hands required for flowers and feathers," beside a plate pointing out the address of the newspaper, _heaven_, on the fourth floor, door to the left! the rue de l'ancienne comédie is on one side; it is the ancient rue des fossés-saint-germain, where marat set up his press and printing-machine in a cellar. at no. , in the courtyard of an old mansion occupied by a wall-paper merchant, once stood the premises of the théâtre-français. the large entrance door, the staircases leading to the actors' private rooms, the slanting pit of the hall, and even the friezes are still in existence. the king's comedians played there, on april th, , _phèdre_ and the _médecin malgré lui_, and performed in the same building until . the encyclopædists, d'alembert, diderot and his friends, used to meet opposite at the procope coffee-house, the handsome iron balcony of which is yet subsisting, from where it was so agreeable to hobnob with the balcony of the comedy. the procope coffee-house, celebrated in the eighteenth century, was even more so under the second empire. in , on the eve of the baudin trial, gambetta poured forth in it, to the students of the various university schools, the thunder and lightning bursts of his admirable eloquence. the great orator in lived at no. rue de tournon, in the hotel of the senate and the nations, at present to be found there. his small room afforded a fine view over the roofs of paris, and also remains as it was then. near the spot, at no. rue bourbon-le-château, on the rd of december , two poor women were assassinated. one of them, mademoiselle ribault, a designer on the staff of the _petit courrier des dames_, edited by monsieur thiéry, had the strength to write on a screen with a finger dipped in her own blood: "the assassin is the clerk of m. thi...." this clerk, laforcade, was arrested the next day. how many delightful nooks besides, hardly known by parisians, are to be met with on the left bank of the river! [illustration: the rue visconti _water-colour by f. léon_] not all have disappeared for ever of those vast melancholy gardens, those hoary mansions buried in streets where the grass grows, and whose noble but gloomy façades would never cause one to suspect the riches they contain. many are in the vicinity of the hôtel des invalides. others are in the rue vanneau, the rue bellechasse, the rue de varenne, the rue saint-guillaume, the rue bonaparte; some also in the rue visconti, which dark narrow lane possesses illustrious souvenirs. the famous champmeslé, clairon, and adrienne lecouvreur lived in the ranes mansion, built on the site of the petit-pré-aux-clercs, and j. racine died there in . this house, which bears the number , is to-day a girls' boarding-school! and last of all, at no. the great balzac established the printing-press that ruined him, and that later became the studio of paul delaroche. there, was played the sentimental and commercial drama whose poignant phases have been related to us so eloquently by messieurs hanoteaux and vicaire. all these houses, so pregnant with history, are still visible; yet how few parisians are acquainted with them! [illustration: alfred de musset at years of age _drawn by lépaulle_ (pigoreau collection)] on the voltaire quay lived vivant, denon, ingres, alfred de musset, judge perrault, chamillard, gluck, and voltaire himself who died there, and whose corpse, wrapped in a dressing-gown and held up by straps, like a traveller asleep, started by night in a travelling-coach, on the th of may , from the courtyard of monsieur de villette's mansion, with its entrance still in the rue de beaune, to be buried outside paris at the abbey of scellières in champagne. the flat in which voltaire passed away has not been altered, and its decoration has remained almost intact, with its wall mirrors, its painted ceilings, and its small mirrored salons contrived in the thick walls. [illustration: the faÇade of the institute _from an original drawing of the revolutionary period_ (carnavalet museum)] the institute is not far, but for the ancient college of the four nations to produce its best impression, it needs a special day--an extraordinary sitting, a sensational reception, when the prettiest costumes of the most elegant parisian dames contrast with the academicians' green uniforms. on one side, are beauty, charm, and grace; on the other, some of the noblest intelligences, the most illustrious names in literature, art, and science. it is the great intellectual banquet of france in one of the fairest sights of the capital. if, however, we wish for something to amuse us, something original, we must mount the endless staircases of the institute and seek it in the attic portion of the palace, visiting the tiny chambers where formerly it was the custom to put candidates for the prix de rome in the competitive music examination. inside these closets, at which the sumptuously lodged prisoners of fresnes-les-rungis would grumble, on these decrepit walls, the finest talents of our modern school have left traces of their whilom presence--bars of music, verses, drawings, writings of varied nature. i confess i should not dare to reproduce, even expurgated, the inscriptions which confinement and absence from paris streets and acquaintance have suggested to many an admirable composer of to-day. saint-saëns would certainly blush, bizet's great shade would be troubled, our great and witty massenet would surely refuse to accept the paternity of his vigorous apostrophes, and--i will be discreet; never mind--it's something very enjoyable, very funny, and quite in the character of the language. between the mint and the lion-poodle of the institute (from the shelter of which, if we are to believe his delightful memoirs, alexandre dumas contributed so valiantly to the triumph of the revolution) nestles a small, provincial-looking square; madame permon, mother of the future madame junot, duchess of abrantès, lived there until the revolution. in a small garret of the same house, at the left corner, on the third floor, bonaparte used to lodge during his rare holidays from the École militaire. the fine, carved wainscotings are still round the walls of the drawing-room on the ground floor, overlooking the seine, which the cæsar that-was-to-be used to enter and there speak of his hopes, and the marble chimney-piece is in its old place; at it he would come and dry his big patched boots that "smoked again," the talkative madame d'abrantès tells us. so, while dreaming, the little sub-lieutenant might, from the window, see opposite him the palace whence, for a number of years, he was to conqueringly dispose of the destinies of the dazzled world. in front of the institute is the pont des arts. there the sight is an enchanting one; the seine--the gayest, most lively of rivers--crowded with passenger-boats, tugs, barges, and barques. the grey or blue sky is reflected in the water, and the river flows majestically between two verdure-clad quays, surmounted by book-sellers' cases, and inhabited by the most picturesque of populations. what strange trades there are on the river sides!--watermen's barbers, dog shearers, dockmen, and sand-carters, tollmen and mattress-carders, anglers, bathmen, washerwomen; it is a separate population with its own customs, habits, and peculiar language. and what a splendid frame is round this odd little world seen from the pont des arts! [illustration: view from the louvre quay _noël, pinxit_] on the one bank, the louvre, the green foliage of the tuileries, and the champs-elysées, with the minarets of the trocadero and the heights of chaillot on the horizon; on the other, all old paris, a series of monuments haloed with souvenirs--the palais de justice, the conciergerie, the sainte-chapelle, notre-dame; the churches of saint-germain-l'auxerrois, saint-gervais, saint-paul; the pointe de la cité. [illustration: paris from the pointe de la citÉ _photographed by richebourg_] at night, these noble, suggestive silhouettes assume a still more imposing majesty--modern blemishes, glaring colourings, shameless advertisements are blotted out. the moon spreads its delicate white light over the old walls, and a silvern paris rears itself in the darkness. at times, too, underneath a storm-red sky, an entirely sombre town arises, made known only as a tragic vision in successive flashes of lightning. either we have a paris of sunny mirth or a paris bathed in night's gloom. descending once again towards the seine, through the picturesque streets that surround the institute--the rue dauphine, the rue de nesles, the rue mazarine--we discover in the rue contrescarpe-dauphine--at present the rue mazet--the remains of the old white horse inn. the stables, with their ancient mangers and quaint eaves, still exist. they date back to louis xiv. in that time, every week the huge inn-yard was filled with travellers going to orléans and blois; and the unwieldy coach started in a cloud of dust, amidst crackings of whip, trumpetings, adieus, and shakings of handkerchiefs; horses pranced, women wept, dogs barked, postilions swore. to-day the animation has disappeared, but the scene has remained, age-stricken, impressive, still charming, so much so that massenet, moved by it, murmured one morning: "it must be here that manon[ ] alighted from the diligence!" the neighbouring house was once the magny restaurant, at which those celebrated dinners were given that goncourt speaks of so often in his memoirs, dinners shared by renan, sainte-beuve, georges sand, flaubert, théophile gautier, gavarni, and many others. not far away, and connecting the rue mazarine--where molière and his company played--with the rue de seine, let us go through the passage du pont-neuf, occupying the site of the ancient entrance to the theatre, and being the scene of zola's terrible novel _thérèse raquin_. it is a typical nook--sordid, dingy, and malodorous, but strangely attractive, with its fried-potato sellers and italian modellers. the shops in it seem to belong to another century; some months back, one only was frequented by customers, that of a drawing-paper dealer. the artist, bonnat, told us he had bought his "ingres paper" there, when he was a pupil at the school of fine arts, of which to-day he is the eminent head. the shop had not altered for sixty years, and the saleswoman asserted that the "stomping-rags she sold were exactly similar to those used by monsieur flandrin." in front of us is the institute, and it is impossible to walk along the interminable black-looking wall enclosing it, on the side of the rue mazarine, without thinking of the painful paragraph in the preface of the _fils naturel_, wherein the younger dumas, speaking of his childhood, recalls the souvenir of the return from the first performance, at the odéon, of _charles vi. chez ses grands vassaux_, on the th of october . the evening had been a stormy one, and the success of the play was doubtful. consequently, a continuation of their poverty was to be expected. alexandre dumas had heavy burdens to support--his mother, a household, a child. he had to live himself and to keep his family on the meagre salary his situation under the duke d'orléans procured him. it was not of his talents but of his star that he doubted; and the younger dumas always remembered his father's broad shadow cast by the moon on the dark, gloomy wall of the institute, and himself timidly guessing at his father's anxieties and endeavouring, with his little eight-year-old legs, to follow and keep up with the studies of the good-natured giant. [illustration: the rue des prÊtres-saint-sÉverin in _drawn by a. maignan_] it was in the rue guénégaud, in the hôtel britannique, that madame roland took up her quarters in . there, joyous and confident in the future, she opened her political _salon_. what a pleasure for the little manon to show to all the pont-neuf neighbourhood, where her childhood had been spent, that she had become a lady and received people of mark. brissot, buzot, pétion, robespierre, danton himself, were pleased to come, between two sittings, and talk at this amiable woman's house; and i fancy what attracted them was far more the pretty parisian's qualities than the virtues of the austere husband, who must have been a great bore! on the th of march , dumouriez came to roland's door and rang to tell him that he was appointed minister. on the morrow, the little manon of the quai des lunettes settled in triumph at the calonne mansion. it was the way to the scaffold. skirting the quays, we reach the saint-michel square, then the rue galande. in spite of recent demolitions, this old street still contains some ancient abodes; but it has lost the singular house called the _red castle_, or more prosaically, "the guillotine." in what was, during the seventeenth century, a sumptuous dwelling--the mansion, 'tis said, of gabrielle d'estrées--behind the huge, tall front steps at the back of the courtyard, was the dingy, smoky habitation, stinking of wine, dirt, debauch, and vice. one had to step over the bodies of male and female drunkards to get inside the dens where such poor wretches came seeking some sort of lodging and an hour of forgetfulness. it was at once hideous and lugubrious. amateurs of ugly sights might continue their studies hard by, on the premises of "gaffer" lunette, in the rue des anglais. the inhabitants were similar; a prison population--"bestiality in all its horror," as mephistopheles sings in the _damnation of faust_. recent building and sanitary improvements have done away with the "red castle." the rue saint-séverin is a picturesque medley of old houses round the ancient gothic church--"that flora of stone"--one of the most curious perhaps in paris; one of those that best preserve the traces of a past of art, devotion, and prayer. the sublime artists who, in several centuries, knew how to create the forest of fine carvings with which the apse is adorned, have, alas! left but sorry successors. by the side of old painted glass windows, brought from the church of saint-germain-des-prés, other cold, modern stained windows of loud colour have taken from saint-séverin's the religious, poetical mysteriousness, the inviting half-obscurity that appeal to the soul of the believer; and their crude light renders only too visible the marks of successive mutilations inflicted on this fine church. in the next street, the present clergy-house is built on the old graveyard, where, in --as the erudite monsieur de rochegude informs us--the first operation for gravel was publicly performed on a criminal condemned to death, who, happy man, was cured, and pardoned by louis xi. the whole of the quarter is one of the busiest in paris. it would seem as if the vagabonds, the lewd and their lemans, the tatterdemalions of bygone centuries, had left there a direct line of descendants. people live in the street, eat scraps in low drink-shops; a smell of spirits floats in the air at the corners of the various cross-roads; bars and petty restaurants are thronged with customers. part of the money begged or stolen in paris is spent there. [illustration: the passage des patriarches _etching by martial_] saint-médard's church is quite close, with its small, dusty, quaint square, and its round tower at the end of the rue monge and the corner of the rue mouffetard. it is a gloomy, rat-gnawed, poverty-stricken church, looking as if worn-out with age; and is blocked in by old houses covered with gaudy-coloured advertisements. it has left, far behind in the past, the days when the tomb of the deacon pâris in it performed its miracles, when the townsfolk and courtfolk crowded in the small graveyard, a door of which still exists, the one perhaps whereon was written the famous couplet:-- "in the king's name, forbid is god to work a wonder on this sod." [illustration: the rue mouffetard _charcoal drawing by p. l. moreau_] the rue mouffetard passes in front of the church porch, overflowing with life and activity. a hundred petty trades are exercised in it; the house doors themselves--old eighteenth-century doors--shelter women-sellers of flowers, milk, fried potatoes, cooked mussels; children play about the middle of the road; carriage traffic is rare. housewives gossip on their doorsteps, people live together--and in the street. the passage des patriarches, which opens at no. , was famous in days of yore. the calvinists, who used to preach there, had bloody quarrels with the catholics of saint-médard's. to-day, it is nothing but a dank, dirty, melancholy alley, inhabited by bric-à-brac dealers, old-iron sellers, and petty hucksters; and smells of rags, old lead, and cauliflower! [illustration: the rue galande _lansyer, pinxit_ (carnavalet museum)] maubert square is the converging centre of these strange streets. at present, modernised and rearranged--adorned, if i may say so, with a wretched statue of etienne dolet, who was burnt there in --the square only vaguely resembles the "plac' maub'," still visible six or seven years ago, ill-famed, narrow, bordered with old steep-roofed houses, a den of vagabonds, full of suspicious lurking-corners where the police might be sure of making good hauls. near at hand, in the maubert blind alley, sainte-croix used to dwell; and it was in the same mysterious retreat that madame de brinvilliers, the sorry heroine of the poisons drama so well told by our witty friend, f. funck-brentano, used to meet her accomplice and with him prepare the terrible "succession powder," composed, according to her avowal, of "vitriol, toad's venom, and rarefied arsenic," which she made use of to poison her father, her two brothers, and to try to make away with her sisters and husband. [illustration: the place maubert _lansyer, pinxit_] in , dante attended, hard by, one of the numerous schools of the rue du fouarre; and, at the corner of the colbert-mansion street, the faculty of medicine had its amphitheatre. this curious building is still almost intact with its ancient cupola, and would supply an admirable piece of decoration to some retrospective museum of surgery. [illustration: the old amphitheatre of surgery at the corner of the colbert mansion _etching by martial_] not far from this spot, the rue maître-albert--which up to was called the rue perdue--owes its present name to the dominican maître albert who, in the thirteenth century, taught in the open air in maubert square. it contains curious houses, to-day dens for tramps, who spend the night in them. in , an old negro of miserable appearance and strange manners used to go down this dark street every evening, trying his best to escape observation, and used to seek food and shelter in one of its sorry eating-houses. people pointed him out as he went, whispering that he was formerly dubarry's black servant, zamore, whom louis xv. had played with; zamore who became a power, petted and courted by noble lords, fine ladies, and princes of the church that emulously strove to gain the favourite's good graces. later, having been appointed a municipal officer under the terror, he vilely, ungratefully, and in a cowardly way, betrayed his benefactress, gave her up, and cast her beneath the knife of the guillotine. at length, sinking lower and lower, zamore came and hid himself at no. , on the second courtyard floor of this gloomy rue perdue, and died there on the th of february . [illustration: the church of saint-nicolas-du-chardonneret, and the rue saint-victor _drawn by heidbrendk_ (carnavalet museum)] the two churches nearest the spot are those of saint-nicolas-du-chardonneret and saint-julien-le-pauvre. connected with the former is a dismal little seminary, in which, under the guidance of the abbé dupanloup, the eminent philosopher ernest renan went through part of his theological studies. every one should read in the _souvenirs of my childhood and youth_ the admirable pages this marvellous writer has devoted to his stay in this studious home. "the parish, which derived its name from the field of thistles well known of the students at the paris university in the middle ages, was then the centre of a rich quarter inhabited chiefly by the legal profession. the boarding-school _régime_ weighed heavily upon me. my best friend, a young man from coutances, i think, like myself, full of enthusiasm, and of excellent heart, held himself aloof, refused to reconcile himself, and died. the savoy students showed themselves still less acclimatisable. one of them, older than i, owned to me that, each evening, he measured with his eye the height of the three-storey dormitory above the pavement of the rue saint-victor. i fell ill; apparently i was doomed. my breton soul lost itself in an infinite melancholy. the last angelus of evening i had heard resound over our dear hills, and the last sunset i had watched over the tranquil landscape came back to my memory like sharp arrows. in the ordinary course of things i ought to have died. perhaps it would have been better if i had...." [illustration: the rue saint-julien-le-pauvre _etching by martial_] the artist le brun's mother is buried in the saint-charles chapel of the church of saint-nicolas-du-chardonneret, and also pierre de chamousset, the inventor of the petty postal service. parisian ladies, bless his memory! the church of saint-julien-le-pauvre is set apart for the greek ritual. enclosed on its sides and rear by the ancient buildings of the hôtel-dieu, this melancholy-looking chapel is falling to ruin; a stopped-up well with meagre weeds growing from its border-stones seems to guard the door, which opens on a dirty, rubbish-strewn courtyard where a few half-starved fowls peck their scanty meal. it is a nook of poverty and suffering. the walls are damp and dingy; in these sombre yards, where a few sickly trees barely exist, all is solitude and abandon. only three years ago, stretchers or ambulance carriages still stopped from time to time in it, and from them were taken victims of crime, disease, or accident, that had fallen in the street. through the vast paris, busy and indifferent, monopolised by its pleasures or its cares, one or another human wreck was brought to the assistance publique in this dismal rue saint-julien-le-pauvre with its suggestive name. [illustration: the jardin des plantes--the cedar of lebanon and the labyrinth _water-colour by hilaire_ (national library)] to refresh ourselves after so painful a spectacle, let us come back to the lovely parisian quays, and walk along the fair river, quivering in the daylight or in the moon's nightly rays; let us pass by the beautiful mansions of the miramionnes, of nesmond, of judge rolland, in front of the wine market--"catacombs of thirst," and pause at the old jardin des plantes, dear to buffon. a touch of the charm of things past, but not entirely vanished, lingers yet! the trees are centuries old, the ornamental hornbeams have not been altered; there are aviaries and goat-pens which are the same as when daubigny and charles jacques sketched them in , to illustrate the handsome work published by curmer. [illustration: the jardin des plantes in the eighteenth century _water-colour by hilaire_ (national library)] the reptiles are better housed than in our childhood; but the hippopotamus wallows in the same basin; the giraffe stretches his neck over the same enclosures, and the elephant holds through the same railings his gluttonous trunk in search of rolls. the bear-pit has not changed; and the crowd of idlers continue to tempt the eternal "martin" to climb up the same tree. still to the noisy children the delightful labyrinth offers its capricious meandering; and the cedar of lebanon (_cedrus libani_) [linnæus], which tradition tells us monsieur jussieu brought back in his hat, has not ceased to wave its ample branches over dreamers, loungers, workers, or grisette--the grisette that comes and sits beneath its venerable shade to read the exciting magazine story which fills with sweet emotion her heart athirst for the ideal! and, in fine, is there anything nattier than the tiny rooms of the louis xvi. buildings? which once formed buffon's natural history cabinet, and whose delicate grey wood carvings made such a suitable framework for the admirable butterfly collections brought from every country. within these finely decorated and cosy rooms there was, so to speak, an ideal assemblage of blossoms, a fairy scene of exquisite colours, an enchantment wrought by a brilliant palette. there they were, all of them, beautiful butterflies, with their metallic lustres from india and brazil, french butterflies of a thousand tints, both the great death's-head sphynx and the little blue creature of the meadows. perhaps time had powdered and somewhat dimmed the marvellous brightness of their first colouring; but it was better so. their pristine lustre would have been too great a contrast in the quaint surroundings, and it was an extra charm to see such gems of the air thus lightly decked with the dust of the past! to-day, alas! these rooms, flowering with sculpture, are closed and forsaken; a part of their wainscoting has disappeared.... where have decorations so pleasing gone?... why these everlasting, culpable mutilations, which i know are a grief to monsieur périer, the eminent director of the museum? the collections of butterflies are now transferred to the vast and sumptuous central hall of the new pavilion devoted to natural history. i liked them better in the charming rooms which once contained them and suited them so well! the water-flowers bloom, as of yore, in the same low, stifling hot-houses, near the bizarre-shaped orchids; and it was in the old amphitheatre, where so many illustrious scholars taught, that the noble artist madame madeleine lemaire,--the only "woman professor" that has ever held a post at the museum,--initiated her attentive, spell-bound audience into the divine beauty of flowers! in all periods, artists have come and installed their light easel or their modelling-stands in front of the lions' cages, or in the garden itself, on the grass, opposite the antelopes, hinds, walla-birds, or the goats of thibet. we remember, my brother and i, having, as little boys, accompanied our father, who was modelling from life the tigers and lions in the wild beasts' corridor. the odour was pungently alkaline, the heat sultry; we heard the hissing of polecats in the entrance and exit rotundas; sometimes a terrible roar, a complaint of anger, pain, or ennui, arose and shook the panes. most of these unfortunate animals, deprived of air and light, shut up in the horrible, narrow, stinking cages, died a lingering death of consumption. indeed, they quickly grew familiar with those who spent whole weeks studying them; and their huge heads rubbed caressingly against the thick cage-bars, while their eyes became soft and almost tender. often we went, inquisitive, ferreting school-boys, to the reptiles' menagerie, an old building crumbling with age, and passed long hours peeping at the chameleons, gazing at the boa-constrictors, trying to rouse the sleepy crocodiles, which seemed to be already stuffed! what reminiscences and souvenirs in the dear old jardin des plantes, one of the few "nooks and corners of paris" that have remained almost untouched! [illustration: the jardin des plantes--cuvier's house _water-colour by bourgoin_ (carnavalet museum)] on the side, the ancient house cuvier lived in does not look very stable, and perhaps would go to pieces but for the network of plants round it: ivy, birthwort honeysuckle, lianes of all kinds caparisoned it with verdure. they are carpets, cascades of glossy green, shining together: a nosegay of leaves in a garden. behind the jardin des plantes is salpêtrière with its walls of evil memory, the salpêtrière of the september massacres, the salpêtrière whence madame de lamotte so easily escaped after her condemnation; with its broad gardens and its ugly covered-yards surrounded by railings, where, as de goncourt said, "women madder than their fellows" are confined. the dome, visible from everywhere, commands, like a lighthouse of misery, all this quarter infected by the bièvre, the poor, sacrificed river, which is now in part walled over; the oily bièvre, streaked with tannery acids, reddened by skins of sheep recently flayed that steep in it; the bièvre which flows miserably and sordidly, but yet so picturesquely, amidst starch factories, fellmongers' stores and other works, after traversing the tiny gardens of gentilly and creating the illusion of a landscape in the quarter of the fontaine-à-mulard. gone is the time when this ill-starred river washed the banks of smiling meadows and reflected the willows in its clear waters. tamed, domesticated, adapted to tasks of every sort, unceasingly used by tanners, curriers, tawers, dyers, it flows dirty and putrid! to follow it in its windings, the rue du moulin-des-prés must be ascended, and entrance made into the rue de tolbiac. there, through a gate, it enters a dark, dismal passage, whence it will issue only to glide in a kind of sinister-looking canal between black, repulsive manufactories. here and there, along the scanty banks, a few washerwomen have fixed their tubs on a level with the water, and sing as they dolly their linen; elsewhere, wretched urchins endeavour to catch a stray fish that might have lost its way in the mephitic stream. then the bièvre disappears once again and this time underground, coming to view afresh in the rue des gobelins. at this spot, some rare traces of a glorious past are discovered. the ancient houses have many of them remained. but how often transformed! the owners of works and of shops, after enslaving the river, have taken possession of the houses bordering it. [illustration: the rue de biÈvre _drawn by heidbrendk_] offices, warehouses, leather stores have invaded the noble mansions of the sixteenth century, and the bièvre winds, as if ashamed, through poor gardens, like it, fallen from their antique splendour. [illustration: the biÈvre tanneries _etching by martial_] further on, there are more works and tanneries, black corners mean and malodorous, where thousands of rabbit-skins, hanging in mid-air, hard and dry, clash together with a noise of wood. to the very end, the unlucky river, harassed and exploited, cleans blood-stained skins, moves heavy wheels, or washes ghastly offal, amidst a smell as of barege. finally, it runs to earth once more beneath the hospital boulevard, within evil-smelling, dark holes. but before the last fall, the bièvre passes through an astonishingly strange lane, one of the oddest in this odd quarter: the ruelle des gobelins. it flows as a stream of red, green, and yellow tints, between patched-up, mouldy, tumble-down houses, in an odour of ammonia. and yet, near these hovels, among the heaps of tan, beside pits in which are macerating skins of flayed animals, a gem of carving rises as it were an appeal of beauty, a vestige of past splendour. it is the sculptured remains of an adorable louis xv. pavilion of which monsieur de julienne had made a hunting-box; and this lovely paradox, this blossom of stone cast among such a mass of ugliness, is not one of the least surprises of the quarter so fertile in matters for astonishment. moreover, a few yards from this sewer, the artists of the gobelins manufactory have laid out their work-and-study-gardens, in which shine the purple, gold and azure of the prettiest flowers in france. these, cleverly distributed, arrange a carpet of exquisite and radiant colours athwart the surrounding district of sombre sadness. on the confines of the town, is the butte-aux-cailles, a vast piece of waste land, cheerless and without charm, which, until , was a sort of fresh country spot, with mills and farms on it. to-day, it is a quarter of hard labour, where numbers of rag-pickers classify the refuse of paris. at the corner of the ruelle des peupliers, faggot-dealers have set up their huts; and hovels line strange streets made with the clearings of other streets. [illustration: the biÈvre about --the valence mill-race _schaan, pinxit_ (carnavalet museum)] once, these spacious grounds were one stretch of flower gardens and market gardens watered by the bièvre. in a most interesting book, somewhat forgotten now, alfred delvau tells us much of the former history, under louis-philippe, of the saint-marceau faubourg, the butte-aux-cailles, the rue croulebarde, and also the rue du champ-de-l'alouette, in which last street the "shepherdess of ivry" was murdered, the crime by its bizarre character producing a deep impression in the capital in . it was a public-house waiter, honoré ulbach, who had stabbed a girl, aimée millot by name; she, as a keeper of goats, was popular at ivry. every day, she was to be seen, with a large straw hat on her head and a book in her hand, tending her mistress's goats. the "shepherdess of ivry" she was called in the neighbourhood; in , there were still shepherdesses in paris! the trial that followed excited the whole town; the crime was one of love and jealousy; the victim was nineteen; she was virtuous and a shepherdess; women "cursed the murderer, even while pitying him perhaps," wrote the newspapers of the time; and even the giraffe but recently arrived at the king's garden was neglected for the ivry drama. on the th of july, ulbach, who seems to have been half-mad, was condemned to death; and, at four o'clock in the evening on the th of september, he was executed on the grève square. a municipal crèche, in the rue des gobelins, occupies, at no. , a fine louis xiii. mansion, once inhabited by the marquis of saint-mesme, a lieutenant-general and the husband of elizabeth gobelin, close to a handsome lordly-looking building which in the quarter bears the name of queen blanche's mansion. the legend attaching to the latter is false, affirms monsieur beaurepaire, the learned and amiable librarian of the city of paris. "it was," he says, "simply catherine d'hausserville's home, where charles vi. was nearly burnt alive during the performance of a ballet, his fancy dress having caught fire." the edifice, with its noble appearance, forms a strange contrast in this poor yet picturesque district. another fine mansion, in the rue scipio, is the one built by scipio sardini, in the reign of henri iii., with terra-cotta medallions, rare parisian specimens of the exceedingly pretty decoration that pleases us so much at florence, pisa, and verona. this scipio sardini was a peculiar man, and his story deserves to be told. of tuscan origin, he came to france after the death of henri ii., just when catherine de medici seized the reins of power. amiable, witty, ingratiating, a great financier, clever in his enterprises, and unscrupulous, he quickly gained a preponderant position in the frivolous, dissolute, mirth-loving court. he excelled in combining business and pleasure. an illustrious marriage seemed to him essential to people's forgetting his low origin and the rapid rise of his fortunes. he married the "fair limeuil," one of the most seductive beauties of the queen's flying squadron--"all of them capable of setting the whole world on fire," said brantôme. this attractive person had been successively courted by the most noble lords of the court before effecting the conquest of condé, by whom she had a child. at dijon, during one of the queen's receptions, mademoiselle de limeuil was taken ill and was delivered of a boy. "it is inexplicable," writes mézeray, "that such a prudent woman should have so miscalculated." there was a scandal; the queen mother was indignant; the fair isabella was imprisoned; but condé who was still amorous, succeeded in effecting her escape. the protestants, however, were on the watch, and induced their leader to give up his too compromising mistress. then it was that scipio sardini came forward, the richest man of the period, the king's banker, as also the nobles' and clergy's. he managed to get himself accepted; the marriage took place; and he settled in this pretty mansion that we still admire, and that is mentioned by sauval as one of the most beautiful in paris, amidst vineyards, orchards, and fields bordering on the bièvre. there he lived, surrounded by luxury, works of art, books and flowers, and died there about . as early as , the mansion was converted into a hospital, which in was once more transformed, this time into a bakery. to-day, it is the bakery of the city of paris hospitals. let us keep along by the wine market, and, before crossing to the right bank of the river, respectfully pause on the stockade bridge, close to the small monument erected to the famous sculptor barye by his admirers,--to the great barye who, misunderstood and mocked, sold up by his creditors, often came in the evening, after leaving his modest studio on the célestins quay, to forget his sufferings and muse in this same place before the splendid panorama of paris crowned by the grand silhouette of the panthéon. here, too, is one of the city's best views. * * * * * nothing is more relative than an impression felt. to certain minds in love with the past, this or that ruin is much more affecting than the most modern palace; it is the same with streets, houses, and pavements. an exquisite hour to call up the soul of old paris is at twilight. the colour peculiar to each object has melted into the general shades and tints spread by the day which is departing and the night which comes. delicate lace-work outlines stand out against the sky, while huge violet, black, and blue masses of atmosphere bathe whole streets in fathomless mystery. then thought awakens, souvenirs revive and grow clear; scenes are lived through again of which these streets and houses were the silent witnesses. one hears cries of fury or of joy; drums beat, bells ring, groups pass singing 'mid these dream visions that rise again! in order to enjoy such an experience no better spot could be chosen than the stockade bridge, which, with its barrier of black beams, as it were shuts off to the east paris of the olden days. the city slumbers in the calm of evening, the smoke curls lazily up. afar sound bells; swallows sweep crying in the air embalmed by falling night; noises ascend vague and weird, interpreted according to the fancy of one's musings. all life seems to sleep; the soul of the past awakes. it is the hour desired. [illustration: the constantine bridge and stockade _etching by martial_] footnotes: [ ] there is a pun here in the french impossible to render in english. [ ] manon lescaut. [illustration: the pont royal in _boilly, pinxit_ (carnavalet museum)] the right bank of the river the arsenal quarter, built over the site of the two royal palaces--the saint-paul mansion, the tournelles palace--and the soil of the louviers isle, joined to the river bank in , serve as a natural transition from the old to modern paris. [illustration: the lesdiguiÈres mansion] notwithstanding its warlike name, the arsenal quarter is one of the most peaceful parts of the capital. centuries ago, the palaces disappeared that brought it its wealth, life and movement. on their ruins and their huge gardens, humble, tranquil streets have been made: the rue de la cerisaie, where marshal villeroy received peter the great in the sumptuous zamet mansion; the rue charles v., where once was the elegant home of the marchioness de brinvilliers, now at no. , premises in which a white-capped sister-of-charity distributes cod-liver oil and woollen socks to poor, suffering children; the rue des lions-saint-paul; the rue beautreillis, where victorien sardou was born; near there the great balzac dwelt. "i was then living," he says in his admirable _facino cane_, "in a small street you probably don't know, the rue de lesdiguières. it commences at the rue saint-antoine, opposite a fountain near the place de la bastille, and issues in the rue de la cerisaie. love of knowledge had driven me into a garret, where i worked during the night, and spent the day in a neighbouring library, that of _monsieur_. when it was fine, i took rare walks on the bourdon boulevard." this modest rue de lesdiguières still exists in part; on the site occupied by nos. and , could be seen, a few years ago, one of the containing walls of the bastille; narrow houses have been stuck against it; and, at no. , it is the very wall of the old parisian fortress which constitutes the back of the porter's lodge! what a destiny for a prison wall! of what was once the arsenal only the mansion of the grand master is left; it is, at present, the arsenal library--formerly called, as balzac says, the library of _monsieur_. it used to be a fine dwelling, the home of sully, and possesses priceless books and autographs, and most valuable writings. in a coffer, covered with flower-de-luces, may be admired saint louis's book of hours, side by side with a fragment of his royal mantle, the blue silk of it, worn with time, being strewn with golden flower-de-luces; the old book bears this venerable inscription: "it is the psalter of monseigneur loys, once his mother's;" and was taken from the scattered treasures of the sainte-chapelle. then there is charles the fifth's bible with the king's writing on it: "this book (belongs) to me, the king of france;" and a missal, each leaf of which is framed with an incomparable garland due to the brush of the "master of flowers," a great artist whose name is unknown to us. besides, there are rare manuscripts, marvellous bindings, unique editions, romances of chivalry, classics, poets of every age, complete in this fine palace; together with latude's letters, the box that served for his ridiculous attempt against madame de pompadour; and, near them, the cross-examination of the marchioness de brinvilliers, and the death-certificate of the man in the iron mask; henri iv.'s love-letters too, with his kisses sent to the marchioness de verneuil, and the documents relating to the affair of the necklace. how many more things in addition...! let us add that the curators--henri martin, so learned and obliging, funck-brentano, the exquisite historian of the bastille, the picturesque relater of all its dramas. sheffer and eugène muller are not only scholars needing no praise but most courteous and genial men--and you will quite understand why the arsenal is one of the few corners in paris where it is delightful to go and work or to saunter about. indeed, it is a tradition of the house. nodier, good old nodier, who was one of monsieur de bornier's predecessors and a predecessor also of j. m. de heredia, the master who has so recently gone from us, nodier, the admirable author of the _trophées_, had succeeded in making the arsenal the centre of literary and artistic paris. hugo, lamartine, de musset, balzac, méry, de vigny, and fr. soulié used to meet there; and fine verses were said while regarding the sun glow with red flame behind the towers of notre dame. "the towers of notre dame his name's great h composed!" wrote vacquerie. of the bastille nothing remains except a few stones which formed the substructure of one of the old towers; and these have been carefully removed to the célestins quay, along the seine, where they are visible to-day. in vain, therefore, would any one now seek for a vestige of the sombre fortress over which so many legends hovered. latude's great shade itself would hardly locate the spot; and yet how full paris history is of this traditional bastille, which the people, amazed with their easy victory, could not tire of visiting after the th of july . such was their curiosity and such their eagerness that soulès, the governor appointed by the parisian municipality, was compelled to stop the visits, on the curious ground "that such damage had already been done to the fortress by visitors that more than , livres would be required to repair it." repair the bastille! the souvenir manuscripts of paré tell us the fury excited by this strange pretension in danton, sergeant of a section of the national guard, who, with his company, was turned back by the order. danton had himself admitted into the presence of the unfortunate soulès, seized him by the collar and dragged him to the town hall; the prohibition was removed; and citizen palloy was thenceforth allowed to exploit the celebrated state prison. the stones were "hewn and cut into images of the fortress and dedicated to the various departments and assemblies," or into "commemorative slabs intended to rouse people's courage." palloy cut up the leads into medals, and made rings with the iron chains; out of the marble he manufactured games of dominoes, and had the delicate thought to offer one of these games to the young dauphin to inspire him with "the horror of tyranny." [illustration: commemorative ball on the ruins of the bastille dancing here _from a coloured engraving of the eighteenth century_] balls were held on the site of the bastille. wine flowed, fiddles were scraped, and printed calicoes of that period show us the ruins of the old parisian citadel surmounted with this inscription: "dancing here." the huge space left vacant by the demolition had to be filled up. napoleon i., whose artistic conceptions were sometimes disconcerting, had constructed there, in , by alavoine, a strange sort of fountain of bizarre appearance: it was a colossal elephant, twenty-four metres high, which spouted water from its trunk. built temporarily in plaster and mud, the elephant quickly crumbled away under the action of weather and rain; and soon became a lamentable débris surrounded with disjointed planks. the urchins of the district made it the scene of homeric struggles; but the real familiars were the rats that had made their home inside the structure, so that, when the demolition began, regular _battues_ had to be organised with men and dogs; and, for months, these dreaded rodents infested the terrorised quarter. in , the present column was erected; since then, the genius of liberty has poised over paris his airy foot, and barye's fine lion watches over the repose of the victims of that are interred within the crypt of the monument. [illustration: the sens mansion about _from a lithograph by rouargue_] the rue saint-antoine contains certain handsome mansions: the cossé mansion, where quélus died; the mayenne and ormesson mansion, built by du cerceau on the remains of the saint-paul mansion and germain pilon's studio; the sully mansion, whose noble front was not long ago mutilated. hard by, at the corner of the rue du figuier and the picturesque rue de l'hôtel de ville, which latter used to be the rue de la mortellerie, stands what is left of the sens mansion, the only specimen, together with the cluny museum, of what private architecture was in the fifteenth century. after being inhabited by princes of the church, bishops, cardinals, and also by marguerite de valois (queen margot), the sens mansion fell on evil days. it became the "diligence office"; and from its courtyard is said to have started the famous courier whose murder was attributed to lesurques, the unfortunate lesurques popularised by the well-known drama performed at the ambigu, which caused so many tears to flow. in more recent times, the hôtel de sens derogated further still. it became a manufactory of sweets! at no. of the rue du figuier, we meet with a draw-well, the top of which is finely sculptured; the spot brings back the memory of rabelais, the admirable rabelais, who died quite near, in the rue des jardins. at no. , opened the sixteenth-century door through which the actors of the illustrious theatre established on the ancient site of the jeu de paume de la croix-noire, proceeded to their private stage-room. it was before this door that molière was arrested and taken to the châtelet, because he owed " livres to antoine fausseur, master-chandler, his purveyor of light." let us cross the place de la bastille and go down the rue du faubourg-saint-antoine. there, at no. , in front of an old eighteenth-century house, the deputy baudin was killed against a barricade, on the rd of december . at no. , in the reign of napoleon i., stood dr. dubuisson's private hospital, where general malet was confined. there he hatched the prodigious plot the disconcerting history of which we intend shortly to relate. farther on, near the rue de montreuil, we pass by the remains of réveillon's wall-paper stores, pillaged on the th of april ; it was one of the preludes of the revolution. last of all, at no. , in the rue de charonne, dr. belhomme's private hospital stood, which was used as a special prison under the revolution. only those were admitted who could pay and pay well. the irrefutable memoirs of monsieur de saint-aulaine reveal to us a belhomme familiar, cynical, exacting his fees and thouing duchesses short of money who haggled with him on the question of their life. the most amiable of historians, my excellent friend g. lenôtre, whom it is always necessary to quote when facts of the revolutionary epoch are in question, has reconstituted the terrible and surprising story of the belhomme institution where they laughed, danced, or even flirted under the dread eye of fouquier-tinville; and has related, with his habitual documentation, the bizarre liaison of the duchess of orléans, widow of louis-philippe egalité, with rouzet, the conventional, buried later at dreux under the name of the "count de folmon" in the orléans family vault. pursuing our way and passing by the church of sainte marguerite, in which louis xviii. was interred ... or his double, we reach the barrier of the throne (the throne overthrown, people said in ). the scaffold, which had temporarily quitted the revolution square, was put up here during the most terrible period of the terror, and the "great batches" were executed upon it. in six weeks, victims perished, among them, andré chénier, the baron de trenck, the abbess of montmorency, cécile renaud, madame de sainte-amaranthe, the poet roucher, and many others. the bodies of these unfortunate people, stripped of their clothing, were loaded each evening on covered waggons, with their severed heads between their legs; and the horrible vehicle, dripping with blood along the road, was tipped into some pit dug at the bottom of the picpus convent gardens, where still exists the cemetery of those that were executed during the revolution. retracing our steps, we arrive at no. of the rue de reuilly; here was once the hortensia tavern, kept in by the famous santerre, a major in the national guard. the house has not much changed; at present, however, it is a girls' boarding-school which occupies the large rooms where the thundering general organised those terrible descents on paris and launched those dreadful battalions of the faubourg that terrorised even the convention itself. on the other side of the place de la bastille, in the rue saint-antoine, near saint paul's church, is the charlemagne passage, most picturesque by reason of the old souvenirs it contains and the strange population it harbours: chair-menders, mattress-carders, milk-women, open-air flower-women gather round the ruin of the charming mansion which, under charles v., was the sumptuous abode of the provost, hugues aubryot. the front, which is still remarkable and fine-looking, is an astonishing contrast to the poor, low houses that huddle round it. fowls peck at the foot of the fifteenth-century turrets, which enclose a handsome staircase; and patched linen dries on iron wire stretched between the caryatide windows of the seventeenth century, replacing those behind which once mused the duke d'orléans and the duke de berri, as also, in , jean de montaigu, beheaded for sorcery! who were formerly illustrious guests in this elegant dwelling. [illustration: the provost hugues aubryot's mansion charlemagne's courtyard and passage in _drawn by a. maignan_] and now, let us stop at the vosges square on the other side of the bastille. it is another rare nook of our old city, which, through the centuries, has preserved its ancient character very nearly intact. the houses there, in louis xiii. style, have not changed. the scenery has remained the same. the _précieuses_ could take their favourite walks there; and those punctilious in honour might draw their sword, as in the time of richelieu and the edict-malcontents; only the public of spectators would be quite different. the fine ladies of the country hight tender, the cydalises and aramynthas, the lords once living in those noble dwellings, they who, on the th of march , were present at the tournament given by the queen regent, marie de médici, in honour of the peace concluded with spain, or they who proceeded in grand coaches to the fair marion de lorme's or to madame de sévigné's, are to-day replaced by petty annuitants, modest shopkeepers retired from business and pensioned-off officers. humble charwomen work at their tasks in the spots where mazarin's nieces paused in their sedan-chairs; and the numerous jews that live in the quarter meet there on saturdays. it is a curious spectacle to see these men and women of strongly marked type betaking themselves to the synagogue, which is near a partially subsisting eighteenth-century mansion still bearing delicate decorations, but at present occupied by a butcher, in the rue du pas-de-la-mule. not a few old men wear the long gaberdine, their hair in corkscrew curls, and earrings in their ears. velvet-eyed girls coifed with bands, wonderfully handsome and peculiarly dressed, assemble there on certain religious feast-days. it is a strange evocation; 'twould seem that in these peaceful quarters biblical traditions have been preserved in some jewish families. [illustration: the place royale about (now the vosges square) _israël, del._] the old-time animation, however, is an exception. the vosges square, once the place royale, where richelieu lived and fronsac, chabannes, marshal de chaulnes, rohan-chabot, rotrou, dangeau, canillac, the prince de talmont and mademoiselle du châtelet, where madame de sévigné was born, where the tragic actress rachel dwelt, and théophile gautier and victor hugo, is to-day completely neglected; and this delightful paris nook, where so much wit was spent, such fine ladies rivalled in grace and elegance and so many exquisites drew their swords, is now nothing but a large, lonely garden, provincial and melancholy, frequented almost exclusively by the pupils of neighbouring boarding-schools, who play there at prisoners' base, and leap-frog, beneath the debonair shadow of louis xiii.'s statue, with its philosophic frame of a punch-and-judy show and a chair-woman's stall. in the ancient rue culture-sainte-catherine (at present called the rue de sévigné) on the site now occupied by no. , formerly stood the marais theatre, built with money provided by beaumarchais. in , the _guilty mother_ was performed there, for the benefit, said the play-bill, "of the first soldier who shall send citizen beaumarchais an austrian's ear." the modern building is a modest private-bath establishment, with a small garden in front in which grow some spindle-trees--in boxes, and which is adorned with silvered balls. the huge wall, all grim and grey, backing the slightly-built bath establishment, is the old wall of the force prison, where, on a post at the corner of the rue des balais, madame de lamballe was executed, where also madame de tallien was transferred, and princess de tarente was confined, the latter, the grandmother of the kind, courteous and learned duke de la trémoïlle, who had only to dip into his incomparable family archives to give us the most precious documents of french history, and to whom we are indebted for those picturesque and exciting "souvenirs of madame de tarente," one of the most valuable narrations by an eye-witness of the revolutionary period. the carnavalet mansion, madame de sévigné's "dear carnavalette," is close by, as also the ancient le peletier-saint-fargeau mansion, to-day the city of paris library. it is a fine, large building of noble appearance, which contains wonderful books, maps, plans and manuscripts. the written history of paris is there; and all workers know the pretty, sculpture-ornamented room of monsieur le vayer, the erudite, obliging curator of these fine collections. messieurs poète, beaurepaire, jacob, jarach and wilhem, in the library; messieurs pètre and stirling in the history room are the wise and welcoming hosts of this admirable parisian library. all this marais quarter, indeed, contains sumptuous mansions, not one of which, alas! has been respected. all are given over to business and manufacturing. the lamoignon mansion is occupied by glass-polishers and garden-seatmakers; the albret mansion by a bronze lamp-dealer; those of tallard, maulevrier, sauvigny, brevannes, epernon, &c., are still standing, but in what a state! the rue des nonnains-d'hyères offers us its curious bass-relief, in painted stone, representing a knife-grinder in eighteenth-century costume. in , a madame de pannelier kept a "wit-office" in this same street; lalande, sautereau, guichard, leclerc de merry used to attend meetings there. they were held on wednesdays, and were preceded by an excellent dinner. the tradition has happily been preserved in paris. in the rue françois-miron, one sees a spacious, handsome mansion with circular pediment, escutcheons and garlands. it is the beauvais mansion, built by le pautre in . to look at it now, old and in a dull street, one would hardly think that the coaches of louis xiv.--king sun--had passed under the dark vault of the entrance gate and that, from the top of the central pavilion balcony, queen anne of austria, in company with the queen of england, cardinal mazarin, marshal de turenne and other illustrious nobles, had watched her son louis xiv. and her daughter-in-law, the new queen marie-thérèse of austria, go by as they made, through saint-antoine's gate, their solemn entry into paris on the th of august ![ ] on account of its picturesque aspect and the fine mansions it contains, the rue geoffroy-l'asnier is one of the most curious in paris. at no. stands the châlons-luxembourg mansion, with its monumental door and wonderful knocker. at the bottom of the courtyard is an exceedingly elegant louis xiii. pavilion in brick and stone, and of delicate proportions. the mansion was built for the second constable of montmorency, and though it is quite lost in this gloomy quarter, it maintains its proud bearing. after the revolution, this street, whence nearly all the owners of houses had emigrated, if they had not been guillotined, was completely stripped of its former splendour. petty annuitants, small clerks, and poor people took up their abode in the abandoned buildings. grass grew in the streets; many of the dwellings had been sold as national property; and the rue geoffroy-l'asnier underwent the common fate; it became democratic. [illustration: the rue grenier-sur-l'eau in _drawn by a. maignan_] between this street and the neighbouring rue des barres, one is surprised to see a sort of fissure so narrow that two persons would find it difficult to walk abreast through it, a sort of corridor along which the wind sweeps past dilapidated, leaning houses on either side. it is the rue grenier-sur-l'eau, wretched and dirty enough, but quaint, with the glorious tower of saint-gervais-saint-protais in the background, rising and standing out against the sky. the proper moment to take a look at the sinister little rue des barres is on a stormy night, behind the church of saint-gervais. it is then easy to imagine what this quiet quarter must have been like when, on the th of thermidor, about eleven in the evening, 'mid torch-lights, calls to arms, the noise of the tocsin and shouts of the multitude, the dead body of lebas was brought thither, and, on a chair, augustin robespierre, who had broken his thighs in leaping from one of the town hall windows. the dead man and the dying man were dragged to the barres mansion transformed into a sectional committee tribunal. on the morrow lebas was buried, and robespierre was carried before the committee of public safety, who sent him to the scaffold. [illustration: the saint-paul port _water-colour by boggs_ (g. cain collection)] the rue des barres descends to the seine, near the old town hall quay, where the big, flat boats laden with apples, stones, or sand take their moorings. into it opens one of the exits of the charming church of saint-gervais, whose fine painted windows, masterpieces of pinaigrier and jean cousin, were almost totally destroyed twenty years ago by an explosion of dynamite. against the church walls, in the laicised ruins of an ancient chapel, a sweet manufacturer has installed his alembics and copper pans; and it is a curious sight to see the lighted fires of this strange kitchen beneath these antique gothic arches, between these blackened pillars still bearing traces of the candles that once burned in front of the holy images, on a ground formerly used for burying and even now concealing bones. the out-offices of the old church still remain, wonderfully picturesque, and open into the rue françois-miron, no. , on the left of the entrance portal of the church, between a laundress's establishment and a furniture-remover's premises! [illustration: the barbett mansion the rue paradis-des-francs-bourgeois and the rue vieille-du-temple in _drawn by a. maignan_] on one side, the little rue de l'hôtel-de-ville brings us to the rue vieille-du-temple, where we can admire, at no. , what is left of the quaint mansion of the dutch ambassadors, where "monsieur caron de beaumarchais and madame his spouse," as an almanac of called them, established in a provident institution for poor nursing mothers. indeed, it was for the benefit of this undertaking that the fiftieth performance of the _mariage de figaro_ was given. farther on, to the right, at the corner of the rue des francs-bourgeois, stands the pretty turret built about for jean hérouet; and, last of all, the fine rohan palace, which to-day is the national printing house. this last is a noble and spacious building which the elegant cardinal that once lived in it took pleasure in sumptuously decorating. a masterpiece may be seen there, "the horses of apollo," in a wonderful bass-relief by pierre le lorrain. the saloon of the apes, by huet, is charming, and the private room of monsieur christian, the witty and learned director of the national printing house, contains a beautiful caffieri time-piece. why must, alas! this fine palace be condemned soon to disappear? the rohan mansion is to be demolished, and the state will commit the sacrilege! may the endeavours of lovers of paris succeed in preserving for us this precious vestige of a past that each day removes farther from us! a cabman whose astonishment must have been great was a certain george who, on the nd of october , at half-past eleven in the evening, amid a driving rain that turned the miry soil of saint-peter's pudding-bag (now the villehardouin blind alley) into a veritable bog, saw get out of his cab, near the rue saint-gilles, a completely naked man, with his uniform under his arm--a soldier whom, twenty minutes before, he had picked up in the louvre square. this strange passenger was corporal rateau, proceeding to the appointment made with him by general malet, inside dr. dubuisson's private hospital and asylum, faubourg-saint-antoine, where the latter was confined by the authorities. in his haste to put on the fine uniform of an orderly officer, which was ready for him in exchange for his own, rateau had undressed in the cab; and up the dark staircase of the gloomy house in the gloomy street he rushed with absolutely nothing on. the little house still exists, wretched and dingy-looking, where malet appointed to meet his accomplices, on the third floor in the abode of the abbé cajamanos, an old bewildered spanish priest who had quitted the bicêtre asylum. this adventure of general malet's is both prodigious and disconcerting. for, in , at the moment when napoleon seemed to be at the summit of his power, malet, in a sort of dungeon, with the help of five or six obscure assistants, an old priest with hardly any knowledge of french, a half-pay officer, an almost illiterate sergeant and a few other hare-brained people, had been able, even while confined, watched and suspected, to combine everything, prepare everything, so that the report of the emperor's death might be believed--the emperor being absent in the icy steppes of russia, and no news arriving from him. and his calculations were justified. all the imperial functionaries, from savary, the head of the police, down to frochot, the prefect of the seine, accepted general malet's allegations, without testing or discussing them. especially, all believed his fine promises; and it is hard to say where the hoaxer would have stopped if an officer, simply obeying his orders, had not refused to be gained over with fine words, and asked for proofs. malet, being taken aback, grew impatient, and replied with a pistol-shot. major doucet forthwith arrested him, and the comedy ended in a tragedy. all the more haste was made to get rid of the organisers of this plot, which had so nearly succeeded, as it was necessary to suppress as quickly as possible their awkward testimony to such cowardice, lying, and compromise. the poor dwelling in the villehardouin blind alley was searched by all the paris police; papers, uniforms, cocked hats, and swords were fished out of the little well, still existing, into which they had been wildly thrown. in a few hours, malet, lahorie, rateau, and guidal were tried, condemned, and executed. the replies of the general to the tribunal that so summarily judged him were home-thrusts. asked (somewhat late) who were his accomplices: "all of you," he said, "if i had succeeded!" taken to the wall of evil memory in the plain of grenelle, he insisted on giving the firing-order to the execution-platoon; and, as if he had been on the drill-ground, made the soldiers repeat the aiming movement, which had not been carried out with military precision. rateau, who, as a matter of fact, had understood nothing of this strange drama, in which he had been one of the most picturesque confederates, is said to have died in crying: "long live the emperor!" between the archives and the rue sainte-croix-de-la-bretonnerie, there was once a large monastery, which, in , became the property of the carmelite billettes,--the name being derived from an ornament worn by these monks on their gowns. the revolution suppressed the monastery; but the small cloister has come down to us with its charming proportions and its monastic cosiness. to-day, it is a town school, and the neighbouring church is devoted to protestant worship. [illustration: the rue de venise _water-colour by truffaut_ (carnavalet museum)] the rue de venise, one of the most ancient paris streets, is not far away. it is now a low, bad-smelling lane inhabited by vagabonds of both sexes. women, whose age it is impossible to tell, trail and traipse in front of alleys within which loom greasy, black staircases. mended linen hangs from the windows; acrid smoke issues from between thick bars protecting old mansions now degenerated into mere dens, defended, however, by heavy doors studded with rusty nails. it is hideous, yet quaint, as indeed all this quarter, which is made up besides of the rue pierre-au-lard, the rue brise-miche, and the rue taille-pain; not forgetting saint-merri's cloister, the name being that of the old church whose tocsin so often sounded the alarm during the riots in the reign of louis-philippe. at the least popular excitement, this inextricable labyrinth of small streets used to bristle with barricades. at the crossing of the rue saint-martin and the rue aubry-le-boucher was raised the terrible barricade defended by jeanne and his intrepid companions. following on the burial of general lamarque, who died while pressing to his lips the sword offered to him by the bonapartist officers of the hundred days, an immense revolutionary movement had galvanized paris. the old soldiers of the empire, the survivors of the terror and those of , allied in their common hatred of louis-philippe's government, had joined the malcontents of all parties and the members of the then numerous secret societies. in the evening of the th of june , the centre of paris was covered with barricades; and both troops and national guard had been obliged to reconquer, one by one, the positions that had been lost. slaughter had been going on the whole night. when the dawn of the th of june tinged the house-roofs with pink, the large saint-merri barricade was seen to be holding out; its defenders, a handful of heroic men, had sworn to bury themselves under its ruins. already they had repulsed ten furious assaults; now they were awaiting death; and the loud tones of the saint-merri tocsin, unceasingly sounding above their heads, seemed to be tolling their funeral knell! part of the paris army had to be utilised to vanquish these dauntless insurgents. firing went on from windows, cellars, the pavement. round the barricades, dead bodies of national guards and soldiers, riddled with balls, crushed beneath blocks of stone hurled from roof-tops, testified to the frightful savagery of this intestine struggle. for long afterwards, the ground was red with blood! what numbers of balls and bullets, what quantities of grapeshot all these old house-fronts have received in the haphazard of riots, frequent during the reign of louis-philippe. the drums no sooner beat than the citizens armed and hurried to defend order ... or to attack it; anxious women, cowering behind closed shutters, watched for the biers. things resumed their ordinary course immediately the disorder was over; the insurgent hobnobbed with the honest national guard whom he had aimed his gun at on the day before. sometimes, however, grudges remained. [illustration: the rue du renard-saint-merry _etching by martial_] my parents knew an old woman, living in the rue saint-merri, who, for forty years after , never passed without trembling by the door of the tenant underneath her flat. as people were surprised at this persistent apprehension, she said: "if you only knew what happened to me!" and she related that, one evening when there was a riot and her husband had been absent all day firing in the ranks of the national guard, she was in the house alone, mad with anxiety; suddenly, at the corner of the street, she saw a stretcher appear, covered with sacking, which the bearers deposited at her door. was it her husband that they were bringing home dead? she rushed out, raised the edge of the cover and recognised in the person lying with smashed jaw, haggard eyes, bleeding from a ball in the cheek, the tenant underneath: "ah, what a good thing!" she cried; "it's you, monsieur vitry!" since that day monsieur vitry had given her the cold shoulder. in the reign of charles vi., under pretext of purifying the quarter--the pretext and the vicar of saint-merri's complaint being only too well grounded--these "hot streets" were cleared of the majority of low, lewd people who had taken up their domicile in them. but, if morality had its claims, business also had its interests; and the worthy shopkeepers of the neighbourhood, deeming these of more importance than decency, energetically protested against the measure so prejudicial to their petty commerce. they gained the day, and, on the st of january , parliament reversed the provost's decision, the result being that the merry band returned in triumph to their old haunts, celebrating the event with feasting and banqueting. [illustration: the rue des prouvaires and the rue saint-eustache about _water-colour by villeret_ (carnavalet museum)] in his _chronicle of the streets_, our learned friend, beaurepaire, librarian of the city of paris, asserts that the rue pirouette, near saint-eustace's church, owes its singular name to the "market stocks that stood at this spot. it was an octagonal tower with lofty ogival windows, in the centre of which was an iron wheel pierced with holes for the head and arms of vagabonds, murderers, panders, and blasphemers, who were exposed thus to public derision. on three consecutive market-days, for two hours each day, they were fastened in the stocks and turned every half-hour in a different direction. in other words, they were forced to 'pirouette,' whence the name of the street." after doing penance there, in the olden times, malefactors betake themselves thither to-day to sup. the "guardian angel," a thieves' restaurant, exhibits its signboard almost at the corner of the street: in it rogues laugh, drink and sing, and hatch their morrow's exploits. the staff of the army of vice make it their meeting-place. it is the fashionable resort, a sort of burglars' "maxim-restaurant," where paris hooligans deem it elegant to appear. casque-d'or and his pals reign there, and the scoundrel who has just committed an evil deed is certain to secure good lodging within, and all else he requires. but it is not only knights of the blood-letting industry who inhabit this noble dwelling; other lords come there to eat snails and drink champagne: suspicious-looking young men with plastered hair, who noisily spend their money gained by blackmailing or some other reprehensible action. the place is a disgrace to the capital. the landlord affirms that there are honest folk among his customers. the thing is possible--anyway, they must find themselves in very bad company. quite close, almost next door, at no. , is the "helmet courtyard," which gives us a striking impression of what ancient dwellings were. it was, in fact, once a sumptuous fourteenth-century mansion; to-day, it is only a hand-cart repository, where shafts point up to the old ceilings with their projecting beams, shafts shiny with use, and a fishmonger's warehouse, in which burgundy snails, and cooked or raw lobsters are sold. the nook is a quaint one, and the quarter also, with its remains of the rue de la grande-truanderie, where, on the th of may , one of the ancestors of communism, baboeuf, was arrested. [illustration: the central market foot-pavement, near the church of saint-eustache, in _drawn by a. maignan_] not far away used to be the rue de la tonnellerie, where molière lived. this street disappeared when the rue turbigo was cut. [illustration: the central market in _canella, pinxit_] in the central market quarter, where every one works, where each shop offers to paris gourmands the best victuals, the freshest vegetables, the daintiest fruits, where, every night, long files of market gardeners' carts bring in loads of provisions of all sorts, each street has, so to speak, its speciality. housewives know where to find their poultry, crayfish, cheese, or oranges. all the little streets, skirting the halles, are full of astonishing shops contrived in door-corners, or cellar-corners, all of which for generations have been kept by worthy husbandmen, petty dealers, hucksters, or basket-hawkers, having their own line, their own customers. in the curious rue montorgueil, old abodes that amaze one are still to be found; for instance, between nos. and , the ancient golden compass inn, which was the calling place for so many generations of carriers. its double entrance, blocked up with small butchers', tripe-dealers', and poulterers' stalls, opens on a huge yard, where fowls peck on heaps of golden dung, where ducks quack, and goats bleat under the eyes of some thirty horses, peaceful tenants of the ground floor, with their inquisitive heads thrust over the half-doors, through the low windows or open air-holes. at the back, beneath the spacious shed, the carriages and carts are put up, 'midst a healthy country smell of verdure and hay; and it really is a curious sight to see such a silent nook, with its farmyard, at the back of the noisy, populous, crowded street, full of workmen, pedlars, and shouts or cries of bubbling life and movement. [illustration: the central market in _canella, pinxit_] what is left of the rue quincampoix, behind the old tower of saint-jacques-la-boucherie, emphasises the strangeness of this neighbourhood, in which the exterior, though renewed, has been partly preserved, but which has been more modified and transformed as regards inhabitants and customs than perhaps any other quarter. it was, in fact, in the rue quincampoix that the famous law established his offices of the mississippi bank. there, all paris suffered the fever of speculation. the madness was general. for months nothing but folly and ruin reigned. all gambled--duchess, priest, philosopher and courtier, shopkeeper and ballet-actress, peer and lackey, excise-farmer and his clerk. in order to profit by proximity to the celebrated stock-jobber, each shop, room and cellar even, rented at foolishly high prices, was turned into a gaming establishment; and the case is quoted of a cobbler who hired for a hundred livres a day his stall stinking with wax and old leather; the gold mania had broken down all distinctions. and then the fatal crisis came, the panic, the crash. in the rue quincampoix one saw none but despairing faces. every day there was a series of murders, suicides, attacks of lunacy. on one single occasion, twenty-seven bodies of suicides or murdered people were fished out of the river at the nets of saint-cloud. to speculate still, money at any price was needed. highway robbery was practised, and the footpads were of all classes of society. one of these, the young count de horn, a relative of the regent, and already notorious through his follies, hired two rascals of his own kind, enticed a rich young stock-jobber into an inn of the rue de venise, stabbed him and took his money. the scandal was enormous! both court and city lost their heads. would justice at last act and severity be shown? there was a good deal of intriguing and excitement; but, finally, the lieutenant for criminal affairs, acting on the orders of the regent, arrested the count de horn, on the nd of march ; and, four days after, the latter was broken on the wheel and executed in the centre of the grève square, amidst the applause of all paris. [illustration: moliÈre's house in the rue de la tonnellerie _water-colour by hervier_] the rue quincampoix likewise contains some few old mansions now inhabited by certain "medical specialists," cheese-dealers, eau-de-seltz makers, &c. at nos. , , , , and, notably, at no. , are seen remnants of forged iron, broken balconies, chipped grotesque masks of stone.... but the whole is tumbling to pieces, and to ruin, and only by a strong effort of the imagination can one reconstitute, out of these wretched fragments, the life of luxury, fever and stock-jobbing that once filled this old street, now foul with chemical smells and rancid odours of fried potatoes. collé's prophecy has been fulfilled: "one no longer belongs to paris when one belongs to the marais!" trade has laid hold of the fine mansions of yore; druggists have set up their distilleries in them, toy-makers sell their puppets in them, and the hawker with his paris article is the monarch that governs them. the population at present is poor, laborious, yet intelligent and active; and the contrast between it and the transformed dwellings wherein it dwells is not without interest and grace. a visit to the archives, marais and saint-merri quarters is certainly something no one should omit. the picturesque line of central boulevards extends from the bastille to the madeleine church. there paris life may be studied under the most varied aspects, as well as the most elegant. to speak of there being a general characterisation of the boulevards would be hardly correct, inasmuch as each of them has its special physiognomy. [illustration: the tower of saint-jacques-la-boucherie about _lithographed by a. durand_] the beaumarchais boulevard has an atmosphere of middle-class tranquillity about it. nothing has survived of the fine mansion, surmounted with a feather-shaped weather-cock and flag, which was built there by the author of the _mariage de figaro_, nor yet of the famous gardens, once the wonder of paris, which could only be visited with a special card signed by beaumarchais himself and given but to few. yet some one of our own generation has known them, and penetrated into what for a while remained of the gorgeous abode; and that some one is victorien sardou. did he have a presentiment that, in talent and wit, he would one day be the successor of the beaumarchais whose property he thus intruded on? anyway, in , victorien sardou, aged seven, was living with his parents in the place de la bastille. with his little companions he used to play at ball or with hoop round the elephant and the canal banks. at the entrance to the beaumarchais boulevard of to-day some long, worm-eaten palisades bordered a piece of waste ground. on the palisades were hung halfpenny pictures of actors, actresses, and soldiers; and no one was fonder of looking at them than the little sardou. one day, while enjoying his open-air picture-gallery, he caught a glimpse of a huge garden through the interstice between two of the palings. "what was this garden?" "suppose he entered!" so he and another urchin of his own age wrenched away a paling with the sticks of their hoops, and in a delight of terror slipped into the unknown domain. what an amazement! they found themselves in a sleeping beauty's realm. weeds, lianes, branches, trees had grown over everything. it was a flora and fauna of the virgin forests; rabbits, birds and butterflies were its denizens; and robinson crusoe was not more surprised in exploring his island than these two youngsters in wandering about this jungle. sardou vaguely remembers there being a ruined pavilion and some tumble-down old walls; what he recollects better are the banks, ditches, and slopes where he and his companion had such delightful escapades; and nothing is more interesting than to hear this witty and charming talker relate his stories of the bygone paris which he regrets so much and remembers so well. the old dwellings have disappeared. a single one still exists at the corner of the rue saint-claude, no. . it is the celebrated abode in which the talented charlatan, cagliostro, installed his furnaces, his crucibles, his alembics, his transformation machines, all the weird utensils that served for his magic sittings. the house has not been much altered. it remains, as always, strange, enigmatical, mysterious, with its staircases constructed in the body of the walls, its secret corridors, its mechanical ceilings, its cellars of many exits. the greatest lords, the noblest dames frequented this abode. cardinal de rohan was a familiar guest. the report ran that gold was made there, and that cagliostro, the great copht, had discovered the secret of the philosopher's stone! he offered, continued the legend, repasts of thirteen covers at which the guests were enabled to call up the dead, which was why montesquieu, choiseul, voltaire and diderot had taken part at cagliostro's last supper. all that made a stir; there were murmurs; the thing was proclaimed a scandal. louis xvi. shrugged his shoulders and marie antoinette forbade any one to "speak to her of this charlatan." but every one tried to obtain entrance into the "divine sorcerer's house," and lorenza, his wife, was obliged to open a class of magic for the benefit of the ladies of the upper circles. then came the affair of the necklace. cagliostro, being compromised with cardinal de rohan and madame de lamotte, was arrested and thrown into the bastille; and it was not until ten months later, on the st of june , that he was able to return to the house in the rue saint-claude, escorted by a crowd of eight to ten thousand persons, blocking the boulevard, the courtyard of the house and the staircases. he was cheered, embraced, carried in triumph. this grand day was a climax. a few hours after it, a king's order banished him from france, and the house was shut up. only in were its doors reopened for the sale of the furniture; and the sight must have been a curious one! in , the building was repaired; the leaves of the entrance gate were changed; those to-day opening into the rue saint-claude came from the ancient buildings of the temple; so that the gates of louis xvi.'s prison give access now to the mansion where cagliostro once performed his marvels. in the filles-du-calvaire boulevard stands the winter circus, still unchanged, with its icarian games and its equilibrists, its smiling horse-women who for so many years have leaped through the same paper-filled hoops and made the same pleased bow to the worshipping crowd. but, if the spectacle is not much varied, the public of youngsters is constantly renewed, and the laughs we heard in our childhood still welcome the same clowns' grimaces. only monsieur loyal is no longer there, the admirable, imposing monsieur loyal, tight-buttoned in his fine blue coat, who, with such noble gesture and slashing whip, restrained the mocking clown's quips and quirks or the shyings of the mare rigolette exhibited at liberty. [illustration: alexander's grand cafe royal on the temple boulevard _water-colour by arrivet_] would any one now believe that for more than a century the temple boulevard was the centre of paris gaiety? a charming engraving by saint-aubin shows us it joyous, smart, and full of life. coaches, cabs, and other vehicles pass and repass; grand ladies and fashionably dressed women rival with each other in grace, manners and toilet, the latter of the strangest names; and the draughtsman briou can write below a fashion engraving of the period: "the provoking julia reposing on the boulevard, while awaiting a stroke of good fortune; she is in morning gown with a diana hat that flying hearts adorn." at alexander's cafè royal, there is supper and dancing; people crowd to listen to nicolet's patter; and a circle of hearers surround fanchon, the hurdy-gurdy player. on the same boulevard, curtius sets up his luxuriously arranged wax-work saloons; and, later, the parades of bobèche and galimafré will be the joy of paris; for a long time, the fair will continue. [illustration: fanchon, the hurdy-gurdy player _original drawing_ (ch. drouet collection)] the ambigu, the historic theatre, the gaiety, the funambules, the olympic circus, the little-lazari, the délassements comiques,--ten theatres or so will add to the excitement with their strange, nervous, grandiloquent, noisy companies of actors. the gay apprentices, at all times fond of plays, will cheer as they go by the heroes of all these dramas and melodramas, so numerous that popular slang had nicknamed as crime boulevard the thoroughfare where, at twelve each evening, so much blood flowed on the boards of these theatres. there were madame dorval, mademoiselle george, mademoiselle déjazet, messieurs bocage, mélingue, bouffé, dumaine, saint-ernest, boutin, colbrun, lesueur, deburau--the ideal pierrot--and also gobert, so like napoleon i., as was taillade, who, thin and nervous, was incarnating bonaparte. it was the period when the bonapartist epopee turned people's heads to such an extent that the poor comedian briand, who, in one of the many napoleon plays, was acting the ungrateful part of sir hudson lowe, said: "i shall never have a similar success. yesterday, i was waited for at the theatre door and thrown into the château-d'eau canal basin!" [illustration: view of the ambigu-comique on the temple boulevard _lallemand, del._ (carnavalet museum)] all the quarter waxed enthusiastic about its favourite actors, espoused their quarrels, repeated their witticisms or their adventures: frédéric lemaitre especially, a tragic, dare-devil, drinking, extravagant yet talented artist, decking himself in private life, as well as on the stage, in the frayed-out plumes of don cæsar de bazan, had his own story. people went into ecstasies over his amours with clarisse miroy, interwoven with thrashings and fond tenderness. on the day after one of these noisy quarrels, frédéric is said to have rung at his lady-love's door, which was opened by clarisse's mother. the good dame, frightened at the brutal actor's appearance, raised her arm instinctively as if to ward off a blow.... "i beat you, i!" thundered frédéric in richard d'arlington's tones, "i beat you! why?... do i love you?" [illustration: the funambules theatre on the temple boulevard _water-colour by martial_ (carnavalet museum)] the historic theatre subsequently became the lyric theatre, and the wonderful madame miolan-carvalho, the queen of song, was there to create, with her magnificent art, _faust_, _mireille_, _jeannette's wedding_, _queen topaz_, &c. about , the celebrated composer massenet, yet a pupil at the conservatory and on the point of obtaining his rome prize, discharged in the theatre orchestra the duties of kettle-drummer, for the modest salary of forty-five francs a month. [illustration: the ambigu theatre and boulevard about _canella, pinxit_] others to perform there were the davenport brothers and the conjurer robin, with their amusing séances of hypnotism and white magic. on this always-to-be-remembered temple boulevard were to be met the various fashionable authors: dennery, théodore barrière, victor séjour, paul féval, gounod, berlioz, a. adam, clapisson, saint-georges, the cogniard brothers, clairville; and the great dumas used to pass in triumph, shaking hands with everybody as he went. the coffee-houses had to turn customers away; orange-sellers made fortunes, while boys sold checks, conveyed nosegays to pretty actresses, and hailed cabs. people called to each other, shouted, disputed, laughed above all, under the indulgent eye of the police and to the noise of liquorice-water-seller's bell: it was the golden age! in , a regrettable decision of baron haussmann, the prefect of the seine, suppressed this bit of paris, so lively and gay; and, on the ruins of all these theatres, which brought money and mirth to the quarter, were built prince eugène's barracks, the ugly hôtel moderne, and the wretched monument of the republic square. of all this fine, artistic past nothing is left except the tiny déjazet theatre, at the corner of the vendôme passage, and the turkish coffee-house; the latter different far from what it was when bailly depicted it under the directory. elegant dames, the merveilleuses, the incroyables used to frequent it for the purpose of nibbling an ice or sipping little pots of cream, while listening to cithern concerts. young savoyards made their marmots dance in presence of "sensitive souls," and thrifty burgesses of the quarter took their family to get an idea of the high parisian life which made the turkish coffee-house one of its favourite meeting-places. restaurants were numerous, being souvenirs of coffee-houses formerly renowned, like the godet and yon cafés. there one found singing and dancing, and, now and again, plotting. it was at the burgundy vintage restaurant in the temple faubourg, the ordinary rendezvous of paris wedding-breakfasts or national guard love-feasts, that--on the th of may , at the end of a banquet given to celebrate the acquittal of guinard, cavaignac, and the garnier brothers, charged with plotting against the state--Évariste gallois, with a knife in his hand, proposed in three words this threatening toast: "to louis-philippe!" the great flaubert lived on the temple boulevard at no. . there, on sundays, he gathered his disciples at noisy lunches--zola, goncourt, daudet, de maupassant, huysmans, céard, george pouchet--a few yards away from a building of tragic fame. no. , in fact, was the wretched house whose third-story venetian blinds concealed fieschi and the twenty-five pistol barrels loaded with bullets which constituted his infernal machine. a train of powder passed over twenty-five lights. the discharge of grapeshot to be vomited by this dreadful instrument of death was terrible. the grocer morey, who had helped to prepare the monstrous crime, had even taken the useful precaution to damage four of the gun-barrels, whose explosion was to suppress fieschi himself. pépin, another accomplice, had been careful to walk his horse several times past the fatal window; and from behind the venetian blinds, fieschi, who was an excellent shot, had been able at his ease to regulate the aim of his horrible slaughtering-machine. it was intended that louis-philippe, who had ten times escaped the assassin's hand, should, on this occasion, be struck by it. the conspirators, however, had not calculated that the king, when reviewing the national guard, would avoid the middle of the boulevard, which sloped down towards the sides for draining purposes, and would keep to the lower portions, along which the troops were stationed. the rain of bullets therefore passed over the king's head, touching only the top of his cocked-hat, and mowed down women, children, officers and other spectators that were on the king's left. it was a frightful butchery; the boulevard streamed with blood. more than forty victims lay on the road, among them being the glorious marshal mortier, who expired on one of the marble tables in the turkish coffee-house, whither the dead and wounded had been transported. fieschi, who was wounded, was arrested in the backyard of the next house, while trying to fly through the rue des fossés-du-temple. on the th of february , he ascended the scaffold with his accomplices, pépin and morey. at the corner of the temple boulevard, to the right, in front of the first house in the voltaire boulevard, the barricade was raised where delescluze was killed in may . at this spot, formerly stood the gaiety theatre; while the lyric theatre opened its doors on the present site of the metropolitan railway station in the republic square. [illustration: the porte saint-martin _houbron, pinxit_ (g. cain collection)] the saint-martin boulevard, where paul de kock took up his abode, in order to study from his windows, which were on the first story, near the porte saint-martin, the seething life of the capital, now has no animation except in the evening. four theatres--the folies-dramatiques, the ambigu, the porte saint-martin, and the renaissance--add life and movement to it then; and nothing is more amusing than the hour following the end of the performances. the coffee-houses fill with visitors, cigarettes are lighted, newspaper-vendors shout the latest news; people hustle, and touts run after carriages, in which one sees a rapidly passing vision of pretty women in light-coloured dresses and opera-cloaks. afterwards issue the actors, with blue chins and turned-up collars, and often looking cross. last of all, come the handsome actresses, who quickly step into their brougham, inside which may frequently be seen, dimly outlined behind the red point of a cigarette, the form of an expectant friend. [illustration: the rue saint martin ( )--the green-wood tower _drawn by a. maignan_] near the porte saint-denis, at the entrance to the narrow rue de cléry, there was formerly a rise in the road, which was the scene of a tragic occurrence. there, on the st of january , the intrepid de batz had appointed to meet a few companions. it was determined that a forlorn hope should be led with a view to snatch louis xvi. from the shame of the guillotine. the plan was to force the line of soldiers, to overpower the escort surrounding the carriage, and to carry off the king. but, already, on the day before, the committee of public safety had been warned "by a well-known private individual," say the police reports, of the mad plot that was in preparation, and every necessary precaution was taken. during the night all the persons denounced in the warning as suspicious were placed under arrest. de batz, who thought to find a hundred and fifty confederates at the meeting-place, only found seven. notwithstanding their small number, they did not hesitate, and rushed at the horses' heads. the guards cut them down. three were killed. de batz managed to escape. [illustration: the rue de clÉry _lansyer, pinxit_] this strange, winding rue de cléry, whose thin edge stands out so curiously against the sky, was the scene of another drama. the father of andré and marie-joseph chénier lived at no. . there, on the th of thermidor, he was anxiously waiting for the liberation of his son andré, who for long months had been a prisoner at saint-lazare. the poor man had foolishly taken it into his head to appeal to collot d'herbois' heart(!) and to ask him to free his son. collot d'herbois had once been an actor; and now, on another sort of stage, revenged himself for having been hissed. he had not forgotten the lines in which andré chénier had satirised him in such masterly fashion, but he did not know in what prison his enemy was confined. marie-joseph, the brother, himself an object of suspicion, had been able to lengthen out the proceedings and to keep as a secret the place where andré was confined. at this supreme hour of the terror, it was the only possible chance collot d'herbois had to satisfy his vengeance; and the information thus unadvisedly but innocently given by the prisoner's father was utilised by the revengeful actor. "to-morrow," collot assured the unhappy father, "your son shall quit saint-lazare." he kept his word; and, on the th of thermidor, just at the hour when the guest was so impatiently expected, andré got into the cart to go to the scaffold, erected that day at the barrier of the throne square. round about the picturesque rue de cléry, the quarter is an odd medley of little streets, lanes, and alleys: the rue notre-dame-de-recouvrance, the rue sainte-foy, the rue des petits-carreaux, the rue de la lune, in which last balzac lodged his lucien de rubempré watching over coralie's dead body, and composing libertine songs, in order to gain the money required for his mistress's funeral. in these tortuous, sombre, narrow streets it is easy to reconstitute the physiognomy of the older paris; ancient dwellings are still numerous enough; but, as in the marais, are given over to petty trade and industry. after the egyptian campaign, the consulate cut a certain number of new streets bearing the names of victories: the rues de damiette, d'aboukir, du nil. on the site of the cairo square, once stood the mansion of the temple knights, or knights templars. a portion of an old gothic chapel, in which were preserved the helmet and armour of jacques molay, founder and grand master of the order, was used in as a meeting-place by surviving adepts of this rite; and rosa bonheur's father, who was a knight templar, had his daughter baptized there beneath an "arch of steel" made by the crossed swords of the order, clad in white tunics, with a red cross embroidered on their breasts, booted in deer-skin, and coifed with a white cloth square cap surmounted by three feathers--one yellow, one black, and one white! [illustration: the poissonniÈre boulevard in _dagnan, pinxit_ (carnavalet museum)] a delightful picture by dagnan, which is now in the carnavalet museum, shows us the poissonnière boulevard in . most of the houses remain to-day; but, alas! the tall, thick-foliaged trees that made the boulevard a sort of park avenue have long since disappeared. that lover of paris, victorien sardou, who was born in it, and who is cheered, loved, and honoured in it, very well remembers seeing the trees as they used to be, and his long saunterings in front of the gymnase theatre. did he foresee the successes he was to gain with _les ganaches_, _les vieux garçons_, _les bons villageois_, _andréa_, _féréol_, _séraphine_, _fernande_, &c.? [illustration: the gymnase theatre _etching by martial_] further on, we come across the ancient variety theatre, whose antique front speaks of a glorious past; duvert, lauzanne, bayard, scribe, meilhac, ludovic halévy, and, above all, offenbach, whose haunting music bewitched paris for twenty years. ludovic halévy, who was a charming chronicler of paris life, has left us an interesting sketch of the montmartre boulevard towards : "the variety actors had been obliged to quit the montansier hall; their vaudevilles had more success than the tragedies at the théâtre français. the emperor made a decree depriving them of the palais-royal premises; but they were allowed to move to new premises on the montmartre boulevard!... a frightful quarter for a theatre!... it was almost in the country; not one of the large houses existed which you see there! nothing but little single-story shops, wretched wooden stalls, and the two small panoramas of monsieur boulogne.... no foot-pavements, a road simply of beaten earth between two rows of tall trees.... a few old cabs and carriages passed now and again.... in fine, the country.... it was the country!!.." [illustration: the variety theatre about _from a sepia of the period_ (carnavalet museum)] with the variety theatre began what was called, without epithet, _the boulevard_. for idlers, saunterers, wits, clubmen, writers, journalists, under the second empire, it was a sort of sacred ground. grammont-caderousse, the prince of orange, khalil-bey, paul demidoff, aurélien scholl, roqueplan, aubryet, jules lecomte, auguste villemot were kings there. the café anglais, the maison dorée, tortoni's were frequented by the fashionables of society and literature. the gas flared, champagne corks flew, and one had only to open pianos for them to play automatically the evohe of _orpheus in hades_! an apropos witticism stopped a quarrel. the princes of intelligence held their own with princes of the blood or of money; as, for instance, on the day when, at tortoni's, the duke de grammont-caderousse flung a packet of goose-quills in the face of paul mahalin, who, the day before, in a small newspaper had severely animadverted on the diva s----, she being under the duke's protection. "from mademoiselle s----," said the duke. making his grandest bow, mahalin retorted: "i was aware, monsieur, that mademoiselle s---- feathered her lovers, but i did not dare hope it was for my benefit." [illustration: the boulevards, the hotel de salm, and windmills of montmartre view taken from the hanging gardens of the rue louis-le-grand _water-colour of the eighteenth century_ (carnavalet museum)] since the dark days of , the elegant boulevard has become more democratic. the old dwellings themselves have changed their uses; and electro-plate is sold in the beautiful pavilion built by marshal de saxe--after the hanoverian wars--at the corner of the boulevard and the rue louis-le-grand. in the eighteenth century, some one took it into his head to decorate with flowers the roofs of the houses in the vicinity of this fine mansion; so that it was possible to dine merrily--under the shade of hornbeams--while watching the windmills of montmartre turn in the distance. the example has been imitated in our own times--people cried that it was an innovation; this is only another error; there is nothing new under the sun. what is done is merely a modification, and generally the alteration is for the worse! tortoni's flight of steps has disappeared. taverns, with their onion soup and their sourcrout and sausage, replace the aristocratic restaurants of yore. the features are different; but still it is a paris nook, really gay, amusing, and original. a walk in it is delightful, though nothing, alas! can be said to vividly recall the past, since the terrible fire of destroyed the comic opera of our fathers; the opera of grétry, dalayrac, méhul, boïeldieu, and hérold; the opera whose façade does not open on the boulevard, according to the desire formally expressed in to heurtier, the architect, by the king's comedians refusing to be confused with the "boulevard comedians"; the opéra-comique where, every evening, in the spacious _foyer_ adorned with busts of dead musical celebrities and composers that had contributed to the theatre's fame, the habitués met whose attendance was a protest against modern music: auber, adam, clapisson, bazin, maillard; later, and with another æsthetic doctrine, g. bizet, léo delibes, v. massé, j. massenet, carvalho, meilhac, halévy, and old dupin, the last an astonishing centenarian who, one evening, with rancorous eye looked at hérold's bust and grumbled: "how that urchin used to rile me!" in presence of the general bewilderment he explained: "i was his school companion, in , at saint-louis' college!" we were then in may ! this was the obstinately reactionary dupin who once drew from a contradictor the threatening retort: "we missed you in ' . when the next revolution comes, we'll take good care not to!" [illustration: the rue de la barre, at montmartre _houbron, pinxit_] the amiable chats, the agreeable meetings which brought together so many witty people, clever talkers, artists, men of the world, those of the comic opera _foyer_, of the grand opera, or the comédie française are now hardly anything but a memory. not that the practice itself is abolished. art gatherings are quite as frequent and as well attended; but they have emigrated,--many of them to montmartre, to the "butte sacrée," the holy mound, "the teat of the world," yelled the astonishing salis in his _chat noir_ patter; and truly the spot is one of the capital's curiosities. gay, industrious, cynical, flippant, and yet religious, this composite quarter offers the most singular mingling of poets, painters, sculptors, lemonade-makers and pilgrims. on the clichy and batignolles boulevards, the revolving lights of the moulin rouge illuminate a population of rakes, dandies, artists, lemans and bullies. each wine-shop--and there are many--harbours one or several poets, more or less comic, but always railers and _rosses_,[ ] as the witty fursy says, one of the best performers in these "music-boxes." in these latter the great ones of the earth, politicians, ministers, are unmercifully berhymed, as also the events of the day; a minister's latest speech, pelletan's elegance, le bargy's cravats, santos-dumont's ascent, the pope's latest encyclical letter, the automobile tax, the divorce of the moment, the king of spain's recent visit, or that of the prince of bulgaria, all put into couplets. [illustration: a street in montmartre _houbron, pinxit_ (carnavalet museum)] montmartre is the capital's pot-house; it is all good-humoured laughter and chaff. people enjoy themselves at night and work in the day, for it has always been a favourite abode for artists of every kind: henri monnier, the duchess d'abrantès, madame haudebourg-lescot, mademoiselle mars, horace vernet, berlioz, ch. jacque, reyer, victor massé, vollon, manet, andré gill, steinlen, guillemet, willette, jules jouy, mac-nab, xanrof, maurice donnay. their memory there is alive and respected, the legend of their prowess is preserved. it is montmartre's _iliad_. [illustration: the rue des rosiers _etching by martial_] a few yards from these noisy streets, the "butte" begins, on which, at the close of the siege, the parisians had hoisted the national guards' cannons. in vain the government tried to regain possession of them; and the rest is known:--the resistance, the troops disbanded, generals clement thomas and lecomte arrested, dragged into a small house in the rue des rosiers and shot against a garden wall. part of the wall still stands; and though the house has disappeared in which this tragedy of the th of march was played, a little of the garden itself remains, behind the modern buildings of the _abri saint-joseph_, vast sheds used as refectories by the crowds of pilgrims attracted to the basilica of the sacré-coeur. indeed, all this quarter is melancholy-looking, silent, quaint, and monastic. chaplet, scapulary, candle, missal, and pious picture-dealers have their shops in it. the spot is a sort of religious fair; even the streets have liturgical names: saint-eleuthère, saint-rustique, near the rue girardon, and the calvary cemetery, overlooked by the awkward outlines of the old galette windmill, the ordinary rendezvous for idlers, boulevard inquisitives, artists' models, lemans and bullies of the neighbourhood. the ancient montmartre, with its picturesqueness, is again met with in the rue saint-vincent, in the rue des saules containing the "lively rabbit" tavern, and in the rue de la fontaine-du-but, sordid streets, bordered with sorry habitations whose windows are hung with linen drying, and which seem at each story to harbour a different poverty; strange streets, running for the most part between a crumbling old house and a hoarding mossy with rain and covered with inscriptions. as a matter of fact, these palisades serve as an outlet for the confidences of the "pals" and their "gals" of the quarter. amorous effusions may be read side by side with threats, and the great ones of the earth are sometimes severely dealt with. the epithet is always a bitter one. it savours of debauch, vice and crime. [illustration: the place de la concorde in _canella, pinxit_ (carnavalet museum)] and yet, in this corner of paris, which modern embellishments will soon have made unrecognisable, bits of admirable scenery are to be met with, exquisite lanes of verdure, birds, tame pigeons, whistling blackbirds; and one might fancy one's self far away in some peaceful country-place, if, at the end of all these streets, were not seen the huge violet-coloured mass of the capital, in fairy panorama, an ocean of stone, whence heave, like masts, the bell-towers of palaces, the turrets, belfries and steeples of churches, with domes, roofs and gardens--an incomparable vision of art, grandeur and beauty. the great balzac informs us that césar birotteau was ruined by speculations he engaged in on the "waste ground round about the madeleine church." he lost in them the profits realised by his "eau carminative" and by the "double pâte des sultanes." his "rose queen" perfumery was swallowed up in them.... and, however, césar birotteau was right in his reasoning. to-day, the madeleine building ground is the highest quoted in paris. in , the surface was occupied by foundation works and scaffolding, showing the pillars of the church so long since commenced and still in the building. [illustration: ingenuous benevolence _duplessis-bertaux, inv. et del._] there took place the charming episode depicted by duplessis-bertaux, under the pleasing title: "ingenuous benevolence" (an historic fact of the th messidor, anno x.). a long notice, beneath the picture, tells us that pradère, persuis, elleviou and "his spouse," walking one evening along the magdalene boulevard, met a blind street-singer, who "by the strains of his piano was soliciting public charity." the receipts were wretched; so our kind artists improvised a little open-air concert and remedied the ill-fortune of the poor fellow. after delightfully singing, madame elleviou, her husband and pradère made a collection, and poured the proceeds, thirty-six francs, into the blind man's hands trembling with emotion! [illustration: the place de la concorde (second view) _from a sepia of the eighteenth century_] along the rue royale, we reach the champs-elysées, after stopping for a moment at the "cité berryer," a strange alley in which once stood the hotel of the king's musketeers. it is a sort of poor market lost in this rich quarter. [illustration: the entrance to the tuileries, over the swing-bridge, in _original water-colour of the eighteenth century_ (carnavalet museum)] then comes the place de la concorde, the finest square in the world, with its unrivalled perspectives of the champs elysées, the seine, the tuileries, the garde-meuble, the crillon mansion, and the charming house of grimod de la reynière, to-day the cercle de l'union artistique, at the corner of the rue de "la bonne morue"--at present the rue boissy d'anglas--in front of which still stood, until the second empire, one of the corner pavilions erected by gabriel. what souvenirs! the raising of louis the fifteenth's statue; the festivities in honour of the dauphin's marriage to marie antoinette, so tragically terminated by a catastrophe--the crowd that had come to witness the fireworks being crushed in the moat--which was the beginning of the hatred against the "austrian woman"; the reviews of the swiss guards; the military charges of lambesc; the people's storming of the swing-bridge, the gates forced, the ditches crossed, and then the sinister scaffold, smoking in front of the statue to liberty, and the conventionals terrified, stopping before they entered their hall and taking a close look at the death which, each day, hovered over them. "yesterday, as i was proceeding to the assembly with pénières," writes dulaure in his memoirs, "we perceived, as we passed through the revolution square, preparations being made for an execution. 'let us pause,' my colleague said to me; 'let us accustom ourselves to the sight. perhaps we shall soon need to make proof of our courage by calmly ascending this scaffold. let us familiarise ourselves with the punishment.'" [illustration: corner pavilion of the louis xv. square at the angle of the rue de la bonne-morue about (to-day the rue boissy-d'anglas) _etching by martial_] severed heads were exhibited by the executioner at the four corners of the huge square: danton, camille desmoulins, hérault de séchelles, charlotte corday, madame roland, louis xvi., marie antoinette, and robespierre. a dreadful pell-mell, a disastrous butchery; the ground was red with blood. then followed the soldiers of the empire, singing as they defiled, on entering the tuileries to cheer their triumphant emperor at his return from some victorious campaign. a white head, big golden epaulets, a blue ribbon: such was the appearance of louis xviii., impotent, with paralysed legs, who, in his carriage surrounded with body-guards, galloped through the square at full speed. it was at the corner of this place de la concorde that, on the th of february , louis-philippe, broken and vanquished, got into the humble cab that proved to be the hearse of the monarchy. napoleon iii., with his blue dreamy eyes, used to cross it nearly every day, driving his phaeton; and the boy, whom the parisians of that time called "the little prince," would show his pretty fair head of hair at the window of the "berline" escorted by the household troops. [illustration: view in the tuileries gardens in _drawn by norblin_ (carnavalet museum)] the gates of the tuileries were again to open, on the th of september , under the pressure of the invaders; and, during the siege of paris, artillery were to camp in the vast ruined garden. finally, the palace of the kings of france was to disappear in a cloud of fire, 'midst the last convulsions of the expiring commune; and, to-day, a poor fellow, in a shabby sun-faded cloak and wearing an old felt hat, spends his time distributing bread and grain to the paris pigeons and sparrows, on the very spot where once stood the rostrum of the convention, some yards from the place where the four hoofs of the emperor napoleon's white horse pranced, as his rider reviewed the guard, before flying his victorious eagles towards moscow, madrid, rome, vienna, or berlin! the champs elysées are of almost modern creation. a decade ago, the fine avenues surrounding the arc de l'etoile--the avenue kléber, the avenue wagram, the avenue niel, the avenue de l'alma--offered most picturesque contrasts; beside a sumptuous mansion, subsisted wretched little houses, remains of old hovels that once were scattered all over this luxurious quarter, where now nothing recalls the waste pieces of land, dangerous even to cross, of sixty years ago. under the directory, madame tallien's cottage (notre dame de thermidor, she was called) to which the incroyables and the merveilleuses dared not go without escort, was situated as far up as the avenue montaigne. dancing-gardens and open-air bars occupied the space now filled by restaurants and cafés-concerts. an engraving by carle vernet shows us a cossack encampment round a humble, country-looking inn. now the le doyen restaurant stands there! [illustration: the rue greuze in _chauvet, del._] under louis-philippe, the champs-elysées were at length altered: side avenues were laid out, the main avenue was widened; and emile augier used to relate that, in the hollow of one of the trees numbered for trimming (no. , i believe), the ticket porter belonging to the gymnase theatre deposited the one intended for balzac at the time of the rehearsals of _mercadet_. the great novelist, in order to escape from his numerous creditors, was lodging at this period in the rue beaujon, under the name of madame dupont, widow. gozlan, who ultimately discovered his illustrious friend's address, added on the envelopes he sent to him--"née balzac." [illustration: the madrid chÂteau _l. g. moreau, pinxit_] the curious memoirs of the abbé de salamon, a papal internuncio, give us a striking picture of the bois de boulogne under the revolution: a sort of forest, or jungle, in which those took refuge who, being suspected, were tracked by the committees and the police, and to whom the precious citizens' card had been refused. "i continually remained in the thickest part of the bois de boulogne," he says. "it seemed to me that each person i met read on my face that i was outlawed and was hastening to deliver me to the headsman. i took up my abode in the loneliest place of the wood. i lit a fire with a tinder-box and some twigs, and cooked my vegetables; my soup was excellent.... later i discovered another fairly convenient spot, on the side of the bagatelle villa, quite near to the pyramid and not far from madrid. [illustration: the bagatelle pavilion _l. g. moreau, pinxit_] "one night, i was wakened in the middle of my dreams by the piercing cries of two women, who drew back terrified on beholding me through the darkness of night. "it was a mother and her daughter, who also were flying from an arrest-warrant. i called to them: 'keep silence, whoever you are! you have nothing to fear.' they asked me what i was doing in the wood so late: 'the same thing as you no doubt are doing yourselves,' i answered." subsequently it became the ordinary meeting-place for duellists. already, in the time of louis xv., some ladies, the marchioness de nesles and the countess de polignac, had exchanged pistol shots in it on account of the duke de richelieu. under the revolution, in , cazalès and barnave went there to settle a political quarrel: "i should be sorry to kill you," exclaimed cazalès; "but you annoy us considerably, and i want to keep you away from the rostrum for a while." "i am more generous," retorted barnave; "i wish merely to touch you; for you are the only orator on your side, whereas on mine my absence would not even be perceived." afterwards it was elleviou and monsieur de bieville; general foy and monsieur de corday; marshal soult and colonel briqueville; benjamin constant and forbin des essarts; with this peculiarity in the last duel that the two adversaries fought at ten yards' distance, sitting in two armchairs, which were not even grazed! and how many others!... [illustration: a performance at the hippodrome on eylau square under the second empire] under louis-philippe, the duke d'orléans, the duke de nemours, lord seymour, the duke de fitz-james, ernest le roy--the jockey club at its formation--organised races there. the stakes were modest; most often, a few bottles of champagne were gained and lost. then fashion took hold of the thing. more importance was attached to racing; and, to-day, it is the great parisian event--in festivities. as early as , the hippodrome of the eylau square revived the souvenir of antiquity's favourite chariot-races. the bois de boulogne became the rendezvous of society. there, was displayed the luxury of the second empire. its trees and avenues formed an exquisite framework to elegance and worldly show. in the _curèe_, emile zola was able to write: "it was four o'clock and the bois awoke from its afternoon sultriness. along the empress' avenue, clouds of dust were flying; and, afar, lawns of verdure could be seen, with the hills of saint-cloud and suresnes beyond, crowned with the grey of mont valerien. the sun, aloft on the horizon, sailed in an effulgence of golden light that filled the depths of the foliage, flamed the top branches, and transformed this ocean of leaves into an ocean of luminousness.... the varnished panels of the carriages, the flashing of the copper and steel mountings, the bright colours of the dresses streamed together with the horses' regular trot, and cast on the background of the bois a broad, moving band, a beam from the welkin, lengthening as it followed the curves of the road. the waved roundness of the sunshades radiated like metal moons." the sight has not changed. it is the same triumphal defile, which each day gathers within these select surroundings the most elegant women in paris, fashionable horsemen, vibrating autocars with their _chauffeurs_, clubmen as well as artists and workmen, who come to enjoy the fair spectacle, this feast of the eyes, this unique scenery: the bois de boulogne, the avenue du bois, the champs elysées. [illustration: the arc de triomphe about ] from the top of the arc de triomphe, 'mid the twilight of may, the vision is a magic one; it is from the terraces of the portico erected to the glory of the grand army that a view is obtained of the sumptuous quarters of modern paris. some sixty years ago, balzac showed his hero dreaming on the hill of père-lachaise, and contemplating, as it lay in the valley, the monster he intended to tame. to-day rastignac would have to mount the arc de triomphe, if he wished to threaten paris. thence, he might launch his famous defiance: "it is a struggle between us now!" for, if the aspect of things has altered, the impression made by the immense city is still and ever the same: an impression of weight, of imperious conflict, of hard victory. in verity, no one disembarks without a sort of anguish in this great paris,--paris, so redoubtable to the valiant that attempt its conquest and so prodigal to the fortunate ones that have known how to win its favour. georges cain. footnotes: [ ] successive landlords have more or less spoilt this fine dwelling. the grand staircase is almost the only part intact, and it is a marvel. the carving is by martin desjardins, and the oval courtyard retains some of its ancient grace. [ ] a word here meaning ultra-naturalistic, broadly satirical. works quoted or consulted _history of and researches into the antiquities of the city of paris_. by h. sauval ( ). _history of the city and diocese of paris_. by the abbÉ lebeuf ( ). _tableau of paris_. by mercier ( ). _history of paris_. by dulaure ( ). _tableau of paris_. by texier ( ). _paris demolished_. by e. fournier ( ). _enigma of the streets of paris_. by e. fournier ( ). _chronicle of the streets of paris_. by e. fournier ( ). _paris throughout the ages_. by e. fournier ( ). _my old paris_. by e. drumont ( ). _paris_. by auguste vitu ( ). _paris (history of the twenty arrondissements or quarters)_. by labÉdolliÈre. _revolutionary paris_. by lenÔtre ( ). _old papers, old houses_. ( ). _the bièvre and saint-séverin_. by huysmans ( ). _the chronicle of the streets_. by beaurepaire ( ). _paris-atlas_. by f. bournon. _new itinerary guide to paris_. by ch. normand. _through old paris_. by the marquis de rochegrude ( ). _minutes of the municipal commission of old paris_ (from ). note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. text printed in italics in the original document is enclosed here between underscores, as in _italics_. a wanderer in paris * * * * * other works by e. v. lucas mr. ingleside over bemerton's listener's lure london lavender one day and another fireside and sunshine character and comedy old lamps for new the hambledon men the open road the friendly town her infinite variety good company the gentlest art the second post a little of everything a swan and her friends a wanderer in florence a wanderer in london a wanderer in holland the british school highways and byways in sussex anne's terrible good nature the slowcoach sir pulteney the life of charles lamb and the pocket edition of the works of charles lamb: i. miscellaneous prose; ii. elia; iii. children's books; iv. poems and plays; v. and vi. letters * * * * * [illustration: hÔtel de sens the rue de l'hÔtel de ville] a wanderer in paris by e. v. lucas with sixteen illustrations in colour by walter dexter and thirty-two reproductions from works of art "i'll go and chat with paris" _--romeo and juliet_ tenth edition methuen & co. ltd. essex street w.c. london _first published (crown vo)_ _august th _ _second edition ( " )_ _september _ _third edition ( " )_ _october _ _fourth edition ( " )_ _january _ _fifth edition ( " )_ _june _ _sixth edition ( " )_ _december _ _seventh edition, revised (fcap. vo)_ _september _ _eighth edition (crown vo)_ _october _ _ninth edition ( " )_ _march _ _tenth edition ( " )_ _february _ preface although the reader will quickly make the discovery for himself, i should like here to emphasise the fact that this is a book about paris and the parisians written wholly from the outside, and containing only so much of that city and its citizens as a foreigner who has no french friends may observe on holiday visits. i express elsewhere my indebtedness to a few french authors. i have also been greatly assisted in a variety of ways, but especially in the study of the older paris streets, by my friend mr. frank holford. e. v. l. note since this new edition was prepared for the press the devastating theft of leonardo da vinci's "monna lisa" was perpetrated. pages - therefore--describing that picture as one of the chief treasures of the louvre--must change their tense to the past. e. v. l. contents page chapter i the english gates of paris chapter ii the ile de la citÉ chapter iii notre dame chapter iv saint louis and his island chapter v the marais chapter vi the louvre: i. the old masters chapter vii the louvre: ii. modern pictures and other treasures chapter viii the tuileries chapter ix the place de la concorde, the champs elysÉes and the invalides chapter x the boulevard st. germain and its tributaries chapter xi the latin quarter chapter xii the panthÉon and sainte geneviÈve chapter xiii two zoos chapter xiv the grands boulevards: i. the madeleine to the opera chapter xv a chair at the cafÉ de la paix chapter xvi the grands boulevards: ii. the opera to the place de la rÉpublique chapter xvii montmartre chapter xviii the elysÉe to the hÔtel de ville chapter xix the place des vosges and hugo's house chapter xx the bastille, pÈre lachaise and the end index list of illustrations in colour the rue de l'hÔtel de ville _frontispiece_ the courtyard of the compas d'or _to face page_ the ile de la citÉ from the pont des arts " notre dame " the arc de triomphe de l'etoile " the parc monceau " the arc de triomphe du carrousel " the place de la concorde " the pont alexandre iii. " the fontaine de mÉdicis " the musÉe cluny " the rue de biÈvre " the boulevard des italiens " the porte st. denis " the sacre coeur de montmartre from the buttes-chaumont " the place des vosges, southern entrance " list of illustrations in black and white map. from a drawing by b. c. boulter _front cover_ the nativity. luini (louvre) _to face page_ from a photograph by mansell giovanna tornabuoni and the cardinal virtues--fresco from the villa lemmi. botticelli (louvre) " la vierge aux rochers. leonardo da vinci (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein sainte anne, la vierge, et l'enfant jÉsus. leonardo da vinci. (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein la pensÉe. rodin (luxembourg) " from a photograph by neurdein balthasar castiglione. raphael (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein l'homme au gant. titian (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein portrait de jeune homme. attributed to bigio (louvre) " from a photograph by alinari the winged victory of samothrace. (louvre) " from a photograph by giraudon la joconde: monna lisa. leonardo da vinci (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein portrait d'une dame et sa fille. van dyck (louvre) " from a photograph by mansell le vallon. corot (louvre, thomy-thierret collection) " from a photograph by neurdein le printemps. rousseau (louvre, thomy-thierret collection) " from a photograph by neurdein vieux homme et enfant. ghirlandaio (louvre) " from a photograph by mansell vÉnus et l'amour. rembrandt (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein les pÈlerins d'emmaÜs. rembrandt (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein la vierge au donateur. j. van eyck (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein portrait de sa mÈre. whistler (luxembourg) " la bohÉmienne. franz hals (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein ste. geneviÈve. puvis de chavannes (panthéon) " from a photograph by neurdein la leÇon de lecture. terburg (louvre) " from a photograph by neurdein la dentelliÈre. vermeer of delft (louvre) " from a photograph by woodbury girl's head. ecole de fabriano (louvre) " from a photograph by mansell le bÉnÉdicitÉ. chardin (louvre) " from a photograph by giraudon madame le brun et sa fille. madame le brun (louvre) " from a photograph by hanfstaengl le pont de mantes. corot (louvre, moreau collection) " from a photograph by neurdein la provende des poules. troyon (louvre, thomy-thierret collection) " from a photograph by alinari the windmill. r. p. bonington (louvre) " l'amateur d'estampes. daumier (palais des beaux arts) " le baiser. rodin (luxembourg) " from a photograph by neurdein la bergÈre gardant ses moutons. millet (louvre, chauchard collection) " le monument aux morts. a. bartholomé (père la chaise) " from a photograph by neurdein a wanderer in paris chapter i the english gates of paris the gare du nord and gare st. lazare--the singing cabman--"vivent les femmes!"--characteristic paris--the next morning--a choice of delights--the compas d'or--the world of dumas--the first lunch--voisin wins. most travellers from london enter paris in the evening, and i think they are wise. i wish it were possible again and again to enter paris in the evening for the first time; but since it is not, let me hasten to say that the pleasure of re-entering paris in the evening is one that custom has almost no power to stale. every time that one emerges from the gare du nord or the gare st. lazare one is taken afresh by the variegated and vivid activity of it all--the myriad purposeful self-contained bustling people, all moving on their unknown errands exactly as they were moving when one was here last, no matter how long ago. for paris never changes: that is one of her most precious secrets. the london which one had left seven or eight hours before was populous enough and busy enough, heaven knows, but london's pulse is slow and fairly regular, and even at her gayest, even when greeting royalty, she seems to be advising caution and a careful demeanour. but paris--paris smiles and paris sings. there is an incredible vivacity in her atmosphere. sings! this reminds me that on the first occasion that i entered paris--in the evening, of course--my cabman sang. he sang all the way from the gare du nord to the rue caumartin. this seemed to me delightful and odd, although at first i felt in danger of attracting more attention than one likes; but as we proceeded down the rue lafayette--which nothing but song and the fact that it is the high road into paris from england can render tolerable--i discovered that no one minded us. a singing cabman in london would bring out the riot act and the military; but here he was in the picture: no one threw at the jolly fellow any of the chilling deprecatory glances which are the birthright of every light-hearted eccentric in my own land. and so we proceeded to the hotel, often escaping collision by the breadth of a single hair, the driver singing all the way. what he sang i knew not; but i doubt if it was of battles long ago: rather, i should fancy, of very present love and mischief. but how fitting a first entry into paris! an hour or so later--it was just twenty years ago, but i remember it so clearly--i observed written up in chalk in large emotional letters on a public wall the words "vivent les femmes!" and they seemed to me also so odd--it seemed to me so funny that the sentiment should be recorded at all, since women were obviously going to live whatever happened--that i laughed aloud. but it was not less characteristic of paris than the joyous baritone notes that had proceeded from beneath the white tall hat of my cocher. it was as natural for one parisian to desire the continuance of his joy as a lover, even to expressing it in chalk in the street, as to another to beguile with lyrical snatches the tedium of cab-driving. i was among the latin people, and, as i quickly began to discover, i was myself, for the first time, a foreigner. that is a discovery which one quickly makes in paris. but i have not done yet with the joy of entering and re-entering paris in the evening--after the long smooth journey across the marshes of picardy or through the orchards of normandy and the valley of the seine--whichever way one travels. but whether one travels by calais, boulogne, dieppe or havre, whether one alights at the gare du nord or st. lazare, once outside the station one is in paris instantly: there is no debatable land between either of these termini and the city, as there is, for example, between the gare de lyons and the city. paris washes up to the very platforms. a few steps and here are the foreign tables on the pavements and the foreign waiters, so brisk and clean, flitting among them; here are the vehicles meeting and passing on the wrong or foreign side, and beyond that, knowing apparently no law at all; here are the deep-voiced newsvendors shouting those magic words _la patrie!_ _la patrie!_ which, should a musician ever write a paris symphony, would recur and recur continually beneath its surface harmonies. and here, everywhere, are the foreign people in their ordered haste and their countless numbers. the pleasure of entering and re-entering paris in the evening is only equalled by the pleasure of stepping forth into the street the next morning in the sparkling parisian air and smelling again the pungent parisian scent and gathering in the foreign look of the place. i know of no such exuberance as one draws in with these first parisian inhalations on a fine morning in may or june--and in paris in may and june it is always fine, just as in paris in january and february it is always cold or wet. his would be a very sluggish or disenchanted spirit who was not thus exhilarated; for here at his feet is the holiday city of europe and the clean sun over all. and then comes the question "what to do?" shall we go at once to "monna lisa"? but could there be a better morning for the children in the champs-elysées? that beautiful head in the his de la salle collection--attributed to the school of fabriano! how delightfully the sun must be lighting up the red walls of the place des vosges! rodin's "kiss" at the luxembourg--we meant to go straight to that! the wheel window in notre dame, in the north transept--i have been thinking of that ever since we planned to come. so may others talk and act; but i have no hesitancies. my duty is clear as crystal. on the first morning i pay a visit of reverence and delight to the ancient auberge of the compas d'or at no. rue montorgeuil. and this i shall always do until it is razed to the earth, as it seems likely to be under the gigantic scheme, beyond haussmann almost, which is to renovate the most picturesque if the least sanitary portions of old paris at a cost of over thirty millions of pounds. unhappy day--may it be long postponed! for some years now i have always approached the compas d'or with trembling and foreboding. can it still be there? i ask myself. can that wonderful wooden hanger that covers half the courtyard have held so long? will there be a motor-car among the old diligences and waggons? but it is always the same. from the street--and the rue montorgeuil is as a whole one of the most picturesque and characteristic of the older streets of paris, with its high white houses, each containing fifty families, its narrowness, its barrows of fruit and green stuff by both pavements, and its crowds of people--from the street, the compas d'or is hardly noticeable, for a butcher and a cutler occupy most of its façade; but the sign and the old carvings over these shops give away the secret, and you pass through one of the narrow archways on either side and are straightway in a romance by the great dumas. into just such a courtyard would d'artagnan have dashed, and leaping from one sweating steed leap on another and be off again amid a shower of sparks on the stones. time has stood still here. there is no other such old inn left. the coach to dreux--now probably a carrier's cart--still regularly runs from this spot, as it has done ever since the beginning of the sixteenth century. rows of horses stand in its massive stables and fill the air with their warm and friendly scent; a score of ancient carts huddle in the yard, in a corner of which there will probably be a little group of women shelling peas; beneath the enormous hanger are more vehicles, and masses of hay on which the carters sleep. the ordinary noise of paris gives way, in this sanctuary of antiquity, to the scraping of hoofs, the rattle of halter bolts, and the clatter of the wooden shoes of ostlers. it is the past in actual being--civilisation, like time, has stood still in the yard of the compas d'or. that is why i hasten to it so eagerly and shall always do so until it disappears for ever. there is nothing else in paris like it. and after? well, the next thing is to have lunch. and since this lunch--being the first--will be the best lunch of the holiday and therefore the best meal of the holiday (for every meal on a holiday in paris is a little better than that which follows it), it is an enterprise not lightly to be undertaken. one must decide carefully, for this is to be an extravagance: the search for the little out-of-the-way restaurant will come later. to-day we are rich. [illustration: the courtyard of the compas d'or, rue montorgeuil] this book is not a guide for the gastronome and gourmet. how indeed could it be, even although when heaven sends a cheerful hour one would scorn to refrain? yet none the less it would be pleasant in this commentary upon a city illustrious for its culinary ingenuity and genius to say something of restaurants. but what is one to say here on such a theme? volumes are needed. every one has his own taste. for me voisin's remains, and will, i imagine, remain the most distinguished, the most serene, restaurant in paris, in its retired situation at the corner of the rue saint-honoré and the rue cambon, with its simple decoration, its unhastening order and despatch, its napoleonic head-waiter, its bacchic wine-waiter (with a head that calls for vine leaves) and its fastidious cuisine. to voisin's i should always make my way when i wished not only to be delicately nourished but to be quiet and philosophic and retired. only one other restaurant do i know where the cooking gives me the satisfaction of voisin's--where excessive richness never intrudes--and that is a discovery of my own and not lightly to be given away. voisin's is a name known all over the world: one can say nothing new about voisin's; but the little restaurant with which i propose to tantalise you, although the resort of some of the most thoughtful eaters in paris, has a reputation that has not spread. it is not cheap, it is little less dear indeed than the café anglais or paillard's, to name the two restaurants of renown which are nearest to it; its cellar is poor and limited to half a dozen wines; its two rooms are minute and hot; but the idea of gastronomy reigns--everything is subordinated to the food and the cooking. if you order a trout, it is the best trout that france can breed, and it is swimming in the kitchen at the time the solitary waiter repeats your command; no such asparagus reaches any other paris restaurant, no such pré salé and no such wild strawberries. but i have said enough; almost i fear i have said too much. these discoveries must be kept sacred. and for lunch to-day? shall it be chez voisin, or chez foyot, by the sénat, or chez lapérouse (where the two stevensons used to eat and talk) on the quai des augustins? or shall it be at my nameless restaurant? voisin's to-day, i think. chapter ii the ile de la citÉ paris old and new--the heart of france--saint louis--old palaces--henri iv.'s statue--ironical changes--the seine and the thames--the quais and their old books--diderot and the lady--police and red tape--the conciergerie--marie antoinette--paris and its clocks--méryon's etchings--french advocates--a hall of babel--sainte chapelle--french newspapers serious and comic--the only joke--the english and the french. where to begin? that is a problem in the writing of every book, but peculiarly so with paris; because, however one may try to be chronological, the city is such a blend of old and new that that design is frustrated at every turn. nearly every building of importance stands on the site of some other which instantly jerks us back hundreds of years, while if we deal first with the original structure, such as the remains of the roman thermes at the cluny, built about , straightway the cluny itself intrudes, and we leap from the third century to the nineteenth; or if we trace the line of the wall of philip augustus we come swiftly to so modern an institution as the mont-de-piété; or if we climb to such a recent thoroughfare as the boulevard de clichy, with its palpitatingly novel cabarets and allurements, we must in order to do so ascend a mountain which takes its name from the martyrdom of st. denis and his companions in the third century. it is therefore well, since paris is such a tangle of past and present, to disregard order altogether and to let these pages reflect her character. expect then, dear reader, to be twitched about the ages without mercy. let us begin in earnest by leaving the mainland and adventuring upon an island. for the heart of paris is enisled: notre dame, sainte chapelle, the palais de justice, the hôtel dieu, the préfecture de police, the morgue--all are entirely surrounded by water. the history of the cité is the history of paris, almost the history of france. paris, the home of the parisii, consisted of nothing but this island when julius cæsar arrived there with his conquering host. the romans built their palace here, and here julian the apostate loved to sojourn. it was in julian's reign that the name was changed from lutetia (which it is still called by picturesque writers) to parisea civitas, from which paris is an easy derivative. the cité remained the home of government when the merovingians under clovis expelled the romans, and again under the carlovingians. the second royal palace was begun by the first of the capets, hugh, in the tenth century, and it was completed by robert the pious in the eleventh. louis vii. decreed notre dame; but it was saint louis, reigning from to , who was the father of the cité as we now know it. he it was who built sainte chapelle, and it was he who surrendered part of the palace to the law. while it was the home of the court and the church the island naturally had little enough room for ordinary residents, who therefore had to live, whether aristocrats or tradespeople, on the mainland, either on the north or south side of the river. the north side was for the most part given to merchants, the south to scholars, for saint louis was the builder not only of sainte chapelle but also of the sorbonne. very few of the smaller buildings of that time now remain: the oldest paris that one now wanders in so delightedly, whether on the north bank or the south, whether near the sorbonne or the hôtel de sens, dates, with a few fortunate exceptions, from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. nowhere may the growth of paris be better observed and better understood than on the highest point on this island of the city--on the summit of notre dame. standing there you quickly comprehend the paris of the ages: from cæsar's lutetia, occupying the island only and surrounded by fields and wastes, to the paris of this year of our lord, spreading over the neighbouring hills, such a hive of human activity and energy as will hardly bear thinking of--a paris which has thrown off the yoke not only of the kings that once were all-powerful but of the church too. by the twelfth century the kings of france had begun to live in smaller palaces more to their personal taste, such as the hôtel barbette, the hôtel de sens (much of which still stands, as a glass factory, at the corner of the rue de l'hôtel de ville and the rue de figuier, one of the oldest of the paris mansions), the hôtel de bourgogne (in the rue etienne marcel: you may still see its tower of jean sans peur), the hôtel de nevers (what remains of which is at the corner of the rue colbert and rue richelieu), and, of course, the louvre. charles vii. ( - ) was the first king to settle at the louvre permanently. to gain the ile de la cité we leave the mainland of paris at the quai du louvre, and make our crossing by the pont neuf. neuf no longer, for as a matter of historical fact it is now the oldest of all the paris bridges: that is, in its foundations, for the visible part of it has been renovated quite recently. the first stone of it was laid by henri iii. in : it was not ready for many years, but in henri iv. (of navarre) ventured across a plank of it on his way to the louvre, after several previous adventurers had broken their necks in the attempt. "so much the less kings they," was his comment. he lived to see the bridge finished. behind the statue of this monarch, whom the french still adore, is the garden that finishes off the west end of the ile very prettily, sending its branches up above the parapet. here we may stop; for we are now on the island itself, midway between the two halves of the bridge, and the statue has such a curious history, so typical of the french character, that i should like to tell it. the original bronze figure, erected by louis xiii. in , was taken down in , a time of stress, and melted into a commodity that was then of vastly greater importance than the effigies of kings--namely cannon. (as we shall see in the course of this book, paris left the hands of the revolutionaries a totally different city from the paris of .) then came peace again, and then came napoleon, and in the collection at the archives is to be seen a letter written by the emperor from schönbrunn, on august th, , stating that he wishes an obelisk to be erected on the site of the henri iv. statue--an obelisk of cherbourg granite, pieds d'élévation, with the inscription "l'empereur napoléon au peuple français". that, however, was not done. time passed on, napoleon fell, and louis xviii. returned from his english home to the throne of france, and was not long in perpetrating one of those symmetrical ironical jests which were then in vogue. taking from the vendôme column the bronze statue of napoleon (who was safely under the thumb of sir hudson lowe at st. helena, well out of mischief), and to this adding a second bronze statue of the same usurper intended for some other site, the monarch directed that they should be melted into liquid from which a new statue of henri iv.--the very one at which we are at this moment gazing--should be cast. it was done, and though to the röntgen-rayed vision of the cynic it may appear to be nothing more or less than a double napoleon, it is to the world at large henri iv., the hero of ivry. i have seen comparisons between the seine and the thames; but they are pointless. you cannot compare them: one is a london river, and the other is a paris river. the seine is a river of light; the thames is a river of twilight. the seine is gay; the thames is sombre. when dusk falls in paris the seine is just a river in the evening; when dusk falls in london the thames becomes a wonderful mystery, an enchanted stream in a land of old romance. the thames is, i think, vastly more beautiful; but on the other hand, the thames has no merry passenger steamers and no storied quais. the seine has all the advantage when we come to the consideration of what can be done with a river's banks in a great city. for the seine has a mile of old book and curiosity stalls, whereas the thames has nothing. and yet the coping of the thames embankment is as suitable for such a purpose as that of the seine, and as many londoners are fond of books. how is it? why should all the bookstalls and curiosity stalls of london be in whitechapel and farringdon street and the cattle market? that is a mystery which i have never solved and never shall. why are the west central and the west districts wholly debarred--save in charing cross road, and that i believe is suspect--from loitering at such alluring street banquets? it is beyond understanding. the history of the stall-holders of the quais has been told very engagingly by m. octave uzanne, whom one might describe as the austin dobson and the augustine birrell of france, in his work _bouquinistes et bouquineurs_. they established themselves first on the pont neuf, but in were evicted. (the paris bridges, i might say here, become at the present time the resort of every kind of pedlar directly anything occurs to suspend their traffic.) the parapets of the quais then took the place of those of the bridge, and there the booksellers' cases have been ever since. but no longer are they the gay resort that once they were. it was considered, says m. uzanne, writing of the eighteenth century, "quite the correct thing for the promenaders to gossip round the bookstalls and discuss the wit and fashionable writings of the day. at all hours of the day these quarters were much frequented, above all by literary men, lawyers clerks and foreigners. one historical fact, not generally known, merits our attention, for it shows that not only the libraries and the stall-keepers assisted in drawing men of letters to the vicinity of the hôtel mazarin, but there also existed a 'rendez-vous' for the sale of english and french journals. it was, in fact, at the corner of the rue dauphine and the quai conti that the first establishment known as the café anglais was started. one read in big letters on the signboard: café anglais--becket, propriétaire. this was the meeting place of the greater part of english writers visiting paris who wished to become acquainted with the literary men of the period, the encyclopædists and poets of the court of louis xv. this café offered to its habitués the best-known english papers of the day, the _westminster gazette_, the _london evening post_, the _daily advertiser_, and the various pamphlets published on the other side of the channel.... "you must know that the quai conti up to the year was only a narrow passage leading down to a place for watering horses. between the pont neuf and the building known as the château-gaillard at the opening of the rue guénégaud, were several small shops, and a small fair continually going on. "this château-gaillard, which was a dependency of the old porte de nesle, had been granted by francis i. to benvenuto cellini. the famous florentine goldsmith received visits from the sovereign protector of arts and here executed the work he had been ordered to do, under his majesty's very eyes.... "one calls to mind that sterne, in his delightful _sentimental journey_, was set down in at the hôtel de modène, in the rue jacob, opposite the rue des deux-anges, and one has not forgotten his love for the quais and the adventure which befell him while chatting to a bookseller on the quai conti, of whom he wished to buy a copy of shakespeare so that he might read once more polonius' advice to his son before starting on his travels. "diderot, in his _salon_ of , relates his flirtation with the pretty girl who served in one of these shops and afterwards became the wife of menze. 'she called herself miss babuti and kept a small book shop on the quai des augustins, spruce and upright, white as a lily and red as a rose. i would enter her shop, in my own brisk way: "mademoiselle, the 'contes de la fontaine' ... a 'petronius' if you please."--"here you are, sir. do you want any other books?"--"forgive me, yes"--"what is it?"--"la 'religieuse en chemise.'"--"for shame, sir! do you read such trash?"--"trash, is it, mademoiselle? i did not know...."'" [illustration: the nativity luini (_louvre_)] m. uzanne's pages are filled with such charming gossip and with character-sketches of the most famous booksellers and book-hunters. one pretty trait that would have pleased mary lamb (and perhaps did, in , when her brother took her to the "boro' side of the seine") is mentioned by m. uzanne: "the stall-keeper on the quais always has an indulgent eye for the errand boy or the little bonne [slavey] who stops in front of his stall and consults gratis 'la clef des songes' or 'le secrétaire des dames'. who would not commend him for this kind toleration? in fact it is very rare to find the bookseller in such cases not shutting his eyes--metaphorically--and refraining from walking up to the reader, for fear of frightening her away. and then the young girl moves off with a light step, repeating to herself the style of letter or the explanation of a dream, rich in hope and illusions for the rest of the day." but the best description of the book-hunter of the quais is that given to dumas by charles nodier. "this animal," he said, "has two legs and is featherless, wanders usually up and down the quais and the boulevards, stopping at all the old bookstalls, turning over every book on them; he is habitually clad in a coat that is too long for him and trousers that are too short; he always wears on his feet shoes that are down at the heel, a dirty hat on his head, and, under his coat and over his trousers, a waistcoat fastened together with string. one of the signs by which he can be recognised is that he never washes his hands." henri iv.'s statue faces the place dauphine and the west façade of the palais de justice. at no. in the place dauphine madame roland was born, little thinking she was destined one day to be imprisoned in the neighbouring conciergerie, which, to those who can face the difficulties of obtaining a ticket of admission, is one of the most interesting of the island's many interesting buildings. but the process is not easy, and there is only one day in the week on which the prison is shown. the tickets are issued at the préfecture of police--the scotland yard of paris--which is the large building opposite sainte chapelle. one may either write or call. i advise writing; for calling is not as simple as it sounds: simplicity and sightseeing in paris being indeed not on the best terms. it was not until i had asked five several officials that i found even the right door of the vast structure, and then having passed a room full of agents (or policemen) smoking and jesting, and having climbed to a third storey, i was in danger of losing for ever the privilege of seeing what i had fixed my mind upon, wholly because, although i knew the name and street of my hotel, i did not know its number. who ever dreamed that hotels have numbers? has the savoy a number in the strand? is the ritz numbered in piccadilly? not that i was living in any such splendour, but still, on the face of it, a hotel has a name because it has no number. "c'est égal," the gentleman said at last, after a pantomime of impossibility and reproach, and i took my ticket, bowed to the ground, replaced my hat and was free to visit the conciergerie on the morrow. such are the amenities of the tourist's life. let me here say that the agents of paris are by far its politest citizens, and in appearance the healthiest. i have never met an uncivil agent, and i once met one who refused a tip after he had been of considerable service to me. never did i attempt to tip another. they have their defects, no doubt: they have not the authority that we give our police: their management of traffic is pathetically incompetent; but they are street gentlemen and the foreigner has no better friend. the conciergerie is the building on the quai de l'horloge with the circular towers beneath extinguishers--an impressive sight from the bridges and the other bank of the river. most of its cells are now used as rooms for soldiers (andré chénier's dungeon is one of their kitchens); but a few rooms of the deepest historical interest have been left as they were. these are displayed by a listless guide who rises to animation only when the time comes to receive his bénéfice and offer for sale a history of his preserves. one sees first the vaulted salle saint louis, called the salle des pas perdus because it was through it that the victims of the revolution walked on their way to the cour de mai and execution. the terribly significant name has since passed to the great lobby of the palais de justice immediately above it, where it has less appropriateness. it is of course the cell of marie antoinette that is the most poignant spot in this grievous place. when the queen was here the present room was only about half its size, having a partition across it, behind which two soldiers were continually on guard, day and night. the queen was kept here, suffering every kind of indignity and petty tyranny, from early september, , until october th. her chair, in which she sat most of the time, faced the window of the courtyard. a few acts of kindness reached her in spite of the vigilance of the authorities; but very few. i quote the account of two from the official guide, a poor thing, which i was weak enough to buy: "the queen had no complaint to make against the concierges richard nor their successors the baults. it is told that one day richard asked a fruitseller in the neighbourhood to select him the best of her melons, whatever it might cost. 'it is for a very important personage, then?' said the seller disdainfully, looking at the concierge's threadbare clothes. 'yes,' said he, 'it is for some one who was once very important; she is so no longer; it is for the queen.' 'the queen,' exclaimed the tradeswoman, turning over all her melons, 'the queen! oh, poor woman! here, make her eat that, and i won't have you pay for it....' "one of the gendarmes on duty having smoked during the night, learnt the following day that the queen, whom he noticed was very pale, had suffered from the smell of the tobacco; he smashed his pipe, swearing not to smoke any more. it was he also who said to those who came in contact with marie antoinette: 'whatever you do, don't say anything to her about her children'." for her trial the queen was taken to the tribunal sitting in what is now the first circle chamber of the palais de justice, and led back in the evening to her cell. she was condemned to death on the fifteenth, and that night wrote a letter to her sister-in-law elizabeth which we shall see in the archives nationales: it is firmly written. [illustration: giovanna tornabuoni and the cardinal virtues botticelli. fresco from the villa lemmi (_louvre_)] the conciergerie had many other prisoners, but none so illustrious. robespierre occupied for twenty-four hours the little cell adjoining that of the queen, now the vestry of the chapel. madame du barry and madame récamier had cells adjacent to that of madame roland. later maréchal ney was imprisoned here. the oldest part of all--the kitchens of saint louis--are not shown. the pont au change, the bridge which connects the place du châtelet with the boulevard du palais, the main street of the ile de la cité, was once (as the ponte vecchio at florence still is) the headquarters of goldsmiths and small bankers. not the least of the losses that civilisation and rebuilders have brought upon us is the disappearance of the shops and houses from the bridges. old london bridge--how one regrets that! at the corner of the conciergerie is the horloge that gives the quai its name--a floridly decorated clock which by no means conveys the impression that it has kept time for over five hundred years and is the oldest exposed time-piece in france. paris, by the way, is very poor in public clocks, and those that she has are not too trustworthy. the one over the gare st. lazare has perhaps the best reputation; but time in paris is not of any great importance. for most parisians there is an inner clock which strikes with perfect regularity at about twelve and seven, and no other hours really matter. and yet a certain show of marking time is made in the hotels, where every room has an elaborate ormolu clock, usually under a glass case and rarely going. and in one hotel i remember a large clock on every landing, of which i passed three on my way upstairs; and their testimony was so various that it was two hours later by each, so that by the time i had reached my room it was nearly time to get up. on asking the waiter the reason he said it was because they were synchronised by electricity. there has been a tour de l'horloge at this corner of the conciergerie ever since it was ordained by philippe le bel in ; the present clock, or at least its scheme of decoration, dates, however, from henri iii.'s reign, about . the last elaborate restoration was in . in the tower above was a bell that was rung only on rare occasions. the usual accounts of the massacre of st. bartholomew say that the signal for that outrage was sounded by the bell of st. germain l'auxerrois; but others give it to the bell of the tour de l'horloge. as they are some distance from each other, perhaps both were concerned; but since st. germain l'auxerrois is close to the louvre, where the king was waiting for the carnage to begin, it is probable that it rang the first notes. one of méryon's most impressive and powerful etchings represents the tour de l'horloge and the façade of the conciergerie. it is a typical example of his strange and gloomy genius, for while it is nothing else in the world but what it purports to be, it is also quite unlike the tour de l'horloge and the façade of the conciergerie as any ordinary eyes have seen them. they are made terrible and sinister: they have been passed through the dark crucible of méryon's mind. to see paris as méryon saw it needs a great effort of imagination, so swiftly and instinctively do these people remove the traces of unhappiness or disaster. it is the nature of paris to smile and to forget; from any lapse into woe she recovers with extraordinary rapidity. méryon's paris glowers and shudders; there is blood on her hands and guilt in her heart. i will not say that his concept is untrue, because i believe that the concept formed by a man of genius is always true, although it may not contain all the truth, and indeed one has to recall very little history to fall easily into méryon's mood; but for the visitor who has chosen paris for his holiday--the typical reader, for example, of this book--mr. dexter's concept of paris is a more natural one. (i wish, by the way, before it is too late, that mr. muirhead bone would devote some time to the older parts of the city--particularly to the marais. how it lies to his hand!) since we are at the gates of the palais de justice let us spend a little time among the advocates and their clients in the great hall--the salle des pas perdus. (in an interesting work, by the way, on this building, with a preface by the younger dumas, the amendment, "la salle du temps perdu" is recommended.) the french law courts, as a whole, are little different from our own: they have the same stuffiness, they give the same impression of being divided between the initiated and the uninitiated, the little secret society of the bar and the great innocent world. but the salle des pas perdus is another thing altogether. there is nothing like that in the strand. our strand counsel are a dignified, clean-shaven, be-wigged race, striving to appear old and inscrutable and important. they are careful of appearances; they receive instructions only through solicitors; they affect to weigh their words; sagacious reserve is their fetish. hence our law courts, although there are many consultations and incessant passings to and fro, are yet subdued in tone and overawing to the talkative. but the palais de justice!--babel was inaudible beside it. in the palais de justice everyone talks at once; no one cares a sou for appearances or reticence; there are no wigs, no shorn lips, no affectation of a superhuman knowledge of the world. the french advocate comes into direct communication with his client--for the most part here. the movement as well as the vociferation is incessant, for out of this great hall open as many doors as there are in a french farce, and every door is continually swinging. indeed that is the chief effect conveyed: that one is watching a farce, since there has never been a farce yet without a legal gentleman in his robes and black velvet cap. the chief difference is that here there are hundreds of them. as a final touch of humour, or lack of gravity, i may add that notices forbidding smoking are numerous, and every advocate and every client is puffing hard at his cigarette. victor hugo's _notre dame_ begins, it will be remembered, in the great hall of the palais de justice, where gringoire's neglected mystery play was performed and quasimodo won the prize for ugliness. the hall, as hugo says, was burned in : by a fire which, he tells us, was made necessary by the presence in the archives of the palais of the documents in the case of the assassination of henri iv. by ravaillac. certain of ravaillac's accomplices and instigators wishing these papers to disappear, the fire followed as a matter of course, as naturally as in china a house had to be burned down before there could be roast pig. sainte chapelle, which, with the kitchens of saint louis under the conciergerie, is all that remains of the royal period of the palais de justice, is, except on mondays, always open during the reasonable daylight hours and is wholly free from vexatious restrictions. sanctity having passed from it, the french sightseers do not even remove their hats, although i have noticed that the english and americans still find the habit too strong. the chapelle may easily disappoint, for such is the dimness of its religious light that little is visible save the dark coloured windows. one is, however, conscious of perfect proportions and such ecclesiastical elegance as paint and gold can convey. it is in fact exquisite, yet not with an exquisiteness of simplicity but of design and elaboration. it is like a jewel--almost a trinket--which notre dame might have once worn on her breast and tired of. its flêche is really beautiful; it darts into the sky with only less assurance and joy than that of notre dame, and i always look up with pleasure to the angel on the eastern point of the roof. [illustration: la vierge aux rochers leonardo da vinci (_louvre_)] what one has the greatest difficulty in believing is that sainte chapelle is six hundred and fifty years old. it was built for the relics brought from the crusades by saint louis, which are now in the treasury of notre dame. the chapel has, of course, known the restorer's hand, but it is virtually the original structure, and some of the original glass is still here preserved amid reconstructions. to me sainte chapelle's glass makes little appeal; but many of my friends talk of nothing else. let us thank god for differences of taste. during the commune (as recently as ) an attempt was made to burn sainte chapelle, together with the palais de justice, but it just failed. that was the third fire it has survived. from sainte chapelle we pass through the rue de lutèce, which is opposite, across the boulevard, because there is a statue here of some interest--that of renaudot, who lived in the first half of the seventeenth century at no. quai du marché neuf, close by, and founded in the first french newspaper, the _gazette de france_. little could he have foreseen the consequences of his rash act! it is amusing to stand here a while and meditate on the torrent that has proceeded from that small spring. other cities have as busy a journalistic life as paris, and in london the paper boys are more numerous and insistent, while in london we have also the contents' bills, which are unknown to france; and yet paris seems to me to be more a city of newspapers than even london is. perhaps it is the kiosques that convey the impression. the london papers and the paris papers could not well be more different. in the matter of size, paris, i think, has all the advantage, for one may read everything in a few minutes; but in the matter of ingredients the advantage surely lies with us, for although english papers tell far too much, and by their own over-curiousness foster inquisitiveness and busy-bodydom, yet they have some sense of what is important, and one can always find the significant news. in paris, if one excepts the best papers, the _temps_ in particular, the significant news is elusive. what one will find, however, is a short story or a literary essay written with distinction, an anecdote of the day by no means adapted for the young person, and a number of trumpery tragedies of passion or excess, minutely told; and in the _figaro_ once or twice a week an excellent humorous or satirical drawing. the signed articles are always good, and when critical usually fearless, but the unsigned notices of a new play or spectacle credit it with perfection in every detail; and here, at any rate, as in our best reviews of books, we are in a position to feel some of the satisfaction that proceeds from conscious superiority. but, it has to be remembered, in paris people go to the theatre automatically, whereas we pick and choose and have our reasons, and even talk of one play being moral and another immoral, and therefore in paris an honest criticism of a play is of little importance. the paris _daily mail_ seems to have fallen into line very naturally, for i find in it, on the morning on which i write these lines, a puff of the capucines revue, saying that it kept the house in continuous laughter by its innocent fun, and will doubtless draw all paris. as if (i) the laughter in any paris theatre was ever continuous, and as if (ii) there was ever any innocent fun at the capucines, and as if (iii) all paris would go near that theatre if there were! one reason, i imagine, for the diffuseness of the english paper and the brevity of the french, is that the english have so little natural conversation that they find it useful to acquire news on which to base more; while the french need no such assistance. the english again are interested in other nations, whereas the french care nothing for any land but france. there is no space in which to continue this not untempting analysis: it would require much room, for to understand thoroughly the difference between, say, the _daily telegraph_ and the _journal_ is to understand the difference between england and france. the french comic papers one sees everywhere--except in people's hands. i suppose they are bought, or they would not be published; but i have hardly ever observed a frenchman reading one that was his own property. the fault of the french comic paper is monotony. voltaire accused the english of having seventy religions and only one sauce; my quarrel with the french is that they have seventy sauces and only one joke. this joke you meet everywhere. artists of diabolical cleverness illustrate it in colours every week; versifiers and musicians introduce it into songs; comic singers sing it; playwrights dramatise it; novelists and journalists weave it into prose. it is the oldest joke and it is ever new. nothing can prevent a parisian laughing at it as if it were as fresh as his roll, his journal or his petit gervais. for a people with a world-wide reputation for wit, this is very strange; but in some directions the french are incorrigibly juvenile, almost infantine. personally i envy them for it. i think it must be charming never to grow out of such an affection for indecency that even a nursery mishap can still be always funny. one of the comic papers must, however, be exempted from these generalisations. _le rire_, _le journal amusant_, _la vie parisienne_ and the scores of cheaper imitations may depend for their living on the one joke; but _l'assiette au beurre_ is more serious. _l'assiette au beurre_ is first and foremost a satirist. it chastises continually, and its whip is often scorpions. even its lighter numbers, chiefly given to ridicule, contain streaks of savagery. at the end of the brief rue de lutèce is the great hôtel dieu, the oldest hospital in paris, having been founded in the seventh century; and to the left of it is one of the paris flower markets, where much beautiful colour may be seen very formally and unintelligently arranged. gardens are among those things that we order (or shall i say disorder?) better than the french do. and now we will enter notre dame. chapter iii notre dame pagan origins and christian predecessors--the beginnings of notre dame--victor hugo--the dangers of renovation--old glass and new--a wedding--the cathedral's great moment--the hundred poor girls and louis xvi.--the revolution--mrs. momoro, goddess of reason--the legend of our lady of the bird--coronation of napoleon--the communards and the students--the treasures of the sacristy--three hundred and ninety-seven steps--quasimodo and esmeralda--paris at our feet--the eiffel tower--the devils of notre dame--the precincts--notre dame from the quai. if the ile de la cité is the eye of paris, then, to adapt one of oliver wendell holmes' metaphors, notre dame is its pupil. it stands on ground that has been holy, or at least religious, for many centuries, for part of its site was once occupied by the original mother church of paris, st. etienne, built in the fourth century; and close by, in the place du parvis, have been discovered the foundations of another church, dating from the sixth century, dedicated to sainte marie; while beneath that are the remains of a temple of apollo or jupiter, relics of which we shall see at the cluny. the origin of notre dame, the fusion of these two churches, is wrapped in darkness; but victor hugo roundly states that the first stone of it was laid by charlemagne (who reigned from to , and whose noble equestrian statue stands just outside), and the last by philip augustus, who was a friend of our richard coeur de lion. the more usual account of the older parts of the notre dame that one sees to-day is that the first stone of it was laid in , in the reign of louis vii., by pope alexander iii., who chanced then to be in paris engaged in the task of avoiding his enemies, the ghibellines, and that in almost exactly a hundred years, in the reign of saint louis, it was completed. (i say completed, but as a matter of fact it is not completed even yet, for each of the square towers was designed to carry a spire, and i remember seeing at the paris exhibition of a number of drawings of the cathedral by young architects, with these spires added. it is, however, very unlikely that they will ever sprout, and i, for one, hope not.) victor hugo is, of course, if not the first authority on notre dame, its most sympathetic poet, lover and eulogist; and it seems ridiculous for me to attempt description when every book shop in paris has a copy of his rich and fantastic romance, book iii. of which is an interlude in the story wholly given to the glory of the cathedral. you may read there not only of what notre dame is, but of what it is not and should be: the shortcomings of architects and the vandalism of mobs are alike reported. mobs! paris is seared with cicatrices from the hands of her matricidal children, and notre dame especially so. attempts to set her on fire were made not only by the revolutionaries but by the communards too. these she resisted, but much of her statuary went during the revolution, the assailants sparing the last judgment on the façade, but accounting very swiftly for a series of kings of israel and judah (who, however, have since been replaced) under the impression that they were monarchs of native growth and therefore not to be endured. the statue of the virgin in the centre of the façade, with adam and eve on each side, is not, i may say, the true notre dame of paris: she is within the church--much older and simpler, on a column to the right of the altar as we face it. she is a sweeter and more winning figure than that between our first parents on the façade. when i first knew notre dame it was, to the visitor from the open air, all scented darkness. and then as one grew accustomed to the gloom the cathedral opened slowly like a great flower--not so beautifully as chartres, but with its own grandeur and fascination. that was twenty years ago. it is not the same since it has been scraped and lightened within. that old clinging darkness has gone. there are times of day now, when the sun spatters on the wall, when it might be almost any church; but towards evening in the gloom it is notre dame de paris again, mysterious and a little sinister. a bright light not only chases the shade from its aisles and recesses but also shows up the garishness of its glass. for the glass of france, usually bad, is here often almost at its worst. that glorious wheel window in the north transept--whose upper wall has indeed more glass than stone in it--could not well be more beautiful, and the rose window over the organ is beautiful too. but for the rest, the glass is either too pretty, as in the case of the window over the altar, so lovely in shape, or utterly trumpery. the last time i was in notre dame i followed a wedding party through the main and usually locked door, but although i was the first after the bride and her father, i was not quick enough to set foot on the ceremonial carpet, which a prudent verger rolled up literally upon their heels. it was a fortunate moment on which to arrive, for it meant a vista of the nave from the open air right up the central aisle, and that, except in very hot weather, is rare, and probably very rare indeed when the altar is fully lighted. the secret of notre dame, both within and without, is to be divined only by loitering in it with a mind at rest. to enter intent upon seeing it is useless. outside, one can walk round it for ever and still be surprised by the splendid vagaries, humours and resource of its stone; while within, one can, by making oneself plastic, gradually but surely attain to some of the adoration that was felt for this sanctuary by quasimodo himself. let us sit down on one of these chairs in the gloom and meditate on some of the scenes which its stones have witnessed. while it was yet building raymond vii., count of toulouse, was scourged before the principal doorway for heresy, on a spot where the pillory long stood. that was in . in st. louis, on his way to the holy land, visited notre dame to receive his pilgrim's staff and scrip from the bishop. in the body of st. louis lay in state under this roof before it was carried to st. denis for burial. henry vi. of england was crowned here as king of france--the first and last english king to receive that honour. one sunday in , while mass was being celebrated, a man called jean l'anglais (as we should now say, john bull) snatched the host from the priest's hand and profaned it: for which crime he was burnt. in henri iv. (then henri of navarre) was married to marguerite de valois, but being a protestant he was not allowed within the church, and the ceremony was therefore performed just outside. when, however, he entered paris triumphantly as a conqueror and a catholic in , he heard mass and assisted at the te deum in notre dame like a true frenchman and ironist. in his funeral service was celebrated here. some very ugly events are in store for us; let something pretty intervene. on february th, (in the narrative of louise de grandpré, to whom the study of notre dame has been a veritable passion), a large crowd pressed towards the cathedral; the ground was strewed with fresh grass and flowers and leaves; the pillars were decorated with many coloured banners. in the choir the vestments of the saints were displayed: the burning tapers lit up the interior with a dazzling brightness: the organ filled the church with joyful harmony, and the bells rang out with all their might. the whole court was present, the king himself assisting at the ceremony, and the galleries were full to overflowing of ladies of distinction in the gayest of dresses. then slowly, through the door of st. anne, entered a hundred young girls dressed in white, covered with long veils and with orange blossom on their heads. these were the hundred poor girls whom louis xvi. had dowered in memory of the birth of marie-thérèse-charlotte of france, afterwards duchess of angoulême, and it was his wish to assist personally at their wedding and to seal their marriage licences with his sword, which was ornamented on the handle or pommel with the "fleur de lys". through the door of the virgin entered at the same time one hundred young men, having each a sprig of orange blossom in his button-hole. the two rows advanced together with measured steps, preceded by two swiss, who struck the pavement heavily with their halberds. they advanced as far as the chancel rails, where each young man gave his hand to a young girl, his fiancée, and marched slowly before the king, bowing to him and receiving a bow in return. they were then married by the archbishop in person. a very charming incident, don't you think? such a royal gift, adds louise de grandpré, would be very welcome to-day, when there are so many girls unmarried, for the want of a dot. every rich young girl who is married ought to include in her corbeille de noces the dot of some poor girl. all women, remarks louise de grandpré, have a right to this element of love, which is sanctified by marriage, honoured by men and blessed by god. christian marriage, says louise de grandpré, is a nursery not only of good catholics but still more of good citizens. it is much to be wished, she concludes, that obstacles could be removed, because one deplores the depopulation of france. [illustration: sainte anne, la vierge, et l'enfant jÉsus leonardo da vinci (_louvre_)] the most fantastic and discreditable episode in the history of notre dame occurred one hundred and fifteen years ago, when the convention decreed the cult of reason, and notre dame became its temple. a ballet dancer was throned on the high altar, our lady of paris was taken down, and statues of voltaire and rousseau stepped into the niches of the saints. carlyle was never more wonderful than in the three or four pages that describe this cataclysm. he begins with the revolt of the curate parens, followed by bishop gobel of paris clamouring for an honest calling since there was no religion but liberty. "the french nation," carlyle writes, "is of gregarious imitative nature; it needed but a fugle-motion in this matter; and goose gobel, driven by municipality and force of circumstances, has given one. what curé will be behind him of boissise; what bishop behind him of paris? bishop grégoire, indeed, courageously declines; to the sound of 'we force no one; let grégoire consult his conscience'; but protestant and romish by the hundred volunteer and assent. from far and near, all through november into december, till the work is accomplished, come letters of renegation, come curates who 'are learning to be carpenters,' curates with their new-wedded nuns: has not the day of reason dawned, very swiftly, and become noon? from sequestered townships come addresses, stating plainly, though in patois dialect, that 'they will have no more to do with the black animal called curay, _animal noir appelé curay_.' "above all things, there come patriotic gifts, of church-furniture. the remnant of bells, except for tocsin, descend from their belfries, into the national melting-pot to make cannon. censers and all sacred vessels are beaten broad; of silver, they are fit for the poverty-stricken mint; of pewter, let them become bullets, to shoot the 'enemies _du genre humain_'. dalmatics of plush make breeches for him who had none; linen albs will clip into shirts for the defenders of the country: old-clothesmen, jew or heathen, drive the briskest trade. chalier's ass-procession, at lyons, was but a type of what went on, in those same days, in all towns. in all towns and townships as quick as the guillotine may go, so quick goes the axe and the wrench: sacristies, lutrins, altar-rails are pulled down; the mass-books torn into cartridge-papers: men dance the carmagnole all night about the bonfire. all highways jingle with metallic priest-tackle, beaten broad; sent to the convention, to the poverty-stricken mint. good sainte geneviève's _chasse_ is let down: alas, to be burst open, this time, and burnt on the place de grève. saint louis's shirt is burnt;--might not a defender of the country have had it?... "for the same day, while this brave carmagnole-dance has hardly jigged itself out, there arrive procureur chaumette and municipals and departmentals, and with them the strangest freightage: a new religion! demoiselle candeille, of the opera; a woman fair to look upon, when well rouged; she, borne on palanquin shoulder-high; with red woollen nightcap; in azure mantle; garlanded with oak; holding in her hand the pike of the jupiter-_peuple_, sails in: heralded by white young women girt in tricolor. let the world consider it! this, o national convention wonder of the universe, is our new divinity; _goddess of reason_, worthy, and alone worthy of revering. her henceforth we adore. nay were it too much to ask of an august national representation that it also went with us to the _ci-devant_ cathedral called of notre-dame, and executed a few strophes in worship of her? "president and secretaries give goddess candeille, borne at due height round their platform, successively the fraternal kiss; whereupon she, by decree, sails to the right-hand of the president and there alights. and now, after due pause and flourishes of oratory, the convention, gathering its limbs, does get under way in the required procession towards notre-dame;--reason, again in her litter, sitting in the van of them, borne, as one judges, by men in the roman costume; escorted by wind-music, red nightcaps, and the madness of the world.... "'the corresponding festival in the church of saint-eustache,' says mercier, 'offered the spectacle of a great tavern. the interior of the choir represented a landscape decorated with cottages and boskets of trees. round the choir stood tables overloaded with bottles, with sausages, pork-puddings, pastries and other meats. the guests flowed in and out through all doors: whosoever presented himself took part of the good things: children of eight, girls as well as boys, put hand to plate, in sign of liberty; they drank also of the bottles, and their prompt intoxication created laughter. reason sat in azure mantle aloft, in a serene manner; cannoneers, pipe in mouth, serving her as acolytes. and out of doors,' continues the exaggerative man, 'were mad multitudes dancing round the bonfire of chapel-balustrades, of priests' and canons' stalls; and the dancers,--i exaggerate nothing,--the dancers nigh bare of breeches, neck and breast naked, stockings down, went whirling and spinning, like those dust-vortexes, forerunners of tempest and destruction.' at saint-gervais church, again, there was a terrible 'smell of herrings'; section or municipality having provided no food, no condiment, but left it to chance. other mysteries, seemingly of a cabiric or even paphian character, we leave under the veil, which appropriately stretches itself 'along the pillars of the aisles,'--not to be lifted aside by the hand of history. [illustration: the ile de la citÉ from the pont des arts tour st. jacques conciergerie ste. chapelle notre dame] "but there is one thing we should like almost better to understand than any other: what reason herself thought of it, all the while. what articulate words poor mrs. momoro, for example, uttered; when she had become ungoddessed again, and the bibliopolist and she sat quiet at home, at supper? for he was an earnest man, bookseller momoro; and had notions of agrarian law. mrs. momoro, it is admitted, made one of the best goddesses of reason; though her teeth were a little defective.--and now if the reader will represent to himself that such visible adoration of reason went on 'all over the republic,' through these november and december weeks, till the church woodwork was burnt out, and the business otherwise completed, he will perhaps feel sufficiently what an adoring republic it was, and without reluctance quit this part of the subject." i quote in the following pages freely from carlyle, because the revolution is the most important event in the history of paris and so horribly recent (you may still see the traces of bonaparte's whiff of grape-shot on the façade of st. roch), and also because when there is such an historian to borrow from direct, paraphrase becomes a crime. none the less, i feel it my duty to say that the attitude of this self-protective contemptuous superior scotchman towards the excitable french and their hot-headed efforts for freedom often enrages me as much as his vivid narrative fascinates and moves. in , when the new religion had died down, the church became a store for wine confiscated from the royalists. in the year following, after the whiff of grape-shot, the old religion was re-established. a strange interregnum! how long ago was this?--only one hundred and fifteen years--not four generations. could it happen again? will it?... these revolutionaries, it may be remarked, were not the only licentious rioters that notre dame had known, for in its early days it was the scene every year of the fête des fous, an orgy of gluttony and conviviality, in which, however, one who was a true believer on all other days might partake. after these lurid saturnalia it is pleasant again to dip into the gentle pages of louise de grandpré, where, among other legends of notre dame, is the pretty story of a statue of the virgin--now known as the virgin with the bird. in the rue chanoinesse there lived a young woman, very devout, who came every day to pray. she brought with her her son, a little fellow, very wide-awake and full of spirits: his mother had taught him to say his prayers. cyril would close his little hands to say his "ave maria," and he would throw a kiss to the little jesus, his dear friend, complaining sometimes to his mother that the little jesus would not play with him. "you are not good enough yet," said his mother; "jesus plays only with the little children in paradise." a very severe winter fell and the young mother fell ill and no longer came to church. cyril never saw the little jesus now, but he often thought of him as he played at the foot of his mother's bed. on one of those days when the sky was dull and leaden and the air heavy and depressing, and the poor woman was rather worse and more hopeless than usual, she became so weak they thought each moment would be her last. cyril could not understand why his mother no longer smiled at him or stroked his hair or called him to her. with his little heart almost bursting and his eyes full of tears, he said, "i will go and tell the little jesus of my trouble." while they were attending to the poor mother the child disappeared. he ran as fast as his little legs would carry him and entered the cathedral by the cloister door, crossed the transept, and was soon at the foot of the statue of the virgin mary, where he was accustomed to say his prayers with his mother. "little jesus," said he, "thou art very happy, thou hast thy mother; mine, who was so good, is always asleep now and i am alone. little jesus, wake my mother up, and i will give you my best toys, morning and evening i will send you the sweetest kiss and say my best prayer. and look, to begin with, i have brought you my favourite bird: he is tame and will eat the golden crumbs of paradise out of your hand." at the same time he stretched out his little closed hand towards jesus. the divine child stretched out his hand and cyril let his beloved little bird escape. the bird, who had a lovely coloured plumage, flew straight to the hand of the infant christ and has remained there to this day. the virgin smiled on the child, and her white stone robe at that moment became the same colour as the bird's plumage. cyril, with his heart very full, got up to go out, but before leaving the church turned round to have one more look at his little bird he loved so dearly: he was struck with delight and astonishment when he heard the favoured bird singing one of its sweetest songs in honour of the virgin and her child. when cyril returned to his home he went into his mother's room without making the least noise to see if she was still asleep. the young mother was sitting upright in her bed, her head, still very bad, resting on a pillow, but her wide-open eyes were looking for her little one. "i was quite sure the little jesus would wake you up," said cyril, climbing on to her bed. "i took him my bird this morning to take care of for me in the garden of paradise." life once more returned to the poor woman and she kissed her boy. when you next go to notre dame, louise de grandpré adds, be sure to visit the vierge à l'oiseau, who always hears the prayers of the little ones. it was in that notre dame enjoyed one of its most magnificent moments--at the coronation of napoleon and josephine beauharnais. the duchess d'abrantès wrote an account of the ceremony which, in french, is both picturesque and rapturous. "the pope was the first to arrive. at the moment of his entering the cathedral, the clergy intoned tu es petrus, and this solemn chant made a deep impression on all. pius the vii. advanced to the end of the cathedral with a majestic yet humble grace.... the moment when all eyes were most drawn to the altar steps was when josephine received the crown from the emperor and was solemnly consecrated by him empress of the french. when it was time for her to take an active part in the great ceremony, the empress descended from the throne and advanced towards the altar, where the emperor awaited her.... "i saw," the duchess continues, "all that i have just told you, with the eyes of napoleon. he was radiant with joy as he watched the empress advancing towards him; and when she knelt ... and the tears she could not restrain fell upon her clasped hands, raised more towards him than towards god: at this moment, when napoleon, or rather bonaparte, was for her her true providence, at this instant there was between these two beings one of those fleeting moments of life, unique, which fill up the void of years. "the emperor invested with perfect grace every action of the ceremony he had to perform: above all, at the moment of crowning the empress. this was to be done by the emperor himself, who after receiving the little closed crown surmounted by a cross, had to place it on his own head first, and then place it on the empress's head. he did this in such a slow, gracious and courtly manner that it was noticed by all. but at the supreme moment of crowning her who was to him his lucky star, he was almost coquettish, if i may use the term. he placed the little crown, which surmounted the diadem of brilliants, on her head, first putting it on, then taking it off and putting it on again, as if assuring himself that it should rest lightly and softly on her. "but napoleon," the duchess concludes, "when it came to his own crown, hastily took it from the pope's hands and placed it haughtily on his own head--a proceeding which doubtless startled his holiness." ten years pass and we find louis xviii. and his family attending mass at the same altar. twenty-six years later, in , a service was held to commemorate the restoration of the ashes of the emperor to french soil, and in napoleon iii. and eugénie de montijo were married here, under circumstances of extraordinary splendour. and then we come to plunder and lawlessness again. on good friday, , while père olivier was preaching, a company of communards entered and from thenceforward for a while the cathedral was occupied by the soldiers. for some labyrinthine reason the destruction of notre dame by fire was decided upon, and a huge pile of chairs and other material soaked in petrol was erected (this was only thirty-eight years ago), and no doubt the building would have been seriously injured, if not destroyed, had not the medical students from the hôtel dieu, close by, rushed in and saved it. [illustration: la pensÉe rodin _(luxembourg)_] among the preachers of notre dame was st. dominic, to whom in the pulpit the virgin appeared, bringing with her his sermon all to his hand in an effulgent volume; here also preached père hyacinthe, but with less direct assistance. that the treasury is an object of interest to english-speaking visitors is proved by the notice at the door: "the persons who desire to visit the trésor are kindly requested to wait the guide here for a few minutes, himself charged of the visit"; but i see no good reason why any one should enter it. those, however, that do will see vessels of gold, much paraphernalia of ecclesiastical pride and pomp, and certain holy relics. the crown of thorns is here, given to st. louis by the king of constantinople and carried to notre dame, on the th of august, , by the barefoot king. here also are pieces of the cross, for the protection of which st. louis built sainte chapelle, the relics afterwards being transferred to notre dame; and here is a nail from the cross--one of the nails of which even an otherwise sceptical catholic can be sure, because it was given to charlemagne by constantine. charlemagne gave it to aix la chapelle, charles the bold brought it from aix to st. denis, and from st. denis it came to notre dame, where it is enclosed in a crystal case. the menace of spiral steps in a narrow, dark and almost airless turret, is no light matter, but it is essential to see paris from the summit of notre dame. that view is the key to the city, and the traveller who means to study this city as it deserves, penetrating into the past as industriously and joyously as into the present, must begin here. he will see it all beneath him and around him in its varying ages, and he will be able to proceed methodically and intelligently. immediately below is the parvis, the scene of the interrupted execution of esmeralda, and it was from one of the galleries below that quasimodo slung himself down to her rescue. here, where we are now standing, she must often have stood, looking for her faithless phoebus. only one of the bells that quasimodo rang is still in the tower. hugo draws attention to the shape of the island, like that of a ship moored to the mainland by various bridges, and he suggests that the ship on the paris scutcheon (the ship that is to be seen in the design of the lamps around the opera) is derived from this resemblance. it may be so. on each side of us, north and south, are the oldest parts of paris that still stand; in the north the marais, behind the tour saint-jacques, and in the south the district between the rue de bièvre and the boulevard st. michel. on the south side of the river lived the students, clerics and professors--dante himself among them, in this very rue de bièvre, as we shall see; while in the marais, as we shall also see, dwelt the nobility. west of st. eustache in the middle ages was nothing but waste ground and woodland, a kind of bois, at the edge of which, where the louvre now spreads itself, was a royal hunting lodge, the germ of the present vast palace. when the marais passed out of favour, the aristocracy crossed the river to the st. germain quarter, which clusters around the twin spires of st. clotilde that now rise in the south-west. and then the rue saint-honoré and the grands boulevards were built, and so the city grew and changed until the two culminating touches were put to it: by m. eiffel, who built the tower, and m. abadie, architect of the beautiful and unreal basilique du sacré-coeur that crowns the heights of montmartre. the chief eminences that one sees are, near at hand, the needle-spire of sainte chapelle, in the north the grey mass of st. eustache, the châtelet theatre (advertising at this moment "les pilules du diable" in enormous letters), the long roofs of the halles, and the outline of the medieval tour saint-jacques. farther west the bulky opera; then, right in front, the trocadéro's twin towers, with mont valérien looming up immediately between them; and so round to the south--to the invalides and st. clotilde, the panthéon and the heights of geneviève. a wonderful panorama. of all the views of paris i think that from notre dame is the most interesting, because the point is most central; but the views from montmartre, from the tour saint-jacques, the panthéon and the arc de triomphe should be studied too. the eiffel tower has dwarfed all those eminences; they lie far below it, mere ant-hills in the landscape, although they seem high enough when one essays their steps; yet, although it makes them so lowly, these older coigns of vantage should not for a moment be considered as superseded, for each does for its immediate vicinage what the eiffel giant can never do. from the arc de triomphe, for example, you command all the luxurious activity of the avenue du bois de boulogne and the wonderful prospect of the champs elysées, ending with the louvre; and from the panthéon you may examine the roofs of the latin quarter and see the children at play in the gardens of the luxembourg. the merit of the eiffel tower is that he shows you not only paris to the ultimate edges in every direction save on the northern slopes of montmartre, but he shows you (almost) france too. how long the eiffel tower is to stand i cannot say, but i for one shall feel sorry and bereft when he ceases to straddle over paris. for though he is vulgar he is great, and he has come to be a symbol. when he goes, he will make a strange rent in the sky. this year ( ) is his twentieth: he and i first came to paris at the same time; but his life is serene to-day compared with what it was in his infancy. at that time his platforms were congested from morn to dusk; but few visitors now ascend even to the first stage and hardly any to the top. no visitor, however, who wants to synthesise paris should omit this adventure. only in a balloon can one get a better view, but in no balloon adrift from this green earth would i, for one, ever trust myself, although i must confess that the procession of those aerial monsters that floated serenely past the eiffel tower on the last occasion that i climbed it, suggested nothing but content and security. they rose one by one from the bosky depths of the bois, five miles away, gradually disentangled themselves from the surrounding verdure, assumed their independent buoyant rotundity and came straight to my waiting eye. in an hour i counted fifteen, and by the time the last was free of the earth the first was away over vincennes, with the afternoon sun turning its mud-coloured silk to burnished gold. paris has always one balloon floating above her, but fifteen is exceptional. notre dame remains, however, the most important height to scale, for notre dame is interesting in every particular, it is soaked in history and mystery. notre dame is alone in the possession of its devils--those strange stone fantasies that méryon discovered. although every effort is made to familiarise us with them--although they sit docilely as paper-weights on our tables--nothing can lessen the monstrous diablerie of these figures, which look down on paris with such greed and cruelty, cunning and cynicism. the best known, the most saturnine, of all, who leans on the parapet exactly by the door at the head of the steps, fixes his inhuman gaze on the dome of the invalides. is it to be wondered at that he wears that expression? a small family dwells in a room just behind this chimera, subsisting by the sale of picture-postcards. it is a strange abode, and an imaginative child would have a good start in life there. to him at any rate the demons no doubt would soon lose their terrors and become as friendly as the heavenly host that are posed so radiantly and confidently on the ascent to the flèche--perhaps even more so. but to the stranger they must remain cruel and horrible, creating a sense of disquietude and alarm that it is surely the business of a cathedral to allay. curious anomaly! let us descend. before leaving the ile de la cité, the rue chanoinesse, to the north of notre dame, leading out of the rue d'arcole (near a blackguard pottery shop), should be looked at. the cloisters of notre dame once extended to this street and covered the ground between it and the cathedral. the canons, or chanoines, lived here, and there are still a few attractive old houses; but the rebuilder is very busy just now. at no. , fulbert, the uncle of héloïse, is said to have lived; at no. was the tour dagobert, a fifteenth-century building, by climbing which one had an excellent view of notre dame, but in the past year it has been demolished and business premises cover its site. at no. are (or were) the ruins of the twelfth-century chapel of st. aignan, where the faithful, evicted from notre dame by the reign of reason, celebrated mass in secret. saint bernard has preached here. the adjacent streets--the rue de colombe, rue massillon, rue des ursins and rue du cloître-notre-dame--have also very old houses. [illustration: balthasar castiglione raphael _(louvre)_] for the best view of the exterior of notre dame one must take the quai de l'archevêché, from which all its intricacies of masonry may be studied--its buttresses solid and flying, its dependences, its massive bulk, its grace and strength. chapter iv st. louis and his island the morgue--the ile st. louis--old residents--st. louis, the king--the golden legend--religious intolerance--posthumous miracles--statue of barye--the quai des célestins. on the way from notre dame to the ile st. louis we pass a small official-looking building at the extreme east end of the ile de la cité. it is the morgue. but the morgue is now closed to idle gazers, and you win your way to a sight of that melancholy slab with the weary bodies on it and the little jet of water playing on each, only by the extreme course of having missed a relation whom you suspected of designs upon his own life or whom you imagine has been the victim of foul play. no doubt the authorities were well advised (as french municipal authorities nearly always are) in closing the morgue; but i think i regret it. the impulse to drift into that low and sinister building behind notre dame was partly morbid, no doubt; but the ordinary man sees not only too little death, but is too seldom in the presence of such failure as for the most part governs here: so that the opportunity it gave was good. i still recall very vividly, in spite of all the millions of living faces that should, one feels, have blurred one's prosperous vision, several of the dead faces that lay behind the glass of this forlorn side-show of the great entertainment which we call paris. an old man with a white imperial; more than one woman of that dreadful middle-age which the seine has so often terminated; a young man who had been stabbed.... well, the morgue is closed to the public now, and very likely no one who reads this book will ever enter it. the ile st. louis, to put it bluntly, is just as commonplace as the ile de la cité is imposing. it has a monotony very rare in the older parts of paris: it is all white houses that have become dingy: houses that once were attractive and wealthy and are now squalid. one of the largest of the old palaces is to-day a garage; there is not a single house now occupied by the kind of tenant for which it was intended. such declensions are always rather melancholy, even when--as, for example, at villeneuve, near avignon--there is the beauty of decay too. but on the ile st. louis there is no beauty: it belongs to a dull period of architecture and is now duller for its dirt. standing on the quai d'orléans, however, one catches notre dame against the evening sky, across the river, as nowhere else, and it is necessary to seek the ile if only to appreciate the fitness of the morgue's position. the island was first called l'ile notre dame, and was uninhabited until . it was then developed and joined to the ile de la cité and the mainland by bridges. the chief street is the rue st. louis, at no. in which lived fénélon. the church of st. louis is interesting for a relic of the unfortunate louise de la vallière. at no. on the quai d'anjou is the hôtel lauzun, which the city of paris has now acquired, and in which once lived together for a while the authors of _mademoiselle de maupin_ and _les fleurs de mal_. of saint louis, or louis ix., who gives his name to this island, and whose hand is so visible in the ile de la cité, it is right to know something, for he was the father of paris. louis was born in , the year of magna charta, and succeeded to the throne while still a boy. the early years of his reign were restless by reason of civil strife and war with england, in which he was victor (at tailleburg, at saintes and at blaize), and then came his departure for the holy land, with , men, in fulfilment of a vow made rashly on a sick-bed. the king was blessed at notre dame, as we have seen, and departed in , leaving his mother blanche de castile as regent. but the crusade was a failure, and he was glad to return (with only the ghost of his army) and to settle down for the first time seriously to the cares of his throne. he was a good if prejudiced king: he built wisely and well, not only sainte chapelle, as we have seen, but the sorbonne; he devised useful statutes; he established police in paris; and, more perhaps than all, he made frenchmen very proud of france. so much for his administrative virtues. when we come to his saintliness i would stand aside, for is he not in _the golden legend_? listen to william caxton: "he forced himself to serve his spirit by diverse castigation or chastising, he used the hair many times next his flesh, and when he left it for cause of over feebleness of his body, at the instance of his own confessor, he ordained the said confessor to give to the poor folk, as for recompensation of every day that he failed of it, forty shillings. he fasted always the friday, and namely in time of lent and advent he abstained him in those days from all manner of fish and from fruits, and continually travailed and pained his body by watchings, orisons, and other secret abstinences and disciplines. humility, beauty of all virtues, replenished so strong in him, that the more better he waxed, so, as david, the more he showed himself meek and humble, and more foul he reputed him before god. "for he was accustomed on every saturday to wash with his own hands, in a secret place, the feet of some poor folk, and after dried them with a fair towel, and kissed much humbly and semblably their hands, distributing or dealing to every one of them a certain sum of silver, also to seven score poor men which daily came to his court, he administered meat and drink with his own hands, and were fed abundantly on the vigils solemn. and on some certain days in the year to two hundred poor, before that he ate or drank, he with his own hands administered and served them both of meat and drink. he ever had, both at his dinner and supper, three ancient poor, which ate nigh to him, to whom he charitably sent of such meats as were brought before him, and sometimes the dishes and meats that the poor of our lord had touched with their hands, and special the sops of which he fain ate, made their remnant or relief to be brought before him, to the end that he should eat it; and yet again to honour and worship the name of our lord on the poor folk, he was not ashamed to eat their relief." qualities have their defects, and such a frame of mind as that can lead, for all the good motive, to injustice and even cruelty. christ's lesson of the roman coin is forgotten as quickly as any. louis' passion for holiness, which became a kind of self-indulgence, led him into a hard and ugly intolerance and acts of severe oppression against those whom he styled heretics. his short way with the jews recalled indeed those of our own king john, who was very nearly his contemporary. i know not if he pulled out their teeth, but he once did what must have been as bad, if not worse, for he published an ordinance "for the good of his soul," remitting to his christian subjects the third of their debts to the jews; and he also expressed it as his opinion that "a layman ought not to dispute with an unbeliever, but strike him with a good sword across the body," the most practical expression of muscular sectarianism that i know. louis' religious fanaticism was, however, his end; for he was so ill-advised as to undertake a new crusade against the unbelievers of morocco, and there, while laying siege to tunis, he died of the plague. that was in , when he was only fifty-five. [illustration: notre dame: south faÇade (from the quai de montebello) ste. chapelle] twenty-seven years later pope boniface the eighth raised him to the calendar of saints, his day being august th. but according to _the golden legend_, which i for one implicitly believe (how can one help it, written as it is?), the posthumous miracles of louis did not wait for rome. they began at once. "on that day that s. louis was buried," we there read, "a woman of the diocese of sens recovered her sight, which she had lost and saw nothing, by the merits and prayers of the said debonair and meedful king. not long after, a young child of burgundy both dumb and deaf of kind, coming with others to the sepulchre or grave of the saint, beseeching him of help, kneeling as he saw that the others did, and after a little while that he thus kneeled were his ears opened and heard, and his tongue redressed and spake well. in the same year a woman blind was led to the said sepulchre, and by the merits of the saint recovered her sight. also that same year two men and five women, beseeching s. louis of help, recovered the use of going, which they had lost by divers sickness and languors. "in the year that s. louis was put or written in the catalogue of the holy confessors, many miracles worthy to be prized befell in divers parts of the world at the invocation of him, by his merits and by his prayers. another time at evreux a child fell under the wheel of a water-mill. great multitude of people came thither, and supposing to have kept him from drowning, invoked god, our lady and his saints to help the said child, but our lord willing his saint to be enhanced among so great multitude of people, was there heard a voice saying that the said child, named john, should be vowed unto s. louis. he then, taken out of the water, was by his mother borne to the grave of the saint, and after her prayer done to s. louis, her son began to sigh and was raised on life." we leave the island by the pont sully, first looking at the statue of barye, the sculptor of barbizon, many of whose best small bronzes are in the louvre (to say nothing of the shops of the dealers in the rue laffitte) and several of his large groups in the public gardens of paris, one, for example, being near the orangery in the tuileries. barye's monument standing here at the east end of the ile st. louis balances henri iv. at the west end of the ile de la cité. crossing to the mainland we ought to look at the old houses on the quai des célestins, particularly the old hôtel de la valette, now the collège massillon, into whose courtyard one should boldly peep. at no. we touch very interesting history, for here stood, two and a half centuries ago, molière's illustre théâtre, the stage entrance to which may be seen at rue de l'ave marie. and now for the marais. chapter v the marais a £ , , rebuilding scheme--romance and intrigue--the temple--the archives--illustrious handwriting--the "uncle" of paris--the wall of philip augustus--old palaces now rookeries--the carnavalet--the perfect museum--latude--napoleon--madame de sévigné--chained streets--john law--the rue st. martin. the marais is that district of old streets and palaces which is bounded on the south by the rue st. antoine, on the east by the rue du turenne, on the west by the rue du temple, and fades away in the north somewhere below the rue de bretagne. the rue des francs bourgeois is its central highway east and west. it was my original intention to devote a large proportion of this book to this fascinating area--to describe it minutely street by street--and i have notes for that purpose which would fill half the volume alone. but the publication of the £ , , scheme for renovating this and other of the older parts of paris (one of the principal points in which is the isolation of the musée carnavalet, which is the heart of the marais), coming just at that time, acted like a douche of iced water, and i abandoned the project. instead therefore i merely say enough (i hope) to impress on every reader the desirability, the necessity, of hastening to the rue des francs bourgeois and its dependencies, and refer them to the two french writers whom i have found most useful in my own researches--the marquis de rochegude, author of a _guide pratique à travers le vieux paris_ (hachette) and the vicomte de villebresme, author of _ce que reste du vieux paris_ (flammarion). to these i would add m. georges cain, the director of the carnavalet, to whom i refer later. no matter where one enters the marais, it offers the same alluring prospect of narrow streets and high and ancient houses, once the abode of the nobility and aristocracy, but now rookeries and factories--and, over all, that sense of thorough insanitation which so often accompanies architectural charm in france and italy, and which seems to matter so little to latin people. hence the additional wickedness of destroying this district. the municipality, however, having acquired superfine foreign notions as to public health, will doubtless have its way. wherever one enters the marais one finds the traces of splendour, intrigue and romance; howsoever modern conditions may have robbed them of their glory, to walk in these streets is, for any one with any imagination, to recreate dumas. for the most part one must make one's own researches, but here and there a tablet may be found, such as that over the entrance to a narrow and sinister passage at no. rue des francs bourgeois, which reads thus: "dans ce passage en sortant de l'hôtel barbette le duc louis d'orléans frère du roi charles vi. fut assassiné par jean sans peur, duc de bourgogne, dans la nuit du ou novembre, ". five hundred years ago! that gives an idea of the antiseptic properties of the air of paris. the duke of orléans, i might remark here, was symmetrically avenged, for his son assassinated jean sans peur on the bridge of montereau all in due course. the marais was at its prime from the middle of the fifteenth century to the beginning of the eighteenth; at which period the faubourg st. antoine was abandoned by fashion for the faubourg st. germain, as we shall see when the time comes to wander in the rue de varenne and the rue de grenelle on the other side of the river. let us enter the marais by the rue du temple at the square du temple, a little south of the place de la république. one must make a beginning somewhere. the temple, which has now disappeared, was the head-quarters of the knight templars of france before their suppression in : it then became the property of the order of st. john of jerusalem, who held it until the revolution, when all property seems to have changed hands. rousseau found sanctuary here in ; and here louis xvi. and marie antoinette were imprisoned for a while in . more tragic by far, it was here that the little dauphin died. napoleon pulled down the tower: louis xviii. on his accession awarded the property to the princesse de condé, and louis-philippe, on his, took it back again. the rue du temple has many interesting old houses and associations. just north of the square is the church of elizabeth of hungary, the first stone of which was laid in by a less sainted monarch, marie de médicis. it is worth entering to see its carved wood scenes from scripture history. at once lived madame du barry; at was, in the reign of louis xv., the barreau des vinaigrettes--the vinaigrette being the forerunner of the cab, a kind of sedan chair and jinrickshaw; at died anne de montmorency, constable of france, in the hôtel de montmorency. [illustration: l'homme au gant titian _(louvre)_] from the square du temple we may also walk down the rue des archives, parallel with the rue du temple on the east. this street now extends to the rue de rivoli. it is rich in old palaces, some with very beautiful relics of their grandeur still in existence, such as the staircase at no. . the fountain at the corner of the rue des haudriettes dates only from . at no. is the gateway, restored, of the old palace of the constable de clisson, built in . later it belonged to the guise family and then to the soubise. the revolution made it the property of the state, and napoleon directed that the archives should be preserved here. the entrance is in the rue des francs bourgeois, across the green court; but do not go on a cold day, because there is no heating process, owing to the age of the building and the extraordinary value of the collections. the rooms in themselves are of some interest for their louis xv. decoration and mural paintings, but one goes of course primarily to see the handwriting of the great. here is the edict of nantes signed by henri iv.; a quittance signed by diana de poictiers, very boldly; a letter to parliament from louis xi., in his atrocious hand; a codicil added by saint louis to his will on board a vessel on the coast of sardinia, exquisitely written. the scriveners have rather gone off than improved since those days; look at the "registre des enquêteurs royaux en normandie," , for a work of delicate minuteness. marie thérèse, wife of louis xiv., wrote an attractive hand, but louis xiv.'s own signature is dull. voltaire is discovered to have written very like swinburne. relics of the revolution abound. here is marie antoinette's last letter to the princess elizabeth, written the night before she was executed; a letter of pétion, bidding his wife farewell, and of barbaroux to his mother, both stained with tears. here also is the journal of louis xvi., - , and the order for his inhumation (as louis capet), st january, . his will is here too; and so is napoleon's. i say no more because the collection is so vast, and also because a franc buys a most admirable catalogue, with facsimiles, beginning with the monogram of charlemagne himself. on leaving the archives we may take an easterly course along the rue des francs bourgeois, with the idea of making eventually for the carnavalet; but it is well to loiter, for this is the very heart of the marais. one's feet will always be straying down byways that call for closer notice, and it is very likely that the carnavalet will not be reached till to-morrow after all. indeed, let "hasta mañana" be your marais motto. one of the first buildings that one notices is the mont de piété, the chief of the paris pawnbroking establishments. i am told that the system is an admirable one; but my own experience is against this opinion, for i was unable on a day of unexpected stress at the end of to effect an entrance at the very reasonable hour of a quarter past five. the closing of the english pawnbrokers at seven--the very moment at which the ordinary man's financial troubles begin--is sufficiently uncivilised; but to cease to lend money on excellent gold watches at five o'clock in the afternoon (with the bank closed on the morrow, too, being new year's day) is a scandal. my adventures in search of relief among french tradesmen who had been at my feet as recently as yesterday, before supplies had broken down, i shall never forget, nor shall i relate them here. this aims at being an agreeable book. it is interesting to note that one of the entrances to the mont de piété is reserved for clients who wish to raise money on deeds, and i have seen cabmen very busy in bringing to it people who quite shamelessly hold their papers in their hands. and why on earth not? and yet your english pawner seldom reaches the three brass balls with such publicity or by any other medium than his poor feet. our mont de piété for the respectable is the solicitor's office. a trace of the wall, and one of its towers, built around paris by philip augustus in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, may be seen in the courtyard of the mont de piété; but the wall is better observed in the rue des guillemites, at no. . all about here once stood a large convent of the blancs-manteaux, or servants of the virgin mary, an order which came into being in florence in the thirteenth century and of whom the doctor benazzi was the general. after the blancs-manteaux came the hermits of st. guillaume, or guillemites, and later the benedictines took it over. next the mont de piété at the back is the church of the blancs-manteaux in its modern form. it is plain and unattractive, but it wears an air of some purpose, and one feels that it is much used in this very popular and not too happy quarter. just opposite, in a doorway, i watched an old chiffonnière playing with a grey rabbit. every inch of this neighbourhood offers priceless material to the hand of mr. muirhead bone. one of the old tavern signs of paris is to be seen close by, at the corner of the rue des blancs-manteaux and the rue des archives: a soldier standing by a cannon, representing l'homme armé. it is a comfortable little retreat and should be encouraged for such antiquarian piety. the pretty turret at the corner of the rue des francs bourgeois and the rue vieille du temple marks the site of the hôtel of jean de la balue. turning to the left up the rue vieille du temple we come at no. to a very beautiful ancient mansion, with a spacious courtyard, built in for the cardinal de rohan. it is now the national printing works: hence the statue of gutenberg in the midst. visitors are allowed to see the house itself once a week, but i have not done so. you will probably not be interfered with if you just step to the inside of the second courtyard to see the bas-relief of the steeds of apollo. nos. to in the same street mark the remains of another fine eighteenth-century hôtel. there is also a house which one should see in the lower part of the street, on the south side of the francs bourgeois--no. , where by penetrating boldly one comes to a perfect little courtyard with some beautiful carvings in it, and, above, a green garden, tended, when i was there, by a little sister of the poor. the principal courtyard has a very interesting bas-relief of romulus and remus at their usual meal, and also an old sundial. this palace was built in . returning to the rue des francs bourgeois, we find at no. the little impasse already referred to, where the duc d'orléans was assassinated. at no. is a very impressive red-brick palace with a courtyard, now a nest of offices and factories, once the hôtel of jean de fourcy. a bust of henri iv. has a place there. at no. on the other side (seen better from the rue pavée) is an even more splendid abode--now also cut up into a rookery--the hôtel de lamoignon, once hôtel d'angoulême, built for diane, duchess of angoulême, daughter of henri ii.: hence the symbols of the chase in the ornamentation. the hotel passed to president de lamoignon in . and here is the carnavalet--the spacious building, with a garden and modern additions, on the left--once the hôtel des ligneries, afterwards the hôtel de kernevenoy, afterwards the hôtel de sévigné, and now the museum of the city of paris. the only way to understand paris is to make repeated visits to this treasure-house. you will find new entertainment and instruction every time, because every time you will carry thither impressions of new objects of interest whose past you will want to explore. for in the carnavalet every phase of the life of the city, from the days of the romans and the merovingians to our own, is illustrated in one way or another. the pictures of streets alone are inexhaustible: the streets that one knows to-day as they were yesterday and the day before yesterday and hundreds of years ago; the streets one has just walked through on the way here, in their stages of evolution: such, for example, as the picture of the wooden pont des meuniers in with the tour saint-jacques behind it; the streets with dramas of the revolution in progress, such as the picture of the emblems of royalty being burned before the statue of liberty (where the luxor column now stands) in the place de la concorde on august th, ; such as the picture of the famous "serment" being taken in the court of the jeu de paume on june th, ; such as the picture of the funeral of marat. for the perfection of topographical drawing look at the series by f. hoffbauer. but it is impossible and needless to particularise. the visitor with a topographical or historical bent will find himself in a paradise and will return and return. one visit is ridiculous. the catalogue, i may say, is not good, therein falling into line with the sculpture catalogue at the louvre. everything may be in it, but the arrangement is poor. in such a museum every article and every picture should of course have a description attached, if only for the benefit of the poor visitor, the humblest citizen of paris whose museum it is. there are a few works of art here too, as well as topographical drawings. georges michel, for example, who looked on landscape much as méryon looked on architecture and preferred a threatening sky to a sunny one, has a prospect from the plaine st. denis. vollon paints the moulin de la galette on montmartre as it was in ; troyon spreads out st. cloud. here also are a charming portrait by chardin of his second wife; the well-known picture of david's life school; drawings by watteau; an adorable unsigned "marchand de lingerie"; an enchanting leg on a blue pillow by boucher; a portrait by prud'hon of an unknown man, very striking; and some exquisite work by louis boilly. [illustration: portrait de jeune homme attributed to bigio _(louvre)_] the musée is strong in henri iv. and the later louis, but it is of course in relics of the revolution and napoleon that the interest centres. a casquette of liberty; the handle of marat's bathroom; a portrait of "la veuve capet" in the conciergerie, in the room that we have seen; a painted life-mask of voltaire, very horrible, and the armchair in which he died; a copy of the constitution of bound in the skin of a man; marat's snuff-box; madame roland as a sweet and happy child,--these i remember in particular. latude is, however, the popular figure--latude the prisoner of the bastille who escaped by means of implements which he made secretly and which are now preserved here, near a portrait of the enfranchised gentleman, robust, portly and triumphant, pointing with one hand to his late prison while the other grasps the rope ladder. latude's history is an odd one. he was born in , the natural son of a poor girl: after accompanying the army in languedoc as a surgeon, or surgeon's assistant, he reached paris in and proceeded to starve. in despair he hit upon an ingenious trick, which wanted nothing but success to have made him. he prepared an infernal machine of infinitesimal aptitude--a contrivance of practically harmless but perhaps somewhat alarming explosives--and this he sent anonymously to the marquise de pompadour, and then immediately after waited upon her in person at versailles to say that he had overheard some men plotting to destroy her by means of this kind of a bomb, and he had come post-haste to warn her and save her life. it was a good story, but latude seems to have lacked some necessary gifts as an impostor, for his own share was detected and he was thrown into the bastille on the st of may, . a few weeks later he was transferred to the prison at vincennes, from which he escaped in . a month later he was retaken and again placed in the bastille, from which he escaped six years later. he got away to holland, but was quickly recaptured; and then again he escaped, after nine more years. he was then treated as a lunatic and put into confinement at charenton, but was discharged in . his liberty, however, seems to have been of little use to him, and he rapidly qualified for gaol again by breaking into a house and threatening its owner, a woman, with a pistol, and he was imprisoned once more. altogether he was under lock and key for the greater part of thirty-five years; but once he was free in he kept his head, and not only remained free but became a popular hero, and did not a little, by reason of a heightened account of his sufferings under despotic prison rule, to inflame the revolutionaries. these memoirs, by the way, in the preparation of which he was assisted by an advocate named thiery, were for the most part untruthful, and not least so in those passages in which latude described his own innocence and ideals. our own canonised prison-breaker, jack sheppard, was a better hero than this man. the little room devoted to napoleon is filled with an intimate melancholy. many personal relics are here--even to a toothbrush dipped in a red powder. his nécessaires de campagne so compactly arranged illustrate the minute orderliness of his mind, and the workmanship of the travelling cases that hold them proves once again his thoroughness and taste. everything had to be right. one of his maps of la campagne de prusse is here; others we shall see at the invalides. the relics of madame de sévigné, who once lived in this beautiful house, are not very numerous; but they exercise their spell. her salon is very much as she left it, except that the private staircase has disappeared and a china closet takes its place. within these walls have la rochefoucauld and bossuet conversed; here she sat, pen in hand, writing her immortal letters. "lisons tout madame de sévigné" was the advice of sainte-beuve, while her most illustrious english admirer, edward fitzgerald, often quotes her. he came to her late, not till , but she never loosened her hold. "i have this summer," he wrote to mrs. w. h. thompson, "made the acquaintance of a great lady, with whom i have become perfectly intimate, through her letters, madame de sévigné. i had hitherto kept aloof from her, because of that eternal daughter of hers; but 'it's all truth and daylight,' as kitty clive said of mrs. siddons. her letters from brittany are best of all, not those from paris, for she loved the country, dear creature; and now i want to go and visit her 'rochers,' but never shall." "i sometimes lament," he says (to mrs. cowell), "i did not know her before; but perhaps such an acquaintance comes in best to cheer one toward the end." with these pleasant praises in our ears let us leave the carnavalet. the rue de sévigné itself has many interesting houses, notably on the south side of the rue des francs bourgeois; no. , for example, was once a theatre, built by beaumarchais in . that is nothing; the interesting thing is that he built it of material from the destroyed bastille and the destroyed church of st. paul. the fire station close by was once the hôtel de perron de quincy. it was in this street, on the day of the fête dieu in , that the constable de clisson, whose house we saw in the rue des archives, was attacked by pierre de craon. the rue des francs bourgeois is the highway of the marais, and the carnavalet is its greatest possession; but, as i have said, the marais is inexhaustible in architectural and historical riches. we may work our way through it, back to the rue du temple by any of these ancient streets; all will repay. the rue du temple extends to the rue de rivoli, striking it just by the hôtel de ville, but the lower portion, south of the rue rambuteau, is not so interesting as the upper. there is, however, to the west of it, just north of the rue de rivoli, a system of old streets hardly less picturesque (and sometimes even more so) than the marais proper, in the centre of which is the church of st. merry, with one of the most wonderful west fronts anywhere--a mass of rich and eccentric decoration. the saint himself was abbot of autun. he came to paris in the seventh century to visit the shrines of st. denis and st. germain. at that time the district which we are now traversing was chiefly forest, in which the kings of france would hunt, leaving their palace in the ile de la cité and crossing the river to this wild district--wild though so near. st. merry established himself in his simple way near a little chapel in the woods, dedicated to st. peter, that stood on this spot, and there he died. after his death his tomb in the chapel performed such miracles that st. peter was forgotten and st. merry was exalted, and when the time came to rebuild, st. merry ousted st. peter altogether. [illustration: the arc de triomphe de l'etoile (approaching from the avenue du bois de boulogne)] st. merry's florid west front is in the rue st. martin, once the roman road from paris to the north and to england, and by the rue st. martin we may leave this district; but between it and the rue du temple there is much to see--such as, for example, the rue verrerie, south of st. merry's, the head-quarters of the ancient glassworkers; the rue brisemiche, quite one of the best of the old narrow paris streets, with iron staples and hooks still in the walls at nos. , , and , to which chains could be fastened so as to turn a street into an impasse during times of stress and thus be sure of your man; the rue taillepin, also leading out of the rue du cloître st. merry into the rue st. merri, which has some fine old houses of its own, notably no. and the quaint impasse du boeuf at no. . parallel with the rue st. merry farther north is the rue de venise, which the vicomte de villebresme boldly calls the most picturesque in old paris. now a very low quarter, it was once literally the lombard street of paris, the chief abode of lombardy moneylenders, while the long and beautiful rue quincampoix, into which it runs on the west, was also a financial centre, containing no less an establishment than the famous banque of john law, the scotchman who for a while early in the eighteenth century controlled french finance. when law had matured his mississippi scheme, he made the rue quincampoix his head-quarters, and houses in it, we read, that had been let for £ a year now yielded £ a month. in the winter of - paris was filled with speculators besieging law's offices for shares. but by may the crash had come and law had to fly. many a house in the rue quincampoix, which is now sufficiently innocent of high finance, dates from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. there is a fine doorway at no. . we may regain the rue st. martin, just to the east, by the rue des lombards, which brings us to the flamboyant front of st. merry's once more. the rue st. martin, which confesses its roman origin in its straightness, is still busy with traffic, but neither itself nor the rue st. denis, two or three hundred yards to the west, is one-tenth as busy as it was before the boulevard sebastopol was cut between them to do all the real work. it is a fine thoroughfare and no doubt of the highest use, but what beautiful narrow streets of old houses it must have destroyed! we may note in the rue st. martin the pretty fountain at no. , and the curious old house at no. , and leave it at the church of st. nicholas-des-champs, no longer in the fields any more than london's st. martin's is. and now after so many houses let us see some pictures! chapter vi the louvre: i. the old masters the winged victory of samothrace--botticelli's fresco--luini--ingres--the salon carré--la joconde--leonardo da vinci--pater, lowell and vasari--early collectors--paul veronese--copyists--the salle des primitifs--the grande galerie--landor's pictorial creed--the great schools--rembrandt--van dyck and rubens--amazing abundance--the dutch masters--the drawings. it is on the first landing of the escalier daru, at the end of the galerie denon, that one of the most priceless treasures of the louvre--one of the most splendid things in the world--is to be found: it has been before us all the way along the galerie denon, that avenue of noble bronzes, the first thing that caught the eye: i mean the "winged victory of samothrace". every one has seen photographs or models of this majestic and exquisite figure, but it must be studied here if one is to form a true estimate of the magical mastery of the sculptor. the victory is headless and armless and much mutilated; but that matters little. she stands on the prow of a trireme, and for every one who sees her with any imagination must for all time be the symbol of triumphant and splendid onset. the figure no doubt weighs more than a ton--and is as light as air. the "meteor" in a strong breeze with all her sails set and her prow foaming through the waves does not convey a more exciting idea of commanding and buoyant progress. but that comparison wholly omits the element of conquest--for this is essential victory as well. the statue dates from the fourth century b.c. it was not discovered until , in samothrace. paris is fortunate indeed to possess not only the venus of milo but this wonder of art--both in the same building. before entering the picture galleries proper, let us look at two other exceedingly beautiful things also on this staircase--the two frescoes from the villa lemmi, but particularly no. on the left of the entrance to gallery xvi., which represents giovanna tornabuoni and the cardinal virtues, and is by sandro filipepi, whom we call botticelli. for this exquisite work alone would i willingly cross the channel even in a gale, such is its charm. a reproduction of it will be found opposite page , but it gives no impression of the soft delicacy of colouring: its gentle pinks and greens and purples, its kindly reds and chestnut browns. one should make a point of looking at these frescoes whenever one is on the staircase, which will be often. the ordinary entrance to the picture galleries of the louvre is through the photographic vestibule on the right of the winged victory as you face it, leading to the salle duchâtel, notable for such differing works as frescoes by luini and two pictures by ingres--representing the beginning and end of his long and austere career. the luinis are delightful--very gay and, as always with this tender master, sweet--especially "the nativity," which is reproduced opposite page . the ingres' (which were bequeathed by the comtesse duchâtel after whom the room is named) are the "oedipus solving the riddle of the sphinx," dated , when the painter was twenty-eight, and the "spring," which some consider his masterpiece, painted in . he lived to be eighty-six. english people have so few opportunities of seeing the work of this master (we have in oils only a little doubtful portrait of malibran, very recently acquired, which hangs in the national gallery) that he comes as a totally new craftsman to most of us; and his severity may not always please. but as a draughtsman he almost takes the breath away, and no one should miss the pencil heads, particularly a little saucy lady, from his hand in the his de la salle collection of drawings in another part of the louvre. in the salle duchâtel is also a screen of drawings with a very beautiful head by botticelli in it--no. . from the rooms we then pass to the salon carré (so called because it is square, and not, as i heard one american explaining to another, after the celebrated collector carré who had left these pictures to the nation), and this is, i suppose, for its size, the most valuable gallery in the world. it is doubtful if any other combination of collections, each contributing of its choicest, could compile as remarkable a room, for the "monna lisa," or "la joconde," leonardo da vinci's portrait of the wife of his friend francesco del giocondo, which is its greatest glory and perhaps the greatest glory of all paris too, would necessarily be missing. [illustration: the winged victory of samothrace _(louvre)_] paris without this picture would not be the paris that we know, or the paris that has been since when "la joconde" first became the nation's property--ever more to smile her inscrutable smile and exert her quiet mysterious sway, not only for kings and courtiers but for all. when all is said, it is leonardo who gives the louvre its special distinction as a picture gallery. without him it would still be magnificent: with him it is priceless and sublime. for not only are there the "monna lisa" and (also in the salon carré) the sweet and beautiful "madonna and saint anne," but in the next, the grande galerie, are his "virgin of the rocks," a variant of the only leonardo in our national gallery, and the "bacchus" (so like the "john the baptist") and the "john the baptist" (so like the "bacchus") and the portrait of the demure yet mischievous italian lady who is supposed to be lucrezia crivelli, and who (in spite of the yellowing ravages of time) once seen is never forgotten. the louvre has all these (together with many drawings), but above all it has the monna lisa, of which what shall i say? i feel that i can say nothing. but here are two descriptions of the picture, or rather two descriptions of the emotions produced by the picture on two very different minds. these i may quote as expressing, between them, all. i will begin with that of walter pater: "as we have seen him using incidents of sacred story, not for their own sake, or as mere subjects for pictorial realisation, but as a cryptic language for fancies all his own, so now he found a vent for his thought in taking one of these languid women, and raising her, as leda or pomona, as modesty or vanity, to the seventh heaven of symbolical expression. "_la gioconda_ is, in the truest sense, leonardo's masterpiece, the revealing instance of his mode of thought and work. in suggestiveness, only the _melancholia_ of dürer is comparable to it; and no crude symbolism disturbs the effect of its subdued and graceful mystery. we all know the face and hands of the figure, set in its marble chair, in that circle of fantastic rocks, as in some faint light under sea. perhaps of all ancient pictures time has chilled it least.[ ] as often happens with works in which invention seems to reach its limit, there is an element in it given to, not invented by, the master. in that inestimable folio of drawings, once in the possession of vasari, were certain designs by verrocchio, faces of such impressive beauty that leonardo in his boyhood copied them many times. it is hard not to connect with these designs of the elder, by-past master, as with its germinal principle, the unfathomable smile, always with a touch of something sinister on it, which plays over all leonardo's work. besides, the picture is a portrait. from childhood we see this image defining itself on the fabric of his dreams; and but for express historical testimony, we might fancy that this was but his ideal lady, embodied and beheld at last. what was the relationship of a living florentine to this creature of his thought? by what strange affinities had the dream and the person grown up thus apart, and yet so closely together? present from the first incorporeally in leonardo's brain, dimly traced in the designs of verrocchio, she is found present at last in _il giocondo's_ house. that there is much of mere portraiture in the picture is attested by the legend that by artificial means, the presence of mimes and flute-players, that subtle expression was protracted on the face. again, was it in four years and by renewed labour never really completed, or in four months and as by stroke of magic, that the image was projected? "the presence that rose thus so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years men had come to desire. hers is the head upon which all 'the ends of the world are come,' and the eyelids are a little weary. it is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. set it for a moment beside one of those white greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed! all the thoughts and experience of the world have etched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of greece, the lust of rome, the mysticism of the middle age with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the pagan world, the sins of the borgias. she is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with eastern merchants; and, as leda, was the mother of helen of troy, and, as saint anne, the mother of mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands. the fancy of a perpetual life, sweeping together ten thousand experiences, is an old one; and modern philosophy has conceived the idea of humanity as wrought upon by, and summing up in itself, all modes of thought and life. certainly lady lisa might stand as the embodiment of the old fancy, the symbol of the modern idea." [ ] yet for vasari there was further magic of crimson in the lips and cheeks, lost for us. _pater's note._ this was what the picture meant for pater; whether too much, is beside the mark. pater thought it and pater wrote it, and that is enough. to others, who are not as pater, it says less, and possibly more. this, for example, is what "monna lisa" suggested to one of the most distinguished and civilised minds of our time--james russell lowell:-- she gave me all that woman can, nor her soul's nunnery forego, a confidence that man to man without remorse can never show. rare art, that can the sense refine till not a pulse rebellious stirs, and, since she never can be mine, makes it seem sweeter to be hers! finally, since we cannot (i believe) spend too much time upon this picture, let me quote vasari's account of it. "for francesco del giocondo, leonardo undertook to paint the portrait of monna lisa, his wife, but, after loitering over it for four years, he finally left it unfinished. this work is now in the possession of the king francis of france, and is at fontainebleau. whoever shall desire to see how far art can imitate nature may do so to perfection in this head, wherein every peculiarity that could be depicted by the utmost subtlety of the pencil has been faithfully reproduced. the eyes have the lustrous brightness and moisture which is seen in life, and around them are those pale, red, and slightly livid circles, also proper to nature, with the lashes, which can only be copied, as these are, with the greatest difficulty; the eyebrows also are represented with the closest exactitude, where fuller and where more thinly set, with the separate hairs delineated as they issue from the skin, every turn being followed, and all the pores exhibited in a manner that could not be more natural than it is: the nose, with its beautiful and delicately roseate nostrils, might be easily believed to be alive; the mouth, admirable in its outline, has the lips uniting the rose-tints of their colour with that of the face, in the utmost perfection, and the carnation of the cheek does not appear to be painted, but truly of flesh and blood; he who looks earnestly at the pit of the throat cannot but believe that he sees the beating of the pulses, and it may be truly said that this work is painted in a manner well calculated to make the boldest master tremble, and astonishes all who behold it, however well accustomed to the marvels of art. "monna lisa was exceedingly beautiful, and while leonardo was painting her portrait, he took the precaution of keeping some one constantly near her, to sing or play on instruments, or to jest and otherwise amuse her, to the end that she might continue cheerful, and so that her face might not exhibit the melancholy expression often imparted by painters to the likenesses they take. in this portrait of leonardo's, on the contrary, there is so pleasing an expression, and a smile so sweet, that while looking at it one thinks it rather divine than human, and it has ever been esteemed a wonderful work, since life itself could exhibit no other appearance." [illustration: la joconde: monna lisa leonardo da vinci _(louvre)_] king francis i. (who met our henry viii. on the field of the cloth of gold) bought the picture of monna lisa from the artist for a sum of money equal now to £ , . it was on a visit to francis that leonardo died. "monna lisa" was the most valuable picture in the cabinet of francis i. and was first hung there in . it is very interesting to think that this work, the peculiar glory of the gallery, should also be its nucleus, so to speak. the venus of milo and the winged victory, which i have grouped with "monna lisa" as its chief treasures, were not added until the last century. among other pictures in the louvre which date from the inception of a royal collection in the brain of francis i. are the "virgin of the rocks" by leonardo, raphael's "sainte famille" (no. ) and "saint michael," andrea del sarto's "charité" and piombo's "visitation". louis xiii. began his reign with about fifty pictures and increased them to two hundred, while under louis xiv., the louvre's most conspicuous friend, the royal collection grew from these two hundred to two thousand--assisted greatly by colbert the financier, who bought for the crown not only much of the collection of the banker jabach of cologne, the pierpont morgan of his day, who had acquired the art treasures of our own charles i., but also the mazarin bibelots. under louis xiv. and succeeding monarchs the pictures oscillated between the louvre, the luxembourg and versailles. the revolution centralised them in the louvre, and on th november, , the collection was made over to the public. during the first republic one hundred thousand francs a year were set aside for the purchase of pictures. but we are in the salon carré. close beside "la joconde" is that raphael which gives me personally more pleasure than any of his pictures--the portrait, beautiful in greys and blacks, of count baldassare castiglione, reproduced opposite page ; here is a correggio (no. ) bathed in a glory of light; here is a golden giorgione; here is an allegory by titian (no. ) not so miraculously coloured as the correggio but wonderfully rich and beautiful; here is a little princess by velasquez; and near it a haunting portrait of a young man (no. ) which has been attributed to many hands, but rests now as the work of francia bigio. i reproduce it opposite page . and that is but a fraction of the treasures of the salon carré. for there are other titians, notably the portrait (no. ) of a young man with a glove (reproduced opposite page ) marked by a beautiful gravity; other raphaels, more characteristic, including "la belle jardinière" (no. ), filled with a rich deep calm; the sweetest luini that i remember (no. ), and the immense "marriage at cana" by paolo veronese, which when i saw it recently was being laboriously engraved on copper by a gentleman in the middle of the room. it was odd to watch so careful a piece of translation in the actual making--to see veronese's vast scene with its rich colouring and tremendous energy coming down into spider-like scratches on two square feet of hard metal. i did not know that such patience was any longer exercised. this picture, by the way, has a double interest--the general and the particular. as whistler said of switzerland, you may both admire the mountain and recognise the tourist on the top. it is full of portraits. the bride at the end of the table is eleanor of austria; at her side is francis i. (who found his way into as many pictures as most men); next to him, in yellow, is mary of england. the sultan suliman i. and the emperor charles v. are not absent. the musicians are the artist and his friends--paul himself playing the 'cello, tintoretto the piccolo, titian the bass viol, and bassano the flute. the lady with a toothpick is (alas!) vittoria colonna. it is, by the way, always student-day at the louvre--at least i never remember to have been there, except on sundays, when copyists were not at work. many of the copies are being made to order as altar pieces in new churches and for other definite purposes. not all, however! a newspaper paragraph lying before me states that the authorities of the louvre have five hundred unfinished copies on their hands, abandoned by their authors so thoroughly as never to be inquired for again. i am not surprised. from the salle carré we enter the grande galerie, which begins with the florentine school, and ends, a vast distance away, with rembrandt. but first it is well to turn into the little salle des primitifs italiens, a few steps on the right, for here are very rare and beautiful things: botticelli's "madonna with a child and john the baptist" (no. ); domenico ghirlandaio's "portrait of an old man and a boy" (no. ), which i reproduce opposite page , that triumph of early realism, and his "visitation" (no. ), with its joyful colouring, culminating in a glorious orange gown; benedetto ghirlandaio's "christ on the way to golgotha" (no. , on the opposite wall), a fine hard red picture; two little piero di cosimos (on each side of the door), very mellow and gay--representing scenes in the marriage of thetis and peleus; fra filippo lippi's "madonna and child with two sainted abbots" (no. ), and the "nativity" next it (no. ); a sweet and lovely "virgin and child" (no. ) of the fra filippo lippi school; another, also very beautiful, by mainardi (no. ); a canvas of portraits, including giotto and the painter himself, by paolo uccello (no. ), the very picture described by vasari in the _lives_; and giotto's scenes in the life of st. francis, in the frame of which, as we shall see, i once, for historical comparison, slipped the photograph of m. henri pol, charmeur des oiseaux. these i name; but much remains that will appeal even more to others. to walk along the grande galerie is practically to traverse the history of art: italian, spanish, british, german, flemish and dutch paintings all hang here. nothing is missing but the french, which, however, are very near at hand. some lines of landor which always come to my mind in a picture gallery i may quote hereabouts with peculiar fitness, and also with a desire to transfer the haunting--a very good one even if one does not agree with the reference to rembrandt, which i do not:-- first bring me raphael, who alone hath seen in all her purity heaven's virgin queen, alone hath felt true beauty; bring me then titian, ennobler of the noblest men; and next the sweet correggio, nor chastise his little cupids for those wicked eyes. i want not rubens's pink puffy bloom, nor rembrandt's glimmer in a dirty room with these, nor poussin's nymph-frequented woods his templed heights and long-drawn solitudes. i am content, yet fain would look abroad on one warm sunset of ausonian claude. it is no province of this book to take the place of a catalogue; but i must mention a few pictures. the left wall is throughout, i may say, except in the case of the british pictures, the better. here, very early, is the lovely "holy family" of andrea del sarto (no. ); here hang the four leonardos which i have mentioned and certain of his derivatives; a beautiful andrea solario (no. ); a lotto, very modern in feeling (no. ); a very striking "salome" by luini ( ), and the same painter's "holy family" (no. ); mantegna; a fine palma; bellini; antonello da messina; more titians, including "the madonna with the rabbit" (no. ) and "jupiter and antiope" (no. ); a new portrait of a man in armour by tintoretto, lately lent to the louvre, one of his gravest and greatest; and so on to the sweet umbrians--to perugino and to raphael, among whose pictures are two or three examples of his gay romantic manner, the most pleasing of which (no. ), "apollo and marsyas," is only conjecturally attributed to him. we pass then to spain--to murillo, who is represented here both in his rapturous saccharine and his realistic moods, "la naissance de la vierge" (no. ) and "le jeune mendicant" (no. ); to velasquez, who, however, is no longer credited with the lively sketch of spanish gentlemen (no. ); and to zurbaran, the strong and merciless. the british pictures are few but choice, including a very fine raeburn, and landscapes by constable and bonington, two painters whom the french elevated to the rank of master and influence while we were still debating their merits. such a landscape as "le cottage" (no. ) by constable, with its rich english simplicity, brings one up with a kind of start in the midst of so much grandiosity and pomp. it is out of place here, and yet one is very happy to see it. from britain we pass to the flemish and germans--to perfect holbeins, including an erasmus and dürer; to rubens, who, however, comes later in his full force, and to the gross and juicy jordaens. then sublimity again; for here is rembrandt of the rhine. after leonardo, rembrandt is to me the glory of the louvre, and especially the glory of the grande galerie, the last section of which is now hung with twenty-two of his works. not one of them is perhaps superlative rembrandt: there is nothing quite so fine as the portrait of elizabeth bas at the ryks, or the "school of anatomy" at the mauritshuis, or the "unjust steward" at hertford house; but how wonderful they are! look at the miracle of the flying angel in the picture of tobias--how real it is and how light! look closely at the two little pictures of the philosopher in meditation. i have chosen the beautiful "venus et l'amour" and the "pèlerins d'emmaus" for reproduction; but i might equally have taken others. they will be found opposite pages and . on the other wall are a few pictures by rembrandt's pupils and colleagues, such as ferdinand bol and govaert flinck, who were always on the track of the master; and more particularly gerard dou: note the old woman in his "lecture de la bible," for it is rembrandt's mother, and also look carefully at "la femme hydropique," one of his most miraculously finished works--a rembrandt through the small end of a telescope. from these we pass to the sumptuous salle van dyck, which in its turn leads to the salle rubens, and one is again filled with wonder at the productivity of the twain--pupil and master. did he never tire, this peter paul rubens? did a new canvas never deter or abash him? it seems not. no sooner was it set up in his studio than at it he must have gone like a charge of cavalry, magnificent in his courage, in his skill and in his brio. what a record! has rubens' square mileage ever been worked out, i wonder. he was very like a frenchman: it is the vigour and spirit of dumas at work with the brush. in the louvre there are fifty-four attested works, besides many drawings; and it seems to me that i must have seen as many in vienna, and as many in dresden, and as many in berlin, and as many in antwerp, and as many in brussels, to say nothing of the glorious landscape in trafalgar square. he is always overpowering; but for me the quieter, gentler brushes. none the less the portrait of helène fourment and their two children, in the grande galerie, although far from approaching that exquisite picture in the liechtenstein gallery in vienna, when the boys were a little older, is a beautiful and living thing which one would not willingly miss. van dyck was, of course, more austere, less boisterous and abundant, but his record is hardly less amazing, and he seems to have faced life-size equestrian groups, such as the charles the first here, without a tremor. the charles is superb in his distinction and disdain; but for me, however, van dyck is the painter of single portraits, of which, no matter where i go, none seems more noble and satisfying than our own cornelius van voorst in trafalgar square. but the "dame et sa fille," which is reproduced on the opposite page, is very beautiful. [illustration: une dame et sa fille van dyck _(louvre)_] all round the salle rubens are arranged the little cabinets in which the small dutch pictures hang--the jan steens and the terburgs, the hals' and the metsus, the ruisdaels and the karel du jardins, the ostades and the golden poelenburghs. of these what can i say? there they are, in their hundreds, the least of them worth many minutes' scrutiny. but a few may be picked out: the jan van eyck (no. ) "la vierge au donateur," reproduced opposite page , in which the chancellor rollin reveres the virgin on the roof of a tower, and small wild animals happily play around, and we see in the distance one of those little fairy cities so dear to the flemish painter's imagination; david's "noce de cana"; metsu's "vierge et enfant" the memling and the rogier van der weyden, close by; franz hals' "bohémienne," reproduced opposite page ; van der heyden's lovely "plaine de haarlem" (no. ); paul potter's "bois de la haye" (no. ), almost like a diaz, and his little masterpiece no. ; the terburgs: the "music lesson" (no. ) and the charming "reading lesson" (no. ) with the little touzled fair-haired boy in it, reproduced opposite page ; ruisdael's "paysage dit le coup de soleil" (no. ); hobbema's "moulin à eau" (no. ); and, to my eyes, almost first of all, vermeer of delft's "lacemaker" (no. ), reproduced opposite page . these are all i name. so much for the paintings by the masters of the world. the louvre also has drawings from the same hands, which hang in their thousands in a series of rooms on the first floor, overlooking the rue de rivoli. here, as i have said, are other leonardos (look particularly at no. ), and here, too, are drawings by raphael and rembrandt, correggio and rubens (a child's head in particular), domenico ghirlandaio and chardin, mantegna and watteau, dürer and ingres. i reproduce only one, a study attributed to the school of fabriano, opposite page . here one may spend a month in daily visits and wish never to break the habit. we have in england hardly less valuable and interesting drawings, but they are not to be seen in this way. one must visit the print room of the british museum and ask for them one by one in portfolios. the louvre, i think, manages it better. chapter vii the louvre: ii. modern pictures the early french painters--richard parkes bonington--chardin--historical paintings--bonington again--the moreau collection--the thomy-thierret collection--the chauchard collection. french pictures early and late now await us. on our way down the grande galerie we passed on the right two entrances to other rooms. taking that one which is nearer the british school, we find ourselves in salle ix., leading to salle x. and so on to galerie xvi., which completes the series. in salle x. the beginnings of french art may be studied, and in particular the curious japanese effects of the ecole d'avignon. here also is very interesting work by le maître de moulins and a remarkable series of drawings in the case in the middle, representing the siege of troy. salle xi. is notable for its portraits by clouet and others; in salle xii. we find le sueur, and in salle xiii. the curious brothers le nain, of whom there are very interesting examples at the ionides collection at south kensington, but nothing better than the haymaking scene here, no. . french painting of the seventeenth century bursts upon us in the great salle xiv. or galerie mollien, of which nicolas poussin and ausonian claude are the giants, thus completing landor's pleasant list with which we entered the grande galerie in the last chapter. there are wonderful things here, but so crowded are they that i always feel lost and confused. there is, however, compensation and relief, for the room also contains one minute masterpiece which perhaps not more than five out of every thousand visitors have seen, and yet which can be studied with perfect quietness and leisure. this is a tiny water-colour in the revolving screen in the middle. there is much delicate work in this screen, dainty aquatint effects by the dutchmen ostade and van der heyden, weenix and borssom, and so forth; but finest of all (as so often happens) is a little richly-coloured drawing of nottingham by bonington, who, as we shall see, has a way of cropping up unsuspectedly and graciously in this great collection--and very rightly, since he owed so much to that gallery. he was one of the youngest students ever admitted, being allowed to copy there at the age of fifteen, while at the beaux arts. that was in the year after waterloo. there may in the history of the gallery have been copyists equally young, but there can never have been one more distinguished or who had deeper influence on french art. paris not only made bonington's career but ended it, for it was while sketching in its streets ten years or more later that he met with the sunstroke which brought about his death when he was only twenty-seven, and stilled the marvellous hand for ever. salle xv. is given up to portraits, among them--and shall i say chief of them, certainly chief of them in point of popularity--the adorable portrait of madame elizabeth louise vigée le brun and her daughter, painted by herself, which is perhaps the best-known french picture, and of which i give a reproduction opposite page . on a screen in this room are placed the latest acquisitions. when last i was there the more noticeable pictures were a portrait by romney of himself, rich and melancholy, recalling to the mind tennyson's monologue, and a sweet and ancient religieuse by memling. there were also some corot drawings, not perhaps so good as those in the moreau collection, but very beautiful, and a charming old-world lady by fragonard. these probably are by this time distributed over the galleries, and other new arrivals have taken their place. i hope so. galerie xvi., which leads out of the salle des portraits, brings us to french art of the eighteenth century--to greuze and david, to fragonard and watteau, to lancret and boucher, and, to my mind, most charming, most pleasure-giving of all, to jean baptiste siméon chardin, who is to be seen in perfection here and in the distant room which contains the collection la caze. it is probable that no painter ever had quite so much charm as this kindly frenchman, whose loving task it was to sweeten and refine homely dutch art. chardin is the most winsome of all painters: his brush laid a bloom on domestic life. the louvre has twenty-eight of his canvases, mostly still-life, distributed between the salle la caze and salle no. xvi., where we now are. the most charming of all, which is to be seen in the salle la caze, is reproduced opposite page . having walked down the left wall of the salle, it is well to slip out at the door at the end for a moment and refresh oneself with another view of botticelli's fresco, which is just outside, before returning by the other wall, as we have to go back through the salle des portraits in order to examine salle viii., a vast room wholly filled with french paintings of the first half of the nineteenth century, bringing the nation's art to the period more or less at which the luxembourg takes it up, though there is a certain amount of overlapping. no room in the louvre so wants weeding and re-hanging as this, for it is a sad jumble. search, however, for the magnificent examples by the great _plein-airistes_. they are lost in this wilderness; but there they are for those that seek--the two vast troyons; corot's magic "souvenir de castel-gondolfon"; a great daubigny, "les vendances de bourgogne," very hard and fine, and the same gigantic painter's large and lovely harvest scene, "le moisson"; rousseau's "sortie de forêt," not unlike the rousseau in the wallace collection in london, with its natural archway of branches and rich tenderness of colour; the sublime "la vague," by courbet; lastly millet's "les glaneuses," the three stooping women in the cornfield who come to the inward eye almost as readily as the figures in the "angelus". the red, blue and yellow of their head-kerchiefs alone would make this picture worth a millionaire's ransom. we leave the room by the door opposite that through which we came and find ourselves again in the grande galerie. the way now is to the left, through the italian schools, through the salon carré (why not stay there and let french art go hang?) through the galerie d'apollon (of which more anon), through the rotunda and the salle des bijoux (whither we shall return), to another crowded late eighteenth and early nineteenth century french room chiefly notable for david's madame récamier on her joyless little sofa. (why didn't we stay in the salon carré?) in this room also are two large napoleonic pictures--one by gros representing general bonaparte visiting the plague victims at jaffa in ; the other, by david, of the consecration service in notre dame, described in an earlier chapter. to see this kind of picture, at which the french have for many years been extremely apt, one must of course go to versailles, where the history of france is spread lavishly over many square miles of canvas. from this room--la salle des sept cheminées--we pass through a little vestibule, with courbet's great village funeral in it, to the very pleasant salle la caze, containing the greater part of the collection of the late dr. la caze, and notable chiefly for the chardins of which i have already spoken, and also, by the further door, for a haunting "buste de femme" attributed to the milanese school. but there are other admirable pictures here, including a velasquez, and it repays study. leaving by the further door and walking for some distance, we come to the his de la salle collection of drawings, from which we gain the collection thiers, which should perhaps be referred to here, although there is not the slightest necessity to see it at all. the thiers collection, which occupies two rooms, is remarkable chiefly for its water-colour copies of great paintings. the first president of the republic employed patient artists to make copies suitable for hanging upon his walls of such inaccessible works as the "last judgment" of michael angelo and raphael's dresden madonna. the results are certainly extraordinary, even if they are not precisely la guerre. the arundel society perhaps found its inspiration in this collection. among the originals there is a fine terburg. on leaving the thiers collection, one comes to a narrow passage with a little huddle of water-colours, very badly treated as to light and space, and well worth more consideration. these pictures should not be missed, for among them are two boningtons, a windmill in a sombre landscape, which i reproduce opposite page , and next to it a masterly drawing of the statue of bartolommé colleoni at venice, which ruskin called the finest equestrian group in the world. bonington, who had the special gift of painting great pictures in small compass (just as there are men who can use a whole wall to paint a little picture on), has made a drawing in which the original sculptor would have rejoiced. it would do the louvre authorities good if these boningtons, which they treat so carelessly, were stolen. nothing could be easier; i worked out the felony as i stood there. all that one would need would be a few friends equally concerned to teach the louvre a lesson, behind whose broad backs one could ply the diamond and the knife. were i a company promoter this is how i should spend my leisure hours. such theft is very nigh virtue. among other pictures in these bad little rooms--nos. xvii. and xviii.--are some millets and decamps. three more collections--and these really more interesting than anything we saw in galeries xiv. or xvi., or the salle des sept cheminées--await us; but two of them need considerable powers of perambulation. chronology having got us under his thumb we must make the longer journey first--to the collection moreau. the collection moreau is to be found at the top of the musée des arts décoratifs, the entrance to which is in the rue de rivoli. in the lower part of this building are held periodical exhibitions; but the upper parts are likely at any rate for a long time to remain unchanged, and here are wonderful collections of furniture, and here hang the few but select canvases brought together by adolphe moreau and his son, and presented to the nation by m. etienne moreau-nelaton. in the thomy-thierret collection in another top storey of the same inexhaustible palace (to which our fainting feet are bound) are corots of the late period; m. moreau bought the earlier. here, among nearly forty others, you may see that portrait of corot painted in , just before he left for rome, which his parents exacted from him in return for their consent to his new career and the abandonment of their rosy dreams of his success as a draper. here you may see "un moine," one of the first pictures he was able to sell--for five hundred francs (twenty pounds). here is the charming marine "la rochelle" painted in and given by corot to desbarolles and by desbarolles to the younger dumas. here is the very beautiful pont de mantes, reproduced opposite page , belonging to his later manner, and here also is an exceptionally merry little sketch, "bateau de pêche à marée basse". i mention these only, since selection is necessary; but everything that corot painted becomes in time satisfying to the student and indispensable to its owner. among the pencil drawings we find this exquisite lover of nature once more, with fifteen studies of his mistress. one of the most interesting of the moreau pictures is fantin-latour's "hommage à delacroix," with its figures of certain of the great and more daring writers and painters of the day, , the year after delacroix's death. they are grouped about his framed portrait--manet, red haired and red bearded, a little like mr. meredith in feature; whistler, with his white feather black and vigorous, and his hand on the historical cane; legros (the only member of the group who is still living, and long may he live!) and baudelaire, for all the world like an innocent professor. manet himself is represented here by his famous "déjeuner sur l'herbe," which the scandalised salon of refused to hang, and three smaller canvases. among the remaining pictures which gave me most pleasure are couture's portrait of adolphe moreau the younger; daumier's "la république"; carrière's "l'enfant à la soupière" (notice the white bowl); decamps' "la battue," curiously like a koninck; and troyon's "le passage du gué," so rich and sweet. from the collection moreau, with its early barbizon pictures, one ought to pass to the chauchard with its middle period, and then to the collection thomy-thierret; but let us go to the thomy-thierret now. it needs courage and endurance, for the room which contains these exquisite pictures is only to be reached on foot after climbing many stairs and walking for what seem to be many miles among models of ships and other neglected curiosities on the louvre's topmost floor. but once the room is reached one is perfectly happy, for every picture is a gem and there is no one there. m. thomy-thierret, who died quite recently, was a collector who liked pictures to be small, to be rich in colour, and to be painted by the barbizon and romantic schools. here you may see twelve corots, all of a much later period than those bequeathed by m. moreau, among them such masterpieces as "le vallon" (no. ), reproduced opposite the next page, "le chemin de sèvres" (no. ), "entrée de village" (no. ), "les chaumières" (no. ), and "la route d'arras" (no. ). here are thirteen daubignys, including "les graves de villerville" (no. , ), and one sombre and haunting english scene--"la tamise à erith" (no. ). here are ten diazes, most beautiful of which to my eyes is "l'Éplorée" (no. ). here are ten rousseaus, among them "le printemps" (no. ), with its rapturous freshness, which i reproduce opposite page , and "les chênes" (no. ), such a group of trees as rousseau alone could paint. here are six millets, my favourite being the "précaution maternelle" (no. ), with its lovely blues, which again reappear in "le vanneur" (no. ). here are eleven troyons, of which "la provende des poules" (no. ), with its bustle of turkeys and chickens around the gay peasant girl beneath a burning sky, reproduced opposite page , is one of the first pictures to which my feet carry me on my visits to paris. here are twelve duprés, most memorable of which is "les landes" (no. ). and here also are delacroix', isabeys and meissoniers. the chauchard pictures-- in number--which are now hanging in five rooms leading from the salle rubens, were bequeathed to the nation by m. alfred chauchard, proprietor of the magasins du louvre (which some visitors to paris have considered the only louvre). among the pictures are twenty-six by corot, twenty-six by meissonier, eight by millet (including "l'angelus") and eight by daubigny. [illustration: le vallon corot _(louvre: thomy-thierret collection)_] i may say at once that the chauchard collection does not compare with the thomy-thierret in courage. m. thomy-thierret liked his pictures to be small and exquisite and happy. within the limits imposed the barbizon painters never did anything more delightful or indeed better. the whole collection--and it is beyond price--is homogeneous: it embodies the taste of one man. m. moreau and his son had a robuster taste, a bolder eye. they wanted strength as well as sweetness, or strength alone. their collection has not quite the homogeneity of the thomy-thierret, but one feels here also that personality has honestly been at work bringing together things of beauty and power that pleased it, and nothing else. but m. chauchard.... it is perfectly evident in a moment that m. chauchard had neither knowledge nor taste. he merely had acumen. at a certain moment in his successful life, one feels, m. chauchard extended himself before the fire-place, stroked his spreading _favoris_ (so like those of our own whiteley), and announced "i must have some pictures". other prosperous men saying the same thing have forthwith taken their courage in their hands and bought pictures; but m. chauchard as i see him (both in his dazzling marble bust and in the portrait by benjamin constant), was not like that. "i must have some pictures," he announced, and then quickly reverted to type and cast about as to the best means of discovering whose pictures were most worth buying. that is how the chauchard collection came about, if i am not mistaken: it was the venture of an essentially commercial man--an investor-in-grain--who also desired a reputation of virtuosity but did not want to lose money over it. as it happens m. chauchard was well advised. but wonderful as they are, beautiful as they are, valuable as they are, there is not a picture here which suggests to the visitor that it ever brought a real gladness to the eyes of its owner in his own home. but i can convince you only too easily that m. chauchard had no taste. do you remember when driving out to longchamp, through the bois, either to the races or to suresnes, just after you pass the cascade, you come on the left to a windmill overlooking the course, and on the right to a white villa, all alone and unreal? a club house, one naturally thinks it, for the french jockey club, or something of that kind. you may have forgotten the villa, but you will recall it when i say that on the very trim vivid lawn in front of it, scattered about, supposed to be counterfeiting life, are various animals in stone--a stag, a doe, some dogs, all white and motionless, in the best mortuary manner, and all, to you and me, outrageous. well, that was one of m. chauchard's homes. m. chauchard was the owner of that lawn and its occupants. the man who looking out of his window could feast his eye on these triumphs of the monumental mason was the same man who bought for his walls sheep by jacque and millet, and cattle and dogs by troyon.... no matter. m. chauchard acquired pictures and left them to the french nation, and they are now on view for ever (always excepting the fatal continental mondays) for all to rejoice in. the first really compellingly beautiful work as one enters--the first picture to touch the emotions--is rousseau's "la charrette". it was painted in , five years before the painter's death, which left the villagers of barbizon the richer by a studio-chapel. it is a mere trifle and it is as wonderful as a summer day: a forest glade, in the midst of which a tiny wagon and white horse with blue trappings are seen beneath a burning sky, such a picture as ought to have a wall if not a room to itself: such a picture as i should like to see placed above an altar. it is the same subject--a forest wagon--that provided what in some ways is the best or most attractive corot here. his "la charrette" is a large easy landscape lit by the gracious light of which he alone had the secret. in the foreground is a deep sandy road with the charrette labouring through it. but before we came to this we had stood before one of the finest of the seven daubignys, "la seine à bezons," a river scene of almost terrible calm, with mont valerien in the distance and geese and boats on the near shore, and implicit in it the sincerity, strength and humility of this great man. at the end of the room hang two large and busy troyons, one on each side of m. chauchard himself, the donor of the feast, whose bust in the whitest carrara, with the whiskers in full fig and the _croix de grand officier du legion d'honneur_ meticulously carved upon it, stands here, as stipulated in the will. these two troyons, of which there are eighteen in all, are i think the largest. one represents cows sauntering lazily down to drink; the other the return from the market of a mixed herd of cattle and sheep, with a donkey in panniers, being driven by a man on a white horse. as was his wont, troyon chose a road on the edge of a cliff with a very green border of turf and an exquisite glimpse of sea to the left. none of the new troyons perhaps is as fine as those in salle viii. of the louvre proper, but this is a superb thing. the "boeufs se rendant au labour" and the "le retour à la ferme" in salle viii. should be visited after the chauchards. and so we leave the first and largest room, in the midst of which are two cases of barye's bronzes--lions and tigers, bears and deer, snakes and birds--and enter the first room on the left as we came in; and here we begin to see for the first time pictures with special knots of people before them. for the meissoniers begin here. and of meissonier what am i to say? for meissonier leaves me cold. he is marvellous; but he leaves me cold. he painted with a fidelity and spirit that border on the magical; but those qualities that i want in a picture, those callings of deep to deep, one seeks in vain. hence i say nothing of meissonier, except that he was a master, that there are twenty-six of his masterpieces here, and that the crowd opposite his " " extends to the opposite side. how can one spend time over "le cheval de l'ordonnance" and the "petit poste de grand'-garde" when daubigny's "les laveuses (effet de soleil couchant)" hangs so near--this great placid green picture, so profoundly true as to be almost an act of god? corot's "etang de ville d'avray" is here too, liquid and tender. the little room that leads out of this is usually almost unenterable by reason of the press before meissonier's " ". this undoubtedly is one of the little great pictures of the world, and i can understand the enthusiasm of the french sightseer, whose blood is still stirrable by the enduring personality of the saturnine man on the white horse. neighbouring pictures are a rich cattle piece by diaz, immediately over " "; rousseau's "la mare," which is not a little like the koninck in the ionides collection at south kensington, and the same painter's "la mare au pied du coteau" with its lovely middle distance. here too is one of corot's many _pêcheurs_, who little knew as they fished on so quietly in the still gentle light that they were being rendered immortal by the quaint little bourgeois with the long pipe, sketching on the bank. one of the finest of the duprés is also here--"la vanne," a deep green scene of water. in the last room we come at last to that painter whose work, next perhaps to meissonier's, is the magnet which draws such a steady stream of worshippers to this new shrine of art--to jean françois millet. m. chauchard had eight millets, including the "angelus," but though it is the "angelus" which is considered of many to be the very core of this collection, i find more pleasure in "la bergère gardant ses moutons" (reproduced opposite page ), which i would call, i think, the best picture of all. it has been remarked that no picture containing sheep can ever be a bad picture; but when millet paints them, and when they are grazing beneath such a sky, and when one of those grave sweet peasant women--a monument of patient acceptance and the humility that comes from the soil--is their shepherdess, why then it is almost too much; and the brave ardent jacque, whose "moutons au pâturage" hangs close by, is half suspected of theatricalism. millet is so great, so full of large elemental simplicity and truth that one regrets that his eight pictures have not a room to themselves. that they should be elbowed by the neat dancing-master _chefs d'oeuvre_ of meissonier is something of a catastrophe. thinking over the collection, i have very strongly the feeling already expressed that it was wrongly assembled. the investor rather than the enthusiast is too apparent. m. chauchard, it is true, refrained from making money by his acquisitions, since he gave them to the nation, and this is eternally to his credit. none the less i find it difficult to esteem him as perhaps one should even in the light of a generous testator. one so wants pictures to be loved. and of all pictures that are lovable and that long to pass into their owner's being--to engentle his eyes and enrich his experience and deepen his nature--none equal those that were painted by the little group of friends who in the middle of the last century made the white-walled village of barbizon their head-quarters and the forest of fontainebleau their happy hunting-ground and a wordsworthian passion for nature their creed. such pictures deserve the most faithful owners and the most thoughtful hospitality.... but if we cannot get all as we wish it, at least we must be grateful for the next best thing, and to m. chauchard and the louvre authorities we must all be supremely grateful. the louvre is to-day the most wonderful museum in the world; but what would one not give to be able to visit it as it was in , when it was in some respects more wonderful still. for then it was filled with the spoils of napoleon's armies, who had instructions always to bring back from the conquered cities what they could see that was likely to beautify and enrich france. it is a reason for war in itself. i would support any war with austria, for example, that would bring to london count czernin's vermeer and the parmigianino in the vienna national gallery; any war with germany that would put the berlin national gallery at our disposal. napoleon had other things to fight for, but that comprehensive brain forgot nothing, and as he deposed a king he remembered a blank space in the louvre that lacked a raphael, an empty niche waiting for its phidias. the revolution decreed the museum, but it was napoleon who made it priceless and glorious. after the fall of this man a trumpery era of restitution set in. many of his noble patriotic thefts were cancelled out. the world readjusted itself and shrank into its old pettiness. priceless pictures and statues were carried again to italy and austria, napoleon to st. helena. chapter viii the tuileries a vanished palace--the most magnificent vista--enter louis xvi. and marie antoinette--the massacre of the swiss guards--the blood of paris--a series of disasters--the growth of paris--the napoleonic rebuilders--the arc de triomphe du carrousel--the irony of history--a frock coat rampant--the statuary of paris--the gardens of the tuileries--monsieur pol, charmer of birds--the parisian sparrow--hyde park--the drum. had we turned our back only thirty-eight years ago on frémiet's statue of joan of arc (which was not there then) in the place de rivoli, and walked down what is now the rue de tuileries towards the seine, we should have had on our left hand a beautiful and imposing building--the palace of the tuileries, which united the two wings of the louvre that now terminate in the pavillon de marsan just by the place de rivoli and the pavillon de flore on the quai des tuileries. the palace stretched right across this interval, thus interrupting the wonderful vista of to-day from the old louvre right away to the arc de triomphe--probably the most extraordinary and beautiful civilised, or artificial, vista in the world. the palace had, however, a sufficiently fine if curtailed share of it from its own windows. all parisians upwards of forty-five must remember the palace perfectly, for it was not destroyed until , during the commune, and it was some years after that incendiary period before all traces were removed and the gardens spread uninterruptedly from the carrousel to the concorde. the palace of the tuileries (so called because it occupied a site previously covered by tile kilns) was begun in and had therefore lived for three centuries. catherine de médicis planned it, but, as we shall read later, she lost interest in it very quickly owing to one of those inconvenient prophecies which were wont in earlier times so to embarrass rulers, but which to-day in civilised countries have entirely gone out. the tuileries was a happy enough palace, as palaces go, until the revolution: it then became for a while the very centre of rebellion and carnage; for louis xvi. and the royal family were conveyed thither after the fatal oath had been sworn in the versailles tennis-court. then came the critical th of august, when the king consented to attend the conference in the manège (now no more, but a tablet opposite the rue castiglione marks the spot) and thus lost everything. the massacre of the swiss guards followed: but here it is impossible, or at least absurd, not to hear carlyle. mandal, commander of the national guard, i would premise, has been assassinated by the crowd; the constitutional assembly sits in the manège, and the king, a prisoner in the tuileries, but still a hesitant and an optimist, is ordered to attend it. at last he consents. "king louis sits, his hands leant on his knees, body bent forward; gazes for a space fixedly on syndic roederer; then answers, looking over his shoulder to the queen: _marchons!_ they march; king louis, queen, sister elizabeth, the two royal children and governess: these, with syndic roederer, and officials of the department; amid a double rank of national guards. the men with blunderbusses, the steady red swiss gaze mournfully, reproachfully; but hear only these words from syndic roederer: 'the king is going to the assembly; make way'. it has struck eight, on all clocks, some minutes ago: the king has left the tuileries--forever. [illustration: the parc monceau] "o ye stanch swiss, ye gallant gentlemen in black, for what a cause are ye to spend and be spent! look out from the western windows, ye may see king louis placidly hold on his way; the poor little prince royal 'sportfully kicking the fallen leaves'. fremescent multitude on the terrace of the feuillants whirls parallel to him; one man in it, very noisy, with a long pole: will they not obstruct the outer staircase, and back-entrance of the salle, when it comes to that? king's guards can go no farther than the bottom step there. lo, deputation of legislators come out; he of the long pole is stilled by oratory; assembly's guards join themselves to king's guards, and all may mount in this case of necessity; the outer staircase is free, or passable. see, royalty ascends; a blue grenadier lifts the poor little prince royal from the press; royalty has entered in. royalty has vanished for ever from your eyes.--and ye? left standing there, amid the yawning abysses, and earthquake of insurrection; without course; without command: if ye perish, it must be as more than martyrs, as martyrs who are now without a cause! the black courtiers disappear mostly; through such issues as they can. the poor swiss know not how to act: one duty only is clear to them, that of standing by their post; and they will perform that. "but the glittering steel tide has arrived; it beats now against the château barriers and eastern courts; irresistible, loud-surging far and wide;--breaks in, fills the court of the carrousel, blackbrowed marseillese in the van. king louis gone, say you; over to the assembly! well and good: but till the assembly pronounce forfeiture of him, what boots it? our post is in that château or stronghold of his; there till then must we continue. think, ye stanch swiss, whether it were good that grim murder began, and brothers blasted one another in pieces for a stone edifice?--poor swiss! they know not how to act: from the southern windows, some fling cartridges, in sign of brotherhood; on the eastern outer staircase, and within through long stairs and corridors, they stand firm-ranked, peaceable and yet refusing to stir. westermann speaks to them in alsatian german; marseillese plead, in hot provençal speech and pantomime; stunning hubbub pleads and threatens, infinite, around. the swiss stand fast, peaceable and yet immovable; red granite pier in that waste-flashing sea of steel. "who can help the inevitable issue; marseillese and all france on this side; granite swiss on that? the pantomime grows hotter and hotter; marseillese sabres flourishing by way of action; the swiss brow also clouding itself, the swiss thumb bringing its firelock to the cock. and hark! high thundering above all the din, three marseillese cannon from the carrousel, pointed by a gunner of bad aim, come rattling over the roofs! ye swiss, therefore: _fire!_ the swiss fire; by volley, by platoon, in rolling fire: marseillese men not a few, and 'a tall man that was louder than any,' lie silent, smashed upon the pavement;--not a few marseillese, after the long dusty march, have made halt _here_. the carrousel is void; the black tide recoiling; 'fugitives rushing as far as saint-antoine before they stop'. the cannoneers without linstock have squatted invisible, and left their cannon; which the swiss seize.... "behold, the fire slackens not; nor does the swiss rolling-fire slacken from within. nay they clutched cannon, as we saw; and now, from the other side, they clutch three pieces more; alas, cannon without linstock; nor will the steel-and-flint answer, though they try it. had it chanced to answer! patriot onlookers have their misgivings; one strangest patriot onlooker thinks that the swiss, had they a commander, would beat. he is a man not unqualified to judge; the name of him napoleon buonaparte. and onlookers, and women, stand gazing, and the witty dr. moore of glasgow among them, on the other side of the river: cannon rush rumbling past them; pause on the pont royal; belch out their iron entrails there, against the tuileries; and at every new belch, the women and onlookers 'shout and clap hands'. city of all the devils! in remote streets, men are drinking breakfast-coffee; following their affairs; with a start now and then, as some dull echo reverberates a note louder. and here? marseillese fall wounded; but barbaroux has surgeons; barbaroux is close by, managing, though underhand and under cover. marseillese fall death-struck; bequeath their firelock, specify in which pocket are the cartridges; and die murmuring, 'revenge me, revenge thy country!' brest fédéré officers, galloping in red coats, are shot as swiss. lo you, the carrousel has burst into flame!--paris pandemonium! nay the poor city, as we said, is in fever-fit and convulsion: such crisis has lasted for the space of some half hour. "but what is this that, with legislative insignia, ventures through the hubbub and death-hail, from the back-entrance of the manège? towards the tuileries and swiss: written order from his majesty to cease firing! o ye hapless swiss, why was there no order not to begin it? gladly would the swiss cease firing: but who will bid mad insurrection cease firing? to insurrection you cannot speak; neither can it, hydra-headed, hear. the dead and dying, by the hundred, lie all around; are borne bleeding through the streets, towards help; the sight of them, like a torch of the furies, kindling madness. patriot paris roars; as the bear bereaved of her whelps. on, ye patriots: vengeance! victory or death! there are men seen, who rush on, armed only with walking-sticks. terror and fury rule the hour. "the swiss, pressed on from without, paralysed from within, have ceased to shoot; but not to be shot. what shall they do? desperate is the moment. shelter or instant death: yet how, where? one party flies out by the rue de l'echelle; is destroyed utterly, '_en entier_'. a second, by the other side, throws itself into the garden; 'hurrying across a keen fusillade'; rushes suppliant into the national assembly; finds pity and refuge in the back benches there. the third, and largest, darts out in column, three hundred strong, towards the champs elysées: 'ah, could we but reach courbevoye, where other swiss are!' wo! see, in such fusillade the column 'soon breaks itself by diversity of opinion,' into distracted segments, this way and that;--to escape in holes, to die fighting from street to street. the firing and murdering will not cease; not yet for long. the red porters of hôtels are shot at, be they _suisse_ by nature, or _suisse_ only in name.... "surely few things in the history of carnage are painfuller. what ineffaceable red streak, flickering so sad in the memory, is that, of this poor column of red swiss 'breaking itself in the confusion of opinions'; dispersing, into blackness and death! honour to you, brave men; honourable pity, through long times! not martyrs were ye; and yet almost more. he was no king of yours, this louis; and he forsook you like a king of shreds and patches: ye were but sold to him for some poor sixpence a-day; yet would ye work for your wages, keep your plighted word. the work now was to die; and ye did it. honour to you, o kinsmen." [illustration: le printemps rousseau _(louvre: thomy-thierret collection)_] is that too dreadful an association for this spot? it is terrible; but to visit paris without any historical interest is too materialistic a proceeding, and to have the historical interest in paris and be afraid of a little blood is an untenable position. paris is steeped in blood. the tuileries had not seen all its riot yet; july th, , was to come, when, after another taste of monarchy, revived in after its murder on that appalling th of august (which was virtually its death day, although the date of the birth of the first republic stands as september st, ), the mob attacked the palace, the last bourbon king, charles x., fled from it and from france, and louis-philippe of orléans mounted the throne in his stead. but that was not all. another seventeen and a half years and revengeful time saw louis-philippe, last of the orléans kings, escaping in his turn from another besieging crowd, and the establishment of the second republic. during the second empire some of the old splendour returned, and it was here, at the tuileries, that napoleon iii. drew up many of his plans for the modern paris that we now know; and then came the prussian war and the third republic, and then the terrible communard insurrection in the spring of , in which the tuileries disappeared for ever. napoleon iii., as i have said, assisted by baron haussmann, toiled in the great pacific task of renovating paris, not with the imaginative genius of his uncle, but with an undeniable largeness and sagacity. he it was who added so greatly to the louvre--all that part in fact opposite the place du palais royal and the magasins du louvre as far west as the rue de rohan. a large portion of the corresponding wing on the river side was his too. but here is a list, since we are on the subject of modern paris--which began with the great napoleon's reconstruction of the ravages (beneficial for the most part) of the revolutionaries--of the efforts made by each ruler since that epoch. i borrow the table from the marquis de rochegude. "napoleon i.--arc de triomphe du carrousel, vendôme column, façade du corps legislatif, commencement of the arc de triomphe de l'etoile, la bourse, the bridges d'austerlitz, d'iéna, des arts, de la cité, several markets, quais d'orsay, de billy, du louvre, montebello, de la tournelle; the eastern and northern cemeteries; numbering the houses in , begun without success in ; pavements in the streets and doing away with the streams or flowing gutters in the middle of the streets." (how like napoleon to get the houses numbered on a clear system! throughout paris the odd numbers occupy one side of the street and the even the other. all are numbered from the seine outwards.) "the restoration.--chapel expiatoire, n.d. de bonne-nouvelle, n.d. de lorette, st. vincent de paul; bridges of the invalides, of the archbishopric, d'arcole; canals of st. denis and st. martin; fifty-five new streets; lighting by gas." (it was about that cabs came in. they were called fiacres from the circumstance that their originator carried on his business at the sign of the grand st. fiacre.) "louis-philippe, - .--finished the madeleine, arc de triomphe, erected the obelisk (place de la concorde), column of july; bridges: louis-philippe, carrousel; palace of the quai d'orsay; enlarged the palais de justice; restored notre dame and sainte chapelle; fountains: louvois, cuvier, st. sulpice, gaillon, molière; opened the museums of cluny and the thermes. in -- , streets. "napoleon iii., - .--embellished paris--execution of haussmann's plans, twenty-two new boulevards; streets lafayette, quatre-septembre, de turbigo; bvd. st. germain; rues des ecoles, de rivoli, the champs elysées quarter, the avenues friedland, hoche, kléber, the marceau, de l'impératrice, many squares; a part of new louvre; churches of st. augustine, the trinity, st. ambroise, ste. clotilde (finishing of); theatres, châtelet, lyrique, du vaudeville; tribunal of commerce, hôtel dieu, barracks, central markets (also the ceinture railway); finishing of the laribosière hospital, the fountain of st. michel, the bridges of solferino, l'alma, the pont au change. in , , , inhabitants. "the commune.--burning of the tuileries, the ministry of finance, the louvre library, the hôtel de ville, the palace of the legion of honour, the palace of the quai d'orsay, the lyric, the châtelet and the porte st. martin theatres, etc. "the republic.--reconstruction of the buildings burnt by the commune; avenue de l'opéra, the opera house; streets: etienne marcel, réaumur, avenue de la république, etc. in , , streets, in there were , streets. the exhibition left the trocadero, and that of the eiffel tower, and that of the two palaces of the champs-elysées and the bridge alexander iii." (to this one should add the métro, still uncompleted, which has the advantage over london's tubes of being only just below the surface, so that no lift is needed.) [illustration: the arc de triomphe du carrousel (west faÇade)] the arc de triomphe du carrousel, at the east end of the gardens, is a mere child compared with the arc de triomphe de l'etoile, which stands there, so serenely and magnificently, at the end of the vista in the west, nearly two amazing miles away; it could be placed easily, with many feet to spare, under that greater monument's arch (as victor hugo's coffin was); but it is more beautiful. both were the work of napoleon, both celebrate the victories of - . the carrousel is surmounted by a triumphal car and four horses; but here again, as in the case of the statue of henri iv. on the pont neuf, there have been ironical changes. napoleon, when he ordained the arch, which was intended largely to reproduce that of severus at rome, ravished for its crowning the quadriga from st. mark's at venice: those glorious gleaming horses over the door. that was as it should be: he was a conqueror and entitled to the spoils of conquest. but after his fall came, as we have seen, a pedantic disgorgement of such treasure; the golden team trotted back to the adriatic, and a new decoration had to be provided for the carrousel. hence the present one, which represents--what? it is almost inconceivable; but, louis xviii. having commissioned it, it represents the triumph no longer of napoleon but of the restoration! amusing to remember this under the third republic, as one looks up at it and then at the bas-reliefs of the battle of austerlitz, the peace of tilsit, the capitulation of ulm, the entry into munich, the entry into vienna and the peace of pressburg. time's revenges indeed. standing under the arc du carrousel one makes the interesting but disappointing discovery that the arc de triomphe, the column of luxor in the place de la concorde, the fountain, the arc du carrousel, the gambetta monument and the pavillon sully of the louvre do not form a straight line, as by all the laws of french architectural symmetry they should--especially here, where compasses and rulers seem to have been at work on every inch of the ground, and, as i have ascertained, general opinion considers them to do. all is well, from the west, until the arc du carrousel; it is the gambetta and the pavilion sully that throw it out. the gambetta! this monument fascinates me, not by its beauty nor because i have any especial reverence for the statesman; but simply by the vigour of his clothes, the frock coat and the light overcoat of the flamboyant orator, holding forth for evermore (or until his hour strikes), urgent and impetuous and french. to the frock coat in sculpture we in london are no strangers, for have we not parliament square? but our frock coats are quiescent, dead even, things of stone. gambetta's, on the contrary, is tempestuous--surely the most heroic frock coat that ever emerged from the quarries of carrara. it might have been cut by the great mel himself. i have never seen a computation of the stone and bronze population of paris, but the statues must be thousands strong. a pied piper leading them out of the city would be worth seeing, although i for one would regret their loss. paris, i suppose, was paris no less than now in the days before gambetta masqueraded as a frock coated victory almost within hail of the winged victory of samothrace; but paris certainly would not be paris any more were some new turn of the wheel to whisk him away and leave the place du carrousel forlorn and tepid. the loss even of the smug figure of jules simon, just outside durand's, would be something like a bereavement. i once, by the way, saw this statue wearing, after a snowstorm, a white fur cap and cape that gave him a character--something almost siberian--beyond anything dreamed of by the sculptor. it is not until one has walked through the gardens of the tuileries that the wealth of statuary in paris begins to impress the mind. for there must be almost as many statues as flowers. they shine or glimmer everywhere, as in the athenian groves--allegorical, symbolical, mythological, naked. the luxembourg gardens, as we shall see, are hardly less rich, but there one finds the statues of real persons. here, as becomes a formal garden projected by a king, realism is excluded. formal it is in the extreme; the trees are sternly pollarded, the beds are mathematically laid out, the paths are straight and not to be deviated from. none the less on a hot summer's day there are few more delightful spots, with the placid bonnes sitting so solidly, as only french women can sit, over their needlework, and their charges flitting like discreet butterflies all around them; and here are two old philosophers--another bouvard and pécuchet--discussing some problem of conduct or science, and there a family party lunching heartily, without shame. pleasant groves, pleasant people! but the best thing in the tuileries is m. pol. who is m. pol? well, he may not be the most famous man in paris, but he is certainly the most engaging. m. pol is the charmer of birds--"le charmeur d'oiseaux au jardin des tuileries," to give him his full title. there may be other charmers too at their pretty labours; but m. pol comes easily first: his personality is so attractive, his terms of intercourse with the birds so intimate. his oiseaux are chiefly sparrows, whom he knows by name--la princesse, le loustic, garibaldi, la baronne, l'anglais, and so forth. they come one by one at his call, and he pets them and praises them; talks pretty ironical talk; uses them (particularly the little brown l'anglais) for sly satirical purposes, for there are usually a few english spectators; affects to admonish and even chastise them, shuffling minatory feet with all the noise but none of the illusion of seriousness; and never ceases the while to scatter his crumbs or seeds of comfort. it is a very charming little drama, and although carried on every day, and for some hours every day, it has no suggestion of routine; one feels that the springs of it are sweetness and benevolence. he is a typical elderly latin, this m. pol, a little unmindful as to his dress, a little inclined to shamble: humorous, careless, gentle. when i first saw him, years ago, he fed his birds and went his way: but he now makes a little money by it too, now and then offering, very reluctantly, postcards bearing pictures of himself with all his birds about him and a distich or so from his pen. for m. pol is a poet in words as well as deeds: "de nos petits oiseaux," he writes on one card:-- "de nos petits oiseaux, je suis le bienfaiteur, et je vais tous les jours leur donner la pâture, mais suivant un contrat dicté par la nature quand je donne mon pain, ils me donnent leur coeur." i think this true. it is a little more than cupboard love that inspires these tiny creatures, or they would never settle on m. pol's hands and shoulders as they do. he has charmed the pigeons also; but here he admits to a lower motive:-- "ils savent, les malins, que leur couvert est mis, c'est en faisant du bien qu'on se fait des amis." it amused me one day at the louvre to fix one of these photographs in the frame of giotto's picture of st. francis (in salle vii.), one of the scenes of which shows him preaching to the birds, thus bridging the gulf between the centuries and making for the moment the assisi of the saint and the paris of m. briand one. london has its noticeable lovers of animals too--you may see in st. paul's churchyard in the dinner hour isolated figures surrounded and covered by pigeons: the british museum courtyard also knows one or two, and the guildhall: quite like venice, both of them, save that no one is excited about it; while in st. james's square may be seen at all hours of every day the mysterious cat woman with her pensioners all about her on their little mats. every city has these humorists--shall i say? using the word as it was wont to be used long ago. but m. pol--m. pol stands alone. it is not merely that he charms the birds but that he is so charming with them. the pigeon feeders of london whom i have watched bring their maize, distribute it and go. m. pol is more of a st. francis than that: as i have shown, he converses, jokes and exchanges moods with his friends. although he is acquainted with pigeons, his real friends are the gamins of the air, the sparrows, true parisians, who have the best news. pigeons, one can conceive, pick up a fact here and there, but it would have a foreign or provincial flavour. now if there is one thing which bores a true parisian it is talk of what is happening outside paris. the parisian's horizons do not extend beyond his city. the sun for him rises out of the bois de vincennes, and evening comes because it has sunk into the bois de boulogne. hence m. pol's wisdom in choosing the sparrow for his companion, his oiseau intime. so far had i written when i chanced to walk into london by way of hyde park, and there, just by the achilles statue, was a charming gentleman in a tall white hat whistling a low whistle to a little band of sparrows who followed him and surrounded him and fluttered up, one by one, to his hand. we talked a little together, and he told me that the birds never forget him, though he is absent for eight months each year. his whistle brings them at once. so london is all right after all. and i have been told delightful things about the friends of the grey squirrels in central park; so new york perhaps is all right too. the round pond of paris is at the tuileries--not so vast as the _mare clausum_ of kensington gardens, but capable of accommodating many argosies. leaving this pond behind us and making for the place de la concorde, we have on the right the remains of a monastery of the cistercians, one of the many religious houses which stood all about the north of the gardens at the time of the revolution and were first discredited and emptied by the votaries of reason and then swept away by napoleon when he made the rue de rivoli. the building on the left is the orangery. it is in this part that the temporary pavilions are erected for the banquets to provincial mayors and such pleasant ceremonies, while in the summer some little exhibition is usually in progress. but what is that sound? the beating of a drum. we must hasten to the gates, for that means closing time. chapter ix the place de la concorde--the champs-elysÉes and the invalides a dangerous crossing--an ill-omened place--louis the xvi. in prosperity and adversity--january st, --the end of robespierre--the luxor column--the congress of wheels--england and france--the champs elysées--the parc monceau--a terrestrial paradise--oriental museums--the etoile's tributaries--the arc de triomphe--the avenue du bois de boulogne--a vast pleasure-ground--happy sundays--longchamp--the pari-mutuel--spotting a winner--two crowded corners--the rival salons--the palais des beaux-arts--dutch masters--modern french painters--superb drawing--fairies among the statues--the pont alexandre iii.--the fairs of paris--a vast alms-house--a model museum--relics of napoleon--the second funeral of napoleon--the tomb of napoleon. the place de la concorde by day is vast rather than beautiful, and by night it is a congress of lamps. by both it is dangerous, and in bad weather as exposed as the open sea. but it is sacred ground and paris is unthinkable without it. the interest of the place is summed up in the luxor column, which may perhaps be said to mark what is perhaps the most critical site in modern history; for where the obelisk now stands stood not so very long ago the guillotine. the place's name has been concorde only since it began in , when a bronze statue of louis xv. on horseback was erected there, surrounded by emblematic figures, from the chisel of pigalle, of prudence, justice, force and peace. hence the characteristic french epigram:-- "o la belle statue, o le beau piédestal! les vertus sont à pied, le vice est à cheval." before this time the place had been an open and uncultivated space; it was now enclosed, surrounded with fosses, made trim, and called la place louis quinze. in , however, came tragedy; for on the occasion of the marriage of the dauphin, afterwards the luckless louis xvi., with the equally luckless marie antoinette, a display of fireworks was given, during which one of the rockets (as one always dreads at every display) declined the sky and rushed horizontally into the crowd, and in the resulting stampede thousands of persons fell into the ditches, twelve hundred being killed outright and two thousand injured. twenty-two years later, kings having suddenly become cheap, the national convention ordered the statue of louis xv. to be melted down and recast into cannon, a clay figure of liberté to be set up in its stead, and the name to be changed to the place de la révolution. this was done, and a little later the guillotine was erected a few yards west of the spot where the luxor column now stands, primarily for the removal of the head of louis xvi., in whose honour those unfortunate fireworks had been ignited. the day was january st, . "king louis," says carlyle, "slept sound, till five in the morning, when cléry, as he had been ordered, awoke him. cléry dressed his hair: while this went forward, louis took a ring from his watch, and kept trying it on his finger; it was his wedding-ring, which he is now to return to the queen as a mute farewell. at half-past six, he took the sacrament; and continued in devotion, and conference with abbé edgeworth. he will not see his family: it were too hard to bear. "at eight, the municipals enter: the king gives them his will, and messages and effects; which they, at first, brutally refuse to take charge of: he gives them a roll of gold pieces, a hundred and twenty-five louis; these are to be returned to malesherbes, who had lent them. at nine, santerre says the hour is come. the king begs yet to retire for three minutes. at the end of three minutes, santerre again says the hour is come. 'stamping on the ground with his right-foot, louis answers: "_partons_, let us go."'--how the rolling of those drums comes in, through the temple bastions and bulwarks, on the heart of a queenly wife; soon to be a widow! he is gone, then, and has not seen us? a queen weeps bitterly; a king's sister and children. over all these four does death also hover: all shall perish miserably save one; she, as duchesse d'angoulême, will live,--not happily. "at the temple gate were some faint cries, perhaps from voices of pitiful women: '_grâce! grâce!_' through the rest of the streets there is silence as of the grave. no man not armed is allowed to be there: the armed, did any even pity, dare not express it, each man overawed by all his neighbours. all windows are down, none seen looking through them. all shops are shut. no wheel-carriage rolls, this morning, in these streets but one only. eighty thousand armed men stand ranked, like armed statues of men; cannons bristle, cannoneers with match burning, but no word or movement: it is as a city enchanted into silence and stone: one carriage with its escort, slowly rumbling, is the only sound. louis reads, in his book of devotion, the prayers of the dying: clatter of this death-march falls sharp on the ear, in the great silence; but the thought would fain struggle heavenward, and forget the earth. "as the clocks strike ten, behold the place de la révolution, once place de louis quinze: the guillotine, mounted near the old pedestal where once stood the statue of that louis! far round, all bristles with cannons and armed men: spectators crowding in the rear; d'orléans egalité there in cabriolet. swift messengers, _hoquetons_, speed to the townhall, every three minutes: near by is the convention sitting,--vengeful for lepelletier. heedless of all, louis reads his prayers of the dying; not till five minutes yet has he finished; then the carriage opens. what temper he is in? ten different witnesses will give ten different accounts of it. he is in the collision of all tempers; arrived now at the black maelstrom and descent of death: in sorrow, in indignation, in resignation struggling to be resigned. 'take care of m. edgeworth,' he straitly charges the lieutenant who is sitting with them: then they two descend. "the drums are beating: '_taisez-vous_, silence!' he cries 'in a terrible voice, _d'une voix terrible_'. he mounts the scaffold, not without delay; he is in puce coat, breeches of gray, white stockings. he strips off the coat; stands disclosed in a sleeve-waistcoat of white flannel. the executioners approach to bind him: he spurns, resists; abbé edgeworth has to remind him how the saviour, in whom men trust, submitted to be bound. his hands are tied, his head bare, the fatal moment is come. he advances to the edge of the scaffold, 'his face very red,' and says: 'frenchmen, i die innocent: it is from the scaffold and near appearing before god that i tell you so. i pardon my enemies: i desire that france----' a general on horseback, santerre or another, prances out, with uplifted hand: '_tambours!_' the drums drown the voice. executioners, do your duty!' the executioners, desperate lest themselves be murdered (for santerre and his armed ranks will strike, if they do not), seize the hapless louis: six of them desperate, him singly desperate, struggling there; and bind him to their plank. abbé edgeworth, stooping, bespeaks him: 'son of saint louis, ascend to heaven'. the axe clanks down; a king's life is shorn away. it is monday the st of january, . he was aged thirty-eight years, four months and twenty-eight days. [illustration: vieux homme et enfant ghirlandaio _(louvre)_] "executioner samson shows the head: fierce shout of _vive la république_ rises, and swells; caps raised on bayonets, hats waving; students of the college of four nations take it up, on the far quais; fling it over paris. d'orléans drives off in his cabriolet: the townhall councillors rub their hands, saying, 'it is done, it is done'. there is dipping of handkerchiefs, of pike-points in the blood. headsman samson, though he afterwards denied it, sells locks of the hair: fractions of the puce coat are long after worn in rings.--and so, in some half-hour it is done; and the multitude has all departed. pastry-cooks, coffee-sellers, milkmen sing out their trivial quotidian cries: the world wags on, as if this were a common day. in the coffee-houses that evening, says prudhomme, patriot shook hands with patriot in a more cordial manner than usual. not till some days after, according to mercier, did public men see what a grave thing it was." the guillotine for more ordinary purposes worked in the place du carrousel, not far from gambetta's statue to-day; but from may, , until june, , it was back in the place de la concorde (then place de la révolution) again, accounting during that time for no fewer than , offenders, including charlotte corday, madame roland and marie antoinette. the blood flowed daily, while the tricoteuses looked on over their knitting and the mob howled. another removal, to the place de la bastille, and then on th july, , the engine of justice or vengeance was back again to end a life and the reign of terror in one blow. what life? but listen: "robespierre," lay in an anteroom of the convention hall, while his prison-escort was getting ready; the mangled jaw bound up rudely with bloody linen: a spectacle to men. he lies stretched on a table, a deal-box his pillow; the sheath of the pistol is still clenched convulsively in his hand. men bully him, insult him: his eyes still indicate intelligence; he speaks no word. 'he had on the sky-blue coat he had got made for the feast of the _Être suprême_'--o reader, can thy hard heart hold out against that? his trousers were nankeen; the stockings had fallen down over the ankles. he spake no word more in this world. "and so, at six in the morning, a victorious convention adjourns. report flies over paris as on golden wings; penetrates the prisons; irradiates the faces of those that were ready to perish: turnkeys and _moutons_, fallen from their high estate, look mute and blue. it is the th day of july, called th of thermidor, year . "fouquier had but to identify; his prisoners being already out of law. at four in the afternoon, never before were the streets of paris seen so crowded. from the palais de justice to the place de la révolution, for _thither_ again go the tumbrils this time, it is one dense stirring mass; all windows crammed; the very roofs and ridge-tiles budding forth human curiosity, in strange gladness. the death-tumbrils, with their motley batch of outlaws, some twenty-three or so, from maximilien to mayor fleuriot and simon the cordwainer, roll on. all eyes are on robespierre's tumbril, where he, his jaw bound in dirty linen, with his half-dead brother and half-dead henriot, lie shattered; their 'seventeen hours' of agony about to end. the gendarmes point their swords at him, to show the people which is he. a woman springs on the tumbril; clutching the side of it with one hand, waving the other sibyl-like; and exclaims: 'the death of thee gladdens my very heart, _m'enivre de joie_'; robespierre opened his eyes; '_scélérat_, go down to hell, with the curses of all wives and mothers!'--at the foot of the scaffold, they stretched him on the ground till his turn came. lifted aloft, his eyes again opened; caught the bloody axe. samson wrenched the coat off him; wrenched the dirty linen from his jaw: the jaw fell powerless, there burst from him a cry;--hideous to hear and see. samson, thou canst not be too quick! "samson's work done, there bursts forth shout on shout of applause. shout, which prolongs itself not only over paris, but over france, but over europe, and down to this generation. deservedly, and also undeservedly. o unhappiest advocate of arras, wert thou worse than other advocates? stricter man, according to his formula, to his credo and his cant, of probities, benevolences, pleasures-of-virtue, and suchlike, lived not in that age. a man fitted, in some luckier settled age, to have become one of those incorruptible barren pattern-figures, and have had marble-tablets and funeral-sermons. his poor landlord, the cabinet-maker in the rue saint-honoré, loved him; his brother died for him. may god be merciful to him and to us! "this is the end of the reign of terror." in the place won its name concorde. the next untoward sight that it was to see was prussian and russian soldiers encamping there in and , and in the british. by this time it had been renamed place louis quinze, which in was changed to place louis seize, and a project was afoot for raising a monument to that monarch's memory on the spot where he fell. but the revolution of intervened, and "concorde" resumed its sway, and in louis-philippe, the new king (whose father, philippe egalité, had perished on the guillotine here), erected the luxor column, which had been given to him by mohammed ali, and had once stood before the great temple of thebes commemorating on its sides the achievements of rameses ii. since then certain symbolic statues of the great french cities (including unhappy strassburg) have been set up, and the place is a model of symmetry; and at the time that i write ( ) a great part of it is enclosed within hoardings for i know not what purpose, but i hope a subway for the saving of the lives of pedestrians, for it must be the most perilous crossing in the world. one has but to set foot in the roadway and straightway motor-cars and cabs spring out of the earth and converge upon one from every point of the compass, in the amazing french way. concorde, indeed! [illustration: the place de la concorde (looking north) automobile club the madeleine ministÈre de la marine] if the place de la concorde may be called at night a congress of lamps, the champs-elysées in the afternoon may be said to be a congress of wheels. wheels in such numbers and revolving at such a pace are never seen in england, not even on the epsom road on derby day. for there is no speed limit for the french motor-car. nor have we in england anything like this superb roadway, so wide and open, climbing so confidently to the arc de triomphe, with its groves on either side at the foot, and the prosperous white mansions afterwards. it is not our way. we english, with our ambition to conquer and administer the world, have neglected our own home; the french, with no ambition any longer to wander beyond their own borders, have made their home beautiful. the energy which we as a nation put into greater britain, they have put into buildings, into statues, into roads. the result is that we have the transvaal, australia, new zealand, canada and india, but it is the french, foregoing such possessions and all their anxieties, who have the champs-elysées. the champs-elysées were planned and laid out by marie de médicis in , and the cours la reine, her triple avenue of trees, still exists; but napoleon is the father of the scheme which culminates so magnificently in the arc de triomphe. the particular children's paradise of paris is in the gardens between the main road and the elysée, where they bowl their hoops and spin their diabolo spools, and ride on the horses of minute round-abouts turned by hand, and watch the marionettes, with the tired eyes of alphonse daudet, who sits for ever, close by, in very white stone, watching them. here also are the open-air cafés, the ambassadeurs and the alcazar, while on the other, the river, side are the jardin de paris, a curiously lutetian haunt, and ledoyen's, one of the pleasantest of restaurants in summer. just above this point we ought to turn to the left to visit the petit palais and cross the pont alexandre iii., but since we are on the way let us now climb to the etoile, and on to the bois, first, however, just turning off the rond-point for a moment to look at no. avenue matignon, where heine (beside whose grave we are to stand on montmartre) suffered and died. the place de l'etoile might be called a kind of gilt-edged seven dials, since so many roads lead from it. aristocratic paris comes to a head here. on the right runs from it the avenue de friedland, leading to the boulevard haussmann, which meets with so inglorious an end at the rue taitbout, but is perhaps to be cut through to join the boulevard montmartre. next on the right is the avenue hoche, running directly into the parc monceau, a terrestrial paradise to which good mondaines certainly go when they die. a little appartement overlooking the parc monceau--there is tangible heaven, if you like! the parc itself is small but perfect, elegant and expensive and verdant. the children (one feels) are all titled, the bonnes are visibly miracles of distinction and the babies masses of point lace; the ladies on the chairs must be comtesses or baronnes, and the air is carefully scented. that is the parc monceau. it needed but one detail to make it complete, and that was supplied a few years ago: a statue of guy de maupassant, consisting of a block of the most radiant marble to be procured, with the novelist as its apex, and at the base a parisienne reading one of his stories. other statues there are: of ambroise thomas the composer, to whom mignon offers a floral tribute; of pailleron the dramatist, attended by an actress; of gounod surrounded by marguerite, juliet, sappho and a little love; and of chopin seated at the piano, with the figures of night and harmony to inspire him. these are only a few; but they are typical. every statue in the parc has a damsel or two, according to his desire. it is the mode. there is also a minute lake, on the edge of which have been set up a number of corinthian columns; and before you have been seated a minute, an old woman appears from nowhere and demands twopence for what she poetically calls an armchair, the extra penny being added as a compliment to the two uncomfortable wires at the side which you had been wishing you could break off. such is the parc monceau, the like of which exists not in london: the ideal pleasaunce of the wealthy. through it, i might add, you may drive; but only at a walking pace--_au pas_. if the horse were to trot he might shake some petals off. at the western gate is the musée cernuschi, containing a collection of oriental pottery and bronzes. i am no connoisseur of these beautiful things, but i advise all readers of this book to visit both this museum and the guimet in the place d'iéna, which is a treasury of japanese and chinese art. returning to the etoile, the next avenue is the avenue de wagram, running north to the porte d'asnières, while that which continues the avenue des champs-elysées in a straight line west by north is the avenue de la grande armée, running to the porte maillot and neuilly. on the left the first avenue is the avenue marceau, which leads to the place de l'alma; the next the avenue d'iéna, leading to the place d'iéna; the next, the avenue kléber, running straight to the trocadéro (into which i have never penetrated) and passy, where the english live; the next, the avenue victor hugo, which never stops; and finally the avenue du bois de boulogne, the most beautiful roadway in new paris, along which we shall fare when we have examined the arc de triomphe. this trophy of success was begun, as i have said, by napoleon to celebrate the victories of and ; louis-philippe finished it in . why louis xviii. did not destroy it or complete it as a further memorial of the restoration, i cannot say. napoleon's original idea was, however, tampered with by his successors, who allowed a bas-relief representing the blessings of peace in to be included. the sculptures are otherwise wholly devoted to the glorification of war, napoleon and the french army; but they are not to be studied without serious inconvenience. my advice to the conscientious student would be to buy photographs or picture postcards, and examine them at home: the arc de triomphe is too great and splendid for such detail. from the top one can see all round paris, and though one cannot look down on it all as from the eiffel tower, or see, beneath one, such an interesting district as from notre dame, it is yet a wonderfully interesting view. the avenue du bois de boulogne has the finest road in what is, so to speak, the marais of the present day; that is to say, in the modern quarter of the aristocratic and wealthy. we have seen riches and rank moving from the marais to the faubourg st. germain and from the faubourg st. germain to the faubourg st. honoré, and now we find them here, and here they seem likely to remain. and indeed to move farther would be foolish, for surely there never was, and could not be, a more beautiful city site than this anywhere in the world--with its wide cool lawns on either side, and its gay colouring, and the bois so near. here too, on the heads of the comfortable complacent bonnes, are the most radiant caps you ever saw. the bois de boulogne, which takes its name from the little town of boulogne to the south of it, now a suburb of paris, began its life as a paris park in the eighteen-fifties. before that it was a forest of great trees, which indeed remained until the franco-prussian war, when they were cut down in order that they might not give cover to the enemy. that is why the present groves are all of a size. i cannot describe the bois better than by saying that it is as if hyde park, sandown park, kempton park, and epping forest were all thrown together between shepherd's bush, acton and the river. london would then have something like the bois; and yet it would not be like the bois at all, because it would rapidly become a desert of newspapers and empty bottles, whereas, although in the summer populous with picnic parties, the bois is always clean and fresh. there are several gates to the bois, but the principal ones are the porte maillot at the end of the avenue de la grande armée, and the porte dauphine at the end of the avenue du bois de boulogne, and it is through the latter that the thousands of vehicles pass on their way to the races on happy sundays in the spring and autumn. most english people visiting the bois merely drive to the races and back again; it is quite the exception to find any one who really knows the bois--who has walked round the two lakes, lac inférieur, which feeds the cascade under which one may walk (as at niagara), and lac supérieur; who has seen a play in the théâtre de verdure, or an exhibition at bagatelle, the villa of the late sir richard wallace, who gave the champs-elysées its drinking fountains and london the wallace collection. bagatelle now belongs to paris. every english visitor, however, remembers the stone animals, dogs and deer, in the lawn of the villa de longchamp on the right as one approaches the race-course, and the windmill on the left, one of the several inoperative windmills of paris, which marks the site of the old abbey of longchamp, founded by isabella, the sister of saint louis. [illustration: vÉnus et l'amour rembrandt _(louvre)_] the bois has two restaurants of the highest quality and price--armenonville, close to the porte maillot, a favourite dining-place when the fête de neuilly is in progress, in the summer, and the pré catelan, near lac inférieur and close to the point where the allée de la reine-marguerite and the allée de longchamp cross. in the summer it is quite the thing for the young bloods who frequent the night cafés on montmartre to drive into the bois in the early morning and drink a glass of milk in the pré catelan's dairy, perhaps bringing the milkmaids with them. the bois has two race-courses, but it is at longchamp that the principal races are run--the grand prix and the conseil municipal. racing men tell me that the defect of the pari-mutuel system is that one cannot arrange one's book, since the odds are always more or less of a surprise; but to one who does not bet on horses anywhere but in paris, and who views an english bookmaker with alarm, if not positive terror, the pari-mutuel seems perfect in its easy and silent workings and the dramatic unfolding of its surprises. for first you have the fun of picking out your horse; then quietly putting your money on him, to win or for a place; and then, after the race is run and your horse is a winner, you have those five to ten delightfully anxious minutes while the actuaries are working out the odds. an experience of my own will illustrate not only the method of the system but the haphazard principles on which a stranger's modest gambling can be done. on the morning of the races i had visited the louvre with mr. dexter, the artist of this book. we had not much time, and were therefore proposing to look only at the leonardos and the rembrandts, which are separated by a considerable stretch of gallery hung with other pictures. on leaving the leonardos we walked briskly towards the dutch end; mr. dexter, however, loitered here and there, and i was some distance ahead when he called me back to see a holbein. it was worth going back for. in the afternoon at longchamp, when the time came before the race to pick out the horses who were to have the honour of carrying my money, i noticed that one of them was named holbein. having already that day been pleased with a holbein, i accepted the circumstance as a line of guidance, and placed a five-franc piece on the brave animal. he came in first, and being an outsider his price was . . the longchamp course is perfectly managed. there are three places where one may go--to the pesage, which costs twenty francs for a cavalier and ten francs for a dame; to the pavillon, which is half that price; or to the pelouse, where the people congregate, which costs a franc. perfect order reigns everywhere. for the wanderer who has no carriage awaiting him and no appointments to hurry him there are two entertaining things to do when the races are over on a fine sunday afternoon. one is to cross the seine to suresnes by the adjacent bridge and sitting at the café that faces it, watch the crowd and the traffic, for this is on a main road from paris to the country; or walking the other way, one may enjoy a similar spectacle at the café du sport outside the porte maillot and study at one's ease the happy french in holiday mood--the husbands with their wives and their two children, and the sunday lovers arm in arm. and now we return to the champs-elysées in order to look at some pictures and admire a beautiful bridge. for the avenue alexandre iii., as for the pont alexandre iii., paris is indebted to the exhibition. these are her permanent gains, and very valuable they are. of the two white palaces on either side of this green and spacious avenue, that on the right, as we face the golden dome of the invalides, is the home of the salon and of various exhibitions. i say salon, but paris now has many salons, two of which, in more or less amicable rivalry, occupy this building at the same time. in one, the salon proper, the salon of the old guard, the royal academicians of france, there are miles of paint but few experiments; in the other, where the more independent spirits--the new englishers, so to speak--hang their works in personal groups, there are fewer miles but more outrages. for outrages, however, pure and simple (or even impure and complex), i recommend the salon that is now held in the early spring in some of the old exhibition buildings on the banks of the river, close to the pont d'alexandre iii. i have seen pictures there--nudities, in the manner of aztec decorations, by the youngest french artists of the moment--which made one want to scream. it was said once that the french knew how to paint but not what to paint, and the english what to paint but not how to paint it. since then there has been such a fusing of nationalities, such increased and humble appreciation on the part of the english painters of the best french methods, that one can no longer talk in that kind of cast-iron epigram; but it is impossible to see some of the crude innovating work now being done without the reflection that france is rapidly and successfully creating a school of artists who not only know not what to paint but how to paint too. the palais des beaux-arts, which was built for the collection of pictures at the exhibition of , is now a permanent gallery for the preservation of the various works of art acquired from time to time by the municipality of paris, thus differing from the luxembourg collections, which are national. the palais has become a kind of brother of the carnavalet, the one being the historical museum of paris and the other--the palais--the artistic museum of paris. the palais undoubtedly contains much that is not of the highest quality, but no one who is interested in modern french painting and drawing can afford to neglect it, while the recent acquisition of the collection dutuit, consisting chiefly of small but choice pictures of the dutch masters, including a picture of rembrandt with his dog, from his own hand, has added a rather necessary touch of antiquity. one of the special rooms is devoted to pictures of the opulent félix ziem, painter of venetian sunsets and the sky at its most golden, wherever it may be found, who is still ( ) living in honourable state on those slopes of the mountain of fame which are reserved for the few rare spirits that become old masters before they die, and who presented his pictures to paris a few years ago; another room is filled with the works of the late jean jacques henner, whose pallid nudities, emerging from voluptuous gloom, still look yearningly at one from the windows of so many paris picture dealers. henner, i must confess, is not a painter whom i greatly esteem; but few modern french artists were more popular in their day. he died in , and this gift of his work was made by his son. other french artists to have rooms of their own in the palais are jean carriès the sculptor, who died in at the age of thirty-nine, after an active career in the modelling of quaint and grotesque and realistic figures, one of the best known and most charming of his many works being "la fillette au pantin" (no. in the collection); and jules dalou ( - ), also a sculptor, a man of more vigour although of less charm than his neighbour in the palais. that strange gift of untiring abundant creativeness which the french have so notably, dalou also shared, his busy fingers having added thousands of new figures to those that already congest life, while he modelled also many a well-known head. i think that i like best his "esquisses de travailleurs". nothing here, however, is so fascinating as dalou's own head by rodin in the luxembourg. of the picture collection proper i am saying but little, for it is in a fluid state, and even in the catalogue before me, the latest edition, there is no mention of several of its finest treasures: among them manet's portrait of théodore duret, a sketch of an old peasant woman's hand by madame david, a rip van winkle by that modern master of the grotesque and rabelaisian, jean véber, and one of mr. sargent's venetian sketches--the racing gondoliers. for the most part it is like revisiting the past few salons, except that the pictures are more choice and less numerous; but one sees many old friends, and all the expected painters are here. it is of course the surprises that one remembers--the three daumiers, for example, particularly "l'amateur d'estampes," reproduced opposite page , and "les joueurs d'echecs," and the fine collection of the drawings of puvis de chavannes and daniel vierge. i was also much taken with some topographical drawings by adrian karbowski--no. in the catalogue. other pictures and drawings which should be seen are those by cazin (a sunset), pointelin, steinlen (some work-girls), sisley, lebourg, and harpignies, who exhibits water-colours separated in time by fifty-nine years, to . the drawings on a whole are far better than the paintings. in the collection dutuit look at ruisdael's "environs de haarlem," terburg's "la fiancée," hobbema's "les moulins" and a woodland scene, pot's "portrait of a man," van de velde's landscape sketches, and the rembrandt. the rooms downstairs are not worth visiting. among the statuary, some of which is very good, particularly a new unsigned and uncatalogued joan of arc, is a naked victor hugo holding a ms. in his hand; while frémiet of course confronts the door, this time with a really fine george and the dragon, george having a spear worthy of the occasion, and not the short and useless broadsword which he brandishes on the english sovereign. on my last visit to this thinly populated gallery i was for some time one of three visitors, until suddenly the vast spaces were humanised by the gracious and winsome presence of a band of isidora duncan's gay little dancers, with a kindly companion to tell them about the pictures, and--what interested them more--the statues. these tiny lissome creatures flitting among the cold rigid marbles i shall not soon forget. and so we come to the pont alexandre iii., the bridge whose width and radiance are an ever fresh surprise and joy, and make our way to the invalides, at the end of the prospect, across the great esplanade des invalides, so quiet to-day, but for a month of every year, so noisy and variegated with round-abouts and booths. it is, by the way, well worth while, whenever one is in paris, to find out what fair is being held. for somewhere or other a fair is always being held. you can get the particulars from the invaluable _bottin_ or _bottin mondain_, which every restaurant keeps, and which is even exposed to public scrutiny on a table at the gare du nord, and for all i know to the contrary, at the other stations too. this is one of the lessons which might be learned from paris by london, where you ask in vain for a _post office directory_ in all but the general post office. _bottin_, who knows all, will give you the time and place of every fair. the best is the fête de neuilly, which is held in the summer, just outside the porte maillot, but all the arrondissements have their own. they are crowded scenes of noisy life; but they are amusing too, and their popularity shows you how juvenile is the frenchman's heart. one should enter the invalides from the great place and round off the inspection of the musée de l'armée by a visit to napoleon's tomb; that, at least, is the symmetrical order. the hôtel des invalides proper, which set the fashion in military hospitals, was built by louis xiv., who may be seen on his horse in bas-relief on the principal façade. the building once sheltered and tended , wounded soldiers; but there are now only fifty. from its original function as a military hospital for any kind of disablement it has dwindled to a home for a few incurables; while the greater portion of the building is now given up to collections and to civic offices. there could be no greater contrast than that between the imposing architecture of the main structure and the charming domestic façade in the boulevard des invalides, which is one of the pleasantest of the old paris buildings and has some of the simplicity of an english almshouse. [illustration: les pÈlerins d'emmaÜs rembrandt _(louvre)_] it is not until we enter the great court of honour that we catch sight of napoleon, whose figure dominates the opposite wall. thereafter one thinks of little else. louis xiv. disappears. passing some dingy frescoes which the weather has treated vilely, we enter the musée historique on the left--unless one has an overwhelming passion for artillery, armour and the weapons of savages, in which case one turns to the right. i mention the alternative because there is far too much to see on one visit, and it is well to concentrate on the more interesting. for me guns and armour and the weapons of savages are without any magic while there are to be seen such human relics as have been brought together in the musée historique on the opposite side of the court. the whole place, by the way, is a model for the carnavalet, in that everything is precisely and clearly labelled. this, since it is a favourite resort of simple folk--soldiers and their parents and sweethearts--is a thoughtful provision. the musée historique has at every turn something profoundly interesting, and incidentally it tells something of the men from whom numbers of paris streets take their names; but the real and poignant interest is napoleon. the longwood room is to me too painful. the project of the admirable administrator has been to illustrate the whole pageant of french arms; but the man of destiny quickly becomes all-powerful, and one finds oneself looking only for signs and tokens of his personality. so it should be, under the shadow of the dome which covers his ashes. i would personally go farther and collect at the invalides all the napoleonic relics that one now must visit so many places to see--the carnavalet, fontainebleau, the musée grévin, our own united service museum in whitehall (as if we had the right to a single article from st. helena!), madame tussaud's, and versailles. there is even a room at the arts décoratifs devoted nominally to napoleon, but it has few articles of personal interest and none of any intimacy--merely splendid costumes for occasions and ceremonials of state, with a few of josephine's lace caps among them. its purpose is to illustrate the empire rather than the emperor, but the invalides should have what there is. at the invalides you may, i suppose, see in three or four rooms more napoleonic relics of a personal character than anywhere else. in whitehall is the chair he died in; but here is his garden-seat from st. helena, one bar of which was removed to allow him as he sat to pass his arm through and be more at his ease as he looked out to the ocean that was to do nothing for him. at whitehall is the skeleton of his horse marengo; here is the saddle. here are his grey redingote and more than one of his hats. among the relics in the special napoleonic rooms those of his triumph and his fall are mixed. here is the bullet that wounded him at ratisbon; here are his telescopes and his maps, his travelling desks and his pistols; here are the toys of the little duke of reichstadt; here is the walking stick on which napoleon leaned at st. helena, his dressing-gown, his bed, his armchair and his death-mask. here are the railings of the tomb at st. helena, and a case of leaves and stones and pieces of wood and other natural surroundings of the same spot. here also is the pall that covered his coffin on the way to its final burial under the dome close by. it is a fitting end to the study of these storied corridors to pass to the tomb of the protagonist of the drama we have been contemplating. the emperor's remains were brought to paris in , nineteen years after his death at st. helena. thackeray, in his _second funeral of napoleon_, wrote a vivid, although to my mind hateful, description of the ceremonial: a piece of complacent flippancy, marked by the worst kind of french irreverence, which shows him in his least admirable mood, particularly when he is pleased to be amusing over the difference between the features of the emperor dead and living. none the less it is an absorbing narrative. one looks down upon the sarcophagus, which lies in a marble well. it is simple, solemn and severe, and to a few persons, not titmarshes, inexpressibly melancholy. the emperor's words from his will, "je désire que mes cendres reposent sur les bords de la seine, au milieu de ce peuple français que j'ai tant aimé," are placed at the entrance to the crypt. he had not the invalides in mind when he wrote them; but one feels that the invalides is as right a spot for him as any in this land of short memories and light mockeries. chapter x the boulevard st. germain and its tributaries an aristocratic quarter--adrienne lecouvreur--a grisly museum--a changeless city--the pasteur institute--the golden key--the stoppeur--sterne--the beaux arts--a wilderness of copies--voltaire clad and naked--the mint--an inquisitive visitor--bad money. from the invalides the boulevard st. germain, the west to east highway of the surrey side of paris, is easily gained; but it is not in itself very interesting. the interesting streets either cross it or run more or less parallel with it, such as the old and winding rue de grenelle, which we come to at once, the home of the parisian aristocracy after its removal from the marais. the houses are little changed: merely the tenants; and certain embassies are now here. no. was once the hôtel de beauharnais, the home of the fair joséphine; at the russian embassy, no. , the duchesse d'estrées lived. in an outhouse at no. was buried in unconsecrated ground adrienne lecouvreur, the tragedienne who made tragedy, the beloved of maréchal saxe. scribe's drama has made her story known--how her heart was too much for her, and how christian burial was refused her by a christian priest. the rue st. dominique, parallel with the rue de grenelle nearer the river, is equally old and august. at no. lived madame de genlis, the monitress of french youth. still nearer the river runs the long rue de l'université, which also has an illustrious past and a picturesque present, some great french noble having built nearly every house. one of the first old streets to cross the boulevard st. germain is the rue du bac, a roadway made when the palace of the tuileries was building, to convey materials from vaugiraud to the _bac_ (or ferry boat) which crossed the seine where the pont royal now stands. this street also is full of ancient palaces and convents. chateaubriand died at - . at is the séminaires des missions etrangères, with a terrible little museum called the chambre des martyrs, very french in character, displaying instruments of torture which have been used upon missionaries in china and other countries inimical (like poor adrienne's priest) to christianity. the rue des saints-pères resembles the rue du bac, but is more attractive to the loiterer because it has perhaps the greatest number of old curiosity shops of any street in paris. they touch each other: perhaps they take in each other's dusting. i never saw a customer enter; but that of course means nothing. one might be sure of finding a case made of peau de chagrin here and be equally sure that balzac had trodden this pavement before you. you will see, however, nothing or very little that is beautiful, because paris does not care much for sheer beauty. the rue des saints-pères runs upwards into the rue de sèvres, where old convents cluster and the bon marché raises its successful modern bulk. it was in the abbaye-aux-bois, once at the corner of the rue de sèvres and the rue de la chaise, but now buried beneath a gigantic block of new flats, that madame récamier lived from until her death in , visited latterly every day by the faithful chateaubriand. m. georges cain has a charming chapter on this friendship and its scene in his _promenades dans paris_, of which an english translation, entitled _walks in paris_, has recently been published. returning to the boulevard st. germain, which we leave as often as we touch it, i remember that, on the south side, between the invalides end and the statue of the inventor of the semaphore, used to be a little shop devoted to the sale of trophies of joan of arc. and since it used to be there, it follows that it is there still, for nothing in paris ever changes. one of the great charms of paris is that it is always the same. i can think of hardly any shop that has changed in the last ten years. this means, i suppose, that the french rarely die. how can they, disliking as they do to leave paris? it is the english and the scotch, born to forsake their homes and live uncomfortably foreign lives, who die. [illustration: the pont alexandre iii (from the east) eiffel tower trocadÉro] if one is interested in seeing the pasteur institute, now is the time, for it is not far from the rue de sèvres, in the rue falguière, named after falguière the sculptor of the memorial to pasteur in the place breteuil: one of the best examples of recent paris statuary, with a charming shepherd boy playing his pipe to his flock on one side of the pediment, and grimmer scenes of disease on the others. this monument, however, is some distance from the institute, the place breteuil being the first carrefour in that vast and endless avenue which leads southwards from napoleon's tomb. the institute itself has a spirited statue of jupille the shepherd, one of its first patients, in his struggle with the wolf that bit him. pasteur's tomb is here, but i have not seen it, as i arrived on the wrong day. one of the most attractive of the boulevard st. germain's byways is entered just round the corner of the rue de rennes. this is the cour du dragon, which is not only a relic of old paris, but old paris is still visible hard at work in it. the cour du dragon is a narrow court gained by an archway over which a red dragon perches, holding up the balcony with his vigorous pinions. it was the hôtel taranne in the reigns of charles vi. and vii. and louis xi.; later it became a famous riding and fencing school. it is now a cheerful nest of artisans--coppersmiths, locksmiths, coal merchants and the like, who fill it with brisk hammerings, while at the windows above, with their green shutters, the songs of caged birds mingle in the symphony. as in all parisian streets or courts where signs are hung, the golden key is prominent. (there is one in mr. dexter's picture of the rue de l'hôtel de ville.) what the proportion of locksmiths is to the population of paris i cannot say; but their pretty symbol is to be seen everywhere. the reason of their numbers is not very mysterious when we recollect that practically every one that one meets in this city, and certainly all the people of the middling and working classes, live in flats, and all want keys. the streets and streets of the small houses with which east london is covered are unknown in paris, where every façade is but the mask which hides vast tenements packed with families. no wonder then that the serrurier is so busy. another sign which probably puzzles many english people is that of the stoppeur. bellows' dictionary does not recognise the word. what is a stoppeur and what does he stop? i discovered the answer in the most practical way possible; for a frenchman, in a crowd, helped me to it by pushing his lighted cigar into my back and burning a hole in it, right in the middle of the coat, where a patch would necessarily show. i was in despair until the femme de chambre reassured me. it was nothing, she said: all that was needed was a stoppeur. she would take the coat herself. it seems that the stoppeur's craft is that of mending holes so deftly that you would not know there had been any. he ascertains the pattern by means of a magnifying glass, and then extracts threads from some part of the garment that does not show and weaves them in. i paid three francs and have been looking for the injured spot ever since, but cannot find it. it is a modern miracle. diagonally opposite the court of the dragon is the church of st. germain--not the st. germain who owns the church at the east end of the louvre, but st. germain des prés, a lesser luminary. it has no particular beauty, but a number of frescoes by flandrin, the pupil of ingres, give it a cachet. flandrin's bust is to be observed on the north wall. the frescoes cannot be seen except under very favourable conditions, and therefore for me the greatness of flandrin has to be sought in his drawings at the luxembourg and the louvre--sufficient proof of his exquisite hand. before descending the rue bonaparte to the river, let us ascend it to see the great church of st. sulpice and its paintings by delacroix in the chapel of the holy angels. under the convention st. sulpice was the temple of victory, and here general bonaparte was feasted in . the church is famous for its music and an organ second only to that of st. eustache. and now let us descend the rue bonaparte to the quais, where several buildings await us, beginning with the beaux-arts at the foot of the street; but first the rue jacob, which bisects the rue bonaparte, should be looked at, for it has had many illustrious inhabitants, including our own laurence sterne, who lodged here, at no. , in the hôtel of his friend madame rambouillet (of the easy manners) when he was studying the french for _a sentimental journey_. it was here perhaps that he penned the famous opening sentence: "'they order,' said i, 'these things better in france'"--which no other writer on paris has succeeded in forgetting. at no. lived adrienne lecouvreur, and hither voltaire must often have come, for he greatly admired her. at no. is a fine old staircase and an old well in the court. the palais des beaux-arts, where the royal academy schools of paris are situated, is an unexhilarating building containing a great number of unexciting paintings. indeed, i think that no public edifice of paris is so dreary: within and without one has a sense not exactly of decay but certainly of neglect. this is not the less odd when one thinks of the purpose of the institution, which is to foster the arts, and when one thinks also of the spotless perfection in which the petit palais, the latest of the parisian picture galleries, is maintained. the spirit, however, is willing, if the flesh is weak, for in the first and second courts are examples of the best french architecture, and a bust of jean goujon is let into the wall of the musée des antiques. the building contains a number of casts of the best sculptures and an amphitheatre with delaroche's pageant of painters on the hemicycle and ingres' victory of romulus over the sabines opposite it; but there is not always enough light to see either well. for the best view of delaroche's great work one must go upstairs to the gallery. the library also is upstairs, with many thousand of valuable works on art and a collection of drawings by the masters, access to which is made easy to genuine students. by returning to the first court we come to the musée de la renaissance, which now occupies an old chapel of the couvent des petits-augustins, on the site of which the palais de beaux-arts was built. here are more casts and copies, and there are still more in the adjoining cour du mûrier, where stands the memorial of henri regnault, the painter, and the students who died with him during the defence of paris in - . we then enter the salle de melpomène, so called from the dominating cast of the melpomene at the louvre, and are straightway among what seem at the first glance to be old friends from all the best galleries of the world but too quickly are revealed as counterfeits. rembrandt's school of anatomy and the syndics, our own national gallery correggio, the dresden raphael, the wallace collection velasquez (the lady with a fan), one of hals' groups of arquebusiers, and paul potter's bull: all are here, together with countless others, all the work of beaux-arts students, and some exceedingly good, but also (like most copies) exceedingly depressing. in other rooms almost pitch dark are modelled studies of expression and paintings which have won the grand prix of rome during the past two hundred years. it is odd to notice how few names one recognises: it is as though, like the newdigate, this prize were an end in itself. having contemplated the statue of voltaire in his robes outside the institut, the next building of importance after the beaux arts, you may, if you so desire, gaze upon the same philosopher in a state of nature by entering the institut itself, and ascending to its bibliothèque. there he sits, the skinny cynic, among the books which he wrote and the books which he read and the books which would not have been written but for him. i was glad to see him thus, for it showed me where our own arouet, mr. bernard shaw, found his inspiration when he too subjected recently his economical frame to the maker of portraits. mr. shaw sat, however, only to a photographer (although a very good one, mr. coburn); when he visited rodin it was for the head, a replica of which may be seen at the luxembourg. speaking of heads, the institut is a wilderness of them: heads line the stairs; heads line the walls not only of its own bibliothèque but of the bibliothèque de mazarin, which also is here, a haven for every student that cares to seek it: heads of the great frenchmen of all time and of the cæsars too. the pont des arts, which leads direct from the old louvre to the institut (a connection, if ever, no longer of any importance), is for foot passengers only. one is therefore more at ease there in observing the river than on the noisy bridge of stone. but it is inexcusably ugly and leaves one continually wondering what napoleon was about to allow it to be built--and of iron too--in his day of good taste. looking up stream, the pont neuf is close by with the thin green end of the cité's wedge protruding under it and, in winter, henri iv. riding proudly above. in summer, as mr. dexter's drawing shows, he is hidden by leaves. a basin has been constructed at this point from which the tide is excluded, and here are washing houses and swimming baths; for parisians, having a river, use it. [illustration: la vierge au donateur j. van eyck _(louvre)_] the hôtel des monnaies, close by the beaux arts, is another surprise. one would expect in such a country as france, with its meticulously exact control of its public offices, that its mint, the institution in which its money was made, would be a miracle of precision and efficiency. efficiency it may have; but its proceedings are casual beyond belief: the workmen in the furnaces loaf and smoke and stare at the visitors and exchange comments on them; the floors are cluttered up with lumber; the walls are dirty; the doors do not fit. a very considerable amount of work seems to be accomplished--there are machines constantly in movement which turn out scores of coins a minute, not only for france but for her few and dispiriting colonies and for other countries; and yet the feeling which one has is that france here is noticeably below herself. i was shown round by a very charming attendant, who handled the new coins as though he loved them and took precisely that pride in the place that the government seems to lack. the design on the french franc, although it ought to be cut, i think, a little deeper, a little more boldly, is very attractive, both obverse and reverse, and it is a pleasant sight to see the bright creatures tumbling out of the machine as fast as one can count. pleasanter still is it to the frail human eye when the same process is repeated with golden louis'--baskets full of which stand negligently about as though it were the cave of the forty thieves. an englishman's perhaps indiscreet questions as to what precautions were taken to prevent leakage amused the guide beyond all reason. "it is impossible," he said; "the coins are weighed. they must correspond to the prescribed weight." "but who," my countryman went on, in the relentless english way, "checks the weigher?" "another," said the guide. "but a time must come," continued the briton, who probably had a business of his own and had suffered, "when there is no one left to check--when the last man of all is officiating: how then?" our guide laughed very happily, and repeated that there were no thieves there; and i daresay he is right. "perhaps," i said, to the english inquisitor, "perhaps, like assistants in sweet shops, they are allowed at first to help themselves so much that they acquire a disgust for money." he looked at me with eyes of stone. i think he had scotch blood. "perhaps," he said at last. my own contribution to the guide's entertainment was the production, before a machine that was shooting five-franc pieces into a bowl at the rate of one a second, of the four bad (démonétisé) coins of the same value which had been forced upon me during the few days i had then been in paris. they gave immense delight. several mintners (or whatever they are called) stopped working in order to join in the inspection. it was the general opinion that i had been badly treated: although, of course, i ought to have known. three of the coins were simply those of other nations no longer current in france, and for them i could get from two to three francs each at an exchange. unless, of course, a man of the world put in, i liked to sell them to a waiter, and then i should get perhaps a slightly better price. "be careful, however," said he, "that he does not give them back to you in the next change." the fourth coin was frankly base metal and ought not to have taken in a child. that, by the way, was given to me at a post office, the one under the bourse, and i find that post offices are notorious for this habit with foreigners. the mintners generally agreed that it was a scandal, but they did so without heat--bearing indeed this misfortune (not their own) very much as their countryman la rochefoucauld had observed men to do. after the coins we saw the medal-stampers at work, each seated in a little hole in the ground before his press. the french have a natural gift for the designing of medals, and they are interested in them as souvenirs not only of public but of private events--such as silver weddings, birthdays and other anniversaries. upstairs there is a collection of medals by the best designers--such as roty, patey, carial, chaplain, dupuis, dupré--many of them charming. here also are collections of the world's coinage and of historical french medals. chapter xi the latin quarter old prints--procope, tortoni, and le père lunette--the luxembourg palace--rodin--modern paintings--a sinister crypt--a garden of sculpture--the students of the latin quarter--the sorbonne--a beautiful museum--the cluny's treasures--marat and danton--old streets and dirty--the river bièvre--inspired topography--dante in paris. the high road from the centre of paris to the latin quarter is across the pont du carrousel and up the narrow rue mazarine, which skirts the institut. we have seen on the quai des célestins the site of one of molière's theatres: here, at nos. - , is the house in which he established his first theatre, on the last day of . the rue mazarin runs into the rue de l'ancienne comédie française, at no. in which was that theatre, whose successor stands at the foot of the rue richelieu. parallel with the rue mazarin is the rue de seine, interesting for its old print shops, not the least interesting department of which is the portfolios containing students' sketches, some of them very good. (i might equally have said some of them very bad.) crossing the boulevard st. germain we climb what is now the rue de l'odéon to the place and theatre of that name, with the statue of augier the dramatist before it. the place de l'odéon demands some attention, for at no. , now the café voltaire, was once the famous café procope, very significant in the eighteenth century, the resort of voltaire and the encyclopædists, and later of the revolutionaries. camille desmoulins indeed made it his home. you may see within portraits of these old famous habitués. procopio, a sicilian who founded his establishment for the shelter of poor actors and students (whom paris then loathed in private life), was the father of all the paris cafés. the café procope was to men of intellect what some few years later tortoni's was to men of fashion. the café tortoni was in the boulevard des italiens. let captain gronow tell its history: "about the commencement of the present [nineteenth] century, tortoni's, the centre of pleasure, gallantry, and entertainment, was opened by a neapolitan, who came to paris to supply the parisians with good ice. the founder of this celebrated café was by name veloni, an italian, whose father lived with napoleon from the period he invaded italy, when first consul, down to his fall. young veloni brought with him his friend tortoni, an industrious and intelligent man. veloni died of an affection of the lungs, shortly after the café was opened, and left the business to tortoni; who, by dint of care, economy, and perseverance, made his café renowned all over europe. towards the end of the first empire, and during the return of the bourbons, and louis philippe's reign, this establishment was so much in vogue that it was difficult to get an ice there; after the opera and theatres were over, the boulevards were literally choked up by the carriages of the great people of the court and the faubourg st. germain bringing guests to tortoni's. "in those days clubs did not exist in paris, consequently the gay world met there. the duchess of berri, with her suite, came nearly every night incognito; the most beautiful women paris could boast of, old maids, dowagers, and old and young men, pouring out their sentimental twaddle, and holding up to scorn their betters, congregated here. in fact, tortoni's became a sort of club for fashionable people; the saloons were completely monopolised by them, and became the rendez-vous of all that was gay, and i regret to add, immoral. "gunter, the eldest son of the founder of the house in berkeley square, arrived in paris about this period, to learn the art of making ice; for prior to the peace, our london ices and creams were acknowledged, by the english as well as foreigners, to be detestable. in the early part of the day, tortoni's became the rendez-vous of duellists and retired officers, who congregated in great numbers to breakfast; which consisted of cold pâtés, game, fowl, fish, eggs, broiled kidneys, iced champagne, and liqueurs from every part of the globe. "though tortoni succeeded in amassing a large fortune, he suddenly became morose, and showed evident signs of insanity: in fact, he was the most unhappy man on earth. on going to bed one night, he said to the lady who superintended the management of his café, 'it is time for me to have done with the world'. the lady thought lightly of what he said, but upon quitting her apartment on the following morning, she was told by one of the waiters that tortoni had hanged himself." some one should write a book--but perhaps it has been done--on the great restaurateurs. paris would, of course, provide the lion's share; but there would be plenty of material to collect in other capitals. the life of our own nicol of the café royal, for example, would not be without interest; and what of sherry and delmonico? while on the subject of meeting-places of remarkable persons, i might say that a latter-day resort of intellectuals who have allowed the world and its temptations to be too much for them is not so very far away from us at this point--the cabaret of le père lunette at no. rue des anglais. i do not say that this is a modern procope, but it has some of the same characteristics: men of genius have met here and illustrious portraits are on the wall; but they are not frescoes such as could be included in this book, for old father spectacles puts satire before propriety. in the colonnade round the odéon theatre are bookstalls, chiefly offering new books at very low rates. we emerge on the south side in the rue vaugiraud, with the médicis fountain of the luxembourg just across the road. the luxembourg palace was built by marie de médicis, the widow of henri iv., and it fulfilled the functions of a palace until the revolution, when, prisons being more important than palaces, it became a prison. among those conveyed hither were the vicomte de beauharnais and his wife joséphine, who was destined one day to be anything but a prisoner. after the revolution the luxembourg became the palace of the directoire and then the palace of the first consul. in napoleon moved to the tuileries, and a little while afterwards he established the senate here, and here it is still. i cannot describe the palace, for i have never been in it, but the musée i know well. the luxembourg galleries are dedicated to modern art. they have nothing earlier than the nineteenth century, and may be said to carry on the history of french painting from the point where it is left in room viii. at the louvre, while little is quite so modern as the permanent portion of the petit palais. one plunges from the street directly into a hall of very white sculpture, which for the moment affects the sight almost like the beating wings of gulls. the difference between french and english sculpture, which is largely the difference between nakedness and nudity, literally assaults the eye for the moment; and then the more beautiful work quietly begins to assert itself--rodin's "pensée," on the left, holding the attention first and gently soothing the bewildered vision. rodin indeed dominates this room, for here are not only his "pensée" (the "penseur" is not so very far away, two hundred yards or so, at the panthéon), but his "john the baptist," gaunt and urgent in the wilderness (with dubois' "john the baptist as a boy" near by, to show from what material prophets are evolved) and the exquisite "danaïdes" and the "age d'airain," and the giant heads of hugo and rochefort, and the little delicate sensitive don quixotic head of dalou the sculptor, which has just been added, and the george wyndham and the g.b.s. and other recent portraits; while through the doorway to the next room one sees the "baiser," immense and passionate. i reproduce both the "baiser," opposite page , and the "pensée," opposite page . other work here that one recalls is the charming group by frémiet, "pan and the bear cubs," dubois' fascinating "florentine singing-boy of the fifteenth century," a peasant by dalou, a great dane and puppies by le courtier, and the very beautiful head in the doorway to room i.--"femme de marin," by cazin the painter. but other visitors, other tastes, of course. before entering room i. there are two small rooms on the right of the sculpture gallery which should be entered, one given up to the more famous impressionists and one to foreign work. the chief impressionists are degas, renoir, monet, sisley and their companions, almost all of whom seem to me to have painted better elsewhere than here. monet's "yachts in the river" rise before me, as i write, with the warm sun upon them, and i still see in the mind's eye the torso of a young woman by legros: but this room always depresses me, the effect largely i believe of the antipathetic renoir. the other room has a floating population. recently the painters have been belgian: but at another time they may be german or english, when the belgians will recede to the cellars or be lent to provincial galleries. the pictures in the luxembourg are many, but the arresting hand is too seldom extended. cleverness, the bane of french art, dominates. in the first room rodin's "baiser" is greater than any painting; but harpignies' "lever de lune" is here, and here also is one of pointelin's sombre desolate moorlands. in a glass case some delicate bowls by dammouse are worth attention; but i think his work at the arts décoratifs at the louvre is better. the second room is notable for the fantin-latour drawings in the middle, with others by flandrin and meissonier; the third for carolus-duran's "vieux lithographe" and a case of drawings by modern black and white masters, including legros and steinlen; here also is another pointelin. in room iv. is a coast scene--"les falaises de sotteville," in a lovely evening light, by bouland, which falls short of perfection but is very grateful to the eyes. in room v. is a portrait group by fantin-latour recalling the "hommage à delacroix," which we saw in the collection moreau, but less interesting. the studio is that of manet at batignolles. here also is a beautiful snow scene by cazin--an oasis indeed. in room vi. we find cazin again with "ishmael," and two sweet and misty carrières, a powerful if hard legros, carolus-duran's portrait of the ruddy papa français the painter, blanche's vivid group of the thaulow family, with the gigantic fritz bringing the strength of a bull-fighter to the execution of one of his tender landscapes, and finally whistler's portrait of his mother, which i reproduce on the opposite page--one of the most restful and gentlest deeds of his restless, irritable life. [illustration: portrait de sa mÈre whistler _(luxembourg)_] room vii. is remarkable for rodin's "bellona" and tissot's curious exercises in the genre of w. p. frith--the story of the prodigal son. but the picture which i remember most clearly and with most pleasure is victor mottez's "portrait of madame m.," which has a deep quiet beauty that is very rare in this gallery. in the same room, placed opposite each other, although probably not with any conscious ironical intention, are a large scene in the franco-prussian war by de neuville, and carrière's "christ on the cross". in room viii. are a number of meretricious moreaus, caro-delvalle's light and, to me, oddly attractive, group, "ma femme et ses soeurs," and the portrait of mlle. moréno of the comédie française by granié, which is reproduced opposite page , a picture with fascination rather than genius. in the doorway between room viii. and room ix. hangs a small water-colour by harpignies, but in room ix. itself is nothing that i can recollect. room x. has picard's charming "femme qui passe," harpignies' coliseum, very like a moreau corot, and a flandrin; and in room xi. are bastien lepage's "portrait of m. franck," le sidaner's "dessert," vollon's "port of antwerp," very beautiful, and carolus-duran's famous portrait of "madame g. f. and her children". on leaving the musée it is worth while to take a few steps more to the left, for they bring us to another sinister souvenir of the reign of terror--to st. joseph des carmes, the chapel of the carmelite monastery in which, in september, , the abbé sicard and other priests who had refused to take the oath of the constitution were imprisoned and massacred, as described by carlyle in book i., chapters iv. and v. of "the guillotine," with the assistance of the narrative of one of the survivors, _mon agonie de trente-huit heures_, by jourgniac saint-méard. in the crypt one is shown not only the tombs but traces of the massacre. a walk in the luxembourg gardens would, if one had been nowhere else, quickly satisfy the stranger as to the interest of the french in the more remarkable children of their country. in these gardens alone are statues, among many others, in honour of chopin, watteau, delacroix, sainte-beuve, le play the economist, fabre the poet, george sand, henri murger, the novelist of the adjacent latin quarter, and théodore de banville, the modern maker of ballades and prime instigator of some of the most charming work in french form by mr. lang and mr. dobson and w. e. henley. there are countless other statues of mythological and allegorical figures, some of them very striking. one of the most interesting of all is the "marchand de masques" by astruc, among the masks offered for sale being those of corot, dumas, berlioz and balzac. the luxembourg gardens lead to the avenue de l'observatoire, a broad and verdant pleasaunce with a noble fountain at the head, in the midst of which an armillary sphere is held up by four undraped female figures representing the four quarters of the globe, at whom a circle of tortoises spout water from the surface of the basin. beneath the upholders of the sphere are eight spirited sea horses by frémiet, the sculptor who designed "pan and the bear cubs" in the luxembourg. a few yards to the west of this fountain is one of the simplest and most satisfying of parisian sculptured memorials, at the corner of the rue d'assas and the boulevard de l'observatoire--the bas-relief on the tarnier maternity hospital, representing the benevolent tarnier in his merciful work. let us now descend the boulevard st. michel to the sorbonne, which is the heart of the latin quarter (or perhaps the brain would be the better word), disregarding for the moment the panthéon, and turning our backs on the observatoire and the lion de belfort, in the streets around which, every september, the noisiest of the parisian fairs rages, and on the bal bullier, where the shop assistants of this neighbourhood grasp each other in the dance every thursday and sunday night. not that this high southern district of paris is not interesting; but it is far less interesting than certain parts nearer the seine, and this book may not be too long. the sorbonne is not exciting, but it is not unamusing to watch young france gaining knowledge. i have called it the heart of the latin quarter, although when one thinks of the necessitous, irresponsible youthful populace of these slopes, it is rather in a studio than in a lecture centre that one would fix its cardiac energy. that, however, is the fault of du maurier and murger; for i suppose that for every artist that the latin quarter fosters it has scores of other students. but here i am in unknown territory. this book, which describes (as i warned you) paris wholly from without, is never so external as among the young bloods who are to be met at night in the café harcourt, or who dance at the annual ball of the quatz'-arts, or plunge themselves into congenial riots when unpopular professors mount the platform. i know them not; i merely rejoice in their existence, admire their long hair and high spirits and happy indigence, and wish i could join them among jullien's models, or in the disreputable cabaret of le père lunette, or at a solemn disputation, such as that famous one in which the sophist buridan, after being thrown into the seine in a sack and rescued, "maintained for a whole day the thesis that it was lawful to slay a queen of france". the sorbonne takes its name from robert de sorbon, the confessor of st. louis, who had suffered much as a theological student and wished others to suffer less; for students in his day existed absolutely on charity. st. louis threw himself into his confessor's scheme, and the sorbonne, richly endowed, was opened in , in its original form occupying a site in a street with the depressing name of coupe-gueule. from a hostel it soon became the church's intellect, and for five and a half centuries it thus existed, almost continually, i regret to say, pursuing what gibbon calls "the exquisite rancour of theological hatred". its hostility to joan of arc and the reformation were alike intense. richelieu built the second sorbonne, on the site of the present one. the revolution in its short sharp way put an end to it as a defender of the faith, and in , under napoleon, it sprang to life again with a broader and humaner programme as the université de france. [illustration: the fontaine de mÉdicis (garden of the luxembourg)] although arriving on the wrong day (a very easy thing to do in paris) i induced the concierge to show me puvis de chavannes' vast and beautiful fresco in the sorbonne's amphitheatre, entitled "la source"--which is, i take it, the spring of wisdom. thursday is the right day. in the chapel is the tomb of richelieu, a florid monument with the dying cardinal and some very ostentatious grief upon it. near by stands an elderly gentleman who charges twice as much for postcards as the dealers outside; but one must not mind that. the church is not impressive, nor has a recent meretricious work by weerts, representing the love of humanity and the love of country--the crucified christ and a dead soldier--done it much good. before it is a monument to auguste comte. and now let us descend the hill and cheer and enrich our eyes in one of the most remarkable museums in the world--the cluny. paris is too fortunate. to have the louvre were enough for any city, but paris also has the carnavalet. to have the carnavalet were enough, but paris also has the cluny. the musée de cluny is devoted chiefly to applied art, and is a treasury of mediæval taste. it is an ancient building, standing on the site of a roman palace, the ruins of whose baths still remain. the present mansion was built by a benedictine abbot in the fifteenth century: it became a storehouse of beautiful and rare objects in , when the collector alphonse du sommerard bought it; and on his death the nation acquired both the house and its treasures, which have been steadily increasing ever since. without, the cluny is a romantic blend of late gothic and renaissance architecture: within, it is like the heaven of a good arts-and-craftsman; or, to put it another way, like an old curiosity shop carried out to the highest power. i do not say that we have not as good collections at south kensington; but it is beyond doubt that the cluny has a more attractive setting for them. to particularise would merely be to convert these pages into an incomplete catalogue (and what is duller than that?), but i may say that one passes among sculpture and painting, altar-pieces and knockers, pottery and tapestry, spanish leather and lace, gold work and glass, enamel and musical instruments, furniture (the state bed of francis i.) and ivories (note those by van opstal), ironwork and jewels, fireplaces and exquisite slippers. the old keys alone are worth hours: some of them might almost be called jewels; be sure to look at nos. and . everything is remarkable. writing in london, in a thick fog, at some distance of time since i saw the cluny last, i remember most vividly those keys and a banc d'orfèvre near them; a chimney-piece, beautiful and vast, from an old house at châlons-sur-marne; certain carvings in wood in the great room next the thermes: the "quatre pleurants" of claus de worde; a dainty marie madeleine by a fleming, about (there is another marie madeleine, in stone, in an adjacent room, kneeling with her alabaster box of ointment, but by no means penitent); and the jesus on the mount of olives with the sleeping disciples. i remember also, in one of the faience galleries, two delightful groups by clodion--a "satyre mâle" with two baby goat-feet playing by him, and a "satyre femelle," very charming, also with two little shaggy mites at her knees. the "fils de rubens," in his little chair, is also a pleasant memory; and there is one of those remarkable neapolitan reconstructions of the nativity, of which the museum at munich has such an amazing collection--perhaps the prettiest toys ever made. but as i have said, the cluny is wonderful throughout, and it is almost ridiculous to particularise. it is also too small for every taste. for the lover of the hues that burn in rhodian ware it is most memorable for its pottery; while of the many parisians who visit it in holiday mood a large percentage make first for the glass case that contains its two famous ceintures. the curator of the carnavalet, as we have seen, is a topographer and antiquary of distinction; the director of the cluny, m. haraucourt, is a poet, one of whose ballads will be found in english form in a later chapter. he is in a happy environment, although his muse does not look back quite as, say, mr. dobson's loves to do. the singer of the "pompadour's fan" and the "old sedan chair" would be continually inspired at the cluny. in the gardens of the musée we can feel ourselves in very early times; for the baths are the ruins of a roman palace built in , the home for a while of julian the apostate; a temple of mercury stood on the hill where the panthéon now is; and a roman road ran on the site of the rue st. jacques, just at the east of the cluny, leading out of paris southwards to italy. on leaving the cluny let us take a few steps westward along the rue de l'ecole de médicine, and stop at no. , where the cordeliers' club was held, whither marat's body was brought to lie in state. his house, in which charlotte corday stabbed him, was close by, where the statue of broca now stands. in the boulevard st. germain, at the end of the street, we come to danton's statue and more memories of the revolution. "what souvenirs of the past," says sardou, "does the statue of danton cast his shadow upon. at no. boulevard st. germain--where the woman simon keeps house! it was there st march, --at six o'clock in the morning, the rattling of the butt ends of muskets was heard on the pavement in the midst of wild cries and protestations of the crowd, they had dared to arrest danton, the titan of the revolution, the man of the th of august!--at the same time on the place de l'odéon, at the corner of the rue crébillon, camille desmoulins had been arrested. an hour later they were both in the luxembourg prison, and it was there camille heard of the death of his mother. "the passage du commerce still exists. it is a most picturesque old quarter, rarely visited by parisians. at no. is durel's library, where guillotin in practised cutting off sheep's heads with 'his philanthropic beheading machine'. it is generally given out that he was guillotined himself, but 'lemprière' says he died quietly in his bed, of grief at the infamous abuse his instrument was put to. in the shop close by was the printing office of the _l'ami du peuple_, and marat in his dressing-gown (lined with imitation panther skin) used to come and correct the proofs of his bloody journal." between the cluny and the river is a network of very old, squalid and interesting streets. here the students of the middle ages found both their schools and their lodgings: among them dante himself, who refers to the rue de fouarre (or straw, on which, following the instructions of pope urban v., the students sat) as the vico degli strami. it has now been demolished. the two churches here are worth a visit--st. severin and st. julien-le-pauvre, but the reader is warned that the surroundings are not too agreeable. in the court adjoining st julien's are traces of the wall of philip augustus, of which we saw something at the mont de piété. all these streets, as i say, are picturesque and dirty, but i think the best is the rue de bièvre, which runs up the hill of st. etienne from the quai de montebello, opposite the morgue, and can be gained from st. julien's by the dirty rue de la boucherie, of which this street and its westward continuation, the rue de la huchette, huysmans, the french novelist and mystic, writes--as of all this curious district--in his book, _la bièvre et saint severin_, one of the best examples of imaginative topography that i know. let us see what he says of the bièvre, the little river which gives the street its name and which once tumbled down into the seine at this point, but is now buried underground like the new river at islington. "the bièvre," he writes, "represents to-day one of the most perfect symbols of feminine misery exploited by a big city. originating in the lake or pond of st. quentin near trappes, it runs quietly and slowly through the valley that bears its name. like many young girls from the country, directly it arrives in paris the bièvre falls a victim to the cunning wide-awake industry of a catcher of men.... to follow all her windings, it is necessary to ascend the rue du moulin des prés and enter the rue de gentilly, and then the most extraordinary and unsuspected journey begins." inspired by the passage of which these are the opening words, i set out one day to trace the bièvre to daylight, but it was a cheerless enterprise, for the rue monge is a dreary street, and the new boulevards hereabouts are even drearier because they are wider. i found her at last, by peeping through a hoarding in the boulevard arago, with tanneries on each side of her; and then i gave it up. [illustration: la bohÉmienne franz hals _(louvre)_] at the cluny we saw the thermes, a visible sign of roman occupation; just off the rue monge is another, the amphitheatre, still in very good condition, with the grass growing between the crevices of the great stone seats. you will find it in the place des arènes, a vestige of roman manners and pleasures now converted into an open space for children and _bonnes_ and surrounded by flats. but save for the desertion that the ages have brought it, the arena is not so very different, and standing there, one may easily reconstruct the spectators and see again the wild beasts emerging from the underground passages, which still remain. and now for the panthéon, which rises above us. chapter xii the panthÉon and st. geneviÈve a church's vicissitudes--st. geneviève--a guardian of paris--illustrious converts--_the golden legend_--a sabbath-breaker--geneviève's sacred body--her tomb--the panthéon frescoes--joan of arc--the panthéon tombs--mirabeau and marat--voltaire's funeral--the thoughts of the thinker--from the dome--st. etienne-du-mont--the fate of st. geneviève--the relic-hunters--the mystery of the wine-press. the panthéon, like the madeleine, has had its vicissitudes. the new madeleine, as we shall see, was begun by napoleon as a splendid temple of military glory and became a church; the new panthéon was begun by louis xv. as a splendid cathedral and became a temple of glory, not, however, military but civil. louis xv., when he designed its erection on the site of the old church, intended it to be the church of st. geneviève, whose tomb was its proudest possession; when the revolution altered all that, it was made secular and dedicated "aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante," and the first grand homme to be buried there was mirabeau (destined, however, not to remain a grand homme very long, as we shall see), and the next voltaire. in napoleon made it a church again; in the revolutionaries again secularised it; in it was consecrated again, and in once more it became secular, to receive the body of victor hugo, and secular it has remained; and considering everything, secular it is likely to be, for whatever of change and surprise the future holds for france, an excess of ecclesiastical ecstasy is hardly probable. so much of louis xv.'s idea remains, in spite of the perversion of his purpose, that scenes from the life of st. geneviève are painted on the panthéon's walls and sculptured on its façade; while in its last sacred days the church was known again as st. geneviève's. possibly there are old people in the neighbourhood who still call it that. i hope so. the life of st. geneviève, as told in _the golden legend_, is rather a series of facile miracles than a human document, as we say. she was born in the fifth century at nanterre, and early became a protégée of st. germain, who vowed her to chastity and holiness, from which she never departed. her calling, like that of her new companion on the canon, st. joan, was that of shepherdess, and one of puvis de chavannes' most charming frescoes in the panthéon represents her as a shadowy slip of a girl kneeling to a crucifix while her sheep graze about her. i reproduce it opposite the next page. her mother, who had, like most mothers, a desire that her daughter should marry and have children, once so far lost her temper as to strike geneviève on the cheek; for which offence she became blind. (a very comfortable corner of heaven is, one feels, the due of the mothers of saints.) she remained blind for a long time, until remembering that st. germain had promised for her daughter miraculous gifts, she sent for geneviève and was magnanimously cured. after the death of her parent, geneviève moved to paris, and there she lived with an old woman, dividing the neighbourhood into believers and unbelievers in her sanctity, as is ever the way with saints. here the devil persecuted and attacked her with much persistence and ingenuity, but wholly without effect. during her long life she made paris her principal home, and on more than one occasion saved it: hence her importance not only to the parisians, who set her above st. denis (whom she reverenced), but to this book. her power of prayer was gigantic; she literally prayed attila the hun out of his siege of paris, and later, when childeric was the besieger and paris was starving, she brought victuals into the city by boat in a miraculous way: another scene chosen by puvis de chavannes in his panthéon series. childeric, however, conquered, in spite of geneviève, but he treated her with respect and made it easy for her to approach clovis and clotilde and convert them to christianity--hence the convent of st. geneviève, which clovis founded, remains of which are still to be seen by the church of st. etienne-du-mont, in the two streets named after those early christians--the rue clovis and the rue clotilde. christianity had been introduced into paris by saint denis, geneviève's hero, in the third century; but then came a reaction and the new faith lost ground. it was st. geneviève's conversion of clovis that re-established it on a much firmer basis, for he made it the national religion. [illustration: ste. geneviÈve puvis de chavannes (_panthéon_)] "this holy maid," says caxton, "did great penance in tormenting her body all her life, and became lean for to give good example. for sith she was of the age of fifteen years, unto fifty, she fasted every day save sunday and thursday. in her refection she had nothing but barley bread, and sometime beans, the which, sodden after fourteen days or three weeks, she ate for all delices. always she was in prayers in wakings and in penances, she drank never wine ne other liquor, that might make her drunk, in all her life. when she had lived and used this life fifty years, the bishops that were that time, saw and beheld that she was over feeble by abstinence as for her age, and warned her to increase a little her fare. the holy woman durst not gainsay them, for our lord saith of the prelates: who heareth you heareth me, and who despiseth you despiseth me, and so she began by obedience to eat with her bread, fish and milk, and how well that, she so did, she beheld the heaven and wept, whereof it is to believe that she saw appertly our lord jesus christ after the promise of the gospel that saith that, blessed be they that be clean of heart for they shall see god; she had her heart and body pure and clean." caxton also tells quaintly the story of one of the first miracles performed by geneviève's tomb: "another man came thither that gladly wrought on the sunday, wherefor our lord punished him, for his hands were so benumbed and lame that he might not work on other days. he repented him and confessed his sin, and came to the tomb of the said virgin, and there honoured and prayed devoutly, and on the morn he returned all whole, praising and thanking our lord, that by the worthy merits and prayers of the holy virgin, grant and give us pardon, grace, and joy perdurable." to st. geneviève's tomb we shall come on leaving the panthéon, but here after so much about her adventures when alive i might say something about her adventures when dead. she was buried in in the abbey church of the holy apostles, on the site of which the panthéon stands. driven out by the normans, the monks removed the saint's body and carried it away in a box; and thereafter her remains were destined to rove, for when the monks returned to the abbey they did not again place them in the tomb but kept them in a casket for use in processions whenever paris was in trouble and needed supernatural help. meanwhile her tomb, although empty, continued to work miracles also. early in the seventeenth century her bones were restored to her tomb, which was made more splendid, and there they remained until the revolution. the revolutionists, having no use for saints, opened geneviève's tomb, burned its contents on the place de grève, and melted the gold of the canopy into money. they also desecrated the church of st. etienne-du-mont (which we are about to visit) and made it a temple of theophilanthropy. a few years later the stone coffer was removed to st. etienne-du-mont, where it now is, gorgeously covered with gothic splendours; but as to how minute are the fragments of the saint that it contains which must have been overlooked by the incendiary revolutionaries, i cannot say. they are sufficient, however, still to cure the halt and the lame and enable them to leave their crutches behind. the panthéon is a vast and dreary building, sadly in need of a little music and incense to humanise it. the frescoes are interesting--those of puvis de chavannes in particular, although a trifle too wan--but one cannot shake off depression and chill. the joan of arc paintings by lenepveu are the least satisfactory, the maid of this artist carrying no conviction with her. but when it comes to that, it is difficult to say which of the parisian maids of art is satisfactory: certainly not the audacious golden amazon of frémiet in the place de rivoli. dubois' figure opposite st. augustin's is more earnest and spiritual, but it does not quite realise one's wishes. i think that i like best the joan in the boulevard saint-marcel, behind the jardin des plantes. the vault of the panthéon may be seen only in the company of a guide, and there is a charge. to be quite sure that rousseau is in his grave is perhaps worth the money; but one resents the fee none the less. great frenchmen's graves--especially victor hugo's--should be free to all. there is no charge at the invalides. you may stand beside heine's tomb in the cimetière de montmartre without money and without a guide, but not by voltaire's in the panthéon; balzac's grave in père lachaise is free, zola's in the panthéon costs seventy-five centimes. the guide hurries his flock from one vault to another, at one point stopping for a while to exchange badinage with an echo. rousseau, as i have said, is here; voltaire is here; here are general carnot, president carnot with a mass of faded wreaths, soufflot--who designed the panthéon, thinking his work was for st. geneviève, and who died of anxiety owing to a subsidence of the walls; victor hugo, and, lately moved hither, not without turmoil and even pistol shots, the historian of the rougon-macquart family and the author of a letter of accusation famous in history. not without turmoil! which reminds one that the panthéon's funerals have been more than a little grotesque. i said, for example, that mirabeau was the first prophet of reason to be buried here, amid a concourse of four hundred thousand mourners; yet you may look in vain for his tomb. and there is a record of the funeral of marat, in a car designed by david; yet you may look in vain for marat's sarcophagus also. the explanation (once more) is that we are in france, the land of the fickle mob. for within three years of the state burial of mirabeau, with the national guard on duty, the convention directed that he should be exhumed and marat laid in his place. mirabeau's body therefore was removed at night and thrown into the earth in the cemetery of clamart. enter marat. marat, however, lay beneath this imposing dome only three poor months, and then off went he, a discredited corpse, to the graveyard of st. etienne-du-mont close by. voltaire, however, and rousseau held their own, and here they are still, as we have seen. voltaire came hither under circumstances at once tragic and comic. the cortège started from the site of the bastille, led by the dead philosopher in a cart drawn by twelve horses, in which his figure was being crowned by a young girl. opposite the opera house of that day--by the porte st. martin--a pause was made for the singing of suitable hymns (from the ferney hymnal!) and on it came again. surrounding the car were fifty girls dressed by david for the part; in the procession were other damsels in the costumes of voltaire's characters. children scattered roses before the horses. what could be prettier for voltaire? but it needed fine weather, and instead came the most appalling storm, which frightened all the young women (including fame, from the car) into doorways, and washed all the colour from the great man's effigy. remembering all these things, one realises that rodin's _penseur_, who was placed before the panthéon in , has something to brood over and break his mind upon. i noticed also among the graves that of one ignace jacqueminot, and wondering if it were he who gave his name to the rose, i was so conscious of gloom and mortality that i hastened to the regions of light--to the sweet air of the mont du paris and the blue sky over all. and later i climbed to the lantern--a trifle of some four hundred steps--and looked down on paris and its river and away to the hills, and realised how much better it was to be a live dog than a dead lion. for the tomb of st. geneviève we have only a few steps to take, since it stands, containing all of her that was not burned, in the church of st. etienne-du-mont. the first martyr, although he gives his name to the church and is seen suffering the stone-throwers in the relief over the door, is, however, as nothing. st. geneviève is the true patron. st. etienne's is one of the most interesting churches in paris, without and within. the façade is bizarre and attractive, with its jumble of styles, its lofty tower and renaissance trimmings, and the sacristan's prophet's-house high up, on the northern side of the odd little extinguisher. you see this best, and his tiny watchdog trotting up and down his tiny garden, by descending the hill a little way and then turning. within, the church is fascinating. the pillars of the very lofty nave and aisles are slender and sure, the vaulting is delicate and has a unique carved marble rood-loft to divide the nave from the choir, stretching right along the church, with a rampe of great beauty. the pulpit is held up by samson seated upon his lion and grasping the jawbone of an ass. the last time i saw this pulpit was during the fête of st. geneviève, which is held early in january, when it contained a fluent nasal preacher to whom a congregation that filled every seat was listening with rapt attention. at the same time a moving procession of other worshippers was steadily passing the tomb, which was a blaze of light and heat from some hundreds of candles of every size. the man in front of me in the queue, a stout bourgeois, with his wife and two small daughters, bought four candles at a franc each. he was all nervousness and anxiety before then, but having watched them lighted and placed in position, his face became tranquil and gay, and they passed quickly out, re-entered their motor-cab and returned to the normal life. outside the church was a row of stalls wholly given up to the sale of tokens of the saint--little biographies, medals, rosaries, and all the other pretty apparatus of the long-memoried roman catholic church. i bought a silver pendant, a brief biography, and a tiny metal statue. i feel now that had i also bought a candle, as i was minded to, i should have escaped the cold that, developing two or three days later, kept me in bed for nearly a fortnight. one must be thorough. the church not only has agreeable architectural features and the tomb of this good woman, it has also some admirable glass, not exactly beautiful but very quaint and interesting, including a famous window by the pinaigriers, representing the mystery of the wine-press, as drawn from isaiah: "i have trodden the wine-press alone, and of the people there was none with me". the colouring is very rich and satisfying, even if the design itself offends by its literalism and want of imagination--christianity being figured by the blood of christ as it gushes forth into barrels pressed from his body as relentlessly as ever was juice of the grape. all this is horrible, but one need not study it minutely. there are other windows less remarkable but not less rich and glowing. other illustrious dust that lies beneath this church is that of racine and pascal. chapter xiii two zoos the tour d'argent--frédéric's homage to america--a marquis poet--the halle des vins--a free zoo--peacocks in love--a reminiscence--the museums of the jardin des plantes--a lifeless zoo--babies in bottles--the jardin d'acclimatation--the cheerful gallas--a pretty stable--dogs on velvet--a canine père lachaise--the sunday sportsmen--panic at the zoos--the besieged resident--the humours of famine. on the day of one of my visits to the jardin des plantes i lunched at the tour d'argent, a restaurant on the quai de la tournelle, famous among many dishes for its delicious canard à la presse. no bird on this occasion passed through that luxurious mill for me: but the engines were at work all around distilling essential duck with which to enrich those slices from the breast that are all that the epicure eats. over a simpler repast i studied a bewildering catalogue of the "créations of frédéric"--frédéric being m. frédéric delair, a venerable chef with a head like that of a culinary ibsen, stored with strange lore of sauces. by what means one commends oneself to frédéric i cannot say, but certain it is that if he loves you he will immortalise you in a dish. americans would seem to have a short cut to his heart, for i find the canapé clarence mackay, the filet de sole loië fuller, the filet de sole gibbs, the fondu de merlan peploe, the poulet de madame j. w. mackay, and the poire wanamaker. none of these joys tempted me, but i am sorry now that i did not partake of the potage georges cain, because m. georges cain knows more about old paris than any man living; and who knows but that a few spoonfuls of his potage might not have immensely enriched this book! the noisette de pré-salé bodley again should have been nourishing, for mr. bodley is the author of one of the best of all the many studies of france. instead, however, i ate very simply, of ordinary dishes--foundlings, so to speak, named after no one--and amused myself over my coffee in examining the marquis lauzières de thémines' poésie sur les créations de frédéric (to the air of "la corde sensible"). two stanzas and two choruses will illustrate the noble poet's range:-- que de filets de sole on y consomme! sole néron, cardinal, maruka. dosamentès, edson ... d'autres qu'on nomme victor renault, saintgall, hérédia. la liste est longue! rognons, côtelettes, poulet sigaud et canard mac-arthur, filets de lièvre arnold white et noisettes de pré-salé, langouste wintherthur. ce que je fais n'est pas une réclame, je vous le dis pour être obligeant. je m'en voudrais d'encourir votre blâme pour avoir trop vanté la tour d'argent. les noms des oeufs de cent façons s'étalent, oeufs bûcheron, oeufs claude lowther. oeufs tuck, rathbone, oeufs mackay que n'égalent que les chaud-froids de volaille henniker. que d'entremets ont nom de "la tournelle"! et plus souvent, le vocable engageant du restaurant, car plus d'un plat s'appelle (gibier, beignets, salade) "tour d'argent". ami lecteur, pour faire bonne chère, ecoute-moi, ne sois pas négligent, va-t-en dîner, si ta santé t'est chère, au restaurant nommé la tour d'argent. (odd work for marquises!) [illustration: the musÉe cluny (courtyard)] on the way to the jardin des plantes from this restaurant it is not unamusing to turn aside to the halles des vins and loiter a while in these genial catacombs. here you may see barrels as the sands of the sea-shore for multitude, and raw wine of a colour that never yet astonished in a bottle, and i hope, so far as i am concerned, never will: unearthly aniline juices that are to pass through many dark processes before they emerge smilingly as vins, to lend cheerfulness to the windows of the épicier and gaiety to the french heart. even with the most elementary knowledge of french one would take the jardin des plantes to be the parisian kew, and so to some small extent it is; but ninety-nine per cent. of its visitors go not to see the flora but the fauna. it is in reality the zoo of the paris proletariat. paris, unlike london, has two zoos, both of which hide beneath names that easily conceal their zoological character from the foreigner--the jardin des plantes, where we now find ourselves, which is free to all, and the jardin d'acclimatation, on the edge of the bois de boulogne, near the porte maillot, which costs money--a franc to enter and a ridiculous supplément to your cabman for the privilege of passing the fortifications in his vehicle: one of paris's little mistakes. to the jardin d'acclimatation we shall come anon: just now let us loiter among the wild animals of the jardin des plantes, which is as a matter of fact a far more thorough zoo than that selecter other, where frivolity ranks before zoology. our own zoo contains a finer collection than either, and our animals are better housed and ordered, but this parisian people's zoo has a great advantage over ours in that it is free. all zoological gardens should of course be free. the jardin des plantes has another and a dazzling superiority in the matter of peacocks. i never saw so many. they occur wonderfully in the most unexpected places, not only in the enclosures of all the other open-air animals, but in trees and on roofs and amid the bushes--burning with their deep and lustrous blue. but on the warm day of spring on which i saw them first they were not so quiescent. regardless of the proprieties they were most of them engaged in recommending themselves to the notice of their ladies. on all sides were spreading tails bearing down upon the beloved with the steady determination of a three-masted schooner, and now and then caught like that vessel in a shattering breeze (of emotion) which stirred every sail. in england one might feel uncomfortable in the midst of so naked a display of the old adam, but in paris one becomes more reconciled to facts, and (like the new cat in the adage) ceases to allow "i am ashamed" to wait upon "i would". the peahens, however, behaved with a stolid circumspection that was beyond praise. these vestals never lifted their heads from the ground, but pecked on and on, mistresses of the scene and incidentally the best friends of the crowds of ouvriers and ouvrières ("v'là le paon! vite! vite!") at every railing. but the parisian peacock is not easily daunted. in spite of these rebuffs the batteries of glorious eyes continued firing, and wider and wider the tails spread, with a corresponding increase of disreputable déshabillé behind; and so i left them, recalling as i walked away a comic occurrence at school too many years ago, when a travelling elocutionist, who had induced our headmaster to allow him to recite to the boys, was noticed to be discharging all his guns of tragedy and humour (some of which i remember distinctly at the moment) with a broadside effect that, while it assisted the ear, had a limiting influence on gesture and by-play, and completely eliminated many of the nuances of conversational give and take. never throughout the evening did we lose sight of the full expanse of his shirt front; never did he turn round. never, do i say? but i am wrong. better for him had it been never: for the poor fellow, his task over and his badly needed guinea earned, forgot under our salvoes of applause the need of caution, and turning from one side of the platform to the other in stooping acknowledgment, disclosed a rent precisely where no man would have a rent to be. my advice to the visitor to the jardin des plantes is to be satisfied with the living animals--with the seals and sea-lions, the bears and peacocks, the storks and tigers; and, in fair weather, with the flowers, although the conditions under which these are to be observed are not ideal, so formally arranged on the flat as they are, with traffic so visibly adjacent. but to the glutton for museums such advice is idle. here, however, even he is like to have his fill. let him then ask at the administration for a ticket, which will be handed to him with the most charming smile by an official who is probably of all the bureaucrats of paris the least deserving of a tip, since zoological and botanical gardens exist for the people, and these tickets (the need for which is, by the way, non-existent) are free and are never withheld--but who is also of all the bureaucrats of paris the most determined to get one, even, as i observed, from his own countrymen. thus supplied you must walk some quarter of a mile to a huge building in which are collected all the creatures of the earth in their skins as god made them, but lifeless and staring from the hands of taxidermic man. it is as though the ark had been overwhelmed by some such fine dust as fell from vesuvius, and was now exhumed. one does not get the same effect from the natural history museum in the cromwell road; it is, i suppose, the massing that does it here. having walked several furlongs amid this travesty of wild and dangerous life, one passes to the next museum, which is devoted to mineralogy and botany, and here again are endless avenues of joy for the muséephile and tedium for others. lastly, after another quarter of a mile's walk, the palatial museum of anatomy is reached, the ingenious art of the late m. frémiet once more providing a hors d'oeuvre. at the arts décoratifs we find on the threshold a man dragging a bear cub into captivity; at the petit palais, st. george is killing the dragon just inside the turnstile; and here, near the umbrella-stand, is a man being strangled by an orang-outang. thus cheered, we enter, and are at once amid a very grove of babies in bottles: babies unready for the world, babies with two heads, babies with no heads at all, babies, in short, without any merit save for the biologist, the distiller, and the sightseer with strong nerves. from the babies we pass to cases containing examples of every organ of the human form divine, and such approximations as have been accomplished by elephants and mice and monkeys--all either genuine, in spirits, or counterfeited with horrible minuteness in wax. also there are skeletons of every known creature, from whales to frogs, and i noticed a case illustrating the daily progress of the chicken in the egg. and now for the other zoo, the zoo of the classes. perhaps the best description is to call it a playground with animals in it. for there are children everywhere, and everything is done for their amusement--as is only natural in a land where children persist through life and no one ever tires. in the centre of the gardens is an enclosure in which in the summer of were encamped a colony of gallas, an intelligent and attractive black people from the border of abyssinia, who flung spears at a target, and fought duels, and danced dances of joy and sorrow, and rounded up zebras, and in the intervals sold curiosities and photographs of themselves with ingratiating tenacity. it was a strange bizarre entertainment, with greedy ostriches darting their beaks among the spectators, and these shock-headed savages screaming through their diversions, and now and again a refined slip of a black girl imploring one mutely to give a franc for a five centimes picture postcard, or murmuring incoherent rhapsodies over the texture of a european dress. all around the enclosure the parisian children were playing, some riding elephants, others camels, some driving an ostrich cart, and all happy. but the gem of the jardin is the ecurie, on one side for ponies--scores of little ponies, all named--the other for horses; on one side a riding school for children, on the other side a riding school for grown-up pupils, perhaps the cavalry officers of the future. the ponies are charming: bibiche, landaise, volubilité, cheval landais, céramon, cheval finlandais, farceur, from the same country, columbine, née de ratibor, and so forth. there they wait, alert and patient too, in the manner of small ponies, and by-and-by one is led off to the petit manège for a little monsieur paul or etienne to bestride. the ecurie is a model of its kind, with its central courtyard and offices for the various servants, sellier, piqueur and so forth. [illustration: la leÇon de lecture terburg (_louvre_)] near by is a castellated fortress which might belong to a dwarf of blood but is really a rabbit house. every kind of rabbit is here, with this difference from the rabbit house in our zoo, that the animals are for sale; and there is a fragrant vacherie where you may learn to milk; and in another part is a collection of dogs--tou-tous and lou-lous and all the rest of it--and these are for sale too. this is as popular a department as any in the jardin. the expressions of delight and even ecstasy which were being uttered before some of the cages i seem still to hear. the parisians may be kind fathers and devoted mothers: i am sure that they are; but to the observer in the streets and restaurants their finest shades of protective affection would seem to be reserved for dogs. one sees their children with bonnes; their dogs are their own care. the ibis of egypt is hardly more sacred. an english friend who has lived in the heart of paris for some time in the company of a fox terrier tells me that on their walks abroad in the evening the number of strangers who stop him to pass friendly remarks upon his pet or ask to be allowed to pat it--or who make overtures to it without permission--is beyond belief. no pink baby in kensington gardens is more admired. dogs in english restaurants are a rarity: but in paris they are so much a matter of course that a little pâtée is always ready for them. it was of course a french tongue that first gave utterance to the sentiment, "the more i see of men the more i like dogs"; but i cannot pretend to have observed that the frenchman suffers any loss in prestige or power from this attention to the tou-tou and the lou-lou. nothing, i believe, will ever diminish the confidence or success of that lord of creation. he may to the insular eye be too conscious of his charms; he may suggest the boudoir rather than the field of battle or the field of sport; he may amuse by his hat, astonish by his beard, and perplex by his boots; but the fact remains that he is master of paris, and paris is the centre of civilisation. the parisians not only adore their dogs in life: they give them very honourable burial. we have in london, by lancaster gate, a tiny cemetery for these friendly creatures; but that is nothing as compared with the cemetery at st. ouen, on an island in the seine. here are monuments of the most elaborate description, and fresh wreaths everywhere. the most striking tomb is that of a saint bernard who saved forty persons but was killed by the forty-first--a hero of whose history one would like to know more, but the gate-keeper is curiously uninstructed.[ ] [ ] i have since learned that this is the same dog, barry by name, who has a monument on the st. bernard pass, and is stuffed in the natural history museum at berne. but i know nothing of his connexion with paris. i walked among these myriad graves, all very recent in date, and was not a little touched by the affection that had gone to their making. i noted a few names: petit bob, espérance (whose portrait is in bas-relief accompanied by that of its master), peggie, fan, pincke, manon, dick, siko, léonette (aged years and months), toby, kiki, ben-ben ("toujours gai, fidèle et caressant"--what an epitaph to strive for!), javotte, nana, lili, dedjaz, trinquefort, teddy and prince (whose mausoleum is superb), fifi (who saved lives), colette, dash (a spaniel, with a little bronze sparrow perching on his tomb), boy, bizon (who saved his owner's life and therefore has this souvenir), and mosque ("regretté et fidèle ami"). there must be hundreds and hundreds altogether, and it will not be long before another "dog's acre" is required. standing amid all the little graves i felt that the one thing i wanted to see was a dog's funeral. for surely there must be impressive obsequies as a preparation to such thoughtful burial. but i did not. no melancholy cortège came that way that afternoon; fido's pompes funèbres are still a mystery to me. but to my mind the best dogs in paris are not such toy pets as for the most part are here kept in sacred memory, but those eager pointers that one sees on sunday morning at the gare du nord, and indeed at all the big stations, following brisk, plump sportsmen with all the opéra bouffe insignia of the chase--the leggings and the belt and the great satchel and the gun. for the frenchman who is going to shoot likes the world to know what a lucky devil he is: he has none of our furtive english unwillingness to be known for what we are. i have seen them start, and i have waited about in the station towards dinner time just to see them return, with their bags bulging, and their steps springing with the pride and elation of success, and the faithful pointers trotting behind. everything is happy at the jardins des plantes and d'acclimatation to-day: but it was not always so. during a critical period of and the cages were in a state of panic over the regular arrival of the butcher--not to bring food but to make it. mr. labouchere, the "besieged resident," writing on december th, , says: "almost all the animals in the jardin d'acclimatation have been eaten. they have averaged about f. a lb. kangaroo has been sold for f. the lb. yesterday i dined with the correspondent of a london paper. he had managed to get a large piece of mufflon, and nothing else, an animal which is, i believe, only found in corsica. i can only describe it by saying that it tasted of mufflon, and nothing else. without being absolutely bad, i do not think that i shall take up my residence in corsica, in order habitually to feed upon it." on december th mr. labouchere was at voisin's. the bill of fare, he says, was ass, horse and english wolf from the zoological gardens. according to a scotch friend, the english wolf was scotch fox. mr. labouchere could not manage it and fell back on the patient ass. voisin's, by the way, was the only restaurant which never failed to supply its patrons with a meal. if you ask paul, the head waiter, he will give you one of the siege menus as a souvenir. mr. labouchere's description of typical life during the siege may be quoted here as offering material for reflection as we loiter about this city so notable to-day for pleasure and plenty. "here is my day. in the morning the boots comes to call me. he announces the number of deaths which have taken place in the hotel during the night. if there are many he is pleased, as he considers it creditable to the establishment. he then relieves his feelings by shaking his fist in the direction of versailles, and exits growling 'canaille de bismarck'. i get up. i have breakfast--horse, _café au lait_--the _lait_ chalk and water--the portion of horse about two square inches of the noble quadruped. then i buy a dozen newspapers, and after having read them discover that they contain nothing new. this brings me to about eleven o'clock. friends drop in, or i drop in on friends. we discuss how long it is to last--if friends are french we agree that we are sublime. at one o'clock get into the circular railroad, and go to one or other of the city gates. after a discussion with the national guards on duty, pass through. potter about for a couple of hours at the outposts; try with glass to make out prussians; look at bombs bursting; creep along the trenches; and wade knee-deep in mud through the fields. the prussians, who have grown of late malevolent even towards civilians, occasionally send a ball far over one's head. they always fire too high. french soldiers are generally cooking food. they are anxious for news, and know nothing about what is going on. as a rule they relate the episode of some _combat d'avant-poste_ which took place the day before. the episodes never vary. p.m.--get back home; talk to doctors about interesting surgical operations; then drop in upon some official to interview him about what he is doing. official usually first mysterious, then communicative, not to say loquacious, and abuses most people except himself. p.m.--dinner at a restaurant; conversation general; almost every one in uniform. still the old subjects--how long will it last? why does not gambetta write more clearly? how sublime we are; what a fool every one else is. food scanty, but peculiar.... after dinner, potter on the boulevards under the dispiriting gloom of petroleum; go home and read a book. p.m.--bed. they nail up the coffins in the room just over mine every night, and the tap, tap, tap, as they drive in the nails, is the pleasing music which lulls me to sleep." here is another extract illustrating the pass to which a hungry city had come: "until the weather set in so bitter cold, elderly sportsmen, who did not care to stalk the human game outside, were to be seen from morning to night pursuing the exciting sport of gudgeon fishing along the banks of the seine. each one was always surrounded by a crowd deeply interested in the chase. whenever a fish was hooked, there was as much excitement as when a whale is harpooned in more northern latitudes. the fisherman would play it for some five minutes, and then, in the midst of the solemn silence of the lookers-on, the precious capture would be landed. once safe on the bank, the happy possessor would be patted on the back, and there would be cries of 'bravo!' the times being out of joint for fishing in the seine, the disciples of izaak walton have fallen back on the sewers. the _paris journal_ gives them the following directions how to pursue their new game: 'take a long strong line, and a large hook, bait with tallow, and gently agitate the rod. in a few minutes a rat will come and smell the savoury morsel. it will be some time before he decides to swallow it, for his nature is cunning. when he does, leave him five minutes to meditate over it; then pull strongly and steadily. he will make convulsive jumps; but be calm, and do not let his excitement gain on you, draw him up, _et voilà votre dîner_.'" there is still hardly less excitement when a fish is landed by a quai fisherman, but the emotion is now purely artistic. chapter xiv the grands boulevards: i. the madeleine to the opera from temple to church--napoleon the christian--the chapelle expiatoire--more irony of history--mi-carême--the art of insolence--spacious streets--the champions of france--marius--letter-boxes and stamps--the facteur at the bed--killing a guide no murder--the largest theatre in the world--a theatrical museum. the madeleine has had a curious history. the great napoleon built it, on the site of a small eighteenth-century church, as a temple of glory, a gift to his soldiers, where every year on the anniversaries of austerlitz and jena a concert was to be held, odes read, and orations delivered on the duties and privileges of the warrior, any mention of the emperor's own name being expressly forbidden. that was in . the building was still in progress when came, with another and more momentous battle in it, and napoleon and his proposal disappeared. the building of the temple of glory was continued as a church, and a church it still is; and the memory of jena and austerlitz is kept alive in paris by other means (they have, for example, each a bridge), no official orations are delivered on the soldier's calling, no official odes recited. it was a noble idea of the emperor's, and however perfunctorily carried out, could not have left one with a less satisfied feeling than some of the present ceremonials in the madeleine, which has become the most fashionable paris church. napoleon, however, is not wholly forgotten, for in the apse, i understand, is a fresco representing christ reviewing the chief champions of christianity and felicitating with them upon their services, the great emperor being by no means absent. herr baedeker says that the fresco is there, but i have not succeeded in seeing it, for the church is lit only by three small cupolas and is dark with religious dusk. within, the madeleine is a surprise, for it does not conform to its fine outward design. one expects a classic severity and simplicity, and instead it is paint and italianate curves. the wisest course for the visitor is to avoid the steps and the importunate mendicants at the railings, and slip in by the little portal on the west side where the discreet closed carriages wait. louis xviii., with his passion--a very natural one--to obliterate napoleon and the revolutionaries and resume monarchical continuity, wished to complete the madeleine as a monument to louis xvi. and marie antoinette; but he did not persevere with the idea. he built instead, on the site of the old cemetery of the madeleine, where louis xvi. and the queen had been buried, the chapelle expiatoire. it is their memory only which is preserved here, for, after waterloo, their bones were carried to st. denis, where the other french kings lie. their statues, however, are enshrined in the building (which is just off the boulevard haussmann, isolated solemnly and impressively among chestnut trees and playing children), the king being solaced by an angel who remarks to him in the words used by father edgeworth on the scaffold, "fils de st. louis, montez au ciel!" and the queen by religion, personified by her sister-in-law, madame elizabeth. the door-keeper, who conducted me as guide, was in raptures over louis xvi.'s lace and the circumstance that he was hewn from a single block of marble. i liked his enthusiasm: these unfortunate monarchs deserve the utmost that sculptor and door-keeper can give them. paris has changed its mind more completely and frequently than any city in the world--and no illustration of that foible is better than this before us. consider the sequence: first the king; then the prisoner; then the execution--the body and head being carried to the nearest cemetery, the madeleine, where the guillotine's victims were naturally flung, and carelessly buried. ten months later the queen's body and head follow. (it is said that the records of the madeleine contain an entry by a sexton, which runs in english, "paid seven francs for a coffin for the widow capet".) that was in . not until do they find sepulture befitting them, and then this chapel rises in their honour and they become saints. [illustration: la dentelliÈre jan vermeer of delft (_louvre_)] among other bodies buried here was that of charlotte corday. also the swiss guards, whom we saw meeting death at the tuileries. a strange place, and to-day, in a paris that cares nothing for capets, a perfect example of what might paradoxically be called well-kept neglect. to me the madeleine has always a spurious air: nothing in it seems quite true. externally, its roman proportions carry no hint of the christian religion; within, there is a noticeable lack of reverence. every one walks about, and the suisses are of the world peculiarly and offensively worldly. standing before the altar with its representation of the magdalen, who gives the church its name, being carried to heaven, it is difficult to realise that only thirty-eight years ago this very spot was running red with the blood of massacred communards. i remember the madeleine most naturally as i saw it once at mi-carême, from an upper window at durand's, after lunch. it was a dull day and the madeleine frowned on the human sea beneath it; for the place before it and the rue royale were black with people. the portico is always impressive, but i had never before had so much time or such excellent opportunity to study it and its relief of the last judgment, an improbable contingency to which few of us were giving much thought just then. not only were the steps crowded, but two men had climbed to the green roof and were sitting on the very apex of the building. the mi-carême carnival in paris, i may say at once, is not worth crossing the channel for. it is tawdry and stupid; the life of the city is dislocated; the grands boulevards are quickly some inches deep in confetti, all of which has been discharged into faces and even eyes before reaching the ground; the air is full of dust; and the places of amusement are uncomfortably crowded. the lutetian humours of the latin quarter students and of montmartre are not without interest for a short time, but they become tedious with extraordinary swiftness and certainty as the morning grows grey. each side of the madeleine has its flower markets, and they share the week between them. round and about christmas a forest of fir-trees springs up. at the back of the madeleine omnibuses and trams converge as at the elephant. for a walk along the grands boulevards this temple is the best starting-point; but i do not suggest that the whole round shall be made. by the grands boulevards the precisian would mean the half circle from the madeleine to the place de la république and thence to the place de la bastille; or even the whole circle, crossing the river by the pont sully to the boulevard st. antoine, which cuts right through the surrey side and crosses the river by the pont de la concorde and so comes to the rue royale and the madeleine again. those are the grands boulevards; but when the term is conversationally used it means nothing whatever but the stretch of broad road and pavement, of vivid kiosques and green branches, between the madeleine and the rue richelieu: that is the grands boulevards for the flâneur and the foreigner. all the best cafés to sit at, all the prettiest women to stare at, all the most entertaining shop windows, are found between these points. the prettiest women to stare at! here i touch on a weakness in the life of paris which there is no doubt the boulevards have fostered. staring--more than staring, a cool cynical appraisement--is one of the privileges which the boulevardier most prizes. i have heard it said that he carries staring to a fine art; but it is not an art at all, and certainly not fine; it is just a coarse and disgusting liberty. it is nothing to him that the object of his interest is accompanied by a man; his code ignores that detail; he is out to see and to make an impression and nothing will stop him. one must not, however, let this ugly practice offend one's sensibility too much. foreigners need not necessarily do as the romans do, but it is not their right to be too critical of rome; and liberty is the very air of the boulevards. live and let live. if one is going to be annoyed by paris, one had better stay at home. the grands boulevards might be called the show-rooms of paris: it is here that one sees the parisians. in london one may live for years and never see a londoner; not because londoners do not exist, but because london has no show-rooms for their display. there is no boulevard in london; the only streets that have a pavement capable of accommodating both spectators and a real procession of types are deserted, such as portland place and kingsway. the english, who conquer and administer the world, dislike space; the french, a people at whose alleged want of inches we used to mock, rejoice in space. think of the champs-elysées and the bois, and then think of constitution hill and hyde park, and you realise the difference. take a mental drive by any of the principal boulevards--from the madeleine eastward to the place de la république and back to the madeleine again by way of the boulevards de magenta and clichy and down the boulevard malesherbes, and then take a mental drive from hyde park corner by way of piccadilly, the strand, fleet street, cannon street, lombard street, cheapside, holborn, oxford street and park lane to hyde park corner again and you realise the difference. in wet weather in paris it is possible to walk all day and not be splashed. think of our most fashionable thoroughfare, just by long's hotel, when it is raining--our rue de la paix. the only street in london of which a frenchman would not be ashamed is the mile end road. at the taverne olympia--just past the old houses standing back from the pavement, on the left, which are built on the wall of the old moat, when this boulevard really was a bulwark or fortification--at the taverne olympia, upstairs, is one of the few billiard saloons in paris in which exhibition games are continually in progress, and in which one can fill many amusing half-hours and perhaps win a few louis. years ago i used to frequent the saloon in a basement under the grand café, a few doors east of the olympia, but it has lost some of its prestige. the best play now is at olympia and at cure's place in the rue vivienne. every day of the year, for ever and ever, a billiard match is in progress. so you may say is, in the winter, the case in london at burroughs and watts', or thurston's, but these are very different. in london the match is for a large number of points and it may last a week or a fortnight. here there are scores of matches every afternoon and evening and the price of admission is a consommation. by virtue of one glass of coffee you may sit for hours and watch champion of france after champion of france lose and win, win and lose. the usual game is played by three champions of france and is for ten cannons off the red. the names of the players, on cards, are first flung on the table, and the amateur of sport advances from his seat and stakes five francs on that champion of france whom he favours. five francs is the unit. on my first visit, years ago, the champion whom i, very unsoundly but not perhaps unnaturally, supported, was one lucas. poor fellow, on that afternoon he did his best, but he never got home. the great marius was too much for him. marius in those days was a very fine player and the hero of the saloon at the grand café. a southerner i should guess; for i have seen his doubles by the score in the cafés of avignon and nîmes. he was short and thick, with a bald head and a large sagacious nose and a saturnine smile and a heavy moustache. winning and losing were all one to him, although it is understood that fifty centimes are contributed by each of his backers to a champion of france when he brings it off. marius looked down his nose in the same way whatever happened. he was no roberts; he had none of the cæsarian masterfulness, none of the napoleonic decision, of that king of men. the modern french game does not lend itself to such commanding excellence, such alpine distinction. the cannon is all: there is no longer any of the quiet and magical disappearance of the ball into a pocket which makes the english game so fascinating. such was marius when i first saw him, and quite lately i descended to his cellar again and found him unaltered, except that he was no longer a master except very occasionally, and that he had grown more sardonic. i do not wonder at it. it may not be, in paris, "a lonely thing to be champion," as cashel byron says, but it must be a melancholy thing to be no longer the champion that you were. a home of rest for ex-champions would draw my guinea at once. the ten or eight cannons off the red, i might add, are varied now and then. sometimes there is a match between two players for a hundred points. sometimes three players will see which can first make eight cannons, each involving three cushions (trois bandes). this is a very interesting game to watch, although it may be a concession to decadence. [illustration: the rue de biÈvre (from the quai de montebello) panthÉon] we come next to the rue scribe, and crossing it, are at "old england," a shop where the homesick may buy such a peculiarly english delicacy as marmalade, beneath the shadow of the gigantic grand hotel, notable not only for its million bedrooms but for marking the position of one of the few post offices of paris, and also the only shop in the centre of the city which keeps a large and civilised stock of havana cigars. one can live without havana cigars, but post offices are a necessity, and in paris they conceal themselves with great success; while, as for letter-boxes, it has been described as a city without one. to a londoner accustomed to the frequent and vivid occurrence at street corners of our scarlet obelisks, it is so. quite recently i heard of a young englishman, shy and incorrigibly one-languaged, who, during a week in paris, entrusted all his correspondence to a fire-alarm. but, as a matter of fact, paris has letter-boxes in great number, only for the most part they are so concealed as to be solely for the initiated. directly one learns that every tobacconist also sells stamps and either secretes a letter-box somewhere beneath his window, or marks the propinquity of one, life becomes simple. although normally one never has, in france, even in the official receptacle of one of the chief of the bureaux des postes, any of that confidence that one reposes in the smallest wall-box in england; yet one must perforce overcome this distrust or use only pneumatiques. the french do not carry ordinary letters very well, but if you register them nothing can keep the postman from you. a knock like thunder crashes into your dreams, and behold he is at your bedside, alert and important, be-ribboned with red tape, tendering for your signature a pen dipped in an inkstand concealed about his person. every one who goes to france for amusement should arrange to receive one registered letter. its letter-boxes may be a trifle farcical, but in its facilities given to purchasers of stamps france makes england look an uncivilised country. why it should be illegal for any one but a postal official to supply stamps in my own land, i have never been informed, nor have any of the objections to the system ever been explained away. in france you may get your stamps anywhere--from tobacconists for certain; from waiters for certain; from the newspaper kiosques for certain; and from all tradespeople almost for certain: hence one is relieved of the tiresome delays in post offices that are incident to english life. but i am inclined to think that when it comes to the post office proper, england has the advantage. the french post office (when you have found it) is always crowded and always overheated; and you remember what i told the men in the mint. to return to the grand hotel, i am minded to express the wish that something could be done to rid its pavement of the sly leering detrimental with an umbrella who comes up to the foreigner and offers his services as a guide to the night side of paris. not until an englishman has killed one of these pests will this part of paris be endurable. but from what i have observed i should say that few murders are less likely to occur.... and so we come to the café de la paix, and turning to the left, the opera is before us. the opera is one of the buildings of paris that are taken for granted. we do not look at it much: we think of it as occupying the central position, adjacent to cook's, useful as a place of meeting; we buy a seat there occasionally, and that is all. and yet it is the largest theatre in the world (the work of that charles garnier whose statue is just outside), and although it is not exactly beautiful, its proportions are agreeable; it does not obtrude its size (and yet it covers three acres); it sits very comfortably on the ground, and an incredible amount of patient labour and thought went to its achievement, as any one may see by walking round it and studying the ornamentation and the statuary, among which is carpeaux's famous lively group "la danse". one very pleasant characteristic of the opera is the modesty with which it announces its performances: nothing but a minute poster in a frame, three or four times repeated, giving the information to the passer-by. larger posters would impair its superb reserve. the opera has a little museum, the entrance to which is in the rue auber corner, by the statue of the architect (with his plan of the building traced in bronze below his bust). this museum is a model of its kind--small but very pertinent and personal in character. here are one of paganini's bows and his rosin box; souvenirs of malibran presented to her by some venetian admirers in ; berlioz' season ticket for the opera in , and a page of one of his scores; rossini in a marble statuette, asleep on his sofa, wearing that variety of whisker which we call a newgate fringe; rossini on his death-bed, drawn by l. roux, and a page of a score and a cup and saucer used by him; a match box of gounod's, a page of a score, and his marble bust; meyerbeer on his death-bed, drawn by mousseaux, a decoration worn by that composer, and a page of his score; two of cherubini's tobacco boxes and a page of his score; danton's clay caricature of liszt--all hair and legs--at the piano, and a caricature of liszt playing the piano while lablache sings and habeneck conducts; a bust of fanny cerrito, danseuse, in --with a mischievous pretty face--that cerrito of whom thomas ingoldsby rhymed; and a bust of emma livry, a danseuse of a later day, who died aged twenty-three from injuries received from fire during the répétition génerale of the "muette de portici" on november th, . in a little coffer near by are the remains of the clothes the poor creature was wearing at the time. what else is there? many busts, among them delibes the composer of "coppélia," whose grave we shall see in the cimetière de montmartre: here bearded and immortal; autograph scores by verdi, donizetti, victor massé, auber, spontini (whose very early piano also is here), and hérold; a caricature by isabey of young vestris bounding in mid-air, models of scenes of famous operas, and a host of other things all displayed easily in a small but sufficient room. if all museums were as compact and single-minded! chapter xv a chair at the cafÉ de la paix the green hour--in the stalls of life--national contrasts and the futility of drawing them--the concierge--the bénéfice hunters--the claque--the paris theatre--the paris music hall--the everlasting joke--the real french--a country of energy--a city of waiters--ridicule--women--cabmen--the levelling of the tourist--french intelligence--the chauffeurs--the paris spectacle. and now since it is the "green hour"--since it is five o'clock--let us take a chair outside the café de la paix and watch the people pass, and meditate, here, in the centre of the civilised world, on this wonderful city of paris and this wonderful country of france. i am not sure but that when all is said it is not these outdoor café chairs of paris that give it its highest charm and divide it from london with the greatest emphasis. there are three reasons why one cannot sit out in this way in london: the city is too dirty; the air is rarely warm enough; and the pavements are too narrow. but in paris, which enjoys the steadier climate of a continent and understands the æsthetic uses of a pavement, and burns wood, charcoal or anthracite, it is, when dry, always possible; and i, for one, rejoice in the privilege. this "green hour"--this quiet recess between five and six in which to sip an apéritif, and talk, and watch the world, and anticipate a good dinner--is as characteristically french as the absence of it is characteristically english. the english can sip their beverages too, but how different is the bar at which they stand from the comfortable stalls (so to speak) in the open-air theatres of the boulevards in which the french take their ease. at every turn one is reminded that these people live as if the happiness of this life were the only important thing; while if we subtract a frivolous fringe, it may be said of the english that (without any noticeable gain in such advantages as spirituality confers) they are always preparing to be happy but have not yet enough money or are not yet quite ready to begin. the frenchman is happy now: the englishman will be happy to-morrow. (that is, at home; yet i have seen englishmen in paris gathering honey while they might, with both hands.) but the french and english, london and paris, are not really to be compared. london and paris indeed are different in almost every respect, as the capitals of two totally and almost inimically different nations must be. for a few days the englishman is apt to think that paris has all the advantages: but that is because he is on a holiday; he soon comes to realise that london is his home, london knows his needs and supplies them. much as i delight in paris i would make almost any sacrifice rather than be forced to live there; yet so long as inclination is one's only master how pleasant are her vivacity and charm. but comparisons between nations are idle. for a frenchman there is no country like france and no city like paris; for an englishman england is the best country and london the most desirable city. for a short holiday for an englishman, paris is a little paradise; for a short holiday for a frenchman, london is a little inferno. [illustration: girl's head École de fabriano (_louvre_)] each country is the best; each country has advantages over the other, each country has limitations. the french may have wide streets and spacious vistas, but their matches are costly and won't light; the english, even in the heart of london, may be contented with narrow and muddy and congested lanes, but their sugar at least is sweet. the french may have abolished bookmakers from their race-courses and may give even a cabman a clean napkin to his meals, but their tobacco is a monopoly. the english may fill their streets with newspaper posters advertising horrors and scandals, but they are permitted now and then to forget their vile bodies. the french may piously and prettily erect statues of every illustrious child of the state, but their billiard tables are now without pockets. london may have a cleaner tube railway system than paris, but paris has the advantage of no lifts and a correspondence ticket at a trifling cost which will take you everywhere, whereas london's tubes belonging to different companies the correspondence is expensive. again with omnibuses, london may have more and better, but here again the useful correspondence system is to be found only in paris. london may be in darkness for most of the winter and be rained upon by soot all the year round; but at any rate the londoner is master in his own house or flat and not the cringing victim of a concierge, as every parisian is. that is something to remember and be thankful for. paris has an atmosphere, and a climate, and good food, and attentive waiters, and a cab to every six yards of the kerb, and no petty licensing tyrannies, and the champs-elysées, and immunity from lurid newspaper posters, and good coffee, and the winged victory, and monna lisa; but it also has the concierge. at the entrance to every house is this inquisitive censorious janitor--a blend in human shape of cerberus and the recording angel. the concierge knows the time you go out and (more serious) the time you come in; what letters and parcels you receive; what visitors, and how long they stay. the concierge knows how much rent you pay and what you eat and drink. and the worst of it is that since the concierge keeps the door and dominates the house you must put a good face on it or you will lose very heavily. scowl at the concierge and your life will become a harassment: letters will be lost; parcels will be delayed; visitors will be told you are at home; a thousand little vexations will occur. the concierge in short is a rod which, you will observe, it is well to kiss. the wise parisian therefore is always amiable, and generous too, although in his heart he wishes the whole system at the devil. and here i ought to say that although one is thus conscious of certain of the defects and virtues of each nation, i have no belief whatever in any large interchange of characteristics being possible. nations i think can borrow very little from each other. what is sauce for the goose is by no means necessarily sauce for the oie, and the meat of an homme can easily be the poison of a man. the french and the english base life on such different premises. to put the case in a nutshell, we may say that the french welcome facts and the english avoid them. the french make the most of facts; the english persuade themselves that facts are not there. the french write books and plays about facts, and read and go to the theatre to see facts; the english write books and plays about sentimental unreality, and read and go to the theatre in order to be diverted from facts. the french live quietly and resignedly at home among facts; the english exhaust themselves in games and travel and frivolity and social inquisitiveness, in order to forget that they have facts in their midst. one always used to think that the english were the most willing endurers of impositions and monopolies; but i have come to the conclusion that a people that can continue to burn french matches and use french ink and blotting-paper, bend before the concierge and suffer the claque and the french theatre attendant, must be even weaker. only a people in love with slavery would continue to endure the black bombazined harpies who turn the french theatres into infernos, first by their very presence and secondly by their clamour for a bénéfice. they do nothing and they levy a tax on it. so far from exterminating them, this absurd lenient french people has even allowed them to dominate the cinematoscope halls which are now so numerous all over paris. i sit and watch them and wonder what they do all day: in what dark corner of the city they hang like bats till the evening arrives and they are free to poison the air of the theatres and exact their iniquitous secret commission. the habit of london managers to charge sixpence for a programme--an advertisement of his wares such as every decent and courteous tradesman is proud to give away--is sufficiently monstrous; but i can never enough honour them for excluding these bénéfice hunters. whatever may be said of french acting and french plays there is no doubt that our theatres are more comfortable and better managed. a frenchman visiting a theatre in london has no difficulties: he buys his seat at the office, is shown to it and the matter ends. an englishman visiting a theatre in paris has no such ease. he must first buy his ticket (and let him scrutinise the change with some care and despatch); this ticket, however, does not, as in london, carry the number of his seat: it is merely a card of introduction to the three gentlemen in evening dress and tall hats who sit side by side in a kind of pulpit in the lobby. one of them takes his ticket, another consults a plan and writes a number on it, and the third hands it back. another difficulty has yet to come, for now begins the turn of the harpies. why the english custom is not followed, and a clean sweep made of both the men in the pulpit and the women inside, one has no notion; for in addition to being a nuisance they must reduce the profits. i mentioned the claque just now. that is another of the frenchman's darling bugbears which the english would never stand. every frenchman to whom i have spoken about it shares my view that it is an abomination, but when i ask why it is not abolished he merely shrugs his shoulders: "why should it be?--one can endure it," is the attitude; and that indeed is the frenchman's attitude to most of the things that he finds objectionable. they are, after all, only trimmings; the real fabric of his life is not injured by them; therefore let them go on. yet while one can understand the persistence of certain parisian defects, the long life of the claque remains a mystery. upon me the periodical and mechanical explosions of this body of hirelings have an effect little short of infuriation. one is told that the actors are responsible rather than the managers, and this makes its continuance the more unreasonable, for the result has been that in their efforts to acquire the illusion of applause, they have lost the real thing. french audiences rarely clap any more. when it comes to the consideration of the french stage, there is again no point in making comparisons. it is again a conflict of fact and sentiment. the french are intensely interested in the manifestations of the sexual emotion, and they have no objection to see the calamities and embarrassments and humours to which it may lead worked out frankly on the boards or in literature: hence a certain sameness in their plays and novels. the majority of the english still think that physical matters should be hidden: hence our dramatists and novelists having had to find other themes, adventure, eccentricity and character have won their predominant place. that is all there is to it. the french stage is the best--to a frenchman or a gallicised englishman; the english stage is the best--to the english. the english go rather to see; the french to hear. in other words a blind frenchman would be better pleased with his national stage than a blind englishman with his. the blind frenchman would at any rate not miss the jokes, which, though he knew them all before, he could not resist; whereas the englishman would be deprived of the visible touches of which the personæ of our drama are largely built up. in a drama of passion, whether treated seriously or lightly, words necessarily are more than idiosyncrasies. [illustration: le bÉnÉdicitÉ chardin _(louvre)_] in the paris music halls the comic singers merely sing--they have little but words to give. london music hall audiences may have an undue affection for red noses and sordid domestic details; but they do expect a little character, even if it is coarse character, during the evening, and they get it. there is little in the french hall. personality is discouraged here; richness, quaintness, unction, irresponsibility, eccentricity--such gifts as once pleased us in dan leno and now are to be found in a lesser degree but very agreeably in wilkie bard--these are superfluities to a french comic singer. all that is asked of him is that he shall be active, shall have a resonant voice, and shall commit to memory a sufficient number of cynical reflections on life. a gramophone producing any rapid indecent song would please the french more than a hundred harry lauders. (and yet when all is said it must be far easier to live in a country where decency, as we understand and painfully cultivate it, has not everywhere to be considered. the life at any rate of the french author, publisher, editor and magistrate, to name no others, is immensely simplified.) but from my point of view the worst characteristic of the french music hall and variety stage is the revue. the revue is indeed a standing proof of the incontrovertible fact that however the hotel proprietors may feel about it, the parisian does not want english people in his midst. (why should he?) the revue in its quiddity is a device for excluding foreigners from theatres; for it is not only dull and monotonous, but being for the most part a satire on parisian politics is incomprehensible too. i am not here to defend the english pantomime, but not all its agonies (as ruskin called them) reach such a height of tedium as a revue can achieve. a frenchman ignorant of english at drury lane on boxing night might be bewildered and even stunned; but he would at any rate know something of what was happening and his eyes would be kept busy. an englishman at a revue knows nothing, for there is no story, and very little money is spent on the stage picture: it is just a steady cataract of topical talk. i have endured many revues, always hoping against hope that some one would be witty or funny, that some ingenious satirical device would occur. but i have never been rewarded. no matter what the nominal subject, the jokes have been the same: the old old mots à double entente, the old old outspoken indecency.... the stream of people continues to be incessant and of incredible density--all walking at the same pace, all talking as only the french can talk, rich and poor equally owners of the pavement. now and then a camelot offers a toy or a picture postcard; boys bring _la patrie_ or _la presse_; a performer bends and twists a piece of felt into every shape of hat, culminating in napoleon's famous chapeau à cornes.... one thing that one notices is the absence of laughter. the french laugh aloud very seldom. even in their theatres, at the richest french jokes, their approval is expressed rather in a rippling murmur counterfeiting surprise than a laugh. animation one sees, but on these boulevards behind that is often a suggestion of anxiety. the dominant type of face seen from a chair at the café de la paix is not a happy one.... it is when one watches this restless moving crowd, or the complacent audiences at the farces, or the diners in restaurants eating as if it were the last meal, and when one looks week after week at the comic papers of paris, with their deadly insistence on the one and apparently only concern of parisian life, that one has most of all to remind oneself that these people are not the french, and that one is a superficial tourist in danger of acquiring very wrong impressions. this is the fringe, the froth. one has only to remember a very few of the things we have seen in paris to realise the truth of this. never was a harder working people. look at the early hours that paris keeps: contrast them with london's slovenly awakening. look at the amazing productivity of a notoriously idle and careless set--the artists: the old salon with its miles of pictures twice a year, and the other salons, hardly less crowded, and the minor exhibitions too. look at the industry of the paris stage: the new plays that are produced every week, involving endless rehearsals day and night. look at the energy of the french authors, dramatic as well as narrative, of the journalists and printers. think of the engineers, the motor-car manufacturers, the gardeners and the vintners. think of the bottle-makers. (but one cannot: such a thought causes the head to reel in this city of bottles.) no, we are not seeing france, we foreign visitors to "the gay capital". don't let us labour under any such mistake. the industrious, level-headed, cheerful french people do not exhibit themselves to the scrutinising eyes of the café de la paix, do not spend all their time as _le rire_ would have us believe, do not over eat and over drink. around and about one all the time, as one watches this panorama, the swift and capable waiters are busy. every one carries away from paris one mastering impression upon the inward eye: i am not sure that mine is not a blur of waiters in their long white aprons. at the paris exhibition of , over the principal entrance at the south-west corner of the place de la concorde, was the gigantic figure of a young and fashionable woman in the very heyday of her vivacity, allurement and smartness. she personified paris. but not so would i symbolise that city. in any coat of arms of paris that i designed would certainly be a capable young woman, but also a waiter, sleek, attentive and sympathetic. paris may be a city of feminine charm and domination; but to the ordinary foreigner, and especially the englishman, it is far more a city of waiters. women we have in england too: but waiters we have not. there are waiters in london, no doubt, but that is the end of them: there are, to all intents and purposes, no waiters in the provinces, where we eat exclusively in our own houses. and even in london we must brace ourselves to find such waiters as there are: we must indulge in heroic feats of patience, and, once the waiter comes into view, exercise most of the vocal organs to attract his notice and obtain his suffrages. in other words, there is in london perhaps one waiter to every five thousand persons; whereas in paris there are five thousand waiters, more or less, to every one person. or so it seems. it is a city of waiters; it is _the_ city of waiters. still the people stream by, and one wonders whence the idea comes that the french are a particularly small race. it is not true. look at that tall boulevardier with some one else's hat (why do so many frenchmen seem to be wearing other men's hats?) and the immense beard. look at those two long-haired artists from the latin quarter, in velvet clothes and black sombreros. in england they would be stared at and laughed at; but here no one is laughed at at all, and only the women are stared at. it is interesting to note how little street ridicule there is in france. the frenchman mocks, but he does not, as i think so many of the english do, search for the ridiculous; or at any rate it is not the same kind of ridiculousness that we pillory. in england we bring such sandpaper of prejudice and public opinion to bear upon eccentricity that every one becomes smooth and ordinary--like every one else. but in france--to the superficial observer, at any rate--individuality is encouraged and nourished; in france either no one is ridiculous or every one is. some one once remarked to me that never in paris do you see a woman with any touch of the woods. it is true. the parisian women suggest the boudoir, the theatre, the salon, the sewing-room, the kitchen, and now and then even the fields; but never the woods.... one misses also in paris the boy of from fifteen to eighteen. younger boys there are, and young men abound, but youths of that age one does not much see, and very rarely indeed a father and son together. in fact the generations seem to mix very little: in the restaurants men of the same age are usually together: beards lunch with beards.... and the road is dense too. there is a block every few minutes, while the agents in the centre of the carrefour do their best to control the four streams of traffic. it is odd that a people with so much sense of order and red tape should fail so signally to produce an organiser of traffic. certain it is that the stupidest kentish giant who joins the metropolitan police force has a better idea of such a duty than any of these polished gentlemen in caps. partly perhaps because in london the police are feared and obeyed, and in paris the drivers, particularly the cabmen, care for no one. the words liberté, egalité, fraternité are not stencilled all over our churches and public buildings, you see. the cabmen! my impression now is, writing here in england, that the paris cochers are all exactly alike. they have white hats and blue coats and bad horses and black moustaches, and their backs entirely fill the landscape. they beat their horses and shout at them all the time. one seldom sees an accident, although they never look as if they were going to avoid one. that is partly because they are a weary and cynical folk, and partly because in france the roads belong to vehicles, and not, as in england, to foot-passengers. in england if you are run over, you can prosecute the driver and get damages; in france if you are run over, the driver (one has always heard) can prosecute you for being in the way. [illustration: the boulevard des italiens (looking east)] no matter with what fervour is the entente fostered and nourished, the parisian cabman will see to it that the hatchet is never too deeply interred, that the racial excrescences are not too smoothly planed. polite hotel managers, obsequious restaurateurs, smiling sommeliers and irradiated shopkeepers may do their best to assure the anglo-saxon that he is among a people that exist merely to do him honour and adore his personality; but directly he hails a cab he knows better. the truth is then his. not that the parisian cocher hates a foreigner. nothing so crude as that. he merely is possessed by a devil of contempt that prompts him to humiliate and confound us. to begin with he will not appear to want you as a fare; he will make it a favour to drive you at all. he will then begin his policy of humorous pin-pricks. though you speak with the accent of mounet-sully himself he will force you to pronounce the name of your destination not once but many times, and then very likely he will drive you somewhere else first. you may step into his cab with a feeling that paris is becoming a native city: you will emerge wishing it at the bottom of the sea. that is the cocher's special mission in life--subtly and insidiously to humiliate the tourist. he does it like an artist and as an artist--for his own pleasure. it is the only compensation that his dreary life carries. the french, i fancy, are not less capable of stupidity than any other people. there is an idea current that they are the most intelligent of races, but i believe this to be a fallacy, proceeding from the fact that the french language lends itself to epigrammatic expression, and that every french child dips his cup into the common reservoir of engaging idioms and adroit phrases. this means that french conversation, even among the humblest, is better than english conversation under similar and far more favourable conditions; but it means no more. it gives no real intelligence. the incapacity of the ordinary frenchman to get enough imagination into his ear (so fine that it can distinguish between the most delicate vowel sounds in his own language) to enable it to understand a foreign pronunciation is partly a proof of this. but take him at any time off his regular lines, present a new idea to him, and he can be as stupid as a sussex farm labourer. it is the same with america. just as the french language imposes wit on its user, so is every american, man or woman, fitted at birth with the mechanism of humour. yet how few are humorous! but the cocher is not the only cabman of paris: there remains the driver of the auto. the motor cab has not elbowed out the horse cab in paris as it has in london, nor probably will it, for the parisians are not in a hurry; but for longchamp and such excursions the auto is indispensable, and the motor cabman becomes more and more a characteristic of the streets. our london chauffeurs are sufficiently implacable, blunt and churlish, but the parisian chauffeur is like fate. there is no escape if you enter his car: he lights his cigarette, sinks his back into his seat, and his shoulders into his back, and his head into his shoulders, and drives like the devil. he seems to have no life of his own at all: he exists merely to urge his car wherever he is told. the foreigner has no hold whatever upon the chauffeur; he arranges the meter to whatever tariff he pleases, and before you can examine the dial at the end of the journey he has jerked up the flag. when you keep him waiting his meter devours your substance. always terrible, he is worst in winter, when he is dressed entirely in hearth-rugs. the old cocher for me. but it grows chilly and it is dinner time. let us go. yet first i would remind you that we chose the café de la paix for our reverie only because it is the centre, and we were intent upon the centre. but the pavement chairs of all the cafés of paris are interesting, and it is equally good to sit in any populous bourgeois quarter where one can watch the daily indigenous life of this city, which the visitor who remains for the most part in the visitors' districts can so easily miss. the busy, capable girls and women shopping--their pretty uncovered heads all so neatly and deftly arranged, and their bags and baskets in their hands; the chair mender blowing his horn; the teams of white horses, six or eight in single file, with high collars and bells, drawing blocks of stone or barrels of wine; the tondeur de chiens, with his mournful pipe and box of scissors; the brisk errand boys; the neat little milliners with their band-boxes; now and then a slovenly soldier and a well-groomed erect agent. paris as a spectacle is perpetually new and amusing. chapter xvi the grands boulevards: ii. the opera to the place de la rÉpublique the christmas baraques--the rue de la chaussée d'antin--the rue laffitte--la musée grévin--the bibliothèque nationale--the roar of finance--tailors as cartoonists--a bee-hive street--cities within the city--pompes funèbres--the church as advertiser--the great marguery--gates which are not gates--the life of st. denis--highways from paris--the first theatre--st. martin's act of charity--the arts et métiers; a modern cluny--statues of the republic. from the place de l'opéra to the place de la république is an interesting and instructive walk, but at no time of the day a very easy one; and between five o'clock and half-past six, and eight and ten, on the north pavement, it is always almost a struggle; but when the baraques are in full swing around christmas and the new year, it is a struggle in earnest, at any rate as far as the rue drouot. indeed christmas and new year, but especially christmas eve and new year's eve, are great times in france, and presents are exchanged as furiously as with us. on christmas eve--réveillon as it is called--no one would do anything so banal as to go to bed. the restaurants obtain a special permission to remain open, and tables are reserved months in advance. montmartre, never very sleepy, takes on a double share of wakefulness. the first street on our left, the rue de la chaussée d'antin, is one of the busiest in paris, with excellent shops and many interesting associations. madame récamier lived at no. , the site of the hôtel d'antin. so also did madame necker and madame roland, and for a while edward gibbon. chopin lived at no. . this street, by the way, has suffered almost more than any other from the parisian fickleness in nomenclature. it began as the rue de la chaussée gaillon, then rue de l'hôtel dieu, then rue de la chaussée d'antin, from richelieu's hôtel d'antin, then the rue mirabeau, from the revolutionary who lodged and died at no. , then, when mirabeau's body was removed ignominiously from the panthéon, the rue mont blanc, and in it became once again the rue de la chaussée d'antin. at the foot of the rue laffitte one should stop, because one gets there a glimpse of montmartre's white and oriental cathedral, hanging in mid-air, high above paris and the church of notre dame de lorette. this street is, to me, one of the most entertaining in the city, for almost every other shop is a picture-dealer's, and to loaf along it, on either side, is practically to visit a gallery. two or three of these shops keep as a continual sign the words "bronzes de barye". the rue laffitte was named after the banker jacques laffitte, whose bank was in the rue de la chaussée d'antin. cerutti, who delivered mirabeau's funeral oration, set up his revolutionary journal _la feuille villageoise_ here. at the hôtel thelusson at the end of the street the incroyables and the merveilleuses assembled. among the guests was general buonaparte, and it was here that he first met joséphine beauharnais. the musée grévin, to which we soon come on the left, is the parisian tussaud's; and it is as much better than tussaud's as one would expect it to be. tussaud's is vast and brilliant; the musée grévin is small and mysterious. there is so little light that every one seems wax, and one has to look very narrowly and anxiously at all motionless figures. the particular boast of the grévin is its groups: not so much the pope and his pontifical cortège, the coulisses of the opera (a scene of coryphées and men about town), and the fête d'artistes, as the admirable tableaux of the revolution. to the untutored eye of one who, like myself, avoids waxworks, the grévin figures and grouping are good and, what is perhaps more important, intelligent. pains have been taken to make costumes and accessories historically accurate, and in many cases the actual articles have been employed, notably in the largest tableau of all--"une soirée à malmaison"--which was arranged under the supervision of frédéric masson, the historian, an effigy of whom stands near by. among these scenes the historical sense of the french child can be really quickened. there are also tableaux of rome in the time of the early christians--very clever and painful. [illustration: madame le brun et sa fille madame le brun _(louvre)_] at the rue drouot, at the conjunction of the boulevards des italiens and de montmartre, there is an angle. hitherto we have been walking west by north; we now shall walk west by south. from this point we shall also observe a difference in the character of the street, which will become steadily more bourgeois. at this corner, where the traffic is always so congested, owing largely to the omnibuses with the three white horses abreast that cross to and from the rue richelieu, all the best cafés are behind us. if that £ , , reconstruction scheme of which i have already spoken comes to pass, this point will be unrecognisable, for among the items in that programme is the uniting of the boulevard haussmann, which now comes to an abrupt end at the rue taitbout, with the boulevard de montmartre, which, as a glance at the map will show, is in a line with it. but my hope is that the improvement will be long deferred. it is in the rue richelieu that the bibliothèque nationale stands, where the foreign resident in paris may read every day, precisely as at the british museum, provided always that he is certified by his consul to be worthy of a ticket, and the visitor may on certain days examine priceless books and autographs, prints and maps and cameos and wonderful antiquities. here once lived cardinal mazarin, and it is in the galerie that bears his name that the rarest bindings are to be seen--some from grolier's own shelves. among the mss. is that of pascal's _pensées_. the library, which is now perhaps the finest in existence, has been built up steadily by the kings of france, even from charlemagne, but louis xii. was the first of them who may really be called a bibliophile, to be worthily followed by françois i. it was not until , in the reign of louis xv., that the royal collection was removed to this building. the revolution greatly added to its wealth by transferring hither the libraries of the destroyed convents and monasteries. the treasures in the cabinet de médailles i cannot describe; all i can say is that they ought not to be missed. they may be called an extension of the galerie d'apollon in the louvre. before leaving the bibliothèque i should add that in certain of its rooms, with an entrance in the rue vivienne, exhibitions are periodically held, and it is worth while to ascertain if one is in progress. in the spring of i saw there a most satisfying display of rembrandt's etchings. it was in one of the old book-shops in the neighbourhood of the bibliothèque that i received my first impression of the paris bourse. i was turning over little pocket editions of voltaire's _pucelle_ and naughty crébillons and such ancient boudoir fare, when i began to be conscious of a sound as of a thousand boys' schools in deadly rivalry. on hurrying out to learn the cause i found paris in its usual condition of self-containment and intent progress; no one showed any sign of inquisitiveness or excitement; but on the steps of the bourse i observed a shouting, gesticulating mob of men who must, i thought, be planning a new reign of terror. but no; they were merely financiers engaged in the ordinary work of life. the bourse is free, and i climbed the steps, pushed through the money-makers, and entered. never again. i have seen men engaged in the unlovely task of acquiring lucre by more or less improper means in various countries, but i never saw anything so horrible as the rapacity expressed upon the faces of this heated bourse populace. capel court is not indifferent to the advantages of a successful coup, but capel court differs from the bourse not only in a comparative retention of its head, but also in a certain superficial appearance of careless aristocracy. capel court dresses well and keeps time for a practical joke now and then. the bourse is shabby and in the grip of avarice. wall street and the chicago pit, i am told, are worse: i have not seen them; but no race-course scramble for odds could exceed the horrors of that day in the bourse. the home, by the way, of this daily vociferous service of mammon, was built on the site of the old convent of the filles de st. thomas. during the revolution the connection between the bourse and heaven was even closer, for the church of the petits pères was then set apart for exchange purposes. returning to the point where we left the boulevard--at the rue richelieu--i am moved to ask what would happen in london if messrs. baker in the tottenham court road or messrs. gardiner in knightsbridge were suddenly to break out into caricature and embellish their windows with scarifying cartoons of kings, kaisers, presidents and premiers? the question may sound odd, but it is simple enough if you visit the high life tailor at the corner of the rue richelieu, or, farther east, a similar establishment at the corner of the rue de rougemont, for it then becomes obvious that it is quite part of the duties of the large parisian clothier to do his part in forming public opinion. these cartoons are always bold and clever, although often too municipal for the foreigner's apprehension. i have said somewhere that one of my favourite streets in paris is the rue montorgeuil. that is largely, as i have explained, because it is old and narrow, and the people swarm in it, and the stalls are so many, and the houses are high and white and take the sun so bravely, and it smells of paris; and also, of course, because the compas d'or is here, bringing the middle ages so nigh. another favourite is the rue du faubourg montmartre (which is now the next on the left eastward) for its busy happy shops and its moving multitudes. in its own narrow way it is almost as crowded as the grands boulevards. a little way up this street, on the right, is a gateway leading into a very curious backwater, as noticeably quiet as the highways are noisy and restless: the cité bergère, the largest of those cités within a cité of which paris has several, to be compared in london only with st. helen's place in bishopsgate or park row at knightsbridge. the cité bergère is practically nothing but hotels--high and narrow, with dirty white walls and dirty green shutters--very cheap, and very incurious as to the occupations of their guests, whether male or female. it has a gate at each end which is closed at night and penetrated thereafter only at the goodwill of the concierge, whom it is well to placate. the cité bergère leads into the cité rougemont (hence offering an opportunity to an innkeeper between the two to hang out the imposing sign of the hôtel des deux cités), and from the cité rougemont you gain that district of paris where the woollen merchants congregate. returning to the grands boulevards, the next street on the left is the rue rougemont, and if we take this we come in a few moments to the conservatoire, where so many famous musicians have been taught, and where coquelin and sarah bernhardt learned the art of elocution. there is a little museum at the conservatoire in which every variety of musical instrument is preserved, together with a few personal relics, such as a cast of paganini's nervous magical hand, with its long sharply pointed fingers, and the death-mask of chopin. close to the conservatoire is the darkest church in paris--saint eugène, a favourite spot for funeral services. i chanced once to stay in a room overlooking this church, until the smell of mortality became too constant. there was a funeral every day: every morning the undertakers' men were busy in the preparations for the ceremony--draping the façade with heavy curtains of a blackness that seemed to darken the circumambient air: every afternoon removing it, together with the other trappings of the ritual--the candlesticks and furniture. it is not without reason that the french undertaker ambushes beneath the imposing style of pompes funèbres. it was, by the way, on the walls of saint eugène, each side of the door, that i first saw any of those curious affiches, made, i suppose, necessary, or at any rate prudent, by recent events in france, directing notice to--advertising, i almost wrote, and indeed why not?--the advantages of religion. religion (this is what the notice came to in essence), religion has its points after all. when president fallières' daughter was married, it remarked, where was the ceremony performed? in a church. (ha, ha!) who, it asked, is called to visit a man on his death-bed, no matter how wicked he has been? a priest. (touché!) and so forth. surely a strange document. in the same street is an old book-stall whose shelves are fastened to the wall, giving the appearance of an open-air library for all--the carnegie idea at its best. there used to be one on the side of the hôtel chatham in the rue volney (opposite henry's excellent american bar) but it has now gone. we may regain the boulevards by turning down the long rue du faubourg poissonière, which leads direct, through the rue montorgeuil, to the halles and the pont neuf--a very good walk. passing marguery's great restaurant on the left, famous for its filet de sole in a special sauce, which every one should eat once if only to see the great marguery on his triumphant progress through the rooms, bending his white mane over honoured guests, we come to a strange thing--a massive archway in the road, parallel with the pavements, which i think needs a little explanation. it will take us far from the grands boulevards: as far, in fact, as _the golden legend_; for the arch is the porte st. denis, and st. denis is the patron saint of paris. [illustration: le pont de mantes corot _(louvre: moreau collection)_] st. denis was not a frenchman but an athenian, who was converted by st. paul in person, after considerable discussion. indeed, discussion was not enough: it needed a miracle to win him wholly. "and as," wrote caxton, "s. denis disputed yet with s. paul, there passed by adventure by that way a blind man tofore them, and anon denis said to paul: if thou say to this blind man in the name of thy god: see, and then he seeth, i shall anon believe in him, but thou shalt use no words of enchantment, for thou mayst haply know some words that have such might and virtue. and s. paul said: i shall write tofore the form of the words, which be these: in the name of jesu christ, born of the virgin, crucified and dead, which arose again and ascended into heaven, and from thence shall come for to judge the world: see. and because that all suspicion be taken away, paul said to denis that he himself should pronounce the words. and when denis had said those words in the same manner to the blind man, anon the blind man recovered his sight. and then denis was baptized and damaris his wife and all his meiny, and was a true christian man and was instructed and taught by s. paul three years, and was ordained bishop of athens, and there was in predication, and converted that city, and great part of the region, to christian faith." denis was sent to france by pope clement, and he converted many parisians and built many churches, until the hostile strategy of the emperor domitian prevailed and he was tortured, the scene of the tragedy being montmartre. "the day following," says caxton, "denis was laid upon a gridiron, and stretched all naked upon the coals of fire, and there he sang to our lord saying: lord thy word is vehemently fiery, and thy servant is embraced in the love thereof. and after that he was put among cruel beasts, which were excited by great hunger and famine by long fasting, and as soon as they came running upon him he made the sign of the cross against them, and anon they were made most meek and tame. and after that he was cast into a furnace of fire, and the fire anon quenched, and he had neither pain ne harm. and after that he was put on the cross, and thereon he was long tormented, and after, he was taken down and put into a dark prison with his fellows and many other christian men. "and as he sang there the mass and communed the people, our lord appeared to him with great light, and delivered to him bread, saying: take this, my dear friend, for thy reward is most great with me. after this they were presented to the judge and were put again to new torments, and then he did do smite off the heads of the three fellows, that is to say, denis, rusticus, and eleutherius, in confessing the name of the holy trinity. and this was done by the temple of mercury, and they were beheaded with three axes. and anon the body of s. denis raised himself up, and bare his head between his arms, as the angel led him two leagues from the place, which is said the hill of the martyrs, unto the place where he now resteth, by his election, and by the purveyance of god. and there was heard so great and sweet a melody of angels that many of them that heard it believed in our lord." any one making the pilgrimage from, say, notre dame to the town of st. denis to-day, can follow the saint's footsteps, for the rue st. denis at the foot of montmartre leads out into the rue du faubourg st. denis, and that street right over montmartre, caxton's hill of the martyrs, to st. denis itself. i do not pretend that the legend as it is thus given has not been subjected to severe criticism; but when one has no certain knowledge, the best story can be considered the best evidence, and i like caxton better than the others, even though it conflicts a little with the legend of st. geneviève. it is she, i might add, who is credited with having inaugurated the pilgrimage to st. denis's bones. the rue st. denis was more than the road to the saint's remains: it was the great north road out of paris to the sea. just as the old londoners bound for the north left by the city road and passed through the village of highgate, so did the french traveller leave by the rue st. denis and pass through the village of st. denis. similarly the rue st. martin was the high-road to germany. in the old days, when this street was a highway, the porte st. denis had some meaning, for it stood as a gateway between the city and the country; but to-day, when the course of traffic is east and west, it stands (like the porte st. martin) merely as an obstruction in the grand boulevard--not quite so foolish as our own revised marble arch, but nearly so. the porte st. denis dates from and celebrates, as the bas-reliefs indicate, the triumphs of louis xiv. in germany and holland; the porte st. martin (to which we are just coming) belongs to the same period and commemorates other successes of the same monarch. the rue st. denis is one of the most entertaining of the old streets of paris, although adulterated a little by omnibuses and a sense of commerce. but to have boundless time before one, and no cares, and no fatigue, and starting at the porte st. denis to loiter along it prepared to penetrate every inviting court and alluring by-street--that is a great luxury. the first theatre in paris, and indeed in france, was in the hospital of the trinity in the rue st. denis. that was early in the fifteenth century, and it was designed for the performance of mystery plays in which the protagonist was, of course, jesus christ. paris has now many theatres, with other ideals; but whatever their programmes may be, they proceed from that early and pious spring. we come next to the boulevard de strasbourg, running north to the gare de l'est, and the boulevard de sébastopol, running south to the ile de la cité; and then to the second archway, the porte st. martin. st. martin (who was bishop of tours) lived in paris for a while, and it was here that he performed the miracle of healing a leper by embracing him--an act commemorated by henri i. in the founding of the priory of st. martin, which stood a little way down the rue st. martin on the left, on a site on which the musée des arts et métiers now stands. but it was at amiens that the saint's most beautiful act--the gift of his cloak to a beggar--was performed, and perhaps i may be allowed to quote here, from another book of mine, the translation of a poem by m. haraucourt, the curator of the cluny museum, celebrating that deed:-- charity because so bitter was the rain, saint martin cut his cloak in twain, and gave the beggar half of it to cover him and ease his pain. but being now himself ill clad, the saint's own case was no less sad. so piteously cold the night; though glad at heart he was, right glad. thus, singing, on his way he passed, while satan, grim and overcast, vowing the saint should rue his deed, released the cruel northern blast. away it sprang with shriek and roar, and buffeted the saint full sore, yet never wished he for his cloak; so satan bade the deluge pour. huge hail-stones joined in the attack, and dealt saint martin many a thwack, "my poor old head!" he smiling said, yet never wished his cape were back. "he must, he shall," cried satan, "know regret for such an act," and lo, e'en as he spoke the world was dark with fog and frost and whirling snow. saint martin, struggling toward his goal, mused thoughtfully, "poor soul! poor soul! what use to him was half a cloak? i should have given him the whole." the cold grew terrible to bear, the birds fell frozen in the air: "fall thou," said satan, "on the ice fall thou asleep, and perish there." he fell, and slept, despite the storm, and dreamed he saw the christ child's form wrapped in the half the beggar took, and seeing him, was warm, so warm. the arts et métiers is a museum devoted to the progress of mechanics and the useful crafts: a kind of industrial exhibition, a modern utilitarian cluny. it is a memorial of the world's ingenuity and the ingenuity of france in particular, and one cannot have a much better reminder that the frivolity of the grands boulevards is not all. apropos, however, of the frivolity of the grands boulevards, i may say that the case that was attracting most interest on the sunday that i was here contained a collection of all the best mechanical toys of the past dozen years, with their dates affixed. the only article in the vast building which seemed to serve no useful purpose was a mirror cracked during the commune by a bullet, with the bullet still in it. in the square opposite the musée is the statue of béranger, who for many years made the ballads of the french nation. [illustration: the porte st. denis (south faÇade)] returning to the grands boulevards once more, we pass first the porte st. martin theatre, where the great coquelin played cyrano, and where he was rehearsing _chantecler_ when he died, and then the ambigu, home of sensational melodrama, and come very shortly to the place de la république, with its great central monument. the republic thus celebrated is not merely the third and present republic, but all the efforts in that direction which the french have made, as the twelve reliefs round the base will show, for they begin with the scene in the jeu de paume in , and end with the national fête on july th, . paris would still have statues of the république if this were to go, for there is one by dalou, the sculptor of these bas-reliefs, in the place de la nation, and another by soitoux at the institut. dalou (whose work we saw in such profusion at the little palace in the champs-elysées) made a very spirited and characteristic group, with the republic standing high on a chariot being drawn by lions and urged forward by an ouvrier and an ouvrière. there is another and hardly less direct walk eastward to the place de la république, which, taken slowly and amusedly, instructs one as fully in the manners of the busy small parisian as the boulevards in those of the flâneur. this route is by the rue de provence, the rue richer, the rue des petites-ecuries and the rue château d'eau--practically a straight line, and in the old days a highway. you see the small parisian at his busiest--at her busiest--this way. chapter xvii montmartre steep streets--the musée moreau--the sacré-coeur--françoise-marguerite--paris and her beggars--a ferocious cripple--the communard insurrection--the maison dufayel--heinrich heine--the cimetière de montmartre--the boulevard de clichy--cabarets good and bad--an aged statesman is entertained--three bals--paris and late hours--the night cafés--the tireless dancers--a coat-tail--the dead maître d'hôtel. one may gain montmartre by every street that runs off the grands boulevards on the left, between the opéra and the place de la république; but when the night falls and the tide begins to turn that way, it is the rue blanche and the rue pigalle that do most of the work. all are very steep. to the wayfarer climbing the hill in no hurry, i recommend for its interest the rue des martyrs (balzac once lived at no. ), leading out of the rue laffitte; or, starting from the boulevards at a more easterly point, one may gain it by the rue du faubourg montmartre, which runs into the rue des martyrs at notre dame de lorette and is full of activity and variety. by taking the rue de la rochefoucauld one may spend a few minutes in a little white building there which was once the home and studio of the painter gustave moreau and is now left to the nation as a permanent memorial of his labours. in industry the man must have approached rubens and rembrandt, for this, though a large house, is literally filled with paintings and drawings and studies, which not only cover the walls but cover screens built into the walls, and screens within screens, and screens within those. the menuisier and moreau together have contrived to make no. rue de la rochefoucauld the most tiring house in paris--at least to me, who do not admire the work of this painter, or at any rate do not want to see more of it than is in the luxembourg, where may be seen several of his pictures, including the most famous of all, the salome. herr baedeker considers that moreau's works have a charm of their own, but i do not find it. i find a striving after the grandiose and startling, with only occasional lapses into sincerity and good colour. it is better than wiertz, no doubt; but less entertaining, because less shocking. montmartre's life may for our purpose be divided into three distinct periods: day, evening, and the small hours. by day one may roam its streets of living and of dead and study paris from its summit; in the evening its cabarets are in full swing; and then comes midnight when its supper cafés open, not to close or cease their melodies until the shops are doing business again. montmartre (so called because it was here that st. denis and his associates were put to death) really is a mountain, as any one who has climbed to the sacré-coeur can tell. the last two hundred yards are indeed nearly as steep as the brecon beacons; but the climb is worth it if only for the view of paris. (there is, however, a funicular railway.) as for the cathedral, that seems to me to be better seen and appreciated from the distance: from the train as one enters paris in the late afternoon, with the level sun lighting its pure walls; from the heights on the south side of the river; from the boulevard des italiens up the rue laffitte; and from the buttes-chaumont, as in mr. dexter's exquisite drawing. for the cathedral itself is not particularly attractive near at hand, and within it is cold and dull and still awaiting its glass. it was, however, one of the happiest thoughts that has come to rome in our time to set this fascinating bizarre oriental building here. it gave paris a new note that it will now never lose. before leaving, one ought perhaps to have a peep at françoise-marguerite, for one is not likely to see her equal again. françoise-marguerite, otherwise known as la savoyarde de montmartre, is the great bell given to the cathedral by the province of savoy. she weighs nineteen tons, is nine feet tall, and her voice has remarkable timbre. behind the new cathedral lies the old church of st. pierre-de-montmartre, on the side of which, it is said, once stood a temple of mars. (hence, for some lexicographers, mont-mars and montmartre; but i prefer to think of st. denis wandering here without his head.) it was in the crypt of this church, i have somewhere read, that ignatius loyola, with xavier and laine, founded the order of jesuits. i attended early mass at the sacré-coeur church on january st, . it was snowing lightly and very cold, and as i came away, at about eight, and descended the hill towards paris, i was struck by the spectacle of the lame and blind and miserable men and women who were appearing mysteriously from nowhere to descend the hill too, groping and hobbling down the slippery steepnesses. such folk are an uncommon sight in paris, where every one seems to be, if not robust, at any rate active and capable, and where, although it eminently belongs to the poor as much as to the rich, extreme poverty is rarely seen. in london, where the poor convey no possessive impression, but, except in their own quarters, suggest that they are here on sufferance, one sees much distress. in paris none, except on this day, the first of the year--and on one or two others, such as july th--when beggars are allowed to ask alms in the streets. for the rest of the year they must hide their misery and their want, although i still tremble a little as i remember the importunities of the montmartre cripple of ferocious aspect and no legs at all, fixed into a packing-case on wheels, who, having demanded alms in vain, hurls himself night after night along the pavement after the hard-hearted, urging his torso's chariot by powerful strokes of his huge hands on the pavement, as though he rowed against leander, with such menacing fury that i for one have literally taken to my heels. he is the only beggar i recollect meeting except on the permitted days, and then paris swarms with them. standing on the dome of the cathedral one has the city at one's feet, not as wonderfully as on the eiffel tower, but nearly so. from the buttes-chaumont we see montmartre: here we see the buttes-chaumont, which, before it was a park, shared with montmartre the gypsum quarries from which plaster of paris is made. beyond the buttes-chaumont is père lachaise, a hill strangely mottled by its grave-stones, while immediately below us is the cimetière du nord, which we are about to visit for the sake of certain very interesting tombs. one realises quickly the strategical value of this mountain. paris has indeed been bombarded from it twice--by henri iv., and again, only thirty-eight years ago. it was indeed on montmartre that the communard insurrection began, for it was the cannon on these heights that the rebel soldiers at once made for after the assassination of their officers. they held them for a while, but were then overpowered and forced to take up their quarters in the buttes-chaumont and père lachaise, which were shelled by the national guard from montmartre until the brief but terrible mutiny was over. the great dome, close by us on the left, which might be another panthéon, crowns the maison dufayel. who is dufayel? you ask. well, who is wanamaker, who was whiteley? m. dufayel is the head of the gigantic business in the boulevard barbès, a northern continuation of the boulevard de magenta. his advertisements are on every hoarding. i think the maison dufayel is well worth a visit, especially as there is no need to buy anything: you may instead sip an apéritif, listen to the band or watch the cinematoscope. one also need have none of that fear of what would happen were there to be a sudden panic which always keeps me nervous if ever i am lured into the magasins du louvre or the galeries lafayette; for at dufayel's there is space, whereas at those vast shopping centres there is a congestion that, in a time of stress would lead to perfectly awful results. the maison dufayel is not so varied a repository as wanamaker's or whiteley's: but in its way it is hardly less remarkable. its principal line is furniture, and i never saw so many beds in my life. it was m. dufayel who brought to perfection the deposit system of payment, and his agents continually range the otherwise pleasant land of france, collecting instalments. since i had wandered into this monstrous establishment, which may not be as large as harrod's stores but feels infinitely vaster, i determined to buy something, and decided at last upon a french picture-book for an english child. buying it was a simple operation, but i then made the mistake of asking that it might be sent to england direct. one should never do that in a bureaucratic country. the lady led me for what seemed several miles through various departments until we came late in the day to rows and rows of frenchmen and frenchwomen each in a little glass box. these boxes were numbered and ran to hundreds. we stopped at last before, say, , where my guide left me. the frenchman in the box denied at once that the book could go by post. it was too large. it must go by rail. for myself, i did not then care how it went or if it went at all: i was tired out. but feeling that such an act as to abandon the parcel and run would be misconstrued and resented in a home of such perfect mechanical order, i waited until he had written for a quarter of an hour in a fine flowing hand with a pen sharper than a serpent's tooth, and then i paid the required number of francs and set out on the desperate errand of finding the street again. the book was a week on its journey. go to dufayel's, i say, most certainly, for it is quite amusing; but go when you are young and strong. to me the most interesting thing on montmartre is the grave of heinrich heine in the cimetière du nord, a strange irregular city of dead parisians all tidily laid away in their homes in its many streets, over which a busy rumbling thoroughfare has been carried on a viaduct. i had heine's _salon_ with me when i was last in paris, and i sought his grave again one afternoon with an increased sense of intimacy. a medallion portrait of the mournful face is cut in the marble, and on the grave itself are wistful echoes of the _buch der lieder_. a little tin receptacle is fixed to the stone, and i looked at the cards which in the pretty german way visitors had left upon the poet and his wife; for frau heine lies too here. all were german and all rain-soaked (or was it tears?) [illustration: la provende des poules troyon _(louvre: thomy-thierret collection)_] matthew arnold in his poem called heine's grave black: the present one is white. how do the lines run? "_henri heine_"----'tis here! that black tombstone, the name carved there--no more! and the smooth, swarded alleys, the limes touch'd with yellow by hot summer, but under them still, in september's bright afternoon, shadow, and verdure, and cool. trim montmartre! the faint murmur of paris outside; crisp everlasting-flowers, yellow and black, on the graves. half blind, palsied, in pain, hither to come, from the streets' uproar, surely not loath wast thou, heine!--to lie quiet, to ask for closed shutters, and darken'd room, and cool drinks, and an eased posture, and opium, no more; hither to come, and to sleep under the wings of renown. ah! not little, when pain is most quelling, and man easily quell'd, and the fine temper of genius so soon thrills at each smart, is the praise, not to have yielded to pain no small boast, for a weak son of mankind, to the earth pinn'd by the thunder, to rear his bolt-scathed front to the stars; and, undaunted, retort 'gainst thick-crashing, insane, tyrannous tempests of bale, arrowy lightnings of soul * * * * * ah! as of old, from the pomp of italian milan, the fair flower of marble of white southern palaces--steps border'd by statues, and walks terraced, and orange-bowers heavy with fragrance--the blond german kaiser full oft long'd himself back to the fields, rivers, and high-roof'd towns of his native germany; so, so, how often! from hot paris drawing-rooms, and lamps blazing, and brilliant crowds, starr'd and jewell'd, of men famous, of women the queens of dazzling converse--from fumes of praise, hot, heady fumes, to the poor brain that mount, that madden--how oft heine's spirit outworn long'd itself out of the din, back to the tranquil, the cool far german home of his youth see! in the may-afternoon, o'er the fresh, short turf of the hartz, a youth, with the foot of youth, heine! thou climbest again. * * * * * but something prompts me: not thus take leave of heine! not thus speak the last word at his grave! not in pity, and not with half censure--with awe hail, as it passes from earth scattering lightnings, that soul! the spirit of the world, beholding the absurdity of men-- their vaunts, their feats--let a sardonic smile, for one short moment wander o'er his lips. _that smile was heine!_--for its earthly hour the strange guest sparkled; now 'tis passed away. that was heine! and we, myriads who live, who have lived, what are we all, but a mood, a single mood, of the life of the spirit in whom we exist, who alone is all things in one? spirit, who fillest us all! spirit, who utterest in each new-coming son of mankind such of thy thoughts as thou wilt! o thou, one of whose moods, bitter and strange, was the life of heine--his strange, alas, his bitter life!--may a life other and milder be mine! may'st thou a mood more serene, happier, have utter'd in mine! may'st thou the rapture of peace deep have embreathed at its core; made it a ray of thy thought, made it a beat of thy joy! heine has many illustrious companions. if you would stand by the grave of berlioz and ambroise thomas, of offenbach, who set all europe humming, of delibes the composer of genée's "coppélia," of the brothers goncourt, of renan, who wrote the _life of christ_, or of henri murger, who discovered bohemia, of de neuville, painter of battles, of halévy and meilhac the playwrights, or of théophile gautier the poet, you must seek the cimetière du nord. montmartre in the evening centres in the boulevard de clichy--a high-spirited thoroughfare. many foreigners visit it only then, and the boulevard spreads its wares accordingly, and very tawdry some of them are. here, for example, is a garish façade labelled "ciel," in which a number of grubby blackguards dressed as saints and angels first bring refreshments at a franc a glass, and then offer the visitor a "prêche humoristique" followed by variations of pepper's ghost in what are called "scènes paradisiaques," the whole performance being cold, tawdry and very stupid. next door is "enfer," where similar delights are offered, save that here the suggestion is not of heaven but hell. instead therefore of grubby blackguards as saints we have grubby blackguards as devils. on the opposite side of the road is the cabaret du néant, where you are received with a mass for the dead sung by the staff, and sit at tables made of coffins. it is hardly necessary to say that very few parisians enter these places. the singing cabarets, however, are different: they are genuine, and one needs to be not only a parisian but a very well-informed parisian to appreciate them, for the songs are palpitatingly topical and political. the quatz'-arts, the lune-rousse and the chat-noir (once so famous, but now lacking in the genius either of salis, its founder, or of caran d'ache, steinlen or willette, who helped to make it renowned) are all in the boulevard de clichy. so also is aristide bruant's cabaret, where an organised shout of welcome awaits every visitor, and aristide--in costume a cross between a poet and a cowboy--sings his realistic ballads of parisian street life. here also is the moulin-rouge, which in the old days of the elephant was in its spurious way amusing, but is now rebuilt and redecorated out of knowledge, and for all the words you hear might be on broadway. here also, at the extreme western end of the boulevard, is the hippodrome, now a hippodrome only in name and given up to the popular cinematoscope. i regret the loss of the real paris hippodrome. paris still has her permanent circuses, but the hippodrome is gone. it was there that, one night, in , i chanced to sit very near the royal box, into which, with much bowing and scraping of managers, a white-haired old gentleman with the features of a lion and an eagle harmoniously blended was ushered. he was only seventy-nine, this old gentleman, and he was in the thick of such duties as fall to the leader of the opposition and promoter of home rule for ireland; but he followed every step of the performance like a schoolboy, and now and then he sent for an official to have something explained to him, such as, on one occasion, the workings of the artificial snow-storm which overwhelmed skobeleff's army. that ill-fated russian general was the hero of the spectacle, a remarkable one in its way; but to me the restless animation and whole-hearted enjoyment of mr. gladstone was the finer entertainment. montmartre has also three dancing halls, two of which are genuine and one a show-place. the genuine halls are the moulin-de-la-galette, high on the hill on the steepest part of it above the moulin-rouge, and the elysée in the boulevard de rochechouart, which are open only two or three times a week and which are thronged by the shop-assistants and young people of the neighbourhood. the spurious hall is the bal tabarin, which is open every evening and is a spectacle. it is, however, by no means unamusing, and i have spent many pleasant idle hours there. willette's famous fresco of the apotheosis of the parisian leg decorates a wall-space over the bar with peculiar fitness. at all the bals the men who dance retain their hats and often their overcoats, and for the most part leave their partners with amazing abruptness at the last step. some of the measures are conspicuous for a lack of restraint that would decimate an english ballroom; but one must not take such displays "at the foot of the letter": they do not mean among these latin romps and frolics what they would mean with us, whose emotions are less facile and sense of fun less physical. and so we come to midnight, when montmartre enters its third, and, to a londoner exasperated by the grandmotherly legislation of his own city, its most entertaining phase. the idea that paris is a late city is an illusion. paris is not a late city: it is a city with a few late streets. paris as a whole goes to bed as early as london, if not earlier, as a walk in the residential quarters will prove. montmartre is late, and the boulevards des capucines and des italiens are late, although less so; and that is about all. when it is remembered that paris rises and opens its shops some hours earlier than london, and that the parisians value their health, it will be recognised that paris could not be a late city. one must remember also that the number of all-night cafés is very small, so small that by frequenting them with any diligence one may soon come to know by sight most of the late fringe of this city, both amateurs and professionals. one is indeed quickly struck by their numerical weakness. there is a fashion in night cafés as in hats; change is made as suddenly and as inexplicably. one month every one is crowding into, let us say, the chat vivant, and the next the chat vivant kindles its lamps and tweaks its mandolins in vain: all the world passes its doors on the way to the nid de nuit. what is the reason? no one knows exactly; but we must probably once again seek the woman. a new dancer (or shall i say attachée?) has appeared, or an old dancer or attachée transferred her allegiance. and so for a while the nid has not a free table after one o'clock, and on a special night--such as mi-carême, or réveillon, or new year's eve--it is the head-waiter and the door-keeper of the nid into whose hands are pressed the gold coins and bank notes to influence them to admit the bloods and their parties and find them a table. a year ago the douceur (often fruitless) would have gone to the officials of the chat vivant. they remain, when all has been said against them, simple and well-mannered places, these half-dozen famous cafés on which the sun always rises. to think so one must perhaps graduate on the boulevards, but once they are accepted they can become an agreeable habit. sleepiness is as unknown there as the writings of thomas à kempis. not only the dancers de la maison but the visitors too are tireless. there may be ways of getting ennui into a parisian girl, but certainly it is not by dancing. nor does the band tire either, one excellent rule at all of them being that there should be no pause whatever between the tunes, from the hour of opening until day. [illustration: the windmill r. p. bonington (_louvre_)] there lies before me as i write an amusing memorial of the innocent high spirits that can prevail on such a special all-night sitting as réveillon: one of the tails of a dress coat, lined with white satin on which a skilful hand has traced with a fountain pen (my own) two very intimate scenes of french life. these drawings were made between five and six in the morning in the intervals of the dance, the artist, lacking paper, having without a word taken a table knife and shorn off his coat-tails for the purpose. his coat, i may say, was already being worn inside out, with one of the leather buckles of his braces as a button-hole. a tall burly man, with a long red boulevard beard, he had thrown out signs of friendliness to me at once, and we became as brothers. he drew my portrait on the table-cloth; i affected to draw his. he showed me where i was wrong and drew it right. he then left me, in order to walk for a while on an imaginary tight-rope across the floor, and having safely made the journey and turned again, with infinite skill in his recoveries from falling and the most dexterous managing of a balancing-pole that did not exist, he leaped lightly to earth again, kissed his hand to the company, and again sat by me and resumed his work; finally, after other diversions, completing the chef d'oeuvre that is now lying on my desk and lending abandon to what is otherwise a stronghold of british decorum. we parted at seven. i have never seen him since, but i find his name often in the french comic papers illustrating yet other phases of their favourite pleasantry for the entertainment of this simple and tireless people. another incident i recall that is equally characteristic of montmartre. "Ça ne fait rien," said a head-waiter when we had expressed regret on hearing of the death of the maître d'hotel, for whom (an old acquaintance) we had been asking. "Ça ne fait rien: it is necessary to order supper just the same." true. true indeed everywhere, but particularly true on montmartre. chapter xviii the elysÉe to the hÔtel de ville the most interesting streets--pet aversions--the rue de la paix--the vendôme column--a populous church--the whiff of grapeshot--alfred de musset--the molière quarter--a green and white oasis--camille desmoulins at the café de foy--charles lamb in paris--the cloître de st. honoré--the massacre of st. bartholomew--st. germain of auxerre--a satisfied corpse--catherine de médicis' observatory--st. eustache--a wonderful organ-the halles--french economy and english want of it--the goat-herd--the assassination of henri iv.--the tour st. jacques-pascal, theologian and inventor of omnibuses--a sinister spot--the paris town-hall--a riot of frescoes--etienne marcel--the hôtel de ville and politesse--an ancient palace--old streets--madame de beauvais' mansion--a quiet courtyard--the church of st. paul and st. louis--rabelais' grave. the elysée, the official home of the french president--paris's white house and buckingham palace--is situated in the rue du faubourg saint-honoré, which is one of the most entertaining streets in the whole city in which to loiter; that is, if you like, as i do, the windows of curiosity dealers and jewellers and print shops. not that bargains are to be obtained here: far from it: it is not like the rue des saints pères or the rue mazarine across the river; but merely as a series of windows it is fascinating. i like it as much as i dislike the rue lafayette, which has always been my aversion, not only because it is interminable and commercial and noisy, but because it leads back to england and work; yet since, however, when one arrives in paris it leads from england and work, i must be a little lenient, and there is also a café in it where the diamond merchants compare gems quite openly. remembering these extenuating circumstances i unhesitatingly award the palm for undesirability in a paris street to the rue du quatre-septembre and the rue réaumur, which are sheer shaftesbury avenue, and, as in shaftesbury avenue, cause one to regret the older streets and houses whose place they have usurped. the rue de rivoli i dislike too: that strange mixture of very good hotels (the meurice, for instance, is here) and rubbishy shops full of tawdry jewellery to catch the excursionist. how it happened that such a site should have been allowed to fall into such hands is a mystery. an additional objection to the rue de rivoli is that the one english acquaintance whom one least wishes to meet is always there. the rue du faubourg saint-honoré becomes the rue saint-honoré at the rue royale. the rue saint-honoré is also a good street for shop windows, but not the equal of its more aristocratic half; just as that is surpassed here by the rue de la paix, to which we now come on the left, and which contains more things that i can do without, made to perfection, than any street i ever saw. at its foot is the place vendôme, with the beautiful column in the midst on which napoleon's campaign of is illustrated in a bronze spiral that constitutes at once, i suppose, the most durable and the longest picture in the world. the bronze came very properly from the melted russian and austrian cannons. napoleon stands at the top, imperially splendid; but as we saw in the chapter on the "ile de la cité," it was not always so: for his first statue was removed by louis xviii. to be used for the new henri iv. in its stead a fleur-de-lys surmounted the column. then came louis-philippe, who erected a new statue of the emperor, not, however, imperially clad; and then napoleon iii., who substituted the present figure. but in the communards succeeded in bringing the column down, and it has only been vertical again since . thus it is to be a paris monument! returning to the rue saint-honoré, in which, by the way, are several old and interesting houses, such as no. , the cabaret du saint-esprit, a great resort in the reign of terror of spectators wishing to see the tumbrils pass, and no. , where robespierre lodged, we come to st. roch's church, on the left, interesting both in itself and in history. it has been called the noisiest church in paris, and certainly it is difficult to find a time when feet are silent there. the attraction is st. roch's wealth of shrines, of a rather theatrical character, such as the wise poor love: an entombment, a calvary and a nativity, all very effective if not beautiful. beauty does not matter, for on good friday the entombment holds thousands silent before it. the church, which is in the baroque style that it is so easy to dislike, is too florid throughout. among the many monuments are memorials of corneille and diderot, both of whom are buried here. the music of st. roch is, i am told, second only to that of the madeleine. so much for st. roch within. historically it chances to be of immense importance, for it was here, and in the streets around and about the church, that the whiff of grapeshot blew which dispersed the french revolution into the air. that was on october th, , and it was not only the death of the revolution but it was the birth of the conquering buonaparte. carlyle is superb: "some call for barras to be made commandant; he conquered in thermidor. some, what is more to the purpose, bethink them of the citizen buonaparte, unemployed artillery-officer, who took toulon. a man of head, a man of action: barras is named commandant's-cloak; this young artillery-officer is named commandant. he was in the gallery at the moment, and heard it; he withdrew, some half-hour, to consider with himself: after a half-hour of grim compressed considering, to be or not to be, he answers _yea_. "and now, a man of head being at the centre of it, the whole matter gets vital. swift, to camp of sablons; to secure the artillery, there are not twenty men guarding it! a swift adjutant, murat is the name of him, gallops; gets thither some minutes within time, for lepelletier was also on march that way: the cannon are ours. and now beset this post, and beset that; rapid and firm: at wicket of the louvre, in cul-de-sac dauphin, in rue saint-honoré, from pont-neuf all along the north quays, southward to pont _ci-devant_ royal,--rank round the sanctuary of the tuileries, a ring of steel discipline; let every gunner have his match burning, and all men stand to their arms! "lepelletier has seized the church of saint-roch; has seized the pont-neuf, our piquet there retreating without fire. stray shots fall from lepelletier; rattle down on the very tuileries staircase. on the other hand, women advance dishevelled, shrieking, peace; lepelletier behind them waving his hat in sign that we shall fraternise. steady! the artillery-officer is steady as bronze; can, if need were, be quick as lightning. he sends eight-hundred muskets with ball-cartridges to the convention itself; honourable members shall act with these in case of extremity: whereat they look grave enough. four of the afternoon is struck. lepelletier, making nothing by messengers, by fraternity or hat-waving, bursts out, along the southern quai voltaire, along streets and passages, treble-quick, in huge veritable onslaught! whereupon, thou bronze artillery-officer--? 'fire!' say the bronze lips. and roar and thunder, roar and again roar, continual, volcano-like, goes his great gun, in the cul-de-sac dauphin against the church of saint-roch; go his great guns on the pont-royal; go all his great guns;--blow to air some two-hundred men, mainly about the church of saint-roch! lepelletier cannot stand such horse-play; no sectioner can stand it; the forty-thousand yield on all sides, scour towards covert. 'some hundred or so of them gathered about the théâtre de la république; but,' says he, 'a few shells dislodged them. it was all finished at six.' [illustration: the sacrÉ-coeur de montmartre, from the buttes-chaumont] "the ship is _over_ the bar, then; free she bounds shoreward,--amid shouting and vivats! citoyen buonaparte is 'named general of the interior, by acclamation'; quelled sections have to disarm in such humour as they may; sacred right of insurrection is gone forever! the sieyes constitution can disembark itself, and begin marching. the miraculous convention ship has got to land;--and is there, shall we figuratively say, changed, as epic ships are wont, into a kind of _sea nymph_, never to sail more; to roam the waste azure, a miracle in history! "'it is false,' says napoleon, 'that we fired first with blank charge; it had been a waste of life to do that.' most false: the firing was with sharp and sharpest shot: to all men it was plain that here was no sport; the rabbets and plinths of saint-roch church show splintered by it to this hour.--singular: in old broglie's time, six years ago, this whiff of grapeshot was promised; but it could not be given then; could not have profited then. now, however, the time is come for it, and the man; and behold, you have it; and the thing we specifically call _french revolution_ is blown into space by it, and become a thing that was!--" crossing the place du théâtre-français we come to that historic home of the best french drama, where molière is still played frequently, and one has some respite from the theme of facile promiscuity which dominates most of the other theatres of paris. a new statue of alfred de musset has lately been set up under the comédie française. i copy from a writer very unlike him a passage of criticism to remember as one stands by this monument: "give a look, if you can, at a memoir of alfred de musset written by his brother. making allowance for french morals, and absinthe (which latter is not mentioned in the book), alfred appears to me a fine fellow, very un-french in some respects. he did not at all relish the new romantic school, beginning with v. hugo, and now alive in ---- and co.--(what i call the gargoyle school of art, whether in poetry, painting, or music)--he detested the modern 'feuilleton' novel, and read clarissa!... many years before a. de m. died he had a bad, long, illness, and was attended by a sister of charity. when she left she gave him a pen with 'pensez à vos promesses' worked about in coloured silks: as also a little worsted 'amphore' she had knitted at his bedside. when he came to die, some seventeen years after, he had these two little things put with him in his coffin." that, by edward fitzgerald, no natural friend to the de mussets of the world, is very pretty. the rue de richelieu runs up beside the comédie française. we have already been in this street to see the bibliothèque nationale, entering it from the boulevard, but let us now walk up it, first to see the molière monument, so appropriate just here, and also to glance at no. , a house still unchanged, where once lived an insignificant couple named poisson, whose daughter jeanne antoinette poisson lived to become famous as madame la pompadour. in souvenirs of molière paris is still rich. we are coming soon to no. rue saint-honoré, where he was born; we are coming to the church of st. eustache, where he was christened on january th, , and where his second son was christened too. we are coming also to the church of st. germain l'auxerrois, where he was married and where his first son was baptised. in st. roch he once stood as a godfather; and close to us now, at the corner of the rue saint-honoré and the rue valois, was one of his theatres. and he died close to his monument, at no. rue de richelieu. this then is the molière quarter. we now enter the palais royal, that strange white and green oasis into which it is so simple never to stray. when i first knew paris the palais royal was filled with cheap restaurants and shops to allure the excursionist and the connoisseur of those books which an inspired catalogue once described as very curious and disgusting. it is now practically deserted; the restaurants have gone and few shops remain; but in the summer the band plays to happy crowds, and children frolic here all day. i have, however, never succeeded in shaking off a feeling of depression. the original palace was built by richelieu and was then the palais cardinal. after his death it became the palais royal and was enlarged, and was the scene of notorious orgies. camille desmoulins made it more serious, for it was here that he enflamed the people by his words on july th, , and started them on their destroying career. that was in the café de foy. carlyle thus describes the scene: "but see camille desmoulins, from the café de foy, rushing out, sibylline in face; his hair streaming, in each hand a pistol! he springs to a table: the police satellites are eyeing him; alive they shall not take him, not they alive him alive. this time he speaks without stammering:--friends! shall we die like hunted hares? like sheep hounded into their pinfold; bleating for mercy, where is no mercy, but only a whetted knife? the hour is come; the supreme hour of frenchman and man; when oppressors are to try conclusions with oppressed; and the word is, swift death, or deliverance forever. let such hour be _well_-come! us, meseems, one cry only befits: to arms! let universal paris, universal france, as with the throat of the whirlwind, sound only: to arms--to arms! yell responsive the innumerable voices; like one great voice, as of a demon yelling from the air: for all faces wax fire-eyed, all hearts burn up into madness. in such, or fitter words, does camille evoke the elemental powers, in this great moment.--friends, continues camille, some rallying sign! cockades; green ones;--the colour of hope!--as with the flight of locusts, these green tree-leaves; green ribands from the neighbouring shops; all green things are snatched, and made cockades of. camille descends from his table, 'stifled with embraces, wetted with tears'; has a bit of green riband handed him; sticks it in his hat. and now to curtius' image-shop there; to the boulevards; to the four winds; and rest not till france be on fire!" desmoulins in bronze now stands in the garden, near this spot. it is an interesting statue by boverie, who showed great courage in his use of a common chair, dignified here into a worthy adjunct of liberation. under napoleon the tribunate sat in the palais royal, and after napoleon the orleans family made it their home. the communards, always thorough, burned a good deal of it in , and it is now a desert and the seat of the conseil d'etat. let us leave it by the gateway leading to the rue de valois and be happier again. the rue de valois is an interesting and picturesque street, but its greatest attraction to me is its association with charles lamb. his hotel--the europe, just opposite the gateway--has recently been rebuilt and is now called the grand hôtel du palais royal et de l'europe, and the polished staircase on which his infinitesimal legs slipped about so comically on his late and not too steady returnings (and how could he be steady when providence ordained that the waiter of whom in his best stammering french he ordered an egg, on his first visit to a restaurant, should have so misunderstood the order as to bring in its place a glass of eau de vie--an error, we are told, which gave lamb much pleasure?) the polished staircase has now gone; but the hotel stands exactly where it did, and every thing else is the same--the boeuf à la mode is still close by and still one of the best restaurants in paris, and the place de valois is untouched, with its most attractive archway leading to the rue des bons-enfants and giving on to the vista of the rue montesquieu, with its hundred signs hanging out exactly as in . we now return to the rue saint-honoré. the three old houses, , and , opposite the magasins du louvre, belonged before the revolution to the canons of saint-honoré. the courtyard here--the cloître du saint-honoré--is one of the most characteristic examples of dirty paris that remain, but very picturesque too. to peep in here is almost certainly to be rewarded by some hogarthian touch, and to walk up the rue des bons-enfants yields similar experiences and some very pleasant glimpses of old paris. still going east we turn down past the oratoire on the right, with coligny's monument on its south side, into the rue de rivoli, and across the rue du louvre obliquely to the old church we see there, opposite the east end of the louvre and napoleon's iron gates. this church is that of st. germain l'auxerrois, not to be confounded with the st. germain of st. germain des prés across the river. st. germain l'auxerrois is historically one of the most interesting of the paris churches, for it was st. germain's bell that gave the signal for the massacre of st. bartholomew in . charles ix. is said to have fired at the huguenots (doubtless with catherine de médicis at his shoulder, anxious for the success of his aim) from one of the windows in the louvre overlooking this space. [illustration: l'amateur d'estampes daumier (_palais des beaux arts_)] st. germain of auxerre began as a layman--the ruler of burgundy. divine revelation, however, indicated that the church was his true calling, and he therefore succeeded saint amadour as bishop, "gave," in caxton's words, "all his riches to poor people, and changed his wife into his sister". he took to the new life very thoroughly. he fasted every day till evening and then ate coarse bread and drank water and used no pottage and no salt. "in winter ne summer he had but one clothing, and that was the hair next his body, a coat and a gown, and if it happed so that he gave not his vesture to some poor body, he would wear it till it were broken and torn. his bed was environed with ashes, hair, and sackcloth, and his head lay no higher than his shoulders, but all day wept, and bare about his neck divers relics of saints. he ware none other clothing, and he went oft barefoot and seldom ware any girdle. the life that he led was above man's power. his life was so straight and hard that it was marvel and pity to see his flesh, and was like a thing not credible, and he did so many miracles that, if his merits had not gone before, they should have been trowed phantasms." st. germain's miracles were more interesting than those of, say, his convert sainte geneviève. he conjured devils; he forbade fire to burn him; having fed his companions on the only calf of a friendly cow-herd, he put the bones and the skins together and life returned to it; he also raised one of his own disciples from the dead and conversed with him through the walls of his tomb, but on the disciple saying that in his late condition "he was well and all things were to him soft and sweet," he permitted him to remain dead. he also found his miraculous gifts very useful in the war; but his principal interest to us is that he is supposed to have visited england and organised the establishment here. st. germain's church has a little old glass that is charming and much bad new. the south transept window, although sheer kaleidoscope, is gay and attractive. at the back of the church runs the narrow and medieval rue de l'arbre-sec, extending to the rue saint-honoré. at no. is, or was, the hôtel des mousquetaires, where, when it was the belle etoile, d'artagnan drank and swaggered. let us take this street and come to st. eustache by way of another and less terrible souvenir of catherine de médicis. the rue de l'arbre-sec leads to the rue sauval and to the circular rue de viarmes surrounding the bourse de commerce. here we see a remarkable doric column, all that remains of the palace which catherine built in order to avoid the fate predicted for her by a soothsayer--that she would perish in the ruins of a house near st. germain's. the tuileries, which she was then building, being far too near st. germain's to be comfortable after such a remark, she erected the hôtel de la reine, the tower being designed for astrological study in the company of her italian familiar, ruggieri. all else has gone: the tower and the stars remain. a few steps down the rue oblin and we are at st. eustache, which has to my eyes the most fascinating roof of any church in paris and a very attractive nave. the interior, however, is marred by the presence of what might be called a church within a church, destroying all vistas, and it is only with great difficulty that one can see the exquisite rose window over the organ. it is a church much used by the poor--who even call it notre dame des halles--but its music on festival days brings the rich too. like most other paris churches of any importance, st. eustache had its secular period. the feast of reason was held here in ; in it was the temple of agriculture. in mirabeau, the first of the illustrious, as we saw, to be buried in the panthéon, was carried here in his coffin for a funeral service, at which guns were fired that brought down some of the plaster. voiture the poet was buried here. the church has always been famous for the splendour of its festivals and for its music, its present organ, once much injured by communard bombs, being one of the finest in the world. no reader of this book who cares for solemn music should fail to ascertain the st. eustache festivals. on st. cecilia's day entrance is very difficult, but an effort should be made. eustache, or eustace, the saint, had no direct association with paris, as had our friends st germain and st. geneviève and st. denis and st. martin and st. merry; but he had an indirect one, having been a roman soldier under the emperor trajan, whose column was the model for the vendôme column. in the sacristy, however, are preserved some of the bones not only of himself but of his wife and family, brought hither from st. denis. one of his teeth is here too, and one special bone, the gift of pope alexander vii. to an influential catholic. why our london markets should be so dull and unattractive and the halles so entertaining is a problem which would perhaps require an ethnological essay of many pages to elucidate. but so it is. smithfield, billingsgate, leadenhall, covent garden--one has little temptation or encouragement to loiter in any of them; but the halles spread welcoming arms. i have spent hours there, and would spend more. in the very early morning it is not too agreeable a neighbourhood for the idle spectator, nor is he desired, although if he is prepared to endure a little rough usage with tongue and elbow he will be vastly amused by what he sees; but later, when all the world is up, the halles entreat his company. their phases are three: the first is the arrival of the market carts with their merchandise, very much as in our own covent garden, but multiplied many times and infinitely more vocal and shattering to the nerves. (i once occupied a bedroom within range of this pandemonium.) the second phase, a few hours later, sees the descent upon the market of the large caterers--buyers for the restaurants, great and small, the hotels and pensions. that is between half-past five and half-past seven. and then come the small buyers, the neat servants, the stout housewives, all with their baskets or string bags. this is our time; we may now loiter at our ease secure from the swift and scorching sarcasms of the crowded dawn. the halles furnish another proof of the quiet efficiency of frenchwomen. at every fruit and vegetable stall--and to me they are the most interesting of all--sits one or more of these watchful creatures, cheerful, capable and always busy either with the affairs of the stall or with knitting or sewing. the halles afford also very practical proof of the place that economy is permitted to hold in the french cuisine: as much being done for the small purse as for the large one. in england we are ashamed of economy; by avoiding it we hope to give the impression that we are not mean. the wise french either care less for their neighbour's opinions or have agreed together to dispense with such insincerities; and the result is that if a pennyworth of carrots is all that your soup requires you need not buy two pennyworth, and so forth. little portions of vegetables for one, two or more persons, all ready for the pot, can be bought, involving no waste whatever, and with no faltering or excuse on the part of the purchaser to explain so small an order. in france a customer is a customer. there are no distinctions; although i do not deny that in the west end of paris, where the americans and english spend their money, subtle shades of courtesy (or want of it) have crept in. i have been treated like a prince in a small comestible shop where i wanted only a pennyworth of butter, a pennyworth of cheese and a pennyworth of milk. it is pennies that make the french rich; no one can be in any doubt of that who has taken notice of the thousands of small shops not only in paris but in the provinces. any one making an early morning visit to the halles should complete it by seeing my goat-herd, who leads his flocks thereabouts and eastward. he is the prettiest sight i ever saw in paris. there are several goat-herds--even passy knows them--but my goat-herd is here. by eight o'clock he has done; his flock is dry. he wears a blue cloth tam-o'-shanter (if there can be such a thing: it is really the cap of the romantic mountaineer of comic opera) and he saunters carelessly along, piping melancholy notes on a shepherd's pipe--not unlike the lovely wailing that desolates the soul in the last act of _tristan und isolde_. when a customer arrives he calls one of his goats, sits down on the nearest doorstep--it may be a seventeenth-century palace--and milks a cupful; and then he is off again, with his scrannel to his lips, the very type of the urban strephon. we may leave les halles (pronounced lay al, and not, as one would think, lays all: one of the pitfalls for the english in paris) by the rue berger, and enter the square des innocents to look at its decorative fountain. the next street below the rue des innocents is the rue de la ferronnerie, where, on may th, , henri iv. was assassinated by ravaillac before the door of no. . and so by the rue st. denis, which one is always glad to enter again, and the rue de rivoli, we come to saint-jacques, that grey aged isolated tower which we have seen so often from the heights and in the distance. it is a beautiful gothic building, at the summit of which is the figure of st. james with his emblems, the originals of which are at the cluny. the tower belonged to the church of st. jacques-la-boucherie, but that being in the way when napoleon planned the rue de rivoli, it had to go. the tower has not lately been open to the climbers, and i have never seen paris from st. james's side, but i hope to. blaise pascal experimented here in the density of air; hence the presence of his statue below. it was also to pascal, of whom we now think only as an ironist and wistful theologian, that paris owes her omnibuses, for it was he that devised the first, which began to run on march th, , from the luxembourg to the bastille. pascal owed his conversion to his escape from a carriage accident on the pont neuf. his grave we saw at st. etienne-du-mont. in crossing the place de l'hôtel de ville one must not forget that this was once the terrible place de grève, the site of public executions for five centuries. here we meet catherine de médicis again, for it was by her order that after the massacre of st. bartholomew the huguenots briquemont and cavagnes were hanged here, and here also was executed captain montgomery, whom we are to meet in the next chapter. the foster-sister of marie de médicis was burned alive in the place de grève as a sorcerer; and ravaillac, after assassinating henri iv., here met his end. among later victims was the famous cartouche, of whom thackeray wrote so entertainingly. the hôtel de ville is not a building that i for one should choose to revisit, nor do i indeed advise others to bother about it at all; but externally at any rate it is fine, with its golden sentinels on high. its chief merit is bulk; but there is a certain interest in observing a republican palace of our own time, if only to see how near it can come to the real thing. a saturnine guide displays a series of spacious apartments, the principal attraction of which is their mural painting. all the best french royal academicians (so to speak) of twenty years ago had a finger in this pie, and their fantasies sprawl over ceilings and walls. with the exception of one room, the history of paris is practically ignored, allegory being the master vogue. poetry, song, inspiration, fame, ambition, despair--all these undraped ladies may be seen, and many others. also electricity and steam, science and art, distinguishable from their sisters only by the happy chance that although they forgot their clothes they did not forget their symbols. [illustration: le baiser rodin (_luxembourg_)] one beautiful thing only did i see, and that was a large design, perhaps the largest there, of winter, by puvis de chavannes. but to say that i saw it is an exaggeration: rather, i was conscious of it. for the architect of the salon in which puvis was permitted to work forgot to light it. in the historical room there are crowded scenes by laurens of the past of paris--the hero of which is etienne marcel, whose equestrian statue may be seen from the windows, under the river façade of the building. etienne marcel, merchant provost, controlled paris after the disastrous battle of poictiers, where the king and the dauphin were both taken prisoners. power, however, made him headstrong, and he was killed by an assassin. it is from the hôtel de ville that the city of paris is administered, with the assistance of the préfecture de police on the island opposite. the hôtel de ville contains, so to speak, the paris county council, and i have been told that no building is so absurdly over-staffed. that may or may not be true. the high officials do not at any rate allow business to exclude the finer graces of life, for in the great hall in which i waited for the cicerone were long tables on which were some twenty or thirty baskets containing visiting cards, and open books containing signatures, and before each basket was a card bearing the name of an important functionary of the hôtel de ville--such as the préfet de la seine, and the sous-préfet, and their principal secretaries, and so forth. every minute or so some one came in, found the basket to which he wished to contribute, and dropped a card in it. i wondered to what extent the social machinery of paris bureaucracy would be disorganised if i were to change a few baskets, but i did not embark upon an experiment the results of which i should have had no means of contemplating and enjoying. after leaving the hôtel de ville and its modern splendours, we may walk eastward along the rue de l'hôtel de ville, one of the narrowest and dirtiest relics of old paris, and so come to the hôtel de sens. but first notice, at the corner of the rue des nonnains-d'hyères, at the point at which mr. dexter made his drawing, the very ancient stone sign of the knife-grinder. the hôtel de sens, in the place de l'ave maria, at the end of the rue de l'hôtel de ville, is almost if not quite the most attractive of the old palaces. although it has been allowed to fall into neglect, it is still a wonderfully preserved specimen of fifteenth-century building. the turrets are absolutely beautiful. the archbishop of sens built it, and for nearly three centuries it remained the home of power and wealth, among its tenants being marguerite of valois. then came the revolution and its decline into a coach office, from which it is said the lyons mail, made familiar to us by the irvings, started. during a later revolution, , a cannon ball found a billet in the wall, and it may still be seen there, i am told, although these eyes missed it. the hôtel is now a glass factory. the city of paris ought to acquire it before it sinks any lower. it is at the foot of the rue de l'ave maria, hard by, that molière's theatre, which we saw from the quai des célestins in an earlier chapter, is found. here molière was arrested at the instance of the unpaid tallow chandler. our way now is by the rue figuier, of which the hôtel de sens is no. , to the rue françois-miron, all among the most fascinating old architecture and association. at no. rue figuier, for instance, rabelais is said to have lived, and what could be better than that? at no. , we have what the vicomte de villebresme calls a "jolie niche du xve siècle". this street leads into the rue de jouy, also exceedingly old, with notable buildings, such as no. , the work of mansard père, and no. , and on the left of the impasse guépine, which existed in the reign of saint louis. in the rue françois-miron, if you do not mind exhibiting a little inquisitiveness, enter the doorway of no. , and look at the courtyard and the staircase. here you get an excellent idea of past glories, while the outer doors or gates give an excellent idea of past danger too. for life in paris in the days in which this street was built must have been very cheap after dark. it is not dear even now in certain parts. this was an historic mansion. it was built for madame de beaumaris, femme de chambre of anne of austria, and on its balcony, now removed, on august th, , anne stood with mazarin and others when louis xiv. entered paris. no. still retains a balcony of great charm. we now enter the very busy rue st. antoine at its junction with the rue de rivoli. almost immediately on our right is a gateway leading into a very charming courtyard, which is not open to the public, but into which one may gently trespass; it is the school of the frères chrétiens, founded by frère joseph, the good priest with the sweet and sad old face whose bust is on the wall. a few steps farther bring us to the church of st. paul and st. louis, a florid and imposing fane, to which victor hugo (to whose house we are now making our way) carried his first child to be christened, and presented to the church two holy water stoops in commemoration. here also richelieu celebrated his first mass. one of delacroix's best early works (we saw the picture called "hommage à delacroix," you will remember, in the moreau collection at the louvre) is in the left transept, "christ in the garden of gethsemane". on no account miss the passage charlemagne (close to the st. paul station on the métro) for it is a curious, busy and very french by-way, and it possesses the remains of a palace of the fourteenth century. in the passage de st. pierre is the site of the old cemetery of st. paul's in which rabelais was buried. chapter xix the place des vosges and hugo's house a beautiful square--the palais des tournelles--revolutionary changes--madame de sévigné and rachel--hugo's crowded life--a riot of relics--victorious versatility--dumas' pen--the age of giants--dickens--"les trois dumas". were we to walk a little farther along the busy rue st. antoine towards the place de la bastille, we should come, on the left, a few yards past the church of st. louis, to the rue de birague, at the head of which is the beautiful red gateway of which mr. dexter has made such a charming picture. this is the southern gateway of the place des vosges, a spacious green square enclosed by massive red and white houses of brick and stone which once were the abode, when the place des vosges was the place royale, of the aristocracy of france. before that time the courtyard of the old palais des tournelles was here, where henri ii. was killed in a tournament in , through an accident for which captain montgomery of the scotch guard, whose fault catherine de médicis deemed it to be, was executed, as we have just seen, in the place de l'hôtel-de-ville. catherine de médicis, not content with thus avenging her husband's death, demolished the palais des tournelles, and a few years later henri iv., to whom old paris owes so much, built the place royale, just as it is now. his own pavilion was the centre building on the south side, comprising the gateway which mr. dexter has drawn; the queen's was the corresponding building on the north side. around dwelt the nobles of the court--such at any rate as were not living in the adjoining marais. richelieu's hotel embraced nos. - as they now are. it was in front of that mansion that the famous duel between montmorency-bouteville and des chapelles against bussy and beuvron was fought. the spirit of the great dumas, one feels, must haunt this place: for it is peopled with ghosts from his brave romances. the decay of the place des vosges began, of course, when the aristocracy moved over to the faubourg st. germain, although it never sank low. the revolution then took it in hand, and naturally began by destroying the statue of louis xiii. in the centre, which richelieu had set up, while its name was changed from place royale to its present style in honour of the department of the vosges, the first to contribute funds to the new order. in , under charles x., louis xiii. in a new stone dress returned to his honoured position in the midst of the square, and all was as it should be once more, save that no longer did lords and ladies ruffle it here or in the marais. [illustration: the place des vosges (southern entrance, in the rue birague)] the most picturesque associations of the place des vosges are historical; but it has at any rate three houses which have an artistic interest. at no. was born that gifted and delightful lady in whose home in later years we have spent such pleasant hours--madame de sévigné, or as she was in those early days (she was born in ) marie de rabutin-chantal. at no. lived for a while rachel the tragedienne. according to herr baedeker, who is not often wrong, she died here too: but other authorities place her death at carmet, near toulon. i like to think that this rare wayward and terrible creature of emotion was once an inhabitant of these walls. the third house is no. , in the south-eastern corner, the second floor of which, from to , was the home of victor hugo. it is now a hugo museum. although hugo occupied only a small portion, the whole house is now dedicated to his spreading memory. let us enter. there is nothing in england like the hugo museum. i have been to carlyle's house in cheyne row; to johnson's house at lichfield; to wordsworth's house at grasmere; to milton's house at chalfont st. giles; to leighton's house at kensington; and the impression left by all is that their owners lived very thin lives. the rooms convey a sense of bareness: one is struck not by the wealth of relics but by the poverty of them; while for any suggestion that these men were pulsating creatures of friendship one seeks in vain. but hugo--hugo's house throbs with life and energy and warm prosperous amities. every inch is crowded with mementoes of his vigour and his triumphs, yes, and his failures too. here are portraits of him by the hundred, at all ages, caricatures, lampoons, play bills, first editions, popular editions, furniture by hugo, decorations by hugo, drawings by hugo, scenes in hugo's life in exile, wreaths, busts, portraits of his grandchildren (who taught him the exquisite art of being a grandfather), his death-bed, his death-mask, the cast of his hands. hugo, hugo, everywhere, always tremendous and splendid and passionate and french. among the more valuable possessions of this museum are bastien-lepage's charcoal drawing of the master; besnard's picture of the first night of hernani with the young romantic on the stage taking his call and hurling defiance at the gods; steinlen's oil painting (there are not many oil paintings by this great draughtsman and great parisian) "les pauvres gens"; daumier's cartoon "les châtiments"; henner's "sarah la baigneuse" from _les orientales_; allegories by chifflart; beautiful canvases by carrière and fantin-latour; and devambez's "jean valjean before the tribunal of arras," in which jean is curiously like gladstone in a bad coat; vierge's drawing of the funeral of georges hugo, during the siege; and yama motto's curious scene of hugo's own funeral, of which there are many photographs, including one of the coffin as it lay in state for two days under the arc de triomphe. there are also a number of hugo relics which the camelots of that day were selling to the crowds. hugo, it is well known, nursed a private ambition to be a great artist, and in my opinion he was a great artist. there are on these walls drawings from his hand which are magnificent--mysterious and sombre fortresses on impregnable cliffs, scenes in enchanted lands with more imagination than ever doré compassed, and some of the sinister cruelty and power of méryon. hugo was ingenious too: he decorated a room with coloured carvings in the chinese manner and he made the neatest folding table i ever saw--hinged into the wall so that when not in use it takes up no floor-space whatever. it is amusing to follow hugo's physiognomy through the ages, at first beardless, looking when young rather like bruant, the chansonnier of to-day; then the coming of the beard, and the progress of it until the final stage in which the mental eye now always sees the old poet--white and strong and benevolent--the hugo, in short, of bonnat's famous portrait. on a table is a collection of literary souvenirs of intense interest: hugo's pen and inkstand, and the great dumas' pen presented to hugo in after writing with it his last " or " volumes (fifteen _or_ twenty--how like him!); lamartine's inkstand, offered "to the master of the pen"; george sand's match-box for those endless cigarettes, and with it her travelling inkstand. in another room upstairs are the six pens used by hugo in writing _les humbles_. dumas' pen is not by any means the only dumas relic here; portraits of him are to be seen, one of them astonishingly negroid. had he too worked for liberty and carried in his breast or even on his sleeve a great heart that, like hugo's, responded to every call and beat furiously at the very whisper of the word injustice, he too would have his museum to-day not less remarkable than this. but to write romances was not enough: there must be toil and suffering too. dumas and hugo were born in the same year, : balzac was then three. in came tennyson and gladstone; in thackeray and in browning and dickens. what was the secret of that astounding period? why did the first twelve years of the last century know such energy and abundance? to walk through the rooms of this hugo museum, however casually, is to be amazed before the vitality and exuberance not only of this man but of the french genius. it is truly only the busy who have time. i wish none the less that there was a museum for alexandre the great. i would love to visit it: i would love to see his kitchen utensils alone. the generous glorious creature, "the seven and seventy times to be forgiven"! as it was, no one being about, i kissed the pen with which he had written his last " or " novels (the splendid liar!). i wish too that we had a permanent dickens' museum in london--say at his house in devonshire terrace, which is now a lawyer's office. what a fascinating memorial of merry england it might become, and what a reminder to this attenuated specialising day of the vigour and versatility and variety and inconquerable vivacity of that giant! just as no one can leave hugo's house without a quickening of imagination and ambition, so no one could leave that of charles dickens. in addition to this museum hugo has his monument in the place victor hugo, far away in a residential desert in the north-west of paris, a bronze figure of the poet as a young man seated on a rock, with satire, lyric poetry and fame attending him; while on the façade of the house where he died, no. avenue victor hugo, is a medallion portrait. he figures also in a fresco in the hôtel de ville. dumas' monument is in the garden of the place malesherbes in the avenue de villiers. doré designed it, as was perhaps fitting. the sturdy alexandre sits, pen in hand, on the summit, his west indian hair curling vigorously into the sky, with d'artagnan and three engrossed readers at the base. it is not quite what one would have wished; but it is good to visit. his son, the dramatist, the author of that adorable joke against his father's vanity--that he was capable of riding behind his own carriage to persuade people that he kept a black servant--has a monument close by; and the gallant general of whom one reads such brave stories in the first volume of the _mémoires_ is to be set there too, and then the place, i am told, will be re-named the place des trois dumas. chapter xx the bastille, pÈre lachaise and the end a thoughtful municipality--the fall of the bastille--revolt and revolution--the column of july--a paris canal--deliberate building--the buttes-chaumont--a city of the dead--père la chaise--bartholomé's monument--the cimetière de mont parnasse--the country round paris--what we have missed--conclusion. the place des vosges is close to the place de la bastille, which lies to the east of it along the rue st. antoine. the prison has gone for ever, but one is assisted by a thoughtful municipality to reconstruct it, a task of no difficulty at all if one remembers with any vividness the models in the carnavalet or the archives, or buys a pictorial postcard at any neighbouring shop. the contribution of the pious city fathers is a map on the façade of no. place de la bastille, and a permanent outline of the walls of the dreadful building inlaid in the road and pavement, which one may follow step by step to the satisfaction of one's imagination and the derangement of the traffic until it disappears into cafés and shops. one has to remember, however, that the surface of the ground was much lower, the prison being surrounded by a moat and gained only by bridges. for the actual stones one must go to the pont de la concorde, the upper part of which was built of them in . the bastille's end came in , at the beginning of the revolution, on the day after the national guard was established, when the people of paris rose under camille desmoulins and captured it, thus not only displaying but discovering their strength. carlyle was never more scornful, never more cruelly vivid, than in his description of this event. i must quote a little, it is so horribly splendid: "to describe this siege of the bastille (thought to be one of the most important in history) perhaps transcends the talent of mortals. could one but, after infinite reading, get to understand so much as the plan of the building! but there is open esplanade, at the end of the rue saint-antoine; there are such forecourts, _cour avanceé, cour de l'orme_, arched gateway (where louis tournay now fights); then new drawbridges, dormant-bridges, rampart-bastions, and the grim eight towers: a labyrinthic mass, high-frowning there, of all ages from twenty years to four hundred and twenty;--beleaguered, in this its last hour, as we said, by mere chaos come again! ordnance of all calibres; throats of all capacities; men of all plans, every man his own engineer: seldom since the war of pygmies and cranes was there seen so anomalous a thing. half-pay elie is home for a suit of regimentals; no one would heed him in coloured clothes: half-pay hulin is haranguing gardes françaises in the place de grève. frantic patriots pick up the grapeshots; bear them, still hot (or seemingly so), to the hôtel-de-ville:--paris, you perceive, is to be burnt! flesselles is 'pale to the very lips'; for the roar of the multitude grows deep. paris wholly has got to the acme of its frenzy; whirled, all ways, by panic madness. at every street-barricade, there whirls simmering a minor whirlpool,--strengthening the barricade, since god knows what is coming; and all minor whirlpools play distractedly into that grand fire-maelstrom which is lashing round the bastille. "and so it lashes and it roars. cholat the wine-merchant has become an impromptu cannoneer. see georget, of the marine service, fresh from brest, ply the king of siam's cannon. singular (if we were not used to the like): georget lay, last night, taking his ease at his inn; the king of siam's cannon also lay, knowing nothing of _him_, for a hundred years. yet now, at the right instant, they have got together, and discourse eloquent music. for, hearing what was toward, georget sprang from the brest diligence, and ran. gardes françaises also will be here, with real artillery: were not the walls so thick!--upwards from the esplanade, horizontally from all neighbouring roofs and windows, flashes one irregular deluge of musketry, without effect. the invalides lie flat, firing comparatively at their ease from behind stone; hardly through portholes show the tip of a nose. we fall, shot; and make no impression! [illustration: la bergere gardant ses moutons millet (_louvre, chauchard collection_)] "let conflagration rage; of whatsoever is combustible! guard-rooms are burnt, invalides mess-rooms. a distracted 'perukemaker with two fiery torches' is for burning 'the saltpetres of the arsenal';--had not a woman run screaming; had not a patriot, with some tincture of natural philosophy, instantly struck the wind out of him (butt of musket on pit of stomach), overturned barrels, and stayed the devouring element. a young beautiful lady, seized escaping in these outer courts, and thought falsely to be de launay's daughter, shall be burnt in de launay's sight; she lies swooned on a paillasse: but again a patriot, it is brave aubin bonnemère the old soldier, dashes in, and rescues her. straw is burnt; three cartloads of it, hauled thither, go up in white smoke: almost to the choking of patriotism itself; so that elie had, with singed brows, to drag back one cart; and réole the 'gigantic haberdasher' another. smoke as of tophet; confusion as of babel; noise as of the crack of doom! "blood flows; the aliment of new madness. the wounded are carried into houses of the rue cerisaie; the dying leave their last mandate not to yield till the accursed stronghold fall. and yet, alas, how fall? the walls are so thick! deputations, three in number, arrive from the hôtel-de-ville; abbé fauchet (who was of one) can say, with what almost superhuman courage of benevolence. these wave their town-flag in the arched gateway; and stand, rolling their drum; but to no purpose. in such crack of doom de launay cannot hear them, dare not believe them: they return, with justified rage, the whew of lead still singing in their ears. what to do? the firemen are here, squirting with their fire-pumps on the invalides cannon, to wet the touchholes; they unfortunately cannot squirt so high; but produce only clouds of spray. individuals of classical knowledge propose _catapults_. santerre, the sonorous brewer of the suburb saint-antoine, advises rather that the place be fired, by a 'mixture of phosphorus and of oil-of-turpentine spouted up through forcing-pumps': o spinola-santerre, hast thou the mixture _ready_? every man his own engineer! and still the fire-deluge abates not: even women are firing, and turks; at least one woman (with her sweetheart), and one turk. gardes françaises have come: real cannon, real cannoneers. usher maillard is busy; half-pay elie, half-pay hulin rage in the midst of thousands. "how the great bastille clock ticks (inaudible) in its inner court there, at its ease, hour after hour; as if nothing special, for it or the world, were passing! it tolled one when the firing began; and is now pointing towards five, and still the firing slakes not.--far down, in their vaults, the seven prisoners hear muffled din as of earthquakes; their turnkeys answer vaguely. "wo to thee, de launay, with thy poor hundred invalides! broglie is distant, and his ears heavy: besenval hears, but can send no help. one poor troop of hussars has crept, reconnoitering, cautiously along the quais, as far as the pont neuf. 'we are come to join you,' said the captain; for the crowd seem shoreless. a large-headed dwarfish individual, of smoke-bleared aspect, shambles forward, opening his blue lips, for there is sense in him; and croaks: 'alight then, and give up your arms!' the hussar-captain is too happy to be escorted to the barriers, and dismissed on parole. who the squat individual was? men answer, it is m. marat, author of the excellent pacific _avis au peuple_! great truly, o thou remarkable dogleech, is this thy day of emergence and new-birth: and yet this same day come four years--!--but let the curtains of the future hang." after some hours the deed is done and paris re-echoes to the cries "la bastille est prise!" "in the court, all is mystery, not without whisperings of terror; though ye dream of lemonade and epaulettes, ye foolish women! his majesty, kept in happy ignorance, perhaps dreams of double-barrels and the woods of meudon. late at night, the duke de liancourt, having official right of entrance, gains access to the royal apartments; unfolds, with earnest clearness, in his constitutional way, the job's-news. '_mais_,' said poor louis, '_c'est une révolte_, why, that is a revolt!'--'sire,' answered liancourt, 'it is not a revolt,--it is a revolution.'" that was july th, ; but it is not the july that the colonne de juillet in the centre of the place celebrates. that july was forty-one years later, not so late but that many parisians could remember both events. july th to th, , the second revolution, which overturned the bourbons and set louis-philippe of orleans in the siège périlleux of france. louis-philippe himself erected this monument in memory of the six hundred and fifteen citizens who fell in his interests and who are buried beneath. their names are cut in the bronze of the column, on the summit of which is the beautiful winged figure of liberty. beneath the vault of the colonne, and immediately beneath the colonne itself, runs the great canal which brings merchandise into paris from the east, entering the seine between the pont sully and the pont d'austerlitz. at this point it is not very interesting, but from the avenue de la république, where it re-emerges again into the light of day, and thence right away to the abattoirs de villette, it is very amusing to stroll by. the paris _daily mail_, which in its eager paternal way has taken english and american visitors completely under its wing, is diurnally anxious that its readers should make a tour of these abattoirs. but not i. that a holiday in paris should include the examination of a slaughter-house strikes me as a joyless proposition, putting thoroughness far before pleasure. but the _daily mail_ is like that; it also does its best on the second and fourth wednesdays in every month to get its compatriots down the paris sewers. and i suppose they go. strange heart of the tourist! we never think of penetrating either to the sewers or the slaughter-houses of our native land; we have no theories of sewers, no data for comparison; we love the upper air and the sun. but being in a foreign city we cheerfully give the second or fourth wednesday to such delights. having taken the _daily mail's_ advice and visited the abattoirs (which i have not done), one cannot do better than return to paris by way of the canal, sauntering beside it all the way to the rue faubourg du temple, where one passes into the place de la république and the stir of the city once more. the canal descends from the heights of la villette in a series of long steps, as it were (or, to take the most dissonant simile possible to devise, like the lakes at wootton), built up by locks. idling by this canal one sees many agreeable phases of human toil. many commodities and materials reach paris by barge, and it is on these quais and in the villette basin that the unloading is done; while the barges themselves are pleasant spectacles--so long and clean and broad--very mauretanias beside the barges of holland--with spacious deck-houses that are often perfect villas, the wife and children watering the flowers at the door. one quai is given up wholly to lime. this arrives in thousands of little solid sacks which stevedores whiter than millers transfer to the carts, that, in their turn, creak off to disorganise the traffic of a hundred streets and provoke the contempt of a thousand drivers before they reach their destined building, on which the workmen have already been engaged for two years and will be engaged for two years more. there is no hurry in constructional work in paris--except of course on exhibitions, which spring up in a night. the same piece of road that was up in the rue lafayette for some surface trouble in a recent april, i found still up in october. but they have the grace, when rebuilding a house in the city, to hide their deliberate processes behind a wooden screen--such a screen as was opposite the café de la paix, at the south-east corner of the boulevard des capucines, for, it seems to me, years. if, however, one is walking beside the canal in the other direction, up the hill instead of down, one will soon be nearer the victoria park of paris, the park of the east end, than at any other time, and this should be visited as surely as the abattoirs should be avoided: unless, of course, one is a well-informed or thoughtful butcher. we have seen the parc monceau; well, the antithesis of the parc monceau, which has no counter-part in london, is the parc des buttes-chaumont. both are children's paradises, the only difference in the children being social position. the parc des buttes-chaumont is sixty acres of trees and walks and perpendicular rocks and water, the special charm of which is its diversified character, rising in the midst to an immense height made easy for carriages and perambulators by a winding road. it has a deep gorge crossed by a suspension bridge, a lake for boats, a cascade, and thousands of chairs side by side, touching, lining the roads, on which the maids and matrons of la villette and belleville sew and gossip, while the children play around. the parc was made in the sixties: before then it had been a waste ground and gypsum quarry--hence its attractive irregularities. how wonderful the heights and cathedral of montmartre can appear from one of the peaks of the buttes-chaumont, mr. dexter's drawing shows. the buttes-chaumont is the most easterly point we have yet reached; but there is another parc more easterly still awaiting us, not unlike the buttes-chaumont in its acclivities, but unlike it in this particular, that it is a parc not of the living but the dead. i mean père lachaise. père lachaise! what kind of an old man do you think gave his name to this cemetery? most persons, i imagine, see him as white-haired and venerable: not twinkling, like papa gontier, but serene and noble and sad. as a matter of fact he was a père only by profession and courtesy. père lachaise was louis xiv.'s fashionable confessor (landor has a diverting imaginary conversation between these two), and the cemetery took its name from his house, which chanced to occupy the site of the present chapel. the ground was enclosed as a burial ground as recently as , which means of course that the famous tomb of abélard and héloise, to which all travellers find their way, is a modern reconstruction. the remains of la fontaine and molière and other illustrious men who died before were transferred here, just as zola's were recently transferred from the cemetery of montmartre to the panthéon, but with less excitement. père lachaise cannot be taken lightly. the french live very thoroughly, but when they die they die thoroughly too, and their cemeteries confess the scythe. there may be, to our thinking, too much architecture; but it is serious. there is no mountebanking (as at genoa), nor is there any whining, as in some of our own churchyards. death to a frenchman is a fact and a mystery, to be faced when the time comes, if not before, and to be honoured. on certain festivals of the year there are a thousand mourners to every acre of père lachaise. the natural entrance is by the rue de la roquette, but it is less fatiguing to enter at the top, at the new gate in the avenue du père lachaise, and walk downhill; for the paths are steep and the cemetery covers a hundred acres and more. the objection to this course is that one loses some of the sublimity of bartholomé's _monument aux morts_ at the foot of the mountain on which the chapel stands. this monument faces the principal entrance with the careful design of impressing the visitor, and its impact can be tremendous. we approach it by the avenue principale, in which lies alfred de musset, with the willow waving over his tomb and his own lines upon it. and then one enters seriously upon this strange pilgrimage among names and memories. chopin lies here, his music stilled, and talma the tragedian; beaumarchais and maréchal ney; cherubini and alphonse daudet; balzac, his pen for ever idle, and delacroix; béranger, who made the nation's ballads, and brillat-savarin, all his dinners eaten; michelet, the historian, and planquette, the composer of _les cloches de corneville_; daumier, the great artist who saw to the heart of things, and corot, who befriended daumier's last years; daubigny and rosa bonheur, thiers and scribe; rachel, once so very living, and many rothschilds now poorer than i. [illustration: le monument aux morts a. bartholomÉ (_père la chaise_)] paris has other cemeteries, as we know, for we have walked through that of montmartre; but there is also the cimetière de montparnasse, where lie sainte-beuve and leconte de lisle, théodore de banville, master of _vers de société_, and fantin-latour, baudelaire (lying beneath a figure of the genius of evil), and barbey d'aurevilly, the dandy-novelist. there are also the cemeteries of passy and picpus, but into these i have never wandered. lafayette lies at picpus, which is behind a convent in the rue de picpus, and costs fifty centimes to see, and there also were buried many victims of the guillotine besides those whose bodies were flung into the earth behind the madeleine. * * * * * all the space at my disposal has been required by paris itself; and such is the human interest that at any rate in the older parts clings to every stone and saturates the soil, that i do not know that i have had any temptation to rove beyond the fortifications. but that of course is not right. no one really knows the parisians until he sees them in happy summer mood in one of the pleasure resorts on the seine, or winning money at enghien, or lunching in one of the tree-top restaurants at robinson. we have indeed been curiously unenterprising, and it is all owing to the fascination of paris herself and the narrow dimensions of this book. we have not even been to st. denis, to stand among the ashes of the french kings; we have not descended the formal slopes of st. cloud; we have not peeped into corot's little chapel at ville d'avray; we have not seen the home of sèvres porcelain; we have not scaled mont-valérien; we have not taken boat for marly-le-roi; we have not wandered marvelling but weary amid the battle scenes of versailles, or smiled at the pretty fopperies of the hamlet of the petit trianon. we have not known the groves either of the bois de vincennes or the bois de meudon. much less have we fed those guzzling gourmands, the carp of chantilly, or lost ourselves before the little raphael there, or the curious leonardo sketch for la joconde, or the sweet simplicities of the pretty jean fouquet illuminations, particularly the domestic solicitude of the ladies attending upon the birth of john the baptist; less still have we forgotten the restlessness and urgency of paris amid the allées and rochers of the forest of fontainebleau, and the still white streets of barbizon, or even on the steps of the château where the great emperor, thoughts of whom are never very distant--are indeed too near--bade farewell to his old guard in . greater paris, it will be gathered, is hardly less interesting than paris herself; and indeed how pleasant it would be to write about it! but not here. of paris within the fortifications have i, i wonder, conveyed any of the fascination, the variety, the colour, the self-containment. i hope so. i hope too that at any rate these pages have implanted in a few readers the desire to see this beautiful and efficient city for themselves, and even more should i value the knowledge that they had excited in others who are not strangers to paris the wish to be there again. to do justice to such a city, with such a history, is of course an impossibility. what, however, should not be impossible is to create a goût. index abattoirs, the, . abbaye-aux-bois, . abélard, . advocates and barristers, . alvantes, duchesse d', . angelo, michael, . anne of austria, . antoinette, marie, , , , , . apollon, galerie d', . arbre-sec, rue de l', . arc de triomphe, , - , . archives, the, , . arènes, the, . aristocratic homes, , , . arnold, matthew, quoted, - . artagnan, d', . arts et métiers, musée de, . astruc, . attila the hun, . aurevilly, b. d', . austerlitz, . ave-maria, rue de l', . baedeker, , , . "bagatelle," . bal bullier, . balloons, . balzac, , , , , , . banville, t. de, , . barbizon school, , - . bard, wilkie, . barristers and advocates, . barry, the st. bernard dog, . bartholomé, . bartholomew, st., massacre of, , . barye, the sculptor, , . bassano, . bastien-lepage, . bastille, the, , - . baudelaire, charles, , , . beauharnais, joséphine, , , . beaumarchais, . beaumaris, madame de, . beaux-arts, palais des, . beggars in paris, . bellini, . bénéfices, , . béranger, . bergère, cité, . berlioz, , , . bernard, saint, . bernhardt, . _besieged resident, the_, - . besnard, . bibliothèque de mazarin, . ---- nationale, . bièvre, the river, , . bigio, . billiards in paris, - . birague, rue de, . birds, the charmer of, - . birrell, mr. augustine, . blanche, . ---- rue, . bodley, mr., . boilly, . bois de boulogne, the, - . bol, . bone, mr. muirhead, , . bonheur, rosa, . bonington, , , . bonnat, . bons enfants, rue des, . bookhunters, , . bookstalls in paris and london, - . borssom, . botticelli, , , . bottin, . boucher, , . bouland, . boulevardiers, , . boulevards, grands, , . bourse, the, , . boverie, . brillat-savarin, . brisemiche, rue, . browning, . bruant, aristide, , . building in paris, . buridan, . buttes-chaumont, parc, , . cabarets artistiques, , . cabman, the singing, . cabmen in paris, - . café de la paix, - . cafés, , . ---- night, - . cain, m. georges, , . canals, . capel court, . capucines, boulevard des, - , . caran d'ache, . carlyle, . ---- quoted, - , - , - , - , - , , , - . carnavalet, musée, , - . caro-delvalle, . carolus-duran, , . carpeaux, , . carrière, , , , . carriès, . carrousel, arc de, - . cartoons in the street, . cartouche, . caxton, william, quoted, , , - , - , . cazin, , , . cemeteries in paris, - . cerrito, . cerutti, . champions of france, . champs-elysées, , . chanoinesse, rue, . chantilly, . chardin, , , . charlemagne, passage, . charles x., . charmer of birds, the, - . chateaubriand, , . chauchard collection, . chaudet, . chauffeurs in paris, , . chaussée d'antin, rue de la, . chavannes, puvis de, , , , , . cherubini, . chifflart, . childeric, . chopin, , , , , . christianity in paris, . church music, . churches-- blancs-manteaux, . madeleine, . panthéon, - . petits pères, . sacré-coeur, . st. elizabeth of hungary, . ---- etienne-du-mont, , - . ---- eugène, . ---- eustache, , . ---- germain du pré, . ---- ---- l'auxerrois, - . ---- jacques-la-boucherie, . ---- joseph de carmes, . ---- julien le pauvre, . ---- merry, . ---- nicholas-des-champs, . ---- paul and st. louis, . ---- roch, - , . ---- severin, . ---- sorbonne, . ---- sulpice, . "ciel," . cigars in paris, . cimetières in paris, , - . ---- du nord, - . claque, the, . clarac collection, . claude, , . clichy, boulevard, . clocks in paris, . clotilde, . clouet, . clovis, . cluny, musée de, - . coligny, . colonna, vittoria, . colonne de juillet, , . commune, the, , , , , , , , . compas d'or, the, , . comte, . concierge, the, . conciergerie, the, - . concorde, the place de la, - . ---- pont de la, . conservatoire, the, . constable, . coquelin, , . corday, charlotte, . corot, , , , , . correggio, , , . cosimo, piero di, . cour du dragon, . coustou, . couture, . coyzevox, . curiosity shops, . _daily mail_ in paris, . dalou, , , . dammouse, . dancing halls, . dante, , . daubigny, , . daudet, alphonse, , . daumier, , , . david, , , , . ---- madame, . ---- g., . da vinci, leonardo, - , . death and the french, , . decamps, , . degas, . delacroix, , , , , , . delair, frédéric, - . delaroche, . delibes, , . de musset, , , . de neuville, , . denis, saint, . desmoulins, camille, , , . devils of notre dame, , . dexter, mr., as a tipster, . ---- ---- his conception of paris, . diaz, . dickens, charles, . diderot and the pretty bookseller, . dobson, mr. austin, , , . dogs in paris, - . ---- cemetery, the, , . donizetti, . doré, . dou, . drouot, rue, , . dubois, , . duel, a famous, . dufayel, maison, - . dumas, alexandre, , , , , , , . ---- ---- fils, , . duncan, isidora, . dupré, . dürer, . dutch school, the, , , . dutuit collection, , . economy in paris, , . eiffel tower, the, . elizabeth, madame, . elocutionist, the, . elysée, the, . ---- de montmartre, . "enfer," . enghien, . english and french, , - . estrées, duchesse d', . etoile, place de l', - . eustache, saint, . execution of louis xvi., - . ---- ---- robespierre, - . eyck, j. van, . fabriano, . fairs in paris, , . falguière, . fallières, president, . fantin-latour, , , , . faubourg saint-honoré, rue du, . ---- poissonière, rue du, . ferronnerie, rue de la, . fête de st. geneviève, . figuier, rue, . fitzgerald, edward, quoted, , . flandrin, , . flinck, . flower markets, . fontainebleau, . fouquet, jean, . fragonard, . françois i., , , , . françois-miron, rue, . françoise-marguerite, . francs-bourgeois, rue des, , , . frémiet, , , , , , . french, the, . ---- and english, , - . ---- revolution, - , - , - , - , - , , , - . gallas, the, . gambetta monument, . gare de lyon, . ---- du nord, , . ---- st. lazare, . garnier, charles, . gautier, . genée, . geneviève, st., - , , , . genlis, madame de, . germain, saint, - . ghirlandaios, the, , . gibbon, . giotto, , . gladstone, , , . goat-herd, the, . gold and silver, . _golden legend, the_, , , - , - , . goncourts, . goujon, jean, . gounod, , . grand café, . grandpré, louise de, quoted, - , - . grands boulevards, , . granié, . grenelle, rue de, . greuze, . grève, place de, . grévin, the musée, . grolier, . gronow, captain, quoted, - . guides, . guillotine, the, - . habeneck, . halévy, . halles, the, - . ---- des vins, the, . hals, . haraucourt, m. edmond, . ---- ---- translated, . harpignies, , , . haussmann, boulevard, , . ---- baron, , . heine, henrich, , , - . héloïse, , . henley, w. e., . henner, , . henri ii., . ---- iv., , , , , , , , , . hérold, . heyden, van der, , . hippodrome, . his de la salle collection, , , . hobbema, , . hoffbauer, . horloge, the, . hospital of the trinity, . hôtel de ville, - . ---- ---- ---- rue de l', . ---- ---- sens, . ---- des monnaies, - . houdon, . hugo, victor, , , , , , , , - . ---- georges, . huysmanns, quoted, . hyacinthe, père, . ile de la cité, - . ---- st. louis, the, - . imprimerie nationale, . ingres, , , , , . innocents, square des, . institut, the, . invalides, hôtel des, - . isabey, , . italiens, boulevard des, , . jabach, . jacqueminot, ignace, . jardin d'acclimatation, , - . ---- des plantes, - . jena, . jeraud, . joan of arc, , , , . "joconde, la," - , . joke, the one, , , . joseph, frère, . josephine, the empress, , , . jouy, rue de, . karbowski, . key, sign of the, . lablache, . labouchere, mr., quoted, - . lachaise, père, - . lafayette, . ---- rue, , . laffitte, jacques, . ---- rue, . la fontaine, . lamartine, . lamb, charles, , . ---- mary, . lancret, . landor quoted, . lang, mr. andrew, . latin quarter, - . latude, - . lauder, harry, . laurens, . law, john, . le brun, . le courtier, . lecouvreur, adrienne, , . legros, , , . le nain, . leno, dan, . lepage, bastien, . le sidaner, . letter-boxes, . lippi, fra filippo, . lisle, leconte de, . livry, emma, . liszt, . london and bookstalls, . ---- ---- paris, , , , , , , , , - , , , , - . longchamp, - . lotto, . louis-philippe, , , , , . louis, saint, , , , , - , , . ---- xii., . ---- xiii., , . ---- xiv., , , . ---- xv., , , . ---- xvi., , , , , , . ---- xviii., , , . louvre, musée du, - . lowell, j. r., quoted, . loyola, . lucas the failure, . luini, , , . luxembourg, the, - . luxor column, the, , . lyons mail, the, . madeleine, the, , - . mainardi, . malibran, . manet, , , , . mantegna, , . marais, the, - . marat, , . marcel, etienne, . marguery, . marie antoinette, , , , , . marius, . marly le roi, . martin, saint, , . martyrs, chambre de, . ---- rue des, . massacre of swiss guards, - . massacre of st. bartholomew, , . massé, victor, . masson, frédéric, . maupassant, guy de, . mazarin, , . ---- rue, . medals and their designers, . médicis, catherine de, , , , , . ---- fountain, the, . ---- marie de, , . meilhac, . meissonier, , . memling, , . méryon, charles, , , , . messina, antonello di, . metsu, . meudon, . meyerbeer, . mi-carême, , , . michel, georges, . michelet, . millet, , , . mint, the paris, - . mirabeau, , , . molière, , , , , , . monceau, parc, , , . monet, . money, bad, in paris, . monnaies, hôtel de, - . "monna lisa," - , . mont de piété, the, . ---- parnasse, cimetière, . ---- valérien, . montesquieu, rue, . montgomery, captain, , . montmartre, , , - . montorgeuil, rue, , . moreau collection, . ---- musée, . morgue, the, , . mottez, . motto, yama, . moulin-de-la-galette, . ---- rouge, . moulins, le maître de, . mousseaux, . murger, henri, , , . murillo, . musée de l'armée, - . ---- ---- arts et métiers, . ---- carnavalet, , - . ---- cernuschi, . ---- de cluny, - . ---- du conservatoire, . ---- grévin, . ---- guimet, . ---- du louvre, - . ---- de luxembourg, - . ---- moreau, . ---- de l'opéra, , . musées des jardin des plantes, , . music in paris, . ---- hall, the, in paris, , . musical trophies, , , . musset, alfred de, , , . mystery plays, . napoleon and the arc de triomphe, . ---- ---- ---- end of the revolution, - . ---- ---- ---- madeleine, . ---- ---- ---- old guard, . ---- ---- ---- panthéon, . ---- ---- ---- statue of henri iv., . ---- ---- ---- vendôme column, . ---- at st. sulpice, . ---- his coronation, - . ---- ---- early palaces, . ---- ---- interest in art, , . ---- ---- iron bridge, . ---- ---- relics, - . ---- ---- second funeral, . ---- ---- tomb, . ---- ---- two arcs, , , . ---- in two pictures, . ---- meets josephine, . ---- relics at the carnavalet, . ---- iii., , , . ---- ---- rebuilds paris, . néant, cabaret de, . necker, . newspapers in france, - . new year's eve, . new york, . ney, . night cafés, - . nodier, charles, on the book-hunter, . notre dame, , , - . offenbach, . olivier, père, . olympia taverne, . opera, the, , . ostade, . paganini, , . pailleron, . painting, modern, . paix, café de la, - . ---- rue de la, . palais de justice, the, - . ---- des beaux-arts, , , . ---- royal, the, . palma, . panthéon, the, - . pari-mutuel, the, , . paris and balloons, . ---- ---- beggars, . ---- ---- christianity, . ---- ---- economy, , . ---- ---- its aristocratic quarters, , . ---- ---- ---- billiard saloons, - . ---- ---- ---- bird's-eye views, . ---- ---- ---- cemeteries, - . ---- ---- ---- civic museums, - . ---- ---- ---- clocks, . ---- ---- ---- dogs, - . ---- ---- ---- early history, , . ---- ---- ---- fickleness, , . ---- ---- ---- flats, . ---- ---- ---- mint, - . ---- ---- ---- mobs, . ---- ---- ---- newspapers, - . ---- ---- ---- restaurants, . ---- ---- ---- royal academy schools, , . ---- ---- ---- royal palaces, . ---- ---- ---- salons, . ---- ---- ---- sculpture, , . ---- ---- ---- stations, , . ---- ---- ---- statuary, . ---- ---- ---- two zoos, . ---- ---- ---- views, , . ---- ---- ---- waiters, . ---- ---- late hours, . ---- ---- london, , , , , , , - , , , , - . ---- ---- the play, . ---- ---- ---- post, , . ---- ---- ---- ship, . ---- as méryon saw it, , . ---- fairs, . ---- from notre dame, , , . ---- ---- the eiffel tower, , . ---- in the small hours, - . ---- pleasure of entering, - . ---- under siege, - . parisian, the, his provinciality, . pascal, , , . passy, cimetière de, . pasteur, . pater, walter, quoted, - . pawning in paris, . peacocks, the, - . père lachaise, , - . ---- lunette, le, . perugino, . picard, . picpus, cimetière de, . pigalle, rue, , . pinaigriers, the, . planquette, . pointelin, . pol, henri, , - . police of paris, the, , . pompadour, madame la, . pompeii, treasures of, , . pompes funèbres, . pont au change, the, . ---- alexandre iii., . ---- de la concorde, . ---- neuf, . porte maillot, . ---- st. denis, - . ---- st. martin, . post, the, in paris, , . pot, . potter, . poussin, , . préfecture de police, the, . print shops, . procope, café, . prud'hon, puget, . quai des célestins, . quasimodo, , . quatre-septembre, rue du, . rabelais, , . rachel, , . racine, . raeburn, . ramly, . raphael, , , , , , . ravaillac, , . reason, goddess of, , . ---- the cult of, - . réaumur, rue, . récamier, madame, , , , . religion advertised, . rembrandt, , , , , . renan, . renaudon, . renoir, . republic, third, . republican palace, a, . republics in statuary, . république, place de la, . restaurants, - , , , - , , , . restoration, the, - . réveillon, , . revolution, the, , , , , , - , , , , , , , , , , - . ---- of , , , . revue, the, , . richelieu, , , , . ---- rue de, , , . riding schools, . rivoli, rue de, . robespierre, - , . robinson, . rochefoucauld, rue, . rodin, , , , . roland, madame, , , . roman remains in paris, , , , . romney, . rossini, , . rothschild collection, . rougemont, cité, . rousseau, j. j., , . rubens, , , , . rude, . ruggieri, . ruisdael, , . sacrÉ-coeur, the, , . st. antoine, rue, - . ---- bartholomew, massacre of, , . ---- cloud, . ---- denis, , , . ---- ---- rue, , . ---- dominic, . ---- francis, . ---- geneviève, - , , , . ---- germain, . ---- honoré, rue, - . ---- martin priory, . ---- ---- rue, , . ---- merry, . ---- peter, . sainte-beuve, . ---- chapelle, , . saints-pères, rue, , . ---- the mothers of, . salis, rodolphe, . salons, the, . samson, the headman, , . sand, george, , . sargent, . sarto, andrea del, . scheffer, . scribe, . sculpture in paris, , - , , , , . seine, the, . sens, hôtel de, . sévigné, madame de, , . sèvres, . sewers, the, . shaftesbury avenue, . shaw, mr. bernard, . sicard, the abbé, . siege of , the, - . sisley, , . soitoux, . solario, . sorbonne, the, - . steinlen, , , , . sterne, laurence, , . stockbrokers in paris, . stoppeur, the, . street life in paris, - . streets, favourite, , , . student life, . suresnes, . swiss guards, - , . tabarin, bal, . tailors, political, . talma, . temple, the, . tennyson, . terburg, , , . terra-cottas, . thackeray, , , . thames, the, . thaulow, . theatre, the first, . ---- the, in paris, - . theatres, , . thémines, the marquis de, . thiers, . ---- collection, . thomas, ambroise, , . thomy-thierret collection, , . tiber, the, . tintoretto, , . tissot, . titian, , , . tortoni, café, - . tour d'argent, the, - . ---- saint-jacques, . traffic, . trajan, . triomphe, arc de, , - , . _tristan und isolde_, . troyon, , , . tuileries, the, - . uccello, . uzanne, octave, on the booksellers, , . valois, rue, . van de velde, . ---- dyck, . vasari, quoted, , . véber, . velasquez, , . vendôme, place, , . venus of milo, . verdi, . vermeer, . veronese, , . versailles, . vestris, . viarmes, rue de, . victor hugo, avenue de, . vierge, , . views in paris, , - , , , . villebresme, vicomte de, . ville d'avray, . ---- hôtel de, - . ---- ---- ---- rue de l', . vincennes, . vinci, - , , . virgin, the, and the bird, - . voisin's, . vollon, , . volney, rue, . voltaire, , , , . vosges, place des, . waiters, . wallace, sir richard, . watteau, , , , . waxworks in paris, . weenix, . weerts, . weyden, roger van der, . whiff of grapeshot, the, - . whistler, , . wiertz, . willette, , . winged victory, , , . women in paris, , , . ziem, . zola, , . zurbaran, . aberdeen: the university press [illustration: boulevard des italiens.] old and new paris its history, its people, and its places by h. sutherland edwards author of "idols of the french stage" "the germans in france" "the russians at home" etc. etc. vol. i _with numerous illustrations_ cassell and company limited _london paris & melbourne_ all rights reserved [illustration] contents. chapter i......page paris: a general glance...... chapter ii. the expansion of paris lutetia--la cité--lutetia taken by labienus--the visit of julian the apostate--besieged by the franks--the norman invasion--gradual expansion from the Île de la cité to the outer boulevards--m. thiers's line of outworks..... chapter iii. the left bank and the right. paris and london--the rive gauche--the quartier latin--the pantheon--the luxemburg--the school of medicine--the school of fine arts--the bohemia of paris--the rive droite--paris proper--the "west end"..... chapter iv. notre dame. the cathedral of notre dame, a temple to jupiter--cæsar and napoleon--relics in notre dame--its history--curious legends--the "new church"--remarkable religious ceremonies--the place de grève--the days of sorcery--"monsieur de paris"--dramatic entertainments--coronation of napoleon..... chapter v. saint-germain-l'auxerrois the massacre of st. bartholomew--the events that preceded it--catherine de medicis--admiral coligny--"the king-slayer"--the signal for the massacre--marriage of the duc de joyeuse and marguerite of lorraine..... chapter vi. the pont-neuf and the statue of henri iv. the oldest bridge in paris--henri iv.--his assassination by ravaillac--marguerite of valois--the statue of henri iv.--the institute--the place de grève..... chapter vii. the boulevards. from the bastille to the madeleine--boulevard beaumarchais--beaumarchais--the _marriage of figaro_--the bastille--the drama in paris--adrienne lecouvreur--vincennes--the duc d'enghien--duelling--louis xvi..... chapter viii. the boulevards (_continued_). hôtel carnavalet--hôtel lamoignon--place royale--boulevard du temple--the temple--louis xvii--the theatres--astley's circus--attempted assassination of louis philippe--trial of fieschi--the café turc--the cafés--the folies dramatiques--louis xvi. and the opera--murder of the duke of berri..... chapter ix. the boulevards (_continued_). the porte saint-martin--porte saint-denis--the burial place of the french kings--funeral of louis xv.--funeral of the count de chambord--boulevard bonne-nouvelle--boulevard poissonnière--boulevard montmartre--frascati..... chapter x. boulevard and other cafÉs. the café littéraire--café procope--café foy--bohemian cafés--café momus--death of molière--new year's gifts..... chapter xi. the boulevards (_continued_). the opéra comique of paris--_i gelosi_--the _don juan_ of molière--madame favart--the saint-simonians..... chapter xii. the boulevards (_continued_). la maison dorée--librairie nouvelle--catherine ii. and the encyclopædia--the house of madeleine guimard..... chapter xiii. place de la concorde. its history--louis xv.--fireworks--the catastrophe in --place de la révolution--louis xvi.--the directory..... chapter xiv. the place vendÔme. the column of austerlitz--the various statues of napoleon taken down--the church of saint-roch--mlle. raucourt--joan of arc..... chapter xv. the jacobin club. the jacobins--chateaubriand's opinion of them--arthur young's descriptions--the new club..... chapter xvi. the palais royal. richelieu's palace--the regent of orleans--the duke of orleans--dissipation in the palais royal--the palais national--the birthplace of revolutions..... chapter xvii. the comÉdie franÇaise. its history--the _roman comique_--under louis xv.--during the revolution--_hernani_..... chapter xviii. the national library and the bourse. the "king's library"--francis i. and the censorship--the imperial library--the bourse..... chapter xix. the louvre and the tuileries. the louvre--origin of the name--the castle--francis i.--catherine de medicis--the queen's apartments--louis xiv. and the louvre--the museum of the louvre--the picture galleries--the tuileries--the national assembly--marie antoinette--the palace of napoleon iii.--"petite provence"..... chapter xx. the champs ÉlysÉes and the bois de boulogne. the champs Élysées--the Élysée palace--longchamps--the bois de boulogne--the château de madrid--the château de la muette--the place de l'Étoile..... chapter xxi. the champ de mars and paris exhibitions. the royal military school of louis xv.--the national assembly--the patriotic altar--the festival of the supreme being--other festivals--industrial exhibitions--the eiffel tower--the trocadéro..... chapter xxii. the hÔtel de ville and central paris. the hôtel de ville--its history--in --the communards..... chapter xxiii. the palais de justice. the palais de justice--its historical associations--disturbances in paris--successive fires--during the revolution--the administration of justice--the sainte-chapelle..... chapter xxiv. the fire brigade and the police. the sapeurs-pompiers--the prefect of police--the garde républicaine--the spy system..... chapter xxv. the paris hospitals. the place du parvis--the parvis of notre dame--the hôtel-dieu--mercier's criticisms..... chapter xxvi. central paris. the hôtel de ville--saint-jacques-la-boucherie--rue saint-antoine--the reformation..... chapter xxvii. central paris (_continued_). rue de venise--rachel--st.-nicholas-in-the-fields--the conservatoire des arts et métiers--the gaieté--rue des archives--the mont de piété--the national printing office--the hôtel lamoignon..... chapter xxviii. central paris (_continued_). the rue saint-denis--saint-leu-saint-gilles--george cadoudal--saint-eustache--the central markets--the general post office..... chapter xxix. the "national razor." the rue de l'arbre sec--dr. guillotin--dr. louis--the guillotine--the first political execution..... chapter xxx. the executioner. the executioner--his taxes and privileges--monsieur de paris--victor of nîmes..... chapter xxxi. pÈre-lachaise. the cemeteries of clamart and picpus--père-lachaise--la villette and chaumont--the conservatoire--rue laffitte--the rothschilds--montmartre--clichy..... chapter xxxii. paris duels. the legal institution of the duel--the congé de la bataille--in the sixteenth century--jarnac--famous duels..... chapter xxxiii. the students of paris. paris students--their character--in the middle ages--at the revolution--under the directory--in --in --lallemand--in the revolution of ..... chapter xxxiv. the rag-picker of paris. the chiffonier or rag-picker--his methods and hours of work--his character--a diogenes--the _chiffonier de paris_..... chapter xxxv. the bohemian of paris. béranger's bohemians--balzac's definition--two generations--henri mürger..... chapter xxxvi. the paris waiter. the garçon--the development of the type--the garçon's daily routine--his ambitions and reverses..... chapter xxxvii. the paris cook. brillat savarin on the art of cooking--the cook and the roaster--cooking in the seventeenth century--louis xv.--mme. de maintenon..... [illustration] list of illustrations. .....page boulevard des italiens....._frontispiece_ place de la concorde..... the left bank of the seine, from notre dame..... right bank of the seine, from notre dame..... on the boulevards--corner of place de l'opéra..... théâtre français..... a street scene..... notre dame..... the choir stalls, notre dame..... rue du cloitre..... apsis of notre dame..... the leaden spire, notre dame..... gargoyles in the sacristy, notre dame..... church of saint-germain-l'auxerrois..... (map) principal streets of paris..... scene during the massacre of st. bartholomew..... the pont-neuf and the louvre, from the quai des augustins..... by the pont-neuf..... seine fishers..... view from the pavilion de flore....._facing_ the pont-neuf and the mint..... statue of henri iv. on the pont-neuf..... the institute..... the pont-neuf from the island..... view from the western point of the Île de la cité..... place de la bastille and column of july..... junction of grands boulevards and rue and faubourg montmartre..... the bastille..... the conquerors of the bastille..... À la robespierre..... a lady of ..... a tricoteuse..... map showing the extension of paris..... adrienne lecouvreur..... a duel in the bois de boulogne..... the seine from notre dame....._facing_ recruits..... hôtel carnavalet..... hôtel lamoignon..... statue of louis xiii. in the place des vosges..... the place des vosges, formerly place royale..... the arcade in the place des vosges..... the winter circus in the boulevard des filles de calvaire..... louis philippe..... attempted assassination of louis philippe..... a parisian café..... place de la république..... frédéric lemaître..... porte saint-martin and the renaissance theatre..... church of saint-méry, rue saint-martin..... apsis of church of saint-méry, rue brisemiche..... notre dame....._facing_ entrance to the faubourg saint-denis..... boulevard and porte saint-denis..... boulevard bonne-nouvelle and the gymnase theatre..... the boulevard montmartre..... entrance to the théâtre des variétés, boulevard montmartre..... cafés on the boulevard montmartre..... molière..... street coffee stall..... boulevard des italiens..... the th of june; the last of the insurrection..... marivaux..... paris in the seventeenth century..... rue de la chaussée d'antin..... view from the roof of the opera house....._facing_ mlle. clairon..... view from the balcony of the opera..... avenue de l'opéra..... one of the domes of the opera house..... eastern pavilion, opera house..... the public foyer, opera house..... western pavilion, opera house..... the staircase of the opera house..... the madeleine..... interior of the madeleine..... place de la concorde..... place de la concorde, from the terrace of the tuileries..... trial of louis xvi..... top of the vendôme column..... the place vendôme..... rue castiglione..... a first night at the comédie française--the foyer....._facing_ mirabeau..... robespierre..... the palais royal..... gardens of the palais royal..... the palais royal after the siege..... the montpensier gallery, palais royal..... entrance to the comédie française..... the public foyer, comédie française..... the green room, comédie française..... molière..... corneille..... voltaire..... the committee of the comédie française: alexandre dumas (the younger) reading a play..... behind the scenes, comédie française..... entrance to the national library in the rue des petits champs..... the bourse..... the apollo gallery--the louvre....._facing_ the louvre, from the place du carrousel..... the old louvre (pierre lescot's façade)..... the colonnade of the louvre..... portion of the façade of henri iv.'s gallery, louvre..... top of the marsan pavilion, louvre..... the marsan and flora pavilions, louvre, from the pont-royal..... the richelieu pavilion..... the tuileries in the eighteenth century..... the terrace, tuileries gardens..... the tuileries gardens..... lion in the tuileries gardens..... the chestnuts of the tuileries..... louis xvi. stopped at varennes by drouet..... the royal family at varennes..... monument to gambetta, place du carrousel..... the horses of marly, champs Élysées..... the elysée..... saint-philippe du roule..... the great lake, bois de boulogne..... avenue du bois de boulogne..... arc de triomphe....._facing_ avenue des champs Élysées..... avenue marigny, champs Élysées..... fountain in the champs Élysées..... the champ de mars, ..... the military school, champ de mars..... general la fayette..... the palais de l'industrie, champs Élysées..... view showing exhibition of ..... view from the first platform of the eiffel tower..... the trocadéro..... hôtel de ville in the fifteenth century..... attack on the hôtel de ville, ..... statue of Étienne marcel on the quai hôtel de ville..... the municipal council chamber, hôtel de ville..... Île st. louis..... the quai de l'horloge..... pont au change and palais de justice..... the clock of the palais de justice..... entrance to the court of assize..... the palais de justice....._facing_ the palais de justice and sainte-chapelle..... the façade of the old palais de justice..... the salle des pas perdus..... police carriages..... the conciergerie, palais de justice..... the sainte-chapelle..... the lower chapel of the sainte-chapelle..... the upper chapel of the sainte-chapelle..... the tribunal of commerce..... a pompier..... a guardian of the peace..... an orderly of the garde de paris..... a gendarme..... principal court of the hôtel-dieu..... rue de rivoli..... façade of the church of st. gervais and st. protais; and the apsis, from the rue des barres..... tower of saint-jacques-la-boucherie..... hôtel de beauvais..... church of st. louis and st. paul..... rue de rivoli and hôtel de ville....._facing_ rue grenier-sur-l'eau..... the pont-marie..... rue saint louis-en-l'Île..... pont au change, place du châtelet, and boulevard de sebastopol..... the palmier fountain, place du châtelet..... rue de venise..... st. nicholas-in-the-fields..... the conservatoire des arts et métiers..... the vertbois tower and fountain..... the gaieté theatre..... in the temple market..... the temple market..... sixteenth century cloisters, rue des billettes..... palace of the national archives..... hôtel de hollande..... turret at corner of rues vieille du temple and francs bourgeois..... rue de birague, leading to the place des vosges..... fountain of the innocents..... saint-eustache..... a market scene..... an auction sale of poultry in the central market..... rue rambuteau in the early morning..... on the way to the central markets..... the fish market..... interior of the mont de piété, rue capron....._facing_ the general post office..... the poste restante..... the public hall, general post office..... the telephone room at the general post office..... place des victoires..... rue de la vrillière..... in père-lachaise..... parc des buttes chaumont..... montmartre..... the synagogue in the rue de la victoire..... st. peter's church, montmartre..... the bells of st. peter's..... the new municipal reservoir and the church of the sacred heart, montmartre..... the caulaincourt bridge, montmartre..... in the parc monceau..... diana of poitiers..... marshal ney..... the race-course, longchamps....._facing_ camille desmoulins..... the polytechnic school..... notre dame from the pont saint-louis..... a rag-picker..... a rag-picker..... the boulevard poissonière..... selling goats..... the bird market..... madame de maintenon..... [illustration: place de la concorde.] paris, old and new. chapter i. paris: a general glance. "paris," said heinrich heine, "is not simply the capital of france, but of the whole civilised world, and the rendezvous of its most brilliant intellects." the art and literature of europe were at that time represented in paris by such men as ary scheffer, the dutch painter, rossini, the italian composer, the cosmopolitan meyerbeer, and heine himself. towards the close of the eighteenth century most of the european courts, with those of catherine ii. and frederick the great prominent among them, were regularly supplied with letters on parisian affairs by grimm, diderot, and other writers of the first distinction, who, in their serious moments, contributed articles to the _encyclopédie_. at a much remoter period paris was already one of the most famous literary capitals of europe; nor was it renowned for its literature alone. its art, pictorial and sculptural, was also celebrated, and still more so its art manufactures; while of recent years the country of auber and gounod, of bizet, massenet and saint-saëns, has played a leading part in the world of music. paris, too, has from the earliest times been a centre of science and philosophy. here abélard lectured, and here the first hospitals were established. then, again, paris has a military history of singular interest and variety. it has been oftener torn within its walls by civic conflicts, and attacked from without by the invader, than any other european city; while none has undergone so many regular sieges as the capital of the country of which frederick the great used to say that, if he ruled it, not a shot should be fired in europe without his permission. paris is at once the most ancient and the most modern capital in europe. great are the changes it has undergone since it first took form, eighteen centuries ago, as a fortress or walled town on an island in the middle of the seine; and at every period of its history we find some chronicler dwelling on the disappearance of ancient landmarks. whole quarters are known to have been pulled down and rebuilt under the second empire. but ever since the revolution of , under each successive form of government and in almost every district, straggling lanes have been giving way gradually to wide streets and stately boulevards, and suburb after suburb has been merged into the great city. the chaussée d'antin was at the end of the last century a chaussée in fact as well as in name: a mere high-road, that is to say; and there were people living under the government of louis-philippe who claimed to have shot rabbits on the now densely populated boulevard montmartre. the greatest changes, however, in the general physiognomy of paris date from the revolution, when, in the first place, as if by way of symbol, the hated fortress was demolished in which so many victims of despotism had languished. "athens," says victor hugo, "built the parthenon, but paris destroyed the bastille." in the days when the great state prison was still standing, the broad, well-built rue saint-antoine, in its immediate neighbourhood, used to be pointed to by antiquarians as covering the ground where king henry ii. was mortally wounded in a tournament by montgomery, an officer in the scottish guard. it was there, too, that, after the death of their protector, the "minions" of henry ii. slaughtered one another. the now thickly inhabited place des victoires, where stands the statue of louis xiv., lasting monument of kingly pride and popular adulation, was at one time the most dangerous part of the capital. in the open space now enclosed by lordly mansions and commodious warehouses thieves and murderers held their nightly assemblies, or even in the face of day committed depredations on the passers-by. "could a better site have been chosen," asks an historian of the last century, "for the effigy of that royal robber, born for the ruin of his subjects and the disturbance of europe: who aimed at universal monarchy and sacrificed the wealth and happiness of a whole kingdom to pursue an empty shadow; who lived a tyrant and died an idiot?" not far distant, the halles, or general markets, stand on the spot where charles v. made a famous speech against charles, surnamed the mischievous, king of navarre; when the former was hissed and hooted by the mob because he had neither the good looks, the eloquence, nor the reasoning power of his antagonist. it was here, too, that the first dramas were acted in france; and here, significantly enough, that molière was born. at the butte saint-roch, now remembered chiefly by the church of the same name, the maid of orleans was wounded during the siege of paris, then in the hands of the english. joan of arc was not at this time--not, at least, with the parisians--the popular heroine she has since become. detesting charles vii. and all his supporters, they could not love the inspired girl whose example had restored the courage of the king's troops. a parisian of that day, who had witnessed the siege, describes her as a "fiend in woman's guise." the bell may still be heard of saint-germain-l'auxerrois; the very bell, it is asserted, that called the faithful to the massacre of st. bartholomew. near the church from which the tragic signal rang forth stands the palace from whose windows charles ix. fired upon the unhappy huguenots as they sought safety by swimming across the seine; and close at hand used to be pointed out another window from which money was thrown to an agitated crowd in order to keep it from attending molière's funeral, at which the mob proposed, not to honour the remains of the illustrious dramatist, but to insult them. it was in the old rue du temple that the duke of burgundy fell by the hand of his assassin, the duke of orleans, only brother of charles vi., who, though a madman and an idiot, was suffered to remain on the throne; and it was in this same rue du temple that louis xvi. and marie-antoinette were confined before being taken to the guillotine. what scenes has not the place de grève witnessed! from the burning of witches to the torture of damiens, and from the atrocious cruelties inflicted upon this would-be regicide to the first executions under the revolution, when the cry of "a la lanterne!" (to the lamp-post, that is to say, of the place de grève) was so frequently heard. but the most revolutionary spot in this, the most revolutionary capital in the world, is to be found in the gardens of the palais royal; those gardens from whose trees camille desmoulins plucked the leaves which the besiegers of the bastille were to have worn in their hats as rallying signals. here, too, assembled the journeymen printers, who, their newspapers having been suppressed by charles x., determined, under the guidance of the journalists--their natural leaders on such an occasion--to reply by force to the armed censorship of the government. again, in , the palais royal gardens witnessed the first manifestations of discontent, though it was a pistol-shot fired on a fashionable part of the boulevard that precipitated the collision between the insurgents and the troops. the next morning, at breakfast, louis-philippe was told that he had better abdicate; and an hour afterwards an old gentleman, with a portfolio under his arm, was seen to take a cab on the place de la concorde, and drive off in the direction of saint-cloud, whence he reached the coast of normandy, and in due time the shores of england. paris possesses one of the most ancient and one of the most characteristically modern churches in europe--the venerable notre-dame, and in sharp contrast, the fashionable madeleine, celebrated for the splendour of its essentially mundane architecture, the luxurious attire of its female frequenters, the beauty of its music, and the eloquence of its preachers. the first stone of notre-dame was laid, as victor hugo puts it, by tiberius, who, recognising the site of the future cathedral as well-fitted for a temple, began by erecting an altar "to the god cerennos and to the bull esus." in like manner, on the hill of sainte-geneviève, where now stands the edifice known as the pantheon, mercury was at one time worshipped. so rich is paris in historical associations that often the same street, the same spot, recalls two widely different events. thus the statue of henri iv. on the pont-neuf commemorates the glory of the best and greatest of the french kings, and at the same time marks the very ground where, in the fourteenth century, jacques de molay, the templar, was infamously burned. at no. in the rue de béthisy admiral coligny died and sophie arnould was born. at a house in the rue des marais racine wrote "bajazet" and "britannicus" in the room where, fifty years later, the duchess de bouillon is said to have poisoned adrienne lecouvreur. there was a time when, at the corner of the rue du marché des innocents, a marble slab, inscribed with letters of gold, associated the important year of with three notable events: the arrival of an embassy from siam, a visit from the doge of genoa, and the revocation of the edict of nantes. this strange record has disappeared, together with many other interesting memorials of various shapes and kinds: such, for example, as the iron cauldron in the cour des miracles, where, in the name of a whole series of kings who had played tricks with the national currency, and more than once produced national bankruptcy, coiners used to be boiled alive. as we go further back in the history of paris, lawlessness on the part of the inhabitants, and cruelty on that of the rulers, seem constantly to increase. until the reign of louis xi., paris was without police, though laws were nominally in force, especially against stealing. theft was punished much on the principle laid down in the inscription of the sixth century which adorned one of the walls of lutetia, the paris of the romans: "if a thief is caught in the act he must, in the case of a noble, be brought to trial; in the case of a peasant, be hanged on the spot." the capitular of charlemagne forbade ecclesiastics to take human life: which did not prevent the abbés of different monasteries from besieging one another or crossing swords when, with their followers, they chanced to meet outside the fortified monasterial walls, whether in the plain or in the public street. the right of private warfare existed in france until . paris has undergone atrocious sufferings through war, famine, pestilence, and calamities of all kinds. the normans, after burning one half of paris, allowed the remainder to be ransomed with an enormous sum of money. in one of the famines by which paris in its early days was so often visited, people cast lots as to which should be eaten. the taxes were so excessive that many pretended to be lepers, in order to profit by the exemption accorded in such cases. but it was sometimes not well to be a leper, real or pretended; for it was proclaimed one day to the sound of horn and trumpet that lepers throughout the kingdom should be exterminated: "in consequence of a mixture of herbs and human blood, with which, rolling it up in a linen cloth and tying it to a stone, they poison the wells and rivers." how terrible, and often how ridiculous, were the proclamations issued in those days! in front of the grand-châtelet six heralds of france, clothed in white velvet, and rod in hand, were wont to announce after a plague, a war, or a famine that there was nothing more to be feared, and that the king would be graciously pleased to receive taxes as before. in the centre of the so-called "town"--paris in general, that is to say, as distinct from the city--was "la maubuée" (derived, according to victor hugo, from _mauvaise fumée_), where jews innumerable were roasted over fires of pitch and green wood to punish what a chronicler of the time terms their "anthropomancy"; and what the counsellor de l'ancre further describes as "the marvellous cruelty they have always shown towards christians, their mode of life, their synagogue, so displeasing to god, their uncleanliness, and their stench." the unhappy jews, however, were not the only victims. close by, at the corner of the rue du gros-chenet, was the place where sorcerers used to be burned. torture, moreover, in its most hideous forms was practised upon criminals even until the time of the revolution; which, while introducing the guillotine, abolished, in addition to a variety of other torments, breaking on the wheel, and the beating of criminals to death with the iron bar. many of the names, still extant, of the old paris streets recall the ferocity and the superstition of past times. the rue de l'arbre sec was the street of the gibbet, with "dry tree" as its familiar name. the rue d'enfer, or hell street, was so called from a belief that this thoroughfare on the outskirts of paris, just beyond the luxemburg gardens, was haunted by the fiend. in order to put an end to the scandal by which the whole neighbourhood was alarmed, it occurred to the authorities to make over the street to the order of capuchins who, they thought, would know how to deal with their inveterate enemy. the capuchins accepted, with gratitude, the valuable trust; and thenceforth, whether as the result of some exorcising process or because public confidence had been restored, no more was heard of the visitor from below. [illustration: the left bank of the seine, from notre-dame.] to get a complete idea of the vastness and variety of paris, it should be seen from the towers of notre-dame, the pantheon, the july column of the place de la bastille, the tower of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie, the vendôme column, the triumphal arch, and, finally, the eiffel tower. from these different points panoramic views may be obtained which together would form a complete picture of paris. the shape of paris is oval. the longest diameter--east to west--would be drawn from the gate of vincennes to the gate of auteuil; and the shorter--north to south--from the gate of clignancourt to the gate of italy. paris is divided longitudinally by the course of the seine, whose windings are scarcely noticed by the observer taking a bird's-eye view. the river looks like a silver thread between two borders of green. these are the plantations of the quays, whose trees, during the last five-and-twenty years, have become as remarkable for their luxuriant growth as for their beauty of form. from the height of our observatory we see the island of the city, looking like a ship at anchor, with its prow towards the west. on all sides the summits of religious edifices present themselves: the towers of notre-dame, the dome of the pantheon, the turrets of saint-sulpice, the steeple of saint-germain-des-prés, the gilded cupola of the invalides, and the lofty isolated belfry of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie. following the course of the seine with careful eye, one may see its twenty-one "ports"--eleven on the right bank, and ten on the left--from bercy to the tuileries; also, like slender bars thrown across the river, the twenty-seven bridges connecting the two banks, from the pont-national to the viaduct of the point du jour. the double line of quays--quadruple, where the islands of st. louis and of the city divide the river in two--presents an incomparable series of stately structures; such as the hôtel de ville, the palais de justice, the louvre, the mint, the institute, the palais bourbon, and a number of magnificent private mansions. [illustration: right bank of the seine, from notre-dame.] from the gothic steeple of the sainte chapelle the eye wanders to innumerable domes, built under the influence of the renaissance; for while the domes have endured, the steeples, so numerous in ancient paris, have, for the most part, succumbed either to fire or to the vandalism of the renovating architect. it must be remembered, too, that under the reign of louis xiv. gothic architecture was proscribed, as recalling "the age of barbarism." every new edifice was constructed in the italian or italo-byzantine style. the finest, if not the most ancient, dome that paris could ever boast was the one which crowned the central pavilion of the tuileries palace. the cupola of st. peter's was the model adopted in the early part of the sixteenth century by all french architects who had studied in italy, or italian architects who had settled in france; and the masterpiece of michael angelo at rome was not yet finished when the first stone of the impressive and picturesque church of saint-eustace was laid in at paris. only a few years afterwards the french architect, philibert de l'orme, attached to the service of pope paul iii., returned to paris, and, beneath the delighted eyes of queen catherine de medicis, worked out the designs which he had formed under the inspiration of michael angelo and of bramante. the dome, however, of philibert de l'orme was destined to lose its beauty through the additions made to it by other architects. of late years it has been the rule in paris not to destroy but to preserve the ancient architecture of the city. "demolish the tower of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie?" asked victor hugo, when, during the reconstruction and prolongation of the rue rivoli, the question of keeping it standing or pulling it down was under general discussion: "demolish the tower of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie? no! demolish the architect who suggests such a thing? yes!" chapter ii. the expansion of paris. lutetia--_la cité_--lutetia taken by labienus--the visit of julian the apostate--besieged by the franks--the norman invasion--gradual expansion from the _ile de la cité_ to the outer boulevards--m. thiers's line of outworks. lutetia, the ancient paris, or lutetia parisiorum, as it was called by the romans, stood in the midst of marshes. the name, derived, suggestively enough, from _lutum_, the latin for mud, has been invested with a peculiar significance by those stern moralists who see in paris nothing but a sink of iniquity. balzac called it a "wen"; and blucher, when some ferocious member of his staff suggested the destruction of paris, exclaimed: "leave it alone; paris will destroy all france!" by a critic of less severe temperament paris has been contemptuously described as "the tavern of europe"--_le cabaret de l'europe_. lutetia, however, can afford to smile alike at the slurs of moralists and the sneers of cynics; and the etymology of her name need by no means alarm those of her admirers who will reflect that lilies may spring from mud, and that the richest corn is produced from the blackest soil. the development of the lutetia of cæsar's time into the paris of our own has occupied many eventful centuries; and the centre of the development may still be seen in that little island of the so-called city--_l'ile de la cité_--once known as the island of lutetia. as to the dimensions of the ancient lutetia, neither historians nor geographers are wholly agreed. the germ of paris is, in any case, to be found in that part of the french capital which has long been known as _la cité_, and which is the dullest and sleepiest part of paris, just as inversely our "city," distinctively so called, is the most active and energetic part of london. the parisians have always been given to insurrection; and their first rising was made against a ruler who was likely enough to put it down--julius cæsar, that is to say. finding his power defied, cæsar sent against the parisians a body of troops, under the command of labienus, who crushed the rebels in the first battle. historians give different versions of the engagement, but modern writers are content for the most part to rely on a tradition related by an author of the fourteenth century, raoul de presles, who published a french version of cæsar's account of the battle of paris, enriched by notes and comments from his own pen. labienus, according to cæsar and raoul de presles, was arrested in his first attack by an impassable marsh. then, simulating a retreat along the left bank of the seine, he was pursued by the gauls, in spite of camulogenes, their cautious leader; who, unable to restrain them, fell with them at last into an ambuscade, in which chief and followers all perished. raoul de presles gives some interesting details about the marsh which labienus, on making his advance against paris, was unable to cross. some identify it with the marshes of the temple, which formed, on the north of paris, a continuous semicircle; but raoul de presles seems to hold that the marsh which stopped the advance of labienus protected lutetia itself: that lutetia of the island which sprang from the mud as venus sprang from the sea. the city of lutetia was at that time so strong, so entirely shut in by water, that julius cæsar himself speaks of the difficulty of reaching it. "but since then," says raoul de presles, "there has been much solidification through gravel, sand, and all kinds of rubbish being cast into it." after the victory of labienus, lutetia, which the conqueror had destroyed, was quickly re-built; and it was then governed as a roman town. this, however, was in cæsar's time; and the first description of lutetia as a city was given by strabo some fifty years later. thus it may safely be said that of the original lutetia nothing whatever is known. it is certain, nevertheless, that in the new lutetia, built by the romans, the most important edifices stood at the western end of the island, including a palace, on whose site was afterwards to be erected the palace of the french kings; while at the eastern end the most striking object was a temple to jupiter, in due time to be replaced by the cathedral of notre-dame. as early as the fourth century lutetia found favour in the eyes of illustrious visitors; and the emperor julian, known as the "apostate," when, after defeating seven german kings near strasburg, he retired to lutetia for winter quarters, spoke of it, then and for ever afterwards, as his "dear lutetia." "lutetia lætitia!"--paris is my joy!--he might, with a certain modern writer, have exclaimed. julian is not the only man who, going to paris for a few months, has stayed there several years; and julian's winter quarters of the year so much pleased him that he remained in them until . encouraged, no doubt, by what julian, in his enthusiasm, told them about the already attractive capital of gaul, a whole series of roman emperors visited the city, including valentinian i., valentinian ii., and gratian, who left paris in , never to return. from this date paris ceased practically to form part of the roman empire. more than a century before (in ) st. denis had undergone martyrdom on the banks of the seine, walking about after decapitation with his head under his arm. this strange tradition had probably its origin in a picture by some simple-minded painter, who had represented st. denis carrying his own head like a parcel, because he could think of no more ingenious way of indicating the fate that had befallen the first apostle of christianity in gaul; just as st. bartholomew has often been painted with his skin hanging across his arm like a loose overcoat. after the defeat and death of gratian, the government of lutetia passed into the hands of her bishops, who often defended the city against the incursions of the barbarians. in lutetia was besieged by the franks, when childeric gained possession of it, and destroyed for ever all traces of the roman power. it now became a frank or french town; and, "lutetia parisiorum" being too long a name for the unlettered goths, was shortened by them first into "parisius," and ultimately, by the suppression of the two last syllables, into "paris." in the ninth century paris underwent the usual norman invasion, by which so many european countries, from russia to england, and from england to sicily--not to speak of the norman or varangian guard of constantinople--were sooner or later to be visited. the "hardy norsemen"--or norman pirates, as the unhappy parisians doubtless called them--started from the island of oissel, near rouen, where they had established themselves in force; and, moving with a numerous fleet towards paris, laid siege to it, and, on its surrender, first pillaged it and then burnt it to the ground. three churches alone--those of saint-Étienne, saint-germain-des-prés, and saint-denis, near paris--were saved, through the payment of a heavy ransom. sixteen years later, after a sufficient interval to allow of a reconstruction, the normans again returned, when once more the unhappy city was plundered and burnt. for twenty successive years paris was the constant prey of the norman pirates who held beneath their power the whole course of the seine. at last, however, a powerful fleet, led by a chief whom the french call "siegfroi," but whose real name was doubtless "siegfried," sustained a crushing defeat; and, simultaneously with the norman invaders, the carlovingian dynasty passed away. with the advent of the capet dynasty a continuous history began for paris--in due time to become the capital of all france. ancient paris was three times burnt to the ground: the paris which dates from the ninth century has often been conquered, but never burnt. ancient paris, the lutetia of the romans, was an island enclosed between two branches of the seine. but the river overflowed north and south, and it became necessary to construct large ditches or moats, which at once widened the boundaries of the "city." gradually the population spread out in every direction; and when, under louis xiv., the line of boulevards was traced, the extreme limits of the capital were marked by this new enclosure. then under louis xvi., the farmers-general, levying dues (the so-called _octroi_) on imports into the town, established for their own convenience certain "barriers," at which persons bringing in food or drink were stopped until they had acquitted themselves of the appointed tax; and, connecting these "barriers," they thus formed the line of outer boulevards. paris extended in time even to these outer boulevards. then, under louis-philippe, at the instigation of his minister, m. thiers, a line of fortifications was constructed around paris; which, proving insufficient in and to save the capital from bombardment, has in its turn been surrounded by a circle of outlying detached forts intercommunicating with one another. the fortifications of paris have had a strange history. at the time of their being planned, opinions in france were divided as to whether they were intended to oppose a foreign invasion or to control an internal revolt. in all probability they were meant, according to the occasion, to serve either purpose. they were not only designed by m. thiers, but executed under his orders; and this statesman, who had made a careful study of military science, lived to see them powerless against the german army of investment, and successful against the paris commune. [illustration: on the boulevards--corner of place de l'opÉra.] paris had been invaded and occupied in , and again in . on the other hand, domestic government had been upset in by a popular insurrection, which, with adequate military force to oppose it, might at once have been suppressed. was it as patriot, people asked, or as minister of a would-be despotic king, that m. thiers proposed to raise around paris a new and formidable wall? m. thiers's circular line of outworks played no part in connection with the successful insurrection of february, , nor with the unsuccessful one of june in the same year. nor was a single shot fired from the fortifications in connection with the _coup d'État_ of . they did not in prevent the french capital from falling into the hands of the germans: but they delayed for a considerable time the fatal moment of surrender; and if the army of metz could have held out a few weeks longer--if, above all, the inhabitants of the inactive south, who practically took no part in the war, had been prepared, to fight with something like the energy displayed by the confederates against the federals during the american civil war--then the fortifications would have justified the views of those who had chiefly regarded them as a valuable defence against foreign invasion. the fortifications erected by m. thiers have since been pulled down: partly because the constantly expanding city wanted fresh building ground, partly because, in view of new plans of defence, and of the new artillery of offence, it was considered desirable to protect paris by a system of outlying but inter-protecting forts, at a sufficient distance from the houses of the capital to render reduction by what is called "simple bombardment" impossible. in time lutetia, with fresh developments, may require yet another new girdle. chapter iii. the left bank and the right. paris and london--the _rive gauche_--the _quartier latin_--the pantheon--the luxemburg--the school of medicine--the school of fine arts--the bohemia of paris--the _rive droite_--paris proper--"the west end." an effective contrast might be drawn between london and paris. but, unlike as they are in so many features, physical, moral, and historical, they differ most widely, perhaps, by the relative parts they have played in the history of their respective countries. the history of paris is the history of france itself. the decisive battles which brought the great civil and religious wars of the country to an end were fought outside or in the very streets of paris. it was in paris that the massacre of st. bartholomew--darkest blot on the french annals--was perpetrated. the revolution of , again, was prepared and accomplished in the french capital; and, thenceforth, all those revolutions and _coups d'état_ by which the government of the country was periodically to be changed had paris for their scene. in england, on the other hand, london had little or nothing to do with the battles of the great rebellion, the revolution, or the two insurrections by which the revolution was followed. [illustration: thÉÂtre franÇais.] but the english visitor to paris is in the first place struck by external points of dissimilarity. as regards the difference in the structural physiognomy of the two great capitals (less pronounced now than at one time, though paris is still loftily, and london for the most part dwarfishly, built), it was ingeniously remarked, some fifty years ago, that the architecture of one city seemed vertical, of the other horizontal. to pass from the houses to their inhabitants, the population of paris is as remarkable for variety as that of london for uniformity of costume. for in paris almost every class has its own distinctive dress. in england, and especially in london, the employer and his workmen, the millionaire and the crossing-sweeper, wear coats of the same pattern. in london, again, every work-girl, every market-woman, wears a bonnet imitated more or less perfectly from those worn by ladies of fashion. when gavarni first visited london, he was astonished and amused to see an old woman in a bonnet carrying a flower-pot on her head, and made this grotesque figure the subject of a humorous design, with the following inscription beneath it: "_on porte cette année beaucoup de fleurs sur les chapeaux._" shop-girls and work-girls in paris wear neat white caps instead of ill-made, or, it may be, dilapidated bonnets; though the more aspiring among them reserve the right of appearing in a bonnet on sundays and holidays. the french workman wears a blouse and a cap, and looks upon the hat as a sign, if not of superiority, at least of pretension. "car moi j'ai payé ma casquette, et toi, tu n'as pas payé ton chapeau!" was the burden of a song very popular with the working classes during the revolutionary days of to . owing to the varieties of dress already touched upon, a crowd in paris presents a less gloomy, less monotonous appearance than the black-coated mobs of london; and in harmony with the greater relief afforded by the different colours of the costumes are the animated gestures of the persons composing the crowd. observe, indeed, a mere group of persons conversing on no matter what commonplace subject, or idly chatting as they sip their coffee together on the boulevards, and they appear to be engaged in some violent dispute. to mention yet another point on which paris differs from london: the most interesting part of paris lies on the right bank of the seine, whereas all that is interesting in london lies on the left bank of the thames. the left bank of the seine possesses, however, buildings and streets of historical interest. here, too, is the quarter of the schools: the quartier latin, as it is still called, not by reason of its roman antiquities, which, except at the hotel cluny, would be sought for in vain, but because, in the mediæval period whence the schools for the most part date, even to comparatively modern times, latin was the language of the student. on the "left bank," moreover, stand the institute, the pantheon or church of ste. geneviève, as, according to the predominance of religion or irreligion, it is alternately called; the ste. geneviève library, the luxemburg palace, with its magnificent picture gallery, the school of medicine, and the school of fine arts. many of the great painters, too, have their studios--often little academies in themselves--on the left bank of the river; while among the famous streets on the "left bank" is that rue du bac so often referred to in the chronicles and memoirs of the eighteenth century. the famous café procope, again, literary headquarters of the encyclopædists, stands on what is now considered the wrong side of the water. so too does the odéon theatre, once the théàtre français, where, in modern as well as ancient times, so many dramatic masterpieces have been produced. on the other hand, there is scarcely on the left bank one good hotel: certainly not one that could put forward the slightest pretension to being fashionable. nor, except in the case of professional men connected with the hospitals or the schools, would anyone mixing in fashionable society care to give his address anywhere on the left bank. jules janin, one of the most distinguished writers of his time, and one of the most popular men in the great world of paris from the reign of louis philippe until that of napoleon iii., did, it is true, live for years in a house close to the luxemburg gardens. but janin possessed a certain originality, and thought more of what suited himself than of what pleased others. on one occasion, having engaged to fight a duel, he failed to put in an appearance by reason of the inclemency of the weather and his disinclination to get out of bed at the early hour for which the meeting had been fixed. such a man would not be ashamed to live on the left bank if he happened to have found a place there which harmonised with his tastes. apart, however, from all question of inclination and fashion, it is really inconvenient to anyone who mingles in parisian life to live on the left bank of the seine, remote as it is from the boulevards, the champs Élysées, the best hotels, the best restaurants, the best cafés, and the best theatres. at the same time, no sort of comparison can be established between the transpontine districts of paris and those of london. in london, no one who is anyone would dream of living "on the other side of the water," where neither picture galleries, nor public gardens, nor artists' studios, nor famous streets, nor great houses of business, nor even magnificent shops are to be met with. even jules janin, had he been an englishman, would have declined to live in the region of blackfriars or the waterloo road. on the right bank of the seine--the paris west end, and something more--we find much greater concentration than in the west end of london. here, indeed, all that is most important in the artistic, financial, and fashionable life of the capital may be found within a small compass. the théàtre français is close to the bourse, and the bourse to the boulevard des italiens, which leads to the opera by a line along which stand the finest hotels, the best restaurants in paris. from the opera it is no far cry to the champs Élysées, the hyde park of paris; while, going along the boulevards in the opposite direction, one comes step by step to a seemingly endless series of famous theatres. all the best clubs, too, all the best book-shops and music-shops, are to be found on the most fashionable part of the boulevard, extending from the boulevard des italiens, past the opera house, to the adjacent church of the madeleine: architecturally a repetition of the bourse, as though commerce and religion demanded temples of the same character. [illustration] [illustration: notre dame.] chapter iv. notre dame. the cathedral of notre dame, a temple to jupiter--cæsar and napoleon--relics in notre dame--its history--curious legends--"the new church"--remarkable religious ceremonies--the place de grève--the days of sorcery--monsieur de paris--dramatic entertainments--coronation of napoleon there is no monument of ancient paris so interesting, by its architecture and its historical associations, as the cathedral of notre dame; which, standing on the site of a temple to jupiter, carries us back to the time of the roman domination and of julius cæsar. here, eighteen centuries later, took place the most magnificent ceremony ever seen within the walls of the actual edifice: the coronation, that is to say, of the modern cæsar, the conqueror who ascended the imperial throne of france on the nd of december, . meanwhile, the strangest as well as the most significant things have been witnessed inside the ancient metropolitan church of paris. among the curious objects deposited from time to time on the altar of notre dame may be mentioned a wand which louis vii. inscribed with the confession of a fault he was alleged to have committed against the church. journeying towards paris, the king had been surprised by the darkness of night, and had supped and slept at créteil, on the invitation of the inhabitants. the village, inhabitants and all, belonged to the chapter of notre dame; and the canons were much irritated at the king's having presumed to accept hospitality indirectly at their cost. when, next day, louis, arriving at paris, went, after his custom, to the cathedral in order to render thanks for his safe journey, he was astonished to find the gates of notre dame closed. he asked for an explanation, whereupon the canons informed him that since, in defiance of the privileges and sacred traditions of the church, he had dared at créteil to sup, free of cost to himself and at the expense of the flock of notre dame, he must now consider himself outside the pale of christianity. at this terrible announcement the king groaned, sighed, wept, and begged forgiveness, humbly protesting that but for the gloom of night and the spontaneous hospitality of the inhabitants--so courteous that a refusal on his part would have been most uncivil--he would never have touched that fatal supper. in vain did the bishop intercede on his behalf, offering to guarantee to the canons the execution of any promise which the king might make in expiation of his crime; it was not until the prelate placed in their hands a couple of silver candlesticks as a pledge of the monarch's sincerity that they would open to him the cathedral doors; and even then his majesty had to pay the cost of his supper at créteil, and by way of confession, to deposit on the altar of notre dame the now historical wand. louis xi., more devout even than the devout louis vii., was equally unable to inspire his clergy with confidence. before the discovery of printing, in , manuscript books at paris, as elsewhere, were so rare and so dear that students had much trouble in procuring even those which were absolutely necessary for their instruction. accordingly, when louis xi. wished to borrow from the faculty of medicine the writings of rhases, an arabian physician, he was required, before taking the book away, to deposit a considerable quantity of plate, besides the signature of a powerful nobleman, who bound himself to see that his majesty restored the volume. [illustration: the choir stalls, notre dame.] among the many legends told in connection with notre dame is a peculiarly fantastic one, according to which the funeral service of a canon named raimond diocre, famed for his sanctity, was being celebrated by st. bruno, when, at a point where the clergy chanted the words: _responde mihi quantas habes iniquitates?_ the dead man raised his head in the coffin, and replied: _justo dei judicio accusatus sum_. at this utterance all present took flight, and the ceremony was not resumed till the next day, when for the second time the clergy chanted forth: _responde mihi_, etc., on which the corpse again raised its head, and this time answered: _justo dei judicio judicatus sum_. once more there was a panic and general flight. the scene, with yet another variation, was repeated on the third day, when the dead, who had already declared himself to have been "accused" and "judged" by heaven, announced that he had been condemned: _justo dei judicio condamnatus sum_. witness of this terrible scene, st. bruno renounced the world, did penance, became a monk, and founded the order of les chartreux. the incident has been depicted by lesueur, who received a commission to record on canvas the principal events in the life of the saint. it is looked upon as certain by the historians of paris that the cathedral of notre dame stands on the site formerly occupied by a heathen temple. but how and when the transformation took place is not known, though the period is marked more or less precisely by the date of the introduction of christianity into france. little confidence, however, is to be placed in those authors who declare that the paris cathedral was founded in the middle of the third century by st. denis, the first apostle of christianity in france; for at the very time when st. denis was preaching the gospel to the parisians the severest edicts were still in force against christians. it cannot, then, be supposed that the officials of the roman empire would have tolerated the erection of a christian church. it can be shown, however, that under the episcopacy of bishop marcellus, about the year , there already existed a christian church in the city of paris, on the borders of the seine and on the eastern point of the island, where a roman temple had formerly stood. towards the end of the sixth century the cathedral was composed of two edifices, close together, but quite distinct. one of these was dedicated to the virgin, the other to st. stephen the martyr. gradually, however, the church of our lady was extended and developed until it touched and embraced the church of st. stephen. the church of st. mary, as many called it, was the admiration of its time. its vaulted roofs were supported by columns of marble, and venantius fortunatus, bishop of poitiers, declares that this was the first church which received the rays of the sun through glass windows. more than once it is said to have been burnt during the incursions of the normans. but this is a matter of mere tradition, and the destruction of the cathedral by fire, whether it ever occurred or not, is held in any case to have been only partial. in the twelfth century notre dame was, it is true, known as the "new church." this appellation, however, served only to distinguish it from the smaller church of st. stephen (st. etienne), which had been left in its original state, without addition or renovation. the plan of the cathedral has, like that of other cathedrals, been changed from century to century; but in spite of innumerable modifications, the original plan asserts itself. from the fourteenth to the seventeenth century the church of notre dame was left nearly untouched. then, however, in obedience to the wishes of louis xiii., it was subjected to a whole series of pretended embellishments, for which "mutilations" would be a fitter word. in the eighteenth century, between the years and , damaging "improvements," and "restorations" of the most destructive kind, were introduced; until at the time of the revolution the idea was entertained of depriving the venerable edifice altogether of its religious character. the outside statues were first threatened, but chaumette saved them by dwelling upon their supposed astronomical and mythological importance. he declared before the council of the commune that the astronomer dupuis (author of "l'origine de tous les cultes") had founded his planetary system on the figures adorning one of the lateral doors of the church. in conformity with chaumette's representations, the commune spared all those images to which a symbolic significance might be attached, but pulled down and condemned the statues of the french kings which ornamented the gallery and the principal façade. the cathedral at the same time lost its name. temple of reason it was now, until the re-establishment of public worship, to be called. then new mutilations were constantly perpetrated, until at last, in , the work of restoring the cathedral was placed in competent hands, when, thanks to the learning, the labour, and the taste of mm. lassus and viollet-leduc, notre dame was made what it still remains--one of the most magnificent specimens of mediæval architecture to be found in europe. why describe the ancient monument, when it is so much simpler to represent through drawings and engravings its most characteristic features? some of the most interesting, most curious facts of its history may, however, be appropriately related. the count of toulouse, raymond vii., accused of having supported the albigenses by his arms and of sharing their errors, was absolved in notre dame from the crime of heresy after he had formally done penance in his shirt, with naked arms and feet, before the altar. an attempt was made by a thief to steal from the altar of notre dame its candlesticks. after concealing himself in the roof, the man, aided by other members of his band, let down ropes, and, encircling the silver ornaments, drew them upwards to his hiding-place. in performing this exploit, however, he set fire to the hangings of the church, by which much damage was caused. the interior of notre dame has in different centuries been turned to the most diverse purposes. here at one time, in view of church festivals, vendors of fruits and flowers held market. at other times religious mysteries, and even mundane plays, have been performed; while in the thirteenth century the paris cathedral was the recognised asylum of all who suffered in mind or body. a particular part of the building was reserved for patients, who were attended by physicians in holy orders. it was provided by a special edict that this hospital within a church should be kept lighted at night by ten lamps. all attempts, however, to keep order were in vain; and in consequence of the noise made by the invalids while religious service was going on, they were, one and all, excluded from the cathedral. during the troubles caused by the captivity of king john the citizens of paris made a vow to offer every year to our lady a wax candle as long as the boundary-line of the city. every year the municipal body carried the winding taper, with much pomp, to the church of notre dame, where it was received by the bishop and the canons in solemn assembly. the pious vow was kept for five hundred and fifty years, but ceased to be fulfilled at the time of the religious wars and of the league. in paris had gained such dimensions that the ancient vow could scarcely be renewed, and in place of it, françois miron, the celebrated provost of the merchants, offered a silver lamp, made in the form of a ship (principal object in the arms of paris), which he pledged himself to keep burning night and day. in notre dame, too, were suspended the principal flags taken from the enemy, though it was only during war time that they were thus exhibited. when peace returned, the flags were put carefully out of sight. notre dame, while honouring peace, was itself the scene of frequent disturbances, caused by quarrels between high religious functionaries on questions of precedence. these disputes often occurred when the representatives of foreign powers wished to take a higher position than in the opinion of their hosts was due to them. it must be noted, too, that at notre dame king henry vi. of england, then ten years old, was crowned king of france. under the regency the cathedral of paris was the scene of one of the most daring exploits performed by cartouche's too audacious band. a number of the robbers had entered the church in the early morning, and had succeeded in climbing up and concealing themselves behind the tapestry of the roof. their pockets were filled with stones, and at a pre-concerted signal, just as the priest began to read the first verse of the second psalm in the service of vespers, they shouted in a loud voice, threw their missiles among the congregation, and cried out that the roof was falling in. a frightful panic ensued, during which the confederates of the thieves overhead helped themselves to watches, purses, and whatever valuables they could find on the persons of the terrified worshippers. it was at notre dame, on the th of november, , that the feast of reason was celebrated, the goddess of reason being impersonated by a well-known actress, the beautiful mlle. maillard. the space in front of notre dame was at one time the scene of as many executions as the place de grève, which afterwards became and for some centuries remained the recognised execution ground of the french capital. it was on the place de grève that victor hugo's heroine, the charming esmeralda, suffered death, while the odious monk, claude frollo, gazed upon her with cruel delight, till the bell-ringer, quasimodo, who, in his own humbler and purer way, loved the unhappy gipsy girl, seized him with his powerful arms, and flung him down headlong to the flags at the foot of the cathedral. in , under the reign of henry iv., dominique miraille, an italian, and a lady of Étampes, his mother-in-law, were condemned to be hanged and afterwards burnt in front of notre dame for the crime of magic. the parisians were astonished at the execution: "for," says l'Étoile, in his _journal_, "this sort of vermin have always remained free and without punishment, especially at the court, where those who dabble in magic are called philosophers and astrologers." with such impunity was the black art practised at this period, that paris contained in , according to the confession of their chief, some , magicians. [illustration: rue du cloÎtre.] the popularity of sorcery in paris towards the end of the sixteenth century is easily accounted for by the fact that kings, queens, and nobles habitually consulted astrologers. catherine de medicis was one of the chief believers in all kinds of superstitious practices; and a column used to be shown in the flower-market from which she observed at night the course of the stars. this credulous and cruel queen wore round her waist a skin of vellum, or, as some maintained, the skin of a child, inscribed with figures, letters, and other characters in different colours, as well as a talisman, prepared for her by the astrologer regnier, an engraving of which may be found in the _journal of henry iii_. by this talisman, composed as it was of human blood, goats' blood, and several kinds of metals melted and mixed together, under certain constellations associated with her birth, catherine imagined that she could rule the present and foresee the future. magic was employed not only for self-preservation, but with the most murderous intentions. when it was used to destroy an enemy, his effigy was prepared in wax; and the thrusts and stabs inflicted upon the figure were supposed to be felt by the original. a gentleman named lamalle, having been executed on the place de grève in , and a wax image, made by the magician cosmo ruggieri, having been found upon him, catherine de medicis, who patronised this charlatan, feared that the wax figure might have been designed against the life of charles ix., and that ruggieri would therefore be condemned to death. lamalle had maintained that the figure was meant to represent the "great princess": queen marguerite, that is to say. but cosmo ruggieri was condemned, all the same, to the galleys; though his sentence--thanks, no doubt, to the personal influence of catherine de medicis--was never executed. nicholas pasquier, who gives a long account of ruggieri in his _public letters_, declares that he died "a very wicked man, an atheist, and a great magician," adding that he made another wax figure, on which he poured all kinds of venoms and poisons in order to bring about the death of "our great henry." but he was unable to attain his end; and the king, "in his sweet clemency, forgave him." when, after the barricades, henry iii. left paris, the priests of the league erased his name from the prayers of the church, and framed new prayers for those princes who had become chiefs of the league. they prepared at the same time images of wax, which they placed on many of the altars of paris, and then celebrated forty masses during forty hours. at each successive mass the priest, uttering certain mystic words, pricked the wax image, until finally, at the fortieth mass, he pierced it to the heart, in order to bring about the death of the king. thirteen years later, under the reign of henry iv., the duke de biron, who had his head cut off in the bastille, publicly accused laffin, his confidant and denunciator, of being in league with the devil, and of possessing wax figures which spoke. marie de medicis employed, even whilst in exile, a magician named fabroni, much hated by richelieu, for whom fabroni had predicted a speedy death. it was in front of notre dame that by order of the princes, dukes, peers, and marshals of france, assembled in the grand chamber of parliament, damiens was condemned to do penance before being tortured and torn to pieces. he was to be tormented, by methods no matter how barbarous, until he revealed his accomplices, and was also required to make the _amende honorable_ before the principal door of notre dame. thither, in his shirt, he was conveyed on a sledge, with a lighted wax candle in his hand weighing two pounds; and there he went down on his knees, and confessed that "wickedly and traitorously he had perpetrated the most detestable act of wounding the king in the right side with the stab of a knife"; that he repented of the deed, and asked pardon for it of god, of the king, and of justice. after this he was to be carried on the sledge to the place de grève, where, on the scaffold, he was to undergo a variety of tortures, copied from those appointed for the punishment of ravaillac. finally, his goods were to be confiscated, the house where he was born pulled down, and his name stigmatised as infamous, and for ever forbidden thenceforth, under the severest penalties, to be borne by any french subject. [illustration: apsis of notre dame.] damiens had been educated far above his rank. his moral character, however, was peculiarly bad. his life had been one perpetual oscillation between debauchery and fanaticism. his changeableness of disposition was noticed during his imprisonment at versailles. sometimes he seemed thoroughly composed, as though he had suffered nothing and had nothing to suffer; at other times he burst into sudden and vehement passions, and attempted to kill himself against the walls of his dungeon or with the chains on his feet. as in one of his furious fits he had tried to bite off his tongue, his teeth were all drawn, in accordance with an official order. when the sentence was read to him, damiens simply remarked, "la journée sera rude." every kind of torture was applied to him to extort confessions. his guards remained at his side night and day, taking note of the cries and exclamations which escaped him in the midst of his sufferings. but damiens had nothing to confess, and on the th of january he was carried, with his flesh lacerated and charred by fire, his bones broken, to the place of execution. immediately after his self-accusation in front of notre dame he was taken to the place de grève, where the hand which had held the knife was burnt with the flames of sulphur. then he was torn with pincers in the arms and legs, the thighs and the breast, and into his wounds were poured red hot lead and boiling oil, with pitch, wax, and sulphur melted and mixed. the sufferer endured these tortures with surprising energy. he cried out from time to time, "lord, give me patience and strength." "but he did not blaspheme," says barbier, in his narrative of the scene, "nor mention any names." the end of the hideous tragedy was the dismemberment. the four traditional horses were not enough. two more were added, and still the operation did not advance. then the executioner, filled with horror, went to the neighbouring hôtel de ville to ask permission to use "the axe at the joints." he was, according to barbier, sharply rebuked by the king's attendants, though in an account of the tragedy contributed at the time to the _gentleman's magazine_ (and derived from the gazettes published in holland, where there was no censorship), the executioner was blamed for having delayed the employment of the axe so long. there are conflicting accounts, too, as to the burning of the prisoner's calves. it was said on the one hand that the _garde des sceaux_, machault, caused red hot pincers to be applied in his presence to damiens' legs at the preliminary examination; but another version declares this to be a mistake, and ascribes the burning of his legs to the king's attendants, who, seeing their master stabbed, are represented as punishing the assassin by the unlikely method of applying torches to his calves. the torture of damiens lasted many hours, and it was not till midnight, when both his legs and one of his arms had been torn off, that his remaining arm was dragged from the socket. the life of the poor wretch could scarcely have lasted so long as did the execution of the sentence passed upon him. a report of the trial was published by the registrar of the parliament; but the original record being destroyed, it is impossible to test the authenticity of this report. it fills four small volumes, and is entitled "pièces originales et procèdures du procès fait à robert françois damiens, paris, ." ivan the terrible, when his digestion was out of order, and he felt unequal to the effort of breakfasting, used to revive his jaded appetite by visiting the prisons and seeing criminals tortured. george selwyn claimed to have made amends for his want of feeling in attending to see lord lovat's head cut off by going to the undertaker's to see it sewn on again, when, in presence of the decapitated corpse, he exclaimed with strange humour, and in imitation of the voice and manner of the lord chancellor at the trial:--"my lord lovat, your lordship may rise." this dilettante in the sufferings of others is known to have paid a visit to paris for the express purpose of seeing damiens torn in pieces. on the day of the execution, according to mr. jesse ("george augustus selwyn and his contemporaries"), "he mingled with the crowd in a plain undress and bob wig," when a french nobleman, observing the deep interest he took in the scene, and supposing from the simplicity of his attire that he was a person of the humbler ranks in life, chose to imagine that the stranger must infallibly be an executioner. "eh, bien, monsieur," he said, "êtes-vous arrivé pour voir ce spectacle?" "oui, monsieur." "vous êtes bourreau?" "non, non, monsieur, je n'ai pas cet honneur; je ne suis qu'un amateur." wraxall tells the story somewhat differently. "selwyn's nervous irritability," he says, "and anxious curiosity to observe the effect of dissolution on men, exposed him to much ridicule, not unaccompanied with censure. he was accused of attending all executions, disguised sometimes, to elude notice, in female attire. i have been assured that in (or ) he went over to paris expressly for the purpose of witnessing the last moments of damiens, who expired in the most acute tortures for having attempted the life of louis xv. being among the crowd, and attempting to approach too near the scaffold, he was at first repulsed by one of the executioners, but having explained that he had made the journey from london solely with a view to be present at the punishment and death of damiens, the man immediately caused the people to make way, exclaiming at the same time:--'faites place pour monsieur; c'est un anglais et un amateur.'" according to yet another story on this doleful subject, for which horace walpole is answerable, the paris executioner, styled "monsieur de paris," was surrounded by a number of provincial executioners, "monsieur de rouen," "monsieur de bordeaux," and so on. selwyn joined the group, and on explaining to the paris functionary that he was from london, was saluted with the exclamation, "ah, monsieur de londres!" among the minor celebrations of which the interior of notre dame has been the scene may be mentioned a mass said some twenty years before the revolution for the broken arm of the famous dancer, madeleine guimard. one evening, when the fascinating madeleine was performing in _les fêtes de l'hymen et de l'amour_, a heavy cloud fell from the theatrical heavens upon one of her slender arms and broke it. then it was that the services of the church were invoked on behalf of the popular _ballerina_. the interesting and graceful, though far from beautiful, madeleine, was justly esteemed by the clergy; for during the severe winter of she had given to every destitute family in her neighbourhood enough to live on for a year, at the same time paying personal visits to each of them. "not yet magdalen repentant, but already magdalen charitable!" exclaimed a famous preacher, in reference to madeleine guimard's good action. "the hand," he added, "which knows so well how to give alms will not be rejected by st. peter when it knocks at the gate of paradise." the paris cathedral has, strangely enough, been the scene, both in ancient and modern times, of dramatic performances. there, in the olden days, "mysteries" were represented; and there, in , a melodrama was played, entitled "the taking of the bastille," and described as "specially written for notre dame." this performance was followed by a grand te deum, sung by members of the opera, though one of the first effects of the revolution was to drive the best singers away from paris. soon afterwards, music, history, and religion were once more to be intermingled. this was in august, . when the last day of the french monarchy (august ) was at hand. the most imposing ceremony ever witnessed within the walls of notre dame was, as before said, the coronation of napoleon bonaparte, at the hands of the pope, on sunday, the nd december, . the holy father set out with his retinue at ten o'clock in the morning, and much earlier than the emperor, in order that the ecclesiastical and royal processions should not clash. he was accompanied by a numerous body of clergy, gorgeously attired and resplendently ornamented, whilst his escort consisted of detachments of the imperial guard. a richly decorated portico had been erected all around the place notre dame to receive on their descent from the royal carriages the sovereigns and princes who were to proceed to the ancient basilica. already, when the pope entered the church, there were assembled within it the deputies of the towns, the representatives of the magistracy and the army, the sixty bishops, with their clergy, the senate, the legislative body, the council of state, the princes of nassau, hesse, and baden, the arch-chancellor of the germanic empire, and the ministers of the different european powers. the great door of notre dame had been closed, because the back of the imperial throne was placed against it. the church, therefore, was entered by the side doors, situated at the two extremities of the transept. when the pope, preceded by the cross and by the insignia of his office, appeared, the whole assembly rose from their seats, and a body of five hundred instrumentalists and vocalists gave forth with sublime effect the sacred chant, _tu es petrus_. the pope walked slowly towards the altar, before which he knelt, and then took his place on a throne that had been prepared for him to the right of the altar. the sixty prelates of the french church presented themselves in succession to salute him, and the arrival of the imperial family was now awaited. the cathedral had been magnificently adorned. hangings of velvet, sprinkled with golden bees, descended from roof to pavement. at the foot of the altar stood two plain arm-chairs which the emperor and empress were to occupy before the ceremony of crowning. at the western extremity of the church, and just opposite the altar, raised upon a staircase of twenty-four steps and placed between imposing columns, stood an immense throne--an edifice within an edifice--on which the emperor and empress were to seat themselves when crowned. [illustration: the leaden spire, notre dame.] the emperor did not arrive until considerably after the hour appointed, and the position of the pope was a painful one during this long delay, which was due to the excessive precautions taken to prevent the two processions from getting mixed. the emperor set out from the tuileries in a carriage which seemed entirely made of glass, and which was surmounted by gilt genii bearing a crown. he was attired in a costume designed expressly for the occasion, in the style of the sixteenth century. he wore a plumed hat and a short mantle. he was not to assume the imperial robes until he had entered the cathedral. escorted by his marshals on horseback, he advanced slowly along the rue st. honoré, the quays of the seine, and the place notre dame, amidst the acclamations of immense crowds, delighted to see their favourite general at last invested with imperial power. on reaching the portico, already spoken of, napoleon alighted from his carriage and walked towards the cathedral. beside him was borne the grand crown, in the form of a tiara, modelled after that of charlemagne. up to this point napoleon had worn only the crown of the cæsars: a simple golden laurel. having entered the church to the sound of solemn music, he knelt, and then passed on to the chair which he was to occupy before taking possession of the throne. the ceremony then began. the sceptre, the sword, and the imperial robe had been placed on the altar. the pope anointed the emperor on the forehead, the arms, and the hands; then blessed the sword, with which he girded him, and the sceptre, which he placed in his hand; and finally proposed to take up the crown. napoleon, however, saved him all possible trouble in the matter by crowning himself. "this action," says m. thiers, in his description of the ceremony, "was perfectly appreciated by all present, and produced an indescribable effect," though it may be doubted whether in crowning himself napoleon departed from the traditional practice at imperial coronations. we have at all events in our own time seen, at several coronations, emperors, and even kings, assert the autocratic principle by taking the crown from the hands of the officiating prelate to place it on their own head without his aid. napoleon, taking the crown of the empress, now approached josephine, and as she knelt before him, placed it with visible tenderness upon her head, whereupon she burst into tears. he next proceeded towards the grand throne, and, as he ascended it, was followed by his brothers, bearing the train of his robe. then the pope, according to custom, advanced to the foot of the throne to bless the new sovereign, and to chant the very words which greeted charlemagne in the basilica of st. peter, when the roman clergy suddenly proclaimed him emperor of the west: "vivat in æternum semper augustus!" at this chant shouts of "vive l'empereur!" resounded through the arches of notre dame, while the thunder of cannon announced to all paris the solemn moment of napoleon's consecration. the coronation of napoleon has been made the subject of a masterpiece by david, whose work may be seen, and with interest studied, in the galleries of versailles. the moment chosen by the painter is that at which the emperor, after crowning himself with his own hands, is about to place the crown on the head of josephine, in presence of the pope, the cardinals, the prelates, the princes, the princesses, and the great dignitaries of the empire. there are no less than figures in this composition, and the portraits, conscientiously painted, are, for the most part, very like. the two principal figures occupy the centre of the picture. napoleon is standing up on one of the steps of the altar, clad in a long tunic of white satin and a heavy cloak of crimson velvet sprinkled with golden bees. his hands are raised in the air, holding the crown which he is about to place on the head of the empress. josephine is kneeling on a cushion of violet velvet, attired in a white dress, above which she wears a crimson cloak sprinkled with bees, held up by mme. de la rochefoucauld, and mme. de lavalette, both in white dresses. behind the emperor is the pope, seated in an arm-chair and holding up his right hand in sign of blessing. david had originally represented pius vii. with his hands on his knees, as if taking no part in the solemn scene. napoleon, however, insisted on the painter giving him the attitude just described. "i did not bring him here from such a distance to do nothing!" he exclaimed. [illustration: gargoyles in the sacristy, notre dame.] "in his picture of the coronation," says m. arsène houssaye, "david, carried away by his enthusiasm, has reached the inaccessible summits of the ideal. his napoleon is radiant with health, strength, and genius. the face of josephine beams with conjugal tenderness and exquisite grace. the group formed by the pope and the clergy is exceedingly fine." the execution of this picture occupied david four years. when it was finished napoleon went to see it, not, by any means, for the first time, and said to the painter: "very good; very good indeed, david. you have exactly seized my idea. you have made me a french knight. i am obliged to you for transmitting to future ages the proof of an affection i wished to give to her who shares with me the responsibilities of government." when the picture was exhibited a friendly critic pointed out to the painter that he had made the empress younger and prettier than she really was. "go and tell her so!" was the reply. chapter v. st.-germain-l'auxerrois. the massacre of st. bartholomew--the events that preceded it--catherine de medicis--admiral coligny--"the king-slayer"--the signal for the massacre--marriage of the duc de joyeuse and marguerite of lorraine. one of the oldest and most interesting churches in paris is that of st. germain l'auxerrois, which, dating from the last days of lutetia, before the name of parisius, or paris, had been finally adopted for the gradually expanding city, is closely associated with the most terrible event in french history. still, at the present time, in a perfect state of preservation, it was built about the year ; and just one thousand years afterwards, in , the signal for the massacre of st. bartholomew's day was sounded from its belfry. philip ii., king of spain, pope pius iv., and the guises, especially cardinal de lorraine, were the authors of the massacre. catherine de medicis and her son charles ix., king of france, were but accomplices and executants in the atrocious plot. before speaking of the principal incidents of this ghastly day, a glance is necessary at the events which preceded it. charles ix. and his sister elizabeth, wife of philip ii., had brought together at bayonne, in , all the most distinguished members of the french court. but the dominating figure of the assembly was the too famous duke of alva, worthy confidant and adviser of philip ii. catherine de medicis had frequent conferences with the duke, and in spite of the secrecy with which they were conducted, certain words reached the ear of the prince of béarn, afterwards henry iv., whose extreme youth disarmed all suspicion, but who perceived, nevertheless, that the object of these conversations was to determine the best method of destroying the protestants in france. the young prince hastened to tell the queen of navarre, his mother, and she informed the prince de condé and admiral de coligny, chiefs of the protestant party, who at once took counsel as to how the blow with which they were threatened could be averted. the next year, in , the assembly at moulins furnished an opportunity for bringing about a reconciliation between the catholic house of guise and the protestant house of châtillon. but so little sincerity was there in the compact of peace, that just after the assembly had broken up coligny was apprised that a plot had been formed for his assassination. he complained to the king, and was now more than ever on his guard. the whole of the protestant party became filled with mistrust; and observing this, catherine de medicis determined to strike her blow at once. it was difficult, of course, to raise troops without alarming the huguenots. but it so chanced that an army sent by the king of spain to the low countries was then marching along the french frontiers. as if apprehensive for the safety of her dominions, catherine raised , swiss troops, and after the spaniards had passed towards their destination, marched them to the centre of the kingdom. everything seemed to favour catherine's designs. but someone having informed the calvinists of the peril which threatened them, they assembled in the house of the admiral at châtillon, and there resolved to seize upon the court, which was enjoying the fine weather at monceau, in brie, without the least precaution for its own safety; as though it had nothing to fear from that body of men whose destruction it notoriously meditated. the design of the protestants was to drive away the guises, and place the king and queen at the head of their own party. the attempt, however, failed through the firm attitude of the swiss troops, who repulsed the attack of andelot and la rochefoucauld, and brought the king from meaux to paris surrounded by a strong battalion. the war began again, and the calvinists, commanded by the prince de condé, were defeated, the prince himself being slain, or rather assassinated, during the conflict. he had just surrendered to dargence, when montesquieu, captain of the duke of anjou's guard, on learning who he was, shot him in the head, exclaiming, "tuez! tuez, mordieu!" the prince of béarn now became the chief of the protestant party, and as such, directed their forces at the battle of jarnac, with coligny as second in command. the result of this engagement was a temporary peace, by which certain privileges were granted to the protestants: not to be enjoyed, but simply to inspire a false confidence. it was not so easy to deceive admiral coligny, who, observing that the guises had lost nothing of the influence they exercised over the king and queen, resolved to remain still upon his guard. at last, however, catherine de medicis succeeded in enticing him to the court, and with him the queen of navarre, the prince of béarn, and the foremost chiefs of the protestant party. catherine spoke in a confiding tone to the old admiral about the war she pretended to contemplate against flanders, and the king said to him, with a familiar slap on the shoulder: "i have you now, and don't intend to let you go." flattered by these attentions, he felt secure, though many of his friends still doubted the sincerity of the king and queen. their suspicions were confirmed by the sudden death of the queen of navarre, which was attributed to poison. vainly, however, did they attempt to awaken the brave old admiral to his danger. he had, by express permission of the king, made a journey to châtillon, and many of the protestant chiefs warned and entreated him on no account to return to the court. one of them, langoiran by name, asked the admiral's permission to quit his service. "why?" said coligny, in astonishment. "because," replied langoiran, "they are loading us with caresses, and i would rather fly like a dog than die like a dupe." nothing, however, could disturb the confidence of the admiral, who returned to paris only to throw himself into the arms of his assassins. the young king of navarre, the future henry iv., was about to be married to the sister of the king of france, and the ceremony was to be made the occasion of all kinds of entertainments and festivities. the enemies of the protestants were meanwhile preparing their massacre; and in the first place the death of coligny was resolved upon. when richard iii., in shakespeare's play, says to one of his pages, "know'st thou a murderer?" the ingenuous youth replies-- "i know a ruined gentleman whose humble means match not his haughty tastes." a gentleman of this sort (and it was precisely from such material during the renaissance that murderers were formed) presented himself in la brie, the favourite country of witchery and bedevilment. he was called maurevel, and surnamed, for no obvious reason, "the king-slayer." hired for the purpose, he concealed himself in a house in the rue des fossés saint germain l'auxerrois, whence, just as coligny passed by, on his way from the louvre to dine at his house in rue béthizi, he fired at him with an arquebus, wounding him severely in the left arm and cutting off the forefinger of his left hand. without showing much emotion, coligny pointed to the house from which the shots had proceeded (the arquebus was loaded with several bullets), and tried to get the assassin arrested; but he had already fled. then, leaning on his servants, he finished the journey to his own house on foot. the king was playing at tennis when the news of the infamous act was brought to him. "shall i never have any peace?" he exclaimed, as he threw down his racquet. the admiral's friends resolved to complain at once to the king, and to demand justice. for this purpose henry, king of navarre, accompanied by the prince de condé, went to the palace, when charles replied, with an oath, that he would inflict punishment. it was evident, he added, that a crime of this kind was a threat against the life of the king himself, and that no one would henceforth be safe if it were left unavenged. the king, profanely as he spoke, was sincere; nor had the remotest thought of a massacre yet entered his head. the very day of the attack on coligny he paid a visit of sympathy to the wounded admiral, accompanied by his mother, the duke of anjou, and a brilliant suite. he called him the bravest general in the kingdom, and assured him that his assailant should be terribly punished, and the edict in favour of protestants in france absolutely obeyed. hitherto the queen had not dared to breathe to the king a word of her murderous designs, fearing an explosion of indignation on his part; and charles's first bursts of passion were always terrible. but as they were returning to the louvre from their visit to the admiral she succeeded in frightening her royal son by hinting at the dark and foul projects which she attributed to the admiral. so enraged was the king that she could now fearlessly own to him that everything had taken place by her orders and those of the dukes of anjou and guise. the too credulous charles vowed that in face of such nefarious plots on the part of the protestants, coligny should die, and the huguenots be put wholesale to the sword, so that not one should survive to reproach him with the act. the massacre being thus decided upon, it now only remained to put the infamous project into execution. in a conference at the tuileries between the king, the duke of anjou, the duke of nevers, the count of angoulême, illegitimate brother of the king, the keeper of the seals, birague, marshal de tavanne and count de retz, the slaughter was fixed for sunday, august th, , the day of the feast of st. bartholomew. there was a difference of opinion as to whether the king of navarre, the prince de condé, and the montmorencys should be included in the massacre. then tavanne summoned jean charron, provost of the merchants, and in the king's presence ordered him to arm the citizen companies, and to march them at midnight to the hôtel de ville for active service. [illustration: church of st.-germain-l'auxerrois.] the ferocious impatience of the duke of guise, who had undertaken the murder of coligny, did not allow him to await the signal agreed upon for the massacre. he hurried, at two o'clock in the morning, to the house of the admiral, and ordered the gates to be opened in the name of the king. an officer, commanding the guard stationed in the court-yard to protect the admiral's person, turned traitor, and admitted the assassins with a deferential salute. three colonels in the french army, petrucci, siennois, and besme; a german, a native of picardy named attin, sarlaboux, and a few other gentlemen, rushed up the staircase, shouting, "death to him!" at these words coligny, understanding that his life was as good as lost, got up, and leaning against the wall, was saying his prayers, when the assassins broke into his room. besme advanced towards him. "are you coligny?" he asked, with the point of his sword at the old man's throat. "i am," he replied with calmness; "but will you not respect my age?" besme plunged his sword into the admiral's body, drew it out smoking, and then struck his victim several times in the face. the admiral fell, and besme, hastening to the window, cried out to the catholic noblemen who were waiting in the court-yard, "it is done!" "m. d'angoulême will not believe it till he sees the corpse at his feet," replied the duke of guise. sarlaboux and besme seized the body and threw it into the court-yard. the duke of angoulême wiped the admiral's face with his handkerchief; guise said, "it is really he"; and both of them, after kicking the body with ferocious delight, leaped on horseback, and exclaimed, "courage, soldiers! we have begun well; let us now see to the others. by order of the king!" [illustration: the principal streets of paris.] this crime had scarcely been consummated when the great bell of st.-germain-l'auxerrois gave the signal for the massacre, which soon became general. at the cries and shrieks raised round them, the calvinists came out of their houses, half-naked and without arms, to be slain by the troops of the duke of guise, who himself ran along the streets, shouting "to arms!" and inciting the people to massacre. the butchery was universal and indiscriminate, without distinction of age or sex. the air resounded with the yells of the assassins and the groans of their victims. when daylight broke upon the hideous picture, bodies bathed in gore were everywhere to be seen. dead and dying were collected, and thrown promiscuously into the seine. within the precincts of the palace, the royal guards, drawn up in two lines, killed with battle-axes unhappy wretches who were brought to them unarmed and thrust beneath their very weapons. some fell without a murmur; others protested with their last breath against the treachery of the king, who had sworn to defend them. at daybreak the king went to the window of his bedroom, and seeing some unfortunate protestants making a frantic attempt to escape by swimming across the river, seized an arquebus and fired upon them, exclaiming, "die, you wretches!" marsillac, count de la rochefoucauld, one of the king's favourites, had passed a portion of the night with him, when charles, who had some thought of saving his life, advised him to sleep in the louvre. but he at last let him go, and marsillac was stabbed as he went out. antoine of clermont renel, running away in his shirt, was massacred by his cousin, bussy d'amboise. count teligni, who, ten months before, had married admiral de coligny's daughter, possessed such an agreeable countenance and such gentle manners that the first assassins who entered his house could not make up their minds to strike him. but they were followed by others less scrupulous, who at once put the young man to death. an advocate named taverny, assisted by one servant, resisted at his house a siege which lasted nine hours; though, after exhausting every means of defence, he was at last slain. several noblemen attached to the king of navarre were assassinated in his abode. the prince himself and condé, his cousin, were arrested, and threatened with death. charles ix., however, spared them on their abjuring calvinism. a few days before the massacre caumont de la force had bought some horses of a dealer, who, chancing to be in the immediate neighbourhood when admiral de coligny was assassinated, hastened to inform his customer, well known as one of the protestant leaders, of what had taken place. this nobleman and his two sons lived in the faubourg st.-germain, which was not yet connected with the right bank by any bridge. the horse-dealer, therefore, swam across the seine to warn la force, who, however, had already effected his escape. but as his children were not following him, he returned to save them, and had scarcely set foot in his house when the assassins were upon him. their leader, a man named martin, entered his room, disarmed both father and sons, and told them they must die. la force offered the would-be murderers a ransom of , crowns, payable in two days. the chief accepted, and told la force and his children to place in their hats paper crosses, and to turn back their right sleeves to the shoulder: such being the signs of immunity among the slaughterers. thus prepared, martin conveyed them to his house in the rue des petits champs, and made la force swear that neither he nor his children would leave the place until the , crowns were paid. for additional security, he placed some swiss soldiers on guard, when one of them, touched with compassion, offered to let the prisoners escape. la force, however, refused, preferring, he said, to die rather than fail in his word. an aunt of la force's furnished him with the , crowns, and he was about to count them out to martin, when a french nobleman came to inform la force that the duke of anjou wished to speak to him. on this pretext the emissary conducted both father and sons from the house without their caps: with nothing, that is to say, to distinguish them from the victims of assassination. they were at once set upon. la force's eldest son fell, crying out "_je suis mort._" the father, pierced to the heart, uttered a similar exclamation; on which the youngest la force had the presence of mind to throw himself to the ground as if dead. supposed to be a corpse, he was gradually stripped of his clothes, until a man who intended to steal from him a pair of woollen stockings, of which he had not yet been divested, could not restrain, as he looked upon the boy's pallid face, some expression of sympathy. seeing that the stranger had taken pity on him, young la force whispered that he was not dead. he was told to keep quiet; and the man with a taste for woollen stockings wrapped him up in his cloak and carried him away. "what have you there?" asked an assassin. "my nephew," replied the man. "he went out last night and got dead drunk, and i mean, as soon as i get him home, to give him a good thrashing." young la force made his preserver a present of thirty crowns, and had himself conveyed in safety to the arsenal, of which his uncle, marshal de biron, was governor. the most famous, or rather infamous, of those who took part in the massacre as leaders or principal agents were jean férier, an advocate, and at that time captain of his quarter, peyou, a butcher, and curcé, a goldsmith, who, with upturned sleeves and bloody arms, boasted that huguenots had died beneath his blade. the massacre lasted in paris with diminishing fury for a whole month. it was enacted, moreover, in nearly all the large towns; though in some few the governors refused to execute the orders transmitted to them. at lyons , were killed. here the governor, mandelot by name, finding after several days' massacre that there were still a number of huguenots to slay, ordered the executioner to despatch them; on which that functionary replied that it was his duty to execute criminals convicted of violating the laws of state, but that he was not an assassin, and would not do assassins' work. this spirited reply recalls joseph de maistre's celebrated paradox about the executioner and the soldier: the former putting to death only the worst offenders in virtue of a legal mandate, yet universally loathed; the latter plunging his sword into the body of anyone he is told to slay, yet universally honoured. the explanation of the ingenious paradox is, after all, simple enough. the executioner kills in cold blood, without danger to himself; the soldier risks his life in the performance of his duty. a lyons butcher, less scrupulous than the executioner, killed so many huguenots that, according to dulaure, in his _singularités historiques_, he was invited to dinner by the pope's legate, passing through lyons on his way to paris. the number of huguenots massacred throughout france was estimated at , . though the murders were generally due to fanaticism, many persons were put to death for purely private reasons. heirs killed those from whom they expected to inherit, lovers their rivals, candidates for public offices those whom they wished to replace. on the third day of the massacre charles ix. went to parliament, and avowed that the slaughter of the huguenots had taken place by his command, and in order to anticipate an intended huguenot rising organised by coligny. the parliament accepted this announcement with approval; and despite the absence of all evidence against the admiral, it was decreed that his body should be dragged through the streets on a hurdle, then exhibited in the place de grève, and ultimately hung by the heels on a gibbet at montfaucon. his house was at the same time to be destroyed, the trees in his garden cut down, and the members of his family reduced to the condition of plebeians, or _roturiers_, and declared unable to hold any public office; which, however, did not prevent coligny's daughter from becoming soon afterwards the wife of the prince of orange. not many years after the massacre of st. bartholomew, the church of st.-germain-l'auxerrois, in september, , was the starting-point of a very different series of performances. "on monday, september th," says the writer of a contemporary account, "the duc de joyeuse (henry iii.'s favourite 'minion') and marguerite of lorraine, daughter of nicholas de vaudemont, and sister of the queen, were betrothed in the queen's chamber, and the following sunday were married at three o'clock in the afternoon at the parish church of saint-germain-l'auxerrois. the king led the bride, followed by the queen, the princesses, and other ladies in such superb attire that no one recollects to have seen anything like it in france so rich and so sumptuous. the dresses of the king and of the bridegroom were the same, and were so covered with embroidery, pearls, and precious stones, that it was impossible to estimate their value. such an accoutrement had, for instance, cost ten thousand crowns in the making; and at the seventeen feasts which were now from day to day given by the king to the princes and lords related to the bride, and by other great persons of the court, the guests appeared each time in some new costume, gorgeous with embroidery, gold, silver, and diamonds. the expense was so great, what with tournaments, masquerades, presents, devices, music, and liveries, that it was said the king would not be quit for twelve hundred thousand crowns. on tuesday, october th, the cardinal de bourbon gave his feast in the palace attached to his abbey, st.-germain-des-prés, and caused to be constructed on the seine a superb barque in the form of a triumphal car, which was to convey the king, princes, princesses, and the newly married pair from the louvre to the pré-aux-clercs in solemn pomp. this stately vehicle was to be drawn on the water by smaller boats disguised as sea-horses, tritons, dolphins, whales, and other marine monsters, to the number of twenty-four. in front, concealed in the belly of the said monsters, were a number of skilled musicians, with trumpets, clarions, cornets, violins, and hautboys, besides even some firework-makers, who, at dusk, were to afford pastime not only to the king, but to fifty thousand persons on the banks." the piece, however, was not well played, and it was impossible to make the animals advance as was intended, so that the king, after having from four o'clock in the afternoon till seven watched at the tuileries the movements and workings of these animals without perceiving any effect, said sarcastically, "ce sont des bêtes qui commandent a d'autres bêtes," and drove away with the queen in his coach, to be present at the cardinal's feast, which was the most magnificent of all. among other entertainments, his eminence gave that of an artificial garden, luxuriant with growing flowers and fruits, as if it had been may or august. [illustration: scene during the massacre of st. bartholomew.] on sunday, the th, the queen gave her feast at the louvre, and after the feast the ballet of "circe and her nymphs." this work, otherwise entitled "ballet comique de la reine," was represented in the large salle de bourbon by the queen, the princes, the princesses, and the great nobles of the court. it began at ten o'clock in the evening, and did not finish till three the next morning. the queen and the princesses, who represented the naiads and the nereids, terminated the ballet by a distribution of presents to the princes and nobles, who, in the shape of tritons, had danced with them. for each triton there was a gold medal with a suitable inscription; and the composer, baltazarini--or beaujoyeux, as he was now called--received flattering compliments at the end of the representation from the whole court. his genius was extolled and his glory celebrated in verses which hailed him as one who "from the ashes of greece had revived a new art," who with "divine wit" had composed a ballet, and who had so placed it on the stage that he surpassed himself in the character of "inventive geometrician." on the evening of monday, the th, at eight o'clock, the garden of the louvre was the scene of a torch-lit combat between fourteen whites and fourteen yellows. on tuesday, the th, there were conflicts with the pike, the sword, and the butt end of the lance, on foot and on horseback. on thursday, the th, took place the ballet of the horses, in which spanish steeds, race-horses, and others met in hostile fashion, retired, and turned round to the sound of trumpets and clarions, having been trained to it five months beforehand. "all this," says the chronicler, "was beautiful and agreeable, but the finest feature of tuesday and thursday was the music of voices and instruments, being the most harmonious and most delicate that was ever heard. there were also fireworks, which sparkled and burst, to the fright and joy of everyone, and without injury to any." it was in the church of st.-germain-l'auxerrois, too, three centuries earlier, that a priest astonished his congregation--and afterwards, when the incident was reported, the whole of europe--by his mode of pronouncing the excommunication decreed by pope innocent iv. against the emperor frederick ii. "hearken to me, my brethren," he said. "i am ordered to pronounce a terrible anathema against the emperor frederick to the accompaniment of bells and lighted candles. i am ignorant of the reasons on which this judgment is based. all i know is that discord and hatred exist between the pope and the emperor, and that they are accustomed to overwhelm each other with insults. therefore i excommunicate, as far as lies in my power, the oppressor, and i absolve the one who is suffering a persecution so pernicious to the christian religion." it has been said that a report of this strange excommunication found its way all over europe. the priest, as might have been expected, was rewarded by the emperor and punished by the pope. nearly two centuries later, in , the celebrated actress and singer, sophie arnould, came into the world in the very room in which admiral de coligny was assassinated. sophie arnould, of whose operatic career mention is made elsewhere, was the only french actress of whom garrick, in narrating his experiences of parisian theatrical life, could speak with enthusiasm. as a singer she does not seem to have possessed much power, for she writes in the fragment of her "memoirs" which has come down to us: "nature had seconded my taste for music with a tolerably agreeable voice, weak but sonorous, though not extremely so. it was, however, sound and well balanced, so that, with a good enunciation, and without any noticeable effort, not a word of what i sang was lost even in the most spacious buildings." with regard to her personal appearance, sophie writes: "my figure is slender and regular, though i must admit that i am not tall. i have a graceful frame, and my movements are easy. i possess a well-formed leg and a pretty foot, with hands and arms like a model, eyes well set and an open countenance, lively and attractive." collé, in his "journal and memoirs," declares that soon after her _début_ sophie was the recognised "queen of the opera," and he adds: "i have never yet seen united in the same actress more grace, more truthfulness of sentiment, nobility of expression, intelligence, and fire, never beheld more touching pathos. her physiognomy represents every kind of grief, and while depicting horror her countenance does not lose one feature of its beauty." [illustration: the pont-neuf and the louvre, from the quai des augustins.] chapter vi. the pont-neuf and the statue of henri iv. the oldest bridge in paris--henri iv.--his assassination by ravaillac.--marguerite de valois--the statue of henri iv.--the institute--the place de grève. paris in contained, according to the census of that year, , , inhabitants, of whom , , (or . per cent.) lived on the right bank of the seine. so much more important indeed by the number of its population as well as by its manifestations of life in every form is the right bank than the left, that a man might live all his life in the former division of paris and, without ever having crossed the seine, be held to know the french capital thoroughly. one may indeed be a thorough parisian without ever having quitted the boulevards. ancient paris, as represented by the "cité" of to-day, the paris of the left bank, and the paris of the right bank are bound together by the pont-neuf: the one structure which they have all three in common. the pont-neuf may, therefore, be made a convenient starting-point from which to approach the right bank, the left bank, and finally the "city." the pont-neuf is, in spite of its name, the oldest bridge in paris; and it is almost the only one which retains without alteration its original form. from time to time it has been partially repaired, but the lines on which it was originally constructed were never changed. parisians have for the last three centuries regarded the pont-neuf as the type of solidity; and a parisian who does not aspire to originality in conversation will not hesitate, even to this day, when asked how he is, to reply that he is "as strong as the pont-neuf." the first stone of the bridge was laid on saturday, may , , by king henri iii., in presence of his mother, queen catherine de medicis, his wife, queen louise, and the principal officials of the kingdom. as the king had just been assisting at the obsequies of his favourites, quélus and maugiron, killed in a duel, he was very melancholy, and the bridge acquired everywhere the name of the bridge of tears. the idea of connecting the left bank with the island and the island with the right bank had been entertained by king henri ii. henri iii. undertook to defray the cost of construction. but this he did only in a theoretical way; for three years after his death, in , the chief builder of the bridge, guillaume marchand, was still unpaid. the work, meanwhile, was far from complete, interrupted as it had been by the troubles of the league; and it was not until henri iv. had established his power at paris and throughout france that, in may, , it was resumed. three arches of the principal arm had yet to be reared, and it was only in that the king was able to perform the ceremony of crossing the bridge from left bank to right; part of the journey even then having to be made on a temporary plank, so insecurely fixed that it was by a mere piece of royal luck that the venturesome monarch did not go over into the seine. in undertaking the hazardous passage, he indicated to the friends who tried to dissuade him his belief in the "divinity that doth hedge a king;" and he, in any case, failed on this perilous occasion either to break his neck or drown. the builder of the pont-neuf, guillaume marchand, was also its architect: so, at least, asserts his epitaph in the church of st. gervais: "the celebrated architect," he is called, "who created two admirable works: the royal castle of st. germain and the pont-neuf of paris." marchand, however, died in , so that although the bridge may have been originally planned by him, it is quite possible that the design may have been completed by another hand, and that the official title of "architect to the bridge" may have belonged to baptiste du cerceau, for whom it is often claimed. what is called the pont-neuf consists really of two bridges: one connecting the left bank with the island, the other stretching from the opposite side of the island shore to the right bank. according to its original plan, the pont-neuf, like all the old paris bridges, was to support a number of houses for which cellars had been constructed beforehand among the piles on which the bridge rested. henri iv., however, refused to allow the intended houses to be built, determined not to spoil the view of the louvre, which he had just constructed. many years afterwards, however, in the reign of louis xv., a number of little shops were raised on the pont-neuf, occupied by match-sellers, sellers of hot and cold drinks, dog-shearers, second-hand booksellers, chestnut-roasters, makers of pancakes and apple fritters, shoeblacks, quacks, and musicians more or less blind. these shops and stalls were maintained until the first days of the second empire, when they disappeared. henri iv. was determined to proclaim to future ages his connection with the bridge of which he considered himself in some sense the author; and on its completion he adorned it with an equestrian statue of himself in bronze which is almost as celebrated as the bridge itself. the statue stands on the promontory of the island between the two spans of the structure; and from this point a magnificent view may be obtained of the course of the seine above and below bridge. the original statue was the work of jean de bologne, and of his pupil, pierre tacca. it was unveiled on august rd, , at which time the corners of the pedestal were adorned by four slaves, since removed, but still preserved in the museum of the louvre. three years later the populace dragged to the pont-neuf the maimed and lacerated body of marshal d'ancre, and having cut it into pieces, burnt it before the statue. the so-called marshal d'ancre--concini, by his family name--had come to paris in the suite of marie de medicis, wife of henri iv. he married one of the queen's attendants, and by intrigues and speculations of every kind succeeded in gaining a position of great influence, together with enormous wealth. he was known to be guilty of all sorts of abuses, and was suspected of having been privy to some of the attempts made upon the life of henri iv. on the accession of louis xiii., after the assassination of henri iv. by ravaillac, an ambush, not without the knowledge of louis xiii., was laid for the marshal; and, to the delight of the people of paris, he fell into it. according to a legend of the period, his heart, after he had been slain, was cut out, roasted, and eaten! henri iv., the first of the royal house of bourbon, was the greatest of all the french kings, and at least the best of the kings of the bourbon line. such faults as undoubtedly belonged to him seem to have had no effect but to increase his popularity; perhaps because, in a degree, they belonged also to the great mass of his subjects. this doubtful husband, good friend, and excellent ruler, beloved with warmth by his subjects, was nevertheless made the object of numerous attempts at assassination, the last of which proved fatal. his would-be murderers were for the most part religious fanatics--as dangerous in that day as the fanatics of revolution in ours; and to this class belonged ravaillac, at whose hands henri was destined to perish. francis ravaillac, the son of an advocate, was born and educated at angoulême. when very young, he lived with one rosières, also a lawyer, whom he served as clerk and valet. he afterwards lived with other legal practitioners, and at length, on the death of his last master, conducted lawsuits for himself. this profession he continued for several years, but to such small advantage that he finally quitted it, and gained his living by teaching. at this time his father and mother lived apart, and were so indigent that both subsisted chiefly on alms. ravaillac, now thirty years old, and unmarried, lodged with his mother, and, becoming insolvent, was thrown into prison for debt. [illustration: by the pont-neuf.] he was naturally of a gloomy disposition, and while under the depression of trouble was subject to the strangest hallucinations. in prison he often believed himself surrounded with fire, sulphur, and incense; and such fancies continued after he was released. he asserted that on the saturday night after christmas, , having made his meditations, as he was wont, in bed, with his hands clasped and his feet crossed, he felt his mouth and face covered by some invisible agent, and was at the same time urged by an irresistible impulse to sing the psalms of david. he therefore chanted the psalms "dixit dominus," "miserere," and "de profundis" quite through, and declared that he seemed to have a trumpet in his mouth, which made his voice as shrill and loud as that instrument in war. [illustration: seine fishers.] whilst his mind was thus unhinged by fanaticism, he often reflected on the king's breach of promise in not compelling the huguenots to return to the catholic church, and determined to go to paris to admonish him to neglect this duty no longer. arrived at paris, he went frequently to the louvre, and in vain begged many persons to introduce him to his majesty. one of those applied to was father daubigny, a jesuit, whom he informed not only of his desire to speak to the king, but of his wish to join the famous order. daubigny advised him to dismiss all these thoughts from his mind and to confine himself to bead-telling and prayer; but ravaillac profited little by the counsel, and, under the conviction that henri ought to make war on the huguenots, took to loitering constantly about the court, in hope of a chance interview with his majesty. [illustration: quai du louvre.--Île de la citÉ.--l'institut. view from the pavillon de flore.] some days later he happened to meet the king driving in a coach near st. innocents' church. his desire to speak to him grew more ardent at the prospect of success, and he ran up to the coach, exclaiming, "sire, i address you in the name of our lord jesus and of the blessed virgin." but the king put him back with his stick, and would not hear him. after this repulse, despairing of being able to influence his majesty by admonition, he determined to kill him. but he could come to no decision as to the mode of executing his design, and after a time returned to angoulême. [illustration: the pont-neuf and the mint.] he continued in a state of intense anxiety, sometimes considering his project of assassination as praiseworthy, sometimes as unlawful. shortly afterwards he attended mass in the monastery of the franciscan friars at angoulême, and going afterwards to confession, admitted, among other things, an intention to murder, though without saying that henri was the proposed victim. nor did the confessor inquire as to the details of the crime. still restless and disturbed, ravaillac went back to paris, and on entering the city, found his desire to kill the king intensified. he took lodgings close to the louvre: but not liking his rooms, went to an inn in the neighbourhood to see if accommodation could be had there. the inn was full; but whilst ravaillac conversed with the landlord, his eye happened to be attracted by a knife, sharp-pointed and double-edged, that lay on the table; and it occurred to him that here was a fit instrument for his purpose. he accordingly took occasion to convey it away under his doublet, and having had a new handle made for it, carried it about in his pocket. but he faltered in his resolution, and abandoning it once more, set out on his way home. as he went along he somehow broke the point of his knife. at an inn where he stopped for refreshment he heard some soldiers talking about a design on the part of the king to make war against the pope, and to transfer the holy see to paris. on this, his determination returned strong upon him and going out of the inn, he gave his knife a fresh point by rubbing it against a stone, and then turned his face towards paris. arrived at the capital a third time, he felt an inclination to make a full confession of his design to a priest; and would have done so had he not been aware that the church is obliged to divulge any secrets which concern the state. henceforth he never once relinquished his purpose. but he still felt such doubts as to whether it were not sinful that he would no longer receive the sacrament, lest, harbouring his project all the while, he should unworthily eat. without hope of gaining admission to the king in his palace, he now waited for him with unwearied assiduity at the gates. at last, on the th of may, , he saw him come out in a coach, and followed him for some distance, until the vehicle was stopped by two carts, which happened to get in the way. here, as the king was leaning his head to speak to m. d'epernon, who sat beside him, ravaillac, in a frenzy, fancied he heard a voice say to him, "now is the time; hasten, or it will be too late!" instantly he rushed up to the coach, and standing on a spoke of the wheel, drew his knife and struck the king in the side. finding, however, the knife impeded by one of the king's ribs, he gave him another--and this time a fatal--blow near the same place. the king cried out that he was slain, and ravaillac was seized by a retired soldier of the guard. when searched, he was found to have upon him a paper painted with the arms of france, and with a lion on each side, one holding a key, the other a sword. above he had written these words: "the name of god shall not be profaned in my presence." there was also discovered a rosary and a piece of a certain root in the shape of a heart, which he had obtained as a charm against fever from the capuchins, who assured him that it had inside it a piece of the real cross of the saviour. "this, however," says an ingenuous chronicler, "when the heart was broken, proved to be false." ravaillac was first examined by the president of the parliament and several commissioners as to his motives for committing the crime, and as to whether he had accomplices. during the interrogation he often wept, and said that though at the time he believed the assassination to be a meritorious action, he now felt convinced that this was a delusion into which he had been suffered to fall as a punishment for his sins. he expressed the deepest contrition for his offence, and implored the almighty to give him grace to continue till death in firm faith, lively hope, and perfect charity. he denied that he had any confederate, and on being requested to say at whose instigation he did the deed, replied indignantly that it originated entirely with himself, and that for no reward would he have slain his king. he answered all other questions with great calmness and humility, and when he signed his confession, wrote beneath the signature these lines:-- "que toujours en mon coeur jésus soit le vainqueur." in spite, however, of ravaillac's protests, at this and at a subsequent examination, that he was quite without advisers, abettors, or accomplices, the examiners would not believe him, and he was ordered to be put to the torture of the _brodequin_, or boot. this instrument, like its english counterpart, was a strong wooden box, made in the form of a boot, just big enough to contain both the legs of the criminal. when his legs had been enclosed, a wedge was driven in with a mallet between the knees; and after this had been forced quite through, a second, and even a third wedge was employed in the same way. ravaillac, having been sworn, was placed on a wooden bench, when the _brodequin_ was fitted to his legs. on the first wedge being driven in, he cried out: "god have mercy upon my soul and pardon the crime i have committed; i never disclosed my intention to anyone." when the second wedge was applied he uttered horrid cries and shrieks, and exclaimed: "i am a sinner: i know no more than i have declared. i beseech the court not to drive my soul to despair. oh god! accept these torments in satisfaction for my sins." a third wedge was then driven in lower, near his feet, on which his whole body broke into a sweat. being now quite speechless, he was released, water was thrown in his face, and wine forced down his throat. he soon recovered by these means, and was then conducted to chapel by the executioner. but religious exhortation only caused him to repeat once more that he had no associate of any kind in connection with his crime. at three in the afternoon of the th of may, , he was brought from the chapel and put into a tumbril, the crowd in all directions being so great that it was with the utmost difficulty that the archers forced a passage. as soon as the prisoner appeared before the public gaze he was loaded with execrations from every side. after he had ascended the scaffold he was urged by two spiritual advisers to think of his salvation while there was time, and to confess all he knew; but he answered precisely as before. as there seemed to be a prospect of the murderer getting absolution from the church, a great outcry was raised, and many persons cried out that he belonged to the tribe of judas, and must not be forgiven either in this world or the next. ravaillac argued the point thus raised, maintaining that having made his confession he was entitled to absolution, and that the priest was bound by his office to give it. the priest replied that the confession had been incomplete, and, therefore, insincere, and that absolution must be refused until ravaillac named his accomplices. the criminal declared once more that he had no accomplices; and it was at last arranged that he should be absolved on certain conditions. "give me absolution," he said: "at least conditionally, in case what i say should be true." "i will," replied the confessor, "on this stipulation: that in case it is not true your soul, on quitting this life--as it must shortly do--goes straight to hell and the devil, which i announce to you on the part of god as certain and infallible." "i accept and believe it," he said, "on that condition." fire and brimstone were then applied to his right hand, in which he had held the knife used for the assassination, and at the same time his breast and other fleshy parts of his body were torn by red-hot pincers. afterwards, at intervals, melted lead and scalding oil were poured into his wounds. during the whole time he uttered piteous cries and prayers. finally, he was pulled in different directions for half-an-hour by four horses, though without being dismembered. the multitude, impatient to see the murderer in pieces, threw themselves upon him, and with swords, knives, sticks, and other weapons, tore, mangled, and finally severed his limbs, which they dragged through the streets, and then burned in different parts of the city. some of these wretches went so far as to cut off portions of the flesh, which they took home to burn quietly by their firesides. apart from his own violent death, more than one tragic story is connected with the memory of henri iv. close to the hôtel de ville stands the hôtel de sens, where, in december, , lived marguerite de valois, the divorced wife of henri iv. already in her fifty-fifth year, this lady had by no means abandoned the levity of her youth. she had two lovers, both of whom were infatuated with her. the one she preferred, saint-julien by name, had a rival in the person of a mere boy of eighteen, named vermond, who had been brought up beneath the queen's eyes. on the th of april, , marguerite, returning from mass, drove up to the hôtel de sens at the very moment when vermond and saint-julien were quarrelling about her. saint-julien rushed to open the carriage door, when vermond drew a pistol and shot him dead. the queen "roared," according to a contemporary account, "like a lioness." "kill him!" she cried. "if you have no arms, take my garter and strangle him." the people whom her majesty was addressing contented themselves with pinioning the young man. the next morning a scaffold was raised before the hôtel de sens, and vermond had his head cut off in the presence of marguerite, who, from one of the windows of her mansion, looked on at the execution. then her strength gave way, and she fainted. the same evening she quitted the hôtel de sens, never to return to it. at the time of the revolution the mob attacked the statue of henri iv. on the pont-neuf, overturned it from its pedestal, and virtually destroyed it. the present monument was erected by public subscription after the restoration in , and on the th of august, , was inaugurated by louis xviii. in the pedestal is enclosed a magnificent copy of voltaire's epic "la henriade." the low reliefs which adorn the pedestal of this admirable equestrian statue represent, on the southern side, henri iv. distributing provisions in the besieged city of paris; on the northern side, the victorious king proclaiming peace from the steps of notre-dame. it has been said that the pont-neuf is traditionally famous for its solidity. in spite of this doubtless well-deserved reputation, the ancient bridge seemed, in , on the point of giving way. changes in the bed of the river had led to a partial subsidence of two of the arches supporting the smaller arm of the bridge. the necessary repairs, however, were executed, and the bridge's reputation for strength permanently restored. among the many interesting stories told in connection with the pont-neuf may be mentioned one in which a famous actress of the early part of this century, mlle. contat, plays a part. she happened to be out in her carriage, and after a fashion then prevalent among the ladies of paris, was driving herself, when, holding the reins with more grace than skill, she nearly ran over a pedestrian who was crossing the bridge at the same time as herself. in those days, when side-walks for pedestrians were unknown, the whole of the street being given up to people with carriages, it was easy enough to get run over; and mercier, in his "tableau de paris," speaks again and again of the accidents that occurred through the haughty negligence and recklessness of carriage folk, and even of hirers of hackney coaches. a sufferer in these rather one-sided collisions was generally held to be in the wrong, and mlle. contat reproached her victim with having deliberately attempted to throw himself under her horses' feet. the pedestrian took the blame gallantly upon himself, bowed to the ground, offered the lady an apology, paid her a graceful compliment, and disappeared. scarcely had he done so when the actress felt convinced, from his courtly manners and distinguished air, that she must have been on the point of mangling some personage of high rank, and for a long time she felt extremely curious to know who he could be. one night, about a month after the incident, when she was at the theatre, a letter from the gentleman whom she had accused of getting in the way of her horses was delivered to her. he proved to be not merely a person of high quality, as she had guessed, but a real live prince: prince henry, brother of the king of prussia. he was a friend, moreover, of the drama; and he had written to beg "the modern athalie" to do him the honour to preside at the rehearsal of a new piece in which he was interested. partly for the sake of the piece, but principally for that of the man whom she was so near running over, mlle. contat complied with the prince's request. the piece was a comedy, with airs written by baron ernest von manteuffel, and set to music by a composer of the day. the subject was extremely interesting, and mlle. contat saw that this musical comedy might prove an immense success at the théâtre français, where, being duly produced, it fully realised the actress's anticipations. "les deux pages" it was called; and the author, prussian as he was, had written it in the french language, with which at that time the court and aristocracy of prussia were more familiar than with their own tongue. it will be remembered that frederick the great (who, by the way, was the leading personage in "les deux pages") wrote the whole of his very voluminous works in french. [illustration: statue of henri iv. on the pont-neuf.] mercier, in his "tableau de paris," published at london in (its publication would not have been permitted at paris), gives an interesting account of the pont-neuf as it existed in his time. "this," he says, "is the greatest thoroughfare in paris. if you are in quest of anyone, native or foreigner, there is a moral certainty of your meeting with him there in the space of two hours, at the outside. the police-runners are convinced of this truth; here they lurk for their prey, and if, after a few days' look-out, they do not find it, they conclude with a certainty nearly equal to evidence that the bird is flown. the most remarkable monument of popular gratitude may be seen on this bridge--the statue of henri iv. and if the french cannot boast of having in reality a good prince, they may comfort themselves in contemplating the effigy of a monarch whose like they will never see again. at the foot of the bridge, a large phalanx of crimps--commonly called dealers in human flesh--have established their quarters, recruiting for their colonels, who sell the victims wholesale to the king. they formerly had recourse to violent means, but are now only permitted to use a little artifice, such as the employment of soldiers' trulls for their decoy-ducks, and plying with liquors those youngsters who are fond of the juice of the grape. sometimes, especially at martinmas and on shrove tuesday, which are sacred in a peculiar manner to gluttony and drunkenness, they parade about the avenues leading to the bridge, some with long strings of partridges, hares, etc.; others jingling sacks full of half-crowns to tickle the ears of the gaping multitude; the poor dupes are ensnared, and, under the delusion that they are going to sit down to a sumptuous dinner, are in reality hastening to the slaughter-house. such are the heroes picked out to be the support and pillars of the state; and these future great men--a world of conquerors in embryo--are purchased at the trifling price of five crowns a head." among the remarkable incidents which the pont-neuf has witnessed during its three centuries of existence must be mentioned certain amateur robberies, committed by gentlemen of the highest position. the duke of orleans is said to have set the fashion, which, one stormy night, after prolonged libations, was imitated by the chevalier de rieux, the count de rochefort, and a number of friends more unscrupulous than themselves. the count and the chevalier, though the only ones of the party who got arrested, played the mild part of lookers-on, taking their seats on henri iv.'s bronze horse, while the actual work of highway robbery was being done by their companions. in due time, however, after several of the passers-by had been plundered of their cloaks, the watch was called, when the active robbers took to flight, whereas their passive accomplices, unable to get down all at once from the back of the bronze horse, were made prisoners, and kept for some time in confinement. mazarin, indeed, was so glad to have his enemy, the count de rochefort, in his power, that he could scarcely be prevailed upon to let him out at all. [illustration: the institute.] on the left bank of the seine, at the very foot of the pont-neuf, stands the institute of france, with its various academies, of which the most famous is that devoted to literature, the académie française, where, said piron, "there are forty members who have as much learning as four." "this establishment," writes mercier somewhat bitterly, but with much truth, "was set on foot by richelieu, whose every undertaking constantly tended to despotism. nor has he in this institution deviated from the rule, for the academy is manifestly a monarchical establishment. men of letters have been enticed to the capital like the grandees, and with the same object: namely, to keep a better watch over them. the consequence is fatal to the progress of knowledge, because every writer aspiring to a seat in that modern areopagus knows that his success depends on court favour, and therefore does everything to merit this by sacrificing to the goddess of flattery, and preferring mean adulation that brings him academical honours to the useful, manly, and legitimate employment of his talents in the instruction of mankind. hence the academy enjoys no manner of consideration either at home or abroad. paris is the only place where it can support any kind of dignity, though it is even there sorely badgered by the wits of the capital, who, expecting from it neither favour nor friendship, point all their epigrammatical batteries against its members. there is, in fact, but too much room for pleasantry and keen sarcasm. is it not extremely ridiculous that forty men, two-thirds of whom owe their admission to intrigue or fawning, should be by patent created arbiters of taste in literature, and enjoy the exclusive privilege of judging for the rest of their countrymen? but their principal function has been to circulate and suppress new-coined words; regulating the pronunciation, orthography, and idioms of the french language. is this a service or injury to the language? i should think the latter. "instead of becoming, as they ought to do, the oracle of the age and their nation, our men of letters content themselves with being the echo of that dread tribunal; hence the abject state of literature in the capital. we have some, however, who boldly think for themselves, trust to the judgment of the public, and laugh at the award of the academy. nothing can better mark the contempt in which a few spirited writers hold the decrees of the forty forestallers of french wit and refinement than the following epitaph which the author above cited, the terror of voltaire, the scourge of witlings, piron, ordered to be engraved on his tombstone:-- "'cy gît piron, qui ne fut rien, pas même académicien.'" many very distinguished writers have, in every generation since the birth of the academy, been included among its members. very few, however, of the forty members have at any one time been men of genuine literary distinction; a duke who has written a pamphlet, an ambassador who has published a volume, having always had a better chance of election than a popular novelist or dramatist. m. arsène houssaye has written a book entitled "the forty-first chair," which is intended to show, and does show, that the greatest writer of each successive period, from molière to balzac, has always been left out of the academy: has occupied, that is to say, "the forty-first chair." m. alphonse daudet, to judge by his brilliant novel "l'immortel," has no better opinion of the french academy than had arsène houssaye some forty years ago, when his ingenious indirect attack upon the academy was first published. the pont-neuf was, for a considerable time after its first construction, the most important highway in paris. it connected paris of the left bank with paris of the right, and old paris, the so-called cité, with both. it was the only bridge of importance; and what is now the greatest thoroughfare of paris--the line of boulevards--was not yet in existence. the pont-neuf dates from the reign of henri iv.; the boulevards from that of louis xiv. long, moreover, after it had ceased to be fashionable, the pont-neuf remained popular by reason of the vast stream of passengers perpetually crossing it in either direction. it was much in favour with itinerant dealers of all kinds, and equally so with beggars. even in our own time it was on the pont-neuf that _les deux aveugles_ of offenbach deceived the public and exchanged confidences with one another. the plague of beggars is nothing, however, in these days, compared with what it was before the revolution. "who," asks a writer of the latter part of the eighteenth century, "seeing the populace of paris ever merry, and the rich glittering in all the gaudy pomp of luxury, would believe that the streets of the metropolis are infested with swarms of beggars, were not the eye at every turn of the street shocked with some distressing spectacle, truly disgusting to the sight of every stranger who is not lost to all sense of humanity? nothing has yet been done to remove this evil, and the methods hitherto practised have proved to be remedies worse than the disease. amongst the ancients there was a class of people that might be called poor, but none reduced to absolute indigence. the very slaves were clothed, fed, had their friends; nor does any historian say that the towns and streets were full of those wretched, disgusting objects which either excite pity or freeze charity itself: wretches covered with vermin did not then go about the streets uttering groans that reach the very heart, and exhibiting wounds that frighten the eye of every passenger. "this abuse springs from the nature of the legislation itself--more ready to preserve large fortunes than small. let our new schemers say what they will, great proprietors are a nuisance in the state. they cover the lands with forests and stock them with fawns and deer; they lay out pleasure-gardens; and thus the oppression and luxury of the great is daily crushing the most unfortunate part of the community. in the year not only beggars, but even the poorer class of citizens were treated with much savage barbarity by secret orders from the government. in the very dead of night old men, women, and children were suddenly seized upon, deprived of their liberty, and thrown into loathsome gaols, without the assignment of any cause for so cruel a treatment. the pretence was that indigence is the parent of crimes, that seditions generally begin among that class of people who, having nothing to lose, have nought to fear. the ministers who then wished to establish the corn-law dreaded the effect it would have on that world of indigent wretches, driven to despair, as they would be, by the advanced price of bread which was then to be imposed. their oppressors said: 'they must be smothered;' and they were. as this was the most effectual method of silencing them, the government never took the trouble to devise any other. when we cast an eye abroad, it is then we are convinced of the forlorn condition in which our lower sort of people drag out their miserable life. the spaniard can cheaply provide himself with food and raiment. wrapped up in his cloak, the earth is his bed; he sleeps soundly, and wakes without anxiety for his next meal. the italians work little, and are in no want of the necessaries, or even luxuries, of life. the english, well fed, strong and hale, happy and free, reap and enjoy undisturbed the fruits of their industry. the swede is content with his glass of brandy. the russian, whom no foresight disturbs, finds abundance in the bosom of slavery; but the parisians, poor and helpless, sinking under the burden of unremitting toils and fatigue, ever at the mercy of the great, who crush them like vile insects whenever they attempt to raise their voice, earn, at the sweat of their brow, a scanty subsistence, which only serves to lengthen their lives, without leaving them anything to look forward to in their old age but indigence, or, what is worse, part of a bed in the hospital." the pont-neuf was always crowded when anything was coming off on the neighbouring place de grève, where ravaillac was tortured and torn to pieces, and where, in the next century, like horrors were perpetrated upon the body of damiens, who had attacked louis xv. with a pen-knife and inflicted upon him a slight scratch. the place de grève has now lost its old historic name, and is called the place de l'hôtel-de-ville. in the open space where ravaillac and damiens were subjected to such abominable cruelty, and where so many criminals of various kinds and classes were afterwards to be broken and beaten to death, the guillotine was at a later date set up. "the executioner in paris," says mercier (writing just before the revolution of ), "enjoys a revenue of no less than , livres (£ ). his figure is perfectly well known to the populace; he is for them the greatest tragedian. whenever he exhibits they crowd round his temporary stage: our very women, even those whom rank and education should inspire with the mildest sentiments, are not the last to share in the horrid spectacles he provides. i have seen some of these delicate creatures, whose fibres are so tender, so easily shaken, who faint at the sight of a spider, look unconcerned upon the execution of damiens, being the last to avert their eyes from the most dreadful punishment that ever was devised to avenge an offended monarch. the _bourreau_, although his employment brands him with infamy, has no badge to distinguish him from the rest of the citizens; and this is a great mistake on the part of the government, particularly noticeable when he executes the dreadful commands of the law. it is not only ridiculous: it is shocking in the extreme, to see him ascend the ladder, his head dressed and profusely powdered; with a laced coat, silk stockings, and a pair of as elegant pumps as ever set off the foot of the most refined _petit-maître_. should he not be clad in garments more suitable to the minister of death? what is the consequence of so gross an absurdity? a populace not overburdened with the sense of sympathy are all taken up with admiration for the handsome clothes and person of our breakbones. their attention is engrossed by the elegant behaviour and appearance of this deputy of the king of terrors; they have hardly a thought to bestow upon the malefactor, and not one on his sufferings. of course, then, the intention of the law is frustrated. the dreadful example meant to frighten vice from its criminal course has no effect on the mind of the spectator, much more attentive to the point ruffles and the rich clothes of the man whose appearance should concur in adding to the solemnity than to the awful memento set up by a dire necessity to enforce the practice of virtue by showing that he who lives in crime must die in infamy. the executioner, from the stigma inherent to his profession, and of course to himself, cannot hope to form alliances among the other ranks of citizens. the very populace, though as well versed in the history of the hangman and the malefactors as the upper classes are in that of the sovereigns of europe and their ministers, would think it a disgrace to intermarry with his family to the latest generation. it is not many years since the bourreau of paris publicly advertised that he was ready to bestow the hand of his daughter, with a portion of one hundred thousand crowns, on any native frenchman who would accept it, and agree to succeed him in business. the latter clause would have staggered avarice itself; but the executioner of paris was obliged to follow the practice of his predecessors in office, and marry his heiress to a provincial executioner. these gentlemen, in humble imitation of our bishops, take their surnames from the cities where they are settled, and among themselves it is 'monsieur de paris,' 'monsieur de rouen,' etc. etc." [illustration: the pont-neuf from the island.] besides breaking the bones of the criminals entrusted to his charge, torturing them in various ways, and ultimately putting them to death, the executioner, under the old régime, had sometimes to perform upon books, which he solemnly burnt on the place de grève. russia, turkey, and the roman court are now the only powers in europe which maintain a censorship over books. but the custom of burning objectionable volumes, instead of simply pronouncing against them and forbidding their circulation, belongs altogether to the past. plenty of books were forbidden in france under the first and second empire; and when the infamous marquis de sade sent napoleon one of his disgraceful works, the emperor replied by ordering the man to be arrested and confined in a lunatic asylum. under the restoration many a volume was proscribed; but since the great revolution of no government in france has ventured to restore the custom of having a condemned book burnt by the executioner. when, in connection with the contest on the subject of the church's relationship with the stage, a very able pamphlet was published, proving by the laws of france that the excommunication levelled against the stage was an illegal and scandalous imposition, it got condemned to be burnt in the place de grève by the executioner. whereupon voltaire, indignant at the barbarity of such a punishment, brought out, anonymously, another pamphlet in defence of the cremated one, when this, in its turn, was sentenced to the flames. doubtless the writer foresaw the fate of his little volume, for the tract in question contained the suggestive remark that, "if the executioner were presented with a complimentary copy of every work he was ordered to burn, he would soon possess a handsome and very valuable library." "monsieur de paris" was accustomed in his best days to burn live witches as well as newly-published books; and the cremation of these unhappy wretches gave him at times much occupation. [illustration: statue of henry iv. (pont-neuf).--the louvre. view from the western point of the ile de la citÉ.] without by any means introducing magic into france, catherine de medicis did her best to encourage magical practices; and in succeeding reigns the very people who, under her auspices, had cultivated relations with the fiend were punished for their tamperings with the supernatural. catherine patronised astrologers and sorcerers of all kinds; and she was accused of holding in the woods _levées_ of magicians, who arrived at the place of meeting on flying goats, winged horses, or even simple broomsticks. the assembly, according to popular rumour, began at night, and ended with cock-crow. the place selected for the "sabbath" was lighted by a single lamp, which cast a melancholy light, and intensified rather than dispelled the prevailing darkness. the president of the "sabbath" was the fiend in person, who took his seat on a high throne, clad with the skin of a goat or of an immense black poodle. on his right was the solitary lamp, on his left a man or woman who had charge of the powders or ointments which it was customary to distribute among those present. the ointments were supposed to enable the members of these strange associations to recognise one another by the smell. but there is so much that is evidently false and so little that is apparently true in the accounts transmitted to us of these witches' sabbaths, that the only thing worth noting in connection with them is that they possessed the privilege of interesting catherine de medicis. the secret meetings of the templars, the anabaptists, and the albigenses have all been represented as assemblies of sorcerers. in the "history of artois," by dom de vienne, it is said that the inquisition established in the province caused many unfortunate waldenses to be burnt alive in consequence of diabolical practices, "to which," as the inquisition declared, "they themselves confessed." it may well be that the severity of the tortures inflicted on the accused, and the promise held out to them of forgiveness in case of avowal, induced many of them to admit the truth of charges without basis. the province of la brie would seem during the magical times of catherine de medicis to have been inhabited almost entirely by sorcerers--by people, that is to say, who either considered themselves such or were so considered. the shepherds and herdsmen of the province possessed, it was said, the power of putting to death the sheep and cattle of their neighbours by burying various kinds of enchantments beneath the paths along which the animals were sure to pass. some of these wonder-working shepherds were taken and prosecuted, when they confessed in many cases that they had exercised various kinds of bedevilments on the beasts of certain farmers. they made known the composition of their infernal preparations, but refused to state where they were buried, declaring that if they were dug up the person who had deposited them would immediately die. whether the reputed sorcerers possessed the secret of some chemical mixtures which had really an injurious effect on cattle, or whether they were merely actuated by vain fancies, it would be impossible at the present time to say. but many shepherds and herdsmen of la brie were, towards the end of the seventeenth century, condemned and executed for magical practices. thus two shepherds, named biaule and lavaux, were sentenced by the same judge to be hanged and burnt; and the sentence, after being confirmed by the parliament of paris, was put into effect on the th of december, . magical practices have been denounced by more than one church council; nor were incantations and witchcraft supposed by any means to be confined to the ignorant classes. pharamond passed for the son of an incubus; and the mother of clovis for a witch. frédégonde accused clovis, son of her husband chilpéric and a former wife, of sorcery; and it was not until the reign of charlemagne that any endeavour was made to destroy the popular belief in magic. after charlemagne's death witchcraft took a greater hold on the public mind than ever; and ridiculous historians wrote that queen berthe had given birth to a gosling and that bertrade was a witch. philip the bold consulted a sorceress. the madness of charles vi. and the influence exercised upon him by valentine of milan were ascribed to magic; and it was as a witch that the maid of orleans was burnt. chapter vii. the boulevards. from the bastille to the madeleine--boulevard beaumarchais--beaumarchais--the _marriage of figaro_--the bastille--the drama in paris--adrienne lecouvreur--vincennes--the duc d'enghien--duelling--louis xvi. the most important, the most interesting, the most absorbing thoroughfare on the right bank of the seine, and, therefore, in paris generally is that of the boulevards, in which the whole of the gay capital may be said to be concentrated. numbers of parisians pass almost the whole of their life on the boulevard des italiens; or between the boulevard montmartre to the east, and the boulevard de la madeleine to the west of what, to the fashionable parisian, is the central boulevard. nothing can be easier than to breakfast and dine on the boulevards; and it is along their length or in their immediate neighbourhood that not only the best restaurants, but the finest theatres are to be found. stroll about the boulevards for a few hours--an occupation of which the true boulevardier seems never to get tired--and you will meet everyone you know in paris. if, moreover, the upper boulevards, those of the madeleine, the capucines, and the italiens, represent fashionable paris, the lower boulevards, from the boulevard montmartre to the boulevard beaumarchais, represent the paris of commerce and of industry; so that the line of boulevards, as a whole, from the madeleine to the bastille, gives a fair epitome of the french capital. the poorest of the boulevards are at the eastern end of the line, and the richest at the western; and the difference in character between the inhabitants of these opposite extremes is shown by a military regulation instituted under the second empire. neither the district inhabited by the needy workmen of the east nor the western district, where dwelt the richest class of shop-keepers, was allowed to furnish the usual contingent of national guards. the artisans were too turbulent to be entrusted with arms, while the tradespeople were equally unreliable, because from timidity they allowed their arms to be taken from them. beginning at what most visitors to paris will consider the wrong end of the line of boulevards, we find that on the boulevard beaumarchais paris has a very different physiognomy from that which she presents on the boulevard de la madeleine, which the visitor may reach by omnibus, though it is more interesting to travel in some hired vehicle which may now and then be stopped, and more interesting still to make the whole of the three-mile journey on foot. at either end of the line of boulevards is a _place_, or open space, which, for want of a better word, may be called a square: place de la bastille to the east, place de la madeleine to the west. the omnibuses which ply between the two extremities bear the inscription "madeleine--bastille"; and, beginning at the bastille, the traveller passes eleven different boulevards, or, rather, one boulevard bearing in succession eleven different names: beaumarchais, des filles du calvaire, du temple, saint-martin, saint-denis, bonne-nouvelle, poissonnière, montmartre, des italiens, des capucines, and de la madeleine. advancing from the bastille to the madeleine, we find the appearance of the shops constantly improving, until, from poor at one end, they become magnificent at the other. what the military authorities of germany call "necessary luxuries" (such as coffee, tea, and sugar), as well as luxuries in a more absolute sense (such as costly articles of attire, sweetmeats, and champagne), are sold all along the line. but at the bastille end one notices here and there a little sacrifice to the useful and the indispensable. indeed, on the lower boulevards grocers' shops are to be found, though nothing so commonplace offends the eye on the boulevards to which the name of "upper" is given. in like manner, the importance of the theatres increases as you proceed from the bastille westward. nearly half the playhouses of paris are on the boulevards: ten on the north side, and three on the south. many other theatres, if not entered direct from the boulevards, are in their close vicinity. the theatre nearest the madeleine is the new opera house; that nearest the place de la bastille is the théâtre beaumarchais. the boulevard beaumarchais owes its name to the brilliant dramatist who, among other works, wrote the _barber of seville_ and the _marriage of figaro_, still familiar to all europe in their musical form. from to what is now called the boulevard beaumarchais was known as the boulevard st.-antoine. in the last-named year, however, under the government of louis philippe, it was determined to render homage to the author of the best comedies in the french language after those of molière by naming a boulevard after him. the _marriage of figaro_ was played in public for the first time on april th, . "the description of the first performance is," says m. de loménie, "in every history of the period"; for which insufficient reason m. de loménie omits it in his own history of "beaumarchais and his times." for at least two years before the _marriage of figaro_ was played in public the work must have been well known in the aristocratic and literary circles of paris. the brilliant comedy, which was not to be brought out until april, , had been accepted at the théâtre français in october, . "as soon as the actors," writes beaumarchais, "had received, by acclamation, my poor _marriage_, which has since had so many opponents, i begged m. lenoir (the lieutenant of police) to appoint a censor; at the same time asking him, as a special favour, that the piece might be examined by no one else: which he readily promised; assuring me that neither secretary nor clerk should touch the manuscript, and that the play should be read in his own cabinet. it was so read by m. coqueley, advocate, and i begged m. lenoir to notify what he retrenched, objected to, or approved. six weeks afterwards i learnt in society that my piece had been read at all the soirées of versailles, and i was in despair at this complaisance--perhaps forced--of the magistrate in regard to a work which still belonged to me; for such was certainly not the austere, discreet, and loyal course which belongs to the serious duty of a censor. well or ill read--perhaps maliciously mutilated--the piece was pronounced detestable; and not knowing in what respect i had sinned (for according to custom nothing was specified), i stood before the inquisition obliged to guess my crimes, but aware, nevertheless, that i was already tacitly proscribed. as, however, this proscription by the court only irritated the curiosity of the town, i was condemned to readings without number. whenever one party was discovered, another would immediately be formed." at the beginning of it was already a question who could obtain the privilege of hearing the play read by beaumarchais--an admirable reciter--whether at his own house or in some brilliant _salon_. "every day," writes madame campan, "persons were heard to say: 'i was present, or i shall be present, at a reading of beaumarchais's piece.'" the first performance of the _marriage of figaro_ was thus described by a competent judge. "never," says grimm, in one of the letters addressed by him and by diderot to the grand duke of saxe-gotha, "never did a piece attract such crowds to the théâtre français. all paris wished to see this famous 'marriage,' and the house was crammed almost the very moment the doors were opened to the public. scarcely half of those who had besieged the doors since eight in the morning succeeded in finding places. most persons got in by force or by throwing money to the porters. it is impossible to be more humble, more audacious, more eager in view of obtaining a favour from the court than were all our young lords to ensure themselves a place at the first representation of _figaro_. more than one duchess considered herself too happy that day to find in the balconies, where ladies are seldom seen, a wretched stool side by side with madame duthé, carline, and company." ladies of the highest rank dined in the actresses' rooms, in order to be sure of places. "cordons bleus," says bachaumont, "mixed up in the crowd, elbowing with savoyards--the guard being dispersed, and the iron gates broken by the efforts of the assailants." la harpe, in one of his series of letters to the grand duke paul of russia and count schouvaloff, declares that three porters were killed; being "one more than were killed at the production of scudéry's last piece." "on the stage, when the curtain was raised, there was seen," says de loménie, "perhaps the most splendid assemblage of talent that was ever contained within the walls of the théâtre français, employed in promoting the success of a comedy which sparkled with wit, which carried the audience along by its dramatic movement and audacity, and which, if it shocked or startled some of the private boxes, excited and enchanted, inflamed and electrified the pit." all the parts were entrusted to performers of the first merit. mademoiselle sainval, who was the tragic actress then in vogue, had, at the urgent request of beaumarchais, accepted the part of the countess almaviva, in which she displayed a talent the more striking from being quite unexpected. mademoiselle contat enchanted the public in the character of susanna by her grace, the refinement of her acting, and the charms of her beauty and her voice. a very young and pretty actress, destined soon afterwards, at the age of eighteen, to be nipped in the bud by death--mademoiselle olivier, whose talent, says a contemporary, "was as naïve and fresh as her face"--lent her _naïveté_ and her freshness to the seemingly ingenuous character of cherubino. molè acted the part of count almaviva with the elegance and dignity which distinguished him. dazincourt represented figaro with all his wit, and relieved the character from any appearance of vulgarity. old préville, who was not less successful in the part of bridoison, gave it up after a few days to dugazon, who interpreted it with more power and equal intelligence. delessarts, with his rich humour, gave relief to the personage of bartholo, which is thrown somewhat into the background. the secondary parts of basil and antonio were equally well played by vanhove and bellemont. finally, through a singular caprice, a somewhat celebrated tragedian, larive, not wishing tragedy to be represented in the piece by mademoiselle sainval alone, asked for the insignificant little part of grippe-soleil. [illustration: place de la bastille and column of july.] "the success of this aristophanic comedy," writes de loménie, "while it filled some persons with anxiety and alarm, naturally roused the curious crowd, who are never wanting, particularly when a successful person takes a pleasure in spreading his fame abroad--and this foible of beaumarchais is well known. it was in the midst of a fire of epigrams in prose and verse that the author of the _marriage of figaro_ pursued his career, pouring out on his enemies not torrents of fire and light, but torrents of liveliness and fun." beaumarchais, on the famous first night, sat in a _loge grillée_--a private box, that is to say, with lattice-work in front--between two abbés, with whom he had been dining, and whose presence seemed indispensable to him, in order, as he said, that they might administer to him _des secours très spirituels_ in case of death. the _marriage of figaro_ was represented sixty-eight times in succession, and each time with the greatest possible success. in eight months, from april th, , till january th, , the piece brought the théâtre français, without counting the fiftieth representation (which, at beaumarchais's request, was given for the poor), no less than , livres or francs; an immense sum for that period. when all expenses had been paid, there remained a profit of , livres for division amongst the actors, after the deduction from it of beaumarchais's share as author, amounting to , livres. all sorts of anecdotes were told in connection with the success of the work. a gentleman--whom gossip transformed into a duke--wrote to beaumarchais, asking for a _loge grillée_ for himself and two ladies who wished to see the piece without being seen. beaumarchais replied that he had no sympathy with persons who wished to combine "the honours of virtue with the pleasures of vice"; and, moreover, that his comedy was not a work which honourable persons need be ashamed to see. the boulevard beaumarchais of the present day was (as already mentioned) called, until some fifty years after the revolution, boulevard st.-antoine; where, until , the year of its destruction, stood the celebrated fortress and prison of the bastille. the destruction of the bastille was the first event in the french revolution; and many have asked why the fury of the crowd was particularly directed against a building which, monument of tyranny though it was, had never been employed against the people at large, but almost always against members of the aristocracy, on whose behalf the revolutionists were certainly not fighting. but although the dungeons of the bastille were for the most part filled with political offenders, persons of every station in life did, from time to time, find themselves enclosed within its walls. the too celebrated fortress was originally built to protect the east of paris, as the louvre was constructed to guard the west. it stood on the south side of the boulevard now known by the name of beaumarchais, and consisted of eight towers, four of which looked towards the town--that is to say, the rue st.-antoine--and four towards the country--that is to say, the faubourg st.-antoine. above the shop of the wine-seller who inhabits no. in the rue st.-antoine, at the corner of the newly-built rue jacques-coeur, a marble tablet sets forth that the house in question occupies the site of the outlying building into which the assailants, on the th of july, , made their way before storming the fortress itself. the café which stands at the corner of the street and of the square bears for its sign, "the cannon of the bastille." it was less as a fortress than as a state prison that the bastille was known, and by the nation at large execrated. prisoners were taken to the bastille on a simple _lettre de cachet_: a sealed order or warrant, which was sometimes given out blank, so that the favoured recipient might make whatever use of it he pleased, against no matter whom. the victims were introduced secretly into the fortress; and the soldiers on guard had instructions to turn aside when any prisoner was being brought in, so that they might not afterwards recognise him. once inside the dungeon, he was liable to undergo frequent interrogations without even knowing on what charge, or even suspicion, he had been arrested. the treatment in prison depended absolutely on the will of the governor. those under detention were kept in solitary confinement, without anyone outside being able to obtain news as to whether they even existed. they were not allowed to receive letters from their family or friends. the internal regulations of the bastille are sufficiently well known to us by the numerous chronicles and memoirs published in connection with it, including, in particular, those of linguet. "during the seven years that i passed in the bastille," says m. pelissery, quoted by linguet, "i had no air even in fine weather, and in winter they gave me nothing in the way of fuel except wood just taken from the river. my bed was intolerable, and the bedclothes dirty and worm-eaten. i drank, or rather poisoned myself with, foul stagnant water. what food they brought me! famished dogs would not have touched it. accordingly, my body was soon covered with pustules, my legs gave way beneath me, i spat blood, and became scorbutic. the dungeons received neither light nor air, except by one narrow window pierced in a wall nearly five metres thick, and traversed by a triple row of bars, between which there were intervals of only five centimetres. even on the most beautiful days the prisoners received but feeble rays of light. in the winter these fatal caves resembled ice-houses, being sufficiently raised for the cold to penetrate; while in summer they were like damp stoves, in which it was difficult not to be stifled, since the walls are so thick as to keep out the heat necessary for drying the interior. there are some rooms--and mine was one of them--which look out directly upon the moat into which flows the great sewer of the rue st.-antoine. thence ascends a pestilential exhalation, which, when once it has entered these rooms, can only with much difficulty be got out again. it is in such an atmosphere that the prisoner has to breathe. there, not to be absolutely stifled, he is obliged to pass his nights and days glued to the inside bars of the little window in the door, through which a glimmer of light and a breath of air may reach him." "the history of the bastille as a state prison," says mongin, "might almost be said to include everything intellectual and political in france. into its dungeons were thrown, one after the other, hugues; aubriot, who himself founded the bastille, and who expiated by perpetual imprisonment his alleged heresy and his love relations with a jewess; jacques d'armagnac, duke of nemours, in ; with many high and powerful noblemen in the time of louis xi. and richelieu. here also were confined marshal de biron and fouquet, the superintendent of finances, besides more than one officer of distinction under louis xiv." when the bastille had done its work on the last remains of feudalism and on the court aristocracy, the turn came of the people--the precursors of the republic, the martyrs of the revolution. after the revocation of the edict of nantes, the bastille was filled with protestants. here were shut up the jansenists and the fanatics known as the convulsionnaires. here, too, suffered, until he was taken to the scaffold, the brave governor of india under the french domination, lally, who had given offence to the court rather than to the sovereign. voltaire, mirabeau, linguet (who, after making his escape, published in london his eloquent account of the cruelties to which prisoners in the bastille were subjected), latude, and numberless other men distinguished in different walks of life. the th of july, , saw the first blow struck by the revolutionists against that monument which, to them, symbolised all that was hateful in the ancient monarchy. war had already virtually been declared between the two sides. everything seemed in favour of the king, the court, the nobility, and the monarchical party generally. "if paris must be burnt," one of the ministers had said, "we will burn it." paris was, indeed, surrounded with foreign troops; and whatever might be the attitude of the french regiments, commanded by officers some of whom were royalists and others republicans, it was certain that the popular movement would have to count with the swiss, austrian, and german troops stationed at charenton, sèvres, versailles, at the military school, and elsewhere in the immediate neighbourhood of the capital. on the th of july the national assembly had, on the motion of mirabeau, demanded from the king the removal of the foreign troops. the king's only reply, a few days afterwards, was to dismiss necker, the popular minister. the news of this tyrannical step fell upon paris on sunday, july th, like a spark on a barrel of gunpowder. the palais royal, which might be regarded as the head-quarters of the revolution, became violently agitated. it was twelve o'clock on a hot summer's day when suddenly the midday cannon, with its lens above the touch-hole, was fired by the blazing sun. a superstitious importance was attached to the familiar incident; and the revolutionists, with the people around them, saw in the ordinary explosion of a midday gun, intended only to interest the public by marking the time, the signal for an uprising against the ancient monarchy. a young man of twenty, then absolutely unknown, but who was afterwards to be remembered as camille desmoulins, rushed out of the café foy, sprang upon a table just outside, and in impassioned language addressed the crowd. "citizens," he cried, "there is not a moment to lose! i have just come from versailles. necker is dismissed, and his dismissal is the signal for a new massacre of st. bartholomew. this evening all the swiss and german battalions will march from the champ-de-mars to put to death every patriot. we have but one resource: to rise to arms, after assuming cockades by which we may recognise each other. what colours do you prefer--green, the colour of hope, or the blue of cincinnatus, the colour of american liberty and of democracy?" "green, green!" cried the crowd. "friends," continued the young man, in a sonorous voice, "the signal is already given. i see staring me in the face the spies and satellites of the police. but i will not fall alive into their hands. let every citizen follow my example." he waved in the air two pistols, fastened a green ribbon to his hat, and descending from his chair, urged those present to take, as signs of recognition, leaves from the trees around them. soon the trees of the palais royal garden were stripped. the excitement and enthusiasm spread in every direction. arms were seized wherever they could be found. the busts of necker and of the duke of orleans, idols of the moment, were carried through the streets veiled with black crape. more than one detachment of the french guards joined the crowd. in the tuileries gardens several persons were killed by a cavalry charge under the command of prince de lambesc, of which the chief effect was to exasperate the insurgents to the utmost. partial engagements now took place at various points. at the gates of paris, the barriers where a tax was levied on provisions brought into the city were set in flames. towards evening committees were formed in all the districts of the capital "for preventing tumult." the shops were now everywhere closed, and the theatres gave no performances. during the night the district assemblies held a general meeting, at which it was resolved to urge all who possessed arms to bring them to district head-quarters, that militia companies, to be promptly formed for the occasion, might be furnished therewith in a regular manner. these militia bands were intended to act on behalf of the nation; if necessary, against the populace. but the general excitement was too great to allow of such formal measures being taken as the well-to-do citizens of the hurriedly constituted district assemblies thought advisable. to all recommendations of prudence there was but one reply: "to arms!" the provost of the paris merchants, de flesselles by name, who had been elected president of the district assemblies, endeavoured to stay the spirit of revolution, now spreading so widely; but to no purpose. the hôtel de ville, from which he held forth, was now occupied in every corner by armed men, who had no intention of giving their weapons up for the equipment of any imaginary militia company; and as yet these companies were unformed. an order to evacuate the hôtel de ville met with no attention, and deliberations were now carried on beneath the eyes and under the pressure of the enraged mob. [illustration: junction of grand boulevards and rue and faubourg montmartre.] in place of the green colour adopted in the first instance by the insurgents of the palais royal, which the day afterwards was rejected as the family colour of the counts of artois, the tricolour had now been assumed: blue, in the new flag, being held to signify hope; red, the blood of sacrifice; and white, the ancient monarchy, against which war had not yet been declared. it was against the abuses of the ancient system, and in view of a thorough reform, that the people were rising. [illustration: the bastille.] camille desmoulins had begun the revolution on sunday, the th of july, at noon. on the morning of monday, july th, the alarm bell was rung in every church, and the drum beaten in every street. bands were now formed, without much system, under the names of volunteers of the palais royal, of the tuileries, etc. women were everywhere making blue and red cockades--the white was not absolutely essential; the blacksmiths were forging arms; and it has been calculated that in thirty-six hours fifty thousand pikes were made. tumultuous meetings were held in the churches, with a view to some regular organisation of the movement. a government dépôt of arms was invaded, and plundered of its contents. the place de la grève became an important centre to which arms taken from gunsmiths' shops or from government stores, sacks of wheat and flour (stopped at the barriers), and even herds of cattle and flocks of sheep, were brought. paris was being turned into a camp. the citizens of the district assemblies, carried away by the ardour of the people whose impetuosity they had sought to restrain, the students of the various schools, the clerks of the public offices, the workmen of the faubourgs: all hurried to the hôtel de ville, swearing to conquer or to die. the fact that paris was threatened by swiss, german, and various kinds of austrian troops could not but awaken the patriotism of frenchmen generally. the first enemy to be fought was the army of foreigners waiting to swoop down on the city. an important collection of arms, formed by those who had obeyed the first recommendations of the district assemblies, was reported to exist at the invalides; and an enormous quantity of powder which was being sent out of paris by way of the river seine, apparently under the orders of the timid citizens composing the aforesaid assemblies, was seized, carried to the hôtel de ville, and partially distributed. no movement, meanwhile, had been made by the foreign troops, who were for the most part encamped or quartered in the École militaire; the inaction being attributable to divided counsels among the king's ministers, and to hesitation on the part of the king himself. the one thing decided upon was to stop the entrance of provisions into paris: a sure means, it was thought, of reducing the tumult, which at the outset was scarcely looked upon as serious. the national assembly was behaving, meanwhile, in the most heroic manner. threatened with dissolution and arrest, and quite at the mercy of the foreign troops, it voted an expression of regret at the dismissal of necker, a demand that the foreign troops be forthwith sent away from paris, and a declaration that the king's ministers, whatever their rank, would be held personally responsible for any misfortunes that might result from the present condition of things. on the morning of the th of july paris was surrounded at all points by foreign troops, and was at the same time threatened with famine. but one course was open to the insurgents: that of immediate action. there was a general feeling that an attack must be made, and the object unanimously chosen for the first assault was the bastille: symbol of everything hateful in the government it was proposed to overturn. "_a la bastille!_" was now the universal cry. but a dearth of muskets retarded the impulse, and it was determined in the first instance to attack the hôtel des invalides, where arms in large numbers were known to be stored away. thirty thousand men hurried to the asylum of aged soldiers; when, without much time being wasted in parleying with the governor, the sentinels were seized and the place entered by force. in the cellars twenty-eight thousand muskets were discovered concealed beneath hay and straw; and with these the invaders, whose numbers had gradually increased, hastened to arm themselves. five years before, the king, on consenting to the liberation of latude, had promised that henceforth no one should be sent to the bastille except for a definite period, and after formal conviction on a positive charge. but this engagement had not been kept; people had been arrested, and incarcerated (as at the present time in russia) on the simple denunciation of police officers and spies; sometimes on mere suspicion, at others without even suspicion, and simply for the gratification of private malice. the terrible _lettre de cachet_, on the strength of which arrests were made without further explanation, had indeed become a purchasable thing, with a fixed price, like any other article of commerce. it was doubtless, however, the memory of a long course of ancient wrongs that, above all, animated the people in their rage against the bastille. there was, moreover, however, a strategical reason. as a fortress, the bastille commanded the rue st.-antoine and the adjoining faubourg, and indeed dominated all paris. to destroy it, therefore, was considered at once a good moral and a good military act. the governor, de launay, had already prepared his defence; and in addition to the guns of position in the towers, he had placed a number in the interior courtyard. the gates and the outer walls had been loopholed and armed with wall-pieces, and a quantity of paving-stones, cannon-balls, and lumps of iron had been carried up to the towers, in order to be hurled down upon the heads of the expected assailants. the garrison consisted only of men, of whom were swiss, while the other were old pensioners. the defenders, indeed, were nearly all of them aged, but experienced, soldiers. their material appliances and the strength of their position were such that the governor looked upon the fortress as impregnable against a mob of people who had neither the art nor the time to undertake regular siege operations. with his powerful batteries, de launay could lay the whole quarter in ruins; and foreseeing this possibility, the committee of the hôtel de ville sent a deputation to the governor, promising not to attack him if he would withdraw the cannon, and promise not on his side to begin hostilities. a man of more energy, thuriot de la rozière, called, in the name of his district, upon the governor, and demanded the surrender of the fortress. his account of what was taking place in paris astonished de launay, and gained the sympathy of the french portion of the garrison. his final demand was that the bastille should be occupied by some of the newly-formed bands conjointly with troops of the regular army. but this proposition, though more advanced than the feeble one made by the committee of the hôtel de ville, was by no means on a level with popular demands; and thuriot, on leaving the bastille, was threatened by the armed bands assembled outside, who demanded, not the occupation of the bastille, but its destruction. a few brave men got into the outer yard through the roof of the guard-house, and at once destroyed with hatchets the chains of the drawbridge leading to the inner yard. they were followed by others, and soon the outer gates were forced. a terrible fire had been opened on the crowd of assailants, and it was resolved once more to approach de launay by means of a deputation, which, however, was unable to reach him. at this moment the besiegers set fire to several carts of hay and manure, in order to burn the buildings which masked the fortress and to smoke out the defenders. at the same time, a constant fire was kept up from the windows and roofs of the neighbouring houses. all this, however, had but little effect on the garrison. a new deputation was now sent forward, bearing a white flag. a white flag was displayed in reply from the bastille, and the soldiers reversed their muskets. an officer of the swiss troops passed forward a note, by means of a crane, with these words: "we have twenty thousand pounds of powder, and we will blow up the fortress and the whole of the neighbourhood unless you accept a capitulation." the commissaries of the hôtel de ville, believing in the pacific demonstrations of the garrison, were already urging the people to retire, when suddenly there was a discharge of musketry from the fortress, which laid low a good number of the insurgents. it was apparently the swiss who had fired, heedless of the conciliatory attitude assumed by the french portion of the defending force. the whole garrison was held responsible for this act of treachery. the exasperation of the people had now gone beyond all bounds, and there was but one cry heard: "down with the bastille!" a number of the french guards seized five of the guns which had been brought from the invalides, and pointed them at the fortress. the fire of the artillery proved more effective than that of the musketry, and the drawbridge was now swept by cannon-balls. meanwhile, the garrison was divided against itself. the pensioners wished the contest, of which the end could now be foreseen, to cease, whereas the swiss mercenaries, careless about the effusion of french blood (and, it must be admitted, full of a more youthful courage), were determined to resist to the last. there was another reason which made it unadvisable to prolong the defence. the fortress contained abundance of ammunition, but little or no food; and the numbers, constantly increasing, of the besiegers rendered it impossible to renew the supply. it was evident that all paris demanded the fall of the bastille. the swiss, however, would hear of no surrender. as for de launay, he felt that he was personally detested, not only for the blood he was uselessly shedding, but even more for his persecution of the prisoners under his charge. the _memoirs_ of linguet and other revelations had made his name odious throughout europe. thus the vengeful cries of the people seemed directed against himself personally. wild with terror, he seized a match, and was about to explode his powder magazine, when two non-commissioned officers drove him back at point of bayonet. outside, a sort of organisation had now established itself. many bands of volunteers had been moving together since the first uprising, with the volunteers of the palais royal, under camille desmoulins, among them. these bands were under the command of officers of the french guards, or of energetic men who were afterwards to distinguish themselves in the military career. according to some accounts, the surrender of the fortress took place immediately after the episode of the note thrust forward on a crane, or, according to another version, pushed through a loophole. the moment in any case arrived when, promised by some of the french guards that their lives should be spared, the garrison agreed formally to surrender. the drawbridges were now lowered, and the bastille was occupied in force. on being recognised, de launay was arrested and led off towards the hôtel de ville. hulin, afterwards one of napoleon's generals and nobles, took charge of the prisoner, and, forming an escort, did his best to convey him safely through the infuriated mob, which, with execrations, pressed towards him from all sides. more than once de launay was thrown down. having lost his hat, he was now an easier mark than ever for the assaults of the crowd. that he might not so readily be distinguished, hulin gave him his own hat, thus running the risk of being himself mistaken for the odious governor. at last hulin and several members of the escort were thrown together to the ground; and when hulin managed to rise, the head of the hated governor was being carried aloft on the point of a pike. within the bastille the invaders were, meanwhile, breaking open the dungeons. only seven prisoners, however, were found, two of whom had become insane. one of the latter had a long white beard falling to his waist, and fancied himself still under the reign of louis xv., who had been dead fifteen years. instruments of torture were discovered. shocking as this detail may be to a reader of the present day, it should be remembered that under the old monarchy torture was constantly employed in criminal process. it is only just to add that it was formally abolished a few years before the revolution, and not afterwards, as is generally supposed. the archives of the prison were in part destroyed. all that was preserved of them was afterwards published, in order once more to throw light on the iniquity of the system under which such an institution as the bastille could exist. the taking of the bastille cost the assailants eighty-three killed on the spot, and fifteen who died from their injuries, besides sixty-three wounded. the garrison, on their side, protected by the walls of the fortress, lost but one killed and one wounded during a struggle which lasted five hours. the major of the garrison, de losme, shared the fate of the governor, except that, instead of being put to death summarily by an enraged mob, he was taken deliberately to the famous _lanterne_, or lamp of the place de la grève, and hanged. two of the pensioners, accused, like the major, of having pointed the guns of the fortress against the people, were also strung up. these were the first victims of the cry "_À la lanterne!_" afterwards to be heard so often in the streets of paris. the _lanterne_ in question was attached to an iron gibbet; and it was on this gibbet that the victims of popular fury were hoisted aloft. the lives of all the other defenders were spared. they were set at liberty and a subscription opened for them, as they had now no means of earning an honest penny. the news of the capture of the bastille caused great excitement at versailles, where louis xvi., in his habitual state of indecision, seemed unable to give an order of any kind. he had gone to bed at his usual hour, but was awakened early the next morning by the duke de liancourt, who enjoyed the privilege of entering the royal bedchamber at any time. the duke informed his sovereign of what was taking place at paris, and impressed upon him the necessity of putting himself in accord with the nation and with the assembly. "is it a revolt, then?" asked louis xvi., with his eyes half open. "no, sire," replied the duke; "it is a revolution." in these words, destined to become celebrated, the astonished king was informed that the ancient monarchy was at an end. the bastille was now pulled down: partly in the natural course of things, partly in virtue of a formal resolution. the stones were broken up into little pieces, and worn by ladies as jewellery; ornaments and playthings were also made from the remains of the detested edifice. the conquerors of the bastille formed a special corps, which had its recognised place in all public ceremonies. a medal was struck in their honour, and each of them was commissioned with an office. during the revolution the ground on which the bastille stood became a favourite place for public meetings. the bronze column which now lifts its head in the place de la bastille was erected under the reign of louis philippe, in memory of the revolution of and of the lesser revolt of . although the revolution began in paris, the revolutionary spirit spread rapidly to the provinces. this is clearly set forth in arthur young's account of what took place at strasburg, where he had just arrived when news of the revolution reached him. [illustration: the conquerors of the bastille. (_from the painting by françois flaming._)] "i arrived there," he writes, "at a critical moment, which i thought would have broken my neck: a detachment of horse, with their trumpets, on one side, a party of infantry, with their drums beating, on the other, and a great mob hallooing, frightened my french mare, and i could scarcely keep her from trampling on messrs. the _tiers état_. on arriving at the inn, one heard the interesting news of the revolt of paris; the _garde française_ joining the people; the unreliability of the rest of the troops; the taking of the bastille; and the institution of the _milice bourgeoise_--in a word, the absolute overthrow of the old government. everything being now decided, and the kingdom absolutely in the hands of the assembly, they have the power to make a new constitution such as they think proper; and it will be a spectacle for the world to view in this enlightened age the representatives of twenty-five millions of people sitting on the construction of a new and better fabric of liberty than europe has yet offered. it will now be seen whether they will copy the constitution of england, freed from its faults, or attempt from theory to frame something absolutely speculative. in the former case they will prove a blessing to their country; in the latter they will probably involve it in inextricable confusion and civil wars: perhaps not immediately, but certainly in the future. i hear nothing of their removing from versailles. if they stay there under the control of an armed mob, they must make a government that will please the mob; but they will, i suppose, be wise enough to move to some central town--tours, blois, or orleans, where their deliberations may be free. but the parisian spirit of commotion spreads rapidly; it is here; the troops that were near breaking my neck are employed to keep an eye on the people who show signs of an intended revolt. they have broken the windows of some magistrates who are no favourites; and a great mob of them is at this moment assembled, demanding clamorously to have meat at five sous a pound. they have a cry among them that will conduct them to good lengths: '_point d'impôt et vivent les états!_' i have spent some time at the _cabinet littéraire_ reading the gazettes and journals that give an account of the transactions at paris; and i have had some conversation with several sensible and intelligent men in the present revolution. the spirit of revolt is gone forth into various parts of the kingdom; the price of bread has prepared the populace everywhere for all sorts of violence; at lyons there have been commotions as furious as at paris, and likewise at a great many other places. dauphiné is in arms, and bretagne in absolute rebellion. the idea is that hunger will drive the people to revolt, and that when once they find any other means of subsistence than honest labour everything will have to be feared. of such consequence it is to a country to have a policy on the subject of corn: one that shall, by securing a high price to the farmer, encourage his culture sufficiently to secure the people from famine. i have been witness to a scene curious to a foreigner, but dreadful to those frenchmen who consider. passing through the square of the _hôtel de ville_, the mob were breaking the windows with stones, notwithstanding that an officer and a detachment of horse were on the spot. observing not only that their numbers increased, but that they grew bolder and bolder every moment, i thought it worth staying to see how the thing would end, and clambered on to the roof of a row of low stalls opposite the building against which their malice was directed. here i could view the whole scene. perceiving that the troops would not attack them except in words and menaces, they grew more violent, and furiously attempted to beat the door in pieces with iron crows, placing ladders to the windows. in about a quarter of an hour, which gave time for the assembled magistrates to escape by a back door, they burst everything open, and entered like a torrent, amid a universal shout of triumph. from that minute a medley of casements, sashes, shutters, chairs, tables, sofas, books, papers, pictures, etc., rained down incessantly from all the windows of the house, which is seventy or eighty feet long; this being succeeded by a shower of tiles, skirting-boards, banisters, framework, and whatever parts of the building force could detach. the troops, both horse and foot, were quiet spectators. they were at first too few to interpose, and when they became more numerous the mischief was too far advanced to admit of any other course than that of guarding every avenue around, permitting no fresh arrivals on the scene of action, but letting everyone that pleased retire with his plunder; guards at the same time being placed at the doors of the churches and all public buildings. i was for two hours a spectator of this scene: secure myself from the falling furniture, but near enough to see a fine lad of about fourteen crushed to death by some object as he was handing plunder to a woman--i suppose his mother, from the horror pictured in her countenance. i remarked several common soldiers with their white cockades among the plunderers, and instigating the mob even in sight of the officers of the detachment. mixed in the crowd, there were people so decently dressed that i regarded them with no small surprise. the public archives were destroyed, and the streets for some way around strewed with papers. this was a wanton mischief, for it will be the ruin of many families unconnected with the magistrates." although at the critical moment the first object of the revolutionists' attack was the bastille, that hateful building did not, according to mercier, inspire the common people with any peculiar indignation. it will be seen from his own words that he was in this particular a less keen-sighted observer than he is generally reputed to have been. writing just before the revolution, mercier saw well that his fellow-countrymen were oppressed, but believed they were too much inured to this oppression ever to rise against it. "i have already observed," he writes, "that the parisians in general are totally indifferent as to their political interest; nor is this to be wondered at in a place where a man is hardly allowed to think for himself. a coercive silence, imposed upon every frenchman from the hour of his birth on whatever regards the affairs of government, grows with him into a habit which the fear of the bastille and his natural indolence daily strengthen, till the man is totally lost in the slave. kingly prerogative knows no bounds, because no one ever dared to resist the monarch's despotic commands. it is true that at times, in the words of the proverb, the galled horse has winced. the parisians have at times attempted to withstand tyranny; but popular commotions amongst them have had very much the air of a boyish mutiny at school; a rod with the latter, the butt end of a firelock with the former, quiets all, because neither act with the spirit and resolution of _men_ who assert their natural rights. what would cost the minister his life in those unhappy countries where self-denial and passive obedience are unknown is done off in paris by a witty epigram, a smart song, etc.; the authors of which, however, take the greatest care to remain concealed, having continually the fear of ministerial runners before their eyes; nor has a _bon mot_ unfrequently occasioned the captivity of its author." mercier at the same time points out that never since the days of henri iv. had france been so mildly governed as under louis xvi. one of the last acts of louis xv. had been to cast into the bastille all the volumes of the encyclopædia. one of the first acts of louis xvi. was to liberate from the bastille all prisoners who had not been guilty of serious, recognisable offences. "at the accession of his present majesty," writes mercier, "his new ministers, actuated by humanity, signalised the beginning of their administration with an act of justice and mercy, ordering the registers of the bastille to be laid before them, when a great number of prisoners were set at large." among those liberated was a man of whom mercier tells the same story that was afterwards to be told of one of the seven prisoners who were freed at the taking of the bastille. "their number included a venerable old man, who for forty-seven years had remained shut up between four walls. hardened by adversity, which steels the heart when it does not break it, he had supported his long and tedious captivity with unexampled constancy and fortitude; and he thought no more of liberty. the day is come. the door of his tomb turns upon its rusty hinges, it opens not ajar, as usual, but wide, for liberty, and an unknown voice acquaints him that he may now depart. he thinks himself in a dream; he hesitates, and at last ventures out with trembling steps; wonders at everything; thinks to have travelled a great way before he reaches the outward gate. here he stops a while; his feeble eyes, long deprived of the sun's cheering beams, can hardly support its first light. a coach waits for him in the streets; he gets into it, desires to be carried to a certain street, but unable to support the motion of the coach, he is set down, and by the assistance of two men at length he reaches the quarter where he formerly dwelt; but the spot is altered, and his house is no more. his wandering eye seems to interrogate every passenger, saying with heartrending accents of despondency: 'where shall i find my wife? where are my children?' all in vain; the oldest man hardly remembers to have heard his name. at last a poor old decrepit porter is brought to him. this man had served in his family, but knew him not. questioned by the late prisoner, he replied, with all the indifference which accompanies the recollection of events long passed, that his wife had died above thirty years before in the utmost misery, and that his children were gone into foreign countries, nothing having been heard of them for many years. struck with grief and astonishment, the old gentleman, his eyes riveted to the ground, remains for some time motionless; a few tears would have eased his deeply wounded heart, but he could not weep. at last, recovering from his trance, he hastens to the minister to whose humanity he was indebted for a liberty now grown burdensome. 'sir,' he says to him, 'send me back to my dungeon! who is it that can survive his friends, his relations, nay, a whole generation? who can hear of the death of all he held dear and precious, and not wish to die? all these losses, which happen to other men by gradation, and one by one, have fallen upon me in an instant. ah, sir! it is not dreadful to die; but it is to be last survivor.' the minister sympathised with this truly unfortunate man. care was taken of him, and the old porter assigned to him for his servant, as he could speak with this man of his wife and children: the only comfort now left for the aged son of sorrow, who lived some time retired, though in the midst of the noise and confusion of the capital. nothing, however, could reconcile him to a world quite new for him, and to which he resolved to remain a perfect stranger; and friendly death at last came to his relief and closed his eyes in peace." although, as frigid historians have pointed out, the bastille never did any harm to the common people, it was sometimes made use of to punish actresses who were much admired by the populace. mlle. clairon, a distinguished actress and excellent woman, on quitting the stage from religious scruples--or rather because, contrary to her own views on the subject, she found the profession of actress condemned absolutely by the church--was sent to the bastille on the ground that, being a paid servant of the king, she refused to do her duty. "the case of this lady," said a writer of the time, "is indeed hard. the king sends her to prison if she does not act, and the church sends her to perdition if she does." mlle. clairon was much troubled at the view taken of her profession by the clergy; and after consulting her confessor, she came to the conclusion that so long as she remained on the stage she could have no hope of salvation. it was then that she refused any longer to act, and determined to retire altogether from the stage. so indignant had mlle. clairon become on learning for the first time under what severe condemnation the stage lay, that she raised a strong party with the view of removing so great a scandal. much was written and said in favour of the comedians, but all to no purpose. the priests stood firm to their text, and, in the words of a french writer, would by no means give up "their ancient and pious privilege of consigning to eternal punishment everyone who had anything to do with the stage." [illustration: À la robespierre.] [illustration: a lady of .] mlle. clairon's retirement threw her manager into the greatest confusion. she was by far the best actress of the day, and such a favourite that it was almost impossible to do without her. the theatre was soon deserted by the public, and still mlle. clairon refused to act. then it was that by royal mandate she was imprisoned. she had not, however, been long in the bastille, when an order came from the court for the players to go to versailles to perform before the king. mlle. clairon was released, and commanded to make her appearance with the rest of the company. being already very tired of the bastille, she decided to obey, and performing at court with immense success, and finding that all attempts to gain even the toleration of the church were in vain, she resigned herself to her fate and went on acting as usual. some years previously, mlle. clairon, accused of organising a cabal against a rival, had been sent to another state prison, fort l'Évêque, where, instead of pining, as at the bastille, she held high court, receiving visits from all kinds of illustrious people, whose carriages are said to have made the approach to the prison impassable. [illustration: a tricoteuse.] [illustration: map showing the extension of paris.] besides the bastille and fort l'Évêque, there was yet another prison, la force, to which recalcitrant actresses used to be sent in the strange days of the ancient _régime_. thus mlle. gavaudin, a singer at the opera, having refused the part assigned to her in a piece called the "golden fleece," was sent to la force, where she enjoyed herself so much, that she was warned as to the possibility of her being punished by solitary confinement in a genuine dungeon. on this, she agreed to appear in the character which she had at first rejected. when, however, an official came to the prison to set her at liberty, in order that she might play her part that very evening, she told him that for the present she would remain where she was, that she had ordered an excellent dinner, and meant to eat it. the official charged with her liberation insisted, however, on setting her free, telling her that after he had once got her into the street she might go wherever she chose. she simply returned to the prison, where she dined copiously, with a due allowance of wine. "then," says a narrator of these incidents, "she went to the opera, had a furious scene with the stage-manager, who, during her imprisonment, had given her dressing-room to another singer, and after a quarter of an hour of violent language calmed down, dressed herself for the part of calliope, and sang very charmingly." it may be mentioned that before she was consigned to the bastille, mlle. clairon's case interested greatly some of the best writers of the day, including voltaire, who published an eloquent defence of the stage against the overbearing pretensions of the church. it seems strange that in france, where the drama is cultivated with more interest and with more success than in any other country, actors and actresses should so long have been regarded as beyond the pale of christianity. happily, this is no longer the case. but the traditional view of the french church in regard to actors and actresses was, until within a comparatively recent time, that they were, by the mere fact of exercising their profession, in the position of excommunicated persons. this is sufficiently shown not only by the case of mlle. clairon in connection with the bastille, but also by the circumstances attending the burial of molière in the seventeenth, of adrienne lecouvreur in the eighteenth, and of mlle. raucourt in the nineteenth century. acting in _le malade imaginaire_, molière broke a blood-vessel, and was carried home to die. he was attended in his last moments by a priest of his acquaintance; he expired in presence of two nuns whom he frequently entertained, and who had come to visit him on that very day. funeral rites were denied him, all the same, by the archbishop of paris; and when mme. molière appealed in person to louis xiv., the king took offence at her audacious mode of address, and threw the whole responsibility on the archbishop of paris--to whom, nevertheless, he sent a private message. as a result of the king's interference--not a very authoritative one--a priest was allowed to accompany molière's body to its otherwise unhonoured grave. the great comedy-writer was buried at midnight in unconsecrated ground; and of course, therefore, without any religious service. adrienne lecouvreur, who, more than a century after her death, was to be made the heroine of scribe and legouve's famous drama, is known to all playgoers as the life-long friend of marshal saxe, whom she furnished with money for his famous expedition to courland. voltaire entertained the greatest regard for her, and was never so happy as when he had persuaded her to undertake a part in one of his plays. adrienne died in voltaire's arms, and no sooner was she dead than public opinion accused her rival, the duchess de bouillon, of having poisoned her from jealousy and hatred; for the duchess had conceived a passion for marshal saxe to which that gallant warrior could not bring himself to respond. the clergy refused to bury adrienne, as in the previous century they had refused to bury molière. her body was taken possession of by the police, who buried it at midnight, without witnesses, on the banks of the seine. "in france," said voltaire, "actresses are adored when they are beautiful, and thrown into the gutter when they are dead." nearly a hundred years after the death of adrienne lecouvreur died another great actress, mlle. raucourt, who, like adrienne lecouvreur and like molière, was refused christian burial. this was in , just after the restoration, at a time when the clergy, so long deprived of power, were beginning once more to exercise it in earnest. the curé of st.-roch refused to admit the body of the actress into his church. an indignant crowd assembled, and became so riotous that the troops had to be called out. at last king louis xviii. ordered the church doors to be opened, and with the tact which distinguished him, commissioned his private chaplain to perform the service. in such horror was the stage held by the french clergy (if not by the catholic clergy throughout europe) so late as the beginning of the present century, that money offered to the church by actors and actresses for charitable purposes, although accepted, was at the same time looked upon as contaminating. thus, when mlle. contat gave performances for the starving poor of paris, and handed the proceeds to the clergy of her parish for distribution, they refused to touch the money until it had been "purified" by passing through the hands of the police, to whom it was paid in by the stage, and by whom it was afterwards paid out to the church. * * * * * the place de la bastille was formed in virtue of a decree of the first consul, but it was not completed until after the establishment of the empire. the principal ornament of the square was to be a triumphal arch to the glory of the grand army. but after taking the opinion of the academy of fine arts, the emperor altered his views; and the triumphal arch was reserved for the place it now occupies at the top of the champs Élysées. oddly enough, too, a massive object, intended originally for the spot now occupied by the arc de l'Étoile, was carried to the bastille in the form of an elephant, whose trunk, according to the fantastic design, was to give forth a column of water large enough to feed a triumphal fountain, which was inaugurated december nd, . the wooden model of the elephant, covered with plaster, was seventeen metres long and fifteen metres high, counting the tower which the animal bore on its back. set up for a time on the western bank of the canal de l'ourcq, the plastered elephant was afterwards abandoned, like the project in which it played a preliminary part, and its wooden carcase became a refuge for innumerable rats. the remains of the elephant were not removed until just before the completion of the bronze column which now stands in the centre of the place de la bastille, in memory of the victims of the revolutions of and . the first stone of this monument was laid by king louis philippe on the th of july, . it was finished at the beginning of ; and on the th of july of that year were placed, in the vaults constructed beneath the column for their reception, the remains of the insurgents of , which for ten years had been lying buried in all parts of paris, but particularly in the neighbourhood of the markets and at the foot of the colonnade of the louvre, where the relics reposed side by side with those of the swiss soldiers who had died in protecting the palace. the figure lightly poised on the ball at the top of the column represents the genius of liberty. at a short distance from the place de la bastille, and easily accessible by train, is vincennes: known by its wood, at one time the favourite resort of duellists; by its military establishment, to which the famous chasseurs de vincennes owed their name when, after the downfall of louis philippe, it was thought desirable to get rid of their former designation--that of chasseurs d'orléans; and for its castle, in whose ditch the ill-fated duke d'enghien was shot, after a mock trial, on an all but groundless accusation. the duke d'enghien, who, according to one of his biographers, had no fault but the one common to all the bourbons--that of being "too easily influenced by beautiful eyes"--was living on the german side of the rhine, nearly opposite strasburg, with his wife, a princess de rohan-rochefort, to whom he had been secretly married. as a royalist and a member of the royal family, he was naturally the enemy of napoleon and the napoleonic _régime_. but he had taken no part in any conspiracy, unless the league of sovereigns and states formed against napoleon could be so considered. the duke frequently crossed over from the right or german bank, especially at binfelden, where the prince de rohan-rochefort, his wife's father, had taken apartments at the local inn. it became known, moreover, to the french authorities that the prefect of strasburg had for some time past been sending various agents to the german side. the princess received at this time from an officer of the strasburg garrison, who had been formerly attached to the rohan family, secret intelligence that inquiries were being made in regard to the duke d'enghien. soon afterwards a small body of troops crossed the rhine, surrounded the little castle or gothic villa where the duke was living at ettenheim, seized him, and brought him over to strasburg. he was permitted to write, and lost no time in sending a note to the princess, who, from the windows of the house, had followed in painful anxiety all the events of the alarming drama acted before her eyes. "they have promised me," wrote the duke from the citadel of strasburg, "that this letter shall be delivered to you intact. this is the first opportunity i have had of reassuring you as to my present condition, and i do so now without losing a moment. will you, in your turn, reassure those who are attached to me in your neighbourhood? my own fear is that this letter may find you no longer at ettenheim, but on the way to this place. the pleasure of seeing you, however, would not be nearly so great as the fear i should have of your sharing my fate.... you know, from the number of men employed, that all resistance would have been useless. there was nothing to be done against such overpowering forces. "i am treated with attention and politeness. i may say, except as regards my liberty (for i am not allowed to leave my room), that i am as well off as could be. if some of the officers sleep in my chamber, that is because i desired it. we occupy one of the commandant's apartments, but another room is being prepared for me, which i am to take possession of to-morrow, and where i shall be better off still. the papers found on me, and which were sealed at once with my seal, are to be examined this morning in my presence." the first letters written by the young man from strasburg to his wife (they are still preserved in the french archives) showed no apprehension of danger; nothing could be proved against him except what was known beforehand, that he was a bourbon and an enemy of napoleon. "as far as i remember," wrote the duke to his wife, "they will find letters from my relations and from the king, together with copies of some of mine. in all these, as you know, there is nothing that can compromise me, any more than my name and mode of thinking would have done during the whole course of the revolution. all the papers will, i believe, be sent to paris, and it is thought, according to what i hear, that in a short time i shall be free; god grant it! they were looking for dumouriez, who was thought to be in our neighbourhood. it seems to have been supposed that we had had conferences together, and apparently he is implicated in the conspiracy against the life of the first consul. my ignorance of this makes me hope that i shall obtain my liberty, but we must not flatter ourselves too soon. the attachment of my people draws tears from my eyes at every moment. they might have escaped; no one forced them to follow me. they came of their own accord.... i have seen nobody this morning except the commandant, who seems to me an honest, kind-hearted man, but at the same time strict in the fulfilment of his duty. i am expecting the colonel of gendarmes who arrested me, and who is to open my papers before me." transferred to vincennes, the duke was tried summarily by court-martial, sentenced to death, and shot in the moat of the fortress on the st of march, . immediately before the execution he asked for a pair of scissors, cut off a lock of his hair, wrapped it up in a piece of paper, with a gold ring and a letter, and gave the packet to lieut. noirot, begging him to send it to the princess charlotte de rohan-rochefort. lieut. noirot forwarded the packet to general hulin, who transmitted it to an official named réal, together with the following letter:-- "paris, th ventôse, year of the french republic.--p. hulin, general of brigade commanding the grenadiers on foot of the consular guard, to citizen réal, councillor of state charged with the conduct of affairs relating to the internal tranquillity and security of the republic. i have the honour, councillor of state, to address you a packet found on the former duke d'enghien. i have the honour to salute you. (signed) p. hulin." the receipt of the package was thus acknowledged by citizen réal:-- "paris, germinal, year of the republic.--the councillor of state, especially charged with the conduct of all affairs relating to the internal tranquillity and security of the republic, has received from the general of brigade, hulin, commanding the grenadiers on foot of the guard, a small packet, containing hair, a gold ring, and a letter; this small packet bearing the following inscription: 'to be forwarded to the princess de rohan from the former duke d'enghien.' "(signed) rÉal." the last wishes of the unfortunate duke were not carried out. the packet was never forwarded to his wife. she may have received the letter, but the ring, the lock of hair, and some fifteen epistles, written in german, from the princess to the duke, and found upon him after his death, remained, without the duke's letter, in the archives of the prefecture of police. a fortnight after the duke's execution, his widow addressed from ettenheim, on the th of july, , the following letter to the countess d'ecquevilly:-- "since i still exist, dear countess, it is certain that grief does not kill. great god! for what frightful calamity was i reserved? in the most cruel torments, the most painful anxiety, never once did the horrible fear present itself to my mind that they might take his life. but, alas! it is only too true that the unhappy man has been made their victim: that this unjust sentence, this atrocious sentence, to which my whole being refused to lend credence, was pronounced and thereupon executed. i have not the courage to enter into details of this frightful event; but there is not one of them which is not heartrending, not one that would not paralyze with terror--i do not say every kind-hearted person, but anyone who has not lost all feeling of humanity. alone, without support, without succour, without defence, oppressed with anxiety, worn out with fatigue, denied one moment of the repose demanded by nature after his painful journey, he heard his death-sentence hurriedly pronounced, during which the unhappy man sank four times into unconsciousness. what barbarity! great god! and when the end came he was abandoned on all sides, without sympathy or consolation, without one affectionate hand to wipe away his tears or close his eyelids. "ah! i have not the cruel reproach to make to myself of not having done everything to follow him. heaven knows that i would have risked my life with joy, i do not say to save him, but to soften the last moments of his life. alas! they envied me this sad delight. prayers, entreaties, were all in vain; i could not share his fate. they preferred to leave me to this wretched existence, condemned to eternal regret, eternal sorrow." princess charlotte died at paris in ; and quite recently a note on the subject of her last wishes appeared in the paris _intermédiaire_, the french equivalent of our _notes and queries_. it was as follows:--"after the death of the princess charlotte, there was found among her papers a sealed packet, of which the superscription directed that it should be opened by the president of the tribunal--at that time m. de balli. this magistrate opened the packet and examined its contents. he found the whole correspondence of bonaparte's victim with 'his friend,' as the worthy magistrate put it: _avec son amie_. the president gave the packet to the family notary after re-closing it, saying that the letters were very touching, very interesting, but that they must be burnt; which was in fact done." [illustration: adrienne lecouvreur. (_from the bust by courtet in the comédie française._)] the marriage of the duke d'enghien to the princess de rohan had been informal; the informality consisting solely in its having been celebrated without some necessary sanction: probably that of the king, louis xvi. the ceremony was performed by cardinal de rohan, the bride's uncle; and it is evident from her first letters that she was regarded by her nearest friends and relatives as the duke's lawful wife. let us now, passing from political to private executions, say a few words about some of the famous duels of which vincennes, or rather the wood of vincennes, has from time to time been the scene. duels in france are generally fought with swords; and as it depends upon the combatants to strike or not to strike at a mortal part, a hostile meeting is by no means always attended with serious consequences. it is a mistake, however, to assume, as englishmen frequently do, that a duel in france fought for grave reasons is not itself a grave affair. plenty of sword duels have placed the worsted combatant in imminent danger of his life; though it is undeniable that the pistol, being a more hazardous weapon, proves, as a rule, deadlier than the sword. when m. paolo fiorentino, blackballed at the society of men of letters, on the ground that he had accepted bribes, undertook to fight every member of the association, beginning with m. amédée achard, whose name, thanks to its two a's, headed the alphabetical list, the italian critic and bravo ran his first opponent through the body, and all but killed him. m. henri de pène received like treatment at the hands of an officer by reason of his having described the unseemly conduct of officers generally, as shown at a ball of which the École militaire was the scene. both achard and pène, however, recovered. not so the unfortunate armand carrel, one of the boldest and most brilliant writers that the republican press of france possessed. armand carrel and his antagonist, Émile de girardin, another famous journalist of louis philippe's reign, fought with pistols in that bois de vincennes whose name at once suggests crossed rapiers or whizzing bullets. m. de girardin was the inventor of the cheap press, not only in france, but in europe. to reduce the price of the newspaper, and thus increase the number of subscribers, while covering any possible loss on the sale by the enlarged revenue from advertisements, which would flow in more and more rapidly as the circulation widened: such was girardin's plan. according, however, to his enemies, he proposed to "enlarge the portion hitherto allotted in newspapers to mendacious announcements to the self-commendations of quackery and imposture, at the sacrifice of space which should be devoted to philosophy, history, literature, the arts, and whatever else elevates or delights the mind of man." the proposed change was really one which democrats and republicans should have hailed with delight; for it promised to extend a knowledge of public affairs to readers who had hitherto been prevented from becoming acquainted with them by the high price of the newspapers, which, apart from their own articles on political affairs, published long accounts of the debates in the chamber. m. de girardin, however, found his innovation attacked as the device of a charlatan. he was accused of converting journalism into the most sordid of trades: of making it "a speaking-trumpet of the money-grabber and the speculator." some of m. de girardin's opponents went so far as to hint that he was not working in good faith, and that the losses to which the diminution of price must expose his journal were to be made good by a secret subsidy. armand carrel, as editor of the _national_, entered into the quarrel, and took part against girardin, who, on his side, wrote a bitter attack upon carrel. no sooner had carrel read the scathing article than he called upon its author, demanding either retractation or personal satisfaction. he entered girardin's room, accompanied by m. adolphe thibaudeau, holding open in his hand the journal which contained the offensive lines. girardin asked carrel to wait until he also could have a friend present. m. lautour-mézeray was sent for; but pending that gentleman's arrival some sharp words were interchanged. armand carrel conceived that he was justified in regarding the course adopted by m. de girardin as indicating an intention to bring the matter to a duel, and on his suggesting as much, m. de girardin replied, "a duel with such a man as you, sir, would be quite a _bonne fortune_." "sir," replied carrel, "i can never regard a duel as a _bonne fortune_." a few moments afterwards m. lautour-mézeray arrived. his presence served to give the discussion a more conciliatory tone, and it was ultimately agreed that a few words of explanation should be published in both journals. on m. de girardin's proposing to draw up the note at once, "you may rely upon me, sir," said armand carrel, with dignity. the quarrel seemed almost at an end; but an incident reanimated it. m. de girardin required that the publication of the note should take place simultaneously in the two journals. carrel, on the contrary, held that it ought to appear first in the _presse_, girardin's paper; but he experienced on this point the most determined resistance. it was then that, carried away with indignation, wounded to the quick, utterly unable to adhere any longer to the moderation which, by a determined effort, he had hitherto enforced upon himself, carrel rose and exclaimed, "i am the offended person; i choose the pistol!" it was early on the morning of friday, july , , that armand carrel and m. de girardin found themselves face to face in the bois de vincennes. while the pistols were being loaded, carrel said to m. de girardin, "should chance be against me and you should afterwards write my life, you will, in all honour, adhere strictly and simply to the facts?" "rest assured," replied his adversary. the seconds had measured a distance of forty paces; the combatants were to advance within twenty of each other. armand carrel immediately took his place and advanced, presenting, despite the urgent entreaties of m. ambert that he would show less front, the whole breadth of his person to his adversary's aim. m. de girardin having also advanced some paces, both parties fired nearly at the same instant, and both fell wounded, the one in the leg, the other in the groin. "i saw him," wrote louis blanc some time afterwards, "as he lay; his pale features expressing passion in repose. his attitude was firm, inflexible, martial, like that of a soldier who slumbers on the eve of battle." m. de girardin was profoundly grieved at the result of the duel, and he made a vow never to fight again. many years afterwards, under the republic of , he visited the grave of the man he had killed, to express his regret and ask for pardon in the name of the form of government to which he had now become a convert, and which carrel had always placed above every other. the duelling chronicles of the bois de vincennes would lead us far away from the paris of to-day. it may be mentioned, however, that in this wood alexandre dumas the elder fought his famous duel with a _collaborateur_, who claimed to have written the whole of the _tour de nesle_ and who, undoubtedly, supplied to the skilful dramatist the framework of the piece. dumas was in all truth a skilful dramatist, though one may hesitate to give him the title of dramatic poet, which he loved to claim. "what are you?" said the judge of the rouen tribunal to the author of so many clever pieces, who had to give evidence in a certain case. "if i were not in the city of corneille," answered alexander the great, "i should call myself a dramatic poet." "there are degrees in everything," replied the judge. alexandre dumas was, all the same, a great inventor, and he possessed an extraordinary talent for putting dramatic things into shape. when, therefore, the future editor of the _courier des États-unis_ claimed to have written all that was important in the _tour de nesle_, he doubtless declared what from a literary point of view was false. dumas not only rejected his contention, but declined to allow his own name to appear in the bill side by side with that of his _collaborateur_. hence angry words and a duel: once more a serious one, and with pistols, not swords. with a calm desire to kill his man, of which, were he not his own accuser, one would refuse to suspect him, dumas tells us, in his _memoirs_, how, when he appeared on the ground, he examined his adversary's costume, and, while thinking it excellent as a "make-up," was sorry to find that it offered no salient mark for a pistol-shot. m. gaillardet was dressed entirely in black; his trousers, his buttoned-up coat, his cravat were all as inky as hamlet's cloak, and according to the parisian fashion of the time, he wore no shirt-collar. "impossible to see the man," said dumas to himself; "there is no point about him to aim at." he at the same time made a mental note of the costume, which he afterwards reproduced in the duel scene of the "corsican brothers." at last he noticed a little speck of white in his adversary's ear: simply a small piece of cotton-wool. "i will hit him in the ear," said dumas to himself; and on his confiding the amiable intention to one of his seconds, the latter promised to watch carefully the effect of the shot, inasmuch as he was anxious to see whether a man hit with a bullet through the head turned round a little before falling or fell straight to the ground. dumas's pistol, however, missed fire. the delightful experiment contemplated could not, therefore, be tried; and the encounter was bloodless. * * * * * at vincennes was confined for a few days, just before his expulsion from france, the young pretender, or "charles edward," as the french called him. the duke de biron had been ordered to see to his arrest; and one evening when it was known that he intended to visit the opera, biron surrounded the building with twelve hundred guards as soon as the prince had entered it. he was arrested, taken to vincennes, and kept there four days; then to be liberated and expelled from france, in accordance with the treaty of , so humiliating to the french arms. the servants of the young pretender, and with them one of the retinue of the princess de talmont, whose antiquated charms had detained him at paris, were conveyed to the bastille; upon which the princess wrote the following letter to m. de maurepas, the minister: "the king, sir, has just covered himself with immortal glory by arresting prince edward. i have no doubt but that his majesty will order a _te deum_ to be sung to thank god for so brilliant a victory. but as placide, my lacquey, taken captive in this memorable expedition, can add nothing to his majesty's laurels, i beg you to send him back to me." "the only englishman the regiment of french guards has taken throughout the war!" exclaimed the princess de conti, when she heard of the arrest. "besides the bastille and the castle of vincennes, which are the privileged places of confinement for state prisoners, there are others," says an old chronicler, "which may be called the last strongholds of tyranny. the minister by his private _lettre de cachet_ sends an objectionable individual to bicêtre or charenton. the latter place, indeed, is for lunatics; but a minister who deprives a citizen of his liberty because he so wills it may make him pass for what he pleases; and if the person taken up is not at that time, he will in a few months be, entirely out of his senses, so that at worst it is only a kind of ministerial anticipation. upon any complaint laid by the parents or other relations, a young man is sent to st.-lazare, where sometimes he will remain till the death of the complainants; and heaven knows how fervently this is prayed for by the captive!" under the reign of charles vii. there stood in the wood of vincennes a castle which the king named château de beauté, and presented to agnes sorel. of this abode the royal favourite duly took possession. charles was by no means popular with his subjects, whom he taxed severely; and they were scandalised by the way in which agnes sorel squandered money, by her undisguised relations with the king, and by the kindness with which she was apparently treated even by the queen. far, then, from rendering honours to "the beautiful agnes," the parisians murmured at her prodigality and arrogance; and the favourite, indignant to find herself so ill received in paris, departed, saying that the parisians were churls, and that if she had suspected they would render her such insufficient honour she would never have set foot in their city: "which," says a contemporary writer, "would have been a pity, but not a great one." [illustration: a duel in the bois de boulogne.] after saying so much against agnes sorel, it is only fair to add that, according to many historians, it was she who roused charles vii. from his habitual lethargy, and inspired him with the idea of driving the english out of france. * * * * * vincennes is a military station, where a considerable body of troops is maintained. hence, as already mentioned, the once famous chasseurs derived their name. each division has now its own battalion of chasseurs. it may be added that special corps of infantry, such as chasseurs de vincennes, zouaves, turcos, together with the chasseurs d'afrique and other kinds of ornamental cavalry, have been abolished: to the detriment of the picturesqueness, if not the practical efficiency, of the french army. [illustration: the seine, from notre-dame.] the infantry regiments are all armed and dressed absolutely alike, with the exception of the battalions of "chasseurs" (corresponding to the "schützen" battalions of the german army), whose tunics are of a lighter blue than those of the line regiments. the germans, by the way, have only one battalion of sharpshooters to each army corps, whereas the french have two, one to each division. as the french are adopting as much as possible the principle of uniformity in their army, it seems strange that they should have made any distinction between chasseurs and infantry of the line; that, in short, they should have retained chasseurs in their army at all. formerly sharp-shooters carried rifles and were supposed to be particularly good shots; whereas infantry of the line were armed with smooth-bore muskets, and if they could pull the trigger, could certainly not aim straight. now every infantry soldier is supposed, more or less correctly, to be a good marksman; and linesmen and chasseurs are armed alike. [illustration: recruits.] lancers exist no more; and the french cavalry, but for differences of uniform, would all be of the same medium pattern, neither "light" nor "heavy," but presumably fit for duties of all kinds. some cavalry regiments are uniformed as dragoons, some as chasseurs, some as hussars; and every army corps has attached to it, or rather included in its integral force, four cavalry regiments of one of these three descriptions. the recruitment bill of and the organisation bill of form a net which, with the additions since made to them, takes at one sweep everybody whom the military authorities can possibly want. even seminarists and students of theology are no longer exempted. postmen, policemen of all kinds, workmen in government factories, students of a certain age in government schools and in all educational establishments private or public, members of the custom house and octroi service, firemen, government engineers, clerks and workmen in the department of woods, bridges, and mines, scavengers, lighthouse-keepers, coast-guardsmen, engine-drivers, stokers, guards, pointsmen, station-masters, signalmen and clerks of the railway service, all persons employed in the telegraph service, all seamen not already on the lists of the navy, and generally all members of bodies having some recognised constitution in time of peace, may in time of war be formed into special corps in order to serve either with the active army or with the "territorial army"--as the french equivalent to the german landwehr is called. "the formation of these special corps," says the text of the law on the general organisation of the french army, "is authorised by decree. they are subject to all the obligations of military service, enjoy all the rights of belligerents, and are bound by the rules of the law of nations." for private gentlemen going out in plain clothes to shoot at invaders from behind hedges no provision is made; and such persons, whether called "francs-tireurs" or by any other name, would, if caught by the enemy, evidently be left to their fate. the franc-tireur, in fact, though still popular with the sort of people who delight in stories of brigands and highwaymen, is not looked back to with admiration even by his own government. "these articles," says the report on the law of military organisation in reference to the clause above cited, "are introduced in order to prevent the return of such unhappy misunderstandings as occurred in the last war, during which it is said that national guards and francs-tireurs were shot by the enemy because our military laws had not given them the rights of belligerents." the rules under which these bodies of armed civilians, temporarily endowed with the military character, may be organised are strictly defined, so that the country may at no future time be troubled by "the formation of bands of foreign adventurers who have during all the worst epochs of our history fallen upon france, and, under pretext of defending her, have often subjected her to devastation and pillage." this is, of course, meant for the bands of garibaldians. they were, nevertheless, regularly organised under officers bearing commissions from the minister of war, and, apart from the question of "devastation and pillage," were the only bodies of partisans who showed any aptitude for guerilla warfare. [illustration] chapter viii. the boulevards (_continued_). hôtel carnavalet.--hôtel lamoignon.--place royale.--boulevard du temple.--the temple.--louis xvii.--the theatres.--astley's circus.--attempted assassination of louis philippe.--trial of fieschi.--the café turc.--the cafés.-the folies dramatiques.--louis xvi. and the opera.--murder of the duke of berri. let us return now from vincennes to the place de la bastille and the boulevard beaumarchais. perhaps the most interesting house on this boulevard is number twenty-three, which was built by mansard, the famous architect, for his own occupation. one set of rooms in the house was occupied by the celebrated ninon de lenclos, who died there october , , at the age of eighty-nine, preserving, according to tradition, her remarkable beauty to the very last. here voltaire, then in his twelfth year, was presented to her; nor did she forget to assign to him in her will , francs for the purchase of books. next door to the house of mansard and ninon de lenclos is the little beaumarchais theatre, which, constructed in forty-three days, was opened on the rd of december, , under the style of théâtre de la porte st.-antoine. in it was re-named théâtre beaumarchais. then at different periods it bore the titles of opéra bouffe français, and fantaisies parisiennes, until at length, in , when it was entirely rebuilt, it became once more the théâtre beaumarchais. the government of did right in giving the name of beaumarchais to the boulevard on which he at one time lived, and where he possessed a certain amount of property. during the stormy years that immediately preceded the revolution of beaumarchais was an important figure; and the effect of the "marriage of figaro" on the public mind was in a good measure to prepare it for the general overthrow then imminent. the king, the queen, the ministers, were all, in the first instance, afraid of the "marriage of figaro"; and we have seen that to get it produced beaumarchais displayed as much diplomacy and energy as would suffice in the present day to upset a cabinet. while living at his mansion near the porte st.-antoine, beaumarchais built close at hand the théâtre du marais, where, after letting it to a manager, he brought out, in , his "mère coupable"--the third part of his figaro trilogy, in which the count and countess almaviva, figaro and susannah, are shown in their old age. the "guilty mother" is the countess herself; the charming and, as one had hoped, innocent rosina of the "barber of seville." the male offender is chérubin, better known under his operatic name of cherubino, who after saying in the french comedy, with a mixture of timidity and audacity, "si j'osais oser!" ends by daring too much. "la mère coupable" obtained but little success, and deserved none. closed by imperial order in , the théâtre du marais existed only for fifteen years. it must not be confounded with the ancient theatre of the same name where in corneille produced his famous tragedy "le cid." the marais or marsh, whose name recalls the early history of paris, when lutetia was defended by marshes as by a broad impassable moat, has long been known as the favourite abode of small pensioners and fundholders, who in this remote quarter found food and shelter at inexpensive rates. the marais, however, has had, like most other parts of paris, its illustrious residents; and when about the middle of the eighteenth century the immortal actress mlle. clairon lived there she was the third famous inmate of the tenement in which she had taken up her abode. "i was told of a small house in the rue du marais," she writes in her memoirs, "which i could have for two hundred francs, where racine was said to have lived forty years with his family. i was informed that it was there he had composed his imperishable works and there that he died; and that afterwards it had been occupied by the tender lecouvreur, who had ended her days in it. 'the walls of the house,' i reflected, 'will be alone sufficient to make me feel the sublimity of the author and develop the talents of the actress. in this sanctuary then i will live and die!'" close to the rue du marais, in the rue de sévigné, stands the musée carnavalet, established in the former hôtel carnavalet, where mme. de sévigné, author of the famous letters, lived from to . it was restored in by baron haussmann, who converted it into a museum for preserving various monuments, statues, inscriptions, tombstones, ornaments, and objects of various kinds, proceeding from the wholesale demolition to which sundry streets and even whole quarters of paris were at that time being subjected, under the orders of baron haussmann himself in his capacity of prefect of the seine. another remarkable mansion in the same street is the hôtel lamoignon, now occupied by different manufacturers, especially of chemical products, but which, in its earliest days, had highly aristocratic and even royal occupants. begun by diana of france, legitimatised daughter of henri ii., the hôtel lamoignon was bought and finished in for charles de valois, duke of angoulême, natural son of charles ix., who, according to tallemant des réaux, would have been "the best fellow in the world if he could only have got rid of his swindling propensities." when his servants asked him for money, he would reply to them: "my house has three outlets into the street; take whichever of them you like best." the architecture of the hôtel lamoignon is that of an ancient fortress, though its walls and façades are ornamented with crescents, hunting horns, and the heads of stags and dogs; the whole in allusion to the diana for whom the building was originally planned. [illustration: hÔtel carnavalet.] having once left the upper boulevard to enter the adjacent marais, we cannot but go on towards the place des vosges, better known as the place royale, where, in , henri ii. took a fancy one day for trying his powers at tilting against montgomery, captain in the scotch guard; when the shock was so violent that a splinter from montgomery's lance penetrated the king's eye through the broken visor of his helmet. the king was carried to the hôtel des tournelles, where, without having regained consciousness, he died on the th of july, . the hotel or palace where the king breathed his last was thenceforth abandoned as a fatal and accursed place. in the course of four years it fell into a ruinous condition, and charles ix. ordered it to be pulled down. the park belonging to the old palace was turned into a horse market, which was the scene in of the famous encounter between the favourite courtiers of henri iii. known as the mignons and the partisans of the duke of guise. four combatants, maugiron, schomberg, riberac, and quélus, lost their lives in this affair. the horse market, or place royale as it afterwards became, witnessed many sanguinary duels, until at last richelieu determined to put an end to a fashion which was depriving france of some of her bravest men. with this view he cut off the head of montmorency-bouteville and of count des chapelles, his second in the duel which cost bussy d'amboise his life. in the cardinal erected in the centre of the place royale an equestrian statue of his royal master louis xiii. the place royale was at that time the favourite quarter of the french nobility, and the rendezvous of all that was witty, gallant, and distinguished in france. [illustration: hÔtel lamoignon.] the house number six on the place royale is particularly interesting as having been inhabited in richelieu's time by the brilliant and too celebrated marion de lorme, and two centuries later by victor hugo, who, in the very room that marion de lorme had occupied, wrote, at the age of twenty-five, the splendid tragedy of which she is the heroine. the statue of louis xiii. which richelieu had raised was overturned and broken to pieces in , when the most critical period of the revolution was at hand. it was replaced after the restoration, under the reign of charles x., by the present statue. the boulevard du temple owes its name to a building which was first occupied by the order of templars, and which, towards the close of the last century, enjoyed a sad celebrity as the prison where louis xvi., marie antoinette, and the young dauphin were confined. no less than forty-eight works are said to have been written on the imprisonment of louis xvii., and matters connected with it, including the histories of some dozen "claimants," asserting, in his name, their right to the french throne. most of these pretenders, with naundorff--who had been the dauphin's valet in the temple--prominent among them, had no difficulty in finding enthusiasts and dupes to further their designs; and even in france one of them caused himself to be described on his tombstone as "louis de france." the emperor napoleon iii. took, however, the liberty of ordering the inscription to be effaced. soon after the death of the count de chambord, m. de chantelauze published in the _illustration_ an account of louis xvii.'s life in the temple, and of his last illness, death, and post-mortem examination, together with certificates which leave no doubt as to the young prince having really died in his prison. simon, the gaoler, according to m. de chantelauze's view, was, like so many other bad men, not wholly bad; while his wife was for the most part good, the appearance of badness or roughness which she manifested when the child confided to her care was visited by members of the commune being assumed in order to inspire her employers with confidence. the task assigned to simon was not, as has often been supposed, to reduce the young prince, by ill-treatment, to such a point that he would at last be attacked by illness and carried off, but simply to get from him evidence against his mother, the queen, with respect to her complicity in the varennes plot, and the various plans formed for effecting the escape of the child. the evidence having been obtained by the simple process of first putting it into the child's mouth, and afterwards taking it out, the special work assigned to the simons was at an end, and the young prince experienced from them nothing but kindness. if he ultimately fell ill and died, his confinement and the bad air he breathed may well have been the cause. the life of louis xvii., from the departure of the simons until his death, can be made out continuously; and the evidence of his having died in the temple is quite conclusive. nevertheless, louis xviii., in view of the pretension constantly springing up, instituted for his own satisfaction an inquiry into the whole matter; and the proofs adduced in the course of it as to the identity of the "child in the temple" with the son of louis xvi. and marie antoinette seem decisive. m. nauroy, however, author of "les secrets des bourbons," is convinced that the true louis xvii. was carried out of the temple in a bundle of linen, and that by like means the child who ultimately died there was substituted for him. m. nauroy finds in support of his belief abundant evidence, positive and negative, which he derives from a variety of sources, and sometimes discovers in the most unexpected places. the appearance of a long succession of impostors claiming to be louis xvii. proves nothing, and will pass for what it is worth in the native land of arthur orton. it is remarkable, however, that royalists and republicans, including eminent personages on both sides, have agreed in maintaining that the child who died in the temple was not louis xvii. louis blanc favours this view in his "history of the revolution." nor does he do so without taking a calm, judicial survey of all the evidence in the case. he may consciously or unconsciously have been influenced by party spirit; and the moral he draws from the whole matter is that there is danger in the principle of "divine right" when, through a variety of accidents, it may be impossible to show on whom this questionable right has devolved. those royalists who deny that louis xvii. died in the temple, explain the announcement of his death and the proclamation of louis xviii. in the royalist camp, first, by the inconvenience of bringing forward as king of france a child of tender years; secondly, by the difficulty of producing this child; and, thirdly, by the danger, when louis xviii. had once gained acceptance with the party, of dividing it by a revelation of the fact that his nephew, son of louis xvi., was still alive. m. nauroy, as already hinted, sees proofs of his favourite theory where no one else would perceive them. when, for instance, the duke of berri, dying from the stroke of an assassin, had some final words to whisper to his brother, the duke of angoulême--"what," asks m. nauroy, "could this have been but the truth in regard to louis xvii.?" when, again, one of the doctors who made the post-mortem examination of the supposed louis xvii. offered to louis xviii. the heart which he had concealed and preserved, and the king declined the present--"why," asks m. nauroy, "should he have accepted the heart which he knew was not that of louis xvii., but that of the child by whom the young prince was replaced in his prison?" meanwhile, that some of the great royalist families believed louis xvii. to have been replaced in the temple by another child and himself carried to la vendée is beyond doubt; and a letter on the subject, addressed, december , , to the _times_, shows that this view of the matter was held by at least a section (probably a very small one) of the royalist party. on january th the cobbler simon ceased to do duty as gaoler. at that time there were, as m. nauroy sets forth, only four persons in the temple--the dauphin, simon, his wife, and the princess elizabeth, afterwards duchess of angoulême. simon died on the scaffold six months afterwards, on the th of july. the princess elizabeth, confined in a room apart from her brother, never saw him again, and consequently knew nothing of him except by hearsay. from january th to july th there was no warder at the temple. the child was watched by commissaries, who were relieved from day to day, and of whom not one could establish his identity. when regular gaolers were appointed, not one of them had ever seen the dauphin. if, then, after the departure of simon, another child could have been substituted for louis xvii., there was no one to notice the change when it had once been accomplished. the dauphin was in perfect health at the time when simon and his wife left him. but the child in the temple fell ill immediately afterwards; and on the th of may, , dr. desault, summoned to attend the "dauphin," declared his little patient to be some other child. he had visited the dauphin's brother in , and on that occasion had seen the dauphin himself at the tuileries. if, as m. nauroy asserts, dr. desault drew up a report on the subject, that report has disappeared. indirect evidence, however, as to dr. desault's conviction that the child he attended in the temple could not be the dauphin, was given fifty years afterwards in a letter written and signed by the widow of p. a. thouvenin, dr. desault's nephew, who claimed to remember what his uncle had frequently said on the subject. [illustration: statue of louis xiii. in the place des vosges.] whether or not louis xvii. escaped to la vendée to be cherished by the vendean chiefs even when, in the royalist army which was invading france from germany, louis xviii. had been proclaimed, he is now in any case no more. the eighteenth louis was ten years old when the child of the temple is supposed to have died in prison; and according to the most convinced, not to say credulous, of those writers who maintain that louis xvii. escaped, to live for years afterwards, he breathed his last in at saveney (loire inférieure), under the name of laroche, at the age of eighty-seven. the numerous impostors who with more or less success personated the unhappy prince had died much earlier. but the descendants of naundorff, his valet, the most famous of all these pretenders, claim still to be of the blood royal, and on the occasion of the count de chambord's death they displayed a proud consciousness of their rights by publishing somewhere in holland a manifesto asserting gravely the title of the chief of the family to the throne of france. [illustration: the place des vosges, formerly place royale.] another prisoner in the temple of whom mention must be made is sir sidney smith, whose friends were making every effort for his liberation, when a royalist officer in the french army, named boisgerard (who under the revolution had quitted military life to become ballet-master at the opera), effected his escape. with this view he had obtained an impression of the seal of the directorial government, which he affixed to an order, forged by his own hand, for the delivery of sir sidney smith into his care. accompanied by a friend, disguised, like himself, in the uniform of an officer of the revolutionary army, he did not scruple personally to present the fictitious document to the keeper of the temple, who, opening a small closet, took thence some original document, with the writing and seal of which he carefully compared the forged order. desiring the adventurers to wait a few minutes, he then withdrew and locked the door after him. giving themselves up for lost, the confederates determined to resist, sword in hand, any attempt made to secure them. highly interesting is boisgerard's own description of the period of horrible suspense he now passed through. under the dread that each successive moment might be attended by a discovery involving the safety of his life, the acuteness of his organs of sense was heightened to painfulness; the least noise thrilled through his brain, and the gloomy apartment in which he sat seemed filled with strange images. both he and his companion, however, retained self-possession, and after the lapse of a few minutes their anxiety was terminated by the re-appearance of the gaoler, with his captive, who was delivered to boisgerard. but here a new and unexpected difficulty occurred. sir sidney smith, not knowing boisgerard, refused for some time to quit the prison; and considerable address was required on the part of his deliverers to overcome his scruples. at last the precincts of the temple were cleared. the fugitives rode a short distance in a fiacre, then walked, then entered another carriage, and in this way so successfully baffled pursuit that they ultimately got to havre, where sir sidney was put on board an english vessel. boisgerard, on his return to paris, was a thousand times in dread of detection and had a succession of narrow escapes until his visit to england, which took place after the peace of amiens. a pension had been granted to sir sidney smith by the english government for his meritorious services; and on boisgerard's arrival here a reward of a similar nature was bestowed on him through the influence of sir sidney, who took every opportunity of testifying his gratitude. [illustration: the arcade in the place des vosges.] if the prison of the unfortunate king and queen who were to suffer for the sins of their predecessors was at the eastern end of the line of boulevards, as marked by the boulevard du temple, their place of execution on the place louis xv., now known as place de la concorde, was at the western extremity, which in due time we shall explore. meanwhile from one end of the boulevards to the other, from the tiny théâtre beaumarchais to the magnificent opéra, there is a long series of playhouses. close to the beaumarchais theatre stands the cirque d'hiver, opened in under the title of cirque napoléon, which seats , persons. it occupies the site of the first circus that was ever established in paris. in the astleys, father and son, came to paris and there opened a circus exactly like the one they had just founded in london. under their direction this theatre, situated at number twenty-four rue du faubourg du temple, and measuring twenty metres in diameter, was lighted by , lamps and furnished with two rows of boxes. the price of the seats varied from twelve sous to three francs. astley junior is said to have possessed a remarkably fine figure; and, in the words of a contemporary writer, "his beauty was sculptural." bachaumont, in his memoirs of the time, speaks of the numerous passions inspired by the young equestrian in too susceptible feminine hearts. the tricks of the circus, now so familiar, that in england, at least, no one cares to see them, were at that time new, and the sight of a man attitudinising on the back of a horse at full gallop excited the greatest wonder. astley's circus in paris possessed, as so many operatic theatres have done, a sort of international character. engagements were made for it by diplomatists abroad. it can be shown, indeed, that diplomatists have long and almost from time immemorial been in the habit of doing agency work for artists and managers of good position. operatic celebrities have been particularly favoured in this respect. a great minister of state, cardinal mazarin, introduced, or aided powerfully in introducing, opera into france. the engagement of cambert as director of music at the court of charles ii. was effected by diplomatic means. gluck, more than a century later, was induced to visit paris through the representations of a secretary of the french embassy at vienna--that m. du rollet who arranged for gluck, on the basis of racine's _iphigénie_, the libretto of _iphigénie en aulide_; and piccini, at the instigation of madame du barry, was secured at paris as opposition composer through the instrumentality of baron de breteuil, french ambassador at rome, working in co-operation with the marquis carraccioli, neapolitan ambassador at paris. the great montesquieu, moreover, when he was in england, had not thought it unbecoming to interest himself in the welfare of the french artists who occasionally arrived in england with recommendations addressed to him. nor did the illustrious locke occupy himself so exclusively with the "human understanding" as to have no time to bestow on the material interests of foreign _danseuses_. locke was not indeed one of those practically epicurean philosophers of whom m. arsène houssaye discourses so agreeably in his "philosophes et comédiennes." he had no general taste either for the public performances or for the private society of _ballerines_; but a certain mlle. subligny having come to him with a letter of introduction from the abbé dubois, he is known to have made himself useful, and therefore, no doubt, agreeable, to her during her stay in england. locke, it is true, was a metaphysician, and had nothing whatever to do with diplomacy. but his friend montesquieu was a personage of political importance, and in his anxiety to assist french artists in london he even went so far as to bring to their performances as many of the english nobility as were willing to attend. about the same time, at the suggestion of the regent of orleans, a minister of state, m. de maurepas, made overtures to handel concerning a series of representations which it was proposed that his celebrated company should give at the académie royale of paris. m. de maurepas wished, like mr. washburne at a later day, to secure for paris the best available talent; and he looked to handel's opera-house for singers, as mr. washburne looked to the circuses of the united states for "bare-back riders." on this subject ebers's "seven years of the king's theatre" shows that immediately after the peace of all the offers of engagements to artists of the paris opera were made through the medium of the english embassy to the court of france, or by special missions with which diplomatists of distinction were glad to be entrusted. the committee of noblemen who aided ebers in his management treated, through the english ambassador at paris, with the director of the academy, or with the minister of fine arts; though, as a matter of fact, they failed to secure by these elaborate means the services of artists who, in the present day, would be engaged through an exchange of telegrams. the outbreak of the revolution was the signal for the astleys and their company to recross the channel, and the astley circus remained unoccupied until . then a company calling themselves "the comedians without a title" (_les comédiens sans titre_) opened it as a theatre on thursday, march th, and closed it on the rd. finally franconi took it over, and achieved a triumphal success, his management being destined to last many years. in he moved his enterprise to the garden of the capucines, which had become a public promenade in the heart of paris, subsequently transferring it to the theatre in the rue du mont-thabor. in he returned with his company to the circus of the faubourg du temple, reconstructed by the architect dubois, but doomed, on the night of march th, , to be burnt to the ground. the destruction of the circus by fire excited much sympathy. public subscriptions were opened, and public representations given for the benefit of the sufferers, the result being so satisfactory that the theatre was at once reconstructed, this time on the boulevard du temple, with a magnificent façade, and franconi once more threw open his doors, about a year after the fire, on the st of march, . the stage, which in the old building was an accessory, became in the new one of the first importance. it was now possible to perform military manoeuvres on a large scale. at the restored circus was represented during the last years of the reign of charles x. the _siege of saragossa_; and under louis philippe a number of military pieces founded on incidents in the history of the republic and the empire. every government in france since the first napoleon has had victories of its own, important or unimportant, to celebrate. the martial triumphs of louis xiv. seem, by common consent, to have been forgotten, either because french history dates for the immense majority of the population from the time of the revolution, or because the battles won under the old monarchy are now too remote to stir the national pride. the reign of napoleon i., however, was a series of brilliant victories. under the restoration a campaign was undertaken in spain, the incidents of which so lent themselves to dramatic treatment that playwrights reproduced them on the stage and in the arena of the circus. the reign of louis philippe, too, had its military glories; first in belgium, in connection with the war of independence undertaken in by the belgians, with the assistance of france and england, against the dutch. it was in africa, however, and in the neighbourhood of algiers, that louis philippe's army played for many years so active a part. the war against the dey of algiers was begun by charles x., whose consul had been insulted by that potentate; louis philippe continued it, chiefly, it was thought, in order to keep open for discontented spirits a field of activity at a safe distance from france. many restless adventurers sought distinction and found it in the algerian campaigns; and algeria was the principal training-ground for those generals who were afterwards to aid prince louis napoleon in executing his _coup d'État_. it was under louis philippe that those picturesque troops, the chasseurs d'orléans and chasseurs d'afrique, were created, not to mention the zouaves and the spahis. according to the criticisms of german officers, the laxity of discipline in the algerian campaigns had a considerable effect in producing, or at least hastening, the long series of military defeats to which france was subjected in the war of . the news of victories gained in africa was, all the same, constantly reaching france; and each successive triumph was made the subject of a new dramatic spectacle at the circus or hippodrome. abd-el-kader became a familiar theatrical figure, and his famous interview with general bugeaud was represented in more than one equestrian piece. abd-el-kader had by the most violent means been prevailed upon to make peace; and an interview was arranged at which the arab chief and bugeaud, the french commander, were to ratify it by a personal interchange of promises. abd-el-kader did not, however, keep his appointment, and seems, indeed, to have studiously missed it. the french general, in a fit of impatience, left his room, and went forward with a small escort, military and civil, towards the quarters of the unpunctual arab chief, in order to stir him up. on reaching the advanced posts, the french general called a chieftain of one of the tribes, who pointed out to him the hill-side where the emir lay encamped. "it is unbecoming of your chief," said bugeaud to this arab, "to bring me so far, and then make me wait so long;" whereupon he continued resolutely to advance. the emir's escort now appeared. the arab chieftains, most of them young and handsome, were magnificently mounted, and made a gallant display of their finery. presently from their ranks a horseman advanced dressed in a coarse burnoose, with a camel-hair cord, and without any outward sign of distinction, except that his black horse, which he sat most elegantly, was surrounded by arabs holding the bridle and the stirrups. this was abd-el-kader. the french general held out his hand; the other grasped it twice, then threw himself quickly from his horse, and sat down. general bugeaud took his place beside him, and the conversation began. the emir was of small stature; his face serious and pale, with delicate features slightly marked by time, and a keen sparkling eye. his hands, which were beautifully formed, played with a chaplet that hung round his neck. he spoke gently, but there was on his lips and in the expression of countenance a certain affectation of disdain. the conversation turned, of course, upon the peace which had just been concluded, and abd-el-kader spoke of the cessation of hostilities with elaborate and feigned indifference. when the french general, after pointing out to him that the treaty could not be put into force until it was ratified, observed that the truce, meanwhile, was favourable to the arabs, since it would save their crops from destruction so long as it lasted, the chief replied: "you may destroy the crops this moment, and i will give you a written authority to do so, if you like. the arabs are not in want of corn." the conversation at an end, general bugeaud stood up, and the emir remained seated; whereupon the former, stung to the quick, seized the emir's hand and jerked it, saying "come, get up." the french were delighted at this characteristic act of an imperious and intrepid nature, and the arabs could not conceal their astonishment. as for the emir, seized with an involuntary confusion, he turned round without uttering a word, sprang on his horse and rode back to his own people; his return being a signal for enthusiastic cries of "god preserve the sultan!" which echoed from hill to hill. a violent thunder-burst added to the effect of this strange scene, and the arabs vanished among the mountain gorges. until the boulevard du temple was noted for a number of little theatres, where marionettes might be seen dancing on the tight-rope, or where pantomimes in the italian style were performed. then there was the cabinet of wax figures, together with other little shows, difficult to class: all destined in that year to disappear. the reconstruction of this portion of paris caused the removal of many theatres, which were built again at other points. the site of the former circus was now occupied by the imperial theatre of the châtelet. the circus reappeared, for winter performances, in the boulevard des filles de calvaire, for the summer season in the champs Élysées. in connection with the winter circus the popular concerts started by the late pasdeloup must not be forgotten. here the finest symphonic music of the french and other composers, chiefly modern, was performed in admirable style. here the french public were familiarised with the works of berlioz, and, in spite of a certain opposition at the outset, with selections from some of the operas of wagner. pasdeloup, who after thirty years' unremitting work died in poverty, used to find worthy imitators and successors in m. colonne and m. lamoureux, both renowned among the musical conductors of the period. number forty-two of the boulevard du temple marks the house, formerly number fifty, whence the notorious fieschi, on the th of july, , exploded his infernal machine which was intended to kill louis philippe and his sons, and which, in fact, struck down by their side one of the veterans of the empire, marshal mortier, duc de trévise, and several other superior officers. not even in russia have so many sovereigns been assailed by their subjects as in france. since, indeed, the murder of henri iii. by jacques clément, it has been the rule, rather than the exception, with royal personages in france to be struck by the assassin or the executioner; or, if spared in body, to be brought all the same to some tragic end. henri iv. fell by the hand of ravaillac. no such fate awaited louis xiii., henri iv.'s immediate successor; but louis xv. was stabbed by damiens, louis xvi. was guillotined, louis xvii., imprisoned in the temple, died one scarcely knows how or where. the duke of enghien was shot by order of napoleon. louis xviii. had to fly from paris at the approach of napoleon returning from elba; the duke of berri was assassinated by louvel; charles x. lost his crown by the revolution which brought louis philippe to the throne; and louis philippe, who was ultimately to disappear in a hackney cab before the popular rising which led to the establishment of the second republic, and soon afterwards of the second empire, was meanwhile made the object of some half-dozen murderous attacks, the most formidable being the one planned and executed by fieschi, otherwise gérard. what, it may be asked, had a quiet, peaceful, and eminently respectable monarch like louis philippe done to provoke repeated attempts upon his life? the explanation is simple. charles x. had been driven away in by the republicans, not that another king might be appointed in his stead, but that the republic might be established. louis philippe was, from their point of view, an interloper who must, at all hazards, be removed. [illustration: the winter circus in the boulevard des filles de calvaire.] fieschi's experiment with his infernal machine created a sensation all over europe; and the papers for some time afterwards were full of particulars, more or less authentic, of the diabolical attempt upon king louis philippe's life. the revolutionists, whose action against charles x. had led to the establishment, not of a republic, but of a monarchy--hateful to them in whatever form--had evidently sworn that he should die. it was ascertained by m. thiers, the first minister, that on the occasion of a journey which the king intended to make from neuilly to paris certain conspirators had arranged to throw a lighted projectile into the royal carriage; and his majesty, therefore, was requested to let the royal carriage proceed on its way, at the appointed time, without him, and occupied simply by his aides-de-camp, no previous announcement being made as to the absence of the king. louis philippe having protested against this suggestion as unfair to the aides-de-camp: "sire," replied m. thiers, "it is their duty to expose themselves for the safety of your person, and they surely will not complain when they find the minister of the interior by their side in the threatened carriage." the king, however, rejected this proposition, declaring that he had resolved on the journey, and, hazardous as it might be, would undertake it. his resolution having been combated in vain by m. thiers, the preparations for departure were ordered. just as the king was about to get into the carriage, the queen and the princesses suddenly presented themselves in an agony of terror and of tears. "it is impossible," says m. louis blanc, "to say whether a skilful indiscretion on the part of the minister had initiated them into the secret of what had taken place, or whether they had received no other intimation than that supplied by the instincts of the heart." however this may have been, the queen, finding that louis philippe would not abandon his intention, insisted on accompanying him, and it was quite impossible to prevent her from doing so. m. thiers then begged the honour of a seat in the threatened carriage, and the journey was risked. the attack apprehended was not, however, on this occasion to be made; and it was as long afterwards as the th of july, , on the occasion when louis philippe drove through paris in memory of the "three days" of july, , that fieschi put his murderous project into execution. "on the th of july," says m. louis blanc, "the sun rose upon the city, already perplexed with fears and doubts. the drum which summoned the national guards early in the morning beat for some time in vain: a heavy apathy, in which there mingled a sort of morbid distrust, weighed upon everyone. at ten o'clock, however, the legions of the garde nationale stretched in an immense line along the boulevards, facing , of the regular troops, horse and foot. the boulevard du temple having been pointed out by rumour as the scene of the contemplated crime, the police had orders to parade it with particular watchfulness, and to keep a close eye upon the windows." on the previous evening m. thiers had a number of houses in this quarter searched. but the remonstrances of the inhabitants became so violent, that his original intention of examining every building on the boulevard had to be abandoned. the clock of the château was striking ten when the king issued from the tuileries on horseback. he was accompanied by his sons, the dukes of orleans, nemours, and joinville; by marshals mortier and lobau; by his ministers; and by a numerous body of generals and other superior officers and high functionaries. along the whole line which he traversed there prevailed a dead silence, broken only at intervals by the _ex officio_ acclamations of the soldiers. at a few minutes past twelve the royal _cortège_ arrived in front of the eighth legion, which was stationed along the boulevard du temple. here, near the end of the jardin turc, as the king was leaning forward to receive a petition from the hands of a national guardsman, a sound was heard like the fire of a well-sustained platoon. in an instant the ground was strewn with the dead and dying. marshal mortier and general lachasse de verigny, wounded in the head, fell bathed in their blood. a young captain of artillery, m. de villaté, slid from his horse, his arms extended at full length, as though they had been nailed to a cross; he had been shot in the head, and expired ere he touched the ground. among the other victims were the colonel of gendarmerie, raffé; m. rieussec, lieutenant-colonel of the eighth legion; the national guardsmen prudhomme, benetter, ricard, and léger; an old man upwards of seventy years of age, m. lebrouste; a poor fringe-maker named langeray; and a girl of scarcely fourteen, sophie remy. the king was not wounded, but in the confusion his horse reared and he sustained a violent shock in the left arm. the duke of orleans had a slight contusion on the thigh. a ball grazed the croup of the duke of joinville's horse. thus the odious attempt failed in its object; the royal family was saved. no language can express the utter horror which this frightful and cowardly attack created in the minds of the assembled multitudes. an aide-de-camp immediately galloped off to reassure the queen, and the king continued his progress amidst manifestations of the deepest sympathy and the most enthusiastic loyalty. as a striking exemplification of the _sang-froid_ of louis philippe it has been gravely related, on the alleged authority of marshal maison, that immediately after the fatal occurrence, and while all around were overwhelmed with dismay and grief, the king's mind rapidly glanced over all the possible advantages which might be drawn from the event, and that he exclaimed, "ah, now we are sure to get the appanages!" but this anecdote, in itself improbable, must be received with more than the usual grain of salt. meantime, at the moment of the explosion, clouds of smoke were seen to issue from a window on the third floor of the house number fifty. a man got out of this window, and seizing a double rope which was fastened inside, slid down it on to the roof of a lower building. he was but half-dressed, and his face streamed with blood. a flower-pot which was caught in the movement of the rope after he quitted hold of it fell to the pavement, and the noise attracted the attention of an agent of police who had been posted in the courtyard of the house. "there is the assassin escaping on the roof!" he exclaimed; and one of the national guards at once called upon the fugitive to surrender, threatening to fire if he refused. but the man, wiping away with his hand the veil of blood which obscured his sight, dashed on and made his way through an open window into an adjoining house. a track of blood indicated his route, as though his own crime pursued him. he reached the courtyard too late to escape unobserved, and was at once taken into custody. in the room whence he had fled were found the smoking remains of his death-dealing machine. it was raised upon a sort of scaffolding on four square legs connected together by strong oak cross-pieces. twenty-five musket barrels were fastened by the breech upon the cross-piece at the back, which was higher than the front traverse by about eight inches. the ends of the barrels rested in notches cut in the lower traverse. the touch-holes were exactly in a line, so as to take fire simultaneously by means of a long train of gunpowder. the guns had been placed so as to receive the procession slantingly, embracing a large range, and rising from the legs of the horses to the heads of the riders. the charge in each barrel was a quadruple one. fortunately, the calculations of the assassin were frustrated. two of the barrels did not go off, four of them burst; and to these chances the king doubtless owed his life. fieschi was found, on inquiry, to have lodged in the house for several months. he stated himself to be a machinist. the porter had never been inside fieschi's room since he had occupied it. there had been but one man to see fieschi, whom he represented as his uncle, and three women, who, he said, were his mistresses. on the morning of the th he had been noticed to go in and out, up and down, in a visible state of agitation, and once, though habitually abstemious, he went into a neighbouring cafe to drink a glass of brandy. at the military post where he was taken upon his arrest, a national guard having asked him who he was, "what's that to you?" he replied, "i shall answer such questions when they are put by the proper people." some gunpowder having been found upon his person, he was asked what it was for. "for glory!" he exclaimed. the trial of fieschi and his accomplices took place on the th of january, , before the court of peers assembled in the palace of the luxembourg. in the body of the court, in front of the clerk's table, were displayed, among other proofs against the prisoners, a machine supporting a number of guns in an inclined position, an extinguished firebrand, a dagger, a shot belt with a quantity of bullets in it, an iron gauntlet, and a bloodstained rope. fieschi, the chief conspirator, is described by louis blanc as "endowed with an energy and shrewdness which merely served to promote the aims of an inveterate and grovelling turpitude. vain to a degree which almost approached insanity, this man had stained his life with every infamy. a corsican by birth, he had fought bravely in the service of napoleon. after the peace, however, he had launched upon a career of vice and crime. he had invented the so-called infernal machine (which was simply a battery of guns so arranged that they could be discharged from a window), not from any political or personal hatred of louis philippe, but simply as the hireling of a band of republican and revolutionary conspirators." fieschi and his accomplices were duly guillotined. other attempts had been made and were still to be made on the life of louis philippe. the ferocious exploit, however, of fieschi remains the most notorious one of this reign. at last the citizen king lost his nerve; and in february, , disappeared in face of a danger not more formidable, if firmly met at the outset, than the one which he had despised thirteen years previously, in . fieschi was simply guillotined; and he was the first regicide or would-be regicide in france who escaped torture. the horrible cruelties inflicted on the assassins of french kings may make many persons less sensitive than they otherwise would be to the misfortunes reserved for the successors of these princes. the only possible excuse for the diabolical punishments devised for regicides under the old french monarchy is that such barbarity was of the age. the torture of damiens was imitated in every detail from the torture of ravaillac, which had for precedent the torture of gérard, the assassin of the prince of orange. an ingenious french writer attempted to decide whether ravaillac's torments were greater than those of gérard. it is certain in any case that the latter suffered with much greater constancy. ravaillac shrieked out in a terrible manner, whereas balthasar gérard never uttered a groan. in this connection it is curious that, from the middle of the eighteenth century until the time of the french revolution, the name of damiens, or damian, at present venerated throughout the civilised world, was in france, its country of origin, one of such opprobrium that nobody ventured to bear it. no frenchman, indeed, would have dared to do so; for after the attempt upon the life of louis xv. the name of damiens, or d'amiens, his would-be murderer, with all names of similar sound or spelling were, by a special edict, absolutely proscribed. to go by the name of d'amiens, damiens, or damian, was to proclaim oneself affiliated nearly or remotely to the unspeakable being--the regicide, the parricide--who had lifted his hand against the lord's anointed. time has its revenges. the name associated a century and a half ago with villainy and crime is now suggestive only of heroism and virtue. everyone knows by what glorious acts of self-sacrifice damien, enthusiast and martyr, has brought honour to a once unutterable name. [illustration: louis philippe.] the french revolution, which was separated from the torture of damiens by only thirty-eight years, is associated with a number of sanguinary deeds. but it at least put an end to torture. no such horrors as had been perpetrated under the french monarchy were ever to take place under the french republic. even in the case of ordinary criminals not specially condemned to torture, death, under the old monarchy, was inflicted in the cruellest fashion. "after a prisoner has seen death under so many forms," says a writer of the time of louis xvi., "when his soul is in a manner withered, his spirit exhausted, and life is grown a burthen, the sentence that ends his sufferings should be welcome to him--and it would be so were not our laws more calculated to torture the body than simply to punish the criminal. a man who pays the forfeit of his life to the injured laws of his country has, in the eyes of reason, more than sufficiently atoned for his crime; but here industrious cruelty has devised the most barbarous means of avenging the wrongs done to society; and the breaking the bones of a wretch on a cross, twisting his mangled body round the circumference of a wheel, are inventions worthy of the fertile brains of a phalaris, and show to the utmost that such inhuman laws were more levelled against the man than the crime for which he is doomed to suffer." * * * * * opposite the house on the boulevard du temple associated with the outrage of fieschi stood formerly the café turc, which offered to the generation of its day a shady retreat and varied amusements. here the celebrated jullien, better known in london than even in paris, gave in the early years of louis philippe's reign orchestral pieces of his own composition adorned with fireworks and emphasized by the booming of cannon. little by little the café turc was to disappear; and now repeated alterations have reduced it to a beer-house, or _brasserie_. the café turc was the first of the french cafés-concerts or music halls; for, like so many of our dramatic entertainments, the music hall is an adaptation from the french. the english music hall differs, however, from the french café-concert about as much as an english farce differs from a french vaudeville. the café-concert may be looked upon either as a café at which there is singing, or as a concert where refreshments are served between the pieces and "consumed" during the performance. but whether you enter the place for the sake of art or with the view of sustaining nature, it is equally necessary that you should "consume"; and that there may be no mistake on this point, a curtain is at some establishments let down from time to time with "_on est prié de renouveler sa consommation_," and, at the side, in english, "one is prayed to renew his consumption," inscribed on it. the renewal of one's consumption is often a very costly proceeding. to avoid being classed with theatres, and, as a legal consequence, taxed for the benefit of the poor, no charge for admission is made at the doors of the café-concert. but at those where such stars as the once celebrated thérèse are engaged, the proprietor finds it necessary to attach extravagant prices to refreshments of the most ordinary kind, so that a bottle of lemonade may be quoted in the tariff at three francs, a cup of coffee at a franc and a half, and even the humble glass of water at fifty centimes. in england the music hall proprietor would be often glad to obtain a dramatic licence. he has no fear of the poor before his eyes, and would be only too happy to combine with the profits of musical publican those of the regular theatrical manager. why he should or should not be so favoured has been argued at length before the magistrates and duly reported in the columns of the newspapers. the result has been that, as a rule, the london music hall proprietor does not give theatrical performances, though he often ventures upon duologues and sometimes risks a dramatic trio. the argument of london managers against music hall proprietors may thus concisely be stated: the manager cannot by the terms of his licence allow the audience to smoke and drink in presence of a dramatic performance; and, correlatively, the music hall proprietor ought not to be allowed to give dramatic performances while smoking and drinking are going on. [illustration: attempted assassination of louis philippe.] paris is celebrated above all the capitals of europe for its cafés; and the beverage which gives its name to these establishments seems to have been known earlier in france than in any other european country. coffee was introduced into central europe in , the year of the battle of vienna; and from the austrian capital the use of coffee spread rapidly to all parts of germany. the circumstances under which the austrians first became acquainted with it were somewhat curious. the turks had brought with them to vienna an imposing siege train. no european power possessed such formidable artillery; and their stone balls of sixty pounds each were not only the largest projectiles ever fired, but were regarded as the largest which by any possible means could be fired. according to the ingenious, but incorrect, view of one of sobieski's biographers (the abbé coyer), the amount of powder requisite for the discharge of a missile of greater weight would be so enormous as not to give time for the whole of it to become ignited before the ball left the cannon. kara mustapha, the turkish general, had also brought with him a number of archers; and when a letter from sobieski to the duke of lorraine was intercepted by a turkish patrol, the document was attached to an arrow and shot into the town, accompanied by a note in the latin language to the effect that all further resistance was out of the question, and that the vienna garrison had now nothing to do but accept its fate. the turks, moreover, brought to vienna an immense number of women, whose throats, when the turkish army was forced to retire in headlong flight, they unscrupulously cut. the stone cannon balls of prodigious weight, the arrows, and the women could all be accounted for. but the turks left behind them a large number of bags containing white berries, of which nothing could be made. of these berries, however, after duly roasting and pounding them, an austrian soldier, who had been a prisoner in turkey, made coffee; and as he had distinguished himself during the battle, the emperor granted him permission to open a shop in vienna for the sale of the turkish beverage which he had learned under such interesting circumstances to prepare. according to another less authentic anecdote, the use of the mysterious white berries found among the stores of the defeated turks was first pointed out by a turkish soldier who had been working in the trenches before the besieged city, and had so fatigued himself by his ceaseless toil, that he fell asleep and slumbered on throughout the whole of the battle, undisturbed by the cavalry charges, the musketry fire, and the explosions of the artillery with its terrible sixty-pounders. when at last, after sleep had done its restorative work, the exhausted soldier woke up to find himself in the hands of the christians, he was terribly alarmed. but his life was spared, and in return for this clemency on the part of his enemies he taught them how to make coffee. parisians, however, pride themselves on having known coffee fourteen years earlier than the viennese. it is said, indeed, that an enterprising levantine started a coffee-house at paris in the very middle of the seventeenth century, and not later than the year . the name of the stimulating beverage that he offered for sale was, as he wrote it, _cahoue_. but the unhappy man had not taken the necessary steps for getting his new importation spoken of beforehand in good society; and, no one knowing what to make of the strange liquor he wished to dispense--hot, black, and bitter--the founder of the first coffee-house or café became bankrupt. the french, however, during, the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were sworn friends of the turks, whose power they played off on every occasion against that of the hated empire. vienna might, indeed, on two occasions have been captured, plundered, and burnt by the infidels for all france cared to do towards saving it. france, on her side, was viewed with favour by the turks; and in an ambassador, soliman aga by name, was sent by the porte on a mission to louis xiv., at whose court he made known the virtues of the berry which long previously the arabs had introduced throughout the east. properly presented, coffee met in paris with a success which elsewhere it had failed to attain, and before long it became the rage in fashionable society. when it was at the height of its first popularity, however, madame de sévigné condemned it, saying that the taste for coffee, like the taste for racine, would pass away. racine, in spite of the beauty of his at once tender and epigrammatic lines, is not much read in the present day, and is scarcely ever acted. coffee, on the other hand, is as popular now as in the days when pope wrote his couplet on "coffee, which makes the politician wise, and see through all things with his half-shut eyes." "there are in this capital," wrote the author of the "tableau de paris" more than a hundred years ago, "between six and seven hundred coffee-houses, the common refuge of idleness and poverty, where the latter is warmed without any expense for fuel, and the former entertained by a view of the crowds who make their entrance and exit by turns. in other countries, where liberty is more than an empty name, a coffee-house is the rendez-vous of politicians who freely canvass the conduct of the minister, or debate on matters of state. not so here! i have already given a very good reason why the parisians are sparing of their political reflections. if they speak at all on state matters it is to extol the power of their sovereign, and the wisdom of his counsellors. a half-starved author, with all his wardrobe and movables on his back, dining at these restaurants on a dish of coffee and a halfpenny roll, talks big of the immense resources of france, and the abundance she offers of every necessary of life; whilst his only supper is the steam arising from the rich man's kitchen, as he returns to his empty garret." the writer goes on to show that the coffee-houses were haunted by cliques of critics, literary and artistic, and his description sometimes reminds one of button's, in the days of addison and steele. "those," he says, "who have just entered the lists of literature stand in dread of this awful tribunal, where a dozen of grim-looking judges, whilst they sip and sip, deal out reputation by wholesale. woe to the young poet, to the new actor or actress! they are often sentenced here without trial. catcalls, destined to grate their affrighted ears, are here manufactured over a dish of coffee." the writer then proceeds to lament the absence of sociability at the coffee-house, and the gloomy countenances of its frequenters, as contrasted with the convivial faces of those "brave ancestors" of his generation who used to pass their leisure, not at coffee-houses, but at taverns. one cause of the difference he finds in the change of beverage. "our forefathers," he explains, "drank that mirth-inspiring liquor with which burgundy and champaign supplied them. this gave life to their meetings. ours are more sober, no doubt, but is this sobriety the companion of health? by no means. for generous wine we have substituted a black beverage, bad in itself, but worse by the manner in which it is made in all the coffee-houses of this fashionable metropolis. the good parisians, however, are very careless in the matter; they drink off whatever is put before them, and swallow this baneful wash, which in its turn is driven down by more deadly poisons, mistakenly called cordials." since the above was written, coffee, far from dying out, has become more and more popular, and musical cafés, theatrical cafés, and literary cafés have been everywhere established in paris. there are financial cafés, too, chiefly, of course, in the region of the bourse; and among the cafés by which the bourse is partly surrounded used to be one which owed its notoriety to the fact that fieschi's mistress--in the character of "dame du comptoir"--was exhibited there to the public. two days after the execution of the would-be regicide and actual maker of the famous infernal machine, a crowd of people might have been seen struggling towards the doors of a café on the place de la bourse, which was already as full as it could hold. "those," says an eye-witness, "who performed the feat of gaining admission, saw, gravely seated at a counter, adorned with costly draperies, an ordinary-looking woman, blind of one eye, and possessing in fact no external merit but that of youth: it was nina sassave. there she was, her forehead radiant, her lip quivering with delight, her whole expression that of unmingled pride and pleasure at the eager homage thus offered to her celebrity. a circumstance eminently characteristic of the epoch! here had a creature, only known to the world as a base and treacherous informer, as the mistress of an assassin, been caught up for a show by a shrewd speculator. and what is more remarkably characteristic still, the public took it all as a perfect matter of course, and amply justified the speculator in his calculations." on the same side as the café turc, but further on towards the rue du temple, stood the tennis ground of the count d'artois (afterwards charles x.), built by the architect belanger, one of the most intimate and faithful friends of the famous sophie arnould. [illustration: a parisian cafÉ.] on the site of the count d'artois' tennis ground was erected, at the beginning of the second empire, a theatre, called in the first instance folies-meyer, but which, after various changes of title, became at last the théâtre déjazet, under the direction of the celebrated actress of that name, already seventy years of age, or nearly so, but still lively and graceful. for this theatre in victorien sardou wrote his first successful piece, "m. garat," in which déjazet herself played the principal part, supported by dupuis, who was afterwards to become famous in opera-bouffe as the associate of mademoiselle schneider. the line of boulevards here presents an enormous gap, in the centre of which, between two fountains, stands a monument to the glory of the republic. the rest of the open space serves twice a week as a flower market, the largest in paris. at the beginning of the century la place du château d'eau, as the open space in question is called, did not exist. the fountain which gave its name to the place was constructed under the first napoleon in the year , but this fountain was replaced in by a finer one inaugurated by napoleon iii. the later fountain was itself, however, to disappear, soon afterwards to be replaced by the aforesaid monument to the republic. behind one of the large depots on the north side of the place du château d'eau, looking out upon the rue de malte, was constructed in the circus of the prince imperial, afterwards called the theatre of the château d'eau, where at one time dramas, at another operas, have been given, never with success. ill-luck seems to hang over the establishment, which, with its , seats, must be reckoned among the largest theatres in paris. in paris, however, as in london, theatres have often the reputation of being unlucky when, to succeed, all they require is a good piece with good actors to play in it. [illustration: place de la rÉpublique.] the boulevard du temple had at one time its famous restaurants, like other boulevards in the present day. here stood the celebrated cadran bleu and the equally celebrated banquet d'anacréon. the last of the great restaurants on this boulevard was the one kept by bonvalet, who, during the siege of paris, was generous enough to supply additional provisions to unfortunate actors and actresses who found themselves reduced to the limited rations distributed by the municipal council. the rue de bondi, running out of the boulevard saint-martin, brings us once more to a group of theatres. the folies dramatiques stands at number forty. this theatre was started in by m. alaux, previously manager of the dramatic parnassus on the boulevard du temple. it was opened on january nd, , under the direction of m. léopold, who produced at this house a long series of successful pieces. among these may be mentioned "robert macaire" with frédéric lemaître in the leading part. when, amidst demolitions and reconstructions, the original folies dramatiques came down, the company was transferred to the new building which now stands in the rue de bondi. here were brought out hervé's "oeil crevé" and "petit faust," lecoq's "fille de madame angot," planquette's "cloches de corneville," and other works which were soon to become known all over europe. vaudevilles are now played at this theatre alternately with operettas. the house contains , seats. the ambigu-comique, built on a sort of promontory which dominates the boulevard saint-martin and the rue de bondi, was opened in , in place of the original ambigu, burnt to the ground two years previously. the new house, which contains , seats, was inaugurated in presence of the duchess of berri, widow of the unhappy nobleman who a few years before was stabbed by louvois on the steps of the opera house. in this theatre was entirely rebuilt under the direction of m. rochart. untrue, like so many theatres, to its original name, the ambigu-comique was to become associated with nothing in the way of ambiguity, nothing in the way of comedy, but with melodramas, often of a most blood-curdling kind. here, it is true, was produced the "auberge des adrêts," which, in the hands of frédéric lemaître, was to be transformed from a serious drama into a wild piece of buffoonery; so that the author of the work, too nervous to attend the performance himself, was almost driven mad when his trusted servant returned home and reported to him the bursts of laughter with which the work had been received. at the ambigu were brought out some of the best pieces of alexandre dumas the elder, frédéric soulié, adolphe dennery, and paul feval. immediately adjacent to the ambigu stand the porte saint-martin and renaissance theatres, covering the triangle formed by the boulevard saint-martin, the rue de bondi, and the place de la porte saint-martin. the porte saint-martin theatre has a long and interesting history, dating from june , , when it was opened as an opera house after the destruction by fire of the one in the rue saint-honoré. a performance was going on at the time, and the singers had to fly in their operatic dresses from the stage to the street. in the midst of the general consternation, the musical director, rey by name, whose "coronis" was the opera of the night, startled those around him, already sufficiently terrified, by exclaiming, "save my child! oh, heaven, save my child!" as rey was not known in the character of a family man, his friends thought he had gone mad. but it was the creature of his brain that was troubling him; and after heroic struggles, the score of "coronis" was rescued from the flames. the fascinating madeleine guiniard had on this occasion a narrow escape of her life. she was in her dressing-room, and had just divested herself of her costume when inquiries were made for her, and it was found that, like brunhilda in the legend, she was enveloped on all sides by flames. a siegfried, however, was found in the person of a stage carpenter, who, making his way through the ring of fire, reached the unhappy valkyrie, wrapped her up in a blanket, and brought her out in safety, though he himself, in his second passage through the flames, was somewhat scorched. the new house established in the porte saint-martin was opened days after the destruction of the opera house in the rue saint-honoré. here were brought out the "oedipus coloneus" of sacchini, the "daniades" and other works of salieri, the "demophon" of cherubini, the "re teodoro" of paisiello, and a french version of mozart's "marriage of figaro." many of the operas of sacchini, salieri, and cherubini were composed specially for the french theatre. paisiello's and mozart's works were, of course, produced in translations. mozart's "marriage of figaro" was brought out in the middle of the reign of terror, march , . meanwhile, doubts had always been entertained as to the solidity of the theatre, which had been run up in from fifteen to sixteen weeks; and on april , , the committee of public safety ordered the transfer of the opera from the porte saint-martin to the salle montansier, in the rue richelieu. m. castil blaze, excellent writer, but by no means free from prejudices, insists, in his "history of the royal academy of music," that in the removal of the opera to the rue richelieu there was a determination on the part of the committee of public safety to burn down the national library, opposite which the opera was now installed. "how was it," he asks, "that the opera was moved to a building exactly opposite the national library--so precious and so combustible a repository of human knowledge? the two establishments were only separated by a street very much too narrow; if the theatre caught fire, was it not sure to burn the library? that is what a great many persons still ask; this question has been reproduced a hundred times in our journals. go back to the time when the house was built by mademoiselle montansier; read the _moniteur universel_, and you will see that it was precisely in order to expose this same library to the happy chances of a fire that the great lyrical entertainment was transferred to its neighbourhood. the opera hung over it, and threatened it constantly. at this time enlightenment abounded to such a point that the judicious henriot, convinced in his innermost conscience that all reading was henceforth useless, had made a motion to burn the library. to shift the opera to the rue richelieu--that opera which twice in eighteen years had been a prey to the flames--to place it exactly opposite our literary treasures was to multiply to infinity the chances of their being burnt." mercier, in reference to the literary views of the committee of public safety, writes in the _nouveau paris_ thus:--"the language of omar about the koran was not more terrible than that by the members of the committee of public safety, when they carried this resolution:--'yes, we will burn all the libraries, for nothing will be needed but the history of the revolution and its laws.'" if the motion of henriot had been put into effect, david, the great conventional painter, was ready to propose that the same service should be rendered to the masterpieces in the louvre as to the literary wealth of the national library. republican subjects, according to david, were alone worthy of representation. the opera in the rue richelieu was, however, to be destroyed, as will afterwards be seen, not by fire, but in deliberate process of dilapidation. meanwhile, louis xvi. and his family had fled from paris on the th of june, . the next day, and before the king was brought back to the tuileries, the title of the chief lyric theatre was changed from académie royale to simply the opera. at the same time, the custom was introduced of announcing the performers' names, which was evidently an advantage to the public, and which was also not without its benefit for the inferior singers and dancers, who, when they unexpectedly appeared in order to replace their betters, used often to get hissed to a handsomer degree than they ever could in their usual parts. by an order of the committee of public safety, dated the th of the following september, the title of the opera was again changed to académie royale de musique. this was intended as a compliment to the king, who had signed the constitution on the th, and who was to go to the opera six days afterwards. on the th the royal visit took place. "'castor and pollux' was played," says m. castil blaze, "and not 'iphigénie en aulide,' as is asserted by some ill-informed historians, who even go so far as to pretend that the chorus '_chantons, célébrons notre reine_' was hailed with transports of enthusiasm, and that the public called for it a second time." the house was well filled, but not crammed, as we see by the receipts, which amounted to , livres sous. the same opera of rameau's, vamped by candeille, had produced , livres on the th of the preceding june. on the night previous to the royal representation a gratuitous performance of "castor and pollux" had been given to the public in honour of the constitution. the royalists were present in great numbers on the night of state, and some lines which could be applied to the queen were loudly applauded. marie antoinette was delighted, and said to the ladies who accompanied her, "you see that the people are really good, and wish only to love us." encouraged by so flattering a reception, she determined to go the next night to the opéra comique, but the king refused to accompany her. the piece performed was "les Événements imprévus." in the duet of the second act, before singing the words "_ah! comme j'aime ma maîtresse_," mdme. dugazon looked towards the queen, when a number of voices cried out from the pit, "_plus de maîtresse!_" "_plus de maître!_" "_vive la liberté!_" this cry was answered from the boxes with "vive la reine! vive le roi!" sabres and swordsticks were drawn, and a battle began. the queen escaped from the theatre in the midst of the tumult. cries of "_a bas la reine!_" followed her to her carriage, which went off at a gallop, with mud and stones thrown after it. marie antoinette returned to the tuileries in despair. on the st of october, fourteen days afterwards, the title of opéra national was substituted for that of académie royale de musique. the constitution being signed, there was no longer any reason for being civil to louis xvi. this was the third change of title in less than four months. to conclude the list of musical performances which have derived a gloomy celebrity from their connection with the last days of louis xvi., we may reproduce the programme issued by the directors of the opéra national on the first anniversary of his execution, . it ran thus:--"on behalf of and for the people gratis. in joyful commemoration of the death of the tyrant, the national opera will give to-day, pluviose, year of the republic, 'miltiades at marathon,' 'the siege of thionville,' 'the offering to liberty.'" the opera under the republic was directed until by four distinguished _sans-culottes_--henriot, chaumette, le roux, and hébert, the last named of whom had once been check-taker of the académie. the others knew nothing whatever of operatic affairs. the management at the theatre was afterwards transferred to francoeur, one of the former directors associated with cellérier, an architect; but the dethroned _impresarios_, accompanied by danton and other republican amateurs, constantly made their appearance behind the scenes, and very frequently did the chief members of the company the honour of supping with them. in these cases the invitations, as under the ancient _régime_, proceeded, not from the artists, but from the artists' patrons; with this difference, however, that under the republic the latter never paid the bill. "the chiefs of the republic," says m. castil blaze, "were very fond of moistening their throats. henriot, danton, hébert, le roux, chaumette, had hardly taken a turn in the _coulisses_ or in the _foyer_ before they said to such an actor or actress, 'we are going to your room. see that we are properly received.' a superb collation was brought in. when the repast was finished and the bottles were empty, the national convention, the commune of paris, beat a retreat without troubling itself about the expense. you think, perhaps, that the dancer or the singer paid for the representatives of the people? not at all; honest maugin, who kept the refreshment room of the theatre, knew perfectly well that the actors of the opera were not paid, that they had no sort of money, not even a rag of an assignat; he made a sacrifice: from delicacy he did not ask from the artists what he would not have dared to claim from the _sans-culottes_, for fear of the guillotine." sometimes the executioner, who, as a public official, was entitled to certain _entrées_, made his appearance behind the scenes, and it is said that, in a facetious mood, he would sometimes express his opinion about the "execution" of the music. operatic kings and queens were suppressed by the republic. not only were they forbidden to appear on the stage, but even their names were not to be pronounced behind the scenes, and the expressions _côté du roi_, _côté de la reine_, were changed into _côté jardin_, _côté cour_, which, at the theatre of the tuileries, indicated respectively the left and right of the stage, from the stage point of view. but although, at first, all pieces in which kings and queens figured were prohibited, the dramas of _sans-culotte_ origin were so stupid and disgusting that the republic was absolutely obliged to return to the old monarchical _repertory_. the kings, however, were turned into chiefs; princes and dukes became representatives of the people; seigneurs subsided into mayors; and substitutes more or less synonymous were found for such offensive words as crown, throne, sceptre, etc. in a new republican version of "le déserteur," as represented at the opera comique, _le roi_, in one well-known line, was replaced by _la loi_, and the vocalist had to declaim "_la loi passait, et le tambour battait aux champs!_" a certain voluble executant, however, is said to have preferred the following emendation: "_le pouvoir exécutif passait, et le tambour battait aux champs!_" the scenes of most of the new operas were laid in italy, prussia, portugal--anywhere but in france, where it would have been indispensable from a political, and impossible from a poetical, point of view to make the lovers address one another as _citoyen_, _citoyenne_. on the th of june, , the directors of the opera having objected to give a gratuitous performance of the "siege of thionville," the commune of paris issued the following edict:--"considering that for a long time past the aristocracy has taken refuge in the administration of various theatres; considering that these gentlemen corrupt the public mind by the pieces they represent; considering that they exercise a fatal influence on the revolution: it is decreed that the 'siege of thionville' shall be represented gratis, and solely for the amusement of the _sans-culottes_, who, to this moment, have been the true defenders of liberty and supporters of democracy." soon afterwards it was proposed to shut up the opera, but hébert--the ferocious hébert, better known as le père duchesne--undertook its defence, on the ground that it procured subsistence for a number of families, and "caused the agreeable arts to flourish." whatever the opera may have been under the reign of terror, it was conducted infinitely better in one important respect than under the ancient _régime_. [illustration: frÉdÉric lemaÎtre.] in the days of the old monarchy, as we learn from bachaumont, a girl once inscribed on the books of the opera was released from all control on the part of her parents. she might present herself for engagement of her own accord, or her name might be entered on the list by anyone who had succeeded in leading her away from her parents. in neither case had her family any further power over her. _lettres de cachet_ were issued, commanding the person named in the order to join the opera, and many young girls were thus victimised. it can scarcely be supposed that the privileges granted to the opera were intended, in the first instance, to be turned to such evil account as they afterwards were. indeed, young men equally with young women could be seized and committed to operatic control wherever they were found. "we wish, and it pleases us," says king louis xiv., in the letters-patent granted to the abbé perrin, first director of the académie royale de musique ( ), "that gentlemen (_gentilshommes_) and ladies may sing in the said pieces and representations of our royal academy without being considered, for that reason, to derogate from their titles of nobility, or from their rights and immunities." many aristocrats of both sexes profited by this permission to appear either as singers or as dancers at the opera. young girls, amateurs, male and female, whose voices had been remarked, could be arrested and forced to perform at the opera; and in the case of young girls it was evidently to the interest of the académie royale de musique that it should be able to profit by their talents without interference on the part of parents, who might well object to see their children condemned to such service. besides being liberated from all parental restraint, the pupils and associates of the academy enjoyed the right of setting creditors at defiance. the salaries of singers, dancers, and musicians belonging to the opera were explicitly liberated from all liability to seizure for debt. of the freedom conferred by an engagement at the opera, the young woman who enjoyed it would probably have been the last to complain; for, side by side with operatic conscription, a system of operatic privileges was in force. it was not the custom for young ladies in good society to visit the opera before their marriage; but a _brevet de dame_ could be obtained, and the fortunate holder of such a document could without infringing any law of etiquette, attend all operatic performances. "the number of these brevets," says bachaumont, in his _mémoires secrets_, "increased prodigiously under louis xvi., and very young persons have been known to obtain them. thus relieved from the modesty and retirement of the virginal state, they gave themselves up with impunity to all sorts of scandals. such disorder has opened the eyes of the government, and it is now only by the greatest favour that one of these brevets can be obtained." it has been seen that, according to mercier and, after him, castil blaze, the extreme revolutionists among the terrorist party desired that the opera house in the rue richelieu might meet with the ordinary fate of theatres, in the hope that flames or flaming embers blown from the conflagration might reach the national library, just opposite. this does not accord with the fact that the convention did its utmost to encourage learning, literature, and art. the free system of the university, the college or gymnasium at from eight to ten francs a month, and the conservatoire de musique, with its endowments, its scholarships, and its free tuition, all date from the first days of the republic of . as to the formal demolition of the opera house, whose destiny was supposed to be fire, it happened in this way:-- on the th february, , which was the last sunday of the carnival, an unusually brilliant audience had assembled at the opera house, or académie royale, as it now once more was called. the duke and duchess of berri were present; and before the performance had been brought to an end, the duke, struck by an assassin, was a dead man. the circumstances of the murder were very dramatic, not only by their theatrical surroundings (for the performance still went on while the duke was expiring in the manager's private apartments), but also by the remarkable way in which his whole life--with his double marriage and his two families--reproduced itself in the last few hours of his existence. the opera or operetta of the evening was at an end, and a portion of the ballet had been played, when the duke accompanied the duchess to her carriage, intending to return to his box to see the remainder of the performance. then it was that the assassin grappled with him and pierced him to the heart. the duke was carried to the director's room, and in accordance with the practice of the day, was at once bled in both arms. the internal hemorrhage was still so great, that it was thought necessary to widen the orifice. "there," says a contemporary writer, "lay the unhappy prince on a bed hastily arranged, and already soaked with blood, surrounded by his father, brother, sister, and wife, whose poignant anguish was from time to time relieved by some faint ray of hope, destined soon to be dispelled. when dupuytren, accompanied by four of his most eminent colleagues, arrived, it was thought for a moment that the duke might yet be saved. but it soon became evident that the case was hopeless. the duke's daughter had now been brought to him, and after embracing her several times, he expressed a desire to see the king, louis xviii. then arrived two other daughters, the children of the union he had contracted in england. the duchess, seeing them now for the first time, received them with the greatest kindness, and said to them: 'soon you will have no father, and i shall have three daughters.' in a neighbouring room the assassin was being interrogated by the ministers decaze and pasquier, with the bloody dagger on the table before them; while on the stage the ballet of 'don quixote' was being performed in presence of an enthusiastic public. in the course of the night the king arrived, and his nephew expired in his arms at half-past six the next morning, begging that his murderer might be forgiven, and entreating the duchess not to give way to despair." the theatre on whose steps the crime had been committed was now demolished. the other paris theatres were not indeed pulled down, but they were shut up for ten days, and there was general mourning in france, not only because a prince of the blood had been murdered, but also because the direct line of succession had to all appearance been brought to an end. it was not until more than seven months after the tragic scene at the opera that the prince who was to have saved france, the "enfant du miracle," was born. the arrival of the two daughters born and brought up in england has been differently regarded by writers of different political views. alexandre dumas, in his _memoirs_, and castil blaze, in his _histoire de l'académie de musique_, represent the incident as a purely domestic one. m. mauroy, in his recently published works, _les secrets des bourbons_ and _les derniers bourbons_, lays stress on the fact that these children were treated with a consideration not shown to other children of the duke's, who were certainly born out of wedlock, and thus derives an argument in support of his proposition that the duke of berri contracted in england with the mother of these girls a regular marriage, invalid only in so far as it had never been sanctioned by the head of his house. chateaubriand, as a royalist, would not allow the character of legitimate children to the two girls brought to the bedside of their dying father, and entrusted by him to the care of his wife, the duchess. "the duke of berri," writes chateaubriand, in the _mémoires d'outre-tombe_, "had had one of those liaisons which religion reproves, but which human frailty excuses. it may be said of him as the historian has said of henri iv.: 'he was often weak, but always faithful, and his passions never seemed to have enfeebled his religion.' the duke of berri, seeking vainly in his conscience for something very guilty, and finding only a few weaknesses, wished, so to say, to collect them around his death-bed, to prove to the world the greatness of his contrition and the severity of his penance. he had a sufficiently just opinion of the virtue of his wife to confess to her his faults, and to fulfil, beneath her eyes, his desire to embrace those two innocent creatures, the daughters of his long exile. 'let them be sent for,' cried the young princess; 'they are my children also.' when the viscountess de gontaut, who had not been told beforehand, seemed astonished, madame (_i.e._ the countess of artois) noticed it, and said to her: 'she knows everything; she has been sublime!'" the rest of chateaubriand's narrative, especially as regards the duke of berri's two daughters, corresponds closely enough with the one left by dupuytren, whose style, somewhat expressive, somewhat emphatic for a man of science, is less copious, and also less magniloquent than that of the marvellous author of _le gênie du christianisme_ and of the _mémoires d'outre-tombe_. what the prince chiefly thought of in his last moments was his murderer, louvel. "twenty times in the course of the fatal night," says dupuytren, the famous physician, whose account of the scene was published not many years ago, "he cried out, 'have i not injured this man? had he not some personal vengeance to exercise against me?' in vain did monsieur repeat to him, with tears in his eyes: 'no, my son, you never injured, you never saw this man; he had no personal animosity against you.' the prince returned incessantly to this groundless idea, and, without being conscious of it, furnished by his public and repeated inquiries the best proof that he had not provoked the frightful calamity which had befallen him. with this first idea he constantly associated another--that of obtaining pardon for his assassin. during his long and painful agony the prince begged for it at least a hundred times, and did so more earnestly in proportion as he felt his end approaching. thus, when the increasing gravity of the symptoms made him fear that he would not live long enough to see the king, he called out piteously, 'ah! the king will not arrive. i shall not be able to ask him to forgive the man.' soon afterwards he appealed turn by turn to monsieur and to the duke of augoulême, saying to them, 'promise me, father, promise me, brother, that you will ask the king to spare the man's life.' but when at last the king arrived, he no sooner saw his majesty than, summoning all his strength, he cried out, 'spare his life, sir! spare the man's life!' 'my nephew,' the king replied, 'you are not so ill as you think, and we shall have time to think of your request when you have recovered.' yet the prince continued as before, the king being still on his guard not to grant a pardon which was equally repugnant to the laws of nature and to those of society. then this generous prince exclaimed in a tone of deep regret: 'ah, sir! you do not say "yes,"' adding shortly afterwards: 'if the man's life were spared, the bitterness of my last moments would be softened.' as his end drew near, pursuing the same idea, he expressed in a low voice, broken by grief, and with long intervals between each word, the following thought: 'ah!... if only ... i could carry away ... the idea ... that the blood of a man ... would not flow on my account ... after my death....' this noble prayer was the last he uttered. his constantly increasing and now atrocious pain absorbed from this moment all his faculties." the heroism of the duke of berri and his dying prayer for the pardon of his murderer may be contrasted with the cowardice of his grandfather, louis xv., taking the last sacrament twice over when he had only been scratched; and the cruelty with which he caused his assailant, who, murderously disposed, no doubt, had nevertheless scarcely injured him, to be subjected to the most frightful tortures, and finally torn to pieces by four horses. [illustration: porte saint-martin and the renaissance theatre.] let us now return to the porte saint-martin theatre, which, abandoned by the opera, remained deserted for eight years, from to . on september th of this year it was re-opened under the direction of the author and actor du maniaut, who brought out operas, melodramas, comedies, and pantomimes until the publication, in , of the decree which put an end to the liberty of the stage. he afterwards, however, obtained permission to represent pantomimes and prologues, or vaudevilles, on condition that in each of these little pieces not more than two actors were employed. in september, , du maniaut produced "the man of destiny"--a title indicating the emperor napoleon, whose victories were represented in a series of historical and allegorical pictures in honour of his marriage with marie louise. the music was by the celebrated piccini, attached to the private staff of his majesty the emperor. the man of destiny was impersonated by a dancer and mimic named chevalier, and his career, begun in egypt, was continued up to the triumphal entry of the french troops into berlin. after remaining closed for several years, the porte saint-martin theatre was re-opened in , and thenceforward played a very important part in connection with the dramatic literature of the country. here mlle. georges, mme. dorval, frédéric lemaître, and many other famous artistes, appeared. here, too, were produced with enormous success "marion delorme," "lucrèce borgia," and "marie tudor," from victor hugo's pen; all the dramas of alexandre dumas, including "antoine," "angèle," "richard darlington," and "la tour de nesle": "the mysteries of paris" and "mathilde" of eugène sue, "the two locksmiths" of félix pyat, the "dame de saint-tropez" and "don césar de bazan" of adolphe d'ennery. here, too, the "vautrin" of balzac was brought out--to be stopped, after sixteen representations, by government order, on the ground that frédéric lemaître's make-up in the part of the hero was intended to throw ridicule on the person of king louis philippe. the house built by le noir, which the committee of public safety had looked upon as of doubtful solidity, enjoyed a life of ninety years, and might have been in existence still; but on the th of may, , without any apparent motive for so useless and stupid an act, the communists set fire to it. the old theatre was burnt to the ground, together with an adjoining building, which, in the days of the republic of vienna, had belonged to the venetian ambassador. [illustration: church of st. mÉry, rue st.-martin.] rebuilt on the same site, but after a different plan, the porte st.-martin theatre was re-opened in the autumn of , when victor hugo's "marie tudor" was revived. to this succeeded a couple of great successes--"the two orphans" and "round the world," the former written by that fertile inventor of new plots, m. adolphe d'ennery, and the latter adapted by him from jules verne's famous novel. close to this famous playhouse is the new renaissance theatre, which first opened its doors on the th of march, . the porte saint-martin contains , seats, the renaissance only , . started as a dramatic theatre, with belot's "femme de feu" and zola's "thérèse raquin" in the bill, it was destined to obtain its chief success as an operetta theatre with the charming works of charles lecoq, including "la petite mariée," "le petit duc," etc. in these works mesdames théo, jeanne granier, and zulma bouffar first appeared. at the point where the boulevards st.-martin and st.-denis meet stands the triumphal arch known as the porte st.-martin, which louis xiv. erected in on the site of the previous gate, which dated from the minority of louis xiii. the porte st.-martin faces on the one side the rue st.-martin, and on the other the faubourg st.-martin: that is to say, south and north. the low reliefs decorating the arch on all sides represent the taking of besançon, the taking of limburg, and the defeat of the germans, in the form of an eagle repulsed by mars. the pedestal bears a latin inscription, which in english would run thus:--"to louis the great, for having twice taken besançon and franche-comté, and for having crushed the german, spanish, and dutch armies. the provost of the merchants and the citizens of paris, ." at the end of the rue st.-martin, leading out of the boulevard of that name, stands the church of st. méry, near which a most determined struggle took place in that insurrection of the th of june, , which was one of the numerous republican movements directed against louis philippe by the disappointed revolutionists of , who, aiming at a republic, had brought about the re-establishment of a monarchy. the republicans received powerful aid from the bonapartists: these two parties being at this, as on so many other occasions, ready to unite against royalty, while reserving to themselves the ultimate decision of the question whether the empire or the republic should be re-established. the occasion chosen for the outbreak was the funeral of general lamarque--equally popular with bonapartists and republicans. a number of enthusiastic young men drew the funeral car, which was followed by exiles from all parts of europe. among the pall-bearers were general lafayette, marshal clausel, and m. laffitte. of the insurgents, some took part in the procession, while others looked on in expectation of events that were inevitable. the crowd broke into several gunsmiths' shops, and finally into the arsenal. many, too, had brought arms with them; and after a few hours' fighting the insurgents had gained several important positions, and determined to attack the bank, the post-office, and some neighbouring barracks. their chief object at this moment was to render inaccessible the rue saint-martin and the surrounding streets. here they intended to establish the head-quarters of their insurrection, without having the slightest notion that at that very instant m.m. thiers, miguet, and other members of the government were dining together at the rocher de cancale, fifty yards only from the camp wherein the republicans were fortifying themselves with the firm resolution of proclaiming a republic or dying in the attempt. a remarkable example was given towards the evening of this day of what m. louis blanc calls the sympathy of the paris national guard for heroism, though most persons would regard it as a proof of incapacity and cowardice. eight insurgents, returning from the place maubert, presented themselves towards the decline of day at one of the bridges of the city which was occupied by a battalion of the national guard. they authoritatively claimed their right to go over and join their friends who were fighting on the other side of the river, and as the guards hesitated to let them pass, they advanced resolutely towards the bridge at half charge, with fixed bayonets. the soldiers instantly ranged themselves on either side, and gave unimpeded passage to these eight men, whose infatuated heroism they at once admired and, reflecting upon its inevitable result, deplored. the enthusiasm of the insurgents at this period is shown by many a curious incident, such as that of their moulding bullets from lead stripped off the roofs of houses; whilst boys, too young to bear weapons, loaded the guns, using for wadding the police notices they had torn off the walls, or, when that resource failed, taking the shirts off their own backs to tear to shreds for the purpose. it was all, however, a forlorn hope; and the rising was destined to be crushed by superior force. more than one reference to the defence of the cloître st.-méry will be found in the novels of balzac, and a dramatic description of it occurs in the memoirs of alexandre dumas. [illustration] chapter ix. the boulevards (_continued_). the porte st.-martin--porte st.-denis--the burial place of the french kings--funeral of louis xv.--funeral of the count de chambord--boulevard bonne-nouvelle--boulevard poissonnière--boulevard montmartre--frascati. just beyond the porte saint-martin the boulevard saint-denis crosses the great thoroughfare, which is called on one side boulevard de sébastopol, on the other, boulevard de strasbourg. the boulevard de strasbourg was so designated (long before the franco-german war, which suggests quite another origin for the name) in honour of the city where prince louis napoleon made his first attempt to restore the empire in france. the circumstances of the rash enterprise, represented at the time by the government newspapers as merely ridiculous, were sufficiently romantic to deserve a few words of mention. quitting his mother, with whom he had been living at the castle of arenberg, in switzerland, he went as if to take the waters at baden-baden, a place he found suitable to his purpose from its vicinity to alsace, and from the opportunity it afforded him of covering his ambitious views under the mask of pleasure. it was there that the prince gained the co-operation of colonel vaudrey, who commanded the th regiment of artillery at strasburg, in which frontier city the prince had resolved to proclaim the restoration of the empire before marching towards the capital. the alsacian democrats were to be gained over by holding out to them a prospect of a fair representation of the people, while the garrison of strasburg was to be captivated by the cry of "_vive l'empereur!_" the citizens were to be summoned to liberty, and the young men of the schools to arms. the ramparts were then to be entrusted to the keeping of the national guards, and the prince was to march to paris at the head of the troops. "and then," says louis blanc, in his sketch of the project, "the pictures that naturally presented themselves to the mind of louis napoleon were towns surprised, garrisons carried away by the movement, young men eagerly enlisting among his adventurous followers, old soldiers quitting the plough from all quarters to salute the eagle borne aloft, amidst acclamations, caught up by echo after echo along the roads; bitter recollections of the invasion, proud memories of the great wars, reviving, meanwhile, in every part of the vosges, lorraine, and champagne." the ardour of the conspirators steadily increased, and had they not possessed resolution and daring of their own, there was a woman in their midst who would have set them a bold example. madame gordon, the daughter of a captain of the imperial guard, had been initiated at lille into the projects of louis napoleon without the knowledge of the prince himself, and entering impetuously into the conspiracy, she hastened to strasburg, or rather to baden-baden in the immediate neighbourhood, and, appearing there as a professional singer, gave a series of concerts. prince louis was charmed with the lady's talents, and, on expressing his admiration, was astonished to find that she had come to baden-baden with no object but to help him in the attempt he was about to make on the other side of the rhine. the strasburg expedition having failed, it pleased the enemies of the prince to cast ridicule upon it; and he was accused of having exhibited himself in his uncle's boots, just as some years afterwards, in connection with the boulogne expedition, he was said to have carried with him a trained eagle which at a given moment was to fly to the top of the boulogne column in memory of the great army. both at boulogne, however, and at strasburg the prince had considerable chances of success: a fact sufficiently proved (apart from any demonstration in detail) by the popularity he was seen to possess when, in , he appeared as candidate for the presidency of the french republic. at strasburg, as afterwards at boulogne, he did not make his attack until after he had had the ground thoroughly reconnoitred, and had ascertained that the troops before whom he was about to present himself were largely composed of his partisans. the soldiers of the th regiment of artillery were waiting, drawn up face to face in two lines, with their eyes fixed on colonel vaudrey, who stood alone in the centre of the yard. suddenly the prince appeared in the uniform of an artillery officer, and hurried up to the colonel, who introduced him to the troops, crying out: "soldiers, a great revolution begins at this moment. the nephew of the emperor stands before you. he comes to place himself at your head. he is here on french soil to restore to france her glory and her liberty. he is here to conquer or to die for a great cause--the cause of the people. soldiers of the th regiment of artillery, may the emperor's nephew reckon on you?" at these words an indescribable transport seized the troops. as one man they cried, "_vive l'empereur!_" and brandished their arms amid shouts of enthusiasm. louis napoleon, deeply affected, made signs that he wished to speak. "it was in your regiment," he said, "that the emperor napoleon, my uncle, first saw service; with you he distinguished himself at the siege of toulon; it was your brave regiment that opened the gates of grenoble to him on his return from the island of elba. soldiers, new destinies are reserved for you!" and, taking the eagle from an officer who carried it, "here," he said, "is the symbol of french glory, which must henceforth be also the symbol of liberty." the shouts were redoubled, they mingled with the strains of martial music, and the regiment prepared to march. [illustration: apsis of church of st. mÉry, rue brisemiche.] [illustration: notre-dame.] the excitement went on increasing, and cries of "_vive l'empereur!_" filled the air, when suddenly a strange rumour began to spread. it was said that the self-proclaimed nephew of the emperor was in reality the nephew of colonel vaudrey. the enthusiasts of a second before, lending ear to the idle whisper, now hesitated; and in revolts the man who hesitates or meets with hesitation is lost. the people of strasburg had shown numerous marks of sympathy for the heir of the first napoleon, and many officers and soldiers had espoused his cause. but the first impulse had received a check, and the power of discipline and routine soon asserted itself. the question now was, how the heir of the first napoleon might escape from the mass of troops by which he was surrounded. two of his adherents offered to cut a way for him, sword in hand; but this wild proposal was naturally rejected, and the prince had to surrender himself prisoner. [illustration: entrance to the faubourg saint-denis.] what to do with him, however, was for some time a difficult problem to the authorities. to try the prince by an ordinary jury would be awkward, inasmuch as there was a considerable chance of his acquittal; while it was already known that if he were brought before the chamber of peers, many members of that august body had declared their resolution not to sit in judgment upon him. at last it was resolved to send him into exile. he was not allowed to go back to switzerland, where he had been living for some years, and he was ultimately ordered to make america his destination. it was said that he promised to remain there for not less than ten years. but there is no proof of any such compact having been entered into, and the prince was soon to be heard of again in london. formerly associated solely with the first attempt of prince louis napoleon to place himself on the throne of france, the boulevard of strasburg now seems to mark the fact that the alsatian city, so thoroughly french in feeling, has been made the capital of a province of the german empire. it has been said that the boulevard saint-denis crosses the boulevard de strasbourg; and it terminates at the porte saint-denis, erected two years earlier than the porte saint-martin, to which it is superior both by the boldness of its architecture and by the magnificence of its ornamentation. the porte saint-denis was constructed in by the order and at the expense of the city of paris, to celebrate the success of that astonishing campaign in which, during less than sixty days, forty strongholds and three provinces fell before the armies of the victorious monarch. the town side of the arch bears, on the left, a colossal figure of holland, on the right, another of the rhine: two masterpieces, due to the chisel of the auguier brothers. at the top of the arch is a frieze representing in low relief the famous passage of the rhine under the orders of louis xiv. on the faubourg side the low relief at the top of the arch represents the taking of maestricht. the porte saint-denis bears this simple inscription: "_ludovico magno_"--"to louis the great." at the end of the rue faubourg saint-denis is the necropolis of saint-denis--the burial-place of the french kings. the obsequies of french kings have from the earliest times been attended with as much pomp and show as their coronations. it was not enough to embalm the body, place it in several coffins, and finally carry it to the royal burial place at saint-denis--to observe an elaborate ceremonial, which the court functionaries and the officials of state followed out to the minutest detail; the effigy of the dead king was exposed for forty days in the palace, stretched on a state bed, clothed in royal garments, the crown on the head, the sceptre in the right hand, and the brand of justice on the left, with a crucifix, a vessel of holy water, and two golden censers at the foot of the couch. the officers of the palace, meanwhile, continued their duties as usual, and even went so far as to serve the king's meals as though he were still living. the embalmed body was afterwards transported to the abbey of saint-denis, with the innumerable formalities laid down beforehand; while at the interment so many honours were paid to it that to enumerate them would be to fill a small volume. the details of the ceremony were so minute and fastidious that battles of etiquette constantly took place among the exalted persons figuring in the assembly. at the burial of philip augustus, the papal legate and the archbishop of rheims disputed for precedence; and as neither would give way, they performed service at the same time in the same church, but at different altars. a like scandal occurred at the funeral of st. louis. when his successor, philip iii., wished to enter the abbey of saint-denis at the head of the procession, the doors were closed in his face. the abbot objected to the presence, not of the king, his master, but of the bishop of paris and the archbishop of sens, whom he had observed among the officiating clergy, and who, according to his view, had no right to perform service in the abbey of saint-denis, where he alone was chief. the difference was arranged by the archbishop and bishop stripping themselves of their pontifical garments, and acknowledging the supremacy of the abbot in his own sanctuary. at the death of charles vi. it was found necessary to consult the duke of bedford as to the conduct of the funeral ceremony, and under the direction of the foreigner it was performed with great magnificence. the duke observed as nearly as possible the ancient ceremonial, the only important variation being that (possibly in his character of englishman) he ordered the interment to be followed by a grand dinner. even at the dinner--where, at least, concord might have been expected--there were absurd wranglings on points of etiquette between the state officials. these royal funerals naturally cost enormous sums of money, which were charged partly to the crown, partly to the city of paris. the obsequies of francis i. took five hundred thousand livres from the purse of his successor, without counting the contribution, probably of equal amount, from the town. the effigies of his two sons who had died before him were carried with his own relics to saint-denis. thus there were three coffins in the procession. by the observance of a similar custom, there were in the funeral procession of st. louis no fewer than five. at the interments of the old kings genuine grief was often exhibited by the people. such, however, was not the case at the obsequies of louis xiv. the duke de saint-simon, in his _memoirs_, speaks of this funeral as a very poor affair, remarkable only for the confused style in which it was conducted. the king had left no directions in regard to his burial; and partly for the sake of economy, partly to save trouble, it was decided to regulate the ceremonies by those observed at the interment of louis xiii., who, in his will, had ordered that they should be as simple as possible. "his modesty and humility, like the other christian and heroic qualities he possessed, had not," says saint-simon, "descended to his son. but the funeral of louis xiii. was accepted as a precedent, and no one saw the slightest objection to it, attachment and gratitude being virtues which had ceased to exist." nor did the duke of orleans pay a flattering tribute to the royal memory, when, regent though he had only just become, he absented himself from the ceremony of carrying the king's heart to the grand jesuits: "that heart," says saint-simon, "which loved no one, and which excited so little love." in addition to the usual distribution of alms, the regent of orleans associated the funeral of louis xiv. with an exceptional act of mercy. a number of persons had been arbitrarily imprisoned on _lettres de cachet_ and otherwise, some for jansenism and various religious and political offences, others for reasons known only to the king or his former ministers. the regent ordered all the captives to be set at liberty, with the exception of a few who had been duly convicted of serious political or criminal misdeeds. among the prisoners liberated from the bastille was an italian whose confinement had lasted thirty-five years, and who had been arrested the very day of his arrival at paris, which he had come to see simply as a traveller. "no one ever knew why," says saint-simon; "nor, like most of the others, had he ever been interrogated. it was thought to be a mistake. when his liberty was announced to him, he asked sadly of what use it was to him. he said that he had not a child, that he knew no one at paris, nor even the name of a street, that his relations in italy were probably dead, and that his property must have been divided among his heirs, on the supposition that he was dead. he asked to be allowed to remain at the bastille for the rest of his life, with board and lodging. this was granted to him, with liberty to go out when he pleased. as for the prisoners released from the dungeons into which the hatred of the ministers and that of the jesuits had thrown them, the horrible condition in which they appeared inspired horror, and rendered credible all the cruelties they related when they were in full liberty." the story of the italian prisoner who declined to leave the bastille is interesting from its having anticipated--perhaps it suggested--the one told by another prisoner on the occasion of the bastille being taken by the revolutionists in . the funeral of louis xv. was a very hurried affair. the king died on the th of may, at twenty minutes past three. the whole court instantly took flight, and there only remained with the body a few persons required for the care of it. the utmost precipitation was used in removing it from versailles. none of the usual formalities were observed. everyone was afraid to go near the body--undertakers, like the rest, feared the small-pox, of which the king had died--and the corpse was carried to saint-denis in an ordinary travelling carriage, under the care of forty members of the body-guard and a few pages. the escort hurried on the dead man in the most indecent manner, and all along the road the greatest levity was shown by the spectators. the public-houses were filled with uproarious guests; and it is said that when the landlord of one of them tried to silence a troublesome customer by reminding him that the king was about to pass, the man replied: "the rogue starved us in his lifetime. does he want us to perish of thirst now that he is dead?" a jest different in style, but showing equally in what esteem louis xv. was held by his subjects, is attributed to the abbé of sainte-geneviève. being taunted with the powerlessness of his saint and the little effect which the opening of his shrine, formerly so efficacious, had produced, he replied: "what, gentlemen, have you to complain of? is he not dead?" the last of the bourbons buried at saint-denis was louis xviii., whose obsequies were conducted as nearly as possible on the ancient regal pattern. the exhibition of the king's effigy in wax had in louis xviii.'s time been out of fashion for more than a century. but the customs observed in connection with the lying-in-state of louis xiv. were for the most part revived. the king, who died on the th of september, , was embalmed, and on the th his body was exposed on a state bed in the hall of the throne. his bowels and heart had been enclosed in caskets of enamel. the exhibition of the body lasted six days, during which it was constantly surrounded by the officers of the crown and the superior clergy. the translation of the remains to st.-denis took place on the rd, in the midst of an imposing civil and military procession. the princes of the blood and grand officers of state occupied fourteen mourning coaches, each with eight horses, and the tail of the procession was formed by poor men and women bearing torches. received at the entrance to the church by the dean of the royal chapter and the grand almoner of france, the body was placed on trestles in the chancel, while prayers were recited by the clergy. it was afterwards removed to an illuminated chapel, where it lay exposed for a whole month, the chapter performing services night and day. the interment took place on the th of october. the grand almoner celebrated a solemn mass; and after the gospel a funeral oration was pronounced by the bishop of hermopolis. then four bishops uttered a benediction over the body, and absolution was pronounced; twelve of the body-guard thereupon carrying the coffin down to the royal vault, where the grand almoner cast a shovelful of earth on it, and blessed it, saying: "_requiescat in pace_." the king-at-arms approached the open vault, threw into it his wand, helmet, and coat-of-arms, ordered the other heralds to imitate him, and calling up the grand officers of the crown, told them to bring the insignia of the authority they held from the defunct king. each came in succession with the object entrusted to his care: such as the banner of the royal guard, the flags of the body-guard, the spurs, the gauntlets, the shield, the coat-of-arms, the helm, the pennon, the brand of justice, the sceptre, and the crown. the royal sword and banner were only presented at the mouth of the vault. the grand master of france now inclined the end of his staff towards the coffin, and cried in a loud voice: "the king is dead!" the king-at-arms, taking three steps backwards, repeated in the same tone: "the king is dead; the king is dead!" then, turning towards the persons assembled, he added: "let us now pray to god for the repose of his soul." the clergy and all present fell on their knees, prayed, and then stood up. the grand master next drew back his staff, raised it in the air, and exclaimed: "long live the king!" the king-at-arms repeated: "long live the king! long live the king! long live king charles, the tenth of the name, by the grace of god king of france and of navarre; very christian, very august, very powerful; our honoured lord and master, to whom may god grant a life long and happy. cry all 'long live the king! long live charles x.!'" the tomb was closed, and the ceremony was at an end. at the funeral of the count de chambord the hearse was surmounted by a dome, on which rested four crowns. it was not explained what kingdoms these crowns were intended to represent. as the head of the house of france, the right of the count, heraldically speaking, to wear the french crown would scarcely be disputed. the four symbolical crowns on the count's hearse were possibly, then, meant to be simple reminders that the bourbons claimed sovereign rights over four different countries; and in the days of louis philippe they indeed reigned in france, spain, naples, and parma. but the revolution of in france and the war of in italy cleared three thrones of their bourbon occupants, and the last of the reigning bourbons disappeared when, in , isabella of spain fled from madrid. thus, in the course of twenty years the four bourbon crowns lost all real significance; and the bourbon sovereigns had simply increased the numbers of those "kings in exile," so much more plentiful during the period of m. alphonse daudet than at that of voltaire, who first observed them, in _candide_, as a separate species. now that the comte de chambord reposes by the side of his grandfather, charles x., there are as many of the bourbons buried at göritz as at saint-denis, where, in the burial-place of the french kings, the only really authentic bodies are those of the duke of berri, the count of chambord's father, and louis xviii., his great-uncle. in regard to the later occupants of the french throne, it is at least certain where they are interred; napoleon i. at the invalides, louis philippe at claremont, napoleon iii. at chiselhurst, and the last two representatives of the bourbons at göritz. the first of the bourbons, henri iv., as likewise his successors, louis xiii., louis xiv., and louis xv., were buried at saint-denis, in the vault known as that of the bourbons; and to the coffins still supposed to contain their remains were added, after the restoration, two more, reputed--without adequate foundation for the belief--to hold the bodies of louis xvi. and of the child who died in the temple--the so-called louis xvii. the body of the duke of berri was laid in the vault of the bourbons a few days after his assassination in ; and that of louis xviii. was consigned to the same resting-place in . but in the tombs of the french kings had been dismantled, and their contents re-interred promiscuously in two large graves, hastily dug for the purpose; and the identity of the bones asserted to be those of louis xvi. and louis xvii., which were not placed in the bourbon vault of the saint-denis church until , could scarcely be demonstrated. [illustration: boulevard and porte saint-denis.] "to celebrate the th of august, which marks the downfall of the french throne, we must, on its anniversary," said barrère, in his report addressed to the french convention, "destroy the splendid mausoleums at saint-denis. under the monarchy the very tombs had learned to flatter the kings. their haughtiness, their love of display, could not be subdued even on the theatre of death; and the sceptre-bearers who have done so much harm to france and to humanity seem even in the grave to be proud of their vanished greatness. the powerful hand of the republic must efface without pity those arrogant epitaphs and demolish those mausoleums which would revive the frightful recollections of the kings." the proposition of barrère was adopted, and the national assembly decreed "that the tombs and mausoleums of the former kings in the church of saint-denis should be destroyed." the execution of the decree was undertaken on the th of august, and three days afterwards thirty-one tombs had been swept away. not the least remarkable of these tombs was the earliest, erected by st. louis in honour of "le roi dagobert," of facetious memory, famed in song for having put on his breeches "à l'envers." it is one of the most curious monuments of the thirteenth century, and at least as interesting for its subject as for its architecture. on three zones, superposed one upon the other, is represented the legend of dagobert's death. on the lowest zone we see st. denis revealing to a sleeping anchorite, named jean, that king dagobert is suffering torments; and close by, the soul of dagobert, represented by a naked child bearing a crown, is being maltreated by demons, frightfully ugly, who hold their prey in a boat. in the middle zone, the same demons are running precipitately from the boat, in the most grotesque attitudes, at the approach of the three saints, denis, martin, and maurice, who have come to rescue the soul of king dagobert. in the highest of the bas-reliefs the soul of king dagobert is free. the naked child is now standing in a winding-sheet, of which the two ends are held by st. denis and st. martin; and angels are awaiting him in heaven, whither he is about to ascend. the commission appointed by the convention did not destroy this tomb. they had it transported, with many other objects of artistic and intrinsic value, to paris. the last king of france and of navarre died on the th of july, , and it was not until nine days afterwards that the fact was made known to the french public through the columns of the _gazette de france_. the heart of charles x. was, according to royal custom, separated from the body; though, instead of being preserved apart, as in the case of former french kings, it was enclosed in a box of enamel, and fastened with screws to the top of the coffin. the comte de chambord, on the other hand, was buried in the ordinary manner, and not, like charles x., with his heart on the coffin lid; nor, like louis xviii., with his heart in one place and his body in another. the dead, according to the german ballad, "ride fast." but the living move still faster; and in france, almost as much as in england, the separation of a heart from the body, to be kept permanently as a relic, is in the present day a process which seems to savour of ancient times, though, as a matter of fact, it was common enough among the french at the end of the last century. in our own country the discontinuance of what was at one time as much a custom in england as in france, or any other continental land, is probably due to the influence of the reformation, which, condemning absolutely the adoration of the relics of saints, did not favour the respectful preservation of relics of any kind. great was the astonishment caused in england when in the last generation it was found that daniel o'connell had by will ordered his heart to be sent to rome. the injunction was made at the time the subject of an epigram, intended to be offensive, but which would probably have been regarded by o'connell himself as flattering: setting forth, as it did, that the heart which was to be forwarded to rome had never in fact been anywhere else. the reasons for which in the middle ages hearts were enclosed in precious urns may have been very practical. sometimes the owner of the heart had died far from home, and in accordance with his last wishes, the organ associated with all his noblest emotions was sent across the seas to his living friends. such may well have been the case when, after the death of st. louis at tunis, the heart of the pious king was transmitted to france, where it was preserved for centuries--perhaps even until our own time--in la sainte chapelle. in the year , while some masons were engaged in repairing the building which had been converted into a depôt for state archives, they came across a heart-shaped casket in lead, containing what was described as "the remains of a human heart." the custodians of the archives drew up a formal report on the discovery, and enclosing it in the casket with the relics, replaced the casket beneath the flagstones whence it had been disinterred. in , when the chapel was restored, the leaden heart-shaped receptacle was found anew, and a commission was appointed to decide as to the genuineness of the remains, believed to be those of st. louis. an adverse decision was pronounced, the reasons for discrediting the legend on the subject being fully set forth by m. letrenne, the secretary of the commission. * * * * * the boulevard bonne-nouvelle, which comes next to the boulevard saint-denis, is bounded on the right by the faubourg poissonnière, and on the left by the butte aux gravois, on which was built in the seventeenth century the quarter named, after its parochial church, notre-dame de bonne nouvelle. the bonne nouvelle bazaar, constructed in the reign of louis philippe, contained, in the basement, a sort of theatre of considerable size, where, in , several political clubs and other conventions were established. here on one particular day, arriving together by opposite staircases, victor hugo and frédéric lemaître would present themselves at the speaker's desk erected for political orators. ultimately, but not without some hesitation, the interpreter of ruy blas gave way to the creator of the part. the object of the assembly was to constitute in a permanent way a club for parisian writers and artists of the dramatic and other schools. close by, at no. , is the viennese beer-house, established on the site of the theatre opened in , where the company of the old vaudeville theatre took refuge when, on the th of july in that year, they were burnt out. there is now but one theatre on the boulevard bonne-nouvelle--that of the gymnase, opened on the th of december, , under the patronage of the duchess of berri, who four years afterwards allowed it to take the title of "théâtre de madame," which it retained until the revolution of . it was then entitled the "gymnase théâtre dramatique," afterwards to be known simply as the gymnase. for the last seventy years the gymnase has been one of the very best theatres of the second order, ranking immediately after the theatres subventioned by the state. it was at the gymnase that scribe made his brilliant reputation with a long succession of little masterpieces, until at length he was followed by alexandre dumas the younger, who here produced "le demi-monde," "diane de lys," and many other pieces less imposing, perhaps, but more thoughtful and more powerfully written than those of his predecessor. it was at the gymnase, too, that sardou brought out many of his best pieces, such as "les ganaches," "la perle noire," "nos bons villageois," and "fernande." this theatre, moreover, was the birthplace of meilhac and halévy's "frou-frou." the first house on the boulevard poissonnière, at the corner of the street of that name, bears an inscription which fixes at this point the boundary of paris in , though by some authorities is said to have been substituted for the true year in which the boundaries of paris were marked--namely, . with the last house on the boulevard poissonnière, at the corner of the faubourg montmartre, begins a whole series of celebrated restaurants. as the origin of this familiar word is not universally known, it may here be mentioned that it originated with an eating-house keeper, who inscribed above his establishment in large letters the following passage from the gospel: "venite ad me et ego 'restorabo' vos." this restaurateur, or restaurant-keeper, had imitators, and the name which his quotation had suggested was applied to all of them. paul brébant, known as the _restaurateur des lettres_, has fed more than one generation of authors and journalists, who have not neglected him on becoming senators or ministers. a great number of monthly entertainments are given at this restaurant. here dine together the society of men of letters, the dramatic critics' club, the parisians, the spartans, etc. passing on, we next reach the ancient café of the porte montmartre, installed in the house which once belonged to the marchioness de genlis, sister-in-law of the authoress who superintended the education of the orleans princes. close by is the bazaar or arcade known as the passage des panoramas, which owes its name to a series of panoramas representing paris, lyons, london, and naples, established here, under special privilege, by robert fulton, the inventor of steamers. the money which he made by exhibiting the panoramas enabled him to continue his experiments in marine locomotion. to the left of the passage des panoramas was a strip of land, on which, in , the théâtre des variétés was built. this little theatre, which, under the name of variétés montansier, occupied the site where now stands the théâtre du palais royal, had committed the offence of attracting the public and filling its coffers with gold, while the comédie française, close to it, had scarcely been able to make both ends meet. the famous theatre where, at that time, the principal actor was talma and the principal actress mlle. mars, uttered a formal complaint; and the liberty of the stage being then at an end, the théâtre des variétés was expelled from the palais royal, but allowed to take refuge in a new house built especially for it on the before-mentioned strip of land. for many years the théâtre des variétés undertook to amuse the public with the lightest comedies, in which such actors as brunet, potier, vernet, and odry, such actresses as flore and jenny vertpré appeared. after the revolution of july, , it made experiments in a more serious style, producing, for instance, the "kean" of dumas the elder, with frédéric lemaître in the principal character, and bressant in the part of the prince of wales. under the second empire the variétés returned to its old trade, besides adopting an entirely new one--that of opera-bouffe, as cultivated by offenbach. here the earliest and best works of this master, such as "la belle hélène" and the "grand duchess of gerolstein," were first performed, with schneider and dupuis in the principal parts. here, too, some of the best comedies of meilhac, halévy, and labiche were brought out. the boulevard montmartre, in front of the variétés, is the most animated part of the whole line of boulevards. the late henri dupin, the famous boulevardier, who died a centenarian, used to pretend that he had shot rabbits between the rue montmartre and the adjoining rue richelieu. this was doubtless an exaggeration. but a representation of this part of paris, painted in the days of the first empire, shows that at the point in question there were ditches intersecting a road lined with trees. the boulevard montmartre combines some of the features of the upper and of the lower boulevard, the shops which here abound offering for sale objects of use and of ornament, of interest and of luxury: clothes, bonnets, books, chocolate, bonbons, and music. [illustration: boulevard bonne-nouvelle and the gymnase theatre.] at the corner of the boulevard montmartre and the rue vivienne stood the famous public gambling-house of frascati, where, until the reign of louis philippe, as at a similar establishment in the palais royal, games of hazard were publicly played. these gambling-houses bore an important, and often, no doubt, disastrous part in the social life of the french capital, and innumerable anecdotes have been told of the sums lost and won within their walls. both comedy and tragedy bore a part in the scenes produced by the fascinating cards. materials for a farce might be found in one scene, in which mlle. contat, the famous actress, figured. she was far too beautiful to want, even from her girlhood, a host of admirers. her first love affair was sufficiently unfortunate. the successful suitor was a certain m. de lubsac, an officer in the king's household. he was a man of inferior birth, with an empty purse; but he was as handsome as apollo, and a wit into the bargain. he laid such persistent siege to the actress that she at length yielded in sheer weakness to his importunity. de lubsac was distinguished by two vices: he loved wine and cards. his passion for play was so reckless that one night he staked his beautiful mistress, or at least put to hazard the whole of her diamonds and trinkets. he lost; and the next day, just as mlle. contat was about to attend a _fête_, she looked for her jewellery in vain. the caskets were all empty; a clean sweep had been made of everything. she set up a cry of "thieves!" and called in the police. de lubsac thought it discreet to silence her by a free confession of his "fault." he admitted that he had pledged the whole of the missing property. she was furious, and de lubsac expressed the deepest contrition. "ah!" he cried, wringing his hands, "if i only had a few louis at this moment i could repair everything!" "how?" cried mlle. contat, with a sudden gleam of hope. "why, to-night," replied lubsac, "i feel that my luck is in. i should win everything back. but i have not a solitary sou." the repentance of the criminal was so comic that it touched the actress's heart. presently she smiled, then she laughed outright. in the end she lent the gambler a couple of louis, the last she had in the world, and he hurried off to the gaming-table. in less than an hour he returned triumphant. he had won. he brought back the whole of the jewellery, which he had taken out of pawn, and he had a few louis in his pocket besides. it was impossible to be too severe with such a man. the actress, however, could not put up with him many months. he at length proved such a desperate rake that she dismissed him in disgust. [illustration: the boulevard montmartre.] every reader of balzac's invaluable novels will remember one or more scenes in which some public gambling establishment is introduced. at the frascati people lost their money according to rule, and under the superintendence of the police. nor did the spendthrifts who haunted it cease to play even when ruin began to stare them in the face, for an occasional piece of luck would always revive the delusion that one day the goddess fortune would return them the sums they had squandered in wooing her. attached to the frascati gambling-house were illuminated gardens, imitated from those of the italian ridotto, and largely resorted to, under the directory and the consulate, by fashionable citizens. the original proprietor of the frascati establishment, garchi by name, died insolvent. the place was seized, and in passed into the hands of one perrin, whom fouché, the celebrated minister of police, appointed farmer-general of games. public gambling-houses were kept up in paris until the year , when, under louis philippe, the "citizen king," they were brought to an end. with the frascati gardens disappeared the charming villa built by brongniart, with its italian roof, its portico, and its statues. it was replaced by a house which was to enjoy a celebrity of its own. on the ground-floor it was occupied by jannisset, the fashionable jeweller; on the first floor by buisson the tailor, who had the honour of dressing balzac, the greatest novelist that france, if not the world, has produced. balzac had inspired the man with the same sort of admiration that a certain wine-merchant felt for the unfortunate haydon. "ought a man who can paint like that to be in want of a glass of sherry?" said haydon to the art loving vintner who had come to ask for a settlement of his bill. "indeed, no," replied the wine-merchant, who not only went away without asking even for a trifle on account, but hastened to forward several dozen of sherry for haydon's encouragement and stimulation. buisson was treated by balzac on the most friendly footing. not only did the great novelist allow the fashionable tailor to dress him for nothing, but he also paid him long visits, and used a special set of apartments assigned to him in a lofty region of buisson's house, where in the midst of the workshops he was beyond the reach of troublesome creditors. far from being ungrateful to his benefactor, balzac has rendered him immortal by naming him again and again in his works. buisson will, thanks to honoré de balzac, be always known as the fashionable tailor of louis philippe's reign. the name of frascati at one time belonged to the present boulevard montmartre. it is still retained by the pastrycook who sells ices and tarts in his shop at the corner of the boulevard. it should be mentioned that this pastrycook's shop was preceded by the café frascati, which owed its success entirely to the beauty of the lady who presided at the counter. when the _dame du comptoir_ disappeared the café became deserted, and had to close its doors. [illustration] chapter x. boulevard and other cafÉs. the café littéraire--café procope--café foy--bohemian cafés--café momus--the death of molière--new year's gifts. the history of france is in a large degree the history of its cafés; and the french might well retort that the history of england is to be read in its tavern signs. on the connection between our tavern signs and our naval and military heroes it would be superfluous to insist. we have, it is true, our dogs and ducks, our geese and gridirons, our bells and horns, but we have also our admiral keppels, our wellington arms, our napier's heads; and taking them altogether, the names of our hostelries indicate the various epochs of their origin in a remarkable manner. another characteristic of the british tavern sign as compared with the french _enseigne_, whether of the café, the restaurant, or the tobacco-shop, is the permanency of the former. who ever heard of the "earl of chatham" being converted into the "sir robert peel," or of "lord nelson" turning into "sir charles napier"? just the contrary takes place in france, where all the cafés, tobacco-shops, theatres, steamers, and even omnibuses that rejoice in what may be called representative titles, change their signs and their appellations with each successive dynasty. but it is above all in the cafés proper that the history of france is to be read; and not the political history alone, for it can be shown that they also reflect every social, literary, and commercial change that takes place in the french metropolis. the _demoiselle du comptoir_ in the more popular quarters of paris is herself an important historical figure, appearing as she did during the african war as an algérienne, in the days of the second republic as a priestess of liberty, and during the siege of sebastopol as a tartar girl of the crimea. but she is a political rather than a social index. such also were the united cooks, whose miserable _gargotes_ flourished during the liberty, equality, and fraternity period, with their _boeuf à la république_, their _agneau à la robespierre_, their _veau à la baïonnette_, and their _mouton à la sauce rouge_. it would be difficult to say which of these was the most economical, or, above all, the most indigestible. far different were the restaurants and cafés whose titles and interior arrangements might be looked upon as indicative of the social and intellectual movement of the nation. of these, the most remarkable have, at various periods, been the huge literary café on the boulevard bonne-nouvelle, the electric cafés--of which there were at one time several--between the porte saint-martin and the théâtre lyrique, and the café oriental, near the boulevard du temple. most provincial frenchmen and foreigners who have visited paris in the character of sight-seers have been conducted to the dreary café des aveugles, and probably to the absurd café des singes; but it is only those who have wandered idly about the boulevards, careless how they might be devoured, that can have found their way to the literary, the electric, or the oriental café. the café littéraire (to go back to some ancient notes made on the subject by the present writer) "was a building of which it would be little to say that it was more magnificent than an english palace. above the portico the title of the establishment, in gigantic letters and in striking relief, was conspicuous. the stone staircase which led to the entrance was so imposing that as you ascended it you instinctively put your hand in your pocket to assure yourself that you had a respectable number of francs at your disposal. in the vestibule stood two officials; one the under-waiter, the other the sub-editor of the establishment. 'does monsieur wish to eat?' 'does monsieur wish to read?' said the two functionaries at the same moment. anxious to offend neither, and not possessing the art of eating and reading simultaneously, we replied that we wished to play billiards. 'you will find the professor and tables in abundance on the first floor,' said the under-waiter. 'allow me to present you with the _carte_ of my department;' and he handed me an ordinary _carte du jour_. 'here is the _carte_ of the department with which i have the honour to be connected,' said the sub-editor, giving me at the same time an astounding unheard-of literary bill of fare, with poetic dishes by lamartine and victor hugo, and prose _entrées_ by the elder dumas, soulié, and george sand. at the foot of the _menu_ were printed the following general rules:--every customer spending a franc in this establishment is entitled to one volume of any work, to be selected at will from our vast collection; or in that proportion up to the largest sum he may expend. n.b.--to avoid delay, gentleman consumers who may require an entire romance are requested to name their author with the soup.' after dining we repaired to the billiard-room and played a couple of games, for which two francs and a half were charged. having paid the debt, and received a voucher for the sum, we were waited on by the editor-in-chief. in strict justice, the voucher entitled us to two volumes and a half, but the editor assured us that it was contrary to the rules of the establishment to serve less than an entire _livraison_. to ask for half a livraison, he said, was like ordering half a mutton-chop or half a lemonade." the establishment of the café littéraire was contemporaneous with the first issue, on a large scale, of three-franc volumes and four-sou _livraisons_, with liberty of the press, open discussion, and the ascendency of literary men in connection with politics. as a natural consequence of this general intellectual activity, a taste for popular science arose, which the astronomer on the pont-neuf, with his long telescope and his interminable orations, was unable to satisfy. the electric cafés instituted at this period were sufficiently curious establishments. a thirsty parisian entering one of them for the first time in his life, found himself in a place which resembled a buffet more than a café, and in which the most remarkable object was an enormous metal counter. having swallowed his beverage, he proceeded to place his piece of money on the counter, when, to his astonishment, he received a violent shock in the right arm, which probably caused him to drop the coin as if it were red-hot. "i have had an electric shock!" he would exclaim to some frequenter lounging near him. "impossible!" would be the reply. "you must have knocked your funny-bone against the edge of the counter." protesting that he had received a galvanic shock, the victim was assured by the lounger, who had been lying in wait for his joke, that he had simply been electrified by the charms of the young lady behind the counter, just as a theatrical audience is said to be electrified by an actress or _prima donna_. again, however, on receiving his change the new customer experienced a sharp shock, being the more astonished inasmuch as the _habitués_ present put down and took up their money evidently without feeling the electric current. then he went away mystified, to return, perhaps, later in the evening with an inexperienced friend, whom, partly from curiosity, partly in a spirit of mischief, he led up to the counter. his friend no sooner touched it than he started back electrified, but he himself found that he could this time touch it with impunity. he had now obviously been admitted amongst the initiated; and when he had gone on drinking and spending enough to entitle him to confidence, the beautiful _demoiselle du comptoir_ condescended to explain to him the entire mystery. at the foot of the metal counter was a piece of strip iron connected with one of the wires of a galvanic battery, the other wire communicating with the counter itself. when any of the initiated touched the counter the presiding goddess stopped the current, which only novices were intended to feel. the whole device was simply employed to amuse customers. the electric counters became very popular, and had rapidly spread all over paris, when the government, thinking probably that such practical jokes might sometimes be carried too far, absolutely suppressed the _cafés électriques_. a whole chapter might be devoted to the literary cafés of paris, much more numerous than ever were the literary coffee-houses of london in the last century. the first paris café destined to identify itself with literature was the café procope, so called from the name of its founder, procopio cultelli, who, in the earliest days of coffee-drinking among the french and among europeans generally, installed himself at no. , rue des fossés-saint-germain, opposite the comédie française. the wily sicilian had evidently opened his coffee-house in view of the french actors. but it was the authors who became its principal frequenters; first the dramatists connected with the comédie française, and afterwards authors of all kinds. in france, however, there are scarcely any authors who do not at least try their hand at dramatic writing. neither crébillon, with his _catalina_, nor jean-baptiste rousseau, with _jason_, nor piron, with _fernand cortez_, nor diderot, with _le fils naturel_, nor voltaire, with so many celebrated plays, can be regarded solely or specially as dramatists; yet all of them contributed to the french theatre, and all are remembered among the frequenters of the café procope. the café procope was still at the height of its reputation when, in , beaumarchais' _marriage of figaro_ was produced; and it was the scene of a great literary gathering immediately before the representation of that famous comedy. after the revolution, however, it gradually lost its character as a literary centre. [illustration: entrance to the thÉÂtre des variÉtÉs, boulevard montmartre.] and now the comédie française crossed the water--an unmistakable sign that the left bank no longer possessed its ancient importance, and that everything not already to be found on the right bank was gradually moving to that favoured shore. the café procope still exists, but it has quite lost its old literary character; nor is it much frequented even by the students, who on the left bank form so important a part of the community. the café de la régence owes its name to the period in which it was established. haunted as it was by chess-players, it was nevertheless the resort of distinguished writers, with voltaire, d'alembert, and marmontel amongst them. here diderot sat side by side with the emperor joseph ii. robespierre looked in now and then to have a game of chess, and among other occasional visitors of distinction was the youthful general bonaparte. nor, from the list of the modern frequenters of the café de la régence, must méry or alfred de musset be omitted. close to the café de la régence stood the café foy, celebrated under the regency for its beautiful _dame du comptoir_, of whom the duke of orleans became desperately enamoured. it was from this cafe that camille desmoulins, on the th of july, , marched forth to begin the attack which ended in the overthrow of the ancient _régime_. until its demolition, not many years ago, the café foy was known as one of the very few cafés in paris where smoking was not allowed. in ancient days cafés were broadly divided into cafés simply so called and _cafés-estaminets_; and in the latter only, as in a beer-house, could the customer smoke. the café foy was at one time greatly in favour with old gentlemen, dating from a now remote period, when the smoking of tobacco was considered not altogether (in byronic language) a "gentlemanly vice." the café foy was known, moreover, by a certain swallow painted on the ceiling by carle vernet (father of the more celebrated horace vernet). he was lunching there one day with a joyous party of friends, when a bottle of champagne was opened, of which the cork struck the ceiling and left a mark there. to compensate for this mishap, the famous painter ordered a ladder to be brought in, and hurriedly, but with consummate art, painted a swallow where the cork had struck. years passed, and still the swallow remained fresh. the form and colour of the bird were renewed from time to time by other painters; but to the sight-seer, as informed by the waiters of the café, it was always the very swallow that had been painted in the midst of a champagne luncheon by carle vernet. it was as clear and bright as ever when at last it disappeared with the ceiling it had so long adorned. close to the café foy stood the café des aveugles, with an orchestra of blind men as its distinctive feature. it seems at that period to have been thought strange that blind men should be able to perform on musical instruments. in the present day no _virtuoso_ of any pretension plays with notes; though those, no doubt, are the least blind who do not pride themselves on disregarding what may well be a valuable, if not indispensable, aid to memory. a traditional figure associated with the orchestra of blind musicians was a so-called "savage": some personage, that is to say, from one of the paris faubourgs, disguised with feathers, paint, and tattooing. after the revolution the cafés became more and more political. under the republic, as in a less degree under the empire, there had been no opposition cafés. but with the restoration some freedom of thought returned. imperialism had its head-quarters at the café leinblin, where the officers of the _grande armée_ exchanged ideas on the subject of the humiliations undergone by france now that the great napoleon was an exile, and that power was vested in the hands, not of a military dictator, but of a mere parliament, with a constitutional king as figure-head. at the café foy congregated the liberals of the new _régime_; at the café valois came together the royalists, who believed in nothing but the throne and the altar as maintained under the ancient monarchy. the café, in spite of the number of new clubs established in paris, continues to be one of the most popular and most flourishing institutions of the french capital. numbers of parisians are not rich enough to belong to clubs, but can well afford from day to day the expenditure of fivepence or sixpence on a cup of coffee and a _petit verre_. of bohemian cafés--those frequented, that is to say, by the gipsies of literature and art--the most celebrated is, or was in the time of henri murger, the brilliant author of "la vie de bohême," the café momus. here it was that poets, painters, and musicians of the future, blessed for the present with more genius than halfpence, waited until some comparatively wealthy lover of art and literature came to their relief, or until, by their noisy and reckless talk, they forced the alarmed proprietor to beg them to retire, and come in some other day to pay for their refreshment. champfleury, gleaning here and there after murger's abundant harvest, has told us how, armed with one cup of coffee and a small glass of brandy, half-a-dozen bohemians would take absolute possession of the first floor of this establishment. sometimes a bohemian, not absolutely destitute, would order a cup of coffee and _petit verre_, and go upstairs. soon afterwards a second bohemian would come in, ask if the first bohemian were in the café, and go upstairs to join him. a third would ask for the second, a fourth for the third, and so on, until around the solitary cup of coffee and the unique glass of liqueur a party of six had assembled. the proud paymaster, after sipping a little of the coffee, would pass it to a friend, who, having helped himself, would hand the remainder to some other member of the party. the cognac was in like manner shared, and the last served came in for the sugar, with which he would sweeten a glass of water. the bohemian frequenters of the café momus were more liberal in giving their orders when one of them had sold a picture or a piece of music, a book or a play; and they would afterwards order on credit as long as credit could be obtained. a story is told of one bohemian who persisted in ordering after his credit had been stopped, and who, having told the waiter repeatedly, but in vain, to bring him a cup of coffee, went himself to the counter, and said in a stern voice, "i have ordered a cup of coffee half-a-dozen times; either serve it at once or lend me five sous, and i'll go and get it elsewhere." it must be supposed that it somehow suited the proprietor of the café momus to encourage, or at least tolerate, his bohemian visitors; otherwise he would have taken steps to exclude them permanently. occasionally, it is said, they would barricade themselves in their favourite room on the first floor, and refuse absolutely to give up possession. the probability is that when they were in funds they spent their money lavishly; and they undoubtedly gave a certain reputation to the café momus, which became known throughout paris as the café of literary aspirants, and attracted on that ground a certain number of sympathisers and admirers. the house formerly occupied by the frascati establishment bears on the rue richelieu side a medallion with an inscription to the memory of cardinal de richelieu, put up by antoine elwart, professor of composition at the conservatoire. the other side of the boulevard montmartre, whence springs the rue du faubourg montmartre, is no less animated than the theatre side. here, too, cafés abound, each of which, in theatrical phrase, is "full to overflowing"; for numbers of customers sit out in the street at the little tables in front of the café. the arcade on this side of the boulevard is known as the passage jouffroi. it runs through what was once the ground-floor of the house which, under the restoration, was inhabited by three distinguished composers: rossini, carafa, and boieldieu. a little further on, always in the direction of the madeleine, stands an important club, called officially le grand cercle, familiarly, le cercle des ganaches. it is composed chiefly of commercial men and civil servants. it is considered old-fashioned, and the dinner-hour there is six o'clock, as it was in most paris houses fifty years ago. at the right corner of the rue grange batelière stands an immense house, on a site occupied, until a few years ago, by the mansion built in the eighteenth century, by two well-known farmers-general, the brothers lunge, which from to was the haunt of the jockey club, the best-known and most fashionable club in paris, now installed further to the west, but still in the line of boulevards. ask any parisian in the present day for "the house of molière," and he will tell you that la maison de molière is only another name for the théâtre français. the house, however, where molière lived is situated at the corner of a little street off the boulevard montmartre; and here it was that he breathed his last. on the th of february, , the "malade imaginaire" was performed for the first time. the curtain rose at four o'clock, and a few minutes afterwards molière was on the stage, and acting with his accustomed humour. everyone was laughing and applauding. none of the audience suspected that the actor who was throwing all his energy into the part he had himself created was now on the point of death. in the burlesque ceremony, just as argan has to utter the word "juro," a convulsion seized him, which he disguised beneath a forced laugh. but it was now necessary to carry him home. the performance went on, though without molière, who meanwhile had been taken to his house in the rue richelieu. it had been found impossible to get his clothes off. the dying man was still wearing the dressing-gown of the "imaginary invalid." he was presently attacked with a violent fit of coughing, in the course of which he burst a blood-vessel and threw up a quantity of blood. a few minutes later he expired, surrounded by the members of his family, and supported by two nuns to whom he was in the habit of offering hospitality when they visited paris. in his dying moments he had asked for religious consolation; but the priest of st.-eustache rejected his prayer. now that he was dead, christian burial was denied to him: a piece of intolerance due to the archbishop of paris, harley de champvalon. so soon as molière's wife heard of the archbishop's refusal, she exclaimed with indignation: "they refuse to bury a man to whom, in greece, altars would have been erected." then calling for a carriage, and taking with her the curé of auteuil, who was far from sharing the views of his ecclesiastical superior, she hurried to versailles, threw herself at the king's feet, and demanded justice. "if," she exclaimed, losing all self-control--"if my husband was a criminal, his crimes were sanctioned by your majesty in person." at these words the king frowned, and the curé of auteuil is said to have found the moment opportune for introducing a theological discussion, in the course of which he sought to disculpate himself from an accusation of jansenism. but louis xiv. had been affronted, and he told both actress and curé that the matter concerned the archbishop alone. he sent secret orders, however, to the churlish prelate, the result of which was a compromise. the body was refused entrance into the church, but two priests were allowed to accompany it to the cemetery. the archbishop's concession seemed to some bigots out of place: a proof that the ecclesiastical authorities were not alone in their wish to have molière interred without christian rites. they could not now prevent his being buried in sacred ground. but on the day of his funeral they organised a riot in front of his house, which mme. molière, frightened by the cries and menaces of the crowd, could only appease by throwing money out of the window, to the amount of about a thousand francs. it was on the st of february, , that the remains of the great man were borne to their resting-place, without pomp, without ceremony, at night, and almost furtively, as though he had been a criminal. molière was buried in the cemetery of saint joseph, rue montmartre. his widow placed above the grave a great slab of stone, which was still to be seen in the early part of the eighteenth century, when the brothers parfait published their _histoire du théâtre français_. "this stone," writes m. du tillet, "is cracked down the middle: which was caused by a very noble and very remarkable action on the part of the widow. two or three years after molière's death a very cold winter set in, and she had a hundred loads of wood conveyed to the cemetery, and burned on the tomb of her husband, to warm all the poor people of the quarter, when the great heat of the fire caused the stone to split in two." [illustration: cafÉs on the boulevard montmartre.] the church of rome has pronounced again and again at councils, and through the mouths of distinguished prelates, against the abomination that maketh not "desolate," but joyful. in the fifth century it excommunicated stage-players, and the order of excommunication, though practically it may have ceased to be effective, has never been rescinded. in france up to the time of the restoration ( ), or at least during the restoration, it was in full force, so that the history of the relations between church and stage in that theatre-loving country has been the history of the refusal of christian burial in successive centuries to stage-players. happily, for many years past theory and practice have been at variance in france with regard to the excommunicated position of actors and actresses. the church, however much it may stand above society, cannot but reflect in some measure the views of society at large; and, if only from policy, it cannot permit itself to outrage a universal feeling. accordingly, since the doors of saint-roch were closed, in , against the body of the famous actress, mlle. raucourt--an incident which was followed by a popular outbreak, the calling out of the troops, and ultimately interference on the part of louis xviii., who ordered that the religious service should be performed by his own chaplain: since those days there have been few examples in france, and none in paris, of any actor or actress being treated as beyond the pale of the church. [illustration: moliÈre. (_from the painting by coypel in the comédie française._)] to be seen in all its glory, the boulevard montmartre--perhaps the most crowded of all the boulevards, especially by business people--should be traversed at the beginning of the new year, when in the booths which line the great thoroughfare nearly along its whole length all kinds of objects supposed to be suitable as new year's gifts are offered for sale. in england, the custom of making christmas presents and new year's gifts had, except among relatives, died out, when a few years ago some apparently childish, but in reality very ingenious, person invented christmas cards. the invention was not successful at first; and the strange practice of exchanging pieces of cardboard adorned with commonplace pictorial designs, and inscribed with conventional expressions of goodwill, was, for a time, confined to the sort of persons who might be suspected of sending valentines. eventually, however, it spread. the initiative in this matter seems to have been taken by enterprising young ladies, whose attentions it was impossible to leave unrecognised; and endeavours were naturally made to return them cards of superior value to those which they had themselves despatched. thus a noble spirit of emulation was generated, which the designers, manufacturers, and vendors of christmas cards did their best to gratify and stimulate; so that, latterly, there has been a marked rise in these products as regards price, and even quality. many of them possess undeniable artistic merit, and during the last few years some very beautiful varieties of the christmas card have been brought out at paris. these pictorial adaptations from the english are at least more graceful and more original than the great majority of our own dramatic adaptations from the french. if, as everyone knows, the sending of christmas cards is a custom of but a few years' standing, new year's gifts are by no means of recent invention; and under the roman empire, as now in russia, presents used, as a matter of course, to be made on the first day of the new year to the magistrates and high officials. in the end, the practice of making new year's gifts grew so popular that every roman at the opening of a new year presented the reigning emperor with a certain amount of money, proportionate to his means; and what had, in the first instance, been among ordinary individuals but a token of esteem, was now, in regard to the sovereign, an assurance of loyalty, besides being a tolerable source of income. the barbaric nations, with simpler habits, had simpler ceremonies in connection with the new year; and the gauls were content to present one another at this season with sprigs of mistletoe plucked from the sacred groves. coming to much more recent times, we find the custom of giving new year's presents in full force at the court of louis xiv., when, on the st of january, ladies received tokens from their lovers, and gave tokens in return. the custom of making new year's gifts became at length so general that servants murmured if their masters neglected them in this respect; and an amusing story is told of the stingy cardinal dubois, who, on his major-domo asking for his _étrennes_, replied, "well, you may keep what you have stolen from me during the last twelvemonth." this, however, occurred a long time ago; and had the cardinal lived in the present century, he would scarcely have dared to make such an answer. the frenchman who nowadays ventures to refuse to his servants, or to any other dependants, the expected annual gifts must be prepared to bear the bitterest sarcasm, which will possibly not cease to assail him even beyond the grave; for it may be his fate to have inscribed on his tomb some such epitaph as the following quite authentic one:-- "ci-gît, dessous ce marbre blanc, l'homme le plus avare de rennes; s'il est mort la veille de l'an c'est pour ne pas donner d'étrennes," which may be roughly rendered in english thus:-- "here lies, beneath this marble white, the miserliest man in rennes; if new year's eve he chose for flight, 'twas that he need not give _étrennes_." towards the end of the eighteenth century an edict was published in france forbidding new year's gifts; but without avail. the _étrennes_ only became more numerous and more costly as the greed of the recipients grew more and more insatiable; and in the present day the meaning of the word _étrenne_ will be only too well understood by any englishman who, in paris at the time of the new year, may venture to have dealings with the waiters at the cafés, with hair-dressers, drivers, or any other set of men who delight in certain traditional customs. [illustration] chapter xi. the boulevards (_continued_). the opéra comique of paris--i gelosi--the don juan of molière--madame favart--the saint-simonians. the boulevard des italiens derives its name from the so-called comédie italienne, the original opéra comique of paris, which owes its existence to letters patent granted to it as far back as . one of the most celebrated establishments on this boulevard is the café cardinal, at the corner of the rue richelieu. it justifies its title by exhibiting the bust of the famous political prelate, concerning whom the great corneille, after receiving, first benefits, then injuries, at his hands, wrote these lines:-- "qu'on parle mal ou bien du fameux cardinal, ni ma prose, ni mes vers n'en diront jamais rien. il m'a fait trop de bien pour en dire du mal, il m'a fait trop de mal pour en dire du bien."[a] [a] "whether good or evil be spoken of the famous cardinal, neither my prose nor my verse shall say a word of him. he has done too well by me for me to speak ill of him; he has done too ill by me for me to speak well of him." formerly known as the café dangest, the title it now bears has belonged to it only since the year . just round the corner stands the house of the well-known music publishers, messrs. brandus and co., founded by moritz schlesinger, who, as a young man, brought out many of beethoven's works, and was indeed one of beethoven's first appreciators. during the _coup d'État_ of m. brandus's hospitable residence was the scene of an outrage which threatened to become a tragedy on a large scale. he was entertaining a party of friends, among whom were m. adolphe saxe, the inventor of saxophones, and the eminent musical critic of the _times_, the late mr. j. w. davison. the boulevards and many of the streets leading out of them were full of troops, for the most part in a state of great excitement, and some infantry soldiers at the corner of the boulevard des italiens and the rue richelieu believed, or affected to believe, that shots had been fired at them from m. brandus's windows. possibly some bullets discharged by the soldiers themselves had glanced back from the house or one of the neighbouring houses, and fallen into the street. the troops, in any case, forced m. brandus's door, and his servant, who went downstairs to remonstrate with the invaders, was at once shot dead. the soldiers then made their way into the room where m. brandus and his guests were at table, arrested them, and brought them down to the boulevard with the intention of shooting them in a formal manner, as if by way of example. fortunately, the general in command was an amateur of music and a personal friend of adolphe saxe: whom he particularly remembered, moreover, as having fought with courage against the insurgents during the sanguinary days of june, . saxe at once declared that the accusation made by the soldiers was entirely without basis, and the general did not hesitate to accept his assurance. he enjoined him, however, to hurry away as quickly as possible from the boulevard, which was about to be "swept" by a fusillade. saxe and his friends managed narrowly to escape. the opéra comique theatre, or comédie italienne, as it was more generally called, was founded originally in the hôtel de bourgogne; and it was only in that it was re-established on the boulevard to which the comédie italienne was to give its name. the opéra comique of france descends indeed in a straight line from the most ancient dramatic entertainments given in that country. these were introduced in the sixteenth century by natives of the land to which the french owe nearly all the lighter and more ornamental part of their civilisation, from opera and the drama to ices and confectionery: from architecture, pictures, and statues, to gloves, fans, gambling-houses, and masked balls. in henri iii. invited from venice to paris a company known as "i gelosi." the actors were "jealous" or "zealous" to please; and a contemporary writer informs us that after playing at the hôtel de bourgogne, where everyone was charged four sous for admission, they took possession of the hôtel du petit bourbon, where such crowds assembled that "the four best preachers in paris could not together have collected such a congregation." the same writer adds that on the th of june following the parliament forbade "i gelosi" to play their comedies any longer, as they taught "nothing but impropriety." the italian actors, however, resisted the parliamentary decree, and they obtained from the king letters patent permitting them to continue their performances, "consisting," says mézerai, "of pieces of intrigue, amourettes, and agreeable inventions for awakening and exciting the softest passions." the italian actors presented these letters patent to the parliament the month following, when the letters were rejected, and they themselves forbidden to present to the court such documents, under a penalty of ten thousand paris livres. the italians, however, appealed once more to the king, when henri iii. granted express permission, in virtue of which they re-opened their theatre in december, . as, however, the country was now agitated by political troubles, "i gelosi" discreetly returned to their native land. a few years afterwards a second troop of "gelosi," and then a third, came to paris; and later on henri iv. brought from pavia a new company, which stayed in paris for two years. [illustration: boulevard des italiens.] cardinal mazarin (or mazarini) did much to familiarise parisians both with italian operas and italian plays; and about one of several italian companies which had recently visited paris obtained permission to play at the hôtel de bourgogne alternately with the french actors. but at last, in their love of satire, the italian actors forgot themselves so far as to turn into ridicule no less a personage than mme. de maintenon. "the king," says the duke de saint-simon, writing on this very subject, "drove out very precipitately the whole troop of italian actors, and would suffer no others in their place. as long as they restricted themselves to indecency, or even impiety, nothing but laughter was excited." but they took the liberty of playing a piece called _the false prude_, in which mme. de maintenon was easily recognised. accordingly, everyone went to see it; but after three or four representations, the actors were ordered to close their theatre and quit the kingdom within a month. this caused a great noise; and if the actors lost their establishment by their boldness and folly, the government which drove them out did not gain by the freedom with which the ridiculous incident was criticised. the lieutenant of police, accompanied by an army of commissaries, sergeants, and constables, had invaded and seized the manuscript of _the false prude_. jherardi, the harlequin of the troupe, hurried to versailles, where he begged and entreated, but without being able to move louis xiv., who had so many times protected the italian comedians. "you came to france on foot," said the king, "and you have gained enough here to go back in carriages." during their stay in paris the italian actors expelled by louis xiv. had accustomed themselves to play in french, and the celebrated comedy writer, regnard, had entrusted them with several of his pieces. this rendered them more than ever disliked by the french actors, with whom they were always in rivalry. the pieces performed by the italian actors consisted for the most part, and always when they confined themselves to their own language, of mere dramatic sketches, for which dialogue was supplied by the actors themselves. it was not until that the italian actors re-appeared in france, and they now played at a theatre in the palais royal, occupied alternately by them and by the company of the grand opera. in time the italian company varied their pieces, and even introduced songs in the midst of the dialogue. this at once exposed them to attacks from the opéra, or académie royale de musique, as it was called; and in conformity with the privileges secured to the opéra, the italians were forbidden to sing. soon afterwards they produced a piece in which a donkey was brought on to the stage and made to bray, whereupon one of the actors cried out to the animal, "silence! singing is forbidden on these boards." ultimately, as the result of much opposition and many minatory decrees, an arrangement was made between the italian actors and a company of french actors and singers which led to the establishment of the french opéra comique. at last the italian and the french actors played together; but french wit and italian wit were said not to harmonise, and in order to simplify matters, the italians, with the exception of one or two who had adopted the french language, were sent out of the country. the theatre now given up to french comic opera continued, however, to be called the théâtre italien, to receive afterwards, in memory of mme. favart and her husband, the title of salle favart, and at a later period, under the republic, that of opéra comique. the performances of the italians came permanently to an end in . in spite of the jealousy with which they were regarded by the great bulk of the theatrical profession, the italian actors had an excellent effect on the development of the french stage, which, when the first troupe of gelosi arrived in paris, had no substantial existence. molière profited much by their performances and borrowed freely from their productions, taking from them, according to his well-known saying, "his property" (that is to say, all that naturally belonged to him through affinity and sympathy) wherever "he found it." apart from many other subjects and scenes, molière borrowed his version of _don juan_ from the italians. much of it, including most of its philosophy and wit, belongs in the very fullest sense to the great comic dramatist of france. but the very title, _festin de pierre_--an incorrect and, indeed, unintelligible translation of _il convitato de pietra_--is enough to show the origin of molière's admirable work. the new establishment had been only ten years on the boulevard des italiens when its name was altered definitely from comédie italienne to opéra comique. a few years later the establishment was moved to the rue feydeau, where it was destined to enjoy a long life and a merry one. meanwhile, the house which had given its ancient name to the italian boulevard remained unoccupied--or but rarely occupied--for some considerable time, until, in , the celebrated catalani opened it for serious italian opera. the théâtre des italiens now became the most fashionable theatre in paris. here madames pasta, malibran, grisi, persiani, mm. rubini, tamburini, lablache, etc., were heard. here, too, rossini for a time acted as musical director. this theatre, like all others, was soon destined to perish by fire; and italian opera has of late years led a somewhat wandering life in france, to find itself ultimately without any home at all. the early history of the opéra comique, from the middle of the eighteenth until the first days of the nineteenth century, is sufficiently represented by the lives of two of its most distinguished ornaments: mme. favart and her successor in parts of the same kind, mme. dugazon. mme. favart--duronceray by her maiden name--was the wife of charles simon favart, the well-known dramatist, who for many years supplied the opéra comique with all its good pieces. the marriage took place in , and immediately afterwards the opéra comique, as an establishment recognised and subventioned by the state, was suppressed. favart had some time before made the acquaintance of marshal saxe, who may be said to have played almost as great a part in connection with the stage as with the camp; and he was now invited by the famous commander to organise a company for giving performances at the head-quarters, and for the entertainment of the army in flanders generally. favart hurried to brussels, where marshal saxe was about to arrive; and on reaching the head-quarters, the commander-in-chief gave an entertainment to the ladies whose husbands were serving on his staff, and to the wives generally of the officers. the performance consisted of national dances by the highland contingent, whose scanty costumes are said to have at once amused and scandalised the ladies. then a piece of favart's was played; and with so much success, that it became the fashion to attend favart representations as often as they were given. marshal saxe told favart that it was part of his policy to give theatrical entertainments, and the manager soon saw that his musical comedies interested the officers sufficiently to take them away from cards and dice, to which previously they had given themselves up with only too much devotion. the marshal pointed out to favart, moreover, that a lively couplet, a few happy lines, would have more effect on french soldiers than the most eloquent harangues. besides amusing his own people and keeping them out of mischief, marshal saxe found favart's comic opera company useful in promoting his negotiations with the enemy. having heard of the favart performances, the enemy desired much to see them; and the representations given in the enemy's camp had no slight effect in facilitating peace arrangements. mme. favart--mlle. chantilly, to describe her by her stage name--was a member of the operatic company engaged by the marshal to follow the army of flanders; and the commander-in-chief--as, with a man of his well-known temperament, was sure to happen--fell in love with the charming _prima donna_. mme. favart was at last obliged to make her escape, and, forsaking the camp, returned to the capital. here she appeared at the so-called italian theatre, which was really the opéra comique under another name. that mme. favart was greater as an actress than as a vocalist (which may be said of so many singers who have distinguished themselves at the opéra comique of paris) is beyond doubt. "she is not a singer," said grétry, the composer; "she is an actress who speaks song with the truest and most passionate accent." "what a wonderful woman!" exclaimed boieldieu, after a representation of his _caliph of bagdad_. "they say she does not know music; yet i never heard anyone sing with such taste and expression, such nature and fidelity." boieldieu, through auber, his successor, brings us to modern times. with ambroise thomas, the composer of _mignon_, and bizet, the composer of _carmen_, the opéra comique has always been the most french of all the french musical theatres. at the grand opéra, or académie, nearly all the successful works have been composed by foreigners: by lulli, gluck, piccinni, spontini, rossini, meyerbeer, donizetti, and verdi. the most popular works at the opéra comique have, on the other hand, been composed by frenchmen. _la dame blanche_, for instance, of boieldieu; the _fra diavolo_, _the black domino_, _the crown diamonds_ of auber; the _mignon_ of ambroise thomas, and the _carmen_ of bizet, have all been due to the genius of frenchmen. the opéra comique, since its formal separation from all connection with italy, has itself had strange and tragic adventures. the last of these was its destruction by a terrible fire, in which more than one hundred lives were lost. since this catastrophe, which took place on the nd of may, , the opéra comique has been provisionally established in the place du châtelet. to make an inevitable excursion which here presents itself, the rue monsigny, deriving its name from one of the most famous composers connected with the opéra comique, will always be remembered as the head-quarters of the saint-simonians during the first meeting of that strange association, founded by saint-simon, lineal descendant of the duke who wrote the famous _memoirs_. the aims of the saint-simonians, visionary as they may have been, were at least noble; and the society numbered among its members some of the most able and high-minded young men of the day. the truth of this latter assertion is proved by the distinguished part played by many of the saint-simonians in very different spheres after the society had come to an end. michel chevalier, the political economist, duveyrier, the dramatist, and félicien david, the composer, may be mentioned among those saint-simonians whose names will be familiar to many englishmen. saint-simon, founder of the sect named after him, began his self-imposed career with a sufficiently large fortune to enable him to test various modes of existence. his purpose was, after studying society, to reform it. he had resolved to study it thoroughly in all its phases: all those, at least, which offered any special intellectual or physical character. without apparently having conceived any system beforehand, he was constantly working towards one, making observations and writing down notes. that he might waste no time from sluggishness or sloth, he ordered his servant to wake him every morning with these significant words: "rise, count; you have great things to do." (_levez-vous, monsieur le comte, vous avez de grandes choses à faire._) the great political principle that he ultimately adopted was that "all legislation should be for the benefit of the poorest and most numerous class," which was little more than a variation of jeremy bentham's "greatest good of the greatest number." he lived in aristocratic society a life of pleasure, studied science among scientific men, and finally, occupying himself with books and newspapers, made himself the centre of all kinds of literary gatherings. when, however, he had, according to his own previously formed conception, completed his knowledge of life, he had exhausted his means of living, and was quite unable to turn to account his accumulated experience. the descendant of the proud duke could only keep himself alive by copying manuscripts and by doing clerk's work in the government pawn office, or _mont-de-piété_. at last his misfortunes were too great for him, and he endeavoured to commit suicide. but the bullet with which he had intended to blow his brains out glanced along the frontal bone and destroyed one of his eyes, without inflicting any mortal wound. the unhappy experimentalist had now had a bitter experience of poverty, which may or may not have been in his general programme. his enthusiasm ended in any case by inspiring a few rich men who possessed the money necessary for carrying out his ideas. saint-simon's mantle fell upon le père enfantin, who presided over the saint-simonian family in the rue monsigny, until pecuniary embarrassments caused the learned and venerable father to give up the publication of the admirably written saint-simonian journal, _the globe_, and to retire from a house for which, unhappily, rent had to be paid, to a house and garden of his own at ménilmontant. here he collected around him forty disciples, determined to work together under le père enfantin's direction. "poets, musicians, artists, engineers, civil and military," says a writer, fully in sympathy with the saint-simonians, even if he was not himself a member of their body, "applied themselves by turns to the hardest and rudest labours. "they repaired the house, regularly swept and kept in order the rooms, offices, and courtyard, cultivated the grounds, covered the walks with gravel, which they procured from a pit they had themselves with much toil opened, and so on. to prove that their ideas upon the nature of marriage and the emancipation of women were not founded upon the calculations of a voluptuous selfishness, they imposed upon themselves the law of strict celibacy. every morning and evening they refreshed their minds with the discourses of le père enfantin, or sought in the life of one of the christian saints, read aloud by one of them to the rest, examples, precepts, encouragement. hymns, the music to which had been composed by one of their number, m. félicien david, served to exalt their souls, while soothing their labour. at five o'clock the horn announced dinner. the workmen then piled their tools, ranged the wheelbarrows round the garden, and took their places, after having chanted in chorus the prayer before meat. all this the public were admitted to see: a spectacle in which a sneering, jesting nation only marked the singular features, by turns simple and sublime, but which was assuredly deficient in neither broad aim nor in abstract grandeur. for in this practice of theirs the apostles of ménilmontant went far beyond their own theories, and were sowing around them unconsciously the seeds of doctrine which were destined one day to throw their own into oblivion." it was on the th of june, amidst the roar of the cannon in the rue saint-méry, and not far from the bloody theatre whence arose the cries of the combatants--it was on this very th of june that for the first time since they had entered it, the saint-simonian family threw open the doors of their retreat. "at half-past one," writes m. louis blanc, "they were assembled, standing in a circle in front of the house, while outside a second circle, formed of those whom the inmates of ménilmontant termed the exterior family, was a small group of spectators, attracted by the curiosity of the thing." no sooner had the government suppressed the formidable insurrection, which was finally stamped out in its last retreat at the corner of the rue saint-méry, than, as if to assert the authority it had gained, it commenced proceedings against the saint-simonians, a noble-minded, highly moral body of men, who were accused, nevertheless, of spreading immoral doctrines. in his defence, le père enfantin admitted, while rejecting with indignation the charge of immoral teaching, that one of the main objects of saint-simonianism was the reorganisation of property. "the misery," he said, "of the working classes and the wealth of idle men are the main causes of the evils we seek to remedy. but when we say that there ought to be an end to that hereditary misery and hereditary idleness which are the results of the existing constitution of property, founded, as it is, on the right of birth, our opponents charge us with an intention of overturning the state. "it is of no use for us to urge that this transformation of property can only be effected progressively, pacifically, voluntarily: that it can be effected much better than was the destruction of feudal rights, with every imaginable system of indemnity, and with even greater deliberation than you apply to the expropriations which you now effect for purposes of public utility: we are not listened to; we are condemned off-hand as reckless disturbers of order. unweariedly we seek to show you that this transformation is called for by all the present and future wants of society: that its actual progress is marked out in the most palpable manner by the creation of the code of commerce, by all the habits of industry which have sprung up on every side, encouraging the mobilisation of property, its transference from the idle and incapable to the laborious and capable hand; we show you all this, but still you cry out, shutting your eyes, 'your association is dangerous!'" in the end enfantin, duveyrier, and michel chevalier were condemned to a year's imprisonment and a fine of a hundred francs each, other less prominent members being let off with smaller degrees of punishment. simonianism, as an organised thing, was now extinct, but its principles did not die with the organisation, and in the best forms of socialism and of democracy were soon to show themselves anew. the rue marivaux, another of the most interesting outlets from this part of the boulevards, commemorates the witty and agreeable comedy writer who invented the half bantering, half complimentary style of dialogue to which the name of "marivaudage" is given. [illustration] [illustration: the th of june: the last of the insurrection.] chapter xii. the boulevards (_continued_). la maison dorée--librairie nouvelle--catherine ii. and the encyclopædia--the house of madeleine guimard. at the corner of the rue marivaux stands the café anglais, now the only one remaining of the historical paris restaurants, which for the most part date their reputation from the years and , when the european allies had their head-quarters in the french capital. the invasions which restored the french monarchy, and which had been undertaken with no other object, brought defeat, but at the same time prosperity and gaiety to paris; whereas the invasion of and caused nothing but misery to the vanquished. during the early days of the restoration such houses as les trois frères provençaux, in the palais royal, la maison dorée, the café riche, and the still extant café anglais, did a magnificent trade, thanks to the number of prussian, russian, austrian, and english officers who frequented them, and who, after the toils of war, abandoned themselves willingly to some of the joys of peace. most of these famous restaurants sprang from wine-shops; for it is a fact that every celebrated dining-place in paris has owed its reputation primarily to the quality of its wine. the three brothers from provence who started the restaurant known under their name were simply three young men who, having vineyards of their own and a connection with other wine-growers, maintained an excellent cellar. but when people came in to taste its contents it was absolutely necessary, in order to render appreciable the flavour of the wine, to give them something to eat. then, as they spent their money freely, it was found possible and even desirable to engage a first-rate cook; until at last the reputation of the cellar was equalled by that of the kitchen. who has not read of les trois frères provençaux in balzac's "scenes from paris life"? it was in one of their upstairs rooms, moreover, facing the garden of the palais royal, that the hero of alfred de musset's "enfant du siècle" had his last sad interview, his last sad meal, with the young woman from whom he was about to separate for ever. la maison dorée, too, was a famous house. the scene of many an orgie, it kept its doors open continuously. here it was that m. de camors, in octave feuillet's novel of that name, at the end of an extremely late supper threw a gold piece into the mud and told a ragpicker who happened to be passing that if he would pull it out with his teeth he could have it for himself; and who does not remember how, so soon as the _chiffonnier_ had performed this feat, the dissipated but not altogether degraded gentleman begged the poor man to knock him down in return for the insult offered to him. la maison dorée used to be kept by a proprietor named hardy, and the fact that the neighbouring café and restaurant, of almost equal celebrity and dearness, belonged to a monsieur riche, whose name it bore, gave rise to the saying that a man must be "_très riche pour dîner chez hardy, et très hardi pour dîner chez riche_." the café riche used to be the favourite dining place of jules janin on evenings of first performances. here on these interesting occasions he was always to be seen; and the usual genial tone of his criticisms was possibly attributable to the excellence of m. riche's chef. not, however, that janin wrote his notices of new plays the same night. he published them week by week in the _feuilleton_ of the _journal des débats_, afterwards to be corrected and published under the title of "questionable history of dramatic literature." the café riche was never such a late house as la maison dorée, which went on day by day and year by year, never closing, regardless of the clock. thus it was at once the earliest and the latest of paris taverns; and if it was possible to get supper there at or o'clock in the morning after a dull evening party, a traveller was equally sure that the place would be open when, arriving at paris by train at, say, in the morning, the vacuum in his stomach demanded an immediate breakfast. a story is told of a gentleman who, living immediately opposite the side entrance of la maison dorée, dedicated to this famous hostelry all the time he did not spend in bed. rising extremely late, he turned into the maison dorée towards four in the afternoon to look at the papers, converse with some of the frequenters, take a preparatory glass of absinthe, and finally dine--this being, of course, the great event of his well-spent day. his dinner began at an advanced hour of the evening, and lasted well into the night. then he was joined by friends from the theatre bent on supping; and it was not till towards sunrise that he returned to his apartments over the way. unlike the temple of janus, which was never shut in time of war, the maison dorée could only keep its doors open in time of peace. such war, at all events, as the prussians brought to the gates of paris and to paris itself in and was fatal to its existence. since those terrible years paris has lost something of its gaiety and frivolity. the café anglais still exists; but even at this celebrated supping-place of former years supper is now an unknown meal. nothing is served in the café anglais after nine o'clock. this café, oddly enough, seems to have been named after a nation which in the year can scarcely have been popular among the french. its origin, or at least its name, dates from the year of the waterloo campaign, and, strangely enough, it is the only great restaurant of that period which to this day survives. possibly the establishment was not called café anglais merely by way of invitation to the english portion of the occupying forces. the title may have been meant to indicate that the service of the table was conducted after the english rather than the french fashion. the french, it must be admitted, preceded us in the matter of napkins, and also, if their boast on the subject can be admitted, in the earlier use of four-pronged forks, made by preference of silver. but in the year the french knew nothing of salt-spoons; and though plates were changed frequently enough, the same knife and fork served throughout the various courses, the diner cleaning on a piece of bread a knife which did duty for every dish which came on the table. it replaced the salt-spoon, and was frequently used for conveying food to the mouth. not only english dining-places, but english hotels were highly esteemed in ; and dr. véron, in his "mémoires d'un bourgeois de paris," speaks of cleanliness as an english invention unknown to the french until the peace which followed the napoleonic wars. in the art of living the french have generally been considered by the rest of europe to have reached the greatest proficiency; and their methods and customs have accordingly been more imitated than those of any other nation. of their cookery there is but one opinion; for every man in europe who can afford a great table keeps either a french cook or a cook educated in the french school. the variety given by french cooks to the very simplest dish is too well known to require emphasis; and even macaulay quotes the story of that parisian chef who could make twelve different dishes out of a poppy-head. in the matter of table as of drawing-room etiquette the french in arthur young's time seem to have been both superior and inferior to the english. it is true that the french artisan would not dine without a clean napkin on his knee; but it is equally true that the french aristocrat would sometimes spit about the floor in presence of a duchess with a freedom which would be resented in any english tap-room. if paris be really "the tavern of europe," the café anglais is at this moment the tavern of paris. scarcely any foreigner of distinction visits the french capital without dining, perhaps even by special arrangement supping, at the café anglais, which is now under the management, not of an enterprising landlord, but of a well-regulated limited liability company. * * * * * at the corner of the rue de grammont, separated from the café anglais by the theatrical bureau, or "office de théâtre," which supplies tickets for every playhouse in paris, is the librairie nouvelle, where, exhibited for sale, may be seen all the latest novels in vogue and most of the standard works which, in spite of, or perhaps in consequence of, their ancient fame, still find readers. books are published at much lower prices in paris than in london. lending libraries are now quite out of date in the french capital, and persons really interested in a new work do not get it to read at so much a volume or a subscription of so much a year, but buy it once and for all. forty or fifty years ago the circulating library system had been pushed further in paris than any point it has yet reached in london. novels by popular authors were issued in six or eight volumes with from eighty to one hundred words in each page; a sore temptation to the belgian pirates, who, in the days before international copyright conventions, vexed the soul of every french author by reproducing his works at so low a price that he had no more chance of selling his editions in belgium than has an english author of to-day of vending his in the united states. instead, however, of being separated from france as america is from england by thousands of miles of sea, belgium was conterminous with the country it loved to despoil. it was impossible to prevent the fraudulent imitations of belgium entering france; and to put an end at once to belgian piracy and to the absurd circulating library system, a spirited and intelligent paris publisher, charpentier by name, introduced the novel at three and a half francs--a price which, as originally fixed, or at a reduction of half a franc, is still maintained. copyright affairs between france and belgium are now regulated under the clauses of the same international convention which binds all other countries, with the exception of russia and holland on one side of the atlantic, and the united states of america on the other. [illustration: marivaux. (_from the bust by mlle. dubois-davesne in the comédie française._)] to offer new books for sale in london at the strangely high prices fixed for the benefit of the circulating libraries would be out of the question; but at the librairie nouvelle all the latest works produced in paris may be seen, partially read, and finally, if such be the desire of the reader, purchased. many a parisian, however, or visitor to paris, whether from love of literature or merely to pass the time, strolls into the librairie nouvelle and looks through book after book without buying a single volume. some day such an institution as this will possibly exist in london; not, however, until the prices of our new books are considerably lowered. but although the frequenters of the librairie nouvelle are not called upon, or even expected, to make purchases, only a small fraction of them leave the establishment without doing so; and it is as astonishing as it is interesting to see with what rapidity copies of a new novel of genuine popularity will sometimes go off. no trade has made such progress in france since the great revolution as that of bookselling. this result is due alike to the increase in the number of readers through cheap, gratuitous, and obligatory education, and to the liberty of the press enjoyed by the french, with some interruptions (as under the first empire and a few years of the restoration), for an entire century. "how i should like to have voltaire, rousseau, and diderot writing for me in one of my garrets," a french bookseller is represented as saying in mercier's "tableau de paris," published only a few years before the revolution. "i would feed them well, but, by heaven, i would make them work! why is one of them too rich, and the others too independent to write at so much per sheet?" it is noticeable that not one of these three authors whose works sold so largely was able to publish in france everything he wrote. even the volume in which the above story is told was published in london. many of voltaire's works were brought out in london or amsterdam. more than one of rousseau's books were prohibited in france; and the publication of the "encyclopédie," to which voltaire, rousseau, and diderot all contributed, was not only prohibited, but cast materially into the bastille, where the volumes were found on the destruction of the building; which gave the despotic, but in regard to literature, liberal-minded catherine ii. an opportunity of offering to continue the publication of the work in russia. [illustration: paris in the seventeenth century.] until the time of the revolution nearly the whole of the book trade was in the hands of hawkers. "the business of these people," says a writer of the th century, "is to be the itinerant beasts of burden of literature, as the booksellers are its caterpillars. illiterate, and hardly able to read, the hawkers may be said to deal in a ware as perfectly foreign to them as the business of mixing up colours would be to the blind. they only know the price of each book they offer for sale. they are haunted everywhere by police-runners, and such is their apprehension of falling under the censure of the despotic magistrate, and, altogether, their ignorance, that some sell even prayer-books under the cloak with as much care and circumspection as if it were an immoral or political pamphlet. these poor harmless hawkers, who give circulation to the clandestine works of the writers of every denomination without being able to read a single line; who, though far from suspecting it, are the asserters of public freedom, and with no other view than to procure to themselves a scanty subsistence--these are the first to feel the resentment of the offended great. it would be, perhaps, if not dangerous, at least impolitic, to attack the author himself; but a hawker sent to the bastille or fastened in the public market by an iron _carcanet_ is a matter of too little importance to be noticed by the public." the very method employed to prevent the spread of ideas amongst the french people helped to overthrow the despotism by which it had been devised. this is well shown by arthur young, writing about the same time as the author whose account of the persecution in france of literature in all its forms has just been quoted. such ignorance in young's time was imposed on the french nation by a tyrannical censorship that, for aught the country knew to the contrary, their representatives were in the bastille; and the mob was accustomed to pillage, burn, and destroy from sheer want of knowledge. even in the large provincial towns young could not see a newspaper. at the cafés there was nothing to read but the _gazette de france_, a sheet in which the professed "news" was so dished up that "no man of common-sense" would attempt to digest it. the consequence was that the frequenters of cafés and restaurants could be heard gravely discussing news a fortnight old. on the first floor of the house of which the ground-floor is occupied by the librairie nouvelle, we find the club of the two worlds, or "cercle des deux mondes," established in an abode which was occupied for some time by the jockey club, until this latter, after deserting the mansion built by the farmer-general de lange on the boulevard montmartre, continued its western progress, to reach ultimately the domicile it at present inhabits on the boulevard des capucines. at the corner of the rue de choiseul is the well-known establishment of potel and chabot, who keep what, in london--for want of a better name, and probably in virtue of some tradition on the subject--is called an "italian warehouse." this firm, however, does not confine itself to the lighter description of comestibles and dainties. in these it deals largely enough; and among the tempting delicacies offered to the passer-by are early vegetables, fruit, olives, ham, sausages of rare manufacture, and game pies. but besides selling stray articles to the chance epicure, the house of potel and chabot undertakes the supply of dinners on a very large scale, and employs a number of chefs, sous-chefs, scullions, roasters, pastry-cooks, and other functionaries of the kitchen. it was the firm of potel and chabot which, in july, , supplied in the champ de mars the banquet offered to , mayors from all parts of france, furnishing it hot, so that many of the guests declared they had never before been anywhere so well served. the dinner was simple, but it is said to have been excellent. the ten thousand guests had one glass and two plates apiece; waiters flitted about with the wines and the dishes. the end of the boulevard des italiens is marked by a circular pavilion, which has lost something of its original shape through the repairs necessitated by the ravages of time; though it still bears a number of sculptural ornaments which are much admired, including certain masks, reputed to be masterpieces. it is called the pavilion of hanover, and is so named from having been erected and adorned by the architect cheveautel for the duc de richelieu at the end of the garden attached to his mansion, after the campaign of hanover, in , which he terminated by securing the capitulation of closterseven. under the directory and the consulate, in the first years of the empire, the pavilion of hanover and a portion of the grounds belonging formerly to the duc de richelieu were the scene of public assemblies, balls, and concerts; and it was here that tortoni established his famous ice-shop and café in partnership with another italian, named velloni. the latter is now forgotten; but tortoni, who continued the business on his own account, is, in the world of cafés, an historical figure. let us not hurry past the former hôtel choiseul, where, during the reign of terror, pace, minister of war, resided; where, under the directory, the staff of the army of paris was established; and where murat afterwards lived in the capacity of governor. when the restoration came to pass it was turned into the headquarters of the national guard. finally it was put up for sale, when, after the assassination of the duc of berri on the steps of the opera house in the rue richelieu, it was determined to pull down the lyric temple and erect another on the site occupied by the hôtel choiseul. we shall see in the proper place that the demolition of the opera house of the rue richelieu was due to the representations of the archbishop of paris, who refused to allow the last sacrament to be administered to the dying prince unless he received a promise that the profane building, in which so holy an act had to be performed, should immediately afterwards be destroyed. the hôtel choiseul was bought by the city of paris, and close to what remained of the ancient mansion rose the new opera house, opening on to the rue le pelletier, where, between the years and , so many great works were brought out, including rossini's _guillaume tell_, auber's _masaniello_, as it is called in england, donizetti's _favorite_, verdi's _vêpres siciliennes_, and meyerbeer's _robert le diable_, _prophète_, and _africaine_. on the night of tuesday, october , , the eve of the hundredth representation of ambroise thomas' _hamlet_, flames burst out in the wardrobe, and the next day the opera house was a heap of ruins. it is a curious fact, not hitherto noticed, that the destruction by fire of the opera house in the rue le pelletier took place precisely two hundred years after the production of lulli's earliest opera, the first lyrical piece ever performed in paris under the royal patent which authorised the establishment of a regular opera house. lulli has been represented, in a famous picture, receiving his "privilege" from the hands of louis xiv. as a reward and encouragement for services rendered. it can scarcely be said, however, that lulli, though he established opera in paris, was the first to introduce it. cardinal mazarin brought italian opera to paris in , when lulli was but a child; and the french opera named _akébar, roi de mogol_, written and composed by the abbé mailly, was represented the year afterwards in the episcopal palace of carpentras under the direction of cardinal bichi. a public performance, moreover, was given of _pomone_, words by perrin, music by cambert, in ; but though _pomone_ was the first french opera offered in paris to a general audience, lulli's _cadmée_ was the first of that long series of lyrical productions given at the state opera house which extended, with but two short breaks, from to . the new opera house, which was to replace the one burnt down in , had already, on a scale of unprecedented magnificence, been designed, constructed, and all but finished under napoleon iii. but , scarcely more than two years after the disasters of the siege and commune, was not the time at which to complete and inaugurate a sumptuous opera house; and it was not until that the famous edifice, which may challenge comparison with any other of the kind in europe, threw its doors open to the public. another celebrated building in this neighbourhood, at the corner of the rue taitbout, is the former hôtel de brancas, built by the architect bélanger, a devoted friend of the famous sophie arnould, to whom he was faithfully attached until her death. his endeavours to obtain for her, in default of a pension that was never paid, a portion of the large sum due to her from the directors of the théâtre français show him to have been a man of energy as well as heart. it was in the character of architect that bélanger first became acquainted with the brilliant and witty actress; and when he made her an offer of marriage, which she did not accept, she at once observed that no one was better fitted than an architect to build up her damaged reputation. from the family of brancas the mansion erected by bélanger passed to the wife of general rapp, then to the marchioness of hertford, to her son lord seymour, and to sir richard wallace. under napoleon iii. magnificent entertainments were given there by the late khalil pasha. on the ground-floor of the edifice appeared and disappeared the café de paris, celebrated in the reign of louis philippe, and for some years afterwards, as the rendez-vous of celebrities in literature, art, and the world of fashion. it was in time to be followed by other excellent restaurants, now vanished, but not forgotten. the last house on the boulevard des italiens, at the corner of the rue de la chaussée d'antin, occupies the site of the old military school, founded, for officers' sons, under the name of dépôt des gardes français; where for twenty years of his life rossini lived on the first floor, and whence he moved to the villa at passy offered to him by the city of paris. it was in this retreat that he ended his days. [illustration: rue de la chaussÉe d'antin.] the chaussée d'antin, formerly a high road leading from the boulevards into the open country, is full of interesting associations. in the chaussée d'antin, or close to that thoroughfare in its present form, stood the celebrated temple of terpsichore built for madeleine guimard, the dancer; which so excited the jealousy of sophie arnould, the vocalist, that she insisted on having a mansion of equal magnificence side by side with that of her operatic friend and rival. madeleine guimard, according to one of her biographers, excited as much admiration and scattered as many fortunes as any woman that ever appeared on the stage. she was, nevertheless, ugly, thin, of sallow complexion, and marked with the small-pox. she is said to have preserved, in a marvellous manner, her youth and a certain indescribable charm which constituted her chief attractions. she possessed, moreover, such a perfect acquaintance with all the mysteries of the toilet that by the arts of dress and adornment alone she could still make herself look young when age had crept upon her. queen marie antoinette would often consult her about matters of dress, and especially the arrangement of her hair; and once when, for her rebellious attitude at the theatre, she had, in accordance with the strange customs of the times, been ordered to prison, she is reported to have said to her maid: "never mind, i have sent a letter to the queen telling her that i have discovered a new way of doing the hair. we shall be out before the evening." but to return to the temple of terpsichore, which, built in the finest architectural style, and magnificently furnished, was decorated internally by fragonard, one of the most famous painters of that day. in his wall-pictures he never failed to introduce the face and figure of the light-footed divinity of the place: until at last he became enamoured of his model, and, presuming on one occasion to show signs of jealousy, was promptly discharged, to be replaced by the most unsuitable artist that can be conceived--by david, the painter of heroic figures, of republican subjects, and of napoleon in all his glory. the celebrated painter of the consulate and the empire was, in madeleine guimard's time, a very young man--a mere student, in fact. but he was a stern republican, and when the luxurious but sympathetic dancer saw that the work of decorating her voluptuous palace did not accord with his lofty aspirations, she gave him the sum he was to have received for covering her walls with fantastic designs, in order that he might continue his studies in the style which best suited him. [illustration: mont valérien and the arc de triomphe.--church of st. augustine. view from the roof of the opera house.] the house built by sophie arnould next door to madeleine guimard's temple of terpsichore bore no distinctive name. but it was of the same size as the "temple," and on the portico, which was supported by two doric columns, could be seen the figure of euterpe with the features of sophie arnould. the first floor contained the reception rooms, with spacious ante-chambers for the servants. on the second floor were the bedrooms of the children, who, at a later period, were acknowledged by their father, count brancas de lauragais, and bore his name. in the national library of paris several drawings and plates are exhibited of the different portions of sophie arnould's house; and the representation of the façade bears this inscription:--"façade of a projected house for mlle. arnould in the chaussée d'antin. to be constructed side by side with that of mlle. guimard, and of the same dimensions.--bélanger." [illustration: mlle. clairon.] so much care did the amorous architect of the new house bestow on his work, and so agreeable did he make himself to the lady for whom it was being built, that he was asked to share it with the owner; and there was at one time a serious prospect of sophie arnould becoming mme. bélanger. to serve some purpose of her own she spread the report that she was married to the architect, who showed himself quite disposed to give reality to the fiction. he was a merry man, and pleased sophie as much by his ready wit as by his agreeable manners. after a time she got tired of him, and having formed an attachment for the actor florence, wrote bélanger a letter of dismissal, at the same time addressing to florence an avowal of her love. bélanger, however, found an opportunity of changing the envelopes, so that florence the actor received the letter intended for bélanger the architect. the next time florence saw sophie he was naturally somewhat cold in his demeanour towards her, and this coldness was naturally resented by sophie, who had written to him with much warmth. bélanger triumphed, and his triumph was of long duration; sophie, indeed, remained attached to him throughout her life. of all her former friends the only ones who showed genuine solicitude for her in her latter days of poverty and sickness were bélanger and lauragais. many years afterwards, in the gloomiest and most sanguinary days of the revolution, when bélanger was poor and sophie arnould still poorer, the architect begged the actress and singer to accept, as from an old friend, a piece of two louis which he at the same time forwarded to her. sophie replied that she did not desire his money, but that she was deeply obliged to him for such thoughtfulness, and in memory thereof would wear the gold piece next her heart. when she was on her death-bed, the famous architect, himself without means, wrote to the minister of fine arts a letter in which he reminded him that a considerable sum of money was due to mlle. arnould from the opera; of which, now that she was in the greatest distress, it was impossible for her to obtain payment, even to the extent of a few louis. "this unhappy woman," he continued, "of whom gluck said, 'without the charm of the accent and declamation of mlle. arnould my _iphigenia_ would never have been accepted in france,' finds herself without even the means of prolonging her life." in october, , sophie arnould died, after receiving absolution from the curé of saint-germain-l'auxerrois, the parish in which she was born. another remarkable personage who lived in, or rather close to, the chaussée d'antin, was that devoted lover of mdlle. clairon, monsieur de s----, who succeeded in inspiring the famous actress with esteem, but not with any warmer feeling; and who, according to her belief, as well as that of several of her friends, paid her visits of complaint and menace after his death. "his humour," writes mlle. clairon, in her "memoirs," "was gloomy and melancholy. 'he was too well acquainted with men,' he would say, 'not to despise and shun them.' his desire was to live only for me, and that i should live only for him. this last idea particularly displeased me. i might have been content to be restrained by a garland of flowers, but could not bear to be confined by a chain. i saw from that moment the necessity of destroying the flattering hope which nourishes attachment and of disallowing his frequent visits. this determination, which i persisted in, caused him a serious indisposition, during which i paid him every possible attention; but my constant refusal to indulge the passion he entertained for me made the wound still deeper." afterwards, when the young man had partly recovered, mlle. clairon, convinced that his absence from her would be to his advantage, constantly refused his letters and his visits. "two years and a half," continues mlle. clairon, "passed between our first acquaintance and his death. he entreated me to assuage the last moments of his life by repairing to his bed-side. my engagement prevented me from complying with this request, and he expired in the presence of his domestics and an old lady whom he had alone for some time suffered." the house in which m. de s---- died was the one previously referred to in the chaussée d'antin; and at eleven o'clock the same night mlle. clairon, who was living far off in the rue de bussy, near the rue de seine, was startled--as were also, she declares, several friends in company with her at the time--by "the most piercing cry" she had ever heard. "its long continuance and piteous sound," she continues, "astonished everyone. i fainted away, and was nearly a quarter of an hour insensible." every night at the same hour mlle. clairon heard the same bitter wail. "all of us in the house," she writes, "my friends, my neighbours, the police even, have heard this very cry repeated under my windows at the same hour, and appearing to proceed from the air." she was recommended by an incredulous acquaintance to invoke the phantom the next time it announced its presence. she did so, when "the same cry was uttered thrice in succession, with a degree of rapidity and shrillness terrible beyond expression." poor mlle. clairon was persecuted in this manner at an hour before midnight for days at a stretch; until, at length, in lieu of a piercing cry, she heard every night, and always at eleven o'clock, the explosion of a gun. fearing there might be some design upon her life, she communicated with the lieutenant of police, who, accompanied by proper officers, carefully examined the house next door, but without discovering any ground for suspicion. "the following day," says clairon, "the street was narrowly watched; the officers of police had their eyes upon every house; but, notwithstanding all their vigilance, there occurred the same discharge, at the same hour, and against the same frame of glass for three whole months, though no one could ever discover from whence it proceeded." "this fact," she adds, "is attested by all the registers of police." one day a lady called on mlle. clairon and made herself known as the best friend of the late monsieur de s----, and the only person he had suffered to be with him during the last moments of his life. "to condemn you," she said, "would be unjust ... but his passion for you overcame him, and your last refusal hastened his end. he counted every minute till half-past ten, when his servant positively informed him that you would not come to him. after a moment he took my hand in a paroxysm of despair which terrified me, and exclaimed, 'cruel woman! but she shall gain nothing. i will pursue her as much after my death as i have during my life.' i endeavoured to calm him, but he was no more." the words had a terrible effect on the unhappy mlle. clairon; and the cries and threats from her distressed lover gradually ceased to afflict her, and in time this excellent woman--who could scarcely be expected to love by order--became pacified. the first building on the boulevard des capucines at the opposite corner of the chaussée d'antin is the vaudeville theatre, built to replace the old playhouse on the place de la bourse, and opened to the public on the st of october, . anciently this theatre seemed to be placed beneath the auspices of collé des augiers and scribe, whose names mark different phases of the vaudeville style, once exclusively cultivated by this theatre. of later years, however, especially since the production of the younger dumas' _dame aux camélias_, some forty years ago, it has often thrown gaiety on one side for the pathetic and dramatic. the vaudeville, like all the paris theatres, has frequently changed its habitation, though it has always retained its original name. founded in , when the revolution was approaching the terrorist period, at a building in the rue de chartres, between the place du carrousel and the palais royal (since pulled down), the vaudeville was, after a life of half a century, driven from its first abode by the usual fire. in , the year of the conflagration, it sought a temporary refuge on the boulevard bonne-nouvelle, to move in to the place de la bourse, where it took possession of the house previously occupied by the opéra comique. here, where it remained from to , it changed its style, and instead of comedies and comediettas interspersed with songs, produced with immense success a series of dramas of the most moving kind, such as the already named _dame aux camélias_, octave feuillet's _dalila_ and _roman d'un jeune homme pauvre_, barrière's _filles de marbre_, sardou's _nos intimes_ and _maison neuve_. it is not indeed at the théâtre français, but at the vaudeville and the gymnase, that in modern times the masterpieces of french dramatic literature have been produced. the first representation of _la dame aux camélias_ forms a turning point in the history of the vaudeville theatre. the play--which was soon to become celebrated throughout france, and in its operatic form, set to music by verdi, throughout europe--was not produced without serious objections on the part of the censorship; and it was only through the intercession of the duke de morny, napoleon iii.'s unacknowledged brother and chief adviser, that permission to represent the piece was obtained. when the performance at last took place, the success of the drama, owing a good deal to the pathetic acting of mme. doche in the part of the heroine, was marvellous; and it was made the occasion of innumerable articles in all the french journals at this period, not only on the play and on the novel from the same pen whence the play was derived, but on the unhappy young woman whose life and death the author had more or less faithfully depicted in the leading character. to show that light-minded frenchmen were not alone capable of being moved by the tragic end of the fascinating marie duplessis, it may be mentioned that our own charles dickens was as much touched by it as the numerous french writers, who, more or less perfectly, have put their feelings on the subject into literary form. "not many days after i left," writes mr. forster, in his "life of dickens," under date of , "all paris was crowding to the sale of a lady of the _demi-monde_, marie duplessis, who had led the most brilliant and abandoned of lives, and left behind her the most exquisite furniture and the most voluptuous and sumptuous _bijouterie_. dickens wished at one time to have pointed the moral of this life and death, of which there was great talk in paris while we were together. the disease of satiety, which, only less often than hunger, passes for a broken heart, had killed her. 'what do you want?' asked the most famous of the paris physicians, at a loss for her exact complaint. at last she answered, 'to see my mother.' she was sent for, and there came a simple breton peasant woman, clad in the quaint garb of her province, who prayed by her bed until she died." the _dame aux camélias_ called into existence a whole series of pieces, produced either at the vaudeville or at the gymnase, in which the true character of women in certain difficult positions was treated controversially, with examples in support of arguments; and at this moment the last kind of play one would expect to see at the vaudeville is precisely that to which the theatre owes its name. the situation of this theatre in the most fashionable, most frequented part of the boulevard renders it, apart from its own special attractions, the favourite resort of foreigners living at the excellent hotels in this neighbourhood. the house, with its , seats, is only of moderate size, but it is much more commodious than the old theatre of the place de la bourse. the theatres of paris, generally, are, indeed, far less commodious than those of london. the parisians will go anywhere and submit to any discomfort in order to see good acting and a good play. in england we are much more particular; and the narrow ill-ventilated theatres of paris would certainly be objected to by english audiences. the paris theatres, however, are steadily improving, as one by one they get burnt down; and the new ones springing from the ashes of the old are often attractive without and convenient within. in the ancient days before the great revolution, the parisians were as passionately fond of the theatre as they are now, but their playhouses, according to the author of "le nouveau paris," were abominable. "i shall say nothing of the nastiness," he writes, "that distinguishes these places of general resort, because i would not wish to injure the property of the comedians; nor shall i inveigh against the insolence of the box-keepers, and other servants of our theatres, as it would give to the world a bad opinion of the proprietors themselves, to whom some censorious readers might apply the proverb, 'like master like man,' and think it a truism. i intend to confine myself to those points that more materially concern the spectator when he has once got in and has the good fortune to procure a clean seat. first let us survey the pit. here everybody stands. you will imagine that its inhabitants are the formidable umpires of taste and dramatic productions; this may or may not be, just as it suits the caprices of the police, or the lords of the bedchamber, who, from making the master's bed, have raised themselves by degrees to judge of things which they hardly understand. hence an actress is palmed upon the public. whether she is good or bad is not the question, but whether she has had the good fortune to please one or the whole of those gentlemen; and everyone knows what price she has paid for her admission. not a play is represented here without a guard of thirty men with a few rounds each to quiet the spectators. this internal guard keeps the frequenters of the pit in a kind of passive condition; and whether you are tired, crowded, or bruised, beware of giving any sign of uneasiness or discontent. yet the unfortunate public pays to take, not what they desire, but what is given them. surrounded with armed men, they must neither laugh too loud at a comedy nor express their feelings at a tragedy in too pointed a manner. hence the pit, except in some fits of a transient excitement, is mournfully dull. if you venture to give any sign of your existence, you are collared by one of the guards and carried _pro formâ_ before a commissionaire. i say for form sake, because everyone in the play-house is really under martial law; the civil magistrate is only there to hear and approve the sentence passed upon the culprit by the officer of the guard; who upon the report, seldom exact, but often groundless, of the soldier, orders the accused party to prison; and the commissionaire, without inquiring into the merit of the charge, or so much as daring to hint at the least objection, signs the _mittimus_." [illustration: entrance to rue du quatre-septembre.--avenue de l'opéra.--entrance to rue de la paix. view from the balcony of the opera.] the boulevard des capucines seems on both sides entirely new; its houses are white, bright, and in perfect condition. if the crowd one sees on the boulevard montmartre is a parisian crowd, that which animates the boulevard des capucines is a cosmopolitan one. it touches what in the artistic, if not in the general, sense must be looked upon as the heart of paris--the new opera, that is to say, standing in the centre of the place which bears its name and the streets called after those operatic celebrities, scribe, auber, halévy, and meyerbeer; one librettist and three composers. the place de l'opéra is, indeed, the heart of paris, communicating by great arteries with all the most important organs of parisian life. the magnificent avenue of the opera leads straight to the louvre; in another direction the rue du quatre-septembre goes to the place de la bourse. look along the rue de la paix; at the end you will see la place vendôme, with its column in memory of the grand army standing out in its dark bronze against the fresh green of the tuileries gardens. here all that is most parisian in paris may be seen: the finest shops, the most brilliant equipages, with all the glitter of fashionable life. the expensive jeweller and the exorbitant milliner here have their establishments side by side with hotels, restaurants, cafés, and clubs. [illustration: avenue de l'opÉra.] the opera in france had much to go through before it attained its present artistic development, or, as regards the french form of grand opera, found its present capacious and splendid home. it is the proud boast of frenchmen that le nouvel opéra--as the existing grand opéra in paris has been called for the last sixteen years, and as it will probably be called for a long while to come--covers thirteen times as much ground as the royal opera house of berlin. it is, indeed, superior by its commodiousness as well as its magnificence to every other opera house in europe; though what above all distinguishes it is its admirable site, and the wide open space in which it stands. in many capitals the theatres, even the finest, are only portions of a street. at moscow, it is true, the great theatre stands by itself in a vast square--a square which, compared with the place de l'opéra, is a desert space. from its very origin the opera in france has always been regarded as an institution of the first importance. it enjoyed special privileges from the crown, it was managed like a department of the state, and an attack upon the opera was punished like a treasonable offence. "before i tell you," wrote rousseau towards the end of the eighteenth century, "what i think of this famous theatre, i will state what is said about it. the judgment of connoisseurs may correct mine if i am wrong. the opera of paris passes in the capital for the most pompous, the most voluptuous, the most admirable spectacle that human art has ever invented. its admirers declare it to be the most superb monument of the magnificence of louis xiv., and one is not so free as you may think to express an opinion on such an important subject. here you may dispute about everything except music and the opera; on these topics alone it is dangerous not to dissemble. french music is defended, too, by a very rigorous inquisition, and the first thing intimated as a warning to strangers who visit this country is that all foreigners admit there is nothing in this world so fine as the opera of paris. the fact is, discreet people hold their tongues, and dare only laugh in their sleeves." rousseau then, speaking in the person of st. preuz, the hero of "la nouvelle héloise," describes the performance as it took place at the opera. "imagine," he says, "an enclosure fifteen feet broad, and long in proportion; this enclosure is the theatre. on its two sides are placed at intervals screens, which are crudely painted with the objects which the scene is about to represent. at the back of the enclosure hangs a great curtain, painted in like manner and nearly always pierced and torn that it may represent at a little distance gulfs on the earth or holes in the sky. everyone who passes behind this stage or touches the curtain produces a sort of earthquake which has a double effect. the sky is made of certain bluish rags suspended from poles or cords, as linen may be seen hung out to dry in any washerwoman's yard. the sun, which is here sometimes seen, is a lighted torch in a lantern. the cars of the gods and goddesses are composed of four rafters squared and hung on a thick rope in the form of a swing or see-saw; between the rafters is a cross plank on which the god sits down, and in front hangs a piece of coarse cloth, well dirtied, which acts the part of clouds for the magnificent car. one may see, towards the bottom of the machine, two or three stinking candles, badly snuffed, which, while the great personage dementedly presents himself swinging in his see-saw, fumigate him with an incense worthy of his dignity. the agitated sea is composed of long angular arrangements of cloth and blue pasteboard strung on parallel spits, which are turned by little blackguard boys. the thunder is a heavy cart rolled over an arch, and is not the least agreeable instrument one hears. the flashes of lightning are made of pinches of resin thrown on a flame; and the thunder is a cracker at the end of a fusee. "the theatre is, moreover, furnished with little square traps, which, opening at need, announce that the demons are about to issue from their cave. when they have to rise into the air little imps of stuffed brown cloth are substituted for them, or sometimes real chimney sweeps, who swing about suspended on ropes till they are majestically lost in the rags of which i have spoken. the accidents, however, which not unfrequently happen are sometimes as tragic as farcical. when the ropes break, the infernal spirits and immortal gods fall together, and lame or occasionally kill one another. add to all this the monsters which render some scenes very pathetic, such as dragons, lizards, tortoises, crocodiles, and large toads, who promenade the theatre with a menacing air, and display at the opera all the temptations of st. anthony. each of these figures is animated by a lout of a savoyard who has not even intelligence enough to play the beast. "such, my cousin, is the august machinery of the opera, as i have observed it from the pit, with the aid of my glass, for you must not imagine that all this apparatus is hidden, and produces an imposing effect. i have only described what i have seen myself, and what any other spectator may see. i am assured, however, that there are a prodigious number of machines employed to put the whole spectacle in motion, and i have been invited several times to examine them; but i have never been curious to learn how little things are performed by great means." when our musical historian, dr. burney, visited paris and heard at the opera the works of rameau, successor to lulli, under whose direction the french opera was founded, he found the music monotonous in the extreme, and without either rhythm or expression. he could admire nothing at the french opera except the dancing and the decorations; and these alone, he says, seemed to give pleasure to the audience. it was not, at that time, the custom in france to name the singers in the programme; and throughout the eighteenth century no singer in france attained such eminence as was reached by numbers in italy, and by not a few in england, some of italian, some of english birth. naturally, then, in the eighteenth century french opera singers were not well paid; and chroniclers relate that a mlle. aubry and a mlle. verdier, being engaged in the same line of stage business, had to live in the same room and sleep in the same bed. apart from the obscurity naturally resulting from the suppression of the names, inconvenience was caused by the uncertainty in which the public found itself of knowing which singer, on any particular evening, would appear. shortly before the establishment of the republic, when, for the first time, the names of singers were printed in the bills, an _habitué_ rushed out of the theatre in a high state of indignation, and began to beat one of the money-takers in the lobby. the poor man at once understood the reason of his aggressor's wrath. "how was i to know," he exclaimed, "that they would let le ponthieu sing to-night!" the initial step towards high melody at the french opera was taken when, some fifteen years before the revolution, first gluck, then piccini, were invited to paris to produce adaptations of former successes, or original works, fitted in either case to french libretti. while praising the melody of the italians as much as he condemns the solemnity of the french, rousseau expresses the highest admiration for the genius of gluck, the great reformer of the french operatic stage. after the arrival of gluck in paris rousseau is said never to have missed a representation of _orphée_. he said, moreover, in reference to the gratification which that work had afforded him, that "after all there was something in life worth living for, since in two hours so much genuine pleasure could be obtained." the next great assistance to the french opera, and this a permanent one, was given by the republic, through the establishment of a large music-school, known as the conservatoire, where a course of gratuitous instruction is given to all comers capable at the stipulated age of passing the indispensable test examination. before, however, the conservatoire, destined to produce so many excellent vocalists, instrumentalists, and composers, had time to bear fruit, napoleon had done much to encourage and develop french musical art. napoleon, as a young man, was one of the first admirers of the afterwards famous mme. st. huberti; and when mme. mara refused an engagement pressed upon her at the time of the empire, napoleon would have arrested her and forced her to accept it had she not fled from paris. then, another cause of improvement at the french opera was the frequent visits paid, early in this century, and especially since the peace of , by foreign artists to the capital which, in former days, had set its face both against vocalists and composers from abroad. lulli, the founder of opera in france, was an italian by birth, though after his naturalisation he got to be looked upon as a frenchman. his successor, rameau, was no doubt a frenchman. but the french tradition was so completely broken by the advent of gluck and piccini that the french have never since exhibited any of their ancient prejudice against foreign composers; and it is to these that for the last seventy or eighty years the grand opera of paris has owed most of its success, that is to say, to spontini, rossini, donizetti, verdi, and, above all, meyerbeer. [illustration: one of the domes of the opera house.] a highly interesting account of the rehearsals of meyerbeer's _robert le diable_--one of the typical works of the modern repertoire of grand opera--is given, in his "mémoires d'un bourgeois de paris," by dr. véron, for some time manager of the opera house. "it was not," he tells us, "until after four months of orchestral and other rehearsals that the general rehearsals were reached. these latter," he continues, "caused great fatigue and great excitement to everyone; to the composer, the singers, the chiefs of department, and the manager. when a general rehearsal takes place, with choruses, principal singers, and full orchestra, but without scenery, without costumes, and without full light, the musical execution gains much and produces always a great effect. in the darkness and silence of the empty and more sonorous house, without any distraction for the other senses, one is, so to say, all ears; nothing is lost of the fine shades of expression in the singing, of the delicate embroideries of the orchestration. but at the first representation the disappointment is great. in the immense, splendidly lighted theatre, filled with an excited crowd, all the rich and elegant details of the score will be lost through the stuff of the women's dresses and the diminished sonority of a building crowded in pit, boxes, and gallery. great musical ideas, grand orchestral effects, will now alone produce an impression. thus it happened that at the first representation of _robert the devil_, the public, after applauding the first two acts, was only impressed and deeply moved by the chorus of demons." [illustration: eastern pavilion, opera house.] after describing the anxieties and perplexities which throughout the long series of rehearsals harass the unfortunate director, dr. véron proceeds to tell us how this gentleman's last and worst experience was this inevitable final conference, held in his own private room, at which the author of the words and the composer of the music had to be prevailed upon to accept some necessary "cuts." [illustration: the public foyer, opera house.] "the librettist maintains that to take away one phrase, one word, is to render the work unintelligible, so cunningly is it constructed. the composer resists with no less obstinacy. his score, he says, cannot be broken up into fragments. it is all combined and prepared in such a manner as to form a perfect whole. one piece serves as indispensable contrast to another. a chorus which it has perhaps been suggested to leave out is essential for the effect of the succeeding air. the discussions on such points are interminable. i had ended by showing myself impassible in presence of the storms and tempests that were raging around me; and i devoted the time during which these quarrels lasted to a polite and engaging correspondence with all the newspaper editors. i was still labouring for the success of the work. at last a conclusion was arrived at, and a general understanding established. the chief copyist was making the necessary changes and suppressions in the score; and the public at least never found fault with the words and music that were now suppressed. but when a director has prepared, like a good general, everything necessary for the success of the work on the stage, his troubles begin with the front of the house. everyone wants something from him on the occasion of a first representation; and that of _robert le diable_ was exciting public interest to the highest degree. everything and everyone must be thought of. it is necessary, in assigning places, to displease no one, and above all to avoid exciting jealousies, so as to have no irritated enemies in the house. such and such a journalist will never pardon you for having given his fellow-journalist a better place than himself. the author and composer, the leading artists, the _claqueurs_ must be satisfied. the care, the foresight, the conferences, the instructions, indispensable to secure the efficient working of the _claque_ at each representation, and particularly on great critical occasions, will be dealt with elsewhere. one must remember, too, the number of the box that madame---- would like to have, the number of the stall preferred by the friend of a minister or of the editor of some great journal. one must respect, moreover, the omnipotence of the unknown journalist, as of the journalist in vogue; and on the critical day the existence is revealed of a crowd of newspapers not previously heard of." it was in the old theatre of the rue le pelletier that rossini's _william tell_ and meyerbeer's great works were brought out. gounod, saint-saëns, and massenet, have all written for the new opera, though it cannot be said that any of them has yet produced on its boards a work of the highest merit. opened under the third republic in , the new opera house must be acknowledged to owe its existence to the emperor napoleon iii., whose minister of fine arts opened a competition for architectural designs in view of a new lyrical theatre as long ago as , thirteen years before the old opera house was burnt down, and fifteen years before the new one was completed and thrown open to the public. the successful competitor is known to have been charles garnier, who was almost unheard of at the time when, with rare unanimity, his design was accepted by the commission, and approved with enthusiasm by the press. the building of the opera cost, from first to last, some , , francs (nearly a million and a half sterling), , work days having been furnished, during its construction, to masons, bricklayers, carpenters, etc. the manager of the opera house receives from the state the free use of the building together with a subsidy of , francs (£ , ) voted annually by the chamber. employed at the opera are some five hundred persons, among whom may, in particular, be mentioned twelve in the administration, in connection with the archives, the library, the secretarial department, and the treasury; three orchestral conductors, four directors of singing, two directors and one assistant-director of the chorus; forty-five vocalists; and one hundred orchestral musicians. there are about one hundred men and women in the chorus, and the same number in the various divisions of the ballet. scene-painters, scene-shifters (or "carpenters," as they are technically called), dressers, call-boys, box-openers, and so on, form another hundred. the inauguration of the new opera took place on the th of january, , in the presence of marshal macmahon, duke of magenta, at that time president of the republic. all the great officers of state were present, besides a number of foreign notabilities, among whom may be mentioned queen isabella of spain and the young king of spain, alphonso ii. it is remembered, too, with satisfaction, that the lord mayor of london, accompanied by his mace-bearers, trumpeters, and powdered footmen, gave dignity to the occasion. one of the most interesting parts of the new opera is the _foyer_, corresponding more or less to the refreshment room of our operatic theatres, but quite incomparable in the way of elegance and splendour. in the accompanying illustration the artist has made a point of introducing, amid well-dressed persons in evening clothes, an english lady in a morning gown and a sea-side hat, accompanied by two of her countrymen in shooting coats and pot hats. it is, indeed, a standing grievance with the parisians that, whereas at our opera house no one is admitted to the boxes or stalls unless in evening dress, we ourselves, when we visit the paris opera, think any description of garment good enough to wear. one of the characteristic sights of paris has, for nearly two centuries past, been the masked ball of the opera, which, though it has doubtless lost much of its gaiety since the days when it inspired gavarni with so many subjects for his witty pencil, is still worth seeing, simply as a picturesque display. no one any longer dances there unless paid to do so. it was, in fact, the introduction of hired dancers when the public were just beginning to show a disinclination to take an active part in the revels that put an end to spontaneous dancing altogether. the antics of some of the hired dancers may interest for a time; and the music of the large orchestra, conducted successively by musard, tolbecque, strauss, métra, and arban, has always merited a hearing. throughout the carnival--that is to say, from christmas until lent--a masked and fancy dress ball (the wearing both of masks and fancy dress being optional) is given every week at the opera, where the great ball of the year takes place on the night of shrove tuesday, the day preceding lent. one other ball of the same kind is given in the middle of lent--_la mi-carême_ as it is called--and thenceforward there is no dancing at the opera until christmas has once more come and gone. the opera ball dates, like the opera itself, from the reign of louis xiv. but the license for musico-dramatic performances had been issued forty years before it occurred to the chevalier de bouillon to apply to the king for permission to give masked balls. the king hastened to grant the chevalier's request; and was indeed so pleased with it that he assigned to him a pension of , livres (francs) for the idea, which had simply been borrowed. what is still more remarkable is the fact that an augustine monk, nicholas bourgeois, invented the mechanism by which, in half an hour, the floor of the auditorium could be raised to the level of the stage boards. although the privilege or patent was given to the chevalier de bouillon at the beginning of january, , it was not until january, , that the first opera ball took place. from that year until no masked or fancy dress ball could be given at any other theatre. on the accession, however, of louis philippe, the opera lost its dancing monopoly, and there are now numbers of paris theatres at which, during the carnival, masked balls occur. the receipts at an opera ball are said to average , francs (£ , ). close to the opera lie all the fashionable clubs of paris, beginning with the jockey club at the corner of the boulevard de la madeleine. the english jockey club is known to be an association of horse-owners and others interested in racing, who frame regulations and decide cases in connection with the turf. the jockey club of paris, while founded on much the same basis as the english institution of the same name, is also a club in the ordinary sense of the word, and an exceedingly good one. the jockey club, which boasts of numbering on its books members of all the reigning families of europe, is, by its formal title, a "society of encouragement for the amelioration of breeds of horses in france." it was originated in , under the auspices of the duke of orleans, eldest son of louis philippe, in order to popularise racing, regulate it, and obtain for it subsidies from the state and the municipalities. a committee of thirteen members is exclusively entrusted with the organisation and superintendence of races. the code of the jockey club is adopted as a basis of regulations by nearly all the other racing societies of france. the jockey club itself directs the racing of only three courses, those of the bois de boulogne, fontainebleau, and chantilly. this club, first established at the corner of the rue du helder, and then transferred to the hôtel de lange on the boulevard montmartre, moved in to the corner of the rue de grammont, where the cercle des deux mondes now has its headquarters, and finally, in , to its present abode, for which it pays an annual rental of , francs. not one of the paris clubs seems, like the principal london clubs, to possess its own house. as a rule the annual subscription to the paris club is high, amounting in some cases to francs. on the other hand, the large sums charged for entrance to the london clubs, ranging from to guineas, are unknown at the clubs of paris, which consequently find themselves without much available capital. close to the opera, on the boulevard des italiens, at the corner of the rue de grammont, is le cercle des deux mondes; at the corner of the rue de la michodière, the railway club, or cercle des chemins de fer; on the boulevard des capucines, at the corner of the rue louis le grand, the yacht club. just opposite the yacht club "le cercle de la presse," celebrated for its literary and artistic evenings, suggests in the first place that no like institution exists in england, where the newspaper world, though less sharply broken up by political and personal animosities than that of france, is bound together by no such _esprit de corps_ as that which animates the authors and journalists of france. in england not only are we without a press club worthy of the name; we have no société des gens de lettres, or société des auteurs et compositeurs dramatiques. close to the cercle de la presse is the sporting club, with its english name. on the place de l'opéra is the franco-american club called the washington club, or cercle washington, and at the other corner of the square, the cercle des Éclaireurs, or scouts' club, a survival from the war of . on the place de l'opéra are the offices (as staring titles sufficiently proclaim) of the _daily telegraph_, the _daily news_, and the _new york herald_. the corner house, separating the avenue of the opera from the rue de la paix, has been occupied since by the naval and military club, known as the cercle des armées de terre et de mer, and founded under the auspices of general boulanger in the days when he was war minister, with the eyes of all europe upon him. advancing towards the madeleine, we come first to the racing club (salon des courses), then to the union club (cercle de l'union), the most artistic and most exclusive of all these institutions. close by is the new cercle de la rue royale, formerly known under the familiar name of "cercle des moutards;" whilst a little further on we find the cercle des mirlitons and cercle impérial, now combined, and the cercle artistique et littéraire. [illustration: western pavilion, opera house.] [illustration: the staircase of the opera house.] more recently established than the best london clubs, the clubs of paris possess some slight advantages over ours. there is but one london club at which a member can get shaved or have his hair cut, but at many of the fashionable paris clubs the hair-cutter and barber play as important a part as at an american hotel. the best paris clubs have private carriages always in readiness. at a london club members who have not their own private carriage content themselves with a hansom, or, if infirm, with a humble four-wheeler. the paris clubs, moreover, are in constant communication with the theatres; and each club can command so many tickets for a first representation, which are distributed among the members according to the order of application. some of the paris clubs, too, have a box at the opera or at the comédie française. one strange characteristic of the paris clubs--strange at least to englishmen--is that every member is supposed to know, more or less intimately, every other member. in paris the newly-elected member of a club is formally introduced to the other members by his proposer and seconder. nothing of the kind takes place in london; though a new member of a london club is allowed, if not expected, to invite his proposer and seconder with a few friends to dinner. though there are still famous restaurants in paris, dining-houses and cafés have alike suffered by the introduction of clubs, which, though fewer as yet than in london, are yearly increasing their number. the last of the boulevards on the western side is that of the madeleine, with the church of the madeleine as its principal edifice. the place de la madeleine, in the centre of which stands the beautiful but most unecclesiastical church, becomes twice every week, on tuesday and friday, a large flower-market, the finest in paris. standing by itself in the place named after it, is the beautiful greek temple, of which the first stone was laid, in one of his pious moods, by louis xv. in . but the building was not proceeded with until after a delay of some years. it was begun in its present form only twelve years before the revolution; and when napoleon became emperor it was still unfinished. judging, no doubt, from the character of the architecture, that the edifice could scarcely have been intended for a place of christian worship, napoleon had it finished as a temple of glory under the direction of the celebrated architect pierre vignon. like the pantheon, however, which has sometimes been thus named, and at other times called the church of sainte-geneviève, napoleon's temple of glory was only for a time to be known in that character. under the restoration, in , louis xviii. determined to restore the building to the church; and, dedicated to st. mary magdalene, it was duly consecrated. la madeleine, as it is called, was, however, still uncompleted when, in , louis philippe came to the throne; and it was under his reign that, in , it was opened for public worship in the precise form and with the elaborate ornamentation now belonging to it. the architecture of the madeleine is partly roman, partly greek; or rather it is greek with roman adaptations. it is surrounded by corinthian columns, of which there are eighteen on each side. sixteen, moreover, enclose the southern portion, and eight the northern. the building is without windows, and is entirely of stone. the niches in the colonnade are occupied by thirty-four statues representing the most venerated martyrs and saints. on the principal façade will be remarked a high-relief of huge dimensions by lemaire, representing our lord as judge of the world. the figure of the saviour is seventeen feet high. on his right are the angel of salvation and the saved; on his left the angel of punishment and the condemned, with mary magdalene interceding on their behalf. the interior is brilliant with gold and colour. the sanctuary, with its vaulted roof, exhibits a vast fresco by zugler, representing the history of christianity. mary magdalene, receiving christ's forgiveness, is surrounded by the apostles and evangelists; and among the illustrious men who in successive ages have protected the christian church may be recognised constantine, godefroi de bouillon, clovis, joan of arc, dante, and napoleon. the principal altar supports an enormous group in white marble, generally known as the assumption, though the central figure is that of mary magdalene. the assumption in this case is that of mary magdalene into paradise, whither she is being borne by two angels. under the organ is the chapelle des mariages, with a marble group by pradier, representing the marriage of the virgin; and the chapelle des fonts, with a group by rude, the subject being the baptism of christ. to the right of the altar we see illustrated the spread of christianity in the east during the early centuries and the crusades; and again, in modern times, through the uprising of the greeks against the turks. as leading crusaders, richard coeur-de-lion and godefroi de bouillon occupy places. the personages exhibited as having greatly contributed towards the progress of christianity in the west are the early martyrs, charlemagne, pope alexander iii., joan of arc, raphael, michael angelo, and dante. in the centre of the picture stands henri iv., who, after uttering his celebrated exclamation, "paris is well worth a mass," goes over to the dominant religion. then come louis xiii., richelieu, and finally napoleon i., who not only was crowned by pope pius vii. in notre-dame, but really deserves credit for having restored christian worship in france. in the first chapel, on the right as one enters the church, is a pillar bearing an inscription to the memory of the abbé du guerry, curé of the madeleine, a man of remarkable piety and benevolence, who, with other hostages taken by the communists, was shot on the th of may, , in retaliation for the execution of communist prisoners by the troops of versailles. the church of the madeleine is famous for the eloquence of its preachers, the taste in dress of the fashionable ladies whom these preachers attract, and the excellence of the music. at the organ of the madeleine a sound musician and a perfect player is always to be found. chapter xiii. place de la concorde. its history--louis xv.--fireworks--the catastrophe in --place de la révolution--louis xvi.--the directory. the rue royale, a continuation of the boulevard de la madeleine, leading to the place de la concorde, was the scene of some of the most violent outrages on the part of the communists in may, . here, as in the neighbouring rue du faubourg saint-honoré, a number of houses were deliberately set on fire, when some thirty persons perished in the flames. it was said, at the time, that the firemen employed to extinguish the conflagration were bribed by members of the commune to replace the water in their pumps by petroleum. the place de la concorde, the finest of the many fine squares and open spaces in paris, covers an area of yards in length, by yards in width. it is bounded on the south by the seine, on the west by the champs Élysées, on the north by the rue de rivoli (at right angles with the rue royale), and on the east by the tuileries gardens. from the centre of the place may be seen the madeleine at the further end of the rue royale; the palace of the chamber of deputies just across the river, which is here traversed by the pont de la concorde; the louvre on the one hand, and on the other, at the end of the champs Élysées, the triumphal arch (arc de triomphe de l'Étoile). at night the views from the place de la concorde are more striking even than by day; the avenue of the champs Élysées, more than a mile in length, leading in a straight line from the place de la concorde to the triumphal arch, presenting, with its seemingly interminable rows of lamps, a fairy-like spectacle. the history of the place de la concorde is quite modern. its present name dates only from the revolution; its creation from no further back than the year . louis xv., called _le bien-aimé_, had fallen ill at metz, and the people regarding him, after the ruinously extravagant reign of his predecessor, louis xiv., as a merciful sovereign, hurried in crowds to the churches, imploring heaven for the king's recovery. "what have i done to be thus beloved?" asked the young monarch, with astonishment; and his eyes moistened with tears--"the only ones," says an apparently well-informed historian, "he ever let fall." louis xv. recovered and came back to paris; and it was then that the town council voted with enthusiasm an equestrian statue to the sovereign whom it had pleased heaven to spare. the king, on his side, presented to the city a large open piece of ground at the end of the tuileries gardens, and in the centre of this plain the first stone was laid of the monument which was to celebrate the virtues of louis the well-beloved. this statue, according to the fashion of the time, represented the king in roman costume with a crown of laurels on his head; and, among other devices, personifications of strength, wisdom, justice, and peace were made to figure at the corners of the pedestal, which gave rise to the following epigram:-- "oh! la belle statue! oh! le beau piédestal! les vertus sont à pied, le vice est à cheval;" which may be thus turned into english:-- "fit statue, fitter pedestal! with laughter burst your sides, the virtues all below on foot, while vice triumphant rides!" another satirist wrote:-- "il est ici comme à versailles; il est sans coeur et sans entrailles." or, to give something like an equivalent in english:-- "here have set up the builders with their trowels a king of brass who's neither heart nor bowels." a philosopher who seems to have foreseen what he fancied was by no means apparent to louis xv.--that the ancient _régime_ was coming to an end--placed a bandage round the eyes of the statue with these words inscribed on it:-- "have pity on a poor blind man!" this, however, is inconsistent with the tradition which attributes to him the saying, more generally believed to have been metternich's, "après moi le déluge!" [illustration: the madeleine.] [illustration: interior of the madeleine.] the open space was now to be marked in by ornamental limits; and the architects were working at the railings and walls, when, on the night of the th of may, , a frightful catastrophe took place. to celebrate the marriage of the dauphin, afterwards louis xvi., with the archduchess marie antoinette of austria, the town of paris had prepared a magnificent fête, of which the principal attraction was to be a display of fireworks under the direction of the famous italian pyrotechnist, ruggieri, perfecter of an art first introduced into france (like so many others) by his ingenious countrymen. three centuries earlier, in , it should be said, when fireworks were for the first time seen in france, much excitement and some accidents, though no fatal ones, were in like manner caused. after the battle of montléhry, when the troops of louis xi. retired to corbeil, and the great noblemen who had been leagued against him to Étampes, the duke of berri and the comte de charolais took their places at the window of a house in the last-named town and looked out together on the soldiers and the mob who filled the streets. suddenly a dart of fire was seen flashing and curling in the air, which, taking the direction of the window where the prince and the count were seated, struck against it with a violent explosion. the two noblemen were filled with alarm, and the comte de charolais in his fright ordered the seigneur contay to call out all the troops of the household, the archers of his body-guard, and others. the duke of berri gave like orders to all the troops under his command; and in a few minutes two or three bodies of armed men, with a great number of archers, were seen in front of the residence, making every endeavour to find out whence the marvellous and terrible apparition of fire could have proceeded. it was regarded as a diabolical device magically directed against the persons of the comte de charolais and the duke of berri. after close investigation it was discovered that the author of the marvel productive of so much alarm was a breton known as jean boute-feu, otherwise jean des serpents, so called from his having invented the kind of firework which still bears the name of "serpent." jean threw himself at the feet of the princes, confessed to them that he had indeed fired rockets into the air, but added that his intention had been to amuse, not injure, them. then, to prove that his fireworks were harmless, he let off three or four of them in presence of the princes, which quite destroyed the suspicions formed against him. everyone now began to laugh. much trepidation had meanwhile been caused by a very trifling incident. but let us return to the year and the fête on the place louis xv. all was going well, when suddenly a gust of wind blew down among the crowd some rockets only partially exploded. fireworks, like so many inventions of italian origin, were still, to the mass of the french public, a comparative novelty; and this, together with the positive inconvenience and even danger of a fall of blazing missiles in the midst of thousands of excited and closely-packed spectators, was quite enough to account for the terrible confusion, resulting in many hundreds of fatal accidents, which now ensued. there was, in the first place, a general rush towards the rue royale, far too narrow to receive such an invasion; and in the crush numbers of women fainted, fell, and were trampled to death. to make matters worse the stream of persons pressing into the rue royale was met by a counter-stream, advancing, in ignorance of what had taken place, to the place de la concorde. even these, who were not in imminent peril, were now affected by a panic which soon became universal. in the midst of shrieks and groans some desperate men drew their swords and endeavoured to cut for themselves a passage through the dense mass by which they were surrounded. "i know many persons," says mercier, in his "tableau de paris," "who thirty months after these frightful scenes still bore the marks of objects which had been crushed into them. some lingered on for ten years and then died. i may say without exaggeration that in the general panic and crush more than twelve hundred unfortunate persons lost their lives. one entire family disappeared; and there was scarcely a household which had not to lament the death of a relative or friend." on the other hand the official returns put down the deaths at , already an immense number. seven years later, in , the place louis xv. was the scene of a further mishap. certain strolling players, jugglers, and other mountebanks had established in the open space an annual fair known as the fair of st. ovid, which became such a nuisance to the aristocratic residents in the neighbourhood that a petition was presented to the government for its suppression; when suddenly one evening the booths and theatres took fire. the conflagration became general, and the fair of st. ovid perished in the flames. the next incident of importance which took place on the great place was important indeed. it was nothing less than the destruction of louis xv.'s statue, which on the th of august, , the day after the capture of the tuileries, was removed by order of the legislative assembly, melted down, and converted into pieces of two sous. the statue of the king was replaced by a statue of liberty, which, being made in terra-cotta, was called by the anti-revolutionists the "liberty of mud." the place was now named place de la révolution. place de la guillotine it might more fitly have been called, for it was here that the instrument of punishment, of vengeance, and often of simple hatred, was erected, to begin its horrid work, on the st of january, , by the decapitation of louis xvi. the unhappy monarch had been brought along the whole line of boulevards from the prison of the temple, close to the place de la bastille, at one extremity, to the place de la révolution at the other. these two opposite points mark in a certain way the beginning and the end of the revolution. its first heroic act was the taking of the bastille; the cruel deeds which marked its close had for their scene the former place louis xv., which the revolution had now named after itself. the last moments of louis xvi. have often been described, but never in so simple, touching, and direct a manner as by the abbé edgeworth, who accompanied the king to the scaffold, and at the fatal moment was by his side. he afterwards wrote in the french language an account of what he had witnessed, from which some of the most striking passages may here be reproduced. "the fate of the king," he says, "was as yet undecided, when m. de malesherbes, to whom i had not the honour of being personally known and who could neither ask me to his house nor come to mine, requested me to meet him at mme. de senosan's house, where i accordingly waited on him. there m. de malesherbes delivered to me a message from the king signifying the wish of that unfortunate monarch that i should attend him in his last moments, if the atrocity of his subjects should be contented with nothing less than his death. this message was conveyed in terms which i should have thought it my duty to suppress if they did not demonstrate the excellence of the prince whose end i am going to relate. he carried the delicacy of his expressions so far as to ask as a _favour_ the services he had a right to demand from me as a duty. he claimed them as the last proof of my attachment. he hoped that i would not refuse him. he added that if the danger to which i must be exposed should appear to me too great he would beg me to name another clergyman. this was not to be thought of, and on being admitted to the prison i fell at the king's feet without the power of utterance. the king was much moved, but soon began to answer my tears with his own." a high official from whom the abbé edgeworth had requested permission to administer the sacrament replied that he deemed the request of the abbé and that of louis capet conformable to the law, which declared all forms of worship to be free. "nevertheless," added the official, "there are two conditions. the first is that you draw up instantly an address containing your demand signed by yourself; the second, that your religious ceremonies be concluded by o'clock to-morrow at latest, for at precisely louis capet must set out for the place of execution." "these last words," writes the abbé, "were said, like all the rest, with a degree of cold-blooded indifference which characterised an atrocious mind. i put my request in writing and left it on the table. they re-conducted me to the king, who awaited with anxiety the conclusion of this affair. the summary account which i gave him, in which i suppressed all particulars, pleased him extremely. it was now past ten o'clock, and i remained with the king till the night was far advanced, when, perceiving he was fatigued, i requested him to take some repose. he replied with his accustomed kindness, and charged me to lie down also. i went, by his desire, into a little closet which cléry occupied, and which was separated from the king's chamber only by a thin partition; and while i was occupied with the most overwhelming thoughts i heard the king tranquilly giving directions for the next day, after which he lay down on his bed. at five o'clock he rose and dressed as usual. soon afterwards he sent for me, and i attended him for nearly an hour in the cabinet, where he had received me the evening before. i found an altar completely prepared in the king's apartment. the commissaries had executed to the letter everything that i had required of them. they had even done more than i had asked, i having only demanded what was indispensable. the king heard mass. he knelt on the ground without cushion or desk. he then received the sacrament, after which ceremony i left him for a short time at his prayers. he soon sent for me again, and i found him seated near his stove, where he could scarcely warm himself. 'my god,' said he, 'how happy i am in the possession of my religious principles! without them what should i now be? but with them how sweet death appears to me! yes, there dwells on high an uncorruptible judge from whom i shall receive the justice refused to me on earth!' the sacred offices i performed at this time prevent my relating more than a few sentences out of many interesting conversations which the king held with me during the last sixteen hours of his life; but by the little that i have told it may be seen how much might be added if it were consistent with my duty to say more. day began to dawn, and the drums sounded in all the quarters of paris. an extraordinary movement was heard in the tower--it seemed to freeze the blood in my veins. but the king, more calm than i was, after listening to it for a moment, said to me without emotion: 'it is probably the national guard beginning to assemble.' in a short time detachments of cavalry entered the court of the temple, and the voices of officers and the trampling of horses were distinctly heard. the king listened again and said to me with the same composure: 'they seem to be approaching.' on taking leave of the queen the evening before he had promised to see her again next day, and he wished earnestly to keep his word; but i entreated him not to put the queen to a trial under which she must sink. he hesitated a moment, and then, with an expression of profound grief, said: 'you are right, sir, it would kill her. i must deprive myself of this melancholy consolation and let her indulge in hope a few moments longer.' from seven o'clock till eight various persons came frequently, under different pretences, to knock at the door of the cabinet, and each time i trembled lest it should be the last. but the king, with more firmness, rose without emotion, went to the door and quietly answered the people who thus interrupted us. i do not know who these men were; but amongst them was one of the greatest monsters that the revolution had produced. i heard him say to his king, in a tone of mockery, i know not on what subject: 'oh, that was very well once, but you are not on the throne now.' his majesty did not answer a word, but returned to me, contenting himself with saying, 'see how these people treat me. but i know how to endure everything.' another time, after having answered one of the commissaries who came to interrupt us, he returned and said, with a smile, 'these people see poignards and poison everywhere; they fear that i shall destroy myself. alas! they little know me. to kill myself would indeed be weakness. no, since it is necessary, i know how i ought to die!' we heard another knock at the door--destined to be the last. it was santerre and his crew. the king opened the door as usual. they announced to him (i could not hear in what terms) that he must prepare for death. 'i am occupied,' said he, with an air of authority. 'wait for me. in a few minutes i will return to you.' then, having shut the door, he knelt at my feet. 'it is finished, sir,' he said. 'give me your last benediction, and pray that it may please god to support me to the end.' he soon arose, and, leaving the cabinet, advanced towards the wretches who were in his bedchamber. their countenances were embarrassed, yet their hats were not taken off. and the king, perceiving it, asked for his own. whilst cléry, bathed in tears, ran for it, the king said, 'are there amongst you any members of the commune? i charge them to take care of this paper.' it was his will. one of the party took it from the king. 'i recommend also to the commune cléry my valet. i can only congratulate myself on having had his services. give him my watch and clothes, not only these i have here, but those that have been deposited at the commune. i also desire that, in return for the attachment he has shown me, he may be allowed to enter into the queen's--into my wife's service.' he used both expressions. the king then cried out in a firm tone: 'let us proceed.' at these words they all moved on. the king crossed the first court, formerly the garden, on foot. he turned back once or twice towards the tower as if to bid adieu to all most dear to him on earth; and by his gestures it was plain that he was then trying to summon his utmost strength and firmness. at the entrance to the second court a carriage waited. two gendarmes stood at the door. on the king's approach one of these men entered the carriage, and took up his position in front. the king followed and placed me by his side. then the other gendarme jumped in and shut the door. it is said that one of these men was a priest in disguise. for the honour of religion i hope this may be false. it is also said that they had orders to assassinate the king on the smallest murmurs from the people. i do not know whether this might have been their design, but it seems to me that unless they possessed different arms than those that appeared it would have been difficult to accomplish their purpose, for their muskets only were visible, which it would have been impossible for them to have used. these apprehended murmurs were not imaginary. a great number of people devoted to the king had resolved on tearing him from the hands of his guards, or, at least, of making the attempt. two of the principal actors, young men whose names are well known, found means to inform me, the night before, of their intentions; and though my hopes were not sanguine, i yet did not despair of rescue even at the foot of the scaffold. i have since heard that the orders for this dreadful morning had been planned with so much art, and executed with so much precision, that, of four or five hundred people thus devoted to their prince twenty-five only succeeded in reaching the appointed rendezvous. in consequence of the measures taken before daybreak in all the streets of paris, none of the rest were able to get out of their houses. the king, finding himself seated in a carriage where he could neither speak to me nor be spoken to without witness, kept a profound silence. i presented him with my breviary, the only book i had with me, and he seemed to accept it with pleasure. he appeared anxious that i should point out to him the psalms that were best suited to his situation, and he recited them attentively with me. the gendarmes, without speaking, seemed astonished and confounded at the tranquil piety of their monarch, to whom, doubtless, they had never before approached so near. the procession lasted almost two hours. the streets were lined with citizens, all armed, some with pikes and some with guns, and the carriage was surrounded by a body of troops formed from the most desperate people of paris. as another precaution, they had placed before the horses a great number of drums intended to drown any noise or murmurs in favour of the king. but how could such demonstrations be heard, since nobody appeared either at the doors or windows, and in the street nothing was to be seen but armed citizens--citizens all rushing to the commission of a crime which, perhaps, they detested in their hearts. the carriage proceeded thus in silence to the place louis xv., and stopped in a large space that had been left round the scaffold. this space was protected on all sides with cannon, and, beyond, an armed multitude extended as far as the eye could reach. as soon as the king perceived that the carriage was stopping, he turned and whispered to me: 'we have arrived, if i mistake not.' my silence answered that we had. one of the guards came to open the carriage door, and the gendarmes would have jumped out; but the king stopped them, and laying his hand on my knee, said to them in a tone of majesty: 'gentlemen, i recommend to you this good man. take care that after my death no insult be offered to him. i charge you to prevent it.' the two men answered not a word. the king was continuing in a louder tone, but one of them stopped him, saying: 'yes, yes, we will see to it; leave him to us;' and i ought to add that these words were spoken in a tone which would have frozen me if at such a moment it had been possible for me to have thought of myself. as soon as the king had left the carriage, three guards surrounded him and would have taken off his garments, but he repelled them haughtily. he undressed himself, untied his neckcloth, opened his shirt and arranged it himself. the guards, whom the determined countenance of the king had for a moment disconcerted, seemed to recover their audacity. they surrounded him again, and would have seized his hands. 'what are you attempting?' said the king, drawing back his hands. 'to bind you,' answered the wretches. 'to bind me?' said the king with an indignant air. 'no, i shall never consent to that. do what you have been ordered; but you shall never bind me.' the guards insisted; they raised their voices, and seemed to wish to call on others to aid them. [illustration: place de la concorde.] "perhaps this was the most terrible moment of the direful morning; another instant and the best of kings would have received from his rebellious subjects indignities too horrid to mention--indignities that would have been to him more insupportable than death. such was the feeling expressed on his countenance. turning towards me, he looked at me steadily, as if to ask my advice. alas! it was impossible for me to give any, and i only answered by silence; but as he continued this fixed look of inquiry i replied, 'sir, in this new insult i only see another trait of resemblance between your majesty and the saviour who is about to recompense you.' at these words he raised his eyes to heaven with an expression that can never be described. 'you are right,' he said, 'nothing less than his example should make me submit to such a degradation.' then, turning to the guards, he added: 'do what you will. i will drink of the cup even to the dregs.' the path leading to the scaffold was extremely rough and difficult to pass. the king was obliged to lean on my arm, and from the slowness with which he proceeded i feared for a moment that his courage might fail; so that my astonishment was extreme when, arrived at the last step, he suddenly let go my arm and i saw him cross with a firm foot the breadth of the whole scaffold; silence, by his look alone, fifteen or twenty drums that were placed opposite to him; and in a voice so loud, that it must have been heard at the pont tournant, pronounce distinctly these memorable words: 'i die innocent of all the crimes laid to my charge; i pardon those who have occasioned my death; and i pray to god that the blood you are now going to shed may never be visited on france.' he was proceeding, when a man on horseback, in the national uniform, waved his sword, and with a ferocious cry ordered the drums to beat. many voices were at the same time heard encouraging the executioners. they seemed to have re-animated themselves, and seizing with violence the most virtuous of kings, they dragged him under the axe of the guillotine, which with one stroke severed his head from his body. all this passed in a moment. the youngest of the guards, who seemed about eighteen, immediately seized the head and showed it to the people, as he walked round the scaffold. he accompanied this monstrous ceremony with the most atrocious and indecent gestures. at first an awful silence prevailed; at length some cries of '_vive la république!_' were heard. by degrees the voices multiplied, and in less than ten minutes this cry, a thousand times repeated, became the universal shout of the multitude, and every hat was in the air." "it is remarkable," writes mr. sneyd edgeworth, the abbé's brother, "that in this account of the last moments of louis xvi., the abbé edgeworth has omitted to relate that fine apostrophe, which everyone has heard, and which everyone believes that he addressed to his king at the moment of execution-- "'fils de st. louis, montez au ciel!' "the abbé edgeworth has been asked if he recollected to have made this exclamation. he replied that he could neither deny nor affirm that he had spoken the words. it was possible, he added, that he might have pronounced them without afterwards recollecting the fact, for that he retained no memory of anything which happened relative to himself at that awful instant. his not recollecting or recording the words is perhaps the best proof that they were spoken from the impulse of the moment." the reign of terror had now begun. foreign armies were marching towards paris in order to liberate the king from prison and replace him on his throne. the republican government replied by removing the head of the monarch whom it was prepared to restore. during the reign of terror the place de la concorde, as it was afterwards to be called, might fitly have been named, not merely the place of the revolution, the title it bore, but the place of blood. in the terrible year of charlotte corday was guillotined on the th of july; brissot, leader of the girondists, with twenty-one of his followers, on the nd of october; queen marie antoinette on the th of october; and philippe Égalité, duke of orleans (father of louis philippe), on the th of november. among the victims of the year may be mentioned madame Élizabeth, sister of louis xvi., who was guillotined on the th of may; hébert and several of his most bloodthirsty associates, who, at the instigation of robespierre and danton, lost their heads on the th of march; marat and members of his party, who followed a few days afterwards; danton himself and a number of his adherents, with the heroic camille desmoulins among them, on the th of april; chaumette and anacharsis cloots, together with the wives of some previous victims on april th; robespierre, saint-just, and other members of the committee of public safety, on july th; seventy members of the commune who had acted under robespierre's direction on july th; and twelve other members of the same body the day afterwards. one of the most eminent figures in the girondist party, lasource, exclaimed to his sanguinary judges, on receiving his sentence: "i die at a moment when the people have lost their reason; you will die the day they regain it." in reference to saint-just's arrogance, camille desmoulins had said: "he carries his head with as much veneration as though he were bearing the church sacrament on his shoulders;" to which saint-just playfully replied: "and i will make him carry _his_ head as st. denis carried his." st. denis, the martyr, it will be remembered, is said, after decapitation, to have marched some distance with his head under his arm. in the course of the two years over which the reign of terror extended (though its duration is variously estimated according to the political principles of the calculator) nearly , persons are declared to have perished on the place de la révolution; though this estimate would certainly be regarded by some as excessive, by others as inadequate. in reference to the reign of terror, victor hugo calls upon the world "not to criticise too closely the bursting of the thunder-cloud which had been slowly gathering for eighteen centuries;" as though, from the earliest period, france had always been grossly misgoverned, to be suddenly governed in perfection from the time of the revolution. it is the simple truth, however, that the reign of terror was the result, not of the natural development of the revolutionary forces, but of threats from abroad, the presence, real and imaginary, of foreign agents in paris, and the advance of the german armies with a view to the liberation of the king and the suppression of the republic. it ought also in fairness to be remembered that if the revolutionists made a free use of the guillotine, they abolished torture and the cruel methods of executions (such as beating to death with an iron bar) in use under the ancient monarchy until the moment of the outbreak. nor can it be forgotten that at various periods of french history (the massacre of st. bartholomew is an instance) life has been sacrificed more copiously, more recklessly, and more wantonly, than during the worst excesses of the french revolution. when many years afterwards it was proposed to erect a fountain on the spot where the scaffold of louis xvi. had stood, chateaubriand declared that all the water in the world would not suffice to remove the blood-stains which had sullied the place. of those who suffered under the revolution, many, such as robespierre, danton, and marat, well deserved their fate, and none more so than the infamous philippe Égalité, who, after playing the part of a democrat, and democratically voting for the death of his cousin the king, was himself, on democratic grounds, brought to the guillotine. writing in the _revue des deux mondes_ four years after louis philippe's election to the throne, chateaubriand reproached the reigning king with being the son of a regicide. arguing that since the execution of louis xvi., and as a punishment for that crime, it had become impossible to establish monarchy in france, chateaubriand added: "napoleon saw the diadem fall from his brow in spite of his victories; charles x. in spite of his piety. to discredit the crown finally in the eyes of the nations, it has been permitted to the son of the regicide to be for one moment in the blood-stained bed of the murderer." that louis philippe suffered this outburst to be published unchallenged has been regarded as a proof of his extreme tolerance in press matters. probably, however, he thought it prudent not to invite general attention to words which by a large portion of his subjects would have been accepted as true. it has been said by the defenders of the "regicide" that philippe Égalité did his best not to be present at the sitting of the convention when sentence had to be passed on the unfortunate king; and that he was threatened by his friends of the left with assassination unless he voted with them for the "death of the tyrant." however that may be, he took his seat among the judges by whom the fate of his royal kinsman was to be decided; and when it came to his turn to deliver his opinion, he did so in these words: "occupied solely with my duty, convinced that all those who have attacked or might afterwards attack the sovereignty of the people deserve death, i pronounce the death of louis." philippe Égalité had looked for general approval, and had voted in fear of that death which awaited him nevertheless, and which came to him in the very form in which a few months before it had been inflicted on the unhappy louis. when his vote was made known, cries of indignation from all sides warned him that he had transgressed one of the great moral laws which are observed even by men who violate all others. a former soldier of the king's body-guard, hearing of philippe Égalité's unnatural offence, resolved to kill him; but not being able to find him, killed another less guilty "regicide" in his place. very different was the feeling excited by the conduct of philippe Égalité in the breast of the king himself. "i don't know by what chance," says the abbé edgeworth in his "relation sur les derniers moments du roi," "the conversation fell upon philippe. the king seemed to be well acquainted with his intrigues, and with the horrid part he had taken at the convention. but he spoke of him without any bitterness, and with pity rather than anger. 'what have i done to my cousin,' he exclaimed, 'that he should so persecute me? what object could he have? oh, he is more to be pitied than i am. my lot is melancholy, no doubt, but his is much more so.'" under the directory, when the worst period of the revolution was at an end, and the republic itself was disappearing, the place de la révolution was called place de la concorde, and this name was preserved under the consulate and the empire. [illustration: place de la concorde, from the terrace of the tuileries.] at the time of the restoration, when endeavours were made to revive in every form the associations of the old french monarchy, the name of place de la concorde was set aside for the original one of place louis xv., which, however, in obvious reference to the execution of louis xv's successor, was changed in to place louis xvi. it was at the same time decreed that a monument should be erected to the memory of the unfortunate monarch, but the decree was never acted upon. soon afterwards, in , an order signed by charles x. gave the place of many names to the town of paris on condition that it should spend within five years, in completing the architectural and other decorations of the square, a sum of at least , , francs. after the revolution of the name of place de la concorde was re-adopted; and the municipality was proceeding as rapidly as possible with the works ordered under the previous reign, when the cholera broke out, causing to the town an expenditure which rendered it necessary to stop the completion of the improvements. [illustration: trial of louis xvi.] the sum to be applied to the purpose was afterwards reduced to , , francs; and this sum was conscientiously spent, but without by any means finishing the design contemplated by the architects. the fountains, with the naiads and tritons, and the eight statues representing in personification the principal sights of paris, had been duly placed; and in the obelisk of luxor, a present from the pasha of egypt, was made the central ornament on the spot which had been successively occupied by the statue of louis xvi. and the figure of liberty. it was not until , under the empire, that the objects which still on one side mark the limits of the place were set up. a large number of bronze candelabra which were at the same time fixed in various parts of the square greatly increased at night its picturesqueness and its beauty. for the last forty years the place de la concorde has remained as it was under the empire. the republic of could scarcely think it necessary to return to the truly republican name of place de la révolution, which had been preserved for some two or three years during the worst period of the revolution; and to the embellishment of the place there was nothing to add. it remains what our trafalgar square was once, with or without reason, declared to be--"the finest site in europe;" less admirable, however, as a mere site, than for the admirable views of such varied kinds that it commands in every direction. the history of the place de la concorde would not be complete without a record of the fact that it has been successively occupied by russian and prussian troops ( ); by english troops ( ); and again by prussian troops ( ). it was the scene, too, in of a desperate struggle between the communards and the troops advancing against them from versailles. [illustration] chapter xiv. the place vendÔme. the column of austerlitz--the various statues of napoleon taken down--the church of st.-roch--mlle. raucourt--joan of arc. at the point where the long line of boulevards, extending for three miles from the place de la bastille to the madeleine, comes to an end the road bifurcates. the rue royale leads in one direction towards the place de la concorde, the rue castiglione in another towards the place vendôme, a square, or rather an octagon, in the middle of which stands the famous column at which the typical french patriot, le colonel chauvin, used to gaze with such enthusiastic admiration. [illustration: top of the vendÔme column.] the place was constructed by the celebrated architect mansard. in , on the proposition of louis xiv.'s minister, louvois, the formation of the place in the faubourg saint-honoré was decreed "alike for the decoration of paris and for facilitating communications in this quarter." louvois, in the first place, purchased the hôtel de vendôme in the rue saint-honoré, at the end of the rue castiglione, which, together with an adjacent convent, was pulled down. the open space thus obtained was for some time left unoccupied, the king's government being more concerned with works of war than of peace. it was originally intended to give the place vendôme the form of a square, with the king's library on one side, and various government offices, together with mansions for the reception of special envoys, on the other. in carrying out his work mansard made eight façades instead of the four first contemplated, and in the middle of the octagon he placed an equestrian statue of louis xiv., twenty-one feet high. the grand monarch was attired, according to the sculptural fashion of the time, in roman costume; and on the pedestal of the statue, which was in white marble, might be read pompous inscriptions in honour of his majesty's victories. this statue remained on its pedestal for nearly a century. but on the th of august, , when the revolutionary fury was reaching its acute stage, the effigy was overturned by the people, and the name of place vendôme changed to place des piques. this eminently anarchical title was preserved until the establishment of the empire, when napoleon conceived the idea of the column to which the place vendôme now owes its chief importance. the true name of the column in question is the column of austerlitz. so, at least, it was designated by napoleon; though the french people have persisted in calling it after the place in which it stands. it is a reproduction, as regards form, of the trajan column, which, however, is in marble, whereas the column of the place vendôme is in stone covered with bronze castings. the column astonishes by its height, and excites admiration by its harmonious proportions. few, however, notice the perfection of its details. the stone, of which the monument substantially consists, is covered by sheets of bronze, so perfectly adjusted that the column appears to be one mass of solid metal. on an interminable spiral of low reliefs, the soldiers of the empire are represented with the uniforms they wore, and the arms they carried. the principal personages are portraits, and the scenes represented are all from the campaign of . the scrolls of bronze on which figure the actors and incidents of the austerlitz campaign would measure, in one continuous line, more than metres. the column is surmounted by the statue of the man who, in his own honour, erected it, and the base of the statue bears an inscription in these terms:-- "monument raised to the glory of the grand army by napoleon the great. begun xxv august, mdcccvi, finished xv august, mdcccx, under the direction of d. v. denon, director-general, mm. j. b. lepÈre and l. gondoin, architects." the base of the column bears this legend:-- "neapolio imp. aug. monumentum belli germanici anno mdcccv. trimestri spatio ductu suo profligati ex Ære capto gloriÆ exercitus maximi dicavat." which may be translated as follows:-- "napoleon, august emperor, dedicates to the glory of the grand army this monument made of bronze taken from the enemy, , in the german war, terminated in three months under his command." this other very different translation from the same obscure original was suggested by alexandre dumas the elder: "nearchus polion, general of augustus, dedicated this war tomb of germanicus to the glory of the army of maximus, in the year , with the money stolen from the vanquished, thanks to his conduct, during the space of three months." the sheets of bronze employed in the construction of the column would, it has been calculated, weigh , , kilogrammes, about , , pounds; and the metal was all obtained from the guns of the defeated armies. in , the day after the entry of the allied troops into paris, it was proposed to pull down the statue of napoleon, costumed and crowned like a roman emperor, from its proud position at the top of the austerlitz column; and with this view a cable was thrown round the emperor's neck, the lower part of his legs having been previously sawn through so that he might fall with ease. the statue, however, stood firm. the angle at which the engineers were operating did not enable them to pull the statue sufficiently forward; and to tug at the cable was only to hold it faster to its base. a zealous royalist now came forward in the person of m. de montbadon, chief of staff to the paris garrison. empowered by mm. polignac and semallé, commissaries of the count of artois, to take whatever measures he might think necessary, m. de montbadon applied to launay, who had made the castings for the column and had cast the statue itself. he who had made could also unmake, argued m. de montbadon. but he had reckoned without launay himself, who refused indignantly to do the work required of him. thereupon he was taken to the headquarters, where an order was served upon him in these terms: "we command the said m. launay, under pain of military execution, to proceed at once to the operation in question, which must be terminated by midnight on wednesday, april th." this order, according to the well-informed larousse, is dated april th, and signed rochechouard, colonel aide-de-camp of h.m. the emperor of russia commanding the garrison. m. pasquier, prefect of police, wrote on the document, "to be executed immediately." the national guard was at that time on duty around the monument. whether from a feeling of shame or of mistrust, the french national guards were replaced by russian troops. launay now raised the statue by means of wedges, and let it down with pulleys. no sooner had the bronze figure touched the ground than it was replaced on the summit of the column by the white flag of the old monarchy. "then," says launay in an account he has left of the affair, "cries were heard of 'long live the king!' ' long live louis xviii.!'" this was on april th, at six in the evening, the operation having lasted four days, at an expense to the nation of only , francs centimes. launay obtained permission to take away the statue and keep it in his workshop as security for the payment of , francs still due to him from the government as founder of the column. on the return of napoleon from elba launay was forced by the imperial police to give up the statue; and when, after the hundred days, the monarchy was a second time restored, the statue, a masterpiece of chaudet, was melted down, and the metal used by lemot for a new equestrian statue of henri iv. soon after the accession of louis philippe--a more popular sovereign than the legitimate king charles x., whom, at the end of the revolution of , he succeeded--the chambers passed a resolution for crowning the vendôme column once more with a statue of napoleon. a competition was opened, and the model of a statue by m. seurre was selected from a great number sent in. it was cast in bronze, and inaugurated with great show on the th of july, , during the annual festivities in celebration of the revolution of . the army and the national guard were represented in force on this solemn occasion; and louis philippe, on horseback, in the midst of his staff, removed with his own hands the veil which concealed the statue from the eyes of the crowd. he then saluted, in this bronze effigy, the conqueror of continental europe; who, thanks in a great measure to the revived worship of bonapartism, was in less than twenty years to be succeeded by a new emperor of the same dynasty. the napoleon who now took his place at the top of the column was more in harmony with the details of the structure representing french generals and french soldiers than the roman emperor so rudely dethroned in had been. the new napoleon was the napoleon of real life and of béranger's songs, the _petit caporal_ wearing his _redingote grise_, and standing in a characteristic attitude, with one of his hands behind his back. instead of the laurel wreath he wore on his head the traditional _petit chapeau_. [illustration: the place vendÔme.] it seemed, however, to napoleon iii. that his uncle's own design ought to be respected; and in the statue of napoleon "in his habit as he lived" was replaced by a statue after the model of the original one, representing the conqueror of austerlitz in the conventional garb of a roman emperor. the more realistic statue was placed in the middle of the rond-point of courbevoie. under the commune the statue and the column itself were pulled down. the eminent painter, courbet, had formed a project for replacing the column, which was only a monument of the victories gained by france at the expense of her plundered and humiliated neighbours, by one made out of french and german cannon in honour of the federation of nations and the universal republic. courbet is said to have invited the prussians to join him in carrying out this idea, which could not in any respect have suited their views. no period of french history, however, has been more diversely narrated than that of the commune. one thing is certain; that the column fell, and in its descent went to pieces. the statue, too, suffered greatly by the fall. one of the legs was broken, and the head got separated from the body. a speech in honour of the commune's mechanical triumph over the imperial "idea" was pronounced by general bergeret. after the suppression of the commune the assembly of versailles ordered the re-establishment of the vendôme column, which was duly set up in . the interior construction of stone was entirely new. so also, as regards form, was the bronze plating, the scrolls being recast from the moulds preserved since the time of the first empire. it had been decreed that the column should be surmounted by a statue of france. but this idea was not carried out, and, in conformity with another decree, dumont's statue, as set up by napoleon iii. in , was, after being repaired, put back in its former position. the pedestal at the top of the column has turn by turn been surmounted by the statue of napoleon disguised as a roman emperor; by the white flag of the ancient monarchy; by the statue of napoleon in his ordinary military garb; by the statue of napoleon once more costumed as a roman emperor; by the red flag of the commune; and finally once again by the most recent statue in classic garb. the french seem at last to understand as a nation that, apart from all question of politics, the napoleonic period was one of the most glorious of their history. at the corner of the rue castiglione stands the magnificent hôtel continental; which, independently of its positive attractions, possesses interest as occupying the site on which once stood the ministry of finance--burnt to the ground under the commune in obedience to the famous, or infamous, telegraphic order: "_flambez finances_." on the west side of the place vendôme is the ministry of justice. the hôtel du rhin on the south side was the residence of napoleon iii. when he was a member of the national assembly in , before his election to the post of president, followed by his self-appointment ( ) to the dignity, first of president for ten years and a year afterwards of emperor. in one of his letters of the period, inviting a friend to dinner at the hôtel du rhin, he apologised for proposing to entertain him at a "cabaret," a pleasantly contemptuous designation which the commodious and well-appointed hôtel du rhin scarcely deserved. the hôtel du rhin played a certain strategic part towards the end of may, , when on the rd the versailles troops passed through the hotel, and, attacking the insurgents in the rear, captured one of their principal barricades. the proprietor of the hotel, m. maréchal, is said, on the occasion of the vendôme column being threatened by the communists, to have offered them , francs if they would spare it. "give us a million and we will see!" was the answer; but the patriotic hotel-keeper, though he had the misfortune to see the column knocked down, lived to behold its restoration. the rue castiglione, which on the other side of the place vendôme continues southward towards the rue de rivoli and the tuileries gardens under the name of rue de la paix, is crossed, at the point where it changes its title, by the rue saint-honoré. here, close to the place vendôme, stands the ancient and interesting church of saint-roch. the origin of this church was a chapel dedicated to the five wounds of jesus, which, in , was rebuilt on a much larger scale under the name of saint-roch, to be made, in , the parochial church of the western part of paris. the building in its present form dates from , and it was not finished until . right and left of the principal entrance will be observed two statues, representing the two st. rochs: one of them the pilgrim from languedoc who cured the plague, accompanied by his legendary dog; the other the bishop of autun, mitre on head and staff in hand. saint-roch has been described as "the first parish church in france." it contains a number of statues and pictures by famous artists, such as falconnet, pradier, and constan; vien, doyen, deveria, boulanger, and abel de pujol; also many interesting tombs, including that of the great corneille, who died on the st of october, , in the rue d'argenteuil at a house which not long ago was pulled down. on the st of october, , the curé of saint-roch performed a funeral service to commemorate the two hundredth anniversary of the poet's death; to which were invited the managers and the whole company of the comédie française. what a change did this mark in the views and feelings of the french clergy since the time, scarcely more than fifty years distant, when the curé of saint-roch refused christian burial to a celebrated actress who had relinquished her profession, and since her retirement had made abundant gifts through the clergy of saint-roch to the poor of the parish. "mlle. raucourt," says a writer on this subject, "had a better opinion of the restoration than had the restoration of mlle. raucourt. the clergy of the restored dynasty had shown itself in many ways intolerant; and mlle. raucourt's funeral was the occasion of a riot which threatened at one time to become formidable. the curé of st.-roch would not allow the body to be brought into his church, though he is said to have received again and again gifts from the actress, either for the church or for the poor of his parish. only a few days beforehand, on the first day of the year, she had sent him an offering of five hundred francs. representations were made to the clergy, but without avail. at last an indignant crowd broke open the church doors. meanwhile, louis xviii., informed of what was taking place, had ordered one of his chaplains to go to saint-roch, and there, replacing the curé, perform the funeral service. the soldiers had been called out, but they were judiciously withdrawn: they were kept, that is to say, in an attitude only of observation, while a crowd that was constantly increasing followed the corpse of mlle. raucourt to the cemetery of père-la-chaise." while the public excitement was at its height, one of the deceased actress's friends remarked: "if poor raucourt could only see from her heavenly home what a scandal she is causing, how delighted she would be!" among the various illustrious persons buried at saint-roch may be mentioned diderot, to whose interment in , five years before the revolution, the clergy seem to have made no objection. the statue of mary magdalene in the calvary sculpture reproduces the features of the countess de feuquières, cut in white marble by lemoine. this figure originally formed part of the tomb of the countess's father, mignard, the celebrated painter, whose bust by desjardins is preserved at saint-roch. here may also be seen medallions of marshal d'asfeld, of the duke de les aiguières and of count d'harcourt; the statue of the duke de créqui, and the monuments of maupertuis, the philosopher, and of the benevolent abbé de l'Épée. on the high ground, at some little distance from the church of saint-roch, is the butte saint-roch, already referred to as the camping-ground of the maid of orleans when the king's army was besieging paris. since joan of arc has been sung by great poets, impersonated by great actresses, and set to music by great composers, with gounod and verdi among them, all france has admired the warlike heroine; but while the maid of orleans was striving against the enemies of her country, the parisians preferred the government of the english king to that of the lawful inheritor of the french crown. hating all the partisans of charles vii., they detested joan of arc, who had restored the courage of his followers, and was in consequence looked upon in paris as a doubtful sort of witch, whose prophecies were so many deceptions. a parisian writer quoted by dulaure says, in relating the incidents of his time, that joan of arc was a vicious creature in the form of a woman; "called," he ironically adds, "a maid, as she doubtless was." on the day of the nativity of the virgin, , the maid of orleans and the king's troops lay siege to paris. the assault commenced at eleven o'clock in the day, between the gate of saint-honoré and that of saint-denis. the maid advanced, planted her standard on the edge of the moat, and addressed these words to the parisians: "surrender in the name of jesus; for if you do not give in before night we will enter by force whether you like it or not, and you will all be put to death without mercy." insulting names were applied to her by one of the besieged, who at the same time fired an arrow which pierced her leg. thereupon she took to flight, when her standard-bearer was also wounded in the leg. he stopped and raised the visor of his helmet in order to pull out the arrow. a second one was now shot at him, which struck him between the eyes and killed him. the prediction of the maid was not fulfilled on this occasion, for paris did not surrender. some time afterwards two women were arrested at corbeil and thrown into prison at paris. they were accused of believing and saying to everyone that the maid of orleans was sent from god; that jesus often appeared to her, and that the last time she had seen him he was clothed in a long white robe with a scarlet cloak above it. the elder of the two women refused to retract, and was consequently, on the rd of september, , burnt alive. some time after the burning of the maid herself at rouen, an inquisitor of the jacobin order, master in theology, preached at paris in the church of st. martin-in-the-fields; and his sermon was nothing less than a violent satire against the courageous girl. he said in the pulpit that from the age of fourteen she had been in the habit of wearing men's clothes; that her parents would have killed her had they not been afraid of wounding their conscience; that she quitted her family accompanied by the devil, and became a slayer of christians; and that since that time she had committed an infinity of murders; that in prison she caused herself to be waited on like a lady, and the devils came to her in the form of st. catherine, st. marguerite, and st. michael. he added that, having been frightened into quitting her man's apparel to dress like a woman, the devil made her resume her customary dress, though he did not come to her succour at her execution as she had expected. this monk said moreover in this remarkable sermon that there were four maids: namely, the two taken at corbeil, one of whom was burnt at paris; jeanne d'arc, burnt at rouen; and the fourth, called cathérine de la rochelle, who followed the army of charles vii., and who had visions like joan of arc. ten years after the execution of joan of arc another maid appeared, and the people firmly believed that this was the same one who had been burnt at rouen, and who had miraculously risen from the dead. another version was that someone had been executed in her place. [illustration: rue castiglione.] "what appears strange," says dulaure in the "singularités historiques," "and what perhaps suggested the idea put forth in our century that joan of arc was not burnt, and that she even left descendants, is that the inhabitants of orleans who saw this maid took her for joan of arc, and in consequence paid her much honour." the university and the parliament of paris, who ten years before had condemned the veritable maid, wished now to deceive the people. they brought the false maid by force to paris, exhibited her publicly in the principal court of the palace of justice, and made her stand up on the famous marble slab and there pronounce a biographical confession, in which she declared that she was not a maid; that she had been married to a knight by whom she had had two sons; that in a moment of anger against one of her neighbours, instead of striking one of the women she quarrelled with she struck her mother who was holding her back; that she had also struck priests or clerks in defence of her own honour, and that to obtain absolution for her crime she had been to rome, and in order to make the journey in safety had put on man's clothes; finally, that she had served as a soldier in the army of the pope, and while so serving had committed two homicides. the speech and the ceremony being finished, the maid left paris and returned to the war. [illustration: a first night at the comÉdie franÇaise.--the foyer.] chapter xv. the jacobin club. the jacobins--chateaubriand's opinion of them--arthur young's descriptions--the new club. between the church of st. roch and the place vendôme is the rue du marché and the marché, or market, itself; chiefly interesting at the present day as occupying the ground on which stood the ancient monastery of the jacobins, where from to --from before the beginning until the very end of the reign of terror--the meetings of the famous jacobin club were held. [illustration: mirabeau.] the name of jacobin soon became familiar in england, and, as in france itself when the fury of the revolution was quite at an end, was often applied as a term of reproach to all persons of liberal ideas. the word, however, is now chiefly known among us from the _anti-jacobin_ of canning and frere, and latterly from the excellent, but short-lived, weekly newspaper of the same name edited by mr. frederick greenwood. under the restoration, everyone in france who was not an ardent supporter of the ancient monarchy was called a jacobin. but though towards the end of the revolution jacobinism became something hateful indeed, the principles which first brought the jacobins together were such as neither lovers of liberty nor lovers of order could object to. in a number of popular associations were rapidly organised; this being the natural result of the reactionary feeling against a system which had subjected books, newspapers, and even conversation in public places (such as cafés) to a rigid censorship supported by officials and by spies. a passion suddenly arose throughout france for public speaking, and in a thousand different assemblies orators were formed. the states-general had just met; and, not content with the formal sittings, the deputies loved to address in a direct manner the outside public. with this view, the deputies from brittany established a club called the breton club, which was joined by other deputies, and which presently changed its title to "society of the friends of the constitution." this association included men of all shades of politics, who were afterwards to make war upon one another. among the most famous may be mentioned sieyès, volney, barnave, pétion, barrère, lameth, robespierre, the duke of orleans (philippe Égalité), the duke de la rochefoucauld, boissy d'anglas, talleyrand, la fayette, and mirabeau. the society had its head-quarters at versailles, in a building called le reposoir, which, later on, became a protestant church. after the days of october the assembly followed the king to paris; and the famous club was established, first in a large hall which served as library to the dominican monks at the convent of the rue saint-honoré, and afterwards, when this order had been dissolved, in the convent church. as the dominicans were more generally spoken of as the jacobins, the latter name was soon applied to the friends of the constitution, who willingly adopted it. the same thing, strangely enough, happened to the cordeliers and the feuillants; so that the principal revolutionary parties got to be known throughout europe by appellations formerly monastic. what is still more curious is that the last of the jacobin monks (in and ) took part in the meetings of which their convent was the scene, as, in like manner, did the last members of the order of cordeliers. the jacobin club possessed a large staff of officers, including a president, vice-president, four secretaries, twelve inspectors, four censors, eight commissaries, treasurer, and librarian, all appointed at quarterly elections. the privilege of membership was only granted under very strict conditions, and every newly-elected jacobin had, before being formally admitted, to take the following oath:-- "i swear to live free or die; to remain faithful to the principles of the constitution; to obey the laws; to cause them to be respected; to help with all my might to make them perfect; and to conform to the customs and regulations of the society." the sittings were held, first three, then four times a week. little by little, however, the usual course in such assemblies was drifted into. the leaders went to extremes, and soon the most extravagant of them obtained the largest following. then the moderate members retired to form counter-associations, until in time the hostile organisations made war upon one another, with the guillotine as their final weapon. "the jacobins," says michelet, "by their _esprit de corps_, which went on constantly increasing, by their hardened, uncompromising faith, by their harsh, inquisitorial ways, had something of a priestly character. they formed a sort of revolutionary clergy." another great admirer of the revolution, and especially of robespierre, in whom the principle of jacobinism was incarnate, sums up the jacobin spirit in the following words:-- "hatred of the conventional inequalities of former times, of unalterable beliefs, a sort of methodical fanaticism, intolerance of all that interfered with the development of the most daring innovations, and, fundamentally, a passion for regular forms; these, whatever may be said on the subject, were the components of the jacobin spirit. the true jacobin had something about him at once powerful, original and sombre. he stood midway between the agitator and the statesman; between the protestant and the monk; between the inquisitor and the tribune. hence that ferocious vigilance transformed into a virtue: that spy system raised to the rank of a patriotic organisation: and that mania for denunciation, which made people at first laugh, and at last tremble." france, like england soon afterwards, had its _anti-jacobin_. _les sabbats jacobites_ was the title of the french publication, and the jacobin "mania for denunciation" was thus satirised in its columns:-- je dénonce l'allemagne, le portugal et l'espagne, le mexique et la champagne, la sardaigne et le pérou. je dénonce l'ltalie, l'afrique et la barbarie, l'angleterre et la russie sans même excepter moscou. in spite of these attacks and a thousand others, the importance of the jacobin club went on constantly increasing; and at the funeral of mirabeau, who died in the first year of the revolution, the president of the jacobin club marched side by side with the president of the national assembly, and had precedence of the ministers. after the death of mirabeau the influence of the lameths, the duports, the barnaves, etc., gave way to that of robespierre, in whom, says louis blanc, "jacobinism in its extremest points was personified." chateaubriand, the royalist, ought, however, to be heard on this subject as well as louis blanc, the republican; and this is what the former writes in his "essay on revolutions," published in :-- "much has been said about the jacobins, but few people have known them. nearly everyone rushes into declamations, and publishes the crimes of this society without enlightening us as to the general principle which directed its views. this principle consisted in a system of perfection towards which the first step to take was to restore the laws of lycurgus. if, moreover, it be considered that france is indebted to the jacobins for its numerous armies, courageous and disciplined; that it was the jacobins who found the means of paying them, and of victualling a country without resources and surrounded by enemies; that it was they who created a navy as if by miracle, and who, through intrigues and money, ensured the neutrality of some of the powers; that under their reign the greatest discoveries in natural history were made, and great generals formed; that, in a word, they gave vigour to a warlike body, and, so to say, organised anarchy; one must then of necessity admit that these monsters, escaped from hell, had infernal talents." in the jacobins were still royalists, not from attachment to the monarchy, but from a scrupulous regard for constitutional legality. nevertheless, after the flight to varennes they departed from their former principles so far as to demand the abdication of the king. the next day, however, on the proposition of robespierre, they returned to their customary prudence, pronounced against the republic, and sent commissaries to the champ de mars to take back their demand. in connection with most of the great revolutionary events their conduct was the same, though the aristocratic jacobins of had now quitted the society, to be replaced by men of extreme views--journalists, orators, and members of the national assembly, who desired to place themselves in direct contact with the outside world. among the questions put to candidates for election to the jacobin club were the following: "what were you in ? what have you done since? what was your fortune until , and what is it now?" every candidate was bound to answer all questions addressed to him, and he was to do this publicly in a loud voice. anyone rejected by the jacobin club became at once an object of suspicion; and to be denounced by the jacobin leaders was to receive a sentence of death. in this way perished the unfortunate anacharsis clootz, fabre d'Églantine, and many others. at the critical moment the jacobins remained faithful to the fortune of their chief. on the news of his arrest they ordered permanent sittings and voted unanimously their approval of the insurrectionary attitude of the paris commune. they spoke of resistance. but, though men of action abounded in the jacobin club, the members, as a body, were pusillanimous and could do nothing. arthur young in his "travels in france" gives an interesting account of a meeting, which he attended, of the jacobin club at the time of the revolution:-- "at night," he says, writing in diary form, "m. decretot and m. blin carried me to the revolutionary club of the jacobins; the room where they assemble is that in which the famous league was signed. there were above one hundred deputies present, with a president in the chair; i was handed to him and announced as the author of the _arithmétique politique_. the president, standing up, repeated my name to the company and demanded if there were any objections. none; and this was all the ceremony, not merely of an introduction, but election; for i was told that now i was free to be present when i pleased, being a foreigner. ten or a dozen other elections were made. in this club the business that is to be brought into the national assembly is regularly debated; the motions are read that are intended to be made there, and rejected, or corrected and approved. when these have been fully agreed to, the whole party are engaged to support them. plans of conduct are here determined; proper persons nominated to act on committees and as presidents of the assembly named. and i may add that such is the majority of members that whatever passes in this club is almost sure to pass in the assembly." arthur young also gives a description of a debate in the national assembly on the subject of the conduct of the chamber of vacation in the parliament of rennes. [illustration: robespierre.] m. l'abbé maury, a zealous royalist, "made a long and eloquent speech, which he delivered with great fluency and precision and without any notes, in defence of the parliament; he replied to what had been urged by the count de mirabeau on a former day, and strongly censured his unjustifiable call on the people of bretagne to a _redoutable dénombrement_. he said that it would better become the members of such an assembly to count their own principles and duties and the fruits of their attention to the privileges of the subject than to call for a _dénombrement_ that would fill a province with fire and bloodshed. he was interrupted by the noise and confusion of the assembly and of the audience six several times, but it had no effect on him; he waited calmly till it subsided, and then proceeded as if no interruption had occurred. the speech was a very able one and much relished by the royalists; but the _enragés_ condemned it as good for nothing. no other person spoke without notes; the count de clermont read a speech that had some brilliant passages, but was by no means an answer to the abbé maury, as, indeed, it would have been wonderful if it were, being prepared before he heard the abbé's oration.... disorder and every kind of confusion prevails now almost as much as when the assembly sat at versailles. the interruptions are frequent and long, and speakers who have no right by the rules to speak will attempt to hold forth. the count de mirabeau pressed to deliver his opinion after the abbé maury; the president put it to the vote whether he should be allowed to speak a second time, and the whole house rose up to negative it, so that the first orator of the assembly has not the influence even to be heard to explain. we have no conception of such rules, and yet their great numbers must make this necessary. i forgot to observe that there is a gallery at each end of the saloon which is open to all the world, and side ones for admission of the friends of the members by tickets. the audience in these galleries are very noisy; they clap when anything pleases them, and they have been known to hiss, an indecorum which is utterly destructive of freedom of debate." [illustration: the palais royal.] with robespierre the grand period of the jacobins came to an end, and nearly a hundred and twenty of them perished on the scaffold. their hall was now closed and the club forbidden to meet except as a "regenerated society." at last the committees of public safety and of general security issued a decree which put an end to the society of jacobins. in the year a new jacobin club was formed in the riding school of the tuileries, which soon afterwards moved to the church in the rue du bac, and boldly announced that it meant to revive the jacobin traditions. "jacobins of the riding school" this society was called, and, after some ridicule (for the french public had grown sick of the revolution), it was suppressed by an order from the directory ( ). the jacobin club, however, as arthur young knew and described it, not only dictated the proceedings of the national assembly, using this body as a sort of tool or cat's-paw by which it practically governed france, but exerted such an influence on parisian society that enthusiasm for liberal ideas took possession even of the fair sex. "the present devotion to liberty," he writes, "is a sort of rage. it absorbs every other passion and permits no other object to remain in view than what promises to confirm it. dine with a large party at the duke de la rochefoucauld's, ladies and gentlemen are all equally politicians." young adds, however, that one effect of the revolution was to lessen the enormous influence of the gentler sex. previously they had "mixed themselves in everything in order to govern everything," and the men of the kingdom had been mere "puppets moved by their wives." but now, "instead of giving the _ton_ to questions of national debate, they must receive it and be content to move in the political sphere of some celebrated leader." they were thus sinking into the position which, as young considered, nature had intended for them; and he maintained that the daughters of france would now become "more amiable and the nation better governed." chapter xvi. the palais royal. richelieu's palace--the regent of orleans--the duke of orleans--dissipation in the palais royal--the palais national--the birthplace of revolutions. the whole history of paris may be read along the line of the boulevards, and the whole life of the capital observed there in concentrated form. the palais royal, however, with its theatres, its restaurants, its shops of all kinds, its galleries, and its gardens, is in scarcely a less degree an epitome of paris. it was formerly known as the palais cardinal, in memory of richelieu, by whom, in its original shape, it was constructed. richelieu afterwards made such frequent additions to the building that it lost all symmetry. in one of the wings a theatre was constructed; though it was not here, but in a large drawing-room, that the cardinal's tragedies, _eutrope_ and _mirame_, were played. the palace, with its lateral developments, assumed at last the form of a quadrangle with a large garden in the interior. it suffered from the irremediable fault of not having been constructed from the first on a definite plan. but the garden, the fountain, the jewellers' shops, the booksellers' stalls, give the place a physiognomy of its own, and cause the beholder to overlook all architectural defects. having completed his palace, and convinced himself that he had constructed an edifice worthy the acceptance of his sovereign, richelieu presented it to louis xiii. ( ), afterwards confirming the gift in his will ( ). corneille, the recipient now of favours, now of slights from the great cardinal, wrote, in an admiring mood, of the cardinal's palace the following lines:-- "non, l'univers entier ne peut rien voir d'égal aux superbes dehors du palais-cardinal. toute une ville entière, avec pompe bâtie, semble d'un vieux fossé par miracle sortie, et nous fait présumer, à ses superbes toits, que tous ses habitants sont des dieux ou des rois."[b] [b] "no, the entire universe can behold nothing equal to the superb exterior of the palais-cardinal. the whole town, splendidly built, seems to have sprung by a miracle out of an old ditch, making one fancy from its magnificent roofs that all its inhabitants must be gods or kings." in spite of corneille's praise, louis xiii. seems to have thought but little of his minister's gift. nor could he in any case have turned it to much account, for he did not survive the astute counsellor for more than a year. louis xiv. passed some years of his childhood at the palais-cardinal, to which the name of palais royal was now given. here the minister mazarini, or mazarin, resided during the troubles of the fronde, and here it was that he heard the populace sing couplets about the _facchino italiano_. "they sing; they shall pay!" murmured the minister. but he was obliged all the same to take flight; and with the queen regent and the infant king he sought refuge at saint-germain. never afterwards would the proud monarch inhabit the palais royal, which he assigned as a place of residence to henrietta of france, queen of england, and widow of charles i. afterwards, in , louis xiv. gave the palais royal as an absolute gift to his nephew, philip of orleans, duke of chartres, on the occasion of that prince's marriage. the palace had now been increased by the addition of the hôtel dauville in the adjacent rue richelieu, and of a gallery constructed by the celebrated architect mansard. the regent of orleans turned the theatre of richelieu into an opera house, where he gave a number of masked balls which are remembered in history. nor is the profligate life of which the palais royal now became the scene by any means forgotten. the theatre having been burnt down, the regent insisted on its being restored at the expense of the town; which was accordingly done. but the theatre was again destroyed by fire in ; and the duke of chartres, afterwards known during the revolution as philippe Égalité, the father of king louis philippe, instead of rebuilding it, constructed the three galleries surrounding the garden which still exist. the idea of three such galleries, communicating with the body of the palace, is said to have been entertained by richelieu himself. as prodigal as his grandfather, the regent, the duke of orleans, was obliged to have recourse to various expedients for replenishing his exhausted exchequer. it occurred to him to turn the galleries of the palais royal into long lines of shops. this involved the expenditure of a considerable sum of money, but the result was most remunerative. the new palais royal became a centre of attraction to all paris. around the garden the three galleries, together with the one still known as the galerie d'orléans, formed a sort of bazaar, where jewellery, fans, and ornaments of all kinds were offered for sale. the shops were varied by cafés and restaurants. in the garden the café de la régence was established, and the richelieu theatre being once more rebuilt, now formed the home of the comédie française. towards the end of the monarchical period the palais royal became a recognised place of dissipation. in contrast with the loose morality of the locality was the rigid exactitude with which, every day at noon, a cannon in the centre of the garden, fired by the rays of the sun through a powerful lens, announced the hour; and crowds of people used to assemble round it, watch in hand, towards twelve o'clock. walking through the palais royal one day with the duke of orleans, the abbé delille was requested by the prince to sum up in a few words his ideas of the place, and did so in the following quatrain:-- "dans ce jardin tout se rencontre, excepté l'ombrage et les fleurs. si l'on y dérègle ses moeurs, du moins on y règle sa montre."[c] [c] "in this garden one may meet with everything, except shade and flowers. in it, if one's morals go wrong, at least one's watch may be set right." after the execution of the duke of orleans, who, having had the infamy to vote for the death of his blameless relative louis xvi., was himself, by a mild retribution, to perish on the scaffold, the palais royal was appropriated by the state, and the place was now invaded by all the ruffians and reprobates of paris. let us on this subject hear mercier in his "tableau de paris." "the athenians," he writes, "raised temples to their phrynes; curs find them in this enclosure already built. speculators and their correlatives go three times a day to the palais royal, the centre of political and every other kind of debauchery. some are occupied with the rise and fall of the funds. gaming-tables are kept in every café, and it is a sight to see the sudden change in the expression of the players' faces as they lose or win. the palais royal is an elegant box of pandora, beautifully carved, delicately worked, but containing what everyone knows it contains. all these followers of sardanapalus or of lucullus inhabit the palais royal, in apartments which the king of assyria and the roman emperors would have envied." under the directory the number of gambling houses was limited, first to four, afterwards to eight; and it was not until the reign of louis philippe that they were finally suppressed. the gambling house at number figures in the "peau de chagrin" of balzac; also in dumas' "femme au collier de velours." as for the "palace"--the mansion inhabited by mazarin and the infant louis xiv., afterwards by henrietta of england, and then by various members of the orleans family--napoleon established public offices in it. during the hundred days the palace was occupied by lucien bonaparte, and on the restoration of the monarchy the whole place was bought back from the government by the then duke of orleans, afterwards louis philippe. some changes were made in the direction of the galleries, the popularity of which remained as great as ever. nor was this diminished by the foreign occupation, for the palais royal was thronged day and night by officers of the allied army. it was now that the café lemblin became the head-quarters of bonapartist officers on half-pay, and the café des mille colonnes that of the officers serving in the newly organised royalist army; and between the two bodies of officers numerous duels were fought. an ingenious rhymed description of the palais royal in its best and worst days has been left by désaugiers, the celebrated songwriter of the period before béranger, of which we may quote the concluding lines, telling how the resort, from being the scene of political storms, came to be the general _rendez-vous_ of pleasure-seekers of every kind and every nationality, from the fleming to the turk, and from the genius to the fool:-- "si de maint politique orage le palais royal devint le théâtre infernal, du gai carnaval il est aujourd'hui l'héritage: jeu, spectacle, bal y sont dans leur pays natal, flamand, provençal, turc, africain, chinois, sauvage, au moindre signal tout se trouve au palais royal. bref, séjour banal, du grand, du sot, du fou, du sage, le palais royal est le rendez-vous général." [illustration: gardens of the palais royal.] reformed in so many respects under the reign of louis philippe, the palais royal was destined at the same time to be overshadowed by the increasing importance of the boulevards. after the revolution of the palais royal, now styled palais national, was once more treated as state property. under the second empire it became the residence of prince jerome, succeeded by his son, prince napoleon. on the ornamentation of the portico, some _fleurs de lis_ dating from the time of richelieu, which the revolutionists of and of had forgotten to scrape off, were erased and replaced by imperial eagles, themselves destined to disappear in the revolution of the th of september, , when, at the same time, the republican motto, "liberty, equality, fraternity," was restored. meanwhile, on the rd of may, , while the expiring commune was still struggling against the army of versailles, the palace was invaded by the communards and set in flames. the whole of the left wing, with part of the central pavilion, was burnt down. in the midst of the general incendiarism, the théâtre français, which may be regarded as an annexe of the palais royal, though it is entered from the rue richelieu, had itself a narrow escape from fire. the palais royal was destined to be the birthplace of more than one revolution. it was here that the great movement of , and the minor one of july, , began. the revolution of july seems, in the first instance, to have been intended simply as a protest, an act of resistance against arbitrary measures--and in particular against the muzzling of the press to such an extent as to render it impossible under modern conditions to publish a newspaper. the celebrated _ordonnances_ had the immediate effect of throwing a multitude of journeyman printers out of work, and it was by these men that in one part of the city the insurrection was commenced. with them the question was not a political one in theory alone; it was a question whether they should get the hateful _ordonnances_ repealed or remain without work: that is to say, starve. [illustration: the palais royal after the siege.] the th of july passed off very calmly in paris as a whole. at the palais royal, however, some young men were seen mounting chairs, as formerly camille desmoulins had done. "they read the _moniteur_ aloud," says a witness of the scene, "appealed to the people against the infraction of the charter, and endeavoured by violent gesticulation and inflammatory harangues to excite in their hearers and in themselves a vague appetite for agitation. but dancing was going on in the environs of the capital; the people were engaged in labour or amusement. the _bourgeoisie_ alone gave evidence of consternation. the _ordonnances_ had dealt it a twofold blow: they had struck at its political power in the persons of its legislators, and at its moral power in those of its writers." at first there was nothing to be seen throughout the whole _bourgeois_ portion of the population but one dull, uniform stupor. bankers, traders, manufacturers, printers, lawyers, and journalists accosted each other with scared and astounded looks. there was in this sudden muzzling of the press a sort of arrogant challenge that stunned men's faculties. so much daring inferred proportionate strength. the most active section of the _bourgeoisie_ went to work on the th, and nothing was left undone to stir up the people. the _gazette_, the _quotidienne_, and the _universel_ had submitted to the _ordonnances_ from conviction or from party spirit; the _journal des débats_ and the _constitutionnel_ from fear and mercantile policy. the _globe_, the _national_, and the _temps_, which defiantly continued to appear, were profusely circulated. the police order of the preceding day, forbidding their publication, only served to stimulate curiosity. copies were disposed of by hundreds in the cafés, the reading-rooms, and the restaurants. journalists hurried from manufactory to manufactory, and from shop to shop, to read the articles aloud and comment upon them. individuals in the dress, and with the manners and appearance of men of fashion, were seen mounting on stone posts and holding forth as professors of insurrection; whilst students paraded the streets, armed with canes, waving their hats and crying "_vive la charte!_" the ordinary demagogues, cast into the midst of a movement they could not comprehend, looked on with surprise at all these things; but, gradually yielding to the contagion of the hour, they imitated the _bourgeoisie_, and running about with bewildered countenances, shouted like others for the charter. begun in the palais royal, this revolution was continued and virtually concluded at the neighbouring tuileries, where the swiss guard, fighting as faithfully for the restored monarchy as they had fought for the monarchy of louis xvi., perished at the hands of the insurgents. the great danish sculptor, thorvaldsen, had already commemorated the heroism of louis the sixteenth's swiss guard in a magnificent figure of a wounded, expiring, but still undaunted lion, carved on a cliff or mountainside close to the town of lucerne. the loyal mercenaries of charles x. showed the same lionlike courage that those of louis xvi. had displayed. [illustration: the montpensier gallery, palais royal.] there can be no doubt that the sight of the swiss uniforms--scarlet, like that of the household troops of most sovereigns--irritated greatly the people of paris, who looked upon the revolution now taking place as a national movement under the tricolour flag against the monarchy, restored by foreign power after the defeat of napoleon, with the white flag as its emblem. "the sight of those red uniforms," wrote an eye-witness of many of the scenes that took place during the three days of july, "redoubled the fury of the insurgents; fresh combatants rushed forth from every alley, and a barricade was manned and seized by the people. the swiss sustained this attack with vigour; the guards advanced to support them, and the parisians were beginning to give way, when a young man advanced to rally and cheer them on, waving a tricolour flag at the end of a lance, and shouting, 'i will show you how to die!' he fell, pierced with balls, within ten paces of the guards. this engagement was terrible; the swiss left many of their numbers stretched on the pavement." the fighting, all over paris, abounded in scenes which were either fantastic, heroic, or lamentable. the marquis d'antichamp had taken up his post, seated on a chair under the colonnade of the louvre, opposite saint-germain-l'auxerrois. bent under the burden of his years, and hardly able to sustain his tottering frame, he encouraged the swiss to the fight by his presence, and sat with folded arms gazing on the terrible spectacle before him with stoical insensibility. a band of insurgents attacked the powder magazine at ivry on the boulevard de l'hôpital, broke the gate in with hatchets and pole-axes, rushed into the courtyard, and obliged the people of the place to throw them packages of powder out of the windows. the insurgents, with all the hot-headed recklessness of the moment, continued with their pipes in their mouths to catch the packages as they fell, and carried them off in their arms. the debtors confined in sainte-pélagie, using a beam for a battering-ram, burst the gates, and then went and joined the guards on duty outside to prevent the escape of the criminal prisoners. a sanguinary encounter took place in the rue de prouvaires, and exhibited the spectacle, common enough in civil wars, of brothers fighting in opposite ranks. throughout the whole city a sort of moral intoxication beyond all description had seized upon the inhabitants. amidst the noise of musketry, the rolling of the drums, the cries and groans of the combatants, a thousand strange reports prevailed and added to the universal bewilderment. a hat and feathers were carried about in some parts of the town, said to be those of the duke of ragusa, whose death was reported. the audacity of some of the combatants was incredible. a workman, seeing a company of the th regiment of the line advancing upon the place de la bourse, ran straight up to the captain and struck him a blow on the head with an iron bar. he reeled, and his face was bathed in blood; but he had still strength enough left to throw up his soldiers' bayonets with his sword as they were about to fire on the aggressor. the leaders of the people added the most perfect self-denial to their intrepidity; and they ranged themselves by preference under the orders of those combatants whose dress proclaimed that they belonged to the more favoured classes of society. furthermore, the young men found at every step guides for their inexperience in the persons of old soldiers who had survived the battles of the empire--a warlike generation whom the bourbons had for ever incensed in . [illustration] [illustration: entrance to the comÉdie franÇaise.] chapter xvii. the comÉdie franÇaise. its history--the roman comique--under louis xv.--during the revolution--hernani. let us now return to the palais royal, and to the theatre which adjoins it. the comédie française, or théâtre français, as it is also called, was never, as the first of these names might suggest, devoted exclusively to comedy. the word "comedy" was used in france in the early days of its stage to denote any kind of theatrical entertainment. the famous "ballet comique de la reine," produced towards the end of the th century, was, in fact, a dramatic entertainment with singing and dancing, strongly resembling what would now be called an opera; and the author of the work explains, in his preface, that he calls it "ballet comique," instead of "ballet" alone, because it possesses a dramatic character. volumes innumerable have been written on the origin of the french theatre, which had as humble a beginning as the theatre in all other european countries; with the exception, however, of opera, which in the earliest days of the musical drama enjoyed the special patronage of kings, princes, cardinals, and great noblemen. in italy, during the renaissance period, the musical drama was invented by popes, cardinals, and other illustrious personages bent on restoring in modern form the ancient drama of the greeks. the spoken drama of france, as of other european countries, had humbler beginnings, and the first regular troop of the comédie française had its origin in a combination of wandering companies. at the end of the sixteenth, and during the early part of the seventeenth century, the english stage, with marlowe, shakespeare, ben jonson, and other dramatic poets of the elizabethan period, was far superior to the stage of france, which scarcely indeed existed at the time. but towards the end of the seventeenth century the french theatre enjoyed the supreme advantage of possessing simultaneously the three greatest dramatists that france even to this day has produced: corneille, molière, and racine. [illustration: the public foyer, comÉdie franÇaise.] it is a little more than two centuries ago, in the year , that the theatre where "the comedians of the king" habitually performed received the title of comédie française; though its constitution dates from , when, by order of louis xiv., the company of the hôtel de bourgogne was united to that of the théâtre guénégaud in the rue mazarin. the history of the comédie française cannot well be separated from that of corneille and of molière, its greatest writers; though molière, who died in , and corneille, who died in , produced their works long before the théâtre français was officially constituted. perhaps the most interesting account of the origin of the french theatre is to be found in the "roman comique" of scarron, in which one of the leading personages is madeleine béjard, elder sister of the charming but unfaithful armande béjard, known to everyone as molière's wife. possibly, as in the case of the "ballet comique de la reine," the adjective in the title of scarron's work is used to signify, not "comic," but "dramatic," or "theatrical." scarron in any case shows us how molière (introduced under another name) joined a strolling company when he had just finished his studies as a law student. the incident might have been borrowed from cervantes' "gipsy of madrid," wherein an infatuated young man throws in his lot with a troop of gipsies. but it is beyond doubt that the youth, "not brought up to the profession," who becomes a member of a wandering troop involved in the adventures and humours so graphically described by scarron was no other than molière himself, or poquelin, to give him his proper family designation, as distinguished from his more euphonious theatrical name. one of the most interesting members of this celebrated company was mdlle. du parc, for whom is claimed the unique honour of having been passionately beloved by the three greatest dramatists of france: corneille, molière, and racine. having to choose between three writers, of whom the first was old, the second middle-aged, and the third young, mdlle. du parc was eccentric enough to select the last; a preference which left molière silent, but which provoked from corneille some verses so admirable that one cannot but forgive the lady who, by her heartless conduct, called forth such lines. corneille and molière had at this time separate companies, and mdlle. du parc appears to have acted in both. corneille in any case endeavoured to persuade mdlle. du parc to pass from molière's company to his own, pointing out to her that the troop of his friend molière "was very inferior in tragedy, so that she would always be sacrificed, since she excelled above all in the tragic style." racine employed the same kind of argument as corneille, and ultimately succeeded in taking away the much-admired actress from molière's company in order to attach her to his theatre of the hôtel de bourgogne, where tragedies from his pen were habitually produced. mdlle. du parc, who had previously caused an estrangement between corneille and molière, now brought about a complete rupture between molière and racine. the story of mdlle. du parc, with the intrigues of which she was made the object, brings out clearly the fact that in the early days of the french stage there was not one theatre, but three; corneille, molière, and racine having each his separate company. in the present day the théâtre français comprises in its repertory all the masterpieces of france's three greatest dramatists; and many imagine that for this famous establishment may be claimed the honour of having first produced them. but the finest tragedies and comedies that france possesses were written for theatres of little or no standing; and not, as just pointed out, for one, but for three different theatres. an actress celebrated in her time, mdlle. beaupré, made some celebrated remarks on the subject of french dramatic literature, which give a good idea of the esteem in which the art of playwriting must have been held in france immediately before the advent of molière. "m. de corneille," she said, "has done the greatest harm to the dramatic profession. before his time we had very good pieces which were written for us in a night for three crowns. now m. de corneille charges large sums for his plays and we earn scarcely anything." even in these early days louis xiv. took the greatest interest in theatrical representations, especially those given by molière's company. perhaps the very best period of the french stage was between the years , when molière abandoned the law courts to join a troop of wandering players, and , when the two most important companies of the day were combined; at which time molière had been dead seven years, while corneille was on the point of dying. the comédie française was formed in the most arbitrary manner. it has been said that the company which had been in the habit of playing at the hôtel de bourgogne was joined to that of the théâtre guénégaud in the rue mazarin. but there was at that day a third theatre in paris, the théâtre du marais; and in order that everything dramatic might be concentrated at the one establishment, this unhappy house was simply suppressed. by royal decree the number of actors and actresses connected with the comédie française was fixed at twenty-seven. a year later the establishment received for the first time an annual subvention, to the amount of , livres or francs. at the same time the french comedians were authorised, in lieu of previous arrangements, to deduct the full expenses of the theatre before paying anything to the authors. the company had scarcely taken possession of the théâtre de guénégaud when they were obliged to leave it for another and more commodious building in the rue des fossés, saint-germain-des-prés; and it was here that the name of comédie française was first adopted. hence the name of the rue de l'ancienne comédie, in which street, newly baptised, the comédie française was for so many years installed. the comédie française had everything to itself until the year , when much alarm and indignation was caused in the ranks of the company by the establishment of an opposition theatre, the comédie italienne. the french comedians were ready to do anything in order to keep their monopoly. in a formal petition they represented to the king that they were twenty-six in number (the principal actress had died) and capable, if necessary, of amusing his majesty at two different theatres. they thought it hard, however, that after quitting, by his majesty's orders, first the hôtel de bourgogne, then the théâtre guénégaud, they should now be threatened in their new abode, which had cost them , francs to construct. the king paid no attention to these representations, and the comédie italienne soon became the home of french comic opera, doing a flourishing business according to the tariff of those days, when a place in the pit cost five sous, and a seat in the boxes ten. the comédie française did not in the long run suffer from the popularity of the opposition theatre, and perhaps profited by it. but soon the comédie française was to be subjected to a new inconvenience, and in the very year which had witnessed the invasion of the comédie italienne a tax was imposed on theatres generally for the benefit of the poor--"_taxe des pauvres_"--which exists even to the present day. the members of the comédie française endeavoured to meet the difficulty by raising the prices on the occasion of first representations. after the death of louis xiv. the comédie française remained, as before, under the supreme government of the king, his ministers, and the gentlemen of the chamber. the new sovereign showed himself as munificent in the matter of the subvention as his predecessor, and the theatre was once more guaranteed an annual grant of , francs. a custom was now for the first time introduced, which has since become universal--that of playing a first piece in one act before the principal play of the evening. under louis xv. the comédie française was directed, in the matter of engagements and general administration, by the duc de richelieu, to whom were submitted the petitions intended for the king. the members of the comédie française kept a careful watch over the privileges conferred upon them, and we find them complaining whenever there are any signs of these privileges being interfered with by a rival establishment. every booth opened at a temporary fair excited the suspicion of the comedians; and they at last succeeded in procuring an order by which the directors of the much-hated comédie italienne, now known as the opéra comique, were prevented from playing comedies, especially those which had been written expressly for the comédie française. in the famous company again changed their domicile, and, by the king's special permission, took possession of the theatre built in at the palace of the tuileries. here they remained twelve years, until , when they left the palace of the kings of france and installed themselves in the house afterwards to become known as the odéon, on the left bank of the seine, close to the luxemburg palace. according to fréron, the daring satirist who was in no way afraid to take even voltaire for his mark, the dramatic literature of france had now fallen to a very low point, by reason of the worldly success of its authors. "the gay life of most of our authors helps," wrote fréron, "to keep them within the bounds of mediocrity. love of pleasure, the attractions of society that luxury which had so long kept them at a respectful distance, now enervate their souls. they are men of society, men of fashion, runners after women, and themselves much run after. they are at every party, every entertainment; no supper is complete without them; they are sumptuously dressed, and have luxuriously furnished rooms. it was not by supping out every night in society that the corneilles, the molières, the la fontaines, and the boileaus composed those masterpieces which will constitute for ever their glory and the glory of france. they were simply lodged and simply clothed; a large flat cap covered the sublime head of the great corneille, but all the assembly rose before him when he made his appearance at the play." since the days of fréron the incomes and the luxury of french dramatic authors have greatly increased; a result mainly due to the exertions of beaumarchais, whose _marriage of figaro_ was produced at the comédie française two years after its installation at the odéon in . it was beaumarchais who secured for french dramatic authors a fixed proportion of the receipts, and caused this equitable arrangement, previously unknown, to be perpetuated. under the revolution, precisely five years after the production of _the marriage of figaro_, the spirit and tone of which seemed to the king himself prophetic of the approaching catastrophe, the comédie française assumed the title of "théâtre de la nation, comédiens ordinaires du roi," a compromise between loyalty to the old state of things and adhesion to the new of which the members of the company were afterwards bitterly to repent. dissensions now sprang up between the different members of the company, some royalists, others republicans. on the whole, however, the actors and actresses showed a certain aptitude for placing themselves on good terms with the executive power of the moment. in , on the eve of the reign of terror, the players were formally obliged to replace such words as "seigneur" and "monsieur" by "citoyen," even when the piece was written in verse. in the classical tragedies of racine the word "seigneur" constantly occurs, as, for instance, where agamemnon addresses achilles, or achilles agamemnon. the heroes of the iliad and of the history of rome had now to be "citoyens;" which, apart from the intrinsic absurdity of the thing, could not but spoil the metre. [illustration: the green room of the thÉÂtre franÇais.] one effect of the revolution was to deprive the comédie française of the privilege it had so long and so unjustly enjoyed of incorporating in its company any actor or actress whom it might choose to detach from some other troop, not only at paris, but in any other part of france. it at the same time also lost its monopoly. a split having taken place in the company, a second comédie française was started in the palais royal with the celebrated talma, and with grandmesnil, dugazon, and mme. vestris among its artists. meanwhile, notwithstanding the loss of talma, the comédie française kept up against all disadvantages. there was, however, too much sense of art, of dramatic propriety among the members to permit the replacement of the word "seigneur" by "citoyen," and as a punishment for neglecting the governmental order on the subject the whole of the company of the comédie française was arrested one night and thrown into prison, with the exception only of molé, who was apparently looked upon as a good republican, and some other actor who was away from the capital. the piece performed on the night of the arrest had been a dramatic version of richardson's _pamela, or, virtue rewarded_, which, according to the judgment of the republican censors, was "full of reactionary feeling." possibly the nameless hero, mr. b----, was addressed from time to time not as "citoyen," but as "monsieur." [illustration: moliÈre. (_from the bust by houdon in the comédie française_)] not only were the actors and actresses of the comédie française imprisoned, but also the dramatists in the habit of writing for the theatre, with alexander duval, author of _les héritiers_ and other amusing comedies, and laya, who had dramatised "pamela," among them. one of the members of the committee of public safety, the ferocious collot d'herbois, is reported to have said that "the head of the comédie française should be guillotined, and the rest sent out of the country." the famous actor, fleury, sets forth in his "memoirs" that on the margin of the depositions in the case of mdlle. raucourt, who had been arrested with the other members of the company, the said collot d'herbois had written with his own hand, in red, an enormous g. this was a death sentence without appeal, g standing for guillotine. "arrested in with most of the principal actors and actresses, she was," says fleury, "as a first step, imprisoned at sainte-pélagie; but already she was marked down for the scaffold. the queen had protected her; she had received numerous benefits from the royal family; and she was suspected of gratitude for so many favours." in common with all her colleagues of the comédie française, who like herself had been arrested, fleury among the number, mdlle. raucourt owed her life to the courage and ingenuity of a clerk in the employment of the committee of public safety, who destroyed the acts of accusation drawn up by collot d'herbois for presentation to fouquier-tinville. considerable delay was thus caused, during which the anger entertained against the theatrical troop gradually evaporated, though some of the players remained in prison until the fall of robespierre. it was understood meanwhile that no such words as "king" or "queen," "lord" or "lady," were to be used on the stage, and the members of the comédie française had received a sufficiently severe lesson to render them disinclined for the future to set at naught the edict on the subject. as soon as she had regained her liberty, mdlle. raucourt tried to form a company for herself, and, succeeding, took a theatre, which was soon, however, closed by order of the government, some allusion to its severity having been discovered in one of the pieces represented. mdlle. raucourt thenceforward made no secret of her hostility to the directory, which, now that the reign of terror was at an end, could be attacked, indirectly at least, without too much danger. fleury tells us that mdlle. raucourt's costume was a constant protest against the existing order of things; which, from a feeling of gratitude towards the royal family, her constant patrons, and from painful feelings in connection with that guillotine beneath whose shadow she had passed, she could not but hate. "she wore on her spenser," says fleury, "eighteen buttons in allusion to louis xviii., while her fan was one of those weeping-willow fans, the folds of which formed the face of marie antoinette." fleury speaks, moreover, of a certain shawl worn by mdlle. raucourt, of which the pattern, once explained, traced to the eyes of the initiated the portraits of louis, the queen, and the dauphin. one day he accompanied her to a fortune-teller who had been expected to predict the restoration of the monarchy, but who foretold instead the revival of the comédie française. "the woman," says fleury, "had read the cards aright, for in an order from the first consul re-assembled in a new association the remains of the company dispersed at the time of the revolution." but now the theatre was burnt down; and though the comédie française existed as an institution, and received in a special subsidy of , francs, it was not until that, in conformity with an order from the first consul, it took possession of the building in the rue richelieu, close to the palais royal, where it has ever since remained. as under louis xiv., so under napoleon, the comédie française followed the sovereign to his palatial residence wherever it might be; to saint-cloud, to fontainebleau, to trianon, to compiègne, to malmaison, and even to erfurt and dresden, where talma is known to have performed before a "pit of kings." nor did napoleon forget the comédie française when he was at moscow, during the temporary occupation and just before the fatal retreat; though it may well have been from a feeling of pride, and a desire to show how capable he was at such a critical moment of occupying himself with comparatively unimportant things, that he dated from the kremlin his celebrated decree regulating the affairs of the principal theatre in france. it has been the destiny of the comédie française during the past hundred years to salute a number of different governments and dynasties. that they conscientiously kicked against the republic in its most aggravated form has already been shown. they had no reason for being dissatisfied with napoleon; and after the destruction of the imperial power it was perfectly natural that they should do homage to that house of bourbon under which they had first been established, and which for so long a period had kept them beneath its peculiar patronage. they now resumed their ancient title of "comédiens ordinaires du roi," and the direction of the establishment was handed over to the intendant of the royal theatres. the comédie française has often been charged with too strict an adherence to classical ideas. yet it was at this theatre that a dramatic work by victor hugo, round which rallied the whole of the so-called romantic school, was first placed before the public. the two most interesting events in the history of the comédie française are the first production of _the marriage of figaro_ in , of which an account has already been given in connection with beaumarchais and his residence on the boulevard bearing his name, and the first production of _hernani_ forty-six years afterwards. _hernani_ was the third play that victor hugo had written, but the first that was represented. there seems never to have been any intention of bringing out _cromwell_, published in , and known to this day chiefly by its preface. _marion delorme_, victor hugo's second dramatic work, was submitted to the théâtre français, but rejected, not by the management, but by the censorship, and, indeed, by charles x. himself, with whom victor hugo had a personal interview on the subject. "the picture of louis xiii.'s reign," says a writer on this subject, "was not agreeable to his descendant; and the last of the bourbon kings is said to have been particularly annoyed at the omnipotent part assigned in victor hugo's drama to the great cardinal de richelieu." but victor hugo had the persistency of genius, and though both his first efforts had miscarried, he was ready soon after the rejection of _marion delorme_ with another piece--that spirited, poetical work _hernani_, which is usually regarded as his finest dramatic effort. _hernani_, like _marion delorme_, was condemned by the censorship; being objected to not on political, but on literary, moral, and general grounds. the report of the committee of censorship, scarcely less ironical than severe, concluded in these remarkable terms: "however much we might extend our analysis, it could only give an imperfect idea of _hernani_, of the eccentricity of its conception, and the faults of its execution. it seems to us a tissue of extravagances to which the author has vainly endeavoured to give a character of elevation, but which are always trivial and often vulgar. the piece abounds in unbecoming thoughts of every kind. the king expresses himself like a bandit; the bandit treats the king like a brigand. the daughter of a grandee of spain is a shameless woman without dignity or modesty. nevertheless, in spite of so many capital faults, we are of opinion that not only would there be nothing injudicious in authorising the representation of the piece, but that it would be wise policy not to cut out a single word. it is well that the public should see what point of wildness the human mind may reach when it is freed from all rules of propriety." when at last the play was produced there was such a scene in the comédie française as has never been witnessed before or since. at two o'clock, when the doors were opened, a band of romanticists entered the theatre and forthwith searched it in view of any hostile classicists who might be lying hid in dark corners, ready to rise and hiss as soon as the curtain should go up. no classicists, however, were discovered; the band of romanticists was under the direction of gérard de nerval, author of the delightful "voyage en orient," translator of "faust" in the early days when he called himself simply gérard, and heine's collaborator in the french prose translation of the "buch der lieder." on the eve of the battle, gérard de nerval, as théophile gautier has told us in one of many accounts he wrote of the famous representation, visited the officers who were to act under him; their number, according to one account, including balzac, first of french novelists, if not first novelist of the world; that wagner of the past, hector berlioz; auguste maquet, the dramatist; and joseph bouchardy, the melodramatist, together with alexander dumas, historian (in his "memoirs") of the rehearsals of _hernani_, and théophile gautier, chronicler in more than one place of its first representation. victor hugo had originally intended to call his play _three to one_; which to the modern mind would have suggested a sporting drama. _castilian honour_--excellent title!--had also been suggested; but the general opinion of victor hugo's friends was in favour of _hernani_, the musical and sonorous name of the hero; and under that title the piece was produced. it has been said that the supporters of victor hugo took possession of a certain portion of the theatre as early as two in the afternoon. they had brought with them hams, tongues, and bottles of wine; and they had what the americans call a "good time" during the interval that passed before the public was admitted--eating, drinking, singing songs, and discussing the beauties of the piece they had come to applaud. "as soon as the doors of the theatre were opened the band of romanticists," says théophile gautier, "turned their eyes towards the incomers, and if among them a pretty woman appeared her arrival was greeted with a burst of applause. these marks of approbation were not bestowed on rich toilettes and dazzling jewellery, they were reserved for beauty in its simplest manifestations. thus no one was received with so much enthusiasm as mdlle. delphine gay, afterwards mme. de girardin, who, in a white muslin dress relieved by a blue scarf, wore no ornaments whatever. mdlle. gay assured the duke de montmorency the morning after the representation, that she had not spent on her dress more than twenty-eight francs." [illustration: corneille. (_from the bust in the comédie française_)] the hugoites did not form a compact body, but occupied different parts of the pit and stalls in groups. they are said to have been easily recognisable by their sometimes picturesque, sometimes grotesque costumes, and by their defiant air. the combatants on either side applauded and counter-applauded, cried "bravo!" and hissed without much reference to the merits of the piece, and often in attack or defence of supposed words which the piece did not contain. thus (to quote once more from théophile gautier) in the scene where ruy gomez, on the point of marrying doña sol, entrusts her to don carlos, hernani exclaims to the former, "_vieillard stupide! il l'aime_." m. parseval de grandmaison, a rigid classicist, but rather hard of hearing, thought hernani had said, "_vieil as de pique! il l'aime_." "this is too much," groaned m. parseval de grandmaison. "what do you say?" replied lassailly, who was sitting next him in the stalls, and who had only heard his neighbour's interruption. "i say, sir, that it is not permissible to call a venerable old man like ruy gomez de silva 'old ace of spades.'" "he has a perfect right to do so," replied lassailly. "cards were invented under charles vi. bravo for _'vieil as de pique!' bravo, hugo!_" théophile gautier declares that mdlle. mars could only lend to the proud and passionate doña sol a "sober and refined talent," as she was pre-occupied with considerations of propriety more suited to comedy than to drama. victor hugo himself was, on the other hand, delighted with the performance of the principal actress; and one cannot but accept him as the best judge in the case. it would be impossible, in victor hugo's own words, without having seen her, to form an idea of the effect produced by the great actress in the part of doña sol, to which she gave "an immense development," going in a few minutes through the whole gamut of her talent, from the graceful to the pathetic, and from the pathetic to the sublime. the success of _hernani_ corresponded closely enough with the triumph of the revolution of july, which brought louis philippe to the throne; and under the new and more liberal form of monarchy it seemed as though the rising poet and dramatist, who was soon to establish an undisputed supremacy, would have his own way at the comédie française as elsewhere. but his next work, _le roi s'amuse_, found no more favour in the eyes of m. thiers than _marion delorme_ had done in those of charles x.'s ministers, and of charles himself. _le roi s'amuse_ (of which the subject is better known in england by verdi's opera of _rigoletto_ than by the drama on which _rigoletto_ is based) was played but once, and was not revived until some forty years afterwards, when it was produced under the government of the third republic without much success. victor hugo's dramas have not, except to the reading public, displaced the tragedies of corneille and racine. rachel as chimène, sarah bernhardt as phèdre are to this day better remembered by the old habitués of the comédie française than any actors in any of victor hugo's parts. that victor hugo is one of the greatest poets of the century can scarcely be denied; but his genius is more lyrical than dramatic. [illustration: voltaire. (_from the statue by houdon in the comédie française._)] to show by yet another example that the comédie française has not been so much opposed as is often asserted to novelty in the dramatic art, it may be mentioned that at this theatre the wildly melodramatic and strikingly original _antony_ of alexander dumas was first produced. this work, written, not, like victor hugo's plays, in verse, but in vigorous prose, has been no more fortunate than other masterpieces of the romantic drama in keeping the stage. the great success it met with at the time of its first production was due in a great measure to the powerful acting of mme. dorval. the basis of _antony_, and, as alexander dumas tells us himself in his "memoirs," its very germ, is a deeply compromising situation in which the hero finds himself with the heroine. they are on the point of being discovered when, to save the honour of his mistress, antony (without consulting her on the subject) takes her life. having stabbed her he exclaims to the persons who now enter the room, "that woman was resisting me; i have assassinated her." this outrageous piece had the same fate as victor hugo's admirably written and truly dramatic play, _le roi s'amuse_, in so far that it was, after a very few representations, forbidden by the censorship. in the year a private person was for the first time named director of the comédie française. jouslin de la salle was his name, and he was succeeded, first by m. vedel, in , and afterwards by m. buloz, director of the _revue des deux mondes_. in the affairs of the theatre were entrusted to a committee of six members of the comédie française under the direction of an "administrator"; the first administrator being m. arsène houssaye, the well-known author and journalist. m. houssaye was replaced in by m. empis, and m. empis in by m. Édouard thierry, a dramatist. the present director is m. perrin. the subvention paid by the government to the comédie française was fixed definitively in at , francs a year. among the actors and actresses who have appeared at this famous establishment, often pleasantly described as la maison de molière (though molière, as already seen, never set foot in it), may be mentioned adrienne lecouvreur, mdlle. mars, mdlle. clairon, mdlle. contat, mdlle. raucourt, talma, rachel, sarah bernhardt, not to name many excellent comedians who in the present day are almost as well known in london as in paris. in the immediate neighbourhood of the comédie française was born adrienne lecouvreur. less perhaps from the influence of the _genius loci_ than from a desire to imitate the actors and actresses whom, from day to day, she must have seen passing her door, little adrienne accustomed herself at an early age to act plays and scenes from plays with her young companions. adrienne's talent was soon noticed by an inferior actor named legrand, who, after teaching her some of the tricks of his trade, procured an engagement for her somewhere in alsace. it was in the provinces that she formed her style; and for so long a time did she wander about from theatre to theatre that she was already twenty-seven years of age when an engagement was offered her at the comédie française. here she was equally successful in tragedy and in comedy, though in the latter line her impersonations seem to have been chiefly confined to high comedy. thus one of her best parts was that of célimène in the _misanthrope_. adrienne was well acquainted with voltaire when count maurice de saxe, one of the innumerable natural children of augustus ii., king of poland--carlyle's augustus the strong--came to try his fortune in paris. this was in the year . in the first instance he met with no luck; and he had to wait a considerable time before he could get a simple regiment together. "although he was scarcely twenty-four years of age," says a remarkable writer of the time, "maurice had already made eleven campaigns and repudiated one wife. he joined," continues this unconscious humourist, "to the strength of his father the uncultured youth and fiery disposition of a sort of nomad, somewhat like our du guesclin, whom ladies used to call the wild boar. under the guise of a sarmatian, adrienne discovered the hero, and undertook to polish the soldier. she was then thirty years of age, and had gained the experience and the passion which render a woman alike skilful to please and prompt to love." adrienne lecouvreur was carried off, after a short and somewhat mysterious illness, on the th of march, . so sudden was her death that the public, who adored her, would not believe that it arose from natural causes; and the duchess de bouillon, known to be her rival and her implacable enemy, was declared by everyone to be her murderess. according to the story current at the time she owed her death to a box of poisoned sweetmeats, treacherously presented to her, though scribe and legouvé, in their well-known play, make her die from the effect of a poisoned bouquet given to her by the duchess, in feigned admiration of her genius. all that is really known on the subject is to be found in the "memoirs" of the abbé annillon, the "letters" of mdlle. aïssé, and a note appended to one of these letters by voltaire himself. the popular version of the incidents of adrienne's death was as follows. one night, when she was playing the part of phèdre, she saw in a box close to the stage the duchess de bouillon, who, she knew, was endeavouring to replace her in the affections of count de saxe; and the sight of this woman made her deliver with exceptional energy these indignant lines:-- "je sais mes perfidies, oenone, et ne suis pas de ces femmes hardies qui, goûtant dans le crime une tranquille paix, ont su se faire un front qui ne rougit jamais." as the duchess de bouillon, according to mdlle. aïssé, was capricious, violent, impulsive, and much addicted to love affairs, she might well be considered one of those "brazen women who, finding an untroubled calm in crime, succeed in acquiring a brow that knows no blush." it may readily be believed, too, that adrienne made every point tell, so that the duchess, brazen-faced as she might be, would feel wounded to the quick. so appropriate were the verses and so clear was the intention of the much-loved actress in applying them, that the audience, in full sympathy with her, applauded to the point of wild enthusiasm. voltaire, on the other hand, wrote in a manuscript note appended to mdlle. aïssé's narrative: "she died in my arms of inflammation of the bowels, and it was i who caused the body to be opened. all that mdlle. aïssé says on the subject is mere popular rumour without any foundation." if the french clergy objected usually to bury actors and actresses with religious rites, they were scarcely likely to make an exception in favour of an actress who had died in the arms of voltaire. her body, then, was thrown "à la voirie," as the author of _candide_ puts it, or, to be exact, was buried somewhere on the banks of the seine, in the neighbourhood of a wharf, the interment being made secretly and at midnight, as though poor adrienne had been a criminal. the abbé languet, curé of saint-sulpice, the parish to which adrienne lecouvreur belonged, after taking the orders of the archbishop, had refused to admit her body to the cemetery, and all hope of a christian burial was then abandoned. the intolerance of the archbishop and of the priest provoked from voltaire some indignant verses, beginning as follows:-- "ah, verrai-je toujours ma faible nation, incertaine en ses voeux, flétrir ce qu'elle admire; nos moeurs avec nos lois toujours se contredire; et le français volage endormi sous l'empire de la superstition?"[d] [d] voltaire's lines do not lend themselves easily to translation:--"ah, must i ever see my weakly nation, inconstant in its loves, degrade that which it admires;--our morals ever at variance with our laws;--the quick-witted frenchman drugged by superstition?" voltaire, in writing the poem from which the above stanza is quoted, had simply obeyed his own natural impulse. his verses were not intended for publication, for he knew that if they were seen by the clergy they might get him into trouble. he simply sent a copy of the poem to his friend thiériot, and perhaps to others, with a strong recommendation to keep it secret. the first thing, however, that thiériot seems to have done was to take voltaire's verses with him into society, where he was always received in the character of "voltaire's friend." the poet had probably exaggerated the danger. the clergy could have no wish to re-awaken the scandal caused by the circumstances of adrienne lecouvreur's burial, and though voltaire left paris when he found that his poem on the death of adrienne was being circulated everywhere in manuscript, there does not seem to have been any necessity for this species of flight. the place of adrienne's burial, which long remained unknown, was discovered years afterwards, during some work of excavation and demolition. voltaire and maurice de saxe were both dead; but an old friend of hers, named d'argental, was still living, and he hastened to mark the spot by a tablet to her memory. the comédie française, beneath whose shadow adrienne lecouvreur was brought up, is not the only theatre connected with the palais royal. the théâtre du palais royal forms part of the spacious construction from which it derives its name, and is entered from the palais royal itself. standing at the northern extremity of the galerie de beaujolais, it was constructed in by louis, architect to the duke of orleans. its original name was théâtre beaujolais, and its original occupant the manager of a company of marionettes. the marionettes were replaced by children playing exclusively in pantomimes. but in mdlle. montansier, who had formerly directed the royal theatre of versailles, and who had followed the king and queen, took possession of the little theatre in the palais royal, and opened it under the title of théâtre des variétés. every kind of play was presented, and it was here that the directress brought out as a child the afterwards famous mdlle. mars. in time, under the empire, the company of the palais royal left it to take possession of the theatre on the boulevard montmartre, to which the name of théâtre des variétés was thereupon transferred. the palais royal theatre now passed into the hands of a succession of managers, who relied, one on tight-rope dancers, another on marionettes, and a third on learned dogs. "these animals," says brazier in his "petits théâtres de paris," "played their parts with an intelligence not often met with among bipeds. the company was completed with its light and low comedian, its walking gentleman, its heavy father, its chambermaid, its leading actor and actress, and so on. for the four-footed artists was arranged a melodrama which was scarcely worse than many others i have seen. many private persons took their dogs to this theatre to act as 'supers.' nothing droller can be imagined than these performances." from to the theatre was changed into a café-concert, inappropriately entitled café de la paix. this establishment became famous during the hundred days. men of different periods met there as on some appointed fighting-ground; and as a result of many violent scenes the house had to be closed. after the revolution of the theatre, still associated with the name of mdlle. montansier, was restored to its original purpose. entirely reconstructed, it was opened to the public in june, , under the title of théâtre du palais royal. a company of excellent comedians had been engaged, many of whom, such as alcide, tousez, achard, levassor (who loved to impersonate eccentric englishmen), grassot, ravel, and the fascinating virginie déjazet, were to attain european fame. here were produced a number of highly diverting pieces, several of which have become known in translated or adapted form at our london theatres; for example, _indiana et charlemagne_ (_antony and cleopatra_); _le chapeau de paille d'italie_ (_a wedding march_); _la chambre aux deux lits_ (_the double-bedded room_); _grassot embêté par ravel_ (_seeing wright_); _un garçon de chez véry_ (_whitebait at greenwich_); with many others. the liveliest and most risky pieces of the french stage have for the most part seen the light at the palais royal theatre. these productions were, not without reason, considered in a general way unfit for the ears of young girls; and it became one of the recognised privileges of the married woman to be able in her new state to witness a palais royal farce. even wives, however, in many cases thought it as well, while seeing, not to be seen at the palais royal; and for the benefit of such ladies were provided an extra number of _loges grillées_--those _loges grillées_, otherwise _petites loges_, one of which a certain abbé wished to have for the first performance of _the marriage of figaro_, when the author declined, declaring with indignant satire that he had "no sympathy with those who wished to unite the honours of virtue with the pleasures of vice." the _petite loge_ of france, like the private box of england, is comparatively a modern invention. in neither country were such things known till the end of the last century; and it is probable that, like most other theatrical novelties, they were imported, not from england into france, but from france into england. even thirty or forty years ago private boxes were much less numerous at our english theatres than they have since become. they have increased in proportion as the pit has diminished, and, in some theatres, entirely disappeared. on their first introduction they were unpopular in both countries. "this is a modern refinement," writes mercier, just before the revolution of , "or rather a public and very indecent nuisance introduced to please the humour of a few hundreds of our women of fashion. these boxes are held by subscription from year to year; nay, from mother to daughter, as part of her inheritance. nothing could ever be devised better calculated to favour the impertinent pride and idleness of a first-rate actor, who, being paid handsomely by his share of the subscription, even before the beginning of the season, takes no trouble about getting up new parts, but solicits, under some pretence or another, leave of absence, and receives annually some , livres from the inhabitants of the capital, whilst he is holding forth at brussels. another objection against these hired boxes is that the comedians have constantly refused to admit the authors of new plays to a share in the subscription money; and they are so sensible to this advantage that they are daily improving it by throwing part of the pit into this kind of boxes. whilst the public complain loudly of such encroachments on the liberty of the playhouses, hear the apology set up by our _belles_: 'what! will you, then, to oblige the _canaille_, compel me to hear out a whole play, when i am rich enough to see only the last scene? this is a downright tyranny! i protest! there is no police in france nowadays. since i cannot have the comedians come to my own house, i will have the liberty to come in my plain deshabille, enjoy my arm-chair, receive the homage of my humble suitors, and leave the place before i am tired. it would be monstrous to deprive me of all these indulgences, and positively encroach upon the prerogatives of wealth and _bon ton_.' a lady therefore, to be in fashion, must have her _petite loge_, her lap-dog, etc.; but above all, a man-puppy who stands, glass in hand, to tell her ladyship who comes in and goes out, name the actors and so forth, whilst the lady herself displays a fan, which, by a modern contrivance, answers all the purpose of an opera-glass, with this advantage, that she may see without being seen. meanwhile the honest citizen, who, like a tasteless plebeian, imagines that play-houses are opened for entertainment, cannot get in for his money, because part of the house is let by the year, though empty for the best part of it, so that he is obliged to put up, instead of rational amusement, with the low, indecent farces acted on the booth of the boulevards." [illustration: the committee room of the comÉdie franÇaise: alexandre dumas (the younger) reading a play. (_from the painting of laissement in the comédie française._)] [illustration: behind the scenes: comÉdie franÇaise.] chapter xviii. the national library and the bourse. the "king's library"--francis i. and the censorship--the imperial library--the bourse. the most interesting edifice in the rue richelieu is the library, called, according to the existing form of government, royal, national, or imperial. its original title was king's library (bibliothèque du roi), and it has been suggested that, to avoid the frequent changes of name to which the instability of things in france seems to expose this valuable institution, it should be called, once for all, bibliothèque de france. the nucleus of the national library, with its innumerable volumes, was formed by charles v., and received considerable additions, considerable at least for the time, when books were scarce, from louis xi. under the reign of the latter sovereign so much value was attached to books of a rare character that, to obtain the loan of a certain volume written by the arabian physician rhazes, the king had to furnish security, and bind himself by the most solemn obligations to return it. according to dulaure, this pious monarch had but a poor reputation for returning books, combined with an eagerness for getting them into his possession. "in ," says the author of "the history of paris" and of the "singularités historiques," "hermann von stathoen came from mayence to paris entrusted by the famous printers scheffer and hanequis to sell a certain number of printed books. while at paris he was attacked by fever and died. in virtue of the _droit d'aubain_ the king's officers took possession of the books and money of the defunct, sending the latter to the king's exchequer and the former to the king's library. this proceeding was by no means to the taste of scheffer and hanequis, who complained to the emperor, and obtained from him letters addressed to louis xi. in which the french king was invited to restore both books and money. louis xi. admitted the justice of the claim, and on the twenty-first of april, , issued letters patent in these terms: 'desiring to treat favourably the subjects (scheffer and hanequis) of the archbishop of mayence, and having regard to the trouble and labour which the persons in question have had in connection with the art and craft of printing, and to the profit and utility derived from it, both for the public good and for the increase of learning; and considering that the value and estimation of the said books and other property which have come to our knowledge do not amount to more than , crowns and three sous, at which the claimants have valued them, we have for the above considerations and others liberally condescended to cause the said sum of , crowns and three sous to be restored to the said conrad hanequis.'" dulaure, after citing this letter, adds that the restitution was made in such a manner that the printers received every year from the king's treasury a mere driblet of livres, or francs, until the entire sum had been repaid. louis xii. had formed a library of his own at blois, to which he added those collected by his predecessors. francis i., called the father of letters, honoured writers, and had a particular taste for manuscripts; but he detested printed books, and, like the reactionists of the period, deplored the invention of printing, which the previous occupants of his throne had looked upon as of the greatest benefit to mankind. on the th of june, , he ordered all the printing offices in the kingdom to be closed, and prohibited, under the severest penalties, the printing of any fresh books. some have supposed that the king's sole object was, by preventing the reproduction of books, to keep up the value of the manuscripts which he so much prized. against this view, however, must be placed the fact that when, in reply to remonstrances from various deputations, he rescinded his order against the printing offices a month after its issue, he at the same time limited the number of printing offices to twelve, which were only allowed to print books approved beforehand and deemed absolutely necessary. thus francis i. must be regarded as the inventor of that nefarious institution, the censorship, which followed the invention of printing as shadow follows light. after the lapse of a century or two, the censorship was destined to do harm to france, even in a commercial sense; for numbers of books which the censor would never have allowed to be brought out in france were printed and sold in england, holland, and germany. [illustration: entrance to the national library in the rue des petits champs.] "whoever opposes the freedom of the press," wrote mercier on this subject two centuries and a half after francis i.'s institution of the censorship, "is a professed foe to improvement, and, of course, to mankind. but the very obstacles which are laid in an author's way are an inducement to break through all restrictions. 'it is in man's nature,' observes juvenal, 'to wish for those things which are prohibited merely because they are so.' were we permitted to enjoy even a moderate freedom authors would seldom fall into licentiousness. it may be set down as an axiom that the civil liberty of any nation may be estimated by the liberty of its press. if so, we daily take new strides towards slavery, since the ministers are every day forging new fetters for the press. what is the consequence of this unnatural restraint? all books published here on the history, political interests, and even manners of foreign nations are the most incomplete and despicable productions that ever disgraced a country. if despotism could, as it were, murder our thoughts in their impenetrable sanctuary, it would do so; but as it is beyond its power to pluck out the tongue of the true philosopher, or deprive him of the use of his instructive hand, other means are employed--a state inquisition is set on foot, and the boundaries of literature and all its avenues are blocked up by a world of satellites who endeavour to interrupt the slightest correspondence between truth and mankind. fruitless endeavours! so preposterous an attempt against our natural and civil rights serves only to expose to public hatred the wretches who dare thus far to encroach on man's first privilege, that of thinking for himself. reason daily gets ground, its powerful light shines to every eye, and all the witchcraft of tyranny cannot plunge it into utter darkness. in vain will despotism dread or persecute men of genius; all its efforts cannot put out the light of truth; and the sentence it awards against the injustice of men in power shall be confirmed by indignant posterity. you brave inhabitants of great britain! ye are strangers to our shameful slavery. never, ah, never give up the freedom of the press; it is the pledge of your liberty. it may be truly said that you are the only representatives of mankind. you alone have hitherto supported its dignity, and human reason, expelled from the continent, has found a safer asylum in your fortunate island, whence it spreads its rays all over the world. we are so insignificant when compared with you, that you could hardly comprehend the excess of our humiliation." after this apostrophe, mercier continues:--"if we next weigh the restraint laid on the press in the scale of commercial interest, we shall find it greatly preponderate against the trade of this metropolis. the graphomania is not without its absurdities and disadvantages, but it is the chief support of different tradesmen. the montagne sainte-geneviève is peopled by hawkers, bookbinders, etc., who must starve if not permitted to carry on the only business to which they were brought up. meanwhile, as the desire of publishing their thoughts is common to all men, the money which would be laid out amongst our own countrymen is paid to the printers of holland, flanders, and germany." [illustration: the bourse.] while discouraging the multiplication of printed books, francis i. formed a valuable collection of manuscripts, many of which were copies made by his orders in italy. he brought together some manuscripts of various kinds, part of them original, the rest transcribed from the greek (the king's favourite language), or from eastern and other tongues. french literature was represented in the library of francis i. by the works of louise de savoie and her sister marguerite. simple as was his collection of manuscripts and printed books, francis i. found it necessary to place them in the charge of an official bearing the title of master of the king's library. the library of francis was at fontainebleau, whence henri iv. removed it to the college of clermont at paris. catherine de medicis formed a collection of books, including eight hundred greek and latin manuscripts, which she added to those already preserved at the college of clermont, the former habitation of the jesuits, which, after their expulsion, was taken possession of by the crown. when the jesuits returned the books had to be removed, and they found a new abode in the house of the cordeliers, on the site at present occupied by the school of medicine. under louis xiii. the books were placed by the cordeliers in the house belonging to the order, but not occupied by it, in the rue de la harpe, and from the rue de la harpe they were, at the direction of the minister colbert, carried across the river to a house in the rue vivienne. the private library of the count de béthune, containing numerous works on the history of france, was next added to the royal collection; and after the death of cardinal mazarin, his library was purchased from the heirs by louis xv. and joined to the king's library, now of considerable value and importance. it has been seen that the library, justly called royal, was founded and constantly increased by the kings of france; and during the long and glorious reign of louis xiv. the number of books on its shelves was raised from five thousand to seventy thousand. a decree of henri ii. had ordered all booksellers to send copies of whatever works they produced to the king's library; and this was renewed and made thoroughly effective by the great monarch. in the mission of father bouvet brought back from china sixty-two volumes in the chinese language and presented them to the royal library. these books formed the nucleus of a collection which since that time has gone on constantly augmenting. in the archbishop of rheims presented to the royal library five hundred hebrew, greek, and latin manuscripts; and it received in the same year two manuscripts from spanvenfeld, master of the ceremonies at the court of stockholm. in this year, too, a number of latin manuscripts, including the works of catullus, propertius, and tibullus, were bought at rome for the french library. in an ingenious theft was committed at this library by an apostate priest named aymon. wishing, as he said, to consult certain works in order to demonstrate the errors of heretics, he asked for a number of manuscripts, and, carrying them off, sold them at large prices in holland. after the revolution, the republican government threw open to all comers a library which had previously been reserved for the use of a privileged few; and for many years the libraries of the french capital (for others in addition to the library founded by the french kings had now been formed) were the only ones in europe which could be entered by the public at large. this fact scarcely harmonises with the assertion made by many writers, and insisted upon by m. castil blaze, that the grand opéra was installed by the republican government in a house just opposite the famous library in order that when the opera house met with the usual fate of theatres the library facing it might at the same time be burnt. a few members of the commune of paris may have been wild enough to declaim against all literature produced before the revolution, on the supposition that it must of necessity be impregnated with feudal, monarchical, and generally anti-liberal ideas. but the republic as a whole proved in many ways its love of enlightenment. it was the republic which established all over france colleges and gymnasiums at fees of a few shillings a month; which called, free of cost, to the lectures of the college of france or la sorbonne all who wished to hear them, and fixed at a nominal sum the examination fee for students desiring to receive degrees in arts or sciences from the university of paris. during the napoleonic period the imperial library, as it was now called, was enriched with numerous acquisitions from the countries invaded and conquered by the french army; and indignation is expressed even now by french writers at the spoils of war having been given back by the allies, in their turn victorious, to the rightful owners. "the foreign powers," writes on this subject an eminent french publicist, "profited by their position after the fall of the empire to claim all that had been carried away from their libraries at the time of our victories, now as trophies, now in virtue of formal stipulations in the treaties of peace. austria was the first to demand restitution, and all that was taken from vienna in had been given back when the return of napoleon from elba put an end to any further dealings in such matters. in , after the waterloo campaign, austria demanded for the italian provinces annexed to her empire, and for italy generally, all the works of literature and art that our armies had taken from the italians; and on the th of october, , we were deprived of a magnificent artistic monument acquired through the bravery of our soldiers." mention has already been made of a theft of manuscripts--not a wholesale robbery of works of art such as the allies, in restoring certain statues to their rightful owners, were accused of committing; and on various occasions, manuscripts, books, and models have been purloined by visitors to the library of the rue richelieu. the last misdeed of this kind occurred in , when a member of the institute, m. libri, was charged with stealing a book. not caring to meet the accusation, he quitted the country, and in his absence was sentenced to ten years' imprisonment. if anyone, frenchman or foreigner, enters a public library in paris to look at any particular book he cannot, as at the british museum library, consult the catalogue himself; one of the librarians will do this for him, and do it in effect as well as such a thing can be done. but the reader must know beforehand what book, or, at least, what kind of book he wants. however learned and however attentive a librarian may be, he is not likely to make his researches with the same assiduity and care as the earnest student occupied with one sole object. on the other hand, the librarian, as a man of learning, will know the literature of any one subject better than the ordinary student, and much better than the casual reader. besides the national library of the rue richelieu, paris possesses the mazarin library, the library of the arsenal, of sainte-geneviève, of the institute, of the town, of the louvre, of the national assembly, of the senate, and of a number of museums and learned societies. as for the readers, they are as varied in character and often as original as those of our own british museum. in the french, as in the english, reading-room one sees, side by side with writers of distinction, unhappy scribblers, who, in london, when the museum closes at night, look at the thermometer and weathercock to see if hyde park or the casual ward be the wiser dormitory. it is merely to avoid _ennui_ that many readers resort alike to the bibliothèque nationale and to our own museum. men of private means, at once with and without resources, can there escape from their own society, and, whatever their taste in literature, find relief in some book. noise is carefully prevented, and there are even readers who volunteer active aid in maintaining silence. if anyone, for instance, speaks above a whisper, they hiss at him like serpents, or, wheeling round in their chairs, fold their arms and glare at him until he desists and leaves them once more to their sepulchral pursuits. both in france and in england the public libraries have two other classes of readers. first, there is the somnolent reader, who stares for a few minutes vacantly at a book, drops, nods, and finally collapses with a snore. the music of the nose, however, is against the rules, and promptly brings down an "attendant." on the other hand--though, fortunately, as a rare specimen--we find the particularly wakeful reader, who in his neighbour's absence makes a clean sweep of that gentleman's property, and who is apt to attire himself in the wrong hat and overcoat, and to walk off with an innocent and even injured air. * * * * * the most important edifice in the rue vivienne--or, rather, in the open space which a portion of the rue vivienne faces--is the bourse, or exchange, of which the architecture so closely resembles that of the madeleine. yet there is nothing in the bourse to suggest a house of prayer. at the entrance of the st. petersburg bourse stands a chapel, in which the operator for the rise or for the fall may invoke the protection of heaven for the success of his own particular speculation. the noise of the dealers crying out prices and shouting offers and acceptances is far less suggestive of the "house of god" than of a "den of thieves," to which, it must be feared, it presents in many respects a considerable likeness. the origin of the word "bourse," which has been adopted by almost every country in europe, with the striking exception of england, seems evident enough, though it would be a mistake to suppose that it is derived from _bourse_, a purse. according to the best etymologist, the name of bourse comes from the exchange established in the sixteenth century at bruges in the house of one van der bourse, who, in the well-known punning spirit of heraldry, had adopted for his arms three bourses or purses. the most ancient bourse in france is said to be that of lyons; and the next ancient that of toulouse, which dates from . the bourse of rouen was established a few years later, while that of paris was not legally constituted until . paris, nevertheless, has possessed since the sixteenth century several places of exchange: now on the pont au change, now in the courtyard of the palais de justice, and then for a considerable time at the hôtel de soissons, in the rue quincampoix, which was the scene of the wild speculations in connection with law's mississipi scheme. in the hôtel de soissons was closed by the government, and the formation of an institution to be called the bourse was at the same time decreed. the bourse was at first installed in the hôtel de nevers, in the rue richelieu, where the national library is now established. after the revolution, the bourse was for a time closed by the convention. but it was soon re-opened, and under the directory was located in the church of the petits pères. under the consulate and the empire the bourse was held in the palais royal. the restoration moved it to the rue feydau, and it there remained until in it was definitively fixed in the palatial abode which it now occupies. the cost of building the bourse as it now exists was defrayed by a subscription among the merchants of paris, assisted by a grant from the state and from the city. until napoleon's time, or, at least, from the period of the revolution to that of the empire, the occupation of stockbroker or _agent de change_ was free to all who chose to take out a licence. napoleon, however, limited the number of _agents de change_, or, as it turned out, the number of their firms, for it soon became the practice for several persons to club together in order to buy the necessary licence and to deposit the caution money. the bourse, in marked opposition to the rigid rule observed at our own stock exchange, was open to everyone until , when the price of admission was fixed at one franc to the financial, and half a franc to the commercial department. an annual ticket of admission could be obtained for francs to the financial side, and seventy-eight francs to the commercial. this species of tax was imposed with the view of restraining the passion for speculation which had sprung up among the lower classes, but it was abolished by m. achille fould, napoleon iii.'s able finance minister, in . the hours of the bourse, as fixed by law, not being sufficiently long for the tastes or necessities of speculators, supplementary bourses under the name of _petite bourse_, have from time to time been held in the passage de l'opéra and on the boulevard des italiens. these informal assemblies are sometimes tolerated, sometimes repressed, by the government. ponsard, in one of his versified comedies, describes the paris bourse as (to translate the poet freely)-- "a market where all merchandise is keenly bought and sold; a genuine field of battle where instead of blood flows gold." [illustration] [illustration: the apollo gallery, the louvre.] [illustration: the louvre, from the place carrousel.] chapter xix. the louvre and the tuileries. the louvre--origin of the name--the castle--francis i.--catherine de medicis--the queen's apartments--louis xiv. and the louvre--the "museum of the louvre"--the picture galleries--the tuileries--the national assembly--marie antoinette--the palace of napoleon iii.--_petite provence_. the origin of the louvre is remote and the etymology of the word obscure. in the absence of any more probable derivation, philologists have fixed upon that of _lupus_, or rather in the latin of the lower empire, _lupara_. according to this view, the ancient palace of the french kings was originally looked upon as a wolf's den, or it may be as a hunting-box from which to chase the wolf. the word "louvre" is said at one time to have been used as the equivalent of a royal palace or castle, and in support of this view the following lines are quoted from la fontaine's fable of "the lion, the king of beasts," in which the monarch of the forest is represented as inviting the other animals to his "louvre." this, however, only proves that the name of a french palace which had existed since the beginning of the thirteenth century could be used in la fontaine's time as a name for the palace of any king. "according to some," says m. vitet, "the louvre was founded by childebert; according to others, by louis le gros. it was either a place from which to hunt the wolf, a 'louveterie' (_lupara_), or, according to another view, a fortress commanding the river in front of the city. it seems probable that before the time of philip augustus there was a fortified castle where now stands the louvre, and that this king simply altered it, and indeed reconstructed it, but was not its founder. the historians of the time speak frequently of the great tower built in by this prince, to which the name of new tower was given; an evident sign of the existence of some other more ancient tower. it was not in any case until that, for the first time, the name of louvre was officially pronounced. until then the field is open to conjectures." it appears certain that the ground on which the palace stands was called louvre before anything was built upon it. a chart of the year , referred to by sanval, shows that henri, archbishop of rheims, built a chapel at paris in a place called the louvre. whence the name? it may once more be asked. one facetious historian declares that the castle of the louvre was one of the finest edifices that france possessed, and that philip augustus "called it, in the language of the time, louvre, that is to say, _l'oeuvre_ in the sense of _chef-d'oeuvre_." according to another far-fetched derivation the word "louvre" comes from _rouvre_, which is traced to _robur_, an oak, because the louvre stood in the midst of a forest, which may have been a forest of oaks! whatever meaning was attached to the word, it is certain that when in philip augustus built or reconstructed the louvre he gave it the form, the defences, and the armament of a fortress. it was the strong point in the line of fortifications with which this monarch surrounded paris. the first existing document in which the louvre is mentioned by name is an account of the year for provisions and wine consumed by citizens who in the louvre had done military duty. the castle was at that time in the form of a large square, in the midst of which was a big tower, with its own independent system of defence. the tower was feet in circumference, and feet in height. its walls were feet thick near the basement, and feet in the upper part. a gallery at the top put it in communication with the buildings of the first enclosure, and it served at once as treasury and as prison. here ferrand, count of flanders, was confined by philip augustus in , after the victory of bouvines. john iv., duke of brittany, charles ii., king of navarre, and john ii., duke of alençon, were among many other illustrious prisoners shut up in the big tower or _donjon_ of the ancient louvre. louis ix. arranged in the west wing of the louvre a large hall, which was long known as the chamber of st. louis. charles v. enlarged and embellished the louvre. he added to it another storey, and did all in his power to change what had hitherto been a purely military building into a convenient and agreeable place of abode. the architecture of the building, originally constructed for use, not show, was in many respects improved, and the gates were surmounted with ornaments and pieces of sculpture. the reception rooms were away from the river, and looked out upon a street long since disappeared, called la rue froidmanteaux. the apartments of the king and queen looked out upon the river. each of the towers was designated by a particular name, according to its history, or the purpose it was intended to serve. the big tower was also called the ferrand tower, from the count of flanders having been confined in it; and there were also the library tower, where charles v. had brought together volumes, which formed the nucleus of the national library; the clock tower, the horseshoe tower, the artillery tower, the sluice tower, the falcon tower, the hatchet tower, the tower of the great chapel, the tower of the little chapel, the tournament tower (where the king took up his position to see tournaments and jousts), besides others. charles v. added to the louvre a number of buildings for tradespeople and domestics, whose services had to be dispensed with when the louvre was purely a military building. such names as pantry, pastry, saucery, butlery, were given to the different buildings and departments by the bakers, the pastry-cooks, the makers of sauces, and the keepers of the wine. the gardens of the louvre, though not very extensive, were greatly admired. here were to be seen aviaries, a menagerie of wild beasts, and lists for different kinds of sports and combats. charles vi., who lived by preference at the hôtel st. pol, increased the fortifications of the louvre, and sacrificed to that end the gardens of the king and queen on the side of the river. the succeeding kings until the time of francis i. occupied themselves very little with the louvre, and scarcely ever resided there. during this first period of its history, from philip augustus until francis i., the louvre was the scene of numerous historical events. in , during the captivity of king john in england, the citizens of paris, in support of the deputies of the communes in the states-general, besieged and took the louvre, driving away the governor, and carrying off to the hôtel de ville all the arms and ammunition they could find in the arsenal of the fortress. soon afterwards the governor, pierre gaillard, was decapitated by order of the dauphin regent for making so poor a defence. it was at the louvre, moreover, in , that the emperor of germany, charles iv., allied himself with charles v. of france, to make war upon england. under the reign of charles vi., in , while the king was engaged in suppressing an insurrection in flanders, the parisians, in their turn, revolted, and proposed to destroy alike the fortress of the louvre, and that other fortress, destined five centuries later to fall beneath the first blows of the revolution. they were counselled, however, by one of their leaders to spare both prison and palace; and the advice was sound, for after quieting the turbulent flemings, the king returned to paris more powerful than ever. in , andronicus, and in , manuel palæologus, both emperors of constantinople, were entertained at the louvre, as were also, in , sigismund, emperor of germany, and, in , the king and queen of england. when francis i. ascended the throne, the louvre regained all its importance as a royal residence. the king began by pulling down the big tower, constructed by philip augustus, which cast its shadow over the whole of the palace, and gave it the look of a prison. twelve years later ( ), when the emperor charles v. visited paris, francis i. determined to receive him, not in the hôtel des tournelles, where he was living at the time, but in the old palace of the french kings. he undertook various repairs, and covered the crumbling walls with paintings and tapestry. everything, too, was regilt, "even," says a chronicler, "to the weather-cocks." finally the space comprised between the river and the moat of the castle was laid out in lists for tournaments. [illustration: the old louvre (pierre lescot's faÇade).] after spending large sums of money in repairing the louvre, francis i. decided to reconstruct it on a new plan, so as to get rid altogether of the irregularity of the old buildings, with their gothic architecture. the work of reconstructing the louvre was entrusted to the italian architect serlio. but his plan was laid aside in favour of one presented by pierre lescot, who, in spite of his french name, was, like serlio, of italian origin. he belonged to the alessi family; and serlio was so pleased with his designs that he at once pressed the king to accept them. lescot associated with himself the graceful, ingenious sculptor jean goujon, who, like every french artist of the time, had formed his style in italy; and the italian sculptor trebatti, a pupil of michel angelo, who possessed more force than belonged to jean goujon. to these illustrious men is due the admirable façade of the west in the courtyard of the louvre. great progress was made with the reconstruction of the louvre under the reign of henri ii., who, while the works were going on at the ancient palace, lived at the hôtel des tournelles. it was to this residence that he was carried home to die after being mortally wounded by montgomery, of the scottish guard, in the fatal tournament of the place royale. henri's successor, francis ii., would not live in a place associated with such a tragic incident, and took up his residence at the louvre. the power of catherine de médicis was now beginning to assert itself, and she had the bad taste to interrupt the plans of pierre lescot, and to order new constructions of her own designing to be carried out by her own italian architects. the louvre was carried forward to the bank of the river; and the italian painter romanelli was employed to decorate a new suite of rooms, which became known as the apartments of the queen. the new work, while possessing a beauty of its own, was quite out of harmony with the severer style followed by pierre lescot in connection with the old louvre. at the southern extremity of the wing built by catherine de médicis looks out upon the seine a window of noble construction, from which, according to popular tradition, charles ix. amused himself during the massacre of st. bartholomew by firing on the unhappy huguenots who were swimming to the other side of the river. modern historians have, of course, discovered that the window in question did not exist at the time; also that charles ix. on the day of the massacre was not at the louvre, but at the hôtel de bourbon close by. it was possibly from one of the windows of the hôtel de bourbon that he fired. henri iv. inhabited the louvre; and it was there that he expired, mortally wounded by the dagger of ravaillac. this sovereign had added a new gallery to the wing built by catherine de médicis, and had filled it with paintings by the most celebrated artists of the time. it perished, however, in a fire; and it was to replace it that louis xiv. constructed what is now known as the apollo gallery. henri iv. was the first moreover to connect the tuileries with the louvre, or, at least, to prolong the tuileries along the seine in the direction of the louvre without completing the junction. the son of henri iv., louis xiii., continued the work left unfinished by pierre lescot; though, as happens with so many architectural continuations, he departed greatly from the original plan. [illustration: the colonnade of the louvre.] the "queen's apartments," constructed by catherine de médicis, were successively occupied by marie de médicis and anne of austria; and under each reign new decorations and new pictures were added. particularly admirable was a series of portraits of queens of france ending with marie de médicis, whose likeness by porbus was said to be a masterpiece. nothing, according to an historian of the time, was spared to make the work perfect; and "although blue was then exceedingly dear, the painter nevertheless spread it over his canvas with so much prodigality that the cost of the colour came to six twenty-crown pieces." in front of the "apartments of the queen," which were furnished with every luxury, was a tastefully laid-out garden which, completely transformed, exists to this day. the "garden of the infanta" it is called, in memory of the poor little infanta of spain brought to france at the age of four to become the wife of louis xv. restricted for some years to the garden in question and the apartments adjoining it, she was afterwards sent back to spain with a doll worth , francs, given to her by her late _fiancé_. the apartments of the queen consisted, according to sanval, of a guard-room, a large ante-chamber, a sitting-room communicating with two galleries, a reception-room, and a boudoir. [illustration: portion of the faÇade of henri iv.'s gallery, louvre.] while occupying himself chiefly with versailles, his own personal creation, louis xiv. did not forget paris and the louvre. it has been said that he reconstructed the gallery built by henri iv., which, after the death of that monarch, was destroyed in a fire. the work of reconstruction was entrusted to louis xiv.'s favourite painter, lebrun; and the apollo gallery, which owes its name to the principal subject of the painter's art, is perhaps the most complete, most perfect monument of the style which prevailed under the "grand monarque"; a style which may be wanting in purity of taste, but which, in a decorative point of view, is magnificent. colbert, appointed superintendent of royal buildings, was now ordered to complete the louvre. the first thing to do was to add a façade on the east; by an idea which has since become commonplace, but which was strikingly original at the time, the minister opened a competition for the best design. the one most admired was the work not of an architect, but of a doctor, claude perrault by name. colbert was delighted with it, but before coming to a decision about a matter of so much importance, he sent to nicolas poussin, then at rome, the designs of all the competitors except perrault. poussin sent back all the drawings with severe criticisms, and submitted a plan of his own, which satisfied neither colbert nor the king. things had reached this point, and colbert was about to take upon himself the responsibility of adopting perrault's design, when he was urged by the abbé benedetti and cardinal chigi, afterwards pope alexander vii., to have recourse to the services of the celebrated bernini, whose reputation was at that time universal. thus pressed, colbert addressed himself to the duke de créquy, french ambassador at the pontifical court, and begged him to see bernini on the subject. louis xiv., moreover, wrote himself to bernini a letter, which made him resolve to visit france. on his arrival at paris, bernini submitted to the king a project which is said to have been "full of grandeur," but which was not put into execution. he was now in delicate health, and the annoyance caused to him by the jealousy of the french artists, vexed at seeing the plans of a foreigner preferred to their own, made him solicit the king's permission to go back to rome. louis xiv. gave his consent, and at the same time granted bernini a pension. bernini having left paris, colbert hesitated no longer. he summoned claude perrault and ordered him to begin work at once. the first stone was laid by louis xiv. with great ceremony, october , ; and, thanks to the activity of colbert, the new façade was finished by . this façade, known as the colonnade of the louvre, is upwards of metres long, and more than metres high. it may at once be objected to the new façade that, with all its magnificence, it is quite out of harmony with the style adopted in the four façades which form the admirable quadrangle of the louvre. but whatever may be said against it, perrault's colonnade is one of the most remarkable conceptions of modern architecture. when first erected, it was looked upon as an unapproachable masterpiece; and it exercised on architecture abroad, as well as at home, a considerable influence which still lasts. after finishing his colonnade, perrault tried to bring it into harmony with the earlier portions of the building. but from the year louis xiv. occupied himself no more with the louvre. he thought of nothing but versailles, which absorbed all, and more than all, the money he had to spare for building purposes. in perrault died, and the louvre was now not only neglected, but forgotten. then it was remembered only to be turned to base uses. stables were established in the ancient palace; though, by way of compensation, it must be added that a number of artists and men of learning had lodgings assigned to them in apartments formerly regarded as royal. among louis xiv.'s favourite lodgers may be mentioned the sculptors girardon, couston, stoltz, and legros; cornu and renaudin, famous for their marble vases; the medallist, du vivier; the painters rigaud, desportes, coypel, and claudine stella; the two baileys, father and son, keepers of the king's pictures; bain, celebrated painter in enamel; the engraver sylvestre, the decorators lemoine and meissonnier, who made nearly all the drawings for the festivals and ceremonies of the court; bérin, celebrated for his theatrical costumes and scenes; the geographer sanson, the engineer d'hermand, goldsmiths balin, germain, benier, and mellin; the clockmakers turet and martinot, the gunmakers renier and piraube, the metal-worker revoir, and finally (without mentioning many other men of science, art, and art work) boule, the world-famed maker of the inlaid furniture invented by him. this furniture, known in france as _meubles de boule_, has, by the way, in some inexplicable manner, got to be known in england as "buhl," and even "bühl" furniture, though boule was born at paris in , and died there in , without apparently having ever lived in germany. in assigning to boule a set of apartments in the louvre, louis xiv. at the same time appointed him engraver in ordinary of the royal seals. boule, moreover, was honoured on this occasion with a diploma which gave him the titles of "architect, painter, sculptor in mosaic, artist in furniture, carver, decorator, and inventor of cyphers." in his furniture, boule employed with great effect woods of different colours, while for his inlaid work he used mother-of-pearl, ivory, gold, brass, bronze, and mosaic. he imitated on his furniture all kinds of animals, flowers, and fruits. he even represented landscapes, hunting scenes, battles, and historical subjects. besides furniture, boule applied his art to clocks, casquets, inkstands, and all kinds of arms. he worked much for versailles and the other royal residences, and received frequent orders from foreign sovereigns. the meaning, however, of louis xiv.'s apparent liberality was, from a versailles point of view, that the louvre was not worth living in. to provide furnished apartments for the recipients of the king's bounty, it was unfortunately necessary to put up partitions so as to divide and sub-divide the majestic halls of the palace into little sitting-rooms and bed-rooms. the louvre was now an hotel, or rather a _caravanserai_, in which everyone made his bed as best pleased him. worse still, traders were allowed to erect shops and booths in front of the palace, these improvised constructions resting, indeed, on the palace walls. in , under the reign of louis xv., marigny, superintendent of fine arts, undertook to remedy this state of things. he succeeded in interesting the king, who not only ordered the space in front of the louvre to be cleared, but empowered the architect, gabriel, to complete the edifice. gabriel continued the unfinished façade, but had made but little progress when louis xv. died. when louis xvi. ascended the throne in the louvre was far from being finished; and the first step taken by the new monarch in connection with the old palace was to have the interior quadrangle cleared of the heaps of sand and dust which had accumulated there, some of these heaps forming little mountains which reached the first floor of the building. louis xvi., after the first years of his reign, had more pressing matters to attend to than the completion of the ancient palace of the kings of france. his own throne was menaced, and the history of the louvre as a royal residence was now at an end. more than one sovereign has left his mark on the walls of the louvre. the western wing bears the monogram of louis xiii. and anne of austria; also of louis xiv. and marie thérèse. in the north wing, the letters l. b. are to be seen, signifying louis de bourbon, an extremely rare form of the name of louis xiv. on the south wing, several k's are to be seen, standing for "karolous," or charles ix. look to the east, and the napoleonic empire is symbolised by several eagles. the louvre, as we know it, with its magnificent gallery of pictures open to the whole world, dates only from the revolution. there were from the time of francis i. pictures in the old palace, and the collection was constantly increased under his successors. but the galleries were private. they were reserved for the delectation of the sovereign and his court. at the very beginning, however, of the revolution, the louvre was literally invaded, and some of the unfinished portions were finished in an unexpected manner by being converted into private dwelling houses. but the republican government soon put an end to this; and it was under the convention that the picture gallery of the louvre, increased by works of art from other palaces, was for the first time thrown open to the public. to speak only of the building, it was continued by the republic, and all but completed by napoleon, who, after appointing a committee of artists, and receiving from them a report in favour of pierre lescot's design, determined, on his own responsibility, to finish the louvre according to the later design of claude perrault. napoleon wished, moreover, to join the louvre to the tuileries, so as to make of the two palaces one immense palace. two architects, percier and fontaine, were ordered to put this project into form, and they presented their plans to the minister of fine arts in . but the imperial government was now near its fall, and it was not during the calamitous retreat from moscow that architectural projects of any kind could be entertained. under the reigns of louis xviii. and charles x. the halls of the louvre were redecorated. when louis philippe came to the throne, m. thiers, his minister, laid before the chambers a proposition for joining the louvre to the tuileries at a cost of fourteen million francs. but the bill was thrown out, and a similar one presented to the chamber ten years later, in , met with the same fate. liberal and even prodigal as the kings of france have often shown themselves in connection with art, they have never given it such effective encouragement as it has received from france's republican governments. after the revolution of , the provisional government had not been more than four days in power when, february th, it issued a decree ordering the completion of the louvre under the name of "the people's palace." a bill was afterwards passed, on the proposition of the president, general cavaignac, for restoring the two principal halls of the louvre, together with the apollo gallery. a design from the hand of m. visconti, in conformity with the decree of february th, was now adopted, and this was the one ultimately carried out. but the assembly hesitated for a time before the expenditure which the execution of the plan would necessarily entail; and its deliberations were put an end to by the _coup d'état_ of . then came the empire; and in napoleon iii. ordered the completion of the louvre, and its junction with the tuileries. the plan of m. visconti, adopted by the republican government in , was now carried out, and the palace begun by francis i. was at last, after three centuries, completed by napoleon iii. [illustration: top of the marsan pavilion, louvre.] apart from certain incongruities between the different styles adopted, far less apparent to the general public than to the critical architectural eye, and from which no ancient building that has ever been repaired is entirely free, a magnificent line of palaces and gardens now extended for some three-quarters of a mile along the course of the seine from st. germain l'auxerrois to the place de la concorde. but the louvre and the tuileries now, after so many ineffectual attempts, joined together, were not destined to remain together very long. the emperor napoleon was, after the catastrophe of sedan, to be replaced by the republican government of the th of september, which was soon to give way to the commune, under whose abominable rule so many fine buildings, with the palace of the tuileries among them, were wantonly sacrificed, and in a spirit of blind hatred burnt down. the conflagration lighted by the communists had left standing and comparatively uninjured the outer walls, and therefore the general outline of the palace. but these were calmly pulled down by the "moderate" republicans, less through considerations of art than from political prejudice. the louvre subsists in its entirety, and in virtue of its magnificent collection of pictures, constantly enriched through sums voted during the last hundred years by national assemblies, it has come to be looked upon as public property. the tuileries, however, was a palace to the last; and the destruction of this palace, which the _communards_ had only partially accomplished, was effectually completed by the "moderate" republic established on the ruins of its immediate predecessor. interesting as the louvre may be by its ancient history, the old palace is above all famous in the present day for its admirable picture gallery, first thrown open to the public in the darkest, most sanguinary days of the french revolution. the modern collection was formed by francis i., who, during his italian campaigns, had acquired a taste for italian art, and who not only invited celebrated italian artists to his court, but gave princely orders to those who, like raphael and michel angelo, were unable to visit france in person. he collected not only pictures, but art works, and especially antiquities of all kinds--statues, bronzes, medals, cameos, vases, and cups. primatice alone brought to him from italy ancient statues and a large number of busts. these treasures were collected at fontainebleau, and a description of them was published long afterwards by father dan, who, in his "wonders of fontainebleau" ( ), names forty-seven pictures by the greatest masters, nearly all of which had been acquired by francis i. it was not, indeed, until the reign of louis xiii. that any important additions were made to francis i.'s original collection. among the pictures cited by father dan may in particular be mentioned two by andrea del sarto, one by fra bartolommeo, one by bordone, four by leonardo da vinci, one by michel angelo (the leda, afterwards destroyed), three by perugino, two by primatice, four by raphael, three by sebastian del piombo, and one by titian. [illustration: the marsan and flora pavilions, louvre, from the pont royal.] the royal gallery was considerably augmented under the reign of louis xiv. at his accession it included only pictures. at his death the number had been increased to , . most of the new acquisitions were due to the minister colbert, who spared neither money nor pains to enrich the royal gallery, the direction and preservation of which was entrusted to the painter lebrun. a banker, jabach of cologne, resident at paris, had purchased a large portion of art treasures collected by king charles i., and brought them over to paris. he had bought many pictures, moreover, in various parts of the continent. ruined at last by his passion for the fine arts, he sold a portion of his collection to cardinal mazarin, and another portion, composed chiefly of drawings, to the king. on mazarin's death, colbert bought for louis xiv. all the works of art left by that minister, including original pictures, copies, statues, and busts. louis xiv. placed his collection in the louvre, and his first visit to the palace after the installation of the pictures is thus described in _le mercure galant_ of december, :-- "on friday, the th day of the month, the king came to the louvre to see his collection of pictures, which have been placed in a new series of rooms by the side of the superb gallery known as the apollo gallery. the gold which glitters on all sides is the least brilliant of its adornments. what is called 'the cabinet of his majesty's pictures' occupies seven large and lofty halls, some of which are more than feet long. there are, moreover, four additional rooms for the collection in the old hôtel de grammont adjoining the louvre. so many pictures in so many rooms make the entire number appear almost infinite. the walls of the highest rooms are covered with pictures up to the ceiling. the following will give some idea of the number of pictures, by the greatest masters, contained in the eleven rooms:--there are sixteen by raphael, six by correggio, five by giulio romano, ten by leonardo da vinci, eight by giorgione, twenty-three by titian, sixteen by carraccio, eight by domenichino, twelve by guido, six by tintoretto, eighteen by paul veronese, fourteen by van dyck, seventeen by poussin, and six by m. lebrun, among whose works there are some (the battles of alexander) which are feet long. besides these pictures there are a quantity of others by rubens, albano, antonio moro, and other masters of equal renown. apart from the pictures, there are in the old hôtel de grammont many groups of figures and low reliefs in bronze and ivory." the royal visit, as described by the writer in _la mercure galant_, was followed by the dispersion of the collection. louis xiv. was so pleased by the wonderful sight that he ordered a number of the pictures to be removed to versailles, where, according to the _mercure_, there were already twenty-six pictures by the first masters; and so long as versailles was the royal residence the greater part of the king's collection was lost to the public, and served only to furnish the rooms, except, indeed, when the pictures had fallen to the ground and lay there covered with dust. under the reign of louis xiv. a critic whose name is worth preserving, lafont de st. yenne, complained that so many beautiful works were allowed to lie heaped up together and buried in "the obscure prison of versailles," and demanded that all these treasures, "immense but unknown," should be "arranged in becoming order and preserved in the best condition" in a gallery built expressly for their reception in the louvre, where they would be "exhibited to the admiration and joy of the french or the curiosity of foreigners, or finally to the study and emulation of our young scholars." the author of these judicious suggestions got into trouble as a pamphleteer; but four years afterwards, in , louis xiv. allowed the masterpieces previously stowed away in the apartments of the household at versailles to be taken to paris and submitted to the admiration of painters and lovers of painting. the marquis de marigny, director of royal buildings, ordered bailly, keeper of the king's pictures, to arrange the collection in the apartments which had been occupied at the luxembourg by the queen of spain. the "cabinet," composed of pictures, was opened for the first time october th, , and the public was admitted twice every week, on wednesdays and saturdays. the pictures dedicated by rubens to marie de médicis were on view the same days, and during the same hours. until the reign of louis xvi. the royal pictures, the number of which had been increased by the purchase of many examples of the flemish school, continued to be divided into two principal sections, one placed in the luxembourg, and visible twice a week to the public, the other kept out of sight in the palace of versailles. the louvre contained the "king's cabinet of drawings," to the number of about , . the apollo gallery, which served as studio to six students patronised by the king, contained "the battles of alexander," and some other pictures by lebrun, mignard, and rigaud. in , under louis xvi., count d'angiviller succeeded the marquis de marigny, and going a step beyond him, formed the project of collecting everything of value that the crown possessed in the way of painting and sculpture. contemporary writers applauded this idea, which was attributed by some to m. de la condamine. all, however, that came of the new proposal was that instead of pictures being brought from versailles to paris, the louvre collection was transferred to versailles. "it was necessary," writes m. viardot, "that a new sovereign--the nation--should come into power for all these immortal works rescued from the royal catacombs to be restored to daylight and to life. who could believe, without authentic proofs, without official documents, at what epoch this great sanctuary, this pantheon, this universal temple consecrated to all the gods of art, was thrown open to the public? it was in the middle of one of the crises of the revolution in that dreadful year , so full of agitation, suffering, and horror, when france was struggling with the last energy of despair against her enemies within and without; it was at this supreme moment that the national convention, founding on the ruins of the country a new and rejuvenated land, ordered the formation of a national art collection." a step in this direction had already been taken in , when it was decreed that the artistic treasures of the nation should be brought together at the louvre. the year following, august th, , the legislative assembly appointed a commission for collecting the statues and pictures distributed among the various royal residences; and on the th of october in the same year, roland, minister of the interior, wrote to the celebrated painter david, who was a member of the convention, to communicate to him the plan of the new establishment. finally, a decree of july th, , ordered the opening of the "museum of the republic," and at the same time set forth that the "marble statues, vases, and valuable pieces of furniture placed in the houses formerly known as royal, shall be transported to the louvre, and that the sum of , francs shall be placed annually at the disposition of the minister of the interior to purchase at private sales such pictures and statues as it becomes the republic not to let pass into foreign hands, and which will be placed in the museum of the louvre." it should not be forgotten that france was then at war with all the german powers, and threatened by all the powers of europe. crushed by military expenditure, the republic had yet money to spare for the purchase of works of art. the french museum, as the louvre collection was first called, received afterwards the name of central museum of the arts; and it was first opened to the public on the th of november, . the next decree in connection with the fine arts ordered that a number of pictures and statues formerly belonging to the palace of versailles, and which the inhabitants of versailles were detaining as their property, should be placed in the louvre. the old palace was still inhabited by a number of artists and their families. david had his studio there, and most of the painters who had made for themselves a tolerable reputation had apartments in the louvre. it was reserved for napoleon to turn them all out, and to give to the louvre the character which it has since preserved--that of a national palace of art treasures. the galleries of the louvre profited greatly by the napoleonic wars. all continental europe was laid under contribution by the victorious french armies, but especially italy and spain. the stolen pictures formed the best part of what was now called the musée napoléon. though not surreptitiously obtained they had been acquired in virtue of conventions imposed on a conquered people. thus pictures from the galleries of parma, piacenza, milan, cremona, modena, and bologna, were made over to france by the armistices of parma, bologna, and tolentino. the public was admitted to view the conquered treasures on the th of february, . some months afterwards masterpieces from verona, mantua, pesaro, loretto, and rome were added to the marvellous collections; which on the th of march, , was further augmented by drafts of pictures from florence and turin. in france received the artistic spoils of germany and holland. among the famous works of art which france at this time possessed, and which were all on exhibition at the louvre, may be mentioned "the belvedere apollo," "the laocoon," "the medicean venus," "the wrestlers," "the transformation" and "the spasimo"; domenichino's "communion of st. jerome," tintoretto's "miracle of st. mark," paul veronese's four "last suppers," and titian's "assumption"; correggio's "st. jerome" and guercino's "st. petronilla"; "the lances" of velasquez, and the "st. elizabeth" of murillo; rubens' "descent from the cross," and rembrandt's "night patrol." the french say with some justice that many of these works by being sent to the louvre were saved from destruction. many of them, too, though falling into decay, were restored with the greatest care; and some were transferred with success from worm-eaten panels to canvas, thus receiving new brilliancy and a new life. when paris was occupied by the allies in , the art treasures of which so many european countries had been despoiled were left in the possession of the french, who may be said on this occasion to have been magnanimously treated. the object, indeed, of the allies was not to weaken nor to humiliate france as a nation, but simply to restore louis xviii. to the throne of his ancestors. in , after the return from elba and the waterloo campaign, it was determined to treat france with a certain severity. she was deprived of the rhine provinces for the benefit of prussia, while milan and venice were placed in the hands of austria, so that both from the italian and from the german side france might be held in check. the artistic plunder which france had collected from so many quarters was at the same time given back to the countries from which it had been taken. french statesmen protested that the pictures and statues brought to paris from so many foreign picture galleries belonged to france in virtue of formal treaties and conventions; louis xviii. himself declined to sanction the restoration of the captured pictures and statues. denon, director-general of museums, resisted even when threatened with imprisonment in a prussian fortress; and he made the foreign commissaries sign a declaration to the effect that in giving up the works claimed he yielded only to force. the so-called spoliation of the louvre was at last effected. the pictures and statues, that is to say, which had been seized by victorious france, were from vanquished france taken back and replaced in the museums to which they had originally belonged. since the fall of the first empire the louvre has acquired but few masterpieces from abroad. italy now guards her art treasures with a jealous hand; and there are few countries where the masterpieces of antiquity can be purchased except when some private gallery is broken up through the bankruptcy or death of the owner. under the new monarchy the beautiful though armless venus of milo was brought to france; and under the second empire "the conception" of murillo was purchased for , francs. the third republic, under the presidency of m. thiers, spite of its difficulties in connection with the crushing war indemnity, paid , francs for a fresco by raphael. the regular annual allowance to the minister of fine arts for the purchase of pictures is now , francs a year. meanwhile, the louvre collection has been constantly augmented by pictures transferred to the more classical museum from the gallery of pictures by living artists in the luxembourg. the pictures exhibited at the louvre are arranged on a system which leaves nothing to be desired. the supreme masterpieces of the collection are all together, without reference to school, nationality, or period, in a large square room known as the salon carré. in the other rooms the pictures are arranged historically. the principal entrance to the picture galleries of the louvre is in the pavilion molière, opposite the square of the carrousel. after passing a spacious vestibule, where mouldings of trajan's column and a fine collection of antique busts may be seen, the visitor ascends a staircase adorned with etruscan works in terra-cotta and reaches the round hall or cupola of the magnificent apollo gallery, decorated with wall paintings and painted ceilings by the courtly lebrun of louis xiv.'s time and the vigorous imaginative eugène delacroix of our own. what can be more admirable than delacroix's "nymph," at whose feet crouches a panther? "behold this work," writes théophile gautier, "and you will see that for colour france has no longer any reason for envying italy, flanders, or spain. delacroix, in this great page, in which the energy of his talent is freely displayed, shows a knowledge of decorative art which has never been surpassed. impossible while never departing from his own genius to be more in harmony with the style of the gallery and of the epoch. one might here call him a florid romantic lebrun." the apollo gallery leads to the before-mentioned salon carré, where paul veronese's "marriage of cana" at once attracts attention, not only by its immense proportions, but also and above all by the richness of the colouring and the beauty of the composition. here, too, is the portrait by leonardo da vinci, known in france as "la joconde"; "a miracle of painting," says gautier, who has made it the subject of one of his most remarkable criticisms. "'la joconde,' sphinx of beauty," he exclaims, "smiling so mysteriously in the frame of leonardo da vinci, and apparently proposing to the admiration of centuries an enigma which they have not yet solved, an invincible attraction still brings me back towards you. who, indeed, has not remained for long hours before that head, bathed in the half-tones of twilight, enveloped in transparency; whose features, melodiously drowned in a violet vapour, seem the creation of some dream through the black gauze of sleep? from what planet has fallen in the midst of an azure landscape this strange being whose gaze promises unheard-of delights, whose experience is so divinely ironical? leonardo impresses on his faces such a stamp of superiority that one feels troubled in their presence. the partial shadow of their deep eyes hides secrets forbidden to the profane; and the inflexions of their mocking lips are worthy of gods who know everything and calmly despise the vulgarities of man. what disturbing fixity, what superhuman sardonicism in these sombre pupils, in these lips undulating like the bow of love after he has shot his dart. la joconde would seem to be the isis of some cryptic religion, who, thinking herself alone, draws aside the folds of her veil, even though the imprudent man who might surprise her should go mad and die. never did feminine ideal clothe itself in more irresistibly seductive forms. be sure that if don juan had met monna lisa he would have spared himself the trouble of writing in his catalogue the names of , women. he would have embraced one, and the wings of his desire would have refused to carry him further. they would have melted and lost their feathers beneath the black sun of these eyes." [illustration: the richelieu pavilion.] leonardo da vinci is said to have been four years painting this portrait, which he could not make up his mind to leave and which he never looked upon as finished. during the sittings musicians played choice pieces in order to entertain the beautiful model, and to prevent her charming features from assuming an expression of wearisomeness or fatigue. raphael is represented in the salon carré by "st. michael and the demon," painted on a panel framed in ebony. this admirable work is signed not in the corner of the picture, but on the edge of the archangel's dress. "raphaël urbinas pingebat, m.d. xviii." runs the inscription, which raphael seems to have wished to make inseparable from the work. among the other pictures of raphael chosen for places of honour in the square room are "the holy family," which originally belonged to francis i., and the virgin known as "la belle jardinière. among the other masterpieces contained in the salon carré may be mentioned correggio's "antiope," titian's "christ in the tomb," giorgione's "country concert," guido's "rape of dejanira," rembrandt's "carpenter's family," van ostade's "schoolmaster," gerard douw's "dropsical woman," rubens' portrait of his wife, a "charles i." by van dyck, and murillo's "conception of the virgin." this last-named work, as already mentioned, was purchased under the second empire for upwards of , francs. it formed part of a valuable collection of spanish pictures belonging to marshal soult, and had been acquired by that commander under peculiar circumstances during the peninsular war. a certain monk had been sentenced to death as a spy. two monks from the same monastery waited upon the marshal to solicit their brother's forgiveness. soult was obdurate, until at last murillo's wonderful picture was placed before him. the picture was forwarded to france, and the too patriotic monk set free. among the selected works by italian, dutch, flemish, and spanish painters are to be found a few by french artists--for example, the "diogenes" of poussin and the "richelieu" of philippe de champagne; but not one work by an english hand. nor in the famous salon carré of the louvre is a single landscape to be found. * * * * * the tuileries, before incendiarism under the commune rendered it a very imperfect building, had as a palace led a very imperfect life. catherine de médicis had ordered the destruction of the palais des tournelles, where, by a fatal accident montgomery had pierced the eye and brain of henri ii. in the celebrated tournament, and had gone to live with her children at the louvre. these children were francis ii., the husband of marie stuart; charles ix., whose memory, like that of his mother, is indelibly associated with the massacre of st. bartholomew; henri iii., who for his sins was elected king of poland; and francis d'anjou, who gained the famous battle of jarnac, and who on his death was succeeded by henri iv., first king of france and of navarre. the ancient fortress of the louvre was not suited to the pomp of a médicis, and catherine ordered a new palace to be built for her own special convenience in the _tuileries_, or tile yards, where the mother of francis i. had bought a country house, but where francis i. would never reside, preferring to his parisian residence the castles of fontainebleau, amboise, and chambord. according to the plan of philibert delorme, the new palace of the tuileries was to be a true palace of the french kings, with a royal façade, the most beautiful gardens, and the most magnificent courtyards. philibert delorme never got beyond the façade, which, however, was enough to stamp him as an architect of the first order. henri iv.--or rather androuet ducerceaux acting upon his orders--continued the work of philibert delorme. ducerceaux made many changes, and among others constructed a dome where philibert delorme had meant only to build a cupola. who, meanwhile, was to live at the tuileries? it was a royal palace, but not the palace of the french kings. valois did not live there, catherine de médicis gave magnificent entertainments at the tuileries, but held her court at the louvre. nor did henri iv. reside at the tuileries. his private apartments, decorated by the genius of pierre lescot, were at the louvre, from which paris could be better observed. henri's widow, marie de médicis, mourned for her generally excellent though not too faithful husband in the luxembourg palace. when richelieu came to power and worked out the problem of the unity of france, he built the palais cardinal, but took no thought of the tuileries. his eyes were fixed on the louvre, where louis xiii. was domiciled. louis xiv. passed no more time at the tuileries than any of his predecessors. his mother, anne of austria, established her regency at the palais cardinal, soon to become the palais royal; and all idea of completing the tuileries seemed to have been given up, when in , under louis xiv., then twenty-two years of age, the architects levan and dorbay were ordered to resume the work of philibert delorme and ducerceaux--the work begun by catherine, continued by louis xiv.'s grandfather, henri iv., and abandoned by his father, louis xiii. the palace of the tuileries having at last been completed, it became the residence simply of mlle. de montpensier. from time to time louis xiv. visited the place, but only to make it the scene of some occasional entertainment. his favourite abode was always versailles. while the regent was at the palais royal, the youthful louis xv. lived at the tuileries. but as soon as he could walk alone, louis le bien aimé, as he was afterwards to be called, hastened to versailles; and the tuileries palace of strange destinies was now occupied by the french opera company. it became the paris opera house, the académie royale de musique--to give the establishment its official title--whose theatre at the palais royal had been burnt down. in the opera was replaced at the tuileries by the comédie française. to lulli succeeded corneille and to rameau voltaire. one of the most interesting celebrations ever witnessed at the tuileries was the crowning of voltaire on the th of march, , after a representation of his tragedy _irène_. "never," wrote grimm, the chronicler, in reference to this performance, "was a piece worse acted, more applauded, and less listened to. the entire audience was absorbed in the contemplation of voltaire, the representative man of the eighteenth century; philosopher of the people, who could justly say, 'j'ai fait plus dans mon temps que luther et calvin.'" voltaire had but recently left ferney to return to france, which he had not seen for twenty-seven years. deputations from the academy and from the théâtre français were sent to receive him, and on his arrival he was waited upon by men and women of the highest distinction, whether by birth or by talent. after the performance of _irène_, he was carried home in triumph. "you are smothering me with roses," cried the old poet, intoxicated with his own glory. the emotion, the fatigue, caused by the interesting ceremony, had indeed an injurious effect upon his health, and hastened his death, concerning which so many contradictory stories have been told. that he begged the curé of st. sulpice to let him "die in peace" is beyond doubt; and that he died unreconciled to the church, whose bigotry and persecution he had so persistently attacked, is sufficiently shown by the fact that, equally with molière (though the great comedy writer had in his last moments demanded and received religious consolation), he was refused christian burial. his nephew, the abbé mignot, had the corpse carried to his abbey of scellières, where it remained until, under the revolution, it was borne in triumph to the panthéon. eleven years after the crowning of voltaire at the tuileries, louis xvi. arrived there from versailles, where he had fraternised with the people, only to find that he was no longer a king. on the th of october, , three months after the taking of the bastille, the national assembly had waited in a body upon the king and queen, when the president, still loyal, said to marie antoinette: "the national assembly, madame, would feel genuine satisfaction could it see for one moment in your arms the illustrious child whom the inhabitants of the capital will henceforth regard as their fellow-citizen, the offshoot of so many princes tenderly beloved by their people, the heir of louis ix., of henri iv., and of him whose virtues constitute the hope of france." the queen replied, "here is my son;" and marie antoinette, taking the young louis in her arms, carried him into the room occupied by the assembly. on the th of may, , barrère said to this same assembly: "the first things to be reserved for the king are the louvre and the tuileries, monuments of grandeur and of indigence, whose plan, whose façades, are due to the genius of art, but whose completion has been neglected or rather forgotten by the wasteful carelessness of a few kings. each generation expected to see this monument, worthy of athens and of rome, at last finished; but our kings, fearing the gaze of the people, went far from the capital to surround themselves with luxury, courtiers, and soldiers. it is characteristic of despotism to shut itself up in the midst of asiatic luxury, as formerly divinities were placed in the depths of temples and of forests, in order to strike more surely the imagination of men. a great revolution was needed to bring back the people to liberty, and kings to the midst of their people. this revolution has been accomplished, and the king of the french will henceforth have his constant abode in the capital of the empire. this is our project. the tuileries and the louvre shall together form the national palace destined for the habitation of the king." thereupon the assembly decreed: "the louvre and the tuileries joined together shall be the national palace destined for the habitation of the king, and for the collection of all our monuments of science and art, and for the principal establishments of public instruction." [illustration: the tuileries in the eighteenth century.] [illustration: the terrace, tuileries gardens.] [illustration: the tuileries gardens.] the position of the king at this time is well described by arthur young:-- "after breakfast," he writes in diary form, "walk in the gardens of the tuileries, where there is the most extraordinary sight that either french or english eyes could ever behold at paris. the king, walking with six grenadiers of the _milice bourgeoise_, with an officer or two of his household, and a page. the doors of the gardens are kept shut in respect to him in order to exclude everybody but deputies or those who have admission tickets. when he entered the palace, the doors of the gardens were thrown open for all without distinction, though the queen was still walking with a lady of her court. she also was attended so closely by the _gardes bourgeoises_ that she could not speak but in a low voice without being heard by them. a mob followed her, talking very loud, and paying no other apparent respect than that of taking off their hats whenever she passed, which was, indeed, more than i expected. her majesty does not appear to be in health; she seems to be much affected and shows it in her face; but the king is as plump as ease can render him. by his orders there is a little garden railed off for the dauphin to amuse himself in and a small room is built in it to retire to in case of rain; here he was at work with his little hoe and rake, but not without a guard of two grenadiers. he is a very pretty, good-natured looking boy, five or six years old, with an agreeable countenance; wherever he goes all hats are taken off to him, which i was glad to observe. all the family being thus kept close prisoners (for such they are in effect) afford at first view a shocking spectacle, and is really so if the act were not absolutely necessary to effect the revolution. this i conceive to be impossible; but if it were necessary no one can blame the people for taking every measure possible to secure that liberty they had seized in the violence of a revolution. at such a moment nothing is to be condemned but what endangers the national freedom. i must, however, freely own that i have my doubts whether this treatment of the royal family can be justly esteemed any security to liberty; or on the contrary, whether it was not a very dangerous step that exposes to hazard whatever had been gained. i have spoken with several persons to-day and started objections to the present system, stronger even than they appear to me, in order to learn their sentiments, and it is evident they are at the present moment under an apprehension of an attempt toward a counter revolution. the danger of it very much, if not absolutely, results from the violence which has been used towards the royal family. the national assembly was before that period answerable only for the permanent constitutional laws passed for the future; since that moment it is equally answerable for the whole conduct of the government of the state, executive as well as legislative. this critical situation has made a constant spirit of exertion necessary amongst the paris militia. the great object of m. la fayette and the other military leaders is to improve their discipline and to bring them into such a form as to allow a rational dependence on them in case of their being wanted in the field; but such is the spirit of freedom that even in the military, there is so little subordination that a man is an officer to-day and in the ranks to-morrow; a mode of proceeding that makes it the more difficult to bring them to the point their leaders see necessary. eight thousand men in paris may be called the standing army, paid every day fr. a man; in which number is included the corps of the french guards from versailles that deserted to the people; they have also horses at an expense each of , livres a year, and the officers have double the pay of those in the army." if the people and the popular leaders were in constant fear of a counter revolution, the king on his side had had enough of royalty, and on the first opportunity fled from his subjects. the flight of the royal family, as is plainly shown by the correspondence of marie antoinette and by other authentic documents, had been concerted beforehand with the foreign powers. this course was dictated by the most obvious considerations of personal safety. but all idea of an understanding with the "foreigner" was repudiated in the most solemn manner by the king. what the revolutionary government resented was less the king's desire to escape from a country where he had not only ceased to rule, but where his position was getting from day to day more precarious, than his apparent intention of making himself as soon as he had crossed the frontier the centre and support of a counter revolution. as the moment of departure approached, the king and queen renewed with increased energy protestations of their adhesion to the constitution. at the same time the queen was writing to her brother leopold, may nd, : "we are to start for montmédy. m. de bouillé will see to the ammunition and troops which are to be collected at this place, but he earnestly desires that you will order a body of troops of from , to , to be ready at luxembourg and at our orders (it being quite understood that they will not be wanted until we are in a position of safety) to enter france both to serve as example to our troops and if necessary to restrain them." on the st of june, after reiterating her demand for , or , troops at luxembourg, close to the french frontier, she added: "the king as soon as he is safe and free will see with gratitude and joy the union of the powers to assert the justice of his cause." the plan, concerted with the austrian ambassador at paris, who had been the queen's adviser, was first to place the royal family in safety beyond the french frontier, and then to act against france with an army of invasion aided within the country by a royalist insurrection. it was at the same time understood that the austrian emperor and the german princes were not to give their aid gratuitously. they were to be recompensed by a "rectification" of the northern and eastern frontiers of france to their advantage. troops were promised to marie antoinette by her brother leopold, not only from austria and various german states but also from sardinia, switzerland, and even prussia. it was the popular belief at the time that queen marie antoinette had determined to do some dreadful injury to paris and other french cities; to blow them up, for instance, with gunpowder or by some secret means. at a village near clermont in the puy de dôme, arthur young wished to see some famous springs; and the guide he had engaged being unable to render him useful assistance he took a woman to conduct him, when she was arrested by the _garde bourgeoise_ for having without permission become the guide of a stranger. "she was conducted," writes young, "to a heap of stones they call the château. they told me they had nothing to do with me; but as to the woman, she should be taught more prudence for the future. as the poor devil was in jeopardy on my account, i determined at once to accompany them for the chance of getting her cleared by attesting her innocence. we were followed by a mob of all the village with the woman's children crying bitterly for fear their mother should be imprisoned. at the castle we waited some time, and we were then shown into another apartment, where the town committee was assembled; the accusation was heard, and it was wisely remarked by all that in such dangerous times as these, when all the world knew that so great and powerful a person as the queen was conspiring against france in the most alarming manner, for a woman to become the conductor of a stranger, and of a stranger who had been making so many suspicious inquiries as i had, was a high offence. it was immediately agreed that she ought to be imprisoned. i assured them she was perfectly innocent; for it was impossible that any guilty motive should be her inducement. finding me curious to see the springs, having viewed the lower ones, and wanting a guide for seeing those higher in the mountains, she offered herself; that she certainly had no other than the industrious view of getting a few sous for her poor family. they then turned their inquiries against myself--that, if i wanted to see springs only, what induced me to ask a multitude of questions concerning the price, value, and product of the land? what had such inquiries to do with springs and volcanoes? i told them that cultivating some land in england rendered such things interesting to me personally; and lastly, that if they would send to clermont they might know from several respectable persons the truth of all i asserted; and, therefore, i hoped, as it was the woman's first indiscretion, for i could not call it offence, they would dismiss her. this was refused at first, and assented to at last, on my declaring that if they imprisoned her they should do the same by me and answer it as they could. they consented to let her go with a reprimand, and i started--_not_ marvelling, for i have done with that--at their ignorance in imagining that the queen should conspire so dangerously against their rocks and mountains. i found my guide in the midst of the mob, who had been very busy in putting so many questions about me as i had done about their crops." such indeed was the general feeling against the king and queen, that, apart from other powerful motives, they had soon no alternative but to seek safety in flight. one of the principal agents in their escape was count de fersen, formerly colonel of the regiment of royal suédois. he was to drive the coach containing the king and queen. marie antoinette was to play the part of a governess, mme. rochet, in the service of an imaginary russian lady, baroness de korff, impersonated by mme. de tourzel, actually governess to marie antoinette's children. as for the king, disguised in livery, he was to pass as the russian lady's valet. the royal family was at this time confined more or less strictly to the tuileries; and la fayette, under whose command the troops on guard at the palace had been placed, had probably eyed with suspicion certain preparations made by the queen as if in view of a speedy departure. [illustration: lion in the tuileries gardens. (_by cain._)] m. de bouillé, who commanded at metz, had orders to occupy the high road with detachments of troops as far as châlons. during the night of the th of june, , the royal family escaped from the tuileries, reached la villette, where colonel de fersen with a travelling carriage awaited them, and drove off towards bondy, whence they were to make first for châlons, and then for montmédy, a frontier town. the next morning paris woke up without a king. la fayette, who had been wanting in vigilance, defended himself as best he could. an alarm gun was fired from the pont neuf to warn the citizens that the country was in the greatest danger, for it was quite understood that the passage of the frontier by the king and queen would be the signal for a foreign invasion. the national assembly met, and at once took into its hands the supreme direction of affairs. "this is our king!" said the republicans; and louis, by his flight, had in fact ceased to reign. before leaving the tuileries louis xvi. had placed in the hands of la porte, intendant of the civil list, a protest against the manner in which he had been treated, which was duly laid before the assembly. meanwhile, he had arrived at st. ménéhould without accident, where he found himself protected by a detachment of dragoons which had arrived the night before. here, however, his misfortunes began, for he was at once recognised by drouet, a retired soldier now acting as postmaster. called upon for horses, the young man could have no doubt but that the royal personages who required them were bound for the frontier, and he resolved to prevent their escape from france. with the dragoons in occupation of the village he could not refuse to supply horses; and the carriage which bore louis and his fortunes, now approaching the end of its critical journey, went off in an easterly direction. scarcely had the post chaise departed when drouet, aided by a friend named guillaume, also a retired soldier, called out by beat of drum the local national guard, and ordered it to prevent the dragoons from leaving the village. he then, together with guillaume, galloped after the royal carriage, followed by a sub-officer of dragoons named lagache, who, escaping from st. ménéhould, had resolved to catch them up, and, if possible, kill them. riding along, drouet learned that the carriage had taken the road to varennes, a town which has twice played an important part in the history of france, for it was here, seventy-nine years later, that the king of prussia established his head-quarters on the eve of the battle of sedan. [illustration: the chestnuts of the tuileries.] by crossing a wood drouet and guillaume succeeded in getting to varennes a trifle sooner than the royal carriage. passing, at no great pace, the lumbering vehicle just as it was approaching the town, they at once made for the bridge on the other side of varennes, which, as old soldiers, they saw the necessity of blocking, for beyond it, on the other side of the river aire, they had discovered the presence of a detachment of cavalry under the command of a german officer, who, losing his head, took to flight. the energetic drouet had already waked up the town, and, in particular, the principal officials, such as the mayor, the procureur of the commune, &c. the population answered to drouet's call, and soon a small body of armed men was on foot. [illustration: louis xvi. stopped at varennes by drouet.] the fugitives were bound for the hôtel du grand monarque. at this hotel a tradition is preserved which was communicated to the present writer by the proprietress, mme. gauthier, just before the battle of sedan. dinner was prepared there for louis xvi. eight days running; from which it would appear that he was trying to escape from the tuileries for eight days before he at last succeeded in getting away unobserved. the eighth, like all the preceding dinners cooked for the unfortunate king at the hôtel du grand monarque, was destined to remain uneaten. it was now late at night, and when the royal carriage entered the town, it was surrounded in the darkness by a number of armed men, who asked for passports, and showed by their attitude that they had no intention of allowing the occupants of the vehicle to proceed any further. emissaries from varennes had been despatched in all haste to the surrounding villages and nearest towns to call out the national guard. the son of m. de bouillé had meantime quitted the cavalry outside varennes, and ridden towards metz to inform the governor, his father, of the arrival of the fugitives. but when the commandant arrived outside varennes with an entire regiment of cavalry, the town was occupied by , infantry, and all the approaches guarded in such a manner that it was impossible for de bouillé's regiment to act. the procureur, to whose house the royal family had been taken, informed the king in the early morning that he was recognised. a crowd, which had gathered before the house, called for him by name, and when louis showed himself at the window he understood from the attitude of the mob that though he was saluted here and there with cries of "vive le roi!" there was an end to his project of reaching the frontier. at six o'clock couriers arrived from paris with a decree from the assembly ordering the king's arrest; and at eight o'clock on the morning of the nd of june, , the royal family started under escort for the capital. they were surrounded at the moment of departure by an immense mob, a portion of which followed them for some distance along the road. at epernay the commissaries appointed by the assembly, mm. pétion and barnave, were waiting to take the direction of the cortege. on being questioned the king declared that he had never intended to leave the kingdom, and that his object in retiring to montmédy had been to study the new constitution at his ease, so that, with a clear conscience, he might be able to accept it. barnave and pétion got into the royal carriage as if to prevent all possibility of escape. louis was treated with all the respect due to a royal captive, but his position was that of a prisoner. reaching paris three days after his departure from varennes, he was received by the people with the greatest coldness. on the walls of the streets through which he passed, these words had been inscribed: "whoever applauds louis xvi. will be beaten; whoever insults him will be hanged." to avoid the popular thoroughfares, the tuileries was approached by way of the champs Élysées, and once more louis took up his abode in the ancient palace of the french kings. differences between louis xvi. and the assembly, which, from "constituent" had become "legislative," now suddenly occurred; and at the beginning of the jacobin rhul complained from the tribune that the king had treated with disrespect certain commissaries of the assembly who had waited upon him. on the th of july of the same year the king was accused in the chamber of collecting arms at the tuileries. national guards, it was said, went in armed and came out unarmed; and it was declared to be unsafe for the national assembly to have an arsenal of this kind in its immediate neighbourhood. accordingly, the assembly decreed that the terrace of the tuileries gardens must be regarded as its property, and be placed beneath the care of the assembly's own police. the king objected, naturally enough, to the gardens of his palace being thus interfered with. "the nation," said one of the deputies, "lodges the king at the palace of the tuileries, but i read nowhere that it has given him the exclusive enjoyment of the gardens." some days afterwards the same deputy, kersaint by name, said from the tribune: "the assembly having thrown open one of the terraces of the tuileries gardens, the king, who does not think fit to render the rest of the gardens accessible to the public, has lined the terrace with a hedge of grenadiers." chabot called the garden of the tuileries "a second coblentz," in reference to the german fortified town where the allied sovereigns, who were plotting against the revolution, had their head-quarters. on the th of august a journeyman painter named bougneux sent word to the assembly that there had recently been constructed in the palace of the tuileries several masked cupboards. three months afterwards roland brought to the convention the papers of the famous iron cupboard. "they were concealed," he said, "in such a place, in such a manner, that unless the only person in paris who knew the secret had given information it would have been impossible to discover them. they were behind a panel," he continued, "let into the wall and closed in by an iron door." the members of the mountain, as the extreme party occupying the highest seats in the legislative chamber were called, accused roland of having opened the metallic cupboard in order to make away with the papers of a compromising character for his friends the girondists. in revolutionary times a good action may be as compromising as a bad one. brissot proposed about this time that the meetings of the convention should be held at the tuileries. vergniaud had preferred the madeleine. "not," he said, "in either case, that liberty has need of luxury. sparta will live as long as athens in the memory of nations; the tennis court as long as the palaces of versailles and of the tuileries. the external architecture of the madeleine is most imposing. it may be looked upon as a monument worthy of liberty, and of the french nation." it need scarcely be explained that at the _jeu de paume_, or tennis court, the first revolutionary meetings were held. "at the tuileries," said brussonnet, "there is a finer hall; and the greater the questions which the national assembly will have to treat the greater must be the number of hearers and spectators." it was at last decreed that the minister of the interior should order the preparation at the tuileries of a suitable hall for the debates of the national convention; and with that object a sum of , francs was voted. on the th of september, , chaumette, in the name of the paris commune, appeared at the bar of the convention, then presided over by robespierre, and spoke as follows: "we demand that all the public gardens be cultivated in a useful manner. we beg you to look for a moment at the immense garden of the tuileries. the eyes of republicans will rest with more pleasure on this former domain of the crown when it is turned to some good account. would it not be better to grow plants in view of the hospitals, than to let the grounds be filled with statues, _fleurs de lis_, and other objects which serve no purpose but to minister to the luxury and the pride of kings?" dussaulx added with a smile: "i demand that the champs Élysées be given up at the same time as the gardens of the tuileries to useful cultivation." it was at the tuileries that the committee of public safety held its meetings: that irresponsible body which struck so many and such sanguinary blows at the accomplices, real or imaginary, of invasion from abroad, and of insurrection at home. in the tuileries gardens took place the festival of the supreme being, when proclamation was solemnly made, under the authority of robespierre, that the french people believed in god and the immortality of the soul. "people of france," cried robespierre, between two executions, "let us to-day give ourselves up to the transports of pure unmingled joy. to-morrow we must return to our progress against tyranny and crime." to robespierre's passionate declamation succeeded solemn music, composed by méhul. soon afterwards tallien, inspired to an act of daring by the news that the woman he loved and afterwards married had been condemned to death, denounced robespierre; and it was at the tuileries that the reign of terror, like so many other reigns, came to an end. on the st of february, , bonaparte took possession of the tuileries, with his wife joséphine. in he quitted the ancient palace with marie louise. the tuileries was now on the point of being occupied by foreigners. "when i returned to paris," writes mme. de staël, "germans, russians, cossacks, baskirs, were to be seen on all sides. was i in germany or in russia? had paris been destroyed and something like it raised up with a new population? i was all confusion. in spite of the pain i felt i was grateful to the foreigners for having shaken off our yoke. but to see them in possession of paris! to see them occupying the tuileries!" louis xviii. and charles x. both reigned at the tuileries. but in july, , the revolution once more took possession of the palace; and in , after the flight of louis philippe, the mob again ruled for a time in the home of the french kings. in the provisional government converted the tuileries into an asylum for civilians. but the conversion was made only on paper, and in the tuileries became for the second time an imperial palace--the palace of napoleon iii. the fate of the historical structure was, as everyone knows, to be burnt by the communards. it was on the th of may, , when the versailles troops were already in the champs Élysées, that the central dome of the palace, the wings, the whole building in short, was seen to be in flames. the new portions of the palace alone refused to burn. then, in their rage, the incendiaries had recourse to gunpowder, and during the night a formidable explosion was heard. the troops of the commune, commanded by the well-known general bergeret, had retired some hours before. bergeret, however, was not responsible for the incendiarism; and the person afterwards tried for it and condemned to hard labour for life (in commutation of the death punishment to which he was first sentenced) was a certain benoit, formerly a private in the line, then, during the siege, a lieutenant in the national guard, and finally colonel under the commune. [illustration: the royal family at varennes.] the gardens of the tuileries are now more than ever open to the reproach brought against them by the men of the revolution, who objected to statues adorning its terraces and walls, and wished its works of art to be replaced by lettuces and cabbages. all the greatest sculptors of france are represented in the tuileries gardens, which also contain many admirable reproductions of ancient statues and groups. there is one interesting walk in the tuileries gardens which is the favourite resort of children. here it was, in the so-called _petite provence_, that the children's stamp exchange was established, against which the authorities found it necessary to take severe steps. the young people have since contented themselves with balls, balloons, and other innocent amusements. there is a théâtre guignol, moreover, a sort of punch and judy, in the middle of the old gardens; and from the beginning of april to the middle of october a military band plays every day. it is impossible to leave the tuileries gardens without mentioning its famous chestnut tree--the chestnut tree, as it is called, "of the th of march," because in it blossomed on that very day as if to celebrate napoleon's return from elba. but the old chestnut tree had a reputation of its own long before the imperial era. more than a hundred years ago the painter vien, at that time pupil of the french school, was accused of having assassinated a rival who had competed with him for a prize. he was about to be arrested when he proved that at the very hour when the crime must have been committed he was tranquilly seated beneath the future "chestnut tree of the th of march," which was distinguished just then from all the other trees in the garden by being alone in flower. this picturesque _alibi_ saved his life. [illustration: monument to gambetta, place du carrousel.] outside the remains of the tuileries was erected, on the place du carrousel, in , a monument to gambetta. the design as a whole has been unfavourably criticised, but the figure of the orator himself, represented in the act of declamation, is bold and striking, and full of character. chapter xx. the champs ÉlysÉes and the bois de boulogne. the champs Élysées--the Élysée palace--longchamp--the bois de boulogne--the château de madrid--the château de la muette--the place de l'Étoile. before entering the champs Élysées, the greatest pleasure thoroughfare in paris, next to, if not before, the line of boulevards, a brief examination of the frontiers, as approached from the place de la concorde, may be advisable. this region of the capital was for a long time one of those marshes by which ancient paris, the lutetia of the romans, was enclosed like a fortress. then it became cultivable land and passed into the hands of market gardeners, who grew their vegetables in fields by no means "elysian," until the latter part of the reign of louis xv. the ancient marsh was bounded on one side by the seine, on the other by the faubourg st. honoré, which in the eighteenth century was already a favourite locality for mansions of the nobility. the market gardens, more fertile, perhaps, by reason of their marshy origin, were traversed by the chemin du roule--so named from the slope called _rotulus_, in the days of lutetia, of which the culminating point is now marked by the triumphal arch. at the entrance to the champs Élysées stands the celebrated marble group known as the horses of marly; and close to the entrance is the garden of the Élysée palace (Élysée bourbon, to call it by its historical name), whose principal gates open into the rue du faubourg st. honoré. built in by the architect mollet on a portion of the st. honoré marshes which had been given by the regent to henri de la tour d'auvergne, count of evreux, the Élysée palace passed in from the count's heirs to madame de pompadour. her brother, the marquis de marigny, inherited it from her, and, holding the appointment of inspector and director of royal buildings, he embellished the palace and made great improvements in that portion of the neighbourhood known to-day as the champs Élysées. it was now only that the mansion, called successively hôtel d'evreux, hôtel de pompadour, and hôtel de marigny, received the name of Élysée. towards the period of the revolution, in , the Élysée palace was purchased by the king, and, according to the terms of a royal decree, was to be reserved for the use of princes and princesses visiting the french capital as well as ambassadors charged with special missions. almost immediately afterwards, however, the structure was bought by the duchess of bourbon, when Élysée bourbon became its recognised name. this very appellation was enough to condemn it in the days of the revolution; and the duchess of bourbon having migrated, her property was seized and confiscated. sold by auction, it was acquired by mlle. hovyn, who seven years later ceded it to murat; and murat, on leaving paris to assume the crown of naples, presented it to the emperor. napoleon accepted the gift and took a fancy to his new edifice. he often resided there; and after the defeat of waterloo it was at the Élysée that he signed his abdication in favour of his son. in and the Élysée was temporarily occupied by alexander i. of russia. at the restoration, the duchess of bourbon, returning to france, claimed her property. her rights were recognised, but she was prevailed upon to accept, in lieu of the Élysée, the hôtel de monaco in the rue de varennes, which she left by will to the princess adelaide of orleans, sister of louis philippe. under the restoration, it was at the Élysée, now called once more Élysée bourbon, that the duke and duchess of berry resided until , when, after the assassination of the duke, the duchess felt unable to live there any longer. the duke and duchess were the last permanent tenants of the Élysée, which under the reign of louis philippe was utilised, in accordance with the intentions of louis xvi., as a resting-place for royal guests, or guests of the first importance. in its new character it received mahomet ali pasha of egypt, and queen christina of spain. after the th of december, , prince louis napoleon, elected president of the republic, had the Élysée assigned to him as his official place of residence. it was here that the _coup d'état_ of the nd of december, , was planned and plotted by the prince-president, and the count de morny, his minister, confidant, and guide, general st. arnaud, and other accomplices. on proclaiming himself emperor, napoleon iii. gave up possession of the Élysée, and removed to the more regal, more imperial palace of the tuileries; the Élysée, being now once more set apart for foreign potentates and other grandees visiting paris. under the second empire queen victoria, the sultan abdul aziz, and the emperor alexander ii. of russia, were successively received there. since the establishment of the third republic the Élysée has been made the official residence of the president; and it has been inhabited, one after the other, by m. thiers, marshal macmahon, m. grévy, and m. carnot. it has been said that the Élysée palace stands between the rue du faubourg st. honoré and the champs Élysées, with its principal entrance in the street. between these two thoroughfares stood the ancient village du roule, which possessed, as far back as the thirteenth century, an asylum for lepers with a chapel attached to it. this chapel was in elevated to the rank of parish church, under the invocation of st. philip. being now too small it was pulled down; and in place of it was built the present church of st. philippe du roule, which underwent a partial transformation in and . the principal avenue of the champs Élysées was planted with trees in ; but it was not until the reign of louis xvi. that the champs Élysées, or rather that portion of the avenue known as longchamp, became a haunt of fashion. the so-called promenade of longchamp was, towards the end of the eighteenth century, frequented by the most aristocratic society. gradually after the revolution it got to be a more miscellaneous resort, to become ultimately, in modern times, a sort of show ground for fashionable milliners and dressmakers, hatters and tailors. the abbey of longchamp, whence the promenade derived its name, was founded as a convent in the thirteenth century by isabelle of france, sister of louis ix., and pulled down at the time of the revolution. it was situated close to the bois de boulogne, near the village of that name. "i wish to ensure my salvation," wrote the princess isabelle to hémeric, chancellor of the university, "by some pious foundation. king louis ix., my brother, grants me , paris livres, and the question is, shall i found a convent or a hospital?" the chancellor's advice was to establish an asylum for the nuns of the order of st. clara. in isabelle built the church, the dormitories, and the cluster of the humility of our lady; and according to agnes d'harcourt, who has written her life, the whole of the , livres was consumed. the year afterwards, on the rd of june, the nuns of the rule of st. francis took possession of the abbey in presence of louis ix. and all the court. the king gave considerable property to the nuns, whom he often visited, and, by his will, dated february, , this sovereign, on the point of undertaking his last expedition to palestine, left a legacy to the abbey of our lady. isabelle in this very year ended her days within its walls. the royal origin and associations of the house which the princess had founded ensured for it the patronage of successive french sovereigns--marguerite and jeanne de brabant, blanche de france, jeanne de navarre, and twelve other princesses, taking the veil there; and it is recorded that philippe le long died in it with his daughter blanche by his side on the nd of december, , of complicated dysentery and quartan fever. when he was approaching his end the abbé and monks of st. denis came in procession to his aid, bringing with them a piece of the true cross, a nail that had been used at the crucifixion, and one of the arms of st. simon. the exhibition and application of these pious relics gained for the king enough time to make his will, after which he expired. longchamp had no fewer than forty nuns in residence. its proximity to paris, its illustrious origin, its not less illustrious visitors, its aristocratic inhabitants, its vicissitudes during the sanguinary civil wars of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, its decline, and, ultimately, its ruin, invested it with extraordinary interest. as regards the history of the abbey, it must be mentioned that, as with all other convents, its discipline gradually became relaxed until at last purity gave way to licence. henri iv. took from longchamp one of his mistresses, catherine de verdun, a young nun of twenty-two, to whom he gave the priory of st. louis de vernon, and whose brother, nicholas de verdun, became first president of the parliament of paris. "it is certain," wrote st. vincent de paul, on the th of october, , to cardinal mazarin, "that for the last years this convent has been gradually getting demoralised until now there is less discipline there than depravity. its reception rooms are open to anyone who comes, even to young men without relations at the convent. the order of friars (cordeliers) under whose direction it is placed, do nothing to stop the evil. the nuns wear immodest garments and carry gold watches. when, war compelled them to take refuge in the town the majority of them gave themselves up to all kinds of scandals, going alone and in secret to the men they desired to visit." it is evident from this letter that there were intimate relations between the abbey of longchamp and paris. it had been the custom, moreover, since the fifteenth century, to go to longchamp to hear the friars of the order of cordeliers preach during lent. "in ," says the journal of charles vii., "brother richard, a cordelier, lately returned from jerusalem, preached such a fine sermon that the people from paris who had been to hear it made more than one hundred fires on their return--the men burning tables, cards, billiard-tables, billiard-balls, and bowls; while the women sacrificed head-dresses, and all kinds of body ornaments, with pieces of leather and pieces of whalebone, their horns and their tails." a great many miracles were said to take place through invocations addressed to the princess isabelle, whom pope leo x., by a bull dated january , , had canonised; while he, at the same time, granted to the nuns of longchamp the privilege of celebrating annually, in her honour, a solemn service on the last day of august. from the early days of the reign of louis xv. date those regular pilgrimages to longchamp during holy week, which were soon to degenerate into mundane promenades. [illustration] [illustration: the horses of marly, champs ÉlysÉes.] at one time the singing of the nuns had been found attractive. in a vocalist from the opera, mlle. lemaure, sang with the choir, and "all paris" went to hear her. the nuns profiting by her lessons, and studying her style, sang the "tenebræ" during holy week with so much success that in order to make the choir perfect the abbess applied to the opera for some additional voices. the abbey was now more than ever besieged. people crowded round the walls, filled the churchyard, and, according to one writer, stood on the tombstones. if the chorus-singers from the opera were not converted to piety by the nuns, the nuns underwent the influence of the professional vocalists. at last, one wednesday in holy week, a brilliant gathering of fashionable people arrived at the church of longchamp only to find it closed. the archbishop of paris had ordered the doors to be locked. [illustration: st. philippe du roule.] the original object of the longchamp promenade was now at an end. but the promenade continued all the same; and it was at longchamp every holy week that the first spring fashions were to be seen. this lasted for many years, until at last, as already set forth, the longchamp promenade became a medium for the exhibition of such articles of dress as the leading dressmakers, milliners, and tailors wished to see adopted during the approaching season. [illustration: the ÉlysÉe.] meanwhile, at the time of the revolution, the old convent of longchamp was brought to the hammer, and not only knocked down but pulled down. the tombs in the church were broken up, and the ashes of the pious founder, jeanne de bourgogne, wife of philippe le long, of jean de navarre, and of jean ii., count of dreux, were dispersed. of longchamp nothing remained but the name. to many the champs Élysées are chiefly interesting as leading to the bois de boulogne with its picturesque scenery and its romantic lake, suggestive, in a small way, of the beautiful loch katrine. the bois de boulogne owes its name to the church of notre dame de boulogne, built in the year , under philip, surnamed the long. he gave permission to the citizens of his good town of paris who had been on a pilgrimage to visit the church of nostre dame de boulogne-sur-le-mer, to build and construct a church, and there to institute a religious community. the new church became itself an object of pilgrimage, like the original church of notre dame at boulogne-sur-mer, founded, according to the legend, in memory of the landing on the coast of the holy virgin accompanied by two angels. up to the time of the revolution the bois de boulogne was little more than a wilderness. napoleon i. cut walks and avenues through it, and caused trees to be planted, so that it was already one of the most agreeable places in the neighbourhood, when, in , after the waterloo campaign, the soldiers of the duke of wellington and of the emperor alexander i. encamped beneath its groves; which they are said to have mutilated and ravaged. the bois de boulogne was considerably diminished when, in , the fortifications of paris were being constructed, the wood being traversed by the lines of brickwork. soon afterwards, in , under the second empire, it was made over to the town of paris, and converted by the municipality into a park after the english model, with all the agreeable delightful features it now possesses. the first improvement introduced was the river with its picturesque islands and the lake with its wooded banks and its swiss cottages. the waterfalls or "cascades" give their name to the celebrated restaurant and café constructed by their side; and for the last thirty or forty years the bois de boulogne has possessed spacious avenues, with grass borders and endless rows of lamps. the grass plots in every direction, and here and there wide lawns, give a softness to the general picture which has not its equal in any european capital. in the bois de boulogne stood formerly the château de madrid, said to have been erected by king francis i. in memory and on the pattern of the one where, after the defeat of pavia, charles v. had held him captive. in spite of the recollections which it must have evoked, and which it is said to have been intended to evoke, francis i. often visited his castle in the wood. it was turned to questionable use by various kings of france, and henry iii. varied the diversions of which it was so often the scene by introducing combats between wild beasts and bulls. one night, however, this depraved and sanguinary monarch dreamt that his animals wished to devour him, and the next morning he gave orders that they should all be killed and replaced by packs of little dogs. what remains of the ancient château is now a fashionable restaurant. close by is the delightful bagatelle, built in sixty-four days by the count of artois, and called at one time folie d'artois. above the principal entrance the count (afterwards charles x.) had inscribed the words, _parva sed apta_. under the revolution this "small but suitable" structure was used for public festivals; and it was here, at the time of the restoration, that the duke of bordeaux, posthumous son of the duke of berry, was brought up. the duke of bordeaux (who afterwards took the title of count of chambord) was the last representative of the elder branch of the bourbons, a house which is said to have produced since the fourteenth century some six hundred remarkable men, chiefly soldiers, and which, apart from their feats of war, founded thrones in all the latin countries of europe--in france, spain, portugal, and italy. it has been said that the duke was brought up as a child at bagatelle in the bois de boulogne; and many were the speculations and suspicions of which he was at that time the subject. when, indeed, after the revolution of louis philippe, duke of orleans, assumed the crown, and was thereupon accused by the partisans of the dethroned charles x. of violating his promise to act as regent until the majority of the duke of bordeaux, a paper was issued, apparently by the orleanists, denying that the duke of bordeaux was the legitimate son of the assassinated duke of berry, eldest son of charles x. the _courrier français_, a journal devoted to the new dynasty, now published a letter which had first appeared ten years before in the _morning chronicle_ of london, asserting the illegitimacy of the count of chambord. "the proposals," said the _courrier français_, "which the duke of mortemart has just made to the chamber of peers in favour of the duke of bordeaux will naturally recall attention to a subject which at last may be freely examined and discussed. we shall confine ourselves to publishing a document inserted in the english papers of the time, and which has never appeared in france. its publication is perfectly opportune; it completes the parallel that has been drawn until now between the stuart and the capet families." the _courrier français_ then reproduced a document entitled "protest of the duke of orleans," which ran as follows: "his royal highness declares by these presents that he protests formally against the procès-verbal dated th september last, which document professes to establish the fact that the child named charles ferdinand dieudonné is the legitimate son of her royal highness the duchess of berry. the duke of orleans will produce in fit time and place witnesses who will make known the origin of the child and of its mother, and he will point out the authors of the machination of which that very weak princess has been the instrument." the _morning chronicle_, in publishing the document about six weeks after the count's birth, denied its authenticity, adding, however, that it was being industriously circulated in every part of france, and that a copy of it had been addressed to the ambassador of every power represented at paris. it was not, of course, under charles x. published in any paris newspaper; and when at last, in louis philippe's reign, it found its way into the columns of the _courrier français_ it was impossible not to notice that the journal which first printed it was one devoted to the interests of the new king. [illustration: the great lake, bois de boulogne.] the château de la muette, another of the remarkable edifices in the bois de boulogne, was originally a hunting-box where charles ix., the hero of the st. bartholomew massacre, used to shoot stags and boars from a box before giving himself the royal pleasure of shooting huguenots from the balcony of the louvre. the avenue marigny has a greater number of frequenters among the parisian public than the more distant bois de boulogne. it dates from the reign of louis xv., until which time it formed part of the historic marsh, and it owes its name to its designer. after the cession of the champs Élysées to the town of paris in , the avenue marigny became the scene of the fêtes given every year in honour of the successor of the monarch who made the cession. on the th, th, and th of july, the anniversaries of the revolutionary days of , two theatres were put up in the avenue marigny, on whose boards military spectacles were represented, while their orchestras played dance music for the exhilaration and physical recreation of the general public. booths for acrobats and tight-rope dancers were also established; wild beasts were shown, and wrestling matches took place. one of the first acts of the emperor napoleon iii. in was to change all this. the town of paris gave back to the state, by a perpetual lease, the whole of the champs Élysées, where it had been determined to construct an edifice which should serve for national exhibitions, and other civil and military festivals, the building to be after the model of the english crystal palace. in two years the palace of industry was finished; and in it became the scene of a universal exhibition opened in the course of the crimean war, and honoured by the visit of queen victoria. the second and third universal exhibitions at paris were held in a larger building constructed for the purpose, and the fourth ( ) in a larger building still. the palais de l'industrie of is now used for annual exhibitions of agriculture, horticulture, horses and fat cattle; also for the annual exhibition of painting, sculpture, and engraving. the champs Élysées form a pleasure resort for all classes of the parisian population; and the number of lightly constructed booths for the sale of cakes and toys show that among the frequenters of the avenue marigny there are a good number of children, many of whom may be seen driving about in little goat-chaises. the avenue marigny, with its interminable files, at every hour of the day, of horsemen, horse-women, and carriages, leads directly to the triumphal arch, known as the arc de triomphe de l'Étoile, from which a magnificent view may be obtained of the whole line of the champs Élysées from its commencement as marked by the obelisk of the place de la concorde. [illustration: avenue du bois de boulogne.] the place de l'Étoile, in which stands the arch of the same name, is so called from the star of avenues of which it forms the centre. the idea of a monument on this spot dates from the reign of louis xv., when it was proposed to place on the present site of the arch a colossal elephant. the animal in question found for a time a resting place not on the place de l'Étoile but on that of the bastille. at last, in , napoleon determined to erect on the spot once threatened with an elephant the triumphal arch in commemoration of victories gained under his command, of which the first stone was laid on the th of august, the emperor's birthday. by the year the cornice of the first storey had been reached. then chalgrin, the original architect of the construction, died, to be replaced by his inspector, goust; and the work was continued until , when, napoleon having been defeated and sent to elba, all question of completing a monument in honour of his victories was at an end. [illustration: arc de triomphe.] under the restoration, when endeavours were being made by official historians to suppress the napoleonic period, or, at least, to represent it as a natural link of connection between the old monarchy and the monarchy now re-established, the triumphal arch was gone on with and dedicated to the glory of the duke of angoulême, who had intervened at the head of a large army in the affairs of spain. finally king louis philippe, who claimed to represent, not only the ancient monarchy, but also in some measure the revolution and the empire, restored the arch to its original purpose. the works were hurried to completion, and on the th of july, , it was formally inaugurated. the dimensions of the arch, twice as large as those of the porte st. denis, may be called colossal. the frieze around the four sides (which are themselves arched) represents the departure and the return of the french armies. comparatively small as the figures in the frieze appear, they are scarcely less than six feet high. on either side of the different arches the capture of aboukir, the funeral of marceau, the battle of austerlitz, the capture of alexandria, the bridge of arcola, and the battle of jemappes, are shown in low relief. the names of french victories are engraved all over the interior surfaces of the large and small arches, these inscriptions being completed and illustrated by allegorical figures. nothing, however, is finer in the ornamentation of the arch than the four immense groups on the external sides of the two great façades. on the eastern side, looking towards paris, one sees to the right the departure of the troops in beneath the genius of war, which, with outstretched wings and open mouth, seems to protect and inspire them. on the left side, looking towards the south, is the apotheosis of the emperor, in which napoleon, attired in a chlamys, is being crowned by victory, while renown proclaims his lofty exploits, and history engraves them on her tablets. [illustration: avenue des champs ÉlysÉes.] the two groups towards the west represent, on the right, resistance to invasion, and, on the left, peace crowned by the figure of minerva. broad staircases lead to a higher platform which commands a magnificent view of central paris. in , two years after the proclamation of the second empire, a "place" was designed around the arch, which now forms the centre of twelve avenues, darting out from the arc de l'Étoile like the rays of a star. the open-air entertainments of which the champs Élysées and bois de boulogne are the scene possess as much importance as the entertainments taking place within the walls of the innumerable paris theatres. of the races which find so much favour in france the most celebrated is that of the grand prix, run on the course of longchamp early in june, just after the english derby, and the second sunday after the so-called derby of chantilly. it was founded only in (until the racing ground of the parisians had, for twenty-five years previously, been the champ de mars) though it has long been regarded as one of the national institutions of the country. the prize is of the value of , francs, of which half is furnished by the town of paris and half by the five great railway companies of the north, the west, lyons, orleans, and the south. the sight, as one approaches the course, suggests ascot and goodwood rather than epsom; and the great majority of the sightseers seem to take more interest in the carriages and the costumes than in the racing, or even the betting, though the betting plague has settled upon paris, where it replaces the lotteries and the gambling-houses suppressed by law. in a publicly organised form, betting is illegal, but the evil is a difficult one to deal with, and it is now tolerated in france, if not formally permitted. every now and then an example is made of some unhappy offender; but these rare instances serve simply to excite the spirit of betting already so wide-spread amongst the community at large. the amusements of the champs Élysées, although of a much more trifling kind than that royal one of racing reserved for the bois de boulogne, have from the earliest times been as remarkable for their variety as for their originality. the parisians were always great lovers of public amusements, even from the days of charles v. and charles vi., when tight-rope dancers, whom it would be difficult to equal in the present day, walked down a rope stretched from the towers of notre dame to the palais de justice. one acrobat who excelled in performing this feat was so agile and so rapid that he seemed to fly, and was called the "flying man." one day he stretched a rope from the summit of one of the towers of notre dame to a house on the exchange bridge, danced as he came down it, holding, meanwhile, in one hand a flaming torch, and in the other a wreath, which, just as queen isabeau de bavière passed across the bridge, in making her entry into paris, he placed on her head, and immediately afterwards re-ascended to the point whence he had started. another tight-rope dancer, named georges menustre, performed similar feats under the reign of louis xii. the most popular entertainments of those days were representations of mysteries. these religious dramas were played when the king entered paris, and on other joyful occasions. some of the subjects were taken from the old, some from the new testament, others from the lives of the saints. they were treated either in prose, in verse, or even occasionally in pantomime. in the year the game of climbing the greasy pole is said to have been for the first time introduced. on st. giles's day inhabitants of the parish under the invocation of that saint invented "a new diversion." they planted a long pole perpendicularly in the rue aux ours opposite the rue quincampoix. they fastened to the top of the pole a basket containing a fat goose and six small coins. then they oiled the pole, and promised goose, money, basket, and pole itself, to anyone skilful enough to climb to the top. but the most vigorous were unable to complete so slippery an ascent; and at last, after a succession of ludicrous failures, the goose was given to the one who had got the highest; though he received neither the pole, the money, nor the basket. the same year the parisians invented a still more remarkable entertainment. they formed at the hôtel d'armagnac in the rue st. honoré an enclosure into which they introduced a pig and four blind men, each of them armed with a stick. the pig was promised to whichever of the four could beat it to death. the enclosure was surrounded by numerous spectators impatient to see the conclusion of this "comedy," as dulaure calls it, though the pig might have described it by a different name. the blind men all rushed towards the spot where the animal, by its cries, proclaimed itself to be, and then struck away with their sticks, hitting, as a rule, one another, and not the pig; which, says a contemporary writer, caused infinite mirth to the assembly. they renewed the attack again and again, but never with any success; and although they were covered with armour from head to foot, they exchanged amongst themselves blows so severe that, despairing at last of the pig, they retired from a game which was pleasant only to the spectators. in the early days of paris the churches were at christmas-time made the scene of ceremonies and diversions recalling the saturnalia of the romans, from whom such civilisation as the french then possessed was for the most part inherited. clerks and members of the inferior clergy took the place in churches and cathedrals of high ecclesiastical dignitaries when services were performed in which, with religious ceremonies, acts of buffoonery and even indecency were mingled. the festival of the fools, the festival of the ass, the festival of the innocents and of the sub-deacons, were some of the names of these burlesque celebrations. at paris, in the church of notre dame, the festival of the sub-deacons was also called the festival of the drunken deacons. begun on christmas day, it was kept up until twelfth day, the chief celebration being reserved for new year's day. [illustration: avenue marigny, champs ÉlysÉes.] in the first place, from among the sub-deacons of the cathedral a bishop, archbishop, and sometimes a pope was elected. the mitre, the crook, and the cross, were carried before the mock pontiff, and he was then required to give his solemn blessing to the people. the entry of the pope, archbishop, or bishop into the church was announced by the ringing of the bells. then the sham prelate was placed in the episcopal chair, and mass was begun. all the clergy who took part in the mass had their faces painted black, or wore hideous and ridiculous masks. they were dressed as acrobats or as women, danced in the middle of the choir, and sang improper songs. then the deacons and sub-deacons advanced to the altar and ate black puddings and sausages before the celebrant. they played at cards or at dice, and placed in the incense box pieces of old shoes, the odour of which was by no means agreeable. when the mass was at an end the sub-deacons, in their madness or their intoxication, profaned the church still more, running, dancing, and leaping like lunatics, exciting one another to new extravagances, singing the most dissolute songs, and sometimes stripping themselves of their clothes. the church as a body was far from approving these shameful practices, and it condemned them in several councils; but for a considerable time the spirit of insubordination, together with the dissolute tendencies of a section of the priesthood, rendered all such condemnations nugatory. the clerical saturnalia were continued up to the middle of the fifteenth century. forbidden by the pope's legate at paris, and by the archbishop of paris, they remained popular until , in which year a letter was addressed by the theological faculty of paris to all the prelates and chapters exhorting them to abolish customs so unworthy of religion. sixteen years afterwards, in , these burlesque celebrations were still spoken of at the council of sens as an abuse which must be destroyed. so difficult are popular customs to extirpate! [illustration: fountain in the champs ÉlysÉes.] chapter xxi. the champ de mars and paris exhibitions. the royal military school of louis xv.--the national assembly--the patriotic altar--the festival of the supreme being--other festivals--industrial exhibitions--the eiffel tower--the trocadéro. a whole chapter might be devoted to the café concerts, the swings, the merry-go-rounds, and other entertainments of a constantly varying kind, which are to be witnessed and, according to taste, enjoyed from morning to night in the champs Élysées. but against the frivolity of these popular diversions may well be placed the great international exhibitions of which the champs Élysées have from time to time during the last thirty-six years been the scene. [illustration: the champ de mars, .] with each of the exhibitions of , , and the champ de mars has been connected; and its permanent association with these peaceful celebrations is now marked by the famous eiffel tower, which stands in the warlike field. although it lies on the south side of the river, the champ de mars is so closely connected with the champs Élysées that it may almost be regarded as belonging thereto. if the universal exhibitions of paris were held in the elysian fields, they have, on each of the last three occasions, had an annex in the field of mars. it is by the way of the champs Élysées, moreover, that the troops march when the army of paris is exercised and inspected in the great review-ground. the champ de mars was originally a simple field of exercise for the pupils of the royal military school. established by louis xv. in for five hundred sons of officers, this school came into existence half a century before the polytechnic school and the school of st. cyr, and formed, during the last years of the monarchy, a great number of excellent officers, the most celebrated of all being napoleon bonaparte, who on the nd of october, , entered the company of gentlemen cadets. on the st of the following september, having come out brilliantly in an examination, he was appointed second lieutenant in the artillery regiment of la fayette. he had then passed by only fourteen days his sixteenth birthday. the school of gentlemen cadets, the military cradle of the future emperor, was not precisely the school which louis xv. had founded. his grandson had perceived that to admit, as a matter of right, children from eight to thirteen years of age would fill the military school with youths who had no fitness for the military career. he solved the problem by establishing in various country towns twelve colleges, where those qualified for admission could study up to the age of fifteen, after which a selection was made with a view to the military school of paris. one of these colleges was at brienne, where the young napoleon studied before being passed for the military school. until no one was admitted to the military school but sons of officers and noblemen. in the first year of the revolution the constitutional ministers of louis xvi. procured a decree from the council which abolished the qualification of nobility. this was not so great an innovation as it may appear, since louis xv. had by a decree of the year granted privileges of nobility to officers; the children, therefore, of all officers were admissible to the military school. the institution was all the same of doubtful origin; and not knowing what else to do with it the convention abolished it in june, , took possession of its funds, and changed the building into a flour magazine and a cavalry depôt. soon afterwards, with a mutability characteristic of the time, the revolutionary government came to the conclusion that a royal military school, however detestable as of royal origin, would become admirable if the title of republican were applied to it. it was accordingly decided in june, , that each district of the republic should send to paris "six young citizens under the name of pupils of the school of mars, aged from sixteen to seventeen years, in order to receive a revolutionary education with all the knowledge, sentiments, and ideas of a republican soldier." the project was voted for on a report of barère, who had drawn a droll parallel between the students of the royal military school (descended from "some feudal brigand, some privileged rogue, some ridiculous marquis, some modern baron, or some court flunkey") and what the students of the school of mars would be--"the offspring of republican families, of parents of restricted means, or of useful inhabitants of the country. what," barère went on to say, "has ever come out of the military school? what has this brilliant college produced? no able officer, not a general, not an administrator, not one celebrated warrior." it had produced, all the same, general bonaparte, who was even then preparing the plans of his italian campaign. the very next year the young cadet of the royal military school reentered the École militaire to establish his headquarters there as general commanding in chief the army of paris. when he became emperor he inscribed on the portico of the school these words: "napoleon's headquarters"; which only disappeared in , when a regiment of the imperial guard was replaced in the building by the royal guard. since it has ceased to be a school the so-called École militaire has been used as a cavalry and artillery barrack. the champ de mars, in front of the École militaire, has a very varied history. here in the ninth century the normans were defeated by eudes, son of robert the strong, count of paris; who called the scene of his exploit, not champ de mars, but more explicitly, champ de la victoire. then for many centuries the field of victory, or of mars, seems to have witnessed nothing in particular until, at last, under the reign of louis xv., it became the scene of a grand review in which the students of the royal military school took part. while the review was going on a young officer, nephew of orry, controller of finance, who had suffered from the persecution of the king's favourite, was brought before a court-martial on an accusation of treason, suggested by the defeat of the french army in germany. he was about to be condemned, when the king was informed by express, that not only was young orry no traitor, but that the whole army, compromised by a serious mistake on the part of its commander, marshal maillebois, owed its safety to orry's presence of mind, and to a vigorous charge of cavalry directed by him. louis xv. gave the young man a new commission, thus marking the opening of the champ de mars by an act of justice. during the early days of the revolution the champ de mars played an important part; and through the course of the revolution it was the scene of all the most important national celebrations. nor under the empire did it lose the character it had thus acquired. in july, , the year after the taking of the bastille, the general federation of the nation was celebrated; and a quarter of a century later, after napoleon's return from elba, and immediately before the waterloo campaign, the emperor assembled in the champ de mars the authorities and representative bodies of the country in order to swear fidelity to the new constitution which he had just promulgated, even as louis xvi. had sworn fidelity to the constitution adopted by the national assembly. on the th of june all military and naval bodies, national or foreign, were invited to send a number of delegates, according to the forces represented, to an assembly which was to be held in the champ de mars on the th of the month following. the details of the celebration were regulated by special decree; and artists of all kinds were invited to make suggestions towards the arrangement and decoration of the plain. it was determined in the first instance to convert this plain into a sort of basin or amphitheatre with sloping sides and a hollow in the middle. many thousands of labourers were employed in this work, and they were ultimately joined by the whole population of paris, just as two years afterwards all classes and conditions of people took part in the preparations for the festival of the altar to the country. on the day appointed deputations arrived from all parts of france, the visitors being hospitably entertained by private citizens, or received by innkeepers at reduced charges. special seats were reserved for them at the meeting of the national assembly; and they, in their turn, were full of enthusiasm for the assembly, for the people of paris, but above all for king louis xvi. on the th, the day before the festival, the king reviewed the troops, the deputations, and a good portion of the paris national guard, on the place louis xv., and in the champs Élysées. at five o'clock in the morning the national guard and the entire population were on foot. many had passed the night in the champs Élysées, and several regiments of national guards had marched there at midnight in order to be in good time for the approaching celebration. the deputies from the provinces assembled at the bastille, where eighty-three white flags bearing the names of their respective departments were distributed among them. at seven o'clock the march began, headed by a body of cavalry belonging to the national guard of paris, which was followed by a body of infantry, the electors of paris, the paris commune, and the national assembly, preceded by a regiment of children, and followed by a regiment of old men with the flags of the sixty battalions of paris around them. then came the representatives of the federated departments, preceded by two marshals of france with a numerous staff, and followed by a number of officers of various corps, including the king's body guard. the procession passed through the town amid the acclamations of the people and to the sound of artillery, approaching the champ de mars by way of the champs Élysées, and crossing the river by a bridge of boats constructed the night before just opposite the village of chaillot. at the entrance to the champ de mars, now transformed into a vast circus, had been raised a triumphal arch bearing a number of inscriptions, among which may be cited the following:-- the rights of man were ignored for centuries; they have been re-established for the whole of humanity. you love that liberty which you now possess; prove your gratitude by preserving it. in the champ de mars , persons had assembled, men, women, and children, on the slopes of the newly-made amphitheatre, all wearing the national colours. the hillsides of chaillot and of passy were equally filled; as further on were the amphitheatres of meudon and st. cloud, of mont valérien and montmartre. in front of the military school were ascending rows of seats, covered with blue and gold drapery, for the king, the court, the national assembly, the various constituted bodies and the most distinguished guests. in the centre of the champ de mars, on a raised piece of ground, was a monumental altar to the country with four immense staircases on the four sides. this altar was itself two years later made the object of a festival. the king had for this day only been named chief of the national guards of france. he appointed la fayette to perform the duties of the post. pending the commencement of the ceremony, , musicians played various pieces of music, including the national dances of brittany, auvergne, and provence. french music of this period was, with the notable exceptions of the "marseillaise" and of the "chant du départ," by no means impressive in itself, though hymns that are sung by thousands of voices can scarcely fail, from the volume of sound and the unanimity of feeling, to produce a certain effect. patriotic hymns were in any case sung, and they excited general enthusiasm. at half-past three a salvo of artillery announced the beginning of the festival. the king was seated in his tribune, having on his right the president of the national assembly at the same level as himself. la fayette came forward to take the king's orders, and the ceremony commenced with a solemn mass, celebrated, according to general tradition, by talleyrand, bishop of autun, afterwards to be known under every kind of government in france, including the empire, the restoration, and the monarchy of louis philippe, as talleyrand the minister. according, however, to credible accounts, it was not talleyrand, bishop of autun, but montmorency, grand almoner of france, who performed mass on this solemn occasion. the prelate was in any case assisted by two hundred priests, who, wearing tricolour sashes, surrounded the altar; then the oriflamme symbol of the federation was blessed, together with the banners given to the deputations from the provinces. finally la fayette ascended the staircase, radiant, but full of emotion, and placing the point of his sword on the altar of the country, pronounced in a loud firm voice this sacred oath: "we swear to be for ever faithful to the nation, to the law, and to the king; to maintain with all our power the constitution decreed by the national assembly and accepted by the king; to protect the persons and property of all, and to remain united to all frenchmen by the indissoluble bonds of fraternity." [illustration: the military school, champ de mars.] the general excitement seemed now to have reached its highest pitch. but it was raised still higher when the king in his turn swore fidelity to the constitution. many, however, complained at the time that he took the oath, not from the altar, but from the tribune, where he was sitting; and this was generally looked upon as of bad augury. from that time, throughout the revolution, the champ de mars was known as the champ de la fédération, and the anniversary of the th of july was celebrated until the time of the consulate. some two years later the altar on which the mass of the federation had been celebrated was itself to be made the object of a festival. enlarged and newly decorated, it became the altar of patriotism or _autel à la patrie_, and once more the whole population took part in the preparations, when, to judge by a letter on the subject left by an actress of the théâtre français, the work of the day was varied by a certain amount of pleasantry. "every gentleman," says the actress, "chose a lady to whom he offered a very light spade decorated with ribands; then, headed by a band, the lovers of liberty hastened to the general rendezvous." in the centre of the champ de mars was at last constructed a colossal altar, at which the deputies from the national guards of france and from the various army corps assembled, and swore allegiance to the republic. patriotic altars or _autels à la patrie_ had already been raised in various parts of france, when, by a decree of july, , it was ordered that in every commune a patriotic altar should be erected, to which children should be brought, where young people should get married, and on which should be registered births, marriages, and deaths. above all it was thought necessary that round the altars solemn deliberations should be held concerning the fate of the country, which was threatened by the whole continent of europe. [illustration: general la fayette.] after the flight of the king a petition was laid on the patriotic altar of the champ de mars demanding the monarch's formal dethronement. at the jacobin club the question of the fall of the monarchy had been boldly put forward; and after a long debate the petition just referred to was drawn up and forwarded for general acceptation to the patriotic altar of the champ de mars. the document set forth that the nation would no more acknowledge louis xvi. or any other king. that very evening, however, the jacobins were themselves alarmed by the revolutionary turn of affairs, and withdrew their petition, declaring it to be illegal in form. general la fayette, at the head of the army and the national guards, was meanwhile determined under all circumstances to keep order, and it soon became necessary for his troops to act. two wretched men had concealed themselves beneath the staircase of the patriotic altar; and some insults said to have been addressed by them to women ascending the stairs led to their being attacked--trivial origin of a sanguinary massacre--by a number of washerwomen from the neighbourhood. the practical jokers in hiding beneath the staircase had with them a barrel of water, which popular indignation converted into a barrel of gunpowder intended to blow up the altar, together with the faithful assembled on its steps. the patriotic altar was at that time an object of religious veneration, and the conduct of the two men beneath the staircase was looked upon as nothing less than sacrilegious. some fanatics fell upon them and put them to death; and the incident, commented upon from the most different points of view, was in the end represented as an onslaught by reactionists on the sworn friends of liberty. meanwhile the crowd in the champ de mars was constantly increasing; and soon it was summoned by beat of drum, and with all the usual formalities, to disperse. nothing came of this demand except a shower of stones hurled at the national guard. the regular troops, composed principally of royal guards, replied by firing wildly at all around them. the patriotic altar was soon covered with blood and surrounded by corpses. the crowd fled as rapidly as its numbers would permit, but it was now charged by cavalry, and afterwards fired into by artillery. to stop the carnage la fayette rode up to the guns, himself exposed to their shots. the number of persons killed has, of course, been differently--very differently--estimated; but according to a moderate computation, at least , persons were slain. general la fayette, and bailly, mayor of paris, had given a general order to repel force by force, and the responsibility of the massacre was accepted by bailly. it was for this reason, indeed, that in november, , he was sentenced to death, his execution taking place on the very scene of the massacre. when armies were being hastily formed for repelling the invasion of the german sovereigns the recruiting office was in the champ de mars, where amphitheatres were erected with flags bearing this inscription, "our country is in danger." on a table, supported by two drums, the officers of the municipality inscribed the names of those who wished to enlist, and the enthusiasm, now wide-spreading, gave to france fourteen armies, which, untrained as bodies, (though they contained numbers of trained men disbanded from the royal army) proved themselves valiant, and indeed invincible, in the field. the next great festival which was held in the champ de mars was that of the supreme being. all that was done during the revolution against religion was aimed particularly at the clergy and the monks, the inquisition and the stake. the celebration of the festival of the supreme being had been fixed, according to the revolutionary calendar, for the th prairial, and the famous painter david had been charged with the elaboration of the programme. the day which robespierre had chosen for the celebration coincided precisely this year with one of the great catholic festivals--that of whitsuntide. robespierre had been elected president of the assembly. at eight o'clock in the morning the beginning of the festival was announced by a discharge of artillery from the tuileries. flowers had been brought to paris from thirty miles round, and every house in the city had its garland, while all the women carried bouquets and all the men branches of oak. a vast amphitheatre constructed in the national garden (the garden of the tuileries, that is to say) held the members of the convention, each of whom carried in his hand a bouquet of flowers and of ears of corn. robespierre, detained by his duties at the revolutionary tribunal, arrived late, at which there was some amusement. dressed in the blue coat worn by the representatives of the people, and holding in his hand a bouquet of flowers and wheat, he exclaimed: "o nature, how delightful, how sublime is thy power! how tyrants must tremble and grow pale at the idea of such a festival!" after the founder of the new religion had, in accordance with the programme, delivered his discourse, whence a few words have been cited, he walked down from the amphitheatre in company with his fellow-members of the convention. at the entrance to the palace had been erected a pyramid consisting of dolls representing atheism, ambition, egotism, and false simplicity; then came the rags of misery, through which could be seen the decorations and splendour of the slaves of royalty. robespierre went forward with a torch and set fire to these impostures. when wretchedness and vice had been consumed, the statue of wisdom was discovered unfortunately a little scorched by the flames in which its opposites had perished. the whole procession next moved towards the champ de la réunion, as the champ de mars was now called. the convention marched in a body surrounded by a tricolour ribbon, which was carried by children, young men, middle-aged men, and old men, all crowned with oak and myrtle. no arms were worn, but every deputy exhibited in token of his mission a tricolour sash, and carried a feather in his hat. in the centre of the procession eight oxen with gilded horns drew an antique car bearing, as tributes, instruments of art. when the convention established itself on a symbolical mountain, it was surrounded by the fathers and mothers sent officially by the sections; also by their young daughters, crowned with roses, and older children adorned with violets. everyone, moreover, in the procession wore national colours. then there was a fresh discourse from robespierre, after which hymns by chénier and désorgues, with music by gaveaux, were sung. the music of the hymns, from one or two specimens preserved, seems to have been poor, but given forth by thousands of voices it was doubtless impressive. after an invocation to the eternal, the young girls strewed their flowers on the ground, mothers raised their children in their arms, and old men stretched out their hands to bless the young ones, who swore to die for their country and their liberty. revolutionary in its origin, the festival of the supreme being, celebrated throughout france, helped everywhere to raise the catholic party; which was not precisely what its founders had aimed at. another solemn festival was held in the champ de mars, to celebrate the capture of toulon from the english, as brought about by a young artillery officer named bonaparte, whose name was being repeated from mouth to mouth by admirers as yet unable to foresee that the object of their admiration would before many years be the ruler of france; for, "born of the republic," he was, in the energetic words of chateaubriand, "to kill his own mother." on the rd of december, , the day after the coronation of the emperor at notre-dame, the champ de mars was to be the scene of yet another festival--the distribution of eagles among the different regiments of the french army. it was in the champ de mars that napoleon, after his return from elba, gave a banquet to some , soldiers and national guards; and again in the champ de mars that he assembled deputations from all the army-corps and all the state bodies convoked to hear the promulgation of the "additional act" which gave new character to the old napoleonic constitution. this was the assembly known as that of the champ de mai, so called from the month in which it was held. under the restoration the champ de mars became the scene of a military representation in which the duke of angoulême, at the head of the army which had fought, or rather had executed a military promenade, in spain, attacked some battalions playing the part of the spanish army, which at the proper moment retreated. then the high ground since known as the trocadéro was stormed, as the trocadéro of spain had been stormed in the war just terminated; and it was now that the idea was conceived of treating the arc de triomphe as a triumphal arch erected to the glory of the army of louis xviii. under the reign of louis philippe, the military representation of which under louis xviii.'s reign the trocadéro had been made the scene was repeated, with the replacement of the trocadéro by antwerp. this display, on a very grand scale, was attended with a crush, a panic, and almost as many accidents as were caused by the celebrated fireworks on the place louis xv., on the occasion of marie antoinette's marriage. it was under the restoration that the champ de mars was used as a course for the first races, or at least the first races of a popular character, established in france. they were, after some years, as already mentioned, transferred to longchamps. under the second empire, or rather when the second empire was about to be proclaimed, the champ de mars witnessed a magnificent review and distribution of eagles--the prelude, in fact, to the establishment of the imperial form of government. "take back these eagles," said the prince president on this occasion, "not as a symbol of threats against the foreigner, but as a recollection of an heroic epoch, as a sign of nobility for each regiment in the service. take back these eagles which so often led your fathers to victory, and swear, if necessary, to die in their defence." this was the last of the many political scenes of which the champ de mars has been the theatre. in it furnished a site for the annex or supplementary building where, in connection with the universal exhibition of that year, the machinery was displayed. if the champs Élysées became during the first half of the century a portion of paris, this was also to happen during the second half to the more distant bois de boulogne; and as paris is still constantly growing the time may come when sèvres and saint-cloud, whither the bois de boulogne leads, will no longer be regarded as suburbs, but as integral parts of the french metropolis, from which they are now distant (counting from the place de la concorde) some six miles. * * * * * no account, whether of the champs Élysées or of the champ de mars, would be complete without some mention of the universal exhibitions of which the elysian fields and the field of mars have both been the scene. the first universal exhibition was held in england during the summer of , but the first industrial exhibition on a large scale, without assistance or competition from the foreigner, took place in france immediately after the revolution, of which it was one of the natural consequences. [illustration: the palais de l'industrie, champs ÉlysÉes.] before the industrial system of france, as of other countries, was made up of corporations and guilds rigidly bound by rules and traditions; and many industrial processes were so many secrets into which apprentices, duly articled, were initiated, but which were jealously guarded from the knowledge of the outer world. a general exhibition of arts, manufactures, and machinery would, under the ancient _régime_, have been in direct opposition to the spirit of the time; it would have been impossible, that is to say. when, however, guilds and corporations were broken up and labour was throughout the country rendered free, the desirability soon became apparent of familiarising workmen with the best methods of work; and manufacturers of all kinds were brought together and invited to send specimens of their handicraft to a great exhibition, of which paris was to be the scene. the idea was conceived under the directory, six years after the revolution; and with a rapidity characteristic of the period it was at once carried out. of some hundred exhibitors, nearly all belonged to paris. but at a second exhibition held three years afterwards, thirty-eight departments, including some of the most distant ones, sent examples of their industry. these exhibitions were to be triennial; though their recurrence at fixed intervals was sometimes interfered with by political or military events. the industrial exhibitions of france, however, increased in importance until, under the reign of louis philippe, they took a prodigious development. after the revolution of workmen as well as manufacturers were for the first time encouraged to exhibit, and many of them gained prizes. now, too, an exhibition was held at which agriculture as well as industry was represented, and among the products and manufactures were a good number sent from the newly-acquired algeria. then came the english universal exhibition of , held in hyde park; adorned for the occasion with a building of new architecture, to which douglas jerrold, writing in _punch_, gave the name of "crystal palace." in france, not to be outshone by england, opened in her turn a universal exhibition in the champs Élysées, imitated in part from the glass structure designed by sir joseph paxton, but less fairylike though, it may be, more substantial. sixty years have passed since the opening of france's first industrial exhibition; held at a time when, before the introduction of steamboats and railways, it would have been difficult, even if it had been thought desirable, for foreign manufacturers to compete with the manufacturers of france. the french exhibition was held at the very height of the crimean war; a sad reply to those who in the universal exhibition of saw a promise, if not a guarantee, of perpetual peace. once more in the illusory nature of the belief that international commerce must put an end to international war was at least indicated by the important part played in the midst of the steel manufactures by herr krupp's breech-loading cannons, which were seen to do such dreadful work in the campaign of . even while the exhibition was being held the luxemburg difficulty seemed on the point of bringing france and prussia into the field. the building erected for the first of france's international exhibitions having been found too small, the second and third, in and , took new territory in the champ de mars; and in addition to the principal building a number of so-called annexes or supplementary buildings were established, chiefly for the display of machinery; while, besides the champ de mars, the fourth, held in , took in the avenue suffren, the quai d'orsay, the terrace of the invalides, the banks of the seine, and the garden of the trocadéro. [illustration: view showing exhibition of .] the champ de mars in its old character had now entirely disappeared. the minister of war had strongly objected to its utilisation for peace purposes when it was first proposed that a temporary building for machinery in connection with the exhibition of should be erected on a plain which had hitherto been reserved for military exercises and manoeuvres. once invaded, the champ de mars was soon to be fully occupied, and the last and greatest of the paris universal exhibitions swallowed up the champ de mars without even finding its vast space sufficient. the desert of former days had become the most frequented place in the world. more than that, it was now a spot where the whole world was represented--europe, asia, africa, america, and australasia, with their different human types, their animals, their plants, their minerals, their natural products, their industries, their sciences, and their fine arts. an immense number of buildings in every form, in every style, and of every period had been erected. domes, steeples, towers, cupolas, minarets, and factory chimneys stood out against the clear sky of paris; and in the midst of this confused architecture were seen the large green masses of the winter gardens. the whole, beheld from afar in a bird's-eye view, formed an enormous ellipsis, with the marvellous eiffel tower in the centre. m. eiffel, a french engineer, whose name would seem to denote a german origin, proposed the tower with which his name is now for ever associated five years before the date fixed for the universal exhibition. he was already known by some important works, such as the great iron bridge at bordeaux, and several other bridges in the south of france; also by the douro viaduct, and by the bridge over the szegedin road, in hungary. he had been employed in connection with the universal exhibition of , where he had charge of the machinery annex. the americans had proposed to commemorate the philadelphia exhibition of by a tower one thousand feet in height, equal to about french metres. but they abandoned the project, which was to be realised by m. eiffel, whose tower is within five metres of the height contemplated by the architects and engineers of philadelphia. the calculations for the eiffel tower, formed entirely of iron trellis work, had been so carefully made that when the component parts, prepared separately, were brought to the workshops of the champ de mars to be verified and adjusted, they fitted to the greatest perfection. to give an idea of the dimensions of the eiffel tower it may be mentioned that the towers of notre-dame rise to a height of sixty-six metres above the level of the soil, while the cathedral of cologne, the loftiest in the world, does not exceed metres. to go back to the remotest antiquity, the eiffel tower is half as high again as the notorious tower of babel, of which the altitude was feet, otherwise metres and a few centimetres. at its base the tower measures, on each of its four sides, metres, and it slopes up to a platform at the summit which measures, on each side, ten metres. the first platform, with immense rooms for different purposes, is sixty-six metres above the level of the soil; just eight metres less than the towers of notre-dame, and it presents a surface of , square metres. it may be reached either by a staircase of steps, or by a lift. the second platform stands metres above the level of the soil, and measures thirty metres on each side, the area of the floor being , square metres. here the paris _figaro_ established a printing office, whence issued the special edition of the _eiffel figaro_, in which were printed the names of all the visitors. the third platform, metres in height, can only be reached by lift. it is surmounted by a campanile, or bell tower, in the italian style, twenty-four metres in height, which is divided into apartments for scientific experiments, and which includes m. eiffel's reception rooms. at the very top of the structure is a light, of the power employed in the great french lighthouses. the view from the eiffel tower becomes naturally more and more vast as one ascends; and m. eiffel has had maps drawn showing the points visible from the third, or highest platform, to the ordinary sight. this map is exhibited on the third platform. on the north may be distinguished two villages in the department of the somme, seventy kilometres from paris (four kilometres = two-and-a-half miles); on the north-east the forest of hallatte, at the back of cenlis, distant seventy-five kilometres; on the east two hills in the direction of château thierry, eighty-two kilometres; on the south-east the environs of la ferté-bernard, in the department of the marne, eighty-two kilometres; on the south, the other side of Étampes, sixty-two kilometres; on the south-west the cathedral of chartres and a hill at the back, eighty-three kilometres; on the west the château of versailles, the chapel of dreux, and the environs of dourdan, at a distance of fifty kilometres; and finally on the north-west the forest of lyons, ninety kilometres. telescopic distances have not been published. it can be seen, however, that this loftiest of observatories would be of immense use to paris in case of her being again approached by invading armies. the eiffel tower was one of the greatest attractions of the exhibition of ; and it remains a lasting memorial of that greatest of great exhibitions, which, on certain sundays and holidays, attracted as many as , visitors. it has been calculated that it received altogether twenty-five million visitors--or, what is not quite the same thing, twenty-five million visits--which gives an average of , daily. apart from the rich and varied interest belonging to the manufactures, the works of art, the products of all kinds, natural and artificial, that were on view, the exhibition possessed a high significance in a political sense. it showed to europe and to the world that france had more than recovered from the calamities of the war, and that she was once more in the very foremost rank of civilised powers. as in all exhibitions, the scientific departments attracted less attention, and were less frequented than the restaurants and the refreshment rooms; though here, also, there were opportunities for study, especially for those interested in ethnology. universal exhibitions have been compared to small towns, but they bear a greater resemblance to small worlds; and this was particularly the case with the paris exhibition of , which was a microcosm on rather a large scale. there was no part of the world unrepresented in its varied departments, especially in the departments consecrated to eating and drinking, where national dishes and beverages were served by attendants in national costume. here, side by side with an algerian or turkish coffee-house, where mocha of guaranteed authenticity was provided, with narghilis, chiboucks, and oriental cigarettes as appropriate accompaniments, stood a dutch tavern purveying genuine curaçoa, or a bavarian beerhouse. vienna was in evidence by its so-called "cutlets" of chopped meat, and austria generally, together with hungary, by rare and characteristic wines. the spanish café was as remarkable for the black mantillas, with eyes to match, of the waitresses, as for its malaga and its xeres. the danish café was distinguished by its kümmel, and the swedish café by its punch, made in the swedish style, and handed to the customer (also in the swedish fashion) by fair-haired, fresh-complexioned swedish maidens. the russian traktir, taken in connection with specimens of russian village huts, formed a compendium of russian popular life, in a country where the popular and the aristocratic, often strangely opposed, are sometimes strangely intermingled. the wooden _isbas_, with their high roofs, curiously surmounted by semblances of horses' heads, which have not only a picturesque, but a mystical significance--true examples of russian rural architecture--showed such artistic carving above the portico, and at other points, that many a dull cynic declined to regard them as authentic, and held them to be mere fabrications, intended to astonish and delude the foreigner, even as catherine ii. is supposed to have been deluded by the village panoramas got up for her benefit in desert tracts by the ingenious potemkin. in england and other countries which are supposed to have attained the highest point of civilisation, the humbler classes know nothing of art work in connection with their daily life. but the russian peasant, poor and uneducated, tasting meat once, perhaps, in a month, and living principally on black bread, salt cucumbers, dried mushrooms, and porridge, wears a costume full of colour, a red shirt, or a blue kaftan with a scarlet sash; and he adorns in his own rough but picturesque fashion the house he lives in, and every article of its modest furniture. the russian peasant, like the peasant in other countries, makes none too frequent a use of the towel; but every towel that he possesses is ornamented with an embroidered fringe, worked by women who have never studied in any sort of art school, but who have acquired certain arts by tradition, and possibly through inherited aptitude. the russian peasantry are still, for the most part, ignorant of reading and writing. but when the whole population of the russian empire is sent to school its native artistic faculties will, it is to be feared, disappear. at present the brain of the poor moujik must somehow occupy itself during his periods of leisure; and it works for the most part--and exclusively when he happens to be quite unlettered--through eye and hand. at the russian restaurant, or traktir, such national delicacies as caviar, dried salmon, pickled cucumbers, salt mushrooms, the ordinary components of the russian zakouska or præprandium, were tasted by the visitor to the great exhibition with less avidity than curiosity. these excellent comestibles (only one has got to know them first) were, if the russian mode was followed, washed down with a glass of _vodka_; not, it must be admitted, the ordinary _vodka_ of the russian rural districts, but _vodka_ of a more refined description, as swallowed (at least by the men) at the simple preparatory lunches given immediately before dinner at the houses of the great. [illustration: view from the first platform of the eiffel tower.] those were wrong who, at the russian restaurants of the exhibition, confined themselves to making the acquaintance of the strange preparations offered at every well-ordered zakouska; for russia has a cuisine of her own well worthy of practical study--a cuisine which, like russian civilisation, consists partly of what is truly russian, but largely of what has been adapted or simply borrowed from various foreign nations. the _stchee_, or cabbage soup, the _borsch_, or beetroot soup, the _oukha_, or fish soup, and the _batvinia_, or iced soup of russia, are thoroughly national, and, except that the poles have also an iced soup called _cholodiec_, are not to be found in any other country. the russians have many solid dishes, too (such as boiled sucking-pig with horse-radish sauce) which are quite peculiar to russia; but, on the other hand, they have adopted all kinds of entrées from the french, together with various dishes of german and of viennese origin; while they have likewise, in the art of cookery, taken lessons from their eastern neighbours. roumania, servia, and what remains of turkey were represented by dishes, drinks, and graceful female figures, all intensely national. even such unpicturesque countries as england and america had their characteristic refreshment places. the english bars, served by much admired english barmaids, practised in the wiles and stratagems of casual flirtation, had many frequenters; while the american bars, typical of a country where women and liquor are becomingly kept apart, attracted amateurs of all classes and from all countries. nor must italy be forgotten; the land which gave to france not only its music and its drama, but also its ices and its pastry. it is believed that in some of the cafés whose appearance was most strikingly foreign, france was secretly represented; for numbers of young women attired in garments of oriental make, while perfectly ignorant of eastern languages, talked fluently, and often very agreeably, in french. [illustration: the trocadÉro.] "trocadéro" is the name of one of the forts which the army of the duke of angoulême, operating in spain, found it necessary to take before advancing upon cadiz. the stronghold in question was constructed on an island of the same name, which, apart from walls, bastions, and batteries, was defended against assailants by a broad canal, in which, even at low tide, the water was four feet deep. the french approached the trocadéro by regular siege works, and, after completing their second parallel, prepared to take the place by assault. the attack was made on the th of august, , at three o'clock in the morning, just before daybreak, that is to say, when the spanish garrison, trusting overmuch to the supposed efficiency of the water defences, were by no means on the alert. the french troops passed the water without firing a shot, scaled the walls, turned the guns and wall-pieces against the spaniards, and, acting with great rapidity, were soon in possession of the fort. chapter xxii. the hÔtel de ville and central paris. the hôtel de ville--its history--in --the communards. if the place de la concorde, with the line of the champs Élysées leading from it in one direction, and that of the rue royale and the line of boulevards in another, may be regarded as one of the most central points of paris, the administrative centre is to be found in the hôtel de ville on the east side of that place de l'hôtel de ville which was the heart of ancient paris, or at least of so much of ancient paris as stood on the right bank of the seine. the hôtel de ville, burnt by the communards in as part of their general plan of incendiarism, was historically, as well as architecturally, one of the most interesting buildings in paris. in spite of the modifications and restorations which it had undergone during the last two centuries of its existence, it never lost its original character. the hôtel de ville was the palace of the burgesses and merchants of the city, and there was a certain significance in its situation, just opposite the palace of the kings, with whom the representatives of the city were often, so far as they dared, in conflict. it had witnessed, moreover, many interesting scenes. it was always the head-quarters of insurrection so long as the struggle took place only between the monarchy and the middle classes. it perished in a struggle between the middle classes and the working men. the first important part played by the hôtel de ville in its communal character dates from the time of Étienne marcel--most ambitious of paris mayors--in the fourteenth century. long, however, before the pretensions of Étienne marcel, under the reign of the roman emperor tiberius, privileged corporations existed in paris under the name of nautæ parisiaci, who did a nautical business on the banks of the seine. the maison aux piliers, where Étienne marcel presided over the municipality of the period, stood on the site afterwards occupied by the hôtel de ville, of which the first stone was laid by francis i. on the th of july, . "while the stone was being laid," says the annalist du breuil, "fifes, drums, trumpets, and clarions were sounded, together with artillery and fifty sack-butts of the town of paris. at the same time were rung the chimes of saint-jean-en-grève, of saint-esprit, and of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie. in the middle of the grève wine was running, and tables were furnished with bread and wine for all comers, while cries were uttered in a loud voice by the common people: 'vive le roy et messieurs de la ville!'" an account of the before-mentioned ceremony has been left by boccadoro. in spite of the pompous proceedings by which the laying of the foundation-stone was accompanied, the building of the hôtel de ville was proceeded with very slowly, and during various foreign and civil wars interrupted altogether. the south wing had been erected under henri ii. the north wing was not completed until the reign of louis xiii. the building was finished during the reign of henri iv., whose equestrian statue by pierre biard marked, until the revolution, the principal entrance. after suffering various injuries during the wars of the fronde, the figure of the once popular king was, in , overturned and destroyed, to be afterwards replaced by a statue in bronze. early in the eighteenth century the hôtel de ville had been found too small; and in it was proposed to reconstruct it on the other side of the seine, on the site of the hôtel conti, where now stands the mint. this project, however, met with a lively opposition on the part of parisians generally; and in it was decided to enlarge the existing structure. funds, however, were not forthcoming; and when, nineteen years afterwards, the revolution broke out, the hospital, or rather hospice of the holy ghost, and the church of saint-jean, suppressed as religious establishments, were, as buildings, annexed to the hôtel de ville, which they adjoined. after the hôtel de ville had been destroyed in by the incendiaries of the commune, the statues of charlemagne, of francis i., and of louis xiv. were found in the ashes. they had shared the fate of the equestrian figure of henri iv. at the time of the revolution; and they were afterwards replaced by groups of sculpture which have no sort of connection with the building. the hôtel de ville has an interesting history of its own. in charles vi. restored to the paris municipality, in acknowledgment of the courage shown by the parisians against the english, several privileges which had been abolished or had fallen into abeyance. then, during the troubles of the armagnacs and the burgundians, the paris municipality broke into two hostile factions; but at length, from hatred of the armagnac party, the municipality accepted the english domination. after the return, however, of charles vii. and during the whole of the second half of the fifteenth century the magistrates of the capital showed themselves thoroughly loyal and absolutely devoted to the interests of the monarchy. louis xii. and francis i. respected and even augmented the privileges of the hôtel de ville. but during the religious wars the municipality again split up into two factions. it took part, as a whole, in the massacre of st. bartholomew, believing that it was thus helping to suppress conspiracy directed against the life of the king; but it made every effort to stop bloodshed when it understood the true character of the infamous attack upon the huguenots. towards the end of the sixteenth century the municipal officers were chosen from among the most determined supporters of the catholic league; in spite of which the hôtel de ville made every effort to bring henri iv. to paris. in his gratitude, this monarch made lavish promises to the burgesses; and he kept them. in henri iii. had revoked all the privileges granted by his predecessors to the burgesses of paris. the day after his entry into the capital henri iv. re-established the municipal body, and gave back to it the whole of its ancient liberties. then it was that the municipality resolved to place the king's statue before the principal gate of the hôtel de ville. during the reign of louis xiii. richelieu abolished the principle of election which constituted the very basis of the municipal authority of paris. various important offices, instead of being elective, were now made permanent appointments under the control of the king; and from this epoch dates the decline of the paris municipal body. under the ancient _régime_ louis xiv. deprived the town council of all power; and communal liberty had disappeared in paris when the great revolution broke out. then, however, the hôtel de ville became once more a centre of political activity; and it was at the hôtel de ville, on the eve of the taking of the bastille, that the discussions were held which led immediately to the attack on the fortress-prison. the so-called "electors" of paris, themselves chosen the moment before from among the paris population, had assembled under the presidency of m. de flesselles, provost of the merchants, when a report was spread that he had concealed several barrels of gunpowder in the cellars of the hôtel de ville. this was looked upon as a reactionary measure intended to prevent the meditated attack on the hated stronghold; and people rushed to the hôtel de ville to distribute the powder at once and with their own hands. the bastille had scarcely been taken when the captors, returning to the hôtel de ville, called out, "down with de flesselles," who, attacked in the hall of assembly, escaped by a convenient door. he had scarcely, however, got outside when he was recognised and shot dead. with the death of the provost de flesselles the ancient corporation of the burgesses of paris, with their privileges of holding courts, commercial, civil, and even criminal, came to an end. on its ruins was raised the commune of paris, which played so terrible a part in the revolution, and especially during the reign of terror. the hôtel de ville has been called the "palace of revolution," and during the last hundred years, ever since the era of revolutions set in, it has well deserved its name. the hôtel de ville served as headquarters to the commune of paris, and to the committee of public safety. the registers of the commune are still preserved in the archives, and furnish the only authentic materials relating to the history of the most sanguinary period of the french revolution. under the consulate and the empire the municipal power, like the legislative power, was abolished; and the hôtel de ville was now only known as the scene from time to time of public entertainments. crowds were in the habit of assembling before the hôtel de ville to hear the victories of napoleon proclaimed. on the occasion of the emperor's marriage to marie louise the city of paris revived the entertainments which it had been in the habit of giving to the ancient kings. napoleon expressed a desire to present his wife to the burgesses of paris assembled in the rooms of the hôtel de ville, which from this time, as long as the empire lasted, gave an annual ball on the th of august. the restoration did nothing for the hôtel de ville. in , during the revolution which placed louis philippe on the throne in lieu of charles x., the hôtel de ville was the chief object of contention between the two parties; and it was in the place de grève, or place de l'hôtel de ville, as it was afterwards to be called, that the most terrible conflict of the "three days" occurred. taken and re-taken, the hôtel de ville at last remained in the power of the insurgents; and the tricolour flag, which for the previous fifteen years had been looked upon as an emblem of sedition, now floated once more above its walls. the provisional government, established there under the inspiration of la fayette, offered a crown to louis philippe. "a throne surrounded by republican institutions," such, in a few words, was the celebrated "programme of the hôtel de ville." the throne remained, but the republican institutions disappeared; and louis philippe made no step towards re-establishing the very institution--the municipal council--which had made him king. [illustration: hÔtel de ville in the fifteenth century. (_from an engraving by rigaud._)] eighteen years later another revolution was to take place; and after the flight of louis philippe a provisional government was again proclaimed--proclaimed itself, that is to say. lamartine was at the head of it, and without showing any aptitude for exercising power, the celebrated writer, whose popularity had been much increased by his recently published "history of the girondists," delivered a number of remarkable speeches at the hôtel de ville. hating all government, a portion of the populace forced its way into the passages and approached the room where lamartine was engaged with laws and proclamations, when the hero of the hour laid down his pen, rushed towards the invading crowd and called upon it to retire. no less than seven times did he repeat his adjurations to the mob, till, at last, some "man of the people," foreseeing that the republic about to be established would not be of the "red" hue desired by the extreme revolutionists, called him a traitor and demanded his head. [illustration: attack on the hÔtel de ville, .] "my head!" replied lamartine. "would to heaven that every one of you had it on his shoulders. you would then be calmer and more reasonable, and the revolution would be accomplished with less difficulty." the day had been won, but the battle was to begin again on the morrow; and now once more lamartine stilled the troubled waters by a few eloquent phrases. the question had been raised whether the tricolour flag, or the red flag of the reign of terror, should be adopted. lamartine traced the history of both; and the crowd, carried away by the warmth of his oratory, decided with acclamation that the flag of the new republic must be the flag of the early days of the great revolution, the flag under which the great battles of the consulate and the empire had been gained. it will be remembered that when, in , a leaf torn from a tree of the palais royal by camille desmoulins was made a sign of recognition, green was on the point of being adopted for the new national flag. it was rejected, however, when someone pointed out that green was the colour of the artois family; and thereupon blue and red, the colours of the town of paris, were assumed, to which, out of compliment to the monarchy, favourable in the first instance to the claims of the people, white, the colour of the french kings, was added. thus the tricolour flag became the flag of the revolution, as, during successive changes of government, it was equally the flag of the consulate and the empire. at the restoration the monarchy committed the grave fault of re-introducing the white flag of the ancient _régime_, which louis philippe had the good sense to replace by the republican and imperial tricolour. [illustration: statue of Étienne marcel on the quai hÔtel de ville.] when in june, , the insurrection of unemployed workmen broke out, demanding, in the words of certain insurgents at lyons, "bread or bullets," the hôtel de ville became once more an object of contest between the opposing forces; but the supporters of the democratic and socialistic republic were to be defeated, and the hôtel de ville did not, during the terrible days of june, change hands. as long as the republic lasted--less than four years--the municipal institutions showed signs of vitality, which, however, were to disappear on the _coup d'état_ of december nd, ; and throughout the second empire the hôtel de ville was occupied, in lieu of an independent municipal council, by a sort of consultative commission without mandate and without authority, attached to the prefect in order to verify his accounts with closed eyes. by way of compensation, however, the hôtel de ville was encouraged to give balls, to which the chief of the state accorded his gracious patronage. it was at the hôtel de ville that the prefect of the seine, m. berger, entertained queen victoria, and that his successor, baron haussman, received in like manner the emperor of russia, while proposing to extend his hospitality to the sultan. the reception of the emperor alexander ii. did not pass off without an incident which caused a very painful impression at the time, and which the french would, now more than ever, gladly forget; for as the tsar was about to enter the hôtel de ville he was saluted with cries of "vive la pologne!" if the ball given in honour of the emperor alexander was marred by a mere exclamation, the one which it had been proposed to offer to the sultan of turkey was stopped by a tragic event. news had suddenly arrived of the execution of the emperor maximilian. thus was marked the failure of the emperor napoleon's mexican policy; and thus disappeared for ever his fantastic dreams of a confederation of latin, or latinised, or latin-influenced nations, under the patronage of france. up to this time napoleon iii. had been marching from one success to another. the turning point in his career had been reached, and the failure in mexico was to be followed by failures in every direction. the ball in honour of the sultan having been abandoned, it was nevertheless thought necessary to give him some idea of what it would have been had it really taken place. accordingly the hôtel de ville was lighted up, and the commander of the faithful was escorted through the deserted ball-rooms and saloons, the officer appointed to accompany him explaining, as he passed from one apartment to another, "here you would have seen the high functionaries of state in their uniforms with full decorations; here most of the dancing would have taken place, and you would have been enraptured by the sight of beautiful women in the most charming dresses; here would have been the orchestra, the best in paris, and probably in the whole world." this strange jest must have reminded the sultan of one of the most famous books in the mahometan world, that "thousand and one nights," with its tale of an honoured guest to whom a dinner without viands was offered. some months later the hôtel de ville was the scene of a grand dinner given in honour of the emperor of austria, brother of the unfortunate maximilian. here, for the first time in modern history, privileged guests were admitted by invitation cards to galleries, from which the spectacle of two sovereigns dining together could be enjoyed. burton, in his "anatomy of melancholy," recommends the sight of two kings engaged in single combat as a cure for atrabiliousness. it was probably as an improvement on burton's remedy, so difficult to procure, that a private view of two emperors sitting together at table was offered to a favoured few. after the breakdown of the second empire and the flight of the empress from paris, the government of national defence, consisting of all the paris deputies, had its head-quarters at the hôtel de ville; and here, when the so-called government had given place to the central committee, and the central committee to the commune, the last-named body held its deliberations. in the hôtel de ville was reconstructed, with certain modifications and amplifications, on the lines of the ancient one, burned down by the communards. the new edifice contains either in niches, or on external pinnacles, rather more than statues, reproducing the features of all kinds of celebrities, the whole of them belonging to france, with the single exception of cortone, born in italy. the collection includes the architects of the original building, some of the most famous merchant-provosts, mayors of paris, prefects of the seine, and municipal councillors, among whom may be mentioned michel lallier, who delivered paris from the english, françois miron, and pierre viole. literature, the stage, and music are largely represented in the effigies of beaumarchais, béranger, boileau, f. halévy, hérold, marivaux, molière, picard, alfred de musset, charles perrault, quinault, regnard, george sand, scribe, etc.; nor have architecture, sculpture, painting, and the industrial arts been forgotten in this spacious walhalla, where are found the statues of boucher, boulle (known among englishmen, in connection with various kinds of inlaid work, as "bühl,") chardin, corot, daubigny, louis david, eugène delacroix, decamps, firmin didot, the well-known printer, jean goujon, gros, lancret, le brun, le nôtre, pierre lescot, lesueur, mansard, germain pilon, henri regnault, théodore rousseau, horace vernet, etc. mingled with the writers, composers, painters, sculptors, and architects, are statesmen and historians such as cardinal de richelieu, the marquis d'argenson, the duke de saint-simon, de thou, pierre de l'estoile, and michelet. two illustrious tragedians figure in this chosen company, lekain and talma. the new hôtel de ville has been furnished with magnificence and good taste. the staircases are very fine, but the essentially modern character of the internal arrangements is sufficiently shown by the lifts which work between the basement and the upper storeys. [illustration: the municipal council chamber, hÔtel de ville.] on the side of the hôtel de ville looking towards the river are the private apartments of the prefect of the seine, who performs the functions of mayor of paris. in the left wing sit the clerks, engaged in duties as complicated as those of a ministerial bureau, and here also is the hall in which the sittings of the municipal council are held. the prefectorial functions are divided between two prefects: the prefect of the seine, whose duties are exclusively administrative; and the prefect of police, who attends not only to the police of paris, but, in a general way, to police matters throughout the country. the finances of the city or town of paris ("ville de paris" is its traditional, historic name) are regulated, under the authority of the prefect of the seine, by a municipal council composed of eighty members elected on universal suffrage, four members for each _arrondissement_, or one for each _quartier_. these eighty councillors form the council-general of the seine, whose principal duty it is to prepare the budget of the department. they are forbidden to occupy themselves in any manner with politics. though the prefects of the various departments are not supposed in france to exercise political functions, they are really political officers--that is to say, they are appointed by the central government, and frequently, though in many cases secretly, do the work of political agents. during the invasion of they were regarded as political officers, and everywhere retired as the invaders advanced; the mayors meanwhile, as municipal officers, everywhere remaining. it has been said that the duties of the prefecture of paris are shared by the prefect of the seine and the prefect of police, and that the former conducts his business at the hôtel de ville. his associate, though connected with the hôtel de ville, has his establishment, with its various bureaux, at the palais de justice in the "cité." the island of the cité, the ancient lutetia, the cradle of modern paris, has possessed from time immemorial, and certainly from the first years of the roman conquest, a religious edifice, first a pagan temple and afterwards a christian church, on the western extremity of the parisian island; while the eastern extremity has been always occupied by a palace reserved for the government, and for the administration of justice. [illustration: Île st. louis.] chapter xxiii. the palais de justice. the _palais de justice_--its historical associations--disturbances in paris--successive fires--during the revolution--the administration of justice--the _sainte-chapelle_. next to notre-dame the most interesting edifice in the island of the city, at the corner of the quai de l'horloge, is the palais de justice, which dates from the time of the romans. so much at least has been inferred, apart from the tradition on the subject, from the fact that when some years ago the building was reconstructed, roman remains were discovered in the foundations. all, however, that can be affirmed with historical certainty as to the origin of the palace is that towards the end of the ninth century it existed in the form of a fortress, and was the residence of the frankish kings of the second race. it played an important part in the defence of paris against the normans invading the city by water from rouen and the lower seine. at the palais de justice lived the counts of paris, and afterwards the kings of the line which came to an end with the unfortunate "louis capet" (as in revolutionary parlance he was called) who lost his head beneath the guillotine. louis le gros, the protector of the communes, died at the palace in . philip augustus, while undertaking the entire reconstruction of the château du louvre, made the palace his habitual residence, and it was there that he married ingelburga, sister of canute, king of denmark. under the reign of this monarch, the court or tribunal of the king received for the first time the name of parliament, its functions being to discuss and decide questions submitted to it by the sovereign, and to pronounce on the illegality or legality of certain acts. in these days the royal residence was not luxuriously furnished, hay doing duty for carpet during the winter, and a matting of weeds during the summer. these primitive coverings of the palatial floors were given by philip augustus to the hospital known as the hôtel-dieu whenever the court left paris. the king's palace was called the palace of justice from the fact that here the sovereign held court, and decided the cases submitted to him by his subjects, sometimes with, sometimes without, the assistance of the before-mentioned parliament. here, too, st. louis formed in a hall adjoining the holy chapel a library, in which he collected copies of all valuable manuscripts placed at his disposal. this library was open to learned and studious men, with whom the king loved to converse. philip the fair enlarged the palace; and under his reign the parliament, formerly styled "ambulatory," became sedentary: it no longer, that is to say, followed the king in his journeys from one residence to another. the members of parliament had lodgings assigned to them in that part of the building now occupied by the prison of the conciergerie. under the reign of charles v. the first great clock that had ever been seen in france was placed in a square tower on the quay; whence the name "quai de l'horloge." it was in the palais de justice that charles vi. received the greek emperor, manuel palæologus, and the emperor sigismund, king of hungary. a strange incident happened in connection with the visit of the latter sovereign. he had expressed a desire to witness the pleading of a case before the parliament, and at the beginning of the process astonished everyone by taking the seat reserved for the king of france. one of the parties to the suit was about to lose his action on the ground that he was not a nobleman, whereupon, in a spirit of equity and chivalry, not appreciated by the assembly, sigismund rose from his seat, and calling to him the pleader, who, from no fault of his own, was getting defeated, made him a knight; which completely changed the aspect of affairs, and enabled the man who was in the right to gain his case. it was at the palace of justice that the marriage of henry v. of england with catherine of france, daughter of charles vi., was celebrated. here, too, henry vi., king of england, resided at the time of his coronation as king of france. under the reign of charles vii. certain clerks, "_les clercs de la basoche_," obtained permission to represent "farces and moralities" in the great banqueting hall, an immense marble table at one of the extremities of the hall serving as stage. according to a writer of the time, this table was "so long, so broad, and so thick, that no sheet of marble so thick, so broad, and so long was ever known elsewhere." the morality of the so-called "moralities" seems to have been more than doubtful; for after a time they were stopped by reason of their alleged impropriety. this was in . soon, however, the clerks attached to the palace of justice reappeared on the marble table; when they again got themselves into trouble by satirising the government of charles viii., and even charles himself. several of the authors and actors concerned in the piece were imprisoned, and were only liberated at the instance of the bishop of paris, who claimed for them "benefit of clergy." the clerks of the tribunals and the students of the university were, in those days, troublesome folk. the students have always formed an exceptional class in paris. unlike the university students in england, they live in the capital, are exposed to its temptations, and take part in its struggles. during the present century in commotions and insurrections they have always been on the popular side. in former times, however, they formed a party in themselves; and the students of paris would engage with the citizens in formidable contests, which, with exaggerated features, resembled the "town and gown" rows of which our own universities have so often been the scene. "in the year ," says the author of "singularités historiques," "a german gentleman studying at paris sent his servant to a tavern to buy some wine. the servant was maltreated, whereupon the german students came to the aid of their fellow-countryman, and served the wine-dealer so roughly that they left him nearly dead. the townspeople now came to avenge the tavern-keeper; and, taking up arms, attacked the house of the german gentleman and his fellow-countrymen. there was great excitement throughout the town. the german gentleman and five students of his nation were killed. the provost of paris, thomas by name, had been at the head of the parisians in this onslaught; and the heads of the schools made a complaint on the subject to king philip, who, without waiting for any further information, arrested the provost and several of his adherents, demolished their houses, tore up their vines and their fruit-trees, and fearing lest all the foreign students should desert paris, issued a decree for the protection of the schools and those who frequented them. thomas, for having incited instead of preventing disorder, was condemned to perpetual imprisonment." in the students of the university, encouraged by the privileges granted to them by philip augustus, gave themselves up to all kinds of excesses, carrying away women and committing outrages, thefts, and murders; whereupon bishop guillaume pronounced excommunication against all who went about by night or day with arms. as the decree of excommunication produced little effect, the bishop caused the most seditious to be put in prison, and drove the others out of the town, thus re-establishing tranquillity. in a violent quarrel and disturbance broke out between the scholars and the inhabitants. three hundred and twenty students were killed and thrown into the seine. several professors went to the pope to complain of so cruel a persecution; and some of them withdrew, with their students, from the capital. paris was interdicted; and its schools, so superior to those of the other towns of france, remained without professors or scholars, and were closed. during the thirteenth century there was as much credulity and fanaticism as there was anarchy in paris. this was fully shown when a new sect, composed entirely of priests, declared itself. its members denied the real presence, looked upon most of the ceremonies of the church as useless, and ridiculed the worship of saints and relics. they addressed themselves particularly to women, persuading them that nothing they did was sinful so long as it was done from charity. an ecclesiastic named amaury, the chief of this sect, set forth his doctrine to the pope, who condemned it. amaury, it is said, died of grief, and was buried in the cemetery of st. nicholas-in-the-fields. the disciples he left behind him were nearly all ecclesiastics, or professors of the university of paris. there was, however, one goldsmith among them, who, we are assured, uttered prophecies. to discover the members of this sect a stratagem was employed. raoul de nemours and another priest pretended to share the opinions of the heretics, that they might afterwards denounce them. the offenders were then arrested and taken to the place des champeaux, when three bishops and doctors in theology deprived them of their degrees, and condemned them to be burnt alive. fourteen of the unhappy men underwent this frightful punishment and supported it with courage. four were excepted and condemned to perpetual imprisonment. the execution took place on the st of october, . [illustration: the quai de l'horloge.] the bishops and doctors, assembled in council to pronounce judgment, condemned at the same time two books of aristotle on metaphysics; and after delivering them over to the flames forbade all persons to transcribe them, read them, or "retain the contents in their memory" under pain of excommunication. under louis xii. the irrepressible clerks of the basoche ridiculed the sovereign as the personification of avarice. the king was urged to treat the presumptuous young men as his predecessors had often done. "let them play in all freedom," he replied. "let them speak as they will of me and my court. if they notice abuses why should they not point them out, when so many persons, reputed sage, are unwilling to do so?" after the death of louis xii. the representations of the clerks were subjected to a more and more severe censorship; and towards the end of the sixteenth century the theatre of the marble table was given up altogether. to pass to the reign of francis i., it was at the palais de justice that this monarch received the challenge from the emperor charles v. his successors took up their residence in the louvre, abandoning altogether the ancient palace, which was now occupied exclusively by the law courts. in a great portion of the building was destroyed by fire; and it was only by incurring great personal risk that the registrar succeeded in saving the records of the parliament. the fire was generally attributed to accomplices, real or supposed, of ravaillac, the assassin of henri iv. although ravaillac had declared himself solely responsible for the murder, and had received absolution only on condition of his swearing solemnly to the truth of his declaration, the police seemed resolved to implicate a number of other persons; and when a certain amount of evidence had been collected against them the suspected ones thought it judicious (so the story ran) to destroy all that had been written down against them. all the most characteristic, the most picturesque part of the building was destroyed, including the large hall lighted solely through windows of coloured glass, in which stood the statues of the kings of france. charles vii. had cut, with a chisel, the english king's face; and it was only by these mutilations that the statue of henry vi. was recognised among the ruins. the famous marble table at the western extremity of the hall had been damaged beyond remedy by the flames. at the eastern extremity, the chapel of louis xi., in which that devout but treacherous monarch was represented kneeling to the virgin, had been entirely destroyed. [illustration: pont au change and palais de justice.] nearly all that remained of the ancient palace was the prison or "conciergerie," where montgomery, who by mishap had slain his king in a tournament, and, at a later period, damiens of the four horses had been confined. the tower of the conciergerie was for a long time called the montgomery tower. besides the conciergerie, the hall known as the salle des pas perdus and the so-called "kitchen of saint-louis," with an immense chimney-piece in each of the four corners, formed part of the ancient building. in the palais de justice again took fire, and again was in great part reconstructed. in , under louis philippe, the town of paris decided to enlarge it, and the plan by m. huyot, the architect, was adopted by the municipal council in . the royal sanction was then obtained; but louis philippe did not remain long enough on the throne to see the work of construction terminated. the republican government of stopped the building; and it was only under the second empire in that it was resumed, to be completed in . more important by far than the re-alterations, additions, and reconstructions of which the palais de justice has in successive centuries been made the subject have been the changes in the french law, and in various matters connected with its administration. up to the time of the revolution citizens were arrested in the most arbitrary manner on mere suspicion, and imprisoned for an indefinite time without being able to demand justice in any form. some half a dozen years before the uprising of the king had decreed that no one should be arrested except on a definite accusation; but the order was habitually set at nought. the palais de justice of the present day occupies about one third of the total surface of the cité. enclosed on the east by the boulevard du palais, on the west by the rue de harlay, on the north by the quai de l'horloge, and on the south by the quai des orfèvres, it forms a quadrilateral mass in which all styles are opposed and confused, from the feudal towers of the quai de l'horloge to the new buildings begun in napoleon iii.'s reign, but never completed. to the left of this strange agglomeration the air is pierced by the graceful spire of the sainte-chapelle, admirable monument of the piety and of the art of the middle ages. some portions of the ancient palace of justice are preserved in the modern edifice, but only the substructures, as, for instance, in the northern buildings facing the seine. the principal gate, and the central pavilion with its admirable façade at the bottom of the courtyard opening on to the boulevard du palais, were constructed under the reign of louis xvi. the northern portion, from the clock tower, at the corner of the quay, to the third tower behind, has been restored or rebuilt in the course of the last thirty years. all the rest of the building is absolutely new. the clock tower, a fine specimen of the military architecture of the fourteenth century, was furnished in by order of charles v. with the first large clock that had been seen in paris, the work of a german, called in france henri de vic. to this clock the northern quay owes its name of "quai de l'horloge du palais" or "quai de l'horloge." the bell suspended in the upper part of the tower is said to have sounded the signal for the massacre of the protestants on the eve of st. bartholomew's day, august , ; a doubtful honour, which is also claimed for the bell of saint-germain-l'auxerrois. the palais de justice, as it now exists, possesses a threefold character--legal, administrative, and punitive. here cases are tried, here the prefect of police performs the multifarious duties of his office, and here criminals are imprisoned. of the various law courts the palais de justice contains five: the court of cassation, in which appeal cases are finally heard on questions of form, but of form only; the court of appeal, the court of assizes, the tribunal of first instance, and the tribunal of police. these fill the halls of the immense building. the court of cassation, divided into three chambers, counts forty-eight counsellors, a first president, three presidents of chamber, a procurator-general, six advocates-general, a registrar-in-chief, four ordinary registrars, three secretaries of the court, a librarian, eight ushers, and a receiver of registrations and fines; altogether seventy-seven persons. the court of appeal, divided into seven chambers, is composed of a first president, seven presidents of chamber, sixty-four counsellors, a procurator-general, seven advocates-general, eleven substitutes attached to the court, a registrar-in-chief, and fourteen ordinary registrars; altogether persons. the number of officials and clerks employed in the tribunal of first instance is still greater. divided into eleven chambers, the tribunal comprises one president, eleven vice-presidents, sixty-two judges, and fifteen supplementary judges, a public prosecutor, twenty-six substitutes, a registrar-in-chief, and forty-five clerks of registration. as for the police court, it is presided over in turn by each of the twenty magistrates of paris, two commissaries of police doing duty as assessors. with the addition of two registrars and a secretary the entire establishment consists of six persons. the entire number of judges, magistrates, registrars, and secretaries employed at the palais de justice amounts to ; without counting a floating body of some hundreds of barristers, solicitors, ushers, and clerks, thronging like a swarm of black ants a labyrinth of staircases, corridors, and passages. yet the palais de justice, constantly growing, is still insufficient for the multiplicity of demands made upon it. the history of the palais de justice is marked by the fires in which it has from time to time been burned down. the first of these broke out on the night of the th of march, , when the principal hall and most of the buildings adjoining it were destroyed. the second, which took place on the th of october, , consumed the buildings forming the chamber of accounts, situated at the bottom of the courtyard of the sainte-chapelle--an edifice of surpassing beauty, constructed in the fifteenth century by jean joconde, a monk of the order of saint dominic. the third fire declared itself during the night of january , , in the hall known as the prisoners' gallery, from which it spread to all the central buildings. in this conflagration perished the old montgomery tower. the last of the fires in which so many portions of the palais de justice have turn by turn succumbed, was lighted by order of the insurgent commune on the th of may, , when the troops from versailles were entering paris. the principal hall, the prison, the old towers with all the civil and criminal archives (in the destruction of the latter the insurgents may have been specially interested) were all consumed. these repeated catastrophes, together with numerous restorations, have left standing but very little of the ancient palais de justice. the central pavilion, reconstructed under louis xvi. in accordance with the plans of the architect desmaisons, is connected with two galleries of historical interest, on one side with the galerie mercière, on the other with the galerie marchande. the names of "mercière" and "marchande" recall the time when the galleries so named, as well as the principal hall and the outer walls of the palace, were occupied by stalls and booths in which young and pretty shop-girls sold all sorts of fashionable and frivolous trifles, such as ribbons, bows, and embroideries. here, too, new books were offered for sale. here claude barbin and his rivals sold to the patrons and patronesses of the stage the latest works of corneille, molière, and racine. here appointments of various kinds were made, but especially of one kind. the palace gallery, or galerie du palais, was the great meeting-place for the fashionable world until only a few years before the great revolution, when it was deserted for the palais royal. some of its little shops continued to live a meagre life until the reign of louis philippe. now everything of the kind has disappeared, with the exception of two privileged establishments where "toques" and togas--in plain english, caps and gowns--can be bought, or even hired, by barristers attending the "palace." the entrance to the central building is from the galerie mercière, through a portico supported by ionic columns, and surmounted by the arms of france. the visitor reaches a broad, well-lighted staircase, where, half-way up, stands in a niche an impressive statue of law, the work of gois, bearing in one hand a sceptre, and in the other the book of the law, inscribed with the legend "in legibus salus." [illustration: the clock of the palais de justice.] the grand staircase of the palais leads through a waiting-room, which serves also as a library, to the three first chambers of the court of appeal. the rooms are of a becomingly severe aspect. the walls are painted a greenish grey, of one uniform tint. the tribunal is sometimes oblong, sometimes in horse-shoe form. on the right sits the assessor representing the minister of justice, on the left the registrar on duty. in the "parquet," or enclosure beneath the tribunal, is the table of the usher, who calls the next case, executes the president's behests, and maintains order in the court, exclaiming "silence, gentlemen," with the traditional voice and accent. the "parquet" is shut in by a balustrade technically known as the bar, on which lean the advocates as they deliver their speeches. the space furnished with benches which is reserved for them, and where plaintiff and defendant may also sit, is enclosed by a second bar, designed to keep off the public properly so-called, and prevent it from pressing too closely upon the court. there is no witness-box in a french court. the witness stands in the middle of the court and recites, often in a speech that has evidently been prepared beforehand, all he knows about the case under trial. [illustration: entrance to the court of assize.] such is the general disposition of all the assize chambers in the palais de justice. some, however, present features of their own. the first chamber, for instance, contains a magnificent calvary, by van eyck; one of the rare objects of art which survive from the ancient ornamentation of the palace. on the centre of the picture, rising like a dome between two side panels, is the saviour on the cross. on his right is the virgin supported by two holy women, by saint john the baptist and by saint louis, graced with the exact features of king charles vii., under whose reign this masterpiece was executed. on the left are saint john the evangelist, saint denis, and saint charlemagne. above the head of our lord are the holy ghost and the eternal father surrounded by angels, while the background is occupied by a landscape less real than curious; for it represents the city of jerusalem, the tower of nesle, the louvre, and the gothic buildings of the palais de justice. this work, by the great painter of bruges, executed in the early part of the fifteenth century, was formerly in the principal hall of the parliament, beneath the portrait of louis xii., which the people (whose "father" he claimed to be) destroyed in . the portion of the building which contains the three first chambers of the court--behind the portico opening on to the galerie mercière--escaped the fire of . its lateral and southern façade, turned towards the courtyard of the sainte-chapelle, is pierced with lofty windows, sculptured in the renaissance style. it must have been constructed under the valois, or under the reign of henri iv. but it is difficult to ascertain its early history, for but few writers have given much attention to the subject. [illustration: the palais de justice.] [illustration: the palais de justice and sainte-chapelle.] the fifth, sixth, and seventh chambers of the court of appeal are all entered from the galerie marchande; while the fourth chamber stands in the north-east corner of the said gallery. on the left of the galerie mercière is the famous salle des pas perdus, seventy-four metres long and twenty-eight broad. this is the great entrance hall to the courts generally. why it should be called "salle des pas perdus" is not evident, though the name may be due either to the "lost steps" of litigants bringing or defending actions without result, or, more probably, to the "lost steps" of those who walk wearily to and fro for an indefinite time, vainly expecting their case to be called on. whatever the derivation of its name, the salle des pas perdus is considered one of the finest halls in europe. twice has it been destroyed by fire and twice rebuilt. the first large hall of the palace, as it was at that time called, was built under philip the fair and finished towards . it was adorned successively with the statues of the kings of france from pharamond to francis i.; the successful ones being represented with their hands raised to heaven in token of thanksgiving, the unfortunate ones with head and hands lowered towards the ground. the most celebrated ornament of the large hall was the immense marble table of which ample mention has already been made. after the fire of (in which the table split into several pieces, still preserved in the vaults of the palace) a new hall on the same site, and of the same dimensions as the old one, was built by jacques desbrosses, which was burnt in by the commune, to be promptly rebuilt by mm. duc dommey and daumet. the seven civil chambers of the tribunal are entered through the salle des pas perdus, either from the ground floor or from the upper storey, which is reached by two staircases. this portion of the palace was partly reconstructed in under the reign of napoleon iii., baron haussmann being prefect of the seine. the fact is recorded on a marble slab let into one of the walls. in the middle of the south part of the salle des pas perdus, a marble monument was raised in to malesherbes, the courageous advocate who defended louis xvi. at the bar of the convention. the monument comprises the statue of malesherbes with figures of france and fidelity by his side. on the pedestal are low reliefs, representing the different phases of the memorable trial. the statues are by cortot, the illustrative details by bosio. the latin inscription engraved on the pedestal was composed by louis xviii., in whose reign the monument was executed and placed in its present position. this king, who translated horace and otherwise distinguished himself as a latinist, is the author of more than one historical inscription in the latin language, and he commemorated by this means, not only the heroism of malesherbes, who defended louis xvi. at the trial, but also the piety of the abbé edgeworth, who accompanied him to the scaffold. towards the end of the hall, on the other side, is the statue of berryer, which, according to m. vitu, is "the homage paid to eloquence considered as the auxiliary of justice." in the north-east corner of the hall of lost steps, to the left of berryer's monument, is the entrance to the first chamber, once the bed-chamber of saint louis, and which, reconstructed with great magnificence by louis xii. for his marriage with mary of england, daughter of king henry vii., took the name of the golden room. it afterwards played an important part in the annals of the parliament of paris. here marshal de biron was condemned to death on the th of july, . here a like sentence was pronounced against marshal d'ancre on the th of july, . here the kings of france held their bed of justice, solidly built up at the bottom of the hall in the right corner, and composed of a lofty pile of cushions, covered with blue velvet, in which golden fleurs de lis were worked. here, finally, on the rd of may, , the marquis d'agoult, commanding three detachments of french guards, swiss guards, sappers, and cavalry, entered to arrest counsellors d'Épréménil and goislard, when the president, surrounded by magistrates and seventeen peers of france, every one wearing the insignia of his dignity, called upon him to point out the two inculpated members, and exclaimed: "we are all d'Épréménil and goislard! what crime have they committed?" a resolution had been obtained from the parliament declaring that the nation alone had the right to impose taxes through the states-general. this resolution and the scene which followed were the prelude to the french revolution. four years later there was no longer either monarch or parliament, french guards or swiss guards. the great chamber of the palace had become the "hall of equality," where, on the th of april, , was established the first revolutionary tribunal, to be replaced on the th of may, , by the criminal tribunal extraordinary; which was reorganised on the th of september by a decree which contained this phrase, still more extraordinary than the tribunal itself: "a defender is granted by law to calumniated patriots, but refused to conspirators." here were arraigned--one cannot say tried--that same d'Épréménil who had proclaimed the rights of the nation, and barnave, the girondists, the queen of france, mme. Élizabeth, danton, camille desmoulins, chaumette, hébert, and fabre d'Églantine; then, one after the other, the robespierres, with couthon, collot d'herbois, saint-just, henriot, and fouquier-tinville--altogether , victims, whose , heads fell into the red basket either on the former place louis xv., which had become the place de la révolution and was afterwards to be known as the place de la concorde, or on the place du trône. the numbered list, which used to be sent out, like a newspaper, to subscribers, has been preserved. it began with the slaughter of the th of august, , in which la porte, intendant of the civil list, the journalist durozoi, and the venerable jacques cazotte, author of "le diable amoureux," lost their heads. cazotte had kept up a long correspondence with ponteaux, secretary of the civil list, and had sent him several plans for the escape of the royal family, together with suggestions, from his point of view invaluable, for crushing the revolution. the letters were seized at the house of the intendant of the civil list, the before-mentioned la porte; and thereupon cazotte was arrested. his daughter elizabeth followed him to prison; and they were both at the abbaye during the atrocious massacres of september. the unhappy young girl had been separated from her father since the beginning of the executions, and she now thought only of rejoining him either to save his life or to die with him. suddenly she heard him call out, and then hurried down a staircase in the midst of a jingle of arms. before there was time to arrest him she rushed towards him, reached him, threw her arms around him, and so moved the terrible judges by her daughterly affection that they were completely disarmed. not only was the old man spared, but he and his heroic daughter were sent back with a guard of honour to their home. soon afterwards, however, the father was again arrested, and brought before the revolutionary tribunal. on the advice of the counsel defending him, he denied the competence of the court on the plea of _autrefois acquit_. it was ruled, however, that the court was dealing with new facts, and the judges had indeed simply to apply the decree pronounced against those who had taken part in preparing the repression of the th of august. the evidence against cazotte was only too clear, and he was condemned to death; which suggested the epigram that "judges struck where executioners had spared." but these very judges, bound by inflexible laws, could not refuse the expression of their pity and esteem to the unhappy old man. while condemning him to death they rendered homage to his honesty and his courage. "why," exclaimed the public accuser, "after a virtuous life of seventy-two years, must you now be declared guilty? because it is not sufficient to be a good husband and a good father; because one must also be a good citizen." the president of the court, in pronouncing sentence, said with gravity and emotion: "old man, regard the approach of death without fear. it has no power to alarm you. it can have no terrors for such a man as you." cazotte ascended with fortitude the steps of the scaffold, and exclaimed, before lowering his head: "i die as i have lived, faithful to my god and to my king." the last victim of the , was coffinhal, vice-president of the revolutionary tribunal, and member of the council-general of the paris commune. no show of equity, no imitation even of judicial forms, gave colour to these bloody sacrifices. most of the victims, condemned beforehand, were brought to the prison of the conciergerie at eight in the morning, led before the tribunal at two, and executed at four. a printing office established in a room adjoining the court was connected with the latter by an opening in the wall, through which notes and documents relating to the case before the tribunal were passed; and often the sentence was composed, printed, and hawked for sale in the streets before being read to the victims. "you disgrace the guillotine!" said robespierre one day to fouquier-tinville, the public accuser. of this historic hall nothing now remains but the four walls. still, however, may be seen the little door of the staircase which marie antoinette ascended to appear before the revolutionary jury, and which she afterwards descended on the way to her dungeon. the galerie saint-louis is the name given to the ancient gallery connected with the galerie marchande, its name being justified by the various forms in which incidents from the life of saint louis are represented on its walls. here, in sculptured and coloured wood, is the effigy of saint louis, close to the open space where, when centuries ago it was a garden, the pious king was wont to imitate, and sometimes to render, justice beneath the spreading trees. one of the bureaux in the palais de justice contains an alphabetical list of all the sentences passed, by no matter what court, against any person born in one of the districts of paris or of the department of the seine. this record, contemplated by napoleon i., was established in by m. rouher, at that time minister of justice. the list is kept strictly secret; nor is any extract permitted except on the requisition of a magistrate, or on the application of one of the persons sentenced, requiring it in his own interest. [illustration: the faÇade of the old palais de justice.] the bureau of "judicial assistance," dating from , enables any indigent person to plead _in formâ pauperis_, whether as plaintiff or defendant. nor is he obliged to plead in person. not only stamped paper, but solicitors, barristers, and every legal luxury are supplied to him gratuitously. it is at the expense of the lawyers that the pauper litigant is relieved. two curious bureaux connected with the palais de justice are those in which are kept, sealed up and divided into series indicated by different colours, objects of special value taken from persons brought before the court, or voluntarily deposited by them; together with sums of money which, in like manner, have passed into the hands of legal authorities. still more curious is the collection of articles of all kinds stored in a sort of museum, which presents the aspect at once of a bazaar and of a pawnbroker's shop. here, in striking confusion, are seen boots and shoes, clothes, wigs, rags, and a variety of things seized and condemned as fraudulent imitations; likewise instruments of fraud, such as false scales. here, too, in abundance are murderous arms--knives, daggers, and revolvers. singularly interesting is the collection of burglarious instruments of the most different patterns, from the enormous lump of iron, which might be used as a battering ram, to the most delicately-made skeleton key, feeble enough in appearance, but sufficiently strong to force the lock of an iron safe. there is now scarcely room for the constantly increasing collection of objects at the service of fraud and crime. beneath this strange exhibition, rendered still more sinister by the method and order with which it is arranged, are disposed in two storeys the four chambers which together constitute the civil tribunal. connected with the criminal tribunal, their duty is to try offences punishable by a scale of sentences, with five years' imprisonment as the maximum. according to one of the last legislative enactments of the second empire, persons brought before a police-court remained provisionally at liberty except under grave circumstances. cases, moreover, in which the offender has been taken _in flagrante delicto_ are decided in three days. "this is a sign of progress," says m. vitu; "but paris still needs an institution of which london is justly proud, that of district magistrates, something like our _juges de paix_, deciding police cases forthwith. the principal merit of this institution is that it prevents arbitrary detention and serious mistakes such as unfortunately are only too frequent with us. instances have occurred, and will occur again, in which an inoffensive man, arrested by mistake, in virtue of a regular warrant intended for another of the same name, is sent straight to the criminal prison of mazas. it will then take him a week to get set at liberty. in london he would have been taken at once to the magistrate of the district, who would have proceeded without delay to the verification of his identity. it would have been the affair of two hours at most, thanks to the service of constables at the disposal, day and night, of the english magistrate." [illustration: the salle des pas perdus.] the police-courts have sometimes to deal with remarkable cases, but as a rule their duties are of a somewhat trivial character. adventurers of a low order, swindlers on a petty scale, and street thieves who have been caught with their hands in the pocket of a gentleman or the muff of a lady, are the sort of persons they usually deal with. to these may be added vendors of pretended theatrical admissions, hawkers of forbidden books, and a few drunkards. from morning till night the police are constantly bringing in poor wretches of both sexes; the men for the most part in blouses, the women in rags. they arrive in "cellular" carriages, vulgarly called "salad baskets"; and leaving the vehicle they are kept together by a long cord attached to the wrist of each prisoner. the place of confinement where they remain pending the trial is called the "mouse-trap": two rows, placed one above the other, each of twenty-five cells, containing one prisoner apiece. every cell is closed in front by an iron grating, in the centre of which is a small aperture--a little square window looking into the corridor. through this window, which can be opened and shut, but which is almost invariably kept open, the prisoner sees all that takes place in the passage, and the occasional arrival of privileged visitors helps to break the monotony of his day. the wire cages in which the prisoners are detained suggest those of the zoological gardens; and the character of the wild beast is too often imprinted on the vicious criminal features of the incarcerated ones. disputes with cab-drivers and hackney coachmen generally are, as a rule, settled by the commissary of the district or the _quartier_. but serious complaints have now and then to be brought before the tribunal of police. in former times the hackney coaches of paris were at once the disgrace and the terror of the town. "nothing," writes mercier, "can more offend the eye of a stranger than the shabby appearance of these vehicles, especially if he has ever seen the hackney coaches of london and brussels. yet the aspect of the drivers is still more shocking than that of the carriages, or of the skinny hacks that drag those frightful machines. some have but half a coat on, others none at all; they are uniform in one point only, that is extreme wretchedness and insolence. you may observe the following gradation in the conduct of these brutes in human shape. before breakfast they are pretty tractable, they grow restive towards noon, but in the evening they are not to be borne. the commissaries or justices of the peace are the only umpires between the driver and the drivee; and, right or wrong, their award is in favour of the former, who are generally taken from the honourable body of police greyhounds, and are of course allied to the formidable phalanx of justices of the peace. however, if you would roll on at a reasonable pace, be sure you take a hackney coachman half-seas-over. nothing is more common than to see the traces giving way, or the wheels flying off at a tangent. you find yourself with a broken shin or a bloody nose; but then, for your comfort, you have nothing to pay for the fare. some years ago a report prevailed that some alterations were to take place in the regulation of hackney coaches; the parisian phaetons took the alarm and drove to choisy, where the king was at that time. the least appearance of a commotion strikes terror to the heart of a despot. the sight of , empty coaches frightened the monarch; but his apprehensions were soon removed by the vigilance of his guard and courtiers. four representatives of the phaetonic body were clapped into prison and the speaker sent to bicêtre, to deliver his harangue before the motley inhabitants of that dreary mansion. the safety of the inhabitants doubtless requires the attention of the government, in providing carriages hung on better springs and generally more cleanly; but the scarcity of hay and straw, not to mention the heavy impost of twenty sols per day for the privilege of rattling over the pavement of paris, when for the value of an english shilling you may go from one end of the town to the other, prevents the introduction of so desirable a reformation." in another part of his always interesting "picture of paris," mercier becomes quite tragic on the subject of paris coaches and paris coachmen. "look to the right," he says, "and see the end of all public rejoicings in paris; see that score of unfortunate men, some of them with broken legs and arms, some already dead or expiring. most of them are parents of families, who by this catastrophe must be reduced to the most horrible misery. i had foretold this accident as the consequence of that file of coaches which passed us before. the police take so little notice of these chance medleys that it is simply a wonder such accidents, already too frequent, are not still more numerous. the threatening wheel which runs along with such rapidity carries an obdurate man in power, who has not leisure, or indeed cares not, to observe that the blood of his fellow-subjects is yet fresh on the stones over which his magnificent chariot rattles so swiftly. they talk of a reformation, but when is it to take place? all those who have any share in the administration keep carriages, and what care they for the pedestrian traveller? jean jacques rousseau, in the year , on the road to mesnil-montant, was knocked down by a large lapland dog and remained on the spot, whilst the master, secure in his berline, passed him by with that stoic indifference which amounts to savage barbarity. rousseau, lame and bruised, was taken up and conducted to his house by some charitable peasants. the gentleman, or rather savage, learning the identity of the person whom the dog had knocked down, sent a servant to know what he could do for him. 'tell him,' said rousseau, 'to keep his dog chained,' and dismissed the messenger. when a coachman has crushed or crippled a passenger, he may be carried before a commissaire, who gravely inquires whether the accident was occasioned by the fore wheels or the hind wheels. if one should die under the latter, no pecuniary damage can be recovered by the heirs-at-law, because the coachman is answerable only for the former; and even in this case there is a police standard by which he is merely judged at so much an arm and so much a leg! after this we boast of being a civilised nation!" in addition to the place of detention already described, the palais de justice contains a permanent prison known historically as the conciergerie, and, by its official name, as the house of justice. here are received, on the one hand, prisoners about to be tried before the assize court or the appeal court of police; on the other, certain prisoners who are the object of special favour and who consider themselves fortunate to be confined in this rather than any other prison. the list of celebrated persons who have been detained in the conciergerie would be a long one, from the constable of armagnac ( ) to prince napoleon ( ). here may still be seen the dungeons of damiens, of ravaillac, of lacenaire the murderer, of andré chenier the poet, of mme. roland, and of robespierre. the name whose memory, in connection with this fatal place, extinguishes all others is that of the unhappy marie antoinette. after a captivity of nearly a year in the temple the queen was conducted on the th of august, , to the conciergerie, and there shut up in a dark narrow cell called the council hall, lighted from the courtyard by a little window crossed with iron bars. this council hall was previously divided into two by a partition, which had now been removed; and in place of it a screen was fixed which, during her sleep, shut the queen off from the two gendarmes ordered to watch her day and night. the daughter of the cæsars left her dungeon on the th of october, , dressed in black, to appear before the revolutionary tribunal, and the next day, dressed in white, to step into the cart which conveyed her to the guillotine erected on the place louis xv. [illustration: police carriages.] this historical dungeon, which, says m. vitu, could not contain the tears which it has caused to be shed, and ought to have been walled up in order to bury the memory of a crime unworthy of the french nation, was transformed into a chapel by order of louis xviii. in . the altar bears a latin inscription which, like others previously referred to, was composed by the king himself. close to the queen's dungeon is the so-called hall of the girondists (formerly a chapel), in which the most enlightened and the most heroic of the revolutionists are said, by a not too trustworthy legend, to have passed their last night. * * * * * locally and even architecturally connected with the palace of justice is the holy chapel, one of the most perfect sacred buildings that paris possesses. the courtyard of the holy chapel, mentioned more than once in connection with the palace of justice, stands at the south-east corner of the principal building, and is shut in by the tribunal of police and a portion of the court of appeal. it can be entered from five different points: from the boulevard of the palace of justice; by two different openings from the police tribunal; from the so-called depôt of the prefecture of police; and from the cour du mai on the north-east. no more admirable specimen of the religious architecture of the middle ages is to be found; nor is any church or chapel more venerable by its origin and its antiquity. founded by robert i. in , the year of his accession to the throne, it replaced, in the royal palace of which it had formed part, a chapel dedicated to saint bartholomew, which dated from the kings of the first dynasty. [illustration: the conciergerie, palais de justice.] the royal palace contained, moreover, several private oratories, including in particular one dedicated to the holy virgin. in baudouin ii., emperor of constantinople, exhausted by the wars he had been sustaining against the greeks, came to france to beg assistance from king saint louis. baudouin was of the house of flanders, and in consideration of a large sum of money, he pledged to the french king his county of namur, and allowed him to redeem certain holy relics--the crown of thorns, the sponge which had wiped away the blood and sweat of the saviour, and the lance with which his side had been pierced--on which the venetians, the genoese, the abbess of perceul, pietro cornaro, and peter zauni had lent , gold pieces. the relics arrived in france the year afterwards, and crossed the country in the midst of pious demonstrations from the whole population. the king himself, and the count of artois, went to receive them at sens and bore on their shoulders the case containing the crown of thorns. thus, in formal procession, they passed through the streets of sens and of paris; and the holy king deposited the relics in the oratory of the virgin until a building should be erected specially for their reception. this was the holy chapel, of which the first stone was laid in . the work had been entrusted to the architect pierre de montreuil or de montereau. in three years it was finished, the chapel being inaugurated on the th of april, . "only three years for the construction of such an edifice," exclaims a french writer, "when the nineteenth century cannot manage to restore it in thirty years!" [illustration: the sainte-chapelle.] the holy chapel is composed of two chapels one above the other, having a single nave without transept, each chapel possessing a separate entrance. the upper chapel, approached through the galerie mercière, was reserved for the king and his family, who, from the royal palace, entered it on foot. the lower chapel, intended for the inferior officers attached to the court, became later on, in virtue of a papal bull, the parish church of all who lives in the immediate neighbourhood of the palace. if the holy chapel is admirable by its design and proportions, it is a marvel of construction from a technical point of view. it rests on slender columns, which seem incapable of supporting it. the roof, in pointed vaulting, is very lofty; and for the last six centuries it has resisted every cause of destruction, including the fire which, in , threatened the entire building. no more beautiful specimens of stained glass are to be seen than in the holy chapel, with its immense windows resplendent in rich and varied colours. a remarkable statue of the virgin bowing her head as if in token of assent, now at the hôtel cluny, belonged originally to the holy chapel. according to a pious legend, the figure bent forward to show approval of the doctrine of the immaculate conception as formulated by duns scotus, who was teaching theology at paris in , and from the time of the miracle until now maintains the same gesture of inclination. more than one mediæval tradition makes statues, and especially statues of the virgin, perform similar actions. there is, for example, in the _contes dévots_ a story of a statue of the virgin to which a certain _bourgeois qui aimait une dame_ prayed that she would either make the lady return his love or cause that love to cease. some time previously a hebrew magician had offered to secure the lady's affections for the infatuated _bourgeois_ provided he would renounce god, the saints, and especially the blessed virgin; to which the despondent lover replied that though, in his grief and despair, he might abandon everything else, yet nothing could make him relinquish his allegiance and devotion to the blessed virgin. this fidelity, under all temptations, gave him some right, he hoped, to implore the influence of the merciful virgin towards softening the heart of the woman he so passionately loved; and the statue of the virgin, before which he prostrated himself, showed by a gentle inclination of the head that his prayer was heard. fortunately, the lady whose cold demeanour had so vexed the heart of her lover was in the church at the very moment of the miracle, and, seeing the virgin bow her head to the unhappy _bourgeois_, felt convinced that he must be an excellent man. thereupon she went up to him, asked him why he looked so sad, reproached him gently with not having visited her of late, and ended by assuring him that if he still loved her she fully returned his affection. somewhat analogous to this legend, though in a different order of ideas, is that of the commander whose statue don juan invited to supper, with consequences too familiar to be worth repeating. the ancient statue of the virgin, once in the holy chapel, venerated now in the hôtel cluny, regarded simply as a curiosity, has been replaced by a modern statue. the sacred relics which the holy chapel at one time possessed are still preserved at notre dame. the gold case which enclosed them was, at the beginning of the revolution, sent to the mint to be converted into coin. the spire which now surmounts the holy chapel is the fourth since the erection of the building. the first one, by pierre de montreuil, was crumbling away from age under the reign of charles v., who thereupon had it restored by a master-carpenter, robert foucher. burnt in the great fire of , this second spire was re-constructed by order of louis xiii., and destroyed during the revolution. the fourth edition of it, which still exists, was built by m. lassus in the florid style of the first years of the fifteenth century. the one thing which strikes the visitor to the holy chapel above everything else, and which cannot but make a lasting impression on him, is the wonderful beauty of the stained glass windows already referred to. they date, for the most part, from the reign of saint louis, and were put in on the day the building was consecrated in . in their present condition and form, however, they take us back only to the year . during forty-six years ( to ) the holy chapel was given up to all kinds of uses. first it was a club-house, then a flour magazine, and finally a bureau for official documents. this last was the least injurious of the purposes to which it was turned. nevertheless the incomparable stained glass windows were interfered with by the construction of various boxes and cupboards along the sides of the building, no less than three metres of the lower part of each window being thus sacrificed. certain glaziers, moreover, employed to take down the windows, clean them, and put them back, had made serious mistakes, restoring portions of windows to the wrong frames. the subjects of the stained art-work are all from the holy scriptures, and on a thousand glass panels figure a thousand different personages. the restoration of the windows had been entrusted, after a public competition, to m. henri gérante, a french artist who, more than any other, has contributed to the resurrection of the seemingly lost art of painting on glass. but, unhappily, m. gérante died before beginning his work, which, thereupon, was divided between m. steintheil, for the drawing and painting, and m. lusson for the material preparation. their labours were crowned with the most complete success. entering the holy chapel one is literally dazzled by the bright rich colours from the windows on all sides, blending together in the most harmonious manner. [illustration: the lower chapel of the sainte-chapelle.] right and left of the nave the place is shown where saint louis and blanche de castille were accustomed to sit opposite one another to hear mass and other religious services. a corner, moreover, is pointed out, with an iron network before it, where, according to a doubtful tradition, the suspicious louis xi. used to retire in order to hear mass without being seen; perhaps also to watch the faithful at their prayers. in many an old french church corners and passages may be met with, protected by a network or simply by rails, which served, it is said, to shut off lepers from the general congregation. * * * * * closely associated with the palais de justice is the tribunal of commerce, which has its own code, its own judges and functionaries. three centuries ago the necessity was recognised in france of leaving commercial and industrial cases to the decision of men competent, from their occupation, to deal with such matters. paris owes its tribunal of commerce to king charles ix.; but the code under which issues are now decided dates only from september, --from the first empire, that is to say. the commercial judges are named for two years by the merchants and tradesmen domiciled in the department of the seine. formerly the tribunal of commerce, or consular tribunal, held its sittings at the back of the church of saint-méry in the hôtel des consuls, the gate of which used to support a statue of louis xiv., by simon guilain. [illustration: the upper chapel of the sainte-chapelle.] this mercantile court consists of five merchants, the first bearing the title of judge, and the four others that of consuls. the tribunal of commerce was removed from the old house in the rue saint-méry in , to be installed on the first storey of the newly constructed bourse. soon, however, the place assigned to it became inadequate for the constantly increasing number of cases brought before the court; and a special edifice was erected for the tribunal of commerce in the immediate vicinity of the palais de justice. this structure, quadrilateral in form, is bounded on the north by the quai aux fleurs, on the east by the rue aubé, on the south by the rue de lutèce, and on the west by the boulevard du palais. to build a new palais de justice it was necessary to destroy all that existed of the ancient cité. one curious building, which, after undergoing every kind of modification, ultimately, in order to make room for the court of commerce, disappeared altogether, was the ancient church of saint bartholomew. this sacred edifice during the early days of the revolution, when churches had gone very much out of fashion, became the théâtre henri iv., to be afterwards called palais variété, théâtre de la cité, cité variété, and théâtre mozart. here was represented, in , "the interior of the revolutionary committees," the most cutting satire ever directed against the tyranny of the jacobins; and, in another style, "the perilous forest, or the brigands of calabria," a true type of the ancient melodrama. suppressed in , this theatre underwent a number of transformations, to serve at last as a dancing saloon, known to everyone and beloved by students under the title of the prado. [illustration: the tribunal of commerce.] the cupola of the tribunal of commerce is a reproduction, as to form, of the cupola of a little church which attracted the attention of napoleon iii. on the borders of the lake of garda while he was awaiting the result of the attack on the solferino tower. the audience chamber of the tribunal is adorned with paintings by robert fleury, representing incidents in the commercial history of france from charles ix. to napoleon iii. chapter xxiv. the fire brigade and the police. the _sapeurs-pompiers_--the prefect of police--the _garde républicaine_--the spy system. the tribunal of commerce, standing north of the rue de lutèce, has for pendant on its south side (that is to say, between the rue de lutèce and the quay) the barrack of the republican guard and two houses adjoining it, one of which is the private residence of the prefect of police: where, moreover, he has his private office; while the second contains the station of the firemen of the town of paris. the fire brigade, or corps of sapeurs-pompiers, is partly under the direction of the prefect of police, partly under that of the minister of war, who takes charge of its organisation, its recruitment, and its internal administration. much was said at the time of the terrible fire at the opéra comique in of the evils of this dual system; the chief of the corps, an officer appointed by the war minister, being often an experienced soldier, but never before his appointment a skilled fireman. there is a reason, however, for placing the sapeurs-pompiers under the orders of the minister of war. during the campaign of and the germans refused to recognise the military character of corps not holding their commission from this minister. thus the national guards, as a purely civic body, were not looked upon as soldiers, and were threatened with the penalties inflicted on persons taking up arms without authority from the central military power. in the next war against germany the french propose to call out the whole of their available forces; and to be recognised as regular troops the sapeurs-pompiers must have a military organisation and act under military chiefs formally appointed and responsible to a superior officer. all this, however, could surely be accomplished without rendering the corps unfit for the special duties assigned to it. the sapeurs-pompiers are organised in twelve companies, forming two battalions, and are distributed among the barracks, stations, and watch-houses comprised in the twenty districts, or _arrondissements_, of paris. the magistracy of the prefect of police was created under the consulate of the st of july, , when the central power took over the general police duties entrusted under the monarchy to the lieutenant-general of police, and which had been transferred by the revolution to the commune of paris. the prefect is specially empowered to take, personally, every step necessary for the discovery and repression of crime and for the punishment of criminals. he is charged, moreover, under the authority of the minister of the interior, with all that relates to the administrative and economic government of the prisons and houses of detention and correction, not only in paris, but throughout the department of the seine, as well as in the communes of saint-cloud, sèvres, meudon, and enghien, suburbs of paris belonging to the department of seine-et-oise. the prefect of police has beneath his orders all the police of the capital, or rather of the department to which the capital belongs. this service is divided into two special organisations: municipal police and agents of security. the "security" force consists of three hundred agents with the title of inspector, commanded by five chief inspectors, ten brigadiers, and twenty sub-brigadiers. these agents are employed in arresting malefactors, and are viewed with intense hatred by the criminal class generally. the municipal police counts an effective of about , men, commanded by peace officers, chief inspectors, brigadiers, and sub-brigadiers. the entire expenditure of the prefecture of the police service amounts to twenty-five million francs a year, of which eleven millions are put down for pay and the remainder for uniforms, office expenses, and all kinds of extras. "if," says a french writer who knows london as well as paris, "our police is not always so clear-sighted and so clever as it might be, it is, at any rate, more tolerant than vexatious. our 'keepers of the peace' do not impose on the paris population all the respect that the english people feels for its policemen; nor have they the same rigid bearing or the same herculean aspect. but, on the other hand, they are without their brutality--quite incredible to anyone who has not lived in london. nearly all have been in the army, and they preserve the familiar aspect of the french soldier; while of the rules laid down by the prefecture, the one they least observe is that which forbids them to talk in the street with servant maids and cooks. but they are intelligent, ingenious, possessed of a certain tact, and brave to the point of self-sacrifice. they are at present more appreciated and more popular, with their tunic, their military cap, their high boots, and their little cloak, which give them the look of troops on a campaign, than were the sergents de ville whose swallow-tail coat and black cocked hat were so much feared by rioters under the reign of louis philippe." the barracks of the prefecture are occupied by the garde républicaine, which succeeds the garde de paris, the latter having itself succeeded the garde municipale, which was simply the gendarmerie royale of the town of paris, created under the restoration. after the revolution of the name of the garde municipale was changed, as after the revolution of the title of gendarmerie royale was abolished. notwithstanding alterations of name and certain slight modifications of uniform, the republican guard is a legion of gendarmerie like the different corps that preceded it. commanded by a colonel, the republican guard is divided into two detachments or brigades, each under a lieutenant-colonel; the first consisting of three battalions of infantry, the second of three squadrons of cavalry. the whole force comprises officers, with , men beneath their orders-- , infantry, and cavalry. the republican guard, one of the finest corps that can be seen, belongs to the cadres of the regular army; and it served brilliantly in the war of and . its special duties, however, are to keep order in the city of paris; though, in consideration of its mixed character, the pay assigned to it is furnished, half by the state, half by the town of paris. among other merits it possesses an admirable band, in which may be found some of the finest orchestral players in a capital possessing an abundance of fine orchestras. the evidence of a garde républicaine, or gendarme, is accepted at the police courts as unimpeachable. the written statement drawn up by a gendarme may be denied by the accused, but it cannot be set aside. "as a matter of fact," says m. auguste vitu, in his work on "paris," "very few evil results are caused by this rule; for the gendarme is honest. but he may make a mistake. in london, the magistrate, having generally to deal only with policemen of his own district, knows them personally, can judge of their intelligence and disposition, and is able in certain cases to see whether they are obscuring or altering the truth. he exercises over them, in case of negligence or error, accidental or intentional, the right of reprimanding and of suspending them. in paris the 'judges of correction,' before whom, at one time or another, every one of the 'keepers of the peace' or of the republican guards (altogether about , men) may appear, can only accept their evidence. it is doubtless sincere, but there is no way of testing it." of the spy system in connection with police administration it is difficult to speak with accurate knowledge, for the simple reason that it is not until long afterwards that secret arrangements of this kind are divulged. but in principle the system described by mercier more than a hundred years ago still exists. "this," writes that faithful chronicler, "may be termed the second part of parisian grievances. yet, like even the most poisonous reptile, these bloodhounds are of some service to the community: they form a mass of corruption which the police distil, as it were, with equal art and judgment, and, by mixing it with a few salutary ingredients, soften its baneful nature, and turn it to public advantage. the dregs that remain at the bottom of the still are the spies of whom i have just spoken; for these also belong to the police. the distilled matter itself consists of the thief-catchers, etc. they, like other spies, have persons to watch over them; each is foremost to impeach the other, and a base lucre is the bone of contention amongst those wretches, who are, of all evils, the most necessary. such are the admirable regulations of the paris police that a man, if suspected, is so closely watched that the most minute transaction in which he is concerned is treasured up till it is fit time to arrest him. the police does not confine its care to the capital only. droves of its runners are sent to the principal towns and cities in this kingdom, where, by mixing with those whose character is suspicious, they insinuate themselves into their confidence, and by pretending to join in their mischievous schemes, get sufficient information to prevent their being carried into execution. the mere narrative of the following fact, which happened when m. de sartine was at the head of this department, will give the reader an idea of the watchfulness of the police. a gentleman travelling from bordeaux to paris with only one servant in his company was stopped at the turnpike by the custom house officer, who, having inquired his name, told him he must go directly to m. de sartine. the traveller was both astonished and frightened at this peremptory command, which, however, it would have been imprudent to disobey. he went, and his fears soon subsided at the civil reception he met with; but his surprise was greatly increased when the magistrate, whom, to his knowledge, he had never seen before, calling him by his name, gave him an account of every transaction that had taken place previous to the gentleman's departure from bordeaux, and even minutely described the full contents of his portmanteau. 'now, sir,' continued the lieutenant de police, 'to show that i am well informed i have a trifle more to disclose to you. you are going to such and such an hotel, and a scheme is laid by your servant to murder you by ten o'clock.' 'then, my lord, i must shift my quarters to defeat his wicked intention.' 'by no means, sir; you must not even take notice of what i have said. retire to bed at your usual hour, and leave the rest to me.' the gentleman followed the advice of the magistrate and went to the hotel. about an hour after he had lain down, when, no doubt, he was but little inclined to compose himself to rest, the servant, armed with a clasp-knife, entered the room on tip-toe, drew near the bed, and was about to fulfil his murderous intention. then four men, rushing from behind the hangings, seized the wretch, who confessed all, and soon afterwards paid to the injured laws of humanity the forfeit of his life." [illustration: a pompier.] since the revolution the number of spies employed in france has doubtless diminished. but they have existed in that country, as in others, from time immemorial. a french writer, dealing with this subject, traces the history of espionage to the remotest antiquity; the first spies being, according to his view, the brothers of joseph, who were for that reason detained when they visited him in egypt as pharaoh's minister. the romans employed spies in their armies, and both nero and caligula had an immense number of secret agents. alfred the great was a spy of the chivalrous, self-sacrificing kind; for, risking his life on behalf of his own people he would assuredly, had he been recognised in the danish camp, have been put to death. the spy system was first established in france on a large, widely organised scale by richelieu, under whose orders the notorious father joseph became the director of a network of spies which included not only all the religious orders of france, but many persons belonging to the nobility and middle classes. this sort of conspiracy had, moreover, its correspondents abroad. the police, strongly organised under louis xiv., included a numerous body of spies. but all that had before been known in the way of espionage was eclipsed in louis xv.'s reign, when the too famous de sartine, lieutenant of police, gave to his spy system a prodigious extension. under the administration of de sartine spies were employed to follow the court; and the minister of foreign affairs maintained a subdivision of spies to watch the doings of all foreigners arriving in paris, and to ascertain, in particular, the object of their visit. this course of action is followed to the present day in russia, not only secretly, but in the first instance openly. thus the chief of a bureau connected with the foreign office questions the stranger in the politest manner as to his motive in coming to russia, the friends, if any, that he has there, his occupation, and his pecuniary resources. a report is attributed to the above-named lieutenant of police in which it is set forth that to watch thoroughly a family of twenty persons forty spies would be necessary. this, however, was an ideal calculation, for, in reality, the cost of the spy system under louis xv., as set down in the official registers of the police, did not amount annually to more than , francs. the government had, however, at its disposal much larger sums received for licences from the gambling houses, and as fines and ransoms from evil-doers of all kinds. berryer, the successor of de sartine--bearer of a name which, in the nineteenth century, was to be rendered honourable--conceived the idea, inspired, perhaps, by a familiar proverb, of employing as spies criminals of various kinds, principally thieves who had escaped from prison or from the pursuit of the police. these wretches, banded together in a secret army of observation, were only too zealous in the performance of the work assigned to them; for, on the slightest negligence or prevarication, they were sent back to the hulks or to gaol, where a hot reception awaited them from their former comrades in crime. hackney-coachmen, innkeepers, and lodging-house keepers were also engaged as spies, not to speak of domestic servants, who, through secret agencies, were sometimes supplied to householders by the police themselves. many a person was sent to the bastille in virtue of a _lettre de cachet_ issued on the representation of some valet before whom his master had uttered an imprudent word. [illustration: a guardian of the peace.] mercier's picture of the spy system in paris a few years before the revolution is, to judge from other contemporary accounts, in no way exaggerated. the revolution did not think even of suppressing espionage, but it endeavoured to moralise this essentially immoral, if sometimes necessary, institution. in a report on this subject dated november , , only a few months after the taking of the bastille, the following significant passage occurs:--"we have been deprived of a sufficient number of observers, a sort of army operating under the orders of the old police, which made considerable use of it. if all the districts were well organised, if their committees were wisely chosen and not too numerous, we should apparently have no reason to regret the suppression of that odious institution which our oppressors employed so long against us." the writer of the report was, in fact, recommending, without being apparently aware of it, a system of open denunciation necessitating previously that secret espionage which he found so hateful; for before denouncing it would be necessary to observe and watch. nevertheless, the police of the revolution employed no regular spies, registered, organised, and paid, until ; though this did not prevent wholesale denunciation on the part of officious volunteers. robespierre, however, maintained a spy system more or less on the ancient pattern; and when the empire was established, napoleon's famous prefect of police, fouché, made of espionage a perfect science. fouché had at his service spies of all classes and kinds; and the ingenious mme. de bawr has, in one of her best tales, imagined the case of a poor curé, who, after the suppression of churches and religious services, calls upon fouché, an old schoolfellow of his, to ask for some employment; when the crafty police minister assigns a certain salary to his simple-minded friend and tells him not to do any serious work for the present, but to go about paris amusing himself in various cafés and places of entertainment, after which he can look in from time to time and say what has chiefly struck him in the persons he has seen and the conversations he has heard. at last the innocent curé finds that he has been doing the work of a spy. fortunately, when he discovers to what a base purpose he has been turned, napoleon has just restored public worship; whereupon, by way of amends, fouché uses his influence with the emperor to get the poor man re-appointed to his old parish. [illustration: an orderly of the garde de paris.] under the restoration the spy system was maintained as under the empire, but with additional intricacies. fouché had been replaced by vidocq, who, among other strange devices for getting at the thoughts of the public, obtained from the government permission to establish a public bowling alley, which collected crowds of people, whose conversations were listened to and reported by agents employed for the purpose. the bowling alley brought in some , to , francs a year, which was spent on additional spies. the prefect delavau, with vidocq as his lieutenant, went back to the system of berryer under the ancient _régime_, taking into the state service escaped criminals, who for the slightest fault were sent back to gaol. an attempt was made by the same delavau, in humble imitation of berryer, to get into his service all the domestics of paris; and in this way he renewed an old regulation by which each servant was to keep a book and bring it to the prefecture of police on entering or leaving a situation. to their credit, be it recorded, most of the servants abstained from obeying this discreditable order. finding that his plan for watching private families through their servants did not answer, delavau multiplied the number of agents charged with attending places of public entertainment. "the police," writes m. peuchet in his "mémoires tirés des archives de la police," "will never learn to respect an order so long as its superintendents are taken from the hulks and feel that they have their revenge to take on the society which has punished them." the justice of this remark has since been recognised. the first care of delavau's successor, the honourable and much regretted m. de belleyme, was to dismiss, and even to send back to their prisons, the army of cut-throat spies employed by the prefect he replaced. at present, though his occupation stands no higher in public opinion than of old, the spy is not the outcast that he formerly was. without being an honest man in the full sense of the word, he is not literally and legally a criminal. it is even asserted that the french spy of our own time is a man of some character; by which is probably meant that he has never been convicted of any offence, that he does not drink, that he has no depraved tastes, and that in a general way he can be depended upon. "espionage," says montesquieu, "is never tolerable. otherwise the trade would be exercised by honourable men. from the necessary infamy of the person must be inferred the infamy of the thing." this, in effect, is just what the minister d'argenson said when he was reproached with engaging none but rogues and knaves as spies. "find me," he replied, "decent men to do such work!" the decent men have now, it appears, been found. so much the better. as, however, there is said to be honour among thieves, so there is sometimes honesty among spies. witness the case of the abbé lenglet-dufresnoy, simultaneously employed by louis xiv. to keep watch over prince eugène, and by prince eugène to report all that was done by louis xiv., and who is said to have given the most exact information to both his employers. [illustration] chapter xxv. the paris hospitals. the place du parvis--the parvis of notre dame--the hôtel-dieu--mercier's criticisms. in the matter of police administration and of civic government generally; the hôtel de ville is to the whole of paris what the mansion house and the guildhall are to that part of london known specially as the city. the hôtel de ville has charge, moreover, of all the paris hospitals and benevolent institutions. the general administration of the hospitals is entrusted to a director, under the surveillance of a consultative committee. the most ancient and most celebrated of all the paris hospitals is the hôtel-dieu, occupying a space which is bounded on the north by the quai aux fleurs, on the south by the place du parvis, on the west by the rue de la cité, and on the east by the rue d'arcole. the place du parvis deserves a word of mention to itself. the word "parvis" has several derivations, the most popular of which is from the latin _paradisus_. the ancient form of the french word was _paraïs_ or _paravis_, contracted into _parvis_; and it was applied to the open space in front of a church because, in the days of the "mysteries," it was here that the paradise of the play was located. according to another derivation, the "parvis" is the ground outside a church which "_pare_" or "guards" the principal door--_huis_ in the ancient french. in this sense the word is used to denote, in the jewish temple, the space around the tabernacle. _parvis céleste_ is a phrase employed by french poets to signify heaven or the firmament; which does not at all prove--indeed seems to disprove--that _parvis_ means, or ever did mean, the same thing as _paradisus_. the _parvis_ of the old churches was, in any case, used as a place of penance for those who had scandalised the town by some offence against good morals; and it was there that on certain occasions holy relics were brought for exhibition to the people. the temples of greece and rome were surrounded by enclosures, as if to separate them from the public thoroughfare; and the first christian churches had enclosures in front of the principal entrance, where tombs, crosses, statues, and sometimes fountains were to be seen. after the twelfth century the _parvis_ ceased to be enclosed; though so late as the sixteenth century the parvis of notre dame appears, by exception, to have been shut in by a wall not more than three feet high, through which there were three different gateways. the parvis of notre dame served in ancient days the most varied purposes. here, before the establishment of the university of paris, public schools were held. it was a place of punishment, moreover; and it was on a scaffold erected in the parvis of notre dame that jacques de molay and the templars heard the sentence read which was afterwards executed upon them (march , ) in the Île aux vaches, as the little island was anciently called where now stands the statue of henri iv. here, too, under francis i., huguenots were given to the flames. jacques de molay, the last grand master of the templars, was born in burgundy, and entered the order in . he distinguished himself in palestine, in the wars against the mussulmans. elected grand master in , he was preparing to avenge the defeats which the christian arms had recently sustained, when in he was recalled to france by pope clement v. the pretext for this summons was a projected union of the order of templars with that of the hospitallers. but the true object of philip the fair, for whom the pope had acted only as instrument, was the destruction of the order, whose immense wealth had excited the monarch's covetousness. on the th of october, , all the templars were arrested at the same hour throughout france; and a process was instituted against them in which every form of justice was violated. thirty-six knights expired under torture, and several owned to the crimes and the shameful immorality of which they were falsely accused. molay himself, in the agony of torture, allowed some words to escape him; but before dying nearly all the victims retracted the utterances wrung from them by pain. the pope, throughout this tragic affair, followed the directions of the french king, to whom he owed his tiara. to go back from history to legend, it was in the open space afterwards to become the parvis of notre dame that in artus, king of great britain, son of uther, surnamed pendragon pitched his camp when invading gaul and ravaging the country. gaul was at that time governed for the emperor leo by the tribune flollo, who retired to paris and there fortified himself. artus now defied flollo to single combat. the tribune accepted, and the duel took place on the eastern point of the Île de la cité, with lance and hatchet. blinded by the blood which flowed from a wound he had received in the head, artus invoked the virgin mary, who, it is said, appeared to him in presence of everyone, and covered him with her cloak, which was "lined with ermine." dazzled at this miracle, flollo lost his sight, and artus had now no trouble in despatching him. in memory of the virgin's interposition, artus adopted ermine for his coat-of-arms; which for a long time afterwards was retained by the kings and princes of britain. he wished at the same time to consecrate the memory of his triumph, and accordingly erected on the very ground where the combat had taken place a chapel in honour of the virgin, which at last became the cathedral church of paris. then artus (or arthur) returned to his british island, and there founded the order of the knights of that round table which is still preserved in winchester cathedral. [illustration: a gendarme.] until the revolution the parvis of notre dame was shut in north and south by populous districts through which ran narrow, ill-built streets, and which contained several buildings of importance. since then a clean sweep has been made of all the tumble-down buildings in the ancient cité, between the two banks of the seine north and south, between the cathedral on the east and the barracks of the republican guard on the west. the southern part of the parvis has been transformed into a sort of english garden, in the centre of which stands an equestrian statue of charlemagne by the sculptor rochet. in old french, the second of two substantives joined together did duty as genitive; so that hôtel-dieu signified the hotel (or house) of god, just as in some ancient french towns _mère-dieu_, as the sign of an hotel, meant not, as is sometimes ignorantly supposed, "god the mother," but "the mother of god." the hôtel-dieu or hôtel de dieu (a house, that is to say, in which the poor and suffering were received and attended in the name of god and under his auspices) was founded about , in the time of clovis ii., son of dagobert, by saint landri, twenty-eighth bishop of paris. here he was accustomed to receive, at his own expense, not only sick people, but also beggars and pilgrims. _medicus et hospes_, such was the motto of the bishop, who might justly claim the double title of physician and host. in the course of centuries the good work begun by saint landri was continued on a large scale by the french kings, with philip augustus, saint louis, and henri iv. prominent among them. among the benefactors of the hôtel-dieu must also be mentioned the chancellor du prat, and the first president, pomponne de bellièvre. the old hôtel-dieu, after undergoing all kinds of repairs, was at last condemned as too small and too ill-ventilated. in a new hospital was begun just opposite the old one; and the building as it now stands, large, airy, and in every respect commodious, was finished in . with abundance of space at their command, the architects of the modern hôtel-dieu made it their sole aim to secure for the patients every possible advantage, and their first care was to provide spacious wards replete with light and air. one result has been that in a larger edifice the number of the beds has, in accordance with the best hygienic principles, been greatly diminished. in the time of saint louis the old hôtel-dieu received patients. this number was increased under henri iv. to , , and under louis xiv. to , . at times, however, the sick or wounded persons admitted were far more numerous; and in the number of patients in the hôtel-dieu is said to have reached , . not, however, the number of beds; for in the same bed several patients, at the risk of infection, contagion, and frightful mortality, were placed together. the new hôtel-dieu, on the other hand, contains only beds: medical beds, surgical beds, and sixteen cradles. the building having cost fifty million francs, it follows that each particular bed has cost nearly one hundred thousand francs; and philanthropists point out that at , francs per bed, "the ordinary figure in england and other countries," more than , patients might have been provided for in lieu of . it must be remembered, on the other hand, that the hôtel-dieu contains, besides its hospital service properly so called, an administrative department: including amphitheatres of practical surgery, laboratories of pharmacy, chemistry, etc., which alone cost fourteen millions of francs. according, moreover, to the original plan as approved by the principal professors and physicians of the hôtel-dieu, there was to have been an additional storey containing beds, to which the patients below were to have been transferred on certain days for change of air and to allow the lower rooms to be thoroughly ventilated and cleaned. this additional storey cost four millions of francs, and it had already been completed, when, for reasons unexplained, but which, according to m. vitu, were political, it was pulled down. the general plan of the hôtel-dieu as it now stands comprises two masses of parallel buildings: one beside the parvis of notre dame, the other alongside the quai napoléon; the two façades, anterior and posterior, of the edifice being connected laterally by galleries at right angles to the seine. the administrative department of the hôtel-dieu is in that part of the building which faces the parvis. on the ground floor, to the left, is the central bureau of hospitals; the head-quarters of the hospital service, not only of paris, but generally of the department of the seine. the staff consists of twenty physicians, fifteen surgeons, and three accoucheurs chosen by competition; and from this body are selected the physicians and surgeons of the various paris hospitals. formerly patients were admitted on mere application; but at present they are carefully examined by the physicians of the central bureau, who give out tickets of admission and assign beds so long as there is room. if the hôtel-dieu is full the applicants for medical care are sent to other hospitals. adjoining the central bureau are the rooms where out-door patients receive gratuitous advice. the wards occupied by the patients are lighted by two rows of windows, north and south, and they look out upon the interior courtyards, which are planted with trees. this arrangement allows air to enter the well-kept apartments, and the rays of the sun to light up the curtains and white beds of a model hospital, where everything possible has been done to relieve the suffering and depression of its unhappy inmates. in the ophthalmic wards curtains of a particular kind are so arranged as only to admit the degree of light which the patients can bear. visitors to the hôtel-dieu, as to other hospitals in paris, cannot fail to observe that the air is less pure in the men's than in the women's wards. this is to be explained by the men being allowed the only solace possible under the circumstances, that of tobacco. nor are their grey dressing-gowns by any means so becoming as the white frocks and white caps worn by the female patients. many of the wards contain only from two to eight beds. there is a sitting-room, moreover, with lounges, chairs, and sofas for the convalescent, not to speak of an open gallery above the portico, where patients who are well enough may, in fine weather, stretch their limbs. the upper storey of that part of the building which faces the quai aux fleurs used to be occupied by the community of dames augustines, who from time immemorial had had no other abode and no other head-quarters. but after the civil government had withdrawn from the dames augustines the hospital service of _la pitié_ and _la charité_, they all assembled at the hôtel-dieu, where additional sleeping rooms were prepared for them beneath the roof. subscriptions were solicited for them in a pastoral letter from the archbishop of paris, dated december , ; and a new retreat was then found for them in the hospital of notre dame de bon secours. one duty imposed upon them, in the days when the hôtel-dieu was composed of two large buildings on the banks of the seine, was to wash, one day every month, whatever might be the temperature, sheets. the sisters, equally with novices, were obliged to take part in these laundry operations. an ancient print, preserved in the national library, gives a faithful representation of the washing of the sheets. admirable as has been the work accomplished in recent times by the hôtel-dieu, the place seems to have been little better than a pest-house at the period when mercier wielded his conscientious pen. "a man meets there," he wrote, "with a death a thousand times more dreadful than that which awaits the indigent under his humble roof, abandoned though he be to himself and nature alone. and we dare call that the house of god!--where the contempt shown to humanity adds to the suffering of those who go there for relief! the physician and servant are paid--granted; the drugs cost nothing to the patient--true again; but he will be put to bed between a dying man and a dead corpse; he will breathe an air corrupted by pestiferous exhalations; he will be subject to chirurgical despotism; neither his cries, his complaints, nor his expostulations will be attended to; he will have nobody by to soothe and comfort him; pity itself will be blind and barbarous, having lost that sympathising compassion, and those tears of sensibility, which constitute its very being. in this abode of human misery every aspect is cruel and disgusting; and this is called the house of god! who would not fly from the bloody, detested spot? who will venture within a house where the bed of mercy is far more dreadful than the naked board on which lies the poorest wretch? this hospital, miscalled hôtel-dieu, was founded by saint landri and comte archambaud in the year for the reception of sick persons of either sex. jews, turks, and infidels have an equal right to admission. there are , beds, and constantly between five and six thousand patients. what a disproportion! yet the revenues of the hospital are immense. it was expected that the last fire which happened in this edifice would have been improved to the advantage of the patients, by the construction, on a healthier spot, of a new and more extensive structure. but no; everything remains on the same footing; though it is but too well proved that the hôtel-dieu has every requisite to create and increase a multitude of disorders on account of the dampness and confinement of the atmosphere. wounds soon turn to a mortification; whilst the scurvy makes the greatest havoc amongst those who, from the nature of their maladies, are forced to remain there for some time. thus, the most simple distempers soon grow into complicated diseases, sometimes fatal, by the contagion of that ambient air. both the experience and observation of the naturalist concur to prove that a hospital which contains above one hundred beds is of itself a plague. it may be added that as often as two patients are laid up in the same room they will evidently hurt each other, and that such a practice is necessarily injurious to the laws of humanity. it is almost incredible, yet not the less true, that one-fifth of the patients are annually carried off. this is known and heard of with the most indifferent composure!" [illustration: principal court of the hÔtel-dieu.] nor does mercier stop here. "clamart," he continues, "is the gulf that swallows up the remains of those hapless men who have paid the last debt to nature in the hôtel-dieu. it is an extensive burying-ground, or rather a voracious monster whose maw is ever craving for new food, though most plentifully supplied. the bodies are there interred without a coffin and only sewed up in the coarsest linen cloth. at the least appearance of death the body is hurried away, and there are many instances of people having recovered under the hasty hand that wrapped them up; whilst others have been heard to cry "mercy" when already piled up in the cart that carried them to an untimely grave. the cart is drawn by twelve men. a priest, covered with filth and mud, carrying a hand-bell and cross, are all the funeral pomp reserved for these unfortunate victims. but at that hour all is one! every morning at four o'clock the dismal cart sets off from the hôtel-dieu, and, as it rolls along, strikes terror into the neighbourhood, who are awoke by the awful sound of that bell. a man must be lost to all feeling who hears it unmoved. in certain seasons, when mortality was most rife, this cart has been seen to go backwards and forwards four times in four-and-twenty hours. it contains about fifty corpses, besides children, who are crammed between their legs. the bodies are cast into a deep pit, and are next covered with unslackened lime. this crucible, which is never shut up, seems to tell the affrighted looker-on that it could easily devour all the inhabitants that paris contains. such is the obedience paid to the laws, that the decree of the parliament prohibiting all buryings within the walls of this city has at no time been carried into execution. the populace never fail on the day of all souls to visit that cemetery, where they foresee that their bodies will one day be carried. they kneel and pray, and then adjourn to a tavern. to this spot, where the earth is fattened with the spoils of mankind, young surgeons resort by night, and, climbing the wall, carry off the dead corpses to make upon them their bloody experiments. thus, the poor find no asylum even in death. and such is the tyranny over this unfortunate part of the community, that it does not cease till their very remains are hacked and hewed so as not to retain the least resemblance of man." [illustration: rue de rivoli.] chapter xxvi. central paris. the hotel de ville--saint-jacques-la-boucherie--rue saint-antoine--the reformation. the hôtel de ville, new by its architecture, is old by its history, and to some extent by the buildings still surrounding it; though the ancient streets of the neighbourhood have during the last forty years been gradually disappearing. close to the church of st. gervais and st. protais stood the street significantly named rue du martroi--of martyrdom, or death-punishment; also the rue de la mortellerie, where the workers in "mortar"--stone-masons that is to say--were in the habit of meeting when out of work. with this may be connected the name of place de grève, formerly borne by what is now called the place de l'hôtel de ville. the word _grève_ signifies in the present day a strike. originally it meant simply the condition of being without employment; and it was on the place de grève that artisans who found, like othello, their occupation gone, assembled in search of an employer. afterwards this became a place of execution; and here it was that ravaillac, cartouche, damiens, and such illustrious victims as the constable of saint-pol under louis xi., and lally-tollendal under louis xvi., were decapitated, quartered alive, and otherwise tortured. "_la journée sera rude_," said damiens, when, having already undergone various tortures, he learned that he was to be torn to pieces by four horses; and "rough" indeed have been the days passed by the unhappy wretches brought to punishment on the place de grève. after the revolution of , when the hôtel de ville became all at once a place of high political importance, the open space in front of it was looked upon as unworthy any longer to serve as a slaughter-ground, and the place saint-jacques now became the head-quarters of the guillotine; which was afterwards to be transferred to the place de la roquette. the region of paris commanded by the hôtel de ville forms a long irregular parallelogram, comprising, for the most part, the districts of saint-méry, saint-gervais and the arsenal, bounded on the south by the seine, on the west by the place du châtelet and the boulevard sébastopol, on the east by the saint-martin canal and the boulevard bourdon, on the north by the rue de rivoli and the rue saint-antoine, rejoining the boulevard bourdon at the place de la bastille. to the construction of the rue de rivoli is due the happy change which has taken place in this populous region, formerly deprived of light and air, and so overcrowded that the inhabitants were always suffering from some serious epidemic. the streets of the neighbourhood must at that time have been good specimens of those so energetically condemned by arthur young in one of his descriptions of paris. "this great city," he wrote in the very year of the revolution, "appears to be in many respects the most ineligible and inconvenient for the residence of a person of small fortune of any that i have seen; and vastly inferior to london. the streets are very narrow and many of them crowded, nine-tenths dirty, and all without foot-pavements. walking, which in london is so pleasant and so clean that ladies do it every day, is here a toil and a fatigue to a man, and an impossibility to a well-dressed woman. the coaches are numerous, and, what is much worse, there is an infinity of one-horse cabriolets, which are driven by young men of fashion and their imitators, alike fools, with such rapidity as to be real nuisances and render the streets exceedingly dangerous without an incessant caution. i saw a poor child run over and probably killed, and have been myself many times blackened with the mud of the kennels. this beggarly practice of driving a one-horse booby-hutch about the streets of a great capital flows either from poverty or wretched and despicable economy; nor is it possible to speak of it with too much severity. if young noblemen at london were to drive their chaises in streets without footways as their brethren do at paris, they would speedily and justly get very well threshed or rolled in the kennel. this circumstance renders paris an ineligible residence for persons, particularly families, that cannot afford to keep a coach; a convenience which is as dear as at london. the _fiacres_ (hackney coaches) are much worse than at that city; and chairs there are none, for they would be driven down in the streets. to this circumstance also it is owing that all persons of small or moderate fortune are forced to dress in black with black stockings: the dusky hue of this in company is not so disagreeable a circumstance as being too great a distinction; too clear a line drawn in company between a man that has a good fortune and another that has not. with the pride, arrogance, and ill-temper of english wealth, this could not be borne; but the prevailing good humour of the french eases all such untoward circumstances. lodgings are not half as good as at london, yet considerably dearer. if you do not hire a whole suite of rooms at an hotel you must probably mount three, four, or five pair of stairs, and in general have nothing but a bed-chamber. after the horrid fatigue of the streets such an elevation is a delectable circumstance. you must search with trouble before you will be lodged in a private family, as gentlemen usually are in london; and pay a higher price. servants' wages are about the same as at that city. it is to be regretted that paris should have these disadvantages, for in other respects i take it to be a most eligible residence for such as prefer a great city. the society for a man of letters or one who has any scientific pursuit cannot be exceeded. the intercourse between such men and the great, which, if it is not upon an equal footing, ought never to exist at all, is respectable. persons of the highest rank pay an attention to science and literature, and emulate the character they confer. i should pity the man who expected, without other advantages of a very different nature, to be well received in a brilliant circle at london because he was a fellow of the royal society. but this would not be the case with a member of the academy of sciences at paris; he is sure of a good reception everywhere. perhaps this contrast depends, in a great measure, on the difference of the governments of the two countries. politics are too much attended to in england to allow a due respect to be paid to anything else; and should the french establish a freer government, academicians will not be held in such estimation when rivalled in the public esteem by the orators who hold forth liberty and property in a free parliament." napoleon i. began the rue de rivoli, tracing it alongside the tuileries gardens and the palais royal to the louvre as far as the rue de rohan. napoleon iii. continued the great conception of his uncle and pushed on the rue de rivoli through the mean habitations and crowded streets in the neighbourhood of the palais royal, of saint-germain-l'auxerrois, and of the halles as far as the upper part of the rue saint-antoine. the most celebrated, and certainly the most beautiful, monument in the street is the tower of saint-jacques-la-boucherie; so named from its having been built close to the great butchers' market of paris. constructed in , the church, which at first was little more than a chapel, was rebuilt in , but not completed with the principal porch and the tower until the reign of francis i. the tower is now all that remains of the church, which in , under the revolution, was alienated by the administration of domains and soon afterwards pulled down. having become private property, the tower passed from hand to hand until , when it was offered for sale, and purchased by the municipality for , francs. this sum was not dear for a masterpiece of gothic art in its last and most delicate period, when it was about to disappear in presence of the græco-roman renaissance. begun under the reign of louis xii. in , the tower was finished fourteen years afterwards in . it measures fifty-two metres in height from the stone foundations to the summit. the platform of the steeple (which is reached by a staircase of steps) is surrounded by a balustrade, which supports, at the north-west angle, a colossal statue of saint jacques. this statue replaces the ancient one which the revolutionists of precipitated on to the pavement, though they respected the symbolical animals placed at the four corners of the balustrade. these have been carefully restored. from the height of the platform a magnificent view may be obtained. "one sees," wrote sanval under louis xiv., "as one looks over the town the distribution and course of the streets like the veins in the human body. unfortunately this incomparable view can no longer be obtained--not at least without much difficulty. the tower of saint-jacques has been put in the hands of an astronomical and meteorological society, which denies access to the public, though on rare occasions it admits a few favoured persons to its experiments, which take place at night." it must here be mentioned that at the foot of the tower is a statue of pascal, who continued from its top the observations he had begun from the summit of the puy de dôme. the writer nicholas flamel, librarian to the university of paris, and pernelle, his wife, both buried in the vaults of saint-jacques-la-boucherie, had been the benefactors of this church; and their memory is preserved in the name, nicholas flamel, given to the street which, beginning on the right of the tower, leads from the rue de rivoli to the rue des lombards. around the tower of saint-jacques is a large square, well planted with trees. further on, towards the east, the rue de rivoli runs past the hôtel de ville and the napoleon barracks. of the church of saint-gervais, one side of which looks towards the rue de rivoli, mention has already been made. close to the point where the rue de rivoli and the rue saint-antoine meet, is an offshoot from the rue saint-antoine called rue françois miron, after the independent provost of merchants under the reign of henri iv. in this street stands the hôtel de beauvais. from the windows of this mansion anne of austria, accompanied by the queen of england, cardinal mazarin, marshal turenne, and other illustrious personages, witnessed the procession headed by her son, louis xiv., and her daughter-in-law, marie thérèse of austria, when the newly married couple made their solemn entry into paris through the gate of saint-antoine, august , . running from the rue saint-antoine to the rue charlemagne is a narrow street scarcely twelve feet broad, with walls of extraordinary height. rue percée it was originally named. for some years past it has been called rue du prévôt, because at its south-east corner it joins the former mansion of the provost of paris, of which the principal entrance is in the rue charlemagne. the series of open courtyards known as the passage charlemagne, in which all sorts of trades are carried on, lead to the very centre of one of the most interesting and least known monuments of old paris. it is composed of two blocks of parallel buildings constructed in the style of the first years of the sixteenth century, when french architects were beginning to throw aside the fantasies of gothic art to subject themselves to the straight lines of the neo-roman style. after passing through various hands, and finally from françois montmorency, governor of paris, to cardinal charles de bourbon--the structure was presented by the latter to the jesuits, who attached to it a chapel dedicated to st. louis and st. paul. the church of st. louis and st. paul possesses, among various works of modern art, the first picture known to have been painted by eugène delacroix: "christ in the garden of olives." this work is dated . [illustration: faÇade of the church of st. gervais and st. protais.] [illustration: the apsis, from the rue des barres.] the house given to the jesuits was taken from them in on their expulsion from france, and it then became the general repository of all maps, plans, and other documents relating to the french navy, and at the same time the library of the town of paris. a passage leading from the rue saint-antoine to the rue saint-paul separated formerly the church or chapel of saint-Éloi, where charles vi. was baptised, from the cemetery of the same name, where the man in the iron mask, under the name of marchiali, was buried. here, too, rabelais, hardouin, and mansard, the architect, were interred. rabelais died on the th of april, , in the rue des jardins, not very far from the mercers' house where molière went to live nearly a century later. [illustration: tower of saint-jacques-la-boucherie.] the rue saint-antoine was interrupted, until the revolution of , by the bastille. this fortress was composed of eight towers, four looking towards the town, that is to say towards the rue saint-antoine, and four towards the country, that is to say the faubourg saint-antoine. curiously enough it was no despot, but Étienne marcel, provost of the merchants, who built the original bastille, destined afterwards to be enlarged (in ) by hugues aubriot, provost of paris. [illustration: hÔtel de beauvais.] it was from the hôtel de la rochepot, in the rue saint-antoine, that henri ii. was accustomed to view the burning at the stake of his protestant victims. in this street, too, was one of the earliest of the protestant places of worship established in france at the very beginning of the reformation. few persons are aware, though the fact has been pointed out by m. athanase coquerel the younger, that the reformation of the sixteenth century, before breaking out in germany and elsewhere, had already appeared in paris. it had for cradle the left bank of the seine separated at the time from the town and its suburbs, and divided into quarters subject to two special jurisdictions: the university and the vast territory of the abbaye of saint-germain-des-prés. was it not natural, asks m. coquerel, in spite of the jealous vigilance of the sorbonne, that the schools of paris in which abailard had so boldly attacked scholasticism should be the first to wake up to the new spiritual life? when professor at the college of cardinal lemoine, lefèvre d'Étaples published in his "commentary on st. paul," in whose epistles he pointed out, five years before luther, the essential doctrines of the reformation. this book was dedicated to the powerful abbé of saint-germain, briçonnet, under whose auspices was formed in paris the first group of ardent propagators of the new ideas. during forty-three years the reformation spread gradually through the university, the court, and the town; always keeping for headquarters the faubourg saint-germain, which gained the name of "little geneva," and which is now the most catholic quarter in paris. the first protestant put to death in france for his religious views was one of the pupils of lefèvre d'Étaples, a student named pauvent, born in the year . the martyrdom of pauvent was followed by that of many other huguenots. calvin was then studying at paris, but could not remain there. the rector of the university, nicholas cop, a secret promoter of the reformation, had commissioned the young calvin to write a discourse for the re-opening of the term, which, according to custom, was delivered on november , , in the church of the mathurins, built on a portion of the site of the emperor julian's baths. the heresies contained in this discourse were denounced to the parliament by several monks. the rector found it necessary to take flight to bâle, where he became a pastor. calvin followed his example, and was obliged, it is said, to escape through one of the windows of his college. the first place in paris where the reformation was publicly preached was the louvre. here queen margaret of navarre, sister of francis i., briçonnet's studious and learned friend, ordered her chaplain, gérard roussel, and other disciples of lefèvre d'Étaples to preach in her presence; for which reason lemaud, of the order of cordeliers, declared publicly in the pulpit that she deserved to be put into a sack and thrown into the seine. the rage of the priests was shared by the people, and the cry of "death to the heretics!" was frequently heard about the town. "to be thrown into the river," says a chronicler of the time, "it was only necessary to be called a huguenot in the open street, to whatever religion one might belong." in all the public places of paris, on the bridges, and in the cemeteries protestants were constantly burned. in francis i., followed by his three sons, the court, the parliament, and the guilds of all the trade associations, took part in a general procession, which halted at six of the public places, where six protestants, suspended by iron chains, were burnt to death. "l'estrapade" this form of punishment was called; and not many years ago the name was still borne by an open space on the left bank of the seine. henri ii. imitated his father. one day he assisted, from the window of a house in the rue saint-antoine, at the execution of a protestant tailor who was burnt alive. but the eyes of the martyr, steadily fixed on his, so frightened him that though this was not the last heretic he sentenced to death, it was the last he saw die. the protestants of paris had not at that time either churches or clergy, but they already had schools. "hedge schools" they were called, from being held in the country. they would not have been permitted in the town. the first protestant place of worship established in paris was at a house in the pré-aux-clercs. protestant congregations were often surprised; and in a number of protestants assembled for worship at a house in the rue saint-jacques, opposite the building where the lycée louis le grand is now located, were besieged by a number of priests attached to the collège du plessis. the populace took part in the attack; and after remaining indoors six hours, those who at last went out were stoned, and in several instances killed. the rest of the congregation, to the number of , were made prisoners, and many of them sentenced to death. among those executed was the young and beautiful widow of a member of the consistory, mme. de graveron, who, "seated on the tumbril, showed a rosy countenance of excellent beauty." her tongue had been cut out, which was often done in those days to prevent the exhortations which martyrs might address to the mob. at other times, as afterwards at the execution of louis xvi., a constant rolling of drums was kept up. it was granted to mme. de graveron as a special favour that flames should be applied only to her feet and face, and that she should be strangled before her body was burnt. the protestant poet, clément marot, to whom francis i. had given a house, called the house of the bronze horse (now number , rue de condé and , rue de tournon), translated at this epoch some of the psalms into french verse; and his version had an extraordinary vogue even at the court. the students who, at the close of day, were accustomed to amuse themselves in the pré-aux-clercs opposite the louvre, replaced their ordinary songs by the psalms of clément marot; and it became the fashion with the lords and ladies of the court to cross the seine in order to hear the singing of the "clerks." often they would themselves join in, and the huguenot king of navarre, antoine de bourbon, was frequently seen singing the psalms in the "meadow" at the head of a long procession of courtiers and students. but persecution, which for a time had ceased, began anew: marot was obliged to fly. in spite of the danger by which they were threatened, the deputies of the protestant churches of france met at paris in the faubourg saint-germain, and there, in , held their first national synod. francis i., husband of mary stuart, allowed the cruel work of his father to be continued. under his reign the illustrious chancellor du bourg was burnt and hanged; as to which voltaire declared that "this murder did more for protestantism than all the eloquent works produced by its defenders." cardinal de lorraine made many other victims, surrounding on one occasion a protestant place of assembly, and taking all he could find within. there were secret passages, however, communicating with the buildings around, so that many persons effected their escape. the secret head-quarters of the reformed church in france were in the rue des marais-saint-germain, now called the rue visconti. its ancient name, which need scarcely have been changed, was borne by it for more than three centuries; during which time it was inhabited, or frequently visited, by all the old protestants of paris: by the d'aubignés and the du moulins; as later on by the duke de la rochefoucauld, mme. de sévigné, racine and voltaire, mme. clairon and adrienne lecouvreur. [illustration: church of st. louis and st. paul.] [illustration: rue de rivoli and hÔtel de ville.] meanwhile the reformation was constantly gaining ground in paris. coligny and his two brothers, one of whom was a cardinal, joined it openly; whereupon a monk, jean de han, preached against him, taking for his text, "ite in castellum quod contra vos est," and translating it thus: "fall upon châtillon, who is against you." on becoming regent, catherine de médicis, hesitating between the two religions, tried to bring together the châtillons and those champions of catholicism, the guises. with a view to conciliation the conference of poissy was held; and though no positive result was secured, the reformed religion was allowed to be practised openly, though its places of worship were, for the most part, beyond the city walls. from time to time, however, a protestant "temple" was attacked and burnt; and once, when one of these onslaughts caused a riot, gabaston, chief of the watch, was hanged for arresting indiscriminately the rioters of both religions. the massacre of vassy (directed by guise, who boasted that he would cut the edict of toleration in favour of the protestants with the edge of his sword) and two civil wars were but the prelude to the terrible massacre of saint bartholomew. [illustration: rue grenier-sur-l'eau.] the extermination of the heretics had been recommended many times to catherine de médicis by philip ii., by the duke of alva, and by pope saint pius v. (letter of charles ix. and papal bull of august , ). the queen, after much hesitation, took a sudden resolution, when the guises aggravated the situation by causing the assassination of coligny. catherine obtained, at the last moment, the consent of the king. but it was the brother and successor of charles, it was henri iii. who assumed the direction of the massacre, and posted himself on the centre of the bridge of notre dame, in order to see what took place on both banks of the river. how the bell of saint-germain-l'auxerrois gave the signal for the massacre, and how coligny, after escaping with some severe wounds from the first attack, was afterwards put to death, has already been told. in the midst of the general slaughter a few huguenots of distinction remained safe. charles ix. kept in his own room the eminent surgeon, ambroise paré, of whom he had need, and his old nurse, philippe richard, whom he loved. nor did anyone venture to attack renée, daughter of louis xii., a zealous protestant, who was fortunate enough to save a few of her young co-religionists by giving them shelter in her mansion on the left bank of the river. two days after the massacre thanksgivings were offered up by the clergy, who headed a procession in which all the court, with the exception of henri of navarre, afterwards henri iv. of france, took part. the king was congratulated from the pulpit by the bishop of asti on having "in one morning purged france of heresy." little did the prelate foresee that the church of saint-thomas of the louvre in which he was preaching would, some two centuries later, become the recognised centre of this same heresy. condé now abjured at saint-germain-des-prés, and henri de navarre at the louvre; but the reformed church was far from being destroyed. only a few months after the massacre, bérenger de portal left to this church (whose re-establishment he ardently desired) a sum sufficient for the maintenance of the pastors and the education of candidates for the ministry. the rue saint-antoine touches the boulevard bourdon, thus named in memory of colonel bourdon, of the th dragoons, killed at austerlitz. the building which now dominates all this district is the arsenal, built by the emperor in as a granary of reserve for provisioning paris; at present occupied by manufacturers and workmen of various kinds. the arsenal was erected on the site of the "little arsenal," built by francis i. the new structure extends south to the quai morland, so styled in honour of the colonel of the chasseurs of the guard killed at austerlitz. augmented and renovated by various architects, the arsenal contains a library of which the charming writer, charles nodier, was at one time the custodian. the collection was first formed by m. d'argenson and the marquis de paulmy, minister of state, who was the last governor of the arsenal before the suppression of this military establishment by louis xvi. in , on the eve of the revolution. to gratify his own private tastes as a bibliophile, m. de paulmy had got together a library of about , volumes and , manuscripts, which was increased by the addition of upwards of , works from the sale of the duke de la vallière's collection. to prevent the dispersion of the books after his death, m. de paulmy sold the collection in to the count of artois for a certain number of annuities, which the count omitted to pay. the library was, all the same, looked upon as government property, and confiscated as such in . enriched by the confiscation of other libraries in the neighbourhood, the library of the arsenal was thrown open to the public by the imperial government, which at the same time undertook the payment of the annuities due to m. de paulmy's heirs. it now comprises about , volumes, , manuscripts, and a magnificent collection of prints. it contains, among other interesting documents, the original papers composing the archives of the bastille, published in part by m. ravaisson. a clock of ebony and gilt by louis le roy, which adorns the entrance, is said to be worth upwards of , francs; and two of the side rooms are full of curious woodwork, and of interesting objects of all kinds. in a room occupied at one time by the duke de sully are preserved the archives of the saint-simonians, including the sealed memoirs of le père enfantin, which are not to be published until thirty years after his death; enfantin's colossal bust in the style of michael angelo's moses, a portrait of saint-simon, and another of mme. thérèse, the divinity, or at least the egeria, of the sect. it was at the arsenal, when charles nodier was librarian, that victor hugo, in the midst of a great literary gathering, recited his first poems, soon afterwards to be given to the world under the title of "odes et ballades." a complete list of the writers who have occupied the post of librarian at the arsenal would include ancelot, paul lacroix (better known as le bibliophile jacob), Édouard thierry, hippolyte lucas, and the viscount de bornier, author of "la fille de roland," "agamemnon," "attila," and "mahomet." among the interesting places in the neighbourhood of the arsenal must be mentioned the little covered market to which the name of ave maria has been given. it marks the site of the old tennis court of the black cross, where molière erected his second theatre after the failure of the first; and with so little success that he was imprisoned for debt contracted in the name of the company. the rue des nonnains d'hyères, which joins the rue saint-antoine, leads to the pont marie, by which the seine is crossed to reach the island of saint-louis. parallel to this street is the rue geoffrey lasnier, which is scarcely five-and-twenty feet wide, and which has nothing whatever attractive about it. here, nevertheless, at no. , stands the hotel built by the constable de montmorency, and restored in the early part of the eighteenth century, when it was known as the hôtel de châlons. most of the houses in this curious street are at least three centuries old. wanderers in search of the quaint will pass from it to the rue grenier-sur-l'eau, which leads through the rue des barres to the very threshold of the church of saint-gervais. the rue grenier-sur-l'eau is so narrow that it would scarcely admit of the passage of a bath chair. it is a lane of walls, without doors or windows, into which light scarcely penetrates. the island of saint-louis, between the Île louviers, which precedes it above bridge, and the island of the city, which follows it below, was nothing but pasture-land until the beginning of louis xiii.'s reign. it was composed at that time of two islets, a small one called the isle of cows, and a larger one known as the isle of notre dame. in christophe marie, general constructor of the bridges of france, undertook to connect these two islets, to furnish them with streets and with a circumference of stone quays, and to join the whole to the right bank by a bridge leading to the rue des nonnains d'hyères. in the work had been completed, and the island was covered with buildings. its principal street crosses it lengthwise from east to west. rue saint-louis-en-l'Île it is called, and it contains two remarkable buildings, the church of saint-louis and the hôtel lambert. the church of saint-louis was begun in by louis le vau, continued by gabriel leduc, and completed in by jacques doucet, who constructed the cupola. the steeple, thirty metres high, is built of stone, and is in the form of an obelisk. the ornamental sculpture is the work of jean baptiste de champaigne, nephew of the painter, philippe de champaigne. the church contains fine paintings by mignard, coypel, lemoine, and eugène delacroix. at the beginning of the rue saint-louis, towards the north, commanding a superb view of the upper seine, stands the hôtel lambert, built by le vau, louis xiv.'s principal architect. the first proprietor of the hôtel lambert, nicholas lambert de thorigny, spared nothing to make it a magnificent abode. the decoration of the interior was entrusted to lesueur le brun and other celebrated painters of the time. the treasures which the hôtel lambert originally contained have in the course of its varied fortunes been dispersed. it passed after the death of lambert de thorigny into the hands of m. de la haye, farmer-general, and successively into those of the marquis du châtelet-laumont, and of m. dupin, another farmer-general, brother of the celebrated mme. d'Épinay. the internal decorations suffered much from these constant changes of ownership. at the death of m. de la haye, the painting on the ceiling of one of the rooms, "apollo listening to the prayer of phaeton," by lesueur, was removed from the hôtel lambert to the luxembourg gallery, where it may still be seen. most of the other paintings were transferred, at the time of the revolution, to the louvre. many distinguished persons have resided at the hôtel lambert, including voltaire when he was writing the "henriade"; and it was here that m. de montalivet, in , after the battle of waterloo, had a celebrated interview with napoleon. later on the hôtel lambert became a girls' school; then a depot for military stores; until finally, towards , it was offered for sale, and purchased by prince czartoryski, to whose family it still belongs. the quai d'anjou, which looks towards the north, is rich in associations of various kinds. the façade of number bears these words inscribed on a marble slab, "hôtel de lauzun, "; and beyond the principal door this other inscription: "hôtel de pimodan." lieut.-general count de pimodan was the first inhabitant of this hotel, which was built for him in , and which he occupied until the time of his fall. it was the abode of the marquis de la vallée de pimodan at the time of the revolution. under the reign of louis philippe a number of distinguished writers lived successively or simultaneously in the mansion: roger de beauvoir, who published a collection of tales called "the hôtel pimodan"; théophile gautier, charles baudelaire, and others. it now gives shelter to a wonderful collection of books and objects of art brought together by baron pichon, one of the most eminent members of the society of french bibliophiles. quitting the island of saint-louis to return to the quay and square of the hôtel de ville, we reach the avenue victoria, which runs to the right of boccador's façade, and which received this name in honour of queen victoria, who paid a visit to the emperor and to the town of paris in , at the height of the crimean war. the avenue in question leads to the place du châtelet, which is enclosed between two monumental façades, those of the théâtre lyrique and of the théâtre du châtelet. the place du châtelet was formed in on the site of the grand châtelet; an ancient castle of gallo-roman origin, which defended at this point the entrance to the city. it had been entirely rebuilt in ; and in only a few towers of the original building remained. the châtelet was a court of justice with civil, criminal, and police tribunals. beneath the buildings of the grand châtelet, and in the towers, were confined an enormous number of prisoners. their dungeons were horrible. a royal decree of the rd of august, (nine years, be it observed, before the revolution) ordered the destruction of all subterranean prisons. the jurisdiction of the châtelet having been abolished by the revolution, its buildings remained unoccupied until , when they were entirely destroyed. of the two theatres which shut in the place du châtelet, the one to which the ancient building gives its name is much the larger. it accommodates , spectators, to whom some of the best-known spectacular pieces have been submitted, including _michael strogoff_, _les pilules du diable_, etc. [illustration: the pont marie.] the theatre on the other side of the place du châtelet, and which belongs to the town of paris, has been occupied since the year by the opéra comique, the establishment having been transferred to it soon after the disastrous fire which consumed the historic salle favart. it was originally the théâtre lyrique; directed by m. carvalho, and associated with the triumphs of mme. miolan carvalho, and the earliest successes of christine nilsson. burnt by the communards in may, , it was re-opened as a dramatic theatre under the title of théâtre lyrique-historique, afterwards to become théâtre des nations, théâtre italien, théâtre de paris, and finally in opéra comique. the interior of the house is more remarkable for elegance than for comfort. it holds , spectators. the opéra comique, as here established, receives an annual subvention of , francs. the boulevard de sebastopol, which starts from the north of the place du châtelet, was, as the name sufficiently denotes, constructed in ; opening a broadway through the compact mass of old houses enclosed between the rue saint-denis and the rue saint-martin. it caused the destruction of no interesting edifices, and its roadway, thirty metres wide, is lined solely with new and lofty houses five storeys high. here traders, artisans, and even artists are to be found: engravers and workers in metal, lamp-manufacturers, workers in bronze, haberdashers, mercers, clock-makers, jewellers, druggists, opticians, confectioners, dyers, lace-makers, button-makers, crape-makers, artificial flower makers, glovers, etc. this broad thoroughfare leads us to the end of the boulevard saint-denis, passing behind the chancel of the church of saint-leu, whose front entrance belongs to the rue saint-denis, and behind the square of the conservatory of arts and trades, which belongs to the rue saint-martin. the street of the lombards (rue des lombards) so much enlarged as to be no longer recognisable, is still the headquarters of the drug trade, wholesale and retail. but it does not now, as in former days, possess a monopoly for confectionery and sweetmeats. even the faithful shepherd (_fidèle berger_), as one celebrated shop for the sale of bonbons was called, and which gave its title to the comic opera by adolphe adam, has migrated to a newer and more fashionable locality. the rue de la verrerie, just opposite, runs in a direct line to the rue saint-antoine. it has preserved in a remarkable manner its physiognomy of two centuries ago; thanks to the architecture of its fine mansions, which has nobly resisted the ravages of time. who would ever imagine that this dark and narrow street, which is constantly blocked by the most ordinary traffic, was enlarged in and because it was the ordinary route along which louis xiv., coming from the castle of the louvre to that of vincennes, was in the habit of passing, besides being the road by which foreign ambassadors made their formal entry into paris? [illustration: rue st.-louis-en-l'Île.] at the corner of the rue de la verrerie and the rue saint-martin stands the Église saint-merry, or méry. the name, spelt both ways, is in either form a corruption of saint-méderic, a monk of the monastery of saint-martin d'autun, who lived a strange life in a cell, and died in odour of sanctity on the th of august, . the church was reconstructed as long ago as the tenth century, at the expense of odo the falconer, whose body, enclosed in a tomb of stone, was discovered in . the legs were encased in boots of gilded leather. odo the falconer was one of the warriors who defended paris in against the attacks of the normans. the actual edifice was begun in the reign of francis i., between and , and not finished until , under the minority of louis xiii. constructed in the form of a latin cross, the church of saint-merry has two lateral entrances. but from the south side, that is to say, from the rue de la verrerie, only a gate of the principal entrance can be seen, together with the two turrets terminating in bell towers, along which "chimæras dire" are crawling. buried under the church of saint-merry are chapelain, author of "la pucelle," and the marquis de pomponne, minister of louis xiv. to the north of saint-merry stood the cloister of the canons, separated from the church by the façade of the rue du cloître, and by two narrow little streets bearing the expressive names of brisemiche and taillepain, on account of the daily distributions of bread of which they were the scene. at the back of the church the name of the rue des juges-consuls recalls the fact that the first tribunal of commerce created by charles ix. was installed there in a mansion which had belonged to president baillet in . the tribunal of commerce was, in the seventeenth century, the centre of a group of money-changers and bankers, who so infested the rue saint-martin and the rue quincampoix as to render them impassable. the rue quincampoix is for ever associated with the name of law, a scotch banker related to the argyll family, and son of a goldsmith and banker who died at venice in . law (john lauriston law) was born at edinburgh in , and he is said at an early age to have studied assiduously the doctrine of chances, which he applied to games of hazard. whether in virtue of his arithmetical combinations or of that luck which during a long course of years never deserted him, he won large sums of money at the gambling-table, after which he turned his attention to gambling on a wider scale: finance, that is to say. he was still in his twenty-fifth year when, as the result of a love affair, he fought a duel, for which he was sentenced to death. his punishment was commuted to that of imprisonment for life; but he succeeded in escaping, left england, and for some time travelled through the different states of europe, playing everywhere with success, and proposing everywhere, but without success, a new system of public credit, due to his inexhaustible imagination. the system would, according to its inventor, multiply one hundredfold the resources of the state by putting into circulation a quantity of paper money, based upon the revenue from taxes and government property of all kinds, coin, according to law, being insufficient for the requirements of a large nation. the regent of orleans, captivated by this brilliant scheme, saw in it the means of saving france, at the time ( ) threatened by national bankruptcy. he, in the first place, granted to law the privilege of establishing a general bank with a capital of , , francs, divided into , shares of francs each, with a discount of per cent. to anyone purchasing a thousand shares. the shares were readily taken and the bank proved a great success. then, in connection with the bank, law started successively the mississippi company, the senegal company, the china company, the french east india company, and companies for coining the state money and farming the state revenue. having now got into his hands all the sources of public income, he made over his bank to the state, and was himself appointed controller-general of finance. instead, however, of helping commerce, law's creations merely stimulated the spirit of speculation; so that priests, nobles, merchants, shopkeepers, workmen, all began to gamble in stocks and shares. intoxicated by his success, law issued an excessive number of shares: "watering" them, according to the financial expression of the present day. in due time, notwithstanding all kinds of expedients (such as forced currency for the new paper money) to keep them at par, the shares lost value in the market, and soon fell to such a point that their depreciation caused a general panic. there was no class in which some, and, indeed, many of law's shareholders were not to be found; and ere long the inventor of the new system of credit became the object of so much public indignation that he went in danger of his life. there was a riot in the palais royal, and law's carriage was stopped by a band of infuriated persons in the public street. a man of great nerve and of commanding presence, law looked from the carriage window and exclaimed in a haughty tone: "back, you rabble!" (_arrière canaille!_) on which his assailants retired. this method of appeasing the stormy waters was tried the next day with less success by law's coachman. his master was not inside the carriage. the vehicle, however, had been recognised, and the coachman found his progress impeded by an angry mob. "back, you rabble!" he cried, in imitation of his master; when the mob, unwilling to receive from the servant the defiance which they had listened to in all humility from the master, tore him from his box and put him to death. another carriage story of the same period, likewise associated with finance, has a less tragic conclusion. a footman who had learnt, by listening to the conversation of his master at dinner-table, the art of speculating, had at last made a sufficiently large fortune to be able to buy himself a carriage. as soon as he had taken possession of it, he paid a visit to the rue quincampoix, a narrow street near the rue saint-martin, where the bankers, brokers, and speculators interested in law's various enterprises had their headquarters. after transacting a little business, the enriched flunkey entered a much-frequented café and refreshed himself. some time afterwards, in a fit of absence due either to preoccupation or to the effect of alcoholic liquors, he left the café and, instead of getting into his carriage, got up behind it. "you have made a mistake, sir," called out the coachman; "your place is inside." "i know it is," replied the proprietor of the vehicle, suddenly recovering his presence of mind; "i wanted to see whether there was room for a pair of lacqueys behind." if footmen became aristocrats, noblemen, in those subversive days, turned tradesmen. the regent made his money with the greatest ease, by simply fixing the official value of the shares he held at a figure which suited his book. the members of the court followed his lead. one of them, the duke de la force, did business on an extended scale. nothing was too high or too low for him; and on one occasion, being unable to realise the value of his paper in any more profitable form, he took for it the contents of a grocer's shop. it was now necessary to sell the goods; on which the licensed grocers of the capital complained to the lieutenant of police that the duke was entering into illegal competition with them. the lieutenant did his duty, and the duke's tea and sugar were confiscated. a footman named languedoc, sent by his master to the rue quincampoix to sell some shares at a fixed rate, disposed of them for , francs more than the appointed price, and pocketing the balance, started as a gentleman on his own account, engaged servants and changed his name to that of monsieur de la bastide, by which he was thenceforth known. in times of feverish speculation the surest winners are the brokers--those happy intermediaries who, whether their clients buy or sell, sink or swim, steadily take their commission. a famous intermediary of the rue quincampoix was a certain hunchback, who used to let out his hump as a desk for buyers, sellers, and dealers of all kinds. in a comparatively short time he is said to have realised as much as , francs. when the financial crash arrived, it was felt necessary to punish someone, and proceedings were taken against law by the parliament of paris. law, as completely ruined as the most unfortunate of his victims, escaped to belgium, and thence to england, to die ultimately in italy. "when i took service in france," he wrote to the duke of orleans, "i had as much property as i needed. i was without debts and i had credit; i left the service without property of any kind. those who placed confidence in me have been driven to bankruptcy, and i have not the means of paying them." at the time of his great failure, and for a long time afterwards, if not to the present day, law was looked upon as a mere swindler; whereas he was nothing worse than a sanguine, over-confident, perhaps even reckless speculator. it has been seen that by his speculations he impoverished himself as well as others. "the machine he had invented," says one of his critics, m. gautier, "was ingenious; but in a country like france, without industrial resources, it could not find sufficient motive power. law thought he could remove this difficulty by joining to his mechanism an artificial motive power. he was wrong. the banks can no more found credit than credit can produce capital. they can turn to the best account a value that exists. but to create value is beyond their power." according to another french economist, m. levasseur, "law acted with the precipitation and violence of a man who, penetrated with the truth of his own ideas, marches straight towards his goal without caring whether the generality of persons understand him or not, and who becomes irritated when natural obstacles present themselves which he had not foreseen." law himself, while asserting his own moral integrity, admitted that he had made mistakes. "i do not maintain," he said, "that i was right on every point. i acknowledge that i committed errors, and that if i had to begin again i should act differently. i should advance more slowly but more surely, and should not expose the state and my own person to the dangers necessarily resulting from a general panic." he persisted, however, in asserting that, though his mode of action had been faulty, he nevertheless possessed the true secret of national wealth. "do not forget," he wrote from his place of exile, "that the introduction of credit has done more for commercial transactions between the countries of europe than the discovery of india; that it is for the sovereign to give credit, not to receive it, and that the people of every country have such absolute need of it that they must return to it in spite of themselves, however much they may mistrust the principle." [illustration: pont au change, place du chÂtelet, and boulevard de sebastopol.] "we must render to this man," says m. levasseur, "the justice he merits. he was not, as has sometimes been said, an adventurer who had come to france to profit by the weakness of the regent. if he was wanting in that political prudence by which nations should be guided, and if he was wrong in some of his theories, he had at least fixed principles, and he occupied his whole life, not in making his fortune, but in ensuring the triumph of his ideas.... france allowed him to die in poverty. yet if the recollection of the misery caused by the ruin of his system was somewhat too recent to give place to gratitude, france ought nevertheless to have felt grateful to him for the generous ideas he had put forth. he laboured to extend the commerce of the country, to re-establish the navy, to found colonies. he suppressed onerous privileges. he endeavoured to do away with venality in the magistracy; to create a less tyrannical and more simple administration of the tax system. finally he established a bank, which, could it have survived, would have helped powerfully to develop commerce and would have augmented considerably the wealth of the country." it is not generally known that, besides introducing a new system of credit, law was the inventor of pictorial advertisements. specimens, however, have been preserved of the pictures issued by him in connection with the "flotation" of his mississippi scheme, one of which represents the indians on the banks of the river, dancing with joy at the approach of the french, who had come to civilise them. [illustration: the palmier fountain, place du chÂtelet.] chapter xxvii. central paris (_continued_). rue de venise--rachel--st. nicholas-in-the-fields--the _conservatoire des artes et métiers_--the _gaité_--rue des archives--the mont de piété--the national printing office--the hôtel lamoignon. the rue quincampoix and the rue saint-martin are connected by a narrow lane or alley scarcely ten feet wide, called rue de venise, which has a sinister renown in connection with the speculative mania of law's time. here it was, in the month of april, that a rich banker was enticed, under pretext of a sale of shares, and assassinated by laurent de mille and count horn, that same count horn whose servant, passing himself off as master, played so infamous a trick upon poor angelica kaufmann, ancestress of pauline in the drama of _the lady of lyons_. a little higher up in the rue de venise, and, leading likewise to the rue quincampoix, is the passage molière, which owes its name to the théâtre molière, opened on the th of june, , with a representation of the _misanthrope_. in it was re-baptised théâtre des sans-culottes. its first director under its new name was boursault-malesherbes, comedian, member of the convention, and farmer of public games. closed and re-opened a score of times, this house became in the early years of louis philippe's reign a theatre for dramatic instruction, where mlle. rachel received her first lessons from saint-aulaire. universally recognised as one of the greatest of french actresses, rachel, of jewish race, was born on the th of february, , at munf, a swiss village in the canton of argovia. her father and mother were, however, both french; the former, jacques felix, being a native of metz, the latter, esther hayn, of guers, in the department of the lower rhine. in the year , rachel, under her true name of elisa, was a street singer at lyons, where choron, director of an important musical academy, chanced to hear her. he was so struck by the beauty of her voice that he called upon elisa's parents, and induced them to settle in paris, where he promised to take charge of their little daughter's musical education. he suggested that she should adopt in lieu of "elisa" the more impressive name of rachel. but before her studies had progressed very far she lost her voice; and choron placed her in a dramatic class directed by saint-aulaire. this professor, a retired comedian who understood the art of acting better than he had ever practised it, had taken the salle molière just spoken of; and here during the years , , and rachel was made to play a great variety of parts, including nearly every leading character in the plays of corneille, racine, and molière. the charges for admission to the salle molière were moderate, but the house was always full when rachel had been announced to play, and the tickets on these occasions were sold at a premium. one day m. védl, treasurer of the théâtre français, went to the salle molière to see a soubrette whom his manager thought of engaging. he was about to leave the theatre, when saint-aulaire begged him to remain in order to see a pupil who had not yet appeared, and of whom he entertained the greatest hopes. this, of course, was little rachel, who was about to play the part of hermione in _andromaque_. she resembled none of the other pupils whom the emissary from the théâtre français had seen. she was small in stature and had a hard, almost a harsh voice; which, however, was firm and impressive, and, when the young girl became excited, almost musical. after the performance, m. védl complimented the young actress, and promised to do his best for her at the important theatre with which he was connected. he at once spoke of her to m. jouslin de la salle, director of the français, who, after seeing her in _tancrède_, arranged a special performance, which was attended, in the character of judges, by m. samson and mlle. mars. "she is too short," objected one of the party. "she will grow," replied mlle. mars significantly; and on the recommendation of the manager of the théâtre français she was admitted to the conservatoire. rachel entered the class directed by m. samson, one of the principal actors of the théâtre français, and under his tuition made rapid progress. tempted, however, by an engagement offered to her at the gymnase, she soon left the conservatoire for that theatre, where she achieved a certain success as suzette in scribe's _mariage de raison_. the experiment, however, was not altogether satisfactory, and she returned to the conservatoire, and remained until may, , when, on the recommendation of m. samson, she was engaged at the théâtre français. her first appearance there, as camille in _les horaces_, took place on the th of june in this same year. she was then but sixteen years old, and only moderately pretty. short for her age, she had the further disadvantage of being marked with the small-pox. with narrow chin, high cheek-bones, and a projecting forehead, she had brilliant, expressive eyes, at once thoughtful and full of fire. the pose of her head was admirable, and all her gestures were marked by dignity and distinction. calm and self-contained throughout the greater part of the performance, she never abandoned herself to her emotion even while expressing the most ardent passion. there was intensity in all she did, and so novel, so individual was her style that she inspired her audience with the strongest personal admiration. she had now established her position at the greatest theatre in europe; but it was at the little salle molière that she had first learned to act. in the immediate neighbourhood, on the ancient territory of the abbaye saint-martin, stands the church of st. nicholas-in-the-fields, where the mayor or bailiff of the abbaye resided. dating from the twelfth century, this church was rebuilt in , and underwent various processes of modification and reconstruction until it received its definite form in . every style, from the gothic of charles vi. to the neo-roman of henri iii., has left its imprint in the highly composite architecture of this church, said to be the longest and the broadest in all paris. in one of the chapels of the nave, dedicated to saint martin, is a picture which represents saint martin curing the leper by taking him in his arms; and the inscription sets forth that the priory of saint nicholas-in-the-fields was founded on the spot where this miracle took place. in the fields of this church lie buried the philosopher gassendi, and the historians henri and adrien de valois, together with malle de scudéry, who wrote the once celebrated novels, "le grand cyrus" and "clélie." [illustration: rue de venise.] under the revolution the church of saint nicholas-in-the-fields was converted into "the temple of hymen." most of the property belonging to the religious community of saint-martin was sold by the revolutionary government. on a portion of what remained was built the conservatoire des arts et métiers, which was created by a decree of the year , though it did not finally take form until four years afterwards. the building, as it now exists, was partly restored, partly reconstructed, between the years and , by m. vandoyer. [illustration: st. nicholas-in-the-fields.] the "arts and crafts," until the time of the revolution, formed close corporations of their own. the origin of these unions and guilds was very remote. in the middle ages the rules on the subject of apprenticeship were most severe; and after seven years' subjection to a master the artisan became only a "companion" or varlet, and could still work only under the direction of a full member of the guild. to pass as master it was necessary for a "companion" to produce a masterpiece and to pay, moreover, certain dues, onerous for a mere workman; which forced a great number of these varlets to remain in their original condition. the corporations of arts and crafts were governed by a number of edicts which regulated not only the quality and quantity of the work to be done, but prescribed methods of manufacture, and provided for the settlement of disputes between artisans and merchants, or artisans and private persons engaging their services. these strange organisations had the worst effect in an economical sense, and many endeavours were made long before the revolution to destroy the monopolies they created. in , thirteen years previously to the revolution, the corporations of arts and crafts were abolished by the famous minister, turgot. but the edict was evaded, and it was not until the revolution, when things that were abolished were abolished for ever, that the french guilds finally disappeared. [illustration: the conservatoire des arts et mÉtiers.] the "conservatoire des arts et métiers," established soon after the revolution, had no direct connection with the "arts and crafts," whose organisation into guilds and close corporations had been suppressed. it was thought desirable, however, to form a central depôt where newly invented machines, together with machines whose utility had been tested, might be placed together for public inspection. vaucanson, chiefly remembered by his ingenious automatic contrivances, had formed a collection of machines, which during his lifetime he threw open to working men, and at his death bequeathed to the monarchical government. thus the nucleus of the important collection formed by the republic already existed under louis xvi. that the exhibition of machines, as superintended during the last days of the monarchy by m. vandermond, was a sight worth seeing is shown by arthur young having gone to see it when he was making, throughout france, that tour of inquiry which was destined to become famous. "i visited," he writes in , just one month before the taking of the bastille, "the repository of royal machines, which m. vandermond showed and explained to me with great readiness and politeness. what struck me most was m. vaucanson's machine for making a chain which, i was told, mr. watt, of birmingham, admired very much, at which my attendants seemed not displeased. another for making the cogs intended in iron wheels. there is a chaff-cutter from an english original; and a model of the nonsensical plough to go without horses. these are the only ones in agriculture. many ingenious contrivances for winding silk, etc." the convention took steps for keeping the vaucanson machines when so many treasures of one kind and another were being dispersed, and it seized the earliest opportunity of enlarging the collection, to which, from to , new machines were added. in a commission had been appointed to "catalogue and collect in suitable places books, instruments, and other objects of science and art in view of public instruction"; and a few months later in the same year the convention published a new decree constituting the conservatoire des arts et métiers on a solid basis, and assigned to it the buildings of the former "abbey of saint-martin." at present this conservatoire is under the authority of the minister of commerce. fifteen courses of lectures, public and gratuitous, are delivered within its walls on subjects connected with the application of art to manufactures; and for these, three amphitheatres, the largest of which can accommodate an audience of , have been provided. the ancient abbey of saint-martin is still represented by two edifices connected with the conservatoire des arts et métiers, and containing the library of the institution. one of these buildings was formerly the chapel, the other the refectory of the abbey. at the corner of the rue saint-martin and the rue de vertbois is an ancient tower in pepper-caster form, which once marked the junction of the fortified part of the abbey and its prison. this tower, bearing the name of vertbois, was given, in , to the city of paris on condition that a public fountain should be constructed there; and the fountain, adorned with the arms of paris, still exists, bearing a somewhat enigmatic inscription, thus: "this tower, which formerly constituted part of the fortified enclosure of the abbey of saint martin-in-the-fields, constructed about the year , and the fountain erected in , have been preserved and restored by the town and the state on the demand of the parisian archæologists, ." there was, in fact, a question of destroying both tower and fountain in in view of certain architectural improvements, or at least changes, then projected. the lovers of antiquity protested, and victor hugo is said to have exclaimed, in the very words likewise attributed to him in connection with the proposed destruction of the tower of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie, "demolish the tower? no! demolish the architect? yes!" the architect in the case of the tower of vertbois was the poet's own nephew. like the tower, however, he was not demolished. in front of the principal entrance to the conservatoire a large square was made in ; its sides being formed by the rue saint-martin, the boulevard sebastopol, the rue solomon de caus, and the rue du caire. on the south side of the square, in the rue du caire, is seen the façade of the théâtre de la gaieté, which less deserves its title than our own gaiety theatre in london. originally known by the name of nicolet, its founder, and afterwards called, during the influence of mme. du barry, the theatre of the king's dancers, it at length received, towards the end of the last century, the inappropriate title which still belongs to it. there was a time, it must be presumed, when at the gaieté gay pieces were performed. but since the beginning of the century this house has been chiefly associated with spectacular and melodramatic productions. here the famous fairy piece, _le pied de mouton_, was produced with striking success in . some twenty years ago it was revived at the porte saint-martin, where it ran nearly a year. reconstructed in , the gaieté was burnt to the ground in . no sooner had it been built up again than it was pulled down to make way for the boulevard du prince eugène. the gaieté, which now, as already mentioned, stands on the southern side of the square of the conservatoire des arts et métiers, is one of the four theatres belonging to the town of paris. here were produced some of the best pieces of auguste maquet, the most renowned of alexandre dumas' numerous collaborateurs, and one of the very few who have shown themselves able, unaided, to produce first-rate work. since its removal to the square of the arts et métiers, the théâtre de la gaieté has confined itself to no particular style. here were represented sardou's drama _la haine_; jules barbier's _jeanne d'arc_, with music by gounod; offenbach's operettas revived on a large scale, with _orphée aux enfers_ prominent among them; victor massé's _paul et virginie_, saint saën's _timbre d'argent_, and the _dmitri_ of joncières. the last strikingly successful piece produced at this theatre was a dramatic version of alphonse daudet's _tartarin sur les alpes_. the first street parallel to the rue saint-martin is the rue du temple, which, much increased in length by the demolition and reconstruction of , is now one of the longest streets in paris. it owes its name to the ancient habitation of the order of templars. after the violent suppression of this fraternity, the property passed to the order of saint john of jerusalem, who fixed upon it for their paris headquarters. the grand prior of this order had, by rule, to be a prince of the blood; and the last to hold the office was the duke of angoulême, eldest son of the count of artois, afterwards charles x. particulars of the captivity of louis xvi., marie antoinette, and the dauphin in the temple have already been given. it may here be added, however, that after being used for some years as a state prison, the old building was demolished in . finally the palace of the grand prior, with its majestic colonnade, which had been allowed to remain untouched until , was pulled down, and the land made over to the town of paris on condition of its planting trees on the site and erecting a monument to the memory of louis xvi. this latter condition was never fulfilled. nothing now remains of the fortress which louis xvi. quitted, on the st of january, to be taken to the scaffold, but an old willow, dating from four or five centuries back, beneath whose shadow the king, during his confinement, loved to walk. the monument in the centre of the square is a statue of béranger; "the divine béranger," as heine calls him, and of whom benjamin-constant said one day, when the poet was yet unknown: "he writes magnificent odes and calls them songs." close to the spot marked to-day by his statue, in the rue vendôme, now re-named rue béranger, died this most poetical of popular song-writers, this most popular of poets. he was honoured by a public funeral at the expense of the state. [illustration: the vertbois tower and fountain.] the temple market dates from a remote period; not, however, in its present form, which was given to it by the first consul in . it was made to include the rotunda, built in for the accommodation of debtors without means or without intention to pay, who came to the temple to enjoy the privileged security of all who there sought refuge. men's clothes and women's dresses are the articles chiefly in demand at the temple market. to the ancient dealers in second-hand garments belonged a reputation for strong language, which has now faded away. under the conditions of modern life, character perishes, and even the representatives of mme. angot and her celebrated daughter are well-behaved and even polite. close at hand is the synagogue of the rue notre dame de nazareth. the neighbouring rue des archives contains the Église des carmes, consecrated since to the lutheran rite, but formerly a dominican church erected on the ground previously occupied by a chapel dating from the year . on this site had previously stood the house of jonathan, the jew, convicted (or at least accused and declared guilty) of having profaned the sacred host, miraculously preserved from his fury. of this strange legend, one of many similar ones invented in hatred of the unhappy jews, an account may be found in dulaure's "singularités historiques." the whole of the right side of the rue des archives is taken up by the imposing edifice in which the national archives are preserved. it was formerly the hôtel de soubise. on the western portion of the ancient property of the guises was erected the palais cardinal, built by armand gaston de rohan, prince archbishop of strasburg, which has long been occupied by the national printing office. up to the time of the revolution the archives were preserved by the particular establishment, political, judicial, civil or ecclesiastical, to which they belonged; so that in there were upwards of a thousand different places where documents of national importance were preserved. in the midst of the general uprising, when convents were being pillaged and manor-houses burnt, an immense number of valuable papers were either torn up or given to the flames. at last special commissions were organised for the collection and preservation of all state papers; which in the first instance were deposited at the tuileries with the official reports of the assembly which there held its sittings. in napoleon ordered that all archives of whatever kind should be kept in one place provided specially for them. he at the same time bought for state purposes, and for the sum of , francs, the hôtel de soubise and the hôtel de rohan; the first for the archives, the second for the imperial printing office. [illustration: the gaietÉ theatre.] the national archives, whose importance is yearly increasing, and which form an historical collection unrivalled elsewhere, are under the care of a director-general who belongs to the ministry of public instruction. the director-general is assisted by three chiefs of section, who overlook the reception, classification, and preservation of state documents in the following order: . historical section. . administrative section. . legislative and judicial section. many very interesting documents relating to the history of france are exhibited in glass cases. the most ancient of these is dated , under the reign of clotaire ii. the most modern are of the year . in connection with the national archives a reading-room is kept open every day from to for persons who have sought and obtained permission to consult documents in view of their studies. attached to the national archives is the school of maps, under the direction of a member of the academy of inscriptions and of belles lettres, assisted by a council. the french, too, have invented a profession unknown in england--that of archivist. to become an archivist it is necessary to follow for three years a course of lectures, each of which is followed by an examination. to pass finally the student writes an essay on some appropriate subject, and, if successful, receives the name of archivist or palæographer, which entitles him to employment in connection with the archives, or with one of the libraries under the direction of the ministry of public instruction. by reason of the exceptional importance of their duties, the archivists are liberated from military service, like the pupils of the superior normal schools and of the school of oriental languages. the school of maps was, together with so many other institutions of which france is justly proud, founded by napoleon i.; who wished, at the time, to establish a lay order of benedictines devoted to the study of french history. without constituting themselves into an order, the students of the school of maps have, by their conscientious and disinterested labours, done much to throw light on the history and literature of ancient france. [illustration: in the temple market.] [illustration: the temple market.] on the south side of the rue des francs bourgeois, opposite the school of maps, stand the buildings of the mont-de-piété, established by louis xvi. in . after the revolution in , the profits of the mont-de-piété were assigned to the hospitals, and the institution is now under the direction of the _assistance publique_, or charity board, presided over by the prefect of the seine. besides the principal establishment, at no. , rue des francs bourgeois, there are two district establishments and twenty-one auxiliary ones dispersed through the different quarters of the capital. the mont-de-piété of paris lends no less than six million francs a year; and it obtains whatever working capital it requires by the issue of bonds bearing interest at five per cent., which are much in favour with investors. the capital of the comédie française is all permanently invested in bonds of the mont-de-piété. it was not without serious opposition that the first projectors of the mont-de-piété succeeded in getting it authorised; though mercier, writing only a few years after the publication of the king's edict on the subject, regards this institution as of the greatest benefit to the poor. "the establishment of the mont-de-piété or pawn-warehouse," he says, "was long wished for in vain, but is at last perfected, notwithstanding the opposition it met with from several interested beings who live by the distress of their fellow creatures. at this place the poor may be supplied with money, upon any pawn whatever that they can leave for security, at a very trifling interest; for it is not here in the hands of private individuals, as i am told is the case in london, where a pawnbroker charges no less than per cent. for the loan. i hear they are authorised to do so by law. so much the worse. in paris the mont-de-piété is under the immediate inspection of the government, and has hitherto proved of the greatest service by giving the mortal wound to usury and its infamous votaries. the greatest proof that can be given of the usefulness of this institution, and how needful it was in paris, is the great concourse of people who daily resort there to raise temporary sums. it is said, but i will not vouch for the truth of the assertion, that in the space of a few months there were forty tuns filled with gold watches; this i rather take to be an exaggeration, meant only to give an idea of the very great number that were then in the warehouse. certain it is that i have seen at one time four score people assembled; who, waiting for their turn, came there for the purpose of raising loans not exceeding six livres a head. the one carries his shirts, another a piece of furniture, this an old picture, that his shoe-buckles or a threadbare coat. these visits, which are renewed every day, are the most forcible proofs of the extreme want and poverty to which the greatest number of the inhabitants is reduced. opulence itself is often obliged to have recourse to the public pawn-warehouse, and the contrast between extreme misery and indigent richness is nowhere better exemplified. in one corner a lady, wrapped up in her cloak, her face half covered, and just stepped out of her coach, deposits her diamonds to a large amount, to venture it in the evening at a card-table; whilst in the other a poor woman, who has trudged it on foot through the muddy streets, pawns her lower garment to purchase a bit of bread. the best regulation prevails in this place; a sworn appraiser stands there to estimate upon oath the real value of the pledge offered. yet, as the best institution is liable to much abuse, it is said that the poorer sort of people are not always treated with that humanity which they are more justly entitled to than their betters; this evil, with a little attention from the magistrate who presides over this undertaking, may easily be remedied. i make no doubt but the mont-de-piété will prove as advantageous an establishment as it is useful and commendable." some houses were being pulled down in for the enlargement of the mont-de-piété when a tower belonging to the wall of philip augustus was brought to light. this was one of the four towers which flanked the circumvallation of the king just named. the old tower was consolidated and repaired. near this spot stood, in , the convent of the white cloaks, founded by the serfs of the virgin mary; to be replaced, in the same century, by the hermits of saint william, who, in , joined the congregation of the reformed benedictines. the name of blancs manteaux is still connected with a street and a market in the neighbourhood. the benedictines constructed their church and their monastery in ; and it was here that these learned men composed many of their works, imperishable monuments of their erudition. "the art of verifying dates" and "the collection of the historians of france" may in particular be mentioned. sold as national property in , the benedictine church was bought back by the town in and made the second parochial church of saint-merry, under the name of notre dame des blancs manteaux. at the south-east corner of the rue des blancs manteaux, in the rue vieille du temple, stands, under the title of hôtel de hollande, all that remains of the ancient hôtel de rieux, at one time occupied by the dutch ambassadors. the turret at the corner of the rues vieille du temple and francs bourgeois is remarkably picturesque. just to the right of the rue barbette is the ancient palais cardinal, forming the rear part of the hôtel de soubise, and containing the national printing office, there established by a decree of . in the centre of the great courtyard a statue of guttenberg, by david d'angers, may be seen. on the first storey of the principal building is the bedroom of the cardinal who played so sad a part in the "affaire du collier"--the affair, that is to say, of marie antoinette's necklace, which caused such scandal immediately before the revolution. here is now housed the library of the national printing office, called the hall of the monkeys, by reason of its being decorated with scenes from monkey life, attributed to boucher. the royal printing office, destined also to be called national and imperial, according to the government in power, was founded by king louis xiii., and dates from . until that time the king employed private printers; conrad naebor, printer in greek, with an annual allowance of gold crowns, and robert estienne, printer in latin and hebrew. though they printed for the king, both naebor and estienne had their own private printing offices. the royal printing office was established by louis xiii. at the louvre, where it remained until the time of the revolution--directed from to by jean anisson and members of his family. then all kinds of printing offices were established under national control: a national legislative printing office, a national printing office of laws, a national executive printing office, etc. the directory brought them all together in , under the title of printing office of the republic, which was established in the rue de la vrillière, at the hôtel de toulouse, afterwards occupied by the bank of france. since the national printing office ("imperial" as it was called at the time) has not moved from the palais cardinal. it is governed by a director belonging to the ministry, placed beneath the authority of the minister of justice. it prints for the state _le bulletin des lois_, and all the papers, formulas, registers, and cards required by the different ministries. it also prints--and in this resides its special importance--either at the expense of the state or of the authors, scientific and artistic works for which particular signs or characters, especially oriental characters, are needed. [illustration: sixteenth century cloisters, rue des billettes.] the scientific and artistic publications of the national library are counted among the masterpieces of typography. pierre corneille's edition of the "imitation of jesus christ," printed expressly for the exhibition of , was universally admired. indeed, from , when, after considerable delay, "the description of egypt," based on the observations made during bonaparte's famous campaign, was published, until the present day, the national printing office of france has produced a large number of perfectly printed editions. in war, as in peace, this office received important benefits at the hands of the first napoleon, who, to enrich it, deprived the italians of a fine collection of arabic and persian characters. [illustration: palace of the national archives.] at the time of the restoration, the national, now royal printing office, was placed under the direction of a member of the anisson family, lineally descended from the anisson of , who, while working for the government, carried on a printing office as a private enterprise, and made immense profits. after the revolution of it was taken over by the state; and the government of louis philippe purchased for the royal printing institution all kinds of oriental characters. now, too, were for the first time acquired fonts of russian, servian, and other slavonian type. at the request of the government, moreover, a complete set of chinese characters was sent from pekin. under various changes of government the national printing office has, from louis philippe until now, remained a state establishment. [illustration: hotel de hollande.] it was calculated twenty years ago that the national printing office, with its one hundred hand-presses and a good number of presses worked by steam, prints every year about , reams of paper in different forms, or altogether about , , sheets. reducing these sheets to octavo volumes, each of thirty sheets, the national printing office produces every year , , volumes; and reckoning working days in the year, , volumes per day. beneath the statue of guttenberg, cast from the statue by david d'angers which adorns strasburg, guttenberg's birthplace, is buried an historical account of the national printing office, with two commemorative medals. [illustration: turret at corner of rues vieille du temple and francs bourgeois.] one of the most interesting buildings in this neighbourhood is the hôtel lamoignon, which, by its architecture, presents the aspect of a fortress, though its walls and windows are ornamented with crescents, hunting-horns, and the heads of stags and hounds, in allusion to its having been built by diana of france, the legitimatised daughter of henri ii. passing down the rue des francs bourgeois, along the southern wall of the hôtel carnavalet, we reach, on the left, the entrance to the musée carnavalet, associated with the illustrious names of jean goujon the sculptor, françois mansard the architect, and mme. de sévigné the charming letter-writer. the hôtel carnavalet, which the marquise de sévigné inhabited from to , was restored in and the years following, when baron haussmann resolved to create a municipal museum; of which, however, mention has already been made. it is impossible to quit the marais, the ancient district in which we have lately been lingering, without calling attention to the beautiful façade of the hôtel carnavalet, with its graceful representations of the four seasons. we are now once more in the rue saint-antoine, within a few paces of the ancient rue de birague, at the end of which is a large arcade leading to the place royale, which parisians have not yet learned to call the place des vosges, a name given to it as long ago as by lucien bonaparte, minister of the interior, to reward the department of the vosges for being the first department to pay certain taxes which had fallen into arrear. after being styled for thirty-four years, from the time of the restoration, place royale, the square was named in place des vosges. in the previous description of this place reference has been made to the statue of louis xiii. which stands in its centre; and also to the beautiful garden which belongs to it. [illustration] chapter xxviii. central paris (_continued_). the rue saint-denis--saint-leu-saint-gilles--george cadoudal--saint-eustache--the central markets--the general post office. [illustration: rue de birague, leading to the place des vosges.] the rue saint-denis is by ancient tradition, and still in the present day, as a matter of fact, the favourite abode of the french bourgeois. our aldermen have long ceased to live in the city, and a john gilpin of our own time, wherever his place of business might be, would have his private residence at clapham or brixton, at holloway or highgate. the paris tradesman, however, still lives, like the m. jourdain in molière's "bourgeois gentilhomme," above his shop; and his shop, in a good many typical cases, is, as it was two centuries ago, in the rue saint-denis. "la grande rue saint-denis" the street was formerly called; and, as it is upwards of three-quarters of a mile long, it may be said to deserve its name. it is even now the most central and the most commercial street in paris. according to sanval, one of the many historians of the french capital, it is the street _par excellence_ of all paris. voltaire, on the other hand, detested this street, and had good reasons for doing so. one day, when he was but seventeen years of age, he found himself by chance in the rue saint-denis, with his purse well filled, at the very moment when an auctioneer was selling the goods of an unfortunate man who had not been able to pay his taxes. a carriage, with two horses, and the livery of the indispensable footmen, was put up, and in a sudden fit of wildness, the young philosopher, not yet philosophical, purchased the lot. the coachman, who was looking on, offered his services, which the youthful voltaire at once accepted. "put in the horses and get up on the box," he said; and the schoolboy, who had just left the jesuits' college, was seen driving along the rue saint-denis; not, however, for any length of time. the coachman he had engaged, an awkward fellow, managed, at the corner of the street, to upset the carriage. voltaire's ardour now subsided and he lost no time in getting rid of his newly-acquired equipage. the rue saint-denis, in consequence, no doubt, of this accident, had made a bad impression on voltaire; and in after days he never spoke of it without sarcasm. [illustration: fountain of the innocents.] the rue saint-denis was originally nothing but a highway leading to the abbey of saint-denis; and one of its frequenters is said to have been that very saint denis whose name it was afterwards to bear. the highway, thanks to its central position, was soon lined with houses, and before long every house in the street had its shop. along this great thoroughfare the kings and queens of france passed in returning from their coronations; and it was by the same road that they proceeded to their last resting-place. the rue saint-denis became at once the central line of communication and the central commercial street of paris. then it was that the name of "la grande rue saint-denis" was given to it--a title it well might bear even in the present day. the rue saint-denis connects the quarter of the "halles," or public markets, with the bonne nouvelle quarter. after crossing the rue saint-honoré the rue saint-denis breaks off on the left, interrupted by the square of the innocents, in the centre of which stands the fountain of the same name. this square replaces the market of the innocents abolished in . the fountain dates from the thirteenth century, having been repaired in by pierre lescot, with jean goujon for his assistant. despite the many alterations and modifications it has undergone, the fountain is still remarkable for a certain nobility and grace. but the five water-nymphs of jean goujon, worn by the rays of the sun and by the spray of the cascade, show signs of decay; and it has been proposed to replace them by copies, while preserving the originals in the louvre. a little higher up on the right is the church of saint-leu-saint-gilles, founded in , and raised to the position of parish church in . it has been so often repaired and reconstructed that very little of the original building remains. the church possesses a portrait of saint-françois de salles, painted after his death by philippe de champagne, and a picture of the year , embodying the legend of the soldier who was burnt in for having stabbed with his knife an image of the virgin which stood at the corner of the rue aux ours, now known as rue de la bourse. the image, according to the tradition, shed blood in atonement for the soldier's profanity. an expiatory festival, which lasted three days, used to be celebrated up to the time of the revolution. it was in the church of saint-leu-saint-gilles that an heroic priest dared, in , at the height of the reign of terror, to say a mass for the soul of the princesse de lamballe immediately after her execution. here, too, george cadoudal, the vendean chief, pursued by the police, concealed himself for several days in one of the subterranean tombs. cadoudal was the son of a farmer. but like all classes in la vendée, he was devoted to the monarchy, and joined one of the first bands formed during the reign of terror to fight against the revolution. after the defeat of the principal corps, cadoudal was arrested and imprisoned at brest. he made his escape, however, and soon became one of the most formidable leaders of the rebellion in brittany, known as that of the chouans--so called from their cry of recognition resembling that of the screech-owl or _chouette_. in he surrendered to hoche, and was pardoned on condition of not again bearing arms against the republic. this, however, did not prevent him from heading a new insurrection in . again defeated, he was received in conference by general brune, and was once more released on the same conditions as before. the first consul wished to take him into his service, but cadoudal would listen to no offers from one whom he regarded as a usurper. he now, in the year , left france for england, where he received, with congratulations on the part of the english government, the rank of lieutenant-general and the grand cordon of saint louis, the commission and the decoration being both handed to him by the count of artois in the name of louis xviii. [illustration: saint-eustache.] after many vain attempts to bring about a new insurrection in the west of france, he resolved to attack bonaparte's government in paris itself, and sent on one of his officers, saint-régent, to prepare the way for him. he afterwards denied all complicity in saint-régent's plot against bonaparte's life. "he was at paris," said cadoudal, "in obedience to my orders, but i never ordered him to construct and employ his infernal machine." cadoudal was in brittany at the time. but closely pursued, he was advised once more to take refuge in england, where, with pichegru and the count of artois, he prepared another plot against the first consul, who was now to be arrested and carried away. in august, , cadoudal went to paris, and remained there, in spite of the constant search of which he was the object, for seven months. he was at last arrested in a hackney-cab, but not until after he had killed one of the police agents. brought to trial, he avowed that his object had been to upset the government in order to place louis xviii. on the throne. he was executed with eleven of his accomplices. after the restoration his family was ennobled by louis xviii. the church of saint-leu-saint-gilles was converted during the revolution into a salt-petre store, and then fell into the possession of jews, from whom it was bought back when public worship was restored in france. further on is the abbey of saint-magloire, and beyond that the asylum of saint-jacques aux pelerins, which dates from the early part of the fourteenth century. in under the reign of philip v., called the long, many notable and devout persons who had made the pilgrimage to saint james compostella in galicia, moved by devotion, meditated the construction of a church and an asylum in the rue saint-denis, to the glory of god, the holy virgin, and saint james the apostle, in order to lodge and feed the pilgrims, whether going or coming. the church was built with an asylum joined to it, and it was open, not only to the pilgrims, but also to seventy poor persons whom it received every day. the abbey of saint-magloire dates from the tenth century, when it stood half-way on the road from the cité to saint-denis. it was converted by marie de médicis into a convent known as that of the filles-dieu, where penitent girls found shelter. it was suppressed, like all the other religious houses, in . some fifty years afterwards the foundations of the convent, which had fallen into ruin, were being dug up with a view to some new building, when ten gothic statues were discovered, mutilated and blackened. among the stone figures saint james was easily recognised by his pilgrim's costume. the statues were claimed by the town, and now figure in the musée des thermes. the shop which at present occupies the site of the ancient convent has for its sign:--"aux statues de saint-jacques." another famous convent existed at one time in the rue saint-jacques--the convent of the holy sepulchre it was called, also known as the hôtel of the trinity. built for the pilgrims returning from the east, it was kept up until the taking of constantinople, more than a hundred years later. the holy sepulchre having then fallen into the hands of the turks, the idea of making pilgrimages to it came to an end; and the hostelry for pilgrims to the holy land was no longer required. the convent was now occupied by the brothers of the passion, who had obtained letters patent from charles vi. empowering them to play religious mysteries. thus the earliest of french theatres stood in the rue saint-denis. it has been said that the kings of france made their coronation processions along the rue saint-denis; and when louis xi. was crowned, fountains of wine, milk, and mead were established over the whole length of the rue saint-denis. in the present day the rue saint-denis has lost much of its ancient animation through the formation of the boulevard de sebastopol. but under the ancient _régime_ it was really the leading thoroughfare in paris. when, after the surrender of paris to henri iv., the spanish garrison marched away, they defiled down the rue saint-denis, while the king, standing at an open window, called out: "now go home, and do not let us see you here again." the rue du faubourg saint-denis, on the other side of the boulevard, is less rich in historical associations than the rue saint-denis itself. it may be mentioned, however, that at saint-lazare the bodies of the french kings made a halt on their way to their last resting-place in the abbey of saint-denis. the region comprised between the left side of the rue saint-denis, the rue de rivoli on the south, the rue croix des petits champs on the west, and the rue Étienne marcel on the north, forms the vast quarter of the markets, with the parish church of saint-eustache, the protestant temple of the oratory, the central markets, and the old corn market as its principal features. saint-eustache is one of the most remarkable and one of the most admired churches in paris. erected on the site of an ancient chapel dedicated to saint agnes, which dated from the first years of the thirteenth century, it was already a parish church, under the invocation of saint eustache, in . in the course of the next three centuries it became the richest and most frequented church in paris. after notre dame, the church of saint-eustache is the largest in paris. its coloured windows, signed soulignac, and dating from the year , eleven in number, are admirable alike by colour and by design. in addition to its mural paintings, dating from the reign of louis xiii. (discovered beneath a thick coat of plaster in ), saint-eustache contains a number of frescoes and paintings of high merit. in the ninth chapel the tomb of the great colbert, executed by coysevox, after the designs of lebrun, is to be seen. the grand organ, reconstructed in after a destructive fire, is one of the most complete and most sonorous that exists. this church, thanks to its colossal dimensions and to the perfection of its organs (one at each end), is the favourite church of musicians; and it is here that the society of musical artists celebrates annually the festival of saint-cecilia, their revered patroness. on such occasions a new mass or musical service of some kind is given; and it was in this church that the abbé liszt had one of his most famous masses performed only a few months before his death. the angle formed by the meeting of the streets called montmartre, pont-neuf, montorgueil, and rambuteau, is known as the "saint-eustache point." it dominates the vast quadrilateral occupied by the central markets. the central markets were founded by philip augustus, and they were soon surrounded by houses and shops. these markets in their present form were constructed on one design, and, so to say, at a stroke, under the reign of napoleon iii., by the architect beltard, who sought his model in the finest of the paris railway stations. the principal office of the fish market, at the corner of the rue pirouette and of the rue rambuteau, is in the ancient hôtel du heaume, a building of the fourteenth century. at number , rue rambuteau, was born regnard, author of "the gambler" and of "the universal legatee," the house having been owned by his father, a fish salesman beneath the sign of notre dame. a little nearer the church of saint-eustache, just at the mouth of the rue de la réalle, stands a house which once belonged to the carpet-maker, jean poquelin, and afterwards to his son and heir, j. b. poquelin, better known by his adopted name of molière. for the name of poquelin, by the way, he was indebted to an ancestor serving in the scottish guard, who bore the surname and came from the place of pawkelin. [illustration: a market scene.] the paris markets are the scene of constant activity from morning till evening. buying and selling comes to an end, it is true, with the approach of night; but then the remains of what has been sold, with rubbish of all kinds, have to be cleared away, and scarcely has this been done, when market carts arrive with produce for the next day. the provisions brought to paris are either sold to the factors of the market, who buy wholesale and sell retail, or to the market men and market women, or to any private person whom it may suit to become a purchaser. the finest, best, and most highly quoted vegetables and fruits come from the suburbs of paris, where kitchen-gardening is carried to the last point of perfection. the farmers and gardeners of the environs, whose heavily-laden carts arrive towards nine in the evening, are their own salesmen in the markets. the growers of the departments and of algeria send their fruit and their fresh vegetables to factors or commissioners, to be sold either in pavilion number --reserved for this kind of business--or at shops established in the neighbourhood of the markets. [illustration: an auction sale of poultry in the central market.] it is calculated that in the course of the year the sales of fruit and vegetables amount to millions of kilogrammes (one kilogramme represents upwards of two pounds), to which must be added nine million kilogrammes of fresh grapes, million kilogrammes of sea and river fish (including lobsters and crayfish), eight million kilogrammes of oysters from various parts, million kilogrammes of butter, million kilogrammes of cheese, million kilogrammes of meat of all kinds, million kilogrammes of poultry and game; besides , , kilogrammes of eggs, representing eggs to the number of million--which gives to each parisian an average of eggs in the year. this figure, indeed, understates the fact, for the supply contributed by paris itself has not been reckoned. paris contains a number of cow-houses and small dairy farms, where milk and eggs are sold morning and evening, new-laid eggs, of which the parisians are particularly fond, fetching from three to four sous apiece. there are fowls, too, in the garden of acclimatization; also in the large stables of the omnibus and cab companies. many private persons, moreover, keep fowls. during the siege of a provision dealer in the rue vivienne kept on a marble counter a fowl which, when so disposed, laid beneath the eyes of the customer; and the eggs, whose freshness was unimpeachable, were sold at three francs apiece. [illustration: rue rambuteau in the early morning.] there is a great sale, moreover, in the paris markets for raised pies of various kinds coming from agen, périgueux, marseilles, pithiviers, chartres, amiens, auvernay, colmar, and strasburg. these are estimated at , , kilogrammes in the course of the year. but such a figure represents only a small portion of the pâtés consumed by the parisians, large numbers of the delicacies being made in paris itself, either by pastry-cooks of repute or by the best restaurateurs. at rich private houses, as at the principal clubs, where the kitchen is in the hands of eminent chefs, the pastry is always prepared on the premises. season the whole with million kilogrammes of grey or white salt, pepper, oil, and vinegar, and paris will be found to consume of market food-produce alone, million kilogrammes, without counting bread, the consumption of which is estimated at million kilogrammes per year. each parisian, male or female, small or great, consumes every year on the average kilogrammes of food, which is washed down with million litres of wine, beer, cider, or perry, independent of coffee and liqueurs, such as cognac, chartreuse, rum, curaçao, kümmel, and kirsch. from the above figures it will be gathered that the parisian population is well fed; and such is indeed the case. the very poor find their profit in the superfluity of the very rich; while the working classes profit by the relative cheapness of everything. if the minor restaurants, where dinner can be had for sous and breakfast or lunch for sous, are found too dear, there are the crèmeries and the wine shops, where a basin of soup, a slice of boiled beef, and a piece of bread may be had for sous. a number of charitable institutions, moreover, exist, where a basin of soup or a slice of meat costs only sous, or, in some instances, is given gratuitously. the corn market occupies a portion of the site of the ancient hôtel de soissons, given to the convent of penitent girls by louis xii., from whom catherine de médicis bought it in as a residence for herself. a curious and significant memorial of the queen mother's abode subsists in the shape of a column metres high (the french metre is somewhat longer than the english yard), which is said to have been erected for ruggieri, chief astrologer to the queen. at the base of the column is a fountain inscribed with the arms of paris; at the summit a sun-dial, constructed by canon pingré. two interesting buildings of different, and, indeed, opposite characters, that must not be forgotten in connection with the central markets are the new commercial exchange (in the rue etienne marcel) and the old fortress of john the fearless, a very interesting specimen of the mediæval military architecture. the greater part of this ancient quarter has been pulled down, and in place of it has arisen a new general post office (hôtel des postes), a building which resembles at once a barrack, a prison, a market-place, and a stable. the despatch, reception, and distribution of letters and printed papers is managed in the upper storeys, to which there are lifts, while the ground floor is reserved for the public. the former hôtel des postes, which has been absorbed in the new one, belonged successively to the duke of epernon and to the controller-general, barthélemy d'hervart, from whom, on a memorable occasion, la fontaine received hospitality. the general post office of paris, and central post office of all france, is established in a collection of houses, of which at least one possesses an historical character. among the numerous persons of distinction who have from time to time directed the french post office mention in particular must be made of m. de lavalette, who began life as a lawyer's clerk, entered, at the time of the revolution, the national guard, and volunteered to serve with the army when war broke out. he distinguished himself at arcola, and attracted the attention of bonaparte, who promoted him to the rank of captain, appointed him one of his aides-de-camp, and afterwards gave him in marriage the niece of his wife joséphine. after taking part in the campaigns of egypt, germany, and prussia, he was charged with the reorganisation of the post office, received the appointment of general-director, together with the title of count, and the right of sitting in the council of state. dismissed by the bourbons in , he did his utmost towards bringing the dethroned emperor from elba, and, on the news of his arrival in france, took possession of the post office; in return for which napoleon gave him the superior appointment of minister of the interior. after the battle of waterloo and the second restoration, lavalette was arrested, brought to trial on a charge of high treason, and condemned to death. his wife, however, louise de beauharnais, had sworn to save him, and with this view sought an audience of king louis xviii. she had many friends who were all willing to aid her in her wifely enterprise. the duke de richelieu promised to speak to the duchess of angoulême in favour of lavalette; and she, it was hoped, would intercede with the king. marmont, an intimate friend of the prisoner, had arranged to take the young wife to the tuileries; but on the very day appointed for this purpose an order was issued that no woman was, under any circumstances, to enter the palace. the explanation of so unexpected an edict was that the duchess of angoulême had resolved not only to say nothing to the king on lavalette's behalf, but to prevent anyone else, and especially his wife, from uttering a word to his majesty on the subject. marmont, however, accompanied by mme. de lavalette, contrived to force his way into the palace, and took up his position, with the agitated wife by his side, in a room through which he knew that the king and the duchess of angoulême would pass, on returning from mass. seeing the unhappy woman on her knees, the duchess turned her head away; while the king, after receiving a petition from her, muttered something unintelligible, and walked on. all hope of pardon had vanished; and it was understood that the execution would take place the following day. foreseeing what in all probability would happen, mme. de lavalette had already formed a plan for her husband's escape. one of her associates in the enterprise was an old friend of lavalette's named baudus, who, in case of success, had prepared a safe asylum for the prisoner at the house of an old member of the convention named bresson, then chief of a division in the ministry of foreign affairs. the very evening of the day on which she had gone to the tuileries mme. de lavalette was taken to the conciergerie in a sedan chair, accompanied by her daughter, a girl of , and an old governess. the husband and wife dined together in a separate room; then the countess exchanged clothes with the prisoner. during this time a stupid servant was imprudent enough to say to the porters that they would find their load heavier than when they brought it in; adding, "but there will be louis to pocket." "we are to take away m. de lavalette, are we?" asked one of the porters. thereupon he refused to have anything more to do with the affair, and withdrew, but without divulging the secret. another man was found to replace him. at last, after a painful leave-taking, three women appeared in the lobby of the prison; one of them being in such a state of grief that, covering her face with her handkerchief, she did nothing but sob. the janitor helped her out of the prison without venturing to lift up the veil she wore. then going to the room which the prisoner had occupied, he saw no one there but mme. de lavalette. [illustration: on the way to the central markets.] [illustration: the fish market.] "ah, madame," he cried, "you have deceived me. i am lost!" one of the strangest things in connection with this escape was that m. de lavalette, having been driven off by the friendly baudus, found shelter with bresson, who concealed him at the ministry of foreign affairs until the th of january, . that day three englishmen--mr. bruce, captain hutchinson, and general sir robert wilson--took lavalette away in the uniform of an english colonel, and conducted him as far as mons, whence he made for bavaria, there to find hospitality in the house of his brother-in-law, eugène de beauharnais. on hearing of m. de lavalette's escape, louis xviii. could not help exclaiming: "well, of all of us, mme. de lavalette is the only one who has done her duty." after being arrested in the conciergerie, where she was found wearing the clothes of her husband, the young and heroic woman was in a day or two set free. but the three englishmen who had conducted lavalette to belgium were sentenced to three months' imprisonment, and the janitor to two years'. soon afterwards the reason of mme. de lavalette, who in all her troubles had shown the greatest presence of mind, gave way; and when in her husband received his pardon and came back to france, she could no longer recognise him. she continued in her sad condition until , when she died. [illustration: interior of the mont-de-piÉtÉ, rue capron.] [illustration: the general post office.] the interesting "memoirs" published by lavalette were chiefly based on documents collected and notes made by his unhappy wife. [illustration: the poste restante.] the office of postmaster-general does not as a rule expose its holder to any of the dangers incurred by m. de lavalette. it demands from him nothing more than a certain talent for organisation and administration. the postal services of all the countries in europe are now for the most part conducted on the same plan, and offer to the public the same advantages. the english penny postage system, whose principle consisted less in the lowness than in the uniformity of the new charge for letter-carrying, has been adopted throughout the civilised world; and since the days of sir rowland hill many innovations and improvements have been introduced in france and in germany which afterwards found imitation in england. it is undeniable, however, that the most important reformations in connection with postal communications were first made in this country. it was not until nearly a year after the introduction of post-cards in england that, on the proposition of count bismarck, only a few weeks before the war of , they were adopted in germany, which may claim to be the first country that used post-cards, or, indeed, a regular postal service of any kind, in an enemy's country while hostilities were actually going on. the post-card was adopted by the french chamber in on the recommendation of m. wolowski, who had previously published an interesting pamphlet on the subject. after speaking of the great variety of purposes for which the post-card is employed in england, the celebrated economist went on to consider whether the use of post-cards could have an injurious effect on epistolary style. he decided that by imposing brevity it lent itself to conciseness, and that, forced to express himself in narrow limits, the writer on a post-card was bound to be terse, if not epigrammatic. the style, however, of correspondents making use of post-cards is probably not more lapidary than that of ordinary letter-writers. according to m. wolowski, the circulation of post-cards in england amounted, in , only a year or two after their first introduction, to millions--nearly a million and a half per week. at the post-offices of france, as of england, money may be deposited at interest, lives insured, and annuities purchased; but in france, as in england, the government hesitates to adopt the german device, by which tradesmen can send goods through the post with an obligation imposed on the postman to collect at the destination of the goods the money due upon them. the place des victoires, which we have previously passed, is close to the general post office; close also to two other edifices of commercial and financial importance, the bourse and the bank of france. formerly the place des victoires was remarkable for its historic houses, many of which no longer exist. here stood the mansion where, in , marshal de l'hôpital married françoise marie mignot, a simple grisette, or shop girl, who, after the marshal's death, became the wife of sobieski, king of poland and abbé of saint-germain des prés. up to the time of the revolution the place des victoires was inhabited only by important noblemen or rich financiers. it is now given up entirely to commerce, wholesale and retail; silks, shawls, drapery, and haberdashery of all kinds being largely traded in. the mansion of marshal de l'hôpital became the first abode, in , of the bank of france, where, in virtue of an imperial decree, it was permanently established five years afterwards. founded in by a society of capitalists, who had collected millions of francs, the bank of france obtained in the privilege of issuing notes. the notes of the bank of france now in circulation are of the value of more than three milliards (_i.e._, , millions) of francs; to meet which an equal amount of gold and silver are kept in the cellars. the name of the secretary of state, de la vrillière, for whom the mansion, afterwards occupied by marshal de l'hôpital, was originally built, is still preserved in the title of the remarkable and picturesque rue de la vrillière. little more need be said about that portion of paris which separates the quarter of the markets from the seine; though here and there many a house might be pointed out which suggests interesting associations. thus, in the rue saint-honoré, at the corner of the rue sauval, is a butcher's shop surmounted by an inscription to the effect that in this house molière was born "in ." to be quite accurate, he was born in , not in the house which bears the announcement of his birth, but in one on the same site, which long ago fell into ruin. close by is the rue de l'arbre sec, where at one time lived the famous mme. de saint-huberty, for whom in opera, as for mdlle. sallé in ballet, mdlle. clairon in tragedy, and mme. favart in comedy and comic opera, is claimed the honour of having played parts for the first time in the costumes historically appropriate to them. the costumes worn at that time on the french stage (nor were they much better on our own) were simply ludicrous. but the public was accustomed to them, and the managers found it more economical to keep to costumes already in the wardrobe than to order new ones for every fresh piece. actresses representing queens were entitled to two trains and two pages, who followed them everywhere. "nothing is more amusing," writes a critic of the time, "nothing more comic, than the perpetual movement of these little rascals, who have to run after the actress when she is tearing about the stage in moments of distress. their activity keeps them in a constant state of perspiration. their embarrassment, their blunders, excite general laughter. thus, a farce is always going on, which diverts the spectator in an agreeable manner if the situation is too touching or too sad." when she appeared as dido, mme. de saint-huberty would have no little boy running after her--ready to pursue her even to the funeral pyre. she at the same time threw off the conventional train and all the trappings which had habitually accompanied it, to appear only in the tunic designed for her by an artist of the period who had studied archæology. the operatic directors strongly objected to the introduction of archæologists and other costly pretenders into their domain. "if," one director is accused of saying, "this fury for truthfulness of costume only enabled us to save a little money! but, on the contrary, models must be brought in, men of learning consulted, artists paid; and all this costs money, much more money than the dresses to which we are accustomed. besides, when the piece is laid aside, all the costumes appropriate to it must be laid aside too." m. de la ferté, the intendant of the opera, says in one of his letters on this subject:--"i have just ordered saint-huberty's dress. this is terrible. the consulting committee of the opera held one day a special general meeting to consider whether mme. de saint-huberty could really be allowed to have the costume she desired for the part of armida." "madame de saint-huberty," said the report on the subject addressed to the minister, "has sent us the design of a dress she requires for the character of armida. the committee, considering that this character in which mme. de saint-huberty has not yet been seen, might give to the work the charm of novelty, and procure for the opera advantageous receipts during a series of representations, has thought it right to agree to mme. de saint-huberty's expressed wish; the more so as she has no objection to share the part with mdlle. levasseur, it being arranged that in case of illness the costume made for this opera shall be worn by the substitutes, as well as by mme. de saint-huberty herself." [illustration: the public hall, general post office.] in the margin of the report the following observation of the minister appears:--"good for this time only, and without the establishment of a precedent. all the members of the company must, without distinction, wear the dresses furnished to them by the administration of the opera, so long as they are considered in a fit state to be worn." [illustration: the telephone room at the general post office.] "you must be convinced," wrote m. de la ferté to mme. de saint-huberty on another occasion, "of our desire to satisfy you in all reasonable things and to be generally agreeable to you. but, at the same time, you ought to understand that you are obliged to conform to established rules like all the other members of the company, and like those who played the first parts before you; for if, instead of accepting the appointed costume, each one wished to dress according to individual taste, the result would be hopeless confusion, together with an expenditure both useless and ruinous for the king and for the opera." [illustration: place des victoires.] the end of this celebrated representative of tragic personages was tragic indeed. after marrying count d'antraigues, engaged in secret diplomacy on behalf of the exiled royal family, she went with her husband to england, where they lived together for many years, the count being during this time in constant relations with the foreign office, until in july, , they both fell victims to a murderous attack on the part of one of their servants. a faithful account of the horrible affair appeared in the _times_ of july rd, , from which the following may be extracted:-- "the count and countess d'antraigues, members of the french noblesse, and distantly related to the unfortunate family of the bourbons, resided," says the english newspaper, "on barnes terrace, on the banks of the thames. they lived in a style which, though far from what they had formerly moved in, yet was rather bordering on high life than the contrary. they kept a carriage, footman, coachman, and a servant out of livery. the latter was an italian or piedmontese, named lawrence; and it is of this wretch that we have to relate the following particulars. the count and countess, intending to visit london yesterday, ordered the carriage to be at the door by eight in the morning, which it accordingly was; and soon after that hour they were in the act of leaving the house to get into it, the countess being at the door, the count coming downstairs, when the report of a pistol was heard in the passage, which, it has since appeared, took no effect; nor was it then ascertained by whom it was fired. lawrence was at this time in the passage, and, on the smoke subsiding, was seen to rush past the count and proceed with great speed upstairs. he almost instantly returned with a dirk in his hand, and plunged it up to the hilt into the count's left shoulder; he continued his course and made for the street door, where stood the countess, whom he instantly despatched by plunging the same dirk into her left breast. this last act had scarcely been completed when the count appeared also at the door, bleeding, and following the assassin, who made for the house and ran upstairs. the count, though extremely weak and faint, continued to follow him; but so great was the terror occasioned that no one else had the same resolution. the assassin and the count had not been upstairs more than a minute when the report of another pistol was heard, which satisfied those below that lawrence had finally put an end to the existence of his master. the alarm was now given, and the cry of 'murder, murder!' resounded from every mouth. the countess was still lying at the front door, by which the turnpike road runs, and at length men of sufficient resolution were found to venture upstairs, and, horrible to relate, they found the count lying across his own bed, groaning heavily, and nearly dead, and the bloodthirsty villain lying by his side a corpse. he had put a period to his own existence by placing a pistol that he found in the room in his mouth, and discharging its contents through his head. the count only survived about twenty-five minutes after the fatal blow, and died without being able to utter a single word. "the countess had by this time been brought into the house; the wound was directly on her left breast, extremely large, and she died without uttering a single word. the servants of the house were all collected last night, but no cause for so horrid an act was at that time known--all was but conjecture. "the following circumstances in so extraordinary a case may be, however, worth while relating. the count, it appears, always kept a brace of pistols loaded in his bedroom and a small dirk. about a month ago the countess and the servants heard the report of a pistol upstairs, and were in consequence greatly alarmed. when one of the latter, a female, went upstairs and looked into her mistress's room, it was full of smoke, and she screamed out. on its clearing away she saw lawrence standing, who told her nothing was the matter--he had only fired one of his master's pistols. it afterwards appeared that he had fired into the wainscot; it was loaded with ball, and the ball from the pistol is yet to be seen. "the count and countess were about sixty years of age. the latter was highly accomplished, a great proficient in music, and greatly admired for her singing in fashionable parties. there is no reason whatever to believe that lawrence was insane. only about ten minutes previous to his committing this deed of blood, he went over to an adjoining public-house and took a glass of gin. he had lived only three months in the family, and, report says, was to be discharged in a few days. "the count and countess had resided in barnes for four or five years, and have left an only son, who, we understand, is at present in this country, studying the law. "besides his house on barnes terrace, count d'antraigues had a town establishment, no. , queen anne street, w. he was fifty-six and the countess fifty-three years of age. the count had eminently distinguished himself in the troubles which have convulsed europe for the last twenty-two years. in he was actively engaged in favour of the revolution, but during the tyranny of robespierre he emigrated to germany, and was employed in the service of russia. at venice in he was arrested by bernadotte, at the order of bonaparte, who pretended to have discovered in his portfolio all the particulars of the plot upon which the th fructidor was founded. the count made his escape from milan, where he was confined, and was afterwards employed in the diplomatic mission of russia at the court of dresden. in he was sent to england with credentials from the emperor of russia, who had granted him a pension, and placed great dependence upon his services. he received here letters of denization, and was often employed by the government. the countess was the once celebrated mme. de saint-huberty, an actress of the théâtre français. she had amassed a very large fortune by her professional talents." chapter xxix. the "national razor." the _rue de l'arbre sec_--dr. guillotin--dr. louis--the guillotine--the first political execution. the street in which mme. de saint-huberty lived, besides suggesting her fatal end, is connected with a whole series of tragedies. the street of the dry tree--rue de l'arbre sec--recalls, by its picturesque name, the fact that here at one time stood the tree from which hung, as fruit, the bodies of capital offenders. in ancient days, and until the great epoch of the revolution, hanging was the ordinary punishment in france for felony, though an exception was made in favour of high-born criminals, whose aristocratic origin entitled them to be decapitated. the modern method, indeed, of execution in france is primarily due to a republican determination not to recognise inequalities, even in the manner of the death-punishment. it is certain that dr. joseph-ignace guillotin, in introducing the too-celebrated invention which is named after him, was actuated by a spirit of impartiality in the first instance, and by humanity in the second. with the legend, perhaps, of phalaris and his bull running in their heads, many frenchmen persist, even to this day, in believing that the inventor of the guillotine was the first victim to fall beneath its blade. as a matter of fact, he survived for upwards of twenty years the introduction of that machine which earned for him so odious a reputation that in the autobiography he left behind not a word, significantly enough, is said about the guillotine. we have seen that under the ancient _régime_ one of the privileges of the nobleman was, in case of execution, to have his head chopped off--a method of punishment held to be more honourable than hanging, which, reserved for plebeian offenders, lent to the execution a character of infamy. to die at the end of a rope was not only a blot on the memory of the offender, but involved his whole family in lasting disgrace. the principle of equality in the eye of the law, which came beneath the consideration of the assembly in , naturally included the equality of criminal punishment; which ought to vary according to the offence, but not according to the social rank of the offender. on the th of october in the year mentioned dr. guillotin moved in the assembly, where he sat as one of the representatives for paris, that the executioner should be rendered an impartial functionary, putting all his victims to death in the same fashion and by means of some mechanical apparatus. when he had put this motion he went on to propose the idea of a machine, rapid in action, which would diminish the sufferings of capital offenders. his motion was carried unanimously; but the suggestion as to the machine was reserved for future discussion. it was during this debate that dr. guillotin, vehemently advocating the instrument of death which hitherto existed only in his own mind, exclaimed, in an unguarded moment: "with my machine i will cut your head off in a twinkling, and without your suffering a twinge." there was a general roar of laughter. but the hilarity of the assembly seems tragic enough when we remember how many of those who laughed were destined to perish by that insatiable weapon which as yet had neither name nor form. as a matter of fact, the worthy doctor, a man already at this time famed for his philanthropy, did not invent, but only suggested, the guillotine. by the expression, "my machine," he simply meant such a machine as the authorities, if they profited by his vague idea, would cause to be constructed. he had proposed nothing more than the principle of decapitation, whilst indicating in general terms the various instruments anciently employed for the purpose in different countries. nevertheless, the whole nation was soon laughing at him, his exclamation being made the text of endless pleasantries. people were intensely amused at this notion of cutting off one's head in a twinkling from philanthropy. the instrument was christened long before it had been invented, and with the name of the unhappy doctor. a clever song was dashed off at the time, telling how a certain m. guillotin, doctor and politician, woke up one fine morning and discovered that the custom of hanging was unpatriotic; how he immediately hit upon a method of punishment which, without rope or stake, would be so effective as to throw the executioner out of employment; and how the machine which the doctor indicated could bear no fitter name than the guillotine. [illustration: rue de le vrilliÈre.] it was this song, perhaps, which really fixed the name of the deadly weapon. so far, however, the assembly, as we have seen, had come to no decision on the subject, having simply decreed the principle of equality in criminal punishments. the question of the mode of execution was entrusted for discussion to a special committee. on the st of september, , after lengthy debate, the assembly adopted the new penal code, of which one clause provided that every criminal sentenced to death should have his head cut off. the method of decapitation now remained to be decided. hitherto the instrument employed had been the sword or the axe. this ghastly operation had been performed on a block, and clumsiness or emotion on the part of the executioner had sometimes caused the victim indescribably horrible tortures. instances had occurred in which the criminal's head had not been severed from his body till the sixth or seventh stroke. this question greatly preoccupied the assembly. ministers openly expressed the horror with which decapitation by the sword inspired them; and the executioner himself published, in reference to the disadvantages of this method, a number of observations tinged with similar abhorrence. at length the committee of legislation called upon the celebrated surgeon louis to draw up a report on the subject, indicating the fittest methods for cutting off a person's head rapidly and according to the principles of science. the witty sophie arnould, meeting once, as she walked through a wood, some physician of her acquaintance, with a gun under his arm, inquired of him: "do you not find your prescriptions sufficient?" and it seems droll enough that, whilst the mission of doctors is, theoretically at least, to preserve life, a surgeon should have been selected by the assembly to prescribe the fastest method of taking it. yet, after all, the selection was prompted by humanity; for the infliction of death is a sufficiently sad necessity of state without the addition of needless torture. dr. louis in any case drew up his report, and presented it to the assembly on the th of march, . he set forth, in the first place, that cutting instruments are in reality nothing but saws of a more or less fine description, having very little effect when they strike perpendicularly, and that it was consequently necessary in executions to apply them in an oblique and gliding fashion. adopting, therefore, the idea propounded by guillotin--whom he did not even name in the report--he maintained that decapitation, in order to be surely effected, must be the direct act, not of a man, but of a machine, the adoption of which he now recommended. he mentioned a machine then employed in england which was, in fact, a rude sort of guillotine, and suggested several improvements in connection with it. nor, indeed, was the notion of such an instrument by any means new. some very old german prints exist representing executions performed in a similar fashion. the italians employed in the sixteenth century, for the beheading of noble criminals, a machine called the _mannaja_, consisting of two upright posts, between which was fixed a sliding knife or cleaver, of great weight, designed to descend with enormous force and velocity on the neck of the prisoner leaning over a block below. dr. louis did not content himself with preparing this report. he hired a german mechanician, named schmidt, to construct at his directions a machine which, after a succession of improvements, was definitely adopted. the first experiments were made at bicêtre, on animals--which reminds one inevitably of mr. w. s. gilbert's executioner, who resolved first to practise on inferior beasts, and then to work his way up through the whole of animate creation until he was artist enough to behead a king. schmidt, by the way, charged the state livres (francs) for constructing those earliest machines, undertaking, moreover, to superintend their installation in the various departments. originally the new instrument was sometimes called the louisette, after the name of its actual creator. but guillotine was already the common title, and it soon became universal, as well as technical and official. dr. guillotin seems never to have protested against this appellation, though it is probable that during the troubles which were so close at hand he would fain have divested himself of the infamy which enshrouded him. as to dr. louis, he was fortunate enough not to witness a single political execution, for he died on the th of may, . the guillotine took its first human life on the th of april, . the subject was a highwayman named nicolas-jacques-pelletier. the _chronique de paris_ said next day of this execution:--"the novelty of the execution had considerably enlarged that crowd of people whom a barbarous pity is wont to draw to these sad spectacles. the new machine has been justly preferred to the old methods of execution. it does not stain any man's hand with the murder of his fellow, and the promptitude with which it strikes the criminal is in the spirit of law, which may often be severe, but ought never to be cruel." the first political execution took place on the night of st august, , at ten o'clock, to the flare of torches. the victim was louis david collenot d'agremont, put to death for having been seen amongst the enemies of the people on the eventful day of the th august. this execution marked the commencement of an era of relentless and bloody feuds; but it was not until the establishment of the revolutionary tribunal, on th april, , that the guillotine began to ply its deadly blade in such fearful earnest. from that moment to the th july the total number of persons executed was , . the earliest political executions had for their scene the place du carrousel, whilst ordinary criminals continued to be decapitated on the place de grève. on the th may, , the convention, sitting then at the tuileries, just opposite the ugly guillotine, called upon the executive council to choose another site. the commune selected the place de la révolution (concorde), where the guillotine was in operation until the th june, . it was then erected in the place du trône. some persons had suggested the bastille; but in the eyes of the people this was a place which had acquired an almost sacred character. under the empire and the restoration the guillotine stood on the place de grève, and under louis philippe at the barrière st. jacques, whilst to-day it is transferred to the place de la roquette. during the reign of terror the french nation was so familiarised with the idea of violent death that executions did not produce the same feeling of horror as at ordinary times. and now the real character of the frenchman began to assert itself. in the gaols it became a favourite diversion with the prisoners to "play at the guillotine." people gave burlesque names to the horrible machine, such as "national razor," etc. it is even said that ear-rings in the shape of miniature guillotines were now largely worn by fashionable ladies. within their paris mansions aristocrats were accustomed to kill the time by means of a toy guillotine, which was placed on the table during dessert. beneath this instrument were passed in succession several puppets, whose heads, representing those of leading paris magistrates, liberated from the hollow trunk, as they rolled off the block, a red liquid like blood. all present, and especially the ladies, thereupon saturated their handkerchiefs with the fluid, which contained a highly agreeable scent. under the government of the commune of paris, the mob seized the guillotine and burnt it in the open street. of late years the paris executioner has distinctly improved the instrument. the scaffold, which was once an adjunct to it, has quite disappeared, and the criminal has no longer to climb a rude staircase before placing himself beneath the knife. chapter xxx. the executioner. the executioner--his taxes and privileges--_monsieur de paris_--victor of nîmes. the executioner is one of the most curious, interesting, and important figures in the history of france in general and of paris in particular. going back to the thirteenth century, we find that there already existed an individual whose duty it was to whip, hang, behead, break on the wheel, and burn in the name of the law. he was then called the executioner of high justice, and every bailiwick possessed such a functionary. an ordinance of against blasphemers provides that "anyone who has offended by word or deed shall be beaten, naked, with rods; that is to say, men by a man, and women by a woman, without the presence of any man." hence some historians have inferred that the office of bourrelle, or female executioner, existed. this is an error; though it is quite true that the wife or the daughter of the _bourreau_ was usually preferred for the duty of whipping female misdemeanants. as to the rest, an elaborate apprenticeship had to be gone through by the executioner before he was deemed fit for his work, the law stipulating that he must be competent to whip, quarter, break on the wheel, fork, clip off ears, gibbet, dismember, and so forth. for a long time the executioner wore a special costume--a cassock wrought in the colours peculiar to the town in which he operated, and bearing in front the representation of a gibbet, and, behind, that of the scaffold staircase--emblems somewhat too obvious of his infamous profession. so soon as the office of _bourreau_ was permanently established, large taxes were enfeoffed to him, and the executioners of france now became so jealous of their prerogatives that one of them in sued a gentleman at law because, seizing a thief who tried to take his purse, he had drawn his sword and cut off the rascal's ear. in thus acting the gentleman was accused of having infringed on the executioner's rights and invaded his profession, the ear technically belonging to the executioner as one of his perquisites. no less curious than manifold were the taxes and privileges of all kinds enjoyed by this functionary. when he performed an execution on the domain of a monastery he was entitled, amongst other things, to the head of a pig; and the abbé of saint-germain paid him an annual tax of this kind. the heads, moreover, of any pigs found straying in the streets or highways of paris belonged to the executioner. during the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries the parisians had permitted their pigs to stroll about in the public thoroughfares; but when the son of louis le gros was killed by a fall from his horse, which had stumbled over one of these wandering animals, it was forbidden thenceforth to allow them outside their owners' premises--though an exception was made in favour of the monks of saint-antoine, who were still at liberty to let out their pigs, which were distinguished by a peculiar mark on the ear. any pig found walking abroad without this mark was now seized by the executioner, who could demand either its head, or, in lieu thereof, four sous. another of his curious privileges was to levy a tax on young women leading objectionable lives. he received duty, moreover, on the goods vended by different classes of shopkeepers, and could walk into their shops and help himself to a certain fraction of their stock. still more extraordinary than any hitherto mentioned was the tax he levied on all sick persons living in the suburbs of paris, who were compelled to pay him four sous apiece every quarter. some of the tolls taken at bridges went into his pocket. he was permitted to despoil the criminals he put to death. at first he could only take possession of what they had upon them above the girdle; but ultimately he obtained everything. besides the innumerable imposts and perquisites of all kinds belonging to his office, he received a fixed fee for each execution. this, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, was sous. in his taxes were for the most part abolished, and in lieu thereof an annual salary of , francs was assigned to him; though, out of this sum, he had to keep two assistants. in the national convention entirely reformed the criminal legislation so far as concerned the executioner. by a decree of th june it decided that there should be an executioner to every department of the republic. he was to be remunerated at the expense of the state. in towns with a population not exceeding , he was to receive a salary of , francs, besides another , francs for two assistants (in the departments), or , francs for four assistants (at paris). in the french capital today the _bourreau_ has a fixed salary of , francs, and , francs for the maintenance of his formidable machine. the executioner is still regarded in france with much of the abhorrence which has always been felt for him; but although he is an outcast from the ordinary world, admission to churches, theatres, promenades, and public places generally is not to-day, as it once was, denied to him. whenever his place becomes vacant there is a rush of candidates for it more multitudinous and more eager than for any other state office whatsoever. to be "monsieur de paris," as the executioner is styled, seems the pinnacle of ambition with only too large a section of the public. once, indeed, the post of _bourreau_, although not, as some have imagined, hereditary, remained long in the same family; and that of sanson produced seven generations of executioners, from to . the post has seldom been a sinecure, and it was particularly far from being so during the centuries which followed the thirteenth. thence, until the eighteenth, the executioner was a terribly busy man, hanging, quartering, and otherwise judicially massacring with scarcely a cessation. kings with many enemies would sometimes make a pet of him. louis xi. took a particular fancy to tristan, whom he called his colleague. this man, by the way, had a genius for his ghastly business, chopping off heads with a dexterity well calculated to excite the favour of a king who had determined that all heads should fall which were difficult to bend. it was not only upon the persons of criminals that the executioner had to operate. he was sometimes required to burn or behead dummies representing offenders who had eluded capture. peter the cruel, king of castile, having killed one of his subjects, was condemned to death. but as the person of the king was sacred, he was only executed in effigy, the _bourreau_ beheading with his sword an image intended to represent him. the public executioner has generally been more loathed in france than even in england. and justly so; for in the former country his work for many centuries has been peculiarly infamous, not to say diabolical. in the present day, it is true, "monsieur de paris" simply touches a button and his victim, without a struggle or a pang, is no more. but he was not always so humane. once it was his own hand that dealt slow death and inflicted fiendish torture. it was he who quartered the condemned wretch--who attached horses, that is to say, to his legs and arms, and then drove them in four different directions. it was he who burned or broke on the wheel--the latter an indescribably ghastly operation, in which he used an iron bar to break almost every bone in the victim's body. it is not surprising, therefore, that even to-day "monsieur de paris," with such a history behind him, should be the object of a detestation which ketch himself, or marwood, failed to excite. the revolution of , although it swept away his privileges, completely rehabilitated that _bourreau_ whose services it was so frequently to require; and a decree of the convention decided that thenceforth this functionary should be admitted to the rank of officer in the army. it was even proposed to confer upon him, as executioner, a new and finer title--that of "national avenger"; and m. matton de la varenne was quite eloquent in his praise. "what would become of society?" he said; "of what use would be the judges, of what avail authority, if an active and legitimate force did not exist to avenge outrages committed upon citizens whom it is the care of the law to protect? if the punishment of the guilty is dishonourable to those who administer it, the magistrate who has pronounced the sentence, the notary who has drawn it up, the protractor and the criminal lieutenant who cause it to be executed beneath their eyes should bear part of the dishonour. why should he who puts the last hand to the work be reputed infamous for duties which are simply the complement of those of the magistrate?" the argument was specious enough; but the difference between the two functionaries named is, after all, precisely the difference existing between a civic corporation which decrees that its town shall be kept clean, and the scavenger whom it hires to scrape the streets. however, the _bourreau_ became for a time an influential and admired personage. he was sometimes invited to dine at distinguished tables, and embraced as a favourite guest. ultimately he figured as an autobiographer. the last of the sansons wrote his own memoirs, together with those of his ancestors, executioners like himself. by no means the least curious fact in the history of the _bourreau_ is that, in former days, he killed with one hand and healed with the other. he was a physician, that is to say; and at his dispensary, in the intervals between his murderous operations, he dealt out medicines to poor people who flocked to him for advice. by far the most famous of these medical _bourreaux_ was victor of nîmes. his scientific reputation spread even beyond the boundaries of france. one day an englishman called upon him for a consultation. this patient had a twisted neck, and had come over to place himself under the treatment of the once-famous school of montpelier. after having endured all sorts of experiments, he found that his head showed no sign of resuming its normal position, and therefore, wishing his tormentors good day, he went on to victor. "can you cure me?" he inquired. the executioner examined him, and then said: "it is a simple case of _torticolis_. nothing is easier than to cure you if you will confide in me, and do whatever i command." the englishman consented; and after certain preliminaries both surgeon and patient passed from the consulting-room into a more retired apartment. that victor, besides being a surgeon, was a humorist, seems beyond question. the room now entered was remarkable for nothing in particular--with one exception, namely, that from the ceiling hung a rope, at the end of which was a noose. the doctor ordered his patient to put his head in this noose. for a long time the englishman hesitated and protested; ultimately he obeyed. then victor tightened the noose, hoisted his subject high up in the air, and, using the victim's legs as a kind of trapeze, went through the most frightful gymnastic exercises. at the end of a quarter of an hour--a _mauvais quart d'heure_ for our countryman--the performance concluded, and the patient was let down--cured. [illustration: in pÈre-lachaise.] chapter xxxi. pÈre-lachaise. the cemeteries of clamart and picpus--père-lachaise--la villette and chaumont--the conservatoire--rue laffitte--the rothschilds--montmartre--clichy. before crossing the river to the left bank, we must say a few words about some of those districts of paris which are reached naturally, and as a matter of course, by the great thoroughfares; the ancient estate, for instance, of mont-louis, where, for the last two centuries, has been established the cemetery known as père-lachaise. the cemeteries of paris may be distinguished locally, or by the special character belonging to several of them. each important district has its own cemetery: that of montmartre, for instance, on the north, that of mont-parnasse on the south of paris. the cemetery of clamart was reserved, until the revolution, for the bodies, dissected or undissected, of those who had died in hospital. it is now the last resting-place of criminals who have passed beneath the guillotine. the picpus cemetery, at present a more or less private cemetery in which only privileged persons are buried, was formerly a place of interment for those who had distinguished themselves in insurrections and civil wars. there reposes la fayette in the earth of the locality mingled with earth sent from america, in memory of the important part played by la fayette in the american war of independence. père-lachaise, the most celebrated and most interesting of all the cemeteries, owes its name to the famous confessor of louis xiv., who proposed the revocation of the edict of nantes--the edict which accorded a certain toleration to the protestants of france--and who celebrated the secret marriage of louis xiv. to mme. de maintenon. father lachaise was a jesuit with whom the idea of toleration could find no favour. the duke de saint-simon, in his famous memoirs, gives a very favourable account of him, and while describing him as a "strong jesuit," adds that he was "neither fanatical nor fawning." although he advised the king to revoke the edict of nantes, he was no party to the active persecution by which the revocation was followed. the burial-ground of père-lachaise occupies the ancient domain of mont-louis, a property given to father lachaise by the king, and which in time became known exclusively by the name of its owner. it is for the most part an aristocratic cemetery. although it contains monuments characterised by a solemnity befitting the idea of eternity, it is by no means the depressing, melancholy, awe-inspiring place which one might expect so vast a necropolis to be. on the one side wealth lies buried, on the other indigence. in juxtaposition to magnificent monuments, shaded with shrubs and graced with flowers, is the common trench, formed by two immense dikes dug in a sterile soil, where the poor sleep their last. there nothing but cold and dreary solitude meets the eye; whilst a few paces off stand gothic chapels, sarcophagi, pyramids, obelisks, and artistic emblems of every kind--objects expressive, for the most part, of posthumous pride. here social distinctions are marked with an ostentation painful to see: titles, coats of arms, escutcheons appearing in the marble or the stone. as to the inscriptions, these, written in a variety of styles--now pompous, now epigrammatic, now melodramatic--are frequently fantastic and seldom appropriate. common to all the epitaphs, however widely they differ in other respects, is the uniform virtue which they ascribe to their subjects. in this connection a few words from the caustic pen of m. benjamin gastineau deserve reproduction. "at père-lachaise," he says, "you find nothing but good fathers, good mothers, good brothers, good husbands, faithful wives, true friends, noble hearts, angels flown to heaven, white flowers, chaste spouses, seraphim of perfection. not a traitor, not a coward, not a hypocrite, not a knave, not an egotist!" the tombs of père-lachaise are frequently remarkable, not merely as fine specimens--or even masterpieces--of sculptural art, but on account of the illustrious personages who slumber beneath them. the magnificent tomb of héloise and abailard would justify a page of description, whilst the story of their romantic love sufficed, as we know, to inspire even the frigid pen of alexander pope with passion. from this ancient tomb a few steps will take the visitor into the company of the illustrious dead of a later day. here is the monument of frederick soulié, the vehement and impassioned novelist--a simple marble slab, surmounted by a cross, and eloquently inscribed with his mere name. the tomb of the composer chopin is not far off. in the front appears a medallion portrait of this brilliant genius, whilst, on the tomb itself, cleslinger has sculptured a poetic figure, breaking the lyre he bears, and in an attitude of profound despair. hard by is the tomb of vivant denon. upon it his statue, by cartelier, stands, still smiling with that smile which, as a french historian has ingeniously said, "pleased, turn by turn, louis xv., mme. de pompadour, voltaire, louis xvi., robespierre, and napoleon." the most sumptuous monument in the cemetery is that of the russian princess, demidoff. its height is prodigious. its semi-oriental architecture, at once severe and beautiful, is highly imposing. it consists of a rich temple adorned with ten columns of white carrara marble, supporting a magnificent canopy. on the sarcophagus rests a crown. this monument is said to have cost , francs. the stage is represented in this silent city. here sleeps mlle. duchenois, once the rival of mlle. georges. at no great distance from where she lies a chapel stands over the remains of the last great célimène, mlle. mars; whilst the name inscribed on a little sarcophagus in the greek style shows us that even talma had to die. among the host of illustrious names inscribed on the stones of père-lachaise must be mentioned those of laharpe, beaumarchais, molière, and la fontaine. the relics of the two last were transferred to this cemetery at the same time as those of héloise. nor, finally, can we forget the monument raised to the famous general foy. in the inscription which it bears an ingenious and eloquent use is made of the general's celebrated utterance in the chamber of representatives: "yesterday i said i would not yield except to force. to-day i come to keep my word." the cemetery of père-lachaise has two special quarters: one reserved for protestants, the other for jews. the monuments of the former present, by their austere simplicity, a striking contrast to the elegant or sumptuous mausoleums in the catholic burial-ground. most of the tombs bear, as their sole emblem, a representation of the bible, open at a page reflecting upon the ultimate way of all flesh. the jewish cemetery is situated behind the monument of héloise and abailard. on entering it the visitor sees, to the right, a funeral chapel in the greek style, which is the tomb of rachel. further on, to the left, is that of the rothschild family. lastly, at the summit of the hill of père-lachaise, covering an area newly annexed, is the mussulman cemetery, provided with a mosque. the princess of oude and one of her relatives were its first occupants. on the th of may, , père-lachaise became the scene of a horrible slaughter. five days previously the army of versailles had penetrated into paris. the troops of the commune, despite a desperate resistance, had had to withdraw to one or two points of retreat: among others to père-lachaise. on the th some battalions of marines, forming part of the corps of general vinoy, invaded the cemetery. there was a fearful hand-to-hand fight over the tombs. into the very vaults the marines pursued the insurgents who had spiked their guns and fled. two days afterwards the cemetery was a litter of broken weapons, empty bottles, and other profane rubbish. during the last few years a corner of the cemetery of père-lachaise has been set apart for cremations. paris, which claims to be first in so many things and which is so often justified in these pretensions, did not establish a crematorium until long after the city of milan had done so. * * * * * to the north of père-lachaise extend the hillsides of ménilmontant and belleville, commanding, from innumerable points, a magnificent view, and memorable for the defence of paris conducted from these heights in . belleville is the scene of more than one remarkable incident in the novels of paul de kock, the maid of belleville being as much associated with this suburban eminence as the maid of orleans with that of montmartre. the vast region of belleville and ménilmontant is chiefly inhabited by the workpeople of paris, who have here their headquarters. close at hand is the faubourg saint-antoine, communicating in a direct line with the rue saint-antoine--street and faubourg both celebrated in the annals of popular insurrection. the streets and faubourgs of saint-denis and saint-martin belong equally to the workmen's quarter, which includes, moreover, la villette and chaumont, with its quarries. here all the vagabonds and malefactors of paris used at one time to seek refuge. napoleon iii., who systematically made war upon this class of the population, cleared the buttes chaumont and caused the slopes to be covered with picturesque gardens. in the valley is an artificial lake fed by one of the tributaries of the saint-martin canal. the gardens of the buttes chaumont belong to what used to be known as the district of the fights, or quartier des combats, so called from the fights between dogs and bulls or other animals which here took place until the time of the revolution. these, with some modifications, were continued up to the first years of louis philippe's reign. here jules janin found the subject of his famous novel, "l'âne mort et la femme guillotinée"--a story written, according to some, in order to turn into ridicule the sensational novelists of the day; according to others, with the view of attracting and forcing attention by means of exaggerated and monstrous sensationalism. returning from the heights which bound paris on the north, by the rue du faubourg poissonnière, we find at the corner of this street and of the rue bergère the building in which has existed, since the revolution, the national conservatory of music and declamation. the great musical academy had its origin in a school of singing and declamation established in in order to prepare singers for the opéra. to this institution was added in a school of dramatic declamation, which had the honour of producing talma. but the conservatory of music, as it now exists, owes its organisation to the revolution. founded in virtue of a decree dated august rd, , it had for its first director the illustrious cherubini, who was replaced by auber, to whom has succeeded m. ambroise thomas, the composer of _mignon_ and of _hamlet_. the students are admitted by competition, and the teaching is gratuitous. prizes are adjudged every year, and of these the most important is the so-called prix de rome, which enables its holder to study for a certain number of years in the great italian city. the concerts of the conservatoire are famous throughout europe; and fortunate indeed is the visitor to paris who can succeed in obtaining a place at concerts which are supported and attended exclusively (except, of course, in case of forced absence) by permanent subscribers. the orchestra which takes part in these concerts is of the finest quality, the principal instruments being all in the hands of the professors of the establishment--the first instrumentalists, that is to say, of france. the rue laffitte, formerly known as the rue d'artois, by which, in the neighbourhood of the conservatoire, one reaches the best part of the boulevard, has, since the revolution of , borne the name of the celebrated banker and politician whose mansion was the rendezvous of the opposition deputies during the so-called "days of july." laffitte is, in some sense, the hero of a charming tale published by the so-called saint-germain under the title of "story of a pin." at the office of a paris banker, a young man in search of employment has been refused by reason of there being no vacancy. as, however, he goes away in a dejected mood, he is seen to pick up a pin; and this indication of order and economy has such an effect upon the banker that he is called back and at once appointed to a supplementary chair. it is said that a friend of laffitte's, also out of employment, hearing of the success of this "pin trick," as he termed it, resolved to try it himself. at the next office where he applied for a situation his conversation and general demeanour so pleased the principal that he was all but engaged, when, in order to determine the matter, he went through the gesture of picking up a pin--which he had held all the time between his fingers. "what was that?" asked the head of the firm. "a pin," was the reply. "a pin?" repeated the principal. "a man who would take a pin out of my office would take a cheque. good morning, sir." [illustration: parc des buttes chaumont.] laffitte was the most generous of millionaires. one of the rothschilds assured the famous actress rachel that if he had lent money to everyone who asked him he should at last have had to borrow five francs of her. this was in all probability the mere plea of dives, unwilling to be too much put upon by lazarus. laffitte seems to have been ready to lend to anyone who really deserved assistance; and a strange story is told of his advancing a sum of money to an officer of whom he knew nothing. the officer had been gambling and had lost , francs which did not belong to him. it was necessary to restore this amount to the regimental chest or be for ever disgraced. laffitte listened to the officer's story, counted out to him the , francs, and took a receipt, together with a promise that the money should be repaid at the rate of francs a year. "it will take you a long time to pay it off at that rate," said laffitte, "and who knows whether you will ever bring me the first instalment?" the officer, however, swore that he would keep his word--and, exactly to the day when the first payment became due, brought to the banker his first francs. laffitte, however, while complimenting him on his punctuality, declared himself unable to receive such a contemptibly small sum, and told his debtor to keep it for another year, when he must bring him . on the officer's return, at the expiration of another twelvemonth, with the increased amount, laffitte exclaimed: "yes; i see you are a man of honour. keep the money and take back your note of hand." it is to be hoped that heine, living in paris at the time, heard this story, though he did not profit by its teaching; for it was one of his amusing if cynical maxims, that a man had more chance of getting a loan from a poor friend, anxious to appear better off than he really was, than from a rich one whose pecuniary position was above question. after the revolution of laffitte was appointed minister of finance and president of the council. this just man could not, however, succeed in pleasing either of the sections into which the chamber was divided. his own party thought him too lukewarm, too unprogressive, while the legitimists could not forget his alliance with the party of revolution. the rue laffitte may well be regarded as the headquarters of finance, for, in addition to the banking-house of laffitte, the french branch of the rothschilds has here for more than half a century been domiciled. the rothschilds of paris, like those of london, frankfort, vienna, and naples, are descendants of the mayer-rothschilds who founded the first of the rothschild banking-houses at frankfort a century ago. born at frankfort-on-the-maine in , mayer anselm rothschild belonged to a jewish family of small means. he received, nevertheless, a good education and studied for some time with the view of becoming a rabbi. commerce and finance had, however, greater attractions for him than the law and the prophets, and, thanks to his industry and intelligence, he soon found himself the possessor of a small amount of capital. he had established himself in the juden-gasse; and here, faithfully assisted by his young wife, he occupied himself with dealings of the most varied kinds. he had familiarised himself with financial operations at a bank where he had been engaged as clerk; and after his marriage he quickly became known by his enterprise, honesty, and tact to the great financial houses of frankfort, mayence, and darmstadt, who often entrusted him with important commissions. mayer rothschild was forty-six years of age when the french revolution broke out; and it was in the midst of the troubles caused by this great convulsion that he found his first great opportunity of enriching himself. immediately after the reign of terror, when, in , the french armies were replying to the german invasion by themselves invading germany, the smaller german princes became panic-stricken, and fled with such haste towards the elbe that some of them had not time to carry away all their gold. among the illustrious fugitives was the elector of hesse-cassel, who possessed more ready money than all his brethren of the german federation united. finding it imprudent, if not impossible, to take with him in his travelling-carriage heaps of silver and gold, he resolved to place a portion of his treasure in the hands of trustworthy persons, and one of those selected was mayer rothschild of frankfort. two millions of florins were confided to him on the simple understanding that he should restore the money at the conclusion of peace. the war, however, lasted for years; and during this period the talents confided to the hebrew banker were not allowed to lie buried in a napkin. he put them out at interest, made loans to the governments and to the military commanders and commissaries on all sides; speculated, in short, with the money carefully and judiciously, without permitting himself to be influenced by any of the prejudices of patriotism. _ubi bene, ibi patria_, was the motto of the hebrew at the beginning of the century, and naturally enough; for in a privileged society he was without privileges and almost without rights. every career was closed to him except those of medicine and money-making; and in making money it was enough for the hebrew to make it lawfully. there is no record of mayer rothschild's having lent anything to the french republic, which had liberated the jews from every burden, every disability, weighing upon them in other countries. but he made advances to napoleon and also, with fine impartiality, to england, napoleon's most consistent foe. any prince, moreover, reigning or deposed, could, if he possessed the requisite security, count upon the frankfort financier for pecuniary aid. when peace was established, the elector of hesse-cassel received back the whole of his capital with a fair amount of interest, and mayer rothschild was able to congratulate himself on having benefited alike the elector and himself. war had broken out again, and napoleon had undertaken that campaign against russia which was to bring him to ruin, when mayer rothschild died, like a patriarch, surrounded by his ten children. he had never quitted his house in the juden-gasse, and, millionaire as he now was, had never abandoned the long, characteristic frock-coat of the frankfort jews. of the ten children surrounding the bed of the dying financier, five were sons--anselm, solomon, nathan, charles, and james. in giving them his last blessing he exhorted them to live together in the most perfect harmony: a command which was to be religiously obeyed. the five brothers formed in common an immense banking house, with the central establishment at frankfort, and four branches at vienna, london, naples, and paris. to undertake no important operation without the consent of all the partners, to be content with a relatively small profit, to leave nothing to chance, to be always punctual and exact--such were the principles by which they were to be guided; and in formally adopting them they took this motto: _concordia, industria, integritas._ the events of and offered to this fraternal association admirable opportunities. it was applied to for loans, first by the coalition of powers marching against france, and, after napoleon's final defeat, by the new monarchical government of france, in view of the war indemnity. from this moment the house of rothschild assumed colossal proportions. it seemed to hold europe at every point, and no important financial operation could be undertaken without its consent and aid. the emperor of austria ennobled the brothers rothschild in , at the time of the vienna conferences, and in created them barons and appointed them consuls-general for austria in the different cities where they were established. of mayer rothschild's five sons, baron anselm, the eldest, born at frankfort in , assumed, after the death of his father, the direction of the frankfort bank, and while remaining at its head took an active part in founding the four branch houses at paris, london, vienna, and naples. he died at frankfort in . baron solomon de rothschild, mayer rothschild's second son, born at frankfort in , died at paris in . after founding the branch bank of vienna, he directed, in concert with his brother anselm, most of the great financial operations undertaken in germany. he was an intimate friend of prince metternich's, and his son, baron anselm solomon, became, less from political tastes than in virtue of his rank, a member of the austrian reichsrath. after quitting vienna, baron solomon, the father, went to paris, where, in association with his brother james, he undertook the management of the french bank. his son, the before-mentioned baron anselm solomon, died at vienna in , leaving behind him one of the finest art galleries in the world. he had three sons, nathaniel, ferdinand, and albert, the last-named of whom took the direction of the vienna bank. baron nathan de rothschild, brother of the preceding, was born at frankfort in , and died there in . his father, the founder of the family, had sent him as early as to england, where, after passing some years at manchester, he established himself in london in . after the death of his father he remained at the head of the london house, and played a considerable part in the great financial operations undertaken by the five brothers in common. in he lent large sums to the english government, as well as to england's allies, and, after the peace, was, like his four brothers, appointed consul-general for austria, and created baron. nathan, who, by the way, never made use of his title, died at frankfort in , and was succeeded in the direction of the london house by baron lionel de rothschild. baron charles de rothschild, the fourth of the five brothers, was born at frankfort in , and died at naples in . he directed the naples bank from its first establishment until his death. he reconstructed the finances of piedmont and tuscany, and, in association with his brothers, borrowed for the roman government between and some , , francs. baron james de rothschild, the last of the brothers, born at frankfort-on-the-maine in , died at paris in . it is with him we have chiefly to do, since it was he who in the year , immediately after the death of his father, established at paris the great banking house which now forms one of the most striking features of the rue laffitte. the post of consul-general for austria was given to him in . under the restoration, in december, , baron james subscribed for a loan of nearly five hundred millions, and, in association with his brothers, he undertook nearly all the important loans issued in portugal, prussia, austria, france, italy, and belgium. he rendered important financial aid to the french government under the reign of louis philippe, and during the second empire. it was baron james de rothschild, moreover, who furnished the brothers pereire with the sums necessary for the construction of the first railways in france. falsely accused of having speculated in corn during the dearth of , he had reason to fear, at least for a time, after the revolution of , that he could no longer live safely at paris. his house was pillaged and burnt, and he was indeed on the point of quitting france, when the prefect of police, caussidière, persuaded him to stay, and placed at his disposal a picket of the republican guard, which was stationed in the courtyard of his mansion night and day. the baron gave , francs towards the relief of the wounded of february, illuminated his house to show that he was not hostile to republican institutions, and tranquilly continued his operations at the bank. when caussidière, obliged to leave france, decided to set up as a wine merchant in london, baron james, mindful of the service he had rendered him, did not, it is true, offer him a present of money, which might have been refused, but in the handsomest manner ordered such large annual consignments of wine from him, that caussidière could thenceforth have lived comfortably without selling a drop of his stuff to any other customer. the baron never boasted of this action, but the wine merchant took delight in telling the story of his patron's delicate gratitude. thanks to his state loans, to his banking and exchange transactions, and to the great commercial enterprises which he had created or protected, the financier had amassed enormous wealth. he richly endowed or founded all kinds of jewish institutions, notably a vast hospital in the rue picpus, and the synagogue of the rue notre-dame de nazareth. every year he sent to judæa large sums of money, which the rabbis distributed to the poor; and the jews of the east attributed to him the project of redeeming jerusalem from the government of the turks. his château at ferrières, in the department of seine-et-marne, is a sumptuous palace; and besides this and his two other residences in the rue laffitte and the bois de boulogne, he possessed innumerable houses in paris. in nearly all the great cities and towns of europe, moreover, he owned valuable properties--at rome, for instance, naples, and turin, where some of the finest palaces and mansions were his. to the end of his life the great financier displayed a most prodigious activity. he was quick, hot-tempered, peevish, and surly to approach. but if he has been often reproached with brutality to underlings, he, on the other hand, treated the great with none too much ceremony. one day the count de morny entered the baron's office at a moment when he was busily engaged. "take a chair," said the financier, without looking at him. "pardon me," said the injured visitor; "you cannot have heard my name. i am the count de morny." "take two chairs," replied baron james, without lifting his eyes off the papers before him. this prince of millionaires never carried more than fifty francs in his pocket; and he himself declared that by means of this aid to economy he had saved half a million francs in the course of his life. at the club of the rue royale, where he was accustomed to play whist after dinner, much amusement was caused by the extraordinary purse he always carried. it was fitted with a lock, and the key to this lock hung as a pendant to the baron's watchchain. to pay a debt of ten sous he had first to get hold of the key and then open the lock; nor even when he had done so was there always enough in the purse to discharge his liability. at his club he was called simply "the baron"--his compeers were all barons of something or other; and for this title he had always a punctilious regard. he was a great lover of art, and had formed a magnificent collection in the château at ferrières. by his marriage with his niece, daughter of baron solomon de rothschild, he left four sons--edmond, gustave, alphonse, and nathaniel, of whom the first-named became naturalised in france, and assumed on his father's death the direction of the paris house. during the siege of the capital in january, , he, in association with his brothers, expended , francs on the relief of the necessitous; and in subscribed for a sum of , , , francs towards the loan required to buy the foe out of the country. * * * * * the three houses in the rue laffitte occupied by the rothschilds are numbered , , and . at is the banking establishment, now presided over by baron alphonse de rothschild, third son of the late baron james. baron alphonse is a painter of the highest distinction, in token of which he has been elected a member of the academy of fine arts. no. is the residence of the dowager baroness james de rothschild; while no is occupied by various administrative offices. close by is the mansion which, under the first empire, was inhabited by the queen of holland. in one of the rooms overlooking the garden was born, april th, , napoleon louis, the future emperor of the french. [illustration: the muffin mill.--the obelisk of the paris meridian.--the observatory. montmartre.] in the middle of the rue de la victoire stands the finest of the three synagogues of paris, built by the architect aldrophe in the roman style. the perspective of the rue laffitte terminates at the frontispiece of the church of notre-dame-de-lorette. the plan of this edifice is that of an ancient roman basilica, and its aspect that of an italian church. the interior is very richly adorned with works from the chisels of half a dozen famous sculptors, and from the brushes of a still greater number of distinguished painters. this church, situated in the midst of those quarters where literature, art, and the drama have made their home, is marked by an elegance which approaches the mundane. passing northwards through the rue laffitte, the visitor sees, rising before him, the hill of montmartre, which overlooks the church. the windmills which five-and-twenty years ago waved their arms on the summit of this eminence have given way to the imposing church of the sacred heart, a massive structure suggestive of a fortress. the butte montmartre, to give the hill its french name, figures on almost every page of the annals of paris. it is supposed, with a certain degree of probability, that temples to mars and mercury were raised there in the roman era. three different etymologies have been given to the butte montmartre, namely, _mons martis_, or mount of mars; _mons mercurii_, or mount of mercury; and finally _mons martyrum_, or mount of the martyrs. the last-named derivation is justified by the martyrdom of st. denis, first archbishop of paris, who in the third century perished upon this spot. the hill bears a reservoir of water, artistically decorated; and close to it an obelisk erected in to serve as a point of view by which, from the opposite or southern side of paris, the city could be surveyed and measured. our illustration shows, to the right of this edifice, the observatory of montmartre, and to the left the moulin de la galette, or muffin mill. [illustration: the synagogue in the rue de la victoire.] close by is the church of st. peter, which presents a miserable front, but which archæologists prize as a monument of extraordinary interest. it dates back to the earliest ages of christianity. destroyed by the romans, it was completely rebuilt in . partly burnt in , it was half demolished in , and restored without any regard to regularity or unity of design. it thus presents, at first sight, the aspect of a ruin held together by means of shaky scaffoldings. the butte montmartre is an enormous mass of gypsum, about metres high, and it has furnished century after century the finest kind of plaster, required for the construction of buildings in paris. as a consequence it has been dangerously hollowed out, and in recent times a part of the hill gave way and precipitated itself upon the district below. the massive church of the sacred heart was built with a special eye to the insecurity of the hill; for it rests on an artificial foundation, in the shape of huge masses of cement, reaching deep down into the lower strata. in the last generation the butte montmartre was, to parisians, simply a fresh-air resort, picturesque with the before-mentioned windmills, to which rustic taverns were usually attached. from the summit, where city-pent children used on sundays joyously to romp on the future site of the church of the sacred heart, a magnificent view is obtained of the plain of saint-denis, the course of the seine, and beyond that the fringe of the montmorency forest. then, turning suddenly towards the south, the astonished visitor sees the whole city of paris lying at his feet. at the bottom of the rue lepic a vast enclosure is visible full of trees of various kinds, with the cypress prominent amongst them. this is the cemetery of montmartre, or, by its official designation, cemetery of the north. it contains many a monument as remarkable for its artistic beauty as for the character or celebrity of the sleeper beneath it; that of godefroi cavaignac, for instance, brother of the general of the same name, and one of the hopes of the republican party under the monarchy of louis philippe; of henri beyle (otherwise "stendhal"), author of "the life of rossini," the treatise on "love," and of several admirable novels, including "la chartreuse de parme," described as a masterpiece by so competent a judge as balzac. here, too, repose paul delaroche the painter, marshal lannes, halévy, composer of _la juive_, and henri murger, observer, if not inventor, of the literary and artistic bohemian, described with so much gaiety, vivacity, and picturesqueness in the "scènes de la vie de bohême." until a few years ago the montmartre cemetery barred the way from paris to the butte montmartre. but since a bridge or viaduct has connected the boulevard clichy with the rue caulaincourt. the barrière clichy has given its name to one of the most characteristic of horace vernet's works--the picture of this barrier as seen in during the advance upon paris of the allied armies. the prison of clichy, familiarly known as "clichy," in the street of the same name, was the paris prison for debt. here, until the second empire, debtors were confined under conditions peculiar to france, or at least never known in england. the duration of the imprisonment was determined by the magnitude of the debt, up to a period of five years; the maximum term, whatever amount might be owed. the debtor was maintained at the cost of the creditor, who had to deposit a sum of forty-five francs with the prison officials before his victim could be admitted within the prison walls. from early morning until ten o'clock at night the prisoners were free to walk about the grounds and occupy themselves as they thought fit. there were two hundred rooms for men, and sixteen for women; and, contrary to the general opinion on the subject, largely due to humorous writers and caricaturists, the prisoners belonged, for the most part, not to the aristocratic class, but to the class of small tradesmen. as the enforced allowance from the creditor was only sufficient to provide the necessaries of life, a fund was maintained among the prisoners for supplementing the ordinary bill of fare. there was a restaurant for prisoners of means, and light wines were on sale, to the exclusion of dessert wines and liqueurs. if, as often happened, the creditor omitted to pay for the support of the debtor, the latter was set free. it is recorded in the chronicles of clichy that among the wines forbidden, as savouring specially of a luxury unbecoming on the part of a man unable to pay his debts, was champagne. the heart of the creditor, says one writer on this subject, would have been too much vexed by the thought of bursting corks and foaming wine. the prisoners at clichy became, according to the french caricaturists, inordinately fat; and in one of gavarni's pictures of clichy a prisoner is represented saying to a friend who has called to see him: "if they don't let me out soon i shall be unable to get through the door." thus, the mouse of the fable, having crept through a small hole into a basket of provisions, feasted till he was too big to squeeze his way out again. [illustration: st. peter's church, montmartre.] [illustration: the bells of st. peter's.] if, under the french system, the creditor was bound to maintain the debtor, the debtor, on his side, was denied the liberties accorded to him in england. here a man who refused to pay his debts might be detained as long as the creditor wished without any charge to the latter; but here, also, the debtor might lead a luxurious life, and even leave the prison day after day on condition only of returning by a certain hour at night. to live "within the rules" of the queen's bench was simply to inhabit an unfashionable and remote part of london, with the additional obligation of getting home early every night. a former manager of her majesty's theatre--king's theatre, as it was then called--passed several years in the queen's bench prison. this gentleman, taylor by name, maintained, indeed, that it was the only place where an operatic manager could live so as to be quite beyond the reach of tenors dissatisfied with their parts, and _prime donne_ clamouring for new dresses and increased salaries. in fact, he once declared, it was the only place where a man so rash as to undertake an operatic speculation ought to be allowed to live, since no such person was fit to be at large. [illustration: the new municipal reservoir and the church of the sacred heart, montmartre.] [illustration: the caulaincourt bridge, montmartre.] close to the clichy district is the more important one of les batignolles, a growth of the present century and, one may almost say, of the last half-century. the village of les batignolles has developed into a town, inhabited for the most part by retired tradesmen and small annuitants. close, again, to the batignolles is the beautiful parc monceau, with its avenue de villiers, favourite abode of so many painters of the modern school. we are now once more in the neighbourhood of the champs Élysées, with its picturesque avenues, its children, its popular theatres, and its cafés without number. once more, too, we are in the vicinity of that bois de boulogne, with its beautiful drives, its luxurious restaurants, its enchanting lake, and its forest renowned for duels. chapter xxxii. paris duels. the legal institution of the duel--the _congé de la bataille_--in the sixteenth century--jarnac--famous duels. parisian duels are no longer to the death. as a rule, one of the combatants receives a scratch, and the farce is at an end. the story is well known of a paris journalist's wife, who, alarmed by the sudden disappearance of her husband, continued for a long time to fret and worry about him, until a friend of his told her that he had gone into the country to fight a duel, whereupon she exclaimed: "thank heaven! then he is safe." [illustration: in the parc monceau.] from antiquity, however, until very recent times duels in paris and in france generally have been only too sanguinary. the french first learned duelling from a ferocious nation. the ancient franks, in invading gaul, established there what was known as the "judicial combat." previously, in their own country, it had been a custom amongst the franks for an individual who had suffered any private wrong, serious or trivial, to wreak a personal vengeance on the offender, inflicting death, or no matter what bodily injury, in the most barbarous fashion. at length the law intervened and instituted formal combat between the parties at strife--a custom which, in due course, was introduced by the franks into conquered gaul. in the regulations of philippe le bel, , it is set forth:-- "that the lists shall be forty feet in width and eighty feet in length. "that the duel shall only be permitted when there is presumptive evidence against the accused, but without clear proof. "that on the day appointed the two combatants shall leave their houses on horseback, with visor raised; their sabre, sword, axe, and other _reasonable_ arms for attack and defence being carried before them; when they shall advance slowly, making from step to step the sign of the cross, or bearing an image of the saint to whom they are chiefly devoted and in whom they have most confidence. "that having reached the enclosure, the appellant, with his hand on his crucifix, shall swear on his baptismal faith, on his life, his soul, and his honour, that he believes himself to have got a just subject of contention, and moreover that he has not upon him, nor upon his horse, nor among his arms, any herbs, charms, words, stones, conjurations, pacts, or incantations that he proposes to employ; and that the respondent shall take the same oaths. "that the body of the vanquished man, if he is killed, shall be delivered to the marshal, until the king has declared if he wishes to pardon him or to do justice upon him; that is to say, hang him up to a gibbet by one of his feet. "that if the vanquished man still lives, his aiguillettes shall be cut off; that he shall be disarmed and stripped; that all his harness shall be cast here and there about the field; and that he shall remain lying on the ground until the king, in like manner, has declared if he wishes to pardon him or to do justice upon him. "that, moreover, all his property shall be confiscated for the benefit of the king, after the victor has been duly paid his costs and damages." in regard to capital crimes, the issue of a combat authorised by law and consecrated by religious ceremonies was looked upon as a formal judgment by which god made known the truth or falsehood of the accusation. the defeated combatant was dragged on a hurdle in his shirt to the gallows, where, dead or alive, he was hanged. the church itself adopted and sanctioned the superstitious idea that the vanquished in the judicial duel must necessarily be guilty. the one who had been killed in such a duel or combat was, says brantôme, "in no case received by the church for christian burial; and the ecclesiastics alleged as a reason for this that his defeat was a judgment from heaven, and that he had succumbed by the will of god because his quarrel was unjust." the judicial duel was fully recognised by the church of paris. louis vi. declared that the serfs and ecclesiastics of the church of paris might "testify," that is to say maintain their word by a duel. in the reign of louis the young the monks of the abbey of saint-geneviève, whose domains covered all the high ground which now overlooks the panthéon, offered to prove by duel that the inhabitants of the little village in the neighbourhood were the serfs of their abbey. in the same reign ( ) the monks of saint-germain-des-prés having demanded a duel in order to prove that Étienne de maci had wrongly imprisoned one of their serfs, the two champions fought for a long time with equal advantage; but at last, "by the help of god," says a chronicler, "the champion of the abbey took out the eye of his adversary, and obliged him to confess that he was conquered." among the most remarkable judicial duels may be mentioned one that took place between two norman knights behind the church of st. martin's-in-the-fields in presence of charles vi. and the whole court. jacques legris had been accused by the wife of jean carrouge of having entered his castle, masked, in the middle of the night, under pretence of being her husband, who was on his way from the holy land and whose return she was daily expecting. he protested his innocence, and on the demand of carrouge the parliament ordered the matter to be decided by duel. the judgment of god was unfavourable to legris, and on being vanquished he was hung up at the gallows attached to the lists. some time afterwards a malefactor, on the point of being executed for other crimes, confessed to having committed the infamous action for which legris had suffered. this cruel mistake led to the abolition of the judicial duel. all demands on the subject addressed to the parliament were from this time rejected--the judicial duel was at an end. appeals for a decision by single combat could still be made to the king, who sometimes granted what was known as the _congé de la bataille_. but simple crimes were no longer the cause of duels; and the personal conflicts that now take place turn upon the modern "point of honour." assemblies, however, were still held for the purpose of enacting that duels should not be fought without the recognition of the superior authorities and without fair play. two french officers having quarrelled on a campaign, one of whom had suffered from the other a personal affront, the case was brought before a tribunal of honour, with the highest personages of the court, the chancellor, the pope's legate, two cardinals, and a certain number of prelates as judges; when, without any appeal to the sword, it was decided that one of the antagonists should go down on his knees before the other and declare that "madly and rashly, irreverentially, badly advised and badly counselled, he had given a box on the ear or blow with the fist to the other, in the tent and presence of the duke de longueville." the court of honour might or might not be the preliminary to the _congé de la bataille_. when the latter was granted the fact was announced by the king's herald. the duel might on certain grounds be declined, and an example of this is cited, in which count william of furstenberg refused to meet a certain sieur de vassé on account of his inferior birth. victor hugo has well reproduced this spirit of aristocratic punctilio, which did not spring from personal haughtiness alone, in his drama of _marion delorme_. didier, the hero, of obscure birth, challenges a distinguished nobleman, who asks for his adversary's name. "didier," is the reply. "didier de quoi?" inquires the nobleman. "didier de rien!" answers the bearer of the homely name, who declares that he never knew his father; whereupon the aristocrat, giving him the benefit of the doubt, observes that he may possibly be of the highest lineage, and at once consents to cut throats with him. this idea of disqualification on account of inferior birth disappeared with the revolution. but it was maintained, with only the rarest exceptions, until the great outbreak of . voltaire challenged a duke who had caused him to be waylaid and beaten by hired ruffians, but with no result, except to get himself sent to the bastille. the incident of the water-carrier, in one of paul de kock's novels, challenging and fighting a gentleman by whom he has been aggrieved, would, before the revolution, have been not merely an improbable, but an impossible one. while tolerating duels up to the time of louis xiii., the french kings sometimes intervened in person to put a stop to them. charles viii. separated two gentlemen who had "come furiously to blows," and francis i. brought to an end a combat that was taking place between two gentlemen of berry, named veniers and harzai. in the sixteenth century the duel was accompanied by great ceremony. take, for example, the one fought between la chateigneraie and guychabot, better known under the name of jarnac. guychabot, a distinguished member of the court of francis i., and afterwards of henry ii., had taken an important part in the war of italy. but he is chiefly remembered by his duel with la chateigneraie, arising from the rival influences at court of the duchess of Étampes and diana of poitiers. an offensive statement about him having been made, or rather repeated, by the dauphin, he replied by charging its author, whoever he might be, with mendacity. la chateigneraie, as jarnac may or may not have known, was the originator of the calumny, for which, indeed, he accepted full responsibility. francis i., now in his old age, would not permit the adversaries to fight; and it was not until henry ii. came to the throne that the duel took place, on the plain of saint-germain, with all the pomp and ceremony of the ancient judicial duels, and in presence of the whole court. jarnac, weaker and less skilful than his enemy, who was one of the first duellists of the age, had taken lessons of an italian bravo; and he dealt la chateigneraie a violent and unexpected thrust in the leg (afterwards to be known as _le coup de jarnac_). la chateigneraie perished in the duel, and henry ii. swore on his corpse never to permit another. he endeavoured to keep his word; but his authorisation was dispensed with, and duelling became one of the fashions of the day. in the states-general of the kingdom, assembled at orleans, begged charles ix. to punish without remission all duellists; and the tiers État having formulated the same request, a royal order was published, which served as basis to the edicts on this subject published by henry iv. and louis xiv. in these documents duelling was placed in the category of capital offences; which had no effect but to increase the number of duels. among the remarkable duels of this period must be mentioned one which was fought in the island of the city, between two gentlemen, who, finding themselves pursued by the police in an approaching boat, fought with such a determination to get the affair quickly to an end, that four sabre strokes sufficed to lay both dead. to this epoch, too, belongs the duel of the seigneur de jensac, who insisted on fighting two adversaries at the same time. the duel was about to begin, when a friend of jensac's rushed on the scene, and protested against so unequal a combat. "did you never before hear of a man fighting two antagonists?" asked the seigneur. "yes, but you must be mad to place yourself in such a position deliberately and beforehand." "not at all," replied de jensac; "i wish to be spoken of in the papers." [illustration: diana of poitiers. (_from the portrait by belliard._)] in contrast with this reckless but fundamentally good-natured gentleman, who was ready to perish for a paragraph, may be placed the virtually licensed assassin, baron de vitaux, called by brantòme the "brave baron," who began his murderous career by killing at toulouse, with a surprise stroke, the young baron de soupez. he afterwards, and always with the same stroke, killed a gentleman named gonnelion; next, the baron de millau; and finally the chief favourite of henry ii., louis béranger de guast. the son of millau, who had resolved to avenge his father, killed, in a duel, this assassin who never appeared in public unless accompanied by the two brothers boucicault, known as "baron de vitaux's lions." nor must we forget bussy d'amboise, who fought on the most trivial pretexts. a gentleman named saint-phal having said something about the letter "x" on a piece of embroidery, bussy, in order to bring about a quarrel and a duel, declared that the letter was a "y." on this important point a first combat was fought, with six combatants on each side. bussy having been wounded, saint-phal retired, but only to be summoned soon afterwards to a new combat. the captain of the king's guard, sent to interdict the fight, made no impression upon bussy, who tried to pick a quarrel with him, and declared that he would appeal to the king and ask permission to meet his foe in the lists. from to duels caused more victims than the civil wars. it has been calculated that during this period nearly eight thousand gentlemen perished in single combat. henry iv. himself followed the fashion; but unable from his regal position to fight in person, he fought by procuration. in presence of the duke de guise he had shown some jealousy in regard to bassompierre, who had been much struck by mlle. d'antraigues. the duke offered to avenge the aggrieved monarch, and his proposition being accepted, a duel took place. bassompierre received a lance wound from which he with difficulty recovered. but soon afterwards henry iv. was himself obliged to issue an order against duelling, which was little more than a reproduction of the one put forth by his predecessor. he charged the constable, the marshals of france, and the governors of provinces to see that his commands were obeyed. the offenders were innumerable, but the king at the last moment mitigated in almost every case the severity of his edict. thus, in the course of nineteen years seven thousand "letters of grace" were issued. thanks to the clemency of henry iv., the number of duels fought in france increased to such a point that in the reign of louis xiii. the tragic custom seemed to have reached its height. two gentlemen, the vicomte d'allemagne and the sieur de la roque, fought, on some mere question of precedence, a duel in which, holding each other by the left hand, they exchanged poniard stabs with the right. another pair of combatants, inspired with deadly and ferocious hatred, shut themselves up together in an empty barrel, and cut each other's throats with knives. in process of time, however, a series of edicts were issued against judicial duelling. the practice received its severest blow in from richelieu, who inspired an edict regulating the penalties according to the gravity of the offences. praslin, who was the first to infringe this edict, was exiled and despoiled of his possessions. but the most remarkable infraction was that which cost the count de bouteville his head. he was a notorious bully, and had been known in this character since . he had already crossed swords with the count de pont-gibaut, the marquis de portes, and the count de thorigny, to mention no other names; and in he took upon himself, in defiance of the law, to fight the baron de la frette and the marquis de beuvron. this last duel was fatal to him. he had been foolhardy enough to draw swords with the marquis on the place royale and in broad daylight. the marquis fled to england, but bouteville found his way to the scaffold. before his execution, richelieu had said to louis xiii.: "it is a question of cutting the throat, either of these duels or of your majesty's edicts." the exemplary punishment inflicted upon bouteville did not, however, by any means exterminate duelling. even ecclesiastics at this period went through a course of training at the fencing academies. men of letters frequently laid down the pen for the sword. to know how to administer cold steel became the height of ambition with fashionable parisians. the most desperate duellist of the time was cyrano de bergerac, who would challenge on the spot anyone who looked at him, or anyone who did not look at him. the contagion of the duel spread even to the gentler sex. two ladies of the court fought at paris with pistols. the king, when he heard of it, smiled and said that his prohibition had only been aimed at men. the troubles of the fronde still further increased the number of sword-drawing swaggerers in paris. one duel which occurred during the civil feuds that disturbed the earlier years of louis xiv.'s reign, caused an extraordinary sensation. it had its origin in a letter supposed to have dropped from the pocket of the count de coligny, one of the tenants of mme. de longueville. the missive was compromising to the lady-writer, whoever she might be; and, in connection therewith, the duchess de montbazon spread certain scandalous rumours, for which mme. de longueville demanded, and obtained, an apology. but with this reparation the offended lady was not content. she urged coligny to challenge one of the favourites of montbazon, the duke of guise, to fight him. the duel took place on the place royale at three o'clock on the th of december, . guise, as he grasped the hilt of his sword, said to coligny:--"we are going to decide the ancient quarrels of our two houses, and we shall soon see the difference there is between the blood of guise and the blood of coligny." thereupon the adversaries fell to their work. coligny, in making a gigantic thrust, slipped and fell on his knee. guise hastened to put his foot on his shoulder, and said: "i do not wish to kill you--i simply treat you as you deserve for having dared to challenge a member of my house without cause." then he struck the count with the flat of his sword. coligny threw himself backwards and disengaged his weapon, whereupon the fight recommenced. guise, however, terminated it by means of a tremendous blow which he dealt his adversary on the arm. at the same moment fell both of the seconds--d'estrades and bridieux--who had run each other through. this was the last of the famous duels fought on the place royale. mme. de longueville had witnessed it, concealed behind a window of the hôtel de rohan. nine years later took place the celebrated and sanguinary duel between the duke de nemours and the duke de beaufort. they quarrelled at orleans, where nemours had cried out, in presence of beaufort, "the prince is being deceived, and i know by whom!" "name him," said beaufort. "you, yourself!" answered nemours. beaufort's reply was a box on the ear, instantly returned by nemours; and they would at once have crossed swords had not mlle. de montpensier been present. on the day fixed for the duel, in the faubourg saint-antoine, the two brothers-in-law seemed to have become reconciled. but some question of precedence revived the bad feeling between them. "m. de beaufort," relates the duchess de montpensier, "did all he could to avoid the meeting. he set forth, among other reasons, that he had a number of gentlemen with him ready to take part in the duel, while his antagonist had only a few. monsieur de nemours returned to his house, where he found awaiting him just as many gentlemen as were required. he went back to m. de beaufort, and they fought in the horse market, at the back of the hôtel de vendôme. m. de nemours had with him villiers, the chevalier de la chaise, campan, and luzerche. m. de beaufort had the count de bury, de ris, brillet, and héricourt. the count de bury was severely wounded. de ris and héricourt died in the course of the day. none of the others were wounded, except very slightly. m. de nemours had brought with him swords and pistols. the latter had been loaded at his house. m. de beaufort said to his adversary: 'brother, what a shame! let us forget and be friends.' m. de nemours cried out to him: 'no, scoundrel! you must kill me or i will kill you.' he fired his pistol, which missed, and rushed upon m. de beaufort, sword in hand, so that the latter was obliged to defend himself. he fired, and shot nemours dead with three balls that were in the pistol." under louis xiv. no less than twelve edicts were issued against duelling. one of the last, published in , promised lawful satisfaction for outraged honour. to give the lie, to strike with the hand or with a stick, were offences punishable with imprisonment. anyone who had received a box on the ears was entitled to return it. but the royal commands remained without effect. among the great duellists of louis xiv.'s reign must be mentioned the duke de richelieu, who did as much to promote duelling as the famous cardinal of the same name had done in the previous reign to prevent it. he not only fought duels himself, but was the cause of duels on the part of others; and of ladies above all. in his various encounters he severely wounded the duke de bourbon, ran prince de lixen through the body, and killed baron pontereider. the two ladies who fought at his instigation were mme. de nesle and mme. de polignac. "take the first shot," said the last-named antagonist. mme. de nesle fired and missed. "anger makes the hand tremble," observed mme. de polignac, with a malicious smile. taking aim in her turn, she cut off the tip of her adversary's ear; whereupon poor mme. de nesle fell to the ground as if mortally wounded. two years before the outbreak of the revolution a sub-lieutenant of the fourth hussars was chosen by his comrades to avenge an insult offered to the regiment by a fencing-master. the adversaries had just crossed swords when the officer found himself pulled violently back by someone who had got hold of his pigtail. it was the colonel of his regiment, who had come to stop the duel and to place his subaltern under arrest. this young officer was michel ney, afterwards napoleon's famous marshal. on being liberated from prison, ney sought out the fencing-master, challenged him, and gave him a wound which injured him for life. hearing, some years later, that the poor man had fallen into the greatest distress, ney, at that time a general, settled a pension upon him. after the republic duels were fought as much as ever; but the pistol had now replaced the sword. talma, the celebrated actor, fought a pistol duel with an actor named naudet, in which neither was injured; and about the same time shots were exchanged between two members of the national assembly, barnave and cazalès. barnave missed cazalès, and cazales having twice missed barnave, apologised for his want of skill and for keeping his adversary waiting so long. "i am only here for your satisfaction," said barnave. "i should be very sorry to kill you," answered cazales while the pistols were being reloaded, "but you caused us a great deal of trouble. all i desire is to keep you away from the assembly for a little time." "i am more generous," replied barnave. "i desire scarcely to touch you, for you are the only orator on your side, whilst on mine my loss would in no way be felt." barnave's second shot struck cazalès on the forehead, but the ball had expended its force on the point of his cocked hat. charles lameth, mirabeau, and camille desmoulins likewise fought duels. camille desmoulins had the courage, however, to refuse to settle by arms quarrels of a political kind. "i should have," he said on one occasion, "to pass my life in the bois de boulogne if i were obliged to give satisfaction to all who took offence at the frankness of my speech. let them call me a coward if they like. i fancy the time is not far off when opportunities for dying more gloriously and more usefully will present themselves." napoleon did his utmost to stop duelling, but with scarcely more success than his predecessors on the throne. under the restoration duels were constantly being fought between the officers of the king's army and napoleonic officers on half-pay. benjamin constant, the famous writer and politician, fought a duel in which, as he was too weak to stand, both antagonists were accommodated with armchairs. this comfortable arrangement was not attended by fatal results. m. thiers fought a remarkable duel with the father of the young lady to whom he was engaged to be married. being without means, he wished to postpone the marriage from year to year, till at last the indignant parent insisted on satisfaction. m. thiers, with the historian mignet as one of his seconds, received the old gentleman's bullet between his legs without returning the shot. writers at this period seem to have frequently found themselves compelled to throw down the pen and snatch up the sword or the pistol. general gourgaud challenged the author of "the history of the russian campaign," and slightly wounded him in the duel which ensued. a young cavalry officer, beaupoil de sainte-aulaire by name, having published a political pamphlet under the title of "funeral oration of the duke de feltre," was immediately called out by the duke's son. hardly scratched in the encounter, he was challenged a second time by a cousin of the deceased, who killed him with a sword-thrust in the breast. the chamber of deputies in , and the chamber of peers in the year following, debated the question of definitive legislation on the subject of duelling; but their deliberations came to nothing. shortly afterwards literature contributed another victim to the insatiable moloch of "honour," in the person of a highly talented poet named dovalle. he had attacked, in some journal, a theatrical director; and the offensive article cost him his life. at the time when the duchess de berry was under arrest the editor of the legitimist journal, the _revenant_, called at the office of the _tribune_ to demand satisfaction for an article directed against the duchess. the immediate result was a second article in the _tribune_ defying the advocates of the fair prisoner; and so strong a spirit of partisanship was now excited on either side that students from the schools rushed in crowds to enroll their names at the offices of the antagonistic journals. two small armies having thus been raised, a letter, signed by godefroi cavaignac, armand, marrast, and garderin, was addressed to the _revenant_ in these terms: "we send you a first list of twelve persons. we demand, not twelve simultaneous duels, but twelve successive duels--time and place as may be conveniently arranged. no excuses, no pretexts, no cowardly evasion; this would avail you nothing, and of this you would have to bear the consequences. henceforth, between your party and ours, there is a drawn sword. there will be no truce, except when one yields to the other." the legitimist party did not choose to accept the challenge in so generalised a form. it entrusted its cause to the hands of m. roux-laborie, who fought a duel with armand carrel, the appointed champion of the opposite side. carrel received an almost fatal wound in the stomach; nor was this the last combat which the arrest of the duchess de berry occasioned. tragedy and comedy were often intermingled in the duelling of the period. there was one well-known swaggerer, an ex-body-guard named choquart, who was so enormously vain of the reputation he had gained for drawing his sword that, when once a pedestrian had, accidentally, with his elbow pulled it partly out of the sheath as the two men were passing each other in the street, choquart pulled it out altogether and exclaimed:--"the wine is drawn, and now you must drink it!" "many thanks," was the cool reply; "but i never take anything between meals." [illustration: marshal ney.] a list of the duels of this epoch would be too formidable; though mention can scarcely be omitted of the one fought between armand carrel and Émile de girardin, in which the fatal wound received by carrel was a serious blow to the democratic cause of which he was so great a champion. it is certain that no one afterwards regretted his death so keenly as the man whose bullet had pierced him; and when, on the second of may, , a concourse of workmen, national guards, and students from the polytechnic school reassembled at carrel's grave in the cemetery of saint-mandé to pay homage to his memory, it was girardin himself who made the most pathetic speech over the sleeping democrat. in this speech he expressed a hope that the provisional government would crown the splendid work which carrel had done by abolishing the duel--that appeal to arms to which he so keenly regretted ever having had recourse. since then there have been repeated agitations in favour of this abolition, but without result. duels in france, though seldom serious nowadays, are still fought frequently and with comparative impunity. [illustration: the race-course, longchamps.] the leading trait in the french national character is doubtless gaiety. we have seen how, after the first sentiment of horror excited by the guillotine had subsided, ladies in paris wore miniature guillotines as ear-rings; and we might have mentioned the case of a famous french epicure who used a small guillotine for cutting up his dinner. in like manner duels have been made the subject of endless pleasantries in france, and a good-sized volume could be made up of duelling anecdotes. a few specimens, however, must suffice us here. m. de langerie and m. de montendre, both exceedingly ugly, were drawn up against each other in single combat. suddenly de langerie exclaimed: "i cannot fight you. you really must excuse me. i have an invincible reason." "and what is it, pray?" inquired the foe. "why, this: if i fight, i shall, to all appearances, kill you, and remain the ugliest man in the kingdom." de montendre yielded. a ballad-writer, known by numerous successes, had a quarrel. an intimate friend interposed his authority, ascertained the exact nature of the difference, and promised to settle it. a few moments afterwards he returned. "the affair," he said "is arranged. i had only to speak and we were instantly agreed." "that is good," replied the writer of ballads, visibly relieved. "yes," said the amiable intercessor, grasping his friend by the hand; "it is arranged. you fight to-morrow morning at five." a fastidious duellist, who was ready to fight about any trifle, "to find a quarrel in a straw," as hamlet expresses it, had taken umbrage at something said by an entirely inoffensive man. he sent his seconds to wait upon this person and to say that he would fight him at a distance of twenty-five paces. "i agree," replied the recipient of the challenge; "but since you have regulated the distance, the choice of arms must rest with me--i name the sword." romieu, renowned for his spirit of pleasantry, received one day, from a barren scribbler who had been educated at the École de droit, the manuscript of a play accompanied by the following letter: "sir,--i herewith submit a piece to which i beg you to give your very careful attention. i accept beforehand any alterations which you may think fit to make in it, with this exception--that i am most punctilious about the philosophical reflections remaining untouched." a few days afterwards the author received back his manuscript with this reply: "sir,--i have read your work with the greatest attention. i leave to you the choice of arms." fortunately it was ink alone, and not blood, which was spilt in the affair. at the time when sainte-beuve was contributing to the _globe_ he quarrelled with a member of the staff of that journal. a duel was arranged; when the combatants arrived on the ground it was raining in torrents; sainte-beuve had come provided with an umbrella and with flint pistols of the sixteenth century. at the moment when the adversaries were to pull their triggers sainte-beuve was still carefully shielding himself from the elements with his umbrella. the seconds protested, but sainte-beuve refused to get wet. "i don't mind being killed," he exclaimed; "but i decline to catch cold." the duel then proceeded, sainte-beuve levelling his pistol with one hand and holding up his umbrella with the other. four shots were exchanged, but without injury on either side. cyrano de bergerac, of whom mention has already been made, was the most ferocious duellist of his time. his nose, of inordinate length, had received such a number of dents that it was quite a curiosity. he was very touchy on this subject, and would allow no one to look at him pointedly. more than ten men expiated with their lives some satirical glance at him, or some ill-sounding word uttered in his presence. a certain bravo challenged an apothecary, by whom he conceived himself insulted. the duel was arranged, and the adversaries duly met, each accompanied by two seconds. one of the seconds of the aggrieved man held out a pair of swords, and the other a brace of pistols. "sir," cried the bravo, "choose weapons. pistol and sword are the same thing to me." "that is all very well," replied the apothecary, "but i do not see why you should impose your arms upon me; i think i have as much right, and more, to impose mine on you." "good. what are your arms?" was the reply. the apothecary took a little box from his pocket, opened it, and presented it to his adversary. "there are two pills," he said: "one is poisoned and the other harmless. choose!" the affair ended in laughter. the marquis de rivarolles, who had just lost one of his legs in battle, uttered certain words offensive to madillan, schomberg's aide-de-camp. he was challenged. the marquis appointed his surgeon to act as second. the surgeon promptly waited upon madillan, but introduced himself without mentioning either his profession or the reply he was authorised to give. he simply displayed his case of surgical instruments. madillan, mystified, inquired whether the visitor was the representative of de rivarolles. "i am," he said. "m. de rivarolles is quite ready to fight you, according to your desire; but, convinced that a man as brave and generous as yourself would not like to fight at a disproportionate advantage, he has ordered me to take one of your legs off beforehand, so that the chances between you will be equal." madillan was enraged at this extraordinary proposition; but the duel was, in the end, prevented by marshal de schomberg, who succeeded in reconciling the adversaries. voltaire had recourse to a custom which he had himself energetically condemned. dining one day at the duke de sully's, he happened, in the course of a discussion, to raise his voice a little. "who is that young man contradicting me so loudly?" asked the chevalier de rohan-chabot. "he is a man," replied voltaire, "who does not boast a great name, but who honours the name he bears." the chevalier did not reply, but a few days afterwards he caused voltaire to be waylaid and beaten by half a dozen ruffians. after having vainly tried to persuade the duke de sully to espouse his cause, voltaire determined to trust solely to his own personal courage. he took fencing-lessons, and as soon as he was able to handle a sword, waited upon the chevalier in his box at the théâtre français. "sir," he said, "unless some business affair has caused you to forget the insult which i suffered at your hands, i hope you will afford me satisfaction." this was one of those arrows, barbed with irony, which voltaire knew so well how to throw. "some business affair" was a phrase which the chevalier could not decently bear. he accepted the challenge, but without intending to fight. instead of crossing swords with the young poet he caused him to be thrown into the bastille for having presumed to call out so great a personage. that most amiable of men, la fontaine, once persuaded himself, or rather allowed himself to be persuaded, that he ought to be jealous of his wife. the circumstances were these. he was on terms of close friendship with an old captain of dragoons, retired from service, named poignant; a gentleman distinguished by candour and good nature. so much time as poignant did not spend at the tavern he passed at the house of la fontaine, and often in the society of his wife when the poet happened not to be at home. one day someone asked la fontaine how it was that he permitted poignant to visit him every day. "why should he not? he is my best friend," was the reply. "that is scarcely what the public say. they maintain that he only goes to see mme. la fontaine." "the public are wrong. but what ought i to do in the matter?" "you must demand satisfaction, sword in hand, of the man who has dishonoured you." "very well," said the fabulist, "satisfaction i will demand." on the morrow, at four in the morning, he called upon poignant, whom he found in bed. "get up," he said, "and let us go out together." his friend asked why he wanted him, and what urgent affair had brought la fontaine out of bed at such an hour. "i will tell you," was the answer, "after we have gone hence." poignant, quite mystified, arose, dressed, and then inquired to what place the poet was taking him. "you will soon see," replied la fontaine, who, when they had both quitted the house and reached a sufficiently retired spot, said with solemnity, "my friend, we must fight." poignant, more puzzled than ever, asked in what way he had offended. "besides," he added, "i am a soldier, and you scarcely know how to hold a sword." "no matter," replied la fontaine; "the public wishes me to fight you." poignant, after protesting for a long time in vain, at length drew his sword from complaisance, and easily disarmed la fontaine. then he inquired the meaning of the whole affair. "the public declare," said la fontaine, "that you come every day to my house to see, not me, but my wife." "my dear friend," returned poignant, "i should never have suspected you of such a misgiving, and i promise henceforth never to set foot across your threshold." "on the contrary," said la fontaine, shaking the captain by the hand, "i have done what the public wanted, and i now wish you to continue your visits to my house with more regularity than ever." let us conclude with an anecdote concerning another duel which the "public" would have liked to see fought, but which never came to pass, because the aggrieved party had a great weakness for keeping lead and steel out of his body. a certain marquis had been thrashed with a walking-stick, but showed no disposition to take vengeance on his castigator. "why doesn't he appeal to arms?" people inquired--to which the witty sophie arnould replied: "because he has too much good sense to take any notice of what goes on behind his back." chapter xxxiii. the students of paris. paris students--their character--in the middle ages--at the revolution--under the directory--in --in --lallemand--in the revolution of . if art and fashion, industry and commerce, are chiefly represented on the right bank of the seine, science and the schools have their headquarters on the left. the "latin country" or "pays latin" occupies a considerable portion of the territory known as the rive gauche, and gives to it a distinctive character. latin, since the revolution, has been no more the language of instruction in france that it is now in other countries, though in hungary and austrian poland it was the language of the law-courts even until the revolutionary year of . the students of paris have so interesting a history that the task of writing it in voluminous fashion was undertaken long ago by a very able writer, antonio watripon, whom death unfortunately prevented from completing his "histoire politiques des Écoles et des Étudiants." already in the reign of charlemagne schools existed and learning flourished in the capital. at the commencement of the twelfth century abailard grouped around him a large number of pupils; and not long after his time paris students had so multiplied that in some quarters they outnumbered the townspeople, and lodging was scarcely procurable. the schools were thrown open to the whole world, and foreigners coming to paris to study were granted the same privileges as native scholars. the duke leopold of austria received his education there, and charles of luxemburg, king of bohemia, and afterwards emperor of germany, took the paris school, in which he had studied, as model for the one he afterwards founded at prague. before very long the students of paris, spoilt by the special privileges which they enjoyed, gave rein to every whim and fancy which occurred to them. in the thirteenth century they nicknamed the townspeople, whom they despised for their ignorance, "cornificiens"; and the latter, jealous of the advantages conferred on the students, took their revenge by calling them "abraham's oxen," and even "balaam's asses." a writer of this period gives the students in general a most profligate character. their reading was a farce. "they preferred to contemplate the beauties of young ladies rather than those of cicero." on the other hand the abbé leboeuf cites a letter in which, as a body, they are spoken of with the highest esteem. the truth, doubtless, is that then, as now, some students were serious, and others abandoned to idleness and folly. as early as the thirteenth century student-riots became so frequent in paris that, the church in this matter supporting the state, all scholars were forbidden to carry arms under pain of excommunication. during the carnival of a band of students, after having eaten and drunk at a tavern in the suburb of saint-marcel, then outside the walls, provoked a quarrel at the moment of paying, and beat the tavern-keeper and his wife. the neighbours put the aggressors to flight. next day the students returned in great force, broke into the house, smashed up the furniture, set the wine running, and wounded several persons. the provost of paris hastened to the scene with his archers, and meeting a group of peaceable students who were innocent of the affair, swooped down upon them. two were killed. the masters demanded reparation, but to no purpose. then the schools were suspended, and paris was deserted both by professors and students, who went to rheims, toulouse, montpelier, already celebrated for its faculty of medicine, orleans, and other towns, where the foundations of other universities were laid. the paris university remained closed for two years. after the reopening of the schools new subjects of quarrel between the students and the townspeople, and between the students and the authorities, constantly arose. the right of fishing in one of the arms of the seine was claimed by the students, or at least exercised by them until fines were imposed, which in most cases had to be recovered by legal process. the foreign students, moreover, who from the earliest times until now have always been admitted to the paris schools on the most favourable terms, had disputes of their own; seldom with the other members of the university, but very often with the citizens and the officials. as we leave the middle ages we find that the paris students, whilst losing a good deal of their original character, preserve all their turbulence and want of discipline. at the fair of saint-germains in they abandoned themselves to all kinds of debauchery, and fought in companies with pages, lackeys, and soldiers of the guard. one lackey cut off a student's ears and put them in his pocket; after which the students pounced upon every footman or groom they came across, killing some and wounding others. the students of louis xiii.'s reign are described as "more debauched than ever"; carrying arms, pillaging, killing, making love, and in order to support their excesses, robbing their relatives or even their professors. [illustration: camille desmoulins.] it was doubtless the schools, however, which chiefly contributed to make paris the powerful and active agent of civilisation which that capital so early became. they formed a theatre of discussion for a vast laboratory of ideas. many a student was beheaded, hanged, or burned in a wooden cage on accusations of heresy; for liberty of conscience, that is to say. "we should greatly deceive ourselves," says antonio watripon, "if we judged the students of other days by their external aspect--drunken challengers, beaters of tavern-keepers, brawlers in the pré aux clercs, ravishers of tradesmen's wives. it is always the same picture on the surface; but underneath there is something which is not at first perceived, and which is marching ever forward--thought! a poor student is persecuted by the parliament. the rector is called to the bar and commanded to imprison the suspected heretic, who, however, has the good fortune to find refuge in saintonge. soon the whole world will know that his name is calvin. the protestant books are burnt and the printers cast into the dungeons of the bishopric. these persecutions serve only to swell the ranks of the reformers." the reputation of the paris schools spread far and wide, and their civilising influence created institutions of learning in foreign lands. from the ranks of the paris students in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries stepped forth artists and writers who have remained the glory of france. a great number of students were initiated into freemasonry and the other secret fraternities which preceded the revolution. they saluted the era of political emancipation with enthusiasm. the first actor in the great drama, camille desmoulins, had sat on the benches of the École de droit. most of the orators or politicians of the great assemblies were old students. in the students of law and medicine in the departments fraternised with those of paris, so as to march hand-in-hand in the exploration of liberty and truth. many scholars hastened to the menaced frontiers. on the th thermidor a medical student named soubervielle rallied around him the patriots of the schools, a large number of whom prepared, in insurrection, to fly to the assistance of those sacred principles which threatened to perish with the last of the montaguards. [illustration: the polytechnic school.] under the directory the generous impulses of a section of the studious youth were lost in the orgies of libertinism. the imperial despotism weighed upon the students as upon the rest of the citizens. nevertheless the republican sentiment was by no means extinguished within them, nor did it fail to find expression amid those events which were the development of the vast revolutionary tradition. the defence of paris against the foreign invasion, in , offered the students of the various schools, with those of the polytechnic as leaders, an opportunity of proving their patriotism. in presence of the peril into which the insatiable ambition of napoleon had thrown the nation, the polytechnic students, with those of law and medicine, made up twelve batteries of artillery for the national guard. the pupils of the veterinary school of alfort particularly distinguished themselves by their splendid defence of charenton. these, however, were but isolated examples. "history," writes louis blanc, "which soars high above the lies of party, will tell us that in paris did not care to protect itself; that the national guard, with the exception of a few true men, failed to do their duty; that the townspeople, with the exception of a small number of valorous students and of devoted citizens, fled before the invasion." in the students, called anew to the defence of the capital, were reconstituted into companies of artillery, and served beneath the walls of paris. at political junctures the students of paris have seldom failed to assert themselves. the opposition of the younger generation to the restoration had its origin in the polytechnic school, which in refused to conform to certain religious observances. fifteen pupils were expelled on the th of april, and next day the school was dissolved by the king. in , when the cry of "liberty" was resounding through more than one european country, the paris schools responded to the agitation. the lectures delivered by nicholas bavoux, professor of criminal law, caused between the liberal students and certain royalist auditors discussions which, but for the intervention of the dean and of armed force, would have degenerated into sanguinary conflicts. bavoux's professorship was suspended and the school of law closed. prosecuted in a criminal court, bavoux was acquitted by the jury and found himself the hero of the hour. at grenoble, on th may, , the law students profited by the arrival of the duke of angoulême to make a public manifestation, in which they endeavoured to drown the cry of "vive le roi!" with that of "vive la charte!" every day large groups of students stationed themselves outside the palais-bourbon to cheer the deputies of the opposition, defenders of electoral liberty. driven back from the quai d'orsay by the gendarmerie, they reassembled on the place louis xv., still shouting for the charter. again forcibly displaced, they repaired in a mass to the faubourg saint-antoine, where they fraternised with the working men. thirty-five were arrested. on saturday, the third of june, new gatherings took place at the approaches to the chamber in which the deputies sat. a descent was made upon them by the police. the students, who wore as their sign of recognition a white cravat as well as a buckle in front of their hats, rescued those of their friends who were taken prisoners. on the place du carrousel they snatched from the hands of the body-guards by whom he had been seized one of their comrades named lallemand. this young man, a law student of three-and-twenty, was at the selfsame instant struck by a bullet and killed. the death of lallemand fanned the flame of rebellion. his corpse was transported to the church of bonne-nouvelle, guarded by the scholars themselves. next day it was borne to père-lachaise by the two schools of medicine and law. within the cemetery accents of vengeance and of liberty could be heard. the friends of the victim determined to raise a monument to his honour, and the subscription-lists which for this purpose were instantly opened by the schools, not only of paris but of the provinces, showed that enough money could have been procured to erect to lallemand a statue nearly as big as the colossus of rhodes. these incidents produced a burning discussion in the chamber, where the schools found at least one eloquent champion in the person of m. demarcay. "these youths," he said, "who, by their studies, their occupations, their emulation, would seem to belong to a ripe age of life, fill our schools and surrender themselves to the ardour of work and science. they have fire, you say, in their nature; they love liberty: and at what age would you wish men to love liberty and defend it with courage? is it not the same fire and courage which you demand when you summon such youths to defend the country? cease, then, to impute to them those disorders of which they have been the victim." foy and benjamin constant spoke in the same strain. but the commission of public instruction passed a measure which excluded from the schools thirteen students of law and medicine; and one of these, robert lailavoix, suffered an imprisonment of two months. the indignation thus excited amongst the scholars of paris found an echo in the provinces. not long afterwards some six hundred students were secretly formed into a military corps styled the free company of the schools. for two months they were instructed in the use of arms. the students, however, were republican, whilst their leaders were bonapartist; and the latter, seized at the last moment with a fit of discretion, refused to act. otherwise the fiery youths who looked to them for guidance, and who had numerous sympathisers in the military, would have carried out their programme to the letter. the first anniversary of the death of lallemand reunited the paris students into an enthusiastic federation. the funeral service having been forbidden, they affected to fix their rendezvous at the buttes chaumont; where at the price of their blood they had defended the capital against invasion seven years before. forming themselves into a long file, they silently descended towards the cemetery of père-lachaise. they found the gates shut. then a remarkable scene occurred. a certain student, acting as orator, was hoisted by his comrades on to one of the highest walls in the cemetery, and spoke from this elevation as from an improvised tribunal. he invoked the shade of lallemand, and called upon him to witness both the odious persecution which pursued his memory and the solemn oath which everyone took, in presence of his tomb, to avenge him or die as he had died. an electric thrill ran through the crowd; all fell on their knees in the dusty road, and bent their heads while the orator, turning towards the cemetery, bade lallemand a last adieu. the column returned to paris and defiled, bareheaded, along the rue des petits-carreaux, past the house of lallemand. the victim's father appeared at one of the windows, with his hand pressed to his heart, to show how deeply he was affected by this public protestation. constantly engaged in political agitation, the students of paris bore a formidable part in the revolution of . on the th of july the famous ordonnances were issued. the same day secret meetings were held by the students, at which they resolved to take up arms. in the evening, at the chaumière ball, the quadrilles were stopped in virtue of the new decrees. a thrill of indignation ran through the assembly. the orchestra played the marseillaise, and all present sang it in chorus. hands were grasped, and vows uttered to conquer or die for liberty. the day afterwards intrepid students denounced the ordonnances in the public streets and called the citizens to arms. the pupils of the polytechnic school passed the night in improvising implements of war, and with vanneau, a bold spirit, at their head, scaled the walls and hurried to the barricades, where the students of the capital were mingled with the people. already several had fallen dead. one student of medicine, named papu, seeing his column, composed of youths and working men, disperse before a murderous musketry fire, sprang forward and cried--"i will show you how to die!" he was almost shattered to pieces, though he managed before expiring to gasp an exhortation to his comrades to continue the struggle. rennes, his native town, honoured him with a monument. at the attack on the hôtel de ville another medical student, labarbe, had both his legs broken, dying two days afterwards from the effects of the amputation, which he had undergone with a pipe in his mouth. many a deed of heroism was done at this juncture by the paris students, fighting like the populace for a republic, which they did not obtain, and for which a disappointing compromise was furnished in the person of louis philippe. the political history, however, of the paris students is too formidable to trace in anything like detail. in modern times these once ardent youths have shown themselves comparatively indifferent to politics, and have sought diversion from their studies rather in the cigar than in the sword or musket. the paris student's general history, like that of everyone and everything french, consists largely of anecdotes. one of the best is a legend of a medical student who was not accustomed to pay his landlady. tired at length of waiting for her money, she paid him a visit at his rooms. the student, forewarned, received her with perfect self-composure. "sir," she exclaimed without circumlocution, as she crossed his threshold, "pay me or go." "i prefer to go," was the reply. "very well then; go at once." "precisely, madame; and i shall go all the faster if you will consent to assist me." thereupon he went to his chest of drawers, and from the top drawer took out a large skeleton. "would you," he said, "be kind enough to place this at the bottom of my portmanteau?" "what is it?" cried the lady, retreating a few paces. "what is it? why, it is my first landlady. she had the indiscretion to demand three quarters' rent which i owed her, and then--mind you don't break it. it is no. in my collection." "sir!" exclaimed the lady, turning pale. the student, without replying, opened another drawer, and extracted a second skeleton. "this," he said quietly, "is my landlady of the rue de l'École-de-médecine, a most admirable woman, who, in like manner, had applied to me for two quarters' rent. place it carefully on the other--it is no. . this," continued the student, "is no. , an excellent woman, whom i had ceased to pay. let us now pass on to no. ." the landlady fled, and her tenant was never thenceforth inconvenienced with applications for rent. [illustration: notre dame, from the pont saint-louis.] chapter xxxiv. the rag-picker of paris. the chiffonnier, or rag-picker--his methods and hour of work--his character--a diogenes--the _chiffonnier de paris_. perhaps the most distinct type of character in paris is the chiffonnier. every evening, towards eight o'clock in the summer, and somewhat earlier in the winter, the streets of the capital are scoured by a class of individuals of both sexes, clad in sordid garments, who carry on their back a wicker basket, in their left hand a lantern, and in their right a stick with an iron hook at the end. a provincial or a foreigner might ask with curiosity what part these persons, so strangely armed, play in the social system; but parisians, to whom they have long been familiar, and to whom they are indeed historical, know them as the chiffonniers or rag-pickers. an observer, if he follows one of these wretched adventurers, will see him stop at every dust-heap lying along the thoroughfares, previously to their being cleared away by the city scavengers. he rummages in these heaps, turning their contents over and over, and with the aid of his stick picks up and thrusts into his basket whatever objects will find a sale in his peculiar market. not content with collecting those rags or chiffons from which he seems to have derived his name, he gathers up old papers, corks, bones, nails, broken glass, human hair, and even cats and dogs, which, contrary to the regulations, have been flung dead into the streets. some of the more enterprising of these explorers will, in defiance of the law, strip the walls or hoardings of their placards. occasionally it happens that the rag-picker finds objects of value, silver spoons, jewels, or even bank-notes, which have accidentally got swept into the rubbish. in these cases he is obliged, under the severest penalties, to surrender the treasure-trove to the nearest commissary of police. the old papers and rags are employed in the manufacture of paper and cardboard; the glass is melted again; the bones are turned into animal black; the nails are thrown in with old iron; the cats and dogs are stripped of their skins, and the hair reappears--according to a vivacious, and, let us hope, imaginative writer--upon the heads of the fashionable, in waving tresses or other elegant forms of coiffure. but this human ferret, who may be seen every night at work in the corners of the paris streets, is only the emissary of a more exalted chiffonnier: the lord of the iron crook, who does not quit his palace, but simply purchases the nightly harvests, which he afterwards "tests," sorts, and classifies, so as to sell again to the various trades which may have a use for such merchandise. everything picked up serves some commercial purpose; each of those vile objects unearthed from the dust-heaps is a chrysalis to which industrial science will give an elegant form and transparent wings. the prices paid by manufacturers of paper and cardboard, who are the chief buyers of rag-pickers' produce, vary from something under a sou per pound for dirty old rags and papers, to five sous for rags of the very best description. the rag-picker does not exercise too nice a faculty of discrimination whilst filling his basket. the sifting is the business of the "tester," a special functionary employed to classify the harvest. he evolves order from the chaos of disgusting rubbish which the opulent rag merchant will presently convert into odourless gold. the professional "testers" enjoy but a short career. the scents exhaled by the accumulated abominations which they handle are so many virulent poisons. it is said that even the lamps go out in the horrible dens where they toil. the chiffonnier who scours the streets is always a miserable object; the master chiffonnier who buys the contents of his basket is often a millionaire, and splashes with his carriage wheels as he returns from the theatre those wretches who next day will go and sell to him what the city has thrown into the gutter. [illustration: a rag-picker] upon the rag-pickers of paris the law, as might be imagined, keeps an eye; and sundry ordinances regulating their profession have at different periods been issued. the oldest of these forbade them to wander in the paris streets except by daylight, so that they might not be suspected of participation in night robberies and brawls. in the present day the chiffonnier is required, whilst exercising his profession, to wear an official docket, duly numbered, and attached conspicuously to his indispensable basket. the municipal law prohibits him from walking the streets between midnight and five in the morning. as the reaping of the gutter harvest begins at p.m., and the scavengers do not clear the rubbish away till between and a.m., those rag-pickers who have been carried by their explorations too far from home are obliged to pass the interdicted hours in such filthy hovels as are left open for them. the chiffonniers of paris can boast a history. they have played a part in their time, and once they were even invested with civil functions, though these functions were of a sad nature. in m. delavan commissioned them to kill in the streets all dogs they could find attached to bakers' and greengrocers' carts; and they executed the order with downright ferocity. in , when the cholera invaded paris, they figured amongst the licensed murderers who massacred those luckless persons whom ignorance and superstition had accused of poisoning the fountains. at the same period they smashed a number of newly-invented dust-carts, intended to clear the streets instantly of rubbish, so that they could only explore it at the depôt where it was shot. the rag-pickers won the day. the authorities yielded before their violence and projected the relegated reforms into the future. no one would expect to find among the paris chiffonniers a high moral standard; their work can scarcely have other than a degrading influence upon them. their numbers are recruited as a rule from the most infamous regions of the capital, and from a social stratum only just above that of the vilest criminality. it has often been said that counts and marquises have sunk, by means of wine, cards, and so forth, into the ranks of the chiffonniers, even as a certain fraction of the english aristocracy are popularly supposed, after driving recklessly through life four-in hand, to end their career on the perch of a hansom cab. in london, it is true, such things have happened, and men of title have been known to adopt even less heroic methods of livelihood than that of driving a hackney vehicle for hire; they have--there is at least one contemporary instance--ground barrel-organs. but these are the very rarest exceptions; and in paris, although it is not theoretically impossible for an aristocrat to find himself reduced to the basket and crook of the rag-picker, such a case would be an exception infinitely rarer still. so disgusting an occupation would be absolutely the last to which a ruined gentleman would resort. the chiffonnier, however, despised as he is, figures a good deal in literature. a moving drama from the pen of m. felix pyat, and a vaudeville by mm. frédéric de courcy, sauvage, and bayard, have reproduced on the stage his manners and customs. one chiffonnier named liard passed for a philosopher, and has been treated as such by more than one writer, and by at least one distinguished artist. he had descended from a higher station in life, and had suffered misfortunes. he would come out with latin sentences on occasion. scorning the wicker basket, he carried a simple wallet on his shoulder. having collected his scraps from the gutter, he would pensively study them and draw philosophical reflections therefrom. the chiffonniers, too, sketched by gavarni are not mindless tramps but profound reasoners. let us glance at the character of the paris rag-picker as represented by a french writer of keen observation. "this chiffonnier," he says "carries in him the stuff of a diogenes. like the latter he is content in his nomadic life, in his endless peregrinations, in his ragged independence. he regards with infinite contempt the slaves who are shut up from morning till night in a workshop, or behind a counter. let others, mere living machines, measure out their time by the hands of the clock, he, the philosophical rag-picker, works when he likes, rests when he likes, without recollections of yesterday or thoughts of the morrow. if the north wind is icy, he warms himself with a few glasses of camphor, or a cup of _petit noir_; if the heat inconveniences him, he throws off part of his rags, lies down beneath the shadow of his basket, and goes to sleep. if he is hungry, he hastens to earn a sou or two, and then feasts like a lucullus on bread and italian cheese. if he is ill, that matters nothing to him. 'the hospital,' he says, 'was not built for dogs.' diogenes threw away his basin; the chiffonnier has no less a disdain for the goods of this world. it was a drunken chiffonnier, uncoifed by his own lurchings, who addressed to his battered felt hat, lying on the ground, this apostrophe full of logic: 'if i pick you up, i fall; if i fall, you will not help me up again. i shall leave you!' subjected to all kinds of privations, the chiffonnier is proud because he feels himself free. he treats with haughtiness even the rag merchant to whom he brings the sheaves which he has gathered, and from whom he occasionally receives slight advances. 'if you don't want to buy of me, well and good; i shall go elsewhere,' he says, making a gesture as if to depart. through the multitudinous holes in his coat his pride is visible. he will say to the great of the earth: 'get out of my daylight.'" the _chiffonnier de paris_, felix pyat's drama, first produced at the porte-saint-martin théâtre in , is admirable not only for its story and its dramatic power, but also for the fidelity with which it reproduces the life of the rag-picker. let us glance at this piece, in which frederick lemaître, as the chiffonnier, achieved so great a triumph. in the prologue are represented two chiffonniers, who happen to meet on the quai austerlitz, lantern in hand, for it is evening. these men have begun life very differently. one has assumed the crook and basket after having recklessly squandered his patrimony. he has known the most sybaritic luxury, and now, in the position to which he has sunk, feels a disgust for life and wishes to have done with it. the other has never known anything but rags and tatters. just as the former is going to leap into the dark waves of the seine, which splash at his feet, his comrade, though drunk and scarcely able to stand, suspends his hiccoughs and rushing towards him prevents the accomplishment of the fatal purpose. then he reasons with the would-be suicide, and his bacchanalian eloquence prevails with the wretch, who, in a paroxysm of despair, cries: "no, i will not kill myself--but i will kill!" at that moment a bank cashier, laden with money, passes by. the excited chiffonnier springs forward, seizes him by the throat, assassinates him, robs him, and flies. father john, as the drunkard is called, has tried to prevent the tragedy, but the murderer, with a blow from his fist, has sent him rolling in the mud. when he gets up, sobered by the horrors of the moment, he hears the sound of an approaching patrol, and escapes in order to avoid unjust suspicion. and now the curtain rises. twenty years meanwhile have elapsed. father john, a virtuous and pensive rag-picker, has not moistened his lips with wine since that fatal night, of which the memory pursues him like a nightmare. in expiation for the drunken fit which prevented his staying the murderer's hand, he has set himself the task of watching over the daughter of the victim, marie didier, left alone and penniless in the world. marie occupies a little room, bare of furniture, and near the sky, and here she struggles for a livelihood with her needle. she has nothing to divert her weary life but the visits of her neighbour, father john, who occupies the adjoining room, both apartments being exhibited on the stage. the first scene shows us on one side marie toiling at a ball-dress which she has to finish for one of her customers, and on the other the chiffonnier starting out upon his nocturnal explorations. it is the last night of the carnival, and the streets resound with songs and laughter. marie, as she stitches on and on, dreams of the pleasures which beneath the gauze-like garment she is preparing the rich wearer will experience, and then, in a moment of childish playfulness, tries whether the narrow corset will fit her own slender and graceful waist. as she is looking at herself sideways in the glass a number of young girls come trooping gaily upstairs into the room, disguised in different fancy costumes. they are marie's companions and fellow-workers, who, at the risk of having no bread to eat during lent, are revelling in the carnival. laughing, singing, dancing, they would drag marie to the ball. she has no costume? they say. then let her wear her customer's. she is surrounded, and despite a partial resistance is dressed in the twinkling of an eye. timid in her beautiful attire, she allows herself to be carried off by the friendly revellers, and just afterwards father john comes back from his midnight prowl, and proceeds to examine the contents of his basket. his reflections as he turns over the different and multitudinous objects, now a letter beginning: "dearest angel,--my blood, my life, my blood, my soul, i will sacrifice all for you"--now a printed police ordinance, "rag-pickers are forbidden to tear placards from these walls"--now the fragment of a pie--form one of the most admirable passages in the play. towards the end of the examination, as he is raking about with his crook, he comes across a little bundle of thousand-franc notes, ten in number. "what poor devil has lost these?" he exclaims. the idea of appropriating the treasure never once occurs to him. "if there is an honest reward to be had," he says, "i shall buy a new basket." henceforth he will not close his eyes until he has discovered the possessor. [illustration: a rag-picker.] to return to marie. the stage is transformed into a sumptuously decorated saloon. around a table sparkling with wax tapers and crystals the joyous companions of henri berville are performing the obsequies of his bachelorhood, for he is shortly to be married. henri alone resists the general gaiety. he neither eats nor drinks, and the champagne bubbling in the glass or discharging its corks against the ceiling is powerless to relieve his melancholy. suddenly the door opens and the band of laughing grisettes who have carried off marie from her dreary room enter to the movement of a polka. marie follows them, but feels ashamed and bewildered; so much so that she crosses her hands over her mask as though it did not sufficiently disguise her. her companions, however, are ready enough to lift their masks to anyone who will admire their neat little noses or roguish eyes; and presently one of the guests fastens himself on to the bashful marie, and carries his insolence so far as to unmask her. in trying to escape, moreover, from his violent hands she tears a part of that precious robe which a year's toil would scarcely pay for. henri berville interposes and indignantly reproaches his friend with such behaviour. the friend replies with insolence, and a duel becomes inevitable. marie, meanwhile, half mad with shame and fear, has fled. during her absence a mysterious woman has penetrated into her chamber and deposited on the bed an infant. this woman had been paid to kill the innocent child, but shrinking at the last moment from so great a crime, has simply got rid of it as best she could. the fee she had received was ten thousand francs, and this was the sum, in bank-notes, which the rag-picker had discovered at the end of his crook. in her eagerness to escape she had lost the precious paper. now marie enters the room with her torn dress, still deeply vexed at the affront she has received. but if she has been grossly insulted, she has likewise found a noble defender; and for this young man, as brave and generous as his companion was cowardly, she begins to feel the flame of an impossible love, which simply mocks her, whilst a thousand regrets disturb her gentle breast. how can she replace this torn dress? in despair she determines to put an end to her life. but, on the point of doing so, she hears a plaintive cry in the room. she goes to the bed and discovers the child. the sight of it changes her resolution, and when father john appears he finds his protégée nursing the little one whom she proposes to adopt. in a later scene marie pays a visit to the mansion of baron hoffman in order to present her bill to mademoiselle, the baron's daughter. the little dressmaker is very ill received, and tries to excuse her importunity by explaining the circumstances in connection with the child she has to support--at which the daughter seems strangely disquieted and the father enraged. the truth is that mlle. hoffman herself has brought this child into the world, and has confessed her shame to the baron, who thereupon wished to get rid of the little creature for a very particular reason. baron hoffman is the rag-picker who assassinated marie's father twenty years before. for the whole world he would not have had an obstacle arise to the marriage of his daughter with henri berville; nor is his anxiety on this point unintelligible. henri berville is the son of the banker whose cashier the ex-rag-picker has killed, and with whom, subsequently, he has entered into partnership. dreading every moment of his life that some traces of his crime may be discovered, he wishes, by marrying his daughter to the banker's son, to identify the interests of henri berville with his own. from what is said during her visit to mlle. hoffman by the unsuspecting marie, who does not dream that she is addressing the mother of the foundling, the baron sees that his grandchild is not dead. the woman who has already received one fee of ten thousand francs is now presented with another of like amount, and this time she executes her mission to the letter. the infant is found murdered in marie's room. marie is arrested on suspicion and imprisoned, and father john swears to discover the true assassin. fortune assists him. he discovers the owner of the bank-notes in his possession, visits her, perceives her guilt, and, working partly upon her cupidity, partly upon her fear, obtains from her a compromising letter. then, armed with damnatory evidence, he calls upon baron hoffman, who, recognising him, gets his lackeys to make him drunk. an abstinence of twenty years has not destroyed his liking for wine, and he now in a weak moment sacrifices so unreservedly to bacchus, that the baron has no difficulty in wresting from him as he lies inebriated the documentary evidence of his guilt. instead of accuser he has now become the accused, and baron hoffman has him arrested for complicity with the murderer of the bank cashier. having ridded himself of this dangerous witness, the baron goes to saint-lazare to see marie, who is in detention there, and manages to make her believe that she will be the cause of henri berville's ruin by preventing his marriage with mlle. clara hoffman. between marie and henri an undeclared passion already exists. since their first meeting at the masked ball, henri has sworn that he will marry her and no one else; for indeed he has never loved clara, whose hand was forced upon him, and who already has another less chivalrous lover, as events have only too painfully proved. marie, deceived by the baron's representations, now resolves to sacrifice herself to henri's welfare, and signs a false confession which has been prepared for her, and by which she lays claim to a crime of which she is guiltless. meanwhile father john, brought before the commissary, is concerned with nothing but the demonstration of marie's innocence. he speaks with such eloquence and grief, his accents are so real and heartrending, that the hesitating magistrate consents to make experiment of a proof which the chiffonnier proposes. "lend me thirty thousand francs!" he cries. at this demand everyone present thinks him insane, with the exception of henri, who promptly furnishes the loan. with the aid of this sum the chiffonnier obtains from the murderess of clara's child conclusive evidence of marie's innocence and the baron's guilt. hoffman is brought to justice, and no obstacle remains to the union of marie and henri berville. "but how can we reward devotion like yours?" ask henri and his friends of father john; who, a true chiffonnier to the last, replies, "give me a new basket!" chapter xxxv. the bohemian of paris. béranger's bohemians--balzac's definition--two generations--henri mürger. another extremely interesting type of character in paris--likewise of the vagrant nature--is the bohemian. according to the definition of a french lexicographer the bohemian is "a gay and careless man who laughingly endures the ills of life." béranger has written a charming poem upon the bohemians of his day--describing the wandering and eccentric life of bronzed-faced, brilliant-eyed men of athletic stature, with their free amours and their romantic slumbers, during summer nights, beneath the canopy of heaven. but béranger did not dream of any analogy between poets or artists in search of a supper and a cheap bed, and those simple mendicants whose existence he idealised. the comparison, however, soon began to assert itself. a new sense, peculiar and fascinating, was given to the word bohemian; and george sand, the first writer who seems to have applied it, finishes her novel entitled "la dernière aldini" with the exclamation, "vive la bohème!" balzac, in his "prince de la bohème," presents an admirable definition of the intellectual bohemians. "they are young men," he writes, "of any age over twenty, but not yet in their thirtieth year; men of genius in their respective walks of life, little known hitherto, but who will make themselves known and conquer fame. in this class you may find diplomatists who could overthrow the projects of russia if supported by the power of france. authors, too, administrators, warriors, journalists, artists, belong to the order of bohemians." a less flattering notion, however, of the bohemian is given by xavier de montépin, who in his "confessions d'une bohême" describes the adventurer thus: "a lost child of this great paris, where all the vices have temples and all the bad passions altars and priests, the bohemian cultivates, with dangerous skill, the worse side of human nature. sometimes he is really clever and succeeds in deceiving the whole world, which for a moment accepts him. then he is brilliant and proud, delicately gloved and fastidiously shod; he has horses, mistresses, gold. of this lying edifice, so elaborately constructed, not one stone, perhaps, will to-morrow rest upon another." it is to be hoped that montépin was, in this case, generalising from a few very bad specimens. like his counterpart in london, the bohemian of paris has usually long to wait for his hour of triumph. he has to pass through years of struggles and privations, to hunger and to thirst. he does not surrender, however; for he has an ardent faith in himself, and never loses the sheet-anchor of hope. the life he leads has, moreover, its seductive side, without which the bravest soul could not support it--hours of delightful illusion, the pleasures of study, the buoyant companionship of others engaged in the same warfare, and a free vent for the explosive gaieties of youth. then there are the periods of discouragement and anguish, the unkindnesses of friends, the physical frame yielding even whilst the spirit defiantly holds out; then, perhaps, despair or even death. such things as these constitute the chequered life of the bohemian. the bohemia of paris, according to henri mürger, is "the stage of artistic life; it is a preface to the academy, to the hospital, or to the morgue." this inevitably reminds an englishman of the old grub street bohemian, the man of talent or genius who, in a few exceptional instances, struggled on, like johnson, to greatness, but who, as a rule, thought fortune had smiled when he could fill the vacuum in his stomach with four-pennyworth of shin of beef; who, after months of toil in his garret, would take his work to the bookseller's and return with a pocketful of guineas, only to be penniless again on the morrow, to starve for another twelvemonth, and perhaps to end his career, heartbroken and forgotten, in a pauper's grave. the present century has produced two generations of paris bohemians who have left their mark upon the history of arts and letters. the first had its cradle in a now demolished house of the rue du doyenné. nothing could have been more sombre or depressing than this street, which was one of the ugliest in paris. yet the indomitable spirits who made it their haunt lived within sight of all that the most artistic and delicate imagination could desire. there were the remains of the hôtel rambouillet, in which french literature had, in its infancy, been nursed; the façade of the musée, resplendent with sculptures of the renaissance; a cluster of trees, which might almost have been called a wood, in the branches of which feathered bohemians trilled their songs of love and liberty. the walls of the house were old and bare; but the inhabitants soon covered them with decorations of a magnificence scarcely to be found in palaces. there corot painted his provence landscapes and chausserian his bacchants; and there the earliest novels of arsène houssaye and the earliest poems of théophile gautier were penned. no troop of gipsies, encamped beneath foliage in the midst of a perfumed wood, ever led a more buoyant life. comedy was played within those artistic walls; masked balls were given; the landlord and the scandalised citizens were defied. years went by, and at last the bohemians of the rue du doyenné had constrained the public to accept their ideals of art and literature. and now they were petted, fèted, adored by those who had previously taken them for fools. yet even whilst fortune was thus smiling, one famous member of the order--one who, in the eyes of posterity, personifies the bohemians of this period--threw his fellows into mourning. the unhappy gérard de nerval--translator of _faust_, friend and collaborator of heine--was found one morning suspended from a street-lamp. so much for the first generation of paris bohemians. the second comprised, among others, privat d'anglemont, auguste vitu, schanne, alfred delvan, champfleury, and, above all, henri mürger. their haunt was the café momus, in the rue prêtres-saint-germain-l'auxerrois. this café has, within the last few years, disappeared, and its site is now occupied by a colour-merchant's warehouse and a pawnbroking establishment. the place no longer resounds with the laughter, the reckless gaiety, the folly of bohemians such as those just named. at the door of the little temple death or glory sometimes came and knocked, to summon one or other of its inhabitants away. privat d'anglemont entered the municipal maison-de-santé and died there; mürger, a few months afterwards, breathed his last in the same retreat. he left behind him a literary monument in the pictures, at once charming and grotesque, of that strange life in which he played so important a part. every writer of distinction in paris followed his bier to the grave; and the tomb erected to his memory is worthy of the man who slumbers beneath it. his companion, privat d'anglemont, lies near him; but without even a stone to tell his admirers where to cast their wreaths. of the survivors, one--schanne--became a toy-merchant in the rue saint-denis and is suspected of having, to the delight of children, invented certain mechanical rabbits which beat a drum at every movement of the car to which they were harnessed. the first bohemians of france must be looked for among her earliest poets. françois villon, for instance, who was publicly whipped, and the vagabond minstrels, one of whom in victor hugo's _notre-dame_ so narrowly escapes hanging. but these lively, luckless bards were in the position of the warriors who lived before the time of homer, and whose deeds were destined to remain unsung. the great student and chronicler of bohemian life (whose "vie de bohême," as translated into german, was classed by a leipzic bookseller under the head of ethnography) was henri mürger, with his four literary and artistic personages and their servant, himself a bohemian, who lends small sums of money to his masters out of the wages he does not receive, and who, in his love of the picturesque, finds himself unable to interfere with the _beau désordre_ in which they leave their rooms. highly ingenious are these four typical bohemians in getting rid of their money when there are funds in hand, and in making both ends meet when their purses are nearly empty. thus, one of them having obtained a certain sum from a confiding relative, purchases for a young woman to whom he is attached a monkey and a parrot; only to find, a few days afterwards, that the monkey has eaten the parrot and died of indigestion. they have not even a suit of dress-clothes among them; and on one occasion, when the musician wishes to go to a ball, the painter induces a gentleman whose portrait he is taking to divest himself of his evening coat that he may secretly lend it to his pleasure-seeking friend. varied and original are the devices by which the attention of the puzzled sitter is diverted from his missing garment. the bohemian who has gone to the ball, and who puts on a pair of white gloves with the view of disguising himself from possible creditors, passes most of his time in the refreshment room; returning to it, when for a moment he has been taken out by one of the dancers, on the plea that if he were to stop away too long his absence would be "remarked." there are some bohemians who seem to have a particular fancy for white kids. in m. ponsard's drama of _honneur et argent_ the romantic but impecunious hero rushes forward at one critical moment to the front of the stage, exclaiming: _je porte des gants blancs, et je n'ai pas dîné!_ hégésippe moreau, bohemian and true poet, who for want of a bed slept at times in one of the trees of the champs elysées, went one evening to a ministerial party, where, expecting to get something to eat, he was driven to despair at finding nothing to relieve his hunger except jellies and ices. it was probably in view of famished bohemians that an old french book on etiquette warned persons invited out to dinner not, if the meal was long delayed, to exclaim: _on ne aîne jamais dans cette maison_. a well-known bohemian, on being asked by a wealthy friend to take pot-luck with him at a certain hour, is said to have replied: "with pleasure; and you will excuse me if i am rather punctual." the bohemian consoles himself by the thought that the greatest writers have often in their youth been in almost as dire straits as himself. how indeed, without such a reflection, could he from day to day exist? he remembers that when, during the first performance of _hernani_, victor hugo was called out of the theatre by a bookseller and requested to accept , francs for the right of publishing the play, he had not more than forty francs in his actual possession. he may even, if he has studied the literary history of a neighbouring country, recall the case of samuel johnson, who for years had to live on fourpence a day. even in the depths of poverty bohemians, if there is anything in them, are sure (so henri mürger testifies) to make from time to time an impression upon some rich man, who will invite them to dinner, partly from sympathy and admiration, partly in order to have the opportunity of reading to them some poem or drama that vanity has impelled him to compose. on these occasions the bohemian is said to revenge himself for having been condemned to play the part of listener only--_auditor tantùm_--by staying late and drinking profusely. macaulay had such a bohemian in view when he described a member of this interesting class--a guest at the time in the house of his patron--as "roaring for fresh punch" at four in the morning. [illustration: the boulevard poissoniÈre.] to be suspected, however, of a bohemianism of which they are innocent is sometimes the fate of eminent and well-conducted authors; and macaulay's roarer for punch reminds one of a certain fashionable parisian novelist who, as grenville murray relates, went once to stay at a country house where the host and hostess had very romantic notions of the life usually led by the knights of the pen. towards twelve o'clock the eminent littérateur, slightly fatigued by his journey, retired to his room, and before long was in bed and fast asleep. in about a quarter of an hour he was awakened by a continued tapping at the door, and, raising his head, wondered for a moment whether the house could be on fire. then, recovering his presence of mind, he called out "entrez"; on which two sturdy footmen appeared, bearing between them an ice-pail with a bottle of champagne in it. the novelist had some difficulty in prevailing upon the wine bearers to retire with their well-intended burden. his host and hostess had been under the impression that authors wrote habitually at night, and were unable to get through their work unless well primed with alcoholic liqueur. chapter xxxvi. the paris waiter. the garçon--the development of the type--the garçon's daily routine--his ambitions and reverses. [illustration: selling goats.] the waiter of paris, whose manners are of velvet, whose flittings are bird-like, and whose smile is eternal, is another pronounced type of character. the _garçon_ may be said to have originated at a paris refreshment-room established in or before the time of scarron (who celebrates it in verse), by a certain señor lopes in association with a certain señor rodrigues. this restaurant, in the portuguese style, was celebrated for a beverage then much in vogue, known as "citrate," and composed of lemon-juice, cedrat, and sugar in fresh or iced water. it was dispensed to the frequenters of the place by extremely polite servants, who were the first in france to exercise the suave and delicate functions of the waiter. gradually other restaurants were opened in the capital for the sale, first of lemonade and orgeat, and subsequently of coffee, tea, chocolate, and wines. the waiter, as these houses of refreshment improved and developed, became more and more polished and indispensable, so that to-day, according to a french writer, "he is a personage. he wears shirts of the finest holland, glazed shoes, white stockings, and a tie which would move the envy of a sub-prefect. but for his vest, which indemnifies itself for not being quite a vest by the fineness of its tissue, he would be mistaken for an ambassador or a tenor. his hair, cut in the latest fashion, exhales sweet odours, and his lips express a perpetual smile of complaisance. the lady at the counter, it should be added, shows him delicate attentions." the true paris waiter, like the true poet, is born, not made. he has hereditary waiter's blood coursing through his veins. his father was a garçon before him, and from childhood he has been instructed in the family art, learning celerity and grace of movement, with that patience, politeness, and amiability by which he is distinguished. there are exceptions to this rule, all the same; and good waiters have sometimes been made out of men who have failed in the higher walks of life; of bankrupt merchants or ruined gentlemen. a spendthrift who, having run through his fortune, prefers to wait rather than work is already in some degree qualified for the post of garçon. his experience will constitute him an authoritative arbiter in disputes over a game of billiards, or a pretty girl, or dominoes, or cards; he knows how to please men who love to dine or sup as sumptuously as he once did, and the winebibbers excite within him no repulsion, but on the contrary strike a chord of sympathy in his soul. whatever his antecedents may be, the paris waiter invariably becomes fashioned after a certain recognised type. this type is well described by a french writer in the following words: "vigour of constitution and honesty of soul are two qualities without which the café garçon would not exist. the master's eye cannot always be hovering over the bottles, the decanters, the cups, and the coffee-pots of the laboratory. nothing is easier than to divert, in the midst of the gigantic consumption which distinguishes certain establishments, an occasional drop from the ocean of refreshments and liqueurs; a fraction of that total which the proprietor counts every evening, to the great annoyance of the late-staying customer exchanging his last ten-sou piece at midnight for a final _petit verre_. the garçon is therefore, of necessity, an honest man. from the rising of the sun to the extinction of the gas he is handling the money of others; he is a confidential servant, a cashier on a small scale. as to vigour of constitution, you will soon see how indispensable that is to the garçon. day dawns, and late as he went to bed the night before, he has to rise betimes. at that hour there is hardly anyone awake in paris but fruiterers, scavengers, and water-carriers; nevertheless he, the man of eloquence, who passes his time amongst epicures and who forms an indisputable part of the fashionable world, must tear himself from the luxury of repose. every day the luxury of life surrounds him with its seductions, its perfumes, and its joys, and yet he is condemned to live the hard life of an artizan. his master wishes him to have at once the complaisant elegance of a spaniel and the vigilance of a fox. well, he wakes up, and stretches his arms; striking, perhaps, with his extended fingers the table-legs between which he has thrown his mattress the night before. for you must quite understand that he is obliged to take his food and to sleep within that space which is the scene of his duties; like the soldier in action, he sleeps on the field of battle. when, thus early, he rises, he is breathing a heavy air, impregnated with the too-familiar emanations from gas, not to mention the odours (hermetically closed in by the café shutters) of that punch, wine, and haricot mutton which the proprietor has shared at midnight with his companions, at table no. , the table, that is to say, nearest the counter. the only glimpse of light which cheers the garçon as he opens his eyes proceeds from the inextinguishable lamp which burns in the laboratory with the obstinacy of the vestal fire. as to those matutinal sounds which herald the approach of day, the garçon is quite free to regard as such the mewing of the cat, or the shrill whistlings of madame's canaries, which are anticipating a near visit from the chickweed merchant. but suddenly the tread of the master, who, in a room overhead, is searching for his braces and his cravat, shakes the ceiling. in an instant the mattresses of all the waiters are snatched up and bundled behind an old partition, side by side with spoilt billiard cues, watering cans, broken chess-boards, and the antique counter which the proprietor purchased with the original stock. the shutters are taken down, the milkmaid arrives, the principal comes downstairs with a bag of money under his arm, madame thinks about her toilette, butter pats are distributed on the plates, the stove-tender lights the fire, and all the bees in this hive are in motion. the hour of work has struck." after this first tug at his collar, it is a relief to find that the garçon enjoys a brief period of repose, and, whilst awaiting custom, tears the wrappers off the newspapers and studies the european situation. in the morning he is occupied entirely with dispensing café-au-lait. this first service is productive of very few "tips," as the customers who breakfast at the cafés are usually employées, or old bachelors, or provincial visitors lodging in the small hotels of the neighbourhood; people more or less pledged to a discreet economy. from noon, however, till two o'clock black coffee and alcoholic liqueur absorb the waiter's energies. it is between those hours that gay consumers, with hearts already warmed by a visit to the neighbouring restaurant, arrive in troops and pay without counting their change. this, however, is not a wise proceeding if we are to be guided by a certain m. vidocq, who, in his "arch thief (_paravoleur_); or, the art of conducting oneself prudently in all countries and especially at paris," a book at once curious and rare, does not, like a beforementioned writer, rely on the universal integrity of the garçon, and whose advice to his readers is as follows:--"at the café you must not, from a sense of false shame or from misplaced confidence, put in your pocket without counting it the change which the garçon gives you when the piece of money you have tendered in payment exceeds the charge you have incurred. this is particularly to be avoided in the cafés-jardins, where the crowd presses on all sides, and where twenty panting waiters seem hardly sufficient to serve the customers. you have come with some friends, and have taken ices, punch, liqueurs, etc. when you are about to depart you tell the waiter that you wish to settle. you call in vain for him five or six times, getting no reply but--'coming, sir; coming.' at length he arrives, scared, bewildered, and staring right and left as though anxious to despatch you and rush off to someone else. you tell him to reckon what you owe. he gabbles certain words about ices, punch, liqueurs, which you cannot understand, and then distinctly mentions a certain sum-total. if you pay on the spot, without any explanation, you are pretty sure to have been charged fifteen or twenty sous too much. if you have calculated your debt beforehand, with the aid of the tariffs posted up at these places, you will easily perceive, before parting with your money, what errors have been committed. if, however, you have failed to take this precaution, do not be imposed upon by the distracted air of the garçon, but make him enumerate each separate item of your account, and it will be a wonder indeed if you do not gain by this recapitulation." yet another ingenious device on the part of the garçon is made by m. vidocq a subject of admonition to his readers. "when a party of friends," he writes, "have run up rather a heavy bill, it often happens that the gentleman who is doing the honours finds amongst the change he receives a piece of ten or twenty sous from which the image and superscription have been almost entirely effaced; and he ultimately throws it to the waiter, saying that it is for him. this coin has not been introduced without intention. it has already been frequently presented to customers and frequently thrown back to the waiter. you would give the garçon two or three sous if you received good money, and you give him ten or twenty because he tenders a piece of money which you are afraid you cannot pass." although everywhere very much on the same pattern, the paris garçon varies somewhat in his manners, customs, and general bearing according to the establishment in which he exercises his functions. there are cafés on the boulevard des italiens where he deviates somewhat from his traditional amiability, and, when a customer complains of the café-au-lait with which he has been served, raises his eyes to the ceiling, sighs, places a fresh cup on the table, and filling it from the self-same coffee-pot, exclaims, "i know you will like that, sir." the waiter of the boulevard saint-martin is a man of letters, particularly conversant with dramatic literature. he picks up his education from the eminent actors and dramatists who frequent the establishment, and knows everything that is going on behind the scenes. at one time the garçon of the café desmares was an eminent authority on military matters. he knew all the superior officers of the royal guard, and everything that was whispered in the barracks. in course of time--after that is to say--he lost his martial tint, and became highly aristocratic; speaking in measured tones and looking exceedingly bored. now, however, like the café itself, he is no more. the body-guards were accustomed under the restoration to assemble at the café valois; whilst the bonapartists had their headquarters at the café lemblin. challenges were sent from one café to the other, swords were drawn and duels were fought by the dim light of some street lamp. the weapons, it is said, were confided to the waiters of the belligerent cafés, together with the pipes of the frequenters. the intending duellist called for them as he would have called for a newspaper, and the waiter sometimes replied:--"they are all in use, sir." the garçon aspires to wealth and greatness. sometimes, in his vaulting ambition, he o'erleaps himself. says a french student of his manners and customs: "he takes a wife and a new house, puts frills on his shirt, and inscribes his name in the national guard. become, in his turn, a master, he puts a hundred thousand francs' worth of gilding, pictures, and mirrors (obtained on credit) into the establishment which he opens with unusual éclat. the public rush to his doors, and all goes well until some neighbouring café, more sumptuous still, draws the crowd away again. then the time has arrived for him to make up his balance-sheet and pay two and a half per cent. to his creditors. what becomes of him after that? if he has protected his wife's dowry he takes refuge in his native country, between two cabbage beds with a pond for his ducks. one day the malady of dethroned kings seizes him, and he dies of ennui in the midst of an inconsolable family. heaven take pity on his soul! many café waiters die without having fulfilled their dream of having an establishment of their own. the life of fatigue which they lead kills them, as a rule, towards their thirtieth year. it is thus that we have seen the greatest of them all vanish from our midst--that waiter of the café de la rotonde, whose '_baoum!_' uttered in a far-resounding voice, has found so many imitators. we see him still, coffee-pot in hand, saying in a voice profound, 'pas de crême?' alas, alas, he is dead. he died of consumption, and when he was about to expire the nurse still offered him a mixture of cod-liver oil and milk, which his doctor had prescribed. he exclaimed with his last gasp, 'pas de crême?'" chapter xxxvii. the paris cook. brillat-savarin on the art of cooking--the cook and the roaster--cooking in the seventeenth century--louis xv.--mme de maintenon. from the paris waiter to the paris cook the transition is, in literary phrase, "easy and natural." there is probably no prouder personage in the world than this artist, who knows that mankind cannot dispense with him, and who, if one were to ask him whether the revolution of his spit or of the earth on its axis were the more important, might hesitate to decide. in that excellent comedy from the combined pens of Émile augier and jules sandeau, entitled _le gendre de m. poirier_, we see an illustration of the solemn importance which is attached by the french cook to a well-ordered menu. m. poirier, an aspirant for social position, has married his daughter to a ruined marquis, gaston de nesle, whom he soon finds to be a magnificently expensive son-in-law. one day, determined to retrench, he sends for his chef and asks what he intends to prepare for dinner that day. the chef enumerates a list of some twenty costly and exquisite dishes; to which m. poirier replies: "you will replace all that by soup, roast meat, salad, and a fruit tart." the cook feels like a soldier required to chop wood with the sword with which he has been accustomed to cut his way to glory, and who prefers to snap that sword in two. "i resign!" exclaims the cuisinier. "no man will cook for you!" "then i will engage a woman," is the economist's base rejoinder. to pass from fiction to fact we find a very much stronger instance of the spirit of the french cook in the famous vatel, who was so delicate on the "point of honour" that he ran a sword through his own body because the fish which should have arrived for an important dinner he was cooking did not turn up in time. this artist was first attached to the intendant foquet, afterwards to the prince de condé; and he could not endure the shame of letting the king go short of one particular course in the dinner which the prince offered him at the castle of chantilly. some of the loftiest functions of the parisian chef can be performed by no one who is not endowed with absolute genius. training, experience, industry, will go some distance in the french culinary art; but, according to brillat-savarin, in his _physiologie du goût_, they would apparently never qualify a man for the sublimer functions of roasting a joint or a fowl. "_on devient cuisinier mais on naît rotisseur_," exclaims this excellent writer, who raised the art of the kitchen to the dignity of a science, and who propounds the maxims of cooking with the same gravity, the same sincerity, the same ardour as if he were laying the bases of a grand moral philosophy. "a dessert without cheese is like a beautiful woman with but one eye," he declared in a neat sentence which admits of only a lumbering translation. why a roasting-cook should require greater talent than one of his kitchen colleagues, who, for instance, like the chef spoken of by macaulay, could make ten different dishes out of a poppy-head, is not at first sight apparent. one might imagine that the roaster required nothing but care and patience; but after the dictum of so high an authority as brillat-savarin, it must by the uninitiated be supposed that for the seemingly simple operation of roasting a bird or joint as it ought to be roasted, a combination of subtle qualities are requisite, just as the mere two hands of a watch need, for their due regulation, a complex system of machinery. [illustration: the bird market.] as roaster, or in no matter what capacity, the paris cook had his poetic eulogist. one gastronomic versifier was wont, whilst sitting at dinner, to regard the genius who was furnishing his stomach as a divinity-- _un cuisinier, quand je aîne,_ _me semble un être divin._ another regarded his cook as a present from the sky-- _que je puisse toujours, après avoir diné,_ _bénir le cuisinier que le ciel m'a donné!_ the science of cooking in france was in a languid condition when francis i. ascended the throne. the presence of ladies at his court, and the fêtes and banquets which were given, reanimated the cuisinier. it was the renaissance of the kitchen as well as of the arts; and francis i. imported from italy cooks as well as painters and sculptors. the italian cooks viewed their art in a very serious light. montaigne well portrays a typical member of their order. "just now," he writes, "i was mentioning an italian i have recently entertained, who acted as _maître d'hôtel_ to the late cardinal caraffe until his death. i made him describe his duties, and he gave me a discourse on this science of the jaws with a gravity and countenance quite magisterial, precisely as if he had been engaged on some subject in theology. he indicated the different stages of appetite: that which exists after fasting, and that which remains when the first or second course has been served; the methods employed, now simply to gratify it, now to awaken and spur it; the policy with which he prepares his dishes, adorning and embellishing them so as to fascinate the eye. after that he entered upon the order of the service, full of fine and important considerations; the whole inflated with a magnificence of words such as characterises a treatise on the government of an empire." the luxury of gastronomy was carried to such a point in france that edicts were issued by several french kings for the purpose of restraining it; but the italian cooks whom catherine de medici brought to the court of henri ii. easily contrived to vanquish the law. they formed a school and produced pupils who were destined to surpass their preceptors. until the revolution the profession of cook was regulated by a succession of statutes. so far back as the corporation of "goose-cooks" (geese being their most important commodity) received statutes from the provost of the merchants. later on the name of "roasters" was given to them; and anyone not of their order who ventured to cook for the public was termed a traitor. the cooks of paris had already been made the subject of many enactments when louis xiv., in , gave them new statutes which were registered in parliament the following year; nor was it until the revolution that their profession became free. in the seventeenth century the culinary art had reached a high pitch of perfection, and epicures abounded in high life, amongst princes, seigneurs, and even bishops--indeed bishops in particular. one day when a certain archbishop famed for good living, in a sense otherwise than ecclesiastical, had dined at the palace of his episcopal brother in the capital, he called his servants around him and said: "i have been dining with the archbishop of paris; there was this and that dish, and such and such defects. now i tell you, so that you may fall into the danger, that if you were to treat me in that fashion, you would be wishing to throw away your lives." at the end of dinner he was accustomed to send for maître nicholas, his cook, and say: "maître nicholas, what shall we have for supper?" after supper his inquiry was: "maître nicholas, what shall we have for to-morrow's dinner?" another bishop having returned home very hungry and demanded his dinner, the episcopal cook made his appearance empty-handed. "as a bishop," he said, "i forgive you; but if you fail to produce my supper, i shall talk to you like a man, and flatten your nose for you." louis xiv. was a great gastronomist, but in the refinements of the culinary art louis xv. eclipsed his predecessor. the artists of the kitchen were not yet in his reign paid twenty thousand francs a year, as they have since been paid in paris; but they were petted, yielded to, and stroked down when out of temper. the cooks from languedoc were chiefly in demand at paris; they received very large salaries and exercised domestic despotism, the other servants of the household having to bow to their authority. expense was nothing when it became a question of stimulating the jaded appetite of a count or a wealthy merchant. mercie in his "picture of paris" shows us a _maître d'hôtel_ presenting the bill of fare to his aristocratic master, who throws it down disdainfully, exclaiming: "always the same dishes! you have no imagination. these are nothing but nauseating repetitions." "but, monseigneur, the sauces are varied." "i tell you the whole thing is detestable, and i can no longer eat it." "well, monseigneur, i will prepare you a grilled boar." "when?" "to-morrow. i will make him drink sixty bottles of champagne first. and after that i want you to eat a jamaica turtle." "bravo! and when? where is the turtle?" "in london." "send a courier at once: let him fetch it post-haste." the courier is despatched, and returns with the turtle. there is a solemn conference as to the most effective way of preparing the animal; and after all kinds of processes, it appears on the table. that dish has cost a thousand crowns. seven or eight gourmands devour it, and while they are drinking costly wines discuss the question as to how much a peasant can live on. they decide that three sous a day are enough for him, and that the inhabitants of the towns are well off if they have seventeen. beyond these figures all is superfluity, according to the turtle-devouring economists. the whole court of louis xv. consisted of gourmands, loyal imitators of their sovereign. marshal de richelieu attached his name to various dishes, prepared for the purpose of making an epicure's mouth water. the gay and ingenious mme. de pompadour invented three or four recipes which have become famous. gastronomy, however, did not flourish at the court of louis xvi., who was by no means fastidious in the choice of his food, and for whose robust appetite rude joints of meat amply sufficed. coming to the revolution, we find the culinary art injured a good deal by the arbitrary closing of the mansions of the great nobility. those thousand and one ruinous inventions without which courtiers, financiers, and ecclesiastics found existence impossible, were seductions for the severe republicans. a celebrated gastronomist, grimod de la reynière, paints, in what he doubtless intended for very black tints, the calamity which marked the revolutionary period. "it is an unquestionable fact," he writes, "that during the disastrous years of the revolution not one fine turbot entered the market"; and he has thus exposed himself to republican reproaches as to the seat of his patriotism and political sentiment being his stomach. all the celebrities of the eighteenth century sat at the table of the la reynières, which was more sumptuously kept than scarron's. there was first the grandfather, la reynière, who died in with a napkin under his chin, suffocated by a _pâté-de-foie-gras_; then the father, whose dinners were better than his society, if we are to judge from the remark passed upon him by one of his guests, namely: "you can eat him; but digest him you cannot"; and finally the son, who has exercised by his pen and his stomach a considerable influence on gastronomy, and rescued french cookery from the indifference of the revolution. [illustration: madame de maintenon. (_from an old print._)] we have just mentioned the exquisite table which was kept by the inimitable scarron. the time came, however, when his resources dwindled and the dishes laid before his distinguished guests were less numerous and less varied. the conversation of scarron's vivacious wife, however, the future mme. de maintenon, did much to atone for a poor menu. on one occasion, whilst dinner was proceeding, scarron received a secret message from his cook--who had to prepare the meal with very spare materials--to the effect that a certain dish, usually regarded as essential, was wanting. turning his head aside from the guests, scarron whispered to his wife: "my dear, give them another of those charming little stories. there is no roast." so much for the ingenuity of a french host. the ingenuity of a french cook was perhaps never better exemplified than under the following circumstances. a rich financier was once dining at an aristocratic table where one of the courses consisted of some preparation of veal, highly gratifying to the palate. whilst this course was being eaten one of the guests happened to say to the host: "your epigrams, you know, are excellent." when the financier got home he summoned his cook, told him he had just dined at a house where a ravishing dish of veal, mysteriously prepared, had been served, and directed the cuisinier to manufacture something like it, adding that he could not describe the precise nature of the dish, but that he knew it was called an "epigram." for a moment the cook was staggered. then a sudden inspiration came upon him, and he declared that he clearly perceived how epigrams should be prepared. next day he invented an exquisite dish, which was destined to become famous--to his own and his master's glory--as the "_epigramme de veau á la financière_." it was a maxim of brillat-savarin's that "the discovery of a new dish is more precious for the universe than the discovery of a new star"; and there have been plenty of illustrious diners and cooks in paris who lived up to this lofty idea. the greatest chef who ever turned a spit was doubtless the immortal carême, who commenced his career as _maître d'hôtel_ to the prince de talleyrand. having broken with his first master on some question of politics, he was successively employed by the prince regent of england, whom he quitted because george iv. did not sufficently understand the refinements of the culinary art; by the emperor alexander i. of russia, whose dominions he found too cold; by prince bagration, who was a fine connoisseur but whose stomach was out of order; by the prince of wurtemberg, who had vulgar culinary tastes; and finally by an english lord, said to have been a glutton, and who was in any case choked to death with a bone. carême was a friend of the illustrious villeroux, famed partly as mirabeau's cook, but chiefly for his courage and adventures. having sailed to the indies, he fell into the midst of a savage race with strong gastronomic instincts, and prepared for them such delicious sauces and ragouts that they enthusiastically proclaimed him king. for several years, with a frying pan in his hand and the crown on his head, he played the dual part of cook and king. when he died he left his subjects a very precious legacy, a recipe, that is to say, for a bacon-omelette. [illustration] * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: boulevard saint-denis=> boulevard saint-denis {pg } it vain will despotism dread=> in vain will despotism dread {pg } the palmier fountain, place du chÀtelet=> the palmier fountain, place du chÂtelet {pg } the boheman consoles himself=> the bohemian consoles himself {pg } every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. no attempt has been made to correct or normalize the spelling of non-english words. some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. the illustrations have been moved from mid-paragraph for ease of reading. (etext transcriber's note) paris and its story _all rights reserved_ [illustration: rue st. antoine.] paris and its story by t. okey [illustration: colophon] illustrated by katherine kimball & o. f. m. ward london: j. m. dent & co. new york: the macmillan co. "i will not here omit, that i never rail so much against france as to be out of humour with _paris_; that city has ever had my heart from my infancy; and it has fallen out to me, as of excellent things, that the more of other fine cities i have seen since, the more the beauty of this gains upon my affections. i love it for its own sake, and more for its own native being than the addition of foreign pomp; i love it tenderly even with all its warts and blemishes. i am not a frenchman but by this great city great in people, great in the felicity or her situation, but above all great and incomparable in variety and diversity of commodities; the glory of france and one of the most noble ornaments of the world." montaigne. "quand dieu eslut nonante et dix royaumes tot le meillor torna en douce france." couronnement loys. preface the history of paris, says michelet, is the history of the french monarchy. the aim of the writer in the following pages has been to narrate the story of the capital city of france on the lines thus indicated, dwelling, however, in the earlier chapters rather more on its legendary aspect than perhaps an austere historical conscience would approve. but it is precisely a familiarity with these romantic stories, which at least are true in impression if not in fact, that the sojourner in paris will find most useful, translated as they are in sculpture and in painting on the decoration of her architecture both modern and ancient, and implicit in the nomenclature of her ways. within the limits of time and space allotted for the work no more than an imperfect outline of a vast subject has been possible. the writer has essayed to compose a story of, not a guide to, paris. those who desire the latter may be referred to the excellent manuals of murray, bædeker and of grant allen--the last named being an admirable companion for the artistically-minded traveller. in controversial matter, such, for instance, as the position of the ancient grand pont, the writer has adopted the opinions of the most recent authorities. the story of paris presents a marked contrast with that of an italian city-state whose rise, culmination and fall may be roundly traced. paris is yet in the stage of lusty growth. time after time, like a young giantess, she has burst her cincture of walls, cast off her outworn garments and renewed her armour and vesture. hers are no grass-grown squares and deserted streets; no ruined splendours telling of pride abased and glory departed; no sad memories of waning cities once the mistresses of sea and land; none of the tears evoked by a great historic tragedy; none of the solemn pathos of decay and death. paris has more than once tasted the bitterness of humiliation; norseman, and briton, russian and german have bruised her fair body; the dire distress of civic strife has exhausted her strength, but she has always emerged from her trials with marvellous recuperation, more flourishing than before. since , when the city, crushed under a two-fold calamity of foreign invasion and of internecine war, seemed doomed to bleed away to feeble insignificance, her prosperity has so increased that house rent has doubled and population risen from , , in to , , in . the growth of paris from the settlement of an obscure gallic tribe to the most populous, the most cultured, the most artistic, the most delightful and seductive of continental cities has been prodigious, yet withal she has maintained her essential unity, her corporate sense and peculiar individuality. paris, unlike london, has never expatiated to the effacement of her distinctive features and the loss of civic consciousness. the city has still a definite outline and circumference, and over her gates to-day one may read, _entrée de paris_. the parisian is, and always has been, conscious of his citizenship, proud of his city, careful of her beauty, jealous of her reputation. the essentials of parisian life remain unchanged since mediæval times. busy multitudes of alert, eager burgesses crowd her streets; ten thousand students stream from the provinces, from europe, and even from the uttermost parts of the earth, to eat of the bread of knowledge at her university. the old collegiate life is gone, but the arts and sciences are freely taught as of old to all comers; and a lowly peasant lad may carry in his satchel a prime minister's portfolio or the insignia of a president of the republic, even as his mediæval prototype bore a bishop's mitre or a cardinal's hat. the boisterous exuberance of youthful spirits still vents itself in rowdy student life to the scandal of bourgeois placidity, and the poignant self-revelation and gnawing self-reproach of a françois villon find their analogue in the pathetic verse of a paul verlaine. beneath the fair and ordered surface of the normal life of paris still sleep the fiery passions which, from the days of the maillotins to those of the commune, have throughout the crisis of her history ensanguined her streets with the blood of citizens.[ ] let us remember, however, when contrasting the modern history of paris with that of london, that the questions which have stirred her citizens have been not party but dynastic ones, often complicated and embittered by social and religious principles ploughing deep in the human soul, for which men have cared enough to suffer, and to inflict, death. those writers who are pleased to trace the permanency of racial traits through the life of a people dwell with satisfaction on passages in ancient authors who describe the gauls as quick to champion the cause of the oppressed, prone to war, elated by victory, impatient of defeat, easily amenable to the arts of peace, responsive to intellectual culture; terrible, indefatigable orators but bad listeners, so intolerant of their speakers that at tribal gatherings an official charged to maintain silence would march, sword in hand, towards an interrupter, and after a third warning cut off a portion of his dress. if the concurrent testimony of writers, ancient, mediæval and modern, be of any worth, gallic vanity is beyond dispute. dante, expressing the prevailing belief of his age, exclaims, "now, was there ever people so vain as the sienese! certes not the french by far."[ ] of their imperturbable gaiety and the avidity for new things we have ample testimony, and the course of this story will demonstrate that france, and more especially paris, has ever been, from the establishment of christianity to the birth of the modern world at the revolution, the parent or the fosterer of ideas, the creator of arts, the soldier of the ideal. she has always evinced a wondrous preventive apprehension of coming changes. the earliest of the western people beyond rome to adopt christianity, she had established a monastery near tours a century and a half before st. benedict, the founder of western monasticism, had organised his first community at subiaco. in the middle ages paris became the intellectual light of the christian world. from the time of the centralisation of the monarchy at paris she absorbed in large measure the vital forces of the nation, and all that was greatest in art, science and literature was drawn within her walls until, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, she became the centre of learning, taste and culture in europe.[ ] during the first empire and the restoration, after the tempest was stilled and the great heritage of the revolution taken possession of, an amazing outburst of scientific, artistic and literary activity made paris the _ville lumière_ of europe. paris is still the city in europe where the things of the mind and of taste have most place, where the wheels of life run most smoothly and pleasantly, where the graces and refinements and amenities of social existence, _l'art des plaisirs fins_, are most highly developed and most widely diffused. there is something in the crisp, luminous air of paris that quickens the intelligence and stimulates the senses. even the scent of the wood fires as one emerges from the railway station exhilarates the spirit. the poet heine used to declare that the traveller could estimate his proximity to paris by noting the increasing intelligence of the people, and that the very bayonets of the soldiers were more intelligent than those elsewhere. life, even in its more sensuous and material phases, is less gross and coarse,[ ] its pleasures more refined than in london. it is impossible to conceive the pit of a london theatre stirred to fury by a misplaced adjective in a poetical drama, or to imagine anything comparable to the attitude of a parisian audience at the cheap holiday performances at the français or the odéon, where the severe classic tragedies of racine, of corneille, of victor hugo, or the well-worn comedies of molière or of beaumarchais are played with small lure of stage upholstery, and listened to with close attention by a popular audience responsive to the exquisite rhythm and grace of phrasing, the delicate and restrained tragic pathos, and the subtle comedy of their great dramatists. to witness a _première_ at the français is an intellectual feast. the brilliant house; the pit and stalls filled with black-coated critics; the quick apprehension of the points and happy phrases; the universal and excited discussion between the acts; the atmosphere of keen and alert intelligence pervading the whole assembly; the quaint survival of the time-honoured "overture"--three knocks on the boards--dating back to roman times when the prologus of the comedy stepped forth and craved the attention of the audience by three taps of his wand; the chief actor's approach to the front of the stage after the play is ended to announce to mesdames and messieurs what in these days they have known for weeks before from the press, that "the piece we have had the honour of playing" is by such a one--all combine to make an indelible impression on the mind of the foreign spectator. the parisian is the most orderly and well-behaved of citizens. the custom of the _queue_ is a spontaneous expression of his love of fairness and order. even the applause in theatres is organised. a spectacle such as that witnessed at the funeral of victor hugo in , the most solemn and impressive of modern times, is inconceivable in london. the whole population (except the faubourg st. germain and the clergy) from the poorest labourer to the heads of the state issued forth to file past the coffin of their darling poet, lifted up under the arc de triomphe, and by their multitudinous presence honoured his remains borne on a poor bare hearse to their last resting-place in the panthéon. amid this vast crowd, mainly composed of labourers, mechanics and the _petite bourgeoisie_, assembled to do homage to the memory of the poet of democracy, scarcely an _agent_ was seen; the people were their own police, and not a rough gesture, not a trace of disorder marred the sublime scene. the parisian democracy is the most enlightened and the most advanced in europe, and it is to paris that the dearest hopes and deepest sympathies of generous spirits will ever go forth in "the struggle, and the daring rage divine for liberty, of aspirations toward the far ideal, enthusiast dreams of brotherhood." it now remains for the writer to acknowledge his indebtedness to the following among other authorities, which are here enumerated to obviate the necessity for the use of repeated footnotes, and to indicate to readers who may desire to pursue the study of the history of paris in more detail, some works among the enormous mass of literature on the subject that will repay perusal. for the general history of france the monumental _histoire de france_ now in course of publication, edited by e. lavisse; michelet's _histoire de france_, _récits de l'histoire de france_, and _procès des templiers_; victor duruy, _histoire de france_; _histoire de france racontée par les contemporains_, edited by b. zeller; carl faulmann, _illustrirte geschichte der buchdruckerkunst_; the chronicles of gregory of tours, richer, abbo, joinville, villani, froissart, antonio morosini; de comines; _géographie historique_, by a. guerard; froude's essay on the templars; jeanne d'arc, maid of orleans, by t. douglas murray; _paris sous philip le bel_, edited by h. geraud. for the later monarchy, the revolutionary and napoleonic periods, the histories of carlyle, mignet, michelet and louis blanc; the _origines de la france contemporaine_, by taine; the _cambridge modern history_, vol. viii.; the memoirs of the duc de st. simon, of madame campan, madame vigée-lebrun, of camille desmoulins, madame roland, paul louis courier; the _journal de perlet_; _histoire de la societé française pendant la revolution,_ by j. de goncourt; goethe's _die campagne in frankreich_, ; _légendes et archives de la bastille_, by f. funck brentano; life of napoleon i., by j. holland rose; _l'europe et la revolution française_ by albert sorel; _contemporary american opinion of the french revolution_, by c. d. hazen. for the particular history of paris, the exhaustive and comprehensive _histoire de la ville de paris_, by the learned benedictine priests, michel félibien and guy alexis lobineau; the so-called _journal d'un bourgeois de paris_, edited by l. lalanne; _paris pendant la domination anglaise_, by a. longnon; the more modern _paris à travers les ages_, by m. f. hoffbauer, e. fournier and others; the _topographie historique du vieux paris_, by a. berty and h. legrand. howell's _familiar letters_, coryat's _crudities_, and evelyn's _diary_, contain useful matter. for the chapters on historical paris, e. fournier's _promenade historique dans paris_, _chronique des rues de paris_, _enigmes des rues des paris_; the marquis de rochegude's _guide pratique à travers le vieux paris_, and the excellent _nouvel itinéraire guide artistique et archéologique de paris_, by c. normand, now appearing in fascicules published by the _société des amis des monuments parisiens_, have been largely drawn upon and supplemented by affectionate memories of an acquaintance with the city dating back for more than thirty years, and by notes of pilgrimages, under the guidance of a member of the positivist society of paris, made in through revolutionary paris and versailles. for personal help and information the writer desires to express his obligations to monsieur lafenestre, director of the louvre: monsieur l. bénédite, director of the luxembourg; monsieur g. redon, architect of the louvre and the tuileries; professor a. legros; and for help in proof-reading to mr james britten. contents chapter i page gallo-roman paris chapter ii the barbarian invasions--st. genevieve--the conversion of clovis--the merovingian dynasty chapter iii the carlovingians--the great siege of paris by the normans--the germs of feudalism chapter iv the rise of the capetian kings and the growth of paris chapter v paris under philip augustus and st. louis chapter vi art and learning at paris chapter vii the parlement--the states-general--conflict with boniface viii.--the destruction of the knights-templars chapter viii etienne marcel--the english invasions--the maillotins--murder of the duke of orleans--armagnacs and burgundians chapter ix jeanne d'arc--paris under the english--end of the english occupation chapter x louis xi. at paris--the introduction of printing chapter xi francis i.--the renaissance at paris chapter xii rise of the guises--huguenot and catholic--the massacre of st. bartholomew chapter xiii henry iii.--the league--siege of paris by henry iv.--his conversion, reign, and assassination chapter xiv paris under richelieu and mazarin chapter xv the grand monarque--versailles and paris chapter xvi paris under the regency and louis xv.--the brooding storm chapter xvii louis xvi.--the great revolution--fall of the monarchy chapter xviii execution of the king--paris under the first republic--the terror--napoleon--revolutionary and modern paris chapter xix historical paris--the citÉ--the university quarter--the ville--the louvre--the place de la concorde--the boulevards chapter xx the comÉdie franÇaise--the opera--some famous cafÉs--conclusion index list of illustrations list of coloured illustrations by o. f. m. ward rue st. antoine _frontispiece_ point du jour _facing page_ roman baths in musÉe de cluny " " bois de boulogne--lac supÉrieur " " rue st. jacques " " st. julien le pauvre " " port des ormes " " l'institut de france " " hotel gerouilhac " " st. etienne du mont and tour de clovis " " vincennes " " rue de venise " " la sainte chapelle " " the seine from pont da la concorde " " le petit pont " " ile de la citÉ " " the seine at alfortville " " on the quai des grands augustins " " notre dame from the north " " porch of st. germain l'auxerrois " " rue royale " " boulevard st. michel " " luxembourg gardens " " the louvre--galerie d'apollon " " st. gervais " " luxembourg palace " " place des vosges " " pont st. michel " " pont neuf " " notre dame " " place du carrousel " " versailles--le tapis vert " " grand palais and pont alexandre " " hotel des invalides " " colonne vendÔme " " place du chÂtelet and tour st. jacques " " mont s. geneviÈve from l'ile s. louis " " st. sulpice " " montmartre from buttes chamont " " place de la concorde " " eiffel tower " " arc de triomphe, place du carrousel " " the louvre, eastern entrance " " rue drouot and sacrÉ coeur " " versailles--bassin de neptune " " the observatory " " the louvre from the south-east " " st. eustache " " the trocadero " " arc de triomphe--place de l'etoile " " in the garden of the tuileries " " reproductions of paintings and sculpture thirteenth century sculptures from st. denis (restored) our lady of paris. early fifteenth century " " portrait of francis i. jean clouet " " tritons and nereids from the old fontaine des innocents. jean goujon " " portrait of elizabeth of austria, wife of charles ix. franÇois clouet " " catherine de' medici. french school, sixteenth century " " portion of the east faÇade of the louvre. from blondel's drawing, showing perrault's base. (_reproduced by permission of_ m. lampue) " " winged victory of samothrace " " st. george and the dragon. michel colombe " " cardinal virtues. germain pilon " " diana and the stag. jean goujon (_photogravure_) " " the burning bush. nicolas froment (_photogravure_) " " triptych of moulins. le maÎtre de moulins " " juvenal des ursins. fouquet " " shepherds of arcady. poussin " " a seaport. claude lorrain " " landing of cleopatra at tarsus. claude lorrain " " the embarkation for the island of cythera watteau " " grace before meat. chardin " " madame rÉcamier. david " " landscape. corot " " lictors bringing to brutus the bodies of his sons. david " " the pond. rousseau " " the binders. millet " " the majority of the photographs of sculpture have been taken by messrs. haweis & coles, while most of the other photographs are reproduced by permission of messrs. giraudon. line illustrations by katharine kimball page the citÉ remains of roman amphitheatre tower of clovis st. germain des prÉs st. julien le pauvre st. germain l'auxerrois wall of philippe auguste, cour de rouen la sainte chapelle refectory of the cordeliers cathedral of st. denis notre dame: portal of st. anne notre dame--southern side notre dame and petit pont tower in rue navarre in which calvin is said to have lived hÔtel of the provost of paris palais de justice, clock tower and conciergerie palace of the archbishop of sens chapel of fort vincennes tower at the corner of the rue vieille du temple and the rue barbette tower of jean sans peur cloister of the billetes, fifteenth century, rue de l'homme armÉ tower of st. jacques pont notre dame chapel, hÔtel de cluny west door of st. merri tower of st. etienne du mont la fontaine des innocents west wing of louvre by pierre lescot petite galerie of the louvre hÔtel de sully place des vosges old houses near pont st. michel, showing spire of the ste. chapelle the medici fountain, luxembourg gardens pont neuf the institut de france river and pont royal south door of notre dame interior of st. etienne du mont hÔtel de ville from river notre dame, south side st. sÉverin tower and courtyard of hotel cluny old academy of medicine cour du dragon st. gervais place des vosges, maison de victor hugo archives nationales in hÔtel soubise, showing towers of hÔtel de clisson near the pont neuf arches in the courtyard of the hÔtel cluny _the majority of the three-colour, half-tone and line blocks used in this book have been made by the graphic photo-engraving co., london._ list of maps plan of the historic louvre from blondel's drawing xxiii map of the successive walls of paris xxiv plan of paris when besieged by henry iv. in , _facing page_ [illustration: plan of the historic louvre from blondel's drawing the site of the old louvre being added.] [illustration: map of the successive walls of paris] paris and its story chapter i gallo-roman paris the mediæval scribe in the fulness of a divinely-revealed cosmogony is wont to begin his story at the creation of the world or at the confusion of tongues, to trace the building of troy by the descendants of japheth, and the foundation of his own native city by one of the trojan princes made a fugitive in europe by proud ilion's fall. such, he was very sure, was the origin of padua, founded by antenor and by priam, son of king priam, whose grandson, yet another priam, by his great valour and wisdom became the monarch of a mighty people, called from their fair hair, galli or gallici. and of the strong city built on the little island in the seine who could have been its founder but the ravisher of fair helen--sir paris himself? the naïve etymology of the time was evidence enough. but the modern writer, as he compares the geographical position of the capitals of europe, is tempted to exclaim, _cherchez le marchand!_ for he perceives that their unknown founders were dominated by two considerations--facilities for commerce and protection from enemies: and before the era of the roman roadmakers, commerce meant facilities for water carriage. as the early settlers in britain sailed up the thames, they must have observed, where the river's bed begins somewhat to narrow, a hill rising from the continuous expanse of marshes from its mouth, easily defended on the east and west by those fortified posts which, in subsequent times, became the tower of london and barnard's castle. if we scan a map of france, we shall see that the group of islands on and around which paris now stands, lies in the fruitful basin of the seine, known as the isle de france, near the convergence of three rivers; for on the east the marne and the oise, and on the south the yonne, discharge their waters into the main stream on its way to the sea. in ancient times the great line of phoenician, greek and roman commerce followed northwards the valleys of the rhone and of the saone, whose upper waters are divided from those of the yonne only by the plateau of dijon and the calcareous slopes of burgundy. the parisii were thus admirably placed for tapping the profitable commerce of north-west europe, and by the waters of the eure, lower down the seine, were able to touch the fertile valley of the loire. the northern rivers of gaul were all navigable by the small boats of the early traders, and, in contrast with the impetuous sweep of the rhone and the loire in the south and west, flowed with slow and measured stream:[ ] they were rarely flooded, and owing to the normally mild winters, still more rarely blocked by ice. moreover, the parisian settlement stood near the rich corn-land of la beauce, and to the north-east, over the open plain of la valois, lay the way to flanders. it was one of the river stations on the line of the phoenician traders in tin, that most precious and rare of ancient metals, between marseilles and britain, and in the early middle ages became, with lyons and beaucaire, one of the chief fairs of that historic trade route which the main lines of railway traffic still follow to-day. the island now known as the cité, which the founders of paris chose for their stronghold, was the largest of the group which lay involved in the many windings of the seine, and was embraced by a natural moat of deep waters. to north and south lay hills, marshes and forests, and all combined to give it a position equally adapted for defence and for commerce. [illustration: the citÉ.] [illustration: point du jour.] the parisii were a small tribe of gauls who were content to place themselves under the protection of the more powerful senones. their island city was the home of a prosperous community of shipmen and merchants, but it is not until the conquest of gaul by the romans that lutetia, for such was its gallic name, enters the great pageant of written history. it was-- "armèd cæsar falcon-eyed,"[ ] who saw its great military importance, built a permanent camp there and made it a central _entrepôt_ for food and munitions of war. and when in b.c. the general rising of the tribes under vercingetorix threatened to scour the romans out of gaul and to destroy the whole fabric of cæsar's ambition, he sent his favourite lieutenant, labienus, to seize lutetia where the northern army of the gauls was centred. labienus crossed the seine at melun, fixed his camp on a spot near the position of the church of st. germain l'auxerrois, and began the first of the historic sieges for which paris is so famous. but the gaulish commander burnt the bridges, fired the city and took up his position on the slopes of the hill of lutetius (st. genevieve) in the south, and aimed at crushing his enemy between his own forces and an army advancing from the north. labienus having learnt that cæsar was in a tight place, owing to a check at clermont and the defection of the eduans, by a masterly piece of engineering recrossed the seine by night at the point du jour, and when the gauls awoke in the morning they beheld the roman legions in battle array on the plain of grenelle beneath. they made a desperate attempt to drive them against the river, but they lost their leader and were almost annihilated by the superior arms and strategy of the romans. labienus was able to join his master at sens, and the irrevocable subjugation of the gauls soon followed. with the tolerant and enlightened conquerors came the roman peace, roman law, roman roads, the roman schoolmaster; and a more humane religion abolished the druidical sacrifices. lutetia was rebuilt and became a prosperous and, next to lyons, the most important of gallo-roman cities. it lay equidistant from germany and britain and at the issue of valleys which led to the upper and lower rhine. the quarries of mount lutetius produced an admirable building stone, kind to work and hardening well under exposure to the air. its white colour may have won for paris the name of leucotia, or the white city, by which it is sometimes called by ancient writers. cæsar had done his work well, for so completely were the gauls romanised, that by the fifth or sixth century their very language had disappeared.[ ] but towards the end of the third century three lowly wayfarers were journeying from rome along the great southern road to paris, charged by the pope with a mission fraught with greater issues to gaul than the cæsars and all their legions. let us recall somewhat of the appearance of the city which dionysius, rusticus and eleutherius saw as they neared its suburbs and came down what is now known as the rue st. jacques. after passing the arches of the aqueduct, two of which exist to this day, that crossed the valley of arcueil and brought the waters of rungis,[ ] paray and montjean to the baths of the imperial palace, they would discern on the hill of lutetius to their right the roman camp, garrison and cemetery. lower down on its eastern slopes they would catch a glimpse of a great amphitheatre, capable of accommodating , spectators, part of which was laid bare in by some excavations made for the campagnie des omnibus between the rues monge and linné. unhappily, the public subscription initiated by the académie des inscriptions to purchase the property proved inadequate, and the company retained possession of the land. in , however, other excavations were undertaken in the rue de navarre, which resulted in the discovery of the old aqueduct that drained the amphitheatre, and some other remains, which have been preserved and made into a public park. [illustration: remains of roman amphitheatre.] on their left, where now stands the lycée st. louis, would be the theatre of lutetia, and further on the imposing and magnificent palace of the cæsars, with its gardens sloping down to the seine. the turbulent little stream of the bièvre flowed by the foot of mons lutetius on the east, entering the main river opposite the eastern limit of the _civitas_ of lutetia, gleaming white before them and girdled by aurelian's wall[ ] and the waters of the seine. a narrow eel-shaped island, subsequently known as the isle de galilée,[ ] lay between the isle of the cité and the southern bank; two islands, the isles de notre dame and des vaches, divided by a narrow channel to the east, and two small islets, the isles des juifs and de bussy, to the west. another islet, the isle de louviers, lay near the northern bank beyond the two eastern islands. crossing a wooden bridge, where now stands the petit pont, they would enter the forum (place du parvis notre dame) under a triumphal arch. here would be the very foyer of the city; a little way to the left the governor's palace and the basilica, or hall of justice;[ ] to the right the temple of jupiter. as they crossed the island they would find it linked to the northern bank by another wooden bridge, replaced by the present pont notre dame.[ ] in the distance to the north stood mons martis (montmartre) crowned with the temples of mars and mercury, four of whose columns are preserved in the church of st. pierre; and to the west the aqueduct from passy bringing its waters to the mineral baths located on the site of the present palais royal. a road, now the rue st. martin, led to the north; to the east lay the marshy land which is still known as the quarter of the marais. denis and his companions preached and taught the new faith unceasingly and met martyrs' deaths. by the mediæval hagiographers st. denis is invariably confused with dionysius, the areopagite, said to have been converted by st. paul and sent on his mission to france by pope clement. in the _golden legend_ he is famed to have converted much people to the faith, and "did do make many churches," and at length was brought before the judge who "did do smite off the heads of the three fellows by the temple of mercury. and anon the body of st. denis raised himself up and bare his head between his arms, as the angels led him two leagues from the place which is said the hill of the martyrs unto the place where he now resteth by his election and the purveyance of god, when was heard so great and sweet a melody of angels that many that heard it believed in our lord." in an interesting picture, no. in room x. of the louvre, said to have been painted for jean sans peur, duke of burgundy, by malouel, and finished at his death in by bellechose, st. denis in bishop's robes is seen kneeling before the block; the headsman raises his axe; one of the saint's companions has already met his fate, the other awaits it resignedly. to the left, st. denis in prison is receiving the sacred host from the hands of christ. [illustration: roman baths in musÉe de cluny.] the work that denis and his companions began was more fully achieved in the fourth century by the rude pannonion soldier, st. martin, who also evangelised at paris. he is the best-known of gallic saints, and the story of his conversion one of the most popular in christendom. when stationed at amiens he was on duty one bitter cold day at the city gate, and espied a poor naked beggar asking alms. soldiers in garrison are notoriously impecunious, and martin had nothing to give; but drawing his sword he cleaved his mantle in twain, and bestowed half upon the shivering wretch at his feet. that very night the lord jesus appeared to him in a dream surrounded by angels, having on his shoulders the half of the cloak which martin had given to the beggar. turning to the angels, jesus said: "know ye who hath thus arrayed me? my servant martin, though yet unbaptised, hath done this." after this vision martin received baptism and remained steadfast in the faith. at length, desiring to devote himself wholly to christ, he begged permission to leave the army. the emperor julian, who deemed the christian faith fit only to form souls of slaves, reproached him for his cowardice, for he was yet in the prime of life, being forty years of age. "put me," exclaimed martin, "naked and without defence in the forefront of the battle, and armed with the cross alone i will not fear to face the enemy." early on the following morning the barbarians submitted to the emperor without striking a blow, and thus was victory vouchsafed to martin's faith and courage, and he was permitted to leave the army. the illiterate and dauntless soldier became the fiery apostle of the faith, a vigorous iconoclast, throwing down the images of the false gods, breaking their altars in pieces and burning their temples. of the roman gods, mercury, he said, was most difficult to ban, but jove was merely stupid[ ] and brutish, and gave him least trouble. martin was a democratic saint, of ardent charity and austere devotion. later in life he founded the monastery of marmoutier, which grew to be one of the richest in france. his rule was severe; when his monks murmured at the hard fare he bade them remember that cooked herbs and barley bread was the food of the hermits of africa. "that may be," answered they, "but we cannot live like the angels." on the th of march , some workmen, digging a tomb for the archbishop of paris in the choir of notre dame, came upon the walls, six feet below the pavement, of the original christian basilica over which the modern cathedral is built. in the fabric of these walls the early builders had incorporated the remains of the still earlier temple of jupiter, which had been destroyed to give place to the christian church, and among the _débris_ were found the fragments of an altar raised to jove in the reign of tiberius cæsar by the _nautæ_, a guild of parisian merchant-shippers, an altar on whose foyer still remained some of the very burnt wood and incense used in the last pagan sacrifice. the mutilated stones, with their rude gallo-roman reliefs and inscriptions, may be seen in the frigidarium of the thermæ, the old roman baths by the hôtel de cluny, and are among the most interesting of historical documents in paris. the corporation of _nautæ_ who dedicated this altar to jove, were the origin of the commune or civil council of paris, and in later time gave way to the provost[ ] of the merchants and the sheriffs of that city. their device was the _nef_, or ship, which is and has been throughout the ages the arms of paris, and which to this day may be seen carved on the vaultings of the roman baths. in the great palace of which these baths formed but a part was enacted that scene so vividly described in the pages of gibbon, when julian, after his victories over the alemanni and the franks, was acclaimed augustus by the rebellious troops of constantius. on a plain outside paris julian had admonished the sullen legions, angry at being detached from their victorious and darling commander for service on the persian frontier, and had urged them to obedience. but at midnight the young cæsar was awakened by a clamorous and armed multitude besieging the palace, and at early dawn its doors were forced; the reluctant julian was seized and carried in triumph through the streets to be enthroned and saluted as emperor. he was lifted on a shield, and for diadem, crowned with a military collar. in after life the emperor-philosopher looked back with tender regret to the three winters he spent in paris before his elevation to the imperial responsibilities and anxieties. he writes of the busy days and meditative nights he passed in his dear lutetia, with its two wooden bridges, its pure and pleasant waters, its excellent wine. he dwells on the mildness of its climate, where the fig-tree, protected by straw in the winter, grew and fruited. one rigorous season, however, the emperor well remembered[ ] when the seine was blocked by huge masses of ice. julian, who prided himself on his endurance, at first declined the use of those charcoal fires which to this day are a common and deadly method of supplying heat in paris. but his rooms were damp and his servants were allowed to introduce them into his sleeping apartment. the cæsar was almost asphyxiated by the fumes, and his physicians to restore him administered an emetic. julian in his time was beloved of the lutetians, for he was a just and tolerant prince whose yoke was easy. he had purged the soil of gaul from the barbarian invaders, given lutetia peace and security, and made of it an important, imperial city. his statue, found near paris, still recalls his memory in the hall of the great baths of the lutetia he loved so well. the so-called apostasy of this lover of plato and worshipper of the sun, who never went to the wars or travelled without dragging a library of greek authors after him, was a philosophic reaction against the harsh measures,[ ] the bloody and treacherous natures of the christian emperors, and the fierceness of the arian controversy. the movement was but a back-wash in the stream of history, and is of small importance. julian's successors, valentinian and gratian, reversed his policy but shared his love for the fair city on the seine, and spent some winters there. lutetia had now become a rich and cultured gallo-roman city. chapter ii the barbarian invasions--st. genevieve--the conversion of clovis--the merovingian dynasty in the prologue to _faust_ the lord of heaven justifies the existence of the restless, goading spirit of evil by the fact that man's activity is all too prone to flag,-- "_er liebt sich bald die unbedingte ruh._"[ ] as with men so with empires: riches and inaction are hard to bear. it was not so much a corruption of public morals as a growing slackness and apathy in public life and an intellectual sloth that hastened the fall of the roman empire. owing to the gradual exhaustion of the supply of slaves its economic basis was crumbling away. the ruling class was content to administer rather than to govern and unwilling or incompetent to grapple with the new order of things.[ ] for centuries the gauls had been untrained in arms and habituated to look to the imperial legions for defence against the half-savage races of men, giants in stature and strength, surging like an angry sea against their boundaries. towards the end of the fourth century vandals and burgundians, suevi and alemanni, goth and hun, treading on each other's heels, burst through the rhine frontier, destroyed the roman garrisons and forts, and inundated gaul. two of these races stayed to form kingdoms: the burgundians in the fertile plains of the rhine; the visigoths in aquitaine and north spain, whose aid the romans were fain to seek to roll back the hordes of attila's huns at chalons-sur-marne. this was the last achievement of roman arms in gaul, and even that victory was largely due to the courage of the goths. in the fifth century the confederation of frankish tribes who had conquered and settled in belgium saw successive waves of invasion pass by, and determined to have their part in the spoils of gaul. they soon overran flanders and the north, and at length under clovis captured paris and conquered nearly the whole of gaul. the end of the fifth century is the beginning of the evil times of gallic story. that fair land of france, "one of nature's choicest masterpieces, one of ceres' chiefest barns for corn, one of bacchus' prime wine cellars and of neptune's best salt-pits," became the prey of the barbarian. the whole fabric of civilisation seem doomed to destruction. gaul had become the richest and most populous of roman provinces; its learning and literature were noised in rome; its schools drew students from the mother city herself. but at the end of the sixth century gregory of tours deplores the fact that in his time there were neither books, nor readers, nor scholar who could compose in verse or prose, and that only the speech of the rustic was understood. he playfully scolds himself for muddling prepositions and confusing genders and cases, but his duty as a christian priest is to instruct, not to charm, and so he tells the story of his times in such rustic latin as he knows. he draws for us a vivid picture of clovis, the founder of the french monarchy, his savage valour, his astuteness, his regal passion. after the victory over syagrius, the shadowy king of the romans, at soissons, clovis was met by st. rémi, who prayed that a vase of great price and wondrous beauty among the spoil might be returned to him. "follow us," said the king, "to soissons, where the booty will be shared." before the division took place clovis begged that the vase might be accorded to him. his warriors answered: "all, glorious king, is thine." but before the king could grasp the vase, one, jealous and angry, threw his _francisque_[ ] at it, exclaiming: "thou shalt have no more than falls to thy lot." the broken vase was however apportioned to the king, who restored it to the bishop. but clovis hid the wound in his heart. at the annual review in the champ de mars near paris, the king strode along the line inspecting the weapons of his warriors. he stopped in front of the uncourtly soldier, took his axe from him, complained of its foul state, and flung it angrily on the ground. as the man stooped to pick it up clovis, with his own axe, cleft his skull in twain, exclaiming: "thus didst thou to the vase at soissons." "even so," says gregory quaintly, "did he inspire all with great fear." at this point of our story we meet the first of those noble women, heroic and wise, for whom french history is pre-eminent. in the first half of the fifth century st. germain of auxerre and st. lew of troyes, chosen by the prelates of france "for to go and quench an heresy that was in great britain, now called england, came to nanterre for to be lodged and harboured and the people came against them for to have their benison. among the people, st. germain, by the enseignements of the holy ghost, espied out the little maid st. genevieve, and made her come to him, and kissed her head and demanded her name, and whose daughter she was, and the people about her said that her name was genevieve, and her father severe, and her mother geronce, which came unto him, and the holy man said: is this child yours? they answered: yea. blessed be ye, said the holy man, when god hath given to you so noble lineage, know ye for certain that the day of her nativity the angels sang and hallowed great mystery in heaven with great joy and gladness." when on the morn she was brought to him again, he saw in her a sign celestial, commended her to god, and prayed that she would remember him in her orisons, and on his return to paris, finding her in the city, he commended her to its people. tidings came that "attila, the felon knight of hungary, had enterprised to destroy and waste the parts of france," and the burgesses of paris for great dread they had, sent their goods into cities more sure. genevieve caused the good women of the town "to wake in fastings and orisons, and bade the merchants not to remove their goods for the city should have none harm." at first the people hardened their hearts and reviled her, but at st. germain's prayers they believed in her, and our lord "for her love did so much that the tyrants approached not paris, thanks and glory to god and honour to the virgin." at the siege of paris by childeric and his franks, when the people were wasted by sickness and famine, "the holy virgin, that pity constrained, went by the seine to arcy and troyes for to go fetch by ship some victuals. she stilled by her prayers a furious tempest and brought the ships back laden with wheat." when the city was at length captured, king childeric, although a paynim, saved at her intercession the lives of his prisoners, and one day, to escape her importunate pleadings for the lives of some criminals, fled out of the gates of paris and shut them behind him. the saint lived to build a church over the tomb of st. denis and to see clovis become a christian. she died in , and was buried on the hill of lutetius, which ever since has borne her name. [illustration: tower of clovis.] "her hope," says the _golden legend_, from which we have chiefly drawn her story, "was nothing in worldly things, but in heavenly, for she believed in the holy scriptures that saith: whoso giveth to the poor liveth for availe. the reward which they receive that give to poor people, the holy ghost had showed to her long tofore, and therefore she ceased not to weep, to adore and to do works of pity, for she knew well that she was none other in this world but a pilgrim passing." the faithful built a little wooden oratory over her tomb, which clovis and his wife clotilde replaced by a great basilica and monastery which became their burial-place. all that now recalls the church, whose length the king measured by the distance he could hurl his axe, is the so-called tower of clovis, a thirteenth-century structure in the rue clovis. the golden shrine of the saint,[ ] which reached thirty feet above the high altar, was confiscated by the revolutionists to pay their armies, and what remains of her relics is now treasured in the neighbouring church of st. etienne du mont. the conversion of clovis is the capital fact of early french history. his queen clotilde, niece of the burgundian king, had long[ ] importuned him to declare himself a christian. he had consented to the baptism of their firstborn, but the infant's death within a week seemed an admonition from his own jealous gods. a second son, however, recovered from grievous sickness at his wife's prayers and this, aided perhaps by a shrewd insight into the trend of events, induced him to lend a more willing ear to the teachers of the new faith. in the franks were at death grapple with their german foes at tolbiac. clovis, when the fight went against him, invoked the god of the christians and prayed to be delivered from his enemies. his cry was heard and the advent of the new lord of battles was winged with victory. there was a stirring scene that christmas at rheims, when clovis with his two sisters and three thousand of his warriors marched through the streets, all hung with cloth of many colours, into the cathedral which was glittering with innumerable candles and perfumed with incense of divine odour. clovis was the first to be baptised. "bend thy neck, gentle sicamber," cried st. rémi. "adore what thou didst burn: burn what thou didst adore." when the bishop was reading the gospel story of the passion, the king, thrilled with indignation, cried out: "ah! had i been there with my franks i would have avenged the christ." the conversion of clovis was a triumph for the church: in her struggle with the arian heresy in gaul, she was now able to enforce the arguments of the pen by the edge of the sword. the enemies of clovis were the enemies of the church, and as the representative of the eastern emperor, she arrayed him, after the defeat of the arian goths in the south, in purple and hailed him consul and augustus at tours. her scribes are tender to his memory, for his christianity was marked by few signs of grace. he remained the same savage monarch as before, and did not scruple to affirm his dynasty and extend his empire by treachery and by the assassination of his kinsmen. to the franks, jesus was but a new and more puissant tribal deity. "long live the christ who loves the franks," writes the author of the prologue to the salic law; and clothaire i., when the pangs of death seized him in his villa at compiègne, cried out, "who is this god of heaven that thus allows the greatest kings of the earth to perish?" nor was their ideal of kingship any loftier. their kingdom was not a trust, but a possession to be divided among their heirs, and the jealousy and strife excited by the repeated partition among sons, make the history of the merovingian[ ] dynasty a tale of cruelty and treachery whose every page is stained with blood. [illustration: bois de boulogne--lac supÉrieur] in the ninth century a story was current among the people of france which admirably symbolises the fate of the dynasty. one night as childeric, father of clovis, lay by the side of basine, his wife, she awoke him and said, "arise, o king, look in the courtyard of thy dwelling and tell thy servant what thou shalt see." childeric arose and saw beasts pass by that seemed like unto lions, unicorns and leopards. he returned to his wife and told her what he had seen. and basine said to him: "master, go once again and tell thy servant what thou shalt see." childeric went forth anew and saw beasts passing by like unto bears and wolves. having related this to his wife she bade him go forth yet a third time. he now saw dogs and other baser animals rending each other to pieces. then said basine to childeric: "what thou hast seen with thine eyes shall verily come to pass. a son shall be born to us who will be a lion for courage: the sons of our sons shall be like unto leopards and unicorns: they in their turn shall bring forth children like unto bears and wolves for their voracity. the last of those whom thou sawest shall come for the end and destruction of the kingdom." clovis, in , made paris the official capital of his realm, and at his death in divided his possessions between his four sons--thierry, clodomir, childebert, and clothaire. clodomir after a short reign met his death in battle, leaving his children to the guardianship of their grandmother, clotilde. one day messengers came to her in the palace of the thermæ from childebert and clothaire praying that their nephews might be entrusted to them. believing they were to be trained in kingly offices that they might succeed their father in due time, clotilde granted their prayer and two of the children were sent to them in the palace of the cité. soon came another messenger, bearing a pair of shears and a naked sword, and clotilde was bidden to determine the fate of her wards and to choose for them between the cloister and the edge of the sword. an angry exclamation escaped her: "if they are not to be raised to the throne, i would rather see them dead than shorn." the messenger waited to hear no more and hastened back to the two kings. clothaire then seized the elder of the children and stabbed him under the armpit. the younger, at the sight of his brother's blood, flung himself at childebert's feet, burst into tears, and cried: "help me, dear father, let me not die even as my brother." childebert's heart was softened and he begged for the child's life. clothaire's only answer was a volley of insults and a threat of death if he protected the victim. childebert then disintwined the child's tender arms clasping his knees--he was but six years of age--and pushed him to his brother, who drove a dagger into his breast. the tutors and servants of the children were then butchered, and clothaire rode calmly to his palace, to become at his brother's death, in , sole king of the franks. the third child, clodoald, owing to the devotion of faithful servants escaped, and was hidden for some time in provence. later in life he returned to paris and built a monastery at a place still known by his name (st. cloud) about two leagues from the city. clothaire himself had narrowly escaped assassination when allied with thierry during the wars with the thuringians. thierry invited his brother one day to a conference, having previously hidden some armed men behind the hangings in his tent. but the drapery was too short, and clothaire as he entered caught sight of the assassins' feet peeping through. he retained his arms and his escort. thierry invented some fable to explain the interview, embraced his brother and bestowed on him a heavy silver plate. the fruits of kingship were bitter to clothaire. ere two years were past his rebellious and adulterous son, chramm, escaped to brittany and raised an army against him. chramm and his allies were defeated, himself, his wife and children captured. clothaire spared none. chramm was strangled with a handkerchief, and his wife and children were cast into a peasant's hut which was set on fire and all perished in the flames. next year the king took cold while hunting near compiègne, fell sick of a fever and died. four out of seven sons had survived him, and again the kingdom was divided. charibert, king of paris, soon died, and yet again a partition was made among the three survivors. to siegbert fell austrasia or eastern france as far as the rhine: to chilperic, neustria or western france to the borders of brittany and the loire: gontram's lot was burgundy. once more the consuming flames of passion and greed burst forth, this time fanned by the fierce breath of feminine rivalry. siegbert had married brunehaut, daughter of the visigoth king of spain: chilperic had espoused her sister, galowinthe, after repudiating his first wife, adowere. when the new queen of neustria came to her throne she found herself the rival of fredegonde, a common servant, with whom chilperic had been living. he soon tired of his new wife, a gentle and pliant creature; fredegonde regained her supremacy and one morning galowinthe was found strangled in bed. the news came to the court of austrasia and brunehaut goaded king siegbert to avenge her sister's death. meanwhile chilperic had married fredegonde, who quickly compassed the murder of her only rival, the repudiated queen, adowere. at the intervention of gontram war was, for a time, averted, and chilperic, by the judgment of the whole people, made to compensate brunehaut by the restoration of her sister's dowry. but chilperic soon drew the sword and civil war again devastated the land. by foreign aid siegbert captured and spoiled paris and compelled a peace. scarcely, however, had the victor dismissed his german allies, when chilperic fell upon him again. siegbert now determined to make an end. he entered paris, and the neustrians having accepted him as king, he prepared to crush his enemy at tournay. as he set forth, st. germain, bishop of paris, seized his horse's bridle and warned him that the grave he was digging for his brother would swallow him too. it was of no avail. he marched to vitry and was proclaimed king of neustria. after the proclamation two messengers desired to see him. as he stood between them listening to their suit he was stabbed on either side by two long poisoned knives: the assassins had been sent by fredegonde. chilperic now hastened to paris and seized the royal treasure. brunehaut's son, childebert ii., a child of five, was, however, stolen away from the palace in a basket by one of siegbert's faithful servants and proclaimed king by the warriors. but fredegonde's tale of blood was not yet complete. she soon learned that merovée, one of chilperic's two sons by adowere, had married brunehaut. merovée followed the rest of her victims, and clovis, the second son, together with a sister of adowere, next glutted her vengeance. "one day, after leaving the synod of paris," writes st. gregory, "i had bidden king chilperic adieu and had withdrawn conversing with the bishop of albi. as we crossed the courtyard of the palace[ ] he said: 'seest thou not what i perceive above this roof?' i answered, 'i see only a second building which the king has had built.' he asked again, 'seest thou naught else?' i weened he spoke in jest and did but answer--'if thou seest aught else, prithee show it unto me.' then uttering a deep sigh, he said: 'i see the sword of god's wrath suspended over this house.'" shortly after this conversation chilperic having returned from the chase to his royal villa of chelles, was leaning on the shoulder of one of his companions to descend from his horse, when landeric, servant of fredegonde, stabbed him to death. thirty years were yet to pass before the curtain falls on the acts of the rival queens, their sons and grandsons, but the heart revolts at the details of the wars and lusts of these savage potentates. gregory begins the fifth book of his _annals_ by expressing the weariness that falls upon him when he recalls the manifold civil wars of the franks. [illustration: rue st. jacques.] let us make an end of this part of our story. by her son, clothaire ii., fredegonde continued to dominate neustria: brunehaut ruled over austrasia and burgundy through her sons theodobert ii. and thierry ii. battle and murder had destroyed brunehaut's children and her children's children until none were left to rule over the realms but herself and the four sons of thierry ii. the nobles, furious at the further tyranny of a cruel and imperious woman, plotted her ruin, and in , when brunehaut, sure of victory, marched with two armies against clothaire ii., she was betrayed to him, her implacable enemy. he reproached her with the death of ten kings, and set her on a camel for three days to be mocked and insulted by the army. the old and fallen queen was then tied to the tail of a horse: the creature was lashed into fury and soon all that remained of the proud queen was a shapeless mass of carrion. the traditional place where brunehaut met her death is still shown at the corner of the rue st. honoré and the rue de l'arbre sec. thierry's four sons had already been put to death. in her rival fredegonde, at the height of her prosperity, had died peacefully in bed, full of years, and was buried in the church of st. vincent (st. germain des prés) by the side of chilperic, her husband, and clothaire ii. became sole monarch of the three kingdoms. amid all this ruin and desolation, when the four angels of the euphrates seem to have been loosed on gaul, one force was silently at work knitting up the ravelled ends of the rent fabric of civilisation and tending a lamp which burned with the promise of ideals nobler far than those which fed the ancient faith and polity. the christian bishops were everywhere filling the empty curule chairs in the cities and provinces of gaul. at the end of the sixth century society lived in the church and by the church, and the sees of the archbishops and bishops corresponded to the roman administrative divisions. all that was best in the old gallo-roman aristocracy was drawn into her bosom, for she was the one power making for unity and good government. from one end of the land to the other the bishops visited and corresponded with each other. they alone had communion of ideas, common sentiments and common interests. st. gregory, bishop of tours, was the son of a senator; st. germain of auxerre was a man of noble lineage, who had already exercised high public functions before he was made a bishop. st. germain of autun was ever on the move, now in brittany, now at paris, now at arles, to crush heresy, to threaten a barbarian potentate, or to sear the conscience and, if need were, ban the person of a guilty christian king. the bishop of trèves, seeing the horses of some royal frankish envoys grazing in the wheat-fields of the peasants, threatened to excommunicate them if they spoiled the substance of the poor, and himself drove the horses away. by the end of the sixth century two hundred and thirty-eight monastic institutions had been founded in gaul, and from the sixth to the eighth century, eighty-three churches were built. the monasteries were so many nurseries of the industry, knowledge and learning which had not perished in the barbarian invasions; so many cities of refuge from violence and rapine, where the few who thirsted after righteousness and burned with charity might find shelter and protection. "every letter traced on paper," said an old abbot, "is a blow to the devil." the ecclesiastical and monastic schools took the place of the destroyed roman day-schools, and whatever modicum of learning the frankish courts could boast of, was due to the monks and nuns of their time; for some at least of these potentates when not absorbed in the gratification of their lusts, their vengeance, greed, or ambition, were possessed by nobler instincts. brunehaut, nurtured in the more cultured atmosphere of the visigoth court of spain, protected commerce and kept the roman roads[ ] in repair, founded monasteries and corresponded with gregory the great, who commended to her care the safety of his missionaries passing through her dominions to convert the angles across the straits. chilperic, whom gregory of tours brands as the herod and nero of his time, plumed himself on his piety, was concerned at the blasphemies of the jews, and forced on them conversion or exile at the sword's point. he composed latin hymns, and discussed the nature of the trinity with gregory and the bishop of albi. he sought to reform the alphabet by the addition of new letters which corresponded to the guttural sounds in the frankish tongue, and ordered that the old alphabet should be erased from the children's books with pumice stone in all the cities of his kingdom, and the reformed alphabet substituted for it. among the wives of clothaire i. was the gentle radegonde, who turned with horror from the bloody scenes of the palace to live in works of charity with the poor and suffering, and in holy communion with priests and bishops. she was at length consecrated a deaconess by st. medard, donned the habit of a nun, and founded a convent at poitiers, where the poet fortunatus had himself ordained a priest that he might be near her. radegonde's memory is dear to us in england, for it was a small company of her nuns who settled on the green croft by the river bank below cambridge, and founded a priory whose noble church and monastic buildings were subsequently incorporated in jesus college when the nunnery was suppressed by bishop alcock in . [illustration: st. germain des prÉs.] [illustration: st. julien le pauvre.] to st. germain of autun, made bishop in , paris owes one of her earliest ecclesiastical foundations. his influence over childebert, king of paris, was great. he obtained an order that those who refused to destroy pagan idols in their possession were to answer to the king, and when childebert and his warriors, seized by an irresistible fighting impulse, marched into spain, and were bought off the siege and sack of saragossa by the present of the tunic of st. vincent, he induced the king to found the abbey and church of st. vincent (st. germain des prés), to receive the relic. in childebert's reign was begun on the site of the present cathedral of notre dame a splendid basilica, so magnificently decorated that it was compared to solomon's temple for the beauty and the delicacy of its art. during this great outburst of zeal and devotion another monastery was established and dedicated to st. vincent, which subsequently became associated with the name of the earlier st. germain of auxerre (l'auxerrois). a curious episode is found in gregory's _chronicle_, which is characteristic of the times, and proves that a monastery and church of st. julien le pauvre were already in existence. an impostor, claiming to have the relics of st. vincent and st. felix, came to paris, but refused to deposit them with the bishop for verification. he was arrested and searched, and the so-called relics were found to consist of mole's teeth, the bones of mice, some bear's claws and other rubbish. they were flung into the seine and the impostor was put in prison. gregory, who was lodging in the monastery of st. julien le pauvre, went into the church shortly after midnight to say matins, and found the creature, who had escaped from the bishop's prison, dead drunk on the pavement. he had him dragged away into a corner, but so intolerable was the stench that the pavement was purified with water and sweet smelling herbs. when the bishops, who were at paris for a synod, met at dinner the next day, the impostor was identified as a fugitive slave of the bishop of tarbes. at the end of the sixth century we bid adieu to st. gregory of tours, gentlest of annalists. courageous and independent before kings, he had a pitying heart for the poor and suffering, and bewails the loss of many sweet little babes of christ, during the plague of , whom he had warmed at his breast, carried in his arms, and fed tenderly with his hands. clothaire ii. was a pious king in his way, interested in letters, a munificent patron of the church, but overfond of the chase and inheriting the savage instincts of his race in dealing with enemies. after quelling a saxon revolt he is said to have killed all the warriors whose stature exceeded the length of his sword. dagobert the great, his son, who succeeded him in , was the most enlightened and mightiest of the merovingian kings. he and his favourite minister, st. eloy, goldsmith and bishop (founder of the convent which long bore his name), are enshrined in the hearts of the people in many a song and ballad:--st. eloy, with his good humour, his happy countenance, his eloquence, gentleness, modesty, wit, and wide charity; dagobert, the solomon of the franks, the terror of the oppressor, the darling of the poor. the great king was fond of paris and established himself there when not scouring his kingdom to administer justice or to crush his enemies. he was the second founder of the monastery of st. denis, which he rebuilt and endowed, and to which he gave much importance by the establishment there of a great fair, which soon drew merchants from all parts of europe. he was a patron of the arts and employed st. eloy to make reliquaries[ ] for the churches in paris of such richness and beauty that they were admired of the whole of france. chaos and misery followed the brilliant reign of dagobert. in half a century his race had faded into the feeble _rois fainéants_, degenerate by precocious debauchery, some of whom were fathers at fourteen or fifteen years of age and in their graves before they were thirty.[ ] in an age when human passions are untamed, the one unpardonable vice in a king is weakness, and soon the incapable, impotent and irresolute merovingians were thrust aside by a more puissant race. chapter iii the carlovingians--the great siege of paris by the normans--the germs of feudalism at the head of the establishment of every merovingian chief was his mayor, or major domus, who administered his domains and acted as deputy when his master was non-resident or away at the wars. a similar official of the king's household, the mayor of the palace, likewise presided over the royal council and tribunal in the absence or during the minority of the king. in , when dagobert became king of austrasia, one pepin of landen, known as pepin le vieux, was made mayor of the palace and, associated with st. arnoulf, bishop of metz, was appointed ward of the young king. a marriage between pepin's daughter and the son of st. arnoulf resulted in the birth of pepin of heristal, who in the anarchy that followed on dagobert's death succeeded in crushing ebroin,[ ] the king-maker, mayor of the palace of neustria. pepin then seized the royal treasury, installed thierry iii. as king of the franks and himself as mayor of the palace. pepin's successor, for the office of mayor had now become hereditary, was charles martel, his son by alfaide, a fair and noble concubine. he it was, who by his valour and address saved western europe from the mussulman at tours, and made glorious his name in christendom. at his death, when crossing the alps to defend the pope against the arian lombards, the leadership of the franks passed to his sons carloman and pepin the short, of whom the latter, on his brother's retirement to the cloister at the famous italian benedictine monastery at monte cassino, held undivided sway. charles martel, although buried with the frankish kings at st. denis, was content with the title of duke of the franks, and hesitated to proclaim himself king. he, like the other mayors of the palace, ruled through feeble and pensioned puppets when they did not contemptuously leave the throne vacant. in pepin sent two prelates to sound pope zacchary, who, being hard pressed by the lombards, lent a willing ear to their suit, agreed that he who was king in fact should be made so in name, and authorised pepin to assume the title of king. chilperic iii., like a discarded toy, was relegated to a monastery at st. omer, and pepin the short anointed at soissons by st. boniface, bishop of mayence, from that sacred "ampul full of chrism" which an angel of paradise had brought to st. rémi wherewith to anoint clovis at rheims. in the year stephen iii., the first pope who had honoured paris by his presence, came to ask the reward of his predecessor's favour and was lodged at st. denis. there he anointed pepin anew, with his sons charles and carloman, and compelled the frankish chieftains, under pain of excommunication, to swear allegiance to them and their descendants. the city of lutetia had much changed since the messengers of pope fabianus entered five centuries before. on that southern hill where formerly stood the roman camp and cemetery were now the great basilica and abbey of st. genevieve. the amphitheatre and probably much of the palace of the cæsars were in ruins, all stripped of their marbles to adorn the new christian churches. extensive abbatial buildings and a church resplendent with marble and gold, on the west, were dedicated to st. vincent, and were henceforth to be known as st. germain of the meadows (_des prés_), for the saint's body had been translated from the chapel of st. symphorien in the vestibule to the high altar of the abbey church a few weeks before the pope's arrival at st. denis. the cité[ ] was still held within the decayed roman walls, and a wooden bridge, the petit pont, crossed the south arm of the seine. on the site of the old pagan temple to jupiter by the market-place stood a new and magnificent basilica to our lady. the devotion of the _nautæ_ had been transferred from apollo to st. nicholas, patron of shipmen, and mercury had given place to st. michael, and to each of those saints oratories were erected. other churches and oratories adorned the island, dedicated to st. stephen, st. gervais, and st. denis of the prison (_de la chartre_), built where the saint was imprisoned by the north wall and where, abandoned by his followers, he was visited by his divine lord, who himself administered the sacred host. a nunnery dedicated to st. eloy, where three hundred pious nuns diffused the odour of jesus christ through the whole city, occupied a large site opposite the west front of notre dame. near by stood a hospital, founded and endowed a century before by st. landry, bishop of paris, for the sick poor, which soon became known as the hostel of god (_hôtel dieu_). the old roman palace and basilica had been transformed into the official residence and tribunal of justice of the frankish kings. on the south bank stood the church and monastery of st. julien le pauvre. a new frankish city was growing on the north bank, bounded on the west by the abbey of st. vincent le rond, later known as st. germain l'auxerrois, and on the east by the abbey of st. lawrence. houses clustered around the four great monasteries, and suburbs were in course of formation. the cité was still largely inhabited by opulent merchants of gallo-roman descent, who were seen riding along the streets in richly-decorated chariots drawn by oxen. [illustration: st. julien le pauvre.] king pepin, after proving himself a valiant champion of orthodoxy by defeating the arian lombards, and bestowing ravenna on the pope in perpetual sovereignty, died at paris in . the kingdom of france was then shared by his sons, charles and carloman, and on the latter's death in charles, surnamed the great, began his tremendous career during which the interest of the french monarchy shifts from paris to aix-la-chapelle. charlemagne during his long reign of nearly half a century was too preoccupied with his noble but ineffectual purpose of cementing by blood and iron the warring races of europe into a united _populus christianus_, and establishing, under the dual lordship of emperor and pope, a city of god on earth, to give much attention to paris. he did, however, spend a few christmases there, and was present at the dedication of the new church of st. denis, completed in under abbot fulrad. it was a typical frankish prince whom the parisians saw enthroned at st. denis. he had the abundant fair hair, shaven chin and long moustache we see in the traditional pictures of clovis. above middle height, with bright piercing eyes and short neck, he impressed all by the majesty of his bearing in spite of a rather shrill and feeble voice and a certain asymmetrical rotundity below the belt. abbot fulrad was a sturdy prince and for long disputed the possession of some lands at plessis with the bishop of paris. the decision of the case is characteristic of the times. two champions were deputed to act for the litigants, and met before the count of paris[ ] in the king's chapel of st. nicholas in the palace of the cité, and a solemn judgment by the cross was held. while the royal chaplain recited psalms and prayers, the two champions stood forth and held their arms outstretched in the form of a cross. in this trial of endurance the bishop's deputy was the first to succumb. his fainting arms drooped and the abbot won his cause. paris grew but slowly under the frankish kings. they lived ill at ease within city walls. children of the fields and the forest, whose delight was in the chase or in war, they were glad to escape from paris to their villas at chelles or compiègne. but the civil power of the church grew apace. in the early sixth century one-third of the land of france was held and administered by the monasteries. the abbots of st. germain des prés held possession of nearly , acres of land, mostly arable, in various provinces of france. their annual revenue amounted to about £ , of our money: they ruled over more than , serfs. from a list of the lands held in the ninth century by the abbey of st. pierre des fossés,[ ] founded by clovis ii. about eight miles from paris, and published in the _trésor des pièces rares ou inédites_, we are able to form some idea of the vast extent of monastic possessions in the city. the names of the various properties whose boundaries touch those of the abbey lands are given. private owners are mentioned only four times, whereas to ecclesiastical and monastic domains there are no less than ninety references. these monastic settlements were veritable garden cities, where most of our modern fruits, flowers and vegetables were cultivated; where flocks and herds were bred and all kinds of poultry, including pheasants and peacocks, reared. guilds of craftsmen worked and flourished; markets were held generally on saints' days, and pilgrimages were fostered. charlemagne was an honest coiner and a protector of foreign traders; he was tolerant of the jews, the only capitalists of the time, and under him paris became the "market of the peoples," and venetian and syrian merchants sought her shores. in gallo-roman days few were the churches outside the cities, but in the great emperor's time every villa[ ] is said to have had its chapel or oratory served by a priest. charlemagne was a zealous patron of such learning as the epoch afforded, and sought out scholars in every land. english, irish, scotch, italian, goth and bavarian--all were welcomed. the english scholar alcuin, master of the cloister school at york, became his chief adviser and tutor. he would have every child in his empire to know at least his paternoster. every abbot on election was required to endow the monastery with some books. the choice of authors was not a wide one: the old and new testaments; the writings of the fathers, especially st. augustine, the emperor's favourite author; josephus; the works of bede; some latin authors, chiefly virgil; some scraps of plato translated into latin--a somewhat exiguous and austere library, but one which reared a noble and valiant line of scholars and statesmen to rule the minds and bridle the savage lusts of the coming generations of men. under irish and anglo-saxon influences the cramped, minute script of the merovingian scribes grew in beauty and lucidity: gold and silver and colour illuminated the pages of their books. the golden age of the roman peace seemed dawning again in a new _imperium christianorum_. towards the end of his reign the old emperor was dining with his court in a seaport town in the south of france, when news came that some strange, black, piratical craft had dared to attack the harbour. they were soon scattered, but the emperor was seen to rise from the table and go to a window, where he stood gazing fixedly at the retreating pirates. tears trickled down his cheeks and none dared to approach him. at length he turned and said: "know ye, my faithful servants, wherefore i weep thus bitterly? i fear not these wretched pirates, but i am afflicted that they should dare to approach these shores, and sorely do grieve when i foresee what evil they will work on my sons and on my people." his courtiers deemed they were breton or saracen pirates, but the emperor knew better. they were the terrible northmen, soon to prove a bloodier scourge to gaul than hun or goth or saracen; and to meet them charlemagne left an empire distracted by civil war and a nerveless, feeble prince, louis the pious, louis the forgiving, fitter for the hermit's cell than for the throne and sword of an emperor. in the black boats of the sea-rovers for the first time entered the seine, and burnt rouen and fontenelle. in a fleet of one hundred and twenty vessels swept up its higher waters and on easter eve captured, plundered and burnt paris, sacked its monasteries and churches and butchered their monks and priests. the futile emperor charles the bald bought them off at st. denis with seven thousand livres of silver, and they went back to their scandinavian homes gorged with plunder--only to return year by year, increased in numbers and ferocity. words cannot picture the terror of the citizens and monks when the dread squadrons, with the monstrous dragons carved on their prows, their great sails and three-fold serried ranks of men-of-prey, were sighted. everyone left his home and sought refuge in flight. the monks hurried off with the bodies of the saints, the relics and treasures of the sanctuary, to hide them in far-away cities. in charles the bald's soldiers refused to fight, and for two hundred and eighty-seven days the pirates ravaged the valley of the seine at their will. never within memory or tradition were such things known. rouen, bayeux, beauvais, paris, meaux, melun, chartres, evreux, were devastated. the islands of the seine were whitened by the bones of the victims. similar horrors were wrought along the other rivers of france. whole districts reverted to paganism. in a body of the freebooters settled on the island of oissel, below rouen, and issued forth _en excursion_ to spoil and slay and burn at their pleasure. they made of the once rich city of paris a cinder heap; the cathedrals of st. germain des prés and of st. denis alone escaped at the cost of immense bribes. charles ordered two fortresses to be built for the defence of the approaches to the bridges, and continued his feeble policy of paying blackmail. [illustration: port des ormes.] in robert the strong, count of paris, had won the title of the maccabeus of france, by daring to stand against the fury of the northmen and to defeat them; but having in the heat of battle with the terrible hastings taken off his cuirass, he was killed. in began a second period of raids of even greater ferocity under the norwegian rollo the gangr[ ] (the walker), a colossus so huge that no horse could be found to bear him. in the whole christian people seemed doomed to perish. flourishing cities and monasteries became heaps of smoking ruins; along the roads lay the bodies of priests and laymen, noble and peasant, freeman and serf, women and children and babes at the breast to be devoured of wolves and vultures. the very sanctuaries[ ] were become the dens of wild beasts, the haunt of serpents and creeping things. packs of wolves, three hundred strong, harried aquitaine. in a great league of pirates--danes, normans, saxons, britons and renegade french--on their way to ravage the rich cities of burgundy drew up before paris; and their leader, siegfroy, demanded passage to the higher waters. for paris had now been put in a state of defence, the roman walls repaired, the bridges fortified and protected by towers on the north and south banks. bishop gozlin, in whom great learning was wedded to incomparable fortitude, defied the pirates, warning them that the citizens were determined to resist and to hold paris for a bulwark to the other cities of france. paris, forsaken by her kings and emperors for more than a century, scarred and bled by three sieges, was now to become a beacon of hope to the wretched land of france. of the fourth and most terrible of the norman sieges of paris, we have fuller record. a certain monk of st. germain des prés, abbo by name, had endured the siege and was one day sitting in his cell reading his virgil. desiring to exercise his latin, and give an example to other cities, he determined to sing of a great siege with happier issue than that of troy.[ ] abbo saw the black hulls and horrid prows of the pirates' boats as they turned the arm of the seine below paris, seven hundred strong vessels, and many more of lighter build. for two leagues and a half the very waters of the seine were covered with them, and men asked into what mysterious caves the river had retreated. on november th, the attack began at the unfinished tower on the north bank. three leaders stand eminent among the defenders of the city. bishop gozlin, the great warrior priest; his nephew, abbot ebles of st. denis; and count eudes (hugh) of paris, son of robert the strong. the air is darkened with javelins and arrows. the abbot with one shaft spits seven of the besiegers, and mockingly bids their fellows take them to the kitchen to be cooked. bishop gozlin is wounded by a javelin early in the attack. on the morrow, reinforced by fresh troops, the assault is renewed, stones are hurled, arrows whistle: the air is filled with groans and cries. the defenders pour down boiling oil and melted wax and pitch. the hair of some of the normans takes fire: they burn and the parisians shout--"jump into the seine to cool yourselves." one well-aimed millstone, says abbo, sends the souls of six to hell. the baffled northmen retire, entrench a camp at st. germain l'auxerrois, and prepare rams and other siege artillery. [illustration: st. germain l'auxerrois.] abbo now pauses to bewail the state of france: no lord to rule her, everywhere devastation wrought by fire and sword, god's people paralysed at the advancing phalanx of death, paris alone tranquil, erect and steadfast in the midst of all their thunderbolts, _polis ut regina micans omnes super urbes_, like a queenly city resplendent above all towns. the second attack begins with redoubled fury. after battering the walls of the north tower, monstrous machines on sixteen wheels are advanced and the besiegers strive to fill the fosse. trees, shrubs, slaughtered cattle, wounded horses, the very captives slain before the eyes of the besieged, are cast in to fill the void. bishop gozlin brings down a norman chieftain by a well-aimed arrow: his body, too, is flung into the fosse. the enemy cover the plain with their swords and the river with their bucklers. fireships are loosed against the bridge. in the city women fly to the sanctuaries: they roll their hair in the dust, beat their breasts and rend their faces. they call on st. germain: "blessed st. germain, succour thy servants." the fighters on the walls take up the cry. bishop gozlin invokes the virgin, mother of the redeemer, star of the sea, bright above all other stars, to save them from the cruel danes. on february th, , a sudden flood sweeps away the petit pont, and its tower, with twelve defenders, is isolated. with shouts of triumph the northmen cross the river and surround it. the twelve refuse to yield, and fire is brought. the warriors (a touching detail) fearing lest their falcons be stifled, cut them loose. there is but one vessel wherewith to quench the flames and that soon drops from their hands. the little band rush forth, place themselves against the ruins of the bridge, and prepare to sell their lives dearly--terrible against terrible foes. the walls of the city are lined with their kinsmen and friends impotent to help. the enemies of god, doomed one day to dine at pluto's cauldron, press upon them. they fight till phoebus sinks to the depths of the sea, so great is the courage of despair. they are promised their lives if they will yield, are disarmed, then treacherously slain, and their souls fly to heaven. but one, hervé, of noble bearing and of great beauty, deemed a prince, is spared for ransom. with thunderous voice he refuses to bargain his life for gold, falls unarmed on his foes and is cut to pieces. "these things," writes monk abbo, "i saw with mine eyes." he gives the names of the heroic twelve who went to receive the palm of martyrdom. they were exemplars to france and helped to save her by their desperate courage and noble self-sacrifice. their names are inscribed on a tablet on the wing of the hôtel dieu in the place au petit pont: ermenfroi, hervé, herland, ouacre, hervi, arnaud, seuil, jobert, hardre, guy, aimard, gossouin. a temporary relief is afforded by the arrival of henry of saxony, sent with supplies by the emperor. count eudes sallies forth to meet him, and in his ardent courage outstrips his men, is surrounded and almost slain. the little city is revictualled. henry returns whence he came, and again the parisians are left to themselves. on the sixth of april bishop gozlin, their shield, their two-edged axe, whose shaft and bow were terrible, passes to the lord. on may th, eudes steals away to implore further help from the emperor, and as soon as he sees the imperialists on the march returns and cuts his way into paris, to share the terrors of the siege. henry the saxon again appears, but is ambushed and slain and his army melts away. yet again paris is abandoned by her emperor and seeks help of heaven. for the waters are low, the besiegers are able to get footing on the island, they set fire to the gates and attack the walls. the body of st. genevieve is borne about the city, and at night the ghostly figure of st. germain is seen by the sentinels to pass along the ramparts, sprinkling them with holy water and promising salvation. charles the fat, the lord's anointed, at length appears with a multitude of a hundred tongues and encamps on montmartre. while the parisians are preparing to second him in crushing their foes, they learn that the cowardly emperor has bought them off with a bribe and permission to winter in burgundy, and for the first time they ravage that opulent province. next year, as gozlin's successor, bishop antheric, was sitting at table with abbot ebles, a fearful messenger brought news that the _acephali_[ ] were again in sight. forgetting the repast, the two churchmen seized their weapons, called the city to arms, hastened to the ramparts, and the abbot slew their pilot with a well-aimed shaft. the normans are terrified, and at length a treaty is made with their leaders, who promised not to ravage the marne and some even entered paris. but the ill-disciplined hordes were hard to hold in and bands of brigands, as soon as the ramparts were passed, began to plunder and slew a score of christian men. the parisians in their indignation sought out and--_evax!_ hurrah!--found five hundred normans in the city and slew them. but the bishop protected those that took refuge in his palace, instead of killing them as he ought to have done--_potius concidere debens_. for a time paris had respite. cowardly charles the fat was deposed, and in count eudes was acclaimed king of france after his return from aquitaine, whose duke he had brought to subjection. he counselled a gathering of all the peoples near paris to make common cause against the normans. abbo saw the proud franks march in with heads erect, the skilful and polished aquitaines, the burgundians too prone to flight. but nothing came of it. at the extreme north-east of paris the rue du crimée leads to a group of once barren hills, part of which is now made into the park of the buttes chaumont. here, by the mount of the falcon (montfaucon[ ]) in king eudes fell upon an army of northmen, who had come against paris, and utterly routed them. antheric, the noble pastor, with his virgin-like face, led three hundred footmen into the fight and slew six hundred of the _acephali_. but abbo's muse now fails him. eudes, noble eudes, is no more worthy of his office, and christ's sheep are perishing. where is the ancient prowess of france? three vices are working her destruction: pride, the sinful charms of venus (_foeda venustas veneris_) and love of sumptuous garments. her people are arrayed in purple vesture, and wear cloaks of gold; their loins are cinctured with girdles rich with precious stones. monk abbo wearies not of singing, but the deeds of noble eudes are wanting. all the poet craves is another victory to rejoice heaven; another defeat of the black host of the enemy. but the noble eudes was now a king with rebellious vassals. paris was never captured again, but the _acephali_ were devouring the land. the grim spectres of famine and plague made a charnel-house of whole regions of france, while eudes was fighting the count of flanders, a rival king, and the ineffectual emperor, charles the simple. he it was who after eudes' death, by the treaty of st. claire-sur-epte in , surrendered to the barbarians the fair province, subsequently to be known as normandy. the new prayer in the litany, "from the fury of the northmen, good lord deliver us," was heard. the dread name of rollo now vanishes from history to live again in song, and under the title of robert, assumed from his god-father, he reappears to win a dukedom and a king's daughter. the normans are broken in to christianity, law and order; their land becomes one of the most civilized regions of france; the fiercest of church levellers are known as the greatest of church builders in christendom. they gave their name to a style of christian architecture in europe and a line of kings to england,[ ] naples and sicily. [illustration: l'institut de france.] the new empire of charlemagne had endured less than three generations; from its wreck were formed the seven kingdoms of france, navarre, the two burgundies, lorraine, italy and germany. the people of france never forgot the lesson of the dark century of the invasions. a subtle change had been operating. the empire had decomposed into kingdoms; the kingdoms were segregating into lordships. men in their need were attracted to the few strong and dominant lords whose courage and resource afforded them a rallying point and shelter against disintegrating forces: the poor and defenceless huddled for protection to the seigneurs of strongholds which had withstood the floods of barbarians that were devastating the land. the seeds of feudalism were sown in the long winter of the norman terror. chapter iv the rise of the capetian kings and the growth of paris from to the coronation of hugh capet at noyon in , the carlovingians exercised a slowly decaying power. the real rulers of france were hugh the tall and hugh capet,[ ] grandson and great-grandson of robert the strong. lay abbots of st. martin of tours, st. denis, and st. germain, counts of paris and dukes of france, they pursued the policy of the mayors of the palace in merovingian times, accepting the nominal kingship of the degenerate carlovingians--louis from overseas, lothaire, and louis the lazy--until the time was ripe to pick up the fallen sceptre. they founded a new line of kings of france which stretches onward through history for a thousand years until the guillotine of the revolution cut it in twain. it is hugh capet whom dante, following a legend of his time, calls the son of a butcher of paris, and whom he hears among the weeping souls cleaving to the dust and purging their avarice in the fifth cornice of purgatory. their patrimony was a small one--the provinces of the isle de france, la brie, la beauce, beauvais and valois; but their sway extended over the land of the langue d'oil, with its strenuous northern life, _le doux royaume de la france_, the sweet realm of france, cradle of the great french monarchy and home of art, learning and chivalry. the globe of the earth, symbol of universal empire, gives way to the hand of justice as the emblem of kingship. they were, it is true, little more than seigneurs over other seigneurs, some of whom were almost as powerful as they; but that little, the drop of holy chrism by which they were consecrated of the church, contained within it a potency of future grandeur. they were the lord's anointed, supported by the lord's vicar on earth: to disobey them was to disobey god. tribal sovereignty had now given way to territorial sovereignty. feudal lords and abbots were supreme within their own domains. the people, long forsaken by their emperors, had in their turn forsaken them. in order "not to be at the mercy of all the great ones they surrendered themselves to one of the great ones" and in exchange for protection gave troth and service. cities, churches and monasteries now assumed a new aspect. paris had demonstrated the value of a walled city, for the dread rollo himself had three times assaulted it in vain. during the latter part of the norman terror, from all parts of north france, monks and nuns and priests had brought their holy relics within its walls as to a city of refuge. gone were the lines of villas from gallo-roman times extending freely into the country. fortifications were everywhere raised around the dwelling-places of men. the ample spaces within cities were soon to give place to crowded houses and narrow streets. the might of the archbishops, bishops and abbots increased: they sat in the councils of kings and dominated the administration of justice; the moral, social and political life of the country centred around them. armed with the sword and the cross they held almost absolute sway over their little republics; coined money, levied taxes, disposed of small armies and went to the chase in almost regal state. the land bristled with castles and fortified towns and abbeys, and was parcelled out into territories of varying extent, from great duchies equal to a dozen modern departments, to the small domain just enough to maintain a single knight. the advent of the year was regarded with universal terror in christendom. a fear, based on a supposed apocalyptic prophecy that the end of the world was at hand, paralysed all political and social life. churches were too small to contain the immense throngs of fearful penitents: legacies and donations from conscience-stricken worshippers poured wealth into their treasuries. but once the awe-inspiring night of the vernal equinox that began the year had passed, and the bright march sun rose again on the fair earth, unconsumed by the wrath of god, the old world "seemed to thrill with new life; the earth cast off her out-worn garments and clothed herself in a rich and white vesture of new churches." everywhere in europe, and especially in france, men strove in emulation to build the finest temples to god. the wooden roofs of the merovingian and carlovingian basilicas had ill withstood the ravage of war and fire. stone took the place of wood, the heavy thrust of the roof led to increased mural strength, walls were buttressed, columns thickened. massive towers of defence, at first round, then polygonal, then square, flanked the west fronts, veritable keeps, where the sacred vessels and relics might be preserved and defended in case of attack. soon spaces are clamant for decoration, the stone soars into the beauty of gothic vaulting and tracery, "the solid and lofty shafts ascend and press onward in agile files, and in the sacred gloom are like unto an army of giants that meditate war with invisible powers."[ ] the capets are more intimately associated with the growth of paris than any of the earlier dynasties, and at no period in french history is the ecclesiastical expansion more marked. under the long reign of hugh's son, king robert the pious, no less than fourteen monasteries and seven churches were built or rebuilt in or around the city. a new and magnificent palace and hall of justice, with its royal chapel dedicated to st. nicholas, rose on the site of the old roman basilica and palace in the cité. the king was no less charitable than pious. troops of the poor and afflicted followed him when he went abroad, and he fed a thousand daily at his table. but notwithstanding his munificent piety, he was early made to feel the power of the church. his union with queen bertha, a cousin of the fourth degree, whom he had married a year before his accession, was condemned by the pope as incestuous, and he was summoned to repudiate her. robert, who loved his wife dearly, resisted the papal authority, and excommunication and interdict followed.[ ] everyone fled from him; only the servants are said to have remained, who purged with fire all the vessels which were contaminated by the guilty couple's touch. the misery of his people at length subdued the king's spirit, and he cast off his faithful and beloved queen. the beautiful and imperious constance of aquitaine, her successor, proved a penitential infliction second only in severity to the anathemas of the church. troops of vain and frivolous troubadours from her southern home, in all kinds of foreign and fantastic costumes, invaded the court and shocked the austere piety of the king. he perceived the corrupting influence on the simple manners of the franks of their licentious songs, lascivious music and dissolute lives, but was powerless to dismiss them. the tyrannous temper of his new consort became the torment of his life. he was forced even to conceal his acts of charity. one day, on returning from prayers, he perceived that his lance by the queen's orders had been adorned with richly chased silver. he looked around his palace and was not long in finding a poor, tattered wretch whom he ordered to search for a tool, and the pair locked themselves in a room. the silver was soon stripped from the lance and the king hastily thrust it into the beggar's wallet and bade him escape before the queen discovered the loss. the poor whom he admitted to his table, despite the angry protests of the queen, at times ill repaid his charity. on one occasion a tassel of gold was cut from his robe, and on the thief being discovered the king simply remarked: "well, perhaps he has greater need of it than i, may god bless its service to him." the very fringe was sometimes stripped from his cloak as he walked abroad, but he never could be induced to punish any of these poor spoilers of his person. there is, however, an obverse to this ardent piety and noble enthusiasm:--the merciless persecution and spoliation of the jews and the first executions of heretics[ ] recorded in france. in two priests, one of whom had been the queen's confessor, and eleven laymen were condemned to be burnt at the stake at orleans for heresy. the king spent nine hours wrestling with them in prayer and argument, but in vain. as the unhappy wretches were being led to execution, constance leaned forward, savagely struck at her old confessor and gouged out one of his eyes. she was applauded for her zeal. the economic condition of the people was far from satisfactory. famine and pestilence claimed their victims with appalling frequency, and between and , forty-eight famines and plagues are known to historians; that of is recounted by the chronicler, raoul glaber, with details so ghastly that the heart sickens and the hand faints at their transcription. slavery existed everywhere: it was regarded as an integral part of the divine order of things. the church aimed at alleviating the lot of the slave, not at abolishing slavery. at a division of serfs, held in common between the priors of two abbeys in , the children were shared, male and female, without any reference to their parents. archbishops fulminated against serfs who tried to escape from their lords, quoting the words of the apostle: "serfs be subject in all things to your masters." a serf was valued at so much money, like a horse or an ox. the serfs of the church at paris were sent to the law courts to give evidence for their bishop or prior, or to do battle for them in the event of a judicial duel. the freemen in the eleventh century began to rebel against fighting with a despised serf, and refused the duel, whereupon early in the next century the king and his court decided that the serfs might lawfully testify and fight against freemen, and whoso refused the trial by battle should lose his suit and suffer excommunication. the prelates exchanged serfs, used them as substitutes in times of war, allowed them to marry outside their church or abbey only by special permission and on condition that all children were equally divided between the two proprietors. if a female serf married a freeman he and their children became serfs. serfs were only permitted to make a will by consent of their master; every favour was paid for and liberty bought at a great price. whole _bourgades_ were often in a state of serfdom. merchants even and artizans in towns owed part of their produce to the seigneur. in the eleventh century burgesses as well as serfs and jews were given to churches, exchanged, sold or left in wills by their seigneurs. the story of mediæval france is the story of the efforts of serf and burgess to win their economic freedom[ ] and of her kings to tame the insolence of disobedient vassals and to make their shadowy kingship a real thing. and the story of mediæval france is closed only by the great revolution. [illustration: hotel gerouilhac] the declining years of king robert were embittered by the impiety of rebellious sons, who were reduced to submission only at the price of a protracted and bloody campaign in burgundy. the broken-hearted father did not long survive his victory. he died in his palace at melun in , and the benisons and lamentations of the poor and lowly winged his spirit to its rest. if we may believe some writers, pious king robert's memory is enshrined in the hymnology of the church, which he enriched with some beautiful compositions: he was often seen to enter st. denis in regal habit to lead the choir at matins, and would sometimes challenge the monks to a singing contest; once, it is said, when importuned by his queen to immortalise her name in song, he began, "o constantia martyrum!" the delighted constance heard no further and was satisfied. scarcely had the grave closed over the dead king at st. denis when constance plotted with some of the nobles to place robert, her youngest and favourite son, on the throne in place of henry, the rightful heir, who fled to normandy to implore the aid of duke robert. the cultivation of the arts of peace had not enfeebled the fighting powers of the normans. robert fell upon the queen's supporters with reckless[ ] bravery and crushed them in three decisive battles. henry gained his crown but at the cost of a big slice of territory which advanced the norman boundary to within twenty leagues of paris. the queen survived her humiliation but a short time, and her death at melun in and henry's generosity to his enemies gave peace to the kingdom. in , towards the end of henry's almost unchronicled reign, an alarming rumour came to paris. the priests of st. ermeran at ratisbon claimed to have possession of the body of st. denis, which they alleged had been stolen from the abbey in by one gisalbert. the loss of a province would not have evoked livelier emotion, and henry at once took measures to convince france and christendom that the true body was still at st. denis. before an immense concourse of bishops, abbots, princes and people, presided over by the king, his brother and the archbishops of rheims and of canterbury, the remains of st. denis and his two companions were solemnly drawn out of the silver coffers in which they had been placed, by dagobert, together with a nail from the cross and part of the crown of thorns, all locked with two keys in a kind of cupboard richly adorned with gold and precious stones, and preserved in a vault under the high altar. after having been borne in procession they were exposed on the high altar for fifteen days and then restored to their resting-place. the stiff-necked priests of ratisbon, fortified with a papal bull of , still maintained their claim to the possession of the body, but no diminution was experienced in the devotion either of the french peoples or of strangers of all nations to the relics at st. denis. the chief architectural event of henry's reign at paris was the rebuilding on a more magnificent scale of the merovingian church and abbey of st. martin in the fields (des champs), whose blackened walls and desolate lands were eloquent of the norman terror. the buildings stood outside paris about a mile beyond the cité on the great roman road to the north, where st. martin on his way to paris healed a leper. the foundation, which soon grew to be one of the wealthiest in france, included a hostel for poor pilgrims endowed by philip i. with a mill on the grand pont, to which the monks added the revenue from an oven.[ ] in the eighteenth century, when the monastery was secularised, the abbot was patron of twenty-nine priories, three vicarates and thirty-five parishes, five of which were in paris. some of the old building has been incorporated in the existing conservatoire des arts et métiers. the gothic priory chapel, with its fine twelfth-century choir, is used as a machinery-room, and the refectory, one of the most precious and beautiful creations attributed to pierre de montereau, is now a library. philip i. brought to the indolent habit inherited from his father a depraved and vicious nature. after a regency of eight years he became king at the age of fifteen, and lived to defile his youth and dishonour his manhood by debauchery and adultery, simony and brigandage. early in his career he followed the evil counsels of his provost etienne, and purposed the spoliation of the treasury of st. germain des prés to pay for his dissolute pleasures. "as the sacrilegious pair," says the chronicler, "drew near the relics, etienne was smitten with blindness and the terrified philip fled." simony filled his gaping purse; bishoprics and other preferments were openly sold to the highest bidder, and one day when an abbot complained that he had been kept waiting while a rich competitor for a bishopric had been admitted, the king answered: "wait a while until i have made my money of him; i will then accuse him of simony, and you shall have the reversion." regal irresponsibility led in to a greater crime. most popular of the twelfth-century stories sung by the _trouvères_ of north france was that of tortulf, the breton outlaw, the robin hood of his day, who won by his prowess against the normans the lordship of rich lands by the loire, and with his son, ingelar, founded the famous house of anjou. in foulques de réchin, lord of anjou--whose handsome grandson geoffrey, surnamed plantagenet from the sprig of broom (_genêt_) he wore in his helmet, was to father a race of english kings--had to wife bertrarde, fairest of the ladies of france, whose two predecessors had been cast off like vile courtesans. philip, when on a visit to the count at tours became inflamed with passion at beholding her, and she was easily induced to elope with him under the promise that she should share his throne. his queen, bertha, mother of his two children, was pitilessly driven from his bed and imprisoned at montreuil, and two of his venal bishops were found to bestow the blessings of the church on the new union. but the thunder of rome came swift and terrible. philip laid aside his crown and sceptre, grovelled before the pontiff, and implored forgiveness, but continued to live with his mistress. next year a new pope excommunicated the guilty pair and laid their kingdom under the ban. the same council, however, of clermont, which fulminated against philip, stirred christendom to the first crusade, and in the magnificent enthusiasm of the moment philip was permitted to live outwardly submissive but secretly rebellious. he crowned bertrarde at troyes, and lived on his vicious life, while bertha was dying of a broken heart in her prison at montreuil. monkish legends tell of the excommunicated king languishing, a scrofulous wretch, in a deserted court; but there is little doubt that the impious monarch died, tardily repentant, at his palace at melun, after a reign of nearly half a century. it was a reign void of honour or profit to france. he left his son louis vi. (the lusty) a heritage of shame, a kingdom reduced to little more than a baronage over a few _comtés_, whose cities of paris, etampes, orleans and sens were isolated from royal jurisdiction by insolent and rebellious vassals, one of whom, the seigneur de puisset, had inflicted a disgraceful defeat on philip in . many of the great seigneurs were but freebooters, living by plunder. the violence and lawlessness of these and other smaller scoundrels, who levied blackmail on merchants and travellers, made commerce almost impossible. corruption, too, had invaded many of the monasteries and fouled the thrones of bishops, and a dual effort was made by king and church to remedy the evils of the times. the hierarchy strove to centralise power at rome that the church might be purged of wolves in sheep's clothing: the capetian monarchs to increase their might at paris in order to subdue insolent and powerful vassals to law and obedience. in the duke of burgundy learned that archbishop anselm of canterbury was about to pass through his territory with a rich escort on his way to rome. the usual ambush was laid and the party were held up. as the duke hastened to spoil his victims, crying out--"where is the archbishop?" he turned and saw anselm, impassive on his horse, gazing sternly at him. in a moment the savage and lawless duke was transformed to a pallid, stammering wretch with downcast eyes, begging permission to kiss the old man's hand and to offer him a noble escort to safeguard him through his territory. it was the moral influence of prelates such as this and monks such as st. bernard that enabled the hierarchy to enforce the celibacy of the clergy, to cleanse the bishoprics and abbeys, to wrest the privilege of conferring benefices from lay potentates and feudal seigneurs who bartered them for money, and to make and unmake kings. the end of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth centuries saw the culmination of the power of the reformed orders. all over france, religious houses--the grande chartreuse, fontevrault, cîteaux, clairvaux--sprang up as if by enchantment. men and women of all stations and classes flocked to them, a veritable host of the lord, "adorning the deserts with their holy perfection and solitudes by their purity and righteousness." "how fair a thing it is," exclaims st. bernard, "to live in perfect unity! one weeps for his sins; another sings praises to the lord. one teaches the sciences; another prays. one leads the active; another the contemplative, life. one burns with charity; another is prone in humility. nought is here but the house of god and the very gate of heaven." st. bernard was the terror of mothers and of wives. his austerity, his loving-kindness,[ ] his impetuous will and masterful activity, his absolute faith and remorseless logic, his lyric and passionate eloquence, carried all before him. st. bernard was the dictator of christendom; he it was who with pitying gesture as of a kind father, his eyes suffused with tender joy, received dante from the hands of beatrice in the highest of celestial spheres, and after singing the beautiful hymn to the virgin, led him to the heaven of heavens, to the very ecstasy and culmination of beatitude in the contemplation and comprehension of the triune god himself. but religious no less than seculars are subdued by what they work in. already in the tenth century richer complained that the monks of his time were beginning to wear rich ornaments and flowing sleeves, and with their tight-fitting garments[ ] looked like harlots rather than monks. in the polluting atmosphere of philip's reign matters grew worse. st. bernard denounced the royal abbey of st. denis as "a house of satan, a den of thieves." "the walls of the churches of christ were resplendent with colour but his poor were naked and left to perish; their stones were gilded with the money of the needy and wretched to charm the eyes of the rich." "bishops dressed like women; the successors of st. peter rode about on white mules, loaded with gold and precious stones, apparelled in fine silk, surrounded with soldiers and followed by a brilliant train. they were rather the successors of constantine." in the task of cleansing the abbey of st. maur des fossés seemed so hopeless, that the abbot resigned in despair rather than imperil his soul, and a more resolute reformer was sought. in the bishop of paris was commanded by rome to proceed to the abbey of st. eloy and extirpate the evils there flourishing. the nuns, it was reported, had so declined in grace, owing to the proximity of the court and intercourse with the world, that they had lost all sense of shame and lived in open sin, breaking the bonds of common decency. the scandal was so great that the bishop determined to cut them off from the house of the lord. the abbey was reduced to a priory and given over to the abbot of the now reformed monastery of st. maur, and its vast lands were parcelled out into several parishes.[ ] the rights of the canons of notre dame were to be maintained; on st. eloy's day the abbot of st. maur was to furnish them with six pigs, two and a half measures of wine and three of fine wheat, and on st. paul's day with eight sheep, the same quantity of wine, six crowns and one obole. the present rue de la cité and the boulevard du palais give approximately the east and west boundaries of the suppressed abbey, part of whose site is now occupied by the prefecture de police. but the way of the reformer is a hard one. at the council of paris, , the abbot of pontoise was severely ill-treated for supporting, against the majority of the council, the pope's decrees excluding married clerics from the churches. the reform of the canons of notre dame led to exciting scenes. bishop stephen of senlis was sent in to introduce the new discipline, but the archdeacons and canons, supported by royal favour, resisted, and bishop stephen was stripped of his revenues and hastened back to his metropolitan, the archbishop of sens. the archbishop laid paris under interdict and the influence of st. bernard himself was needed to compose the quarrel. on sunday, august , , when returning from a visitation to the abbey of chelles, the abbot and prior of st. victor were ambushed and the prior was stabbed. some years later, in the reign of louis vii., pope eugene iii. came to seek refuge in paris from the troubles excited at rome by the revolution of arnold of brescia. when celebrating mass before the king at the abbey church of st. genevieve the canons had stretched a rich, silken carpet before the altar on which the pontiff's knees might rest. when the pope retired to the sacristy to disrobe, his officers claimed the carpet, according to usage; the canons and their servants resisted, and there was a bout of fisticuffs and sticks. the king intervened, and anointed majesty himself was struck. a scuffle ensued, during which the carpet was torn to shreds in a tug-of-war between the claimants. here was urgent need for reform. the pope decided to introduce the new discipline and appointed a fresh set of canons. the dispossessed canons met them with insults and violence, drowned their voices by howling and other indignities, and only ceased on being threatened with the loss of their eyes and other secular penalties. louis the lusty was the pioneer of the great french monarchy. he had none of philip's indolence, and was ever on the move, hewing his way, sword in hand, through his domains, subduing the violence, and burning and razing the castles of his insolent and disobedient vassals. the famous suger, abbot of st. denis, was his wise and firm counsellor, and led the church to make common cause with him and lend her diocesan militia. it was a poor bald _curé_ who, when all else despaired, led the assault on the keep of the castle of le puisset; he seized on a plank of wood, assailed the palisade, calling on the hesitating royal troops to follow him; they were shamed by his bravery and the castle was won. the social revolution known as the enfranchisement of the commons and the growth of towns begins in the reign of louis vi. the king would have the peasant to till, the monk to pray, and the pilgrim and merchant to travel in peace. he was an itinerant regal justiciary, destroying the nests of brigands, purging the land with fire and sword from tyranny and oppression. wise in council, of magnificent courage in battle, he was the first of the capetians to associate the cause of the people with that of the monarchy. they loved him as a valiant soldier-king, destroyer and tamer of feudal tyrants, the protector of the church, the vindicator of the oppressed. he lifted the sceptre of france from the mire and made of it a symbol of firm and just government. it is in louis vi.'s reign that we have first mention of the oriflamme (golden flame) of st. denis, which took the place of st. martin's cloak as the royal standard of france. the emperor henry v. with a formidable army was menacing france. louis rallied all his friends to withstand him and went to st. denis to pray for victory. the abbot took from the altar the standard--famed to have been sent by heaven, and formerly carried by the first liege man of the abbey, the count de vexin, when the monastery was in danger of attack--and handed it to the king. the sacred banner was fashioned of silk in the form of a gonfalon, of the colours of fire and gold, and was suspended at the head of a gilded lance. there was a solemn ceremony, the _remise des corps saints_, at the royal abbey when the king returned with his court to give thanks and to restore the banner to the altar. he carried the relics of the holy martyrs on his shoulders in procession, then replaced them whence they were taken and made oblations. a yet more superb spectacle was given to the parisians when pope innocent ii., a refugee from the violence of the anti-papal party at rome, came to celebrate the easter mass at st. denis. the pope and his cardinals were mounted on fair steeds, barons and seigneurs on foot led the pope's white horse by the bridle. as he passed, the jews presented him with a scroll of the law wrapped in a veil--"may it please god to remove the veil from your hearts," answered the pope. the solemn mass ended, pope and cardinals repaired to the cloisters where tables were spread with the easter feast. they first partook of the paschal lamb, reclining on the carpet in the fashion of the ancients, then, rising, took their places at table. after the repast a magnificent procession went its way to paris, to be met by the whole city with king louis and prince philip at their head. the manner of the young prince's tragic death gives an insight into the state of a mediæval town. he was riding one day for amusement in the streets of paris, attended by one esquire, when a pig ran between his horse's feet; the lad was thrown and died before the last sacraments could be administered. he was only fourteen years of age, and all france wept for him. the strenuous reign of louis was marked by a great expansion of paris, which became more than ever the ordinary dwelling-place of the king and the seat of his government. the market, now known as les halles, was established at a place called champeaux, belonging to st. denis of the prison. william of champeaux founded the great abbey of st. victor,[ ] famed for its sanctity and learning, where abelard taught and st. thomas of canterbury and st. bernard lodged. at the urgent prayer of his wife adelaide, the king built a nunnery at montmartre, and lavishly endowed it with lands, ovens, the house of guerri, a lombard money-changer, some shops and a slaughter-house in paris, and a small _bourg_, still known as bourg-la-reine, about five miles south of the city. certain rights of fishing at paris, to which louis vii. added five thousand herrings yearly from the port of boulogne, were also granted. the churches of ste. geneviève la petite, founded to commemorate the miraculous staying of the plague of the burning sickness (_les ardents_); of st. jacques de la boucherie; and of st. pierre aux boeufs, so named from the heads of oxen carved on the portal, were also built. chapter v paris under philip augustus and st. louis during the twenty-eight years of the reign of louis vii. no heir to the crown was born. at length, on the nd of august, , adelaide of champagne, his third wife, lay in child-bed and excited crowds thronged the palace. the king, "afeared of the number of his daughters and knowing how ardently his people desired a child of the nobler sex," was beside himself with joy when the desire of his heart was held up to him. the chamber was closed, but curious eyes had espied the longed-for heir through an aperture of the door and in a moment the good news was spread abroad. there was a sound of clarions and of bells and the city as by enchantment shone with an aureole of light. an english student roused by the uproar and the glare of what seemed like a great conflagration leapt to the window and beheld two old women hurrying by with lighted tapers. he asked the cause. they answered "god has given us this night a royal heir, by whose hand your king shall suffer shame and ill-hap." this was the birth of philip le dieu donné--philip sent of heaven--better known as philip augustus. under him and louis ix. mediæval paris, faithfully reflecting the fortunes of the french monarchy, attained its highest development. when philip augustus took up the sceptre at fifteen years of age, the little realm of the isle de france was throttled by a ring of great and practically independent feudatories, and in extent was no larger than half-a-dozen of the eighty-seven departments into which france is now divided. in thirty years philip had burst through to the sea, subdued the duke of burgundy and the great counts, wrested the sovereignty of normandy, brittany and maine from the english crown, won poitou and aquitaine, crushed the emperor and his vassals in the memorable battle of bouvines, and become one of the greatest of european monarchs. the english king was humiliated by the invasion of his territory by prince louis, afterwards louis viii., who overran nearly the whole of the east of england, captured rochester and winchester, and received the barons' homage at london. the victory of bouvines evoked that ideal of moral and material and national unity which the later kings of france were to realise. the progress of philip towards paris was one long triumph. peasants and mechanics dropped their tools to gaze on the dread iron count of flanders, captive and wounded. the king, who had owed his life to the excellence of his armour,[ ] was received in paris with a frenzy of joy. the whole city came forth to meet him, flowers were strewn in his path, the streets were hung with tapestry, te deums sung in all the churches, and for seven days and nights the popular enthusiasm expressed itself in dance, in song and joyous revel. it was the first national event in france. the count of flanders was imprisoned in the new fortress of the louvre, where he lay for thirteen years, with ample leisure to meditate on the fate of rebellious feudatories. "never after was war waged on king philip, but he lived in peace." two vast undertakings make the name of philip augustus memorable in paris--the beginning of the paving of the city and the building of its girdle of walls and towers. [illustration: st. etienne du mont and tour de clovis.] one day as philip stood at the window of his palace, where he was wont to amuse himself by watching the seine flow by, some carts rattled along the muddy road beneath the window and stirred so foul and overpowering an odour that the king almost fell sick. next day the provost and the sheriffs and chief citizens were sent for and ordered to set about paving the city with stone. the work was not however completed until the reign of charles v., a century and a half later. it was done well and lasted till the sixteenth century, when it was replaced by the miserable cobbles, known as the pavement of the league. whether the city grew much sweeter is doubtful; certainly paris in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was as evil-smelling as ever. montaigne, in the second half of the sixteenth century, complains that the acrid smell of the mud of paris weakened the affection he bore to that fair city, and howell writes in , "the city is always dirty, and by perpetual motion the mud is beaten into a thick, black and unctuous oil that sticks so that no art can wash it off, and besides the indelible stain it leaves, gives so strong a scent that it may be smelt many miles off, if the wind be in one's face as one comes from the fresh air of the country." [illustration: wall of philippe auguste, cour de rouen.] the great fortified wall of philip augustus began at the north-west water-tower, which stood just above the present pont des arts, and passed through the quadrangle of the louvre where a line on the paving marks its course to the porte st. honoré, near the oratoire. it continued northwards by the rue du jour to the porte montmartre, whose site is marked by a tablet on no. rue montmartre. turning eastward by the painters' gate ( rue st. denis) and the porte st. martin, near the rue grenier st. lazare, the fortification described a curve in a south-easterly direction by the rue des francs bourgeois, where traces of the wall have been found in the cour de l'horloge of the mont de piété, and of a tower at no. . the line of the wall continued in the same direction by the lycée charlemagne, no. rue st. antoine, where stood another gate, to the north-east water-tower, known as the tour barbeau, which stood near no. quai des célestins. the opposite or southern division began at the south-east water-tower, la tournelle, and the gate of st. bernard on the present quai de la tournelle, and went southward by the rues des fossés, st. bernard and cardinal lemoine, to the porte st. victor, near no. rue des ecoles. the wall then turned westward by the rue clovis, where at no. one of the largest and best-preserved remains may be seen. it enclosed the abbey of st. geneviève, and the pantheon stands on the site of the porte papale. the south-western angle was turned near the end of the rue soufflot and the beginning of the rue monsieur le prince. in a northerly direction it then followed the line of the latter street, crossing the boulevard st. germain, and continued by the rue de l'ancienne comédie. in the cour de rouen, no. rue st. andré des arts, an important remnant may be seen with the base of a tower. we may now trace the march of the wall and towers by the rues mazarin and guénégaud, where at no. other fragments exist, to the south-west water-tower, the notorious tour de nesle[ ] whose site is occupied by the hôtel des monnaies. the passage of the seine was blocked by chains, which were drawn at night from tower to tower and fixed on boats and piles. the wall was twenty years building and was completed in . it was eight feet thick, pierced by twenty-four gates and fortified by about five hundred towers. much of the land it enclosed was not built upon; the _marais_ (marshes) on the north bank were drained and cultivated and became market and fruit gardens. the moated château of the louvre, another of philip's great buildings, stood outside the wall and commanded the valley route to paris. it was at once a fortress, a palace and a prison. parts of two wings of the structure are incorporated in the present palace of the louvre, and the site of the remaining wings, the massive keep and the towers are marked out on the pavement of the quadrangle. many are the stories of the great king's wisdom. one day, entering the chapter-house of notre dame during the election of a bishop, philip seized a crozier and passing along the assembled canons thrust it into the hands of one of lean and poor aspect, saying: "here, take this, that you may wax fat like your brethren." his jester once claimed to be of his family through their common father adam, and complained that the heritage had been badly divided. "well," said the king, "come to me to-morrow and i will restore what is due to thee." next day, in the presence of his court, he handed the jester a farthing, saying: "here is thy just portion. when i shall have shared my wealth with each of thy brothers, barely a farthing will remain to me." one of the royal bailiffs coveted the land of a poor knight, who refused to sell. the knight at length died, and the widow proving equally stubborn, the bailiff went to the market-place, hired two porters whom he dressed decently, and repaired with them by night to the cemetery where the dead chevalier lay buried. his body was drawn from the tomb and held upright while the bailiff abjured it to agree before the two witnesses to a sale of the land. "silence gives consent," said the bailiff, and placed a coin in the corpse's hand. the tomb was closed and the land seized on the morrow, despite the widow's protests. on the case being brought before the judgment-seat of philip in the palace of the cité, the two porters bore witness to the sale. the king, suspecting the truth, led one of the witnesses aside and bade him recite a paternoster. while the man was murmuring the prayer the king was heard of all the court loudly saying: "yes, that is so: you speak truly." the recital over, the king assured him of pardon, and returning to the second witness, admonished him also not to lie, for his friend had revealed all as truly as if he had said a paternoster. the second witness confessed. the bailiff, praying for mercy, fell prostrate before the king, who condemned the guilty man to banishment for life, and ordered the whole of his possessions to be escheated to the poor widow. of the impression that the paris of philip augustus made on a provincial visitor, we are able, fortunately, to give some account. "i am at paris," writes guy of bazoches, about the end of the twelfth century, "in this royal city, where the abundance of nature's gifts not only retains those that dwell there but invites and attracts those who are afar off. even as the moon surpasses the stars in brightness, so does this city, the seat of royalty, exalt her proud head above all other cities. she is placed in the bosom of a delicious valley, in the centre of a crown of hills, which ceres and bacchus enrich with their gifts. the seine, that proud river which comes from the east, flows there through wide banks and with its two arms surrounds an island which is the head, the heart, and the marrow of the whole city. two suburbs extend to right and left, even the lesser of which would rouse the envy of many another city. these suburbs communicate with the island by two stone bridges; the grand pont towards the north in the direction of the english sea, and the petit pont which looks towards the loire. the former bridge, broad, rich, commercial, is the centre of a fervid activity, and innumerable boats surround it laden with merchandise and riches. the petit pont belongs to the dialecticians, who pace up and down disputing. in the island adjacent to the king's palace, which dominates the whole town, the palace of philosophy is seen where study reigns alone as sovereign, a citadel of light and immortality." after louis viii.'s brief reign of three years, there rises to the throne of france one of the gentlest and noblest of the sons of men, a prince indeed, who, amid all the temptations of absolute power maintained a spotless life, and at death laid down an earthly crown to assume a fairer and an imperishable diadem among the saints in heaven. all that was best in mediævalism--its desire for peace and order and justice; its fervent piety, its passion to effect unity among christ's people and to wrest the holy land from the pollution of the infidel; its enthusiasm for learning and for the things of the mind; its love of beauty--all are personified in the life of st. louis. the young prince was eleven years of age when his father died. during his minority he was nurtured in learning and piety[ ] by his mother, blanche of castile, whose devotion to her son, and firm and wise regency were a fitting prelude to the reign of a saintly king. even after he attained his majority, louis always sought his mother's counsel and was ever respectful and submissive to her will. when the news of her death reached him in the holy land, he went to his oratory, fell on his knees before the altar, submissive to the will of god, and cried out with tears in his eyes, that he had loved the queen, "his most dear lady and mother, beyond all mortal creatures." the king's conception of his office was summed up in two words--_gouverner bien_. "fair son," said he one day to prince louis, his heir, "i pray thee win the affection of thy people. verily, i would rather that a scotchman came from scotland and ruled the kingdom well and loyally than that thou shouldst govern it ill." joinville tells with charming simplicity how the king after hearing mass in the chapel at vincennes was wont to walk in the woods for refreshment and then, sitting at the foot of an old oak tree, would listen to the plaints of his poorer people without let of usher or other official and administer justice to them. at other times, clothed in a tunic of camlet, a surcoat of wool (_tiretaine_) without sleeves, a mantle of black taffety, and a hat with a peacock's plume, he would walk with his council in the garden of his palace in the cité, and on the people crowding round him, would call for a carpet to be spread on the ground, on which he would sit, surrounded with his councillors, and judge the poor diligently. so rigidly just was the good king that he would not lie even to the saracens. on his return from the crusade, being pressed by his council to leave a stranded ship, he called the mariners to him and asked them if they would abandon the vessel if it were charged with merchandise. all replied that they would risk their lives rather than forsake the ship. "then," said the king, "why am i asked to abandon it?" "sire," they answered, "your royal person and your queen and children cannot be valued in money nor weighed in the balance against our lives." "well," said the king, "i have heard your counsel and that of my lords: now hear mine. if i leave this ship there will remain on board five hundred men, each of whom loves his life as dearly as i do mine, and who, perchance, will never see their fatherland again. therefore will i rather put my person and my wife and children in god's hands than do hurt to so much people." [illustration: vincennes.] in the king was profoundly shocked by the news that the crown of thorns was a forfeited pledge at venice for an unpaid loan advanced by some venetian merchants to the emperor baldwin of constantinople. louis paid the debt,[ ] redeemed the pledge, and secured the relic for paris. the king met his envoys at sens, and barefooted, himself carried the sacred treasure enclosed in three caskets, one of wood, one of silver and one of gold, to paris. the procession took eight days to reach the city, and so great were the multitudes who thronged to see it, that a large platform was raised in a field outside the walls, from which several prelates exposed it in turn to the veneration of the people. thence it was taken to the cathedral of notre dame, the king dressed in a simple tunic, and barefoot still carrying the relic. from the cathedral it was transferred to the royal chapel of st. nicholas within the precincts of the palace. a year later the emperor baldwin was constrained to part with other relics, including a piece of the true cross, the blade of the lance and the sponge of the passion. to enshrine them and the crown of thorns the chapel of st. nicholas was demolished and the beautiful sainte-chapelle built in its place. the upper chapel was dedicated to the relics; the lower to the blessed virgin. on solemn festivals the king would himself expose the relics to the people. louis was zealous in his devotion and for a time attended matins in the new chapel at midnight, until, suffering much headache in consequence, he was persuaded to have the office celebrated in the early morning before prime. his piety, however, was by no means austere: he had all the french gaiety of heart, dearly loved a good story, and was excellent company at table, where he loved to sit conversing with robert de sorbon, his chaplain. "it is a bad thing," he said one day to joinville, "to take another man's goods, because _rendre_ (to restore) is so difficult, that even to pronounce the word makes the tongue sore by reason of the r's in it." [illustration: la sainte chapelle.] at another time they were talking of the duties of a layman towards jews and infidels. "let me tell you a story," said st. louis. "the monks of cluny once arranged a great conference between some learned clerks and jews. when the conference opened, an old knight who for love of christ was given bread and shelter at the monastery, approached the abbot and begged leave to say the first word. the abbot, after some protest against the irregularity, was persuaded to grant permission, and the knight, leaning on his stick, requested that the greatest scholar and rabbi among the jews might be brought before him. 'master,' said the knight, 'do you believe that the blessed virgin mary gave birth to jesus and held him at her breast, and that she is the virgin mother of god?' the jew answered that he believed it not at all. 'then,' said the knight, 'fool that thou art to have entered god's house and his church, and thou shalt pay for it.' thereupon he lifted his stick, smote the rabbi under the ear and felled him to the ground. the terrified jews fled, carrying their master with them, and so," said st. louis, "ended the conference. and i tell you, let none but a great clerk dispute: the business of a layman when he hears the christian religion defamed is to defend it with his sharp sword and thrust his weapon into the miscreant's body as far as it will go." louis, however, did not apply the moral in practice. although severe in exacting tribute from the jews, he spent much money in converting them and held many of their orphan children at the font. to others he gave pensions, which became a heavy financial burden to himself and his successors. he was stern with blasphemers, whose lips he caused to be branded with a hot iron. "i have heard him say," writes joinville, "with his own mouth, that he would he were marked with a red-hot iron himself if thereby he could banish all oaths and blasphemy from his kingdom. full twenty-two years have i been in his company, and never have i heard him swear or blaspheme god or his holy mother or any saint, howsoever angry he may have been: and when he would affirm anything, he would say, 'verily it is so, or verily it is not so.' before going to bed he would call his children around him and recite the fair deeds and sayings of ancient princes and kings, praying that they would remember them for good ensample; for unjust and wicked princes lost their kingdoms through pride and avarice and rapine." the good king essayed to deal with some social evils at court, but in vain:[ ] he could only give the example of a pure and chaste life. when he was in the east he heard of a saracen lord of egypt who caused all the best books of philosophy to be transcribed for the use of young men, and he determined to do the like for the youth of paris. scribes were sent to copy the scriptures and the writings of the fathers, preserved in various abbeys in france. he had a convenient and safe place built at the treasury of the sainte-chapelle, where he housed the books. scholars had free access to them, and he himself was wont in his leisure time to shut himself up there for study, reading rather the holy fathers than the writings of the best doctors of his own time. louis was a steadfast friend to the religious orders. on his return from the holy land he brought with him six monks from mount carmel and established them on the north bank of the seine, near the present quai des celestins; they were subsequently transferred to the university quarter, on a site now occupied by the marché aux carmes. the prior of the grande chartreuse was also prayed to spare a few brothers to found a house in paris; four were sent, and the king endowed them with his château de vauvert, including extensive lands and vineyards. the château was reputed to be haunted by evil spirits, and the street leading thither as late as the last century was known as the rue d'enfer. louis began a great church for them, and the eight cells, each with its three rooms and garden, were increased to thirty before the end of his reign; in later times the order became one of the richest in paris and occupied a vast expanse of land to the south of the luxembourg. the fine series of paintings illustrating the life of st. bruno, by le sueur, now in the louvre, was executed for the smaller cloister of the monastery. the grands augustins were established on the south bank of the seine, near the present pont neuf, and the serfs de la vierge, known later as the blancs manteaux, from their white cloaks, in the marais. they were subsequently amalgamated with the guillelmites, or the hermits of st. william, and at no. of the street of that name some remains of their monastery may yet be seen. the church of the blancs manteaux, rebuilt in the seventeenth century, also exists in the street of that name. [illustration: refectory of the cordeliers.] in the first of the preaching friars were seen at paris. on the th of september seven friars, among whom were laurence the englishman and a brother of st. dominic, established themselves in a house near the _parvis_ of notre dame. in the university gave them a home near st. genevieve, opposite the church of st. etienne des grez (st. stephen of the greeks), and in the following year, when st. dominic came to paris, the brothers had increased to thirty. the saint himself drew up the plans of their monastery in the rue st. jacques, and always cherished a particular affection for the paris house. their church was opened in , and being dedicated to st. jacques, the dominicans were known as jacobins all over france. st. louis endowed them with a school; they soon became one of the most powerful and opulent of the religious orders, and their church, a burial-place for kings and princes. the friars minor soon followed. st. francis himself, in his deep affection for france, had determined to go to paris and found a house of his order, but being dissuaded by his friend, cardinal ugolin, sent in a few of his disciples. these early friars, true _poverelli di dio_, would accept no endowment of house or money, and supporting themselves by their hands, carried their splendid devotion among the poor, the outcast, and the lepers of paris. in the cordeliers, as they were called,[ ] accepted the _loan_ of a house near the walls in the south-western part of the city. st. louis built them a church, and left them at his death part of his library and a large sum of money.[ ] they too became rich and powerful and their church one of the largest and most magnificent in paris. st. bonaventure and duns scotus taught at their school of theology. their monastery in the sixteenth century was the finest and most spacious in paris, with cells for a hundred friars and a vast refectory, which still exists. the king also founded the hospital for blind beggars, known as the quinze-vingts ( × ) now in the rue de charenton, and left them an annual _rente_ of thirty _livres parisis_, that every inmate might have a mess of good pottage at his meals. until cardinal de rohan, of diamond-necklace fame, effected the sale of the buildings in to a syndicate of speculators, an act of jobbery which brought his eminence a handsome commission, the hospital was situated between the palais royal and the louvre. originally it was a night shelter, whither the poor blind might repair after their long quest in the streets of paris. the king subsequently gave them a dress on which philip le bel ordered a _fleur-de-lys_ to be embroidered, that they might be known as the "king's poor folk." they were privileged to place collecting-boxes and to beg inside the churches. since, however, the differences in the relative opulence of churches was great, the right to beg in certain of the richer ones was put up to auction every year, and those who promised to pay the highest premium to the funds of the hospital were adjudicated the privilege of begging there. this curious arrangement was in full vigour until the latter half of the eighteenth century, when the foundation was removed. twelve blind brothers and twelve seeing brothers--husbands of blind women who were lodged there on condition that they served as leaders through the streets--had a share in the management of the institution. luxury seems to have sometimes invaded the hostel, for in a royal decree forbade the sale of wine to the brethren and denounced the blasphemy with which their conversation was often tainted. in they were forbidden to use stuffs other than serge or cloth for their garments, or to use velvet for ornament. the establishment of the abbey of st. antoine, of the friars of the holy cross and of the sisters of st. bega or béguines, were also due to the king's piety, and the whole city was surrounded with religious houses. "even as a scribe," says an old writer, "who hath written his book illuminates it with gold and silver, so did the king illumine his kingdom with the great quantity of the houses of god that he built." louis was, however, firm in his resistance to ecclesiastical arbitrariness. the prelates complained to him on one occasion that christianity was going to the dogs, because no one feared their excommunications, and prayed that he would order his sergeants to lend the secular arm to enforce their authority. "yes," answered the king, "if you will give me the particulars of each case that i may judge if your sentence be just." they objected that that appertained to the ecclesiastical courts, but louis was inflexible, and they remained unsatisfied. many were the king's benefactions to the great hospital of paris, the hôtel dieu. rules, dating from , for the treatment of the sick poor were elaborated in his reign with admirable forethought. the sick, after confession and communion, were to be put to bed and treated as if they were the masters of the house. they were to be daily served with food before the nursing friars and sisters, and all that they desired was to be freely given if it could be obtained and were not prejudicial to their recovery. if the sickness were dangerous the patient was to be set apart and to be tended with especial solicitude. the sick were never to be left unguarded and even to be kept seven days after they were healed, lest they should suffer a relapse. the friars and sisters were to eat twice a day: the sick whenever they had need. a nurse who struck a patient was excommunicated. in later times, lax management and the decline of piety which came with the religious and political changes of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries made reform urgent, and in the parliament appointed a committee of eight _bourgeois clercs_ to control the receipts. the buildings were much increased in , but were never large enough, and in the priory of st. julien was united to the hospital. "as many as patients," says félibien, writing in , "have been counted there at one time, five or six in one bed." no limitations of age or sex or station or religion or country were set. everybody was received, and in félibien's time the upkeep amounted to , livres per annum. the old hôtel dieu was situated to the south of notre dame, and stood there until rebuilt on its present site in . the king was ever solicitous for the earthly weal of his subjects and made an unpopular peace with england against the advice of his council. "sirs," he protested, "the land i give to the king of england i give without being held to do so, that i may awaken love between his children and mine who are cousins germain." [illustration: rue de venise.] louis sought diligently over all the land for the _grand sage homme_ who would prove an honest and fearless judge, punishing the wicked without regard to rank or riches;[ ] and what he exacted of his officers he practised himself. he punished his own brother, the count of artois, for having forced a sale of land on an unwilling man, and ordered him to make restitution. he inflicted a tremendous fine on the sire de coucy, one of the most powerful of his barons, for having hanged three young fellows for poaching. the whole of the baronage appealed against the sentence, but the king was inexorable. as joinville was on his way to join ship at marseilles for the crusade in palestine, he passed a ruined château:--it had been razed to the ground as a warning to tyrannous seigneurs, who robbed and spoiled merchants and pilgrims. louis forbade the judicial duel in civil cases; he instituted the royal watch to police the streets of paris; he registered and confirmed the charters of the hundred crafts of paris and gave many privileges to the great trade guilds. in the king put on a second time the crusader's badge, "the dear remembrance of his dying lord," and met his death in the ill-fated expedition to tunis. louis was so feeble when he left that joinville carried him from the hôtel of the count of auxerre to the franciscan monastery (the cordeliers), where the old friends and fellow-warriors in the holy land parted for ever. when stricken with the plague the dying king was laid on a couch strewn with ashes. he called his son, the count of alençon, to him and gave wise and touching counsel, and, after holy communion, he recited the seven penitential psalms, invoked "monseigneurs st. james and st. denis and madame st. genevieve," crossed his hands on his heart, gazed towards heaven and rendered his soul to his creator. _piteuse chouse est et digne de pleurer le trépassement de ce saint prince_, says joinville, to whom the story was told by the king's son--"a piteous thing it is and worthy of tears the passing away of this holy prince." the bones of the dead king, from which the flesh[ ] had been removed by boiling, were sent for burial to st. denis, which he had chosen for the place of his sepulture. the sieur de joinville,[ ] his friend and companion, from whose priceless memoirs we have chiefly drawn, ends his story thus:--"i make known to all readers of this little book that the things which i say i have seen and heard of the king are true and steadfastly shall they believe them. and the other things of which i testify but by hearsay, take them in a good sense if it please you, praying god that by the prayers of monseigneur st. louis it may please him to give us those things that he knoweth to be necessary as well for our bodies as for our souls. amen." king louis was tall of stature, with a spare and graceful figure; his face was of angelic sweetness, with eyes as of a dove, and crowned with abundant fair hair. as he grew older he became somewhat bald and held himself slightly bent. "never," says joinville, when describing a charge led by the king, which turned the tide of battle, "saw i so fair an armed man. he seemed to sit head and shoulders above all his knights. his helmet of gold was most fair to see, and a sword of allemain was in his hand. four times i saw him put his body in danger of death to save hurt to his people." chapter vi art and learning at paris two epoch-making developments--the creation of gothic architecture and the rise of the university--synchronise with the period covered by the reigns of philip augustus and st. louis, and may now fitly be considered. [illustration: cathedral of st. denis.] the memory of the norman terror had long passed from men's minds. the isle de france had been purged of robber lords, and with peace and security, wealth and population had increased. the existing churches were becoming too small for the faithful and new and fairer temples replaced the old: the massive square towers, the heavy walls and thick pillars of the norman builders blossomed into grace and light and beauty. already in the beginning of the twelfth century the church of st. denis was in urgent need of extension. on festival days so great were the crowds pressing to view the relics that many people had been trodden under foot, and abbot suger determined to build a larger and nobler church. st. denis is an edifice of profound interest to the traveller. in the west façade ( ) we may see the round norman arch side by side with the pointed gothic, and the choir completed in was the earliest example of a gothic apse. but suger's structure was nearly destroyed by fire in , and the upper part of the choir, the nave and transepts, were rebuilt in in the pure gothic of the time. great was the enthusiasm of the people as the new temple rose. noble and burgess, freeman and serf, harnessed themselves like beasts of burden to the ropes and drew the stone from the quarry. all would lend their aid in raising the new house of god and of his holy martyrs, and the burial-place of their kings. in maurice de sully, a peasant's son, who had risen to become bishop of paris, determined to erect a great minster in the place of childebert's basilica, which was no longer adequate to the demands of the time. the old church of st. stephen[ ] and many houses were demolished together with the cathedral, and a new street, called notre dame, was made. sully devoted the greater part of his life and private resources to the work. the king, the pope, seigneurs, guilds of merchants and private persons, vied with each other in making gifts. two years were spent in digging the foundations, and in pope alexander iii. is said to have laid the first stone. in , the choir being finished, the papal legate consecrated the high altar. at sully's death, in , the walls of the nave were erect and partly roofed. the transepts and nave were completed in . [illustration: notre dame: portal of st. anne.] in an ingenious and sacrilegious thief, climbing to the roof to haul up the silver candlesticks from the altar by a noose in a rope, set fire to the altar cloth, and the choir was seriously injured. sully's work had been romanesque in style, and choir and apse were now rebuilt in the new style, to harmonise with the remainder of the church. the builders have preserved some of the best of the romanesque twelfth-century work in the portal of st. anne's, under the south tower, and the magnificent iron hinges of old st. stephen's were used for its doors. the chapels round the apse and the twenty-eight figures of the royal benefactors from childebert i. to philip augustus, on the west front, were not completed until the end of the thirteenth century. the choir of st. germain des prés and the exquisite little church of st. julien le pauvre were built at the end of the twelfth century, and the beautiful refectory of st. martin des champs was created about . but the culmination of gothic art is reached in the wondrous sanctuary that st. louis built for the crown of thorns, "the most precious piece of gothic," says ruskin, "in northern europe." michelet saw a whole world of religion and poetry--tears of piety, mystic ecstasy, the mysteries of divine love--expressed in the marvellous little church, in the fragile and precious paintings of its windows.[ ] the narrow cell with an aperture looking on the reliquary, which st. louis used as an oratory, is still shown. the work was completed in three years, and has been so admirably restored by viollet-le-duc that the visitor may gaze to-day on this pure and peerless gem almost as st. louis left it, for the gorgeous interior faithfully reproduces the mediæval colour and gold. during the revolution it was used as an granary and then as a club. it narrowly escaped destruction, and men now living can remember seeing the old notices on the porch of the lower chapel--_propriété nationale à vendre_. only once a year, when the "red mass" is said at the opening of the law courts in november, is the church used; and all that remains of the relics has long been transferred to the treasury of notre dame. the old quinze-vingts, the chartreux, the cordeliers, st. croix de la bretonnerie, st. catherine, the blancs manteaux, the mathurins and other masterpieces of the gothic builders have all disappeared. gothic architecture was eminently a product of the isle de france. the thirteenth century rivals the finest period of greek art for purity, simplicity, nobility and accurate science of construction. imagination was chastened by knowledge, but not systematised into rigid rules. each master solved his problem in his own way, and the result was a charm and a variety, a fertility of invention, never surpassed in the history of art. early french sculpture is a direct descendant of greek art, which made its way into france by the phoenician trade route. french artists achieved a perfection in the representation of the human form which anticipated by a generation the work of the pisani in italy, for the statues on the west front of chartres cathedral ( - ) are carved with a naturalness and grace which the italian masters never surpassed, and the marvellously mature and beautiful thirteenth-century silver-gilt figure of a king, in high relief, found in immured in an old house at bourges and exhibited in among the primitifs français at the louvre, was wrought more than a century before the birth of donatello. some fragments of the old sculptures that adorned st. denis and other twelfth- and thirteenth-century churches may still be found in the museums of paris. the influence of the french architects, as emile bertaux has demonstrated in the first volume of his _art dans l'italie meridionale_, extended far beyond the limits of france, and is clearly traceable in the fine hunting-palace, erected for frederic ii. in the thirteenth century, at castello del monte, near andria, in apulia. but the names of those who created these wonderful productions no man knoweth; the great masterpieces of the thirteenth century are anonymous. jean de chelles, one of the masons of notre dame, has left his name on the south portal and the date, feb. , , on which it was begun, "in honour of the holy mother of christ," but nothing is known of him. the sainte-chapelle is commonly attributed to pierre de montereau, but the attribution is a mere guess. [illustration: th century sculptures from st. denis (restored).] [illustration: notre dame--southern side.] nor did the love of beauty during this marvellous age express itself solely in architecture. if we were asked to specify one trait which more than any other characterises the "dark ages" and differentiates them from modern times, we should be tempted to say, love of brightness and colour. within and without, the temples of god were resplendent with silver and gold, with purple and crimson and blue; the saintly figures and solemn legends on their porches, the capitals, the columns, the groins of the vaultings were lustrous with colour and gold. each window was a complex of jewelled splendour: the pillars and walls were painted or draped with lovely tapestries and gorgeous banners: the shrines and altars glittered with precious stones--jasper and sardius and chalcedony, sapphire and emerald, chrysolite and beryl, topaz and amethyst and pearl. the church illuminated her sacred books with exquisite painting, bound them with precious fabrics, and clasped them with silver and gold; the robes of her priests and ministrants were rich with embroideries. so insensible, so atrophied to colour have the eyes of moderns grown amid their drab surroundings, that the aspect of a building wherein skilful hands have in some small degree essayed to realise the splendour of the past dazes the beholder; a sense of pain rather than of delight possesses him and he averts his gaze. [illustration: la sainte chapelle.] nor were the churches of those early times anything more than an exquisite expression of what men were surrounded by in their daily lives and avocations. the houses[ ] and oratories of noble and burgess were rich with ivories exquisitely carved, with sculptures and paintings, tapestry and enamels: the very utensils of common domestic use were beautiful. men did not prate of art: they wrought in love and simplicity. the very word art, as denoting a product of human activity different from the ordinary daily tasks of men, was unknown. if painting was an art, even so was carpentry. a mason was an artist: so was a shoemaker. astronomy and grammar were arts: so was spinning. apothecaries and lawyers were artists: so was a tailor. dante uses the word _artista_ as denoting a workman or craftsman, and when he wishes to emphasise the degeneracy of the citizens of his time as compared with those of the old florentine race, he does so by saying that in those days their blood ran pure even _nell' ultimo artista_ (in the commonest workman). let us be careful how we speak of these ages as "dark"; at least there were "retrievements out of the night." already before the tenth century the basilica of st. germain des prés was known as st. germain _le doré_ (the golden), from its glowing refulgence, and st. bernard declaimed against the resplendent colour and gold in the churches of his time. never since the age of pericles has so great an effusion of beauty descended on the earth as during the wondrous thirteenth century in the isle de france and especially in paris.[ ] we pass from the enthusiasm of art to that of learning. from earliest times, schools, free to the poor, had been attached to every great abbey and cathedral in france. at the end of the eleventh century four were eminent at paris: the schools of st. denis, where the young princes and nobles were educated; of the parvis notre dame, for the training of young _clercs_,[ ] the famous _scola parisiaca_, referred to by abelard; of st. genevieve; and of st. victor, founded by william of champeaux. the fame of this teacher drew multitudes of young men from the provinces to paris, among whom there came, about , peter abelard, scion of a noble family of nantes. by his wit, erudition and dialectical subtlety he soon eclipsed his master's fame and was appointed to a chair of philosophy in the school of notre dame. william of champeaux, jealous of his young rival, compassed his dismissal, and after teaching for a while at melun, abelard returned to paris and opened a school on mont st. genevieve, whither crowds of students followed him. so great was the fame of this brilliant lecturer and daring thinker that his school was filled with eager listeners from all countries of europe, even from rome herself. abelard was proud and ambitious, and the highest prizes of an ecclesiastical and scholastic career seemed within his grasp. but fulbert, canon of notre dame, had a niece, accomplished and passing fair, héloïse by name, who was an enthusiastic admirer of the great teacher. it was proposed that abelard should enter the canon's house as her tutor, and fulbert's avarice made the proposition an acceptable one. abelard, like arnault daniel, was a good craftsman in his mother tongue, a facile master of _versi d'amore_, which he would sing with a voice wondrously sweet and supple. now abelard was thirty-eight years of age: héloïse seventeen. _amor al cor gentil ratio s'apprende_,[ ] and minerva was not the only goddess who presided over their meetings. for a time fulbert was blind, but scandal cleared his eyes and abelard was expelled from the house. héloïse followed and took refuge with her lover's sister in brittany, where a child, astrolabe, was born. peacemakers soon intervened and a secret marriage was arranged, which took place early one morning at paris, fulbert being present. but the lovers continued to meet; scandal was again busy and fulbert published the marriage. héloïse, that the master's advancement in the church might not be marred, gave the lie to her uncle and fled to the nuns of argenteuil. fulbert now plotted a dastardly revenge. by his orders abelard was surprised in his bed, and the mutilation which, according to eusebius, origen performed on himself, was violently inflicted on the great teacher. all ecclesiastical preferment was thus rendered canonically impossible: abelard became the talk of paris, and in bitter humiliation retired to the abbey of st. denis. before he made his vows, however, he required of héloïse that she should take the veil. the heart-broken creature reproached him for his disloyalty, and repeating the lines which lucan puts into the mouth of cornelia weeping for pompey's death, burst into tears and consented to take the veil. a savage punishment was inflicted by the ecclesiastical courts on fulbert's ruffians, who were made to suffer the _lex talionis_ and the loss of their eyes: the canon's property was confiscated. the great master, although forbidden to open a school at st. denis, was importuned by crowds of young men not to let his talents waste, and soon a country house near by was filled with so great a company of scholars that food could not be found for them. but enemies were vigilant and relentless, and he had shocked the timid by doubting the truth of the legend that dionysius the areopagite had come to france. in certain of abelard's writings on the trinity were condemned, and he took refuge at nogent-sur-seine, near troyes, under the patronage of the count of champagne. he retired to a hermitage of thatch and reeds, the famous paraclete, but even there students flocked to him, and young nobles were glad to live on coarse bread and lie on straw, that they might taste of wisdom, the bread of the angels. again his enemies set upon him. he surrendered the paraclete to héloïse and a small sisterhood, and accepted the abbotship of st. gildes in his own brittany. a decade passed, and again he was seen in paris. his enemies now determined to silence him. st. bernard, the dictator of christendom, denounced his writings. abelard appealed for a hearing, and the two champions met in st. stephen's church at sens before the king, the hierarchy and a brilliant and expectant audience. abelard, the ever-victorious knight-errant of disputation, stood forth, eager for the fray, but st. bernard simply rose and read out seventeen propositions from his opponent's works, which he declared to be heretical. abelard in disgust left the lists, and was condemned unheard to perpetual silence. the pope, to whom he appealed, confirmed the sentence, and the weary soldier of the mind, old and heart-broken, retired to cluny. he gave up the struggle, was reconciled to his opponents, and died absolved by the pope near chalons in . his ashes were sent to héloïse, and twenty years later she was laid beside him at the paraclete. a well-known path, worn by generations of unhappy lovers, leads to a monument in père-la-chaise cemetery at paris which marks the last resting-place of abelard and héloïse, whose remains were transferred there in . it is commonly believed that abelard's school on mont st. genevieve was the origin of the latin quarter in paris, but the migration to the south had probably begun before abelard came, and was rather due to the overcrowding of the episcopal schools. teachers and scholars began to swarm to the new quarter over the bridge where quiet, purer air and better accommodation were found. ordinances of bishop gilbert, , and stephen, , transcribed by félibien, make this clear. so disturbed were the canons by the numbers of students in the cloister, that _externes_ were to be no longer admitted, nor other schools allowed on the north side where the canons lodged. the growing importance of the new schools, which tended to the advantage of the abbey of st. genevieve, soon alarmed the bishops, and the theologians were ordered to lecture only between the two bridges (the petit and grand ponts.) but it was abelard's brilliant career that attracted like a lodestar the youth of europe to paris, and made that city the "oven where the intellectual bread of the world was baked." providence, it was said, had given empire to germany, priestcraft to italy, learning to france. what a constellation of great names glows in the spiritual firmament of paris: william of champeaux, peter lombard, maurice de sully, pierre de chartreux, abelard, gilbert[ ] l'universel, john of salisbury, adrian iv., st. thomas of canterbury. small wonder that the youth of the twelfth century sought the springs of learning at paris! [illustration: notre dame and petit pont.] [illustration: the seine from pont de la concorde.] there was no discipline or college life among the earliest students. each master, having obtained his license from the bishop's chancellor, rented a room at his own cost, and taught what he knew--even, it was sometimes complained, what he did not know. we read of one adam du petit pont, who, in the twelfth century, expounded aristotle in the back-room of a house on the bridge amid the cackle of cocks and hens, whose _clientèle_ had many a vituperative contest with the fish-fags of the neighbourhood. the students grouped themselves according to nationalities, and with their masters held meetings in any available cloister, refectory, or church. when funds were needed, a general levy was made; any balance that remained was spent in a festive gathering in the nearest tavern. the aggregation of thousands of young men, some of whom were cosmopolitan vagabonds, gave rise to many evils. complaints are frequent among the citizens of the depredations and immoralities of riotous _clercs_, who lived by their wits or by their nimble fingers, or by reciting or singing licentious ballads: the _paouvres escolliers_, whose miserable estate, temptations, debauchery, ignoble pleasures, remorse and degradation have been so pathetically sung by françois villon, master of arts, poet, bohemian, burglar and homicide. the richer scholars often indulged in excesses, and of the vast majority who were poor, some died of hunger. it was the spectacle of half-starving _clercs_ begging for bread that evoked the compassion of pious founders of colleges, which originally were simply hostels for needy scholars. on the return of louis vii. from a pilgrimage to becket's shrine, his brother robert founded about the church of st. thomas of canterbury and a hostel for fifteen students, who, in , were endowed with a chapel of their own, dedicated to st. nicholas, and were then known as the poor scholars of st. nicholas.[ ] in the same year a london merchant, passing through paris on his return from a pilgrimage to the holy land, was touched by the sight of some starving students begging their bread. he founded a hostel for eighteen poor scholars at the hôtel dieu, who in return for lodging and maintenance were to perform the last christian rites to the friendless dead. this was the college of the dix-huit, afterwards absorbed in the sorbonne. in etienne belot and his wife, burgesses of paris, founded a hostel for thirteen poor scholars who were known as the _bons enfants_. in all, some dozen colleges were in being when st. louis came to the throne. in , st. louis' almoner, robert of cerbon or sorbon, a poor picardy village, founded[ ] a modest college of theology, and obtained from blanche of castile a small house above the palace of the thermæ. here he was able to maintain a few poor scholars of theology and to facilitate their studies. friends came to his aid and soon sixteen were accommodated, to whom others, able to maintain themselves, were added. in a papal bull confirmed the establishment of the _pauvres maistres estudiants_ in the faculty of theology at paris. even when enriched by later founders it was still called _la pauvre sorbonne_. by the renown of their erudition, the doctors of the sorbonne were the great court of appeal in the middle ages in matters of theology, and the sorbonne became synonymous with the university. some of the hostels were on a larger scale. the college of cardinal lemoine, founded in by the papal legate, housed sixty students in arts and forty in theology. most were paying residents, but a number of _bourses_ (scholarships) were provided for those whose incomes were below a certain amount. each _boursier_ was given daily two loaves of white bread of twelve ounces, "the common weight in the windows of paris bakers." in , jeanne of navarre, wife of philip the fair, founded the college of navarre for seventy poor scholars, twenty in grammar, thirty in philosophy, and twenty in theology. the maintenance fund seems, however, to have been inadequate or mismanaged, for we soon read of the scholars of the college walking the streets of paris every morning crying--"bread, bread, good people, for the poor scholars of madame of navarre!" [illustration: tower in rue nalette in which calvin is said to have lived.] some forty colleges were in existence by the end of the fourteenth century and had increased to fifty by the end of the fifteenth; in the seventeenth, evelyn gives their number as sixty-five. in félibien's time some had disappeared, for in his map ( ) forty-four colleges only are marked. nearly the whole of these colleges clustered around the slopes of mont st. genevieve, which at length became that christian athens that charlemagne dreamt of. each college had its own rules. generally students were required to attend matins (in summer at a.m., winter at ), mass, vespers and compline. when the curfew of notre dame sounded, they retired to their dormitories. leave to sleep out was granted only in very exceptional cases. tennis was allowed, cards and dice were forbidden. the college of montaigue, which housed eighty-two poor scholars in memory of the twelve apostles and seventy disciples, was reformed in the fifteenth century; so severe was the discipline that the college became the terror of the youth of paris, and fathers were wont to sober their libertine sons by threatening to make _capetes_[ ] of them. this was calvin's college, where he was known as the "accusative," from his austere piety. to obtain admission to the college of cluny ( ) the scholar must pass an entrance examination. he then spent two years at logic, three at metaphysics, two in biblical studies; he held weekly disputations and preached every fortnight in french; he was interrogated every evening by the president on his studies during the day. if students evinced no aptitude for learning they were dismissed; if only moderate progress were made, the secular duties of the college devolved upon them. it was the foundation of these colleges which organised themselves, about , into powerful corporations of masters and scholars (_universitates magistrorum et scholiarum_) that gave the university its definite character. when the term "university" first came into use is unknown. it is met with in the statutes ( ) which, among other matters, define the limits of age for teaching. a master in the arts must not lecture under twenty-one; of theology under thirty-five. every master must undergo an examination as to qualification and moral fitness at the episcopal chancellor's court. early in the twelfth century the four faculties of law, medicine, arts and theology were formed and the national groups reduced to four: french, picards, normans and english.[ ] each group elected its own officers, and in at latest the _quatre nations_ were meeting in the church of st. julien le pauvre[ ] to choose a common head or rector, who soon superseded the chancellor as head of the university. the rectors in process of time exercised almost sovereign authority in the latin quarter. they ruled a population of ten thousand masters and students, who were exempt from civic jurisdiction. in some german students ill-treated an innkeeper who had insulted their servant. the provost of paris and some armed citizens attacked the students' houses and blood was shed, whereupon the masters of the schools complained to the king, who was fierce in his anger, and ordered the provost and his accomplices to be cast into prison, their houses demolished and vines uprooted. the provost was given the choice of imprisonment for life or the ordeal by water. then followed a series of ordinances which abolished secular jurisdiction over the students and made them subject to ecclesiastical courts alone. [illustration: hÔtel of the provost of paris.] in the reign of philip le bel a provost of paris dared to hang a scholar. the rector immediately closed all classes until reparation was made, and on the feast of the nativity of the virgin the _curés_ of paris assembled and went in procession, bearing a cross and holy water to the provost's house, against which each cast a stone, crying, in a loud voice--"make honourable reparation, thou cursed satan, to thy mother holy church, whose privileges thou hast injured, or suffer the fate of dathan and abiram." the king dismissed his provost, caused ample compensation to be made, and the schools were reopened. in some pages belonging to the royal chamberlain brutally spurred their horses through a procession of scholars wending to the church of st. catherine. they were stoned by the angry scholars, whereupon they drew sword and attacked them, pursuing them even into the church. the rector demanded satisfaction, but the chamberlain, charles de savoisy, was a court functionary, and nothing was done. the rector then closed all the schools and the king ordered the parlement to do instant justice. the sentence was an exemplary one. the chamberlain's house was to be demolished, an annuity of one hundred livres to be paid for the maintenance of five chaplaincies under the patronage of the university, a thousand livres compensation to be paid to the injured scholars and a like sum to the university. three of the chamberlain's men were to do penance in their shirts, torch in hand, before the churches of st. genevieve, st. catherine and st. sévérin, to suffer a whipping at the cross roads, and to be banished for three years. in permission was given for the house to be rebuilt, but the university resisted the decree and only gave way one hundred and twelve years later, on condition that the terms of the original condemnation and sentence were inscribed on the new house. the famous prés aux clercs (clerks' meadow) was the theatre of many a fight with the powerful abbots of st. germain des prés. from earliest times the students had been wont to take the air in the meadow, which lay between the monastery and the river, and soon claimed the privilege as an acquired right. in the inhabitants of the monastic suburb resented their insolence, and a free fight ensued, in which several scholars were wounded and one was killed. the rector inculpated the abbot, and each appealed to rome, with what result is unknown. after nearly a century of strained relations and minor troubles the abbots in had walls and other buildings erected on the way to the meadow. the scholars met in force and demolished them. the abbot, who was equal to the occasion, rang his bells, called his vassals to arms and sent a force to seize the gates of the city that gave on the suburb, to prevent reinforcements reaching the scholars. his retainers then attacked the rioters, killed several and wounded many. the rector complained to the papal legate and threatened to close the schools if reparation were not made and justice done within fifteen days, whereupon the legate ordered the provost of the monastery to be expelled for five years. the royal council forced the abbot to exile ten of his vassals, to endow two chantries for the repose of the souls of slain _clercs_ and compensate their fathers by fines of two hundred and four hundred livres respectively, and to pay the rector two hundred livres to be distributed among poor scholars. the rector claimed right of jurisdiction over the parchments exposed for sale in paris and its neighbourhood, and attended with his sworn experts the great fair of landry at st. denis, instituted in . the students accompanied him with much uproar. at this season the landry gifts were made by the students to the masters, consisting of a lemon larded with pieces of gold or silver in a crystal glass. the ceremony was accompanied by the sound of drums and musical instruments and was followed by a holiday. innumerable were the complaints on this and other occasions of the rowdyism of the scholars, their practical jokes and dissolute habits. many circumstances contributed to make paris the capital of the intellectual world in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. france has ever been the home of great enthusiasms and has not feared "to follow where airy voices lead." the conception and enforcement of a truce of god (_trève de dieu_) whereby all acts of hostility in private or public wars ceased during certain days of the week or on church festivals; the noble ideal of christian chivalry; the first crusade--all had their origin in france. the crusaders carried the prestige of the french name and diffused the french idiom over europe. it was a french monk preaching in france who gave voice to the general enthusiasm; a french pope approved his impassioned oration; a french shout "_dieu le veut_" became the crusader's war-cry. the conquest of the holy land was organised by the french, its first christian king was a french knight, its laws were indited in french, and to this day every christian in the east is a frank whatever tongue he may speak. in the thirteenth century brunetto latini wrote his most famous work, the _livres dou trésor_, in french, because it was _la parleure plus delitable, il plus commune à toutes gens_ ("the most delightful of languages and the most common to all peoples.") martin da canale composed his story of venice in french for the same reason, and marco polo dictated his travels in french in a genoese prison. when st. francis was sending the brothers to establish the order in distant lands, he himself chose france, but was dissuaded by his friend, cardinal ugolin. "when inebriated with love and compassion for christ," says the writer of the _speculum_, "and overflowing with sweetest melody of the spirit, ofttimes would he find utterance in the french tongue; the strains of the divine whisperings which his ear had caught he would express in a french song of joyous exultation, and making the gestures of one playing a viol, he would sing in french of our lord jesus christ." never in the history of civilisation were men possessed with such passion for the spiritual life or such faith in the reasoning faculty as in the thirteenth century in paris. the holiest mysteries were analysed and defined; everywhere was a search for new things. conservative churchmen became alarmed and complained of disputants and blasphemers exercising their wits at every street corner. the four camel-loads of manuscripts, the works and commentaries of aristotle, brought by the jews from spain--a monstrous and mutilated version translated from greek into arabic and from arabic into latin--became the battle-ground of the schools. the church at first forbade the study of aristotle, then by the genius of aquinas, christianised and absorbed him. his works became a kind of intellectual tennis-ball bandied between the averroists, who carried their teachings to a logical consequence, and the more orthodox followers of aquinas. for three years the faculty was torn asunder by the rival factions. siger of brabant, whose eternal light dante saw refulgent amid other doctors of the church in the heaven of the sun, was an averroist; siger-- "che leggendo nel vico degli strami sillogizzò invidiosi veri."[ ] the rue du fouarre (straw), where siger taught and perhaps dante studied, was the street of the masters of the arts. every house in it was a school. it still exists, though wholly modernised, opposite the foot of the petit pont. its name has been derived from the straw spread on the floor of the schools or on which the students sat, but there is little doubt that benvenuto da imola's[ ] explanation, that it was so named from a hay and straw market held there, is the correct one. [illustration: le petit pont.] the wonderful thirteenth century saw the meridian glory of the university. it was the age of the great aristotelian schoolmen who all taught at paris--albertus magnus, st. thomas aquinas, duns scotus and roger bacon, their candid critic, who carried the intellectual curiosity of the age beyond the tolerance of his franciscan superiors and twice suffered disciplinary measures at paris. in the fourteenth century the university was as renowned as ever. among many tributes from great scholars we choose that of richard de bury, bishop of durham, who in his _philobiblon_ writes: "o holy god of gods in zion, what a mighty stream of pleasure made glad our hearts whenever we had leisure to visit paris, the paradise of the world, and to linger there; where the days seemed ever few for the greatness of our love! there are delightful libraries more aromatic than stores of spicery; there are luxuriant parks of all manners of volumes; there are academic meads shaken by the tramp of scholars; there are lounges of athens; walks of the peripatetics; peaks of parnassus; and porches of the stoics. there is seen the surveyor of all arts and sciences aristotle, to whom belongs all that is most excellent in doctrine, so far as relates to this passing sublunary world; there ptolemy measures epicycles and eccentric apogees and the nodes of the planets by figures and numbers; there paul reveals the mysteries; there his neighbour dionysius arranges and distinguishes the hierarchies; there the virgin carmentis reproduces in latin characters all that cadmus collected in phoenician letters; there indeed opening our treasures and unfastening our purse-strings we scattered money with joyous heart and purchased inestimable books with mud and sand." in the number of professors (_maistres-regents_) on the rolls was : in they had increased to , to which must be added more than masters of theology and canon law. "the university," wrote pope alexander iv. in a papal bull, "is to the church what the tree of life was to the earthly paradise, a fruitful source of all learning, diffusing its wisdom over the whole universe; there the mind is enlightened and ignorance banished and jesus christ gives to his spouse an eloquence which confounds all her enemies." but already decadence had set in. the multiplication and enrichment of colleges proved fatal to the old democratic vigour and equality. some colleges pretended to superiority and the movement lost its unity. scholasticism had done its work and no new movement took its place. teachers lost all originality and did but ruminate and comment on the works of their great predecessors. schools declined in numbers and scholars in attendance. ordinances were needed to correct the abuses covered by the title of scholar. the jacobin and cordelier teachers, moreover, had exhausted much life from the university; but its fame continued, and luther in his early conflicts with the papacy appealed against the pope to the university. but it made the fatal blunder of opposing the reform and the renaissance, instead of absorbing them, and the interest of those great movements centres around the college of france. chapter vii the parlement--the states-general--conflict with boniface viii.--the destruction of the knights-templars the court of philip iii., pitiful scion of a noble king, is associated with a dramatic judicial murder at paris. among the late-repentant souls temporarily exiled from purification who crowd around dante at the foot of the mont of purgatory is that of pierre de la brosse, "severed from its body through hatred and envy and not for any sin committed." unhappy pierre was st. louis' chamberlain and had been present at his death. he filled the same high office under his son, became his favourite minister and all-powerful at court. in the king's eldest son by his first queen died under suspicion of poison. the second queen, sister of the duke of brabant, being envious of pierre's ascendency, began insidiously to abuse the king's ear. pierre met the queen's move by clandestinely spreading a report that the prince was sacrificed to secure the succession to her own offspring. the king was then persuaded by the queen's friends to consult a famous prophetess, who declared her innocent, and pierre's death was plotted by the queen, her brother of brabant, and some discontented and jealous nobles. one morning paris was startled by the arrest of the omnipotent minister, who was tried before a commission packed by his enemies, and hanged on th june , by the common hangman, at the gibbet on montfaucon, in the presence of the duke of brabant and others of his enemies. the popular belief was that he had been accused of an attempt on the queen's chastity: actually his destruction had been compassed by a charge of treason, based on some forged letters. the tragic end of pierre de la brosse excited universal interest and discussion. benvenuto da imola says that dante, when in paris, diligently sought out the truth and convinced himself of the great minister's innocence. a prince of far different calibre was the fourth philip, surnamed the fair, who grappled with and humiliated the great pontiff, boniface viii.--the most resolute upholder of the papacy in her claim to universal secular supremacy--and thus achieved a task which had baffled the mighty emperors themselves; a prince who, in dante's grim metaphor, scourged the shameless harlot of rome from head to foot, and dragged her to do his will in france. [illustration: palais de justice, clock tower and conciergerie.] philip's reign is remarkable for the establishment of the parlement and the first convocation of the states-general in paris. from earliest times of the monarchy, the kings had dispensed justice, surrounded by the chief churchmen and nobles of the land, thus constituting an ambulatory tribunal, which was held wherever the sovereign might happen to be. in philip fixed the tribunal at paris, restricted it to judicial functions, and housed it in his palace of the cité, which, in , when the kings ceased to dwell there, became the palais de justice. the palace was rebuilt by philip. a vast hall, divided by a row of columns adorned with statues of the kings of france, and said to have been the most spacious and most beautiful gothic chamber in france, with other courts and offices, accommodated the parlement. the tribunal was at first composed of twenty-six councillors or judges, of whom thirteen were lawyers, presided over by the royal chancellor. it sat twice yearly for periods of two months, and consisted of three chambers or courts.[ ] the nobles who at first sat among the lay members gradually ceased to attend owing to a sense of their legal inefficiency, and the parlement became at length a purely legal body. during the imprisonment of the french king, john the good, in england, the parlement[ ] sat _en permanence_, and henceforth became the _cour souveraine et capitale_ of the kingdom. the purity of its members was maintained by severest penalties. in one of the presidents was convicted of receiving bribes and hanged. twelve years later the falsification of some depositions was punished with the same severity, and in a corrupt chancellor was fined , livres, degraded, and imprisoned for five years. the chief executive officer of the parlement, known as the concierge, appointed the bailiffs of the court and had extensive local jurisdiction over dishonest merchants and craftsmen, whose goods he could burn. his official residence, known as the conciergerie, subsequently became a prison, and so remains to this day. the entrance flanked by the two ancient _tours de césar et d'argent_, is one of the most familiar objects in paris. there the count of armagnac was assassinated and the cells are still shown where marie antoinette, madame roland, danton, robespierre, and many of the chief victims of the terror were lodged before their execution. the same year ( ) saw the ripening of philip's long quarrel with pope boniface viii. and the first meeting of the states-general. the king knew he had embarked on a struggle in which the mightiest potentates had been worsted: he determined to appeal to the patriotism of all classes of his subjects and fortify himself on the broad basis of such popular opinion as then existed. the meeting of the states-general after the burning of the papal bull in paris on the memorable sunday of th february , made an epoch in french history. for the first time members of the _tiers etat_ (the third estate, or commons), sat beside the two privileged orders of clergy and nobles, and were recognised as one of the legitimate orders of the realm. the assembly was convoked to meet in notre dame on the th of april. the question was the old one which had rent christendom asunder for centuries: was the pope to be supreme over the princes and peoples of the earth in secular as well as in spiritual matters? the utmost enthusiasm prevailed, and though the prelates spoke with a somewhat timid voice the assembled members swore to risk their lives and property rather than sacrifice the honour of the crown and their own liberties to the insolent usurpation of the pope. excommunication followed, but the king had ordered all the passes from italy to be guarded, so that no papal letter or messenger should enter france. "boniface, who," says villani, the florentine chronicler, "was proud and scornful, and bold to attempt every great deed, magnanimous and puissant, replied by announcing the publication of a bull deposing the king from his throne and releasing his subjects from their allegiance." philip, at an assembly in the garden of the palace in the cité, and in presence of the chief ecclesiastical, religious and lay authorities, again laid his case before the people and read an appeal against the pope to a future council of the church. the bull of deposition was to be promulgated on th september. on th september, while the aged pope was peacefully resting at his native city of anagni, guillaume de nogaret, bearing the royal banner of france, sciarra colonna and other disaffected italian nobles, with three hundred horsemen, flung themselves into anagni, crying--"death to pope boniface." the papal palace was unguarded; at the first alarm the cardinals fled and hid themselves, and all but a few faithful servants forsook their master. the defenceless pope believed that his hour was come, but, writes villani, "great-souled and valiant as he was, he said, 'since like jesus christ i must be taken by treachery and suffer death, at least i will die like a pope.' he commanded his servants to robe him in the mantle of peter, to place the crown of constantine on his head and the keys and crozier in his hands." he ascended the papal throne and calmly waited. guillaume, sciarra and the other leaders burst into the apartment, sword in hand, uttering the foulest of insults; but awed and cowed by the indomitable old pontiff, who stood erect in appalling majesty, their weapons dropped and none durst lay a hand upon him. they set a guard outside the room and proceeded to loot the palace. for three days the grand old pontiff--he was eighty-six years of age--remained a prisoner, until the people of anagni rallied and rescued him, and he returned to rome. in a month the humiliated boniface died of a broken heart, and before two years were passed his successor in peter's chair, pope clement v., revoked all his bulls and censures, expunged them from the papal register, solemnly condemned his memory and restored the colonna family to all their honours. dante, who hated boniface as cordially as philip did, and cast him into hell, was yet revolted at the cruelty of the "new pilate, who had carried the fleur-de-lys into anagni, who made christ captive, mocked him a second time, renewed the gall and vinegar, and slew him between two living thieves." but the "new pilate was not yet sated." the business at anagni had only been effected _spendendo molta moneta_; the disastrous battle of courtrai and the inglorious flemish wars had exhausted the royal treasury; the debasement of the coinage had availed nought, and philip turned his lustful eyes on a once powerful lay order, whose wealth and pride were the talk of christendom. [illustration: ile de la citÉ.] after the capture of jerusalem and the establishment there of a christian kingdom, pilgrims flocked to the holy places. soon, however, piteous stories reached jerusalem of the cruel spoliation and murder of unarmed pilgrims on their journey from the coast by hordes of roving lightly-armed bedouins, against whom the heavily-armed franks were powerless. the evil was growing well-nigh intolerable when, in , two young french nobles, hugh of payens and godfrey of st. omer, with other seven youths of highest birth, bound themselves into a lay community, with the object of protecting the pilgrims' way. they took the usual vow of poverty, charity and obedience; st. bernard drew up their rule--and we may be sure it was austere enough--pope and patriarch confirmed it. their garb was a mantle of purest white linen with a red cross embroidered on the shoulder. the order was housed in a wing of the king's palace, which was built on the site of solomon's temple, hard by the holy sepulchre, and its members called themselves the poor soldiers of christ and of solomon's temple. their banner, half of black, half of white, was inscribed with the device "_non nobis domine_." their battle-cry "beauceant," and their seal, two figures on horseback, have not been satisfactorily interpreted--the latter probably portrays a knight riding away with a rescued pilgrim. soon the little band of nine was joined by hundreds of devoted youths from rich and noble families; endowments to provide them with arms and horses and servants flowed in, and thus was formed the most famous, the purest and the most heroic body of warriors the world has ever seen. hugh de payens had gathered three hundred knights-templars around him at jerusalem: in five years nearly every one had been slain in battle. but enthusiasm filled the ranks faster than they were mowed down: none ever surrendered and the order paid no money for ransom. when hemmed in by overwhelming numbers, they fought till the last man fell, or died, a wounded captive, in the hands of the saracens. of the twenty-two grand masters seven were killed in battle, five died of wounds, and one of voluntary starvation in the hands of the infidel. when acre was lost, and the last hold of the christians in the holy land was wrested from them, only ten knights-templars of the five hundred who fought there escaped to cyprus. they chose jacques de molay for grand master, replenished their treasury and renewed their members; but their mission was gone for ever. the order was exempt from episcopal jurisdiction and subject to the pope alone: its wealth, courage and devotion were rusting for lack of employment. boniface viii., with that grandeur and daring which make of him despite his faults, so magnificent a figure in history, conceived the idea of uniting them with the other military orders--the hospitallers and the teutonic knights--and making of the united orders an invincible army to enforce on europe the decrees of a benevolent and theocratic despotism. they soon became suspected and hated by bishops and kings alike, and at length were betrayed by the papacy itself to their enemies. in , a pair of renegade templars,[ ] who for their crimes were under sentence of imprisonment for life in the prison at toulouse, sought an introduction to the king, and promised in return for their liberty to give information of certain monstrous crimes and sacrileges of common and notorious occurrence in the order. depositions were taken and sent to the king's creature, pope clement v. some communication passed between them, but no action was taken and the matter seemed to have lapsed. about a year after these events the pope wrote an affectionate letter to jacques de molay, inviting him to bring the treasure of the order and his chief officers to france, to confer with himself and the king respecting a new crusade. jacques and his companions, suspecting nothing, came and were received by pope and king with great friendliness: the treasure, twelve mules' load of gold and silver, was stored in the vaults of the great fortress of the templars at paris. some rumours reached de molay of the delation made by the toulousian prisoners, but the pope reassured him in an interview, april , and lulled him into security. on th september of the same year all the royal officers of the realm were ordered to hold themselves armed for secret service on th october, and sealed letters were handed to them to be opened on that night. at dawn on the th, all the templars in france were arrested in their beds and flung into the episcopal gaols, and the bishops then proceeded to "examine" the prisoners. one hundred and forty were dealt with in paris, the centre of the order. the charges and a confession of their truth by the grand master were read to them: denial, they were told, was useless; liberty would be the reward of confession, imprisonment the penalty of denial. [illustration: palace of the archbishop of sens.] a few confessed and were set free. the remainder were "examined." starvation and torture of the most incredible ferocity did their work. thirty-six died under torture in paris, and many others in other places: most of the remainder confessed to anything the inquisitors required. the pope, warned by the growing feeling in europe, now became alarmed, and the next act in the drama opens at paris, where a papal commission sat at the abbey of st. genevieve, to hear what the templars had to say in their defence. all were invited to give evidence and promised immunity in the name of the pope. hundreds came to paris to defend their order,[ ] but having been made to understand by the bishops that they would be burned as heretics if they retracted their confessions, they held back for a time until solemnly assured by the papal commissioners that they had nothing to fear, and might freely speak. ponzardus de gysiaco, preceptor of payens, then came forward and disclosed the atrocious means used to extort confessions, and said if he were so tortured again he would confess anything that were demanded of him. he would face death, however horrible, even by boiling and fire, in defence of his order, but long-protracted and agonising torture was beyond human endurance. he was sent back to confinement and the warders were bidden to see that he suffered naught for what he had said. the rugged old master, jacques de molay, scarred by honourable wounds, the marks of many a battle with the infidel, was brought before the court and his alleged confession was read to him. he was stupefied, and swore that if his enemies were not priests he would know how to deal with them. a second time he was examined and preposterous charges of unnatural crimes were preferred against the order by the king's chancellor, guillaume de nogaret. they were drawn from a chronicle at st. denis, and based on certain statements alleged to have been made by saladin, sultan of babylon (egypt). again he was stupefied, and declared he had never heard of such things. and now the templars' courage rose. two hundred and thirty-one came forward, emaciated, racked and torn; among them one poor wretch was carried in, whose feet had been burnt off by slow fires. nearly all protested that the confessions had been wrung from them by torture, that their accusers were perjurers, and that they would maintain the purity of their order _usque ad mortem_ ("even unto death"). many complained that they were poor, illiterate soldiers, neither able to pay for legal defence nor to comprehend the charges indicted in latin against them. when the commissioners went to interrogate twenty templars detained in the abbey of st. genevieve, a written petition was handed to them by the prisoners, with a prayer to the papal notaries to correct the bad latin. it was philip's turn now to be alarmed, but the prelates were equal to the crisis. the archbishop of sens, metropolitan of paris and brother of the king's chief adviser, convoked a provincial court at his palace in paris, and condemned to the stake fifty-four of the knights who had retracted their confessions. on the th of may the papal commissioners were appealed to: they expressed their sorrow that the episcopal court was beyond their jurisdiction, but would consider what might be done. short time was allowed them. the stout-hearted archbishop was not a man to show weakness; he went steadily on with his work, and in spite of appeals from the papal judges for delay, the fifty-four were led forth on the afternoon of the th[ ] to the open country outside the porte st. antoine, near the convent of st. antoine des champs, and slowly roasted to death. they bore their fate with the constancy of martyrs, each protesting his innocence with his last breath, and declaring that the charges alleged against the order were false. two days later, six more were sent to the stake at the place de grève. in spite of threats, the prelates went on with their grim work of terror. many of the bravest templars still gave the lie to their traducers, but the majority were cowed: further confessions were obtained, and the pope was satisfied. the proudest, bravest and richest order in christendom was crushed or scattered to the four corners of the world. their vast estates were nominally confiscated to the knights hospitallers; but our "most dear brother in christ, philip the king, although he was not moved by avarice nor intended the appropriation of the templars' goods"[ ] had to be compensated for the expense of the prosecution. the treasure of the order failed to satisfy the exorbitant claims of the crown, and the hospitallers were said to have been impoverished rather than enriched by the transfer. the last act was yet to come. on th march , a great stage was erected in the _parvis_ of notre dame, and there, in chairs of state, sat the pope's envoy, a cardinal, the archbishop of sens, and other officers of christ's church on earth. the grand master, jacques de molay, and three preceptors were exposed to the people, their alleged confession and the papal bull suppressing the order, and condemning them to imprisonment for life, were read by the cardinal. but, to the amazement of his eminence, when the clauses specifying the enormities to which the accused had confessed were being recited, the veteran master and the preceptor of normandy rose, and in loud voices, heard of all the people, repudiated the confession, and declared that they were wholly guiltless, and ready to suffer death. they had not long to wait. hurried counsel was held with the king, and that same night jacques de molay and the preceptor of normandy were brought to a little island on the seine, known as the isle of the trellises,[ ] and burnt to death, protesting their innocence to the last. "god pays debts, but not in money." an italian chronicler relates that the master, while expiring in the flames, solemnly cited pope and king to meet him before the judgment-seat of god. in less than forty days clement v. lay dead: in eight months philip iv. was thrown by his horse and went to his account. seven centuries later the grisly fortress of the templars opened its portals, and the last of the unbroken line of the kings of france, louis xvi., was led forth to a bloody death. those who would read the details of the dramatic examination at paris before the papal commissioners, may do so in the minutes published by michelet.[ ] the great historian declares that a study of the evidence shook his belief in the templars' innocence, and that if he were writing his history again, he must needs alter his attitude towards them. such is not the impression left on the mind of the present writer. moreover it has been pointed out that there is a suspicious identity in the various groups of testimonies, corresponding to the episcopal courts whence such testimonies came. the royal officers, after the severest search, could find not a single compromising document in the templars' houses: nothing but a few account books, works of devotion and copies of st. bernard's rule. there were undoubtedly unworthy and vicious knights among the fifteen thousand templars belonging to the order, but the charges brought against them are too monstrous for belief. the call which they had responded to so nobly, however, had long ceased. they were wealthy, proud and self-absorbed. sooner or later they must infallibly have gone the way of all organisations which have outlived their use and purpose. it is the infamy of their violent destruction for which pope and king must answer at the bar of history. [illustration: the seine at alfortville.] chapter viii etienne marcel--the english invasions--the maillotins--murder of the duke of orleans--armagnacs and burgundians with the three sons of philip who successively became kings of france, the direct line of the capetian dynasty ends: with the accession of philip vi. in , the house of valois opens the sad century of the english wars--a period of humiliation and defeat, of rebellious and treacherous princes, civil strife, famine and plague, illumined only by the heroism of a peasant-girl, who, when king and nobles were sunk in shameless apathy or sullen despair, saved france from utter extinction. pope after pope sought to make peace, but in vain: _hui sont en paix, demain en guerre_ ("to-day peace, to-morrow war") was the normal and inevitable situation until the english had wholly subjected france or the french driven the english to their natural boundary of the channel. never since the days of charlemagne had the french monarchy been so powerful as when the valois came to the throne: in less than a generation crecy and poitiers had made the english name a terror in france, and a french king, john the good, was led captive to england. once again, as in the dark norman times, paris rose and determined to save herself. etienne marcel, provost of the merchants, whose statue now stands near the site of the maison aux piliers, the old hostel de ville which he bought for the citizens of paris, became the leader of the movement. the dauphin,[ ] who had assumed the title of lieutenant-general, convoked the states-general at paris, but he was forced by marcel and his party to grant some urgent reforms, and a committee of national defence was organised by the provost, who became virtually dictator of paris. the dauphin fled to compiègne to rally the nobles. during the ensuing anarchy the poor, dumb, starving serfs of france, in their hopeless misery and despair, rose in insurrection and swept like a flame over the land. froissart, who writes from the distorted stories told him by the seigneurs, has woefully exaggerated the atrocities of the _jacquerie_.[ ] there was much arson and pillage, but barely thirty of the nobles are known to have perished. of the merciless vengeance taken by the seigneurs there is ample confirmation. the wretched peasants were easily out-manoeuvred and killed like rats by the mail-clad nobles and their men-at-arms; so many were butchered in the market-place of meaux that weariness stayed the arms of the slaughterers, and fire completed their work. twenty thousand are estimated to have perished between the seine and the marne. meanwhile the dauphin was marching on paris: marcel had seized the louvre, repaired and extended the wall of paris, and raised an army. the provost turned for support to the _jacques_, and on their suppression essayed to win over king charles of navarre, whose aid would decide the issue. plot and counterplot followed. on st july , marcel was inspecting the gates of paris, and at the bastille[ ] st. denis ordered the keys to be given up to the treasurer of the king of navarre, who was with him. the guards refused, and jean maillart, marcel's sheriff and bosom friend, leapt on his horse, rode to the halles, and crying;--"_au roi, au roi, mont-joie st. denis_," called the king's friends to arms, and hastened to intercept the provost at the bastille st. antoine. marcel was holding the keys in his hand when they arrived. "stephen, stephen!" cried maillart, "what dost thou here at this hour?" "i am here," answered the provost, "to guard the city whose governor i am." "_par dieu_," retorted maillart, "thou art here for no good," and turning to his followers, said, "behold the keys which he holds to the destruction of the city." each gave the other the lie. "good people," protested marcel, "why would you do me ill? all i wrought was for your good as well as mine." maillart for answer smote at him, crying, "traitor, _à mort, à mort_!" there was a stubborn fight, and maillart felled the provost by a blow with his axe; six of the provost's companions were slain, and the remainder haled to prison. next day the dauphin entered paris in triumph, and the popular leaders were executed on the place de grève. the provost's body was dragged to the court of the church of st. catherine du val des ecoliers, where it lay naked that it might be seen of all: after a long exposure it was cast into the seine. all the reforms were revoked by the king, but the remembrance of the time when the merchants and people of paris had dared to speak to their royal lord face to face of justice and good government, was never obliterated. meanwhile the land was a prey to anarchy. law there was none. bands of _routiers_, or organised brigands, english and french, ravaged and pillaged without let or hindrance. eustache d'aubrecicourt, with , men-at-arms, raided champagne at his will and held a dozen fortresses. the peasants posted sentinels in the church towers while they worked in the fields, and took refuge by night in boats moored in the rivers. the english invasion of resembled a huge picnic or hunting expedition. the king of england and his barons brought their hunters, falcons, dogs and fishing tackle. they marched leisurely to bourg-la-reine, less than two leagues from paris, pillaged the surrounding country and turned to chartres, where tempest and sickness forced edward iii. to come to terms. after the treaty of bretigny, in , the parisians saw their good king john again, who was ransomed for a sum equal to about ten million pounds of present-day value. the memory of this and other enormous ransoms exacted by the english endured for centuries, and when a frenchman had paid his creditors he would say,--_j'ai payé mes anglais_.[ ] ("i have paid my english.") a magnificent reception was accorded to the four english barons who came to sign the peace at paris. they were taken to the sainte-chapelle and shown the fairest relics and richest jewels in the world, and each was given a spine from the crown of thorns, which he deemed the noblest jewel that could be presented to him. in , after sowing dragons' teeth in france by bestowing in appanage the duchy of burgundy on his youngest son philip the bold, king john the good returned to captivity and death at london in chivalrous atonement for the breaking of parole by his second son, louis of anjou, who had been interned at calais as a hostage under the treaty of . the dauphin, now charles v., by careful statesmanship succeeded in restoring order to the kingdom and to its finances[ ] and in winning some successes against the english. the dread companies of _routiers_, after defeating and slaying jacques de bourbon and capturing one hundred french chevaliers, were bribed by pope innocent vi. to pass into lombardy, or induced to follow du guesclin, the national hero of the wars against the english, in a crusade against pedro the cruel in spain. in the english camp fires were again seen outside paris: charles refused battle and allowed them to ravage the suburbs with impunity. before the army left, an english knight swore he would joust at the gates of the city, and spurred lance in hand against them. as he turned to ride back, a big butcher lifted his pole-axe, smote the knight on the neck and felled him; four others battered him to death, "their blows," says froissart, "falling on his armour like strokes on an anvil." by wise counsel rather than by war charles won back much of his dismembered country. he was a great builder and patron of the arts. he employed raymond of the temple, his "beloved mason," to transform the louvre into a sumptuous palace with apartments for himself and his queen, the princes of the blood and the officers of the royal household. each suite of apartments was furnished with a private chapel, those of the king and queen being carved with much "art and patience." a gallery was built for the minstrels and players of instruments. a great garden was planted towards the rue st. honoré on the north, and the old wall of philip augustus on the east, in which were an "hôtel des lions," or collection of wild beasts, and a tennis court, where the king and princes played. the palace accounts still exist, with details of payments for "wine for the stone-cutters which the king our lord gave them when he came to view the works." jean callow and geoffrey le febre were paid for planting squares of strawberries, hyssop, sage, lavender, balsam, violets, and for making paths, weeding and carrying away stones and filth; others were paid for planting bulbs of lilies, double red roses and other good herbs. the first royal library was founded by charles, and peter the cage-maker was employed to protect the library windows from birds and other beasts by trellises of wire. an interesting payment of six francs in gold, made to jacqueline, widow of a mason "because she is poor and helpless and her husband met his death in working for the king at the louvre," demonstrates that royal custom had anticipated modern legislation. [illustration: chapel of fort vincennes] charles surrendered his palace in the cité to the parlement, and erected an immense palace (known as the hôtel st. paul) in the east of paris, outside the old wall, where he could entertain the whole of the princes of the blood and their suites. it was an irregular group of exquisite gothic mansions and chapels, furnished with sumptuous magnificence and surrounded by tennis courts, falconries, menageries, delightful and spacious gardens--a _hostel solennel des grands esbattements_ ("a solemn palace of great delights.") this royal city within a city covered a vast space, now roughly bounded by the rue st. paul, the river, the rue de l'arsenal and the rue st. antoine. charles vii. was the last king who dwelt there; the buildings fell to ruin, and between and were gradually sold. no vestige of this palace of delight now remains, nothing but the memory of it in a few street names,--the streets of the fair trellis, of the lions of st. paul, of the garden of st. paul, and of the cherry orchard. to charles v. is also due the beautiful chapel of vincennes and the completion of etienne marcel's wall. this fourth enclosure, began at the tour de billi, which stood at the angle formed by the gare de l'arsenal and the seine, extended north by the boulevard bourdon, the place de la bastille, and the line of the inner boulevards to the porte st. denis; it then turned south-west by the old porte montmartre, the place des victoires and across the garden of the palais royal to the tour de bois, opposite the present pont du carrousel. it was fortified by a double moat and square towers. the south portion was never begun. to defend the porte st. antoine, charles laid the foundation of the bastille of sinister fame--ever a hateful memory to the citizens, for it was completed by the royal provost when the provost of the merchants had been suppressed by charles vi. in . "woe to the nation whose king is a child!" during the minority and reign of charles vi. france lay prostrate under a hail of evils that menaced her very existence, and paris was reduced to the profoundest misery and humiliation. the breath had not left the old king's body before his elder brother, the count of anjou, who was hiding in an adjacent room, hastened to seize the royal treasure and the contents of the public exchequer. no regent had been appointed, and the four royal dukes, the young king's uncles of anjou, burgundy, bourbon, and berri, began to strive for power. in anjou, who had been suffered to hold the regency, sought to enforce an unpopular tax on the merchants of paris. the people revolted, armed themselves with the loaded clubs (_maillotins_) stored in the hôtel de ville for use against the english, attacked the royal officers and opened the prisons. the court temporised, promised to remit the tax and to grant an amnesty; but with odious treachery caused the leaders of the movement to be seized, put them in sacks and flung them at dead of night into the seine. the angry parisians now barricaded their streets and closed their gates against the king. negotiations followed and by payment of , francs to the duke of anjou the citizens were promised immunity and the king and his uncles entered the city. but the court nursed its vengeance, and after the victory over the flemings at rosebecque the king and his uncles with a powerful force marched on paris. the parisians, , strong, stood drawn up in arms at montmartre to meet him. they were asked who were their chiefs and if the constable de clisson might enter paris. "none other chiefs have we," they answered "than the king and his lords: we are ready to obey their orders." "good people of paris," said the constable on his arrival at their camp, "what meaneth this? meseems you would fight against your king." they replied that their purpose was but to show the king the puissance of his good city of paris. "'tis well," said the constable, "if you would see the king return to your homes and put aside your arms." on the morrow, th january , the king and his court, with , men-at-arms, appeared at the porte st. denis, and there stood the provost of the merchants with the chief citizens in new robes, holding a canopy of cloth of gold. the king, with a fierce glance, ordered them back. the gates were unhinged and flung down: the royal army entered as in a conquered city. a terrible vengeance ensued. the president of the parlement and other civil officers, with three hundred prominent citizens, were arrested and cast into prison. in vain was the royal clemency entreated by the duchess of orleans, the rector of the university and chief citizens all clothed in black. the bloody diurnal work of the executioner began and continued until a general pardon was granted on march st on payment of an enormous fine. the liberties of the city met the same fate. the provostship of the merchants, and all the privileges of the parisians, were suppressed, and the hateful taxes reimposed. never had the heel of despotism ground them down so mercilessly. [illustration: on the quai des grands augustins.] after cruelty and debauchery came madness. as charles one sultry august day was riding in the forest of le mans he suddenly drew his sword, wounded some of his escort and attacked the duke of orleans. the demented king was seized by the duke of burgundy and carried senseless and bound into the city. in , when he had somewhat recovered, a grand masked ball was given to celebrate the wedding of one of the ladies of honour who was a widow. the marriage of a widow was always the occasion of riotous mirth, and the king disguised himself and five of his courtiers as satyrs. they were sewed up in tight-fitting vestments of linen, which were coated with resin and pitch and covered with rough tow; on their heads they wore hideous masks. while the ladies of the court were celebrating the marriage the king and his companions rushed in howling like wolves and indulged in the most uncouth gestures and jokes. the duke of orleans, drawing too near with a torch to discover their identity, set fire to the tow and in a second they were enveloped in so many shirts of nessus. unable to fling off their blazing dresses they madly ran hither and thither, suffering the most excruciating agony and uttering piteous cries. the king happened to be near the young duchess of berri who, with admirable presence of mind, flung her robe over him and rescued him from the flames. one knight saved himself by plunging into a large tub of water in the kitchen, one died on the spot, two died on the second day, another lingered for three days in awful torment. the horror of the scene[ ] so affected charles that his madness returned more violently than ever. [illustration: tower at the corner of the rue vieille du temple and the rue barbette.] the bitterness of the avuncular factions was now intensified. the house of burgundy by marriage and other means had grown to be one of the most powerful in europe and was at bitter enmity with the house of orleans. at the death of philip the bold, duke of burgundy, his son jean sans peur, sought to assume his father's supremacy as well as his title: the duke of orleans, strong in the queen's support, determined to foil his purpose. each fortified his hôtel in paris and assembled an army. friends, however, intervened; they were reconciled, and in november the two dukes attended mass at the church of the grands augustins, took the holy sacrament and dined together. as jean rose from table the duke of orleans placed the order of the porcupine round his neck; swore _bonne amour et fraternité_, and they kissed each other with tears of joy. on rd november a forged missive was handed to the duke of orleans, requiring his attendance on the queen at the hôtel st. paul, whither he often went to visit her. he set forth, attended only by two squires and five servants carrying torches. it was a sombre night, and as the unsuspecting prince rode up the rue vieille du temple behind his little escort, humming a tune and playing with his glove, a band of assassins fell upon him from the shadow of the postern la barbette,[ ] crying "_à mort, à mort_," and he was hacked to death. then issued from a neighbouring house at the sign of our lady, a tall figure concealed in a red cloak, lantern in hand, who gazed at the mutilated corpse. "_c'est bien_," said he, "let's away." they set fire to the house to divert attention and escaped. four months before, jean sans peur had hired the house on the pretext of storing provisions, and for two weeks a score of assassins had been concealed there, biding their time. on the morrow, jean with the other princes went to asperse the dead body with holy water in the church of the blancs manteaux, and as he drew nigh, exclaiming against the foul murder, blood is said to have issued from the wounds. at the funeral jean held a corner of the pall, but his guilt was an open secret, and though he braved it out for a time he was forced to flee to his lands in flanders for safety. in a few months, however, he was back in force at paris, and a doctor of the sorbonne pleaded an elaborate justification of the deed before the assembled princes, nobles, clergy and citizens at the hôtel st. paul. the poor demented king was made to declare publicly that he bore no ill-will to his dear cousin of burgundy and later, on the failure of a conspiracy of revenge by the queen and the orleans party, to grant full pardon for a deed "committed for the welfare of the kingdom." the cutting of the rue etienne marcel has exposed the strong machicolated tower still bearing the arms of burgundy (two planes and a plumb line), which jean sans peur built to fortify the hôtel de bourgogne, as a defence and refuge against the orleans faction and the people of paris. the orleans family had for arms a knotted stick, with the device "_je l'ennuis_": the burgundian arms with the motto, "_je le tiens_," implied that the knotted stick was to be planed and levelled. the arrival of jean sans peur, and the fortification of his hôtel were the prelude to civil war, for the orleanists and their allies had rallied to the count of armagnac, whose daughter the new duke of orleans had married, and fortified themselves in their stronghold on the site now occupied by the palais royal. the armagnacs, for so the orleanists were now called, thirsted for revenge, and for five years paris was the scene of frightful atrocities as each faction gained the upper hand and took a bloody vengeance on its rivals. at length the infamous policy of an alliance with the english was resorted to. the temptation was too great for the english king, and in henry v. met the french army, composed almost entirely of the armagnacs, at agincourt, and inflicted on it a defeat more disastrous than crecy or poitiers. the famous oriflamme of st. denis passed from history in that fatal year of . the count of armagnac hurried to paris, seized the mad king and the dauphin, and held the capital. [illustration: tower of jean sans peur.] in the english returned under henry v. the burgundians had promised neutrality, and the defeated armagnacs were forced in their need to "borrow[ ] of the saints." but hateful memories clung to them in paris and they were betrayed. on the night of th may , the son of an ironmonger on the petit pont, who had charge of the wicket of the porte st. germain, crept into his father's room and stole the keys while he slept. the gate was then opened to the burgundians, who seized the person of the helpless and imbecile king. some armagnacs escaped, bearing the dauphin with them, and the remainder were flung into prison. the burgundian partisans in the city, among whom was the powerful corporation of the butchers and fleshers, now rose, and on sunday, th june, ran to the prisons. before dawn fifteen hundred armagnacs were indiscriminately butchered under the most revolting circumstances. the count himself perished, and a strip of his skin was carried about paris in mockery of the white scarf of the armagnacs. jean sans peur and queen isabella[ ] entered the city, amid the acclamation of the people, and soon after a second massacre followed, in spite of jean's efforts to prevent it. he was now master of paris, but the armagnacs were swarming in the country around and the english marching without let on the city. in these straits he sought a reconciliation with the dauphin and his armagnac counsellors at melun, on th july . on th september a second conference was arranged, and duke and dauphin, each with ten attendants, met in a wicker enclosure on the bridge at montereau. jean doffed his cap and knelt to the dauphin, but before he could rise was felled by a blow from an axe and stabbed to death.[ ] in a monk at dijon showed the skull of jean sans peur to francis i., and pointing to a hole made by the assassin's axe, said: "sire, it was through this hole that the english entered france." on receipt of the news of his father's murder, the new duke of burgundy, philip le bon, thirsting for vengeance, flung himself into the arms of the english, and by the treaty of troyes on may , , henry v. was given a french princess to wife and the reversion of the crown of france, which, after charles' death, was to be united ever more to that of england. but the french crown never circled henry's brow: on august , , he lay dead at vincennes. he was buried with great pomp in the royal abbey of st. denis, leaving an infant son of nine months to inherit the dual monarchy. within a few weeks of henry's death the hapless king of france was entombed under the same roof; a royal herald cried "for god's pity on the soul of the most high and most excellent charles, king of france, our natural sovereign lord," and in the next breath hailed "henry of lancaster, by the grace of god, king of france and of england, our sovereign lord." all the royal officers reversed their maces, wands and swords as a token that their functions were at an end. at the next festival the duke of bedford was seen in the sainte chapelle of the palace of st. louis, exhibiting the crown of thorns to the people as regent of france, and a statue of henry v. of england was raised in the great hall, following on the line of the kings of france from pharamond to charles. chapter ix jeanne d'arc--paris under the english--end of the english occupation the occupation of paris by the english was the darkest hour in french history, yet amid the universal misery and dejection the treaty of troyes was hailed with joy. when the two kings entered paris after its signature, the whole way from the porte st. denis to notre dame was filled with people crying, "_noël, noël!_" the university, the parlement, the queen-mother, the whole of north france, from brittany and normandy to flanders, from the channel to the line of the loire, accepted the situation, and the duke of burgundy, most powerful of the royal princes, was a friend of the english. yet a few french hearts beat true. while the regent duke of bedford was entering paris, a handful of knights unfurled the royal banner at melun, crying--"long live king charles, seventh of the name, by the grace of god king of france!" and what a pitiful incarnation of national independence was this to whom the devoted sons of france were now called to rally!--a feeble youth of nineteen, indolent, licentious, mocked at by the triumphant english as the "little king of bourges." the story of the resurrection of france at the call of an untutored village girl is one of the most enthralling dramas of history. when all men had despaired; when the cruelty, ambition and greed of the princes of france had wrought her destruction; when the miserable dauphin at chinon was prepared to seek safety by an ignominious flight to spain or scotland; when orleans, the key to the southern provinces, was about to fall into english hands--the means of salvation were revealed in the ecstatic visions of a simple peasant maid. with that divine inspiration vouchsafed alone to faith and fervent love, she saw with piercing insight the essential things to be done. the siege of orleans must be raised and the dauphin anointed king at rheims. "the originality of the maid," says michelet, "and the cause of her success was her good sense amid all her enthusiasm and exaltation." we may not here narrate the story of those miraculous three months of the year ( th april- th july), which saw the relief of orleans, the victories of jargeau, of patay (where invincible talbot was made prisoner), of the surrender of ill-omened troyes and of the solemn coronation at rheims. jeanne deemed her mission over after rheims, but to her ill-hap was persuaded to follow the royal army after the retreat of the english from senlis, and on rd august she occupied st. denis. she declared at her trial that her voices told her to remain at st. denis, but that the lords made her attack paris. on the th september the assault was made, but it was foiled by the king's apathy, the incapacity and bitter jealousy of his counsellors, and the action of double-faced burgundy. in the afternoon jeanne, while sounding the depth of the fosse with her lance,[ ] was wounded by an arrow in the thigh. she remained till late evening, when she was carried away to st. denis, at whose shrine she hung up her arms--her mysterious sword from st. catherine de fierbois and her banner of pure white, emblazoned with the fleur-de-lys and the figure of the saviour, with the device "jesu maria." [illustration: notre dame from the north] six months later, while charles was sunk in sloth at the château of sully, jeanne was captured by the burgundians at the siege of compiègne, and her enemies closed on her like bloodhounds. the university and the inquisition wrangled for her body, but english gold bought her from her burgundian captors and sent her to a martyr's death at rouen. those who would read the sad record of her trial may do so in the pages of mr douglas murray's translation of the minutes of the evidence, and may assist in imagination at the eighteen days' forensic baiting of the hapless child (she was but nineteen years of age), whose lucid simplicity broke through the subtle web of theological chicanery which was spun to entrap her by the most cunning of the sorbonne doctors. a summary of jeanne's answers was sent to "our mother, the university of paris." the condemnation was a foregone conclusion[ ] and after a forced retractation, the virgin saviour of france was led to her doom in the market-place of rouen. as she passed the lines of english soldiers, their eyes flashing fierce hatred upon her, a cry escaped her, "o rouen, rouen, must i then die here?" with her last breath she protested that her voices had not deceived her and were of god; and calling on "jesus!" her head sank in the flames. "we are lost," said an english spectator; "we have burnt a saint!" some contemporary letters from venetian merchants in the cities of france have recently been published, which give valuable testimony to the sympathy evoked among foreign residents by the career of jeanne the maid. to them she was a _zentil anzolo_, "a gentle angel sent of god to save the good land of france, the most noble country in the world, which having purged its sins and pride god snatched from the brink of utter destruction. for even as by a woman, our lady st. mary, he saved the human race, so by this young maiden pure and spotless he hath saved the fairest pearl of christendom." "the english burnt her," says one of the merchants, writing from bruges, "thinking that fortune would turn in their favour, but may it please christ the lord that the contrary befall them!" and so in truth it happened. disaster after disaster wrecked the english cause; the duke of bedford died, philip of burgundy and charles were reconciled and queen isabella went to a dishonoured grave. the english were driven out of paris, and in , of all the "large and ample empery" of france, won at the cost of a hundred years of bloodshed and cruel devastation, a little strip of land at calais and guines alone remained to the english crown. charles, who with despicable cowardice had suffered the heroic maid to be done to death by the english without a thought of intervention, was moved to call for a tardy reparation of the atrocious injustice at rouen; and a quarter of a century after the te deum sung in notre dame for her capture, another, a very different scene, was witnessed in the cathedral. "the case for her rehabilitation," says mr murray, "was solemnly opened there, and the mother and brothers of the maid came before the court to present their humble petition for a revision of her sentence, demanding only 'the triumph of truth and justice.' the court heard the request with some emotion. when isabel d'arc threw herself at the feet of the commissioners, showing the papal rescript and weeping aloud, so many joined in the petition that at last, we are told, it seemed that one great cry for justice broke from the multitude." the story of paris under the english is a melancholy one. despite the rigid justice and enlightened policy of bedford's regency they failed to win the affection of the parisians. rewards to political friends, punishments and confiscations inflicted on the disaffected, the riotous and homicidal conduct of some of the english garrison, the depression in commerce and depreciation of property brought their inevitable consequences--a growing hatred of the english name.[ ] the chapter of notre dame was compelled to sell the gold vessels from the treasury. hundreds of houses were abandoned by their owners, who were unable to meet the charges upon them. in by a royal instrument the rent of the maison des singes was reduced from twenty-six livres to fourteen, "seeing the extreme diminution of rents." [illustration: cloister of the billetes, fifteenth century, rue de l'homme armÉ.] some curious details of life in paris under the english have come down to us. by a royal pardon granted to guiot d'eguiller, we learn that he and four other servants of the duke of bedford, and of our "late very dear and very beloved aunt the duchess of bedford whom god pardon," were drinking one night at ten o'clock in a tavern where hangs the sign of _l'homme armé_.[ ] hot words arose between them and some other tipplers, to wit, friars robert, peter and william of the blancs manteaux, who were disguised as laymen and wearing swords. friar robert lost his temper and struck at the servants with his naked sword. the friar, owing to the strength of the wine or to inexperience in the use of secular weapons, cut off the leg of a dog instead of hitting his man; the friars then ran away, pursued by three of the servants--robin the englishman, guiot d'eguiller and one guillaume. the fugitive friars took refuge in a deserted house in the rue du paradis (now des francs bourgeois), and threw stones at their pursuers. there was a fight, during which guillaume lost his stick and snatching guiot's sword struck at friar robert through the door of the house. he only gave one "_cop_," but it was enough, and there was an end of friar robert. a certain gilles, a _povre homme laboureur_, went to amuse himself at a game of tennis in the hostelry kept by guillaume sorel, near the porte st. honoré, and fell a-wrangling with sorel's wife concerning some lost tennis balls. madame sorel clutched him by the hair and tore out some handfuls. gilles seized her by the hood, disarranged her coif, so that it fell about her shoulders, "and in his anger cursed god our creator." this came to the bishop's ears, and gilles was cast for blasphemy into the bishop's oven, as the episcopal prison was called, where he lay in great misery. he was examined and released on promising to offer a wax candle of two pounds' weight before the image of our lady of paris at the entrance of the choir of notre dame. many of the religious foundations had suffered by the wars, for in the glovers of paris were authorised to re-establish the guild of the blessed st. anne, founded by some good people, smiths and ironmongers, which during the wars and mutations of the last twenty years had come to an end. in , "our well-beloved, the money-changers of the grand pont in our good town of paris were permitted to found a guild in the church of st. bartholomew in honour of our creator and his very glorious mother and st. matthew their patron." in was granted the humble supplication of the shoemakers, who desired to found a confraternity to celebrate mass in the chapel at notre dame, dedicated to "the blessed and glorious martyrs, monseigneur crispin the great, and monseigneur crispin the less, who in this life were shoemakers." [illustration: our lady of paris--early fifteenth century.] the fifteen years of english rule at paris came to a close in . in a goldsmith was at _déjeuner_ with a baker and a shoemaker, and they fell a-talking of the state of trade, of the wars and of the poverty of the people of paris. the goldsmith[ ] grumbled loudly and said that his craft was the poorest of all; people must have shoes and bread, but none could afford to employ a goldsmith. then, thinking no evil, he said that good times would never return in paris until there were a french king, the university full again, and the parlement obeyed as in former times. whereupon jean trolet, the shoemaker, added that things could not last in their present state, and that if there were only five hundred men who would agree to begin a revolution, they would soon find thousands leagued with them. the general unrest which this incident illustrates soon burst forth in plot after plot, and on th april, , the porte st. jacques was opened by some citizens to the duke of richement, constable of france, who, with knights and squires, entered the city and, to the cry of _ville gagnée_! the fleur-de-lys waved again from the ramparts of paris. the english garrison under lord willoughby fortified themselves in the bastille of st. antoine but capitulated after two days. bag and baggage, out they marched, circled the walls as far as the louvre, and embarked for rouen amid the execrations of the people. never again did an english army enter paris until the allies marched in after waterloo in . chapter x louis xi. at paris--the introduction of printing six centuries have failed to efface from the memory of the french people the misery and devastation wrought by the hundred years' wars, as travellers in rural france will know. paris saw little of charles who, after the temporary activity excited by the expulsion of the english, had sunk into his habitual torpor, and his bondage to women. in the wretched monarch, morbid and half-demented, died of a malignant disease, all the time haunted by fears of poison and filial treachery. the people named him charles _le bien servi_ (the well-served), for small indeed was the praise due to him for the great deliverance. when the new king, louis xi., quitted his asylum at the burgundian court to be crowned at rheims and to repair to st. denis, he was shocked by the contrast between the rich cities and plains of flanders and the miserable aspect of the country he traversed--ruined villages, fields that were so many deserts, starving creatures clothed in rags, and looking as if they had just escaped from dungeons. the "universal spider," as the duke of burgundy called louis, was ever on the move about france, riding on his mule from dawn to eve. "our king," says de comines, "used to dress so ill that worse could not be--often wearing bad cloth and a shabby hat with a leaden image stuck in it." when he entered abbeville with the magnificent duke of burgundy, the people said "_benedicite!_ is that a king of france? why, his horse and clothes together are not worth twenty francs!" a venetian ambassador was amazed to see the most mighty and most christian king take his dinner in a tavern on the market-place of tours, after hearing mass in the cathedral. it is not within our province to describe in detail the successful achievement of louis' policy of concentrating the whole government in himself as absolute sovereign of france by the overthrow of feudalism and the subjection of the great nobles with their almost royal power and state. his indomitable will, his consummate patience, his profound knowledge of human motives and passions, his cynical indifference to means, make him one of the most remarkable of the kings of france. in , menaced by a coalition of nobles, the so-called league of the public good, louis hastened to the capital. letters expressing his tender affection for his dear city of paris preceded him--he was coming to confide to them his queen and hoped-for heir; rather than lose his paris, which he loved beyond all cities of the world, he would sacrifice half his kingdom. but the parisians at first were sullen and would not be wooed, for they remembered his refusal to accord them some privileges granted to other cities. the university declined to arm her scholars, church and parlement were hostile. the idle, vagabond _clercs_ of the palais and the cité composed coarse gibes and satirical songs and ballads against his person. louis, however, set himself with his insinuating grace of speech to win the favour of the parisians. he chose six members from the burgesses, six from the parlement and six from the university, to form his council. with daring confidence, he decided to arm paris. a levy of every male able to bear arms between sixteen and sixty years of age was made, and the citizen army was reviewed near st. antoine des champs, in the presence of the king and queen. from , to , men, half of them well-armed, marched past, with sixty-seven banners of the trades guilds, not counting those of the municipal officers, the parlement and the university. the nobles were checkmated, and they were glad to accede to a treaty which gave them ample spoils and louis, time to recover himself. the "public good" was barely mentioned. the king refused to occupy the palace of the louvre and chose to dwell in the new hôtel des tournelles, near the porte st. antoine, built for the duke of bedford and subsequently presented to louis when dauphin by his royal father; for thither a star led him one evening as he left notre dame. often would he issue _en bourgeois_ from the tournelles to sup with his gossips in paris. the institution of the mid-day angelus, in , was due to louis' devotion to the virgin. he ordained that the great bell of notre dame should be rung at noon as a signal that the good people of paris should recite the ave maria. when in paris scarcely a day passed without the king being seen at mass, and at leaving he always gave an offering. in , louis' old enemy, the duke of burgundy, was seeking an alliance with edward iv. of england, and once more a mighty army entered france to reassert the claims of the english kings to the french crown. louis, by his usual policy of flattery and bribery, succeeded in leading edward to negotiate. if he had had to meet in the flesh the lion rampant on the english king's escutcheon, he could not have taken ampler precautions. a bridge was built over the somme, near amiens, "and in the middle thereof was a strong trellis of wood such as is made for cages of lions, and the holes between the bars were no larger than a man could put his arm through." on either side of this cage the monarchs and a score of courtiers met and conversed. louis had divided his enemies; each in turn was cajoled and bribed, and the "hucksters' peace" was concluded. [illustration: porch of st. germain l'auxerrois] "when king louis," says de comines, "retired from the interview he spake with me by the way and said he found the english king too ready to visit paris, which thing was not pleasing to him. the king was a handsome man and very fond of women; he might find some affectionate mistress there, who would speak him so many fair words that she would make him desire to return; his predecessor had come too often to paris and normandy, and he did not like his company this side the sea, but beyond the sea he was glad to have him for friend and brother." de comines was informed next day by some english that the peace had been made by the holy ghost, for a white dove was seen resting on the king of england's tent during the interview, and for no noise soever would she move; "but," said a sceptical gascon gentleman, "it simply happened to have rained during the day, and the dove settled on the tent which was highest to dry her wings in the sun." louis had long desired to punish the count of st. pol for treachery, and as a result of a treaty with charles of burgundy, in , had him at length in the bastille. soon on a scaffold in the place de grève his head rolled from his body, and a column of stone twelve feet high erected where he fell, gave terrible warning to traitorous princes, however mighty; for the count was constable of france, the king's brother-in-law, a member of the imperial house of luxemburg, and connected with many of the sovereign families of europe. two years later another noble victim, the duke of nemours, fell into the king's power and saw the inside of one of louis' iron cages in the bastille. the king, who had learnt that the chains had been removed from the prisoner's legs, commanded his jailer not to let him budge from his cage except to be tortured (_gehenné_) and the duke wrote a piteous letter, praying for clemency and signing himself _le pauvre jacques_. in vain: him, too, the headsman's axe sent to his account. the news of the humiliating peace of peronne, after the king had committed the one great folly of his career by gratuitously placing himself in charles the bold's power,[ ] was received by the parisians with many gibes. the royal herald proclaimed at sound of trumpet by the crossways of paris: "let none be bold or daring enough to say anything opprobrious against the duke of burgundy, either by word of mouth, by writing, by signs, paintings, roundelays, ballads, songs or gestures." on the same day a commission seized all the magpies and jackdaws in paris, whether caged or otherwise, which were to be registered according to their owners, with all the pretty words that the said birds could repeat and that had been taught them: the pretty word that these chattering birds had been taught to say was "peronne." louis' abasement at peronne was, however, amply avenged by the battle of granson, when the mighty host of "invincible" charles was overwhelmed by the switzers in . a year later, the whole fabric of burgundian ambition was shattered and the great duke lay a mutilated and frozen corpse before the walls of nancy. louis' joy at the destruction of his enemy was boundless. the great provinces of burgundy, of anjou, of maine, provence, alençon and guienne soon fell under the sovereignty of france, whose boundaries now touched the alps. but in the very culmination of his success louis was struck down by paralysis, and though he rallied for a time the end was near. haunted by fear of treachery, he immured himself in the gloomy fortress of plessis. the saintly francesco da calabria, relics from florence, from rome, the holy oil from rheims, turtles from cape verde islands--all were powerless; the arch dissembler must now face the ineluctable prince of the dark realms, who was not to be bribed or cajoled even by kings. when at last the king took to his bed, his physician, jacques cottier, told him that most surely his hour was come. louis made his confession, gave much political counsel and some orders to be observed by _le roi_, as he now called his son, and spoke, says de comines, "as dryly as if he had never been ill. and after so many fears and suspicions our lord wrought a miracle and took him from this miserable world in great health of mind and understanding. having received all the sacraments and suffering no pain and always speaking to within a paternoster of his death, he gave orders for his sepulture. may the lord have his soul and receive him in the realm of paradise!" it was in louis' reign that the art of printing was introduced into paris. as early as the master of the mint had been sent to mainz to learn something of the new art, but without success. in , fust and his partner, schöffer, had brought some printed books to paris, but the books were confiscated and the partners were driven out of the city, owing to the jealousy of the powerful corporation of the scribes and booksellers, who enjoyed a monopoly from the sorbonne of the sale of books in paris; and in louis paid an indemnity of crowns to schöffer for the confiscation of his books and for the trouble he had taken to introduce printed books into his capital. in , at the invitation of two doctors of the sorbonne, guillaume fichet and jean de la puin, ulmer gering of constance and two other swiss printers set up a press near fichet's rooms in the sorbonne. in a press was at work at the sign of the soleil d'or (golden sun), in the rue st. jacques, under the management of two germans, peter kayser, master of arts, and john stohl, assisted by ulmer gering. in the last-named removed to the rue de la sorbonne, where the doctors granted to him and his new partner, berthold rumbolt of strassburg, a lease for the term of their lives. they retained their sign of the soleil d'or, which long endured as a guarantee of fine printing. the earliest works had been printed in beautiful roman type, but unable to resist the favourite gothic introduced from germany, gering was led to adopt it towards the year , and the roman was soon superseded. from to we meet with many french printers' names: antoine vérard, du pré, cailleau, martineau, pigouchet--clearly proving that the art had then been successfully transplanted. the re-introduction of roman characters about was due to the famous house of the estiennes, whose admirable editions of the latin and greek classics are the delight of bibliophiles. robert estienne was wont to hang proof sheets of his greek and latin classics outside his shop, offering a reward to any passer-by who pointed out a misprint or corrupt reading. their famous house was the meeting-place of scholars and patrons of literature. francis i. and his sister margaret of angoulême, authoress of the heptameron, were seen there, and legend says that the king was once kept waiting by the scholar-printer while he finished correcting a proof. all the estienne household, even the children, conversed in latin, and the very servants are said to have grown used to it. in francis i. remitted , livres of taxes to the printers of paris, as an act of grace to the professors of an art that seemed rather divine than human. but in spite of royal favour printing was a poor career. the second henry estienne, who composed a greek-latin lexicon, died in poverty at a hospital in lyons; the last of the family, the third robert estienne, met a similar miserable end at the hôtel dieu in paris. so great was the re-action in the university against the violence of the lutherans and the daring of the printers, that in all the presses were ordered to be closed. in no book was allowed to be printed without permission of the sorbonne, and in an order was made, it is said at the instance of diane de poitiers, that a copy in vellum of every book printed by royal privilege should be deposited at the royal library. after gering's death the forty presses then working in paris were reduced to twenty-four, in order that every printer might have sufficient work to live by and not be tempted by poverty to print prohibited books or execute cheap and inferior printing. chapter xi francis i.--the renaissance at paris the advent of the printing-press and the opening of a greek lectureship by gregory tyhernas and hermonymus of sparta at the sorbonne warns us that we are at the end of an epoch. with the accession of charles viii. and the beginning of the italian wars a new era is inaugurated. gothic architecture had reached its final development and structural perfection, in the flowing lines of the flamboyant style.[ ] painting and sculpture, both in subject, matter and style, assume a new aspect. the diffusion of ancient literature and the discovery of a new world, open wider horizons to men's minds, and human thought and human activity are directed towards other, and not always nobler, ideals. mediævalism passes away and paris begins to clothe herself in a new vesture of stone. the paris of the fifteenth century was a triple city of narrow, crooked, unsavoury streets, of overhanging timbered houses, "thick as ears of corn in a wheat-field," from which emerged the innumerable spires and towers of her churches and palaces and colleges. in the centre was the legal and ecclesiastical cité, with its magnificent palais de justice; its cathedral and a score of fair churches enclosed in the island, which resembled a great ship moored to the banks of the seine by five bridges all crowded with houses. one of the most curious characteristics of old paris was the absence of any view of the river, for a man might traverse its streets and bridges without catching a glimpse of the seine. the portal of the petit châtelet at the end of the petit pont opened on the university and learned district on the south bank of the seine, with its fifty colleges and many churches clustering about the slopes of the mount of st. genevieve, which was crowned by the great augustine abbey and church founded by clovis. near by stood the two great religious houses and churches of the dominicans and franciscans (jacobins and cordeliers), the carthusian monastery and its scores of little gardens, the lesser monastic buildings and, outside the walls, the vast benedictine abbatial buildings and suburb of st. germain des prés, with its stately church of three spires, its fortified walls, its pillory and its permanent lists, where judicial duels were fought. on the north bank lay the busy, crowded industrial and commercial district known as the ville, with its forty-four churches, the hôtels of the rich merchants and bankers, the fortified palaces of the nobles, all enclosed by the high walls and square towers of charles the fifth's fortifications, and defended at east and west by the bastille of st. antoine and the louvre. to the east stood the hôtel st. paul, a royal city within a city, with its manifold princely dwellings and fair gardens and pleasaunces sloping down to the seine; hard by to the north was the duke of bedford's hôtel des tournelles, with its memories of the english domination. at the west, against the old louvre, were, among others, the hôtels of the constable of bourbon and the duke of alençon, and out in the fields beyond, the smoking kilns of the tuileries (tile factories). [illustration: rue royale.] [illustration: tower of st. jacques.] north and east and west of the municipal centre, the maison des piliers, or old hôtel de ville on the place de grève, was a maze of streets filled with the various crafts of paris. the tower of st. jacques de la boucherie, as yet unfinished, emerged from the butchers' and skinners' shops and slaughter-houses, which at the rue des lombards met the clothiers and furriers; the cutlers and the basketmakers were busy in streets now swept away to give place to the avenue victoria. painters, glass-workers and colour merchants, grocers and druggists, made bright and fragrant the rue de la verrerie, weavers' shuttles rattled in the rue de la tixanderie (now swallowed up in the rue de rivoli); curriers and tanners plied their evil-smelling crafts in the rue (now quai) de la mégisserie, and bakers crowded along the rue st. honoré. the rue des juifs sheltered the ancestral traffic of the children of abraham. at the foot of the pont au change, on which were the shops of the goldsmiths and money-lenders, stood the grim thirteenth-century fortress of the châtelet, the municipal guardhouse and prison; further on stood the episcopal prison, or _four de l'evêque_ (the bishop's oven). round the châtelet was a congeries of narrow, crooked lanes, haunts of ill-fame, where robbers lurked and vice festered. a little to the north were the noisy market-place of the halles and the cemetery of the innocents with its piles of skulls, and its vaulted arcade painted ( ) with the dance of death. further north stood the immense abbey of st. martin in the fields, with its cloister and gardens and, a little to the west, the grisly fortress of the knights-templars. this is the paris conjured from the past with such magic art by victor hugo in "notre dame," and gradually to be swept away in the next centuries by the renaissance, pseudo-classic and napoleonic builders and destroyers, until to-day scarcely a wrack is left behind. with the italian campaigns of charles viii. and of the early valois-orleans kings, france enters the arena of european politics, wrestles with the mighty emperor charles v. and embarks on a career of transalpine conquest. but in italy, conquering france was herself conquered by the charm of italian art, italian climate and italian landscape. when charles viii. returned from his expedition to naples he brought with him a collection of pictures, tapestry, and sculptures in marble and porphyry, that weighed thirty-five tons; by him and his successors italian builders, domenico da cortona and fra giocondo, were employed. the latter rebuilt the petit pont and after the destruction of the last wooden pont notre dame in --when the whole structure, with its houses and shops, fell with a fearful crash into the river--he was employed to replace it with a stone bridge, which was completed in . this, too, was lined with tall, gabled houses of stone, seventeen each side, their façades decorated with medallions of the kings of france, which alternated with fine renaissance statues of male and female figures bearing baskets of fruit and flowers on their heads. these houses were the first in paris to be numbered, odd numbers on one side, even on the other, and were the first to be demolished when, on the eve of the revolution, louis xvi. ordered the bridge to be cleared. [illustration: pont notre dame.] worthy friar giocondo wrought well, for the bridge still exists, though refaced and altered. louis xii., with his own hand, entreated leonardo da vinci to come to france, and his great minister, the cardinal of amboise, employed solario at the château of gaillon.[ ] but the french renaissance is indissolubly associated with francis i., who in inherited a france welded into a compact[ ] and absolute monarchy, inhabited by a prosperous and loyal people, for the twelfth louis had been a good and wise ruler, who to the amazement of his people returned to them the balance of a tax levied to meet the cost of the genoese expedition, which had been overestimated, saying, "it will be more fruitful in their hands than in mine." commerce had so expanded that it was said that for every merchant seen in paris in former times there were, in his reign, fifty. louis introduced the cultivation of maize and the mulberry into france, and so rigid was his justice that poultry ran about the open fields without risk. it was the accrued wealth of his reign, and the love inspired by "louis, father of his people,"[ ] that supported the magnificence, the luxury and the extravagance of francis i., the patron of the italian renaissance. the architectural creations of the new art were first seen in touraine, in the royal palaces of blois and chambord, and other princely and noble chateaux along the luscious and sunny valleys of the loire. italian architecture was late in making itself felt in paris, where the native art made stubborn resistance. [illustration: portrait of francis i. jean clouet.] the story of the state entry of francis i. into paris after the death of louis xii. is characteristic. clothed in a gorgeous suit of armour and mounted on a barbed charger, accoutred in white and cloth of silver, the young king would not remain under the royal canopy, but pricked his steed and made it prance and rear that he might display his horsemanship, his fine figure and his dazzling costume before the ladies. "born between two adoring women," says michelet, "the king was all his life a spoilt child." money flowed through his hands like water[ ] to gratify his ambition, his passions and his pleasures. doubtless his interviews with da vinci at amboise, where he spent much of his time in the early years of his reign, fired that enthusiasm for art, especially for painting, which never wholly left him; for the veteran artist, although old and paralysed in the right hand, was otherwise in possession of all his incomparable faculties. [illustration: chapel, hÔtel de cluny.] the question as to the existence of an indigenous school of painting before the italian artistic invasion is still a subject of acrimonious discussion among critics; there is none, however, as to its existence in the plastic arts. the old french tradition died hard, and not before it had stamped upon italian renaissance architecture the impress of its native genius and adapted it to the requirements of french life and climate. the hôtel de cluny, finished in , still remains to exemplify the beauty of the native french domestic architecture modified by the new style. the hôtel de ville, designed by dom. da cortona and submitted to francis in , is dominated by the french style, and it was not until nearly a century after the first italian expedition that the last gothic builders were superseded. the fine gothic church of st. merri was begun as late as and not finished till , and the transitional churches of st. etienne and st. eustache remind one, by the mingling of gothic and renaissance features, of the famous metamorphosis of agnel and cianfa in dante's inferno, and one is tempted to exclaim, _ome come ti muti! vedi che già non sei nè duo nè uno!_[ ] [illustration: west door of st. merri.] [illustration: tower of st. etienne du mont.] after the death of da vinci francis never succeeded in retaining a first-rate painter in his service. andrea del sarto and paris bordone did little more than pay passing visits, and the famous school of fontainebleau was founded by rosso and primaticcio, two decadent followers of michel angelo. the adventures of that second-rate artist and first-rate bully, benvenuto cellini, at paris, form one of the most piquant episodes in artistic autobiography. after a gracious welcome from the king he was offered an annual retaining fee of three hundred crowns. he at once dismissed his two apprentices and left in a towering rage, only returning on being offered the same appointments that had been enjoyed by leonardo da vinci--seven hundred crowns a year, and payment for every finished work. the petit tour de nesle was assigned to cellini and his pupils as a workshop, the king assuring him that force would be needed to evict the possessor, adding, "take great care you are not assassinated." on complaining to the king of the difficulties he met with and the insults offered to him on attempting to gain possession, he was answered: "if you are the benvenuto i have heard of, live up to your reputation; i give you full leave." cellini took the hint, armed himself, his servants and two apprentices, and frightened the occupants and rival claimants out of their wits. it was at this tour de nesle that the king paid cellini a surprise visit with his mistress madame d'estampes, his sister margaret of valois, the dauphin and his wife, catherine de' medici, the cardinal of lorraine, henry ii. of navarre, and a numerous train of courtiers. the artist and his merry men were at work on the famous silver statue of jupiter for fontainebleau, and amid the noise of the hammering the king entered unperceived. cellini had the torso of the statue in his hand, and at that moment a french lad who had caused him some little displeasure had felt the weight of the master's foot, which sent him flying against the king. but cellini had done a bad day's work by violently evicting a servant of madame d'estampes from the tower, and the injured lady and primaticcio, her _protégé_, decided to work his ruin. when cellini arrived at fontainebleau with the statue, the king ordered it to be placed in the grand gallery decorated by rosso. primaticcio had just arranged there the casts which he had been commissioned to bring from rome, and cellini saw what was meant--his own work was to be eclipsed by the splendour of the masterpieces of ancient art. "heaven help me!" cried he, "this is indeed to fall against the pikes!" now the god held the globe of the earth in the left hand, the thunderbolt in the right. cellini contrived to thrust a portion of a large wax candle as a torch between the flames of the bolt, and set the statue up on its gilded pedestal. madame entertained the king late at table, hoping that he would either forget or see the work in a bad light; but when the king entered the gallery late at night, followed by his courtiers, "which by god's grace was my salvation," says cellini, the statue was illuminated by a flood of light from the torch which so enhanced its beauty that the king was ravished with delight, and expressed himself in ecstatic praise, declaring the statue to be more beautiful and more marvellous than any of the antique casts around. his enemies were thus discomfited, and on madame d'estampes endeavouring to depreciate the work, she was grossly mocked by the artist in a very characteristic and quite untranscribable way. benvenuto was more than ever patronised by the king, who did him the great honour of accosting him as _mon ami_, and approving his scheme for the fortification of paris. the artist often remembered with pleasure the four years he spent with the _gran re francesco_ at paris. "the french are remembered in italy only by the graves they left there," said de comines, and once again the italian campaigns ended in disaster. at the defeat of pavia, in --the armageddon of the french in italy--the efforts and sacrifices of three reigns were lost and the _gran re_ went captive to the king of spain in madrid, whence he issued, stained by perjury and three years later, signed "the moral annihilation of france in europe," at cambray. [illustration: boulevard st. michel.] during the tranquil intervals that ensued on this rude awakening from dreams of an italian empire, and the third and fourth wars with the emperor, the king was able to give effect to a project that had long been dear to him. "come," says michelet, "in the still, dark night, climb the rue st. jacques, in the early winter's morning. see you yon lights? men, even old men, mingled with children, are hurrying, a folio under one arm, in the other an iron candlestick. do they turn to the right? no, the old sorbonne is yet sleeping snug in her warm sheets. the crowd is going to the greek schools. athens is at paris. that man with the fine beard in majestic ermine is a descendant of emperors--jean lascaris; that other doctor is alexander, who teaches hebrew." the schools they were pressing to were those of the royal college of france. already in erasmus had been offered a salary of a thousand francs a year, with promise of further increment, to undertake the direction of the college, but declined to leave his patron the emperor. the prime movers in the great scheme were the king's confessor, guillaume parvi, and the famous grecian, guillaume budé, who in was himself induced to undertake the task which erasmus had declined. twelve professors were appointed in greek, hebrew, mathematics, philosophy, rhetoric and medicine, each of the twelve with a salary of two hundred gold crowns (about £ ), and the dignity of royal councillors. the king's vast scheme of a great college and magnificent chapel, with a revenue of , crowns for the maintenance (_nourriture_) of six hundred scholars, where the most famous doctors in christendom should offer gratuitous teaching in all the sciences and learned languages, was never executed. too much treasure had been wasted in italy, and it was not till the reign of louis xiii. that it was partially carried out. the first stone was laid in , but the college as we now see it was not completed till ; before the construction the professors taught in the colleges of treguier and cambray. chairs were founded for arabic by henry iii., for surgery, anatomy and botany by henry iv., and for syrian by louis xiv. little is changed to-day; the placards, so familiar to students in paris, announcing the lectures, are indited in french instead of in latin as of old; the lectures are still free to all, and the most famous scholars of the day teach there, but in french and not in latin.[ ] how dramatic are the contrasts of history! while the new learning was organising itself amid the pomp of royal patronage, while the young calvin was sitting at the feet of its professors and the lutheran heresy germinating at paris, ignatius loyola, an obscure spanish soldier and gentleman of thirty-seven years of age, was sitting--a strange mature figure--among the boisterous young students at the college of st. barbara, patiently preparing himself for dedication to the service of the menaced church of rome; and in , on the festival of the assumption of the blessed virgin, a little group of six companions met around the fervent student, in the crypt of the old church at montmartre, and decided to found on the holy hill of st. denis' martyrdom the first house of the society of jesus. in , says the writer of the so-called _journal d'un bourgeois de paris_, the king began to pull down the great tower of the louvre, in order to transform the château into a _logis de plaisance_, "yet was it great pity for the castle was very fair and high and strong, and a most proper prison to hold great men." the tall, massive keep, which darkened the royal apartments in the south wing, was the tower here meant, and after some four months' work, and an expenditure of livres, the grim pile, with its centuries of history, was cleared away. small progress, however, had been made with the restoration of the old château up to the year , when the heavy cost of preparing the west wing for the reception of the emperor charles v., induced francis to consider a plan which involved the replacement of the whole fabric by a palace in the new renaissance style. in pierre lescot was appointed architect without salary, but given the office of almoner to the king, and made lay abbot of clermont. pierre lescot was an admirable artist, who has left us some of the finest examples of early french renaissance architecture in paris. but francis lived only to see the great scheme begun, most of lescot's work being done under henry ii. from the same anonymous writer we learn something of parisian life in the reign of francis i. one day a certain monsieur cruche, a popular poet and playwright, was performing moralities and novelties on a platform in the place maubert, and among them a farce, "funny enough to make half a score men die of laughter, in which the said cruche, holding a lantern, feigned to perceive the doings of a hen and a salamander."[ ] the amours of the king with the daughter of a councillor of the parlement, named lecoq, were only too plainly satirised. but it is ill jesting with kings. a few nights later, monsieur cruche was visited by eight disguised courtiers, who treated him to a supper in a tavern at the sign of the castle in the rue de la juiverie, and induced him to play the farce before them. when the unhappy player came to the first scene, he was set upon by the king's friends, stripped and beaten almost to death with thongs. they were about to put him in a sack and throw him into the seine, when poor cruche, crying piteously, discovered his priestly tonsure, and thus escaped. public festivities were held with incredible magnificence. when the english envoys entered paris in , there was the finest triumph ever seen. the king, the royal princes, five cardinals and a train of lords and dukes and counts, with a gorgeous military pageant, met them and conducted them to notre dame, whose interior was almost hidden under decorations of tapestry and of cloth of silver and of gold. a pavilion of cloth of gold, embroidered with the royal salamander, _moult riche et fort triomphante_, supported by four columns of solid silver, was erected, and was so large that some of the masonry between the choir and the high altar had to be removed to give it place. the banquet by night at the bastille was the most solemn and sumptuous ever seen; the whole courtyard was draped and the edifice lighted by ten thousand torches; words fail to describe the triumph of the meats and table decorations. the feast ended at midnight and was followed by dances of moriscos attired in cloth of silver and of gold, by jousts and princely gifts. the extravagance of francis was prodigious; a venetian ambassador estimated the annual ordinary expenses of the court at , , [ ] crowns; another describes the people as "eaten to the bone by taxes." cellini declares that the king on his travels was accompanied by a train of , horse. after the defeat at pavia, the king became excessively pious. by trumpet cry at the crossways, games--quoits, tennis, contre-boulle--were prohibited on sundays; children were forbidden to sing along the streets, going to and from school. blasphemers[ ] were to be severely punished. in a notary was burned alive in the place de grève for a great blasphemy of our lord and his holy mother. in june of the next year some lutherans struck down and mutilated an image of the virgin and child at a street corner near st. gervais; the king was so grieved and angry that he wept violently, and offered a reward of one hundred gold crowns, but the offenders could not be found. daily processions came from the churches to the spot, and all the religious orders, clothed in their habits, followed, "singing with such great fervour and reverence, that it was fair to see." the rector and doctors, masters and bachelors, scholars of the university, and children with lighted tapers, went there in great reverence. on corpus christi day the street was draped and a fair canopy stretched over the statue. the king himself walked in procession, bearing a white taper, his head uncovered in _moult gran révérence_; hautboys, clarions and trumpets played melodiously. cardinals, prelates, great seigneurs and nobles, each with his taper of white wax, followed, with the royal archers of the guard in their train. on the morrow a procession from all the parishes of paris, with banners, relics and crucifixes, accompanied by the king and nobles, brought a new and fair image of silver, two feet in height, which the king had caused to be made. francis himself ascended a ladder and placed it where the other image had stood, then kissed it and descended with tears in his eyes. thrice he kneeled and prayed, the bishop of lisieux, his almoner, reciting fair orisons and lauds to the honour of the glorious virgin and her image. again the trumpets, clarions and hautboys played the _ave regina cælorum_, and the king, the cardinal of louvain, and all the nobles presented their tapers to the virgin. next day the parlement, the provost and sheriffs, came and put an iron trellis round the silver image for fear of robbers.[ ] never were judicial and ecclesiastical punishments so cruel and recurrent as during the period of the renaissance. it is a common error to suppose that judicial cruelty reached its culmination in the middle ages. punishments are described with appalling iteration in the pages we are following. the place de grève was the scene of mutilations, tortures, hangings and quarterings of criminals and traitors, the king and his court sometimes looking on. coiners of false money were boiled alive at the pig-market; robbers and assassins were broken on the wheel and left to linger in slow agony (_tant qu'ils pourraient languir_). the lutherans were treated like vermin, and to harbour them, to possess or print or translate one of their books, meant a fiery death. in a young lutheran student was put in a tumbril and brought before the churches of notre dame and st. genevieve, crying mercy from god and mary and st. genevieve; he was then taken to the place maubert, where, after his tongue had been pierced, he was strangled and burnt. a _gendarme_ of the duke of albany was burnt at the pig-market for having sown lutheran errors in scotland; before his execution his servant was whipped and mutilated before him at the cart-tail, but was pardoned on recantation. on corpus christi day, , a great procession was formed, the king and provost walking bare-headed to witness the burning of six lutherans--a scene often repeated. the fountain of the innocents, the halles, the temple, the end of the pont st. michel, the place maubert, and the rue st. honoré were indifferently chosen for these ghastly scenes. almost daily the fires burnt. a woman was roasted to death for eating flesh on fridays. in , so savage were the persecutions, that pope paul iii., with that gentleness which almost invariably has characterised rome in dealing with heresy, wrote to francis protesting against the horrible and execrable punishments inflicted on the lutherans, and warned him that although he acted from good motives, yet he must remember that god the creator, when in this world, used mercy rather than rigorous justice, and that it was a cruel death to burn a man alive; he therefore prayed and required the king to appease the fury and rigour of his justice and adopt a policy of mercy and pardon. this noble protest was effective, and some clemency was afterwards shown. but in the fanatical king, a mass of physical and moral corruption, soured and gloomy, went to his end amid the barbarities wreaked on the unhappy vaudois protestants. the cries of three thousand of his butchered subjects and the smoke from the ruins of twenty-five towns and hamlets were the incense of his spirit's flight. [illustration: la fontaine des innocents.] chapter xii rise of the guises--huguenot and catholic--the massacre of st. bartholomew "beware of montmorency and curb the power of the guises," was the counsel of the dying francis to his son. henry ii., dull and heavy-witted that he was, neglected the advice, and the guises flourished in the sun of royal favour. the first duke of guise and founder of his renowned house was claude, a poor cadet of rené ii., duke of lorraine. he succeeded in allying by marriage his eldest son and successor, francis, to the house of bourbon; his second son, charles, became cardinal of lorraine, and his daughter, wife to james v. of scotland. duke francis, by his military genius and wise statesmanship; charles, by his learning and subtle wit, exalted their house to the lofty eminence it enjoyed during the stirring period that now opens. in , after the disastrous defeat of montmorency at st. quentin, when paris lay at the mercy of the spanish and english armies, the duke was recalled from italy and made lieutenant-general of the realm. by a short and brilliant campaign, he expelled the english from calais, and recovered in three weeks the territory held by them for more than two hundred years. francis gained an unbounded popularity, and rose to the highest pinnacle of success; but short time was left to his royal master wherein to enjoy a reflected glory. on the th june , lists were erected across the rue st. antoine, between the tournelles and the bastille. the peace with spain, and the double marriage of the king's daughter to philip ii. of spain and of his sister to the duke of savoy, were to be celebrated by a magnificent tournament in which the king, proud of his strength and bodily address, was to hold the field with the duke of guise and the princes against all comers. for three days the king distinguished himself by his triumphant prowess, and at length challenged the duke of montgomery, captain of the scottish guards; the captain prayed to be excused, but the king insisted and the course was run. several lances were broken, but in the last encounter the stout captain failed to lower his shivered lance quickly enough, and the broken truncheon struck the royal visor, lifted it and penetrated the king's eye. henry fell senseless and was carried to the palace of the tournelles, where he died after an agony of eleven days. fifteen years later, montgomery was captured fighting with the huguenots, and beheaded on the place de grève while catherine de' medici looked on "_pour goûter_," says félibien quaintly, "_le plaisir de se voir vangée de la mort de son mary_." the tower in the interior of the palais de justice, where the unhappy scottish noble was imprisoned after his capture, was known as the tour montgomery, until demolished in the reign of louis xvi. there was, however, little love lost between henry's queen, catherine de' medici, and her royal husband, who had long neglected her for the maturer charms of his mistress, diane de poitiers. [illustration: west wing of louvre by pierre lescot.] henry saw lescot's admirable design for the reconstruction of the west wing of the louvre completed. the architect had associated a famous sculptor, jean goujon, with him, who executed the beautiful figures in low relief which still adorn the quadrangle front between the pavilion de l'horloge and the south-west angle, and the noble caryatides, which support the musicians' gallery in the salle basse, or salle des fêtes, now known as the salle des caryatides. the agreement, dated th september , awards forty-six livres each for the four plaster models and eighty crowns each for the four carved figures. lescot preserved the external wall of the old château as the kernel of his new wing, and the enormous strength of the original building of philip augustus may be estimated by the fact that the embrasures of each of the five casements of the first floor looking westwards now serve as offices. so _grandement satisfait_ was henry with the perfection of lescot's work, that he determined to continue it along the remaining three wings, that the court of the louvre might be a _cour non-pareille_. the south wing was, however, only begun when his tragic death occurred, and the present inconsequent and huge fabric is the work of a whole tribe of architects, whose intermittent activities extended over the reigns of nine french sovereigns. lescot and goujon were also associated in the construction of the most beautiful renaissance fountain in paris, the fontaine des innocents, which formerly stood against the old church of the innocents at the corner of the rue aux fers. pajou added a fourth side in , when the fountain was removed to the square des innocents. it was while working on one of the figures of this fountain that jean goujon is said to have been shot as a huguenot during the massacre of st. bartholomew. [illustration: luxembourg gardens.] europe was now in travail of a new era, and unhappy france reeled under the tempest of the reformation. a daring spirit of enquiry and of revolt challenged every principle on which the social fabric had been based, and the only refuge in the coming storm in france was the monarchy. never had its power been more absolute. the king's will was law--a harbour of safety, indeed, if he were strong and wise and virtuous: a veritable quicksand, if feeble and vicious. and to pilot the state of france in these stormy times, henry ii. left a sickly progeny of four princes, miserable puppets, whose favours were disputed for thirty years by ambitious and fanatical nobles, queens and courtesans. francis ii., a poor creature of sixteen years, the slave of his wife marie stuart and of the guises, was called king of france for seventeen months. he it was who sat daily by mary in the royal garden, on the terrace at amboise overlooking the loire, and, surrounded by his brothers and the ladies of the court, gazed at the revolting and merciless executions of the protestant conspirators,[ ] who, under the prince of condé, had plotted to destroy the guises and to free the king from their influence. it was the first act in a horrible drama, a dread pursuivant of the civil and religious wars in france. the stake was a high one, for the victory of the reformers would sound the death-knell of the catholic cause in europe. there is little reason to doubt that the queen-mother, catherine de' medici, who now emerges into prominence, was genuinely sincere in her disapproval of the horrors of amboise, and in her efforts to bring milder counsels to bear in dealing with the huguenots; but the fierce passions roused by civil and religious hatred were uncontrollable. when the huguenot noble, villemongis, was led to the scaffold at amboise, he dipped his hands in the blood of his slaughtered comrades, and, lifting them to heaven, cried: "lord, behold the blood of thy children; thou wilt avenge them." a savage lust for blood among the christian sectaries on either side, drawing its stimulus from the records of the ferocity of semi-barbarian jewish tribes, smothered the gentle voice of jesus, and during thirty years was never slaked. treachery and assassination were the interludes of plots and battles. in the duke of guise was shot by a fanatical huguenot with a pistol loaded with poisoned balls. in , when the protestant leader, admiral coligny, was surprised and attacked by the forces of the duke of anjou, prince condé, although wounded in the arm, hastened to his succour. as the prince passed on, his leg was broken by a kick from a vicious horse. still charging forward, he cried: "remember how a louis of bourbon goes to battle for christ and fatherland!" his horse was killed, himself captured; as he was handing over his sword to his captors, the baron de montesquieu, "_brave et vaillant gentilhomme_," says brantôme, arrived on the scene, and, on learning what was passing, exclaimed, "_mort dieu!_ kill him! kill him!" and blew out condé's brains with a pistol. the body of the heroic bourbon was then tied on an ass, and a mocking epitaph set upon it:-- "l'an mil cinq soixante neuf, entre jarnac et château neuf; fut porté mort sur une ânesse, cil qui voulait ôter la messe." the defeated protestants were, however, soon roused to enthusiasm by the arrival of jeanne of navarre at their camp, leading her son henry by one hand and the eldest son of condé by the other. "here," cried the widowed queen, "are two orphans i confide to you; two leaders that god has given you." one of these orphans was to become henry iv. of france. [illustration: tritons and nereids from the old fontaine des innocents. jean goujon.] the treaty of st. germain, which has so often been charged on catherine as an act of perfidy, was rather an imperative necessity, if respite were to be had from the misery into which the land had fallen. its conditions were honourably carried out, and catholic excesses were impartially and severely repressed. charles ix., who was now twenty years of age, began to assert his independence of the queen-mother and of the guises,[ ] and his first movement was in the direction of conciliation. the young king offered the hand of his sister, princess marguerite, to henry of navarre, and received coligny and jeanne of navarre with much honour at court. pressure was brought to bear upon him, but, pope or no pope, the king said he was determined to conclude the marriage. the catholic party, and especially paris, were furious. the capital, with the provost, the parlement, the university, the prelates, the religious orders, had always been hostile to the huguenots. the people could with difficulty be restrained at times from assuming the office of executioners as protestants were led to the stake. any one who did not uncover as he passed the image of the virgin at the street corners, or who omitted to bend the knee as the host was carried by, was attacked as a lutheran. when the heralds published the peace with the huguenots at the crossways of paris, filth and mud were thrown at them, and they went in danger of their lives: now coligny and his huguenots were holding their heads high in paris, proud and insolent, and the heretic prince of navarre was to wed the king's sister. jeanne of navarre died soon after her arrival at court,[ ] but the alliance was hurried on. the betrothal took place in the louvre, and, on sunday, th august , a high daïs was erected outside notre dame for the celebration of the marriage. when the ceremony had been performed by the cardinal de bourbon, henry conducted his bride to the choir of the cathedral, and went walking in the bishop's garden while mass was sung. the office ended, he returned and led his wife to the bishop's palace to dinner, and a magnificent state supper at the louvre concluded this momentous day. three days of balls, masquerades and tourneys followed, amid the murmuring of a sullen populace. these were the _noces vermeilles_--the red nuptials--of marguerite of france and henry of navarre. meanwhile catherine and coligny had differed on a matter of foreign policy, and the king, bent on freeing himself from his mother's yoke, openly favoured the huguenot leader. catherine, terrified at the result of her own work, determined to regain her ascendency, and she conspired with her third son, the prince of anjou (later henry iii.), to destroy and have done with the protestants. coligny had often been warned of the danger he would run in paris, but the stout old soldier knew no fear, and came to take part in the festivities of the wedding. the sounds of revelry had barely died away when coligny, who was returning from the louvre to his hotel, walking slowly and reading a petition, was fired at from a window as he passed the cloister of st. germain l'auxerrois, and wounded in the arm. he stopped and noted the house whence the shot came: it was the house of the preceptor of the duke of guise. the king was playing at tennis when the news came to him: he flung down his racquet, exclaiming, "what! shall i never be in peace? must i suffer new trouble every day?" and went moody and pensive to his chamber. in a few moments prince condé and henry of navarre burst in, uttering indignant protests, and begged permission to leave paris. charles assured them he would do justice, and that they might safely remain. in the afternoon the king, his mother and the princes, went to visit the admiral. the king asked to be left alone in the wounded man's chamber, remained a long time with him, and protested that though the wound was his friend's, the grief was his own, and he swore to avenge him. [illustration: portrait of elizabeth of austria, wife of charles ix. franÇois clouet.] coligny once again was warned by his friends to beware of the court, but he refused to distrust the king. many and conflicting are the reports of what followed. we shall not be accused of any protestant bias if we base our story mainly on that of the two learned benedictines[ ] who are responsible for five solid tomes of the _histoire de la ville de paris_. on the morrow of the attempt on coligny's life, the queen-mother invited charles and his brother of anjou to walk, after dinner, in the garden of her new palace in the tuileries: they were joined by the chief catholic leaders, and a grand council was held. the queen dwelt on the perilous situation of the monarchy and the catholic cause, and urged that now was the time to act: coligny lay wounded; navarre and condé were in their power at the louvre; for ten huguenots in paris the catholics could oppose a thousand armed men; rid france of the huguenot chiefs and a formidable evil were averted. her course was approved, but the leaders shrank from including the two princes of navarre and condé: they were to be given their choice--recantation or death. by order of the king , arquebusiers were placed along the river and the streets, and arms were carried into the louvre. the admiral's friends, alarmed at the sinister preparations, protested to charles but were reassured and told to take cosseins and fifty arquebusiers to guard his house. the provost of paris was then summoned by the duke of guise and ordered to arm and organise the citizens and proceed to the hôtel de ville at midnight. the king, guise said, would not lose so fair an opportunity of exterminating the huguenots. the catholic citizens were to tie a piece of white linen on their left arm and place a white cross in their caps that they might be recognised by their friends. at midnight the windows of their houses were to be illuminated by torches, and at the first sound of the great bell at the palais de justice the bloody work was to begin. midnight drew near. catherine was not sure of the king, and repaired to his chamber with anjou and her councillors to fix his wavering purpose; she heaped bitter reproaches upon him, worked on his fears with stories of a vast huguenot conspiracy and hinted that cowardice prevented him from seizing the fairest opportunity that god had ever offered, to free himself from his enemies. she repeated an italian prelate's vicious epigram: "_che pietà lor ser crudel, che crudeltà, lor ser pietosa_,"[ ] and concluded by threatening to leave the court with the duke of anjou rather than witness the destruction of the catholic cause. charles, who had listened sullenly, was stung by the taunt of cowardice and broke into a delirium of passion; he called for the death of every huguenot in france, that none might be left to reproach him afterwards. catherine gave him no time for farther vacillation. the great bell of st. germain l'auxerrois was rung, and at two in the morning of sunday, st. bartholomew's day, th august , the duke of guise and his followers issued forth to do their sabbath morning's work. cosseins saw his leader coming and knew what was expected of him. coligny's door was forced, his servants were poignarded, and besme, a german in the service of guise, followed by others, burst into the admiral's room. the old man stood erect in his _robe de chambre_, facing his murderers. "art thou the admiral?" demanded besme. "i am he," answered coligny with unfaltering voice and, gazing steadily at the naked sword pointed at his breast, added, "young man, thou shouldst show more respect to my white hairs; yet canst thou shorten but little my brief life." for answer he was pierced by besme's sword and stabbed to death by his companions. guise stood waiting in the street below and the body was flung down to him from the window. he wiped the blood from the old man's face, looked at it, and said, "it is he!" spurning the body with his foot he cried, "courage, soldiers! we have begun well; now for the others, the king commands it. "meanwhile the bell of the palais de justice, answering that of st. germain, was booming forth its awful summons, and the citizens hastened to perform their part. some passing the body of coligny cut off the head and took it to the king and queen, others mutilated the trunk, which, after being dragged about the streets for three days, was hanged by the feet on the gibbet at montfaucon, where charles and catherine are said to have come to gaze on it. all the huguenot nobles dwelling near the admiral were pitilessly murdered, and a similar carnage took place at the louvre. marguerite, the young bride of navarre, in her memoirs, tells of the horrors of that morning, how, when half-asleep, a wounded huguenot nobleman rushed into her chamber, pursued by four archers, and flung himself on her bed imploring protection. a captain of the guard entered, from whom she gained his life. she entreated the captain to lead her to her sister's room, and as she fled thither, more dead than alive, another fugitive was hewn down by a hallebardier only three paces from her; she fell fainting in the captain's arms. meanwhile charles, the queen-mother, and henry of anjou, after the violent scene in the king's chamber, had lain down for two hours' rest and then went to a window which overlooked the _basse-cour_ of the louvre, to see the "beginning of the executions." if we may believe henry's story, they had not been there long before the sound of a pistol shot filled them with dread and remorse, and a messenger was sent to bid guise to spare the admiral and to stay the whole undertaking; but the nobleman who had been sent returned saying that guise had told him it was too late: the admiral was dead, and the executions had begun all over the city. a dozen protestant nobles of the suites of condé and navarre, who had taken refuge in the louvre, were seized; one was even dragged from a sick-bed: all were taken to the courtyard and hewn in pieces by the swiss guards under the eyes of charles, who cried: "let none escape." meantime the catholic leaders had been scouring the streets on horseback, shouting to the people that a huguenot conspiracy to murder the king had been discovered, and that it was the king's wish that all the huguenots should be destroyed. a list of the huguenots in paris had been prepared and all their houses marked. none was spared. old and young, women and children, were pitilessly butchered. all that awful sunday the orgy of slaughter and pillage went on; every gate of the city had been closed and the keys brought to the king. night fell and the carnage was not stayed. two days yet and two nights the city was a prey to the ministers of death, and some catholics, denounced by personal enemies, were involved in the massacre. the resplendent august sun, the fair sky and serene atmosphere were held to be a divine augury, and a whitethorn in the cemetery of the innocents blooming out of season was hailed as a miracle and a visible token from god that the catholic religion was to blossom again by the destruction of the huguenots. a famous professor at the university was flung out of a window by the scholars, his body insulted and dragged in the mud. the murders did not wholly cease until th september. various were the estimates of the slain-- , , , , , . a goldsmith named cruce went about displaying his robust arm and boasting that he had accounted for huguenots. the streets, the front of the louvre, the public places were blocked by dead bodies; tumbrils[ ] were hired to throw them into the seine, which literally for days ran red with blood. the princes of navarre and condé saw the privacy of their chambers violated by a posse of archers on st. bartholomew's morning; they were forced to dress and were haled before the king, who, with a fierce look and glaring eyes, swore at them, reproached them for waging war upon him, and ordered them to change their religion. on their refusal he grew furious with rage, and by dint of threats wrung from them a promise to go to mass. [illustration: the louvre--galerie d'apollon.] charles is said to have stood at a window in the petite galerie of the louvre and to have fired across the river with a long arquebus on some huguenots who, being lodged on the southern side, had escaped massacre, and were riding up to learn what was passing. the statement is much canvassed by authorities. it is at least permissible to doubt the assertion, since the first floor[ ] of the petite galerie, where the king is traditionally believed to have placed himself, was not in existence before the time of henry iv. if the ground floor be meant, a further difficulty arises from the fact that the southern end was not furnished with a window in charles ix.'s time. on the th of august the king boldly avowed responsibility before the parlement for measures which he alleged had been necessary to suppress a huguenot insurrection aiming at the assassination of himself and the royal family and the destruction of the catholic religion in france. the ears of the catholic princes of europe and of the pope were abused by this specious lie; they believed that the catholic cause had been saved from ruin; the so-called victory was hailed with transports of joy, and a medal was struck in rome to celebrate the defeat of the huguenots.[ ] similar horrors were enacted in the chief provincial towns. some few governors, to their honour, declined to carry out the orders of the court, and the public executioner at troyes refused to take part in the butchery, protesting that his office was not to kill untried persons. at angers some of the rich huguenots were imprisoned and their property confiscated by order of henry of anjou. "monseigneur, we can make more than , francs out of them," wrote his agent. such was the massacre of st. bartholomew. the death-roll of the victims is known to the recording angel alone. it was a tremendous folly no less than an indelible crime, for it steeled the heart of every protestant to avenge his slaughtered brethren. [illustration: petite galerie of the louvre.] many of the huguenot leaders escaped from paris while the soldiers sent to despatch them were pillaging, and the flames of civil strife burst forth fiercer than ever. the court had prepared for massacre, not for war; and while the king was receiving the felicitations of the courts of spain and rome, he was forced by the peace of la rochelle to concede liberty of conscience to the protestants and to restore their sequestered estates and offices. after two years of agony of mind and remorse, charles ix. lay dying of consumption, abandoned by all save his faithful huguenot nurse. the blood flowing from his nostrils seemed a token of god's wrath; and moaning "ah! _ma mie_, what bloodshed! what murders! i am lost! i am lost!" the poor crowned wretch passed to his account. he had not yet reached his twenty-fourth year. [illustration: plan of paris when besieged by henry iv. in .] chapter xiii henry iii.--the league--siege of paris by henry iv.--his conversion, reign and assassination when the third of catherine's sons, having resigned the sovereignty of poland, was being consecrated at rheims, the crown is said to have twice slipped from his head, the insentient diadem itself shrinking in horror from the brow of a prince destined to pollute it with deeper shame. treacherous and bloody, henry mingled grovelling piety with debauchery, and made of the court a veritable alsatia, where paid assassins who stabbed from behind and _mignons_ who struck to the face, were part of the train of every prince. the king's _mignons_, with their insolent bearing, their extravagant and effeminate dress, their hair powdered and curled, their neck ruffles so broad that their heads resembled the head of john the baptist on a charger,--gambling, blaspheming swashbucklers--were hateful alike to huguenot and catholic. less than four years after st. bartholomew the peace of gave the huguenots all they had ever demanded or hoped for. in died the duke of alençon, catherine's last surviving son and heir to the throne; henry gave no hope of posterity and the catholic party were confronted by the possibility of the sceptre of st. louis descending to a relapsed heretic. a tremendous wave of feeling ran through france, and a holy league was formed to meet the danger, with the duke of guise as leader. the king tried in vain to win some of the huguenot and league partisans by the solemn institution of the order of the holy ghost,[ ] in the church of the augustinians, to commemorate his elevation to the thrones of poland and france on the day of pentecost. the people were equally recalcitrant. when henry entered paris after the campaign of , they shouted for their idol, the balafré,[ ] crying, "saul has slain his thousands but david his tens of thousands." the king in his jealousy and disgust forbade guise to enter paris; guise coolly ignored the command, and a few months later arrived at the head of a formidable train of nobles, amid the joyous acclamation of the people, who greeted him with chants of "_hosannah, filio david!_" angry scenes followed. the duke sternly called his master to duty, and warned him to take vigorous measures against the huguenots or lose his crown; the king, pale with anger, dismissed him and prepared to strike. [illustration: catherine de' medici. french school, th century.] on the night of the th may a force of royal guards and swiss mercenaries entered paris, but the parisians, with that genius for insurrection which has always characterised them, were equal to the occasion. the sixteen sections of the city met; in the morning the people were under arms; and barricades and chains blocked the streets. the st. antoine section, ever to the front, stood up to the king's guards and to the swiss advancing to occupy their quarter, defeated them, and with exultant cries rushed to threaten the louvre itself. henry was forced to send his mother to treat with the duke; she returned with terms that meant a virtual abdication. henry took horse and fled, vowing he would come back only through a breach in the walls. but guise was supreme in paris, and the pitiful monarch was soon forced to yield; he signed the terms of his own humiliation, and went to blois to meet guise and the states-general with bitterness in his heart, brooding over his revenge. visitors to blois will recall the scene of the tragic end of guise, the incidents of which the official guardians of the château are wont to recite with dramatic gesture. fearless and impatient of warnings, the great captain fell into the trap prepared for him; he was done to death in the king's chamber, like a lion caught in the toils. henry, who had heard mass and prayed that god would be gracious to him and permit the success of his enterprise, hastened to his mother, now aged and dying. "madame," said he, "i have killed the king of paris and am become once more king of france."[ ] the cardinal of lorraine, separated from the king's chamber only by a partition, paled as he heard his nephew's struggles. "yes," said his warder, "the king has some accounts to settle with you." next morning the old cardinal was led out and hacked to pieces. the two bodies were burnt and the ashes scattered to the winds to prevent their being worshipped as relics. it was christmas eve of . the stupid crime brought its inevitable consequences-- "revenge and hate bring forth their kind, like the foul cubs their parents are." paris and the leaguers were stung to fury; the sorbonne declared the king deposed; the pope banned him and a popular preacher called for another bloodletting. henry, in a final act of shame and despair, flung himself into the king of navarre's arms, and on the th july , the two henrys encamped at st. cloud and threatened paris with an army of , men. on the morrow jacques clement, a young dominican friar, after preparing himself by fasting, prayer and holy communion, left paris with a forged letter for the king, reached the camp and asked for a private interview. while henry was reading the letter the friar snatched a dagger from his sleeve and mortally stabbed him. he lingered until nd august, and after pronouncing henry of navarre his lawful successor and bidding his council swear allegiance to the new dynasty, the last of the thirteen valois kings passed to his doom. catherine de' medici had already preceded him, burdened with the anathemas of the cardinal of bourbon. the people of paris swore that if her body were brought to st. denis they would fling it to the shambles or into the seine, and a famous theologian, preaching at st. bartholomew's church, declared to the faithful that he knew not if it were right to pray god for her soul, but that if they cared to give her in charity a pater or an ave they might do so for what it was worth. this was the reward of her thirty years of devoted toil, of vigils and of plots to further the catholic cause. not until a quarter of a century had passed were her ashes laid beside those of her husband in the rich renaissance tomb, which still exists, in the royal church of st. denis. when the news of the king's death reached paris, the duchess of montpensier, whom he had threatened to burn alive when he entered, leapt into her carriage and drove through the streets crying, "good news, friends! good news! the tyrant is dead!" jacques clement, who had been cut to pieces by the king's guards, was worshipped as a martyr, and his mother rewarded for having given birth to the saviour of france. [illustration: st. gervais.] henry of navarre, unable to carry on the siege with a divided army, directed his course for normandy. the exultant parisians proclaimed the cardinal of bourbon king, under the title of charles x., and the duke of mayenne, with a large army, marched forth to give battle to henry. so confident were the leaguers of victory, that their leaders hired windows along the rue st. antoine, to witness the return of the duke bringing the "bearnais"[ ] dead or a prisoner. henry did indeed return, but it was after a victorious campaign. he captured the faubourg st. jacques, and fell upon the abbey of st. germain des prés while the astonished monks were preparing to sing mass. henry seized the monastery, climbed the steeple of the church and gazed on paris. he refreshed his troops, suffered them to pillage the city south of the seine, and turned to the west to fix his capital at tours. in he won at ivry on the eure, about fifty miles south of rouen, the brilliant victory over the armies of the league and of spain which macaulay has popularised in a stirring poem. the village ever since has been known as ivry-la-bataille. the road to paris was now open, and the city endured another and most terrible siege. the leaguers fought and suffered with the utmost constancy. reliquaries were melted down for money, church bells for cannon. the clergy and religious orders were caught by the military enthusiasm. the bishop of senlis and the prior of the carthusians, two valiant maccabees, were seen, crucifix in one hand, and a pike in the other, leading a procession of armed priests, monks and scholars through the streets. friars from the mendicant orders were among them, their habits tucked up, hoods thrown back, casques on their heads and cuirasses on their breasts. all marched sword by side, dagger in girdle, musket on shoulder, the strangest army of the church militant ever seen. as they passed the pont notre dame the papal legate was crossing in his carriage, and was asked to stop and give his blessing. after this benediction a salvo of musketry was called for, and some of the host of the lord, forgetting that their muskets were loaded with ball, killed a papal officer and wounded a servant of the ambassador of spain. [illustration: luxembourg palace.] four months the parisians endured starvation and all the attendant horrors of a siege, the incidents of which, as described by contemporaries, are so ghastly that the pen recoils from transcribing them. at length, when they were at the last extremity, the duke of parma arrived with a spanish army, forced henry to raise the siege, and revictualled the city. after war, anarchy. in november it was discovered that secret letters were passing between brizard, an officer in the service of the duke of mayenne in paris, and a royalist at st. denis. the sections demanded brizard's instant execution, and on his discharge by the parlement the _curé_ of st. jacques fulminated against that body and declared that cold steel must be tried (_faut jouer des couteaux_). a secret revolutionary committee of ten was appointed, and a _papier rouge_ or list of suspects in all the districts of paris was drawn up under three categories: p. (_pendus_), those to be hung; d. (_dagués_), those to be poignarded; c. (_chassés_), those to be expelled. on the night of the th november a meeting was held at the house of the _curé_ of st. jacques, and in the morning the president of the parlement, brisson, was seized and dragged to the petit châtelet, where a revolutionary tribunal, in black cloaks, on which were sewn large red crosses, condemned him to death. meanwhile two councillors of the parlement, larcher and tardif, had been seized, the latter by the _curé_ of st. cosme, and haled to the châtelet. all three were dragged to a room, and the executioner was forced to hang them from a beam. the bodies were then stripped, an inscription was hung about their necks, and they were suspended from the gallows in the place de grève. the sections believed that paris would rise: they only shocked the more orderly citizens. the duke of mayenne, who was at lyons, on the receipt of the news hastened to paris, temporised a while and, when sure of support, seized four of the most dangerous leaders of the sections and hanged them without trial in the salle basse of the louvre. all save the more violent partisans were now weary of the strife. the leaguers themselves were divided. the sections aimed at a theocratic democracy; another party favoured the duke of mayenne; a third, the duke of guise; a fourth, the infanta of spain. it was decided to convoke the states-general at paris. they met at the louvre in , and a conference was arranged with henry's supporters at suresnes. crowds flocked there, crying, "peace, peace; blessed be they who bring it; cursed they who prevent it." henry knew the supreme moment was come. france was still profoundly catholic; he must choose between his religion and france. he chose to heal his country's wounds and perhaps to save her very existence. learned theologians were deputed to confer with him at paris, whom he astonished and confounded by his knowledge of scripture; they declared that they had never met a heretic better able to defend his cause. but on rd july , he professed himself convinced, and the same evening wrote to his mistress, gabrielle d'estrées, that he had spoken with the bishops, and that a hundred anxieties were making st. denis hateful to him. "on sunday," he adds, "i am to take the perilous leap. _bonjour_, my heart; come to me early to-morrow. it seems a year since i saw you. a million times i kiss the fair hands of my angel and the mouth of my dear mistress." on sunday, under the great portal of st. denis, the archbishop of bourges sat enthroned in a chair covered with white damask and embroidered with the arms of france and of navarre. he was attended by many prelates and the prior and monks of st. denis, and the cross and the book of the gospels were held before him. henry drew nigh. "who are you?" demanded the archbishop. "i am the king." "what do you ask?" "i wish to be received in the bosom of the catholic, apostolic and roman church." "is it your will?" "yes, i will and desire it." henry then knelt and made profession of his faith, kissed the prelate's ring, received his blessing and was led to the choir, where he knelt before the high altar and repeated his profession of faith on the holy gospels amid cries of "_vive le roi!_" the clerical extremists in paris anathematised all concerned. violent _curés_ again donned their armour, children were baptised and mass was sung by cuirassed priests. the _curé_ of st. cosme seized a partisan, and with other fanatics of the league hastened to the latin quarter to raise the university. but the people were heartsick of the whole business; and when henry entered paris after his coronation at chartres, resplendent in velvet robes embroidered with gold and seated on his dapple grey charger, his famous helmet with its white plumes ever in his hand saluting the ladies at the windows, he was hailed with shouts of joy. shops were reopened, the artisan took up his tools and the merchant went to his counter with a sigh of relief. a general amnesty was proclaimed, and the spanish garrison were allowed to depart with their arms. as they filed out of the porte st. denis in heavy rain, three thousand strong, the king was sitting at a window above the gates. "remember me to your master," he cried, "but do not return." on the morrow the provost and sheriffs and chief citizens came to the louvre bearing presents of sweetmeats, sugar-plums and malmsey wine. "yesterday i received your hearts, to-day i receive your sweets," the king remarked; all were charmed by his wit, his forbearance and generosity. the stubborn university was last to give way, but when the doctors of theology learnt that henry had touched for the king's evil and that many had been cured, they too were convinced. paris, "well worth a mass," was wooed and won. the memorable edict of nantes established liberty of worship and political equality for the protestants. the war with spain was brought to a successful issue, and henry, with his minister the duke of sully, probably the greatest financial genius france has ever known, by wise and firm statesmanship lifted the country from bankruptcy to prosperity and contentment. [illustration: hÔtel de sully.] henry, like one of his predecessors, had of _bastards et bastardes une moult belle compagnie_, but as yet no legitimate heir. a divorce from marguerite of valois and a politic marriage with the pope's niece, marie de' medici,[ ] gave him a magnificent dowry, an additional bond to the papacy, and several children. henri quatre, hero of voltaire's famous epic, is the most popular and romantic figure in the gallery of french kings. his statue on the pont neuf was spared for a while by the revolutionists, who made every passer-by in a carriage alight and bow to it. born among the mountains, henry was patient of fatigue and hardships. in good or evil fortune his gaiety of heart never failed him. brave and generous, courteous and witty, he endeared himself to all his subjects, save a few fanatics, and won a desperate cause by sheer personal magic and capacity. like all his race, henry was susceptible to the charms of the daughters of eve, but, unlike his descendants, he never sacrificed france to their tears and wiles. when the question of the succession was urgent he thought of marrying gabrielle d'estrées, whom he had created duchess of beaufort. but sully opposed the union, and the impatient gabrielle sought her royal lover, and used all her powers of fascination to compass the dismissal of the great minister. henry, however, stood firm, and gabrielle burst into passionate reproaches. it was of no avail. "let me tell you," answered henry, calmly, "if i must choose between you and the duke, i would sooner part with ten mistresses such as you than one faithful servant such as he." in the king was making great preparations for a war with austria, and, on the th may, desiring to consult sully, who was unwell in his rooms at the arsenal, he determined to spare him the fatigue of travelling to the louvre, and to drive to the arsenal. with much foreboding the king had agreed to the coronation of marie de' medici, which had been celebrated at st. denis with great pomp. the ceremony was attended by two sinister incidents. the gospel for the day, taken from mark x., included the answer of jesus to the pharisees who tempted him by asking--"is it lawful for a man to put away his wife?"--the gospel was hurriedly changed. and when the usual largesse of gold and silver pieces was thrown to the crowd not a voice cried, "_vive le roi_," or "_vive la reine_." that night the king tossed restless on his bed, pursued by evil dreams. on the morrow his counsellors begged him to defer his journey, but nineteen plots to assassinate him had already failed: he gently put aside their warnings, and repeated his favourite maxim that fear had no place in a generous heart. it was a warm day, and the king entered his open carriage, attended by the dukes of epernon and montbazon and five other courtiers; a number of _valets de pied_ followed him. in the narrow rue de la ferronnerie the carriage was stopped by a block in the traffic, and the servants were sent round by the cemetery of the innocents. while the king was listening to the reading of a letter by the duke of epernon, one francis ravaillac, who had been watching his opportunity for twelve months, placed his foot on a wheel of the coach, leaned forward, and plunged a knife into the king's breast. before he could be seized he pulled out the fatal steel and doubled his thrust, piercing him to the heart. "_je suis blessé_," cried henry, and never spoke again. the widened rue de la ferronnerie still exists; the tragedy took place opposite the present no. . the regicide was seized, and all the tortures that the most refined cruelty could invent were inflicted upon him. he was dragged to the place de grève, his right hand cut off and, with the fatal knife, flung into the flames; the flesh was torn from his arms, breast and legs; melted lead and boiling oil were poured into the wounds. horses were then tied to each of his four limbs, and were lashed for an hour, when at length the body was torn to pieces and burnt to ashes. some writers have inculpated the jesuits for the murder, but it may more reasonably be attributed to the fury of a crazy fanatic. certain it is that henry's heart was given to the jesuits for the church of their college of la flèche, which was founded by him. the first bourbon king has left his impress on the architecture of paris. small progress had been made during the reign of henry ii.'s three sons with their father's plans for the rebuilding of the louvre. the work had been continued along the river front after lescot's death in by baptiste du cercan, and catherine de' medici had erected the gallery on the south, known as the petite galerie--a ground-floor building with a terrace on top, intended for a meeting-place and promenade and not for residence; she had also begun the palace of the tuileries in , but abandoned it on being warned by her astrologer, ruggieri, that she should die under the ruins of a house near st. germain.[ ] henry, soon after he had entered paris, elaborated a vast scheme for finishing the tuileries, demolishing the churches of st. thomas and st. nicholas, quadrupling the size of the old louvre and joining the two palaces by continuing the grande galerie, already begun by catherine, to the west. towards the east the hôtels d'alençon, de bourbon and the church of st. germain l'auxerrois were to be demolished, and a great open space was to be levelled between the new east front of the louvre and the pont neuf. at henry's accession catherine's architects, philibert de l'orme and jean bullant, had completed the superb domed central pavilion of the tuileries, with its two contiguous galleries, and begun the end pavilions. the gardens, with the famous maze or _dedalus_ and palissy's beautiful grotto, had been completed in , and for some years were a favourite promenade for catherine and her court. henry's plans were so far carried out that on new year's day, , he could walk along the grande galerie to the pavilion de flore at the extreme west of the river front, and enter the south wing of the tuileries which had been extended to meet it. the pavilion de flore thus became the angle of junction between the two palaces. an upper floor was imposed on the petite galerie, and adorned with paintings representing the kings of france. henry intended the ground floor of the grande galerie for the accommodation of painters, sculptors, goldsmiths, tapestry weavers, smiths, and other craftsmen. the quadrangle, however, remained as the last valois had left it--half renaissance, half gothic--and the north-east and south-east towers of the original château were still standing to be drawn by sylvestre towards the middle of the seventeenth century. domenico da cortona's unfinished hôtel de ville was taken in hand after more than half-a-century and practically completed.[ ] the larger, north portion of the pont neuf was built, the two islets west of the cité were incorporated with the island to form the place dauphine and the ground that now divides the two sections of the bridge--a new street, the rue dauphine, being cut through the garden of the augustins and the ruins of the college of st. denis. the place royale (now des vosges) was built, that charming relic of seventeenth and eighteenth century fashionable paris, where molière's _précieuses_ lived. [illustration: place des vosges.] [illustration: place des vosges.] how different is the present aspect of this once courtly square! here noble gentlemen in dazzling armour jousted, while, from the windows of each of the thirty-five pavilions, gentle dames and demoiselles smiled gracious guerdon to their cavaliers. around the bronze statue of louis xiii., proudly erect on the noble horse cast by daniello da volterra, in the middle of the gardens, fine ladies were carried in their sedan-chairs and angry gallants fought out their quarrels. and now on the scene of these brilliant revels, peaceful inhabitants of the east of paris sun themselves and children play. bronze horse and royal rider went to the melting pot of the revolution to be forged into the cannon that defeated and humbled the allied kings of europe, and a feeble marble equestrian statue, erected under the restoration, occupies its place. henry also partly rebuilt the hôtel dieu, created new streets, and widened others.[ ] new fountains and quays were built; the porte du temple was reopened, and the porte des tournelles constructed. unhappily, some of the old wooden bridges remained, and on sunday, nd december , the pont aux meuniers (miller's bridge), just below the pont au change, suddenly collapsed, with all its shops and houses, and sixty persons perished. they were not much regretted, for most of them had enriched themselves by the plunder of huguenots, and during the troubles of the league. the bridge was rebuilt of wood, at the cost of the captain of the corps of archers, and as the houses were painted each with the figure of a bird, the new bridge was known as the pont aux oiseaux (bridge of birds). it spanned the river from the end of the rue st. denis and the arch of the grand châtelet to the tour de l'horloge of the palais de justice. in , however, it and the pont au change were consumed by fire in a few hours and, in , the two wooden bridges were replaced by a bridge of stone, the pont au change, which stood until rebuilt in . it was in henry's reign that the penitents, a regularised order of reformed franciscan tertiaries, were established at picpus, a small village south-east of the porte st. antoine, and the friars became known to the parisians as the picpuses. the buildings are now occupied by the nuns of the sacré coeur, whose church contains a much venerated statuette of the virgin, which, in henry's reign, stood over the portal of the capucin convent in the rue st. honoré. readers of _les misérables_ will remember that it was over the high walls of this convent that jean valjean escaped with cosette from his pursuers. at the end of the garden lie buried in the cemetery of picpus the victims of the revolution who were guillotined on the place du trône renversé (now du trône). [illustration: old houses near pont st. michel, showing spire of the ste. chapelle.] [illustration: pont st. michel.] we are able to give the impression which the paris of henri quatre made on an english traveller, a friend of ben johnson and author of _coryat's crudities, hastily gobbled up in five months' travell_. the first objects that met coryat's eye are characteristic. as he travelled along the st. denis road he passed "seven[ ] faire pillars of freestone at equal distances, each with an image of st. denis and his two companions, and a little this side of paris was the fairest gallows i ever saw, built on montfaucon, which consisted of fourteene fair pillars of freestone." he notes "the fourteene gates of paris, the goodly buildings, mostly of fair, white stone and"--a detail always unpleasantly impressed on travellers--"the evil-smelling streets, which are the dirtiest and the most stinking i ever saw in any city in my life. lutetia! well dothe it brooke being so called from the latin word _lutum_, which signifieth dirt." coryat was impressed by the bridges--"the goodly bridge of white freestone nearly finished (the pont neuf); a famous bridge that far exceedeth this, having one of the fairest streets in paris called our ladies street; the bridge of exchange where the goldsmiths live; st. michael's bridge, and the bridge of birds." he admires the "via jacobea, full of bookesellers' faire shoppes, most plentifully furnished with bookes, and the fair building, very spacious and broad, where the judges sit in the palais de justice, the roofs sumptuously gilt and embossed, with an exceeding multitude of great, long bosses hanging downward." coryat next visited the fine quadrangle of the louvre, whose outside was exquisitely wrought with festoons, and decked with many stately pillars and images. from queen mary's bedroom he went to a room[ ] "which excelleth not only all that are now in the world but also all that were since the creation thereof, even a gallery, a perfect description whereof would require a large volume, with a roofe of most glittering and admirable beauty. yea, so unspeakably fair is it that a man can hardly comprehend it in his mind that hath not seen it with his bodily eyes." the tuileries gardens were the finest he ever beheld for length of delectable walks. next day coryat saw the one thing above all he desired to see, "that most rare ornament of learning isaac casaubon," who told him to observe "a certain profane, superstitious ceremony of the papists--a bedde carried after a very ethnicall manner, or rather a canopy in the form of a bedde, under which the bishop of the city, with certain priests, carry the sacrament. the procession of corpus christi," he adds, "though the papists esteemed it very holy, was methinks very pitiful. the streets were sumptuously adorned with paintings and rich cloth of arras, the costliest they could provide, the shews of our lady street being so hyperbolical in pomp that it exceedeth all the rest by many degrees. upon public tables in the streets they exposed rich plate as ever i saw in my life, exceeding costly goblets and what not tending to pomp; and on the middest of the tables stood a golden crucifix and divers other gorgeous images. following the clergy, in capes exceeding rich, came many couples of little singing choristers, which, pretty innocent punies, were so egregiously deformed that moved great pity in any relenting spectator, being so clean shaved round about their heads that a man could perceive no more than the very rootes of their hair." at the royal suburb coryat saw "st. denis, his head enclosed in a wonderful, rich helmet, beset with exceeding abundant pretious stones," but the skull itself he "beheld not plainly, only the forepart through a pretty, crystall glass, and by light of a wax candle." chapter xiv paris under richelieu and mazarin louis xiii. was nine years of age when he came to the throne in . for a time the regent, marie de' medici, was content to suffer the great sully to hold office, but soon favouritism and the greed of princes, to the ill-hap of france, drove him in the prime of life from paris into the retirement of his château of villebon, and a feeble and venal florentine, concini, took his place. the prince of condé, now a catholic, the duke of mayenne, and a pack of nobles who professed solicitude for the wrongs of the _pauvre peuple_, fell upon the royal treasury like hounds on their quarry. the court, to meet their demands, neglected to pay the poor annuitants of the hôtel de ville, and this was the only result to the _pauvre peuple_. in , so critical was the financial situation, that the states-general were called to meet in the salle bourbon,[ ] but to little purpose. recriminations were bandied between the noblesse and the tiers etat. the insolence of the former was intolerable. one member of the tiers was thrashed by a noble and could obtain no redress. the clergy refused to bear any of the public burdens. the orator of the tiers, speaking on his knees according to usage, warned the court that despair might make the people conscious that a soldier was none other than a peasant bearing arms, and that when the vine-dresser took up the arquebus he might one day cease to be the anvil and become the hammer. but there was no thought for the common weal; each order wrangled for its own privileges, and their meeting-place was closed on the pretext that the hall was wanted for a royal ballet. no protest was raised, and the states-general never met again until the fateful meeting at versailles, in , when a similar pretext was tried, with very different consequences. among the clergy, however, sat a young priest of twenty-nine years of age, chosen for their orator, armand duplessis de richelieu, who made rapid strides to fame. in the nobles were once more in arms, and condé was again bought off. the helpless court was in pitiful straits and the country drifting to civil war, when richelieu, who, meanwhile, had been made a royal councillor and minister for foreign affairs, took the condé business in hand. he had the prince arrested in the louvre itself and flung into the bastille; the noble blackmailers were declared guilty of treason, and three armies marched against them. the triumph of the court seemed assured, when louis xiii., now sixteen years of age, suddenly freed himself from tutelage, and with the help of the favourite companion of his pastimes, albert de luynes, son of a soldier of fortune, determined to rid himself of concini. the all-powerful florentine, on th april , was crossing the bridge that spanned the fosse of the louvre when the captain of the royal guards, who was accompanied by a score of gentlemen, touched him on the shoulder and told him he was the king's prisoner. "i, a prisoner!" exclaimed concini, moving his hand towards his sword. before he could utter another word he fell dead, riddled with pistol shots; louis appeared at a window, and all the louvre resounded with cries of "_vive le roi!_" concini's wife, to whom he owed his ascendency over the queen-mother, was accused of sorcery, beheaded and burnt on the place de grève; marie was packed off to blois and richelieu exiled to his bishopric of luçon. de luynes, enriched by the confiscated wealth of the concini, now became supreme, only to demonstrate a pitiful incapacity. the nobles had risen and were rallying round marie; the protestants were defying the state; but luynes was impotent, and soon went to a dishonoured grave, leaving chaos behind him. [illustration: pont neuf.] richelieu's star was now in the ascendant. the king drew near to his mother and both turned to the one man who seemed able to knit together the distracted state. a cardinal's hat was obtained for him from rome, and the illustrious churchman ruled france for eighteen years. everything went down before his commanding genius, his iron will and his indefatigable industry. "i reflect long," said he, "before making a decision, but once my mind is made up, i go straight to the goal. i mow down all before me, and cover all with my scarlet robe." the huguenots, backed by the english, aimed at founding an independent republic: richelieu captured la rochelle[ ] and wiped them out as a political party. the great nobles sought to divide power with the crown: he demolished their fortresses, made them bow their necks to the royal yoke or chopped off their heads. they defied the king's edict against duelling: the count of bouteville, the most notorious duellist of his time, and the count of les chapelles were sent to the scaffold for having defiantly fought duels in the place royale in open noonday, at which the marquis of buffy was killed. the execution made a profound impression, for the count was a montmorency, and the condés, the orleans, the montmorencys and all the most powerful nobles brought pressure to bear on the king and swore that the sentence should never be carried out. but richelieu was firm as a tower. "it is an infamous thing," he told the king, "to punish the weak alone; they cast no baleful shade: we must keep discipline by striking down the mighty." richelieu crushed the parlement and revolutionised the provincial administrations. he maintained seven armies in the field, and two navies on the seas at one and the same time. he added four provinces to france--alsace, lorraine, artois and rousillon, humiliated austria and exalted his country to the proud position of dominant factor in european politics. he foiled plot after plot and crushed rebellion. the queen-mother, gaston duke of orleans her second son and heir to the throne, the marquis of cinq-mars the king's own favourite--each tried a fall with the great minister, but was thrown and punished with pitiless severity. marie herself was driven to exile--almost poverty--at brussels, and died a miserable death at cologne. the despicable gaston, who twice betrayed his friends to save his own skin, was watched, and when the queen, anne of austria, gave birth to a son after twenty years of marriage, he was deprived of his dignities and possessions and interned at blois. the marquis of cinq-mars, and the last duke of montmorency, son and grandson of two high constables of france, felt the stroke of the headsman's axe. in , when the mighty cardinal had attained the highest pinnacle of success and fame, a mortal disease declared itself. his physicians talked the usual platitudes of hope, but he would have none of them, and sent for the _curé_ of st. eustache. "do you pardon your enemies?" the priest asked. "i have none, save those of the state," replied the dying cardinal, and, pointing to the host, exclaimed, "there is my judge." "at my entry to office," he wrote to louis xiii. in his political testament, "your majesty divided the powers of the state with the huguenots; the great nobles demeaned themselves as if they were not your subjects; the governors of provinces acted as independent sovereigns. in a word, the majesty of the crown was degraded to the lowest depths of debasement and was hardly recognisable at all." we have seen how the cardinal changed all that; yet louis heard of his death without emotion, and simply remarked--"well, a great politician has gone." in six months his royal master was gone too. louis has one claim to distinction; he was the first king of france since st. louis who lived a clean life. [illustration: the medici fountain, luxembourg gardens.] paris, under marie de' medici and richelieu, saw many and important changes. in a new jacobin monastery was founded in the rue st. honoré for the reformed dominicans, destined to be later the theatre of robespierre's triumphs and to house the great jacobin revolutionary club.[ ] in the same year the queen-regent bought a château and garden from the duke of piney-luxembourg, and commissioned her architect, solomon debrosse, to build a new palace in the style of the pitti at florence. the work was begun in , and resulted in the picturesque but somewhat gallicised italian palace which, after descending to gaston of orleans and his daughter the grande mademoiselle, ends a chequered career as palace, prison, house of peers, socialist-meeting place by becoming the respectable and dull senate-house of the third republic. the beautiful renaissance gardens have suffered but few changes; adorned with debrosse's picturesque fountain, they form one of the most charming parks in paris. the same architect was employed to restore the old roman aqueduct of arceuil and finished his work in . in the equestrian statue in bronze of henry iv., designed by giovanni da bologna, and presented to marie by cosimo ii. of tuscany, reached paris after many vicissitudes and was set up on the pont neuf by pierre de fouqueville, who carved for it a beautiful pedestal of marble, whereon were inscribed the most signal events and victories of henry's reign. this priceless statue was melted down for cannon during the revolution, and for years its site was occupied by a _café_. in , during the restoration, another statue of henry iv., by lemot, cast from the melted figure of napoleon i. on the top of the vendôme column, was erected where it now stands. the founder, who was an imperialist, is said to have avenged the emperor by placing pamphlets attacking the restoration in the horse's belly. in the seventeenth century the pont neuf was one of the busiest centres of parisian life. streams of coaches and multitudes of foot-passengers passed by. booths of all kinds displayed their wares; quacks, mountebanks, ballad-singers and puppet-shows, drew crowds of listeners. evelyn describes the footway as being three to four feet higher than the road; and at the foot of the bridge, says the traveller, is a water-house, "whereon, at a great height, is the story of our saviour and the woman of samaria pouring water out of a bucket. above is a very rare dyall of several motions with a chime. the water is conveyed by huge wheels, pumps and other engines, from the river beneath." this was the famous château d'eau, or la samaritaine, erected in to pump water from the seine and distribute it to the louvre and the tuileries palaces. the timepiece was an _industrieuse horloge_, which told the hours, days, and months. [illustration: pont neuf.] in henry the fourth's great scheme for enlarging and completing the louvre was committed by richelieu to his architect, jacques lemercier, and the first stone of the pavilion de l'horloge was laid on th june by the king. lemercier was great enough and modest enough to adopt his predecessor's design, and having erected the pavilion, continued lescot's west wing northwards, turned the north-west angle and carried the north wing to about a fourth of its designed extent. the pavilion de l'horloge thus became the central feature of the west wing, which was exactly doubled in extent. the south-east and north-east towers of the eastern wing of the old gothic louvre, however, remained intact, and even as late as sylvestre's drawing shows us the south-east tower still standing and the east wing only partly demolished. lemercier also designed a grand new palace for the cardinal north of the rue st. honoré, which was completed in . richelieu's passion for the drama led him to include two theatres as part of his scheme: a small one to hold about six hundred spectators, and a larger one, which subsequently became the opera-house, capacious enough to seat three thousand. magnificent galleries, painted by philippe de champaigne and other artists, represented the chief events in the cardinal's reign, and were hung with the portraits of the great men of france. the courts were adorned with carvings of ships' prows and anchors, symbolising the cardinal's function as grand master of navigation; spacious gardens, with an avenue of chestnut trees, which cost , francs to train, added to its splendours. in this palace the great minister--busy with a yet vaster scheme for building an immense place ducale, north of the palace--passed away leaving its stately magnificence to the king, whose widow, anne of austria, inhabited it during the regency with her sons, louis xiv. and philip duke of orleans, the founder of the bourbon-orleans family. the famous architect, françois mansard, was employed by her to extend the palais royal as it was then called, which subsequently became infamous as the scene of the orgies of philip's son during his regency. the buildings were further extended by philip egalité, who destroyed the superb plantation of chestnut trees and erected shops along the sides of the gardens, which as _cafés_ and gambling-saloons became a haunt of fashionable vice and dissipation in the late eighteenth century. the gardens of the royal palaces had always been open to well-dressed citizens, but notices forbade entrance to beggars, servants, and all ill-clad persons under pain of imprisonment, the carcan, and other graver penalties. egalité, however, to win popularity, opened his gardens without restriction, and they soon became the forum of the revolutionary agitation. here camille desmoulins declaimed his impassioned orations and called paris to arms. the gambling-hells, of which there were over three hundred, survived the revolution, and blucher and many an officer of the allied armies lost immense sums there. the palais royal became subsequently the residence of the orleans family, and now serves as the meeting-place of the conseil d'etat. in the early seventeenth century nine lovers of literature associated themselves for the purpose of holding a friendly symposium, where they discoursed of books, and read and criticised each other's compositions; the meetings were followed by a modest repast and a peripatetic discussion. the masterful cardinal, who would rule the french language as well as the state, called the nine together, and in organised them into an académie française, whose function should be to perfect and watch over the purity of the french tongue. the parlement granted letters-patent, limited the number of academicians to forty, and required them to take cognisance of french authors and the french language alone. the original nine, however, were far from gratified, and always regretted the "golden age" of early days. richelieu established the jardin des plantes for the use of medical students, where demonstrations in botany were given; he rebuilt the college and church of the sorbonne where his monument,[ ] a masterpiece of sculpture by girardon from lebrun's designs, may still be seen. he cheapened the postal service,[ ] established the royal press at the louvre which in twenty years published seventy greek, latin, italian and french classics. he issued the first political weekly gazette in france, was a liberal patron of men of letters and of artists, and saw the birth and fostered the growth of the great period of french literary and artistic supremacy. another of henry the fourth's plans for the aggrandisement of paris was carried out by the indefatigable minister. as early as the bishops of paris had been confirmed by royal charter in their possession of the two islands east of the cité, the isle notre dame and isle aux vaches. from time immemorial these had been used as timber-yards, and in the chapter of the cathedral was induced to treat with christophe marie, contractor for the bridges of france and others, who agreed to fill in the channel,[ ] which separated the islands; to cover them with broad streets of houses and quays, and to build certain bridges; but expressly contracted never to fill up the arm of the seine between the isle notre dame, and the cité. the first stone of the new bridge which was to connect the islands with the north bank was laid by louis xiii. in and named pont marie, after the contractor. in a church, dedicated to st. louis, was begun on the site of an earlier chapel by levau, but not completed until by donat. the new quarter soon attracted the attention of rich financiers, civic officers, merchants and lawyers, some of whose hôtels were designed by levau, and decorated by lebrun and leseur. madame pompadour's brother lived there; the duke of lauzan, husband of the grande mademoiselle, lived in his hôtel on the quai d'anjou (no. ); voltaire lived with madame du châtelet in the hôtel lambert (no. quai d'anjou). to the _précieuses_ of molière's time the isle st. louis (for so it was called) became the isle de delos, around whose quays the gallants and ladies of the period were wont to promenade at nightfall. _the isle_, as it is now familiarly known, is one of the most peaceful quarters of paris, and has a strangely provincial aspect to the traveller who paces its quiet streets. in paris was raised from its subjection to the metropolitan of sens, and became for the first time the seat of an archbishopric; the diocese was made to correspond to the old territories of the parisii. among the many evils attendant on a monarchy, which samuel recited to the children of israel, that of the possibility of a regency might well have found place. louis xiv. was less than five years of age when his father died, and once again the great nobles turned the difficulties of the situation to their own profit. the queen-regent, anne of austria, had retained in office cardinal mazarin, richelieu's faithful disciple, chosen by him to continue the traditions of his policy. the new cardinal-minister, scion of an old sicilian family, was a typical italian; he had none of his predecessor's virile energy and directness of purpose, but ruled by his subtle wit and cool, calculating patience. "time and i," was his device. he was an excellent judge of men, and profoundly distrusted "the unlucky," always satisfying himself that a man was "lucky," before he employed him. conscious of his foreign origin, mazarin hesitated to take strong measures, and advised a policy of conciliation with the disaffected nobles. anne filled their pockets, and for a time the whole language of the court is said to have consisted of the five little words "_la reine est si bonne_." but the ambitious courtiers soon aimed at higher game, and a plot was discovered to assassinate the foreign cardinal. the duke of beaufort, chief conspirator, a son of the duke of vendôme, and grandson of henry iv., by gabrielle d'estrées, was imprisoned in the keep at vincennes, and his associates interned at their châteaux. the finances which richelieu had left in so flourishing a condition were soon exhausted by the lavish benevolence of the court, and were unhappily in the hands of emery (a clever but cynical official, who had formerly been a fraudulent bankrupt), whose rigorous exactions and indifference to public feeling aroused the indignation of the whole nation. in , defaulters lay rotting in the jails, and an attempt to enforce an odious tax on all merchandise entering paris led to an explosion of popular wrath. the parlement, by the re-assertion of its claims to refuse the registration of an obnoxious decree of the crown, made itself the champion of public justice. the four sovereign courts of the parlement met in the hall of st. louis, and refused to register the tax. "the parlement growled," said the cardinal de retz, "and the people awoke and groped about for laws and found none." anne was furious and made the boy-king hold a "bed[ ] of justice" to enforce the registration of the decree. but the parlement stood firm, declared itself the guardian of the public and private weal, claiming even to reform abuses and to discuss and vote on schemes of taxation. so critical was the situation that the court was forced to bend, and to postpone the humiliation of the parlement to a more convenient season. the glorious issue of the campaigns of condé against the houses of spain and austria seemed to offer a fitting occasion. on th august , while a te deum was being sung at notre dame for the victory of lens, and a grand trophy of seventy-three captured flags was displayed to the people, three of the most stubborn members of the parlement were arrested. one escaped, but while the venerable councillor broussel was being hustled into a carriage, a cry was raised, which stirred the whole of paris to insurrection. in the excitement a street porter was shot by a captain of the guards, the marquis of meilleraye, and the next morning the court, aroused by cries of "liberty and broussel," found the streets of paris barricaded and the citizens in arms, even children of five or six years carrying poignards. de retz, the suffragan archbishop of paris, came in his robes to entreat anne to appease the people, but was snubbed for his pains. "it is a revolt," the queen cried, "to imagine a revolt possible; these are silly tales of those who desire it: the king will enforce order." de retz, angry and insulted, left to join the insurrection and to become its leader. the venerable president of the parlement, molé, and the whole body of members next repaired to the palais royal with no better success: the queen's only answer was a gibe. as they returned crestfallen from the palais royal they were driven back by the infuriated people, who threatened them with death, and clamoured for broussel's release or mazarin as a hostage. nearly all the councillors fled, but the president, with exalted courage, faced them and, answering gravely, as if in his judgment-seat, said, "if you kill me, all my needs will be six feet of earth": he strode on with calm self-possession, amid a shower of missiles and threats, to the hall of st. louis. the echo of cromwell's triumph in england, however, seemed to have reached the palais royal, and the queen-regent was at length induced to treat. the demands of the people were granted and broussel was liberated, amid scenes of tumultuous joy. in february of the next year the regency made an effort to reassert its authority. the queen and the royal princes left paris for the palace of st. germain and gathered an army under condé: the parlement taxed themselves heavily, tried their hands at organising a citizen militia, and allied themselves with the popular duke of beaufort, now at liberty, and leader of a troop of brilliant but giddy young nobles. the bastille was captured by the parlement, and the university promised its support and a subsidy. this was the origin of the civil war of the fronde, one of the most extraordinary contests in history; its name is derived from the puerile street fights with slings of the printers' devils and schoolboys of paris. the incidents of the war read like scenes in a comic opera. a hundred thousand armed citizens were besieged by eight thousand soldiers. the evolution of a burlesque form of cavalry, called the corps of the _portes cochères_, formed by a conscription of one horseman for every house with a carriage gate, became the derision of the royal army. they issued forth, beplumed and beribboned, and fled back to the city, amid the execrations of the people, at the sight of a handful of troops. every defeat--and the parisians were always defeated--formed a subject for songs and mockery. councils of war were held in taverns, and de retz was seen at a sitting of the parlement in the hall of st. louis with a poignard sticking out of his pocket: "there is the archbishop's prayer-book," said the people. the more public-spirited members of the parlement soon, however, tired of the folly. mazarin won over de retz by the offer of a cardinal's hat, and a compromise was effected with the court, which returned to paris in april . the people were still bitter against mazarin, and invaded the palais de justice, demanding the cardinal's signature to the treaty, that it might be burned by the common hangman. successful generals are bad masters, and the jackboot was now supreme at court. soon condé's insolent bearing and extravagant demands, and the vanity of his _entourage_ of young nobles, dubbed _petits maîtres_, became intolerable: he was arrested at the louvre and sent to the keep at vincennes. but mazarin, thinking himself secure, delayed the promised reward to de retz, who joined the disaffected friends of condé: and the court, again foiled, was forced to release condé, surrender the two princes, and exile the hated mazarin, who, none the less, ruled the storm by his subtle policy from cologne. condé, disgusted alike with queen and parlement, now fled to the south, and raised the standard of rebellion. [illustration: notre dame.] the second phase of the wars of the fronde became a more serious matter. turenne, won over by the court, was given command of the royal forces and moved against condé. the two armies, after indecisive battles, raced to paris and fought for its possession outside the porte st. antoine. the frondeurs occupied what is now the faubourg st. antoine: the royalists the heights of charonne to the east. it was a stubborn and bloody contest. the armies were led by the two greatest captains of the age, and fought under the eyes of their king, who with the queen-mother watched the struggle from the eminence now crowned by the cemetery of père la chaise. "i have seen not one condé to-day, but a dozen," cried turenne, as victory inclined to the royalists. the last word was, however, with the duke of orleans: while he sat hesitating in the luxembourg, the grande mademoiselle ordered the guns of the bastille to be turned against turenne, and the citizens opened the gates to condé. again his incorrigible insolence and brutality made paris too hot for him, and with the disaffected princes he returned to flanders to seek help from his country's enemies. it was a fatal mistake, and mazarin was not slow to turn it to advantage. he prudently retired while public feeling was won over to the young king, who was soon entreated by the parlement and citizens to return to paris. when the time was ripe, mazarin had the duke of orleans interned at blois, condé was condemned to death _in contumacio_: de retz was sent to vincennes. ten councillors of the parlement were imprisoned or degraded, and in three months mazarin returned to paris with the pomp and equipage of a sovereign. it was the end of the fronde, and of the attempt of the parlement, a venal body[ ] devoid of representative basis, to imitate the functions of the english house of commons. the crown emerged from the contest more absolute than before, and louis never forgot the days when he was a fugitive with his mother, and driven to lie on a hard mattress at the palace of st. germain. in the parlement of paris met to prepare remonstrances against a royal edict: the young king heard of it while hunting at vincennes, made his way to the hall of st. louis booted[ ] and spurred, rated the councillors and dissolved the sitting. the years following on the internal peace were a period of triumphant foreign war and diplomacy. mazarin achieved his purpose of marrying the infanta of spain to his royal master; he added to and confirmed richelieu's territorial gains and guided france at last to triumph over the imperial house of austria. on th march , after handing louis a code of instructions for future guidance and commending his ministers to the royal favour, the great italian, "whose heart was french if his tongue were not," confronted death at vincennes with firmness and courage. mazarin was, however, a costly servant, who bled his adopted country to satisfy his love for the arts and splendours of life, to furnish dowries to his nieces, and to exalt his family. his vast palace (now the bibliothèque nationale), with its library of , volumes, was furnished with princely splendour. he left , , livres to found a college for the gratuitous education of sixty sons of gentlemen from the four provinces--spanish, italian, german and flemish--recently added to the crown, in order that french culture and grace might be diffused among them; they were to be taught the use of arms, horsemanship, dancing, christian piety and _belles-lettres_. a vast domed edifice was raised on the site of the tour de nesle, and became famous as the college of the four nations. it was subsequently expropriated and given by the convention to the five learned academies of france, and is now known as the institut de france. [illustration: the institut de france.] chapter xv the grand monarque--versailles and paris the century of louis xiv., whose triumphs have been so extravagantly celebrated by voltaire, saw the culmination and declension of french military glory, literary splendour, and regal magnificence. never did king of france inherit a more capable and patriotic generation of public servants, trained as they had been under the two greatest administrators the land had ever seen; never did king grasp the sceptre with more absolute and unquestioned power. "_l'etat c'est moi_," if not louis' words, were at least his guiding principle. gone were the times of cardinal dictators. when the ministers came after mazarin's death to ask the king whom they should now address themselves to, the answer came like a thunderbolt: "to me!" and the secretary for war, with affrighted visage, hastened to the queen-mother, who only laughed. alone among his colleagues mazarin knew his king, and warned them that there was enough stuff in louis to make four kings and one honest man. what brilliant constellations of great men cast their fair influences over the birth of louis xiv.! "sire," said mazarin, when dying "i owe you all--but i can partially acquit myself by leaving you colbert." austere colbert was a merchant's son of rheims; his atlantean shoulders bore the burden of five modern ministries; his vehement industry, admirable science and sterling honesty created order out of financial chaos and found the sinews of war for an army of , men before the peace of ryswick and , for the war of the spanish succession; he initiated, nurtured and perfected french industries; he created a navy that crushed the combined english and dutch fleets off beachy head, swept the channel for weeks, burnt english ports, carried terror into english homes, and for a time paralysed english commerce. louvois, his colleague, organised an army that made his master the arbiter of europe; condé and turenne were its victorious captains. vauban, greatest of military engineers, captured towns in war and made them impregnable in peace; fortified cities and places, and shared with louvois the invention of the combined musket and bayonet, the deadliest weapon of war as yet contrived. de lionne, by masterly diplomacy, prepared and cemented the conquests of victorious generals. supreme in arts of peace were corneille, molière, racine, la fontaine, lebrun, claude lorrain, puget, mansard, and perrault. we shall learn in the sequel what the grand monarque did with this unparalleled inheritance. none of the great ones of the earth is so intimately known to us as the magnificent histrion, whose tinselled grandeur and pompous egoism has been laid bare by the duke of st. simon, prince of memoirists. never has the frippery of a court been shrivelled by such fierce and consuming light glaring like a fiery sun on its meretricious splendours. and what a court it is! what a gilded crowd of princes and paramours, harlots and bastards, struts, fumes, intrigues through the memoirs of the duke of st. simon! by a few strokes of his pen he etches for us, in words that bite like acid, the fools and knaves, the wife-beaters and adulterers, the cardsharpers and gamesters, the grovelling sycophants with their petty struggles for precedence or favour, their slang, their gluttony and drunkenness, their moral and physical corruption. [illustration: place du carrousel.] external grandeur and regal presence,[ ] a profound belief in his divinely-appointed despotism, and in earlier years a capacity for work rare among his predecessors, the lord of france certainly possessed. "he had a grand mien," says st. simon, "and looked a veritable king of the bees." much has been made of louis' incomparable grace and respectful courtesy to women; but the courtesy of a king who doffs his hat to every serving wench yet contrives a staircase to facilitate the debauching of his queen's maids-of-honour, and exacts of his mistresses and the ladies of his court submission to his will and pleasure, even under the most trying of physical disabilities, is at least wanting in consistency. the king's mental equipment was less than mediocre; he was barely able to read and write, was ignorant of the commonest facts of history, and fell into the grossest blunders in public. like all small-minded men, louis was jealous of superior merit and preferred mediocrity rather than genius in his ministers. small wonder that his reign ended in shame and disaster. on the th of june , the young king, notwithstanding much public misery consequent on two years of bad harvests, organised a magnificent carrousel (tilting) in the garden that fronted the tuileries. five companies of nobles, each led by the king or one of the princes, were arrayed in gorgeous costumes as romans, persians, turks, armenians and savages. louis, who of course led the romans, was followed by a superb train of many squires, twenty-four pages, fifty horses each led by two grooms, and fifty footmen dressed as lictors, carrying gilded fasces. the royal princes headed similar processions. so great was the display of jewels that all the precious stones in the world seemed brought together; so richly were the costumes of the knights and the trappings of the horses embroidered with gold and silver that the cloth beneath could barely be seen. the king and the princes rode by with a prodigious quantity of diamonds and rubies glittering on their costumes and equipages; an immense amphitheatre afforded seats for a multitude of spectators, and in a smaller pavilion, richly gilded, sat the two queens of france, the queen of england, and the royal princesses. the first day was spent in tilting at medusa heads and heads of moors: the second at rings. louis is said to have greatly distinguished himself by his skill. maria theresa, his young queen, distributed the prizes, and the garden was afterwards named the place du carrousel. louis, however, hated paris, for his forced exile during the troubles of the fronde rankled in his memory. nor were the associations of st. germain any more pleasant. a lover of the chase and all too prone to fall into the snares of "fair, fallacious looks and venerial trains," the retirement of his father's hunting lodge at versailles, away from the prying eyes and mocking tongues of the parisians, early attracted him. there he was wont to meet his mistress, madame de la vallière, and there he determined to erect a vast pleasure-palace and gardens. the small château, built by lemercier in the early half of the seventeenth century, was handed over to levau in , who, carefully respecting his predecessor's work in the cour de marbre, constructed two immense wings, which were added to by j. h. mansard, as the requirements of the court grew. the palace stood in the midst of a barren, sandy plain, but louis' pride demanded that nature herself should bend to his will, and an army of artists, engineers and gardeners was concentrated there, who at the sacrifice of incredible wealth and energy, had so far advanced the work that the king was able to come into residence in . in spite of seas of reservoirs fed by costly hydraulic machinery at marly, which lifted the waters of the seine to an aqueduct that led to versailles, the supply was deemed inadequate, and orders were given to divert the river eure between chartres and maintenon to the gardens of the palace. for years an army of thirty thousand men were employed in this one task, at a cost of money and human life greater than that of many a campaign. so heavy was the mortality in the camp that it was forbidden to speak of the sick, and above all of the dead, who were carried away in cartloads by night for burial. all that remains of this cruel folly are a few ruins at maintenon. after the failure of this scheme, subterranean water-courses were contrived. the _plaisir du roi_ must be sated at any cost, and at length a magnificent garden was created, filled with a population of statues and adorned with gigantic fountains. soon the king tired of the bustle and noise of versailles, and a miserable and swampy site at marly, the haunt of toads and serpents and creeping things, was transformed into a splendid hermitage. hills were levelled, great trees brought from compiègne, most of which soon died and were as quickly replaced; fish-ponds, adorned by exquisite paintings, were made and unmade; woods were metamorphosed into lakes, where the king and a select company of courtiers disported themselves in gondolas; cascades refreshed their ears in summer heat. precious paintings, statues and costly furniture charmed the eye inside the hermitage--and all to receive the king and his intimates from wednesday to saturday on a few occasions in the year. st. simon writes of what he saw, and estimates that marly cost more than versailles.[ ] nothing remains to-day of all this splendour: it was neglected by louis' successors and sold in lots during the revolution. after a life of wanton licentiousness, louis, at the age of forty, was captivated by the mature charms of a widow of forty-three, a colonial adventuress of noble descent, who after the death of her husband, the crippled comic poet scarron, became governess to the king's illegitimate children by madame de montespan. soon after the death of the queen maria theresa, the widow scarron, known to history as madame de maintenon, was secretly married to her royal lover, who for the remainder of his life was her docile slave. at the famous military manoeuvres at compiègne after the peace of ryswick, organised to display the resources of the country and to enable the court to witness the circumstance of a great siege, louis was seen, hat in hand, bending over madame de maintenon's sedan-chair, which stood at a coign of vantage on the ramparts, explaining to her the various movements of the troops. "i could describe the scene," says st. simon, "as clearly forty years hence as i do now." an _aide-de-camp_, approaching from below to ask the king's orders, was dumbfoundered by the sight and could scarcely stammer out his message. the effect on the soldiers was indescribable: every one asked what that chair meant over which the king was bending uncovered. [illustration: versailles--le tapis vert.] a narrow bigot in matters of religion and completely under the influence of fanatics, madame de maintenon persuaded louis that a crusade against heresy would be a fitting atonement for his past sins. in she writes, "the king is seriously thinking of his salvation and of that of his subjects, and if god spares him to us there will soon be but one religion in his kingdom." colbert, who had always stood by the protestants, died ( ) in disfavour, protesting that if he had done for god what he had done for the king, he would have been saved ten times over. at first political pressure and money were tried; a renegade protestant was given control of a "conversion fund," and six livres were paid for each convert. children were seduced from their parents; brutal dragoons were quartered on protestant families, and as a result many of the wretched people submitted. "every post," wrote madame de maintenon, "brings tidings which fill the king with joy; conversions take place daily by thousands." thousands too, proved stubborn, and on nd october , the first blow was struck. by the revocation of the edict of nantes the charter of protestant liberties was destroyed, and those who had given five out of ten marshals to france, including the great turenne, were denied the right of civil existence. whole cities were depopulated; tens of thousands (for the huguenots had long ceased to exist as a political force) of law-abiding citizens expatriated themselves and carried their industries to enrich foreign lands.[ ] many pastors were martyred, and drummers were stationed at the foot of the scaffold to drown their exhortations to the spectators. let us not say persecution is ineffective; duruy estimates the calvinist population of france before the revocation of the edict at , , : in at , to , . on the whole, the measure was approved by the nation; racine, la fontaine, the great jansenist arnault, as well as bossuet and massillon, applauded. the king was hailed a second constantine, and believed he had revived the times of the apostles. but the consequences to france were far-reaching and disastrous. in less than two months the catholic james ii. of england was a discrowned fugitive, and the calvinist william of orange, the inveterate enemy of france, sat in his place; england's pensioned neutrality was turned to bitter hostility, and every protestant power in europe stirred to fierce resentment. seven years of war followed, which exhausted the immense resources of france; seven years,[ ] rich in glory perhaps, but lean years indeed to the dumb millions who paid the cost in blood and money. "nearly the tenth part of the nation," writes vauban, after the peace of ryswick, "is reduced to beggary; of the nine other parts, five are little removed from the same condition; three-tenths are very straitened; the remaining tenth counts no more than a hundred thousand, of which not ten thousand may be classed as very well off" (_fort à l'aise_.) three short years of peace and recuperation ensued, when the acceptance of the crown of spain by louis' grandson, philip of anjou, in spite of maria theresa's solemn renunciation for herself and her posterity of all claim to the spanish succession, roused all the old jealousy of france and brought her secular enemy, the house of austria, to a new coalition against her. woe to the nation whose king is thrall to women. the manner in which this momentous step was taken is characteristic of louis. two councils were held in madame de maintenon's room; her advice was asked by the king; and apparently turned the scale in favour of acceptance. "for a hundred years," says taine, "from to , every time a king of france made war it was by pique or vanity, by family or private interest, or by condescension to a woman." still more amazing is the fact that, for years, the court of madrid was ruled by a frenchwoman, madame des ursins, the _camerera major_ of philip's queen, who made and unmade ministers, controlled all public appointments, and even persuaded the french ambassador to submit all dispatches to her before sending them to france. madame de maintenon was equally omnipotent at versailles; she decided what letters should or should not be shown to the king, kept back disagreeable news, and held everybody in the hollow of her hand, from humblest subject to most exalted minister. this was the atmosphere from which men were sent to meet the new and more potent combination of states that opposed the spanish succession. chamillart, a pitiful creature of madame de maintenon's, sat in colbert's place. gone were turenne and condé and luxembourg; the armies of the descendant of st. louis were led by the duke of vendôme, a foul lecher, whose inhuman vices went far to justify the gibe of mephistopheles that men use their reason "_um thierischer als jedes thier zu sein_." the victories of the duke of marlborough and of prince eugene spread consternation at court. when, in , the news of blenheim oozed out at versailles, the king's grief was piteous to see. scarce a noble family but had one of its members killed, wounded, or a prisoner. two years later came the defeat of ramillies, to be followed in three months by the disaster at turin. the balls and masquerades and play at marly went merrily on; but at news of the defeat of oudenarde and the fall of lille, even the reckless courtiers were subdued, and for a month gambling and even conversation ceased. at the sound of an approaching horseman they ran hither and thither, with fear painted on their cheeks. wildest schemes for raising money were tried; a large sum was wasted on mining for gold in the pyrenees; taxes were levied on baptisms and marriages. sums raised for the relief of the poor and the maintenance of highways were expropriated, and the wretched peasants were forced to repair the roads without payment, some dying of starvation at their work. the coinage was debased. king and courtiers, with ill-grace, sent their plate to the mint. a plan for the recapture of lille was mooted, in which louis was to take part, but, for lack of money, the king's ladies were not to accompany him to the seat of war as they had hitherto done.[ ] the expedition was to remain a secret; but the infatuated louis could withhold nothing from madame de maintenon, and she never rested until she had foiled the whole scheme and disgraced chamillart, who had concealed the preparations from her. the court had now grown so accustomed to defeats that malplaquet was hailed as half a victory; but, in , so desperate was the condition of the treasury, that a financial and social _débâcle_ was imminent. the dauphin, on leaving the opera at paris, had been assailed by crowds of women shouting, "bread! bread!" he only escaped by throwing them money and promises, and never dared show his face in paris again. to appease the people, the poor were set to level the boulevard near st. denis, and were paid in doles of bread--bad bread. even this failed them one morning, and a woman who made some disturbance was dragged to the pillory by the archers of the watch. an angry mob released her, and proceeded to raid the bakers' shops. the ugly situation was saved only by the firmness and sagacity of the popular marshal boufflers. another turn of the financial screw was now meditated, and, as the taxes had already "drawn all the blood from his subjects, and squeezed out their very marrow," the conscience of the lord of france was troubled. his jesuit confessor, le tellier, promised to consult the sorbonne, whose learned doctors decided that, since all the wealth of his subjects rightly belonged to the king, he only took what was his own. [illustration: grand palais and pont alexandre.] towards the end of the seventeenth century, the quarrel between the jansenists and the jesuits concerning subtle doctrinal differences had grown acute through the publication of pascal's immortal _lettres provinciales_, and by quesnel's _réflexions morales_ which the jesuits had succeeded in subjecting to papal condemnation. in , le tellier induced his royal penitent[ ] to decree the destruction of one of the two jansenist establishments, and port royal des champs, between versailles and chevreuse, rendered famous by the piety and learning of arnault, pascal and nicolle, was doomed. on the night of th october , the convent was surrounded by gardes françaises and suisses, and on the following morning the chief of the police, with a posse of archers of the watch entered, produced a _lettre de cachet_, and gave the nuns a quarter of an hour to prepare for deportation. the whole of the sisters were then brutally expelled, "_comme on enlève les créatures prostituées d'un lieu infâme_," says st. simon, and scattered among other religious houses in all directions. the friends of the buried were bidden to exhume their dead, and all unclaimed bodies were flung into a neighbouring cemetery, where dogs fought for them as for carrion. the church was profaned, and all the conventual buildings were razed like houses of regicides; the materials were sold in lots, and not one stone was left on another; the very ground was ploughed up and sown, "not, it is true with salt," adds st. simon, and that was the only favour shown. two years after the scene at port royal, amid the heartless gaiety of the court, the angel of death was busy in louis' household. on th april , the old king's only lawful son, the grand dauphin, expired; on th february , the second dauphiness, the sweet and gentle adelaide of savoy, the king's darling, died of a malignant fever; six days later the duke of burgundy, her husband, was struck down; on th march, the duke of brittany, their eldest child, followed them. three dauphins had gone to the vaults of st. denis in less than a year; mother, father, son, had died in twenty-four days--a sweep of death's scythe, enough to touch even the hearts of courtiers. in a few days the king gave orders for the usual play to begin at marly, and the dice rattled while the bodies of the dauphin and dauphiness lay yet unburied. well may st. simon exclaim, "are these princes made like other men?" in , some successes in flanders enabled louis to negotiate the peace of utrecht. france retained her old boundaries, and a bourbon remained on the throne of spain; but she was debased from her proud position of arbiter of europe, and the substantial profits of the war went to england[ ] and austria. in may , the duke of berri, son of the grand dauphin, died, and the sole direct heir to the throne was now the king's great-grandson, the duke of anjou, a sickly child of five years. on september , the grand monarque made a calm and an edifying end to his long reign of seventy-two years, declaring that he owed no man restitution, and trusted in god's mercy for what he owed to the realm. he called the young child, who was soon to be louis xv., to his bedside, and apparently without any sense of incongruity, exhorted him to remember his god, to cherish peace, to avoid extravagance, and study the welfare of his people. after receiving the last sacraments he repeated the prayers for the dying in a firm voice and, calling on god's aid, passed peacefully away. none but his official attendants, his priest and physicians, saw the end: two days before, madame de maintenon had given away all her furniture, and retired to st. cyr. the demolition of what remained of mediæval paris proceeded apace during louis xiv.'s lifetime, and, at his death, the architectural features of its streets were substantially those of the older paris of to-day. colbert had taken up the costly legacy of the unfinished louvre before the petrified banalities of versailles and marly had engulfed their millions, and, in , the hôtel de bourbon was given over to the housebreakers to make room for the new east wing of the palace. so vigorously did they set to work that when molière, whose company performed there three days a week in alternation with the italian opera, came for the usual performance, he found the theatre half demolished. he applied to the king, who granted him the temporary use of richelieu's theatre in the palais royal, and his first performance there was given on th january . [illustration: portion of the east faÇade of the louvre from blondel's drawing, showing perrault's base.] levau was employed to carry on lemercier's work on the louvre, and had succeeded in completing the north wing and the river front when colbert stayed further progress and ordered him to prepare a model in wood of his proposed east wing. levau was stupefied, for he had elaborated with infinite study a design for this portion of the palace, which he regarded as of supreme importance, and which he hoped would crown his work. he had already laid the foundations and erected the scaffolding when the order came. levau made his model, and a number of architects were invited to criticise it: they did, and unanimously condemned it. competitive designs were then submitted to colbert, who took advantage of poussin's residence at rome to send them to the great italian architects for their judgment. the italians delivered a sweeping and general condemnation, and poussin advised that bernini should be employed to design a really noble building. louis was delighted by the suggestion, and the loan of the architect of the great colonnade of st. peter's was entreated of the pope by the king's own hand. bernini came to paris where he was treated like a prince, and drew up a scheme of classic grandeur. levau's work on the east front was destroyed, and in october , bernini's foundations were begun. the new design, however, ignored the exigencies of existing work and of internal convenience, and gave opportunities for criticisms and intrigue, which the french architects, forgetting for the moment all domestic rivalry, were not slow to make the most of. the offended italian left to winter in rome, and was never seen in paris again. a munificent gift of gold louis and a pension of , livres solaced his pride. among the designs originally submitted to colbert was one which had not been sent to rome. it was the work of an amateur, claude perrault, a physician by profession, whose brother, charles perrault, was chief clerk in the office of works. this was now brought forth, and a commission, consisting of levau, lebrun, and claude perrault, appointed to report on its practicability. levau promptly produced his own discarded designs, which won lebrun's approval, and both were submitted to the king for a final decision. louis was fascinated by the stately classicism of perrault's design, and this was adopted. "architecture must be in a bad state," said his rivals, "since it is put in the hands of a physician." the new wing was raised and found to be seventy-two feet too long, whereupon the whole of levau's river front was masked by a new façade, rendered necessary to correct the mistake, if mistake it were, and the whole south wing[ ] is in consequence much thicker than any of the others which enclose the great quadrangle. poor levau is said to have died of vexation and grief. even to this day the north-east end of perrault's façade projects un-symmetrically beyond the line of the north front. perrault's work has been much criticised and much praised. it evoked fergusson's ecstatic admiration, and is eulogised by another critic as one of the finest pieces of architecture in any age. strangely enough, neither of these ever saw, nor has anyone yet seen, more than a partial and stunted realisation of perrault's design (which involved a broad and deep fosse), for, as the accompanying reproduction of a drawing by blondel demonstrates, the famous east front of the louvre is like a giant buried up to the knees, and the present first-floor windows were an afterthought, their places having been designed as niches to hold statues. the exactitude of blondel's elevations was finally proved in by the admirable insight of the present architect of the louvre, monsieur g. redon, who was led to undertake the excavations which brought to light a section of perrault's decorated basement, by noticing that the windows of the ground floor evidently implied a lower order beneath. this basement, seven and a half metres in depth, now buried, was in perrault's scheme designed to be exposed by a fosse of some fifteen to twenty metres in width, and the whole elevation and symmetry of the wing would have immensely gained by the carrying out of his plans. [illustration: hotel des invalides.] the construction, begun in was, however, interrupted in , owing to the king's abandonment of paris. colbert strenuously protested against the neglect of the louvre, and warned his master not to squander his millions away from paris and suffer posterity to measure his grandeur by the ell of versailles. it availed nothing. in , , , livres were allotted to the louvre; in the sum had fallen to , livres; in to , ; in the subsidies practically ceased, and the great palace was utterly neglected until when perrault's work was feebly continued by gabriel and soufflot. two domed churches in the south of paris--the val de grâce and st. louis of the invalides--were also erected during louis xiv.'s lifetime. among the many vows made by anne of austria during her twenty-two years' unfruitful marriage was one made in the sanctuary of the nunnery of the val de grâce, to build there a magnificent church to god's glory if she were vouchsafed a dauphin. at length, on st april , the proud queen was able to lead the future king, a boy of seven years, to lay the first stone. the church was designed by f. mansard on the model of st. peter's at rome, and was finished by lemercier and others. the thirteenth-century nunnery had been transferred to paris from val profond in , and was liberally patronised by anne. a refuge had been founded as early as henry iv.'s reign in an old abbey in the faubourg st. marcel, for old and disabled soldiers. louis xiv., the greatest creator of _invalides_ france had seen, determined in to extend the foundation, and erect a vast hospital, capable of accommodating his aged, crippled or infirm soldiers. bruant and j. h. mansard[ ] among other architects were employed to raise the vast pile of buildings which, when completed, are said to have been capable of housing , men. a church dedicated to st. louis was comprehended in the scheme, and, in , a second eglise royale was erected, whose gilded dome is so conspicuous an object in south paris; the eglise royale, which mansard designed, was subsequently added to the church of st. louis, and became its choir. louis xiv., anticipating napoleon's maxim that war must support war, raised the funds needed for the foundation by ingeniously requiring all ordinary and extraordinary treasurers of war to retain two deniers[ ] on every livre that passed through their hands. the old city gates of the tournelle, poissonnière (or st. anne), st. martin, st. denis, the temple, st. jacques, st. victor, were demolished, and triumphal arches, which still remain, erected to mark the sites of the portes st. denis and st. martin. another arch, of st. antoine, was designed to surpass all existing or ancient monuments of the kind, and many volumes were written concerning the language in which the inscription should be composed, but the devouring maw of versailles had to be filled, and the arch was never completed. the king for whose glory the monument was to be raised, cared so little for it, that he suffered it to be pulled down. [illustration: river and pont royal.] many new streets[ ] were made, and others widened, among them the ill-omened rue de la ferronnerie. the northern ramparts were levelled and planted with trees from the porte st. antoine in the east to the porte st. honoré in the west, and in it was decided to continue the planting in the south round the faubourg st. germain. the place louis le grand (now vendôme), and the place des victoires were created; the river embankments were renewed and extended, and a fine stone pont royal by j. h. mansard, the most beautiful of the existing bridges of paris, was built to replace the old wooden structure that led from the st. germain quarter to the tuileries. this in its turn had replaced a ferry (_bac_) established by the guild of ferrymen, to transport the stone needed for the construction of the tuileries, and the street which leads to the bridge still bears the name of the rue du bac. the isle louviers was acquired by the ville, and the evil-smelling tanneries and dye-houses that disfigured the banks of the seine between the grève and the châtelet were cleared away; many new fountains embellished the city, and ten new pumps increased the supply of water. the poorer quarters were, however, little changed from their old insanitary condition. a few years later rousseau, fresh from turin, was profoundly disappointed by the streets of paris as he entered the city by the faubourg st. marceau. "i had imagined," he writes, "a city as fair as it was great, and of a most imposing aspect, whose superb streets were lined with palaces of marble and of gold. i saw only filthy, evil-smelling, mean streets, ugly houses black with dirt, a general air of uncleanness and of poverty, beggars and carters, old clothes shops and tisane sellers." it is now time to ask what had been done with the magnificent inheritance which the fourteenth louis had entered upon at the opening of his reign: he left to his successor a france crushed by an appalling debt of , , , livres; a noblesse and an army in bondage to money-lenders; public officials and fund-holders unpaid, trade paralysed, and the peasants in some provinces so poor that even straw was lacking for them to lie upon, many crossing the frontiers in search of a less miserable lot. scarcity of bread made disease rampant at paris, and as many as , sick poor were counted at one time in the hôtel dieu alone. louis left a court that "sweated hypocrisy through every pore," and an example of licentious and unclean living and cynical disregard of every moral obligation, which ate like a cancer into the vitals of the aristocracy. chapter xvi paris under the regency and louis xv.--the brooding storm under the regency of the profligate philip of orleans, a profounder depth was sounded. the vices of louis' court were at least veiled by a certain regal dignity, and the grand monarque was always keenly sensitive, and at times nobly responsive, to any attack upon the honour of france; but under the regent, libertinage and indifference to national honour were flagrant and shameless. the abbé dubois, a minister worthy of his prince, was, says st. simon, "a mean-looking, thin little man, with the face of a ferret, in whom every vice fought for mastery." this creature profaned the seat of richelieu and colbert, and rose to fill a cardinal's chair. the revenues of seven abbeys fed his pride and luxury, and his annual income was estimated at , , livres, including his bribe from the english government. his profanity was such that he was advised to economise time by employing an extra clerk to do his swearing for him, and during a fatal operation, rendered necessary by a shameful disease, he went to his account blaspheming and gnashing his teeth in rage at his physicians. visitors to venice whose curiosity may have led them into the church of s. moisè, will remember to have seen there a monument to a famous scotchman--john law. this is the last home of an outlaw, a gambler, and an adventurer, who, by his amazing skill and effrontery, plunged the regency into a vortex of speculation, and for a time controlled the finances of france. he persuaded the regent that by a liberal issue of paper money he might wipe out the accumulated national deficit of , , livres, revive trade and industry, and inaugurate a financial millennium. in law's bank, after a short and brilliant career as a private venture, was converted into the banque royale, and by the artful flotation of a gigantic trading speculation called the mississippi company, the bank-notes and company shares were so manipulated that the latter were inflated to twenty times their nominal value. the whole city of paris seethed in a ferment of speculation. the premises of the banque royale in the rue quincampoix were daily besieged by a motley crowd of princes, nobles, fine ladies, courtesans, generals, prelates, priests, bourgeois and servants. a hunchback made a fortune by lending his back as a desk; lacqueys became masters in a day, and a _parvenu_ footman, by force of habit, jumped up behind his own carriage in a fit of abstraction. the inevitable catastrophe came at the end of . the prince of conti was observed taking away three cartloads of silver in exchange for his paper. a panic ensued, every holder sought to realise, and the colossal fabric came down with a crash, involving thousands of families in ruin and despair. law, after bravely trying to save the situation and narrowly escaping being torn in pieces, fled to poverty and death at venice, and the financial state of france was worse than before. law was not, however, absolutely a quack; there was a seed of good in his famous system of mobilising credit, and the temporary stimulus it gave to trade permanently influenced mercantile practices in europe. in , louis xv. reached his legal majority. the regent became chief minister, and soon paid the penalty of his career of debauchery, leaving as his successor the duke of bourbon, degenerate scion of the great condé and one of the chief speculators in the mississippi bubble. a perilous lesson had two years before been instilled into the mind of the young louis. after his recovery from an illness, an immense concourse of people had assembled at a _fête_ given in the gardens of the tuileries palace; enormous crowds filled every inch of the place du carrousel and the gardens; the windows and even the roofs of the houses were alive with people crying "_vive le roi!_" marshal villeroi led the little lad of eleven to a window, showed him the sea of exultant faces turned towards him, and exclaimed, "sire, all this people is yours; all belongs to you. show yourself to them, and satisfy them; you are the master of all." the infanta of spain, at four years of age, had been betrothed to the young king, and in was sent to paris to be educated for her exalted future. she was lodged in the petite galerie of the louvre, over the garden still known as the garden of the infanta,[ ] and after three years of exile the homesick little maid was returned to madrid; for louis' weak health made it imperative that a speedy marriage should be contracted if the succession to the throne were to be assured. the choice finally fell on the daughter of stanislaus leczynski, a deposed king of poland and a pensioner of france. voltaire relates that the poor discrowned queen was sitting with her daughter marie in their little room at wissembourg when the father, bursting in, fell on his knees, crying, "let us thank god, my child!" "are you then recalled to poland?" asked marie. "nay, daughter, far better," answered stanislaus, "you are the queen of france." a magnificent wedding at fontainebleau, exalted gentle, pious marie from poverty to the richest queendom in europe; to a life of cruel neglect and almost intolerable insult. the immoral duke of bourbon was followed by cardinal fleury, and at length france experienced a period of honest administration, which enabled the sorely-tried land to recover some of its wonted elasticity. the cardinal was, however, dominated by the jesuits, and both protestants and jansenists felt their cruel hand. during the persecution of the jansenists in a deacon, named pâris, died and was canonised by the popular voice. miracles were said to have been wrought at his sepulchre in the cemetery of st. médard; fanatics flung themselves down on the tomb and writhed in horrible convulsions. so great was the excitement and disorder that the archbishop of paris denounced the miracles as the work of satan, and the government ordered the cemetery to be closed. the next morning a profane inscription was found over the entrance to the cemetery:-- "_de par le roi défense à dieu_ _de faire miracle en ce lieu._"[ ] [illustration: colonne vendome.] before louis sank irrevocably into the slothful indulgence that stained his later years, he was stirred to essay a kingly _rôle_ by madame de chateauroux, the youngest of four sisters who had successively been his mistresses. she fired his indolent imagination by appeals to the memory of his glorious ancestors, and the war of the austrian succession being in progress, louis set forth with the army of the great marshal saxe for metz, where in august he was stricken down by a violent fever, and in an access of piety was induced to dismiss his mistress and return to his abused queen. as he lay on the brink of death, given up by his physicians and prepared for the end by the administration of the last sacraments, a royal phrase admirably adapted to capture the imagination of a gallant people came from his lips. "remember," he said to marshal noailles, "remember that when louis xiii. was being carried to the grave, the prince of condé won a battle for france." the agitation of the parisians as the king hovered between life and death was indescribable. the churches were thronged with sobbing people praying for his recovery; when the courtiers came with news that he was out of danger they were borne shoulder high in triumph through the streets, and fervent thanksgiving followed in all the churches. people hailed him as louis le bien-aimé (the well-beloved); even the callous heart of the king was pierced by their loyalty and he cried, "what have i done to deserve such love?" so easy was it to win the affection of his warm-hearted people. the brilliant victories of marshal saxe, and the consequent peace of aix-la-chapelle, brought some years of prosperity to france. wealth increased; paris became more than ever a centre of intellectual splendour and social refinement, where the arts administered to luxurious ease. but it was a period of regal licentiousness unparalleled even in the history of france. louis xiv. at least exacted good breeding and wit in his mistresses, but his descendant enslaved himself to the commonest and most abandoned of women. for twenty years the destinies of the french people, and the whole patronage of the government, the right to succeed to the most sacred and exalted offices in the church, were bartered and intrigued for in the chamber of a harlot and procuress. under the influence of the pompadours and the du barrys a crowned _roué_ allowed the state to drift into financial, military and civil[ ] disaster. "authentic proofs exist," says taine, "demonstrating that madame de pompadour cost louis xv. a sum equal to about seventy-two millions of present value (£ , , )." she would examine the plans of campaign of her marshals in her boudoir, and mark with patches (_mouches_) the places to be defended or attacked. such was the foolish extravagance of the court that to raise money recourse was had to an attempted taxation of the clergy, which the prelates successfully resisted; the old quarrel with the jansenists was revived, and soon church and crown were convulsed by an agitation that shook society to its very base. during the popular ferment the king was attacked in by a crack-brained fanatic named damiens, who scratched him with a penknife as he was entering his coach at versailles. the poor crazy wretch, who at most deserved detention in an asylum, was first subjected to a cruel judicial torture, then taken to the place de grève, where he was lacerated with red-hot pincers and, after boiling lead had been poured into the wounds, his quivering body was torn to pieces by four horses, and the fragments burned to ashes. a few years later the long-suffering jansenists were avenged with startling severity. the jesuits, to their honour be it said, shocked by the infamies of the royal seraglio in the parc aux cerfs, made use of their ascendency at court to awaken in the king's mind some sense of decency: they did but add the bitter animosity of madame de pompadour to the existing hostility of the parlement of paris. louis, urged by his minister the duke of choiseul, and by the arts of his mistress, abandoned the jesuits to their enemies; the parlement suppressed the society in france, secularised its members and confiscated its property. the closing years of the well-beloved's reign were years of unmitigated ignominy and disaster to france. her rich indian conquests were muddled away, and the gallant dupleix died broken-hearted and in misery at paris. canada was lost. during the seven years' war the incapacity and administrative corruption of madame de pompadour's favourites made them the laughing-stock of paris. in the duke of choiseul refused to tolerate the vile du barry, whom we may see in madame campan's memoirs sitting on the arm of louis' chair at a council of state, playing her monkey tricks to amuse the old sultan, snatching sealed orders from his hand and making the foolish monarch chase her round the council chamber. she swore to ruin the duke and, aided by a cabal of jesuit sympathisers and noble intriguers, succeeded in compassing his dismissal. the parlement of paris paid for its temerity; it and the whole of the parlements in france were suppressed, and seven hundred magistrates exiled by _lettres de cachet_. every patriotic frenchman now felt the gathering storm. madame campan writes that twenty years before the crash came it was common talk in her father's house (he was employed in the foreign office) that the old monarchy was rapidly sinking and a great change at hand. indeed, the writing on the wall was not difficult to read. the learned and virtuous malesherbes and many another distinguished member of the suppressed parlements warned the king of the dangers menacing the crown, but so sunk was its wearer in bestial stupefaction that he only murmured: "well, it will last my time," and with his flatterers and strumpets uttered the famous words--"_après nous le déluge_." so lost to all sense of honour was louis, that he soiled his hands with bribes from tax-farmers who ground the faces of the poor, and became a large shareholder in an infamous syndicate of capitalists that bought up the corn of france in order to export it and then import it at enormous profit. this abominable _pacte de famine_ created two artificial famines in france; its authors battened on the misery of the people, and for any who lifted their voices against it the bastille yawned. in the poor abused, injured and neglected queen, marie leczynski died. the court went from bad to worse: void of all dignity, all gaiety, all wit and all elegance, it drifted to its doom. six years passed, and louis was smitten by confluent small-pox and a few poor women were left to perform the last offices on the mass of pestiferous corruption that once was the fifteenth louis of france.[ ] none could be found to embalm the corpse, and spirits of wine were poured into the coffin which was carried to st. denis without pomp and amid the half-suppressed curses of the people. before the breath had left the body, a noise as of thunder was heard approaching the chamber of the dauphin and marie antoinette: it was the sound of the courtiers hastening to grovel before the new king and queen. warned that they had now inherited the awful legacy of the french monarchy, they flung themselves in tears on their knees, and exclaimed--"o god, guide and protect us! we are too young to govern." [illustration: place du chÂtelet and tour st. jacques.] the degradation of the monarchy during the reign is reflected in the condition of the royal palace in the capital. henry iv.'s great scheme, which louis xiii. had inherited and furthered, included a colossal equestrian statue, which was to stand on a rocky pedestal in the centre of a new place, before the east front of the louvre, but the regency revoked the scheme, and for thirty years nothing was done. it had even been proposed under the ministry of cardinal fleury to pull the whole structure down and sell the site. the neglect of the palace during these years is almost incredible. perrault's fine façade was hidden by the half-demolished walls of the hôtels de longueville, de villequier, and de bourbon. the east wing itself was unroofed on the quadrangle side and covered with rotting boarding. perrault's columns on the outer façade were unchannelled, the capitals unfinished, the portal unsculptured, and the post-office stabled its horses along the whole of the wing from the middle entrance to the north angle. the royal apartments of anne of austria in the petite galerie were used as stables; so, too, were the halls where now is housed the collection of renaissance sculpture. the infanta's garden was a yard where grooms exercised their horses: a colony of poor artists and court attendants were lodged in the upper floors, and over most of the great halls entresols were constructed to increase this kind of accommodation. the building was described as a huge caravanserai, where each one lodged and worked as he chose, and over which might have been placed the legend, "_ici on loge à pied et à cheval_." worse still, an army of squatters, ne'er-do-weels, bankrupts and defaulting debtors took refuge in the wooden sheds left by the contractors, or built others--a miserable gangrene of hovels--against the east façade. perrault's base had been concealed by rubbish and apparently forgotten. stove-pipes issued from the broken windows of the upper floors, the beautiful stone-work was blackened by smoke, cracked by frost and soiled by rusting iron clamps; the quadrangle was a chaos of uncut stone, rubbish and filth, in the centre of which, where the king's statue was designed to stand, the royal architect had built himself a large house; a mass of mean houses encumbered the carrousel, and the almost ruined church of st. nicholas was a haunt of beggars. such a grievous eyesore was the building that the provost in offered, in the name of the citizens, to repair and complete the palace if a part were assigned to them as an hôtel de ville. in madame de pompadour's brother had been appointed commissioner of works, and louis was persuaded to authorise the repair and completion of the louvre. gabriel being made architect set about his work by clearing out the squatters and the accumulated rubbish in the quadrangle, and evicting the occupants of the stables. the ruins of the hôtels de longueville, de villequier, and de bourbon were demolished, grass plots laid before perrault's east front, which was restored and for the first time made visible. the west front, giving on the quadrangle, was then repaired and the third order nearly completed, when funds were exhausted and it was left unroofed. an epigram, put into the mouth of the king of denmark, who visited paris in , tersely describes the condition of the palace at this time:-- "j'ai vu le louvre et son enceinte immense, vaste palais qui depuis deux cent ans, toujours s'achève et toujours se commence. deux ouvriers, manoeuvres fainéants, hâtent très lentement ces riches bâtiments et sont payés quand on y pense.[ ]" [illustration: south door of notre dame.] during louis xvi.'s reign little or nothing was done. soufflot was making feeble efforts to complete perrault's north front when the revolution came to arrest his work. so lost to reverence and devoid of artistic sentiment were the official architects of this period, that a sacrilege worse than any wrought by revolutionists was perpetrated at the instance of the canons of notre dame. louis xiv. had begun the vandalism by demolishing the beautiful old gothic high altar and replacing it by a huge, ponderous anachronism in marble, on whose foundation stone, laid in , was placed an inscription to the effect that louis the great, son of louis the just, having subdued heresy, established the true religion in his realm and ended wars gloriously by land and sea, built the altar to fulfil the vow of his father, and dedicated it to the god of arms and master of peace and victory under the invocation of the holy virgin, patroness and protector of his states. many of the fine old gothic tombs of marble and bronze in the church, the monuments of six centuries, were destroyed. but to the reign of louis the well-beloved was reserved the crowning infamy: in the glorious old stained-glass windows, rivalling those of chartres in richness, were destroyed by levreil and replaced by grisaille with yellow _fleur-de-lys_ ornamentation. happily the replacing of the rose windows was deemed too expensive, and they escaped destruction. the famous colossal statue of st. christopher, the equestrian monument of philip le bel, and a popular statue of the virgin, were broken down by these clerical iconoclasts. in the canons instructed soufflot to throw down the pillar of the central porch, with its beautiful statue of christ, to make room for their processions to enter. the priceless sculpture of the tympanum was cut through to make a loftier and wider entrance, and the whole symmetry of the west front was grievously destroyed.[ ] this hideous architectural deformity remained until a son of the revolution, viollet-le-duc, restored the portal to its original form. after the havoc wrought at notre dame, soufflot's energies were diverted to the holy mount of st. genevieve. louis xv. had attributed his recovery at metz to the intercession of the saint, and in , when the abbot complained to the king of the almost ruined condition of the abbey church, he found a sympathetic listener. soufflot and the chapter, who shared the prevalent contempt of gothic, decided to abandon the venerable old pile, with its millennial associations of the patron saint of paris, and to build a grand domed classic temple on the abbey lands to the west. funds for the sacred work were raised by levying a tax on public lotteries. the old church, with the exception of the tower, was finally demolished in , when the rude stone coffin which had held the body of st. genevieve until it was burnt by revolutionary fanatics, was transferred to st. etienne du mont. [illustration: mont s. geneviÈve from l'ile s. louis.] [illustration: interior of st. etienne du mont.] on th september , the crypt of the new st. genevieve being completed, the well-beloved laid the first stone of the church. scarcely was the scaffolding removed after thirteen years of constructive labour, and the expenditure of sixteen millions of livres, when it became necessary to call in soufflot's pupil rondelet, to shore up the walls and strengthen the columns which had proved too weak to sustain the weight of the huge cupola. before the temple was consecrated the revolutionists came, and noting its monumental aspect used it with admirable fitness as a panthéon français for the remains of their heroes; the dome designed to cover the relics of st. genevieve soared over the ashes of voltaire, mirabeau, rousseau and marat. thrice has this unlucky fane been the prize of christian and revolutionary reactionaries. in napoleon i. restored it to christian worship, and in the famous inscription--"_aux grands hommes la patrie reconnaissante_" ("a grateful country to her great men")--was removed by louis xviii., and replaced by a dedication to god and st. genevieve; in louis philippe, the citizen king, transferred it to secular and monumental uses, and restored the former inscription; in the perjured prince-president napoleon, while the streets of paris were yet red with the blood of his victims, again surrendered it to the catholic church; in it was reconverted to a national walhalla for the reception of victor hugo's remains. the pantheon has the most magnificent situation and, except the new church of the sacré coeur, is the most dominant building in paris. its dome, seen from nearly every eminence commanding the city, has a certain stately, almost noble, aspect; but the spacious interior, despite the efforts of the artists of the third republic, is chilling to the spectator. it has few historical or religious associations, and it is devoid of human sentiment. the choice of painters to decorate the interior was an amazing act of official insensibility. the most discordant artistic temperaments were let loose on the devoted building. puvis de chavannes, the only painter among them who grasped the limitation of mural art, has painted with restraint and noble simplicity incidents in the life of st. genevieve, and jean paul laurens is responsible for a splendid but incongruous representation of her death. a st. denis, scenes in the lives of clovis, charlemagne, st. louis, and jeanne d'arc, by bonnat, blanc, levy, cabanel and lenepveu, are all excellent work of the kind so familiar to visitors at the salon, but are lacking in harmony and in inspiration. the angel appearing to jeanne d'arc seems to have been modelled from a _figurante_ at the opera. [illustration: st. sulpice] in the grande salle of the palais de justice, the finest of its kind in europe, decorated by fra giocondo, was gutted by fire, and its rich stained glass, its double vaultings resplendent with blue and gold, its long line of the statues of the kings of france from pharamond to henry iv., were utterly destroyed. debrosse, who built the new salle in , left a noble and harmonious renaissance chamber, which, again restored after the fire of , endured until its destruction by fire during the commune. the old palace was clung to by a population of hucksters, whose shops and booths huddled round the building. the grande salle, far different from the present bare salle des pas perdus, was itself a busy mart, booksellers especially predominating, most of whom had stations there, much as we see them to-day, round the odéon theatre. every pillar had its bookseller's shop. verard's address was--"at the image of st. john the evangelist, before notre dame de paris, and at the first pillar in the grande salle of the palais de justice, before the chapelle where they sing the mass for messieurs of the parlement." gilles couteau's address was--"the two archers in the rue de la juiverie and at the third pillar at the palais." in the galerie mercière (now the galerie marchande) at the top of the stairway ascending from the cour du mai, lines of shops displayed fans, gloves, slippers and other dainty articles of feminine artillery. the further galeries were also invaded by the traders, who were not finally evicted until . much rebuilding and restoration were again needed after the great fire of , and the old flight of steps of the cour du mai, at the foot of which criminals were branded and books condemned by the parlement were burnt, was replaced by the present fine stairway. the grande chambre (now the tribunal de première instance) entered from the grande salle, was renamed the salle d'egalité by the revolutionists, and used for the sittings of the revolutionary tribunal. as the dread work increased, a second court was opened in the salle st. louis, renamed the salle de liberté! here danton was tried, whose puissant voice penetrated to the opposite side of the seine. it was through debrosse's restored grande salle that the girondins trooped after condemnation to the new prisoners' chapel, built after the fire, and passed the night there, hymning the revolution and discoursing of the fatherland before they issued by the nine steps, unchanged to-day, on the right in the cour du mai, to the fatal tumbrils awaiting them. the pseudo-classic church of st. sulpice, begun in and not completed until , is a monument of the degraded taste of this unhappy time. at least three architects, gamart, levau and the italian servandoni, are responsible for this monstrous pile, whose towers have been aptly compared by victor hugo to two big clarionets. the building has, however, a certain _puissante laideur_, as michelet said of danton, and is imposing from its very mass, but it is dull and heavy and devoid of all charm and imagination. nothing exemplifies more strikingly the mutation of taste that has taken place since the eighteenth century than the fact that this church is the only one mentioned by gibbon in the portion of his autobiography which refers to his first visit to paris, where it is distinguished as "one of the noblest structures in paris." chapter xvii louis xvi.--the great revolution--fall of the monarchy crowned vice was now succeeded by crowned folly. the grandson of louis xv., a well-meaning but weak and foolish youth, and his thoughtless, pleasure-loving queen, were confronted by state problems that would have taxed the genius of a richelieu in the maturity of his powers. injustice, misery, oppression, discontent, were clamant and almost universal; taxes had doubled since the death of louis xiv.; there were , beggars in paris alone. the penal code was of inhuman ferocity; law was complicated, ruinous and partial and national credit so low that loans could be obtained only against material pledges and at interest five times as great as that paid by england. wealthy bishops and abbots[ ] and clergy, noblesse and royal officials were wholly exempt from the main incidents of taxation; for personal and land taxes, tithes and forced labour, were exacted from the common people alone. no liberty of worship, nor of thought: protestants were condemned to the galleys by hundreds; booksellers met the same fate. authors and books were arbitrarily sent by _lettres de cachet_ to the bastille. yet in spite of all repression a generation of daring, witty, emancipated thinkers in paris were elaborating a weapon of scientific, rationalistic and liberal doctrine that cut at the very roots of the old _régime_. and while france was in travail of the palingenesis of the modern world, the futile king was trifling with his locks and keys and colouring maps, the queen playing at shepherdesses at trianon or performing before courtiers, officers and equerries the _rôles_ of rosina in the _barbier de seville_ and of colette in the _devin du village_, the latter composed by the democratic philosopher, whose _contrat social_ was to prove the gospel of the revolution.[ ] jean jacques rousseau, the solitary self-centred swiss engraver and musician, has described for us in words that will bear translation how an ineffaceable impression of the sufferings of the people was burnt into his memory, and the germs of an unquenchable hatred of their oppressors were sown in his breast. journeying on foot between paris and lyons he was one day diverted from his path by the beauty of the landscape, and wandered about, seeking in vain to discover his way. "at length," he writes, "weary and dying of thirst and hunger i entered a peasant's house, not a very attractive one, but the only one i could see. i imagined that here as in switzerland every inhabitant of easy means would be able to offer hospitality. i entered and begged that i might have dinner by paying for it. the peasant handed me some skim milk and coarse barley bread, saying that was all he had. the milk seemed delicious and i ate the bread, straw and all, but it was not very satisfying to one exhausted by fatigue. the man scrutinised me and judged by my appetite the truth of the story i had told. suddenly, after saying that he perceived i was a good, honest youth and not there to spy upon him he opened a trap door, descended and returned speedily with some good wheaten bread, a ham appetising but rather high, and a bottle of wine which rejoiced my heart more than all the rest. he added a good thick omelette and i enjoyed a dinner such as those alone who travel on foot can know. when it came to paying, his anxiety and fears again seized him; he would have none of my money and pushed it aside, exceedingly troubled, nor could i imagine what he was afraid of. at last he uttered with a shudder the terrible words '_commis, rats de cave_' ("assessors, cellar rats"). he made me understand that he hid the wine because of the _aides_,[ ] and the bread because of the _tailles_[ ] and that he would be a ruined man if it were supposed that he was not dying of hunger. that man, although fairly well-off, dared not eat the bread earned by the sweat of his brow, and could only escape ruin by pretending to be as miserable as those he saw around him. i issued forth from that house indignant as well as affected, deploring the lot of that fair land where nature had lavished all her gifts only to become the spoil of barbarous tax-farmers (_publicans_)." the elder mirabeau has told how he saw a bailiff cut off the hand of a peasant woman who had clung to her kitchen utensils when distraint was made on her poor possessions for dues exacted by the tax-farmer. it is related in madame campan's _memoirs_ that louis xv., hunting one day in the forest of senard, about fifteen miles south of paris, met a man on horseback carrying a coffin. "whither are you carrying that coffin?" asked the king. "to the village of ----." "is it for a man or a woman?" "for a man." "what did he die of?" "hunger," bluntly returned the villager. the king spurred his horse and said no more. "but though the gods see clearly, they are slow in marking when a man, despising them, turns from their worship to the scorn of fools." half a century had elapsed since that meal in the peasant's house and the royal colloquy with the villager in the forest of senard, when the nemesis that holds sleepless vigil over the affairs of men stirred her pinions and, like a strong angel with glittering sword, prepared to avenge the wrongs of a people whose rulers had outraged every law, human and divine, by which human society is held together. king, nobles, and prelates had a supreme and an awful choice. they might have led and controlled the revolution: they chose to oppose it, and were broken into shivers as a potter's vessel. after the memorable cannonade at valmy, a knot of defeated german officers gathered in rain and wind moodily around the circle where they durst not kindle the usual camp-fire. in the morning the army had talked of nothing but spitting and devouring the whole french nation: in the evening everyone went about alone; nobody looked at his neighbour, or if he did, it was but to curse and swear. "at last," says goethe, "i was called upon to speak, for i had been wont to enliven and amuse the troop with short sayings. this time i said, 'from this day forth, and from this place, a new era begins in the history of the world and you can all say that you were present at its birth.'" this is not the place to write the story of the french revolution. those who would read the tremendous drama may be referred to the pages of carlyle. as a formal history, that work of transcendent genius may be open to criticism. indeed to the present writer the magnificent and solemn prosody seems to partake of the nature of a greek chorus--the comment of an idealised spectator, assuming that the hearer has the drama unfolding before his eyes. recent researches have supplemented and modified our knowledge. it is no longer possible to accept the more revolting representations of the misery[ ] of the french peasantry as true of the whole of france, for france before the revolution was an assemblage of many provinces of varying social conditions, subjected to varying administrative laws. nor can we accept carlyle's portraiture of robespierre as history, after louis blanc's great work. so far from robespierre having been the bloodthirsty protagonist of the later terror, it was precisely his determination to make an end of the more savage excesses of the extreme terrorists and to chastise their more furious pro-consuls, such as carrier and fouché, that brought about his ruin. it was men like collot d'herbois, billaud varenne and barrère, the bloodiest of the terrorists, who, to save their own skins, united to cast the odium of the later excesses on robespierre, and to overthrow him. during the forty-five days that preceded his withdrawal from the sittings of the committee of public safety, persons were guillotined: during the forty-five days that succeeded, went to their doom. of the twelve decrees that have been discovered signed by robespierre during the four last decades, only one had any relation to the system of terror. but whatever defects there be in carlyle, his readers will at least understand the significance of the revolution, and why it is that the terrible, but temporary excesses which stained its progress have been so unduly magnified by reactionary politicians, while the cruelties of the white terror[ ] are passed by. few of the buildings associated with the revolution remain at paris. the salle du manège, the feuillants and jacobin clubs were swept away by napoleon's rue de rivoli. but at versailles little is changed; the broad avenue de paris, once filled with double uninterrupted files of brilliant equipages, racing with furious speed from morning to evening along the five leagues between versailles and paris, is now silent and deserted. here, outside the gates of the château were seen in that vast "multitude in wide-spread wretchedness, with their sallow faces, squalor and winged raggedness, presenting in legible, hieroglyphic writing their petition of grievances, and for answer two were hanged on a new gallows forty feet high." here the traveller may see at the corner of the rue st. martin in the avenue de paris, that hôtel des menus plaisirs, where the states-general sat, th may , and where the commons took the bit in their mouths by declaring themselves the national assembly, whether the two privileged orders sat with them or not, and decided to set about the task of regenerating france. here under the elm trees on the paris road stood the deputies in the drizzling rain when they found the doors of the hall closed, by royal order, against them, while giggling courtiers looked mockingly on. we may trace their footsteps as they angrily paced to the rue st. françois; we may stand in the very tennis-court whose walls echoed to the solemn oath sworn by their voices never to separate until they had given a constitution to france. hard by, in the rue satory, is the church of st. louis, where they met the next day on finding the court retained for a tennis-party by the king's brother, the count of artois. we may return to the menus plaisirs, where the king's messenger, de brézé, ordering them to disperse after the famous royal sitting, heard mirabeau's leonine voice bidding him go back to his master and tell him that they were there by the people's will, and that nothing but the force of bayonets should drive them forth.[ ] we may enter the royal apartments, the famous ante-room of the oeil de boeuf with its oval ox-eyed windows, the king's bed-chamber, and the council hall; we may look on the foolish faces of the later bourbons, of the princesses his daughters whom louis xv. dubbed rag, tatter, snip, and pig. in the opera-house built for mesdames pompadour and du barry, we may recall that mad scene of st october, when the officers of the bodyguard, having invited their comrades of the regiment of flanders to a dinner on the stage, were shaking the roof with cries of "_vive le roi!_" while the orchestra played the air, "_o richard! o mon roi! l'univers t'abandonne_," the king suddenly appeared in the royal box facing them, leading the queen, who bore the dauphin in her arms. then was the air repeated, and amid a scene of wild enthusiasm the royal family were rapturously acclaimed with clapping of hands and deafening shouts of "_vive le roi! vive la reine! vive le dauphin!_" ladies distributed white cockades, the bourbon colour, and the tricolor was trodden underfoot. intoxicated soldiers danced under the king's balcony, and next morning it was discussed at a breakfast given at the hôtel of the bodyguards whether they should march against the national assembly. and this within three months of the taking of the bastille and when paris was in the grip of famine! the news of the mad orgy goaded the people to fury, and on th october an insurrectionary army of , women advanced on versailles and encamped on the vast open space in front of the gates. as we stand in the cour de marbre, we may lift our eyes to that balcony of the first floor where, on th october, marie antoinette stood bravely forth, holding her two children by the hand and confronting the vociferating people. at their cry, "no children!" she gently pushed the little dauphin and his sister back into the room, and with folded arms, for she at least lacked not courage, gazed calmly at them in regal dignity, to be answered by shouts of "_vive la reine!_" it was the last time she trod the palace of versailles. the same day king, queen and children went their way amid that strange procession to paris, the women crying: "we need not die of hunger now. here are the baker, the baker's wife and the baker's boy." the palace of the tuileries was hastily prepared for their reception and for the first time louis xvi. entered its gates. camille desmoulins has described in his memoirs how on th july he was lifted on a table in front of the café foy, in the garden of the palais royal, and delivered that short but pregnant oration which preceded the capture of the bastille on the th, warning the people that a st. bartholomew of patriots was contemplated, and that the swiss and german troops in the champ de mars were ready for the butchery. as the crowd rushed to the hôtel de ville, shouting "to arms!" they were charged by the prince de lambesc at the head of a german regiment, and the first blood of the revolution in paris was shed. the bastille, like the monarchy, was the victim of its past sins. that grisly fortress, with the jaws of its cannon opening on the most populous quarter of paris, and its sinister memories of the man in the iron mask,[ ] embodied in the popular mind all that was hateful in the old _régime_, though it had long ceased to be more than occasionally used as a state prison. if we would restore its aspect we must imagine the houses at the ends of the rue st. antoine and the boulevard henri iv. away and the huge mass erect on their site and on the lines marked in white stone on the present place de la bastille. a great portal, always open by day, yawned on the rue st. antoine and gave access to the first quadrangle which was lined with shops: then came a second gate, with entrances for carriages and for foot passengers, each with its drawbridge. beyond these a second quadrangle was entered, to the right of which stood the governor's house and an armoury. another double portal gave entrance across the old fosse once fed by the waters of the seine, to the prison fortress itself, with its eight tall blackened towers and its crenelated ramparts. [illustration: montmartre from buttes chaumont.] the bastille, first used in richelieu's time as a permanent state prison, was filled under louis xiv. with jansenists and protestants, who were thus separated from the prisoners of the common jails; and, later, under louis xv. by a whole population of obnoxious pamphleteers and champions of philosophy. books as well as their authors were incarcerated, and released when considered no longer dangerous; the tomes of famous _encyclopédie_ spent some years there. from the opening of the eighteenth century the horrible, dark and damp dungeons, half underground and sometimes flooded, formerly inhabited by the lowest type of criminals, were reserved as temporary cells for insubordinate prisoners, and since the accession of louis xvi. they were no more used. the bastille during the reigns of the three later louis was the most comfortable prison in paris, and detention there rather than in the other prisons was often sought for and granted as a favour; the prisoners might furnish their rooms, have their own libraries and food. in the middle of the seventeenth century certain rooms were furnished at the king's expense for those who were without means. the rooms were warmed, the prisoners well fed, and sums varying from three francs to thirty-five francs per day, according to condition,[ ] were allotted for their maintenance. a considerable amount of personal liberty was allowed to many and indemnities were in later years paid to those who had been unjustly detained. but a prison where men are confined indefinitely without trial and at a king's arbitrary pleasure is none the less intolerable, however its bars be gilded. prisoners were sometimes forgotten, and letters are extant from louvois and other ministers, asking the governor to report how many years certain prisoners had been detained, and if he remembered what they were charged with. in louis xiv.'s reign persons were incarcerated there; in louis xv.'s, . from the accession of louis xvi. to the destruction of the prison the number had fallen to . seven were found there when the fortress was captured--four accused of forgery, two insane; one, the count of solages, accused of a monstrous crime, was detained there to spare the feelings of his family. the bastille, some time before its fall, was already under sentence of demolition, and various schemes for its disposal were before the court. one project was to destroy seven of the towers, leaving the eighth standing in a dilapidated state. on the site of the seven a pedestal formed of chains and bolts from the dungeons and gates was to bear a statue of louis xvi. in the attitude of a liberator, pointing with outstretched hand towards the remaining tower in ruins. but louis xvi. was always too late, and the place de la bastille, with its column raised to those who fell in the revolution of july, , now recalls the second and final triumph of the people over the bourbon kings. some stones of the bastille were, however, built into the new pont louis seize, subsequently called pont de la revolution and now known as pont de la concorde: others were sold to speculators and were retailed at prices so high that people complained that bastille stones were as dear as the best butcher's meat. models of the bastille, dominoes, inkstands, boxes and toys of all kinds were made of the material and had a ready sale all over france. far to the west and on the opposite side of the seine is the immense area of the champ de mars, where, on the anniversary of the fall of the bastille, was enacted the fairest scene of the revolution. the whole population of paris, with their marvellous instinct of order and co-operation, spontaneously set to work to dig the vast amphitheatre which was to accommodate the , representatives of france, and , spectators, all united in an outburst of fraternal love and hope to swear allegiance to the new constitution before the altar of the fatherland. the king had not yet lost the affection of his people. as he came to view the marvellous scene an improvised bodyguard of excavators, bearing spades, escorted him about. when he was swearing the oath to the constitution, the queen, standing on a balcony of the _ecole militaire_, lifted up the dauphin as if to associate him in his father's pledge. suddenly the rain which had marred the great festival ceased, the sun burst forth and flooded in a splendour of light, the altar, bishop talleyrand, his four hundred clergy, and the king with upraised hand. the solemn music of the _te deum_ mingled with the wild pæan of joy and enthusiasm that burst from half a million throats. the unconscionable folly, the feeble-minded vacillation and miserable trickery by which this magnificent popularity was muddled away is one of the saddest tragedies in the stories of kings. the people, with unerring instinct, had fixed on the queen as one of the chief obstacles to what might have been a peaceful revolution. neither marie antoinette nor louis capet comprehended the tremendous significance of the forces they were playing with--the resolute and invincible determination of a people of twenty-six millions to emancipate itself from the accumulated and intolerable wrongs of centuries. the despatches and opinions of american ambassadors during this period are of inestimable value. the democratic thomas jefferson, reviewing in later years the course of events, declared that had there been no queen there would have been no revolution. governor morris, whose anti-revolutionary and conservative leanings made him the friend and confidant of the royal family, writes to washington on january : "if only the reigning prince were not the small beer character he is, and even only tolerably watchful of events, he would regain his authority," but "what would you have," he continues scornfully, "from a creature who, in his situation, eats, drinks and sleeps well, and laughs, and is as merry a grig as lives. he must float along on the current of events and is absolutely a cypher." but the court would not forego its crooked ways. "the queen is even more imprudent," morris writes in , "and the whole court is given up to petty intrigues worthy only of footmen and chambermaids." moreover, in its amazing ineptitude, the monarchy had already toyed with republicanism by lending active military support to the revolutionists in america, at a cost to the already over-burdened treasury of , , , livres. the american ambassador, benjamin franklin, was crowned at court with laurel as the apostle of liberty, and in the very palace of versailles medallions of franklin were sold, bearing the inscription: "_eripui coelo fulmen sceptrumque tyrannis_" ("i have snatched the lightning from heaven and the sceptre from tyrants"). the revolutionary song, _Ça ira, ça ira_ ("that will go, that will go"), owes its origin to franklin's invariable response to inquiries as to the progress of the american revolutionary movement. there was explosive material enough in france to make playing with celestial fire perilous, and while the political atmosphere was heavy with the threatening change, thousands of french soldiers returned saturated with enthusiasm and sympathy for the american revolution. already before the feast of the federation the queen had been in secret correspondence with the _émigrés_ at turin and at coblenz who were conspiring to throttle the nascent liberty of france. plots had been hatched to carry off the royal family. madame campan relates that the queen made her read a confidential letter from the empress catherine of russia, concluding with these words: "kings ought to proceed in their career undisturbed by the cries of the people, as the moon pursues her course unimpeded by the howling of dogs." mirabeau was already in the pay of the monarchy; soon after the return of the court to st. cloud the queen had a secret interview with him in the park, and boasted to madame campan how she had flattered the great tribune. as early as december the court had been in secret communication with the foreigner. louis' brother, the count of artois (afterwards charles x.), with the queen's and king's approval, had made a secret treaty with the house of hapsburg, the hereditary enemy of france, by which the sovereigns of austria, prussia and spain agreed to cross the frontier at a given signal, and close on france with an army a hundred thousand strong. it was an act of impious treachery, and the beginning of the doom of the french monarchy. yet if but some glimmer of intelligence and courage had characterised the preparations for the flight of the royal family to join the armed forces waiting to receive them near the frontier, their lives at least had been saved. the incidents of the four months' "secret" preparations to leave the tuileries as described by madame campan read like scenes in a comic opera. the disguised purchases of elaborate wardrobes of underlinen and gowns; the making of a dressing-case of "enormous size, fitted with many and various articles from a warming-pan to a silver porringer"; the packing of the diamonds; the building of the new _berline_, that huge, lumbering noah's ark which was to bear them swiftly away! the story of the pretended flight of the russian baroness and her family; the start delayed by the queen turning into the carrousel instead of into the rue de l'echelle, where the king and her children were awaiting her in the glass coach; the colossal folly of the whole business has been told by carlyle in one of the most dramatic chapters in history. the assembly declared on hearing of louis' flight that the government of the country was unaffected and that the executive power remained in the hand of the ministers. after voting a levy of three hundred thousand national guards to meet the threatened invasion, they passed calmly to the discussion of the new penal code. the king returned to paris through an immense and silent multitude. "whoever applauds the king," said placards in the street, "shall be thrashed; whoever insults him, hung." the idea of a republic as a practical issue of the situation was now for the first time put forward by the extremists, but met with little sympathy, and a republican demonstration in the champ de mars was suppressed by the assembly by martial law at the cost of many lives. owing to the aversion felt by marie antoinette to lafayette, who with affectionate loyalty more than once had risked his popularity and life to serve the crown, the court made the fatal mistake of opposing his election to the mayoralty of paris and paved the way for the triumph of petion and of the dantonists. to the famous manifesto of pilnitz by the emperor of austria and the king of prussia in august , calling on the sovereigns of europe to support them in an armed intervention to restore the rights and prerogatives of the french king, the assembly replied that, while they must regard as enemies those who tolerated hostile preparations against france, they offered good neighbourship, the amity of a free and puissant country to the nations of europe. they desired no conquests and would respect the laws and constitutions of others if they evinced the same respect towards those of france: if the german princes favoured military preparations directed against the french, the french would carry among them, not fire and sword, but liberty. "_let them ponder on the consequences of an awakening of the nations._" meanwhile the assembly renewed some laws of the _ancien régime_ against _émigrés_, who were threatened with the confiscation of their property without prejudice to the rights of their wives and children and lawful creditors if they did not return within a definite time. the foreign monarchies reasserted the lawfulness of their acts and war became inevitable. [illustration: place de la concorde] at the news of the first defeats the king added to his amazing tale of follies by vetoing the formation of a camp near paris and by turning a deaf ear to the earnest entreaties of the brave, loyal and sagacious dumouriez and accepting his resignation. he sent a secret agent with confidential instructions to the _émigrés_ and the coalesced monarchies, and when lafayette, after the first demonstration against the tuileries, hastened to paris and strove to stir the ill-fated king to resolute action he was coldly received, and with bitterness in his heart returned to his army at the frontier. the ill-starred proclamation[ ] of the duke of brunswick completed the destruction of the monarchy. while the french were smarting under defeat and stung by the knowledge that their natural defender, the king, was leagued with their enemies, this foreign commander warned a high-spirited and gallant nation that he was come to restore louis xvi. to his authority, and threatened to treat as rebellious any town that opposed his march, to shoot all persons taken with arms in their hands, and in the event of any insult being offered to the royal family to take exemplary and memorable vengeance by delivering up the city of paris to military execution and complete demolition. when the proclamation reached paris at the end of july , it sounded the death knell of the king and the triumph of the republicans. paris was now to become, in goethe's phrase, the centre of the "world whirlwind"--a storm centre launching forth thunderbolts of terror. after the assembly had twice refused to bring the king to trial, the extremists were able to organise and direct an irresistible wave of popular indignation towards the tuileries, and on th august the palace was stormed. while a band of brave and devoted swiss guards was being cut to pieces in hundreds, the feeble and futile king had fled to the assembly and was sitting safely with his wife and children in a box behind the president's chair. thorwaldsen's monument to the fallen swiss, carved in the granite rock at lucerne, recalls that piteous scene at the tuileries when these poor republican mercenaries, true to their salt, stood faithful unto death in defence of an empty palace. no room for compromise now. the printed trial of charles i. was everywhere sold and read. "this," people said, "was how the english dealt with an impossible king and became a free nation." old and new were in death-grapple, and the lives of many victims, for the people lost heavily,[ ] had sealed the cause of the revolution with a bloody consecration. unhappily, the city of paris, like all great towns in times of scarcity (and since scarcity had become almost permanent), had been invaded by numbers of starving vagabonds--the dregs that always rise to the surface in periods of political convulsion, ready for any villainy. when news came of the capture of verdun, of the indecent joy of the courtiers, and that the road to paris was open to the avenging army of prussians, the horrors of the armagnac massacres were renewed during four september days at the prisons of paris, while the revolutionary ministry and the assembly averted their gaze and, to their everlasting shame, abdicated their powers. the september massacres were the application by a minority of desperate and savage revolutionists of the _ultima ratio_ of kings to a desperate situation. the tragedy of king louis is the tragedy of a feeble prince called to rule in a tremendous crisis where weakness and well-meaning folly are the fatalest of crimes. how pathetic are the incidents of the penalty of wrong! the dreadful heritage of the sins of the later french monarchy had fallen on the head of one of the best-intentioned and least guilty, though most foolish and feeblest of men. on st september royalty was formally abolished, and on the nd, when "the equinoctional sun marked the equality of day and night in the heavens," civil equality was proclaimed by the representatives of france. chapter xviii execution of the king--paris under the first republic--the terror--napoleon--revolutionary and modern paris an inscription opposite no. rue de rivoli indicates the site of the old salle du manége, or riding school, of the tuileries, where the destinies of modern france were debated. three assemblies--the constituent, the legislative and the prodigious national convention--filled its long, poorly-furnished amphitheatre, decorated with the tattered flags captured from the prussians and austrians, from th november to th may . there, on wednesday, th january , began the solemn judgment of louis xvi. by representatives of the people of france. the sitting opened at ten o'clock in the morning, but not till eight in the evening did the procession of deputies begin, as the roll was called, to ascend the tribune, and utter their word of doom. all that long winter's night, and all the ensuing short winter's day, the fate of a king trembled in the balance as the judgment, death--banishment: banishment--death, with awful alternation echoed through the hall. amid the speeches of the deputies was heard the chatter of fashionable women in the boxes, pricking with pins on cards the votes for and against death, and eating ices and oranges brought to them by friendly deputies. above, in the public tribunes, sat women of the people, greeting the words of the deputies with coarse gibes. betting went on outside. at every entrance cries hoarse and shrill were heard of hawkers selling "the trial of charles i." time-serving philip egalité, duke of orleans, voted _la mort_, but failed to save his skin. an englishman was there--thomas paine, author of the _rights of man_ and deputy for calais. his voice was raised for clemency, for temporary detention, and banishment after the peace. "my vote is that of paine," cried a member, "his authority is final for me." one deputy was carried from a sick-bed to cast his vote in the scale of mercy; others slumbering on the benches were awakened and gave their votes of death between two yawns. at length, by eight o'clock on the evening of the th, exactly twenty-four hours after the voting began, the president rose to read the result. "a silence most august and terrible reigns in the assembly as president vergniaud rises and pronounces the sentence 'death' in the name of the french nation." the details of the voting as given in the _journal de perlet_, th january , are as follows: "of the members one had died, six were sick, two absent without cause, eleven absent on commission, four abstained from voting. the absolute majority was therefore . three hundred and sixty-six voted for death, three hundred and nineteen for detention and banishment, two for the galleys, twenty-four for death with various reservations, eight for death with stay of execution until after the peace, two for delay with power of commutation." three protestant ministers and eighteen catholic priests voted for death. louis' defenders were there and asked to be heard: they were admitted to the honours of the sitting. at eleven o'clock the weary business of thirty-seven hours was ended, only, however, to be resumed the next morning, for yet another vote must decide between delay or summary execution. again the voice of paine was heard pleading for mercy, but without avail. at three o'clock on sunday morning the final voting was over. six hundred and ninety members were present, of whom three hundred and eighty voted for death within twenty-four hours. [illustration: eiffel tower.] to the guillotine on the fatal place de la révolution, formerly place louis xv., the very scene of a terrible panic at his wedding festivities which cost the lives of hundreds of sightseers, the sixteenth louis of france was led on the morning of st january . as he turned to address the people, santerre ordered the drums to beat--it was the echo of the drums reverberating through history which had smothered the cries of the protestant martyrs sent to the scaffold by the fourteenth louis a century before. this was the beginning of that _année terrible_, into which was crowded the most stupendous struggle in modern history. threatened by the monarchies of europe, who were united in an unholy crusade to crush the revolution, france, in the tremendous words of danton, flung to the coalesced kings the head of a king as gage of battle. a colossal energy, an unquenchable devotion were evoked by the supreme crisis, and directed by a committee of nine inexperienced young civilians, sitting in a room of the tuileries at paris, to whom later carnot, an engineer officer, was added. "the whole republic," they proclaimed, "is a great besieged city: let france be a vast camp. every age is called to defend the liberty of the fatherland. the young men will fight: the married will forge arms. women will make clothes and tents: children will tear old linen for lint. old men shall be carried to the market-place to inflame the courage of all." in twenty-four hours , men were enrolled; in two months fourteen armies organised. saltpetre for powder failed; it was torn from the bowels of the earth. steel, too, and bronze were lacking: iron railings were transmuted into swords, and church bells and royal statues into cannon. paris became a vast armourer's shop. smithy fires in hundreds roared and anvils clanged in the open places--one hundred and forty at the invalides, fifty-four at the luxembourg. the women sang as they worked:-- "cousons, filons, cousons bien, v'là des habits de notre fabrique pour l'hiver qui vient. soldats de la patrie vous ne manquerez de rien."[ ] the smiths chanted to the rhythm of their strokes:-- "forgeons, forgeons, forgeons bien!" on the new standards waving in the breeze ran the legend: "the french people risen against tyrants." toulon was in the hands of the english; lyons in revolt. with enemies in her camp, with one arm tied by the insurrection in la vendée, the revolution hurled her ragged and despised _sans-culottes_, shod in pasteboard or straw bands, mantled in a piece of matting skewered above their shoulders, against her enemies. how vain is the wisdom of the great! burke thought that the revolution had expunged france in a political sense out of the system of europe, and his opinion was shared by every statesman in europe, but before the year closed the proud and magnificently accoutred armies of kings were scattered over the borders, civil war was crushed at home, the revolution triumphant. the convention fixed the day of victory. it ordered its generals to end the war of la vendée by th october: by the th four defeats had been inflicted on the insurgents, and , men, women and children were driven over the loire. soon the "dwarfish, ragged _sans-culottes_, the small, black-looking marseillaise dressed in rags of every colour," whom goethe saw tramping out of mayence "as if the goblin king had opened his mountains and sent forth his lively host of dwarfs," had forced prussia, the arch-champion of monarchy, to make peace and leave its rhine provinces in the hands of regicides. meanwhile terror reigned in paris. in the frenzy of mortal strife the revolution struck out blindly and cut down friend as well as foe; the innocent with the guilty. at least the guillotine fell swiftly and mercifully. gone were the days of the wheel, the rack, the boiling lead and the stake. under the _ancien régime_ the torture of _accused_ persons was one of the sights shown to foreigners in paris. evelyn, when visiting the city in , was taken to see the torture of an _alleged_ thief in the châtelet, who was "wracked in an extraordinary manner, so that they severed the fellow's joints in miserable sort." then, failing to extort a confession, "they increased the extension and torture, and then placing a horne in his mouth, such as they drench horses with, poured two buckets of water down, so that it prodigiously swelled him." there was another "malefactor" to be dealt with, but the traveller had seen enough, and he leaves reflecting that it represented to him "the intolerable sufferings which our blessed saviour must needs undergo when his body was hanging with all its weight upon the nailes of the crosse." too much prominence has been given by historians to the dramatic and violent activities of the men of ' , to the exclusion of acts of peaceful and constructive statesmanship. among the , decrees issued by the national convention in paris from september ' to october ' , the following are cited by louis blanc:-- that _maisons nationales_ be opened where children should be fed, housed and taught gratuitously. that primary schools be established throughout the republic, and that three progressive stages of education be established embracing all that a man and a citizen should know. that each department should possess a central school. that a normal school at paris should teach the art of teaching. that special schools be established for the study of the sciences, oriental languages, the veterinary art, rural economy and antiquities. it appointed a commission to examine and report upon works relating to the moral and physical education of children and opened a competition for the composing of elementary books. it systematised the teaching of the french language. it ordered an inventory to be taken of collections of works of art. it fulminated against the degradation of public monuments. it founded national rewards for great discoveries. it gave lavish help to artists and savants. it offered a prize for the perfecting of the art of spinning. it ordered the publication of a translation of bacon's works found among the papers of one of the condemned on the th of thermidor. it decided that scientific voyages should be organised at the expense of the state, and that the republic be charged with the maintenance of artists sent to rome. it decreed the adoption, began the discussion, and voted the most important articles of the civil code. it inaugurated the telegraph and the decimal system, established the uniformity of weights and measures, the bureau of longitudes, reformed the calendar, instituted the grand livre, increased and completed the museum of natural history, opened the museum of the louvre, created the conservatoire of the arts and crafts, the conservatoire of music, the polytechnic school and the institute. the truly great work of education initiated by the convention can only be appreciated by recalling its previous condition. the old colleges were utterly neglected. in such as survived, little more than latin (and that inefficiently) and a few scraps of history were taught. the natural sciences were wholly neglected; the children of the noblesse were educated by private tutors, and only in showy accomplishments. madame campan relates that the princess louise had not even mastered the alphabet at twelve years of age. the convention abolished negro slavery in the french colonies, and wilberforce reminded a hostile house of commons that infidel and anarchic france had given example to christian england in the work of emancipation. in it was reported to the convention that the aged goldoni had been in receipt of a pension from the _ancien régime_ and was now dependent on the slender resources of a compassionate nephew: the convention at once decreed as an act of justice and beneficence that the pension of livres should be renewed, and all arrears paid up. this is but one of many acts of grace and succour among the records of the convention. the same day, th february, an artist of toulouse was awarded livres. it is curious to read in the journals of early ' how fully assured the revolutionists were of the sympathy of england, "that proud and generous nation, whose name alone, like that of rome, evokes ideas of liberty and independence," their appeals to the english nation, whose example they had followed, not to allow the quarrels of kings to embroil them in a conflict fatal to humanity. at the meetings of the jacobins, flags of england, america and france were unfurled, with cries of "_vivent les trois peuples libres_." the closing months of ' were sped with those whiffs of grape shot from the pont royal and the rue st. honoré, that shattered the last attempt, this time by the royalists, at government by insurrection. the convention closed its stupendous career, and five directors of the republic met in a room furnished with an old table, a sheet of paper and an ink-bottle, and set about organising france for a normal and progressive national life. but europe had by her fatuous interference with the internal affairs of france sown dragons' teeth indeed. a nation of armed men had sprung forth, nursing hatred of monarchy and habituated to victory. "_eh, bien, mes enfants_," cried a french general before an engagement when provisions were wanting to afford a meal for his troops, "we will breakfast after the victory." but militarism invariably ends in autocracy. the author of those whiffs of grape shot was appointed in commander-in-chief of the army of italy, and a new and sinister complexion was given to the policy of the republic. "soldiers," cries napoleon, "you are half-starved and almost naked; the government owes you much but can do nothing for you. your patience, your courage do you honour, but win for you neither glory nor profit. i am about to lead you into the most fertile plains of the world; you will find there great cities and rich provinces; there you will reap honour, glory and riches. soldiers of italy, will you lack courage?" this frank appeal to the baser motives that sway men's minds, this open avowal of a personal ambition, was the beginning of the end of jacobinism in france. soon the wealth of italy streamed into the bare coffers of the directory:-- , , of francs from lombardy, , , from parma and modena, , , from the papal states, an equally large sum from tuscany; one hundred finest horses of lombardy to the five directors, "to replace the sorry nags that now draw your carriages"; convoys of priceless manuscripts and sculpture and pictures to adorn the galleries of paris. so persistent were these raids on the collections of art in italy that napoleon is known there to this day as _il gran ladrone_. the chief duty of the new french officials in italy, said lucien bonaparte, is to supervise the packing of pictures and statues for paris. no less than of these works of art were confiscated by the allies in , and returned to their former owners. in less than a decade the rusty old stage properties and the baubles of monarchy were furbished anew, sacred oil from the little phial of rheims anointed the brow of a new dynast, and a roman pontiff blessed the crown with which a once poor, pensioned, disaffected corsican patriot crowned himself lord of france in notre dame. the old pomposities of a court came strutting back to their places:--arch chancellors, grand electors, constables, grand almoners, grand chamberlains, grand marshals of the palace, masters of the horse, masters of the hounds, madame mère and a bevy of imperial highnesses with their ladies-in-waiting. only one thing was wanting, as a jacobin bitterly remarked--the million of men who were slain to end all that mummery. the fascinating story of how this amazing transformation was effected cannot be told here. the magician who wrought it was possessed of a soaring, visionary imagination, of a mental instrument of incomparable force and efficiency, of an iron will, a prodigious intellectual activity, and a piercing insight into the conditions of material success, rarely, if ever before, united in the same degree in one man. napoleon bonaparte was of ancient, patrician florentine blood, and perchance the descendant of one of those of fiesole-- "in cui riviva la sementa santa di quei romani che vi rimaser quando fu fatto il nido di malizia tanta."[ ] he cherished a particular affection for italy, and, so far as his personal aims allowed, treated her generously. his descent into lombardy awakened the slumbering sense of italian nationality. in more senses than one, says mr bolton king, the historian of italian unity, napoleon was the founder of modern italy. the reason of napoleon's success in france is not far to seek. two streams of effort are clearly traceable through the revolution. the earlier thinkers, such as montesquieu, voltaire, d'alembert, diderot and the encyclopedists, whose admiration for england was unbounded, aimed at reforming the rotten state of france on the basis of the english parliamentary and monarchical system. it was a middle-class movement for the assertion of its interests in the state and for political freedom. the aim of the jacobin minority, inspired by the doctrines of the _contrat social_ of rousseau, was to found a democratic state based on the principle of the sovereignty of the people. if the french crown and the monarchies of europe had allowed the peaceful evolution of national tendencies, the constitutional reformers would have triumphed, but in their folly they tried to sweep back the tide, with the result we have seen. for when everything is put to the touch, when victory is the price of self-sacrifice, it is the idealist who comes to the front. as the nineteenth century prophet mazzini taught, men will lay down their lives for principles but not for interests. let us not forget that it was the jacobin minority which saved the people of france. led astray by their old guides, abandoned in a dark and trackless waste, their heads girt with horror, menaced by destruction on every side, they groped, wandering hither and thither seeking an outlet in vain. at length a voice was heard, confident, thrilling as a trumpet call: "lo this is the way! follow, and ye shall emerge and conquer!" it may not have been the best way, but it was a way and they followed. [illustration: arc de triomphe--place du carrousel.] it is easy enough to pour scorn on the _contrat social_ as a political philosophy, but an ideal, a faith, a dogma are necessary to evoke enthusiasm, the contempt of material things and of death itself. these the _contrat social_ gave. its consuming passion for social justice, its ideal of a state founded on the sovereignty of the people became the gospel of the time. men and women conned its pages by heart and slept with the book under their pillows. napoleon himself in his early jacobin days was saturated with its doctrines, and in later times astutely used its phrases as shibboleths to cloak his acts of despotism. but in that terrible revolutionary decade the jacobins had spent their lives and their energies. a profound weariness of the long and severe tension, and a yearning for a return to orderly civil life came over men's minds. the masses were still sincerely attached to the catholic faith; the middle-classes hailed with relief the advent of the strong man who proved himself able to crush faction; the peasants were won by a champion of the revolution who made impossible the return of the evil days of the _ancien régime_ and guaranteed them the possession of the confiscated _émigré_ and ecclesiastical lands; the army idolised the great captain who promised them glory and profit; the church rallied to an autocrat who restored the hierarchy. moreover, the brilliancy of napoleon's military genius was balanced by an all-embracing political sagacity. the chief administrative decrees of the convention, especially those relating to education and the civil and penal codes, were welded into form by ceaseless energy. everything he touched was indeed degraded from the republican ideal, but he drove things through and imposed his own superhuman activity into his subordinates, and became one of the chief builders of modern france. "the gigantic entered into our very habits of thought," said one of his ministers. but his efforts to maintain the stupendous twenty years' duel with the combined forces of england and the continental monarchies, and his own over-weening ambition, broke him at length, and he fell to fret away his life caged in a lonely island in mid-atlantic. the new ideas were none the less revolutionary of social life. the salon, that eminently french institution, soon felt their power. the charming irresponsible gaiety and frivolity of the old _régime_ gave place to more serious preoccupation with political movements. the fusing power of rousseau's genius had melted all hearts; the solvent wit of voltaire and the precise science of the encyclopedists were a potent force even among the courtiers themselves. the centre of social life shifted from versailles to paris and the salons gained what the court lost. fine ladies had the latest pamphlet of siéyès read to them at their toilette, and maids caught up the new phrases from their mistresses' lips. did a young gallant enter a salon excusing himself for being late by saying, "i have just been proposing a motion at the club," every fair eye sparkled with interest. a deputy was a social lion, and a box for the national assembly exchanged for one at the opera at a premium of six livres. speeches were rehearsed at the salons and action determined. chief of the hostesses was madame[ ] necker: at her crowded receptions might be seen abbé siéyès, the architect of constitutions; condorcet, the philosopher; talleyrand, the patriotic bishop; madame de stäel, with her strong, coarse face and masculine voice and gestures. more intimate were the tuesday suppers at which a dozen chosen guests held earnest communion. madame de beauharnais was noted for her excellent table, and her tuesday and thursday dinners: at her rooms the masters of literature and music had been wont to meet. now came buffon the naturalist; bailly of tennis court oath fame; clootz, the friend of humanity. the widow of helvetius, with her many memories of franklin, welcomed volney, author of the _ruins of empires_, and chamfort, the candid critic of academicians. at the salon of madame pancroute, barrère, the glib orator of the revolution, was the chief figure. julie talma was famed for her literary and artistic circle. here marie joseph chenier, the revolutionary dramatic poet of the comédie française, declaimed his couplets. here came vergniaud, the eloquent chief of the ill-fated gironde; greuze, the painter; roland, the stern and minatory minister, who spoke bitter words, composed by his wife, to the king; lavoisier, the chemist, who begged that the axe might be stayed while he completed some experiments, and was told that the republic had no need of chemists. madame du deffand, whose hotel in the rue des quatre fils still exists, welcomed voltaire, d'alembert, montesquieu and the encyclopedists. in the street, the great open-air salon of the people, was a feverish going to and fro. here were the tub-thumpers of the revolution holding forth at every public place; the strident voices of ballad-singers at the street corners; hawkers of the latest pamphlets hot from the quai des augustins; the sellers of journals crying the _père duchesne_, _l'ami du peuple_, the _jean bart_, the _vieux cordelier_. crowds gathered round bassett's famous shop for caricature at the corner of the rue st. jacques and the rue des mathurins. the walls of paris were a mass of variegated placards and proclamations. the charming signs of the old _régime_ the pomme rouge, the rose blanche, the ami du coeur, the gracieuse, the trois fleurs-de-lys couronnées gave place to the "necker," the "national assembly," the "tiers," the "constitution"--these, too, soon to be effaced by more republican appellations. for on the abolition of the monarchy and the inauguration of the religion of nature, the words "royal" and "saint" disappear from the revolutionary vocabulary. a new calendar is promulgated: streets and squares are renamed: rues des droits de l'homme, de la revolution, des piques de la lois, efface the old landmarks. we must now say rue honoré, not st. honoré, and mont marat for montmartre. naturalists had written of the queen bee: away with the hated word! she is now named of all good patriots the _abeille pondeuse_, the egg-laying bee. no more emblems on playing cards of king, queen, and knave: allegorical figures of genius, liberty and equality take their places, and since law alone is above them all, patriotism, as it flings down its biggest card, shall cry no longer, "ace of trumps," but "law of trumps," and "genius of trumps." furniture is of spartan simplicity. the people lie down on patriotic beds and eat and drink from patriotic mugs and platters. silver buckles are needed by the national war chest: shoes shall now be clasped by patriotic buckles of copper. the monarchial "_vous_" (you) shall give place to "_toi_" (thou); and "monsieur" and "madame" to "_citoyen_" and "_citoyenne_." the formal subscriptions to letters, "your humble servant," "your obedient servant," shall no more recall the old days of class subjection; we write now "your fellow citizen," "your friend," "your equal." every house bears an inscription, giving the names and ages of the occupants, decorated with patriotic colours of red, white and blue, with figures of the gallic cock and the _bonnet rouge_. over every public building runs the legend, "liberty, equality, fraternity or death"--it is even seen over the cages of the wild beasts at the jardin des plantes. nowhere did the revolutionary ploughshare cut deeper than among the clergy and the religious orders. nearly forty monasteries and convents were suppressed in paris, and strange scenes were those when the troops of monks and friars issued forth to secular life, some crying, "_vive jesus le roi et la revolution_," for the new ideas had penetrated even the cloister. the barbers' shops were invaded, and strange figures were seen smoking their pipes along the boulevards. some went to the wars; others, especially the benedictines, appealed for teaching appointments; many, faithful to their vows, went forth to poverty, misery and death. the nuns and sisters gave more trouble, and the scenes that attended their expulsion and that of the non-juring clergy burned deep into the memories of the pious. "what do they take from me?" cried the _curé_ of st. marguerite in his farewell sermon. "my cure? all that i have is yours, and it is you they despoil. my life? i am eighty-four years of age, and what of life remains to me is not worth the sacrifice of my principles." descending the pulpit the venerable priest passed through a sobbing congregation to a garret in one of the faubourgs. there were but few, however, who imitated the dignified protest of the _curé_ of st. marguerite. many a pulpit rang with fiery denunciations, which recalled the savage fanaticism of the league. some of the younger clergy and a few of the bishops were on the side of the early revolutionists. the abbé fouchet was the peter the hermit of the crusade for liberty, and so popular were his sermons in notre dame that a seat there fetched twenty-four sous. but the corruption and apostasy of the hierarchy as a whole, and their betrayal of the people, had borne its acrid fruit of popular contempt and hostility, resulting in the monstrous profanation of notre dame and other churches of paris by the fanatics of the worship of nature and the puerile deistic theatricalities of robespierre's feasts of the supreme being. compromise became impossible and the revolutionists found arrayed against them the most universal and the deepest of human sentiments, the strongest cementing force in civil life. less than eight years after robespierre's solemn comedy of the _etre suprème_ all the hierarchy of the old religion returned--sixty archbishops and bishops, and an army of priests. a gorgeous easter mass in notre dame celebrated the re-establishment of the catholic faith by napoleon, the heir of the revolution. it is not within the scope of the present work to deal with the later annals of france. superficial students of her modern history have freely charged her with political irresponsibility and fickleness; no charge could be less warranted by facts. for a thousand years her people were loyal and faithful subjects of a monarchy, and endured for a century and a half an infliction of misgovernment, oppression and grinding taxation such as probably no other european people would have tolerated. with touching fidelity and indomitable steadfastness the french people have cherished the principles of the great revolution, in whose name they swept the shams and wrongs of the _ancien régime_ away. there is a profounder truth than perhaps alphonse karr imagined in his famous epigram, _plus ça change plus c'est la même chose_. every political upheaval of the nineteenth century in paris has been at bottom an effort to realise the revolutionary ideals of political freedom and social equality in the face of external violence or internal corruption and treachery. twice the hated bourbons were re-imposed on the people of paris by the bayonets of the foreigner; twice they rose and chased them away. a compromise followed--that of a citizen king, louis philippe of orleans, once a jacobin doorkeeper and a soldier of the revolution, who had fought valiantly at valmy and jemappes. but he too identified himself with reactionary ministers, and became a fugitive to england, the bourne of deposed kings. the second republic which followed grew distrustful of the people and disfranchised at one stroke , , citizens: one of the causes of the success of the _coup d'état_ of napoleon iii. was an astute edict which restored universal suffrage. during the negation of political rectitude and decency which characterised the period of the second empire a little band of republicans refused to bow the knee to the new pinchbeck cæsar, and, inspired by victor hugo, their fiery poet and seer, whose _châtiments_ have the passionate intensity of an isaiah, braved exile, poverty, calumny and flattery. they "stooped into a dark, tremendous sea of doubt, pressed god's lamp to their breasts and emerged" to witness a sad and bitter day of reckoning, when the corruption and vice of the second empire were swallowed up in shame and disaster at sedan. the third republic, with admirable energy and patriotism, rose to save the self-respect of france. the first and imperial war, up to sedan, was over in a month; the second national and popular war endured for five months. [illustration: the louvre--eastern entrance.] dynastic and ecclesiastical ambition die hard, and the new republic has had to weather many a storm in her career of a third of a century. carducci in a fine poem has imagined letizia, mother of the bonapartes, a wandering shade haunting the desolate house at ajaccio and recalling the tragic fate of her children:--a corsican niobe standing on her threshold and fiercely stretching forth her arms to the savage ocean, calling, calling, that from america, from britain, from burning africa, some one of her tragic progeny may come to find a haven in her breast. but the assegais of south african savages laid low the last hope of the imperialists, and it may reasonably be predicted that neither the shades nor the living descendants of bonaparte or bourbon will ever trouble again the internal peace of france nor her people be ruled by one "regnant by right divine and luck o' the pillow." throughout the whole land a profound desire of peace possesses men's minds[ ] and a firm determination to effect a material and moral recuperation from the disasters of the empire. two facts in modern france have impressed the present writer in his travels since --the extraordinary number of new schools that have been raised and staffed throughout the length and breadth of the land and the wonderful activity of the catholic church as shown by new churches and foundations. the beneficent results of the great revolution have leavened the whole world. in no small degree may it be said of france that by her stripes we have been healed. with true insight the revolutionists perceived that liberty is the one essential element of national progress-- "when liberty goes out of a place it is not the first to go, nor the second or third to go, it waits for all the rest to go, it is the last." but the great work is yet incomplete. political liberty and equality have been won. a more tremendous task awaits the peoples of the old and new worlds alike--to achieve industrial emancipation and inaugurate a reign of social justice. and we know that paris will have no small part in the solution of this problem. * * * * * it now remains to consider the impress which this stormy period left on the architecture of paris. we have seen that the convention assigned the royal palace of the louvre for the home of a national museum. the neglect of the fabric, however, continued. already marat had appropriated four of the royal presses and their accessories for the _ami du peuple_, and the types founded for louis xiv. were used to print the diatribes of the fiercest advocate of the terror. all along the south façade, print and cook shops were seen, and small huckstering went on unheeded. in the ground floor of the petite galerie was used as a bourse. on the place du carrousel, and the site of the squares du louvre were a mass of mean houses which remained even to comparatively recent times. in the masterful will and all-embracing activity of napoleon were directed to the improvement of paris, which he determined to make the most beautiful capital in the world. his architects, percier and fontaine, were set to work on the louvre, and yet another vast plan was elaborated for completing the palace. a northern wing, corresponding to henry iv.'s south wing, was to be built eastwards along the new rue de rivoli, from the pavilion de marsan at the north end of the tuileries; the carrousel was to be traversed by a building, separating the two palaces, designed to house the national library, the learned societies and other bodies. of this ambitious plan, however, all that was carried out was a portion of the rue de rivoli façade, from the pavilion de marsan to the pavilion de rohan, which latter was finished under the restoration. some external decorative work was carried out on the south façade. perrault's colonnade was restored, the four façades of the quadrangle were completed, and a new bridge to lead to the "palace of the arts" was built. little or nothing was done to further napoleon's plan until the republic of decreed the completion of the north façade, which was actually achieved under the second empire by visconti in , who built other structures, each with three courts, inside the great space enclosed by the north and south wings to correct their want of parallelism. later ( - ), henry the fourth's long gallery and the pavilions de flore and lesdiguières were rebuilt, and smaller galleries were added to those giving on the cour des tuileries. after the disastrous fire which destroyed the tuileries in , the third republic restored the pavilions de flore and de marsan. but the vicissitudes of this wonderful pile of architecture are not yet ended. the discovery of perrault's base at the east and of lemercier's at the north, will inevitably lead to their proximate disclosure. ample space remains at the east for the excavation of a wide and deep fosse, which would expose the wing to view as perrault intended it; but on the rue de rivoli side the problem is more difficult, and probably a narrow fosse, or _saut de loup_, will be all that space will allow there. napoleon i.'s new streets near the tuileries and the louvre soon became the fashionable quarter of paris. the italian arcades and every street name recalled a former victory of the consulate in italy and egypt. the military glories of a revolutionary empire, which at one time transcended the limits of that of charlemagne; which crashed through the shams of the old world and toppled in the dust their imposing but hollow state, were wrought in bronze on the vendôme column, cast from the cannon captured from every nation in europe. the triumphal arch of the carrousel, crowned by the bronze horses from st. mark's at venice; the majestic triumphal arch of the etoile--a partially achieved project--all paraded the emperor's fame. of more practical utility were the quays built along the south bank of the seine; the bridges of austerlitz and jena, which latter blücher would have blown up had wellington permitted it. the erection of the new church of the madeleine, begun in , had been interrupted by the revolution, and in , napoleon ordered that it should be completed as a temple of glory. the restoration transformed it to a catholic church, which was finally completed under louis philippe in . it is now the most fashionable place of worship in paris. napoleon drove sixty new streets through paris, cleared away the posts that marked off the footways, began the raised pavements and kerbs, and ordered the drainage to be diverted from the gutters in the centre of the roadway. the restoration erected two basilicas--notre dame de lorette and st. vincent de paul--the latter made famous by flandrin's masterly frescoes, painted on a gold ground around the nave and choir. the expiatory chapel raised to the memory of louis xvi. and marie antoinette on the site of the old cemetery of the madeleine--where they lay, until transferred to st. denis, in one red burial with the brave swiss guards who vainly spent their lives for them--is now threatened with demolition. three new bridges--of the invalids, the archevêché and arcole--were added, and fifty-five new streets. under the citizen king, napoleon's arch of triumph of the etoile was completed, and the columns of luxor, on the place de la concorde, and of july on the place de la bastille, were raised. it was the period of the admirable architectural restorations of viollet le duc. the great architect has described how his passion for gothic was stirred when, taken as a boy to notre dame, the rose window of the south seized upon his imagination. while gazing at it the organ began to play, and he thought that the music came from the window--the shrill, high notes from the light colours, the solemn, bass notes from the dark and more subdued hues. it was a reverent and admiring spirit such as this which inspired the famous architect's loving treatment of the gothic restoration in paris and all over france. to him more than to any other artist we owe the preservation of such masterpieces as notre dame and the sainte chapelle. but the great changes which have made modern paris were effected under the second empire. in , when the haussemannisation of the city began, the paris of the first empire and of the restoration remained essentially unaltered. it was a city of a few grand streets and of many mean ones. pavements were still rare, and drainage was imperfect. in a few years the whole aspect was changed. twenty-two new boulevards and avenues were created. streets of appalling uniformity and directness were ploughed through paris in all directions. "nothing is more brutal than a straight line," says victor hugo, and there is little of interest in the monotonous miles of dreary coincidence which constitute the architectural legacy of the second empire. [illustration: rue drouet and sacrÉ coeur.] [illustration: hotel de ville from river.] the sad task of the third republic has been to heal the wounds and cover up the destruction wrought by the civil war of . the chief architectural creations of the third republic are the hôtel de ville, the new sorbonne, the trocadero, and the completion of the magnificent and colossal temple, rich with precious marble and stone of every kind, which, at a cost of £ , , sterling, has been raised to the muses at the end of the avenue de l'opéra. the church, too, has lavished her millions on the mighty basilica of the sacré coeur, which dominates paris from the heights of montmartre. but some of the glory of past ages remains hidden away in corners of the city; some has been recovered from the vandalism of iconoclastic eighteenth-century architects, canons, revolutionists and nineteenth-century prefects. let us now wander awhile about the great city and refresh our memories of her dramatic past by beholding somewhat of the interest and beauty which have been preserved to us; for "to be in paris itself, amid the full, delightful fragrance of those dainty visible things which huguenots despised--that, surely, were the sum of good fortune!" chapter xix historical paris--the citÉ--the university quarter--the ville--the louvre--the place de la concorde--the boulevards [illustration: notre dame, south side.] there are few spots in europe where so many associations are crowded together as on the little island of the cité in paris. in gallo-roman times it was, as we have seen, even smaller, three islets having been incorporated with it since the thirteenth century. some notion of the changes that have swept over its soil may be conceived on scanning félibien's map, where no less than eighteen churches are marked, scarce a wrack of which now remains on the island. we must imagine the old mediæval cité as a labyrinth of crooked and narrow streets, with the present broad parvis of notre dame of much smaller extent encumbered with shops and at a lower level. thirteen steps led up to the cathedral, and the bishop's gallows stood facing them. against the north tower leaned the baptistry (st. jean le rond) and st. denis du pas against the apse. st. pierre aux boeufs, whose façade has been transferred to st. severin's on the south bank, stood at the east corner, st. christopher at the west corner of the present hôtel dieu which covers the site of eleven streets and three churches. the old twelfth-century hospital, demolished in , occupied the whole space, south of the parvis between the present petit pont and the pont au double. it possessed its own bridge, the pont st. charles, over which the buildings stretched, and joined the annexe ( ), which still exists on the opposite side of the river. behind notre dame in mediæval times was an open space of waste land, the motte aux papelards, where the servants of the cathedral disported themselves. to the east and north-east stood the cloisters and canons' dwellings, a veritable city within a city, with four gates and fifty-one houses. canon fulbert's house stood on the site of no. rue chanoinesse, and at no. quai aux fleurs an inscription marks the site of the house of heloise and abelard. the rue and pont d'arcole have cleared away the old church of st. landry and the port of that name, where up to the reign of louis xiii. a market was held, at which foundling children from the hospital on the parvis could be bought for thirty sous. the scandal was abolished by the efforts of the gentle st. vincent de paul, anne of austria's confessor. until comparatively recent times the church of st. marine was used as a joiner's workshop, and one of the chapels of the madeleine, the parish church of the water-sellers, served as a wine merchant's store! and where are the sanctuaries of ste. geneviève des ardents, st. pierre aux liens, st. denis de la chartre, st. germain le vieux, st. aignan, ste. croix, st. symphorien, st. martial, st. bartholomew, and the church of the barnabites, which replaced that of st. anne, which replaced the old abbey church of st. eloy, all clustering around their parent church of our lady, like nuns under their patroness' mantle? some remains of the pavement of st. aignan's, with the almost effaced lineaments and inscriptions on the flat tombstones of those, now forgotten, who in their day were doubtless famous churchmen, may be seen in the court of no. rue chanoinesse; but the only ancient buildings that rest on the old cité are notre dame and some portions of the palais, including the sainte chapelle. not a street retains its old aspect. the clock tower of the palais dates from , and the face of germain pilon's famous clock has been re-carved. the quai de l'horloge, once named of the _morfondus_ (chilled), because of its cold, northern, sunless aspect, where madame roland spent her childhood in her father's house, has been widened and lowered. there, at least, is a fine relic of old paris, the picturesque, mediæval towers of the conciergerie, in olden times the principal entrance to the palace. a fifteenth-century tower called of dagobert, in the rue chanoinesse, is shown to travellers by the courtesy of messieurs allez frères, and marks the site of the old port of st. landry. [illustration: versailles--bassin de neptune.] if the traveller will place himself on the pont royal or on the pont du carrousel, and look towards the cité when the tall buildings, the spire of the sainte chapelle and the massive grey towers of notre dame are ruddy with the setting sun, he will enjoy a scene of beauty not easily surpassed in europe. across the picture, somewhat marred by the unlovely pont des arts, marches the procession of the arches of the pont neuf with their graceful curves. below is the little green patch of garden and the cascade of the weir; in the centre the bronze horse with its royal rider, almost hidden by the trees, stands facing the site of the old garden of the palais, now the place dauphine, where st. louis sat on a carpet judging his people, and whence philip the fair watched the flames that were consuming the grand master and his companion of the knights templars. to the left are the picturesque mediæval towers of the conciergerie and the tall roof of the belfry of the palais. around all are the embracing waters of the seine breaking the light with their thousand facets. the island, when seen from the east as one sails down the river, is not less imposing, for the great mother church of notre dame, with the graceful buttresses of the apse like folded pinions, seems to brood over the whole cité. * * * * * as we turn southwards from the cité across the petit pont we see the old roman road, now rue st. jacques, rising before us, and on the annexe of the hôtel dieu, in the place du petit pont, are inscribed their names[ ] who nearly twelve centuries ago dared-- "for that sweet motherland which gave them birth, nobly to do, nobly to die." [illustration: st. sÉverin.] [illustration: the observatory.] to left and right are two of the most interesting churches in paris--st. julien le pauvre, where the university held its first sittings, and st. séverin, built on the site of the oratory of childebert i., where st. cloud was shorn and took his vows. both churches were destroyed by the normans. the former was rebuilt in the twelfth century, the latter from the thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries. the portal of st. séverin has been, as we have already mentioned, transferred from the thirteenth-century church of st. pierre aux boeufs, in the cité. two small lions in relief, between which the _curés_ of the church in olden times are said to have exercised justice, have been replaced on either side of the north door of the tower. this beautiful gothic temple, with its magnificent stained glass, was used during the revolution as a powder magazine. hard by, in the picturesque old rue de la parchmenerie, two houses, nos. and , were once the property of the canons of norwich cathedral, who maintained a number of scholars there. turning out of this street, the rue boutebrie, was in olden times the rue des enlumineurs (illuminators), famous for those who practised the art "_che alluminare chiamato è in parisi_." a street (rue dante), which bears the name of the great poet, from whom this line is taken, leads to the rue du fouarre (straw street), in one of whose colleges the author of the _divina commedia_ probably sat as scholar. the houses are all modernised, and the name alone remains. southwards again, the rue des anglais reminds us that there the english scholars lived; and to the east is the place maubert, of dread memories, for there were burnt many a protestant martyr, and the famous printer-philosopher, etienne dolet, whose statue in bronze stands on the place. yet further south, near the site of the old carmelite monastery in the rue des carmes, stood, at no. , the italian college (collége des lombards). much of this "hostel of the poor italian scholars of the charity of our lady," as rebuilt in by the efforts of two irish priests, michael kelly and patrick moggin, still remains, including the chapel, and is occupied by a catholic workmen's club. it formerly gave shelter to forty irish missionary priests and an equal number of poor irish scholars. some idea of the vast extent of the ancient foundation will be gained by walking round to the rue de la montagne, where the principal portal may be seen. if we turn westwards by the rue des ecoles, we shall pass the famous collége de france, and soon reach the hôtel de cluny, and the remains of the roman palace and baths. the ruins and ground were purchased by the abbots of cluny in , and the present beautiful late gothic mansion was completed for them in . it was often let by the abbots, and was occupied by james v. of scotland when he came to paris in to celebrate his marriage with magdalen, daughter of francis i. in the frigidarium of the baths are the remains of the altar to jupiter found under notre dame, a statue of the emperor julian, and many a relic of roman paris. [illustration: tower and courtyard of hotel cluny.] the abbots' delightful old mansion is filled with a rich collection of mediæval statues, altar paintings, wood carvings, ivories, reliquaries, stained glass, tapestries (among them the lady and unicorn series, the finest ever wrought), embroideries and textile fabrics, enamels and goldsmiths' work--all of wondrous beauty and interest. the rooms themselves, with their fine renaissance chimney-pieces, where on winter days wood fires, fragrant and genial, burn, are not the least charming part of the museum. many of the objects (about , ) exhibited are uncatalogued, and the old catalogue, long out of date, might well be classed among the antiquities. south of the cluny are the vast buildings of the new sorbonne, the modern university of paris, where some , students are gratuitously taught. the vestibule, grand staircase and amphitheatre are of noble and impressive architecture, and adorned with mural paintings, among which puvis de chavannes' great decorative composition in the amphitheatre is of chiefest interest. the paintings of the vestibule illustrate scenes in the history of the university of paris. of richelieu's sorbonne, the chapel alone exists to-day: all the remainder has been swept away, together with the north cloister and church of st. benoist, where françois villon assassinated his rival chermoyé. we are now on mont st. genevieve, crowned by the panthéon, below which, at no. rue soufflot, an inscription marks the site of the dominican monastery, where albertus magnus and st. thomas aquinas taught. to the north is the extensive library of st. genevieve, on the site of the collége montaigue. behind are the church of st. etienne du mont the burial-place of racine and pascal, with its beautiful _jubé_, or choir screen, and the lycée henri iv., enclosing the tower of clovis, all that remains of the fine old abbey church of st. genevieve. hard by is the rue descartes, where stood the college of navarre, which was demolished to give place to the ecole polytechnique. farther south, the rue de navarre leads to the ruins of the great roman amphitheatre. [illustration: old academy of medicine.] west of the boulevard st. michel are the fine modern buildings of the ecole de médecine, which, from to the times of louis xv., was situated further eastwards in the rue de la bûcherie, where (no. ) some remains of the old hall of the faculty may yet be seen. it was here that an anatomical and surgical theatre was built in . the old franciscan refectory (no. rue de l'ecole de médecine) is all that remains of the great monastery of the cordeliers. here the body of marat was laid on an altar, after his assassination by charlotte corday in a house on whose site his statue stands. the refectory is now used as a pathological museum for medical students. the famous revolutionary club of the cordeliers, where the gentler rhetoric of camille desmoulins vied with the thunderous declamation of danton to stir republican fervour, met in the hall of theology. at no. are some remains of the school of surgery, or guild of st. cosimo and st. damian, founded by st. louis; adjacent stood the church of st. cosimo (st. cosme), famous for the fiery zeal of its _curé_ during the times of the league. the surgeons were by their charter compelled to give professional assistance to the poor every monday, and in the _curé_ and churchwardens of st. cosme obtained a papal bull authorising them to erect in their church a suitable consulting hall for the accommodation of poor patients. in the surgeons built an anatomical theatre of their own at st. cosme, which was enlarged in . the buildings are now used as a school of decorative art. the magnificent franciscan church, where many a queen of france lay buried, stood on the site of the present place de l'ecole de médecine. south of these is the luxembourg palace, whose charming renaissance gardens, unhappily, owing to the erection of the observatory in , reduced by more than one-third of their former extent, are the delight of the parisians of the south bank of the seine. the old orangery, restored and enlarged, is used as a public museum of contemporary french art, chiefly painting and sculpture. here are exhibited the works of modern artists which have been deemed worthy of acquisition by the state. they display great talent and technical skill, but the visitor will leave, impressed by few works of great distinction. the english traveller will, however, be envious of a collection whose catholicity embraces examples of the work of two great modern masters, londoners by option--legros and whistler. any impression of modern french painting that may be left on the mind of the visitor by an inspection of the examples hung in the luxembourg should however be supplemented and corrected by a visit to the decorative works in the great public edifices, such as the hôtel de ville, the sorbonne, the panthéon, and the churches of paris. north of the museum loom the massive gloomy towers of the church of st. sulpice, which contains, among much mediocre painting, a chapel to the right of the entrance adorned by some of delacroix's finest work. still further northward is the old abbey church of st. germain des prés. but before entering we may cross the rue de rennes and visit (no. ) the picturesque cour du dragon, so-called from the eighteenth-century figure of the dragon over the portal. at the end of this curious courtyard, paved as old paris was paved, with the gutter in the centre of the street, will be seen two interesting old towers enclosing stairways. [illustration: cour du dragon.] [illustration: the louvre from the south-east.] the grey pile of st. germain des prés, the burial-place of the merovingian kings, once refulgent with gold and colour, has been wholly restored; but on the west porch, over the main entrance, a well-preserved, romanesque relief of the last supper may be noted. the admirable frescoes in the interior by flandrin are among the noblest achievements of modern french art. part of the abbots' palace of the sixteenth century is left standing in the rue de l'abbaye, but of all the fortress-monastery, with its immense domain of lands and cloisters, walls and towers, over which those puissant lords held sway, only a memory remains: the walls were razed in the seventeenth century and replaced by artizans' houses. the rue du four recalls the old feudal oven. lower down the rue bonaparte is the little visited but most interesting ecole des beaux arts, once the monastery of the petits augustins, now rich in examples of early renaissance architecture and other artistic treasures. it is a great teaching centre, and trains some fifteen hundred students in sculpture, painting and architecture. westward of this, the artists' quarter of paris, is the select and aristocratic, but dull faubourg st. germain--the noble faubourg--where many of the descendants of the noblesse who escaped from the wreck of their order during the revolution, dwell in petulant isolation and haughty aversion from the third republic and all its ways. further westward are the great hospital and church of the invalides, with napoleon's majestic monument, and the military school of the champ de mars. * * * * * two parallel historic roads named of st. martin and st. denis cut northwards through the masses of habitations that crowd the northern bank of the seine. the former was the great roman street, leading to the provinces of the north: the latter, the grande chaussée de monseigneur st. denis, led to the shrine of the patron saint and martyr of lutetia. along this, the richest and finest street of mediæval paris, the kings of france and henry v. of england passed in solemn state to notre dame. four gates, whose sites are known in each of these two streets, mark the successive stages of the growth of the city. in a sloping bank of sand (_grève_), a little to the east of the rue st. martin and facing the old port of the _naut_ at st. landry on the island of the cité, was ceded by royal charter to the burgesses of paris for a payment of seventy livres. "it is void of houses," says the charter, "and is called the _gravia_, and is situated where the old market-place (_vetus forum_) existed." this was the origin of the famous place de grève where throbbed the very heart of civic, commercial and industrial paris. here etienne marcel purchased for the hôtel de ville the maison aux piliers (house of the pillars), a long, low building, whose upper floor was supported by columns. here every revolutionary and democratic movement has been organised from the days of marcel to those of the communes of --when the last provost of the merchants met his death--and of , when domenico da cortona's fine renaissance hotel was destroyed by fire. [illustration: st. gervais.] the place of sand was much smaller in olden times, and from , when philip the fair burned three heretics, to july , when the last murderer was hung there, has soaked up the blood of many a famous enemy of state and church and of innumerable notorious and obscure criminals. a permanent gibbet stood there and a market cross. every st. john's eve--the church and cloister of st. jean stood behind the hôtel de ville--a great bonfire was lighted in the place de grève, fireworks were let off, and a salvo of artillery celebrated the festival. when the relations between crown and commune were felicitous the king himself would take part in the _fête_ and fired the pile with a torch of white wax which was decorated with crimson velvet. a royal supper and ball in the grande salle concluded the revels. not infrequently the ashes at the stake where a poor wretch had met his doom were scarcely cool before the joyous flames and fireworks of the feu de st. jean burst forth. the very day after the execution of the count of bouteville the people were dancing round the fires of st. john. the place was often flooded by the seine until the embankment was built in . the present hôtel de ville, completed in , is one of the finest modern edifices in europe. [illustration: place des vosges, maison de victor hugo.] to the east of the hotel stands the church of st. gervais, whose façade by debrosse ( ) "is regarded," says félibien ( ), "as a masterpiece of art by the best architectural authorities" ("_les plus intelligens en architecture_"). the church, which has been several times rebuilt, occupies the site of the old sixth-century building, near which stood the elm tree where suitors waited for justice to be done by the early kings. "_attendre sous l'orme_" ("to wait under the elm") is still a proverbial expression for waiting till doomsday. to the east of the rue st. martin is the quarter of the marais (marsh) at whose eastern limit a group of street names recalls the royal palace-city of st. paul. at the south of the rue du figuier, on the place de l'ave maria, stands the hôtel of the archbishops of sens, and near by, in the passage charlemagne, is the hôtel of the royal provost of paris. as we cross the rue st. antoine to the old place royale (des vosges), we may note at no. the hôtel de mayenne--where the chamber still exists in which the leaders of the league met and decided to assassinate henry iii.--and at no. , the hôtel de sully, where henry the fourth's great minister and, later, turgot dwelt. the place royale occupies the site of the palace of the tournelles built for the duke of bedford during the english occupation, near which henry ii. lost his life in the fatal tournament. the palace became hateful to catherine de' medici, and she had it demolished. the site was subsequently used as a horse market, and there three mignons of henry iii. fought their bloody duel with three bullies of the duke of guise. the architecture of henry iv. place is little changed; the king's and queen's pavilions stood south and north; richelieu occupied the present no. , and at no. dwelt marshal lavardin, who was sitting in the coach when his royal master, henry iv., was stabbed. later this house was occupied by victor hugo, and is now maintained as a museum of much interest to lovers of the darling poet of nineteenth-century paris. a little to the west, in the rue des francs bourgeois, is the hôtel carnarvalet, built in by jean bullant, the architect of the tuileries, to the design of pierre lescot. jean goujon carved, among other decorative works, the fine reliefs of the four seasons in the quadrangle where now stands a bronze statue of louis xiv. by coyzevox, brought from the old hôtel de ville. in this noble renaissance mansion, enlarged by f. mansard and others, lived for twenty years madame de sévigné, queen of letter writers, and her _carnarvalette_, as she lovingly called it, is now the civic museum of paris, devoted to objects illustrating the history of the city. it is especially rich in exhibits bearing on the great revolution. passing along the rue des francs bourgeois we may note (no. ) an old inscription which marks the scene of the assassination of the duke of orleans by jean sans peur. at the north corner of the rue des archives is the entrance to the national archives, housed in the fine pseudo-classical hôtel de soubise, constructed in on the site of the hôtel of the constable de clisson, of which the old gothic (restored) portal exists in the rue des archives. it was at the hôtel de clisson that charles vi., after his terrible vengeance on the revolted burgesses, agreed to remit further punishment, and for a time the mansion was known as the hôtel des grâces. [illustration: archives nationales in hÔtel soubise, showing towers of hÔtel de clisson.] lower down the rue des archives are the rue de l'homme armé and the fifteenth-century cloisters of the monastery of the billettes, founded at the end of the thirteenth century to commemorate the miracle of the sacred host, which had defied the efforts of the jew jonathan to destroy it by steel, fire and boiling. the chapel, built in on the site of the jew's house, was rebuilt in , and is now used as a protestant church. the miraculous host was preserved as late as félibien's time in st. jean en grève, and carried annually in procession on the octave of corpus christi. at the north end of the rue des archives is the site, now a square and a market, of the grisly old fortress of the knights templars, whose walls and towers and round church were still standing a century ago. the enclosure was a famous place of refuge for insolvent debtors and political offenders, and sheltered rousseau in when a _lettre de cachet_ was issued for his arrest. in the gloomy keep, which was not destroyed until , were imprisoned the royal family of france after the abandonment of the tuileries on th august . the old market of the temple, the centre of the _petites industries_ of paris, is being demolished as we write. west of this is the huge museum of the arts and crafts (conservatoire des arts et metiers), on the site of the abbatial buildings and lands of st. martin of the fields, still preserving in its structure the beautiful thirteenth-century church and refectory of the abbey. as we turn southwards again by the rue st. martin we shall pass on our left one of the most curious remains of old paris, the narrow rue de venise, a veritable mediæval street formerly known as the ruelle des usuriers, the home of the law speculators where men almost rent each other in pieces in their mad scramble for fortune. at no. , the corner of the rue quincampoix, is the famous old inn of the epée de bois, now a l'arrivée de venise, where de horn, a member of a princely german family, and two gentlemen assassinated and robbed a financier in open day, and were broken alive on the wheel in the place de grève. marivaux and l. racine are said, with other wits, to have frequented the old inn, and mazarin granted letters-patent to a company of dancing masters, who met there under the management of the roi des violins. from these modest beginnings grew the national academy of dancing. at the south end of the rue st. martin rises the beautiful flamboyant gothic tower, all that remains of the great church of st. jacques de la boucherie. this fine monument of the past was saved by the good sense of the architect giraud, who, when it was sold to the housebreakers during the revolution, inserted a clause in the warrant of sale exempting the tower from demolition; it was used as a lead foundry, and twice narrowly escaped destruction by fire. purchased later by the city it seemed safe at last, but in the prolongation of the rue de rivoli again threatened its existence; luckily, however, the line of the new street passed by on the north. the statue of pascal, under the vaulting, reminds the traveller that the great thinker conducted some of his barometrical experiments on the summit, and the nineteen statues in the niches mostly represent the patron saints of the various crafts that settled under its shadow. on the place du châtelet, at the foot of the pont au change, stood the massive grand châtelet, originally built by louis the lusty near the site of the old fortress, which, during the norman invasions defended the approach to the grand pont as the petit châtelet did the approach to the petit pont on the south. the grand châtelet, demolished in , was the official seat and prison of the provost of paris, where he held his criminal court and organised the city watch. the column and fountain of victory which now stand in the place commemorate the victories of napoleon in egypt and italy. [illustration: s. eustache.] nowhere in paris has the housebreaker's pick been plied with greater vigour than in the parallelogram enclosed by the boulevard de sebastopol, the rues etienne marcel and du louvre, and the seine. the site of the immense necropolis of the innocents[ ] is now partly occupied by the square des innocents adorned by lescot's fountain. a curious early fifteenth-century story is associated with this charnel house. one morning the wife of adam de la gonesse and her niece, two _bourgeoises_ of paris, went abroad to have a little flutter and eat two sous' worth of tripe in a new inn. on their way they met dame tifaigne the milliner, who recommended the tavern of the "maillez," where the wine was excellent. thither they went and drank not wisely but too well. when fifteen sous had already been spent, they determined to make a day of it and ordered roast goose with hot cakes. after further drinking, gauffres, cheese, peeled almonds, pears, spices and walnuts were called for and the feast ended in songs. when the "bad quarter of an hour" came they had not enough money to pay, and parted with some of their finery to meet the score. at midnight they left the inn dancing and singing,-- "amours au vireli m'en vois." the streets of paris, however, at midnight were unsafe even for sober ladies, and these soon fell among thieves, were stripped of the rest of their clothing, then taken up for dead by the watch and flung into the mortuary in the cemetery of the innocents; but to the terror of the gravedigger were found lying outside the next morning singing,-- "druin, druin, ou es allez? apporte trois harens salez et un pot de vin du plus fort." the huge piles of skulls and human remains that grinned from under the gable roof of the gallery painted with the dance of death were in carted away to the catacombs under paris, formed by the old gallo-roman quarrymen as they quarried the stone used to build lutetia. an immense area of picturesque halles and streets:--the halle aux draps; the marché des herboristes, with their mysterious stores of simples and healing herbs and leeches; the marché aux pommes de terre et aux oignons; the butter and cheese markets; the fish market; the queer old rue de la tonnellerie, under whose shabby porticoes, sellers of rags, old clothes, iron and furniture, crowded against the bread market; the marché des prouvaires, beloved of thrifty housewives--all are swallowed up by the vast modern structure of iron and glass, known as les halles. the halle au blé, or corn market, last to disappear, was built on the site of the hôtel de la reine which catherine de' medici had erected when frightened from the tuileries by her astrologer ruggieri. the site is now occupied by the bourse de commerce. one curious decorated and channelled column, however, which conceals a stairway used by catherine and her italian familiar when they ascended to the roof to consult the stars, was preserved and made into a fountain in . it still stands against the new bourse in the rue de viarmes. north of the halles the small rue pirouette recalls the old revolving pillory of the halles, and yet further north, between nos. and rue réamur, a dingy old passage leads to the cour des miracles, which victor hugo has made famous in _notre dame_. there, too, was the gambling hell kept by jean dubarry, paramour of jeanne vaubernier, who was the daughter of a monk and became the famous mistress of louis xv. she was married by louis to guillaume, brother of jean dubarry, to give her some standing at court. [illustration: winged victory of samothrace.] [illustration: st. george and the dragon. michel colombe.] at the south angle of the rue montmartre the majestic transitional church of st. eustache towers over the halles. we descend the rue vauvilliers, formerly of the four (oven) st. honoré, in which two of the houses still display old painted signs: others retain their quaint appellations--the sheep's trotter, the golden sun, the cat and ball. turning westward by the rue st. honoré, we shall find at the corner of the rue de l'arbre sec the fine fountain of the croix du trahoir erected in the reign of francis i. and rebuilt by soufflot in : here tradition places the cruel death of queen brunehaut. lower down, where the street intersects the rue de rivoli, an inscription on the corner house to the left marks the site of the hôtel de montbazan, where coligny was assassinated, and yet lower down the rue de l'arbre sec we note the hôtel des mousquetaires, the dwelling of the famous d'artagnan of dumas' _trois mousquetaires_, opposite the apse of the church of st. germain l'auxerrois. after examining the interior of the church, especially the beautiful fifteenth-century chambre des archives, and the porch of the same date, we are brought face to face with the principal entrance to the louvre. [illustration: near the pont neuf.] no other edifice in the world forms so vast a treasure house of rich and varied works of art as the great palace of the louvre whose growth we have traced in our story. the nucleus of the gallery of paintings was formed by francis i. and the renaissance princes at the palace of fontainebleau, where the canvases at the beginning of the seventeenth century had reached nearly . colbert, during the reign of louis xiv. by the purchase of the mazarin and other collections, added paintings and nearly drawings in ten years. in the cabinet du roi, for so the collection of royal pictures was called, was transferred to the louvre. they soon, however, followed their owner to versailles, but some hundred were subsequently returned to paris, where they might be inspected at the luxembourg palace by the public on wednesdays and saturdays. in bailly, the keeper of the king's cabinet, took an inventory of the paintings and they were found to number . in all were again returned to versailles, and it was not until , when the national convention, on barrère's motion, took the matter in hand, that they were restored to the parisians and, together with the works of art removed from the suppressed churches and monasteries, formed the famous picture gallery of the louvre, which was formally opened to the public on the first anniversary of the memorable th of august. napoleon's spoils from italian and other european galleries, which almost choked the louvre during his reign, were reduced in by the return of works of art to their original owners, under english supervision. during the removal of the pictures british sentries were stationed along the galleries, and british soldiers stood under arms on the quadrangle and the place du carrousel to protect the workmen. subsequent gifts and private legacies have since added priceless collections, the latest, that of thomy-thierry, endowing the museum with numerous examples of the barbizon school. [illustration: cardinal virtues. germain pilon.] [illustration: _diana and the stag._] the ground floor, devoted to the plastic arts, contains in its antique section many excellent greco-roman works, but relatively few of pure greek workmanship. among those few are the beautiful reliefs in the salle grecque and, in the salle de la vénus de milo, the best-known and most-admired example of greek statues in europe, which gives its name to the hall. it was to this exquisite creation of idealised womanhood that the poet heine dragged himself in may to take leave of the lovely idols of his youth, before he lay, never to raise himself again, on his mattress-grave in the rue d'amsterdam. "as i entered the noble hall," he writes, "where the most blessed goddess of beauty, our dear lady of milo, stands on her pedestal, i well-nigh broke down and lay at her feet sobbing so piteously that even a heart of stone must be moved to compassion. and the goddess gazed at me compassionately, yet withal so comfortless as who should say, 'dost thou not see that i have no arms and cannot help thee?'" it was a god with arms that poor heine needed. an early work of a nobler and more virile type meets the visitor as he mounts the staircase to the picture gallery--the victory of samothrace, one of the grandest examples of pure greek art in its finer period. magnificent as the collection of antique sculpture is, the little-visited musée des sculptures du moyen âge, et de la renaissance will be found of greater importance to the student of french art. here are examples, few but admirable, of the growth of french sculpture from the tenth to the sixteenth century contrasted with some masterpieces of the italian sculptors, including michael angelo's so-called slaves, being actually two of the virtues wrought for the tomb of pope julius ii. an interesting thirteenth-century coloured statue of childebert from st. germain des prés, and a beautiful death of the virgin from the st. jacques de la boucherie, later in style, are especially interesting. michel colombe's fine relief of st. george and the dragon; germain pilon's theological virtues from the church of the célestins, and the cardinal virtues in wood from st. etienne du mont; jean goujon's nymphs of the seine, and diana and the stag, will illustrate the stubborn resistance made by the characteristic native school of sculpture against, and its gradual yielding to, the foreign influence of the italian renaissance. the gradual decline of french sculpture during the seventeenth century, its utter degradation in the reign of louis xv., and signs of its recovery in the revolutionary epoch, may be traced in the musée des sculptures modernes. [illustration: _the burning bush._] the last edition ( ) of the _summary catalogue_ of the pictures in the louvre contains the titles of works, apart from decorative ceiling and mural paintings. the visitor must therefore needs make choice of his own favourite schools or masters, for, if he were to devote but one minute to a cursory examination of each exhibit, twenty-five visits of two hours each would be needed to view the whole collection. the pictures bear evidence of the period during which they were amassed, for they are rich in examples of the later italian and netherland schools and relatively poor in those of the pre-raphaelite masters. but among the latter is fra angelico's coronation of the virgin, which vasari declared must have been painted by the hand of one of the blessed spirits or angels represented in the picture, so unspeakably sweet and delightful were their forms, so gentle and delicate their mien, so glorious their colouration. "even so," he adds, "and not otherwise, must they be in heaven, and never do i gaze on this picture without discovering fresh beauties, and never do i withdraw my eyes from it sated with seeing." every phase in raphael's development, from the peruginesque to the roman periods, may be studied in the louvre. no gallery in europe--not excepting the accademia of venice--can approach the louvre in the wealth of its titians, and the same might almost be said of its veroneses. it contains the most famous portrait in the world--da vinci's monna lisa--and some exquisite examples of luini's fresco and easel works. among the rich collections of tuscan and other italian masters, we may mention two charming frescoes by botticelli. in no gallery outside spain are the spanish artists, especially murillo, so well represented, and magnificent examples of the later flemings, rubens and van dyck, adorn its walls. among the latter master's works is the charles i. (no. ), bought for the boudoir of madame dubarry by louis xv. on the fiction that it was a family picture, since the page holding the horse was named barry. michelet, in his _history of the revolution_, says that he never visited the louvre without staying to muse before this famous historic canvas.[ ] among the later dutch masters, most of whom are adequately represented, are some masterpieces by rembrandt; of the germans, holbein is seen at his best in some superb portraits. but the student of french history and lover of french art will infallibly be drawn to the works of the native french schools, and especially to those of the earlier masters. for the extraordinary collection of french primitifs of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, exhibited at paris in , and the publication of dimier's[ ] uncompromising and powerful defence of those critics, who, like himself, deny the existence of any indigenous french school of painting whatsoever, have concentrated the attention of the artistic world on this passionately debated controversy. the writer well remembers, some twenty years since, being impressed by certain characteristic traits in the few examples of early french painting hung in the louvre, and desiring the opportunity of a wider field of observation. such opportunity has at length been given. now, while it is quite true that most of the examples of the so-called franco-flemish school exhibited in the pavilion de marsan would pass, and have passed, unquestioned when seen among a collection of flemish paintings, yet when massed together, they do display more or less well-defined extra-flemish and extra-italian characteristics--a modern feeling for nature and an intimate realism in the treatment of landscape, a freer, more supple and more vivacious drawing of the human figure--that produce a cumulative effect which is almost irresistible, and may be reasonably explained by the theory of a school of painters expressing independent local feeling and genius. we include, of course, the illuminated mss. exhibited in the bibliothèque nationale and the books of hours at chantilly by fouquet and by pol de limbourg and his brothers. the latter, by some authorities, are believed to have been the nephews of malouel, and to have studied their art at paris. the theory of the existence of a national french school, analogous to the _post_-revolutionary school of painting, is, of course, untenable, for france, as a nation, can scarcely be said to have existed, in the wider sense of the term, before the end of louis xi.'s reign. when that monarch came to the throne paris and north france had been sorely exhausted by the century of the english wars; burgundy was an independent state; provence, with its capital aix, and avignon were independent counties, ruled by the counts of provence and the pope. a more rational classification into schools would perhaps, as dimier has hinted, follow the lines of racial division--french and teutonic. for many of the flemish artists were french in race, as, for instance, roger van der weyden, who was known to italians as rogerus gallicus, and called himself roger de la pasture. [illustration: le maitre de moulins. triptych of moulins.] [illustration: juvenal des ursins. fouquet.] the two great schools of christian painting in europe were born, grew and flourished in the free cities of flanders in the north, and in the free cities of italy in the south. french masters, working in the provincial centres of tours, dijon, moulins, aix and avignon, were inevitably subdued by the dominant and powerful masters of the north and south, and how far they succeeded in impressing a local and racial individuality on their works is, and long will be, a fruitful theme for constructive artistic criticism. the famous triptych of moulins, now with many other works attributed to the painter of the bourbons, known as the maître de moulins, who was working between and , has long been accepted as a work by ghirlandaio. the well-known painting at the glasgow museum, a prince of cleves, with his patron saint, st. victor of paris, now assigned to the maître de moulins, was recently exhibited among the flemish paintings at bruges, and has long been attributed to hugo van der goes. the burning bush, given to nicolas fromont, has been with equal confidence classed as a flemish work, and even ascribed to van eyck; and the triumph of the virgin, from villeneuve-les-avignon, now on irrefragable evidence assigned to enguerrand charonton, has been successively attributed to van eyck and van der meire. even if all the paintings which the patriotic bias of enthusiastic critics has attributed to french masters, known or unknown, be accepted, the continuity is broken by many gaps, which can only be filled by assuming, after the fashion of biologists, the existence of "missing links." further researches will doubtless elucidate this fascinating controversy. among the french primitifs[ ] possessed by the louvre may be mentioned the martyrdom of st. denis, and a pietà, nos. and , attributed wholly or in part to malouel, who was working about for jean sans peur at dijon. a pietà (no. ), now attributed to the school of paris of the late fifteenth century, contains an interesting representation of the louvre, the abbey of st. germain des prés and of montmartre, and has been ascribed to a pupil of van eyck, and later to an italian painter named fabrino. by fouquet (about - ), the best known of the early french masters, there are portraits of juvenal des ursins and charles vii. two works (nos. and ), the portraits of pierre ii., duke of bourbon, and of anne of beaujean, catalogued under unknown masters, are now assigned by many critics to the maître de moulins.[ ] nicholas froment, who was working about - , is represented by admirable portraits (no. _a._), of good king rené and jeanne de laval, his second wife. jean perréal, believed by m. hulin to be identical with the maître de moulins, is also represented by a virgin and child between two donors (no. ). the later master, of flemish birth, known as jean clouet, a painter of great delicacy, simplicity and charm, who died between and , having spent twenty-five years as court painter of france; his brother, clouet of navarre; and his son, françois clouet, who was his assistant during the ten later years of his life, are all more or less doubtfully represented. nos. and , portraits of francis i., are attributed to jean clouet, or jehannet as this elusive personality is sometimes known; nos. and , two admirable portraits of charles ix. and his queen elizabeth of austria, to françois clouet; no. , a portrait of louis de st. gellais, is ascribed to clouet of navarre. other portraits executed at this period will be found on the walls, and are of profound interest to the student of french history. [illustration: shepherds of arcady. poussin.] the two years' sojourn in france of solario, at the invitation of the cardinal d'amboise, of da vinci at the solicitation of louis xii., and the foundation of the school of fontainebleau by rosso and primaticcio, mark the eclipse of whatever schools of french painting were then existing, for the grand manner and dramatic power of the italians, fostered by royal patronage, carried all before them. of rosso, known to the french as maître roux, the louvre has a pietà and a classical subject--the challenge of the pierides (nos. and ). primaticcio is represented by some admirable drawings. but the sterility of the fontainebleau school may be inferred from the fact that when marie de' medici desired to have the luxembourg decorated with the events in the life of henry iv., her late husband, she was compelled to apply to a foreigner--rubens. of vouet ( - ), who is important as the leader of the new french school of the seventeenth century, the louvre has some dozen examples, among them being his masterpiece (no. )--the presentation at the temple. bestowing a passing attention on the lesser masters, and pausing to appreciate the works of the three brothers le nain, who stand pre-eminent for the healthy, sturdy simplicity of their peasant types and scenes of lowly life, we turn to nicolas poussin ( - ), the greatest of the seventeenth-century masters, who spent the whole of his artistic career in rome save two unhappy years ( - ) at the french court, which his simple habits and artistic conscience made intolerable to him. his exalted and lucid conceptions, admirable art and fertility of invention may be adequately appreciated at the louvre alone, which holds nearly fifty examples of his work. the beautiful and pathetic shepherds of arcady (no. ) is generally regarded as his masterpiece. a group of shepherds in the fulness of health and beauty are arrested in their enjoyment of life by the warning inscription on a tomb--"_et in arcadia ego_" ("i, too, once lived in arcady"). equally rich is the louvre in works of vouet's pupil, lesueur ( - ), one of the twelve ancients of the royal academy of painting and sculpture. no greater contrast could be imagined to the frank paganism of poussin than the works of this fervently religious and tender artist, whose famous series from the life of st. bruno is now placed in room xii. his careful application to this monumental task may be estimated by the fact that preliminary studies are preserved in the cabinet of drawings in the louvre. the decorative skill, fertility and industry of his contemporary and fellow-pupil lebrun ( - ), whom louis xiv. loved to patronise, may perhaps be better appreciated at versailles, but the louvre displays the celebrated series of the life of alexander, executed for the gobelins, and some score of his other works. his less talented rival, mignard ( - ), also a pupil of vouet, is seen at his best in the frescoes of the dome[ ] of the val de grâce, but the oppressive influence of the italian eclectics is all too evident in his style. he excelled in portraiture, and the visitor will not fail to remark the portraits of madame de maintenon, and of the grand dauphin with his wife and children. louis xiv., who sat to him many times, one day, towards the end of his life, asked, "do you find me changed?" "sire," answered the courtly painter, "i only perceive a few more victories on your brow." we may now observe the more grave and virile style of philippe de champaigne of brussels ( - ), who settled in paris at nineteen years of age, and may fairly be classed among the french school. his intimate association with the austere and pious jansenists of port royal is traceable in the last supper (no. ), and in his masterpiece, the portraits of mother catherine agnes arnauld and his own daughter, sister catherine (no. ), painted for the famous convent. he is perhaps better known for his portraits of richelieu. claude lorrain ( - ), the best known and most appreciated of the seventeenth-century masters, and the greatest of the early landscape painters, is seen in sixteen examples. [illustration: landing of cleopatra at tarsus. claude lorrain.] [illustration: a seaport. claude lorrain.] rarely has the numbing and corrupting influence of royal patronage of art been more clearly demonstrated than in the group of painters who interpreted the hollow state, the sensuality and the more pleasant vices of the courts of louis xiv., of the regency, and of louis xv. but among them, yet not of them, watteau ( - ) stands alone--watteau the melancholy youth from french flanders, who invented a new manner of painting, and became known as the _peintre des scènes galantes_. these scenes of coquetry, frivolity and amorous dalliance, with their patched, powdered and scented ladies and gallants, toying with life in a land where, like that of the lotus eaters, it seems always afternoon, he clothes with a refined and delicate vesture of grace and fascination. he has a poetic touch for landscape and a tender, pathetic sense of the tears in mortal things which make him akin to virgil in literature, for over the languorous and swooning air and sun-steeped glades the coming tempest lours. his success, as walter pater suggests, in painting these vain and perishable graces of the drawing-room and garden comedy of life with the delicate odour of decay which rises from the soil, was probably due to the fact that he despised them. the whole age of the revolution lies between these irresponsible and gay courtiers in the _scènes galantes_ of watteau and the virile peasant scenes in the "epic of toil" painted by millet. among the dozen paintings by watteau in the louvre may be especially noted his academy picture, the embarkation for cythera (no. ). his pupils, pater and lancret, imitated his style, but were unable to soar to the higher plane of their master's idealising spirit. the eminent portrait painter, rigaud ( - ), whose admirable louis xiv. (no. ) has been called "a page of history," is represented by fifteen works, among them his masterpiece, the portrait of bossuet (no. ). a page of history too is the flaunting sensuality of boucher ( - ) and of fragonard ( - ), who lavished facile talents and ignoble industry in the service of the depraved boudoir tastes of the pompadours and du barrys that ruled at versailles. productions of these artists in the louvre are numerous and important. a somewhat feeble protest against the prevailing vulgarity and debasement of contemporary art was made by chardin ( - ) and by the super-sentimental greuze ( - ) in their portrayal of scenes of simple domestic life, of which many examples may be noted in the louvre. but from the studio of boucher there issued towards the end of the century the virile and revolutionary figure of david ( - ), who burst like a thunderstorm from the corrupt artistic atmosphere of the age, sweetening and bracing french art for half a century. the successive phases of this somewhat theatrical but potent genius may be followed in the louvre from the horatii (no. ) and the brutus (no. )--the revolutionary flavour of which saved the painter's life during the terror--to the later glorifications of napoleonic splendours. the candelabrum in david's best-known work, the portrait of madame récamier, is said to have been painted by his pupil ingres ( - ), a commanding personality of the _post_-revolutionary epoch. to him and to his master is due the tradition of correct and honest drawing which ever since has characterised the modern french school of painting. besides la source, the most famous figure drawing of the school, the louvre possesses many of his portraits and subject paintings. to appreciate duly the artist's power, however, the drawings in the salle des desseins d'ingres should be studied. no master has evoked more reverence and admiration among students. more than once professor legros has told the writer of the thrill of emotion that passed through him and all his fellow-students when they saw the aged master enter the ecole des beaux arts at paris. flandrin, the chief religious painter of the school, is poorly represented in the louvre, and must be studied in the churches of st. germain des prés and st. vincent de paul. [illustration: the embarkation for the island of cythera. watteau.] a two-fold study of absorbing interest to the artistic mind may be prosecuted in the louvre--the development of the modern romantic school of french painters from gericault's famous raft of the medusa, painted in , through the works of delacroix and delaroche; and the revival of landscape painting, under the stimulus of the english artists bonnington and constable, by rousseau ( - ), the all-father of the modern french landscape school, and the little band of enthusiasts that grouped themselves around him at barbizon. corot, daubigny, diaz, troyon and the grand and solemn millet, once despised and rejected of men, have now won fame and appreciation. no princely patronage shone upon them nor smoothed their path; they wrought out the beauty of their souls under the hard discipline of poverty and in loving and awful communion with nature. they have revealed to the modern world new tones of colour in the air and the forest and the plain, and a new sense of the pathos and beauty in simple lives and common things. the artistic treasures we have thus briefly and summarily reviewed form but a part of the inestimable possessions of the louvre. collections of drawings; ivories; reliquaries and sanctuary vessels; pottery; jewellery; furniture (among which is the famous _bureau du roi_, the most wonderful piece of cabinet work in europe); bronzes; greek, egyptian, assyrian, chaldean and persian antiquities (including the unique and magnificent frieze of the archers from the palace of darius i.), all are crowded with objects of interest and beauty, even to the inexpert visitor. of the gorgeous palace of the tuileries, with its inharmonious but picturesque façade, stretching across the western limit of the louvre from the pavilion de flore to the pavilion de marsan, not one stone is left on another. we remember it after its fiery purgation by the commune in , a gaunt shell blackened and ruined, fitting emblem of the wreck which the enthroned wantonness and corruption of the second empire had made of france. [illustration: grace before meat. chardin.] [illustration: madame recamier. david.] north of the louvre is the palais royal, once the gayest, now the dullest scene in paris. this quarter of richelieu and of mazarin drew to itself the wealth and fashion of the city in its migration westward from the marais during the times of louis xiii. and of the regency of anne of austria. nearly all the princely hotels that crowded the district have long since given place to commercial houses and shops. the mansions of the two great ministers remain as the conseil d'etat and the bibliothèque nationale, but all that is left of the immense hôtel de colbert in the rue vivienne is a name--the passage colbert. the same is true of the vast area of lands and buildings of the convent of the filles de st. thomas, of which the present bourse and the place before it only occupy a part. at the corner, however, of the rue des petits champs and st. anne the fine double façade of the hôtel erected by lulli with money borrowed from molière may be seen, bearing the great musician's coat-of-arms--a design of trumpets, lyres and cymbals. further west, napoleon's rues de castiglione and de la paix, the regent street of paris, run south and north from the place vendôme, intended by its creator louvois to be the most spacious in the city. a monumental parallelogram of public offices was to enclose the place, but versailles engulfed the king's resources and the ambitious scheme was whittled down, the area much reduced, and the site and foundations of the new buildings were handed over to the ville. what the allies failed to do in the commune succeeded in doing in , and the boastful column of vendôme, a pitiful plagiarism of trajan's column at rome, was laid in the dust, only however to be raised again by the third republic in . the rue castiglione leads down to the terrace of the feuillants overlooking the tuileries gardens, all that is left of the famous monastery and grounds where lafayette's club of constitutional reformers met. the beautiful gardens remain much as le notre designed them for louis xiv., and every spring the orange trees, some of them dating back it is said to the time of francis i., are brought forth from the orangery to adorn the central avenue, and the gardens become vocal with many voices of children at their games--french children with their gentle humour and sweet, refined play. right and left of the central avenue, the two marble exhedræ may still be seen which were erected in for the elders who presided over the floral celebrations of the month of germinal by the children of the republic. the place louis xv (now de la concorde), with its setting of pavilions adorned with groups of statuary representing the chief cities of france, was created by gabriel in - on the site of a dreary, marshy waste used as a depot for marble. the place was adorned in with an equestrian statue of louis xv., elevated on a pedestal which was decorated at the corners by statues of the cardinal virtues. mordant couplets, two of which we transcribe, affixed on the base, soon expressed the judgment of the parisians:-- "_o la belle statue! o le beau piédestal!_ _les vertus sont à pied, le vice est à cheval._"[ ] "_il est ici come à versailles_ _il est sans coeur et sans entrailles._"[ ] after the fall of the monarchy the place was known as the place de la revolution, and in , louis xv. with the other royal simulacra in bronze having been forged into the cannon that thundered against the allied kings of europe, a plaster statue of liberty was erected, at whose side the guillotine mowed down king and queen, revolutionist and aristocrat in one bloody harvest of death, ensanguining the very figure of the goddess herself, who looked on with cold and impassive mien. she too fell, and in her place stood a _fascis_ of eighty-three spears, symbolising the unity of the eighty-three departments of france. in the directory changed the name to place de la concorde, and again in a seated statue of liberty holding a globe was set up. in the hollow globe a pair of wild doves built their nest--a futile augury, for in liberty ii. was broken in pieces, and the model for a tall granite column erected in its place by napoleon i. one year passed and this too disappeared. after the restoration, among the other inanities came, in , a second statue of louis xv., and the place resumed its original name. ten years later an expiatory monument to louis xvi. was begun, only to be swept away with other bourbon lumber by the july revolution of . at length the famous obelisk from luxor, after many vicissitudes, was elevated in where it now stands. [illustration: landscape. corot.] the place as we behold it dates from , when the deep fosses which surrounded it in louis xv.'s time, and which were responsible for the terrible disaster that attended the wedding festivities of louis xvi. and marie antoinette, were filled up, and other improvements and embellishments effected. the vast space and magnificent vistas enjoyed from this square are among the finest urban spectacles in europe. to the north, on either side of the broad rue royale which opens to the madeleine, stand gabriel's fine edifices (now the ministry of marine and the cercle de la rue royale), designed to accommodate foreign ambassadors. to the south is the palais bourbon, now the chamber of deputies; to the east are the gardens of the tuileries, and to the west is the stately grande avenue of the champs elysées rising to the colossal arch of triumph crowning the eminence of the place de l'etoile. as our eyes travel along the famous avenue, memories of the military glories and of the threefold humiliation of imperial france crowd upon us. for down its ample way there marched in and two hostile and conquering armies to occupy paris, and in the immense vault of the arc de triomphe, an arch of greater magnitude than any raised to roman cæsars, echoed to the shouts of another exultant foreign host, mocking as they strode beneath it at the names of german defeats inscribed on its stones. and on the very place de la concorde, german hussars waltzed in pairs to the brazen music of a uhlan band, while a line of french sentries across the entrance to the tuileries gardens gazed sullenly on. to the south of the champs elysées is the cours de la reine, planted by catherine de' medici, for two years the most fashionable carriage drive in paris. the charming maison françois i. brought from moret, stone by stone, in stands re-erected at the further corner of the cours. to the north, in the cours de gabriel, a fine gilded grille, surmounted with the arms of the republic, gives access to the elysée, the official residence of the president. it was once madame pompadour's favourite house in paris, and the piece of land she appropriated from the public to round off her gardens is still retained in its grounds. in the avenue montaigne (once the allée des veuves, a retired walk used by widows during their term of seclusion) nos. and stand on the site of the notorious bal mabille,[ ] the temple of the bacchanalia of the gay world of the second empire. in the champs elysées ended at chaillot, an old feudal property which louis xi. gave to phillipe de comines in , and which in sheltered the unhappy widow of charles i. here catherine de' medici built a château, but château and a nunnery of the filles de sainte marie, founded by the english queen, disappeared in . as we descend the rue de chaillot and pass the trocadero we see across the pont de jéna the gilded dome of the invalides and the vast field of mars, the scene of the feast of pikes, and now encumbered by the relics of four world's fairs. [illustration: lictors bringing to brutus the bodies of his sons. david.] the paris we have rapidly surveyed is, mainly, enclosed by the inner boulevards, which correspond to the ramparts of louis xiii. on the north demolished by his successor between and , and the line of the philip augustus wall and the boulevard st. germain on the south. beyond this historic area are the outer boulevards which mark the octroi wall of louis xvi.; further yet are the thiers wall and fortifications of . within these wider boundaries is the greater paris of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, of profound concern to the economical and social student, but of minor interest to the ordinary traveller. the vogue of the brilliant and gay inner boulevards of the north bank so familiar to the foreigner in paris is of comparatively recent growth. in the early nineteenth century the boulevard from the place de la madeleine to the rue cambon was almost deserted by day and dangerous by night--a vast waste, the proceeds of the confiscated lands of the filles de la conception. about the same time the fashionable cafés were migrating from the palais royal to the boulevard des italiens, south of which was built the theatre of the comédie italienne, afterwards known as the opéra comique. its façade was turned away from the boulevard lest the susceptible artists should be confounded with the ordinary "comediens of the boulevard." from the boulevard montmartre to the boulevard st. martin followed lines of private hotels, villas, gardens and convent walls. a great mound which separated the boulevard st. martin from the boulevard du temple still existed, and was not cleared away until . from to the boulevard du temple was a centre of pleasure and amusement, where charming suburban houses and pretty gardens alternated with cheap restaurants, hotels, theatres, cafés, marionette shows, circuses, tight-rope dancers, waxworks, and cafés-chantants. in , so lurid were the dramas played there, that the boulevard was popularly known as the _boulevard du crime_. but the expression of the dramatic and musical genius and social life of the parisians in their higher forms is of sufficient importance to merit a concluding chapter. chapter xx the comÉdie franÇaise--the opÉra--some famous cafÉs--conclusion as early as the rue des jongleurs was inhabited by minstrels, mimes and players. they were men of tender heart, for in two jongleurs, giacomo of pistoia and hugues of lorraine, were touched by beholding a paralysed woman forsaken by the way, and determined to found a refuge for the sick poor: they hired a room and furnished it with some beds, but being unable to provide funds for maintenance, their warden collected alms from the charitable. in , at a meeting of the jongleurs of paris, giacomo and hugues were present, and urged the claims of the poor upon their fellows. the players decided to found a guild with a hospital and church dedicated to st. julian of the minstrels,[ ] but the bishop of paris, doubting their financial powers, required a certain sum to be paid within four years, in order to endow a chaplaincy and to compensate the _curé_ of st. merri. the players more than fulfilled their promise; their capitulary was confirmed by pope and king, and in they elected william the flute player and henry of mondidier as administrators; the servants of the muses were therefore of no small importance in the fourteenth century. as early as the confraternity of the passion is known to have existed, and so charmed the people of paris by its passion plays that the hour of vespers was advanced to allow the faithful time to attend the representations, which lasted from . to o'clock without any interval. in the confraternity was performing at the hôtel de bourgogne, the old mansion of jean sans peur, for it was then forbidden to play the mystery of the passion any more, and limited to profane, decent and lawful pieces, which were not to begin before o'clock. from to the comedians of the hôtel de bourgogne, as they were then called, continued their performances, and many ordinances were needed to purify the stage, to prevent licentious pieces and the use of words of _double entente_. competitive companies performed at the hôtel de cluny, and in the rue michel le comte, in those days a narrow street which became so blocked by carriages and horses during the performances that the inhabitants complained of being unable to reach their houses, and of suffering much from thieves and footpads. it was at the hôtel de bourgogne that the masterpieces of corneille and racine--_le cid_, _andromaque_ and _phèdre_--were first performed. [illustration: the pond. rousseau.] [illustration: arches in the courtyard of the hÔtel cluny.] at no. rue mazarine an inscription marks the site of the tennis court of the métayers near the fosses of the old porte de nesle, where in a cultured young fellow, jean baptiste poquelin, better known as molière, son of a prosperous tradesman of paris, having associated himself with the béjart family of comedians, opened the _illustre théâtre_. the venture met with small success, for soon molière crossed the seine and migrated to the port st. paul. thence he returned to the faubourg st. germain and rented the tennis court of the croix blanche. ill fortune still followed him, for in , unable to pay his candlemaker, the illustrious player saw the inside of the debtors' prison at the petit châtelet, and the company must needs borrow money to release their director. in the players left for the provinces and were not seen again in paris for twelve years. the theatre of those days was innocent of stage upholstery, the exiguous decorations being confined to some hangings of faded tapestry on the stage and a few tallow candles with tin reflectors. a chandelier holding four candles hung from the roof and was periodically lowered and drawn up again during the performance; any spectator near by snuffed the candles with his fingers. the orchestra consisted of a flute and a drum, or two violins. the play began at two o'clock; the charges for entrance were twopence half-penny for a standing place in the pit, fivepence for a seat. on th october molière, having won distinguished patronage, was honoured by a royal command to play corneille's _nicodème_ before the court at the louvre. after the play was ended molière prayed to be allowed to perform a little piece of his own--_le docteur amoureux_--and so much amused louis xiv. that the players were commanded to settle at paris and permitted to use the theatre of the hôtel de bourbon three days a week in alternation with the comedians of the opera. here it was that the first essentially french comedy, _les précieuses ridicules_, was performed with such success that after the second performance the prices were doubled. during the first performance an old playgoer is said to have risen and exclaimed, "_courage! molière, voilà de la bonne comédie!_" after the demolition of the hôtel de bourbon, the players were settled in richelieu's theatre at the palais royal, where they performed for the first time on th january . during this period of transition molière was again invited to play before the king in the salle des gardes (caryatides) at the louvre, and so keen was the interest in the new _bonne comédie_ that the almost dying mazarin had his chair dragged into the hall that he might be present. in the king appointed molière _valet du roi_ at a salary of a thousand livres, subsidised the company to the amount of seven thousand livres a year, and they were thenceforth known as the "troupe du roi." free from pecuniary anxiety, the great dramatist wrote his masterpieces, _le misanthrope_, _tartuffe_, _l'avare_, _le bourgeois gentilhomme_, and _les femmes savantes_. [illustration: millet. the binders.] in , after molière's death, the troupe du roi joined the players of the marais and rented the famous théâtre guénégaud in the old tennis court of la bouteille which had been fitted up for the first performances of french opera in - . the united companies played there until , when the long-standing jealousy which had existed between the troupe du roi and the players of the hôtel de bourgogne was finally dissipated by the fusion of the two companies to form the comédie française. for nine years the famous comédie used the théâtre guénégaud, whose site may be seen marked with an inscription at rue mazarine. in the players were evicted from the théâtre guénégaud, owing to the machinations of the jansenists at the collége mazarin, and rented the tennis court de l'etoile near the boulevard st. germain, now no. rue de l'ancienne comédie, which they opened on th april by a performance of _phèdre_ and _le médecin malgré lui_. here the comédie française remained until . in they were playing at the théâtre de la nation (now odéon.)[ ] in a theatre was built in the rue richelieu for the _variétés amusantes_, or the _palais variétés_, where the new théâtre français[ ] now stands, a little to the west of richelieu's theatre of the palais cardinal, whose site is indicated by an inscription at the corner of the rues de valois and st. honoré. soon the passions evoked by the revolutionary movement were felt on the boards, and the staid old comédie française was rent by rival factions. the performance of chenier's patriotic tragedy, _charles ix._, on th november , was made a political demonstration, and the pit acclaimed talma with frantic applause as he created the _rôle_ of charles ix., and the days of st. bartholomew were acted on the stage. the bishops tried to stop the performances, and priests refused absolution to those of their penitents who went to see them. the royalists among the comedians replied by playing a loyalist repertory, _cinna_ and _athalie_, amid shouts from the pit for _william tell_ and the _death of cæsar_, and molière's famous house became an arena where political factions strove for mastery. men went to the theatre armed as to a battle. every couplet fired the passions of the audience, the boxes crying, "_vive le roi!_" to be answered by the hoarse voices of the pit, "_vive la nation!_" shouts were raised for the busts of voltaire and of brutus: they were brought from the foyer and placed on the stage. the very kings of shreds and patches on the boards came to blows and the roman toga concealed a poignard. for a time "idolatry" triumphed at the nation, but talma and the patriots at length won. a reconciliation was effected, and at a performance of the _taking of the bastille_, on th january , talma addressed the audience saying that they had composed their differences. naudet, the royalist champion, was recalcitrant, and amid furious shouts from the pit, "on your knees, citizen!" at length gave way, embraced talma with ill-grace, and on the ensuing nights the revolutionary repertory, _the conquest of liberty_, _rome saved_, and _brutus_ held the boards. the court took their revenge at the opera where the boxes called for the airs, "o richard, o mon roi," and "règne sur un peuple fidèle," while the king, queen and dauphin appeared in the box amid shouts of "_vive le roi!_" on th january of the same year the restrictions on the opening of playhouses were revoked, and by november no less than seventy-eight theatres were registered on the books of the hôtel de ville. the théâtre français became the théâtre de la republique, and during the early months of ' , when the fate of the monarchy hung in the balance, the most popular piece was _catherine_, or _the farmer's fair wife_ (_la belle fermière_). _fénelon_, a new tragedy, was often played, and on th february citizen talma acted othello for his benefit performance. in the stormy year of , when the july revolution made an end for ever of the bourbon cause in france, the comédie française was again a scene of fierce and bitter strife. _hernani_, a drama in verse, had been accepted from the pen of victor hugo, the brilliant and exuberant master of a new romantic school of poets, who had determined to emancipate themselves from the traditions, which had long since hardened into literary dogmas, of the classical school of the siècle de louis quatorze. on the night of the first performance each side, romanticists and classicists, had packed the theatre with their partisans, and the air was charged with feeling. the curtain rose, but less than two lines were uttered before the pent-up passions of the audience burst forth:-- "dona josefa--'serait-ce déjà lui? c'est bien à l'escalier dérobé----'" [illustration: the trocadero.] the last word had not passed the actress's lips when a howl of execration rose from the devotees of racine, outraged by the author's heresy in permitting an adjective to stray into the second line of the verse. the romanticists, led by théophile gautier, answered in withering blasphemies, and soon the pit became a pandemonium of warring factions. night after night the literary sects renewed their contests, and the representations, as victor hugo said, became battles rather than performances. the year was the ' of the romantic school, but the passions it evoked have long since been calmed, and _hernani_ and _le roi s'amuse_, which latter was suppressed by the government of louis philippe after the first performance, have taken their place in the classic repertory of the théâtre français beside the tragedies of racine and corneille. a curious development of dramatic art runs parallel to the movement we have traced. one of the earliest corporations of paris was that of the famous basoche,[ ] or law-clerks and practitioners, at the palais de justice, who were organised in a little realm of their own, subject to the superior power of the parlement. the basoche had its own king (_roi de la basoche_), chancellor, masters, almoners, secretaries, treasurers and a number of minor officials, made its own laws and punished offenders. it had its own money, seal, and arms composed of an escritoire on a field _fleur-de-lisé_, surmounted by a casque and morion. it had, moreover, jurisdiction over the _farces_, _sottises_ and _moralités_ played by its members before the public. the clerks of the basoche organised processions and plays for public festivals, and were compensated for out-of-pocket expenses if for any reason the celebrations were cancelled by the parlement. if the date, th january , of one of these performances in the grande salle of the palais de justice, so vividly described by victor hugo in _notre dame_, be correct, the prohibition by the parlement in , renewed in , of any performances of _farce_, _sottise_, or _moralité_ by the king of the basoche in the palais or the châtelet, or elsewhere in public, under pain of a whipping with withies and banishment, must have been soon withdrawn. in the basoche was ordered to deliver to the parlement any plays they proposed to perform, that they might be examined and emended (_visités et reformés_) and to act in public, only such plays as had been approved by the court. the clerks of the basoche were clothed in yellow and blue taffety, and, on extraordinary occasions, in gorgeous costumes varying according to the company to which they belonged. each captain had the form and style of his company's dress painted on vellum, and whoso desired to join signed his name beneath, and agreed to be subject to a fine of ten crowns if he made default. in a famous trial took place before the parlement on the occasion of an appeal by one of the clerks against the chancellor of the basoche, who had seized his cloak in payment of a fine and costs. after many pleadings by celebrated lawyers, the case was referred back to the king of the basoche, with instructions that he was to treat his subjects amiably. the treasurers of the basoche were charged with the cost of the annual planting of the may tree in the cour du mai of the palais. towards the end of may the procession of the basoche wended its way to the forest of bondy, where halt was made under the _orme aux harangues_ (elm of the speeches). here their procureur made an oration, and demanded from the officer of woods and forests two trees of his own choice in the king's name, which were carried to paris amid much playing of drums and fifes and trumpets. on the last saturday in may the ceremony of the planting took place in the court of the palace, the preceding year's tree, standing to the right of the entrance, was felled and removed, and the more flourishing of the two brought from the forest was planted in its stead. anne of austria, to whom molière dedicated one of his plays, was so devoted an admirer of the theatre that even during the period of court mourning for her royal husband she was unable to renounce her favourite pleasure and witnessed the plays at the palais royal concealed behind her ladies. mazarin, courtier that he was, flattered her passion for the drama by introducing a company of italian opera-singers, who in performed _la finta pazza_ at the hôtel de bourbon. the new entertainment met with instant success, and the french were spurred to emulation by the music and voices of the foreign performers. anne's music masters, lambert and cambert, set to music a piece written by the abbé perrin, who was attached to the court of the duke of orleans, and this musical comedy was performed with brilliant success before the young king at vincennes. encouraged by mazarin, perrin and cambert joined the marquis of sourdeac, a clever mechanician, and obtained permission in to open an academy of music, for so the new venture was called, and works were performed which vied in attraction with those of the italians. perrin now obtained the sole privilege of producing operas in paris and other french towns, and in - we find the _entrepreneurs_ giving performances of _pomone_ among other "_comédies françaises en musique_" in the theatre of the hôtel de guénégaud. perrin having disagreed with his partners, the privilege of performing opera was next transferred to a young italian musician named lulli, who had entered the service of mademoiselle (daughter of the duke of orleans) as a kitchen boy, but having developed an extraordinary aptitude for the violin was put under a master, and became one of the greatest performers of the day. he entered the king's service, won the protection of madame de montespan, and so charmed louis by his talents that his fortune was assured. lulli's works were first given at the tennis court of bel-air, in the rue vaugirard, and a clause having been inserted in the charter permitting the nobles of the court to take part in the representations without derogation, a performance of _love and bacchus_ was given before the king in which the duke of monmouth was associated with seven french nobles. when molière's company of comedians left the theatre of the palais royal in , lulli's "academy" was established in their place, and the palais royal theatre became the royal opera house until , with an interval caused by the rebuilding after the fire of . in the italians were forbidden to perform any more in paris, and french opera enjoyed a monopoly of royal favour, until the regent recalled the italians in . the académie de musique, or french opera, subsequently migrated to the salle d'opéra, at the hôtel louvois, on the site of the present square louvois. it was in this house that the duke of berri was assassinated in . the government decreed the demolition of the building, and an opera house was hurriedly erected in the rue lepelletier. this inconvenient, stuffy hall of the muses, so familiar to the older generation of opera-goers, was at length superseded by the present luxurious temple in . [illustration: arc de triomphe.] the early french operas were of the nature of elaborate ballets, based invariably on mythological subjects, and, indeed, the ballet up to recent times, when the reforming influence of wagner's music-dramas made itself felt, has always formed the more important part of every operatic performance. only when the curtain rose on the _scènes de ballet_ did chatter cease, for as taine remarked, "_le public ne se trouve émoustillé que par le ballet_" ("the public only brightens up at the ballet"), and the traditional habit of society was expressed in the formula, "_on n'écoute que le ballet_" ("one only listens to the ballet"). molière wrote a tragédie-ballet, a pastorale heroique, a pastorale comique, and eight comédies-ballets, in one of which, _le sicilian_, the king himself, the marquis of villeroi and other courtiers performed with molière and his daughter. in the permission already given to the princes and other nobles to take part in the ballets without derogation was extended to the ladies of the court, who in that year performed the _triomphe de l'amour_. the innovation proved most successful, and soon affected the public stage, where, as at the court, up to that period male performers alone were tolerated. mdlle. de la fontaine was the first of the famous _danseuses_ of the paris opera, and her portrait, with those of some score of her successors, still adorn the _foyer de la danse_. the opera was a social rather than a musical function, and the old _foyer_, until the fall of the second empire, was the favourite meeting-place during the season of royal and distinguished personages, courtiers, ministers, ambassadors, and, indeed, of all french society of the male persuasion. such was the passion for the opera during the reign of louis xvi. that fashionable devotees would journey from brussels to paris in time to see the curtain rise and return to brussels when the performance was over, travelling all night. * * * * * "in fair weather or foul," says diderot in the opening lines of the _neveu de rameau_ "it is my custom, towards five in the evening, to stroll about the palais royal, where i muse silently on politics, love, taste or philosophy. if the weather be too cold or wet, i take refuge in the café de la régence, and there i amuse myself by watching the chess players; for paris is the one place in the world, and the café de la régence the one place in paris, where chess is played perfectly." the café procope and the régence have been termed the adam and eve of the cafés of paris. the former was the first coffee-house seen there, and was opened by one gregory of aleppo and a sicilian, procopio by name, shortly before the comédie française was transferred in to its new house in the present rue de l'ancienne comédie. the famous café, where, too, ices were first sold, was situated opposite the theatre, and at once became a kind of ante-chamber to the comédie, crowded with actors and dramatic authors, among whom were seen voltaire, crébillon and piron. the café de la place du palais royal, the original apellation of the régence, was founded shortly after the procope, and became the favourite haunt of literary men, and especially of chess-players. here the author of _gil blas_ beheld, in a vast salon brilliant with lustres and mirrors, a score of silent and grave personages, _pousseurs de bois_ (wood-shovers), playing at chess on marble tables, surrounded by others watching the games, amid a silence so profound that the movement of the pieces could alone be heard. if, however, we may credit a description of the famous hall of the chequer-board published in _fraser's magazine_, december , the tempers of the players must have suffered a distressing deterioration since the times of le sage, for when the author of the article entered the café, in the winter of , his ears were assailed by a "roar like that of the regent's park beast show at feeding-time." so great was the renown of the parisian players that strangers from the four corners of the earth--poles, turks, moors and hindoos--made journeys to the café de la régence as to an arena where victory was esteemed final and complete. not even on the rialto of venice, says the writer in _fraser's_, in its most famous time, could so great a mixture of garbs and tongues be met. here, among other literary monarchs who visited the café, came voltaire and d'alembert. jean jacques rousseau, dressed as an armenian, drew such crowds that the proprietor was forced to appeal for police protection, and the eccentric philosopher, while absorbed in play, was furtively sketched by st. aubin. here came, _incogniti_, the emperor joseph of austria, brother of marie antoinette, and emperor paul of russia, the latter betraying his imperial quality by tossing to the waiter a golden louis he had won by betting on a game. the café was the favourite resort of robespierre, a devoted chess-player, who lived close by in the rue st. honoré (no. ), and of the young napoleon bonaparte when waiting on fortune in paris. the latter is said to have been a rough, impatient player, and a bad loser. hats were kept on to economise space, and on a winter sunday afternoon a chair was worth a monarch's ransom: when a champion player entered, hats were raised, and fifty challengers leapt from their seats to offer a game. so proud was the proprietor of the distinction conferred on his café, that long after rousseau's and voltaire's deaths he would call to the waiter, "serve jean jacques!" "look to voltaire!" if any customers sat down at the tables where the famous philosophers had been wont to sit. while the big game of political chess was being enacted in the streets of paris during the three days of july , the players of the café are said to have calmly pushed their wooden pieces undisturbed by the fighting outside, during which the front of the building was injured. the original café no longer exists, for in the régence was removed from the place du palais royal to the rue st. honoré. last year the writer was startled by an amazing exuviation of the somewhat faded café, which had assumed a new decoration of most brilliant and approved modernity; it now vies in splendour with the cafes of the boulevards. a few chess-players still linger on and are relegated to a recessed room. shortly after the foundation of the régence another café was opened by widow marion on the old carrefour de l'opéra, where the academicians gathered and discussed of matters affecting the french language. at guadot's, on the place de l'ecole, was heard the clank of spur and sabre. soon every phase of parisian social life found its appropriate coffee-house, and by the end of the eighteenth century some nine hundred cafés were established in the city. but this new development was regarded with small favour by the government, always suspicious of any form of social and intellectual activity. politics were forbidden, and spies haunted the precincts of the chief cafés. ill fared the man, however distinguished, whose political feelings overmastered his prudence, for an invidious phrase was not infrequently the password to the bastille. it was difficult even to discuss philosophy, and the lovers of wisdom who met at procope's were reduced to inventing a jargon for its principal terms--monsieur l'etre for god, javotte for religion and margot for the soul--to put spies off the scent, not always with success. no newspapers were provided until the revolutionary time, when the _gazette_ or the _journal_ became more important than the coffee: the cafés of the palais royal were then transformed into so many political clubs, where every table served as a rostrum of fiery declamation, for the agitated and eventful summer of was a rainy one, to the good fortune of the palais royal houses. no. rue richelieu stands on the site of the café de foy, the senior and most famous of them, founded in . it extended through to the gardens of the palais royal, and in early times its proprietor was the only one permitted to place chairs and tables on the terrace. there, in the afternoon, would sit the finely-apparelled sons of mars, and other gay dogs of the period, with their scented perukes, amber vinaigrettes, silver-hilted swords and gold-headed canes, quizzing the passers-by. in summer evenings, after the conclusion of the opera at . ., the _bonne compagnie_ in full dress would stroll under the great overarching trees of the _grand allée_, or sit at the cafés listening to open-air performers, sometimes remaining on moonlight nights as late as a.m. between and the favourite promenade was the scene of violent conflicts between the partisans of gluck and piccini, and many a duel was recorded between the champions of the rival musical factions. [illustration: in the garden of the tuileries.] it was from one of the tables of the café foy that camille desmoulins sounded the war-cry of the revolution. every day a special courier from versailles brought the bulletins of the national assembly, which were read publicly amid clamorous interjections. spies found their office a perilous one, for, if discovered, they were ducked in the basins of the fountains, and, when feeling grew more bitter, risked meeting a violent death. later the café foy made a complete _volte-face_, raised its ices to twenty sous and grew royalist in tone. its frequenters came armed with sword-sticks and loaded canes, raised their hats when the king's name was uttered, and one evil day planted a gallows outside the café, painted with the national colours. the excited patriots stormed the house, expelled the royalists and disinfected the salon with gin. during the occupation of paris by the allies many a fatal duel between the foreign officers and the imperialists was initiated there. later, horace vernet painted a swallow on the ceiling, which attracted many visitors; the dramatists and artists of the théâtre français freely patronised the house, and among them might be often seen the huge figure of the most prodigious master of modern romantic fiction, alexandre dumas. the extremer section of the revolutionists frequented the café corazza, still extant, which soon became a minor jacobins, where, after the club was closed, the excited orators continued their discussions: chabot, collot d'herbois and other terrorists met there. the café valois was patronised by the feuillants, and so excited the ire of the fédérés, who met at the caveau, that one day they issued forth, assailed their opponents' stronghold and burned the copies of the _journal de paris_ found there. the old café procope in the south of paris became the café zoppi, where the "zealous children of triumphant liberty" assembled, and where the "friends of the revolution and of humanity," on the news of franklin's death, covered the lustres with crape and affixed his bust, crowned with oak leaves, outside the door. a legend told of the great american's death, and the words "_vir deus_" were inscribed beneath the bust. every day at five o'clock the _habitués_ formed themselves into a club in the salon decorated with statues of mucius scevola and mirabeau, passed resolutions, sent protesting deputations to royalist editors, and every evening made _autos da fé_ of their publications outside the café. when war was declared they subscribed to purchase a case of muskets as an offering to the fatherland. self-regarding citizens, the _société des amis de la loi_, who desired to eat and drink in peace far from political storms, met in the café de flore, near the porte st. denis, until the jacobins applied the scriptural maxim--he who is not for us is against us--and they were forced to take sides. every partizan had his café; hebertists, fayettists, maratists, dantonists and robespierrists, all gathered where their friends were known to meet. in the early nineteenth century on the displacement of the favourite promenade of parisian _flaneurs_ from the palais royal to the boulevard des italiens, the proprietors of cafés and restaurants followed. a group of young fellows entered one evening a small _cabaret_ near the comédie italienne (now opéra comique), found the wine to their taste and the cuisine excellent. they praised host and fare to their friends, and the modest _cabaret_ developed into the café anglais, most famous of epicurean temples, frequented during the second empire by kings and princes, to whom alone the haughty proprietor would devote personal care. the sumptuous cafés tortoni founded in and de paris opened have long since passed away. so has the café hardy, whose proprietor invented _dejeûners à la fourchette_, although its rival and neighbour, the café riche, still exists. "one must be very hardy to dine at riche's, and very riche to dine at hardy's," was the celebrated _mot_ of an old gourmand of the first empire. during the early times of the third republic the café fronton was crowded almost daily by prominent politicians, gambetta, spuller, naquet and others, while the imperialists, under cassagnac, met at the café de la paix in the place de l'opéra, which was dubbed the boulevard de l'isle d'elbe. many others of the celebrated cafés of the boulevards have disappeared or suffered a transformation into the more popular brasseries or tavernes of which so many, alternating with the theatres, restaurants and dazzling shops that line the most-frequented evening promenade of paris, invite the thirsty or leisurely pleasure-seeker of to-day. nowhere may the traveller gain a better impression of the essential gaiety and sociability of the parisian temperament than by sitting outside a café on the boulevards on a public festival and observing his neighbours and the passers-by--their imperturbable good humour; their easy manners; their simple enjoyments; their quick intelligence, alert gait and expressive gestures; the wonderful skill of the women in dress. the glittering halls of pleasure that appeal to so many travellers, the bohemian cafés of the outer boulevards, the folies bergères, the moulins rouges, the bals bullier, with their meretricious and vulgar attractions, frequented by the more facile daughters of lutetia, "whose havoc of virtue is measured by the length of their laundresses' bills," as a genial satirist of their sex has phrased it--all these manifestations of _la vie_, so unutterably dull and sordid, are of small concern to the cultured traveller. the intimate charm and spirit of paris will be heard and felt by him not amid the whirlwind of these saturnalia largely maintained by the patronage of foreign visitors, but rather in the smaller voices that speak from the inmost paris which we have essayed to describe. nor can we bid more fitting adieu to our readers than by translating goethe's words to eckermann: "think of the city of paris where all the best of the realms of nature and art in the whole earth are open to daily contemplation, a world-city where the crossing of every bridge or every square recalls a great past, and where at every street corner a piece of history has been unfolded." index a abbey lands, their extent, abbeys, their need of reform, abbo, his story of the siege of paris, - abbots, their varied powers, abelard, comes to paris, ; his school at st. denis, ; death of, abelard and heloise, their house, académie française, origin of, adam du petit pont, aignan's, st., remains of, amboise, cardinal d', employs solario, amphitheatre, roman, anagni, humiliation of boniface viii. at, angelico, fra, painting by, at louvre, angelo's, michael, slaves, _année terrible_, the, anselm, st., his moral force, antheric, bishop, his courage, antoinette, marie, her courage, ; her sinister influence, , arches, triumphal, , , aristotle, his works at paris, armagnac and burgundian factions, their origin, armagnacs, massacre of, assembly, national, the, its patriotism, , attila, , austrasia, kingdom of, austria, anne of, her regency, averroists at paris, b ballet, importance of the, bal mabille, site of, baptistry, the, barbarian invasions, barrère, barry, mme. du, , , bartholomew, st., massacre of, - basine and childeric, story of, basoche, corporation of, ; players of, bastille, foundation of, ; banquet at, ; captured by the parlement, ; story of, - bazoches, guy of, his impression of paris, bedford, duke of, regent at paris, bernard, st., his commanding genius, ; denounces abelard, ; draws up rule of knights-templars, bernini, his design for the louvre, billettes, monastery of, bishops and abbots, their administrative powers, , , boniface viii., his contest with philip the fair, , ; his grandeur of soul, , booksellers at paris, bordone, paris, botticelli, frescoes at louvre, boucher, boulevards, the, bourbon, hôtel de, , ; plays at, bourg-la-reine, ; english at, bourgogne, hôtel de, comedians of, bouvines, victory of, its consequences, bridges, approaches to, fortified, british sentries at louvre, brosse, pierre de la, his death, broussel, arrested and set free, , brunehaut, her career and death, , , brunswick, duke of, his proclamation, bullant, jean, builds tuileries, burgundians, the, burgundy, dukes of, burke, his political nescience, bury, richard de, at paris, bussy, the island of, c cafés at paris, their introduction and growth, - ; their importance in revolutionary times, - calvin, ; at collége de france, campan, mme., her memoirs, , capet, hugh, his coronation, ; founds capetian dynasty, capets, growth of paris under, carlyle, his history of the revolution, , carmelites, their establishment at paris, carnarvalet, hôtel de, carnot, carrousel, the, ; arch of, carthusians, their establishment at paris, caryatides, salle des, castiglione, rue de, castile, blanche of, catacombs, the, catholic hierarchy re-established in paris, cellini, benvenuto, at paris and fontainebleau, - cerceau, baptiste du, continues lescot's louvre, champaigne, phil. de, champeaux, william of, champs elysées, chardin, charlemagne at paris, ; the northmen, ; his patronage of learning, charles of burgundy, his defeat by swiss, charles i., effect of his trial on the revolutionists, - charles v., builds the hôtel st. paul, ; his library, ; his love of gardens, ; his wise statesmanship, ; wall of, charles vi., his minority, ; his madness, ; saved from fire, ; his death and burial, charles vii., his acclamation as king at melun, ; his death, charles viii., his italian campaign, charles ix., , ; his vacillation, ; doubtful story of his firing on huguenots, ; his death, charonton, attribution of paintings to, chateauroux, mme. de, her appeal to louis xv., châtelet, the grand, , châtelet, the petit, , chavannes, puvis de, , chénier, m. j., the revolutionary dramatist, chess players at paris, - chilperic, marriage with galowinthe, ; his murder, ; his reformed alphabet, chramm, his defeat and death, christian hierarchy, its efforts to purify the church, church, the, its civilising genius, ; its growing civil power, church building, expansion of, cinq-mars, his execution, cité, the island of, ; two islets joined to, ; its associations, clement, jacques, assassinates henry iii., clement v., pope, and the templars, clergy, attempted taxation of, ; non-jurors, their expulsion, clisson, hôtel de, clock tower, the, clodomir, murder of his sons by childebert and clothaire, , clothaire, his escape from assassination, ; his death, cloud, st., foundation of monastery of, clouet, françois, clouet, jean, clouet de navarre, clovis, , ; conversion of, ; baptism of, ; his cruelty, ; makes paris his capital, ; tower of, cluny, college of, cluny, hôtel de, , , _code civil_, the, , colbert, his administrative genius, colbert, hôtel, coligny, admiral, his attempted assassination, ; his murder, ; site of his house, colleges, decadence of, collége de france, foundation of, colombe, michel, comèdie française, the old, ; its origin, ; political factions at, ; literary factions at, commune, the, conciergerie, the, , concini, ; his death, concorde, place de la, , condé the great, his insolence, , condé, prince of, his plot to destroy the guises, ; his death, condorcet, conservatoire des arts et métiers, , _contrat social_, the, its influence, convention, the, abolishes slavery, ; its constructive measures, , cordeliers, refectory of, corot, coryat, his impressions of paris, cosme, st., cosme, st., _curé_ of, his revolutionary zeal, , crown, the, its absolutism, cruce slays huguenots, d dagobert the great, , , damiens, his attack on louis xv., ; his horrible torture, danes, invasions of, _danseuses_, their introduction into opera, dante, his use of _artista_, ; at paris, danton, ; his trial, d'artagnan, his dwelling, daubigny, dauphin, origin of title, , _note_ david, his genius, delacroix, paintings of, at st. sulpice, ; and louvre, delaroche, denis, st., abbey of, denis, st., church of, ; building of new church of, denis, st., de la chartre, denis, st., du pas, denis, st., story of, ; body of exposed, denis, st., rue, deputies, chamber of, desmoulins, camille, his revolutionary oration, diaz, diderot at café de la régence, dimier, his views on french school of paintings, dionysius and his companions, their mission to paris, discipline, collegiate, , dix-huit, college of, dolet, etienne, his statue, domenico da cortona, ; designs hôtel de ville, dominicans, their establishment at paris, dragon, cour du, dubois, abbé, his wealth and depravity, duke of orleans, his murder, e ebles, abbot, his courage, , ecclesiastical architecture, development of, ecole des beaux arts, edict of nantes, ; revocation of, ; approved by eminent churchmen, ; effect in europe, education, state of, before revolution, egalité, philip, ; his vote, eloy, st., abbey of, , , eloy, st., bishop and goldsmith, elysée, the, _Émigrés_, the, , empire, the second, streets of, encyclopedists, their aims, english, the, at paris, , , ; evacuate paris, ; expelled from calais, estampes, madame d', , estiennes, the, , estrées, gabrielle d', etienne du mont, st., , , etoile, arch of, , eudes, count, , , eugene iii., pope, at paris, eustache, st., church of, , evelyn, witnesses torture of accused prisoners, f ferronnerie, rue de la, feudalism, origin of, flamboyant, not a debasement of gothic, , _note_ flandrin, frescoes by, at st. germain des prés, fleury, cardinal, his honest administration, flore, pavilion de, fontainebleau, school of, fontaine des innocents, fouarre, rue du, fouquet, foy, café, fragonnard, france, her greatness under richelieu, francis i., his entry into paris, ; the renaissance, ; his magnificent hospitality, ; life at paris under, ; his access of piety, , ; his death, francis ii. at amboise, francis, st., his love of the french tongue, franciscans, their establishment at paris, franklin, benjamin, at versailles, franks, the, fredegonde, her cruelty and death, - french language, its universality, french people, their desire for peace, fromont, nicholas, fronde, the, fronde, the second, ; defeat of, fulbert, canon, his house, fulrad, abbot, completes church of st. denis, g galilée, the island of, genevieve, st., her story, , ; monastery of, ; shrine of, ; abbey of, ; templars at, geneviève, ste., la petite, gericault, his raft of the medusa, germain, st., of auxerre, , germain, st., l'auxerrois, , germain, st., of autun, , germain, st., des prés, ; captured by henry iv., ; church of, germain, st., faubourg, gervais, st., church of, , gibbon at paris, giocondo, fra, rebuilds petit pont and pont notre dame, girondins, their condemnation, goethe, his speech at valmy, ; his description of the revolutionary army, goldoni assisted by the convention, gothic art of the thirteenth century, goths, the, , goujon, jean, his work at the louvre, , ; decorates the fontaine des innocents, ; reliefs by, at the carnavalet, gozlin, his patriotism and courage, , , , grande galerie, the, , gregory, st., of tours, , greuze, grève, place de, guénégaud, théâtre, guise, duke francis of, shot by a huguenot, guise, duke henry of, his popularity at paris, ; his assassination, guises, rise of the, h halles, les, , , halle aux vins, , _note_ hawkers, , heine and the venus de milo, héloïse and abelard, loves of, ; their grave at paris, henry i., son of robert the pious, his accession, henry ii., his death, henry iii., his coronation, ; his assassination, henry iv., his conversion, ; his patriotism, , ; his divorce, ; his assassination, ; his architectural achievements, ; his statue, henry v. of england, ; death and burial of, henry v. and charles vi., entry into paris, heretics, first execution of, hervé and his eleven companions, their heroism, , hierarchy, the, its unpopularity, holbein, homme armé, rue de l', , horloge, pavilion de l', host, miracle of sacred, hôtel dieu, foundation of, ; rules of, ; site of, hôtel st paul, hôtel des tournelles, , hôtel de ville, , , hugh (eudes), count, his heroism, , , hugo, victor, his exile and return, ; his house, huguenots, hostility of parisians to, i infanta, garden of, ; betrothed to louis xv., ingres, innocent ii., pope, at paris, innocents, cemetery of, innocents, square des, institut, the, invalides, hôpital des, irish college, italian college, ivry, battle of, j jacobins, ; their aims, ; their supreme service to france, jacquerie, the, jacques de la boucherie, st., , jacques, st., rue, , jansenists and jesuits, , jardin des plantes, jean, st., feu de, jean sans peur, ; tower of, ; his assassination, ; inscription, jeanne d'arc, saviour of france, , ; wounded at siege of paris, ; her capture, trial and execution, , ; her rehabilitation at notre dame, jefferson and marie antoinette, jesuits, their suppression, jews at paris, their treatment, , , john the good, , ; at paris, jongleurs, their charity, judicial penalties at paris, juifs, les, the island of, julian, the emperor, his love of paris, julian, st., of the minstrels, julien le pauvre, st., ; rebuilding of, ; church of, jupiter, altar to, , ; temple of, k knights-templars, their foundation, ; their heroism, ; their arrest and torture, , ; their destruction, , ; site of their fortress, l lafayette, his loyalty, landry, st., fair of, ; gifts by scholars, ; port of, , latini brunetto, laurens, j. p., paintings at luxembourg and panthéon, , _note_, law, john, his financial scheme, , league, the, ; its ecclesiastical army, leaguers, their triumph, ; their violence, lebrun, leczynski, marie, her marriage to louis xv., ; her death, legros, lemercier continues the louvre, ; designs palais cardinal, lemoine, cardinal, college of, lescot, pierre, designs new louvre, ; designs fontaine des innocents, lesueur, levau, his suspension, lorrain, claude, lorraine, cardinal of, louis vi. chastises rebellious vassals, ; pioneer of the monarchy, louis vii., ; birth of an heir, louis viii. invades england, louis xi., his shabby dress, ; his policy, ; at paris, , ; meets edward iv. of england, ; institutes the angelus, ; his death, louis xii. invites leonardo da vinci to france, ; his wise rule, , louis xiii., his accession, ; his _coup d'état_, louis xiv., his accession, ; his small attainments, ; his hatred of paris, ; court of, , , ; secret marriage with mme. scarron, ; death of his heirs, ; his death, ; state of france and paris at end of his reign, ; his vandalism, louis xv., his majority, ; his sickness and recovery, ; his vicious life, ; his disastrous reign, , ; his death, louis xvi., his accession, ; state of paris under, ; his vacillation, ; intrigues with foreign courts, ; his trial and sentence, , ; execution of, louis philippe, louis, st., his early youth, ; his love of justice, , ; redeems the crown of thorns, ; his views on the treatment of jews and infidels, ; builds the sainte chapelle, ; his hatred of blasphemy, ; his death, louviers, the island of, louvois and vauban, inventors of bayonet, louvre, building of, ; its position, ; demolition of keep, ; west wing completed, ; continued by lemercier, ; continued by levau, ; perrault, base of, ; neglect of, by louis xiv., ; and by louis xv., ; repair of, ; during the revolution, ; under napoleon i., ; under napoleon iii., ; paintings in, ; sculpture in, , loyola, ignatius, founds society of jesus at paris, luini, lulli, his musical genius, lulli, hôtel, lutetia, its origin, lutetius, hill of, lutherans, their violence and iconomachy, ; persecution of, , luxembourg, palace and gardens of, , ; museum of, luxor, column of, luynes, his rise and fall, , m madeleine, the, maillotins, the, maintenon, mme. de, her ascendency over louis xiv., , , , ; the protestants and, malouel, manége, salle du, mansard, françois, extends palais royal, marais, the, , , marat, his body at the cordeliers, ; site of his house, marcel, etienne, buys the maison aux piliers, ; his power at paris, ; accused of treachery, ; his statue, ; his death, , marcel, etienne, rue, marlborough, duke of, his victories, marly, hermitage of, marmoutier, monastery of, mars, champ de, martel, charles, birth of, martin, st., des champs, rebuilding of, martin, st., story of, martin, st., rue, mary stuart, at amboise, massacres of september, maur, st., des fossés, may tree, planting of, in cour du mai, mayenne, hôtel de, mazarin, cardinal, his cautious policy, ; his unpopularity, ; his triumph, ; his death, mazzini, his teaching, medici, catherine de', her rise to importance, ; her plot against the huguenots, , ; her death and unpopularity, ; remains of her hôtel, medici, marie de', marriage with henry iv., ; her coronation, ; her disgrace and death, médicine, ecole de, merri, st., church of, meuniers, pont des, collapse of, michel le comte, rue, plays in, mignard, millet, , miracles, cour des, molay, jacques de, - molé, president, his courage, molière, imprisoned for debt, ; opens _l'illustre théâtre_, ; his success at court, monasteries, their increase, ; suppression of, at paris, monastic settlements, monks and nuns, their declining morals, , monks, their science and learning, montaigne, college of, montfaucon, ; its "fair gallows," montgomery, duke of, kills henry ii., montmartre, ; nunnery of, montmorency, his execution, morris, governor, his estimate of louis xvi., moulins, maître de, , n nain, le, the brothers, napoleon i., his policy, ; his raids on italy, ; crowns himself at notre dame, ; his genius, ; secret of his power, ; his plans for the louvre, ; his new streets, ; his tomb, napoleon iii., his _coup d'état_, nautæ, guild of the, navarre, college of, navarre, henry of, affianced to princess marguerite, ; his marriage festivities, navarre, jeanne de, ; her death at court, necker, mme., her salon, nemours, duke of, executed at paris, neustria, kingdom of, nicholas, st., chapel of, , ; scholars of, nobles, the, their rapacity, _noces vermeilles_, the, nogaret, guillaume de, normans, the, settle in france, notre dame, church of, , , ; rebuilding of, ; english envoys at, ; clerical iconoclasts of, ; worship of nature at, notre dame, the island of, o odéon, théâtre de l', oeil de boeuf, the, oiseaux, pont aux, consumed by fire, opera, french, rise of, opera house, the, , opera, italian, introduced to paris, orders, the reformed, oriflamme, the, its first use as royal standard, ; its disappearance, orleans, philip of, his regency, orme, philibert de l', p paine, thomas, his votes for mercy, , paix, rue de la, palais cardinal, théâtre du, its site, palais of the cité rebuilt, ; surrendered to parlement, palais de justice injured by fire, ; booksellers at, , ; revolutionary tribunal at, palais royal, , , ; revolutionists at, ; theatre of, palissy, bernard, his grotto, panthéon, its vicissitudes, - paraclete, the, paris, its geographical situation, , ; its capture by the romans, ; the white city, ; arms of, ; julian proclaimed emperor at, ; siege of, by childeric, ; the market of the peoples, ; siege of, by normans, ; a city of refuge, ; under interdict, ; growth of, under louis vi., ; under english rule, ; in the fifteenth century, ; crafts of, , ; siege of, by henry iii. and henry of navarre, ; siege of, by henry iv., ; under richelieu, , ; made an archbishopric, ; turenne and condé fight for, ; misery at, ; under louis xiv., ; louis xvi. and court returns to, ; an armourer's shop, ; life at, during the revolution, ; school of, at louvre, parisian women at versailles, parisians, their chastisement by charles vi., , ; their fidelity to the revolutionary ideals, parisii, the, parlement, the, , ; councillors of, hanged by the sections, ; councillors arrested, ; its public spirit, ; its humiliation by louis xiv., ; suppression of, pascal, his statue, passion, confraternity of, passion plays, their success, paul iii., pope, his humane protest against persecution of lutherans, pavia, defeat of, pepin of heristal, ; of landen, ; the short, becomes king of france, père la chaise, peronne, peace of, perrault, claude, his design for the louvre accepted, ; his east façade, , perréal, petite galerie, the, , petit pont, the, ; place du, philip augustus, his birth and accession, ; his conquests, ; pavement of, ; wall of, - ; his wisdom, philip i., his depravity and adultery, , ; his excommunication and death, , philip iii., philip vi., philip le bon, duke of burgundy, sides with the english, philip the fair, ; conflict with boniface viii., - ; destroys templars, - ; his death, picpus, village of, pierre aux boeufs, st., , pierre, st., des fossés, pilon, germain, place royale, , , playing cards, revolutionary, poitiers, diane de, , pol, st., count of, executed at paris, pompadour, mme. de, her power, , pont au change rebuilt, pont marie, pont neuf, , pont notre dame, pont royal, portes cochères, corps of, port royal, destruction of, poussin, prés aux clercs, the, primaticcio, , , primitifs, at louvre, printing, introduction of, at paris, ; at the louvre, provost of merchants, ; last of, provost of paris, his hotel, public good, league of, q quatre nations, the, quinze-vingts, establishment of, at paris, r radegonde, st., her piety, ; nuns of, at cambridge, raphael, ravaillac, assassin of henry iv., his cruel torture, rectors, their power, , reformation, the, rembrandt, rémi, st., republic, the second, republic, the third, its patriotism, ; architecture of, restoration, the, architecture of, retz, cardinal de, ; joins the insurrection, , revolutionary, committee of the league, revolution, the, its triumph, ; its results, ; place de la, revolutionists, their attitude towards england, richelieu, his rise to fame, , ; his firmness, ; his death, ; second founder of sorbonne, ; his tomb at the sorbonne, rigaud, robert the pious, his excommunication, ; his charity, ; repudiates his queen, , ; marries constance of aquitaine, robert the strong, robespierre and the terror, , ; his feast of the _etre suprème_, ; at chess, rochelle, la, capture of, roland, roland, mme., rollo, , roman amphitheatre, the, roman aqueduct, the, roman empire, exhaustion of, rosso, , rousseau, his impressions of paris, ; his journey from paris to lyons, rousseau, théodore, royalty, abolition of, royale, place, , , rubens, ryswick, peace of, s sacre coeur, church of, , sainte chapelle, the, , , samaritaine, la, sarto, andrea del, saxe, marshall, his victories, scholars, their lack of discipline, ; their festive meetings, ; their depravity, ; poor, at paris, ; defence of, by king, schoolman, the, sculpture, greek, at louvre, ; mediæval and renaissance, at louvre, sections, the, , ; their defeat, sens, archbishop of, and templars, ; his palace, serfdom, serfs, their condition, , séverin, st., church of, , sévigné, mme. de, siegbert, marriage with brunehaut, siéyès, abbé, siger, at paris, signs, old, at paris, simon, st., duke of, his memoirs, soissons, the vase of, sorbon, robert of, founds the sorbonne, sorbonne, introduction of painting at, ; greek lectureship at, ; the new, soubise, hôtel de, soufflot builds panthéon, ; mutilates west front of notre dame, staël, mme. de, states-general, establishment of, ; convoked by dauphin, ; meet at the louvre, ; at the hôtel de bourbon, ; at versailles, stephen, st., church of, stephen iii., pope, at paris, street names, revolutionary, streets, old, at paris, , suger, abbot, ; builds new st. denis, sully, duke of, , ; his enforced retirement, ; hôtel de, sully, maurice de, builds cathedral of notre dame, sulpice, st., church of, , , surgery, school of, swiss guards, their devotion and courage, t talleyrand, bishop, talma, julie, talma, tax farmers, their brutality, tennis-court oath, terror, the white, , _note_ terror, the, at paris, theatre, the early, thermæ, the, , tiberius cæsar, discovery of altar to, tiers etat, at notre dame, ; its humiliation, titian, trône, place du, troyes, treaty of, troyon, truce of god, tuileries, the, ; secret flight of royal family from, ; attack on, ; palace and gardens of, , turenne, his defeat at paris, , u university, first use of term, ursins, mme. des, her power in spain, utrecht, peace of, v vaches, isle des, val de grâce, church of, vallière, mme. de la, van dyck, vasari, his appreciation of fra angelico, vauban, his military science, ; his estimate of the national resources, vendôme, duke of, his depravity, vendôme, place and column of, venetian merchants at paris, ; their sympathy with jeanne d'arc, venise, rue de, vergniaud, , veronese, versailles, château of, ; cost of, , _note_; opera house, scene at, ; the revolution at, victoires, notre dame des, , _note_ victor, st., prior of, stabbed, ; abbey of, ville, the, , vinci, da, his monna lisa at louvre, viollet le duc, his love of gothic, voltaire, his solvent wit, , volterra, daniele da, his statue of louis xiii., vosges, place des, vouet, w wall, the roman, watteau, his manner of painting, ; works by, at louvre, whistler, the end _colston & coy., limited, printers, edinburgh._ * * * * * footnotes: [ ] "_faudra recommencer_" ("we must begin again"), said, to the present writer in , a communist refugee bearing a great scar on his face from a wound received fighting at the barricades. [ ] _inf._ xxix. - . a french commentator consoles himself by reflecting that the author of the _divina commedia_ is far more vituperative when dealing with certain italian peoples, whom he designates as hogs, curs, wolves and foxes. [ ] cobbett, comparing the relative intellectual culture of the british isles and of france between the years and , found that of the writers on the arts and sciences who were distinguished by a place in the _universal, historical, critical and bibliographical dictionary_ one hundred and thirty belonged to england, scotland and ireland, and six hundred and seventy-six to france. [ ] "nous cuisinons même l'amour."--taine. [ ] the seine takes five hours to flow through the seven miles of modern paris. [ ] "_cesare armato con gli occhi grifani._"--_inferno_, iv. . [ ] of some , ancient inscriptions found in gaul, only twenty are in celtic, and less than thirty words of celtic origin now remain in the french language. [ ] the water supply of paris is even now partly derived from these sources, and flows along the old repaired roman aqueduct. [ ] traces of the gallo-roman wall have been discovered, and are marked across the roadway opposite no. rue de la colombe. [ ] the isle de galilée was joined to the cité during the thirteenth century. [ ] in some remains were found of the old halls of this building, and of its columns, worn by the ropes of the boatmen who used to moor their craft to them. [ ] the exact position of this bridge is much disputed by authorities, some of whom would locate it on the site of the present pont au change. the balance of probabilities seems to us in favour of the position given in the text. [ ] "_jovem brutum atque hebetem._" [ ] not to be confounded with the royal provost, a king's officer, who replaced the carlovingian counts and capetian viscounts. [ ] the present writer recalls a similar glacial epoch in paris during the early eighties, when the seine was frozen over at christmas time. [ ] by the law of a.d. it was a capital offence to sacrifice to or honour the old gods. the persecuted had become persecutors. boissier, _la fin du paganisme_. [ ] "he soon hugs himself in unconditioned ease." [ ] to protect home producers against the competition of the gallic wine and olive growers, roman statesmen could conceive nothing better than the stupid expedient of prohibiting the culture of the vine and olive in gaul. [ ] the favourite arm of the franks, a short battle-axe, used as a missile or at close quarters. [ ] her figure was a favourite subject for the sculptors of christian churches. she usually bears a taper in her hand and a devil is seen peering over her shoulder. this symbolises the miraculous relighting of the taper after the devil had extinguished it. the taper was long preserved at notre dame. [ ] if we may believe gregory of tours, her arguments were vituperative rather than convincing. "your jupiter," said she, "is _omnium stuprorum spurcissimus perpetrator_." [ ] merovée, second of the kings of the salic franks, was fabled to be the issue of clodio's wife and a sea monster. [ ] the palace in the cité, where now stands the palais de justice. [ ] roads in the arrondissement of amiens and mondidier in picardy are still known as chaussées brunehautes. [ ] the works of art traditionally ascribed to st. eloy are many. he is reported to have made a golden throne set with stones (or rather two thrones, for he used his material so honestly and economically). he was made master of the mint and thirteen pieces of money are known which bear his name. he decorated the tombs of st. martin and st. denis, and constructed reliquaries for st. germain, notre dame, and other churches. [ ] five of them died between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six. [ ] it was during this struggle that st. leger, bishop of autun, whose name is dear to english sportsmen, one of the most popular of saints in his time, was imprisoned, blinded and subsequently beheaded by ebrion's orders in . [ ] the term cité (_civitas_) was given to the old roman part of many french towns. [ ] the carlovingians had been careful to abolish the office of mayor of the palace. [ ] st. pierre was subsequently enriched by the possession of the body of st. maur, brought thither in the norman troubles by fugitive monks from anjou, and the monastery is better known to history under the name of st. maur des fossés. the entrails of our own henry v. were buried there. rabelais, before its secularisation, was one of its canons, and catherine de medicis once possessed a château on its site. monastery and château no longer exist. [ ] the villa of those days was a vast domain, part dwelling, part farm, part game preserve. [ ] the remains of the great viking's castle are still shown at aalesund, in norway. [ ] when allan barbetorte, after the recovery of nantes, went to give thanks to god in the cathedral, he was compelled to cut his way, sword in hand, through thorns and briers. [ ] it must be admitted, however, that the poet's uncouth diction is anything but virgilian. [ ] abbo's favourite epithet. they were without a head, for they knew not christ, the head of mankind. [ ] in the middle ages and down to montfaucon had a sinister reputation. there stood the gallows of paris, a great stone gibbet with its three rows of chains, near the old barrière du combat, where the present rue de la grange aux belles abuts on the boulevard de la villette. [ ] william the conqueror was also known as william the builder. [ ] the surname capet is said to have originated in the _capet_ or hood of the abbot's mantle which hugh wore as lay abbot of st. martin's, having laid aside the crown after his coronation. [ ] carducci. _in una chiesa gotica._ [ ] a dramatic representation of the delivery of the papal bull, painted by jean paul laurens, hangs in the museum of the luxembourg. [ ] it must be remembered that heresy was the solvent anti-social force of the age, and was regarded with the same feelings of abhorrence as anarchist doctrines are regarded by modern statesmen. [ ] the rue des francs bourgeois in paris reminds us that there dwelt those who were free to move without the consent of their feudal superiors. [ ] it was the conduct of this campaign that won for robert the title of robert the devil. [ ] the possession of an oven was a lucrative monopoly in mediæval times. the writer knows of a village in south italy where this curious privilege is still possessed by the parish priest, who levies a small indemnity of a few loaves, made specially of larger size, for each use of the oven. [ ] he was said to be "kind even to jews." [ ] the indignant scribe is most precise: they walked abroad _artatis clunibus et protensis natibus_. [ ] the reformers always discover the nunneries to be so much more corrupt than the monasteries, but it is a little suspicious that in every case the former are expropriated to the latter. the abbot of st. maur evidently had some qualms concerning the expropriation of st. eloy, and wished to restore it to the bishop. [ ] the abbey was suppressed at the time of the revolution, and the site is now occupied by the halle aux vins. [ ] in the ardour of the fight the king found himself surrounded by the enemy's footmen, was unhorsed, and while they were vainly seeking for a vulnerable spot in his armour some french knights had time to rescue him. [ ] jeanne de bourgogne, queen of philip le long, lived at the hôtel de nesle, and is said to have seduced scholars by night into the tower, had them tied in sacks and flung into the seine. if we may believe villon, this was the queen-- "qui commanda que buridan fust jetté en ung sac en seine." legend adds that the schoolman, made famous by his thesis, that if an ass were placed equidistant between two bundles of hay of equal attraction he would die of hunger before he could resolve to eat either, was saved by his disciples, who placed a barge, loaded with straw, below the tower to break his fall. [ ] she was wont to say to her son--"i would rather see thee die than commit a mortal sin." [ ] by a subtle irony, part of the money was derived from the tribute of the jews of paris. [ ] in the catalogue of the acts of francis i., quoted by lavisse, is an order to pay the dames des filles de joie, which follow the court, forty-five livres tournois for their payments, due for the month of may , as it has been the custom to do from most ancient times (_de toute ancienneté_.) [ ] on account of the cord they wore round their habit. [ ] st. louis loved the franciscans, and in the _fioretti_ a beautiful story is told how the king, in the guise of a pilgrim, visiting brother giles at perugia, knelt with the good friar in the embrace of fervent affection for a great space of time in silence. they parted without speaking a word. [ ] the sale or the provostship of paris was abolished and a man of integrity, etienne boileau, appointed with adequate emoluments. so completely was this once venal office rehabilitated, that no seigneur regarded the post as beneath him. [ ] it was buried in the church of monreale at palermo. [ ] joinville was a brave and tender knight; he tells us that before starting to join the crusaders at marseilles he called all his friends and household before him, and prayed that if he had wronged any one of them he would declare it and reparation should be made. after a severe penance he was assoiled, and as he set forth, durst not turn back his eyes lest his heart should be melted at leaving his fair château of joinville and his two children whom he loved so dearly. [ ] the relics were transferred to a new church of st. stephen (st. etienne du mont), built by the abbot of st. genevieve as a parish church for his servants and tenants. [ ] the early glass-workers were particularly fond of their beautiful red. "wine of the colour of the glass windows of the sainte-chapelle," was a popular locution of the time. [ ] brunetto latini, in the thirteenth century contrasted the high towers and grim stone walls of the fortress-palaces of the italian nobles with the large, spacious and painted houses of the french, their rooms adorned _pour avoir joie et delit_ (to have joy and delight) and surrounded with orchards and gardens. [ ] another delusion of moderns is that there was an absence of personal cleanliness in those ages. in the census of the inhabitants of paris, who in were subject to the taille, there are inscribed the names of no less than twenty-six proprietors of public baths: a larger proportion to population than exists to-day. [ ] hence the name of _clerc_ applied to any student, even if a layman. [ ] "love is quickly caught in gentle heart." [ ] afterwards bishop of london. [ ] the two churches still existed in the eighteenth century and stood on the site of the southern cours visconti and lefuel of the present louvre. [ ] the actual originator was, however, the queen's physician, robert de douai, who left a sum of money which formed the nucleus of the foundation. [ ] the montaigue scholars were called _capetes_ from their peculiar _cape fermée_, or cloak, such as masters of arts used to wear. the bibliothèque st. genevieve occupies the site of the college. [ ] the rue des anglais still exists in the latin quarter. [ ] this interesting twelfth-century building will be found in the rue st. julien le pauvre, and is now used as a uniat greek church. [ ] par. x. . "who lecturing in straw st. deduced truths that brought him hatred." [ ] benvenuto was certainly in france and possibly in paris during the fourteenth century. at any rate he would be familiar with parisian students, many of whom were italians. [ ] in the seventeenth century the councillors had increased to one hundred and twenty and the courts to seven. [ ] the term "parlement" was originally applied to the transaction of the common business of a monastic establishment after the conclusion of the daily chapter. [ ] the contemporary chronicler, villani, says of one of these scoundrels that he "was named nosso dei, one of our florentines, a man filled with every vice." [ ] the indictment covers seven quarto pages. the charges may be briefly classified as blasphemy, heresy, spitting and trampling on the crucifix, obscene and secret rites, and unnatural crimes. [ ] there is a significant entry on page of the published trial: _in ista pagina nihil est scriptum_. the empty page tells of the moment when the papal commissioners, having heard that the fifty-four had been burned, suspended the sitting. [ ] _nihil sibi appropriare intendebat._ [ ] or the isle of the jews, which, with its sister islet of bussy, were subsequently joined to the island of the cité, and now form the place dauphine and the land that divides the pont neuf. philip watched the fires from his palace garden. [ ] it is to be hoped that some english scholar will do for these most important records, the earliest report of any great criminal trial which we possess, what mr t. douglas murray has done for the trial and rehabilitation of joan of arc. [ ] during john the good's reign, the province of dauphiny had been added to the french crown, and the king's eldest son took the title of dauphin. [ ] so called from the familiar appellation "jacques bonhomme," applied half in contempt, half in jest, by the seigneurs to the peasants who served them in the wars. [ ] the bastilles were fortified castles before the chief gates of paris. [ ] howell mentions the locution in a letter dated . [ ] charles taxed and borrowed heavily. even the members of his household were importuned for loans, however small. his cook lent him frs. . . [ ] the scene is quaintly illustrated in an illuminated copy of froissart in the british museum. [ ] the scene of the assassination is marked by an escutcheon and an inscription. [ ] they melted down the reliquaries in the paris churches. [ ] in charles, returning from a visit to the queen at the castle of vincennes, met the chevalier bois-burdon going thither. he ordered his arrest, and under torture a confession reflecting on the queen's honour was extorted. bois-burdon was sewn in a sack and dropped into the seine. the queen was banished to tours, and her jewels and treasures confiscated. furious with the king and the armagnac faction, she made common cause with the duke of burgundy. [ ] a portrait of jean sans peur exists in the louvre, no. . [ ] an equestrian statue in bronze stands at the south end of the rue des pyramides, a few hundred yards from the spot where the maid fell before the porte st. honoré. [ ] the faculty of theology declared her sold to the devil, impious to her parents, stained with christian blood. the faculty of law decreed her deserving of punishment, but only if she were obstinate and of sound mind. [ ] in and the people of paris had seen henry v. and his french consort sitting in state at the louvre, surrounded by a brilliant throng of princes, prelates and barons. hungry crowds watched the sumptuous banquet and then went away fasting, for nothing was offered them. "it was not so in the former times under our kings," they murmured, "then there was open table kept, and servants distributed the meats and wine even of the king himself." [ ] part of the rue de l'homme armé still exists. [ ] the fifteenth-century goldsmiths of paris: loris, the hersants, and jehan gallant, were famed throughout europe. [ ] the reader will hardly need to be reminded that this amazing folly forms one of the principal episodes in scott's _quentin durward_. [ ] flamboyant windows were a natural, technical development of gothic. the aim of the later builders was to facilitate the draining away of the water which the old mullioned windows used to retain. [ ] one of the façades of this remarkable building may be seen in the courtyard of the beaux arts at paris. [ ] brittany was incorporated with the monarchy . [ ] the good king's portrait by an italian sculptor may be seen in the louvre, room vii., and on his monument in st. denis he kneels beside his beloved and _chère bretonne_, anne of brittany, whose loss he wept for eight days and nights. [ ] "he was well named after st. francis, because of the holes in his hands," said a sorbonne doctor. [ ] "ah! me, how thou art changed! see, thou art neither two nor one." [ ] travellers to paris in the days of king francis had cause to remember gratefully that monarch's solicitude, for a maximum of charges was fixed, and an order made that every hotel-keeper should affix his prices outside the door, that extortion might be avoided. among other maxima, the price of a pair of sheets, to "sleep not more than five persons," was to be five deniers (a penny). [ ] the salamander was figured on the royal arms of francis. [ ] about £ , in present-day value. [ ] for the first offence a fine; for the second, the lips to be cloven; for the third, the tongue pierced; for the fourth, death. [ ] the image was stolen in and replaced by one of wood. this was struck down in , and the bishop of paris substituted for it one of marble. [ ] one thousand two hundred are said to have suffered death during the month of vengeance. [ ] henry of guise had succeeded to the dukedom after his father's assassination. [ ] suspicions of poison were entertained by the huguenots. jeanne, in a letter to the marquis de beauvais, complained that holes were made in her rooms that she might be spied upon. [ ] félibien and lobïneau, . [ ] "that to show pity was to be cruel to them: to be cruel to them was to show pity." [ ] the municipality gave presents of money to the archers who had taken part in the massacre, to the watermen who prevented the huguenots from crossing the seine, and to grave-diggers for having buried in eight days about , bodies. [ ] now known as the galerie d'apollon. [ ] _ugonottorum strages._ inscription on the obverse of the medal. [ ] examples of magnificent costumes of the order may be seen in the cluny museum. [ ] the duke of guise was so called from his face being scarred by a wound received at the battle of dolmans. [ ] the king had premonitions of a violent end. one day, after keeping easter at negeon with great devotion, he suddenly returned to the louvre and ordered all the lions, bears, bulls, and other wild animals he kept there for baiting by dogs, to be shot. he had dreamt that he was set upon and eaten by wild beasts. [ ] so called derisively, because he was born and brought up in the poor province of bearn, in the pyrenees. [ ] her majesty, we learn from the _mémoires_ of l'estoile, was of a rich figure, stout, fine eyes and complexion. she used no paint, powder or other _vilanie_. [ ] the new palace was situated in the parish of st. germain l'auxerrois, the parish church of the louvre. [ ] the north tower was left only partially constructed, and was finished by louis xiii. [ ] by a curious coincidence the widening of the rue de la ferronnerie had been ordered just before the king was assassinated. [ ] they marked the seven resting-places of the saint as he journeyed to st. denis after his martyrdom. [ ] the grande galerie. [ ] in the hôtel de bourbon, east of the old louvre, sometimes known as the petit bourbon. [ ] the church of notre dame des victoires commemorates the victory. [ ] the marché st. honoré now occupies its site. [ ] in the tomb was desecrated, and the head removed from the body, but in , as an inscription tells, the head was recovered by the historian duruy, and after seventy years reunited to the trunk. [ ] a letter from paris to lyons was taxed at two sous: it now costs three. [ ] the rue poulletier marks the line of the old channel between the islands. [ ] so named from the wooden seat, or _couche de bois_, covered with rich stuff embroidered with _fleur-de-lys_, on which the king sat when he attended a meeting of the parlement. [ ] one of the schemes of francis i. to raise money had been to offer the benches to the highest bidders, and under the law of the office of councillor became a hereditary property on payment to the court of one-sixtieth of its value. moreover, the parlement was but a local body, one among several others in the provinces. [ ] the added indignity of the whip is an invention of voltaire. [ ] louis used, however, to stilt his low stature by means of thick pads in his boots. [ ] taine, basing his calculation on a ms. bound with the monogram of mansard, estimated the cost of versailles in modern equivalent at about , , francs (£ , , sterling.) [ ] the writer, whose youth was passed among the descendants of the huguenot silk-weavers of spitalfields, has indelible memories of their sterling character and admirable industry. [ ] marshal luxembourg was dubbed the _tapissier de notre dame_ (the upholsterer of notre dame), from the number of captured flags he sent to the cathedral. [ ] in a previous campaign the king had taken his queen and two mistresses with him in one coach. the peasants used to amuse themselves by coming to see the "three queens." [ ] when the duke of orleans was about to start for spain, the king asked whom he had chosen to accompany him. orleans mentioned, among others, fontpertius. "what, nephew!" exclaimed louis, "a jansenist!" "so far from being a jansenist," replied orleans, "he doesn't even believe in god." "oh, if that is so," said the king, "i see no reason why he should not go." [ ] among the privileges granted to england was the monopoly of supplying the spanish colonies with negro slaves. [ ] levau's south façade was not completely hidden by perrault's screen, for the roofs of the end and central pavilions emerged from behind it until they were destroyed by gabriel in . [ ] jules hardouin, the younger mansard, was a nephew and pupil of françois mansard, who assumed his uncle's name. the latter was the inventor of the mansard roof. [ ] the sixth part of a sou. [ ] twelve alone were added to the st. honoré quarter by levelling the hill of st. roch and clearing away accumulated rubbish. [ ] it extended as far as the entrance to the quadrangle opposite the pont des arts. a double line of trees, north and south, enclosed a renaissance garden of elaborate design, and a charming _bosquet_, or wood, filled the eastern extremity. [ ] "by order of the king, god is forbidden to work miracles in this place." [ ] in between th january and th february two hundred persons died of want (_misère_) in the faubourg st. antoine. [ ] some conception of the insanitary condition of the court may be formed by the fact that fifty persons were struck down there by this loathsome disease during the king's illness. [ ] "i have seen the louvre and its huge enclosure, a vast palace which for two hundred years is always being finished and always begun. two workmen, lazy hodmen, speed very slowly those rich buildings, and are paid when they are thought of." [ ] the aspect of the west front with soufflot's "improvements" is well seen in _les principaux monuments gothiques de l'europe_, published in brussels, . [ ] taine estimates the revenues of thirty-three abbots in terms of modern values at from , to , francs (£ to £ , ). twenty-seven abbesses enjoyed revenues nearly as large. [ ] the score of rousseau's opera is still preserved in the bibliothèque nationale. [ ] the excise duty. [ ] personal and land-taxes paid by the humbler classes alone. [ ] it is difficult, however, to read the sober and irrefutable picture of their miserable condition, given in the famous books ii. and v. of taine's _ancien régime_, without deep emotion. [ ] after the thermidorian reaction in , ninety-seven jacobins were massacred by the royalists at lyons on th may; thirty at aix on th may. similar horrors were enacted at avignon, arles, and marseilles, and at other places in the south. [ ] when de brézé reported this to the king, he seemed vexed, and answered petulantly, "well, if they won't go they must be left there." [ ] a whole library has been written concerning the identity of this famous prisoner. there is little doubt that the mask was of velvet and not of iron, and that the mysterious captive who died on th november in the bastille was count mattioli of bologna, who was secretly arrested for having betrayed the confidence of louis xiv. [ ] only five francs were allowed for a bourgeois, a man of letters was granted ten; a marshal of france obtained the maximum. [ ] it was composed by one of the _émigrés_, m. de limon, approved by the emperor of austria and the king of prussia, and signed, against his better judgment, by the duke of brunswick. [ ] the numbers have been variously estimated from to killed on the popular side. [ ] "sew we, spin we, sew we well, behold the coats we have made for the winter that is coming. soldiers of the fatherland, ye shall want for nothing." [ ] _inferno._ xv. - .--"in whom lives again the seed of those romans who remained there when the nest (florence) of so much wickedness was made." [ ] mdlle. curchod, for whom gibbon "sighed as a lover." [ ] "we could rouse no enthusiasm," said the head of a state department to the writer at the time of the fashoda incident, "even for a war for the recovery of alsace and lorraine, much less against england." [ ] _see_ p. . [ ] according to sir thomas browne, bodies soon consumed there. "'tis all one to lie in st. innocents' churchyard as in the sands of egypt, ready to be anything, in the ecstasy of being ever, and as content with six feet as the _moles_ of adrianus."--_urn burial_, p. . [ ] the picture subsequently found its way to the apartments of louis xvi., and followed him from versailles to paris. the attitude of this ill-fated monarch towards his advisers, says michelet, was much influenced by a fixed idea that charles i. lost his head for having made war on his people, and that james ii. lost his crown for having abandoned them. [ ] _french painting in the sixteenth century_, by l. dimier. london, . [ ] the picture, une dame présentée par la madeleine, attributed to the maître de moulins at the exhibition of primitifs in the pavilion de marsan has now been acquired by the louvre. [ ] m. lafenestre, the director of the louvre, informs the writer that he sees no sufficient reason at present for modifying the traditional attributions of the pictures loaned by the louvre to the exhibition of the primitifs in the pavilion de marsan. [ ] one of the few non-dramatic compositions of molière is an eulogistic poem on mignard's decoration of this dome. [ ] "o the fair statue! o the fair pedestal! the virtues are on foot: vice is on horseback." [ ] "he is here as at versailles without heart and without bowels." [ ] a description of this and of other public balls of the second empire will be found in taine's _notes sur paris_, which has been translated into english. [ ] in we find _guilliaume roy des ménéstriers_, the viol players and masters of dancing, acting in the name of the foundation against the usurpations of the fathers of the christian doctrine. in the title of the church was confirmed by royal decree as st. julian of the minstrels. the church and the street of the minstrels were swept away to make the rue rambuteau. [ ] it became the second théâtre français in . [ ] it became the théâtre français in , and was burnt down in . [ ] the word is derived from basilica, a law court. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: the insigna of a president=> the insigna of a president {pg vii} counseller=> counsellor {pg } sublety=> subtlety {pg } in french story=> in french history {pg } ville gagneé=> ville gagnée {pg } facades=> façades {pg } soldier and gentlemen=> soldier and gentleman {pg } statemanship=> statemanship {pg } was flung out of window=> was flung out of a window {pg } chateâu=> château {pg } st. medard=> st. médard {pg } la patrie reconnaisante=> la patrie reconnaissante {pg } galerie merciere=> galerie mercière {pg } detention there rather in=> detention there rather than in {pg } sleep well=> sleeps well {pg } champ du mars=> champ de mars {pg } place de la revolution=> place de la révolution {pg } north facade=> north façade {pg } joiner's workship=> joiner's workshop {pg } famous d'artagan=> famous d'artagnan {pg } place du carrouels=> place du carrousel {pg } salle de la venus de milo=> salle de la vénus de milo {pg } sculptures du moyen age=> sculptures du moyen âge {pg } montmatre=> montmartre {pg } le médecin malgre lui=> le médecin malgré lui {pg } montmarte=> montmartre {index} [illustration: "'_take away your flowers, my dear._'"] the nabob by alphonse daudet translated by george burnham ives with an introduction by brander matthews in two volumes vol. i. boston little, brown, and company _copyright, _, by little, brown, and company. _all rights reserved._ university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. publisher's note to french edition we have been informed that at the time of the publication of _the nabob_ in serial form, the government of tunis was offended at the introduction therein of individuals whom the author dressed in names and costumes peculiar to that country. we are authorized by m. alphonse daudet to declare that those scenes in the book which relate to tunis are entirely imaginary, and that he never intended to introduce any of the functionaries of that state. alphonse daudet. alphonse daudet is one of the most richly gifted of modern french novelists and one of the most artistic; he is perhaps the most delightful; and he is certainly the most fortunate. in his own country earlier than any of his contemporaries he saw his stories attain to the very wide circulation that brings both celebrity and wealth. beyond the borders of his own language he swiftly won a popularity both with the broad public and with the professed critics of literature, second only to that of victor hugo and still surpassing that of balzac, who is only of late beginning to receive from us the attention he has so long deserved. daudet has had the rare luck of pleasing partisans of almost every school; the realists have joyed in his work and so have the romanticists; his writings have found favor in the eyes of the frank impressionists and also at the hands of the severer custodians of academic standards. mr. henry james has declared that daudet is "at the head of his profession" and has called him "an admirable genius." mr. robert louis stevenson thought daudet "incomparably" the best of the present french novelists and asserted that "kings in exile" comes "very near to being a masterpiece." m. jules lemaitre tells us that daudet "trails all hearts after him,--because he has charm, as indefinable in a work of art as in a woman's face." m. ferdinand brunetière, who has scant relish for latter-day methods in literature, admits ungrudgingly that "there are certain corners of the great city and certain aspects of parisian manners, there are some physiognomies that perhaps no one has been able to render so well as daudet, with that infinitely subtle and patient art which succeeds in giving even to inanimate things the appearance of life." i. the documents are abundant for an analysis of daudet such as sainte-beuve would have undertaken with avidity; they are more abundant indeed than for any other contemporary french man of letters even in these days of unhesitating self-revelation; and they are also of an absolutely impregnable authenticity. m. ernest daudet has written a whole volume to tell us all about his brother's boyhood and youth and early manhood and first steps in literature. m. léon daudet has written another solid tome to tell us all about his father's literary principles and family life and later years and death. daudet himself put forth a pair of pleasant books of personal gossip about himself, narrating his relations with his fellow authors and recording the circumstances under which he came to compose each of his earlier stories. montaigne--whose "essays" was daudet's bedside book and who may be accepted not unfairly as an authority upon egotism--assures us that "there is no description so difficult, nor doubtless of so great utility, as that of one's self." and daudet's own interest in himself is not unlike montaigne's,--it is open, innocent and illuminating. cuvier may have been able to reconstruct an extinct monster from the inspection of a single bone; but it is a harder task to revive the figure of a man, even by the aid of these family testimonies, this self-analysis, the diligence of countless interviewers of all nationalities, and indiscretion of a friend like edmond de goncourt (who seems to have acted on the theory that it is the whole duty of man to take notes of the talk of his fellows for prompt publication). yet we have ample material to enable us to trace daudet's heredity, and to estimate the influence of his environment in the days of his youth, and to allow for the effect which certain of his own physical peculiarities must have had upon his exercise of his art. his near-sightedness, for example,--would not sainte-beuve have seized upon this as significant? would he not have seen in this a possible source of daudet's mastery of description? and the spasms of pain borne bravely and uncomplainingly, the long agony of his later years, what mark has this left on his work, how far is it responsible for a modification of his attitude,--for the change from the careless gaiety of "tartarin of tarascon" to the sombre satire of "port-tarascon"? what caused the joyous story-teller of the "letters from my mill" to develop into the bitter iconoclast of the "immortal." these questions are insistent; and yet, after all, what matters the answer to any of them? the fact remains that daudet had his share of that incommunicable quality which we are agreed to call genius. this once admitted, we may do our best to weigh it and to resolve it into its elements, it is at bottom the vital spark that resists all examination, however scientific we may seek to be. we can test for this and for that, but in the final analysis genius is inexplicable. it is what it is, because it is. it might have been different, no doubt, but it is not. it is its own excuse for being; and, for all that we can say to the contrary, it is its own cause, sufficient unto itself. even if we had sainte-beuve's scalpel, we could not surprise the secret. yet an inquiry into the successive stages of daudet's career, a consideration of his ancestry, of his parentage, of his birth, of the circumstances of his boyhood, of his youthful adventures,--these things are interesting in themselves and they are not without instruction. they reveal to us the reasons for the transformation that goes so far to explain daudet's peculiar position,--the transformation of a young provençal poet into a brilliant parisian veritist. daudet was a provençal who became a parisian,--and in this translation we may find the key to his character as a writer of fiction. he was from provence as maupassant was from normandy; and daudet had the southern expansiveness and abundance, just as maupassant had the northern reserve and caution. if an author is ever to bring forth fruit after his kind he must have roots in the soil of his nativity. daudet was no orchid, beautiful and scentless; his writings have always the full flavor of the southern soil. he was able to set tartarin before us so sympathetically and to make numa roumestan so convincing because he recognized in himself the possibility of a like exuberance. he could never take the rigorously impassive attitude which flaubert taught maupassant to assume. daudet not only feels for his characters, but he is quite willing that we should be aware of his compassion. he is not only incapable of the girding enmity which taine detected and detested in thackeray's treatment of becky sharp, but he is also devoid of the callous detachment with which flaubert dissected emma bovary under the microscope. daudet is never flagrantly hostile toward one of his creatures; and, however contemptible or despicable the characters he has called into being, he is scrupulously fair to them. sidonie and félicia ruys severally throw themselves away, but daudet is never intolerant. he is inexorable, but he is not insulting. i cannot but think that it is provence whence daudet derived the precious birthright of sympathy, and that it is provence again which bestowed on him the rarer gift of sentiment. it is by his possession of sympathy and of sentiment that he has escaped the aridity which suffocates us in the works of so many other parisian novelists. the south endowed him with warmth and heartiness and vivacity; and what he learnt from paris was the power of self-restraint and the duty of finish. he was born in provence and he died in paris; he began as a poet and he ended as a veritist; and in each case there was logical evolution and not contradiction. the parisian did not cease to be a provençal; and the novelist was a lyrist still. poet though he was, he had an intense liking for the actual, the visible, the tangible. he so hungered after truth that he was ready sometimes to stay his stomach with facts in its stead,--mere fact being but the outward husk, whereas truth is the rich kernel concealed within. his son tells us that daudet might have taken as a motto the title of goethe's autobiography, "dichtung und wahrheit,"--poetry and truth. and this it is that has set daudet apart and that has caused his vogue with readers of all sorts and conditions,--this unique combination of imagination and verity. "his originality," m. jules lemaitre has acutely remarked, "is closely to unite observation and fantasy, to extract from the truth all that it contains of the improbable and the surprising, to satisfy at the same time the readers of m. cherbuliez and the readers of m. zola, to write novels which are at the same time realistic and romantic, and which seem romantic only because they are very sincerely and very profoundly realistic." ii. alphonse daudet was born in , and it was at nîmes that he first began to observe mankind; and he has described his birthplace and his boyhood in "little what's-his-name," a novel even richer in autobiographical revelation than is "david copperfield." his father was a manufacturer whose business was not prosperous and who was forced at last to remove with the whole family to lyons in the vain hope of doing better in the larger town. after reading the account of this parent's peculiarities in m. ernest daudet's book, we are not surprised that the affairs of the family did not improve, but went from bad to worse. alphonse daudet suffered bitterly in these years of desperate struggle, but he gained an understanding of the conditions of mercantile life, to be serviceable later in the composition of "fromont and risler." when he was sixteen he secured a place as _pion_ in a boarding school in the cévennes,--_pion_ is a poor devil of a youth hired to keep watch on the boys. how painful this position was to the young poet can be read indirectly in "little what's-his-name," but more explicitly in the history of that story, printed now in "thirty years of paris." from this remote prison he was rescued by his elder brother, ernest, who was trying to make his way in paris and who sent for alphonse as soon as he had been engaged to help an old gentleman in writing his memoirs. the younger brother has described his arrival in paris, and his first dress-coat and his earliest literary acquaintances. ernest's salary was seventy-five francs a month, and on this the two brothers managed to live; no doubt fifteen dollars went further in paris in than they will in . in those days of privation and ambition daudet's longing was to make himself famous as a poet; and when at last, not yet twenty years old, he began his career as a man of letters it was by the publication of a volume of verse, just as his fellow-novelists, m. paul bourget and signor gabriele d'annunzio have severally done. immature as juvenile lyrics are likely to be, these early rhymes of daudet's have a flavor of their own, a faintly recognizable note of individuality. he is more naturally a poet than most modern literators who possess the accomplishment of verse as part of their equipment for the literary life, but who lack a spontaneous impulse toward rhythm. it may even be suggested that his little poems are less artificial than most french verse; they are the result of a less obvious effort. he lisped in numbers; and with him it was rather prose that had to be consciously acquired. his lyric note, although not keen and not deep, is heard again and again in his novels, and it sustains some of the most graceful and tender of his short stories,--"the death of the dauphin," for instance, and the "sous-préfet in the fields." daudet extended poetry to include playmaking; and alone or with a friend he attempted more than one little piece in rhyme--tiny plays of a type familiar enough at the odéon. he has told us how the news of the production of one of these poetic dramas came to him afar in algiers whither he had been sent because of a weakness of the lungs, threatening to become worse in the gray parisian winter. other plays of his, some of them far more important than this early effort, were produced in the next few years. the most ambitious of these was the "woman of arles," which he had elaborated from a touching short story and for which bizet composed incidental music as beautiful and as overwhelming as that prepared by mendelssohn for the "midsummer night's dream." no one of daudet's dramatic attempts was really successful; not the "woman of arles," which is less moving in the theatre than in its briefer narrative form, not even the latest of them all, the freshest and the most vigorous, the "struggle for life," with its sinister figure of paul astier taken over from the "immortal." apparently, with all his desire to write for the stage, daudet must have been inadequately endowed with the dramaturgic faculty, that special gift of playmaking which many a poet lacks and many a novelist, but which the humblest playwright must needs have and which all the great dramatists have possessed abundantly in addition to their poetic power. perhaps it was the unfavorable reception of his successive dramas which is responsible for the chief of daudet's lapses from the kindliness with which he treats the characters that people his stories. he seems to have kept hot a grudge against the theatre: and he relieves his feelings by taking it out of the stage-folk he introduces into his novels. to actors and actresses he is intolerant and harsh. what is factitious and self-overvaluing in the provençal type, he understood and he found it easy to pardon; but what was factitious and self-overvaluing in the player type, he would not understand and he refused to pardon. and here he shows in strong contrast with a successful dramatist, m. ludovic halévy, whose knowledge of the histrionic temperament is at least as wide as daudet's and whose humor is as keen, but whose judgment is softened by the grateful memory of many victories won by the united effort of the author and the actor. through his brother's influence, alphonse daudet was appointed by the duke de morny to a semi-sinecure; and he has recorded how he told his benefactor before accepting the place that he was a legitimist and how the duke smilingly retorted that the empress was also. although it was as a poet that daudet made his bow in the world of letters, his first appearance as a dramatist was not long delayed thereafter; and he soon came forward also as a journalist,--or rather as a contributor to the papers. while many of the articles he prepared for the daily and weekly press were of ephemeral interest only, as the necessity of journalism demands, to be forgotten forty-eight hours after they were printed, not a few of them were sketches having more than a temporary value. parisian newspapers are more hospitable to literature than are the newspapers of new york or of london; and a goodly proportion of the young southerner's journalistic writing proved worthy of preservation. it has been preserved for us in three volumes of short stories and sketches, of fantasies and impressions. not all the contents of the "letters from my mill," of the "monday tales" and of "artists' wives," as we have these collections now, were written in these early years of daudet's parisian career, but many of them saw the light before , and what has been added since conforms in method to the work of his 'prentice days. no doubt the war with prussia enlarged his outlook on life; and there is more depth in the satires this conflict suggested and more pathos in the pictures it evoked. the "last lesson," for example, that simple vision of the old french schoolmaster taking leave of his alsatian pupils, has a symbolic breath not easy to match in the livelier tales written before the surrender at sédan; and in the "siege of berlin" there is a vibrant patriotism far more poignant than we can discover in any of the playful apologues published before the war. he had had an inside view of the second empire, he could not help seeing its hollowness, and he revolted against the selfishness of its servants; no single chapter of m. zola's splendid and terrible "downfall" contains a more damning indictment of the leaders of the imperial army than is to be read in daudet's "game of billiards." the short story, whether in prose or in verse, is a literary form in which the french have ever displayed an easy mastery; and from daudet's three volumes it would not be difficult to select half-a-dozen little masterpieces. the provençal tales lack only rhymes to stand confessed as poesy; and many a reader may prefer these first flights before daudet set his pegasus to toil in the mill of realism. the "pope's mule," for instance, is not this a marvel of blended humor and fantasy? and the "elixir of father gaucher," what could be more naïvely ironic? like a true southerner, daudet delights in girding at the church; and these tales bristle with jibes at ecclesiastical dignitaries; but his stroke is never malignant and there is no barb to his shaft nor poison on the tip. scarcely inferior to the war-stories or to the provençal sketches are certain vignettes of the capital, swift silhouettes of paris, glimpsed by an unforgetting eye, the "last book," for one, in which an unlovely character is treated with kindly contempt; and for another, the "book-keeper," the most dickens-like of daudet's shorter pieces, yet having a literary modesty dickens never attained. the alleged imitation of the british novelist by the french may be left for later consideration; but it is possible now to note that in the earlier descriptive chapters of the "letters from my mill" one may detect a certain similarity of treatment and attitude, not to dickens but to two of the masters on whom dickens modelled himself, goldsmith and irving. the scene in the diligence, when the baker gently pokes fun at the poor fellow whose wife is intermittent in her fidelity, is quite in the manner of the "sketch book." there is the same freshness and fertility in the collection called "artists' wives" as in the "letters from my mill," and the "monday tales," but not the same playfulness and fun. they are severe studies, all of them; and they all illustrate the truth of bagehot's saying that a man's mother might be his misfortune, but his wife was his fault. it is a rosary of marital infelicities that daudet has strung for us in this volume, and in every one of them the husband is expiating his blunder. with ingenious variety the author rings the changes on one theme, on the sufferings of the ill-mated poet or painter or sculptor, despoiled of the sympathy he craves, and shackled even in the exercise of his art. and the picture is not out of drawing, for daudet can see the wife's side of the case also; he can appreciate her bewilderment at the ugly duckling whom it is so difficult for her to keep in the nest. the women have made shipwreck of their lives too, and they are companions in misery, if not helpmeets in understanding. this is perhaps the saddest of all daudet's books, the least relieved by humor, the most devoid of the gaiety which illumines the "letters from my mill" and the first and second "tartarin" volumes. but it is also one of the most veracious; it is life itself firmly grasped and honestly presented. it is not matrimonial incongruity at large in all its shifting aspects that daudet here considers; it is only the married unhappiness of the artist, whatever his mode of expression, and whichever of the muses he has chosen to serve; it is only the wedded life of the man incessantly in search of the ideal, and never relaxing in the strain of his struggle with the inflexible material from which he must shape his vision of existence. not only in this book, but in many another has daudet shown that he perceives the needs of the artistic temperament, its demands, its limitations and its characteristics. there is a playwright in "rose and ninette;" there is a painter in the "immortal;" there is an actor in "fromont and risler;" there are a sculptor, a poet, and a novelist on the roll of the heroine's lovers in "sapho." daudet handles them gently always, unless they happen to belong to the theatre. toward the stage-folk he is pitiless; for all other artists he has abundant appreciation; he is not blind to their little weaknesses, but these he can forgive even though he refuses to forget; he is at home with them. he is never patronizing, as thackeray is, who also knows them and loves them. thackeray's attitude is that of a gentleman born to good society, but glad to visit bohemia, because he can speak the language; daudet's is that of a man of letters who thinks that his fellow-artists are really the best society. iii. not with pictures of artists at home did daudet conquer his commanding position in literature, not with short stories, not with plays, not with verses. these had served to make him known to the inner circle of lovers of literature who are quick to appreciate whatever is at once new and true; but they did not help him to break through the crust and to reach the hearts of the broad body of readers who care little for the delicacies of the season, but must ever be fed on strong meat. when the latest of the three volumes of short stories was published, and when the "woman of arles" was produced, the transformation was complete: the poet had developed into a veritist, without ceasing to be a poet, and the provençal had become a parisian. his wander-years were at an end, and he had made a happy marriage. lucky in the risky adventure of matrimony, as in so many others, he chanced upon a woman who was congenial, intelligent and devoted, and who became almost a collaborator in all his subsequent works. his art was ready for a larger effort; it was ripe for a richer fruitage. already had he made more than one attempt at a long story, but this was before his powers had matured, and before he had come to a full knowledge of himself. "little what's-his-name," as he himself has confessed, lacks perspective; it was composed too soon after the personal experiences out of which it was made,--before time had put the scenes in proper proportion and before his hand was firm in its stroke. "robert helmont" is the journal of an observer who happens also to be a poet and a patriot; but it has scarcely substance enough to warrant calling it a story. much of the material used in the making of these books was very good indeed; but the handling was a little uncertain, and the result is not quite satisfactory, charming as both of them are, with the seductive grace which is daudet's birthright and his trademark. in his brief tales he had shown that he had the story-telling faculty, the ability to project character, the gift of arousing interest; but it remained for him to prove that he possessed also the main strength requisite to carry him through the long labor of a full-grown novel. it is not by gentle stories like "robert helmont" and "little what's-his-name" that a novelist is promoted to the front rank; and after he had written these two books he remained where he was before, in the position of a promising young author. the promise was fulfilled by the publication of "fromont and risler,"--not the best of his novels, but the earliest in which his full force was displayed. daudet has told us how this was planned originally as a play, how the failure of the "woman of arles" led him to relinquish the dramatic form, and how the supposed necessities of the stage warped the logical structure of the story, turning upon the intrigues of the young wife the interest which should have been concentrated upon the partnership, the business rivalry, the mercantile integrity, whence the novel derived its novelty. the falsifying habit of thrusting marital infidelity into the foreground of fiction when the theme itself seems almost to exclude any dwelling on amorous misadventure, daudet yielded to only this once; and this is one reason why a truer view of parisian life can be found in his pages than in those of any of his competitors, and why his works are far less monotonous than theirs. he is not squeamish, as every reader of "sapho" can bear witness; but he does not wantonly choose a vulgar adultery as the staple of his stories. french fiction, ever since the tale of "tristan and yseult" was first told, has tended to be a poem of love triumphant over every obstacle, even over honor; and daudet is a frenchman with french ideas about woman and love and marriage; he is not without his share of gallic salt; but he is too keen an observer not to see that there are other things in life than illicit wooings,--business, for example, and politics, and religion,--important factors all of them in our complicated modern existence. at the root of him daudet had a steadfast desire to see life as a whole and to tell the truth about it unhesitatingly; and this is a characteristic he shares only with the great masters of fiction,--essentially veracious, every one of them. probably dickens, frequently as he wrenched the facts of life into conformity with his rather primitive artistic code, believed that he also was telling the truth. it is in daudet's paper explaining how he came to write "fromont and risler" that he discusses the accusation that he was an imitator of dickens,--an accusation which seems absurd enough now that the careers of both writers are closed, and that we can compare their complete works. daudet records that the charge was brought against him very early, long before he had read dickens, and he explains that any likeness that may exist is due not to copying but to kinship of spirit. "i have deep in my heart," he says, "the same love dickens has for the maimed and the poor, for the children brought up in all the deprivation of great cities." this pity for the disinherited, for those that have had no chance in life, is not the only similarity between the british novelist and the french; there is also the peculiar combination of sentiment and humor. daudet is not so bold as dickens, not so robust, not so over-mastering; but he is far more discreet, far truer to nature, far finer in his art; he does not let his humor carry him into caricature, nor his sentiment slop over into sentimentality. even the minor french novelists strive for beauty of form, and would be ashamed of the fortuitous scaffolding that satisfies the british story-tellers. a eulogist of dickens, mr. george gissing, has recently remarked acutely that "daudet has a great advantage in his mastery of construction. where, as in 'fromont and risler,' he constructs too well, that is to say, on the stage model, we see what a gain it was to him to have before his eyes the paris stage of the second empire, instead of that of london in the earlier victorian time." where dickens emulated the farces and the melodramas of forgotten british playwrights, daudet was influenced rather by the virile dramas of dumas _fils_ and augier. but in "fromont and risler," not only is the plot a trifle stagy, but the heroine herself seems almost a refugee of the footlights; exquisitely presented as sidonie is, she fails quite to captivate or convince, perhaps because her sisters have been seen so often before in this play and in that. and now and again even in his later novels we discover that daudet has needlessly achieved the adroit arrangement of events so useful in the theatre and not requisite in the library. in "the nabob," for example, it is the "long arm of coincidence" that brings paul de géry to the inn on the riviera, and to the very next room therein at the exact moment when jenkins catches up with the fleeing félicia. yet these lapses into the arbitrary are infrequent after all; and as "fromont and risler" was followed first by one and then by another novel, the evil influence of theatrical conventionalism disappears. daudet occasionally permits himself an underplot; but he acts always on the principle he once formulated to his son: "every book is an organism; if it has not its organs in place, it dies, and its corpse is a scandal." sometimes, as in "fromont and risler," he starts at the moment when the plot thickens, returning soon to make clear the antecedents of the characters first shown in action; and sometimes, as in "sapho," he begins right at the beginning and goes straight through to the end. but, whatever his method, there is never any doubt as to the theme; and the essential unity is always apparent. this severity of design in no way limits the variety of the successive acts of his drama. while a novel of balzac's is often no more than an analysis of character, and while a novel of zola's is a massive epic of human endeavor, a novel of daudet's is a gallery of pictures, brushed in with the sweep and certainty of a master-hand,--portraits, landscapes with figures, marines, battlepieces pieces, bits of _genre_, views of paris. and the views of paris outnumber the others, and almost outvalue them also. mr. henry james has noted that "the nabob" is "full of episodes which are above all pages of execution, triumphs of translation. the author has drawn up a list of the parisian solemnities, and painted the portrait, or given a summary, of each of them. the opening day at the salon, a funeral at père la chaise, a debate in the chamber of deputies, the _première_ of a new play at a favorite theatre, furnish him with so many opportunities for his gymnastics of observation." and "the nabob" is only a little more richly decorated than the "immortal," and "numa roumestan," and "kings in exile." these pictures, these carefully wrought masterpieces of rendering are not lugged in, each for its own sake; they are not outside of the narrative; they are actually part of the substance of the story. daudet excels in describing, and every artist is prone to abound in the sense of his superiority. as the french saying puts it, a man has always the defects of his qualities; yet daudet rarely obtrudes his descriptions, and he generally uses them to explain character and to set off or bring out the moods of his personages. they are so swift that i am tempted to call them flash-lights; but photographic is just what they are not, for they are artistic in their vigorous suppression of the unessentials; they are never gray or cold or hard; they vibrate with color and tingle with emotion. and just as a painter keeps filling his sketch-books with graphic hints for elaboration later, so daudet was indefatigable in note-taking. he explains his method in his paper of "fromont and risler;" how he had for a score of years made a practice of jotting down in little note-books not only his remarks and his thoughts, but also a rapid record of what he had heard with his ears ever on the alert, and what he had seen with those tireless eyes of his. yet he never let the dust of these note-books choke the life out of him. every one of his novels was founded on fact,--plot, incidents, characters and scenery. he used his imagination to help him to see; he used it also to peer into and behind the mere facts. all that he needed to invent was a connecting link now and again; and it may as well be admitted at once that these mere inventions are sometimes the least satisfactory part of his stories. the two young men in "the nabob," for instance, whom mr. henry james found it difficult to tell apart, the sculptor-painter in the "immortal," the occasional other characters which we discover to be made up, lack the individuality and the vitality of figures taken from real life by a sympathetic effort of interpretative imagination. delobelle, gardinois, "all the personages of 'fromont' have lived," daudet declares; and he adds a regret that in depicting old gardinois he gave pain to one he loved, but he "could not suppress this type of egotist, aged and terrible." since the beginning of the art of story-telling, the narrators must have gone to actuality to get suggestions for their character-drawing; and nothing is commoner than the accusation that this or that novelist has stolen his characters ready-made,--filching them from nature's shop-window, without so much as a by-your-leave. daudet is bold in committing these larcenies from life and frank in confessing them,--far franker than dickens, who tried to squirm out of the charge that he had put landor and leigh hunt unfairly into fiction. perhaps dickens was bolder than daudet, if it is true that he drew micawber from his own father, and mrs. nickleby from his own mother. daudet was taxed with ingratitude that he had used as the model of mora, the duke de morny, who had befriended him; and he defended himself by declaring that he thought the duke would find no fault with the way mora had been presented. but a great artist has never copied his models slavishly; he has utilized them in the effort to realize to his own satisfaction what he has already imagined. daudet maintained to his son that those who were without imagination cannot even observe accurately. invention alone, mere invention, an inferior form of mental exercise, suffices to provide a pretty fair romantic tale, remote from the facts of every-day life, but only true imagination can sustain a realistic novel where every reader's experience qualifies him to check off the author's progress, step by step. iv. it would take too long--although the task would be amusing--to call the roll of daudet's novels written after "fromont and risler" had revealed to him his own powers, and to discuss what fact of parisian history had been the starting point of each of them and what notabilities of paris had sat for each of the chief characters. mr. henry james, for instance, has seen it suggested that félicia ruys is intended as a portrait of mme. sarah-bernhardt; m. zola, on the other hand, denies that félicia ruys is mme. sarah-bernhardt and hints that she is rather mme. judith gautier. daudet himself refers to the equally absurd report that gambetta was the original of numa roumestan,--a report over which the alleged subject and the real author laughed together. daudet's own attitude toward his creations is a little ambiguous or at least a little inconsistent; in one paper he asserts that every character of his has had a living original, and in another he admits that elysée méraut, for example, is only in part a certain thérion. the admission is more nearly exact than the assertion. every novelist whose work is to endure even for a generation must draw from life, sometimes generalizing broadly and sometimes keeping close to the single individual, but always free to modify the mere fact as he may have observed it to conform with the larger truth of the fable he shall devise. most story-tellers tend to generalize, and their fictions lack the sharpness of outline we find in nature. daudet prefers to retain as much of the actual individual as he dares without endangering the web of his composition; and often the transformation is very slight,--mora, for instance, who is probably a close copy of morny, but who stands on his own feet in "the nabob," and lives his own life as independently as though he was a sheer imagination. more rarely the result is not so satisfactory; j. tom lévis, for example, for whose authenticity the author vouches, but who seems out of place in "kings in exile," like a fantastic invention, such as balzac sometimes permitted himself as a relief from his rigorous realism. for incident as well as for character daudet goes to real life. the escape of colette from under the eyes of her father-in-law,--that actually happened; but none the less does it fit into "kings in exile." and colette's cutting off her hair in grief at her husband's death,--that actually happened also; but it belongs artistically in the "immortal." on the other hand, the fact which served as the foundation of the "immortal"--the taking in of a _savant_ by a lot of forged manuscripts--has been falsified by changing the _savant_ from a mathematician (who might easily be deceived about a matter of autographs) to a historian (whose duty it is to apply all known tests of genuineness to papers purporting to shed new light on the past). this borrowing from the newspaper has its evident advantages, but it has its dangers also, even in the hands of a poet as adroit as daudet and as imaginative. perhaps the story of his which is most artistic in its telling, most shapely, most harmonious in its modulations of a single theme to the inevitable end, developed without haste and without rest, is "sapho;" and "sapho" is the novel of daudet's in which there seems to be the least of this stencilling of actual fact, in which the generalization is the broadest, and in which the observation is least restricted to single individuals. but in "sapho" the theme itself is narrow, narrower than in "numa roumestan," and far narrower than in either "the nabob" or "kings in exile;" and this is why "sapho," fine as it is, and subtle, is perhaps less satisfactory. no other french novelist of the final half of the nineteenth century, not flaubert, not goncourt, not m. zola, not maupassant, has four novels as solid as these, as varied in incident, as full of life, as rich in character, as true. they form the quadrilateral wherein daudet's fame is secure. "sapho" is a daughter of the "lady of the camellias," and a grand-daughter of "manon lescaut,"--frenchwomen, all of them, and of a class french authors have greatly affected. but daudet's book is not a specimen of what lowell called "that _corps-de-ballet_ literature in which the most animal of the passions is made more temptingly naked by a veil of french gauze." it is at bottom a moral book, much as "tom jones" is moral. fielding's novel is english, robust, hearty, brutal in a way, and its morality is none too lofty. daudet's is french, softer, more enervating, and with an almost complacent dwelling on the sins of the flesh. but neither fielding nor daudet is guilty of sentimentality, the one unforgivable crime in art. in his treatment of the relation of the sexes daudet was above all things truthful; his veracity is inexorable. he shows how man is selfish in love and woman also, and how the egotism of the one is not as the egotism of the other. he shows how fanny legrand slangs her lover with the foul language of the gutter whence she sprang, and how jean when he strikes back, refrains from foul blows. he shows how jean, weak of will as he was, gets rid of the millstone about his neck, only because of the weariness of the woman to whom he has bound himself. he shows us the various aspects of the love which is not founded on esteem, the héttema couple, de potter and rose, déchelette and alice doré, all to set off the sorry idyl of fanny and jean. in "numa roumestan" there is a larger vision of life than in "sapho," even if there is no deeper insight. the construction is almost as severe; and the movement is unbroken from beginning to end, without excursus or digression. the central figure is masterly,--the kindly and selfish southerner, easy-going and soft-spoken, an orator who is so eloquent that he can even convince himself, a politician who thinks only when he is talking, a husband who loves his wife as profoundly as he can love anybody except himself, and who loves his wife more than his temporary mistress, even during the days of his dalliance. numa is a native of the south of france, as was daudet himself; and it is out of the fulness of knowledge that the author evolves the character, brushing in the portrait with bold strokes and unceasingly adding caressing touches till the man actually lives and moves before our eyes. the veracity of the picture is destroyed by no final inconsistency. what numa is, numa will be. daudet never descends at the end of his novels like a god from the machine to change character in the twinkling of an eye, and to convert bad men to good thoughts and good deeds. he can give us goodness when he chooses, a human goodness, not offensively perfect, not preaching, not mawkish, but high-minded and engaging. there are two such types in "kings in exile," the queen and elysée méraut, essentially honest both of them, thinking little of self, and sustained by lofty purpose. naturalistic novelists generally (and m. zola in particular), live in a black world peopled mainly by fools and knaves; from this blunder daudet is saved by his southern temperament, by his lyric fervor, and, at bottom, by his wisdom. he knows better; he knows that while a weak creature like christian ii. is common, a resolute soul like frédérique is not so very rare. he knows that the contrast and the clash of these characters is interesting matter for the novelist. and no novelist has had a happier inspiration than that which gave us "kings in exile," a splendid subject, splendidly handled, and lending itself perfectly to the display of daudet's best qualities, his poetry, his ability to seize the actual, and his power of dealing with material such as the elder dumas would have delighted in with a restraint and a logic the younger dumas would have admired. plot and counter-plot, bravery, treachery, death,--these are elements for a romanticist farrago; and in daudet's hands they are woven into a tapestry almost as stiff as life itself. the stuff is romantic enough, but the treatment is unhesitatingly realistic; and "kings in exile," better than any other novel of daudet's, explains his vogue with readers of the most divergent tastes. in "the nabob," the romantic element is slighter than in "kings in exile;" the subject is not so striking; and the movement of the story is less straightforward. but what a panorama of paris it is that he unrolls before us in this story of a luckless adventurer in the city of luxury then under the control of the imperial band of brigands! no doubt the joyeuse family is an obtrusion and an artistic blemish, since they do not logically belong in the scheme of the story; and yet they (and their fellows in other books of daudet's) testify to his effort to get the truth and the whole truth into his picture of paris life. mora and félicia ruys and jenkins, these are the obverse of the medal, exposed in the shop-windows that every passer-by can see. the joyeuse girls and their father are the reverse, to be viewed only by those who take the trouble to look at the under side of things. they are samples of the simple, gentle, honest folk, of whom there must be countless thousands in france and even in its capital, but who fail to interest most french novelists just because they are not eccentric or wicked or ugly. of a truth, aline joyeuse is as typically parisian as félicia ruys herself; both are needed if the census is to be complete; and the omission of either is a source of error. there is irony in daudet's handling of these humbler figures, but it is compassionate and almost affectionate. if he laughs at father joyeuse there is no harshness and no hostility in his mirth. for the joyeuse daughters he has indulgence and pity; and his humor plays about them and leaves them scart-free. it never stings them or scorches or sears, as it does astier-réhu and christian ii. and the prince of axel, in spite of his desire to be fair toward all the creatures of his brain. irony is only one of the manifestations of daudet's humor. wit he has also, and satire. and he is doubly fortunate in that he has both humor and the sense-of-humor--the positive and the negative. it is the sense-of-humor, so called, that many humorists are without, a deprivation which allows them to take themselves so seriously that they become a laughing-stock for the world. it is the sense-of-humor that makes the master of comedy, that helps him to see things in due proportion and perspective, that keeps him from exaggeration and emphasis, from sentimentality and melodrama and bathos. it is the sense-of-humor that prevents our making fools of ourselves; it is humor itself that softens our laughter at those who make themselves ridiculous. in his serious stories daudet employs this negative humor chiefly, as though he had in memory la bruyère's assertion that "he who makes us laugh rarely is able to win esteem for himself." his positive humor,--gay, exuberant, contagious,--finds its full field for display in some of the short stories, and more especially in the tartarin series. has any book of our time caused more laughter than "tartarin of tarascon"--unless it be "tartarin on the alps"? i can think only of one rival pair, "tom sawyer" and "huckleberry finn,"--for mark twain and alphonse daudet both achieved the almost impossible feat of writing a successful sequel to a successful book, of forcing fortune to a repetition of a happy accident. the abundant laughter the french humorist excited is like that evoked by the american humorist,--clean, hearty, healthy, self-respecting; it is in both cases what george eliot in one of her letters called "the exquisite laughter that comes from a gratification of the reasoning faculty." daudet and mark twain are imaginative realists; their most amusing extravagance is but an exaggeration of the real thing; and they never let factitious fantasy sweep their feet off the ground. tartarin is as typical of provence as colonel sellers--to take that figure of mark twain's which is most like--is typical of the mississippi valley. tartarin is as true as numa roumestan; in fact they may almost be said to be sketched from the same model but in a very different temper. in "numa roumestan" we are shown the sober side of the southern temperament, the sorrow it brings in the house though it displays joy in the street; and in "tartarin" we behold only the immense comicality of the incessant incongruity between the word and the deed. tartarin is southern, it is true, and french; but he is very human also. there is a boaster and a liar in most of us, lying in wait for a chance to rush out and put us to shame. it is this universality of daudet's satire that has given tartarin its vogue on both sides of the atlantic. the ingenuity of tartarin's misadventures, the variety of them in algiers and in switzerland, the obvious reasonableness of them all, the delightful probability of these impossibilities, the frank gaiety and the unflagging high spirits,--these are precious qualities, all of them; but it is rather the essential humanness of tartarin himself that has given him a reputation throughout the world. very rarely indeed now or in the past has an author been lucky enough to add a single figure to the cosmopolitan gallery of fiction. cervantes, de foe, swift, le sage, dumas, have done it; fielding and hawthorne and turgenef have not. it is no wonder that daudet takes pride in this. the real joy of the novelist, he declares, is to create human beings, to put on their feet types of humanity who thereafter circulate through the world with the name, the gesture, the grimace he has given them and who are cited and talked about without reference to their creator and without even any mention of him. and whenever daudet heard some puppet of politics or literature called a tartarin, a shiver ran through him--"the shiver of pride of a father, hidden in the crowd that is applauding his son and wanting all the time to cry out 'that's my boy!'" v. the time has not yet come for a final estimate of daudet's position,--if a time ever arrives when any estimate can be final. but already has a selection been made of the masterpieces which survive, and from which an author is judged by the next generation that will have time to criticise only the most famous of the works this generation leaves behind it. we can see also that much of daudet's later writing is slight and not up to his own high standard, although even his briefest trifle had always something of his charm, of his magic, of his seductive grace. we can see how rare an endowment he has when we note that he is an acute observer of mankind, and yet without any taint of misanthropy, and that he combines fidelity of reproduction with poetic elevation. he is--to say once more what has already been said in these pages more than once--he is a lover of romance with an unfaltering respect for reality. we all meet with strange experiences once in our lives, with "things you could put in a story," as the phrase is; but we none of us have hairbreadth escapes every morning before breakfast. the romantic is as natural as anything else; it is the excess of the romantic which is in bad taste. it is the piling up of the agony which is disgusting. it is the accumulation upon one impossible hero of many exceptional adventures which is untrue and therefore immoral. daudet's most individual peculiarity was his skill in seizing the romantic aspects of the commonplace. in one of his talks with his son he said that a novelist must beware of an excess of lyric enthusiasm; he himself sought for emotion, and emotion escaped when human proportions were exceeded. balance, order, reserve, symmetry, sobriety,--these are the qualities he was ever praising. the real, the truthful, the sincere,--this is what he sought always to attain. daudet may lack the poignant intensity of balzac, the lyric sweep of hugo, the immense architectural strength of m. zola, the implacable disinterestedness of flaubert, the marvellous concentration of maupassant, but he has more humor than any of them and more charm,--more sympathy than any but hugo, and more sincerity than any but flaubert. his is perhaps a rarer combination than any of theirs,--the gift of story-telling, the power of character-drawing, the grasp of emotional situation, the faculty of analysis, the feeling for form, the sense of style, an unfailing and humane interest in his fellow-men, and an irresistible desire to tell the truth about life as he saw it with his own eyes. brander matthews. columbia university, in the city of new york. contents page i. dr. jenkins' patients ii. a breakfast on place vendÔme iii. memoirs of a clerk.--a casual glance at the "caisse territoriale" iv. a dÉbut in society v. the joyeuse family vi. felicia ruys vii. jansoulet at home viii. the work of bethlehem ix. grandmamma x. memoirs of a clerk.--the servants xi. the fÊtes in honor of the bey xii. a corsican election illustrations "'take away your flowers, my dear'" _frontispiece_ in felicia's studio _page_ "'his excellency, the duc de mora!'" " from drawings by lucius rossi. the nabob. a hundred years ago le sage wrote these words at the head of _gil blas_: "as there are persons who cannot read a book without making personal application of the vicious or absurd characters they find therein, i hereby declare for the benefit of such evil-minded readers that they will err in making such application of the portraits in this book. i make public avowal that my only aim has been to represent the life of mankind as it is." without attempting to draw any comparison between le sage's novel and my own, i may say that i should have liked to place a declaration of the same nature on the first page of _the nabob_, at the time of its publication. several reasons prevented my doing so. in the first place, the fear that such an advertisement might seem too much like a bait thrown out to the public, an attempt to compel its attention. secondly, i was far from suspecting that a book written with a purely literary purpose could acquire at a bound such anecdotal importance, and bring down upon me such a buzzing swarm of complaints. indeed, such a thing was never seen before. not a line of my work, not one of its heroes, not even a character of secondary importance, but has become a pretext for allusions and protestations. to no purpose does the author deny the imputation, swear by all the gods that there is no key to his novel--every one forges at least one, with whose assistance he claims to open that combination lock. it must be that all these types have lived, bless my soul! that they live to-day, exactly identical from head to foot. monpavon is so-and-so, is he not? jenkins' resemblance is striking. one man is angry because he is in it, another one because he is not in it; and, beginning with this eagerness for scandal, there is nothing, not even chance similarities of name, fatal in the modern novel, descriptions of streets, numbers of houses selected at random, that has not served to give identity to beings built of a thousand pieces and, moreover, absolutely imaginary. the author is too modest to take all this outcry to himself. he knows how great a part the friendly or treacherous indiscretions of the newspapers have had therein; and without thanking the former more than is seemly, without too great ill-will to the latter, he resigns himself to the stormy prospect as something inevitable, and simply deems himself in duty bound to affirm that he has never, in twenty years of upright, literary toil, resorted to that element of success, neither on this occasion nor on any other. as he turned the leaves of his memory, which it is every novelist's right and duty to do, he recalled a strange episode that occurred in cosmopolitan paris some fifteen years ago. the romance of a dazzling career that shot swiftly across the parisian sky like a meteor evidently served as the frame-work of _the nabob_, a picture of manners and morals at the close of the second empire. but around that central situation and certain well-known incidents, which it was every one's right to study and revive, what a world of fancy, what inventions, what elaboration, and, above all, what an outlay of that incessant, universal, almost unconscious observation, without which there could be no imaginative writers. furthermore, to obtain an idea of the "crystallizing" labor involved in transporting the simplest circumstances from reality to fiction, from life to romance, one need only open the _moniteur officiel_ of february, , and compare a certain session of the corps législatif with the picture that i give of it in my book. who could have supposed that, after the lapse of so many years, this paris, famous for its short memory, would recognize the original model in the idealized picture the novelist has drawn of him, and that voices would be raised to charge with ingratitude one who most assuredly was not his hero's "assiduous guest," but simply, in their infrequent meetings, an inquisitive acquaintance on whose mind the truth is quickly photographed, and who can never efface from his memory the images that are once imprinted thereon? i knew the "real nabob" in . i occupied at that time a semi-official position which forced me to exhibit great reserve in my visits to that luxurious and hospitable levantine. later i was intimately associated with one of his brothers; but at that time the poor nabob was far away, struggling through thickets of cruel brambles, and he was seen at paris only occasionally. moreover, it is very unpleasant for a courteous man to reckon thus with the dead, and to say: "you are mistaken. although he was an agreeable host, i was not often seen at his table." let it suffice therefore, for me to declare that, in speaking of mère françoise's son as i have done, it has been my purpose to represent him in a favorable light, and that the charge of ingratitude seems to me an absurdity from every standpoint. that this is true is proved by the fact that many people consider the portrait too flattering, more interesting than nature. to such people my reply is very simple: "jansoulet strikes me as an excellent fellow; but at all events, if i am wrong, you can blame the newspapers for telling you his real name. i gave you my novel as a novel, good or bad, without any guaranty of resemblances." as to mora, that is another matter. something has been said of indiscretion, of political defection. great heaven! i have never made a secret of it. at the age of twenty, i was connected with the office of the high functionary who has served as my model; and my friends of those days know what a serious political personage i made. the department also must have strange recollections of that eccentric clerk with the merovingian beard, who was always the last to arrive and the first to depart, and who never went up to the duke's private office except to ask leave of absence; of a naturally independent character, too, with hands unstained by anything like sycophancy, and so little reconciled to the empire that, on the day when the duke proposed to him to enter his service, the future attaché deemed it his duty to declare with touching juvenile solemnity that "he was a legitimist." "so is the empress," was his excellency's reply, and he smiled with calm and impertinent condescension. i always saw him with that smile on his face, nor had i any need to look through keyholes; and i have drawn him so, as he loved to appear, in his richelieu-brummel attitude. history will attend to the statesman. i have exhibited him, introducing him at long range in my fictitious drama, as the worldly creature that he was and wished to be, being well assured that in his lifetime it would not have offended him to be so presented. this is what i had to say. and now, having made these declarations in all frankness, let us return to work with all speed. my preface will seem a little short, and the curious reader will seek in vain therein the anticipated piquancy. so much the worse for him. brief as this page may be, it is three times too long for me. prefaces have this disadvantage, that they prevent one from writing books. alphonse daudet. i. doctor jenkins' patients. standing on the stoop of his little house on rue de lisbonne, freshly shaved, with sparkling eye, lips slightly parted, long hair tinged with gray falling over a broad coat-collar, square-shouldered, robust, and sound as an oak, the illustrious irish doctor, robert jenkins, chevalier of the medjidie and of the distinguished order of charles iii. of spain, member of several learned and benevolent societies, founder and president of the work of bethlehem,--in a word, jenkins, the jenkins of the jenkins arsenical pills, that is to say, the fashionable physician of the year , and the busiest man in paris, was on the point of entering his carriage, one morning toward the end of november, when a window on the first floor looking on the inner courtyard was thrown open, and a woman's voice timidly inquired: "shall you return to breakfast, robert?" oh! what a bright, affectionate smile it was that suddenly illumined that handsome, apostle-like face, and how readily one could divine, in the loving good-morning that his eyes sent up to the warm white peignoir visible behind the parted hangings, one of those tranquil, undoubting conjugal passions, which custom binds with its most flexible and strongest bonds. "no, madame jenkins"--he loved to give her thus publicly her title of legitimate wife, as if he felt a secret satisfaction therein, a sort of salve to his conscience with respect to the woman who made life so attractive to him--"no, do not expect me this morning. i am to breakfast on place vendôme." "ah! yes, the nabob," said the lovely madame jenkins, with a very marked inflection of respect for that personage out of the _thousand and one nights_, of whom all paris had been talking for a month; then, after a moment's hesitation, she whispered between the heavy hangings, very softly, very lovingly, for the doctor's ear alone: "be sure and not forget what you promised me." it was probably a promise very difficult to keep, for, at the reminder, the apostle's brows contracted, his smile froze upon his lips, his whole face assumed an incredibly harsh expression; but it was a matter of a moment. the faces of these fashionable physicians become very expert in lying, by the bedsides of their wealthy patients. with his most affectionate, most cordial manner, and showing a row of dazzling teeth, he replied: "what i promised shall be done, madame jenkins. now, go in at once and close your window. the mist is cold this morning." yes, the mist was cold, but white as snow; and, hovering outside the windows of the comfortable coupé, it lighted up with soft reflections the newspaper in the doctor's hands. over yonder in the dark, crowded, populous quarters, in the paris of tradesmen and workmen, they know nothing of the pretty morning mist that loiters on the broad avenues; the bustle of the waking hours, the passing and repassing of market-gardeners' wagons, omnibuses, drays loaded with old iron, soon chop it and rend it and scatter it. each passer-by carries away a little of it on a threadbare coat, a worn muffler, or coarse gloves rubbing against each other. it drenches the shivering blouses, the waterproofs thrown over working dresses; it blends with all the breaths, hot with insomnia or alcohol, buries itself in the depths of empty stomachs, penetrates the shops which are just opening their doors, dark courtyards, staircases, where it stands on the balusters and walls, and fireless garrets. that is why so little of it remains out-of-doors. but in that open, stately portion of paris where dr. jenkins' patients lived, on those broad tree-lined boulevards, those deserted quays, the mist soared immaculate, in innumerable waves, as light and fleecy as down. it was compact, discreet, almost luxurious, because the sun, slothful in his rising, was beginning to diffuse soft, purplish tints, which gave to the mist that enveloped everything, even the roofs of the rows of mansions, the aspect of a sheet of white muslin spread over scarlet cloth. one would have said that it was a great curtain sheltering the long, untroubled sleep of wealth, a thick curtain behind which nothing could be heard save the soft closing of a porte-cochère, the rattling of the milkmen's tin cans, the bells of a herd of asses trotting by, followed by the short, panting breath of their conductor, and the rumbling of jenkins' coupé beginning its daily round. first of all, to the hôtel de mora. on the quai d'orléans, beside the spanish embassy, stood a superb palace with its principal entrance on rue de lille, and a door on the riverside, and long terraces which formed a continuation of those of the embassy. between two high, ivy-covered walls, connected by imposing stone arches, the coupé flew like an arrow, announced by two strokes of a clanging bell, which aroused jenkins from the trance in which the perusal of his newspaper seemed to have plunged him. then the wheels rolled less noisily over the gravel of a vast courtyard and stopped, after a graceful sweep, at the front steps, above which was spread a circular awning. one could see indistinctly through the mist half a score of carriages in a line, and the silhouettes of english grooms leading the duke's saddle-horse up and down an avenue of acacias, all leafless at that season and standing naked in their bark. everything revealed well-ordered, pompous, assured luxury. "it makes no difference how early i come, others are always here before me," said jenkins, glancing at the line in which his coupé took its place; but, certain of not being compelled to wait, with head erect and a tranquil air of authority, he went up the official steps, over which so many trembling ambitions, so many stumbling anxieties passed every day. even in the reception-room, high-studded, and resonant as a church, which two huge fires filled with gleaming life, notwithstanding the great stoves burning day and night, the magnificence of the establishment burst upon one in warm and heady puffs. there was a suggestion of the hot-house and the drying-room as well. great heat and abundant light; white wainscoting, white marble statues, immense windows, nothing confined or close, and yet an equable atmosphere well fitted to encompass the existence of some delicate, over-refined, nervous mortal. jenkins expanded in that factitious sunlight of wealth; he saluted with a "good-morning, boys," the powdered swiss with the broad gilt baldric and the footmen in short clothes and blue and gold livery, all of whom had risen in his honor, touched lightly with his finger the great cage of monkeys capering about with shrill cries, and darted whistling up the white marble stairs covered with a carpet soft and dense as a lawn, to the duke's apartments. although he had been coming to the hôtel de mora for six months, the good doctor had not yet become hardened to the purely physical impression of cheerfulness and lightness of heart caused by the atmosphere of that house. although it was the abode of the highest functionary of the empire, there was nothing to suggest the departments or their boxes of dusty documents. the duke had consented to accept the exalted post of minister of state and president of the council only on condition that he need not leave his house; that he should go to the department only an hour or two a day, long enough to affix his signatures to documents that required it, and that he should hold his audiences in his bedroom. at that moment, although it was so early, the salon was full. there were serious, anxious faces, provincial prefects with shaven lips and administrative whiskers, something less arrogant in that reception-room than in their prefectures; magistrates, stern of manner, dignified of gesture; deputies full of importance, shining lights of finance, substantial manufacturers from the country; and among them could be distinguished, here and there, the thin ambitious face of a deputy councillor to some prefecture, in the garb of a solicitor, black coat and white cravat; and one and all, standing or seated, alone or in groups, silently forced with a glance the lock of that lofty door, closed upon their destinies, from which they would come forth in a moment, triumphant or crestfallen. jenkins walked rapidly through the crowd, and every one followed with an envious eye this new arrival, whom the usher, in his chain of office, frigid and correct in his bearing, seated at a table beside the door, greeted with a smile that was both respectful and familiar. "who is with him?" the doctor inquired, pointing to the duke's room. with the end of his lips, and not without a slightly ironical twinkle of the eye, the usher murmured a name, which, if they had heard it, would have angered all those exalted personages who had been waiting an hour for the _costumier_ of the opera to finish his audience. a murmur of voices, a flash of light--jenkins had entered the duke's presence; _he_ never waited. standing with his back to the fire, dressed in a blue fur-trimmed jacket, which heightened by its soft reflection the strength and haughtiness of his face, the president of the council was superintending the drawing of a pierrette's costume for the duchess to wear at her next ball, and giving directions with as much gravity as if he were dictating the draft of a law. "have very fine pleats on the ruff and none at all on the sleeves.--good-morning, jenkins. at your service." jenkins bowed and stepped forward into the enormous room, whose windows, opening on a garden that extended to the seine, commanded one of the loveliest views in all paris, the bridges, the tuileries, the louvre, interlaced with trees as black as if they were drawn in india ink on the wavering background of the mist. a broad, very low bed on a platform a few steps above the floor, two or three small lacquer screens with vague fanciful decorations in gold, denoting, as did the double doors and the heavy woollen carpet, a dread of cold carried to excess, chairs of various styles, long chairs and low chairs, placed at random, all well-stuffed and of lazy or voluptuous shapes, composed the furniture of that famous room, where the most momentous and the most trivial questions were discussed with the same gravity of tone and manner. there was a beautiful portrait of the duchess on the wall; and on the mantel a bust of the duke, the work of felicia ruys, which had received the honor of a medal of the first class at the recent salon. "well, jenkins, how goes it this morning?" said his excellency, walking to meet the doctor, while the costumer was collecting his fashion plates, which were strewn about over all the chairs. "and you, my dear duke? i fancied that you were a little pale last night at the variétés." "nonsense! i was never so well. your pills have a most amazing effect on me. i feel so lively, so vigorous. when i think how completely foundered i was six months ago!" jenkins, without speaking, had put his great head against the minister's jacket, at the spot where the heart beats in the majority of mankind. he listened a moment while his excellency continued to talk in the indolent, listless tone which was one of his chief claims to distinction. "whom were you with last night, doctor? that great bronzed tartar who laughed so loud at the front of your box?" "that was the nabob, monsieur le duc. the famous jansoulet, who is so much talked about just now." "i might have suspected it. the whole audience was looking at him. the actresses played at him all the time. do you know him? what sort of a man is he?" "i know him. that is, i am treating him. thanks, my dear duke, that's all. everything is all right there. when he arrived in paris a month ago, the change of climate disturbed him a little. he sent for me, and since then has taken a great fancy to me. all that i know of him is that he has a colossal fortune, made in tunis, in the bey's service, that he has a loyal heart, a generous mind in which ideas of humanity--" "at tunis?" the duke interposed, being naturally far from sentimental and humanitarian. "then, why the name of nabob?" "bah! parisians don't look so deep as that. in their eyes every rich stranger is a nabob, no matter where he comes from. this one, however, has just the physique for the part, coppery complexion, eyes like coals of fire, and in addition a gigantic fortune, of which he makes, i have no hesitation in saying, a most noble and most intelligent use. i owe it to him"--here the doctor assumed an air of modesty--"i owe it to him that i have succeeded at last in inaugurating the work of bethlehem for nursing infants, which a morning newspaper that i was looking over just now--the _messager_, i think,--calls 'the great philanthropic idea of the century.'" the duke glanced in an absent-minded way at the sheet the doctor handed him. he was not the man to be taken in by paid puffs. "this monsieur jansoulet must be very wealthy," he said coldly. "he is a partner in cardailhac's theatre. monpavon persuades him to pay his debts, bois-l'héry stocks his stable for him and old schwalbach furnishes a picture gallery. all that costs money." jenkins began to laugh. "what can you expect, my dear duke; you are an object of great interest to the poor nabob. coming to paris with a firm purpose to become a parisian, a man of the world, he has taken you for his model in everything, and i do not conceal from you that he would be very glad to study his model at closer quarters." "i know, i know, monpavon has already asked leave to bring him here. but i prefer to wait and see. one must be on one's guard with these great fortunes that come from such a distance. _mon dieu_, i don't say, you know, that if i should meet him elsewhere than in my own house, at the theatre, or in somebody's salon--" "it happens that madame jenkins intends to give a little party next month. if you would do us the honor--" "i shall be very glad to go to your house, my dear doctor, and if the nabob should be there, i should not object to his being presented to me." at that moment the usher opened the door. "monsieur le ministre de l'intérieur is in the blue salon. he has but a word to say to your excellency. monsieur le préfet de police is still waiting below, in the gallery." "very good," said the duke, "i will go to him. but i should like to make a definite arrangement about this costume first. let us see, friend what's-your-name, what do we decide about those ruffs? _au revoir_, doctor. nothing to do but keep on with the pearls, is there?" "keep on with the pearls," said jenkins, bowing; and he took his leave, radiant over the two bits of good fortune that fell to his lot at the same time--the honor of entertaining the duke, and the pleasure of gratifying his dear nabob. the crowd of petitioners through whom he passed in the ante-chamber was even greater than when he entered; new arrivals had joined the patient waiters of the first hour, others were hurrying upstairs, pale-faced and full of business, and in the courtyard carriages continued to arrive, to range themselves gravely and solemnly in a double circle, while the question of ruffed sleeves was discussed upstairs with no less solemnity. "to the club," said jenkins to his coachman. * * * the coupé rolled along the quays, recrossed the bridges, and turned into place de la concorde, which already wore a different aspect from that it had worn a short time before. the mist had lifted in the direction of the garde-meuble and the greek temple of the madeleine, revealing here and there the white spray of a fountain, the arcade of a palace, the top of a statue, the shrubbery of the tuileries, shivering by the gates. the veil, not raised but rent in spots, discovered patches of blue sky: and, on the avenue leading to the arc de triomphe, one could see breaks driving swiftly along, filled with coachmen and jockeys, dragoons of the empress's corps, body-guards in gorgeous fur-lined coats riding two by two in long lines, with a great clanking of bits and spurs and neighing of fresh horses, all in the light of a still invisible sun, emerging from the vague depths of the mist, plunging into it again in masses, like a swiftly-vanishing vision of the morning splendor of that quarter. jenkins alighted at the corner of rue royale. from roof to cellar of the great gambling-house servants were bustling about, shaking rugs, airing the salons where the odor of cigar-smoke still lingered, where heaps of fine ashes were blowing about in the fireplaces, while on the green tables, still quivering with the games of the night, the candles were still burning in silver candelabra, the flame ascending straight into the pallid light of day. the uproar and the going and coming ceased on the third floor, where several members of the club had their apartments. of the number was the marquis de monpavon, to whose door jenkins bent his steps. "ah! is it you, doctor? deuce take it! what time is it, pray? i'm not at home." "not even to the doctor?" "oh! not to anybody. a question of costume, my dear fellow. never mind, come in all the same. toast your feet a moment while françois finishes my hair." jenkins entered the bedroom, which was as prosaic a place as all furnished apartments are, and approached the fire, where curling-tongs of all dimensions were heating, while from the adjoining laboratory, separated from the bedroom by an algerian curtain, the marquis de monpavon submitted to the manipulations of his valet. odors of patchouli, cold cream, burned horn and burned hair escaped from the restricted quarters; and from time to time, when françois came out to take a fresh pair of tongs, jenkins caught a glimpse of an enormous dressing-table laden with innumerable little instruments of ivory, steel, and mother-of-pearl, files, scissors, powder-puffs and brushes, phials, cups, cosmetics, labelled, arranged in lines, and amid all that rubbish, petty ironmongery and dolls' playthings, a hand, the hand of an old man, awkward and trembling, dry and long, with nails as carefully kept as a japanese painter's. while making up his face, the longest and most complicated of his matutinal occupations, monpavon chatted with the doctor, told him of his aches and pains and of the good effect of the pearls, which were making him younger, he said. and listening to him thus, at a little distance, without seeing him, one would have believed he was the duc de mora, he had so faithfully copied his way of speaking. there were the same unfinished sentences, ending in a _ps_--_ps_--_ps_--uttered between the teeth. "what's-his-names" and "what-d'ye-call-'ems" at every turn, a sort of lazy, bored, aristocratic stammer, in which one divined profound contempt for the vulgar art of speech. in the duke's circle everybody strove to copy that accent, those disdainful intonations, in which there was an affectation of simplicity. jenkins, finding the session a little tedious, rose to go. "adieu, i am going. shall i see you at the nabob's?" "yes, i expect to breakfast there--promised to take what's-his-name, thingumbob, you know, about our great affair--ps--ps--ps. weren't for that, i'd stay away--downright menagerie, that house." the irishman, despite his kindly feeling, agreed that the society at his friend's house was a little mixed. but what of that! they must not blame him for that. he didn't know any better, poor man. "doesn't know and won't learn," said monpavon sourly. "instead of consulting men of experience--ps--ps--ps--takes the first sycophant that comes. did you see the horses bois-l'héry bought for him? downright swindle, those beasts. and he paid twenty thousand francs for them. i'll wager bois-l'héry got 'em for six thousand." "oh! fie, fie--a gentleman!" said jenkins, with the indignation of a noble soul refusing to believe in evil. monpavon went on, as if he did not hear: "and all because the horses came from mora's stable!" "to be sure, the dear nabob's heart is set on the duke. so that i shall make him very happy when i tell him--" the doctor stopped, in some embarrassment. "when you tell him what, jenkins?" jenkins, looking decidedly sheepish, was forced to admit that he had obtained permission from his excellency to present his friend jansoulet. he had hardly finished his sentence when a tall spectre with flabby cheeks and multicolored hair and whiskers darted from the dressing-room into the chamber, holding together with both hands at his skinny but very straight neck, a dressing-gown of light silk with violet dots, in which he had enveloped himself like a bonbon in its paper wrapper. the most salient feature in that heroi-comic countenance was a great arched nose shining with cold cream, and a keen, piercing eye, too youthful, too clear for the heavy, wrinkled lid that covered it. all of jenkins' patients had that same eye. verily monpavon must have been deeply moved to show himself thus shorn of all prestige. in fact it was with white lips and in a changed voice that he now addressed the doctor, without the affected stammer, speaking rapidly and without stopping to breathe:-- "come, come, my dear fellow, there's no nonsense between us, is there? we have met in front of the same porringer; but i let you have your share and i propose that you shall let me have mine." jenkins' air of amazement did not check him. "let it be understood once for all. i promised the nabob that i'd present him to the duke as i presented you long ago. don't you interfere in what concerns me and me alone." jenkins, with his hand upon his heart, protested his innocence. he had never had any such intention. of course monpavon was too close a friend of the duke for any one else to--how could he have imagined such a thing? "i imagine nothing," said the old nobleman, more subdued, but still very cold. "i simply wanted to have a perfectly frank explanation with you on this subject." the irishman held out his broad open palm. "my dear marquis, explanations are always frank between men of honor." "honor is a great word, jenkins. let us say men of good-breeding. that is sufficient." and as that same good-breeding, which he put forward as a supreme guide of conduct, suddenly reminded him of his absurd plight, the marquis offered a finger for his friend's demonstrative grasp and passed hastily behind his curtain, while the other took his leave, in haste to continue his round of visits. * * * what a magnificent practice this jenkins had, to be sure! nothing but princely mansions, halls comfortably heated and filled with flowers on every floor, downy, silk-lined alcoves, wherein disease became quiet and refined, where nothing suggested the brutal hand that tosses upon a bed of misery those who cease to work only to die. to tell the truth, these clients of dr. jenkins were not patients at all. they would not have been received at a hospital. as their organs had not even strength enough to feel a shock, it was impossible to find the seat of their trouble, and the physician leaning over them would have listened in vain for the palpitation of suffering in those bodies which were already inhabited by the inertia and silence of death. they were weakened, exhausted, anæmic, consumed by their absurd mode of life, and yet so attached to it that they strove desperately to prolong it. and the jenkins pearls became famous just because of the lashing they administered to jaded constitutions. "doctor, i implore you, let me go to the ball this evening!" a young woman would say, as she lay, utterly prostrated, in her invalid's chair, her voice hardly more than a breath. "you shall go, my dear child." and go she would, and look lovelier than ever before. "doctor, at any price, even if it's the death of me, i must be at the council of ministers to-morrow morning." he would be there and would win new triumphs by his eloquence and ambitious diplomacy. and afterward--oh! afterward, indeed. but no matter! to their last day jenkins' patients went about, showed themselves, deceived the consuming selfishness of the multitude. they died on their feet, like men and women of the world. after innumerable turns on the chaussée d'antin and champs-Élysées, after visiting all the millionaires and titled personages in faubourg saint-honoré, the doctor drew up at the corner of cours-la-reine and rue françois i., before a house with a swell front which stood at the corner of the quay, and entered an apartment on the ground floor which in no wise resembled those he had visited since the morning. immediately upon entering, the tapestries that covered the walls, the old stained glass windows intersecting with their lead sashes the soft, many-hued light, a gigantic saint in carved wood facing a japanese monster with bulging eyes and back covered with highly polished scales, indicated the imaginative and eccentric taste of an artist. the small servant who opened the door held in leash an arabian greyhound larger than himself. "madame constance is at mass," he said, "and mademoiselle is in the studio, alone. we have been working since six o'clock this morning," the child added, with a terrible yawn, which the dog caught on the wing, and which caused him to open wide his red mouth with its rows of sharp teeth. jenkins, whom we have seen enter the private apartments of the minister of state with such perfect tranquillity, trembled slightly as he raised the portière that hid the open doorway of the studio. it was a magnificent sculptor's workroom, the rounded front being entirely of glass, with columns at either side: a large bay-window flooded with light and at that moment tinged with opal by the mist. more ornate than the majority of these workrooms, to which the daubs of plaster, the modelling tools, the clay scattered about and the splashes of water give something of the appearance of a mason's yard, this one blended a little coquetry with its artistic equipment. green plants in every corner, a few good pictures hanging on the bare wall, and here and there--on oak pedestals--two or three of the works of sébastien ruys, whose very last work, not exhibited until after his death, was covered with black gauze. the mistress of the establishment, felicia ruys, daughter of the famous sculptor, and already known to fame herself by two masterpieces, the bust of her father and that of the duc de mora, stood in the centre of the studio, at work modelling a figure. dressed in a blue cloth riding-habit with long folds, a scarf of china silk twisted around her neck like a boy's cravat, her fine, black hair, gathered carelessly on top of her little grecian head, felicia was working with extreme zeal, which added to her beauty by the condensation, so to speak, the concentration of all her features in a scrutinizing and satisfied expression. but it changed abruptly on the doctor's arrival. "ah! it's you, is it?" she said brusquely, as if waking from a dream. "did you ring? i did not hear." and in the ennui, the weariness that suddenly overspread that lovely face, only the eyes retained their expression and brilliancy, eyes in which the factitious gleam of the jenkins pearls was heightened by a natural fierceness. oh! how humble and condescending the doctor's voice became, as he replied: "your work absorbs you completely, does it not, my dear felicia? is it something new that you're doing? i should say that it is very pretty." he drew near to the still formless sketch in which a group of two animals could be vaguely distinguished, one of them, a greyhound, flying over the ground at a truly extraordinary pace. "the idea came to me last night. i began to work by lamplight. my poor kadour doesn't find it amusing," said the girl, looking with a caressing expression of affection at the greyhound, whose paws the small servant was trying to separate in order to force him into the proper pose. jenkins observed with a fatherly air that she did wrong to tire herself so, and added, taking her wrist with ecclesiastical precautions: "let us see, i am sure that you are feverish." at the touch of that hand felicia had a feeling of something very like repulsion. "let me alone--let me alone--your pearls can do nothing for me. when i am not working, i am bored, bored to death, so bored that i could kill myself; my ideas are of the color of that thick, brackish water flowing yonder. to be just at the beginning of life and to be disgusted with it! it's hard. i am reduced to the point of envying my poor constance, who passes her days in her chair, never opening her mouth, but smiling all by herself at her memories of the past. i have not even that, not even any pleasant memories to recall. i have nothing but work--work!" [illustration: _in felicia's studio_] as she spoke, she worked fiercely, sometimes with the tool, sometimes with her fingers, which she wiped from time to time on a little sponge kept on the wooden frame on which the group stood; so that her complaints, her lamentations, inexplicable in a mouth of twenty years which had in repose the purity of a grecian smile, seemed to be uttered at random, and addressed to no one in particular. and yet jenkins seemed anxious and disturbed, notwithstanding the apparent interest he displayed in the artist's work, or rather in the artist herself, in the queenly grace of that mere girl, whose style of beauty seemed to have predestined her to the study of the plastic arts. annoyed by that admiring glance, which she felt like a weight, felicia resumed: "by the way, do you know that i saw your nabob? he was pointed out to me at the opera, friday." "were you at the opera, friday?" "yes. the duke sent me his box." jenkins changed color. "i persuaded constance to go with me. it was the first time in twenty years, since her farewell performance, that she had entered the opera. it made a great impression on her. during the ballet especially, she trembled, she beamed, all her former triumphs sparkled in her eyes. how fortunate one is to have such emotions. a perfect type of his class, that nabob. you must bring him to see me. it would amuse me to do his head." "what! why he is frightful! you can't have had a good look at him." "indeed i did, on the contrary. he was opposite us. that white ethiopian visage would be superb in marble. and not commonplace, at all events. moreover, if he's so ugly as all that, you won't be so unhappy as you were last year when i was doing mora's bust. what a wicked face you had at that time, jenkins!" "not for ten years of life," muttered jenkins in a threatening voice, "would i go through those hours again. but it amuses you to see people suffer." "you know very well that nothing amuses me," she said, shrugging her shoulders with supreme impertinence. then, without looking at him, without another word, she plunged into one of those periods of intense activity by means of which true artists escape from themselves and all their surroundings. jenkins took a few hurried steps, deeply moved, his lip swollen with avowals that dared not come forth, and began two or three sentences that met with no reply; at last, feeling that he was dismissed, he took his hat and walked toward the door. "it's understood then, is it? i am to bring him here?" "who, pray?" "why, the nabob. only a moment ago you said yourself--" "oh! yes," said the strange creature, whose caprices were not of long duration, "bring him if you choose; i don't care particularly about it." and her musical, listless voice, in which something seemed to have broken, the utter indifference of her whole bearing showed that it was true, that she cared for nothing on earth. jenkins went away in sore perplexity, with clouded brow. but as soon as he had passed the door he resumed his smiling, cordial manner, being one of those men who wear a mask on the street. the mist, still visible in the neighborhood of the seine, was reduced to a few floating shreds, which gave an air of vapory unsubstantiality to the houses on the quay, to the steam-boats of which only the paddle-wheels could be seen, and to the distant horizon, where the dome of the invalides hovered like a gilded balloon, whose netting shed rays of light. the increasing warmth, the activity in the quarter indicated that noon was not far away and that it would soon be announced by the ringing of all the bells. before calling upon the nabob, however, jenkins had another call to make. but it seemed to be a great nuisance to him. however, as he had promised! so he said, with sudden decision, as he jumped into the carriage: " rue saint-ferdinand, aux ternes." joe, the coachman, was scandalized and made his master repeat the address; even the horse showed some little hesitation, as if the valuable beast and the spotless new livery were disgusted at having to visit a faubourg so far away, outside the restricted but brilliant circle in which their master's patients were grouped together. they arrived, however, without hindrance, at the end of an unfinished provincial street, and at the last of its houses, a five-story building, which the street seemed to have sent out to reconnoitre and ascertain if it could safely continue in that direction, isolated as it was between desolate tracts of land awaiting prospective buildings or filled with the materials of demolished structures, with blocks of stone, old blinds with no rooms to shelter, boards with hanging hinges, a vast boneyard of a whole demolished quarter. innumerable signs swayed in the wind over the door, which was adorned with a large case of photographs, white with dust, before which jenkins paused for a moment. had the illustrious physician come so far to have his picture taken? one might have thought so from the interest which detained him in front of that case, containing fifteen or twenty photographs representing the same family in different groups and attitudes and with different expressions: an old gentleman with his chin supported by a high white stock, and a leather satchel under his arm, surrounded by a bevy of maidens with their hair arranged in braids or in curls. sometimes the old gentleman had sat with only two of his daughters; or perhaps one of those pretty, graceful figures appeared alone, her elbow resting on a truncated column, her head bending over a book, in a natural and unstudied pose. but it was always the same motive with variations, and there was no other male figure in the case but the old gentleman in the white cravat, and no other female figures than those of his numerous daughters. "studios on the fifth floor," said a sign over the case. jenkins sighed, measured with his eye the distance from the ground to the little balcony up among the clouds; then he made up his mind to enter. in the hall he passed a white cravat and a majestic leather satchel, evidently the old gentleman of the showcase. upon being questioned, he replied that m. maranne did in fact live on the fifth floor. "but," he added with an engaging smile, "the floors are not high." with that encouragement the irishman started up an entirely new and narrow staircase, with landings no larger than a stair, a single door on each floor and windows which afforded glimpses of a melancholy paved courtyard and other stairways, all empty: one of those horrible modern houses, built by the dozen by contractors without a son, their greatest disadvantage consisting in the thinness of the partitions, which forces all the lodgers to live together as in a fourierite community. for the moment that disadvantage was not of serious consequence, only the fourth and fifth floors being occupied, as if the tenants had fallen from the sky. on the fourth, behind a door bearing a copper plate with the words: m. joyeuse, _expert in handwriting_, the doctor heard the sound of fresh, young laughter and conversation and active footsteps, which accompanied him to the door of the photographic establishment above. these little industries, perching in out-of-the-way corners, and seeming to have no communication with the outer world, are one of the surprises of paris. we wonder how people live who take to them for a living. what scrupulous providence, for instance, could send customers to a photographer on a fifth floor among waste lands, at the far end of rue ferdinand, or documents for examination to the expert on the floor below. jenkins, as he made that reflection, smiled a pitying smile, then entered without ceremony as he was invited to do by this inscription: "walk in without knocking." alas! the permission was not abused.--a tall youth in spectacles, who was writing at a small table, his legs wrapped in a traveling shawl, rose hurriedly to greet the visitor, whom his short-sightedness prevented him from recognizing. "good-morning, andré," said the doctor, extending his hand cordially. "monsieur jenkins!" "i am a good fellow as always, you see. your conduct to us, your persistence in living apart from your relatives, commended to my dignity the utmost reserve in dealing with you; but your mother wept. and here i am." as he was speaking, he glanced about the poor little studio, where the bare walls, the scanty furniture the brand-new photographic apparatus, the little fireplace _à la prussienne_, also new, which had never seen a fire, were disastrously apparent in the bright light that fell from the glass roof. the drawn features and straggling beard of the young man, whose very light eyes, high, narrow forehead, and long fair hair thrown back in disorder gave him the appearance of a visionary, all were accentuated in the uncompromising light; and so was the dogged will expressed in that limpid glance which met jenkins' eye coldly, and offered in anticipation an unconquerable opposition to all his arguments, all his protestations. but the excellent jenkins pretended not to notice it. "you know how it is, my dear andré. from the day that i married your mother, i have looked upon you as my son. i expected to leave you my office, my practice, to place your foot in a golden stirrup, and i was overjoyed to see you follow a career devoted to the welfare of mankind. suddenly, without a word of explanation, without a thought for the effect such a rupture might produce in the eyes of the world, you cut loose from us, you dropped your studies and renounced your future prospects, to embark in some degrading mode of life, to adopt an absurd trade, the refuge and the pretext of all those who are shut out from the society to which they belong." "i am working at this trade for a living. it's a means of earning my bread while i wait." "wait for what?--literary renown?" he glanced contemptuously at the papers scattered over the table. "but all this does not touch the question; this is what i came here to say to you: an opportunity is offered you, a door thrown wide open to the future. the work of bethlehem is founded. the noblest of my humanitarian dreams has taken shape. we have bought a magnificent villa at nanterre in which to install our first branch. the superintendence, the management of that establishment is what it has occurred to me to offer to you, as to another myself. a princely house to live in, the salary of a major-general, and the satisfaction of rendering a service to the great human family. say the word and i will take you to see the nabob, the noble-hearted man who pays the expenses of our undertaking. do you accept?" "no," said the author, so abruptly that jenkins was disconcerted. "that's it. i expected a refusal when i came here, but i came none the less. i took for my motto, 'do what is right, without hope.' and i am faithful to my motto. so, it's understood, is it--that you prefer a life dependent on chance, without prospects and without dignity, to the honorable, dignified, useful life that i offer you?" andré made no reply; but his silence spoke for him. "beware--you know to what this decision of yours will lead, a final estrangement; but you have always desired it. i need not tell you," continued jenkins, "that to break with me is to break with your mother also. she and i are one." the young man turned pale, hesitated a second, then said with an effort: "if my mother cares to come and see me here, i shall certainly be very happy--but my determination to remain apart from you, to have nothing in common with you, is irrevocable." "at least, you will tell me why?" he made a gesture signifying, "no," that he would not tell him. for the moment the irishman was really angry. his whole face assumed a savage, cunning expression which would have greatly surprised those who knew only the good-humored, open-hearted jenkins; but he was careful to go no farther in the direction of an explanation, which he dreaded perhaps no less than he desired it. "adieu," he said from the doorway, half turning his head. "never apply to us." "never," replied his stepson in a firm voice. this time, when the doctor said to joe: "place vendôme," the horse, as if he understood that they were going to call on the nabob, proudly shook his shining curb, and the coupé drove away at full speed, transforming the hub of each of its wheels into a gleaming sun. "to come such a distance to meet with such a reception! one of the celebrities of the day treated so by that bohemian! this comes of trying to do good!" jenkins vented his wrath in a long monologue in that vein; then suddenly exclaimed with a shrug: "oh! pshaw!" and such traces of care as remained on his brow soon vanished on the pavement of place vendôme. on all sides the clocks were striking twelve in the sunshine. emerging from her curtain of mist, fashionable paris, awake and on her feet, was beginning her day of giddy pleasure. the shop-windows on rue de la paix shone resplendent. the mansions on the square seemed to be drawn up proudly in line for the afternoon receptions; and, at the end of rue castiglione with its white arcades, the tuileries, in the glorious sunlight of winter, marshalled its shivering statues, pink with cold, among the leafless quincunxes. ii. a breakfast on place vendÔme. there were hardly more than a score of persons that morning in the nabob's dining-room, a dining-room finished in carved oak, supplied only the day before from the establishment of some great house-furnisher, who furnished at the same time the four salons which could be seen, one beyond the other, through an open door: the hangings, the objects of art, the chandeliers, even the plate displayed on the sideboards, even the servants who served the breakfast. it was the perfect type of the establishment improvised, immediately upon alighting from the railway train, by a parvenu of colossal wealth, in great haste to enjoy himself. although there was no sign of a woman's dress about the table, no bit of light and airy material to enliven the scene, it was by no means monotonous, thanks to the incongruity, the nondescript character of the guests, gathered together from all ranks of society, specimens of mankind culled from every race in france, in europe, in the whole world, from top to bottom of the social scale. first of all, the master of the house, a sort of giant--sunburned, swarthy, with his head between his shoulders--to whom his short nose, lost in the puffiness of the face, his woolly hair massed like an astrakhan cap over a low, headstrong forehead, his bristling eyebrows with eyes like a wild cat's in ambush, gave the ferocious aspect of a kalmuk, of a savage on the frontiers of civilization, who lived by war and marauding. luckily the lower part of the face, the thick, double lips which parted readily in a fascinating, good-humored smile, tempered with a sort of saint vincent de paul expression that uncouth ugliness, that original countenance, so original that it forgot to be commonplace. but his inferior extraction betrayed itself in another direction by his voice, the voice of a rhone boatman, hoarse and indistinct, in which the southern accent became rather coarse than harsh, and by two broad, short hands, with hairy fingers, square at the ends and with almost no nails, which, as they rested on the white table cloth, spoke of their past with embarrassing eloquence. opposite the host, on the other side of the table, at which he was a regular guest, was the marquis de monpavon, but a monpavon who in no wise resembled the mottled spectre whom we saw in the last chapter; a man of superb physique, in the prime of life, with a long, majestic nose, the haughty bearing of a great nobleman, displaying a vast breastplate of spotless linen, which cracked under the continuous efforts of the chest to bend forward, and swelled out every time with a noise like that made by a turkey gobbling, or a peacock spreading his tail. his name monpavon was well suited to him.[ ] [ ] paon_, peacock--from latin pavo, pavonis_. belonging to a great family, with wealthy kindred, the duc de mora's friendship had procured for him a receiver-generalship of the first class. unfortunately his health had not permitted him to retain that fine berth--well-informed persons said that his health had nothing to do with it--and he had been living in paris for a year past, waiting until he should be cured, he said, to return to his post. the same persons asserted that he would never find it again, and that, were it not for the patronage of certain exalted personages--be that as it may, he was the important guest at the breakfast; one could see that by the way in which the servants waited upon him, by the way in which the nabob consulted him, calling him "monsieur le marquis," as they do at the comédie française, less from humility than from pride because of the honor that was reflected on himself. filled with disdain for his fellow-guests, monsieur le marquis talked little, but with a very lofty manner, as if he were obliged to stoop to those persons whom he honored with his conversation. from time to time he tossed at the nabob, across the table, sentences that were enigmatical to everybody. "i saw the duke yesterday. he talked a good deal about you in connection with that matter of--you know, what's-his-name, thingumbob--who is the man?" "really! he talked about me?" and the honest nabob, swelling with pride, would look about him, nodding his head in a most laughable way, or would assume the meditative air of a pious woman when she hears the name of our lord. "his excellency would be pleased to have you go into the--ps--ps--ps--the thing." "did he tell you so?" "ask the governor--he heard it as well as i." the person referred to as the governor, paganetti by name, was an energetic, gesticulatory little man, tiresome to watch, his face assumed so many different expressions in a minute. he was manager of the _caisse territoriale_ of corsica, a vast financial enterprise, and was present in that house for the first time, brought by monpavon; he also occupied a place of honor. on the nabob's other side was an old man, buttoned to the chin in a frock-coat without lapels and with a standing collar, like an oriental tunic, with a face marred by innumerable little gashes, and a white moustache trimmed in military fashion. it was brahim bey, the most gallant officer of the regency of tunis, _aide-de-camp_ to the former bey, who made jansoulet's fortune. this warrior's glorious exploits were written in wrinkles, in the scars of debauchery, on his lower lip which hung down helplessly as if the spring were broken, and in his inflamed, red eyes, devoid of lashes. his was one of the faces we see in the felon's dock in cases that are tried behind closed doors. the other guests had seated themselves pell-mell, as they arrived, or beside such acquaintances as they chanced to meet, for the house was open to everybody, and covers were laid for thirty every morning. there was the manager of the theatre in which the nabob was a sleeping partner,--cardailhac, almost as renowned for his wit as for his failures, that wonderful carver, who would prepare one of his _bons mots_ as he detached the limbs of a partridge, and deposit it with a wing in the plate that was handed him. he was a sculptor rather than an _improvisateur_, and the new way of serving meats, having them carved beforehand in the russian fashion, had been fatal to him by depriving him of all excuse for a preparatory silence. so it was generally said that he was failing. he was a thorough parisian, a dandy to his fingers' ends, and as he himself boasted, "not full to bursting with superstition," which fact enabled him to give some very piquant details concerning the women in his theatrical company to brahim bey, who listened to him as one turns the pages of an obscene book, and to talk theology to his nearest neighbor, a young priest, curé of some little southern village, a thin, gaunt fellow, with a complexion as dark as his cassock, with glowing cheek-bones, pointed nose, all the characteristics of an ambitious man, who said to cardailhac, in a very loud voice, in a tone of condescension, of priestly authority: "we are very well satisfied with monsieur guizot. he is doing well, very well--it's a victory for the church." beside that pontiff with the starched band, old schwalbach, the famous dealer in pictures, displayed his prophet's beard, yellow in spots like a dirty fleece, his three mouldy-looking waistcoats and all the slovenly, careless attire which people forgave him in the name of art, and because he had the good taste to have in his employ, at a time when the mania for galleries kept millions of money in circulation, the one man who was most expert in negotiating those vainglorious transactions. schwalbach did not talk, contenting himself with staring about through his enormous lens-shaped monocle, and smiling in his beard at the extraordinary juxtapositions to be observed at that table, which stood alone in all the world. for instance monpavon had very near him--and you should have seen how the disdainful curve of his nose was accentuated at every glance in his direction--garrigou the singer, a countryman of jansoulet, distinguished as a ventriloquist, who sang _figaro_ in the patois of the south and had not his like for imitating animals. a little farther on, cabassu, another fellow-countryman, a short, thick-set man, with a bull-neck, a biceps worthy of michel angelo, who resembled equally a marseillais hair-dresser and the hercules at a country fair, a _masseur_, pedicurist, manicurist and something of a dentist, rested both elbows on the table with the assurance of a quack whom one receives in the morning and who knows the petty weaknesses, the private miseries of the house in which he happens to be. m. bompain completed that procession of subalterns, all classified with reference to some one specialty. bompain, the secretary, the steward, the man of confidence, through whose hands all the business of the establishment passed; and a single glance at that stupidly solemn face, that vague expression, that turkish fez poised awkwardly on that village schoolmaster's head, sufficed to convince one what manner of man he was to whom interests like the nabob's had been entrusted. lastly, to fill the gaps between the figures we have sketched, turks of every variety! tunisians, moors, egyptians, levantines; and, mingled with that exotic element, a whole multicolored parisian bohemia of decayed gentlemen, squinting tradesmen, penniless journalists, inventors of strange objects, men from the south landed in paris without a sou--all the tempest-tossed vessels to be revictualled, all the flocks of birds whirling about in the darkness, that were attracted by that great fortune as by the light of a lighthouse. the nabob received that motley crew at his table through kindness of heart, generosity, weakness, and entire lack of dignity, combined with absolute ignorance, and partly as a result of the same exile's melancholy, the same need of expansion that led him to receive, in his magnificent palace on the bardo in tunis, everybody who landed from france, from the petty tradesman and exporter of small wares, to the famous pianist on a tour and the consul-general. listening to those different voices, those foreign accents, incisive or stammering, glancing at those varying types of countenance, some uncivilized, passionate, unrefined, others over-civilized, faded, of the type that haunts the boulevards, over-ripe as it were, and observing the same varieties in the corps of servants, where "flunkeys," taken the day before from some office, insolent fellows, with the heads of dentists or bath-attendants, bustled about among the motionless ethiopians, who shone like black marble torch-holders,--it was impossible to say exactly where you were; at all events, you would never have believed that you were on place vendôme, at the very heart and centre of the life of our modern paris. on the table there was a similar outlandish collection of foreign dishes, sauces with saffron or anchovies, elaborately spiced turkish delicacies, chickens with fried almonds; all this, taken in conjunction with the commonplace decorations of the room, the gilded wainscotings and the shrill jangle of the new bells, gave one the impression of a table-d'hôte in some great hotel in smyrna or calcutta, or of the gorgeous saloon of a trans-atlantic liner, the _péreire_ or the _sinai_. it would seem that such a variety of guests--i had almost said of passengers--would make the repast animated and noisy. far from it. they all ate nervously, in silence, watching one another out of the corner of the eye; and even the most worldly, those who seemed most at ease, had in their eyes the wandering, distressed expression indicating a persistent thought, a feverish anxiety which caused them to speak without answering, to listen without understanding a word of what was said. suddenly the door of the dining-room was thrown open. "ah! there's jenkins," exclaimed the nabob, joyfully. "hail, doctor, hail! how are you, my boy?" a circular smile, a vigorous handshake for the host, and jenkins took his seat opposite him, beside monpavon and in front of a plate which a servant brought in hot haste, exactly as at a table-d'hôte. amid those preoccupied, feverish faces, that one presented a striking contrast with its good-humor, its expansive smile, and the loquacious, flattering affability which makes the irish to a certain extent the gascons of great britain. and what a robust appetite! with what energy, what liberty of conscience, he managed his double row of white teeth, talking all the while. "well, jansoulet, did you read it?" "read what, pray?" "what! don't you know? haven't you read what the _messager_ said about you this morning?" beneath the thick tan on his cheeks the nabob blushed like a child, and his eyes sparkled with delight as he replied: "do you mean it? the _messager_ said something about me?" "two whole columns. how is it that moëssard didn't show it to you?" "oh!" said moëssard modestly, "it wasn't worth the trouble." he was a journalist in a small way, fair-haired and spruce, a pretty fellow enough, but with a face marked by the faded look peculiar to waiters at all-night restaurants, actors and prostitutes, made up of conventional grimaces and the sallow reflection of the gas. he was reputed to be the plighted lover of an exiled queen of very easy virtue. that rumor was whispered about wherever he went, and gave him an envied and most contemptible prominence in his circle. jansoulet insisted upon reading the article, being impatient to hear what was said of him. unfortunately jenkins had left his copy at the duke's. "let some one go at once and get me a _messager_," said the nabob to the servant behind his chair. moëssard interposed: "that isn't necessary; i must have the thing about me." and with the free and easy manner of the tap-room habitué, of the reporter who scrawls his notes as he sits in front of his mug of beer, the journalist produced a pocketbook stuffed with memoranda, stamped papers, newspaper clippings, notes on glossy paper with crests--which he scattered over the table, pushing his plate away, to look for the proof of his article. "here it is." he passed it to jansoulet; but jenkins cried out: "no, no, read it aloud." as the whole party echoed the demand, moëssard took back his proof and began to read aloud the work of bethlehem and m. bernard jansoulet, a long deliverance in favor of artificial nursing, written from jenkins' notes, which were recognizable by certain grandiloquent phrases of the sort that the irishman affected: "the long martyrology of infancy--the venality of the breast--the goat, the beneficent nurse,"--and concluding, after a turgid description of the magnificent establishment at nanterre, with a eulogy of jenkins and the glorification of jansoulet: "o bernard jansoulet, benefactor of infancy!" you should have seen the annoyed, scandalized faces of the guests. what a schemer that moëssard was! what impudent sycophancy! and the same envious, disdainful smile distorted every mouth. the devil of it was that they were forced to applaud, to appear enchanted, as their host's sense of smell was not surfeited by the odor of incense, and as he took everything very seriously, both the article and the applause that it called forth. his broad face beamed during the reading. many and many a time, far away in africa, he had dreamed of being thus belauded in the parisian papers, of becoming a person of some consequence in that society, the first of all societies, upon which the whole world has its eyes fixed as upon a beacon-light. now that dream was fulfilled. he gazed at all those men around his table, at that sumptuous dessert, at that wainscoted dining-room, certainly as high as the church in his native village; he listened to the dull roar of paris, rumbling and tramping beneath his windows, with the unspoken thought that he was about to become a great wheel in that ever-active, complicated mechanism. and thereupon, while he sat, enjoying the sense of well-being that follows a substantial meal, between the lines of that triumphant apology he evoked, by way of contrast, the panorama of his own life, his wretched childhood, his haphazard youth, no less distressing to recall, the days without food, the nights without a place to lay his head. and suddenly, when the reading was at an end, in the midst of a veritable overflow of joy, of one of those outbursts of southern effusiveness which compel one to think aloud, he cried, protruding his thick lips toward the guests in his genial smile: "ah! my friends, my dear friends, if you knew how happy i am, how proud i feel!" it was barely six weeks since he landed in france. with the exception of two or three compatriots, he had known these men whom he called his friends hardly more than a day, and only from having loaned them money. wherefore that sudden expansiveness seemed decidedly strange; but jansoulet, too deeply moved to notice anything, continued: "after what i have just heard, when i see myself here in this great city of paris, surrounded by all the illustrious names and distinguished minds within its limits, and then recall my father's peddler's stall! for i was born in a peddler's stall. my father sold old iron at a street corner in bourg-saint-andéol! it was as much as ever if we had bread to eat every day, and stew every sunday. ask cabassu. he knew me in those days. he can tell you if i am lying. oh! yes, i have known what poverty is." he raised his head in an outburst of pride, breathing in the odor of truffles with which the heavy atmosphere was impregnated. "i have known poverty, genuine poverty too, and for a long time. i have been cold, i have been hungry, and horribly hungry, you know, the kind of hunger that makes you stupid, that twists your stomach, makes your head go round, and prevents you from seeing, just as if some one had dug out the inside of your eyes with an oyster-knife. i have passed whole days in bed for lack of a coat to wear; lucky when i had a bed, which i sometimes hadn't. i have tried to earn my bread at every trade; and the bread cost me so much suffering, it was so hard and tough that i still have the bitter, mouldy taste of it in my mouth. and that's the way it was till i was thirty years old. yes, my friends, at thirty--and i'm not fifty yet--i was still a beggar, without a sou, with no future, with my heart full of remorse for my poor mother who was dying of hunger in her hovel down in the provinces, and to whom i could give nothing." the faces of the people who surrounded that strange host as he told the story of his evil days were a curious spectacle. some seemed disgusted, especially monpavon. that display of old rags seemed to him in execrable taste, and to denote utter lack of breeding. cardailhac, that sceptic and man of refined taste, a foe to all emotional scenes, sat with staring eyes and as if hypnotized, cutting a piece of fruit with the end of his fork into strips as thin as cigarette papers. the governor, on the contrary, went through a pantomime expressive of perfunctory admiration, with exclamations of horror and compassion; while, in striking contrast to him, and not far away, brahim bey, the thunderbolt of war, in whom the reading of the article, followed by discussion after a substantial repast, had induced a refreshing nap, was sleeping soundly, with his mouth like a round o in his white moustache, and with the blood congested in his face as a result of the creeping up of his gorget. but the general expression was indifference and ennui. what interest had they, i ask you, in jansoulet's childhood at bourg-saint-andéol, in what he had suffered, and how he had been driven from pillar to post? they had not come there for such stuff as that. so it was that expressions of feigned interest, eyes that counted the eggs in the ceiling or the crumbs of bread on the table-cloth, lips tightly compressed to restrain a yawn, betrayed the general impatience caused by that untimely narrative. but he did not grow weary. he took pleasure in the recital of his past suffering, as the sailor in a safe haven delights in recalling his voyages in distant seas, and the dangers, and the terrible shipwrecks. next came the tale of his good luck, the extraordinary accident that suddenly started him on the road to fortune. "i was wandering about the harbor of marseille, with a comrade as out-at-elbows as myself, who also made his fortune in the bey's service, and, after being my chum, my partner, became my bitterest enemy. i can safely tell you his name, _pardi_! he is well enough known, hemerlingue. yes, messieurs, the head of the great banking-house of hemerlingue and son hadn't at that time the money to buy two sous' worth of crabs on the quay. intoxicated by the air of travel that you breathe in those parts, it occurred to us to go and seek a living in some sunny country, as the foggy countries were so cruel to us. but where should we go? we did what sailors sometimes do to decide what den they shall squander their wages in. they stick a bit of paper on the rim of a hat. then they twirl the hat on a cane, and when it stops, they go in the direction in which the paper points. for us the paper needle pointed to tunis. a week later i landed at tunis with half a louis in my pocket, and i return to-day with twenty-five millions." there was a sort of electric shock around the table, a gleam in every eye, even in those of the servants. cardailhac exclaimed: "mazette!" monpavon's nose subsided. "yes, my children, twenty-five millions in available funds, to say nothing of all that i've left in tunis, my two palaces on the bardo, my vessels in the harbor of la goulette, my diamonds and my jewels, which are certainly worth more than twice that. and you know," he added, with his genial smile, in his hoarse, unmusical voice, "when it's all gone, there will still be some left." the whole table rose, electrified. "bravo! ah! bravo!" "superb." "very _chic_--very _chic_." "well said." "a man like that ought to be in the chamber." "he shall be, _per bacco!_ my word for it," exclaimed the governor, in a voice of thunder; and, carried away by admiration, not knowing how to manifest his enthusiasm, he seized the nabob's great hairy hand and impulsively put it to his lips. everybody was standing; they did not resume their seats. jansoulet, radiant with pleasure, had also risen. "let us have our coffee," he said, throwing down his napkin. immediately the party circulated noisily through the salons, enormous rooms, in which the light, the decoration, the magnificence consisted of gold alone. it fell from the ceiling in blinding rays, oozed from the walls in fillets, window-sashes and frames of all sorts. one retained a little of it on one's hands after moving a chair or opening a window; and even the hangings, having been dipped in that pactolus, preserved upon their stiff folds the rigidity and sheen of metal. but there was nothing individual, homelike, dainty. it was the monotonous splendor of the furnished apartment. and this impression of a flying camp, of a temporary establishment, was heightened by the idea of travelling that hovered about that fortune drawn from distant sources, like a cloud of uncertainty or a threat. the coffee was served in the oriental fashion, with all the grounds, in small filigreed silver cups, and the guests stood around in groups, drinking hastily, burning their tongues, watching one another furtively, and keeping especially close watch on the nabob, in order to grasp the favorable moment to jump upon him, drag him into a corner of one of those huge rooms, and arrange their loan at last. for it was that for which they had been waiting for two hours, that was the object of their visit, and the fixed idea that gave them that distraught, falsely attentive air, during the breakfast. but now there was no more embarrassment, no more grimacing. everybody in that strange company knew that, in the nabob's crowded existence, the coffee hour alone was left free for confidential audiences, and as every one wished to take advantage of it, as they had all come for the purpose of tearing a handful of wool from that golden fleece which offered itself to them so good-naturedly, they no longer talked or listened, they attended strictly to business. honest jenkins is the one who begins. he has led his friend jansoulet into a window-recess and is submitting to him the drawings for the house at nanterre. a pretty outlay, by heaven! one hundred and fifty thousand francs for the property, and, in addition, the very considerable expense of installation, the staff, the bedding, the goats for nurses, the manager's carriage, the omnibuses to meet the children at every train. a great deal of money--but how comfortable the dear little creatures will be there! what a service to paris, to mankind! the government cannot fail to reward with a bit of red ribbon such unselfish philanthropy. "the cross, the th of august." with those magic words jenkins can obtain whatever he wants. with his hoarse, cheerful voice, which seems to be hailing a vessel in the fog, the nabob calls, "bompain." the man in the fez, tearing himself away from the cellaret, crosses the salon majestically, whispers, goes away and returns with an inkstand and a check-book, the leaves of which come out and fly away of themselves. what a fine thing is wealth! to sign a check for two hundred thousand francs on his knee costs jansoulet no more than to take a louis from his pocket. the others, with their noses in their cups and rage in their hearts, watch this little scene from afar. and when jenkins takes his leave, bright and smiling, and waving his hand to the different groups, monpavon seizes the governor: "now, it's our turn." and they pounce together upon the nabob, lead him to a divan, force him to sit down, and squeeze him between them with a savage little laugh that seems to mean: "what are we going to do to him?" extract money from him, as much of it as possible. it must be had in order to float the _caisse territorial_, which has been aground for years, buried in sand to her masthead. a magnificent operation, this of floating her again, if we are to believe these two gentlemen; for the buried craft is full of ingots, of valuable merchandise, of the thousand varied treasures of a new country of which every one is talking and of which no one knows anything. the aim of paganetti of porto-vecchio in founding that unrivalled establishment was to monopolize the exploitation of corsica: iron mines, sulphur mines, copper mines, marble quarries, chalybeate and sulphur springs, vast forests of lignum vitæ and oak; and to facilitate that exploitation by building a network of railroads throughout the island, and establishing a line of steamboats. such was the gigantic enterprise to which he has harnessed himself. he has sunk a large amount of money in it, and the new-comer, the laborer of the eleventh hour, will reap the whole profit. while the corsican with his italian accent, his frantic gestures, enumerates the _splendores_ of the affair, monpavon, dignified and haughty, nods his head with an air of conviction, and from time to time, when he deems the moment propitious, tosses into the conversation the name of the duc de mora, which always produces its effect on the nabob. "well, what is it that you need?" "millions," says monpavon superbly, in the tone of a man who is not embarrassed by any lack of persons to whom to apply. "yes, millions. but it's a magnificent opening. and, as his excellency said, it would afford a capitalist an opportunity to attain a lofty position, even a political position. just consider a moment! in that penniless country. one might become a member of the general council, a deputy--" the nabob starts. and little paganetti, feeling the bait tremble on his hook, continues: "yes, a deputy; you shall be one when i choose. at a word from me all corsica is at your service." thereupon he launches out on a bewildering extemporization, counting up the votes at his disposal, the cantons which will rise at his summons. "you bring me your funds--i give you a whole people." the affair is carried by storm. "bompain! bompain!" calls the nabob in his enthusiasm. he has but one fear, that the thing will escape him; and to bind paganetti, who does not conceal his need of money, he hastens to pour a first instalment into the _caisse territoriale_. second appearance of the man in the red cap with the check-book, which he holds solemnly against his breast, like a choir-boy carrying the gospel. second affixture of jansoulet's signature to a check, which the governor stows away with a negligent air, and which effects a sudden transformation of his whole person. paganetti, but now so humble and unobtrusive, walks away with the self-assurance of a man held in equilibrium by four hundred thousand francs, while monpavon, carrying his head even higher than usual, follows close upon his heels and watches over him with a more than paternal solicitude. "there's a good stroke of business well done," says the nabob to himself, "and i'll go and drink my coffee." but ten borrowers are lying in wait for him. the quickest, the most adroit, is cardailhac, the manager, who hooks him and carries him off into an empty salon. "let us talk a bit, my good friend. i must set before you the condition of our theatre." a very complicated condition, no doubt; for here comes monsieur bompain again, and more sky-blue leaves fly away from the check-book. now, whose turn is it? the journalist moëssard comes to get his pay for the article in the _messager_; the nabob will learn what it costs to be called "the benefactor of infancy" in the morning papers. the provincial curé asks for funds to rebuild his church, and takes his check by assault with the brutality of a peter the hermit. and now old schwalbach approaches, with his nose in his beard, winking mysteriously. "sh! he has vound ein bearl," for monsieur's gallery, an hobbema from the duc de mora's collection. but several people have their eye on it. it will be difficult to obtain. "i must have it at any price," says the nabob, allured by the name of mora. "you understand, schwalbach, i must have that _nobbema_. twenty thousand francs for you if you hit it off." "i vill do mein best, monsieur jansoulet." and the old knave, as he turns away, calculates that the nabob's twenty thousand, added to the ten thousand the duke has promised him if he gets rid of his picture, will make a very pretty little profit for him. while these fortunate ones succeed one another, others prowl about frantic with impatience, biting their nails to the quick; for one and all have come with the same object. from honest jenkins, who headed the procession, down to cabassu, the _masseur_, who closes it, one and all lead the nabob aside. but however far away they take him in that long file of salons, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect the figure of the master of the house, and the pantomime of his broad back. that back is so eloquent! at times it straightens up indignantly. "oh! no, that is too much!" or else it collapses with comical resignation. "very well, if you will have it so." and bompain's fez always lurking in some corner of the landscape. when these have finished, others arrive; they are the small fish that follow in the wake of the great sharks in the savage hunting in the sea. there is constant going and coming through those superb white and gold salons, a slamming of doors, an unbroken current of insolent extortion of the most hackneyed type, attracted from the four corners of paris and the suburbs by that enormous fortune and that incredible gullibility. for these small sums, this incessant doling out of cash, he did not have recourse to the checkbook. in one of his salons the nabob kept a commode, an ugly little piece of furniture representing the savings of some concierge; it was the first article jansoulet bought when he was in a position to renounce furnished apartments, and he had kept it ever since like a gambler's fetish; its three drawers always contained two hundred thousand francs in current funds. he resorted to that never-failing supply on the days of his great audiences, ostentatiously plunging his hands in the gold and silver, stuffing it into his pockets to produce it later with the gesture of a cattle-dealer, a certain vulgar way of raising the skirts of his coat and sending his hand "down to the bottom of the pile." a tremendous inroad must have been made upon the little drawers to-day. * * * after so many whispered conferences, requests more or less clearly stated, anxious entrances and triumphant exits, the last client dismissed, the commode drawers locked, the apartment on place vendôme was left in solitude in the fading light of four o'clock, the close of the november days which are prolonged so far beyond that hour by the aid of artificial light. the servants removed the coffee cups, the _raki_ and the open, half-emptied boxes of cigars. the nabob, thinking that he was alone, drew a long breath of relief: "ouf! that's all over." but no. a figure emerges from a corner already in shadow, and approaches with a letter in his hand. "another!" thereupon the poor man instinctively repeated his eloquent horse-dealer's gesture. at that the visitor, also instinctively, recoiled so quickly and with such an insulted air that the nabob realized that he was in error and took the trouble to observe the young man who stood before him, simply but correctly dressed, with a sallow complexion, absolutely no beard, regular features, perhaps a little too serious and determined for his years, which fact, with his extremely light hair, curling tightly all over his head like a powdered wig, gave him the aspect of a young deputy of the tiers État under louis xvi., the face of a barnave at twenty. that face, although the nabob then saw it for the first time, was not altogether unfamiliar to him. "what do you wish, monsieur?" taking the letter the young man handed him, he walked to a window to read it. "ah!--it's from mamma." he said it with such a joyous inflection, the word "mamma" lighted his whole face with such a youthful, attractive smile, that the visitor, repelled at first by the parvenu's vulgar appearance, felt in full sympathy with him. the nabob read in an undertone these few lines written in a coarse, incorrect, trembling hand, in striking contrast to the fine laid paper with the words "château de saint-romans" at the top. "my dear son,--this letter will be handed to you by the oldest of monsieur de géry's children, the former justice of the peace at bourg-saint-andéol, who was so kind to us--" the nabob interrupted himself to say: "i ought to have known you, monsieur de géry. you look like your father. take a seat, i beg you." then he finished running through the letter. his mother made no precise request, but, in the name of the services the de géry family had formerly rendered them, she commended monsieur paul to him. an orphan, with his two young brothers to support, he had been admitted to practice as an advocate in the south and was starting for paris to seek his fortune. she implored jansoulet to assist him, "for he sorely needed it, poor fellow." and she signed: "your mother, who is dying for a sight of you, franÇoise." that letter from his mother, whom he had not seen for six years, the southern forms of expression in which he recognized familiar intonations, the coarse handwriting which drew for him a beloved face, all wrinkled and sunburned and furrowed, but smiling still beneath a peasant's cap, made a profound impression upon the nabob. during the six weeks he had been in france, immersed in the eddying whirl of paris, of his installation, he had not once thought of the dear old soul; and now he saw her in every line. he stood for a moment gazing at the letter, which shook in his fat fingers. then, his emotion having subsided, "monsieur de géry," he said, "i am happy to have the opportunity to repay a little of the kindness your family has showered upon mine. this very day, if you agree, i take you into my service. you are well educated, you seem intelligent, you can be of very great service to me. i have innumerable plans, innumerable matters in hand. i have been drawn into a multitude of large industrial undertakings. i need some one to assist me, to take my place at need. to be sure, i have a secretary, a steward, that excellent bompain; but the poor fellow knows nothing of paris. you will say that you are fresh from the provinces. but that's of no consequence. well educated as you are, a southerner, open-eyed and adaptable, you will soon get the hang of the boulevard. at all events, i'll undertake your education in that direction myself. in a few weeks you shall have a foot as thoroughly parisian as mine, i promise you." poor man! it was touching to hear him talk about his _parisian foot_ and his experience, when he was fated never to be more than a beginner. "well, it's a bargain, eh? i take you for my secretary. you shall have a fixed salary which we will agree upon directly; and i will give you a chance to make your fortune quickly." and as de géry, suddenly relieved of all his anxieties as a new-comer, a petitioner, a neophyte, did not stir for fear of waking from a dream, the nabob added in a softer tone: "now come and sit here by me, and let us talk a little about mamma." iii. memoirs of a clerk.--a casual glance at the "caisse territoriale." i had just finished my humble morning meal, and, as my custom is, had bestowed the balance of my provisions in the safe in the directors' room, a magnificent safe with a secret lock, which has served as my pantry during the four years, or nearly that, of my employment in the _territoriale_; suddenly the governor enters the office, red as a turkey-cock, his eyes inflamed as if he were fresh from a feast, breathing noisily, and says to me in vulgar phrase, with his italian accent: "there's a horrible smell here, _moussiou_ passajon." there was not a horrible smell, if you please. but--shall i say it?--i had sent out for a few onions to put around a bit of knuckle of veal, brought down to me by mademoiselle séraphine, the cook on the second floor, whose accounts i write up every evening. i tried to explain to the governor; but he worked himself into a rage, saying that in his opinion there was no sense in poisoning offices in that way, and that it wasn't worth while to pay twelve thousand francs a year for a suite of rooms with eight windows on the front, in the best part of boulevard malesherbes, to cook onions in. i don't know what he didn't say to me in his effervescent state. for my part, i was naturally vexed to be spoken to in that insolent tone. the least one can do is to be polite to people whom one neglects to pay, deuce take it! so i retorted that it was too bad, really; but, if the _caisse territoriale_ would pay what they owe me, to wit my arrears of salary for four years, plus seven thousand francs advanced by me to the governor to pay for carriages, newspapers, cigars and american drinks on the days the council met, i would go and eat like a christian at the nearest cheap alehouse, and should not be reduced to cooking for myself, in the directors' room, a wretched stew which i owed to the public compassion of cooks. and there you are! in speaking thus i gave way to an indignant impulse very excusable in the eyes of anybody who is acquainted with my position here. however, i had said nothing unseemly, but had kept within the limits of language suited to my age and education. (i must have stated somewhere in these memoirs that i passed more than thirty of my sixty-five years as apparitor to the faculty of letters at dijon. hence my taste for reports and memoirs, and those notions of academic style of which traces will be found in many passages of this lucubration.) i had, i repeat, expressed myself to the governor with the greatest reserve, refraining from employing any of those insulting words with which every one here regales him during the day, from our two censors, m. de monpavon, who laughingly calls him _fleur-de-mazas_, whenever he comes here, and m. de bois-l'héry of the trompettes club, who is as vulgar in his language as a groom, and always says to him by way of adieu: "to your wooden bed, flea!" from those two down to our cashier, whom i have heard say to him a hundred times, tapping his ledger: "there's enough in here to send you to the galleys whenever i choose." and yet, for all that, my simple observation produced a most extraordinary effect upon him. the circles around his eyes turned bright yellow, and he said, trembling with anger, the wicked anger of his country: "passajon, you're a blackguard! one word more and i discharge you." i was struck dumb with amazement. discharge me--me! and what about my four years' arrears, and my seven thousand francs of advances! as if he read my thoughts as they entered my head, the governor replied that all the accounts were to be settled, including mine. "by the way," he added, "just call all the clerks to my office. i have some great news to tell them." with that he entered his office and slammed the door behind him. that devil of a man! no matter how well you may know him, know what a liar he is and what an actor, he always finds a way to put you off with his palaver. my account! why, i was so excited that my legs ran away with me while i was going about to notify the staff. theoretically there are twelve of us at the _caisse territoriale_, including the governor and the dandy moëssard, manager of the _vérité financière_; but really there are less than half that number. in the first place, since the _vérité_ ceased to appear--that was two years ago--m. moëssard hasn't once set foot inside our doors. it seems that he is swimming in honors and wealth, that he has for a dear friend a queen, a real queen, who gives him all the money he wants. oh! what a babylon this paris is! the others look in occasionally to see if by chance there is anything new at the _caisse_; and, as there never is, weeks pass without our seeing them. four or five faithful ones, poor old fellows all, like myself, persist in appearing regularly every morning, at the same hour, as a matter of habit, because they have nothing else to do, and are at a loss to know what to turn their hand to; but they all busy themselves with matters that have no connection whatever with the office. one must live, there's no doubt of that! and then a man cannot pass his day lounging from chair to chair, from window to window, to look out (eight front windows on the boulevard). so we try to get such work as we can. for my part, i write for mademoiselle séraphine and another cook in the house. then i write up my memoirs, which takes no small amount of time. our receiving teller--there's a fellow who hasn't a very laborious task with us--makes netting for a house that deals in fishermen's supplies. one of our two copyists, who writes a beautiful hand, copies plays for a dramatic agency; the other makes little toys worth a sou, which are sold by hucksters at the street corners toward new year's day, and in that way succeeds in keeping himself from starving to death the rest of the year. our cashier is the only one who does no outside work. he would think that he had forfeited his honor. he is a very proud man, who never complains, and whose only fear is that he may seem to be short of linen. locked into his office, he employs his time from morning till night, making shirt-fronts, collars and cuffs out of paper. he has attained very great skill, and his linen, always dazzlingly white, would deceive any one, were it not that, at the slightest movement, when he walks, when he sits down, it cracks as if he had a pasteboard box in his stomach. unluckily all that paper does not feed him; and he is so thin, he has such a gaunt look, that one wonders what he can live on. between ourselves, i suspect him of sometimes paying a visit to my pantry. that's an easy matter for him; for, in his capacity of cashier, he has the "word" that opens the secret lock, and i fancy that, when my back is turned, he does a little foraging among my supplies. surely this is a most extraordinary, incredible banking-house. and yet what i am writing is the solemn truth, and paris is full of financial establishments of the same sort as ours. ah! if i ever publish my memoirs. but let me take up the interrupted thread of my narrative. when we were all assembled in his office, the manager said to us with great solemnity: "messieurs and dear comrades, the time of our trials is at an end. the _caisse territoriale_ is entering upon a new phase of its existence." with that he began to tell us about a superb _combinazione_--that is his favorite word, and he says it in such an insinuating tone!--a _combinazione_ in which the famous nabob of whom all the papers are talking is to have a part. thus the _caisse territoriale_ would be able to discharge its obligation to its loyal servants, to reward those who had shown devotion to its service and lop off those who were useless. this last for me, i imagine. and finally: "make up your accounts. they will all be settled to-morrow." unfortunately he has so often soothed our feelings with lying words that his discourse produced no effect. formerly those fine promises of his always succeeded. on the announcement of a new _combinazione_, we used to caper about and weep with joy in the offices, and embrace one another like shipwrecked sailors at sight of a sail. everyone prepared his account for the next day, as he had told us. but the next day, no governor. the next day but one, still no governor. he had gone on a little journey. at last, when we were all together, exasperated beyond measure, putting out our tongues, crazy for the water that he had held to our mouths, the governor arrived, dropped into a chair, hid his face in his hands, and, before we had time to speak to him, exclaimed: "kill me, kill me! i am a miserable impostor. the _combinazione_ has fallen through. _pechero!_ the _combinazione_ has fallen through!" and he cried and sobbed, threw himself on his knees, tore out his hair by handfuls and rolled on the carpet; he called us all by our nicknames, begged us to take his life, spoke of his wife and children, whom he had utterly ruined. and not one of us had the courage to complain in the face of such despair. what do i say? we ended by sharing it. no, never since theatres existed, has there been such an actor. but to-day, it is all over, our confidence has departed. when he had gone everybody gave a shrug. i must confess, however, that for a moment i was shaken. the assurance with which he talked about discharging me, and the name of the nabob, who was so wealthy-- "do you believe that?" said the cashier. "why, you'll always be an innocent, my poor passajon. never you fear! the nabob's in it just about as much as moëssard's queen was." and he went back to his shirt-fronts. his last remark referred back to the time when moëssard was paying court to his queen and had promised the governor that, in case he was successful, he would induce her majesty to invest some funds in our enterprise. all of us in the office were informed of that new prospect and deeply interested, as you may imagine, in its speedy realization, since our money depended on it. for two months that fable kept us in breathless suspense. we were consumed with anxiety, we scrutinized moëssard's face; we thought that the effects of his association with the lady were very visible there; and our old cashier, with his proud, serious air, would reply gravely from behind his grating, when we questioned him on the subject: "there's nothing new," or: "the affair's in good shape." with that everybody was content and we said to each other: "it's coming along, it's coming along," as if it were a matter in the ordinary course of business. no, upon my word, paris is the only place in the world where such things can be seen. it positively makes one's head spin sometimes. the upshot of it was that, one fine morning, moëssard stopped coming to the office. he had succeeded, it seems; but the _caisse territoriale_ did not seem to him a sufficiently advantageous investment for his dear friend's funds. that was honorable, wasn't it? however, the sentiment of honor is so easily lost that one can scarcely believe it. when i think that i, passajon, with my white hair, my venerable appearance, my spotless past--thirty years of academic service--have accustomed myself to living amid these infamies and base intrigues like a fish in water! one may well ask what i am doing here, why i remain here, how i happened to come here. how did i happen to come here? oh! bless your soul, in the simplest way you can imagine. nearly four years ago, my wife being dead and my children married, i had just accepted my retiring pension as apparitor to the faculty, when an advertisement in the newspaper happened to come to my notice. "wanted, a clerk of mature age at the _caisse territoriale_, boulevard malesherbes. good references." let me make a confession at once. the modern babylon had always tempted me. and then i felt that i was still vigorous, i could see ten active years before me, during which i might earn a little money, much perhaps, by investing my savings in the banking-house i was about to enter. so i wrote, inclosing my photograph by crespon, place de marché, in which i am represented with a clean-shaven chin, a bright eye under my heavy white eyebrows, wearing my steel chain around my neck, my insignia as an academic official, "with the air of a conscript father on his curule chair!" as our dean, m. chalmette, used to say. (indeed he declared that i looked very much like the late louis xviii., only not so heavy.) so i furnished the best of references, the most flattering recommendations from the gentlemen of the faculty. by return mail the governor answered my letter to the effect that my face pleased him--i should think so, _parbleu!_ a reception room guarded by an imposing countenance like mine is a tempting bait to the investor,--and that i might come when i chose. i ought, you will tell me, to have made inquiries on my own account. oh! of course i ought. but i had so much information to furnish about myself that it never occurred to me to ask them for any about themselves. moreover, how could one have a feeling of distrust after seeing these superb quarters, these lofty ceilings, these strong-boxes, as large as wardrobes, and these mirrors in which you can see yourself from head to foot? and then the sonorous prospectuses, the millions that i heard flying through the air, the colossal enterprises with fabulous profits. i was dazzled, fascinated. i must say, also, that at that time the establishment had a very different look from that it has to-day. certainly affairs were going badly--they have always gone badly, have our affairs--and the journal appeared only at irregular intervals. but one of the governor's little _combinazioni_ enabled him to save appearances. he had conceived the idea, if you please, of opening a patriotic subscription to erect a statue to general paolo paoli, a great man of his country. the corsicans are not rich, but they are as vain as turkeys. so money poured into the _territoriale_. but unfortunately it did not last. in two months the statue was devoured, before it was erected, and the succession of protests and summonses began again. to-day i am used to it. but when i first came from my province, the notices posted by order of the court, the bailiffs at the door, made a painful impression upon me. inside, no attention was paid to them. they knew that at the last moment a monpavon or a bois-l'héry was certain to turn up to appease the bailiffs; for all those gentlemen, being deeply involved in the affair, are interested to avoid a failure. that is just what saves our evil-minded little governor. the others run after their money--everyone knows what that means in gambling--and they would not be pleased to know that all the shares they have in their hands are worth nothing more than their weight as old paper. from the smallest to the greatest, all of us in the house are in that plight. from the landlord, to whom we owe two years' rent and who keeps us on for nothing for fear of losing it all, down to us poor clerks, to myself, who am in for seven thousand francs of savings and my four years' back pay, we are all running after our money. that is why i persist in remaining here. doubtless, notwithstanding my advanced age, i might have succeeded, by favor of my education, my general appearance and the care i have always taken of my clothes, in getting a place in some other office. there is a very honorable person of my acquaintance, m. joyeuse, bookkeeper for hemerlingue and son, the great bankers on rue saint-honoré, who never fails to say to me whenever he meets me: "passajon, my boy, don't stay in that den of thieves. you make a mistake in staying on there; you'll never get a sou out of it. come to hemerlingue's. i'll undertake to find some little corner for you. you will earn less, but you'll receive very much more." i feel that he is right, the honest fellow. but it's stronger than i am, i cannot make up my mind to go. and yet this is not a cheerful life that i lead here in these great cold rooms where no one ever comes, where every one slinks into a corner without speaking. what would you have? we know one another too well, that's the whole of it. up to last year we had meetings of the council of supervision, meetings of stockholders, stormy, uproarious meetings, genuine battles of savages, whose yells could be heard at the madeleine. and subscribers used to come too, several times a week, indignant because they had never heard anything from their money. those were the times when our governor came out strong. i have seen people go into his office, monsieur, as fierce as wolves thirsty for blood, and come out, after a quarter of an hour, milder than sheep, satisfied, reassured, and their pockets comforted with a few bank-notes. for there was the cunning of the thing: to ruin with money the poor wretches who came to demand it. to-day the shareholders of the _caisse territoriale_ never stir. i think that they are all dead or resigned to their fate. the council never meets. we have sessions only on paper; it is my duty to make up a so-called balance-sheet--always the same--of which i make a fresh copy every three months. we never see a living soul, except that at rare intervals some subscriber to the paoli statue drops down on us from the wilds of corsica, anxious to know if the monument is progressing; or perhaps some devout reader of the _vérité financière_, which disappeared more than two years ago, comes with an air of timidity to renew his subscription, and requests that it be forwarded a little more regularly, if possible. there is a confidence which nothing weakens. when one of those innocent creatures falls in the midst of our half-starved band, it is something terrible. we surround him, we embrace him, we try to get his name on one of our lists, and, in case he resists, if he will subscribe neither to the paoli monument nor to the corsican railways, then those gentry perform what they call--my pen blushes to write it--what they call "the drayman trick." this is how it is done: we always have in the office a package prepared beforehand, a box tied with stout string which arrives, presumably from some railway station, while the visitor is there. "twenty francs cartage," says the one of us who brings in the package. (twenty francs, or some times thirty, according to the victim's appearance.) every one at once begins to fumble in his pocket. "twenty francs cartage! i haven't it."--"nor i--what luck!" some one runs to the counting-room.--closed! they look for the cashier. gone out. and the hoarse voice of the drayman waxing impatient in the ante-room: "come, come, make haste." (i am generally selected for the drayman's part, because of my voice.) what is to be done? send back the package? the governor won't like that. "messieurs, i beg you to allow me," the innocent victim ventures to observe, opening his purse.--"ah! monsieur, if you would."--he pays his twenty francs, we escort him to the door, and as soon as his back is turned we divide the fruit of the crime, laughing like brigands. fie! monsieur passajon. such performances at your time of life! oh! _mon dieu_! i know all about it. i know that i should honor myself much more if i left this vile place. but, what then? why, i must abandon all that i have at stake here. no, it is not possible. it is urgently necessary that i remain, that i keep a close watch, that i am always on hand to have the advantage of a windfall, if one should come. oh! i swear by my ribbon, by my thirty years of academic service, if ever an affair like this of the nabob makes it possible for me to recoup my losses, i will not wait a moment, i will take myself off in hot haste to look after my little vineyard near monbars, cured forever of my speculative ideas. but alas! that is a very chimerical hope,--played out, discredited, well known as we are on 'change, with our shares no longer quoted at the bourse, our obligations fast becoming waste paper, such a wilderness of falsehood and debts, and the hole that is being dug deeper and deeper. (we owe at this moment three million five hundred thousand francs. and yet that three millions is not what embarrasses us. on the other hand it is what keeps us up; but we owe the concierge a little bill of a hundred and twenty five francs for postage stamps, gas and the like. that's the dangerous thing.) and they would have us believe that a man, a great financier like this nabob, even though he was just from the congo or had come from the moon this very day, is fool enough to put his money in such a trap. nonsense! is it possible? tell that story elsewhere, my dear governor. iv. a dÉbut in society. "monsieur bernard jansoulet!" that plebeian name, proudly announced by the liveried footman in a resounding voice, rang through jenkins's salons like the clash of cymbals, like one of the gongs that announce fantastic apparitions in a fairy play. the candles paled, flames flashed from every eye, at the dazzling prospect of oriental treasures, of showers of pearls and sequins let fall by the magic syllables of that name, but yesterday unknown. yes, it was he, the nabob, the richest of the rich, the great parisian curiosity, flavored with that spice of adventure that is so alluring to surfeited multitudes. all heads were turned, all conversation was interrupted; there was a grand rush for the door, a pushing and jostling like that of the crowds on the quay at a seaport, to watch the arrival of a felucca with a cargo of gold. even the hospitable jenkins, who was standing in the first salon to receive his guests, despite his usual self-possession abruptly left the group of men with whom he was talking and bore away to meet the galleons. "a thousand times, a thousand times too kind. madame jenkins will be very happy, very proud. come and let me take you to her." and in his haste, in his vainglorious delight, he dragged jansoulet away so quickly that the latter had no time to present his companion, paul de géry, whom he was introducing into society. the young man was well pleased to be overlooked. he glided into the mass of black coats which was forced farther and farther back by every new arrival, and was swallowed up in it, a prey to the foolish terror that every young provincial feels on his first appearance in a parisian salon, especially when he is shrewd and intelligent and does not wear the imperturbable self-assurance of the bumpkin like a coat of mail beneath his linen buckler. you, parisians of paris, who, ever since you were sixteen have exhibited your youth at the receptions of all classes of society, in your first black coat with your crush-hat on your hip,--you, i say, have no conception of that anguish, compounded of vanity, timidity and recollections of romantic books, which screws our teeth together, embarrasses our movements, makes us for a whole evening a statue between two doors, a fixture in a window-recess, a poor, pitiful, wandering creature, incapable of making his existence manifest otherwise than by changing his position from time to time, preferring to die of thirst rather than go near the sideboard, and going away without having said a word, unless we may have stammered one of those incoherent absurdities which we remember for months, and which makes us, when we think of it at night, utter an _ah!_ of frantic shame and bury our face in the pillow. paul de géry was a martyr of that type. in his province he had always lived a very retired life, with a pious, melancholy old aunt, until the time when, as a student of law, originally destined for a profession in which his father had left an excellent reputation, he had been induced to frequent the salons of some of the counsellors of the court, old-fashioned, gloomy dwellings, with dingy hangings, where he made a fourth hand at whist with venerable ghosts. jenkins' evening party was therefore a début in society for that provincial, whose very ignorance and southern adaptability made him first of all a keen observer. from the place where he stood he watched the interesting procession, still in progress at midnight, of jenkins' guests, the whole body of the fashionable physician's patients; the very flower of society, a large sprinkling of politics and finance, bankers, deputies, a few artists, all the jaded ones of parisian high life, pale and wan, with gleaming eyes, saturated with arsenic like gluttonous mice, but insatiably greedy of poison and of life. through the open salon and the great reception-room, the doors of which had been removed, he could see the stairway and landing, profusely decorated with flowers along the sides, where the long trains were duly spread, their silky weight seeming to force back the décolleté busts of their wearers in that graceful ascending motion which caused them to appear, little by little, until they burst upon one in the full bloom of their splendor. as the couples reached the top of the stairs they seemed to make their entrance on the stage; and that was doubly true, for every one left on the last step the frowns, the wrinkles of deep thought the air of weariness and all traces of anger or depression, to display a tranquil countenance, a smile playing over the placid features. the men exchanged hearty grasps of the hand, warm fraternal greetings; the women, thinking only of themselves, with little affected shrugs, with a charming simper and abundant play of the eyes and shoulders, murmured a few meaningless words of greeting: "thanks! oh! thanks--how kind you are." then the couples separated, for an evening party is no longer, as it used to be, an assemblage of congenial persons, in which the wit of the women compelled the force of character, the superior knowledge, the very genius of the men to bow gracefully before it, but a too numerous mob in which the women, who alone are seated, whisper together like captives in the harem, and have no other enjoyment than that of being beautiful or of seeming to be. de géry, after wandering through the doctor's library, the conservatory and the billiard room, where there was smoking, tired of dull, serious conversation, which seemed to him to be out of keeping in such a festal scene and in the brief hour of pleasure--some one had asked him carelessly and without looking at him, what was doing at the bourse that day--approached the door of the main salon, which was blockaded by a dense mass of black coats, a surging sea of heads packed closely together and gazing. an enormous room, handsomely furnished, with the artistic taste characteristic of the master and mistress of the house. a few old pictures against the light background of the draperies. a monumental chimney-piece, decorated with a fine marble group, "the seasons" by sébastien ruys, about which long green stalks, with lacelike edges, or of the stiffness of carved bronze, bent toward the mirror as toward a stream of limpid water. on the low chairs groups of women crowded together, blending the vaporous hues of their dresses, forming an immense nosegay of living flowers, above which gleamed bare white shoulders, hair studded with diamonds, drops of water on the brunettes, glistening reflections on the blondes, and the same intoxicating perfume, the same confused, pleasant buzzing, made by waves of heat and intangible wings, that caresses all the flowers in the garden in summer. at times a little laugh, ascending in that luminous atmosphere, a quicker breath, made plumes and curls tremble, and attracted attention to a lovely profile. such was the aspect of the salon. a few men were there, very few, all persons of distinction, laden with years and decorations, talking on the arm of a divan or leaning over the back of a chair with the condescending air we assume in conversing with children. but amid the placid murmur of the private conversations, one voice rang out, loud and discordant, the voice of the nabob, who was threading his way through that social conservatory with the self-assurance due to his immense fortune and a certain contempt for woman which he had brought with him from the orient. at that moment, sprawling upon a chair, with his great yellow-gloved hands awkwardly clasped, he was talking with a very beautiful woman, whose unusual face--much animation upon features of a severe cast--was noticeable by reason of its pallor among the surrounding pretty faces, just as her dress, all white, classic in its draping and moulded to her graceful, willowy figure, contrasted with much richer costumes, not one of which had its character of bold simplicity. de géry, from his corner, gazed at that smooth, narrow forehead beneath the fringe of hair brushed low, those long, wide-open eyes of a deep blue, an abysmal blue, that mouth which ceased to smile only to relax its classic outline in a weary, spiritless expression. all in all, the somewhat haughty aspect of an exceptional being. some one near him mentioned her name--felicia ruys. thereupon he understood the rare attraction of that girl, inheritress of her father's genius, whose new-born celebrity had reached as far as his province, with the halo of a reputation for great beauty. while he was gazing at her, admiring her slightest movement, a little puzzled by the enigma presented by that beautiful face, he heard a whispered conversation behind him. "just see how affable she is with the nabob! suppose the duke should come!" "is the duc de mora expected?" "to be sure. the party is given for him; to have him meet jansoulet." "and you think that the duke and mademoiselle ruys--" "where have you come from? it's a liaison known to all paris. it dates from the last salon, for which she did his bust." "and what about the duchess?" "pshaw! she has seen many others. ah! madame jenkins is going to sing." there was a commotion in the salon, a stronger pressure in the crowd toward the door, and conversation ceased for a moment. paul de géry drew a long breath. the words he had just overheard had oppressed his heart. he felt as if he himself were spattered, sullied by the mud unsparingly thrown upon the ideal he had formed for himself of that glorious youth, ripened in the sun of art and endowed with such penetrating charm. he moved away a little, changed his position. he dreaded to hear some other calumny. madame jenkins' voice did him good, a voice famous in parisian salons, a voice that, with all its brilliancy, was in no sense theatrical, but seemed like speech, thrilling with emotion, striking resonant, unfamiliar chords. the singer, a woman of from forty to forty-five years of age, had magnificent hair of the color of ashes, refined, somewhat weak features, and an expression of great amiability. still beautiful, she was dressed with the costly taste of a woman who has not abandoned the idea of pleasing. nor had she abandoned it; she and the doctor--she was then a widow--had been married some ten years, and they seemed still to be enjoying the first months of their joint happiness. while she sang a russian folk-song, as wild and sweet as the smile of a slav, jenkins artlessly manifested his pride without attempt at concealment, his broad face beamed expansively; and she, every time that she leaned forward to take breath, turned in his direction a timid, loving glance which sought him out over the music she held in her hand. and when she had finished, amid a murmur of delight and admiration, it was touching to see her secretly press her husband's hand, as if to reserve for herself a little corner of private happiness amid that great triumph. young de géry was taking comfort in the sight of that happy couple, when suddenly a voice murmured by his side--it was not the same voice that had spoken just before: "you know what people say--that the jenkinses are not married." "what nonsense!" "true, i assure you--it seems that there's a genuine madame jenkins somewhere, but not this one who has been exhibited to us. by the way, have you noticed--" the conversation continued in an undertone. madame jenkins approached, bowing and smiling, while the doctor, stopping a salver as it passed, brought her a glass of bordeaux with the zeal of a mother, an impresario, a lover. slander, slander, ineffaceable stain! now jenkins' attentions seemed overdone to the provincial. he thought that there was something affected, studied in them, and at the same time he fancied that he noticed in the thanks she expressed to her husband in a low tone a dread, a submissiveness derogatory to the dignity of a lawful wife, happy and proud in an unassailable position. "why, society is a hideous thing!" said de géry to himself in dismay, his hands as cold as ice. the smiles that encompassed him seemed to him like mere grimacing. he was ashamed and disgusted. then suddenly his soul rose in revolt: "nonsense! it isn't possible!" and, as if in answer to that exclamation, the voice of slander behind him continued carelessly: "after all, you know, i am not sure. i simply repeat what i hear. look, there's baronne hemerlingue. he has all paris here, this jenkins." the baroness came forward on the doctor's arm; he had rushed forward to meet her, and, despite his perfect control over his features, he seemed a little perturbed and disconcerted. it had occurred to the excellent jenkins to take advantage of his party to make peace between his friend hemerlingue and his friend jansoulet, his two wealthiest patients, who embarrassed him seriously with their internecine warfare. the nabob asked nothing better. he bore his former chum no malice. their rupture had come about as a result of hemerlingue's marriage with one of the favorites of the former bey. "a woman's row, in fact," said jansoulet; and he would be very glad to see the end of it, for any sort of ill-feeling was burdensome to that exuberant nature. but it seemed that the baron was not anxious for a reconciliation; for, notwithstanding the promise he had given jenkins, his wife appeared alone, to the irishman's great chagrin. she was a tall, thin, fragile personage, with eyebrows like a bird's feathers, a youthful, frightened manner, thirty years striving to seem twenty, with a head-dress of grasses and grain drooping over jet black hair thickly strewn with diamonds. with her long lashes falling over white cheeks of the wax-like tint of women who have lived long in the seclusion of a cloister, a little embarrassed in her parisian garb, she bore less resemblance to a former occupant of a harem than to a nun who had renounced her vows and returned to the world. a touch of devotion, of sanctity in her carriage, a certain ecclesiastical trick of walking with downcast eyes, elbows close to the sides and hands folded, manners which she had acquired in the ultra-religious environment in which she had lived since her conversion and her recent baptism, completed the resemblance. and you can imagine whether worldly curiosity was rampant around that ex-odalisque turned fervent catholic, as she entered the room, escorted by a sacristan-like figure with a livid face and spectacles, maître le merquier, deputy for lyon, hemerlingue's man of business, who attended the baroness when the baron was "slightly indisposed," as upon this occasion. when they entered the second salon, the nabob walked forward to meet her, expecting to descry in her wake the bloated face of his old comrade, to whom it was agreed that he should offer his hand. the baroness saw him coming and became whiter than ever. a steely gleam shot from under her long lashes. her nostrils dilated, rose and fell, and as jansoulet bowed, she quickened her pace, holding her head erect and rigid, letting fall from her thin lips a word in arabic which no one else could understand, but in which the poor nabob, for his part, understood the bitter insult; for when he raised his head his swarthy face was of the color of terra-cotta when it comes from the oven. he stood for a moment speechless, his great fists clenched, his lips swollen with anger. jenkins joined him, and de géry, who had watched the whole scene from a distance, saw them talking earnestly together with a preoccupied air. the attempt had miscarried. the reconciliation, so cleverly planned, would not take place. hemerlingue did not want it. if only the duke did not break his word! it was getting late. la wauters, who was to sing the "night" aria from the _magic flute_, after the performance at her theatre, had just arrived all muffled up in her lace hood. and the minister did not come. but it was a promise and everything was understood. monpavon was to take him up at the club. from time to time honest jenkins drew his watch, as he tossed an absent-minded _bravo_ to the bouquet of limpid notes that gushed from la wauters' fairy lips, a bouquet worth three thousand francs, and absolutely wasted, in common with the other expenses of the festivity, if the duke did not come. suddenly both wings of the folding-doors were thrown open: "his excellency the duc de mora!" a prolonged thrill of excitement greeted him, respectful curiosity drawn up in a double row, instead of the brutal crowding that had impeded the passage of the nabob. no one could be more skilled than he in the art of making his appearance in society, of walking gravely across a salon, ascending the tribune with smiling face, imparting solemnity to trifles and treating serious matters lightly; it was a résumé of his attitude in life, a paradoxical distinction. still handsome, despite his fifty-six years,--a beauty attributable to refined taste and perfect proportion, in which the grace of the dandy was intensified by something of a soldierly character in the figure and the haughty expression of the face,--he appeared to admirable advantage in the black coat, whereon, in jenkins' honor, he had placed a few of his decorations, which he never displayed except on days of official functions. the sheen of the linen and the white cravat, the unpolished silver of the decorations, the softness of the thin, grayish hair, gave added pallor to the face, the most bloodless of all the bloodless faces assembled that evening under the irishman's roof. he led such a terrible life! politics, gambling in every form, on the bourse and at baccarat, and the reputation of a lady-killer which he must maintain at any price. oh! he was a typical patient of jenkins, and he certainly owed that visit in princely state to the inventor of the mysterious pearls, which gave to his eyes that glance of flame, to his whole being that extraordinary pulsing vivacity. [illustration: "'_his excellency, the due de mora!_'"] "my dear duke, allow me to present to you--" monpavon, solemn of face, with padded calves, attempted to make the introduction so anxiously expected; but his excellency, in his preoccupation, did not hear and kept on toward the large salon, borne onward by one of those electric currents that break the monotony of social life. as he passed, and while he paid his respects to the fair madame jenkins, the women leaned forward with alluring glances, soft laughter, intent upon making a favorable impression. but he saw only one, felicia, who stood in the centre of a group of men, holding forth as if in her own studio, and tranquilly sipping a sherbet as she watched the duke's approach. she welcomed him with perfect naturalness. those who stood by discreetly withdrew. but, in spite of what de géry had overheard concerning their alleged relations, there seemed to be only a good-fellowship entirely of the mind between them, a playful familiarity. "i called at your house, mademoiselle, on my way to the bois." "so i understood. you even went into the studio." "and i saw the famous group--my group." "well?" "it is very fine. the greyhound runs like a mad dog. the fox is admirably done. but i didn't quite understand. you told me that it was the story of us two." "and so it is! look carefully. it's a fable that i read in--you don't read rabelais, monsieur le duc?" "faith, no. he is too vulgar." "well, i have learned to read him. very ill-bred, you know! oh! very. my fable, then, is taken from rabelais. this is it: bacchus has made a wonderful fox that cannot possibly be overtaken. vulcan, for his part, has given a dog of his making the power to overtake any animal that he pursues. 'now,' as my author says, 'suppose that they meet.' you see what a wild and interminable race will result. it seems to me, my dear duke, that destiny has brought us face to face in like manner, endowed with contrary qualities, you, who have received from the gods the gift of reaching all hearts, and i, whose heart will never be taken." she said this, looking him fairly in the face, almost laughing, but slim and erect in her white tunic, which seemed to protect her person against the liberties of his wit. he, the conqueror, the irresistible, had never met one of that audacious, self-willed race. so he enveloped her in all the magnetic currents of his seductive charm, while around them the murmur of the fête, the flute-like laughter, the rustling of satins and strings of pearls played an accompaniment to that duet of worldly passion and juvenile irony. in a moment he rejoined: "but how did the gods extricate themselves from that scrape?" "by changing the two coursers to stone." "by heaven," said he, "that is a result which i refuse to accept. i defy the gods to turn my heart to stone." a flame darted from his eyes, extinguished instantly at the thought that people were looking at them. in truth many people were looking at them, but no one with such deep interest as jenkins, who prowled around them, impatient and chafing, as if he were angry with felicia for monopolizing the important guest of the evening. the girl laughingly remarked upon the fact to the duke: "they will say that i am appropriating you." she pointed to monpavon standing expectantly by the nabob, who, from afar, bestowed upon his excellency the submissive, imploring gaze of a great faithful dog. thereupon the minister of state remembered what had brought him there. he bowed to felicia and returned to monpavon, who was able at last to present "his honorable friend, monsieur bernard jansoulet." his excellency bowed; the parvenu humbled himself lower than the earth; then they conversed for a moment. it was an interesting group to watch. jansoulet, tall and strongly built, with his vulgar manners, his tanned skin, his broad back, bent as if it had become rounded for good and all in the salaams of oriental sycophancy, his short fat hands bursting through his yellow gloves, his abundant pantomime, his southern exuberance causing him to cut off his words as if with a machine. the other, of noble birth, a thorough man of the world, elegance itself, graceful in the least of his gestures, which were very rare by the way, negligently letting fall incomplete sentences, lighting up his grave face with a half smile, concealing beneath the most perfect courtesy his boundless contempt for men and women; and that contempt was the main element of his strength. in an american parlor the antithesis would have been less offensive. the nabob's millions would have established equilibrium and even turned the scale in his favor. but paris does not as yet place money above all the other powers, and, to be convinced of that fact, one had only to see that stout merchant frisking about with an amiable smile before the great nobleman, and spreading beneath his feet, like the courtier's ermine cloak, his dense parvenu's pride. from the corner in which he had taken refuge, de géry was watching the scene with interest, knowing what importance his friend attached to this presentation, when chance, which had so cruelly given the lie all the evening to his artless neophyte's ideas, brought to his ears this brief dialogue, in that sea of private conversations in which every one hears just the words that are of interest to him: "the least that monpavon can do is to introduce him to some decent people. he has introduced him to so many bad ones. you know that he's just tossed paganetti and his whole crew into his arms." "the poor devil! why, they'll devour him." "pshaw! it's only fair to make him disgorge a little. he stole so much down there among the turks." "really, do you think so?" "do i think so! i have some very precise information on that subject from baron hemerlingue, the banker who negotiated the last tunisian loan. he knows some fine stories about this nabob. just fancy--" and the stream of calumny began to flow. for fifteen years jansoulet had plundered the late bey shamefully. they mentioned the names of contractors and cited divers swindles characterized by admirable coolness and effrontery; for instance, the story of a musical frigate--yes, it really played tunes--intended as a dining-room ornament, which he bought for two hundred thousand francs and sold again for ten millions; a throne sold to the bey for three millions, whereas the bill could be seen on the books of a house furnisher of faubourg saint-honoré, and amounted to less than a hundred thousand francs; and the most comical part of it was that the bey's fancy changed and the royal seat, having fallen into disgrace before it had even been unpacked, was still in its packing-case at the custom-house in tripoli. furthermore, aside from these outrageous commissions on the sale of the most trivial playthings, there were other far more serious accusations, but equally authentic, as they all came from the same source. in addition to the seraglio there was a harem of european women, admirably equipped for his highness by the nabob, who should be a connoisseur in such matters, as he had been engaged in the most extraordinary occupations in paris before his departure for the orient: ticket speculator, manager of a public ball at the barrier, and of a house of much lower reputation. and the whispering terminated in a stifled laugh,--the coarse laugh of two men in private conversation. the young provincial's first impulse, on hearing those infamous slanders, was to turn and cry out: "you lie!" a few hours earlier he would have done it without hesitation, but since he had been there he had learned to be suspicious, sceptical. he restrained himself therefore and listened to the end, standing in the same spot, having in his heart an unconfessed desire to know more of the man in whose service he was. as for the nabob, the perfectly unconscious subject of that ghastly chronicle, he was quietly playing a game of écarté with the due de mora in a small salon to which the blue hangings and two shaded lamps imparted a meditative air. o wonderful magic of the galleon! the son of the dealer in old iron alone at a card-table with the first personage of the empire! jansoulet could hardly believe the venetian mirror in which were reflected his resplendent, beaming face and that august cranium, divided by a long bald streak. so it was that, in order to show his appreciation of that great honor, he strove to lose as many thousand-franc notes as he decently could, feeling that he was the winner none the less, and proud as lucifer to see his money pass into those aristocratic hands, whose every movement he studied while they were cutting, dealing, or holding the cards. a circle formed around them, but at a respectful distance, the ten paces required for saluting a prince; that was the audience of the triumph at which the nabob was present as if in a dream, intoxicated by the fairy-like strains slightly muffled in the distance, the songs that reached his ears in detached phrases, as if they passed over a resonant sheet of water, the perfume of the flowers that bloom so strangely toward the close of parisian balls, when the late hour, confusing all notions of time, and the weariness of the sleepless night communicate to brains which have become more buoyant in a more nervous atmosphere a sort of youthful giddiness. the robust nature of jansoulet, that civilized savage, was more susceptible than another to these strange refinements; and he had to exert all his strength to refrain from inaugurating with a joyful hurrah an unseasonable out-pouring of words and gestures, from giving way to the impulse of physical buoyancy which stirred his whole being; like the great mountain dogs which are thrown into convulsions of epileptic frenzy by inhaling a single drop of a certain essence. * * * "it is a fine night and the sidewalks are dry. if you like, my dear boy, we will send away the carriage and go home on foot," said jansoulet to his companion as they left jenkins' house. de géry eagerly assented. he needed to walk, to shake off in the sharp air the infamies and lies of that society comedy which left his heart cold and oppressed, while all his life-blood had taken refuge in his temples, of whose swollen veins he could hear the beating. he walked unsteadily, like a poor creature who has been operated on for cataract and in the first terror of recovered vision dares not put one foot before the other. but with what a brutal hand the operation had been performed! and so that great artist with the glorious name, that pure, wild beauty, the mere sight of whom had agitated him like a supernatural apparition, was simply a courtesan. madame jenkins, that imposing creature, whose manner was at once so proud and so sweet, was not really madame jenkins. that illustrious scientist, so frank of feature and so hospitable, had the impudence to live publicly in shameless concubinage. and paris suspected it, yet that did not prevent paris from attending their parties. last of all, this jansoulet, so kind-hearted and generous, for whom he felt such a burden of gratitude in his heart, had to his knowledge fallen into the hands of a crew of bandits, being himself a bandit, and quite worthy of the scheme devised to make him disgorge his millions. was it possible; must he believe it? a sidelong glance at the nabob, whose huge frame filled the whole sidewalk, suddenly revealed to him something low and common that he had not before noticed in that gait to which the weight of the money in his pockets gave a decided lurch. yes, he was the typical adventurer from the south, moulded of the slime that covers the quays of marseille, trodden hard by all the vagabonds who wander from seaport to seaport. kind-hearted, generous, forsooth! as prostitutes are, and thieves. and the gold that flowed into that luxurious and vicious receptacle, spattering everything, even the walls, seemed to him now to bring with it all the dregs, all the filth of its impure and slimy source. that being so, there was but one thing for him, de géry, to do, and that was to go, to leave as soon as possible the place where he ran the risk of compromising his name, all that there was of his patrimony. of course. but there were the two little brothers down yonder in the provinces,--who would pay for their schooling? who would keep up the modest home miraculously restored by the handsome salary of the oldest son, the head of the family? the words "head of the family" cast him at once into one of those inward combats in which self-interest and conscience are the contending parties--the one strong, brutal, attacking fiercely with straight blows, the other retreating, breaking the measure by suddenly withdrawing its weapon--while honest jansoulet, the unconscious cause of the conflict, strode along beside his young friend, inhaling the fresh air delightedly with the lighted end of his cigar. he had never been so happy that he was alive. and that evening at jenkins', his own début in society as well as paul's, had left upon him an impression of arches erected as if for a triumph, of a curious crowd, of flowers thrown in his path. so true is it that things exist only through the eyes that see them. what a success! the duke, just as they parted, urging him to come and see his gallery; which meant that the doors of the hôtel de mora would be open to him within a week. felicia ruys consenting to make a bust of him, so that at the next exposition the junk-dealer's son would have his portrait in marble by the same great artist whose name was appended to that of the minister of state. was not this the gratification of all his childish vanities? revolving thus their thoughts, cheerful or sinister, they walked on side by side, preoccupied, distraught, so that place vendôme, silent and flooded by a cold, blue light, rang beneath their feet before they had spoken a word. "already!" said the nabob. "i would have liked to walk a little farther. what do you say?" and as they walked around the square two or three times, he emitted in puffs the exuberant joy with which he was full to overflowing. "how fine it is! what pleasure to breathe! god's thunder! i wouldn't give up my evening for a hundred thousand francs. what a fine fellow that jenkins is! do you like felicia ruys' type of beauty? for my part, i dote on it. and the duke, what a perfect great nobleman! so simple, so amiable. that is fashionable paris, eh, my son?" "it's too complicated for me--it frightens me," said paul de géry in a low voice. "yes, yes, i understand," rejoined the other, with adorable conceit. "you aren't used to it yet, but one soon gets into it, you know! see how perfectly at my ease i am after only a month." "that's because you had been in paris before. you used to live here." "i? never in my life. who told you that?" "why, i thought so," replied the young man, and added, as a multitude of thoughts came crowding into his mind: "what have you ever done to this baron hemerlingue? there seems to be a deadly hatred between you." the nabob was taken aback for a moment. that name hemerlingue, suddenly obtruded upon his joy, reminded him of the only unpleasant episode of the evening. "to him, as to everybody else," he said in a sad voice, "i never did anything but good. we began life together in a miserable way. we grew and prospered side by side. when he attempted to fly with his own wings i always assisted him, supported him as best i could. it was through me that he had the contract for supplying the fleet and army for ten years; almost the whole of his fortune comes from that. and then one fine morning that idiot of a cold-blooded bearnese must go and fall in love with an odalisque whom the bey's mother had turned out of the harem! she was a handsome, ambitious hussy; she made him marry her, and naturally, after that excellent marriage, hemerlingue had to leave tunis. they had made him believe that i egged the bey on to forbid him the country. that is not true. on the contrary, i persuaded his highness to allow the younger hemerlingue--his first wife's child--to remain at tunis to look after their interests there, while the father came to paris to establish his banking-house. but i was well repaid for my kindness. when my poor ahmed died and the _mouchir_, his brother, ascended the throne, the hemerlingues, being restored to favor, never ceased to try to injure me in the eyes of the new master. the bey was always pleasant with me, but my influence was impaired. ah well! in spite of all that, in spite of all the tricks hemerlingue has played on me and is playing on me still, i was ready to offer him my hand to-night. not only did the villain refuse it, but he sent his wife to insult me,--an uncivilized, vicious beast, who can never forgive me for refusing to receive her at tunis. do you know what she called me there to-night when she passed me? 'robber and son of a dog.' the harlot had the face to call me that. as if i didn't know my hemerlingue, who's as cowardly as he is fat. but, after all, let them say what they choose. i snap my fingers at 'em. what can they do against me? destroy my credit with the bey? that makes no difference to me. i have no more business in tunis, and i shall get away from there altogether as soon as possible. there's only one city, one country in the world, and that is paris, hospitable, open-hearted paris, with no false modesty, where any intelligent man finds room to do great things. and, you see, de géry, i propose to do great things. i've had enough of business life. i have worked twenty years for money; now i am greedy for respect, glory, renown. i mean to be a personage of some consequence in the history of my country, and that will be an easy matter for me. with my great fortune, my knowledge of men and of affairs, with what i feel here in my head, i can aspire to anything and reach any eminence. so take my advice, my dear boy, don't leave me,"--one would have said he was answering his young companion's secret thought,--"stick loyally to my ship. the spars are stanch and the hold is full of coal. i swear to you that we will sail far and fast, damme!" the artless southerner thus discharged his plans into the darkness with an abundance of expressive gestures, and from time to time, as they paced the vast, deserted square, majestically surrounded by its tightly-closed silent palaces, he looked up toward the bronze man on the column, as if calling to witness that great upstart, whose presence in the heart of paris justifies the most extravagant ambitions and renders all chimeras probable. there is in youth a warmth of heart, a craving for enthusiasm which are aroused by the slightest breath. as the nabob spoke, de géry felt his suspicions vanishing and all his sympathy reviving with an infusion of pity. no, surely that man was no vile knave, but a poor deluded mortal whose fortune had gone to his head, like a wine too powerful for a stomach that has long slaked its thirst with water. alone in the midst of paris, surrounded by enemies and sharpers, jansoulet reminded him of a pedestrian laden with gold passing through a wood haunted by thieves, in the dark and unarmed. and he thought that it would be well for the protégé to watch over the patron without seeming to do so, to be the clear-sighted telemachus of that blind mentor, to point out the pitfalls to him, to defend him against the brigands, in short to assist him to fight in that swarm of nocturnal ambuscades which he felt to be lurking savagely about the nabob and his millions. v. the joyeuse family. every morning in the year, at precisely eight o'clock, a new and almost uninhabited house in an out-of-the-way quarter of paris was filled with shouts and cries and happy laughter that rang clear as crystal in the desert of the hall. "father, don't forget my music." "father, my embroidery cotton." "father, bring us some rolls." and the father's voice calling from below: "yaia, throw down my bag." "well, upon my word! he's forgotten his bag." thereupon there was joyous haste from top to bottom of the house, a running to and fro of all those pretty faces, heavy-eyed with sleep, of all those touzled locks which they put in order as they ran, up to the very moment when a half-dozen of young girls, leaning over the rail, bade an echoing farewell to a little old gentleman neatly dressed and well brushed, whose florid face and slight figure disappeared at last in the convolutions of the staircase. m. joyeuse had gone to his office. thereupon the whole flock of fugitives from the bird-cage ran quickly up to the fourth floor, and, after locking the door, gathered at an open window to catch another glimpse of the father. the little man turned, kisses were exchanged at a distance, then the windows were closed; the new, deserted house became quiet once more except for the signs dancing their wild saraband in the wind on the unfinished street, as if they too were stirred to gayety by all that manoeuvring. a moment later the photographer on the fifth floor came down to hang his show-case at the door, always the same, with the old gentleman in the white cravat surrounded by his daughters in varied groups; then he went upstairs again in his turn, and the perfect calm succeeding that little matutinal tumult suggested the thought that "the father" and his young ladies had returned to the show-case, where they would remain motionless and smiling, until evening. from rue saint-ferdinand to messieurs hemerlingue and son's, his employers, m. joyeuse had a walk of three-quarters of an hour. he held his head erect and stiff, as if he were afraid of disarranging the lovely bow of his cravat, tied by his daughters, or his hat, put on by them; and when the oldest, always anxious and prudent, turned up the collar of his overcoat just as he was going out, to protect him against the vicious gust of wind at the street corner, m. joyeuse, even when the temperature was that of a hothouse, never turned it down until he reached the office, like the lover fresh from his mistress's embrace, who dares not stir for fear of losing the intoxicating perfume. the excellent man, a widower for some years, lived for his children alone, thought only of them, went out into the world surrounded by those little blond heads, which fluttered confusedly around him as in a painting of the assumption. all his desires, all his plans related to "the young ladies" and constantly returned to them, sometimes after long detours; for m. joyeuse--doubtless because of his very short neck and his short figure, in which his bubbling blood had but a short circuit to make--possessed an astonishingly fertile imagination. ideas formed in his mind as rapidly as threshed straw collects around the hopper. at the office the figures kept his mind fixed by their unromantic rigidity; but once outside, it took its revenge for that inexorable profession. the exercise of walking and familiarity with a route of which he knew by heart the most trivial details, gave entire liberty to his imaginative faculties, and he invented extraordinary adventures, ample material for twenty newspaper novels. suppose, for example, that m. joyeuse were walking through faubourg saint-honoré, on the right hand sidewalk--he always chose that side--and espied a heavy laundress's cart going along at a smart trot, driven by a countrywoman whose child, perched on a bundle of linen, was leaning over the side. "the child!" the good man would exclaim in dismay, "look out for the child!" his voice would be lost in the clatter of the wheels and his warning in the secret design of providence. the cart would pass on. he would look after it for a moment, then go his way; but the drama begun in his mind would go on unfolding itself there with numberless sudden changes. the child had fallen. the wheels were just about to pass over him. m. joyeuse would dart forward, save the little creature on the very brink of death, but the shaft would strike himself full in the breast, and he would fall, bathed in his blood. thereupon he would see himself carried to the druggist's amid the crowd that had collected. they would place him on a litter and carry him home, then suddenly he would hear the heart-rending cry of his daughters, his beloved daughters, upon seeing him in that condition. and that cry would go so straight to his heart, he would hear it so distinctly, so vividly: "papa, dear papa!" that he would repeat it himself in the street, to the great surprise of the passers-by, in a hoarse voice which would wake him from his manufactured nightmare. would you like another instance of the vagaries of that prodigious imagination? it rains, it hails; beastly weather. m. joyeuse has taken the omnibus to go to his office. as he takes his seat opposite a species of giant, with brutish face and formidable biceps, m. joyeuse, an insignificant little creature, with his bag on his knees, draws in his legs to make room for the enormous pillars that support his neighbor's monumental trunk. in the jolting of the vehicle and the pattering of the rain on the windows, m. joyeuse begins to dream. and suddenly the colossus opposite, who has a good-natured face enough, is amazed to see the little man change color and glare at him with fierce, murderous eyes, gnashing his teeth. yes, murderous eyes in truth, for at that moment m. joyeuse is dreaming a terrible dream. one of his daughters is sitting there, opposite him, beside that annoying brute, and the villain is putting his arm around her waist under her cloak. "take your hand away, monsieur," m. joyeuse has already said twice. the other simply laughs contemptuously. now he attempts to embrace Élise. "ah! villain!" lacking strength to defend his daughter, m. joyeuse, foaming with rage, feels in his pocket for his knife, stabs the insolent knave in the breast, and goes away with head erect, strong in the consciousness of his rights as an outraged father, to make his statement at the nearest police-station. "i have just killed a man in an omnibus!" the poor fellow wakes at the sound of his own voice actually uttering those sinister words, but not at the police-station; he realizes from the horrified faces of the passengers that he must have spoken aloud, and speedily avails himself of the conductor's call: "saint-philippe--panthéon--bastille," to alight, in dire confusion and amid general stupefaction. that imagination, always on the alert, gave to m. joyeuse's face a strangely feverish, haggard expression, in striking contrast to the faultlessly correct dress and bearing of the petty clerk. he lived through so many passionate existences in a single day. such waking dreamers as he, in whom a too restricted destiny holds in check unemployed forces, heroic faculties, are more numerous than is generally supposed. dreaming is the safety valve through which it all escapes, with a terrible spluttering, an intensely hot vapor and floating images which instantly disappear. some come forth from these visions radiant, others downcast and abashed, finding themselves once more on the commonplace level of everyday life. m. joyeuse was of the former class, constantly soaring aloft to heights from which one cannot descend without being a little shaken by the rapidity of the journey. now, one morning when our _imaginaire_ had left his house at the usual hour and under the usual circumstances, he started upon one of his little private romances as he turned out of rue saint-ferdinand. the end of the year was close at hand, and, perhaps it was the sight of a board shanty under construction in the neighboring woodyard that made him think of "new year's gifts." and thereupon the word _bonus_ planted itself in his mind, as the first landmark in an exciting story. in the month of december all hemerlingue's clerks received double pay, and in small households, you know, a thousand ambitious or generous projects are based upon such windfalls,--presents to be given, a piece of furniture to be replaced, a small sum tucked away in a drawer for unforeseen emergencies. the fact is that m. joyeuse was not rich. his wife, a mademoiselle de saint-amand, being tormented with aspirations for worldly grandeur, had established the little household on a ruinous footing, and in the three years since her death, although _grandmamma_ had managed affairs so prudently, they had not been able as yet to save anything, the burden of the past was so heavy. suddenly the excellent man fancied that the honorarium would be larger than usual that year on account of the increased work necessitated by the tunisian loan. that loan was a very handsome thing for his employers, too handsome indeed, for m. joyeuse had taken the liberty to say at the office that on that occasion "hemerlingue and son had shaved the turk a little too close." "yes, the bonus will certainly be doubled," thought the visionary as he walked along; and already he saw himself, a month hence, ascending the staircase leading to hemerlingue's private office, with his fellow-clerks, for their new year's call. the banker announced the good news; then he detained m. joyeuse for a private interview. and lo! that employer, usually so cold, and encased in his yellow fat as in a bale of raw silk, became affectionate, fatherly, communicative. he wished to know how many daughters joyeuse had. "i have three--that is to say, four, monsieur le baron. i always get confused about them. the oldest one is such a little woman." how old were they? "aline is twenty, monsieur le baron. she's the oldest. then we have Élise who is eighteen and preparing for her examination, henriette who is fourteen, and zaza or yaia who is only twelve." the pet name yaia amused monsieur le baron immensely; he also inquired as to the resources of the family. "my salary, monsieur le baron, nothing but that. i had a little money laid by, but my poor wife's sickness and the girls' education--" "what you earn is not enough, my dear joyeuse. i raise you to a thousand francs a month." "oh! monsieur le baron, that is too much!" but, although he had uttered this last phrase aloud, in the face of a policeman who watched with a suspicious eye the little man who gesticulated and shook his head so earnestly, the poor visionary did not awake. he joyously imagined himself returning home, telling the news to his daughters, and taking them to the theatre in the evening to celebrate that happy day. god! how pretty the joyeuse girls were, sitting in the front of their box! what a nosegay of rosy cheeks! and then, on the next day, lo and behold the two oldest are sought in marriage by--impossible to say by whom, for m. joyeuse suddenly found himself under the porch of the hemerlingue establishment, in front of a swing-door surmounted by the words, "counting room" in gold letters. "i shall always be the same," he said to himself with a little laugh, wiping his forehead, on which the perspiration stood in beads. put in good humor by his fancy, by the blazing fires in the long line of offices, with inlaid floors and wire gratings, keeping the secrets confided to them in the subdued light of the ground floor, where one could count gold pieces without being dazzled by them, m. joyeuse bade the other clerks a cheery good-morning, and donned his working-coat and black velvet cap. suddenly there was a whistle from above; and the cashier, putting his ear to the tube, heard the coarse, gelatinous voice of hemerlingue, the only, the genuine hemerlingue--the other, the son, was always absent--asking for m. joyeuse. what! was he still dreaming? he was greatly excited as he took the little inner stairway, which he had ascended so jauntily just before, and found himself in the banker's office, a narrow room with a very high ceiling, and with no other furniture than green curtains and enormous leather arm-chairs, proportioned to the formidable bulk of the head of the house. he was sitting there at his desk, which his paunch prevented him from approaching, corpulent, puffing, and so yellow that his round face with its hooked nose, the face of a fat, diseased owl, shone like a beacon light in that solemn, gloomy office. a coarse, moorish merchant mouldering in the dampness of his little courtyard. his eyes gleamed an instant beneath his heavy slow-moving eyelids when the clerk entered; he motioned to him to approach, and slowly, coldly, with frequent breaks in his breathless sentences, instead of: "m. joyeuse, how many daughters have you?" he said this: "joyeuse, you have assumed to criticize in our offices our recent operations on the market in tunis. no use to deny it. what you said has been repeated to me word for word. and as i can't allow such things from one of my clerks, i notify you that with the end of this month you will cease to be in my employ." the blood rushed to the clerk's face, receded, returned, causing each time a confused buzzing in his ears, a tumult of thoughts and images in his brain. his daughters! what would become of them? places are so scarce at that time of year! want stared him in the face, and also the vision of a poor devil falling at hemerlingue's feet, imploring him, threatening him, leaping at his throat in an outburst of desperate frenzy. all this agitation passed across his face like a gust of wind which wrinkles the surface of a lake, hollowing out shifting caverns of all shapes therein; but he stood mute on the same spot, and at a hint from his employer that he might withdraw, went unsteadily down to resume his task in the counting-room. that evening, on returning to rue saint-ferdinand, m. joyeuse said nothing to his daughters. he dared not. the thought of casting a shadow upon that radiant gayety, which was the whole life of the house, of dimming with great tears those sparkling eyes, seemed to him unendurable. moreover he was timid and weak, one of those who always say: "let us wait till to-morrow." so he waited before speaking, in the first place until the month of november should be at an end, comforting himself with the vague hope that hemerlingue might change his mind, as if he did not know that unyielding will, like the flabby, tenacious grasp of a mollusk clinging to its gold ingot. secondly, when his accounts were settled and another clerk had taken his place at the tall desk at which he had stood so long, he hoped speedily to find something else and to repair the disaster before he was obliged to avow it. every morning he pretended to start for the office, allowed himself to be equipped and escorted to the door as usual, his great leather bag all ready for the numerous parcels he was to bring home at night. although he purposely forgot some of them because of the approach of the perplexing close of the month, he no longer lacked time in which to do his daughters' errands. he had his day to himself, an interminable day, which he passed in running about paris in search of a place. they gave him addresses and excellent recommendations. but in that month of december, when the air is so cold and the days are so short, a month overburdened with expenses and anxieties, clerks suffer in patience and employers too. every one tries to end the year in tranquillity, postponing to the month of january, when time takes a great leap onward toward another station, all changes, ameliorations, attempts to lead a new life. wherever m. joyeuse called, he saw faces suddenly turn cold as soon as he explained the purpose of his visit. "what! you are no longer with hemerlingue and son? how does that happen?" he would explain the condition of affairs as best he could, attributing it to a caprice of his employer, that violent-tempered hemerlingue whom all paris knew; but he was conscious of a cold, suspicious accent in the uniform reply: "come and see us after the holidays." and, timid as he was at best, he reached a point at which he hardly dared apply anywhere, but would walk back and forth twenty times in front of the same door, nor would he ever have crossed the threshold but for the thought of his daughters. that thought alone would grasp his shoulder, put heart into his legs and send him to opposite ends of paris in the same day, to exceedingly vague addresses given him by comrades, to a great bone-black factory at aubervilliers, for instance, where they made him call three days in succession, and all for nothing. oh! the long walks in the rain and frost, the closed doors, the employer who has gone out or has visitors, the promises given and suddenly retracted, the disappointed hopes, the enervating effect of long suspense, the humiliation in store for every man who asks for work, as if it were a shameful thing to be without it. m. joyeuse experienced all those heartsickening details, and he learned too how the will becomes weary and discouraged in the face of persistent ill-luck. and you can imagine whether the bitter martyrdom of "the man in search of a place" was intensified by the fantasies of his imagination, by the chimeras which rose before him from the pavements of paris, while he pursued his quest in every direction. for a whole month he was like one of those pitiful marionettes who soliloquize and gesticulate on the sidewalks, and from whom the slightest jostling on the part of the crowd extorts a somnambulistic ejaculation: "i said as much," or "don't you doubt it, monsieur." you pass on, you almost laugh, but you are moved to pity at the unconsciousness of those poor devils, possessed by a fixed idea, blind men led by dreams, drawn on by an invisible leash. the terrible feature of it all was this, that when m. joyeuse returned home, after those long, cruel days of inaction and fatigue, he must enact the comedy of the man returning from work, must describe the events of the day, tell what he had heard, the gossip of the office, with which he was always accustomed to entertain the young ladies. in humble households there is always one name that comes to the lips more frequently than others, a name that is invoked on days of disaster, that plays a part in every wish, in every hope, even in the play of the children, who are permeated with the idea of its importance, a name that fills the rôle of a sub-providence in the family, or rather of a supernatural household god. it is the name of the employer, the manager of the factory, the landlord, the minister, the man, in short, who holds in his powerful hand the welfare, the very existence of the family. in the joyeuse household it was hemerlingue, always hemerlingue; ten, twenty times a day the name was mentioned in the conversation of the girls, who associated it with all their plans, with the most trivial details of their girlish ambitions: "if hemerlingue would consent. it all depends on hemerlingue." and nothing could be more delightful than the familiar way in which those children spoke of the wealthy boor whom they had never seen. they asked questions about him. had their father spoken to him? was he in good humor? to think that all of us, however humble we may be, however cruelly enslaved by destiny, have always below us some poor creature more humble, more enslaved than ourselves, in whose eyes we are great, in whose eyes we are gods, and, as gods, indifferent, scornful or cruel. we can fancy m. joyeuse's torture when he was compelled to invent incidents, to manufacture anecdotes concerning the villain who had dismissed him so heartlessly after ten years of faithful service. however, he played his little comedy in such way as to deceive them all completely. they had noticed only one thing, and that was that their father, on returning home at night, always had a hearty appetite for the evening meal. i should say as much! since he had lost his place, the poor man had ceased to eat any luncheon. the days passed. m. joyeuse found nothing. yes, he was offered a clerkship at the _caisse territoriale_, which he declined, being too well acquainted with the banking operations, with all the nooks and corners of financial bohemia in general and the _caisse territoriale_ in particular, to step foot in that den. "but," said passajon--for it was passajon, who, happening to meet the good man and finding that he was unemployed, had spoken to him of taking service with paganetti--"but i tell you again that it's all right. we have plenty of money. we pay our debts. i have been paid; just see what a dandy i am." in truth, the old clerk had a new livery, and his paunch protruded majestically beneath his tunic with silver buttons. for all that, m. joyeuse had withstood the temptation, even after passajon, opening wide his bulging eyes, had whispered with emphasis in his ear these words big with promise: "the nabob is in it." even after that, m. joyeuse had had the courage to say no. was it not better to die of hunger than to enter the service of an unsubstantial house whose books he might some day be called upon to examine as an expert before a court of justice? so he continued to wander about; but he was discouraged and had abandoned his search for employment. as it was necessary for him to remain away from home, he loitered in front of the shop-windows on the quays, leaned for hours on the parapets, watching the river and the boats discharging their cargoes. he became one of those idlers whom we see in the front rank of all street crowds, taking refuge from a shower under porches, drawing near the stoves on which the asphalters boil their tar in the open air, to warm themselves, and sinking on benches along the boulevard when their feet can no longer carry them. what an excellent way of lengthening one's days, to do nothing! on certain days, however, when m. joyeuse was too tired or the weather too inclement, he waited at the end of the street until the young ladies had closed their window, then went back to the house, hugging the walls, hurried upstairs, holding his breath as he passed his own door, and took refuge with the photographer, andré maranne, who, being aware of his catastrophe, offered him the compassionate welcome which poor devils extend to one another. customers are rare so near the barriers. he would sit for many hours in the studio, talking in an undertone, reading by his friend's side, listening to the rain on the window-panes or the wind whistling as in mid-ocean, rattling the old doors and window-frames in the graveyard of demolished buildings below. on the next floor he heard familiar sounds, full of charm for him, snatches of song accompanying the work of willing hands, a chorus of laughter, the piano lesson given by _grandmamma_, the tic-tac of the metronome, a delicious domestic hurly-burly that warmed his heart. he lived with his darlings, who certainly had no idea that they had him so near at hand. once, while maranne was out, m. joyeuse, acting as a faithful custodian of the studio and its brand-new equipment, heard two little taps on the ceiling of the fourth floor, two separate, very distinct taps, then a cautious rumbling like the scampering of a mouse. the intimacy between the photographer and his neighbors justified this prisoner-like method of communication, but what did that mean? how should he answer what seemed like a call? at all hazards he repeated the two taps, the soft drumming sound, and the interview stopped there. when andré maranne returned, he explained it. it was very simple: sometimes, during the day, the young ladies, who never saw their neighbor except in the evening, took that means of inquiring for his health and whether business was improving. the signal he had heard signified: "is business good to-day?" and m. joyeuse had instinctively but unwittingly replied: "not bad for the season." although young maranne blushed hotly as he said it, m. joyeuse believed him. but the idea of frequent communication between the two households made him fear lest his secret should be divulged, and thereafter he abstained from what he called his "artistic days." however, the time was drawing near when he could no longer conceal his plight, for the end of the month was at hand, complicated by the end of the year. paris was already assuming the usual festal aspect of the last weeks of december. that is about all that is left in the way of national or popular merrymaking. the revels of the carnival died with gavarni, the religious festivals, the music of which we scarcely hear above the din of the streets, seclude themselves behind the heavy church doors, the fifteenth of august has never been aught but the saint-charlemagne of the barracks; but paris has retained its respect for the first day of the year. early in december a violent epidemic of childishness is apparent in the streets. wagons pass, laden with gilded drums, wooden horses, playthings by the score. in the manufacturing districts, from top to bottom of the five-story buildings, former palaces of the marais, where the shops have such lofty ceilings and stately double doors, people work all night, handling gauze, flowers and straw, fastening labels on satin-covered boxes, sorting out, marking and packing; the innumerable details of the toy trade, that great industry upon which paris places the sign-manual of its refined taste. there is a smell of green wood, of fresh paint, of glistening varnish, and in the dust of the garrets, on the rickety stairways where the common people deposit all the mud through which they have tramped, chips of rosewood are strewn about, clippings of satin and velvet, bits of tinsel, all the débris of the treasures employed to dazzle childish eyes. then the shop-windows array themselves. behind the transparent glass the gilt binding of gift-books ascends like a gleaming wave under the gas-lights, rich stuffs of kaleidoscopic, tempting hues display their heavy, graceful folds, while the shop-girls, with their hair piled high upon their heads and ribbons around their necks, puff their wares with the little finger in the air, or fill silk bags, into which the bonbons fall like a shower of pearls. but face to face with this bourgeois industry, firmly established and intrenched behind its gorgeous shop fronts, is the ephemeral industry carried on in the stalls built of plain boards, open to the wind from the street, standing in a double row which gives the boulevard the aspect of a foreign market place. there are to be found the real interest, the poetry of new year's gifts. luxurious in the madeleine quarter, less ostentatious toward boulevard saint-denis, cheaper and more tawdry as you approach the bastille, these little booths change their character to suit their customers, estimate their chances of success according to the condition of the purses of the passers-by. between them stand tables covered with trifles, miracles of the petty parisian trades, made of nothing, fragile and insignificant, but sometimes whirled away by fashion in one of its fierce gusts, because of their very lightness. and lastly, along the sidewalks, lost in the line of vehicles which brush against them as they stroll along, the orange-women put the final touch to this ambulatory commerce, heaping up the sun-colored fruit under their red lanterns, and crying: "la valence!" in the fog, the uproar, the excessive haste with which paris rushes to meet the close of the year. ordinarily m. joyeuse made a part of the happy crowd that throngs the streets with a jingling of money in the pockets and packages in every hand. he would run about with _grandmamma_ in quest of presents for the young ladies, stopping in front of the booths of the small shopkeepers whom the slightest indication of a customer excites beyond measure, for they are unfamiliar with the art of selling and have based upon that brief season visions of extraordinary profits. and there would be consultations and meditations, a never-ending perplexity as to the final selection in that busy little brain, always in advance of the present and of the occupation of the moment. but that year, alas! there was nothing of the sort. he wandered sadly through the joyous city, sadder and more discouraged by reason of all the activity around him, jostled and bumped like all those who impede the circulation of the industrious, his heart beating with constant dread, for _grandmamma_, for several days past, had been making significant, prophetic remarks at table on the subject of new year's gifts. for that reason he avoided being left alone with her and had forbidden her coming to meet him at the office. but, struggle as he would, the time was drawing near, he felt it in his bones, when further mystery would be impossible and his secret would be divulged. was this _grandmamma_ of whom m. joyeuse stood in such fear such a terrible creature, pray? _mon dieu_, no! a little stern, that was all, with a sweet smile which promised instant pardon to every culprit. but m. joyeuse was naturally cowardly and timid; twenty years of housekeeping with a masterful woman, "a person of gentle birth," had enslaved him forever, like those convicts who are subjected to surveillance for a certain period after their sentences have expired. and he was subjected to it for life. one evening the joyeuse family was assembled in the small salon, the last relic of its splendor, where there still were two stuffed arm-chairs, an abundance of crochet-work, a piano, two carcel lamps with little green caps, and a small table covered with trivial ornaments. the true family exists only among the lowly. for economy's sake only one fire was lighted for the whole house, and only one lamp around which all their occupations, all their diversions were grouped; an honest family lamp, whose old-fashioned shade--with night scenes, studded with brilliant points--had been the wonder and the delight of all the girls in their infancy. emerging gracefully from the shadow of the rest of the room, four youthful faces, fair or dark, smiling or engrossed, bent forward in the warm, cheerful rays, which illumined them to the level of the eyes and seemed to feed the fire of their glances, the radiant youth beneath their transparent brows, to watch over them, to shelter them, to protect them from the black cold wind without, from ghosts, pitfalls, misery and terror, from all the sinister things that lurk in an out-of-the-way quarter of paris on a winter's night. thus assembled in a small room near the top of the deserted house, in the warmth and security of its neatly kept and comfortable home, the joyeuse family resembles a family of birds in a nest at the top of a tall tree. they sew and read and talk a little. a burst of flame, the crackling of the fire, are the only sounds to be heard, save for an occasional exclamation from m. joyeuse, who sits just outside of his little circle, hiding in the shadow his anxious brow and all the vagaries of his imagination. now he fancies that, in the midst of the distress by which he is overwhelmed, the absolute necessity of confessing everything to his children to-night, to-morrow at latest, unforeseen succor comes to him. hemerlingue, seized with remorse, sends to him, to all the others who worked on the tunisian loan, the accustomed december bonus. it is brought by a tall footman: "from monsieur le baron." the _imaginaire_ says this aloud. the pretty faces turn to look at him; they laugh and move about, and the poor wretch wakes with a start. oh! how he reviles himself now for his delay in confessing everything, for the fallacious security which he has encouraged in his home and which he will have to destroy at one blow. why need he have criticised that tunisian loan? he even blames himself now for having declined a position at the _caisse territoriale_. had he the right to decline it? ah! what a pitiful head of a family, who lacked strength to maintain or to defend the welfare of his dear ones. and, in presence of the charming group sitting within the rays of the lamp, whose tranquil aspect is in such glaring contrast to his inward agitation, he is seized with remorse, which assails his feeble mind so fiercely that his secret comes to his lips, is on the point of escaping him in an outburst of sobs, when a ring at the bell--not an imaginary ring--startles them all and checks him as he is about to speak. who could have come at that hour? they had lived in seclusion since the mother's death, receiving almost no visitors. andré maranne, when he came down to pass a few moments with them, knocked familiarly after the manner of those to whom a door is always open. profound silence in the salon, a long colloquy on the landing. at last the old servant--she had been in the family as long as the lamp--introduced a young man, a perfect stranger, who stopped suddenly, spellbound, at sight of the charming picture presented by the four darlings grouped about the table. he entered with an abashed, somewhat awkward air. however, he set forth very clearly the purpose of his call. he was recommended to apply to m. joyeuse by a worthy man of his acquaintance, old passajon, to give him lessons in book-keeping. a friend of his was involved in some large financial enterprises, a stock company of some size. he was anxious to be of service to him by keeping an eye upon the employment of his funds and the rectitude of his associates' operations; but he was a lawyer, with a very imperfect knowledge of financial matters and the vernacular of the banking business. could not m. joyeuse, in a few months, with three or four lessons a week--" "why, yes indeed, monsieur, yes indeed," stammered the father, dazed by this unhoped-for chance; "i will willingly undertake to fit you in a month or two for this work of examining accounts. where shall we have the lessons?" "here, if you please," said the young man, "for i am anxious that nobody should know that i am working at it. but i shall be very sorry if i am to put everybody to flight every time i appear, as i seem to have done this evening." it was a fact that, as soon as the visitor opened his mouth, the four curly heads had disappeared, with much whispering and rustling of skirts, and the salon appeared very bare now that the great circle of white light was empty. always quick to take alarm where his daughters were concerned, m. joyeuse replied that "the young ladies always retired early," in a short, sharp tone which said as plainly as could be: "let us confine our conversation to our lessons, young man, i beg." thereupon they agreed upon the days and the hours in the evening. as for the terms, that would be for monsieur to determine. monsieur named a figure. the clerk turned scarlet; it was what he earned at hemerlingue's. "oh! no, that is too much." but the other would not listen; he hemmed and hawed and rolled his tongue around as if he were trying to say something that it was very difficult to say; then with sudden resolution: "here is your first month's pay." "but, monsieur--" the young man insisted. he was a stranger. it was fair that he should pay in advance. evidently passajon had told him. m. joyeuse understood and said, beneath his breath: "thanks, oh! thanks!" so deeply moved that words failed him. life, it meant life for a few months, time to turn around, to find a situation. his darlings would be deprived of nothing. they would have their new year's gifts. o providence! "until wednesday, then, monsieur joyeuse." "until wednesday, monsieur--?" "de géry--paul de géry." they parted, equally dazzled, enchanted, one by the appearance of that unexpected saviour, the other by the lovely tableau of which he had caught a glimpse, all those maidens grouped around the table covered with books and papers and skeins, with an air of purity, of hard-working probity. that sight opened up to de géry a whole new paris, brave, domestic, very different from that with which he was already familiar, a paris of which the writers of feuilletons and the reporters never speak, and which reminded him of his province, with an additional element, namely, the charm which the surrounding hurly-burly and turmoil impart to the peaceful shelter that they do not reach. vi. felicia ruys. "by the way, what have you done with your son, jenkins? why do we never see him at your house now? he was an attractive boy." as she said this in the tone of disdainful acerbity in which she always addressed the irishman, felicia was at work on the bust of the nabob which she had just begun, adjusting her model, taking up and putting down the modelling tool, wiping her hands with a quick movement on the little sponge, while the light and peace of a lovely sunday afternoon flooded the circular glass-walled studio. felicia "received" every sunday, if receiving consisted in leaving her door open and allowing people to come and go and sit down a moment, without stirring from her work for them, or even breaking off a discussion she might have begun, to welcome new arrivals. there were artists with shapely heads and bright red beards, and here and there the white poll of an old man, sentimental friends of the elder ruys; then there were connoisseurs, men of the world, bankers, brokers, and some young swells who came rather to see the fair sculptress than her sculpture, so that they would have the right to say that evening at the club: "i was at felicia's to-day." among them paul de géry, silent, engrossed by an admiration which sank a little deeper in his heart day by day, strove to comprehend the beautiful sphinx, arrayed in purple cashmere and unbleached lace, who worked bravely away in the midst of her clay, a burnisher's apron--reaching nearly to the neck--leaving naught visible save the proud little face with those transparent tones, those gleams as of veiled rays with which intellect and inspiration give animation to the features. paul never forgot what had been said of her in his presence, he tried to form an opinion for himself, was beset by doubt and perplexity, yet fascinated; vowed every time that he would never come again, yet never missed a sunday. there was another fixture, always in the same spot, a little woman with gray, powdered hair and a lace handkerchief around her pink face; a pastel somewhat worn by years, who smiled sweetly in the discreet light of a window recess, her hands lying idly upon her lap, in fakir-like immobility. jenkins, always in good humor, with his beaming face, his black eyes, and his apostolic air, went about from one to another, known and loved by all. he too never missed one of felicia's days; and in very truth he displayed great patience, for all the sharp words of the artist and of the pretty woman as well were reserved for him alone. without seeming to notice it, with the same smiling indulgent serenity, he continued to court the society of the daughter of his old friend ruys, of whom he had been so fond and whom he had attended until his last breath. on this occasion, however, the question that felicia propounded to him on the subject of his son seemed to him extremely disagreeable; and there was a frown upon his face, a genuine expression of ill-humor, as he replied: "faith, i know no more than you as to what has become of him. he has turned his back upon us altogether. he was bored with us. he cares for nothing but his bohemia--" felicia gave a bound which made them all start, and with flashing eye and quivering nostril retorted: "that is too much. look you, jenkins, what do you call bohemia? a charming word, by the way, which should evoke visions of long wandering jaunts in the sunlight, halting in shady nooks, the first taste of luscious fruits and sparkling fountains, taken at random on the highroads. but since you have made of the word with all the charm attaching to it a stigma and an insult, to whom do you apply it? to certain poor long-haired devils, in love with freedom in rags and tatters, who starve to death on fifth floors, looking at the sky at too close quarters, or seeking rhymes under tiles through which the rain drips; to those idiots, fewer and fewer in number, who in their horror of the conventional, the traditional, of the dense stupidity of life, have taken a standing jump over the edge. but that's the way it used to be, i tell you. that's the bohemia of murger, with the hospital at the end, the terror of children, the comfort of kindred, little red riding hood eaten by the wolf. that state of things came to an end a long while ago. to-day you know perfectly well that artists are the most well-behaved people on earth, that they earn money, pay their debts and do their best to resemble the ordinary man. there is no lack of genuine bohemians, however; our society is made up of them, but they are found more particularly in your circle. _parbleu!_ they are not labelled on the outside, and no one distrusts them; but so far as the uncertainty of existence and lack of order are concerned, they have no reason to envy those whom they so disdainfully call 'irregulars.' ah! if one knew all the baseness, all the unheard-of, monstrous experiences that may be masked by a black coat, the most correct of your horrible modern garments! jenkins, at your house the other evening, i amused myself counting all those adventurers of high--" the little old lady, pink-cheeked and powdered, said to her softly from her seat: "felicia--take care--" but she went on without listening to her: "who is this monpavon, doctor? and bois-l'héry? and mora himself? and--" she was on the point of saying, "and the nabob?" but checked herself. "and how many others! oh! really, i advise you to speak contemptuously of bohemia. why, your clientage as a fashionable physician, o sublime jenkins, is made up of nothing else. bohemia of manufacturing, of finance, of politics; fallen stars, the tainted of all castes, and the higher you go the more of them there are, because high rank gives impunity and wealth closes many mouths." she spoke with great animation, harshly, her lip curling in fierce disdain. the other laughed a false laugh and assumed an airy, condescending tone. "ah! madcap! madcap!" and his glance, anxious and imploring, rested upon the nabob, as if to beseech his forgiveness for that flood of impertinent paradoxes. but jansoulet, far from appearing to be vexed,--he who was so proud to pose for that lovely artist, so puffed up by the honor conferred upon him--nodded his head approvingly. "she is right, jenkins," he said, "she is right. we are the real bohemia. look at me, for instance, and hemerlingue, two of the greatest handlers of money in paris. when i think where we started from, all the trades that we tried our hands at! hemerlingue, an old regimental sutler; and myself, who carried bags of grain on the wharves at marseille for a living. and then the strokes of luck by which our fortunes were made, as indeed all fortunes are made nowadays. bless my soul! just look under the peristyle at the bourse from three to five. but i beg your pardon, mademoiselle, with my mania for gesticulating when i talk, i've spoiled my pose--let's see, will this do?" "it's of no use," said felicia, throwing down her modelling-tool with the gesture of a spoiled child. "i can do nothing more to-day." she was a strange girl, this felicia. a true child of an artist, a genial and dissipated artist, according to the romantic tradition, such as sébastien ruys was. she had never known her mother, being the fruit of one of those ephemeral passions which suddenly enter a sculptor's bachelor life, as swallows enter a house of which the door is always open, and go out again at once, because they cannot build nests there. on that occasion the lady, on taking flight, had left with the great artist, then in the neighborhood of forty, a beautiful child whom he had acknowledged and reared, and who became the joy and passion of his life. felicia had remained with her father until she was thirteen, importing a childish, refining element into that studio crowded with idlers, models, and huge greyhounds lying at full length on divans. there was a corner set aside for her, for her attempts at sculpture, a complete equipment on a microscopic scale, a tripod and wax; and old ruys would say to all who came in: "don't go over there. don't disturb anything. that's the little one's corner." the result was that at ten years of age she hardly knew how to read and handled the modelling-tool with marvellous skill. ruys would have liked to keep the child, who never annoyed him in any way, with him permanently, a tiny member of the great brotherhood. but it was a pitiful thing to see the little maid exposed to the free and easy manners of the habitués of the house, the incessant going and coming of models, the discussions concerning an art that is purely physical, so to speak; and at the uproarious sunday dinner-table, too, sitting in the midst of five or six women, with all of whom her father was on the most intimate terms, actresses, dancers, singers, who, when dinner was at an end, smoked with the rest, their elbows on the table, revelling in the salacious anecdotes so relished by the master of the house. luckily, childhood is protected by the resistant power of innocence, a polished surface over which all forms of pollution glide harmlessly. felicia was noisy, uproarious, badly brought up, but was untainted by all that passed over her little mind because it was so near the ground. every summer she went to pass a few days with her godmother, constance crenmitz, the elder crenmitz, who was for so long a time called by all europe the "illustrious dancer," and who was living quietly in seclusion at fontainebleau. the arrival of the "little devil" introduced into the old lady's life, for a time, an element of excitement from which she had the whole year to recover. the frights that the child caused her with her audacious exploits in leaping and riding, the passionate outbreaks of that untamed nature, made the visit both a delight and a terrible trial to her,--a delight, because she worshipped felicia, the only domestic tie left the poor old salamander, retired after thirty years of _battus_ in the glare of the footlights; a trial, because the demon pitilessly pillaged the ex-dancer's apartments, which were as dainty and neat and sweet-smelling as her dressing-room at the opéra, and embellished with a museum of souvenirs dated from all the theatres in the world. constance crenmitz was the sole feminine element in felicia's childhood. frivolous, shallow, having all her life kept her mind enveloped in pink swaddling-clothes, she had at all events a dainty knack at housekeeping, and agile fingers clever at sewing, embroidering, arranging furniture, and leaving the trace of their deft, painstaking touch in every corner of a room. she alone undertook to train that wild young plant, and to awaken with care the womanly instincts in that strange creature, on whose figure cloaks and furs, all the elegant inventions of fashion, fell in folds too stiff, or performed other strange antics. it was the dancer again--surely the little ruys must not be abandoned--who, triumphing over the paternal selfishness, compelled the sculptor to assent to a necessary separation, when felicia was twelve or thirteen years old; furthermore, she assumed the responsibility of finding a suitable boarding school, and purposely selected a very rich but very bourgeois establishment, pleasantly situated in a sparsely-settled faubourg, in a huge old-fashioned mansion, surrounded by high walls and tall trees,--a sort of convent, minus the restraint and contempt for serious studies. indeed, a great deal of hard work was done at madame belin's establishment, with no opportunities to go out except on great festivals, and no communication with the outside world except a visit from one's relatives on thursday, in a little garden of flowering shrubs, or in the vast parlor with the carved and gilded panels above the doors. felicia's first appearance in that almost monastic institution caused considerable commotion; her costume, selected by the austrian ballet-dancer, her curly hair falling to the waist, her ungainly, boyish bearing, gave rise to some ill-natured remarks; but she was a parisian and readily adapted herself to all situations, to all localities. in a few days she wore more gracefully than any of the others the little black apron, to which the most coquettish attached their watches, the straight skirt--a stern and cruel requirement at that period, when the prevailing fashion enlarged the circumference of woman with an infinite number of ruffles and flounces--and the prescribed arrangement of the hair, in two braids fastened together well down on the neck, after the fashion of roman peasants. strangely enough, the assiduous work of the classes, their tranquil regularity, suited felicia's nature, all intelligence and animation, in which a taste for study was enlivened by an overflow of childish spirits in the hours of recreation. every one loved her. among those children of great manufacturers, parisian notaries and gentleman-farmers, a substantial little world by themselves, somewhat inclined to stiffness and formality, the well-known name of old ruys, and the respect which is universally manifested in paris for a high reputation as an artist, gave to felicia a position apart from the rest and greatly envied; a position made even more brilliant by her success in her studies, by a genuine talent for drawing, and by her beauty, that element of superiority which produces its effect even upon very young girls. in the purer atmosphere of the boarding-school, she felt the keenest pleasure in making herself womanly, in resuming her true sex, in learning order, regularity, in a different sense from that inculcated by the amiable dancer, whose kisses always retained a taste of rouge, and whose embraces always left an impression of unnaturally round arms. père ruys was enchanted, every time that he went to see his daughter, to find her more of a young lady, able to enter and walk about and leave a room with the pretty courtesy that made all of madame belin's boarders long for the _frou-frou_ of a long train. at first he came often, then, as he lacked time for all the commissions accepted and undertaken, the advances upon which helped to pay for the disorder and heedlessness of his life, he was seen less frequently in the parlor. at last disease took a hand. brought to earth by hopeless anæmia, for weeks he did not leave the house, nor work. he insisted upon seeing his daughter; and from the peaceful, health-giving shadow of the boarding-school felicia returned to her father's studio, still haunted by the same cronies, the parasites that cling to every celebrity, among whom sickness had introduced a new figure in the person of dr. jenkins. that handsome, open face, the air of frankness and serenity diffused over the whole person of that already well known physician, who talked of his art so freely, yet performed miraculous cures, and his assiduous attentions to her father, made a deep impression on the girl. jenkins soon became the friend, the confidant, a vigilant and gentle guardian. sometimes in the studio, when some one--the father himself most frequently--made a too equivocal remark or a ribald jest, the irishman would frown and make a little noise with his lips, or else would divert felicia's attention. he often took her to pass the day with madame jenkins, exerting himself to prevent her from becoming once more the wild creature of the ante-boarding school days, or indeed the something worse than that which she threatened to become, in the moral abandonment, the saddest of all forms of abandonment, in which she was left. but the girl had a more powerful protector than the irreproachable but worldly example of the fair madame jenkins: the art which she adored, the enthusiasm it aroused in her essentially open nature, the sentiment of beauty, of truth, which passed from her thoughtful brain, teeming with ideas, into her fingers with a little quiver of the nerves, a longing to see the thing done, the image realized. all day she worked at her sculpture, gave shape to her reveries, with the happy tact of instinct-guided youth, which imparts so much charm to first works; that prevented her from regretting too keenly the austere régime of the belin institution, which was as perfect a safeguard and as light as the veil of a novice who has not taken her vows; and it also shielded her from perilous conversations to which in her one absorbing preoccupation she paid no heed. ruys was proud of the talent springing up by his side. as he grew weaker from day to day, having already reached the stage at which the artist regrets his vanishing powers, he followed felicia's progress as a consolation for the close of his own career. the modelling-tool, which trembled in his hand, was seized at his side with virile firmness and self-assurance, tempered by all of the innate refinement of her being that a woman can apply to the realization of her ideal of an art. a curious sensation is that twofold paternity, that survival of genius, which abandons the one who is going away to pass into the one who is coming, like the lovely domestic birds which, on the eve of a death, desert the threatened roof for a more cheerful dwelling. in the last days of her father's life, felicia--a great artist, and still a child--did half of her father's work for him, and nothing could be more touching than that collaboration of the father and daughter, in the same studio, sculptors of the same group. things did not always run smoothly. although she was her father's pupil, felicia's individuality was already inclined to rebel against any arbitrary guidance. she had the audacity of beginners, the presentiment of a great future felt only by youthful geniuses, and, in opposition to the romantic traditions of sébastien ruys, a tendency toward modern realism, a feeling that she must plant that glorious old flag upon some new monument. then there would be terrible scenes, disputes from which the father would come forth vanquished, annihilated by his daughter's logic, amazed at the rapid progress children make on the highroads, while their elders, who have opened the gates for them, remain stationary at the point of departure. when she was working for him felicia yielded more readily; but concerning her own work she was intractable. for instance, the _joueur de boules_, her first exhibited work, which made such a tremendous hit at the salon of , was the occasion of violent disputes between the two artists, of such fierce controversy that jenkins had to intervene and to superintend the removal of the figure, which ruys had threatened to break. aside from these little dramas, which had no effect upon the love of their hearts, those two worshipped each other, with the presentiment and, as the days passed, the cruel certainty of an impending separation; when suddenly there came a horrible episode in felicia's life. one day jenkins took her home to dinner with him, as he often did. madame jenkins and her son were away for two days; but the doctor's years, his semi-paternal intimacy, justified him in inviting to his house, even in his wife's absence, a girl whose fifteen years, the fifteen years of an eastern jewess resplendent with premature beauty, left her still almost a child. the dinner was very lively, jenkins cordial and agreeable as always. then they went into the doctor's office; and suddenly, as they sat on the divan, talking in the most intimate and friendly way concerning her father, his health and their joint work, felicia had a feeling as of the cold blast from an abyss between herself and that man, followed by the brutal embrace of a satyr's claw. she saw a jenkins totally unknown to her, wild-eyed, stammering, with brutish laugh and insulting hands. in the surprise, the unexpectedness of that outbreak of the animal instinct, any other than felicia, any child of her years, but genuinely innocent, would have been lost. the thing that saved her, poor child, was her knowledge. she had heard so many stories at her father's table! and then her art, her life at the studio. she was no _ingénue_. she at once understood what that embrace meant, she squirmed and struggled, then, finding that she was not strong enough, screamed. he was frightened, released her, and suddenly she found herself on her feet, free, with the man at her knees, weeping and imploring forgiveness. he had yielded to an attack of frenzy. she was so lovely, he loved her so dearly. he had struggled for months. but now it was all over--never again, oh! never again. he would not even touch the hem of her dress. she did not reply, but tremblingly rearranged her hair and her clothes with frenzied fingers. go, she must go at once, alone. he sent a servant with her, and whispered, as she entered the carriage: "above all things, not a word of this at home. it would kill your father." he knew her so well, he was so sure of closing her mouth by that thought, the villain, that he came the next day as if nothing had happened, effusive as always and with the same ingenuous face. she never did mention the incident to her father or to anybody else. but from that day a change took place in her, as if the springs of her pride were relaxed. she became capricious, had fits of lassitude, a curl of disgust in her smile, and sometimes she yielded to sudden outbursts of wrath against her father, and cast scornful glances upon him, rebuking him for his failure to watch over her. "what is the matter with her?" père ruys would ask; and jenkins, with the authority of a physician, would attribute it to her age and a physical trouble. he himself avoided speaking to the girl, relying upon time to efface the sinister impression, and not despairing of obtaining what he desired, for he desired more eagerly than ever, being in the grasp of the insane passion of a man of forty-seven, the incurable passion of maturity; and that was the hypocrite's punishment. his daughter's strange state caused the sculptor genuine distress; but it was of brief duration. ruys suddenly expired, fell to pieces all at once, like all those whom jenkins attended. his last words were: "jenkins, i place my daughter in your care." the words were so ironical in all their mournfulness that jenkins, who was present at the last, could not avoid turning pale. felicia was even more stupefied than sorrowful. to the feeling of amazement at death, which she had never seen before, and which appeared in a guise so dear to her, was added the feeling of a terrible loneliness surrounded by darkness and perils. several friends of the sculptor assembled in a family council to deliberate concerning the future of the unfortunate, penniless orphan. they had found fifty francs in the catch-all in which sébastien kept his money on a little commode in the studio, well known to his needy friends, who had recourse to it without scruple. no other patrimony, in cash at all events; only a most superb collection of artistic objects and curios, a few valuable pictures and some scattered outstanding claims hardly sufficient to cover his innumerable debts. they talked of a sale at auction. felicia, on being consulted, replied that it was a matter of indifference to her whether they sold all or none, but that she begged them, for god's sake, to leave her in peace. the sale did not take place, however, thanks to the godmother, the excellent crenmitz, who suddenly made her appearance, as tranquil and gentle as always: "don't listen to them, my child, sell nothing. your old constance has fifteen thousand francs a year which were intended for you. you shall have the benefit of them now, that's all. we will live together here. i will not be in the way, you will see. you can work at your sculpture, while i keep the house. does that suit you?" it was said so affectionately, in the childish accent of foreigners expressing themselves in french, that the girl was deeply moved. her stony heart opened, a burning flood poured from her eyes and she threw herself, buried herself in the ex-dancer's arms: "oh! godmother, how good you are! yes, yes; don't leave me again--stay with me always. life frightens and disgusts me. i see so much hypocrisy and lying!" and when the old woman had made herself a silky, embroidered nest in the house, which resembled a traveller's camp filled with the treasures of all lands, those two widely different natures took up their life together. it was no small sacrifice that constance had made to the little demon, to leave her retreat at fontainebleau for paris, which she held in horror. from the day when the ballet-dancer, once famous for her extravagant caprices, who squandered princely fortunes between her five parted fingers, had descended from the realm of apotheoses with a last remnant of their dazzling glare still lingering in her eyes, and had tried to resume the life of ordinary mortals, to administer her little income and her modest household, she had been subjected to a multitude of unblushing attempts at extortion and schemes which were readily successful in view of the ignorance of that poor butterfly, who was afraid of reality and constantly coming in contact with all its unknown difficulties. in felicia's house the responsibility became far more serious, because of the extravagant methods long ago inaugurated by the father and continued by the daughter, both artists having the utmost contempt for economy. she had other difficulties, too, to overcome. she could not endure the studio, with its permanent odor of tobacco smoke, with the cloud, impenetrable to her, in which artistic discussions and ideas, expressed in their baldest form, were confounded in vague eddies of glowing vapor which invariably gave her the sick headache. the _blague_ was especially terrifying to her. being a foreigner, a former divinity of the ballet greenroom, fed upon superannuated compliments, gallantries _à la dorat_ she was unable to understand it, and was dismayed at the wild exaggerations, the paradoxes of those parisians whose wits were sharpened by the liberty of the studio. she whose wit had consisted entirely in the agility of her feet was awed by her new surroundings and relegated to the position of a simple companion; and to see that amiable old creature, silent and smiling, sitting in the bright light of the rounded window, her knitting on her knees, like one of chardin's bourgeoises, or walking quickly up the long rue de chaillot where the nearest market was situated, with her cook at her side, one would never have dreamed that the worthy woman had once held kings, princes, all the susceptible portion of the nobility and the world of finance, subject to the whim of her toes and her gauze skirts. paris is full of these extinct stars which have fallen back into the crowd. some of these celebrities, these conquerors of a former time, retain a gnawing rage in their hearts; others, on the contrary, dwell blissfully upon the past, ruminate in ineffable content all their glorious, bygone joys, seeking only repose, silence and obscurity, wherein they may remember and meditate, so that, when they die, we are amazed to learn that they were still living. constance crenmitz was one of those happy mortals. but what a strange artists' household was that of those two women, equally childlike, contributing to the common stock inexperience and ambition, the tranquillity of an accomplished destiny and the feverish activity of a life in its prime, all the differences indeed that were indicated by the contrast between that blonde, white as a withered rose, who seemed to be dressed, beneath her fair complexion, in a remnant of bengal fire, and that brunette, with the regular features, who almost invariably enveloped her beauty in dark stuffs, simply made, as if with a semblance of masculinity. unforeseen emergencies, caprice, ignorance of even the most trivial things, led to extreme confusion in the management of the household, from which they were sometimes unable to extricate themselves except by enforced privations, by dismissing servants, by reforms laughable in their exaggeration. during one of those crises jenkins made delicate, carefully veiled offers of assistance which were repelled with scorn by felicia. "it isn't right," said constance, "to be so rude to that poor doctor. after all, there was nothing insulting in what he said. an old friend of your father's." "that man, anybody's friend! oh! what a superb tartuffe!" and felicia, hardly able to contain herself, twisted her wrath into irony, mimicked jenkins, the affected gestures, the hand on the heart; then, puffing out her cheeks, said in a hoarse, whistling voice, full of false effusiveness: "we must be kind, we must be humane. to do good without hope of reward!--that is the secret." constance laughed, in spite of herself, till the tears ran down her cheeks, the resemblance was so perfect. "never mind, you were too harsh--you will end by driving him away." "oh! indeed!" said a shake of the girl's head. in truth, he continued to come to the house, always affable and sweet, dissembling his passion, which was visible only when he became jealous of new-comers, overwhelming with attentions the ex-ballet-dancer, to whom his pleasant manners were gratifying in spite of everything, and who recognized in him a man of her own time, of the time when men paid their respects to women by kissing their hand, with a complimentary remark as to their appearance. * * * one morning, jenkins, having looked in during his round of visits, found constance alone and unoccupied in the reception room. "i am mounting guard, doctor, as you see," she said calmly. "how does that happen?" "why, felicia's at work. she doesn't want to be disturbed and the servants are so stupid. i am carrying out her orders myself." then, as she saw the irishman walk toward the studio, she added: "no, no, don't go there. she gave me strict orders not to let any one go in." "very good, but i--" "i beg you not--you will get me a scolding." jenkins was about to withdraw, when a peal of laughter from felicia reached their ears through the portière and made him raise his head. "so she isn't alone?" "no. the nabob is with her. they are having a sitting--for the bust." "but why this mystery? it's very strange." he strode back and forth, raging inwardly, but holding himself back. at last he broke out. it was improper beyond expression to allow a girl to be closeted in that way with a man. he was astonished that so serious-minded, so devout a person as constance--what did it look like? the old lady gazed at him in stupefaction. as if felicia were like other girls! and then, what danger could there be with the nabob, such a serious man and so ugly? moreover, jenkins ought to know well enough that felicia never consulted anybody, that she did only what she chose. "no, no, it's impossible; i cannot allow this," exclaimed the irishman. and, paying no further heed to the dancer, who threw up her arms to call heaven to witness what was taking place, he walked toward the studio; but, instead of entering at once, he opened the door gently and raised a corner of the hanging, so that a part of the room, just that part where the nabob was posing, was visible to him, although at a considerable distance. jansoulet was seated, without a cravat, with his waistcoat thrown open, talking excitedly, in an undertone. felicia answered in laughing whispers. the sitting was very animated. then there was a pause, a rustling of skirts, and the artist, going up to her model, turned his linen collar back all the way around, with a familiar gesture, letting her hand run lightly over the tanned skin. that ethiopian face, in which the muscles quivered with the intoxication of supreme content, with its great eyelids lowered like those of a sleeping beast being tickled with a straw, the bold outline of the girl as she leaned over that outlandish face to verify its proportions, and then a violent, irresistible gesture, seizing the slender hand as it passed and pressing it to two thick, trembling lips,--jenkins saw all this in a red glare. the noise that he made in entering caused the two to resume their respective positions, and in the bright light which dazzled his prying, catlike eyes, he saw the girl standing before him, indignant, dumfounded: "what is this? who has dared?" and the nabob on his platform, with his collar turned back, petrified, monumental. jenkins, somewhat abashed, dismayed by his own audacity, stammered some words of apology. he had something very urgent to say to m. jansoulet, very important information which could not be delayed. he knew from a reliable source that there would be a distribution of crosses on march th. the nabob's face, momentarily contracted, at once relaxed. "ah! really?" he abandoned his pose. the matter was well worth considering, deuce take it! m. de la perrière, one of the empress's secretaries, had been directed by her to visit the shelter of bethlehem. jenkins had come to take the nabob to the secretary's office at the tuileries and make inquiries. that visit to bethlehem meant a cross for him. "come, let us be off; i am with you, my dear doctor." he bore jenkins no ill-will for disturbing him, and he feverishly tied his cravat, forgetting under the stress of his new emotion the agitation of a moment before, for with him ambition took precedence of everything. while the two men talked together in undertones, felicia, standing before them, with quivering nostrils and lip curling in scorn, watched them as if to say: "well! i am waiting." jansoulet apologized for being obliged to interrupt the sitting; but a visit of the utmost importance--she smiled pityingly. "go, go. at the point where we are now, i can work without you." "oh! yes," said the doctor, "the bust is almost finished. it's a fine piece of work," he added, with the air of a connoisseur. and, relying on the compliment to cover his retreat, he was slinking away, crestfallen; but felicia fiercely called him back: "stay, you. i have something to say to you." he saw by her expression that he must comply, under pain of an outbreak. "with your permission, my friend? mademoiselle has a word to say to me. my coupé is at the door. get in, i will be with you in a moment." when the studio door closed upon those heavy departing footsteps, they looked each other in the face. "you must be either drunk or mad to venture to do such a thing. what! you presume to enter my studio when i do not choose to receive? why this violence? by what right?" "by the right that desperate, unconquerable passion gives." "be quiet, jenkins; those are words that i do not wish to hear. i let you come here through pity, through habit, because my father was fond of you. but never speak to me again of your--love"--she said the word very low, as if it were a disgrace--"or you will see me no more, even though i should be driven to die in order to escape you for good and all." a child taken in fault does not bend his head more humbly than jenkins as he replied: "true--i was wrong. a moment of madness, of blindness. but why do you take pleasure in tearing my heart as you do?" "as if i were thinking of you!" "whether you are thinking of me or not, i am here, i see what is going on, and your coquetry pains me terribly." a slight flush rose in her cheeks at that reproach. "i, a coquette! with whom?" "with him," said the irishman, pointing to the superb apelike bust. she tried to laugh. "the nabob. what nonsense!" "do not lie. do you think i am blind, that i don't understand all your manoeuvres? you stay alone with him a long while. i was at the door just now. i saw you." he lowered his voice as if his breath had failed him. "what are you after, in heaven's name, you strange, heartless child? i have seen you repel the handsomest, the noblest, the greatest. that little de géry devours you with his eyes, but you pay no heed to him. even the duc de mora has not succeeded in reaching your heart. and this man, a shocking, vulgar creature, who isn't thinking of you, who has something very different from love in his head--you saw how he went away just now! what are you aiming at? what do you expect from him?" "i intend--i intend that he shall marry me. there." coolly, in a softer tone, as if the confession had drawn her nearer to the man she despised so bitterly, she set forth her reasons. she had luxurious, extravagant tastes, unmethodical habits which nothing could overcome and which would infallibly lead her to poverty and destitution, and good crenmitz too, who allowed herself to be ruined without a word. in three years, four years at most, it would be all over. and then would come debts and desperate expedients, the ragged gowns and old shoes of poor artists' households. or else the lover, the keeper, that is to say slavery and degradation. "nonsense," said jenkins. "what of me, am i not here?" "anything rather than you," she said, drawing herself up. "no, what i must have, what i will have, is a husband to protect me from others and from myself, to keep me from a mass of black things of which i am afraid when life becomes a bore to me, from abysses into which i feel that i may plunge,--some one who will love me while i work, and will relieve my poor old exhausted fairy from doing sentry duty. that man suits me and i have had my eye on him ever since i first saw him. he is ugly to look at, but he seems kind; and then he is absurdly rich, and wealth, in that degree, must be amusing. oh! i know all about it. there probably is some black spot in his life which has brought him good luck. all that gold can't have been honestly come by. but tell me truly, jenkins, with your hand on that heart which you invoke so often, do you think that i am a very tempting wife for an honest man? consider: of all these young men who ask as a favor to be allowed to come here, what one has ever thought of asking for my hand? never a single one. de géry no more than the rest. i charm, but i terrify. that is easily understood. what can anyone expect of a girl brought up as i was, with no mother or family, tossed in a heap with my father's models and mistresses? such mistresses, great god! and jenkins for my only protector. oh! when i think of it! when i think of it!" and, with the memory of that already distant episode, thoughts came to her mind which inflamed her wrath. "oh! yes, i am a child of chance, and this adventurer is just the husband for me."[ ] [ ] je suis une fille _d'aventure_, et cet _aventurier_ est bien le mari qu'il me faut. "at least you will wait until he's a widower," retorted jenkins tranquilly. "and in that case you may have to wait a long while, for his levantine looks to be in excellent health." felicia ruys became livid. "he is married?" "married, why, to be sure, and father of a lot of children. the whole outfit landed here two days ago." she stood for a moment, speechless, her cheeks quivering. in front of her the nabob's broad visage, in shining clay, with its flat nose, its sensual good-humored mouth, seemed to cry aloud in its fidelity to life. she gazed at it a moment, then stepped toward it, and with a gesture of disgust overturned the high, wooden stand and the gleaming, greasy block itself, which fell to the floor a shapeless mass of mud. vii. jansoulet at home. married he had been for twelve years, but had never mentioned the fact to any one of his parisian acquaintances, by virtue of an acquired oriental habit, the habit that oriental peoples have of maintaining silence concerning their female relations. suddenly it was learned that madame was coming, that apartments must be made ready for her, her children and her women. the nabob hired the whole second floor of the house on place vendôme, the previous tenant being sacrificed to nabob prices. the stables were increased in size, the staff of servants was doubled; and then, one day, coachmen and carriages went to the lyon station to fetch madame, who arrived with a retinue of negresses, little negroes and gazelles, completely filling a long train that had been heated expressly for her all the way from marseille. she alighted in a terrible state of prostration, exhausted and bewildered by her long railroad journey, the first in her life, for she had been taken to tunis as a child and had never left it. two negroes carried her from the carriage to her apartments in an armchair, which was always kept in the vestibule thereafter, ready for that difficult transportation. madame jansoulet could not walk upstairs, for it made her dizzy; she would not have an elevator because her weight made it squeak; besides, she never walked. an enormous creature, so bloated that it was impossible to assign her an age, but somewhere between twenty-five and forty, with rather a pretty face, but features all deformed by fat, lifeless eyes beneath drooping lids grooved like shells, trussed up in exported gowns, loaded with diamonds and jewels like a hindoo idol, she was a most perfect specimen of the transplanted europeans who are called levantines. a strange race of obese creoles, connected with our society by naught save language and dress, but enveloped by the orient in its stupefying atmosphere, the subtle poisons of its opium-laden air, in which everything becomes limp and nerveless, from the tissues of the skin to the girdle around the waist, ay, even to the mind itself and the thought. she was the daughter of an enormously wealthy belgian, a dealer in coral at tunis, in whose establishment jansoulet had been employed for several months on his first arrival in the country. mademoiselle afchin, at that time a fascinating doll, with dazzling complexion and hair, and perfect health, came often to the counting-room for her father, in the great chariot drawn by mules which conveyed them to their beautiful villa of la marse in the outskirts of tunis. the child, always _décolleté_, with gleaming white shoulders seen for a moment in a luxurious frame, dazzled the adventurer; and years after, when he had become rich, the favorite of the bey, and thought of settling down, his mind reverted to her. the child had changed into a stout, heavy, sallow girl. her intellect, never of a high order, had become still more obtuse in the torpor of such a life as dormice lead, in the neglect of a father whose whole time and thought were given to business, and in the use of tobacco saturated with opium and of sweetmeats,--the torpor of her flemish blood conjoined with oriental indolence; and with all the rest, ill-bred, gluttonous, sensual, arrogant, a levantine trinket brought to perfection. but jansoulet saw nothing of all that. in his eyes she was then, she was always, down to the time of her arrival in paris, a superior being, a person of the highest refinement, a demoiselle afchin; he spoke to her with respect, maintained a slightly humble and timid attitude toward her, gave her money without counting it, indulged her most extravagant caprices, her wildest whims, all the strange conceits of a levantine's brain distracted by ennui and idleness. a single word justified everything; she was a demoiselle afchin. and yet they had nothing in common; he was always at the kasbah or the bardo, in attendance on the bey, paying his court to him, or else in his counting-room; she passed her day in bed, on her head a diadem of pearls worth three hundred thousand francs, which she never laid aside, brutalizing herself by smoking, living as in a harem, admiring herself in the mirror, arraying herself in fine clothes, in company with several other levantines, whose greatest joy consisted in measuring with their necklaces the girth of arms and legs which rivalled one another in corpulency, bringing forth children with whom she never concerned herself, whom she never saw, who had never even caused her suffering, for she was delivered under the influence of chloroform. a "bale" of white flesh perfumed with musk. and jansoulet would say with pride: "i married a demoiselle afchin!" under parisian skies and in the cold light of the capital, his disillusionment began. having determined to set up a regular establishment, to receive, to give entertainments, the nabob had sent for his wife, in order to place her at the head of his house. but when he saw that mass of stiff, crackling dry-goods, of palais-royal finery, alight at his door, and all the extraordinary outfit that followed her, he had a vague impression of a queen pomare in exile. the difficulty was that he had seen some genuine women of fashion and he made comparisons. he had planned a grand ball to celebrate her arrival, but he prudently abstained. indeed madame jansoulet refused to receive any one. her natural indolence was augmented by the homesickness which the cold yellow fog and the pouring rain had brought upon her as soon as she landed. she passed several days in bed, crying aloud like a child, declaring that they had brought her to paris to kill her, and even rejecting the slightest attentions from her women. she lay there roaring among her lace pillows, her hair in a tangled mass around her diadem, the windows closed and curtains tightly drawn, lamps lighted day and night, crying out that she wanted to go away--ay, to go away--ay; and it was a pitiful thing to see, in that tomb-like darkness, the half-filled trunks scattered over the carpet, the frightened gazelles, the negresses crouching around their hysterical mistress, groaning in unison, with haggard eyes, like the dogs of travellers in polar countries which go mad when they cannot see the sun. the irish doctor, upon being admitted to that distressing scene, had no success with his fatherly ways, his fine superficial phrases. not at any price would the levantine take the pearls with arsenical base, to give tone to her system. the nabob was horrified. what was he to do? send her back to tunis with the children? that was hardly possible. he was definitively in disgrace there. the hemerlingues had triumphed. a last insult had filled the measure to overflowing: on jansoulet's departure the bey had commissioned him to have several millions of gold coined after a new pattern at the paris mint; then the commission had been abruptly withdrawn and given to hemerlingue. jansoulet, being publicly insulted, retorted with a public manifesto, offering all his property for sale, his palace on the bardo presented to him by the former bey, his villas at la marse, all of white marble, surrounded by magnificent gardens, his counting rooms, the most commodious and most sumptuously furnished in the city, and instructing the intelligent bompain to bring his wife and children to paris in order to put the seal of finality to his departure. after such a display, it would be hard to return; that is what he tried to make mademoiselle afchin understand, but she replied only by prolonged groans. he strove to comfort her, to amuse her, but what form of distraction could be made to appeal to that abnormally apathetic nature? and then, could he change the skies of paris, give back to the wretched levantine her marble-tiled _patio_, where she used to pass long hours in a cool, delicious state of drowsiness, listening to the plashing of the water in the great alabaster fountain with three basins one above the other, and her gilded boat, covered with a purple awning and rowed by eight supple, muscular tripolitan oarsmen over the lovely lake of el-baheira, when the sun was setting? sumptuous as were the apartments on place vendôme, they could not supply the place of those lost treasures. and she plunged deeper than ever in her despair. one habitué of the house succeeded, however, in drawing her out of it, cabassu, who styled himself on his cards "professor of massage;" a stout dark thick-set man, redolent of garlic and hair-oil, square-shouldered, covered with hair to his eyes, who knew stories of parisian seraglios, trivial anecdotes within the limited range of madame's intellect. he came once to rub her, and she wished to see him again, detained him. he was obliged to abandon all his other customers and to become the _masseur_ of that able-bodied creature, at a salary equal to that of a senator, her page, her reader, her body-guard. jansoulet, overjoyed to see that his wife was contented, was not conscious of the disgusting absurdity of the intimacy. cabassu was seen in the bois, in the enormous and sumptuous calèche beside the favorite gazelle, at the back of the theatre boxes which the levantine hired, for she went abroad now, revivified by her masseur's treatment and determined to be amused. she liked the theatre, especially farces or melodramas. the apathy of her unwieldy body was minimized in the false glare of the footlights. but she enjoyed cardailhac's theatre most of all. there the nabob was at home. from the first manager down to the last box-opener, the whole staff belonged to him. he had a key to the door leading from the corridor to the stage; and the salon attached to his box, decorated in oriental fashion, with the ceiling hollowed out like a bee-hive, divans upholstered in camel's hair, the gas-jet enclosed in a little moorish lantern, was admirably adapted for a nap during the tedious _entr'actes_: a delicate compliment from the manager to his partner's wife. nor had that monkey of a cardailhac stopped at that: detecting mademoiselle afchin's liking for the stage, he had succeeded in persuading her that she possessed an intuitive knowledge of all things pertaining to it, and had ended by asking her to cast a glance in her leisure moments, the glance of an expert, upon such pieces as he sent to her. an excellent way of binding the partnership more firmly. poor manuscripts in blue or yellow covers, which hope has tied with slender ribbons, ye who take flight swelling with ambition and with dreams, who knows what hands will open you, turn your leaves, what prying fingers will deflower your unknown charm, that shining dust stored up by every new idea? who passes judgment on you, and who condemns you? sometimes, before going out to dinner, jansoulet, on going up to his wife's room, would find her smoking in her easy-chair, with her head thrown back and piles of manuscript by her side, and cabassu, armed with a blue pencil, reading in his hoarse voice and with his bourg-saint-andéol intonation some dramatic lucubration which he cut and slashed remorselessly at the slightest word of criticism from the lady. "don't disturb yourselves," the good nabob's wave of the hand would say, as he entered the room on tiptoe. he would listen and nod his head admiringly as he looked at his wife. "she's an astonishing creature," he would say to himself, for he knew nothing of literature, and in that direction at all events he recognized mademoiselle afchin's superiority. "she had the theatrical instinct," as cardailhac said; but as an offset, the maternal instinct was entirely lacking. she never gave a thought to her children, abandoning them to the hands of strangers, and, when they were brought to her once a month, contenting herself with giving them the flabby, lifeless flesh of her cheeks to kiss, between two puffs of a cigarette, and never making inquiries concerning the details of care and health which perpetuate the physical bond of motherhood, and make the true mother's heart bleed in sympathy with her child's slightest suffering. they were three stout, heavy, apathetic boys, of eleven, nine, and seven years, with the levantine's sallow complexion and premature bloated appearance, and their father's velvety, kindly eyes. they were as ignorant as young noblemen of the middle ages; in tunis m. bompain had charge of their studies, but in paris the nabob, intent upon giving them the benefit of a parisian education, had placed them in the most stylish and most expensive boarding school, the collège bourdaloue, conducted by excellent fathers, who aimed less at teaching their pupils than at moulding them into well-bred, reflecting men of the world, and who succeeded in producing little monstrosities, affected and ridiculous, scornful of play, absolutely ignorant, with no trace of spontaneity or childishness, and despairingly pert and forward. the little jansoulets did not enjoy themselves overmuch in that hothouse for early fruits, notwithstanding the special privileges accorded to their immense wealth; they were really too neglected. even the creoles in the institution had correspondents and visitors; but they were never called to the parlor, nor was any relative of theirs known to the school authorities; from time to time they received baskets of sweetmeats or windfalls of cake, and that was all. the nabob, as he drove through paris, would strip a confectioner's shop-window for their benefit and send the contents to the college with that affectionate impulsiveness blended with negro-like ostentation which characterized all his acts. it was the same with their toys, always too fine, too elaborate, of no earthly use, the toys which are made only for show and which the parisian never buys. but the thing to which above all others the little jansoulets owed the respectful consideration of pupils and masters was their well-filled purse, always ready for collections, for professorial entertainments, and for the charitable visits, the famous visits inaugurated by the collège bourdaloue, one of the tempting items on the programme of the institution, the admiration of impressionable minds. twice a month, turn and turn about, the pupils belonging to the little society of saint-vincent-de-paul, established at the college on the model of the great society of that name, went in small detachments, unattended, like grown men, to carry succor and consolation to the farthest corners of the thickly-peopled faubourgs. in that way it was sought to teach them charity by experience, the art of finding out the wretchedness, the necessities of the people and of dressing their sores, always more or less repulsive, with a balsam of kind words and ecclesiastical maxims. to console, to convert the masses by the aid of childhood, to disarm religious incredulity by the youth and innocence of the apostles; such was the purpose of that little society, a purpose that failed absolutely of realization, by the way. the children, well-dressed, well-fed, in excellent health, went only to addresses designated beforehand and found respectable poor people, sometimes a little ailing, but far too clean, already enrolled and relieved by the rich charitable organizations of the church. they never happened upon one of those loathsome homes, where hunger, mourning, abject poverty, all forms of misery, physical and moral, are written in filth on the walls, in indelible wrinkles on the faces. their visit was arranged in advance like that of the sovereign to the guard-house to taste the soldier's soup; the guard-house is notified and the soup seasoned for the royal palate. have you seen those pictures in religious books, where a little communicant, with his bow on his arm and his taper in his hand, all combed and curled, goes to assist a poor old man lying on his wretched pallet with the whites of his eyes turned up to the sky? these charitable visits had the same conventional stage-setting and accent. the machine-like gestures of the little preachers with arms too short for the work, were answered by words learned by rote, so false as to set one's teeth on edge. the comical words of encouragement, the "consolation lavishly poured forth" in prize-book phrases by voices suggestive of young roosters with the influenza, called forth emotional blessings, the whining, sickening mummery of a church porch after vespers. and as soon as the young visitors' backs were turned, what an explosion of laughter and shouting in the garret, what a dancing around the offerings brought, what an overturning of armchairs in which they have been feigning illness, what a pouring of boluses into the fire, a fire of ashes, very artistically arranged! when the little jansoulets went to visit their parents, they were placed in charge of the man with the red fez, bompain the indispensable. it was bompain who took them to the champs-Élysées, arrayed in english jackets, silk hats of the latest style--at seven years!--and with little canes dangling from the ends of their dogskin gloves. it was bompain who superintended the victualling of the break on which he went with the children to the races, race-cards stuck in their hats around which green veils were twisted, wonderfully like the characters in lilliputian pantomimes whose comicality consists solely in the size of their heads compared with their short legs and dwarfish movements. they smoked and drank outrageously. sometimes the man in the fez, himself hardly able to stand, brought them home horribly ill. and yet jansoulet loved his little ones, especially the youngest, who, with his long hair and his doll-like aspect, reminded him of little afchin in her carriage. but they were still at the age when children belong to the mother, when neither a stylish tailor nor accomplished masters nor a fashionable boarding-school nor the ponies saddled for the little men in the stable, when nothing in short takes the place of the watchful and attentive hand, the warmth and gayety of the nest. the father was unable to give them that in any event; and then he was so busy! a thousand matters, the _caisse territoriale_, the arrangement of the picture gallery, races at tattersall's with bois-l'héry, some gimcrack to go and see, here or there, at the houses of collectors to whom schwalbach recommended him, hours passed with trainers, jockeys, dealers in curiosities, the occupied, varied existence of a bourgeois gentleman in modern paris. in all this going and coming he succeeded in parisianizing himself a little more each day, was admitted to monpavon's club, made welcome in the green-room at the ballet, behind the scenes at the theatre, and continued to preside at his famous bachelor breakfasts, the only entertainments possible in his establishment. his existence was really very full, and yet de géry relieved him from the most difficult part of it, the complicated department of solicitations and contributions. the young man was now a witness, as he sat at his desk, of all the audacious and burlesque inventions, all the heroi-comic schemes of that mendicancy of a great city, organized like a ministerial department and in numbers like an army, which subscribes to the newspapers and knows its _bottin_ by heart. it was his business to receive the fair-haired lady, young, brazen-faced and already faded, who asks for only a hundred louis, threatening to throw herself into the water immediately upon leaving the house if they are not forthcoming, and the stout matron, with affable, unceremonious manners, who says on entering the room: "monsieur, you do not know me. nor have i the honor of knowing you; but we shall soon know each other. be kind enough to sit down and let us talk." the tradesman in difficulties, on the brink of insolvency--it is sometimes true--who comes to entreat you to save his honor, with a pistol all ready for suicide bulging out the pocket of his coat--sometimes it is only the bowl of his pipe. and oftentimes cases of genuine distress, prolix and tiresome, of people who do not even know how to tell how unfitted they are to earn their living. besides such instances of avowed mendicancy, there were others in disguise: charity, philanthropy, good works, encouragement of artists, house-to-house collections for children's hospitals, parish churches, penitentiaries, benevolent societies or district libraries. and lastly those that array themselves in a worldly mask: tickets to concerts, benefit performances, tickets of all colors, "platform, front row, reserved sections." the nabob's orders were that no one should be refused, and it was a decided gain that he no longer attended to such matters in person. for a long time he had deluged all this hypocritical scheming with gold, with lordly indifference, paying five hundred francs for a ticket to a concert by some wurtemberg zither-player, or languedocian flutist, which would have been quoted at ten francs at the tuileries or the due de mora's. on some days young de géry went out from these sessions actually nauseated. all his youthful honesty rose in revolt; he attempted to induce the nabob to institute some reforms; but he, at the first word, assumed the bored expression characteristic of weak natures when called upon to give an opinion, or else replied with a shrug of his great shoulders: "why this is paris, my dear child. don't you be alarmed, but just let me alone. i know where i'm going and what i want." he wanted two things at that time,--a seat in the chamber of deputies and the cross of the legion of honor. in his view those were the first two stages of the long ascent which his ambition impelled him to undertake. he certainly would be chosen a deputy through the _caisse territoriale_, at the head of which he was. paganetti from porto-vecchio often said to him: "when the day comes, the island will rise as one man and vote for you." but electors were not the only thing it was necessary to have; there must be a vacant seat in the chamber, and the delegation from corsica was full. one member, however, old popolasca, being infirm and in no condition to perform his duties, might be willing to resign on certain conditions. it was a delicate matter to negotiate, but quite practicable, for the good man had a large family, estates which produced almost nothing, a ruined palace at bastia, where his children lived on _polenta_, and an apartment at paris, in a furnished lodging-house of the eighteenth order. by not haggling over one or two hundred thousand francs, they might come to terms with that famished legislator who, when sounded by paganetti, did not say yes or no, being allured by the magnitude of the sum but held back by the vainglory of his office. the affair was in that condition and might be decided any day. with regard to the cross, the prospect was even brighter. the work of bethlehem had certainly created a great sensation at the tuileries. nothing was now wanting but m. de la perrière's visit and his report, which could not fail to be favorable, to ensure the appearance on the list of march th, the date of an imperial anniversary, of the glorious name of jansoulet. the th of march, that is to say, within a month. what would old hemerlingue say to that signal distinction?--old hemerlingue, who had had to be content with the nisham for so long. and the bey, who had been made to believe that jansoulet was under the ban of parisian society, and the old mother, down at saint-romans, who was always so happy over her son's successes! was not all that worth a few millions judiciously distributed and strewn by that road leading to renown, along which the nabob walked like a child, with no fear of being devoured at the end? and was there not in these external joys, these honors, this dearly bought consideration, a measure of compensation for all the chagrins of that oriental won back to european life, who longed for a home and had naught but a caravansary, who sought a wife and found naught but a levantine? viii. the work of bethlehem. bethlehem! why did that legendary name, sweet to the ear, warm as the straw in the miraculous stable, give you such a cold shudder when you saw it in gilt letters over that iron gateway? the feeling was due perhaps to the melancholy landscape, the vast, desolate plain that stretches from nanterre to saint-cloud, broken only by an occasional clump of trees or the smoke from some factory chimney. perhaps, too, in a measure, to the disproportion between the humble hamlet of judæa and that grandiose structure, that villa in the style of louis xiii., built of small stones and mortar, and showing pink through the leafless branches of the park, where there were several large ponds with a coating of green slime. certain it is that on passing the place one's heart contracted. when one entered the grounds it was much worse. an oppressive, inexplicable silence hovered about the house, where the faces at the windows had a depressing aspect behind the small old-fashioned, greenish panes. the she-goats, straying along the paths, languidly cropped the first shoots of grass, with occasional "baas" in the direction of their keeper, who seemed as bored as they, and followed visitors with a listless eye. there was an air of mourning, the deserted, terrified aspect of a plague-stricken spot. yet that had once been an attractive, cheerful property, and there had been much feasting and revelry there not long before. it had been laid out for the famous singer who had sold it to jenkins, and it exhibited traces of the imaginative genius peculiar to the operatic stage, in the bridge across the pond, where there was a sunken wherry filled with water-soaked leaves, and in its summer-house, all of rockwork, covered with climbing ivy. it had seen some droll sights, had that summer-house, in the singer's time, and now it saw some sad ones, for the infirmary was located there. to tell the truth, the whole establishment was simply one huge infirmary. the children fell sick as soon as they arrived, languished and finally died unless their parents speedily removed them to the safe shelter of their homes. the curé of nanterre went so often to bethlehem with his black vestments and his silver crucifix, the undertaker had so many orders for coffins for the house, that it was talked about in the neighborhood, and indignant mothers shook their fists at the model nursery, but only at a safe distance if they happened to have in their arms a little pink and white morsel of humanity to shelter from all the contagions of that spot. that was what gave the miserable place such a heart-rending look. a house where children die cannot be cheerful; it is impossible for the trees to bloom there, or the birds to nest, or the water to flow in laughing ripples of foam. the institution seemed to be fairly inaugurated. jenkins' idea, excellent in theory, was extremely difficult, almost impracticable, in practice. and yet god knows that the affair had been carried through with an excess of zeal as to every detail, even the most trifling, and that all the money and attendants necessary were forthcoming. at the head of the establishment was one of the most skilful men in the profession, m. pondevèz, a graduate of the paris hospitals; and associated with him, to take more direct charge of the children, a trustworthy woman, madame polge. then there were maids and seamstresses and nurses. and how perfectly everything was arranged and systematized, from the distribution of the water through fifty faucets, to the omnibus with its driver in the bethlehem livery, going to the station at rueil to meet every train, with a great jingling of bells. and the magnificent goats, goats from thibet, with long silky coats and bursting udders. everything was beyond praise in the organization of the establishment; but there was one point at which everything went to pieces. this artificial nursing, so belauded in the prospectus, did not agree with the children. it was a strange obstinacy, as if they conspired together with a glance, the poor little creatures, for they were too young to speak--most of them were destined never to speak--"if you say so, we won't suck the goats." and they did not, they preferred to die one after another rather than to suck them. was jesus of bethlehem nursed by a goat in his stable? did he not, on the contrary, nestle against a woman's breast, soft and full, on which he fell asleep when his thirst was satisfied? who ever saw a goat among the legendary oxen and asses on that night when the beasts spoke? in that case, why lie, why call it bethlehem? the manager was touched at first by so many deaths. this pondevèz, a waif and estray of the life of the quarter, a twentieth year student well known in all the fruit-shops of boulevard saint-michel under the name of pompon, was not a bad man. when he realized the failure of artificial nursing, he simply hired four or five buxom nurses in the neighborhood, and nothing more was needed to revive the children's appetites. that humane impulse was near costing him his place. "nurses at bethlehem," said jenkins in a rage, when he came to pay his weekly visit. "are you mad? upon my word! why the goats then, and the lawns to feed them, and my idea, and the pamphlets about my idea? what becomes of all these? why, you're going against my system, you're stealing the founder's money." "but, my dear master," the student tried to reply, passing his hands through his long red beard, "but--as they don't like that food--" "very well! let them go hungry, but let the principle of artificial nursing be respected. everything depends on that. i don't wish to have to tell you so again. send away those horrible nurses. for bringing up our children we have goat's milk and cow's milk in a great emergency; but i can't concede anything beyond that." he added, with his apostolic air: "we are here to demonstrate a grand philanthropic idea. it must triumph, even at the cost of some sacrifices. look to it." pondevèz did not insist. after all, it was a good place, near enough to paris to permit descents upon nanterre from the quarter on sunday, or a visit by the manager to his favorite breweries. madame polge--whom jenkins always called "our intelligent overseer," and whom he had in fact placed there to oversee everything, the manager first of all--was not so austere as her duties would lead one to believe, and readily yielded to the charm of a _petit verre_ or two of "right cognac," or to a game of bezique for fifteen hundred points. so he dismissed the nurses and tried to harden himself against whatever might happen. what did happen? a genuine massacre of the innocents. so that the few parents who were possessed of any means at all, mechanics or tradesmen of the faubourgs, who had been tempted by the advertisements to part with their children, speedily took them away, and there remained in the establishment only the wretched little creatures picked up under porches or in the fields, or sent by the hospitals, and doomed from their birth to all manner of ills. as the mortality constantly increased, even that source of supply failed, and the omnibus that had departed at full speed for the railway station returned as light and springy as an empty hearse. how could that state of affairs last? how long would it take to kill off the twenty-five or thirty little ones who were left? that is what the manager, or, as he had christened himself, the register of deaths, pondevèz, was wondering one morning after breakfast, as he sat opposite madame polge's venerable curls, taking a hand at that lady's favorite game. "yes, my dear madame polge, what is to become of us? things cannot go on long like this. jenkins won't give in, the children are as obstinate as mules. there's no gainsaying it, they'll all pass out of our hands. there's that little wallachian--i mark the king, madame polge--who may die any minute. poor little brat, just think, it's three days since anything went into his stomach. i don't care what jenkins says; you can't improve children, like snails, by starving them. it's a distressing thing not to be able to save a single one. the infirmary hasn't unlimited capacity. in all earnestness this is a pitiful business. bezique, forty." two strokes of the bell at the main entrance interrupted his monologue. the omnibus was returning from the station and its wheels ground into the gravel in unaccustomed fashion. "what an astonishing thing!" said pondevèz, "the carriage isn't empty." in truth the vehicle drew up at the steps with a certain pride, and the man who alighted crossed the threshold at a bound. it was an express from jenkins with important news; the doctor would be there in two hours to inspect the asylum, with the nabob and a gentleman from the tuileries. he gave strict injunctions that everything should be ready for their reception. the plan was formed so suddenly that he had not had time to write; but he relied on m. pondevèz to make the necessary arrangements. "deuce take him and his necessary arrangements! muttered pondevèz in dismay. it was a critical situation. that momentous visit came at the worst possible moment, when the system was rapidly going to pieces. poor pompon, in dire perplexity, tugged at his beard and gnawed the ends of it. "come, come," he said abruptly to madame polge, whose long face had grown still longer between her false curls. "there is only one thing for us to do. we must clear out the infirmary, carry all the sick ones into the dormitory. they'll be no better nor worse for spending half a day there. as for the scrofulous ones, we'll just put them out of sight. they're too ugly, we won't show them. come, off we go! all hands on deck!" the dinner-bell rang the alarm and everybody hurried to the spot. seamstresses, nurses, maid-servants, came running from every side, jostling one another in the corridors, hurrying across the yards. orders flew hither and thither, and there was a great calling and shouting; but above all the other noises soared the noise of a grand scrubbing, of rushing water, as if bethlehem had been surprised by a conflagration. and the wailing of sick children torn from their warm beds, all the whimpering little bundles carried through the damp park, with a fluttering of bedclothes among the branches, strengthened the impression of a fire. in two hours, thanks to the prodigious activity displayed, the whole house from top to bottom was ready for the impending visit, all the members of the staff at their posts, the fire lighted in the stove, the goats scattered picturesquely through the park. madame polge had put on her green dress, the manager's attire was a little less slovenly than usual, but so simple as to exclude any idea of premeditation. let the empress's secretary come! and here he is. he alights with jenkins and jansoulet from a magnificent carriage with the nabob's red and gold livery. feigning the utmost astonishment, pondevèz rushes forward to meet his visitors. "ah! monsieur jenkins, what an honor! what a surprise!" salutations are exchanged on the stoop, reverences, handshakings, introductions. jenkins, his coat thrown back from his loyal breast, indulges in his heartiest, most engaging smile; but a meaning furrow lies across his brow. he is anxious concerning the surprises that the establishment may have in store, for he knows its demoralized condition. if only pondevèz has taken proper precautions! it begins well, however. the somewhat theatrical aspect of the approach to the house, the white fleeces gambolling among the shrubbery, have enchanted m. de la perrière, who, with his innocent eyes, his straggling white beard and the constant nodding of his head, is not himself unlike a goat escaped from its tether. "first of all, messieurs, the most important room in the house, the nursery," says the manager, opening a massive door at the end of the reception-room. the gentlemen follow him, descend a few steps and find themselves in an enormous basement room, with tiled floor, formerly the kitchen of the château. the thing that impresses one on entering is a huge, high fireplace of the old pattern, in red brick, with two stone benches facing each other under the mantel, and the singer's crest--an immense lyre with a roll of music--carved on the monumental pediment. the effect was striking; but there came from it a terrible blast of air, which, added to the cold of the floor, to the pale light falling through the windows on a level with the ground, made one shudder for the well-being of the children. what would you have? they were obliged to use that unhealthy apartment for the nursery because of the capricious, country-bred nurses who were accustomed to the unconstrained manners of the stable; one had only to see the pools of milk, the great reddish spots drying on the floor, to inhale the acrid odor that assailed your nostrils as you entered, mingled with whey and moist hair and many other things, to be convinced of that absolute necessity. the dark walls of the room were so high that at first the visitors thought that the nursery was deserted. they distinguished, however, at the farther end, a bleating, whining, restless group. two countrywomen, with surly, brutish, dirty faces, two "dry-nurses," who well deserved their name, were sitting on mats with their nurslings in their arms, each having a large goat before her, with legs apart and distended udders. the manager seemed to be agreeably surprised: "on my word, messieurs, this is a lucky chance. two of our children are having a little lunch. we will see how nurses and nurslings agree." "what's the matter with the man? he is mad," said jenkins to himself, in dire dismay. but the manager was very clear-headed, on the contrary, and had himself shrewdly arranged the scene, selecting two patient, good-natured beasts, and two exceptional subjects, two little idiots who were determined to live at any price, and opened their mouths to nourishment of any sort, like little birds still in the nest. "come, messieurs, and see for yourselves." the cherubs were really nursing. one of them, cuddled under the goat's belly, went at it so heartily that you could hear the _glou-glou_ of the warm milk as it went down, down into his little legs, which quivered with satisfaction. the other, more calm, lay indolently in his auvergnat nurse's lap, and required some little encouragement from her. "come, suck, i tell you, suck, _bougri_!" at last, as if he had formed a sudden resolution, he began to drink so greedily that the woman, surprised by his abnormal appetite, leaned over him and exclaimed, with a laugh; "ah! the scamp, what a mischievous trick! it's his thumb he's sucking instead of the goat." he had thought of that expedient, the angel, to induce them to leave him in peace. the incident produced no ill effect; on the contrary, m. de la perrière was much amused at the nurse's idea that the child had tried to play a trick on them. he left the nursery highly delighted. "positively de-de-delighted," he repeated as they ascended the grand echoing staircase, decorated with stags' antlers, which led to the dormitory. very light and airy was that great room, occupying the whole of one side of the house, with numerous windows, cradles at equal intervals, with curtains as white and fleecy as clouds. women were passing to and fro in the broad passage-way in the centre, with piles of linen in their arms, keys in their hands, overseers or "movers." here they had tried to do too much, and the first impression of the visitors was unfavorable. all that white muslin, that waxed floor, in which the light shone without blending, the clean window-panes reflecting the sky, which wore a gloomy look at sight of such things, brought out more distinctly the thinness, the sickly pallor of those little shroud-colored, moribund creatures. alas! the oldest were but six months, the youngest barely a fortnight, and already, upon all those faces, those embryotic faces, there was an expression of disgust, an oldish, dogged look, a precocity born of suffering, visible in the numberless wrinkles on those little bald heads, confined in linen caps edged with tawdry hospital lace. from what did they suffer? what disease had they? they had everything, everything that one can have; diseases of children and diseases of adults. offspring of poverty and vice, they brought into the world when they were born ghastly phenomena of heredity. one had a cleft palate, another great copper-colored blotches on his forehead, and all were covered with humor. and then they were starving to death. notwithstanding the spoonfuls of milk and sugared water that were forced into their mouths, and the sucking-bottle that was used more or less in spite of the prohibition, they were dying of inanition. those poor creatures, exhausted before they were born, needed the freshest, the most strengthening food; the goats might perhaps have supplied it, but they had sworn not to suck the goats. and that was what made the dormitory lugubrious and silent, without any of the little outbursts of anger emphasized by clenched fists, without any of the shrieks that show the even red gums, whereby the child makes trial of his strength and of his lungs; only an occasional plaintive groan, as if the soul were tossing and turning restlessly in a little diseased body, unable to find a place to rest. jenkins and the manager, noticing the unfavorable impression produced upon their guests by the visit to the dormitory, tried to enliven the situation by talking very loud, with a good-humored, frank, well-satisfied manner. jenkins shook hands warmly with the overseer. "well, madame polge, are our little pupils getting on?" "as you see, monsieur le docteur," she replied, pointing to the beds. very funereal in her green dress was tall madame polge, the ideal of dry nurses; she completed the picture. but where had the empress's secretary gone? he was standing by a cradle, which he was scrutinizing sadly, shaking his head. "_bigre de bigre!_" whispered pompon to madame polge. "it's the wallachian." the little blue card, hanging above the cradle as in hospitals, set forth the nationality of the child within: "moldo-wallachian." what cursed luck that monsieur le secrétaire's eye should happen to light upon him! oh! the poor little head lying on the pillow, with cap all awry, nostrils contracted, lips parted by a short, panting breath, the breath of those who are just born and of those who are about to die. "is he ill?" the secretary softly asked the manager, who had drawn near. "not in the least," replied the audacious pompon, and he walked to the cradle, poked the little one playfully with his finger, rearranged the pillow, and said in a hearty, affectionate voice, albeit a little roughly: "well, old fellow?" roused from his stupor, emerging from the torpor which already enveloped him, the little fellow opened his eyes and looked at the faces bending over him, with sullen indifference, then, returning to his dream which he deemed more attractive, clenched his little wrinkled hands and heaved an inaudible sigh. oh! mystery! who can say for what purpose that child was born? to suffer two months and to go away without seeing or understanding anything, before anyone had heard the sound of his voice! "how pale he is!" muttered m. de la perrière, himself as pale as death. the nabob, too, was as white as a sheet. a cold breath had passed over them. the manager assumed an indifferent air. "it's the reflection. we all look green." "to be sure--to be sure," said jenkins, "it's the reflection of the pond. just come and look, monsieur le secrétaire." and he led him to the window to point out the great sheet of water in which the willows dipped their branches, while madame polge hastily closed the curtains of his cradle upon the little wallachian's never-ending dream. they must proceed quickly to inspect other portions of the establishment in order to do away with that unfortunate impression. first they show m. de la perrière the magnificent laundry, with presses, drying machines, thermometers, huge closets of polished walnut full of caps and nightgowns, tied together and labelled by dozens. when the linen was well warmed the laundress passed it out through a little wicket in exchange for the number passed in by the nurse. as you see, the system was perfect, and everything, even to the strong smell of lye, combined to give the room a healthy, country-like aspect. there were garments enough there to clothe five hundred children. that was the capacity of bethlehem, and everything was provided on that basis: the vast dispensary, gleaming with glass jars and latin inscriptions, with marble pestles in every corner; the hydropathic arrangements with the great stone tanks, the shining tubs, the immense apparatus traversed by pipes of all lengths for the ascending and descending _douches_, in showers, in jets, and in whip-like streams; and the kitchens fitted out with superb graduated copper kettles, with economical coal and gas ovens. jenkins had determined to make it a model establishment; and it was an easy matter for him, for he had worked on a grand scale, as one works when funds are abundant. one could feel everywhere, too, the experience and the iron hand of "our intelligent overseer," to whom the manager could not forbear to do public homage. that was the signal for general congratulations. m. de la perrière, delighted with the equipment of the establishment, congratulated dr. jenkins upon his noble creation, jenkins congratulated his friend pondevèz, who in his turn thanked the secretary for having condescended to honor bethlehem with a visit. the good nabob chimed in with that concert of laudation and had a pleasant word for every one, but was somewhat astonished all the same that no one congratulated him too, while they were about it. to be sure, the best of all congratulations awaited him on the th of march at the head of the _journal officiel_, in a decree which gleamed before his eyes in anticipation and made him squint in the direction of his buttonhole. these pleasant words were exchanged as they walked through a long corridor where their sententious phrases were repeated by the echoes; but suddenly a horrible uproar arrested their conversation and their footsteps. it was like the miaouwing of frantic cats, the bellowing of wild bulls, the howling of savages dancing the war-dance--a frightful tempest of human yells, repeated and increased in volume and prolonged by the high, resonant arches. it rose and fell, stopped suddenly, then began again with extraordinary intensity. the manager was disturbed, and started to make inquiries. jenkins' eyes were inflamed with rage. "let us go on," said the manager, really alarmed this time; "i know what it is." he did know what it was; but m. de la perrière proposed to know, too, and before pondevèz could raise his hand, he pushed open the heavy door of the room whence that fearful concert proceeded. in a vile kennel which the grand scouring had passed by, for they had no idea of exhibiting it, some half score little monstrosities lay stretched on mattresses laid side by side on the floor, under the guardianship of a chair unoccupied save by an unfinished piece of knitting, and a little cracked kettle, full of hot wine, boiling over a smoking wood fire. they were the leprous, the scrofulous, the outcasts of bethlehem, who had been hidden away in that retired corner--with injunctions to their dry nurse to amuse them, to pacify them, to sit on them if necessary, so that they should not cry--but whom that stupid, inquisitive countrywoman had left to themselves while she went to look at the fine carriage standing in the courtyard. when her back was turned the urchins soon wearied of their horizontal position; and all the little, red-faced, blotched _croûte-levés_ lifted up their robust voices in concert, for they, by some miracle, were in good health, their very disease saved and nourished them. as wild and squirming as cockchafers thrown on their backs, struggling to rise with the aid of knees and elbows,--some unable to recover their equilibrium after falling on their sides, others sitting erect, bewildered, their little legs wrapped in swaddling-clothes, they spontaneously ceased their writhings and their cries when they saw the door open; but m. de la perrière's shaking beard reassured them, encouraged them to fresh efforts, and in the renewed uproar the manager's explanation was almost inaudible: "children that are kept secluded--contagion--skin diseases." monsieur le secrétaire inquired no farther; less heroic than bonaparte when he visited the plague-stricken wretches at jaffa, he rushed to the door, and in his confusion and alarm, anxious to say something and unable to think of anything appropriate, he murmured, with an ineffable smile: "they are cha-arming." the inspection concluded, they all assembled in the salon on the ground floor, where madame polge had prepared a little collation. the cellars of bethlehem were well stocked. the sharp air of the high land, the going upstairs and downstairs had given the old gentleman from the tuileries such an appetite as he had not had for many a day, so that he talked and laughed with true rustic good-fellowship, and when they were all standing, the visitors being about to depart, he raised his glass, shaking his head the while, to drink this toast: "to be-be-bethlehem!" the others were much affected, there was a clinking of glasses, and then the carriage bore the party swiftly along the avenue of lindens, where a cold, red, rayless sun was setting. behind them the park relapsed into its gloomy silence. great dark shadows gathered at the foot of the hedges, invaded the house, crept stealthily along the paths and across their intersections. soon everything was in darkness save the ironical letters over the entrance gate, and, at a window on the ground-floor, a flickering red glimmer, the flame of a taper burning by the pillow of the dead child. "_by decree of march , , promulgated at the recommendation of the minister of the interior, monsieur le docteur jenkins, founder and president of the work of bethlehem, is appointed chevalier of the imperial order of the legion of honor. exemplary devotion to the cause of humanity._" when he read these lines on the first page of the _journal officiel_, on the morning of the th, the poor nabob had an attack of vertigo. was it possible? jenkins decorated and not he! he read the announcement twice, thinking that his eyes must have deceived him. there was a buzzing in his ears. the letters, two of each, danced before his eyes with the red circles caused by looking at the sun. he had been so certain of seeing his name in that place; and jenkins--only the day before--had said to him so confidently: "it is all settled!" that it still seemed to him that he must be mistaken. but no, it was really jenkins. it was a deep, heart-sickening, prophetic blow, like a first warning from destiny, and was the more keenly felt because, for years past, the man had been unaccustomed to disappointments, had lived above humanity. all the good that there was in him learned at that moment to be distrustful. "well," he said to de géry, entering his room, as he did every morning, and surprising him with the paper in his hand and evidently deeply moved, "i suppose you have seen,--my name is not in the _officiel_?" he tried to smile, his features distorted like those of a child struggling to restrain his tears. then, suddenly, with the frankness that was so attractive in him, he added: "this makes me feel very badly,--i expected too much." as he spoke, the door opened and jenkins rushed into the room, breathless, panting, intensely agitated. "it's an outrage--a horrible outrage. it cannot, shall not be." the words rushed tumultuously to his lips, all trying to come out at once; then he seemed to abandon the attempt to express his thoughts and threw upon the table a little shagreen box and a large envelope, both bearing the stamp of the chancellor's office. "there are my cross and my letters patent," he said. "they are yours, my friend, i cannot keep them." in reality that did not mean much. jansoulet arraying himself in jenkins' ribbon would speedily be punished for unlawfully wearing a decoration. but a _coup de théâtre_ is not necessarily logical; this particular one led to an effusion of sentiment, embraces, a generous combat between the two men, the result being that jenkins restored the objects to his pocket, talking about protests, letters to the newspapers. the nabob was obliged to stop him again. "do nothing of the kind, you rascal. in the first place, it would stand in my way another time. who knows? perhaps on the th of next august--" "oh! i never thought of that," cried jenkins, jumping at the idea. he put forth his arm, as in david's _serment_: "i swear it by my sacred honor!" the subject dropped there. at breakfast the nabob did not refer to it and was as cheerful as usual. his good humor lasted through the day; and de géry, to whom that scene had been a revelation of the real jenkins, an explanation of the satirical remarks and restrained wrath of felicia ruys when she spoke of the doctor, asked himself to no purpose how he could open his dear master's eyes concerning that scheming hypocrite. he should have known, however, that the men of the south, all effusiveness on the surface, are never so utterly blind, so deluded as to resist the wise results of reflection. that evening the nabob opened a shabby little portfolio, badly worn at the corners, in which for ten years past he had manoeuvred his millions, minuting his profits and his expenses in hieroglyphics comprehensible to himself alone. he calculated for a moment, then turned to de géry. "do you know what i am doing, my dear paul?" he asked. "no, monsieur." "i have just been reckoning"--and his mocking glance, eloquent of his southern origin, belied his good-humored smile--"i have just been reckoning that i have spent four hundred and thirty thousand francs to obtain that decoration for jenkins." four hundred and thirty thousand francs! and the end was not yet. ix. grandmamma. three times a week, in the evening, paul de géry appeared to take his lesson in bookkeeping in the joyeuse dining-room, not far from the small salon where the little family had burst upon him at his first visit; so that, while he was being initiated into all the mysteries of "debit and credit," with his eyes fixed on his white-cravated instructor, he listened in spite of himself to the faint sounds of the toilsome evening on the other side of the door, longing for the vision of all those pretty heads bending over around the lamp. m. joyeuse never mentioned his daughters. as jealous of their charms as a dragon standing guard over lovely princesses in a tower, aroused to vigilance by the fanciful imaginings of his doting affection, he replied dryly enough to his pupil's questions concerning "the young ladies," so that the young man ceased to mention them to him. he was surprised, however, that he never happened to see this "grandmamma" whose name recurred constantly in m. joyeuse's conversation upon every subject, in the most trivial details of his existence, hovering over the house like the symbol of its perfect orderliness and tranquillity. such extreme reserve, on the part of a venerable lady, who in all probability had passed the age at which the adventurous spirit of a young man is to be feared, seemed to him exaggerated. but the lessons were very practical, given in very clear language, and the professor had an excellent method of demonstration, marred by a single fault, a habit of relapsing into fits of silence, broken by starts and interjections that went off like bombs. outside of that he was the best of masters, intelligent, patient and faithful. paul learned to find his way through the complicated labyrinth of books of account and resigned himself to the necessity of asking nothing further. one evening, about nine o'clock, as the young man rose to go, m. joyeuse asked him if he would do him the honor to take a cup of tea _en famille_, a custom of the time of madame joyeuse, born saint-amand, who used to receive her friends on thursdays. since her death, and the change in their financial position, their friends had scattered; but they had retained that little "weekly extra." paul having accepted, the good man opened the door and called: "grandmamma." a light step in the hall and a face of twenty years, surrounded by a nimbus of abundant, fluffy brown hair, abruptly made its appearance. de géry looked at m. joyeuse with an air of stupefaction: "grandmamma?" "yes, it's a name we gave her when she was a little girl. with her frilled cap, and her authoritative older-sister expression, she had a funny little face, so wise-looking. we thought that she looked like her grandmother. the name has clung to her." from the worthy man's tone, it was evident that to him it was the most natural thing in the world, that grandmotherly title bestowed upon such attractive youth. every one in the household thought as he did, and the other joyeuse girls, who ran to their father and grouped themselves about him somewhat as in the show-case on the ground-floor, and the old servant, who brought and placed upon the table in the salon, whither they had adjourned, a magnificent tea-service, a relic of the former splendor of the establishment, all called the girl "grandmamma," nor did she once seem to be annoyed by it, for the influence of that blessed name imparted to the affection of them all a touch of deference that flattered her and gave to her imaginary authority a singular attractiveness, as of a protecting hand. it may have been because of that title, which he had learned to cherish in his infancy, but de géry found an indescribable fascination in the girl. it did not resemble the sudden blow he had received from another, full in the heart, the perturbation mingled with a longing to fly, to escape an obsession, and the persistent melancholy peculiar to the day after a fête, extinguished candles, refrains that have died away, perfumes vanished in the darkness. no, in the presence of that young girl, as she stood looking over the family table, making sure that nothing was lacking, letting her loving, sparkling eyes rest upon her children, her little children, he was assailed by a temptation to know her, to be to her as an old friend, to confide to her things that he confessed to none but himself; and when she offered him his cup, with no worldly airs, no society affectations, he would have liked to say like the others a "thanks, grandmamma," in which he might put his whole heart. suddenly a cheery, vigorous knock made everybody jump. "ah! there's monsieur andré. quick, Élise, a cup. yaia, the little cakes." meanwhile, mademoiselle henriette, the third of the joyeuse girls,--who had inherited from her mother, born saint-amand, a certain worldly side,--in view of the crowded condition of the salons that evening, rushed to light the two candles on the piano. "my fifth act is done," cried the newcomer, as he entered the room; then he stopped short. "ah! excuse me," and his face took on a discomfited expression at sight of the stranger. m. joyeuse introduced them to each other: "monsieur paul de géry--monsieur andré maranne,"--not without a certain solemnity of manner. he remembered his wife's receptions long ago; and the vases on the mantel, the two great lamps, the work-table, the armchairs arranged in a circle, seemed to share the illusion, to shine brighter as if rejuvenated by that unusual throng. "so your play is finished?" "finished, monsieur joyeuse, and i mean to read it to you one of these days." "oh! yes, monsieur andré. oh! yes," said all the girls in chorus. their neighbor wrote for the stage and no one of them entertained a doubt of his success. photography held out less promise of profit, you know. customers were very rare, the passers-by disinclined to patronize him. to keep his hand in and get his new apparatus into working order, monsieur andré was taking his friends again every sunday, the family lending themselves for his experiments with unequalled good-humor, for the prosperity of that inchoate, suburban industry was a matter of pride to them all, arousing, even in the girls, that touching sentiment of fraternity which presses the humblest destinies together as closely as sparrows on the edge of a roof. but andré maranne, with the inexhaustible resources of his high forehead, stored with illusions, explained without bitterness the indifference of the public. either the weather was unfavorable or else every one complained of the wretched condition of business, and he ended always with the same consoling refrain: "wait until _révolte_ has been acted!" _révolte_ was the title of his play. "it's a surprising thing," said the fourth of the joyeuse girls, a child of twelve with her hair in a pigtail, "it's a surprising thing that you do so little business with such a splendid balcony!" "and then there's a great deal of passing through the quarter," added Élise confidently. grandmamma smilingly reminded her that there was even more on boulevard des italiens. "ah! if it were boulevard des italiens--" said m. joyeuse dreamily, and away he went on his chimera, which was suddenly brought to a stand-still by a gesture and these words, uttered in a piteous tone: "closed because of failure." in an instant the terrible _imaginaire_ had installed his friend in a splendid apartment on the boulevard, where he earned an enormous amount of money, increasing his expenses at the same time so disproportionately, that a loud "_pouf_" swallowed up photographer and photography in a few months. they laughed heartily when he gave that explanation; but they all agreed that rue saint-ferdinand, although less showy, was much more reliable than boulevard des italiens. moreover, it was very near the bois de boulogne, and if the fashionable world should once begin to pass that way--that fashionable society which her mother so affected was mademoiselle henriette's fixed idea; and she was amazed that the thought of receiving _high-life_ in his little fifth-floor studio, about as large as a diving-bell, should make their neighbor laugh. why, only a week or two before, a carriage came there with servants in livery. sometimes, too, he had had a "very swell" visitor. "oh! a real great lady," grandmamma chimed in. "we were at the window waiting for father. we saw her leave the carriage and look at the frame; we thought surely she came to see you." "she did come to see me," said andré, a little embarrassed. "for a moment we were afraid she would go on as so many others do, on account of your five flights. so we all four did our best to stop her, to magnetize her with our four pairs of wide-open eyes. we pulled her very gently by the feathers in her hat and the lace on her cape. 'come upstairs, pray, madame, pray come upstairs,' and finally she came. there is so much magnetism in eyes that want a thing very much!" surely she had magnetism enough, the dear creature, not only in her eyes, which were of uncertain hue, veiled or laughing like the sky of her paris, but in her voice, in the folds of her dress, in everything, even to the long curl that shaded her straight, graceful statue-like neck and attracted you by its tapering shaded point, deftly curled over a supple finger. the tea being duly served, while the gentlemen continued their talking and drinking--père joyeuse was always very slow in everything that he did, because of his abrupt excursions into the moon--the girls resumed their work, the table was covered with wicker baskets, embroidery, pretty wools whose brilliant coloring brightened the faded flowers in the old carpet, and the group of the other evening was formed anew in the luminous circle of the lamp shade, to the great satisfaction of paul de géry. it was the first evening of that sort he had passed in paris; it reminded him of other far-away evenings, cradled by the same innocent mirth, the pleasant sound of scissors laid upon the table, of the needle piercing the cotton, or the rustling of the leaves of a book as they are turned, and dear faces, vanished forever, clustered in the same way around the family lamp, alas! so suddenly extinguished. once admitted into that charming domestic circle, he was not excluded from it again, but took his lessons among the girls, and made bold to talk with them when the good man closed his ledger. there everything tended to give him grateful repose from the seething life in which the nabob's luxurious worldliness involved him; he bathed in that atmosphere of honesty and simplicity, and strove to cure there the wounds with which a hand more indifferent than cruel was mercilessly riddling his heart. * * * "women have hated me, other women have loved me. she who did me the most harm never had either love or hate for me." paul had fallen in, with the woman of whom heinrich heine speaks. felicia was very hospitable and cordial to him. there was no one whom she welcomed more graciously. she reserved for him a special smile, in which there was the pleased expression of an artist's eye resting upon a type which attracts it, and the satisfaction of a _blasé_ mind which is amused by anything new, however simple it may seem to be. she liked that reserve, most alluring in a southerner, the straightforwardness of that judgment, entirely free from artistic or worldly formulas and enlivened by a touch of local accent. it was a change for her from the zigzag movement of the thumb, drawing flattery in outline with the gestures of a studio fag, from the congratulations of comrades on the way in which she silenced some poor fellow, and from the affected admiration, the "chawming--veay pretty," with which the young dandies honored her as they sucked the handles of their canes. he, at all events, said nothing of that sort to her. she had nicknamed him minerva, because of his apparent tranquillity and the regularity of his profile; and as soon as he appeared, she would say: "ah! there's minerva. hail, lovely minerva. take off your helmet and let us have a talk." but that familiar, almost fraternal, tone convinced the young man of the hopelessness of his love. he realized that he could not hope to make any further progress in that feminine good-fellowship in which affection was lacking, and that he should lose something every day of his charm as an unfamiliar type in the eyes of that creature who was born bored, and who seemed to have lived her life already and to find the insipidity of repetition in everything that she heard or saw. felicia was suffering from ennui. only her art had the power to divert her, to take her out of herself, to transport her to a fairyland of dazzling beauty from which she returned all bruised and sore, always surprised at the awakening, which resembled a fall. she compared herself to the jelly-fish, whose transparent brilliancy in the coolness and constant movement of the waves, vanishes on the shore in little gelatinous pools. during those intervals of idleness, when the absence of thought leaves the hand inert upon the modelling tool, felicia, deprived of the sole moral nerve of her intellect, became savage, unapproachable, sullen beyond endurance,--the revenge of paltry human qualities upon great tired brains. after she had brought tears to the eyes of all those whom she loved, had striven to evoke painful memories or paralyzing anxieties, and had reached the brutal, murderous climax of her fatigue,--as it was always necessary, where she was concerned, that something ridiculous should be mingled even with the saddest things, she would blow away the remains of her ennui with a cry like that of a dazed wild beast, a sort of yawning roar which she called "the cry of the jackal in the desert," and which would drive the blood from the excellent crenmitz's cheeks, taking her by surprise in her torpid placidity. poor felicia! her life was in very truth a ghastly desert when her art did not enliven it with its visions, a dismal, unrelieved desert, where everything was crushed and flattened beneath the same monotonous immensity, the ingenuous love of a boy of twenty and the caprice of an amorous duke, where everything was covered with dry sand blown about by the scorching winds of destiny. paul was conscious of that void, he tried to escape from it; but something detained him, like a weight which unwinds a chain, and, notwithstanding the evil things he heard, notwithstanding the strange creature's peculiarities, he hovered about her with a delicious sense of enjoyment, under pain of carrying naught away from that long amorous contemplation save the despair of a believer reduced to the adoration of images. the place of refuge was in yonder out-of-the-way quarter, where the wind blew so hard without preventing the flame from burning white and straight,--it was in the domestic circle presided over by grandmamma. oh! she did not suffer from ennui, she never uttered "the cry of the jackal in the desert." her life was too well filled: the father to comfort and encourage, the children to teach, all the material cares of a household in which the mother was lacking, the engrossing thoughts which wake with the dawn and which the night puts to sleep, unless it renews them in dreams--one of those instances of indefatigable but apparently effortless devotion, very convenient for poor human selfishness, because it dispenses with all gratitude and hardly makes itself felt, its touch is so light. she was not one of the courageous girls who work to support their parents, give lessons from morning to night and forget the annoyances of the household in the excitement of an engrossing occupation. no, she had formed a different conception of her duty, she was a sedentary bee confining her labors to the hive, with no buzzing around outside in the fresh air and among the flowers. a thousand and one functions to perform: tailor, milliner, mender, keeper of accounts as well,--for m. joyeuse, being incapable of any sort of responsibility, left the disposition of the family funds absolutely in her hands,--teacher and music mistress. as is often the case in families which were originally in comfortable circumstances, aline, being the eldest, had been educated in one of the best boarding-schools in paris, Élise had remained there two years with her; but the two younger ones, having come too late, had been sent to little day-schools in the quarter and had all their studies to complete; and it was no easy matter, for the youngest laughed on every pretext, an exuberant, healthy, youthful laugh, like the warbling of a lark drunken on green wheat, and flew away out of sight of desk and symbols, while mademoiselle henriette, always haunted by her ideas of grandeur, her love of "the substantial," was none too eager for study. that young person of fifteen, to whom her father had bequeathed something of his imaginative faculty, was already arranging her life in anticipation, and declared formally that she should marry some one of birth and should never have more than three children: "a boy for the name, and two little girls--so that i can dress them alike." "yes, that's right," grandmamma would say, "you shall dress them alike. meanwhile, let us see about our participles." but the most troublesome of all was Élise with her thrice unsuccessful examination in history, always rejected and preparing herself anew, subject to attacks of profound terror and self-distrust which led her to carry that unfortunate handbook of french history with her wherever she went, and to open it at every instant, in the omnibus, in the street, even at the breakfast table; but, being already a young woman and very pretty, she no longer had the mechanical memory of childhood in which dates and events are incrusted forever. amid her other preoccupations the lesson would fly away in a moment, despite the pupil's apparent application, her long lashes concealing her eyes, her curls sweeping the page, and her rosy mouth twitching slightly at the corners as she repeated again and again: "louis le hutin, - . philippe v, le long, - -- .--oh! grandmamma, i am lost. i shall never learn them." thereupon grandmamma would take a hand, help her to fix her attention, to store away some of those barbarous dates in the middle ages, as sharp-pointed as the helmets of the warriors of those days. and in the intervals of those manifold tasks, of that general and constant superintendence, she found time to make pretty things, to take from her work-basket some piece of knitting or embroidery, which clung to her as steadfastly as young Élise to her history of france. even when she was talking, her fingers were never unemployed for one moment. "do you never rest?" de géry asked her while she counted in a whisper the stitches of her embroidery, "three, four, five," in order to vary the shades. "why, this work is rest," she replied. "you men have no idea how useful needlework is to a woman's mind. it regularizes the thought, fixes with a stitch the passing moment and what it carries with it. and think of the sorrows that are soothed, the anxieties forgotten by the help of this purely physical attention, this constant repetition of the same movement, in which you find--and find very quickly, whether you will or no--that your equilibrium is entirely restored. it does not prevent me from hearing all that is said in my neighborhood, from listening to you even more attentively than i should if i were idle--three, four, five." oh! yes, she listened. that was plain from the animation of her face, from the way in which she would suddenly straighten herself up, with her needle in the air and the thread stretched over her raised little finger. then she would suddenly resume her work, sometimes interjecting a shrewd, thoughtful word, which as a general rule agreed with what friend paul thought. a similarity in their natures and in their responsibilities and duties brought those two young people together, made them mutually interested each in those things that the other had most at heart. she knew the names of his two brothers, pierre and louis, and his plans for their future when they should leave school. pierre wanted to be a sailor. "oh! no, not a sailor," said grandmamma, "it would be much better for him to come to paris with you." and when he admitted that he was afraid of paris for them, she laughed at his fears, called him a provincial, for she was full of affection for the city where she was born, where she had grown chastely to womanhood, and which gave her in return the vivacity, the natural refinement, the sprightly good-humor which make one think that paris, with its rains, its fogs, its sky which is no sky, is the true fatherland of woman, whose nerves it spares and whose patient and intelligent qualities it develops. each day paul de géry appreciated mademoiselle aline more thoroughly--he was the only one in the house who called her by that name--and, strangely enough, it was felicia who finally cemented their intimacy. what connection could there be between that artist's daughter, fairly launched in the most exalted spheres, and that bourgeois maiden lost to sight in the depths of a suburb? connections of childhood and friendship, common memories, the great courtyard of the belin establishment, where they had played together for three years. such meetings are very common in paris. a name mentioned at random in conversation suddenly calls forth the amazed question: "what! do you know her?" "do i know felicia? why we sat at adjoining desks in the first class. we had the same garden. such a dear, lovely, clever girl!" and, noticing how pleased he was to listen to her, aline recalled the days, still so near, which already formed part of the past to her, fascinating and melancholy like all pasts. she was quite alone in life, was little felicia. on thursday, when they called out the names in the parlor, there was never any one for her; except now and then an old woman, a nice old woman, if she was a little ridiculous, a former ballet-dancer it was said, whom felicia called the fairy. she had pet names like that for everybody of whom she was fond, and she transformed them all in her imagination. they used to see each other during the vacations. madame joyeuse, although she refused to send aline to m. ruys's studio, invited felicia for whole days,--very short days, made up of work and music, of joint dreams and unrestrained youthful chatter. "oh! when she talked to me about her art, with the ardor which she put into everything, how delighted i was to hear her! how many things she enabled me to understand of which i never should have had the slightest idea! even now, when we go to the louvre with papa, or to the exhibition of the first of may, the peculiar emotion that one feels at the sight of a beautiful bit of sculpture or a fine painting, makes me think instantly of felicia. in my young days she represented art, and it went well with her beauty, her somewhat reckless but so kindly nature, in which i was conscious of something superior to myself, which carried me away to a great height without frightening me. suddenly we ceased to see each other. i wrote to her--no reply. then fame came to her, great sorrow and engrossing duties to me. and of all that friendship, and very deep-rooted it must have been, for i cannot speak of it without--three, four, five--nothing is left but old memories to be poked over like dead ashes." leaning over her work, the brave girl hastily counted her stitches, concealing her grief in the fanciful designs of her embroidery, while de géry, deeply moved to hear the testimony of those pure lips in contradiction of the calumnies of a few disappointed dandies or jealous rivals, felt relieved of a weight and once more proud of his love. the sensation was so sweet to him that he came very often to seek to renew it, not only on lesson evenings, but on other evenings as well, and almost forgot to go and see felicia for the pleasure of hearing aline speak of her. one evening, when he left the joyeuse apartment, he found waiting for him on the landing m. andré, the neighbor, who took his arm feverishly. "monsieur de géry," he said, in a trembling voice, his eyes flashing fire behind their spectacles, the only part of his face one could see at night, "i have an explanation to demand at your hands. will you come up to my room a moment?" between that young man and himself there had been only the usual relations of two frequent visitors at the same house, who are attached by no bond, who seem indeed to be separated by a certain antipathy between their natures and their modes of life. what could there be for them to explain? sorely puzzled, he followed andré. the sight of the little studio, cold and cheerless under its glass ceiling, the empty fireplace, the wind blowing as it blows outside, and making the candle flicker, the only light that shone upon that vigil of a penniless recluse, reflected upon scattered sheets all covered with writing,--in a word, that atmosphere of inhabited cells wherein the very soul of the inhabitants exhales,--enabled de géry to comprehend at once the impassioned andré maranne, his long hair thrown back and flying in the wind, his somewhat eccentric appearance, very excusable when one pays for it with a life of suffering and privations; and his sympathy instantly went out to the courageous youth, whose militant pride he fully divined at a single glance. but the other was too excited to notice this transition. as soon as the door was closed, he said, with the accent of a stage hero addressing the perjured seducer: "monsieur de géry, i am not a cassandra yet." and, as he observed his interlocutor's unbounded amazement, he added: "yes, yes, we understand each other. i see perfectly clearly what attracts you to m. joyeuse's, nor has the warm welcome you receive there escaped me. you are rich, you are of noble birth, no one can hesitate between you and the poor poet who carries on an absurd trade in order to gain time to attain success, which will never come perhaps. but i won't allow my happiness to be stolen from me. we will fight, monsieur, we will fight," he repeated, excited by his rival's unruffled tranquillity. "i have loved mademoiselle joyeuse a long while. that love is the aim, the joy, and the strength of a very hard life, painful in many respects. i have nothing but that in the world, and i should prefer to die rather than to renounce it." what a strange combination is the human heart! paul was not in love with the charming aline. his whole heart belonged to another. he thought of her simply as a friend, the most adorable of friends. and yet the idea that maranne was thinking of her, that she undoubtedly responded to his lover-like attentions, caused him a thrill of jealous anger, and his tone was very sharp when he asked if mademoiselle joyeuse were aware of this feeling of andré's and had in any way authorized him to proclaim his rights. "yes, monsieur, mademoiselle Élise knows that i love her, and before your frequent visits--" "Élise--is it Élise you're talking about?" "why, who should it be, pray? the other two are too young." he entered thoroughly into the traditions of the family. in his eyes grandmamma's twenty years, her triumphant charm, were concealed by a respectful _sobriquet_ and by her providential qualities. a very brief explanation having allayed andré maranne's excitement, he offered his apologies to de géry, invited him to take a seat in the carved wooden armchair in which his customers posed, and their conversation speedily assumed an intimate and confidential character, attributable to the earnest avowal with which it began. paul confessed that he too was in love, and that his only purpose in coming so often to m. joyeuse's was to talk about his beloved with grandmamma, who had known her long before. "it's the same with me," said andré. "grandmamma knows all my secrets; but we have not dared say anything to her father yet. my position is too uncertain. ah! when _révolte_ has been brought out!" thereupon they talked about _révolte_! the famous drama on which he had been at work day and night for six months, which had kept him warm all through the winter, a very hard winter, whose rigor was tempered, however, by the magic power of composition in the little garret, which it completely transformed. there, in that confined space, all the heroes of his play had appeared to the poet, like familiar sprites falling through the roof or riding on the moonbeams, and with them the high-warp tapestries, the gleaming chandeliers, the vast parks with gateways flooded with light, all the usual magnificence of stage-setting, as well as the glorious uproar of the first performance, the applause being represented by the rain beating on the windows and the signs flapping against the door, while the wind, whistling through the melancholy lumber-yard below with a vague murmur of voices brought from afar and carried far, resembled the murmur from the boxes opening into the lobby, allowing his triumph to circulate amid the chattering and confusion of the audience. it was not simply the renown and the money that that blessed play were to bring to him, but something far more precious. how carefully, therefore, did he turn the pages of the manuscript contained in five great books in blue covers, such books as the levantine spread out upon the divan on which she took her siestas, and marked with her managerial pencil. paul having drawn near the table in his turn, in order to examine the masterpiece, his eyes were attracted by a portrait of a woman in a handsome frame, which seemed, being so near the artist's work, to have been stationed there to stand guard over it. Élise, of course? oh! no, andré had no right as yet to take his young friend's photograph away from its protecting environment. it was a woman of about forty, fair, with a sweet expression, and dressed in the height of fashion. when he saw the face, de géry could not restrain an exclamation. "do you know her?" said andré maranne. "why, yes--madame jenkins, the irish doctor's wife. i took supper with them last winter." "she is my mother." and the young man added in a lower tone: "madame maranne married dr. jenkins for her second husband. you are surprised, are you not, to find me in such destitution when my parents are living in luxury? but, as you know, chance sometimes brings very antipathetic natures together in the same family. my father-in-law and i could not agree. he wanted to make a doctor of me, whereas i had no taste for anything but writing. at last, in order to avoid the constant disputes, which were a source of pain to my mother, i preferred to leave the house and dig my furrow all alone, without assistance from any one. it was a hard task! money was lacking. all the property is in the hands of that--of m. jenkins. it was a question of earning my living, and you know what a difficult matter that is for persons like ourselves, well brought up as it is termed. to think that, with all the knowledge included in what it is fashionable to call a thorough education, i could find nothing but this child's play which gave me any hope of being able to earn my bread! some little savings from my allowance as a young man sufficed to buy my first outfit, and i opened a studio far away, at the very end of paris, in order not to annoy my parents. between ourselves, i fancy that i shall never make my fortune in photography. the first weeks especially were very hard. no one came, or if by any chance some poor devil did toil up the stairs, i missed him, i spread him out on my plate in a faint, blurred mixture like a ghost. one day, very early in my experience, there came a wedding party, the bride all in white, the husband with a waistcoat--oh! such a waistcoat! and all the guests in white gloves which they insisted upon having included in the photograph, because of the rarity of the sensation. really, i thought i should go mad. those black faces, the great white daubs for the dress, the gloves and the orange flowers, the unfortunate bride in the guise of a zulu queen, under her wreath which melted into her hair! and all so overflowing with good-nature, with encouragement for the artist. i tried them at least twenty times, kept them until five o'clock at night. they left me only when it was dark, to go and dine! fancy that wedding-day passed in a photograph gallery!" while andré thus jocosely narrated the melancholy incidents of his life, paul recalled felicia's outburst on the subject of bohemians, and all that she said to jenkins concerning their exalted courage, their thirst for privations and trials. he thought also of aline's passionate fondness for her dear paris, of which he knew nothing but the unhealthy eccentricities, whereas the great city concealed so much unknown heroism, so many noble illusions in its folds. the sensation he had previously felt in the circle of the joyeuses' great lamp, he was even more keenly conscious of in that less warm, less peaceful spot, whither art brought its desperate or glorious uncertainty; and it was with a melting heart that he listened while andré maranne talked to him of Élise, of the examination she was so long in passing, of the difficult trade of photography, of all the unforeseen hardships of his life, which would surely come to an end "when _révolte_ should have been brought out," a fascinating smile playing about the poet's lips as they gave utterance to that hope, so often expressed, which he made haste to ridicule himself, as if to deprive others of the right to ridicule it. x. memoirs of a clerk.--the servants. really the wheel of fortune in paris revolves in a way to make one's head swim! to have seen the _caisse territoriale_ as i have seen it, fireless rooms, never swept, covered with the dust of the desert, notices of protest piled high on the desks, a notice of sale on execution at the door every week, and my ragout diffusing the odor of a poor man's kitchen over it all; and to witness now the rehabilitation of our society in its newly-furnished salons, where it is my duty to light ministerial fires, in the midst of a busy throng, with whistles, electric bells, piles of gold pieces so high that they topple over--it borders on the miraculous. to convince myself that it is all true, i have to look at myself in the glass, to gaze at my iron-gray coat trimmed with silver, my white cravat, my usher's chain such as i used to wear at the faculty on council days. and to think that, to effect this transformation, to bring back to our brows the gayety that is the mother of concord, to restore to our paper its value ten times over and to our dear governor the esteem and confidence of which he was so unjustly deprived, it only needed one man, that supernatural croesus whom the hundred voices of fame designate by the name of the nabob. oh! the first time that he came into the offices, with his fine presence, his face, a little wrinkled perhaps but so distinguished, the manners of an habitué of courts, on familiar terms with all the princes of the orient, in a word with the indescribable touch of self-confidence and grandeur that great fortune gives, i felt my heart swell in my waistcoat with its double row of buttons. they may say all they choose about their equality and fraternity, there are some men who are so much above others, that you feel like falling on your face before them and inventing new formulæ of adoration to compel them to pay some attention to you. let me hasten to add that i had no need of anything of the sort to attract the attention of the nabob. when i rose as he passed--deeply moved but dignified: you can always trust passajon--he looked at me with a smile and said in an undertone to the young man who accompanied him: "what a fine head, like--" then a word that i did not hear, a word ending in _ard_, like leopard. but no, it could not be that, for i am not conscious of having a head like a leopard. perhaps he said like jean-bart, although i do not see the connection. however, he said: "what a fine head, like--" and his condescension made me proud. by the way, all the gentlemen are very kind, very polite to me. it seems that there has been a discussion in regard to me, whether they should keep me or send me away like our cashier, that crabbed creature who was always talking about sending everybody to the galleys, and whom they requested to go and make his economical shirt-fronts somewhere else. well done! that will teach him to use vulgar language to people. when it came to me, the governor was kind enough to forget my rather hasty words in consideration of my certificates of service at the _territoriale_ and elsewhere; and after the council meeting he said to me with his musical accent: "passajon, you are to stay on with us." you can imagine whether i was happy, whether i lost myself in expressions of gratitude. just consider! i should have gone away with my few sous, with no hope of ever earning any more, obliged to go and cultivate my little vineyard at montbars, a very narrow field for a man who has lived among all the financial aristocracy of paris and the bold strokes of financiering that make fortunes. instead of that, here i am established all anew in a superb position, my wardrobe replenished, and my savings, which i actually held in my hand for a whole day, intrusted to the fostering care of the governor, who has undertaken to make them yield a handsome return. i rather think that he is the man who knows how to do it. and not the slightest occasion for anxiety. all apprehensions vanish before the word that is all the fashion at this moment in all administrative councils, at all meetings of the shareholders, on the bourse, on the boulevards, everywhere: "the nabob is in the thing." that is to say, we are running over with cash, the worst _combinazioni_ are in excellent shape. that man is so rich! rich to such a degree that one cannot believe it. why, he has just loaned fifteen millions off-hand to the bey of tunis. fifteen millions, i say! that was rather a neat trick on hemerlingue, who tried to make trouble between him and that monarch and to cut the grass from under his feet in those lovely oriental countries, where it grows tall and thick and golden-colored. it was an old turk of my acquaintance, colonel brahim, one of our council at the _territoriale_, who arranged the loan. naturally the bey, who was very short of pocket money, it seems, was greatly touched by the nabob's zeal to accommodate him, and he sent him by brahim a letter of acknowledgment in which he told him that on his next trip to vichy he would pass two days with him at the magnificent château de saint-romans, which the former bey, this one's brother, once honored with a visit. just think what an honor! to receive a reigning prince! the hemerlingues are in a frenzy. they had manoeuvred so skilfully, the son in tunis, the father in paris, to bring the nabob into disfavor. to be sure, fifteen millions is a large sum of money. but do not say: "passajon is gulling us." the person who told me the story had in his hands the paper sent by the bey in a green silk envelope stamped with the royal seal. his only reason for not reading it was that it was written in arabic; otherwise he would have taken cognizance of it as he does of all the nabob's correspondence. that person is his valet de chambre, m. noël, to whom i had the honor to be presented last friday at a small party of persons in service, which he gave to some of his friends. i insert a description of that festivity in my memoirs, as one of the most interesting things i have seen during my four years' residence in paris. i supposed at first, when m. francis, monpavon's valet de chambre, mentioned the affair to me, that it was to be one of the little clandestine junkets such as they sometimes have in the attic rooms on our boulevard, with the leavings sent up by mademoiselle séraphine and the other cooks in the house, where they drink stolen wine and stuff themselves, sitting on trunks, trembling with fear, by the light of two candles which they put out at the slightest noise in the corridors. such underhand performances are repugnant to my character. but when i received an invitation on pink paper, written in a very fine hand, as if for a ball given by the people of the house: _m. noël pri m.--de se randre à sa soire du couran._ _on soupra._[ ] [ ] m. noël requests the pleasure of m. ----'s company on the evening of the th instant. supper. i saw, notwithstanding the defective orthography, that it was a serious, authoritative function; so i arrayed myself in my newest frock coat and my finest linen, and betook myself to place vendôme, to the address indicated by the invitation. m. noël had selected for his party the evening of a first performance at the opéra, which society attended _en masse_, so that the whole household had the bit in their teeth until midnight, and the entire house at their disposal. nevertheless, our host had preferred to receive us in his room in the upper part of the house, and i strongly approved his judgment, being therein of the opinion of the good man who said: fi du plaisir que la crainte peut corrompre![ ] [ ] a fig for the pleasure which fear can destroy! but talk to me about the attics on place vendôme! a thick carpet on the floor, the bed out of sight in an alcove, algerian curtains with red stripes, a green marble clock, the whole lighted by patent self-regulating lamps. our dean, m. chalmette, at dijon had no better quarters than that. i arrived about nine o'clock with monpavon's old francis, and i must confess that my appearance created a sensation, preceded as i was by the fame of my academic past, by my reputation for refined manners and great learning. my fine bearing did the rest, for i must say that i know how to carry myself. m. noël, very dark skinned, with mutton-chop whiskers, and dressed in a black coat, came forward to meet us. "welcome, monsieur passajon," he said; and taking my cap with silver ornaments, which, as i entered the room, i held in my right hand according to custom, he handed it to an enormous negro in red and gold livery. "here, lakdar, take this--and this," he said, by way of jest, giving him a kick in a certain portion of the back. there was much laughter at that sally, and we began to converse most amicably. an excellent fellow, that m. noël, with his southern accent, his determined bearing, the frankness and simplicity of his manners. he reminded me of the nabob, minus his master's distinguished mien, however. indeed, i noticed that evening that such resemblances are of common occurrence in valets de chambre, who, as they live on intimate terms with their masters, by whom they are always a little dazzled, end by adopting their peculiarities and their mannerisms. for instance, m. francis has a certain habit of drawing himself up and displaying his linen shirtfront, a mania for raising his arms to pull down his cuffs, which is monpavon to the life. but there is one who does not resemble his master in the least, that is joe, dr. jenkins' coachman. i call him joe, but at the party everybody called him jenkins; for in that circle the stable folk among themselves call one another by their employers' names, plain bois-l'héry, monpavon and jenkins. is it to debase the superiors, to exalt the servant class? every country has its customs; nobody but a fool ought to be astonished by them. to return to joe jenkins--how can the doctor, who is such an amiable man, so perfect in every respect, keep in his service that _gin_ and _porter_-soaked brute, who sits silent for hours at a time, and then, the instant that the liquor goes to his head, begins to roar and wants to box everybody--witness the scandalous scene that had just taken place when we arrived. the marquis's little tiger, tom bois-l'héry, as they call him here, undertook to joke with that irish beast, who--at some parisian gamin's jest--retorted by a terrible belfast knock-down blow in the middle of the face. "come on, humpty-dumpty! come on, humpty-dumpty!" roared the coachman, choking with rage, while they carried his innocent victim into the adjoining room, where the ladies, young and old, were engaged in bandaging his nose. the excitement was soon allayed, thanks to our arrival, thanks also to the judicious words of m. barreau, a man of mature years, sedate and majestic, of my own type. he is the nabob's cook, formerly _chef_ at the café anglais, and m. cardailhac, manager of the nouveautés, secured him for his friend. to see him in his black coat and white cravat, with his handsome, full, clean-shaven face, you would take him for one of the great functionaries of the empire. to be sure, a cook in a house where the table is set for thirty people every morning, in addition to madame's table, and where everyone is fed on the best and the extra best, is no ordinary cook-shop artist. he receives a colonel's salary, with board and lodging, and then the perquisites! no one has any idea of what the perquisites amount to in a place like that. so every one addressed him with great respect, with the consideration due to a man of his importance: "monsieur barreau" here, "my dear monsieur barreau" there. you must not imagine that the servants in a house are all chums and social equals. nowhere is the hierarchy more strictly observed than among them. for instance, i noticed at m. noël's party that the coachmen did not fraternize with their grooms, nor the valets de chambre with the footmen and out-riders, any more than the steward and butler mingled with the scullions; and when m. barreau cracked a little joke, no matter what it was, it was a pleasure to see how amused his underlings seemed to be. i have no fault to find with these things. quite the contrary. as our dean used to say: "a society without a hierarchy is a house without a stairway." but the fact seemed to me worth noting in these memoirs. the party, i need not say, lacked something of its brilliancy until the return of its fairest ornaments, the ladies who had gone to look after little tom; ladies' maids with glossy, well-oiled hair, housekeepers in beribboned caps, negresses, governesses, among whom i at once acquired much prestige, thanks to my respectable appearance and the nickname "my uncle" which the youngest of those attractive females were pleased to bestow upon me. i tell you there was no lack of second-hand finery, silk and lace, even much faded velvet, eight-button gloves cleaned several times and perfumery picked up on madame's toilet-table; but their faces were happy, their minds given over to gayety, and i had no difficulty in forming a very lively little party in one corner--always perfectly proper, of course--that goes without saying--and entirely befitting a person in my position. but that was the general tone of the occasion. not until toward the close of the collation did i hear any of the unseemly remarks, any of the scandalous anecdotes that amuse the gentlemen of our council so highly; and it gives me pleasure to state that bois-l'héry the coachman, to cite no other instance, is very differently brought up from bois-l'héry the master. m. noël alone, by his familiar tone and the freedom of his repartees, overstepped the limit. there's a man who does not scruple to call things by their names. for instance, he said to m. francis, so loud that he could be heard from one end of the salon to the other: "i say, francis, your old sharper played still another trick on us last week." and as the other threw out his chest with a dignified air, m. noël began to laugh. "no offence, old girl. the strong box is full. you'll never get to the bottom of it." and it was then that he told us about the loan of fifteen millions i mentioned above. meanwhile i was surprised to see no signs of preparation for the supper mentioned on the invitations, and i expressed my anxiety in an undertone to one of my lovely nieces, who replied: "we are waiting for m. louis." "m. louis?" "what! don't you know m. louis, the duc de mora's valet de chambre?" thereupon i was enlightened on the subject of that influential personage, whose good offices are sought by prefects, senators, even by ministers, and who evidently makes them pay roundly for them, for, with his salary of twelve hundred francs from the duke, he has saved enough to have an income of twenty-five thousand francs, has his daughters at the boarding-school of the sacred heart, his son at bourdaloue college, and a châlet in switzerland to which the whole family go for the vacation. at that juncture the personage in question arrived; but there was nothing in his appearance that would have led me to guess his position, which has not its like in paris. no majesty in his bearing, a waistcoat buttoned to the chin, a mean, insolent manner, and a fashion of speaking without opening his lips, very unpleasant to those who are listening to him. he saluted the company with a slight nod, offered a finger to m. noël, and there we sat, staring at each other, congealed by his grand manners, when a door was thrown open at the end of the room and the supper made its appearance--all kinds of cold meats, pyramids of fruit, bottles of every shape, beneath the glare of two candelabra. "now, messieurs, escort the ladies." in a moment we were in our places, the ladies seated, with the oldest or most important of us men, the others standing, passing dishes, chattering, drinking out of all the glasses, picking a mouthful from every plate. i had m. francis for my neighbor, and i was obliged to listen to his spiteful remarks against m. louis, of whom he is jealous because he has such a fine situation in comparison with that he himself holds in his played-out nobleman's household. "he's a parvenu," he said to me in an undertone. "he owes his fortune to his wife, to madame paul." it seems that this madame paul is a housekeeper who has been twenty years in the duke's service, and who understands, as no one else does, how to make a certain pomade for certain infirmities that he has. mora cannot do without her. remarking that fact, m. louis paid his court to the old woman, married her, although he is much younger than she; and, in order not to lose his nurse _aux pommades_, his excellency took the husband for his valet de chambre. in my heart, notwithstanding what i may have said to m. francis, i considered that marriage perfectly proper and in conformity with the healthiest morality, as both the mayor and the curé had a hand in it. moreover, that excellent repast, consisting of choice and very expensive dishes which i did not even know by name, had disposed my mind to indulgence and good humor. but everybody was not in the same mood, for i heard m. barreau's baritone voice on the other side of the table, grumbling: "why does he meddle? do i stick my nose into his business? in the first place, it's a matter that concerns bompain, not him. and what does it amount to? what is it that he finds fault with me for? the butcher sends me five baskets of meat every morning. i use only two and sell the other three. where's the chef who doesn't do that? as if he wouldn't do better to keep an eye on the big leakage above stairs, instead of coming and spying about my basement. when i think that the first-floor clique has smoked twenty-eight thousand francs' worth of cigars in three months! twenty-eight thousand francs! ask noël if i lie. and on the second floor, in madame's apartments, there's a fine mess of linen, dresses thrown aside after one wearing, jewels by the handful, and pearls so thick that you crush 'em as you walk. oh! you just wait a bit, and i'll take a twist on that little fellow." i understood that he was talking about m. de géry, the nabob's young secretary, who often comes to the _territoriale_, where he does nothing but rummage among the books. very polite certainly, but a very proud youngster who does not know how to make the most of himself. there was nothing but a chorus of maledictions against him around the table. even m. louis delivered himself on that subject, with his high and mighty air: "our cook, my dear monsieur barreau, has recently had an experience similar to yours with his excellency's chief secretary, who presumed to indulge in some observations concerning the household expenses. the cook ran up to the duke's study post-haste, in his professional costume, and said, with his hand on his apron string: 'your excellency may choose between monsieur and me.' the duke did not hesitate. one can find as many secretaries as one wants; whereas the good cooks are all known. there are just four in paris. i include you, my dear barreau. we dismissed our chief secretary, giving him a prefecture of the first class as a consolation; but we kept our chief cook." "ah! that's the talk," said m. barreau, who was delighted to hear that anecdote. "that's what it is to be in a great nobleman's service. but parvenus are parvenus, what do you expect?" "and jansoulet is nothing more than that," added m. francis, pulling down his cuffs. "a man who was once a porter at marseille." at that m. noël bristled up. "i say there, old francis, you're glad enough to have the porter of la cannebière pay for your roastings at _bouillotte_ all the same. you won't find many parvenus like us, who loan millions to kings, and whom great noblemen like mora don't blush to receive at their table." "oh! in the country," sneered m. francis, showing his old fangs. the other rose, red as fire, on the point of losing his temper, but m. louis made a sign with his hand that he had something to say, and m. noël at once sat down, putting his hand to his ear, like the rest of us, in order to lose none of the august words. "it is true," said the great personage, speaking with the ends of his lips and sipping his wine slowly; "it is true that we received the nabob at grandbois some weeks ago. indeed, a very amusing thing happened there. we have a great many mushrooms in the second park, and his excellency sometimes amuses himself by picking them. at dinner a great dish of mushrooms was served. there was what-d'ye-call-him--thingamy--what's-his-name--marigny, the minister of the interior, monpavon, and your master, my dear noël. the mushrooms made the round of the table,--they looked very inviting, and the gentlemen filled their plates, all except monsieur le duc, who can't digest them and thought that politeness required him to say to his guests: 'oh! it isn't that i am afraid of them, you know. they are all right,--i picked them with my own hand.' "'_sapristi!_' said monpavon, laughingly, 'in that case, my dear auguste, excuse me if i don't taste them,' marigny, being less at home, looked askance at his plate. "'why, monpavon, upon my word, these mushrooms look very healthy. i am really sorry that i am no longer hungry.' "the duke remained perfectly serious. "'come, monsieur jansoulet, i trust that you won't insult me as they have done. mush-rooms selected by myself!' "'oh! your excellency, the idea! why, i would eat them with my eyes closed.' "i leave it to you, if that wasn't great luck for the poor nabob, the first time that he ate a meal with us. duperron, who was waiting opposite him, told us about it in the butler's pantry. it seems that it was the most comical thing in the world to see jansoulet stuff himself with mushrooms, rolling his eyes in terror, while the others watched him curiously without touching their plates. it made him sweat, poor devil! and the best part of it was that he took a second portion; he had the courage to take more. but he poured down bumpers of wine between every two mouthfuls. well! shall i tell you what i think? that was a very shrewd move on his part, and i am no longer surprised that that fat ox-driver has been the favorite of sovereigns. he knows how to flatter them, in the little things that they don't talk about. in fact, the duke has doted on him since that day." that little story caused much hilarity, and scattered the clouds collected by a few imprudent words. and thereupon, as the wine had loosened all our tongues, and as we all knew one another better, we rested our elbows on the table and began to talk about masters and places where we had worked, and the amusing things we had seen. ah! i heard some fine stories and had a glimpse at some domestic scenes! naturally, i produced my little effect with the story of my pantry at the _territoriale_, of the time when i used to put my ragout in the empty safe, which did not prevent our cashier, a great stickler for routine, from changing the combination every two days, as if it contained all the treasures of the bank of france. m. louis seemed to enjoy my story. but the most astonishing thing was what little bois-l'héry, with his parisian street-arab's accent, told us of the home life of his employers. marquis and marquise de bois-l'héry, second floor, boulevard haussmann. furniture like the tuileries, blue satin on all the walls, pictures, mantel ornaments, curiosities, a genuine museum, i tell you! overflowing on to the landings. service very stylish: six servants, chestnut-colored livery in winter, nankeen livery in summer. you see those people everywhere,--at the small monday parties, at the races, at first nights, at ambassadors' balls, and their names always in the newspapers, with remarks as to madame's fine toilets and monsieur's amazing _chic_. well! all that is nothing but flim-flam, veneer, outside show, and if the marquis needed a hundred sous, no one would loan them to him on his worldly possessions. the furniture is hired by the fortnight from fitily, the cocottes' upholsterer. the curiosities, the pictures, belong to old schwalbach, who sends his customers there and makes them pay double price, because a man doesn't haggle when he thinks he is buying from a marquis, an amateur. as for the marchioness's dresses, the milliner and dress-maker furnish her with them for exhibition every season, make her wear the new styles, a little ridiculous sometimes, but instantly adopted by society, because madame is still a very beautiful woman, and of high repute in the matter of fashion; she is what is called a _lanceuse_. and the servants! provisional like all the rest, changed every week at the pleasure of the intelligence office, which sends them there to give them practice before taking serious positions. they may have neither sponsors nor certificates; they may have just come from prison or elsewhere. glanard, the great place-broker on rue de la paix, supplies boulevard haussmann. the servants stay there one week, two weeks, long enough to purchase recommendations from the marquis, who, mark you, pays nothing and barely feeds them; for in that house the kitchen ovens are cold most of the time, as monsieur and madame dine out almost every evening, or attend balls at which supper is served. it is a positive fact that there are people in paris who take the buffet seriously, and eat their first meal of the day after midnight. the bois-l'hérys are well posted as to houses where there is a buffet. they will tell you that you get a very good supper at the austrian embassy, that the spanish embassy is a little careless in the matter of wines, and that the minister of foreign affairs gives you the best _chaud-froid de volailles_. such is the life of that curious household. nothing of all they have is sewn on; everything is basted or pinned. a gust of wind, and away it all goes. but at all events they are sure of losing nothing. that is what gives the marquis that _blagueur_, père tranquille air, as he looks you in the face with both hands in his pockets, as much as to say: "well, what then? what can you do to me?" and the little tiger, in the aforesaid attitude, with his prematurely old, vicious child's face, copied his master so perfectly that it seemed to me as if i were looking at the man himself sitting in our administrative council, facing the governor, and overwhelming him with his cynical jests. after all, we must agree that paris is a wonderful great city, for any one to be able to live here in that way for fifteen years, twenty years of tricks and dodges and throwing dust in people's eyes, without everybody finding him out, and to go on making a triumphant entry into salons in the wake of a footman shouting his name at the top of his voice: "monsieur le marquis de bois-l'héry." you see, you must have been to a servants' party before you can believe all that one learns there, and what a curious thing parisian society is when you look at it thus from below, from the basement. for instance, happening to be between m. francis and m. louis, i caught this scrap of confidential conversation concerning sire de monpavon. m. louis said: "you are doing wrong, francis, you are in funds just now. you ought to take advantage of it to return that money to the treasury." "what can you expect?" replied m. francis, disconsolately. "play is consuming us." "yes, i know. but beware. we shall not always be at hand. we may die or go out of the government. in that case you will be called to account over yonder. it will be a terrible time." i had often heard a whisper of the marquis's forced loan of two hundred thousand francs from the state, at the time when he was receiver-general; but the testimony of his valet de chambre was the worst of all. ah! if the masters suspected what the servants know, all that they tell in their quarters, if they could hear their names dragged about in the sweepings of the salons and the kitchen refuse, they would never again dare to say so much as: "close the door," or "order the carriage." there's dr. jenkins, for example, with the richest practice in paris, has lived ten years with a magnificent wife, who is eagerly welcomed everywhere; he has done everything he could to conceal his real position, announced his marriage in the newspapers in the english style, and hired only foreign servants who know barely three words of french, but all to no purpose. with these few words, seasoned with faubourg oaths and blows on the table, his coachman joe, who detests him, told us his whole history while we were at supper. "she's going to croak, his irishwoman, his real wife. now we'll see if he'll marry the other one. forty-five years old mistress maranne is, and not a shilling. you ought to see how afraid she is that he'll turn her out. marry her, not marry her--_kss-kss_--what a laugh we'll have." and the more they gave him to drink, the more he told, speaking of his unfortunate mistress as the lowest of the low. for my part, i confess that she excited my interest, that false madame jenkins, who weeps in every corner, implores her husband as if he were the headsman, and is in danger of being sent about her business when all society believes her to be married, respectable, established for life. the others did nothing but laugh, especially the women. _dame!_ it is amusing when one is in service to see that these ladies of the upper ten have their affronts too, and tormenting cares which keep them awake. at that moment our party presented a most animated aspect, a circle of merry faces turned toward the irishman, who carried off the palm by his anecdote. that aroused envy; every one rummaged his memory and dragged out whatever he could find there of old scandals, adventures of betrayed husbands, all the domestic secrets that are poured out on the kitchen table with the remains of dishes and the dregs of bottles. the champagne was beginning to lay hold of its victims among the guests. joe insisted on dancing a jig on the cloth. the ladies, at the slightest suggestion that was a trifle broad, threw themselves back with the piercing laughter of a person who is being tickled, letting their embroidered skirts drag under the table, which was piled with broken victuals, and covered with grease. m. louis had prudently withdrawn. the glasses were filled before they were emptied; a chambermaid dipped a handkerchief in hers, which was full of water, and bathed her forehead with it because her head was going round, she said. it was time that it should end; in fact, an electric bell, ringing loudly in the hall, warned us that the footman on duty at the theatre had called the coachmen. thereupon monpavon proposed a toast to the master of the house, thanking him for his little party. m. noël announced that he would repeat it at saint-romans, during the festivities in honor of the bey, to which most of those present would probably be invited. and i was about to rise in my turn, being sufficiently familiar with banquets to know that on such occasions the oldest of the party is expected to propose a toast to the ladies, when the door was suddenly thrown open and a tall footman, all muddy, breathless and perspiring, with a dripping umbrella in his hand, roared at us, with no respect for the guests: "come, get out of here, you pack of cads; what are you doing here? don't i tell you it's done!" xi. the fÊtes in honor of the bey. in the regions of the south, of the civilization of long ago, the historic châteaux still standing are very few. at rare intervals some old abbey rears its tottering and dismantled façade on a hillside, pierced with holes which once were windows, which see naught now but the sky,--monuments of dust, baked by the sun, dating from the days of the crusades or of courts of love, without a trace of man among their stones, where even the ivy has ceased to climb, and the acanthus, but where the dried lavender and the _férigoule_ perfume the air. amid all these ruins the château de saint-romans stands forth a glorious exception. if you have travelled in the south you have seen it, and you shall see it again in a moment. it is between valence and montélimart, in a neighborhood where the railroad runs straight along the rhone, at the base of the hills of beaume, rancoule and mercurol, the whole glowing vintage of the hermitage, spread out over five leagues of vines growing in close, straight lines in the vineyards, which seem to the eye like fields of fleece, and extend to the very brink of the river, as green and full of islands at that spot as the rhine near bâle, but with such a flood of sunshine as the rhine never had. saint-romans is opposite, on the other bank; and, notwithstanding the swiftness of the vision, the headlong rush of the railway carriages, which seem determined at every curve to plunge madly into the rhone, the château is so huge, extends so far along the neighboring slope, that it seems to follow the wild race of the train and fixes in your eyes forever the memory of its flights of steps, its balcony-rails, its italian architecture, two rather low stones surmounted by a terrace with little pillars, flanked by two wings with slated roofs, and overlooking the sloping banks, where the water from the cascades rushes down to the river, the network of gravelled paths, the vista formed by hedges of great height with a white statue at the end sharply outlined against the blue sky as against the luminous background of a stained-glass window. far up, among the vast lawns whose brilliant verdure defies the blazing climate, a gigantic cedar rears, terrace-like, its masses of green foliage, with its swaying dark shadows,--an exotic figure, which makes one think, as he stands before that sometime abode of a farmer-general of the epoch of louis xiv., of a tall negro carrying a courtier's umbrella. from valence to marseille, throughout the valley of the rhone, saint-romans de bellaigue is as famous as a fairy palace; and a genuine fairyland in those regions, scorched by the mistral, is that oasis of verdure and of lovely, gushing water. "when i am rich, mamma," jansoulet, when he was a mere urchin, used to say to his mother whom he adored, "i'll give you saint-romans de bellaigue." and as that man's life seemed the realization of a tale of the _thousand and one nights_, as all his wishes were gratified, even the most unconscionable, as his wildest chimeras took definite shape before him, and licked his hands like docile pet spaniels, he had purchased saint-romans in order to present it to his mother, newly furnished and gorgeously restored. although ten years had passed since then, the good woman was not yet accustomed to that magnificent establishment. "why, you have given me queen jeanne's palace, my dear bernard," she wrote to her son; "i shall never dare to live in it." as a matter of fact she never had lived in it, having installed herself in the steward's house, a wing of modern construction at the end of the main buildings, conveniently situated for overlooking the servants' quarters and the farm, the sheepfolds and the oil-presses, with their rustic outlook of grain in stacks, of olive-trees and vines stretching out over the fields as far as the eye could see. in the great château she would have fancied herself a prisoner in one of those enchanted dwellings where sleep seizes you in the fulness of your joy and does not leave you for a hundred years. here at all events the peasant woman, who had never been able to accustom herself to that colossal fortune, which had come too late, from too great a distance and like a thunderbolt, felt in touch with real life by virtue of the going and coming of the laborers, the departure and return of the cattle, their visits to the watering-place, all the details of pastoral life, which awakened her with the familiar crowing of the roosters, the shrill cries of the peacocks, and sent her down the winding staircase before daybreak. she deemed herself simply a trustee of that magnificent property, of which she had charge for her son's benefit, and which she proposed to turn over to him in good condition on the day when, considering himself wealthy enough and weary of living among the _turs_, he should come, as he had promised, and live with her beneath the shade of saint-romans. imagine then her untiring, all-pervading watchfulness. in the twilight of early dawn, the farm servants heard her hoarse, husky voice: "olivier--peyrol--audibert--come! it's four o'clock." then a dive into the huge kitchen, where the maids, heavy with sleep, were warming the soup over the bright, crackling peat fire. they gave her her little plate of red marseille earthenware, filled with boiled chestnuts, the frugal breakfast of an earlier time which nothing could induce her to change. off she went at once with long strides, the keys jingling on the great silver key-ring fastened to her belt, her plate in her hand, held in equilibrium by the distaff which she held under her arm as if ready for battle, for she spun all day long, and did not stop even to eat her chestnuts. a glance, as she passed, at the stable, still dark, where the horses were sluggishly moving about, at the stifling cow-shed, filled with heads impatiently stretched toward the door; and the first rays of dawn, stealing over the courses of stone that supported the embankment of the park, fell upon the old woman running through the dew with the agility of a girl, despite her seventy years, verifying exactly each morning all the treasures of the estate, anxious to ascertain whether the night had stolen the statues and urns, uprooted the centenary trees, dried up the sparkling fountains that plashed noisily in their bowls. then the bright southern sun, humming and vibrating, outlined upon the gravel of a path, or against the white supporting wall of a terrace, that tall old woman's figure, slender and straight as her distaff, picking up pieces of dead wood, breaking off a branch from a shrub that was out of line, heedless of the scorching reflection which affected her tough skin no more than an old stone bench. about that hour another promenader appeared in the park, less active, less bustling, dragging himself along rather than walking, leaning on the walls and railings, a poor bent, palsied creature, with a lifeless face to which one could assign no age, who, when he was tired, uttered a faint, plaintive cry to call the servant, who was always at hand to assist him to sit down, to huddle himself up on some step, where he would remain for hours, motionless and silent, his mouth half-open, blinking his eyes, soothed by the strident monotony of the locusts, a human blot on the face of the superb landscape. he was the _oldest_, bernard's brother, the cherished darling of the jansoulets, father and mother, the hope and the glory of the family of the junk-dealer, who, faithful like so many more in the south to the superstition concerning the right of primogeniture, had made every conceivable sacrifice to send that handsome, ambitious youth to paris; and he had started with four or five marshals' batons in his trunk, the admiration of all the girls in the village; but paris--after it had beaten and twisted and squeezed that brilliant southern rag in its great vat for ten years, burned him in all its acids, rolled him in all its mire--relegated him at last to the state of battered flotsam and jetsam, embruted, paralyzed, which had killed his father with grief and compelled his mother to sell everything in her house and to live by domestic service in the well-to-do families of the neighborhood. luckily, just about the time that that relic of parisian hospitals, sent back to his home by public charity, appeared in bourg-saint-andéol, bernard,--who was called cadet, as in all the half-arab southern families, where the eldest son always takes the family name and the last comer the name of cadet,--bernard was already in tunis, in process of making his fortune, and sending money home regularly. but what remorse it caused the poor mother to owe everything, even life itself, and the comfort of the wretched invalid, to the brave, energetic lad, of whom his father and she had always been fond, but without genuine tenderness, and whom, from the time he was five years old, they had been accustomed to treat as a day-laborer, because he was very strong and hairy and ugly, and was already shrewder than any one else in the house in the matter of dealing in old iron. ah! how she would have liked to have her cadet with her, to repay him a little of all he was doing for her, to pay in one sum all the arrears of affection, of motherly cosseting that she owed him. but, you see, these kingly fortunes have the burdens, the vexations of kingly existences. poor mother jansoulet, in her dazzling surroundings, was much like a genuine queen, having undergone the long banishments, the cruel separations and trials which atone for earthly grandeur; one of her sons in a state of stupid lethargy for all time, the other far away, writing little, engrossed by his great interests, always saying, "i will come," and never coming. in twelve years she had seen him but once, in the confusion of the bey's visit at saint-romans: a bewildering succession of horses, carriages, fireworks, and festivities. then he had whirled away again behind his sovereign, having had hardly time to embrace his old mother, who had retained naught of that great joy, so impatiently awaited, save a few newspaper pictures, in which bernard jansoulet was exhibited arriving at the château with ahmed and presenting his aged mother to him,--is not that the way in which kings and queens have their family reunions illustrated in the journals?--plus a cedar of lebanon, brought from the end of the world,--a great _caramantran_ of a tree, which was as costly to move and as much in the way as the obelisk--being hoisted and planted by force of men and money and horses; a tree which had wrought confusion among the shrubbery as the price of setting up a souvenir commemorative of the royal visit. on his present trip to france, at least, knowing that he had come for several months, perhaps forever, she hoped to have her bernard all to herself. and lo! he swooped down upon her one fine evening, enveloped in the same triumphant splendor, in the same official pomp, surrounded by a multitude of counts, marquises, fine gentlemen from paris, who with their servants filled the two great breaks she had sent to meet them at the little station of giffas, on the other side of the rhone. "come, come, embrace me, my dear mamma. there's no shame in hugging your boy, whom you haven't seen for years, close to your heart. besides, all these gentlemen are friends of ours. this is monsieur le marquis de monpavon, and monsieur le marquis de bois-l'héry. ah! the time has gone by when i used to bring you to eat bean soup with us, little cabassu and bompain jean-baptiste. you know monsieur de géry--he, with my old friend cardailhac, whom i introduce to you, make up the first batch. but others are coming. prepare for a terrible how-d'ye-do. we receive the bey in four days." "the bey again!" said the good woman in dismay. "i thought he was dead." jansoulet and his guests could but laugh at her comical alarm, heightened by her southern accent. "but there's another, mamma. there are always beys--luckily for me, _sapristi_! but don't you be afraid. you won't have so much trouble on your hands. friend cardailhac has undertaken to look after things. we're going to have some superb fêtes. meanwhile give us some dinner quick, and show us our rooms. our parisian friends are tired out." "everything is ready, my son," said the old woman simply, standing stiffly erect in her cap of cambrai linen, with points yellowed by age, which she never laid aside even on great occasions. wealth had not changed _her_. she was the typical peasant of the rhone valley, independent and proud, with none of the cunning humility of the rustics described by balzac, too simple, too, to be puffed up by wealth. her only pride was to show her son with what painstaking zeal she had acquitted herself of her duties as care-taker. not an atom of dust, not a trace of dampness on the walls. the whole magnificent ground-floor, the salons with the silk draperies and upholstery of changing hue, taken at the last moment from their coverings; the long summer galleries, with cool, resonant inlaid floors, which the louis xv. couches, with cane seats and backs upholstered with flowered stuffs, furnished with summer-like coquetry; the enormous dining-hall, decorated with flowers and branches; even the billiard-room, with its rows of gleaming balls, its chandeliers and cue-racks,--the whole vast extent of the château, seen through the long door-windows, wide open upon the broad seignorial porch, displayed its splendor to the admiration of the visitors, and reflected the beauty of that marvellous landscape, lying serene and peaceful in the setting sun, in the mirrors, the waxed or varnished wainscoting, with the same fidelity with which the poplars bowing gracefully to each other, and the swans, placidly swimming, were reproduced on the mirror-like surface of the ponds. the frame was so beautiful, the general outlook so superb, that the obtrusive, tasteless luxury melted away, disappeared even to the most sensitive eye. "there's something to work with," said cardailhac the manager, with his monocle at his eye, his hat on one side, already planning his stage-setting. and the haughty mien of monpavon, who had been somewhat offended at first by the old lady's head-dress when she received them on the porch, gave place to a condescending smile. certainly there was something to work with, and their friend jansoulet, under the guidance of men of taste, could give his maugrabin highness a very handsome reception. they talked about nothing else all the evening. sitting in the sumptuous dining-room, with their elbows on the table, warmed by wine and with full stomachs, they planned and discussed. cardailhac, whose views were broad, had his plan all formed. "carte blanche, of course, eh, nabob?" "carte blanche, old fellow. and let old hemerlingue burst with rage." thereupon the manager detailed his plans, the festivities to be divided by days, as at vaux when fouquet entertained louis xiv.; one day a play, another day provençal fêtes, _farandoles_, bull-fights, local music; the third day--and, in his mania for management, he was already outlining programmes, posters, while bois-l'héry, with both hands in his pockets, lying back in his chair, slept peacefully with his cigar stuck in the corner of his sneering mouth, and the marquis de monpavon, always on parade, drew up his breastplate every moment, to keep himself awake. de géry had left them early. he had gone to take refuge with the old lady--who had known him, and his brothers, too, when they were children--in the modest parlor in the wing, with the white curtains and light wall-paper covered with figures, where the nabob's mother tried to revive her past as an artisan, with the aid of some relics saved from the wreck. paul talked softly, sitting opposite the handsome old woman with the severe and regular features, the white hair piled on top of her head like the flax on her distaff, who sat erect upon her chair, her flat bust wrapped in a little green shawl;--never in her life had she rested her back against the back of a chair or sat in an armchair. he called her françoise and she called him monsieur paul. they were old friends. and what do you suppose they were talking about? of her grandchildren, _pardi!_ of bernard's three boys whom she did not know, whom she would have loved so dearly to know. "ah! monsieur paul, if you knew how i long for them! i should have been so happy if he had brought me my three little ones instead of all these fine gentlemen. just think, i have never seen them, except in those pictures yonder. their mother frightens me a bit, she's a great lady out-and-out, a demoiselle afchin. but the children, i'm sure they're not little coxcombs, but would be very fond of their old _granny_. it would seem to me as if it was their father a little boy again, and i'd give them what i didn't give the father--for, you see, monsieur paul, parents aren't always just. they have favorites. but god is just. you ought to see how he deals with the faces that you paint and fix up the best, to the injury of the others. and the favoritism of the old people often does harm to the young." she sighed as she glanced in the direction of the great alcove, from which, through the high lambrequins and falling draperies, issued at intervals a long, shuddering breath like the moan of a sleeping child who has been whipped and has cried bitterly. a heavy step on the stairs, an unmelodious but gentle voice, saying in a low tone: "it's i--don't move,"--and jansoulet appeared. as everybody had gone to bed at the château, he, knowing his mother's habits and that hers was always the last light to be extinguished in the house, had come to see her, to talk with her a little, to exchange the real greeting of the heart which they had been unable to exchange in the presence of others. "oh! stay, my dear paul; we don't mind you." and, becoming a child once more in his mother's presence, he threw his whole long body on the floor at her feet, with cajoling words and gestures really touching to behold. she was very happy too to have him by her side, but she was a little embarrassed none the less, looking upon him as an all-powerful, strange being, exalting him in her artless innocence to the level of an olympian encompassed by thunder-bolts and lightning-flashes, possessing the gift of omnipotence. she talked to him, inquired if he was still satisfied with his friends, with the condition of his affairs, but did not dare to ask the question she had asked de géry: "why didn't you bring me my little grandsons?"--but he broached the subject himself. "they're at boarding-school, mamma; as soon as the vacation comes, i'll send them to you with bompain. you remember him, don't you, bompain jean-baptiste? and you shall keep them two whole months. they'll come to you to have you tell them fine stories, they'll go to sleep with their heads on your apron, like this--" and he himself, placing his curly head, heavy as lead, on the old woman's knees, recalling the happy evenings of his childhood when he went to sleep that way if he were allowed to do so, if his older brother's head did not take up all the room--he enjoyed, for the first time since his return to france, a few moments of blissful repose, outside of his tumultuous artificial life, pressed against that old motherly heart which he could hear beating regularly, like the pendulum of the century-old clock standing in a corner of the room, in the profound silence of the night, which one can feel in the country, hovering over the boundless expanse. suddenly the same long sigh, as of a child who has fallen asleep sobbing, was repeated at the farther end of the room. "is that--?" "yes," she said, "i have him sleep here. he might need me in the night." "i should like to see him, to embrace him." "come." the old woman rose, took her lamp, led the way gravely to the alcove, where she softly drew aside the long curtain and motioned to her son to come, without making a noise. he was asleep. and it was certain that something lived in him that was not there the day before, for, instead of the flaccid immobility in which he was mired all day, he was shaken at that moment by violent tremors, and on his expressionless, dead face there was a wrinkle of suffering life, a contraction as of pain. jansoulet, profoundly moved, gazed at that thin, wasted, earth-colored face, on which the beard, having appropriated all the vitality of the body, grew with surprising vigor; then he stooped, placed his lips on the forehead moist with perspiration, and, feeling that he started, he said in a low tone, gravely, respectfully, as one addresses the head of the family: "good-evening, aîné." perhaps the imprisoned mind heard him in the depths of its dark, degrading purgatory. but the lips moved and a long groan made answer; a far-off wail, a despairing appeal caused the glance françoise and her son exchanged to overflow with impotent tears, and drew from them both a simultaneous cry in which their sorrows met: _pécaïré!_ the local word expressive of all pity, all affection. * * * early the next morning the uproar began with the arrival of the actors and actresses, an avalanche of caps, chignons, high boots, short petticoats, affected screams, veils floating over the fresh coats of rouge; the women were in a large majority, cardailhac having reflected that, where a bey was concerned, the performance was of little consequence, that one need only emit false notes from pretty lips, show lovely arms and well-turned legs in the free-and-easy négligé of the operetta. all the plastic celebrities of his theatre were on hand, therefore, amy férat at their head, a hussy who had already tried her eye-teeth on the gold of several crowns; also two or three famous comic actors, whose pallid faces produced the same effect of chalky, spectral blotches amid the bright green of the hedgerows as was produced by the plaster statuettes. all that motley crew, enlivened by the journey, the unfamiliar fresh air, and the copious hospitality, as well as by the hope of hooking something in that procession of beys, nabobs, and other purse-bearers, asked nothing better than to caper and sing and make merry, with the vulgar enthusiasm of a crowd of seine boatmen ashore on a lark. but cardailhac did not propose to have it so. as soon as they had arrived, made their toilets and eaten their first breakfast, out came the books; we must rehearse!--there was no time to lose. the rehearsals took place in the small salon near the summer gallery, where they were already beginning to build the stage; and the noise of the hammers, the humming of the refrains, the thin voices supported by the squeaking of the orchestra leader's violin, mingled with the loud trumpet-calls of the peacocks on their perches, were blown to shreds in the mistral, which, failing to recognize the frantic chirping of its grasshoppers, contemptuously whisked it all away on the whirling tips of its wings. sitting in the centre of the porch, as if it were the proscenium of his theatre, cardailhac, while superintending the rehearsals, issued his commands to a multitude of workmen and gardeners, ordered trees to be felled which obstructed the view, drew sketches of the triumphal arches, sent despatches and messengers to mayors, to sub-prefects, to arles to procure a deputation of girls of the province in the national costume, to barbantane, where the most skilful dancers of the _farandole_ are to be found, to faraman renowned for its herds of wild bulls and camarguese horses; and as jansoulet's name blazed forth at the foot of all these despatches, as the name of the bey of tunis also figured in them, everybody acquiesced with the utmost eagerness, the telegraphic messages arrived in an endless stream, and that little sardanapalus from porte-saint-martin, who was called cardailhac, was forever repeating: "there is something to work with;" delighted to throw gold about like handfuls of seed, to have a stage fifty leagues in circumference to arrange, all provence, of which country that fanatical parisian was a native, and thoroughly familiar with its resources in the direction of the picturesque. dispossessed of her functions, the old lady seldom appeared, gave her attention solely to the farm and her invalid, terrified by that crowd of visitors, those insolent servants whom one could not distinguish from their masters, those women with brazen, coquettish manners, those closely-shaven old villains who resembled wicked priests, all those mad creatures who chased one another through the halls at night with much throwing of pillows, wet sponges, and curtain tassels which they tore off to use as projectiles. she no longer had her son in the evening, for he was obliged to remain with his guests, whose number increased as the time for the fêtes drew near; nor had she even the resource of talking about her grandsons with "monsieur paul," whom jansoulet, always the kindest of men, being a little awed by his friend's seriousness of manner, had sent away to pass a few days with his brothers. and the careful housekeeper, to whom some one came every moment and seized her keys to get spare linen or silverware, to open another room, thinking of the throwing open of her stores of treasures, of the plundering of her wardrobes and her sideboards, remembering the condition in which the visit of the former bey had left the château, devastated as by a cyclone, said in her patois, feverishly moistening the thread of her distaff: "may god's fire devour all beys and all future beys!" at last the day arrived, the famous day of which people still talk throughout the whole province. oh! about three o'clock in the afternoon, after a sumptuous breakfast presided over by the old mother with a new cambrai cap on her head,--a breakfast at which, side by side with parisian celebrities, prefects were present and deputies, all in full dress, with swords at their sides, mayors in their scarfs of office, honest curés cleanly shaven,--when jansoulet, in black coat and white cravat, surrounded by his guests, went out upon the stoop and saw, framed in that magnificent landscape, amid flags and arches and ensigns, that swarm of heads, that sea of brilliant costumes rising tier above tier on the slopes and thronging the paths; here, grouped in a nosegay on the lawn, the prettiest girls of arles, whose little white faces peeped sweetly forth from lace neckerchiefs; below, the _farandole_ from barbantane, its eight tambourines in a line, ready for the word, hand in hand, ribbons fluttering in the wind, hats over one ear, the red _taillote_ about the loins; still lower, in the succession of terraces, the choral societies drawn up in line, all black beneath their bright-hued caps, the banner-bearer in advance, serious and resolved, with clenched teeth, holding aloft his carved staff; lower still, on an immense _rond-point_, black bulls in shackles, and camargue gauchos on their little horses with long white manes, their leggings above their knees, brandishing their spears; and after them more flags and helmets and bayonets, reaching to the triumphal arch at the entrance; then, as far as the eye could see on the other side of the rhone,--over which two gangs of workmen had just thrown a bridge of boats, so that they could drive from the station to saint-romans in a straight line,--was an immense crowd, whole villages pouring down from all the hills, overflowing on the giffas road in a wilderness of noise and dust, seated on the edge of the ditches, swarming among the elms, piled upon wagons, a formidable living lane for the procession to pass through; and over it all a huge white sun whose arrows a capricious breeze sent in every direction, from the copper of a tambourine to the point of a spear and the fringe of a banner, while the mighty rhone, high-spirited and free, bore away to the ocean the shifting tableaux of that royal fête. in presence of those marvels, in which all the gold in his coffers shone resplendent, the nabob felt a thrill of admiration and pride. "it is fine," he said, turning pale, and his mother, standing behind him, as pale as he, but from indescribable terror, murmured: "it is too fine for any man. one would think that god was coming." the feeling of the devout old peasant woman was much the same as that vaguely experienced by all those people who had assembled on the roads as if to watch the passage of a colossal procession on corpus christi, and who were reminded by that visit of an oriental prince to a child of the province, of the legends of the magian kings, the arrival of gaspard the moor bringing to the carpenter's son the myrrh and the crown. amid the heartfelt congratulations that were showered on jansoulet, cardailhac, who had not been seen since morning, suddenly appeared, triumphant and perspiring. "didn't i tell you that there was something to work with! eh? isn't this _chic_? there's a grouping for you! i fancy our parisians would pay something handsome to attend a first performance like this." he lowered his voice because the mother was close by: "have you seen our arles girls? no, look at them more carefully--the first one, the one standing in front to offer the bouquet." "why, that's amy férat!" "_parbleu!_ you can see yourself, my dear fellow, that if the bey throws his handkerchief into that bevy of pretty girls, there must be at least one who knows enough to pick it up. those innocent creatures wouldn't know what it meant! oh! i have thought of everything, you'll see. it's all mounted and arranged as if it were on the stage. farm side, garden side." at that point, to give an idea of the perfectness of his organization, the manager raised his cane; his gesture was instantly repeated from end to end of the park, with the result that all the musical societies, all the trumpets, all the tambourines burst forth in unison in the majestic strains of the familiar song of the south: _grand soleil de la provence_. the voices, the brazen notes ascended into the light, swelling the folds of the banners, giving the signal to the dancers of the _farandole_, who began to sway back and forth, to go through their first antics where they stood, while, on the other side of the river, a murmur ran through the crowd like a breeze, caused doubtless by the fear that the bey had arrived unexpectedly from another direction. a second gesture from the manager and the great orchestra subsided, more gradually, with _rallentando_ passages and meteoric showers of notes scattered among the foliage; but nothing better could be expected from a company of three thousand persons. just then the carriages appeared, the state carriages which had figured in the festivities in honor of the former bey, two great pink and gold chariots _à la mode de tunis_, which mother jansoulet had taken care of as precious relics, and which came forth from the carriage-house with their varnished panels, their hangings and gold fringe as bright and fresh as when they were new. there again cardailhac's ingenuity had exerted itself freely, and instead of horses, which were a little heavy for those fragile-looking, daintily decorated vehicles, the white reins guided eight mules with ribbons, plumes, and silver bells upon their heads, and caparisoned from head to foot with those marvellous _sparteries_, of which provence seems to have borrowed the secret from the moors and to have perfected the cunning art of manufacturing. if the bey were not satisfied with that! the nabob, monpavon, the prefect and one of their generals entered the first carriage, the others took their places in the second and following ones. the curés and mayors, all excited by the wine they had drunk, ran to place themselves at the head of the singing societies of their respective parishes, which were to go to meet the procession; and the whole multitude set forth on the giffas road. it was a superbly clear day, but warm and oppressive, three months in advance of the season, as often happens in those impetuous regions where everything is in a hurry, where everything arrives before its time. although there was not a cloud to be seen, the deathlike stillness of the atmosphere, the wind having fallen suddenly as one lowers a veil, the dazzling expanse, heated white-hot, a solemn silence hovering over the landscape, all indicated that a storm was brewing in some corner of the horizon. the extraordinary torpidity of the surrounding objects gradually affected the persons. naught could be heard save the tinkling bells of the mules as they ambled slowly along, the measured, heavy tread, through the burning dust, of the bands of singers whom cardailhac stationed at intervals in the procession, and from time to time, in the double, swarming line of human beings that bordered the road as far as the eye could see, a call, the voices of children, the cry of a peddler of fresh water, the inevitable accompaniment of all open-air fêtes in the south. "for heaven's sake, open the window on your side, general, it's stifling," said monpavon, with crimson face, fearing for his paint; and the lowered sashes afforded the worthy populace a view of those exalted functionaries mopping their august faces, which were terribly flushed and wore the same agonized expression of anticipation,--anticipation of the bey's arrival, of the storm, of something. another triumphal arch. giffas and its long stony street strewn with green palm leaves, its old, dirty houses covered with flowers and decorations. outside of the village the station, a square white structure, planted like a die at the side of the track, a genuine type of the little country station lost among vineyards, its only room always empty, except for an occasional old woman with a quantity of parcels, waiting in a corner, three hours too early for her train. in the bey's honor the little building was decked with flags and banners, furnished with rugs and divans and a splendid buffet, on which was a light lunch and water ices all ready for his highness. when he had arrived and alighted from his carriage, the nabob shook off the species of haunting disquiet which had oppressed him for a moment past, without his knowing why. prefects, generals, deputies, black coats and embroidered military coats stood on the broad inner platform, in impressive, solemn groups, with the pursed lips, the shifting from one foot to the other, the self-conscious starts of a public functionary who feels that he is being stared at. and you can imagine whether noses were flattened against window-panes in order to obtain a glimpse of those hierarchic embroideries, of monpavon's breastplate, which expanded and rose like an omelette soufflée, of cardailhac gasping for breath as he issued his final orders, and of the beaming face of jansoulet, their jansoulet, whose eyes, sparkling between the bloated, sunburned cheeks, resembled two great gilt nails in a piece of cordova leather. suddenly the electric bells began to ring. the station-agent rushed frantically out to the track: "the train is signalled, messieurs. it will be here in eight minutes." everybody started. then a general instinctive impulse caused every watch to be drawn from its fob. only six minutes more. thereupon, in the profound silence, some one exclaimed: "look there!" on the right, in the direction from which the train was to come, two high vine-covered hills formed a tunnel into which the track plunged and disappeared, as if swallowed up. at that moment the whole sky in that direction was as black as ink, obscured by an enormous cloud, a threatening wall cutting the blue as with a knife, rearing palisades, lofty cliffs of basalt on which the light broke like white foam with the pallid gleam of moonlight. in the solemn silence of the deserted track, along that line of rails where one felt that everything, so far as the eye could see, stood aside for the passage of his highness, that aërial cliff was a terrifying spectacle as it advanced, casting its shadow before it with that illusion of perspective which gave to the cloud a slow, majestic movement and to its shadow the rapid pace of a galloping horse. "what a storm we are going to have directly!" that was the thought that came to them all; but they had not time to express it, for an ear-piercing whistle was heard and the train appeared in the depths of the dark tunnel. a typical royal train, short and travelling fast, decorated with french and tunisian flags, its groaning, puffing locomotive, with an enormous bouquet of roses on its breast, representing the maid of honor at a wedding of leviathans. it came rushing on at full speed, but slackened its pace as it drew near. the functionaries formed a group, drawing themselves up, arranging their swords, adjusting their false collars, while jansoulet walked along the track toward the train, the obsequious smile on his lips and his back already bent for the "salem alek!" the train continued to move, very slowly. jansoulet thought that it had stopped, and placed his hand on the door of the royal carriage glittering with gold under the black sky; but the headway was too great, doubtless, for the train still went forward, the nabob walking beside it, trying to open that infernal door which resisted all his efforts, and with the other hand making a sign of command to the machine. but the machine did not obey. "stop, i tell you!" it did not stop. impatient at the delay, he sprang upon the velvet-covered step, and with the somewhat presumptuous impetuosity, which used to please the former bey so much, he cried out, thrusting his great curly head in at the window: "station for saint-romans, your highness!" you know that sort of vague light peculiar to dreams, that colorless, empty atmosphere, in which everything assumes a ghostly aspect? well, jansoulet was suddenly enveloped, made prisoner, paralyzed by it. he tried to speak, but the words would not come; his nerveless fingers clung so feebly to their support that he nearly fell backward. in heaven's name, what had he seen? half reclining on a divan which extended across one end of the car, his fine head with its dead-white complexion and its long, silky black beard resting on his hand, the bey, buttoned to the chin in his oriental frock-coat, without other ornament than the broad ribbon of the legion of honor across his breast and the diamond clasp in his cap, was fanning himself impassively with a little fan of _spartum_, embroidered with gold. two aides-de-camp were standing near him and an engineer of the french company. opposite him, upon another divan, in a respectful attitude, but one indicating high favor, as they alone remained seated in presence of the bey, both as yellow as saffron, their long whiskers falling over their white cravats, sat two owls, one fat, the other thin. they were the hemerlingues, father and son, who had reconquered his highness and were carrying him in triumph to paris. a ghastly dream! all those people, although they knew jansoulet well, stared coolly at him as if his face conveyed no idea to them. pitiably pale, with the perspiration standing on his brow, he stammered: "but, your highness, do you not mean to leave--" a livid flash, like that of a sabre stroke, followed by a frightful peal of thunder, cut him short. but the flash that shot from the monarch's eyes seemed far more terrible to him. rising to his feet and stretching out his arm, the bey crushed him with these words, prepared in advance and uttered slowly in a rather guttural voice accustomed to the harsh arabic syllables, but in very pure french: "you may return home, mercanti. the foot goes where the heart leads it, mine shall never enter the door of the man who has robbed my country." jansoulet tried to say a word. the bey waved his hand: "begone!" and the engineer having pressed the button of an electric bell, to which a whistle replied, the train, which had not come to a full stop, stretched and strained its iron muscles and started ahead under full steam, waving its flags in the wind of the storm amid whirling clouds of dense smoke and sinister flashes. he stood by the track, dazed, staggering, crushed, watching his fortune recede and disappear, heedless of the great drops of rain that began to fall upon his bare head. then, when the others rushed toward him, surrounded him and overwhelmed him with questions: "isn't the bey going to stop?" he stammered a few incoherent words: "court intrigues--infamous machinations." and suddenly, shaking his fist at the train which had already disappeared, with bloodshot eyes and the foam of fierce wrath on his lips, he cried with the roar of a wild beast: "vile curs!" "courage, jansoulet, courage." you can guess who said that, and who, passing his arm through the nabob's, tried to straighten him up, to make him throw out his breast as he did, led him to the carriages amid the stupefied silence of the braided coats, and helped him to enter, crushed and bewildered, as a relative of the deceased is hoisted into a mourning carriage at the close of the lugubrious ceremony. the rain was beginning to fall, the peals of thunder followed one another rapidly. they crowded into the carriages, which started hurriedly homeward. thereupon a heart-rending, yet comical thing took place, one of those cruel tricks which cowardly destiny plays upon its victims when they are down. in the fading light, the increasing obscurity caused by the squall, the crowd that filled all the approaches to the station believed that it could distinguish a royal highness amid such a profusion of gold lace, and as soon as the wheels began to revolve, a tremendous uproar, an appalling outcry which had been brewing in all those throats for an hour past, arose and filled the air, rebounded from hill to hill and echoed through the valley: "vive le bey!" warned by that signal, the first flourishes rang out, the singing societies struck up in their turn, and as the noise increased from point to point, the road from giffas to saint-romans was naught but one long, unbroken wave of sound. in vain did cardailhac, all the gentlemen, jansoulet himself, lean out of the windows and make desperate signs: "enough! enough!" their gestures were lost in the confusion, in the darkness; what was seen of them seemed an encouragement to shout louder. and i give you my word that it was in no wise needed. all those southerners, whose enthusiasm had been kept at fever heat since morning, excited still more by the tedium of the long wait and by the storm, gave all that they had of voice, of breath, of noisy energy, blending with the national hymn of provence that oft-repeated cry, which broke in upon it like a refrain: "vive le bey!" the majority had no sort of idea what a bey might be, did not even picture him to themselves, and gave a most extraordinary pronunciation to the unfamiliar title, as if it had three _b's_ and ten _y's_. but no matter, they worked themselves into a frenzy over it, threw up their hands, waved their hats, and waxed excited over their own antics. women, deeply affected, wiped their eyes; and suddenly the piercing cry of a child came from the topmost branches of an elm: "mamma, mamma, i see him!" he saw him! they all saw him for that matter; to this day they would all take their oath that they saw him. confronted with such delirious excitement, finding it impossible to impose silence and tranquillity upon that mob, there was but one course for the people in the carriages to pursue: to let them alone, raise the windows and drive at full speed in order to abridge that unpleasant martyrdom as much as possible. then it was terrible. seeing the cortège quicken its pace, the whole road began to run with it. the _farandoleurs_ of barbantane, hand-in-hand, bounded from side to side, to the muffled wheezing of their tambourines, forming a human garland around the carriage doors. the singing societies, unable to sing at that breathless pace, but howling none the less, dragged their banner-bearers along, the banners thrown over their shoulders; and the stout, red-faced curés, panting, pushing their huge overburdened paunches before them, still found strength to shout in the mules' ears, in sympathetic, effusive tones: "vive notre bon bey!" and with it all, the rain, the rain falling in bucketfuls, in sheets, soiling the pink carriages, increasing the confusion, giving to that triumphal return the aspect of a rout, but a laughable rout, compounded of songs, laughter, blasphemy, frantic embraces and infernal oaths, something like the return from a corpus christi procession in the storm, with cassocks tucked up, surplices thrown over the head, and the good lord hastily housed under a porch. a dull rumbling announced to the poor nabob, sitting silent and motionless in a corner of his carriage, that they were crossing the bridge of boats. they had arrived. "at last!" he said, looking out through the dripping windows at the foam-tipped waves of the rhone, where the storm seemed to him like repose after that through which he had passed. but, when the first carriage reached the triumphal arch at the end of the bridge, bombs were exploded, the drums beat, saluting the monarch's arrival upon his faithful subject's domain, and the climax of irony was reached when, in the half light, a blaze of gas suddenly illuminated the roof of the château with letters of fire, over which the rain and wind caused great shadows to run to and fro, but which still displayed very legibly the legend: "viv' l' b'y m'h'med." "that's the bouquet," said the unhappy nabob, unable to restrain a smile, a very pitiful, very bitter smile. but no, he was mistaken. the bouquet awaited him at the door of the chateâu; and it was amy férat who came forward to present it to him, stepping out of the group of maidens from arles, who were sheltering their watered silk skirts and figured velvet caps under the marquée, awaiting the first carriage. her bunch of flowers in her hand, modestly, with downcast eyes and roguish ankle, the pretty actress darted to the door and stood almost kneeling in an attitude of salutation, which she had been rehearsing for a week. instead of the bey, jansoulet stepped out, excited, stiffly erect, and passed her by without even looking at her. and as she stood there, her nosegay in her hand, with the stupid expression of a balked fairy, cardailhac said to her with the _blague_ of a parisian who speedily makes the best of things: "take away your flowers, my dear, your affair has fallen through. the bey isn't coming--he forgot his handkerchief, and as that's what he uses to talk to ladies, why, you understand--" * * * now, it is night. everybody is asleep at saint-romans after the tremendous hurly-burly of the day. the rain is still falling in torrents, the banners feebly wave their drenched carcasses, one can hear the water rushing down the stone steps, transformed into cascades. everything is streaming and dripping. a sound of water, a deafening sound of water. alone in his magnificently furnished chamber with its seignorial bed and its curtains of chinese silk with purple stripes, the nabob is still stirring, striding back and forth, revolving bitter thoughts. his mind is no longer intent upon the affront to himself, the public affront in the presence of thirty thousand persons, nor upon the murderous insult that the bey addressed to him in presence of his mortal enemies. no, that southerner with his wholly physical sensations, swift as the action of new weapons, has already cast away all the venom of his spleen. moreover court favorites are always prepared, by many celebrated precedents, for such overwhelming falls from grace. what terrifies him is what he can see behind that insult. he reflects that all his property is over yonder, houses, counting-rooms, vessels, at the mercy of the bey, in that lawless orient, the land of arbitrary power. and, pressing his burning brow against the streaming glass, with the perspiration standing on his back, and hands cold as ice, he stares vacantly out into the night, no darker, no more impenetrable than his own destiny. suddenly he hears footsteps, hurried footsteps, at his door. "who's there?" "monsieur," says noël, entering the room half-dressed, "a very urgent despatch sent from the telegraph office by special messenger." "a despatch!--what is the next thing?" he takes the blue paper and opens it with trembling hand. the god, having already been wounded twice, is beginning to feel that he is vulnerable, to lose his assurance; he experiences the apprehensions, the nervous tremors of other men. the signature first. _mora!_ is it possible? the duke, the duke telegraph to him! yes, there is no doubt about it. _m-o-r-a._ and above: _popolasca is dead. election in corsica soon. you are official candidate._ a deputy! that means salvation. with that he has nothing to fear. a representative of the great french nation is not to be treated like a simple _mercanti_. down with the hemerlingues! "o my duke, my noble duke!" he was so excited that he could not sign the receipt. "where's the man who brought this despatch?" he asked abruptly. "here, monsieur jansoulet," replied a hearty voice from the hall, in the familiar southern dialect. he was a lucky dog, that messenger. "come in," said the nabob. and, after handing him his receipt, he plunged his hands into his pockets, which were always full, grasped as many gold pieces as he could hold and threw them into the poor devil's cap as he stood there stammering, bewildered, dazzled by the fortune that had befallen him in the darkness of that enchanted palace. xii. a corsican election. "pozzonegro, near sartène. "i am able at last to write you of my movements, my dear monsieur joyeuse. in the five days that we have been in corsica we have travelled about so much, talked so much, changed carriages and steeds so often, riding sometimes on mules, sometimes on asses, and sometimes even on men's backs to cross streams, have written so many letters, made notes on so many petitions, given away so many chasubles and altar-cloths, propped up so many tottering church steeples, founded so many asylums, proposed and drunk so many toasts, absorbed so much talk and talano wine and white cheese, that i have found no time to send an affectionate word to the little family circle around the big table, from which i have been missing for two weeks. luckily my absence will not last much longer, for we expect to leave day after to-morrow and travel straight through to paris. so far as the election is concerned, i fancy that our trip has been successful. corsica is a wonderful country, indolent and poor, a mixture of poverty and of pride which makes both the noble and bourgeois families keep up a certain appearance of opulence even at the price of the most painful privations. they talk here in all seriousness of the great wealth of popolasca, the indigent deputy whom death robbed of the hundred thousand francs his resignation in the nabob's favor would have brought him. all these people have, moreover, a frenzied longing for offices, an administrative mania, a craving to wear a uniform of some sort and a flat cap on which they can write: "government clerk." if you should give a corsican peasant his choice between the richest farm in beauce and the baldric of the humblest forest-warden, he would not hesitate a moment, he would choose the baldric. under such circumstances you can judge whether a candidate with a large fortune and governmental favors at his disposal has a good chance of being elected. elected m. jansoulet will be, therefore, especially if he succeeds in the move which he is making at this moment and which has brought us to the only inn of a small village called pozzonegro (black well), a genuine well, all black with verdure, fifty cottages built of red stone clustered around a church of the italian type, in the bottom of a ravine surrounded by steep hills, by cliffs of bright-colored sandstone, scaled by vast forests of larches and junipers. through my open window, at which i am writing, i can see a bit of blue sky overhead, the orifice of the black well; below, on the little square, shaded by an enormous walnut tree, as if the shadows were not dense enough already, two shepherds dressed in skins are playing cards on the stone curb of a fountain. gambling is the disease of this country of sloth, where the crops are harvested by men from lucca. the two poor devils before me could not find a sou in their pockets; one stakes his knife, the other a cheese wrapped in vine leaves, the two stakes being placed beside them on the stone. a little curé is watching them, smoking his cigar, and apparently taking the liveliest interest in their game. "and that is all--not a sound anywhere except the regular dropping of the water on the stone, the exclamations of one of the gamblers, who swears by the _sango del seminario_; and in the common-room of the inn, under my chamber, our friend's earnest voice, mingled with the buzzing of the illustrious paganetti, who acts as interpreter in his conversation with the no less illustrious piedigriggio. "m. piedigriggio (grayfoot) is a local celebrity. he is a tall old man of seventy-five, still very erect in his short cloak over which his long white beard falls, his brown woollen catalan cap on his hair, which is also white, a pair of scissors in his belt, which he uses to cut the great leaves of green tobacco in the hollow of his hand; a venerable old fellow in fact, and when he crossed the square and shook hands with the curé, with a patronizing smile at the two gamblers, i never would have believed that i had before me the famous brigand piedigriggio, who, from to , _held the thickets_ in monte-rotondo, tired out gendarmes and troops of the line, and who to-day, his seven or eight murders with the rifle or the knife being outlawed by lapse of time, goes his way in peace throughout the region that saw his crimes, and is a man of considerable importance. this is the explanation: piedigriggio has two sons, who, following nobly in his footsteps, have toyed with the rifle and now hold the thickets in their turn. impossible to lay hands upon or to find, as their father was for twenty years, informed by the shepherds of the movements of the gendarmerie, as soon as the gendarmes leave a village, the brigands appear there. the older of the two, scipion, came last sunday to pozzonegro to hear mass. to say that people are fond of them, and that the grasp of the bloodstained hand of these villains is agreeable to all those who receive it, would be to calumniate the pacific inhabitants of this commune; but they fear them, and their will is law. "now it appears that the piedigriggios have taken it into their heads to espouse the cause of our rival in the election, a formidable alliance, which may cause two whole cantons to vote against us, for the knaves have legs as long, in proportion, as the range of their guns. naturally we have the gendarmes with us, but the brigands are much more powerful. as our host said to us this morning: 'the gendarmes, they go, but the banditti, they stay.' in the face of that very logical reasoning, we realized that there was but one thing to do, to treat with the piedigriggios, and make a bargain with them. the mayor said a word to the old man, who consulted his sons, and they are discussing the terms of the treaty downstairs. i can hear the governor's voice from here: 'nonsense, my dear fellow, i'm an old corsican myself, you know.' and then the other's tranquil reply, cut simultaneously with his tobacco by the grating noise of the great scissors. the 'dear fellow' does not seem to have faith; and i am inclined to think that matters will not progress until the gold pieces ring on the table. "the trouble is that paganetti is well known in his native country. the value of his word is written on the public square at corte which still awaits the monument to paoli, in the vast crop of humbuggery that he has succeeded in planting in this sterile ithacan island, and in the flabby, empty pocket-books of all the wretched village curés, petty bourgeois, petty noblemen, whose slender savings he has filched by dangling chimerical _combinazioni_ before their eyes. upon my word, he needed all his phenomenal assurance, together with the financial resources he now has at his command to satisfy all demands, to venture to show his face here again. "after all, how much truth is there in these fabulous works undertaken by the _caisse territoriale_? "none at all. "mines which do not yield, which will never yield, as they exist only on paper; quarries which as yet know not pickaxe or powder; untilled, sandy moors, which they survey with a gesture, saying, 'we begin here, and we go way over yonder, to the devil.' it's the same with the forests,--one whole densely wooded slope of monte-rotondo, which belongs to us, it seems, but which it is not practicable to cut unless aeronauts should do duty as woodcutters. so as to the mineral baths, of which this wretched hamlet of pozzonegro is one of the most important, with its fountain, whose amazing ferruginous properties paganetti is constantly vaunting. of packet-boats, not a trace. yes, there is an old, half-ruined genoese tower, on the shore of the bay of ajaccio, with this inscription on a tarnished panel over its hermetically closed door: 'paganetti agency, maritime company, bureau of information.' the bureau is kept by fat gray lizards in company with a screech-owl. as for the railroads, i noticed that all the excellent corsicans to whom i mentioned them, replied with cunning smiles, disconnected phrases, full of mystery; and not until this morning did i obtain the exceedingly farcical explanation of all this reticence. "i had read among the documents which the governor waves before our eyes from time to time, like a fan to inflate his _blague_, a deed of a marble quarry at a place called taverna, two hours from pozzonegro. availing myself of our visit to this place, i jumped on a mule this morning, without a word to any one, and, guided by a tall rascal, with the legs of a deer,--a perfect specimen of the corsican poacher or smuggler, with his great red pipe between his teeth,--i betook myself to taverna. after a horrible journey among cliffs intersected by crevasses, bogs, and abysses of immeasurable depth, where my mule maliciously amused himself by walking close to the edge, as if he were measuring it with his shoes, we descended an almost perpendicular surface to our destination,--a vast desert of rocks, absolutely bare, all white with the droppings of gulls and mews; for the sea is just below, very near, and the silence of the place was broken only by the beating of the waves and the shrill cries of flocks of birds flying in circles. my guide, who has a holy horror of customs officers and gendarmes, remained at the top of the cliff, because of a small custom-house station on the shore, while i bent my steps toward a tall red building which reared its three stories aloft in that blazing solitude, the windows broken, the roof-tiles in confusion, and over the rotting door an immense sign: '_caisse territoriale. carr--bre-- ._' the wind and sun and rain have destroyed the rest. "certainly there has been at some time an attempt made to work the mine, for there is a large, square, yawning hole, with cleanly-cut edges and patches of red streaked with brown, like leprous spots, along its sterile walls; and among the nettles at the bottom enormous blocks of marble of the variety known in commerce as _griotte_, condemned blocks of which no use can be made for lack of a proper road leading to the quarry, or a harbor which would enable boats to approach the hill; and, more than all else, for lack of sufficient funds to supply either of those needs. so the quarry, although within a few cable-lengths of the shore, is abandoned, useless, and a nuisance, like robinson crusoe's boat, with the same drawbacks as to availability. these details of the distressing history of our only territorial possession were furnished me by an unhappy survivor, shivering with fever, whom i found in the basement of the yellow house trying to cook a piece of kid over the acrid smoke of a fire of mastic branches. "that man, who comprises the whole staff of the _caisse territoriale_ in corsica, is paganetti's foster-father, an ex-lighthouse-keeper who does not mind loneliness. the governor leaves him there partly from charity, and also because an occasional letter from the taverna quarry produces a good effect at meetings of shareholders. i had great difficulty in extorting any information from that three-fourths wild man, who gazed at me suspiciously, in ambush behind his goat-skin _pelone_; he did tell me, however, unintentionally, what the corsicans understand by the term railroad, and why they assume this mysterious manner when they mention it. while i was trying to find out whether he knew anything of the scheme for an iron road in the island, the old fellow did not put on the cunning smile i had observed in his compatriots, but said to me quite naturally, in very good french, but in a voice as rusty and stiff as an old lock that is seldom used: "'oh! moussiou, no need of railroads here--' "'but they are very valuable, very useful to make communication easier.' "'i don't say that ain't true; but with the gendarmes we don't need anything more.' "'the gendarmes?' "'to be sure.' "the misunderstanding lasted fully five minutes, before i finally comprehended that the secret police are known here as the 'railroads.' as there are many corsican police officials on the continent, they make use of an honest euphemism to describe their degrading occupation in their family circle. you ask the kinsmen of one of them, 'where's your brother ambrosini?' 'what is your uncle barbicaglia doing?' they will answer, with a little wink: 'he has a place on the railroad;' and everybody knows what that means. among the lower classes, the peasants, who have never seen a railroad and have no idea what it is, there is a perfectly serious belief that the great department of the secret imperial police has no other name than that. our principal agent in the island shares that touching innocence; this will give you an idea of the condition of the _line from ajaccio to bastia via bonifacio, porto vecchio, etc._, which figures on the great books with green backs in the paganetti establishment. in a word, all the assets of the territorial bank are comprised in a few desks and two old hovels--the whole hardly worthy of a place in the rubbish-yard on rue saint-ferdinand, where i hear the weathercocks creaking and the old doors slamming every night as i fall asleep. "but in that case what has been done, what is being done with the enormous sums that m. jansoulet has poured into the treasury in the last five months, to say nothing of what has come from other sources attracted by that magic name? i fully agreed with you that all these soundings and borings and purchases of land, which appear on the books in a fine round hand, were immeasurably exaggerated. but how could any one suspect such infernal impudence? that is why m. le gouverneur was so disgusted at the idea of taking me on this electoral trip. i have not thought it best to have an explanation on the spot. my poor nabob has enough on his mind with his election. but, as soon as we have returned, i shall place all the details of my long investigation before his eyes; and i will extricate him from this den of thieves by persuasion or by force. they have finished their negotiations downstairs. old piedigriggio is crossing the square, playing with his long peasant's purse, which looks to me to be well-filled. the bargain is concluded, i suppose. a hasty adieu, my dear monsieur joyeuse; remember me to the young ladies, and bid them keep a tiny place for me at the work-table. "paul de gÉry." the electoral cyclone in which they had been enveloped in corsica crossed the sea in their wake like the blast of a sirocco, followed them to paris and blew madly through the apartments on place vendôme, which were thronged from morning till night by the usual crowd, increased by the constant arrival of little men as dark as carob-beans, with regular, bearded faces, some noisy, buzzing and chattering, others silent, self-contained and dogmatic, the two types of the race in which the same climate produces different results. all those famished islanders made appointments, in the wilds of their uncivilized fatherland, to meet one another at the nabob's table, and his house had become a tavern, a restaurant, a market-place. in the dining-room, where the table was always set, there was always some corsican, newly arrived, in the act of taking a bite, with the bewildered and greedy expression of a relation from the country. the noisy, blatant breed of election agents is the same everywhere; but these men were distinguished by something more of ardor, a more impassioned zeal, a turkey-cock vanity heated white-hot. the most insignificant clerk, inspector, mayor's secretary, or village schoolmaster talked as if he had a whole canton behind him and the pockets of his threadbare coat stuffed full of ballots. and it is a fact, which jansoulet had had abundant opportunity to verify, that in the corsican villages the families are so ancient, of such humble origin, with so many ramifications, that a poor devil who breaks stones on the high road finds some way to work out his relationship to the greatest personages on the island, and in that way wields a serious influence. as the national temperament, proud, cunning, intriguing, revengeful, intensifies these complications, the result is that great care must be taken as to where one puts his foot among the snares that are spread from one end of the island to the other. the most dangerous part of it was that all those people were jealous of one another, detested one another, quarrelled openly at the table on the subject of the election, exchanging black glances, grasping the hilts of their knives at the slightest dispute, talking very loud and all together, some in the harsh, resonant genoese patois, others in the most comical french, choking with restrained insults, throwing at one another's heads the names of unknown villages, dates of local history which suddenly placed two centuries of family feuds upon the table between two covers. the nabob was afraid that his breakfasts would end tragically, and tried to calm all those violent natures with his kindly, conciliatory smile. but paganetti reassured him. according to him, the vendetta, although still kept alive in corsica, very rarely employs the stiletto and the firearm in these days. the anonymous letter has taken their place. indeed, unsigned letters were received every day at place vendôme, after the style of this one:-- "you are so generous, monsieur jansoulet, that i can do no less than point out to you sieur bornalinco (ange-marie) as a traitor who has gone over to your enemies; i have a very different story to tell of his cousin bornalinco (louis-thomas), who is devoted to the good cause," etc. or else: "monsieur jansoulet, i fear that your election will be badly managed and will come to nothing if you continue to employ castirla (josué) of the canton of odessa, while his kinsman, luciani, is the very man you need." although he finally gave up reading such missives, the poor candidate was shaken by all those doubts, by all those passions, being caught in a network of petty intrigues, his mind full of terror and distrust, anxious, excited, nervous, feeling keenly the truth of the corsican proverb: "if you are very ill-disposed to your enemy, pray that he may have an election in his family." we can imagine that the check-book and the three great drawers in the mahogany commode were not spared by that cloud of devouring locusts that swooped down upon "moussiou jansoulet's" salons. nothing could be more comical than the overbearing way in which those worthy islanders negotiated their loans, abruptly and with an air of defiance. and yet they were not the most terrible, except in the matter of boxes of cigars, which vanished in their pockets so rapidly as to make one think they proposed to open a _civette_ on their return to the island. but just as wounds grow red and inflamed on very hot days, so the election had caused an amazing recrudescence in the systematic pillage that reigned in the house. the expenses of advertising were considerable: moëssard's articles, sent to corsica in packages of twenty thousand, thirty thousand copies, with portraits, biographies, pamphlets, all the printed clamor that it is possible to raise around a name. and then there was no diminution in the ordinary consumption of the panting pumps established around the reservoir of millions. on one side the work of bethlehem, a powerful machine, pumping at regular intervals, with tremendous energy; the _caisse territoriale_, with marvellous power of suction, indefatigable in its operation, with triple and quadruple action, of several thousand horse-power; and the schwalbach pump, and the bois-l'héry pump, and how many more; some of enormous size, making a great noise, with audacious pistons, others more quiet and reserved, with tiny valves, bearings skilfully oiled--toy-pumps as delicately constructed as the probosces of insects whose thirst causes stings, and which deposit poison on the spot from which they suck their life; but all working with the same unanimity, and fatally certain to cause, if not an absolute drought, at all events a serious lowering of the level. already unfavorable reports, vague as yet, were in circulation on the bourse. was it a manoeuvre of the enemy, of that hemerlingue against whom jansoulet was waging ruthless financial war, trying to defeat all his operations, and losing very considerable sums at the game, because he had against him his own excitable nature, his adversary's cool-headedness and the bungling of paganetti, whom he used as a man of straw? in any event, the star of gold had turned pale. paul de géry learned as much from père joyeuse, who had entered the employ of a broker as book-keeper, and was thoroughly posted on matters connected with the bourse; but what alarmed him more than all else was the nabob's strange agitation, the craving for excitement which had succeeded the admirable calmness of conscious strength, of serenity, the disappearance of his southern sobriety, the way in which he stimulated himself before eating by great draughts of _raki_, talking loud and laughing uproariously like a common sailor during his watch on deck. one felt that the man was tiring himself out to escape some absorbing thought, which was visible nevertheless in the sudden contraction of all the muscles of his face when it passed through his mind, or when he was feverishly turning over the pages of his tarnished little memorandum-book. the serious interview, the decisive explanation that paul was so desirous to have with him, jansoulet would not have at any price. he passed his evenings at the club, his mornings in bed, and as soon as he was awake had his bedroom full of people, who talked to him while he was dressing, and to whom he replied with his face in his wash-bowl. if, by any miracle, de géry caught him for a second, he would run away or cut him short with a: "not now, i beg you." at last the young man resorted to heroic measures. one morning about five o'clock, jansoulet, on returning from his club, found on the table beside his bed a little note which he took at first for one of the anonymous denunciations which he received every day. it was a denunciation, in very truth, but signed, written with the utmost frankness, breathing the loyalty and youthful seriousness of the man who wrote it. de géry set before him very clearly all the infamous schemes, all the speculations by which he was surrounded. he called the rascals by their names, without circumlocution. there was not one among the ordinary habitués of the house who was not a suspicious character, not one who came there for any other purpose than to steal or lie. from attic to cellar, pillage and waste. bois-l'héry's horses were unsound, the schwalbach gallery a fraud, moëssard's articles notorious blackmail. de géry had drawn up a long detailed list of those impudent frauds, with proofs in support of his allegations; but he commended especially to jansoulet's attention the matter of the _caisse territoriale_, as the really dangerous element in his situation. in the other matters money alone was at risk; in this, honor was involved. attracted by the nabob's name, by his title of president of the council, hundreds of stockholders had walked into that infamous trap, seeking gold in the footsteps of that lucky miner. that fact imposed a terrible responsibility upon him which he would understand by reading the memorandum relating to the concern, which was falsehood and fraud, pure and simple, from beginning to end. "you will find the memorandum to which i refer," said paul de géry in conclusion, "in the first drawer in my desk. various receipts are affixed to it. i have not put it in your room, because i am distrustful of noël as of all the rest. to-night, when i go away, i will hand you the key. for i am going away, my dear friend and benefactor, i am going away, overflowing with gratitude for the benefits you have conferred on me, and in despair because your blind confidence has prevented me from repaying them in part. my conscience as a man of honor would reproach me were i to remain longer useless at my post. i am looking on at a terrible disaster, the pillage of a summer palace, which i am powerless to check; but my heart rises in revolt at all that i see. i exchange grasps of the hand which dishonor me. i am your friend, and i seem to be their confederate. and who knows whether, by living on in such an atmosphere, i might not become so?" this letter, which he read slowly, thoroughly, even to the spaces between the words and the lines, made such a keen impression on the nabob that, instead of going to bed, he went at once to his young secretary. paul occupied a study at the end of the suite of salons, where he slept on a couch, a provisional arrangement which he had never cared to change. the whole house was still asleep. as he walked through the long line of great salons, which were not used for evening receptions, so that the curtains were always open and at that moment admitted the uncertain light of a parisian dawn, the nabob paused, impressed by the melancholy aspect that his magnificent surroundings presented. in the heavy odor of tobacco and various liquors that filled the rooms, the furniture, the wainscotings, the decorations seemed faded yet still new. stains on the crumpled satin, ashes soiling the beautiful marbles, marks of boots on the carpet reminded him of a huge first-class railway carriage, bearing the marks of the indolence, impatience and ennui of a long journey, with the destructive contempt of the public for a luxury for which it has paid. amid that stage scenery, all in position and still warm from the ghastly comedy that was played there every day, his own image, reflected in twenty cold, pale mirrors, rose before him, at once ominous and comical, ill-at-ease in his fashionable clothes, with bloated cheeks and face inflamed and dirty. what an inevitable and disenchanting morrow to the insane life he was leading! he lost himself for a moment in gloomy thoughts; then, with the vigorous shrug of the shoulders which was so familiar in him, that packman's gesture with which he threw off any too painful preoccupation, he resumed the burden which every man carries with him, and which causes the back to bend more or less, according to his courage or his strength, and entered de géry's room, where he found him already dressed and standing in front of his open desk, arranging papers. "first of all, my boy," said jansoulet, closing the door softly on their interview, "answer me this question frankly. are the motives set forth in your letter your real motives for resolving to leave me? isn't there underneath it all one of these infamous stories that i know are being circulated against me in paris? i am sure you would be frank enough to tell me, and to give me a chance to--to set myself right in your eyes." paul assured him that he had no other reasons for going, but that those he had mentioned were surely sufficient, as it was a matter of conscience. "listen to me then, my child, and i am sure that i shall be able to keep you. your letter, eloquent as it was with honesty and sincerity, told me nothing new, nothing that i had not been convinced of for three months. yes, my dear paul, you were right; paris is more complicated than i thought. what i lacked when i arrived here was an honest, disinterested cicerone to put me on my guard against persons and things. i found none but people who wanted to make money out of me. all the degraded scoundrels in the city have left the mud from their boots on my carpets. i was looking at those poor salons of mine just now. they need a good thorough sweeping; and i promise you that they shall have, _jour de dieu!_ and from no light hand. but i am waiting until i am a deputy. all these rascals are of service to me in my election; and the election is too necessary to me for me to throw away the slightest chance. this is the situation in two words. not only does the bey not intend to repay the money i loaned him a month ago; he has met my claim with a counter-claim for twenty-four millions, the figure at which he estimates the sums i obtained from his brother. that is infernal robbery, an impudent slander. my fortune is my own, honestly my own. i made it in my dealings as a contractor. i enjoyed ahmed's favor; he himself furnished me with opportunities for making money. it is very possible that i have screwed the vise a little hard sometimes. but the matter must not be judged with the eyes of a european. the enormous profits that the levantines make are a well-known and recognized thing over yonder; they are the ransom of the savages whom we introduce to western comforts. this wretched hemerlingue, who is suggesting all this persecution of me to the bey, has done very much worse things. but what's the use of arguing? i am in the wolf's jaws. pending my appearance to justify myself before his courts--i know all about justice in the orient--the bey has begun by putting an embargo on all my property, ships, palaces and their contents. the affair has been carried on quite regularly, in pursuance of a decree of the supreme council. i can feel the claw of hemerlingue junior under it all. if i am chosen deputy, it is all a jest. the council revokes its decree and my treasures are returned with all sorts of excuses. if i am not elected, i lose everything, sixty, eighty millions, even the possible opportunity of making another fortune; it means ruin, disgrace, the bottomless pit. and now, my son, do you propose to abandon me at such a crisis? remember that i have nobody in the world but you. my wife? you have seen her, you know how much support, how much good advice she gives her husband. my children? it's as if i had none. i never see them, they would hardly know me in the street. my ghastly magnificence has made an empty void around me, so far as affections are concerned, has replaced them by shameless selfish interests. i have no one to love but my mother, who is far away, and you, who come to me from my mother. no, you shall not leave me alone among all the slanders that are crawling around me. it is horrible--if you only knew! at the club, at the theatre, wherever i go, i see baroness hemerlingue's little snake's head, i hear the echo of her hissing, i feel the venom of her hatred. everywhere i am conscious of mocking glances, conversations broken off when i appear, smiles that lie, or kindness in which there is a mingling of pity. and then the defections, the people who move away as if a catastrophe were coming. for instance, here is felicia ruys, with my bust just finished, alleging some accident or other as an excuse for not sending it to the salon. i said nothing, i pretended to believe it. but i understood that there was some infamy on foot in that quarter, too,--and it's a great disappointment to me. in emergencies as grave as that i am passing through, everything has its importance. my bust at the exhibition, signed by that famous name, would have been of great benefit to me in paris. but no, everything is breaking, everything is failing me. surely you see that you must not fail me." end of vol. i. master-tales parisian points of view by ludovic halÉvy translated by edith v.b. matthews with introduction by brander matthews [illustration] harper & brothers publishers new york and london copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ contents page introduction vii only a waltz the dancing-master the circus charger blacky the most beautiful woman in paris the story of a ball-dress the insurgent the chinese ambassador in the express introduction the short stories of m. ludovic halÉvy to most american readers of fiction i fancy that m. ludovic halévy is known chiefly, if not solely, as the author of that most charming of modern french novels, _the abbé constantin_. some of these readers may have disliked this or that novel of m. zola's because of its bad moral, and this or that novel of m. ohnet's because of its bad taste, and all of them were delighted to discover in m. halévy's interesting and artistic work a story written by a french gentleman for young ladies. here and there a scoffer might sneer at the tale of the old french priest and the young women from canada as innocuous and saccharine; but the story of the good abbé constantin and of his nephew, and of the girl the nephew loved in spite of her american millions--this story had the rare good fortune of pleasing at once the broad public of indiscriminate readers of fiction and the narrower circle of real lovers of literature. artificial the atmosphere of the tale might be, but it was with an artifice at once delicate and delicious; and the tale itself won its way into the hearts of the women of america as it had into the hearts of the women of france. there is even a legend--although how solid a foundation it may have in fact i do not dare to discuss--there is a legend that the lady-superior of a certain convent near paris was so fascinated by _the abbé constantin_, and so thoroughly convinced of the piety of its author, that she ordered all his other works, receiving in due season the lively volumes wherein are recorded the sayings and doings of monsieur and madame cardinal, and of the two lovely daughters of monsieur and madame cardinal. to note that these very amusing studies of certain aspects of life in a modern capital originally appeared in that extraordinary journal, _la vie parisienne_--now sadly degenerate--is enough to indicate that they are not precisely what the good lady-superior expected to receive. we may not say that _la famille cardinal_ is one of the books every gentleman's library should be without; but to appreciate its value requires a far different knowledge of the world and of its wickedness than is needed to understand _the abbé constantin_. yet the picture of the good priest and the portraits of the little cardinals are the work of the same hand, plainly enough. in both of these books, as in _criquette_ (m. halévy's only other novel), as in _a marriage for love_, and the twoscore other short stories he has written during the past thirty years, there are the same artistic qualities, the same sharpness of vision, the same gentle irony, the same constructive skill, and the same dramatic touch. it is to be remembered always that the author of _l'abbé constantin_ is also the half-author of "froufrou" and of "tricoche et cacolet," as well as of the librettos of "la belle hélène" and of "la grande duchesse de gerolstein." in the two novels, as in the twoscore short stories and sketches--the _contes_ and the _nouvelles_ which are now spring-like idyls and now wintry episodes, now sombre etchings and now gayly-colored pastels--in all the works of the story-teller we see the firm grasp of the dramatist. the characters speak for themselves; each reveals himself with the swift directness of the personages of a play. they are not talked about and about, for all analysis has been done by the playwright before he rings up the curtain in the first paragraph. and the story unrolls itself, also, as rapidly as does a comedy. the movement is straightforward. there is the cleverness and the ingenuity of the accomplished dramatist, but the construction has the simplicity of the highest skill. the arrangement of incidents is so artistic that it seems inevitable; and no one is ever moved to wonder whether or not the tale might have been better told in different fashion. nephew of the composer of "la juive"--an opera not now heard as often as it deserves, perhaps--and son of a playwright no one of whose productions now survives, m. halévy grew up in the theatre. at fourteen he was on the free-list of the opéra, the opéra-comique, and the odéon. after he left school and went into the civil service his one wish was to write plays, and so to be able to afford to resign his post. in the civil service he had an inside view of french politics, which gave him a distaste for the mere game of government without in any way impairing the vigor of his patriotism; as is proved by certain of the short stones dealing with the war of and the revolt of the paris communists. and while he did his work faithfully, he had spare hours to give to literature. he wrote plays and stories, and they were rejected. the manager of the odéon declared that one early play of m. halévy's was exactly suited to the gymnase, and the manager of the gymnase protested that it was exactly suited to the odéon. the editor of a daily journal said that one early tale of m. halévy's was too brief for a novel, and the editor of a weekly paper said that it was too long for a short story. in time, of course, his luck turned; he had plays performed and stories published; and at last he met m. henri meilhac, and entered on that collaboration of nearly twenty years' duration to which we owe "froufrou" and "tricoche et cacolet," on the one hand, and on the other the books of offenbach's most brilliant operas--"barbebleue," for example, and "la périchole." when this collaboration terminated, shortly before m. halévy wrote _the abbé constantin_, he gave up writing for the stage. the training of the playwright he could not give up, if he would, nor the intimacy with the manners and customs of the people who live, move, and have their being on the far side of the curtain. obviously m. halévy is fond of the actors and the actresses with whom he spent the years of his manhood. they appear again and again in his tales; and in his treatment of them there is never anything ungentlemanly as there was in m. jean richepin's recent volume of theatrical sketches. m. halévy's liking for the men and women of the stage is deep; and wide is his knowledge of their changing moods. the young criquette and the old karikari and the aged dancing-master--he knows them all thoroughly, and he likes them heartily, and he sympathizes with them cordially. indeed, nowhere can one find more kindly portraits of the kindly player-folk than in the writings of this half-author of "froufrou"; it is as though the successful dramatist felt ever grateful towards the partners of his toil, the companions of his struggles. he is not blind to their manifold weaknesses, nor is he the dupe of their easy emotionalism, but he is tolerant of their failings, and towards them, at least, his irony is never mordant. irony is one of m. halévy's chief characteristics, perhaps the chiefest. it is gentle when he deals with the people of the stage--far gentler then than when he is dealing with the people of society, with fashionable folk, with the aristocracy of wealth. when he is telling us of the young loves of millionaires and of million-heiresses, his touch may seem caressing, but for all its softness the velvet paw has claws none the less. it is amusing to note how often m. halévy has chosen to tell the tale of love among the very rich. the heroine of _the abbé constantin_ is immensely wealthy, as we all know, and immensely wealthy are the heroines of _princesse_, of _a grand marriage,_ and of _in the express_.[a] sometimes the heroes and the heroines are not only immensely wealthy, they are also of the loftiest birth; such, for instance, are the young couple whose acquaintance we make in the pages of _only a waltz_. [footnote a: perhaps the present writer will be forgiven if he wishes to record here that _in the express (par le rapide)_ was published in paris only towards the end of , while a tale not wholly unlike it, _in the vestibule limited_, was published in new york in the spring of .] there is no trace or taint of snobbery in m. halévy's treatment of all this magnificence; there is none of the vulgarity which marks the pages of _lothair_, for example; there is no mean admiration of mean things. there is, on the other hand, no bitterness of scourging satire. he lets us see that all this luxury is a little cloying and perhaps not a little enervating. he suggests (although he takes care never to say it) that perhaps wealth and birth are not really the best the world can offer. the amiable egotism of the hero of _in the express_, and the not unkindly selfishness of the heroine of that most parisian love-story, are set before us without insistence, it is true, but with an irony so keen that even he who runs as he reads may not mistake the author's real opinion of the characters he has evoked. to say this is to say that m. halévy's irony is delicate and playful. there is no harshness in his manner and no hatred in his mind. we do not find in his pages any of the pessimism which is perhaps the dominant characteristic of the best french fiction of our time. to m. halévy, as to every thinking man, life is serious, no doubt, but it need not be taken sadly, or even solemnly. to him life seems still enjoyable, as it must to most of those who have a vivid sense of humor. he is not disillusioned utterly, he is not reduced to the blankness of despair as are so many of the disciples of flaubert, who are cast into the outer darkness, and who hopelessly revolt against the doom they have brought on themselves. indeed, it is merimée that m. halévy would hail as his master, and not flaubert, whom most of his fellow french writers of fiction follow blindly. now, while the author of _salamnbo_ was a romanticist turned sour, the author of _carmen_ was a sentimentalist sheathed in irony. to gustave flaubert the world was hideously ugly, and he wished it strangely and splendidly beautiful, and he detested it the more because of his impossible ideal. to prosper merimée the world was what it is, to be taken and made the best of, every man keeping himself carefully guarded. like merimée, m. halévy is detached, but he is not disenchanted. his work is more joyous than merimée's, if not so vigorous and compact, and his delight in it is less disguised. even in the cardinal sketches there is nothing that leaves an acrid after-taste, nothing corroding--as there is not seldom in the stronger and sterner short stories of maupassant. more than maupassant or flaubert or merimée, is m. halévy a parisian. whether or not the characters of his tale are dwellers in the capital, whether or not the scene of his story is laid in the city by the seine, the point of view is always parisian. the _circus charger_ did his duty in the stately avenues of a noble country-place, and _blacky_ performed his task near a rustic water-fall; but the men who record their intelligent actions are parisians of the strictest sect. even in the patriotic pieces called forth by the war of , in the _insurgent_ and in the _chinese ambassador_, it is the siege of paris and the struggle of the communists which seem to the author most important. his style even, his swift and limpid prose--the prose which somehow corresponds to the best _vers de société_ in its brilliancy and buoyancy--is the style of one who lives at the centre of things. cardinal newman once said that while livy and tacitus and terence and seneca wrote latin, cicero wrote roman; so while m. zola on the one side, and m. georges ohnet on the other, may write french, m. halévy writes parisian. brander matthews. only a waltz "aunt, dear aunt, don't believe a word of what he is going to tell you. he is preparing to fib, to fib outrageously. if i hadn't interrupted him at the beginning of his talk, he would have told you that he had made up his mind to marry me from his and my earliest childhood." "of course!" exclaimed gontran. "of course not," replied marceline. "he was going to tell you that he was a good little boy, having always loved his little cousin, and that our marriage was a delightful romance of tenderness and sweetness." "why, yes, of course," repeated gontran. "nonsense! the truth, aunt louise, the real truth, in short, is this, never, never should we have been married if on the th of may, , between nine and eleven o'clock, he had not lost , points at bezique at the club, and if all the boxes had not been sold, that same night, at the bouffes-parisiens theatre." gontran began to laugh. "oh, you can laugh as much as you please! you know very well that but for this--on what does fate depend?--i should now be married and a duchess, it is true; but duchess of courtalin, and not duchess of lannilis. well, perhaps that would have been better! at any rate, i wish to give aunt louise the authentic history of our marriage." "tell away, if it amuses you," said gontran. "yes, sir, it amuses me. you shall know all, aunt louise--all, absolutely all; and i beg you to be judge of our quarrel." this scene was taking place eight days after marceline de lorlauge, at the church of the madeleine, before the altar, hidden under a mountain of roses, had answered "yes," with just the right amount of nervousness and emotion (neither too much nor too little, but exactly right), when she was asked if she was willing to take for husband her cousin, jean leopold mathurin arbert gontran, duke of lannilis. this marriage had been the great marriage of the season. there had been an absolute crush under the colonnade and against the railings of the church to see the bride walk down those fearful steps of the madeleine. what an important feat that is! merely to be beautiful is not all that is needful; it is necessary besides to know how to be beautiful. there is an art about being pretty which requires certain preparations and study. in society, as in the theatre, success rarely comes at once. mme. de lannilis had the good-fortune to make her first appearance with decisive success. she was at once quite easily and boldly at home in her beauty; she had only to appear to triumph. prince nérins had not a moment's hesitation concerning it, and he it is, as every one knows, who, with general consent, has made himself the distributor of the patents of supreme parisian elegance; so while the new duchess, beneath the fire of a thousand eyes and behind the ringing staffs, was taking her first steps as a young married woman with calm assurance, nérins, struck with admiration, was giving way, under the colonnade of the madeleine, to veritable transports of enthusiasm. he went from group to group repeating: "she is aerial! there is no other expression for her--aerial! she does not walk, she glides! if she had the fantasy, with one little kick of her heel, she could raise herself lightly over the heads of those two tall fellows with spears, cross the place de la concorde, and go and place herself on the pediment of the chamber of deputies. look at her well; that is true beauty, radiant beauty, blazing beauty! she is a goddess, a young goddess! she will reign long, gentlemen--as long as possible." the young goddess, for the present, did not go farther than lannilis, in poitou, to her husband's home--her home--in a mansion that had seen many duchesses of lannilis, but never one more charming, and never, it must be said, one more absolutely in love. this little duchess of nineteen was wild about this little duke of twenty-five, who was jealously carrying her off for himself alone to a quiet and solitary retreat. they had arrived thursday, the th of june, at about two o'clock--on an exquisite night beneath a star-spangled sky--and they were suddenly astounded at receiving a letter from their aunt louise, dated july : "eight days' steady tête-à-tête," she wrote, "is enough, quite enough. trust to the experience of an old countrywoman, who would be delighted to kiss her little nephew and niece. don't eat all your love in the bud--keep a little for the future." thursday, the st of july! eight days! they had been eight days at lannilis! it was impossible! they tried to put some order in their reflections. what had they done friday, saturday, and sunday? but all was vague, and became confused in their minds. the days and the nights, and the nights and days. what had they done? it was always the same, same thing; and the same thing had somehow never been the same thing. they had just loved, loved, loved; and, quite given up to this very wise occupation, they had completely forgotten that near lannilis, in the old residence of chatellerault, there was dear old aunt louise, who was expecting their first bridal visit--a visit which was due her, for she had the best claim in the world, on account of her eighty-four years, her kindness, and also because of the gift of a magnificent pearl necklace to marceline. so it was necessary to be resigned, to leave off dreaming, and to come back to reality; and it was during this visit that, before the old aunt, much amused at the quarrel, this great dispute had abruptly burst forth between the young married couple. aunt louise had accepted the position of arbitrator, and, presiding over the discussion, she had made the two contestants sit down before her in arm-chairs, at a respectful distance. marceline, before being seated, had already taken the floor. "every one agreed upon this point (you know it, aunt louise; mamma must often have told you in her letters)--every one was agreed on this point: that there were really only two suitable matches for me--the duke of lannilis here present, and the duke of courtalin. i had the weakness to prefer him--him over there. why? i can scarcely tell-a childish habit, doubtless. we had played together when we were no higher than that at being little husband and wife. i had remained faithful to that childhood love, whereas he--" "whereas i--" "all in due season, sir, and you will lose nothing by waiting. however, there were all sorts of good reasons for preferring--the other one, who had a larger fortune and was of more ancient nobility." "oh, as to that--in money, maybe, but as to birth--" "it is indisputable! you are both dukes by patent." "we in ." "and the courtalin--" "in only." "agreed." "well, then?" "oh, just wait! i am posted on the question; mamma studied it thoroughly when things looked, three months ago, as if i should be duchess of courtalin. one morning mamma went to the archives with an old friend of hers, a great historian, who is a member of the institute. you date from , and the courtalin from ; that is correct. but louis xiv., in , by a special edict, gave the precedence to the courtalins; and you have not, i suppose, any idea of disputing what louis xiv. thought best to do. now, aunt louise, can he?" "certainly not." "but saint simon--" "oh, let us leave saint simon alone; he is prejudice and inaccuracy itself! i know he is on your side, but that doesn't count; but i will, to be agreeable to you, acknowledge that you are better looking and taller than m. de courtalin--" "but--" "oh, my dear, i begin to see! you are dying for me to tell you that. well, yes, you are a fairly handsome man; but that is only a very perishable advantage, and you have too much respect for conventionalities to wish to make that equal to the decree of louis xiv. however, i loved you--i loved you faithfully, tenderly, fondly, stupidly; yes, stupidly, for when i had come out in society, the year before, in april, , at mme. de fresnes's ball, when i had allowed my poor, little, thin shoulders to be seen for the first time (i must have been about seventeen), i noticed that the young marriageable men in our set (they are all quoted, noted, and labelled) drew away from me with strange, respectful deference. i appeared to be of no importance or interest, in spite of my name, my dowry, and my eyes. you see, i had singed myself. i had so ridiculously advertised my passion for you that i no longer belonged to myself; i was considered as belonging to you. as soon as i had put on my first long dress, which gave me at once the right to think of marriage and speak of love, i had told all my friends that i loved, and would never love or marry any one but you--you or the convent. yes, i had come to that! my friends had told their brothers and cousins, who had repeated it to you (just what i wanted), but it put me out of the race. dare to say, sir, that it is not all true, strictly true!" "i am saying nothing--?" "because you are overcome, crushed by the evidence. you say nothing now, but what did you say last year? last year! when i think that we could have been married since last year! a year, a whole year lost! and it was so long, and it could have been so short! well, he was there, at the fresnes' ball. he condescended to do me the honor of dancing three times with me. i came home intoxicated, absolutely intoxicated with joy. but that great happiness did not last long, for this is what that gontran the next day said to his friend robert d'aigremont, who told his sister gabrielle, who repeated it to me, that he saw clearly that they wished to marry him to his cousin marceline. i had, the day before, literally thrown myself into his arms; he had thought right, from pure goodness of heart, to show some pity for the love of the little school-girl, so he had resolved to dance with me; but he had done, quite done--he wouldn't be caught again. he would keep carefully away from coming-out balls; they were too dangerous a form of gayety. marriage did not tempt him in the least. he had not had enough of a bachelor's life yet--besides, he knew of nothing more absurd than those marriages between cousins. the true pleasure of marriage, he said, must be to put into one's life something new and unexpected, and to call by her first name, all at once, on tuesday morning, a person whom one didn't so call monday night. but a person whom one already knew well, where would be the pleasure? he made a movement, aunt louise; did you see?" "i saw--" "he recognized the phrase." "true. i remember--" "ah! but you did not say that phrase only--you said all the others. but that is nothing as yet, aunt louise. do you know what was his principal objection to a marriage with me? do you know what he told robert? that he had seen me in evening-dress the night before for the first time, and that i was too thin! too thin! ah! that was a cruel blow to me! for it was true. i was thin. the evening after gabrielle had told me that awful fact, that evening in undressing i looked at my poor little shoulders, with their poor little salt-cellars, and i had a terrible spasm of sorrow--a flood of tears that wouldn't stop--a torrent, a real torrent; and then mamma appeared. i was alone, disrobed, hair flying, studying my shoulders, deploring their meagreness--a true picture of despair! mamma took me in her arms. 'my angel, my poor dear, what is the matter?' i answered only by sobbing. 'my child, tell me all.' mamma was very anxious, but i could not speak; tears choked my voice. 'my dearest, do you wish to kill me?' so to reassure mamma i managed to say between my sobs: 'i am too thin, mamma; last night gontran thought me too thin!' at that mamma began to laugh heartily; but as she was good-humored that evening, after laughing she explained to me that she, at seventeen, had been much thinner than i, and she promised me in the most solemn manner that i should grow stouter. mamma spoke true; i have fattened up. will you have the goodness, sir, to declare to our aunt that the salt-cellars have entirely disappeared, and that you cannot have against me, in that respect, any legitimate cause of complaint?" "i will declare so very willingly; but you will permit me to add--" "i will permit you no such thing. i have the floor, let me speak; but you will soon have a chance to justify yourself. i intend to put you through a little cross-questioning." "i'll wait, then--" "yes, do. so last spring i began my first campaign. i do not know, aunt louise, what the customs were in your time, but i know that to-day, at the present time, the condition of young girls is one of extreme severity. we are kept confined, closely confined, till eighteen, for mamma was very indulgent in bringing me out when i was only seventeen; but mamma is goodness itself, and then she isn't coquettish for a sou--she didn't mind admitting that she had a marriageable daughter. all mothers are not like that, and i know some who are glad to put off the public and official exhibition of their poor children so as to gain a year. at the same time that they race at longchamps and chantilly the great fillies of the year, they take from their boxes the great heiresses of the year who are ripe for matrimony, and in a series of white balls given for that purpose, between easter sunday and the grand prix, they are made to take little trial gallops before connoisseurs. they have to work rapidly and find a buyer before the grand prix; for after that all is up, the young girls are packed back to their governesses, dancing-masters, and literary professors. the campaign is over. that is all for the year. they are not seen again, the poor things, till after lent. so mamma took me last year to a dozen large balls, which were sad and sorrowful for me. he was not there! he didn't wish to marry! he told it to every one insolently, satirically. he would never, never, never marry! he told it to me." "at your mother's request." "yes, that is true. i know since that it was at mamma's petition that he talked that way; she hoped it would prevent my being stubborn in my craze for him." "craze!" exclaimed aunt louise. "excuse me, aunt louise, it is a word of to-day." "and means--" "it means a sort of unexplainable, absurd, and extravagant love that comes without its being possible to know why--in short, aunt louise, exactly the love i have for him." "much obliged! but you do not tell everything. you do not say that your mother desired your marriage with courtalin--" "yes, of course; mamma was quite right. m. de courtalin has a thousand sterling merits that you have not--that you will never have; and then m. de courtalin had a particularly good point in mamma's eyes: he did not find me too thin, and he asked for my hand in marriage. one day about four o'clock (that was the d of june last year) mamma came into my room with an expression on her face i had never seen before. 'my child,' she said--'my dear child!' she had no need to finish; i had understood. m. de courtalin all the evening before, at the princess de viran's, had hovered about me, and the next day his mother had come to declare to mamma that her son knew of nothing more delightful than my face. i answered that i knew of nothing less delightful than m. de courtalin's face. i added that, besides, i was in no hurry to marry. mamma tried to make me hear reason. i was going to let slip an admirable chance. the duke of courtalin was the target of all the ambitious mothers--a great name, a great position, a great fortune! i should deeply regret some day to have shown such disdain for advantages like these, etc. and to all these things, which were so true and sensible, i could find only one word to say: his name, gontran, gontran, gontran! gontran or the convent, and the most rigorous one of all, the carmel, in sackcloth and ashes! oh, aunt louise, do look at him! he listens to all this with an unbearable little air of fatuity." "you have forbidden me to speak." "true. don't speak; but you have deserved a little lesson in modesty and humility. good gracious! you think perhaps it was for your merits that i chose you, insisted on you. you would be far from the mark, my poor dear. it is, on the contrary, because of your want of merit. now, as to m. de courtalin. why, there is a man of merit! i had, from morning to night, m. de courtalin's merit dinned into my ears, and that was why i had taken a dislike to him. what i dreaded more than anything for a husband was what is called a superior man; and mamma went the wrong way to work to win me over to her candidate when she said to me: 'he is a very intelligent, very serious, very deep-thinking, and very distinguished man; he has spent his youth honorably; he has been a model son, and would make a model husband.' it made me shiver to hear mamma talk so. i know nothing more awful than people who are always, always right; who, under all circumstances, give evidence of unfailing good sense; who crush us with their superiority. with gontran i am easy, quite easy. it isn't he who would crush me with his superiority. i do not know much, aunt louise, but my ignorance beside his is learning. he had great trouble in getting his baccalaureate. he flunked three times." "flunked!" exclaimed aunt louise. "it means failed. he taught me the word. all the queer words i use, aunt louise, were taught me by him." "come, now--" "yes, all. i can see him now, coming to the house one day, and i can hear him say, 'flunked again!' that was the third time. then he went and took his examination in the country at a little college at douai; it was easier, and he passed at last. m. de courtalin has never been flunked; he is everything that one can be at his age: bachelor, advocate, lawyer, and grave, exact, and severe in his language, and dressed--always in a black frock-coat, with two rows of buttons, always all buttoned--in short, a man of the past. and what a future before him! already a member of the general council, and very eloquent, very influential, he will be deputy in three years, and then, when we have a government that people of our class can recognize, minister, ambassador, and i know not what! the highest offices wait for him, and all his ambitions will be legitimate when he has a chance to put his superior talents at the service of the monarchy. that's one of mamma's phrases. whereas you, my poor gontran--you will never be anything other than a very funny and very nice old dear, whom i shall lead as i like with my little finger." "oh! oh!" "you will see. besides, you have seen for eight days." "the first eight days don't count." "i will continue, rest assured. i love you, besides. i love you, and do you know why? it is because you are not a man of the past; you are distinctly modern, very modern. look at him, aunt louise. isn't he very nice, very well turned out, very modern, in fact--i repeat it--in his little pearl-gray suit. he is devoted to his clothes. he consults for hours and hours with his tailor, which delights me, for i intend to consult for hours and hours with my dress-maker. and he will pay the bills without a tremor, for he will be charmed to see me very stylish and very much admired. ah, we shall make the most brilliant and most giddy little couple! he is modern, i shall be modern, we shall be modern! after three, four, or five weeks (we do not know exactly) dedicated to pure love, we shall take flight towards the country, where one has a good time; and then we shall be talked about, aunt louise, we shall be talked about. and now, where was i in my story? i am sure i do not know at all." "nor i." "nor i." "ah, i know. mme. de courtalin had come to ask my hand for her honorable son, and when mamma had spoken to me of that i had exclaimed, 'sooner the convent!' i do not know exactly what mamma said to mme. de courtalin--at any rate, i was left alone for the time being. there was a rush to the grand prix, and then a general breaking-up. we went to spend a month at aix-les-bains for papa's complaint, and then a fortnight here, aunt louise; and then, do you remember, you received the confessions of my poor torn heart. ah! i must say you are the only young member of the family--you were the only one who did not make a long face when i spoke of my love for that rogue. mamma, however, had preached to you, and you vaunted the advantages of an alliance with courtalin, but without conviction. i felt that you were at bottom on my side against mamma, and it was so easily explained--mamma could not understand me, whereas you! they think we little girls know nothing, and we know everything. i knew that mamma had made a worldly marriage, which had, however, turned out very well; and you, aunt louise, had married for love. you must have battled to get the husband you wished, and you had him, and you resolutely conquered your happiness. yes, i knew all that; i dared even to allude to those things of the past, and those memories brought a smile to your lips and tears to your eyes. and to-day again, aunt louise, there it is, the smile, and there are the tears." marceline interrupted her talk, affectionately threw herself on her aunt louise's neck, and kissed her with all her heart. she wiped away the tears with kisses, and only the smile remained. yes, aunt louise remembered that she had had hard work to get as husband a certain handsome officer of the royal guard, who was there present at the scene, in an old decorated frame, standing up with his helmet on his head in a martial attitude, leaning on the hilt of his cavalry sabre. he, too, had been modern, that conqueror of the trocadero, when he entered madrid in on the staff of the duke of angoulême. and she, too, old aunt louise, had been modern, very modern, the day when, from a window of the palace of the tuileries, during a military parade, she had murmured this phrase in her mother's ear: "mamma, there is the one i love." "ah, how cowardly we are!" exclaimed marceline, abruptly, changing her tone. "yes, how cowardly we are to love them--those, those dreadful men, who know so little how to care for us. i say that for gontran. what was he doing while i was telling you my sorrows, aunt louise? quite calmly taking a trip around the world. but let him speak now, let him speak, especially as i cannot any more. in all my life i have never made so long a speech. speak, sir; why were you going round the world?" "because your mother, on the morning of the day before you departed for aix-les-bains, had had a very long conversation with me." "and she had said to you?" "she had said to me, 'put a stop to this; marry her or go away, and let her not hear of you again till her marriage.' and as i had for some time been debating whether to take a little trip to japan, i started for japan." "he started for japan! that goes without saying. you hear him, aunt louise; he admits that this time last year he preferred to expatriate himself rather than marry me. so there he was in america, in china, and in japan. this lasted ten months; from time to time, humbly and timidly, i asked for news of him. he was very well; his last letter was from shanghai, or sidney, or java. for me, not a word, not a remembrance--nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing!" "i had promised your mother. one day at yokohama i had bought you a lot of fascinating little things. the box was done up and addressed to you when i remembered my promise. i sent all those japaneseries to your mother, thinking that you would have your share of the spoil." "i had nothing at all. the arrival of the box was kept a secret. it would have been necessary to have pronounced your name before me, and mamma didn't wish that. on the other hand, there was always one name on her lips--courtalin. still courtalin, and always courtalin. he had all qualities, all virtues. then he had just lost his aunt in brittany, and he had inherited something. it was thought that he would only have a quarter of the property, and he had had three-quarters. besides, it was a country-seat, and all around this seat, an admirable domain, sixteen or seventeen hundred hectares. i say it to my shame, aunt louise, to my great shame, the thought of giving in came to me; and then, to be absolutely frank, it rather pleased me to become a duchess; so mamma made me out a list of all possible husbands for me, and there was no other duke in the list but m. de courtalin. there was, of course, the little count of limiers, who would be duke some day. but when? his father is forty-five and an athlete, and has an iron constitution. so i was obliged to admit it when i talked it over with mamma in the evening. to be duchess it was necessary to agree on m. de courtalin. mamma, however, was perfect, and delightfully gentle. she did not press me, nor treat me harshly, nor torment me; she waited. only i knew she had said to mme. de nelly: 'it will be accomplished, my dear, before the th of june. it must be.' papa was obliged to return to aix for his complaint. the th of june was the date for his departure. i no longer said, 'no, no, no!' with that savage energy of the year before. you see, gontran, i open my whole heart to you; you will have, i hope, soon the same courage and sincerity." "you may be sure of it." "i was waiting, however--i was waiting for his return. i wished to have with him a very serious conversation. it is quite true that i felt like fainting with fear at the mere thought of that explanation; but i was none the less resolved to speak, and i would speak. it seemed to me impossible that he had not thought of me sometimes out there in china and cochin china. we had always loved each other (till the unhappy day on which i had become marriageable) with a tender and faithful affection! i knew that he would arrive in paris during the night of the d or d of april. very certainly the day after he would come and see us. and so, in fact, towards two o'clock he came. mamma hadn't finished dressing; i was alone. i ran to him. 'ah, how glad i am to see you!' and i kissed him with effusion. then he, very much moved, yes, very much moved, kissed me, and began to say to me such nice and pretty things that i felt my heart melting. ah, if mamma hadn't come for five minutes--i would only have asked for five minutes!--and how quickly it would have turned into love-making our little explanation!" "yes, that is true. the impulse that threw you into my arms was so sincere. ah, very certainly it was that day, at that moment, that i began to love you. and then i looked at you. you were no longer the same. there was such great and happy change." "he does not dare say it, aunt louise, but i will say it: i had become fatter. ah, when i think that i might be duchess of courtalin if i had remained thin. those men! those men! what wretches! but mamma came in, then papa, and then my brother george. no explanation possible! there they all were engaged in an odious conversation on the comparative merits of the english and french boats--the english ones are faster, the food on the french ones is better, etc. it was charming! at the end of an hour gontran went away, but not without giving me a very tender and eloquent hand-shake. i could wish nothing more speaking than that hand-shake. but mamma, who was observing us attentively, had clearly seen our two hands, after having found a way to say very pleasant things, had had a great deal of trouble in separating. i expected, of course, to see him the next day. did you come?" "no." "and the day after that?" "no, nor then." "at last, after three days, mamma took me to the races at the bois de boulogne. we arrived, and there at once, two steps from me, i saw him. but no, it was no longer he; frigid greeting, frigid good-day, frigid hand-shake, frigid words, and very few of them--scarcely a few sentences, awkward and embarrassed. then he was lost in the crowd, and that was all. he did not appear again. i was dumfounded, overcome, crushed." "but it was your mother who--" "yes, i know now; but i did not know that day. yes, it was mamma. oh, must i not love mamma to have forgiven her that?" "she had come to me very early in the morning the day after the very eloquent hand-shake and there, in tears--yes, literally in tears (she was sobbing)--she had appealed to my sense of honor, of delicacy, of integrity. 'you both had,' she said to me, 'yesterday, on seeing each other again after a long absence, a little spasm of emotion. that is all right; but you must stop there, and not prolong this foolishness,' and, just as i was going to protest: 'oh yes; foolishness!' 'remember, marceline's happiness is at stake. you have no right to compromise her. you come back from china all at once, and your abrupt return will break off more sensible, more studied arrangements. m. de courtalin is thirty-four; he is a man of great knowledge and wisdom. however, i know that that is only a secondary consideration; but love passes away, and money remains, and m. de courtalin is richer, very much richer, than you. with him marceline will have quite a grand position. whereas you, you know how i love you, and i know how worthy you are of being loved. you are charming, charming, charming.' it was your mother who spoke thus." "i know; i know." "'yes, charming; but when i have said that, i have said all. so i will ask you this question, and i expect from you a faithful answer: have you those solid qualities which alone can make a husband, a true husband? marceline is a little light-headed, a little frivolous, a little coquettish.' it is always your mother who is speaking." "i know; i know." "i was embarrassed, aunt louise; it seemed to me that that speech was not without reason. i hadn't a very high idea of myself as a husband, and even now i ask myself--" "don't ask yourself anything. be an affectionate husband, and you will have all the virtues. nothing simpler, as you see. you can go on." "well, your mother was so skilfully persuasive that the day after, at the races, i gave that cold greeting." "and so i, that same day, on entering the house, threw myself into mamma's arms, exclaiming, 'yes, i am willing to marry m. de courtalin!' ah, how many times between that day and the th of may i threw myself into mamma's arms! i did nothing else. mamma got used to it, and never saw me appear without mechanically opening her arms. 'yes, i am willing,' and sometimes, 'no, i am not.' but the 'no, i am nots' became fewer and fewer. m. de courtalin, besides, was perfect; a model of tact, of gentleness, and of resignation. he waited, always in his black frock-coat, always buttoned, with an inexhaustible patience. mamma was, in short, pledged to mme. de courtalin, and i felt the circle tighten round me. the papers announced, in a covert but transparent way, that there was question of an alliance between two families of the faubourg saint-germain, and they made it pretty clear that it concerned two important families. i already received vague congratulations, and i dared respond only by vague denials. the morning of the famous th of may mamma had said to me, 'come, my child, don't make a martyr of that poor boy. since it is to be "yes," for it will be "yes," you know yourself, say "yes" at once.' i had obtained only a miserable respite of twenty-four hours; and things were thus when, still on the th of may, mamma and i arrived, a little late (after eleven), at mme. de vernieux's, who was giving a ball, a very large ball. i went in, and i had at once the feeling that i must be looking extremely well that evening. they formed into a little hedge along my way, and i heard a little 'oh!' of surprise, and a big 'ah!' of admiration which went straight to my heart. i had had already in society certain successes, but never any as marked as that one. m. de courtalin came towards me. he wished to engage me for all the waltzes, for all the quadrilles, for the entire evening, for the night, for life. i answered him: 'later, presently, we will see. i feel a little tired.' the fact was i hadn't the heart to dance. mamma and i took our seats. a waltz began. mamma scolded softly: 'dance with him, my child, i beg.' i didn't listen to her. i was abstractedly looking around the room when suddenly i saw in a corner two eyes fixed, fastened, pinioned on me--two eyes that i well knew, but that i had some difficulty in recognizing, for they were tremendously enlarged by a sort of stupor." "say by overwhelming admiration." "as you please but it is here, aunt louise, that my interrogation will begin. why and how were you there? where had you dined, gontran?" "at the club." "and what did you intend to do after dinner? come to mme. de vernieux's?" "no; robert d'aigremont and i had meant to go to the bouffes-parisiens." "you did not go? why?" "we had telephoned from the club to have a box; all were sold--" "so you said to robert--" "i said to robert, 'let's play bezique;' and i was beaten by one of those streaks of bad luck-- , points in a dozen games--so thoroughly that towards half-past ten i thought that bezique had lasted long enough--" "and so--" "and so--" "so robert wished to bring you to mme. de vernieux's. and you didn't want to go! if you hadn't come, however, and if there had been a box at the bouffes-parisiens, or if you had won at bezique, my marriage with m. de courtalin would have been publicly announced the next day." "yes, but i came; and there i was in the corner looking at you, looking at you, looking at you. it was you, and yet not you--" "i, immediately on seeing the way you were looking at me, understood that something extraordinary was going to happen. your eyes shone, burned, blazed!" "because i had discovered that you were simply the prettiest woman of the ball, where all the prettiest women of paris were. yes, the prettiest, and such shoulders, such shoulders!" "ripe! in fact, i was ripe!" "my head was turned at once. i saw courtalin manoeuvring and trying to get near you. i understood that there was not a moment to be lost. to reach there ahead of courtalin i threw myself intrepidly into the midst of the room, among the waltzers, pushing and being pushed. i forged a passage and tore into rags one of the lace flounces of mme. de lornans--she hasn't yet forgiven me. but i got there--i got there before courtalin, and threw myself on you, and took you round your waist (i can still hear your little cry), and i dragged you off." "mamma had scarcely time to scream 'marceline, marceline!' when i was there no more. he had lifted me off, and carried me away; and we were waltzing wildly, furiously!--oh, what a waltz!--and he was saying to me: 'i love you! i adore you! you are grace and beauty itself! there is only one pretty woman here--you; and it is i who will be your husband. i, do you hear? i, and not another!' and i, quite suffocated with surprise, pleasure, and emotion, allowed myself to be nearly carried by him, but i kept begging him to speak lower. 'anything you wish; yes, i will be your wife; but take care--you will be heard--you will be heard.'" "that is what i wished; and i continued, 'i love you! i adore you!'" "then i, absolutely breathless: 'not so fast. i pray, not so fast; i shall fall. i assure you everything is going round, everything is going round. let us stop.' 'no, no; don't let's stop. keep on still. if we stop your mother will separate us, and i have still so many things to say to you--so many things, so many things. swear to me that you will be my wife.' 'yes, i swear it; but enough, enough--' i was smothering. he heard nothing. he was going, going like a madman. we had become a hurricane, a whirlwind, a cyclone. we caused surprise and fright. no one danced any more, but looked at us. and he held me so close, and his face was so near my face, his lips so near my lips, that all at once i felt myself giving way. i slipped, and let myself into his arms. a cloud passed before my eyes; i could not speak nor think; then blankness. everything had disappeared before me in a vertigo not too disagreeable, i must say. i had fainted, absolutely fainted." "the next day our marriage was decided, perfectly decided. our waltz had caused scandal. that was just what i wanted." "there, aunt louise, is the history of our marriage, and i want to-day to draw this conclusion: it is that i was the first to begin to love, and i shall have, consequently, one day, when it pleases me, the right to stop the first." "ah, no, indeed; tell her, aunt louise, that she will never have that right--" a new quarrel threatened to break out. "this, my children," said the old aunt, "is all i have to say: she did, in truth, start the first to love; but it seems to me, gontran, that you started all at once at such a great pace that you must have caught up with her." "passed her, aunt louise." "oh no!" exclaimed marceline. "oh yes--" "oh no--" "well," continued aunt louise, "try never to have any other quarrels than that one. try to walk always in life step by step, side by side, and heart to heart. i have seen many inventions since i was born, and the world is no longer what it was then. but there is one thing to which inventions have made no difference, and never will. that thing you have; keep it. it is love! love each other, children, as strongly and as long as possible." and aunt louise wept another tear, and smiled on looking at the portrait of the officer of the royal guard. the dancing-master i was dining at the house of some friends, and in the course of the evening the hostess said to me: "do you often go to the opera?" "yes, very often." "and do you go behind the scenes?" "yes, i go behind." "then you can do me a favor. in the ballet department there's an old man called morin, who is perfectly respectable, it seems. he is the little b----'s dancing-master. he gives excellent lessons. i should like to have him for my little girls, so ask him if he could come twice a week." i willingly undertook the delicate mission. the next day, february , , about ten in the evening, i arrived at the opera, and went behind the scenes to search for monsieur morin. "the prophet" was being played, and the third act had just begun. on the stage the anabaptists were singing forcibly: "du sang! que judas succombe! du sang! dansons sur leur tombe! du sang! voila l'hécatombe que dieu nous demande encor!" axes were raised over the heads of a crowd of hapless prisoners, who were barons, bishops, monks, and grand ladies. in the wings, balanced on their skates, all the ballet-girls were waiting the right moment to "effleurer la glace sans laisser de trace." i respectfully begged one of the young westphalian peasant-girls to point out to me the man named morin. "morin," she replied, "is not one of the skaters. look, he is on the stage. that's he over there, the one who is doing the bishop; that bishop, you see, who is being pushed and pulled. wait, he will be off directly." one of the anabaptist leaders intervened, however, declaring that the nobles and priests who could pay ransom should be spared. morin escaped with his life, and i had the honor of being presented to him by the little westphalian peasant-girl. he had quite a venerable air, with his long gray beard and his fine purple robe with his large pastoral cross. while he was arranging somewhat his costume, which had been so roughly pulled by those violent anabaptists, i asked him if he would be willing to give lessons to two young girls of good family. the pious bishop accepted with alacrity. his price was ten francs an hour. the little skaters had gone on the stage, and were performing wonderful feats. the wings had suddenly become calm and silent. we gave ourselves up, his reverence and myself, to a little friendly chat. "yes, sir," his highness said to me, "i give dancing lessons. i have many patrons among the aristocracy and the bankers. i have no reason to complain; and yet one must admit things were better once, much better. dancing is going out, sir, dancing is going out." "is it possible?" "it is as i have the honor of telling you. women still learn to dance; but no longer the young men, sir, no longer. baccarat, races, and the minor theatres--that's what they enjoy. it's a little the fault of the government." "how can that be?" "m. jules ferry has recently rearranged the curriculum of the university. he has made certain studies obligatory--modern languages, for instance. i don't blame him for that; the study of modern languages has great advantages. but dancing, sir; nothing has been done for dancing, and it is dancing which ought, after all, to have been made obligatory. there ought to be a dancing-master in every high-school, and a normal-school for dancing with examinations and competitions in dancing. dancing ought to be studied the same as latin or greek. dancing, too, is a language, and a language that every well-bred man ought to be able to speak. well, do you know what happens nowadays? sometimes it happens, sir, that diplomatic posts are given to people who get confused in the figures of a quadrille, and who are incapable of waltzing for two minutes. they know very well that their education is incomplete. quite lately a young man came to me--a young man of great merit, it seems, except in regard to dancing. he had just been attached to a great embassy. he had never danced in his life--never. do you understand? never! it is scarcely to be credited, and yet it is true. that's the way m. barthélémy-saint-hilaire picks them out. oh, this beard smothers me! will you permit me?" "certainly." he took off his gray beard, and thus looked much less venerable. he then continued: "i said to this young man: 'we will try, but it will be hard work. one oughtn't to begin dancing at twenty-eight.' i limbered him up as best i could. i had only two weeks to do it in. i begged him to put off his departure, to obtain a reprieve of three or four months--i could have made something of him. he would not. he went without knowing anything. i often think of him. he will represent us out there; he will represent us very badly; he will not be an honor to his country. please to remember that he may be called upon to take part in some official quadrille--to dance, for instance, with an archduchess. well, if he slips up in it, with his archduchess, it will be charming! all this is very sad indeed. i am a republican, sir, an old republican, and it is painful to think that the republic is represented by diplomats who cannot distinguish between a change of foot and a simple step. do you know what is said in foreign courts? 'why, who are those savages that france sends us?' yes, that's what they say. the diplomatic corps in the time of the empire was not brilliant. oh no; those gentlemen did many foolish things. oh yes; but still they knew how to dance!" and the good old bishop, seeing that i listened with much interest, went on with his brilliant improvisation. "dancing, sir, is not merely a pleasure, an amusement; no, it is of great social interest. why, the question of marriage is closely connected with dancing. at present, in france, marriage is languishing. that is proved by statistics. well, i am convinced that if there are fewer marriages it is because there is less dancing. consider this first of all, that to know how to dance well, very well, is, for an agreeable young man who is without fortune, a great advantage in society. one of my pupils, sir, has recently married extremely well. he was a very ordinary kind of youth, who had tried everything and had succeeded in nothing; but he was a first-rate waltzer, and he danced away with two millions." "two millions!" "yes, two millions, and they were two cash millions; she was an orphan, no father nor mother--all that can be dreamed of. he clasped that young lady (she was very plump). well, in his arms, she felt herself light as a feather. she thought of but one thing--waltzing with him. she was as one wild. he gave her a new sensation, and what is it women desire above all things? to have new sensations, in short, she refused marquises, counts, and millionaires. she wanted him only. she got him, and he was penniless, and his name is durand. ah, do not repeat his name; i oughtn't to have told you." "don't be afraid." "after all, you can repeat it; it doesn't matter, it's such a common name. there is public policy in love-matches which cause a rich girl to marry a poor man, or a poor girl to marry a rich man. it sets money circulating, it prevents its remaining in the same place, it keeps capital moving. well, three-fourths of the love-matches were formerly made by the dance. now there are short interviews in parlors, in galleries, and at the opéra comique. they chat; that's all right, but chatting is not sufficient. wit is something, but not everything. a waltz furnishes much knowledge that conversation cannot. dress-makers nowadays are so wily. they know how to bring out this point and hide that; they remodel bad figures. they give plumpness and roundness to the thin; they make hips, shoulders--everything, in fact. one doesn't know what to expect, science has made such advances. the eye may be deceived, but the hand of an experienced dancer never! a waltzer with tact knows how to find out the exact truth about things." "oh! oh!" "remaining all the time, sir, perfectly respectful and perfectly reserved. good heavens! look at myself, for instance. it is to waltzing that i owe my happiness. mme. morin was not then mme. morin. i kept my eye on her, but i hesitated. she appeared thin, and--well, i'll admit that to marry a thin woman didn't suit my ideas. you know every one has his ideals. so, sir, i was still hesitating, when one evening, at the wedding of one of my friends, a very capable young man, a deputy manager of a department at the ministry of religion, they started a little dance. for the first waltz i asked the one who was to be my companion through life. immediately i felt in my hand a delightful figure--one of those full but supple figures; and while waltzing, quite enchanted, i was saying to myself, 'she isn't really thin! she isn't really thin!' i took her back to her place after the waltz, and went at once to her mother to ask for her hand, which was granted me. for fourteen years i have been the happiest of men, and perhaps i shouldn't have made that marriage if i hadn't known how to waltz. you see, sir, the results of a waltz?" "perfectly." "that is not all, sir. thanks to dancing, one discovers not only the agreeable points of a person, the fulness of her figure, the lithesomeness of her waist, but also, in a briskly led waltz, a little examination of the health and constitution of a woman can be had. i remember one evening twelve or so years ago--in the rue le peletier, in the old opéra-house, which has burned down--i was on the stage awaiting my cue for the dance in 'william tell,' you know, in the third act. two subscribers were talking quite close to me, in the wings. one of the gentlemen was an old pupil of mine. i have had so many pupils! without wishing to, i heard scraps of the conversation, and these two sentences struck my ear: 'well, have you decided?' 'oh,' replied my pupil, 'i find her very charming, but i have heard that she is weak in the lungs.' then, sir, i did a very unusual thing for me. i begged pardon for having heard unintentionally, and i said to my old pupil: 'i think i have guessed that a marriage is in question. will you authorize me to give you a piece of advice--advice drawn from the practice of my profession? do they allow this young lady to waltz?' you know there are mothers who do not permit--" "i know, i know." we had arrived at this point in that interesting conversation when the ballet ended. the bishop and myself were assailed by an actual whirlwind of skaters, and my little westphalian peasant-girl found me where she had left me. "i declare!" she said to me, "so you come to confess at the opera? give him absolution, morin, and give it to me, too. now then, come along to the greenroom." she took my arm, and we went off together, while the excellent morin, with gravity and dignity beneath his sacred ornaments, withstood the shock of this avalanche of dancers. the circus charger after george had related how he had been married off at twenty-two by his aunt, the baroness de stilb, paul said: "_i_ was married off by a circus charger. i was very nearly forty years of age, and i felt so peacefully settled in my little bachelor habits that, in the best faith in the world, on all occasions, i swore by the gods never to run the great risk of marriage; but i reckoned without the circus charger. "it was in the last days of september, . i had just arrived from baden-baden, and my intention was to spend only twenty-four hours in paris. i had invited four or five of my friends--callières, bernheim, frondeville, and valreas--to my place in poitou for the shooting season. they were to come in the first part of october, and it needed a week to put all in order at roche-targé. a letter from my overseer awaited me in paris, and the letter brought disastrous news; the dogs were well, but out of the dozen hunting horses that i had there, five, during my sojourn at baden, had fallen sick or lame, and i found myself absolutely forced to get new horses. "i made a tour of the champs-elysées sellers, who showed me as hunters a fine collection of broken--down skeletons. average price, three thousand francs. roulette had treated me badly of late, and i was neither in the humor, nor had i the funds, to spend in that way seven or eight hundred louis in a morning. "it was a wednesday, and chéri was holding his first autumn sale. i went to the rue de ponthieu during the day; and there out of the lot, on chance, without inquiry, blindly, by good-luck, and from the mere declarations of the catalogue--'_excellent hunter, good jumper, has hunted with lady rider_,' etc.--i bought eight horses, which only cost me five thousand francs. out of eight, i said to myself, there will always be four or five who will go, and who will be good enough to serve as remounts. "among the horses there was one that i had bought, i must confess, particularly on account of his coat, which was beautiful. the catalogue did not attribute to him any special qualifications for hunting, but limited itself to '_brutus, riding horse_.' he was a large dapple-gray horse, but never, i think, have i seen gray better dappled; the white coat was strewn almost regularly with beautiful black spots, which were well distributed and well marked. "i left town the next day for roche-targé, and the following day, early, they announced to me that the horses had arrived. i at once went down to see them, and my first glance was at brutus. he had been trotting in my head for forty-eight hours, that devil of a gray horse, and i had a singular desire to know what he was and of what he was capable. "i had him taken out of the stable first. a groom led him to me with a strap. the horse had long teeth, hollows in the chest, lumpy fetlocks--in short, all the signs of respectable age; but he had powerful shoulders, a large breast, a neck which was both strong and supple, head well held, tail well placed, and an irreproachable back. it wasn't, however, all this that attracted most my attention. what i admired above all was the air with which brutus looked at me, and with what an attentive, intelligent, and curious eye he followed my movements and gestures. even my words seemed to interest him singularly; he inclined his head to my side as if to hear me, and, as soon as i had finished speaking, he neighed joyously in answer. "they showed me successively the seven other horses; i examined them rapidly and absent-mindedly. they were horses like all other horses. brutus certainly had something in particular, and i was anxious to make in his company a short jaunt in the country. he allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted like a horse who knows his business, and so we both started in the quietest way in the world. "i had at first ridden him with the snaffle, and brutus had gone off at a long easy gait, with rather a stiff neck and projected head; but as soon as i let him feel the curb, he changed with extraordinary rapidity and suppleness, drawing his head back to his breast, and champing his bit noisily; then at the same time he took a short gait, which was light and even, lifting well his feet and striking the sod with the regularity of a pendulum. "chéri's catalogue had not lied; the horse was a good rider--too good a rider, in fact. i made him trot, then gallop; the horse at the first suggestion gave me an excellent little trot and an excellent little gallop, but always plunging to the ground and pulling my arms when i tried to lift his head. when i wished to quicken his gait, the horse broke at once. he began to rack in great style, trotting with the fore-feet and galloping with the hind ones. 'well,' i said to myself, 'i see now; i've bought some old horse of the saumur or saint-cyr school, and it's not on this beast that i'll hunt in eight days.' "i was about to turn and go home, quite edified as to brutus's qualities, when the report of a gun was heard twenty yards away in the woods. it was one of my keepers who was shooting a rabbit, and who received some time after a handsome present from my wife for that shot. "i was then in the centre of the cross-roads, which formed a perfect circle of five or six yards in radius; six long green alleys came to an end at this spot. on hearing the report, brutus had stopped short, planted himself on his four legs, with ears erect and head raised. i was surprised to find the horse so impressionable. i should have thought that after the brilliant education that very certainly he had received in his youth, brutus must be an artillery horse, used to gun and cannon. i drew in my legs to urge the horse on, but brutus didn't move; i spurred him sharply twice, but brutus didn't move; i whipped him soundly, but brutus didn't move. i tried to back the horse, to push him to the right, to the left, but i couldn't move him in the slightest degree. brutus seemed glued to the ground, and yet--don't you dare to laugh, and be assured that my tale is absolutely true--each time that i attempted to put the horse in motion he turned his head and looked at me with an expression which could clearly be read as impatience and surprise; then he would again become as immovable as a statue. there was evidently some misunderstanding between the horse and myself. i saw that in his eyes, and brutus said to me, with all the clearness he could put in his expression, 'i, as a horse, am doing my duty, and it's you, as a rider, who are not doing yours!' "i was more puzzled than embarrassed. 'what extraordinary kind of a horse have i bought at chéri's,' i said to myself, 'and why does he look at me so queerly?' i was, however, going to take strong measures--that is to say, i was preparing to whip him smartly--when another report was heard. "then the horse gave a jump. i thought i had the best of it, and, profiting by his bound, i tried to carry him forward with hand and knee. but no; he stopped short after his bound, and again planted himself on the ground more energetically and more resolutely than the first time. ah, then i grew angry, and my whip came into play; i grasped it firmly and began to strike the horse with all my strength to the right and left. but brutus, he too lost patience, and, instead of the cold and immovable opposition that at first he had shown, i met with furious retaliations, strange springs, bucking, extraordinary rearing, fantastic whirling; and in the midst of this battle, while the infatuated horse bounded and reared, while i, exasperated, struck with vigor the leather pommel with my broken whip, brutus still found time to give me glances not only of surprise and impatience, but also of anger and indignation. while i was asking the horse for the obedience which he refused me, it is certain that he expected from me something that i was not doing. "how did it end? to my shame, to my great shame, i was pitifully unhorsed by an incomparable feat! brutus understood, i think, that he would not get the better of me by violence, and judged it necessary to try cunning; after a pause which was most certainly a moment of reflection, the horse rose up, head down, upright on his fore-feet, with the skill, the calm, and the perfect equilibrium of a clown who walks on his hands. thus i tumbled into the sand, which, by good-luck, was thick in that spot. "i tried to get up. i screamed and fell back ridiculously, flat on my stomach, on my nose. at the slightest movement i felt as though a knife ran through my left leg. it's a slight matter, however--the rupture of a slender sinew; but though slight, the injury was none the less painful. i succeeded, nevertheless, in turning over and sitting up; but just when, while rubbing my eyes, filled with sand, i was beginning to ask myself what in the midst of this tumult had become of my miserable dapple-gray, i saw over my head a large horse's hoof descending. then this large hoof pressed, with a certain gentleness, however, on my chest, and pushed me delicately back on the ground, on my back this time. "i was greatly discouraged; and feeling incapable of another effort, i remained in that position, continuing to ask myself what sort of a horse i had bought at chéri's, closing my eyes, and awaiting death. "suddenly i heard a curious trampling around me; a quantity of little hard things struck me on the face. i opened my eyes, and perceived brutus, who, with his fore-feet and hind-legs, was trying with incredible activity and prodigious skill to bury me in the sand. he was doing his best, poor beast, and from time to time he stopped to gaze at his work; then, raising his head, he neighed and began his work again. that lasted for a good three or four minutes, after which brutus, judging me doubtless sufficiently interred, placed himself very respectfully on his knees before my tomb--on his knees, literally on his knees! he was saying, i suppose, a little prayer. i looked at him. it interested me extremely. "his prayer finished, brutus made a slight bow, went off a few steps, stopped, then, beginning to gallop, made at least twenty times the circuit of the open space in the middle of which he had buried me. brutus galloped very well, with even stride, head well held, on the right foot, making around me a perfect circle. i followed him with my eyes, but it made me uneasy to see him go round and round and round. i had the strength to cry 'stop! stop!' the horse stopped and seemed embarrassed, without doubt asking himself what there was still to be done; but he perceived my hat, which in my fall had got separated from me, and at once made a new resolution: he walked straight to the hat, seized it in his teeth, and galloped off, this time by one of the six alleys that led from my tomb. "brutus got farther and farther away, and disappeared; i remained alone. i was puzzled, positively puzzled. i shook off the little coating of dust which covered me, and without getting up, by the help of my two arms and right leg--to move my left leg was not to be thought of--i succeeded in dragging myself to a little grassy slope on the edge of one of the alleys. once there, i could sit down, after a fashion, and i began to shout with all the strength of my lungs, 'hi, there! hi! hi, there!' no answer. the woods were absolutely deserted and still. the only thing to be done was to wait till some one passed by to aid me. "for half an hour i had been in that hateful position when i perceived in the distance, at the very end of the same alley by which he had gone off, brutus coming back, with the same long gallop he had used in going. a great cloud of dust accompanied the horse. little by little, in that cloud, i perceived a tiny carriage--a pony-carriage; then in that little pony-carriage a woman, who drove herself, and behind the woman a small groom. "a few moments later brutus, covered with foam, stopped before me, let my hat drop at my feet and neighed, as though to say, 'i've done my duty; here is help.' but i no longer bothered myself about brutus and the explanations that he made me. my only thoughts were for the fairy who was to relieve me, and who, after lightly jumping from her little carriage, was coming quickly towards me. besides, she, too, was examining me curiously, and all at once we both exclaimed, at the same time: "'mme. de noriolis!' "'m. de la roche-targé!' "a little while ago george spoke to us of his aunt, and mentioned how she had married him quite young, at one stroke, without giving him time to reflect or breathe. i, too, have an aunt, and between us for a number of years there has been a perpetual battle. 'marry.' 'i don't want to marry.' 'do you want young girls? there is mademoiselle a, mademoiselle b, mademoiselle c.' 'i don't want to marry.' 'do you want widows? there is madame d, madame e, madame f.' 'i don't want to marry.' "mme. de noriolis figured always in the first rank in the series of widows, and i noticed that my aunt put stress, with evident favoritism, on all the good points and advantages that i should find in that marriage. she didn't have to tell me that mme. de noriolis was very pretty--any one could see that; or that she was very rich--i knew it already. but she explained to me that m. de noriolis was an idiot, who had had the merit of making his wife perfectly miserable, and that thus it would be very easy for the second husband to make himself very much loved. "then, when she had discoursed at length on the virtues, graces, and merits of mme. de noriolis, my aunt, who is clever and knows my weakness, pulled out of her desk a topographical map, and spread it out with care on the table. "it was the map of the district of chatellerault, a very correct and minute map, that my aunt had gone herself to the military station to buy, with the view of convincing me that i ought to marry mme. de noriolis. the places of noriolis and of la roche-targé were scarcely three kilometers apart in that map. my aunt, with her own hands, had drawn a line of red ink, and slily united the two places, and she forced me to look at her little red line, saying to me, 'two thousand acres without a break, when the places of noriolis and la roche-targé are united; what a chance for a hunter!' "i closed my eyes, so strong was the temptation, and repeated my refrain, 'i don't want to marry.' but i was afraid, seriously afraid; and when i met mme. de noriolis i always saw her surrounded, as by a halo, by the little red line of my aunt, and i said to myself: 'a charming, and clever, and sensible woman, whose first husband was an idiot, and this and that, and two thousand acres without a break. run away, wretch, run away, since you don't wish to marry.' "and i ran away! but this time by what means could i run away? i was there, miserable, in the grass, covered with sand, with my hair in disorder, my clothes in rags, and my unfortunate leg stiff. and mme. de noriolis came nearer, looking spick and span--always in the halo of the little red line--and said to me: "'you, m. de la roche-targé, is it you? what are you doing there? what has happened to you?' "i frankly confessed my fall. "'at least you are not wounded?' "'no, no, i'm not wounded. i've something the matter with that leg; but it's nothing serious, i know.' "'and what horse played you that trick?' "'why, this one.' "and i pointed out brutus to mme. de noriolis. brutus was there, quite near us, untied, peacefully crunching little tufts of broom. "'what, that one, that brave horse? oh, he has well made up for his faults, i assure you. i will tell you about it, but later on. you must first get home, and at once.' "'i can't walk a step.' "'but i am going to take you back myself, at the risk of compromising you.' "and she called bob, her little groom, and taking me gently by the arm, while bob took me by the other, she made me get into her carriage; five minutes later we were bowling off, both of us, in the direction of la roche-targé: she, holding the reins and driving the pony with a light hand; i, looking at her, feeling troubled, confused, embarrassed, ridiculous, and stupid. we were alone in the carriage. bob was commissioned to bring brutus, who, very docile, had allowed himself to be taken. "'lie down,' mme. de noriolis said to me; 'keep your leg straight; i am going to drive you slowly so as to avoid bumps.' "in short, she made a lot of little amiable and pleasant remarks; then, when she saw me well settled, she said: "'tell me how you came to fall, and then i will tell you how i happened to come to your aid. it seems to me this horse story must be queer.' "i began my tale; but as soon as i spoke of brutus's efforts to unhorse me, and the two reports of the gun, she exclaimed: "'i understand, i understand. you have bought a circus charger.' "'a circus charger!' "'why, yes; that's it, and that explains everything. you have seen twenty times at the circus of the empress the performance of the circus charger--the light-cavalryman who enters the arena on a gray horse, then the arabs come and shoot at the cavalryman, who is wounded and falls; and as you didn't fall, the horse, indignant and not understanding how you could so far forget your part, threw you on the ground. and when you were on the ground, what did the horse do?' "i related brutus's little work in burying me suitably. "'the circus charger,' she continued; 'still the circus charger. he sees his master wounded, the arabs could come back and finish him, and so what does the horse do? he buries the cavalryman. then goes off galloping, didn't he?' "'yes, on a hard gallop,' "'carrying the flag, which is not to fall into the hands of the arabs.' "'it's my hat that he took.' "'he took what he could. and where does the circus charger gallop to?' "'ah! i know, i know,' i exclaimed, in my turn, 'he goes to get the sutler.' "'precisely. he goes to get the sutler; and the sutler to-day, if you please, is i, countess of noriolis. your big gray horse galloped into my grounds. i was standing on the porch, putting on my gloves and ready to step into my carriage, when the stablemen came running, upon seeing that horse arrive saddled and bridled, without a rider, and a hat in his mouth. they tried to catch him, but he shunned them and escaped, and came straight to the porch, falling on his knees before me. the men approached, and once more tried to catch him; but he got up, galloped away, stopped by the gate of the grounds, turned around, and looked at me. he called to me--i assure you, he called to me. i told the men not to bother about the horse any more. then i jumped into my carriage and started; the horse rushed into the woods; post-haste i followed him by paths that were not always intended for carriages; but still i followed him, and i arrived and found you.' "at the moment mme. de noriolis was speaking those last words the carriage received a tremendous shock from behind; then we saw in the air brutus's head, which was held there upright as though by a miracle. for it was again brutus. mounted by bob, he had followed the carriage for several minutes, and seeing that the back seat of the little pony-carriage was unoccupied, he had, like a true artist, cleverly seized the moment to give us a new proof of his talent in executing the most brilliant of his former performances. in one jump he had placed his fore-feet on the carriage, then, that done, he quietly continued trotting on his two hind-legs. bob, distracted, with his body thrown over and his head thrown back, was making vain attempts to put the horse back on his four legs. "as to mme. de noriolis, she was so well frightened, that, letting the reins drop from her hands, she had simply thrown herself in my arms. her adorable little head had rolled hap-hazard on my shoulder, and my lips just touched her hair. with my left hand i tried to recover the reins, with my right i supported mme. de noriolis; my leg hurt me frightfully, and i was seized with a queer feeling of confusion. "it was thus that mme. de noriolis made her first entry into la roche-targé. "when she returned there, one evening at midnight, six weeks later, having during the day become mme. de la roche-targé, she said: "'what is life, after all? nothing like this would have happened if you hadn't bought the circus charger.'" blacky "don't be alarmed, sir; you won't miss the train. for the last fifteen years i've been carrying travellers to the station, and i've never yet missed a train! think of that, sir; never!" "but--" "oh, don't look at your watch. there is one thing you don't know and that you must learn, and that your watch will never be able to tell you--that is, that the train is always a quarter of an hour late. such a thing as the train's being on time has never happened." such a thing happened that day, however, for the train was on time, and so i missed it. my driver was furious. "you should warn us," he said to the station-master, "if your trains are suddenly going to start at the right hour. who ever saw the like!" and he turned to one or two of the porters for witnesses. "did you ever see such a thing? i don't wish to appear blamable before the gentleman. a train on time--on time! you know it's the first time it has ever happened." there was a general cry of "yes, indeed; usually there's some delay." but, for all that, i had none the less three long hours to pass in a very desolate village (in the canton of vaud) shut in by two sad-looking mountains, which had their little topknots covered with snow. but how kill three hours? in my turn i now asked advice, and again there was a chorus of "go see the caldron; that's the only sight to be seen in this part of the country." "and where is this caldron?" on the mountain, to the right, half way up; but the path was a little complicated, and i was advised to take a guide; and there, over there in that white cottage with green blinds, i would find the best guide there was about here, an honest man--old simon. so i went and knocked at the door of the little house. an old woman opened it. "simon, the guide?" "yes, right here; but--if it's to go to the caldron--" "it is to go to the caldron." "well, simon hasn't been very well since morning; he hasn't much strength, and he can't go out. but don't worry yourself; there is some one who can replace him--there is blacky." "all right, let it be blacky, then." "only i must tell you that blacky isn't a person." "not a person?" "no, he's our dog." "a dog? what do you mean?" "yes, blacky; and he will guide you very well--quite as well as my husband. he is in the habit of--" "in the habit?" "certainly; for years and years simon took him along, so he learned the different places, and now he does very well all by himself. he has often taken travellers, and we have always been complimented about him. as for intelligence, don't be afraid--he has as much as you or i. he needs only speech, but speech isn't required. if it was to show a monument, now--why, yes, for then it would be necessary to give some account and know the historical dates; but here there are only the beauties of nature. take blacky, and it will be cheaper also; my husband would cost three francs, whereas blacky is only thirty sous, and he will show you as much for thirty sous as my husband would for three francs." "very well; and where is blacky?" "he is resting in the sun, in the garden. already this morning he has taken some english people to the caldron. shall i call him?" "yes, call him." "blacky! blacky!" he came with a leap through the window. he was a rather ugly-looking little dog, with long frizzy hair, all mussed; he wasn't much to look at, but he had, however, about him a certain air of gravity, resolution, and importance. his first glance was at me--a clear, searching, confident look that took me in from head to toe, and that seemed to say, "it's a traveller, and he wants to see the caldron." one train missed sufficed me for that day, and i was particularly anxious not to lay myself open to another such experience, so i explained to the good woman that i had only three hours for my visit to the caldron. "oh, i know," she said; "you wish to take the four-o'clock train. don't be alarmed; blacky will bring you back in time. now then, blacky, off with you; hurry up!" but blacky didn't seem at all disposed to mind. he stayed there motionless, looking at his mistress with a certain uneasiness. "ah, how stupid of me!" said the old woman. "i forgot the sugar;" and she went to get four pieces of sugar from a drawer, and gave them to me, saying: "that's why he wouldn't start; you had no sugar. you see, blacky, the gentleman has the sugar. now then, run along with you, sir, to the caldron! to the caldron! to the caldron!" she repeated these last words three times, slowly and distinctly, and during that time i was closely examining blacky. he acknowledged the words of his mistress with little movements of the head, which rapidly became more emphatic, and towards the end he evinced some temper and impatience. they could be interpreted thus: "yes, yes, to the caldron--i understand. the gentleman has the pieces of sugar, and we are going to the caldron--it's settled. do you take me for a fool?" and, without waiting for mme. simon's third "to the caldron!" blacky, evidently hurt, turned tail, came and placed himself in front of me, and by his look showed me the door, which told me as plainly as a dog can tell, "now then, come along, you!" i meekly followed him. we two started, he in front, i behind. in this manner we went through the entire village. the children who were playing in the street recognized my guide. "hello, blacky! good-morning, blacky!" they wanted to play with the dog, but he turned his head with a disdainful air--the air of a dog who hasn't the time to answer himself, and who is doing his duty and earning thirty sous. one of the children exclaimed: "leave him alone; don't you see he is taking the gentleman to the caldron? good-day, sir!" and all repeated, laughing, "good-day, sir!" i smiled rather awkwardly; i am sure i felt embarrassed, even a little humiliated. i was, in fact, under the lead of that animal. he, for the present, was my master. he knew where he was going; i did not. i was in a hurry to get out of the village and find myself alone with blacky and face to face with the beauties of nature that he had been commissioned to show me. these beauties of nature were, at the beginning, a fearfully hot and dusty road, on which the sun fell with full force. the dog walked with a brisk step, and i was getting tired following him. i tried to slacken his gait. "come, i say, blacky, my friend, not so quickly." but blacky turned a deaf ear, and continued, without listening to me, his little trot. he was taken suddenly with a real fit of anger when i wished to sit down in the corner of a field, under a tree that gave a meagre shade. he barked furiously, and cast on me outraged looks; evidently what i was doing was against the rule. he was not in the habit of stopping there, and his barks were so piercing and annoying that i rose to continue on my way. blacky became calm at once, and walked placidly in front of me--i had understood him, and he was satisfied. shortly afterwards we entered a delightful path, in full blossom, shady, sweet-smelling, and filled with freshness and the murmur of springs. blacky immediately entered the wood, took to his heels, and disappeared in the little footway. i followed, slightly out of breath, and had not gone a hundred steps when i found blacky waiting for me, with head erect and bright eyes, in a clearing enlivened by the tinkle of a tiny cascade. there was there an old rustic bench, and blacky looked impatiently from me to the seat and from the seat to me. i was beginning to understand blacky's language. "there now," he said to me, "here is indeed a place to rest in. it's nice and cool here; but you were so stupid, you wanted to stop in the sun. come on, now; sit down; you really can sit down. i will allow you." i stopped, sat down, and lit a cigar, and came near offering one to blacky; perhaps he smoked. but i thought he would prefer a piece of sugar. he caught it on the fly very cleverly, and crunched it with enjoyment. then he lay down and took a nap at my feet. he was evidently accustomed to a little siesta at this place. he slept barely ten minutes i was, however, perfectly easy, for blacky began to inspire me with absolute confidence, and i was determined to obey him blindly. he got up, stretched himself, and threw me a glance that meant, "come along, my friend, come along." and, like two old friends, we set off slowly. blacky was enjoying the silence and the sweetness of the place. on the road, previously, being in a hurry, he had walked with an abrupt, sturdy, hurried step--he was walking to get there; but now, refreshed and revived, blacky was walking for the pleasure of a promenade in one of the prettiest paths in the canton of vaud. presently a side path appeared, leading off to the left; there was a short hesitation on the part of blacky, who reflected, and then passed it, continuing on his way straight ahead, but not without some doubt and uncertainty in his manner. then he stopped; he must have made some mistake. yes; for he retraced his steps, and we took the turning to the left, which, at the end of a hundred feet, led into an open circular space, and blacky, with his nose in the air, invited me to contemplate the highly respectable height of the lofty rocks which formed this circle. when blacky thought i had seen sufficient, he turned around, and we went on again in the path through the woods. blacky had forgotten to show me the circle of rocks--a slight error quickly repaired. the road soon became very mountainous, broken, and difficult, and i advanced slowly and with many precautions. as to blacky, he sprang lightly from rock to rock, but did not forsake me. he waited and fixed his eyes on me with the most touching solicitude. at last i began to hear a rushing of water; blacky commenced barking joyously. "courage!" he said to me; "courage! we are nearly there; you will soon see the caldron." it was in truth the caldron. from a short height a modest stream fell, splashing and rebounding on a large rock slightly hollowed. i should never have been consoled for such a steep climb to see such a small sight if i had not had brave little blacky for a companion. he, at least, was much more interesting and marvellous than the caldron. on either side of the fall, in little swiss chalets, were two dairy-maids; one was a blonde and the other a brunette; both were in their national dress, and were eagerly on the lookout for my coming, standing on the door-steps of their tiny houses--little wooden boxes, seemingly cut out by machine. it seemed to me that the blonde had very pretty eyes, and i had already taken several steps towards her when blacky began to bark emphatically, and resolutely barred the way. could he have a preference for the dark one? i walked in the other direction. that was it; blacky calmed down as though by enchantment when he saw me seated at a table in front of the house of his young protégée. i asked for a cup of milk; blacky's friend entered her little toy house, and blacky slipped in at her feet. through a half-open window i followed him with my eyes. the wretch! he was waited upon before i was. he it was who first had his large bowl of milk. he had sold himself! after which, with white drops on his mustache, blacky came to keep me company and look at me drink my milk. i gave him a piece of sugar, and both of us, absolutely satisfied with each other, filled our lungs with the sharp air of the mountain. we were at a height of about three or four hundred yards. it was a delightful half-hour. blacky began to show signs of impatience and agitation. i could read him then like a book. it was time to go. i paid, got up, and while i went off to the right towards the path by which we came to the mountain, i saw blacky go and plant himself on the left, at the opening of another path. he gave me a serious and severe look. what progress i had made during the last two hours, and how familiar blacky's eloquent silence had become! "what must you think of me?" said blacky to me. "do you imagine i am going to take the same path twice? no, indeed. i am a good guide, and i know my business. we shall make the descent another way." we went back by another road, which was much prettier than the first. blacky, quite sprightly, often turned around to me with an air of triumphant joy. we traversed the village, and at the station blacky was assailed by three or four dogs of his acquaintance, who seemed desirous of a talk or game with their comrade. they attempted to block his way, but blacky, grumbling and growling, repulsed their advances. "can't you see what i am doing? i am taking this gentleman to the station." it was only in the waiting-room that he consented to leave me, after having eaten with relish the two last pieces of sugar. and this is how i interpreted the farewell look of blacky: "we are twenty minutes ahead of time. it isn't i who would have let you lose the train. well, good-bye--pleasant journey!" the most beautiful woman in paris on friday, april th, prince agénor was really distracted at the opera during the second act of "sigurd." the prince kept going from box to box, and his enthusiasm increased as he went. "that blonde! oh, that blonde! she is ideal! look at that blonde! do you know that blonde?" it was from the front part of mme. de marizy's large first tier box that all these exclamations were coming at that moment. "which blonde?" asked mme. de marizy. "which blonde! why, there is but one this evening in the house. opposite to you, over there, in the first box, the sainte mesme's box. look, baroness, look straight over there--" "yes i am looking at her. she is atrociously got up, but pretty--" "pretty! she is a wonder! simply a wonder! got up? yes, agreed--some country relative. the sainte mesmes have cousins in périgord. but what a smile! how well her neck is set on! and the slope of the shoulders! ah, especially the shoulders!" "come, either keep still or go away. let me listen to mme. caron--" the prince went away, as no one knew that incomparable blonde. yet she had often been to the opera, but in an unpretentious way--in the second tier of boxes. and to prince agénor above the first tier of boxes there was nothing, absolutely nothing. there was emptiness--space. the prince had never been in a second-tier box, so the second-tier boxes did not exist. while mme. caron was marvellously singing the marvellous phrase of reyer, "_Ô mon sauveur silencieux la valkyrie est ta conquête_," the prince strolled along the passages of the opera. who was that blonde? he wanted to know, and he would know. and suddenly he remembered that good mme. picard was the box-opener of the sainte mesmes, and that he, prince of nérins, had had the honor of being for a long time a friend of that good mme. picard. it was she who in the last years of the second empire had taught him bezique in all its varieties--japanese, chinese, etc. he was then twenty, mme. picard was forty. she was not then box-opener of the national academy of music; she had in those times as office--and it was not a sinecure--the position of aunt to a nice young person who showed a very pretty face and a very pretty pair of legs in the chorus of the _revues_ of the variétée. and the prince, while quite young, at the beginning of his life, had, for three or four years, led a peaceful, almost domestic life, with the aunt and niece. then they went off one way and he another. one evening at the opera, ten years later, in handing his overcoat to a venerable-looking old dame, agénor heard himself saluted by the following little speech: "ah, how happy i am to see you again, prince! and not changed--not at all changed. still the same, absolutely the same--still twenty." it was mme. picard, who had been raised to the dignity of box-opener. they chatted, talked of old times, and after that evening the prince never passed mme. picard without greeting her. she responded with a little deferential courtesy. she was one of those people, becoming rarer and rarer nowadays, who have the exact feeling for distances and conventions. there was, however, a little remnant of familiarity, almost of affection, in the way in which she said "prince." this did not displease agénor; he had a very good recollection of mme. picard. "ah, prince," said mme. picard on seeing agénor, "there is no one for you to-night in _my_ boxes. mme. de simiane is not here, and mme. de sainte mesme has rented her box." "that's precisely it. don't you know the people in mme. de sainte mesme's box?" "not at all, prince. it's the first time i have seen them in the marquise's box--" "then you have no idea--" "none, prince. only to me they don't appear to be people of--" she was going to say of _our_ set. a box-opener of the first tier of boxes at the opera, having generally only to do with absolutely high-born people, considers herself as being a little of their set, and shows extreme disdain for unimportant people; it displeases her to receive these unimportant people in _her_ boxes. mme. picard, however, had tact which rarely forsook her, and so stopped herself in time to say: "people of _your_ set. they belong to the middle class, to the wealthy middle class; but still the middle class. that doesn't satisfy you; you wish to know more on account of the blonde. is it not so, prince?" those last words were spoken with rare delicacy; they were murmured more than spoken--box-opener to a prince! it would have been unacceptable without that perfect reserve in accent and tone; yes, it was a box-opener who spoke, but a box-opener who was a little bit the aunt of former times, the aunt _à la mode de cythère_. mme. picard continued: "ah, she is a beauty! she came with a little dark man--her husband, i'm sure; for while she was taking off her cloak--it always takes some time--he didn't say a word to her. no eagerness, no little attentions. yes, he could only be a husband. i examined the cloak. people one doesn't know puzzle me and _my_ colleague. mme. flachet and i always amuse ourselves by trying to guess from appearances. well, the cloak comes from a good dress-maker, but not from a great one. it is fine and well-made, but it has no style. i think they are middle-class people, prince. but how stupid i am! you know m. palmer--well, a little while ago he came to see the beautiful blonde!" "m. palmer?" "yes, and he can tell you." "thanks, mme. picard, thanks--" "good-bye, prince, good-bye," and mme. picard went back to her stool, near her colleague, mme. flachet, and said to her: "ah, my dear, what a charming man the prince is! true gentlefolks, there is nothing like them! but they are dying out, they are dying out; there are many less than formerly." prince agénor was willing to do palmer--big palmer, rich palmer, vain palmer--the honor of being one of his friends; he deigned, and very frequently, to confide to palmer his financial difficulties, and the banker was delighted to come to his aid. the prince had been obliged to resign himself to becoming a member of two boards of directors presided over by palmer, who was much pleased at having under obligations to him the representative of one of the noblest families in france. besides, the prince proved himself to be a _good prince_, and publicly acknowledged palmer, showing himself in his box, taking charge of his entertainments, and occupying himself with his racing-stable. he had even pushed his gratitude to the point of compromising mme. palmer in the most showy way. "i am removing her from the middle class," he said; "i owe it to palmer, who is one of the best fellows in the world." the prince found the banker alone in a lower box. "what is the name--the name of that blonde in the sainte mesme's box?" "mme. derline." "is there a m. derline?" "certainly, a lawyer--my lawyer; the sainte mesme's lawyer. and if you want to see mme. derline close to, come to my ball next thursday. she will be there--" the wife of a lawyer!. she was only the wife of a lawyer! the prince sat down in the front of the box, opposite mme. derline, and while looking at that lawyeress he was thinking. "have i," he said to himself, "sufficient credit, sufficient power, to make of mme. derline the most beautiful woman in paris?" for there was always a _most beautiful woman in paris_, and it was he, prince agénor, who flattered himself that he could discover, proclaim, crown, and consecrate that most beautiful woman in paris. launch mme. derline in society! why not? he had never launched any one from the middle class. the enterprise would be new, amusing, and bold. he looked at mme. derline through his opera-glass, and discovered thousands of beauties and perfections in her delightful face. after the opera, the prince, during the exit, placed himself at the bottom of the great staircase. he had enlisted two of his friends. "come," he had said to them, "i will show you the most beautiful woman in paris." while he was speaking, two steps away from the prince was an alert young man who was attached to a morning paper, a very widely-read paper. the young man had sharp ears, he caught on the fly the phrase of the prince agénor, whose high social position he knew; he succeeded in keeping close to the prince, and when mme. derline passed, the young reporter had the gift of hearing the conversation, without losing a word, of the three brilliant noblemen. a quarter of an hour later he arrived at the office of the paper. "is there time," he asked, "to write a dozen lines in the _society note-book_?" "yes, but hurry." the young man was a quick writer; the fifteen lines were done in the twinkling of an eye. they brought seven francs fifty to the reporter, but cost m. derline a little more than that. during this time prince agénor, seated in the club at the whist-table, was saying, while shuffling the cards: "this evening at the opera there was a marvellous woman, a certain mme. derline. she is the most beautiful woman in paris!" the following morning, in the gossip-corner of the bois, in the spring sunshine, the prince, surrounded by a little group of respectful disciples, was solemnly delivering from the back of his roan mare the following opinion: "listen well to what i say. the most beautiful woman in paris is a certain mme. derline. this star will be visible thursday evening at the palmer's. go, and don't forget the name--mme. derline." the disciples dispersed, and went abroad spreading the great news. mme. derline had been admirably brought up by an irreproachable mother; she had been taught that she ought to get up in the morning, keep a strict account of her expenses, not go to a great dress-maker, believe in god, love her husband, visit the poor, and never spend but half her income in order to prepare dowries for her daughters. mme. derline performed all these duties. she led a peaceful and serene life in the old house (in the rue dragon) which had sheltered, since , three generations of derlines; the husbands had all three been lawyers, the wives had all three been virtuous. the three generations had passed there a happy and moderate life, never having any great pleasures, but, also, never being very bored. the next day at eight o'clock in the morning mme. derline awoke with an uneasy feeling. she had passed a troubled night--she, who usually slept like a child. the evening before at the opera, in the box, mme. derline had vaguely felt that something was going on around her. and during the entire last act an opera-glass, obstinately fixed on her--the prince's opera-glass--had thrown her into a certain agitation, not disagreeable, however. she wore a low dress--too much so, in her mother's opinion--and two or three times, under the fixity of that opera-glass, she had raised the shoulder-straps of her dress. so, after opening her eyes, mme. derline reclosed them lazily, indolently, with thoughts floating between dreamland and reality. she again saw the opera-house, and a hundred, two hundred, five hundred opera-glasses obstinately fixed on her--on her alone. the maid entered, placed a tray on a little table, made up a big fire in the fire-place, and went away. there was a cup of chocolate and the morning paper on the tray, the same as every morning. then mme. derline courageously got up, slipped her little bare feet into fur slippers, wrapped herself in a white cashmere dressing-gown, and crouched shivering in an arm-chair by the fire. she sipped the chocolate, and slightly burned herself; she must wait a little while. she put down the cup, took up the paper, unfolded it, and rapidly ran her eye over the six columns of the front page. at the bottom, quite at the bottom of the sixth column, were the following lines: _last evening at the opera there was a very brilliant performance of "sigurd." society was well represented there; the beautiful duchess of montaiglon, the pretty countess verdinière of lardac, the marvellous marquise of muriel, the lively baroness of_-- to read the name of the baroness it was necessary to turn the page. mme. derline did not turn it; she was thinking, reflecting. the evening before she had amused herself by having palmer point out to her the social leaders in the house, and it so happened that the banker had pointed out to her the marvellous marquise. and mme. derline--who was twenty-two--raised herself a little to look in the glass. she exchanged a slight smile with a young blonde, who was very pink and white. "ah," she said to herself, "if i were a marquise the man who wrote this would perhaps have paid some attention to me, and my name would perhaps be there. i wonder if it's fun to see one's name printed in a paper?" and while addressing this question to herself, she turned the page, and continued reading: --_the lively baroness of myrvoix, etc. we have to announce the appearance of a new star which has abruptly burst forth in the parisian constellation. the house was in ecstasy over a strange and disturbing blonde, whose dark steel eyes, and whose shoulders--ah, what shoulders! the shoulders were the event of the evening. from all quarters one heard asked, "who is she?" "who is she?" "to whom do those divine shoulders belong?" "to whom?" we know, and our readers will doubtless thank us for telling them the name of this ideal wonder. it is mme. derline._ her name! she had read her name! she was dazzled. her eyes clouded. all the letters in the alphabet began to dance wildly on the paper. then they calmed down, stopped, and regained their places. she was able to find her name, and continue reading; _it is mme. derline, the wife of one of the most agreeable and richest lawyers in paris. the prince of nérins, whose word has so much weight in such matters, said yesterday evening to every one who would listen, "she is the most beautiful woman in paris." we are absolutely of that opinion._ a single paragraph, and that was all. it was enough, it was too much! mme derline was seized with a feeling of undefinable confusion. it was a combination of fear and pleasure, of joy and trouble, of satisfied vanity and wounded modesty. her dressing-gown was a little open; she folded it over with a sort of violence, and crossed it upon, her feet, abruptly drawn back towards the arm-chair. she had a feeling of nudity. it seemed to her that all paris was there, in her room, and that the prince de nérins was in front saying to all paris, "look, look! she is the most beautiful woman in paris." the prince of nérins! she knew the name well, for she read with keen interest in the papers all the articles entitled "_parisian life_," "_high life_," "_society echoes_," etc.; and all the society columns signed "_mousseline_," "_fanfreluche_," "_brimborion_," "_véloutine_"; all the accounts of great marriages, great balls, of great comings out, and of great charity sales. the name of the prince often figured in these articles, and he was always quoted as supreme arbiter of parisian elegances. and it was he who had declared--ah!--decidedly pleasure got the better of fear. still trembling with emotion, mme. derline went and placed herself before a long looking-glass, an old cheval-glass from jacob's, which never till now had reflected other than good middle-class women married to good lawyers. in that glass she looked at herself, examined herself, studied herself, long, curiously, and eagerly. of course she knew she was pretty, but oh, the power of print! she found herself absolutely delightful. she was no longer mme. derline--she was the most beautiful woman in paris! her feet, her little feet--their bareness no longer troubled her--left the ground. she raised herself gently towards the heavens, towards the clouds, and felt herself become a goddess. but suddenly an anxiety seized her. "edward! what would edward say?" edward was her husband. there had been but one man's surname in her life--her husband's. the lawyer was well loved! and almost at the same moment when she was asking herself what edward would say, edward abruptly opened the door. he was a little out of breath. he had run up-stairs two at a time. he was peacefully rummaging among old papers in his study on the ground-floor when one of his brother-lawyers, with forced congratulations, however, had made him read the famous article. he had soon got rid of his brother-lawyer, and he had come, much irritated, to his room. at first there was simply a torrent of words. "why do these journalists meddle? it's an outrage! your name--look, there is your name in this paper!" "yes, i know, i've seen--" "ah, you know, you have seen--and you think it quite natural!" "but, dear--" "what times do we live in? it's your fault, too." "my fault!" "yes, your fault!" "and how?" "your dress last night was too low, much too low. besides, your mother told you so--" "oh, mamma--" "you needn't say 'oh, mamma!' your mother was right. there, read: 'and whose shoulders--ah, what shoulders!' and it is of your shoulders they are speaking. and that prince who dares to award you a prize for beauty!" the good man had plebeian, gothical ideas--the ideas of a lawyer of old times, of a lawyer of the rue dragon; the lawyers of the boulevard malesherbes are no longer like that. mme. derline very gently, very quietly, brought the rebel back to reason. of course there was charm and eloquence in her speech, but how much more charm and eloquence in the tenderness of her glance and smile. why this great rage and despair? he was accused of being the husband of the most beautiful woman in paris. was that such a horrible thing, such a terrible misfortune? and who was the brother-lawyer, the good brother-lawyer, who had taken pleasure in coming to show him the hateful article? "m. renaud." "oh, it was m. renaud--dear m. renaud!" thereupon mme. derline was seized with a hearty fit of laughter; so much so that the blond hair, which had been loosely done up, came down and framed the pretty face from which gleamed the dark eyes which could also, when they gave themselves the trouble, look very gentle, very caressing, very loving. "oh, it was m. renaud, the husband of that delightful mme. renaud! well, do you know what you will do immediately, without losing a minute? go to the president of the tribunal and ask for a divorce. you will say to him: 'm. aubépin, deliver me from my wife. her crime is being pretty, very pretty, too pretty. i wish another one who is ugly, very ugly, who has mme. renaud's large nose, colossal foot, pointed chin, skinny shoulders, and eternal pimples.' that's what you want, isn't it? come, you big stupid, kiss your poor wife, and forgive her for not being a monster." as rather lively gestures had illustrated this little speech, the white cashmere dressing-gown had slipped--slipped a good deal, and had opened, very much opened; the criminal shoulders were within reach of m. derline's lips--he succumbed. besides, he too felt the abominable influence of the press. his wife had never seemed so pretty to him, and, brought back to subjection, m. derline returned to his study in order to make money for the most beautiful woman in paris. a very wise and opportune occupation; for scarcely was mme. derline left alone when an idea flashed through her head which was to call forth a very pretty collection of bank-notes from the cash-box of the lawyer of the rue dragon. mme. derline had intended wearing to the palmer's ball a dress which had already been much seen. mme. derline had kept the dress-maker of her wedding-dress, her mother's dress-maker, a dress-maker of the left bank. it seemed to her that her new position imposed new duties on her. she could not appear at the palmer's without a dress which had not been seen, and stamped with a well-known name. she ordered the carriage in the afternoon, and resolutely gave her coachman the address of one of the most illustrious dress-makers in paris. she arrived a little agitated, and to reach the great artist was obliged to pass through a veritable crowd of footmen, who were in the antechamber chatting and laughing, used to meeting there and making long stops. nearly all the footmen were those of society, the highest society; they had spent the previous evening together at the english embassy, and were to be that evening at the duchess of grémoille. mme. derline entered a sumptuous parlor; it was very sumptuous, too sumptuous. twenty great customers were there--society women and actresses, all agitated, anxious, feverish--looking at the beautiful tall saleswomen come and go before them, wearing the last creations of the master of the house. the great artist had a diplomatic bearing: buttoned-up black frock-coat, long cravat with pin (a present from a royal highness who paid her bills slowly), and a many-colored rosette in his button-hole (the gift of a small reigning prince who paid slower yet the bills of an opera-dancer). he came and went--precise, calm, and cool--in the midst of the solicitations and supplications of his customers. "m. arthur! m. arthur!" one heard nothing but that phrase. he was m. arthur. he went from one to the other--respectful, without too much humility, to the duchesses, and easy, without too much familiarity, to the actresses. there was an extraordinary liveliness, and a confusion of marvellous velvets, satins, and embroidered, brocaded, and gold or silver threaded stuffs, all thrown here and there, as though by accident--but what science in that accident--on arm-chairs, tables, and divans. in the first place mme. derline ran against a shop-girl who was bearing with outstretched arms a white dress, and was almost hidden beneath a light mountain of muslins and laces. the only thing visible was the shop-girl's mussed black hair and sly suburban expression. mme. derline backed away, wishing to place herself against the, wall; but a tryer-on was there, a large energetic brunette, who spoke authoritatively in a high staccato. "at once," she was saying--"bring me at once the princess's dress!" frightened and dazed, mme. derline stood in a corner and watched an opportunity to seize a saleswoman on the fly. she even thought of giving up the game. never, certainly, should she dare to address directly that terrible m. arthur, who had just given her a rapid glance in which she believed to have read, "who is she? she isn't properly dressed! she doesn't go to a fashionable dress-maker!" at last mme. derline succeeded in getting hold of a disengaged saleswoman, and there was the same slightly disdainful glance--a glance which was accompanied by the phrase: "madame is not a regular customer of the house?" "no, i am not a customer--" "and you wish?" "a dress, a ball-dress--and i want the dress for next thursday evening--" "thursday next!" "yes, thursday next." "oh! madame, it is not to be thought of. even for a customer of the house it would be impossible." "but i wished it so much--" "go and see m. arthur. he alone can--" "and where is m. arthur?" "in his office. he has just gone into his office. over there, madame, opposite." mme. derline, through a half-open door, saw a sombre and severe but luxurious room--an ambassador's office. on the walls the great european powers were represented by photographs--the empress eugénie, the princess of wales, a grand-duchess of russia, and an archduchess of austria. m. arthur was there taking a few moments' rest, seated in a large arm-chair, with an air of lassitude and exhaustion, and with a newspaper spread out over his knees. he arose on seeing mme. derline enter. in a trembling voice she repeated her wish. "oh, madame, a ball-dress--a beautiful ball-dress--for thursday! i couldn't make such a promise--i couldn't keep it. there are responsibilities to which i never expose myself." he spoke slowly, gravely, as a man conscious of his high position. "oh, i am so disappointed. it was a particular occasion and i was told that you alone could--" two tears, two little tears, glittered on her eye-lashes. m. arthur was moved. a woman, a pretty woman, crying there, before him! never had such homage been paid to his genius. "well, madame, i am willing to make an attempt. a very simple dress--" "oh no, not simple. very brilliant, on the contrary--everything that is most brilliant. two of my friends are customers of yours (she named them), and i am mme. derline--" "mme. derline! you are mme. derline?" the two _mme. derlines_ were followed by a glance and a smile--the glance was at the newspaper and the smile was at mme. derline; but it was a discreet, self-contained smile--the smile of a perfectly gallant man. this is what the glance and smile said with admirable clearness: "ah i you are mme. derline--that already celebrated mme. derline--who yesterday at the opera--i understand, i understand--i was reading just now in this paper--words are no longer necessary--you should have told your name at once--yes, you need me; yes, you shall have your dress; yes, i want to divide your success with you." m. arthur called: "mademoiselle blanche, come here at once! mademoiselle blanche!" and turning towards mme. derline, he said: "she has great talent, but i shall myself superintend it; so be easy--yes, i myself." mme. derline was a little confused, a little embarrassed by her glory, but happy nevertheless. mademoiselle blanche came forward. "conduct madame," said m. arthur, "and take the necessary measures for a ball-dress, very low, and with absolutely bare arms. during that time, madame, i am going to think seriously of what i can do for you. it must be something entirely new--ah! before going, permit me--" he walked very slowly around mme. derline, and examined her with profound attention; then he walked away, and considered her from a little distance. his face was serious, thoughtful, and anxious. a great thinker wrestling with a great problem. he passed his hand over his forehead, raised his eyes to the sky, getting inspiration by a painful delivery; but suddenly his face lit up--the spirit from above had answered. "go, madame," he said, "go. your dress is thought out. when you come back, mademoiselle, bring me that piece of pink satin; you know, the one that i was keeping for some great occasion." thus mme. derline found herself with mademoiselle blanche in a trying-on room, which was a sort of little cabin lined with mirrors. a quarter of an hour later, when the measures had been taken, mme. derline came back and discovered m. arthur in the midst of pieces of satin of all colors, of crêpes, of tulles, of laces, and of brocaded stuffs. "no, no, not the pink satin," he said to mademoiselle blanche, who was bringing the asked-for piece; "no, i have found something better. listen to me. this is what i wish: i have given up the pink, and i have decided on this, this peach-colored satin. a classic robe, outlining all the fine lines and showing the suppleness of the body. this robe must be very clinging--hardly any underskirts. it must be of surah. madame must be melted into it--do you thoroughly understand?--absolutely melted into the robe. we will drop over the dress this crêpe--yes, that one, but in small, light pleats. the crêpe will be as a cloud thrown over the dress--a transparent, vapory, impalpable cloud. the arms are to be absolutely bare, as i already told you. on each shoulder there must be a simple knot, showing the upper part of the arm. of what is the knot to be? i'm still undecided--i need to think it over--till to-morrow, madame, till to-morrow." mme. derline came back the next day, and the next, and every day till the day before the famous thursday; and each time that she came back, while awaiting her turn to try on, she ordered dresses, very simple ones, but yet costing from seven to eight hundred francs each. and that was not all. on the day of her first visit to m. arthur, when mme. derline came out of the great house, she was broken-hearted--positively broken-hearted--at the sight of her brougham; it really did make a pitiful appearance among all the stylish carriages which were waiting in three rows and taking up half the street. it was the brougham of her late mother-in-law, and it still rolled through the streets of paris after fifteen years' service. mme. derline got into the woe-begone brougham to drive straight to a very well-known carriage-maker, and that evening, cleverly seizing the psychological moment, she explained to m. derline that she had seen a certain little black coupé lined with blue satin that would frame delightfully her new dresses. the coupé was bought the next day by m. derline, who also was beginning fully to realize the extent of his new duties. but the next day it was discovered that it was impossible to harness to that jewel of a coupé the old horse who had pulled the old carriage, and no less impossible to put on the box the old coachman who drove the old horse. this is how on thursday, april th, at half-past ten in the evening, a very pretty chestnut mare, driven by a very correct english coachman, took m. and mme. derline to the palmer's. they still lacked something--a little groom to sit beside the english coachman. but a certain amount of discretion had to be employed. the most beautiful woman in paris intended to wait ten days before asking for the little groom. while she was going up-stairs at the palmer's, she distinctly felt her heart beat like the strokes of a hammer. she was going to play a decisive game. she knew that the palmers had been going everywhere, saying, "come on thursday; we will show you mme. derline, the most beautiful woman in paris." curiosity as well as jealousy had been well awakened. she entered, and from the first minute she had the delicious sensation of her success. throughout the long gallery of the palmer's house it was a true triumphal march. she advanced with firm and precise step, erect, and head well held. she appeared to see nothing, to hear nothing, but how well she saw! how well she felt, the fire of all those eyes on her shoulders! around her arose a little murmur of admiration, and never had music been sweeter to her. yes, decidedly, all went well. she was on a fair way to conquer paris. and, sure of herself, at each step she became more confident, lighter, and bolder, as she advanced on palmer's arm, who, in passing, pointed out the counts, the marquises, and the dukes. and then palmer suddenly said to her: "i want to present to you one of your greatest admirers, who, the other night at the opera, spoke of nothing but your beauty; he is the prince of nérins." she became as red as a cherry. palmer looked at her and began to laugh. "ah, you read the other day in that paper?" "i read--yes, i read--" "but where is the prince, where is he? i saw him during the day, and he was to be here early." mme. derline was not to see the prince of nérins that evening. and yet he had intended to go to the palmers and preside at the deification of his lawyeress. he had dined at the club, and had allowed himself to be dragged off to a first performance at a minor theatre. an operetta of the regulation type was being played. the principal personage was a young queen, who was always escorted by the customary four maids-of-honor. three of these young ladies were very well known to first-nighters, as having already figured in the tableaux of operettas and in groups of fairies, but the fourth--oh, the fourth! she was a new one, a tall brunette of the most striking beauty. the prince made himself remarked more than all others by his enthusiasm. he completely forgot that he was to leave after the first act. the play was over very late, and the prince was still there, having paid no attention to the piece or the music, having seen nothing but the wonderful brunette, having heard nothing but the stanza which she had unworthily massacred in the middle of the second act. and while they were leaving the theatre, the prince was saying to whoever would listen: "that brunette! oh, that brunette! she hasn't an equal in any theatre! she is the most beautiful woman in paris! the most beautiful!" it was one o'clock in the morning. the prince asked himself if he should go to the palmers. poor mme. derline; she was of very slight importance beside this new wonder! and then, too, the prince was a methodical man. the hour for whist had arrived; so he departed to play whist. the following morning mme. derline found ten lines on the palmer's ball in the "society column." there was mention of the marquises, the countesses, and the duchesses who were there, but about mme. derline there was not a word--not a word. on the other hand, the writer of theatrical gossip celebrated in enthusiastic terms the beauty of that ideal maid-of-honor, and said, "_besides, the prince of nérins declared that mademoiselle miranda was indisputedly the most beautiful woman in paris!_" mme. derline threw the paper in the fire. she did not wish her husband to know that she was already not the most beautiful woman in paris. she has, however, kept the great dress-maker and the english coachman, but she never dared to ask for the little groom. the story of a ball-dress when the women of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries write their memoirs they boldly present themselves to the reader thus: "i have a well-shaped mouth," said the marquise of courcelles, "beautiful lips, pearly teeth, good forehead, cheeks, and expression, finely chiselled throat, divine hands, passable arms (that is to say, they are a little thin); but i find consolation for that misfortune in the fact that i have the prettiest legs in the world." and i will follow the marquise's example. here is my portrait: overskirt of white illusion trimmed with fringe, and three flounces of blond alternating with the fringe; court mantle of cherry silk girt by a high flounce of white blond which falls over the fringe and is caught up by marie antoinette satin; two other flounces of blond are placed behind at intervals above; on each side from the waist up are facings composed of little alternating flounces of blond, looped up with satin; the big puff behind is bound by a flounce of white blond. a little white waist, the front and shoulder-straps of which are of satin trimmed with blond. belt of red satin with large red butterfly. the world was made in six days, i in three. and yet i too am in the world--a little complicated world of silk, satin, blond, loops, and fringes. did god rest while he was making the world? i do not know; but i do know that the scissors that cut me out and the needle that sewed me rested neither day nor night from monday evening, january , , to thursday morning, january th. the slashes of the scissors and the pricks of the needle caused me great pain at first, but i soon paid no attention to them at all. i began to observe what was going on, to understand that i was becoming a dress, and to discover that the dress would be a marvel. from time to time m. worth came himself to pay me little visits. "take in the waist," he would say, "add more fringe, spread out the train, enlarge the butterfly," etc. one thing worried me: for whom was i intended? i knew the name, nothing more--the baroness z----. princess would have been better; but still, baroness did very well. i was ambitious. i dreaded the theatre. it remained to be seen whether this baroness was young, pretty, and equal to wearing me boldly, and whether she had a figure to show me off to advantage. i was horribly afraid of falling into the hands of an ugly woman, a provincial, or an old coquette. how perfectly reassured i was as soon as i saw the baroness! small, delicate, supple, stylish, a fairy waist, the shoulders of a goddess, and, besides all this, a certain little air of audacity, of raillery, but in exquisite moderation. i was spread out on a large pearl-gray lounge, and i was received with marks of frank admiration. m. worth had been good enough to bring me _himself_, and he didn't trouble himself about all dresses. "how original!" exclaimed the little baroness; "how new! but very dear, isn't it?" "one thousand and fifty francs." "one thousand and fifty francs! and i furnished the lace! ah, how quickly i should leave you if i didn't owe you so much! for i owe you a lot of money." "oh, very little, baroness--very little." "no, no; a great deal. but we will discuss that another day." that evening i made my first appearance in society, and i came out at the tuileries. we both of us, the baroness and myself, had an undeniable success. when the empress crossed the salon of diana, making pleasant remarks to the right and left, she had the graciousness to stop before us and make the following remark, which seemed to me extremely witty, "ah, baroness, what a dress--what a dress! it's a dream!" on that occasion the empress wore a dress of white tulle dotted with silver, on a design of cloudy green, with epaulettes of sable. it was queer, not ineffective, but in doubtful taste. we received much attention, the baroness and i. the new minister, m. Émile ollivier, was presented to us; we received him coldly, as the little baroness did not approve, i believe, of liberal reforms, and looked for nothing good from them. we had a long chat on the window-seat with the marshal leboeuf. the only topic during that interesting conversation was the execution of troppmann. it was the great event of the week. at two o'clock we left--the baroness, i, and the baron. for there was a husband, who for the time being was crowded in the corner of the carriage, and hidden under the mass of my skirts and of my train, which was thrown back on him all in a heap. "confess, edward," said the little baroness--confess that i was pretty to-night." "very." "and my dress?" "oh, charming!" "you say that indolently, without spirit or enthusiasm. i know you well. you think i've been extravagant. well, indeed i haven't. do you know how much this dress cost me? four hundred francs--not a centime more." we arrived home, which was a step from the tuileries, in the place vendôme. the baron went to his rooms, the baroness to hers; and while hermance, the maid, cleverly and swiftly untied all my rosettes and took out the pins, the little baroness kept repeating: "how becoming this dress is to me! and i seem to become it, too. i shall wear it on thursday, hermance, to go to the austrian embassy. wait a minute, till i see the effect of the butterfly in the back. bring the lamp nearer; nearer yet. yes, that's it. ah, how pretty it is! i am enchanted with this dress, hermance--really enchanted!" if the little baroness was enchanted with me, i was equally enchanted with the baroness. we two made the most tender, the most intimate, and the most united of families. we comprehended, understood, and completed each other so well. i had not to do with one of those mechanical dolls--stupidly and brutally laced into a padded corset. between the little baroness and myself there was absolutely nothing but lace and fine linen. we could confidentially and surely depend on one another. the beauty of the little baroness was a real beauty, without garniture, conjuring, or trickery. so the following thursday i went to the austrian embassy, and a week later to the princess mathilde's. but, alas! the next morning the little baroness said to her maid: "hermance, take that dress to the reserve. i love it, and i'd wear it every evening; but it has been seen sufficiently for this winter. yesterday several people said to me, 'ah, that's your dress of the tuileries; it's your dress of the austrian embassy.' it must be given up till next year. good-bye, dear little dress." and, having said that, she placed her charming lips at hap-hazard among my laces and kissed me in the dearest way in the world. ah, how pleased and proud i was of that childish and sweet fellowship! i remembered that the evening before, on our return, the little baroness had kissed her husband; but the kiss she had given him was a quick, dry kiss--one of those hurried kisses with which one wishes to get through; whereas my kiss had been prolonged and passionate. she had cordiality for the baron, and love for me. the little baroness wasn't twenty, and she was a coquette to the core. i say this, in the first place, to excuse her, and, in the second place, to give an exact impression of her character. so at noon, in the arms of hermance, i made my entry to the reserve. it was a dormitory of dresses, an immense room on the third story, very large, and lined with wardrobes of white oak, carefully locked. in the middle of the room was an ottoman, on which hermance deposited me; after which she slid back ten or twelve wardrobe doors, one after the other. dresses upon dresses! i should never be able to tell how many. all were hung in the air by silk tape on big triangles. hermance, however, seemed much embarrassed. "in the reserve," she murmured, "in the reserve; that is easy to say. but where is there any room? and this one needs a lot." at last hermance, after having given a number of little taps to the right and left, succeeded in making a sort of slit, into which i had great difficulty in sliding. hermance gave me and my neighbors some more little taps to lump us together, and then shut the door. darkness reigned. i was placed between a blue velvet dress and a mauve satin one. towards the end of april we received a visit from the little baroness, and in consequence of that visit there was great disturbance. winter dresses were hung up; spring dresses were got down. at the beginning of july another visit, another disturbance--entry of the costumes from the races; departure of others for the watering-places. i lost my neighbor to the right, the mauve dress, and kept my neighbor on the left, the blue dress, a cross and crabbed person who was forever groaning, complaining, and saying to me, "oh, my dear, you do take up so much room; do get out of the way a little." i must admit that the poor blue velvet dress was much to be pitied. it was three years old, having been a part of the little baroness's trousseau, and had never been worn. "a high-neck blue velvet dress, at my age, with my shoulders and arms!" had exclaimed the little baroness; "i should look like a grandmother!" thus it was decreed, and the unfortunate blue dress had gone from the trousseau straight to the reserve. a week or ten days after the departure of the dresses for baden-baden we heard a noise, the voices of women, and all the doors were opened. it was the little baroness, who had brought her friend the countess n----. "sit there, my dear, on that ottoman," said the little baroness. "i have come to look over my dresses. i am very hurried; i arrived but just now from baden, and i start again to-night for anjou. we can chatter while hermance shows me the dresses. oh, those prussians, my dear, the monsters! we had to run away, blanche and myself, like thieves. (very simple dresses, hermance, every-day dresses, and walking and boating dresses.) yes, my dear, like thieves! they threw stones at us, real stones, in the avenue of lichtental, and called us 'rascally frenchwomen! french rabble!' the emperor did well to declare war against such people. (dresses for horseback, hermance--my brown riding-habit.) at any rate, there's no need to worry. my husband dined yesterday with guy; you know, the tall guy, who is an aide of leboeuf. well, we are ready, admirably ready, and the prussians not at all. (very simple, i said, hermance. you are showing me ball-dresses. i don't intend to dance during the war.) and then, my dear, it seems that this war was absolutely necessary from a dynastic point of view. i don't quite know why, but i tell it to you as i heard it. (these dozen dresses, hermance, will be sufficient. but there are thirteen. i never could have thirteen. take away the green one; or, no, add another--that blue one; that's all.) now let's go down, my dear." whereupon she departed. so war was declared, and with prussia. i was much moved. i was a french dress and a bonapartist dress. i was afraid for france and afraid for the dynasty, but the words of the tall guy were so perfectly reassuring. for two months there was no news; but about the th of september the little baroness arrived with hermance. she was very pale, poor little baroness--very pale and agitated. "dark dresses, hermance," she said, "black dresses. i know! what remains of aunt pauline's mourning? there must remain quite a lot of things. you see, i am too sad--" "but if madame expects to remain long in england?" "ah! as long as the republic lasts." "then it may be a long time." "what do you mean--a long time? what _do_ you mean, hermance? who can tell you such things?" "it seems to me that if i were madame i'd take for precaution's sake a few winter dresses, a few evening-dresses--" "evening-dresses! why, what are you thinking of? i shall go nowhere, hermance, alone in england, without my husband, who stays in paris in the national guard." "but if madame should go to see their majesties in england?" "yes, of course i shall, hermance." "well, it's because i know madame's feelings and views that--" "you are right; put in some evening-dresses." "will madame take her last white satin dress?" "oh no, not that one; it would be too sad a memory for the empress, who noticed it at the last ball at the tuileries. and then the dress wouldn't stand the voyage. my poor white satin dress! shall i ever wear it again?" that is why i did not emigrate, and how i found myself blockaded in paris during the siege. from the few words that we had heard of the conversation of the little baroness and hermance we had a pretty clear idea of the situation. the empire was overthrown and the republic proclaimed. the republic! there were among us several old family laces who had seen the first republic--that of ' . the reign of terror! ah, what tales they told us! the fall of the empire, however, did not displease these old laces, who were all legitimists or orleanists. in my neighborhood, on a gooseberry satin skirt, there were four flounces of lace who had had the honor of attending the coronation of charles x., and who were delighted, and kept saying to us: "the bonapartes brought about invasion; invasion brings back the bourbons. long live henry v.!" we all had, however, a common preoccupation. should we remain in style? we were nearly all startling, risky, and loud--so much so that we were quite anxious, except three or four quiet dresses, velvet and dark cloth dresses, who joined in the chorus with the old laces, and said to us: "ah, here's an end to the carnival, to this masquerade of an empire! republic or monarchy, little we care; we are sensible and in good taste." we felt they were somewhat in the right in talking thus. from september to february we remained shut up in the wardrobes, wrangling with each other, listening to the cannon, and knowing nothing of what was going on. towards the middle of february all the doors were opened. it was the little baroness--the little baroness! "ah!" she exclaimed, "my dresses, my beloved dresses, there they are; how happy i am to see them!" we could say nothing; but we, too, were very happy to see the little baroness. "now, then, hermance," continued the little baroness, "let us hunt around a little. what can i take to bordeaux? after such disasters i must have quiet and sombre dresses." "madame hasn't very many." "i beg your pardon, hermance, i have dark dresses--this one and that one. the blue velvet dress! the blue velvet dress is just the thing, and i've never worn it." and so my neighbor the blue dress was taken down, and was at last going to make her first appearance in the world. however, the little baroness herself, with great activity, rummaged round in the wardrobes. "nothing, nothing," she said; "four or five dresses only. all the rest are impossible, and would not accord with the government we shall have in bordeaux. well, i shall be obliged to have some republican dresses made--very moderate republican, but still republican." the little baroness went away, to come back a month later, always with hermance, who was an excellent maid, and much thought of by her mistress. new deliberation. "hermance," said the little baroness, "what can i take to versailles? i think we shall be able to have a little more freedom. there will be receptions and dinners with m. thiers; then the princes are coming. i might risk transition dresses. do you know what i mean by that, hermance--transition dresses?" "perfectly, madame--pearl grays, mauves, violets, lilacs." "yes, that's it, hermance; light but quiet colors. you are an invaluable maid. you understand me perfectly." the little baroness started for versailles with a collection of transition dresses. there must have been twenty. it was a good beginning, and filled us with hope. she had begun at bordeaux with sombre colors, and continued on at versailles with light ones, versailles was evidently only a stepping-stone between bordeaux and paris. the little baroness was soon coming back to paris, and once the little baroness was in paris we could feel assured that we should not stay long in the wardrobes. but it happened that a few days after the departure of the little baroness for versailles we heard loud firing beneath the windows of the house (we lived in the place vendôme). was it another revolt, another revolution? for a week nothing more was heard; there was silence. then at the end of that week the cannonade began around paris worse than ever. was the war recommencing with the prussians? was it a new siege? the days passed, and the boom of the cannon continued. finally, one morning there was a great racket in the court-yard of our house. cries, threats, oaths! the noise came up and up. great blows with the butt ends of muskets were struck on the wardrobe doors. they were smashed in and we perceived eight or ten slovenly looking, dirty, and bearded men. among these men was a woman, a little brunette; fairly pretty, i must say, but queerly gotten up. a black dress with a short skirt, little boots with red bows, a round gray felt hat with a large red plume, and a sort of red scarf worn crosswise. it was a peculiar style, but it was style all the same. "oh, oh!" exclaimed the little woman, "here's luck! what a lot of dresses! well, clear away all this, sergeant, and take those duds to headquarters." then all those men threw themselves upon us with a sort of fury. we felt ourselves gripped and dishonored by coarse, dirty hands. "don't soil them too much, citizens," the little woman would cry. "do them up in packages, and take the packages down to the ammunition-wagon." the headquarters was the apartment of the young lady of the red plume. our new mistress was the wife of a general of the commune. we were destined to remain official dresses. official during the empire, and official during the commune. the first thought of mme. general was to hold a review of us, and i had the honor of being the object of her special attention and admiration. "ah, look, Émile!" (Émile was the general.) "look! this is the toniest of the whole concern. i'll keep it for the tuileries." i was to be kept for the tuileries! what tales of woe and what lamentations there were in the sort of alcove where we were thrown like rags! mme. general went into society every evening, and never put on the same dress twice. my poor companions the day after told me their adventures of the day before. this one had dined at citizen raoul rigault's, the préfecture of police; that one attended a performance of "andromaque" at the théâtre français, in the empress's box, etc. at last it was my turn. the th of may was the day of the grand concert at the tuileries. oh, my dear little baroness, what had become of you? where were your long soft muslin petticoats and your fine white satin corsets? where were your transparent linen chemisettes? mme. general had coarse petticoats of starched calico. mme. general wore such a corset! mme. general had such a crinoline! my poor skirts of lace and satin were abominably stiffened and tossed about by the hard crinoline hoops. as to the basque, the strange thing happened that the basque of the little baroness was much too tight for mme. general at the waist, and, on the contrary, above the waist it was--i really do not know how to explain such things. at any rate, it was just the opposite of small, so much so that it had to be padded. horrible! most horrible! at ten that evening i was climbing for the second time the grand staircase of the tuileries, in the midst of a dense and ignoble mob. one of the general's aides-de-camp tried in vain to open a passage. "room, room, for the wife of the general!" he cried. much they cared for the wife of the general! great big boots trampled on my train, sharp spurs tore my laces, and the bones of the corsets of mme. general hurt me terribly. at midnight i returned to mme. general's den. i returned in rags, shreds, soiled, dishonored, and stained with wine, tobacco, and mud. a hateful little maid brutally tore me from the shoulders of mme. general, and said to her mistress: "well, madame, was it beautiful?" "no, victoria," replied mme. general, "it was too mixed. but do hurry up! tear it off if it won't come. i know where to find others at the same price." and i was thrown like a rag on a heap of pieces. the heap of pieces was composed of ball-dresses of the little baroness. one morning, three or four days later, the aide-de-camp rushed in, crying, "the versaillists! the versaillists are in paris!" thereupon mme. general put on a sort of military costume, took two revolvers, filled them with cartridges, and hung them on a black leather belt which she wore around her waist. "where is the general?" she said to the aide-de-camp. "at the tuileries." "very well, i shall go there with you." and on that she departed, with her little gray felt hat jauntily tilted over her ear. the cannonade and firing redoubled and came nearer. evidently there was fighting very near us, quite close to us. the next day towards noon we saw them both come back, the general and mme. general. and in what a condition! panting, frightened, forbidding, with clothes white with dust, and hands and faces black with powder. the general was wounded in the left hand, he had twisted around his wrist a handkerchief bathed in blood. "does your arm hurt you?" mme. general said to him. "it stings a little, that's all." "are they following us?" "yes, i think so." "listen! there are noises, shouts." "look out of the window without showing yourself." "the red trousers! they are here!" "lock and bolt the door. get the revolvers and load them. i can't on account of my arm. this wound is a bore." "you are so pale!" "yes; i am losing blood--a good deal of blood." "they are coming up the stairs!" "into the alcove--let us go into the alcove, on the dresses." "here they are!" "give me the revolver." the door gave way violently under the hammering of the butts of the guns. a shower of bullets fell on us and around us. the general, with a single movement, fell heavily at full length on the bed of silk, muslin, and laces that we made for him. three or four men with red trousers threw themselves on mme. general, who fought, bit, and screamed, "assassins! assassins!" a soldier tore away the bell-cord, firmly tied her hands, and carried her away like a bundle. she continued to repeat, in a strangled voice, "assassins! assassins!" the soldiers approached the alcove and looked at the general. "as to him," they said, "he's done for; he doesn't need anything more. let's be off." they left us, and we remained there for two days, crushed beneath that corpse and covered with blood. finally, at the end of those two days, a man arrived who was called a commissioner, and who wore a tricolored scarf around his waist. "this corpse has been forgotten," he said. "take it away." they tried to lift the body, but with fingers stiffened by death the general held my big cherry satin butterfly. they had nearly to break his fingers to get it out. meantime the commissioner examined and searched curiously among that brilliant heap of rags on which the general had died. my waist appeared to catch his eye. "here is a mark," he said to one of his men--"a mark inside the waist, with the name and number of the maker. we can learn where these dresses came from. wrap this waist in a newspaper and i'll take it." they wrapped me in an old number of the _official journal of the commune_. the following day we went to m. worth, the commissioner and i. the conversation was not long. "was this dress made by you?" the commissioner asked. "yes; here's the mark." "and for whom was it made?" "number , . wait a moment; i'll consult my books." the dress-maker came back in five minutes, and said to the commissioner, "it was for the baroness z---- that i made this dress, eighteen months ago, and it isn't paid for." the insurgent "prisoner," said the president of the council of war, "have you anything to add in your defence?" "yes, colonel," replied the prisoner. "the little lawyer you assigned me defended me according to his idea; i want to defend myself according to mine. "my name is martin (lewis joseph). i am fifty-five years old. my father was a locksmith. he had a little shop in the upper part of the saint-martin quarter, and had a fair business. we just existed. i learned to read in the _national_, which was, i believe, the paper of m. thiers. "on the th of july, , my father went out very early. that evening, at ten o'clock, he was brought back to us on a litter, dying. he had received a bullet in the chest. beside him on the litter was his musket. "'take it,' he said to me. 'i give it to you; and every time there is a riot, be against the government--always, always, always!' "an hour later he was dead. i went out in the night. at the first barricade i stopped and offered myself; a man examined me by the light of a lantern. 'a child!' he exclaimed. i was not fifteen. i was very slight and undersized. i answered: 'a child, maybe, but my father was killed two hours ago. he gave me his musket. teach me how to use it.' "from that moment i became what i have always been for forty years, an insurgent! if i fought during the commune, it was not because i was forced, nor for the thirty sous; it was from taste, from pleasure, from habit, from routine. "in i behaved rather bravely at the attack on the louvre. the urchin who first scaled the gate beneath the bullets of the swiss was i. i received the medal of july. but the shopkeepers gave us a king. it had all to be done over. i joined a secret society; i learned to melt bullets, to make powder--in short, i completed my education, and i waited. "i had to wait nearly two years. on june , , at noon, in front of the madeleine, i was the first to unharness one of the horses of the hearse of general lamarque. i passed the day in shouting, 'long live lafayette!' and i passed the night in making barricades. the next morning we were attacked by the regulars. in the evening, towards four o'clock, we were blocked, cannonaded, swept with grape-shot, and crushed back into the church of saint-méry. i had a bullet and three bayonet-stabs in my body when i was picked up by the soldiers from the stone floor of a little chapel to the left--the chapel of st. john. i have often gone back to that little chapel--not to pray, i wasn't brought up with such ideas--but to see the stains of my blood which still remain on the stones. "on account of my youth i received a ten-year sentence. i was sent to mont saint-michel. that was why i didn't take part in the riots of . if i had been free i should have fought in rue transnonian as i had fought in rue saint-méry--'against the government--always, always, always!' it was my father's last word; it was my gospel, my religion. i call that my catechism in six words. i came out of prison in , and i again began to wait. "the revolution of ' was made without effort. the shopkeepers were stupid and cowardly. they were neither for nor against us. the municipal guards alone defended themselves. we had a little trouble in taking the guard-house of the château d'eau. on the evening of february th i remained three or four hours on the square before the hôtel de ville. the members of the provisional government, one after another, made speeches to us--said that we were heroes, great citizens, the foremost nation in the world, that we had broken the bonds of tyranny. after having fed us on these fine speeches, they gave us a republic which wasn't any better than the monarchy we had overthrown. "in june i took up my musket again, but on that occasion we were not successful. i was arrested, sentenced, and sent to cayenne. it seems that i behaved well there. one day i saved a captain of marines from drowning. observe that i should most certainly have shot at that captain if he had been on one side of a barricade and i on the other; but a man who is drowning, dying--in short, i received my pardon, i came back to france in , after the coup d'État; i had missed the insurrection of . "at cayenne i had made friends with a tailor named barnard. six months after my departure for france, barnard died. i went to see his widow. she was in want. i married her. we had a son in --you will understand presently why i speak to you of my wife and my son. but you must already suspect that an insurgent who marries the widow of an insurgent does not have royalist children. "under the empire there was nothing to do. the police were very strict. we were dispersed, disarmed. i worked, i brought up my son with the ideas that my father had given me. the wait was long. rochefort, gambetta, public reunions--all that put us in motion again. "on the first important occasion i showed myself. i was one of that little band who assaulted the barracks of the firemen of villette. only there we made a mistake. we killed a fireman, unnecessarily, i was caught and thrown into prison, but the government of the fourth of september liberated us, from which i concluded that we did right to attack those barracks and kill the fireman, even unnecessarily. "the siege began. i immediately opposed the government, on the side of the commune. i marched against the hôtel de ville on the st of october and on the d of january. i liked revolt for revolt's sake. an insurgent--i told you in the beginning i am an insurgent. i cannot hear a discussion without taking part, nor see a riot without running to it, nor a barricade without bringing my paving-stone. it's in the blood. "and then, besides, i wasn't quite ignorant, and i said to myself, it is only necessary to succeed thoroughly some day, and then, in our turn, we shall be the government, and it will be better than with all these lawyers, who place themselves behind us during the battle, and pass ahead after the victory.' "the th of march came, and naturally i was in it. i shouted 'hurrah for the regulars!' i fraternized with the army. i went to the hôtel de ville. i found a government already at work. it was absolutely the same as on the th of february. "now you tell me that that insurrection was not lawful. that is possible, but i don't quite see why not. i begin to get muddled--about these insurrections which are a duty and those which are a crime! i do not clearly see the difference. "i shot at the versailles troops in , as i had shot at the royal guard in and on the municipals in . after i received the medal of july; after the compliments of m. de lamartine. this time i am going to get transportation or death. "there are insurrections which please you. you raise columns to them, you give their names to streets, you give yourselves the offices, the promotions, and the big salaries, and we folks, who made the revolution, you call us great citizens, heroes, a nation of brave men, etc. that's the coin we are paid with. "and then there are other insurrections which displease you. as a result, transportation, death. well, you see, if you hadn't complimented us so after the first ones, perhaps we wouldn't have made the last. if you hadn't raised the column of july at the entrance of our neighborhood, we wouldn't perhaps have gone and demolished the vendôme column in your neighborhood. those two penny trumpets didn't agree. one had to upset the other, and that is what happened. "now, why i threw away my captain's uniform on the th of may, why i was in a blouse when i was arrested, i will tell you. when i learned that the gentlemen of the commune, instead of coming to shoot with us behind the barricades, were at the hôtel de ville distributing among themselves thousand-franc notes, were shaving their beards, dyeing their hair, and hiding themselves in caves, i did not wish to keep the shoulder-straps they had given me. "besides, shoulder-straps embarrassed me. 'captain martin' sounded idiotic. 'insurgent martin'--why, that's well and good. i wanted to end as i had begun, die as my father had died, as a rioter in a riot, as a barricader behind a barricade. "i could not get killed. i got caught. i belong to you. but i wish to beg a favor of you. i have a son, a child of seventeen; he is at cherbourg, on the hulks. he fought, it is true, and he does not deny it; but it is i who put a musket in his hand, it is i who told him that his duty was there. he listened to me. he obeyed me. that is all his crime. do not sentence him too harshly. "as for me, you have got me; do not let me go, that's the advice i give you. i am too old to mend; and then, what can you expect? nothing can change it. i was born on the wrong side of the barricade." the chinese ambassador in the beginning of the year some english and french residents had been massacred in china. reparation was demanded. his excellency tchong-keon, tutor of the heir-apparent and vice-president of the war department, was sent to europe as ambassador extraordinary to the english and french governments. tchong-keon has recently published at pekin a very curious account of his voyage. one of my friends who lives in shanghai, and who possesses the rare talent of being able to read chinese easily, sent me this faithful translation of a part of tchong-keon's book: havre, _september , _. i land, and i make myself known. i am the ambassador of the emperor of china. i bear apologies to the emperor of the french, and presents to the empress. there is no emperor and no empress. a republic has been proclaimed. i am much embarrassed. shall i offer the apologies and presents that were intended for the empire to the republic? havre, _september , _. after much reflection, i shall offer the apologies and keep the presents. havre, _september , _. yes; but to whom shall i carry the apologies, and to whom shall i present them? the government of the french republic is divided in two: there is one part in paris and one part in tours. to go to paris is not to be thought of. paris is besieged and blockaded by the prussians. i shall go to tours. havre, _october , _. i did not go, and i shall not go, to tours. i received yesterday a visit from the correspondent of the _times_, a most agreeable and sensible man. i told him that i intended going to tours. "to tours! what do you want in tours?" "to present the apologies of my master to the minister of foreign affairs of the french republic." "but that minister isn't in tours." "and where is he?" "blockaded in paris." a minister of foreign affairs who is blockaded in a besieged town seemed to me most extraordinary. "and why," the correspondent of the _times_ asked me, "do you bring apologies to the french government?" "because we massacred some french residents." "french residents! that's of no importance nowadays. france no longer exists. you can, if it amuses you, throw all the french residents into the sea." "we also thoughtlessly massacred some english residents." "you massacred some english residents! oh, that's very different! england is still a great nation. and you have brought apologies to queen victoria?" "yes, apologies and presents." "go to london, go straight to london, and don't bother about france; there is no france." the correspondent of the _times_ looked quite happy when he spoke those words: "there is no france." london, _october , _. i've seen the queen of england. she received me very cordially. she has accepted the apologies; she has accepted the presents. london, _october , _. had a long conversation with lord granville, minister of foreign affairs of the queen of england. i explained to his excellency that i meant to go home at once, and that i feel i need not pay further attention to my french embassy, as france no longer exists. lord granville answered me: "don't go away so soon; you will perhaps be obliged to come back, and sooner than you imagine. france is an extraordinary country, which picks up very quickly. await the end of the war, and then you can take your apologies to the government that france will have decided on giving itself. till then remain in england. we shall be most happy to offer you our hospitality." london, _november , _. i did not return to china. i am waiting in london till the minister of foreign affairs is not besieged, and till there is some way of laying one's hands on the french government. there are many parisians here who escaped from their country on account of the war. i dined yesterday with his royal highness, the prince of wales. three parisian women, all three young, and all three pretty, took possession of me after dinner. we had a very interesting conversation in english. "you are looking for the french government, the legitimate government?" said the first of these parisians. "why, it is here in england, half an hour from london. to-morrow go to the waterloo station and buy a ticket for chiselhurst, and there you will find napoleon iii., who is, and has never ceased to be, the emperor of the french." "don't listen to her, mr. ambassador," laughingly said the second parisian, "don't listen to her; she is a terrible bonapartist. yes, the true sovereign of france is in england, quite near london, but not at chiselhurst; and it is not the waterloo station you must go to, but the victoria station. you mustn't take a ticket for chiselhurst, but for twickenham, and there you will find at orleans house his royal highness the count of paris." "don't listen to her, mr. ambassador," exclaimed in turn, and also laughing, the third parisian, "don't listen to her; she is a terrible revolutionist! the count of paris is not the heir to the throne of france. to find the legitimate king you must go a little farther than chiselhurst or twickenham; you must go to austria, to the frohsdorf palace. the king of france--he is the descendant of henry iv.--is the count of chambord." if i count aright, that makes three legitimate sovereigns, and all three deposed. never in china have we had anything of that sort. our old dynasty has had to fight against the invasions of the mongols and against the insurrections of the taipings. but three legitimate sovereigns for the same country, for a single throne! one has to come to europe to see such things. however, the three parisians gayly discussed the matter, and seemed to be the best friends in the world. london, _november , _. as a sequel to the three frenchwomen, representing three different monarchs, i met, this evening, at lord granville's, three frenchmen representing three different republics. the first asked me why i didn't go to tours. "you will find there," he said to me, "the authorized representatives of the french republic, and in addressing yourself to m. gambetta you are addressing france--" "don't do that, mr. ambassador!" exclaimed the second frenchman; "the real government of the real french republic is shut up in paris. m. jules favre alone can officially receive your visit and your apologies." "the republic of paris isn't worth more than the republic of tours," the third frenchman then told me. "if we have a republic in france, it will be neither the republic of m. gambetta nor the republic of m. jules favre." "and whose republic then?" "the republic of m. thiers--" whereupon the three frenchmen began to dispute in earnest. they were very red, shouted loudly, and made violent gestures. the discussion about the three monarchies had been much gentler and much more agreeable than the discussion about the three republics. during the evening these frenchmen managed to slip into my ear, in turn, two or three little phrases of this kind: "don't listen," the first one said to me, "to that partisan of the government of paris; he is a lawyer who has come here with a commission from m. jules favre. so you see he has a big salary, and as he wishes to keep it--" "don't listen," the second one said to me, "to that partisan of the alleged republic of m. thiers; he is only a monarchist, a disguised orleanist--" "don't listen," the third one said to me, "to that partisan of the republic of tours; he is a gentleman who has come to england to get a loan for the benefit of the government of tours; so, as he expects to get a lot of money--" thus i am, if i reckon correctly, face to face with six governments--three monarchies and three republics. london, _december , _. i think that his excellency, m. de bernstoff, prussian ambassador to england, takes pleasure in making fun of me. i never meet him but that he announces to me that paris will capitulate the next day. the next day arrives and paris does not capitulate. however, this evening his excellency looked so perfectly sure of what he was saying that i think i can prepare to start for paris. paris, _february , _. i only left on the th of february. at last i am in paris. i travelled slowly, by short stages. what a lot of burned villages! what a lot of sacked houses! what a lot of devastated forests, dug-up woods, and bridges and railroads destroyed! and these europeans treat us as barbarians! however, among all these ruins there is one the sight of which filled me with the keenest joy. the palace of saint-cloud was the summer palace of the emperor napoleon, and not a stone upon a stone remains. i contemplated curiously, eagerly, and for a long time the blackened ruins of this palace. pieces of old chinese vases were hidden in the heaps of rubbish among the wreck of marble and fragments of shell. where did those old chinese vases come from? perhaps from the summer palace of our emperor, from that palace which was devastated, burned, and destroyed by those english and french soldiers who came to bring us civilization. i was extremely well received by the english, who overwhelmed me with invitations and kindnesses; but none the less i hope that the palaces of buckingham and windsor will also have their turn. paris, _february , _. i have written to m. jules favre to let him know that i have been waiting six months for the opportunity of presenting to him the compliments and apologies of the emperor of china. m. jules favre answered me that he is obliged to start for bordeaux. i shall have an audience in the beginning of march. paris, _march , _. another letter from m. jules favre. he is expected at frankfort by m. de bismarck. my audience is again put off. paris, _march , _. at last, to-morrow, march th, at four o'clock, i am to be received by m. jules favre at the ministry of foreign affairs. paris, _march , _. we dressed ourselves, i and my two secretaries, in our official costumes, and departed at three o'clock, accompanied by an interpreter. we arrived. the court of the house was filled with people who appeared busy and hurried, and who came and went, carrying cases and packages. the interpreter, after having exchanged several words with an employee of the ministry, said to me: "something serious has happened--an insurrection. the government is again obliged to change its capital!" at that moment a door opened, and m. jules favre himself appeared with a large portfolio under his arm. he explained to the interpreter that i should have my audience at versailles in several days, and having made me a profound bow, which i returned him, he ran away with his large portfolio. versailles, _march , _. i had to leave paris at twelve o'clock in a great hurry. there really is a new government at paris. this government is not one of the three monarchies, nor one of the three republics. it is a seventh arrangement, which is called the _commune_. this morning an armed troop of men surrounded the house where i live. it seems that the new ministry of foreign affairs of paris of the commune would have been charmed to receive a chinese ambassador. they had come to carry me off. i had time to escape. it is not the minister of foreign affairs in paris that i ought to see, it is the minister of foreign affairs in versailles. good heavens, how complicated it all is! and when shall i be able to put my hand on this intangible person, who is now blockaded in paris and now chased out of paris? versailles, _april , _. at last, yesterday, i had the honor of being received by his excellency, and we discussed the events that had occurred in paris. "this insurrection," m. jules favre said to me, "is the most formidable and the most extraordinary that has ever broken out." i could not allow such a great historical error to pass. i answered m. jules favre that we had had in china for millions of years socialists and socialistic uprisings; that the french communists were but rough imitators of our chinese taipings; that we had had in a siege at nankin which had lasted seven years, etc. in short, these europeans are only beginning again our history with less grandeur and more barbarity. versailles, _may , _. my mission is ended; i could return to china; but all that i see here interests me extremely. this civil war immediately succeeding a foreign war is a very curious occurrence. there is here, for a chinaman, an excellent opportunity of study, on the spot and from life, of european civilization. versailles, _may , _. paris is burning, and on the terrace of the palace of saint-cloud, in the midst of the ruins of that palace, i passed my day looking at paris burn. it is a dead, destroyed, and annihilated city. paris, _june , _. not at all. it is still the most beautiful city in europe, and the most brilliant, and the most gay. i shall spend some time in paris. paris, _june , _. yesterday m. thiers, in the bois de boulogne, held a review of a hundred thousand men. will there always be a france? in the express "when one bears the name of luynes or la trémoille, i can readily understand the desire to continue the luynes or the la trémoilles; but really when one is named chamblard, what possible object can there be in--eh? answer." in this fashion young raoul chamblard talked while comfortably settled back in a large red velvet arm-chair. this happened on the th of march, , in one of the parlor-cars of the express to marseilles, which had left paris at . that morning. it was now five minutes past nine. the train with much racket was crossing the bridge of charentin. young chamblard was talking to his friend, maurice révoille, who, after a six weeks' leave, was going to join his regiment in algeria. the lieutenant of light cavalry responded to his friend's question with a vague gesture. raoul chamblard continued: "however, it's my father's fixed idea. there must be chamblards after me. and as papa has but one son, it's to me he looks to do what is necessary." "well, do what is necessary." "but i am only twenty-four, my dear fellow, and to marry at twenty-four is hard. it seems to me that i'm still entitled to a little more fun, and even a good deal." "well, have your fun." "that's just what i've done up to now. i have had a first-rate time! but i've taste only for expensive amusements. i don't know how to enjoy myself without money, and i haven't a cent. do you understand? not a cent!" "you? you are very rich." "a great mistake! upon coming of age, three years ago, i spent what was left me by my mother. mother wasn't very rich; she was worth six hundred thousand francs, not more. papa made almost a love-match. the six hundred thousand francs vanished in three years, and could i decently do anything else as the son of my father? he is powerfully rich!" "that's what's said." "and it's very true. he has a dozen millions which are quite his own, and can't be hurt by an accident; and his bank still goes on, and brings him in, one year with another, besides the interest on his dozen millions, three or four hundred thousand francs more. nothing is more solid than the chamblard bank; it's honest, it's venerable. papa isn't fair to me, but i'm fair to him. when you have a father in business, it's a good thing when you go out not to be exposed to meet eyes which seem to say to you, 'my dear fellow, your father has swindled me.' papa has but one passion: from five to seven every day he plays piquet at his club, at ten sous a point, and as he is an excellent player, he wins seven times out of ten. he keeps an account of his games with the same scrupulous exactitude he has in all things, and he was telling the day before yesterday that piquet this year had brought him in six thousand five hundred francs over and above the cost of the cards. he has a seat in the orchestra at the opera, not for the ballet, but for the music only; he never goes on the stage--neither do i, for that matter. dancers don't attract me at all; they live in batignolles, in montmartre; they always walk with their mothers; they completely lack charm. in short, my father is what one calls a good man. you see i continue to be fair to him. besides, i'm always right. yes, it's a very good thing to have an honorable father, and papa chamblard is a model of all virtues, and he accumulates for me with a zeal! but i think, just at present, he accumulates a little too much. he has cut off my income. no marriage, no money. that's brief and decisive. that's his programme. and he has hunted up a wife for me--when i say one, i should say three." "three wives!" "yes. one morning he came to me and said: 'this must end. look, here's a list--three splendid matches.' there were the names, the relations, the dowries--it was even arranged in the order of the dowries. i had to yield and consent to an interview with number one. that took place at the salon in the champs elysées. ah, my boy, number one--dry, flat, bony, sallow!" "then why did your father--" "why? because she was the daughter, and only daughter, of a wealthy manufacturer from roubaix. it was splendid! we each started with a hundred thousand francs income, and that was to be, in the course of time, after realized expectations, a shower of millions! it made papa supremely happy--the thought that all his millions in paris would one day make an enormous heap with all those roubaix millions. millions don't frighten me, but on the condition that they surround a pretty, a very pretty and stylish woman--a great deal of style! that's _my_ programme. i want to be able to take my wife to the theatres without having to blush before the box-openers." "what do you mean? before the box-openers?" "why, certainly. i am known, and i've a reputation to keep up. you see, the openers are always the same--always; and of course they know me. they've been in the habit of seeing me, during the last three or four years, come with the best-known and best-dressed women in paris. which is to say, that i should never dare present myself before them with that creature from roubaix. they would think i had married for money. i tried to explain that delicately to papa, but one can't make him hear reason. there are things which he doesn't understand, which he can't understand. i have no grudge against him; he's of his time, i'm of mine. in short, i declared resolutely that i would never marry number one. notice that i discoursed most sensibly with papa. i said to him: 'you want me to have a home' (home is his word), 'but when i should have placed in that home a fright such as to scare the sparrows, my home would be a horror to me, and i should be forced, absolutely forced, to arrange a home outside. thus i should have a household at home and a household outside, and it's then that the money would fly!' but papa won't listen to anything! he doesn't understand that i must have a little wife who is pretty, parisian pretty--that is to say, original, gay, jolly, who is looked at on the street, and stared at through opera-glasses at the theatre, who will do me honor, and who will set me off well. i must be able to continue my bachelor life with her, and as long as possible. and then there's another thing that i can't tell papa. his name is chamblard--it isn't his fault; only, in consequence, i too am named chamblard, and it's not very agreeable, with a name like that, to try to get on in society. and a pretty, a very pretty, woman is the best passport. there, look at robineau. he has just been received into the little club of the rue royale. and why? it's not the union or the jockey; but never mind, one doesn't get in there as into a hotel. and why was robineau received?" "i don't know." "it's because he has married a charming woman, and this charming woman is a skater of the first rank. she had a tremendous success on the ice at the bois de boulogne. in the society columns of all the papers there was mention of the exquisite, delightful, and ideal mme. robineau. she was in the swim at one stroke. and robineau, he too was in the swim. he was a member of the little club six weeks later! papa, he doesn't understand the importance of these things; one can't reason with him about it; it's all greek to him. however, as he had absolutely cut off my supplies, i had to submit, and consent to an interview with number two." "and what was number two like?" "ah, my dear fellow, what was she like! she was the daughter of a rich merchant of antwerp. a belgian article! first a provincial, and then a foreigner! papa doesn't like parisians. mamma was from châtellerault, and she was indeed a saint. number two happened to be in paris; so last night, at the opéra comique, they showed me a fleming, who was very blond, very insipid, very masculine--a rubens, a true rubens; a giantess, a colossal woman, a head taller than i, which is to say that materially one could not take her in a lower stage-box, and those are the only boxes i like. on leaving the theatre i told papa that i wouldn't have number two any more than number one, and that i had had enough, and that i wouldn't see number three. the discussion was heated. papa went off banging doors and repeating, 'no more money!' i saw that it was serious. i went to bed, but i couldn't sleep--i thought; but i could think of nothing to save me from the fat hands of the antwerp girl. suddenly, towards three in the morning, i had an inspiration--i had an idea that i can call, if you'll permit it, a stroke of genius." "i'll permit it." "yes, genius. i knew that you left to-day for marseilles, and this morning i departed, english fashion, without explanation, and in a little while, at the first stop, at laroche--i have looked at the time-table, i have thought of everything--i shall send the following despatch to my father," and raoul triumphantly pulled a paper out of his pocket. "it's all ready. listen. 'm. chamblard, rue rougemont, paris, laroche station. i left on the express for marseilles with maurice. i am going to make a voyage around the world. i sha'n't be more than six months. i have engaged by telegraph a state-room on the _traonaddy_ which leaves to-morrow for singapore. anything rather than a flemish alliance! farewell. with regrets for leaving you, your affectionate son, raoul chamblard.' my telegram's all right, isn't it?" "it isn't bad, but do you seriously mean--" "yes, i shall go if, before i reach marseilles, i haven't an answer from papa; but i shall have one, for two reasons. in the first place, papa chamblard knows how to reason, and he will say to himself: 'what shall i gain by it? instead of fooling round with little white women in paris, he will fool round with little yellow ones at singapore.' and then another reason, the best one, is that papa chamblard adores me, and he can't do without me, and the little sentimental phrase at the end of my despatch will appeal to his heart. you'll see how it will turn out. at . my telegram will leave laroche; papa will receive it at half-past twelve. and i'll bet you ten louis that at dijon or mâcon i'll find in the wire screen of the station a telegram addressed to me, and worded thus: 'return; no longer question of antwerp marriage.' papa's telegram will be brief, because he is saving and suppresses unnecessary words. will you take the bet?" "no, i should lose." "i think so. have you the papers?" "yes." they read three or four papers, parisian papers, and read them like true parisians. it took a short fifteen minutes. while reading they exchanged short remarks about the new ministry, the races at auteuil, and yvette guilbert--particularly about yvette guilbert. young chamblard had been to hear her the day before, and he hummed the refrain: "un fiacre allait trottinant cahin-caha hu dia! hop là! un fiacre allait trottinant jaune avec un cocher blanc." and as the light cavalryman had never heard yvette guilbert sing the "fiacre," young chamblard threw up his arms and exclaimed: "you never heard the 'fiacre,' and you had three months' leave! what did you do in paris? _i_ know the 'fiacre' by heart." upon which raoul began to hum again, and while humming in a voice which became more and more slow, and more and more feeble, he settled back into his arm-chair, and soon fell into a peaceful slumber, like the big baby that he was. all at once he was waked up with a start by the stepping of the train, and by the voice of the conductor, who cried, "ouah! ouah! ouah!" the cry is the same for all stations. this time it was meant for laroche. and now for the telegram. young chamblard ran to the telegraph-office. the immovable operator counted the sixty-seven words of that queer despatch. "all aboard, all aboard!" young chamblard had scarcely time to jump on the step of his car. "ouf! that's done," he said to the cavalryman. "suppose we lunch." so they both started on their way to the dining-car. it was quite a journey, for two parlor-cars separated them from the restaurant-car, and those two cars were crowded. it was the season for the great pilgrimage of a few parisians and a good many english towards nice, cannes, and monte carlo. the express was running very fast, and was pitching violently. one needed sea-legs. then a furious wind beat against the train, and wrapped it in clouds of dust, making the crossing of the platforms particularly disagreeable. they advanced, walking with difficulty through the first car, over the first crossing, and encountering the first squall, then through the second car; but chamblard, who went ahead, had difficulty in opening the door to the second platform. it resisted on account of the force of the wind; finally it yielded, and raoul received at the same time in his eyes a cloud of dust, and in his arms a young blonde, who exclaimed, "oh, excuse me!" while he, too, exclaimed, "oh, excuse me!" and at the same time he received the cavalryman on his back, who, also blinded by the dust, was saying, "go on, raoul, go on." the two doors of the cars had shut, and they were all three crowded in the little passage in the wind--young raoul, young maurice, and the young blonde. the "oh, excuse me" was immediately followed by a "m. maurice!" which was replied to by a "mlle. martha!" the little blonde knew the cavalryman, and perceiving that she was almost in the arms of a stranger, mlle. martha disengaged herself, and backed cleverly towards the platform of the car, saying to maurice, "you're on the train, and you're going?" "to algeria." "we to marseilles. i am getting a shawl for mamma, who is cold. mamma will be delighted to see you. you will find her in the dining-car. i'll see you later." "but i will accompany you?" "if you like." she walked on, but not without first having slightly bowed to young chamblard, who had remained there astounded, contemplating mlle. martha with eyes filled with admiration. she had time before going to notice that he was a good-looking young fellow, that he wore a neat little suit, and that he looked at her with staring eyes; but in those staring eyes a thought could be clearly read that could not displease her: "oh, how pretty you are!" raoul was, in fact, saying to himself: "my type, exactly my type! and what style--what style in the simplicity of that costume! and the little toque, a little on one side over the ear--it's a masterpiece! how well she knows how to dress! what an effect she would make in an audience! and that little english accent!" for she had a little english accent; she had even taken a good deal of trouble for several years to acquire that little accent. she used to say to her governess, miss butler: "yes, of course i want to know english, but i wish especially to speak french with an english accent." she had worked for nothing else. she had been, fortunately, rewarded for her perseverance; her little anglo-parisian gibberish was at times quite original. while maurice was retracing his steps with mlle. martha, raoul placed himself at a table in the dining-car. he soon saw them come back with mamma's shawl. maurice lingered for a few minutes at the table where the mother and the young brother of the little blonde were lunching. then he came back to raoul, who said as soon as he approached: "who is she--quick, tell me, who is she? whenever one pleases i will marry her--now, on getting down from the train. in my arms! i held her in my arms! such a waist! a dream! there are, as you must know, slim waists and slim waists. there are waists which are slim, hard, harsh, stiff, bony, or mechanically made by odious artifices in the corsets. i have thoroughly studied the corset question. it's so important! and then there's the true slim waist, which is easy, natural, supple. supple isn't sufficient for what just slid through my hands a short time ago. slippery--yes, that's the word. slippery just expresses my thought--a slippery waist!" raoul was quite charmed with what he said. "yes," he continued, "slippery; and that little pug-nose! and her little eyes have quite a--a chinese air! but who is she, who is she?" "the daughter of one of my mother's friends." "is she rich?" "very rich." "it's on account of papa that i asked you that, because i would marry her without a dowry. it's the first time i've ever said such a thing on meeting a young girl. and now the name." "mlle. martha derame." "derame, did you say?" "yes." "isn't the father a wealthy merchant who has business in japan and china?" "the same." "ah, my dear fellow--no; one only sees such things in the comic plays of the minor theatres, at cluny or dejazet." "what's the matter with you?" "what's the matter with me? she's papa's number three--yes, number three. the father of that little marvel is one of papa's piquet players at the club. and i wouldn't see number three, and she falls into my arms on the platform between paris and lyons. you will present me after lunch, and i shall speak to the mother and tell her all." "how, all?" "yes, all; that her daughter is papa's number three, and that i didn't want number one or two, but that i should like number three. ah, dear boy, how pretty she is--especially her nose, so charmingly turned up. she has just looked at me, and in a certain way; i am sure i don't displease her. did you mention me, did you tell my name?" "no." "you were wrong. at any rate, right after lunch--do you know what i think? that this affair will go through on wheels. i shall first telegraph papa, and then to-morrow--oh, heavens! i hope there's a telephone between paris and marseilles--" he interrupted himself and called: "porter! porter!" "sir." "is there a telephone between paris and marseilles?" "yes, sir." "ah! that's all thanks. the telephone, maurice, there's the telephone! papa can speak for me to-morrow by telephone. it will be charming! marriage by express. express, electric, telephonic, and romantic marriage, all at the same time. you understand that between a little phiz like that and a voyage around the world i don't hesitate. but why haven't you thought of marrying her?" "oh, too wealthy--too wealthy a match for me; and then she is not the kind of little person to go and bury in a garrison town in algeria. she is a parisian, a true parisian, who wants to amuse herself, and who will amuse herself." "just what i want, absolutely just what i want. i too wish to amuse myself. she will amuse herself, i shall amuse myself, we will amuse ourselves." young raoul was in a frenzy, and as soon as he had finished his luncheon he scrawled a new despatch on the restaurant table to his father, and, while writing, talked very excitedly. "i'll send my despatch from dijon, and i'll address it to the club; papa will be there about five o'clock, and also the father of this little marvel. they can immediately discuss the affair. shall i ask for an answer at lyons? the time-table, pass me the time-table. lyons, . . no, that would be too short. answer at marseilles. they stop at marseilles? yes? for twenty-four hours? all right, so do i. at what hotel? hôtel de noailles? all right, so do i. so answer hôtel de noailles. my despatch is very good. you will see. as good as the other--better, even. i've the knack of telegrams to-day. yes, it's very good." he wrote and wrote; he was inspired, he was animated; he made a few more mistakes than usual in spelling, that was all--it was emotion. he reread his despatch with complaisance, he made maurice read it, who could not help thinking the incident funny. raoul counted the words of his despatch--there were about a hundred and fifty--and calling the waiter of the dining-car, he said, "send this telegram off for me at dijon. here are ten francs; there will be two or three over for you." then turning at once to maurice he asked, "is that enough?" "why certainly." "well, for such a marriage--ah, my dear fellow, you sail to-morrow at what time?" "at two o'clock." "oh, we have plenty of time, then; all will be settled by two o'clock." "oh, settled; you're crazy!" "not at all; it's already very far advanced, since it's papa's number three. i only ask one thing of you: present me to the mother shortly. after that let me alone. i'll manage everything; only, at any cost, we must leave our car and find two arm-chairs in the same car, and near my mother-in-law." "your mother-in-law!" "that's what i said; my mother-in-law. once the two arm-chairs are procured, i am master of the situation. you don't know me. i already know what i shall say to the mother, what i shall say to my young brother-in-law (he is very nice), and what i shall say to my future bride. i shall have made a conquest of all of them before we reach lyons. lyons? no; that's going a little fast--say valence or montélimar. pass me the time-table again. let us settle everything, and leave nothing to chance. oh, look at her! she has nibbled nuts for the last fifteen minutes, and how she cracks them--crack! one little bite--and what pretty little teeth! she is very pretty even while eating--an important thing. it's very rare to find women who remain pretty while eating and sleeping, very rare. little adelaide, the red-headed one, you remember, ate stupidly. and this one over there eats brightly; she eats--crack! another nut--and she looks at me on the sly. i can see that she looks at me. all goes well, all goes well!" in truth, all did go well. at montbard, . , raoul was presented to mme. derame, who, on hearing the name of chamblard, had a little shiver--the shiver of a mother who has a young daughter to marry, and who says to herself, "oh, what a splendid match!" her husband had often spoken to her of young chamblard. "ah," he used to say to her, "what a marriage for martha! we speak of it sometimes before and after our piquet, chamblard and i; but the young man is restive--doesn't yet wish to settle down. it would be such a good thing--he is richer than we. chamblard is once, twice, three times richer! and martha isn't easy to marry; she has already refused five or six desirable matches on all sorts of pretexts. they didn't please her: they were too old, they had no style, they didn't live in fashionable neighborhoods, she didn't wish to go into sugar, or cotton, or wine--or anything, in short. she would accept none other than a young husband, and not too serious. she must have a very rich man who did nothing and loved pleasure." how well young chamblard answered to that description! when there was question of doing nothing, raoul showed real talent. as soon as one talked horses, dogs, carriages, hats, dresses, jewelry, races, fencing, skating, cooking, etc., he showed signs of the rarest and highest competence. so, as there was general conversation, raoul was very brilliant. in the neighborhood of châlons-sur-saône ( . ), while relating how he, chamblard, had invented a marvellous little coupé, he did not say that: that coupé had been offered by him to mlle. juliette lorphelin, of the ballet corps at the folies-bergère. this coupé was a marvel; besides, it was very well known; it was called the chamblard coupé. "small," he said, "very small. a coupé ought always to be small." but what a lot of things in such a small space: a drawer for toilet necessaries, a secret box for money and jewelry, a clock, a thermometer, a barometer, a writing-shelf--and that was not all! he became animated, and grew excited in speaking of his invention. martha listened to him eagerly. "when you pull up the four wooden shutters you naturally find yourself in the dark; but the four shutters are mirrors, and as soon as one has placed a finger on a little button hidden under the right-hand cushion, six little crystal balls, ingeniously scattered in the tufting of the blue satin of the coupé, become electric lights. the coupé is turned into a little lighted boudoir; and not only for five minutes--no, but for an hour, two hours, if one wishes it; there is a storage-battery under the seat. when i submitted this idea to my carriage-maker he was smitten with envy and admiration." martha, too, was smitten. "what a charming man!" she said to herself. "oh, to have such a coupé! but pearl-gray--i should want it pearl-gray." then they discussed jewelry, dresses, hats, stuffs. and raoul proved on all those questions, if possible, more remarkable than ever. he had paid so many bills to great dress-makers, great milliners, and great jewellers! he had been present at so many conferences on the cut of such a dress or the arrangement of such a costume, at so many scenes of trying on and draping! and as he drew easily, he willingly threw his ideas on paper, as he said, neatly. he had even designed the costumes of a little piece--played in i do not know what little theatre--which was revolutionary, anarchistic, symbolistic, decadent, end of the century, end of the world. he took his little note-book and began to outline with a light hand, in spite of the movement of the train, several of his creations. he had tact, and thought of everything. "it was," he said, "for charades played in society at my friend's, the baron so and so." he invented the baron, and gave him a resonant name. martha was delighted. never had a man, since she had been allowed to chat a little with young men, seemed to her to have such an original and interesting conversation. "lately," said raoul, "one of my cousins--she often applies to me--consulted me about a dress for a ball at nice, during the carnival. this is what i advised her. see, i draw at the same time--look." oh, how she did look! "i am going to try to make myself well understood. a foundation of smooth white satin, clinging, very clinging--blue, i adore blue." that pained her; she disliked blue. "yes, very clinging; my cousin has a delightful figure, and can stand it." he took martha's figure in with a hasty glance, and the glance seemed to say, "you could, too." she understood and blushed, charmed with that delicate flattery. raoul continued: "pale, very pale blue satin. then on my foundation i threw an over-dress of pompadour lace of very soft tones: greens, pinks, mauves, cream, and azure. very large sleeves with a double puff of blue velvet, wristlets of venetian point. am i clear?" "oh, very clear, very clear." and in an excited voice she repeated: "a double puff of blue velvet, with wristlets of venetian point." all of a sudden the brakes scraped, and the train came sharply to a stop. one heard the cry of "mâcon! mâcon!" "mâcon already!" said martha. that "_already_" rang delightfully in raoul's ears. there was much in that _already_. raoul profited by the five minutes' stop to complete and fix his little sketch, which was slightly jolted; and he did not notice that his young brother-in-law had been sent out with a despatch to the telegraph-office. the despatch had been secretly written by mme. derame, and had, too, been directed to the old club. the train started-- . . raoul had not thought to get down to see if under the railing there was not a despatch addressed to him. there was one, which was to remain eternally at mâcon. the telegram contained these words: "return; no longer question of antwerp marriage." the train ran on and on, and now there was question of another dress--a silk dress, light pink, with a large jabot of lace down the front. raoul literally dazzled martha by his inexhaustible fertility of wise expressions and technical terms. * * * * * while the express passed the romanèche station ( . ) father chamblard came into the old club, went into the card-room, and met father derame. piquet? with pleasure. so there they sat, face to face. there were there eight or ten card-tables--piquet, bezique, whist, etc. the works were in full blast. first game, and papa derame is rubiconed; the second game was going to begin when a footman arrives with a despatch for m. chamblard. "will you excuse me?" "certainly." he reads, he becomes red; he rereads, and he gets scarlet. it was raoul's brilliant telegram from dijon: "dear father, i shall not go. most extraordinary meeting. your number three--yes, your number three--in the train with her mother, and i wouldn't see her. ah! if i had known. strike while the iron's hot; i'm striking it, strike it too. m. d. must be at the club, speak to him at once; tell him that i left to avoid marrying an ugly woman; that i only wish to make a love-match; that i am head-over-heels in love with his daughter. we shall all be to-night at marseilles, hôtel de noailles. get m. d. to back me up by telegraph to mme. d. i will talk with you to-morrow over the telephone. i am writing my telegram in the dining-car. at this moment she is nibbling nuts--charming, she is charming! she fell into my arms on the platform. till to-morrow at the telephone, nine o'clock." m. chamblard's agitation did not escape m. derame. "is it a serious matter?" he asked. "yes." "we can stop if you wish." "yes; but first of all, did mme. and mlle. derame leave here this morning on the express for marseilles?" "yes, at . . why do you ask that? has there been any accident?" "no, no accident; it can't be called that; on the contrary. come, come into the little parlor." he told him everything, showed him the despatch, gave him certain necessary explanations about the words, such as number three. and there they were, choking, delighted--both the father of the young man and the father of the young girl. what luck, what a providential meeting! "but you told me that your son didn't wish to marry." "he didn't wish to, but he has seen your daughter, and now he wishes to. come, hurry up and send a telegram to marseilles to mme. derame." "but she will be thunderstruck when i present to her a son-in-law by telegraph." return of the footman. it was a despatch for m. derame. he opens it. "it's from my wife, from mâcon, . ." "good," says m. chamblard; "all goes well, very well." "very disturbed. met in the train the son of m. c., of rue rougemont, your club friend. he was presented by maurice. you often spoke to me of a possible alliance there. evidently he thinks her charming. just at present he is talking to her, and looks at her, looks at her. what shall i do? shall i put a stop to it or allow it to continue? large fortune, isn't there?" m. derame in his turn showed his despatch to m. chamblard. they continued to talk, in high good-humor and in excellent accord, and went on with their game of piquet only after having sent the following two telegrams to the hôtel de noailles: first despatch to mme. derame: "if it pleases you, if it pleases her, yes. enormous fortune." second despatch to raoul: "have spoken to d. he is telegraphing to mme. d. he approves, so do i." a footman carried the two despatches at the same time to the telegraph-office in the place de la bourse, and during the time that, running over the wires along the railroad, they passed the express towards half-past six in the neighborhood of saint-rambert, the derames, raoul, and maurice, in the best possible spirits and in most perfect harmony, dined at the same table, and martha looked at raoul, and raoul looked at martha, and mme. derame said to herself: "martha's falling in love; i know her, she is falling in love. she fell in love just so last year at a ball with a little youth who was very dandified, but without fortune. this time, luckily, yes--edward told me so--there is plenty of money; so, naturally, if martha is willing we are." the train ran on, and on, and on; and raoul talked, and talked, and talked. he even let slip practical thoughts, raised himself up to general ideas, and developed with force the theory that the first duty of a woman was to be, in all things, refined elegance. he explained, with endless detail, what the life of an absolutely correct fashionable woman was, what it was to be an absolutely fashionable woman. he triumphantly took _his fashionable woman_ from paris to trouville, from trouville to lake como, from lake como to monte-carlo. he drew the trunks of the fashionable woman, marvellous trunks, which were heaped up in the vestibules of first-class hotels. besides, he had also invented a trunk. then, very tactfully, he put martha through a little examination, which had nothing in common with the examinations of the sorbonne or the hôtel de ville. "did she skate?" that's what he wanted to know first! he was himself a very distinguished skater. he needed a sport-loving wife. he had but just pronounced the word skating when suddenly the young brother (how precious little brothers sometimes are) exclaimed: "ah, it's sister who skates well! she makes figures-of-eight. and who swims well, too--like a fish!" she skated, she swam, she was sport-loving. raoul said to the young girl, with deep enthusiasm: "i congratulate you. a woman who can't swim isn't a woman." and he added, with increasing energy: "a woman who can't skate isn't a woman." when he had a strong thought, he willingly used it again in a brief but striking form. martha's face beamed with joy. she was really a woman. never had a sweeter word been said to her. night had come; it was necessary, therefore, to tear one's self away from that exquisite conversation, and return to the parlor-car. young derame was going to sleep; so they began to prepare for the trip through the train. here is the platform, the platform of the morning, the platform of the first meeting. she walks ahead of him, and in a whisper he says to her, "it's here that this morning--" she turns round, and smiling repeats, "yes, it's here that this morning--" always with that little english accent which never leaves her, even when she is most agitated. _it is here that this morning_--that was all, and it said all. a delightful evening. no more rain, no more dust. already there was the soft, balmy air of the south. the moon lit that idyl at full speed. spring-time everywhere, in the sky and in the hearts. "she loves me," he said to himself. "he adores me," she said to herself. how right they were to give themselves up thus, without a struggle, without resistance, to the inclination which carried them, quite naturally, towards each other. there had been between them, from the first word, so perfect, so complete a community of tastes, ideas, and sentiments. they were so well made, this little puppet and this little doll, to roll off, both together, gloriously in the "chamblard coupé," so well matched to walk in the world, accomplishing mechanically, automatically, at the right hour, in the prescribed costume, everywhere where it was correct to take pleasure, all the functions of fashionable life, and all the rituals of worldly worship. they arrive in the parlor-car. the shades are drawn over the lamps; travellers are stiff, drowsy, and asleep in the big red arm-chairs. "change places," raoul whispers to maurice; "sit beside her. i am going to sit by the mother; i must speak to her." maurice lent himself to this manoeuvre with perfect docility, martha did not understand it. why did he abandon her? why was he talking to her mother, and so low, so low that she couldn't hear? what was he saying? what was he saying? this is what he said between montélimar, . , and pierrelatte, . : "listen to me, madam, listen to me. i am an honest man; i wish, i ought, to let you know the situation, the entire situation. let us first settle an important point. my father knows m. derame." "yes, yes, i know." "another more important point. let us mention the essential things first. my father is very rich." "i know, i know that too." "good, then, very good. i continue. i left paris this morning, and i have here in my pocket a ticket for cabin no. on the _traonaddy_, which leaves to-morrow at four o'clock from the bay of joliette for suez, aden, colombo, and singapore, and i shall go on board to-morrow at four o'clock if you don't let me hope to become your son-in-law." "sir!" "don't move, madam, don't move. mlle. martha is pretending to sleep, but she isn't sleeping; she is watching us, and i haven't said all yet. i am but just beginning. you are going to answer me--oh, i know it--that you don't know me, that mlle. martha doesn't know me. allow me to tell you that mlle. martha and myself know each other better than three-fourths of engaged couples on the day of their marriage. you know how it is usually done. a rapid glance from afar in a theatre--one brings good lorgnettes, one examines. 'how do you like him?' 'fairly, fairly.' then, several days later, at a ball, in the midst of the figures of the quadrille, several gasping, breathless phrases are exchanged. then a meeting in a picture-gallery. there, there is more intimacy, because it takes place in a small room. it happened to me with a young provincial. i had pegged away that morning at the joanne guide, so as to be able to find something to say about the raphaels and the murillos. and at the end of several interviews of that sort it is over, one has made acquaintance, one suits the other, and the marriage is decided. mlle. martha and i are already old comrades. in the first place, to begin with, this morning at half-past eleven she fell into my arms." "my daughter in your arms!" "don't jump, madam; mlle. martha will see you jump." martha had, in fact, closely followed the scene with half-shut eyes, and said to herself, "good gracious! what is he telling mamma? she is obliged to hold on to the arms of her seat to keep herself from jumping up." "yes, madam, in my arms; by the greatest, by the most fortunate of accidents, we stumbled over each other on one of the platforms of the train. and since i have seen her, not in the false light of a theatre or a gallery, but in the full glare of sunlight. i have seen her at lunch, munching nuts with the prettiest teeth there are in the world; i have seen her, just now, in the moonlight; and i know that she skates, and i know that she swims, and i know she would like to have a pearl-gray coupé, and she ought to have it. and now i admire her in the semi-obscurity. ravishing! isn't she ravishing?" "sir, never has a mother found herself--" "in such a situation? i acknowledge it, madam, and for that very reason you must get out of the situation quickly; it's evident that it can't be prolonged." "that's true--" "here is what i propose to you. you go to the hôtel de noailles; i, too, naturally. you have all the morning to-morrow to talk to mlle. martha, and the telephone to talk through to m. derame. you know who i am. you have seen me, too, in the daylight. i have talked--talked a great deal. you could, you and mlle. martha, find out what i am, what i think. well, to-morrow--what time do you expect to breakfast to-morrow?" "but i don't know. i assure you that i am choking, upset, overcome." "let us settle on an hour all the same; eleven o'clock--will you, at eleven?" "if you wish." "well, to-morrow at eleven o'clock i shall be in the dining-room of the hotel. if you say 'go' i shall go; if you say 'stay' i shall stay. don't answer me; take time to reflect; it's worth while. till to-morrow, madam, till to-morrow at eleven." * * * * * in the morning very interesting communications passed between paris and marseilles. when mme. derame entered the dining-room of the hotel at eleven o'clock, raoul went straight to her, and the cavalryman, always adroit in his manoeuvres, had taken possession of mlle. martha. a short dialogue ensued between raoul and mme. derame, who was much agitated. "they tell me there are boats every fortnight between indo-china and marseilles--you could put off your departure--merely taking another boat--" "ah, thanks, madam, thanks!" * * * * * at two o'clock the derames and young chamblard accompanied maurice to the boat for africa. on the deck of the steamer raoul said to his friend: "it's understood that you are to be best man. on arriving, ask your colonel for leave at once. it will take place, i think, in six weeks." raoul was mistaken. it was decidedly an express marriage; five weeks were sufficient. when they were mounting the steps of the madeleine, raoul said to martha: "twelve o'clock." "what are you thinking of?" "ah, you too." "twelve, the hour of the platform, isn't it?" "yes, that's it." they began to laugh, but quickly became serious, and made an irreproachable entry into church. they were looked at eagerly, and on all sides the following remarks were exchanged: "you know it's a love-match." "yes, it appears it was a meeting on the train." "a lightning-stroke!" "what a charming affair!" "and so rare!" "oh yes, so rare! a love-match! a true love-match!" the end [illustration: _the duc, the duchesse, and the doctor._ ] the nabob by alphonse daudet translated by george burnham ives with an introduction by brander matthews in two volumes vol. ii. boston little, brown, and company _copyright, ,_ by little, brown, and company. _all rights reserved._ university press: john wilson and son, cambridge, u.s.a. contents. page xiii. a day of spleen xiv. the exhibition xv. memoirs of a clerk.--in the reception-room xvi. a public man xvii. the apparition xviii. the jenkins pearls xix. the obsequies xx. baroness hemerlingue xxi. the sitting xxii. parisian dramas xxiii. memoirs of a clerk.--last sheets xxiv. at bordighera xxv. the first night of "rÉvolte" illustrations the duc, the duchesse, and the doctor _frontispiece_ "'don't be afraid. i have no evil designs on you'" _page_ the first night of "révolte" " from drawings by lucius rossi. the nabob. xiii. a day of spleen. five o'clock in the afternoon. rain ever since the morning, a gray sky, so low that one can touch it with one's umbrella, dirty weather, puddles, mud, nothing but mud, in thick pools, in gleaming streaks along the edge of the sidewalks, driven back in vain by automatic sweepers, sweepers with handkerchiefs tied over their heads, and carted away on enormous tumbrils which carry it slowly and in triumph through the streets toward montreuil; removed and ever reappearing, oozing between the pavements, splashing carriage panels, horses' breasts, the clothing of the passers-by, soiling windows, thresholds, shop-fronts, until one would think that all paris was about to plunge in and disappear beneath that depressing expanse of miry earth in which all things are jumbled together and lose their identity. and it is a pitiable thing to see how that filth invades the spotless precincts of new houses, the copings of the quays, the colonnades of stone balconies. there is some one, however, whom this spectacle rejoices, a poor, ill, disheartened creature, who, stretched out at full length on the embroidered silk covering of a divan, her head resting on her clenched fists, gazes gleefully out through the streaming window-panes and gloats over all these ugly details: "you see, my fairy, this is just the kind of weather i wanted to-day. see them splash along. aren't they hideous, aren't they filthy? what mud! it's everywhere, in the streets, on the quays, even in the seine, even in the sky. ah! mud is a fine thing when you're downhearted. i would like to dabble in it, to mould a statue with it, a statue one hundred feet high, and call it, 'my ennui.'" "but why do you suffer from ennui, my darling?" mildly inquires the ex-ballet-dancer, good-natured and rosy, from her armchair, in which she sits very erect for fear of damage to her hair, which is even more carefully arranged than usual. "haven't you all that any one can need to be happy?" and she proceeds, in her placid voice, to enumerate for the hundredth time her reasons for happiness, her renown, her genius, her beauty, all men at her feet, the handsomest, the most powerful; oh! yes, the most powerful, for that very day--but an ominous screech, a heart-rending wail from the jackal, maddened by the monotony of her desert, suddenly makes the studio windows rattle and sends the terrified old chrysalis back into her cocoon. the completion of her group and its departure for the salon has left felicia for a week past in this state of prostration, of disgust, of heart-rending, distressing irritation. it requires all of the old fairy's unwearying patience, the magic of the memories she evokes every moment in the day, to make life endurable to her beside that restlessness, that wicked wrath which she can hear grumbling beneath the girl's silences, and which suddenly bursts forth in a bitter word, in a _pah_! of disgust _àpropos_ of everything. her group is hideous. no one will speak of it. all the critics are donkeys. the public? an immense _goître_ with three stories of chin. and yet, a few sundays ago, when the duc de mora came with the superintendent of fine arts to see her work at the studio, she was so happy, so proud of the praise bestowed on her, so thoroughly delighted with her work, which she admired at a distance as if it were by another hand, now that the modelling-tool had ceased to form between her and her work the bond which tends to impair the impartiality of the artist's judgment. but it is so every year. when the studio is robbed of the latest work, when her famous name is once more at the mercy of the public's unforeseen caprice, felicia's preoccupations--for she has then no visible object in life--stray through the empty void of her heart, of her existence as one who has turned aside from the peaceful furrow, until she is once more intent upon another task. she shuts herself up, she refuses to see anybody. one would say that she is distrustful of herself. the good jenkins is the only one who can endure her during those crises. he even seems to take pleasure in them, as if he expected something from them. and yet god knows she is not amiable to him. only yesterday he remained two hours with the beautiful ennui-ridden creature, who did not so much as speak a single word to him. if that is the sort of welcome she has in store for the great personage who does them the honor to dine with them--at that point the gentle crenmitz, who has been placidly ruminating all these things and gazing at the slender toe of her tufted shoes, suddenly remembers that she has promised to make a dish of viennese cakes for the dinner of the personage in question, and quietly leaves the studio on the tips of her little toes. still the rain, still the mud, still the beautiful sphinx, crouching in her seat, her eyes wandering aimlessly over the miry landscape. of what is she thinking? what is she watching on those muddy roads, growing dim in the fading light, with that frown on her brow and that lip curled in disgust? is she awaiting her destiny? a melancholy destiny, to have gone abroad in such weather, without fear of the darkness, of the mud. some one has entered the studio, a heavier step than constance's mouse-like trot. the little servant, doubtless. and felicia says roughly, without turning: "go to bed. i am not at home to any one." "i should be very glad to speak with you if you were," a voice replied good-naturedly. she starts, rises, and says in a softer tone, almost laughing at sight of that unexpected visitor: "ah! it's you, young minerva! how did you get in?" "very easily. all the doors are open." "i am not surprised. constance has been like a madwoman ever since morning, with her dinner." "yes, i saw. the reception room is full of flowers. you have--?" "oh! a stupid dinner, an official dinner. i don't know how i ever made up my mind to it. sit down here, beside me. i am glad to see you." paul sat down, a little perturbed in mind. she had never seemed so lovely to him. in the half-light of the studio, amid the confusion of objects of art, bronzes, tapestries, her pallor cast a soft light, her eyes shone like jewels, and her long, close-fitting riding habit outlined the negligent attitude of her goddess-like figure. then her tone was so affectionate, she seemed so pleased at his call. why had he stayed away so long? it was almost a month since she had seen him. had they ceased to be friends, pray? he excused himself as best he could. business, a journey. moreover, although he had not been there, he had often talked about her, oh! very often, almost every day. "really? with whom?" "with--" he was on the point of saying: "with aline joyeuse," but something checked him, an indefinable sentiment, a sort of shame at uttering that name in the studio which had heard so many other names. there are some things which do not go together, although one cannot tell why. paul preferred to answer with a falsehood which led him straight to the object of his call. "with an excellent man upon whom you have unnecessarily inflicted great pain. tell me, why haven't you finished the poor nabob's bust? it was a source of great joy and great pride to him, the thought of that bust at the salon. he relied upon it." at the name of the nabob she was slightly embarrassed. "it is true," she said, "i broke my word. what do you expect? i am the slave of my whims. but it is my purpose to take it up again one of these days. see, the cloth thrown over it is all damp, so that the clay won't dry." "and the accident? ah! do you know, we hardly believed in that?" "you were wrong. i never lie. a fall, a terrible crash. but the clay was fresh, i easily repaired it. look!" she removed the cloth with a movement of her arm; the nabob stood forth, with his honest face beaming with joy at being reproduced, and so true, so natural, that paul uttered a cry of admiration. "isn't it good?" she asked ingenuously. "a few touches there and there--" she had taken the tool and the little sponge and pushed the stand into what little light there was. "it would be a matter of a few hours; but it couldn't go to the exhibition. this is the d; everything had to be sent in long ago." "pshaw! with influence--" she frowned, and the wicked, drooping expression played about her mouth. "true. the duc de mora's _protégée_. oh! you need not excuse yourself. i know what people say of him, and i care as little for it as that!" she threw a pellet of clay which flattened out against the wall. "perhaps, indeed, by dint of imagining what is not--but let us drop those vile things," she said, with a toss of her little aristocratic head. "i am anxious to give you pleasure, minerva. your friend shall go to the salon this year." at that moment the odor of caramel, of hot pastry invaded the studio, where the twilight was falling in fine, decolorized dust; and the fairy appeared, with a plate of fritters in her hand, a true fairy, rejuvenated in gay attire, arrayed in a white tunic which afforded glimpses, beneath the yellowed lace, of her lovely old woman's arms, the charm that is the last to die. "look at my _kuchlen_, darling; see if they're not a success this time. oh! i beg your pardon; i didn't see that you had company. ah! it's monsieur paul? are you pretty well, monsieur paul? pray taste one of my cakes." and the amiable old lady, to whom her costume seemed to impart extraordinary animation, came prancing forward, balancing her plate on the ends of her doll-like fingers. "let him alone," said felicia calmly. "you can offer him some at dinner." "at dinner!" the dancer was so thunderstruck that she nearly overturned her pretty cakes, which were as light and dainty and excellent as herself. "why, yes, i am keeping him to dinner with us. oh! i beg you," she added with peculiar earnestness, seeing that the young man made a gesture of refusal, "i beg you, do not say no. you can do me a real service by staying to-night. come, i did not hesitate a moment ago, you know." she had taken his hand; really there seemed to be a strange disproportion between her request and the anxious, imploring tone in which it was made. paul still held back. he was not properly dressed. how could she expect him to stay? a dinner-party at which she was to have other guests. "my dinner-party? why, i will countermand the orders for it. that is the way i feel. we three will dine alone, you and i and constance." "but, felicia, my child, you can't think of doing such a thing. upon my word! what about the--the other who will soon be here?" "_parbleu!_ i will write to him to stay at home." "wretched girl, it is too late." "not at all, it's just striking six. the dinner was to be at half-past seven. you must send him this at once." she wrote a note, in haste, on a corner of the table. "_mon dieu, mon dieu!_ what a strange girl!" murmured the dancer, lost in bewilderment, while felicia, enchanted, transfigured, joyously sealed her letter. "there, my excuses are all made. the sick-headache wasn't invented for kadour. oh! how glad i am!" she added, when the letter had gone; "what a delightful evening we will have! kiss me, constance. this won't prevent our doing honor to your _kuchlen_, and we shall enjoy seeing you in a pretty gown that makes you look younger than i." less than that would have induced the dancer to forgive this latest whim of her dear demon and the crime of _lèse-majesté_ in which she had made her an accomplice. the idea of treating such a personage so cavalierly! no one else in the world would have done it, no one but her. as for paul de géry, he made no further attempt at resistance, being caught once more in the network from which he believed that he had set himself free by absence, but which, as soon as he crossed the threshold of the studio, suppressed his will and delivered him over, fast bound and conquered, to the sentiment that he was firmly resolved to combat. * * * * * it was evident that the dinner, a veritable gourmand's dinner, superintended by the austrian even in its least important details, had been prepared for a guest of first-rate consequence. from the high berber chandeliers of carved wood, with seven branches, which shed a flood of light upon the richly embroidered cloth, to the long-necked wine-jugs of curious and exquisite shape, the sumptuous table appointments and the delicacy of the dishes, which were highly seasoned to an unusual degree, everything disclosed the importance of the expected guest and the pains that had been taken to please him. there was no mistaking the fact that it was an artist's establishment. little silverware, but superb china, perfect harmony without the slightest attempt at arrangement. old rouen, pink sèvres, dutch glass mounted in old finely-wrought pewter met on that table as on a stand of rare objects collected by a connoisseur simply to gratify his taste. the result was some slight confusion in the household, dependent as it was upon the chance of a lucky find. the exquisite oil-cruet had no stopper. the broken salt-cellar overflowed on the cloth, and every moment it was: "what has become of the mustard-pot? what has happened to that fork?" all of which troubled de géry a little on account of the young mistress of the house, who, for her part, was not in the least disturbed. but something that made him even more ill at ease was his anxiety to know who the privileged guest was whose place he had taken at that table, whom they could entertain with such magnificence and at the same time such utter lack of ceremony. in spite of everything he felt as if that countermanded guest were present, a constant affront to his own dignity. in vain did he try to forget him; everything reminded him of him, even to the holiday attire of the kindly fairy, who sat opposite him and who still retained some of the grand manners which she had assumed in anticipation of the solemn occasion. the thought disturbed him, poisoned his joy in being there. on the other hand, as is always the case in parties of two, where harmony of mood is very rare, he had never seen felicia so affectionate, in such merry humor. she was in a state of effervescent, almost childlike gayety, one of those fervent outbursts of emotion which one experiences when some danger has passed, the reaction of a clear, blazing fire after the excitement of a shipwreck. she laughed heartily, teased paul about his accent and what she called his bourgeois ideas. "for you are shockingly bourgeois, you know. but that is just what i like in you. it's on account of the contrast, i have no doubt, because i was born under a bridge, in a gust of wind, that i have always been fond of sedate, logical natures." "oh! my dear, what do you suppose monsieur paul will think, when you say you were born under a bridge?" exclaimed the excellent crenmitz, who could not accustom herself to the exaggeration of metaphors, and always took everything literally. "let him think what he pleases, my fairy. we haven't our eye on him for a husband. i am sure he would have none of that monster known as an artist wife. he would think he had married the devil. you are quite right, minerva. art is a despot. one must give oneself to it unreservedly. you put into your work all the imagination, energy, honesty, conscience that you possess, so that you have no more of any of them as long as you live, and the completion of the work tosses you adrift, helpless and without a compass, like a dismasted hulk, at the mercy of every wave. such a wife would be a melancholy acquisition." "and yet," the young man ventured timidly to observe, "it seems to me that art, however exacting it may be, cannot take entire possession of the woman. what would she do with her affections, with the craving for love, for self-sacrifice, which is in her, far more than in man, the motive for every act?" she mused a moment before replying. "you may be right, o wise minerva! it is the truth that there are days when my life rings terribly hollow. i am conscious of holes in it, unfathomable depths. everything disappears that i throw in to fill them up. my noblest artistic enthusiasms are swallowed up in them and die every time in a sigh. at such times i think of marriage. a husband, children, a lot of children, tumbling about the studio, all their nests to look after, the satisfaction of the physical activity which is lacking in our artistic lives, regular occupations, constant movement, innocent fun, which would compel one to play instead of always thinking in the dark and the great void, to laugh at a blow to one's self-esteem, to be simply a happy mother on the day when the public casts one aside as a used-up, played-out artist." and in presence of that vision of domestic happiness the girl's lovely features assumed an expression which paul had never before seen upon them, and which took entire possession of him, gave him a mad longing to carry away in his arms that beautiful wild bird dreaming of the dovecot, to protect her, to shelter her with the sure love of an honest man. she continued, without looking at him: "i am not so flighty as i seem to be, you know. ask my dear godmother if i didn't keep straight up to the mark when she put me at boarding-school. but what a hurly-burly my life was after that! if you knew what a youth i had, if you knew how premature experience withered my mind, and what confusion there was, in my small girl's brain, between what was and was not forbidden, between reason and folly. only art, which was constantly discussed and eulogized, stood erect in all that ruin, and i took refuge in that. that, perhaps, is why i shall never be anything but an artist, a woman apart from other women, a poor amazon with her heart held captive under her iron breastplate, rushing into battle like a man, and condemned to live and die like a man." why did he not say to her then: "beautiful warrior, lay aside your weapons, don the floating robe and the charms of the sex to which you belong. i love you, i entreat you to marry me that you may be happy and may make me happy too." ah! this is why. he was afraid that the other, he who was to come to dinner that night, you know, and who remained between them despite his absence, would hear him speak in that strain and would have the right to laugh at him or to pity him for such a fervent outburst. "at all events, i promise you one thing," she continued, "and that is that if i ever have a daughter, i will try to make a true woman of her and not such a poor abandoned creature as i am. oh! you know, my good fairy, i do not mean that for you. you have always been kind to your demon, full of affection and care. why just look at her, see how pretty she is, how young she looks to-night." enlivened by the repast, the lights, and one of those white dresses whose reflection causes wrinkles to disappear, la crenmitz was leaning back in her chair, holding on a level with her half-closed eyes a glass of château-yquem from the cellar of their neighbor the moulin-rouge; and her little pink face, her airy pastel-like costume reflected in the golden wine, which loaned to it its sparkling warmth, recalled the former heroine of the dainty suppers after the play, the crenmitz of the good old days, not an audacious hussy after the style of our modern operatic stars, but entirely unaffected and nestling contentedly in her splendor like a fine pearl in its mother-of-pearl shell. felicia, who was certainly determined to be agreeable to everybody that evening, led her thoughts to the chapter of reminiscences, made her describe once more her triumphs in _giselle_ and in the _péri_, and the ovations from the audience, the visit of the princes to her dressing-room, and queen amélie's gift, accompanied by such charming words. the evocation of those glorious scenes intoxicated the poor fairy, her eyes shone, they could hear her little feet moving restlessly under the table as if seized by a dancing frenzy. and, indeed, when the dinner was at an end and they had returned to the studio, constance began to pace back and forth, to describe a dance-step or a pirouette, talking all the time, interrupting herself to hum an air from some ballet to which she kept time with her head, then suddenly gathered herself together and with one leap was at the other end of the studio. "now she's off," whispered felicia to de géry. "watch. it will be worth your while, for you are about to see la crenmitz dance." it was a fascinating, fairy-like spectacle. against the background of the enormous room, drowned in shadow and hardly lighted save through the round window from without, where the moon was climbing upward in a deep blue sky, a typical operatic sky, the famous dancer's figure stood out all white, a light, airy unsubstantial ghost, flying, rather than springing, through the air; then, standing upon her slender toes, upheld in the air by naught but her outstretched arms, her face raised in a fleeting attitude in which nothing was visible but the smile, she came quickly forward toward the light, or receded with little jerky steps, so rapid that one constantly expected to hear the crash of glass and see her glide backward up the slope of the broad moonbeam that shone aslant into the studio. there was one fact that imparted a strange, poetic charm to that fantastic ballet, and that was the absence of music, of every other sound than that of the measured footfalls, whose effect was heightened by the semi-darkness, of that quick, light patter no louder than the fall of the petals from a dahlia, one by one. this lasted for some minutes, then they could tell from the quickening of her breath that she was becoming exhausted. "enough, enough! sit down," said felicia. thereupon the little white ghost lighted on the edge of an armchair and sat there poised and ready to start anew, smiling and panting, until sleep seized upon her, and began to sway and rock her softly to and fro without disturbing her pretty attitude, like a dragon-fly on a willow branch that drags in the water and moves with the current. as they watched her nodding in the chair, felicia said: "poor little fairy! that is the best and most serious thing in the way of friendship, protection and guardianship that i have had during my life. that butterfly acted as my godmother. do you wonder now at the zigzags, the erratic flights of my mind? lucky for me that i have clung to her." she added abruptly, with joyful warmth: "ah! minerva, minerva, i am very glad that you came to-night. you mustn't leave me alone so long again, you see. i need to have an upright mind like yours by my side, to see one true face amid all the masks that surround me. but you're fearfully bourgeois all the same," she added laughingly, "and a provincial to boot. but never mind! you are the man that i most enjoy looking at all the same. and i believe that my liking for you is due mainly to one thing. you remind me of some one who was the dearest friend of my youth, a serious, sensible little creature like yourself, bound fast to the commonplace side of existence, but mingling with it the element of idealism which we artists put aside for the benefit of our work alone. some things that you say seem to me to come from her lips. you have a mouth built on the same antique model. is that what makes your words alike? i don't know about that, but you certainly do resemble each other. i'll show you." as she sat opposite him at the table laden with sketches and albums, she began to draw as she talked, her face bending over the paper, her unmanageable curls shading her shapely little head. she was no longer the beautiful crouching monster, with the frowning anxious face, lamenting her own destiny; but a woman, a true woman, who loves and seeks to charm. paul forgot all his suspicions then, in presence of such sincerity and grace. he was on the point of speaking, of pleading with her. it was the decisive moment. but the door opened and the little servant appeared. monsieur le duc had sent to ask if mademoiselle were still suffering from her sick headache. "just as much as ever," she said testily. when the servant had gone, there was a moment's silence between them, a freezing pause. paul had risen. she went on with her sketch, her head still bent. he walked away a few steps, then returned to the table and asked gently, astonished to find that he was so calm: "was it the duc de mora who was to dine here?" "yes--i was bored--a day of spleen. such days are very bad for me." "was the duchess to come?" "the duchess? no. i don't know her." "well, if i were in your place, i would never receive in my house, at my table, a married man whose wife i did not meet in society. you complain of being abandoned; why do you abandon yourself? when one is without reproach, one must keep oneself above suspicion. do i offend you?" "no, no, scold me, minerva. i like your morality. it is frank and straightforward; it doesn't squint like jenkins'. as i told you, i need some one to guide me." she held before him the sketch she had just finished. "see! there's the friend of whom i spoke to you. a deep, sure affection which i was foolish enough to throw away, like the wasteful idiot i am. i always used to invoke her memory in moments of perplexity, when there was some question to be decided or some sacrifice to be made. i would say to myself: 'what will she think about it?' as we pause in our work to think of some great man, of one of our masters. you must fill that place for me. will you?" paul did not answer. he was looking at aline's portrait. it was she, it was she to the life, her regular profile, her kindly, laughing mouth, and the long curl caressing the slender neck. ah! all the ducs de mora on earth might come now. felicia no longer existed for him. poor felicia, a creature endowed with superior powers, was much like those sorceresses who weave and ravel the destinies of others without the power to accomplish anything for their own happiness. "will you give me this sketch?" he said almost inaudibly, in a voice that trembled with emotion. "very gladly; she is pretty, isn't she? ah! if you should happen to meet her, love her, marry her. she is worth more than all the rest. but, failing her, failing her--" and the beautiful tamed sphinx looked up at him with her great tearful, laughing eyes, whose enigma was no longer insoluble. xiv. the exhibition. "superb!" "a tremendous success. barye never did anything as fine." "and the bust of the nabob! what a marvellous likeness! i tell you, constance crenmitz is happy. see her trotting about." "what! is that la crenmitz, that little old woman in a fur cape? i supposed she was dead twenty years ago." oh! no; on the contrary, she is very much alive. enchanted, rejuvenated by the triumph of her goddaughter, who is decidedly _the_ success of the exhibition, she glides through the crowd of artists and people of fashion grouped around the two points where felicia's contributions are exhibited like two huge masses of black backs, variegated costumes, jostling and squeezing in their struggles to look. constance, usually so retiring, makes her way into the front row, listens to the discussions, catches on the wing snatches of sentences, technical phrases which she remembers, nods her head approvingly, smiles, shrugs her shoulders when she hears any slighting remark, longing to crush the first person who should fail to admire. whether it be the excellent crenmitz or another, you always see, at the opening of the salon, that shadow prowling furtively about where people are conversing, with ears on the alert and an anxious expression; sometimes it is an old father who thanks you with a glance for a kindly word said in passing, or assumes a despairing expression at the epigram which you hurl at a work of art and which strikes a heart behind you. a face not to be omitted surely, if ever some painter in love with things modern should conceive the idea of reproducing on canvas that perfectly typical manifestation of parisian life, the opening of the salon in that vast hothouse of statuary, with the yellow gravelled paths and the great glass ceiling, beneath which, half-way from the floor, the galleries of the first tier stand forth, lined with heads bending over to look, and with extemporized waving draperies. in a light that seems slightly cold and pale as it falls on the green decorations of the walls, where the rays become rarefied, one would say, in order to afford the spectators an opportunity for concentration and accuracy of vision, the crowd moves slowly back and forth, pauses, scatters over the benches, divided into groups, and yet mingling castes more thoroughly than any other gathering, just as the fickle and changing weather, at that time of year, brings together all sorts of costumes, so that the black lace and superb train of the great lady who has come to observe the effect of her own portrait rub against the siberian furs of the actress who has just returned from russia and proposes that everybody shall know it. here there are no boxes, no reserved seats, and that is what gives such abiding interest and charm to this first view in broad daylight. the real society women can pass judgment at close quarters on the painted beauties that excite so much applause by artificial light; the tiny hat, latest shape, of the marquise de bois-l'héry and her like brushes against the more than modest costume of some artist's wife or daughter, while the model who has posed for that lovely andromeda near the entrance struts triumphantly by, dressed in a too short skirt, in wretched clothes tossed upon her beauty with the utmost lack of taste. they scrutinize one another, admire or disparage one another, exchange contemptuous, disdainful or inquisitive glances, which suddenly become fixed as some celebrity passes, the illustrious critic, for instance, whom we seem to see at this moment, serene and majestic, his powerful face framed in long hair, making the circuit of the exhibits of sculpture, followed by half a score of young disciples who hang breathlessly upon his kindly dicta. although the sound of voices is lost in that immense vessel, which is resonant only under the two arched doorways of entrance and exit, faces assume extraordinary intensity there, a character of energy and animation especially noticeable in the vast, dark recess of the restaurant, overflowing with a gesticulating multitude, the light hats of the women and the waiters' white aprons standing out in bold relief against the background of dark clothing, and in the broad aisle in the centre, where the swarm of promenaders _en vignette_ forms a striking contrast to the immobility of the statues, the unconscious palpitation with which their chalky whiteness and their glorified attitudes are encompassed. there are gigantic wings spread for flight, a sphere upheld by four allegorical figures, whose attitude, as if they were twirling their burden, suggests a vague waltz measure, a marvel of equilibrium which perfectly produces the illusion of the earth's revolution; and there are arms raised as a signal, bodies of heroic size, containing an allegory, a symbol that brings death and immortality upon them, gives them to history, to legend, to the ideal world of the museums which nations visit from curiosity or admiration. although felicia's bronze group had not the proportions of those productions, its exceptional merit had procured for it the honor of a position at one of the points of intersection of the aisles in the centre, from which the public was standing respectfully aloof at that moment, staring over the shoulders of the line of attendants and police officers at the bey of tunis and his suite, a group of long burnous, falling in sculptural folds, which made them seem like living statues confronting the dead ones. the bey, who had been in paris for a few days, the lion of all the first nights, had expressed a desire to see the opening of the salon. he was "an enlightened prince, a friend of the arts," who possessed a gallery of amazing turkish pictures on the bardo, and chromo-lithographic reproductions of all the battles of the first empire. the great arabian hound had caught his eye as soon as he entered the hall of sculpture. it was the _slougui_ to the life, the genuine slender, nervous _slougui_ of his country, the companion of all his hunts. he laughed in his black beard, felt the animal's loins, patted his muscles, seemed to be trying to rouse him, while, with dilated nostrils, protruding teeth, every limb outstretched and indefatigable in its strength and elasticity, the aristocratic beast, the beast of prey, ardent in love and in the chase, drunk with his twofold drunkenness, his eyes fixed on his victim, seemed to be already tasting the delights of his victory, with the end of his tongue hanging from his mouth, as he sharpened his teeth with a ferocious laugh. if you looked only at him, you said to yourself: "he has him!" but a glance at the fox reassured you at once. under his lustrous, velvety coat, catlike, with his body almost touching the ground, skimming along without effort, you felt that he was in truth a wizard, and his fine head with its pointed ears, which he turned toward the hound as he ran, had an ironical expression of security which clearly indicated the gift he had received from the gods. while an inspector of the beaux-arts, who had hurried to the spot, with his uniform all awry, and bald to the middle of his back, explained to mohammed the apologue of "the dog and the fox," as told in the catalogue, with this moral: "suppose that they meet," and the note: "the property of the duc de mora," the bulky hemerlingue, puffing and perspiring beside his highness, had great difficulty in persuading him that that masterly production was the work of the lovely equestrian they had met in the bois the day before. how could a woman with a woman's weak hands so soften the hard bronze and give it the appearance of flesh? of all the marvels of paris that one caused the bey the most profound amazement. so he asked the official if there was nothing else of the same artist's to see. "yes, indeed, monseigneur, another _chef-d'oeuvre_. if your highness will come this way i will take you to it." the bey moved on with his suite. they were all fine specimens of their race, beautifully chiselled features and pure profiles, complexions of a warm pallor of which the snowy whiteness of the haik absorbed even the reflection. magnificently draped, they contrasted strangely with the busts which were ranged on both sides of the aisle they had taken, and which, perched on their high pedestals, exiled from their familiar surroundings, from the environment in which they would doubtless have recalled some engrossing toil, some deep affection, a busy and courageous life, seemed very forlorn in the empty air about them and presented the distressing aspect of people who had gone astray and were very much ashamed to find themselves there. aside from two or three female figures, well-rounded shoulders enveloped in petrified lace, hair reproduced in marble with the soft touch that gives the impression of a powdered head-dress, and a few profiles of children with simple lines, in which the polish of the stone seems like the moisture of life, there were nothing but wrinkles, furrows, contortions and grimaces, our excess of toil and activity, our nervous paroxysms and our fevers contrasted with that art of repose and noble serenity. the nabob's ugliness, at all events, had in its favor its energy, the peculiar characteristics of the adventurer and the _prolétaire_, and that kindly expression so well rendered by the artist, who had taken pains to mix a supply of ochre with her plaster, thereby giving it almost the swarthy, sun-burned tone of the model. the arabs, on seeing it, uttered a stifled exclamation: "bon-saïd!" (the father of good-luck). it was the nabob's sobriquet at tunis, the label of his fortune, so to speak. the bey, for his part, thinking that someone intended to make sport of him by bringing him thus face to face with the detested _mercanti_, glanced suspiciously at the inspector. "jansoulet?" he said in his guttural voice. "yes, your highness, bernard jansoulet, the new deputy for corsica." at that the bey turned to hemerlingue, with a frown on his face. "deputy?" "yes, monseigneur, the news came this morning; but nothing is settled yet." and the banker, ill at ease and lowering his voice, added: "no french chamber would ever admit that adventurer." no matter! the blow had been dealt at the bey's blind confidence in his baron-financier. hemerlingue had declared so positively that the other would never be chosen, that they could act freely and without fear so far as he was concerned. and lo! instead of the crushed, discredited man, a representative of the nation towered before him, a deputy whose figure in stone parisians thronged to admire; for, from the oriental sovereign's standpoint, as that public exhibition necessarily involved the idea of conferring honor upon the subject, that bust had all the prestige of a statue overlooking a public square. hemerlingue, even yellower than usual, inwardly accused himself of bungling and imprudence. but how could he have suspected such a thing? he had been assured that the bust was not finished. and, indeed, it had arrived that very morning, and seemed overjoyed to be there, quivering with gratified pride, expressing contempt for its enemies with the good-natured smile of its curling lip. a veritable silent revenge for the disaster at saint-romans. for several minutes the bey, as cold and impassive as the carved image, stared at it without speaking, his forehead divided by a straight fold wherein his courtiers alone could read his wrath; then, after a few words spoken rapidly in arabic, to order his carriages and collect his scattered suite, he strode gravely toward the exit, without deigning to look at anything else. who can say what takes place in those august brains, surfeited with power? even our western monarchs have incomprehensible whims; but they are as nothing beside oriental caprices. monsieur l'inspecteur des beaux-arts, who had confidently expected to show his highness all over the exhibition, and to earn thereby the pretty little red and green ribbon of the order of nicham-iftikhar, never knew the secret of that sudden flight. just as the white haiks disappeared under the porch, and just in time to catch a glimpse of the fluttering of their last folds, the nabob entered through the centre door. that morning he had received the news: "elected by an overwhelming majority;" and, after a sumptuous breakfast, at which many a toast had been drunk to the new deputy for corsica, he had come with some of his guests, to show himself, to see himself as well, and to enjoy his new glory to the full. the first person he saw when he arrived was felicia ruys, leaning against the pedestal of a statue, receiving compliments and homage with which he hastened to mingle his own. she was dressed simply, in a black embroidered gown trimmed with jet, tempering the severe simplicity of her costume by its scintillating reflections and by the brilliancy of a fascinating little hat adorned with the feathers of the _lophophore_, whose changing colors her hair, tightly curled over the forehead and parted at the neck in broad waves, seemed to prolong and to soften. a crowd of artists, of society folk hastened to pay their respects to so great genius allied to so great beauty; and jenkins, bareheaded, swelling with effusive warmth, went about from one to another, extorting enthusiasm, but broadening the circle about that youthful renown, posing as both guardian and fugleman. meanwhile, his wife was talking with the young woman. poor madame jenkins! he had said to her in that brutal voice which she alone knew: "you must go and speak to felicia." and she had obeyed, restraining her emotion; for she knew now what lay hidden beneath that fatherly affection, although she avoided any explanation with the doctor as if she were apprehensive of the result. after madame jenkins, the nabob rushed to the artist's side, and taking her slender, neatly gloved hands in his two great paws expressed his gratitude with a warmth that brought the tears to his own eyes. "you have done me a very great honor, mademoiselle, to associate my name with yours, my humble self with your triumph, and to prove to all these vermin who are digging their claws into me that you don't believe in all the slanderous reports that are current about me. really, it is something i can never forget. i might cover this magnificent bust with gold and diamonds and i should still be in your debt." luckily for the good nabob, who was more susceptible to emotion than eloquent, he was obliged to make room for all those who were attracted by the refulgent talent, the artistic personality before their eyes: frantic enthusiasm which, for lack of words in which to express itself, disappears as it came; worldly admiration, inspired by kindly feeling, by an earnest desire to please, but whose every word is like a cold shower-bath; and then the hearty hand-clasps of rivals, of comrades, some very frank and cordial, others which communicate to you the inertness of their pressure; the tall, conceited zany whose absurd praise ought to delight you beyond measure, and who, in order not to spoil you utterly, accompanies it with "a few trifling reservations;" and the man who, while overwhelming you with compliments, proves to you that you do not know the first word of the trade; and the other good fellow, full of business, who stops just long enough to whisper in your ear that "so-and-so, the famous critic, doesn't seem to be satisfied." felicia listened to it all with the utmost tranquillity, being raised by her triumph above the petty slurs of envy, and glowed with pride when a renowned veteran, some old associate of her father's, tossed her a "well done, little one!" which carried her back to the past, to the little corner that was always reserved for her in the paternal studio in the days when she was beginning to carve out a little glory for herself in the renown of the great ruys. but as a whole the congratulations left her quite unmoved, because she missed one which was more desirable in her eyes than all the rest, and which she was surprised that she had not yet received. clearly she thought of him more than she had ever thought of any man before. was this love at last, the great love that is so rare in the heart of an artist, who is incapable of abandoning herself unreservedly to a sentiment, or was it simply a dream of an honest, bourgeois life, well protected against ennui, that vile ennui, the precursor of storms, which she had so much reason to dread? in any event, she suffered herself to be deceived and had been living for several days in a state of delicious unrest, for love is so strong, so beautiful, that its semblance, its mirage, takes us captive and may move us as deeply as love itself. has it ever happened to you, as you walked along the street, thinking intently of some absent person very dear to your heart, to be warned of his approach by meeting one or more persons who bear a vague resemblance to him, preparatory images, outline sketches of the face that is soon to rise before you, which come forth from the crowd like successive appeals to your overstrained attention? these are magnetic, nervous phenomena at which we must not smile too broadly, because they constitute a susceptibility to suffering. several times felicia had fancied that she recognized paul de géry's curly head in the ever-moving, ever-changing flow of visitors, when suddenly she uttered a cry of pleasure. it was not he, however, but some one who much resembled him, whose regular, tranquil face was always blended now in her thoughts with that of her friend paul, as the result of a resemblance rather moral than physical, and of the mild influence they both exerted over her mind. "aline!" "felicia!" although nothing is more difficult of comprehension than the friendship of two of society's queens, dividing salon royalty among themselves and lavishing flattering epithets, the petty graces of feminine effusiveness, upon each other, the friendships of childhood retain in the woman a frankness of demeanor which distinguishes them and makes them recognizable among all other friendships; bonds woven in innocence and woven firmly, like the pieces of needlework made by little girls, whereon an inexperienced hand has lavished thread and great knots; plants that have grown in virgin soil, past their bloom but deeply-rooted and full of life and vigor. and what joy to turn back a few steps, hand in hand,--boarding-school arguses, where are you?--with equal knowledge of the road and of its slightest windings, and with the same wistful laugh. standing a little apart, the two girls, who needed only to stand face to face to forget five years of separation, talked rapidly, recalling bygone days, while little père joyeuse, his ruddy face set off by a new cravat, drew himself up to his full height, proud beyond words that his daughter should be so warmly greeted by a celebrity. proud he certainly had reason to be, for that little parisian, even beside her resplendent friend, retained her full value for charm and youth and luminous innocence, beneath her twenty years, her rich, golden girlhood, which the joy of meeting caused to put forth fresh flowers. "how happy you must be! i haven't seen anything; but i hear everybody say that it is so beautiful." "happy above all things to find you again, little aline. it is such a long time--" "i should say as much, you bad girl. whose fault is it?" in the saddest recess of her memory felicia found the date of the rupture between them, coincident in her mind with another date when her youth died in a never-to-be-forgotten scene. "what have you been doing all this time, my love?" "oh! always the same thing--nothing worth talking about." "yes, yes, we know what you call doing nothing, little brave heart. it is giving your life to others, is it not?" but aline was no longer listening. she was smiling affectionately at a point straight before her, and felicia, turning to see to whom that smile was addressed, saw paul de géry replying to mademoiselle joyeuse's shy and blushing salutation. "do you know each other, pray?" "do i know monsieur paul! i should think so. we talk of you often enough. has he never told you?" "never. he is terribly sly--" she stopped abruptly as a light flashed through her mind; and, paying no heed to de géry, who came forward to do homage to her triumph, she leaned hastily toward aline and whispered to her. the other blushed, protested with smiles, with inaudible words: "how can you imagine such a thing? at my age. a grandmamma!" and at last she grasped her father's arm to escape that friendly raillery. when felicia saw the two young people walk away side by side, when she realized--what they themselves did not yet know--that they loved each other, she felt as if everything about her were crumbling. and when her dream lay at her feet, in a thousand fragments, she began to stamp upon it in a rage. after all, he was quite right to prefer that little aline to her. would a respectable man ever dare to marry mademoiselle ruys? she with a home of her own, a family, nonsense! you are a strumpet's daughter, my dear; you must be a strumpet yourself, if you wish to be anything. the day was drawing near its close. the crowd, moving more rapidly than before, with gaps here and there, was beginning to stream toward the exit, after eddying violently around the success of the year, surfeited, a little weary, but still excited by the artistic electricity with which the atmosphere was charged. a great ray of sunlight, the sunlight of four o'clock in the afternoon, illuminated the rosework of the windows, cast upon the gravelled paths rainbow-like beams that crept gently up the bronze or marble of the statues, suffusing a lovely nude body with bright colors and giving to the vast museum something of the aspect of a garden. felicia, absorbed in her profound, melancholy reverie, did not see the man who came toward her, superb, refined, fascinating, through the throng of visitors, who respectfully opened a passage for him, while the name of "mora" was whispered on every side. "well, well, mademoiselle, this is a grand triumph. i regret only one thing, that is the unpleasant symbolism that you have concealed in your masterpiece." when she saw the duke standing before her, she shuddered. "ah! yes, the symbolism," she said, looking up at him with a disheartened smile; and, leaning against the pedestal of the great, voluptuous statue, near which they happened to be standing, with her eyes closed, like a woman who gives herself voluntarily or surrenders, she murmured in a low, very low voice: "rabelais lied, as all men lie. the real truth is that the fox can go no farther, that he is at the end of his breath and his courage, ready to fall into the ditch, and if the hound persists in his pursuit--" mora started, became a little paler, as all the blood in his veins rushed back to his heart. two darkly flashing glances met, two words were swiftly exchanged with the ends of the lips; then the duke bowed low and walked away with a step as brisk and light as if the gods were carrying him. there was only one man in the palace as happy as he at that moment, and that was the nabob. escorted by his friends, he occupied, filled the main aisle all by himself, talking in a loud tone, gesticulating, so proud that he seemed almost handsome, as if, by dint of gazing long at his bust in artless admiration, he had caught a little of the splendid idealization with which the artist had softened the vulgarity of the type. the head at an elevation of three-fourths, free from the high rolling collar, gave rise to contradictory opinions from the spectators concerning the resemblance; and jansoulet's name, which had been repeated so many times by the electoral urns, was echoed by the prettiest lips in paris, by its most influential voices. any other than the nabob would have been embarrassed by hearing as he passed the exclamations of these curious bystanders, who were not always in sympathy with him. but the platform and the springboard were congenial to that nature, which was always braver under the fire of staring eyes, like those women who are beautiful and clever only in society, and whom the slightest admiration transfigures and perfects. when he felt that that delirious joy was subsiding, when he thought that he had drained the cup of his proud intoxication, he had only to say to himself: "deputy! i am a deputy!" and the triumphal cup was brimming full once more. it meant the raising of the embargo from all his property, the awakening from a nightmare of two months' duration, the blast of the mistral sweeping away all vexations, all anxieties, even to the insult at saint-romans, heavily as it weighed on his memory. deputy! he laughed all by himself as he thought of the baron's face when he heard the news, of the bey's stupefaction when he was taken to look at his bust; and suddenly, at the thought that he was no longer a mere adventurer gorged with gold, arousing the senseless admiration of the vulgar like an enormous nugget in a money-changer's window, but that he was entitled to be looked upon as one of the chosen exponents of the national will, his good-natured, mobile face assumed an expression of ponderous gravity suited to the occasion, his mind was filled with plans for the future, for reform, and the longing to profit by the lessons he had lately learned from destiny. already, mindful of the promise he had made de géry, he exhibited a certain contemptuous coldness for the hungry herd that fawned servilely about his heels, and seemed to have adopted deliberately a system of peremptory contradiction. he called the marquis de bois-l'héry "my good fellow," sharply imposed silence on the governor, whose enthusiasm was becoming scandalous, and was inwardly making a solemn vow that he would rid himself as speedily as possible of all that begging, compromising horde of bohemians, when an excellent opportunity presented itself for him to begin to put his purpose in execution. moëssard, the handsome moëssard, in a sky-blue cravat, pale and puffed-up like a white abscess, his bust confined in a tight frock coat, seeing that the nabob, after making the circuit of the hall of sculpture a score of times, was walking toward the exit, forced his way through the crowd, sprang to his side and said, as he passed his arm through jansoulet's: "you are to take me with you, you know--" of late, especially during the period of the election, he had assumed an authority on place vendôme almost equal to monpavon's, but more impudent; for, in respect of impudence, the queen's lover had not his equal on the sidewalk that extends from rue drouot to the madeleine. but on this occasion he had a bad fall. the muscular arm that he grasped violently shook itself free, and the nabob answered him very shortly: "i am very sorry, my dear fellow, but i have no seat to offer you." no seat, in a carriage as big as a house, which had often held five of them! moëssard gazed at him in utter stupefaction. "but i had something very urgent to say to you. on the subject of my little note. you received it, did you not?" "to be sure, and monsieur de géry should have answered it this morning. what you ask is impossible. twenty thousand francs!--_tonnerre de dieu!_ how fast you go." "it seems to me, however, that my services--" stammered the fop. "have been handsomely paid. so it seems to me too. two hundred thousand francs in five months! we will stop at that, if you please. you have long teeth, young man; we must file them a bit." they exchanged these words as they walked along, pushed by the crowd which flocked like sheep through the door of exit. moëssard stopped: "that is your last word?" the nabob hesitated a second, seized by a presentiment of evil at sight of that pale, wicked mouth; then he remembered the promise he had given his friend. "that is my last word." "very well, we will see," said beau moëssard, while his cane cleft the air with a noise like a snake's hiss; and, turning on his heel, he strode rapidly away like a man who has very important business awaiting him. jansoulet continued his triumphal march. on that day it would have required something much more serious to disturb the equilibrium of his happiness; on the other hand he felt encouraged by the beginning so successfully accomplished. the great vestibule was filled with a compact crowd, whom the approach of the hour for closing impelled toward the outer world, but whom one of the sudden downpours which seem an essential part of the opening of the salon detained under the porch with its floor of hard-trodden gravel, like the entrance to the circus where the lady-killers disport themselves. it was a curious, thoroughly parisian spectacle. outside, the sunbeams shining through the rain, attaching to its limpid threads those sharp, brilliant blades of light which justify the proverb "it rains halberds;" the young verdure of the champs-Élysées, the clumps of dripping, rustling rhododendrons, the carriages drawn up in line on the avenue, the oilcloth capes of the coachmen, all the splendid accoutrements of the horses to which the water and the sunbeams imparted vastly greater richness and effect, and everywhere a gleam of blue, the blue of the sky, smiling in the interval between two showers. within, laughter, idle chatter, salutations, impatience, skirts turned up, satins puffing vaingloriously over the narrow pleats of petticoats and delicately striped silk stockings, oceans of fringe, of lace, of flounces, held with one hand in too heavy bundles, and torn beyond recognition. then, to connect the two sides of the picture, the prisoners framed by the arched doorway and standing in its dark shadow, with the vast background of light behind them, footmen running about under umbrellas, shouting names of coachmen and names of masters, and coupés slowly approaching, into which terrified couples hastily jump. "monsieur jansoulet's carriage!" everybody turned to look, but we know that that disturbed him but little. and while the honest nabob posed for a moment, awaiting his people, amid those fashionable women, those famous men, that assorted gathering of all paris which was present there with a name to fit each of its figures, a slender, neatly-gloved hand was held out to him, and the duc de mora, who was about to enter his coupé, said to him as he passed, with the effusiveness that happiness gives to the most reserved of men: "my congratulations, my dear deputy." it was said aloud, and every one could hear,--"my dear deputy." * * * * * there is in the life of every man a golden hour, a luminous mountain-top where all that he can hope for of prosperity, of joy, of triumph, awaits him and is showered upon him. the mountain is more or less high, more or less precipitous and difficult to climb; but it exists equally for all, for the most powerful and the humblest. but, like the longest day of the year, when the sun has reached the end of his upward journey and the next day seems a first step toward winter, that _summum bonum_ of human existence is but a moment to be enjoyed, after which we have no choice but to descend. poor man! you must remember that late afternoon in may, that time of alternating rain and sunshine, you must fix its changing splendor forever in your memory. it was the hour of your midsummer, when the flowers were blooming, the branches bending beneath their weight of golden fruit, and the crops whose gleanings you so recklessly threw aside, were fully ripe. the star will fade now, gradually receding and descending, and soon will be incapable of piercing the woeful darkness wherein your destiny is about to be fulfilled. xv. memoirs of a clerk.--in the reception-room. there was a grand affair last saturday on place vendôme. monsieur bernard jansoulet, the new deputy for corsica, gave a magnificent evening party in honor of his election, with municipal guards at the door, the whole house illuminated and two thousand invitations strewn broadcast through fashionable paris. i was indebted to the distinction of my manners, to the resonance of my voice, which the president of the administrative council has had a chance to appreciate at the meetings of the _caisse territoriale_, for the privilege of taking part in that sumptuous festivity, where i stood for three hours in the reception-room, amid flowers and draperies, dressed in scarlet and gold, with the majestic bearing peculiar to persons who exert some little authority, and with my calves exposed for the first time in my life, and sent the name of each guest like the report of a cannon into the long line of five salons, a resplendent footman saluting each time with the _bing_ of his halberd on the floor. how many interesting observations i was able to make that evening, what jocose sallies, what quips, all in most excellent taste, were tossed back and forth by the servants, concerning the people of fashion who passed! i should never have heard anything so amusing with the vine-dressers of montbars. i ought to say that the worthy m. barreau caused us all to be served with a hearty, well-irrigated lunch in his office, which was filled to the ceiling with iced drinks and refreshments, thereby putting every one of us in an excellent humor, which was maintained throughout the evening by glasses of punch and champagne whisked from the salvers as they passed. the masters, however, were not so contented as we were. when i reached my post, at nine o'clock, i was struck by the anxious, nervous face of the nabob, whom i spied walking with m. de géry through the brilliantly-lighted, empty salons, talking earnestly and gesticulating wildly. "i will kill him," he said, "i will kill him." the other tried to soothe him, then madame appeared and they talked about something else. a magnificent figure of a woman, that levantine, twice as powerful as i am, and dazzling to look at with her diamond diadem, the jewels that covered her huge white shoulders, her back as round as her breast, her waist squeezed into a breastplate of greenish gold, which extended in long stripes the whole length of her skirt. i never saw anything so rich, so imposing. she was like one of those beautiful white elephants with towers on their backs that we read about in books of travel. when she walked, clinging painfully to the furniture, all her flesh shook and her ornaments jangled like old iron. with it all a very shrill little voice and a beautiful red face which a little negro boy kept fanning all the time with a fan of white feathers as big as a peacock's tail. it was the first time that that indolent savage had made her appearance in parisian society, and m. jansoulet seemed very proud and very happy that she had consented to preside at his fête: a task that involved no great labor on the lady's part, however, for, leaving her husband to receive his guests in the first salon, she went and stretched herself out on the couch in the little japanese salon, wedged between two piles of cushions, and perfectly motionless, so that you could see her in the distance, at the end of the line of salons, like an idol, under the great fan which her negro waved with a clocklike motion, as if by machinery. these foreigners have the brass for you! the nabob's irritation had impressed me all the same, and as i saw his valet going downstairs four steps at a time, i caught him on the wing and whispered in his ear: "what the deuce is the matter with your governor, monsieur noël?" "it's the article in the _messager_," he replied, and i had to abandon the idea of finding out anything more for the moment, as a loud ring at the bell announced the arrival of the first carriage, and it was followed by a multitude of others. intent upon my business, giving close attention to the proper pronunciation of the names given me and to making them ricochet from salon to salon, i thought of nothing else. it is no easy matter to announce properly people who always think that their names must be well known, so that they simply murmur them through their closed lips as they pass, and then are surprised to hear you murder them in your most sonorous tone and almost bear you a grudge for the unimpressive entrances, greeted with faint smiles, that follow a bungling announcement. the task was made even more difficult at m. jansoulet's by the swarm of foreigners, turks, egyptians, persians, tunisians. i do not mention the corsicans, who were also very numerous on that occasion, because, during my four years of service at the _caisse territoriale_, i have become accustomed to pronouncing those high-sounding, interminable names, always followed by the name of a place: "paganetti of porto-vecchio, bastelica of bonifacio, paianatchi of barbicaglia." i enjoyed dwelling upon those italian syllables, giving them their full resonant value, and i could see by the stupefied expressions of those worthy islanders how surprised and delighted they were to be introduced in that fashion into the best continental society. but with the turks, the pachas and beys and effendis, i had much more difficulty, and i must often have pronounced them awry, for m. jansoulet, on two different occasions, sent word to me to pay more attention to the names given me, and especially to announce them more naturally. that command, uttered in a loud voice at the door of the reception-room with unnecessary brutality, annoyed me exceedingly, and prevented me--shall i confess it?--from pitying the vulgar parvenu when i learned, during the evening, what sharp thorns had found their way into his bed of roses. from half-past ten till midnight the bell did not cease to ring, the carriages to rumble under the porch, the guests to follow on one another's heels, deputies, senators, councillors of state, municipal councillors, who acted much more as if they were attending a meeting of shareholders than an evening party in society. what did it all mean? i could not succeed in puzzling it out, but a word from nicklauss the door-keeper opened my eyes. "do you notice, monsieur passajon," said that worthy retainer, standing in front of me, halberd in hand, "do you notice how few ladies we have?" _pardieu!_ that was it. and we two were not the only ones who noticed it. at each new arrival, i heard the nabob, who stood near the door, exclaim in consternation with the hoarse voice of a marseillais with a cold in his head: "alone?" the guest would apologize in an undertone. _m-m-m-m-m-m_--his wife not very well. very sorry indeed. then another would come; and the same question would bring the same reply. we heard that word "alone" so much, that at last we began to joke about it in the reception-room; outriders and footmen tossed it from one to another when a new guest entered: "alone!" and we laughed and enjoyed ourselves. but m. nicklauss, with his extended knowledge of society, considered that the almost universal abstention of the fair sex was by no means natural. "it must be the article in the _messager_," he said. everybody was talking of that rascally article, and as each guest paused before entering the salon to look himself over in the mirror with its garland of flowers, i overheard snatches of whispered dialogue of this sort: "have you read it?" "it's a frightful thing." "do you believe it can possibly be true?" "i have no idea. at all events i preferred not to bring my wife." "i felt as you did. a man can go anywhere without compromising himself." "of course. while a woman--" then they would go in, their crush hats under their arms, with the conquering air of married men unaccompanied by their wives. what was this newspaper article, this terrible article which threatened so seriously the influence of such a wealthy man? unfortunately my duties held me fast; i could not go down to the butlers pantry or the dressing-room, to talk with the coachmen, the footmen and outriders whom i saw standing at the foot of the stairs, amusing themselves by making fun of the people who went up. what can you expect? the masters give themselves too many airs. how could one help laughing to see the marquis and marquise de bois-l'héry sail by with a haughty air and empty stomachs, after all the stories we have heard about monsieur's business arrangements and madame's dresses? and then the jenkins family, so affectionate, so united, the attentive doctor throwing a lace shawl over his wife's shoulders for fear she may take cold in the hall; she, tricked out and smiling, dressed all in velvet, with a train yards long, leaning on her husband's arm as if to say: "how happy i am!" when i know that, ever since the death of the irishwoman, his lawful wife, the doctor has been thinking of getting rid of his old incubus so that he can marry a young woman, and that the old incubus passes her nights in despair, in wearing away with tears what beauty she still has. the amusing part of it was that not one of them all suspected the quips and jokes that were spit out at them as they passed, the vile things that their trains swept up from the vestibule carpet, and the whole crew assumed disdainful airs fit to make one die with laughter. the two ladies i have named, the governor's wife, a little corsican woman whose heavy eyebrows, white teeth and ruddy cheeks, dark in the lower part, make her look like a clean-shaved auvergnat--a clever creature by the way, and always laughing except when her husband looks at other women--these with a few levantines with diadems of gold or pearls, less resplendent than ours but in the same style, wives of upholsterers, jewellers, dealers who supply the household regularly, with shoulders as extensive as shop-fronts and dresses in which the material was not sparingly used; and lastly, several wives of clerks at the _caisse territoriale_, with rustling dresses and devil a sou in their pockets,--such was the representation of the fair sex at that function, some thirty ladies lost among myriads of black coats; one might as well say that there were none at all there. from time to time, cassagne, laporte and grandvarlet, who were carrying dishes, told us what was going on in the salons. "ah! my children, if you could just see how gloomy, how mournful it is! the men don't move from the sideboards. the women are all sitting in a circle, way at the end, fanning themselves, without a word. la grosse[ ] doesn't speak to any one. i believe she's taking a snooze. monsieur's the one who keeps things going. père passajon, a glass of château-larose. it will set you up." footnotes: [ ] the fat woman, or "fatty." all those young fellows were delightful to me, and took a mischievous pleasure in doing the honors of the cellar so often and in such bumpers that my tongue began to grow heavy and uncertain; as they said to me, in their slightly familiar language: "you're spluttering, uncle." luckily the last of the effendis had arrived and there was no one else to announce; for it was of no use for me to struggle against it, every time i walked between the hangings to launch a name into the salons, the chandeliers whirled round and round with hundreds of thousands of dancing lights, and the floors became inclined planes as slippery and steep as russian mountains. i must have spluttered, that is sure. the fresh night air and repeated ablutions at the pump in the courtyard soon got the better of that little indisposition, and when i betook myself to the servants' quarters it had altogether disappeared. i found a large and merry party gathered around a _marquise_ of champagne, of which all my nieces, in fine array, with fluffy hair and cravats of pink ribbon, took their full share, notwithstanding the fascinating little shrieks and grimaces, which deceived no one. naturally they were talking about the famous article, an article by moëssard, it seems, full of shocking disclosures concerning all sorts of degrading occupations that the nabob was engaged in fifteen or twenty years ago, at the time of his first stay in paris. it was the third attack of that sort that the _messager_ had published within a week, and that rascal moëssard was malicious enough to send a copy of each number under cover to place vendôme. m. jansoulet received it in the morning with his chocolate; and at the same hour his friends and his enemies--for a man like the nabob cannot be indifferent to anybody--read it and discussed it, and adopted a line of conduct toward him calculated not to compromise themselves. that day's article must have been well loaded; for jansoulet the coachman told us that in the bois his master did not exchange ten salutations in ten circuits of the lake, whereas ordinarily his hat is not on his head any more than a sovereign's when out for a drive. and when they returned home it was much worse. the three boys had just reached the house, all in tears and frightened to death, brought home from bourdaloue college by a good father in their own interest, poor little fellows; they had been given temporary leave of absence so that they might not hear any unkind remarks, any cruel allusions in the parlor or the courtyard. thereupon the nabob flew into a terrible rage, so that he demolished a whole porcelain service, and it seems that, if it had not been for m. de géry, he would have gone off on the instant to break moëssard's head. "and he would have done quite right," said m. noël, entering the room at that moment; and he, too, was greatly excited. "there's not a single word of truth in that villain's article. my master never came to paris until last year. from tunis to marseille, and marseille to tunis, that's all the travelling he did. but that scurvy journalist is taking his revenge on us for refusing him twenty thousand francs." "you made a very great mistake in doing that," said m. francis, monpavon's francis, valet to that old dandy, whose only tooth waggles in the middle of his mouth whenever he says a word, but whom the young ladies look favorably upon all the same because of his fine manners. "yes, you made a mistake. it is necessary to know how to handle people carefully, as long as they are able to serve or injure us. your nabob turned his back on his friends too suddenly after his success; and, between you and me, my dear boy, he isn't strong enough to return such blows as that." i thought i might venture to say a word. "it's quite true, monsieur noël, that your master isn't the same since his election. he has adopted a very different tone and manners. day before yesterday at the _territoriale_, he made such a hullabaloo as you can't imagine. i heard him shout in the middle of the council meeting: 'you have lied to me, you have robbed me and made me as much of a thief as yourselves. show me your books, you pack of rascals!' if he treated moëssard in that fashion, i don't wonder that he takes his revenge in his newspaper." "but what does the article say, anyway?" inquired m. barreau; "who has read it?" no one answered. several had tried to buy the paper; but in paris anything scandalous sells like hot cakes. at ten o'clock in the morning there was not a copy of the _messager_ to be had on the street. thereupon one of my nieces, a sly hussy if ever there was one, had the happy thought of looking in the pocket of one of the numerous top-coats hanging in long rows against the walls of the dressing-room. "here you are!" said the merry creature triumphantly, drawing from the first pocket she searched a copy of the _messager_, crumpled at the folds as if it had been well read. "and here's another!" cried tom bois-l'héry, who was investigating on his own account. a third top-coat, a third _messager_. and so it was with them all; buried in the depths of the pocket, or with its title sticking out, the paper was everywhere, even as the article was certain to be in every mind; and we imagined the nabob upstairs, exchanging amiable sentences with his guests, who could have recited to him word for word the horrible things printed concerning him. we all laughed heartily at the idea; but we were dying to know the contents of that interesting page. "here, père passajon, read it aloud to us." that was the general desire, and i complied with it. i do not know if you are like me, but when i read aloud i gargle with my voice, so to speak, i introduce inflections and flourishes, so that i do not understand a word of what i read, like those public singers to whom the meaning of the words they sing is of little consequence provided that the notes are all there. it was called "the flower boat." a decidedly mixed-up story with chinese names, relating to a very rich mandarin, newly elevated to the first class, who had once kept a "flower boat" moored on the outskirts of a town near a fortified gate frequented by soldiers. at the last word of the article we knew no more than at the beginning. to be sure, we tried to wink and to look very knowing; but, frankly, there was no ground for it. a genuine rebus without a key; and we should still be staring at it, had not old francis, who is the very devil for his knowledge of all sorts of things, explained to us that the fortified gate with soldiers must mean the École militaire, and that the "flower boat" had not so pretty a name as that in good french. and he said the name aloud, despite the ladies. such an explosion of exclamations, of "ahs!" and "ohs!" some saying: "i expected as much," others: "it isn't possible." "i beg your pardon," added francis, who was formerly a trumpeter in the th lancers, mora's and monpavon's regiment, "i beg your pardon. twenty years ago or more i was in barracks at the École militaire, and i remember very well that there was near the barrier a dirty little dance-house called the bal jansoulet, with furnished rooms upstairs at five sous the hour, to which we used to adjourn between dances." "you're an infernal liar!" cried m. noël, fairly beside himself; "a sharper and liar like your master. jansoulet never came to paris until this time." francis was sitting a little outside of the circle we made around the "marquise," sipping something sweet, because champagne is bad for his nerves, and besides, it is not a _chic_ enough drink for him. he rose solemnly, without putting down his glass, and, walking up to m. noël, said to him, quietly: "you lack good form, my dear fellow. the other evening, at your own house, i considered your manners very vulgar and unbecoming. it serves no purpose to insult people, especially as i'm a fencing-master, and, if we should carry the thing any farther, i could put two inches of cold steel into your body at whatever point i chose; but i am a good sort of fellow, and instead of a sword-thrust i prefer to give you some advice which your master will do well to profit by. this is what i would do if i were in your place; i would hunt up moëssard and buy him without haggling over the price. hemerlingue has given him twenty thousand francs to speak, i would offer him thirty thousand to hold his tongue." "never, never!" roared m. noël. "instead of that i will go and wring the miserable bandit's neck." "you will wring nothing at all. whether the story is true or false, you have seen the effect of it to-night. that's a specimen of the pleasures in store for you. what do you expect, my dear fellow? you have thrown away your crutches and tried to walk alone too soon. that's all right if you're sure of yourself and firm on your legs; but when your footing is not very good anyway, and in addition you are unlucky enough to have hemerlingue at your heels, it's a bad business. and with it all your master's beginning to be short of money; he has given notes to old schwalbach, and don't talk to me of a nabob who gives notes. i am well aware that you have heaps of millions over yonder in tunis; but you will have to have your election confirmed in order to get possession of them, and after a few more articles like the one to-day, i'll answer for it that you won't succeed. you undertake to struggle with paris, my boy, but you're not big enough, you know nothing about it. this isn't the orient, and, although we don't wring the necks of people who offend us, or throw them into the water in leather bags, we have other ways of putting them out of sight. let your master beware, noël. one of these days paris will swallow him as i swallow this plum, without spitting out the stone or the skin!" really the old man was most imposing, and, notwithstanding the paint on his face, i began to feel some respect for him. while he was speaking we heard the music overhead, the singing provided for the entertainment of the guests, and out on the square the horses of the municipal guards shaking their curb-chains. our party must have been a very brilliant affair from outside, with the myriads of candles and the illuminated doorway. and when one thinks of the ruin that perhaps was beneath it all! we stood there in the vestibule like rats taking council together in the hold, when the vessel is beginning to take in water without the crew suspecting it, and i saw plainly enough that everybody, footmen and lady's maids, would soon scamper away at the first alarm. can it be that such a catastrophe is possible? but in that case, what would become of me and the _territoriale_, and my advances and my back pay? that francis left me with cold shivers running down my back. xvi. a public man. the luminous warmth of a bright may afternoon made the lofty windows of the hôtel de mora as hot as the glass roof of a greenhouse; its transparent hangings of blue silk could be seen from without between the branches, and its broad terraces, where the exotic flowers, brought into the air for the first time, ran like a border all the length of the quay. the great rakes scraping among the shrubs in the garden left on the gravelled paths the light footprints of summer, while the soft pattering of the water from the sprinklers on the green lawn seemed like its revivifying song. all the magnificence of the princely abode shone resplendent in the pleasant mildness of the temperature, borrowing a grandiose beauty from the silence, the repose of that noonday hour, the only hour in the day when one did not hear carriages rumbling under the arches, the great doors of the reception-room opening and closing, and the constant vibration in the ivy on the walls caused by the pulling of bells to announce somebody's coming in or going out, like the feverish throbbing of life in the house of a leader of society. it was well known that until three o'clock the duke received at the department; that the duchess, a swede still benumbed by the snow of stockholm, had hardly emerged from behind her somnolent bed-curtains; so that no one came, neither callers nor petitioners, and the footmen, perched like flamingoes on the steps of the deserted stoop, alone enlivened the scene with the slim shadows of their long legs and the yawning ennui of their idleness. it happened however, on that day, that jenkins' maroon-lined _coupé_ was waiting in a corner of the courtyard. the duke, who had been feeling badly the day before, felt still worse when he left the breakfast table, and lost no time in sending for the man of the pearls in order to question him concerning his singular condition. he had no pain anywhere, slept well and had his usual appetite; but there was a most extraordinary sensation of weariness and of terrible cold, which nothing could overcome. so it was that, at that moment, notwithstanding the lovely spring sunshine which flooded his room and put to shame the flame blazing on his hearth as in the depth of winter, the duke was shivering in his blue firs, between his little screens, and as he wrote his name on divers documents for a clerk from his office, on a low lacquered table that stood so near the fire that the lacquer came off in scales, he kept holding his benumbed fingers to the blaze, which might have scorched them on the surface without restoring circulation and life to their bloodless rigidity. was it anxiety caused by the indisposition of his illustrious patient? at all events jenkins seemed nervous, excited, strode up and down the room, prying and sniffing to right and left, trying to find in the air something that he believed to be there, something subtle and intangible, like the faint trace of a perfume or the invisible mark left by a passing bird. he could hear the wood snapping on the hearth, the sound of papers hastily turned, the duke's indolent voice, indicating in a word or two, always concise and clear, the answer to a letter of four pages, and the clerk's respectful monosyllables: "yes, monsieur le ministre." "no, monsieur le ministre." outside, the swallows whistled merrily over the water, and some one was playing a clarinet in the direction of the bridges. "it is impossible," said the minister abruptly, rising from his chair. "take them away, lartigues. you can come again, to-morrow. i can't write, i am too cold. just feel my hands, doctor, and tell me if you would not say they were just out of a pail of iced water. my whole body has been like that for two days. it's absurd enough in such weather!" "it doesn't surprise me," growled the irishman in a surly, short tone, very unusual in that mellifluous voice. the door had closed behind the young clerk, who carried away his documents with a majestic stiffness of bearing, but was very happy, i fancy, to feel that he was at liberty, and to have the opportunity, before returning to the department, to saunter for an hour or two in the tuileries, overflowing at that hour with spring dresses and pretty girls seated around the still unoccupied chairs of the musicians under the flowering chestnut trees, which quivered from top to bottom with the glad thrill of the month of nests. he was not frozen, not he. jenkins examined his patient without speaking, ausculted him, percussed him, then, in the same rough tone, which might possibly be ascribed to anxious affection, to the irritation of the physician who finds that his instructions have been disregarded, he said: "in god's name, my dear duke, what sort of a life have you been leading lately?" he knew from ante-room gossips--the doctor did not despise them in the households of those of his patients with whom he was on intimate terms--he knew that the duke had a _new one_, that this caprice of recent date had taken possession of him, excited him to an unusual degree, and that information, added to other observations made in other directions, had sown in jenkins' mind a suspicion, a mad desire to know the name of this _new one_. that is what he was trying to read on his patient's pale brow, seeking the subject of his thoughts rather than the cause of his illness. but he had to do with one of those faces peculiar to men who are successful with women, faces as hermetically sealed as the caskets with secret compartments which contain women's jewels and letters,--one of those reticent natures locked with a cold, limpid glance, a glance of steel against which the most perspicacious cunning is powerless. "you are mistaken, doctor," replied his excellency calmly, "i have not changed my habits in any respect." "very good! you have done wrong, monsieur le duc," said the irishman bluntly, furious at his inability to discover anything. but the next moment, realizing that he had gone too far, he tempered his ill-humor and the brutality of his diagnosis with a bolus of trite, axiomatic observations.--he must be careful. medicine was not magic. the power of the jenkins pearls was limited by human strength, the necessities of advancing age, the resources of nature, which, unhappily, are not inexhaustible. the duke interrupted him nervously: "come, come, jenkins, you know that i don't like fine phrases. they don't go with me. what is the matter with me? what is the cause of this coldness?" "it's anæmia, exhaustion--a lowering of the oil in the lamp." "what must i do?" "nothing. absolute rest. eat and sleep, nothing more. if you could go and pass a few weeks at grandbois--" mora shrugged his shoulders. "what about the chamber, and the council, and--nonsense! as if it were possible!" "at all events, monsieur le duc, you must put on the drag, as someone said, you must absolutely give up--" jenkins was interrupted by the entrance of the usher, who glided softly into the room on tiptoe, like a dancing-master, and handed a letter and a card to the minister who was still shivering in front of the fire. when he saw that envelope, of a satiny shade of gray, and of peculiar shape, the irishman involuntarily started, while the duke, having opened his letter and glanced over it, rose to his feet full of animation, on his cheeks the faint flush of factitious health which all the heat from the fire had failed to bring to them. "my dear doctor, you must at any cost--" the usher was standing near, waiting. "what is it?--oh! yes, this card. show him into the gallery, i will be there in a moment." the duc de mora's gallery, which was open to visitors twice a week, was to him a sort of neutral territory, a public place where he could see anybody on earth without binding himself to anything or compromising himself. then, when the usher had left the room: "jenkins, my good friend, you have already performed miracles for me. i ask you to perform another. double my dose of the pearls, think up something, whatever you choose. but i must be in condition sunday. you understand, in perfect condition." and his hot, feverish fingers closed upon the little note he held with a shudder of longing. "beware, monsieur le duc," said jenkins, very pale, his lips pressed tightly together, "i have no desire to alarm you beyond measure concerning your weak state, but it is my duty--" mora smiled, a charming, mischievous smile. "your duty and my pleasure are two, my good fellow. let me burn my life at both ends if it amuses me. i have never had such a fine opportunity as i have now." he started. "the duchess!" a door under the hangings had opened, giving passage to a dishevelled little head of fair hair, like a mass of vapor amid the laces and furbelows of a royal _déshabillé_. "what is this i hear? you haven't gone out? pray scold him, doctor. isn't he foolish to listen to his own fears so much? just look at him. he looks in superb health." "there! you see," said the duke, with a laugh, to the irishman. "aren't you coming in, duchess?" "no, i am going to take you away, on the contrary. my uncle d'estaing has sent me a cage filled with birds from the indies. i want to show them to you. marvels of all colors, with little eyes like black pearls. and so cold, so cold, almost as sensitive to cold as you are." "let us go and see them," said the minister. "wait for me, jenkins; i will come back." then, realizing that he still had his letter in his hand, he tossed it carelessly into the drawer of the little table on which he had been signing documents, and went out behind the duchess, with the perfect _sang-froid_ of a husband accustomed to such manoeuvres. what marvellously skilful workman, what incomparable maker of toys was able to endow the human countenance with its flexibility, its wonderful elasticity? nothing could be prettier than that great nobleman's face, surprised with his adultery on his lips, the cheeks inflamed by the vision of promised delights, and suddenly assuming a serene expression of conjugal affection; nothing could be finer than the hypocritical humility of jenkins, his paternal smile in the duchess's presence, giving place instantly when he was left alone, to a savage expression of wrath and hatred, a criminal pallor, the pallor of a castaing or a lapommerais devising his sinister schemes. a swift glance at each of the doors, and in a twinkling he stood before the drawer filled with valuable papers, in which the little gold key was allowed to remain with an insolent negligence that seemed to say: "no one will dare." but jenkins dared. the letter was there, on top of a pile of others. the texture of the paper, the three words of the address dashed off in a plain, bold hand, and the perfume, that intoxicating, conjuring perfume, the very breath from her divine mouth. so it was true, his jealous love had not led him astray, nor her evident embarrassment in his presence for some time past, nor constance's mysterious, youthful airs, nor the superb bouquets strewn about the studio, as in the mysterious shadow of a sin. so that indomitable pride had surrendered at last! but in that case why not to him, jenkins? he who had loved her so long, always in fact, who was ten years younger than the other, and who certainly was no shiverer? all those thoughts rushed through his brain like arrows shot from a tireless bow. and he stood there, riddled with wounds, torn with emotion, his eyes blinded with blood, staring at the little cold, soft envelope which he dared not open for fear of removing one last doubt, when a rustling of the hangings, which made him hastily toss the letter back and close the smoothly-running drawer of the lacquer table, warned him that somebody had entered the room. "hallo! is it you, jansoulet? how came you here?" "his excellency told me to come and wait for him in his bedroom," replied the nabob, very proud to be thus admitted to the sanctuary of the private apartments, especially at an hour when the minister did not receive. the fact was that the duke was beginning to show a genuine, sympathetic feeling for that savage. for several reasons: in the first place he liked audacious, pushing fellows, lucky adventurers. was he not one himself? and then the nabob amused him; his accent, his unvarnished manners, his flattery, a trifle unblushing and impudent, gave him a respite from the everlasting conventionality of his surroundings, from that scourge of administrative and court ceremonial which he held in horror,--the conventional phrase,--in so great horror that he never finished the period he had begun. the nabob, for his part, finished his in unforeseen ways that were sometimes full of surprises; he was a first-rate gambler too, losing games of écarté at five thousand francs the turn, at the club on rue royale, without winking. and then he was so convenient when one wanted to get rid of a picture, always ready to buy, no matter at what price. these motives of condescending amiability had been reinforced latterly by a feeling of pity and indignation because of the persistent ferocity with which the poor fellow was being persecuted, because of the cowardly, merciless war upon him, which was carried on so skilfully that public opinion, always credulous, always putting out its neck to see how the wind is blowing, was beginning to be seriously influenced. we must do mora the justice to say that he was no follower of the crowd. when he saw the nabob's face, always good-humored, but wearing a piteous, discomfited look, in a corner of the gallery, it had occurred to him that it was cowardly to receive him there, and he had told him to go up to his room. jenkins and jansoulet, being decidedly embarrassed in each other's presence, exchanged a few commonplace words. their warm friendship had grown sensibly cooler of late, jansoulet having flatly refused any further subsidy to the work of bethlehem, thereby leaving the enterprise on the irishman's hands; he was furious at that defection, much more furious just then because he had been unable to open felicia's letter before the intruder's arrival. the nabob, for his part, was wondering whether the doctor was to be present at the conversation he wished to have with the duke on the subject of the infamous allusions with which the _messager_ was hounding him; he was anxious also to know whether those calumnies had cooled the all-powerful goodwill, which would be so necessary to him in the confirmation of his election. the welcome he had received in the gallery had partly quieted his fears; they vanished altogether when the duke returned and came toward him with outstretched hand. "well, well! my poor jansoulet, i should say that paris is making you pay dear for her welcome. what a tempest of scolding and hatred and bad temper!" "ah! monsieur le duc, if you knew--" "i do know--i have read it all," said the minister, drawing near the fire. "i trust that your excellency doesn't believe those infamous stories. at all events i have here--i have brought proofs." with his strong hairy hands trembling with emotion, he fumbled among the papers in an enormous portfolio that he had under his arm. "never mind--never mind. i know all about it. i know that, purposely or not, they have confused you with another person whom family reasons--" the duke could not restrain a smile in face of the utter bewilderment of the nabob, who was astounded to find him so well informed. "a minister of state should know everything. but never fear. your election shall be confirmed, all the same. and when it is once confirmed--" jansoulet drew a long breath of relief. "ah! monsieur le duc, how much good you do me by talking to me thus. i was beginning to lose all my confidence. my enemies are so powerful! and on top of all the rest there's another piece of ill-luck. le merquier, of all people, is assigned to make the report concerning my election." "le merquier?--the devil!" "yes, le merquier, hemerlingue's confidential man, the vile hypocrite who converted the baroness, doubtless because his religion forbids him to have a mohammedan for his mistress." "fie, fie, jansoulet!" "what can you expect, monsieur le duc? you lose your temper sometimes, too. just think of the position those villains are putting me in. a week ago my election should have been confirmed, and they have postponed the meeting of the committee purposely, because they know the terrible plight i am in, with all my fortune paralyzed, and the bey waiting for the decision of the chamber to know whether he can strip me clean or not. i have eighty millions over there, monsieur le duc, and here i am beginning to be in need of money. if this lasts a little longer--" he wiped away the great drops of perspiration that were rolling down his cheeks. "very well! i will make this matter of your confirmation my business," said the minister with much animation. "i will write to what's-his-name to hurry up his report; and even if i have to be carried to the chamber--" "is your excellency ill?" queried jansoulet in a tone of deep interest, in which there was no lack of sincerity, i promise you. "no--a little weakness. we are a little short of blood; but jenkins is going to give us a new supply. eh, jenkins?" the irishman, who was not listening, made a vague gesture. "thunder! and to think that i have too much blood!" and the nabob loosened his cravat around his swollen neck, on the verge of apoplexy with excitement and the heat of the room. "if i could only let you have a little, monsieur le duc!" "it would be fortunate for both of us," rejoined the minister with a touch of irony. "for you especially; you are such a violent fellow and at this moment need to be so calm. look out for that, jansoulet. be on your guard against the traps, the fits of passion they would like to drive you into. say to yourself now that you are a public man, standing on an elevation, and that all your gestures can be seen from a distance. the newspapers insult you; don't read them if you cannot conceal the emotion they cause you. don't do what i did with my blind man on pont de la concorde, that horrible clarinet player, who has made my life a burden for ten years, whistling at me every day: _de tes fils, norma_. i tried everything to make him go away, money, threats. nothing would induce him to go. the police? oh! yes. with our modern ideas, to turn a poor blind man off his bridge would become a momentous affair. the opposition newspapers would speak of it, the parisians would make a fable of it. _the cobbler and the financier_; _the duke and the clarinet._ i must resign myself to it. indeed, it's my own fault. i should not have shown the fellow that he annoyed me. i am confident that my torture is half of his life now. every morning he leaves his hovel with his dog, his folding-stool and his horrible instrument, and says to himself: 'now i'll go and make life a burden to the duc de mora.' not a day does he miss, the villain. look you! if i should open the window a crack, you would hear that deluge of shrill little notes above the noise of the water and the carriages. very well! this _messager_ man is your clarinet; if you let him see that his music wearies you, he will never stop. by the way, my dear deputy, let me remind you that you have a committee meeting at three o'clock, and i shall see you very soon in the chamber." then, turning to jenkins, he added: "you know what i asked you for, doctor,--pearls for day after to-morrow. and well loaded!" jenkins started and shook himself, as if suddenly aroused from a dream. "i understand, my dear duke; i'll supply you with breath--oh! breath enough to win the derby." he bowed, and went away, laughing, a genuine wolf's laugh, showing his white, parted teeth. the nabob also took his leave, his heart overflowing with gratitude, but not daring to allow that sceptic to see anything of it, for any sort of demonstration aroused his distrust. and the minister of state, left alone, crouching in front of the crackling, blazing fire, sheltered by the velvety warmth of his luxurious garments, lined on that day by the feverish caress of a lovely may sun, began to shiver anew, to shiver so violently that felicia's letter, which he held open in his blue fingers and read with amorous zest, trembled with a rustling noise as of silk. * * * * * a very peculiar situation is that of a deputy in the period which follows his election and precedes--as they say in parliamentary parlance--the verification of his credentials. it bears some resemblance to the plight of a husband during the twenty-four hours between the marriage at the mayor's office and its consecration by the church. rights one cannot use, a semi-happiness, semi-privileges, the annoyance of having to hold oneself in check in one direction or another, the lack of a definite standing. you are married without being married, a deputy without being sure of it; but, in the case of the deputy, that uncertainty is prolonged for days and weeks, and the longer it lasts the more problematical the result becomes; and it is downright torture for the unfortunate representative on trial to be obliged to go to the chamber, to occupy a seat which he may not keep, to listen to debates whose conclusion he is likely not to hear, to implant in his eyes and ears the delightful memory of parliamentary sessions, with their ocean of bald or apoplectic heads, the endless noise of crumpled paper, the shouts of the pages, the drumming of paper knives on the tables, and the hum of private conversations, above which the orator's voice soars in a timid or vociferous solo with a continuous accompaniment. that situation, disheartening enough at best, was made worse for the nabob by the calumnious stones, whispered at first, now printed and put in circulation by thousands of copies, which resulted in his being tacitly quarantined by his colleagues. at first he went about in the corridors, to the library, to the restaurant, to the salle des conférences, like the others, overjoyed to leave his footprints in every corner of that majestic labyrinth; but, being a stranger to the majority, cut by some members of the club on rue royale, who avoided him, detested by the whole clerical coterie, of which le merquier was the leader, and by the financial clique, naturally hostile to that billionaire, with his power to cause a rise or fall in stocks, like the vessels of large tonnage which divert the channel in a harbor, his isolation was simply emphasized by change of locality, and the same hostility accompanied him everywhere. his movements, his bearing were marked by a sort of constraint, of hesitating distrust. he felt that he was watched. if he entered the restaurant for a moment, that great light room looking on the gardens of the presidency, which he liked because there, at the broad white marble counter laden with food and drink, the deputies laid aside their imposing, high and mighty airs, the legislative haughtiness became more affable, recalled to naturalness by nature, he knew that a sneering, insulting item would appear in the _messager_ the next morning, holding him up to his constituents as "a wine-bibber _emeritus_." they were another source of vexation to him,--those terrible constituents. they came in flocks, invaded the salle des pas-perdus, galloped about in all directions like excited little black kids, calling from one end to the other of the echoing hall: "o pé! o tché!" inhaling with delight the odor of government, of administration that filled the air, making eyes at the ministers who passed, sniffing at their heels, as if some prebend were about to fall from their venerable pockets, from their swollen portfolios; but crowding around "moussiou" jansoulet especially, with so many urgent petitions, demands, demonstrations, that, in order to rid himself of that gesticulating mob at which everybody turned to look, and which made him seem like the delegate of a tribe of touaregs in the midst of a civilized people, he was obliged to glance imploringly at some usher who was skilled in the art of rescue under such circumstances and would come to him in a great hurry and say, "that he was wanted immediately in the eighth committee." so that the poor nabob, persecuted everywhere, driven from the corridors, the pas-perdus, the restaurant, had adopted the course of never leaving his bench, where he sat motionless and mute throughout the sitting. he had, however, one friend in the chamber,--a deputy newly elected for deux-sèvres, named m. sarigue, a poor fellow not unlike the inoffensive, ignoble animal whose name he bore,[ ] with his sparse, red hair, his frightened eyes, his hopping gait in his white gaiters. he was so shy that he could not say two words without stammering, almost tongue-tied, incessantly rolling balls of chewing-gum around in his mouth, which put the finishing touch to the viscosity of his speech; and every one wondered why such an impotent creature had cared to become a member of the assembly, what delirious female ambition had spurred on to public office a man so unfitted for the least important private function. footnotes: [ ] a _sarigue_ is an opossum. by an amusing manifestation of the irony of fate, jansoulet, who was intensely agitated by the uncertainty concerning his own confirmation, was chosen by the eighth committee to make the report on the deux-sèvres election, and m. sarigue, realizing his incapacity, full of a ghastly dread of being sent back in disgrace to his own fireside, prowled humbly and beseechingly around that tall, curly-haired worthy, whose broad shoulder-blades moved back and forth like the bellows of a forge under his fine tightly fitting frock-coat, little suspecting that a poor, worried creature like himself was hidden beneath that solid envelope. as he worked at the report of the election at deux-sèvres, going over the numerous protests, the charges of electoral trickery, banquets given, money squandered, casks of wine broached in front of the mayor's office, the usual manoeuvres of an election in those days, jansoulet shuddered on his own account. "why, i did all that!" he said to himself in dismay. ah! m. sarigue need have no fear, he could never have put his hand upon a more kindly-disposed judge or a more indulgent one, for the nabob, moved to pity for his patient, knowing by experience how painful the agony of suspense is, did his work with all possible haste, and the huge portfolio that he had under his arm when he left the hôtel de mora, contained his report, all ready to be read to the committee. whether it was the thought of that first essay as a public officer, or the duke's kind words, or the magnificent weather, which was keenly enjoyed by that southerner whose impressions were wholly physical, and who was accustomed to transact business in the warm sunlight and beneath the blue sky,--certain it is that the ushers of the corps législatif beheld that day a superb and haughty jansoulet whom they had not known before. old hemerlingue's carriage, recognizable by the unusual width of its doors, of which he caught a glimpse through the iron railing, was all that was needed to put him in full possession of his natural assurance and audacity. "the enemy is at hand. attention!" as he walked through the salle des pas-perdus, he saw the financier talking in a corner with le merquier, the judge of his election, passed close by them and stared at them with a triumphant air which made them wonder: "what in god's name has happened to him?" then, enchanted by his own _sang-froid_, he walked toward the committee-rooms, vast, high apartments, opening from both sides of a long corridor, furnished with huge tables covered with green cloths and heavy chairs of uniform pattern which bore the stamp of wearisome solemnity. he reached his destination. men were standing about in groups, discussing, gesticulating, exchanging salutations and grasps of the hand, throwing back their heads, like chinese shadows, against the bright background of the windows. there were some who walked alone, with backs bent, as if crushed by the weight of thoughts that furrowed their brows. others whispered in one another's ears, imparting excessively mysterious information of the utmost importance, putting a finger to their lips, screwing up their eyes to enjoin secrecy. a provincial flavor distinguished them all, with differences of inflection, southern excitability, the drawling accent of the centre, breton sing-song, all blended in the same idiotic, strutting self-sufficiency; frock-coats after the style of landerneau, mountain shoes, and home-spun linen; the monumental assurance of village clubs, local expressions, provincialisms abruptly imported into political and administrative language, the limp, colorless phraseology which invented "the burning questions returning to the surface," and "individualities without a commission." to see those worthies, excited or pensive as the case might be, you would have said that they were the greatest breeders of ideas on earth; unluckily, on the days when the chamber was in session they were transformed, they clung coyly to their benches, as frightened as school-boys under the master's ferule, laughing obsequiously at the jests of the man of wit who presided over them, or taking the floor to put forward the most amazing propositions, or for interruptions of the sort that make one think that it was not a type simply, but a whole race that henri monnier stigmatized in his immortal sketch. two or three orators in the whole chamber, the rest well skilled in the art of planting themselves before the fire in a provincial salon, after an excellent repast at the prefect's table, and saying in a nasal tone: "the administration, messieurs," or "the emperor's government,"--but incapable of going farther. on ordinary occasions the good-natured nabob allowed himself to be dazzled by those attitudes, that clattering noise as of an empty spinning-wheel; but to-day he found himself on a level with the others. as he sat at the centre of the green table, his portfolio before him, his two elbows firmly planted upon it, reading the report drawn by de géry, the members of the committee stared at him in mute amazement. it was a clear, concise, rapid summary of their labors of the past fortnight, in which they found their ideas so well expressed that they had great difficulty in recognizing them. then, when two or three among them suggested that the report was too favorable, that he glided too lightly over certain protests that had reached the committee, the maker of the report spoke with surprising assurance, with the prolixity and exuberance of men of his province, proved that a deputy should not be held responsible beyond a certain point for the imprudence of his electoral agents, that otherwise no election would stand against an investigation that was at all minute; and as, in reality, he was pleading his own cause, he displayed an irresistible warmth and conviction, taking care to let fly from time to time one of the long meaningless substantives with a thousand claws, of the sort that the committee liked. the others listened, deep in thought, exchanging their impressions by nods of the head, drawing flourishes and faces on their blotting-pads the better to fix their attention; a detail that harmonized with the schoolboy-like noise in the corridors, a muttering as of lessons being recited, and the flocks of sparrows chirping under the windows in a flagged courtyard surrounded by arches, a veritable school-yard. the report adopted, they sent for m. sarigue to make some supplementary explanations. he appeared, pale-faced, abashed, stammering like a criminal before conviction, and you would have laughed to see the patronizing, authoritative air with which jansoulet encouraged and reassured him: "be calm, my dear colleague." but the members of the eighth committee did not laugh. they were all, or almost all, of the sarigue species, two or three being absolutely nerveless, afflicted with partial loss of the power of speech. such self-assurance, such eloquence had aroused their enthusiasm. when jansoulet left the corps législatif, escorted to his carriage by his grateful colleague, it was about six o'clock. the superb weather, a gorgeous sunset over by the trocadéro, across the seine, which shone like burnished gold, tempted that robust plebeian, whom the conventional proprieties of his position compelled to ride in a carriage and to wear gloves, but who dispensed with them as often as possible, to return on foot. he sent away his servants, and started across pont de la concorde, his leather satchel under his arm. he had known no such feeling of contentment since the first of may. throwing back his shoulders, with his hat tipped slightly back in the attitude he had noticed in men who were worried, overdone with business, allowing all the toil-born fever of their brain to evaporate in the fresh air, as a factory discharges its vapor into the gutter at the close of a day of labor, he walked on among other figures like his own, evidently just from the pillared temple that faces the madeleine beyond the monumental fountains of the square. as they passed, people turned and said: "they are deputies." and jansoulet felt a childlike joy, a vulgar joy compounded of ignorance and ingenuous vanity. "buy the _messager_ evening edition." the words came from the newspaper booth at the end of the bridge, filled at that hour with piles of freshly printed sheets which two women were hastily folding and which smelt of the damp press, of the latest news, the triumph of the day or its scandal. almost all the deputies purchased a copy as they passed, and ran through it rapidly, hoping to find their names. jansoulet, for his part, dreaded to see his and did not stop. but suddenly he thought: "ought not a public man to be above such weaknesses as this? i am strong enough to read anything now." he retraced his steps and took a paper like his colleagues. he opened it very calmly at the place usually occupied by moëssard's articles. there was one there. still the same title: _chinoiseries_, and an m. for signature. "aha!" said the public man, as unmoved and cold as marble, with a fine, scornful smile. mora's lesson was still ringing in his ears, and even if he had forgotten it, the air from _norma_ in jerky, ironical little notes not far away would have sufficed to remind him of it. but, however carefully we may make our calculations in the rush of events in our lives, we must still reckon with the unforeseen; and that is why the nabob suddenly found himself blinded by a rush of blood to his eyes, while a cry of rage was stifled by the sudden contraction of his throat. his mother, his old françoise, was dragged into the infamous jest of the "flower boat" at last. how well that moëssard aimed, how well he knew the really sensitive spots in that heart, so innocently laid bare! "be calm, jansoulet, be calm." in vain did he repeat the injunction in every tone,--anger, furious anger, the drunkenness of blood demanding blood enveloped him. his first impulse was to stop a cab and hurl himself into it, in order to escape the irritating street, to rid his body of the necessity of walking and choosing a path--to stop a cab as for a wounded man. but at that hour of general home-coming the square was crowded with hundreds of victorias, calèches, coupés, descending from the resplendent glory of the arc-de-triomphe toward the purple freshness of the tuileries, crowding closely upon one another down the inclined surface of the avenue to the great cross-roads where the motionless statues, standing firmly on their pedestals with their wreath-encircled brows, watched them diverge toward faubourg saint-germain, rue royale and rue de rivoli. jansoulet, newspaper in hand, made his way through the uproar, without thinking of it, bending his steps instinctively toward the club, where he went every day to play cards from six to seven. he was a public man still; but intensely excited, talking aloud, stammering oaths and threats in a voice that suddenly became soft once more as he thought of the dear old woman.--to think of rolling her in the mire too! oh! if she should read it, if she could understand! what punishment could he invent for such an infamous outrage? he reached rue royale, where equipages of all sorts returning from the bois bowled swiftly homeward, with whirling axles, visions of veiled women and children's curly heads, bringing a little vegetable mould to the pavements of paris and whiffs of spring mingled with the perfume of rice-powder. in front of the ministry of marine, a phaeton perched very high upon slender wheels, bearing a strong resemblance to a huge field-spider, the little groom clinging behind and the two persons on the box-seat forming its body, came very near colliding with the sidewalk as it turned. the nabob raised his head, and restrained an exclamation. beside a painted hussy with red hair, wearing a tiny little hat with broad ribbons, who, from her perch on her leather cushion, was driving the horse with her hands, her eyes, her whole made-up person, stiffly erect, yet leaning forward, sat moëssard, moëssard the dandy, pink-cheeked and painted like his companion, raised on the same dung-heap, fattened on the same vices. the strumpet and the journalist, and she was not the one of the two who sold herself most shamelessly! towering above the women lolling in their calèches, the men who sat opposite them buried under flounces, all the attitudes of fatigue and ennui which they whose appetites are sated display in public as if in scorn of pleasure and wealth, they insolently exhibited themselves, she very proud to drive the queen's lover, and he without the slightest shame beside that creature who flicked her whip at men in passage-ways, safe on her lofty perch from the salutary drag-nets of the police. perhaps he found it necessary to quicken his royal mistress's pulses by thus parading under her windows with suzanne bloch, _alias_ suze la rousse. "hi! hi there!" the horse, a tall trotter with slender legs, a genuine cocotte's horse, was returning from his digression, toward the middle of the street, with dancing steps, prancing gracefully up and down without going forward. jansoulet dropped his satchel, and as if he had cast aside at the same time all his gravity, his prestige as a public man, he gave a mighty leap and grasped the animal's bit, holding him fast with his strong hairy hands. an arrest on rue royale and in broad daylight; no one but that tartar would have dared do such a thing! "get down," he said to moëssard, whose face turned green and yellow in spots when he recognized him. "get down at once." "will you let go my horse, you fat beast!--lash him, suzanne, it's the nabob." she tried to gather up the reins, but the animal, held in a powerful grasp, reared so suddenly that in another second the fragile vehicle would have shot out all that it contained, like a sling. thereupon, carried away by one of the furious fits of rage peculiar to the faubourg, which in such girls as she scale off the varnish of their luxury and their false skin, she struck the nabob two blows with her whip, which glided off the hard, tanned face, but gave it a ferocious expression, accentuated by the short nose, slit at the end like a hunting terrier's, which had turned white. "get down, or, by god, i will overturn the whole thing!" in a confused mass of carriages, standing still because movement was impossible or slowly skirting the obstacle, with thousands of curious eyes, amid the shouts of drivers and clashing of bits, two iron wrists shook the whole phaeton. "jump down--jump, i say--don't you see he's going to tip us over? what a grip!" and the girl gazed at the hercules with interest. moëssard had hardly put his foot to the ground, when, before he could take refuge on the sidewalk, where black _képis_ were hastening to the scene, jansoulet threw himself upon him, lifted him by the nape of the neck like a rabbit, and exclaimed, heedless of his protestations, his terrified, stammering entreaties: "yes, yes, i'll give you satisfaction, you miserable scoundrel. but first i propose to do to you what we do to dirty beasts so that they sha'n't come back again." and he began to rub him, to scrub his face mercilessly with his newspaper, which he held like a _tampon_ and with which he choked and blinded him and made great raw spots where the paint bled. they dragged him from his hands, purple and breathless. if he had worked himself up a little more, he would have killed him. the scuffle at an end, the nabob pulled down his sleeves, which had risen to his elbows, smoothed his rumpled linen, picked up his satchel from which the papers relating to the sarigue election had scattered as far as the gutter, and replied to the police officers, who asked him his name in order to prepare their report: "bernard jansoulet, deputy for corsica." a public man! not until then did he remember that he was one. who would have suspected it, to see him thus, out of breath and bareheaded, like a porter after a street fight, under the inquisitive, coldly contemptuous glances of the slowly dispersing crowd? xvii. the apparition. if you wish for sincere, straightforward passion, if you wish for effusive demonstrations of affection, laughter, the laughter of great happiness, which differs from tears only in a very slight movement of the mouth, if you wish for the fascinating folly of youth illumined by bright eyes, so transparent that you can look to the very bottom of the soul, there are all of those to be seen this sunday morning in a house that you know, a new house on the outskirts of the old faubourg. the show-case on the ground-floor is more brilliant than usual. the signs over the door dance about more airily than ever, and through the open windows issue joyous cries, a soaring heavenward of happiness. "accepted, it's accepted! oh! what luck! henriette, Élise, come, come! m. maranne's play is accepted." andré has known the news since yesterday. cardailhac, the manager of the nouveautés, sent for him to inform him that his play would be put in rehearsal at once and produced next month. they passed the evening discussing the stage setting, the distribution of parts; and, as it was too late to knock at his neighbors' door when he returned from the theatre, he waited for morning with feverish impatience, and as soon as he heard signs of life below, the blinds thrown back against the house-front, he hurried down to tell his friends the good news. and now they are all together, the young ladies in modest _déshabillé_, their hair hastily braided, and m. joyeuse, whom the announcement had surprised in the act of shaving, presenting an astonishing bipartite face beneath his embroidered night-cap, with one side shaved, the other not. but the most excited of all is andré maranne, for you know what the acceptance of _révolte_ meant to him, what agreement grandmamma had made with him. the poor fellow looks at her as if seeking encouragement in her eyes; and those eyes, kindly as always, and with a slight suggestion of raillery, seem to say to him: "try, at all events. what do you risk?" he also glances, in order to give himself courage, at mademoiselle Élise, pretty as a flower, her long lashes lowered. at last, making a bold effort, he says, in a choking voice: "monsieur joyeuse, i have a very serious communication to make to you." m. joyeuse is surprised. "a communication? _mon dieu!_ you terrify me." and he too lowers his voice as he adds: "are these young ladies in the way?" no. grandmamma knows what is going on. mademoiselle Élise, too, must have a suspicion. that leaves only the children. mademoiselle henriette and her sister are requested to retire, which they do at once, the former with a majestic, annoyed air, like a worthy descendant of the saint-amands, the other, the little monkey yaia, with a wild desire to laugh, dissembled with difficulty. profound silence ensues. then the lover begins his little story. i should say that mademoiselle Élise does in very truth suspect something, for as soon as their young neighbor spoke of a "communication," she had taken her _ansart et rendu_ from her pocket and plunged madly into the adventures of a certain le hutin, an exciting passage which made the book tremble in her fingers. surely there is cause for trembling in the dismay, the indignant amazement with which m. joyeuse welcomes this request for his daughter's hand. "is it possible? how did this come about? what an extraordinary thing! whoever would have suspected anything of the sort!" and suddenly the good man bursts into a roar of laughter. well, no, that is not true. he has known what was going on for a long while; some one told him the whole story. father knows the whole story! then grandmamma must have betrayed them. and the culprit comes forward smiling to meet the reproachful glances that are turned in her direction. "yes, my dears, i did. the secret was too heavy. i could not keep it all by myself. and then father is so dear, one cannot conceal anything from him." as she says this, she leaps on the little man's neck, but it is large enough for two, and when mademoiselle Élise takes refuge there in her turn, there is an affectionate, fatherly hand extended to him whom m. joyeuse looks upon thenceforth as his son. silent embraces, long searching glances, melting or passionate, blissful moments which one would like to detain forever by the tips of their fragile wings! they talk, they laugh softly as they recall certain incidents. m. joyeuse tells how the secret was revealed to him at first by rapping spirits, one day when he was alone in andré's room. "how is business, monsieur maranne?" the spirits inquired, and he answered in maranne's absence: "not so bad for the season, messieurs spirits." you should see the mischievous air with which the little man repeats: "not so bad for the season," while mademoiselle Élise, sadly confused at the thought that it was her father with whom she was corresponding that day, disappears beneath her flaxen curls. after the first excitement has passed and their voices are steady once more, they talk more seriously. it is certain that madame joyeuse, _née_ de saint-amand, would never have consented to the marriage. andré maranne is not rich, far less of noble blood; but luckily the old book-keeper has not the same ideas of grandeur that his wife had. they love each other, they are young, healthy and virtuous, qualities which constitute a handsome dowry and one which the notary will not make a heavy charge for recording. the new household will take up its abode on the floor above. they will continue the photographing business unless the receipts from _révolte_ are enormous. (the _imaginaire_ can be trusted to attend to that.) in any event, the father will be always at hand, he has a good place with his broker and some expert work at the palais de justice; if the small vessel sails always in the wake of the larger one, all will go well, with the help of the waves, the wind and the stars. a single question disturbs m. joyeuse: "will andré's parents consent to this marriage? how can dr. jenkins, rich and famous as he is--" "let us not speak of that man," exclaims andré, turning pale; "he's a miserable villain to whom i owe nothing, who is nothing to me." he pauses, a little embarrassed by this explosion of wrath, which he could not hold back and cannot explain, and continues in a milder tone: "my mother, who comes to see me sometimes, although she has been forbidden to do so, was the first to be informed of our plans. she already loves mademoiselle Élise like her own daughter. you will see, mademoiselle, how good she is, and how lovely and charming. what a misfortune that she belongs to such a vile man, who tyrannizes over her and tortures her so far as to forbid her mentioning her son's name!" poor maranne heaves a sigh which tells the whole story of the great sorrow he conceals in the depths of his heart. but what melancholy can endure before the dear face illumined by fair curls and the radiant outlook for the future? the serious questions decided, they can open the door and recall the banished children. in order not to fill those little heads with thoughts beyond their years, they have agreed to say nothing of the prodigious event, to tell them nothing except that they must dress in haste and eat their breakfast even more hurriedly, so that they can pass the afternoon at the bois, where maranne will read his play to them, awaiting the hour to go to suresnes for a fish-dinner at kontzen's; a long programme of delights in honor of the acceptance of _révolte_ and of another piece of good news which they shall know later. "ah! indeed. what can it be?" query the two children with an innocent air. but if you fancy that they do not know what is in the wind, if you think that, when mademoiselle Élise struck three blows on the ceiling, they believed that she did it for the special purpose of inquiring about the photographing business, you are even more ingenuous than père joyeuse. "never mind, never mind, mesdemoiselles. go and dress." thereupon another refrain begins: "what dress must i wear, grandmamma? the gray?" "grandmamma, there's a ribbon gone from my hat." "grandmamma, my child, i haven't any starched cravat." for ten minutes there is a constant going and coming around the charming grandmamma, constant appeals to her. every one needs her, she keeps the keys to everything, distributes the pretty, finely fluted white linen, the embroidered handkerchiefs, the best gloves, all the treasures which, when produced from bandboxes and cupboards and laid out upon the beds, spread throughout a house the sunshiny cheerfulness of sunday. the laboring men, the people who work with their hands, alone know the joy that comes with the end of each week, consecrated by the custom of a nation. for those people, prisoners throughout the week, the crowded lines of the almanac open at equal intervals in luminous spaces, in refreshing whiffs of air. sunday, the day that seems so long to worldly people, to the parisians of the boulevard, whose fixed habits it deranges, and so melancholy to exiles without a family, is the day which constitutes to a multitude of people the only recompense, the only goal of six days of toil. neither rain nor hail makes any difference to them; nothing will prevent them from going out, from closing the door of the deserted workshop or the stuffy little lodging behind them. but when the springtime takes a hand, when a may sun is shining as it is shining this morning and sunday can array itself in joyous colors, then indeed it is the holiday of holidays. if you would appreciate it to the full, you must see it in the laboring quarters, in those dismal streets which it illumines, which it makes broader by closing the shops, housing the great vans, leaving the space free for the romping of children with clean faces and in their best clothes, and games of battledore mingled with circling flocks of swallows under some porch in old paris. you must see it in the swarming, fever-stricken faubourgs where from early morning you feel it hovering, soothing and grateful, over the silent factories, passing with the clang of bells and the shrill whistle of the locomotives, which give the impression of a mighty hymn of departure and deliverance arising from all the suburbs. then you appreciate it and love it. o thou parisian sunday, sunday of the working man and the humble, i have often cursed thee without reason, i have poured out floods of abusive ink upon thy noisy, effervescent joy, the dusty railway stations filled with thy uproar, and the lumbering omnibuses which thou takest by assault, upon thy wine-shop ballads roared forth in spring-carts bedecked with green and pink dresses, thy barrel-organs wheezing under balconies in deserted court-yards; but to-day, renouncing my errors, i exalt thee and bless thee for all the joy and relief thou bringest to courageous, honorable toil, for the laughter of the children who acclaim thee, for the pride of happy mothers dressing their little ones in thy honor, for the dignity which thou dost keep alive in the dwellings of the lowliest, for the gorgeous apparel put aside for thee in the depths of the old crippled wardrobe; above all i bless thee for all the happiness which thou didst bring in full measure that morning to the great new house on the outskirts of the old faubourg. the toilets completed, the breakfast hastily swallowed,[ ] they are putting on their hats in front of the mirror in the salon. grandmamma is casting her eye around for the last time, sticking in a pin here, retying a ribbon there, adjusting the paternal cravat; but, while all the little party are pawing the floor impatiently, beckoned out of doors by the beauty of the day, suddenly their gayety is clouded by a ring at the door-bell. footnotes: [ ] there is in the text at this point a play upon words which it is impossible to render in english. "les toilettes terminées, le déjeuner fini, pris sur le pouce--et sur le pouce de ces demoiselles vous pensez ce qu'il peut tenir," etc., that is to say: "the breakfast at an end, taken upon the thumb--and you can imagine how much the thumbs of those young ladies would hold." to eat _sur le pouce_ (eat upon the thumb) means to eat hastily, without taking time to sit down. "suppose we don't go to the door?" the children suggest. and what relief, what a shout of joy when friend paul appears! "come quick, quick; let us tell you the good news!" he knew before anybody else that the play was accepted. he had had difficulty enough in making cardailhac read it, for at the first sight of the "little lines," as he called the verses, he wanted to send the manuscript to the levantine and her _masseur_, as he did with all the rubbish that was sent to him. but paul was careful not to speak of his intervention. as for the other great event, which was not mentioned because of the children, he guessed it without difficulty from the tremulous happiness of maranne, whose fair hair stood straight on end over his forehead,--because the poet constantly thrust both hands through it, as he always did in his moments of joy,--from the slightly embarrassed demeanor of Élise, and from the triumphant airs of m. joyeuse, who stood proudly erect in his spotless linen, with all the happiness of his dear ones written on his face. grandmamma alone preserved her usual tranquil bearing; but one detected in her, in the zeal with which she waited upon her sister, a more affectionate warmth than usual, a wish to make her attractive. and it was delightful to see that girl of twenty intent upon beautifying another, without envy or regret, with something of the sweet renunciation of a mother celebrating her daughter's young love in memory of her own bygone happiness. paul saw it, indeed he was the only one who saw it; but, while he gazed in admiration at aline, he asked himself sadly if there would ever be room in that motherly heart for other than family attachments, for interests outside of the tranquil circle of light in which grandmamma presided so prettily over the work-table in the evening. love, as we know, is a poor blind boy, bereft of speech and hearing as well, and with no other guide than prescience, divination, the nervous faculties of the invalid. really, it is pitiful to see him wander about, feeling his way, faltering at every step, tapping with his fingers the projections upon which he depends for guidance, with the distrustful awkwardness of an infirm old man. at the very moment when he was mentally casting a doubt upon aline's susceptibility, paul, having informed his friends that he was about to leave paris for a journey of several days, of several weeks perhaps, did not notice the girl's sudden pallor, did not hear the sorrowful exclamation from her discreet lips: "you are going away?" he was going away, he was going to tunis, very uneasy at the idea of leaving his poor nabob in the midst of his bloodthirsty pack of pursuers; however, mora's friendship reassured him somewhat, and, moreover, the journey was absolutely necessary. "and what about the _territoriale_?" asked the old book-keeper, always recurring to his fixed idea. "how does that stand? i see that jansoulet's name is still at the head of the administrative council. can't you get him out of that ali baba's cave? beware, beware!" "ah! i know it, monsieur joyeuse. but in order to get out of it with honor, we must have money, much money, must sacrifice two or three millions more; and we haven't them. that is why i am going to tunis, to try and extort from the bey's rapacity a small portion of the great fortune which he so unjustly withholds. at this moment i have some chance of success, whereas a little later perhaps--" "go at once then, my dear boy, and if you return with a bag full of money as i trust you will, attend first of all to the paganetti gang. remember that one shareholder less patient than the rest will be enough to blow the whole thing into the air, to demand an inquiry; and you know as well as i what an inquiry would disclose. on reflection," added m. joyeuse, wrinkling his brow, "i am surprised that hemerlingue in his hatred of you has not secretly procured a few shares--" he was interrupted by the concert of maledictions, of imprecations which the name of hemerlingue always called forth from all those young people, who hated the corpulent banker for the injury he had done their father and for the injury he wished to do the worthy nabob, who was adored in that household for paul de géry's sake. "hemerlingue, the heartless creature! villain! wicked man!" but, amid that chorus of outcries, the _imaginaire_ worked out his theory of the stout baron becoming a shareholder in the _territoriale_ in order to drag his enemy before the courts. and we can imagine andré maranne's stupefaction, knowing absolutely nothing of the affair, when he saw m. joyeuse turn toward him, his face purple and swollen with rage, and point his finger at him with these terrible words: "the greatest rascal here is yourself, monsieur!" "o papa, papa! what are you saying?" "eh? what's that?--oh! i beg your pardon, my dear andré. i imagined that i was in the examining magistrate's office, confronting that villain. it's my infernal brain that is forever rushing off to the devil." a roar of laughter rang out through all the open windows, mingling with the rumbling of innumerable carriages and the chatter of gayly-dressed crowds on avenue des ternes; and the author of _révolte_ took advantage of the diversion to inquire if they did not propose to start soon. it was late--the good places in the bois would all be taken. "the bois de boulogne, on sunday!" exclaimed paul de géry. "oh! our bois is not the same as yours," replied aline with a smile. "come with us, and you will see." * * * * * has it ever happened to you, when you were walking alone and in contemplative mood, to lie flat on your face in the grassy underbrush of a forest, amid the peculiar vegetation, of many and varying species, that grows between the fallen autumn leaves, and to let your eyes stray along the level of the earth before you? gradually the idea of height vanishes, the interlaced branches of the oaks above your head form an inaccessible sky, and you see a new forest stretching out beneath the other, opening its long avenues pierced by a mysterious green light and lined by slender or tufted shrubs ending in round tops of exotic or wild aspect, stalks of sugar-cane, the graceful rigidity of palms, slender cups holding a drop of water, girandoles bearing little yellow lights which flicker in the passing breeze. and the miraculous feature of it all is that beneath those slender stalks live miniature plants and myriads of insects whose existence, seen at such close quarters, reveals all its mysteries to you. an ant, staggering like a woodcutter under his burden, drags a piece of bark larger than himself; a beetle crawls along a blade of grass stretched like a bridge from trunk to trunk; while, beneath a tall fern standing by itself in a clearing carpeted with velvety moss, some little blue or red creature waits, its antennæ on the alert, until some other beast, on its way thither by some deserted path, arrives at the rendezvous under the gigantic tree. it is a small forest beneath the large one, too near the ground for the latter to perceive it, too humble, too securely hidden to be reached by its grand orchestra of songs and tempests. a similar phenomenon takes place in the bois de boulogne. behind those neat, well-watered gravelled paths, where long lines of wheels moving slowly around the lake draw a furrow by constant wear throughout the day, with the precision of a machine, behind that wonderful stage-setting of verdure-covered walls, of captive streams, of flower-girt rocks, the real forest, the wild forest, with its luxuriant underbrush, advances and recedes, forming impenetrable shadows traversed by narrow paths and rippling brooks. that is the forest of the lowly, the forest of the humble, the little forest under the great. and paul, who knew nothing of the aristocratic resort save the long avenues, the gleaming lake as seen from the back seat of a carriage or from the top of a break in the dust of a return from longchamps, was amazed to see the deliciously secluded nook to which his friends escorted him. it was on the edge of a pond that lay mirrorlike beneath the willows, covered with lilies and lentils, with great patches of white here and there, where the sun's rays fell upon the gleaming surface, and streaked with great tendrils of _argyronètes_ as with lines drawn by diamond points. they had seated themselves, to listen to the reading of the play, on the sloping bank, covered with verdure already dense, although made up of slender plants, and the pretty attentive faces, the skirts spread out upon the grass made one think of a more innocent and chaste decameron in a reposeful atmosphere. to complete the picture of nature at its loveliest, the distant rustic landscape, two windmills could be seen through an opening between the branches, turning in the direction of suresnes, while, of the dazzling gorgeous vision to be seen at every cross-road in the bois, naught reached them save a confused endless rumbling, to which they finally became so accustomed that they did not hear it at all. the poet's voice alone, fresh and eloquent, rose in the silence, the lines came quivering forth, repeated in undertones by other deeply-moved lips, and there were murmured words of approval, and thrills of emotion at the tragic passages. grandmamma, indeed, was seen to wipe away a great tear. but that was because she had no embroidery in her hand. the first work! that is what _révolte_ was to andré--the first work, always too copious and diffuse, into which the author tosses first of all a whole lifetime of ideas and opinions, pressing for utterance like water against the edge of a dam, and which is often the richest, if not the best, of an author's productions. as for the fate that awaited it, no one could say what it might be; and the uncertainty that hovered about the reading of the drama added to his emotion the emotion of each of his auditors, the white-robed hopes of mademoiselle Élise, m. joyeuse's fanciful hallucinations and the more positive desires of aline, who was already in anticipation installing her sister in the nest, rocked by the winds but envied by the multitude, of an artist's household! ah! if one of those pleasure-seekers circling the lake for the hundredth time, overwhelmed by the monotony of his habit, had chanced to put aside the branches, how surprised he would have been at that picture! but would he have suspected all the passion and dreams and poetry and hope that were contained in that little nook of verdure hardly larger than the denticulated shadow of a fern on the moss? "you were right, i did not know the bois," said paul in an undertone to aline, as she leaned on his arm. they were following a narrow sheltered path, and as they talked they walked very rapidly, far in advance of the others. but it was not père kontzen's terrace nor his crisp fritters that attracted them. no, the noble verses they had heard had carried them to a great height, and they had not yet descended. they walked straight on toward the ever-receding end of the path, which broadened at its extremity into a luminous glory, a dust of sunbeams, as if all the sunshine of that lovely day awaited them at the edge of the woods. paul had never felt so happy. the light arm resting on his, the childlike step by which his own was guided, would have made life as sweet and pleasant to him as that walk upon the mossy carpet of a green path. he would have told the young girl as much, in words as simple as his feelings, had he not feared to alarm aline's confidence, caused doubtless by the feeling which she knew that he entertained for another, and which seemed to forbid any thought of love between them. suddenly, directly in front of them, a group of equestrians stood out against the bright background, at first vague and indistinct, then taking shape as a man and woman beautifully mounted and turning into the mysterious path among the shafts of gold, the leafy shadows, the myriad specks of light with which the ground was dotted, which they displaced as they cantered forward, and which ran in fanciful designs from the horses' breasts to the amazon's veil. they rode slowly, capriciously, and the two young people, who had stepped into the bushes, could see perfectly as they passed quite near to them, with a creaking of new leather, a jangling of bits tossed proudly and white with foam as after a wild gallop, two superb horses bearing a human couple compelled to ride close together by the narrowing of the path; he supporting with one arm the flexible form moulded into a waist of dark cloth, she, with her hand on her companion's shoulder and her little head, in profile--hidden beneath the tulle of her half-fallen veil--resting tenderly thereon. that amorous entwining, cradled by the impatience of the steeds, restive under the restraint imposed upon their fiery spirits, that kiss, causing the reins to become entangled, that passion riding through the woods in hunting costume, in broad daylight, with such contempt of public opinion, would have sufficed to betray the duke and felicia, even though the haughty and fascinating appearance of the amazon, and the high-bred ease of her companion, his pallid cheeks slightly flushed by the exercise and jenkins' miraculous pearls, had not already led to their recognition. it was not an extraordinary thing to meet mora in the bois on sunday. he, like his master, loved to show himself to the parisians, to keep his popularity alive in all public places; and then the duchess never accompanied him on that day, and he could draw rein without restraint at the little châlet of saint-james, known to all paris, whose pink turrets peering out among the trees school-boys pointed out to one another with whispered comments. but only a madwoman, a shameless creature like that felicia, would advertise herself thus, destroy her reputation forever. the sound of hoofs and of rustling bushes dying away in the distance, bent weeds standing erect, branches thrust aside resuming their places--that was all that remained of the apparition. "did you see?" paul was the first to ask. she had seen and she had understood, despite her virtuous innocence, for a blush overspread her features, caused by the shame we feel for the sins of those we love. "poor felicia!" she whispered, pitying not only the poor abandoned creature who had passed before them, but him as well whom that fall from grace was certain to strike full in the heart. the truth is that paul de géry was in no wise surprised by that meeting, which confirmed some previous suspicions and the instinctive repulsion he had felt for the seductive creature at their dinner-party some days before. but it seemed sweet to him to be pitied by aline, to feel her sympathy in the increased tenderness of her voice, in the arm that leaned more heavily upon his. like children who play at being ill for the joy of being petted by their mothers, he allowed the comforter to do her utmost to soothe his disappointment, to talk to him of his brothers, of the nabob, and of the impending journey to tunis, a beautiful country, so it was said. "you must write to us often, and write long letters about the interesting things you see and about the place you live in. for we can see those who are far away from us better when we can form an idea of their surroundings."--chatting thus, they reached the end of the shady path, at a vast clearing where the tumult of the bois was in full blast, carriages and equestrians alternating, and the crowd tramping in a fleecy dust which gave it, at that distance, the appearance of a disorderly flock of sheep. paul slackened his pace, emboldened by that last moment of solitude. "do you know what i am thinking?" he said, taking aline's hand; "that any one would enjoy being unhappy for the sake of being comforted by you. but, precious as your sympathy is to me, i cannot allow you to expend your emotion upon an imaginary grief. no, my heart is not broken, but, on the contrary, more alive, more vigorous than before. and if i should tell you what miracle has preserved it, what talisman--" he placed before her eyes a little oval frame surrounding a profile without shading, a simple pencil sketch in which she recognized herself, surprised to find that she was so pretty, as if reflected in the magic mirror of love. tears came to her eyes, although she knew not why,--an open spring whose pulsing flood caused her chaste heart to beat fast. "this portrait belongs to me. it was made for me. but now, as i am on the point of going away, i am assailed by a scruple. i prefer not to keep it except from your own hands. so take it, and if you find a worthier friend, one who loves you with a deeper, truer love than mine, i authorize you to give it to him." she had recovered from her confusion, and replied, looking de géry in the face with affectionate gravity: "if i listened to nothing but my heart, i should not hesitate to answer you; for, if you love me as you say you do, i am sure that i love you no less. but i am not free, i am not alone in life,--look!" she pointed to her father and sisters who were motioning to them in the distance and hurrying to overtake them. "even so! and i?" said paul eagerly. "have i not the same duties, the same burdens? we are like two widowed heads of families. will you not love mine as dearly as i love yours?" "do you mean it? is it true? you will let me stay with them? i shall be aline to you and still be grandmamma to all our children? oh! then," said the dear creature, beaming with joy and radiance, "then here is my picture, i give it to you. and, with it, all my heart, and forever." xviii. the jenkins pearls. about a week after his adventure with moëssard,--a new complication in his sadly muddled affairs,--jansoulet, on leaving the chamber one thursday, ordered his coachman to drive him to the hôtel de mora. he had not been there since the fracas on rue royale, and the idea of appearing before the duke caused something of the same panicky sensation beneath his tough epidermis that a schoolboy feels on being summoned before the master after a scuffle in the class-room. however, it was necessary to submit to the embarrassment of that first interview. it was currently reported in the committee rooms that le merquier had completed his report, a masterpiece of logic and ferocity, recommending that jansoulet be unseated, and that he was certain to carry his point off-hand unless mora, whose power in the assembly was so great, should himself issue contrary orders. a serious crisis, as will be seen, and one that caused his cheeks to burn with fever as he studied the expression of his features and his courtier-like smiles in the bevelled mirrors of his coupé, striving to prepare an adroit entry into the presence,--one of his masterstrokes of amiable impudence which had served him so well with ahmed and thus far with the french statesman,--the whole accompanied by a rapid beating of the heart and the shivering sensation between the shoulders which precedes decisive steps, even when taken in a carriage with gilded panels. when he reached the mansion on the river bank, he was greatly surprised to see that the footman on the quay, as on the days of great receptions, ordered the carriages to turn into rue de lille in order to leave one gateway free for exit. he said to himself, a little disturbed in mind: "what is going on?" perhaps a concert given by the duchess, a charity bazaar, or some festivity from which mora had left him out because of the scandal caused by his last adventure. and his anxiety augmented when, after crossing the court of honor amid the tumult of slamming carriage-doors and a constant, dull rumbling on the gravel, he had ascended the steps and found himself in the vast reception-room filled to overflowing with a great throng who were allowed to pass none of the inner doors, but whose anxious steps centred about the table of the servant in attendance, where all the famous names of aristocratic paris were being inscribed. it seemed as if a sudden blast of disaster had passed through the house, swept away something of its superb tranquillity and allowed unrest and danger to creep into its well-being. "what a misfortune!" "ah! yes, it is terrible." "and so sudden!" the people around him exchanged such phrases as they met. a thought passed swiftly through jansoulet's mind. "is the duke ill?" he asked a servant. "ah! monsieur. he is dying. he cannot live through the night." if the roof of the palace had fallen in upon his head, it would not have crushed him more completely. he saw red butterflies whirling around before his eyes, then staggered and fell upon the velvet-covered bench beside the great cage of monkeys, who, over-excited by all the turmoil, clung in a bunch to the bars, hanging by their tails or by their little long-thumbed hands, and in their frightened inquisitiveness assailed with the most extravagant grimaces of their race the stout bewildered man, who sat staring at the floor and repeating to himself aloud: "i am lost! i am lost!" the duke was dying. he had been taken suddenly ill on sunday while returning from the bois. he had felt an intolerable burning sensation which seemed to outline, as with a red-hot iron, the whole internal structure of his body, alternating with chills and numbness and long periods of drowsiness. jenkins, being summoned at once, prescribed some sedative remedies. the next day the pains returned, more intense than before, and followed by the same icy torpor, also intensified, as if life were leaving him by fierce leaps and bounds, uprooted. no one in the household was at all disturbed. "the day after saint-james," callers whispered to one another in the reception-room, and jenkins' handsome face retained its serenity. he mentioned the duke's indisposition to but two or three persons in his morning round of visits, and so lightly that no one thought anything of it. mora himself, despite his extreme weakness, and although he felt as if his head were absolutely empty, "not an idea behind his forehead," as he expressed it, was very far from suspecting the gravity of his condition. not until the third day, when, upon waking in the morning, he saw a slender thread of blood that had flowed from his mouth over his beard and reddened his pillow, did that refined dandy shudder, that fastidious creature who held in horror all forms of human misery, especially disease, and who saw it creeping upon him stealthily with its defilement, its weaknesses and with the self-abandonment which is the first concession to death. monpavon, entering the room in jenkins' wake, caught the suddenly perturbed expression of the great nobleman brought face to face with the terrible truth, and was at the same time horrified by the ravages made in a few hours on mora's emaciated face, where all the wrinkles belonging to his age, appearing suddenly, mingled with the wrinkles caused by suffering, with the depression of muscles which indicates serious internal lesions. he took jenkins aside while the fine gentleman's servants were supplying him with what he required to make his toilet in bed, a whole outfit of silver and crystal in striking contrast with the yellow pallor of the invalid. "look you, jenkins--the duke is very ill." "i am afraid so," said the irishman, in an undertone. "what's the matter with him?" "what he apparently wanted, _parbleu_!" exclaimed the other, in a sort of frenzy. "a man can't be young with impunity at his age. this passion of his will cost him dear." some evil thought triumphed in him for the moment, but he instantly imposed silence upon it, and, completely transformed, puffing out his cheeks as if his head were filled with water, he sighed profoundly as he pressed the old nobleman's hands: "poor duke! poor duke! ah! my friend, i am in despair." "have a care, jenkins," said monpavon coldly, withdrawing his hands. "you are assuming a terrible responsibility. what! the duke is as ill as you say, ps--ps--ps. see no one? no consultation?" the irishman threw up his arms as if to say: "what's the use?" the other insisted. it was absolutely essential that brisset, jousselin, bouchereau, all the great men should be called in. "but you will frighten him to death." monpavon inflated his breast, the old foundered charger's only pride. "my dear fellow, if you had seen mora and myself in the trenches at constantine--ps--ps--never lowered our eyes--don't know what fear means. send word to your confrères, i will undertake to prepare him." the consultation took place that evening behind closed doors, the duke having demanded that it be kept secret through a curious feeling of shame because of his illness, because of the suffering that dethroned him and reduced him to the level of other men. like those african kings who conceal themselves in the depths of their palaces to die, he would have liked the world to believe that he had been taken away, transfigured, had become a god. then, too, above all, he dreaded the compassion, the condolence, the emotion with which he knew that his pillow would be surrounded, the tears that would be shed, because he would suspect that they were insincere, and because, if sincere, they would offend him even more by their grimacing ugliness. he had always detested scenes, exaggerated sentiments, whatever was likely to move him, to disturb the harmonious equilibrium of his life. everybody about him was aware of it and the orders were to keep at a distance all the cases of distress, all the despairing appeals that were made to mora from one end of france to the other, as to one of those houses of refuge in the forest in which a light shines at night and at which all those who have lost their way apply for shelter. not that he was hard to the unfortunate, perhaps indeed he felt that he was too readily susceptible to pity, which he regarded as an inferior sentiment, a weakness unworthy of the strong, and for the same reason that he denied it to others, dreaded it for himself, lest it impair his courage. so that no one in the palace, save monpavon and louis the valet, knew the purpose of the visit of those three persons who were mysteriously ushered into the presence of the minister of state. even the duchess herself was in ignorance. separated from her husband by all the barriers that life in the most exalted political and social circles places between the husband and wife in such exceptional establishments, she supposed that he was slightly indisposed, ill mainly in his imagination, and had so little suspicion of an impending catastrophe that, at the very hour when the physicians were ascending the half-darkened grand staircase, her private apartments at the other end of the palace were brilliantly illuminated for an informal dancing-party, one of those _white balls_ which the ingenuity of idle paris was just beginning to introduce. that consultation was, like all consultations, grim and solemn. doctors no longer wear the huge wigs of molière's day, but they still assume the same portentous gravity of priests of isis or astrologers, bristling with cabalistic formulæ accompanied by movements of the head which lack only the pointed cap of an earlier age to produce a laughable effect. on this occasion the scene borrowed an imposing aspect from the surroundings. in the vast room, transformed, magnified as it were, by the master's immobility, those solemn faces approached the bed upon which the light was concentrated, revealing amid the white linen and the purple curtains a shrivelled face, pale from the lips to the eyes, but enveloped with serenity as with a veil, as with a winding-sheet. the consulting physicians talked in low tones, exchanged a furtive glance, an outlandish word or two, remained perfectly impassive without moving an eyebrow. but that mute, unmeaning expression characteristic of the doctor and the magistrate, that solemnity with which science and justice encompass themselves in order to conceal their weakness or their ignorance, had no power to move the duke. sitting on his bed, he continued to talk tranquilly, with that slightly exalted expression in which the thought seems to soar upward as if to escape, and monpavon coolly replied to him, hardening himself against his emotion, taking a last lesson in breeding from his friend, while louis, in the background, leaned against the door leading to the duchess's apartments, the type of the silent servitor, in whom heedless indifference is a duty. the agitated, the feverish member of the party was jenkins. overflowing with obsequious respect for "his illustrious confrères," as he unctuously called them, he prowled about their conference and tried to take part in it; but his confrères kept him at a distance, hardly answered him, or answered him haughtily, as fagon--louis the fourteenth's fagon--might have answered some charlatan who had been summoned to the royal bedside. old bouchereau especially looked askance at the inventor of the jenkins pearls. at last, when they had thoroughly examined and questioned their patient, they withdrew for deliberation to a small salon, all in lacquer-work, with gleaming highly-colored walls and ceiling, filled with an assortment of pretty trifles, whose uselessness contrasted strangely with the importance of the discussion. a solemn moment, the agony of the accused man awaiting the decision of his judges, life, death, reprieve or pardon! with his long white hand mora continued to caress his moustache, his favorite gesture, to talk with monpavon about the club and the green-room at the variétés, asking for news of the proceedings in the chamber and what progress had been made in the matter of the nabob's election--all with perfect coolness and without the slightest affectation. then, fatigued doubtless, or fearing that his glance, which constantly returned to the portière opposite through which the decree of fate was presently to come forth, should betray the emotion that lurked at the bottom of his heart, he leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and did not open them again until the doctors returned. still the same cold, ominous faces, veritable faces of judges with the terrible word of human destiny on their lips, the final word, which the courts pronounce without emotion, but which the doctors, all of whose skill and learning it baffles, evade and seek to convey by circumlocution. "well, messieurs, what says the faculty?" inquired the sick man. there were a few hypocritical, stammered words of encouragement, vague recommendations; then the three learned men hastily took their leave, eager to be gone, to avoid any responsibility for the impending disaster. monpavon rushed after them. jenkins remained by the bedside, overwhelmed by the brutal truths he had heard during the consultation. in vain had he put his hand upon his heart, quoted his famous motto. bouchereau had not spared him. this was not the first of the irishman's patients whom he had seen fall suddenly to pieces thus; but he trusted that mora's death would be a salutary warning to people in society, and that the prefect of police, as the result of this great calamity, would send the "dealer in cantharides," to advertise his aphrodisiacs on the other side of the channel. the duke realized that neither jenkins nor louis would tell him the real result of the consultation. he did not press them, therefore, but submitted to their assumed confidence, even pretended to share it and to believe all that they told him. but when monpavon returned, he called him to his bedside, and, undaunted by the falsehood that was visible even under the paint of that wreck, he said: "oh! no wry faces, i beg. between you and me, let us have the truth. what do they say?--i am in a bad way, am i not?" monpavon prefaced his reply by a significant pause; then roughly, cynically, for fear of showing emotion at the words: "damnation, my poor auguste!" the duke received it between the eyes without winking. "ah!" he said, simply. he twisted his moustache mechanically; but his features did not change. and in an instant his resolution was formed. that the poor wretch who dies in the hospital, without home or kindred, with no other name than the number of his bed, should accept death as a deliverance or submit to it as a last trial, that the old peasant who falls asleep, bent double, worn out and stiff-jointed, in his dark, smoke-begrimed mole-hole, should go thence without regret, that he should relish in anticipation the taste of the cool earth he has turned and returned so many times, one can understand. and yet how many of them are attached to existence by their very misery, how many exclaim as they cling to their wretched furniture, to their rags: "i do not want to die," and go with their nails broken and bleeding from that last wrench! but there was nothing of the sort here. to have everything and to lose everything. what an upheaval! in the first silence of that awful moment, while he listened to the muffled music of the duchess's ball at the other end of the palace, the things that still bound that man to life--power, honors, wealth, all the magnificence that surrounded him--must have seemed to him to be already far away in an irrevocable past. it required courage of a very exceptional temper to resist such a blow without the slightest outburst of self-love. no one was present save the friend, the physician, the servant, three intimate acquaintances, who were familiar with all his secrets; the lights being turned low left the bed in shadow, and the dying man could have turned his face to the wall and given vent to his emotion unseen. but no. not a second of weakness, of fruitless demonstrations. without breaking a branch of the chestnut trees in the garden, without withering a flower in the great hall of the palace, death, muffling his footsteps in the heavy carpets, had opened that great man's door and motioned to him: "come!" and he replied, simply, "i am ready." a fit exit for a man of the world, unforeseen, swift and noiseless. a man of the world! mora was nothing else. passing smoothly through life, arrayed in mask and gloves and breastplate, the breastplate of white satin worn by fencing-masters on days of great exhibitions, keeping his fighting costume ever clean and spotless, sacrificing everything to that irreproachable exterior which served him instead of a coat of mail, he had metamorphosed himself into a statesman, passing from the salon to a vaster stage, and made in truth a statesman of the first order simply by virtue of his qualities as a leader of society, the art of listening and smiling, knowledge of men, scepticism and _sang-froid_. that _sang-froid_ did not leave him at the supreme moment. with his eyes upon the brief, limited time which still remained to him, for his dark-browed visitor was in haste and he could feel on his face the wind from the door which he had not closed, he thought of nothing but making good use of that time and fulfilling all the obligations of an end like his own, which should leave no devotion unrewarded, should compromise no friend. he made a list of the few persons whom he wished to see and to whom messengers were sent at once; then he asked for his chief clerk, and when jenkins suggested that he was overtiring himself, "will you promise me that i shall wake to-morrow morning? i have a spasm of strength at this moment. let me make the most of it." louis asked if he should warn the duchess. the duke, before replying, listened to the strains from the ball that came floating in through the opened windows, prolonged in the darkness by an invisible bow; then he said: "let us wait a little. i have something to do first." he bade them move to his bedside the little lacquer table, intending himself to sort out the letters to be destroyed; but, finding that his strength was failing, he called monpavon: "burn everything," he said to him in a feeble voice, and added, when he saw him going toward the fireplace, where a bright fire was burning, notwithstanding the fine weather: "no--not here. there are too many of them. some one might come." monpavon lifted the light desk and motioned to the valet to carry a light for him. but jenkins darted forward: "stay, louis, the duke may need you." he took possession of the lamp; and they stole cautiously along the long corridor, exploring the reception-rooms, the galleries, where the fireplaces were filled with artificial plants with no trace of ashes, wandering like ghosts in the silence and darkness of the vast dwelling, alive only over yonder at the right where pleasure sang like a bird on a roof that is about to fall. "there's no fire anywhere. what are we to do with all this stuff?" they asked each other, sorely perplexed. one would have said they were two thieves dragging away a safe which they were unable to open. at last monpavon, out of patience, walked with an air of resolution to a certain door, the only one they had not yet opened. "faith, we'll do the best we can! as we can't burn them, we'll drown them. show me a light, jenkins." and they entered. where were they? saint-simon, describing the downfall of one of these sovereign existences, the utter confusion of ceremonials, of dignities, of grandeurs caused by death, especially by sudden death, saint-simon alone could have told you. with his delicate, carefully-kept hands the marquis de monpavon pumped. the other passed him torn letters, bundles of letters, soft as satin, many-hued, perfumed, adorned with ciphers, crests, banderoles with mottoes, covered with fine, close, scrawling, enlaced, persuasive chirography; and all those delicate pages whirled round and round in the eddying stream of water which crumpled and soiled them and washed away the pale ink before allowing them to disappear with a gurgling hiccough at the bottom of the filthy sink. there were love-letters and love-letters of all sorts, from the note of the adventuress--"i saw you pass at the bois yesterday, monsieur le duc,"--to the aristocratic reproaches of the mistress before the last, the wailing of the abandoned, and the page still fresh with recent confidences. monpavon was familiar with all these mysteries, gave a name to each of them: "that's from madame moor"--"ah! madame d'athis." a confused mass of coronets and initials, passing whims and old habits, sullied at that moment by being thrown together promiscuously, all swallowed up in that ghastly place, by lamplight, with a noise as of an intermittent deluge, going to oblivion by a shameful road. suddenly jenkins paused in his work of destruction. two letters on pearl-gray satin paper trembled in his fingers. "who's that?" queried monpavon, at sight of the unfamiliar hand and the irishman's nervous excitement. "ah! doctor, if you mean to read everything we shall never finish." jenkins, with burning cheeks, his two letters in his hand, was consumed by a fierce longing to carry them away in order to gloat over them at his leisure, to torture himself with delicious pain by reading them, perhaps also to use that correspondence as a weapon against the imprudent creature who had signed it. but the marquis's rigid demeanor frightened him. how could he divert his attention, get rid of him? an opportunity presented itself unsought. a tiny sheet, written in a senile, tremulous hand, had found its way between those same letters, and attracted the attention of the charlatan, who said with an artless expression: "oho! here's something that doesn't look like a billet-doux. 'my dear duke, help, i am drowning! the cour des comptes has stuck its nose into my affairs again'--" "what the devil's that you're reading?" exclaimed monpavon abruptly, snatching the letter from his hands. and in an instant, thanks to mora's negligence in allowing such private letters to lie around, the terrible plight in which he would be left by his protector's death came to his mind. in his grief he had not as yet thought of it. he said to himself that, amid his preparations for leaving the world, the duke might very well forget him; and, leaving jenkins to finish alone the drowning of don juan's casket, he returned hurriedly to the bedroom. as he was about to enter, the sound of voices detained him behind the lowered portière. it was louis's voice, as whining as that of a pauper under a porch, trying to move the duke to pity for his distress and asking his permission to take a few rolls of gold that were lying in a drawer. oh! what a hoarse, wearied, hardly audible reply, in which one could feel the effort of the sick man compelled to turn in his bed, to remove his eyes from a distant point already clearly distinguished: "yes, yes--take them. but for god's sake let me sleep! let me sleep!" drawers opened and closed, a hurried, panting breath. monpavon heard no more, but retraced his steps without entering the room. the servant's ferocious greed had given his pride the alarm. anything rather than degrade himself to that point. the slumber for which mora begged so persistently, the lethargy, to speak more accurately, lasted a whole night and morning, with partial awakenings caused by excruciating pain which yielded each time to soporifics. they did nothing for him except to try to make his last moments comfortable, to help him over that last step which it requires such a painful effort to pass. his eyes had opened during that time, but they were already dim, staring into emptiness at wavering shadows, indistinct forms, like those which a diver sees quivering in the vague depths of the water. on thursday afternoon, about three o'clock, he recovered consciousness completely, and, recognizing monpavon, cardailhac and two or three other close friends, smiled at them and betrayed in a word his sole preoccupation: "what do people say of this in paris?" people said many things, diverse and contradictory; but one thing was certain, that they talked of nothing else, and the report which had been circulated through the city that morning, that mora was at death's door, had put the streets, the salons, the cafés, the studios in a ferment, revived political questions in the newspaper offices, in the clubs, and even in porters' lodges and on the omnibuses, wherever open newspapers furnished a pretext for comment on that startling item of news. this mora was the most brilliant incarnation of the empire. the part of a building that we see from afar is not its foundation, be it solid or tottering, not its architectural features, but the slender, gilded arrow, fancifully carved and perforated, added for the gratification of the eye. what people saw of the empire in france and throughout europe was mora. when he fell, the structure was stripped of all its elegance, marred by a long irreparable crack. and how many existences were involved in that sudden fall, how many fortunes shattered by the after effects of the catastrophe! not one so completely as that of the stout man sitting motionless on the monkeys' bench in the reception-room below. to the nabob that man's death meant his own death, his ruin, the end of everything. he was so thoroughly conscious of it that when he was informed, on entering the house, of the duke's desperate condition, he indulged in no whining or wry faces of any sort, simply the savage ejaculation of human selfishness: "i am lost!" and the words came constantly to his lips, he repeated them instinctively each time that all the horror of his position came over him in sudden flashes,--as in those dangerous mountain storms, when a sharp flash of lightning illumines the abyss to the very bottom, with the jagged projections of the walls and the clumps of bushes scattered here and there to supply the rents and bruises of the fall. the rapid keenness of vision that accompanies cataclysms spared him no detail. he saw that he was almost certain to be unseated now that mora would not be at hand to plead his cause; and the consequences of defeat, bankruptcy, poverty and something worse, for these incalculable fortunes, when they crumble away, always keep a little of a man's honor under the ruins. but what thorns, what brambles, what bruises, what cruel wounds before reaching the end! in a week the schwalbach notes to be paid, that is to say eight hundred thousand francs, moëssard's claim for damages--he demanded a hundred thousand francs or would apply to the chamber for authority to institute criminal process against him--another more dangerous suit begun by the families of two little martyrs of bethlehem against the founders of the establishment; and, in addition to all the rest, the complications of the _caisse territoriale_. a single ray of hope, paul de géry's negotiations with the bey, but so vague, so problematical, so far away! "ah! i am lost! i am lost!" in the vast apartment no one noticed his trouble. that crowd of senators, deputies, councillors of state, all the leading men in the government, went and came around him without seeing him, held mysterious conferences and rested their elbows in anxious importance on the two white marble mantels that faced each other. so many disappointed, betrayed, over-hasty ambitions met in that visit _in extremis_, that selfish anxiety predominated over every other form of preoccupation. the faces, strangely enough, expressed neither pity nor grief, rather a sort of wrath. all those people seemed to bear the duke a grudge for dying, as if for turning his back upon them. such remarks as this were heard: "it's not at all strange after such a life!" and, standing at the long windows, the gentlemen called one another's attention to some dainty coupé drawing up amid the constant stream of carriages going and coming outside, while a gloved hand, its lace sleeve brushing against the door, handed a folded card to the footman who brought her information of the invalid's condition. from time to time one of the intimates of the palace, one of those whom the dying man had sent for, appeared for a moment in the throng, gave an order, then vanished, leaving the terrified expression of his face reflected upon a score of others. jenkins showed himself in that way for a moment, cravat untied, waistcoat open, cuffs soiled and rumpled, in all the disarray of the battle he was waging upstairs against a terrible opponent. he was at once surrounded, pressed with questions. certainly the monkeys flattening their short noses against the bars of the cage, awed by the unusual uproar and very attentive to what was taking place, as if they were making a careful study of human expression, had a magnificent model in the irish doctor. his grief was superb, the noble grief of a strong man, which compressed his lips and made his breast heave. "the death-agony has begun," he said dolefully. "it is only a matter of hours now." and, as jansoulet drew near, he said to him in an emphatic tone: "ah! my friend, what a man! what courage! he has forgotten nobody. only a little while ago he spoke to me about you." "really?" "'poor nabob!'" he said, "'how is his election coming on?'" and that was all. he had said nothing more. jansoulet hung his head. what had he expected, in heaven's name? was it not enough that a man like mora should have thought of him at such a moment? he returned to his seat on the bench, relapsed into his former state of prostration, galvanized by a moment of wild hope, sat there heedless of the fact that the vast apartment was becoming almost entirely deserted, and did not notice that he was the last and only visitor remaining until he heard the servants talking aloud in the fading light. "i have had enough--my service here is done." "for my part i shall stay with the duchess." and those plans, those decisions anticipating the master's death by some hours, doomed the noble duke even more surely than the faculty had done. the nabob realized then that it was time for him to withdraw, but he determined first to write his name on the register. he went to the table and leaned far over in order to see clearly. the page was full. a blank space was pointed out to him, below a name written in small, threadlike characters, as if by fingers too stout for the pen, and, when he had signed, hemerlingue's name overshadowed his, crushed it, entangled it in an insidious flourish. superstitious like the true latin that he was, he was impressed by the omen and carried the terror of it away with him. where should he dine? at the club? on place vendôme? and hear nothing talked of but this death which engrossed his thoughts! he preferred to trust to chance, to go straight ahead like all those who are beset by a persistent idea which they try to escape by walking. it was a warm, balmy evening. he walked on and on along the quays till he reached the tree-lined paths of the cours-la-reine, then returned to the combination of freshly-watered streets and odor of fine dust which characterizes fine evenings in paris. at that uncertain hour everything was deserted. here and there girandoles were lighted for concerts, gas-jets flared among the foliage. the rattle of plates and glasses from a restaurant suggested to him the idea of entering. the robust creature was hungry notwithstanding his anxiety. his dinner was served under a verandah with walls of glass, lined with foliage and facing the great porch of the palais de l'industrie, where the duke, in presence of a thousand persons, had saluted him as deputy. the refined and aristocratic face appeared to his mind's eye in the dark archway, while at the same time he saw him lying yonder on his white pillow; and, suddenly, as he stared at the bill of fare the waiter handed him, he noticed with a sort of stupefaction that it was dated may th. so not a month had passed since the opening of the salon. it seemed to him as if it were ten years since that day. gradually, however, the excellent repast warmed and comforted his heart. in the passage he heard some of the waiters talking: "is there any news of mora? it seems he's very sick." "nonsense! he'll pull through. such fellows as he are the only ones who have any luck." hope is anchored so firmly to the human entrails that, despite what jansoulet had seen and heard, those few words, assisted by two bottles of burgundy and divers _petits verres_ sufficed to restore his courage. after all, people had been known to recover when they were as far gone. doctors often exaggerate the danger in order to gain more credit for averting it. "suppose i go and see?" he returned to the hôtel de mora, full of illusions, appealing to the luck that had stood him in good stead so many times in his life. and in truth there was something in the appearance of the princely abode to justify his hope. it wore the tranquil, reassuring aspect of ordinary evenings, from the avenue with lights burning at equal intervals, to the main doorway, at which an enormous carriage of antique shape was waiting. in the reception-room, where there were no signs of excitement, two great lamps were burning. a footman was asleep in a corner, the usher was reading in front of the fire. he glanced at the new arrival over his spectacles, but said nothing to him, and jansoulet dared ask no questions. piles of newspapers lay on the table in wrappers addressed to the duke, apparently tossed there as useless. the nabob opened one and tried to read; but a rapid, gliding step, a sing-song murmuring made him raise his eyes, and he saw a white-haired, stooping old man, decked out with finery like an altar, who was praying as he walked with long priest-like strides, his red cassock spread out like a train over the carpet. it was the archbishop of paris, accompanied by two assistants. the vision with its murmur as of an icy wind passed swiftly before jansoulet, was engulfed by the great chariot and disappeared, carrying away his last hope. "a question of propriety, my dear fellow," said monpavon, suddenly appearing at his side. "mora is an epicurean, brought up in the ideas of what's-his-name--thingamy--you know whom i mean! eighteenth century. but it's very bad for the masses, if a man in his position--ps--ps--ps--ah! he was head and shoulders above all of us--ps--ps--irreproachable breeding." "so, it's all over, is it?" said jansoulet desperately. "there's no more hope?" monpavon motioned to him to listen. a carriage rumbled heavily along the avenue on the quay. the bell rang several times in quick succession. the marquis counted aloud: "one, two, three, four--" at the fifth he rose. "there's no hope now. there comes the other," he said, alluding to the parisian superstition to the effect that a visit from the sovereign was always fatal to the dying. the servants hurried from all directions, threw the folding-doors wide open and formed a lane, while the usher, his hat _en bataille_ announced with a resounding blow of his pike upon the floor the passage of two august personages, of whom jansoulet caught only a confused glimpse behind the servants, but whom he saw through a long vista of open doors ascending the grand staircase, preceded by a valet carrying a candelabrum. the woman was erect and haughty, enveloped in her black spanish mantilla; the man clung to the stair-rail, walked more slowly and as if fatigued, the collar of his light top-coat standing up from a back slightly bent, which was shaken by convulsive sobs. "let us be off, nabob. nothing more to be done here," said the old beau, taking jansoulet by the arm and leading him out. he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand, and waved a little salute with the tips of his gloves toward him who lay dying above. "_bojou_, dea' boy." the tone and gesture were worldly, irreproachable; but the voice trembled a little. the club on rue royale, renowned for its card-playing, had rarely seen so terrible a game as it saw that night. it began at eleven o'clock and was still in progress at five in the morning. enormous sums lay on the green cloth, changed hands and direction, heaped up, scattered, reunited; fortunes were swallowed up in that colossal game, and at its close the nabob, who had started it to forget his fears in the caprices of luck, after extraordinary alternations, somersaults of fortune calculated to make a neophyte's hair turn white, withdrew with winnings of five hundred thousand francs. they said five millions on the boulevard the next day, and every one cried shame, especially the _messager_, which gave up three-quarters of its space to an article against certain adventurers who are tolerated in clubs, and who cause the ruin of the most respectable families. alas! jansoulet's winnings hardly represented the amount of the first schwalbach notes. during that insane game, although mora was its involuntary cause, and, as it were, its soul, his name was not once mentioned. neither cardailhac nor jenkins appeared. monpavon had taken to his bed, more affected than he chose to have people think. they were without news from the sick-room. "is he dead?" jansoulet wondered as he left the club, and he was conscious of an impulse to go and see before returning home. it was no longer hope that impelled him, but that unhealthy, nervous sort of curiosity which attracts the poor, ruined, shelterless victims of a conflagration to the débris of their home. although it was still very early, the pink flush of dawn still lingering in the air, the whole mansion was open as if for a solemn departure. the lamps were still smoking on the mantels, the air was filled with dust. the nabob walked on through inexplicable solitude as far as the first floor, where he at last heard a familiar voice, cardailhac's, dictating names, and the scratching of pens on paper. the skilful organizer of the fêtes for the bey was arranging with the same zeal the funeral ceremonial of the duc de mora. such activity! his excellency had died during the evening; in the morning ten thousand letters were already printed, and everybody in the house who knew how to hold a pen was busy with the addresses. without passing through those extemporized offices, jansoulet made his way to the reception-room, usually so thronged, to-day all the chairs empty. in the centre of the room, on a table, lay monsieur le duc's hat and gloves and cane, always ready in the event of his going out unexpectedly, to save him the trouble of an order. the articles that we wear retain something of ourselves. the curve of the hat-rim recalled the curl of the moustaches, the light gloves were ready to grasp the flexible, strong chinese bamboo, everything seemed to quiver and live, as if the duke were about to appear, to put out his hand as he talked, take them up and go out. oh! no, monsieur le duc was not going out. jansoulet had only to walk to the bedroom door, which stood ajar, to see lying on the bed, three steps above the floor--the same platform even after death--a rigid, haughty form, a motionless, aged profile, transformed by the gray beard that had grown in a night; kneeling against the sloping pillow, her face buried in the white sheets, was a woman whose fair hair fell neglected about her shoulders, ready to fall under the shears of eternal widowhood; a priest, too, and a nun stood absorbed in meditation in that atmosphere of the death vigil, wherein the weariness of sleepless nights is blended with the mumbling of prayers and whispering in the shadow. that room, in which so many ambitions had felt their wings expand, in which so many hopes and disappointments had had their day, was given over to the tranquillity of death. not a sound, not a sigh. but, early as it was, over in the direction of pont de la concorde, a shrill, piercing little clarinet soared above the rumbling of the first carriages; but its vigorous mockery was wasted thenceforth upon the man who lay sleeping there, revealing to the terrified nabob the image of his own destiny, cold, discolored, ready for the grave. others than jansoulet saw that death-chamber under even more dismal circumstances. the windows thrown wide open. the night air from the garden entering freely in a brisk current. a form upon trestles; that form, the body just embalmed. the head hollowed out, filled with a sponge, the brain in a bucket. the weight of that statesman's brain was really extraordinary. it weighed--it weighed--the newspapers of the day gave the figures. but who remembers them to-day? xix. the obsequies. "don't weep, my fairy; you take away all my courage. come, you will be much happier when you no longer have your horrible demon. you are going back to fontainebleau to tend your hens. brahim's ten thousand francs will be enough to give you a start. and after that have no fear; when i am once there, i'll send you money. as this bey wants some of my sculpture, i shall make him pay well for it, be sure of that. i shall return rich, rich. who knows? perhaps a sultana?" "yes, you will be a sultana,--but i shall be dead, and i shall never see you again." and honest crenmitz in her despair huddled in a corner of the cab, so that her companion might not see her weep. felicia was leaving paris. she was trying to escape the horrible melancholy, the ominous heart-sickness in which mora's death had plunged her. what a terrible blow for the haughty girl! ennui, spite had driven her into that man's arms; pride, modesty, she had given all to him, and now he had carried it all away, leaving her withered for life, a widow without tears, without mourning, without dignity. two or three visits to saint-james, a few evenings in the back of a box at some small theatre, behind the grating where forbidden, shamefaced pleasure conceals itself,--those were the only memories bequeathed to her by that liaison of two weeks, that loveless sin, wherein not even her pride had succeeded in satisfying itself by the notoriety of a scandal in high life. the fruitless, ineffaceable stain, the senseless fall into the gutter of a woman who cannot walk, and upon whom the ironical pity of the passers-by weighs heavily when she tries to rise. for a moment she contemplated suicide, but was deterred by the thought that it might be attributed to despairing love. she saw in anticipation the sentimental emotion of the salons, the absurd figure that her supposed passion would cut amid the duke's innumerable conquests, and upon her grave, dug so near the other, the parma violets, stripped of their petals by the dandified moëssards of journalism. there remained the resource of travel, one of those journeys to countries so distant that they expatriate even the thoughts. unluckily, she lacked money. thereupon she remembered that, on the day following her success at the salon, old brahim bey had come to see her, to make magnificent proposals to her in his master's name for divers great works to be executed at tunis. she had said no at the moment, refusing to be tempted by oriental prices, by a munificent hospitality, by the promise of the finest courtyard on the bardo for a studio, surrounded by arches carved like exquisite lace. but now she was willing to accept. she had but to make a sign, the bargain was concluded at once, and after an exchange of despatches, a hasty packing-up, and closing the house, she started for the railway-station as if she were going away for a week, surprised herself by her prompt decision, pleased in all the adventurous and artistic portions of her nature by the prospect of a new life in a strange land. the bey's pleasure yacht was to await her at genoa; and, closing her eyes in the cab, she saw in anticipation the white stones of an italian harbor enclosing an iridescent sea, where the sunlight had a gleam of the orient, where everything sang joyously, even to the swelling sails upon the deep. it so happened that on that day paris was muddy and murky, drowned by one of those continuous downpours of rain which seem to have been made for it alone, to have ascended in clouds from its river, its steam, its monster breath, only to descend again in streams from its roofs, its gutters, the innumerable windows of its attics. felicia was in haste to escape from that depressing paris, and her feverish impatience vented itself upon the driver for not driving faster, upon the horses,--two genuine broken-down cab-horses,--and upon an inexplicable multitude of carriages and omnibuses jammed together at the approaches to pont de la concorde. "go on, driver, go on." "i can't, madame,--it's the funeral." she put her head out of the window and instantly withdrew it, in dismay. a double line of soldiers marching with guns reversed, a wilderness of helmets, of heads uncovered while an interminable procession passed. it was mora's funeral procession. "don't stay here. drive around some other way," she cried to the driver. the vehicle turned painfully, tearing itself away with regret from that superb spectacle for which paris had been waiting four days, rolled back up the avenue, into rue montaigne, and down boulevard malesherbes, at an unwilling, crawling trot, to the madeleine. there the crowd was greater, more compact. in the heavy mist, the brightly lighted windows of the church, the muffled strains of the funeral chants behind the black hangings, which were in such profusion that they concealed even the shape of the greek temple, filled the whole square with reminders of the service then in progress, while the greater part of the huge procession still crowded rue royale as far as the bridges,--a long black line connecting the defunct statesman with the iron fence of the corps législatif through which he had so often passed. beyond the madeleine the roadway of the boulevard was entirely empty, kept clear by two lines of soldiers, who forced the spectators back to the sidewalks, black with people; all the stores closed, and the balconies, despite the rain, overflowing with bodies leaning far forward in the direction of the church, as if to watch the passage of a herd of fat cattle, or the return of victorious troops. paris, greedy of spectacles, makes a spectacle of everything indifferently, of civil war or of the burial of a statesman. once more the cab must retrace its steps, make another détour, and we can fancy the ill-humor of the driver and his beasts, parisians all three at heart, and furious at being deprived of such a fine show. thereupon, through the silent deserted streets, all the life of paris having betaken itself to the great artery of the boulevard, began a capricious, aimless journey, the senseless loitering of a cab hired by the hour, reaching the extreme limits of faubourg saint-martin, faubourg saint-denis, returning toward the centre, and always finding at the end of every circuit, every stratagem, the same obstacle lying in wait, the same crowd, some off-shoot of the black procession seen vaguely at the end of a street, defiling slowly in the rain to the sound of muffled drums, a dull heavy sound like that made by earth falling bit by bit into a hole. what torture for felicia! it was her sin, her remorse passing through the streets of paris in all that solemn pomp, that funereal magnificence, that public mourning reflected even in the clouds; and the proud girl rebelled against the affront that circumstances put upon her, fled from it to the depths of the carriage, where she remained with closed eyes, overwhelmed, while old crenmitz, believing that it was her grief which so affected her nerves, strove to comfort her, wept herself over their separation, and withdrawing into the other corner, left the cab-window in full possession of the great algerian _slougui_, his delicate nostrils sniffing the air and his forepaws resting despotically on the sill with heraldic rigidity. at last, after a thousand interminable détours, the cab suddenly stopped, moved slowly forward again amid shouts and insults, was then pushed this way and that, lifted from the ground, its equilibrium threatened by the trunks on its roof, and finally halted for good and all, as if anchored. "_bon dieu!_ what a crowd!" murmured la crenmitz in terror. felicia emerged from her torpor. "where in heaven's name are we?" beneath a colorless, smoky sky, with a fine network of rain drawn like gauze over the reality of things, lay a great square, filled with a human ocean flowing in from all the adjoining streets, immobilized around a lofty column which towered above that sea of heads like the gigantic mast of a sinking ship. cavalry in troops, with drawn sabres, artillery in batteries lined the sides of an open pathway, a complete warlike host awaiting him who was soon to pass,--perhaps to try to rescue him, to carry him off by force from the redoubtable foe in whose power he was. alas! cavalry charges, cannonades were of no avail. the prisoner was firmly bound, protected by a threefold wall of solid wood, of metal and of velvet, inaccessible to shot and shell, and not at the hands of those soldiers could he hope for deliverance. "drive on. i do not wish to remain here," said felicia frantically, pulling the driver's dripping cape, seized with a mad fear at the thought of the nightmare that pursued her, of what she could hear approaching with a ghastly rolling of drums, still distant but drawing nearer momentarily. but, at the first movement of the wheels, the shouts and hooting began anew. thinking that they would allow him to cross the square, the driver had with great difficulty forced his way to the front rank of the crowd, which had closed in behind him and refused to allow him to turn back. it was impossible to advance or retreat she must remain there, endure those alcoholic breaths, those inquisitive glances, kindled in anticipation of an exceptionally fine spectacle, and eyeing with interest the fair traveller who was decamping "with such a pile o' trunks as that!" and a cur of that size to protect her. la crenmitz was horribly frightened; felicia, for her part, had but one thought, that he was about to pass, that she would be in the front rank to see him. suddenly there was a loud shout: "here he comes!" then a great silence fell upon the square, which had shaken off the burden of three weary hours of waiting. he was coming! felicia's first impulse was to lower the curtain on her side, the side on which the procession was to pass. but, when she heard the drums close at hand, seized with a nervous frenzy at her inability to escape that obsession, or, it may be, infected by the unhealthy curiosity that encompassed her, she raised the curtain with a jerk, and her pale, ardent little face appeared, resting on both hands, at the window. "very good! you will have it so; i am looking at you." it was the most magnificent funeral one can imagine, the last honors paid in all their vain pomp, as sonorous and as hollow as the rhythmic accompaniment upon asses' skins draped in crape. first, the white surplices of the clergy indistinctly seen amid the black trappings of the first five carriages; then, drawn by six black horses, veritable horses of erebus, as black, as slow, as sluggish as its flood, came the funeral car, all bedecked with plumes and fringe, embroidered with silver, with heavy tears, with heraldic coronets surmounting gigantic m's, a prophetic initial which seemed to be that of death (_mort_) itself, of the duchess death decorated with eight _fleurons_. such a mass of canopies and heavy draperies concealed the ignoble framework of the hearse that it shivered and swayed from top to bottom at every step, as if oppressed by the majesty of its dead. on the casket lay the sword, the coat, the embroidered hat, garments of state which had never been used, resplendent with gold and pearl in the dark chapel formed by the hangings, amid the beautiful display of fresh flowers which told that the season was spring despite the sulkiness of the sky. ten paces behind came the people of the duke's household; and then, in solitary majesty, an official in a cloak carrying the decorations, a veritable show-case of all the orders in the known world, crosses, ribbons of all hues, which more than covered the black velvet cushion fringed with silver. the master of ceremonies came next, at the head of the committee of the corps législatif, a dozen or more deputies chosen by lot, in their midst the tall figure of the nabob, dressed for the first time in his official costume, as if satirical fortune had chosen to give the representative on trial a foretaste of all the joys of parliamentary life. the friends of the deceased, who came next in line, formed a very limited contingent, exceedingly well chosen to lay bare the superficiality and emptiness of the existence of that great personage, reduced to the companionship of a theatrical manager thrice insolvent, a picture-dealer enriched by usury, a nobleman of unsavory reputation and a few high-livers and boulevard idlers unknown to fame. thus far everybody was on foot and bareheaded; in the parliamentary committee a few black silk skull caps had been timidly donned as they approached the populous quarters. after the friends came the carriages. at the obsequies of a great warrior, it is customary to include in the funeral procession the hero's favorite horse, his battle-horse, compelled to adapt to the snail-like pace of the cortège the prancing gait which survives the smell of gunpowder and the waving of standards. on this occasion mora's great coupé, the "eight-spring" affair which carried him to social or political gatherings, occupied the place of that companion in victory, its panels draped in black, its lanterns enveloped in long, light streamers of crêpe, which floated to the ground with an indescribable undulatory feminine grace. that was a new idea for funerals, those veiled lanterns, the supreme manifestation of _chic_ in mourning; and it was most fitting for that dandy to give one last lesson in style to the parisians who flocked to his funeral as to a longchamps of death. three more masters of ceremonies, then came the impassive official display, always the same for marriages, deaths, baptisms, openings of parliament, receptions by the sovereign,--the interminable procession of state carriages, with gleaming panels, great mirrors, gaudy, gold-bespangled liveries, which passed amid the dazzled throngs, reminding them of fairy tales, the equipages of cinderella, and arousing the same _ohs_! of admiration that ascend and burst with the bombs at displays of fireworks. and in the crowd there was always an obliging police officer, of an erudite petty bourgeois with nothing to do, on the watch for public ceremonials, to name aloud all the people in the carriages as they passed with their proper escorts of dragoons, cuirassiers or _gardes de paris_. first the representatives of the emperor, the empress, all the imperial family; then, in hierarchical order, scientifically worked out, the slightest departure from which might have caused a serious conflict between the various bodies of the government, the members of the privy council, the marshals, the admirals, the grand chancellor of the legion of honor, the senate, the corps législatif, the council of state, the whole of the judicial and educational departments, whose costumes, furred robes and wigs carried you back to the days of old paris; they seemed pompous, superannuated, out of place in the sceptical era of the blouse and the black coat. * * * * * felicia, to avoid thought, fixed her eyes persistently on that monotonous procession, of exasperating length, and gradually a sort of torpor stole over her, as if on a rainy day she were turning the leaves of an album with colored plates lying on the table of a dreary salon, a history of state costumes from the earliest times to our own day. all those people, seen in profile, sitting erect and motionless behind the wide glass panels, bore a close resemblance to the faces of people in the colored fashion-plates displayed as near as possible to the sidewalk, so that we may lose nothing of their gold embroidery, their palm-leaves, their gold lace and braid; manikins intended to gratify the curiosity of the vulgar and exposing themselves with an air of heedless indifference. indifference! that was the most marked characteristic of that funeral. you felt it everywhere, on the faces and in the hearts of the mourners, not only among all those functionaries, most of whom had known the duke by sight only, but in the ranks of those on foot between his hearse and his coupé, his closest friends and those who were in daily attendance upon him. indifferent, yes, cheerful, was the corpulent minister, vice-president of the council, who grasped the cords of the pall firmly in his powerful hand, accustomed to pound the desk of the tribune, and seemed to be drawing it forward, in greater haste than the horses and the hearse to consign to his six feet of earth his enemy of twenty years' standing, his constant rival, the obstacle to all his ambitions. the other three dignitaries did not press forward with so much of the vigor of a led horse, but the long streamers were held listlessly in their wearied or distraught hands, significantly nerveless. indifferent the priests by profession. indifferent the servants, whom he never called anything else than "what's-your-name,"[ ] and whom he treated like things. indifferent, too, was m. louis, whose last day of servitude it was--an enfranchised slave rich enough to pay his ransom. even among his intimates that freezing coldness had made its way. and yet some of them were much attached to him. but cardailhac was too much occupied in superintending the order and progress of the ceremonial to give way to the slightest emotion, which was quite foreign to his nature moreover. old monpavon, although he was struck to the heart, would have considered the slightest crease in his linen breastplate, the slightest bending of his tall figure, as lamentably bad form, altogether unworthy his illustrious friend. his eyes remained dry, as sparkling as ever, for the funeral pageant furnishes the tears for state mourning, embroidered in silver on black cloth. some one was weeping, however, among the members of the committee, but that some one was shedding ingenuous tears on his own account. poor nabob, melted by the music and the display, it seemed to him that he was burying all his fortune, all his ambition for dignity and renown. and even that was one variety of indifference. footnotes: [ ] _chose_--literally _thing._ in the public the gratification of a gorgeous spectacle, the joy of making a sunday of a weekday, dominated every other feeling. as the procession passed along the boulevards, the spectators on the balconies almost applauded; here, in the populous quarters, irreverence manifested itself even more frankly. coarse chaff, vulgar comments on the dead man and his doings, with which all paris was familiar, laughter called forth by the broad-brimmed hats of the rabbis and the solemn "mugs" of the council of wise men, filled the air between two drum-beats. with feet in the water, dressed in blouses and cotton caps, the head uncovered from habit, poverty, forced labor, idleness and strikes watched with a sneer the passing of that dweller in another sphere, that brilliant duke now shorn of all his honors, who never in his life perhaps had visited that extremity of the city. but here he is! to reach the spot to which everybody goes, one must follow the road that everybody follows: faubourg saint-antoine, rue de la roquette, to that mammoth toll-gate open so wide into the infinite. and _dame_! it is pleasant to see that noblemen like mora, dukes and ministers, all take the same road to the same destination. that equality in death consoles one for many unjust things in life. to-morrow the bread will seem not so dear, the wine better, the tools less heavy, when one can say to oneself on rising: "well, that old mora had to come to it like everybody else." the procession dragged along, even more tiresome than lugubrious. now it was the choral societies, deputations from the army and navy, officers of all arms of the service, herded together in front of a long line of empty carriages, mourning carriages, gentlemen's carriages, parading in compliance with etiquette; then came the troops in their turn, and rue de la roquette, that long street running through the filthy faubourg, already swarming with people as far as the eye could see, swallowed up a whole army, infantry, dragoons, lancers, carabineers, heavy guns with muzzles in the air, all ready to bark, shaking pavements and window-panes, but unable to drown the rolling of the drums, a sinister, barbarous sound, which transported felicia's imagination to the obsequies of african monarchs, where thousands of immolated victims attend the soul of a prince so that it may not enter the kingdom of spirits alone, and made her think that perhaps that ostentatious, interminable procession was about to descend and disappear in a supernatural grave vast enough to hold it all. "now, and in the hour of our death. amen!" murmured la crenmitz, while the cab rattled across the empty square, where liberty, in solid gold, seemed to be taking a magic flight in space; and the old dancer's prayer was perhaps the only sincere note of true emotion uttered throughout the vast space covered by the funeral. * * * * * all the discourses are at an end, three long discourses as cold as the cavern into which the dead man has descended, three official harangues which have afforded the orators an opportunity to proclaim in very loud tones their devotion to the interests of the dynasty. fifteen times the cannon have awakened the numerous echoes of the cemetery, shaken the wreaths of jet and immortelles, the light _ex-votos_ hanging at the corners of burial lots, and while a reddish cloud floats upward and revolves amid the odor of powder across the city of the dead, mingling gradually with the smoke from the factories of the plebeian quarter, the countless multitude also disperses, scattering through the sloping streets, the long stairways gleaming white among the verdure, with a confused murmur as of waves beating against the rocks. purple robes, black robes, blue and green coats, gold ornaments, slender swords which their wearers adjust while marching, return hastily to the carriages. dignified salutations, meaning smiles are exchanged, while the mourning equipages rumble along the paths at a gallop, displaying lines of black-coated drivers, with rounded backs, hats _en bataille_, capes floating in the wind caused by their swift pace. the general feeling is one of relief at the close of a long and fatiguing exhibition, a legitimate eagerness to lay aside the administrative harness, the ceremonious costumes, to loosen the belts, the high collars and the stocks, to relax the features which, no less than the bodies, have been wearing fetters. short and stout, dragging his bloated legs with difficulty, hemerlingue hurried toward the exit, declining the offers that were made him of a seat in various carriages, knowing well that only his own was adapted to the weight of his dropsical body. "baron, baron, this way. there's a seat for you." "no, thanks. i am walking the numbness out of my legs." and, in order to avoid these proposals, which at length annoyed him, he took a cross-path that was almost deserted, too deserted in fact, for he had hardly entered it when he regretted having done so. ever since he had entered the cemetery, he had had but one absorbing thought, the fear of coming face to face with jansoulet, whose violent temper he knew well, and who might forget the majesty of the spot and repeat the scandalous scene of rue royale in père-lachaise. two or three times during the ceremony he had seen his former partner's great head emerge from the mass of colorless types of which the attendant throng was largely composed, and move toward him, evidently seeking him, actuated by a desire for a meeting. in the main avenue yonder there would be people at hand in case of accident, while here--_brr!_ it was that anxiety which caused him to force his short steps, his panting breath; but in vain. as he turned in his fear of being followed, the nabob's tall form and broad shoulders appeared at the entrance of the path. it was impossible for the bulky creature to walk in the narrow space between the tombs, which were packed so closely that there was hardly room to kneel. the rich, rain-soaked earth slipped and gave way under his feet. he adopted the plan of walking on with an indifferent air, hoping that the other would not recognize him. but a hoarse, powerful voice behind him called: "lazare!" the capitalist's name was lazare. he made no reply but tried to overtake a group of officers who were walking a long way in front of him. "lazare! o lazare!" just as in the old days on the quay at marseille. he was tempted to halt, under the influence of an old habit, but the thought of his infamous conduct, of all the injury he had inflicted on the nabob and was still attempting to inflict on him, suddenly came to his mind with a horrible fear, amounting to frenzy, when a hand of iron brought him abruptly to a standstill. the sweat of cowardice drenched his limp and nerveless limbs, his face turned still yellower, his eyes winked in anticipation of the terrible blow he expected to receive, while his great arms were raised instinctively to ward it off. "oh! don't be afraid. i have no evil designs on you," said jansoulet sadly. "i come simply to ask you to cease your designs on me." [illustration: "'_don't be afraid. i have no evil designs on you._'"] he paused to take breath. the banker, stupefied and dismayed, opened his round owl's eyes to their fullest extent in face of that suffocating emotion. "listen, lazare, you are the stronger in this war we have been carrying on so long. i am on the ground at your feet. my shoulders have touched. now be generous, spare your old chum. have mercy on me, i say, have mercy on me." that southerner, subdued and softened by the pomp of the funeral ceremony, trembled in every limb. hemerlingue, facing him, was hardly more courageous. the dismal music, the open tomb, the orations, the cannonading, and the lofty philosophy of inevitable death, all had combined to move the stout baron to the depths of his being. his former comrade's voice completed the awakening of such human qualities as still remained in that bundle of gelatine. his old chum! it was the first time in ten years, since their falling out, that he had seen him at such close quarters. how many things those swarthy features, those powerful shoulders ill-suited to an embroidered coat, recalled to his mind! the thin woollen blanket, full of holes, in which they both rolled themselves up to sleep on the deck of the _sinai_, the rations fraternally shared, the long walks through the scorched country about marseille, where they stole great onions and ate them on the bank of a ditch, the dreams, the projects, the sous put into the common purse, and, when fortune began to smile on them, the antics they played together, the dainty little suppers at which they told each other everything, with their elbows on the table. how can two people ever fall out when they know each other so well, when they have lived like twins clinging to a thin, strong nurse, poverty, sharing her soured milk and her rough caresses! such thoughts, long to analyze, passed through hemerlingue's mind like a flash of lightning. almost instinctively he let his heavy hand fall into the hand the nabob held out to him. something of the animal nature stirred in them both, stronger than their antipathy, and those two men, who had been trying for ten years to ruin and dishonor each other, began to talk together heart to heart. generally, when friends meet after a long separation, the first effusive greetings at an end, they remain silent as if they had nothing to tell each other, whereas it is the very abundance of things, their precipitate struggle for utterance that prevents their coming forth. the two former partners had reached that stage; but jansoulet held the banker's arm very tight, fearing that he might escape him, might resist the kindly impulses that he had aroused in him. "you are in no hurry, are you? we might walk a moment or two if you choose. it has stopped raining, it will do us good--we shall be twenty years younger." "yes, it's a pleasant thing," said hemerlingue; "but i can't walk long, my legs are heavy." "true, your poor legs. see, there's a bench yonder. let's go and sit down. lean on me, old fellow." and the nabob, with brotherly solicitude, led him to one of the benches placed at intervals against the tombs, for the convenience of those inconsolable mourners who make the cemetery their usual resort. he arranged him comfortably, encompassed him with a protecting glance, sympathized with him in his infirmity, and, the conversation following a course very natural in such a place, they talked of their health, of the approach of old age. one was dropsical, the other subject to rushes of blood to the head. both were taking the jenkins pearls,--a dangerous remedy, witness mora's sudden taking off. "poor duke!" said jansoulet. "a great loss to the country," rejoined the banker, in a grief-stricken tone. whereupon the nabob ingenuously exclaimed: "to me, above all others to me, for if he had lived--ah! you have all the luck, you have all the luck! and then, you know, you are so strong, so very strong," he added, fearing that he had wounded him. the baron looked at him and winked, so drolly that his little black lashes disappeared in his yellow flesh. "no," he said, "i'm not the strong one. it's marie!" "marie?" "yes, the baroness. at the time of her baptism she dropped her old name, yumina, for marie. she's a real woman. she knows more about the bank than i do, and about paris and business generally. she manages everything in the concern." "you are very fortunate," sighed jansoulet. his melancholy was most eloquent touching mademoiselle afchin's deficiencies. after a pause the baron continued: "marie has a bitter grudge against you, you know. she won't like it when she knows that we have been talking together." he contracted his heavy eyebrows as if he regretted the reconciliation at the thought of the conjugal scene it would bring upon him. "but i have never done anything to her," stammered jansoulet. "ah! but you haven't been very polite to her, you know. think of the insult put upon her at the time of our wedding-call. your wife sending word to us that she didn't receive former slaves! as if our friendship should not have been stronger than any prejudice. women don't forget such things." "but i had nothing to do with it, old fellow. you know how proud those afchins are." he was not proud, poor man. his expression was so piteous, so imploring at sight of his friend's frowning brow, that the baron took pity on him. the cemetery had a decidedly softening effect on the baron! "listen, bernard, there's only one thing that will do any good. if you wish that we should be friends as we used to be, that these handshakes that we have exchanged should not be wasted, you must induce my wife to be reconciled to you. without that it's of no use. when mademoiselle afchin shut her door in our faces, you let her do it, didn't you? it's the same with me; if marie should say to me when i go home: 'i don't want you to be friends,' all my protestations wouldn't prevent me from throwing you overboard. for there's no friendship that amounts to anything. the best thing in the world is to have peace in your own house." "but what am i to do, then?" queried the nabob, in dismay. "that's what i'm going to tell you. the baroness is at home every saturday. come with your wife and call on her day after to-morrow. you will find the best people in paris at the house. nothing will be said about the past. the ladies will talk dresses and bonnets, say what women say to each other. and then it will be all settled. we shall be friends again as in the old days; and if you're in the hole, why, we'll pull you out." "do you think so? it's a fact that i am in very deep," said the other, shaking his head. once more hemerlingue's cunning eyes disappeared between his cheeks, like two flies in butter. "_dame!_ yes, i've played pretty close. you don't lack skill. that stroke of loaning fifteen millions to the bey was very shrewd. ah! you're a cool one; but you don't hold your cards right. others can see your hand." thus far they had spoken in undertones, as if awed by the silence of the great necropolis; but gradually selfish interests raised their tones, even amid the proofs of their nothingness displayed upon all those flat stones covered with dates and figures, as if death were simply a matter of time and reckoning, the desired solution of a problem. hemerlingue enjoyed seeing his friend so humble, he gave him advice concerning his business affairs, with which he seemed to be thoroughly acquainted. according to his view, the nabob could still get out of his difficulties in very good shape. everything depended on the confirmation of his election, on having another card to play. then it must be played judiciously. but jansoulet had no confidence. in losing mora he had lost everything. "you have lost mora, but you have found me. one's worth as much as the other," said the baron, calmly. "but no, you see yourself it's impossible. it's too late. le merquier has finished his report. it's a terrible report, so it seems." "very well! if he's finished his report, he must draw another, not so unfavorable." "how can that be?" the baron stared at him in amazement. "come, come, you're losing your hold! why, by giving him one, two, three hundred thousand francs, if necessary." "what do you mean? le merquier, that upright man--'my conscience,' as he is called." at that, hemerlingue fairly roared with laughter, which echoed among the recesses of the neighboring mausoleums, little wonted to such lack of respect. "'my conscience,' 'an upright man,' ah! you amuse me. can it be that you don't know that that conscience belongs to me, and that--" he checked himself and looked behind, a little disturbed by a noise he heard. "listen." it was the echo of his laughter, tossed back from the depths of a tomb, as if that idea of le merquier's conscience amused even the dead. "suppose we walk a little," he said, "it begins to feel cold on this bench." thereupon, as they walked among the tombs, he explained to him with a certain pedantic conceit that in france bribes played as important a part as in the orient. only more ceremony was used here. "take le merquier for instance. instead of giving him your money outright in a big purse as you would do with a _seraskier_, you beat around the bush. the fellow likes pictures. he is always trading with schwalbach, who uses him as a bait to catch catholic customers. very good! you offer him a picture, a souvenir to hang on a panel in his cabinet. it all depends on getting your money's worth. however, you shall see. i'll take you to him myself. i'll show you how the thing is done." and, delighted to observe the wonderment of the nabob, who exaggerated his surprise in order to flatter him, and opened his eyes admiringly, the banker elaborated his lesson, delivering a veritable lecture upon parisian and worldly philosophy. "you see, old fellow, the thing that you must be more careful about than anything else in paris, is keeping up appearances! you have never given enough attention to that. you go about with your waistcoat unbuttoned, hail fellow well met, telling your business to everybody, showing yourself just as you are. you act as if you were in tunis, among the bazaars or the _souks_. that's how you got yourself into trouble, my good bernard." he stopped to take breath, unable to go any farther. he had expended more steps and more words in an hour than he usually did in a year. they noticed then that chance had led them back, while they talked, towards the place of sepulture of the moras, on the summit of an open plateau from which they could see, above myriads of crowded roofs, montmartre and les buttes chaumont in the distance like vague white billows. these, with the hill of père-lachaise, accurately represented the three undulations, following one another at equal intervals, of which each forward impulse of the sea consists at flood tide. in the hollows between, lights were already twinkling, like ship's lanterns, through the ascending purple haze; chimneys towered aloft like masts or funnels of steamers belching forth smoke; and whirling it all about in its undulating motion, the parisian ocean seemed to be bringing it nearer to the dark shore in successive series of three bounds, each time less energetic than the last. the sky had become much brighter, as it often does toward the close of rainy days, a boundless sky, tinged with the hues of dawn, against which, upon the family tomb of the moras, four allegorical figures stood forth, imploring, contemplative, pensive, the dying day exaggerating the sublimity of their attitudes. naught remained of the orations, the perfunctory official condolences. the trampled grass all around, masons occupied in washing the spots of plaster from the threshold, were all that recalled the recent interment. suddenly the door of the ducal cavern closed in all its metallic ponderosity. thenceforth the former minister of state was alone, quite alone, in the darkness of his night, more dense than that just creeping up from the garden below, invading the winding avenues, the stairways surrounding the bases of columns, pyramids, crypts of every kind, whose summits died more slowly. gravediggers, all white with the chalky whiteness of dried bones, passed with their tools and their baskets. stealthy mourners, tearing themselves away regretfully from tears and prayer, crept along the hedges, brushing them in their silent flight, like the flight of night-birds, while on the outskirts of père-lachaise voices arose, melancholy voices announcing the hour for closing. the cemetery day was done. the city of the dead, given back to nature, became an immense forest with cross-roads marked by crosses. in the heart of a valley lights shone in the windows of a keeper's house. a shiver ran through the air and lost itself in whisperings at the end of interlaced paths. "let us go," said the two old comrades, yielding gradually to the influence of the twilight, which seemed colder there than elsewhere; but, before they turned away, hemerlingue, following out his thought, pointed to the monument, with the draperies and outstretched hands of the carved figures like wings at the four corners: "there was a man who understood all about keeping up appearances." jansoulet took his arm to assist him in the descent. "oh! yes, he was strong. but you are stronger than anybody else," he said in his fervid gascon accent. hemerlingue did not protest. "i owe it all to my wife. so i urge you to make your peace with her, because if you don't--" "oh! never fear--we will come saturday; but you will go with me to le merquier." and as the two silhouettes, one tall and square-shouldered, the other short and stout, disappeared in the windings of the great labyrinth, as jansoulet's voice, guiding his friend, with a "this way, old fellow--lean on me," gradually died away, a stray beam of the setting sun fell upon the plateau behind them, and lighted the colossal bust of balzac looking after them with its expressive face, its noble brow from which the long hair was brushed back, its powerful and sarcastic lip. xx. baroness hemerlingue. at the farther end of the long archway beneath which were the offices of hemerlingue and son, a dark tunnel which père joyeuse had for ten years bedecked and illumined with his dreams, a monumental staircase with wrought-iron rail, a staircase of old paris, ascended to the left, leading to the baroness's salons, whose windows looked on the courtyard just above the counting-room, so that, during the warm season, when everything was open, the chink of the gold pieces, the noise made by piles of crowns toppling over on the counters, slightly deadened by the rich hangings at the long windows, formed a sort of commercial accompaniment to the subdued conversations carried on by worldly catholicism. that detail was responsible for the peculiar physiognomy of that salon, no less peculiar than the woman who presided over it, mingling a vague odor of the sacristy with the excitement of the bourse and the most consummate worldliness, heterogeneous elements which constantly met and came in contact there, but remained separate, just as the seine separates the noble catholic faubourg under whose auspices the notorious conversion of the moslem woman took place, from the financial quarters in which hemerlingue's life and his associations were located. levantine society, which is quite numerous in paris, consisting principally of german jews, bankers or commission merchants, who, after making enormous fortunes in the orient, continue in business here in order not to lose the habit of it, was very regular in its attendance on the baroness's days. tunisians sojourning in paris never failed to call upon the wife of the great banker, who was in favor at home, and old colonel brahim, the bey's chargé d'affaires, with his drooping lips and his lustreless eyes, took his nap every saturday in the corner of the same divan. "your salon smells of burning flesh, my goddaughter," the old princesse de dions said laughingly to the newly-christened marie, whom she and maître le merquier had held at the baptismal font; but the presence of that crowd of heretics, jews, mussulmans and even renegades, those fat women with pimply faces, gaudily dressed, loaded down with gold and earrings, "veritable bales" of finery, did not prevent faubourg saint-germain from calling upon, surrounding and watching over the young neophyte, the plaything of those noble dames, a very pliant, very docile doll, whom they took about and exhibited, quoting her _naïve_ evangelical remarks, especially interesting by way of contrast to her past. perhaps there found its way into the hearts of those amiable patronesses the hope of encountering in that company fresh from the orient an opportunity to make a new conversion, to fill the aristocratic mission chapel once more with the touching spectacle of one of those baptisms of adults, which carry you back to the early days of the faith, to the banks of the jordan, and are soon followed by the first communion, the rebaptizing, the confirmation, all affording pretexts for the godmother to accompany her goddaughter, to guide that young soul, to look on at the ingenuous transports of a new-born faith, and at the same time to display costumes deftly varied and shaded to suit the brilliancy or the solemnity of the ceremony. but it does not often happen that a baron prominent in financial circles brings to paris an armenian slave whom he has made his lawful wife. a slave! that was the stain in the past of that woman of the orient, purchased long ago in the slave-mart at adrianople for the emperor of morocco, then, upon the emperor's death and the dispersion of his harem, sold to the young bey ahmed. hemerlingue had married her on her exit from that second seraglio, but was unable to induce society to receive her in tunis, where no woman, be she moor, turk, or european, will ever consent to treat a former slave as an equal, by virtue of a prejudice not unlike that which separates the creole from the most perfectly disguised quadroon. there is an invincible repugnance there on that subject, which the hemerlingue family found even in paris, where the foreign colonies form little clubs overflowing with local susceptibilities and traditions. thus yumina passed two or three years in utter solitude, of which she was able to turn to good account all the bitterness of heart and all the leisure hours; for she was an ambitious woman of extraordinary strength of will and obstinacy. she learned the french language thoroughly, said adieu forever to her embroidered jackets and pink silk trousers, succeeded in adapting her figure and her gait to european garb, to the embarrassment of long skirts; and one evening, at the opera, displayed to the marvelling parisians the figure, still a little uncivilized, but elegant, refined and so original, of a female mussulman in a décolleté costume by léonard. the sacrifice of her religion followed close upon that of her costume. madame hemerlingue had long since abandoned all mohammedan practices, when maître le merquier, the intimate friend of the family and her cicerone in paris, pointed out that a formal conversion of the baroness would open to her the doors of that portion of parisian society which seems to have become more and more difficult of access, in proportion as the society all around it has become more democratic. faubourg saint-germain once conquered, all the rest would follow. and so it proved that when, after the sensation occasioned by the baptism, it became known that the greatest names of france did not disdain to assemble at baroness hemerlingue's saturdays, mesdames guggenheim, fuernberg, caraïscaki, maurice trott, all wives of fez millionaires and illustrious in the market-places of tunis, renounced their prejudices and prayed to be admitted to the ex-slave's receptions. madame jansoulet alone, newly landed in france with a stock of oriental ideas impeding circulation in her mind, as her nargileh, her ostrich eggs and all the rest of her tunisian trash impeded it in her apartments, protested against what she called impropriety, cowardice, and declared that she would never step foot inside "that creature's" doors. immediately a slight retrograde movement took place among mesdames guggenheim, caraïscaki, and other bales of finery, as always happens in paris whenever obstinate resistance from some quarter to the regularizing of an irregular state of affairs leads to regrets and defections. they had advanced too far to withdraw, but they determined that the value of their complaisance, of the sacrifice of their prejudices should be more fully understood; and baroness marie realized the difference simply from the patronizing tone of the levantines, who called her "my dear child--my good girl," with haughty condescension not unmingled with contempt. thereafter her hatred of the jansoulets knew no bounds, a complicated, savage, seraglio hatred, with strangling and secret drowning at the end, an operation rather more difficult of performance in paris than on the shores of the lake of el-baheira, but she was already preparing the bow-string and stout bag. that implacable hatred being well known and understood, we can imagine the surprise and excitement in that exotic corner of society, when it was reported that not only did the stout afchin--as those ladies called her--consent to meet the baroness, but was to call first upon her on her next saturday. you may be sure that neither the fuernbergs nor the trotts proposed to miss that occasion. the baroness for her part did all that she could to give the utmost possible publicity to that solemn act of reparation, wrote notes and made calls and played her cards so well that, notwithstanding the fact that the season was very far advanced, madame jansoulet, if she had arrived at the mansion in faubourg saint-honoré about four o'clock, might have seen before the lofty arched gateway, beside the princesse de dions' quiet livery of the color of dead leaves, and many genuine coats of arms, the showy, pretentious crests, the multi-colored wheels of a multitude of financiers' equipages and the tall powdered lackeys of the caraïscakis. above, in the reception-rooms, there was the same strange and gorgeous medley. there was a constant going and coming over the carpets of the first two rooms, which were quite deserted, a rustling of silk dresses to and from the boudoir, where the baroness received, dividing her attentions and her cajoleries between the two very distinct camps; on one side dark dresses, modest in appearance, whose richness was discernible to none but practised eyes, on the other a tumultuous springtime of bright colors, expansive waists, diamonds in profusion, floating sashes, styles for exportation, wherein one could detect a sort of regretful longing for a warmer climate and a luxurious, ostentatious life. fans waving majestically here, discreet whispering there. very few men, two or three youths, very thoughtful, silent and inactive, sucking the heads of their canes, several stooping figures, standing behind their wives' broad backs, talking with their heads lowered as if they were discussing smuggling expeditions; in a corner the beautiful, patriarchal beard and violet hood of an orthodox armenian bishop. the baroness, in her efforts to bring these discordant social elements together and to keep her salons full until the famous interview, constantly moved about, carried on ten different conversations at once, raising her soft, melodious voice to the purring pitch that distinguishes oriental women,--a wheedling, seductive voice, and a mind as supple as her waist, opening all sorts of subjects, and, as convention requires, mingling fashions and sermons on charity, theatres and auction sales,--the scandalmonger and the confessor. she possessed a great personal charm in addition to this acquired science of entertaining, a science visible even in her very simple black dress, which brought out in relief her cloistral pallor, her houri-like eyes, her smooth, glossy hair, parted above a narrow, unwrinkled brow,--a brow whose mystery was accentuated by the too thin lips, closing to the curious the whole varied, adventurous past of that ex-odalisque, who was of no age, had no knowledge of the date of her birth, did not remember that she had ever been a child. clearly, if the absolute power of evil, very rarely found in women, whom their impressionable physical nature subjects to so many varying currents, could exist in a human soul, it would be found in the soul of that slave trained to concessions and fawning, rebellious but patient, and thoroughly self-controlled, like all those whom the habit of wearing a veil lowered over their eyes has accustomed to lying without danger and without scruple. at that moment no one could have suspected the agony of suspense from which she was suffering, to see her kneeling in front of the princess, a good-humored old woman, of unceremonious manners, of whom la fuernberg constantly said: "well, if she's a princess!" "oh! godmother, don't go yet, i beg you!" she overwhelmed her with all sorts of fascinating little tricks of action and expression, without acknowledging, of course, that she was determined to detain her until jansoulet's arrival, in order to make her contribute to her triumph. "you see," said the good woman, pointing to the armenian, sitting, majestic and solemn, his tasselled hat on his knees, "i have to take poor monseigneur to the _grand-saint-christophe_ to buy medals. he could never do it without me." "but i want you to stay. you must. just a few minutes more." and the baroness glanced furtively toward the gorgeous, old-fashioned clock hanging in a corner of the salon. five o'clock already, and the stout afchin did not come. the levantines began to laugh behind their fans. luckily, tea had just been served, and spanish wines, and a quantity of delicious turkish cakes, which were found nowhere else, and the receipts for which, brought to paris by the ex-slave, are preserved in harems, as certain secrets connected with the finest confectionery are preserved in our convents. that made a diversion. hemerlingue, who came from his office from time to time on saturdays to pay his respects to the ladies, was drinking a glass of madeira at the small table on which the refreshments were served, talking with maurice trott, formerly said-pacha's bath-master, when his wife, always mild and tranquil externally, approached him. he knew what fierce wrath must be hidden beneath that impenetrable calm, and he asked her timidly, in an undertone: "no one?" "no one. you see to what an outrage you have exposed me!" she smiled, her eyes half-closed, as she removed with the ends of her fingers a crumb that had lodged in his long black whiskers; but her transparent little nostrils quivered with awe-inspiring eloquence. "oh! she will come," said the banker, with his mouth full. "i am sure she will come." a rustling of silk, of a train being adjusted in the adjoining room, caused the baroness to turn her head quickly. to the great delight of the cluster of "bales" in one corner, who were watching everything, it was not she who was expected. she bore but little resemblance to mademoiselle afchin, the tall, graceful blonde, with the tired features and irreproachable toilet, worthy in every respect to bear a name as illustrious as that of dr. jenkins. in the last two or three months the beautiful madame jenkins had changed greatly, had grown much older. there comes a time in the life of a woman who has long retained her youth, when the years which have passed over her head without leaving a wrinkle write themselves down pitilessly all at once in ineffaceable marks. we no longer say when we see her: "how lovely she is!" but, "she must have been very lovely." and that cruel fashion of speaking of the past, of referring to a distant period what was a visible fact but yesterday, constitutes a beginning of old age and of retirement,--a substitution of reminiscences for all past triumphs. was it the disappointment of seeing the doctor's wife instead of madame jansoulet, or was the discredit which the duc de mora's death had brought upon the fashionable doctor destined to overflow upon her who bore his name? there was something of both those causes, and perhaps of another as well, in the cold welcome which the baroness accorded madame jenkins. a murmured greeting, a few hurried words, and she returned to the battalion of noble dames who were nibbling away with great zest. the salon became animated under the influence of the spanish wines. people no longer whispered; they talked. lamps were brought in and imparted additional brilliancy to the occasion, but announced that it was very near its end, as several persons who had no interest in the great event were already moving toward the door. and the jansoulets did not come. suddenly there was a heavy, hurried step. the nabob appeared, alone, buttoned into his black frock-coat, correctly gloved and cravatted, but with distorted features and haggard eye, still trembling from the terrible scene in which he had just taken part. she had refused to come. in the morning he had told madame's women to have her dressed at three o'clock, as he was accustomed to do whenever he took the levantine abroad with him, for he found it necessary to impart motion to that indolent creature, who, being incapable of assuming any responsibility whatsoever, allowed others to think, to decide and to act for her, although she was quite willing to go wherever he chose, when she was once started. and he relied upon that willingness to enable him to take her to hemerlingue's house. but when, after breakfast, jansoulet, fully dressed, magnificent, perspiring in his struggles to put on his gloves, sent to ask if madame would soon be ready, he was told that madame was not going out. it was a serious crisis, so serious that, discarding the mediation of valets and maids, through whom their conjugal interviews were usually conducted, he ran upstairs four stairs at a time, and entered the levantine's luxurious apartments like a gust of the mistral. she was still in bed, clad in the ample open-work tunic in silk of two colors, which the moors call a _djebba_, and in one of their gold-embroidered caps from which her beautiful heavy black mane escaped in tangled masses around her moon-like face, flushed by the hearty meal she had just finished. the sleeves of the _djebba_ were turned back, disclosing two enormous, shapeless arms, laden with bracelets, with long slender chains wandering amid a wilderness of little mirrors, red chaplets, boxes of perfume, microscopic pipes, cigarette cases, the trivial toy-shop display of a moorish beauty at her hour for rising. the bedroom, heavy with the opium-laden, suffocating odor of turkish tobacco, presented the same disorderly aspect. negresses went in and out, slowly removing their mistress's coffee service, her favorite gazelle was lapping a cup which he had overturned on the carpet with his slender nose, while the dark-browed cabassu, seated at the foot of the bed with touching familiarity, was reading aloud to madame a drama in verse soon to be produced at cardaillac's theatre. the levantine was amazed, absolutely stupefied by the work. "my dear," she said to jansoulet, in her thick flemish accent, "i don't know what our manager is thinking about. i am just reading that play, _révolte_, that he is so crazy over. why, it's a frightful thing! it's never been on the stage." "what do i care for your stage?" cried jansoulet fiercely, despite all his respect for the daughter of the afchins. "what! you're not dressed, yet? weren't you told that we were going out?" she had been told, but she had begun to read this idiotic play. "we will go out to-morrow," she said in her sleepy tone. "to-morrow! impossible! we are expected to-day without fail. a very important visit." "where are we to go, pray?" he hesitated a second, then answered: "to hemerlingue's." she looked up at him with her great eyes, convinced that he was laughing at her. thereupon he told her of his meeting with the baron at mora's funeral and the agreement they had made. "go there if you choose," she said coldly; "but you know me very little if you think that i, an afchin, will ever set foot inside that slave's door." cabassu, seeing the turn that the discussion was taking, had prudently disappeared in an adjoining room, the five books of _révolte_ in a pile under his arm. "stay," said the nabob to his wife, "it is clear that you don't understand the terrible plight i am in. listen." heedless of the maids and negresses, with the oriental's sovereign indifference for the servant class, he began to draw the picture of his great embarrassment, his property in tunis seized, his credit in paris lost, his whole life hanging in suspense on the decision of the chamber, hemerlingue's influence with the man who was to make the report, and the absolute necessity of sacrificing all self-love to such momentous interests. he talked with great warmth, eager to persuade her, to take her with him. but she replied, simply: "i will not go," as if it were a matter of an expedition of no possible consequence, so long that it was likely to tire her. "come, come, it isn't possible that you would say such a thing," he continued, quivering with excitement. "remember that my fortune is at stake, the future of your children, the very name you bear. everything is staked on this one concession, which you cannot refuse to make." he might have talked thus for hours, he would still have been met by the same determined, invincible obstinacy. a mademoiselle afchin could not call upon a slave. "i tell you, madame," he exclaimed, savagely, "that slave is worth more than you. by her shrewdness she has doubled her husband's wealth, while you on the contrary--" for the first time in the twelve years of their married life jansoulet dared to oppose his wife's will. was he ashamed of that crime of _lèse-majesté_ or did he realize that such a declaration might dig an impassable abyss between them? at all events he changed his tone at once and knelt beside the low bed, with the affectionate, smiling tone one employs to make children listen to reason. "my dear little marthe, i implore you--get up and dress yourself. it's for your own interest that i ask you to do it, for your luxury, for your comfort. what will become of you if, by a mere whim, by naughty wilfulness, we are to be reduced to poverty?" the word "poverty" conveyed absolutely no meaning to the levantine. you could speak of it before her as you speak of death before small children. it failed to move her, as she had no idea what it was. at all events she was obstinately determined to remain in bed in her _djebba_, for, to emphasize her decision, she lighted a fresh cigarette from the one she had just finished, and while the nabob enveloped his "darling little wife" in apologies and prayers and supplications, promising her a diadem of pearls a hundred times more beautiful than hers if she would come, she watched the heady smoke float up to the painted ceiling and wrapped herself in it as in imperturbable tranquillity. finally, in face of that persistent refusal, that silence, that forehead upon which he detected the barrier of unconquerable obstinacy, jansoulet gave rein to his wrath and drew himself up to his full height. "very good," said he, "i say you shall." he turned to the negresses: "dress your mistress, at once." and the boor that he really was, the son of the southern junk-dealer coming to the surface in that crisis, which moved him to the depths of his being, he threw back the bedclothes with a brutal, contemptuous gesture, tossing the innumerable gewgaws they held to the floor, and forcing the half-naked levantine to jump to her feet with a promptitude most remarkable in that bulky personage. she roared under the outrage, gathered the folds of her tunic about her misshapen bust, fixed her little cap crosswise over her falling hair, and began to blackguard her husband. "never, you hear me, never--you shall never drag me to that--" filth poured from her heavy lips as from the mouth of a drain. jansoulet might well have believed that he was in one of the frightful dens along the water front in marseille, listening to a quarrel between a prostitute and a _nervi_, or looking on at some open-air fracas between genoese, maltese and provençal women gleaning on the quay around bags of grain in process of unloading, and reviling each other at full speed in eddies of golden dust. she was the typical seaport levantine, the spoiled, neglected child, who from her terrace, or from her gondola, in the evening, has heard sailors cursing one another in all the languages of the latin seas, and has remembered everything. the wretched man stared at her, horrified and dismayed at what she compelled him to hear, at her grotesque figure, foaming at the mouth and sputtering: "no, i won't go--no, i won't go!" and she was the mother of his children, an afchin! suddenly, at the thought that his fate was in that woman's hands, that she had only to put on a dress to save him, and that time was flying, that it would soon be too late, a gust of crime rushed to his brain, distorted all his features. he rushed at her, opening and closing his hands with such a terrible expression that the daughter of the afchins, in deadly terror, darted toward the door through which the _masseur_ had just left the room, calling: "aristide!" that cry, that voice, his wife's evident intimacy with his lieutenant--jansoulet stopped, his frantic anger passed away, and he rushed from the room, throwing the doors open, more eager to escape the disaster and the horror whose presence he felt in his own house, than to go elsewhere to seek the help that had been promised him. a quarter of an hour later he made his appearance at hemerlingue's, making a despairing gesture in the banker's direction as he entered, and approached the baroness, stammering the ready-made phrase that he had heard repeated so often on the evening of his own ball: "his wife was very ill--in despair that she could not--" she did not give him time to finish, but rose slowly, like a long, slender snake in the crosswise folds of her clinging skirt, and said, in her schoolgirl accent, without looking at him: "oh! _i_ knew--_i_ knew;" then moved away and paid no further heed to him. he tried to accost hemerlingue, but that gentleman seemed deeply absorbed in his conversation with maurice trott. thereupon he went and sat down beside madame jenkins, whose isolation was no less marked than his. but, while he talked with the poor woman, who was as languid as he himself was preoccupied, he watched the baroness do the honors of that salon, so much more comfortable than his own great gilded halls. the guests were taking their leave. madame hemerlingue escorted some of the ladies to the door, bent her head beneath the benediction of the armenian bishop, bowed smilingly to the young dandies with canes, bestowed upon every one the proper variety of salutation, with perfect self-possession; and the poor devil could not avoid a mental comparison between that oriental slave become such a thorough parisian, of such marked distinction in the most refined society on earth, and that other woman, the european enervated by the orient, brutalized by turkish tobacco and bloated by a life of sloth. his ambition, his pride as a husband were disappointed, humiliated in that union of which he now saw the peril and the emptiness, the last cruel blow of destiny which deprived him even of the refuge of domestic happiness against all his public misfortunes. gradually the salons became empty. the levantines disappeared one after another, each leaving an immense void in her place. madame jenkins had gone, and only two or three women, strangers to jansoulet, remained, among whom the mistress of the house seemed to be seeking refuge from him. but hemerlingue was at liberty, and the nabob joined him just as he was sidling furtively away in the direction of his offices, which were on the same floor opposite the state apartments. jansoulet went out with him, forgetting in his confusion to salute the baroness; and when they were safely out on the landing, arranged as a reception-room, the corpulent hemerlingue, who had been very cold and reserved so long as he felt his wife's eye upon him, assumed a somewhat more open expression. "it's a great pity," he said in a low tone, as if he were afraid of being overheard, "that madame jansoulet would not come." jansoulet replied with a gesture of despair and savage helplessness. "too bad--too bad!" said the other, blowing his nose and feeling in his pocket for his key. "look here, old fellow," said the nabob, taking his arm, "because our wives don't hit it off together, is no reason--that doesn't prevent our remaining friends. what a nice little chat we had the other day, eh?" "to be sure," said the baron, withdrawing his hand to unlock the door, which opened noiselessly, disclosing the lofty private office with its one lamp burning in front of the capacious, empty armchair. "ya didon, mouci,"[ ] said the poor nabob, trying to jest, and resorting to the _sabir_ patois to remind his old chum of all the pleasant reminiscences they had overhauled the day before. "our visit to le merquier still holds. the picture we were going to offer him, you know. what day shall we go?" footnotes: [ ] ah! i say, monsieur. "ah! yes, le merquier. to be sure. well, very soon. i will write you." "sure? you know it's very urgent." "yes, yes, i'll write you. adieu." and the fat man closed his door hastily as if he feared that his wife might appear. two days later the nabob received a note from hemerlingue, almost undecipherable with its little fly-tracks, complicated by abbreviations more or less commercial, behind which the ex-sutler concealed his absolute lack of orthography: "mon ch/anc/cam/--je ne puis décid/t'accom/ chez le merq/. trop d'aff/en ce mom/. d'aill/v/ ser/mieux seuls pour caus/. vas-y carrém/. on t'att/. r/cassette, tous les mat/de à . "a toi cor/ "hem/."[ ] footnotes: [ ] "my dear old comrade,--i cannot see my way to accompanying you to see le merquier. too busy just now. indeed, you will do better to talk with him alone. go there openly. you are expected. rue cassette, every morning, to . "yours cordially, "hemerlingue." below, by way of postscript, in a hand equally fine, but much clearer, was written very legibly: "a religious picture, if possible." what was he to think of that letter? was it dictated by real friendliness or polite dissimulation? at all events, further hesitation was out of the question. the time was very short. so jansoulet made a brave effort, for le merquier frightened him sadly, and went to his office one morning. this strange paris of ours, in its population and its varied aspects, seems like a map of the whole world. we find in the marais narrow streets with old, carved, vermiculated doors, with overhanging gables, with balconies _en moucharabies_, which make one think of old heidelberg. faubourg saint-honoré where it is broadest, near the russian church with its white minarets and golden balls, recalls a bit of moscow. on montmartre there is a picturesque, crowded spot that is pure algiers. low, clean little houses, with their copper-plates on the doors, and their private gardens, stand in line along typical english streets between neuilly and the champs-Élysées; while the whole circuit of the apse of saint-sulpice, rue férou, rue cassette, lying placidly in the shadow of the great towers, roughly paved, with knockers on the front doors, seems to have been transplanted from some pious provincial city,--tours or orléans for instance, in the neighborhood of the cathedral and the bishop's palace, where tall trees tower above the walls and sway to the music of the bells and the responses. there, in the vicinity of the catholic club, of which he had been chosen honorary president, lived maître le merquier, advocate, deputy for lyon, man of business of all the great religious communities of france, and the man whom hemerlingue, in pursuance of an idea of great profundity for that bulky individual, had intrusted with the legal affairs of his firm. arriving about nine o'clock at an ancient mansion, whose ground-floor was occupied by a religious publishing house sleeping peacefully in its odor of the sacristy and of coarse paper for printing miracles, and ascending the broad staircase, the walls of which were whitewashed like those of a convent, jansoulet felt permeated with that provincial and catholic atmosphere wherein the memories of his southern past revived, childish impressions still fresh and intact, thanks to his long exile, impressions which the son of françoise had had neither time nor occasion to disown since his arrival in paris. worldly hypocrisy had assumed all its different shapes before him, tried all its masks, except that of religious integrity. so that he refused in his own mind to believe in the venality of a man who lived in such surroundings. ushered into the advocate's waiting-room, a large parlor with curtains of starched muslin as fine as that of which surplices are made, its only ornament a large and beautiful copy of tintoret's _dead christ_ over the door, his uncertainty and anxiety changed to indignant conviction. it was not possible. he had been misled touching le merquier. surely it was an impudent slander, such as paris is so ready to spread; or perhaps they were laying another one of those wicked traps for him, against which he had done nothing but stumble for six months past. no, that timid conscience renowned at the palais de justice and the chamber, that cold, austere man could not be dealt with like those coarse, pot-bellied pashas, with their loose belts and floating sleeves so convenient as receptacles for purses of sequins. he would expose himself to a shameful refusal, to the natural revolt of outraged honor, if he should attempt such methods of bribery. the nabob said this to himself as he sat on the oak bench that ran around the room, polished by serge gowns and the rough broadcloth of cassocks. notwithstanding the early hour, several persons beside himself were waiting. a dominican striding back and forth, ascetic and serene of face, two nuns buried in their hoods, telling their beads on long rosaries which measured their time of waiting, priests from the diocese of lyon, recognizable from the shape of their hats, and other persons of stern and meditative mien seated by the great table of black wood which stood in the centre of the room, and turning the leaves of some of those edifying periodicals which are printed on the hill of fourvières, the _echoes from purgatory_, or _marie's rose-bush_, and which give as premiums to yearly subscribers papal indulgences, absolution for future sins. a few words in a low voice, a stifled cough, the faint murmuring of the two sisters' prayer reminded jansoulet of the confused, faraway sensation of hours of waiting around the confessional, in a corner of his village church, when the great religious festivals were drawing near. at last it came his turn to enter the sanctum, and if any shadow of doubt concerning maître le merquier remained in his mind, that doubt vanished when he saw that high-studded office, simple and severe in appearance,--although somewhat more decorated than the waiting-room--of which the advocate made a framework for his rigid principles and his long, thin, stooping, narrow-shouldered person, eternally squeezed into a black coat too short in the sleeves, from which protruded two flat, square, black hands, two clubs of india ink covered with swollen veins like hieroglyphics. in the clerical deputy's sallow complexion, the complexion of the lyonnais turned mouldy between his two rivers, there was a certain animation, due to his varying expression, sometimes sparkling but impenetrable behind his spectacles, more frequently keen, suspicious and threatening over those same spectacles, and surrounded by the retreating shadow which follows the arch of the eyebrow when the eye is raised and the head low. after a greeting that was almost cordial in comparison with the cold salutation which the two colleagues exchanged at the chamber, an "i was expecting you," uttered with a purpose perhaps, the advocate waved the nabob to the chair near his desk, bade the smug domestic, dressed in black from head to foot, not to "tighten the sack-cloth with the scourge," but to stay away until the bell should ring for him, arranged a few scattered papers, and then, crossing his legs, burying himself in his armchair in the crouching attitude of the man who is making ready to listen, who becomes all ears, he took his chin in his hand and sat with his eyes fixed on a long curtain of green ribbed velvet that fell from the ceiling to the floor opposite him. it was a decisive moment, an embarrassing situation. but jansoulet did not hesitate. it was one of the poor nabob's boasts that he understood men as well as mora. and the keen scent, which, he said, had never deceived him, warned him that he was at that moment in presence of a rigid, immovable honesty, a conscience of solid rock unassailable by pick-axe or powder. "my conscience!" so he suddenly changed his programme, cast aside the stratagems, the equivocal hints, in which his open, courageous nature was wallowing about, and with head erect and heart laid bare, talked to that upright man in a language which he was built to understand. "do not be surprised, my dear colleague,"--his voice trembled at first, but soon became firm in his conviction of the justice of his cause--"do not be surprised that i have come to see you here instead of simply asking to be heard by the third committee. the explanations that i have to put before you are of such a delicate and confidential nature that it would have been impossible for me to give them in a public place, before my assembled colleagues." maître le merquier looked at the curtain over his spectacles with an air of dismay. evidently the conversation was taking an unexpected turn. "i do not touch upon the substance of the question," continued the nabob. "i am sure that your report is impartial and just, such a report as your conscience must have dictated. but certain disgusting slanders have been set on foot concerning myself, to which i have not replied, and which may have influenced the opinion of the committee. that is the subject on which i wish to speak to you. i know the confidence which your colleagues repose in you, monsieur le merquier, and that, when i have convinced you, your word will be sufficient and i shall not be obliged to parade my distress before the full committee. you know the charge. i refer to the most horrible, the most shameful one. there are so many that one might make a mistake among them. my enemies have given names, dates, addresses. be it so! i bring you the proofs of my innocence. i lay them before you, before you only; for i have the gravest reasons for keeping this whole affair secret." thereupon he showed the advocate a certificate from the consulate at tunis that in twenty years he had left the principality but twice, the first time to see his father who lay dying at bourg-saint-andéol, the second time to pay a visit of three days at his château of saint-romans with the bey. "how does it happen that with such a decisive document in my hands i have not cited my defamers before the courts to contradict them and put them to shame? alas! monsieur, there are family bonds that cut into the flesh. i had a brother, a poor weak spoiled creature, who rolled for a long while in the filth of paris, left his intelligence and his honor here. did he really descend to that stage of degradation at which i have been placed in his name? i have not dared to ascertain. what i can say is that my poor father, who knew more about it than any one else in the family, whispered to me when he was dying: 'bernard, your brother is killing me. i am dying of shame, my child.'" he paused for a moment, compelled by his suffocating emotion, then continued: "my father died, monsieur le merquier, but my mother is still alive, and it is for her sake, for her repose, that i have recoiled, that i still recoil from making public my justification. thus far the filth that has been thrown at me has not splashed upon her. it does not extend outside a certain social circle, a special class of newspapers, from which the dear woman is a thousand leagues away. but the courts, a law-suit, means the parading of our misfortune from one end of france to the other, the _messager_ articles printed by every newspaper, even those in the retired little place where my mother lives. the slander itself, my defence, both her children covered with shame at one blow, the family name--the old peasant woman's only pride--tarnished forever. that would be too much for her. and really it seems to me that one is enough. that is why i have had the courage to hold my peace, to tire out my enemies, if possible, by my silence. but i need some one to answer for me in the chamber, i wish to deprive it of the right to eject me for reasons dishonoring to me, and as it selected you to report upon my election, i have come to tell everything to you, as to a confessor, a priest, begging you not to divulge a word of this conversation, even in the interest of my cause. i ask nothing but that, my dear colleague,--absolute reticence on this subject; for the rest i rely upon your justice and your loyalty." he rose, prepared to go, and le merquier did not stir, still questioning the green hanging in front of him, as if seeking there an inspiration for his reply. at last,-- "it shall be as you wish, my dear colleague," he said. "this confidence shall remain between ourselves. you have told me nothing, i have heard nothing." the nabob, still all aflame with his eloquent outburst, which, as it seemed to him, called for a cordial response, a warm grasp of the hand, had a strangely uneasy feeling. that cold manner, that absent expression weighed so heavily upon him, that he was already walking to the door with the awkward salutation of unwelcome visitors. but the other detained him. "stay a moment, my dear colleague. how eager you are to leave me! a few moments more, i beg. i am too happy to converse with such a man as you. especially as we have more than one common bond. our friend hemerlingue tells me that you, like myself, are much interested in pictures." jansoulet started. the two words "hemerlingue" and "pictures," meeting so unexpectedly in the same sentence, brought back all his doubts, all his perplexity. he did not surrender even then, however, but left le merquier to put his words forward, one in front of another, feeling the ground for his stumbling advance. he had heard much of his honorable colleague's gallery. would it be presumptuous for him to ask the favor of being admitted to--? "nonsense! why, i should be too highly honored," said the nabob, tickled in the most sensitive--because it had been the most expensive--part of his vanity; and, glancing about at the walls of the study, he added in the tone of a connoisseur: "you have some fine examples yourself." "oh!" said the other modestly, "a few poor canvases. pictures are so dear in these days--it's a taste so hard to gratify, a genuinely luxurious passion. a nabob's passion," he added with a smile and a stealthy glance over his spectacles. they were two prudent gamblers face to face; jansoulet, however, was somewhat at fault in that novel situation, in which he was obliged to walk warily, he who knew of no other mode of action than by bold, audacious strokes. "when i think," murmured the advocate, "that i have spent ten years covering these walls, and that i still have this whole panel to fill!" in truth, in the most conspicuous part of the high partition there was an empty space, a vacated space rather, for a great gilt-headed nail near the ceiling showed the visible, almost clumsy trace of the trap set for the poor innocent, who foolishly allowed himself to be taken in it. "my dear monsieur le merquier," he said, in an engaging, affable tone, "i have a _virgin_ by tintoret just the size of your panel." it was impossible to read anything in the advocate's eyes, which had now taken refuge behind their gleaming shelter. "permit me to hang it there, opposite your desk. it will give you an excuse for thinking of me sometimes--" "and for mitigating the strictures of my report, eh, monsieur?" cried le merquier, springing to his feet, a threatening figure, with his hand on the bell. "i have seen many shameless performances in my life, but never anything equal to this. such offers to me, in my own house!" "but, my dear colleague, i swear--" "show him out," said the advocate to the surly servant who entered the room at that moment; and from the centre of his office, the door remaining open, before the whole parlor, where the prayers had ceased, he pursued jansoulet,--who turned his back and hastened, mumbling incoherently, toward the outer door--with these crushing words: "you have insulted the honor of the whole chamber in my person, monsieur. our colleagues shall be informed of it this very day; and, this additional offence being added to the others, you will learn to your sorrow that paris is not the orient, and the human conscience is not shamefully traded in and bartered here as it is there." thereupon, having driven the money-changer from the temple, the just man closed his door, and approaching the green curtain, said in a tone which sounded sweet as honey after his pretended anger: "was that about right, baronne marie?" xxi. the sitting. that morning there was not, as usual, a grand breakfast-party at number place vendôme. so that about one o'clock you might have seen m. barreau's majestic paunch arrayed in white linen displaying itself at the entrance to the porch, surrounded by four or five scullions in their paper caps and as many grooms in scotch caps,--an imposing group, which gave the sumptuous mansion the appearance of a hostelry, where the whole staff was taking a breath of fresh air between two arrivals. the resemblance was made complete by the cab stopping in front of the door and the driver lifting down an old-fashioned leather trunk, while a tall old woman in a yellow cap, an erect figure with a little green shawl over her shoulders, leaped lightly to the sidewalk, a basket on her arm, and looked carefully at the number, then approached the group of servants and asked if that was where m. bernard jansoulet lived. "this is the place," was the reply. "but he isn't in." "that's no matter," said the old woman, very naturally. she returned to the driver, bade him put her trunk under the porch, and paid him, at once replacing her purse in her pocket with a gesture that said much for provincial distrust. since jansoulet had been deputy for corsica, his servants had seen so many strange, foreign-looking creatures alight at his door that they were not greatly surprised at sight of that sun-burned woman, with eyes like glowing coals, bearing much resemblance in her simple head-dress to a genuine corsican, some old psalm-singer straight from the underbrush, but distinguished from newly-arrived islanders by the ease and tranquillity of her manners. "what do you say, the master isn't in?" she said with an intonation which is much more frequently heard by the hands on a farm, on a _mas_ in her province, than by the impertinent lackeys of a great parisian household. "no, the master isn't in." "and the children?" "they're taking their lesson. you can't see them." "and madame?" "she's asleep. no one enters her room before three o'clock." that seemed to surprise the good woman a little, that any one could stay in bed so late; but the sure instinct which, in default of education, acts as a guide to intelligent natures, prevented her from saying so to the servants, and she at once asked to speak to paul de géry. "he is travelling." "bompain jean-baptiste then?" "he's at the chamber with monsieur." her great gray eyebrows contracted. "no matter; take my trunk upstairs all the same." and, with a malicious little twitching of the eye, a touch of pride, of vengeance for the insolent glances turned upon her, she added: "i am his mother." scullions and grooms stood aside respectfully. m. barreau raised his cap: "i was saying to myself that i had seen madame somewhere." "that's just what i was saying to myself too, my boy," said mère jansoulet, shuddering at the memory of the ill-fated festivities in honor of the bey. "my boy!"--to m. barreau, to a man of his importance! that instantly placed her very high in the esteem of that little circle. ah! grandeurs and splendors did not dazzle her, the brave-hearted old woman. she was no opéra-comique mère boby going into ecstasies over the gildings and fine trinkets; the vases of flowers on every landing of the staircase she ascended behind her trunk, the hall-lamps supported by bronze statues, did not prevent her noticing that there was a finger's depth of dust on the stair-rail and that the carpet was torn. they escorted her to the apartments on the second floor, reserved for the levantine and the children, and there, in a room used as a linen closet, which was evidently near the school-room, for she could hear a murmur of childish voices, she waited, all alone, her basket on her knees, for her bernard to return, for her daughter-in-law to awake, or for the great joy of embracing her grandchildren. nothing could be better adapted than what she saw around her to give her an idea of the confusion of a household given over to servants, where the oversight of the housewife and her far-seeing activity are lacking. in huge wardrobes, all wide open, linen was heaped up pell-mell in shapeless, bulging, tottering piles,--fine sheets, saxony table linen crumbled and torn, and the locks prevented from working by some stray piece of embroidery which nobody took the trouble to remove. and yet many servants passed through that linen closet,--negresses in yellow madras, who hastily seized a napkin or a table-cloth, heedlessly trampled on those domestic treasures scattered all about, dragged to the end of the room on their great flat feet lace flounces cut from a long skirt which a maid had cast aside, thimble here, scissors there, as a piece of work to be taken up again. the semi-rustic artisan, which mère jansoulet had not ceased to be, was sadly grieved at the sight, wounded in the respect, the affection, the inoffensive mania which is inspired in the provincial housewife by the wardrobe filled with linen, piece by piece, to the very top, full of relics of the poor past, its contents increasing gradually in quantity and in quality, the first visible symptom of comfortable circumstances, of wealth in a house. again, that woman always had the distaff in her hand from morning till night, and if the house-keeper was indignant, the spinster could have wept as at a profanation. finally, unable to endure it longer, she rose, abandoned her patient, watchful attitude, and stooping over, her little green shawl displaced by every movement, began actively to pick up, smooth and fold with care that beautiful linen, as she did on the lawns at saint-romans, when she indulged in the amusement of a grand washing, employing twenty women, the baskets overflowing with snow-white folds, the sheets flapping in the morning breeze on the long drying lines. she was deeply engrossed in that occupation, which made her forget her journey, paris, even the place where she was, when a stout, thickset man, heavily bearded, in varnished boots, and a velvet jacket covering the chest and shoulders of a bull, entered the linen closet. "ah! cabassu." "you here, madame françoise! this is a surprise," said the _masseur_, opening wide his great japanese idol's eyes. "why, yes, good cabassu, it's me. i've just come. and i'm at work already, as you see. it made my heart bleed to see all this mess." "so you've come for the sitting, have you?" "what sitting?" "why, the great sitting of the corps législatif. this is the day." "faith, no. what difference do you suppose that can make to me? i don't understand anything about such things. no, i came because i wanted to know my little jansoulets, and then, i was beginning to be uneasy. i've written two or three times now without getting any answer. i was afraid there might be a child sick, or that bernard's business was in a bad way--all sorts of uncomfortable ideas. i had an attack of great black anxiety, and i started. everybody's well here, so they tell me?" "why, yes, madame françoise. everybody 's exceedingly well, thank god!" "and bernard? his business? is it going along to suit him?" "oh! you know a man always has his little crosses in this life; however, i don't think he has any reason to complain. but now i think of it, you must be hungry. i'll go and send you something to eat." he was about to ring, much more self-assured and at home than the old mother. but she checked him. "no, no, i don't need anything. i still have some of my luncheon left." she placed two figs and a crust of bread, taken from her basket, on the table, and continued to talk as she ate: "and what about your affairs, little one? it seems to me you've spruced up mightily since the last time you came to the bourg. what linen, what clothes! what department are you in?" "i am professor of massage," said aristide gravely. "you a professor!" she exclaimed, with respectful amazement; but she dared not ask him what he taught, and cabassu, somewhat embarrassed by her questions, hastened to change the subject. "suppose i go and fetch the children? hasn't any one told them their grandmother was here?" "i didn't want to take them away from their work. but i believe the lesson is over now. listen." on the other side of the door they heard the impatient stamping of school children longing to be dismissed, eager for room and air; and the old woman listened with delight to the fascinating sounds that increased her maternal longing ten-fold, but prevented her from doing anything to satisfy it. at last the door opened. first the tutor appeared, an abbé with a pointed nose and prominent cheek-bones, whom we have seen at the state breakfasts of an earlier day. having fallen out with his bishop, the ambitious ecclesiastic had left the diocese where he formerly exercised the priestly functions, and, in his precarious position as an irregular member of the clergy--for the clergy has its own bohemia--was glad of the opportunity to teach the little jansoulets, recently expelled from bourdaloue. with the same solemn, arrogant mien, as of one overburdened with responsibility, which the great prelates intrusted with the education of the dauphins of france might assume, he stalked in front of three little fellows, curled and gloved, with oblong hats and short jackets, leather bags slung over their shoulders, and long red stockings reaching to the middle of the leg, the costume of the complete velocipedist about to mount his machine. "children," said cabassu, the intimate friend of the family, "this is madame jansoulet, your grandmother, who has come to paris on purpose to see you." they halted, very much astonished, arranged according to height, and examined that withered old face between the yellow barbs of the cap, that strange costume, unfamiliar in its simplicity; and their grandmother's astonishment answered theirs, increased by heart-rending disappointment and by the embarrassment she felt in presence of those little gentlemen, who were as stiff and disdainful as the marquises, the counts and the prefects on circuit whom her son used to bring to her at saint-romans. in obedience to their tutor's injunction, "to salute their venerable grandmother," they came up one by one and gave her one of the same little handshakes with arms close to their sides of which they had distributed so many among the garrets; indeed, that good woman with the earth-colored face, and neat but very simple clothes, reminded them of their charitable visits from collège bourdaloue. they felt between herself and them the same strangeness, the same distance, which no memory, no word from their parents had ever lessened. the abbé realized her embarrassment, and, to banish it, launched forth upon a speech delivered with the throaty voice, the violent gestures common to those men who always think that they have below them the ten steps leading to a pulpit: "lo, the day has come, madame, the great day when monsieur jansoulet is to confound his enemies. _confundantur hostes mei, quia injuste iniquitatem fecerunt in me_,--because they have persecuted me unjustly." the old woman bowed devoutly to the church latin; but her face assumed a vague expression of uneasiness at the idea of enemies and persecutions. "those enemies are numerous and powerful, noble lady, but let us not be alarmed beyond measure. let us have confidence in the decrees of heaven and the justice of our cause. god is in the midst of it and it shall not be shaken. _in medio ejus non commovebitur._" a gigantic negro, resplendent in new gold lace, interrupted them to announce that the velocipedes were ready for the daily lesson on the terrace of the tuileries. before leaving the room, the children solemnly shook once more the wrinkled, calloused hand of their grandmother, who was watching them walk away, utterly bewildered and with a sore heart, when, yielding to an adorable, spontaneous impulse, the youngest of the three, having reached the door, suddenly turned, pushed the great negro aside, and plunged head foremost, like a little buffalo, into mère jansoulet's skirts, throwing his arms around her and holding up to her his smooth brow splashed with brown curls, with the sweet grace of the child who offers his caress like a flower. perhaps the little fellow, being nearer the nest and its warmth, the nurse's cradling lap and _patois_ ballads, had felt the waves of maternal love of which the levantine deprived him flowing toward his little heart. the old "grandma" shuddered from head to foot in her surprise at that instinctive embrace. "oh my darling--my darling!" seizing the curly, silky little head which reminded her of another, and kissing it frantically. then the child released himself and ran away without a word, his hair wet with hot tears. left alone with cabassu, the mother, whom that kiss had consoled, asked for an explanation of the priest's words.--had her son many enemies, pray? "oh!" said cabassu, "it is not at all surprising in his position." "but what's all this about this being a great day, and this 'sitting' you all talk about?" "why, yes! this is the day when we're to know whether bernard is to be a deputy or not." "what? isn't he one yet? why, i have told it everywhere in the neighborhood, and i illuminated saint-romans a month ago. so i was made to tell a lie!" the _masseur_ had much difficulty in explaining to her the parliamentary formality of testing the validity of elections. she listened with only one ear, feverishly pulling over the linen. "and that's where my bernard is at this moment?" "yes, madame." "are women allowed to go into this chamber?--then why isn't his wife there? for i can understand that it's a great affair for him. on such a day as to-day he will need to feel that all those he loves are beside him. look you, my boy, you must take me to this sitting. is it very far?" "no, very near. only it must have begun before this. and then," added the giaour, a little embarrassed, "this is the hour when madame needs me." "ah! do you teach her this thing that you're professor of? what do you call it?" "massage. it comes down to us from the ancients. there, she's ringing her bell now. some one will come to call me. do you want me to tell her that you are here?" "no, no, i prefer to go to the chamber at once." "but you have no card of admission, have you?" "bah! i'll say that i am jansoulet's mother and that i have come to hear my son tried." poor mother! she did not know how truly she described his position. "wait a moment, madame françoise. let me, at least, send some one to show you the way." "oh! do you know, i've never been able to get used to these servant people. i've a tongue in my head. there are people in the streets; i shall find my way well enough." he made one last attempt, without disclosing the whole of his thought: "be careful. his enemies will speak against him in the chamber. you will hear things that will hurt you." oh! the lovely smile of maternal faith and pride with which she answered: "don't i know better than all those people what my son is worth? is there anything that could make me unjust to him? if so, i must be a mighty ungrateful woman. nonsense!" and, with a threatening shake of her cap, she departed. straight as a statue, with head erect, the old woman strode along under the arches she had been told to follow, somewhat disturbed by the incessant rumbling of carriages and by her slow progress, unaccompanied by the movement of her faithful distaff, which had not quitted her for fifty years. all these suggestions of enmity, of persecution, the priest's mysterious words, cabassu's dark hints, excited and terrified her. she found therein an explanation of the presentiments which had taken possession of her so firmly as to tear her away from her habits and her duties, the superintendence of the château and the care of her invalid. strangely enough, by the way, since fortune had cast upon her son and her that cloak of gold with its heavy folds, mère jansoulet had never become accustomed to it, and was always expecting the sudden disappearance of their splendor. who could say that the final crash was not really beginning now? and suddenly, amid these gloomy thoughts, the remembrance of the childish scene of a moment before, of the little one rubbing against her drugget skirt, caused her wrinkled lips to swell in a loving smile, and, in her joy, she murmured in her _patois_: "oh! that little fellow!" a vast, magnificent, dazzling square, two sheaves of water flying upward in silver dust, then a great stone bridge, and at the further end a square building with statues in front of it, and an iron gateway where carriages were standing, people passing through and a knot of police officers. that was the place. she made her way bravely through the crowd as far as a high glass door. "your card, my good woman?" the good woman had no card, but she said simply to one of the ushers with red lapels who were acting as doorkeepers: "i am bernard jansoulet's mother; i have come to attend my boy's sitting." it was in very truth her boy's sitting; for in that crowd besieging the doors, in the crowd that filled the corridors, the hall, the galleries, the whole palace, the same name was whispered everywhere, accompanied by smiles and muttered comments. a great scandal was expected, shocking revelations by the spokesman of the committee which would doubtless lead to some violent outburst on the part of the savage thus brought to bay; and people crowded thither as to a first performance or the argument of a famous cause. the old mother certainly could not have made herself heard in the midst of that throng, if the train of gold left by the nabob wherever he passed, and marking his royal progress, had not made everything smooth for her. she followed an usher through that labyrinth of corridors, folding doors, empty, echoing rooms, filled with a buzzing noise which circulated through the air in the building and passed out through its walls, as if the very stones were impregnated with that verbosity and added the echoes of bygone days to those of all the voices of to-day. passing through a corridor, she spied a little dark man shouting and gesticulating to the attendants: "tell moussiou jansoulet zat i am ze deputy-mayor of sarlazaccio, zat i have been sentenced to five month in prison for him. zat deserves a card for ze sitting, _corps de dieu_!" five months in prison on her son's account. how could that be? anxious beyond words, she arrived at last, with a ringing in her ears, at a landing where there were divers little doors like those of furnished lodgings or theatre boxes, surmounted by different inscriptions: "senators' gallery," "gallery of the diplomatic corps," "members' gallery." she entered, seeing nothing at first but four or five rows of benches crowded with people; then, on the opposite side of the hall, far away, other galleries equally crowded, separated from her by a vast open space; she leaned, still standing, against the wall, amazed to be there, bewildered, confused. a puff of hot air striking her in the face, the hum of voices ascending from below drew her down the sloping floor of the gallery, toward the edge of a yawning pit, so to speak, in the centre of the great vessel, where her son must be. oh, how she would have liked to see him! thereupon, making herself as small as possible, playing about her with her elbows, sharp and hard as her distaff, she glided, wormed herself along between the wall and the benches, heedless of the outbursts of wrath she aroused, of the contemptuous glances of the women in gorgeous array, whose laces and spring dresses she crushed. for it was a distinctly fashionable society gathering. indeed, mère jansoulet recognized by his inflexible shirtfront and aristocratic nose the dandified marquis who had visited at saint-romans, and who bore so felicitously the name of a gorgeous bird; but he did not look at her. having thus advanced a few rows, she was checked by the back of a man sitting, an enormous back which completely blocked her path, prevented her from going farther. luckily, however, by leaning forward a little, she could see almost the whole hall; and those semi-circular rows of desks where the deputies stood in groups, the green hangings on the walls, that pulpit at the rear occupied by a man with a bald head and stern features, all in the quiet gray light falling from above, made her think of a recitation about to commence, preceded by the moving about and chattering of restless pupils. one thing attracted her attention, the persistence with which all eyes seemed to be turned in the same direction, to be fixed upon the same point of attraction; and as she followed that current of curiosity which magnetized the whole assemblage, the floor as well as the galleries, she saw what everybody was staring at so earnestly; it was her son. in the jansoulets' province there still exists in some old churches, at the back of the choir, half-way up from the crypt, a little stone box, to which lepers were admitted to listen to the services, exhibiting to the curious and fearful throng their pitiable brute-like figures cowering against the holes cut in the wall. françoise well remembered having seen, in the village in which she was brought up, the leper, the terror of her childhood, listening to the mass in his stone cage, lost in the shadow and in reprobation. when she saw her son sitting alone, far back, with his face in his hands, that picture came to her mind. "one would say he was a leper," muttered the peasant woman. and in very truth the poor nabob was a moral leper, upon whom his millions brought from the orient were at that moment imposing the torments of a terrible and mysterious exotic disease. as it happened, the bench upon which he had chosen his seat showed several gaps due to leaves of absence or recent deaths; and while the other deputies talked and laughed together, making signs to one another, he sat silent, apart, the object of the earnest scrutiny of the whole chamber,--a scrutiny which mère jansoulet felt to be ironical, ill-disposed, and which burned her as it passed. how could she let him know that she was there, close at hand, that one faithful heart was beating not far from his? for he avoided turning toward that gallery. one would have said that he felt that it was hostile, that he was afraid of seeing discouraging things there. suddenly, at the ringing of a bell on the president's desk, a thrill ran through the assemblage, every head was bent forward in the attentive attitude that immobilizes the features, and a thin man with spectacles, suddenly rising to his feet amid that multitude of seated men--a position which gave him at once the authority of attitude--said, as he opened the pile of papers which he held in his hand: "messieurs, i rise in the name of your third committee, to recommend to you that the election in the second district of the department of corsica be declared void." in the profound silence following that sentence, which mère jansoulet did not understand, the stout creature sitting in front of her began to wheeze violently, and suddenly a lovely woman's face, in the front row of the gallery, turned to make him a rapid sign of intelligence and satisfaction. her pale brow, thin lips and eyebrows that seemed too black in the white frame of the hat, produced in the good old woman's eyes, although she could not tell why, the painful impression of the first lightning flash when the storm is beginning and the apprehension of the thunderbolt follows the rapid meeting of the fluids. le merquier read his report. the slow, lifeless, monotonous voice, the lyonnais accent, soft and drawling, with which the advocate kept time by a movement of the head and shoulders almost like an animal, presented a striking contrast to the savage conciseness of the conclusions. first, a rapid sketch of the electoral irregularities. never had universal suffrage been treated with such primitive, uncivilized disrespect. at sarlazaccio, where jansoulet's opponent seemed likely to carry the day, the ballot-box was destroyed during the night preceding the counting. the same thing, or almost the same, happened at lévie, at saint-andré, at avabessa. and these offences were committed by the mayors themselves, who carried the boxes to their houses, broke the seals and tore up the ballots, under cover of their municipal authority. on all sides fraud, intrigue, even violence. at calcatoggio an armed man, blunderbuss in hand, stood at the window of an inn just opposite the mayor's office throughout the election; and whenever a supporter of sébastiani, jansoulet's opponent, appeared on the square, the man pointed his weapon at him: "if you go in, i'll blow out your brains!" moreover, when we see police commissioners, justices of the peace, sealers of weights and measures daring to transform themselves into electoral agents, intimidating and seducing a people notorious for their subjection to all these tyrannical little local influences, have we not proof positive of unbridled license? why, even the priests, consecrated pastors, led astray by their zealous interest in the poor-box and the maintenance of their impoverished churches, preached a veritable crusade in favor of jansoulet's election. but an even more powerful, although less respectable, influence was set at work for the good cause,--the influence of bandits. "yes, bandits, messieurs, i am not jesting."--and thereupon followed a sketch in bold colors of corsican banditti in general and the piedigriggio family in particular. the chamber listened with close attention and with considerable uneasiness. the fact was that it was an official candidate whose actions were being thus described, and those strange electoral morals were indigenous in that privileged island, the cradle of the imperial family, and so intimately connected with the destiny of the dynasty that an attack on corsica seemed to react upon the sovereign. but when it was observed that the new minister of state, mora's successor and bitter enemy, sitting on the government benches, seemed overjoyed at the rebuke administered to a creature of the defunct statesman, and smiled complacently at le merquier's stinging persiflage, all embarrassment instantly disappeared and the ministerial smile, repeated on three hundred mouths, soon increased to scarce-restrained laughter, the laughter of crowds dominated by any rod, by whomsoever held, which the slightest sign of approbation from the master causes to burst forth. in the galleries, which were as a general rule but little indulged with picturesque incidents, and were entertained by these stories of bandits as by a genuine novel, there was general gayety, a radiant animation enlivened the faces of all the women, overjoyed to be able to appear pretty without jarring upon the solemnity of the place. little light hats quivered in all their bright-hued plumes, round arms encircled with gold leaned on the rail in order to listen more at their ease. the solemn le merquier had imparted to the sitting the entertainment of a play, had introduced the little comical note permitted at charitable concerts as a lure to the profane. impassive and cold as ice, despite his triumph, he continued to read in a voice as dismal and penetrating as a lyonnais shower. "now, messieurs, we ask ourselves how it was that a stranger, a provençal recently returned from the orient, entirely ignorant of the interests and needs of that island where he had never been seen before the elections, the true type of what the corsicans contemptuously call 'a continental'--how did this man succeed in arousing such enthusiasm, devotion so great as to lead to crime, to profanation? his wealth will answer the question, his vile gold thrown into the faces of the electors, stuffed by force into their pockets with a shameless cynicism of which we have innumerable proofs."--then came the endless series of affidavits: "i, the undersigned, croce (antoine), do testify, in the interest of truth, that nardi, commissioner of police, came to our house one evening and said to me, 'hark ye, croce (antoine), i swear to you by the flame of yonder lamp that, if you vote for jansoulet, you shall have fifty francs to-morrow morning,'"--and this: "i, the undersigned, lavezzi (jacques-alphonse), declare that i refused with scorn seventeen francs offered me by the mayor of pozzo-negro to vote against my cousin sébastiani."--it is probable that for three francs more lavezzi (jacques-alphonse) would have devoured his scorn in silence. but the chamber did not go so deep as that. it was moved to indignation, was that incorruptible chamber. it muttered, it moved about restlessly on its soft benches of red velvet, it uttered noisy exclamations. there were "ohs!" of stupefaction, eyes like circumflex accents, sudden backward movements, or appalled, discouraged gestures, such as the spectacle of human degradation sometimes calls forth. and observe that the majority of those deputies had used the identical electoral methods, that there were on those benches heroes of the famous "rastels," of those open-air banquets at which begarlanded and beribboned calves were borne aloft in triumph as at gargantua's kermesses. they naturally cried out louder than the others, turned in righteous wrath toward the high, solitary bench where the poor leper sat motionless, listening, his head in his hands. but amid the general hue and cry, a single voice arose in his favor, a low, unpractised voice, rather a sympathetic buzzing than speech, in which could be vaguely distinguished the words: "great services rendered to corsica. extensive enterprises. _caisse territoriale._" the man who spoke thus falteringly was a little fellow in white gaiters, with an albino's face and scanty hair that stood erect in bunches. but that tactless friend's interruption simply furnished le merquier with a pretext for an immediate and natural transition. a hideous smile parted his flabby lips. "the honorable monsieur sarigue refers to the _caisse territoriale_; we proceed to answer him." the paganetti den of thieves seemed to be, in truth, very familiar to him. in a few concise, keen words he threw light into the inmost depths of that dark lair, pointed out all the snares, all the pitfalls, the windings, the trap-doors, like a guide waving his torch above the underground dungeons of some hideous _in pace_. he spoke of the pretended quarries, the railroads on paper, the imaginary steamboats, vanished in their own smoke. the ghastly desert of taverna was not forgotten, nor the old genoese tower that served as an office for the maritime agency. but the detail that rejoiced the heart of the chamber above all else was the description of a burlesque ceremonial organized by the governor for driving a tunnel through monte-rotondo,--a gigantic undertaking still in the air, postponed from year to year, requiring millions of money and thousands of arms, which had been inaugurated with great pomp a week before the election. the report described the affair comically, the blow of the pick delivered by the candidate on the flank of the great mountain covered with primeval forests, the prefect's speech, the blessing of the standards amid shouts of "vive bernard jansoulet!" and two hundred workmen going to work at once, working day and night for a week, and then--as soon as the election was over--abandoning the piles of broken rock heaped around an absurd excavation, an additional place of refuge for the redoubtable prowlers in the thickets. the trick was played. after extorting money so long from the shareholders, the _caisse territoriale_ had been made to serve as a means of capturing the votes of the electors,--"and now, messieurs, here is one last detail with which i might well have begun, in order to spare you the distressing story of this electoral burlesque. i learn that a judicial inquiry into the corsican concern has been opened this very day, and that a searching expert examination of its books will very probably lead to one of those financial scandals, too frequent, alas! in our day, in which you will not, for the honor of this chamber, permit one of your members to be involved." upon that unexpected disclosure the reporter paused a moment to draw breath, like an actor emphasizing the effect of his words; and in the dramatic silence which suddenly settled down upon the whole assemblage, the sound of a closing door was heard. it was paganetti, the governor, who had hastily left his seat in one of the galleries, with pale face, round eyes, and mouth puckered for a whistle, like mr. punch when he has detected in the air the near approach of a violent blow. monpavon, unmoved, puffed out his breastplate. the stout man wheezed violently into the flowers on his wife's little white hat. mère jansoulet gazed at her son. "i spoke of the honor of the chamber, messieurs,--i have something more to say on that subject." le merquier was no longer reading. after the reporter, the orator came upon the stage, the judge rather. his face was devoid of expression, his glance averted, and nothing lived, nothing stirred in his long body, but the right arm, that long, bony arm in its short sleeve, which moved mechanically up and down like a sword of justice, and punctuated the end of each sentence with the cruel and inexorable gesture of beheading. and it was in truth a veritable execution at which that audience was looking on. the orator would have been glad to omit from consideration the scandalous legends, the mystery that hovered over the amassing of that colossal fortune in distant lands, far from all supervision. but there were in the candidate's life certain points difficult to explain, certain details--he hesitated, seemed to be selecting his words with great care, then, as if recognizing the impossibility of formulating the direct charge, he continued: "let us not degrade the discussion, messieurs. you have understood me, you know to what infamous reports,--to what calumnies i would that i might say,--i allude; but truth compels me to declare that when monsieur jansoulet, being summoned before our third committee, was called upon to controvert the charges made against him, his explanations were so vague that, while we were persuaded of his innocence, our scrupulous regard for your honor led us to reject a candidate tainted with ordure of that sort. no, that man should not be allowed to sit among you. indeed, what would he do here? having resided so long in the orient, he has forgotten the laws, the morals, the customs of his own country. he believes in the hasty administration of justice, bastinadoes in the public streets; he relies upon abuses of power, and, what is still worse, upon the venality, the cowering degradation of all mankind. he is the merchant who thinks that everything can be bought if he offers enough for it,--even the votes of electors, even the consciences of his colleagues." you should have seen the artless admiration with which those estimable portly deputies, torpid with good living, listened to that ascetic, that man of another epoch, as if some saint-jérôme had come forth from the depths of his thebaid to overwhelm with his burning eloquence, in the senate of the empire of the east, the unblushing profligacy of prevaricators and extortioners. how fully they understood the noble sobriquet of "my conscience," which the palais de justice bestowed upon him, and which suited him so well with his great height and his wooden gestures! in the galleries the enthusiasm was even greater. pretty faces leaned forward to see him, to drink in his words. murmurs of approval ran along the benches, waving bouquets of all shades of color, like the wind blowing through a field of grain in flower. a woman's voice exclaimed in a slight foreign accent: "bravo! bravo!" and the mother? standing motionless, absorbed by her eager desire to understand something of that courtroom phraseology, of those mysterious allusions, she was like the deaf-mutes who detect what is said in their presence only by the movement of the lips, by the expression of the face. now, one had only to look at her son and le merquier to understand what injury one was inflicting upon the other, what treacherous poisoned meaning fell from that long harangue upon the poor devil who might have been thought to be asleep, save for the quivering of his broad shoulders and the clenching of his hands in his hair, in which they rioted madly, while concealing his face. oh! if she could have called to him from where she stood: "don't be afraid, my son! if they all despise you, your mother loves you. let us go away together. what do we care for them?" and for a moment she could almost believe that what she said to him thus in the depths of her heart reached him by virtue of some mysterious intuition. he had risen, shaken his curly head, with its flushed cheeks, and its thick lips quivering nervously with a childish longing to burst into tears. but, instead of leaving his bench, he clung to it, his great hands crushing the wooden rail. the other had finished; now it was his turn to reply. "messieurs--" he said. he stopped instantly, dismayed by the hoarse, horribly dull and vulgar sound of his voice, which he heard for the first time in public. and in that pause, tormented by twitchings of the face, by fruitless efforts to find the intonation he sought, he must needs summon strength to make his defence. and if the poor man's agony was touching to behold, the old mother up yonder, leaning forward, breathing hard, moving her lips nervously as if to assist him to find his words, sent back to him a faithful imitation of his torture. although he could not see her, having his face turned away from that gallery which he intentionally avoided, that maternal breath, the ardent magnetism of those black eyes gave him life at last, and the fetters suddenly dropped from his speech and his gestures. "first of all, messieurs, let me say that i do not come here to defend my election. if you believe that electoral morals have not always been the same in corsica, that all the irregularities committed must be attributed to the corrupting influence of my money and not to the uncivilized and passionate nature of a people, reject me; it will be justice and i shall not murmur. but there is something else than my election involved in this matter; accusations have been made which attack my honor, which bring it directly in question, and to those alone i propose to reply." his voice gradually became stronger, still trembling and indistinct, but with now and then a thrilling note such as we sometimes hear in voices whose original harshness has undergone some changes. he sketched his life very rapidly, his early days, his departure for the orient. you would have said that it was one of the eighteenth century tales of barbarian pirates scouring the latin seas, of beys and fearless provençaux, dark as crickets, who always end by marrying some sultana and "taking the turban," according to the old marseillais expression. "for my part," said the nabob, with his ingenuous smile, "i had no need to take the turban to enrich myself, i contented myself with importing into that land of indolence and utter heedlessness the activity, the pliability of a frenchman from the south, and i succeeded in a few years in making one of the fortunes that are made nowhere else except in those infernally hot countries where everything is huge, hurried, out of proportion, where flowers grow in a night, where a single tree produces a whole forest. the excuse for such fortunes lies in the use that is made of them, and i undertake to say that no favorite of destiny ever tried harder than i did to earn forgiveness for his wealth. i did not succeed."--no, indeed, he had not succeeded. from all the gold he had sown with such insane lavishness he had reaped naught but hatred and contempt. hatred! who else could boast of having stirred up so much of that as he, as a vessel stirs up the mud when its keel touches bottom? he was too rich; that took the place in him of all sorts of vices, of all sorts of crimes, and singled him out for anonymous acts of vengeance, for cruel and persistent animosities. "ah! messieurs," cried the poor nabob, raising his clenched fists, "i have known poverty, i have struggled with it hand to hand, and it is a terrible struggle, i give you my word. but to struggle against wealth, to defend one's happiness, one's honor, one's peace of mind, feebly protected by piles of gold pieces which topple over and crush one, is a far more ghastly, more heart-sickening task. never, in the gloomiest of my days of destitution, did i suffer the torture, the agony, the sleeplessness with which fortune has overwhelmed me, this horrible fortune which i abhor and which suffocates me! i am known as the nabob in paris. nabob is not the proper name for me, but pariah, a social pariah stretching out his arms, wide open, to a society that will have none of him." printed upon paper these words may seem cold; but there, before the whole chamber, that man's defence seemed to be instinct with an eloquent and imposing serenity, which aroused astonishment at first, coming from that clown, that upstart, unread, uneducated, with his rhone boatman's voice and his street porter's bearing, and afterward moved his auditors strangely by its unrefined, uncivilized character, utterly at variance with all parliamentary traditions. already tokens of approval had manifested themselves among the benches, accustomed to submit to the colorless, monotonous downpour of administrative language. but at that cry of frenzy and despair hurled at wealth by the unfortunate man whom it held in its toils, whom it drenched and drowned in its floods of gold, and who struggled against it, calling for help from the depths of his pactolus, the whole chamber rose with fervent applause, with hands outstretched as if to give the unhappy nabob those tokens of esteem which he seemed to covet so earnestly, and at the same time to save him from shipwreck. jansoulet was conscious of it, and, warmed by that manifestation of sympathy, he continued, with head erect and assured glance: "you have just been told, messieurs, that i am not worthy to sit among you. and the man who told you that was the very last man from whom i should have expected it, for he alone knows the painful secret of my life; he alone was able to speak for me, to justify me and convince you. he did not choose to do it. very good! i will make the attempt, whatever it may cost me. outrageously calumniated as i have been before the whole country, i owe to myself, i owe to my children this public justification, and i have decided to make it." with that he turned abruptly toward the gallery where he knew that the enemy was watching him, and stopped suddenly, horror-stricken. directly in front of him, behind the baroness's pale, malicious little face, his mother, his mother whom he believed to be two hundred leagues away from the terrible storm, stood leaning against the wall, gazing at him, holding toward him her divine face streaming with tears, but proud and radiant none the less in her bernard's great success. for it was a genuine success of sincere, eminently human emotion, which a few words more would change into a triumph.--"go on! go on!" men shouted from all sides of the chamber, to reassure him, to encourage him. but jansoulet did not speak. and yet he had very little to say to justify himself: "calumny wilfully confused two names. my name is bernard jansoulet. the other's name was jansoulet louis." not another word. but that was too much in his mother's presence, as she was still ignorant of her oldest son's dishonor. it was too much for the family respect and unity. he fancied he could hear his old father's voice: "i am dying of shame, my son."--would not she die of shame too, if he were to speak? he met his mother's smile with a sublime glance of renunciation; then he continued in a dull voice and with a gesture of discouragement: "excuse me, messieurs, this explanation is decidedly beyond my strength. order an investigation into my life, open to all and in the broad light of day, for any one can understand my every act. i swear to you that you will find nothing therein which should debar me from sitting among the representatives of my country." the amazement, the disappointment at that surrender, which seemed to all the sudden downfall of great effrontery when brought to bay, were beyond all bounds. there was a moment of excitement on the benches, the confusion of a standing vote, which the nabob watched listlessly in the uncertain light from the stained glass windows, as the condemned man watches the surging crowd from the platform of the scaffold; then, after the suspense of a century which precedes a supreme moment, the president announced amid profound silence, in the simplest manner imaginable: "monsieur bernard jansoulet's election is declared void." never was a man's life cut short with less solemnity or pother. mère jansoulet, up yonder in her gallery, understood nothing except that she could see gaps on the benches all around,--that people were getting up and going away. soon no one remained with her save the fat man and the lady in the white hat, who were leaning over the rail and gazing curiously at bernard, who seemed to be preparing to go, for he was very calmly packing thick bundles of papers into a great portfolio. his papers arranged, he rose and left his seat.--ah! the lives of those who sit in high places sometimes have very cruel moments. gravely, heavily, under the eyes of the whole chamber, he must redescend the steps he had climbed at the price of so much toil and money, only to be hurled back to their foot by an inexorable fatality. it was that for which the hemerlingues were waiting, following with their eyes to its last stage that heart-rending, humiliating exit which piles upon the back of the rejected one something of the shame and horror of an expulsion; then, as soon as the nabob had disappeared, they looked at each other with a silent laugh and left the gallery, the old woman not daring to ask them to enlighten her, being warned by her instinct of the bitter hostility of those two. left alone, she gave all her attention to something else that was being read, convinced that her son's interests were still under discussion. there was talk of elections, of counting ballots, and the poor mother, leaning forward over the rail in her shabby cap, knitting her thick eyebrows, would have listened religiously to the report on the sarigue election to the very end, had not the usher who had admitted her come to tell her that it was all over and that she had better go. "really? it's all over?" she said, rising as if with regret. and she added, timidly, in a low tone: "did he--did he win?" it was so ingenuous, so touching, that the usher had not the slightest inclination to laugh. "unfortunately no, madame. monsieur jansoulet did not win. but why did he stop after he made such a good start? if it's true that he was never in paris before and that another jansoulet did all they accuse him of, why didn't he say so?" the old mother turned very pale and clung to the stair-rail. she had understood. bernard's sudden pause when he caught sight of her, the sacrifice he had offered her so simply with the eloquent glance of a murdered beast came to her mind; by the same blow the shame of the elder, of the favorite child, was confounded with the other's downfall, a two-edged maternal sorrow, which tore her heart whichever way she turned. yes, yes, it was for her sake that he had forborne to speak. but she would not accept such a sacrifice. he must return at once and explain himself to the deputies. "my son? where is my son?" "below, madame, in his carriage. it was he who sent me to look for you." she darted in front of the usher, walking rapidly, talking aloud, jostling against little black-faced, bearded men who were gesticulating in the corridors. after the salle des pas-perdus, she passed through a great ante-chamber, circular in shape, where servants, drawn up respectfully in line, formed a living, bedizened dado on the high bare wall. from there she could see, through the glass doors, the iron gateway outside, the crowd, and among other waiting carriages the nabob's. the peasant woman as she passed recognized her enormous neighbor of the gallery talking with the sallow man in spectacles who had declaimed against her son and was receiving all sorts of congratulations and warm grasps of the hand for his speech. hearing the name of jansoulet pronounced with an accompaniment of mocking, well-satisfied laughter, she slackened her long stride. "at all events," said a young dandy with the face of a dissolute woman, "he didn't prove wherein our charges are false." at that the old woman made a jagged hole through the group and exclaimed, taking her stand in front of moëssard: "what he didn't tell you i will tell you. i am his mother, and it's my duty to speak." she interrupted herself to seize le merquier's sleeve as he was slinking away. "you, above all, you bad man, you are going to listen to me. what have you against my child? don't you know who he is? wait a moment and let me tell you." she turned to the journalist: "i had two sons, monsieur--" moëssard was no longer there. she returned to le merquier: "two sons, monsieur--" le merquier had disappeared. "oh! listen to me, some one, i entreat you," said the poor mother, throwing her hands and her words about, to recall, to detain her auditors; but they all fled, melted away, disappeared, deputies, reporters, strange and mocking faces to whom she insisted upon telling her story by main force, heedless of the indifference which greeted her sorrows and her joys, her maternal pride and affection expressed in a jargon of her own. and while she rushed about and labored thus, intensely excited, her cap awry, at once grotesque and sublime like all children of nature in the drama of civilization, calling to witness to her son's uprightness and the injustice of men even the footmen whose contemptuous impassiveness was more cruel than all the rest, jansoulet, who had come to look for her, being anxious at her non-appearance, suddenly stood beside her. "take my arm, mother. you must not stay here." he spoke very loud, with a manner so composed and calm that all laughter ceased, and the old woman, suddenly quieted, supported by the firm pressure of that arm, clinging to which the last trembling of her indignation vanished, left the palace between two respectful lines of people. a sublime though rustic couple, the son's millions illumining the mother's peasantry like the relics of a saint enclosed in a golden shrine, they disappeared in the bright sunlight, in the splendor of the gorgeous carriage, brutal irony in presence of that sore distress, a striking example of the ghastly poverty of wealth. they sat side by side on the back seat, for they dreaded to be seen, and at first they did not speak. but as soon as the carriage had started, as soon as they had left behind the sorrowful calvary where his honor remained on the gibbet, jansoulet, at the end of his strength, laid his head against his mother's shoulder, hid his face in a fold of the old green shawl, and there, shedding hot tears, his whole body shaken by sobs, the cry of his infancy came once more to his lips, his _patois_ wail when he was a little child: "mamma! mamma!" xxii. parisian dramas. "que l'heure est donc brève qu'on passe en aimant! c'est moins qu'un moment, un peu plus qu'un rêve."[ ] in the half-light of the great salon clad in its summer garb, filled with flowers, the plush furniture swathed in white covers, the chandeliers draped in gauze, the shades lowered and the windows open, madame jenkins sits at the piano, picking out the last production of the fashionable musician of the day; a few sonorous chords accompany the exquisite lines, a melancholy _lied_ in unequal measures, which seems to have been written for the serious sweetness of her voice and the anxious state of her mind. "le temps nous enlève, notre enchantement,"[ ] sighs the poor woman, moved by the sound of her own lament; and while the notes fly away through the courtyard of the mansion, tranquil as usual, where the fountain is playing in the midst of a clump of rhododendrons, the singer interrupts herself, her hands prolonging the chord, her eyes fixed on the music, but her glance far, far away. the doctor is absent. the interests of his business and his health have banished him from paris for a few days, and, as frequently happens in solitude, the fair madame jenkins' thoughts have assumed that serious cast, that analytical tendency which sometimes makes a brief separation fatal to the most united households. united they had not been for a long time. they met only at table, before the servants, hardly spoke to each other, unless he, the man of oleaginous manners, chose to indulge in some brutal, uncivil remark concerning her son, her years which were beginning to tell upon her at last, or a dress which was not becoming to her. always gentle and serene, she forced back her tears, submitted to everything, pretended not to understand; not that she loved him still, after so much cruel and contemptuous treatment, but it was the old story, as joe the coachman said, of "an old incubus who wants to be married." heretofore a terrible obstacle, the life of the legitimate spouse, had prolonged a shameful situation. now that the obstacle no longer existed, she wanted to put an end to the comedy, because of andré, who might any day be forced to despise his mother, because of the world which they had been deceiving for ten years, so that she never went into society without a sinking at the heart, dreading the welcome that would be accorded her on the morrow of a disclosure. to her hints, her entreaties, jenkins had replied at first with vague phrases, with grandiloquent gestures: "do you doubt me? isn't our engagement sacred?" footnotes: [ ] "how swift flies the hour we pass in love's pleasures! 'tis less than a moment, scarce more than a dream." [ ] "time tears from our grasp our blissful enchantment." he also dwelt upon the difficulty of keeping secret a ceremony of such importance. then he had taken refuge in malevolent silence, big with chilling anger and violent resolutions. the duke's death, the check thereby administered to his insane vanity, had dealt the last blow; for disaster, which often brings together hearts that are ripe for a mutual understanding, consummates and completes disunion. and that was a genuine disaster. the popularity of the jenkins pearls suddenly arrested, the very thorough exposure of the position of the foreign physician, the charlatan, by old bouchereau in the journal of the academy, caused the leaders of society to gaze at one another in alarm, even paler from terror than from the absorption of arsenic into their systems, and the irishman had already felt the effect of those bewilderingly sudden changes of the wind which make parisian infatuations so dangerous. it was for that reason, doubtless, that jenkins had deemed it advisable to disappear for some time, leaving madame to continue to frequent the salons that were still open, in order to feel the pulse of public opinion and hold it in awe. it was a cruel task for the poor woman, who found everywhere something of the same cold, distant reception she had met with at hemerlingue's. but she did not complain, hoping in this way to earn her marriage, to knit between him and herself, as a last resort, the painful bond of pity, of trials undergone in common. and as she knew that she was always in demand in society because of her talent, because of the artistic entertainment she furnished at select parties, being always ready to lay her long gloves and her fan on the piano, as a prelude to some portion of her rich repertory, she labored constantly, passed her afternoons turning over new music, selecting by preference melancholy and complicated pieces, the modern music which is no longer content to be an art but is becoming a science, and is much better adapted to the demands of our nervous fancies, our anxieties, than to the demands of sentiment. "c'est moins qu'un moment, un pen plus qu'un rêve. le temps nous enlève notre enchantement." a flood of bright light suddenly burst into the salon with the maid, who brought her mistress a card: "heurteux, _homme d'affaires_." the gentleman was waiting. he insisted on seeing madame. "did you tell him that the doctor was away from home?" she had told him; but it was madame with whom he wished to speak. "with me?" with a feeling of uneasiness she scrutinized that coarse, rough card, that unfamiliar, harsh name: "heurteux." who could he be? "very well; show him in." heurteux, _homme d'affaires_, coming from the bright sunlight into the semi-darkness of the salon, blinked uncertainly, tried to distinguish his surroundings. she, on the contrary, distinguished very clearly a stiff, wooden figure, grizzly whiskers, a protruding under-jaw, one of those brigands of the law whom we meet in the outskirts of the palais de justice, and who seem to have been born fifty years old, with a bitter expression about the mouth, an envious manner, and morocco satchels under their arms. he sat down on the edge of the chair to which she waved him, turned his head to make sure that the servant had left the room, then opened his satchel with great deliberation, as if to look for a paper. finding that he did not speak, she began in an impatient tone: "i must inform you, monsieur, that my husband is away and that i am not familiar with any of his business matters." unmoved, with his hand still fumbling among his documents, the man replied: "i am quite well aware that monsieur jenkins is away, madame--" he laid particular stress on the words "monsieur jenkins,"--"especially as i come from him." she stared at him in terror. "from him?" "alas! yes, madame. the doctor--as you are doubtless aware--is in a very embarrassed position for the moment. unfortunate operations on the bourse, the downfall of a great financial institution in which he had funds invested, the heavy burden of the work of bethlehem now resting on him alone, all these disasters combined have compelled him to form an heroic resolution. he is selling his house, his horses, everything that he owns, and has given me a power of attorney to that end." he had found at last what he was looking for, one of those stamped papers, riddled with memoranda and words erased and interlined, into which the unfeeling law sometimes crowds so much cowardice and falsehood. madame jenkins was on the point of saying: "but i was here. i would have done whatever he wished, carried out all his orders," when she suddenly realized, from the visitor's lack of constraint, his self-assured, almost insolent manner, that she too was involved in that general overturn, in that throwing overboard of the expensive house and useless chattels, and that her departure would be the signal for the sale. she rose abruptly. the man, still seated, continued: "what i still have to say, madame,"--oh! she knew, she could have dictated what he still had to say--"is so painful, so delicate--monsieur jenkins is leaving paris for a long time, and, fearing to expose you to the perils and hazards of the new life upon which he is entering, to take you away from a son of whom you are very fond, and in whose interest it will be better perhaps--" she no longer heard or saw him, but, given over to despair, to madness perhaps, while he lost himself in involved sentences, she listened to a voice within persistently singing the air which haunted her in that terrible crash, as the drowning man's eyes retain the image of the last object upon which they rested. "le temps nous enlève notre enchantement." suddenly her pride returned to her. "let us put an end to this, monsieur. all your circumlocution and your fine words are simply an additional insult. the truth is that i am to be driven out, turned into the street like a servant." "o madame! madame! the situation is painful enough, let us not embitter it by words. in working out his _modus vivendi_, monsieur jenkins parts from you, but he does it with death in his heart, and the propositions i am instructed to make to you are a sufficient proof of his feeling for you. in the first place, as to furniture and clothes, i am authorized to allow you to take--" "enough," said she. she rushed to the bell: "i am going out. my hat, my cloak at once,--something, no matter what. i am in a hurry." and while her servant went to bring what she required, she added: "everything here belongs to monsieur jenkins. let him dispose of it as he will. i will take nothing from him--do not insist--it is useless." the man did not insist. his errand being performed, the rest was of little consequence to him. coolly, without excitement, she carefully adjusted her hat in front of the mirror, the servant attaching the veil and arranging the folds of the cape over her shoulders; then she looked around for a moment to see if she had forgotten anything that was of value to her. no, nothing; her son's letters were in her pocket; she never parted from them. "does madame wish the carriage?" "no." and she left the house. it was about five o'clock. at that moment bernard jansoulet was passing through the iron gateway of the corps législatif, his mother on his arm; but, painful as was the drama that was being enacted there, this one far surpassed it in that respect, being more sudden, more unforeseen, devoid of the slightest solemnity, one of the private domestic dramas which paris improvises every hour in the day; and it may be that that gives to the air we breathe in paris that vibrating, quivering quality which excites the nerves. the weather was superb. the streets in those wealthy quarters, as broad and straight as avenues, shone resplendent in the light, which was already beginning to fade, enlivened by open windows, by flower-laden balconies, by glimpses of verdure toward the boulevards, light and tremulous between the harsh, rigid lines of stone. madame jenkins' hurried steps were bent in that direction, as she hastened along at random in a pitiable state of bewilderment. what a horrible downfall! five minutes ago, rich, encompassed by all the respect and comforts of a luxurious existence. now, nothing! not even a roof to shelter her, not even a name! the street. where was she to go? what would become of her? at first she had thought of her son. but to confess her sin, to blush before the child who respected her, to weep before him while depriving herself of the right to be consoled, was beyond her strength. no, there was nothing left for her but death. to die as soon as possible, to avoid shame by disappearing utterly, the inevitable end of situations from which there is no escape. but where to die? and how? there were so many ways of turning one's back on life! and as she walked along she reviewed them all in her mind. all around her was overflowing life, the charm that paris lacks in winter, the open-air display of its splendor, its refined elegance, visible at that hour of the day and that season of the year around the madeleine and its flower-market, in a space marked off by the fragrance of the roses and carnations. on the broad sidewalk, where gorgeous toilets were displayed, blending their rustling with the cool quivering of the leaves, there was something of the pleasure of a meeting in a salon, an air of acquaintance among the promenaders, smiles and quiet greetings as they passed. and suddenly madame jenkins, anxious concerning the distress depicted on her features, and concerning what people might think to see her hurrying along with that heedless, preoccupied manner, slackened her pace to the saunter of a simple promenader, and stopped to look at the shop windows. the bright-colored, gauzy window displays all spoke of travelling, of the country: light trains for the fine gravel of the park, hats wrapped about with gauze as a protection against the sun at the seashore, fans, umbrellas, purses. her eyes gazed at all those gewgaws without seeing them; but an indistinct, pale reflection in the clear glass showed her her own body lying motionless on a bed in a furnished lodging, the leaden sleep of a narcotic in her head, or outside the walls yonder, displacing the mud beneath some boat. which was the better? she hesitated, comparing the two; then, having formed her decision, walked rapidly away with the resolute stride of the woman who tears herself regretfully from the artful temptations of the shop-window. as she hurried along, the marquis de monpavon, vivacious and superb, with a flower in his buttonhole, saluted her at a distance with the grand flourish of the hat so dear to the vanity of woman, the acme of elegance in the way of street salutations, the hat raised high in air above a rigid head. she answered with the polite greeting of the true parisian, hardly expressed by an imperceptible movement of the figure and a smile in the eyes; and, seeing that exchange of worldly courtesies amid the springtime merrymaking, no one would have suspected that the same sinister thought guided the footsteps of those two, who met by chance on the road they were both following, in opposite directions, but aiming for the same goal. the prediction of mora's valet with regard to the marquis was fulfilled: "we may die or lose our power, then you will be called to account and it will be a terrible time." it was a terrible time. with the utmost difficulty the ex-receiver-general had obtained an extension of a fortnight in which to reimburse the treasury, clinging to one last chance, that jansoulet's election would be confirmed, and that, having recovered his millions, he would come once more to his assistance. the decision of the chamber had deprived him of that supreme hope. as soon as he heard of it, he returned very calmly to the club and went up to his room where francis was impatiently waiting to hand him an important paper that had arrived during the day. it was a notice to sieur louis-marie-agénor de monpavon to appear the next day at the office of the examining magistrate. was that addressed to the director of the _caisse territoriale_ or to the defaulting ex-receiver-general? in any event, the employment at the outset of the brutal method of formal summons, instead of a quiet notification, was sufficiently indicative of the seriousness of the affair and the firm determination of the authorities. in the face of such an extremity, which he had long foreseen and expected, the old beau's course was determined in advance. a monpavon in the police-court, a monpavon librarian at mazas! never! he put all his affairs in order, destroyed papers, carefully emptied his pockets, in which he placed only a few ingredients taken from his toilet-table, and all in such a perfectly calm and natural way that when he said to francis as he left the room: "going to take a bath. beastly chamber. poisonous dirt," the servant believed what he said. indeed, the marquis did not lie. after standing through that long and exciting sitting of the chamber in the dust of the gallery, his legs ached as if he had spent two nights in a railway carriage; and as his resolve to die blended with his longing for a good bath, it occurred to the old sybarite to go to sleep in a bath-tub like what's-his-name--thingamy--ps--ps--ps--and other famous characters of antiquity. it is doing him no more than justice to say that not one of those stoics went forth to meet death more tranquilly than he. adorned with a white camellia with which, as he passed, the pretty flower-girl at the club decorated the buttonhole above his rosette as an officer of the legion of honor, he was walking lightly up boulevard des capucines, when the sight of madame jenkins disturbed his serenity for a moment. he noticed a youthful air about her, a flame in her eyes, a something so alluring that he stopped to look at her. tall and lovely, her long black gauze dress trailing behind, her shoulders covered by a lace mantle over which a garland of autumn leaves fell from her hat, she passed on, disappeared amid the throng of other women no less stylish than she, in a perfumed atmosphere; and the thought that his eyes were about to close forever on that attractive spectacle, which he enjoyed as a connoisseur, saddened the old beau a little and diminished the elasticity of his walk. but a few steps farther on a meeting of another sort restored all his courage. a shabby, shamefaced man, dazzled by the bright light, was crossing the boulevard; it was old marestang, ex-senator, ex-minister, who was so deeply compromised in the affair of the _tourteaux de malte_, that, notwithstanding his age, his services, and the great scandal of such a prosecution, he had been sentenced to two years' imprisonment and stricken from the rolls of the legion of honor, where he was numbered among the great dignitaries. the affair was already ancient history, and the poor devil, a portion of his sentence having been remitted, had just come from prison, dejected, ruined, lacking even the wherewithal to gild his mental distress, for he had been compelled to disgorge. standing on the edge of the sidewalk, he waited, hanging his head, until there should be an opportunity to cross the crowded street, sorely embarrassed by that enforced halt on the most frequented corner of the boulevards, caught between the foot-passengers and the stream of open carriages filled with familiar faces. monpavon, passing near him, surprised his restless, timid glance, imploring recognition and at the same time seeking to avoid it. the idea that he might some day be reduced to that degree of humiliation caused him to shudder with disgust. "nonsense! as if it were possible!" and, drawing himself up, inflating his breastplate, he walked on, with a firmer and more determined stride than before. monsieur de monpavon is walking to his death. he goes thither by the long line of the boulevards, all aflame in the direction of the madeleine, treading once more the springy asphalt like any loiterer, his nose in the air, his hands behind his back. he has plenty of time, there is nothing to hurry him,--the hour for the rendezvous is within his control. at every step he smiles, wafts a patronizing little greeting with the ends of his fingers, or performs the great flourish of the hat of a moment ago. everything charms him, fascinates him, from the rumbling of the watering-carts to the rattle of the blinds at the doors of cafés which overflow to the middle of the sidewalk. the approach of death gives him the acute faculties of a convalescent, sensitive to all the beauties, all the hidden poesy of a lovely hour in summer in the heart of parisian life,--of a lovely hour which will be his last, and which he would like to prolong until night. that is the reason, doubtless, why he passes the sumptuous establishment where he usually takes his bath; nor does he pause at the chinese baths. he is too well known hereabout. all paris would know what had happened the same evening. there would be a lot of ill-bred gossip in clubs and salons, much spiteful comment on his death; and the old fop, the man of breeding, wishes to spare himself that shame, to plunge and be swallowed up in the uncertainty and anonymity of suicide, like the soldiers who, on the day after a great battle, are reported neither as living, wounded or dead, but simply as missing. that is why he had been careful to keep nothing upon him that might lead to his identification or furnish any precise information for the police reports, and why he seeks the distant, out-of-the-way quarters of the vast city, where the ghastly but comforting confusion of the common grave will protect him. already the aspect of the boulevards has changed greatly. the crowd has become compact, more active and engrossed, the houses smaller and covered with business signs. when he has passed portes saint-martin and saint-denis, through which the swarming overflow of the faubourgs streams at all hours of the day, the provincial character of the city becomes accentuated. the old beau no longer sees any one whom he knows and can boast of being a stranger to all. the shopkeepers, who stare curiously at him, with his display of linen, his fine frock-coat, his erect figure, take him for some famous actor out for a little healthful exercise before the play, on the old boulevard, the scene of his earliest triumphs. the wind is cooler, the twilight darkens distant objects, and while the long street is still flooded with light in those portions through which he has passed, the light fades at every step. so it is with the past when its rays fall upon him who looks back and regrets. it seems to monpavon that he is entering the darkness. he shivers a little, but does not lose courage, and walks on with head erect and unfaltering gait. monsieur de monpavon is walking to his death. now he enters the complicated labyrinth of noisy streets where the rumble of the omnibuses blends with the thousand and one industries of the working quarters, where the hot smoke from the factories is mingled with the fever of a whole population struggling against hunger. the air quivers, the gutters smoke, the buildings tremble as the heavy drays pass and collide at the corners of the narrow streets. suddenly the marquis stops; he has found what he wanted. between a charcoal dealer's dark shop and an undertaker's establishment, where the spruce boards leaning against the wall cause him to shudder, is a porte-cochère surmounted by a sign, the word "baths" on a dull lantern. he enters and crosses a damp little garden where a fountain weeps in a basin of artificial rockwork. that is just the dismal retreat he has been seeking. who will ever dream of thinking that the marquis de monpavon came to that place to cut his throat? the house is at the end of the garden, a low house with green shutters, a glass door, and the false villa-like air that they all have. he orders a bath, plenty of towels, walks along the narrow corridor, and while the bath is being prepared, listening to the running water behind him, he smokes his cigar at the window, gazes at the flower-garden with its spindling lilacs, and the high wall that incloses it. adjoining it is a great yard, the yard of a fire-engine house with a gymnasium, whose poles and swings and horizontal bars, seen indistinctly over the wall, have the look of gibbets. a bugle rings out in the yard, and that blast carries the marquis back thirty years, reminds him of his campaigns in algeria, the lofty ramparts of constantine, mora's arrival in the regiment, and duels, and select card-parties. ah! how well life began! what a pity that those infernal cards--ps--ps--ps--however, it's worth something to have saved one's breeding. "monsieur," said the attendant, "your bath is ready." * * * * * at that moment madame jenkins, pale and gasping for breath, entered andré's studio, drawn thither by an instinct stronger than her will, by the feeling that she must embrace her child before she died. and yet, when she opened the door--he had given her a duplicate key--it was a relief to her to see that he had not returned, that her excitement, increased by a long walk, an unusual experience in her luxurious life as a woman of wealth, would have time to subside. no one in the room. but on the table the little note that he always left when he went out, so that his mother, whose visits, because of jenkins' tyranny, had become more and more infrequent and brief, might know where he was, and either wait for him or join him. those two had not ceased to love each other dearly, profoundly, despite the cruel circumstances which compelled them to introduce into their relations as mother and son the precautions, the clandestine mystery of a different kind of love. "i am at my rehearsal," said the little note to-day, "i shall return about seven." that attention from her son, whom she had not been to see for three weeks, and who persisted in expecting her none the less, brought to the mother's eyes a flood of tears which blinded her. one would have said that she had entered a new world. it was so light, so peaceful, so high, that little room which caught the last gleam of daylight on its windows, which was all aflame with the last rays of the sun already sinking below the horizon, and which seemed, like all attic rooms, carved out of a piece of sky, with its bare walls, decorated only by a large portrait, her own; nothing but her own portrait smiling in the place of honor and another in a gilt frame on the table. yes, in very truth, the humble little lodging, which was still so light when all paris was becoming dark, produced a supernatural impression upon her, despite the poverty of its scanty furniture, scattered through two rooms, its common chintz coverings, and its mantel adorned with two great bunches of hyacinths, the flowers that are drawn through the streets by cartloads in the morning. what a lovely, brave, dignified life she might have led there with her andré! and in a moment, with the rapidity of a dream, she placed her bed in one corner, her piano in another, saw herself giving lessons, taking charge of the house, to which she brought her share of enthusiasm and courageous cheerfulness. how could she have failed to understand that that should be the duty, the pride of her widowhood? what blindness, what shameful weakness! a sad mistake, doubtless, but one for which much extenuation might have been found in her easily influenced, affectionate nature, in the adroitness and knavery of her accomplice, who talked constantly of marriage, concealing from her the fact that he was not free himself, and when at last he was obliged to confess, drawing such a picture of the unrelieved gloom of his life, of his despair, of his love, that the poor creature, already so seriously involved in the eyes of the world, incapable of one of those heroic efforts which place one above false situations, had yielded at last, had accepted that twofold existence, at once so brilliant and so wretched, resting everything upon a lie that had lasted ten years. ten years of intoxicating triumphs and indescribable anxiety, ten years during which she had never sung without the fear of being betrayed between two measures, during which the slightest remark concerning irregular establishments wounded her like an allusion to her own case, during which the expression of her face had gradually assumed that air of gentle humility, of a culprit demanding pardon. then the certainty of being abandoned at some time had ruined even those borrowed joys, had caused her luxurious surroundings to wither and fade; and what agony, what suffering she had silently undergone, what never-ending humiliations, down to the last and most horrible of all! while she reviews her life thus sorrowfully in the cool evening air and the peaceful calm of the deserted house, ringing laughter, an outburst of joyous youthful spirits ascends from the floor below; and remembering andré's confidences, his last letter, in which he told her the great news, she tries to distinguish among those unfamiliar, youthful voices that of her daughter Élise, her son's fiancée, whom she does not know, whom she will never know. that thought, which completes the voluntary disherison of the mother, adds to the misery of her last moments and fills them with such a flood of remorse and regret that, notwithstanding her determination to be brave, she weeps and weeps. the night falls gradually. great streaks of shadow strike the sloping windows, while the sky, immeasurable in its depth, becomes colorless, seems to recede into the darkness. the roofs mass for the night as soldiers do for an attack. the clocks gravely tell each other the hour, while the swallows circle about in the neighborhood of a hidden nest and the wind makes its usual incursion among the ruins in the old lumber-yard. tonight it blows with a wailing noise like the sea, with a shudder of fog; it blows from the river as if to remind the wretched woman that that is where she must go. oh! how she shivers in her lace mantle at the thought! why did she come here to revive her taste for life, which would be impossible after the confession she would be forced to make? swift footsteps shake the staircase, the door is thrown open; it is andré. he is singing, he is happy, and in a great hurry, for he is expected to dine with the joyeuses. a glimmer of light, quick, so that the lover may beautify himself. but, as he scratches the match, he divines the presence of some one in the studio, a shadow moving among the motionless shadows. "who's there?" something answers, something like a stifled laugh or a sob. he thinks it is his young neighbors, a scheme of the "children" to amuse themselves. he draws near. two hands, two arms seize him, are wound about him. "it is i." and in a feverish voice, which talks hurriedly in self-defence, she tells him that she is about to start on a long journey, and that before starting-- "a journey. where are you going, pray?" "oh! i don't know. we are going ever so far away,--to his own country on some business of his." "what! you won't be here for my play? it's to be given in three days. and then, right after it, my wedding. nonsense! he can't prevent your being present at my wedding." she excuses herself, invents reasons, but her burning hands, which her son holds in his, her unnatural voice, convince andré that she is not telling the truth. he attempts to light the candles, but she prevents him. "no, no, we don't need a light. it is better this way. besides, i have so many preparations still to make; i must go." they are both standing, ready for the parting; but andré will not let her go until he has made her confess what the matter is, what tragic anxiety causes the wrinkles on that lovely face, in which the eyes--is it an effect of the twilight?--gleam with fierce brilliancy. "nothing--no, nothing, i promise you. only the thought that i cannot share in your joys, your triumphs. but you know that i love you, you do not doubt your mother, do you? i have never passed a day without thinking of you. do you do as much; keep a place in your heart for me. and now kiss me, and let me go at once. i have delayed too long." a moment more and she will not have strength to do what she still has to do. she rushes toward the door. "i say no, you shall not go. i have a feeling that some extraordinary thing is taking place in your life that you don't wish to tell me. you are in great sorrow, i am sure of it. that man has done some shameful thing to you." "no, no; let me go, let me go." but on the contrary, he holds her, holds her fast. "come, what is the matter? tell me, tell me--" then, under his breath, in a low, loving voice, like a kiss: "he has left you, has he not?" the unhappy creature shudders, struggles. "don't ask me any questions. i will not tell you anything. adieu!" and he rejoins, straining her to his heart: "what can you tell me that i do not know already, my poor mother? didn't you understand why i left his house six months ago?" "you know?" "everything. and this that has happened to you to-day i have long foreseen and hoped for." "oh! wretched, wretched woman that i am, why did i come?" "because this is your proper place, because you owe me ten years of my mother. you see that i must keep you." he says this kneeling in front of the couch upon which she has thrown herself in a flood of tears and with the last plaintive outcries of her wounded pride. for a long while she weeps thus, her son at her feet. and lo! the joyeuses, anxious at andré's non-appearance, come up in a body in search of him. there is a veritable invasion of innocent faces, waving curls, modest costumes, rippling gayety, and over the whole group shines the great lamp, the good old lamp with the huge shade, which m. joyeuse solemnly holds aloft as high and as straight as he can, in the attitude of a _canephora_. they halt abruptly, dumbfounded, at sight of that pale, sad woman who gazes, deeply moved, at all those smiling, charming creatures, especially at Élise, who stands a little behind the others, and whose embarrassment in making that indiscreet visit stamps her as the _fiancée_. "Élise, kiss our mother and thank her. she has come to live with her children." behold her entwined in all those caressing arms, pressed to four little womanly hearts which have long lacked a mother's support, behold her made welcome with sweet cordiality in the circle of light cast by the family lamp, broadened a little so that she can find room there, can dry her eyes, obtain warmth and light for her heart at that sturdy flame which rises without a flicker, even in that little artist's studio under the roof, where the storm howled so fiercely just now, the terrible storm that must be at once forgotten. the man who is breathing his last yonder, lying in a heap in the bloody bath-tub, has never known that sacred flame. selfish and hard-hearted, he lived to the last for show, puffing out his superficial breastplate with a blast of vanity. and that vanity was the best that there was in him. it was that which kept him on his feet and jaunty and swaggering so long, that which clenched his teeth on the hiccoughs of his death agony. in the damp garden the fountain drips sadly. the firemen's bugle sounds the curfew. "just go up to number ," says the mistress of the establishment, "he's a long while over his bath." the attendant goes up and utters a shriek of horror: "o madame, he 's dead--but it isn't the same man." they run to the spot, and no one, in truth, can recognize the fine gentleman who entered just now in this lifeless doll, with its head hanging over the side of the bath-tub, the rouge mingling with the blood that moistens it, and every limb relaxed in utter weariness of the part played to the very end, until it killed the actor. two slashes of the razor across the magnificent, unwrinkled breastplate, and all his factitious majesty has burst like a bubble, has resolved itself into this nameless horror, this mass of mud and blood and ghastly, streaked flesh, wherein lies unrecognizable the model of good-breeding, marquis louis-marie-agénor de monpavon. xxiii. memoirs of a clerk.--last sheets. i here set down, in haste and with an intensely agitated pen, the shocking events of which i have been the plaything for some days past. this time it is all up with the _territoriale_ and all my ambitious dreams. protests, levies, police-raids, all our books in the custody of the examining magistrate, the governor a fugitive, our director bois-l'héry at mazas, our director monpavon disappeared. my head is in a whirl with all these disasters. and to think that, if i had followed the warnings of sound common-sense, i should have been tranquilly settled at montbars six months ago, cultivating my little vineyard, with no other preoccupation than watching the grapes grow round and turn to the color of gold in the pleasant burgundian sunshine, and picking from the vines, after a shower, the little gray snails that make such an excellent fricassee. with the results of my economy i would have built, on the high land at the end of the vineyard, on a spot that i can see at this moment, a stone summer-house like m. chalmette's, so convenient for an afternoon nap, while the quail are singing all around among the vines. but no, constantly led astray by treacherous illusions, i longed to make a fortune, to speculate, to try banking operations on a grand scale, to tie my fortune to the chariot of the successful financiers of the day; and now here i am at the most melancholy stage of my history, clerk in a ruined counting-house, intrusted with the duty of answering a horde of creditors, of shareholders drunk with rage, who pour out the vilest insults upon my white hairs and would fain hold me responsible for the nabob's ruin and the governor's flight. as if i were not as cruelly hit myself, with my four years' back pay which i lose once more, and my seven thousand francs of money advanced, all of which i intrusted to that villain, paganetti of porto-vecchio. but it was written that i should drink the cup of humiliation and mortification to the dregs. was i not forced to appear before the examining magistrate, i, passajon, formerly apparitor to the faculty, with my record of thirty years of faithful service and the ribbon of an officer of the academy! oh! when i saw myself ascending that stairway at the palais de justice, so long and broad, with no rail to cling to, i felt my head going round and my legs giving way under me. that was when i had a chance to reflect, as i passed through those halls, black with lawyers and judges, with here and there a high green door, behind which i could hear the impressive sounds of courts in session; and up above, in the corridor where the offices of the examining magistrates are, during the hour that i had to wait on a bench where i had prison vermin crawling up my legs, while i listened to a lot of thieves, pickpockets and girls in saint-lazare caps, talking and laughing with gardes de paris, and the ringing of the muskets on the floor of the corridors, and the dull rumbling of prison vans. i realized then the danger of _combinazioni_, and that it was not always well to laugh at m. gogo. one thing comforted me somewhat, however, and that was that, as i had never taken part in the deliberations of the _territoriale_, i was in no way responsible for its transactions and swindles. but explain this. when i was in the magistrate's office, facing that man in a velvet cap who stared at me from the other side of the table with his little crooked eyes, i had such a feeling that i was being explored and searched and turned absolutely inside out that, in spite of my innocence, i longed to confess. to confess what? i have no idea. but that is the effect that justice produces. that devil of a man sat for five long minutes staring at me without speaking, turning over a package of papers covered with a coarse handwriting that seemed familiar to me, then said to me abruptly, in a tone that was at once cunning and stern: "well, monsieur passajon! how long is it since we played the drayman's trick?" the memory of a certain little peccadillo, in which i had taken part in days of distress, was so distant that at first i did not understand; but a few words from the magistrate proved to me that he was thoroughly posted as to the history of our bank. that terrible man knew everything, to the most trivial, the most secret details. who could have given him such accurate information? and with it all he was very sharp, very abrupt, and when i attempted to guide the course of justice by some judicious observations, he had a certain insolent way of saying: "none of your fine phrases," which was the more wounding to me, at my age, with my reputation as a fine speaker, because we were not alone in his office. a clerk sat near me, writing down my deposition, and i could hear some one behind turning over the leaves of some great book. the magistrate asked me all sorts of questions about the nabob, the time when he had made his contributions, where we kept our books, and all at once, addressing the person whom i did not see, he said: "show us the cash-book, monsieur l'expert." a little man in a white cravat brought the great volume and placed it on the table. it was m. joyeuse, formerly cashier for hemerlingue and son. but i had no time to present my respects to him. "who did that?" the magistrate asked me, opening the book at a place where a leaf had been torn out. "come, do not lie about it." i did not lie, for i had no idea, as i never concerned myself about the books. however, i thought it my duty to mention m. de géry, the nabob's secretary, who used often to come to our offices at night and shut himself up alone in the counting-room for hours at a time. thereupon little père joyeuse turned red with anger. "what he says is absurd, monsieur le juge d'instruction. monsieur de géry is the young man i mentioned to you. he went to the _territoriale_ solely for the purpose of keeping an eye on affairs there, and felt too deep an interest in poor monsieur jansoulet to destroy the receipts for his contributions, the proofs of his blind but absolute honesty. however, monsieur de géry, who has been detained a long while in tunis, is now on his way home, and will soon be able to afford all necessary explanations." i felt that my zeal was likely to compromise me. "be careful, passajon," said the judge very sternly. "you are here only as a witness; but if you try to give the investigation a wrong turn you may return as a suspect."--upon my word the monster seemed to desire it.--"come, think, who tore out this page?" thereupon i very opportunely remembered that, a few days before leaving paris, our governor had told me to bring the books to his house, where they had remained until the following day. the clerk made a note of my declaration, whereupon the magistrate dismissed me with a wave of the hand, warning me that i must hold myself at his disposal. when i was at the door he recalled me: "here, monsieur passajon, take this; i have no further use for it." he handed me the papers he had been consulting while he questioned me; and my confusion can be imagined when i saw on the cover the word "_memoirs_" written in my roundest hand. i had myself furnished justice with weapons, with valuable information which the suddenness of our catastrophe had prevented me from rescuing from the general cleaning out executed by the police in our offices. my first impulse, on returning, was to tear these tale-bearing sheets in pieces; then, after reflection, having satisfied myself that there was nothing in these _memoirs_ to compromise me, i decided, instead of destroying them, to continue them, with the certainty of making something out of them some day or other. there is no lack in paris of novelists without imagination, who have not the art of introducing anything but true stories in their books, and who will not be sorry to buy a little volume of facts. that will be my way of revenging myself on this crew of high-toned pirates with whom i have become involved, to my shame and to my undoing. it was necessary, however, for me to find some way of occupying my leisure time. nothing to do at the office, which has been utterly deserted since the legal investigation began, except to pile up summonses of all colors. i have renewed my former practice of writing for the cook on the second floor, mademoiselle séraphine, from whom i accept some trifling supplies which i keep in the safe, once more a pantry. the governor's wife also is very kind to me and stuffs my pockets whenever i go to see her in her fine apartments in the chaussée d'antin. nothing is changed there. the same magnificence, the same comfort; furthermore, a little baby three months old, the seventh, and a superb nurse, whose normandy cap creates a sensation when they drive in the bois de boulogne. i suppose that when people are once fairly started on the railway of fortune they require a certain time to slacken their speed or come to a full stop. and then, too, that thief of a paganetti, to guard against accidents, had put everything in his wife's name. perhaps that is why that jabbering italian has taken a vow of affection for him which nothing can weaken. he is a fugitive, he is in hiding; but she is fully convinced that her husband is a little st. john in guilelessness, a victim of his kindness of heart and credulity. you should hear her talk: "you know him, moussiou passajon. you know whether he is _e_scrupulous. why, as true as there's a god, if my husband had done the dishonest things they accuse him of, i myself--do you hear me--i myself would have put a gun in his hands, and i would have said: 'here, tchecco, blow your head off!'" and the way she opens the nostrils in her little turned-up nose, and her round black eyes, like two balls of jet, makes you feel that that little corsican from Île rousse would have done as she says. i tell you that damned governor must be a shrewd fellow to deceive even his wife, to act a part in his own house, where the cleverest let themselves be seen as they are. meanwhile all these people are living well; bois-l'héry at mazas has his meals sent from the café anglais, and uncle passajon is reduced to living on odds and ends picked up in kitchens. however, we must not complain too much. there are those who are more unfortunate than we, m. francis, for instance, whom i saw at the _territoriale_ this morning, pale and thin, with disgraceful linen and ragged cuffs, which he continues to pull down as a matter of habit. i was just in the act of broiling a bit of bacon in front of the fire in the directors' room, my cover being laid on the corner of a marquetry table with a newspaper underneath in order not to soil it. i invited monpavon's valet to share my frugal repast; but, because he has waited on a marquis, that fellow fancies that he's one of the nobility, and he thanked me with a dignified air, which made me want to laugh when i looked at his hollow cheeks. he began by telling me that he was still without news of his master, that they had sent him away from the club on rue royale where all the papers were under seal and crowds of creditors swooping down like flocks of swallows on the marquis's trifling effects. "so that i find myself a little short," added m. francis. that meant that he had not a sou in his pocket, that he had slept two nights on the benches along the boulevards, waked every minute by policemen, compelled to get up, to feign drunkenness in order to obtain another shelter. as for eating, i believe that he had not done that for a long while, for he stared at the food with hungry eyes that made one's heart ache, and when i had forcibly placed a slice of bacon and a glass of wine in front of him, he fell on them like a wolf. the blood instantly came to his cheeks, and as he ate he began to chatter and chatter. "do you know, père passajon," he said between two mouthfuls, "i know where he is--i've seen him." he winked slyly. for my part, i stared at him in amazement. "in god's name, what have you seen, monsieur francis?" "the marquis, my master--yonder in the little white house behind notre dame." he did not say the morgue, because that is a too vulgar word. "i was very sure i should find him there. i went straight there the next day. and there he was. oh! very well hidden, i promise you. no one but his valet de chambre could have recognized him. his hair all gray, his teeth gone, and his real wrinkles, his sixty-five years that he used to fix up so well. as he lay there on that marble slab with the faucet dripping on him, i fancied i saw him at his dressing table." "and you said nothing?" "no, i had known his intentions on that subject for a long while. i let him go out of the world quietly, in the english fashion, as he wanted to do. all the same, he might have given me a bit of bread before he went, when i had been in his service twenty years." suddenly he brought his fist down upon the table in a rage: "when i think that, if i had chosen, i might have entered mora's service instead of monpavon's, that i might have had louis's place! there was a lucky dog! think of the rolls of a thousand he nabbed at his duke's death!--and the clothes the duke left, shirts by the hundred, a dressing-gown in blue fox-skin worth more than twenty thousand francs! and there's that noël, he must have lined his pockets! simply by making haste, _parbleu!_ for he knew it couldn't last long. and there's nothing to be picked up on place vendôme now. an old gendarme of a mother who manages everything. they're selling saint-romans, they're selling the pictures. half of the house is to let. it's the end of everything." i confess that i could not help showing my satisfaction; for, after all, that wretched jansoulet is the cause of all our misfortunes. a man who boasted of being so rich and talked about it everywhere. the public was taken in by it, like the fish that sees scales shining in a net. he has lost millions, i grant you; but why did he let people think he had plenty more? they have arrested bois-l'héry, but he's the one they should have arrested.--ah! if we had had another expert, i am sure it would have been done long ago.--indeed, as i said to francis, one has only to look at that parvenu of a jansoulet to see what he amounts to. such a face, like a high and mighty brigand! "and so common," added the former valet. "not the slightest moral character." "utter lack of breeding.--however, he's under water, and jenkins too, and many others with them." "what! the doctor too? that's too bad. such a polite, pleasant man!" "yes, there's another man that's being sold out. horses, carriages, furniture. the courtyard at his house is full of placards and sounds empty as if death had passed that way. the château at nanterre's for sale. there were half a dozen 'little bethlehems' left, and they packed them off in a cab. it's the crash, i tell you, père passajon, a crash that we may not see the end of, perhaps, because we're both old, but it will be complete. everything's rotten; everything must burst!" it was horrible to see that old flunkey of the empire, gaunt and stooping, covered with filth and crying like jeremiah: "this is the end," with his toothless mouth wide open like a great black hole. i was afraid and ashamed before him, i longed to see his back; and i thought to myself: "o monsieur chalmette! o my little vineyard at montbars!" same date. great news! madame paganetti came this afternoon mysteriously and brought me a letter from the governor. he is in london, just about to start a magnificent enterprise. splendid offices in the finest part of the city; a stock company with superb prospects. he requests me to join him there, "happy," he says, "to repair in that way the wrong that has been done me." i shall have twice the salary i had at the _territoriale_, with lodgings and fuel thrown in, five shares in the new company, and all my back pay in full. only a trifling advance to be made for travelling expenses and some few importunate debts in the quarter. _vive la joie!_ my fortune is assured. i must write to the notary at montbars to raise some money on my vineyard. chapter xxiv. at bordighera. as m. joyeuse had informed the examining magistrate, paul de géry was on his way home from tunis after an absence of three weeks. three interminable weeks, passed in struggling amid a network of intrigues, of plots cunningly devised by the powerful enmity of the hemerlingues, wandering from office to office, from department to department, through that vast _résidence_ on the bardo, where all the different departments of the state are collected in the same frowning enclosure, bristling with culverins, under the immediate supervision of the master, like his stables and his harem. immediately on his arrival paul had learned that the chamber of justice was beginning to hear the jansoulet case in secret,--a mockery of a trial, lost beforehand; and the nabob's closed counting-rooms on the marine quay, the seals placed upon his cash boxes, his vessels lying at anchor in the harbor of goletta, the guard of _chaouchs_ around his palaces, already denoted a species of civil death, an intestacy as to which there would soon be nothing left to do but divide the spoils. not a champion, not a friend in that greedy pack; even the frankish colony seemed not displeased at the downfall of a courtier who had so long obstructed all the roads to favor by occupying them himself. it was absolutely hopeless to think of rescuing that victim from the bey's clutches in the absence of a signal triumph in the chamber of deputies. all that de géry could hope to do was to save a few spars from the wreck, and even that required haste, for he expected from day to day to be advised of his friend's complete discomfiture. he took the field, therefore, and went about his operations with an activity which nothing could abate, neither oriental cajolery, that refined honey-sweet courtesy beneath which lurk savage ferocity and dissolute morals, nor the hypocritically indifferent smiles, nor the demure airs, the folded arms which invoke divine fatalism when human falsehood fails of its object. the _sang-froid_ of that cool-headed little southerner, in whom all the exuberant qualities of his countrymen were condensed, stood him in at least as good stead as his perfect familiarity with the french law, of which the code of tunis is simply a disfigured copy. by adroit manoeuvring and circumspection, and in spite of the intrigues of hemerlingue _fils_, who had great influence at the bardo, he succeeded in exempting from confiscation the money loaned by the nabob a few months before, and in extorting ten millions out of fifteen from the rapacious mohammed. on the morning of the very day when that sum was to be paid over to him he received a despatch from paris announcing that the election was annulled. he hurried at once to the palace, desirous to reach there in advance of the news; and on his return, with his ten millions in drafts on marseille safely bestowed in his pocket-book, he passed hemerlingue's carriage on the road, its three mules tearing along at full speed. the gaunt, owl-like face was radiant. as de géry realized that if he remained only a few hours longer at tunis his drafts would be in great danger of being confiscated, he engaged his passage on an italian packet that was to sail for genoa the next day and passed the night on board, and his mind was not at rest until he saw the white terraces of tunis at the upper end of its bay, and the cliffs of cape carthage fading from sight behind him. when they entered the harbor of genoa, the packet, as it ran alongside the wharf, passed close to a large yacht flying the tunisian flag among a number of small flags with which she was decorated. de géry was greatly excited, thinking for a moment that he was pursued and that on going ashore he might have a scuffle with the italian police like a common pickpocket. but no, the yacht was lying quietly at anchor, her crew were scrubbing the deck and repainting the red mermaid that formed her figurehead as if some personage of importance were expected on board. paul had no curiosity to ascertain who that personage might be; he simply rode across the marble city and returned by the railway which runs from genoa to marseille, following the coast; a marvellous road, where you pass from the inky darkness of tunnels into the dazzling splendor of the blue sea, but so narrow that accidents are very frequent. at savona the train stopped and the passengers were told that they could go no farther, as one of the small bridges across the streams that rush down from the mountain into the sea had broken down during the night. they must wait for the engineer and workmen who had been summoned by telegraph, stay there half a day perhaps. it was early morning. the italian town was just awaking in one of those hazy dawns which promise extreme heat during the day. while the passengers scattered, seeking refuge in hotels or restaurants, or wandering about the town, de géry, distressed by the delay, tried to find some way of avoiding the loss of ten hours or more. he thought of poor jansoulet, whose honor and whose life might perhaps be saved by the money he was bringing, of his dear aline, the thought of whom had not left him once during his journey, any more than the portrait she had given him. suddenly it occurred to him to hire one of the _calesinos_, four-horse vehicles which make the journey from genoa to nice along the italian corniche, a fascinating drive often taken by foreigners, lovers, and gamblers who have been lucky at monaco. the driver agreed to be at nice early; but even though he should reach there no sooner than by waiting for the train, the impatient traveller felt an immense longing to be relieved of the necessity of pacing the streets, to know that the space between him and his desire decreased with every revolution of the wheels. ah! on a lovely june morning, at our friend paul's age and with one's heart overflowing with love as his was, to fly along the white corniche road behind four horses, is to feel an intoxication of travel that words cannot describe. on the left, at a depth of a hundred feet, lies the sea flecked with foam, from the little round bays along the shore to the hazy horizon where the blue of the sea and the blue of the sky melt together; red or white sails, like birds with a single wing spread to the breeze, the slender silhouettes of steamers with a little smoke trailing behind like a farewell, and along the beaches, of which you catch glimpses as the road winds, fishermen no larger than sea-mews in their boats, lying at anchor, which look like nests. then the road descends, follows a rapid downward slope along the base of cliffs and headlands almost perpendicular. the cool breeze from the water reaches you there, blends with the thousand little bells on the harnesses, while at the right, on the mountain-side, the pines and green oaks rise tier above tier, with gnarled roots protruding from the sterile soil, and cultivated olive-trees in terraces, as far as a broad ravine, white and rocky, bordered with green plants which tell of the passage of the waters, the dry bed of a torrent up which toil laden mules, sure of their footing among the loose shingle, where a washerwoman stoops beside a microscopic pool, a few drops remaining from the great winter freshets. from time to time you rumble through the one street of a village, or rather of a small town of historic antiquity, grown rusty with too much sunshine, the houses crowded closely together and connected by dark archways, a network of covered lanes which climb the sheer cliff with snatches of light from above, openings like the mouths of mines affording glimpses of broods of children with curly hair like a halo about their heads, baskets of luscious fruit, a woman descending the rough pavements with a pitcher on her head or a distaff in her hand. then, at a corner of the street, the blue twinkling of the waves, immensity once more. but as the day wore on, the sun, mounting higher in the heavens, scattered its beams over the sea just emerging from its mists, heavy with sleep, dazed, motionless, with a quartz-like transparence, and myriads of rays fell upon the water as if arrow-points had pricked it, making a dazzling reflection, doubled in intensity by the whiteness of the cliffs and the soil, by a veritable african sirocco which raised the dust in a spiral column as the carriage passed. they reached the hottest, the most sheltered portions of the corniche,--a genuinely tropical temperature, where dates, cactus, the aloe, with its tall, candelabra-like branches, grow in the fields. when he saw those slender trunks, that fantastic vegetation shooting up in the white, hot air, when he felt the blinding dust crunching under the wheels like snow, de géry, his eyes partly closed, half-dreaming in that leaden noonday heat, fancied that he was making once more the tiresome journey from tunis to the bardo, which he had made so often in a strange medley of levantine chariots, brilliant liveries, _meahris_ with long neck and hanging lip, gayly-caparisoned mules, young asses, arabs in rags, half-naked negroes, great functionaries in full dress, with their escorts of honor. should he find yonder, where the road skirts gardens of palm-trees, the curious, colossal architecture of the bey's palace, its close-meshed window gratings, its marble doors, its _moucharabies_ cut out of wood and painted in vivid colors? it was not the bardo, but the pretty village of bordighera, divided like all those on the coast into two parts, the _marine_ lying along the shore, and the upper town, connected by a forest of statuesque palms with slender stalks and drooping tops,--veritable rockets of verdure, showing stripes of blue through their innumerable regular clefts. the unendurable heat and the exhaustion of the horses compelled the traveller to halt for two or three hours at one of the great hotels that line the road and, from early in november, bring to that wonderfully sheltered little village all the luxurious life and animation of an aristocratic winter resort. but at that time of year the _marine_ of bordighera was deserted, save for a few fishermen, who were invisible at that hour. the villas and hotels seemed dead, all their blinds and shades being closely drawn. the new arrival was led through long, cool, silent passages, to a large salon facing north, evidently a part of one of the full suites which are generally let for the season, as it was connected with other rooms on either side by light doors. white curtains, a carpet, the semi-comfort demanded by the english even when travelling, and in front of the windows, which the innkeeper threw wide open as a lure to the visitor, to induce him to make a more extended halt, the magnificent view of the mountain. an astonishing calm reigned in that huge, deserted inn, with no steward, no cook, no attendants,--none of the staff arrived until the first cool days,--and given over to the care of a native spoil-sauce, an expert in _stoffatos_ and _risottos_, and to two stable-boys, who donned the regulation black coat, white cravat and pumps at meal hours. luckily, de géry proposed to remain there only an hour or two,--long enough to breathe, to rest his eyes from the glare of burnished silver and to free his heavy head from the helmet with the painful chin-strap that the sun had placed upon it. from the couch on which he lay, the beautiful landscape, terraces of light, quivering olive-trees, orange-groves of darker hue, their leaves gleaming as if wet in the moving rays, seemed to come down to his window in tiers of verdure of different shades, amid which the scattered villas stood forth in dazzling whiteness, among them maurice trott, the banker's, recognizable by the capricious richness of its architecture and the height of its palm-trees. the levantine's palace, whose gardens extended to the very windows of the hotel, had sheltered for several months past an artistic celebrity, the sculptor bréhat, who was dying of consumption and owed the prolongation of his life to that princely hospitality. this proximity of a famous moribund, of which the landlord was very proud and which he would have been glad to charge in his bill,--the name of bréhat, which de géry had so often heard mentioned with admiration in felicia ruys' studio, led his thoughts back to the lovely face with the pure outlines, which he had seen for the last time in the bois de boulogne, leaning upon mora's shoulder. what had become of the unfortunate girl when that support had failed her? would the lesson profit her in the future? and, by a strange coincidence, while he was thinking thus of felicia, a great white grey-hound went frisking along a tree-lined avenue in the sloping garden before him. one would have said that it was kadour himself,--the same short hair, the same fierce, slender red jaws. paul, at his open window, was assailed in an instant by all sorts of visions, sweet and depressing. perhaps the superb scenery before him, the lofty mountain up which a blue shadow was running, tarrying in all the inequalities of the ground, assisted the vagabondage of his thought. under the orange and lemon trees, set out in straight lines for cultivation, stretched vast fields of violets in close, regular clusters, traversed by little irrigating canals, whose walls of white stone made sharp breaks in the luxuriant verdure. an exquisite odor arose, of violets fermented in the sun, a hot boudoir perfume, enervating, weakening, which called up before de géry's eyes feminine visions, aline, felicia, gliding across the enchanted landscape, in that blue-tinted atmosphere, that elysian light which seemed to be the visible perfume of such a multitude of flowers in full bloom. a sound of doors closing made him open his eyes. some one had entered the adjoining room. he heard a dress brushing against the thin partition, the turning of leaves in a book in which the reader seemed to feel no absorbing interest; for he was startled by a long sigh ending in a yawn. was he still asleep, still dreaming? had he not heard the cry of the "jackal in the desert," so thoroughly in harmony with the heavy, scorching temperature without? no. nothing more. he dozed again; and this time all the confused images that haunted him took definite shape in a dream, a very lovely dream. he was taking his wedding journey with aline. a fascinating bride she was. bright eyes, overflowing with love and faith, which knew only him, looked at none but him. in that same hotel parlor, on the other side of the centre table, the sweet girl was sitting in a white _négligé_ morning costume which smelt of violets and of the dainty lace of the trousseau. one of those wedding-journey breakfasts, served immediately after rising, in sight of the blue sea and the clear sky which tinge with azure the glass from which you drink, the eyes into which you gaze, the future, life and the vast expanse of space. oh! what superb weather, what a divine, youth-renewing light, and how happy they were! and suddenly, amid their kisses, their intoxicating bliss, aline became sad. her lovely eyes were dimmed with tears. "felicia is there," she said, "you will not love me any more." and he laughed at her: "felicia,--here? what an idea!" "yes, yes, she is there." trembling, she pointed to the adjoining room, where he heard felicia's voice, mingled with fierce barking. "here, kadour! here, kadour!" the low, concentrated, indignant voice of one who seeks to remain concealed and suddenly finds that she is discovered. awakened with a start, the lover, disenchanted, found himself in the empty room, beside a table at which no one else was sitting, his lovely dream flown away through the window to the great hillside which filled the whole field of vision and seemed to stoop toward the house. but he really heard the barking of a dog in the adjoining room and repeated blows on the door. "open the door. it is i--jenkins." paul sat up on his couch in speechless amazement. jenkins in that house? how could that be? to whom was he talking? what voice was about to reply to him? there was no reply. a light step walked to the door and the bolt was nervously drawn back. "at last i have found you," said the irishman, entering the room. and in truth, if he had not taken pains to announce himself, paul, hearing it through the partition, would never have attributed that brutal, hoarse, savage tone to the oily-mannered doctor. "at last i have found you, after eight days of searching, of rushing frantically from genoa to nice, from nice to genoa. i knew that you hadn't gone, as the yacht was still in the roads. and i was on the point of investigating all the hotels along the shore when i remembered bréhat. i thought that you would want to stop and see him as you passed. so i came here. it was he who told me that you were at this house." to whom was he speaking? what extraordinary obstinacy the person showed in not replying! at last a rich, melancholy voice, which paul knew well, made the heavy resonant air of the hot afternoon vibrate in its turn. "well! yes, jenkins, here i am. what of it, pray?" paul could see through the wall the disdainful, drooping mouth, curled in disgust. "i have come to prevent you from going, from perpetrating this folly." "what folly? i have work to do in tunis. i must go there." "why, you can't think of such a thing, my dear child." "oh! enough of your paternal airs, jenkins. i know what is hidden underneath. pray talk to me as you did just now. i prefer you as the bulldog, rather than as the fawning cur. i'm less afraid of you." "very good! i tell you that you must be mad to go to that country all alone, young and lovely as you are." "why, am i not always alone? would you have me take constance, at her age?" "what about me?" "you?" she emphasized the word with a most satirical laugh. "and paris? and your patients? deprive paris of its cagliostro! no, indeed, never!" "i am thoroughly resolved, however, to follow you wherever you go," said jenkins, with decision. there was a moment's pause. paul wondered if it were very dignified in him to listen to this discussion, which seemed pregnant with terrible disclosures. but, in addition to his fatigue, an unconquerable curiosity glued him to his place. it seemed to him that the engrossing enigma by which he had been so long puzzled and disturbed, to which his mind still held by the end of its veil of mystery, was about to speak at last, to reveal itself, to disclose the woman, sorrowful or perverse, hidden beneath the shell of the worldly artist. so he remained perfectly still, holding his breath, but with no need to listen closely; for the others, believing themselves alone in the hotel, allowed their passions and their voices to rise without restraint. "after all, what do you want of me?" "i want you." "jenkins!" "yes, yes, i know; you have forbidden me ever to utter such words before you; but others than i have said them to you and more too--" two nervous steps brought her nearer to the apostle, placed the breathless contempt of her retort close to his broad sensual face. "and if that were true, villain! if i were unable to defend myself against disgust and ennui, if i did lose my pride, is it for you to mention it? as if you were not the cause of it, as if you had not withered and saddened my life forever." and three swift, burning words revealed to the horrified paul de géry the shocking scene of that assault disguised by loving guardianship, against which the girl's spirit and mind and dreams had had to struggle so long, and which had left her the incurable depression of premature sorrow, a loathing for life almost before it had begun, and that curl at the corner of the lip like the visible wreck of a smile. "i loved you,--i love you. passion carries everything before it," jenkins replied in a hollow voice. "very well, love me, if it amuses you. for my part, i hate you, not only because of the injury you have done me and all the beliefs and laudable enthusiasms that you killed in me, but because you represent what are the most execrable and hideous things under the sun to me, hypocrisy and falsehood. yes, in that worldly masquerade, that mass of false pretences, of grimaces, of cowardly, indecent conventions which have sickened me so thoroughly that i am running away, exiling myself in order to avoid seeing them, that i prefer to them the galleys, the gutter, or to walk the street as a prostitute, your mask, o sublime jenkins, is the one that inspires the greatest horror in me. you have complicated our french hypocrisy, which consists mainly in smiles and courtesies, with your effusive english handshakes, your cordial and demonstrative loyalty. everybody is taken in by it. people speak of 'honest jenkins,' 'excellent, worthy jenkins.' but i know you, my man, and for all your fine motto, so insolently displayed on your envelopes, on your seal, your cuff-buttons, your hat-buckles and the panels of your carriages, i always see the knave that you are, showing everywhere around the edges of your disguise." her voice hissed between her clenched teeth with an indescribably savage intonation; and paul expected some frantic outburst on the part of jenkins, rebelling against such a storm of insults. but no. that exhibition of hatred and contempt on the part of the woman he loved evidently caused him more sorrow than anger; for he answered low, in a tone of heart-broken gentleness:-- "ah! you are cruel. if you knew how you hurt me! hypocrite, yes, it is true; but a man isn't born that way, he becomes so perforce, in face of the harsh vicissitudes of life. when you have the wind against you and want to go ahead, you tack. i tacked. charge it to my miserable beginnings, to an unsuccessful entrance on the stage, and agree at least that one thing in me has never lied: my passion! nothing has succeeded in repelling it, neither your contempt, nor your insults, nor all that i read in your eyes, which have never once smiled on me in all these years. and it is my passion which gives me strength, even after what i have just heard, to tell you why i am here. listen. you informed me one day that you needed a husband, some one to watch over you while you were at work, to relieve poor, worn-out crenmitz from sentry duty. those were your own words, which tore my heart then because i was not free. now everything is changed. will you marry me, felicia?" "what about your wife?" cried the girl, while paul asked himself the same question. "my wife is dead." "dead? madame jenkins? is that true?" "you never knew the one to whom i refer. the other was not my wife. when i met her, i was already married, in ireland. years ago. a horrible marriage, entered into with a rope around my neck. my dear, at twenty-five this alternative was presented to me: imprisonment for debt or miss strang, a pimply-faced, gouty old maid, the sister of a money-lender who had advanced me five hundred francs to pay for my medical studies. i preferred the jail; but weeks and months of it exhausted my courage and i married miss strang, who brought me as her dowry--my note of hand. you can imagine what my life was between those two monsters who adored each other. a jealous, sterile wife. the brother spying upon me, following me everywhere. i might have fled. but one thing detained me. the money-lender was said to be enormously rich. i proposed at all events to secure the profits of my cowardice. you see, i tell you everything. however, i was well punished. old strang died insolvent; he was a gambler, and had ruined himself without saying a word. thereupon i placed my wife's rheumatism in an asylum and came to france. i had to begin life anew, to struggle with poverty once more. but i had on my side experience, hatred and contempt for mankind, and freedom, for i did not suspect that the horrible ball and chain of that infernal union would continue to impede my steps at a distance. luckily it's all over, and i am free at last." "yes, jenkins, free. but why doesn't it occur to you to marry the poor creature who has shared your life so long, humble and devoted to you as we have all seen her?" "oh!" he said with a burst of sincere feeling, "between my two galleys i believe i preferred the other, where i could show my indifference or my hatred without restraint. but the ghastly comedy of conjugal love, of unwearying happiness, when for so many years i have loved no one but you, thought of no one but you! there's no such torture on earth. if i can judge by my own experience, the poor woman must have shouted with relief and joy when we separated. that is the only farewell greeting i hoped for from her." "but who forced you to use such restraint." "paris, society, the world. being married according to public opinion, we were bound by it." "and now you are no longer so bound?" "now there is one thing that overshadows everything else, the thought of losing you, of seeing you no more. oh! when i learned of your flight, when i saw the sign: to let, on your door, i felt that the time for poses and grimaces had gone by, that there was nothing for me to do but to pack up and rush after my happiness, which you were carrying away. you left paris, i did the same. everything in your house was sold; everything in my house is to be sold." "and she?" rejoined felicia, with a shudder. "she, the irreproachable companion, the virtuous woman whom no one has ever suspected, where will she go? what will she do? and you have come to propose to me to take her place? a stolen place, and in what a hell! aha! and our motto, honest jenkins, virtuous jenkins, what are we to do with that? 'do good without hope,' old man!" at that sneer, stinging as a blow from a whip, which must have left its mark in red on his face, the wretch rejoined, gasping for breath: "enough, enough; do not mock me so. it is too horrible, after all that has gone. in god's name doesn't it touch you to be loved as i love you, sacrificing everything to you, wealth, honor, reputation? come, look at me. however carefully applied my mask may have been, i have torn it off for you, i have torn it off before all the world. and now, look! here is the hypocrite!" there was a dull sound as of two knees falling upon the floor. and mad with love, stammering, humbling himself before her, he implored her to consent to marry him, to give him the right to go everywhere with her, to defend her; then words failed him, his voice was choked by a passionate sob, so deep, so heart-rending, that it might well have touched any heart, especially in presence of that gorgeous scenery lying impassive in the perfumed, enervating heat. but felicia was not moved, and her manner was still haughty as she said brusquely: "enough of this, jenkins, what you ask is impossible. we have nothing to conceal from each other; and after your confidences of a moment ago, i propose to tell you something which it wounds my pride to tell, but which your persistence seems to me to deserve. i was mora's mistress." paul was not unprepared for that. and yet that sweet voice burdened with such a confession was so sad amid the intoxicating aromas of that lovely blue atmosphere, that his heart was sorely oppressed, and he had in his mouth the taste of tears left by an unavowed regret. "i knew it," replied jenkins in a hollow voice. "i have here the letters you wrote him." "my letters?" "oh! i will give them back to you; take them. i know them by heart, by dint of reading and re-reading them. that is the kind of thing that hurts when one is in love. but i have undergone other tortures. when i think that it was i--" he paused, he was suffocating--"i who was destined to furnish combustion for your flames, to warm that frozen lover, to send him to you, ardent and rejuvenated! ah! he made away with the pearls, i tell you. it was of no use for me to say no, he always wanted more. at last i went mad. 'you want to burn, villain. well, burn!'" * * * * * paul sprang to his feet in dismay. was he about to hear the confession of a crime? but he had not to undergo the shame of listening further. a sharp knock, on his door this time, warned him that the _calesino_ was ready. "hallo! signor francese." there was profound silence in the adjoining room, then a hurried whispering. there was somebody close by, who was listening to them!--paul de géry rushed downstairs. he longed to be far away from that hotel parlor, to escape the haunting memory of the horrors that had been disclosed to him. as the post-chaise started, he saw, between the cheap white curtains that hang at every window in the south, a pale face with the hair of a goddess and great blazing eyes, watching for him to pass. but a glance at aline's portrait soon banished that disturbing vision, and, cured forever of his former passion, he travelled until evening through an enchanted country with the pretty bride of the breakfast, who carried away in the folds of her modest dress, of her maidenly cloak, all the violets of bordighera. [illustration: "_the first night of 'révolte.'_"] chapter xxv the first night of "rÉvolte." "ready for the first act!" that cry from the stage manager, standing, with his hands at his mouth like a trumpet, at the foot of the actors' stairway, soars upward in its lofty well, rolls hither and thither, loses itself in the recesses of passage-ways filled with the noise of closing doors and hurried footsteps, of despairing calls to the wig-maker and the dressers, while on the landings of the different floors, slowly and majestically, holding their heads perfectly still for fear of disarranging the slightest detail of their costumes, all the characters of the first act of _révolte_ appear one by one, clad in elegant modern ball costumes, with much creaking of new shoes, rustling of silk trains, and clanking of handsome bracelets pushed up by the gloves in process of being buttoned. they all seem excited, nervous, pale under their paint, and little shivers pass in waves of shadow over the skilfully prepared velvety flesh of shoulders drenched with white lead. they talk but little, their mouths are dry. the most self-assured, while affecting to smile, have in their eyes and their voices the hesitation of absent-mindedness, that feeling of apprehension of the battle before the footlights which will always be one of the most potent attractions of the actor's profession, its piquancy, its ever-recurring springtime. on the crowded stage, where scene-shifters and machinists are running hither and thither, jostling one another in the soft, snowy light from the wings, soon to give place, when the curtain rises, to the brilliant light from the theatre, cardailhac in black coat and white cravat, his hat cocked over one ear, casts a last glance over the arrangement of the scenery, hastens the workmen, compliments the _ingénue_, humming a tune the while, radiant and superb. to see him, no one would ever suspect the terrible anxieties by which his mind is beset. as he was involved with all the others in the nabob's downfall, in which his stock company was swallowed up, he is staking his little all on the play to be given this evening, and will be forced--if it does not succeed--to leave this marvellous scenery, these rich stuffs at a hundred francs the yard, unpaid for. his fourth failure is staring him in the face. but, deuce take it! our manager has confidence. success, like all the monsters that feed on man, loves youth; and this unknown author whose name is entirely new on the posters, flatters the gambler's superstitions. andré maranne is not so confident. as the time for the performance draws near, he loses faith in his work, dismayed by the sight of the crowded hall, which he surveys through a hole in the curtain as through the small end of a stereoscope. a magnificent audience, filling the hall to the ceiling, despite the lateness of the season and the fashionable taste for going early to the country; for cardailhac, the declared foe of nature and the country, who always struggles to keep parisians in paris as late as possible, has succeeded in filling his theatre, in making it as brilliant as in mid-winter. fifteen hundred heads swarming under the chandeliers, erect, leaning forward, turned aside, questioning, with a great abundance of shadows and reflections; some massed in the dark corners of the pit, others brilliantly illuminated by the reflection of the white walls of the lobby shining through the open doors of the boxes; a first-night audience, always the same, that collective brigand from the theatrical columns of the newspapers, who goes everywhere and carries by assault those much-envied places when some claim to favor or the exercise of some public function does not give them to him. in the orchestra-stalls, lady-killers, clubmen, glistening craniums with broad bald streaks fringed with scanty hair, light gloves, huge opera-glasses levelled at the boxes. in the galleries, a medley of castes and fine dresses, all the names well known at functions of the sort, and the embarrassing promiscuousness which seats the chaste, modest smile of the virtuous woman beside the eyes blazing with kohl and the lips streaked with vermilion of the other kind. white hats, pink hats, diamonds and face paint. higher up, the boxes present the same scene of confusion: actresses and courtesans, ministers, ambassadors, famous authors, critics solemn of manner and frowning, lying back in their chairs with the impassive gloom of judges beyond the reach of corruption. the proscenium boxes are ablaze with light and splendor, occupied by celebrities of the world of finance, décolletée, bare-armed women, gleaming with jewels like the queen of sheba when she visited the king of the jews. but one of those great boxes on the left is entirely unoccupied, and attracts general attention by its peculiar decoration, lighted by a moorish lantern at the rear. over the whole assemblage hovers an impalpable floating dust, the flickering of the gas, which mingles its odor with all parisian recreations, and its short, sharp wheezing like a consumptive's breath, accompanying the slow waving of fans. and with all the rest, ennui, deathly ennui, the ennui of seeing the same faces always in the same seats, with their affectations or their defects, the monotony of society functions, which results every winter in turning paris into a backbiting provincial town, more gossipy and narrow-minded than the provinces themselves. maranne noticed that sullen humor, that evident weariness on the part of the audience, and as he reflected upon the change that would be wrought by the success of his drama in his modest life, now made up entirely of hopes, he asked himself, in an agony of dread, what he could do to bring his thoughts home to that multitude of human beings, to force them to lay aside their preoccupied manner, to set in motion in that vast throng a single current which would attract to him those distraught glances, those minds, now scattered over all the notes in the key-board and so difficult to bring into harmony. instinctively he sought friendly faces, a box opposite the stage filled by the joyeuse family; Élise and the younger girls in front, and behind them aline and their father, a lovely family group, like a bouquet dripping with dew in a display of artificial flowers. and while all paris was asking disdainfully: "who are those people?" the poet placed his destiny in those little fairy-like hands, newly gloved for the occasion, which would boldly give the signal for applause when it was time. "clear the stage!" maranne has barely time to rush into the wings; and suddenly he hears, far, very far away, the first words of his play, rising, like a flock of frightened birds, in the silence and immensity of the theatre. a terrible moment! where should he go? what would become of him? should he remain there leaning against a post, with ears strained and a feeling of tightness at his heart; to encourage the actors when he was so in need of encouragement himself? he prefers to confront the danger face to face, and he glides through a little door into the lobby outside the boxes and stops at a box on the first tier which he opens softly.--"sh!--it's i." some one is sitting in the shadow, a woman whom all paris knows, and who keeps out of sight. andré takes his place beside her, and sitting side by side, invisible to all, the mother and son, trembling with excitement, watch the performance. the audience was dumbfounded at first. the théâtre des nouveautés, situated at the heart of the boulevard, where its main entrance was a blaze of light, among the fashionable restaurants and select clubs,--a theatre to which small parties used to adjourn after a choice dinner to hear an act or two of something racy, had become in the hands of its clever manager the most popular of all parisian play-houses, with no well-defined speciality but providing a little of all sorts, from the spectacular fairy-play which exhibits the women in scant attire, to the great modern drama which does the same for our morals. cardailhac was especially bent upon justifying his title of "manager of the nouveautés,"[ ] and since the nabob's millions had been behind the undertaking, he had striven to give the frequenters of the boulevard some dazzling surprises. that of this evening surpassed them all: the play was in verse--and virtuous. footnotes: [ ] novelties. a virtuous play! the old monkey had realized that the time had come to try that _coup_, and he tried it. after the first moments of amazement, and a few melancholy ejaculations here and there in the boxes: "listen! it's in verse!" the audience began to feel the charm of that elevating, healthy work, as if someone had shaken over it, in that rarefied atmosphere, some cool essence, pleasant to inhale, an elixir of life perfumed with the wild thyme of the hillsides. "ah! this is fine--it is restful." that was the general exclamation, a thrill of comfort, a bleat of satisfaction accompanying each line. it was restful to the corpulent hemerlingue, puffing in his proscenium box on the ground floor, as in a sty of cherry-colored satin. it was restful to tall suzanne bloch, in her antique head-dress with crimps peeping out from under a diadem of gold; and amy férat beside her, all in white like a bride, sprigs of orange-blossoms in her hair dressed _à la chien_, it was restful to her, too. there were numbers of such creatures there, some very stout with an unhealthy stoutness picked up in all sorts of seraglios, triple-chinned and with an idiotic look; others absolutely green despite their rouge, as if they had been dipped in a bath of that arsenite of copper known to commerce as "paris green," so faded and wrinkled that they kept out of sight in the back of their boxes, letting nothing be seen save a bit of white arm or a still shapely shoulder. then there were old beaux, limp and stooping, of the type then known as little _crevés_, with protruding neck and hanging lips, incapable of standing straight, or of uttering a word without a break. and all these people exclaimed as one man: "this is fine--it is restful." beau moëssard hummed it like a tune under his little blond moustache, while his queen in a first tier box opposite translated it into her barbarous foreign tongue. really it was restful to them. but they did not say why they needed rest, from what heart-sickening toil, from what enforced task as idlers and utterly useless creatures. all these well-disposed murmurs, confused and blended, began to give the theatre the aspect that it wore on great occasions. success was in the air, faces became brighter, the women seemed embellished by the reflection of the prevailing enthusiasm, of glances as thrilling as applause. andré, sitting beside his mother, thrilled with an unfamiliar pleasure, with that proud delight which one feels in stirring the emotions of a crowd, even though it be as a street-singer in the faubourgs, with a patriotic refrain and two tremulous notes in one's voice. suddenly the whispering redoubled, changed into a tumult. people began to move about and laugh sneeringly. what was happening? some accident on the stage? andré, leaning forward in dismay toward his actors, who were no less surprised than himself, saw that all the opera-glasses were levelled at the large proscenium box, empty until then, which some one had just entered and had taken his seat there, both elbows on the velvet rail, opera-glass in hand, in ominous solitude. the nabob had grown twenty years older in ten days. those impulsive southern natures, rich as they are in enthusiastic outbursts, in irresistible spurts of flame, collapse more utterly than others. since his rejection by the chamber the poor fellow had remained shut up in his own room, with the curtains drawn, refusing to see the daylight or to cross the threshold beyond which life awaited him, engagements he had entered into, promises made, a wilderness of protests and summonses. the levantine having gone to some watering-place, attended by her masseur and her negresses, absolutely indifferent to the ruin of the family,--bompain, the man in the fez, aghast amid the constant demands for money, being utterly at a loss to know how to approach his unfortunate employer, who was always in bed and turned his face to the wall as soon as any one mentioned business to him,--the old mother was left alone to struggle with the disaster, with the limited, guileless knowledge of a village widow, who knows what a stamped paper is, and a signature, and who considers honor the most precious possession on earth. her yellow cap appeared on every floor of the great mansion, overlooking the bills, introducing reforms among the servants, heedless of outcries and humiliations. at every hour in the day the good woman could be seen striding along place vendôme, gesticulating, talking to herself, saying aloud: "bah! i'll go and see the bailiff." and she never consulted her son except when it was indispensable, and then only in a few concise words, careful to avoid looking at him. to arouse jansoulet from his torpor nothing less would suffice than a despatch from paul de géry at marseille, announcing his arrival with ten millions. ten millions, that is to say, failure averted, a possibility of standing erect once more, of beginning life anew. and behold our southerner, rebounding from the depths to which he had fallen, drunk with joy and hope. he ordered the windows to be thrown open, newspapers to be brought. what a magnificent opportunity that first night of _révolte_ would afford him to show himself to the parisians, who believed that he had gone under, to re-enter the great eddying whirlpool through the folding doors of his box at the nouveautés! his mother, warned by an instinctive dread, made a slight effort to hold him back. paris terrified her now. she would have liked to take her child away to some secluded corner in the south, to care for him with the elder, both ill with the disease of the great city. but he was the master. it was impossible to resist the will of that man whom wealth had spoiled. she helped him to dress, "made him handsome," as she laughingly said, and watched him not without a certain pride as he left the house, superb, revivified, almost recovered from the terrible prostration of the last few days. jansoulet quickly remarked the sensation caused by his presence in the theatre. being accustomed to such exhibitions of curiosity, he usually responded to them without the least embarrassment, with his kindly, expansive smile; but this time the manifestation was unfriendly, almost insulting. "what!--is that he?" "there he is!" "what impudence!" such exclamations went up from the orchestra stalls, mingled with many others. the seclusion and retirement in which he had taken refuge for the past few days had left him in ignorance of the public exasperation in his regard, the sermons, the dithyrambs with which the newspapers were filled on the subject of his corrupting wealth, articles written for effect, hypocritical verbiage to which public opinion resorts from time to time to revenge itself on the innocent for all its concessions to the guilty. it was a terrible disappointment, which caused him at first more pain than anger. deeply moved, he concealed his distress behind his opera-glass, turning three-fourths away from the audience and giving close attention to the slightest details of the performance, but unable to avoid the scandalized scrutiny of which he was the victim, and which made his ears ring, his temples throb, and covered the dimmed lenses of his opera-glass with multi-colored circles, whirling about in the first vagaries of apoplexy. when the act came to an end and the curtain fell, he remained, without moving, in that embarrassed attitude; but the louder whispering, no longer restrained by the stage dialogue, and the persistency of certain curious persons who changed their seats in order to obtain a better view of him, compelled him to leave his box, to rush out into the lobby like a wild beast fleeing from the arena through the circus. under the low ceiling, in the narrow circular passage common in theatre lobbies, he stumbled upon a compact crowd of dandies, newspaper men, women in gorgeous hats, tightly laced, laughers by trade, shrieking with idiotic laughter as they leaned against the wall. from the open boxes, which sought a breath of fresh air from that swarming, noisy corridor, issued broken, confused fragments of conversation: "a delightful play. it is so fresh and clean!" "that nabob! what insolence!" "yes, it really is very restful. one feels the better for--" "how is it he hasn't been arrested yet?" "a very young man, it seems; this is his first play." "bois-l'héry at mazas!--it isn't possible. there's the marchioness just opposite us in the first gallery, with a new hat." "what does that prove? she's plying her trade of _lanceuse_. that's a very pretty hat, by the way--the colors of desgranges' horse." "and jenkins? what has become of jenkins?" "at tunis with felicia. old brahim saw them both. it seems that the bey has taken a decided liking to the pearls." "_bigre!_" farther on, sweet voices whispered: "go, father, do go. see how entirely alone he is, poor man." "but i don't know him, children." "even so, just a bow. something to show him that he isn't utterly abandoned." whereupon a little old gentleman, in a white cravat, with a very red face, darted to meet the nabob and saluted him with a respectful flourish of his hat. how gratefully, with what an eager, pleasant smile, was that single salutation returned, that salutation from a man whom jansoulet did not know, whom he had never seen, but who, nevertheless, exerted a very great influence upon his destiny; for, except for père joyeuse, the president of the council of the _territoriale_ would probably have shared the fate of the marquis de bois-l'héry. so it is that in the network of modern society, that vast labyrinth of selfish interests, ambitions, services accepted and rendered, all castes communicate between themselves, mysteriously connected by hidden bonds, from the most elevated to the humblest existences; therein lies the explanation of the variegated coloring, the complication of this study of manners, the assemblage of scattered threads of which the writer with a regard for truth is compelled to make the groundwork of his drama. glances cast vaguely into the air, steps turned aimlessly aside, hats pulled abruptly over the eyes, in ten minutes the nabob was subjected to all the outward manifestations of that terrible ostracism of parisian society, where he had neither kindred nor substantial connections of any sort, and where contempt isolated him more surely than respect isolates a sovereign when paying a visit. he staggered with embarrassment and shame. some one said aloud: "he has been drinking," and all that the poor man could do was to go back into the salon of his box and close the door. ordinarily that little _retiro_ was filled during the entr'actes with financiers and journalists. they laughed and talked and smoked there, making a great uproar; the manager always came to pay his respects to his partner. that evening, not a soul. and the absence of cardailhac, with his keen scent for success, showed jansoulet the full measure of his disgrace. "what have i done to them? why is it that paris will no longer have anything to do with me?" he questioned himself thus in a solitude which was emphasized by the sounds all about, the sudden turning of keys in the doors of boxes, the innumerable exclamations of an amused crowd. then suddenly the newness of his luxurious surroundings, the odd shadows cast by the moorish lantern on the brilliant silk covering of the couch and the hangings reminded him of the date of his arrival. six months! only six months since he arrived in paris! everything consumed and vanished in six months! he relapsed into a sort of torpor from which he was aroused by enthusiastic applause and bravos. clearly this play of _révolte_ was a great success. they had now reached the powerful, satirical passages; and the virulent declamation, a little emphatic in tone but relieved by a breath of youth and sincerity, made every heart beat fast after the idyllic effusions of the first act. jansoulet determined to look and listen with the rest. after all, the theatre belonged to him. his seat in that proscenium box had cost him more than a million; surely the least he was entitled to was the privilege of occupying it. behold him seated once more at the front of his box. in the hall a heavy, suffocating heat, stirred but not dissipated by the waving fans, their glittering spangles mingling their reflections with the impalpable outbreathings of the silence. the audience listened intently to an indignant and spirited passage against the pirates, so numerous at that period, who had become cocks of the roost after long haunting the darkest corners to rob all who passed. certainly maranne, when he wrote those fine lines, had had nobody less in his mind than the nabob. but the audience saw in them an allusion to him; and while a triple salvo of applause greeted the end of the tirade, all eyes were turned toward the box on the left, with an indignant, openly insulting movement. the poor wretch, pilloried in his own theatre! a pillory that had cost him so dear! that time he did not seek to avoid the affront, but settled himself resolutely on his seat, with folded arms, and defied that crowd, which stared at him with its hundreds of upturned, sneering faces, that virtuous all-paris which took him for a scapegoat and drove him forth after loading all its crimes upon him. a pretty assemblage, in sooth, for such an exhibition! opposite, the box of an insolvent banker, the wife and the lover side by side in front, the husband in the shadow, neglected and grave. at one side the frequent combination of a mother who has married her daughter according to her (the mother's) own heart, and to make the man she loved her son-in-law. contraband couples too, courtesans flaunting the price of their shame, diamonds in circlets of flame riveted around arms and necks like dog-collars, stuffing themselves with bonbons, which they swallowed in gluttonous, beastly fashion because an exhibition of the animal nature in woman pleases those who pay for it. and those groups of effeminate fops, with low collars and painted eyebrows, whose embroidered lawn shirts and white satin corsets aroused admiration in the guest chambers at compiègne; _mignons_ of agrippa's day, who called one another: "my heart," or "my dear love." scandal and wickedness in every form, consciences sold or for sale, the vice of an epoch devoid of grandeur or originality, attempting to copy the freaks of all other epochs, and contributing to the jardin bullier that duchess, the wife of a minister of state, who rivalled the most shameless dancers of that resort. and they were the people who turned their back upon him, who cried out to him: "begone! you are unworthy." "i unworthy! why, i am worth a hundred times more than the whole of you, vile wretches! you reproach me with my millions. in god's name, who helped me squander them?--look you, you cowardly, treacherous friend, hiding in the corner of your box your fat carcass like a sick pasha's! i made your fortune as well as my own in the days when we shared everything like brothers.--and you, sallow-faced marquis, i paid a hundred thousand francs at the club to prevent your being expelled in disgrace.--i covered you with jewels, you hussy, so letting people think you were my mistress, because that is good form in our circle, and never asked you for anything in return.--and you, brazen-faced journalist, with no other brains than the dregs of your inkstand, and with as many leprous spots on your conscience as your queen has on her skin, you consider that i didn't pay you what you were worth, and that's the secret of your insults.--yes, yes, look at me, _canaille_! i am proud. i am better than you." all that he said thus to himself, in a frenzy of wrath, visible in the trembling of his thick, pallid lips, the unhappy man, upon whom madness was swooping down, was, perhaps, on the point of shouting aloud in the silence, of pouring out a flood of maledictions upon that insulting mob, and, who can say? of leaping down into the midst of them and killing some one, ah! god's blood! of killing some one, when he felt a light touch on his shoulder; and he saw a blond head, a frank, grave face, and two outstretched hands which he grasped convulsively, like a drowning man. "ah! my dear--my dear--" stammered the poor man. but he had no strength to say more. that grateful emotion coming upon him in the midst of his frenzy, melted it into a sob of tears, of blood, of choking speech. his face became purple. he motioned: "take me away." and, leaning on paul de géry's arm, he stumbled through the door of his box and fell to the floor in the lobby. "bravo! bravo!" shouted the audience at the conclusion of the actor's tirade; and there was a noise as of a hail-storm, an enthusiastic stamping,--while the great inert body, borne by scene-shifters, passed through the brilliantly-lighted wings, obstructed by men and women crowding around the entrances to the stage, excited by the atmosphere of success, and hardly noticing the passage of that lifeless victim carried in men's arms like the victim of a street affray. they laid him on a couch in the property room, paul de géry by his side with a physician and two attendants who were eager to help. cardailhac, who was very busy with the performance, had promised to come and see how he was getting on, "in a moment, after the fifth act." bloodletting upon bloodletting, cupping, plasters, nothing produced even a twitching of the skin in the sick man, who was insensible to all the methods of resuscitation usually resorted to in cases of apoplexy. a relaxation of every fibre of his being seemed to give him over to death, to prepare his body for the rigidity of the corpse; and that in the most dismal place on earth, chaos lighted by a dark lantern, where all the débris of plays that had been performed, gilded furniture, hangings with gorgeous fringe, carriages, strong boxes, card-tables, discarded flights of stairs and banisters, were heaped together pell-mell under the dust, among ropes and pulleys, a wilderness of damaged, broken, demolished, cast-off stage properties. bernard jansoulet, as he lay amid that wreckage, his shirt torn away from his chest, at once bleeding and bloodless, was the typical shipwrecked victim of life, bruised and cast ashore with the pitiable débris of his artificial splendor broken and scattered by the parisian whirlpool. paul, broken-hearted, gazed sadly at that face with its short nose, retaining in its inert condition the wrathful yet kindly expression of an inoffensive creature who tried to defend himself before dying, but had no time to bite. he blamed himself for his inability to serve him to any useful purpose. what had become of that fine project of his of leading jansoulet through the quagmires, of saving him from ambuscades? all that he had been able to do was to rescue a few millions, and even those came too late. * * * * * the windows were opened on the balcony overlooking the boulevard, then at its full tide of noise and animation, and blazing with light. the theatre was surrounded with rows of gas-jets, a circle of flame lighting up the most obscure recesses where flickering lanterns gleamed like stars travelling through the dark sky. the play was done. the audience was leaving the theatre. the dark throng moved in a compact mass down the steps and scattered to right and left along the white sidewalks, to spread through the city the news of a great success and the name of an unknown author, who would be illustrious and famous on the morrow. a most enjoyable evening, causing the restaurant windows to blaze with delight and the streets to be filled with long lines of belated carriages. that holiday uproar, of which the poor nabob had been so fond and which was well adapted to the giddy whirl of his existence, aroused him for a second. his lips moved, and his staring eyes, turned toward de géry, assumed in presence of death a sorrowful, imploring, rebellious expression, as if to call upon him to bear witness to one of the greatest, the most cruel acts of injustice that paris ever committed. the end. [illustration: publishers mark] * * * * * =george sand's works in english.= mauprat. antonia. the bagpipers. monsieur sylvestre. the snow man. nanon. the miller of angibault. as to "mauprat," if there were any doubts as to george sand's power, it would forever set them at rest.--_harper's monthly._ = mo. half russia, uniform with balzac's novels. each, $ . .= * * * * * =little classics, by george sand.= fadette. francois the waif. the devil's pool. the master mosaic workers. translated by jane minot sedgwick, ellery sedgwick, and charlotte c. johnston. with etched frontispieces by abot and an etched portrait of titian. = mo. cloth, extra, gilt top. each, $ . .= studies of rustic life, of which "la petite fadette," "françois le champi," and "la mare au diable" are the chief, and which some of her admirers regard as her greatest works.--_george saintsbury, in chambers' cyclopædia._ no description is needed of works so well known as "la petite fadette," "la mare au diable," and "françois le champi." like wordsworth, with the inward eye she sees into the life of things.--_encyclopædia britannica._ "the master mosaic workers" is _one of the most delightful of historical novels_, and gives a vivid picture of the life in venice at the time when titian, tintoretto, and giorgione were in their zenith, and when the famous mosaics which still adorn st. mark's were being made.--_literary world._ * * * * * =george sand's convent life.= translated from "l'histoire de ma vie" by maria ellery mckaye. these brief chapters from a fragmentary autobiography of the famous french author have been translated from the published memoirs, and are much more familiar in france than here. they relate to george sand's girlhood, and cover only a few years, and yet are written with that vivid and picturesque charm peculiar to all her writings. they show us, with much force and interest, the kind of life which young girls led in convents seventy years ago.--_n. y. times._ = mo. cloth. with portrait. $ . .= * * * * * little, brown, and company, publishers, washington street, boston. =the new library molière.= translated by katharine prescott wormeley. translator of balzac's novels. _with preface to molière's works by honoré de balzac, criticisms on the author by sainte-beuve, portraits by coypel and mignard, and decorative titlepages._ =arrangement of the plays.= vol. i. the misanthrope; le bourgeois gentilhomme. vol. ii. tartuffe; les précieuses ridicules; george dandin. vol. iii. les femmes savantes; le malade imaginaire. vol. iv. l'avare; don juan; les fâcheux. vol. v. l'École des femmes; l'École des maris; monsieur de pourceaugnac. vol. vi. l'Étourdi; le mariage forcé; le médecin malgré lui; la critique de l'École des femmes. * * * * * all are familiar with miss wormeley's admirable english version of balzac; and we know of no greater praise in behalf of her recent translation of molière than to say it betrays the same knowledge, skill, and insight that has made her name famous among the lovers of high literature. while it is undoubtedly true that the student of molière would turn by preference to the original, it is equally true that those who cannot read his works in their native form are now indebted to miss wormeley for an appreciation of sainte-beuve's declaration "that to love molière is to love uprightness and health of mind, in others as well as in ourselves." she did a splendid service for two literatures by her admirable english rendering of the author whom many regard as france's first novelist, and now she continues by an equally excellent translation of the works of the genius to whom is conceded with still greater unanimity the rank of france's first dramatist. and by a happy thought miss wormeley avails herself, for the presentation of molière to american readers, of the eloquent tribute which balzac paid to him in his preface to his own edition of molière, issued in his younger days. the translator also calls attention to the singular parallel afforded in the lives of the two writers. these "fathers of the 'comedy of human life' and of realism," she says, "died at the same age (fifty-one); the fame of both was of little more than fifteen years' duration in their lifetime; both died of the toil to which their genius impelled them; and both are going down with ever-brightening lustre to posterity."--_boston budget._ = mo. half leather. per volume, $ . .= * * * * * orders may be addressed to little, brown, and company, washington street, boston. =pastels of men.= by paul bourget. translated by katharine p. wormeley, translator of balzac's novels. * * * * * =first series= a saint. m. legrimaudet. two little boys: . m. veples' brother; . marcel. =second series= maurice olivier. a gambler. another gambler. jacques molan. a lowly one. corsÈques. the title suggests the character of the stories, which are, for the most part, miniature studies of men and women, done with exquisite grace and with no little power. m. bourget is just now one of the foremost figures among contemporary french writers. he is a critic as well as a novelist._--christian union._ = volumes. mo. cloth. each, $ . =. * * * * * =a saint. by paul bourget.= from the "pastels of men." translated by katharine prescott wormeley. with illustrations by paul chabas. = mo. parchment. $ . .= the "saint" is an old monk who lives with only two others in one of those old monasteries in italy which, since the government decree, have gradually fallen into disuse. it is a beautiful little story, in which we are taught the lesson of christ's manner of dealing with those who are tempted and go astray, and are brought back into the right path.--_boston times._ m. bourget is a master of literary art; his portraits are drawn with a wonderful distinctness, and with a realism that is as true to the possibilities of human nature as it is fascinating.--_boston home journal._ * * * * * little, brown, and company, publishers, washington street, boston. =the romances of victor hugo=. _library edition._ _including important passages and chapters hitherto omitted._ with portraits and plates. * * * * * =list of stories.= les misérables. vols. notre dame. vols. ninety-three, vol. the man who laughs. vols. toilers of the sea. vols. hans of iceland, vol. bug-jargal; claude gueux; the last day of a condemned, vol. vols. mo. decorated cloth, gilt top, $ . per volume; plain cloth, $ . per volume; half calf or half morocco, gilt top, $ . per volume. _any story supplied separately in cloth._ large handsome type, clear white paper, and choicely decorated covers combine to make this the most beautiful and desirable library edition of these great works. * * * * * to what other man can we attribute such sweeping innovations, such a new and significant presentment of the life of man, such an amount, if we merely think of the amount, of equally consummate performance.--robert louis stevenson. _a model edition for use and convenience._--_cincinnati commercial gazette._ a permanent, delightful book to all good judges of publishing.--_the beacon._ _a most beautiful and desirable library edition._--_baltimore american._ a delight to the eye and the touch.--_boston journal._ * * * * * little, brown, and company, publishers, washington street, boston. =brichanteau, actor=. translated from the french of =jules claretie, manager of the comédie française= with preface by francisque sarcey. mo. cloth, extra, gilt top. $ . . * * * * * m. jules claretie has had a wide acquaintance with actors. he has had an opportunity of studying them still more closely since he has been the manager of the comédie française. brichanteau is charming because he is always treading the boards, because he believes in good faith that his life is a drama, in which he plays the principal part. the work is written with a sprightly and witty pen.--francisque sarcey. the translation has preserved the sprightly wit and grace of the original, in which all the shades of character, frequently delicate and elusive, are brought out by refined turns of expression.--_philadelphia press._ as a whole, the book is a delightful and beautiful work of art. the man of whom claretie writes becomes a living character to us, and we love him as we would such a man in real life.--_cincinnati tribune._ he is more than a sketch; he is a meissonier portrait, painted with all that accuracy of detail for which meissonier was famous.--_boston literary world._ one of the most pathetically humorous books ever written, and it should become a classic.--_st. louis mirror._ that there is a lovable, generous, elevated, human and humane picturesqueness to the caricatured strolling player is shown with such admirable truth by claretie, that his "brichanteau" deserves permanency among desirable books.--_washington times._ you love brichanteau and take him to your heart, for he is an honest fellow, who fights gallantly and merrily with his bad luck.--_new york times._ a lively, amusing, intensely gallic series of studies of stage life.--_the outlook._ a delicious character, this brichanteau.--_detroit free press._ the author is so witty and the ridiculous side of his hero is so well described that the book is a treat--restful and refreshing. the delicious absurdity of this "optimist failure," "brichanteau actor," reminds one of don quixote, while his consummate good nature is almost equal to sir roger de coverley's. the clever french author has made his actor tell for the most part his own story, and in a natural, easy manner--the perfection of polished french style.--_chicago farm, field, and fireside._ * * * * * little, brown, and company, publishers, washington street, boston. =alphonse daudet in english=. =new uniform edition of the novels, romances, and memoirs of alphonse daudet, the greatest french writer since victor hugo=. newly translated by katharine prescott wormeley, translator of balzac's novels; jane minot sedgwick, translator of george sand; charles de kay, and others. =printed from large clear type, with frontispieces. twenty volumes. mo. cloth, gilt top. $ . per volume=. * * * * * _arrangement of the volumes._ alphonse daudet. by léon daudet. to which is added "my brother and myself," by ernest daudet vol. fromont and risler vol. the nabob vols. kings in exile vol. numa roumestan vol. the little parish and robert helmont vol. little what's his name vol. tartarin of tarascon and tartarin on the alps vol. port tarascon and la belle nivernaise vol. thirty years in paris, etc. vol. the immortal, etc vol. souvenirs of a man of letters and artists' wives vol. the evangelist and rose and ninette vol. jack vols. monday tales vol. letters from my mill, etc vol. sappho vol. the head of the family vol. * * * * * of the brilliant group of men who have made contemporaneous french literature, of that coterie toward which the eyes of all the reading world have been turned with admiration and interest during the last half a century, daudet was the greatest. he was the most universal, the most original, the most human.--_from an article in the book buyer, by l. van vorst._ has, perhaps, transferred bodily into his writings more actual events, related in the newspapers, in the court-house, or in society, than any other writer of the present age. of some of his novels one hardly dare say that they are works of fiction; their characters are men and women of our time; they do in the book almost exactly what they had done in real life.--_prof. adolph cohn, in the bookman._ he is a novelist to his finger-tips. no one has such grace, such lightness and brilliancy of execution.--_henry james, in the century._ the slightest pages from his pen will preserve the vibration of his soul so long as our tongue exists imperishable. he is the author of twenty masterpieces.--Émile zola. * * * * * little, brown, and company, publishers, washington street, boston. none none none none none none none none none none none none none none none the idol of paris by sarah bernhardt (english edition) contents part one: paris chapter one chapter two chapter three chapter four chapter five chapter six chapter seven part two: brussels chapter eight chapter nine chapter ten chapter eleven chapter twelve chapter thirteen chapter fourteen chapter fifteen part three: the country chapter sixteen chapter seventeen chapter eighteen chapter nineteen chapter twenty chapter twenty-one chapter twenty-two part four: the chÂteau chapter twenty-three chapter twenty-four chapter twenty-five chapter twenty-six chapter twenty-seven chapter twenty-eight chapter twenty-nine chapter thirty part i. paris chapter i in the dining-room of a fine house on the boulevard raspail all the darbois family were gathered together about the round table, on which a white oil cloth bordered with gold-medallioned portraits of the line of french kings served as table cover at family meals. the darbois family consisted of françois darbois, professor of philosophy, a scholar of eminence and distinction; of madame darbois, his wife, a charming gentle little creature, without any pretentions; of philippe renaud, brother of madame darbois, an honest and able business man; of his son, maurice renaud, twenty-two and a painter, a fine youth filled with confidence because of the success he had just achieved at the last salon; of a distant cousin, the family counsellor, a tyrannical landlord and self-centered bachelor, adhemar meydieux, and the child of whom he was godfather, and around whom all this particular little world revolved. esperance darbois, the only daughter of the philosopher, was fifteen years old. she was long and slim without being angular. the flower head that crowned this slender stem was exquisitely fair, with the fairness of a little child, soft pale-gold, fair. her face had, indeed, no strictly sculptural beauty; her long flax-coloured eyes were not large, her nose had no special character; only her sensitive and clear-cut nostrils gave the pretty face its suggestion of ancient lineage. her mouth was a little large, and her full red lips opened on singularly white teeth as even as almonds; while a low grecian forehead and a neck graceful in every curve gave esperance a total effect of aristocratic distinction that was beyond dispute. her low vibrant voice produced an impression that was almost physical on those who heard it. quite without intention, she introduced into every word she spoke several inflections which made her manner of pronounciation peculiarly her own. esperance was kneeling on a chair, leaning upon her arms on the table. her blue dress, cut like a blouse, was held in at the waist by a narrow girdle knotted loosely. although the child was arguing vigorously, with intense animation, there was such grace in her gestures, such charming vibrations in her voice, that it was impossible to resent her combative attitude. "papa, my dear papa," she was asserting to françois darbois, "you are saying to-day just the opposite of what you were saying the other day to mother at dinner." her father raised his head. her mother, on the contrary, dropped hers a little. "pray heaven," she was saying to herself, "that françois does not get angry with her!" the godfather moved his chair forward; philippe renaud laughed; maurice looked at his cousin with amazement. "what are you saying?" asked françois darbois. esperance gazed at him tenderly. "you remember my godfather was dining with us and there had been a lot of talk; my godfather was against allowing any liberty to women, and he maintained that children have no right to choose their own careers, but must, without reasoning, give way to their parents, who alone are to decide their fates." adhemar wished to take the floor and cleared his throat in preparation, but françois darbois, evidently a little nonplused, muttered, "and then after that--what are you coming to?" "to what you answered, papa." her father looked at her a little anxiously, but she met his glance calmly and continued: "you said to my godfather, 'my dear meydieux, you are absolutely mistaken. it is the right and the duty of everyone to select and to construct his future for himself.'" darbois attempted to speak.... "you even told mama, who had never known it, that grandfather wanted to place you in business, and that you rebelled." "ah! rebelled," murmured darbois, with a slight shrug. "yes, rebelled. and you added, 'my father cut off my allowance for a year, but i stuck to it; i tutored poor students who couldn't get through their examinations, i lived from hand to mouth, but i did live, and i was able to continue my studies in philosophy.'" uncle renaud was openly nodding encouragement. adhemar meydieux rose heavily, and straightening up with a succession of jerky movements, caught himself squarely on his heels, and then, with great conviction, said: "see here, child, if i were your father, i should take you by the ear and put you out of the room." esperance turned purple. "i repeat, children should obey without question!" "i hope to prove to my daughter by reasoning that she is probably wrong," said m. darbois very quietly. "not at all. you must order, not persuade." "now, m. meydieux," exclaimed the young painter, "it seems to me that you are going a little too far. children should respect their parents' wishes as far as possible; but when it is a question of their own future, they have a right to present their side of the case. if my uncle darbois's father had had his way, my uncle darbois would probably now be a mediocre engineer, instead of the brilliant philosopher who is admired and recognized by the entire world." gentle little madame darbois sat up proudly, and esperance looked at her father with a world of tenderness in her eyes. "but, my lad," pursued adhemar, swelling with conviction, "your uncle might well have made a fortune at machinery, while, as it is, he has just managed to exist." "we are very happy"--madame darbois slipped in her word. esperance had bounded out of her chair, and from behind her father encircled his head with her arms. "oh! yes, very happy," she murmured in a low voice, "and you would not, darling papa, spoil the harmony of our life together?" "remember, my dear little esperance, what i said to your mother concerned only men--now we are considering the future of a young girl, and that is a graver matter!" "why?" "because men are better armed against the struggle, and life is, alas, one eternal combat." "the armour of the intellect is the same for a young girl as for a young man." adhemar shook his shoulders impatiently. seeing that he was getting angry and was like to explode, esperance cried out, "wait, godfather, you must let me try to convince my parents. suppose, father, that i had chosen the same career as maurice. what different armour should i need?" françois listened to his daughter affectionately, drawing her closer to him. "understand me, my dearie. i am not denying your wish as a proof of my parental authority. no, remember this is the second time that you have expressed your will in the matter of the choice of your career. the first time i asked you to consider it for six months: the six months having passed, you now place me under the obligation of--" "oh! papa, what a horrid word!" "but that is it," he went on, playing with her pretty hair, "you have put me under the obligation of answering you definitely; and i have called this family council because i have not the courage, nor, perhaps, the right, to stand in your way--the way you wish to go." adhemar made a violent effort to leap to his feet, declaiming in his heavy voice, "yes, françois, you must try and prevent her from going this way, the most evil, the most perilous above all, for a woman." esperance began to tremble, but she stood resolutely away from her father, holding herself rigid with her arms hanging straight at her sides. the rose tint of her cheeks had disappeared and her blue eyes were dimmed with shadows. maurice hastily made a number of sketches of her; never before had he found his cousin so interesting. adhemar continued, "pray allow me to proceed with what i have to say, my dear child. i have come from the country for this purpose, in answer to your father's summons. i wish to offer my experience for your protection. your parents know nothing of life. françois breathes the ether of a world peopled only by philosophers--whether dead or living, it makes little difference; your mother lives only for you two. i expressed at once my horror at the career that you have chosen, i expatiated upon all the dangers! you seem to have understood nothing, and your father, thanks to his philosophy, that least trustworthy of guides, continues futilely reasoning, for ever reasoning!" his harangue was cut short. esperance's clear voice broke in, "i do not wish to hear you speak in this manner of my father, godfather," she said coldly. "my father lives for my mother and me. he is good and generous. it is you who are the egoist, godfather!" françois started as if to check his daughter, but she continued, "when mama was so sick, six years ago, papa sent me with marguerite, our maid, to take a letter to you. i did so want to read that letter, it must have been so splendid.... you answered...." adhemar tried to get in a word. esperance in exasperation tapped the floor with her foot and rushed on, "you answered, 'little one, you must tell your papa that i will give him all the advice he wants to help him out of this trouble, but it is a principle of mine never to lend money, above all to my good friends, for that always leads to a quarrel.' then i left you and went to my uncle renaud, who gave me a great deal more even than we needed for mama." big renaud looked hot and uncomfortable. his son pressed his hand so affectionately under the table that the good man's eyes grew wet. "ever since then, godfather, i have not cared for you any more." the atmosphere of the little room seemed suddenly to congeal. the silence was intense. adhemar himself remained thunderstruck in his chair, his tongue dry, his thoughts chaotic, unable to form a reply to the child's virulent attack. for the sake of breaking up this general paralysis, maurice renaud finally suggested that they should vote upon the decision to be given to his brave little cousin. they gathered together around the table and began to talk in low tones. esperance had sunk into a chair. her face was very pale and great blue circles had appeared around her eyes. the discussion seemed to be once more in full swing when maurice startled everyone by crying, "my god, esperance is ill!" the child had fainted, and her head hung limply back. her golden hair made an aureola of light around the colourless face with its dead white lips. maurice raised the child in his arms, and madame darbois led him quickly to esperance's little room where he laid the light form on its little bed. françois darbois moistened her temples quickly with eau de cologne. madame darbois supported esperance's head, holding a little ether to her nose. as maurice looked about the little room, as fresh, as white, as the two pots of marguerites on the mantel-shelf, an indefinable sentiment swelled up within him. was it a kind of adoration for so much purity? philippe renaud had remained in the dining-room where he succeeded in keeping adhemar, in spite of his efforts to follow the darbois. esperance opened her eyes and seeing beside her only her father and mother, those two beings whom she loved so deeply, so tenderly, she reached out her arms and drew close to her their beloved heads. maurice had slipped out very quietly. "papa dearie, mama beloved, forgive me, it is not my fault," she sobbed. "don't cry, my child, now, not a tear," cried darbois, bending over his little girl. "it is settled, you shall be...." and the word was lost in her little ear. she went suddenly pink, and raising herself towards him, whispered her reply, "oh! i thank you! how i love you both! thank you! thank you!" chapter ii esperance, left alone with her mother, drank the tea this tender parent brought to her, and the look of health began to come back to her face. "then to-morrow, mother dearest, we must go and be registered for the examinations that are soon to be held at the conservatoire." "you want to go to-morrow?" "yes, to-day we must stay with papa, mustn't we? he is so kind!" the two--mother and daughter--were silent a moment, occupied with the same tender thoughts. "and now we will persuade him to go out with us, shan't we, mother dear?" "that will be the very best thing for both of you," agreed madame darbois, and she went to make her preparations. left alone, esperance cast aside her blue dress and surveyed herself in the long mirror. her eyes were asking the questions that perplexed her whole being. she raised herself lightly on her little feet. "oh! yes, surely i am going to be tall. i am only fifteen, and i am quite tall for my age. oh! yes, i shall be tall." she came very close to the mirror and examined herself closely, hypnotizing herself little by little. she beheld herself under a million different aspects. her whole life seemed passing before her, shadowy figures came and went--one of them, the most persistent, seemed to keep stretching towards her long appealing arms. she shivered, recoiled abruptly, and passing her hand across her forehead, dispelled the dizzy visions that were gathering there. when her mother returned she found her quietly reading victor hugo, studying "_dona sol_" in _hernani_. she had not heard the opening of the door, and she started at finding her mother close beside her. "you see, i am not going to lose any time," she said, closing the book. "ah! mama, how happy i am, how happy!" "quick," said her mother, her finger to her lips. "your father is waiting for us, ready to go out." esperance seized her hat and coat quickly and ran to join her father. he was sitting as if thinking, his head resting in his hands. she understood the struggle between love and reason in his soul, and her upright little soul suffered with his. bending gently beside him she murmured, "do not be unhappy, papa. you know that i can never suffer as long as i have you two. if i am quite mistaken, if life doesn't bring me any of the things that i expect, i shall find comfort in your love." françois darbois raised his head and looked deep into the lovely eyes, "god keep you, my little daughter!" next morning esperance was ready to go to the conservatoire long before the appointed hour. m. darbois was already in his study with one of his pupils, so she ran to her mother's room and found her busy with some papers. "you have my birth certificate?" "yes, yes." "and papa's written consent?" "yes, yes," sighed madame darbois. "he hesitated to give it to you?" "oh! no, you know your father! his word is sacred, but it cost him a great deal. my dear little girl, never let him regret it." esperance put her finger across her mother's lips. "mama, you know that i am honest and honourable, how can i help it when i am the child of two darlings as good as you and papa? my longing for the theatre is stronger than i can tell. i believe that if papa had refused his permission, it would have made me unhappy and that i should have fallen ill and pined away. you remember how, about a year ago, i almost died of anaemia and consumption. really, mother dear, my illness was simply caused by my overstrung nerves. i had often heard papa express his disapproval of the theatre; and you, you remember, said one day, in reference to the suicide of a well-known actress, 'ah, her poor mother, god keep me from seeing my daughter on the stage!'" madame darbois was silent for a moment; then two tears rolled quietly from beneath her eyelids and a little sob escaped her. "ah! mama, mama," cried esperance, "have pity, don't let me see you suffer so. i feared it; i did not want to be sure of it. i am an ungrateful daughter. you love me so much! you have indulged me so! i ought to give in. i can not, and your grief will kill me. i suffered so yesterday, out driving, feeling papa so far away. i kept feeling as if he were holding himself aloof in an effort to forget, and now you are crying.... mama, it is terrible! i must make myself give you back your happiness--at least your peace of mind. alas!--i can not give you back your happiness, for i think that i shall die if i cannot have my way." madame darbois trembled. she was familiar with her daughter's nervous, high-strung temperament. in a tone of more authority than esperance had ever heard her use, "come, child, be quick, we are losing time," she said, "i have all the necessary papers, come." they found at the conservatoire several women, who had arrived before them, waiting to have their daughters entered for the course. four youths were standing in a separate group, staring at the young girls beside their mothers. in a corner of the room was a little office, where the official, charged with receiving applications, was ensconced. he was a man of fifty, gruff, jaundiced from liver trouble, looking down superciliously at the girls whose names he had just received. when madame darbois entered with esperance, the distinguished manner of the two ladies caused a little stir. the group of young men drew nearer. madame darbois looked about, and seeing an empty bench near a window, went towards it with her daughter. the sun, falling upon esperance's blonde hair, turned it suddenly into an aureola of gold. a murmur as of admiration broke from the spectators. "now there is someone," murmured a big fat woman with her hands stuffed into white cotton gloves, "who may be sure of her future!" the official raised his head, dazzled by the radiant vision. forgetting the lack of courtesy he had shown those who had preceded her, he advanced towards madame darbois and, raising his black velvet cap, "do you wish to register for the entrance examinations?" he said to esperance. she indicated her mother with an impatient movement of her little head. "yes," said madame darbois, "but i come after these other people. i will wait my turn." the man shrugged his shoulders with an air of assurance. "please follow me, ladies." they rose. a sound of discontent was audible. "silence," cried the official in fury. "if i hear any more noise, i will turn you all out." silence descended again. many of these women had come a long way. a little dressmaker had left her workshop to bring her daughter. a big chambermaid had obtained the morning's leave from the bourgeois house where she worked. her daughter stood beside her, a beautiful child of sixteen with colourless hair, impudent as a magpie. a music teacher with well-worn boots had excused herself from her pupils. her two daughters flanked her to right and left, parisian blossoms, pale and anaemic. both wished to pass the entrance examinations, the one as an ingenue in comedy, the other in tragedy. they were neither comic nor tragic, but modest and charming. there was also a small shop-keeper, covered with jewels. she sat very rigid, far forward on the bench, compressed into a terrible corset which forced her breast and back into the humps of a punchinello; her legs hanging just short of the floor. her daughter paced up and down the long room like a colt snorting impatiently to be put through its paces. she had the beauty of a classic type, without spot or blemish, but her joints looked too heavy and her neck was thrust without grace between her large shoulders. anyone who looked into the future would have been able to predict for her, with some certainty, an honourable career as a tragedian in the provinces. madame darbois seated herself on the only chair in the little office. when the official had read esperance's birth certificate, he exclaimed, "what! mademoiselle is the daughter of the famous professor of philosophy?'" the two women looked at each other with amazement. "why, ladies," went on the official, radiantly, "my son is taking courses with m. darbois at the sorbonne. what a pleasure it is to meet you--but how does it happen that m. darbois has allowed...?" his sentence died in his throat. madame darbois had become very pale and her daughter's nostrils quivered. the official finished with his papers, returned them politely to madame darbois, and said in a low tone, "have no anxiety, madame, the little lady has a wonderful future before her." the two ladies thanked the official and made their way toward the door. the group of young men bowed to the young girl, and she inclined her head ever so slightly. "oh, la-la," screamed the big chamber-maid. esperance stopped on the threshold and looked directly at the woman, who blushed, and said nothing more. "ho, ho," jeered one of the youths, "she settled you finely that time, didn't she?" an argument ensued instantly, but esperance had gone her way, trembling with happiness. everything in life seemed opening for her. for the first time she was aware of her own individuality; for the first time she recognized in herself a force: would that force work for creation or destruction? the child pressed her hands against her fluttering heart. m. darbois was waiting at the window. at sight of him, esperance jumped from the carriage before it stopped. "what a little creature of extremes!" mused the professor. when she threw her arms about him to thank him, he loosed her hands quickly. "come, come, we haven't time to talk of that. we must sit down at once. marguerite is scolding because the dinner is going to be spoiled." to esperance the dinner was of less than no importance, but she threw aside her hat obediently, pulled forward her father's chair, and sat down between the two beings whom she adored, but whom she was forced to see suffer if she lived in her own joy--and that she could not, and would not, hide. chapter iii the weeks before the long-expected day of the examination went by all too slowly to suit esperance. she had chosen, for the comedy test to study a scene from _les femmes savantes_ (the rôle of "_henriette_"), and in tragedy a scene from _iphygenia_. adhemar meydieux often came to inquire about his goddaughter's studies. he wished to hear her recite, to give her advice; but esperance refused energetically, still remembering his former opposition against him. she would let no one hear her recitations, but her mother. madame darbois put all her heart into her efforts to help her daughter. every morning she went through her work with esperance. to her the rôle of "_henriette_" was inexplicable. she consulted her husband, who replied, "'_henriette_' is a little philosopheress with plenty of sense. esperance is right to have chosen this scene from _les femmes savantes_. molière's genius has never exhibited finer raillery than in this play." and he enlarged upon the psychology of "_henriette's_" character until madame darbois realized with surprise that her daughter was completely in accord with the ideas laid down by her father as to the interpretation of this rôle. esperance was so young it seemed impossible that she could yet understand all the double subtleties.... esperance had taken her first communion when she was eleven, and after her religious studies ended, she had thought of nothing but poetry, and had even tried to compose some verses. her father had encouraged her, and procured her a professor of literature. from that time the child had given herself completely to the art of the drama, learning by heart and reciting aloud the most beautiful parts of french literature. her parents, listening with pleasure to her recitations of ronsard or victor hugo, little guessing that the child was already dreaming of the theatre. often since then, madame darbois had reproached herself for having foreseen so little, but her husband, whose wisdom recognized the uselessness of vain regrets, would calm her, saying with a shake of his head, "you can prevent nothing, my dear wife, destiny is a force against which all is impotent! we can but remove the stumbling-blocks from the path which esperance must follow. we must be patient!" at last the day arrived! never had the young girl been more charming. françois darbois had been working arduously on the correction of a book he was about to publish, when he saw her coming into his library. he turned towards her and, regarding her there in the doorway, seemed to see the archangel of victory--such radiance emanated from this frail little body. "i wanted to kiss you, father, before going ... there. pardon me for having disturbed you." he pressed her close against his heart without speaking, unwilling to pronounce the words of regret that mounted to his lips. esperance was silent for an instant before her father's grief: then with an exaltation of her whole being she flung herself on her father's neck: "oh, father, dear father, i am so happy that you must not suffer; you love me so much that you must be happy in this happiness i owe to you; to-morrow, perhaps, will bring me tears. let us live for to-day." the professor gently stroked his daughter's velvet cheek. "go, my darling, go and return triumphant." in the reception-room esperance and madame darbois went to the same bench, where they had sat upon their former visit. some fifty people were assembled. the same official came to speak to them, and, consulting the list which he was holding ostentatiously, "there are still five pupils before you, mademoiselle, two boys and three young ladies. whom have you chosen to give you your cues?" esperance looked at him with amazement. "i don't understand," she said, madame darbois was perturbed. "but," answered the man, "you must have an '_armande_' for _les femmes savantes_, an '_agememnon_' and a '_clytemnestra_' for _iphygenia_." "but we did not know that," stammered madame darbois. the official smiled and assumed still more importance. "wait just a moment, ladies." soon he returned, leading a tall, young girl with a dignified bearing, and a young man of evident refinement. "here is mlle. hardouin, who is willing to give you the cues for '_armande_' and '_clytemnestra_,' and m. jean perliez, who will do the '_agememnon_.' only, i believe," he added, "you will have to rehearse with them. i will take all four of you into my little office where no one can disturb you." mlle. hardouin was a beautiful, modest young girl of eighteen, with charming manners. she was an orphan and lived with a sister ten years older, who had been a mother to her. they adored each other. the older sister had established a good trade for herself as a dressmaker; both sisters were respected and loved. jean perliez was the son of a chemist. his father had been unwilling that he should choose a theatrical career until he should have completed his studies at college. he had obeyed, graduated brilliantly, and was now presenting himself for the entrance examination as a tragedian. the three young people went over the two scenes esperance had chosen together. "what a pretty voice you have, mademoiselle," said genevieve hardouin timidly. after the rehearsal of _les femmes savantes_, when they finished the scene of _iphygenia_, jean perliez turned to madame darbois and inquired the name of esperance's instructor. "why, she had none. my daughter has worked alone; i have given her the cues." she smiled that benevolent smile, which always lighted her features with a charm of true goodness and distinction. "that is indeed remarkable," murmured jean perliez, as he looked at the young girl. then bending towards madame darbois, "may i be permitted, madame, to ask your daughter to give me the cues of '_junia_' in _britannicus_? the young lady who was to have played it is ill." madame darbois hesitated to reply and looked towards esperance. "oh! yes, mama, of course you will let me," said that young lady, in great spirits. and without more ado, "we must rehearse, must we not? let us begin at once." the young man offered her the lines. "i don't need them," she said laughing, "i know '_junia_' by heart." and, indeed, the rehearsal passed off without a slip, and the little cast separated after exchanging the most enthusiastic expressions of pleasure. a comrade asked perliez, "is she any good, that pretty little blonde?" "very good," perliez replied curtly. everything went well for esperance. her appearance on the miniature stage where the examinations were held caused a little sensation among the professor-judges. "what a heavenly child!" exclaimed victorien sardou. "here is truly the beauty of a noble race," murmured delaunay, the well-known member of the comedie-française. the musical purity of esperance's voice roused the assembly immediately out of its torpor. the judges, no longer bored and indifferent, followed her words with breathless attention, and when she stopped a low murmur of admiration was wafted to her. "scene from _iphygenia_," rasped the voice of the man whose duty it was to make announcements. there was a sound of chairs being dragged forward, and the members of the jury settling themselves to the best advantage for listening. here in itself was a miniature triumph, repressed by the dignity assumed by all the judges, but which esperance appreciated none the less. she bowed with the sensitive grace characteristic of her. genevieve hardouin and jean perliez congratulated her with hearty pressures of the hand. as she was leaving sardou stopped her in the vestibule. "tell me, please, mademoiselle, are you related to the professor of philosophy?" "he is my father," the girl answered very proudly. delaunay had arisen. "you are the daughter of françois darbois! we are, indeed, proud to be able to present our compliments to you. you have an extraordinary father. please tell him that his daughter has won every vote." esperance read so much respect and sincerity in his expression that she curtsied as she replied, "my father will be very happy that these words have been spoken by anyone whom he admires as sincerely as m. delaunay." then she went quickly on her way. as soon as they were back on the boulevard raspail and home, esperance and her mother moved towards the library. marguerite, the maid, stopped them. "monsieur has gone out. he was so restless. is mademoiselle satisfied?" "i was; but i am not any more, marguerite, since papa is not here. was he feeling badly?" "well, he was not very cheerful, mademoiselle, but i should not say that there was anything really the matter with him." mother and daughter started. someone was coming upstairs. esperance ran to the door and fell into the arms of that dearly-loved parent. he kissed her tenderly. his eyes were damp. "come, come, dear, that i may tell you...." "your lunch is ready," announced marguerite. "thank you," replied esperance; "papa, mama, and i, we are all dying of hunger." madame darbois gently removed her daughter's hat. "please, dear papa, i want to tell you everything." "too late, dear child, i know everything!" the two ladies seemed surprised. "but--? how?" "through my friend, victor perliez, the chemist; who is, like me, a father who feels deeply about his child's choice of a career." esperance made a little move. "no, little girl," went on françois darbois, "i do not want to cause you the least regret. every now and then my innermost thoughts may escape me; but that will pass.... i know that you showed unusual simplicity as '_henriette_,' and emotion as '_iphygenia_.' perliez's son, whom i used to know when he was no higher than that," he said, stretching out his hand, "was enthusiastic? he is, furthermore, a clever boy, who might have made something uncommon out of himself as a lawyer, perhaps. but--" "but, father dear, he will make a fine lawyer; he will have an influence in the theatre that will be more direct, more beneficial, more far-reaching, than at the bar. oh! but yes! you remember, don't you, mama, how disturbed you were by m. dubare's plea on behalf of the assassin of jeanne verdier? well, is it not noble to defend the poets, and introduce to the public all the new scientific and political ideas?" "often wrong ideas," remarked darbois. "that is perhaps true, but what of it? have you not said a thousand times that discussion is the necessary soil for the development of new ideas?" the professor of philosophy looked at his daughter, realizing that every word he had spoken in her hearing, all the seed that he had cast to the wind, had taken root in her young mind. "but," inquired madame darbois, "where did you see m. perliez?" the professor began to smile. "outside the conservatoire. perliez and i ran into each other, both impelled by the same extreme anxiety towards the scene of our sacrifice. it is not really necessary to consult all the philosophical authorities on this subject of inanition of will," he added, wearily. "oh! chocolate custard," cried out esperance with rapture, "marguerite is giving us a treat." "yes, mademoiselle, i knew very well...." a ring at the front door bell cut short her words. they listened silently, and heard the door open, and someone come in. then the maid entered with a card. françois darbois rose at once. "i will see him in the salon," he said. he handed the card to his wife and went to meet his visitor. esperance leaned towards her mother and read with her the celebrated name, "victorien sardou." together they questioned the import of this visit, without being able to find any satisfactory explanation. when françois entered the salon, sardou was standing, his hands clasped behind him, examining through half-closed eyes a delicate pastel, signed chaplain--a portrait of madame darbois at twenty. at the professor's entry, he turned round and exclaimed with the engaging friendliness that was one of his special charms, "what a very pretty thing, and what superb colour!" then advancing, "it is to m. françois darbois that i have the pleasure of speaking, is it not?" he had not missed the formality in the surprise evinced by the professor as, without speaking, the professor bowed him towards a chair. "let me say to begin with, my dear professor, that i am one of your most fervent followers. your last book, _philosophy is not indifference_, is, in my opinion, a work of real beauty. your doctrine does not discourage youth, and after reading your book, i decided to send my sons to your lectures." françois darbois thanked the great author. the ice was broken. they discussed plato, aristotle, montaigne, schaupenhauer, etc. victorien sardou heard the clock strike; he had lunched hastily and had to be back at the conservatoire by two o'clock, as the jury still had to hear eleven pupils. he began laughing and talking very fast, in his habitual manner: "i must tell you, however, why i have come; your daughter, who passed her examination this morning, is very excellent. she has the making of a real artist; the voice, the smile, the grace, the distinction, the manner, the rhythm. this child of fifteen has every gift! i am now arranging a play for the vaudeville. the principal rôle is that of a very young girl. just at present there are only well-worn professionals in the theatre." he rose. "will you trust your daughter to me? i promise her a good part, an engagement only for my play, and i assure you of her success." m. darbois, in his amazement and in spite of the impatience of the academician, withheld his answer. "pray permit me," he said, touching the bell, "to send for my daughter. it is with great anxiety, i admit to you, that i have given her permission to follow a theatrical career, so now i must consult her, while still trying to advise." then to the maid, "ask madame and mademoiselle to come here." sardou came up to the professor and pressed his hand gratefully. "you are consistent with your principles. i congratulate you; that is very rare," he said. the two ladies came in. "ah," he continued, glancing toward the pastel, after he had greeted madame darbois, "here is the model of this beautiful portrait." the gracious lady flushed, a little embarrassed, but flattered. after the introduction, sardou repeated his proposal to esperance, who, with visible excitement, looked questioningly at her father. "it seems to me," said madame darbois, timidly, "that this is rather premature. do you feel able to play so soon in a real theatre, before so many people?" "i feel ready for anything," said the radiant girl quickly, in a clear voice. sardou raised his head and looked at her. "if you think, m. sardou, that i can play the character, i shall be only too happy to try; the chance you give me seems to come from destiny. i must endeavour as soon as possible to appease my dear father for his regret for having given me my own way." françois would have spoken, but she prevented him, drawing closer to him. "oh, dear papa, in spite of yourself, i see this depression comes back to you. i want to succeed, and so drive away your heavy thoughts." "then," said sardou quickly, to relieve them all of the emotion they were feeling, "it is quite agreed." turning to madame darbois, who was trembling, "do not be alarmed, dear madame; we still have six or eight months before the plan will be ready for realization, which i feel sure will be satisfactory to all of us. i see that you are ready to go out; are you returning to the conservatoire?" "yes," said esperance, "i promised to give '_junia's_' cues to m. jean perliez." "the son of another learned man! the conservatoire is favoured to-day," said sardou. "i shall be pleased to escort you, madame," he added, bowing politely to madame darbois, "and this child shall unfold to me on the way her ideas on the drama: they must be well worth hearing." it was already late. the two gentlemen shook hands, anticipating that, henceforth, they would meet as friends. when they had left him, françois looked at the pastel, which he had not examined for a long time. the young girl smiled at him with that smile that had first charmed him. he saw himself asking m. de gossec, a rich merchant, for the hand of his daughter germaine. he brushed his hand across his forehead as if to remove the memory of the refusal he had received on that occasion: then he smiled at the new vision which rose before his imagination. he saw himself in the church of st. germain des pres, kneeling beside germaine de gossec, trembling with emotion and happiness. a cloud of sadness passed over his face: now he was following the hearse of his father-in-law, who had committed suicide, leaving behind him a load of debt. the philosopher's expression grew proud and fierce. the first thirteen years of his marriage had been devoted to paying off this debt: then came the death of the sister of m. de gossec, leaving her niece eight hundred thousand francs, five hundred thousand of which had served to pay the debt. for the last four years the family had been living in this comfortable apartment on the boulevard raspail, very happy and without material worries: but how cruel those first thirteen years had been for this young woman! he gazed at the pastel for a long time, his eyes filling with tears. "oh, my dear, dear wife!" in the carriage on the way to the conservatoire the conversation was very animated. the dramatic author was listening with great interest while the young girl explained her theories on art and life. "what a strange little being," he thought, and his penetrating glance tried in vain to discover what weakness was most likely to attack this little creature who seemed so perfect. the carriage stopped at the conservatoire. jean perliez was waiting at the foot of the stairs. at sight of them his face lighted up. "i was afraid that you had forgotten me in the joy of your success." the girl looked at him in amazement. "how could i forget when i had given my word?" "you know victorien sardou?" "only to-day," said esperance laughing; "yesterday we did not know him." they were back in the reception-room which was only a little less noisy than it was in the morning. many candidates believed that they had been accepted; several had even received encouraging applause; others, who had been received in frigid silence, comforted themselves with the reflection that they had at least been allowed to finish. when jean perliez and esperance entered the auditorium there was a flattering stir, as much in pleasure at seeing the young girl again, as in welcome to the future actor. "scene from _britannicus_, m. jean perliez, '_nero_'; mlle. esperance darbois, '_junia_,'" proclaimed the usher. the scene was so very well enacted that a "bravo" broke from the learned group around the table. which one of the judges had not been able to contain his admiration? the young actors could not decide. each one believed sincerely the success was due to the other. they congratulated each other with charming expressions of delight, and took each other by the hand. "we shall be good friends, shall we not, m. perliez?" said esperance. the young man turned quite red, and when madame darbois held out her hand to him, he kissed it politely, with the kiss he had not dared to give to esperance. chapter iv esperance having chosen the stage as her career, the whole household was more or less thrown into confusion. it became necessary to make several new arrangements. as françois darbois was not willing that his wife should accompany esperance every day to the conservatoire, it became quite a problem to find a suitable person to undertake this duty. for the first time in her life madame darbois had to endure humiliating refusals. the young widow of an officer was directed by a friend of the family to apply. she seemed a promising person. "you will have to be here every morning by nine," madame darbois said to her, "and you will be free every afternoon by four. the course is given in the morning, but twice a week there are classes also in the afternoon; on those days you will lunch with us." "and sundays?" "your sundays will be your own. the conservatoire has no classes on sunday." "so i understand that you would employ me only to accompany your daughter to the conservatoire, madame!" said the officer's widow, dryly. "i shall be compelled to refuse your offer. i am unfortunately forced to work to support my two children, but i owe some respect to the name i bear. the conservatoire is a place of perdition, and i am astonished," she added, "that the professor, who is so universally esteemed and respected, could have been able...." madame darbois rose to her feet. she was very pale. "it is not necessary for you to judge the actions of my husband, madame. that is enough." when she was left alone madame darbois reflected sadly upon the narrow-mindedness of her fellow creatures. then she reproached herself with her own inexperience that put her at the mercy of the first stupid prude she encountered. she was well aware that the conservatoire was not supposed to be a centre of culture and education, but she had already observed the modesty and independence of several of the young girls there: the well-informed minds of most of the young men. nevertheless, she had had her lesson, and was careful not to lay herself open to any new affront. after some consideration, she engaged a charming old lady, named eleanore frahender, who had been companion in a russian family, and was now living in a convent in the faubourg saint-germain, where only trustworthy guests could be received. the old lady loved art and poetry, and as soon as she had met esperance, was full of enthusiasm for her new duties. the young girl and she agreed in many tastes, and very soon they were great friends. m. darbois was quite contented with the arrangement, and could now attend to his work with complete tranquillity. every morning the family gathered in the dining-room at half-past eight to take their coffee together. esperance would recount all the little events of the day before and her studies for the day to come. whenever she felt any doubt about an ambiguous phrase, she went at once to get her father's advice upon it. sometimes genevieve hardouin would drop in to talk with her and mlle. frahender. esperance adored racine and refused to study corneille, before whom genevieve bowed in enthusiastic admiration. "he is superhuman," she exclaimed, fervently. "that is just what i reproach him for," returned esperance. "racine is human, that is why i love him. none of corneille's heroines move me at all, and i loathe the sorrows of '_phaedre_.'" "and '_chimene_'?" asked genevieve hardouin. "'_chimene_' has no interest for me. she never does as she wishes." "how feminine!" said the professor, gently. "oh! you may be right, father dear, but grief is one and indivisible. her father, cruelly killed by her lover, must kill her love for the lover, or else she does not love her father: and, that being the case, she doesn't interest me at all. she is a horrid girl." tenderly she embraced her father, who could easily pardon her revolt against corneille, because he shared her weakness for racine. several months after esperance's most encouraging admission to the conservatoire, victorien sardou wrote a note to françois darbois, with whom he had come to be warm friends, warning him that he was soon coming to lunch with them, to read his new play to the family. esperance was wild with excitement. the time of waiting for the event seemed interminable to her. her father tried in vain to calm her with philosophical reflections. creature of feeling and impulse that she was, nothing could control her excitement. sardou had also asked françois darbois to invite mlle. frahender, whose generous spirit and whose tact and judgment he much esteemed. the old lady arrived, carrying as usual the little box with the lace cap which she donned as soon as her bonnet was laid aside. on this great day the little cap was embellished by a mauve satin ribbon, contrasting charmingly with the silver of her hair. all through lunch esperance was delightful. her quick responses to sardou's questions were amazing in their logic. the extreme purity of this young soul seeking self-expression so courageously, struck the two men with particular emphasis. the reading was a great success. the part intended for esperance, the young girl's part, the heroine of the piece, had become of primary importance. sardou had been able to study esperance's qualifications during the months he had been a frequent visitor at the darbois's home, and he had made the most of his prescience. lack of experience of the theatre, so natural in a child of sixteen, suggested several scenes of pure comedy. then, as the drama developed, the author had heightened the intensity of the rôle by several scenes of real pathos, relying completely on esperance to interpret them for him. quite overcome by the death of the heroine she was to impersonate, she thanked the author, with tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands icy, her heart beating so furiously that the linen of her white blouse rose and fell. "it is rather i who shall be thanking you the day of the first production," said sardou much touched, as he wrapped round his neck the large, white square he always wore. "i believe that to-day has not been wasted." the rehearsals began. sardou had asked for and obtained from the conservatoire six months leave for his young protégée, but esperance would on no account consent to give up her classes. the only concession she would make was to give up the afternoon classes twice a week. the press began to notice this infant prodigy, who wished to remain quite unheralded until her debut. françois darbois, in spite of his friendship with several journalists, could not make them adhere to their promises of silence, and when he complained bitterly to the head of a great daily, "but, my friend," the editor rejoined, "that daughter of yours is particularly fascinating, and certainly when you launched her into this whirlpool, you should have remembered that the only exits are triumph or despair!" the philosopher grew pale. "i believe," went on his friend, "that this child will vanquish every obstacle by the force of her will, will stifle all jealousies by the grace of her purity, and she already belongs to the public, while the fame of your name has simply served for a stepping-stone. you, in your wisdom, have been able to impart true wisdom to your child. but before the public has ever seen her she is famous, and sardou affirms that the day after her appearance she will be the idol of all paris. i owe it to the profession of journalism to write her up in my paper, and i am doing it, you must admit, with the utmost reserve." chapter v and so at last the day of the performance came. esperance, who was so easily shaken by the ordinary events of life, met any danger or great event quite calmly. for this young girl, so delicately fair, so frail of frame, possessed the soul of a warrior. the sale of tickets had opened eight days in advance. the agents had realized big profits. the first night always creates a sensation in paris. all the social celebrities were in the audience: and, what is less usual, many "intellectuals." they wished to testify by their presence their friendship for françois darbois, and to protest against certain journalists, who had not hesitated to say in print that such a furore about an actress (poor esperance) was prejudicial to the dignity of philosophy. in a box was the minister of belgium, who had been married lately, and wanted to show his young wife a "first night" in paris. the first secretary of the legation was sitting behind the minister's wife. "look there, that is count albert styvens," said a journalist, pointing out the secretary to his neighbour, a young beauty in a very _decolletée_ gown. the neighbour laughed. "is he as reserved and as serious as he looks?" she inquired. "so they say." "poor fellow," answered the pretty woman, with affected pity, examining him through her opera glasses. sardou, behind the scenes, was coming and going, arranging a chair, changing the position of a table, catching his foot in a carpet, swearing, nervous in the extreme. he made a hundred suggestions to the manager, which were received with weariness. he entered into conversation with the firemen. "watch and listen, won't you, so that you can give me your impression after the first act?" for sardou always preferred the spontaneous expressions of workmen and common people to the compliments of his own _confrères_. the distant skurry in the wings that always precedes the raising of the curtain was audible on the stage. this rattling of properties is very noticeable to actors new to the theatre, though it is quite unsuspected by the general public. the first act began. the audience was sympathetic, but impatient. however, the author knew his public, knew when to spring his surprises, how to hold the emotion in reserve until a climax of applause at the final triumph. esperance made her first entrance, laughing and graceful, as her rôle demanded. a murmur of admiration mounted from the orchestra to the balcony. hers was such startling, such radiant fairness! her musical, fluting voice acted like as a strange enchantment on the astonished audience. from the first moment the public was hers. the critic touched his neighbour's elbow. "look at count albert, he seems stunned!" as the count leaned forward to watch more intently: "great heavens, do you suppose he will fall in love with her, do you believe he will really care for that little thing?" murmured the woman, mockingly. the curtain fell amidst a shower of "bravos." esperance had to return three times before the public, which continued to applaud her unstintedly, as she smiled and blushed under her make-up. in spite of fifteen minutes' waiting, the intermission did not seem long. the occupants of the boxes were busy exchanging calls. "she is perfectly adorable, she takes your breath. just think of it, only sixteen and a half!" "do you think it is a wig?" "oh! no, that is her own hair--but what a revelation of loveliness! and what a carriage!" "but her voice above all! i do not think that i have ever heard such declamation!" "she is still at the conservatoire?" "yes." "the theatre-française ought to engage her immediately. they would find it would at once increase their subscription list." "they say that her father is very much distressed to see her in the theatre. why there they are, the darbois. don't you see them, in that box far back? they are looking very pleased." a tall, pale man passed by. "ah! there goes count styvens. have you read the article he wrote in the _debats_ this morning?" "no, he puts me to sleep." "i read it; it was rather unusual." "what about?" "about the fecundity of the pollen of flowers." the chatter ceased. the count was within hearing. "what have you to say about esperance darbois?" inquired a young lady. the count blushed vividly, an unaccustomed light gleaming in his clear eyes. "it is too soon to pass judgment yet," he said, losing himself in the throng again. in the darbois's box there was a constant coming and going of friends. jean perliez joined them, his face betraying a conflict of emotions that were not lost on the father of esperance. "did you see my daughter?" "yes. i just went to congratulate her." "how did you find her?" "amazing! she is splendid, but not vain. she seems sure of herself and at the same time shows a little stage fright, a special variety which makes her hands like ice, and tightens her throat, as you must have noticed from the strain in her first speeches." "indeed i noticed it, and was a little frightened," said mlle. frahender. "i know," said jean perliez, "but we need not be worried. it does not affect her powers and the force of her decision. she is invincible." he heaved a deep sigh and withdrew into a corner to hide the emotion which was choking him. françois darbois had divined the fervent love this youth felt for his daughter, and understood the sufferings of this timid love which dared not declare itself lest it be repulsed. however, the chemist, the father of this young man, occupied a respected position as a well-to-do man, with an unblemished reputation. why should he not declare himself, or at least try to find some encouragement? françois darbois would have been well contented with this marriage. esperance was still too young, but, once engaged, they could wait awhile. he secretly took cognizance of jean perliez's sufferings, and a wave of pity surged up in his heart. "i will have to speak to him myself," he thought. the curtain went up, disclosing esperance, a book in her hand, her back to the public. she was not reading. that was evident from the weary droop of her body, from the rigid gaze into space. a coming storm was heralded by her quick motion, when she sprang up, threw aside her book, shook the pretty head to drive away the black butterflies in her brain, and ran to kiss her stage mother, who was playing bridge with the villainess of the piece. there was such spontaneity in her movements that the sympathetic audience cried out, "bravo!" in the course of the act, esperance secured several salvos of applause. the sustained emotion of the grief that overwhelmed her and the spasm of weeping which closed the act gave the young artist complete assurance of the public's earnest approval. sardou had dropped into the box of the minister plenipotentiary. he hid himself from the public, but sought the opinion of his great friend. "will you," asked the minister, "present me to your young heroine?" "oh! let me come with you," besought his wife. the belgian prince looked questioningly at sardou, and at his nod of acquiescence they prepared to go and salute the new star just risen in the parisian firmament. "come with us, my dear count." albert styvens became livid, a cold sweat broke out on his forehead, a polite phrase died in his throat. he rose to his feet and followed the prince of bernecourt. the little reception-room next to esperance's dressing-room was full of flowers, but no one was there. the manager and author had agreed that no stranger should approach the young artist. only the family, jean perliez and mlle. frahender were allowed to enter. this good old soul was with esperance now, as was marguerite, who was not willing to leave her young mistress. sardou knocked. "let me know, my dear child, when you are ready." the door opened almost immediately, and the young girl rushed joyfully out into the little room. she stopped short upon seeing three strangers, and her eyes sought sardou's, full of startled surprise. "i have taken the liberty of disturbing you, little friend.... i want to present you to the princess de bernecourt." esperance curtsied with pretty grace. the minister-prince complimented her graciously; he was a dilettante, who could express himself most charmingly, in well chosen, artistic terms. "your excellency overcomes me," said the young actress. "i shall do my best to deserve your kindness." with a quick movement she re-adjusted her tulle scarf on her shoulders and blushed a little. the minister turned and saw albert styvens standing with nervous interest--gazing like one bewitched at the enchanting maiden. "let me present to you count albert styvens." esperance inclined her head a little and drew instinctively nearer to mlle. frahender. the count had not moved. the prince led him away as soon as he had made his adieux to the young girl and the elder lady. "are you ill or insane?" he asked his secretary. "insane, yes; i think i must be going insane," murmured the young man in a choking voice. the play was in four acts, there were still two to come. the audience seemed to watch in a delirium of delight, and when the last curtain dropped, they called esperance back eight times, and demanded the author. in spite of all the talent displayed by sardou as author, there was much enthusiasm and an unconscious gratitude in him as the discoverer of a new sensation.... no comet acclaimed by astronomers as capable of doubling the harvest would have moved the populace as did the description in all the papers of this new star in paris. chapter vi the family found itself back on the boulevard raspail. the darbois had not cared to leave their box. after every act, mlle. frahender carried their comments and tender messages to esperance. françois darbois had great difficulty in constraining himself to remain in the noisy vestibule. he suffered too acutely at seeing his daughter, that pure and delicate child, the focus of every lorgnette, the subject of every conversation. several phrases he had overheard from a group of men had brought him to his feet in a frenzy; then he fell back in his place like one stunned. nevertheless there had not been one offensive word. it was all praise. the philosopher held his daughter in his arms, pressed close against his heart, and tears ran down his cheeks. "it is the first time, and shall be the last, that i wish to see you on the stage, dear little daughter. it is too painful for me, and what is worst of all i fear it will take you away from me." esperance replied trembling, "pardon me, oh! pardon me, it is such a force that impels me. i am sorry you suffer so. oh! don't give way, i beg of you!" she fell on her knees before her father, sobbing and kissing his hands. sardou, who was expected, came in just then, and his exuberance was dashed to the ground when he witnessed the trouble the family were in. "come, this is foolishness," he said, helping esperance to her feet. then turning to the old mademoiselle, "here, dear lady, take this child away to compose herself, wash the tears off her poor little face, and hurry back, for i am dying of hunger." madame darbois remembered that she was the hostess, and disappeared to see if everything was ready in the dining-room. as soon as he was left alone with the philosopher, the author exclaimed, "in the name of god, man, is this where philosophy leads you? you are torturing that child whom you adore! oh! yes, you are distressed, i know. the public has this evening taken possession of your daughter, but you are powerless to prevent it, and now is the time for you to apply to yourself your magnetic maxims. esperance is one of those creatures who are only born once in a hundred years or so; some come as preservers, like joan of arc; others serve as instruments of vengeance of some occult power" (sardou was an ardent believer in the occult). "your child is a force of nature, and nothing can prevent her destiny. the fact that you have seen her brilliant development in spite of the grey environment of her first sixteen years, should convince you of the uselessness of your protests or regrets. the career that she has chosen is bristling with dangers, and full of disillusions, and gives free rein to a pitiless horde of calumniators. that cannot be helped. your task, my friend," he added more calmly, "is to protect your daughter, and above all to assure her of a refuge of tenderness, and love and understanding." esperance came back, followed by her mother and the old mademoiselle. her father held out his arms to her and whispered, "you were wonderful, darling; i am happy to...." he could not go on, and put his hot lips against her beautiful pure forehead to avoid the embarrassment that distressed him so powerfully. thanks to sardou's gifts as a _raconteur_, the supper passed off pleasantly enough. this great man could unfold the varied pages of his mind with disconcerting ease. he knew everything, and could talk and act with inimitable vivacity. his anecdotes were always instructive, drawn from his manifold sources of knowledge in art or science. mlle. frahender was stupified by so much eclecticism, the philosopher forgot his grief, madame darbois realized for the first time that there might exist a brain worthy of comparison with her husband's. as to esperance, she was living in a dream of what the future would unfold. one evening had sufficed for her to conquer paris, to capture the provinces, and arouse the foreigner, frequently so indifferent to great artistic achievements. the young pupil pursued her courses at the conservatoire, in spite of sardou's remonstrances that she would find it fatiguing. the modesty and simplicity of her return to the midst of her comrades restored her to the popularity her triumph had endangered. "she is, you know, quite a 'sport,'" pronounced a sharp young person, who was destined to take the parts of the aggressive modern female. a tall young man, with a grave face and settled manner, approaching baldness, in spite of his twenty-three years, pressed jean perliez's hand affectionately. "don't give in, old fellow, keep up hope. you never know!" jean smiled sadly, shaking his head. he looked at esperance, who was lovelier than ever. he had waited for her at the foot of the stairway, for the intimacy of the two families gave him a chance to know when to expect his glorious little friend. "why, how pale you are, jean!" she exclaimed at sight of him. "what is the matter with you?" "what is the matter with me?" he murmured. "what is the matter with him?" echoed several of the students. esperance alone was not aware what was the matter with him, poor fellow, for, in spite of the encouragement of françois darbois, jean would say nothing. he realized the shock that it would be to esperance. she liked him so much as a friend! on the long walks they took, with genevieve hardouin and mlle. frahender, she had very often frankly confided to him that she did not want to think about getting married for years and years! "i want to live for my art," she would say, "and i will never marry an artist!" he had then thought very seriously of giving up the theatre and becoming a barrister, as his father had always wished him to do, but that would mean that he would lose the chance of seeing esperance so often. jean perliez had become great friends with maurice renaud, the girl's cousin. they both talked of her and loved her, but maurice's love was more selfish, less deeply rooted. he was not jealous of perliez; he was sorry for him and counselled him to speak up, since his uncle, the professor, was in sympathy with him. "no," said jean, "she is really too young to understand." maurice shrugged his shoulders. "it is true that esperance is not yet seventeen, but her intelligence has always been ahead of her years. at twelve she could outdo me by the logic of her reasoning on the mysteries of religion. we both adore, my dear jean, a very extraordinary little person. i will get out of your way gracefully, if you succeed; but i have a presentiment that neither you nor i will be the lucky fellow. i shall console myself, but you, take care!" esperance suspected nothing of the different emotions she was causing. her youth guarded her against any betrayal of the senses. she thought that love was the natural result of marriage. the great passions as the poets sang them exalted her spirit, made her heart beat faster, but for her they remained in the realms of the ideal. chapter vii a horrible catastrophe occurred in belgium, leaving the inhabitants of the lower quarter of brussels without shelter or clothing. relief was organized on all sides, and the theatre-française announced a great representation of _hernani_ to be given as a benefit for the sufferers in the royal theatre de la monnaie in brussels. the star who had undertaken "_dona sol_" fell ill ten days before the performance was due. the comedie was much embarrassed, for the usual understudy of the indisposed actress was an amiable echo, with little talent. mounet-sully thought immediately of esperance and obtained permission to make whatever arrangements he could with her. his arrival at the darbois home occasioned great excitement. "i claim your indulgence in the name of charity, monsieur," he said to françois. "the comedie-française finds itself in the most awkward quandary. we have prepared a big gala performance at la monnaie, to raise money for all those poor belgian sufferers." "oh! i have seen the notices," said esperance, "with artistes of the comedie, even in the smaller rôles. what would i not give to see that production!" mounet-sully smiled. "if your father will give his permission, mademoiselle, you can certainly see it; for i have come to ask you to take part therein." "what do you mean?" asked m. darbois curiously. "our '_dona sol_' is sick, very sick, and her understudy is not equal to such an occasion. the last examination you passed in _hernani_ delighted us with your manner of interpreting the rôle. we will give you all the rehearsals you need at the comedie; you will be assisting at a work of charity, and you will be recompensed for whatever outlay or expense that you may incur." esperance drew herself up. "if my father will give his consent for me to make my own reply...." "yes," said the professor simply. "then i will say ... thank you, father dear," she said, tremulously, "i will say that i am happier than i can possibly tell you, at the great honour you have done me, but that i do not want any recompense." mounet-sully started to speak. "oh! no, i beg you, do not spoil my joy." "then, we will take care of your travelling expenses, and those of your party." she contracted her beautiful eyebrows a little. "oh! m. mounet-sully, i am rich just now, think of all the money that i have made these four months that we have been giving victorien sardou's play. i don't want anything, i am glad, so glad...." she kissed her father and her mother impulsively, and also the astonished old mademoiselle. "what about me?" asked mounet-sully gaily; "do i not get my reward?" she held up her forehead for a salutation from the artist, who took leave of the family, glowing with delight at the good news he had to carry back to the comedie. "to-morrow you will get a schedule of rehearsals," he called from the doorway. madame darbois was worried about the journey, and mlle. frahender agreed to accompany esperance. it was decided that marguerite should go to look after them. the faithful soul had practically brought up the child; her zeal and devotion were unfailing. but m. darbois raised the objection, "you should have a man with you." the door bell rang, then they heard a voice, "in the salon? don't bother to announce me, i'll go up!" maurice renaud entered immediately, followed by jean perliez. "well, my boy," said françois darbois to his nephew, "you are quite a stranger; it must be a month since we saw you last. you are most welcome." he shook hands cordially with both young men. he was struck by jean's sad expression and hollow cheeks. "you are not looking like yourself, my friend." jean did not hear this, he was gazing at esperance, so pretty in her feather toque. "we are come, uncle, expressly to ask your permission to accompany my cousin to brussels. we were told of the project yesterday by mounet-sully, and if you approve...." "on my word, my dear fellow," cried out the professor, delightedly, "you will do me a real service, i was just considering about writing to esperance's godfather!" "what a narrow escape! papa darling, and what a horrid surprise you were plotting without giving any sign!" "then you prefer this arrangement? you accept maurice and jean as your knights-errant? i am delighted with the arrangement, and i hope that mlle. frahender will raise no objection." the gentle old lady smiled at them all. she was very fond of jean perliez, and maurice renaud's high spirits delighted her. it was decided that jean, as most responsible, should be in charge of all the details of the journey. françois darbois led him into the library and entrusted him with a goodly sum of money. "this should cover your expenses. i count upon you, my young friend, and i thank you." he paused a moment, then asked affectionately, "have you no hope?" "none," replied jean, simply, "but what does it matter, but to-day, at least, i am quite happy!" two days after this visit, the notice of the first rehearsals was received. esperance was at the theatre long before the hour required, and went at once towards the stage. the curtain had just been raised, and the lamp of the servant dusting served only to lighten the gloom. followed by mlle. frahender, the young girl traversed the corridor ornamented with marble busts and pictures of the famous artists who had made the house of molière more illustrious by their talent. with beating heart, she descended the four steps that led to the stage. there she stopped shivering. she seemed to see shadows drawing near her, and her hand clenched that of the old mademoiselle. "what is it, esperance?" "nothing, nothing." "was that not talma, down there, and mlle. clairon and mlle. mars, and rachel, that magnificent, expressive masque there ... look?" mounet-sully came in. esperance still seemed in a dream. "your pardon, master, the atmosphere of glory that one breathes here has intoxicated me a little." during the rehearsal the music of the voice of the new "_dona sol_" blended charmingly with the powerful accents of the great actor, so that all the artists listened with emotion and delight. in the final act, when "_dona sol_," beside herself, raises her poignard to "_don ruy gomez_," saying, "i am of the family, uncle," there was an outburst of "bravos" for esperance, who, erect and trembling, shoulders thrown back, had just sobbed these words in a vibrant voice between clenched teeth. with her pale face and out-stretched arm, she might have been the statue of despair struggling with destiny. madame darbois was heavy hearted to have her go. it was the first time that she had been parted from her daughter for even a few days. she often looked at her husband, hoping that he would understand her anxiety and urge her not to go, too. jean and maurice came to escort esperance, who had been ready for a long time. mlle. frahender was carrying a cardboard box, containing two bonnets and a light cloth, in which to wrap her hat in in the train. all the rest of her belongings were contained in a little attaché case of grey duck, so flat that it seemed impossible that it could contain anything. when madame darbois saw them drive away, she was filled with distress, and as there was maternal anxiety in the mother's breast, so was there foreboding of evil in the father's mind. "i hope nothing bad will happen," thought the good woman, "but railway accidents are so common nowadays." "who will she be seeing while she is away? what is destiny providing for her? my child is not armed against adventure," the philosopher was thinking. the two looked at each other, divining the miserable anxiety to which the other was prey. the rough, strident notes of adhemar meydieux's voice suddenly broke upon this atmosphere of gentle melancholy--"well! what is this i hear? esperance has gone; it is madness! i read in my paper this morning that she is going to play '_dona sol_' at brussels! so i have come to escort her." françois wrung his hand without saying a word. "what is the matter with you," went on adhemar, "you seem to have changed into pillars of salt. i know very well that the theatre is sodom and gomorrah in one, but wait a little before you give way entirely! who is going with my goddaughter?" "mlle. frahender, marguerite, maurice renaud and jean perliez," the poor mother hastened to say. "and what an escort," jeered adhemar. "the old mademoiselle will be open-mouthed before her pupil, she knows nothing of life. provided that esperance obeys the commandments of the church and does not miss mass on sunday, she will be satisfied. her piety and her sudden love of the theatre coincide with her attempt to save a soul; but i tell you that she cannot see farther than the end of her nose, which, though long enough in all conscience, doesn't furnish elevation for much view. and," he continued, pleased with his wit, "maurice renaud, that wild rascal, is he apt to inspire respect for esperance? as to jean perliez, the poor little ninny is head over heels in love with her. i don't suppose that you have noticed it?" "not only noticed it, but encouraged the young man," said françois, "and he would be a very honourable and desirable son-in-law." "my poor friend, my good fellow," and adhemar collapsed in a chair and rubbed his hands together; "my poor dear friend, and you believe that esperance...?" he laughed aloud. "i will thank you to drop that tone of irony which is offensive both to my wife and to myself," said the professor rising. "if it pleases you to follow your goddaughter to brussels, do so. i must leave you; i have some proofs to correct. _au revoir_, meydieux!" the old blunderer began to realize that he had overstepped the limits of decorum. "but why did she go this morning, instead of by the train with all the other artists this evening?" "esperance," explained madame darbois, "left early in order to have time to see brussels, which everyone says is a charming city. i think it is quite natural, my dear meydieux, that you want to join your goddaughter! i will telegraph to her at once!" "no, no," replied meydieux, very hurriedly. "i would much rather surprise her. i beg you not to warn her." "as you will then. i shall not interfere." part ii. brussels chapter viii meantime seated in the brussels express, esperance had fixed her attention on the constantly changing horizon, and was giving herself up to myriad impressions as they went fleeting by. the great plains rolling interminably out of sight pleased her; the light mist rising from the earth seemed to her the breath of the shivering tall grasses, offering the sun the drops of dew which glinted at the summit of their slender stems. she too, on this beautiful autumn morning, felt herself expanding towards the sky. her fresh lips were offering themselves to the kisses of life. she was at that moment a vision of the radiance of youth. maurice was so struck by her beauty that he drew a little sketch, and resolved to do her portrait, just as she was at that moment. no love entered into this admiration; he saw as a painter, he dreamed as an artist! jean perliez looked at the sketch, then at the model, and was left dazzled and dolorous. finally magnetized by the looks fixed upon her, esperance turned her head away with a little cry of surprise. mlle. frahender, who had been asleep, opened her eyes, and straightened the angle of her bonnet. esperance shook her pretty head laughing, while maurice exhibited his sketch and announced to his cousin his desire to paint her portrait. "how pleased my father will be," she cried. "i thank you in advance for the joy that you will give him." the conversation became general, animated, merry, just what was to be expected at their happy age. soon after the train stopped; they had arrived at brussels. jean perliez jumped lightly on to the platform. mlle. frahender adjusted her hat, after having carefully folded up her bonnet, and maurice helped marguerite to count the pieces of luggage. just as esperance was getting out to help her old companion, she had a feeling of reaction, her face grew pale with fright at an impression she could not define: two long arms were stretched towards her. and she recalled the hallucination or vision she had seen in her own mirror at home, on the day when she had tried to interrogate destiny. count albert styvens was standing on the platform before her, holding out his arms, his hands open. totally dazed without understanding herself why it should be so, the young girl closed her eyes. she felt herself lifted, and set down upon the ground. although the movement had been one of perfect respect, she felt angry with this man for having imposed his will upon her. when she looked at him he was already speaking to mlle. frahender, whom he recollected having seen in esperance's room at the vaudeville. "will you not both take my mother's carriage?" he asked. his voice, slow, correct, a little distant, fell on the ear of the young actress. "but," jean objected quickly, "i have engaged the landau from the grand hotel." "very well, we three can go in that," said the count, as he guided the old lady and the young one towards a perfectly appointed _coupé_, drawn by two magnificent sorrels. esperance, who had been brimful of joy, not ten minutes before, at finding herself in brussels, now felt a cloud upon her spirits. the manner, almost the authority, of this tall, young man of distinction, but of no beauty, of no magnetism, depressed her. she did not wish to have him take it upon himself to conduct her small affairs, and she stepped into the countess styvens's beautiful carriage with the feeling that she was leaving her liberty behind. albert styvens got into the hotel landau with the two other young men. they knew the count very slightly, and regarded him with some curiosity. although but twenty-seven, he had a reputation for austerity most unusual for one of his age. as the carriage drew up at the hotel, all three young men jumped lightly out to be ready to help the girl. mlle. frahender was received on the count's arm. at the same instant esperance had bounded out of the other door, pleased to have escaped the obligation of thanking the legation secretary. when she entered the suite that had been reserved, she stopped a moment in silent astonishment before the flowering vases and ribbon-bedecked baskets that filled the reception-room with their rich colours and delicate perfumes. all that for her! she threw her hat quickly on a chair and ran from vase to basket, from basket to vase. the first card she drew out said jean perliez. she looked for him to thank him, but he had slipped away to hide his confusion. for he had taken such pains to order that bouquet through the hotel manager, never foreseeing that others might have had the same idea! a pretty basket of azaleas came from the director of the monnaie. in the middle of the room, on a marble table with protruding golden feet, stood a huge basket of orchids of every shade--this orgy of rare flowers was an attention from the count. the girl grew red as she raised her eyes to thank him. he was looking at her so strangely that she stammered and fled into the next room, where she had seen mlle. frahender disappear. "that man frightens me," she whispered, pressing close to her old friend. "who frightens you, dear child?" "count styvens." "that gentlemanly young man, who is so considerate?" esperance did not dare to speak her thought. "that is not the way that others look at me." she was ashamed to entertain such an idea! the _maître d'hôtel_ knocked discreetly to announce lunch. "oh! let us begin at once, so that we shall not lose any time in seeing brussels!" they set out in great spirits, following wherever the caprice of esperance led them. "already a famous woman, and what a child she is," maurice observed aside to jean. they had a long ramble, zigzagging extravagantly about the city. the adorable little artist appreciated the beauty of the lovely capital, and the church of saint gudule delighted her. they took a cab to go to the bois de la cambre. esperance was much affected by the horses, who led a hard life up and down the little streets, which were so picturesque in their unevenness. the little expedition was not over until half-past seven. visitors' cards attracted mlle. frahender's attention. they were from the minister prince de bernecourt and the count albert styvens, secretary of the legation. feeling that she would not see the count gave the young artist the sensation of relief comparable to that of a prisoner walking straight out of his jail into freedom. during dinner esperance was quite exuberant and proposed a hand at _trente-et-un_ as soon as dessert was finished. "after that, we will go to bed very early, to have our best looks ready for to-morrow, will we not, my little lady?" she said, placing her slender hand on the wrinkled fingers of mlle. frahender. "my little lady" was the pet name esperance often gave her. maurice was only moderately receptive of the idea of a game of _trente-et-un_, but after consulting the clock, he was reassured. "by ten o'clock i shall be free." chapter ix the next morning marguerite had some difficulty in waking her young mistress, who was sleeping soundly. esperance enquired as soon as her own eyes were well opened, what kind of night her chaperone had passed. "deliciously restful, and you, my dear child, how did you sleep?" "i never woke once. oh! what a sun. have you seen what a glorious day it is?" "it is the forerunner of good news," jean cried out from the next room. "who knows?" said esperance. the telephone at her bedside rung. marguerite picked up the receiver, and announced dejectedly, "m. meydieux wishes to speak to mademoiselle." "my godfather in brussels!... you see, jean, that i was right to doubt your omen." the young people burst out laughing. "really," continued esperance, "i feel that he is going to spoil my trip here. i don't like him, and his advice never coincides with that of my father, whom i love so much." meantime m. meydieux was getting impatient on the telephone. "tell him that i am not up yet, and ask him to lunch with us at twelve-thirty. then," she explained to mlle. frahender, who had just come into her room, all powdered, all pinned and bonneted for the morning, "he will not dare to bother me when everybody else is present." marguerite was still answering m. meydieux's excited questions: "what! at half-past nine not up, that is shameful! i must talk to her ... i will come to lunch, oh yes! but above all i must talk to her." esperance was motioning violently to marguerite to hang up the receiver, but mlle. frahender objected to this lack of courtesy, so the young girl giving way to her remonstrance yielded gracefully. she even re-requested marguerite, who knew her godfather's culinary preferences, to order a lunch that he would like. then she dressed in haste to allow herself plenty of time to write to her family. they had already exchanged telegrams, but she knew that her father would like to have a long letter, giving him the minutes, so to speak, of herself. a tender gratitude swelled up in her, and her eyes were wet as she evoked the image of these two beloved beings reading her letter, commenting upon it, and entering completely for those moments into the life of their child. as soon as the letter was finished, she asked mlle. frahender to go with her to post it, so that she could herself speed it on its way to them. she had a strong desire to get out-doors, even if only for a half-hour. as they turned into the square, esperance stopped, clutching her aged friend by the arm. "look there," she said. there were two men side by side in deep conversation. esperance had instantly recognized count albert and her godfather. how did adhemar meydieux happen to know the secretary of the legation? they had just passed the post-office, so esperance posted her letter without being seen by either of them, and returned to the hotel. lunch time brought together all the guests except the godfather, who would not enter until the exact minute, if he had to wait in the corridor.... he thought it witty to behave so. his hateful, stupid mind flattered itself on being original. therefore as the half-hour began to strike he was pompously ushered in, watch in hand. "i am here, you see, to the tick," he said noisily, kissing the forehead his goddaughter pressed forward to him. then, turning to the waiter, "you can serve without delay," he said. "i like my food hot." mlle. frahender, although she was well acquainted with the abrupt ways of the godfather, frowned at him with disapprobation. nevertheless, thanks to maurice, who made a point of laughing at everything adhemar said, they had a gay luncheon, and adhemar himself, appreciating the consideration shown for his palate, cast aside his ill humour and enjoyed with full indulgence the present hour, the savoury food and the plentiful wine. at the end of the meal he examined the room. "on my word, my girl, they have given you the royal suite: that must come pretty expensive." "m. darbois," said jean perliez, "gave me a very liberal sum of money, with instructions to spare nothing for our little queen." "there you have it, if that is not the exaggeration of a lover! little queen! you are pouring poison in continuous doses into this little head, which is already full of nonsense. esperance will end by taking herself seriously; she is already far too dictatorial for a child of seventeen." he added to himself, "she must be corrected, i will do it myself!" esperance raised her eyelids, and her clear blue eyes seemed to pierce the eyeballs of the foolish blunderer, until he fluttered his lashes and closed his eyes to escape the powerful silent denial of his authority. "very well," he said, succeeding in half opening his eyes, "look at me as much as you like, that does not keep me from distrusting you, my child. you are nice-looking, you have a pretty voice, you may some day develop some talent; but you know, your inexperience is obvious, and i am very anxious to know how you will pull through to-night." "do not disturb yourself, m. meydieux, esperance had a triumph at the last rehearsal at the française." (mlle. frahender nodded agreement.) "i believe," jean continued, "that she is going to receive a perfect ovation this evening." "i believe it too," added the old lady, "and permit me to state, my dear sir, that you judge my young pupil very unfairly. she is just as modest, just as gentle, as she was a year ago, and those who love her may be well reassured of that fact. since you are among them," she went on boldly, "you should realize it and rejoice in it." adhemar shrugged his shoulders. "they are all mad, even the old saint!" they left the table. he stopped before a basket of flowers. "who sent you those, my child?" "count albert styvens," replied jean. "ah! he does things well," commented adhemar, but he did not breathe a word concerning his conversation with the count that morning. before there was time for a reply a waiter entered with a card. "m. mounet-sully would like to come up." "oh! yes," cried out the young artist with delight. a little startled at finding five people in the room, mounet-sully regained his assurance as he recognized jean and maurice. "my dear child, we rehearse at two-thirty," he said to esperance, "so be prompt, because we have heard that the queen will be there, though you may not see her. she is not well enough to come out in the evening." the young girl blushed with excitement. "it is fortunate that i shall not see her, i think that i should be paralyzed!" "perhaps she will send for you after the rehearsal," returned the tragedian. "she is a patroness of art, and very kind to artists." "will his majesty, king leopold, come this evening?" demanded meydieux, with great interest. "certainly," mounet-sully assured him. then, as he was about to go, he turned, "have you received your invitation for...?" the door opened. count albert, being introduced by the _maître d'hôtel_, had heard the last words. "i am just delivering it myself," he said, handing mlle. frahender a card which she read to esperance--"his excellence, the count de bernecourt, minister of belgium to france, and the princess, hope that mlle. frahender and mlle. esperance darbois will join them for supper after the play, at midnight, at their house." "but i cannot accept without the permission of my father," said esperance. the raucous and heavy voice of the godfather pronounced, "i will assume the responsibility. your mother encouraged me to watch over you. i consider that this is an honour which you should not decline." "especially as his majesty the king will have you presented," replied the count. "nevertheless," said esperance, "i want my father's approval. i will go down and telephone to paris." "i will accompany you," said the diplomat quickly. she stopped short, and her expression implied distress. jean went forward at once. "i will go and secure the connection for you," he said; "i will wait for you downstairs." the count made a scarcely perceptible gesture, as if to stop him; but he restrained himself and followed the girl in silence out of the room. he rang, the lift stopped before them, empty. albert styvens went forward, but esperance drew back, and then she said, quickly, "i will go down by the stairs." and light as a breath, she was gone. alone in the lift, the young count felt for a moment abashed, but he speedily recovered himself, and when esperance reached the bottom of the stairs she found him waiting for her. as she leaped down the last step, she again felt herself lifted and deposited upon her feet. "what are you doing?" she cried angrily, startled and offended. the rapid half-embrace had been almost brutal. esperance could still feel on her delicate skin the pressure of the man's strong fingers. he apologized, and was sincerely repentant. he had acted without reflection; he had forgotten his great strength which had this time served him ill. he was violently attracted by this charming little creature, with whom he admitted to himself that he was deeply in love; he, who up to this time had always avoided women as if he feared them. the telephonic communication was lengthy. françois darbois gave his consent to his daughter to attend the supper. madame darbois was distracted, and must find out what dress esperance would wear. "i will keep on my costume from the last act of _hernani_," she answered, and after a gentle farewell, esperance hastened to the theatre for the rehearsal. the director of the monnaie announced that her majesty had come and that they could begin. hugo's masterpiece was magnificently presented. the greatest artists filled even minor rôles. mounet-sully surpassed himself, and esperance drew cries of admiration from that select but critical audience. count albert was seated in the orchestra stalls with his mother. the countess styvens, widowed after five years, had bestowed upon her son all the affection she had cherished for her husband. she had never left him, but had had him educated under her own supervision, giving him at the age of nine, as tutor, a jesuit who was one of the most austere, if also one of the most learned, of the order. the young man was a perfect pupil, studious, ever disdaining the pleasures of his age. his childhood passed in the grey and pious atmosphere in which his mother steeped herself. his youth developed under the rule of his preceptor, a pale youth, without laughter, without aspirations. the physicians had never been able to persuade the countess to let her son have the joy of travel of sea and mountain, so he had to be satisfied with the physical exercises she permitted. so he gave himself up to gymnastics with enthusiasm, expending his youthful vigour against his drill professor, and the japanese who taught him jiu-jitsu. the boy's strength became quite remarkable. but his pale face, disproportionately long arms, and reputation for austerity, had made him the mark, from the very first days of his diplomatic career, for the gossips, ballad makers, and authors of questionable cabaret skits. the day he heard that he was serving as turk's head in a brussels music-hall, he went instantly behind the scenes of the theatre and demanded to see the director, who was in conversation with the author of the piece. he went right up to them. "i," he said, raising his hat politely, "am count albert styvens. i shall be very glad to have you suppress the scene, which, i understand, is intended to caricature me." the manager, a prosperous brewer, who had become proprietor of a theatre for the pleasure of producing revues, which if not witty were certainly vulgar, shrugged his heavy shoulders. "you expect me to lose money! that act is one of the best we have got." "and you, sir?" albert turned on the author, a man of doubtful reputation, always on the alert for any occasion of scandal in others. "oh! of course i am sorry to offend you, but i can't take off the piece." the last word was not out of his mouth when the count grabbed both of them by the napes of their necks and knocked their heads together till the blood spurted from their surprised faces. their cries were heard even by the audience. reporters came running to witness this unbilled spectacle. the stage hands tried to free the manager, but desisted when one received a terrible smash from the count's fist, and another a kick that sent him through space. when the two men were reduced to rags, albert held them upright and addressed them: "i am going into the hall to see the show. i advise you to withdraw the scene we spoke of and to which i object." then he quietly re-arranged his clothes and went into the auditorium where the audience were very noisy and laughing at the news the journalists had reported. count albert was one of the best known figures about brussels, where his father had played a very important part in the foreign affairs of the country, and enjoyed, for more than twenty years, the confidence of king leopold. when he died his wife was still a young and very beautiful woman, and his great fortune had made the only heir of the family already famous. the count was astonished at the clamorous ovation that received him. he would have liked to impose silence on the people, but he was a poor orator, and very timid; he kept silence and wont to his seat. he was popular from that day, and greatly respected. at the monnaie, as soon as the rehearsal was over, the queen sent for esperance and mounet-sully. the queen assured the tragedian of the admiration that she had long felt for him, for mounet-sully played almost every year in brussels; but all her kindly enthusiasm was directed towards esperance. "what a perfectly delicious voice!" she said. "how old are you?" "seventeen, madame." the queen undid a bracelet from her arm. "accept this modest souvenir of your first appearance in our city, mademoiselle." the young girl trembled with emotion. after she had kissed the royal hand, she tried to clasp upon her wrist the jewel she had just received. the countess styvens, who had just approached, helped her gently. "my mother admired you very much," said the count, joining them. esperance raised her eyes and looked at the mother of the young man. she was dressed in mauve; her temples, prematurely grey, accentuated the delicacy of her complexion. her whole person breathed constant goodness, sacrifice without regret. the young artist loved at sight this woman she was beholding for the first time, and at the same time she had a presentiment that this charming and elegant lady would not remain a stranger to her during her life. the queen desired count styvens to accompany the young girl, who was forced to take his arm to her dressing-room. she walked quickly, in a hurry to rid herself of her strange cavalier, who pretended to be oblivious of her nervous haste. esperance requested him to convey to the countess, his mother, her gratitude for her kindness. albert styvens bowed without speaking, and left her in a glow of delight. at the hotel there was no topic except the rehearsal and the reception the queen had given esperance. the godfather examined the bracelet set with sapphires and diamonds. he put on his glasses, counted the stones, shook his head and grunted, "it is a superb bracelet, do you realize that, child?" "i realize that it is superb because it is a testimony of good will offered by this kind sovereign. that is what makes it so valuable to me." "what a haughty child!" and adhemar began to laugh, the laugh with which realism strives to destroy dreams. mlle. frahender gently removed the bracelet from the hands of the objectionable old meddler. "you must rest and avoid excitement, dear, dear child," she said, leading esperance to her room, after bowing to adhemar. maurice and jean, who had witnessed the godfather's want of tact, reasoned with him. "in my opinion, m. meydieux, you annoy my cousin too much, and for no reason. you forget that she has created for herself a position beyond her years, and you treat her like a child not out of the school-room." "well, isn't it all for her good?" screamed out adhemar in a fury. "the rest of you burn incense before her; she will be destroyed by pride and that will be your fault!" "no such thing," returned maurice with equal energy. "she is adorable in her simplicity and has remained as really childlike, as trusting and light-hearted as anyone in the world. you cast a gloom on her spirits, you try to curb her spontaneity, you want her bourgeoisie like yourself, but you will never succeed, i give you my word for it, and that is a blessing." "oh!" retorted adhemar, stung to the quick, "what do you mean by that, you fine painter fellow? you are glad enough to have these bourgeoisie that you scorn pay for your pictures!" "if i make pictures and anybody buys them, that is proof enough that they are idiots. but my hatred of the bourgeoisie only extends to the category to which you belong; those who, ever since they were born, have found their food ready under their noses; those who, never using their ten fingers, never using their brains, live only to increase inherited incomes; hearts locked by greed, narrow minds unwilling to hear the just claims of the humble, of those who work and suffer for them; enemies of progress, enemies of their country." "oh! oh! oh!" screamed meydieux. "yes, refusing to perform the sole function the state expects of them." "and that is?" "to become a husband, a father, a parent." "you are insolent! it is not worth my while to reply to you. you may tell my goddaughter...." the door opened, and esperance, who had been kept awake by the noise of their voices, appeared to know what was the matter! "ah! there you are. i will say good-bye! your cavaliers annoy me." he threw a furious glance towards jean, who had not spoken a word. it is a fact that the majority of people cherish more rancour against the witness of an insult than against the insulter himself. "i will not be present at your triumph--as they call it. i am going to your father and shall tell him everything." "my father, godfather, knows that i always tell the truth; he will await my return to judge my actions and those of my dear comrades." adhemar pulled on his hat and stormed out of the room, swelling with wounded dignity. esperance blew a kiss to the two young men. "now i am going to sleep until dinner time. i have just three-quarters of an hour. do not forget, my loyal attendants, that we dine at six-thirty," she added with a sweeping courtesy, and disappeared, light of heart at the departure of her godfather. chapter x the performance was an unparalleled triumph for the players and little "_dona sol_" received the most flattering part of the success. the king, knowing that the queen had already favoured this delightful child, would not be outdone in generosity, and sent to the dressing-room of the new star a very beautiful ring, set with a magnificent pearl and two diamonds. esperance, who had never had any jewellery except a gold chain that her mother's aunt had left her and the little ring her father had given her for her first communion, found herself, in one day, possessor of two ornaments which the most fastidious worldling would not have disdained. she put the ring immediately on her first finger, since it was a little loose for the ring finger, and looked at herself in the glass, arranging a lock of hair with the ringed hand, raising an eyebrow and laughing delightedly to see the effect produced by the ring. count albert watched her from the neighbouring room where he was waiting. his face was of a livid pallor. his heart beat so fast that he felt weak, and was forced to sit down. he was out of his senses. all the frenzy of youth, repressed so long, mounted in a wave to his brain. marguerite, coming to dress her mistress, announced that the gentlemen were waiting. she quickly threw on a cloak, saying, "i am ready." mounet-sully and count albert entered together. the count offered his arm to the old mademoiselle, and esperance, free of the contact that disturbed her, joyfully accepted the tragedian's assistance. the supper was charming, and proved to the young girl that the feasts of artists and men of the world do not end in the orgies described by the odious godfather. the young girl was at the right of the prince with mounet-sully opposite, at the right of the princess. none of the guests could help noticing the count's agitation. the military aide, representing king leopold, baron von berger, was an old friend of the styvens's family. he was uneasy, and when he saw the young count preparing to take the ladies home, "no, no, my boy," he said to him in a low tone, "you are not yourself--you are distraught. i am afraid that you have been hard hit." "you are not mistaken," replied the young man, "i burn like a devil, and at the same time i am as happy as a god." "well, now i am going to escort these ladies, and to-morrow i will have a talk with you." esperance slept badly and woke late. the old mademoiselle was sitting beside her, spectacles across her nose, reading the papers. her kind face was beaming. she was cutting out and putting aside certain articles, then she pinned them in order, all ready to send to m. and madame darbois. the young girl was touched, and raising herself in bed, flung her arms about the old lady. "what a dear you are, and how i love you!" mlle. frahender at that moment had her reward for all the little sacrifices she had made for her pupil. the critics were dithyrambic in their discourses concerning the new "dona sol," but the casual reporters were, as always, indiscreet, and disguised the truth under little prevarications, fantastic and suggestive. after having read two or three of the articles, esperance pushed them all aside. she took the name of all the critics, and wrote them little notes of thanks, while mlle. frahender added the addresses. in the neighbouring room a discussion was going on between her knight-attendants. esperance did not gather its cause, although certain phrases were audible. "no, i tell you," maurice was saying, "if it is worth while at all, i must be the one." "i could always demand a correction," replied jean. "correction of what? it is simply one of those ambiguous phrases which are used every day. why notice it?" the sound of esperance's voice cut short their discussion. "what are you talking about?" she called out. "nothing at all," returned maurice, "that is, only stupid things you would not understand." "that is not a very gallant morning greeting, cousin, but you have not forgotten your promise to lake me to the museum this morning, i hope." "yes, my dear, we will go to the museum in a very little while." she heard the door close. "are you still there, jean?" she called. "and at your service," he replied. "there is nothing i need, thank you. i just want to know what correction you were talking about." "it is a private affair of maurice's," stammered the young actor. "i see, thank you." after lunch the travellers set out for the museum. maurice was surprised and delighted by the instinct that guided his cousin towards the best that was in the pictures. he explained to her in the language affected by painters the reason for certain unreal shadows in a certain picture, and the necessity for them, the tact a painter must use in managing his light, the difficulty of foreshortening. he told her the well-known anecdote of delacroix replying to the professor who objected that he had put a full face eye in a profile, "but, my dear master, i have tried everything and that is the only eye that gives the profile its proper value." and the professor of the great painter-to-be, after several sketches on the transparent paper over his pupil's canvas, said to him, "you are entirely right. keep that full face eye." they left the museum, animated by different feelings. the more that maurice discovered his cousin's noble qualities, the delicacy of her feelings, the strength of her loyalty, the more he felt of protective affection for this child who was so pure, so free, and who had made her entry so bravely into the whirlpool where things are generally turbulent, and most brutal in the brutal side of parisian life. the admiration of his twenty years, for esperance's alluring beauty, was purified into a friendship which he felt growing deeper and stronger. as to jean perliez, he had become more and more resigned that his love should remain forever in the shade, unlimited devotion for all time, all his being offered in sacrifice to the frail idol, who went her way star-gazing, unsuspecting all the time that she was trampling upon hearts under her foot. chapter xi m. and madame darbois had received the telegram announcing the return of their daughter, and were at the station to meet her. esperance saw them and would have jumped out before the train had fully slopped. maurice held her just in time. "no foolishness there, little cousin. your bodyguards must return you intact to your family's four arms. one more moment of patience. what a hurry you are in to be rid of us." she held out her little hands to the two young men. "oh, naughty maurice! you know very well that i shall never forget these three days we have passed together, when you have been so good to me and taught me so very much." maurice kissed her boldly; jean put his lips very respectfully to the warm, soft little hand. the train stopped and the darbois family were in an instant reunited. mlle. frahender declined escort to her convent. françois darbois installed her in a landau, and after he had thanked her heartily for her kindness to his daughter, gave the address to the coachman, who drove away with the old lady holding her inevitable little package on her lap, and steadying her old-fashioned little attaché case on the seat opposite. the darbois family took their places in another carriage. esperance must sit between her father and mother, leaning close to them, caressing them endlessly, and dropping her little blonde head on her mother's shoulder. "oh! how long it seems since i have seen you," she kept repeating. she held her father's hand and pressed it against her heart. it seemed to her suddenly as if she had suffered from that absence of three days, and yet she could not specify at what moment she had wished herself back with them. she recounted all the little events that had taken place during the three eventful days. "you know," she explained to her father, "i am bringing you all the newspaper articles. then i have the letter from the president of the committee, and the beautiful presents from the king and queen." the carriage stopped at the boulevard raspail. the _concierge_ came forward. "i am sure i hope that mademoiselle has had a success." esperance looked at her with astonishment, but the woman's husband came up with a newspaper in his hand, which he unfolded to display the picture of esperance just beneath the headlines. "oh!" she exclaimed, "they will make me odious to the public. mounet-sully was so wonderful. worms so fine in his monologue...." sadness overcame her. she was still sad when she entered her own room. she touched all the familiar little objects, and kissed the feet of the ivory virgin upon her mantel-piece with great emotion. she thanked her mother with a look when she saw the fresh marguerites in the two enamel vases. in comparison with the luxury of her apartment at the grand hotel in brussels, the simple surroundings of her own room charmed her anew. she swayed for a moment in her rocking-chair, sat down on her low stool, knelt upon her bed to straighten the branch of box beneath the silver crucifix her mother had given her when she was seventeen. marguerite came in with the trunk and luggage. "what is that?" asked esperance, spying a big box fastened with nails. "i don't know anything about it, mademoiselle. they gave it to me at the hotel saying it was for you." the box on being opened displayed a magnificent basket of orchids. attached by a white ribbon was a card--"countess styvens." esperance grew pale; she took the card from her mother's hands, fearing that she might be mistaken. it was indeed the countess and not the count. she breathed again! marguerite and the maid carried the basket into the salon; then the young girl went into the library with her mother. the newspaper clippings were spread out on the table, and the two famous trinkets had been taken from their cases. madame darbois clasped and unclasped her hands. "oh! but they are too beautiful, simply too beautiful!" she said. and the philosopher, half in indignation, half in indulgence, exclaimed, "my poor child, you can not possibly wear such jewels at your age!" "ah!" said esperance with disappointment, "i cannot wear them?" "why, no, it is out of the question." "you will be able to wear them in a play, at the theatre," said madame darbois, but her tone lacked assurance, for she did not know whether that would be possible either. m. darbois had turned his attention to the notices, having pushed aside the descriptive paragraphs. he read them and gave them to his wife. "your godfather came to complain to us of maurice, of jean perliez, and of yourself. you all displeased him; tell us just what happened?" esperance recounted the happenings with perfect impartiality, adding honestly that she had done nothing to try to persuade her godfather to remain. the philosopher smiled. "very well, let us forget all that. we will take up our happy life again, that has been interrupted by your triumphs," he added sadly. and then, as the women were preparing to leave the library, "tell me, esperance, who is the countess styvens?" "a great lady at court, and oh! so charming." "is count albert styvens of the legation any relation of hers?" "yes, father, he is her son. but why do you ask that?" "your godfather spoke to me of this young man, who, it seems, wants to complete his studies in philosophy." the poor little star trembled. she was on the point of confessing all her presentiments, her terrors, to her father.... but he had just sat down to his desk and seemed already indifferent to what was going on around him. she went softly out of the library, following her mother, who was bearing away the newspaper excerpts and the royal jewel cases. in the beautiful house which countess styvens occupied with her son, an animated discussion was taking place at the same moment between baron von berger and count albert. "i advise you, my boy," the baron was saying brusquely, "to ask for another post. you, so sensible, too sensible, for a man of your age, in fact it's a little ridiculous...." "that has nothing to do with it," returned the younger man coolly. "all very well, but my quasi-paternal duty is to stop you before certain danger. you admit that you adore this young star of seventeen, the daughter of a philosopher of high standing. you do not intend, i suppose, to make her your mistress?" albert styvens felt the blood run into his temples, but he did not answer. the baron continued, more determinedly, "you do not intend to propose her as a daughter-in-law to your mother?" for an instant a vertigo froze the young man's being. his heart stopped beating, his throat contracted with a terrific pressure of blood. he did not answer a word. "in god's name," cried the baron violently, "am i in the presence of a woman or a man?" "a man," said count albert, getting to his feet. "a man whose anger is held in check by his respect, but who can endure no more," he added, throwing back his arms to allow his chest to dilate still farther. "i am going to answer you; please listen without interruption." then, after a moment more of silence, he declared, "yes, i am desperately in love with this young girl, and i am going to try everything, not to make her love me, for that she probably never will--but that she will let herself be loved. what will come of it, i have not the least idea. i want her and no one else. i will commit no disloyal act, i give you my word for that. if she should become my wife, it would be with my mother's full permission. i beg you now, my dear baron, to say nothing further about it; i am old enough to regulate my life, as much as the divine guiding force which you call 'destiny' permits." he came up to the baron, clasped his hand in a firm grasp, and reaching for his hat, added, "i want to get out in the air. shall we go together?" the baron recognized the opposition of an unchangeable will to his own, which no discussion could influence. chapter xii life had resumed its regular course in the apartment on the boulevard raspail, but an important relationship was developing in esperance's life. count albert styvens came three times a week to pursue his philosophic studies with professor darbois. this arrangement had been contrived by the hypocrite, adhemar meydieux. he did not mistake the count's infatuation for his goddaughter. a marriage of such wealth and aristocratic connections flattered his foolish egoism, and he was sworn to attempt everything that would bring about such a magnificent consummation. a friend of the family, doctor bertaud, noticed alarming symptoms in the girl, most prevalent between five and seven o'clock each evening. he could not ascertain the cause, but persuaded the philosopher to take her to doctor potain, a celebrated heart specialist. madame darbois took esperance for an examination. françois was perfectly amazed by the deep culture of the count, who at first sight seemed of only average intelligence. when the family gathered together for dinner, he commented on his impressions to his wife and daughter. "this young man is a very remarkable personality," he said, "very difficult to penetrate, yet nevertheless very sincere. i do not believe that the slightest untruth has ever crossed his lips. i enjoy working with him. ah! that reminds me, i have invited him to dine with us on thursday. he is very anxious to be presented to you, and esperance already knows him, so i thought you would find it agreeable." the young girl trembled. her blood seemed to stop in her veins. her hand pressed against her heart felt no movement there. her father, noticing the change in her, exclaimed, "bertaud is quite right, you are sometimes abnormally pale; do you feel ill?" "no, father, it is nothing; i felt dizzy for a moment." "all the same we must hurry bertaud with his examination." back in her own room the young girl began to weep. "i shall never escape that man, never, never." her eyes invoked the virgin of ivory. her two arms extended, implored her, but it seemed to esperance that they were opened also to whatever discouragement destiny might have in store. she fell asleep in her chair, worn out by self-hypnosis on the holy image. a horrible nightmare unfolded in her brain. she found herself on a great map of the world, with a voice calling to her, "why are you frozen there, why don't you move? you are free as the air of this great globe." then she began to walk, but at once she saw the earth open and long tentacles, like arms, emerge to clutch her. she recoiled quickly and started in another direction but the same phenomenon occurred again. after that she determined to climb on to a great plain that she saw ahead. she thought she was safe when all at once she saw arising on every side the frightful tentacles which crept along her hiding-place, viscous and black, nearer, near enough to touch her. an indescribable terror brought her to her feet with a cry for help! mile. frahender and marguerite came running in. they found her pale and bathed in perspiration. her lips were trembling, stammering. it was five minutes before she recovered herself. she described her dream, and the old mademoiselle prescribed a little walk in the air. the child followed her chaperon with nervous docility. it was the day after the next when albert styvens was to come to dinner. esperance had thought of saying that she was ill, but her heart misgave her at the thought of the anxiety she would occasion her mother, and then ... and then ... the dinner would be postponed, and "this man will have what he will have, and i am the prey of his dream," she said with a sigh of resignation. the dinner was arranged for seven-thirty. the young count presented himself at seven-fifteen, having been preceded by two great bunches of flowers, for madame darbois and esperance, who was at the piano when he came into the room. the count entered with madame darbois, whom her husband had just presented to her, and they stopped silent to listen to mendelssohn's beautiful nocturne, "song of a summer night." when the last echoes of the last phrase had died away, discreet applause was wafted to her. she swung quickly on her stool and found herself before the young man who was bowing, and taking the hand she held out to him. she had not yet overcome that terror he inspired in her, and was surprised to find him so much at ease. after dinner they talked of music, and esperance, praising a magnificent duet of liszt, from the symphony of orpheus, was overcome when the young man rose, took her hand and led her towards the piano. "come, let us try to play it together." he looked towards françois darbois and received his nod of acquiescence from the depths of the arm-chair where the professor sat clasping his long, fine hands. the count was intoxicated by the light perfume of esperance's body there so near him that he seemed almost to touch her. his strong hands rose and fell beside her delicate fingers, making the young girl think of a great hawk fluttering over white pigeons, at the farm of penhouet in brittany, where for years she had spent her holidays. the fragment was executed brilliantly, for these two persons, united in their enthusiasm for art, although so different in personal reactions, gave the two auditors of this musical treat a magnificent interpretation of liszt's genius. françois darbois and his wife, both distinguished in their appreciation of the beautiful, could not sufficiently thank the count, dividing his praises with congratulations to their daughter. "you surpassed yourself, my dear," said the philosopher, "but then i admit that you have never before had such a partner. it was really remarkable." when the young man had left, esperance excused herself, saying that she was tired. she kissed her parents tenderly, although for the first time she felt an unjust and unfounded resentment against them. she was aggrieved that they should see nothing of count styvens's manoeuvres. the maid, helping her to undress, exclaimed, "how grand it was this evening, mademoiselle, and what a fine young gentleman!" esperance shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. marguerite, coming in to see that the young mistress whom she adored wanted nothing, could not help saying, "ah! mademoiselle, what talent he has, that young count! how well you two did look, your backs, sitting side by side! i just said to myself...." esperance shivered, guessing what was coming, and interrupted the good woman quickly, "don't talk to me marguerite, to-night. i am tired and i must go to sleep." but she did not sleep. chapter xiii the last presentation of sardou's play was a veritable ovation for esperance. flowers were presented to her on the stage. two baskets attracted special attention, one overflowing with white orchids; the other, with gardenias, so powerful in their sweetness that even the first rows of the orchestra felt their strength. it was rumoured in the boxes that the white orchids were sent by the countess styvens and her son albert, who were sitting in a stall in the auditorium. as to the gardenias, the card attached to the green ribbons of the basket revealed the name of the most elegant clubman of paris, the duke charles de morlay-la-branche. he was a handsome man of thirty-two, very wealthy, adored by women, popular with men. a ripple ran through the audience. "you know the duke, they say that he is very much taken...." "they know each other?" "no, he has never been presented." "no, look out for the love of the immaculate albert," said mockingly a beautiful woman with bold eyes, glancing toward the stall occupied by albert and his mother; but her eyes widened at seeing the duke enter to present his compliments to the countess styvens. a few minutes later he was seen to go out with count albert. he was going to be presented to the young artist. count styvens's love was known to all paris, as was also the respect with which he surrounded his idol. it was also known that the young girl did not return this love; likewise that the son of the chemist perliez was devoting his life to esperance. but what would be the end of these two gallants, both so timid, so full of silent ardour? but now had entered upon the scene a rival possessed of beauty, of confidence, one who had toyed lightly with women's hearts, until he had wearied of the facile love his physical charm and wit attracted. "that should be good sport to watch," said an old beau. "i am betting on the duke." a newly married bride turned towards him, "i am betting on the young girl." a journalist, thin, blonde, very young, just beginning his career, had followed the duke and the count behind the scenes. he accompanied them into esperance's little room and described what happened as follows:-- "she was holding the two cards, there in the midst of the overpowering odour of gardenias. she blushed when she heard the name of the duke, albert styvens was presenting to her. she thanked them both very prettily, but without showing any preference for either. the duke began complimentary speeches without making any impression. when they took leave, he wanted to kiss esperance's hand, but she withdrew it looking very much surprised. this rather confused the duke. as soon as these gentlemen departed i was presented, and her manner was just as charming. jean perliez came in just then to tell her that the curtain would go up in three minutes. he brought her a bunch of parma violets, and she took them from him and put them in her girdle; you will see her wearing them on the stage. perliez is desperately in love with her, and he grew very pale. he went out without a word. i think he must have gone to cry out his emotion in a corner. that is all," concluded the rising journalist. he repeated his story twenty times, and by next morning all paris knew that the duke de morlay-la-branche had been received by esperance like any other gentleman, that count albert styvens had been noncommittal, and that jean perliez had been overcome. the young journalist wrote a very suggestive article concerning this little scene, highly ornamented with phrases that would attract attention; but unfortunately the editor refused to print it. the duke did not care for notoriety, and was, moreover, a renowned fencer, so the editor exercised his discretion. count styvens belonged to the foreign diplomacy and was very particular, and no one had infringed on his privacy since the little affair in the brussels music hall. that left only jean perliez, who was merely sincere and pathetic; the public did not want to read that kind of thing! so much for the little journalist. countess styvens was spending a month in paris, staying at the legation with the princess de bernecourt, who always had a suite ready for her. there was to be a grand opening ceremony of the opera season, and for many years the styvens had never missed the first nights of the opera or the comedie-française. one evening at dinner the conversation turned upon music, and a guest regretted the mechanical performance of the musical prodigies at the conservatoire. "it gives them a certain amount of cleverness, or technique, or whatever you like to call it, but there is no flair of the ideal, and often no important personality." "i know a young artist," said albert styvens, "who plays with her whole soul, and i, who really love music, find her far ahead of all your prodigies." almost a sensation was produced among the guests. the countess said with her sweet smile, "i see that they tease you here as well as at brussels." "that does not affect me, mother, you see; i remain faithful to my ideal." "never mind, tell us the name of this new discovery." "her name is esperance darbois," said albert rising, resting his two hands on the table. then, having produced his effect, he sat down again. "what! she is a good musician too?" "excellent," replied albert, "and i will wager that whoever hears her will agree with me. "how is it possible to hear her? she does not play at the concerts. but tell us how did you contrive to hear her?" demanded the princess. "i study with her father, françois darbois, so i have become a friend of the family. they asked me to dinner once, and i was early enough to hear mlle. esperance play. after dinner we played a very difficult duet together. she had absolute command of her execution and her emotion." a young attaché murmured to an amiable dowager, "i am afraid that they have completely taken him in." count albert sprang to his feet. "i am not willing that you should try to belittle this family whom you do not know. françois darbois, the philosopher, is a fine character, of unparalleled honour and integrity: his wife has never frequented the world where people are 'taken in,' as you say, and as for mlle. esperance ... so much the better if you do not know her?" the duke de morlay-la-branche, sitting beside the princess, said to her, loud enough for all to hear, "albert styvens is entirely right: they are people of a very different order. they are a very refreshing trio for parisian society." everyone kept quiet and listened to what the duke had to say. it was well known that he was attracted by esperance's beauty and talent, and it was also known that he was a sceptic, a railer, not easy for anyone to "take in." the attaché, not knowing how to back out of his awkward position, apologized for having spoken in jest. he had heard ... but the world is so unjust ... etc., etc. no one listened. "for my part," said the princess, "i see only one way to put to the proof the statements of the duke de morlay-la-branche and count albert, and that is to ask the darbois family to dinner. afterwards, albert must undertake to persuade this adorable little comedian to reveal her ability as a musician." the minister was most agreeable and said, "all our guests this evening must be present at the dinner." albert styvens was consumed with joy. and the duke did not attempt to conceal his satisfaction. the only difficulty was to find a suitable excuse for inviting the darbois. chance proved itself the count's accomplice. in conversation with the professor the next day the count was told that there would be no lesson on the following tuesday, because the professor was to deliver an address on the question of the hour--"can philosophy and religion evolve without danger in the same mind?" the conference was to be held at the home of madame lamarre, the wife of a fashionable painter. albert knew that his mother was a great friend of this lady. he told the countess and the princess, and it was agreed that they should both go to this conference. when the professor was presented it would be easy for the princess to say that countess styvens was anxious to meet again her little friend of brussels, then the invitation could easily follow. everything happened according to the count's plans. françois darbois had a great success; the catholic party owed him recognition for his noble dissertation on the rôle of philosophy in religion. he was a fervent follower of the author of "the genius of christianity." the princess de bernecourt presented sincere compliments to the affable philosopher. the countess styvens presented herself to madame darbois, who thanked her for her special kindness to esperance, who regretted that she had not herself been able to thank her sufficiently. "now won't you," said the charming princess, "do us the honour to come to dinner at the legation next week? that will give the countess and myself a chance to renew our acquaintance with your adorable daughter." françois, being appealed to, accepted the invitation for the following tuesday. "my husband will be delighted, dear m. darbois, to meet you; he is one of your most faithful readers," said the princess. on their return the darbois found esperance very anxious to learn the result of the conference. françois said very simply as he kissed his daughter, "you would have been satisfied...." but madame darbois, made loquacious by her husband's success, recounted everything at length and the triumph obtained by her husband in every detail. the invitation to dine at the belgian minister's rather dismayed, in truth distressed, esperance. her joy in her father's success was diminished by this prospect. count styvens was certainly not unaware of this unexpected invitation. "you are quite right, little daughter," went on madame darbois, "the mother of the young count is perfectly delightful. she is especially anxious to see you again." esperance breathed deeply, as if to draw more strength from within. she knew her parents were flattered at the idea that the attentions of the young count could only end in an offer of marriage. they were not ignorant that she did not love him, but they hoped that she would in time be touched by his respectful affection. the philosopher and his wife had often talked of this prospect with each other. they did not want to cause any pain to their cherished daughter. m. darbois had already had to give up all idea of jean perliez, for he had begged him not to speak of him to esperance. she was his goddess; he adored her but felt unworthy of her. with resignation françois charged his wife to find out esperance's state of mind, but these were futile efforts. madame darbois could never approach the burning question; she hovered round it with such uncertainty that esperance never for an instant suspected her mother's real motive in the long talks they had together. chapter xiv a radiant sun woke esperance on the following tuesday. her thoughts, always on the future, refused to be subjugated by the confused anguish she felt which almost stifled her. yet this evening was sure to be one of importance in her young life! had the count said anything to her mother? she rejected the idea that he could think of her as capable of becoming his mistress.... then, his wife? she would not give up the theatre.... "no, nothing in the world could make up for that, far rather death." and she smiled at the idea that she might perhaps become a victim of the great art. she saw herself struggling against all hardships and dying as an adored victim of circumstances, regretted and wept by the many who loved her. her imaginative speculations were rudely interrupted by marguerite bringing in her chocolate. on the tray was a card with a little present for the evening. esperance read the card, and taking the bouquet looked at it for a long time until tears veiled her pretty eyes. "poor fellow," she said, "i did not think of his side of it." for the first time esperance absented herself from the conservatoire voluntarily. she had so much to do! she wanted to look beautiful, "perfectly beautiful," she confided to mlle. frahender. "i feel that something great is in store for me in the early coming days." she took particular pains with her toilette, and looking at herself in the tall glass of her wardrobe, reflected, "i do not want to love count styvens. then i ought not to want to be any more attractive to-night than usual. am i a wicked girl? my cousin maurice says, 'coquetry is the cowardly woman's weapon, and i love you, little cousin, because you are not a coquette.'" the mirror showed a lovely girl gowned in pale blue. the shoulders, slender and rounded, seemed to emerge from clear water made heaven blue by the reflection of the sky. the hair, so blonde it dazzled, made a radiant frame for the lovely face. the red mouth, half open, the white teeth, the wilful little chin, lightly cleft by an oblong dimple, made this delightful little maiden one of the most dangerous weapons that love ever fashioned. when françois and his family were announced in the salon of the princess, the minister hastened forward to convey madame darbois to a seat, after presenting her to the dowager duchess de castel-montjoie, mlle. jeanne tordeine, of the theatre-française, and several other guests. esperance's entrance roused the curiosity of all. the duke de morlay-la-branche, after conversing for a few minutes to françois darbois, whom he had met several weeks before, came up to the young girl as she was standing before the countess styvens, replying to the compliments the charming lady was paying her. "i am told that you are quite a clever musician." esperance looked up to reproach the count for his indiscretion in speaking about her playing, but her eyes met the ardent gaze of the duke. she was agitated, thinking, "how handsome he is, and i had never noticed it." "yes indeed, mademoiselle," he continued in his easy, agreeable manner, "we hear that you have captivated count styvens with your playing, and as perhaps you know he is recognized as being quite a dilettante authority." esperance strived to speak, but nervousness prevented her. she sat down quickly beside the countess, and crept close to her. a completely new sensation seemed to invade her whole being. she had a strange feeling of uncertain joy tinged with pain and yet she loved this sensation that troubled her, this half-fright which gave her a slight shiver. the duke brought up a chair and seemed to be exerting all his charm and animation for the countess, but it was easy to see that all this charm, all this wit, were intended for the pretty creature who appeared powerless to resist his fascinating personality. when dinner was announced the duke offered his arm to the countess, the minister his to madame darbois, the princess took the arm of the philosopher. while esperance, naturally accepted the arm of count albert. she looked at him more attentively than she had ever done before, and involuntarily made a comparison between him and the duke not altogether to his advantage. "how easy and graceful the duke is," she thought. "how heavy this man, and dull and slow. the duke's face is at once kindly and spirited, the count's brooding and awkward. the duke is a man, the count but a shadow." at the same instant the count's arm pressed her delicate wrist. she had again to restrain the repugnance she had felt before, and her terrible nightmare came back to her. she let herself fall rather than sit in the chair to which albert styvens had conducted her. here she found herself between the count and the young baron de montrieux, who attempted, with the most charming courtesy to forestall her every want and monopolize all her attention. the baron was overflowing with wit and esperance listened with delight. after dinner the baron de montrieux went to the piano. he was a very fair musician, and all the company were glad to listen to him. albert followed him. he was really gifted and, if fortune had not otherwise favoured him, he could have made his name as an artist. there was enthusiastic applause. the count bent before esperance, who, in a burst of artistic appreciation, expressed her admiration. "then," he replied, uplifted with joy to feel that he had really touched her, "shall we play our duet from orpheus, liszt's symphonic poem, to these good friends who are, i think, quite appreciative." "oh! no, i should be afraid. i dare not. you forget i know so little. i am an actress and i will recite for you if you like, but--" the duke came forward, and hearing the conversation joined in with a request that was almost like pleading. styvens held out his angular fist to the young girl; the duke extended a long white hand; and so both led her to the piano. the duke's fingers pressed her palm lightly but with a suggestion of encouragement, while the count's held her like a vice that would never open. in spite of her protestations, esperance was installed at the piano, and esperance resolved to put all her best into her playing with the hope of being able to transport her audience into the highest realms of the art that can express great aspiration blended with the pathos of suffering. charles de morlay-la-branche withdrew to the rear of the long room, and stood alone, leaning against a beautiful italian window, to listen and to watch. a conflict of feelings were struggling within him. he was fighting against the attraction of this slender creature, whose white shoulders and delicate body were swaying with a phrase now violent, now subdued, her whole person actuated, controlled by the rhythm of the music. the heavy frame work of count styvens seemed an anchor for the fragile idol. the duke gnawed his lip in suppressed emotional anger. as the young couple left their seats the room shook with applause. everybody was delighted. the princess took esperance by both hands, gazing at her, stroking the tapering fingers that were still vibrating with the fever of the music. esperance was so pale that the princess led her into another room and made her sit down, praising her marvellous execution and striving to quiet the little heart she could feel beating with so much agitation. "the doctor who attends me," esperance explained in a far-away voice, "has told me, madame, that i must avoid all excitement if i wish to live a long time, but that i shall not live naturally if i am over excited or depressed by emotion." they brought her a refreshing and soothing drink. the princess's attendant bathed her temples with eau de cologne. esperance breathed more quietly and rose, thanking the princess; then suddenly collapsed on her knees, sobbing, without strength, without consciousness, and madame darbois was summoned to her side at once. "oh! great heaven!" she said. "i have never seen her like this before; usually she controls herself when over-excited by music. see, dear, a little strength, stand up, and we will go home at once...." but esperance's head slipped from the mother's support into her arms, while her whole body was shaken by sobs. the countess styvens came in to find the girl exhausted by a storm of moans and sobs. they succeeded in placing her on a large soft couch and she fell asleep holding the countess's hand, under the impression that it was her mother's. in about an hour she awoke, refreshed, unconscious of what had happened to her or where she was. her father and mother were beside her. she got up, and one of the maids came to her. she then remembered, and asked how long she had been asleep. "you see, mama," she said, "you must not take me out any more, i am not fit for it." then kissing her mother who had never left her, she expressed her sorrow for what had happened. she thanked the maid and asked her to make her apologies to the princess. "would you not like me to call her?" "no, please do not disturb anyone; i could not bear it." in the ante-chamber two men-servants were in attendance. one of them was helping madame darbois, and esperance, still confused, slipped her arms in the sleeves of her cloak, and then stopped short. her bare arm had been touched, she was sure of it. she turned quickly. her eyes met the duke's enquiring but not altogether pleasant glance. with a quick gesture the girl clasped her mantle about her, and haughtily moved away without acknowledging the duke's bow. neither m. nor madame darbois had seen anything of what had just passed. the duke de morlay's bad humour vented itself against count styvens. "i have just passed the darbois in the cloak-room. the little flirt was in a pitiful state: i helped her on with her cloak and her skin was like ice." count styvens turned almost in anger and his hands furtively opened and closed. a feeling of enmity was rising in his generous soul. he felt that the duke had spoken slightingly of esperance to wound him. twice, during dinner, he had caught the covetous glance of the duke fixed on esperance, and he had suffered acutely in consequence. he looked at the duke coldly; his shyness would have made him dumb had it not been for the sustaining power of his anger. "i cannot reply to you now," he said. "my mother is here." the duke de morlay-la-branche, who was, after all, a gentleman, came up to him. "albert, i am a fool. i beg your pardon." and he went to take his leave of the princess, who had quietly witnessed and understood the pantomime that had passed between these two men. "you did right, my friend," she said to the duke. "albert is a brave and loyal fellow." "he is an idiot," he replied, "whose idiocy we must respect." "all the same he has a quality which you and most of the other men of your age do not possess, and he is not afraid of being laughed at; and that gives him enormous moral strength." "you find that a virtue, princess?" "indeed i do. he does what he wants without bothering about what people will say." "but does he really know what they do say of him?" "you know that albert and i have been friends since childhood," said the princess. "he is twenty-eight, i am thirty, which gives me a little advantage perhaps, and i talk to him quite as a comrade. it is true that he has never had any love affairs with women, and they joke him about it. albert does not disguise it. 'i shall always be as i am,' he says, 'until i really love.'" "but he is in love now." the princess saw that the duke enjoyed seeing her hesitation before answering. so she said nothing at all, but held out her hand; which he kissed respectfully and went his way. chapter xv esperance had returned home quite furious with the manner of the duke de morlay-la-branche, which she considered insolent. she had passed a bad night, waking every few moments. she compared the dignified and honourable affection of the count with the offensive attitude of the duke. her thoughts flew to madame styvens as to a refuge. she was possessed of great tenderness towards this charming woman, whose life of purity and goodness won the admiration of all who knew her. on her side there was no doubt that the countess loved the young girl, but although she did not cherish the narrow and false ideas of many of her friends against the theatre, she would have preferred to have esperance give up her career.... general van berger, who always spoke his mind to her, reprimanded her severely on this point. "it is impossible," he affirmed, "to let things go any further. albert cannot marry an actress. i realize that the darbois family is very respectable; the young girl seems to me above reproach or criticism, but she must give up this career. the countess styvens is not for the public eye, and if she loves him...." "but she does not love him." van berger was silenced for a moment. "what do you say? she does not love him. and you approve of such a union?" "my son loves her so deeply, and knowing him as you do, you can not doubt the fidelity of his affection. esperance is touched, flattered even, but she does not want to give up her profession; she would rather, i believe, remain single, or at any rate only marry a man who would allow her to continue her artistic life. if i refuse my consent to the question my son will no doubt soon ask me, he will not insist; but will enter a chartist monastery. he has a friend, a chartist in france, whom he visits often. i shall lose my child forever, and my sad life will end in tears." the gentle woman began to weep quietly. much touched, the general rose, twisting his moustache, "courage, be brave, the assaults have not yet been launched and you speak as if the battle were lost! we have not got so far ahead yet, fortunately. above all, don't cry, that is worse than having one's arms and legs broken. i am yours to command, you know that, heart and soul at your service; and i do not retreat, not i, whatever comes.... still, dear friend," he said, sitting down beside her and taking her hand, "we must face the facts. many of your dearest friends would cease to visit you and your house if you...." "what do i care about the superficial friendship of such people, if the happiness of my son is at stake! thank you, dear friend, for your loyal insistence. i understand it, but i know that even if you do not succeed in convincing me you will not desert me in my trouble. thank you." the baron kissed the noble lady's hand. the time of the trial performance at the conservatoire was drawing near. esperance had resumed her usual life, alternately calm and feverish. she was studying for the competition. she often wrote to countess styvens, who had returned to brussels, on the subject. before she left, the countess had come to see the little invalid, who had touched her heart so much that special evening at the princess's. she had also got to know the professor and his wife more intimately. the family attracted her, and she felt a large sympathy for them all. of course she was fully aware of the love her son had for esperance and resignedly left events in the hands of god. what did disturb albert's mother a little was the vehemence esperance showed in regard to her theatrical career, and the way she rejected the most guarded remonstrances against her following that calling. "no, no," said esperance to countess styvens, "no, no, no; the theatre is not a house of evil repute, nor are its followers evil doers: the theatre is a temple where the beautiful is always worshipped; it makes a continuous appeal to the higher senses and natural passions. in this temple vice is punished, and virtue rewarded; the great social problems are presented. in this temple instruction is less abstract, and, therefore, more profitable for the crowd. the apostles of this temple are full of faith and courage; they have the souls of missionaries marching always toward the ideal." the trials at the conservatoire were to take place on the fifteenth of july. esperance was ambitious and strove for the first prize in both comedy and tragedy. the year before the jury had only awarded her two secondary prizes; not that she had not deserved the first, but that on account of her youth they had thought it wiser to keep her back for another year. the young artist was to compete for tragedy in the first act of _phedre_, for comedy in alfred de musset's _barberine_. the dawn of the fifteenth was clear and quiet. genevieve and jean arrived at eight-thirty in the morning to rehearse their scenes for the last time. jean had in his hand a tiny package. as he was about to give it to esperance, the maid entered with a large box marked "lachaume," florist, which she gave to mlle. frahender. on observing this, jean quickly hid his package in his pocket. esperance had opened the box and taken out a posy of gardenias, which she slipped into her belt. again the maid entered with a similar box containing orchids. esperance blushed, and then tore the bouquet from her belt so quickly that she hurt her finger. she had not seen that a card attached to the flowers by a pin read--"duke de morlay-la-branche." scornfully, she at once threw the bouquet aside. mlle. frahender spoke to her in english to rebuke her for such conduct, whatever its motive. esperance excused herself. "be indulgent to me, little lady," she said, in her most winning way; "i am a little nervous just now." she put the white orchids that count styvens had just sent to her in her belt. jean perliez picked up the discarded bouquet and the card. he was more disturbed by her anger against the duke than by her passive acceptance of the young count's gift. she had talked to him continually of the duke, criticizing him it is true, but jean felt in these reproaches that esperance was more or less practising some deceit. esperance had wished to have jean defend the duke, heap on him praise rather than the blame he did. the young artist felt instinctively that this man--the duke--would not marry his little comrade. the three went back to work. when the rehearsal was finished, m. and mme. darbois came in gaily to take their breakfast coffee with them. esperance kissed them tenderly and departed for the struggle on which, perhaps, her career depended. a day of competition at the conservatoire offers the spectators a series of amusing studies, instructive, puzzling and deceptive also at times. ambition, jealousy, vanity border on loyalty, sensibility, and pride. most of these young people are preparing themselves to begin a sharp and bitter struggle for life itself. others--and these are very few--are in search of, if not fame, at least notoriety. they have elected to enter upon this career, led by enthusiastic hope, their love of the beautiful, and unconscious consecration to art; nor will they cease throughout their lives to spread their propaganda in behalf of all there is that is good. when esperance appeared for the scene of _phedre_, a fluttering murmur of approval greeted her, while several little outbursts of applause were heard. she was so pretty in her gown of white crepe de chine! her youthfully cut bodice revealed the slender flexibility of her neck; she might have been a bust in rose wax modelled by leonardo da vinci. she carried all before her by her interesting interpretation of the role. the tragic grief of the daughter of "_minos_" and "_pasiphae_" was a revelation for many there from one so young. tears coursed down esperance's pretty cheeks. the abandon of her graceful arms, her renouncement of a struggle against the gods, her longing for death, her shame after the tale of "_oenone_," her radiant vision of the son of "_theseus_," all was fully appreciated by the public, and by a distinguished company of connoisseurs, often strongly critical, but never insensible to real talent as it developed. in the competition for comedy the young girl achieved the same triumph. when the jury proclaimed her first in tragedy, all being unanimously agreed on the verdict, a storm of applause and admiration greeted the announcement. mlle. frahender wept with pleasure, genevieve hardouin, enfolding her little friend in her lovely bare arms, kissed her on the hair. esperance felt more touched by the affectionate admiration of her comrades, than she had been even by the applause the day of the first presentation of victorien sardou's play at the vaudeville. in the afternoon she received the same kind of ovation for her competition for the first prize in comedy. when she came out of the conservatoire they would have unharnessed her carriage, but mlle. frahender and jean perliez absolutely opposed this manifestation. genevieve hardouin had obtained a second prize in tragedy and an honourable mention in comedy. jean, who had only entered the competition for tragedy, had a first, shared with two other comrades. the three young people were radiant, each neglecting his own fortune to magnify the triumph of the others. when esperance returned to the boulevard raspail, she found her parents much elated at her success. count styvens, who had been present at the competition, had hurried to tell them the good news and give them all the details of their daughter's significant triumph. "she surpassed herself in _phedre_," he had said. "she is, i think, the equal to some of the greatest tragedienes," and when they told esperance she said, "is he still here?" looking towards the salon. "no, he did not wish to weary you. he only left this note:" "_you were divine in phedre, delightfully feminine in barberine. no one is happier at your phenomenal success than your always devoted, albert styvens._" esperance felt a world of gratitude to the young count for not having waited to see her. she went into her room to undress, and in doing so drew gently from her belt the white orchid. she was about to put it in one of the two vases on the mantel-piece, when her hand paused of its own accord and remained inert; her gaze had been caught by the duke de morlay-la-branche's gardenias in the other vase. radiant with freshness it caught the eye, it invited her to come and smell. the girl bent towards its whiteness. the intoxicating perfume held her. her head drooped nearer and nearer the delicate blossoms. her lip touched the smooth flesh of the petal. she trembled violently and threw her head back. it seemed as if a kiss had been given her! she quivered, closing her eyes, longing for the unpleasant feeling to pass. after a few moments she looked at the poor orchid which had dropped on the cold marble mantel-piece. she lifted it up carefully and placed it in some fresh water. then she sat down before the vases where the two rival flowers displayed their charms. she was bitterly conscious of being impelled by a new inner force, an almost evil force. and she looked from the mantel to the ivory virgin, whose open hands seemed to be showering blessings. esperance looked back to the white orchid. "if i do not marry that man i am lost," she thought. almost terrified, she got up and walked about to calm herself, to conquer the instinct which her reason told her was wrong. still under the strain of the emotions of the triumphal day, and to escape the disagreeable thought the sight of the radiant gardenias provoked in her, she began to write a long letter to the countess styvens. that soothed her nervousness a little. she poured out all her heart in the letter, for she knew that this woman loved her independently of the love of her son--loved her entirely for her own self. two days later esperance received a letter from the director of the comedie-française, asking her to call at four o'clock that same day at the theatre. at the right hour she went with her mother and mlle. frahender. without delay she was at once engaged, for madame darbois had the spoken and written authority of her husband to make what arrangements her daughter should desire. the director was most complimentary to the young actress and asked what rôle she would care to choose for her debut. esperance proclaimed her preference for "_dona sol_" in _hernani_ or "_camille_" in "_on ne badine pas avec l'amour_." her heart was filled with emotion as she was leaving the great house of which in future she would be a part. the place du carrousel, the perspective of the tuileries, and the champs elysées seemed more beautiful than ever before. the passers-by were charming. everything, everywhere, spoke only of happiness and hope. "mama, dear mama, i am so happy." part iii. the country chapter xvi after the recent excitement at the conservatoire, following the competition, esperance was delighted to act upon the doctor's advice to leave paris. doctor potain had told the philosopher that it was absolutely imperative that his daughter should have two or three months of absolute quiet. he suggested the mountains; but esperance would have none of them. she loved far horizons and vast plains, but her real choice was the sea. so it was decided that the family should go to their little farm at belle-isle-en-mer. "you must go immediately," the doctor commanded, "and to begin with you must have two weeks' complete repose, in the sun, in a comfortable reclining chair." esperance was beside herself with joy. to see the pretty farm again nestling in its circle of tall tamarisks, to dream for hours by the seaside, to breathe the breath of furze and seaweed! the windows of her room overlooked the land on one side, and on the other she had wild ocean, studded with black rocks gleaming under the sea's caresses. maurice renaud, jean perliez and genevieve hardouin were invited by the darbois to spend their vacation at the farm of penhouet. their arrival at the gare d'orsay was a complete surprise to esperance, who threw herself on her father's neck, sobbing with pleasure. he chided her gently, "daughter, are you going to break your word to the doctor?" so she at once began to laugh in the midst of her tears. "no, papa dear, only i have not yet begun to keep it. the cure will only commence with my first day in the long chair on the seashore. so you see i can still cry a little in gratitude for all your thoughtfulness." the trip was gay, thanks to maurice's nonsense. modern painter, cosmopolitan, elegant, and cultivated gentleman, he could still become frolicsome and frivolous with nonsense in happy company. m. darbois, ordinarily so quiet, laughed at his antics till the tears came, while mme. darbois smiled that pleasant smile that had first long ago appealed to françois's heart. as to mlle. frahender, the artist's wit fairly made her dizzy. as at brussels, she soon gave up trying to follow him, for at the moment when she thought she had caught the trend of his humour he had already branched off into another anecdote, this time serious, and her laugh would come too late. so she tried to read the names of the little stations flying past, but the speed of the train was so great that, like maurice's anecdotes, she only got as far as the first syllable. she closed her eyes and slept. they changed trains at auray about six in the morning. the young people took charge of the luggage while maurice went to make sure that the portmanteau with his canvas and paints was securely on the right train. with his mind at rest, he joined them at the little buffet, where they were having shrimps, pink as roses, fresh eggs, coffee and the little cakes of the countryside. "this way for quiberon," called out the guard. and the train carried the whole family away to its next stage. when esperance breathed the life-giving breath of the sea, when she could distinguish the green line of ocean beyond the trees, she clapped her hands with ecstasy. she became a guide for genevieve, explaining to her the conformation of carnac, and recounting with pretty fancy the legends of the country they were passing through. at last the train stopped at quiberon. they stopped at the hotel de france to speak to the proprietress, mme. le dantec, and get a picnic dinner from her to take with them. the boat, the _soulacroup,_ was filling the air with its second whistle, so they had to hurry along. the tide was not yet full, so they had to climb down the slimy quay, slippery with trodden seaweed, shiny with fish scales. the boat was taking on board a dozen red hogs that snorted mightily. several women with well-laden baskets settled themselves in the fore part of the vessel, using the baskets as a barricade between themselves and the pigs. our travellers settled themselves as well as possible, which was not well at all, on the little bridge under an awning. however, esperance found it all delightful. the trip was rather rough and uncomfortable, but most of the company made the best of it. mlle. frahender grew pale and ill, and her hair flew about in the most comic disarray. cosily ensconced in a corner, maurice sketched the various attitudes his companions assumed with every antic of the lightly-laden, wave-tossed soulacroup. hunched up on the seat, esperance clung to the rigging. genevieve clutched at her when a wave pitched the boat too far over. the others, well muffled up, waited in silence. jean perliez sighted the shore continually with his glasses, wishing it ever nearer so that his impatient idol might soon be safe on shore again. in due course the port of palais came in view. the soulacroup's whistle shrieked through the air and in a quarter of an hour more they landed. first the red pigs were taken off, tottering even on solid land, no doubt brooding over the evils they had just passed through. maurice was enthusiastic when he caught a good view of the little port of palais, filled with a hundred little boats lined with blue nets. the tuna boats carried from their ropes and around their sides long, stiff silver tunas, so bright in the sun's rays that they hurt the eyes. "oh! do look," cried esperance. a little boat had just approached, overladen with sardines, and soon a silver shower was falling on the hard stones of the quay. it was a beautiful sight, and the excitement of the parisians amused the jolly fishermen mightily. françois darbois led his party to the carriage that was waiting, a brake with six seats, drawn by two farm horses. the farmer on the box seat was beaming with pride at the return of his patrons. it is more than an hour's journey from palais to penhouet, but the road seemed short, on account of its variety of view. leaving palais, there was first of all the ropemakers rolling long strands of hemp with their fingers almost bleeding over the task. they had chosen a charming spot; shaded by a little orchard they worked and sang the ropemaker's song, with a lingering, dragging melody. and then, after passing a little wood, the island itself came into view. it was covered with gorse, like a series of oriental carpets dotted with the gold of the broom in bloom, woven with rose heather, and red heather, and purple heather. the bright green foliage of the wild roses "appeared" like arabesques. the sky, hanging low, bluish green, without a cloud, seemed as a silken film stretched to filter the heat of the sun. at a turn in the road the plain disappeared to give place to little hills, which rise from every side to defend from wind and rain the beautiful golden wheat, with its heads drooping under the weight of the heavy grain. "ah!" cried esperance joyfully, standing up in the carriage, "i can see there is the farm just ahead." the road dropped abruptly so they had to put on the brakes in spite of esperance's impatience. and the two young girls, clinging to each other, saw the little red-roofed farm house enlarge, as they grew nearer. at last the carriage stopped, and the farmer's wife came forward to meet them with her three children. at twenty-six she looked forty, like most peasant women exhausted by work and child-bearing. madame darbois caressed the children, who had just been having their ears washed and their hair combed vigorously to prepare them for the advent of their master's family. the farm house was long, and close to the earth, being only one story high. the front door gave directly on the same level into the dining-room, a large room which also served as the salon or parlour, with a bright kitchen to one side, where shining casseroles spoke of the order of the proprietors; to the left, was a large bedroom, sacred to the darbois themselves. close to the kitchen was a very comfortable room for marguerite and the other maid. a wooden staircase led to six rooms above, which were very airy, and all hung with bright chintzes. mlle. frahender was installed next to esperance, with genevieve on the other side. the two young men were sent to what was known as the "five divisions of the world," being composed of five cabins, europe, asia, africa, america and oceania. these five rooms were always reserved for guests, were built of pitchpine, and their windows gave directly on the sea. farther away, at the edge of the fields, were the farmer's quarters, with a long pond full of reeds and iris, hard by and adjoining the pond a pigeon house with sixteen white pigeons which were very dear to esperance. she loved to see them fly across the water, like pretty messengers disporting between two skies. after a frugal dinner the young people climbed the dills as far as penhouet. the bay was surrounded on all sides by high rocks, behind which were hidden smaller rocks, covered with mosses, and mussels; and on the right the cliff hollowed out into a dark cave facing the land. this little beach, cheerful by day, grew mysterious with the fall of night. esperance could point out quiberon, outlined across the way between land and sky like a ribbon of light. the little lighthouse, high on the plateau above the farm, sent out its long lunar arms regularly to sweep the country and search the sea. chapter xvii esperance kept her word to doctor potain, and spent fifteen days stretched out in a cosy lounge chair. the particular part of the beach had been chosen by maurice, for it was during this time of forced repose that he intended to do his cousin's portrait for the next salon. in a little hollow of the hill, he settled the chair. a great tamarisk with feathery foliage of bright green formed a background. to the right was the sea, to the left a glowering mass of dark rocks. jean and genevieve took turns in reading aloud, and the picture was said to be progressing famously. during the first two weeks esperance spent about five hours every day in the chair, but from the sixteenth day she only devoted one hour for posing, after lunch, and then she began to organize excursions to explore the country round about. one morning as the four young people were returning from a bicycle ride, they saw ahead of them the little brake on its return journey from palais to the farm which mme. darbois had used on a shopping expedition with marguerite. in the brake were two other persons--two men. the excursionists were still too far from the carriage to recognize the strangers. but esperance, who was watching, stopped suddenly. genevieve, who was behind her, almost rode into her, and had to jump lightly from her wheel. maurice and jean were some distance behind. she called to them. they were much concerned to find esperance, with a pale face, clenching her hands on the handle-bar. "what is it, cousin, what ails you?" at first she did not speak at all, then her eyes lost their far-away look and she gazed at jean. "i don't know," she said in a changed voice, "i think i had some hallucination come upon me." then she pointed towards the distant brake which was approaching penhouet at a great pace. "what did you see?" maurice insisted. "you have had a dizzy feeling come over you? you must be careful." "yes, perhaps so," she went on, shaking her head as if to rid it of some vague thoughts that were disturbing her brain, "perhaps so. but let us be quick, for one of the gentlemen was doctor potain." "were there two men," asked jean. "yes, two." and she started off again at a great pace. jean was dolefully perplexed. when they arrived at the farm they were quite breathless from their long ride. the philosopher was waiting for them at the door. "esperance, my dear," he said, "doctor potain is here with the duke de morlay-la-branche. your mother met them at the palais, just as they had landed from the boat and were looking for a carriage." "very well, father, i must change my things and i will be with you as quickly as possible." jean perliez understood the emotion of his dear little comrade. she seemed to him at once terrified and fascinated. maurice was presented to the duke, who immediately began to make himself agreeable. he was quite anxious he said to see the portrait of which m. darbois had spoken, so maurice led him up the hill side. the portrait was on an easel, and from a distance the duke almost thought that he was seeing the real esperance, the little girl who was troubling his life. he was delighted with the freshness of the colouring, and the perfection of the likeness, so necessary when the model is so beautiful. maurice was pleased by the appreciation of such a skilled dilettante, the praise was evidently sincere. he was very much taken with the duke, who predicted a glorious future for him. jean waited at the foot of the staircase leading to the girl's rooms, and watched them descend. esperance was looking radiant. she had dressed herself with particular care. he understood the tremors of her heart and decided to keep watch in case she should need him. when the girls came into the hall, the duke was talking to maurice, and the doctor to françois darbois. the gentlemen had not heard the door open, but intuitively the duke turned around. esperance met his burning eyes which were veiled by an expression that suggested repentant submission. she inclined her head slowly and went straight up to doctor potain, thanking him for coming, and apologizing for having kept him waiting. potain led her into her parents' room. he was much disturbed by the uneven beating of her heart, stormier than he had ever heard it. "that is because i just rushed foolishly on my bicycle to see you, doctor. i recognized you a long way off. so...." the doctor looked closely at the young girl. her eyes shone with abnormal brightness. he sounded her, but found nothing wrong except the irregularity of her heart. he sent esperance back to the salon so that he could talk with her father alone. the duke hastened to apologize for having come thus without notice. he was staying at the château of castel-montjoie with doctor potain, and when he heard that the doctor was leaving for belle-isle, he could not resist the opportunity to come and ask pardon. he talked a long time, with ardent, almost brotherly tenderness; asked when esperance thought of making her appearance at the comedie-française, urging her to play _"camille,"_ and spoke with considerable praise of musset's heroine. "the character of the young girl seems to have been caught alive. i criticize her only for her hardness." "but," esperance replied quickly, "that hardness is simply a light veneer, the result of her education. _'camille_,' who knew nothing of life except through the disillusioned account of her friend in the convent, would soon become human if _'perdican'_ had a less complicated psychology." she stopped, and was silent a minute. the duke looked at her. "all the world has not the candour of a count styvens," he said. this unfortunate sentence exactly answered a fleeting thought that was passing in esperance's brain. "so much the worse for 'all the world,'" she said quietly and left him. her father and doctor potain came in at this moment. "what are you plotting against me?" she said, going up to them. françois caressed her velvet cheek. "you shall soon know." the duke had remained dumbfounded in his chair. the sudden mastery of this child, who had for the second time rebuked him, touched his pride. his instinct as an irresistible charmer told him she was not indifferent to him. still he could not define in what way he appealed to her. was it physical? was it of a higher order? after a little cogitation, he concluded that that was the secret. however, he was wrong. esperance was subjugated by the attraction of his masculinity and strength, which was subtly energetic and audacious. his taste and independence appealed to her artistic nature. his vibrant voice, the grace of his slender hands, the lightness of his spirits always alert, his superiority at every sport, made the duke de morlay-la-branche quite like a real hero of romance. he had expected to subjugate the little parisian idol, and found himself thwarted by her. this rather annoyed him, and he vowed to conquer her. doctor potain, who was looking at his watch, now chimed in with, "my dear duke, we must be thinking of leaving; the boat will not wait for us." charles de morlay thanked his farm hosts, and after bowing elegantly over mme. darbois's hand, looked for esperance. "jean," said professor darbois, "look and see if you can find esperance, and tell her to come and say good-bye to our dear doctor." but jean returned alone. esperance was not to be found. she had flown. "she had not forgotten about the boat," said the young actor. "perhaps she has gone on her bicycle to gather news of old mother kabastron, who is very ill. that is about ten minutes' distance from here. i will ride ahead on my bicycle." the duke laughed gaily, and prepared a scathing witticism with which to wither the young girl. but he did not have the pleasure of delivering it to esperance, who had hidden herself behind her portrait at the foot of the rook. she reappeared much later, and was rebuked by her father for having shown such discourtesy to his guests. "you know very well, papa dear, that i am very grateful to doctor potain, and i should not have gone away if he had been alone." m. and mme. darbois looked at each other and at esperance. "yes, my dear little mother, the duke makes himself too agreeable for your big daughter." "but," said the philosopher, "i have never noticed it." "you were absorbed in a philosophic discussion with the doctor, and the duke was not speaking very loud." "can you not be more definite?" asked françois darbois a little nervously. jean intervened, "may i say something?" "certainly, my boy." "well then. i heard the duke de morlay-la-branche make fun of the honesty of count styvens, and at that esperance abruptly broke off the conversation." françois turned towards esperance. "that is so," she said, kissing her father, "so tell me that you are not angry with your little daughter." for answer he kissed her tenderly. "ah! if i could find a way to shelter you from so much admiration, from being so much sought after. yet i don't know very well how to defend you." "do not reproach yourself, dear father, you have been so good, so trusting. i will never betray that confidence, and my godfather will be obliged to consume all his own horrid prophecies." chapter xviii when esperance's portrait was finished, the family could not admire it enough. maurice who was for himself, as for others, a severe critic, said, "it is the first time that i have been satisfied with my own work. little cousin, you have brought me luck, so if my uncle will permit me i am going to teach you to ride a horse." "my goodness!" said madame darbois, "still more anxiety for us!" but esperance clasped her hands with delight. the first riding lessons were a source of new joy for esperance. maurice was an excellent rider, and his passion for horses had made him expert in handling them. he had chosen a horse for his cousin from a stable in the cotes-du-nord, the private stable of the count marcus de treilles, the horse had been secured at a bargain on account of some blemishes of his coat. he was very gentle, however, and the darbois soon felt confidence in him. doctor potain had recommended a great deal of physical exercise for the patient, to counteract the excess of mental work which had weakened her heart. "riding, fishing, walking, tennis," the great specialist had said to françois darbois, "will be the best thing for your daughter, and," pressing his hand, "let her get married as soon as possible." long excursions about the little island became for esperance the most delightful part of their country life. very often m. and madame darbois, mlle. frahender and genevieve hardouin would follow in the brake. they carried their lunch with them and ate it sometimes in the little wood of loret, sometimes on the cliffs amidst the broom, furze and asters with their golden flowers and silver foliage. the philosopher's fishing fleet was composed, as he laughingly said, of a blue boat with blue sails, and a little swedish whaler. françois went every evening about six o'clock to set the nets with the farmer's eldest son, whose portrait maurice intended doing for the following salon. all the little colony gathered at nine in the morning on the beach, ready with baskets to bear away the catch. maurice, jean and esperance went out with the professor to get the nets. sometimes they had been put far out and then esperance would row with the others, for which rough sport her delicate arms seemed out of place. the young people would cry out with delight every time they saw the fish under the transparent water held by the meshes. sometimes they had quite a big draught; two or three rays, several magnificent soles, with mullets, and flounders. sometimes a great lobster would give the net such tweaks that they guessed his presence before they saw him. and sometimes it happened that the catch was nothing but a few sea crabs, who would half devour the other unfortunate fish imprisoned with them. another day a great octopus appeared, and esperance grew pale with fright at sight of his long clinging tentacles. esperance often made a selection of the seaweeds in the net, and she and genevieve commenced an album in which they pasted, in fanciful designs, these plants, fine as straws or solid and sharp of colour. this album was intended for mme. styvens, and the girls worked at it lovingly. maurice would sometimes assist them with his advice or make them a sketch which they could copy as carefully as their beautiful materials would admit. mlle. frahender devoted infinite patience to gluing the tiniest fibres of the sea plants. some were bright pink, suggesting in formation and colour the little red fishing boats. others were gold with their slender little flowers rising in clusters. the long supple green algaes, swelling along their stems into little round beads, like beads of jade, looked as though they wore some chinese costume. as the album grew it gave promise of wonderful surprises. on the first of september françois darbois received a letter from count styvens, asking permission to come and submit to him a philosophical work that he had just finished. he begged to present his compliments to mme. and mlle. darbois. the professor read the letter aloud after dinner. "i hardly think," he queried, "that i can well refuse this pleasure to my favourite pupil?" maurice, jean, the old mademoiselle and mme. darbois seemed very happy at the prospect of a visit from the count. "he is a very good musician...." "he can row splendidly...." "he has a heart of gold...." concluded the philosopher. a dispatch was sent to albert styvens, telling him they would all be delighted to see him. only esperance showed some reserve, and maurice cried out, "my cousin is in dread of musical evenings, i see!" they all laughed at this quip, which had a very close resemblance to the truth. "yes, papa, but no music after dinner: our evenings would be lost! it is so pleasant to go for long walks on these wonderful moonlight nights! the piano is for the town, here we only want to enjoy the harmonious music of nature, the sea that croons or roars, the wind that whistles, whistles or scolds, the plaint of the sea-gulls in the storm, the cry of the frightened gulls and cormorants, the clicking of the pebbles rolled over by the waves; all these charm me strangely and i often sleep on the little beach, soothed by these melodies which you will find echoed in the themes of our great masters." the philosopher drew his daughter on his knee. "very well. we will not mention music to your lover." the word had slipped out but it stung the young girl, however, she would not let her resentment appear. "so," she thought, "they all accept the courting of albert styvens. my father himself is part of the conspiracy against me." she led genevieve outside and confided to her her apprehensions. her young friend did not deny that the coming of count styvens had the appearance to all of an approaching proposal of marriage. "my god," said esperance, pressing her friend's arm, "it seems to me that i shall never be able to say 'yes.' i am so happy as i am." the two girls were sitting on a little mound. the moon was reflected in a sea as quiet as the sky. "see," said esperance, "that is the image of my life. at this moment i am calm, happy, and my art is like that bright star. it brightens everything for me without troubling me.... i do not love count styvens. oh!" she went on in answer to a movement from genevieve, "i like him as a friend, but i do not love him. i know he is a gallant gentleman, a fine musician, and a splendid athlete; i recognize that he is very generous and that he is entirely unselfish--for these i greatly respect him, but these qualities alone have nothing to do with love." "he is a very good-looking man," said genevieve. "his arms are too long and he has not any decided colour. his face, his hair, his eyes are all of a neutral tint which you cannot define." "but handsome men are very rare!" esperance did not answer. "there is the duke de morlay-la-branche, too. do you like him any better?" the moon shone full on esperance's face. "great heavens, dearie," exclaimed genevieve quickly, "you are not in love with that man, i hope." "don't speak so loud," said esperance, frightened. "no, i am not in love with the duke, but he bothers me, i confess. he is continually in my mind, and the thought of him makes the blood rush to my heart. when he is present i can struggle against him, but i have no strength against the picture of him i so often conjure up. that dominates me more than he can do himself. that seems innocent enough, but i know very well all the same, that i find every excuse for dwelling on the thought of him. no, i do not love him ... but still...." she murmured very low. genevieve took her friend in her arms. "esperance, darling, save yourself! think of the downfall of your mother's happiness, think of the fearful remorse of your father. think of your godfather's iniquitous triumph. ah! i beg of you, accept the count's love, become his wife, you will be constrained by your loyalty to save your father's honour. but the duke...." "my father's honour is precious to me, and you see, i am defending it badly," said esperance. she wept quietly. genevieve drew her head down on her shoulder. esperance kissed her. "come, we must go back, it is getting late. i thank you, genevieve, and i love you." a letter arrived the next morning which announced that the count would pay them his visit on thursday. there were just three days before his coming. esperance had made up her mind, after her talk with genevieve, to accede to her parents' wishes. she and genevieve went to inspect the room that had been prepared for the count. it was a little square apartment very nicely arranged. on the floor was a mat with red and white squares. the windows looked out on the rocky coast. the young people decided to hang some small variegated laurels from the ceiling to decorate it. on the mantel they put some flower vases on either side of a plaque representing the golden wedding of a breton couple. mme. darbois opened for them what esperance called her "reliquary," and they found there flowers and ribbons. they chose wisteria, and lavender and white ribbons, then went to work on their wreath. a large crown of pretty bunches was hung from satin ribbons. when it was ready the four young people went with ladder and tools to hang the wreaths, maurice standing high up on the ladder drove in the peg intended to hold the crown. "as reward for this service, you know," he said, "i must be allowed to put the wreath on your pretty head, the day that you are married." esperance blushed and sighed sadly. the room was charming in its decoration, though when it was finished it seemed more fit for a young girl than for a big, broad-shouldered man. m. and mme. darbois went to meet count styvens at palais. françois had taken his glasses and pointed out the boat to his wife. "there is the count," said mme. darbois. "i recognize his tall figure." in truth, albert styvens was stepping ashore, holding in his arms a child of two or three years. he put it down carefully, and held out his hand to a poor, bent old woman, who tried to straighten up to thank the kind gentleman. françois and germaine came up to the young man, who pressed the philosopher's hand and presented his respects to mme. darbois: and seeing them look with some curiosity at the old woman, he said, "here, madame, are some good people deserving of your kindness. mme. borderie is this little chap's grandmother. her widowed son died five months ago of tuberculosis, and as the child was coughing she gave everything she had to take him to a specialist in nantes. the rough sea to-day made the poor little fellow ill, bringing on a horrible coughing attack. the poor woman was too weak to hold him during his convulsions, and he rolled away from her, and she was so frightened when he did not move, that she was going to throw herself overboard. i rushed with the other passengers to stop her, we calmed her finally, and after some little time i was able to resuscitate the child, who had gone off in a fit." the poor woman wept as he talked, and showed a banknote he had slipped into her hand when he said good-bye. "you must put that away. you will need it," said the young count, smiling. "where do you live?" enquired germaine. "at pont-herlin." "that is some distance away?" the old woman shook her head and feebly shrugged her thin shoulders. "i must go there." "well, mme. borderie, we will take you there." without further parley, albert picked the old woman up lightly and set her down in the brake. the baby was deposited on her knees where he promptly fell asleep. the count's little trunk found place beside the farmer on the front seat. a basket of osier, which the young man had handled very carefully, was also placed in the brake, and then they set off for pont-herlin. they were growing anxious at the farm of penhouet, at the non-appearance of m. and mme. darbois, pont-herlin lies some way from the point des poulains and the roads are not in very good condition, especially for a two horse brake. but soon the wind brought the sound of horse's hoofs and shortly after the brake drew up before the farm. albert went white at sight of esperance. she had come forward first, fearful on account of the delay. mme. darbois explained the cause, and spoke of the count's great kindness, to the old woman and her boy. esperance raised her pretty eyes, damp with emotion; she looked at albert, wishing she could admire his person as much as she did his mind. and, somehow, as she looked she was agreeably surprised. "after all, he is not ugly, if he is not handsome," she thought, "and he is so genuinely good." in this state of mind she left her hand an instant in his and he trembled. the young people were anxious to lead styvens to his room. françois, however, was not allowed to accompany them. they marched two ahead, two behind, with the count between, like a prisoner. never before had albert seen esperance so naturally gay, never had he found her more fascinating. he was almost delirious with happiness. life seemed to him only possible with this lovely creature for his wife! his wife! such an accession of blood gushed into his heart at the thought that he stopped giddily. jean and genevieve, who closed the order of march, bumped against him, for he stopped so suddenly that they thought something must be wrong. "good heavens! are you ill?" asked genevieve. the count smiled. "excuse me, i am sorry. it was my mistake." as they went on again maurice whispered to his cousin, "you know, esperance, you have it in your power to make that man happy for ever. i can see it. why it seems to be almost a duty. it will be like offending providence to refuse the wonderful future that lies open before you." esperance was very thoughtful, but her gay spirits returned when they arrived at the "five divisions of the world." the little cortege climbed the narrow staircase, crossed the little ante-chamber which opened on the opposite side on a court cut out of the rock. each room had a door on this natural court. stopping before the last door, on which was written "oceania," the young people bowed before the count. "behold the prison of your highness!" when he was left alone the count examined his surroundings. his simple chamber seemed to him sumptuous. he smelt the flowers on the mantelpiece, half suspecting that they were an attention of the young girls. the wreath suspended from the ceiling made him smile. it had been hung there in his honour, there could be no doubt about that. there was a knock on the door. marguerite entered, followed by the farmer bringing the trunk and the osier basket. he stopped the old servant as she was going out. "wait a moment and help me, please." he cut the string which held the basket and took out four bouquets as fresh as if they had just been gathered. "see, marguerite, the name is pinned on each bouquet; be so good as to give them to the ladies." at half-past one the count appeared walking up and down before the door of the dining-room. he did not want to be the first one to enter. maurice joined him. "i would love to see the portrait of your cousin," said albert. "i will show it to you after lunch." "is it finished?" "yes; but i still have some retouching to do to the background, and i shall be glad to have your advice upon it. it is not perhaps exactly necessary, yet every time that i look at it, i feel the need of some slight change." genevieve and esperance came in together. the contrast of this double entry was striking. genevieve, dark, with regular features, framed by a mass of heavy black hair; esperance, shell pink, aureoled by her wavy blonde hair. genevieve was so beautiful that maurice was moved. esperance was so dazzling that the count mentally praised god at the sight of her. he was warmly thanked for his pretty flowers, several blossoms of which each girl had pinned to her dress. when the fish appeared, maurice rose gravely. "this magnificent fish, sir," he said to albert styvens, "was caught by me for you; it is for you to decide whether to share it with us or whether you prefer to eat it alone." the young attaché arose and with more humour than they expected from him, took the platter and bowed with it towards mme. darbois. the conversation raced merrily along, and they were soon disputing about sports. the count learned that esperance rode on horseback. he was delighted, and inquired if he would be able to procure a mount. jean offered his, but the count, who knew of his love for esperance and divined what a joy these excursions must be to him, refused this sacrifice. the farmer's wife, who helped to wait at table and was ignorant of social customs, forthwith entered the conversation. "ah! if madame will permit me, i can bring you to the commandant, who has a fine horse to sell." "you may have no fish this evening," said the professor genially. "as i was away meeting you, i could not put out my net." "but we did it, father," said esperance, "and i hope that count styvens will have some magnificent luck. we go fishing this evening." "so, you are a fisherwoman too, mademoiselle?" "we fish every morning, and we shall be very glad to have you join us," said the girl quietly. after lunch the count joined the four young people in a ramble along the cliffs. esperance and genevieve went arm in arm, the three young men followed; with styvens in a dream of delight, happier than he had ever been in his life. maurice was watching genevieve every day seeing her more beautiful, and abandoning himself without much effort to this new passion. jean perliez contemplated esperance and smiled sadly, if gladly too, at the thought that she was going to be delivered from the dangerous duke de morlay-la-branche. they sat down on a high rock overlooking the little beach of penhouet and remained silent for a while. "how very beautiful it is," murmured albert at last. "you love the sea, do you not, mlle. esperance?" "more than anything else in nature. i love great plains too, but i like them best because they are like the sea when they billow under the breeze." "you don't like the mountains at all?" asked genevieve. "oh! no, i stifle there. i dream at night that they are pressing in to strangle me. i went to cauterets with mama after she had bronchitis. i spent all my time climbing to get a view of a horizon and breathe better. as soon as mama was well the doctor sent us away saying that it was not good for me." "and the forest?" asked albert. "the forest hides the sky too much. nothing makes me as sad as the deep woods." "and the lakes, cousin, what do you say of them?" "a lake makes me shiver. i feel constrained before a lake as before a person whom i know to be false and perfidious. of course, the sea is dangerous, but no one is ignorant of its caprices, its violence, its tragic love bouts with the wind. the sea is open, whether in laughter or fury. see, look off there," she said, standing upon the rock. "this evening it is calm as a lake, and still the waves are all rippling, preparing for an assault on this rock! it is so immensely alive, even in its great reserve!" the silhouette of the young girl, cut against the horizon, was blurred by the passing night mist. she seemed a flower blooming by moon-light. maurice said in a low tone to genevieve, "see if you can realize this picture. it is beyond the power of any painter." "one of the aboriginals might have succeeded. he would not have been guided by any of the conventions that are introduced in all the arts and bar the way to the realism of the ideal, which is dear to all true artists." "the realism of the ideal is very true, but how are you going to make amateurs or critics feel that?" "oh!" replied genevieve, with much conviction, "there is always an amateur of the beautiful, there is always a critic who describes his emotion sincerely, it is for them that i give my tears when i am on the stage." esperance dropped on her knees, and taking her friend's head in her hands, "you are always right, genevieve," she said. "it is a great gift to have you for a friend." "my little cousin speaks truth," concluded maurice. genevieve stretched out her hand with a smile to thank him. the young man kept the contact of that charming strong hand and kissed it with more warmth than convention required. "monsieur maurice," murmured the girl with trembling lips. but she could not voice a reproach. she got up to hide her blushes. "is not this the time for us to go back? the air is getting sharp, and you have no wraps, esperance." count styvens stood up to his full height and stretched his hands to his little idol to help her up, but she had withdrawn before the two arms stretched towards her, and recoiled in a kind of fright. "did i startle you?" "oh! no," she said nervously, "but i was dreaming, i was far away...." "where were you, cousin?" "i don't know. thoughts are sometimes so scattered that it is hardly possible to give a clear impression." putting her hands in the count's she jumped lightly to her feet. the young men led the girls back to the farm, and silence descended upon the five divisions of the globe. but love made every one of these young creatures somewhat unsettled, and it was long before either of them slept. esperance and genevieve talked low, and long silences broke their confidences. count styvens had brought cigarettes for maurice and jean. all three stayed and talked a long time in the painter's room. alone with men, styvens lost all the timidity that sometimes made him awkward. his broad and cultivated mind, his humanitarian philosophy unaffected by his religious beliefs, the sincere simplicity with which he expressed himself, made a great impression on jean and maurice. "that man," said the latter to his friend, "is of another epoch, an epoch when he would have been a hero or a martyr!" "perhaps he may yet be both," murmured jean. chapter xix next morning albert styvens asked maurice to show him the portrait of esperance. he gazed at it a long time in silent admiration. he could gaze his fill at a portrait without outraging the conventions. "what marvellous delicacy! oh! the blue of the eyes! the mother of pearl of the temples!" he sat down, quivering with emotion, and looked frankly at maurice. "i love your cousin; you know that, don't you?" maurice nodded. "i have loved her for a year, and you see me here, still hesitating to speak to her father." "why?" "because i know that she does not love me.... oh! i believe," he went on sadly, "i hope, at least that she does feel some friendship for me--but if she declines my proposal... what else would ever matter to me?" maurice came and sat down beside him. "your mother?" he queried. "my mother loves esperance devotedly, and she has a very real admiration for your uncle as well. she is very religious. m. darbois's philosophical books, which deny nothingness and proclaim the ideal, have been a great comfort to her in her voluntary solitude. she would be very happy to know if i could be happy." "but," objected maurice. "i am afraid that my cousin does not wish to give up her art--the stage." "yes, i am aware of that, but my mother and i have not the stupid prejudices of the multitude. undoubtedly, this union, under such conditions, would estrange us from many of our so called friends, and i should have to give up the diplomatic service, but that would not trouble me. no," he went on, resting his hand on maurice's knee, "the hard part would be to see her every evening surrounded by the admiration of so many men. i suffered when she was playing at the vaudeville, and then she was scarcely more than a child, but i heard them all commenting on her beauty and it was all i could do to control myself. what shall i be if she becomes my wife? ah! my wife! my wife! i really believe, m. renaud, that her refusal would drive me mad; so, i hesitate. hope is the refuge of the sick; and i am very sick--sick at heart." maurice felt strangely drawn to this man, so simple, and so frank, and so innately refined in thought. "from to-day i am your ally, and i hope soon to be able to call you 'dear cousin.' as to her artistic career, esperance will have to sacrifice that for you. we will all try to lead her to this decision, but you must not make her unhappy about it." "i am already disposed to all concessions except those which touch my honour, and i assure you that my mother and i are both ready to scorn all idle talk." the girls came up with jean perliez. the count said, "your portrait is a perfect likeness and is, moreover, a beautiful picture. but," he exclaimed, "you are all ready for riding!" "yes, we are going to port-herlin. won't you come with us? mama, little mademoiselle and genevieve, are going in the carriage to carry some provisions to poor old mother borderie." "your invitation is very tempting, and i am going to surprise you perhaps by declining. the farmer arranged to have the commandant's horse here for this morning, but he comes accompanied by many warnings and i want to try him out when you are not here; if m. perliez will be my guide to port-herlin to-day i shall be glad. to-morrow i hope you will offer me the same chance again...?" esperance smiled delightfully. "suppose we have lunch there," said maurice. "papa would be left alone too long, and i want to see if m. styvens can fish as well as ride. we will come back to pull up the nets about five o'clock, and then we will have tea in the boat." the carriage was ready, the horses saddled. the count had the pleasure of assisting the young actress to mount, and then esperance and maurice set out together, followed by the brake. the count and jean perliez took a more roundabout and a steeper way. albert wanted to study the character of his horse. the first to arrive at port-herlin were to await the others, and together they were to go to visit old mother borderie. the dwelling was one of the white breton houses with thatched roof. there were three rooms, the kitchen, where one entered, and two little rooms. in the first, fitted in the wall one above the other were two narrow beds edged with carved wood; in the second room, four similar beds. large bunches of box, which had been blessed, ornamented the beds where the woman's four children had died. the father of the little grandson was the last to go. the kitchen was unlighted except when the door was open. the bedrooms had each one narrow opening like a loophole. the old woman was sitting beside the hearth, by the side of which was an armful of furze. the evening meal was slowly cooking in a marmite suspended from a hook. between her knees she held the child, combing his hair. she stopped when she saw the visitors enter, and the child ran towards the count who took him in his arms. the presents they had brought were unwrapped by the girls. blouses, trousers, clothes for the baby, a woollen dress, a muslin dress, with two beautiful fichus in true breton style for the grandmother. one box contained sugar, coffee, and six jars of preserves; another, smoked bacon, salt pork, two bottles of candy and prunes, and six bottles of red wine. the old woman looked, caressingly felt everything with her old knotted fingers, while the tears ran down the furrows that sorrow had hollowed in each cheek. "ah! if my son had had such good things, perhaps he would not have died!" and she stood before the food with her hands crossed, her eyes lost in the distance among old far off memories. esperance undressed the little fellow, and genevieve looked for water to wash him before putting on his new clothes, but despairing of finding any, she tried to draw the old woman back from her dream. "water?" she said. "i have been too weak these three days to go to the well. there is none here but what is in that pitcher there, on the board, but don't take it, mam'selle, the baby is always thirsty." genevieve raised her beautiful arm in its loose sleeve and picked up the pitcher. she looked at the water and asked with surprise, "this is the water you drink?" "yes, the cistern is empty, on account of the drought we have had these two months, and the spring is a mile away. it is too far for me, and especially for the child who is not strong. i don't dare leave him alone in the house here; and i don't dare leave him with the neighbours. they are too rough and they knock the little fellow about and he doesn't understand it is only done in joke, and he cries and calls for me and gets such a fever that he almost died one day when i left him to go do washing still further away." "but couldn't you get the neighbours to bring you some water?" asked esperance. "my young lady, there are thirteen in that family, and one of them is ill to death!" she added sighing. albert joined in, "where is the spring?" "over there, near the church in the next village." "very good, we three will go there," he said, calling maurice and jean, "and we will bring you back lots of water?" "wait till i give you...." she opened the cupboard. "here is the pail. take care, it is very heavy." albert began to laugh. "come along, my friends. i have got an idea." esperance watched him as he went out and for an instant she loved him. while waiting for the young men to return she settled her mother on a chest. the only chair in the house was a straw arm-chair with a high back, on which the old borderie was sitting and which she had not thought of offering. "no doubt," said mme. darbois in a low tone, "little by little she has had to sell everything she had." the girls opened a bottle of wine, the jar of prunes and the jar of candy, and arranged them on the board pointed out by the poor woman, who thanked them simply and said, "ah! my little lad, how good it will be for him!" "and for you too, you know. now drink some wine and take some coffee," said esperance, caressing the grandmother's hands. "i haven't got enough wood to boil the water." madame darbois looked at the girls contritely. "wood," she said. "and we never thought of it." "if you aren't poor, you don't have to think," muttered the old woman. a contraction of the heart, the sting of remorse, pierced mme. darbois and the two girls. "to-morrow you shall have plenty of wood, mme. borderie." "that will be very good, kind lady, for then we can have a little heat, and that is what the little one needs. the sun never comes into my room, ah! it can't, the hole is not big enough. and then in the evening when the fog begins, my little boy, he coughs so, and that makes me shiver; then i take him in my bed, but my blood is not warm enough so he can't get warm. ah! but that will be good for him, to have wood! thank you." for the first time her face broke into a smile, for she had almost forgotten how to smile. her life had been nearly all tears. suddenly she raised her head in fright--"what may that noise be?" at the door a cart stopped. on the cart a big barrel. "here is some water, mme. borderie, that we are going to pour into your cistern." with the help of the carter and maurice, albert got to work and behold! the cistern half full. albert tried the pump. "don't waste any, in heaven's name," cried the old woman. "no, no, never mind. anyway there is another barrel on its way." in fact another cart was stopping before the door. this barrel being smaller. albert, impatient at the peasant's slowness, picked it up himself and rolling it along, emptied it like the first in the cistern. "look there, will you, mother," cried out the second carter, "that isn't any cheap water. the fine gentleman has given a hundred francs to the town so you could have that water there." the count coloured to the roots of his hair. he thought that esperance had not heard, but he met her contrite glance, full of gratitude. with genevieve's help she washed the little fellow, who was very docile, sniffing with pleasure the "good smell" of these ladies. bathed, combed, in his new clothes, he was a darling. "i don't know you any longer, little boy. who are you?" chuckled the old woman. and she kissed the child, saying, "on sunday, we will go to mass, you will be as fine as the other little boys." she saw all her visitors to the door, and when esperance jumped on her horse, "you aren't afraid up there? you know horses aren't exactly treacherous, but they are uncertain, and then these dreadful flies make them wild. _au revoir_, madame; my good gentlemen, thank you. good luck, mam'zelle." the four riders returned together. passing the little village of debers, they had to stop; a big hay wagon barred the way. the peasant who was driving was abominably drunk. he swore and struck his horses and jerked them violently towards the ditch. maurice ordered him to make way. he laughed foolishly and swore at them insultingly. maurice and the count started forward, and the peasant menaced them with the scythe resting on the seat beside him. in a flash albert leapt from his horse, threw the reins to maurice, and went straight to the drunkard. the fellow tried to brandish his scythe, but already albert had wrenched it from him and threw it aside. then seizing the man, he pulled him down on his knees and held him there until he begged for pardon. the rustic, suddenly sobered, and raging with impatience, paid in full the apologies exacted by the count, before he was allowed to get up. jean, during this contest, had led the horses out of their way. the driver, pale with fury, swung his whip at large and it struck esperance's horse. the poor beast, mad with fright, took the bit between his teeth and started out on a dizzy run. albert saw at a glance the only possible way to stop his course. "go to the left and cut across the road," he cried, "i'll take the right." and he put his horse across the fields. esperance's horse did not follow the bend of the road as styvens had expected. blinded by fright, it made straight ahead towards the cliffs. once on the rocks, there was the precipice and certain death. the count's horse leapt as if it understood what it had to do. the count came up just as esperance lost her seat and fell with one foot caught in the stirrup. her lovely blonde hair swept the earth. twenty yards more and that exquisite little head would be crashed upon the rocks. with a desperate effort, albert by spurring his horse furiously was able to reach her horse's head, seize him by the bridle and swing himself to the ground. braced against the rocks, he succeeded in halting the trembling beast, and bent in anguish over the fainting girl. but just as he freed esperance's feet, the horse, still trampling and plunging, kicked him full in the head. he went down like a stone. maurice and jean had now come up. one calmed the horse, the other went to the aid of the wounded man. albert, his face streaming with blood, was murmuring feebly, "no, she is not dead; no, she is not dead...." he fell back unconscious. jean was kneeling beside esperance. he raised his eyes to maurice, moist with tears, but bright with hope. "she is alive," he said, "she has just moaned feebly. it is only a little way to the farm. hurry maurice, go for help. god grant the count's wound may not be fatal...." the peasants who were haymaking nearby had left their work and come upon the scene. one man offered his cart and albert was lifted, unconscious and bloodstained, and laid on the hay. esperance had come to her senses. she could see, but could not understand. a peasant woman, kneeling beside her, washed her face in water from a pool in the rocks. suddenly she recollected her comrade. "jean," she cried with fright, "jean, count styvens?" jean sorrowfully showed her the wagon where he lay. esperance, leaning on the young actor, stood up to be able to see, and a great sob shook her from head to feet. "my god! my god!" she moaned, "is he killed?" "no, i don't think so, not yet at least...." "and his mother, his poor mother.... but what happened? i don't remember.... it is terrible...." jean described what had happened, and how the count had snatched her from certain death. esperance began to cry bitterly. meantime maurice was returning with the victoria in which were m. and madame darbois. the wagon was sent on its way very slowly. françois stepped down quickly and took his daughter in his arms, intending to carry her to the carriage. "my father, i am able to walk...." she stifled with sobs. "but he...." the philosopher put her in the victoria beside her mother, and begged jean to stay with them. then he rejoined the cart, and climbed up beside maurice who was supporting the limp head on the hay. the professor had studied a little medicine. he could see that the wound was grave, but the young man was robust and he allowed himself to hope. maurice recounted the accident with all its details. "brave fellow," said françois, taking the cold hand. and tears, he could scarcely restrain, began to fill his eyes. soon they all arrived at the farm. marguerite, as she had been instructed, had prepared the darbois's room to receive the wounded man. esperance, exhausted, was put to bed, and was soon asleep, watched over by mlle. frahender, who prayed silently, counting over her rosary. they had difficulty in moving albert styvens. his great body was heavy and difficult to raise. finally, after they had washed and bound up his head, they succeeded in undressing him and making him as comfortable as possible in the great bed. a quarter of an hour later he opened his eyes, and, in response to the anxious faces leaning over him, smiled sweetly. "and she?" he asked in a feeble voice. "thanks to your courage, she is all right," said mme. darbois. "you have the blessings of a grateful mother." she put the young man's hand to her lips. two warm tears fell down on it. the young man trembled, then his face grew radiant. they followed his glance. on the threshold stood esperance, leaning upon genevieve. a half-hour of profound sleep had completely restored her. she had waked suddenly, and seeing genevieve and mlle. frahender beside her, had asked, "how is count albert?" and in spite of the protests of both women, she had got up. she wanted to be sure, she wanted to see! the wounded man looked at her fixedly. "tell me that i am not dreaming," he implored. "albert," she murmured, going up to him, "i owe you my life." she knelt beside the bed and her delicate hand rested on his strong hand. "god is very good," he sighed, closing his eyes. he went so pale that françois came forward quickly to feel his pulse. he was silent a moment, then covering the patient's arm with the sheet again, looked at his watch. "if only this doctor would come...." he said. almost immediately the head doctor from the barracks at palais was announced. he was a man of forty, handsome, a little over-important, but he understood his business well enough. he diagnosed the wound as a fracture of the head and dressed and bandaged it, promising to return that evening with a soothing potion. for esperance he prescribed a healing lotion for the many little scratches, which were of no gravity. the girl was so insistent that she was allowed to watch beside her deliverer. genevieve and mlle. frahender also stayed in the room, ready in case she needed help. a dispatch was sent to the countess. quiet redescended on the farm. a heavy atmosphere of sadness seemed to envelop it. lunch was served disjointedly, nobody cared to eat. genevieve and mlle. frahender had been relieved by the maid, but they were anxious to return to their posts, and when françois began to fold his napkin, they pushed back their chairs and quickly returned to the sick-chamber. the patient was becoming delirious. the name of esperance was continually recurrent in his confused talk. once the young girl trembled; the count's expression had become so ferocious that she was terrified. genevieve and the old mademoiselle had just come in. she clung to them, clenching her hands and hiding her face. she pointed to the count, who, with his brows contracted and his lips sternly set, was talking volubly. all three trembled. he ground out the name of the duke of morlay-la-branche in a kind of roar. mlle. frahender, more composed than the girls, took the potion left by the doctor to calm the fever when it should become too raging. esperance hardened herself against the weakness which had made her leave the bedside, and while genevieve held the bandaged head she poured the liquid between the sick man's lips. at the same time she spoke to him very gently. the well-known, much-loved voice had more effect than the potion. the wounded man grew gradually calmer, and still unconscious, slept quietly once more. then esperance sank back in an easy chair, begging mlle. frahender to see that no one should make any noise. when the doctor returned at nine, he found the patient had been sleeping for an hour. he was well satisfied, and waited a half-hour more before disturbing him to dress the wound. he could say nothing definitely as yet, except that the patient had lost no ground. he took his leave until next day, and when françois asked him to insist upon his daughter's rest, he refused, saying, "i shall do nothing of the kind. she risks nothing except a slight fatigue, and she is performing a good work. it may be that she is the real doctor." a telegram from madame styvens announced that she would arrive next day with the doctor who had attended albert from childhood, and a friend. she asked that rooms be reserved at the hotel at palais. but françois would reserve only the "five divisions of the world" for the three travellers. they prepared one of the rooms as a dressing-room for the countess, and maurice and jean went to lodge at the farmer's. it was with infinite discretion that esperance broke the news of his mother's coming to albert. "poor mother," he said, "she must be living through hours of anguish in her anxiety. but the doctor said that i am out of danger." "what! you were not asleep!" he smiled with the almost childish smile of the very ill returning to life. "then i shall be on my guard, henceforth," she threatened him gently with a slender finger. he stretched his hand out towards her. she pressed it tenderly. "be careful, albert, don't move too much." they had completely dropped the "monsieur" and "mademoiselle," and this intimacy filled the young man's heart with joy. chapter xx françois had made a special arrangement with the captain of the _soulacroup_, so that the charming countess need not risk travelling with geese and pigs. at quiberon he had reserved a special room that she might have at least an hour of rest. she went pale as death when she saw the philosopher and his wife waiting for her at the train, although they had sent her reassuring telegrams every few hours. but feared that something serious might have happened while she was on the way. françois said with emotion as he kissed her trembling hand, "everything is going well, madame, be assured." she breathed deeply and the colour returned to her face, which was still so youthful in appearance. she presented doctor chartier, who had been present at albert's birth, and had cared for him ever since, and general van berger. several peasant women, who had heard the news of her coming, pressed around offering flowers. "your son is saved, madame," they said. her mother's soul was overcome with sorrow and joy, for she felt that they spoke the truth. esperance, who had been watching for her coming, threw herself into her arms sobbing, but quickly realizing her impatience--"come, come, he is expecting you." in spite of her efforts to keep calm the poor woman cast herself upon the bed and embraced her son, interrupting her sobs with words of endearment, crying, laughing, delirious with happiness, for he was indeed alive, and she had feared.... but she cast away the terrible thought. the doctor from the barracks entered for a consultation with doctor chartier, who issued the smiling command, "leave him to the doctors now, good ladies." the countess pressed a last kiss on her son's hand and went away with genevieve and esperance. after doctor chartier had examined the wound, he congratulated his _confrere_. "you have cared for our patient admirably, and you will find that his mother is eternally grateful to you." and indeed the countess did press his hands and expressed with noble simplicity her gratitude to everyone for all that had been done for her son. the doctors were to return in the evening. albert begged his mother to take a little rest. "if i have your word, dear mama, i declare to you i will go to sleep, i am so relieved to know your anxiety is over." "i will take care of your mother, albert," said esperance. "you take your medicine and go to sleep. genevieve has promised to come and fetch me if you do not." the countess smiled as she went out with the young girl. she looked at the pretty face, which was still scarred by the marks of her fall. she listened, trembling with terror, but admiring the coolness and courage of her adored son, while the little artist gave her an account of the accident. then she sent for maurice and jean perliez that she might thank them repeatedly. she loved them all for their goodness and simplicity. "the maid is at your disposal, madame, i will send her to you." said esperance. she bent to kiss the countess's hand, but found her face caressed by it. "my daughter, my dear daughter," said the countess, kissing her tenderly. esperance went away mystified, and in a daze. in eight days, doctor chartier left them. the invalid was now convalescent, but still confined--to his room for several days. the head wound was closing little by little. happily the cut had been a clean one and there had been no complications; but fatigue was to be avoided, and the young count was not allowed to exert himself in any way. he usually settled himself in a big arm-chair near the window, and while his mother did some embroidering, esperance read aloud. every two hours they were relieved by madame darbois and genevieve. as to maurice, he had made a plot in concert with esperance and albert, of offering a portrait of her son to the charming countess. baron van berger played endless games of cards with françois. the days passed quickly and everyone seemed happy. esperance's face was as lovely as ever, for every scar had disappeared. the accident to count styvens had made a great stir in the fashionable world, where the young belgian diplomat was much esteemed and even loved, and the artistic world was interested on account of esperance. telegrams and letters came in every day. the duke de morlay-la-branche had shown such an interest that the object of it (the count) grew exasperated. the duke had even expressed a desire to come and see the sufferer, but the philosopher, warned by jean perliez, replied coldly, pleading the doctor's orders. at last the day came when the count was permitted to leave the sick room. he was allowed to take a walk, and felt so strong that when maurice offered his assistance he refused it quite gaily. esperance and the countess walked on either side of him; but suddenly he grew dizzy, and stretched out his arms. maurice started forward to catch him as he tottered, and the count saved himself by catching hold of the shoulder of esperance. under this heavy burden esperance shuddered and nearly fell, and grew so pale that genevieve came to her. "give me your arm, darling, and walk a little behind with me, you seem so shaken.... oh! i guess why...." maurice and general van berger supported albert, who had lost his self-reliance and was a little crestfallen. "yes; i have been tortured again by some sort of repugnance," said esperance. "i know that i should devote myself to loving that man. but...." "that will make for the happiness of all who love you." "yes, but it will be like condemning myself to death." genevieve shivered and grew silent, while pressing esperance close to her side to give her courage. her friend's confidences troubled her sadly. she also saw the shade of sorrow hovering over this pure face. she was on the point of encouraging esperance to refuse the union which would no doubt be proposed for her, but the recollection of the duke haunted her. was not this man more to be feared than death itself? "these are silly notions that crowd your brain with presentiments and nightmares. you must rouse your energy, my darling, and chase everything that threatens to hurt your life." "i swear to you, genevieve, that i make superhuman efforts; but no one is master of his thoughts. they are so impulsive and rapid that they seem to escape the control of the will." "nevertheless we can deprive them of power!" "alas!... but i do not want to sadden you. look! maurice is getting anxious. ah! you are going to be really happy, you are. i feel it. true happiness is always found where love is equal." maurice could not resist crying out, at sight of the two girls, "how grave you both look! what were you talking about that you should spoil your beauty with furrows?" the count looked straight at esperance and she could not prevent herself from blushing. "my god, have pity on me," she thought. "help me to love this man." after fifteen days of long walks, which grew longer every day, and constant care, albert became completely cured. they had a party at the farm house to celebrate his recovery, with the garrison doctor for the only outside guest. the portrait of the count that maurice had done proved to be quite a remarkable picture--life-like and natural. it was placed on the mantel-piece in mme. styvens's room, where she found it when she returned after lunch. it was accompanied by a very simple letter, but a very sincere one, recalling the courage of the young count and nobly expressing the gratitude of all. it was written and signed by the philosopher, mme. darbois and maurice. the beautiful portrait, so delicately presented, was a source of happy comfort to this lonely woman. the next day the countess had a long talk with her son. he was sitting at her feet. "reflect very carefully," she said to him, "reflect very carefully. i believe that that child, whom i love, whom i find absolutely charming, will not willingly renounce her art. however, i am ready to do all i can to persuade her to accede to our desire and leave a career which would be an endless source of worry and suffering for you, my dear son." "mama, do not trouble her too much. she is honest and loyal, and i have nothing to fear for the honour of my name." and before his mother could speak he went on: "i am jealous, it is true, but what happiness is not willing to pay for itself with a little pain? then, perhaps, she will understand. i love her so much, dear, dear mother." she took the head of the dearly loved son in her hands, and looking deep in his eyes, said fervently--"dear god! may happiness reward so great a love!" the young count returned with his mother to the farm where françois darbois and his wife waited for them by agreement. after a quarter of an hour's conversation, esperance was asked to come to her parents. she was in her room. her heart beat as if it would break. she had been warned by maurice of her family's interview with the countess. genevieve was with her, extolling the advantages of such a union, at the same time exalting the real goodness of the count. "think also of your father, who at last will be able to realize his dream of becoming a member of the academy. you know as well as i do that he has every chance of being elected, but he will never present himself as long as you are on the stage. you know the straightlaced, old-fashioned ways of that assembly...." "but most of them are poets and dramatic writers," replied esperance. "why should my father care to belong to the academy at all?" as genevieve rebuked her, her eyes filled with tears. "you see, genevieve, i am becoming ungrateful. my nature, that i believed so frank and straightforward, seems to get tangled in unexpected twists trying to go the right way. yes, yes, you are right; i must save myself from myself." just then the maid came into the room. "monsieur wants to see mademoiselle. madame and countess styvens are with him." "very well; say i will come immediately." esperance threw her arms around her friend's neck. "if you could only know how i thank you." she went to obey the summons of her parents, resolved and comforted by her friend's words. her father gave her in a few words the countess's message. she went forward, very much agitated, her lips trembling, her voice uncertain--"madame, i thank god for giving me another mother who is so good, so lovable." the countess drew her to her, and held her in a long embrace. the saintly woman was praying that happiness should descend on this little creature who was to be her daughter. maurice, the baron, jean, mlle. frahender and genevieve were all, during this interview, walking nervously in different directions about the farm albert was in his mother's room, sitting down, his head in his hands, awaiting the decision which was to settle the joy or sorrow of his life. maurice entered suddenly. "come on, cousin," he said, "they are waiting for you." the young man sprang to his full height with complete command of his over-excited nerves. "ah! maurice, maurice...." he threw his arms about the young man and was off on a run for the farm. he entered like one distraught, bent over his mother's hands, and covering them with kisses, murmuring half-finished phrases. esperance was beside the countess. he stood an instant in silence before her, looking at her questioningly. blushing and embarrassed the young girl held out her hands to him and replied low to the question in his eyes, "yes." then he bent over her hand, and his lips murmured, "i thank you, esperance, oh! i thank you." they all pressed the hands of the two fiancés. mlle. frahender and genevieve kissed esperance tenderly. the baron thundered in his military voice, "there has been no battle, and yet here is the breath of victory. that is very good, but a little stifling. let us have some air!" the good man had expressed the general sentiment. the darbois, mlle. frahender and jean were sitting in the shade of a little thicket of low, dark-needled pines and other trees with foliage green like water. climbing flowers interlaced in the branches, making flecks of pink and white and violet. it was an ideal refuge from the heat and the wind. maurice and genevieve walked on ahead. esperance and albert sat down on the high point of rock that dominated the little landscape. for an instant they looked quietly without speaking. albert broke this restless silence, and said, as he took esperance's hand, "i love you, esperance, and i will do all that is in my power or beyond it to make you happy." "i believe you, albert, and i hope to be worthy of so devoted a love." he looked at her very penetratingly. "i know that you are not yet in love with me." "i do not know just how i love you, my dear, but i should always have turned to you if i had been in trouble." "have you never been in love?" "no, i have been and am deeply touched by jean perliez's devotion, but i have never thought of the possibility of being happy with him." "and the other?" asked albert, looking straight at her with his clear eyes. she did not answer at once. "the duke?" "yes, the duke." "i do not love him," she answered frightened. "at moments i even hate him, and...." "and?" insisted the young man, pressing the hand he was still holding. "... i am happy to be your fiancée!!!" her voice vibrated, her eyes were tender with gratitude. during the dinner countess styvens announced that she must go next day. "i will take my mother to brussels," said albert, "and if you will permit me, i will return immediately." the dinner was very gay, for they were all happy. esperance herself, so restless, so disturbed only that morning, talked animatedly, keeping them all delighted with her grace and indefinable charm. genevieve was astonished, doubting for a little while whether she was simply purposely creating a false excitement. but no, she was really happy. baron van berger rose for a little toast. "dear friend," he said, bowing to the countess, "i am delighted to see that you are reinforcing the ranks and enlisting the younger class. this reinforcement will bring you light, the joy of its twenty years. i drink to your sun of austerlitz." then, turning towards albert, "i drink to the line of little soldiers that you will give to belgium, my boy." the count became scarlet. esperance dropped her eyes. maurice could hardly restrain his desire to laugh. "do not forget that life is a battle," continued the general. "do not shut yourself up in your happiness, but be always on your guard...!" "i drink to you, lady esperance, who bear a name of hope for the future, for you will certainly understand that the most beautiful role to play is that of wife and mother, which has nothing to do with your theatrical fictions...." esperance rose, but albert restrained her, looking at his mother. the charming woman said tactfully, "my good friend, i think that you have spoken according to your own convictions. esperance will conduct herself always as seems best to her." "how kind you are, madame!" and the young girl went and kissed her hand. this little incident had interfered with the quiet of the evening. but esperance resumed her serenity, as she understood that her future mother-in-law had quite recognized the possibility that she might remain faithful to her art. as to maurice, the baron had put him in such spirits that he was sparkling with wit, and the dinner ended in the most delightful camaraderie and good feeling. esperance, before they had time to ask her, went gaily to the piano; albert sat down beside her and begged that she would sing. she agreed sweetly, on condition that her fiancée should accompany her. her voice was very pure and clear, and she sang a simple ballad with exquisite taste. "you have no middle voice," objected the baron. "quite true," agreed esperance with a silvery laugh; "you are terribly frank." when the girls were alone together finally, genevieve complimented her friend upon all that had happened. "you were adorably gracious, dear little countess, and i believe in your happiness!" "no, genevieve," said esperance, "i shall not be happy, i know it, except in so far as i can give happiness. i love countess styvens very deeply. i am touched by albert's love, i see that i shall be forced by loyalty to renounce the theatre; i shall be torn by regret, for i fear my life will be spoiled, and i am not yet twenty!" she was sitting on her bed, looking so forlorn that genevieve slipped down beside her and drew the little blonde head to her shoulder. "you, dear," asked esperance, "will you renounce the theatre if maurice tells you that he wishes it?" "i shall not even wait for him to tell me.... if maurice wishes me to be his companion through life, i will sacrifice everything for him, with only one regret, that i have not enough to give up for him!" "oh!" said esperance, miserably, "you are in love, but i am not." and the unhappy child, stifling her sobs, hid her head in the pillow. two days later, the countess, her son and the baron left for brussels. madame styvens had questioned esperance very adroitly, and she left penhouet with a pretty good idea of her tastes and preferences. it was then the end of august, and the banns were to be published for november. the baron was to arrange for the marriage in brussels, but it was agreed that the young couple should live in paris, and the countess proposed to pick out a pretty house to shelter the happiness of her son. she herself would live in paris; but she refused to share their home. "i shall look for a house or an apartment near by." the adieux were tender on both sides. esperance was so sensitive to the charm of her mother-in-law that it made her seem devoted to her fiancée.... chapter xxi the news of the engagement of esperance and the count styvens was known all over paris. letters came to the farm of penhouet, done up in packets. many expressed to the philosopher and his wife their joy at hearing that their daughter had decided to leave a career so ... so very ... in which ... in fact that...! every absurd prejudice, so puritanly ingrained in the minds of most middle class divisions and sections and even amongst the more cultivated, was endlessly repeated upon with the usual banalities in the large correspondence of their friends and others. poor actors, so misunderstood! so misrepresented! the philosopher showed all the letters to esperance, who shrugged her shoulders, astonished to find there was so much prejudice in the world against her beloved calling. one letter, however, she took quite seriously. it was written by the most eminent of all the academicians. one sentence in the epistle wounded the poor child very deeply. "now i shall be able to go about your election with more confidence and security. dare i admit to you, my dear professor, that the only obstacle i encountered, and which seemed to me insurmountable, was the career chosen by that lovely child, your daughter, whose talent we all admire so much! now i can start my campaign, and i am very sure, my dear darbois, of achieving our ambition without much difficulty. therefore, perhaps, i shall not altogether deserve your thanks." what genevieve had said was patently true; her father had sacrificed his dearest hope for her, and he had done it so all unostentatiously.... ah! how she loved her father, who was unlike other men! he was standing there before her, smiling, a little scornful of all these little souls. and as he handed her another letter--"no, father dear, no, i beg you. pardon me the wrong that i have been doing you; i admire you and i love you, dear papa, but leave me with the noble feeling of your supreme kindness; i would rather not know any more of the little meannesses of the world." she climbed on her father's knees and covered his forehead with kisses. "look," said mme. darbois, holding up a letter "eight pages from your godfather." esperance jumped up laughing, "that i certainly shall not read." "i am going to write to the countess that i give up my art...." and swift as a shadow she was gone. the philosopher sat hesitating, his expression troubled. had he the right to compel this sacrifice, knowing, realizing, as he did, that his child had based all the happiness of her life on the career she was now voluntarily giving up for his sake? germaine looked at him questioningly. "do you believe, my dear, that i ought to let esperance write to the countess, as she proposes? i fear that she is making this sacrifice to gratify my vanity." "françois!" exclaimed mme. darbois indignantly. "my pride, if you prefer it," he said. "but what is such a satisfaction in comparison with the happiness of a life? to me it seems very unjust!" germaine adored her husband and her daughter, but she believed more, than in anything in the world, in the noble genius of the philosopher. "esperance's sacrifice," she said, "is very slight. she is making a superb marriage into one of the noblest, richest families in belgium. albert worships the ground she walks on. the countess will be more than indulgent to her. she is realizing the most perfect future a young girl can hope for. i see nothing to regret, because she is making a slight concession to her father." françois looked a little sadly at this mother who had never comprehended her daughter's psychology. he knew that for this sweet woman the happiness of life began with her husband and ended with him. he did not want to argue and rose, saying, "i must do some work." ho kissed the unlined forehead of his beloved wife, and then as he was leaving the room added, "tell esperance i should like to see her letter before she sends it." esperance sat at her desk in her own room, but she sat with her head in her hands, unable to begin her letter. presently genevieve came in. "is anything the matter, dear?" esperance told her what had just happened downstairs. "i have learned once more that all your reasonings and counsels are always wise, dear sister.... i am sitting trying how to write to the countess to tell her that i am not going back to the stage!" genevieve kissed her. esperance let her head fall on her friend's bosom, and raising her eyes to her face, said slowly, "but oh! i have not the courage." genevieve knelt beside the desk, and dipping the pen in the ink, put a fresh sheet of paper before esperance, saying with a laugh, "mlle., get on with your task. i am the school mistress to see that you write properly!" the smile she brought to esperance's lips chased away the nebulous uncertainties, and so she wrote her letter to her dear little "countess-mama," as she had called her since her engagement. when her mother came with the philosopher's message and saw the letter, she was delighted with the phrasing and thanked her daughter warmly for the joy it would give her father. "ah! mama, i believe that i am the happiest of the three darbois, dear ridiculous mama!" and she gave her a quick embrace. life was again travelling the simple, daily country round. it was after lunch, three days after esperance had written her letter. "why so pensive, little daughter? where were your thoughts?" esperance jumped up at this question from her father. "i was dreaming. i am so sorry. i was in belgium, near the countess styvens when my letter would be brought in to her, for, as nearly as i can make out, it ought to arrive to-day." "no," said m. darbois, "that letter has not been delivered; it is still in my desk." their faces expressed the great astonishment that they felt. "you did not like it, papa?" "very much, very much. it is quite good--and--and pathetic." "then, darling papa?" "i want to talk with you a little more before you send it." everyone drank their coffee a little quicker, and five minutes later françois found himself alone with his daughter. even mme. darbois had withdrawn, afraid that she might show her own anxiety too much. "i am listening to you, papa." "you are going to answer my questions with perfect frankness, esperance?" "yes, father." "had you thought of writing to countess styvens before you read that letter?" he drew the academician's letter from his portfolio and placed it before her. "no, father, dear." "then it was on my account, and to facilitate my admittance to the academy, that you wrote?" "oh! no," replied esperance quickly, "i would not do you that injustice, knowing how much you love me, and knowing the purity of your heart, the nobility of your ambition. i am sacrificing what i believe, perhaps wrongly, to be my happiness, to the demands of a misunderstanding world. i knew, when i read that letter, that i had no right to drag a man of your merit, my dear mother, and all the family, into the troubles of a life in which they have no real interest. i did not want you to have the sympathy of the world. sympathy is too often akin to scorn!" françois would have spoken, but esperance interrupted him. "oh! father darling. you are so good. don't torment me further, send the letter. i am still so new to this role. i need your sincere, your constant help." just then marguerite came in and handed the philosopher a letter, bearing an armorial seal, which had just come from palais. he quickly opened it, seemed surprised and passed it to his daughter. "what! the duchess de castel-montjoie is at palais," she said. then she read: "my dear philosopher, the princess and i will come, if agreeable to you, after five. i name this hour because the princess's yacht has to leave to take up friends who are waiting for us at brehat." "what time is it?" said esperance, turning round. the professor consulted his watch. "twenty minutes past three. quick, marguerite, tell the men to harness the victoria with the two horses at once." a quarter of an hour later the carriage was ready to leave. when it had disappeared round the corner from the farm, genevieve and her friend prepared to go for a walk. esperance told her mother and mlle. frahender that they would be back again in half an hour. they climbed down the cliff, and were soon out of earshot of everyone--they were quite alone. "genevieve, genevieve," said esperance, "i feel that a new danger is threatening me, ready to destroy all my new illusions. do not leave me, darling." "what is it that you fear?" "i can only be sure of one thing, i am in such horrible distress, and that is that the duke de morlay-la-branche is at the bottom of this visit. ah! if i could be sure that i should never see him again, never, never!..." and she cried in her great distress like a little child. genevieve stayed at her side, without saying a word, only stroking her hands from time to time. presently esperance grew calmer. "come," she said, rising from the boulder on which they had seated themselves. "we must dress to receive the enemy's emissaries." her voice was light, but her heart was heavy. maurice, who had been strolling not far off with jean, came up and noticing esperance's tearful eyes, said: "what is the matter?" "i dread this visit," exclaimed esperance. "what is the reason of this sudden call?" ejaculated maurice. "i think i can guess," said the actor. "well, tell me!" "but if i should be wrong?" said jean. "what a frightful lot of circumlocution," cried maurice impatiently, pretending to tear out his hair. but esperance replied, "no, jean, you are not mistaken. i can guess your thoughts. i am afraid, as i just now said to genevieve, that the duke de morlay-la-branche is connected in some way with this visit of the princess and her friend!" "if the duke comes here, but i do not believe he will, jean and i will not leave him alone a minute. i assure you that he will get more of our company than he will appreciate. but, knowing that the count is not here, i do not think he will come. he is too correct for that! come, let us dance in honour of albert!" taking his cousin's hands and genevieve's, he nodded his head to jean to do the same thing, and led them into a whirlwind dance upon the sands of the beach, until the girls laughed as though no heavy thoughts were weighing in their hearts. two hours later the victoria arrived from palais. the young people could see that it contained only two ladies and the philosopher, and genevieve breathed again. the princess descended lightly before the front door. she kissed esperance, and after speaking to mme. darbois, had maurice, jean and genevieve presented to her. "you did the portrait of which the duke de morlay has spoken so highly?" maurice bowed. "would it be impertinence if i asked you to let me see it?" she said with a smile. "i thank you, madame; you flatter me by your request." the dowager duchess, with whom the princess had been spending three weeks at her château of castel-montjoie, was now presented to mme. darbois. she was a lovable and delightful old lady, with a great appreciation of art and science. both ladies had been present with the duke at the last conservatoire competition, and they expressed to esperance, genevieve and jean the enjoyment their performances had given them. the duchess was much struck by genevieve's proud beauty, and said to maurice, "ah! monsieur, what another beautiful portrait you could make! this young lady is much more beautiful close to than even on the stage!" and she added a kind and appreciative word for the classic talent of jean perliez. tea was to be served in the little beautiful convolvulus garden. when they entered this shelter, which a poet might have designed, the duchess exclaimed enviously, "what a heavenly spot. who is the inspired person who has arranged this mysterious flowery retreat for you?" the philosopher pointed to maurice and the girls. the princess admired it, and the conversation rippled on. "we are come to trouble your bower with a plea for charity! every year, the duchess gives a garden party in her beautiful park at montjoie for the benefit of the 'orphans of the fishermen.' there is a little open-air theatre, where some of the greatest actors have appeared. little rustic booths, shops where you pay a great deal for nothing at all, and a thousand other distractions. we are come, the duchess and i, drawn by a very pretty star, esperance. she will not deny us her light, our lovely little star?" she concluded, bending towards esperance. "but, madame," murmured esperance, "my decision--my promises do not depend on myself alone, now." the duchess extracted a letter from her gold mesh bag and held it towards her. "you are perfectly right, my dear child," she said easily. "i also foresaw that objection, so i wrote to your fiancé, even before speaking to you, for which i must apologize, and here is his answer." esperance read the little missive bearing the styvens's arms and handed it back to the duchess. "i will not be," she said smiling sadly, "more royalist than the king. madame, i am at the service of your work." this was a great delight to the two kindly disposed women, but the young girl's heart was torn because her fiancé would not see! it is true that his letter ended with the words, "i agree with both hands to whatever esperance shall decide," so that little choice was left. the garden party was to be the twentieth of september. it was then the end of august. "and of what nature is to be the modest contribution i can make to your fête?" asked esperance, half humorously. "modest! of course you will be the principal attraction. my guests, knowing that they will see you for the last time before count styvens carries his little idol away from the public...." esperance was saying to herself, "so this cultivated, broad-minded lady thinks just as the others do." the princess continued, "we want you to play with your fiancé the liszt symphonic poem that you played one evening at the legation; and to take part in some tableaux vivants that we are all to appear in. the duke de morlay-la-branche is directing and staging this part of the programme. the performance will be given only by people we know--no professionals." the princess had spoken quite quickly, without reflection. she blushed slightly when she remembered esperance and jean perliez, but she had made the mistake and there was no way of calling it back. she thought that esperance belonged to that circle where a compliment effaces what might seem like an impertinence. at first the name of the duke de morlay had fallen like a pebble in the stream and began to ripple the waters; a spreading circle of thoughts, fears, resentments began to move in every heart. the philosopher himself was troubled, for he had been prompted by maurice to observe the assiduous attractions of the duke, and the agitation he caused esperance whenever they had been together. esperance and genevieve both grew pale. the young painter raised his head, ready for some sort of a return reply. without hesitation he had decided on the plan to follow. he must not only be invited to the fête, which would be easy enough; he must take part in it, so as to be able to shadow and watch the manoeuvres of the over agreeable duke. "if you will allow me, madame," he said boldly, "i should like to contribute my mite to your fête by painting the scenery?" the princess clapped her hands with delight at the suggestion and this new support. "how pleased my cousin de morlay will be," she exclaimed. "he has just been saying to me, 'for the scenery we shall require a painter, a real artist.'" "a professional," said maurice, bowing ironically. the princess was somewhat provoked, but she appeared not to notice the rather pointed remark. "you might also design the costumes for the tableaux vivants," she continued. "my cousin," exclaimed esperance, "has a great gift for arrangement and composition. you will be able to judge for yourself soon; i will show you how beautifully he has painted my portrait." "true. may we see it now?" this made a welcome change for the four young people. they all went towards the "five divisions of the world." the duchess stopped every now and then on the way to admire the sea and the luminous quality of the air. she was really amazed when she was shown the picture. it had been installed in the little court, under a kind of alcove that maurice had made for it. he had found in his aunt's "reliquary" some pretty hangings which hid the alcove, and the picture lost nothing by the arrangement of drapery. "you have indeed a beautiful portrait there," said the princess sincerely. "every year for his birthday i give my husband some work of art. if you do not find me too unworthy a subject it shall be signed this year, 'maurice renaud.'" the young man bowed. "i shall be very happy indeed, madame, and very highly honoured." "then, as our friend and collaborator," said the duchess, "you must, i think, come with us at once so as to be able to get to work with the duke without delay." "give me time to pack by bag, madame," returned the triumphant maurice, "and i will join you at the carriage." "i will come and help with your packing, cousin. you will excuse me?" she added turning to the princess. and esperance, followed by genevieve and jean perliez disappeared together. as soon as she was sure she was out of ear-shot esperance threw her arms about her cousin's neck. "you were simply wonderful." "yes," joined in maurice, "the enemy has fallen into the ambush, as baron van berger would say. i will be back as soon as possible, but i must take time to rout our amiable duke. he is the real enemy, and the most difficult opponent, but i am confident. with my most diabolical scheming, little cousin, i am going to have great fun. all the same, i foresee that i sha'n't be able to stay away long." and he kissed genevieve's hand tenderly. they soon finished the packing, and jean closed the suitcase, and the young people arrived at the carriage just as it drew up. "how very good it is of you to accept this sudden demand upon your services with such good grace!" "i must remind you, madame, that i suggested the work myself and i am glad to do it. i am also quite happy to be carried off by you, as it is such an unlooked-for pleasure." two days later the professor had a letter from maurice, which he read aloud to the family as they drank their coffee. "my dear uncle,--this letter is to be shared by the whole community. i have found a world gone mad in this magnificent château. we are twenty-two at table. i have been cordially welcomed by all the strangers, to whom this cursed duke, delightful fellow, has graciously presented me. i set to work at once to unravel and discover the plans of charles de morlay. but more anon. this is the programme: an orchestra composed of excellent artists are to play while the guests arrive, inspect each other, and take their places. we begin with a little ballet, entitled, _the moon in search of pierrot_, acted and danced by some very good amateurs. i am to paint the drop for this ballet, and the authors (it has taken three of them to elaborate the stupidest scenario you ever yawned through) have called for a scandinavian design and i have promised it, and shall paint it at penhouet. then, the great attraction, the tableaux vivants. that is where i lay in wait for our astute duke. i will spare you details of nine of the tableaux. there are to be twelve, but esperance appears only in three, which are the best. in one she represents andromeda fastened to the rock, and perseus (the duke) delivers her after overcoming the dragon. in the second, the 'judgment of paris,' she appears as aphrodite, to whom paris (the duke) gives the apple. the third is 'europa and the bull,' europa being personified by esperance. the duke does not wish to look ridiculous in a bull's hide, so takes liberties with the legend and transforms the bull into a centaur. i have said 'amen' to everything. finally to complete the fête, which will no doubt be well attended and very profitable, there will be little shops of all kinds. esperance is to sell flowers from the duchess's gardens. i have my own idea on this point, which i shall later confide to you. i can easily get her fiancé to agree. your nephew, dear uncle, should live in the land of honey for the future. i have already had orders for three portraits, and of three pretty women, which assures me that the portraits will be successful. ahem! i am taking all my notes to-day and will be with you the day after to-morrow. it is up to you, dear uncle, to distribute in unequal or suitable doses my respects and love and affection amongst all those anxious to receive such privileges. your affectionately devoted, maurice." "it seems to me," said genevieve, as she left the dining-room with esperance, "that your cousin has arranged everything very well, and that you ought to be quite happy and content." "oh! i know very well that i shall be taken care of, but how can i struggle against the tumultuous ideas that assail me? the vision of the duke has haunted me ever since maurice left. i have never seen the château, but i am sure that i shall recognize it. i would like to fall ill with some complaint that would send me to sleep and sleep. oh! if i could get a little ugly for a little while, just long enough to make the duke lose interest in me, i should be so glad. dear genevieve, can't you give me a little dose of the elixir of your happiness. i need it sorely just now." the girls had been walking as they talked down to the little beach at penhouet. the sea was at low tide, and the golden sand, dried by the sun, offered them a restful couch. they stretched themselves out upon it, and esperance soon fell asleep. jean perliez appeared on the crest of the little hill that hides the bay from the sightseeker. genevieve signed to him to come down quietly. he had a telegram, a dispatch from belgium. he pinned it to esperance's hat lying on the sand at her side, and dropping down close to genevieve, began to talk in low tones. for both he and genevieve were uneasy concerning their little friend. a farm dog at the moment began to bark furiously. esperance woke quickly, looking pale and worried, with her hands pressed on her frightened heart. she saw the telegram and opened it quickly. "albert will be here this evening by the second boat. what time is it?" she showed a little emotion, but only a little, though she felt deeply. she looked towards the sun. "it can't be four yet." jean took out his watch. "twenty to four," he said. "the boat can't get here before five-thirty. quick, quick, run, jean, and ask to have some conveyance got ready. i must go and tell my father and get his permission to go with you and genevieve to meet my fiancée. ah! what good luck!" she said with a long breath, "what good luck!" françois darbois was delighted for his daughter to go and meet albert, and departed so radiantly that he said to his wife, "i believe she is getting to love this brave albert?" genevieve, who had heard, as had also jean, said to the young man in a low voice, "but, my god! suppose she is beginning to love the duke?" chapter xxii the boat approached the little quay of palais slowly with count styvens standing well forward, his tall figure silhouetted against the grey of the sea. he caught sight of esperance immediately, as she stood up in the brake, waving her handkerchief. great happiness was in his heart, and in his haste to be ashore, he went to assist them to lay down the gangplank, and was at the carriage in a second, kissing most tenderly the hand esperance held out to him. a great basket was placed on the seat. the girls blushed with pleasure, for a sweet odour was wafted to them from it. all the way home esperance heard from albert in detail all that had happened to him since she had last seen him. she talked incessantly, as if to drown her thoughts under a sea of nonsense. at the farm the young man could see the pleasure they all showed at his return. of course he was somewhat astonished to learn that maurice was absent with the duchess, for he had not yet heard of the events that had happened during his absence. they all gathered together in the dining-room. the count took out of his pocket a little case, and asking esperance to give him her hand, slipped on to her middle finger a magnificent engagement ring. somehow her hand went cold as death as albert held it, and her face contracted strangely. "do you regret your word already, esperance?" he asked in a nervous, low voice. "no, no, albert," she said quickly, nervously twisting the ring on her finger, "but this is a very serious moment, and you know that i incline to taking things seriously here," and she put her hand across her heart. then she smiled, pressed his hand, and showed the ring to genevieve. they all examined and admired the beautiful jewel. when the philosopher turned to praise it albert had disappeared. the basket was opened revealing a bouquet of magnificent white orchids, marvellously fresh, held in a white scarf with embroidered ends. when they assembled for dinner an hour later esperance was not present, and albert began to look uneasy. but they had not long to wait, and when she did appear she was dressed all in white, an embroidered scarf fastened about her waist, and several orchids arranged like a coronet in her hair. at that moment she seemed almost supernaturally beautiful. "what a pity that maurice is not here! you are so lovely this evening," said genevieve. "oh," said esperance smiling, "that is not the only reason you regret his absence?" next day they were surprised to get no word from the painter to tell them which boat he would take. it was warm and they had coffee served in the convolvulus bower. the breeze came through an opening from the sea. "look! isn't that a pretty boat?" cried out genevieve. a white yacht was sailing slowly towards penhouet. the philosopher got his glasses. "it is the princess's flag," he exclaimed. "yes, yes," agreed albert, "it is the belgian flag. listen, there is the salute." jean ran to the farm, calling back, "i will answer it. all right, m. darbois?" the flag sank and rose three times, then the yacht headed straight for the little bay. genevieve climbed on a high rock and clapped her hands. "it is he, oh! it is he." she turned radiantly back to the party in the grove. her "it is he" made albert smile. it was so charming, so sincere that they all shared the quality of her joy. it was indeed maurice returning on the princess's yacht. the tide was so high that the boat could get quite close. everyone went down to the beach where the waves were washing the little rocks. albert jumped on the largest rock which seemed to recede to sea with him. genevieve would have followed him but he cried out, "look out, it is very deep here." she stayed where she was, but so woebegone did her face become that albert leapt ashore again, and before she knew what he was doing, picked her up, and was back on the slippery rock with her. "oh! the bold lad!" said the professor. the little sloop had been launched and maurice could easily land on the big rock. he kissed genevieve, and told the count of his delight in seeing him again. then he looked around him. the water surrounded them on all sides. he looked at genevieve questioningly, but by way of response albert simply picked her up again and went ashore with her. maurice was quick and agile, he was even strong in a nervous way, but albert's strength and agility filled him with wonder. esperance congratulated the count on his prowess and his kind thought in enabling genevieve to see maurice a little sooner. "it is because i know what that joy is myself," he answered simply. esperance's eyes grew moist as she turned to albert. "you are so good, you always do the right thing. i am prouder every day to be loved by you." during dinner maurice gave them an account of all that had happened to him, with many new incidents. "i am not telling you anything new," he added to albert when they were alone. "you know as well as i do that the duke is in love with esperance. we all know it here." albert agreed with a rather sad smile that he did know it. "now that my cousin is your fiancée, he is too much of a gentleman to seek her, but he certainly wants to be near her, to talk to her, in short to flirt with her." "you believe that he would dare?" "my dear cousin," said maurice, half jestingly, half serious. "i believe him capable of anything, but he knows that you are here ... and perhaps is afraid to take liberties." "to put an end to his manoeuvrings we must somehow make him look ridiculous, and expose his folly. the fête, i think, will give us our chance." albert said, "i will follow your advice, maurice." "very good. i will give you particulars of my plans. by the way, i have brought all your invitations. i will go and deliver them." so they went to seek the others, and maurice gave each one a card with a personal invitation for the twentieth of september. genevieve blushed. "i am invited as well," she said. "of course; and i believe the amiable duchess intends to ask you to recite the poem she has written. it is very touching. i will find it for you to-morrow. ah! yes, you have made a great impression on that delightful lady. she talked about you to me all the time. you would have supposed she was doing it to please me." genevieve became purple. it was the first time maurice had expressed himself so frankly. when they left the table she led esperance aside and kissed her until she almost stifled her. "oh! how happy i am, and how i love him!" maurice and jean passed by talking so busily that they did not see the girls. "you are sure?" "absolutely. since i have been away for four whole days i am convinced more than ever that i adore that girl and shall not be happy without her." "you have written to your father?" "not yet. i must first of all talk to genevieve." "you are not afraid of what she will say? of her answer?" maurice smiled. "i want first to tell her of my future plans, and to have a confidential chat with her about everything." "you will be my best man, old fellow," he went on, clapping jean on the shoulder. "you have chosen the role of actor, with the temperament of a spectator; strange lover!" "like any other man i follow my destiny. you were born for happiness, maurice, one has only to look at you to be convinced of it. you breathe forth life, you love, you conquer. youth radiates from you. i have asked myself a hundred times why i have chosen this career, and i am persuaded that i must live, if at all, the life of others." "are you very upset--unhappy?" asked maurice. "no, oh no; i don't suffer much, but of course i am a little disturbed. i am like a reflection. esperance's happiness elates, her sorrow depresses me. i love her purely as an idealist. i would like count albert to look like the duke de morlay-la-branche, and still keep the noble soul that we know he possesses. if your cousin should die, i truly believe that i would die. my life would be without aim, without soul; bereft of light, the reflection would vanish." they walked slowly down to the beach to join albert and the girls. the night had broken soft and limpid, full of stars, full of dreams. they sat down on the sand, silently admiring the prospect. the waves broke regularly as if scanning the poem of silence. a fresh scent rose from the rocks which were clothed with sea moss. far away a dog was barking. the young people were silent, united in a mood of wonder before the depths and lights of the night. part iv. the chÂteau chapter xxiii on the fifteenth of september the girls had to tear themselves away from their quiet retreat at belle-isle, and leave penhouet and all else to travel with mlle. frahender, jean and maurice to the château de montjoie. when they arrived there, at ten in the evening, esperance recognised the duke in the distance as soon as the carriage stopped. he was looking out of one of the great windows above the terrace. he was, in fact, awaiting the coming of esperance. but he pretended not to have seen the carriage and continued to gaze up at the stars. esperance trembled and her lips were icy cold. albert had also seen the duke, and was not deceived by his attitude. he had resolved to be calm, but a sullen, unbidden anger arose within him. when the housekeeper had installed the two girls in a tower of the château, she left with them a little breton peasant girl. "she will be devoted to your service," she said. "her name is jeanette. her room is above yours and, when you ring this bell, she will wait upon you at once." esperance threw herself on her bed, still dressed, for her heart was overflowing. "ah! why, why is albert so trusting? why did he let me come here? would it not have been better to have run the risk of offending the duchess?" and when genevieve tried to reason with her, "i am suffering, little sister," she replied, "i am so unhappy; for the sight of the duke at the window distressed me. i tremble at the idea of seeing him again, and yet i long for the time when i can give him my hand." "but this is serious," said genevieve. "i thought you had recovered from all that nonsense, or rather, i thought you would be less affected." she helped esperance to undress. the poor child let her do so without a word. she slept badly, haunted by dreams and troubled with nightmare. at six o'clock in the morning she woke up feverishly, and rang for the maid. the little breton appeared five minutes later, her eyes still full of sleep, her cap crooked. "will you get me a little warm water?" asked esperance. "it is cold from the tap." "it is too early, i am afraid. mademoiselle must please to wait a little." "well, be as quick as you can, please. i want to go for a walk in the park while there is no one about." the little breton laughed. "you won't run any danger of finding anyone at this hour. what will the ladies take for breakfast?" "two cups of chocolate, please," said genevieve, beginning to get up. "be so good as to make haste, jeanette, get us our hot water and our chocolate, like a good girl and say nothing to anyone." jeanette looked in the mirror, adjusted her cap, put back a stray lock of hair, and opened the door. but she stopped, looking at the girls craftily. "which way were you going, mademoiselle?" "that all depends. which way is the prettiest?" "when you leave the château you must turn to your right and walk to the first thicket. about ten minutes through the thicket and you will come out on the big terrace. that is where they always take the guests and say how beautiful it is!" "thank you," said genevieve, "to the right, then the thicket and the terrace. we aren't likely to meet anyone?" "nobody is abroad but the cats at this hour, and...." outside the door she made a face like a mischievous child who had just played a trick. running rapidly across the long corridors, she mounted to the second storey, opened an ante-chamber which led to another room and knocked lightly. the duke opened the door. "you here, jeanette! what is it?" "my godfather," she said very low, "the young ladies are getting up now, and i think they are going to walk in the grove to the right of the château." "they are going ... alone?" "certainly. no one else is awake, but they may be going to meet their lovers." "why did you come to tell me yourself, instead of sending my man?" "because he is a lazy fellow who would have taken an hour to dress and then would have told a lie and said i told him too late." "very well, run along now, and don't get caught." so jeanette sped quickly towards the kitchen to get the hot water in a great copper can, which she half emptied on the way to ease the weight. as soon as they were dressed, esperance and genevieve made quick work of their chocolate, and started out. it was very still. "it is the sleeping beauty's wood," said esperance. they went towards the grove they saw on their right. at the entrance to it esperance closed her parasol and stopped suddenly, pressing genevieve's hand. "some one has been here already." they both stopped motionless, listening. not a sound. they slowly continued on their way, but the thicket did not lead to the terrace, and ended in a little enclosed dell. on a pedestal a figure of _love in chains_ overlooked a stone bench. "we have lost our way," said genevieve. "let us go back." "no it is charming here. let us go on to the bench. i am a little tired and my heart is beating so.... what was that?" she put her companion's hand above her heart. "why what is the matter with you. why are you so nervous?" "ah!" replied esperance, with great apprehension of she knew not what, "i feel as if i could not struggle.... the presence in this house of the duke de morlay overcomes me. i don't know whether that is love; but at least it tells me that i do not love albert. come dear, let us rest a moment." just then a man stepped out from the thicket and barred their way. the duke stood before them. esperance uttered one cry and fell in a faint. the duke started forward to catch her, but genevieve repulsed him. "it is a cowardly trick you have played on us, sir. i understand now that we did not lose our way but were duped by your orders." as she spoke, she was trying to support esperance, but almost falling herself under the weight of the inert body. she cried at her own impotence, but she was obliged to accept the duke's help to get esperance as far as the marble bench. "try," she said holding out esperance's tiny handkerchief, "to get me a little water." "instantly, mademoiselle ... there is a fountain near at hand." when he came back genevieve moistened the poor child's temples. the duke was very pale. "mademoiselle, believe me that i am greatly upset at what has happened. i had no idea...!" "i shall be very glad to excuse you. esperance looks a little better, had you not better go away?" "but i cannot leave you all alone like this." he took esperance's hand, and it seemed to him that warmth came back into it. esperance opened her eyes. still half unconscious, she looked at him curiously, then she cried sharply out, "have mercy, go away, go away!" and she gave way to hysterical sobs. the duke said humbly, "i will leave you." and then kneeling before her, "forgive me, i am going; i am leaving you ... but i entreat you to forgive me." he was sincere in what he said. both girls felt it. esperance had risen gently. "i am betrothed to count styvens," she said. "you know that. i know that my emotion just now was foolish, but i am sick at heart and i am not always able to control myself. you are good, i see that. please help me to cure myself. i will be grateful to you all my life." "i give you my word...." his voice trembled. "i will make myself...." and he went away. as soon as they were left alone the two girls took counsel as to what course they should pursue. esperance, in despair, threw herself on genevieve's judgment, and genevieve asked permission to consult maurice. "could we not keep it as a secret?" "i am afraid, darling, that that would not be right. we are sure of maurice's discretion, and we need advice as well as help." esperance looked at her companion. "how could the duke have known? oh! i suppose the little breton girl who waits on us was the culprit. we must get rid of her. we have only three days to spend here, and then, too, i am sure that the duke will keep his word. i was struck by his pallor, and his eyes when he looked at you were full of tears, but i believe he was sincere; there is less to fear from staying than fleeing perhaps, since we know that. let us go back." she helped her dear little friend to get up and they returned to the house as they had come. mademoiselle frahender was just coming out to look for them. "here we are, little lady, don't scold," said esperance playfully. the little old lady shook her head chidingly. "you do not look well, my child. you are up too early. six o'clock, that pert little breton told me, when i found her fumbling in our trunks. when i told her that i was going to complain of her she said, 'oh! don't do that, madame, my godfather, the duke de morlay, would never forgive me!" the girls looked at each other. "i promise to say nothing, but you must watch her carefully." they were just going in when maurice joined them, out of breath. "hello! cousin. where do you spring from?" "i have been looking for you for half an hour to give you the programme, edited by jean and enlivened by your humble servant. here you are, and here you are, naughty lady, who gives no word of warning to her lover of early morning escapades." "oh! maurice, it was i who led genevieve astray, and i am doubly repentant. she will tell you why." maurice grew serious. "what means that haggard face, cousin, and the collar of your dress is all wet? come, come, genevieve herself seems ill at ease. i would like to know what you two have been up to." "well! take her into that grove, you will find a bench there, and she will tell you all about it. i am going to rest," replied esperance. genevieve and maurice sat down in the grove. after she had told him what had happened, she added, "what seems to me to make it really serious is that i believe the duke to be in earnest." "love and flirtation often look alike," said the young man shrugging his shoulders. "i don't think so," said the girl with conviction, and continued sadly, "esperance is fighting against this infatuation with all her strength, but i am very uneasy. and if the duke should love her enough to offer to marry her!" "you think that likely?" "what can resist love? tell me that." and her beautiful eyes, swimming with tears, looked anxiously, trustingly into the young man's face. "i tell you what i truly believe. and that is, that esperance loves the duke." the young painter meditated for a long time. "come on, we must go back," he said finally. "we must get ready for the rehearsal." he left the girl with exhortations to reason with his cousin. "what the deuce is our will for if we can't exercise it?" "maurice, i am brave and determined, you know that. my sister and i have struggled unaided, she since she was thirteen! i since i was eight. i thought that she was enough to fill all my life, and now...." "and now," he asked tenderly, taking her hand. "all my life is yours! i should not tell you this, but you can judge by my doing so the impotence of will against...." she drew away her hand hastily, ran to the staircase and disappeared. he heard the door open and his cousin's voice saying, "how pale you are, genevieve!" "what are you dreaming about, cousin maurice?" said albert, putting his hand gently on his shoulder. that hand felt to maurice as heavy as remorse. "let us go and see what is going on," said the young painter. "there is jean coming to look for us now." chapter xxiv in the great hall of the château a charming theatre had been built. everything was ready for the rehearsal. an enormous revolving platform held three wooden squares which would serve as frames for the tableaux vivants. the mechanism had been arranged by an eminent parisian engineer. a curtain decorated by maurice served as background. there were eleven little dressing rooms, seven for the women, four for the men. maurice saw the duke seated straddlewise on a chair, and smoking a cigarette. the three men went up to him before he was aware of their presence. at sound of albert's voice he sprang to his feet, almost as if expecting an attack. his nostrils were dilated, his face set. in an instant he resumed his usual manner, and shook hands with the young men. "you were asleep?" suggested the count. "no, i was dreaming, and i think you must have figured in my dream." "let us hear of the dream." "oh! no, dreams ought not to be told!" and he pretended to busy himself with some orders. the guests who were to take part in the tableaux vivants began slowly to stream in. maurice took jean aside and told him what had happened that morning. "you must keep watch too. i am not going to leave the duke." when esperance and genevieve came in, maurice caught the duke's expression in a mirror. he saw him move away and join a distant group where he lingered chatting. jean thought esperance looked uneasy. albert came up to her and kissed her hand. she smiled sadly. she was looking for some one. the duke had disappeared before she had seen him. after a long discussion it was decided to have a dress rehearsal. esperance was not in the first picture so she would have had ample time to have dressed at leisure, but nevertheless she put her things on quite feverishly. her costume consisted only, it is true, of a light peplum over a flesh-coloured foundation. genevieve helped her to dress. in each dressing-room was one of maurice's designs illustrating just how the dress, hair, etc., were to be arranged. for andromeda, esperance was to have bare feet, and wear on her hair a garland of flowers. the three first tableaux revolved before the duke and his staff, composed of albert, jean, maurice and some of the distinguished guests; and the order was given to summon the artists for the second set, which was composed of the next three pictures. the first tableaux of the second group represented circe with the companions of ulysses changed into swine. the marvellous lady rupper was to represent circe. she entered dramatically, half nude, her tunic open to her waist, caught at intervals by diamond clasps, her peplum held in place by a garland of bay leaves. she was very beautiful. her husband, a wealthy american, laughed at sight of her, a coarse laugh, the laugh of all germans, even when americanized. the second picture represented judith and holofernes. the beautiful brunette, the marquise de chaussey, in a daring costume designed by maurice, held in her hand a magnificent scimitar, the property of morlay-la-branche. she was to pose, raising the curtain, as in the picture of regnault. the third picture was the deliverance of andromeda. when esperance appeared, so slender, so fragile, her long hair waving in floods of pale gold almost to the floor, a murmur of almost sacred admiration rang through the hall. lady rupper approached her, and taking the child's hair in her hands, cried out, "oh! my dear, it is more beautiful than the american gold." the duke came up to esperance. "i should have preferred enchaining you to delivering you, mademoiselle." "i can speak now in the person of andromeda and thank you for that deliverance ... which you promised," she answered with a little smile. she had spoken so low that only the duke could hear the ending which he alone understood. he had promised to deliver her from his love, but at that instant he revolted against the thought and the admonition. "why not?" he muttered to himself. "she must be happier with me than with that insufferable bore! i will keep my word until she herself absolves me from it." they had to arrange her pose against the rock. maurice and albert helped her, while the duke watched from a distance, and criticized the effect. all at once he cried out, "that is perfect. don't move. now the mechanician must mark the place to set the fetters for the hands and feet." maurice stepped back by the duke to judge of the effect. "it is excellent," he said, looking only, thinking only as an artist. "that child has a beauty of proportion, a dazzling grace, and the most lovely face imaginable." as the duke did not speak, maurice looked at him. he was standing upright, leaning against a table, pale as death. "are you ill?" asked maurice. "no ... no...." he passed his hand across his forehead and said in an unnatural voice, "will you see to it please, that they do not leave her suspended that way too long? tell albert to raise her head, it seems to me that she is going to faint." he started forward. "i will go," said maurice, stopping him. when the machinist finished screwing the rings in the rock maurice asked whether it would not be better to repeat this tableaux at once. the duke approved. the terrifying dragon was properly arranged on the ground--the wonderful dragon which was the design of a renowned sculptor and perfectly executed by gerard in papier maché. perseus (the duke) with one foot on the head of the vanquished monster, bent towards andromeda. the breath of her half-opened mouth was hot on his lips, and he could hear the wild beating of her little heart. he felt an infinite tenderness steal over him, and when a tear trembled on the young girl's eyelashes he forgot everything, wiped the tear away tenderly with the end of his finger and kissed it lovingly. happily the turning stage was almost out of sight and nobody except genevieve had caught sight of the incident. esperance breathed, "god, my god!" the duke raised the poor child, and said to her very low, "i love you, esperance." she murmured, "you must not ... you must not." while he was loosing her chains he continued, "i love you and i will do anything to win your love." she strengthened herself desperately. "you do not need to do anything for it, alas!" and she fled. when the count came to find her, there was only the duke talking to the stage hands. "where is esperance?" "i have no idea," replied charles de morlay dryly. albert turned on his heel, delighted to see the duke out of humour. genevieve caught up with andromeda who was running away out of breath, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. genevieve saw her enter the grove leading to the clearing and there she joined her. "esperance, my darling, my little sister, stop, i beg you." her voice calmed the girl. she caught hold of one of the branches and clung to it, gasping. "genevieve, genevieve, why am i here?" her eyes shone with a wild light. she seemed to be absolutely exalted. "he loves me, he loves me...." "and i love him." and she threw herself in her friend's arms. "i am as happy as you now, for i love.... the thick cloud that hung over everything is gone. everything is bright and beautiful. this dark grove is sparkling with sunlight and...?" genevieve stopped her. "little sister, you are raving. your pulse is racing with fever. we must go back. think of poor albert." esperance drew herself up proudly, replying, "i will never betray him, i will tell the truth, and i will become the wife of the duke." "you are talking wildly, dearest, the duke will not marry you." "he will marry me, i swear it!" "albert will enter the chartist monastery and the countess styvens will die of sorrow." "the countess styvens," said esperance slowly. as the sweet face of the mother came before her mind's eye she began to tremble all over. maurice had followed the girls into the grove, and he found them now in each other's arms. "genevieve," said esperance, "not a word of what i have said!" "have you both gone crazy? they are looking everywhere for esperance for the 'judgment of paris,' and here you are congratulating and kissing each other!" "cousin, i needed the air, don't scold. genevieve looked for me and found me before anybody else, and i kissed her because i love her most." she spoke fast and laughed nervously. "who freed you from your chains?" "perseus, it was his duty!" "and now he is going to give you an apple." "then," she said very prettily, "i must try to deserve it. come help me to make myself beautiful." she led genevieve away by the hand. maurice remained rooted to the spot. somehow he guessed what sudden change had operated upon his cousin's spirit. something must have taken place in the corridor between these two! he murmured sadly, "poor albert, poor little cousin!" the young count appeared before him in his most radiant humour. "i have just met esperance," he said. "she was joyous, brilliant, i have never before seen her so happy!" maurice gnawed his moustache, and moved rather angrily. "we should never have come here," he said, "success has turned her head." "she was born for success," said the count. "i often ask myself whether i have a right to accept the sacrifice she is making for me." "my dear friend, when things are well you should leave them alone." "when you love as i love, you desire above everything the happiness of the one you love." "unless the one you love should prefer someone else to you?" "you are wrong, maurice. i would sacrifice myself for esperance's happiness if i knew she wanted to marry another man." maurice shrugged his shoulders. "we are not of the same race. your blood runs colder in your veins than mine, for mine boils. but, perhaps you have a better understanding of these things?" and he left the count to go and help the duke prepare the "judgment of paris." three young girls had been chosen for this tableau. mlle. de berneuve, a beautiful brunette (hera); mlle. lebrun, with flaming hair (athene); and esperance, delicately blonde, was to represent aphrodite, to whom the shepherd paris would award the prize for beauty. to personify aphrodite the girl wore a long pink tunic, with a peplum of the same colour heavily embroidered. her hair was piled high on her head, leaving the lovely nape of her neck half covered by her draperies, her exquisitely delicate arms emerging from a sleeveless tunic. to represent the shepherd paris, the duke was wearing a short tunic embroidered with agate beads to hold the stuff down, and a sheep skin. a red cap was on his head. he was magnificent to look upon. the stage began to revolve. paris held out his apple to aphrodite, who went crimson at his glance. the girl's blushes did not escape the audience, where the comments varied according to the person who made them. maurice, genevieve, and jean understood what esperance read in paris's eyes. a sad smile gave a melancholy grace to the lovely aphrodite. both the actors had forgotten that they were not alone. hypnotized under the gaze of paris, the young girl made a gesture towards him. a sharp, "don't move" from the prompter brought her back to herself. she turned her head, saw the audience, with the eyes and glasses of everyone focussed upon her. it seemed to her that they must all know her secret. she tottered; and supported herself upon athene. she must have fallen from the frame and been badly hurt, if the duke had not caught her just in time. a cry escaped from the audience. the marquis de montagnac gave a sign to the stage hands to stop revolving the stage. albert climbed up on the stage at once. he thrust paris quickly aside, picked up the girl and carried her out on to the terrace. maurice and jean followed him. she was not unconscious, but she could not speak and she recognized no one. genevieve knelt beside her. at first delicacy--discretion--held the spectators back, but curiosity soon drove them forward. but the duke did not appear. he had seemingly vanished. the doctor of the château was called from playing croquet. he began by ordering the crowd away. esperance was stretched out on an easy chair on the terrace. the doctor looked at her for a moment, amazed at her beauty, then sat beside her, feeling her pulse. genevieve described what had happened. he listened attentively. "there is nothing serious," he said, "only a little exhaustion and collapse. i will go and mix a soothing drink for her." esperance, still unconscious, was carried by her fiancé to her room, where genevieve and mlle. frahender put her to bed. albert went back to wait for the doctor. maurice went in search of charles de morlay. he met a forester, who told him that the duke had gone for a ride in the forest, and had sent word to the duchess that he might not be back to lunch. maurice returned disturbed and thoughtful. genevieve was waiting for him with the news that the doctor had himself administered a sleeping draught to esperance which he said should make her sleep at least five hours. "so much the better! that will give us a little time to consider and to decide what is to be done. the truth is that we ought to clear out this very day! love is a miscreant!" "not always, fortunately," murmured genevieve. "you, genevieve, have a balanced mind, calm, just. if only my cousin had your equilibrium!" "oh! maurice, maurice...." a tear ran down genevieve's eyelashes. she closed her eyes. he took the lovely head in his hands and his lips rested on her pure forehead. they remained so for one marvellous, never-to-be-forgotten second. when he left her maurice met albert styvens. they walked side by side towards the woods. "i am very much alarmed," said the count, "not about esperance's health, but about her state of mind. i am a poor psychologist, but my love for your cousin has sharpened my wits. it seems to me that the duke is trying to make esperance love him." "possibly; i had not noticed." "yes, maurice, you have noticed and you have no right to deny it. i want to ask your advice. the duke and i both love your cousin. one of us must lose. just now i repulsed the duke so rudely that he could have demanded satisfaction, but i foresee that he will let it pass. that attitude, so unusual to his temperament, proves that he wants to avoid scandal. why? what is his object?" "i don't know," said maurice. "he has gone riding in the forest, probably to calm his nerves with solitude. he loves your fiancée, but his honour forces him to respect her." "perhaps," said albert. "i think," said maurice, "that we should all leave this evening or to-morrow morning at the latest. esperance is not ill, only worn out. she is easily exhausted." "and if she loves the duke?" pursued the count. "then it is my place to ask you what you are going to do about it?" albert was silent a minute, then raising his pale face, answered slowly: "if she loves the duke, i shall have to ask him what are his intentions; and if, as i believe, he wishes to marry her, i shall die a chartist!" the third gong vibrated, announcing lunch. after lunch, albert, maurice, jean, and genevieve settled themselves under a great oak, which was said to have been planted by a delightful little duchess of castel-montjoie, who had been celebrated at court during the regency. a marble table and a heavy circular bench made this wild corner quite cosy, and sheltered from the sun and from the curious. the tree was just opposite the tower where esperance was sleeping so deeply, and mlle. frahender was to give a signal from the window when she awoke. neither of them felt much inclined for conversation, for their eyes were fixed on the window opposite. about half-past four mlle. frahender appeared, and genevieve hastened to the room. esperance was sitting up in bed, remembering nothing. "albert, maurice, and jean are over there. do you wish to see them?" esperance rose up quickly, wrapping a robe of blue japanese crêpe embroidered in pink wisterias about her, and gracefully fastened up her hair. "let them come, if you please, now." the young men entered and stopped in amazement at the change that had already taken place in her. instead of finding her a wreck they discovered her pink, gay and laughing. "what happened to me?" she asked. "my little mademoiselle does not know, she was not well herself. there is my aphrodite costume. what happened to me?" "it was very simple," explained maurice. "you stayed too long with your head hanging down during the rehearsal, and as you were tired it made you ill. albert brought you here and you have been asleep for five hours. now you are your charming self again. we will leave you so that you can dress, and then if you feel like it we will take you for a drive." "i will be very quick; in ten minutes i will be with you." the young people did not know what to think. it would now be very difficult to suggest that esperance should withdraw from the fête, as apparently every trace of her indisposition had disappeared. then albert spoke: "i am going to ask esperance to give up appearing at this performance as a favour to me," he said. "i shall contribute largely to the charitable fund, and we can go back to penhouet." he had hardly finished speaking when esperance came into the little salon. "here i am you see and the ten minutes is not yet up!" a discreet tap at the door made them all turn round. the dowager duchess appeared. "ah! my dear child, what a joy to see you so restored." "i must apologize, madame, for the trouble i gave you. it is all over, all over," she said, shaking her pretty head; "and i am as well as possible." "i am more than delighted," said the duchess, sitting down. "you have no idea, my dear albert, of the perfect disaster esperance's absence would have caused. she is the star of our bill, as they say, and on whom we all rely. you know that my son wants to be elected deputy, and this fête will secure him the votes of the whole community. more than fifteen hundred people have taken tickets. the local livery stable men count on making a fortune. all the villagers are getting their rooms ready to let. if that adorable child had failed us nothing could have made it up to them, and my son would have been ruined." she rose up. "but," she added, with the sweet smile that won all hearts, "you see me so happy, so reassured, that you must all be joyful with me." the young people led her to the foot of the stair. the carriage was waiting to take them for their drive. the visit from the amiable duchess rather disconcerted albert, and jean, and maurice and genevieve. everything seemed like the warring of an implacable destiny. all four felt absolutely impotent. the drive was stimulating. esperance drew life at every breath. they could watch the colour coming back into her cheeks. as the carriage came out into a clearing, the duke de morlay rode wildly by. his horse was covered with sweat and trembling so that he had some difficulty in mastering it. the duke inquired for esperance's health and decided that it must be excellent from her looks. "but my dear albert," he said, laughing, "you almost knocked me over this morning, however, i do not blame you, i would have done as much myself in your place. however, i must be off, my horse is fagged. i shall see you later." and he was gone. "how pale the duke looked," exclaimed esperance. "he is fatigued, he has been riding since this morning." "did he not lunch with you, cousin?" "no." "why did he go away in such haste?" "you are too curious." then, looking hard at her, "perhaps he thought, like the good duchess, that your weakness was serious, and that all his little arrangements were going to fall through." "i understand that the duchess cared, since the election of her son is at stake, but the duke, how would it affect him?" albert sitting opposite her in the carriage, looked her full in the face. "perhaps he will never find another opportunity to pay his court to you." "whew, that is straightforward bluntness for you!" thought maurice. esperance grew red. the recollection of what had happened began to come back little by little. she closed her eyes to be able to think more clearly. albert left her in her silence a minute, then he said, "we had planned to carry you away to-day, but you heard what the duchess said just now. i feel bound by the confidence of that old friend to remain. my fate is in your pretty hands. be circumspect with the duke. frank, and loyal with your fiancé." and he took her hands, in a long kiss. the coachman was told to turn around, for it was getting late. the horses set off at a trot. nothing more was said between them, about the duke. after dinner, the duke arose, and announced, "the fête will be the day after to-morrow. we have only rehearsed once, and then, not in full. i feel somewhat responsible for the exhaustion of our little star. her head, hanging down, was so beautiful, that i thought only of the pose, without realizing how painful it must have become to the artist. i ask mile. darbois' pardon. also, i should like another stage director. i propose m. maurice renaud, our ingenious collaborator, to whom we owe our magnificent costumes, and originality of our decorations." everyone applauded, and maurice was proclaimed director of the fête. "i thank you, and accept", he said simply. he thought, "that is his way of getting rid of me." "i hope, my dear director," continued the duke, "that you will make us rehearse hard to-morrow. if anything goes wrong we shall still have the morning of the following day, for the fête does not begin until half-past two." maurice rose, and in a comical tone announced, "ladies, gentlemen, and artists, i beg you to be prompt for a rehearsal of the tableaux vivants to-morrow at ten o'clock. any artist who is late, will pay a fine of a hundred francs, to the poor of the duchess." and as they laughingly protested, "there is a quarter of an hour's grace accorded as in the theatres, but not one instant more. my stage-manager is empowered to collect the fines." they followed the action of the duchess and rose from their seats. the duke went over to maurice. "i would like to talk over some of the details with you. they must interest us, but they mean nothing to the others. a cigarette?" they strolled to the end of the terrace. a pretty chinese umbrella sheltered a delightful nook. the duke and maurice dropped into easy chairs. "will you give me your word that what i am going to say to you will be for you alone; that you will not repeat it?" the young man refused, "how can i give my word without even knowing the subject of your confidences?" "it concerns your cousin." "then it concerns count styvens." "indirectly, yes." maurice got up. "i would rather not listen to you, for my duty as a man of honour would compel me to speak, should it be necessary." the duke sat still and reflected for a minute. "very well, you shall judge when you have heard me, what you think you had better do. i leave you free. i love your cousin esperance: she is the fiancée of count albert, but she is not in love with him." maurice had thrown away his cigarette and leaning forward, his hands clasped, his eyes on the ground, listened intently. "i have paid her in a way attentions for a year; i admit it was wrong for i had no definite intentions. a visit to penhouet, however, completely changed my opinion of this little maiden. the atmosphere of beauty, of calm in which she lived, the liking and respect i felt for m. and madame darbois, and the free play of intelligence and taste i there discovered, made a deep impression on me and i could not forget. the ordinary life of society, so artificial, so devoid of real interest, this life that eats up hours and weeks and months in futilities, in nothings that come to nothing, all this became suddenly quite burdensome to me. i continuously thought of the adorable child i had seen at penhouet, brighter than all else in that radiant place. i was travelling, and did not learn of the accident to your cousin and count styvens until i returned to paris. then i wrote for news." "i came back here to my old aunt's, my nearest relative. i wanted to ask her to invite the whole of the darbois family to spend a month here at montjoie. a letter from count albert, announcing his engagement to esperance, was a terrible blow to me. i conceived the detestable idea of revenging myself on albert, but every scheme went against me. i have been beaten without ever having fought." then he paused. "since you have done me the honour to make me your confidant, permit me to say that the little ambush you laid for esperance this morning...." the duke interrupted, "that ambush was a vulgar trick, theatrical and cheap. i spare you the trouble of having to tell me so. i was about to disclose myself to the young ladies when i heard your cousin speak my name. then i kept still, hoping to learn something. what man could have resisted? i heard these words spoken to mlle. hardouin, 'yes, the presence of the duke of morlay disturbs me; i do not know if that is love, but i do know that i do not love albert.' they went on towards the clearing; i was compelled to leave my hiding place. you know the rest. the cry the child gave, and her look of reproach unmanned me. i understood at that moment that i loved in deadly earnest; that my intention of avenging myself on albert was nothing but a vain manifestation of pride, that the ambush was a cowardly concession to my reputation as a--well, deceiver of women. you know what i mean." he shrugged his shoulders scornfully. "the man i was trying to be has left the man i am, and now, renaud, here is what i want you to know. esperance darbois loves me, i was convinced of that at the rehearsal. i love her ardently in return. she will not be happy with albert, and i want to marry her. i will employ no 'illicit means,' as the lawyers say. on other scores i shall feel no remorse to have broken your cousin's engagement. my fortune is twice albert's; he is a count, i a duke, and what is more, a frenchman." maurice stood up nervously. "you are a very gallant man, duke, and my sympathy was yours from your first visit to penhouet, but i am greatly distressed that you should have made me your confidant, for i must in honour bound support albert." "i do not see why! it seems to me that the happiness of your cousin might count before any friendship for albert styvens." "but where is her real happiness, i might say her lasting happiness?" the moon had risen radiantly pure. from their elevation on the terrace, they could overlook all the garden and park sloping gently to the lake. in a boat two young girls were rowing. they were alone. "you leave me free to act?" "absolutely." "till to-morrow," said maurice pressing his hands. the duke remained alone on the terrace. he saw the young man go rapidly towards the lake. he heard him hail the girls and saw him climb into the boat with them, then disappear after he had waved with genevieve's handkerchief a signal of adieu. chapter xxv when maurice and esperance and genevieve landed, the duke was still pacing up and down on the terrace. maurice had jumped lightly on to the shore, and had helped the young girls out, and having taken them to the château, rejoined the duke who was waiting for him. "you are right. esperance loves you. my uncle comes to-morrow evening. he is a man of such uprightness that he will find, no doubt, the best solution of this most complicated situation. only i beg you to spare albert." the duke replied instantly, "i will make every effort to be generous; but this morning he thrust me away from your cousin in a deliberate attempt to insult me. i pretended to blame it on his anxiety, but i may not be able to control myself again, if he drives me so far." "alas! i am afraid that you are both of you at the mercy of the first thing that happens. for the love of god, keep cool. and don't forget to come to-morrow at ten for the rehearsal." and they parted. maurice did not sleep a wink. esperance and genevieve went to bed very late, after talking for a long time of the future. "poor albert," murmured the little star still as she closed her eyes in the very moment of gliding into the unreal life of dreams. mlle. frahender had some difficulty next morning in waking the two young girls. another maid waited on them, for the duke had sent his goddaughter back to her family. "let us all three take our chocolate together on this little table. the sun is so gentle this morning, to-day ought to have a beautiful life ahead of it. my parents come at six and we must go to meet them." she chattered on all through the breakfast, and kissed genevieve in overflowing happiness. "i love to see you so, esperance," said the old mademoiselle. "you have scarcely seemed yourself lately, even at penhouet. now you are truly yourself, you are radiant with your seventeen years. it is a pleasure to look at you and to listen to you." when the two girls came into the hall the director, maurice renaud, the marquis assistant, and the stage-manager, louis de marset, were the only others who had arrived. the manufacturer of the paper models was arranging the rock, the dragon, and the headless horse in the middle of the room. he held a brush red with dragon's blood, gave it a touch, and recoiled to admire the effect; then taking the sea weed he had gathered from real rocks, began placing it in little bunches on his pasteboard rock. "in regard to the half white horse, a magnificent cardboard mount," said maurice, flatteringly, "we shall not use it. another tableau has been substituted for that one." the assistant came up to maurice. "can you tell me, sir, why they will not give the 'europa and the bull'?" "because mlle. darbois has been far from well, and the duchess has requested that she shall not appear in more than two tableaux. she is to play a very difficult duet, as well, you know, and afterwards she will have to talk to all the people who crowd around her to buy flowers." jean was charged with excluding all those who were not in the tableaux. albert was included in those not admitted, and he certainly would have held it against the duke, had he still been director; but jean explained to him that maurice had taken this means of making the rehearsal go more quickly. genevieve, who was also excluded, kept the count company, and tried to distract him; but he was in a very despondent humour. when he saw the duke arrive so late, he said, somewhat crossly, "he is delaying the rehearsal." "oh! no," said genevieve, "he does not come on until the second group, and there is no need for him to appear in costume." when andromeda was extended upon her rock the duke took his position. they were alone in their wooden frame. "won't you trust yourself to me?" he breathed. "i love you with all my soul." "my life is yours," she replied. the scene had turned very quickly, the curtain, had fallen. maurice came up and helped the duke to unfasten the girl. she was radiant. he was transformed. maurice guessed that they had spoken together, but he asked nothing. the second tableau was given immediately. paris was not in costume. he held the apple to the glorious aphrodite, the picture turned, the rehearsal was over for esperance. the duke still had to take part in two other scenes. when esperance was dressed she followed maurice's advice to go join genevieve and albert. "what a relief," he exclaimed at sight of her, "i began to think it would never be over." "yet we did not lose any time." "oh, no! but now it will go more slowly. the countess de morgueil will have to make several repetitions of her tableau of the enchantress melusina." it was the little de marset who had spoken. esperance started. for a long time it had been rumoured that the very pretty countess de morgueil, widowed two years ago, was violently infatuated with the duke de morlay, who was said not to be indifferent to her affection. afraid apparently that his meaning had not been plain, marset insisted, "she is always circling about the duke." "but does he care for her?" asked a young woman with a hard face, who was just going to give herself a dose of morphine, and who was never seen without a cigarette between her lips. "who knows?" queried marset, with a knowing air. esperance had grown very pale. albert was controlling himself with difficulty. he observed genevieve's constraint, and the trouble of his fiancée. "shall we walk a little?" they walked towards the woods and maurice, in some excitement, soon joined them. he was greatly troubled, and longed to be able to tell albert how things were going. he was very fond of this fine fellow, and at the same time felt great sympathy for the duke. he understood perfectly well why esperance should prefer him to the count, but at the same time he blamed her a little for causing so many complications. when he saw her so fresh and charming beside albert, he grew more disturbed. genevieve quietly drew him aside. "you are getting excited, maurice, and i see clearly that you are blaming esperance, but let me tell you, dear love, that you are unjust. at this moment esperance is walking in a dream. nothing real exists for her. for three months she has suffered very much, struggled very much, and felt so much. events have come very quickly. she finds herself all of a sudden at the fount of the realization of all her fondest hopes; to be loved by the one she loves!... be patient, maurice, she is so young and so sensitive...." "your heart, dearest genevieve, is an admirable accountant. it adds the reasons, multiplies the excuses, subtracts the errors, and divides the responsibility. you are adorable and i love you with all my heart. come with me, it is time for the concert. you go on immediately after delaunay. the duchess is unable to contain herself at the idea of hearing you recite her poem." the duke passed by, accompanied by the pretty countess de morgueil, at whose conversation he was smiling politely and replying vaguely. he seemed not to have seen the others. like esperance, he was living in a world of dreams, happy in a realm where there was neither impatience nor jealousy. he knew that he was loved. after lunch esperance said that she was going to rest, so as to be fresh for next day. her father and mother were to come on the princess's little yacht. she and mlle. frahender were to go alone to meet them. that gave her several hours of solitude to think of him, only of him. maurice repeated his last orders for the engrossing fête, against which he railed ceaselessly, in spite of genevieve's constant efforts to calm him. "oh! of course, it is perfectly evident that i am unreasonable, i know it; but if i break my leg slipping on an orange peel, you would not prevent me from swearing at the person who had peeled the fruit there, would you?" genevieve laughed in spite of herself. "be a good boy, tell your uncle everything as soon as he comes; but say nothing against esperance, for that would not be right." her lovely face was very sad. maurice looked at her with a world of tenderness, "my darling, forgive me; the truth is that i am so worried. albert's face is hard and set. he knows nothing, cannot know anything, but he is gifted with the intuition that simple souls often possess. i am very uneasy, i can tell you. say nothing to esperance. come now, let us stroll into this thicket and talk just by ourselves for awhile." they entered the thicket, holding each other close, in silence. when they came to the clearing they stopped short. the duke was there, stretched out upon the bench, smoking, dreaming. he got up, surprised, and apologized. "i had just come back here to live over an unforgettable moment." "this corner must be the rendezvous for the slaves of the little god," said maurice, bowing to the statuette of _love enchained_. "we will leave you." "no," said the duke quickly, "please stay. your happiness shows me the vision of which i dreamed. art is the inspiration of the beautiful, and i believe, that artists have a more delicate sense of love than other people. "i believe, in truth," said maurice, "that artists, move in a much larger world than that which is inhabited by either the bourgeoisie or the aristocracy." they talked for a long time, and returned to the château together. albert was beneath the green oak, talking to the dowager duchess, who was telling him how much she admired genevieve. she had repeated her poem so wonderfully to her alone that morning! they did not see the trio emerge from the thicket, and maurice was glad of it. he felt more and more constrained. the complicity against the poor fellow's happiness seemed to him a form of treason. he looked at his watch. it was only five o'clock. "that is impossible. this watch must have stopped." the duke went to his room. his man gave him an elegant little note, and as his master threw it down on the table, "they await an answer." "very well, i will send one." the servant withdrew. on the stair he met an english maid waiting the answer. "monsieur will send an answer." "the countess will be displeased. these french gentlemen are more gallant but less polite than our english lords. she is as much in love as love itself." "he also is in love." "then it ought to be easy enough, for madame is a widow." "but it is not your mistress that he loves." "ah! who then?" "ah! nothing for nothing." and he held out his hands. "ah! shocking!" "very well," and he started, as if to return to his master. she stopped him. "monsieur, gustave you know very well that i am promised." "nothing for nothing." again he held out his hands. she hesitated a moment, looking up and down, and then let him have her finger tips. with a brutal gesture he caught her to him and kissed her furiously. the little english maid, blushing and rumpled, drew back and announced coldly, "you french are brutes. now, the information i paid for in advance." "very well. he is in love with little esperance darbois." "the actress? but she is engaged to count styvens." "it is the truth i have told you," replied the valet, proud of his own importance, "and if you will meet me in the grove, during dinner, i will tell you some more." "thanks, i know enough now," said the maid dryly, leaving him. she disappeared, but gustave preened himself, certain of success. as he went downstairs he saw count albert, helping the old mademoiselle and her charge into the carriage. instinctively, he looked up to see his master's silhouette at the window. albert was asking to be allowed to go with them, but esperance had promised herself a quiet and restful drive. "no, albert, we shall be four with my father and mother, and this is a small carriage." "but i will sit with the coachman." "look," said the young girl, laughing, "at the size of the seat, and remember that there will be two large bags and a hat box, a very big hat box, to hold a hat for mama, one for genevieve, and one for me." albert sighed sadly and closed the carriage door, after he had kissed his fiancée's hand. as the carriage drove away he went up to the room his mother was to occupy when she arrived next day, and looked to see if all was ready. he took a book and tried to read, but after a couple of minutes he threw it aside and went out of doors again. he stopped a moment on the terrace, considering where to go. a young lady stopped him as he was preparing to go down the steps. "all alone, count, and dreaming! ah! you are thinking of her. come, let us stroll along together." and the young countess de morgueil took his arm before he had time to answer. "you were not at the rehearsal this morning. you know that they have given up the tableaux of 'europa.' did you insist upon it?" "no, why should i have made myself so ridiculous?" "but the duke pretended...." "dear madame, the duke could not have pretended anything except that he did not wish to appear without any clothes on, a decision that i heartily approved of." "they say that he tries to fascinate every woman he meets. what do you think?" "and what do you?" said the count, looking her straight in the eye. "oh! he would never cause me great palpitation," she returned meaningly. "are you making any allusion to mlle. darbois?" he asked, stopping abruptly. "i am engaged to mlle. darbois, i believe you know, madame. you are piqued because you love the duke de morlay and he seems to be deserting you to hover near my fiancée. do as i do; have a little patience; to-morrow by this time the fête will be over and i shall have left with mlle. darbois. don't be either too nervous or too malicious, it does not agree with your type of beauty. i kiss your hands." he went towards the château, and took up his vigil in the little salon adjoining esperance's room. the countess of morgueil was confused and mortified. "he is not so stupid as he looks," she thought. albert was reading, but listening all the time. finally a carriage stopped before the château. he went down quickly and caught esperance in his arms so tightly that the young girl gave a little scream. "oh! pardon, pardon. it is so long since i have seen you." he kissed mme. darbois's hand and almost crushed the professor's fingers in his nervous grasp. he asked anxiously concerning penhouet, and expressed his desire to return there immediately. maurice and genevieve came running up. "how happy every one looks here," said mme. darbois. "don't believe it, my dear aunt; we are standing on a volcano." "ah! the cares of the fête weigh upon you. it always seems as if everything were going wrong at the last moment." she laughed, proud of her penetrations. genevieve tugged at maurice's vest as he was about to set the dear lady right. "ah! well, i leave you to dress. this evening, uncle, i want to have a chat with you as i have something serious to say to you." the philosopher and his wife looked at each other understandingly. "very well, my boy, i shall be entirely at your disposal for as long as you like, for i can guess...." and he looked at genevieve. maurice despaired of ever making him understand. chapter xxvi everyone greeted the philosopher with delight when he appeared in the ante-chamber where the guests were assembled before dinner. the duke came to present his greetings to mme. darbois and stayed talking to her for some time. he saw that she liked him, but foresaw at the same time that it would be very painful for the good woman to have to accept another son-in-law. during dinner the duchess steered the conversation towards philosophy, wishing to please françois, who was placed on her right--art and science being to her the highest titles of nobility. "ah! i am no philosopher," protested the marquis de montagnac. "i accept old age only as a chastisement, and not having committed any criminal act, i revolt against the injustice of it." and louis de marset, bending towards his neighbour, who had had a great reputation for beauty before age and illness had pulled her down, remarked, "one cannot be and have been, is not that true, madame?" "you are mistaken, my dear sir. there are some poor people who are born fools and never change." a smile of delight appeared on every face. the duke found himself in an argument with lord glerey, a phlegmatic englishman, whose marital misfortunes had made both london and paris laugh. "you seem," said the duke, "to confuse indifference with philosophy." "i do not confuse them, my dear sir. my apparent indifference is simply scorn for the sarcasms, the cruelty of the people of society who are always ready to rejoice when anyone attacks the honour or love of another." the duke murmured slowly, "certainly what they call 'the world' deserves scorn. and all the same, taken separately, every individual of this collectivity is a man or woman like any other, a suffering being, who laughs just the same, like an eternal figaro, for fear of being compelled to weep." count albert was talking to an old sceptic. "but," the countess de morgueil addressed him suddenly, "what would you do, if on the eve of attaining the longed-for happiness, you found yourself suddenly confronted by an insurmountable obstacle." "everything would depend on the quality of the happiness in prospect, madame. some happiness easily abandoned, and some happiness is to be struggled for until death itself." maurice had guessed the point of this sudden attack. he was none the less surprised by albert's answer. "decidedly, it is going to be even more difficult than i feared," he thought. indeed, count albert had evidently assumed a change of attitude. love and jealousy had transformed this simple and generous heart into a being of metal; he had not lost any of his goodness, but he had put his soul in a state of defence and prepared himself for the struggle. he did not know anything, but his presentiments filled him with anguish. he was not unaware that his austerity provoked irony, but now it seemed to him that the irony was taking a form of pity which enraged him. dinner was over, the great hall filled with groups gathered together as their tastes dictated. bridge and poker tables were produced, and some of the young people gathered about a table where liqueurs were being served. maurice took his uncle by the arm and led him away. "let us go to your room, for no one must hear what i have to say to you." "not even your aunt?" "no, uncle, not even aunt." françois was astonished, for he had supposed that it was of his own future that maurice wished to speak. they went towards the tower of saint genevieve. "uncle, what i have to say to you is very grave." "what a lot of preamble! well, i am listening." "the duke de morlay-la-branche loves esperance passionately." "well, that is a pity for the duke, but he will console himself easily enough." maurice was silent before he continued, "esperance is madly in love with the duke!" françois started violently. "you are raving, maurice; she is engaged to count styvens and has no right to forget him." "she has never been in love with the count, and can hardly endure him since she has foreseen another future." "what future?" "the duke wants to marry esperance." "but it is impossible, impossible," said the philosopher violently. "a word that has been given cannot be taken back so lightly." "calm yourself, uncle, if you please. for three days i have been wandering about in this untenable situation. we must make a decision. every instant i fear an outbreak either from albert or from the duke." "how have esperance and the duke contrived to see each other?" "i will tell you all that uncle, later, but the how and the why are not very important at this moment. i want you to send for albert. esperance does not wish to marry him. she has loved the duke a long time, but did not know that he loved her, and did not suppose an alliance possible between our families, even though you have made the name illustrious. for that matter i should never have supposed myself that the duke would consent to make what would generally be considered a mésalliance." "it all seems unbelievable," murmured françois. and with his head in his hands he groaned despairingly, "how can we sacrifice that noble and unfortunate albert?" "one of the three must suffer, uncle. it would be a crime to sacrifice esperance who has the right to love whom she pleases and to choose her own life. the duke morlay is loved, count albert is not and never has been. he knows it as you know it now. esperance consented to marry him through gratitude to you." "ah! i feared as much," said the professor prostrated. françois darbois remained a long time in thought, then he got up, his face lined with sadness. "tell your cousin to come to me, i will wait for her here." "i will send her to you at once. forgive me for having so distressed you, dear uncle." "it was your duty!" françois pressed his hand affectionately. left alone he felt despairing. the futility of the precautions he had taken, the inanity of all reasoning, of all logic, plunged him into the scepticism he had been combatting for so many years. maurice found his cousin talking to albert, the marquis of montagnac, and genevieve. "your father is feeling a little indisposed and is going to bed. would not you like to say good-night to him?" esperance rose immediately. albert wanted to go with her, but maurice held him back, and began asking under what conditions he proposed to play the duet with esperance next day. "it is all one to me," replied the count wearily. "i am in a hurry to get away from here. i find myself too much disturbed by my nerves, and you know, cousin, how unusual it is for me to be nervous." at this term of family familiarity, maurice shivered. he thought of the interview now taking place in his uncle's room. genevieve joined them and they strolled up and down, but albert made them return continually near the tower. when esperance opened the door of the little salon where her father was waiting, she saw him in such an attitude of distress that she threw herself at his knees. "father, darling father, i ask your pardon. i am ruining your life just as you begin to reap the harvest of so many noble efforts. you have been so good to me," she sobbed, "and i must seem to you so ungrateful. do not suffer so, i beg you. take me away with you, let us go and i will do my best to forget; let us go!" "but," said the professor, hesitatingly, "albert would follow." the girl rose. "oh! no, not that. i wish i could marry albert without loving him; i have tried, but i cannot go on to the end, i cannot!" "you really love the duke?" "father, for a whole year i have struggled against that love." "why have you never told me?" "because i saw nothing in the duke's attentions except the agitation they caused me; and i was too ashamed to speak of it to you. i thought, considering the position of the duke, that i was an aspiring fool. he overheard me talking to genevieve. when he appeared before us, i so little expected to see him there at such an hour--six o'clock in the morning, in the grove--that my heart could not bear the shock, and i fainted. from that instant i understood how much i loved him. i had no idea before of the power of love, but now i feel it the master of my life. i will sacrifice that to your will, father; but i will not sacrifice the immense happiness of loving. even if the duke did not love me, i should still be uplifted by my own love." she sat down beside her father. "who knows what unhappiness may not be lurking for me, ready to spring at any moment?" she drew near him shivering. françois took her charming head in his hands. he looked at her tenderly, but with an expression almost of terror in his face. "alas! all happiness built upon the unhappiness of others always risks disillusionment--and collapse." "dear father, my life has been bathed in such sunlight for the last three days, that i shall keep that glow of warmth for the rest of my life." "i only ask, you little daughter, to do nothing, to say nothing, before the end of this fête. we have no right, however grave our personal troubles and responsibilities are, to betray the hospitality of the duchess. to-morrow, after the fête, i will talk to albert. go, my darling, go back to that poor boy. i hate to send you to practice a dissimulation that i abhor, but we are in a situation of such delicacy and difficulty.... god keep you!" he kissed her tenderly. she went back to her fiancé, to find to her surprise that the countess de morgueil had just passed by with him. maurice pointed them out where they were walking slowly in the distance. "oh! so much the better," said esperance. "that gives me an excuse to go to my room." maurice urged her to wait. "i am convinced that that woman is meddling in our affairs. it is plain enough that we have upset her." "how? what do you mean, cousin?" "did you not know that the countess is madly in love with the duke, and that she had hoped to marry him this winter?" "poor woman," sighed esperance, sincerely. the duke came by, and seeing them alone, he joined them. "the three of you alone?" he cried. "then you will allow me to join you for a moment?" "look," said maurice, indicating albert and the countess de morgueil. "there is a dangerous woman who is making mischief at this moment!... and, nevertheless, i owe her the happiness this moment brings me." "my father," said esperance, "has been as indulgent to me as always." "thanks for these tidings," said the duke. "do you think he will receive me to-morrow, if i go to him?" "oh! certainly, after the fête; a little while after, for first he wished to speak to count styvens," she said timidly. "will you," the duke asked maurice, "make an appointment for me, and tell me as soon as you have an answer?" "with pleasure." the duke bowed to the girls and withdrew. he took maurice's hand, "i am happy, my friend, everything is going as i wish. i seem to hear laughter coming out of the shadows." and he disappeared. the young people waited for albert a little while longer, but as he did not appear, maurice advised the girls to retire, and he returned to sit down anxiously under the oak. he had been there hardly a quarter of an hour when he saw the countess de morgueil go by. she was alone and walked nervously. on the doorstep she stopped and looked back into the distance. he saw her tremble, then go in quickly. he stood up on his bench to see what she had been looking at, but he almost fell, and had to steady himself by holding on to a branch. albert and the duke were together. albert had put his hand on the duke's shoulder, and the duke had removed that great hand. they were walking side by side towards the extensive terrace that commanded the countryside. "oh! the wretched woman! what can she have said? and to be able to do nothing, nothing," he thought. he lighted a cigarette, waiting, he did not know for what. but he could not go back to his room. as he put his hand on the duke's shoulder albert had said, "i wish to talk to you." "very well. i am listening." "i want you to answer me with perfect truth." "your request would be offensive, albert, if it were not for your emotion." "is it true that you love esperance darbois?" "it is true." "is it true that you want to marry her?" "it is true." "my god! my god!" muttered albert, and he stopped for a minute. he was choking. the duke felt a profound pity for this man who was suffering at this moment the most terrible pain. "do you believe that she loves you?" albert still went on. "i have answered you with perfect frankness concerning myself, but do not ask me to answer for mlle. darbois." "yes; you are right, you cannot answer for her. i know that she does not love me, but i hoped to make her love me. i wanted to make her so happy!... that love has made a different man of me. what i regarded yesterday as a crime seems to me now the will of destiny. one of us two must disappear. if you kill me, i know her soul, she will not marry you; she would die rather. if i kill you, the tender compassion she feels for me will be changed into hatred. what i am doing now is a brutal act, an animal act, but i cannot do otherwise! my religious education had restrained my passions! at least i thought so," he said, passing his great hand across his stubborn forehead. "but no! my youth denied of love takes a terrible revenge upon me now, and i have to exert a horrible effort now not to strangle you." the duke had not stirred. "i am at your orders, albert; only i think you will have to arm yourself with patience for several hours longer. this fête, given by the duchess, cannot be prevented by our quarrel. i suggest that you postpone our meeting until to-morrow evening. our witnesses can meet if you like at one o'clock at the little inn of the 'three roads.' it is only ten minutes distance from here. the innkeeper is loyal to me, i am his daughter's godfather. the garden is cut by a long alley which can serve as the field of honour. i will go at once to warn de montagnac and his brother; then i will go to the 'three roads.'" "good," said albert. "naturally, we leave maurice renaud out of our quarrel." "certainly," said charles de morlay bowing. they parted. from a distance the young painter saw the duke enter the great hall. several minutes later albert's tall form barred the horizon for a moment. he looked at the tower of saint genevieve, then he also entered the hall. then maurice decided to go in himself. he sat down by a little table littered with magazines and periodicals, and picked up one, without ceasing for an instant to watch the two men. the duke de morlay was standing behind the marquis, who was still at the whist table. albert styvens had sat down beside a diplomat from italy, cesar gabrielli, a serious young man, a clever diplomat, and a renowned fencer. when montagnac finished his hand, the duke offered him a cigar. "will you help me with some arrangements for the performance to-morrow?" he was about to refuse, but the duke said briefly, "it is important, come!" the two of them went out, only lingering a little on the way for a joke with the men and a compliment to the ladies. then maurice watched the diplomat, who rose at the same time, and invited albert to admire the moon from the terrace. maurice saw them disappearing towards the corner by the chinese umbrella. that was the end of the terrace, and was out of sight from all the windows. "it is all plain enough," thought the young man, "but when, where?" he understood that neither of the two adversaries could take him either for confidant or for second. "however," he said, as he went to his room. "i want to know. i must know. i will know." chapter xxvii the next day, the day of the fête, all the château, from early in the morning, was in a violent tumult. maurice, the marquis assistant, and jean perliez were busy to the point of distraction; fortunately for maurice, who had been unable to sleep and had called jean at six to share the secret which had not been confided to him. he could not think of telling genevieve, and jean should be able to help keep watch. "you try," he directed, "to watch montagnac; i shall not leave the diplomat." the duke came in search of maurice to ask for esperance. he looked a little pale but showed much interest in the fête. "our dear duchess must be rewarded for all the excitement we have caused her house." "there is no reason to suppose," said maurice, "that all the excitement will cease after the fête!" the duke would not show that he had understood. maurice went to smoke a cigarette in the garden and was hardly surprised to see the doctor, who had been attached to the service of the duchess for twenty years, and attended all the guests in the château, talking animatedly with the diplomat. the doctor raised his arms in a horrified gesture, letting them fall again tragically. he gave every evidence of a violent struggle with himself. the diplomat remained calm, determined, and even authoritative. the poor doctor finally yielded. the diplomat shook his hand and left him. the doctor with an expression of great distress, walking feebly, passed by maurice, who would have stopped him. "no, no. what? it is impossible.... you are not ill.... leave me, dear sir.... i ... i must..." he stammered unintelligible phrases, hastening his steps. maurice re-entered the hall. he met the musician xavier flamand, who said, "i just saw the count styvens go out." "at this hour?" exclaimed montagnac, looking at the duke. "he has gone to meet his mother at the station. she arrives at eight o'clock. it is only seven, he will arrive half an hour too soon." "he is a dutiful son," said montagnac. "i am surprised that he has not taken his fiancée." maurice raised his head. "then the marquis knows nothing!" he said to himself. he reflected, "how dense i am growing. evidently neither the duke nor albert has told anyone the motive of their quarrel." jean came up and cut short his monologue. "i think that the two other seconds are count alfred montagnac, the marquis's brother, and captain frederic chevalier. here they come now." indeed the three seconds had just come up to the marquis, who asked maurice to excuse him. "i will be back in a few moments, dear m. renaud." the duke dropped down by maurice. "i believe the fête will be a great success, but i wonder if you long to have it over as heartily as i do." "i regret," replied maurice, "that our hostess ever thought of it, and that we ever had anything to do with it." "would you also regret having me for your cousin?" "no, you know very well that i would not, but...." "but?" "i know...." "you know?" "yes, i know." "who has told you?" the duke's face grew stern. "no one, i give you my word, but i have guessed; it was not very difficult...." "then, my dear maurice, i must ask you to remain absolutely silent. none of our seconds know the real reason of our meeting. none of them will ever know. this duel will be to the death, by the wish of count styvens, who has found himself justifiably offended." "where will you meet?" "at the inn of the 'three roads.'" "when?" "to-morrow, immediately after the fête. the inn has been closed since this morning so as to receive no one except ourselves and our witnesses. now, my dear maurice, since you know, i want to ask you a favour. here are some papers that i wrote last night. i am afraid my servant is on intimate terms with mme. de morgueil's english maid, and i dare not leave them in my room. i put them in your care. if luck is against me you will give these to the proper persons. if count albert is unfortunate, you will give me back the envelope. i'll see you later!" he pressed the young man's hand in a close grasp. the duke de castel-montjoie, the dowager's only son, had been chosen by the seconds as umpire. de morlay and styvens approved the choice. the great hall had been invaded by a score of servants who arranged the chairs, placed the palms, and hung silver chains to separate the musicians from the audience. the curtain of the little stage was lowered, but a murmur could be heard through the pretty drop painted by maurice. among the servants set to finish the costumes was the duke's sly goddaughter. every time the duke passed she gazed at him and her lips trembled. she who was usually so pert and smiling worked with set lips. "ha, ha!" said one of the maids, "you must be in love, eh, jeanette?" "let me alone, stupid, to do my work," said the young girl with tears in her eyes. she had been waked the night before by the noise of opening doors, she had got up and seen her godfather talking to her father. the duke said, "you must close your inn early as possible, you must refuse everybody, except the doctor from the château, count styvens and four gentlemen with the duke of castel-montjoie. i shall probably get here first." "ah! my god," the innkeeper had murmured, "the duke is going to fight, i know that.... if only nothing happens to you, sir." "i need not say that i count on your discretion as on your devotion. have your best bedroom ready to receive one or the other of the adversaries and put yourself at the absolute command of the duke de castel-montjoie. _au revoir_. try not to let your daughter know anything about this, and say nothing to her; but i know that even if she discovered she would not give us away. _au revoir_!" as soon as the door closed jeanette ran to her father, bare-footed, her hair flying, just as she had jumped out of bed. "great heavens!" said the innkeeper, "you were listening." "yes, i was listening, i heard; i will prepare the room, but it shall be for the other!" "do you know who the other is?" "no," she said quickly. "do you know why they are fighting?" "how should i know?" she demanded. she did know, however. however she sat mute under the gibes of the other servants. albert had returned with his mother, who seemed gayer, happier than usual. esperance went at once to speak to her and was enthusiastically congratulated on her superb bearing. the countess kissed esperance whose eyes were filling with tears, and she kissed the countess's hands with so much emotion that the lady raised the blonde head, saying tenderly, "no, no, you must not cry! we must love each other joyfully. i have never seen my son so happy, i should be jealous if i loved him less. see, dear, i want to give you these jewels myself; i believe that they are going to suit you very well." she clasped a magnificent collar of pearls around the young girl's neck. esperance could not refuse them. she thanked the lovely lady affectionately. "my father will tell me what to do," she thought. lunch was an hour earlier as the fête was to begin at half-past two. "heavens," said mme. styvens with perturbation, "i shall never be ready." esperance left her, happy to escape from her torturing thoughts. "deceit, deceit to this good woman!" albert was waiting to lead her back. he admired his mother's gift, and spoke to her gently. "it is just the tint of your skin," he said, "that gives these pearls their beautiful lustre. they ought not to flatter themselves that it is they who embellish you!" all this was added anguish for the girl, his mother's kindness, albert's gay confidence, and this fête which was, soon to begin, this fête where she must show herself publicly with him whom she loved so that she would die for him, with him who loved her more than life! she repulsed with horror the ideas that came crowding into her brain. if the château should burn. if she should fall down the staircase and break a leg; if albert should be taken ill and die within the hour.... if ... if ... and a million visions raced through her brain as she went back to the tower of saint genevieve. but never once did the duke appear as a victim of any of these misfortunes which her brain was conjecturing up so busily. lunch was a bit disorganized. the duke avoided looking at esperance. the sight of that child who loved him filled him with such emotion that he was afraid of betraying himself. the countess de morgueil, annoyed at seeing the two men she had sought to embroil talking together in the most courteous fashion, started to sharpen her claws once more. "what a beautiful collar, mlle. darbois; this is the first time that you have worn it, isn't it? count, i compliment you!" "mme. styvens has just given it to me." the duke understood the embarrassment the child felt--not yet eighteen, and forced to extricate herself from nets set by such expert hands as best she could. at half-past two the great hall was crowded by women vying with each other in their beauty. it was a magnificent sight! xavier flamand went to his stand to conduct the orchestra. he was heartily applauded and the spectacle commenced. more than two thousand people had come together for the fête. the hall could only accommodate eight hundred. other chairs had been placed on the terrace. the tableaux began. the society assembled, appreciated a form of art which is pleasing and not fatiguing, which charms without disturbing. the tableau of andromeda was frantically applauded. the men could not admire enough the suppleness of esperance's lovely body, the whiteness of her bare feet with their pink arches, the gold of her hair floating like a nimbus around the head of andromeda, waved by the breeze as the stage turned. the women admired the duke, so very beautiful in his gold and silver armour. "how splendid the duke is," remarked the countess to albert. "no one could have a prouder bearing. if i were in your place, my son, i should be jealous." "perhaps i am," said the count, smiling. the "judgment of paris" had the same success. everyone waited for "europa," and many were really disappointed. a hundred reasons were given for its withdrawal, and none of them the true one. the philosopher and his wife were sitting with genevieve behind the styvens. sometimes the countess would turn around to compliment françois, and the unfortunate man, so frank, whose whole life had never known deceit, suffered cruelly. there was an intermission to set the stage for the concert. the guests pressed around the styvens's to express their admiration for esperance, in the most dithyrambic, the most superlative terms. the concert began. albert had to go upon the stage to play the liszt duet with esperance. he begged françois darbois to take his place beside his mother. when the curtain went up after the quartette of "rigoletto," esperance and albert were seated on the long piano stool. loud applause greeted them. the duke was talking to maurice in the wings and seemed a little nervous. he envied albert at that moment for his superiority as a musician. when they finished, a great tumult demanded an encore, but esperance had come to the end of her strength. as the public continued to applaud, maurice and the duke came forward to see why they did not raise the curtain. esperance looked at the duke. "oh! no, please do not raise the curtain; my heart is beating so fast." albert and the duke supported her gently and she leaned upon them, her pretty head bending towards the duke. "i feel confused." and she closed her eyes, afraid of giving herself away. once more in the air and she began to feel better. she breathed the little flask of ether that the doctor held under her nose. "this poor heart is always making scenes. ah! dear count, you will have to set that in order." the duke had moved away. annoyed by the insistence of the public, he told jean perliez to announce that mlle. darbois needed a little rest, and presented her compliments to the audience and excused herself from replying to the encoring. this was a real disappointment. there had been such enthusiasm for the two fiancés, an enthusiasm well-earned by the inspired execution of "orpheus," that the attitude of this elite audience was a little indifferent to the artists who concluded the concert. the hall was half empty and several artists were too offended to appear. esperance went to her room with her mother and genevieve, begging the count to return to his mother. "your mother will be anxious, and my father can not reassure her, because he does not himself know the symptoms of this slight illness. tell them that i will rest for a quarter of an hour and then join you at my flower booth." when she was left alone with genevieve she drew her friend to her. "my dear little sister, i cannot tell you the joy that pervades every part of my being. in an hour it will be over! my father will talk with albert and i shall be free! free!" "poor boy," sighed genevieve. "oh! yes, i am ungrateful to his great devotion, but i should be false to myself and to you, genevieve, if i told you that the idea of his despair greatly troubles me. i know that every one about me regrets the breaking off of this marriage, and still i don't care. you all admire the duke, but you blame him a little. i know that, but that is all submerged and forgotten in my great love. when i reason as i do now, i recognize at once the horrible storm i am causing, and yet i cannot feel sad. i find all sorts of excuses for myself, and cast back all the responsibility on fate." she was silent an instant. "do you think it will take vengeance?" mlle. frahender came in. "what will take vengeance?" "fate." "my dear child, what is called fate is simply the law of god." "then if god is just he will not avenge himself, for what has happened is not my fault." the old lady looked at the young girl very tenderly. "my dear child, do not get into the habit of throwing the responsibility of your actions upon others. certainly we are not responsible for events, but we can almost always choose the way to meet them. only, some flatter their passions and refuse to assert themselves against them! this weakness opens the door to all other concessions, and then it becomes difficult to make a loyal examination of our conscience." "is that my case?" asked the young girl with some anxiety. "perhaps," replied mlle. frahender, frankly. "oh! little lady, be kinder to me, i am so happy that i cannot believe such happiness comes from troubled waters.... and i swear to you that my heart is loyal." the old lady kissed her charge, but her smile was sad. esperance was now ready to go to her flower stall. a pretty dress, toned like a pigeon's breast, a round neck with a tulle collar, a wide girdle fastened with a bunch of primroses, a flapping hat of italian straw tied with two narrow ribbons under her chin, created a delightful effect and a ravishing frame for her lovely face. when she passed lightly on her way to her booth, she caused quite a sensation. the duke, count albert, maurice and jean perliez were waiting for her. a crowd followed in her wake. the duke and count had the same longing to see her, to be with her up to the last moment! they understood each other at that instant, and each outdid the other in courtesy. albert was the first customer, passing a thousand francs for a primrose from her belt. the duke made the same bargain. the girl's fingers trembled as she handed him the flower. albert felt a choking feeling in his throat. the crowd pressed round. a german offered ten thousand francs for a flower which the young girl had put to her lips. at last albert could work off some of his emotion. he repulsed the german. "there is nothing more for sale, sir. i have just bought everything for fifty thousand francs." the german would have protested, but he was pushed back by the crowd and landed at a distance. "that was well done!" "i did not know that he could be so impulsive." "he was quite right." "the poor people of the duchess will become landholders!" and the crowd scattered, making many comments on the way. albert was soon surrounded, as everybody wanted to shake hands with him. the duke had stepped back behind the booth. esperance came out with genevieve and mlle. frahender. he stopped beside her a moment. "i love you." "oh, thank you." "forever, i hope!" then, as he saw that the count was still surrounded and that esperance would not be able to make her way to him, he offered her his arm. "let me take you to count styvens, who cannot extricate himself!" with the help of jean and maurice, he dispersed the guests and led esperance to her fiancée. at that moment anyone who had suspected the duke of intentions to flirt with the plighted girl, must have abandoned their idea; and the motive of the duel, which was to bring one of these two perfect gentlemen to his death, became more and more obscure. count styvens saw the girl coming to him on the duke's arm, and he did not suffer from the sight; his suffering for the last two days had been too extreme to feel upset by any increase. he took esperance to the door of the tower. "you were lovelier than ever before." he kissed her fingers devotedly. the young girl felt a tiny tear fall like a terrible weight on her hand. he lifted his head quickly, looked fixedly at esperance with a look of such goodness and faith, that she felt suddenly guilty and bent her head. the count shook hands cordially with the philosopher. "do not forget," the elder man said to him, "that i want to have a little talk with you; it is more than a wish, it is a duty." "i also have a serious duty to attend to," replied the young count. "excuse me if i have to keep you waiting." chapter xxviii albert went immediately to his mother, who was taking tea with the princess. he embraced her with such tenderness that she was astonished at his ardour. the princess held out her hand. "do not wait too long to realize your happiness, albert. you know how all your friends will rejoice with you." he kissed her hand again, and went to join his two seconds at the gate of the kitchen garden. the crowd had all dispersed to catch the last train. the meeting at the "three roads" was for seven. they saw the duke de castel-montjoie from a distance. he had had some difficulty in making his escape, having had to help his mother, the duchess, with the last farewells. he bowed to the count and led the way by a little door to the inn stable. he was carrying two sets of swords, done up in two cases of green cloth. the duke and his seconds were already there. only the doctor had not arrived. morlay-la-branche and albert bowed to each other and got ready. the little bowers, where the _habitues_ of the inn often ate their midday meals, served them as dressing-rooms. the doctor arrived out of breath, with the information that he had not been able to get a _confrere_ and would have to serve both sides. the umpire, in company with the seconds, chose an alley of proper dimensions. the adversaries were placed opposite, sword in hand. the duke de castel-montjoie touched the points of their swords and said, "go!" the conditions of the duel were very strict. the first round should last three minutes, should neither of the adversaries be touched. "halt!" cried the duke de castel-montjoie. one minute was allowed them to breathe. "go," said the umpire, again joining the sword tips. this time albert made a furious drive against the duke. there was a moment of suspense. the duke did not give way. his arm shot out and the unfortunate count turned completely round and fell. charles de morlay's sword had pierced beneath the right arm pit, entering the lung. the blood streamed from the wounded man's mouth. the doctor and the seconds carried him into the room which jeanette had prepared. the duke, sorely moved, followed them. albert saw him and held out a hand which the duke pressed gently, bending his head. the count signed to the seconds to withdraw. "i was wrong, duke," he murmured. "my love had blinded my wisdom with the heavy mask of egoism. on the threshold of eternity the truth seems clearer. forgive me, de morlay, as i forgive you." he choked. the doctor came forward. the duke, as pale as the dying man, pressed that loyal hand for the last time, and withdrew. in her own room esperance had just waked with an anguished cry. "what is the matter with you?" "i ... i ... i do not know ... a catastrophe ... where is my father?" "in his room, and...." at that very moment maurice knocked at the door, and before they had time to answer him, he entered. his face was distorted with grief. "a catastrophe, a catastrophe!" repeated esperance, at sight of him. "get up, put on a wrap, put something on your head, and come, come quickly! a carriage is waiting for us!" "a catastrophe, a catastrophe! albert? the duke?..." "albert!" he answered brusquely. "come quickly! he wants to see you before...." the words died in his throat. he helped his cousin and led her rapidly to the carriage. esperance was gasping with anguish. "tell me, maurice, tell me." but the young man could not answer. he knew only that albert was mortally wounded. he had been waiting a few paces from the inn to see the duellers come out. the duke de morlay-la-branche and castel-montjoie appeared first, and as they were talking to the young man, the marquis de montagnac came out precipitately. "i beg you," he said to maurice, "to fetch the count's fiancée. he wants to see her before his mother knows." and maurice had departed in hot haste. as soon as they reached the inn, esperance jumped to the ground. jeanette, who had kept a constant watch, ran along ahead of her and without a word showed her the door of the room where count albert lay dying. the doctor stopped her. "very gently," he said. but albert had felt the presence of his dearly loved. he raised himself a little, holding out his great arms to the young girl. "come to me, my love, do not be afraid. i will never hold you again in these arms that frighten you. listen carefully. i have only a few minutes to live! no one knows the real reason of my quarrel with the duke.... you may have thought that it was about you. i swear to you," he laid stress on the word, "i swear to you that it was nothing to do with you!" his glazing eyes cleared for an instant, illuminated by the beauty of his falsehood. "marry the duke, he is charming ... he ... he is loyal ... but do not abandon my mother; she will have only you!" two red streams trickled from the corners of his mouth. esperance on her knees with her hands crossed on the bed, watched the blood run down on the face that had grown paler than the pillow. her tears blinded her, and she shook as with an ague. albert ceased breathing for an instant. the doctor, who was watching closely from the end of the room, came near and gave him a dose of chlorate of calcium to stop the hemorrhage; then at a sign from albert, withdrew again. "promise me," said the young man, "that you will always keep this necklace!" "albert, don't die! i will love you! i do love you! have pity! i will always wear the necklace. you shall unfasten it every evening and clasp it every morning! do not die! do not die! i am your fiancée, to-morrow i will be your wife! you must life for your mother, for me!" the door opened and the countess, suddenly awakened, entered with the baron van berger and the duke de castel-montjoie. "mother, dear mother, forgive me.... i leave you esperance, who will take my place with you. forgive the duke de morlay the pain he has caused you. our quarrel was so deep, we could only settle it by arms. it was i, i, who precipitated matters. the duke acted like an honourable gentleman. oh! do not weep, mother, do not weep!" he raised his hand painfully to wipe with trembling fingers the tears burning the beautiful eyes that had already wept so much. the chaplain from the château entered the room, bearing the holy sacrament. he was accompanied by the dowager duchess, the prince and princess of bernecourt. a solemn hush quieted the sobs of the two women. the priest bent over the couch of the dying man. the count summoned all his strength to receive the extreme unction, then, transfigured by his faith, he sat up, extending his arms. the two women threw themselves trembling into the open arms, which closed upon them in the last struggle of life. they remained there, imprisoned, not knowing that the soul had fled. a terrible cry shook these souls sunk down in grief. esperance shrieked, "these arms, these arms, loosen these arms which are strangling me ... deliver me, deliver me from these arms ... i am choking...." they had some difficulty in freeing her. her pupils dilated by terror, she was hardly able to breathe. the doctor did not disguise his anxiety. "save her, doctor," said the countess styvens, "save my daughter. my son is now with god; he sees me, he waits for me, but i must obey his last wish." they carried esperance away unconscious, without tears, without movement, almost without life. françois, who had just arrived with his wife, learned of the frightful tragedy and received in his arms the poor unconscious cause of the drama. mme. darbois did not wish to leave her daughter, but the philosopher insisted, until she could not refuse, that she should go back to the countess styvens. when the professor arrived at the château he found the duke de morlay at the gate waiting for tidings. at sight of esperance unconscious, her head fallen back on her father's breast, he jumped on the step of the victoria. "what more has happened?" he asked panting. "the doctor will be here in a few minutes. he will tell you...." the carriage drove on to the tower of saint genevieve. the duke took the poor figure in his arms and carried her up to her room, followed by françois darbois, broken by sorrow. genevieve was waiting feverishly for the return of maurice and esperance. she showed the duke where to lay esperance. he stretched the slender creature on her bed. her eyes were open, but she recognized no one. the rigidity of her expression frightened the duke, and he bent in terror to listen to her breathing. a faint burning breath touched his face. the doctor declared that he could give no decision at that moment, and ordered them to leave her to sleep. "she must not be left for a second," he said. "two people must watch so that she need never be left alone." the duke kissed the limp little hand, and recoiled--his lips touched her engagement ring. as he went out he met the countess styvens and hardly recognized her, so terribly was she changed. she stopped him. "do not leave. i know from my son that it was he who provoked you. the cause of your duel is a secret that i shall never seek to know. may god pardon my son and free you from all remorse. i go to my daughter, all i have left to love and protect." it was evident that the noble woman was making a great effort; the last words of her son were still ringing in her brain. de morlay knelt and watched the countess disappear into the room. chapter xxix the doctor declared that evening that esperance had congestion of the brain, and that specialists who were sent for from paris confirmed the diagnosis. the dowager would not hear of having her taken away. the tower of saint genevieve was put entirely at the darbois's disposal. twos sister were sent for, and jeanette volunteered to do the heavy work. all the other servants were forbidden to approach the tower. the countess styvens, accompanied by the duke de castel-montjoie, the prince and princess de bernecourt, and the baron van berger, had taken the body of her son to be buried in the great family mausoleum which she had raised to the memory of her husband at her country place of lacken. maurice and genevieve were greatly relieved when they learned that the countess had not remained. in her crises of delirium esperance talked and talked.... "albert, no, no, i do not love him ... i love the duke.... yes, he saved my life, but my father is going to tell him.... i cannot keep this collar.... it is cold, cold, it strangles me, i am stifling.... i am going to die.... yes, albert, you shall clasp the chain every morning ... and every evening.... no, my head is not too low, i can see the beauty of perseus better. he is coming?... he is coming to cut off the long arms that hold me.... the blood, there, the blood running slowly!... no, albert, do not die, i will love you, the duke will go!..." in spite of her trusting confidence, the poor mother must have come to wonder and perhaps to understand. when esperance regained consciousness the worst danger was over. only genevieve and mlle. frahender had heard the complete revelation. jeanette knew too, but genevieve, who understood that she was there to keep the duke informed, found her very docile and repentant and did not send her away. the countess, to whom they had sent a daily bulletin for three weeks, found that esperance, if not cured, was at least on the way to convalescence. she would still pass many hours when she failed to recognize people. a kind of coma took possession of her every now and then and kept her for days together in a kind of lethargy. the season was getting late, and all the house guests had left. the dowager duchess did not wish to return to paris, although her son, who had become a deputy as she wished, invited her to come and stay with him. the prince de bernecourt had had to once more take up his post, but his wife had stayed to keep her friend company, and because she loved the "little darbois," as she called her. the duke de morlay was visiting friends whose château was about an hour's journey away. he came every day for news from the duchess, and from his goddaughter jeanette. a month went by. the young girl, now convalescent, was strong enough to be moved. "we will take her to penhouet for a month," said françois darbois's note to the countess, "and when she is quite cured we will send her to you in brussels." the duke was in despair at the idea of hearing that esperance was to go away. he complained to maurice whom he saw every day, "can i not see esperance?" "yes, but only for a few seconds," said the young painter. "i believe that you will have to wait several months before you can renew your love. she is convalescent, but not cured. here is a proposal for you: i am going to marry mlle. hardouin in two months. come to our wedding. your presence will seem quite natural, for you have treated me as a friend. i am very much attached to you and i am sure that my cousin will be very happy with you when you are married." "but will she be well in two months?" "the doctor assures us that she will be quite herself, and it is by his advice that we have set that date for our marriage." "do you think mlle. hardouin would accept me as a witness?" she will be delighted, and i thank you. genevieve has no relations except her elder sister, who brought her up." "i hope that this marriage will recall esperance's promise to her. meantime i shall go to italy for about the two months. will you see if i may say good-bye to her?" "i will go now." he was soon back again. "my cousin expects you." it was more than a month since the duke had seen esperance. he was painfully shocked by the change in her pretty face. she looked hardly real. her eyes were enormous. genevieve and mlle. frahender were with her. "here is the duke de morlay-la-branche who has come to say good-bye to you." esperance turned her eyes towards the duke. "it is a long time since i have seen you," she said simply. and her voice sounded like the tone of a distant harp. "you have been very ill!" "i have been very ill, i believe, but i cannot remember very well. i feel as if i had had heavy blows in my brain; sometimes i hear dreadful calls and then everything is quiet again. and then sometimes i see a piece of a picture, no beginning, no end, sometimes horrible, sometimes lovely. why, now i remember," she spoke gently with a charming smile, "that you are part of all my visions, but i do not know any more how, or why.... and albert, where is he? why does he not come? he must come and undo the collar.... ah! my god, my god, i am wandering you see, nothing is clear yet." she raised her arms. "my god, my god, have pity on me or take me at once. i do not want to lose my mind!" she took the duke's hand. "say you are not sorry that you loved me?" "i love you always!" she clapped her hands with a silvery laugh, "genevieve, genevieve, he loves me still." and she hid her head on the young girl's arm. maurice led the duke away, overcome. he looked questioningly at the painter. "no, she will not be light-headed long, the doctors all agree about that, but her memory will have to come back by degrees a little at a time. she recognized you. she remembered her love and yours. that is a great step. her youth, her love, and time will be, i believe, certain restorers." the duke left soon after they had taken esperance away. in belgium the countess had prepared for her beloved daughter. this beautiful woman of forty, so charming, so handsome in her mauve mourning, had already become an old woman whose movements were ever slow and sad. her back was bent, from constantly kneeling beside her son's grave. her black clothes reflected the deeper gloom of her expression. and to those who had seen her a few months before, she was almost unrecognizable. poor little esperance regained her health very slowly. her mind seemed entirely clear only on one subject, the theatre. little by little she remembered everything connected with her art. she repeated with genevieve and jean perliez the scenes they had given at the competition. she worked hard on musset's _on ne badine pas avec l'amour_; then busied herself with preparations for her friend's marriage. she did not know that the duke was to be a witness. "but," she would often object, "you must have two witnesses, and you have only one." "i have two," said genevieve, "but you must guess the name of the second." chapter xxx the wedding, solemnized in the little church of sauzen, at belle-isle-en-mer, was very private. maurice had for witnesses his uncle, françois darbois, and the marquis de montagnac, with whom he had become great friends. doctor potain and the duke de morlay-la-branche were witnesses for genevieve. the dowager duchess and the princess de bernecourt were present. the countess styvens had been ill for a month and could not leave brussels. she sent a magnificent present of diamonds and pearls to genevieve, who was filled with joy. the duchess gave the young bride a splendid silver service, and the princess brought with her some beautiful lace. genevieve had attached herself very strongly to the first of these sweet women, and maurice had made a conquest of the princess by painting her an admirable portrait. the sight of the duke made the invalid exuberant with joy. she constantly forgot her duties as maid of honour to draw near the loved being. doctor potain watched her closely, and made a thorough examination. he knew nothing of her love for the duke, but when the latter questioned him about her health, he said, "there is only one chance of restoring her health. she must go back on the stage." the duke jumped. "impossible!" he said. "why impossible? her fiancé is dead." the duke spoke to the man of science. "listen to me, doctor, i am passionately in love with this girl who loved me, but only remembers that at intervals.... i cannot, indeed...." "approve of her going on the stage? urge her yourself, and you will save her. when she is cured if she loves you, as you believe, she will leave everything to follow you; but now neurasthenia or madness await her. she must be roused to work outside herself. do as i tell you and you will invite me to your wedding." the duke went straight to find françois darbois. maurice would have retired. "no," said the duke to him, "i want you to stay," and he told them word for word what the doctor had said. "well, what do you think?" françois darbois asked him. "i think that the most important thing in all the world is to save her! i will wait...." françois pressed his hand, and there was taken between these two men, who were so different in every way, a silent pledge that both were determined to keep at all costs. from that instant each one strained every nerve to revive in esperance her dearest desire. several days after this visit, esperance received a letter from the comedie-française, asking her to come to the office. she turned pink. her lovely forehead brightened for the first time in many months. she handed the letter to her father, who knew what it contained, and had been watching his child's surprise very closely. "we must go back to paris, father, i feel entirely well." "good, mademoiselle, we will obey your orders," he said tenderly. she kissed her father as she used to do, and began to tease him a little. "how nice it is to have such an agreeable papa! you have plenty of cause to be severe, for i give you endless trouble." "so you are to make your début at the comedie-française?" "my god!" said the young girl, starting up, "that might cost you your election!" françois darbois began to laugh, for his joy returned to him when his daughter's memory came back to her. "leave my election alone. they won't even nominate me, and i shall not worry." mme. darbois came in and françois pretended to disclose the news to her. she assumed surprise. to hide her emotion, she took her daughter in a long embrace. maurice had taken his young wife to italy, to show her in its most harmonious setting the most beautiful aspirations of art towards the ideal. the duke de morlay travelled there with them, adoring italy as does every devotee of art. there was not a corner of this rare country that he did not know. the sojourn of the young couple in italy was pure enchantment. maurice was constantly surprised by the intellectual strength of his companion. like most artists he had an indulgent scorn for what so many call and think the worldly class. when he originally met the duke he had recognized his cultivation, and found that his eclecticism was exact, profound, and not the superficial veneer he had at first supposed. he realized that men of the world do not vaunt their knowledge, though it is often far deeper than that of certain artists who never go below the depths of but one art: their own. almost every day maurice received a letter or telegram giving him news of his cousin. the advice of doctor potain seemed to be justifying itself. every day esperance began to recover her health and spirits. she was rehearsing at the comedie, and her début in _on ne badine pas avec l'amour_ was announced for the next month. the travellers had intended to spend another ten days in italy. but a letter to genevieve alarmed them. she read it aloud. "my darling, i am just now the happiest girl in the world. first because my dear cousin is seeing so many beautiful things that shine through her letters and show her so enchanted with life that i feel the stimulus myself, and long to live to go myself to breathe the divine air of italy, and admire the masterpieces there. tell the duke de morlay that no day passes without my thoughts flying to him. only one thing worries me. i can confide it to you, genevieve, you who are so perfectly happy. why does the theatre draw me so that i am willing to sacrifice for it even those i love? i see the countess styvens every day. she seems a light ready to flicker out. sometimes she looks at me as if she saw me far, very far away, and murmurs, 'poor little thing, it is not her fault!' then i shiver. what is not my fault? albert's death. dear albert, who frightened me so much sometimes, that i felt my teeth chattering! do you know how he died? nobody seems to know! genevieve dear, the pearl collar strangles me sometimes. i promised not to take it off, but i must take it off to play '_camille_' in musset's play. mustn't i? she cannot wear pearls at the convent? when i promised that, i did not expect ever to appear on the stage any more; but now! besides, when i am on the stage i am not myself at all. esperance stays behind in the dressing-room and '_camille_' comes forth. then the collar? ask the duke, without telling him that i asked you, what i should do. this collar seems to me such a heavy chain, so heavy and sometimes so cold. i must stop this letter, for you see the confusion is coming back again. i am a little frightened! i must be trembling, does it not show in my writing? it is little mademoiselle's pen. i embrace you with all the strength of my joy in your happiness.--esperance." the writing changed. "i must make esperance stop. she has been wandering again as she writes. her pulse is very quick. i must tell her father. _au revoir,_ dear girl, and come back soon; for you are the brightness and peace she longs for. my regards to your husband.--eleanore frahender." this letter made maurice, his wife and the duke very anxious. "she must in some way be prevented from seeing the countess styvens," said genevieve, "but how are we to manage that?" they decided to shorten their stay in italy by five days. esperance was to appear on the twentieth of december, about fifteen days after her letter reached them. all the elegant world of paris, artistic, sensation-hunting, was waiting with delight for the appearance of the little heroine, the idol of the public. count styvens's death in a duel, slain by a well-known admirer of esperance, had caused a great deal of ink to be spilled. but the devotion of the countess towards the girl who would have been her daughter, the denials of the witnesses to the most intimate friends, asking if ... really ... between ourselves ... was not there something? ... deceived the most suspicious. all these "fors" and "againsts" had kindled the curiosity of the public, and the general sympathy was strongly in favour of the unconscious cause of the great modern mystery. the notice, announcing the first appearance of esperance darbois in _on ne badine pas avec l'amour_ drew an enormous crowd. the house was entirely sold out several days in advance. many who could not get admission waited outside the theatre to get news during the intervals. the corridors were full of french and foreign reporters. behind the scenes esperance stood looking at herself in the mirror. it was almost time for the curtain to go up. dressed in the convent robe, the strings of pearls was still about her neck. should she unclasp it, should she not? if they went with her on the stage would she not be betraying her art; would they not clutch and strangle her, strangle "_camille_," until esperance had to come back in her place? and if she cast it aside, her loyalty, her promise? must she wear fetters to keep faith? oh, albert, albert! oh, these dark shadows, these groping dark confusions where she so often strayed. where was rest? or peace? and joy, the joy of the theatre, would that, too, be taken away? she swayed a little and longed with all her strength for a force not her own to enter in. she was too weak to fight against her own destiny. she found it. a hint of it came first in the scent of gardenia flowers, sweet and strong and penetrating, compelling and agreeable to the senses. then the duke's strong arms were about her, and she sank gladly back as if she were falling into a flood of light. but his swift words brought her back. "esperance, my darling, we have no time to lose. come with me. the countess styvens is dying. she would not send for you, she would not spoil your triumph. but she can absolve you. she can loose the pearls. you can remember the other request albert made you then, his dying wish, my living one. come with me, be her daughter to the last, and then, my love, to italy, where we will find you health and strength, and give you new life for your future as my wife." the end mysteries of paris by eugene sue volume three [illustration: the recitation] part iii. night. chapter i. in the notary's office. brain, or heart of the land, which you will, as large cities are, paris may claim to have nerves, muscles, and arteries centering in it, which but few capitals, by right of size, passions, horrors, loves, charms, mysteries, in a word, can reveal. to trace its emotions, impulses, secrets, wounds, cankers, joys, the following pages are devoted. we must begin by taking up the further ends of threads which will soon lead us deep into its labyrinths, not without events on the way, only surpassed by those we shall meet in the mazes themselves. in the year , a singular project, incited by the current stories of left-handed marriages and loving episodes, as in the case of the prince of capua and miss penelope smith, was put into operation by one sarah seyton, widow of the earl of m'gregor. her brother, the honorable tom seyton, assisted her to the utmost, fully prepared to aid his sister in matrimonially entangling any crown-wearer whomsoever; he was perfectly willing to participate with her in all the schemes and intrigues that might be useful toward the success of her endeavor to become the wife of a sovereign, however humble in possessions and power; but he would far rather have killed the sister whom he so devotedly loved, than he would have seen her become the mistress of a prince, even with the certainty of a subsequent marriage in reparation. the matrimonial inventory drawn up by tom, with the aid of the _almanach de gotha_, had a very satisfactory aspect. the germanic confederation, especially, furnished a numerous contingency of young presumptive sovereigns, the first to whom the adventurers meant to pay attention being thus designated in the diplomatic and infallible almanac of gotha for the year of : _genealogy of the sovereigns of europe and their families._ gerolstein. grand-duke maximilian rudolph, born december th, . succeeded his father, charles frederic rudolph, april st . widower january, , of louisa, daughter of prince john augustus of burglen. son, gustavus rudolph, born april th, . mother, grand-duchess judith, dowager widow of the grand-duke charles frederic rudolph, april st, . tom had sense enough to inscribe first on his list the youngest of the princes whom he desired for his brother-in-law, thinking that extreme youth was more easily seduced than riper age. the countes m'gregor was not only favored with the introduction of the marquis d'harville (a friend of the grand-duke, to whom he had rendered great services in , and a little of a suitor of the lady's while she was in paris) and of the british ambassador in paris, but with that of her own personal appearance. to rare beauty and a singular aptitude of acquiring various accomplishments, was added a seductiveness all the more dangerous, because she possessed a mind unbending and calculating, a disposition cunning and selfish, a deep hypocrisy, a stubborn and despotic will--all hidden under the specious gloss of a generous, warm, and impassioned nature. physically her organization was as deceptive as it was morally. her large black eyes--which, by turns languished and beamed with beauty beneath their ebon lashes--could feign to admiration all the kindling fires of voluptuousness. and yet, the burning impulses of love beat not in her frozen bosom; never could a surprise of either the heart or the senses disturb the stern and pitiless schemes of this intriguing, egotistical, and ambitious girl. fortunately for her, her plans were assisted by one dr. polidori, a learned but hypocritical man, who hoped to be the future richelieu over the puppet he trusted to convert prince rudolph into. the lady and her brother combined with polidori against the youthful prince, whose only ally was his true friend, an english baronet, sir walter murphy. the countess m'gregor drove things to the end, and, during a brief absence of the grand-duke, was secretly married to prince rudolph. in time, about to become a mother, the artful woman began to clamor for an acknowledgment of the union. she braved exposure, hoping to force the prince into giving her the station she sought. all was discovered, easily, therefore. but the old duke was all-powerful within his realm: the clandestine union was pronounced null and void, and the countess expelled. her latest act of vengeance was to inform rudolph that their child had died. this was in . but this assurance was on a par with her former falseness: the child, a girl, was handed over to jacques ferrand, a miserly notary in paris, whose housekeeper got rid of it to a rogue known as pierre tournemine. when he at last ran to the end of his tether, and was sentenced to imprisonment in the rochefort-hulks for forgery, he induced a woman called gervais, but nicknamed the screech-owl (chouette), to take the girl, now five or six years old, who brought the little creature up in the midst of as much cruelty as degradation. meanwhile the countess nursed the idea of wedding prince rudolph in a more secure manner. when, in time, he became grand-duke, she was more eager than ever to enjoy what she considered her own. though he had married, she hoped; and, the second wife having died childless, the countess m'gregor followed rudolph into prance, where he traveled _incognito_ as count duren. as a last resort to force the grand-duke into her ambitious aims, she sought for a girl of the age that her own would have been, to pass it off as their child. by chance, the woman to whom she applied was la chouette, and hardly had she spoken of the likeness which the counterfeit would have to bear to the supposed _suppressed_ child, than the woman recognized the very girl whom she had kept for years by her, or in view. yes, the offspring of prince rudolph and the countess was a common girl of the town, known as fleur-de-marie (the virgin's flower), for her touching religious beauty, as la goualeuse (the songstress), for her vocal ability, and la pegriotte (little thief), out of la chouette's anger that she would not be what she styled her. she had long shunned her sad sisters in shame, and, indeed, in all her life had known but one friend. this was a sewing-girl known as rigolette, or miss dimpleton, from her continual smiles; a maid with no strong ideas of virtue, but preserved from the miry path which poor fleur-de-marie had been forced to use, merely by being too hard-worked to have leisure to be bad. prince rudolph entertained the most profound aversion for the mother of his child, yet for the latter he mourned still, fifteen or eighteen years after her reported decease. weary of life, save for doing good, he took a deep liking for playing the part of a minor providence, be it said in all reverence. known to society as the grand-duke, otherwise count duren, he had humble lodgings in no. , rue du temple, as a fan-painter, plain m. rudolph. to mask the large sums which on occasion he dispensed in charity, he was wont to give out that he was the agent of wealthy persons who trusted him in their alms-giving. events brought him into immediate contact with fleur-de-marie, and rigolette (who lived in his own house in the rue du temple). the former he had rescued from her wretchedness and provided with a home on a farm at bouqueval, whence she had been abducted by chouette and comrades of hers, by orders of jacques ferrand, who wanted her put out of the way. the wretches who had undertaken to drown the girl with ferrand's housekeeper (become dangerous to him, as one aware of too many of his secrets) murdered the latter, but the former, swept from their sight by the seine's current, had been saved by a former prison-mate of hers, a girl of twenty, so wild in manner as to have won the nickname of louve (wolf). snatched from death, the exhausted girl now lay, but a little this side of life's confines, in the house of dr. griffon, at asnières, under his care and that of the count of st. rémy, two gentlemen who had seen her escape. rudolph was seeking her all this while, yet not so busily that he forgot his avenger's course. chief among social oppressors, whose cunning baffled the law, and verified the old saying of "what is everybody's business is nobody's business," jacques ferrand stood. he withheld a large sum of money, intrusted _verbally_ to him, from its owner, the baroness fermont, and impoverished her and her daughter; he had seduced his servant louise morel, caused her imprisonment on a charge of child-murder, driving her father, a working jeweler, insane, and menacing the destruction of the whole family--but rudolph was at hand to support them. his cashier, françois germain, also was in prison, thanks to him. the youth--who had saved some money, and deposited it with a banker out of town--had no sooner heard that louise morel's father was in debt (a means of ferrand's triumph over the girl), than he gave her some of his employer's money, thinking to replace it with his own immediately after. but while he was away to draw the deficit from his banker's, the notary discovered the loss, and had him arrested as a thief. the notary, whose cunning had earned him a high reputation for honesty, strictness, and parsimony, was, at this moment, therefore, at the climax of inward delight. his chief accomplice removed (his only other being the dr. polidori already mentioned) he believed he had nothing to fear. louise morel had been replaced by a new servant, much more tempting to a man of the notary's sensual cravings than that first poor victim had been. we usher the reader, at the clerks' breakfast-time, into the notary's gloomy office. a thing unheard-of, stupendous, marvelous! instead of the meager and unattractive stew, brought every morning to these young people by the _departed_ housekeeper, madame séraphin, an enormous cold turkey, served up on an old paper box, ornamented the middle of one of the tables of the office, flanked by two loaves of bread, some dutch cheese, and three bottles of sealed wine; an old leaden inkstand, filled with a mixture of salt and pepper, served as a salt-cellar; such was the bill of fare. each clerk, armed with his knife and a formidable appetite, awaited the hour of the feast with hungry impatience; some of them were raging over the absence of the head clerk, without whom they could not commence their breakfast pursuant to etiquette. this radical change in the ordinary meals of the clerks of jacques ferrand announced an excessive domestic revolution. the following conversation, eminently boeotian (if we may be allowed to borrow this word from the witty writer who has made it popular), will throw some light upon this important question: "behold a turkey who never expected, when he entered into life, to appear at breakfast on the table of our governor's quill-drivers!" "just so; when the governor entered on the life of a notary, in like manner he never expected to give his clerks a turkey for breakfast." "for this turkey is ours," cried stump-in-the-gutters, the office-boy, with greedy eyes. "my friend you forget; this turkey must be a foreigner to you." "and as a frenchman, you should hate a foreigner." "all that can be done is to give you the claws." "emblem of the velocity with which you run your errands." "i think, at least, i have a right to the carcass," said the boy, murmuring. "it might be granted; but you have no right to it, just as it was with the charter of , which was only another carcass of liberty," said the mirabeau of the office. "apropos of carcass," said one of the party. "may the soul of mother séraphin rest in peace! for, since she was drowned, we are no longer condemned to eat her ever lasting hash!" "and for a week past, the governor, instead of giving us a breakfast--" "allows us each forty sous a day." "that is the reason i say: may her soul rest in peace." "exactly; for in her time, the old boy would never have given us the forty sous." "it is enormous!" "it is astonishing!" "there is not an office in paris--" "in europe." "in the universe, where they give forty sous to a famishing clerk for his breakfast." "apropos of madame séraphin, which of you fellows has seen the new servant that takes her place?" "the alsatian girl whom madame pipelet, the porter's wife of no. , rue du temple, the house where poor louise lived, brought one evening?" "yes." "i have not seen her yet." "nor i." "of course not; it is altogether impossible to see her, for the governor is more savage than ever to prevent our entering the pavilion in the courtyard." "and since the porter cleans the office now, how can one get a glimpse at his mary?" "pooh! i have seen her." "you?" "where was that?" "how does she look?" "large or small?" "young or old?" "i am sure, beforehand, that she has not so good-looking a face as poor louise--that good girl?" "come, since you have seen her, how does this new servant look?" "when i say i saw her, i have seen her cap--a very funny cap." "what sort?" "it was cherry color, and of velvet, i believe; something like those worn by the little broom girls." "like the alsatians? it is very natural, since she is an alsatian." "you don't say so!" "but i do! what is it that surprises you? the burnt child shuns the fire!" "chalamel! what relation between your proverb and this cap?" "there is none." "why did you say it, then?" "because a benefit is never lost, and the dog is a friend of man!" "hold! if chalamel opens his budget of proverbs, which mean nothing, we are in for it. come, tell us what you know of this new servant." "the day before yesterday i was out in the yard: she had her back toward one of the windows of the ground-floor." "the yard's back?" "what stupidity! no, the servant's. the glasses are so dirty that i could see nothing of her figure; but i could see her cherry-colored cap, and a profusion of curls, as black as jet; for she wears her hair in short curls." "i am sure that the governor would not have seen through his spectacles as much as you did; for here you have one, as they say, who, if he remained alone with a woman on the earth, the world would soon come to an end." "that is not astonishing. he laughs best who laughs last, and, moreover, punctuality is the politeness of kings." "how wearisome chalamel is when he lays himself out to it!" "tell me what company you keep, and i'll tell you what you are." "oh! how pretty!" "as for me, i have an idea that it is superstition that stupefies the governor more and more." "it is, perhaps, from penitence, that he gives us forty sous for our breakfast." "the fact is, he must be crazy." "or sick." "i think for the last two or three days he has been quite wild." "not that we see him so much. he who was, for our torment, in his cabinet from morning till night, and always at our backs, now has not, for two days, put his nose into the office." "that is the reason the head clerk has so much to do." "and that we are obliged to die with hunger in waiting for him." "what a change in the office." "poor germain would be much astonished if any one should say to him, 'only fancy, my boy, the governor gives us forty sous for our breakfast;' 'pshaw! it is impossible,' he would say. 'it is so possible that he has announced it to me, chalamel, in my own person.' 'you are jesting.' 'i jest! this is the way it occurred: during two or three days which followed the death of madame séraphin, we had no breakfast at all. we liked that well enough, for no breakfast at all was better than that she gave us; but, on the other hand, our luncheon cost us money. however, we were patient, and said: "the governor has got no servant, no housekeeper, and when he gets one, we shall have to live on hash again." it wasn't so, my poor germain: the old fellow finally employed a servant, and our breakfast was still buried in the river of oblivion. i was appointed a sort of deputy, to present to the governor the complaints of the stomach; he was with the principal clerk." i do not want to feed you in the morning," said he, in a gruff, surly tone; "my servant has no time to prepare your breakfast." "but, sir, you are bound to give us our morning meal." "well, you may send out for your breakfast, and i will pay for it. how much do you want?--forty sous each?" added he, with some other subject evidently upon his mind, and mentioning, "forty sous," in the same manner that he would have said twenty sous, or a hundred sous. "yes, sir," i exclaimed, "forty sous, will do," catching the ball "on the fly." "let it be so," answered the notary; "the head clerk will take charge of the expense, and i will settle with him." thereupon the governor shut the door in my face.' you must confess, gentleman that germain would be astonished at the extraordinary liberality of the governor." "germain would say: 'the governor is out of his head.'" "and forty sous a-head out of his pocket," said chalamel. "well done! the first chemist was right who said: 'bitter as _calomel!_'" "seriously, i believe that the governor is sick." "for ten days past, he is scarcely to be recognized. his cheeks are so hollow, that you might thrust in your fist." "and he is so absent-minded, that it is curious to see him. the other day he took off his glasses to read a deed; his eyes were red as live coals." "he was right; short reckonings make long friends." "for heaven's sake, don't cut me with your saws. i tell you, gentlemen, that it is very singular. it was upside down." "which was upside down?--the deed or the governor? it is singular, as you say. what the devil was he doing in that position? i should think it would have given him the apoplexy, unless his habits, as you say, have changed very suddenly." "how wearisome you are, chalamel! i mean that it was the deed which i presented wrong end foremost." "how wild he must have been!" "not at all; he didn't even perceive it. he looked at it for ten minutes, with his bloodshot eyes fixed upon it, and then he gave it back to me, saying: 'quite correct.'" "still upside down?" "still." "how could he have read the deed?" "he couldn't, unless he can read upside down." "no man can do that." "he looked so gloomy and savage, that i dared not open my lips, and i went away as if nothing had happened." "i have got something to tell you. four days ago i was in the office of the head clerk, and in come one client, two clients, three clients, with whom the governor had made an appointment. they waited impatiently, and requested me to go and rap at the door of the study. i rapped, and, receiving no answer, i walked in." "well, what did you see?" "m. ferrand lying upon his arms, which were placed upon the table, and his bald head uncovered. he did not stir." "he was asleep, probably." "i thought so. i approached him, and said: 'there are some clients outside, who wish to see you.' he did not move. 'm. ferrand!' no reply. at length i touched his shoulder, and he started up as if the devil had bitten him. his motion was so sudden, that his big glasses fell off from his nose, and i saw--you never can believe it--" "out with it. what did you see?" "tears!" "nonsense!" "isn't he a queer bird?" "the governor weep! get out of the way!" "when you see him cry, ladybirds will play on the french horn!" "and monkeys chew tobacco!" "pshaw! your nonsense won't prevent me from knowing what i saw with my own eyes. i tell you i saw him as i have described." "what! weeping?" "yes, weeping. and after that, he was wroth at being caught in such a lachrymose condition, and sung out to me: 'go away--go away!' 'but, sir.--' 'go away, i tell you!' 'there are some clients in the office, with whom you have made an appointment, sir, and--' 'i haven't the time to see them. let them go to the devil, and you with them.' thereupon he arose, as furious as he could be, and looked so much as if he would kick me out at the door, that i didn't wait for the compliment, but hooked it, and told the clients to leave also. they didn't look greatly pleased, i assure you; but for the reputation of the office, i told them that the governor had caught the whooping-cough." this conversation was now interrupted by the entrance of the principal clerk, who came in as if pressed with business. his appearance was hailed by a general acclamation, and all eyes were turned toward the turkey. "without being uncivil, my lord, i must say that you have detained us from breakfast for a long time," said chalamel. "you must look out, for the next time our appetites won't be under such good control." "it is not my fault, i assure you; i was more impatient than you are--the governor must be mad!" "that's what i have been saying." "but the madness of the governor ought not to keep us from eating." "it should have the opposite effect." "we can talk just as well with our mouths full." "a thousand times better," said the office-boy. chalamel was carving the turkey, and he said to the principal clerk: "what reason have you for thinking that the governor is crazy?" "we were inclined to think that he had become perfectly stupid, when he agreed to give us forty sous per head for our daily breakfast." "i confess that i was as much surprised as you are, gentlemen; but it is a trifle, actually a trifle, compared with what has just occurred." "you don't say so!" said another. "is the notary crazy enough to invite us to dine every day, at his expense, at the cadran-bleu?" "and give us tickets to the play, after dinner?" "and after that, take us to the _café_, to round off with punch?" "and after that a la--" "gentlemen, just as far as you please; but the scene which i have just observed is more frightful than funny." "give us the scene, i beg of you." "that's right; don't trouble yourself about the breakfast--we are all ears." "and all jaws! i see through you, my pretties! while i am speaking, your teeth will be in motion, and the turkey would be finished before my story. be patient; i will reserve it for the dessert." we do not know whether it was the goad of hunger or curiosity that stimulated the mastication of the young limbs of the law, but the breakfast was so rapidly completed, that the moment for the story arrived immediately. not to be surprised by the governor, they sent the office-boy, on whom the carcass and claws of the turkey had been most liberally bestowed, as a sentry into the neighboring room. the head clerk said to his colleagues, "in the first place, you must know that, for some days past the porter has been alarmed about master's health. as the good man sits up very late, he has seen m. ferrand go down to the garden in the night in spite of the cold and rain, and walk up and down rapidly. he ventured to leave his nest, and ask his master if he had need of anything. the governor sent him to bed in such a tone that, since then, the porter has kept himself quiet, and he will keep himself so always, as soon as he hears the governor descend to the garden, which happens every night, no matter what weather." "the old boy is, perhaps, a somnambulist?" "not probable; but such nocturnal promenades announce great agitation. i arrive at my story: just now, i went in to get some signatures. at the moment i placed my hand on the lock, i thought i heard some one speak. i stopped, and distinguished two or three dull cries, like stifled sobs. after having hesitated to enter for a moment, fearing some misfortune, i opened the door." "well?" "what did i see? the governor on his knees, on the floor." "on his knees?" "on the floor?" "yes, kneeling on the floor, his face in his hands and us elbows on the seat of one of his old arm-chairs." "it is very plain. what fools we are! he is so bigoted, he was making an extra prayer." "in any case, it would be a funny prayer! nothing could be heard but stifled groans, only from time to time he murmured, between his teeth, 'lord, lord!' like a man in a state of despair. seeing this, i did not know whether i ought to remain or to retire." "that would have been also my political opinion." "i remained, therefore, very much embarrassed, when he rose and turned suddenly. he had between his teeth an old pocket-handkerchief; his spectacles remained on the chair. in all my life i have never seen such a face: he had the appearance of a lost soul. i drew back, alarmed--on my word of honor, alarmed! then he--" "caught you by the throat?" "you are out there. he looked at me, at first, with a bewildered air; then, letting his handkerchief fall, which he had, doubtless, gnawed and torn in grinding his teeth, he cried, throwing himself into my arms, 'oh! i am very unhappy!'" "draw it mild!" "fact! well, in spite of his death's-head look, when he pronounced these words his voice was so heart-rending--i would say, almost so soft--" "so soft? get out. there is not a rattle, nor tom-cat with a cold, whose sounds would not be music alongside his voice." "it is possible; that did not prevent it from being so plaintive at that time that i felt myself quite affected; so much the more as m. ferrand is not habitually communicative. 'sir,' said i, 'i believe that.' 'leave me! leave me!' he answered, interrupting me; 'to tell your sufferings to another is a great solace.' evidently he took me for some one else." "so familiar? then you owe us two bottles of bordeaux: "'when one's master is not proud one must freely treat the crowd.' it is the proverb that speaks; it is sacred. proverbs are the wisdom of a nation." "come, chalamel, leave your proverbs alone. you comprehend, that, on hearing that, i at once understood that he was mistaken, or that he was in a high fever. i disengaged myself, saying, 'calm yourself! it is i.' then he looked at me with a stupid look." "very well! now that sounds like the truth." "his eyes were wild. 'eh!' he answered. 'what is it?--who is there? what do you want with me?' at each question he ran his hand over his face, as if to drive away the clouds which obscured his thoughts." "'which obscured his thoughts!' just as if it were written! bravo, head clerk; we will make a melodrama together: "'who speaks so well, and so polite, a melodrama ought to write.'" "do hold your tongue, chalamel. i know nothing about it; but what is sure is, that, when he recovered his senses, it was another song. he knit his brows in a terrible manner, and said to me, with quickness, without giving me time to answer, 'what did you come here for?--have you been a long time here?--can i not be alone in my own house without being surrounded by spies?--what have i said?--what have you heard? answer, answer.' he looked so wicked that i replied, 'i have heard nothing, sir; i just came in.' 'you do not deceive me?' 'no, sir.' 'well, what do you want?' 'to ask for some signatures, sir.' 'give me the papers.' and he began to sign--without reading them, a half dozen notarial acts--he, who never put his flourish on an act without spelling it, letter by letter, and twice over, from end to end. i remarked that, from time to time, his hand slackened a little in the middle of his signature, as if he was absorbed by a fixed idea, and then he resumed and signed quickly, in a convulsive manner. when all were signed he told me to retire, and i heard him descend by the little staircase which leads from his cabinet to the court." "i now come back to this: what can the matter be with him?" "perhaps he regrets madame séraphin." "oh, yes! _he_ regrets any one!" "that reminds me of what the porter said: that the curé of bonne-nouvelle and his vicar had called several times, and were not received. that is surprising." "what i want to know is, what the carpenter and locksmith have been doing in the pavilion." "the fact is, they have worked there for three days consecutively." "and then one evening they brought some furniture here in a covered cart." "i give it up! as sung the swan of cambrai." "it is perhaps remorse for having imprisoned germain which torments him." "remorse--_he?_ it is too hard, and too tough, as the eagle of meau said." "fie, chalamel!" "speaking of germain, he is going to have famous recruits in his prison, poor fellow." "how is that?" "i read in the 'gazette des tribunaux' that the gang of robbers and assassins who have been arrested by the champs elysees in one of those little subterranean taverns--" "they are real caverns." "that this band of scoundrels has been confined in la force." "poor germain, good society for him." "louise morel will also have her part of the recruits; for in the band they say there is a whole family, from father to son and mother to daughter." "then they will send the women to saint lazare, where louise is." "it is, perhaps, some of this band who have attempted the life of the countess who lives near the observatory, one of our clients. has not master sent me often enough to know how she is? he appears to be very much interested about her health. only yesterday he sent me again to inquire how lady m'gregor had passed the night." "well." "always uncertain: one day they hope, the next despair--they never know whether she will get through the day; two days ago she was given up; but yesterday there was a ray of hope; what complicates the matter is, she has a brain fever." "could you go into the house, and see where the deed was committed?" "oh! by no means! i could go no further than the gate, and the porter did not seem disposed to walk much, not as ..." "here comes master," cried the boy, entering the office with the carcass. immediately the young men seated themselves at their respective desks, over which they bent, moving their pens, while the boy deposited for a moment the turkey skeleton in a box filled with law papers. jacques ferrand appeared. taking off his old silk cap, his red hair, mixed with gray, fell in disorder from each side of his temples; some of the veins on his forehead seemed injected with blood, while his flat face and hollow cheeks were of a livid paleness. the expression of his eyes could not be seen, concealed as they were by his large green spectacles; but the visible alteration of his features announced a consuming passion. he crossed the office slowly, without saying a word to his clerks, without appearing to notice their presence, entered the room of the head clerk, walked through it, as well as his own cabinet, and descended immediately by the little staircase which led to the court. jacques ferrand having left behind him all the doors open, the clerks could, with good reason, be astonished at the extraordinary motions of their master, who came up one staircase and descended another, without stopping in any of the chambers, which he had traversed mechanically. the countess m'gregor, at least, was not his trouble. in showing la chouette fleur-de-marie's picture, she had exposed her jewels, and to secure them, the hag poniarded the lady and decamped. chapter ii. thou shalt not lust. it was night. the profound silence which reigned in the house occupied by jacques ferrand was interrupted at intervals by the sighing of the wind, and by rain, which fell in torrents. these melancholy sounds seemed to render still more complete the solitude of the dwelling. in a bed-chamber on the first floor, very comfortably and newly furnished, and covered with a thick carpet, a young woman was standing before an excellent fire. what was very strange, in the center of the door, which was strongly bolted, and opposite the bed, was placed a small wicket of about five or six inches square, which could be opened on the outside. a reflecting lamp cast an obscure light in this room, which was hung with garnet-colored silk; the curtains of the bed, as also the covering of a large sofa, were of silk and worsted damask, of the same color. we are minute in these details of furniture, so recently imported into the dwelling of the notary, because it announces a complete revolution in the habits of jacques ferrand, who, until then was of spartan avarice and meanness (above all as respected others) in all that concerned living. it is then upon this garnet tapestry, a strong background, warm in color, on which is delineated the picture we are going to paint. of tall and graceful stature, she is a quadroon in the flower of bloom and youth. the development of her fine shoulders, and of her luxurious person, makes her waist appear so marvelously slender, that one would believe that she might use her necklace for a girdle. as simple as it is coquettish and provoking, her alsatian costume is of strange taste, somewhat theatrical, and thus more calculated for the effect that it was intended to produce. her spencer of black cassimere, half open on her swelling bosom, very long in the body, with tight sleeves and plain back, is embroidered with purple wool on the seams, and trimmed with a row of small chased silver buttons. a short petticoat of orange merino, which seems of exaggerated amplitude, although it fits admirably on the contours of sculptural richness, allows a glance at the charming leg of the creole, in the scarlet stockings with blue clocks, just as it is met with among the old flemish painters, who show so complacently the garters of their robust heroines. never did artist dream of an outline more pure than her limbs; strong and muscular above their full calves, they terminated in a small foot, quite at ease, and well arched in its very small shoe of black morocco with silver buckles. she is standing before the glass on the chimney-piece. the slope of her spencer displays her elegant, graceful neck, of dazzling whiteness, but without transparency. taking off her cherry-colored cap, to replace it by a madras kerchief, the creole displayed her thick and magnificent hair of bluish black, which, divided in the middle of her forehead, and naturally curled, descended no lower than the junction of the neck with the shoulders. one must know the inimitable taste with which a creole twists around her head these handkerchiefs, to have an idea of the graceful appearance, and of the piquant contrast of this tissue, variegated purple, azure, and orange, with her black hair, which, escaping from the close folds, surrounds with its large, silky curls her pale, but plump and firm cheeks. her arms raised above her head, she finished, with her slender ivory fingers, arranging a large bow, placed very low on the left side, almost on the ear. her features are of the kind it is impossible ever to forget. a bold forehead, slightly projecting, surmounted a visage of perfect oval, her complexion of a dead white, the satin-like freshness of a camellia imperceptibly touched by a ray of the sun; her eyes of a size almost immoderate, have a singular expression, for the pupil, extremely large, black, and brilliant, hardly allows the transparent pale blue of the eye ball to be seen from the corners of her eyelids, fringed with long lashes; her chin is perfect; her nose, fine and straight, is terminated by nostrils dilating at each emotion; her lovely impudent mouth is of a lively red. let one imagine this pale face, with its sparkling black glances, its red, moist, and glossy lips, which shine like wet coral. let us say that this tall creole, slender, fleshy, strong and active as a panther, was the type of that sensuality which is only lighted up by the fires of the tropics. such was cecily. she was once the slave of a louisiana planter, who designed her for his harem. her lover, a slave named david, resisted that design to the only gain of being flogged, while his loved one was borne away. david was no common black; he had been educated in france, and was the plantation surgeon. the story of this high-handed and twofold outrage reached rudolph, whose yacht was on the coast. the prince, landing in the night with a boat's crew, carried off david and cecily from the planter's calaboose, leaving a sum of money as indemnity. the two were wedded in france, but cecily, won away by a very bad man, had become so evil, that her new life was a series of scandals. david would have killed her, but rudolph, whose physician he had worthily become, induced him to prefer her life-prisonment in germany. out of her dungeon she was brought by rudolph, who knew no fitter implement with which to chastise the notary. her detestable predilections, for some time restrained by her real attachment for david, were only developed in europe; the civilization and climatical influence of the north had tempered the violence, modified the expression. instead of casting herself violently on her prey, and thinking only, like her compeers, to destroy as soon as possible their life and fortune, cecily, fixing on her victims her magnetic glances, commenced by attracting them, little by little, into the blazing whirlwind which seemed to emanate from her; then, seeing them lost, suffering every torment of a tantalized craving, she amused herself by a refinement of coquetry, prolonging their delirium; then, returning to her first instincts, she destroyed them in her homicidal embrace. this was more horrible still. the famished tiger, who springs upon and carries off the prey which he tears with wild roars, inspires less horror than the serpent, which silently charms, attracts by degrees, twists in inextricable folds the victim, feels it palpitate under its deadly stings, and seems to feed upon its struggles with as much delight as upon its blood. to the foregoing let there be joined an adroit, insinuating, quick mind--an intelligence so marvelous, that in a year she spoke both french and german with the most extreme facility--sometimes even with marked eloquence. imagine, in fine, a corruption worthy of the courtesan queens of ancient rome, and audacity and courage above all proof, propensities, diabolical wickedness, and one would have a correct idea of the new _servant_ of jacques ferrand--the determined creature who had dared to throw herself into the den of the wolf. and yet (singular anomaly) on learning from m. de graun the provoking _platonic_ part which she was to play at the notary's and what avenging ends were to be produced by her artifices, cecily had promised to perform her part with a will; or, rather, with a terrible hatred against jacques ferrand, being very indignant at the recital of his having drugged louise--a recital it was found necessary to make, in order that she should be on her guard against the hypocritical attempts of the monster. some retrospective words concerning the latter personage are indispensable. when cecily was presented to him by rudolph's intermediary, madame pipelet, as an orphan over whom she wished to have no control, or care, the notary had, perhaps, been less struck with the beauty of the creole than fascinated by her irresistible glances, which, at the first interview, lighted a fire which disturbed his reason. this man, ordinarily with so much self-command, so calm, and cunning, forgot the cold calculations of his profound dissimulation when the demon of lust obscured his mind. besides he had no reason to suspect the _protégée_ of madame pipelet. after her conversation with the latter, madame séraphin had proposed to jacques ferrand, to take the place of louise, a young girl almost without a home, for whom she would answer. the notary had gladly accepted, in the hope of abusing, with impunity, the precarious and isolated condition of his new servant. finally, far from being suspicious, jacques ferrand found, in the progress of events, new motives of security. all responded to his wishes. the death of madame séraphin rid him of a dangerous accomplice. the death of fleur-de-marie (he thought her dead) released him from the living proof of his crime of child-stealing. he did not fear the countess m'gregor now that she was wounded, while la chouette was dead, as we have related. we repeat, no sentiment of suspicion came to counterbalance in his mind the sudden, irresistible impression which he had experienced at the sight of cecily. he seized, with delight, the occasion to receive into his solitary dwelling the pretended niece of madame pipelet. the character, habits, antecedents of jacques ferrand known and stated, the provoking beauty of the creole, such as we have endeavored to paint it, some other facts which we will now expose, will cause to be comprehended, we hope, the sudden frenzied passion of the notary for this seductive and dangerous creature. although jacques ferrand was never to obtain the object of his wishes, the creole was very careful not to deprive him of all hope; but the vague and distant hopes which she rocked in the cradle of so many caprices were for him only increased tortures, and riveted more solidly still the burning chain he wore. if any astonishment is felt that a man of such vigor and audacity had not had recourse to cunning or violence to triumph over the calculated resistance of cecily, it must not be forgotten that cecily was not a second louise. besides, the next day after her presentation to the notary, she had played quite another part than the simple country lass, under whose semblance she had been introduced to her master, or he would not have been the dupe of his servant for two consecutive days. instructed of the fate of louise by baron de graun, and knowing by what abominable means the unfortunate daughter of morel had become the prey of the notary, the creole, entering into this solitary house, had taken excellent precautions to pass the first night in security. the evening of her arrival, remaining alone with jacques ferrand, who, in order not to alarm her, affected hardly to look at her, and told her, roughly, to go to bed, she avowed innocently, that at night she was very much afraid of thieves, but that she was strong, resolute, and ready to defend herself. "with what?" asked jacques ferrand. "with this," answered the creole, drawing from the ample woolen pelisse in which she was wrapped up a little dagger, of high finish, which made the notary reflect. yet, persuaded that his new servant only feared _robbers,_ he conducted her to the room she was to occupy (the former chamber of louise). after having examined the localities, cecily told him, trembling, with her eyes cast down, that, from fear, she would pass her night on a chair, because she saw on the door neither lock nor bolt. jacques ferrand, already completely under the charm, but not wishing to awaken the suspicions of cecily, said to her, in a cross tone, that she was a fool to have such fears; but he promised that the next day the bolt should be arranged. the creole did not go to bed. in the morning the notary came to instruct her as to her duties. he intended to preserve, during the first day, a hypocritical reserve toward his new servant in order to inspire her with confidence; but, struck with her beauty, which, in the broad daylight seemed still more dazzling, blinded, and carried away by his feelings, he stammered forth some compliments on her figure and beauty. she, with rare sagacity, had judged from her first interview with the notary, that he was completely under the charm, at the avowal which he made of his _flame,_ she thought she would at once throw off her feigned timidity, and change her mask. the creole then assumed all at once a bold air. jacques ferrand went into new ecstasies, on the beauty of features, and the enchanting figure of his new maid. "look me full in the face," said cecily, resolutely; "although dressed as an alsatian peasant, do i look like a servant?" "what do you mean to say?" cried jacques ferrand. "mark this hand--is it accustomed to rude labor?" and she showed a white and charming hand, with slender and delicate fingers, the long nails polished like agate, but of which the slightly-shaded crown betrayed the mixed blood. "and is this a servant's foot?" and she advanced a ravishing little foot, which the notary had not yet remarked, and which he now only desisted from looking at to regard cecily with amazement. "i told aunt pipelet just what suited me; she is ignorant of my past life; she thought i was reduced to this position by the death of my parents, and took me for a servant; but you have, i hope, too much sagacity to partake of her error, _dear master."_ "and what are you, then?" cried jacques ferrand, more and more surprised at this language. "that is my secret. for reasons best known to myself, i have been obliged to leave germany in this disguise. i wish to remain concealed at paris for some time. my aunt, supposing me reduced to poverty, proposed my entering your service, spoke of your solitary manner of living, and told me that i would never be allowed to go out. i accepted quickly. without knowing it, my aunt anticipated my most anxious desire. who could look for and discover me here?" "conceal yourself! what have you done, to be obliged to conceal yourself?" "soft offenses, perhaps, but this is my secret." "and what are your intentions, miss?" "always the same. saving your significant compliments on my shape and beauty, i should not, perhaps, have made this avowal, which your penetration had sooner or later provoked. listen to me, then, my dear master: i have accepted for the moment the condition, or, rather, the appearance of a servant; circumstances oblige me to do so. i shall have the courage to play this part to the end. i will submit to all the consequences. i will serve you with zeal, activity, and respect, to preserve my place; that is to say, a sure and unknown retreat. but at the least word of gallantry, at the least liberty you take with me, i leave you--not from prudery, nothing in me, i think, looks like the prude." and she cast a glance charged with sensual electricity, which reached the very bottom of the notary's soul; he shuddered. "no, i am not a prude," she resumed, with a provoking smile, which displayed her dazzling teeth. "when love bites me, the _bacchantes_ are saints in comparison. but be just, and you will agree that your unworthy servant only wishes to perform honestly her duty as a servant. now you know my secret, or at least a part of my secret, will you, perchance, act as a gentleman? do i seem too handsome to serve you? do you desire to change parts and become my slave? so be it! frankly, i prefer that, but always on this condition, that i shall never go out of the house, and you shall have for me the most paternal attention--that need not hinder you from saying that you find me charming: it shall be the recompense of your devotion and your discretion." "the sole?" stammered jacques ferrand. "the sole--unless solitude makes me mad; which is impossible, for you will keep me company, and, in your quality as a holy man you shall exorcise the evil spirit. come, decide, no mixed position; either i will serve you, or you shall serve me; otherwise i leave your house, and i beg my aunt to find me _another place_. all this must seem strange to you; so be it; but if you take me for an adventurer, without the means of existence, you are wrong. in order to make my aunt my accomplice without her knowledge, i allowed her to think i was too poor to buy other clothes than these. yet i have, you see, a purse well-filled: on this side with gold, on the other with diamonds" (and she showed the notary a long red silk purse, filled with gold, through the meshes of which also shone precious stones). "unfortunately, all the money in the world could not give me a retreat as secure as your house, so isolated by the retirement in which you live. accept, then, one or the other of my offers; you will render me a service. you see, i place myself at your discretion; for to tell you that i concealed myself, is to tell you i am sought for. but i am sure you will not betray me, even if you knew how to betray." this romantic confidence, this sudden transformation of character, troubled the brain of jacques ferrand. who was this woman? why did she conceal herself? had chance alone conducted her to his dwelling? if, on the contrary, she came there for some secret purpose, what was this purpose? among all the hypotheses which this singular adventure raised in the mind of the notary, the true motive of the creole's presence never came to his thought. he had not, or, rather, he thought he had not, any other enemies than the victims of his licentiousness and cupidity. now all of them were in such a condition of trouble or distress that he could not suppose them capable of spreading a snare of which cecily was the bait. and then, again, for what purpose was it spread? no, the sudden transformation of cecily inspired but one fear to jacques ferrand: he thought that if this woman did not speak the truth she was an adventurer, who, believing him rich, introduced herself into the house to cajole him, find him out, and perhaps cause him to marry her. but, although his avarice and cupidity revolted at the idea, he perceived, shuddering, that these suspicions and reflections were too late; for, with a single word, he could put his suspicions at rest by sending this woman away. and this word he did not speak. already he loved her, after his manner, and passionately. already the idea of seeing this seducing creature leave his house seemed to him impossible. already, even, feeling the pangs of a savage jealousy to think that cecily might bestow on others favors refused to him, he experienced some consolation in saying, "as long as she is sequestered in my house no one will possess her." the boldness of language of this woman, the fire in her eyes, the provoking liberty of her manners, sufficiently revealed that she was not, as she said, _a prude._ this conviction, giving vague hopes to the notary, assured still more the empire of cecily. in a word, the licentiousness of jacques ferrand stifled the voice of cold reason; he abandoned himself blindly to the emotions which overwhelmed him. it was agreed that cecily should be his servant only in appearance; in this manner there would be no scandal. besides, to assure still more the security of his guest, he would take no other domestic; he would himself serve her and himself also; a neighboring coffee-house keeper could bring his repasts. he paid in money the breakfasts of his clerks, and the porter could take care of the office. finally, the notary ordered to be promptly furnished a chamber on the first floor, according to cecily's taste. she offered to pay the expense. he opposed it, and expended two thousand francs. this generosity was enormous, and proved the unheard-of violence of his passion. then commenced for this wretch a strange life. shut up in the impenetrable solitude of his house, inaccessible to all, more and more under the yoke of his frenzied love, no longer attempting to discover the secrets of this strange woman, from master he became a slave; he was the footman of cecily--he served her at her repasts--he took care of her apartment. informed by the baron that louise had been surprised by a narcotic, the creole only drank very pure water, only ate meats impossible to adulterate; she chose the chamber which she occupied, and assured herself that the walls concealed no secret doors. besides, jacques ferrand soon comprehended that cecily was a woman not to be surprised with impunity. she was vigorous, agile, and dangerously armed. nevertheless, not to allow his passion to flag, the creole seemed at times touched with his attentions, and flattered by the terrible domination she exercised over him. then, supposing that by proofs of his devotion and self-denial he could make her forget age and ugliness, she delighted to paint in glowing colors his reward when he should arrive at that success. at these words of a woman so young and so lovely, jacques ferrand felt sometimes his mind wandering; a devouring imagery pursued him, waking or sleeping. the ancient fable of the nessus' shirt was realized for him. in the midst of these nameless tortures he lost his health, appetite, and sleep. often at night, in spite of cold or rain, he descended to his garden, and endeavored by a rapid walk to calm his emotions. at other times, during whole hours, he looked into the chamber where the creole slept, for she had had the infernal kindness to allow a wicket to be placed in her door, which she often opened, in order that she might almost cause him to lose his reason, so that she could then execute the orders she had received. the decisive moment seemed to approach. the chastisement of ferrand became from day to day more worthy of his sins. he suffered all the torments. by turns absorbed, lost, out of his mind, indifferent to his most serious interests, the maintenance of his reputation as an austere, grave, and pious man--a reputation usurped, but acquired by long years of dissimulation and cunning--he astonished his clerks by his aberrations, displeased his clients by his refusal to see them, and harshly kept at a distance the priests, who, deceived by his hypocrisy, had been, until then, his most fervent trumpeters. as we were saying, cecily was arranging her head for the night before a glass. on a slight noise coming from the corridor, she turned her face away from the door. notwithstanding the noise which she had just heard at the door, cecily did not the less tranquilly continue her undressing; she drew from her corsage, where it was placed like a busk, a dirk, five or six inches long, in a case of black shagreen, with a handle of black ebony fastened with silver, a very simple handle, but perfectly _handy_, not a weapon of mere display. cecily took the dirk from its case with excessive precaution, and placed it on the marble chimney-piece; the blade, of the finest damascus and the best temper, was triangular; its point, as sharp as a needle, had pierced a dollar without blunting it. impregnated with a subtle and quick poison, the least wound from this poniard was mortal. jacques ferrand, having one day doubted the dangerous properties of this weapon, the creole made before him an experiment _in anima vita_, that is to say, on the unfortunate house dog, who, slightly pricked in the nose, fell dead in horrible convulsions. the dirk placed on the chimney, cecily taking off her spencer of black cloth, exposed her shoulders, bosom, and arms, naked like a lady in ball costume. according to the custom of most girls of color, she wore, instead of a corset, a second corsage of double linen, which was closely bound around her waist; her orange petticoat, remaining fastened under her white inner waist with short sleeves, composed thus a costume much less severe than the first, and harmonized wonderfully with the scarlet stockings, and the madras scarf so capriciously twisted around the head of the creole. nothing could be more pure, more beautiful, than the contour of her arms and shoulders, to which little dimples gave a charm the more. a profound sigh attracted the attention of cecily. she smiled, while roiling around one of her ivory fingers some stray curls which escaped from the folds of the bandana. "cecily! cecily!" murmured a voice, at once harsh and plaintive. and at the narrow opening of the wicket appeared the pale, flat face of jacques ferrand; his eyes sparkled in the shade. cecily, silent until then, began to sing softly in creole french, a louisianian air. the words of this melody were soft and expressive. although restrained, the noble contralto overpowered the noise of the torrents of rain and violent gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its foundation. "cecily! cecily!" repeated jacques ferrand, in a supplicating tone. the creole suddenly stopped, turned her head quickly, and appeared to hear for the first time the voice of the notary, and approached the door. "how! dear master, you are there?" said she, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her melodious voice. "oh! how handsome you are!" murmured the notary. "you think so?" answered the creole: "this bandana suits my hair?" "every day i find you still more handsome." "and see how white my arm is." "monster! go away! go away!" cried jacques ferrand, furiously. cecily laughed immoderately. "no, no, this is suffering too much! oh! if i did not fear death!" cried the notary, in a hollow voice; "but to die--to renounce the sight of you, so handsome. i prefer to suffer, and see you--" "see me; this wicket is made for that, and, also, that we can talk as friends, and thus charm our solitude; which, in truth, does not weigh heavily, you are so good a _master!_ see what dangerous confessions i can make through this door." "and will you not open this door? yet see how submissive i am! to-night i might have tried to enter with you into your chamber--i did not." "you are submissive for two reasons. in the first place, you know that being, from necessity, in the habit of wearing a dirk, i handle with a firm hand this venomous plaything, sharper than the tooth of a viper; you know also, that on the day i complain of you, i shall leave forever this house, leaving you a thousand time more charmed, since you have been so gracious toward your unworthy servant as to be charmed with her." "my servant? it is i who am your slave--your slave, mocked, despised." "that is true enough." "and does not this touch you?" "it amuses me. the days, and, above all, the nights, are so long." "oh, the cursed--" "no seriously, you appear so completely bewildered, your features change so sensibly, that i am flattered. it is a poor triumph, but you are the only man here!" "to hear that, and only be able to consume in powerless rage!" "how little wit you have! never, perhaps, have i said anything to you more tender." "scoff--scoff." "i do not scoff; i have never seen a man of your age so much in love; and, it must be acknowledged, that a young and handsome man would be incapable of such mad passion. an adonis admires himself as much as he admires us; he loves on the end of his teeth; and then to love him is his due, hardly is he grateful; but to love a man like you, my master, oh! that would be to raise him from earth to heaven; it would be to accomplish his wildest dreams, his hopes the most extravagent. for, in fine, the being would say to you, 'you love cecily madly; if i wish it, she shall be yours'--you would believe such a being endowed with supernatural powers, would you not, dear master?" "yes, oh! yes." "well! if you knew how to convince me better of your passion, i should have, perhaps, the fantasy to play myself, in your favor, this supernatural part. do you comprehend?" "i comprehend that you scoff at me still, always, and without pity." "perhaps solitude creates such strange fantasies." her tone, until then, had been sardonic; but she pronounced these last words with a serious expression, and accompanied them by a glance which made the notary tremble. "hush--do not look at me thus; you will make me mad. i prefer that you should say to me _never_; at least, i could abhor you, drive you from the house," cried jacques ferrand, who again abandoned his vain hopes. "yes, for i expect nothing from you. but woe is me! woe! i know you now enough. you tell me to convince you of my love; do you not see how unhappy i am! yet i do all i can to please you. you wish to be concealed from every eye: i conceal you, perhaps at the risk of compromising myself; in fine, i do not know who you are; i respect your secret; i never speak to you about it. i have interrogated you on your past life; you have not answered me." "well! i was wrong; i am going to give you a mark of blind confidence. oh! my master, listen to me." "once more a bitter joke!" "no, it is very serious. you must know, you should know, the history of her to whom you give such generous hospitality." and cecily added, in a tone of hypocritical and tearful compunction: "the daughter of a brave soldier, brother of my aunt pipelet, i have received an education above my condition; i was seduced, then abandoned, by a rich young man. then, to escape from the rage of my old father, i fled my native country." then, laughing heartily, cecily added: "there, i hope is a little story very presentable, and, above all, very probable, for it has often been related. amaze your curiosity with that, while waiting for some revelation more piquant." "i was very sure that this was a cruel pleasantry," said the notary, with suppressed anger. "nothing touches you, nothing; what must be done? tell me, at least. i serve you like the meanest valet; for you i neglect my dearest interests; i know no more what i do. i am a subject of laughter for my clerks; my clients hesitate to leave me their business. i have parted with some pious people who used to visit me. i dare not think what the public say of this complete change in all my habits. you do not know, no, you do not know the fatal consequences that my mad passion may have for me. see, now, the proofs of my devotion, my sacrifices. do you wish more? speak! is it gold you wish? the world thinks me richer than i am, but i----" "what would you have me to do with your gold?" said cecily, interrupting the notary, and shrugging her shoulders. "to reside in this chamber--what good would the gold do me? you have small invention!" "but it is not my fault if you are a prisoner. does this room displease you? will you have it more magnificent? speak, command." "for what purpose; once more, for what purpose? oh! if i expected here an adored being, i would have gold, silk, flowers, perfumes, all the wonders of luxury; nothing could be too sumptuous, too enchanting." "well! these wonders of luxury; say a word, and----" "for what purpose? what should i do with the frame without the picture? the adored being, where is he, oh! my master?" "it is true!" cried the notary, bitterly. "i am old. i am ugly. i can only inspire disgust and aversion; she loads me with contempt; she scoffs at me, and i have not the strength to drive her away. i have only strength to suffer." "oh! the insupportable _cry-baby_; oh! the silly, with his complaints," cried cecily, in a sardonic and contemptuous tone; he does nothing but groan and lament, and has been for ten days shut up alone with a young woman, in a deserted house." "but this woman despises me--is armed--is locked!" cried the notary in a rage. "well! overcome the disdain of this woman; cause the dagger to fall from her hand; constrain her to open this door, which separates you from her; and that not by brutal force, which would fail." "and how then?" "by the force of your passion." "passion! and how can i inspire it?" "stop, you are but a notary bound up with a sexton; you make me pity you. am i to teach you your part? you are ugly; be terrible, your ugliness will be forgotten. you are old; be energetic, your age will be overlooked. you are repulsive; be threatening. since you cannot be the noble horse, who neighs proudly in the midst of his wives, be not, at least, the stupid camel, who bends the knee and crooks the back; be a tiger. an old tiger, who roars in the midst of carnage, has also its beauty; his tigress answers him from the depths of the desert." at this language, which was not without a sort of bold natural eloquence, jacques ferrard shuddered, at the savage and almost ferocious expression of the face of cecily, who, with heaving bosom, expanded nostril, haughty mouth, fixed on him her large black and burning eyes. never had she appeared so lovely. "speak, speak again!" cried he, passionately; "you speak seriously this time. oh! if i could----" "one can do what one wishes," said cecily, abruptly. "but----" "but i tell you that if you wish, repulsive as you are----" "yes, i will do it! try me, try me!" cried jacques ferrand, more and more excited. cecily continued, approaching nearer, and fixing on the notary a penetrating look, "for a woman loving a handsome youth would know," resumed the creole, "that she would have an exorbitant caprice to satisfy; that the boys would look at their money if they had any, or, if they had none, to a mean trick, while the old tiger----" "would regard nothing, do you understand? nothing. fortune, honor, he would know how to sacrifice all he would!" "true," said cecily, placing her charming fingers on the bony and hairy hands of jacques ferrand, who, for the first time, touched the soft and velvety skin of the creole. he became still paler, and uttered a hoarse sigh. "how this woman would be beloved," added cecily, "had she an enemy, whom, pointing out to her old tiger, she would say strike, and--" "and he would strike," cried jacques ferrand, endeavoring to approach the ends of her fingers to his withered lips. "true, the old tiger would strike," said the creole, placing her hand softly on his. "if you would love me," cried the wretch, "i believe i would commit a crime." "hold, master," said cecily, suddenly withdrawing her hand; "in your turn go away, go away, i know you no more; you do not appear to me so ugly now as before; go away." she retired quickly from the wicket. the detestable creature knew how to give to her gestures and to her last words an accent of truth so incredible--her look, at once surprised and annoyed, seemed to express so naturally her spite at having for a moment forgotten the ugliness of jacques ferrand--that he, transported with frenzied hope, cried, clinging to the bars of the wicket, "cecily, return, command, i will be your tiger!" "no, no, master," said cecily, retreating still further from the wicket; "and to lay the devil who tempts me--i am going to sing a song of my country. master, do you hear? without, the wind redoubles, the tempest is unchained; what a fine night for two lovers, seated side by side near a sparkling fire!" "cecily, return!" cried jacques ferrand, in a supplicating tone. "no, no, presently, when i can without danger; but the light from this lamp hurts my eyes, a soft languor weighs down my eyelids. i do not know what emotion agitates me; a demi-obscurity will please me more; one would say i am in the twilight of pleasure." and cecily went toward the chimney, put out the lamp, took a guitar suspended on the wall, and stirred the fire, whose blaze illuminated this large room. from the narrow wicket where he remained immovable, such was the picture which jacques ferrand perceived. in the midst of the luminous horizon formed by the undulating light of the fire, cecily, in a position full of languor, half reclining on a divan of pink satin, held a guitar, from whence she drew some harmonious preludes. the blazing hearth shed its rosy light on the creole, who appeared brilliantly illumined in the midst of the obscurity of the rest of the apartment. to complete the effect of this picture, let the reader recall to his mind the mysterious and almost fantastic appearance of a room where the firelight struggles with the long, dark shadows which tremble on the ceiling and walls. the storm redoubled its violence, its roaring could be heard from within. while preluding on her guitar, cecily fixed her magnetic glances on jacques ferrand, who, fascinated, could not withdraw. "now, master," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country; we do not know how to make verses; we muse a simple recitative, without rhyme, and at each pause we improvise a couplet appropriate to the subject; it is very pastoral; it will please you, i am sure, master. this song is called the 'loving girl!' it is she who speaks." and cecily commenced a kind of recitative, much more accented by the expression of the voice than by the modulations of the song. a few soft and trembling chords served as an accompaniment. this was the song: "flowers, everywhere flowers, my lover comes! the hope of happiness enervates and destroys. soften the light of day--pleasure seeks a lucid darkness. to the fresh perfume of flowers my love prefers my warm breath, the glare of day shall not wound his eyes, for i will keep them closed by my kisses. my angel, come! my heart beats; my blood burns! come, come, come!" these words, chanted with as much ardor as if she had addressed an invisible lover, were, thus to speak, translated by the creole into a theme of enchanting melody; her charming fingers drew from her guitar sounds full of delicious harmony. the animated face of cecily, her veiled and moistened eyes constantly fixed on those of jacques ferrand, expressed all the languor of the song. words of love; intoxicating music; inflamed looks; silence; night! all conspired at this moment to disturb the reason of the notary. he cried, bewildered: "mercy! cecily! mercy i i shall go wild. hush! i die. oh! that i were mad!" "listen, then, to the second couplet," said the creole, preluding anew. and she continued her passionate recitative: "if my lover were there, and with his hand touched my soft neck, i should shudder and die. if he were there, and his hair touched my cheek, my cheek so pale would become red. my cheek so pale would be as fire. life of my soul, if you were there, my parched lips could not speak. life of my life, if you were there--expiring--i would ask no mercy. those whom i love as i love you, i kill. my angel, come. oh! come! my heart beats: my blood burns i come, come, come!" if the creole had accented the first stanza with a voluptuous languor, she poured into these last words all the transports of eros of old. as if the music had been powerless to express her wild delirium, she threw the guitar aside, and half rising from the couch and extending her arms toward the door, she repeated, in an expiring, languishing voice, "oh! come, come, come!" to paint the electric look with which she accompanied these words would he impossible. jacques ferrand uttered a terrible cry. "o! death--death to him you love so much, to whom you have addressed these words!" cried he, shaking the door in a transport of jealousy. active as a tigress, with one bound cecily was at the wicket, and, as if she had with difficulty dispelled her feigned transports, she said to jacques ferrand, in a low, palpitating voice: "well! i avow i did not wish to return to the door. i am here in spite of myself; for i fear your words spoken just now. _if you say strike--i will strike._ you love me well, then?" "do you wish gold--all my gold?" "no; i have enough." "have you an enemy? i'll kill him." "i have no enemy." "will you be my wife? i will espouse you." "i am married." "but what do you wish, then! what _do_ you wish?" "prove to me that your passion for me is blind, furious, that you will sacrifice everything for me!" "all! yes, all! but how?" "i do not know; but there was a moment when the glance of your eye bewildered me. if now you give me some proof of your love, i do not know of what i should be capable! hasten! i am capricious; to-morrow the impression of this hour will perhaps be effaced." "but what proof can i give you on the moment?" cried the wretch. "it is an atrocious torment! what proof? speak! what proof?" "you are only a fool!" answered cecily, retreating from the wicket with an appearance of extreme irritation. "i am mistaken! i thought you capable of energetic devotion! good-night. it is a pity--" "cecily! oh! do not go--return. but what must i do? tell me, at least. oh! my senses wander. what must i do? what do?" "guess!" "but, in fine--speak! what do you wish?" cried the notary, quite beside himself. "guess." "explain--command." "ah! if you love me as passionately as you say, you will find the means. good-night." "cecily!" "i am going to shut this wicket--instead of opening the door--" "mercy! listen--remain--i have found it," cried jacques ferrand, after a moment's pause, with an expression of joy impossible to describe. the wretch was seized with a vertigo. he lost all prudence, all reserve; the instinct of moral preservation abandoned him. "well! this proof of your love?" said the creole: who, having approached the chimney, took hold of her knife, and returned slowly toward the wicket. then, without being seen by the notary, she assured herself of the action of a small chain, one end of which was fastened to the door, the other to the door-post. "listen," said jacques ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice; "listen. if i place my honor, my fortune, my life, at your mercy--here--on the spot--will you then believe i love you? this proof of an insane passion, will it suffice?" "your honor, your fortune, your life? i do not comprehend." "if i confide to you a secret which would place me on the scaffold?" "you a criminal? you jest. and your austerity?" "a lie." "your probity?" "a lie." "your piety?" "a lie." "you pass for a saint, and you would be a demon! you are a boaster! no; there is no man quite cunning enough, bold enough, thus to insinuate himself into the confidence and respect of men. it would be a frightful defiance cast in the face of society." "i am this man! i have thrown this taunt, this defiance, in the teeth of society!" cried the monster, in an access of frightful pride. "jacques! jacques! do not speak thus," said cecily. "you will make me mad!" "my head for your love--do you wish it?" "oh! this is love, indeed!" cried cecily. "here--take my poniard; you disarm me." jacques ferrand took, through the wicket the dangerous weapon with precaution, and threw it from him into the corridor. "verily--you believe me, then?" cried he, in transport. "i believe you?" said the creole, leaning with force her charming hands on those of jacques ferrand. "yes, i believe you; for i see again your look of just now--that look which fascinated me. your eyes sparkle with savage ardor; jacques, i love your eyes!" "cecily!" "you should speak the truth." "i speak the truth! oh! you shall see." "your countenance is lowering. your expression formidable. hold, you are as fearful and beautiful as a mad tiger. but you speak the truth, do you not?" "i have committed crimes, i tell you." "so much the better, if by their avowal you prove your love." "and if i tell you all?" "i grant all; for if you have this blind confidence in me--do you see, jacques--it will no longer be the ideal lover of the song i call. it is to you, my tiger, you, that i shall say come--come--come." "oh, you will be mine. i shall be your tiger," cried he; "and then, if you will, you shall dishonor me--my head shall fall. my honor, my life, all is yours now," "your honor?" "my honor! listen; ten years since an infant was confided to my care, and two hundred thousand francs for its support; i have abandoned this child. i spread the report the child was dead, and i kept the money." "it was bold and skillful--who would have thought it of you?" "listen again: i hated my cashier, françois germain. one night he took from me a little gold, which he returned the next day; but to ruin him, i accused him of having robbed me of a considerable sum. i was believed, he was thrown into prison. now my honor is at your mercy." "oh, you love me, jacques, you love me. to inform me thus of your secrets--what empire i must have over you! i will not be ungrateful; let me kiss this forehead, where so many infernal thoughts were created." "oh!" cried the notary, stammering, "if the scaffold stood there, ready, i would not draw back. listen again: this child, fleur-de-marie, once abandoned, crosses my path--she inspires me with fears; i have had her killed!" "you? how? where?" "a few days since--near asnières bridge, by ravageurs' island. one named martial drowned her in a boat. are these details sufficient? do you believe me?" "oh! demon from hell: you alarm, yet attract me. you inspire me. what is, then, your power?" "listen again: before that a man had confided to me a hundred thousand crowns. i set a trap for him. i blew his brains out. i proved that he committed suicide, and i denied the deposit which his sister the baroness de fermont reclaimed. now my life is at your mercy--open." "jacques, i adore you!" said the creole, with warmth. "oh! come a thousand deaths, and i'd dare them!" cried the notary, in an intoxication impossible to describe. "yes, you are right; were i young and charming, i should not experience this triumphant joy. the key! throw me the key! draw the bolt!" the creole took the key from the lock, and handed it to the notary through the wicket, saying, "jacques, i am mad!" "you are mine, at length!" cried he, with a savage roar, turning the key in the lock. but the door, fastened with a bolt, did not open. "come, my tiger! come," said cecily, in an expiring voice. "the bolt! the bolt!" cried jacques ferrand. "but, if you deceive me," cried the creole, suddenly, "if these secrets are an invention, to cajole me---" the notary remained for a moment, struck with stupor; he thought he had succeeded: this last difficulty raised his impatient fury to its climax. he thrust his hand quickly in his bosom, opened his waistcoat, broke with violence a small chain of steel, to which was suspended a small, thin pocket-book, took it, and showing it through the wicket to cecily, he said, in an oppressed and breathless tone, "here is what would cause my head to fall! draw the bolt--the book is yours." "give it to me, my tiger," cried cecily. and hastily drawing the bolt with one hand, with the other she seized the book. but jacques ferrand did not abandon it until the moment he felt the door yielding to his efforts. but though the door yielded, it was only for about six inches, confined, as it was, by the chain above mentioned. at this unforeseen obstacle, jacques ferrand threw himself against the door, and shook it with a desperate effort. cecily, with the rapidity of thought, put the wallet between her teeth, opened the window, threw a cloak into the court, and with great dexterity making use of a cord previously fastened to the balcony, she let herself down into the court, as rapidly and lightly as an arrow falls to the ground. then, wrapping herself up in haste in the mantle, she ran to the porter's lodge, opened it, drew the bolt, went out into the street, and jumped into a carriage, which, since her residence at jacques ferrand's, was sent every night by order of baron de graun, stationed not twenty steps from the notary's mansion. this carriage was quickly driven off, drawn by two stout horses. it reached the boulevard before jacques ferrand had perceived the flight of cecily. let us return to this monster. through the opening of the door it was impossible for him to see the window by which the creole escaped. with one mighty effort with his broad shoulders, he burst the chain which confined the door, and rushed into the chamber, and found no one. the cord waved in the wind, as he leaned from the balcony. then, from the other side of the court, by the light of the moon, which burst forth at intervals from the driving clouds, he saw the gate open. in a moment he divined everything. a last ray of hope remained. vigorous and determined, he sprang over the balcony, using the cord in his turn, lowered himself into the court, and rushed out of the house. the street was deserted--he was alone. he heard no other noise than the distant rolling of the carriage which was rapidly carrying off the creole. the notary thought it was some belated vehicle, and attached no importance to this circumstance. thus, for him no chance remained of finding cecily, who carried off with her the proofs of his crimes!!! on this frightful certainty, he fell, thunderstruck, on his own threshold. he remained there a long time, dumb, immovable, petrified. with wan eyes, his teeth compressed, his mouth foaming, tearing mechanically with his nails his breast, he felt his reason totter, and was lost in an abyss of darkness. when he awoke from his stupor, he walked heavily, and with an ill-assured step; objects trembled in his sight; he felt as if recovering from a fit of intoxication. he shut with violence the street door, and re-entered the court. the rain had ceased, but the wind continued to blow with violence, chasing the heavy laden clouds, which veiled, without concealing, the light of the moon. slightly calmed by the brisk and cold air of the night, ferrand, hoping to combat his internal agitation by the rapidity of his walk, plunged into the obscure walks of his garden, marching with rapid strides, and from time to time striking his forehead with his clinched fists. walking thus at hazard, he reached the end of a walk near a greenhouse in ruins. suddenly he stumbled violently over a mound of earth newly raised. he stooped, and looked mechanically on some linen stained with blood. he was near the grave where louise morel buried her dead child. her child--also the child of jacques ferrand! notwithstanding his obduracy, notwithstanding the frightful fears which agitated him, jacques ferrand shuddered with alarm. there was something supernatural in this stumbling-block. pursued by the avenging punishment of his _vice_, chance carried him to the grave of his child--unhappy fruit of his violence. under any other circumstances, jacques ferrand would have trampled on this sepulcher with atrocious indifference; but having exhausted his savage energy in the scene we have related, he was seized with a weakness and sudden alarm. his face was covered with an icy sweat, his trembling knees shook under him, and he fell lifeless across this open grave. chapter iii. la force. the interior of a prison is a frightful pandemonium--a sad _thermometer_ of the state of society, and an instructive study. in a word, the varied physiognomies of all classes of prisoners, the relations of family or affection which connects them still to the world, from which the prison walls separate them, have appeared to us worthy of regard. the reader will, then, excuse us for having grouped around several of the prisoners personages to be known in this tale, and other secondary figures, destined to place in active relief certain critical events necessary to complete this initiation into prison life. let us enter la force. there is nothing gloomy, nothing sinister in the aspect of this house of detention. in the middle of one of the first courts are to be seen some mounds of earth, planted with shrubbery, at the foot of which are already shooting forth some precocious cowslips and snowdrops; a trellised doorway leads to one of the seven or eight exercise-grounds destined for the prisoners. the vast buildings surrounding this court resemble much a barrack or manufactory, kept with extreme neatness. they are built of limestone, with lofty windows, in order to allow a free circulation of air. the steps and pavement of the yard are of scrupulous cleanliness. on the ground-floor, vast halls, heated during winter, and well aired during summer, serve during the day as a place for conversation, workshops, or refectories. the upper stories are used as immense sleeping apartments, ten or twelve feet in height, with shining floors; they are furnished with two rows of iron bedsteads, excellent beds, composed of a soft thick mattress, a bolster, sheets of white linen, and a warm woolen covering. at the sight of these accommodations, uniting all the requisites of comfort and salubrity, a stranger is much surprised, accustomed as he is to suppose all prisons as sorrowful, dirty, unhealthy, and gloomy. he is mistaken. sad, dirty, and gloomy are the holes where so many poor and honest workmen languish exhausted, forced to abandon their beds to their infirm wives, and to leave with powerless despair their half-starving, naked children, struggling with the cold, in the infectious straw. there is some contrast between the physiognomies of the inhabitants of these two dwellings. incessantly occupied with the wants of his family, to whom the day is hardly long enough, seeing a mad perversity reducing his salary, the artisan will be cast down and worn out; the hour of repose will not be sound to him; a kind of sleep like lassitude alone interrupts his daily toil. then, on awaking from this mournful drowsiness, he will find himself overwhelmed with the same racking thoughts of the present, with the same inquietudes for the morrow. but if, hardened by vice, indifferent to the past, happy with the present, certain of the future (he can assure himself of it by an offense or crime), regretting his liberty without doubt, but finding large compensation in the personal well-being he enjoys, certain to carry away with him on his release a good sum of money, gained by moderate and easy labor, esteemed, or, may be, feared by his companions, either for his impudence or perversity, the convict, on the contrary, will be almost always careless and gay. once more; what does he want? does he not find in prison good shelter, good bed, good food, good pay, easy labor, and above all and before all, _a society to his taste_, a society, let us repeat, which measures his merit by the magnitude of his offenses? a hardened criminal, then, knows neither poverty, hunger, nor cold. what matters to him the horror he inspires in honest men? he does not see them--he knows none. his crimes are his glory, influence, and strength with the bandits among whom he will henceforth pass his life. how can he fear shame? instead of grave and charitable remonstrances, which might force him to blush and to repent, he hears savage plaudits, which encourage him to robbery and murder, scarcely imprisoned, he meditates new misdeeds. what is more logical? if he is discovered, arrested anew, he will find repose, the personal care of the prison, and his joyous and bold companions in crime and debauchery. is his corruption less great than that of the others? does he manifest, on the contrary, the slightest remorse that he is exposed to atrocious railings, infernal shouts, terrible threats? in fine--a thing so rare that it has become an exception to the rule--should a condemned man come out of this frightful pandemonium with a firm resolution to reform by prodigies of labor, courage, patience, and honesty, and be able to conceal his past offenses, a meeting with one of his old prison companions would be sufficient to overturn his plan of reformation so carefully designed. in this way: a hardened ticket-of-leave proposes a job to a repentant one; the latter, in spite of dangerous threats, refuses the criminal association; immediately an anonymous communication strips the veil from the past life of this unfortunate, who wishes, at any sacrifice, to conceal and expiate a first fault by honorable conduct. then, exposed to the contempt, or, at least, the suspicion of those whose interest he had obtained by force of industry and probity, reduced to distress, soured by injustice, carried away by want, yielding, in fine, to these fatal derelictions, this man, almost restored, falls back again, and forever, to the bottom of the abyss from whence he had with so much difficulty escaped. in the following scenes we shall endeavor, then, to show the monstrous and inevitable consequences of promiscuous confinement. after ages of barbarous proofs and pernicious doubts, it begins to be understood how unreasonable it is to plunge into an atmosphere abominably vitiated, people whom a pure and salubrious air might have saved. how much time shall be required to find out that, to associate gangrened beings is to redouble the intensity of their corruption, which thus becomes incurable? how long to find out that there is but one remedy to this growing leprosy, which threatens the body social, solitary confinement? we should esteem ourselves happy if our feeble voice could be, if not counted, at least heard, among all those which, more imposing, more eloquent than ours, demand, with so just and so impatient an importunity, the complete, absolute adoption of the _solitary system_. some day, also, perhaps, society will know that evil is an accidental, not organic malady; that criminals are almost always good in substance, but false and wicked through ignorance, selfishness, or negligence of those governing; and that the health of the soul, like that of the body, is invincibly subordinate to the laws of a "hygiene" at once salubrious and preservative. god gives to all, along with healthy organs, energetic appetites, and the desire of comfort; it is for society to modify and satisfy these wants. the man who only has as his share strength, good-will, and health, has the _right_, sovereign _right_ to a labor justly remunerated, which will assure him, not the superfluities, but the necessaries of life, the means to be healthy and robust, active and industrious, therefore honest and virtuous, because his condition will be happy. the dismal regions of misery and ignorance are peopled with beings of sorrowful hearts. cleanse these sewers, spread there the inclination to labor, equitable salaries, just rewards, and soon these sickly faces, these broken hearts, will be brought back to virtue, which is the life and health of the soul. we will conduct the reader to the visitors' room of the prison. it is an obscure apartment, separated down its whole length into two equal parts by a narrow, railed passage. one part communicates with the interior, destined for the prisoners. the other communicates with the office, destined for strangers admitted to visit the prisoners. these interviews and conversations take place through the double grating of iron, in presence of a warder, who remains inside, at the extremity of the passage. the appearance of the prisoners assembled in the visiting room on this day offered numerous contrasts: some were covered with wretched vestments; some seemed to belong to the working class; others, again, to the well-to-do class. the same contrast of condition was observable among the persons who came to see the prisoners; they were almost all of them women. generally the prisoners appear less sad than the visitors; for, strange as it may appear, it is proved by experience, there are few sorrows and little shame which resist three or four days of imprisonment passed in company. those who are most alarmed at this hideous communion are soon habituated; the contagion reaches them; surrounded by degraded beings, hearing only infamous words, a kind of ferocious emulation drags them on, and either to impose upon their companions by rivaling their obduracy or to stupefy themselves by this moral intoxication, almost always the newly-arrived show as much depravity and insolent gayety as the old hands. let us return to the visitors' room. notwithstanding the humming noise of a great number of conversations carried on in a low tone, from one side of the passage to the other, prisoners and visitors succeeded, after some practice, in being able to converse among themselves--on the absolute condition not to allow themselves, for a moment, to be distracted or occupied with the conversation of their neighbors, which created a kind of secret in the midst of all this noisy exchange of words, each one being forced to hear, but not to listen, to a word of that which was spoken around him. among the prisoners summoned to the visitors' room, and the furthest from the place where the guardian was seated, was one whom we still particularize. to the sad state of dejection he was in on his arrest had succeeded impudent assurance. already the contagious and detestable influence of imprisonment _in common_ bore its fruits. without doubt, if he had been immediately transferred to a solitary cell, this wretch, still under the blow of his first detection, the thought of his crimes constantly before him, alarmed at the punishment which awaited him, might have experienced, if not repentance, at least a salutary alarm, from which nothing might have distracted him. and who knows what effect may be produced on a criminal by an incessant, forced meditation on the crimes which he had committed, and their punishment? far from this, thrown into the midst of a ruffianly crowd in whose eyes the least sign of repentance is cowardice, or, rather, _treachery_, which they dearly expiate, for, in their savage obduracy and in senseless distrust, they look upon as a spy every man (if there should be such a one) who, sad and mournful, regretting his fault, does not partake of their audacious thoughtlessness, and shudders at their contact. thrown among the bandits, this man, knowing, for a long time and by tradition, the manners and ways of prisons, overcame his weakness, and wished to appear worthy of a name already celebrated in the annals of robbery and murder. for it had been to him, nicholas martial, that ferrand had applied when the idea struck him to be rid of his housekeeper and fleur-de-marie at a blow. his family were what are called ravageurs, that is dredgers, living on what they could pick up out of the mud of the seine. at least they were openly these, but, secretly, they were river pirates, "lumpers," "light horsemen," housebreakers, and bravoes. the father had perished on the scaffold. his widow, forty-five years old, was confirmed in crime, stern, hard, coldly cruel, and bent on training all her children up into the life which would most revenge on society the slaying of her husband. one son, ambrose, had been sold by bras-rouge (red-arm), a tavern keeper and fence, and now languished in the rochefort hulks. the eldest son, known as martial, being head of the family, was a poacher, a fisherman at unlawful seasons, but not irreclaimably bad. the youngest children, françois and amandine, were not yet spoiled by evil surroundings. to this family, who added to their evil income by keeping a thieves' resort in their house on ravageur's island, la chouette had applied for the murdering of fleur-de-marie. nicholas and his sister, known as calabash (from her yellow complexion) had succeeded in drowning ferrand's housekeeper only. but, believing they had fulfilled the twofold bargain, they had gone off rejoicing with their mother, to meet la chouette, report their success, and join in a fresh atrocity. this new crime, the robbery and murder of a diamond-dealer in red-arm's public-house, was frustrated by the landlord's secret connection with the police. they had made their descent just as the jewel-broker was in the villains' hands, and arrested the whole gang. bras-rouge (taken to prevent his fellows suspecting his treachery), nicholas martial, and a scamp named barbillon, were put in la force, widow martial and calabash in saint lazare. another capture, a ruffian called the maitre d'École (schoolmaster), from his caligraphic abilities, who had killed la chouette in a fit of madness, was put in the conciergerie prison, in a cell for the insane. to return to nicholas martial in la force. some veteran gallows-birds had known his executed father, others, his brother, the galley-slave; he was received and immediately patronized by these revelers in crime with savage interest. this paternal reception from murderer to murderer exhilarated the widow's son, these praises bestowed on the hereditary perversity of his family intoxicated him. soon forgetting, in this hideous thoughtlessness, the future which menaced him, he only remembered his past misdeeds but to exaggerate them and glorify himself in the eyes of his companions. the expression, then, of his face, was as impudent as his visitor's was uneasy and concerned. this individual was one micou, a receiver, dwelling in the passage de la brasserie, to whose house madame de fermont and her daughter, victims of the cupidity of jacques ferrand, had been obliged to retire. micou knew to what punishment he was subject, for having several times acquired, at a miserable price, the fruits of nicholas's robberies, and of several others. he being arrested, the receiver found himself almost at the discretion of the bandit, who could point him out as his habitual fence. although this accusation might not be sustained by flagrant proofs, it was not the less very dangerous for micou: so he had immediately executed the orders which nicholas had sent him by a prisoner whose time had expired. "well! how do you get on, daddy micou?" said the thief. "to serve you, sir," answered the receiver, eagerly. "as soon as i saw the person you sent me, right away i--" "stop! why do you speak so loftily, micou?" said nicholas, interrupting him, with a sardonic air. "do you not despise me because i am in quod?" "no, i despise no one," said the receiver, who did not care to make public his past familiarity with this wretch. "well, then, speak as usual, or i shall believe you have no friendship for me, and that would break my heart." "as you like," said micou, sighing. "i have busied myself with all your little commissions." "well spoken, micou. i knew well that you would not forget friends. the weed?" "i have left two pounds at the office, my lad." "is it good?" "none better." "and the ham?" "also left there, with a quartern loaf. i have added a little surprise you did not expect--half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, and a fine dutch cheese." "that's what i call acting like a pal! and wine?" "there are six bottles, sealed; but, you know, they will only give you one bottle a day." "what would you have? one ought to be content with that." "i hope you are satisfied with me, my friend?" "certainly; and shall be still, and shall be again, daddy micou, for this ham, cheese, eggs, and wine will only last the time to swallow them; but, when there is no more, there will come some more, thanks to daddy micou, who will give me some more sugar-plums, if i am a good boy." "how? you wish--" "in two or three days you would renew my little provision, micou." "may the devil burn me if i do. it is all very well for once." "good for once! come, come; ham and wine are good always, you know that well enough." "it is possible; but i am not obliged to feed you with dainties." "oh, micou! it is wrong, it is unjust, to refuse ham to me, who have so often brought you fat tripe (sheet-lead)." "hush!" said the alarmed receiver. "no; i'll make the beak decide; i will tell him. imagine that, daddy micou--" "good, good!" cried the receiver, seeing, with as much fear as anger, nicholas was disposed to abuse the position which their dealings gave him; "i consent--i will replenish your stock of provisions when they are exhausted." "it is just--nothing but just. neither must you forget to send some coffee to my mother and calabash, who are at saint lazare; they used to take their cup every morning--they will feel the want of it." "still more? but do you mean to ruin me, lad?" "as you please, old micou; let us speak no more about it. i will ask the big-wig if--" "agreed, then, for the coffee," said the receiver, interrupting him. "but may the devil take you! cursed be the day i knew you!" "my old man, as for me, it is just the contrary. at this moment, i am delighted to know you. i venerate you as my foster-father." "i hope that you have nothing more to order?" answered micou, with bitterness. "yes! tell my mother and sister that, though i trembled when i was arrested, i tremble no more, and that i am now as bold as both of them." "i will tell them. is that all?" "stop! i forgot to ask for two pair of warm woolen stockings--you do not wish me to take cold, do you?" "i wish you were froze!" "thank you, micou, that shall be later; at present, i prefer something else. i wish to pass life calmly--at least, if they do not make me a head shorter, like father, i shall have enjoyed life." "your life is very pleasant!" "it is superb! since i have been here, i have amused myself like a king. if there had been lamps and guns, there would have been an illumination and a salvo in my honor, when it was known that i was the son of the famous martial!" "it is touching. beautiful relationship!" "hold! there are many dukes and marquises; why, then, should not we of the oldest family have our nobility?" said the thief with savage irony. "yes, jack ketch gives you your letters of nobility in palace square!" "very sure that it is not the parson! so much the more reason in prison one should be of high toby nobility, otherwise you are looked upon as a nobody. you ought to see how they treat those mere fogle-hunters, and who do their--hold! there is one here named germain, a young man who plays the disgusted, and seems to despise us. let him take care of his skin. he is a sneak; he is suspected of being a spy. if this is so, they will slit his nose, by way of warning!" "germain! a young man called germain?" "yes. do you know him? he is, then, in the family line, notwithstanding his innocent looks?" "i do not know him. but if it is the germain of whom i have heard speak, his lookout is good." "how?" "he once escaped a snare which velu and the big cripple laid for him." "why did they do it?" "i don't know. they said that down among the yokels he had sold one of their band." "i was sure of it. germain is a spy. well! i will tell this to my friends; that will give them an appetite. does the big cripple still play tricks on your lodgers?" "i am rid of the villain! you will see him here to-day or to-morrow." "bravo! we shall have a laugh! he's another who never looks glum!" "because he is going to meet germain here, is why i said his account was good--if he is the same--" "and why has the cripple been nabbed?" "for a robbery committed with a lagger (released convict) who wished to remain honest and labor. oh, yes! the big cripple nicely fixed him; he is so wicked! i am sure it was he who forced the trunk of two women who occupy my fourth floor." "what women? oh! the two, the youngest of whom was so handsome, old brigand." "oh, yes; but it is all over with her; for, at this present moment, the mother must be dead, and the daughter not far from it. i shall be in for two weeks' lodgings; but may the devil burn me if i give a rag to bury them! i have had losses enough, without counting the presents which you _beg_ me to give you and your family. this will nicely derange my business. i have luck this year." "bah, bah! you are always complaining, old micou; you are as rich as croesus. when you come to bring me some more provisions, you can give me news of my mother and calabash!" "yes, it must be so." "oh! i forget, while you are out, buy me also a new cap, of plaid velvet, with a tassel; mine is no longer fit to be worn." "decidedly--you are joking!" "no, micou. i want a cap of plaid velvet; it is my notion." "but you are determined, then, to make me sleep on straw?" "come, daddy micou, don't get vexed; it is yes or no; i do not force you. but enough." the receiver, reflecting that he was at the mercy of nicholas, arose, fearing to be assailed with new demands if he prolonged his visit. "you shall have your cap," said he; "but take care, if you ask me for anything more, i shall give nothing; happen what may, you will lose as much as i." "be tranquil, micou; i shall not blackmail you any more than is necessary, for this would be a pity; you pay much heavy postage as it is." the receiver went out, shrugging his shoulders with rage, and the warder reconducted nicholas into the prison. at the moment micou left, rigolette entered. the warder, a man of forty years, an old soldier of energetic appearance, was dressed in a jacket, cap, and trousers of blue cloth; two silver stars were embroidered on the collar and skirts of his coat. at sight of the grisette, his face brightened up, and assumed an expression of affectionate benevolence. he had always been struck with the grace, gentility, and touching goodness with which rigolette consoled germain when she came to converse with him. germain, on his part, was no ordinary prisoner. his reserve, his mildness, his sadness, inspired interest in the prison officials; an interest they were careful not to show him, for fear of exposing him to the bad treatment of his vicious companions, who, as we have shown, regarded him with suspicious hatred. it rained in torrents, but thanks to her overshoes and umbrella, rigolette had courageously braved the wind and rain. "what a horrible day, my poor girl!" said the guardian to her, kindly. "you must have had a good deal of courage to come out such a time as this, at least!" "when one is thinking all along the way of the pleasure they are going to give a poor prisoner, one does not pay much attention to the weather, sir!" "i have no need to ask you whom you come to see?" "surely not. and how is my poor germain?" "my dear, i have seen many prisoners; they were sad, one or two days, but by degrees they fell in with the rest, and the most sorrowful at first often became the most gay. germain is not so; he appears to grow sadder every day." "it is this that troubles me." "when i am on service in the yards, i watch him out of the corner of my eye; he is always alone. i have already told you, you should advise him not to act thus, but to speak to his comrades, otherwise he will become their butt. the yards are watched, but--a blow is soon struck!" "oh, sir! is there still more danger for him?" cried rigolette. "not precisely; but the knaves see he is not one of them, and they hate him because he appears honest and proud." "yet i have advised him to do what you have told me, sir; to endeavor to converse with the least wicked; but it is too much for him; he cannot overcome his repugnance." "he is wrong--wrong; a quarrel is soon got up." "can he not be separated from the others?" "since i have noticed two or three days ago their evil intentions toward him, i have advised him to take a room by himself." "well?" "i did not think of one thing. a whole range of cells are comprised in the repairs now going on in the prison, and the others are occupied." "but these bad men are capable of killing him!" cried rigolette, with her eyes filled with tears. "if by chance he had some persons interested in his fate, what could they do for him, sir?" "nothing more than to obtain what the prisoners can obtain themselves by paying money--a separate cell." "alas! then he is lost, if they hate him in the prison." "don't disturb yourself; he shall be watched closely. but i repeat, my dear, counsel him to be a little familiar with them; only the first step costs!" "i will recommend him to do this with all my strength, sir; but for a good and honest heart it is hard to be familiar with such people." "of two evils, choose the least. i go to ask for germain. but, stop," said the warder, reflecting; "there are only two visitors left; as soon as they are gone--no more will come to-day, for it is now two o'clock--i will send for germain; you can talk more at ease. i can, even, when you are alone, let him enter into the passage, so that you will be separated by one grating instead of two; so much less." "oh, sir! how kind you are; how much i thank you!" "hush! let not any one hear you; it will cause jealousy. seat yourself up there, at the end of the bench, and as soon as this man and woman are gone, i will send for germain." the warder returned to his post inside the passage. rigolette went and seated herself sadly at the extremity of the visitor's bench. thus we have a fine chance to draw the grisette's portrait. rigolette was hardly eighteen, of a middling size, perhaps rather small, but so gracefully shaped, so finely modeled, so voluptuously developed, that her size responded well to her bearing, fearless and yet modest; one inch more in height would have caused her to lose much of her grace; the movement of her small feet, always irreproachably confined in gaiter-boots of black cloth, with rather thick soles, recalled to mind the coquettish, light and discreet run of a quail. she did not appear to walk, she merely touched the pavement; she slid rapidly on its surface. this walk, peculiar to grisettes, ought to be attributed, without doubt, to three causes: to their desire to be thought handsome; to their fear of an admiration expressed in pantomime too expressive; to the desire that they always have to lose as little time as possible in their peregrinations. rigolette's two broad thick bands of shining hair, black as jet, fell very low on her forehead; her fine eyebrows seemed traced with ink, and overshadowed large black eyes, sparkling and wicked; her full, plump cheeks were like velvet of the freshest carnation, fresh to the sight, fresh to the touch, like a rosy peach impregnated with the cold dew of the morning. her little turned-up nose, saucy and cunning, would have made the fortune of a stage chambermaid; her mouth, somewhat large, with lips of rose well moistened, and little, white, pearly teeth, was smiling and provoking; of three charming dimples, which gave enticing grace to her face, two buried themselves in her cheeks, the other in her chin, not far from a beauty spot, a little black patch most killingly placed near the corner of her mouth. up to the day of germain's arrest, rigolette had had no sorrows but those of others; she sympathized with all her flowers--devoted herself, body and soul, to those who suffered--but thought no more about it when her back was turned. often she ceased from laughing to weep sincerely, and then she ceased from weeping to laugh again. a true child of paris--she preferred noise to solitude, movement to repose the resounding harmony of the orchestra at the chartreuse or coliseum balls, to the soft murmur of the winds, the waters, and the foliage--the deafening noise of the streets of paris to the solitude of the country--the glare of fireworks, the glitter of a ball, the noise of rockets, to the serenity of a fine night, with stars and darkness and silence. alas! yes; the good girl frankly preferred the black mud of the streets of the capital to the verdure of the flowery meadows--its dirty or scorching pavements to fresh and velvet moss of wood-paths perfumed with violets--the suffocating dust of the barriers or the boulevards to the waving of golden corn, enameled with the scarlet flowers of the wild poppy and the azure of the bluebells. rigolette only left her room on sundays--and each morning, to lay in her provision of chickweed, bread, milk, and hempseed, for herself and her two birds, but she lived in paris for paris' sake. she would have been in despair to have lived elsewhere than in the capital. another anomaly: notwithstanding this taste for parisian pleasures; notwithstanding the liberty, or, rather, the state of abandonment in which she found herself, being alone in the world; notwithstanding the rigid economy which she was obliged to use in her smallest expenses in order to live on thirty sous a day; notwithstanding the most mischievous and adorable little face in the world, never had rigolette been a man's prey. early in life, she had lost her parents by the cholera, and, at ten years of age, strangers had taken care of her, until she left them to find her own living. at this period she had made fleur-de-marie's passing acquaintance, and later, as she dwelt in rudolph's lodging-house--that of the prince whom she only thought to be a workman--she had been in the habit of going out on sundays and other holidays with young men of her house, but they had given up the companionship when they found how virtuous she was, without knowing it. germain, also her neighbor in the house, had, however, fallen desperately in love with rigolette, without daring to breathe one word respecting it. far from imitating his predecessors, who resorted to other sources of solace, without losing their regard for her, germain had delightfully enjoyed his intimacy with the girl, and the pleasure afforded by her society on sundays and every other evening that he was disengaged. during these long hours, rigolette was always gay and merry, and germain affectionate, serious, and attentive, and often slightly melancholy. this sadness was his only disadvantage, for his manners, being naturally refined, did not suffer by comparison with the ridiculous pretensions of m. girandeau, a traveling clerk, or with the boisterous eccentricities of cabrion, an artist, though girandeau, by his excessive loquacity, and the painter, by his no less excessive hilarity, had the advantage of germain, whose gentlemanly gravity rather awed his lively neighbor. rigolette had never evinced any partiality for either of her three lovers; but, with excellent judgment, she soon discovered that germain combined all the qualities which would render any reasonable woman happy. when the latter was imprisoned, her feeling manifested itself as love. chapter iv. pique-vinaigre. the prisoner who was placed alongside of barbillon in the visitor's room, was a man about forty years of age, and of slender make, and with a cunning, intelligent, jovial, and jeering face; he had an enormous mouth, almost entirely without teeth; when he spoke he twisted it from side to side, according to the pretty general custom of those who address the populace of market places; his nose was flat, his head immensely large, and almost entirely bald; he wore an old gray waistcoat, trousers of an indescribable color, pieced in a thousand different places; his naked feet, red from the cold, half wrapped up in old linen, were thrust into wooden shoes. this man, named fortune gobert, nick-named pique-vinaigre (sharp vinegar, to prevent mistakes), formerly a juggler, and a prisoner for the crime of passing counterfeit money, was accused of breaking the terms of his ticket-of-leave, and of burglary. confined but for a few days at la force, already pique-vinaigre filled, to the general satisfaction of his prison companions, the post of story-teller. at the present day these are rare, but formerly each ward generally had, at the expense of a light, individual contribution, its tale-teller, who, by his improvisations, made the interminable winter evenings appear less long, the prisoners retiring to rest at nightfall. pique-vinaigre excelled in that kind of heroic recital where weakness, after a thousand crosses, finishes by triumphing over its persecutors. pique-vinaigre possessed, besides, an immense fund of irony, which had given him his nickname. he had just entered the room. opposite him, on the other side of the railing, was a woman of about thirty-five, with a pale, sweet, and interesting face, poorly but neatly clad; she wept bitterly, and kept her handkerchief to her eyes. pique-vinaigre looked at her with a mixture of impatience and affection. "come now, jeanne," said he, "do not be a child; it is sixteen years since we have met; if you keep your handkerchief over your eyes, we won't know each other." "my brother, my poor fortune--i suffocate--i cannot speak." "ain't you droll! what ever is the matter with you?" this sister--for this woman was his sister--restrained her sobs, dried her eyes, and regarding him with stupor, answered, "what is the matter? i find you again in prison, who had already been in fifteen years!" "it is true; to-day six months i came out of melun prison, without going to see you at paris, because the _capital_ was forbidden to me." "already retaken! what have you then done? why did you leave beaugency, where you were sent, with orders to report yourself now and then?" "why? you ought to ask me why i went there?" "you are right." "in the first place, my poor jeanne, since these gratings are between us both, imagine that i have embraced you, folded you in my arms, as one ought to do when he sees a sister after an age. now, let us chat. a prisoner of melun, called the big cripple, told me that there was at beaugency an old galley-slave of his acquaintance, who employed liberated convicts in a manufactory of white-lead. do you know what that is?" "no, brother." "it is a very fine trade; those who are employed in it, at the end of a month or two, have the painter's colic; of three attacked, about one dies. to be just, the two others die also, but at their ease; they take their time; take good care of themselves, and they may last a year, eighteen months at the most. after all, the trade is not so badly paid as some others, and there are some folks born already dressed, who hold out two or three years; but these are the old folks, the centenaries of the _white-leaders_. they die, it is true, but that's not fatiguing." "and why did you choose a trade so dangerous, my poor fortune?" "and what would you have me do? when i entered melun for this affair of false money, i was a juggler. as in the prison there was no work-shop for my trade, and as i was no stronger than a fly, they put me at making toys for children. it was a manufacturer of paris who found it advantageous to have made by the prisoners his harlequins, his trumpets of wood, and his swords of ditto. thus, i tell you, haven't i sharpened, and cut, and carved for fifteen years, these toys! i am sure that i supplied the pets of an entire quarter of paris--it was, above all, on the trumpet i excelled; and rattles too! with these two instruments one could have put on edge the teeth of a whole battalion! i pride myself, on it. my time out, behold me with the degree of penny-trumpet manufacturer. they allowed me to choose for my residence three or four places, at forty leagues from paris; i had for sole resource my knowledge of trumpet-making. now, admitting that, from old men to babies, all the inhabitants of the town should have had a passion to play toot-too on my trumpets. i should have had, even then, trouble enough to pay my expenses; but i could not seduce a whole village into blowing trumpets from morning to night. they would have taken me for a conspirator!" "you always laugh." "that is better than to cry. finally, seeing that at forty leagues from paris my trade as a juggler would be of no more resource to me than my trumpets, i demanded an exchange to beaugency, wishing to engage myself in the white-lead factory. it is a pastry which gives you an indigestion of misery; but, until one dies from it, one has a living; it is always something gained, and i like that trade as well as that of a robber; to steal i am not brave or strong enough, and it was by pure chance i have committed the act of which i shall speak directly." "you would have been brave and strong if you had only had the _idea_ not to steal any more." "ah! you believe that, do you?" "yes, at the bottom you are not wicked; for, in this dangerous affair of false money, you had been dragged into it in spite of yourself, almost forced--you know it well." "yes, my girl--but, do you see, fifteen years in a prison, that spoils a man like my old pipe which you see, whenever it comes in the jail white as a new pipe; on coming out of melun, then, i felt myself too cowardly to steal." "and you had the courage to follow a deadly calling. hold, fortune! i tell you that you wish to make yourself worse than you are." "stop a moment, then; all greenhorn that i was, i had an idea, may the devil burn me if i know why! that i would not care for the colic, that the malady would find too little in me to feed on, and that it would go elsewhere; in fine, that i would become one of the old white-leaders. on leaving the prison i began by squandering my savings, augmented, understand, by what i had gained by relating stories at night in our ward." "as you used to tell us in old times, my brother? it used to amuse our mother so much, do you remember?" "pardieu! good woman! and she never suspected before she died that i was at melun?" "never: to her last moments she thought you had gone to the islands." "what could i do, my girl? my escapades were the fault of my father, who brought me up to play the clown, to assist him in his juggling, to eat flax and spit fire; that was the cause that i had not the time to associate with the sons of peers of france, and that i made bad acquaintances. but, to return to beaugency: once out of melun, i spent my money as i had a right. after fifteen years in a cage one must have a little air, and amuse one's self so much the more, as, without being too greedy, the white lead might give me a last indigestion; then, what good would my pension money be to me? i ask you. finally, i arrived at beaugency almost without a sou: i asked for _velu_, the friend of big cripple, the chief of the factory. serviteur! no more manufactory of white-lead than you could put under your hand; eleven persons had died there in one year; the old galley-slave had shut up shop. here i was in this village, with my talents for making wooden trumpets for my dinner, and my convict's passport for my sole recommendation. i asked for employment suited to my strength, and, as i had no strength, you can comprehend how i was received; robber here, gueux there, jail bird! in fine, as soon as i made my appearance anywhere, every one clapped their hands on their pockets; i could not, then, prevent myself from starving with hunger in a hole which i was not to leave for five years. seeing this, i broke my 'parole' to come to paris to use my talents. as i had not the means to come in a carriage and four, i came begging all along the road; avoiding the constables as a dog does a kick. i was lucky--i arrived without difficulty at auteuil. i was worried, i was as hungry as the devil, i was dressed, as you see, without profuseness." and pique-vinaigre cast a merry glance at his rags. "i had not a sou; i could at any moment be arrested as a vagabond. faith, an opportunity offered, the devil tempted me, and, in spite of my cowardice--" "enough, my brother, enough," said his sister, fearing that the warder, although at this moment some distance off, might hear the dangerous confession. "you are afraid that some one will listen?" answered he: "be tranquil, i do not conceal it; i was taken in the act; there are no means to deny it; i have confessed all; i know what i have to expect; my account is good." "alas!" answered the poor woman, weeping, "with what ease you speak of this." "if i were to speak of it with uneasiness, what should i gain? come, be reasonable, jeanne; must _i_ console _you?_" jeanne wiped away her tears, and sighed. "but to return to my affair," said pique-vinaigre; "i arrived near auteuil in the dusk of the evening. i could go no further; i did not wish to enter paris but at night; i seated myself behind a hedge to repose and reflect upon my plans. from the intensity of my thoughts i fell asleep; a noise of voices awoke me; it was quite dark; i listened, it was a man and a woman talking on the road, on the other side of my hedge; the man said to the woman, 'who do you think would rob us? have we not left the house alone a hundred times?' 'yes,' answered the woman, 'but then we did not leave a hundred francs in our chest.' 'who knows it, fool?' said the husband. 'you are right,' replied the woman, and they passed on. the chance appeared too favorable for me to lose--there was no danger. "i waited until they had got a little distance to come out from behind my hedge; i looked around: at twenty steps off i saw a small cottage; that must be the house with the hundred francs; there was no other hovel on the road but this one; auteuil was five hundred yards off. i said to myself, 'courage, my old boy, there is no one there, it is night, if there is no dog (you know i always was afraid of dogs), the affair is done.' luckily there was no dog. to be still more sure, i knocked against the door--nothing; that encouraged me. the shutters of the ground floor were closed: i passed my stick between the two, i forced them, i entered through the window into a chamber; there was some fire in the fireplace; this served as a light; i saw a chest from whence the key had been taken; i took the tongs, i forced the drawers, and under a heap of linen i found the treasure, wrapped up in an old woolen stocking; i did not amuse myself by taking anything else; i jumped out of the window and i fell--guess where? there's luck!" "go on!" "on the back of the watchman who was going to the village." "what a misfortune!" "the moon had risen, he saw me coming out of the window; he seized me. he was a giant who could have eaten ten such as me. too cowardly to resist, i resigned myself to my fate. i still held the stocking in my hand; he heard the money jingle, he took it all, put it in his bag, and compelled me to follow him to auteuil. he went to the mayor's with the usual accompaniment of boys and constables; they waited for the proprietors to return; they made their declaration. i could not deny it; i confessed all, they put on the handcuffs, and off we went!" "and here you are in prison again, perhaps for a long time!" "listen, jeanne, i do not wish to deceive you, my girl, so i will tell you at once." "what more now?" "come, take courage!" "but speak, then!" "well! there is no more prison for me." "how is that?" "on account of the burglary in an inhabited house, the lawyer told me, 'it's a safe thing.' i shall have fifteen or twenty years at the galleys and a berth in the pillory to boot." "the galleys! but you are so weak you will die there!" cried the unhappy woman, bursting into tears. "how if i had enrolled myself among the white-leaders?" "but the galleys, oh! the galleys!" "it is a prison in the open air, with a red cap instead of a brown one, and, besides, i have always been curious to see the ocean. what a starer i am!" "but the pillory! to be exposed there to the contempt of all the world, oh! my brother." and the unfortunate woman began again to weep. "come, come, jeanne, be reasonable. it is a bad quarter of an hour to pass, but i believe one is seated. and, besides, am i not accustomed to a crowd? when i played juggler i always had people around me; i will imagine that i am at my old trade, and if it has too much effect upon me i will close my eyes; it will absolutely be the same as if they did not see me." speaking with so much stoicism, this unfortunate man wished less to appear insensible of his criminal actions than to console and satisfy his sister by this apparent indifference. for a man accustomed to prison _manners_, and with whom all shame is necessarily dead--even the galleys were only a change of condition, a "change of caps," as pique-vinaigre said, with frightful truth. many of the prisoners of the central prisons even prefer the galleys on account of the lively, animated life which is led there, committing often attempts at murder to be sent to brest or toulon. this can be imagined before they enter the galleys they have almost as much work, according to their declaration. the condition of the most honest workman of the forts is not less rude than that of the convicts. they enter the workshop, and leave it, at the same hour, and the beds on which they repose their limbs, exhausted by fatigue, are often no better than those of the galleys. they are free, some one will say. yes, free one day, sunday, and this is also a day of repose for the convict. but feel they no shame and contempt? what is shame for these poor wretches, who, each day, bronze the soul in this infamy, in this mutual school of perdition, where the most criminal are the most distinguished? such are the consequences of the present system of punishment. incarceration is very much sought after. the galleys--often demanded. "twenty years in the galleys!" repeated the poor sister of pique-vinaigre. "but be comforted, jeanne; they will only pay me in my own coin; i am too feeble to be placed at hard labor. if there is not a manufactory of trumpets and wooden swords, as at melun, they will give me easy work, and employ me in the infirmary. i am not refractory; i am good-natured. i will tell stories as i do here, i will make myself adored by the keepers, esteemed by my comrades, and i will send you some cocoanuts nicely carved, and some straw boxes for my nephews and nieces; in short. as we make our bed, so must we lie on it!" "if you had only written that you were coming to paris, i would have tried to conceal and lodge you while you were waiting for work." "i reckoned to go to your house, but i prepared to come with my hands full; for, besides, from your appearance i see that you do not ride in your carriage. how about your children and husband?" "do not speak to me about him." "always a rattler, it is a pity, for he is a good workman." "he does me much harm--i have had troubles enough of my own, without having yours added to them." "how? your husband--" "left me three years ago, after having sold all our furniture, leaving me with the children, without any thing, my straw bed excepted." "you did not tell me this!" "for what good? it would have grieved you." "poor jeanne! how have you managed, all alone with your three children?" "holy virgin! i had much trouble; i worked by the job as a fringe-maker, as well as i could, my neighbors helped me a little, taking care of my children when i went out; and then i, who do not always have luck, had it for once in my life, but it did not profit me, on account of my husband." "how is that?" "the lace-maker had spoken of my troubles to one of his customers, informing him how my husband had left me without anything, after having sold all my furniture, and that in spite of it i worked with all my strength to bring up my children; one day, on returning home, what do i find? my room newly furnished, a good bed, linen, and so on; it was the charity of my lace-maker's customer." "good customer! poor sister! why the devil did you not write me about your poverty? instead of spending my earnings, i would have sent you some money." "i, free, to ask from you, a prisoner!" "exactly; i was fed, warmed, lodged at the expense of the government; what i earned was so much gained; knowing that my brother-in-law was a good workman, and you a good manager, i was easy, and i fiddled away my money with my eyes shut and my mouth open." "my husband was a good workman, it is true, but he became dissipated; in fine, thanks to this unexpected succor, i took fresh courage; my eldest daughter began to earn something; we were happy, except for the sorrow of knowing that you were at melun. work was plenty, my children were properly dressed, they wanted scarcely anything; that made me take heart. at length i had even saved thirty-five francs, when, suddenly, my husband returned. i had not seen him for a year. finding me comfortably fixed and well clad, he made no bones about it; he took the money, settled himself at home, got drunk every day, and beat me when i complained." "the scoundrel!" "this is not all: he had lodged in a room of our apartments a bad woman with whom he lived; i had to submit to that. for the second time he began to sell little by little the furniture i had. foreseeing what would happen, i went to a lawyer who lived in the house, and asked him what i should do to prevent my husband from placing me and my children on straw again." "it was very plain, you ought to have thrust him out of doors." "yes, but i had not the right. the lawyer told me that my husband could dispose of everything, and remain in the house without doing anything; that it was a shame, but that i must submit; that the circumstance of his mistress, who lived under one roof, gave me the right to demand the separation of bed and board, as it is called; so much the more as i had proofs my husband beat me; that i could plead against him, but that it would cost me at least four or five hundred francs to obtain my divorce, you may judge; it is almost all that i could earn in a year! where could i borrow such a sum? and, besides, it is not only to borrow--but to return. and five hundred francs--all at once--it is a fortune." "there is, however, a very simple way to amass five hundred francs," said pique-vinaigre, with bitterness; "it is to hang up one's appetite for a year--to live on air, but work just the same. it is astonishing that the lawyer did not give you this advice." "you are always joking." "oh! this time, no!" cried pique-vinaigre, with indignation; "for it is infamous that the law should be too dear for poor folks. for look at you, good and worthy mother of a family, working with all your might to bring up your children honestly. your husband is an arrant scoundrel; he beats you, abuses you, robs you, and spends at the tavern the money you earn; you apply to justice, that it may protect you, and keep from the clutches of this rascal your bread and your children's. the people of the law tell you, 'yes, you are right, your husband is a bad fellow, justice shall be done you; but this justice will cost you five hundred francs.' five hundred francs! that would support you and your family for a whole year! now, do you see, jeanne? all this proves what the proverb says, that there are only two kinds of people: those who are hung and those who deserve to be." rigolett, alone and pensive, having no one else to listen to, had not lost a word of this conversation, and sympathized deeply in the misfortunes of this poor woman. she promised herself to mention this to rudolph as soon as she should see him, not doubting that he would assist her. rigolette, feeling a lively interest in the sad fate of the sister of pique-vinaigre, did not take her eyes from her, and was endeavoring to approach a little nearer, when, unfortunately, a new visitor entering asked for a prisoner, and seated himself on the bench between jeanne and the grisette. she, at the sight of this man, could not restrain a movement of surprise, almost fear. she recognized one of the two bailiffs who had come to arrest morel, putting in execution the judgment obtained against the jeweler by jacques ferrand. this circumstance, recalling to rigolette's mind the untiring persecutor of germain, redoubled her sadness, from which her attention had been slightly withdrawn by the touching and painful communications of the sister of pique-vinaigre. retreating as far as she could from her new neighbors, the grisette leaned against the wall, and abandoned herself to her sad thoughts. "hold, jeanne," resumed pique-vinaigre, whose jovial face had become suddenly clouded; "i am neither strong nor brave; but if i had been there while your husband was causing you so much misery, very playful things would not have passed between us. but you did not act rightly--you--" "what could i do? i have been obliged to suffer what i could not prevent! as long as there was anything to be sold, my husband sold it, so that he might go to the tavern with his mistress--everything, even to my little girl's sunday frock." "but your daily earnings, why did you give them to him? why did you not hide them?" "i did hide them; but he beat me so much that i was obliged to give them up. it was not on account of the blows that i yielded, but because i said to myself, in the end he will wound me so seriously that i shall not be able to work for some time. suppose he breaks my arm, then what will become of me--who will take care of and feed my children? if i am forced to go the hospital, they will die of hunger then. thus you can imagine, my brother, i preferred to give my money to my husband, not on account of the beating, but that i might not be wounded, and remain _able to work_." "poor woman. bah! they talk of martyrdom--it is you who are a martyr!" "and yet i have never harmed any one; i only ask to work to take care of my children; but what would you? there are the happy and unhappy, as there are the good and the wicked." "yes, and it is astonishing how happy the good are! but you have finally got rid of that scoundrel of a husband?" "i hope so, for he did not leave me until he had sold my bedstead, and the cradle of my two little children. but i think he wished to do something worse." "what do you mean?" "i say him, but it was rather this bad woman who urged him; it is on that account i speak of it. 'i say,' one day he said to me, 'when in a family there is a pretty girl of fifteen like ours, it is very stupid not to make use of her beauty.'" "oh! good! i understand. after having sold the clothes, he wished to sell the body." "when he said that, fortune, my blood boiled; and, to be just, i made him blush with shame at my reproaches: and as this bad woman wished to meddle in our quarrel by asserting that my husband could do with his daughter as he pleased, i treated her so badly, the wretch, that my husband beat me, and since that time i have not seen them." "look here, jeanne, there are folks condemned to ten years' imprisonment, who would not have done like your husband; at least, they only despoil strangers." "at bottom he is not wicked, look you; it is bad company at the taverns which has ruined him." "yes, he would not harm a child; but to a grown person it is different." "what would you have? one must take life as it comes. at least, my husband gone, i had no longer any fear of being lamed by any blow. i took fresh courage. not having anything to purchase a mattress with, for before all one must eat and pay rent, and my poor daughter catherine and myself could hardly earn together forty sous a day, my two other children being too young to work--for want of a mattress we slept upon a straw bed, made with straw that we picked up at the door of a packer in our street." "and i have squandered my earnings!" "how could you know my trouble, since i did not tell you? well, we doubled our work, catherine and i. poor child, if you knew how virtuous, and industrious, and good she is! always with her eyes on mine to know what i wish her to do; never a complaint, and yet--she has already seen so much misery, although only fifteen! ah, it is a great consolation, fortune to have such a child," said jeanne, wiping her eyes. "it is just your own picture, i see; you should have this consolation, at least." "i assure you that it is more on her account that i complain than on my own; for, do you see, the last two months she has not stopped working for a moment; once every week she goes out to wash at the boats near the pont-au change, at three sous the hour, the few clothes my husband left us: all the rest of the time at the stake like a poor dog. true, misfortune came to her too soon; i knew well enough that it must come; but at least their are some who have one or two years of tranquillity. that which has also caused me much sorrow in all this, fortune, is, that i could give you no assistance in anything; yet i will try." "do you think i would accept? on the contrary, i'll ask a sou for each pair of ears that listens to my stories; i will ask two, or they will have to do without pique-vinaigre's romances, and that will help you a little in your housekeeping. but why don't you go into lodgings? then your husband can't sell anything." "in lodgings? why, only reflect, we are four; they would ask us at least twenty sous a days; how much would remain for our living! while our room only costs us fifty francs a year." "that is true, my girl," said pique-vinaigre, with bitter irony; "work, break your back to fix up your room a little; as soon as you get something, your husband will rob you again, and some fine day he will sell your daughter as he has sold your clothes." "oh! before that he must kill me!--my poor catherine!" "he will not kill you, and he will sell your poor catherine. he is your husband, is he not? he is the head of the family, as your lawyer told you, as long as you are not separated by law, and as you have not five hundred francs to give for that, you must be resigned; your husband has the right to take his daughter from you, and where he pleases. once he and his mistress have a hankering after this poor little child, they will have her." "but, if this infamy was possible, would there be any justice?" "justice," said pique-vinaigre, with a burst of sardonic laughter, "is like meat; it is too dear for the poor to eat. only, understand me, if it is in question to send them to melun, to put them in the pillory, or throw them into the galleys, it is another affair; they give them this justice _gratis_. if they cut their throats, it is again _gratis_--always _gratis_. ta-a-a-ake your tickets!" added pique-vinaigre, imitating a mountebank; "it is not ten sous, two sous, one you, a centime that it will cost you. no, ladies and gentlemen, it will cost you the trifle of nothing at all; it suits every one's pockets; you have only to furnish the _head_--the cutting and curling are at the expense of the government. here is justice _gratis_. but the justice which would prevent an honest mother of a family from being beaten and despoiled by a vagabond of a husband, who wishes to make money out of his daughter, this kind of justice costs five hundred francs; you must give it up, my poor jeanne." "fortune," said the unhappy mother, bursting into tears, "you kill me!" "and does it not kill me to think of your lot, and that of your family, and seeing that i can do nothing? i seem always gay; but do not be deceived; i have two kinds of gayety, jeanne; my gayety gay, and my gayety sad. i have neither the strength nor the courage to be bad, angry, nor malicious, as others are, that always passes over with me in words more or less farcical. my cowardice and my weakness of body have prevented me from becoming worse than i am. it needed the chance of this lonely hut, where there was neither cat, nor, above all, a dog, to have urged me to steal. and then, again, it chanced to be a fine moonlight night; for alone, and in the dark, i am as cowardly as the devil!" "that is what i have always said, my poor fortune, that you are better than you think. thus i hope the judges will have pity on you." "pity on me? a returned criminal? reckon on it! after that, i don't wish it; to be here, there, or elsewhere, all the same to me; and then, you are right, i am not wicked; and those who are, i hate them, after my fashion, by making fun of them; you must think that, from relating stories where, to please my audience, i make it come out that those who torment others from pure cruelty receive, in the end, their pay, i become accustomed to feel as i relate." "do these people like stories, my brother? i should not have thought it." "a moment! if i tell them a story where a fellow who robs, or who kills to rob, is strung up at the end, they will not let me finish; but if it is concerning a woman or child, or, for example, a poor devil like me, who would be thrown to the ground if he was only blown upon, and let him be ill-treated by a bluebeard, who persecutes him solely for the pleasure of persecuting him, for honor, as they say; oh! then they shout with joy when, at the end, the bluebeard receives his pay. i have, above all, a history called gringalet and cut-in-half, which created the greatest sensation at the centrale de melun, and which i have not yet related here. i have promised it for tonight; but they must subscribe largely to my money-box, and you shall profit by it. without extra charge, i will write it out for your children. my yarn will amuse them; very religious people would read this story; so be easy." "in fine, poor fortune, what consoles me a little is, to see that you are not as unhappy as others, thanks to your character." "i am very sure that if i were like a prisoner of our ward, i should be hateful to myself. poor fellow! i am much afraid that before the end of the day he will bleed; it grows red-hot for him; there is a bad plot formed against him for to-night." "oh! they wish to do him harm? you will have nothing to do with it, at least, fortune?" "not such a fool! i might be spattered. as i went backward and forward among them, i heard them muttering. they spoke of a gag, to prevent him from crying out; and then, to hinder any one from seeing the execution, they mean to make a circle around him, pretending to listen to one of them who should be reading a paper or something else." "but why do they wish to injure him thus?" "as he is always alone, and speaks to no one, because he seems disgusted with them, they imagine he is a spy, which is very stupid; for, on the contrary, he would keep company with every one, if he wished to spy. besides, he has the air of a gentleman, and that eclipses them. it is the _captain_ of the ward, called the living skeleton, who is at the head of this plot. he is like a real _bloody bones_ after this poor germain--their intended victim is so named. let them make their own arrangements--it is their business; i can do nothing. but you see, jeanne, what good comes from being sad in prison; right away you are suspected. i have never been suspected, not i. but, my girl--enough talk; go and see if i am at your house; you lose too much precious time by coming here. i can only talk; with you it is different; therefore goodnight. come here from time to time; you know i shall be glad to see you." "my brother, still a few moments, i beg you." "no, no; your children are expecting you. ah, you do not tell them, i hope, that their uncle is a boarder here?" "they think you are at the islands, as my mother did formerly. in this way, i hope, i can talk to them of you." "very good. go! quickly!" "yes, but listen, my poor brother. i have not much, yet i will not leave you thus. you must be cold--no stockings, and this wretched waistcoat! i will fix something for you, with catherine's aid. fortune, you know that it is not the will to do something for you that is wanting." "what? clothes? why, i have my trunks full. as soon as they arrive, i shall have wherewithal to dress myself like a prince. come, laugh, then, a little. no? well! seriously, my girl, i do not refuse, while waiting for gringalet and cut-in-half to fill my money-box. then i will return it. adieu, my good jeanne; the next time you come, may i love my name of pique vinaigre, if i do not make you laugh. go away; i have already kept you too long." "but, brother, listen!" "my good man! my good man!" cried pique-vinaigre to the warder seated at the other end, "i have finished my conversation; i wish to go in; talked enough." "oh! fortune, it is not kind to send me away thus," said jeanne. "on the contrary, it is very right. come, adieu; keep up your courage, and to-morrow morning say to the children that you have dreamed of their uncle, who is in the west indies, and that he begged you to embrace them. adieu." "adieu, fortune," said the poor woman, all in tears at seeing her brother enter the prison. rigolette, since the bailiff had seated himself alongside of her, had not been able to hear the conversation of pique-vinaigre and jeanne; but she had not taken off her eyes from them, thinking how to find out the address of this poor woman, so as to be able, according to her first idea, to recommend her to rudolph. when jeanne rose from the bench to leave, the grisette approached her, saying, timidly, "madame, just now, without wishing to listen to you, i heard that you were a lace fringe-maker." "yes, my friend," answered jeanne, a little surprised but prepossessed in favor of rigolette by her pleasing manners and charming face. "i am a dressmaker," answered the grisette. "now that fringes and lace are in fashion, i have sometimes some customers who ask me for trimmings after their own taste; i have thought perhaps it would be cheaper to apply to the makers; and, besides, i could give you more than your employer does," "it is true; by buying the silk on my own account i should gain something. you are very kind to think of me. i am quite surprised." "i will speak to you frankly. i await a person i came to see; having no one to talk with, just now, before this gentleman placed himself between us, without wishing it, i assure you, i have heard you talk to your brother of your sorrows, of your children; i said to myself, poor folks ought to assist each other. the idea struck me at the time that i might be of some use to you, since you are a fringe-maker. if, indeed, what i have proposed suits you, here is my address; give me yours, so that when i shall have a little order to give you i shall know where to find you." and rigolette gave one of her cards to the sister of pique-vinaigre. she, quite touched at the proceedings, said gratefully: "your face has not deceived me; and, besides, do not take it for pride, but you have a resemblance to my eldest daughter, which made me look at you twice on entering. i thank you much; if you employ me, you shall be satisfied with my work; it shall be done conscientiously. i am called jeanne duport. i live at no. , rue de la barillerie." "no. , it is not difficult to remember. thank you, madame." "it is for me to thank you, my dear, it is so kind in you to have thought at once of serving me! once more i express my surprise." "why, that is very plain, madame duport," said rigolette, with a charming smile. "since i look like your daughter catherine, that which you call my kindness ought not to surprise you." "how kind! thanks to you, i go away from here less sad than i thought; and then, perhaps, we may meet here again, for you come, like me, to see a prisoner?" "yes, madame," answered rigolette, sighing. "then, adieu. i shall see you again; at least, i hope so, miss rigolette," said jeanne duport, after having cast her eyes on the address of the grisette. "at least," thought rigolette, resuming her seat, "i know now the address of this poor woman; and certainly m. rudolph will interest himself for her when he knows how unfortunate she is, for he has always told me, 'if you know any one much to be pitied, address yourself to me.'" and rigolette taking her place, awaited with impatience the end of the conversation of her neighbor, in order to be able to ask for germain. now a few words on the preceding scene. unfortunately, it must be confessed, the indignation of the brother of jeanne duport was legitimate. yes: in saying the law was _too dear_ for the poor, he said the truth. to plead before the civil tribunals is to incur enormous expenses, quite out of the reach of artisans, who barely exist on their scanty wages. let a mother or father of a family belonging to this ever-sacrificed class wish to obtain an obliteration of the conjugal tie; let them have all right to obtain it: will they obtain it? no; for there is no workman in a condition to spend four or five hundred francs for the onerous formalities of such a judgment. yet the poor have no other life than a domestic one; the good or bad conduct of the head of an artisan's family is not only a question of morality; but of _bread_. the fate of a woman of the people, such as we have endeavored to paint, does it deserve less interest, less protection, than that of a rich woman, who suffers from the bad conduct or infidelities of her husband, think you? nothing is more worthy of pity, doubtless, than the griefs of the heart. but when to these griefs is added, for an unfortunate mother, the misery of her children, is it not monstrous that the poverty of this woman places her without the law, and leaves her and her family without defense against the odious treatment of a drunken and worthless husband? yet this monstrosity exists. [footnote: translator's note.--how singular that, as this new edition of the _sensational romancist's_ work is issued, the imperial parliament should have a bill to redress this very oversight before it.] and a liberated criminal can, in this circumstance as in others, deny, with right and reason, the impartiality of the institutions in the name of which he is condemned. is it necessary to say what there is in this dangerous to society, to justify such attacks? what will be the influence, the moral authority, of those laws whose application is absolutely subordinate to a question of money? ought not civil justice, like criminal justice, to be accessible to all? when people are too poor to be able to invoke the benefits of a law eminently preservative and tutelary, ought not society to assure the application, through respect for the honor and repose of families? but let us leave this woman, who will remain all her life the victim of a brutal and perverted husband, because she is too poor to obtain a matrimonial separation by law. let us speak of jeanne duport's brother. this man left a den of corruption to enter the world again; he has paid the penalty of his crime by expiation. what precautions has society taken to prevent his falling back into crime? none. has any one, with charitable foresight, rendered possible his return to well-doing, in order to be able to punish, as one should punish, in a becoming manner, if he shows himself incorrigible? no. the contagious influence of your jails is so well known, and so justly dreaded, that he who comes out from them is everywhere an object of scorn, aversion, and alarm. were he twenty times an honest man, he would scarcely find occupation anywhere. and what is more: the penalty of a ticket-of-leave banishes him to small localities, where his past life must be well known; and here he will have no means of exercising the exceptionable employment often imposed on the prisoners by the contractors of the maisons centrales. if the liberated convict has the courage to resist temptation, he abandons himself to some of those murderous occupations of which we have spoken, to the preparation of certain chemical productions, by which one in ten perishes; or, if he has the strength, he goes to get out stone in the forest of fontainebleau, an employment which he survives, average time, six years! the condition of a liberated convict is, then, much worse, more painful, more difficult, than it was before his first criminal action: he lives surrounded by shackles and dangers; he is obliged to brave repulses and disdain--often the deepest misery. and if he succumbs to all these frightful temptations to criminality, and commits a second crime, you show yourself ten times more severe toward him than for his first fault. that is unjust; for it is almost always the necessity you impose on him which conducts him to a second crime. yes; for it is shown that, instead of correcting him, your penitentiary system depraves. instead of ameliorating, it makes worse; instead of curing slight moral affections, it renders them incurable. your aggravation of punishment, applied without pity to the backslider, is, then, iniquitous, barbarous, since this backsliding is, thus to express it, a forced consequence of your penal institutions. the terrible punishment which awaits this _double guilt_ would be just and excusable if your prisons improved the morals, purified the prisoners, and if, at the expiration of the sentence, good conduct was, if not easy, at least generally possible. if any one is surprised at these contradictions of the law, what would he be when he compares certain penalties to certain crimes--either on account of their inevitable consequences, or on account of the disproportion which exists in their punishment? the conversation of the prisoner whom the bailiff came to see will offer to us one of these afflicting contrasts. chapter v. boulard. the prisoner who entered at the moment that pique-vinaigre left it was a man of about thirty years of age, with red hair, and a jovial, fat, and rubicund face; his middling stature rendered still more remarkable by his enormous corpulency. this prisoner, so rosy and stout, was wrapped up in a long, warm coat of gray swan's-down, with gaiter trousers of the same material. a kind of hooded cap of red velvet completed the costume of this personage, who wore excellent furred slippers. although the fashion of wearing trinkets was over, the golden watch-chain sustained a goodly number of fine gold seals and rings. finally, several rings, enriched with precious stones, sparkled on the fat red fingers of this prisoner, known as boulard the bailiff, accused of breach of trust. [illustration: the request for a friendly service] his visitor was pierre bourdin, one of the officers charged with the arrest of morel the jeweler. bourdin was rather shorter, but quite as fat, and attired after his patron, whose magnificence he admired. having, like him, a partiality for jewels, he wore on this day a huge topaz pin, and a long gold chain, suspended from his neck, was entwined among the buttonholes of his waist-coat. "good-day! faithful bourdin; i was quite sure you would not be missing at the roll-call," said boulard, joyously, in a faint, cracked voice, which singularly contrasted with his fat body and blooming face. "missing at the roll-call!" answered the bailiff; "i am incapable of such an act, general!" it was thus that bourdin, with a pleasantry at once familiar and respectful, called the bailiff, under whose orders he acted; this military form of speech being often used among certain classes of civil practitioners. "i see with pleasure that friendship remains faithful to the unfortunate," said boulard, with cordial gayety; "yet i began to be uneasy. three days since i wrote to you, and no bourdin till now." "imagine, general, quite a history. you recollect well the handsome viscount in the rue de chaillot?" "saint rémy?" "exactly! you know how he laughed at our writs?" "it was quite indecent." "to be sure it was. malicorne and i were quite stupefied at it, if that were possible." "it is impossible, brave bourdin." "happily, general, but here is the fact; this handsome viscount has got new titles." "has he become a count?" "no! from a cheat he has become a robber." "ah! ah!" "they are at his heels for some diamonds he has stolen; and, by way of parenthesis, they belong to that jeweler who employed this sneak of a morel, the lapidary whom we went to nab in the rue du temple, when a tall slim jockey, with black mustaches, paid for the starved rat, and came near pitching headforemost down the stairs malicorne and me." "oh! yes, yes; i recollect. you told me that, my poor bourdin; it was very funny. the best of the farce was that the portress of the house emptied on your backs a saucepan of boiling soup." "saucepan included, general, which burst like a bomb at our feet. the old sorceress!" "that will be taken into your charge. but this handsome viscount?" "i tell you, then, that saint rémy was prosecuted for a robbery, after having made his ninny of a father believe that he had blown his brains out. an agent of the police, one of my friends, knowing that i had for a long time tracked this lord, asked me if i could not put him on the scent. i learned too late, at the time of our last writ, which he had escaped, that he was burrowed in a farm at arnouville, at five leagues from paris. but when we arrived there it was too late; the bird had flown! "besides, he had the following day paid this bill of exchange, thanks to a certain great lady, they say. yes, general; but no matter, i knew the rest. he had once been concealed there; he might well enough be concealed there a second time. that is what i said to my friend in the police. he proposed for me to lend a hand, as an amateur, and conduct him to the farm. i had nothing to do--it was a nice party to the country--i accepted." "well! the viscount?" "not to be found. after having at first wandered around the farm, and having afterward introduced ourselves there, we returned as wise as we went; and this is the reason i have not been able to render myself sooner to your orders, general." "i was very sure there was an impossibility on your part, my good fellow." "but, if it is not improper, tell me, how the devil did you get here?" "vulgar people, my dear--a herd of riff-raff, who, for the miserable sum of sixty thousand francs, of which they pretend i have despoiled them, have carried a complaint against me for an abuse of confidence, and forced me to give up my commission." "really! general? ah, well! this is a misfortune! how--shall we work no more for you?" "i am on half-pay, my good bourdin; here i am on an allowance." "but who is, then, so savage?" "just imagine that one of the most severe against me is a liberated robber, who gave me to collect a bill of seven hundred miserable francs, for which it was necessary to prosecute. i did prosecute; i was paid, and i pocketed the money; and because, in consequence of speculations which did not succeed, i have spent this money, as well as that of many others, all the rubbishing lot have made such a brawling, that a writ was issued to arrest me, and thus you see me here, my good fellow; neither more nor less than a malefactor." "take care that don't hurt you, general." "yes; but what is most curious is, this convict has written to me, some days since, that this money, being his sole resource for rainy days, and that these days had now arrived (i do not know what lie means by that), i was responsible for the crimes he might commit to escape starvation." "it is charming, on my word!" "is it not? nothing more convenient. the droll fellow is capable of giving that as an excuse. happily, the law knows no such accomplices." "after all, you are only accused of an abuse of confidence, is it not, my general?" "certainly! do you take me for a thief, master bourdin?" "oh! general. i meant to say there was nothing serious in all this; after all, there is not enough to whip a cat." "have i a despairing look, my good fellow?" "not at all; i never saw you look more cheerful. indeed, if you are condemned, you will only have two or three months' imprisonment, and twenty-five francs fine. i know my code." "and these two or three months i shall be allowed, i am sure, to pass at my ease in a lunatic asylum. i have one deputy under my thumb." "oh! then your affair is sure." "hold, bourdin, i can hardly keep from laughing; these fools who have sent me here will gain much by it! they shall never see a sou of the money they claim. they force me to sell my commission--all the same. i am aware of the duty i owe my predecessor. you see it is these muffs who will be the geese of the farce, as robert macaire says." "that produces the same effect on me, general; so much the worse for them." "my good fellow, let us come to the subject which made me beg you to come here; it is touching a delicate mission concerning a female," said boulard, with a mysterious air. "ah! rogue of a general, i recognize you there! what is it? count on me." "i interest myself particularly in a young actress of the folies-dramatiques; i pay her board, and, in exchange, she pays me in return--at least, i think so; for, my good fellow, you know, the absent are often in the wrong. now, i am the more tenacious to know if i am wrong, as alexandrine--she is called alexandrine--has sent for some money. i have never been stingy with the fair sex; but i do not wish to be made a fool of. thus, before playing the generous with this dear friend, i wish to know if she deserves it by her fidelity. i know there is nothing more absurd than fidelity; but it is a weakness i have. you will render me, then, a friendly service, my dear comrade, if you can for a few days have a supervision over my love, and let me know how to act either by talking with the landlady of alexandrine, or--" "sufficient, general," interrupting. "this is nothing worse than watching, spying, and following a creditor. have confidence in me; i shall find out if lady alexandrine sticks a penknife in the contract, which appears to me quite improbable; for, without flattery, general, you are too handsome a man, and too generous not to be valued." "i ought to be a handsome man; yet i am absent, my dear comrade, and it is a great wrong; in fine, i count on you to know the truth." "you shall know it, i will answer for it." "ah! my dear comrade, how can i express my gratitude?" "come, come, now, general." "it is understood, my good bourdin, that in this affair your fees shall be the same as for an arrest." "general, i will not allow it; so long as i acted under your orders, have you not always allowed me to grind the debtors to the quick, treble the fees of arrest, costs, which you have afterward prosecuted to payment with as much activity as if they had been due to yourself?" "but, my dear comrade, that is different; in my turn i will not allow--" "general, you will humiliate me, if you do not allow me to offer you this as a feeble proof of my gratitude." "very well; i shall struggle no longer with your generosity. besides, your devotion will be a sweet recompense for the freedom that i have always maintained in our business affairs." "that is what i expect, my general; but can i not serve you in any other way? you must be horribly situated here, you, who like to be so much at your ease! you are in a cell by yourself, i hope?" "certainly, and i arrived just in time, for i have the last vacant room. i have arranged myself as well as i can in my cell; i am not very badly off; i have a stove; i sent for a good arm-chair; i make three long repasts; i digest, i walk and sleep. saving the inquietude which alexandrine causes me, you see i am not much to be pitied." "but you are so much of a _gourmand_, general! the resources of the prison are so meager!" "but the provision merchant who lives in this street has been created, as it were, for my service. i have an open account with him, and every day he sends me a nice little basket; and while on this subject, and you are ready to do me a favor, beg good mrs. michonneau, who, by the way, is not so bad--" "ah! rogue--rogue of a general!" "come, my dear comrade, no evil thoughts," said the bailiff, "i am only a good customer and neighbor. pray dear mrs. michonneau to put into my basket to-morrow some pickled funny fish; it is now in season; it will be good for my digestion, and make me thirsty." "excellent idea!" "and then, let her send a hamper of burgundy, champagne, and bordeaux, just like the last--she knows what that means! and let her add two bottles of her old cognac, and a pound of pure mocha, fresh ground and burned." "i will just note down the date of the brandy, so as not to forget it," said bourdin, taking his notebook from his pocket. "since you are writing, my dear comrade, have the goodness to note down to ask at my house for my eiderdown coverlet." "all this shall be executed to the letter, general. be easy; i feel now a little more assured as to your good living. but do you take your walks pell-mell among the low prisoners?" "yes, and it is very gay, very animated; i come out of my room after breakfast. i go sometimes into one court, sometimes into another; and, as you say, i mix with the dregs. i assure you that, at the bottom, they appear to be very good fellows; some of them are very amusing. the most abandoned assemble in what they call the lions' den. ah! my dear comrade, what hangdog faces! there is one among them named skeleton! i have never seen his fellow." "what a singular name!" "he is so thin, or, rather, so fleshless, that it is no nickname; i tell you, he is frightful; and with all this, he is provost-marshal of his ward; he is by far the greatest villain of them all. he comes from the galleys, and he has again robbed and murdered; but his last murder is so horrible, that he knows very well he will be condemned to death to a certainty, but he laughs at it like fun." "what a ruffian!" "all the prisoners admire, and tremble before him. i put myself at once in his good graces, by giving him some cigars; he has taken me into his friendship, and teaches me slang. i make progress." "oh! oh! what a good lark! my general learning flash!" "i tell you i amuse myself like anything. these jockeys adore me; some of them are even familiar as relations. i am not proud, like a little gentleman, germain, a barefoot, who has not the means to be separate, and yet pretends to play the disdainful with them." "but he must have been delighted to find a man so much at home as you are, to talk with, if he is so highly disgusted with the others?" "bah! he did not seem to remark who i was; but had he remarked it, i should have been very guarded to respond to his advances. he is the butt of the prison. they will play him, sooner or later, a bad turn, and i have not, of course, any desire to partake of the aversion of which he is the object." "you are very right." "that would spoil my recreation; for my promenade with the prisoners is a real promenade. only these robbers have not a great opinion of me, mentally. you comprehend--my accusation of a simple abuse of confidence--it is a sad thing for such fellows. thus they look upon me as no great shakes, as arnal says." "in fact, alongside of these matadores of crime, you are--" "a lamb, my dear comrade. since you are so obliging, do not forget my commissions." "do not be uneasy, my general." " st alexandrine; d the fish, and the hamper of wine; d the old cognac, the ground coffee, and the eiderdown coverlet." "you shall have all. anything more?" "yes, i forgot. do you know where m. badinot lives?" "the broker? yes." "will you tell him that i reckon on his obliging disposition to find me a lawyer who is prepared for my cause--that i shall not regard a cool thousand?" "i will see m. badinot, be assured, general; this evening all your commissions shall be executed, and to-morrow you will receive what you have demanded. adieu, and a good heart, general." "ta, ta!" and the prisoner left on one side, and the visitor on the other. now compare the crime of pique-vinaigre, a robber, to the offense of boulard, the bailliff. compare the point of departure from virtue of the two, and the reasons, necessities, which have pushed them on to crime. compare, finally, the punishment that awaits them. coming out of prison, inspiring everywhere fear and indifference, the liberated convict could not follow, in the residence appointed him, the trade he knew; he hoped to be able to work at an occupation dangerous to his life, but suitable for his strength; this resource failed him. then he breaks his terms of release, returns to paris, contriving to conceal his former life and find some work. he arrives, exhausted with fatigue, dying with hunger; by chance he discovers that a sum of money is deposited in a neighboring house; he yields to temptation, he forces a window, opens a desk, steals one hundred francs, and flies. he is arrested, is a prisoner. he will be tried, condemned. for a second crime, fifteen or twenty years of hard labor and the pillory is what awaits him. he knows it. this formidable punishment he deserves. property is sacred. he who, at night, breaks open your doors to take your goods ought to undergo a severe penalty. in vain shall the culpable plead the want of work, poverty, his position so difficult and intolerable, the wants which this position, this condition of a liberated convict, imposes on him. so much the worse; there is but one law. society, for its peace and safety, will and ought to be armed with boundless power, and without pity repress these audacious attacks upon others. yes, this wretch, ignorant and stupid, this corrupted and despised convict, has merited his fate. but what shall he then deserve who, intelligent, rich, educated, surrounded by the esteem of all, clothed with an official character, will steal--not to eat, but to satisfy some fanciful caprice, or to try the chance of stock-jobbing? will steal, not a hundred francs, but a hundred thousand francs--a million? will steal, not at night, at the peril of his life, but tranquilly, quite at his ease, in the sight of all? will steal, not from an unknown who has placed his money under the safeguard of a lock, but from a client, who has placed from necessity his money under the safeguard of the public officer, whom the law points out--imposes on his confidence? what terrible punishment will be deserve, then, who, instead of stealing a small sum almost from necessity, will steal wholesale a considerable amount? would it not be a crying injustice not to apply to him a similar punishment to that bestowed on the poor villain pushed to extremities by misery, to theft by want? get along! says the law. how! apply to a man well brought up the same punishment as to a vagabond? for shame! to compare an offense of good society with a vulgar burglary? fie! thus, for the public defaulting officer: two months imprisonment. for the liberated prisoner: twenty years hard labor, and the pillory. what can be added to these facts? they speak for themselves. what sad and serious reflections they give birth to. faithful to his promise, the old warder had called for germain. when boulard re-entered the prison, the door opened, germain entered, and rigolette was no longer separated from her poor lover but by a slight wire railing. chapter vi. francois germain. germain's features were wanting in regularity, but a more interesting face could scarcely be seen; his bearing was exalted; his figure graceful; his dress plain, but neat (gray trousers and a black frock-coat closely buttoned), showed none of that slovenly carelessness so peculiar to prisoners; his white hands bore witness of a care for his person which had still more increased the aversion of the other prisoners; for moral perversity is almost always joined to personal filthiness. his brown hair, naturally curled, which he wore long and parted on the side, according to the fashion of the times, hung around his pale and dejected face; his eyes, of a beautiful blue, announced frankness and kindness; his smiles, at once sad and sweet, expressed benevolence and habitual melancholy; for, although very young, this unfortunate youth had experienced many trials. in a word, nothing could be more touching than his appearance, suffering, affecting, resigned; as also nothing more honest, more loyal, than the heart of this young man. the cause even of his arrest (despoiling it of the calumnious aggravations due to the hatred of jacques ferrand) proved the kind-heartedness of germain, and accused him only of a moment's thoughtlessness or imprudence; culpable, doubtless, but pardonable, when one reflects that he was able to replace in the desk of the notary the sum taken to save morel the lapidary. germain blushed slightly when, through the grating, he perceived the fresh and charming face of rigolette. she, according to her custom, wished to appear gay, to encourage and cheer his spirits; but she ill-concealed the sorrow and emotion that she had always felt since he had been imprisoned. seated on a bench on the other side of the railing, she held on her lap her basket. the old warder, instead of remaining in the passage, went and seated himself near a stove at the extremity of the room. in a few moments he fell asleep. germain and rigolette could talk at their ease. "come, m. germain," said the grisette, approaching her face as close as she could to the grating, the better to examine the features of her friend, "let me see if i am satisfied with your face. is it less sorrowful? hum! hum! so, so; take care; you will make me angry." "how kind you are to come again to-day!" "again! what! that is a reproach." "ought i not, in truth, reproach you for doing so much for me--for me, who can do nothing but thank you?" "an error, sir; for i am also as happy from my visits as you are. so i must, in my turn, thank you. ah! ah! there is where i have caught you, master unjust. i have half a mind to punish you for your wicked ideas, by not giving you what i have brought." "another kindness! how you spoil me!--oh! thank you. pardon me if i repeat so often this word, which you dislike!--but you leave me nothing else to say." "in the first place, you do not know what i have brought." "what is that to me?" "well, you are polite!" "whatever it may be, does it not come from you? your touching kindness, does it not fill me with gratitude, and----" germain could not finish, but cast down his eyes. "and with what?" asked rigolette, blushing. "and with--and with devotion," stammered germain. "why not add respect at once, like at the end of a letter," said rigolette impatiently. "you deceive me; it was not that which you intended to say. you stopped short." "i assure you----" "you assure me!--you assure me! i see you blush through the grating. am i not your little friend, your neighbor? why do you conceal anything? be frank, then, with me; tell me all," added the grisette, timidly; for she only waited for an avowal from germain to tell him openly that she loved him. an honest and generous love, which the misfortunes of germain had called into existence. "i assure you," answered the prisoner, with a sigh, "that i conceal nothing from you!" "fie, the false man!" cried rigolette, stamping her foot. "well, you see this large cravat of white wool that i brought for you?" and she took it from her basket. "to punish you for your dissimulation, you shall not have it. i knit it for you. i said to myself, it must be so cold, so damp, in those large prison yards, that at least he will be protected nicely with this; he is so chilly." "how, you?" "yes, you are liable to cold," said rigolette, interrupting him. "perhaps i recollect it well! that did not, however, prevent you hindering me (out of delicacy) from putting any more wood in my stove when you passed the evening with me. oh, i have a good memory!" "and i also-only too good!" said germain, in an agitated voice, passing his hand over his eyes. "come, now, there you are becoming sad again, although i forbid it." "how; do you wish me not to be touched, even to tears, when i think of all that you have done for me since my detention here? and this new attention, is it not charming? do i not know that you encroach upon your nights to make time to come and see me? on my account you impose upon yourself extra labor." "that is it! pity me then, quickly, because every two or three days i take a fine walk to come and visit my friends, i, who adore a walk. it is so amusing to look at the shops along the streets!" "and to come out on such a day; such a wind!" "a reason the more; you have no idea what funny figures you meet! some holding on their hats with both hands, so that the wind shall not carry them off; others, with their umbrellas turned wrong side out like a tulip, are making incredible grimaces, shutting their eyes, while the rain beats in their faces. ah! this morning, during my whole walk, it was a real comedy! i promised myself to make you laugh by telling it you. but you will not even force a smile." "it is not my fault; pardon me, but the kind interest you have manifested for me touches my very heart. you know it; my emotions are never gay; they are stronger than--" rigolette, not wishing to let him observe that, notwithstanding her prattle, she was very near partaking his agitation, hastened to change the conversation, and replied: "you say that your feelings are stronger than you; but there is another thing that you will not master, although i have begged and supplicated you," added rigolette. "of what do you speak?" "of your obstinacy in always keeping yourself apart from the other prisoners; in never speaking to them. the warder has just told me again that, for your own interest, you should associate with them. i am sure you will not do it. you are silent. you see well it is always the same thing! you will not be contented until these frightful men have done you some harm!" "you do not know the horror with which they inspire me. you do not know all the personal reasons that i have to fly and execrate them and their fellows!" "alas! yes; i think i know them--these reasons. i have read the papers which you wrote for me, and which i went to your lodgings to get after your imprisonment. there i have learned the dangers you have incurred since your arrival in paris, because you would not associate yourself in crime with the scoundrel who brought you up. it was on account of the trap set for you that you left the rue du temple, only telling me where you were going to reside. in those papers i have also read something else," added rigolette, blushing anew, and casting down her eyes; "i have read some things--that--" "oh! that you should have been always ignorant of, i swear it," cried germain, quickly, "but for the misfortune which has fallen upon me--ah! i interest you; be generous; pardon me these follies; forget them. in happier times i allowed myself these dreams, as wild as they were." rigolette had a second time endeavored to extract an avowal from the lips of germain, by making allusion to passages filled with tenderness and passion, which he had formerly written and dedicated to the recollections of the grisette; for, as we have said, he had always felt for her a lively and sincere affection; but to enjoy the cordial intimacy of his sweet neighbor, he had concealed this love under the mask of friendship. rendered by misfortune still more suspicious and timid, he could not imagine that rigolette loved him with love: he, a prisoner, he, withering under a terrible accusation, while before these misfortunes she had never evinced any attachment stronger than that of a sister. the grisette, seeing herself so little understood, suppressed a sigh, waiting--hoping for a better occasion to unfold to germain the wishes of her heart. she answered, then, with embarrassment: "i can easily comprehend that the society of these bad people causes you horror, but that is no reason for you to brave useless dangers." "i assure you that in order to follow your advice, i have several times tried to address some of them who seemed the least criminal; but if you knew what language! what men!" "alas! it is true, it must be terrible." "what is still more terrible is, to find i become more and more accustomed, habituated to the frightful conversations which, in spite of myself, i hear all the day; yes, now i listen with a sad apathy to the horrors which, during my first days here, aroused my indignation; thus, i begin to doubt myself," cried he, with bitterness. "oh! m. germain, what do you say?" "by constantly living in these horrid places, our minds become accustomed to criminal thoughts, as our hearing becomes habituated to the gross words which resound continually around us. i comprehend now that one can enter here innocent, although accused, and leave it perverted." "yes, but not you--not you?" "yes, i; and others a thousand times better than i. alas! those who, before conviction, condemn us to this odious association, are ignorant of its mournful and fatal effects. they are ignorant that almost in all cases the air which is breathed here becomes contagious--fatal to honor!" "i pray you do not talk thus; you cause me too much sorrow." "you ask me the cause of my growing sadness, there you have it. i did not wish to tell you; but i have only one way of acknowledging your pity for me." "my pity--my pity!" "yes, it is to conceal nothing from you. ah, well! i acknowledge it with affright. i no longer recognize myself. i have good reason to despise, to fly these wretches. their presence, their contact affects me, in spite of myself. one would say that they have the fatal power to vitiate the atmosphere they breathe. it seems to me that i feel the corruption entering through every pore. if they absolve me from the fault i have committed, the sight, the acquaintance of honest men will fill me with confusion and shame. i have not yet had the enjoyment of pleasant companions; but i dread the day when i shall find myself among honorable people, because i have the consciousness of my weakness." "of your weakness?" "of my cowardice!" "of your cowardice? but what unjust ideas you have of yourself!" "ah! is it not to be cowardly and culpable to compound with one's duty and probity? and that i have done!" "you! you!" "i! on entering here i did not extenuate the magnitude of my fault, all excusable as it was, perhaps. well! now it appears to me less, from hearing these robbers and these murderers speak of their crimes with obscene jests or ferocious pride. i surprise myself sometimes envying them their audacious indifference, and upbraiding myself bitterly for the remorse with which i am tormented for so slight an offense compared to their misdeeds." "but you are right; your deed, far from being blamable, is generous; you were sure of being able to return the money which you took only for a few hours, in order to save a whole family from ruin, from death, perhaps." "no matter; in the eyes of the law, in the eyes of honest men, it is a robbery. doubtless, it is less criminal to steal for such a purpose than for any other; but it is a fatal symptom, to be obliged, in order to excuse one's self in one's eyes, to look around for a reason. i am no longer the equal of men without a stain. behold me already forced to compare myself with the degraded men with whom i live. thus, in time, i well see, conscience is blunted, and becomes hardened. to-morrow, i shall commit a robbery, not with the certainty of being able to restore what i took for a laudable object, but i shall steal from cupidity, and i shall doubtless think myself innocent in comparison to those who murder to rob. and yet, at this present moment, there is as great a distance between me and an assassin, as there is between me and an irreproachable man. thus, because there are beings a thousand times more degraded than i am, my degradation is to be excused in my eyes! instead of being able to say, as formerly, i am as honest as the most honest men, i will console myself by saying i am the least degraded of the wretches among whom i am condemned to live!" "not always? once out of this?" "no matter; even if acquitted, these people know me; when they leave the prison, if they meet me, they will speak to me as their old jail companion. if any one is ignorant of the accusation which brought me to the assizes, these wretches will threaten to divulge it. thus you well see, cursed and now indissoluble links unite me to them, while, shut alone in my cell until the day of my trial, unknown by them as they would have been unknown to me, i should not have been assailed by these fears, which may paralyze the best resolutions. and then, alone, in thinking of my fault, it would have been magnified instead of being diminished; the graver it appeared to me, the greater would have been my future expiation. thus, the more i should have felt the need of my own pardon, the more in my poor sphere i should have tried to do good. for it needs a hundred good actions to atone for a single bad one. but shall i ever dream of expiating that which at this moment scarcely causes me any remorse? hold! i feel it, i obey an irresistible influence, against which i have struggled for a long time with all my strength. i was educated for crime, i yield to my destiny; after all, isolated, without family, what matters it that my destiny should be accomplished, be it honest or criminal? and yet, my intentions were good and pure. when they wished to make me guilty, i experienced a profound satisfaction in saying to myself: i have never been wanting in honor, and that, perhaps, was more difficult for me than all the rest. and now--oh! it is frightful--frightful!" cried the prisoner, sobbing in so heartrending a manner that rigolette, deeply affected, could not restrain her tears. let us say, however, that germain, thanks to his sterling probity, had struggled for a long time victoriously, and that he felt the approaches of the malady more than he experienced in reality. his fear of seeing his fault become of less gravity in his own eyes, proved that he still felt all its enormity; but the trouble, apprehension, and doubts which cruelly agitated his virtuous and generous mind were not the less alarming symptoms. guided by the rectitude of her understanding, by her woman's sagacity, and by the impulses of her love, rigolette divined that which we have just said. although well convinced that her friend had not yet lost any of his probity, she feared that, notwithstanding the excellence of his nature, germain might at some future period become indifferent to that which then tormented him so cruelly. rigolette, wiping her eyes, and addressing germain, who was leaning against the grating, said to him with a touching, serious, almost solemn accent, and in a manner he had never seen her assume, "listen to me, germain; i shall express myself perhaps badly; i do not speak so well as you; but what i shall tell you will be as truly sincere. in the first place, you were wrong to complain of being isolated, abandoned." "oh! do not think that i ever forget that which your pity for me inspires you to do!" "just now, i did not interrupt you when you spoke of _pity_; but since you repeat this word, i must say that it is not pity at all which i feel for you. i am going to explain this as well as i can. when we were neighbors, i loved you as a brother, as a good companion; you rendered me some little services, i rendered you others; you made me partake of your sunday amusements, i tried to be very lively, very agreeable, in order to thank you; we were quits." "quits? oh! no--i----" "let me speak in my turn. when you were forced to leave the house where we dwelt, your departure caused me more regret than that of my other neighbors." "can it be true?" "yes, because they were men without care, whom certainly i ought to miss less than you; and, besides, they did not yield themselves to be my acquaintances until i had told them a hundred times that they could be nothing else; while you----you have at once imagined what we ought to be to each other. notwithstanding this you have passed with me all the time you had to spare: you taught me to write; you gave me good advice, a little serious, because it was good: in fine, you have been the most attentive of my neighbors, and the only one who asked nothing of me for the trouble. this is not all; on leaving the house you gave me a great proof of confidence. to see you confide a secret so important to a little girl like me, bless me! that made me proud. thus, when i was separated from you, my thoughts were oftener of you than of my other neighbors. what i tell you now is true; you know i never tell a falsehood." "can it be possible you should have made this distinction between me and the others?" "certainly, i have made it, otherwise i should have a bad heart. yes, i said to myself, 'no one can be better than m. germain; only he is a little too serious; but never mind, if i had a friend who wished to marry to be very, very happy, certainly i should advise her to marry m. germain; for he would be the idol of a nice little housekeeper.'" "you thought of me for another!" germain could not prevent himself from saying mournfully. "it is true; i should have been delighted to see you make a happy marriage, since i loved you as a valued friend. you see i am frank; i tell you everything." "i thank you from the bottom of my heart; it is a consolation for me to learn that among your friends i was he whom you preferred." "this was the situation of things when your troubles came. it was then that i received the good and kind letter in which you informed me of what you called your fault; fault! which i think--who am not a scholar--is a good and praiseworthy action; it was then that you asked me to go for those papers which informed me that you had always loved me, without daring to tell me so. those papers, in which i read"--and rigolette could not restrain her tears--"that, thinking of my future, which sickness, or the want of work might render so painful, you left me, if you should die a violent death, as you feared--you left me the little which you had acquired: by force of industry and economy--" "yes; for if i were alive and you found yourself without work or sick, it is to me, rather than any one else, that you would address yourself--is it not so? i count on it! speak! speak! i am not mistaken, am i?" "it is very plain; to whom would you have me apply?" "oh! hold; these are words which do good, which are a balm for many sorrows!" "i cannot express to you what i felt on reading--what a sad word--this _will_, of which each line contained a 'souvenir' of me, or a thought for my welfare; and yet i was not to know these proofs of your attachment until you were no longer in existence. bless me! what would you? after such generous conduct one is astonished that love should come all at once! yet it is very natural, is it not, m. germain?" the girl said these last words with such touching frankness, fixing her large black eyes on those of germain, that he did not understand her at first, so far was he from thinking himself beloved by rigolette. yet these words were so pointed, that their echo resounded from the bottom of the prisoner's heart; he blushed, then became pale, and cried, "what do you say! i fear--oh! i am mistaken--i----" "i say that from the moment in which i found you were so kind to me and in which i saw you so unhappy, i have loved you otherwise than as a brother, and that if now one of my friends wished to marry," said rigolette, smiling and blushing, "it is no longer you i should recommend to her, m. germain." "you love me! you love me!" "i must then tell you myself, since you ask me." "can it be possible?" "it is not, however, my fault, for having twice put you in the way to make you comprehend it. but no, my gentleman does not wish to understand a hint; he forces me to confess these things to him. it is wrong, perhaps; but as there is no one here but you to scold me for my effrontery, i have less fear; and, besides," added rigolette, in a more serious tone, and with deep emotion, "just now you appeared to me so much afflicted, so despairing, that i did not mind it; i have had the self-love to believe that this avowal, made frankly and from the bottom of the heart, would prevent you from being so unhappy for the future. i thought, 'until now i have had no luck in my efforts to amuse or console him; my dainties take away his appetite, my gayety makes him weep; this time at least'--oh dear me! what is the matter?" cried rigolette, on seeing germain conceal his face in his hands. "there, tell me now if this is not cruel!" cried she; "no matter what i say or what i do, you remain still unhappy; it is to be too wicked, and by far too egotistical also. one would say there was no one but you who suffered." "alas, what misery is mine!" cried germain, with, despair. "you love me, when i am no longer worthy of you!" "no longer worthy of me? there is no good sense in what you say now. it is as if i had said formerly, that i was not worthy of your friendship, because i had been in prison; for, after all, i have also been a prisoner; am i any less an honest girl?" "but you were sent to prison because you were a poor abandoned child, while i--what a difference!" "in fine, as to the prison, we have nothing to reproach ourselves for. it is rather i who am presumptuous; for in my situation i ought only to think of marrying some workman. i am a foundling: i possess nothing but my little chamber and my good courage; yet i come boldly and propose to you to take me for a wife." "alas! formerly this had been the dream, the happiness of my life! but now--i, under the weight of an infamous accusation, i should abuse your admirable generosity--your pity, which carries you away, perhaps! no--no!" "but," cried rigolette, with impatience, "i tell you, it is not pity, it is love. i only think of you! i sleep no more--i eat no more. your sad and melancholy looks follow me everywhere. is that pity? now, when you speak to me, your voice, your look, go to my heart. there are a thousand things in you which now please me, and which i had not remarked. i love your face, i love your eyes, i love you, i love your mind, i love your good heart; is this still pity? why, after having loved you as a friend, do i love you as a lover? i do not know! why was i lively and gay when i loved you as a friend? why am i all changed since i love you as a lover? i do not know. why have i waited so long to find you both handsome and good? to love you at once with my eyes and my heart? i do not know; or, rather, yes, i do know: it is because i have discovered how much you loved me without ever telling it; how much you were generous and devoted. then love mounted from my heart to my eyes, like as a soft tear mounts there when one is affected." "really, i think i am in a dream on hearing you talk thus." "and i, then! i never should have thought it possible that i could dare to tell you all this; but your despair compelled me! ah, well! now that you know that i love you as my friend, as my lover, as my husband, will you still say it is pity?" the generous scruples of germain were dispelled in a moment before this avowal, so artless and courageous. a joy unlooked--for tore him from his sorrowful meditations. "you love me!" cried he. "i believe you; your voice, your look, all tell me! i do not wish to ask myself how i have deserved such happiness, i abandon myself to it blindly. my life, my whole life, will not suffice to pay my debt to you! ah! i have already suffered much, but this moment compensates all!" "at length you are consoled. oh! i was very sure, very sure i should succeed!" cried rigolette, with a burst of charming joy. "and is it in the midst of the horrors of a prison, and is it when everything oppresses me, that such a felicity--" germain could not finish. this thought recalling the reality of his position, his scruples, for a moment forgotten, returned more cruel than ever, and he resumed, with despair, "but i am a prisoner; i am accused of robbery; i shall be condemned perhaps; and i would accept your valorous sacrifice! i would profit by your generous exaltation! oh, no! no! i am not infamous enough for this!" "what do you say?" "i may be condemned to years of imprisonment." "well!" answered rigolette, with calmness and firmness, "they will see that i am a virtuous girl; they will not refuse to marry us in the prison chapel." "but i may be confined far from paris." "once your wife, i will follow you; i will live in the place where you may be; i will work there, and will come to see you every day!" "but i shall be disgraced in the eyes of all." "you love me more than all, don't you?" "can you ask me?" "then what matters it to you? far from being disgraced in my eyes, i shall regard you as the martyr of your good heart." "but the world will condemn, calumniate your choice." "the world! we will be the world to each other, and then let them talk." "finally, on coming out of the prison, my living will be precarious, miserable. repulsed on all sides, perhaps i shall find no employment; and then, it is horrible to think of: but if this corruption which i dread should, in spite of myself, gain on me, what a future for you!" "you will not be corrupted; no, for now you know i love you, and this thought will give you strength to resist bad examples. you will think that even if every one should repulse you on your leaving the prison, your wife will receive you with love and gratitude, very certain that you are still an honest man. this language astonishes you, does it not? it astonishes _me_. i do not know where i find what i say to you. it is from the bottom of my heart, assuredly, and that ought to convince you; otherwise, if you disdain an offer which is made from the heart, if you do not wish the attachment of a poor girl who--" germain interrupted rigolette with warmth: "well! i accept--i accept; yes, i feel that it is sometimes cowardly to refuse certain sacrifices; it is to acknowledge that one is unworthy of them. i accept, noble and courageous girl." "true! very true this time!" "i swear it to you; and, beside, you have spoken words which have struck me--which have given me the courage i wanted." "what happiness! and what have i said?" "that for you i ought to remain an honest man. yes, in this thought i will find the strength to resist the detestable influences which surround me. i will brave the contagion, and will know how to preserve worthy of your love this heart, which belongs to you!" "oh! germain, how happy i am! if i have done anything for you, how you recompense me!" "and then, do you see, although you excuse my fault, i will not forget its gravity. my task, for the future, shall be doubled--to atone for the past, and deserve the happiness i owe to you. for that i will do good; for, however poor one may be, the occasion is never wanting." "alas! that is true; those who are more unfortunate than one's self can always be found." "in default of money--" "one gives tears, that which i did for the poor morels. and it is holy alms: the charity of the heart is worth more than that which gives bread." "in fine, you accept; you will not retract?" "oh! never, never, my friend, my wife; yes, my courage returns; i seem to emerge from a dream; i doubt myself no longer! i wronged myself--happily, i wronged myself. my heart would not beat as it does beat if it had lost its noble energy." "oh! germain, how handsome you look while thus speaking! how you reanimate me, not for myself, but for you! now, you promise, do you not, that, now you have my love to shield you, you will no longer fear to speak to these wicked men, in order not to excite their anger against you?" "be comforted. on seeing me sad and dejected, they, doubtless, accused me of being a prey to my remorse; and in seeing me joyous and gay, they will think that i have acquired their recklessness." "it is true; they will suspect you no more, and i shall be happy. so, no imprudence; now you belong to me. i am your little wife!" at this moment the warder stirred: he awoke. "quick!" whispered rigolette, with a smile full of grace and maiden tenderness; "quick, my husband, give me a sweet kiss on my forehead, through the grating; it will be our betrothal!" and the girl leaned her face against the iron bars. germain, profoundly affected, touched with his lips, through the grating, the pure and white forehead. a tear from the prisoner fell like a humid pearl. oh! touching baptism, of this chaste, melancholy, and charming love! "ho! ho! already three o'clock!" said the warder, rising from his seat; "and visitors ought to leave at two. come, my dear," added he, addressing the grisette; "it is a pity, but you must part." "oh! thank you, thank you, sir, for allowing us to talk alone. i have given germain good courage; he will no longer look so sorrowful, and thus he will have nothing more to fear from his wicked companions. is it not so, my friend?" "be tranquil," said germain, smiling; "i shall be for the future the gayest in the prison." "very good; then they will pay no more attention to you," said the warder. "here is a cravat which i have brought for germain," said rigolette; "must i leave it at the office?" "it is the rule; but, after all, while i have already transgressed orders, in for a lamb, in for a sheep--come, make the day complete; give him quickly the present yourself." and the warder opened the door. "the good man is right; the happiness of the day will be complete," said françois germain, on receiving the cravat from the hands of rigolette, which he tenderly pressed. "adieu! now i have no longer any fear to ask you to come and see me as soon as possible." "nor i to promise it. adieu, good germain!" "farewell, my own darling!" "and be sure to make use of my cravat; take care you do not catch cold; it is so damp." "what a handsome cravat! when i think that you made it for me! oh! i will always keep it," said germain, carrying it to his lips. "now you will have some appetite, i hope. do you wish that i should make my little dish for you?" "certainly, and this time i will do it honor." "do not be uneasy, then, mister glutton; you shall give me your opinion. come, once more, adieu. thank you, mister warder; today i go away very happy and gratified. adieu, germain." "adieu, my little wife: soon again!" "forever yours!" some moments after, rigolette, having put on her pattens, left the prison with a lighter heart than when she entered it. during the conversation of germain and the grisette, other scenes were passing in one of the courts of the prison, where we shall now conduct the reader. chapter vii. the lion's den if the material aspect of a vast house of detention, constructed with every reference to comfort and salubrity claimed by humanity, presents, as we have said, nothing gloomy or sinister, the sight of the prisoners causes a contrary impression. a person is commonly touched with sadness and pity when he finds himself in the midst of a crowd of female prisoners, in thinking that these unfortunates are almost always forced to crime less from their own will than by the pernicious influence of the first who betrayed them. and then, again, women, the most criminal, preserve at the bottom of the heart two holy ties, which the violent action of passions the most detestable, the most impetuous, never breaks entirely--love and maternity! to speak of love and maternity, is to say that with these poor creatures a soft and pure emotion can still light up here and there the profound gloom of a wretched corruption. but with men, such as the prison makes them and casts into the world, there is nothing similar. it is crime of one cast; it is a lump of brass, which only becomes red in the fire of infernal passions. thus, at the sight of the criminals who encumber the prisons, one is at first seized with a shudder of alarm and horror. reflection alone leads you to thoughts more compassionate, but of great bitterness. yes, of great bitterness; for one reflects that the vicious population of jails and hulks, the bloody harvest of the executioner, springs up from that mire of ignorance, of misery, and of stupidity. to comprehend this alarming and horrible proposition, let the reader follow us into the lions' den. one of the courts of la force is thus called. there are ordinarily placed the prisoners most dangerous, for their previous ferocity, or for the gravity of the accusations which rest upon them. nevertheless, it had been found necessary to add to their number temporarily, in consequence of the repairs now going on in the prison, several other prisoners. these, although equally under the jurisdiction of the court of assizes, were almost honest people compared to the habitual inmates of the lions' den. the gloomy, dark, and rainy sky cast a mournful light on the scene we are going to describe. it took place in the middle of the court, which was a vast quadrangle, formed by high white walls, pierced here and there by some grated windows. at one of the ends of this court was seen a narrow wicket door; at the other, the entrance to the sitting-room; a large paved hall, in the middle of which was a cast-iron stove, surrounded by wooden seats, on which were stretched several prisoners, talking among themselves. others, preferring exercise to repose, were walking in the courts, in close ranks, four and five together, with locked arms. [illustration: the discomfited monkey] one should possess the energetic and somber pencil of salvator or of goya to sketch these diverse specimens of physical and moral ugliness; to describe their hideous habiliments, the variety of costume of these wretches, covered for the most part with miserable clothing; for, only being attainted, that is to say, supposed innocents, they were not dressed in the uniform of the penitentiaries; some of them, however, wore it; for, on their entrance into prison, their rags had appeared so dirty, so infectious, that, after the customary bath, they had given to them the cap and coarse gray trowsers of the convict. a phrenologist would have attentively studied these ghastly and bronzed faces, with their flat foreheads, their cruel and insidious glances, wicked mouths, and brawny necks; almost all offered a frightful resemblance to the brute. on the cunning features of this, one would find the subtle perfidy of the fox; on another, the sanguinary rapacity of the bird of prey; on a third, the ferocity of the tiger; and on another, again, the animal stupidity of the brute. the circular walk of this band of silent beings, with bold and contemptuous looks, an insolent and cynical laugh, pressing one against the other, at the bottom of this court, offered something strangely suspicious. it caused a shudder to think that this ferocious horde would be, in a given time, again let loose among mankind, against whom they had declared an implacable warfare. how much sanguinary revenge, how many murderous projects, lurk under this appearance of brazen and jeering perversity! let us sketch some few of the prominent physiognomies of the lions' den, let us leave the others in the background. while one of the warders watched those who were walking, a kind of meeting was held in the hall, among those who were present, we will find barbillon and nicholas martial, of whom we shall speak only to remind the reader of their presence. he who appeared to preside and conduct the discussion was a prisoner nicknamed skeleton. he was provost-marshal or captain of the hall. this man, of a good height, and about forty years of age, justified his appropriate nickname by a leanness impossible to be described, which we should call almost osteological. if the physiognomies of his companions offered more or less analogy to that of the tiger, the vulture, or the fox, the form of his retreating forehead, and his bony, lank, and protruding jaws, supported by a neck of immense length, resembled entirely the conformation of a serpent's head. total baldness increased this resemblance still more, for, under the rough skin of this reptile-shaped forehead, could be distinguished the slightest protuberances, the smallest sutures of his skull; as to his visage, let one imagine some old parchment drawn over the face, and only slightly tightened from the cheek-bone to the angle of the lower jaw, the ligament of which was plainly visible. the eyes, small and squinting, were so deeply sunken, the eyebrows and cheek-bones so prominent, that under the yellowish forehead could be seen two sockets, literally filled with darkness, and, at a small distance, the eyes seemed to disappear in the bottom of these cavities, two black holes, which give such a horrible appearance to a skull. his long projecting teeth were almost constantly displayed by an habitual grin. although the emaciated muscles of this man were almost reduced to the condition of tendons, he was of extraordinary strength. the most robust resisted with difficulty the grasp of his long arms and long, bony fingers. it could be called the grasp of an iron skeleton. he wore a blue smock-frock, much too short, which disclosed, and he was proud of them, his sinewy hands, and the lower part of his arms, or rather bones (the _radius_ and the _cubitus_ the reader will pardon the anatomical designations), wrapped in a rough, blackened skin, and separated by some hard and cord-like veins. when he placed his hands on a table, he seemed to use a just metaphor of pique-vinaigre to play a game of cockles. after having passed fifteen years of his life at the galleys for robbery and attempt at murder, he had broken his ticket-of leave, and had been taken in the act of murder and robbery. this last assassination had been committed under circumstances of such ferocity, that, taking into account he was a robber, this bandit looked upon himself, with good reason, as already condemned to death. the influence which the living skeleton exercised over the other prisoners by his strength and his perversity, had caused him to be chosen by the director of the prison provost of the dormitory; that is to say, he was charged with the government of his ward, as far as regarded the order, arrangements, and neatness of the room and beds. he acquitted himself perfectly of these functions; and never had the prisoners dared to fail in the duties of which he had the superintendence. strange and significant. the most intelligent directors of prisons, after having tried to invest with the functions of which we speak the prisoners who most recommended themselves by their good conduct, or whose crimes were less grave, had found themselves obliged to deviate in their choice, however logical and moral, and seek for provosts among prisoners the most corrupted, the most feared: these alone could exercise any influence over their companions. thus, let us repeat it again, the more a culprit shows audacity and impudence, the more he will be regarded, and, thus to speak, respected. this fact, proved by experience, sanctioned by the forced choice of which we have spoken, is an irrefragable argument against the evil of an imprisonment in common, i say. does it not show, even to an absolute evidence, the intensity of the contagion which mortally attacks prisoners in whom there is some hope of restoration? yes, for what use of thinking of repentance, amendment, when, in this pandemonium, where one must pass many years--his life, perhaps--it is seen that influence is measured by the number and gravity of misdeeds? the provost of the hall was talking with several prisoners, among whom were barbillon and nicholas martial, we repeat. "are you very sure of what you say?" asked he of martial. "yes, yes, a hundred times, yes; micou had it from big cripple, who already wanted to kill the muff, because he betrayed some one." "then let some one eat his nose, and put a stop to this!" added barbillon. "just now, skeleton was for giving a stab to this spy germain." the provost took his pipe for a moment from his mouth, and said, in a voice so low, so crapulously hoarse, that he could scarcely be heard, "germain holds up his head; he is a spy; he troubles us: for the less one talks, the more one listens. we must make him clear out of the lions' den. once we make him bleed, they will take him from here." "well, then," said nicholas, "what change is that?" "there is this change," replied skeleton, "that if he has sold us, as big cripple says, he shall not escape with a small bleeding." "very good," said barbillon. "there must be an example," said skeleton, becoming more animated. "now it is no longer the grabs who find us out: it is the spies. jacques and gauthier guillotined the other day. roussillon, sent to the galleys for life, sold!" "and me, and my mother, and calabash, and my brother at toulon!" cried nicholas, "have we not been sold by bras-rouge? that is certain now, since, instead of putting him here, they have sent him to la roquette! they did not dare leave him with us; he knew his treachery, the sneak!" "and," said barbillon, "has not bras-rouge also sold me?" "and me," said a young prisoner, in a shrill and reedy voice, lisping in an affected manner, "i was betrayed by jobert, a man who proposed an affair in the rue saint martin." this last personage, with the reedy voice, a pale, fat, and effeminate face, and an insidious and cowardly expression, was dressed in a singular manner. he had on his head a red handkerchief, which allowed two locks of white hair to be seen plastered on his temples; the ends of the handkerchief formed a bow over his forehead; he wore, for a cravat, a shawl, of white merino with green palms in the corners on his bosom; his jacket, of maroon colored cloth, disappeared under the tight waistband of his ample trousers, made of gay scotch plaid. "if this is not an indignity! must a man be a scoundrel?" resumed this gentleman with the pretty voice. "nothing in the world would have made me suspect jobert." "i know that he informed against you," answered the skeleton, who seemed to patronize this prisoner particularly. "the proof is, that they have done with him as they did with bras-rouge; they did not dare leave jobert here; they locked him up at the conciergerie. well, this must be put a stop to: we must have an example. our traitor brothers carve out work for the police. they think they are sure of their necks because they are put in a different prison from those they have betrayed." "it is the truth." "to prevent this, every prisoner must look upon all turncoats as deadly enemies: if they have blown on tony, dick, or harry, it matters not which pounce on them. when we have done the job for four or five in the court, the others will wag their tongues twice before they blow the gaff!" "you are right," said nicholas; "germain must die!" "he shall die," answered the provost; "but let us wait until big cripple comes. when he shall have proved to everybody that" germain is a spy, enough said: the sheep will bleat no more; his breath shall be stopped." "and what shall we do with the warders, who watch us!" asked the prisoner whom the skeleton called ja-votte. "i have my own idea. pique-vinaigre shall serve us." "he? he is too cowardly." "and not stronger than a mouse." "enough. i understand. where is he?" "he returned from the grate, some one came for him to go and patter with his newgate lawyer." "and germain. is he still at the grate?" "yes; with the little mot who comes to see him." "as soon as he descends, attention. but we must wait for pique-vinaigre; we can do nothing without him." "without pique-vinaigre?" "no." "and germain shall be--" "i will take charge of it." "but with what? they have taken away our knives." "and these hooks--will you put your neck between them?" asked skeleton, opening his long fingers, hard as iron. "choke him?" "a little." "but if they know it is you?" "what's the odds? am i a calf with two heads, such as is shown in the fair?" "that is true. one can only be made a head shorter once; and since you are sure of being--" "doubly sure; the lawyer told me so yesterday. i have been taken with my hand in the pocket, and my knife in the throat, of the stiff 'un; i am a second comer; it is all over with me. i will send my head to see, in the basket, if it is true that they cheat the condemned, and put sawdust in, instead of bran, which the government allows us." "it is true; the guillotined has a right to his bran. my father was cheated, i recollect," said nicholas martial, with a ferocious chuckle. this abominable pleasantry made all the prisoners laugh loudly. "a thousand thunders!" cried skeleton. "i wish all the nobs could hear us talk, who think to make us quake before the guillotine. they have only to come to the barrière saint jacques the day of my benefit; they will hear me crack jokes with the crowd, and say to jack, in a bold voice, 'open the door till i go down into the cellar!' renewed laughter followed this sally. "the fact is, that the affair lasts as long as it takes to swallow a mouthful. draw the bolt; and he opens the devil's door for you!" said skeleton continuing to smoke his pipe. "ah, bah! is there a devil?" "fool! i said that for a joke. there is a knife; a head is placed under, and that is all." "besides, is that our business?" "as for me, now that i know my road, and that i must stop at the tree, i would as soon go today as tomorrow," said skeleton, with savage energy. "i wish i was there now. i feel my blood in my mouth when i think of the crowd who will be there to see me. there will be four or five thousand who will fight or quarrel for places. they will hire out windows and chairs as for a procession. i hear them already cry, 'window to let! place to let!' and then there will be the troops, cavalry and infantry. and all this for me--for old boulard. it is not for an honest man that they take all this trouble, hey, sals! here is something to make a man proud. even he should be as cowardly as pique-vinaigre, it would make him resolute. all these eyes which are looking at you give you courage, and it is but a moment to pass, you die boldly; that vexes the judges and the duffers, and encourages a flash cove to die game." "that is true," replied barbillon, endeavoring to imitate the frightful boasting. "they think to make us afraid, and confess all, when they send ketch to open shop on our account." "bah!" said nicholas, in his turn. "one is not wrong to laugh at the scaffold; it is like the prison and the galleys; we laugh at them also; so long as we are all friends together, 'a short life and a merry one!'" "for instance," said the prisoner with the lisping voice, "what would be tough would be to keep us in cells day and night." "in cells!" cried skeleton, with a kind of savage alarm. "do not speak of it. in cells! all alone! i would rather they would cut off my arms and legs. all alone! between four walls! all alone! no old mates to laugh with! that cannot be! i prefer a hundred times the galleys to the prisons, because at the galleys, instead of being shut up, one is out of doors, sees company, moves about. well! i would rather a hundred times be a head shorter than be put into a cell only for one year. see here, at this moment, i am sure of being cut down, am i not? well, let them say to me, 'would you prefer a year in a cell?' i would stretch out my neck. a year all alone! can this be possible? what would they have one think of when one is all alone?" "if they were to put you there by force?" "i would not remain. i would make such use of my feet and hands that i would escape," said skeleton. "but if you could not--if you were sure that you could not escape?" "then i would kill the first one i could, in order to be guillotined." "but if, instead of condemning the red-handed to death, they condemned them to a solitary cell for life?" skeleton seemed to be staggered by this reflection. after amoment's pause he replied: "then i do not know what i should do. i would break my head against the walls. i would allow myself to die with hunger rather than be in a cell. how? all alone--all my life alone with myself? without the hope of escape? i tell you it is not possible. you know there is no one bolder than i am. i would bleed a man for a crown, and even for nothing, for honor. they think that i have only assassinated two persons; but if the dead could speak, there are five who could tell how i work." the brigand boasted of his crimes. these sanguinary egotisms are among the most characteristic traits of hardened criminals. a prison governor told us,"if the pretended murders of which these wretches boast were real, population would be decimated." "so i say," replied barbillon, boasting in his turn; "they think that i only laid out the milkwoman's husband in the city; but i have served many others out, with big robert, who was shortened last year." "it was only to tell you," said skeleton, "that i neither fear fire nor the devil. but, if i were in a cell, and very sure of not being able to escape--thunder! i believe i should be afraid." "of what?" asked nicholas. "of being all alone," answered the cock of the walk. "so, if you had to recommence your robberies and murders, and, instead of prisons and galleys and guillotine, there were only cells, you would hesitate?" "yes--perhaps" (_a fact_), answered the skeleton. and he spoke the truth. a noisy burst of laughter, and exclamations of joy proceeding from the prisoners who were walking in the court, interrupted the meeting. nicholas rose precipitately, and advanced toward the door to ascertain the cause of this unaccustomed noise. "it is the big cripple!" cried nicholas, returning. "the big cripple?" said the provost; "and germain, has he descended from the talking-room?" "not yet," said barbillon. "let him hurry, then," said skeleton, "that i may give him an order for a new coffin." chapter viii. the plot. big cripple, whose arrival had been hailed by the prisoners in the lions' den with such noisy joy, and whose denunciation was to be so fatal to germain, was a man of middle stature; notwithstanding his obesity and his infirmity, he seemed active and vigorous. his bestial physiognomy, as was the case with most of his companions, much resembled a bull-dog's; his low forehead, his little yellow eyes, his falling cheeks, his heavy jawbones, of which the lower projecting beyond the other was armed with long teeth, or rather, broken tusks, which protruded over the lips, rendered this animal resemblance still more striking; he had on his head an otter-skin cap, and wore over his coat a blue cloak with a fur collar. he entered the hall, accompanied by a man of about thirty years of age, whose brown and sunburnt face seemed less degraded than those of the other prisoners, although he affected to appear as resolute as his companion; sometimes his face became clouded, and he smiled bitterly. the cripple found himself, to use a vulgar expression, quite at home. he could hardly reply to the felicitations and welcomes which were addressed to him from all sides. "here you are at last, my jolly bloke! so much the better; we shall have a laugh." "we wanted you, old son!" "you have stayed away a long time." "yet i have done all i could to return to my friends. it is not my fault if they would not have me sooner." "just so, my crummy mate; no one will come of his own accord to be caged; but once there, one must enjoy himself." "you are in luck, for pique-vinaigre is here." "he also? an old melun chum! famous, famous, he will help us pass the time with his stories, and customers will not be wanting, for i announce some recruits." "who then?" "just now, at the office, while they were enrolling me, they brought in two young coves. one i do not know; but the other, who wore a blue cotton cap and a gray blouse, struck my eye. i have seen the fellow somewhere. i think it was in the white rabbit: a very fine-looking prig." "say now, big cripple, do you recollect at melun, i bet you, before a year you would be nabbed?" "that is true; you have won; but i had more chances to be a second comer than to be medaled; but what have you done?" "on the american lay." "ah! good, always the same fashion!" "always; i go my own nice little road. this trick is common; but yokels are also common; and if it had not been for the ignorance of my _bonnet_, i should not be here." "never mind, the lesson will be of service." "when i begin again, i will take my precautions; i have my plan." "ah, here is cardillac," said the cripple, seeing a man approach, miserably dressed, with a low, cunning, and wicked expression, which partook of the fox and the wolf "good-day, old man." "come, come, limpy," answered cardillac, gayly; "they said every day, 'he will come.' you do like the pretty women one must wish for." "yes, yes." "oh!" continued cardillac, "is it for something a little uppish that you are here?" "my dear, i went in for burglary. before, i had done some good business; but the last failed, a superb affair; which, however, still remains to be done. unfortunately, me and frank, whom you see, missed our mark!" he pointed to his companion, on whom all eyes were turned. "so it is true, here is frank!" said cardillac. "i would not have known him on account of his beard. is it you? i thought that at this present moment you were at least the mayor of your district. you wished to play honest?" "i was a fool, and i have been punished," said frank, roughly; "but pardon for all sinners; it was good for once; now i belong to the _forty_ until i die; look out when i am released; hang 'em!" "very good, that is the style!" "but what has happened to you, frank?" "what happens to all liberated prisoners who are fools enough, as you say, to play honest. their fate is so just! on coming out of melun, i had saved nine hundred and odd francs." "it is true," said the cripple, "all his misfortunes come from his haying saved this money instead of spending it. you will see what repentance leads to, and whether one pays his expenses by it." "they sent me to etampes," resumed frank; "locksmith by trade, i went to seek employment. i said, 'i am a released convict; i know no one likes to employ them, but here are francs of my savings; give me work, my money shall be your guarantee; i wish to labor and be honest.'" "on my word, there is no one but frank could have such ideas." "i proposed, then, my savings as a guarantee to the master locksmith, so that he might give me work. 'i am not a banker, to take money on interest,' said he. 'i do not wish convicts in my shop; i work in houses, open the doors the keys of which are lost; my trade is a confidential one, and if it were known that i had a convict among my workmen, i should lose my customers. goodnight, neighbor.' did he not, cardillac, get what he deserved?" "most certainly." "childish!" added the cripple, addressing frank in a paternal manner, "instead of tearing your ticket at once, and coming to paris to fritter away your savings, so as to be without a sou in your pocket, and compelled to rob. then one finds superb ideas." "you tell me always the old story," said frank, with impatience; "it is true, i was wrong not to spend my money, since i have not enjoyed it. as there were only four locksmiths at etampes, he to whom i had first spoken had blabbed; when i addressed myself to the others, they told me the same as their fellow. thank you; everywhere the same song. so you see, friends, where is the use? we are marked for life! behold me on a strike in the streets of etampes! i lived on my money for two months," said frank; "the money went, and no work came. i broke my leave. i left etampes." "that's what you should have done before." "i came to paris; then i found some work; my master did not know who i was. i told him i came from the country. there was no better workman than myself. i placed francs, which remained of my savings, with a broker, who gave me a note; when it fell due, he did not pay; i placed my note in the hands of an attorney, who sued and recovered; i left my money with him, and i said to myself, 'it is for a rainy day.' then i met the big cripple." "yes, pals, and i was his rainy day, as you will see. frank was a locksmith; he manufactured keys; i had an affair in which he could serve me; i proposed it to him; i had impressions; he had only to copy them. the lad refused; he wished to become honest; i said to myself, 'i must do him good in spite of himself.' i wrote a letter, without a signature, to his master, another to his companions, to inform them that frank was a released convict. the master turned him out of doors, and his companions turned their backs upon him. he went to another master; worked there a week; same game. if he had gone to ten more i would have served him the same." "i did not then suspect that it was you who denounced me," said frank, "otherwise you might have had it hot!" "yes; but i was no fool; i told you i was going to longjumeau to see my uncle; but i remained at paris; and i knew all you did through little ledru." "in short, they drove me away from my last master like a beggar, fit only to hang. work then! be peaceable! so that one may say to you, not, what are you doing? but, what have you done? once in the street, i said to myself, 'happily i have my money left.' i went to the attorney; he had cleared out-my money was gone--i was without a you. i had not enough to pay my week's rent. you ought to have seen my rage! thereupon big cripple pretended to arrive from longjumeau; he profited by my anger. i did not know on what peg to hang myself. i saw there was no means to be honest; that, once a robber, one was in for it for life! the cripple kept so close at my heels." "let frank scold no more," said the cripple, "he took his part boldly; he entered into the put-up thing; it promised great things. unfortunately, the moment we opened our mouths to swallow the morsel--nabbed by the police! what would you, it is a misfortune. the trade would be too fine without this." "i don't care. if that confounded lawyer had not robbed me, i should not be here," said frank, with rage. "the skeleton is here!" said cardillac, pointing out the provost, who had just appeared at the door, to his companion. "cadet, advance at the call!" said skeleton to the cripple. "here!" he answered, advancing into the hall, accompanied by frank, whom he took by the arm. during the conversation of cripple, frank and cardillac, barbillon had gone, by orders of the provost, to recruit twelve or fifteen prisoners, picked men. these, not to excite the suspicions of the keeper, had gone separately to the hall. the other prisoners remained in the yard; some of them, following the instructions of barbillon, spoke in a loud, quarrelsome tone, to attract the notice of the keeper, and thus call his attention away from the hall, where were soon assembled barbillon, nicholas, frank, cardillac, big cripple, the skeleton, and some fifteen other prisoners, all waiting with impatient curiosity until the provost should take the chair. barbillon, charged as spy to announce the approach of the superintendent, placed himself near the door. the skeleton, taking his pipe from his mouth, said to the big cripple: "do you know a young man named germain, with blue eyes, brown hair, and the air of a swell cove?" "germain here!" cried cripple, whose features expressed at once surprise, hatred, anger. "you do know him, then?" "don't i know him? my friend, i denounce him, he is a betrayer! he must be rolled up!" "yes, yes!" said the prisoners together. "is it very sure that he has denounced?" asked frank. "suppose you should be mistaken, and injure a man who does not deserve it?" this observation displeased the skeleton, who leaned toward the cripple, and whispered: "who is this?" "a man with whom i have worked." "are you sure of him?" "yes; only he is not made of gall--but treacle!" "enough; i'll keep my eye upon him." "let us hear how germain is a spy," said a prisoner. "explain yourself, cripple," resumed the skeleton, who watched frank closely. "here you are," said the cripple. "a nantes man, named velu, an old convict, brought up this young fellow, whose parents are unknown. when he was old enough, he placed him in a banking-house at nantes, intending to make use of him for an affair he had in view. he had two strings to his bow--a forgery, and robbery of the banker's strong box! perhaps a hundred thousand francs to gain by the two. all is ready; velu counted on the young man as on himself; this blackguard slept in the room where the strong box was kept; velu told him his plan; germain neither said yes nor no, but told his master all about it, and left the same evening for paris." the prisoners uttered violent threats and murmurs of indignation. "if he is a betrayer, we must settle him." "if any one wishes it, i'll pick a quarrel, and i'll brain him." "we must write on his face an order for the hospital." "silence in the gang!" cried skeleton, in an imperious tone. "continue!" he said to the cripple; and he recommenced smoking. "believing that germain had said yes, counting on his aid, velu and two of his mates attempted the affair the same night; the banker was on his guard, one of velu's pals was nabbed in climbing in at a window, and he himself had the luck to escape. he arrived in paris, furious at having been betrayed by germain, and foiled in a tip-top job. one fine day he met the nice young man; it was broad day; he did not dare to touch him; but he followed him, he saw where he lived, and one night me, velu, and little ledru pounced upon germain. unfortunately he escaped us; he left his nest in the rue du temple, and since that time we have not been able to find him; but if he is here, i demand----" "you have nothing to demand," said the skeleton, with authority. the cripple was silent. "i take your bargain; or make over to me the skin of germain, i'll take it off. i am not called skeleton for nothing. i am dead in advance; my grave is already dug at clamart; i risk nothing in working for the leary coves: the spies devour us more than the police; they place the turncoats of la force at la roquette, and those of la roquette at the conciergerie, where they think themselves safe. stop a bit, when each prison shall have killed its pet, no matter where he has denounced, that will take away the appetite from the others. i set the example--they will follow." all the prisoners, admiring the resolution announced, crowded around him. barbillon himself, instead of remaining at the door, joined the group, and did not perceive that a new prisoner had entered the hall. this newcomer, clothed in a gray blouse, and wearing a cap of blue cotton embroidered with red wool, pulled well over his eyes, started on hearing the name of germain; then he went in among the skeleton's admirers and loudly approved both with voice and gesture the determination of the provost. "isn't bones a mad-cap?" said one. "what a learned man!" "the devil himself could not scare him." "there's a man!" "if all the family had his cheek, it would be they who would judge and guillotine the honest fools." "that would be just: every one in his turn." "yes; but they won't agree upon that subject." "all the same; he renders a famous service to the family by killing them; betrayers will denounce no more." "that is certain." "and since skeleton is so sure of being cut down, it costs him nothing to kill beggars." "i think it cruel to kill this young man!" said frank. "what: what!" cried skeleton, in an angry tone; "one has no right to pay off a traitor?" "yes, true, he is a traitor; so much the worse for him," said frank, after a moment's reflection. these last words, and the assurances of cripple, calmed the suspicions which frank for a moment had raised among the prisoners. skeleton alone remained doubtful. "what shall we do with the keeper?" "tell us, doomed-to-death," said nicholas, laughing. "well! some will engage his attention on one side." "no: we will hold him by force." "yes." "no." "silence in the gang!" cried skeleton. the most profound quiet ensued. "listen to me well," resumed the provost, in a hoarse voice, "there are no means to do the job while the keeper is in the ward, or the court. i have no knife; there will be some stifled cries--the sneak will struggle." "then what is to be done?" "this is my plan: pique-vinaigre has promised to relate to us to-day, after dinner, his story of gringalet and cut-in-half. it rains, we will all retire here, and the beggar will come and take his seat in the corner, in his usual place. we will give some sous to pique-vinaigre to make him commence his story. it will be the dinner hour. the keeper, seeing us quietly occupied in listening to the nonsense, will have no suspicions; he will go and take a pull at the canteen. as soon as he has left the court, we have a quarter of an hour to ourselves--the turncoat will be done up before the warder returns. i take it upon myself. i have done the trick for stouter fellows than he. i wish no help." "a moment," said cardillac; "the bailiff always comes lounging here at dinner-time. if he should enter the hall to listen to pique-vinaigre, and should see us fixing germain, he is likely to sing out for help; he is not fly; look out." "that is true," said the skeleton. "a bailiff here!" cried frank, the victim of boulard, with astonishment. "and what is his name?" "boulard," said cardillac. "it is my man," cried frank, doubling his fists; "it is he who stole my savings." "the bailiff?" asked the provost. "yes; seven hundred and twenty francs which he collected for me." "you know him? he has seen you?" asked the skeleton. "i should think i had seen him, to my sorrow. but for him i should not be here." these regrets sounded badly in the ears of skeleton; he fixed his squinting eyes on frank, who answered some questions of his comrades; then leaning over toward cripple, whispered in a low tone, "here is a kid who is capable of informing the keepers of our plant." "no: i answer for him: he will denounce no one, but he is still a little timid about crime, and he might be capable of defending germain. better get him out of the way." "enough," said skeleton, and he said in a loud tone, "i say, frank, won't you have a settlement with this rascally bailiff?" "let me alone; let him come, his account is made out." "he is coming, get ready." "i am all ready; he will bear my mark." "that will make a scuffle; they will send the bailiff to his ell, and frank to the dungeon," whispered skeleton to the cripple, "we shall get rid of both." "what a head! is he not a trump?" said the robber, with admiration; then he resumed aloud, "shall pique-vinaigre be informed that by the assistance of his story we mean to stuff the keeper and finish the traitor?" "no; pique-vinaigre has too much milk in his composition, and is too great a coward; if he knew it he would not tell his story; the blow struck, he will bear his part." the dinner-bell rang. "to your grub, mates!" said skeleton; "pique-vinaigre and germain are going to enter the court. attention, friends! you call me doomed-to-death! all right, the denouncer is in the same boat!" chapter ix. the patterer. the new prisoner of whom we have spoken, who wore a blue cotton cap and gray blouse, had attentively listened to, and energetically approved, the plot which threatened the life of germain. this man, of athletic form, left the sitting-room with the other prisoners, without having been remarked, and soon mingled with the different groups that pressed into the court around the persons who distributed the beef, which they brought in brass kettles, and the bread in huge baskets. each prisoner received a piece of boiled beef, which had served to make the soup for the morning meal, with half a loaf of bread, superior in quality to that given to soldiers. the prisoners who had money could buy wine at the canteen, and go there to drink. those who, like nicholas, had received victuals from out of doors, got up a feast to which they invited the other prisoners. the guests of the widow's son were barbillon, skeleton, and, upon the latter's recommendation, pique-vinaigre, in order to get him in a good humor for telling stories. the ham, hard eggs, cheese, and white bread, due to the forced liberality of micou the receiver, were spread out on one of the benches, and skeleton prepared to do honor to this repast, without feeling any inquietude concerning the murder he was about to commit. "go and see if pique-vinaigre is never coming. while i am waiting to choke germain, i choke with hunger and thirst; do not forget to say to the big cripple that frank must pull the bailiff's hair, so that we may be rid of them both." "be easy, if frank does not pitch into the tipstaff, it will not be our fault." and nicholas left the sitting-room. at this moment, boulard entered the yard smoking a cigar, his hands plunged into his long surtout of gray moleskin, his cap drawn over his ears, his face smiling and gay; he spied nicholas, who on his side looked at frank. the latter and the cripple were dining, seated on one of the benches in the court; they had not perceived the bailiff, on whom their backs were turned. faithful to the skeleton's recommendations, nicholas, seeing with the corner of his eye boulard coming toward him, appeared not to remark him, and drew nearer to frank and the cripple. "good-day!" said the bailiff to nicholas. "ah! good-day, master, i did not see you; you come, as usual, to take a little walk?" "yes, my boy, and to-day i have two reasons for doing it. i am going to tell you why; but first take these cigars. come, now, among comrades--the devil! one must not stand on ceremony." "thank you, my gentleman. why have you two reasons for walking?" "you will understand it, my boy; i do not feel any appetite to-day. i said to myself, 'looking at these gay boys at their dinner, and seeing them make use of their jaws, perhaps hunger will come.'" "not so bad. but look this way if you wish to see two babies who eat lustily," said nicholas, leading the bailiff by degrees near the bench of frank, whose back was turned; "just look at these two; your hunger will come as if you were eating a whole bottle of pickles." "oh! let us see this phenomenon!" said boulard. "i say, big cripple!" cried nicholas. the big cripple and frank quickly turned their heads. the bailiff was stupefied, and stood with his mouth open on recognizing him whom he had swindled. frank, throwing his bread and meat on the bench, with one bound jumped at boulard, whom he caught by the throat, crying: "my money!" "how? what? you strangle me. i--" "my money!" "my friend, listen to me!" "my money! and yet is is too late, for it is your fault that i am here." "but--i--but--" "if i go to the hulks, mark me, it is your fault; for if i had that of which you robbed me, i should not have been under the necessity of stealing. i should have remained honest, as i wished to be. and you will be acquitted perhaps--they will do nothing to you. but i will do something to you. you shall bear my marks. ah! you wear jewels, gold chains, and you rob. there--there--have you enough? no--here, take some more!" "help, help!" cried the bailiff, rolling under the feet of frank, who struck him furiously. the other prisoners, very indifferent to this squabble, made a ring round the combatants, or, rather, round the beating and the beaten, for boulard, panting and much alarmed, made no resistance, but endeavored to parry, as well as he could, the blows of his adversary. happily, the overseer ran up, on hearing the cries, and released the bailiff from his peril. boulard arose, pale and trembling, with one of his large eyes bruised, and, without giving himself time to pick up his cap, cried, as he ran toward the wicket: "keeper--open for me; i do not wish to remain a moment longer--help!" "and you, for having struck the gentleman, follow me to the governor," said the keeper, taking frank by the collar; "you will go to the blackhole two days for this." "i don't care; he has got his gruel." "mum!" whispered the cripple to frank, pretending to adjust his clothes, "not a word of what they are going to do to the spy." "be easy; perhaps if i had been there, i should have defended him; for to kill a man for that is hard; but blab! never." "will you come?" said the keeper. "there we are rid of the bailiff and frank now; hot work for the spy!" said nicholas. as frank left the court, germain and pique-vinaigre entered. germain was no longer recognizable; his physiognomy, formerly so sad and cast down, was radiant with joy; he carried his head erect, and cast around him a cheerful and assured glance; he was beloved!--the horrors of the prison disappeared from before his eyes. pique-yinaigre followed him with an embarrassed air; at length, after having hesitated two or three times to accost him, he made a great effort, and slightly touched the arm of germain before he had approached the group of prisoners, who, at a distance, were examining him with sullen hatred. their victim could not escape. in spite of himself, germain shuddered at the touch of pique-vinaigre; for the face and rags of the ex-juggler did not speak much in his favor. but, recollecting the advice of rigolette, and, besides, too happy not to be friendly, germain stopped, and said kindly to pique-vinaigre, "what do you wish?" "to thank you." "for what?" "for what your pretty little visitor wishes to do for my sister." "i do not understand you," said germain, surprised. "i am going to explain. just now, in the office, i met the overseer, who was on guard in the visitors' room." "ah, yes; a very good man." "ordinarily, the jailers do not agree with that description. but roussel is another bird; he deserves it. just now he whispered in my ear, 'pique-vinaigre, my boy, do you know germain well?' 'yes; the butt of the yard,' i answered." then, interrupting himself, pique-vinaigre said to germain, "pardon, excuse me, if i have called you a butt. do not think of it; wait for the end. 'yes, then,' i answered, 'i know germain, the butt of the prison.' 'and yours also, perhaps, pique-vinaigre?' asked the keeper, in a severe tone. 'i am too cowardly and too good-natured to allow myself any kind of a butt black, white, or gray, and germain still less than any other for he does not appear wicked, and they are unjust toward him.' 'well, pique-vinaigre, you have reason to be on germain's side, for he has been good to you.' 'to me? how so?' 'that is to say, not to you; but, saving that, you owe him great gratitude,' answered old roussel." "let us see; explain yourself a little more clearly," said germain, smiling. "that is exactly what i said to the keeper: 'do speak more clearly.' then he answered, 'it is not germain, but his pretty little visitor, who has been full of kindness for your sister. she overheard her relate to you her misfortunes, and, as she was about leaving, the girl offered her any assistance she could render.'" "good rigolette!" cried germain, affected. "she took good care not to mention it." "'oh, then,' i answered the keeper, 'i am only a gander. you are right; germain has been good to me; for his visitor is, as may be said, himself, and my sister jeanne is myself and much more.'" "poor little rigolette!" said germain. "this does not surprise me; she has a heart so generous and susceptible!" "the keeper went on; 'i heard all this without pretending to listen. now you know, if you do not try to render a service to germain; if you do not warn him in case of any plot against him, you will be a finished scoundrel, pique-vinaigre.' 'keeper, i am a scoundrel,' commenced i, 'it is true; but not a finished scoundrel. in fine, since germain's visitor wished to do some good to my poor jeanne, who is a good and honest girl, i will do for germain what i can; unfortunately, that will be no great things.'" "'never mind, do what you can; i am also going to give you some good news for germain; i have just heard it.'" "what is it, then?" asked germain. "'to-morrow there will be a separate cell vacant,' the keeper told me to inform you." "can it be true? oh, what happiness!" cried germain. "the good man was right; it is good news you tell me." "i think so; for your place is not with rough-scuff like us, germain." then he added hastily, and in a low tone, as he pretended to stoop for something, "germain, look at the prisoners, how they stare at us; they are astonished to see us talking together. i leave you; be on your guard. if they pick a quarrel, do not answer; they only want a pretext to engage you in a dispute, and beat you. barbillon is to begin the dispute--look out for him; i will try to turn them from this notion." and pique-vinaigre lifted up his head as if he had found what he pretended to look for. only informed of the conspiracy of the morning, which was to provoke a quarrel in which germain would be roughly handled, in order to force the governor to change his ward, not only was pique-vinaigre ignorant of the murderous project, but he was also ignorant that they counted on his story of gringalet to deceive and distract the attention of the keeper. "come along, lazybones!" said nicholas to pique-vinaigre, going to meet him; "leave your ration of flesh there; we have a merry-making and feasting. i invite you." "whereabouts? to the panier-fleuri? to the petit ramponneau?" "no, in the hall; the table is set on a bench. we have some ham, eggs, and cheese--my treat." "that suits me; but it is a pity to lose my ration, and still more that my sister cannot profit by it. neither she nor her children often see meat, except at the butcher's door." "come, come quick, skeleton is making a beast of himself; he is capable of devouring the whole with barbillon." nicholas and pique-vinaigre entered the hall; seated astride on the end of the bench where the feast was spread, skeleton swore and cursed while waiting for the giver of the banquet. "here you are at last, snail, laggard!" cried the bandit, at the sight of pique-vinaigre; "what have you been doing then?" "he was chatting with germain," said nicholas, carving the ham. "oh! talking with germain?" said skeleton, looking attentively at pique-vinaigre, without pausing in his mastication. "yes!" answered the patterer. "oh! here is another who never invented bootjacks and hard eggs (i say eggs, because i adore them). isn't he a fool! this germain! i used to think that he was a spy, but he is too much of a flat for that!" "oh! you think so?" said skeleton, exchanging a rapid and significant glance with nicholas and barbillon. "i am as sure of it as that i see ham! and, then, how the devil would you have him spy?--he is always alone; he speaks to no one, and no one speaks to him; he runs away from us as if we had the cholera. besides, he will not spy for a long time; he is going to be boxed up alone." "he!" cried skeleton; "when?" "to-morrow morning there will be a cell vacant." "you see we must kill him at once. he does not sleep in my ward; to-morrow will be too late. to-day we have only until four o'clock, and now it is almost three," whispered skeleton to nicholas, while pique-vinaigre talked with barbillon. "all the same," answered nicholas aloud, pretending to answer an observation of skeleton, "germain looks as if he despises us." "on the contrary, my children," answered pique-vinaigre, "you intimidate this young man. he looks upon himself, in comparison with you, as the least of the least. just now, what do you think he said?" "how should i know?" "he said to me, 'you are very happy, pique-vinaigre, to dare to speak with the famous skeleton (he used the word famous) as an equal and a companion.' i am dying to speak to him; but he produces an effect upon me so respectful--so respectful--that, should i see the chief of police in flesh, and bones, and uniform, i could not be more overcome." "he told you that?" replied skeleton, feigning to believe him, and to be flattered at the admiration he excited in germain. "as true as that you are the greatest magsman on the earth, he told me so." "then it is different," answered skeleton; "i must make it up with him. barbillon had a mind to pick a quarrel, but he, too, will do well to let him alone." "he will do better," cried pique-vinaigre, persuaded that he had turned away the danger with which germain was threatened. "he will do better, for this poor fellow won't dispute; he is one of my kind, bold as a hare." "yes, it is a pity," said skeleton; "we reckoned on this quarrel to amuse us after dinner, the time appears so long." "yes. what shall we do then?" asked nicholas. "since it is so, let pique-vinaigre tell us a story. i will not seek a quarrel with germain," said barbillon. "agreed, agreed!" cried the story-teller. "that is one condition; but there is another, and without both i tell no stories." "come, what is your other condition?" "it is, that the honorable society which is poisoned with capitalists," said pique-vinaigre, assuming his mountebank twang, "will make for me the trifle of a contribution of twenty sous. twenty sous, ladies and gents, to hear the famous pique-vinaigre, who has had the honor to perform before the most renowned robbers, before the most famous rogues, of france and navarre, and who is immediately expected at brest and at toulon, where he goes by order of the government. twenty sous! a mere nothing, gents." "come, you shall have twenty sous when you have told your story." "after? no; before!" cried pique-vinaigre. "i say, do you think us capable of cheating you out of twenty sous?" said skeleton, with a displeased air. "not at all," answered pique-vinaigre; "i honor the family with my confidence, and it is to spare its purse that i ask twenty sous in advance." "on your word of honor?" "yes, gents; for after my tale is finished, you will be so satisfied that it is no longer twenty sous, but twenty francs--a hundred francs that you will force me to take! i know, myself, i should have the _meanness_ to accept the offering; so, you see, that for economy's sake, you will do better to give me twenty sous in advance." "oh! you are not wanting in soft-sawder." "i have nothing but my tongue; i must use it; and, then, the point of the matter is that my sister and her children are in queer street, and twenty sous is an out-and-out _friendly call_." "why does she not toddle out on the prigging lay; and her kids also, if they are old enough?" said nicholas. "do not speak of it; it wounds me, it dishonors me. i am too good." "you had better say too stupid, since you encourage her." "it is true, i encourage her in the vice of honesty. but she is only good for that trade--she makes me pity her. come, is it agreed? i will relate to you my famous history of 'gringalet', but i must have my twenty sous; and barbillon will not seek a quarrel with that softy, germain." "you shall have your twenty sous, and barbillon will not pick a quarrel with germain," said skeleton. "then open your ears, for you are going to hear something choice. but here is the rain, which sends in the audience; there will be no need to go after them." in fact, the rain began to fall, the prisoners left the court, and came to take refuge in the hall, accompanied by a keeper. we have already said this hall was a long paved room, lighted by windows looking out on the court; in the center was placed the stove, near which were skeleton, barbillon, nicholas, and pique-vinaigre. at a nod from the provost, big cripple joined the group. germain entered among the last, absorbed in delightful thoughts. he went mechanically to seat himself on the ledge of the farthest window in the room, a place he habitually occupied, which no one disputed; for it was far from the stove, around which the prisoners clustered. we have said that only a dozen of the prisoners had been informed at first of the intended murder of germain. but, once divulged, this project counted as many adherents as there were prisoners; these wretches, in their blind cruelty, regarded this frightful plot as a legitimate vengeance, and saw in it a certain guarantee against future denunciations. germain, pique-vinaigre, and the keeper were alone ignorant of what was about to take place. the general attention was divided between the executioner, the victim, and the patterer, who was about innocently to deprive germain of the only succor which he had to depend upon; for it was almost certain that the keeper, seeing the prisoners attentive to the story of pique-vinaigre, would believe his presence useless, and profit by this moment of calm to go and take his repast. when all the prisoners had entered, skeleton said to the keeper: "i say, old man, pique-vinaigre has a good idea; he is going to tell us his story of 'gringalet.' the weather is so bad it is not fit to turn a constable out of doors; we are going to wait here quietly for the time to turn in." "true enough, when he talks, you keep yourselves quiet. at least, there is no need of being behind your backs." "yes," replied skeleton; "but pique-vinaigre charges high for telling a story; he wants twenty sous." "yes, the trifle of twenty sous; and then it is for nothing," cried pique-vinaigre. "yes, nothing; for one should not keep a red in his pocket, and thus deprive himself of the pleasure of hearing the adventures of poor little gringalet, of the terrible cut-in-half, and the wicked gargousse; it is enough to break one's heart, to make your hair stand on end. now, gents, who is it that cannot spare the bagatelle of four coppers, to have his heart broken and his hair stand on end?" "i give two sous!" said skeleton; and he threw his penny toward pique-vinaigre. "shall the gang be stingy for such an entertainment?" he added, looking at his accomplices with a significant air. several sous were thrown, from one side and the other, to the great joy of pique-vinaigre, who thought of his sister as he made his collection. "eight, nine, eleven, twelve, thirteen!" he cried, picking up his money. "come, rich folks, capitalists and other bankers, one more little effort; you cannot remain at thirteen, it is an unlucky number. only seven sous wanting--a paltry seven sous. how! shall it be said the lions' den cannot raise seven sous more-- seven miserable sous! o! you will lead me to think that you have been placed here unjustly, or that you have been very unlucky." the piercing voice and the witticisms of pique-vinaigre had roused germain from his reverie; as much to follow the advice of rigolette, to make himself popular, as to make a slight donation to this poor fellow, who had shown some desire to be useful to him, he arose and threw a piece of ten sous at the speaker's feet, who cried, showing to the crowd the generous donor: "ten sous, gents! you see i spoke of capitalists; honor to the banker, who tries to be agreeable to the society. yes, gents! for it is to him you will owe the greater part of gringalet, and you will thank him for it. as to the three sous surplus caused by his donation, i will deserve them by imitating the voices of my personages, instead of speaking in my ordinary manner! this shall be another delight that you will owe to this rich capitalist whom you must adore." "come, don't gammon so much, but begin," said skeleton. "a moment," said pique-vinaigre; "it is but just that this capitalist, who has given me ten sous, should have the best place, except our provost, who must choose first." this proposition answered the purpose of skeleton so well that he cried: "it is true, after me he should be the best seated." and the bandit again cast a look of intelligence at the prisoners. "yes, yes, let him approach," they cried. "let him take the front seat." "you see, young man, your liberality is recompensed; the honorable society recognizes that you have the right to the first seat," said pique-vinaigre to germain. believing that his liberality had really disposed his odious companions in his favor, enchanted thus to follow the advice of rigolette, germain, in spite of his repugnance, left his seat, and approached. pique-vinaigre, aided by nicholas and barbillon, having arranged around the stove the four or five benches, said with emphasis, "here are orchestra stalls! honor to whom honor is due; in the first place the capitalist. now let those who have paid seat themselves on the benches," added pique-vinaigre, gayly, firmly believing that germain had, thanks to him, no more danger to apprehend. "and those who have not cashed up," he added, "will sit on the ground or stand up, as they choose." let us glance at the arrangements as now completed. pique-vinaigre, standing near the stove, was getting ready to commence his story. near him, skeleton is also standing, ready to spring on germain the moment the keeper should leave the hall. some distance from germain, nicholas, barbillon, cardillac, and some other prisoners, among whom was seen the man in the blue cotton cap and gray blouse, occupied the back benches. the larger number of the prisoners grouped here and there, some seated on the ground, others standing, and leaning against the walls, composed the background of this picture, lighted, after the manner of rembrandt, by the three lateral windows, which cast a vivid light and deep shade on these figures, so differently characterized and so strongly marked. the keeper who, without knowing it, was, by his departure, to give the signal for the murder of germain, stood near the half-opened door. "all ready!" said pique-vinaigre to skeleton. "silence in the band" answered the latter, half-turning round; then, addressing pique-vinaigre, "now fire away! we listen." a profound silence reigned in the sitting-room. chapter x. gringalet and cut-in-half. before we commence the recital of pique-vinaigre, we will recall to our readers that, by a strange contrast, the majority of the prisoners, notwithstanding their cynical perversity, almost always preferred artless stories (we will not say puerile), in which the oppressed, by the laws of an inexorable fatality, is revenged on his tyrant, after trials and difficulties without number. the thought is far from us, to establish the slightest parallel between corrupted beings and the honest and poor masses; but is it not known with what frenzied applause the audience of minor theaters behold the deliverance of the victim, and with what curses they pursue the traitorous and the wicked? one ordinarily laughs at these rough evidences of sympathy for that which is good, weak, and persecuted; of aversion for that which is powerful, unjust, and cruel. it seems to us that to laugh at this is wrong. nothing is more consoling than these feelings innately of the multitude. is it not evident that these salutary instincts may become fixed principles in those unfortunate beings whom ignorance and poverty expose to the subversive attacks of evil? why not have every hope of a people whose good moral sense is so invariably manifested? of a people who, in spite of the fascinations of art, will never permit a dramatic work to arrive at its denouement by the triumph of the wicked and the punishment of the just? this fact, scorned and laughed at though it be, appears to us of considerable importance on account of the tendencies which it proves, and which are even often found (we repeat it) among beings the most corrupt, when they are, so to speak, in repose, and sheltered from criminal temptations or necessities. in a word, since men hardened in crime still sometimes sympathize with the recital and expression of elevated sentiments, ought we not to believe that all men have more or less in them of the good, the well doing, the just, but that poverty and ignorance, in falsifying, in stifling these divine instincts, are the first causes of human depravity? is it not evident that generally ones does not become wicked except through misfortune, and that to snatch man from the terrible temptations of warn by the equitable melioration of his material condition, is to make him capable of the virtues of which he is conscious? the impression caused by the story of pique-vinaigre will demonstrate, or rather display, we hope, some of the ideas we have just set forth. pique-yinaigre then commenced his story in these terms, in the midst of the profound silence of his audience. "it is not very long since the events occurred which i am going to relate to this honorable society. little poland was not then destroyed. does the honorable society know what was called little poland?" "i remember," said the prisoner in the blue cap and gray blouse, "it was some small houses near the rue du rocher, and the rue de la pepiniere." "exactly, pal," replied vinaigre; "the city streets, which, however, are not full of palaces, would be lovely alongside of little poland, but, otherwise, a famous resort for our lot; there were no streets, but lanes; no houses, but hovels; no pavement, but a carpet of mud, so that the noise of carriages would not have incommoded you if any passed; but none passed. from morning to night, and, above all, from night till morning, what one did not cease to hear, were cries, of '_watch_!' '_help_!' '_murder_!' but the watch did not disturb himself. the more with their brains dashed out in little poland--so many the less to be arrested! "the swarming population, therein, you should have seen; very few jewelers, goldsmiths, or bankers lodged there! but to make amends, there were heaps of organ-players, rope-dancers, punch-and-judy-men, or keepers of curious beasts. among the latter was one named cut-'em-in-half, so cruel was he; above all, cruel toward children. they called him so, because, with a hatchet, he had cut in two a little savoyard!" at this part of the story the prison clock struck a quarter past three. the prisoners entering their sleeping apartments at four o'clock, the crime was to be consummated before that hour. "thousand thunders! the keeper does not go," whispered the skeleton to the big cripple. "be quiet; once the story started, he will leave." pique-vinaigre continued his recital. "no one knew whence cut-in-half came; some said he was an italian, others a gipsy, others a turk, others an african; the old women called him a magician, although a magician in these days may appear fishy; as for me, i should be quite tempted to say the same as the old women. what makes this likely is, that he always had with him a great red ape called gargousse, which was so cunning, and wicked, that one would have said he had old nick in him. by and by i shall speak again of gargousse. as to cut-'em-in-half, i am going to show him up; he had skin the color of a bootlining, hair as red as the hide of his ape, green eyes, and what makes me think with the old women that he was a magician, is, that he had a black tongue." "black tongue?" said barbillon. "black as ink!" answered pique-vinaigre. "and how is that?" "because, before he was born, his mother had probably spoken of a negro," answered pique-vinaigre, with modest assurance. "to this ornament, cut-in-half joined the trade of having i do not know how many tortoises, apes, guinea-pigs, white mice, foxes and marmots, with an equal number of little savoyards. "every morning, the padrone distributed to each one his beast and a piece of black bread, and started them off, to beg for a sou or dance a catalina. those who, at night, brought back less than fifteen sous were beaten, oh! how they were beaten! so that they were heard to cry from one end of little poland to the other. "i must tell you also that there was in little poland a man who was called the alderman, because he was the longest resident of this quarter, and also the mayor, justice of the peace, or rather, of war, for it was in his court (he was a wine dealer) that they went to comb one another's heads when there was no other way to settle their disputes. although quite old, the alderman was strong as a hercules, and very much feared; they swore only by him in little poland; when he said, 'it is good,' every one said, 'it is very good;' when he said, 'it is bad,' every one said, 'it is awful bad,' he was a good man at the bottom, but terrible; when, for example, strong people caused misery to the weaker, then, stand from under! as the alderman was the neighbor of cut-in-half, he had in the commencement heard the children cry, on account of the blows which the owner of the beasts gave them; so he said to him, 'if i hear the kids squeal again, i'll make you cry in your turn, and, as you have a stronger voice, i'll strike harder.'" "comic of the alderman! i quite tumble to the old boy," said the prisoner in a blue cap. "and so do i," added the keeper, approaching the group. skeleton could not restrain a movement of angry impatience. pique-vinaigre continued: "thanks to the alderman threatening cut-in-half, the children were no more heard to cry at night; but the poor little unfortunates did not suffer the less, for if they did not cry when their master beat them, it was because they feared to be beaten still more. as for going and complaining to the alderman, they never had such an idea. for the fifteen sous which each of the little boys was obliged to bring him, cut-in-half fed them, lodged them, and clothed them. at night, a piece of black bread, the same for breakfast--that was the way he fed them; he never gave them any clothes--that was the way he clothed them; and he shut them up at night pell-mell with their beasts, on the same straw, in a garret, to which they clambered by a ladder and through a trap-door--and that was the way he lodged them. once the beasts and children were all housed, he took away the ladder and locked the trap-door with a key. you may imagine the noise and uproar which these apes, guinea-pigs, foxes, mice, tortoises, marmosets, and children made, without any light, in this garret, which was as large as a thimble. cut-in-half slept in a room underneath, having his large ape gargousse tied to the foot of the bed. when the noise was too loud in the garret, the owner of the beasts arose, took a large whip, mounted the ladder without a light, opened the trap, and lashed away at random. as he always had about a dozen boys, and some of the innocents brought sometimes as much as twenty sous a day, cut-in-half, his expenses paid, and they were not heavy, had for himself about four or five francs each day; with that he frolicked, for note well that he was the greatest drinker on the earth, and was regularly dead drunk once every day. it was his rule, he said; except for that he would have a headache all day long; it must be said, also, that from his gains he bought sheep's hearts for gargousse, the big ape eating raw meat like a very cannibal. but i see that the honorable assembly asks for gringalet (walking rushlight); here he is, gents!" "ay! let us see gringalet, and then i'll go and eat my soup," said the keeper. skeleton exchanged a look of ferocious satisfaction with the cripple. "among the children to whom cut-in-half distributed his beasts," resumed pique-vinaigre, "there was a poor little devil nicknamed gringalet. without father or mother, without sister or brother, without a home, he found himself alone--all alone in the world, where he never asked to come, and whence he could have gone, without anybody caring at all about it. he was not called gringalet in mere sport; he was dwarfish and puny, and reedy; no one would have given him over seven or eight years, yet he was thirteen; but if he did not look more than half his age, it was not his fault, for he had not on the average eaten more than every other day, and then so little, and so bad, that he really did very well to appear to be seven." "poor babby, i think i see him," said the prisoner in the blue cap; "there are so many like him on the streets of paris, little starved-to-deaths." "they ought to begin to learn that trade young," replied pique-vinaigre, bitterly; "so that they can become used to it." "come, go on then, make haste," said skeleton, gruffly; "the keeper is impatient, his soup is growing cold." "oh, bah! never mind," answered the keeper; "i wish to make a little more acquaintance with gringalet. it is amusing." "really, it is very interesting," added germain, attentive to the story. "oh, thank you for what you say, my capitalist; that gives me more pleasure than your ten sous." "thunder! you sluggard!" cried the skeleton. "will you have done keeping us waiting?" "here goes!" answered pique-vinaigre. "one day cut-in-half had picked up gringalet in the street, dying with cold and hunger; he would have done just as well to let him alone to die. as gringalet was feeble, he was afraid; and as he was cowardly, he became the laughing-stock and scapegoat of his companions, who beat him, and caused him so much misery, that he would have been very wicked if strength and courage had not failed him. but no; when they beat him, he cried, saying, 'i have done no harm to any one, yet every one harms me--it is unjust. oh! if i were strong and bold!' you think, perhaps, that gringalet was going to add, 'i would return to others the evil they did me.' well, no! not at all: he said, 'oh! if i were strong and bold, i would defend the weak against the strong; for i am weak, and the strong make me suffer.' in the mean time, as he was too much of a pigmy to prevent the strong from molesting the weak, he prevented the larger beasts from injuring the smaller ones. "there's a funny idea!" said the prisoner in the blue cap. "and what is still more funny," replied the patterer, "is that, with this idea, one would have said that gringalet consoled himself for being beaten; and that proves that, at bottom, he had not a bad heart." "i think so--on the contrary," said the keeper, "pique-vinaigre is jolly amusing." at this moment the clock struck half-past three. the skeleton and big cripple exchanged significant glances. the hour advanced, the keeper did not retire, and some of the least hardened prisoners seemed almost to forget the sinister projects against germain, who listened with eagerness to the recital. "when i say," pique-vinaigre resumed, "that gringalet prevented the larger beasts from eating the smaller ones, you will please understand that gringalet did not go and interfere in the affairs of the tigers, lions, wolves, or even the foxes and apes of the menagerie; he was too cowardly for that. but as soon as he saw, for example, a spider concealed in his web, to catch a poor foolish fly that was buzzing about gayly in the sun, without harming any one, crack! gringalet gave a sweep into the web, delivered the fly, and crushed the spider, like a real cæsar! yes, like a real cæsar! for he became as white as chalk at even touching these villainous creatures; he needed, then, resolution. he was afraid of a lady-bug, and had taken a very long time to become familiar with the turtle which cut-in-half handed over to him every morning. thus gringalet, overcoming the alarm which spiders caused him, to prevent the flies from being eaten, showed himself--" "showed himself as bold, in his way, as a man who would have attacked a wolf, to take from him a lamb of the fold," said blue cap. "or as a man who would have attacked cut-in-half, to drag gringalet from his claws," added barbillon, also much interested. "as you say," replied pique-yinaigre. "accordingly, after these doings, gringalet did not feel so very unfortunate. he who never laughed, smiled, looked wise, put on his cap sideways, when he had a cap, and sung the marseillaise with a trumpet air. at such times, there was not a spider that dared to look him in the face! another time it was a cricket that was drowning and struggling in a gutter; quickly gringalet bravely plunged two of his fingers into the waves and caught the cricket, which he afterward placed on a blade of grass; a champion swimmer with a medal, who should have fished up his tenth drowned person, at fifty francs the head, could not have been more proud than gringalet, when he saw his cricket kick and run away. and yet the cricket gave him neither money nor a medal, and did not even say thank you, nor did the fly. 'but then, pique-vinaigre, my friend,' will the honorable society say, 'what kind of pleasure could gringalet, whom every one beats, find in being the deliverer of crickets and the executioner of spiders? since others injured him, why did he not revenge himself in doing harm according to his strength; for instance, by causing the flies to be eaten by spiders, or in letting the crickets drown themselves, or even drowning them himself.'" "yes; exactly; why did he not revenge himself in that way?" said nicholas. "what good would that have done him?" said another. "why, to do harm because others harmed him!" "no! i can comprehend why the poor little kid liked to save the flies," answered blue cap. "he thought, perhaps, 'who knows that some one will not save me in the same way?'" "pal, you're right," cried pique-vinaigre; "you have read in your heart what i was about to explain to the honorable company. gringalet was not malicious; he saw no further than the end of his nose; but he said to himself, 'cut-in-half is my spider; perhaps one day somebody will do for me what i do for the flies; they will break up his web, and snatch me from his claws.' for until then, on no account would he have dared to run away from his master; he would have thought himself stone dead. yet, one day, when neither he nor his turtle had had any luck, and they had only earned two or three sous, cut-in-half began to whip the child so hard, so hard, that, hang it! gringalet could stand it no longer. tired of being the butt and martyr of everybody, he watched the moment when the trap-door of the garret was open, and while the padrone was feeding his beasts, he slipped down the ladder." "hooray! so much the better!" said a prisoner. "but why did he not go and complain to the alderman?" said blue cap; "he would have given cut-in-half his token!" "yes, but he did not dare; he was too much afraid, he preferred to run away. unfortunately, cut-in-half had seen him; he caught him by the throat, and carried him back to the garret; this time gringalet, thinking of what he had to expect, shuddered from head to foot, for he was not at the end of his troubles. speaking of the troubles of gringalet, it is necessary that i should tell you of gargousse, the favorite ape. this wicked animal was larger than gringalet; judge what a size for an ape! now i am going to tell you why they did not lead him as a show through the streets, like the other beasts of the menagerie; it was because gargousse was so wicked and so strong that, among all the children, there was only one, auvergnat, fourteen years old, a resolute fellow, who, after having several times collared and fought with gargousse, had succeeded in mastering him, and leading him by a chain; and even then, there were often battles between them, and bloody ones too, you may bet! tired of this, the little auvergnat said one day, 'well, well, i will revenge myself on you, you lubberly baboon!' so one morning he set off with his beast as usual; to decoy him he bought a sheep's heart. while gargousse was eating, he passed a cord through the end of his chain, and fastened it to a tree; and when he had the scoundrel of an ape once tied fast, he poured on him such a torrent of blows! a torrent that fire could not have extinguished." "good boy!" "bravo! auvergnat!" "hit him again, he's got no friends." "break his back for him, the rascally gargousse," said the prisoners. "and he did lay it on with a good heart," answered pique-vinaigre. "you should have heard how gargousse yelled, seen how he gnashed his teeth, jumped, danced here and there; but auvergnat trimmed him up with his club, saying, 'do you like it? then here is some more!' unfortunately, apes are like cats, they have nine lives. gargousse was as cunning as he was wicked. when he saw, as i may say, what kind of wood was burning for him, at the very thickest moment of the torrent, he cut a last caper, fell flat down at the foot of the tree, kicked a moment, and then shammed dead, not budging any more than a log. the auvergnat wished nothing more; believing the ape done for, he cleared out, never to put his feet in cut-in-half's drum again. but the vagabond gargousse watched him out of the corner of his eye, all wounded as he was, and as soon as he saw himself alone and auvergnat at a distance, he gnawed the cord with his teeth. the boulevard monceau, where he had had his dance, was very near little poland; the ape knew the road as well as he did his prayers. he slowly went off then, crawling along, and arrived at his master's, who swore and foamed to see his pet ape thus served out. but this is not all; from that moment gargousse had preserved such furious spite against all children in general, that cut-in-half, though not very tender-hearted, had not dared to let any of them lead him out, for fear of an accident; for gargousse would have been capable of strangling or devouring a child, and the little fellows would rather have allowed themselves to be slashed by their master than approach the ape." "i must most decidedly go and eat my soup," said the keeper, making a movement toward the door; "pique-vinaigre would make the birds come down from the trees to hear him. i do not know wherever he has fished up this story." "at length the keeper is off," whispered skeleton to the cripple; "i am in a fever, so much do i burn. only attend to making the ring around the spy, i'll take care of the rest." "be good boys," said the keeper, going toward the door. "good as pictures," answered skeleton, drawing near germain, while the big cripple and nicholas, at a concerted signal, made two steps in the same direction. "oh! respectable warder, you are going away at the finest moment," said pique-yinaigre, with an air of reproach. except for the cripple, who prevented his movement by seizing his arm, skeleton would have sprung upon pique-vinaigre. "how at the finest moment?" answered the keeper, turning. "i think so," said pique-vinaigre; "you do not know all you are going to lose; the most charming part of my story is about to commence." "do not listen to it, then," said skeleton, with difficulty restraining his rage; "he is not in the vein to-day: i find his story abominably stupid." "my story stupid?" cried pique-vinaigre, his vanity wounded; "well, keeper, i beg you, i supplicate you, to remain to the end. i have only enough to fill a good quarter of an hour; besides, your soup is cold. now what do you risk? i will hasten on with my story, so that you may still have the time to go and eat before we go to our beds." "well, then, i remain, but make haste," said the keeper, drawing near. "and you are right to remain, for, without boasting, you have never heard anything like it--above all, the conclusion; there is the triumph of the ape and of gringalet, escorted by all the little beast conductors and inhabitants of little poland. my word of honor i do not say it from vanity, but it is first-class." "then go on, my boy," said the keeper, coming close to the stove. the skeleton trembled with rage. he almost despaired of accomplishing his crime. once the hour of repose arrived, germain was saved; for he did not sleep in the same ward with his implacable enemy, and the next day, as we have said, he was to occupy one of the vacant cells. and, moreover, skeleton saw, from the interruptions of several of the prisoners, that they found themselves, thanks to the story of pique-vinaigre, filled with ideas that softened their hearts; perhaps, then, they would not assist, with savage indifference, the accomplishment of a frightful murder, of which their presence would make them accomplices. he could prevent the patterer from finishing his story, but then his last hope vanished of seeing the keeper retire before the hour in which germain would be in safety. "oh! stupid, is it?" said pique-vinaigre. "well, the honorable society shall be the judge. "there was not then an animal more wicked than the large ape gargousse, which was, above all, as savage as his master toward children. what did cut-in-half do to punish gringalet for wishing to run away? that you shall know directly; in the mean time, he caught the child, shut him up in the garret, saying to him, 'to-morrow morning, when all your comrades are gone, i will take hold of you, and you shall see what i do to those who wish to run away from here.' "i leave you to imagine what a horrible night gringalet passed. he hardly closed his eyes; he wondered what cut-in-half would do. at length he fell asleep. but what a sleep! then there was a dream, a frightful dream--that is to say, the beginning--you will see. he dreamed that he was one of those poor flies which he had so often saved from the spider's web, and that he, in his turn, fell into a large and strong web, where he struggled with all his strength without being able to escape; then he saw coming toward him softly, cautiously, a kind of monster, which had the face of his master, on a spider's body. my poor gringalet began again to struggle, as you may imagine; but the more efforts he made, the more he was entangled in the toils, just like the poor flies. at length the spider approached--touched him--and he felt the large, cold, and hairy paws of the monster encircle him. he thought himself dead, but suddenly he heard a kind of humming noise, clear and acute, and saw a little golden gnat, which had a kind of sting as fine and brilliant as a diamond needle, flying round the spider in a furious manner, and a voice (when i say voice, just imagine the voice of a gnat!)-a voice said to him, 'poor little fly! you have saved flies; the spider shall not---' "unfortunately, gringalet awoke with a start, and he saw not the end of the dream; nevertheless, he was a little comforted, saying to himself, 'perhaps the golden gnat with the diamond sting would have killed the spider if i had seen the end of the dream.' "but gringalet had need of all this to console himself, for, as the night advanced, his fear returned so strongly that in the end he forgot his dream, or rather, he only remembered the frightful part of it; the great web where he had been entangled, and the spider with the padrone's face. you can judge what shiverings of alarm he must have had. bless me! judge then, alone--all alone--with no one to take his part! "in the morning, when he saw the light appear little by little through the garret-window, his alarm redoubled; the moment was drawing near when he would be left all alone with cut-in-half. then he threw himself on his knees in the middle of the garret, and weeping hot tears, he begged his companions to ask his pardon from cut-in-half, or to assist him to escape if there was any way. oh, yes! some from fear of the master, others from caring nothing about it, others from cruelty, refused the service which poor gringalet demanded." "wicked scrubs," said the prisoner in the blue cap, "they had neither body nor soul." "it is true," said another; "it is vexing to see this want of feeling." "and, alone, and without defense," resumed blue cap; "for one who cannot stretch out his neck without wincing, it is always a pity. when one has teeth to bite, then it is different. you have tusks? well, show them, and look for tail, my cadet." "that is true!" said several of the prisoners. "come!" cried skeleton, no longer able to restrain his rage, and addressing blue cap, "will you shut up? have i not already said, 'silence in the band'? am i, or am i not, the ruler here?" for sole answer, blue cap looked him in the face, and then made a gesture, perfectly well known to street arabs, which consists in placing on the tip of the nose the thumb of the right hand, opened, and touching with the little finger the thumb of the left, also spread out like a fan. blue cap accompanied this mute answer with an expression so grotesque that several of the prisoners shouted with laughter, while some of the others, on the contrary, remained stupefied at the audacity of the new prisoner. skeleton shook his fist at blue cap, and said, grinding his teeth, "we'll settle this to-morrow." "and i will make the addition on your hide. i'll set down seventeen and carry naught." for fear the keeper should find a new reason for remaining in order to prevent a possible quarrel, skeleton answered calmly: "that is not the question. i have the ruling of the hall, and i must be obeyed; is it not so, keeper?" "it is true," said the officer. "do not interrupt. and you, pique-vinaigre, go on; but make haste, my boy." "then," resumed pique-vinaigre, continuing his story, "gringalet, seeing himself abandoned, gave himself up to his unhappy fate. broad daylight came, and all the children prepared to depart with their beasts. cut-in-half opened the trap and called the roll, in order to give each one his piece of bread; all descended the ladder, and gringalet, more dead than alive, crouching in a corner of the garret, moved no more than it did; he saw his companions going off one after the other; he would have given anything to do as they did. finally, they were all gone. the heart of the poor child beat strongly; he hoped that, perhaps, his master would forget him. ah, well, he heard cut-in-half at the foot of the ladder, cry in a harsh voice: 'gringalet! gringalet!' 'here i am, master.' "'come down at once, or i'll fetch you,' answered cut-in-half. gringalet thought his last day was come. "'i must,' he said to himself, trembling in every limb, and remembering his dream, 'now you _are_ in for it, little fly: the spider is going to eat you.' "after having placed his turtle softly on the ground, he bade him good-bye, for he had become attached to the creature, and approached the trap-door. he placed his foot on the ladder to descend, when cut-in-half, taking him by his poor little leg, as slender as a spindle, drew him so strongly, so harshly, that gringalet tumbled down, and polished his face against the whole length of the ladder." "what a pity that the alderman had not been there--what a fine dance for cut-in-half," said blue cap; "it is in such times as these that it is good to be strong." "yes, my son; but, unfortunately, the alderman was not there! cut-in-half took the child by the seat of his trousers, and carried him into his den, where he kept his big ape tied to the foot of his bed. on seeing the child, the beast began to leap and grind his teeth like a mad thing, and to spring the whole length of his chain, as if he wished to devour him." "poor gringalet, how did he ever get out of this?" "why, if he had fallen into the clutches of the ape, he would have been strangled at once." "thunder! it makes me half dead," said blue cap: "as for me at this moment, i could not harm a mouse--what do you say, mate?" "nor i either." "nor i." at this moment the clock struck three-quarters past three. skeleton, fearing more and more that time would be wanting, cried, furious at these interruptions, which seemed to indicate that several of the prisoners were becoming softened, "silence in the crowd! he will never finish, if you jabber as much as he does." pique-vinaigre continued: "when one reflects that gringalet had had all the trouble in the world to become accustomed to his turtle, and that the most courageous of his comrades trembled at the name alone of gargousse, let him imagine his terror when he saw himself carried by his master near to this fiend of an ape. 'pardon, master,' he cried, his teeth chattering as if he had an ague,--'pardon, master! i'll never do it again, i promise you.' "the poor little fellow cried, 'i will never do it again,' without knowing why he said so, for he had nothing to reproach himself with; but cut-in-half laughed at that. in spite of the cries of the child, who struggled hard, he placed him within reach of gargousse, and the beast sprung upon him and clutched him!" a shudder passed through the audience, who were more and more attentive. "how stupid i should have been to go away," said the keeper, approaching still nearer. "and this is nothing yet; the finest has to come," answered pique-vinaigre. "as soon as gringalet felt the cold and hairy paws of the great ape, which seized him by the throat and by the head, he thought himself devoured, became, as it were, off his nut, and began to cry with groans which would have softened a tiger. "' the spider of my dream, good lord! the spider of my dream--little golden gnat, help, help!' "'will you hush? will you hush?' said cut-in-half, giving him heavy kicks, for he was afraid that his cries would be heard; but at the end of a moment there was no more danger: poor gringalet cried no more, struggled no more; on his knees, as white as a sheet, he shut his eyes and shivered as if it had been january. meantime the ape beat him, pulled his hair, and scratched him; and from time to time, the wicked beast stopped to look at his master, absolutely as if they understood each other. as for cut-in-half, he laughed so loud, that if gringalet had cried, the shouts of his master would have drowned his cries. it would seem as if this encouraged gargousse, for he was more and more cruel to the child." "oh! you sanguinary ape," cried blue cap. "if i had hold of you by the tail, i would spin you round like a mill--just like a sling, and i would crack your conk on the pavement." "rascally ape! he was as wicked as a man!" "there are no men so wicked as that!" "not so wicked?" answered pique-vinaigre. "you forget old cut-in-half! judge of it--this is what he did afterward: he unfastened the chain (which was very long) from the bed, took the child, more dead than alive, from the paws of gargousse, and fastened him at one end of it, with gargousse at the other. there was an idea!" "it is true, there are men more cruel than the most cruel beasts." "when cut-in-half had done this, he said to his ape, which appeared to understand him, "'attention, gargousse! they have led and shown you, now in your turn you shall show gringalet; he shall be your ape. come, hop, stand up, gringalet, or i say to gargousse, 'speak to him, fellow!'" "the poor child had fallen on his knees, his hands clasped, but not able to speak; his teeth chattered in his head. "'there! make him walk, gargousse,' said cut-in-half to his ape; 'and if he is sulky, do as i do.' "and at the same time he gave the child a torrent of blows with a switch, and afterward handed it to the ape. you know how these animals imitate by nature, but gargousse in this respect excelled; so he took the rod in his hand and fell upon gringalet, who was obliged to get up. once on his legs he was about the same size as the ape; then cut-in-half went out of his room and descended the staircase, calling gargousse, and gargousse followed him, driving gringalet before him with blows from the rod. they reached thus the little court of the building. there cut-in-half counted on amusing himself; he shut the door leading into the lane, and signed to gargousse to make the child run before him around the court, by striking him with the switch. the ape obeyed, and began to chase gringalet in this manner, while cut-in-half held his sides with laughter. you think that this wickedness was enough? oh! yes, but it was nothing as yet. up to this time, gringalet would have escaped with a few scratches, lashes, and horrible fear. now this is what cut-in-half did: to make the ape furious against the child, who, panting and out of breath, was more dead than alive, he took gringalet by the hair, pretending to belabor him with blows, and then he handed him back to gargousse, crying, 'speak to him, speak to him!' and then he showed him a piece of sheep's heart, as much as to say to him, 'this shall be your reward!' oh! then, my friends, truly it was a dreadful sight. imagine a great red ape with a black snout, grinding his teeth like a madman, and throwing himself furiously on this poor little unfortunate, who, not being able to defend himself, had been thrown down at the first blow, and lay with his face to the ground, in order to protect it. seeing this, gargousse, his master setting him at the child continually, mounted on his back, took him by the neck, and fell to biting him, until he made the blood come. 'oh! the spider of my dream--the spider!' cried gringalet in a stifled voice, believing now that he was going to be killed. suddenly there was a knock at the door!" "ah! the alderman!" cried the prisoners with joy. "yes, this time it was he, my friends; he called through the door, 'will you open, cut-in-half? will you open? do not sham deaf; for i see you through the keyhole!" "cut-in-half, forced to reply, went grumbling to open the door for the alderman, who was a rough, as solid as a bridge, in spite of his fifty years, and with whom it was worth no one's while to joke when he was angry. "'what do you want with me?' said cut-in-half to him, half opening the door. 'i want to speak to you,' said the alderman, who entered almost by force into the little yard; then, seeing the ape still savage after gringalet, he ran, caught gargousse by the nape of his neck, and tried to take the child away from under him; but he only then saw that the child was chained to the ape. seeing this, he looked at cut-in-half in a terrible manner, and cried, 'come, then, at once, and unchain this poor boy!' you can judge of the joy and surprise of gringalet, who, half dead with fright, found himself saved as it were by a miracle. then he could not but think of the golden gnat of his dream, although the alderman did not look much like a gnat, the big buffer." "ah," said the keeper, making a step toward the door; "now gringalet is saved, i'll go to eat my soup." "saved?" cried pique-vinaigre, "oh yes, saved! but not yet at the end of his troubles, poor gringalet." "really?" said several of the prisoners, with interest. "but what is going to happen to him now?" asked the keeper, drawing near. "remain, and you shall know," answered the patterer. "cunning pique-vinaigre, he does with one just as he pleases," said the keeper; "i will remain a little longer." skeleton, mute, foamed with rage. pique-vinaigre continued: "cut-in-half, who feared the alderman as he did fire, had grumblingly loosened the child from the chain; when that was done, the alderman threw gargousse into the air, received him on the end of a most magnificent kick, and sent him sprawling ten feet off. the ape cried like a burned child, gnashed his teeth, but fled quickly, and went to take refuge on the top of a shed, where he shook his fist at the alderman. 'why do you beat my ape?' said cut-in-half to the alderman. 'you ought rather to ask me, why i do not beat you, to cause this child such suffering! you are drunk pretty early this morning!' 'i am no more drunk than you are; i was teaching a trick to my ape; i wish to give a representation where he and gringalet will appear together; i am following my business--why do you meddle with it?' 'i meddle with what concerns me. this morning, not seeing gringalet pass before my door with the other children, i asked them where he was; they did not answer--they looked embarrassed. i know you. i thought you were after no good, and i was not wrong. listen to me: every time i do not see gringalet pass before my door with the others in the morning, i will be here at once, and you must show him to me, or i'll knock you down.' 'i will do as i please; i have no orders to receive from you,' answered cut-in-half, riled at this threat. you shall not knock me down; and if you do not take yourself off from this, or if you return, i---' flip flap! went the alderman, interrupting cut-in-half by a duet of blows enough to silence a rhinoceros: 'there is what you get for answering to the alderman of little poland.'" "two blows! it was too little," said blue cap; "in his place, i should have given him a bigger dose." "and he should not have had it too hastily," added a prisoner. "the alderman," replied pique-vinaigre, "could have eaten ten like cut-in-half. so he was obliged to put these blows in his pocket; but he was none the less furious at being struck, and above all, before gringalet. so at this very moment he promised to avenge himself, and an idea occurred to him which could only have occurred to a demon of wickedness like himself. while he was ruminating on this diabolical idea, the alderman said: 'remember, that if you attempt to injure this child again, i will force you to clear out from little poland, you and your beasts; otherwise i will stir up the neighborhood against you; you know they hate you here, so you will have a passport which your back will remember, i promise you.' traitor as he was, in order to be able to execute his wicked idea, instead of continuing to be angry against the alderman, cut-in-half cringed like a dog, and said: 'faith of a man! you were wrong to strike me, alderman, and to think that i wished any harm to gringalet; on the contrary, i repeat to you that i was teaching a new trick to my ape; he is not sweet-tempered when he is angry, and if, in the scuffle, the little one was bitten, i am sorry for it. 'hum!' said the alderman, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, 'is this really true, what you tell me? if you wish to teach a trick to your ape, why did you fasten him to gringalet?' 'because gringalet must also know it. this is what i wish to do; i will dress gargousse in a red coat and a cap with feathers; i will seat gringalet in a child's chair; then i will put a towel around his neck, and the ape, with a large wooden razor will pretend to shave him.' "the alderman could not keep from laughing at this idea. 'is it not comical?' said cut-in-half, with a smirking look. 'in truth, it is,' said the alderman, 'so much the more as they say your ape is sufficiently cunning and knowing to play such a part. "'i think so. when he has seen me five or six times pretend to shave gringalet, he will imitate me with his large wooden razor; but on that account, as the child must become used to him, i have tied them together.' "'but why have you chosen gringalet rather than any other?' "'because he is the smallest of all, and, being seated, gargousse will be larger than he is; besides, i intended to give half the profits to gringalet.' "'if this is so,' said the alderman, reassured by the hypocrisy of the owner of the beasts, 'i regret the dose i gave you; consider it as an advance against the next time you do wrong.' "while his master spoke with the alderman, gringalet dared not breathe; he trembled like a leaf, and longed to throw himself at the alderman's feet, and beg to be taken away; but his courage failed him, and he began again to despair, saying to himself, 'i shall be like the poor fly of my dream--the spider will devour me; i was wrong to believe that the golden gnat would save me!' "'look here, my boy; since daddy cut-'em-in-half gives you half of the money, that ought to encourage you to accustom yourself to the ape. bah! bah! you will do it; and if the profits are large, you will have no cause to complain.' "'he complain! have you any reason to complain?' asked his master, giving him a side look so terrible that the child wished he was a hundred feet under ground. "'no, no, master!' he stammered. "'you see, alderman,' said cut-in-half, 'he never has complained. i only wish for his welfare, after all. if gargousse scratched him the first time, it shall not happen again, i promise you. i will watch.' "'very well! thus every one will be content.' "'gringalet the most,' said cut-in-half; 'is it not so?' "'yes, yes, master,' said the trembling child. "'and to console you for your scratches, i will give you part of a good breakfast; for the alderman is going to send a plate of cutlets and pickles, four bottles of wine, and a gallon of brandy.' "'at your service, cut-in-half, my cellar and my kitchen are open for the whole world.' "at heart the alderman was a good man, but he was not very wise, and he liked to sell his wine, and cutlets also. the rascal knew it well; you see that he sent him off contented at having sold some eatables and drinkables, and reassured as to the fate of gringalet. so now, here is the poor little fellow fallen again into the power of his master. the moment the alderman had turned on his heels, cut-in-half showed the staircase to his victim, and ordered him to mount at once to his garret; the child did not allow him to say it twice, but went, very much alarmed. "'oh, lord! i am lost,' he cried, throwing himself upon the straw beside his turtle, and weeping bitterly. he was there for a good hour sobbing, when he heard cut-in-half's coarse voice calling him. what increased the fear of gringalet was, that it seemed to him the voice of his master had a strange sound. "'will you come down at once?' said the owner of the beasts, with a horrid oath. "the child quickly descended the stairs. hardly had he put his foot on the ground, when his master seized him, and carried him to his chamber, staggering at each step, for cut-in-half had drunk so much that he was as tipsy as a sow, and could hardly keep his legs; his body swayed backward and forward, and he looked at gringalet, rolling his eyes in a most ferocious manner, but without speaking. he had too thick a tongue. never had the child been more afraid of him. "gargousse was chained to the foot of the bed. in the middle of the room was a chair with a cord hanging on the back. "'si--(hic!)--sit down there,'" continued pique-vinaigre, imitating, to the end of his story, the stammering of a drunken man, whenever he related what cut-in-half said. "gringalet seated himself trembling. then cut-in-half, without saying a word, wound the cord around him, and tied him to the chair, and that not easily; for although the owner of the beasts could still see a little, and knew what he was about, you may imagine he made granny's knots. at length gringalet is firmly fastened in the chair. 'oh, dear,' he murmured, 'this time no one will come to deliver me.' "poor little fellow, he was right; no one could--no one did come, as you will see. the alderman had gone, and cut-in-half had double-locked the door of the court on the inside, and drawn the bolt; no one could come there to the aid of gringalet." "oh! this time," said several of the prisoners, much interested in the story, "gringalet, you are lost!" "poor little fellow!"---"what a pity!" "if twenty sous would save him, i would give them." "i also." "rascal of a cut-in-half! whatever is he going to do?" pique-vinaigre continued: "when gringalet was tied to the chair, his master said to him, 'you young rascal, it is you who have been the cause that--i have been beaten by the alderman--you--are--go-o-o-ing to die!' and he drew from his pocket a large razor, newly sharpened, opened it, and took with one hand gringalet by the hair." a murmur of indignation and horror circulated among the prisoners, and interrupted for a moment pique-vinaigre, who resumed: "at sight of the razor the child began to cry, 'pardon! master, pardon! do not kill me! 'c-r-r-r-y, c-r-r-y, b-o-o-y--you will not (hic!) cry long,' answered cut-in-half. "'golden gnat! golden gnat! help!' cried poor gringalet, almost delirious, recalling to his mind his dream; 'here is the spider going to kill me!' "'ah! you call--me--a-a-a (hic!) spider!' said cut-in-half; 'on account--o-of--that--and other things you--are--go-o-o-ing to (hic!) die--do you hear-r-r?--but--not by my (hic!) hand--because, besides, they will guillotine me-e-e. i will say--and--prove--that it was--the a-a-pe--i have prepared--but no matter!' said cut-in-half, hardly able to stand; then, calling his ape, which, at the end of his chain, ground his teeth, and looked alternately at his master and the child: "'look here, gargousse,' he said showing him the razor and gringalet, whom he held by the hair, 'you must do so to him; do you (hic!) see?' "and passing the back of the razor several times over the throat of gringalet, he pretended to cut it. the confounded ape was such a good imitator, so wicked, and so malicious, that he comprehended what his master wished; and, to prove it to him, shook his chain with the left paw, threw his head back, and pretended to cut his throat. 'that's it, gargousse-- that's it,' said cut-in-half stammering, shutting his eyes, and reeling so much that he came near, falling with gringalet and the chair. 'yes, that's it; i'll unfasten your chain--cut his whistle--that's it; hey, gargousse?' "the ape cried and chattered, as if to say yes, and put out his paw to take the razor, which was held toward him. "'golden gnat, help!' murmured gringalet, in a crying tone, certain now that his hour was come. for, alas! he called the golden gnat to his assistance, without any hope that he would come; but he said that as one says 'oh, lord!' when one is drowning. just at this moment, gringalet saw come in at the window one of those small flies, green and gold, which are so common; one would have called it a spark of fire which flew, and just at the moment cut-in-half gave the razor to gargousse, the golden gnat flew straight into the eye of the wicked wretch. a fly in the eye is no great thing; but, for a moment, it stings like a prick with a needle; so cut-in-half, who could hardly stand, fell on the floor and rolled like a log to the foot of the bed where gargousse was chained. "'golden gnat, i thank you; you have saved me!' cried gringalet; for, still seated, and tied on the chair, he had seen everything." "it is true enough, the golden gnat prevented his throat from being cut," cried the prisoners, transported with joy. "hooray for the golden gnat!" cried blue cap. "yes, long live the golden gnat!" repeated several voices. "bravo, pique-vinaigre and his stories!" said another. "stop, then," resumed the patterer, "here's the finest and most terrible part of the story that i had promised you. cut-in-half had fallen on the ground like lead; he was so drunk that he stirred no more than a log; he was dead drunk, and knew nothing; but, in falling, he came near crushing gargousse, and had almost broken one of his hind paws. you know how wicked this villainous beast was--rancorous and malicious. he held on to the razor which his master had given him to cut the throat of gringalet. what does my lovely ape do when he sees his master stretched on his back, immovable as a fried carp, and much at his ease? he sprung upon him, crouched on his breast, with one of his paws stretched the skin of his throat, and with the other--click! he cut his windpipe in a moment, exactly as cut-in-half had shown him how to operate on gringalet." "bravo!" "well done!" "long live gargousse!" "the little golden gnat forever!" "bravo, gringalet!" "hooray, gargousse!" cried the prisoners with enthusiasm. "well, my friends!" cried pique-vinaigre, enchanted at the success of his story, "what you have just cried, all little poland cried an hour later." "how is that--how?" "i told you that, to do this bloody deed quite at his ease, cut-in-half had locked his door on the inside. in the evening, the children returned, one after the other, with their beasts; the first knocked--no answer; at length, when they were all assembled, they knocked again--no reply; one of them went after the alderman, and told him that they had knocked, and that their master did not open the door. 'the fellow is as drunk as a dutchman,' said he. 'i sent him some wine just now; we must break open the door; the children cannot remain all night out of doors.' "they break open the doors, they enter, they mount the stairs, they reach the chamber, and what do they see? gargousse, chained and crouching on the body of his master, and playing with the razor; poor gringalet, happily out of his reach, still seated, and tied on the chair, not daring to cast his eyes on the dead body, and looking at--guess what? the little golden fly, which, after having fluttered around the child, as if to felicitate him, had finally come and seated itself on his little hand. gringalet related all to the alderman, and the crowd who followed him; this appeared truly, as they said, an act of providence; then the alderman said, 'a triumph to gringalet; a triumph to gargousse, who has killed this bad cut-in-half. he cut others; it was his turn to be cut!' "'yes, yes!' said the crowd, for the defunct was detested by everybody, 'a triumph for gargousse! a triumph for gringalet.' "it was night; they lighted wisps of straw, they tied gargousse on a bench, which four boys carried on their shoulders; the sweet pet of an ape did not appear to dislike this, and assumed the airs of a conqueror, showing his teeth to the crowd. after the ape came the alderman, carrying gringalet in his arms: all the little boys, each with his beast, surrounded the alderman; one carrying his fox, another his marmoset, another his guinea-pig: those who played on the hurdygurdy, played on the hurdygurdy; there were chimney-sweeps, with their bagpipes, who also played; it was an uproar of joy, which cannot be imagined! behind the musicians came all the inhabitants of little poland, men, women, and children; they all held torches, and shouted like madmen, 'hooray, gringalet!' 'gargousse forever!' the cortège in this order marched round the house of cut-in-half. it was a droll spectacle; the old buildings and all the figures illuminated by the red light of the straw fires, which flickered, and sparkled, and blazed up! as to gringalet, the first thing he did, once at liberty, was to place the little golden fly in a paper box; and he kept repeating, during his triumph, 'little golden gnat, i did well to hinder the spiders from eating you, for---'" the recital of pique-vinaigre was interrupted. "roussel, ahoy!" cried a voice from without; "come then, and eat your soup; four o'clock will strike in ten minutes." "all right! the story is about finished. i'll go. thank you, my boy, you have amused me finely; you may be proud of it," said the keeper to pique-vinaigre, going toward the door. then, stopping, "be good boys!" he added, to the prisoners, turning around. "we are going to hear the end of the story," said skeleton, almost bursting with restrained rage. then he whispered to the big cripple, "go to the door, look after the keeper, and when you have seen him go out of the court, cry 'gargousse!' and the spy is dead." "just so," said the cripple, who accompanied the keeper, and remained standing near the door, watching him. "i told you, then," said pique-vinaigre, "that gringalet, all the time of his triumph, said to himself, 'little gnat, i have---'" "gargousse!" cried the cripple. "mine! gringalet, i will be your spider!" shouted skeleton, throwing himself on germain so that he could neither make a movement nor utter a cry. his voice died under the formidable grasp of the long iron fingers. chapter xi. an unexpected friend. "if you are the spider, i will be the golden gnat, skeleton of evil!" cried a voice, at the moment when germain, surprised by the violence and sudden attack of his implacable enemy, fell backward on his bench, at the mercy of the ruffian, who, with one knee on his breast, held him by the throat. "yes, i will be the gnat, and, what is more, a famous gnat!" repeated the man in the blue cap, of whom we have spoken; then, with a furious bound, overturning three or four prisoners who separated him from germain, he sprung upon skeleton, and struck him on his head, between the eyes, such a torrent of blows with his fists that the sound was like a hammer upon an anvil. the man in the blue cap (who was no other than the chourineur) added, as he redoubled the rapidity of his hammering on the head of the skeleton, "it is the hail-storm of fisticuffs which m. rudolph planted on my skull. i have learned the trick." at this unexpected assault, the prisoners were struck with surprise, taking no part for or against the chourineur. many of them, still under the salutary impression of the story of pique-vinaigre, were even satisfied at this incident, which might save germain. skeleton, at first stunned, staggered like an ox under the butcher's ax, extended his hand mechanically to ward off the blows of his enemy. germain was enabled to disengage himself from the mortal grip, and half arose. "but what is all this? who is this bruiser?" cried the cripple; and springing upon the chourineur, he tried to seize his arms from behind, while the latter endeavored to hold down skeleton on the bench. the defender of germain answered the attack by a kick so violent, that he sent the cripple rolling to the extremity of the circle formed by the prisoners. germain, of a livid paleness, half suffocated, kneeling beside the bench, did not appear to have any consciousness of what was passing around him. the strangulation had been so violent and painful he hardly breathed. after he had recovered a little, skeleton, by a desperate effort, succeeded in shaking off the chourineur, and getting upon his feet. panting, drunk with rage and hatred, he was frightful. his cadaverous face streamed with blood, his upper lip, drawn back like a mad wolfs, displayed his teeth closely set against each other. at length he cried, in a voice breathless with anger and fatigue, for his struggle with the chourineur had been violent, "cut him down, the turncoat, cowards! who let me be attacked traitorously, or the spy will escape." during this kind of truce, the chourineur, raising up the half-fainting germain, had skillfully managed to approach by degrees an angle of the wall, where he placed him. profiting by this excellent position of defense, the chourineur could then, without fear of being attacked from behind, hold out a long time against the prisoners, on whom the courage and herculean strength which he had just displayed made a powerful impression. pique-vinaigre, alarmed, had disappeared during the tumult, without any one remarking his absence. seeing the hesitation of the greater part of the prisoners, skeleton said, "come on, then, let us do the job for both of them, the big 'un and the little spy." "not too fast!" answered the chourineur, preparing for the combat; "look out for yourself, bones! if you wish to play cut-in-half, i will play gargousse--i'll cut your weasand." "why don't you jump on him?" cried the cripple. "why does this madman defend the spy? death to the spy, and him also! if he defends germain, he is a traitor." "yes! yes!" "death to the betrayers!" "death!" "yes; death to the traitor who defends him!" such were the cries of several of the prisoners. a part of them, more merciful, cried, "not before he speaks!" "yes, let him explain!" "a man must not be killed without a hearing!" "and without defense!" "one would be a regular cut-in-half!" "so much the better!" answered the cripple and the partisans of skeleton. "one cannot do too much to a spy!" "death to him!" "fall upon him!" "let us support skeleton!" "yes, yes! down with the blue cap!" "no; let us sustain the blue cap! hang the skeleton!" answered the party of the chourineur. "no; down with the blue cap!" "down with skeleton!" "that's the ticket, pals!" cried the chourineur, addressing those prisoners who ranged themselves on his side; "you have hearts; you will not see a man murdered who is half dead; only cowards are capable of such conduct. skeleton is no bad joker; he is condemned in advance; that is the reason why he urges you on. but if you aid him to kill germain, you will be roughly treated. besides, i have a proposition to make. skeleton wants to finish this young man. well! let him come and take him, if he can: it will be a match between ourselves; we will walk into each other, and you will see; but he dares not--he is like cut-in-half, strong among the kids." the vigor, energy, and hardy aspect of the chourineur had a powerful effect on the prisoners; a considerable number ranged themselves on his side, and surrounded germain; skeleton's party were grouped around that ruffian. a bloody affray was about to take place, when the quick and measured step of a guard of infantry was heard in the court. pique-vinaigre, profiting by the noise and general commotion, had gained the court and knocked at the wicket, in order to inform the keepers of what was going on in the hall. the arrival of the soldiers put an end to the scene. germain, skeleton, and the chourineur were conducted to the governor's presence; the first to lodge his complaint, the others to answer the charge of a fight in the prison. the alarm and sufferings of germain were so intense, his weakness so great, that he was obliged to lean on two of the keepers to reach the governor's room. there he became quite faint; his excoriated throat bore the livid and bloody marks of the skeleton's iron fingers. a few seconds more, and the betrothed of rigolette would have been strangled. the keeper charged with the hall watch, who, as we have said, was much interested for germain, gave him every assistance. when he came to himself, when reflection succeeded the rapid and terrible emotions that had hardly left him the exercise of his reason, his first thought was for his deliverer. "thank you for your attentions, sir," he said to the keeper; "but for that courageous man, i was lost." "how are you now?" "better. ah! all that has passed seems to me like a horrid dream!" "recover yourself." "and my savior, where is he?" "in the governor's room. he is telling how the affray occurred. it appears that without him----" "i should have been murdered, sir. oh! tell me his name--who is he?" "his name i do not know; he is nicknamed the slasher; he was once in the galleys." "and the crime which brought him here, perhaps, is not serious?" "very serious--burglary," said the keeper. "he will probably have the same dose as pique-vinaigre; fifteen or twenty years of hard labor, and the pillory, as he is an old offender." germain shuddered; he would have preferred to be bound by the ties of gratitude to one less criminal. "oh! it is frightful," he said; "and yet this man, without knowing me, took my part. so much courage, so much generosity." "what would you have, sir? sometimes there is some good left in these people. the most important fact is, that you are saved; to-morrow you will have your own cell, and for to-night you will sleep in the infirmary, according to orders. come, courage, sir! the worst is over; when your pretty little visitor comes to see you, you can reassure her; for, once in your own cell, you will have nothing more to fear." "oh! no, i will not speak to her about it; but i wish to thank my defender. however culpable he may be in the eyes of the law, he has none the less saved my life." "i hear him leaving the governor's room. skeleton is now to be examined; i will take them back together, skeleton to the dungeon, and the slasher to the lions' den. he will, besides, be a little recompensed for what he has done for you; for as he is a bold and determined fellow, such as one should be to lead others, it is probable that he will take the place of skeleton as provost." the slasher having crossed a little lobby, on which opened the governor's room, entered the apartment where germain was seated. "wait for me here," said the keeper to the slasher; "i am going to learn what the governor decides to do with the skeleton, and i will return directly for you. there is our young man quite recovered; he wishes to thank you, and he has reason too, for without you all had been finished for him." the keeper retired. slasher's features were radiant with delight. he advanced joyfully, saying: "thunder! how happy i am at saving you!" and he extended his hand to germain. he, from a feeling of involuntary repulsion, at first drew back slightly, instead of taking the hand offered by the slasher; then, recollecting that, after all, he owed his life to this man, he wished to make amends for this first movement of repugnance. but the slasher had perceived it; a gloom spread over his face, and drawing back in his turn, he said, with much bitterness, "ah! it is right. pardon me, sir." "no, it is i who should ask your pardon. am i not a prisoner like you? i should only think of the service you have rendered me--you have saved my life. your hand, friend, i entreat you. i pray you, your hand." "thank you; now it is useless. the first movement is everything. if you had at first given me your hand, that would have given me pleasure; but, on reflection, it is i who do not wish it. not because i am a prisoner, like you, but," he added, in a hesitating and gloomy manner, "because, before i was here, i was--" "the keeper has told me all," replied germain, interrupting him; "but you have none the less saved my life." "i have done but my duty and pleasure, for i know who you are, m. germain." "you know me?" "a little, my boy; i talk to you like a father," said the slasher, resuming his tone of habitual carelessness; "and you would be very wrong to place my arrival at la force on the back of chance. if i had not known you, i should not have been here." germain looked at the slasher with the utmost surprise. "how, because you knew me---" "i am here a prisoner in la force." "i wish to believe you, but---" "but you do not believe me." "i wish to say that it is impossible for me to comprehend how it can be that i have anything to do with your imprisonment." "have anything to do? you have everything." "i have this misfortune!" "a misfortune! on the contrary, it is i who am indebted to you; and very much, that is more." "to me--you indebted to me!" "yes, for having procured me the advantage of making a call at la force." "truly," said germain, passing his hand over his face, "i do not know whether the terrible shock i received has impaired my reason, but it is impossible for me to understand you. the keeper has just told me that you were accused of--of--" and germain hesitated. "of robbery, i dare say? yes, burglary, and at night, into the bargain! everything under full sail," cried the slasher, shouting with laughter. "nothing was wanting--my robbery had all the modern improvements to make it a bang-up work." germain, painfully affected by the audacious boldness of the slasher, could not help saying, "how, you, so brave, so generous, talk thus? do you not know the terrible punishment that awaits you?" "twenty years in the galleys, and the pillory! i am a headstrong scoundrel, to take it so coolly? but what would you have when one is in for it? and yet to think that it is you, m. germain," added the slasher, uttering a heavy sigh, in a manner jokingly contrite, "who are the cause of my misfortune!" "when you explain yourself more clearly, i shall understand you. joke as much as you please, my gratitude for the service you have rendered me will be none the less," said germain, sadly. "i ask your pardon, m. germain," answered the slasher, becoming more serious; "you do not like to see me laugh at this; let us speak no more about it. i must have a little explanation with you, and force you, perhaps, once more to offer me your hand." "i do not doubt it; for, notwithstanding the crime of which you are accused, and of which you accuse yourself, everything in you announces courage and frankness. i am sure you are unjustly suspected; appearances, perhaps, compromise you." "oh! as to that, you are wrong, m. germain," said the slasher, so seriously this time, and with such an accent of sincerity, that germain was forced to believe him. "as true as that i have a protector" (the slasher took off his cap), "who is for me what the judge above is for the good priests, i robbed at night, by breaking in at a window; i was caught in the fact, and secured, with the stolen goods in my possession." "but want, hunger, drove you, then, to this extremity?" "hunger? i had a hundred and twenty francs when they arrested me--the change of a thousand-franc note, without counting that the protector of whom i have spoken, who does not know that i am here, will never let me want anything. but since i have spoken to you of my protector, you ought to believe that i am speaking the truth, because before him it is like going down on your knees. the torrent of blows i rained down on bones is a fashion of his, which i copied after nature. the idea of the robbery, on account of him, came into my head. in fine, if you are here, instead of being strangled by skeleton, thanks to him." "but this protector?" "is yours also." "mine?" "yes! m. rudolph protects you; when i say monsieur, it is his highness that i ought to say, for he is a prince; but i am accustomed to call him m. rudolph, and he allows it." "you mistake," said germain, more and more surprise; "i do not know any prince." "yes, but he knows you; you do not doubt it? it is possible--it is his way. he hears there is a good man in trouble--slap! the good man is relieved, and he is neither seen nor known. i perplex you; for him happiness falls from the clouds like a tile on the head. thus, patience! some day or other you will receive your tile." "truly, what you say confounds me." "you will have a great deal more of the same! to return to my protector: some time since, after a service which he pretended i had rendered him, he procured me a slap-up situation. i have no need to tell you what--it would be too long; in a word, he sent me to marseilles, to embark for my place. i left paris contented as a beggar! good! but soon that changed. a supposition: let us say that i left on a fine sunny day. well! the next day is cloudy; the day after very cloudy, and every succeeding day more and more so, until, at length, it became as black as the devil. do you comprehend?" "not exactly." "well, let us see. did you ever keep a pup?" "what a singular question!" "have you had a dog that loved you well, and that was lost?" "no." "then i will tell you at once, that when at a distance from m. rudolph, i was restless, uneasy, alarmed, like a dog that had lost his master. it was brutish, but the dogs also are brutes, and this does not prevent them from being attached to their masters, and remembering quite as much the good mouthfuls as the kickings they are accustomed to receive; and m. rudolph had given me better than good mouthfuls, for, do you see, for me m. rudolph is all in all. from a wicked, brutal, savage, and riotous rascal, he made me a kind of honest man, by saying only two words to me; but those words were like magic." "and those words, what are they? what did he say to you?" "he told me that i had still a 'heart' and 'honor,' although i had been to the hulks--not for having robbed, it is true. oh! that, never, but for what is worse, perhaps--for having killed. yes," said the slasher, in a sad tone, "yes, killed in a moment of anger, because from my childhood, brought up like a brute, without father or mother, abandoned in the streets of paris, i knew neither god nor the devil, nor good nor evil, nor strong nor weak. sometimes the blood rushed to my eyes, i saw red, and if i had a knife in my hand, i stabbed--i stabbed! i was like a wolf; i could not frequent any other places than those where i met beggars and ruffians; i did not put crape on my hat for that. i was obliged to live in the mire; i did not even know i was there. but, when m. rudolph told me that since in spite of the contempt of the world and misery, instead of stealing, as others did, i had preferred to work as much as i could, and at what i could, that showed i had a heart and honor. thunder! those two words had the same effect upon me as if some one had caught me by the hair, and raised me a thousand feet in the air above the beggars with whom i lived, and showed me in what mire i wallowed. then, of course, i said, 'thank you, i have enough.' then my heart beat with something besides anger, and i swore to myself always to preserve this honor of which m. rudolph had spoken. you see, m. germain, by telling me with kindness that i was not as bad as i thought, m. rudolph encouraged me, and, thanks to him, i have become better than i was." on hearing this language, germain comprehended still less how the slasher could have committed the robbery of which he accused himself. "no," thought germain, "it is impossible; this man, who suffers himself to be thus carried away by the simple words honor and heart, cannot have committed this robbery of which he speaks with such ease." the slasher continued, without remarking the astonishment of germain: "finally, the reason why i am to m. rudolph like a dog to his master, is that he has raised me in my own estimation. before i knew him, i was only sensible to the touch; but he made me feel within, and deep down, i bet you. once separated from him and the place where he dwelt, i found myself like a body without a soul. as i traveled on, i said to myself, 'he leads such a queer life! he mingles with such great scoundrels (i know something about it), that he will risk his bones twenty times a day,' and it is under these circumstances that i could play the dog for him, and defend my master; for i have good teeth. but, on the other hand, he had told me, 'you must, my friend, make yourself useful to others; go, then, where you may be of some good.' i had a great desire to answer him, 'for me, there is no one to serve, but you, m. rudolph.' but i did not dare. he had told me to 'go.' i went; and i have obeyed him as well as i was able. but, thunder! when the time came to get into the tub, leave france, and place the sea between m. rudolph and me, without the hope of ever seeing him again, in truth, i had not the courage. he told his correspondent to give me a heap of money as heavy as i am when i should embark. i went to see the gentleman. i told him, 'it is impossible just now; i prefer the solid ground. give me enough to get back to paris on foot. i have good legs. i cannot embark. m. rudolph may say what he pleases; he will be angry, he will not see me any more. possibly i shall see him; i shall be where he is; and if he continues the life he leads, sooner or later, i shall arrive in time, perhaps, to put myself between a knife and him.' and, besides, i cannot live so far away from him. at length they gave me enough for my journey. i arrived at paris. i do not fear trifles: but once back fear seized me. what could i say to m. rudolph to excuse myself for having returned without his permission? bah! after all, he will not eat me. what is to be will be. i will go to find his friend a bald man--another trump, this one. thunder! when m. murphy came in, i said, 'my fate will be decided.' i felt my throat dry--my heart beat a tattoo. i expected to be scolded soundly. the worthy man received me as as if he had left me the evening previous. he told me that m. rudolph, far from being angry, wished to see me at once. in short, he took me to my protector. thunder! when i found myself again face to face with him, who has such an open hand and so good a heart, terrible as a lion, and gentle as a child, a prince, who has worn a blouse like me--to have the opportunity (which i bless) of punching my eye. faith, m. germain, on thinking of all these fascinations which he possesses, i felt myself done up. i wept like a doe. well! instead of laughing--for imagine my mug when i weep--m. rudolph said to me, seriously: "'so you are back again, my good fellow?' "'yes, m. rudolph, pardon me if i am wrong, but i could not go. make me a little nest in the corner of your court, give me my food, or let me earn it here; that is all i ask from you; and, above all, do not be angry because i have returned.' "'i am so far from that, my good friend, that you have returned just in time to render me a service.' "'i, m. rudolph! can it be possible! well, do you see, it must be, as you told me, that there is something upstairs; otherwise, how explain that i arrive here just at the moment when you have need of me? what is it, then, i can, do for you, m. rudolph--jump from the top of the towers of notre-dame?' "'less than that, my man. an honest, excellent young man, in whom i am as much interested as if he were my son, is unjustly accused of robbery, and confined in la force; he is called germain, and is of a mild and gentle disposition; the scoundrels with whom he is imprisoned have taken an aversion to him; he may be in great danger; you, who have unfortunately the experience of a prison life, and know a great number of prisoners, could you not, in case some of your old comrades should be at la force, could you not go and see them, and, by promises of money which shall be faithfully kept, engage them to protect this unhappy young man?'" "but who, then, is this generous and unknown man, who takes so much interest in my fate?" said germain, more and more surprised. "you will know, perhaps; as for me, i am ignorant. to return to my conversation with m. rudolph: while he was talking an idea struck me, but an idea so laughable, that i could not keep from laughing before him. 'what is the matter?' said he. "'m. rudolph, i laugh, because i am content, and i am content because i have the means of placing your m. germain out of all dangers, by giving him a protector who will defend him bravely; for, once the young man is under the wing of the fellow of whom i speak, there is not one of them will dare to come and look under his nose.' "' very well, my friend; it is doubtless one of your old companions?' "' exactly, m. rudolph; he entered la force some days ago; i learned this on my arrival; but we must have some money.' "'how much?' "'a thousand francs.' "'here they are.' "'thank you, m. rudolph; in two days you shall hear from me; your servant, sirs.' thunder! the king was not my master: i could render a service to m. rudolph by joining you; it was that which was famous." "i begin to understand, or rather, i tremble to understand," cried germain; "such fidelity cannot be possible! to come to protect me, defend me in this prison, you have, perhaps, committed a robbery? oh! this would be the sorrow of my whole life." "stop a bit! m. rudolph had told me that i had a heart and honor; these words are my law, do you see; and he can tell me so yet; for if i am no better than formerly, at least i am no worse." "but this robbery? this robbery? if you have not committed it, how are you here?" "stop a moment. here is the plant; with my thousand francs i went and bought a black wig; i shaved off my whiskers; i put on blue spectacles; i stuck a pillow on my back, and made up a hump. i began at once to look for one or two rooms on a ground floor in a retired street. i found my affair in the rue du provence; i paid my rent in advance under the name of grégoire. the next day i went to the temple to buy furniture for my two rooms, always wearing my black wig, hump, and blue barnacles, so that i might be well known. i sent the things to the rue du provence, and six silver spoons and forks which i bought on the boulevard saint denis, still in my disguise as a hunchback. i returned to put all these in order in my domicile, i said to the porter that i should not sleep there for two days, and i carried away my key. the windows of the two rooms were fastened by strong shutters. before i went away, i left one unfastened on the inside. at night i took off my wig, goggles, and hump, with which i had been to make my purchases and hired my rooms. i put this disguise in a trunk, which i sent to the address of m. murphy, the friend of m. rudolph, begging him to take care of it. i bought this blouse and blue cap, and a jimmy, and at one o'clock in the morning i came to the rue du provence to hang about my lodgings waiting until the patrol should pass, to commence my robbery, my burglary, in order to be copped!" the slasher was unable to suppress a hearty fit of laughter. "oh! i comprehend," cried germain. "but you will see if i had not ill-luck: no police passed. i could have robbed myself twenty times at my ease. at length, about two o'clock, i heard the snails at the end of the street; i opened my window, and broke two or three panes of glass to make a devil of a noise; i dashed in the window, jumped into the room, and seized the money box and some clothes. happily, the patrol had heard the jingling of the glass just as i got out of the window. i was nabbed by the guard, who, at the noise of breaking glass, had come to see what was the matter. they knocked at the door; the porter opened it; they sent for the commissary; he came; the porter said that the rooms had been taken the evening previous by a gentleman with a hunchback, with black hair and blue spectacles, and who was named grégoire. i had the flaxen wool which you see; i had my eyes open like a hare in her form; i was as straight as a russian at the command, 'carry arms!' they could never take me for the hunchback, with blue spectacles and black locks. i confessed every, thing; i was arrested; they took me to the station--from there, here; and i arrived at a good moment, just in time to snatch from the claws of the skeleton the young man of whom m. rudolph had said, 'i am as much interested for him as for my own son.'" "oh! what do i not owe you for such services!" cried germain. "it is not me--it is to m. rudolph you owe it.' "but the cause of his interest for me." "he will tell you, unless he does not choose to do so; for often he is pleased to do good, and if you take it into your head to ask him why, he will not mind answering, 'mind your own business!'" "and does m. rudolph know that you are here?" "not so stupid as to tell him my idea; he would not, perhaps, have allowed me the fun, and without bragging, it is rich." "but the risks you have run and still run?" "what did i risk? not to be conducted to la force, where you were, that is true. but i counted on the protection of m. rudolph, to have my prison changed and join you; a lord like him can do everything. and when i was once shut up, he would have wished me to be of service to you." "but when your trial comes on?" "well! i will beg m. murphy to send me my trunk; i will put on before the big wig, _my_ big wig, the blue spectacles, and the hump, and i will become m. grégoire again, send for the porter who let me the chamber, and for the shopkeepers who sold me the furniture; so much for the robbed. if they wish to see the robber again, i will throw off my disguise, and it will be as clear as day that the robbed and the robber make the sum total of the slasher, neither more nor less. then, what the devil would you have them do to me, when it shall be proved that i have robbed myself?" "that's true!" said germain, more assured; "but since you felt so much interest for me, why did you not speak to me on entering the prison?" "i knew at once the plot which was formed against you; i could have exposed it before pique-vinaigre had commenced his story: but to denounce even such ruffians does not go down with me. i preferred to depend upon my fists to drag you from the paws of skeleton. and, besides, when i saw this brigand, i said to myself, 'here is a fine occasion to practice the boxing of m. rudolph, to which i am indebted for the honor of his acquaintance." "but if all the prisoners had taken part against you, what could you have done?" "then i should have screamed like an eagle, and called for help! but it suited me to do my own cooking myself; to be able to say to m. rudolph, 'no one but i meddled in the affair. i have defended, and will defend, your young man; be tranquil!'" at this moment the keeper entered quickly. "m. germain, come, make haste, to the governor's room. he wishes to speak to you at once. and you, slasher, my boy, descend to the hall. you shall be provost if it suits you, for you have every requisite to fill the office, and the prisoners will not joke with a big un of your caliber." "all the same to me-as well be captain as soldier while one is here." "will you still refuse my hand?" said germain, cordially, to the slasher. "no, m. germain, no; i believe that now i can allow myself this pleasure, and i do it with all my heart." "we shall see each other again, for i am now under your protection. i shall have nothing more to fear, and from my cell i shall descend each day to the court." "be assured, if i wish it, they shall not speak to you except on all fours. but, now i think of it, you know how to write; put down on paper what i have just related to you, and send it to m. rudolph; he will know that he need have no more uneasiness about you, and that i am here for a good motive; for if he should learn elsewhere that the slasher had stolen, and he did not know the game--thunder! that would not suit me." "rest satisfied: this very night i will write to my unknown protector; to-morrow you will give me his address, and the letter shall be sent. adieu, once more, thank you, my good fellow." "adieu, m. germain; i go to return among this band of rascals, of whom i am provost; they will have to march pretty straight, or stand from under!" "when i think that on my account you go to live for some time among these wretches--" "what is that to me, now that there is no risk of their contaminating me. m. rudolph has washed me too well. i am insured against fire." and the slasher followed the keeper. germain entered the apartment of the governor. what was his surprise--he found rigolette there. rigolette, pale, with deep emotion, her eyes bathed in tears, and yet smiling through these tears, her face expressed a sentiment of joy, of happiness indescribable. "i have good news to tell you, sir," said the governor. "the judges have just declared that no action lies against you, and i have the order to set you immediately at liberty." "what do you say, sir? can it be possible?" rigolette wished to speak; her too lively emotion prevented her; she could only make to germain an affirmative sign with her head. "this young lady arrived here a few moments after i had received the order to set you at liberty," added the governor. "a letter of all-powerful recommendation which she brought me has informed me of the touching devotion she has shown you during your stay in prison, sir. it is, then, with great pleasure that i have sent for you, certain that you would be very happy to give your arm to the lady on leaving the place." "a dream! surely it is a dream!" said germain. "oh, sir, what kindness! pardon me if surprise--joy--prevents me from thanking you as i ought." "and i, too, m. germain, cannot find a word to say," added rigolette. "judge of my happiness: on leaving you, i found the friend of m. rudolph waiting for me." "m. rudolph again!" said the astonished germain. "yes; now i can tell you all. m. murphy said to me then, 'germain is free; here is a letter for the governor of the prison; before you arrive, he will have received the order to set germain at liberty, and you can bring him away.' i could not believe what i heard, and yet it was true. quick--quick--i took a cab--i arrived--and it is now below waiting for us." we renounce the attempt to describe the delight of the two lovers when they left la force; of the evening they passed in the little chamber of rigolette, which germain left at eleven o'clock for a modest furnished apartment. let us sum up in a few words the practical or theoretical ideas we have endeavored to place in relief in this episode of a prison life. we shall esteem ourselves very happy if we have shown the insufficiency, the impotency, and the danger of imprisonment in common. the disproportion which exists between the appreciation and punishment of certain crimes, and those of certain other offenses. and, finally, the material impossibility for the poorer classes to enjoy the benefits of the civil laws. chapter xii. punishment. we will conduct the reader again to the office of the notary, jacques ferrand. thanks to the habitual loquacity of the clerks, almost constantly occupied with the increasing caprices of their patron, we can learn the events that occurred since the disappearance of cecily. "a hundred to ten, if the present state of his health continues, before a month the governor will be as dead as a doornail." "the fact is, that since the servant who had the air of an alsatian has left the house, he has had nothing but skin on his bones." "and what skin!" "i'll wager he was in love with this alsatian, for it is since her departure that he has shriveled up so!" "he in love? what nonsense! on the contrary, he sees the priests more than ever; and the parish curé, a very respectable man (one must be just), went away yesterday, saying (i overheard him) to another priest who accompanied him,' this is admirable! m. ferrand is the personification of charity and generosity.'" "the curé said that? of himself? without prompting?" "yes! i heard him." "then, i can't understand it at all. the curé has the reputation, and deserves it, of being what is called a right good pastor." "it is true; and of him we must speak seriously and with respect; he is as good and charitable as 'little blue mantle,' [footnote: we must be allowed to mention here, with veneration, the name of that excellent man, m. champion, with whom we have not the honor of a personal acquaintance, but of whom all the poor of paris speak with as much respect as gratitude.] and when one says that of a man he is judged." "ay, that is not a little to say." "no. for 'little blue mantle,' as well as for the good priest, the poor have only one word, and a good word it is, from the heart." "then i return to my idea; when the curé affirms a thing, he must be believed, as he is incapable of telling a falsehood; and yet to think as he does, that our master is charitable and generous--that sticks in my throat." "oh! how pretty that is, chalamel! how pretty." "seriously, i would just as soon believe that as i would a miracle. it would not be more difficult." "m. ferrand generous! he would skin an egg!" "and yet the forty sous for our breakfast?" "beautiful proof! it is like a pimple on the end of a man's nose--it is an accident." "yes, but, on the other hand, the head clerk told me that three days ago he sold out an enormous amount of treasury bonds, and that--" "well! speak then." "it is a secret." "so much the more reason for telling it." "your word and honor that you won't mention it?" "on the heads of our children, we give it." "and besides, let us remember what the great king louis xiv. majestically said to the doge of venice before his assembled court: "'when a secret's told a clerk, its exposure he'll not burk!'" "good! there is chalamel with his proverbs!" "i demand the head of chalamel!" "proverbs are the wisdom of nations; it is on that account i require your secret." "come, none of your nonsense. i tell you the head clerk made me a promise to speak of it to no one." "yes; but he did not say that you should not tell it to every one?" "it shall not go out of the office. go on." "he is dying with desire to tell us the secret." "well! the governor is about selling his notary's business. at this present moment, perhaps, it is done." "nonsense!" "here is news!" "let us see, without charge, who charges himself with the charge which he discharges?" "tush! how insupportable chalamel is with his riddles." "do you think i know to whom he sells it?" "if he sells it, it is because, perhaps, he wishes to come out, give balls, routs, in the gay world. after all, there is something in it." "i think so, indeed! the head clerk spoke of more than a million, including the value of the business." "more than a million!" "it is said that he has been gambling in stocks secretly with commandant robert, and that he has made much money." "not to speak of his living like a curmudgeon." "but these misers, when once they begin to spend money, become as prodigal as they were once mean." "well, i agree with chalamel; i think that now the governor is coming out." "and he would be most stupendously in the wrong not to bury himself in voluptuousness, and not to plunge into the delights of golconda, if he has the means; for, as the misty ossian says, in the grotto of fingal, "'all-ariel is it, yet not-arial, too, that he should still be right, who roseate tapestry has in open view, and of his gold makes light.'" "i demand the head of chalamel!" "it is absurd!" "yes, and the governor looks very much like a man who thinks of amusing himself. he has a face that might cause the devil to appear on earth." "and then the cure, who boasts of his charity!" "well-ordered charity begins at home." "you do not know your ten commandments, heathen! if the governor asks from himself the alms of great pleasures, it is his duty to grant them." "what astonishes me is, that this intimate friend, who seems to have dropped from the clouds, never leaves him." "not to mention his ugly face." "he is as red as a carrot." "i am rather inclined to believe that this intruder is the fruit of a first false step which m. ferrand has committed in the springtime of life, for, as the eagle of meaux said concerning the taking of the veil by the tender la vallière, "'young or old, whiche'er you love, crows may have an offspring dove!'" "i demand the head of chalamel!" "in truth, with him it is impossible to talk reason a moment." "what stupidity! to say that this stranger is the son of the governor, when he is the oldest, as is easy to be seen--" "well, what of that?" "how? what of that? the son older than the father?" "it is very plain; in that case, the intruder must have made the false step, and be the father of m. ferrand, intead of being his son." "i demand the head of chalamel!" "do not listen to him; you know, when once he is in the way of saying stupid things, there is no end to it." "what is certain is, that this intruder has a bad face, and does not leave m. ferrand for a moment." "he is always with him in his cabinet; they eat together; one does not move without the other." "i think i have seen the man before." "i think not." "tell me, gents, have you not also remarked that for some days past, there comes regularly almost every two hours a man with great light mustaches and a military air, who asks the porter for the intruder? the intruder comes down, talks for a moment with the man with mustaches, after which the latter makes a half turn like an automaton, to come again in two hours after." "it is true; i have remarked him. it seems to me, also, that i meet some men when i go into the street who appear to be watching the house." "seriously, there is something extraordinary going on here." "who lives long enough will see." "on this subject the head clerk, perhaps, knows more than we do. but he plays the diplomatist." "exactly; and where is he, then, for so long a time?" "he has gone to the house of the countess who was stabbed; it appears that she is now out of danger." "the countess m'gregor?" "yes; this morning she sent for the governor to come at once, but he sent the head clerk in his place." "it is, perhaps, for a will." "no, because she is better." "hasn't he work enough now, the head clerk, since he has taken germain's place also?" "speaking of germain, here is another strange thing.'" "what is it?" "in order to have him set at liberty, the governor has declared it was he himself who made an error in his accounts, and that he had found the money which he accused germain of stealing." "i do not find this strange, but just; you recollect i always said that germain was incapable of theft." "it must, nevertheless, have been very disagreeable for him to be arrested and confined as a thief." "if i were in his place i would sue jacques ferrand for damages." "the least he could do would be to reinstate him as cashier, in order to prove that germain was not culpable." "yes, but perhaps germain would not be willing." "is he still at the farm, where he went on coming out of prison, and from which he wrote us to announce m. ferrand's discontinuance of the suit?" "probably, for yesterday i went to the place where he directed us to go; they told me that he was still in the country, and that i could write to him at bouqueval, near ecouen, at madame george's." "oh! a carriage!" said chalamel, leaning over toward the window. "nothing but a hackney-coach." "and who gets out?" "stop a moment! oh! a black-gown!" "a woman! a woman! oh! let us see." "this gutter-jumper is indecently sensitive at his age; he only thinks of women. we shall have to chain him up, or he will carry off the sabines from the streets; for, as said the swan of cambray in his treatise on education for the dauphin, "'of gutter-jumper have a care, who assaults the lovely fair.'" "i demand the head of chalamel!" "m. chalamel, you said a black robe, i thought." "it is the curé, goose! let him be an example for you." "the curé of the parish? the good pastor?" "himself." "he is a worthy man!" "he is no jesuit, not he." "i think not; and if all the priests were like him everybody would be devout." "silence! some one opens the door." and all the clerks, bending over their desks, began to scratch away with apparent industry, making their pens pass rapidly over the paper. the pale face of this priest was at once mild and grave, intelligent and venerable, its expression full of benevolence and serenity. a small black cap concealed his tonsure, and his long gray hair floated on the collar of his maroon-colored coat. let us add that, from his simple credulity, this excellent priest had always been, and was still, the dupe of jacques ferrand's deep and cunning hypocrisy. "your worthy master is in his cabinet, my son?" asked the curé. "yes, m. l'abbé," said chalamel, rising respectfully. and he opened for the priest the door leading into a room adjoining the office. hearing some one speaking with vehemence in the cabinet of the notary, the abbé, not wishing to hear, walked rapidly toward the door, and knocked. "come in," said a voice with an italian accent, and the priest found himself face to face with jacques ferrand and polidori. [illustration: the story is told] it would seem that the clerks were not wrong when they prophesied the death of their employer at no distant day. since the flight of cecily, the notary was hardly to be recognized. although his visage was of a frightful thinness, and of a cadaverous hue, a hectic flush colored his hollow cheeks; a nervous shivering, except when interrupted by convulsive spasms, agitated his frame continually; his bony hands were dry and burning; his large green spectacles concealed his bloodshot eyes, which sparkled with the fire of a consuming fever; in a word, this sinister face betrayed the ravages of a rapid consumption. the physiognomy of polidori formed a contrast with that of the notary; nothing could be more bitterly, more coldly ironical than the expression of this scoundrel; a forest of fiery red hair, interspersed with some silvered locks, crowned his high and wrinkled forehead; his penetrating eyes, green as the ocean wave, were close to his hooked nose; his mouth, with its thin lips, expressed wickedness and sarcasm. polidori, completely dressed in black, was seated beside the desk of jacques ferrand. at the sight of the priest they both arose. "well! how do you get on, my worthy m. ferrand?" said the abbé, with solicitude; "are you a little better?" "i am always in the same state, m. l'abbé; the fever does not leave me," answered the notary; "the want of sleep is killing me. but the will of heaven be done!" "see, m. l'abbé," added polidori, with emphasis, "what pious resignation! my poor friend is always the same; he only finds a solace for his sufferings in doing good." "i do not deserve these praises, have the goodness to dispense with them," said the notary, dryly, with difficulty concealing his anger. "to the lord alone belongs the appreciation of good and evil; i am only a miserable sinner." "we are all sinners," answered the abbé gently; "but we have not all the charity which distinguishes you, my respected friend. there are very few who, like you, dispossess themselves of so much of their earthly wealth to employ it during their lifetime in a manner so christian-like. do you still persist in selling your business, in order to devote yourself more entirely to the practice of religion?" "since yesterday, my business is sold, m. l'abbé; some concessions have enabled me to realize (a rare thing) the cash down: this sum, added to others, will enable me to found the institution of which i have spoken, and of which i have definitively arranged the plan that i am about to submit to you." "ah! my worthy friend," said the abbé, with deep and reverential admiration, "to do so much good--so unostentatiously--and, i may say, so naturally! i repeat to you, people like you are rare; they will receive their reward." "it is true that very few persons unite, like jacques ferrand, riches to piety, intelligence to charity," said polidori, with an ironical smile which escaped the notice of the good abbé. at this new and sarcastic eulogium the hand of the notary was clinched; he cast from under his spectacles a look of deadly hatred on polidori. "you see, m. l'abbé," the bosom friend of jacques ferrand hastened to say, "he has continually these nervous spasms, and he will do nothing for them. he worries me, he is his own executioner, my poor friend!" at these words of polidori, the notary shuddered still more convulsively, but he composed himself again. a man less simple than the abbé would have remarked, during this conversation, and, above all, during what is about to follow, the notary's constrained manner of speaking; for it is hardly necessary to say that a will superior to his own, the will of rudolph, in a word, imposed on this man words and acts diametrically opposed to his true character. thus sometimes, pushed to extremities, the notary appeared reluctant to obey this all powerful and invisible authority; but a look from polidori put an end to his indecision. then, constraining with a sigh of rage his most violent feelings, jacques ferrand submitted to the yoke which he could not break. "alas! m. l'abbé," said polidori, who seemed to take delight in torturing his victim, as is said vulgarly, by pricks of a pin, "my poor friend neglects his health too much. tell him to be more careful of himself, if not for his own sake, for his friends', or, at least, for the unfortunates of whom he is the hope and support." "enough! enough!" murmured the notary. "no, it is not enough," said the priest, with emotion; "we cannot repeat to you too often that you do not belong to yourself, and that it is wrong thus to neglect your health. in ten years that i have known you, i have never seen you ill; but for a month past you are no longer recognizable. i am so much the more struck with this alteration of your features, as i was for some time without seeing you. thus, at our first interview, i could not conceal my surprise; but the change i have remarked in you for the last few days is much more serious: you sink every hour, you give us much uneasiness. i implore you, my worthy friend, take care of your health." "i am very sensible of your solicitude, m. l'abbé; but i assure you that my condition is not so alarming as you think." "since you are so obstinate," said polidori, "i will tell everything to the abbé; he loves you--he esteems you--he honors you much; how much the more will he honor you when he shall know your new merits--when he shall know the true cause of your wasting away?" "what is this?" asked the abbé. "m. l'abbé," said the notary, with impatience, "i begged you to come here to communicate to you projects of high importance, and not to hear me ridiculously praised by _my friend_." "you know, jacques, that from me you must be resigned to here everything," said polidori, looking fixedly at the notary, who cast down his eyes, and remained silent. polidori continued: "you perhaps remarked, m. l'abbé, that the first symptoms of his nervous complaint appeared a short time after the abominable scandal which louise morel caused in this house." the notary shuddered. "you know of the crime of this unhappy girl, sir?" demanded the astonished priest; "i thought you had arrived but a few days since at paris?" "without doubt, m. l'abbé; but jacques has related everything to me, as his friend--as his physician; for he attributes these nervous attacks almost entirely to the indignation which the crime of louise morel caused him. this is nothing, as yet; my poor friend, alas! had new trials to endure, which, you see, have ruined his health. an old servant, who for many years was attached to him by the ties of gratitude--" "madame séraphin?" said the curé, interrupting polidori. "i have heard of the death of this unfortunate, drowned by her own imprudence, and i comprehend the grief of m. ferrand. it is not easy to forget ten years of faithful services; such regrets do credit to the master as well as to the servant." "m. l'abbé," said the notary, "i entreat you, do not speak of my virtues--you confuse me--it is painful." "and who will speak of them, then--will it be yourself?" answered polidori affectionately; "but you will be obliged to praise him still more, m. l'abbé: you perhaps do not know who is the servant that took the place of louise morel and madame séraphin. you do not know what he has done for this poor cecily, m. l'abbé, for so she is named." the notary started from his seat, his eyes sparkling under his spectacles, a burning red diffused over his livid face. "hush! be silent!" he cried; "not a word more. i forbid it!" "come, come, calm yourself," said the abbé, smiling benevolently; "another good action to reveal? as for myself, i strongly approve of the generous indiscretion of your friend. i did not know this servant, for it was just after her arrival that my worthy friend, overwhelmed with business, was obliged momentarily, to my great regret, to interrupt our relations." "it was to conceal from you this new good action he meditated, m. l'abbé; thus, although his modesty revolts at the mention of it, he must hear me, and you shall know all," said polidori, smiling. jacques ferrand was silent; he leaned on his desk, and concealed his face in his hands. chapter xiii. the bank for the poor. "imagine then, m. l'abbé," resumed polidori, addressing the curé, but emphasizing, as it were, each phrase by an ironical glance at jacques ferrand--"imagine that my friend found in his new servant, who, as i have already told you, was called cecily, the best qualities, great modesty, angelic sweetness, and above all, much piety. this is not all; jacques, you know, owes to his long practice in business affairs an extreme penetration; he soon saw that this young woman, for she was young and very pretty, m. l'abbé--that this young and pretty woman was not made for a servant, and that, to principles most virtuously austere, she added solid accomplishments very diversified." "ah, indeed, this is strange," said the abbé, much interested. "i was entirely ignorant of these circumstances; but what is the matter, my good m. ferrand? you seem to be suffering." "in truth," said the notary, wiping the cold sweat from his brow, "i have a slight headache, but it will soon pass away." polidori shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "observe, m. l'abbé," he added, "that jacques is always thus when any one unveils his hidden charities; he is so hypocritical on the subject of the good he does! happily, i am here, and justice shall be done him. let us return to cecily. in her turn she had soon found out the excellence of his heart, and, when he interrogated her as to the past, she confessed to him that, a stranger, without resources, and reduced by the misconduct of her husband to the most humble condition, she regarded it as a boon from heaven that she had been enabled to enter the house of a man so venerable as m. ferrand. at the sight of so much misfortune, resignation, virtue, jacques did not hesitate; he wrote to the native country of this unfortunate, to ascertain the truth of her story: the answer confirmed it in every particular; then, sure of not misplacing his benefactions, jacques blessed cecily as a father, sent her back to her own country with a sum of money which will enable her to wait for better days, and the chance of improving her condition. i will not add a word of praise for jacques; the facts are more eloquent than my words." "good, very good," cried the curé, much affected. "m. l'abbé," said jacques ferrand, in a hollow voice, "i do not wish to trespass upon your precious moments; speak no more of me, i implore you, but of the project for which i have begged you to come here and favor me with your advice." "i perceive that the praises of your friend wound your modesty; let us occupy ourselves, then, with your new good deeds, and forget that you are the author; but, first, let us speak of the business you intrusted to my care. i have, according to your wishes, deposited in the bank of france, and in my name, the sum of one hundred thousand crowns, destined to the restitution of which you are the intermediate agent and which was to pass through my hands. you have preferred that this deposit should not remain in your possession, although it seems to me it had been quite as secure there as in the bank." "in that respect, m. l'abbé, i have conformed to the intentions of the unknown author of this restitution. it is an affair of conscience. at his request i have placed this sum in your hands, and begged you to remit it to madame the widow fermont, whose maiden name was renneville" (the voice of the notary trembled slightly in uttering these names), "when she should present herself to you, and prove herself to be entitled to the same." "i will accomplish the mission which you confided to me," said the priest. "it is not the last, m. l'abbé." "so much the better, if the others resemble this; for without wishing to seek for the motives which impel it, i am always touched by a voluntary restitution. these lofty acts, which conscience alone dictates, are always the indications of sincere repentance, and it is no barren expiation." "in truth, m. l'abbé, to restore a hundred thousand francs at once is rare; as for me, i have been more curious than you; but what availed my curiosity against the unshaken discretion of jacques! thus, i am still ignorant of the person's name who has made this noble restitution." "whoever he may be," said the abbé, "i am certain that he stands very high in the esteem of m. ferrand." "this honest man is indeed, m. l'abbé, placed very high in my esteem," answered the notary, with a bitterness badly disguised. "and this is not all, m. l'abbé," said polidori, looking at jacques ferrand in a significant manner; "you will see how far these generous scruples of this unknown extend; and, if i must speak plainly, i suspect our friend of having contributed not a little to awaken these scruples, and of having found the names to calm them." "how is that?" asked the priest. "what do you mean to say?" added the notary. "and the morels? this good and virtuous family." "ah! yes, yes; in truth, i forgot," said jacques ferrand, in a hollow voice. "imagine, m. l'abbé," resumed polidori, "that the author of this restitution, without doubt advised by jacques ferrand, not content with restoring this considerable sum, wishes still--but i will leave my worthy friend to explain; it is a pleasure of which i will not deprive him." "i listen to you, my dear m. ferrand," said the priest. "you know," said jacques ferrand, with involuntary emotions of revolt against the part which was imposed on him--feelings which were betrayed by the alteration of his voice and the hesitancy of his speech; "you know, m. l'abbé, that the misconduct of louise morel was such a terrible blow for her father, that he has become mad. the numerous family of the artisan ran the risk of dying from want, deprived of their sole support. happily, providence has come to their succor; and the person who has made the voluntary restitution of which you are the agent, m. l'abbé, has not thought this a sufficient expiation for a great abuse of confidence. he asked me if i did not know any deserving family in want of assistance. i mentioned the morels, and he begged me, at the same time giving me the necessary funds, which i will hand to you presently, to request you to settle an annuity of two thousand francs on morel, revertible to his wife and children." "but, in truth," said the abbé, "in accepting this new charge, doubtless very responsible, i am astonished that it was not bestowed on you." "the unknown person has thought, and i coincide with him, that his good works would acquire an additional value, would be, thus to speak, sanctified by passing through hands as pious as yours, m. l'abbé." "to that i have nothing to answer; i will purchase an annuity of two thousand francs for morel, the worthy and unfortunate father of louise. but i think with your friend here that you have not been a stranger to the resolution which has dictated this new expiatory gift." "i have pointed out the morel family, nothing more; i beg you to believe me, m. l'abbé," answered jacques ferrand. "now," said polidori, "you are going to see, m. l'abbé, what noble philanthropic views my friend jacques has concerning the charitable establishment of which we have already had some conversation; he is going to read to you the plan which he has definitively arranged; the money necessary for the capital is there in the chest; but, since yesterday, he has had some scruples, and if he does not mention them to you, i will do it for him." "it is useless," replied jacques ferrand, who sometimes chose rather to wound his feelings by his own words than to submit in silence to the ironical praises of his tormentor. "here is the fact, m. l'abbé. i have thought that it would be more modest--more christian-like, that this establishment should not be instituted in my name." "but this humility is overstrained," cried the abbé. "you can--you ought to pride yourself on your charitable investment. it is right, almost a duty, for you to attach your name to it." "i prefer, m. l'abbé, to preserve the incognito: i am resolved on it; and i count on your kindness to make all the necessary arrangements, and select the inferior officers of the establishment; i reserve alone for myself the nomination of the director and porter." "even if it were not a real pleasure for me to assist you in your good works, it would be my duty to accept the office." "now, m. l'abbé, if you will allow it, my friend will read you the plan decided upon." "since you are so obliging, _my friend_," said jacques ferrand, with bitterness, "read it yourself. spare me this trouble, i pray you." "no, no," answered polidori, casting a look at the notary which he well understood, "it gives me great pleasure to hear from your own lips the noble sentiments which have guided you in this work of philanthropy." "so be it--i will read," said the notary, hastily, taking up a paper which lay upon his desk. polidori, for a long time the accomplice of jacques ferrand, knew the crimes and secret thoughts of the scoundrel; hence he could not suppress a malicious smile on seeing him forced to read this paper, dictated by rudolph. as will be seen, the prince showed himself inexorable in the logical manner with which he punished the notary. lustful--he tortured him by lust. covetous--by covetousness. hypocritical-- by hypocrisy. for rudolph had chosen this venerable abbé to be the agent for the restitutions and expiations imposed upon jacques fervand, because he wished doubly to punish him for having, by his detestable hypocrisy, obtained the esteem and affection of the good priest. was it not, in effect, a great punishment for this hideous impostor--this hardened criminal, to be constrained to practice, at length, the christian virtues which he had so often feigned to possess, and this time _really_ to deserve the just eulogiums of a respectable priest who had been his dupe? jacques ferrand read the following note with feelings imagined. _"establishment of the bank for workmen out of work."_ 'love ye one another.' "these divine words contain the germ of all duties, all virtues, all charities. they have inspired the humble founder of this institution. to god alone belong the benefits it may confer. limited, as to the means of action, the founder has wished that the greatest number possible of his brothers should participate in the succor offered. he addresses himself, in the first place, to honest, industrious workmen, with families, whom the want of work often reduces to the most cruel extremities. it is not a degrading alms which he gives to his brothers but a gratuitous loan which he offers. may this loan, as he hopes, prevent them often from resorting to those cruel pledges which they are forced to make (while awaiting the return of work), for the purpose of sustaining a family of which they are the sole support. the only guarantee for this loan which he demands from his brothers is their oath and honor. it has a revenue of twelve thousand francs, which will be loaned without interest to workmen with families and out of work, in sums of twenty to forty francs. these loans shall only be made to working men or women who shall bring a certificate of good conduct from their last employer, stating the cause and date of the suspension of employment. these loans will be repaid monthly by sixths or twelfths, at the choice of the borrower, commencing from the day on which he finds employment. he will subscribe a simple engagement of honor to reimburse the loan at stated periods. to this will be added, as indorsers, the names of two of his companions. the workman who shall not reimburse the amount borrowed by him, cannot, he or his indorsers, have any claims for a new loan; or he will have forfeited a sacred engagement, and, above all, deprived several of his brothers of the advantages which he has enjoyed. the sums loaned, on the contrary, being scrupulously repaid, the same benefit can be bestowed on others. not to degrade man by alms. not to encourage idleness by a fruitless charity. to stimulate sentiments of honor and innate probity among the laboring classes. to come in a brotherly manner to the aid of the workman, who, living already with difficulty from day to day, cannot, when no work can be procured, _suspend_ his wants or those of his family, because his work is suspended. such are the thoughts which have given rise to this institution. may he who has said, 'love ye one another,' be glorified." "oh! sir," cried the abbé, with religious admiration, "what a charitable idea! how easily i can comprehend your emotion on reading these lines of such touching simplicity." in truth, while finishing this reading, the voice of jacques ferrand was broken, his impatience and temper were at an end; but, watched by polidori, he dared not, could not trangress the least orders of rudolph. let his rage be imagined at being forced to dispose so liberally of his fortune in favor of a class whom he had so unmercifully persecuted in the person of morel the lapidary. "is not the idea excellent, m. l'abbé?" asked polidori. "oh, sir, i, who am acquainted with all kinds of poverty, can comprehend, better than any one, of what importance this loan would be to poor and honest workmen without employ. indigence without employment never finds credit, or, if obtainable, it is at a most usurious rate; they will lend thirty sous at eight days, and then forty must be returned; and even these loans are very difficult to be obtained; those from the pawnbrokers cost often near three hundred per cent. the artisan without work often pledges for forty sous the only covering which, during the nights of winter, defends him and his from the rigor of the cold. but," added the abbé, with enthusiasm, "a loan of thirty or forty francs without interest, and reimbursable by twelfths, when work returns-for honest workmen, it is their safety, it is hope, it is life. and with what fidelity they would pay it back! it is a sacred debt, which they have contracted to give bread to their wives and children!" "how precious the eulogiums of m. l'abbé must be to you, jacques," said polidori; "and how many more will he pronounce when he hears of your establishment of a feeless pawnbroker's." "how?" "certainly, m. l'abbé, jacques has not forgotten this; it is a kind of appendage to his bank for the poor." "can it be true?" cried the priest, clasping his hands with admiration. "continue, jacques," said polidori. the notary proceeded to read with a rapid voice, for the whole scene was odious and hateful to him. "these loans have for their object the remedy for one of the gravest incidents in the life of a laborer--intermission of work. they shall therefore be granted only to those out of employment. but it remains to provide for the other cruel embarrassments which reach even those with employment. often, the loss of one or two days, caused sometimes by fatigue, by the attention necessary to bestow on a wife or sick child, deprives the workman of his daily resources. then he has recourse to the pawnbroker's, or to unlawful lenders of money, at an enormous rate of interest. wishing, as much as possible, to lighten the burden of his brothers, the founder of the bank of the poor sets apart an income of twenty-five thousand francs a year, for the purpose of lending on pledges, not to exceed the amount of ten francs for each loan. the borrowers will pay neither cost nor interest, but they must prove that they follow an honorable profession, and produce a declaration from their employers which will prove their morality. at the end of two years, the articles which have not been redeemed will be sold, without costs; the proceeds arising from the surplus of this sale shall be placed, at five per cent. interest, to the profit of the owners. at the end of five years, if this sum shall not be reclaimed, it shall be added to the bank of the poor. the administration and the office of said bank shall be placed in the rue du temple, no. , in a house bought for this purpose, in the center of that most populous quarter. a revenue of ten thousand francs shall be appropriated to the expenses and to the administration of the bank of the poor, of which the director for life shall be---" polidori interrupted the notary, and said to the priest, "you will see, m. l'abbé, by the choice of the director of this establishment, whether jacques knows how to repair the wrong which he has involuntarily done. you know that by an error which he deplores, he had falsely accused his cashier of taking a sum which he afterward discovered." "doubtless." "well! it is to this honest young man, françois germain, that jacques assigns the life governorship of this bank, with a salary of four thousand francs. is it not admirable, m. l'abbé?" "nothing astonishes me now, or, rather, nothing has astonished me," said the priest. "the fervent piety, the virtues of our worthy friend, could hardly fail of such a result. to consecrate all his fortune to such an institution--ah! it is admirable!" "more than a million, m. l'abbé," said polidori, "more than a million, amassed by dint of order, economy, and probity; and yet there are those who accuse jacques of avarice! how, said they, his office brings him in fifty or sixty thousand francs a year, and he lives like a miser!" "to such as these," replied the abbé, with enthusiasm, "i would answer: during fifteen years he has lived like a poor man, in order to be able at the present time magnificently to solace the poor." "be, then, at least proud and joyous at the good you have done," cried polidori, addressing jacques ferrand, who, gloomy and cast down, seemed absorbed in profound meditation. "alas!" said the abbé, sadly, "it is not in this world that one receives the recompense of so many virtues; he has a more exalted ambition." "jacques," said polidori, touching the notary lightly on the shoulder, "finish your reading." the notary started, passed his hand over his face, and said to the priest: "pardon, m. l'abbé, but i was thinking--i was thinking of the immense extension that this bank for the poor might have from the returned loans. if the loans of each year were regularly repaid at the end of four years, it would have already loaned about fifty thousand crowns on pledge or gratuitously. it is enormous--enormous; and i felicitate myself on it," he added, thinking of the value of the sacrifice imposed upon him. he resumed: "i was, i believe, at--" "at the nomination of françois germain for director of the bank," said polidori. jacques ferrand continued. "a revenue often thousand francs shall be set aside for the expenses and administration of the bank of the poor without work, of which the perpetual director shall be françois germain, and the porter and keeper shall be the present porter of the house, named pipelet. "m. l'abbé dumont, with whom the funds necessary for this undertaking shall be deposited, will form a superior council of supervision, composed of the mayor and the justice of the peace of the ward, who will add to their number the persons whose assistance they shall consider useful to the extension of the bank for the poor; for the founder will esteem himself a thousand times paid for the little that he has done if some charitable person will aid in the work. "the opening of this bank will be announced by every means of publicity possible. the founder repeats, in conclusion, that he takes no credit for what he has done for his brothers. his sole thought is but the echo of this divine command: 'love ye one another.'" "and your place above shall be assigned to you beside him who hath pronounced th immortal words," cried the abbé, pressing with much warmth the hands of jacques ferrand in his own. the notary was overpowered. without replying to the encomiums of the abbé he hastened to give him in treasury bonds the considerable sum necessary for the establishment of this institution and for the annuity of morel the lapidary. "i dare hope, m. l'abbé," at length said jacques ferrand, "that you will not refuse this new mission confided to your charitable care. besides, a stranger, called sir walter murphy, who has given me some advice about the drawing up of this project, will partake of your labor, and will visit you today to converse with you on the practicability of the plan, and to place himself at your service, if he can be of any use. except with him, i pray you to preserve the most profound secrecy, m. l'abbé." "you are right. god knows what you are doing for your poor brothers. what matters the rest? all my regret is that i have nothing but my zeal to contribute in aid of this most noble institution; it will be, at least, as ardent as your charity is untiring. but what is the matter? you turn pale. do you suffer?" "a little, m. l'abbé. this long reading, the emotions caused by your kind words, the indisposition from which i am suffering. pardon my weakness," said jacques ferrand, seating himself as if in pain; "there is nothing serious in it, but i am exhausted." "perhaps you had better go to bed," said the priest, with an air of lively interest, "and send for your physician?" "i am a physician, m. l'abbé," said polidori. "the situation of ferrand demands great care; i will give him all my attention." the notary shuddered. "a little repose will relieve you, i hope," said the cure. "i leave you; but before i go, i wish to give you a receipt for this money. come, take courage, be of good cheer!" said the priest, handing the receipt, which he wrote at the desk, to jacques ferrand. "farewell; tomorrow i will call and see you again. adieu, sir--adieu, my friend, my worthy, pious friend!" the priest went out, and jacques ferrand and polidori remained alone. hardly had the abbé gone than jacques ferrand uttered a terrible imprecation. his despair and rage, so long restrained, burst forth with fury; breathless, his face convulsed, his eyes rolling in their sockets, he walked up and down in the cabinet like a wild beast confined by a chain. polidori, presenting the greatest composure, observed the notary attentively. "thunder and blood!" cried jacques, in a voice choked with rage; "my fortune entirely swallowed up in these stupid good works! i, who despise and execrate men; i, who have only lived to deceive and despoil them; i found philanthropic establishments--to be forced to do it by infernal means! but is it the devil, then, who is your master?" he cried, with fury, stopping abruptly before polidori. "i have no master," he answered, coldly. "like you, i have a judge!" "to obey like a fool the orders of this man!" said jacques ferrand, with renewed rage. "and this priest, whom i have so often laughed at, because he was the dupe of my hypocrisy; every one of the praises he gave me was like a thrust with a dagger. and to be compelled--" "or the scaffold, as an alternative." "oh! not to be able to escape this fatal power! there is more than a million that i have given up. if i have left, with this house a hundred thousand francs, it is the very outside. what more do they want?" "you are not at the end yet. the prince knows, through badinot, that your man of straw, petit jean, was only a name borrowed by you for the purpose of making the usurious loans to the viscount de saint rémy. the sums which saint rémy repaid you were loaned to him by a great lady; probably another restitution awaits you: but it stands adjourned. doubtless because it is a more delicate affair." "chained, chained here!" "as securely as with an iron cable." "you--my jailer--wretch!" "what would you have? according to the system of the prince, nothing more logical; he punishes crime by crime, accomplice by accomplice." "oh! rage! madness!" "oh! unfortunately, powerless rage, for, as long as i am not told, 'jacques ferrand is free to quit this house,' i will remain like your shadow. listen, then: as well as you, i merit the scaffold. if i fail to execute the orders given to me, my head falls. you cannot, then, have a more incorruptible guardian. as for flying, both of us--impossible: we could not take a step outside of this house without falling into the hands of those who are watching it night and day." "death and fury, i know it!" "be resigned, then, for this flight is impossible; even should we succeed in escaping, it would only make our situation more precarious, for they would send the police in search of us. on the contrary, you in obeying, and i, in watching the accuracy of your obedience, we are certain of not having our throats cut. once more, i say, let us be resigned." "do not exasperate me by this indifference, or---" "or what? i do not fear you: i am on my guard, i am armed; and even if you were to find the poisoned dagger of cecily to kill me---"--"be quiet!" "it would be of no use; you know that every two hours i am obliged to give a bulletin of your precious health, an indirect way of hearing from us both. on not seeing me appear, they will suspect you of the murder; you will be arrested. and--but hold. i do you an injury in supposing you capable of this crime. you have sacrificed a million to save your life, and you would not risk your head for the foolish and fruitless vengeance of killing me! come, come, you are not fool enough for that." "it is because you know i cannot kill you that you increase my torments by your sarcasms." "your position is so original, you do not see it yourself; but, on my honor, it is enjoyable!" "oh, misfortune! misfortune irretrievable! on whatever side i turn, it is death! and what i most dread now is destruction! curses on myself, on you, on the whole world!" "your misanthropy is more extensive than your philanthropy! the former embraces the whole world; the latter but one of the wards of paris." "go on--rail, monster!" "would you prefer that i should crush you with reproaches?" "whose fault is it that we are reduced to this position?" "yours. why preserve around your neck, suspended as a relic, that letter of mine relative to the murder which was worth a hundred thousand crowns to you--the murder which we had so adroitly passed off as a suicide?" "why? wretch! did i not give you fifty thousand francs for your co-operation in the crime, and for this letter, which i required that i might have a guarantee against your denouncing me? my life and fortune were, then, dependent on its possession; that is the reason why i always wore it around my neck." "it is true, it was cunning on your part, for i would gain nothing by denouncing you except the pleasure of going to the scaffold side by side with you. and yet your cunning has ruined us, while mine would have assured impunity for the crime to the present moment." "impunity?" "who could foresee what has come to pass? but, in the ordinary march of events, our crime would have been unpunished, thanks to me." "thanks to you?" "yes; when we had blown this man's brains out, you wished simply to counterfeit his signature, and to write his sister that, ruined completely, he had killed himself from despair. you thought that you would make a great stroke of policy by not speaking in this letter of the deposit he had confided to you. it was absurd. this deposit being known to his sister, she would have unquestionably reclaimed it. it was necessary, then, on the contrary, to mention it as we did, in order that, if there were any suspicions of the reality of the suicide, you might be the last person to be suspected. then what happened? the suicide was believed; from your reputation for probity, you were enabled to deny the deposit, and it was thought that the brother killed himself after having dissipated the fortune of his sister." "but what matters all this at present? the crime is discovered." "and thanks to whom? was it my fault if my letter was a double-edged sword, cutting both ways? how could you be so weak, so stupid, as to deliver such a terrible weapon to this infernal cecily?" "hush--do not pronounce that name!" cried jacques ferrand, with a frightful expression. "so be it; i do not wish to make you epileptic. you will see that, in guarding against ordinary justice, our mutual precautions were sufficient; but the extraordinary justice of him who holds us both in his power defied all calculations." "oh! i know it but too well." "he believes that to cut off the head of a criminal does not sufficiently repair the evil he has done. with the proofs which he holds, if he were to deliver us to the tribunals, what would be the result? two corpses, at the most only good to fatten the graveyard." "oh! yes--it is tears, and anguish, and tortures which this prince demands--this demon. but i do not know him, i have never done him any harm. why does he pursue me thus?" "in the first place he pretends to reward the good, and punish the evil done to others; and, besides, he knows those whom you have injured, and he punishes you in his own way." "but by what right?" "come, come, jacques, between us, do not speak of right; he had the power to have your head taken off in a judicial manner. what would have been the result? your relations are all dead--the state would have profited by your fortune instead of those whom you have despoiled. on the contrary, in redeeming your life at the price of your money all your victims will be remunerated for their sufferings, in the manner already decided upon. so in this point of view, we can confess to each other that if society should have gained nothing by your death, it gains much by your living." "and it is this which causes my rage--and this is not my only torture." "the prince knows it well. now what will he decide to do with us? i am ignorant. he has promised to spare us our lives if we faithfully obey his orders. he will keep his promise. but if he does not believe our crimes sufficiently expiated he will know how to make us prefer death a thousand times to the life he grants us. you do not know him. besides, he has more than one devil in his service--for this cecily--whom may the thunder blast!" "once more, be still--not that name--not that name!" "yes, yes! may the thunder blast her who bears that name! it is she who has ruined all. our heads would now be in security on our shoulders but for your silly love for this creature." instead of storming with rage, jacques ferrand answered with a deep sigh, "do you know this woman? speak. have you ever seen her?" "never. they say she is beautiful." "beautiful!" answered the notary, shrugging his shoulders. "hold!" he added with a kind of bitter desperation; "be still! do not speak of what you do not know. do not accuse me! what i have done you would have done in my place." "i place my life at the mercy of a woman!" "of that one--yes--and i would do it again." "by jove, he is still under the charm," cried polidori amazed. "listen," answered the notary, in a low, calm voice, "listen: you know if i love gold? you know what i have braved to acquire it? to reckon up the sums i possessed, to see them doubled by my avarice, to endure every privation, and know myself the master of a treasure--it was my joy, my happiness. yes, to possess, not to enjoy, but to theorize, was my life. one month since, if they had said to me, 'between your fortune and your head choose,' i would have given up my head." "but of what use to have money when one dies?" "ask me, then, 'of what use to possess it, when one makes no use of what one possesses?' i, a millionaire, did i lead the life of a millionaire? no: i lived like a poor beggar. i loved, then, to possess, for possession's sake." "but once more i ask you, of what use is it when one dies?" "to the possessing! yes, to enjoy that even to the last moment for which you have braved privations, infamy, the scaffold; yes, to say once more, the head under the ax, 'i possess!' oh! do you see, death is sweet compared to the torments that are endured on seeing one's self during life dispossessed, as i am, of all that i have amassed at the price of so much pain, so much danger! oh! to say, at each moment of the day, 'i, who had more than a million--i, who have endured every privation to preserve it--i, who in ten years would have doubled it, tripled it--i have no longer anything. it is cruel! it is to die, not each day, but each moment of the day. yes, to this horrible agony, which may endure for years, perhaps, i would have preferred death a thousand times. once more, i could have said in dying, 'i possess.'" polidori looked at his accomplice with profound astonishment. "i cannot comprehend you. then why have you obeyed the commands of him who might have caused your head to roll from the scaffold? why have you preferred life, without your treasure, if this life seems so horrible to you?" "it is, do you see," answered the notary, in a voice sunk to a whisper, "it is not the thought of death--it is annihilation. and cecily!" "and you hope!" cried polidori, astonished. "i hope not; i possess---" "what?" "the remembrance." "but you will never see her again; she has delivered up your head!" "but i love her still, and more madly than ever," cried jacques ferrand, with an explosion of tears, of sobs, which strangely contrasted with the calmness of his last words. "yes, i love her always, and i do not wish to die, so that i can plunge myself deeper and deeper with wild delight into this furnace where i am consumed by inches. for you do not know--that night--that night in which i saw her so beautiful--that night is always present to my thoughts--that picture of voluptuousness is there, there--always there--before my eyes. let them be open or shut, in feverish weakness or burning watchfulness, i see her black eyes and inflaming glances, which boil the marrow of my bones. i feel her breath upon my face--i hear her voice." "but these are frightful torments!" "frightful! ay, frightful! but death! but annihilation! but to lose forever this remembrance, as vivid as reality; but to renounce these recollections, which torture me, devour me, and consume me! no! no! no! live! live--poor, despised, scorned--live in the galleys, but live! so that thought remains--since this infernal creature has all my thought--is all my thought!" "jacques," said polidori, in a grave tone, which strangely contrasted with his habitual bitter irony, "i have seen much suffering, but never tortures that approach yours. he who holds us in his power could not have been more unmerciful. he has condemned you to live--to await death in terrible agonies--for this avowal explains to me the alarming symptoms which every day develop in you, and of which i sought in vain the cause." "but these symptoms are nothing serious! it is exhaustion; it is the reaction of my sorrows! i am not in danger. is it not so?" "no, no; but your position is a critical one; you must not make it worse. certain thoughts must be driven away, otherwise you run great risk." "i will do what you wish so i may live, for i do not wish to die. oh! the priests talk of the damned! never could one imagine for them a punishment equal to mine. tortured by passion and avarice, i have two bleeding wounds instead of one, and i feel both of them equally. the loss of my gold is frightful to me, but death would be more frightful still. i wish to live; my life may be a torture without end, and i dare not call upon death, for death annihilates my fatal happiness, this phantom of my thoughts, in which cecily constantly appears." "you have at least the consolation," said polidori, resuming his usual calmness, "of thinking upon the good that you have done in expiation of your crimes." "yes, rail--you are right; turn me over on the burning coals. you know well, wretch, that i hate humanity; you know well that these expiations which are imposed upon me, only inspire me with hatred against those who oblige me to act thus, and against those who profit by it. thunder and blood! to think that, while i drag along a frightful life, these men whom i execrate have their misery solaced; that this widow and her daughter will thank god for the fortune i restore them--that this morel and his daughter will live in ease and comfort--that this germain will have an honorable situation assured to him for life! and this priest! this priest, who blessed me when my heart was swimming in gall and blood--i could have stabbed him! oh! it is too much! no! no!" he cried, covering his face with his hands: "my head bursts--my ideas are confused--i cannot resist such attacks of impotent rage! and all this for you! cecily! cecily! do you know how much i suffer? do you know, cecily--demon--brought up from below!" ferrand, exhausted by this frightful raving, fell back foaming on his chair, and threw his arms wildly about, uttering hollow and inarticulate sounds. this fit of convulsive and despairing rage by no means astonished polidori. possessing a consummate medical experience, he at once saw that ferrand's anguish at seeing himself dispossessed of his fortune, joined to his passion for cecily, had lighted up the flames of a devouring fever. suddenly some one knocked hurriedly at the door of the cabinet. "jacques!" said polidori, to the notary; "jacques! recover yourself; here is some one." the notary did not hear him. half lying on his desk, be writhed with convulsive spasms. polidori went to open the door, and saw the head clerk, who, pale and alarmed, cried, "i must speak at once to m. ferrand." "silence! he is at this moment lying ill; he cannot understand you," said polidori, in a whisper; and coming out from the cabinet, he closed the door after him. "oh! sir," cried the clerk, "you are the best friend of m. ferrand; come to his assistance; there is not a moment to be lost." "what do you mean?" "i went, according to the orders of m. ferrand, to tell the countess m'gregor that he could not visit her to-day as she desired." "well?" "this lady, who appears to be now out of danger, made me come into her room. she cried, in a threatening tone, 'return, and tell m. ferrand that if he is not here in an hour he shall be arrested for forgery, for the child which he pretended was dead is yet alive. i know to whom he delivered her--i know where she is.'" [footnote: the reader will remember that the countess thought fleur-de-marit was still at saint lazare, according to la chouette's account. ] "the woman is crazy," answered polidori, coldly, shrugging his shoulders. "you think so, sir." "i am sure of it." "i thought so at first; but the assertions of her ladyship." "her head, doubtless, has been weakened by illness, and visionaries always believe in their visions." "i ought to tell you also, sir, that at the moment when i left the chamber of the countess, one of her women, entered precipitately, saying, 'his highness will be here in an hour!'" "it is the prince!" thought polidori. "he at the house of the countess sarah, whom he was never to see again! i do not know wherefore, but i do not like this meeting; it may make our position worse." then, turning to the clerk, he said, "once more i repeat that this is nothing. i will, however, inform m. ferrand of what you have just related to me." chapter xiv. rudolph and sarah. we will conduct the reader to the countess's, whom a salutary crisis had snatched from the delirium and sufferings which, during several days, had caused the most serious fears for her life. the day began to close. sarah, seated in a large arm-chair, and supported by her brother, thomas seyton, was attentively surveying herself in a mirror, which was held by one of her women kneeling before her. this scene passed in the saloon where la chouette had made her murderous attempt. the countess was as pale as marble, which gave a bolder relief to her dark eyes and hair; an ample white muslin wrapper completely concealed her form. "give me the coral coronet," she said to one of her women, in a weak but imperious voice. "betty will fasten it," said thomas seyton; "you will fatigue yourself; you are already so imprudent." "the coral!" repeated she, impatiently, as she took the jewel and placed it on her brow. "now fasten it, and leave me," she added, to her women. as they were retiring, she said, "let them show m. ferrand into the little blue saloon; and," she continued, with an expression of ill-concealed pride, "as soon as his serene highness the grand duke of gerolstein arrives, he must be ushered in here. at length," said sarah, throwing herself back in her chair as soon as she was alone with her brother, "at length i touch this crown--the dream of my life! the prediction is about to be accomplished!" "sarah, calm your emotion," said her brother, earnestly. "yesterday they still despaired of your life; disappointment now might cause a relapse." "you are right, tom. the fall would be dreadful, for my hopes have never been nearer being realized than now! i am certain that what has prevented me from sinking under my sufferings has been my constant hope to profit by the important revelation which this woman made me at the moment when she stabbed me." "even during your delirium you constantly referred to this idea." "because this idea alone sustained my flickering life. what a hope! sovereign princess! almost a queen," she added, with rapture. "once more, sarah; no mad dreams; the awakening will be terrible!" "mad dreams? how! when rudolph shall know that this young girl, now a prisoner at saint lazare, is our child, do you think that---" seyton interrupted his sister. "i believe," he replied, with bitterness, "that princes place reasons of state and political proprieties before natural ties." "do you count so little on my address?" "the prince is not the same fond and enamored youth whom you seduced in days gone by." "do you know why i have wished to ornament my hair with this band of coral? and why i have put on this white robe? it is because, the first time rudolph saw me at the court of gerolstein, i was dressed in white, and i wore the same band of coral in my hair." "how?" said thomas seyton, looking at his sister with surprise: "you wish to evoke these memories; do you not, on the contrary, dread their influence?" "i know rudolph better than you. doubtless, my features, now changed by age and sufferings, are no longer those of the young girl of sixteen he so wildly loved--whom he has alone loved--for i was his first love. and this love, unique in the life of man, leaves always in his heart ineffaceable traces. believe me, brother, the sight of this ornament will awaken in rudolph, not only the memories of his love, but also those of his youth; and to men the recollection of their first emotions is always sweet and precious." "but to these soft memories are joined others of terrible import. do you forget the fatal termination of your love? the conduct of the prince's father toward you? your obstinate silence when rudolph, after your marriage with earl m'gregor, demanded your child, then quite an infant? your daughter, of whose death, ten years before, you informed him in a cold letter? do you forget that since that time the prince has only felt for you contempt--hatred?" "pity has taken the place of hatred. since he has known that i was in a dying state, each day has he sent baron de graun to make inquiries." "from humanity." "just now he answered my note; said that he would come here. this concession is immense, my brother." "he believes you dying. he supposes that he is coming to take a last farewell. you were wrong not to write to him what you are now about to disclose." [illustration: the little mendicant] "i know why i act thus. this revelation will fill him with surprise and joy, and i shall be present to profit by his first burst of tenderness. to-day, or never, he shall say to me, 'a marriage would make the birth of our child legitimate.' if he says so, his word is sacred, and the hope of all my life will at length be realized." "if he makes you this promise--yes." at this moment was heard the noise of a carriage, which entered the court-yard. "it is he--it is rudolph!" cried sarah. "yes, it is the prince, he is getting out of the carriage." "leave me alone--this is the decisive moment," said sarah, with immovable self-control; for a towering ambition and unbounded selfishness had always been and still were the ruling motives of this woman. after a momentary hesitation, thomas seyton drew near to his sister and said, "it is i who will inform the prince how your daughter has been saved; this interview will be too dangerous for you; a violent emotion would kill you." "your hand, my brother," said sarah. then, placing on her impassable heart the hand of seyton, she added, with a forced and icy smile, "am i agitated?" "no, in truth, not at all," said seyton, with surprise; "i know what command you have over yourself. but at such a moment--where for you will be decided--a crown--or death--your calmness absolutely confounds me." "why this astonishment, my brother? did you not know that nothing--no, nothing has ever caused this marble heart to quicken its pulsations? it will only palpitate when i shall feel placed on my brow the sovereign crown. i hear rudolph--leave me." "but--" "leave me!" cried sarah, in a tone so imperious, so resolute, that her brother left the apartment some moments before the prince was introduced. when rudolph entered the saloon, his countenance expressed pity; but seeing the countess seated in the chair decked with her jewels, he drew back with surprise, and his physiognomy became immediately somber and suspicious. the countess, divining his thoughts, said to him in a soft and feeble voice, "you thought to find me dying; you came to receive my last farewell!" "i have always regarded as sacred the last wishes of the dying, but it appears i have been deceived." "reassure yourself," said sarah, interrupting rudolph. "i have not deceived you; there remain for me but a few hours to live. pardon me a last act of coquetry; i wished to spare you the usual attendants of a death-bed. i wished to die dressed as i was the first time i saw you. alas! after ten years of separation, i see you again! thanks--oh, thanks! but in your turn, render thanks to heaven for having moved you to come to listen to my last prayer. if you had refused me, i had carried with me to the tomb a secret which is going to make the joy, the happiness of your life. joy mixed with some tears, like all other human felicity; but this felicity! you would buy it at the price of half the remaining days of your life!" "what do you mean to say?" demanded the prince, with surprise. "yes, rudolph, if you had not come, this secret would have followed me to the tomb--it had been my sole vengeance; and yet--no, no, i should not have had this terrible courage. although you would have caused me much suffering, i should have divided with you this supreme happiness, which, more fortunate than i, you will a long time enjoy." "but, once more, madame, what means all this?" "when you know it, you will comprehend my delay in informing you, for you will regard this revelation as a miracle from heaven. but, strange thought--i, who with one word can cause you the greatest happiness that you have ever experienced--i feel, although now the minutes of my life are counted--i feel an indescribable satisfaction in prolonging your suspense; and, besides, i know your heart, and, in spite of the firmness of your character, i should fear to announce to you, without preparation, a discovery so incredible. the emotions of sudden joy have also their dangers." "your pallor increases--you with difficulty restrain a violent agitation," said rudolph; "all this proves that something grave and important----" "grave and important!" repeated sarah, in a faltering voice, for, notwithstanding her habitual immobility, in reflecting upon the immense importance of the revelation she was about to make to rudolph, she felt herself more agitated than she could have thought possible. after a moment's silence, sarah, no longer able to restrain herself, cried, "rudolph, our child is not dead." "our child!" "i tell you she lives!" these words, the accent of truth with which they were pronounced, moved the prince to the very bottom of his heart. "our child!" he repeated, advancing hastily toward sarah; "our child! my daughter!" "she is not dead; i have certain proofs; i know where she is--to-morrow you shall see her." "my daughter! my child!" repeated rudolph, as if in a dream; "can it be possible? is she alive?" then, suddenly reflecting on the great improbability of this relation, and fearing to be the dupe of sarah, he cried, "no, no; it is a dream! it is impossible, you deceive me; it is some unworthy deceit!" "rudolph, listen to me!" "no, i know your ambition--i know of what you are capable; i can fathom the object of this fabrication!" "well! you speak the truth. i am capable of everything. yes, i did wish to deceive you. yes, some days before i received my mortal wound i did wish to find a young girl, whom i would have presented to you in the place of our child whom you regret so bitterly." "enough--oh! enough, madame." "after this confession you will believe me, perhaps; or, rather, you will be forced to give credence to the proofs." "to the proofs?" "yes, rudolph; i repeat it, i have wished to deceive you, to substitute an obscure girl in the place of her we mourn; but heaven willed that, at the moment when i was about to carry the project into execution, i should be stricken down." "you! at this moment!" "heaven has also willed that they should propose to me to play this part--do you know whom? our daughter." "are you delirious? in the name of heaven---" "i am not delirious, rudolph. in this casket, among some papers and a portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what i say, you will find a paper stained with my blood." "with your blood?" "the woman who informed me that our child was still living dictated to me this revelation--then i was stabbed by a poniard." "and who was she? how did she know?" "it was to her our child was delivered--quite an infant--after having falsely reported her death." "but this woman--her name? can she be believed? where did you become acquainted with her?" "i tell you, rudolph, that all this is fate--providential. some months since, you rescued a poor girl from poverty, to send her to the country--is it not so?" "yes, to bouqueval." "jealousy and hatred drove me wild. i caused this young girl to be carried off by the woman of whom i have spoken." "and she took the unhappy child to saint lazare?" "where she yet is." "she is there no longer. ah! you do not know, madame, the frightful evil you have caused by tearing this poor child from the retreat where i had placed her; but--" "the girl no longer at saint lazare?" cried the lady in alarm; "and you speak of a frightful evil!" "a monster of cupidity had an interest in her death. they have drowned her, madame; but answer, you say--" "my daughter!" cried sarah, interrupting rudolph, and rising on her feet, immovable as a marble statue. "what does she say? good heavens!" cried rudolph. "my child!" repeated sarah, whose face became livid and frightful from despair; "they have killed my child!" "the goualeuse your child!" repeated rudolph, recoiling with horror. "the goualeuse! yes! that is the name the woman mentioned--this woman called la chouette. dead--dead!" cried sarah, still motionless, her eyes fixed and glaring; "they have killed her!" "sarah!" replied rudolph, as pale and alarmed as she, "calm yourself-- answer me--la goualeuse--this girl whom you caused to be carried off by la chouette from bouqueval, was--" "our child!" "she!" "and they have killed her." "oh!--no, no--you rave--this cannot be. you know not, no, you know not how frightful this is. sarah! compose yourself; speak to me tranquilly. seat yourself--calm yourself. often there are appearances--resemblances which deceive; one is inclined to believe what one desires. it is not a reproach i make you; but explain to me well--tell me all the reasons you have to credit this, for it cannot be--no, no; it must not be!--it is not so!" after a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to rudolph in an expiring voice, "hearing of your marriage, thinking to be married myself, i could not keep our daughter with me; she was then four years old." "but at this epoch i asked you for her with prayers," cried rudolph, in a heartrending tone, "and my letters remained unanswered. the only one you wrote me announced her death." "i wished to avenge myself for your contempt by refusing you your child. that was unworthy; but listen to me: i feel it--my life is drawing to a close; this last blow has overwhelmed me." "no, no! i do not believe you--i do not wish to believe you! la goualeuse my child! oh, you would not have this so!" "listen to me, i say. when she was four years old my brother commissioned madame séraphin, widow of one of his old servants, to bring up the child until she was old enough to be placed at school. the sum destined for her future support was placed by my brother with a notary renowned for his probity. the letters of this man, and of madame séraphin, addressed at this period to me and my brother, are there, in that casket. at the end of a year they wrote me that the health of my child failed; eight months after, that she was dead; and they sent me the official notification of her decease. at this time, madame séraphin entered the service of jacques ferrand, after having delivered our child to la chouette by the hands of a wretch now in the galleys at rochefort. i began to write this confession of la chouette when she wounded me. this paper is there, with a portrait of our daughter at the age of four years. examine all--letters, confessions, portrait--and you, who have seen her--this unfortunate child--judge." at these words, which exhausted her strength, sarah fell back almost lifeless in her chair. rudolph was thunderstruck at this revelation. there are some misfortunes so unlooked for, so horrible, that we are unwilling to believe them until compelled by overwhelming evidence. rudolph, persuaded of the death of fleur-de-marie, had but one hope left, which was to convince himself that she was not his child. with a frightful calmness, which alarmed sarah, he approached the table, opened the casket, and fell to reading the letters one by one, and examining, with scrupulous attention, the papers which accompanied them. these letters, stamped at the post-office, written to sarah and her brother by the notary and by madame séraphin, related to the childhood of fleur-de-marie, and to the investment of the funds destined for her support. rudolph could not doubt the authenticity of this correspondence. the confession of la chouette was confirmed by the information obtained (of which we have spoken at the commencement of this story) by order of rudolph, which pointed out a man named pierre tournemine, a prisoner at rochefort, as the man who had received fleur-de-marie from madame séraphin to deliver her to la chouette--to la chouette, whom the unfortunate child herself had recognized before rudolph, at the tapis-franc of the ogress. rudolph could no longer doubt the identity of these persons and of the goualeuse. the official notice concerning her death appeared in conformity to law; but ferrand had himself acknowledged to cecily that this forged notice had served for the spoliation of a considerable sum formerly settled as an annuity on the girl whom he had caused to be drowned by nicholas martial, by the ravageurs' island. it was, then, with growing and alarming anguish that rudolph acquired, in spite of himself, the terrible conviction that the goualeuse was his daughter, and that she was dead. unfortunately for him, all seemed to confirm this belief. before condemning jacques ferrand on the proofs given by the notary himself to cecily, the prince, his deep interest for the goualeuse, having caused inquiries to be made at asnières, had learned that, in fact, two women, one old and the other young, and dressed in a peasant's costume, had been drowned in going to ravageurs' island, and that rumor accused the martials of this new crime. here we must state that, in spite of the attention of dr. griffon, of the count de saint rémy, and of la louve, fleur-de-marie, for a long time in a desperate situation, had hardly become convalescent, and that her weakness, mental and physical, was such, that she had not been able up to this time to inform madame george or rudolph of her position. this concourse of circumstances could not leave the slightest hope to the prince. a last proof was reserved for him. at length he cast his eyes on the miniature, which he had almost feared to look at. the blow was frightful. in this infantine and charming face, already radiant with that divine beauty which belongs to the cherubim, he recognized in a striking manner the features of fleur-de-marie; her grecian nose, her noble forehead, her little mouth; already slightly serious. for, said madame séraphin to sarah, in one of her letters which rudolph had just read, "the child asks always for its mother, and is very sad." there were her large blue eyes, of a blue so pure and soft--the bluebell's blue, as la chouette had said to sarah on recognizing in this miniature the features of the unfortunate child whom she had persecuted, in her infancy, under the name of lapegriotte, and as a young girl under the name of la goualeuse. at the sight of this miniature, rudolph's tumultuous and violent feelings were stifled by his tears. he fell back, heartbroken, on a chair, and concealed his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively. chapter xv. vengeance. while rudolph wept bitterly, the features of sarah changed perceptibly. at the moment when she thought she was about to realize the dream of her ambitious life, the last hope, which had until now sustained her, was crushed forever. this dreadful disappointment could not fail to have on her health, momentarily ameliorated, a mortal reaction. fallen back in her chair, trembling with a feverish agitation, her hands crossed and clasped on her knees, her eyes fixed, the countess awaited with alarm the first word from rudolph. knowing the impetuous character of the prince, she feared that the sad grief, which drew so many tears from this inflexible and resolute man, would be succeeded by some terrible transports of passion. suddenly rudolph raised his head, wiped away his tears, arose, and approached sarah, his arms crossed on his bosom, his manner menacing and without pity. he looked at her for some moments in silence; then he said, in a hollow voice: "this ought to be. i have drawn the sword against my father; i am stricken in my child. just punishment of the parricide. listen to me, madame---" "parricide! you! oh, fatal day! of what are you going to inform me?" "it is necessary that you should know, in this awful moment, all the evils caused by your implacable ambition, by your unbounded selfishness. do you understand me, woman without heart and without conscience? do you hear me, unnatural mother?" "oh, have pity, rudolph!" "no pardon for you, who formerly, without pity for a sincere love, coldly trifled, in the furtherance of your execrable pride, with a generous and devoted passion, of which you feigned to partake. no mercy for you, who armed the son against the father! no grace for you, who, instead of watching piously over your child, abandoned her to mercenary hands, in order to satisfy your cupidity by a rich marriage, as you had already served your mad ambition by inciting me to marry you. no mercy for you who, after having refused me my child, have now caused her death by your unholy deceptions! maledictions on you--my evil genius, and my family's!" "oh! he is without pity! leave me! leave me!" "you must hear me, i tell you! do you remember the last day i saw you--it is seventeen years since--you could no longer conceal the fruits of our secret union, which, like you, i believed indissoluble. i knew the inflexible character of my father. i knew what political marriage he projected for me. braving his indignation, i declared to him that you were my wife before god and before man--that in a short time i should become a father. his anger was terrible; he would not give credence to my marriage--so much deception seemed impossible to him. he threatened me with his displeasure if i allowed myself to speak before him again of such folly. then i loved you like a madman, dupe of your seductions. i thought that your rigid heart of brass had beaten for me. i answered to my father that i would never have any wife but you. at these words, his anger had no bounds; he called you the most outrageous names; swore that our marriage was null; and that, in order to punish your presumption, he would place you in the pillory. yielding to my mad passion, to the violence of my temper, i dared to forbid my father, my sovereign, to speak thus of my wife. i dared to threaten him. exasperated at this insult, my father struck me; rage blinded me. i drew my sword. i threw myself upon him. except for sir walter murphy, who turned aside the blow, i had been a parricide in reality, as i was in intention! do you hear? parricide! and to defend you--you!" "alas! i was ignorant of all this." "in vain i have thought my crime expiated; the blow i have received today is my punishment." "but have i not also suffered from the obduracy of your father, who broke our marriage? why accuse me of not having loved you, when--" "why?" cried rudolph, interrupting sarah, and casting upon her a glance of withering scorn. "know it then, and be no more surprised at the horror with which you inspire me. after this fatal scene, in which i had threatened the life of my father, i gave up my sword. i was imprisoned with the greatest secrecy. polidori, through whom our marriage had been concluded, was arrested. he proved that this union was null; that the clergyman was only a mock one; and that you, your brother, and myself had all been deceived. to disarm my father's anger against him, polidori did more; he gave him one of your letters to your brother, which he had intercepted." "heavens! can it be possible?" "is my contempt for you explained now?" "oh! enough, enough!" "in this letter you unfolded your ambitious projects with revolting coldness. you treated me with an icy disdain; you sacrificed me to your infernal pride; i was only the instrument by whose means you were to obtain the fulfillment of your destiny. you found that my father lived a very long time." "unfortunate that i am! now i understand all." "and to defend you, i had threatened the life of my father. when, on the morrow, without addressing me a word of reproach, he showed me this letter--this letter, which in every line revealed the blackness of your heart, i could only fall on my knees and ask for pardon. since that day i have been pursued by unceasing remorse. soon i left germany on a long journey; then commenced the penance which i imposed upon myself. it will only finish with my life. to recompense the good, punish the bad, solace those who suffer, probe all the wounds of humanity, to endeavor to snatch souls from perdition--such is the noble task that i have imposed upon myself." "it is noble and holy; it is worthy of you." "if i speak of this vow," replied rudolph, with as much disdain as bitterness; "of this vow, which i have fulfilled, according to my power, wherever i have been, it is not to be praised by you. listen to me, then. not long since i arrived in france; my sojourn in this country was not to be lost to the expiation. in wishing to assist honest unfortunates, i also wished to know those classes whom poverty crushes, hardens, and depraves, knowing that timely succor and kind words have often saved many a poor wretch from the abyss of despair. in order to be my own judge, i assumed the disguise and language of the people whom i wished to observe. it was on one of these excursions that, for the first time, i--i met--" then, as if he recoiled from this terrible revelation, rudolph added, "no, no, i have not the courage." "what have you still to inform me?" "you will only know it too soon; but," said he, with irony, "you feel so lively an interest in the past that i ought to speak to you of events which preceded my return to france. after a long journey, i returned to germany; i married a prussian princess. during my absence, you had been driven away from the grand duchy. learning that you were married to earl m'gregor, i wrote to entreat you to send me my child; you did not reply. in spite of all my efforts, i could never find out where you had sent this unfortunate child. ten years ago only, a letter from you informed me that our child was dead. alas! would to god that she had then been dead; i should not have known the incurable grief which henceforth will imbitter my life." "now," said sarah, in a feeble voice, "i am no more astonished at the aversion with which i have inspired you, since you have read this letter. i feel it, i shall not survive this last blow. ah, well! yes; pride and ambition have ruined me! under the appearance of passion, i concealed a frozen heart. not knowing what good reason you had to despise and hate me, my foolish hopes were renewed. since we were both free again, i again believed in this prediction which promised me a crown; and when chance discovered my daughter, i seemed to see in this unhoped-for fortune a providential design! yes; i went so far as to think that your aversion for me would yield to your love for your child; and that you would give me your hand in order to restore her to the rank which was her due." "well! let your execrable ambition be then satisfied and punished! yes, notwithstanding the horror you inspired me with; yes, from attachment--what do i say! from respect for the frightful misfortunes of my child, i should have, although decided to live afterward separated from you--i should have, by a marriage which would legitimatize my child, rendered her position as dazzling, as lofty as it had been miserable!" "i was not deceived, then! woe! it is too late!" "oh! i know it; it is not for the death of your child you weep; it is the loss of that rank which you have pursued with untiring pertinacity! well! may these infamous regrets be your last punishment!" "the last; for i shall not survive!" "but, before you die, you shall know what has been the existence of your child since you abandoned her." "poor child! very miserable, perhaps!" "do you recollect," said rudolph, with terrible calmness, "that night when you and your brother followed me to the city?" "i do recollect; but why this question? your look freezes me." "on coming from this den, you saw, did you not, at the corner of the wretched streets, some unhappy creatures, who--but, no, no--i dare not," said rudolph, concealing his face in his hands, "i dare not; my words alarm me." "me also--they alarm me; what is it now?" "you have seen them?" resumed rudolph, with an effort. "you have seen those women, the shame of their sex? well! among them did you remark a young girl of sixteen? beautiful, oh! beautiful as an angel; a poor child, who, in the midst of the degradation in which she had been plunged, preserved an expression so pure, so virginal, that the robbers and assassins among whom she lived, madame, had given her the name of fleur-de-marie; did you remark this young girl? speak, speak, tender mother." "no, i did not notice her," said sarah, almost mechanically. "really?" cried rudolph, with a burst of sardonic laughter. "it is strange. i remarked her on the occasion; listen, well, during one of the excursions of which i have spoken just now, and which then had a double object, i found myself in the city; not far from the den whither you followed me, a man wished to beat one of these unfortunate creatures; i defended her against his brutality. you cannot guess who was this creature; speak, good and provident mother, speak! you do not guess?" "no, i do not guess. oh! leave me, leave me!" "the 'unfortunate' was fleur-de-marie." "oh! merciful powers!" "and you do not guess who was fleur-de-marie, irreproachable mother?" "kill me! oh! kill me!" "she was la goualeuse--your daughter!" cried rudolph, with a heartrending emotion. "yes, this unfortunate, whom i had rescued from the violence of a liberated galley-slave, was my own child--mine--rudolph of gerolstein's! oh! there was something in this encounter with my child, whom i saved without knowing her, something terrible, providential; a recompense for the man who seeks to succor his fellow-men, a punishment for the parricide." "i die cursed and condemned," murmured sarah, falling back in her chair and concealing her face in her hands. "then," continued rudolph, with difficulty restraining his feelings, and wishing, in vain, to suppress his sobs, which almost choked him, "when i had rescued her from the hands of her assailant, struck with the inexpressible sweetness of her voice, the angelic expression of her features, it had been impossible not to have become interested in her. with what profound emotion have i listened to the touching recital of her life of abandonment, of sorrow, and misery; for, do you see, there have been frightful passages in the life of your daughter, madame. oh! you must know the tortures that your child suffered; yes, my lady, while in the midst of your opulence you were dreaming of a crown, your child--your own little child, covered with rags, went at night to beg in the streets, suffering with cold and hunger. during the winter nights, she shivered on a little straw in the corner of a garret, and then, when the horrible woman who abused her was tired of beating the poor little thing, only thinking how she could torture her, do you know what she did, madame? she drew out some of her teeth!" "oh! would that i could die! this is bitter agony!" "listen again. escaping at length from the hands of la chouette, wandering without bread, without shelter, hardly eight years of age, she was arrested as a vagabond, and put in prison. oh! these were the happiest days of your daughter, madame. yes, in the prison-house, each night she thanked god that she suffered no more from cold and hunger, and was beaten no more. and it was in a prison that she spent the most precious years of a young girl's life, those years which a tender mother always surrounds with so jealous and pious a solicitude; yes, instead of being protected with maternal care, your daughter has only known the brutal indifference of jailers; and then one day, society, in its cruel carelessness, cast her, innocent and pure, beautiful and ingenuous, into the filth and mire of this great city. unhappy child, abandoned, without support, without advice, delivered to all the chances of misery and vice! oh!" cried rudolph, giving free vent to the sobs which overpowered him; "your heart is hardened, your selfishness cruel, but you would have wept--yes, _you_ would have wept, on hearing the touching story of your child. poor girl! sullied, but not corrupted, still chaste in the midst of this horrible degradation, which was for her a frightful dream; for each word told her horror for the life to which she was so fatally enchained! oh! if you knew how at each moment were revealed the most adorable instincts--how much goodness--how much touching charity; yes, for it was to relieve an unfortunate more wretched than herself, the poor little thing had spent the little money she had, and which then separated her from the abyss of infamy into which she was plunged. yes! for the day came--a frightful day--when, without work, without bread, without shelter--horrible women met her, exhausted from weakness--from hunger--and--" rudolph could not finish, but cried in a heartrending voice: "and this was my daughter! my child!" "imprecations on my head!" murmured sarah, concealing her face in her hands, as if she had feared the light of day. "yes," cried rudolph, "imprecations on you! for it is your abandonment of this child which has caused all these horrors. maledictions on you! for when, rescuing her from this filth, i had placed her in a peaceable retreat, you had her torn away by your miserable accomplices. maledictions on you! for this again placed her in the power of jacques ferrand." at this name, rudolph stopped suddenly. he shuddered as if he had pronounced it for the first time. it was because he now pronounced this name for the first time since he had known that his daughter was the victim of that monster. the features of the prince assumed then a frightful expression of rage and hatred. silent, immovable, he remained, as it were, crushed by this thought--that the murderer of his child still lived. sarah, notwithstanding her increasing weakness, was struck by his sinister look; she feared for herself. "alas! what is the matter with you?" she murmured, in a trembling voice. "is it not enough of suffering?" "no; it is not enough!" cried rudolph, responding to his own thoughts. "i have never before experienced--never! such a desire for vengeance--a thirst for blood--a calm, reflecting rage! when i did not know that one of the victims of the monster was my own child, i said to myself, the death of this man will be sterile, while his life will be fertile, if, to redeem it, he accept the conditions which i impose. to condemn him to be charitable, to expiate his crimes, appeared to me just; and then, life without gold, life without sensuality, would be for him a long and double torture. but it is my child whom he has delivered to all the horrors of infamy and misery! but it is my daughter whom he has murdered! i will kill this man!" and the prince sprung toward the door. "where are you going? do not abandon me!" cried sarah, half rising, and extending toward rudolph her supplicating hands. "do not leave me alone! i am dying!" "alone! no! no! i leave you with the specter of your daughter, whose death you have caused!" sarah, frantic, threw herself on her knees, uttering a cry of affright, as if an alarming phantom had appeared to her. "pity! i die!" "die, then, accursed!" answered rudolph, frightful with rage. "now i must have the life of your accomplice, for it is you who delivered your daughter to her executioner!" and rudolph ordered his coach to be rapidly driven to the house of jacques ferrand. chapter xvi. furens amoris. night closed in while rudolph was on his way to the notary's. the pavilion occupied by jacques ferrand was buried in profound obscurity. the wind howled, the rain fell as during that gloomy night when cecily fled forever from the notary's house. extended on a bed in his sleeping apartment, feebly lighted by a lamp, jacques ferrand was dressed in black trousers and vest; one of the sleeves of his shirt was turned back, and a ligature around his attenuated arm announced that he had just been bled. polidori was standing near the bed, with one hand on the bolster, and appeared to regard the features of his accomplice with inquietude. nothing could be more hideously frightful than the face of ferrand, who was then plunged into that torpor which ordinarily succeeds violent attacks. of a mortal pallor, strongly relieved by the shadows of the alcove, his face, streaming with a cold sweat, announced the last stage of consumption; his closed eyelids were so swollen and injected with blood, that they appeared like two reddish lobes in the middle of this visage of cadaverous lividity. "one more attack like the last, and all is over," said polidori, in a low tone, and, retiring from the bed, he commenced walking slowly up and down the room. "just now," he resumed, "during the attack which nearly proved fatal, i thought myself in a dream, as i heard him describe all the monstrous hallucinations which i crossed his brain. his sense of hearing was of a sensibility so incredibly painful that, although i spoke to him as low as possible, yet it seemed to him, he said, that his head was a bell, and that an enormous clapper of brass, set in motion by the least sound, struck against it from time to time with a deafening and horrid noise." polidori again drew near the bed, and remained in a contemplative attitude. the tempest raged without; it soon burst forth in violent gusts of wind and rain, which shook all the windows of the dilapidated mansion. notwithstanding his audacious wickedness, polidori was superstitious; dark presentiments agitated him; he felt an indefinable uneasiness; the howlings of the storm, which alone disturbed the mournful silence of the night, inspired him with an alarm against which he struggled in vain. to drive away these gloomy thoughts, he again examined the features of his accomplice. "now," said he, leaning over him, "his eyelids fill with blood. what sufferings! how protracted! and under what varied forms! oh!" added he, with a bitter smile, "when nature becomes cruel, and plays the part of tormentor, she defies the most ferocious combinations of men. oh! this face is frightful. these frequent convulsions which overspread it contract it, and at times render it fearful." without, the tempest redoubled its fury. "what a storm!" said polidori, throwing himself into a chair, and leaning his face on his hands. "what a night! what a night! nothing could be more fatal for the situation of jacques." after a long silence, polidori resumed, "when i think of the past, when i think of the ambitious projects which, in concert with sarah, i founded on the youth and inexperience of the prince--how many events! by what degrees have i fallen into the state of criminal degradation in which i live! i, who had thought to effeminate this prince, and make him the docile instrument of the advancement of which i had dreamed! from preceptor i expected to become minister. and notwithstanding my learning, my mind, from misdeed to misdeed i have attained the last degree of infamy. behold me, in fine, the jailer of my accomplice. oh, yes! the prince is without pity. better a thousand times for jacques ferrand to have placed his head on the block; better a thousand times the wheel, fire, the molten lead which burns and sinks into the flesh, than the torments this wretch endures. as i see him suffer, i begin to be alarmed for my own fate. what will they do with me--what is reserved for me, the accomplice of jacques? to be his jailer will not suffice for the vengeance of the prince. he has not saved me from the scaffold to let me live. perhaps an eternal prison awaits me in germany. better that than death. i can only place myself blindly at the discretion of the prince; it is my sole chance of safety." at this moment the storm was at its height; a chimney, blown down by the violence of the wind, fell on the roof and into the court with a noise like thunder. jacques ferrand, suddenly aroused from his state of torpor, moved on the bed. a hollow groan attracted the attention of polidori. "he is awaking from his stupor," said he, approaching him slowly. "polidori," murmured jacques ferrand, still stretched on the bed, and with his eyes closed. "polidori, what noise was that?" "a chimney has fallen down," answered polidori, in a low tone; "a frightful hurricane shakes the house to its foundations. the night is horrible, horrible!" the notary did not hear, and half turning his head, whispered, "polidori, are you there?" "yes, yes, i am here," said polidori, in a louder voice; "but i answered softly, fearing to affect your hearing, as i did a few moments ago." "no, now your voice reaches my ear without causing me those painful sufferings; for it seemed to me, at the least noise, as if a thunderbolt had broken in my head. and yet, in the midst of all this noise, of these sufferings without name, i distinguished the voice of cecily calling me." "always this infernal woman--always. but drive away these thoughts, they will kill you." "drive them away!" cried jacques ferrand; "oh! never, never!" "what mad fury! it alarms me." "hold, now," said the notary, in a husky voice, with his eyes fixed on an obscure corner of the alcove. "i see already--like a living thing--a shape appearing--there--there!" and he pointed with his bony finger in the direction of the vision. "hush, be quiet, unhappy man!" "oh! there, there!" "jacques, it is death." "oh! i see her," added ferrand, his teeth set. "there she is! how handsome she is; how handsome! see her long black hair; it floats in disorder upon her shoulders! and her small teeth, which are seen through her half-opened lips: her lips so red and humid! what pearls! oh! her large eyes seem in turn to sparkle and die. cecily! cecily! i adore you!" "jacques," cried polidori, alarmed, "do not excite yourself by these phantoms." "it is not a phantom." "take care; a short time ago, you know, you imagined also that you heard the songs of this woman, and your hearing was suddenly affected by fearful sufferings--take care!" "leave me," cried the notary, with impatience, "leave me! of what use is hearing, except to listen to her?--sight, except to see her?" "but the tortures which ensue, miserable fool!" the notary did not finish. he uttered a sharp cry of pain, throwing himself backward on the bed. "what is the matter?" asked polidori, with astonishment. "put out that light; its glare is too vivid. i cannot support it; it blinds me!" "how?" said polidori, more and more surprised. "there is but one lamp with a shade, and its light is very feeble." "i tell you that the light increases here. hold! more! more! oh! it is too much! it becomes intolerable!" raved on jacques ferrand, shutting his eyes with an expression of increasing pain. "you are mad! this chamber is hardly light, i tell you. i have just turned down the lamps; open your eyes, you will see." "open my eyes! but i shall be blinded by the torrents of dazzling light which flood this apartment. here, there, everywhere, sheets of fire--thousands of shining atoms," cried the notary, raising himself; then, uttering a cry of pain, he placed his hands on his eyes. "but i am blinded! the burning light pierces my eyelids! it consumes me! put out that light! it casts an infernal flame." "no more doubt," said polidori; "his sight is stricken in the same manner as his hearing was just now. he is lost! to bleed him anew in this state would be fatal. he is lost!" another sharp, terrible yell from jacques ferrand resounded throughout the chamber. "executioner! put out the lamp! its burning splendor penetrates through my hands; they are transparent! i see the blood! it circulates in my veins! i did well to close my eyelids! this fiery lava would have entered! oh, what torture! it is as if my eyes were pierced with red-hot needles! help! help!" cried he, struggling in his bed, a prey to horrible convulsions. polidori, alarmed at the violence of this attack, extinguished the light. and both were left in utter darkness. at this moment was heard the noise of a carriage, which stopped at the street door. when the chamber became darkened, ferrand's agony ceased by degrees, and he said to polidori, "why did you wait so long before you put out this lamp? was it to make me endure all the torments of the damned? oh, what i have suffered! oh, heaven! how i have suffered!" "now do you suffer less?" "i still experience a violent irritation, but it is nothing to what i felt just now. i cling to life because the memory of cecily is all my life." "but this memory kills, exhausts, consumes you." the notary did not hear his accomplice, who foresaw a new hallucination. in effect, ferrand resumed, with a burst of convulsive and sardonic laughter: "to take cecily from me! but they do not know that, by concentrating all the power of one's faculties on a single object, the impracticable is gained. thus, directly, i am going to the chamber of cecily, where i have not dared to go since her departure. oh, to see, to touch the vestments which have belonged to her; the glass before which she dressed--it will be to see herself! yes; by fixing my eyes on this glass, soon shall i see cecily appear. it will not be an illusion--a mist; it will be she; i shall find her there, as the sculptor finds the statue in the block of marble." "where are you going to?" said polidori, hearing jacques ferrand getting up from his bed, for the most profound obscurity still reigned in the apartment. "i go to find cecily." "you shall not go. the sight of her chamber will kill you." "cecily awaits me there." "you shall not go--i hold you," said polidori, seizing the notary by the arm. jacques ferrand, arrived at the last stage of weakness, could not struggle against polidori, who held him with a vigorous hand. "you wish to prevent me from going to find cecily?" "yes; and, besides, there is a lamp lighted in the next room; you know what effect the light produced just now upon your sight!" "cecily is there; she awaits me. i would traverse a blazing furnace to join her. let me go. she told me i was her old tiger. take care, my claws are sharp." "you shall not go. i will rather tie you on your bed as a madman." "polidori, listen; i am not mad--i have all my reason. i know very well that cecily is not materially there; but for me, the phantoms of my imagination are worth more than realities." "silence!" cried polidori, suddenly, listening; "just now i thought i heard a carriage stop at the door. i was not mistaken. i hear now the sound of voices in the court." "you wish to distract my thoughts. the trick is too plain." "i hear some one speak, i tell you, and i think i recognize---" "you wish to deceive me," said ferrand, interrupting polidori; "i am not your dupe." "but, wretch, listen then--listen. ah! do you not hear?" "let me go--cecily is there--she calls me. do not make me angry, in my turn, i tell you. take care--do you understand? take care." "you shall not go out." "take care---" "you shall not go out from here; it is my interest that you should remain." "you prevent me from going to find cecily; my interest wills that you should die. hold then!" said the notary, in a hollow voice. polidori uttered a cry. "scoundrel! you have stabbed me in the arm; but the wound is slight; you shall not escape me." "your wound is mortal. it is the poisoned dagger of cecily which has stabbed you; i always carried it about me; await the effects of the poison. ah! you loosen your grasp; you are going to die. you should not have hindered me from going to find cecily," added jacques ferrand, feeling in the dark for the door. "oh!" murmured polidori, "my arm stiffens--a mortal coldness seizes me--my knees tremble under me--my blood thickens in my veins--my head turns. help!" cried the accomplice of ferrand, collecting all his strength for a last cry; "help! i die!" and he sunk under his own weight upon the floor. the crash of a glass door, opened with so much violence that several panes were broken to pieces, the ringing voice of rudolph, and a noise of hasty footsteps, seemed to respond to polidori's cry of anguish. jacques ferrand, having at length found the lock in the dark, opened the door leading into an adjoining apartment, and rushed into it, his dangerous weapon in his hand. at the same moment, threatening and formidable as the genius of vengeance, the prince entered the room from the opposite side. "monster!" cried rudolph, advancing toward jacques ferrand, "it is my daughter whom you have killed! you are going--" the prince did not finish; he recoiled alarmed. one would have said that his words had pierced jacques ferrand. throwing his poniard aside, and placing both his hands before his eyes, the wretch fell with his face to the floor, uttering a howl that was anything but human. in consequence of the phenomenon of which we have spoken, of which a profound darkness had suspended the action, when jacques ferrand entered this chamber brilliantly lighted, he was struck with a vertigo, similar to that which we have already described, more intolerable than if he had been exposed to a torrent of light as incandescent as that of the disk of the sun. and the agony of this man was a fearful spectacle; he writhed in frightful convulsions, tearing the floor with his nails, as if he wished to dig a hole to escape from the horrible tortures caused by this glaring light. rudolph, one of his servants, and the porter of the house, who had been compelled to conduct the prince to this apartment, were transfixed with horror. notwithstanding his just horror, rudolph felt an emotion of pity for the unheard-of suffering of jacques ferrand; he ordered him to be laid on a sofa. this was not done without difficulty; for, fearing to be submitted again to the direct action of the light, the notary struggled violently, but when it streamed in his face he uttered another yell, which filled rudolph with terror. after protracted torments, these attacks ceased, exhausted by their own violence. arrived at the mortal period of his delirium, he remembered still the words of cecily, who had called him her tiger; by degrees, his mind again wandered; he imagined himself a tiger! crouched in one of the corners of the room, as in his den, his hoarse, furious cries, the grinding of his teeth, the spasmodic contortions of the muscles of his forehead and face, his glaring look, gave him a vague and frightful resemblance to this ferocious beast. "tiger--tiger--tiger i am," said he, in a broken voice, gathering himself up in a heap; "yes, tiger. how much blood! in my lair--corpses--torn to pieces! la goualeuse--the brother of this widow--the child of louise--here are corpses; my tigress cecily shall take her share." then looking at his bony fingers, of which the nails had grown very long during his illness, he added these words: "oh! my sharp nails: an old tiger i am, but more active, and strong, and bold. no one shall dare dispute my tigress, cecily. ah! she calls! she calls!" said he, looking around, and seeming to listen. after a moment's pause, he groped his way along the wall, saying, "no; i thought i heard her; she is not there, but i see her, oh! always, always! oh! there she is! she calls me--she roars--she roars there! i come, i come." and jacques ferrand dragged himself toward the middle of the chamber on his hands and knees. although his strength was exhausted, from time to time he advanced by a convulsive spring: then he would pause, seeming to listen attentively. "where is she? where is she? i approach, she flies. ah! there; oh! she awaits me; go; go, cecily, your old tiger is yours," cried he. and with a desperate effort he succeeded in getting on his knees. but, suddenly, falling backward with alarm, his body crouched on his heels, his hair standing on end, his look wild, his mouth distorted with terror, his hands stretched out, he seemed to struggle with age against an invisible object, and cried, in a broken voice, "what a bite--help--my arms break--i cannot take it off--sharp teeth. no, no, oh! not the eyes--help--a black serpent--oh! its flat head--its burning eyeballs. it looks at me--it is the devil. ah! he knows me--jacques ferrand--at the church--holy man--always at the church-avaunt!" and the notary, raising himself a little and sustaining himself with one hand on the floor, tried with the other to make the sign of the cross. his livid face was covered with sweat, and all the symptoms of approaching death were manifested. he fell immediately backward, stiff and inanimate; his eyes seemed to start from their sockets; horrible convulsions stamped his features with unearthly contortions, like those forced from dead bodies by a galvanic battery; a bloody foam inundated his lips, and the life of this monster became extinct in the midst of one of his horrid visions, for he muttered these words: "night--dark! dark specters--brazen skeletons-- red-hot--twine around me their burning fingers--my flesh smokes--specter-- bloody--no! no--cecily--fire--cecily!" such were the last words of jacques ferrand. chapter xvii. the hospital. it will be remembered that fleur-de-marie, saved by la louve, had been conveyed to the country house of dr. griffon, [footnote: the name which i have the honor to bear, which my father, grandfather, grand-uncle, and great grandfather--one of the most learned men of the seventeenth century--have rendered celebrated by works on theoretical and practical medicine, would forbid me from any attack, or hasty reflection, concerning physicians; even though the gravity of the subject upon which i treat, and the just and deserved celebrity of the french medical school, did not prevent me. in dr. griffon i have only wished to personify one, otherwise respectable, who allows himself to be carried away the ardor of art, and led to make experiments which are a serious abuse medical power (if i may express myself in this manner), forgetting that there is something more sacred than science--humanity.] not far from ravageurs' island. the worthy doctor, one of the physicians of the city hospital where we shall conduct our readers, who had obtained this situation through a powerful interest, regarded his ward as a sort of place where he experimented on the poor the treatment which he applied afterward to his rich patients, never hazarding on the last any new cures before having first tried and retried the application _in anima vili_, as he said, with that kind of passionless barbarity which a blind love for science produces. thus, if the doctor wished to convince himself of the comparative effect of some new and hazardous treatment, in order to be able to deduce consequences favorable to such or such system, he took a certain number of patients, treated some according to the new system, others by the ancient method. under some circumstances, be abandoned others to the care of nature. after which he counted the survivors. these terrible experiments were, truly, a human sacrifice on the altar of science. dr. griffon did not seem to think of this. in the eyes of this prince of science (as they phrase it) the patients of his hospital were only subjects for study and experiment; and as, after all, there resulted sometimes from these essays _in anima vili_ a fact or discovery useful to science, the doctor showed himself as entirely satisfied and triumphant as a general after a victory sufficiently costly in soldiers. homeopathy had never a more violent adversary than dr. griffon. he look upon this method as absurd and homicidal; thus, strong in his convictions, and wishing, as he said, to drive the homeopathists to the wall, he offered to abandon to their care a certain number of patients, on whom they might experiment to their liking. but he affirmed in advance, sure of not being contradicted by the result, that, out of twenty patients submitted to this treatment, not over five, at the outside would survive. the homeopathists gave the go-by to this proposition, to the great chagrin of the doctor, who regretted the loss of this occasion to prove, by figures, the vanity of homeopathic practice. dr. griffon would have been stupefied if any one had said to him, in reference to this free and autocratic disposition of his subjects: "such a state of things would cause the barbarism of those days to be regretted when condemned criminals were exposed to undergo newly-discovered surgical operations; operations which they dared not practice on the uncondemned. if it were successful, the condemned was pardoned. compared to what you do, sir, this barbarity was charity. after all, a chance for life was thus given to a poor creature for whom the executioner was waiting, and an experiment was rendered possible which might be useful to all. but to try your hazardous medicaments on unfortunate artisans, for whom the hospital is the sole refuge when sickness overtakes them; to try a treatment, perhaps fatal, on people whom poverty confides to you, trusting and powerless; to you, their only hope; to you, who will only answer for their life to god--do you know that this is to push the love of science to inhumanity, sir? how! the poorer classes already people the workshops, the field, the army; in this world they only know misery and privations; and when, at the end of their sufferings and fatigues, they fall exhausted--half-dead--sickness even does not preserve them from a last and sacrilegious "experiment!" i ask your heart, sir, would not this be unjust and cruel?" alas! dr. griffon would have been touched, perhaps, by these severe words, but not convinced. man is made the creature of circumstances. the captain thus accustoms himself to consider his soldiers as nothing more than the pawns of the bloody game called battle. and it is because man is thus made, that society ought to protect those whom fate exposes to the action of these "humane necessities." now the character of dr. griffon once admitted (and it can be admitted without much hyperbole), the inmates of this hospital had then no guarantee, no recourse against the scientific barbarity of his experiments; for there exists a grievous hiatus in the organization of the civil hospitals. we will point it out here, so that we may be understood. military hospitals are each day visited by a superior officer charged to receive the complaints of the sick soldiers, and to attend to them if they appear reasonable. this oversight completely distinct from the government of the hospital, is excellent--it has always produced the best results. it is, besides, impossible to see establishments better kept than the military hospitals; the soldiers are nursed with much care, and treated, we would say, almost with respectful commiseration. why not have a similar superintendence established in the civil hospitals, by men completely independent of the government and medical faculty? the complaints of the poor (if they were well founded) would thus have an impartial organ, while at present this organ is absolutely wanting. thus the doors of the hospital of dr. griffon once shut on a patient, he belonged body and soul to science. no friendly or disinterested ear can hear his grief. he is told plainly that, being admitted out of charity, he becomes henceforth a part of the experimental domain of the doctor, and that patient and malady must serve as subjects of study and observation, analysis, or instruction, to the young students who accompany assiduously the visits of m. griffon. in effect, the subject soon had to answer to interrogations often the most painful, the most sorrowful; and that, not to the doctor alone, who like the priest, fulfills a duty, and has the right to know everything--no, he must reply in a loud voice before a curious and greedy crowd of students. yes, in this pandemonium of science, old or young, maid or wife, were obliged to abjure every feeling or sentiment of shame, and to make the most confidential communications, submit to the most material investigations, before a numerous public; and almost always these cruel formalities aggravated their disease. and this is neither humane nor just; it is because the poor enter the hospital in the holy name of charity, that they should be treated with compassion and with respect, for misfortune has its dignity. on reading the following lines, it will be perceived why we have caused them to be preceded by these reflections. nothing could be more sad than the nocturnal aspect of the vast ward of the hospital, where we will introduce our readers. along the whole length of its gloomy walls were ranged two parallel rows of beds, vaguely lighted by the sepulchral glimmering of a lamp suspended from the ceiling; the narrow windows were barred with iron, like a prison's. the atmosphere is so sickening, so filled with disease, that the new patients did not often become acclimated without danger: this increase of suffering is a kind of premium which every new-comer inevitably pays for a hospital residence. the air of this immense hall is, then, heavy and corrupted. at intervals, the silence of night is interrupted, now by plaintive moans, now by profound sighs, uttered by the feverish sleepers; then all is quiet, and naught is heard but the regular and monotonous tickings of a large clock, which strikes the hours, so long for sleepless suffering. one of the extremities of this hall was almost plunged into obscurity. suddenly was heard a great stir, and the noise of rapid footsteps; a door was opened and shut several times; a sister of charity, whose large white cap and black dress were visible from the light which she carried in her hand, approached one of the last beds on the right side of the hall. some of the patients, awaking with a start, sat up in bed, attentive to what was passing. soon the folding doors were opened. a priest entered, bearing a crucifix--the two sisters knelt. by the pale light which shone like a glory around this bed, while the other parts of the hall remained in obscurity, the almoner of the hospital was seen leaning over this couch of misery, pronouncing some words, the slow sounds of which were lost in the silence of night. at the end of a quarter of an hour the priest took a sheet, which he threw over the bed. then he retired. one of the kneeling sisters arose, closed the curtains, and returned to her prayers alongside of her companion. then everything became once more silent. one of the patients had just died. among the women who did not sleep, and who had witnessed this mute scene, were three persons whose names have already been mentioned in the course of this history: mademoiselle de fermont, daughter of the unhappy widow ruined by the cupidity of jacques ferrand; la lorraine, a poor washer-woman, to whom fleur-de-marie had formerly given what money she had left; and jeanne duport, sister of pique-vinaigre, the patterer of la force. we know mademoiselle de fermont and the juggler's sister. la lorraine was a woman of about twenty, with a sweet face, but extremely pale and thin: she was in the last stage of consumption; there was no hope of saving her; she knew it, and was wasting away slowly. the distance was not so great between the beds of these two women but they could speak in a low tone, and not be overheard by the sisters. "there is another one gone," whispered la lorraine, thinking of the dead, and speaking to herself. "she will not suffer more--she is very happy." "she is very happy, if she has left no children," added jeanne. "oh! you are not asleep, neighbor," said la lorraine, to her. "how do you get on, for your first night here? last night, as soon as you were brought in, you were placed in bed, and i did not dare to speak to you; i heard you sob. "oh! yes; i have wept much." "you are, then, in much pain?" "yes, but i am used to pain; it is from sorrow i weep. at length i fell asleep; i was still sleeping when the noise of the doors awoke me. when the priest came in, and the good sisters knelt, i soon saw it was a woman who was dying; then i said to myself a pater and an ave for her." "i also; and, as i have the same complaint, as this woman had, who is just dead, i could not prevent myself from saying, 'here is another whose sufferings are ended; she is very happy!'" "yes, as i told you, if she had no children." "you have children, then?" "three," said the sister of pique-vinaigre, with a sigh, "and you?" "i had a little girl, but i did not keep her long. i am a washer-woman at the boats; i worked as long as i could. but everything has an end; when my strength failed me, my bread failed me also. they turned me oat of my lodgings; i do not know what would have become of me, except for a poor woman who gave me shelter in a cellar, where she had concealed herself to escape from her husband, who wished to kill her. there i was confined on the straw; but, happily, this good woman knew a young girl, beautiful and charitable as an angel from heaven: this young girl had a little money; she took me from the cellar, and placed me in a furnished room, paying the rent in advance, giving me, besides, a willow cradle for my child, and forty francs for myself, with some clothes." "good little girl! i also have met, by chance, with one who may be called her equal, a young dressmaker, very obliging. i had gone to see my poor brother, who is a prisoner," said jeanne, after a moment of hesitation; "and i met in the visitors' room this young girl of whom i speak; having heard me say to my brother that i was not happy, she came to me, much embarrassed, to offer what services were in her power." "how kind that was in her!" "i accepted; she gave me her address, and, two days after, this dear little rigolette--that's her dear name--gave me employment." "rigolette!" cried la lorraine. "you know her?" "no; but the young girl who was so generous to me, several times mentioned the name of rigolette: they were friends together." "well!" said jeanne, smiling sadly, "since we are neighbors in sickness, we should be friends like our two benefactresses." "willingly: my name is annette gerbier, otherwise la lorraine, washer-woman." "and mine, jeanne duport, fringe-maker. ah! it is so good, at the hospital, to find some one who is not altogether a stranger, above all, when you come for the first time, and you have many troubles! but i do not wish to think of this. tell me, la lorraine, what was the name of the young girl who has been so kind to you?" "she was called la goualeuse. all my sorrow is that i have not seen her for a long time. she was as beautiful as the holy virgin, with fine flaxen hair and blue eyes, so sweet--so sweet! unfortunately, notwithstanding her assistance, my poor child died at two months," and lorraine wiped away a tear. "poor lorraine!" "i regret, my child, for myself, not for her, poor little dear! she would have too much to struggle with, for she soon would have been an orphan. i have not a long time to live." "you should not have such ideas at your age. have you been sick for a long time?" "it will soon be three months. bless me! when i had to work for myself and my child, i increased my labor; the winter was cold, i caught a cold on my chest; at this time i lost my little girl. in watching her i forgot myself. to that add sorrow, and i am what you see me, consumptive, doomed--as was the actress who has just died." "at your age there is always hope." "the actress was only two years older, and you see---" "she whom the good sisters are watching now, was she an actress?" "oh, yes--what a fate! she had been beautiful as the day. she had plenty of money, equipages, diamonds, but, unfortunately, the small-pox disfigured her; then want came, then poverty--behold her dead in the hospital. yet, she was not proud; on the contrary, she was kind and gentle to everybody; she told us that she had written to a gentleman whom she had known in her prosperity, who had loved her; she wrote to him to come and reclaim her body, because it hurt her feelings to think she would be dissected--cut in pieces." "and this gentleman has come?" "no." "oh! that is very cruel." "at each moment the poor woman asked for him, saying continually, 'oh! he will come! oh! he will surely come;' and yet she died, and he had not come." "her end must have been so much the more painful." "oh, lord, yes; for she dreaded so much what they would do to her body." "after having been rich and happy, to die here is sad! for us, it is only a change of misery." chapter xviii. the visit. "speaking of that," resumed la lorraine, after a moment's hesitation, "i wish you would render me a service." "speak." "if i should die, as is probable, before you leave this, i wish you would claim my body--i have the same dread as the actress; and i have put aside the small amount of money i have left, so that i can be buried." "do not have such ideas." "never mind--do you promise me?" "yes! but lord be praised, that will not happen." "but, if it does happen, i shall not have, thanks to you, the same misfortune as the actress." "poor lady, after having been rich, to end thus!" "the actress was not the only one in this room who has been rich, madame jeanne." "call me jeanne, as i call you la lorraine." "you are very kind." "who is it that has been rich besides?" "a young person not over fifteen, who was brought here last night, before you came. she was so weak that they were obliged to carry her. the sister said that this young girl and her mother were very respectable people, who had been ruined." "her mother is also here?" "no: the mother was so very sick, that she could not be moved. the poor child would not leave her, and they profited by a fainting fit to bring her here. it was the proprietor of a wretched lodging-house who, for fear that they would die in his abode, applied for their admission." "and where is she?" "there, in the bed opposite to yours." "and only fifteen?" "at the most." "the age of my eldest daughter!" said jeanne, unable to restrain her tears. "pardon me," said la lorraine, sadly, "pardon me, if i cause you pain, unintentionally, by speaking of your children. perhaps they are sick also?" "alas! i do not know what will become of them if i stay here more than a week." "and your husband?" after a pause, jeanne answered, drying her tears, "since we are friends together, la lorraine, i can tell you my troubles, as you have told me yours--it will solace me. my husband was a good workman; he has become dissipated; he abandoned me and my children, after having sold all that we possessed; i worked hard; charitable people aided me; i began again to raise my head; i brought up my little family as well as i could, when my husband came back, with a bad woman, and again took all i had, leaving me to commence anew." "poor jeanne! could you not prevent that?" "i could have procured a separation by law, but the law is too dear, as my brother says. alas! you shall see what effect this has upon us poor folks; some days since, i returned to see my brother: he gave me three francs, which he had collected from those who listened to his stories in prison." "it is plain to see that you are a kind-hearted family," said la lorraine, who, from a rare instinctive delicacy, did not interrogate jeanne as to the cause of her brother's imprisonment. "i took courage, then; i thought that my husband would not return for a long time, for he had taken from me all that he could take. no, i am mistaken," added the unhappy mother, shuddering: "there remained my daughter--my poor catharine." "your daughter?" "you shall see--you shall see. three days since, i was at work, with my children around me; my husband came in. i saw at once that he been drinking. 'i come after catharine,' said he. i caught my daughter by the arm, and asked duport, 'where do you wish to take her?' 'that does not concern you--she is my daughter; let her tie up some clothes and follow me.' at these words my blood curdled in my veins; for, imagine, la lorraine, that this woman who is with my husband--it makes me shudder to say it, but--" "ah! yes, she is a real monster." "'take catharine away!' i answered to duport: 'never!' 'now,' said my husband, whose lips were already white with rage,'do not provoke me, or i'll knock you down!' then he took my child by the arm, saying, come with me, catharine.' the poor little thing threw her arms around my neck; bursting into tears, she cried, 'i wish to stay with mamma!' seeing this, duport became furious: he tore my child from me, giving me a blow with his fist, which knocked me down; and once down--but, do you see, la lorraine," said poor jeanne, interrupting herself, "it is very certain he would not have been so cruel, except he had been drinking in fine, he trampled upon me, loading me with curses." "how bad he must be!" "my poor children fell on their knees, begging for mercy; catharine also. then he said to my daughter, swearing like a madman, 'if you do not come with me, i will finish the job with your mother!' i vomited blood. i felt myself half dead; but i cried to catharine, 'rather let him kill me! but do not follow your father!' 'will you not be silent, then?' said duport, giving me another blow, which made me lose all consciousness." "what misery! what misery!" "when i came to myself i found my two little boys beside me weeping." "and your daughter?" "gone!" cried the poor mother, sobbing convulsively; "yes, gone! my other children told me that their father had struck her, threatening to take what life i had remaining on the spot. then, what could you expect? the poor child was bewildered; she threw herself upon me for a last embrace, kissed her little brothers, and then my husband carried her off! ah! that bad woman waited for them at the door, i am sure!" "and could you not complain to the police?" "at first i could think of nothing but catharine's departure, but i soon felt great pains all over my body, i could not walk. alas! what i had so much dreaded arrived. yes--i had said to my brother, 'some day my husband will beat me so hard--so hard, that i shall be obliged to go to a hospital. then, my children, what will become of them?' and now here i am, at the hospital, and i say, what will become of my children?" "but is there not any justice, then, my god! for the poor?" "too dear! too dear for us, as my brother said," answered jeanne duport, with bitterness. "my neighbors went to seek the police, they came: it was painful for me to denounce duport, but on account of my daughter it was necessary. i said only that, in a quarrel i had with him about taking away my daughter, he had pushed me; that it was nothing, but that i wanted my daughter back again." "and what did he reply?" "that my husband had a right to take away his child, not being separated from me. 'you have only one way,' said the officer to me: 'commence a civil suit, demand a separation of body, and then the blows which your husband has given you, his conduct with this vile woman, will be in your favor, and they will force him to deliver up your daughter; otherwise, he can keep her in his own right.' 'but to commence a suit! i have not the means! i have my children to feed.' 'what can i do?' said he; 'so it is.' yes," repeated jeanne, sobbing, "he was right; so it is; and because that so it is, in three months, perhaps, my daughter will be a street-walker! while, if i had had the means to commence a suit, it would not have happened." "but that will never happen, your daughter must love you so much." "but she is so young! at that age, fear, bad treatment, bad counsels, bad examples! poor catharine! so gentle, so loving! and i, who only this year wished her to renew her first communion!" "oh! you have much sorrow. and i complained of mine!" said lorraine, wiping her eyes. "and your other children?" "on their account i did what i could to keep out of the hospital. i was obliged to give up. i vomit blood three or four times a day; i have a fever which prostrates me; i am unable to work. at least, by being cured quickly, i can return to my children, if, before this, they are not dead with hunger or imprisoned as beggars. i here--who will they have to take care of them, and feed them?" "oh! this is terrible! you have no good neighbors, then?" "they are as poor as i am, and they have five children of their own; thus two children more is a heavy burden; however, they have promised me to feed them a little, during eight days. it is all they can do; it is taking from them bread, of which they themselves have none too much; so i must be cured in eight days; oh yes! cured or not, i shall go out, all the same." "but why have you not thought of this good miss rigolette, whom you met in prison? she would surely have taken care of them." "i did think of her; and, although the dear little soul has, perhaps, as much as she can do to get along, i sent her word by a neighbor of my troubles. unfortunately, she is in the country, where she is going to be married; so the porter of the house said." "thus, in eight days, your poor children--but no, your neighbors will not have the heart to send them away." "but what would you have them to do? they do not eat now as much as they want, and they are obliged to take it out of the mouths of their own to give it to mine. no, no--do you see, i must be cured in eight days. i have already demanded it from all the doctors i have seen since yesterday, but they answered me, laughing, 'you must address yourself to the chief physician for that.' when will he come, la lorraine?" "chut! i think he is there. we must not talk while he is making his visit," answered la lorraine. during the conversation of the two women the day commenced to dawn. a confused movement announced the arrival of dr. griffon, who soon entered the hall, accompanied by his friend the count de saint rémy, who, having a deep interest in madame de fermont and her daughter, was far from expecting to find the latter unfortunate girl in the hospital. as he came into the ward, the cold and stern features of dr. griffon seemed to light up with a glow of satisfaction. casting around him a look of complacency and authority, he answered with a patronizing bend of the head the eager greetings of the sisters. the rough and austere physiognomy of the count de saint rémy was stamped with deep sadness. the fruitlessness of his attempts to discover traces of madame de fermont, the ignominious conduct of his son, who had preferred an infamous life to death, crushed him to the ground with sorrow. "well!" said dr. griffon to the count with a triumphant air, "what do you think of my hospital?" "in truth," answered saint rémy, "i do not know why i have yielded to your desire; nothing is more heart-rending than the aspect of these wards filled with sick. since my entrance here my feelings quite overcome me." "bah! bah! in fifteen minutes you will think no more about it; you, who are a philosopher, will find ample matter for observation: and then it would have been a shame that you, one of my oldest friends, should not visit the theater of my labors--of my glory, that you should not see me at my work. all my pride is in my profession; is it wrong?" "no, certainly not; and after your excellent care of fleur-de-marie, whom you have saved, i could refuse you nothing. poor child! what touching charms her features have preserved, notwithstanding her dangerous illness!" "she has furnished me with a very curious medical fact; i am enchanted with her! by the bye, how has she passed this night? did you see her this morning before you left asnières?" "no, but la louve, who nurses her with unceasing assiduity, told me that she had slept perfectly well. can we allow her to write today?" after a moment's hesitation, the doctor answered, "yes. as long as the subject was not completely convalescent, i feared the slightest emotion for her, the slightest application of mind; but now i do not see that any inconvenience can arise from her writing." "at least she could inform her friends." "doubtless. have you heard nothing more concerning the fate of madame de fermont and her daughter?" "nothing," said saint rémy, sighing. "my constant researches have no success. i have no more hope but in lady d'harville, who, as i am told, also takes a lively interest in these unfortunates; perhaps she may have some information which might lead to her discovery. three days ago i went to her residence; she was expected to arrive every moment. i have written to her on this subject, begging her to answer me as soon as possible." during the conversation of saint rémy and dr. griffon, several persons had slowly assembled around a large table occupying the middle of the hall; on this table was a register, where the students attached to the hospital, who might be recognized by their long white aprons, came in turn to sign their names as being present; a large number of young students arrived successively to swell the scientific retinue of dr. griffon, who, arriving a few moments in advance of his usual hour, waited until it struck. "you see, my dear saint rémy, that my staff is quite considerable," said dr. griffon, with pride, pointing to the crowd who came to attend to his practical instruction. "and these young men follow you to the bed of each patient?" "they only come for that." "but all these beds are occupied by women." "well?" "the presence of so many men must cause them much painful confusion?" "tush, a patient has no sex." "in your eyes, perhaps; but in their own--modesty, shame." "all these fine things must be left at the door, my dear alceste; here we commence on the living experiments and studies which we finish in the dissecting room on the corpse." "hold, doctor; you are the best and the most honest of men; i owe you my life; i recognize your excellent qualities; but habit and the love of your profession make you view certain questions in a manner that is revolting to me. i leave you," said saint rémy, turning to leave the hall. "what childishness!" cried the doctor, detaining him. "no, no--there are some things which wound me and make me indignant; i foresee that it will be torture for me to accompany you. i will not go, but i will await you here, near this table." "what a man you are with your scruples! but i will not let you off. i admit it may be unpleasant for you to go from bed to bed; remain, then, there; i will call you for two or three cases which are very curious." "very well; since you are so very urgent, that will be enough, and more than enough." the clock struck half-past seven. "come, gentlemen," said dr. griffon, and he commenced his visits, followed by a numerous train. on arriving at the first bed of the range of the night, of which the curtains were closed, the sister said to the doctor, "sir, number one died this morning at half-past four." "so late? that surprises me; yesterday morning i would not have given her the day: has the body been claimed?" "no, doctor." "so much the better--we can proceed with the autopsy; i can make some one happy;" then, addressing one of the students, the doctor added, "my dear dunnoyer, you have wished for a subject for a long time; you are the first on the list; this one is yours." "ah! sir, how kind you are!" "i could wish oftener to recompense your zeal, my dear friend; but mark the subject, and take possession." and the doctor passed on. the student, with the aid of a scalpel, cut very delicately on the arm of the actress an f and a d, in order to take possession, as the doctor said. "la lorraine," whispered jeanne duport to her neighbor, "who are all these people that follow the doctor?" "they are pupils and students." "oh! will all these young men be there when he examines me?" "alas! yes." "but it is on my chest i am injured. will they examine me before all these men?" "yes, yes, it must be so--they wish it. i wept enough the first time--i was dying with shame; i resisted, they threatened to turn me away; i was obliged to summit, but it affected me so much that i was worse. judge, then, almost naked before so many people--it is very painful." "before the physician alone--i comprehend that--if it is necessary--and even that costs much. but why before all these young men?" "they are learning; they teach them with us. what would we have? we are here for that; it is on this condition that we are received here." "ah! i comprehend," said jeanne duport, with bitterness; "they do not give us something for nothing. but yet, there are occasions where this could not be. thus, if my poor daughter catharine, who is but fifteen, should come to a hospital, would they dare before all these young men? oh! no, i think i would prefer to see her die at home." "if she came here, she would have to obey the rules, like you, like me." "hush, la lorraine; if this poor little lady who is opposite should hear us--she who was rich, who perhaps has never before left her mother--it is going to be her turn--judge how confused and unhappy she will be." "it is true, it is true; i shudder when i think of it, poor child!" "silence, jeanne, here is the doctor!" said la lorraine. chapter xix. claire de fermont. after having rapidly visited several patients whose cases presented no great interest, the doctor at length reached the bed of jeanne duport. at the sight of the eager crowd, who, anxious to see and to know, to understand and to learn, pressed around her bed, the unhappy woman, seized with a tremor of fear and shame, wrapped herself closely in the covering. the severe and intelligent face of dr. griffon, his penetrating look, his brow habitually contracted, his rough manner of speaking, augmented still more the alarm of jeanne. "a new subject!" said the doctor, casting his eye on the card where was inscribed the nature of the malady of the new-comer. he preserved a profound silence, while his assistants, imitating the prince of science, fixed their eyes on the patient with curiosity. she, to throw aside as much as possible all the painful emotions caused by so many spectators, looked steadily at the doctor, with deep anguish. after an examination of several minutes, the doctor, remarking something anomalous in the yellowish tint of the eyeball, approached nearer to her, and with the end of his finger pushing back the eyelid, he examined the crystalline lens. then several students, answering to a kind of mute invitation of their professor, went, in turn, to observe the appearance of the eye. afterward the doctor proceeded to this interrogatory: "your name?" "jeanne duport," murmured the patient, more and more alarmed. "your age?" "thirty-six and a half." "louder. born in--" "paris." "your occupation?" "fringe-maker." "married?" "alas! yes, sir," answered jeanne, with a deep sigh. "how long since?" "eighteen years." "any children?" here, instead of answering, the unhappy mother gave vent to her tears, for a long time restrained. "we do not want tears, but an answer. have you any children?" "yes, sir, two little boys and a girl." "how long have you been sick?" "for four days, sir," said jeanne, wiping her eyes. "tell me how you became sick." "sir, there are so many people, i do not dare." "where do you come from, my dear?" said the doctor, impatiently. "would you not like me to bring a confessional here? come, speak, and be quick. be composed, we are quite a family party--quite a large family, as you see," added the prince of science, who was on that day in a gay humor. "come, let us finish." more and more intimidated, jeanne said, stammering and hesitating at each word, "i had, sir, a quarrel with my husband, on the subject of my children; i mean to say, of my eldest daughter. he wished take her away. i--you comprehend, sir,--i did not wish it, on account of a vile woman, who might give bad advice to my child; then my husband, who was drunk--oh! yes, sir, except for that he would not have done it--my husband pushed me very hard; i fell, and--then, a short time after, i began to throw up blood." "ta, ta, ta; your husband pushed you, and you fell. you set it off very nicely. he has certainly done more than push you; he must have struck you very hard, and what is more, several times. perhaps, also, he has trampled you under foot. come, answer! tell the truth." "ah! sir, i assure you he was drunk, otherwise he would not have been so wicked." "good or wicked, drunk or sober, it has nothing to do with present matters; i am not a magistrate, my good woman; i only wish to establish a fact. you have been knocked down and trampled upon, have you not?" "alas! yes, sir," said jeanne, bursting into tears; "and yet i have never given him cause for complaint. i work as much as i can, and i--" "the epigastrium must be painful? you must feel a great heat there?" said the doctor, interrupting jeanne; "you must experience lassitude, uneasiness, nausea?" "yes, sir. i only came here at the last extremity, otherwise i would not have abandoned my children, for whom i am so much worried; and then catharine--ah! it is on her account i fear the most. if you knew--" "your tongue!" said the doctor, again interrupting the patient. this order appeared so strange to jeanne, who had thought to excite feelings of compassion in the doctor, that she did not at first comply with it, but looked at him with amazement. "let us see this tongue, of which you make so good use," said the doctor, smiling; then he held down, with the end of his finger, her under jaw. after causing the students to examine the tongue closely, in order to ascertain its color and dryness, the doctor stepped back a moment. jeanne, overcoming her fear, cried in a trembling voice: "sir, i am going to tell you. some neighbors, as poor as myself, have been kind enough to take charge of my children, but for eight days only. that is a great deal. at the end of this time i must return home. thus, i entreat you, for the love of heaven! cure me as soon as possible--or _almost_ cure me, so that i can get up and work. i have only a week before me, for--" "face discolored--state of prostration complete; yet the pulse hard, strong, and frequent," said the imperturbable doctor, looking at jeanne. "remark it well, gentlemen: oppression--heat at the epigastrium, all these symptoms certainly announce _hematemesis_, probably complicated with hepatitis, caused by domestic sorrows, as the yellowish coloration of the globe of the eye indicates; the subject has received violent blows in the regions of epigastrium and abdomen; the vomiting of blood is necessarily caused by some organic lesion of certain viscera. on this subject i will call your attention to a very curious point--very curious. the _post-mortem_ examinations of those who die with the complaint of which this _subject_ is attacked, offer results singularly variable; often the malady, very acute and very serious, carries off the patient in a few days, and leaves no traces of its existence; at other times, the spleen, the liver, the pancreas, present lesions more or less serious. it is probable that the _subject_ before us has suffered some of these lesions; we are going, then, to try to assure ourselves of this fact, and you--you will also assure yourselves by an attentive examination of the patient." and, with a rapid movement, dr. griffon, throwing the bed-clothes back, almost entirely uncovered jeanne. it is repugnant to our feelings to depict the piteous struggles of this poor creature, who wept bitterly from shame, imploring the doctor and his auditory to leave her. but at the threat, "you will be turned out of the hospital if you do not submit to the established usages"--a threat so overwhelming for those to whom the hospital is the last resource, jeanne submitted to a public investigation, which lasted for a long time--a very long time; for the doctor analyzed and explained each symptom, and the more studious of the assistants wished to join practice to theory, and have an ocular assurance of the state of the patient. as a consequence of this cruel scene, jeanne experienced an emotion so violent that she had a severe nervous attack, for which dr. griffon gave an additional prescription. the visit was continued. the doctor soon reached the bed of claire de fermont, a victim, as well as her mother, of the cupidity of jacques ferrand. miss de fermont wearing the linen cap furnished by the hospital, leaned her head in a languishing manner on the bolster of her bed; through the ravages of sickness could be traced, on this ingenuous and sweet face, the remains of distinguished beauty. after a night of bitter anguish, the poor child had fallen into a kind of feverish stupor before the doctor and his scientific cortège entered the hall; thus the noise attending his visit had not yet awakened her. "a new _subject_, gentlemen," said the prince of the science, running his eye over the card which a student presented to him. "disease, _slow fever_--nervous. plague on it!" cried the doctor, with an expression of profound satisfaction; "if the attending physician is not mistaken in his diagnostic, it is a most excellent windfall; i have desired a slow nervous fever for a long time, as this is not a malady of the poor. these affections are caused in almost every case by serious perturbations in the social position of the _subject_; and it cannot be denied that the more the position is elevated, the more profound are the perturbations. it is, besides, an affection the more to be remarked from its peculiar character. it is traced back to the highest antiquity; the writings of hippocrates leave no doubt on this subject--it is very plain; this fever, as i have said, is almost always caused by violent sorrows. now, sorrow is as old as the world; yet, what is singular, before the eighteenth century, this malady was not described by any author; it is huxman who did so much honor to the profession at this epoch--it is huxman, i say, who was the first to give a monograph of the nervous fever--a monograph which has become classic; and yet it was a malady of the old school," added the doctor, laughing. "it belongs to this grand, ancient, and illustrious _febris_ family, of which the origin is lost in the night of time. but do not let us rejoice too much; let us, in effect, see if we have the happiness to possess a specimen of this curious affection. it would be doubly desirable, for i have wished for a long time to test the internal use of phosphorus--yes, gentlemen," repeated the doctor, on hearing a kind of murmur of curiosity among his auditory, "yes, gentlemen, phosphorus; it is a very curious experiment which i wish to make--it is bold! but _audaces fortuna juvant_--and the occasion will be excellent. we are going, in the first place, to examine if the _subject_ presents on all parts of the body, and especially on the breast, this miliary eruption, so symptomatic, according to huxman: and you will assure yourselves, by feeling the subject, of the kind of rugosity this eruption causes. but do not let us sell the skin of the bear before we bring him to the ground," added the prince of science, who was unusually jocular. and he slightly touched her shoulder to arouse her. the girl started and opened her large eyes, sunken by disease. let her terror and alarm be imagined. while a crowd of men surrounded her bed and followed her every motion with their eyes, she felt the hand of the doctor throw back the covering, and slip into the bed in order to feel her pulse. collecting all her strength, with a voice of anguish and affright, she cried: "mother! help, mother!" by a chance almost providential, at the moment when the cries of miss de fermont made the old count de saint rerny start from his chair, for he recognized the voice, the door of the hall opened, and a young woman, dressed in mourning, entered precipitately, accompanied by the director of the hospital. this was lady d'harville. "in mercy, sir," said she to the director, with the greatest anxiety, "conduct me to miss de fermont." "be good enough to follow me, my lady," answered the director, respectfully. "she is at no. , in this hall." "unfortunate child! here, here!" said lady d'harville, wiping her eyes; "oh, it is frightful!" preceded by the director, she advanced rapidly toward the group assembled around the bed, when these words were heard, pronounced with indignation: "i tell you that it is murder--you will kill her, sir." "but, my dear saint reiny, listen then--" "i repeat to you, sir, that your conduct is atrocious. i regard miss de fermont as my daughter. i forbid you to approach her; i will have her immediately removed hence." "but, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervous fever, very rare. i wish to try phosphorus. it is a unique occasion. promise me at least that i shall take care of her. what matters it where you take her, since you deprive my clinique of a _subject_ so precious?" "if you were not mad, you would be a monster," answered the count de saint rémy. clémence listened to these words with increasing anguish; but the crowd was so dense that the director was obliged to say in a loud voice: "make room, gentlemen, if you please--make room for her ladyship, the most noble the marchioness d'harville, who comes to see no. ." at these words the students fell back with as much eagerness as respectful admiration, on seeing the charming face of clémence, to which emotion had given a most lively color. "madame d'harville," cried the count de saint rémy, pushing the doctor rudely aside, and advancing toward clémence. "oh! it is heaven who sends here one of its angels. madame, i knew that you had interested yourself for these unfortunates. more fortunate than i, you have found them; as for me, it was chance which brought me here, to behold a scene of unheard-of barbarity. unfortunate child! do you see, madame--do you see! and you, gentlemen, in the name of your daughters, or your sisters, have pity on a child of sixteen, i entreat you; leave me alone with madame and the good sisters. as soon as she recovers a little, i will have her removed hence." "so be it. i will sign an order for her departure; but i will follow her steps--i will cling fast to her. it is a _subject_ which belongs to me, and she will do well. i will take care of her. i will not experiment with the phosphorus--well understood--i will pass the night with her if it is necessary, as i have passed them with you, ungrateful saint rémy; for this fever is quite as singular as yours. they are two sisters, who have the same claim to my interest." "confounded man, why have you so much science?" said the count, knowing that in truth he could not confide miss de fermont to more skillful hands. "eh! it is very plain," whispered the doctor in his ear. "i have much science, because i experiment, because i risk and practice much on my _subjects_. now, shall i have my slow fever, old growler?" "yes, but can this lady be removed?" "certainly." "then, for heaven's sake! retire." "come, sirs," said the prince of science, "we shall be deprived of a precious study, but i'll keep you informed of the case." and dr. griffon, accompanied by his numerous attendants, continued his rounds, leaving saint rémy and madame d'harville with claire de fermont. chapter xx. fleur-de-marie. during the scene which we have just described, claire, still in her fainting fit, was delivered to the tender care and attentions of clémence and the sisters; one of the latter sustained her drooping head, while lady d'harville, leaning over the bed, wiped away with her handkerchief the cold sweat from the brow of the patient. profoundly affected, saint rémy contemplated this touching picture, when a sudden thought struck him, and he drew near clémence, and said in a low tone: "and the mother of this unfortunate, madame?" the marchioness turned toward saint rémy, and answered, with sadness, "she has no longer a mother, my lord." "dead!" "i only learned last night, on my return, the address of madame de fermont, and her alarming situation. at one o'clock in the morning i was with her, accompanied by my physician. oh! sir, what a picture! poverty in all its horrors--and no hope of saving the expiring mother!" "oh! how frightful must have been her agony, if the thought of her daughter was present!" "her last words were--my daughter!" "what a death! she, the tender mother, so devoted. it is terrible!" here one of the sisters entered, interrupting the conversation, and said to the lady: "the young lady is very feeble--she scarcely has any consciousness; in a short time she may revive. if you do not fear to remain here, madame, and wait until she comes to herself, i will offer you my chair." "give it to me," said clémence, taking a seat along-side of the bed. "i will not take my eyes from her; i wish that she should, at least, see a friendly face when she recovers; then i will take her with me, since the doctor decides that she can be removed without danger." "oh! madame, may god bless you for what you do," said saint rémy; "but pardon me for not having told you my name--so much sorrow! so much emotion!--i am the count de saint rémy; the husband of madame de fermont was my most intimate friend. i live at angers. i left that city because i was uneasy at not having received any news from these two noble and worthy women. i have since heard that they have been completely ruined." "oh! sir, you do not know all. madame fermont has been most cruelly despoiled!" "by her notary, perhaps? for a moment i had such a suspicion." "the man was a monster, sir! alas! this cruel crime is not his only one. but, happily," said clémence, thinking of rudolph, "he has been compelled to make restitution; and while closing the eyes of madame de fermont, i have been able to assure her that her daughter is provided for. her death thus had fewer pangs." "i comprehend; knowing that her daughter was under your protection, madame, my poor friend died more tranquilly." "not only is my protection forever secured to miss de fermont, but her fortune will also be restored." "her fortune! how? the notary--" "has been forced to restore her money, which he had appropriated to himself by a horrid crime!" "a crime?" "this man assassinated the brother of madame de fermont, and made her believe that this unfortunate man had committed suicide, after having dissipated her fortune." "this is horrible; it can hardly be credited; and yet i have had my doubts about this notary, for renneville was honor itself. and this money--" "is deposited with a venerable priest, m. le curé of bonne-nouvelle; he will hand it to miss de fermont." "this restitution is not sufficient for human justice, madame! the scaffold claims this notary, for he has not only committed one murder, but two. the death of madame de fermont, the sufferings which her daughter has endured on this hospital bed, have been caused by the infamous abuse of confidence of this wretch!" "and this wretch has committed another murder, quite as frightful!" "what do you say, madame?" "if he made away with the brother of madame de fermont by a pretended suicide, only a few days since he cruelly murdered a young girl, in whose destruction he was interested, by causing her to be drowned, certain that this would be attributed to accident." saint rémy shuddered, looked at madame d'harville with surprise, and thinking of fleur-de-marie, cried: "oh! what a strange coincidence!" "what is the matter, my lord?" "that young girl! where was it he wished to drown her?" "in the seine, near asnières, i am told." "it is she! it is the same!" cried saint rémy. "of whom do you speak, my lord?" "of the girl this monster had an interest in." "fleur-de-marie?" "do you know her, my lady?" "poor child! i loved her tenderly. ah! if you had known how beautiful she was! but how did your lordship--" "dr. griffon and myself gave her the first assistance." "the first assistance? to her? where?" "on ravageurs' island, where she was saved." "saved! fleur-de-marie! saved?" "by a good creature, who, at the risk of her life, drew her out of the seine. but what is the matter, madame?" "oh! sir, i dare not believe in so much happiness. i entreat you, tell me--describe the girl!" "of admirable beauty, and angelic face--" "large blue eyes--flaxen hair?" "yes, my lady." "and when they tried to drown her, was she with an aged woman?" "in fact it was only yesterday she could speak. she then mentioned that an old woman accompanied her." "god be praised!" cried clémence, clasping her hands fervently. "i can inform him that his favorite still lives. what joy for him, who in his last letter spoke of this poor child with such painful regret! pardon me, sir; but if your lordship only knew how happy your information makes me, as well as another, who, still more than myself, has loved and protected fleur-de-marie! but i pray you, where is she at this moment?" "near asnières, in the house of one of the physicians of this hospital--dr. griffon, who, notwithstanding some oddities which i deplore, has excellent qualities." "and she is now out of danger?" "yes, madame; but only since two or three days. today she is allowed to write to her protectors." "oh! it is i, my lord, i who will do this, or rather, it is i who will have the joy of conducting her to those, who, believing her dead, regret her so bitterly." "i appreciate those regrets, madame; for it is impossible to know fleur-de-marie without being charmed with her angelic qualities: her grace and sweetness exercise on all those who approach her an unbounded influence. the woman who saved her, and who has since watched her night and day, as she would have watched her own child, is a courageous and determined person, but of a temper so habitually violent, that she has been called la louve--judge! well! a word from fleur-de-marie can calm her. i have heard her sob and utter cries of despair, when, at one time, dr. griffon had but little hopes of saving fleur-de-marie." "that does not astonish me--i know la louve." "you, madame?" said saint rémy, surprised; "you know la louve?" "it must surprise you, truly, my lord," said the marchioness, smiling sweetly, for clémence was happy--oh! very happy--in thinking of the joyful surprise she would cause the prince. what would have been her delight, if she had known that it was a daughter whom he believed dead--that she was about to restore to rudolph. "oh! this is so joyful a day for me, that i wish it to be so for others; it seems to me that there must be many unfortunate persons here to succor; this would be an excellent way to express my gratitude, my joy, for the news you have given me." then, addressing one of the sisters, who had just given a drink to miss de fermont, she said, "well, sister, is she yet sensible?" [illustration: the convalescent] "not yet, madame--she is so weak. poor thing! her pulse can hardly be felt." "i will wait until she is able to be removed in my carriage. but tell me, sister, among all these unhappy sick, do you not know some who particularly merit my interest and pity, and to whom i can be useful before i leave the hospital?" "oh! madame, it is heaven sends you," said the sister; "there is," added she, pointing to the bed of pique-vinaigre's sister, "a poor woman, very sick, and very much to be pitied; she mourns continually about two small children, who have no one to look to for support but herself. she told the doctor just now that she would leave here, cured or not cured, in a week, as her neighbor had promised to take care of her children for that time only." "conduct me to her bed, i pray you, sister," said lady d'harville, rising, and following the nun. jeanne duport, scarcely recovered from the violent attack caused by the treatment of dr. griffon, had not perceived the entrance of the noble lady into the hospital. what was her surprise, then, when the latter, lifting up the curtains of her bed, said to her, with a look full of kindness and commiseration, "my good mother, you must not be any longer uneasy about your children; i will take care of them; only think of being soon cured, so that you can join them." jeanne duport thought that she was in a dream. in the same place where dr. griffon and his students had made her submit to such a cruel ordeal, she saw a lady of surpassing beauty come to her with words of pity, consolation, and hope. the emotion of pique-vinaigre's sister was so great that she could not utter a word; she clasped her hands as if in prayer, looking at her unknown benefactress with adoration. "jeanne, jeanne," whispered la lorraine, "speak to this good lady." then, addressing the marchioness, she said, "ah! madame, you save her; she would have died with despair in thinking of her poor destitute children." "once more reassure yourself, my good mother--have no uneasiness," repeated the marchioness, pressing in her small white hand the burning one of jeanne duport. "reassure yourself; be no longer uneasy concerning your children; and if you prefer it, you shall leave the hospital today; you shall be nursed at home--nothing shall be wanting. in this way you shall not leave your dear children; from this time i will see that you do not want for work, and i will attend to the future welfare of your children." "ah! what do i hear? the cherubim descend, then, from heaven, as is written in the church books," said jeanne duport, trembling, and scarcely daring to look at her benefactress. "why so much goodness for me? how have i deserved this? it cannot be possible! i leave the hospital, where i have wept so much, suffered so much! not leave my children any more! have a nurse! why, it is a miracle from above!" and the poor woman spoke the truth. if one only knew how sweet and easy it is to perform often, and at a small expense, such miracles! alas! for those poor unfortunates, abandoned and repulsed on all sides--an instantaneous, unhoped-for assistance, accompanied by benevolent words of consideration, tenderly commiserative, may easily wear the supernatural appearance of a miracle. "it is not a miracle, my good mother," answered clémence, much affected; "that which i do for you," added she, slightly blushing at the recollection of rudolph, "that which i do for you is inspired by a generous being, who has taught me to relieve the unfortunate; it is he whom you must bless and thank." "ah! madame! i shall bless you and yours," said jeanne duport, weeping. "i ask your pardon for expressing myself so badly. i am not accustomed to such great joy; it is the first time it has happened to me." "well! do you see, jeanne," said la lorraine, weeping, "there are also among the sick some rigolettes and goualeuses--on a large scale, it is true; but as to the good heart, it is the same thing!" lady d'harville turned toward la lorraine, much surprised at hearing her pronounce these two names. "you know la goualeuse and a young workwoman named rigolette?" demanded clémence of la lorraine. "yes, madame. la goualeuse--dear little angel--did last year for me--bless her! according to her poor means--that which you do for poor jeanne. yes, madame--oh! it does me good to say and repeat to every one, that la goualeuse took me from a cellar where i was confined on some straw; and the dear little angel removed me and my child to a room where there was a good bed and a cradle. la goualeuse did this out of pure charity; for she scarcely knew me, and was very poor herself. that was very kind, was it not, madame?" said la lorraine excited. "oh! yes; the charity of the poor toward the poor is holy," said clémence, her eyes bathed in tears. "it was just the same with rigolette, who, according to her means," replied la lorraine, "offered her services, a few days since, to jeanne." "what a singular coincidence!" said clémence to herself, more and more affected, for each of these two names, la goualeuse and rigolette, recalled a noble action of rudolph. "and you, my child--what can i do for you?" said she to la lorraine. "i wish the names that you have just pronounced with so much gratitude may bring you good fortune." "thank you, madame," said la lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation. "i had a child--it is dead. i am in a consumption, and am in a hopeless state. i have no longer need of anything." "what gloomy thoughts! at your age--so young--there is always some remedy." "oh! no, madame, i know my fate: i do not complain. i saw a person die last night--here--with the same disease; it is an easy death i thank you for your goodness." "you may magnify your danger." "i am not mistaken, madame, i know it well. but since you are so kind--a great lady like you is all-powerful--" "speak--say, what do you wish?" "i have asked a service of jeanne; but, since, thanks to the good god and you, she is going away--" "ah! well, this service--can i not render it?" "certainly, madame; one word from you to the sisters, or to the physician, would arrange all." "this word? i will speak it, be assured." "since i have seen the actress who is dead, so tormented by the fear of being cut up after her death, i have had the same fear. jeanne promised to come and claim my body, and have me buried." "ah! it is horrible!" said clémence, shuddering with affright. "one must come here to know that there are, for the poor, misery and alarms even beyond the tomb." "pardon, madame," said la lorraine, timidly; "for a great lady, rich and happy as you deserve to be, this request is a very sad one; i ought not to have made it!" "i thank you, on the contrary, my child; it teaches me a misery of which i was ignorant, and this knowledge shall not be fruitless. be comforted; although this fatal moment may be far off, when it does arrive, you may be sure to repose in holy ground." "oh! thank you, madame!" cried la lorraine. "if i might dare to ask permission to kiss your hand." clémence presented her hand to the parched lips of la lorraine. "oh! thank you, madame. i shall have some one to pray for and bless to the end, with la goualeuse, and shall be no longer sad, for after my death---" this resignation, and the fears far beyond the grave, had painfully affected lady d'harville; she whispered to the sister who came to inform her that miss de fermont was completely restored, "is the condition of this young woman really desperate?" "alas! yes, madame; la lorraine is given up; she has not perhaps, a week to live." half an hour afterward, madame d'harville, accompanied by saint rémy, took with her, to her own house, the young orphan, from whom she had concealed the death of her mother. the same day an agent of lady d'harville, after having visited in the rue de barillerie the miserable abode of jeanne duport, and having received the most favorable accounts of this worthy woman, immediately hired on the quai de l'École two large rooms and a bedroom; thanks to the resources of the temple, they were furnished in two hours, and the same evening, jeanne duport was removed to this dwelling, where she found her children and an excellent nurse. the same agent was instructed to claim the body of la lorraine, whenever she should sink under her malady, and have it decently interred. after having installed claire de fermont in her apartment, lady d'harville set out at once for asnières, accompanied by saint rémy, in order to conduct fleur-de-marie to rudolph. chapter xxi. hope. the early days of spring approached, the sun began to resume his power, the sky was pure, the air soft and mild. fleur-de-marie, leaning on the arm of la louve, tried her strength by walking in dr griffon's garden. the vivifying warmth of the sun and the action of walking colored with a rosy tint the pale, thin cheeks of goualeuse; her peasant's costume having been torn in the agitation attending the first assistance that had been rendered her, she wore a dress of dark-blue merino, made loose, and only confined around her delicate and slender waist by a woolen girdle. "how pleasant the sun is!" said she to la louve, stopping at the foot of a hedge of green trees exposed to the south, and which surrounded a stone bench. "will you sit down here a moment, la louve?" "is there any need of asking me if i will?" answered the wife of martial, shrugging her shoulders. then, taking from her neck her shawl, she folded it carefully, knelt down, laid it on the slightly damp gravel of the walk, and said to la goualeuse: "place yourself there." "but, la louve," said fleur-de-marie, who had perceived the design of her companion too late to prevent its execution, "but, la louve, you will ruin your shawl." "none of your arguments! the ground is damp," said la louve, and taking the small feet of fleur-de-marie in her hands, she placed them on the shawl. "how you spoil me, la louve!" "hum! do you not deserve it; always contending against that which i wish to do for your good. are you not fatigued? here is a good half-hour that we have been walking. noon has just struck at asnières." "i am slightly tired; but i feel that this walk has done me good." "you see, you were tired--you could not ask me sooner to sit down!" "do not scold me--i did not know that i was so weak. it is so pleasant to walk after having been confined to the bed so long--to see the sun, the trees, the country, when one has thought never to see them again!" "the fact is, that you have been in a very dangerous state for two days. poor goualeuse! yes, now we can tell you that your life was dispaired of." "and then imagine, that on finding myself under the water, the recollection flashed across my mind that a wicked woman, who had badly treated me when i was very little, had always threatened to throw me to the fishes. then i said to myself, 'i have no good fortune--it is fated that i shall not escape.'" "poor goualeuse! was this your last thought when you supposed yourself lost!" "oh, no!" said fleur-de-marie, warmly; "when i felt myself about to die, my last thought was of him whom i regard as my 'dieu;' so, also, when i was recalled back to life, my first thought was of him." "it is a pleasure to confer benefits on you; you do not forget." "oh, no! it is so pleasant to fall asleep and dream of one's gratitude, and on awakening to remember it still!" "ah! one would go through fire to serve you." "good louve! hold; i assure you that one of the causes which render me desirous to live, is the hope of conferring happiness on you--of accomplishing my promise; you remember our castles in the air at saint lazare?" "as to that, there is time enough; now you are on your feet again, i have made my expenses, as martial says." "i hope that the count of saint rémy will tell me, directly, that the physician will allow me to write to madame george. she must be so uneasy! and, perhaps, m. rudolph also!" added fleur-de-marie casting down her eyes, and blushing anew at the thought of her preserver. "perhaps they think me dead!" "as those believe, also, who ordered you to be drowned, poor dear! oh, the hounds!" "you always suppose, then, that it was not an accident, la louve?" "an accident? yes, the martials call them _accidents_. when i say the martials, it is without counting my man for he is not of that family, no more than françois and amandine shall be." "but what interest could any one have in my death! i have never harmed any one--no one knows me." "it's all one, if the martials are scoundrels enough to drown some one, they are not fools enough to do it for nothing. some words which the widow made use of in prison, to my martial, proves this." "he has been to see his mother, then? this terrible woman!" "yes, and there is no more hope for her, nor for calabash, nor for nicholas. many things have been discovered, but nicholas, in the hope of saving his life, has denounced his mother and sister for another assassination. on this account they will all be executed; the lawyers have no hope, the judges say that an example is necessary." "ah! it is frightful--almost a whole family!" "yes, unless nicholas makes his escape; he is in the same prison with a monster called skeleton, who has a plot on foot to escape. nicholas told this to a prisoner who was discharged, and he informed martial; for my martial has been weak enough to go and see his rascally brother at la force. then, encouraged by this visit, this wretch has had the impudence to send word to his brother that any moment he may escape, and that martial should hold himself ready, at micou's, with money, and clothes for a disguise." "your martial has so kind a heart!" "kind heart as much as you please, la goualeuse, but hang me if i let my husband aid an assassin who wished to kill him! martial will not denounce the plot--that is already a great deal. besides, now that you are nearly well, la goualeuse, we are going to start with the children on our tour through france; we will never plant our feet in paris again; it was painful enough for martial to be called son of the guillotined--what will it be when mother, brother, and sister are also executed!" "you will wait, at least, until i have spoken to m. rudolph concerning you, if i see him again. you have become changed; i told you that i would reward you, and i wish to keep my word; otherwise how can i pay the debt i owe you? you have saved my life; and during my illness you overwhelmed me with attentions." "exactly; now i should seem self-interested if i allowed you to ask anything for me from your protector. you are saved; i repeat to you that i have made my expenses." "good louve, reassure yourself; it is not you who are self-interested, it is i who am grateful." "listen, then!" said la louve, suddenly rising; "it sounds like the noise of a carriage. yes, yes, it approaches; hold! there it is; did you see it pass before the gate? there is a lady within." "oh! goodness!" cried fleur-de-marie, with emotion; "i thought i recognized--" "whom?" "a handsome lady whom i saw at saint lazare, who was very kind to me." "is she aware that you are here?" "i do not know; but she is acquainted with the person of whom i have spoken and who (if he wish, and he will, i hope) can make a reality of our saint lazare castles in the air." a noise of footsteps approaching rapidly was heard behind the hedge; françois and amandine, who, thanks to the kindnss of saint rémy, had not left la louve, came rushing into the garden, crying: "la louve, here is a fine lady with my lord: they want to see fleur-de-marie at once." "i was not mistaken," said goualeuse. almost at the same moment, saint rémy appeared, accompanied by lady d'harville. hardly had she perceived fleur-de-marie, than she cried, running toward her and pressing her in her arms: "poor dear child! i see you again. ah! saved! saved miraculously from a horrible death! with what happiness i find you--i, who, as well as your friends, thought you were lost forever!" "i am also very happy to see you again, madame; for i have never forgotten your kindness to me," said fleur-de-marie, returning the tender caresses of lady d'harville with charming modesty. "ah! you do not know what will be the surprise, the wild joy of your friends, who, at this moment, weep for you so bitterly." fleur-de-marie, taking the hand of la louve, who had withdrawn a short distance, said to lady d'harville, presenting her: "since my safety is so dear to my benefactors, lady, permit me to bespeak, through you, their kindness for my companion, who saved me at the risk of her life." "be assured, my child; your friends will prove to the brave louve that they know it is to her they owe the happiness of seeing you again." la louve, blushing, confused, daring neither to answer nor raise her eyes toward lady d'harville, so much did the presence of a woman of her rank abash her, could not conceal her astonishment at hearing clémence pronounce her name. "but there is not a moment to lose," said the marchioness. "i am dying with impatience to take you with me, fleur-de-marie; i have brought in my carriage a shawl and a warm cloak; come, come, my child." then, addressing the count, she added, "will your lordship be good enough to give my address to this courageous woman, so that she can come to-morrow and say farewell to fleur-de-marie? so, you will be obliged to come and see us," she said to la louve. "oh! lady, i will come, very sure," answered she, "since it is to say adieu to la goualeuse; i should be very sad not to be able to see her once more." a few moments afterward lady d'harville and la goualeuse were on the road to paris. * * * * * rudolph, after having beheld the death of jacques ferrand, so terribly punished for his crime, had returned home in a state of deep dejection. after a long and sleepless night, he had sent for sir walter murphy, to confide to this old and faithful friend the heartrending discovery concerning fleur-de-marie that he had made the previous evening. the worthy englishman was overwhelmed; better than any other person, he could comprehend and partake of the profound grief of the prince. the latter, pale, prostrated, his eyes red from weeping, had just made murphy this painful revelation. "take courage," said the latter, wiping his eyes; for, notwithstanding his firmness, he had also wept. "yes, take courage, my lord--much courage. i offer no vain consolations--this sorrow has no cure." "you are right. what i felt yesterday is nothing compared to my present sufferings." "yesterday your highness felt the shock, but the reaction will each day be more grievous. therefore, call up all your energy. the future is sad--very sad." "and then, yesterday, the contempt and horror with which this woman inspired me! but may god have pity on her, for at this moment she is before him. yesterday, in fine, surprise, hatred, fright, so many violent passions, smothered within me these elements of despairing tenderness, that at present i can restrain myself no longer--i can hardly weep. and yet now, with you, i can. hold! you see, i have no strength--i am cowardly--pardon me. tears again--always--oh! my child! my poor child!" "weep, weep, your highness. alas! the loss is irreparable." "and so many dreadful miseries to make her forget," cried rudolph, in a touching tone, "after all that she has suffered! think of the fate which awaited her!" "perhaps this transition might have been too abrupt for the unfortunate, already so cruelly tried." "oh! no, no! not so. if you knew with what delicacy--with what reserve, i should have apprised her of her birth; how gently i should have prepared her for this revelation--it was so simple, so easy. oh! if this were the only question, do you see," added the prince, with a bitter smile, "i should have been composed, and not embarrassed. throwing myself on my knees before the idolized child, i would have said, 'you who have been until now so cruelly treated, be at length happy--and forever happy. you are my daughter.' but no," said rudolph, "no, that is not it--that would have been too hasty, too rash. yes, i would have restrained myself and said to her, in a calm manner, 'my child, i must tell you something that will astonish you much. yes; imagine that they have discovered traces of your parents; your father lives, and your father is--i am your father.'" here the prince again interrupted himself. "no, no; this is also too sudden, too abrupt; but it is not my fault that this revelation is always springing to my lips; one must have more self-command--you comprehend, my friend, you comprehend? to be there before your daughter, and restrain your feelings!" then, giving way again to despair, rudolph cried, "but to what purpose these vain words? i shall never speak to her again. oh! that which is frightful--frightful to think of, is, that i have had my daughter near me during a whole day--yes, that day, forever accursed, on which i took her to the farm; that day when all the treasures of her angelic mind were revealed to me in all their purity, and nothing in my heart whispered, 'she is your daughter!' nothing--nothing! oh! how blind, stupid i was, not to imagine this. i was unworthy to be a father." "but, sir--" "but, in truth," cried the prince, "did it not depend upon myself whether i should ever leave her? why did i not adopt her? i, who lament so much for my child? why, instead of sending this unfortunate child to madame george, did i not keep her with me? to-day i should only have had to extend my arms to her. why have i not done that? why? ah! because one only does good by halves; because one only values treasures when they have disappeared forever: because instead of raising at once to her true level this admirable young girl, who, in spite of misery and abandonment, was, through her mind and heart, greater, nobler, perhaps, than she ever would have been by the advantages of birth and education. i thought i was doing much for her by placing her at a farm with some good people, as i would for the first interesting beggar that i met in the streets. it is my fault--it is my fault. if i had done that she would not have been dead. oh! yes, i am punished--i have deserved it--bad son, bad father!" murphy knew that such grief was inconsolable, and remained silent. "i shall not remain here--paris is hateful to me; to-morrow i go--" "you are right, my lord." "we will stop at the farm of bouqueval. i will shut myself up for some hours in her chamber, where she passed the only happy days of her life. i will have collected with religious care all that belonged to her--the books she commenced to read; the paper she had written on; the clothes she has worn--all, even to the furniture--even to the tapestry of her rooms, of which i myself will take an exact delineation. and at gerolstein, in the private park where i have raised a monument to the memory of my outraged father, i will have a small house built, in which shall be rebuilt _this_ room; there i will go to weep for my daughter. of these two funeral monuments, one will recall my crime to my father, the other the chastisement which reached me through my child. thus, then, let everything be prepared to-morrow morning." murphy, willing to try if he could not turn the prince a moment from his gloomy thoughts, said, "all shall be ready, sir; only you forget that to-morrow the marriage of germain, the son of madame george, and rigolette takes place. not only have you made a provision for germain, and munificently endowed the bride, but you have also promised to be present at the wedding as a witness. then are they to be informed of the name of their benefactor." "it is true i have promised. they are at the farm, and i cannot go there to-morrow without being present at the ceremony, and i will confess i have not the courage." "the sight of the happiness of these young people will, perhaps, calm your sorrow." "no, no, grief is selfish, and seeks retirement. to-morrow you will go in my place; and you will beg madame george to collect everything belonging to my daughter. let a plan of her room be made, and sent to me in germany. "will your highness depart without seeing lady d'harville?" at the name of clémence, rudolph started; he still cherished for her a sincere attachment, but at this moment it was, thus to speak, drowned in the wave of bitterness which inundated his heart. by a strange contradiction, the prince felt that the tender affection of lady d'harville would alone have aided him to support the grief which overwhelmed him, and he reproached this thought as unworthy the fervency of his paternal grief. "i shall go without seeing the lady," answered rudolph. "a few days since i wrote her how much i sorrowed for the death of fleur-de-marie. when she knows that fleur-de-marie was my daughter, she will comprehend the grief that seeks to be alone--yes, alone, so that it may be expiatory; and it is terrible, that expiation which fate imposes on me--terrible! for it commences, for me, at the time when the decline of life also commences." some one knocked lightly and discreetly at the door; rudolph started in impatience; murphy rose and went to see who was there. through the half-open door an aid-de-camp of the prince said a few words to the knight, in a low tone. he answered by a sign, and, turning toward rudolph, said, "will your highness permit me to be absent for a moment? some one wishes to speak to me on business of importance." "go," answered the prince. hardly had murphy departed, than rudolph, uttering a heavy sigh concealed his face in his hands. "oh!" cried he, "that which i feel alarms me. my heart overflows with hatred; the presence of my best friend weighs me down; the memory of a pure and noble love importunes and troubles me, and then--it is cowardly and unworthy. but last night i learned, with savage joy, the death of sarah--of this unnatural mother, who has caused the death of my child. i amused myself in beholding the ravings and torments of the horrid monster who killed my daughter--oh, madness!--i arrived too late. yet, yesterday i did not suffer so; and yesterday, as to-day, i thought my child dead--oh! yes; but i did not say to myself these words which henceforth will imbitter my life: 'i have seen my daughter; i have spoken to her; i have admired all that was adorable in her. oh! how much time i might have passed at that farm! when i think that i only went there three times; yes, no more; and i could have gone there every day--to see my child every day! what do i say to keep her ever with me!' oh! such shall be my punishment." suddenly the door of the cabinet opened, and murphy entered; he was very pale--so pale that the prince half arose, and cried, "murphy, what is the matter?" "nothing, my lord." "you are very pale." "it is astonishment." "what astonishment?" "madame d'harville!" "madame d'harville? some new misfortune!" "no, no, my lord, reassure yourself; she is there in the parlor." "she here! in my house! it is impossible!" "i tell your highness, the surprise---" "such a step on her part--but what is the matter, in the name of heaven?" "i do not know--i cannot explain what i feel." "you conceal something from me." "on my honor, no. i do not know what she meant?" "but what did she say?" "'sir walter,' and although her voice trembled, her face was beaming with joy, 'my presence here must surprise you very much; but there are certain circumstances so important, that they leave no time to think of appearances. entreat his highness to grant me, immediately, an audience in your presence; for i know that the prince has no better friend. i should have begged him to come to my own house, but that would have delayed our interview for an hour, which the prince will confess should not have been retarded a moment,' added she, with an expression which made me tremble." "but," said rudolph, in a broken voice, and becoming still paler than murphy, "i cannot imagine the cause of your trouble--of your emotion--of your looks; there is something else--this interview--" "on my honor, i do not know anything more. these words alone, of the marchioness, have unsettled me. why, i am ignorant. but you yourself--you are very pale, sir." "i?" said rudolph, supporting himself on a chair, for he felt his knees giving way under him. "i tell your highness, that you are as much disturbed as i am. what is the matter?" "although i should die under the blow, beg madame d'harville to enter," cried the prince. by a strange sympathy, the visit, so unexpected, so extraordinary, had awakened in both murphy and rudolph a certain vague and indefinite hope; but this hope seemed so extravagant, that neither one nor the other dared to avow it. madame d'harville, followed by murphy, entered the cabinet. ignorant, as we have said, that fleur-de-marie was the daughter of the prince, madame d'harville, in her joy at bringing back his protégée, had not thought she would be able to present her to him without previous preparation: she had left her in the carriage at the door, as she did not know whether the prince was willing to make himself known to the young girl, and receive her in his own house. but perceiving the great alteration in the looks of rudolph, and remarking in his eyes the traces of recent tears, clémence thought he had met with some misfortune more severe than the death of la goualeuse; thus forgetting the object of her visit, she cried, "what is the matter with your highness?" "are you ignorant, madame? ah! all hope is lost. your haste--the interview you have so earnestly demanded--i thought----" "oh! i entreat you, let us not speak of the object of my visit. in the name of my father, whose life you saved, i have almost the right to demand from you the cause of the affliction in which you are plunged. your state of dejection, your paleness, alarms me. oh! speak, my lord; be generous--speak--have pity on my distress." "for what good, madame? my wound is incurable." "these words redouble my alarm, my lord; explain yourself--sir walter, what is it?" "well!" said rudolph, in a hollow voice, making a violent effort to restrain himself, "since i informed you of the death of fleur-de-marie, i have learned that she was my child." "fleur-de-marie your child!" cried clémence, in a tone impossible to be described. "yes; and just now, when you asked to see me immediately, to inform me of something that would overwhelm me with joy--have pity on my weakness--but a father, mad with grief at the loss of his child, is capable of indulging in many mad hopes. for a moment i thought--that--but no, no; i see i deceived myself. pardon me; i am but a miserable, foolish man." rudolph, exhausted by the violence of his feelings, fell back in his chair, covering his face with his hands. madame d'harville remained stupefied, immovable, dumb, breathing with difficulty--in turns a prey to joy, to fear, for the effect which the revelation she was about to make might have upon the prince--in fine, exalted by a holy gratitude toward providence, who intrusted her--_her_--to announce to rudolph that his daughter lived, and she had brought her back to him. clémence, agitated by these emotions, so violent, so diverse, could not utter a word. murphy, after having for a moment partaken of the mad hopes of the prince, seemed quite as much overcome as he was. suddenly the marchioness, yielding to an unexpected and involuntary emotion, forgetting the presence of murphy and rudolph, sunk on her knees, clasped her hands, and cried, with an expression of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude: "thanks, my god! be praised! i acknowledge thy sovereign will. thanks once more, for thou hast chosen me to inform him that his child is saved!" although said in a low voice, these words, pronounced in a tone of sincere and holy fervor, reached the ears of murphy and the prince. the latter raised his head quickly at the moment clémence arose from the ground. it is impossible to describe the look, action, and expression of rudolph, on contemplating madame d'harville, whose charming features, stamped with a celestial joy, shone at this moment with superhuman beauty. leaning with one hand on the marble table, and compressing with the other the rapid pulsations of her heart, she gave an affirmative nod of the head in answer to a look from rudolph, which once more we are unable to describe. "below--in my carriage." save for the presence of murphy, who, quick as lightning, threw himself before rudolph, he would have rushed at once to the street. "my lord, you would kill her!" cried the squire, holding back the prince. "only since yesterday she is convalescent. for her life, no imprudence, my lord," added clémence. "you are right," said rudolph, restraining himself with difficulty; "you are right--i will be calm--i will not see her yet--i will wait--let my first emotions be controlled. ah! it is too much--too much in one day!" added he, in a broken voice. then, addressing madame d'harville, and extending his hand toward her, he cried, with a burst of inexpressible gratitude, "i am pardoned! you are the angel of mercy!" "your highness restored to me my father--heaven willed that i should bring back your child," answered clémence. "but, in my turn, i ask your pardon for my weakness. this revelation--so sudden, so unexpected--has confused me. i confess that i have not the courage to go for fleur-de-marie--my agitation would alarm her." "and how was she saved?" cried rudolph. "see my ingratitude. i have not yet asked you this question." "at the moment she was drowning, she was rescued from a watery grave by a courageous woman." "do you know her?" "to-morrow she will come to see me." "the debt is immense," said the prince, "but i shall know how to pay it." "what a happy circumstance, my god! that i did not bring fleur-de-marie with me," said the marchioness; "this scene would have been fatal to her." "it is true, madame," said murphy; "it is a providential chance that she is not here." "now," said the prince, who had for a few moments been endeavoring to conquer his emotions, "now i have self-command, i assure you. murphy, go and seek _my daughter._" these words, _my daughter_, were pronounced by the prince with an accent we will not attempt to express. "are you quite sure of yourself?" said clémence. "no imprudence." "oh! be tranquil. i know the danger there would be for her--i will not expose her to it. my good murphy, i entreat you--go--go!" "reassure yourself, madame," answered the squire, who had attentively observed the prince; "she can come. my lord will restrain himself." "then go--go quickly, my old friend." "yes, my lord; i ask but for a moment--one is not made of iron," said the good man, wiping away the traces of his tears; "she must not see that i have been weeping." "excellent man!" replied rudolph, cordially pressing his hand. "i am ready. i did not wish to pass through the servants' lines all in tears, like a magadalen. but what shall i say?" "yes, what shall he say?" demanded the prince from clémence. "that m. ruldolph wishes to see her--nothing more, it seems to me." "undoubtedly. say that m. rudolph wishes to see her, nothing more. come, go--go." "it is certainly the very best thing that can be said to her," answered the squire. "i will merely say that m. rudolph wishes to see her; that will not cause her to conjecture anything--to foresee anything: it is the most reasonable way, truly." but sir walter did not stir. "sir walter," said clémence, smiling, "you are afraid." "it is true, my lady; in spite of my six-foot stature and my rough exterior, i am still under the influence of violent emotions." "my friend, take care," said rudolph; "wait a moment longer, if you are not sure of your self-possession." "this time, my lord, i am victorious," said the baronet, after having passed over his eyes his herculean hand. "really, at my age, this weakness is perfectly ridiculous. fear nothing now." and murphy left the apartment with a firm step and tranquillized air. a moment of silence ensued; then clémence, blushing, remembered that she was in rudolph's house, and alone with him. the prince approached her, and said, almost timidly, "if i choose this day--this moment--to make you a sincere avowal, it is because the solemnity of this day--this moment--will add still more to the gravity of the confession. ever since i have known you i have loved you. so long as concealment of this love was necessary, i concealed it; now that you are free, and have restored me my daughter, will you be to her a mother?" "i, my lord!" cried madame d'harville. "what do you say?" "i entreat you, do not refuse me; let this day decide my future happiness," said rudolph tenderly. clémence also had loved the prince for a long time; she thought she was in a dream. the avowal of rudolph, at once so simple, so serious, so touching--made under such circumstances, transported her with an unhoped-for happiness; she answered, hesitatingly, "my lord, it is for you to recall to mind the difference of rank--the interest of your sovereignty." "first let me think of the interest of my heart--of that of my cherished daughter; make us both happy--oh! very happy. permit me, who but now was without family, to say, 'my wife--my daughter;' allow this poor child--also without family--to say, 'my father--my mother--my sister;' for you have a daughter, who will become mine." "oh! my lord, to such noble words one can only answer by grateful tears," cried clémence. then, composing herself, she added, "my lord, some one comes; it is your child." "oh! do not refuse me," cried rudolph, in a supplicating voice; "in the name of my love, say our child." "our child," murmured clémence; at the same moment murphy opened the door, leading in fleur-de-marie. the girl, descending from the carriage, had crossed an ante-chamber, filled with footmen in full livery; a waiting-room, where valets attended; then the ushers' saloon; and, finally, the waiting-rooms, occupied by a chamberlain and the aides of the prince in full uniform. let the reader imagine the astonishment of the poor goualeuse, who knew no other splendors than those of the farm at bouqueval, on traversing these princely apartments, resplendent with gold, mirrors, and paintings. as soon as she appeared, lady d'harville ran toward her, took her by the hand, and placing her arm around her for support, she conducted her toward the prince, who, standing near the chimney, had not been able to move. murphy, after having confided fleur-de marie to the care of lady d'harville, hastily disappeared behind the folds of one of the immense window-curtains, finding that he was not altogether sure of his self-possession. at the sight of her benefactor, her savior, who regarded her with silent ecstasy, fleur-de-marie, already so agitated, began to tremble. "compose yourself, my child," said lady d'harville; "there is your friend, m. rudolph, who awaits you impatiently; he has been very uneasy about you." "oh! yes, very--very uneasy," said rudolph, still immovable, his heart almost breaking at the sight of the sweet pale face of his child. thus, in spite of his resolution, the prince was for a moment obliged to turn his head to conceal his emotion. "stay, my child, you are still very weak; sit down there," said clémence, to turn her attention from the prince; and she led her to a large arm-chair of bronze and gilt, in which the goualeuse seated herself. her agitation increased every moment: she was oppressed, speech failed her; she had not a word of gratitude for rudolph. at length, on a sign from lady d'harville, who was leaning on the back of the chair, and holding one of fleur-de-marie's hands in her own, the prince approached softly to the other side of the seat. with more self-command, he then said to fleur-de-marie, who turned toward him her enchanting face: "at length, my child, you are once more reunited to your friends, and forever! you never shall leave them more now you must forget what you have suffered." "yes, my child, the best way to prove that you love us," added clémence, "is to forget the past." "believe me, m. rudolph--believe me, my lady, that if i do recall it sometimes, it will only be to say to myself, that, without you, i should still be very unhappy." "yes; but we will take care that you have no more such gloomy thoughts. our tenderness will not leave you the time, my dear marie," answered rudolph, "for you know that i gave you this name at the farm." "yes, m. rudolph. and is madame george, who allowed me to call her mother, well?" "very well, my child. but i have important news to tell you." "me, m. ruldoph?" "since i have seen you, great discoveries have been made concerning your birth." "my birth!" "it is known who were your parents--who was your father." rudolph was so much choked by his tears on his pronouncing these words, that fleur-de-marie, very much affected, turned quickly toward him: he had turned away his head. an incident, half burlesque, diverted the attention of la goualeuse, and prevented her from remarking more closely the emotion of her father: the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain, and, apparently was very attentively looking into the garden of the hotel, could not refrain from blowing his nose with a most formidable noise, for he wept like a child. "yes, my dear marie," clémence hastened to say, "your father is known--he still lives." "my father!" cried the goualeuse, with an outburst which put the composure of rudolph to a new trial. "and some day," resumed clémence, "very soon, perhaps, you will see him. what will doubtless surprise you very much is, that he is of high standing--noble birth." "and my mother, madame-shall i see her?" "your father will answer this question, my child; but shall you not be very happy to see him?" "oh! yes, madame," answered fleur-de-marie, casting down her eyes. "how much you will love him, when you know him," said the marchioness. "from that day forward, a new life will commence for you, marie," added the prince. "oh! no, m. rudolph," answered the goualeuse, unaffectedly. "my new life commenced on the day when you took pity on me--when you sent me to the farm." "but your father will cherish you," said the prince. "i do not know him, and to you i owe all, m. rudolph." "then you love me as much--more, perhaps, than you would love your father?" "i bless you, and i respect you as i do god. m. rudolph, because you have done for me that which god alone else could have done," answered the goualeuse, with enthusiasm, forgetting her habitual timidity. "when my lady had the goodness to speak to me in prison, i said to her what i said to everybody--yes, m. rudolph; to those who were very unfortunate, i said, 'hope! m. rudolph succors the unfortunate.' to those who hesitated between good and evil, i said, 'courage, be virtuous; m. rudolph rewards those who are virtuous.' to those who were wicked, i said, 'take care! m. rudolph punishes the wicked.' in fine, when i thought i was about to die, i said to myself, 'god will have mercy upon me, for m. rudolph has judged me worthy of his interest.'" fleur-de-marie, carried away by her gratitude toward her benefactor, had overcome her fears: a slight carnation tinged her cheeks, and her beautiful blue eyes, which she raised toward heaven as if in prayer, shone with the softest luster. a silence of some seconds succeeded the enthusiastic words of fleur-de-marie; the emotions which affected the actors in this scene were profound. "i see, my child," resumed rudolph, hardly containing his joy, "that in your heart i have almost taken the place of your father." "it is not my fault, m. rudolph. it is, perhaps, wrong in me; but, as i have told you, i know you, and i do not know my father, and," added she, holding down her head in confusion, "and then you know the past, m. rudolph; and yet you have overwhelmed me with favors; but my father does not know it. perhaps he will regret having found me," added the unfortunate child, shuddering, "and since he is, as my lady said, of high birth, doubtless he will be ashamed--he will blush for me!" "_blush_ for you!" cried rudolph, drawing himself up proudly. "reassure yourself, poor child; your father will place you in a position so brilliant, so lofty, that the greatest among the great of this world will regard you henceforth with the utmost respect. blush for you! no, no; you will rank with the noblest princesses of europe." "my lord!" cried murphy and clémence at the same time, alarmed at the vehemence of rudolph and the increasing pallor of fleur-de-marie, who looked at her father with surprise. "blush for you!" continued he; "oh! if i ever rejoiced and felt pride in my sovereign rank it is that, thanks to this rank, i can elevate you as much as you have heretofore been abased. do you hear, my darling child--my beloved daughter? for it is i--i, who am your father!" and the prince, no longer able to conquer his emotion, threw himself at the feet of fleur-de-marie, whom he covered with tears and caresses. "god be praised!" cried fleur-de-marie, clasping her hands. "i am permitted to love my benefactor as much as i would have loved him. he is my father. i can cherish him without remorse. be praised, my---" she could not finish--the shock was too violent; fleur-de-marie fainted in the arms of her father. murphy ran to the door, opened it, and said, "dr david instantly for his royal highness; some one is ill!" "curses on me? i have killed her," cried rudolph--in tears, kneeling before his daughter. "marie, my child, listen to me; it is your father. pardon--oh! pardon for not having retained this secret longer. i have killed her!" "calm yourself, my lord," said clémence; "there is, doubtless, no danger. see her cheeks are tinged with color; it is the shock--only the shock." "but hardly convalescent, she will die. woe is me!" at this moment, david, the black physician, entered precipitately: holding in his hands a small box filled with vials, and a paper, which he handed to murphy. "david, my child is dying. i have saved your life--you must save my child!" cried rudolph. although amazed at these words of the prince, who spoke of his child, the doctor ran to fleur-de-marie, whom lady d'harville held in her arms, took hold of the young girl's pulse, placed his hand on her forehead, and turning toward rudolph, who, pained and alarmed, awaited his doom, he said: "there is no danger, let your highness be assured." "you speak the truth--no danger--none?" "not any, your highness. a few drops of ether, and this attack will pass over." "oh! thank you, david--my good david!" cried the prince, warmly. then turning toward clémence, rudolph added, "she lives--our daughter will live." murphy had just cast his eyes over the note which david had placed in his hand; he shuddered, and looked at the prince with affright. "yes, my old friend," said rudolph, "in a short time my daughter will say to lady d'harville," my mother!'" "my lord," said murphy, trembling, "the news of yesterday was false." "what do you say?" "a violent attack, followed by a fainting fit, had caused them to think that the countess m'gregor was dead." "the countess--" "this morning there are hopes of saving her." "oh!" cried the prince, while clémence looked at him with surprise, not comprehending his altered appearance. "my lord," said david, still occupied with fleur-de marie, "there is no cause for the slightest uneasiness. but fresh air is necessary; the chair can be rolled on the terrace by opening the door of the garden, she will then soon recover." murphy ran immediately to open the glass door, and aided by david, he gently rolled the chair into the garden, leaving rudolph and clémence alone. chapter xxii devotion. "ah! madame," cried rudolph, as soon as murphy and david had departed, "you do not know that the countess m'gregor is the mother of fleur-de-marie!" "great heavens!" "i thought her dead; and what you are still ignorant of," added rudolph, with bitterness, "is that this woman, as selfish as ambitious, loving me only as a prince, had, in my younger days, contrived to lead me into a marriage, which was afterward dissolved. wishing then to marry again, the countess has caused all the misfortunes of her child by abandoning her to mercenary hands." "ah! now i understand the aversion that your highness had for her." "you comprehend also why she wished to ruin you by infamous anonymous communications! always impelled by her implacable ambition, she thought to force me to return to her by isolating me from all endearments." "oh! what a wicked intention!" "and she is not dead!" "this regret is not worthy of your highness." "it is because you are not aware of all the injury she has caused! at this time, when, on finding my daughter again, i was about to give her a mother worthy of her--oh! no, no--this woman is a demon of vengeance in my path!" "come, your highness, take courage!" said clémence, wiping away the tears, which fell in spite of her: "you have a great and holy duty to fulfill. you said yourself, that henceforth the fate of your daughter should be as happy as it had been miserable; that she should be as elevated as she had been abased. for that you must legitimatize her birth; for that, your highness, you must espouse the countess m'gregor." "never--never! it would be to reward perjury, selfishness and the mad ambition of this unnatural mother. i will acknowledge my daughter; you will adopt her, and thus, as i hoped, she will find in you maternal affection." "no, you will not do that; no, you will not leave the birth of your child in the shade. the countess is of a noble and ancient house; for you, doubtless, this alliance is disproportionate, but it is honorable. by this marriage, your daughter will not be legitimatized, but legitimate; and thus, whatever may happen to her, she can be proud of her father, and openly acknowledge her mother." "but to renounce you--is impossible. oh! you do not think what happiness it would have been for me, divided between you and my child--my only love in this world." [illustration: the plea for charity] "your child remains to your highness: heaven has miraculously restored her to you. not to be perfectly happy will be ingratitude!" "oh! you do not love me as i love you." "believe it, your highness, believe it; the sacrifice that you make to duty will seem less painful." "but if you love me--if your regrets are as bitter as mine, you will be very unhappy. what will remain for you?" "charity, your highness! that admirable sentiment which you have awakened in my heart; that sentiment which has caused me to forget so many sorrows, and to which i am indebted for so many sweet and tender consolations." "pray listen to me. be it so: i will marry this woman; but once the sacrifice accomplished, will it be possible for me to live with her, with her who only inspires me with aversion and contempt? no, no; we shall remain forever separated; never shall she see my child. thus fleur-de-marie will lose in you the most tender of mothers." "but there will remain for her the most tender of fathers. by the marriage, she will be the legitimate daughter of a sovereign prince of europe; and thus, as your highness has said, her position will be as splendid as it was obscure." "you are without pity. i am very unhappy." "dare you speak thus--you, so great, so just--you, who so nobly comprehend duty, devotion, and self-denial? a short time since, before this providential revelation, when you wept for your child with such bitter tears, if any one had said to you, 'make one wish--one alone, and it shall be realized,' you would have cried, 'my daughter!--oh! my daughter--let her live!' this is accomplished; your daughter is restored to you, and you call yourself unhappy. ah! may fleur-de-marie not hear your highness." "you are right," said rudolph, after, a long silence; "so much happiness would have been heaven upon earth; but i do not deserve that. i will do my duty. i do not regret my hesitation. i owe to it a new proof of the beauty and noble sentiments of your mind." "this mind--it is you who have exalted and elevated it. if that which i do is well, it is you whom i praise for it. courage, my lord; as soon as fleur-de-marie can stand the fatigue of traveling, take her with you. once in germany, a country so calm and grave, her transformation will be complete, and the past will only be to her a sad and distant dream." "but you? but you?" "i--i can well tell you that now, because i shall always say it with joy and pride: my love for you shall be my guardian angel, my savior, my virtue, my future. every day i will write you; pardon me this demand--it is the only one i shall make. your highness, you will reply to me sometimes, to give me news of her, who, for a moment at least, i called my daughter," said clémence, without being able to restrain her tears; "and who shall always be so, at least in my thoughts; in fine, when time shall have given us the right openly to avow the unalterable affection which binds us--ah, well! i swear it in the name of your daughter, if you desire it, i will go and live in germany--in the same city with you--never more to part; and thus terminate a life which might have been more happy, but which will have been at least worthy and honorable." "my lord!" cried murphy, entering precipitately, "she whom god has restored to you has recovered her senses. her first words were, 'my father!' she asks to see you." a few moments after, lady d'harville left the mansion. accompanied by murphy, baron de graun, and an aid-de-camp, the prince went in great haste to the residence of the countess m'gregor. chapter xxiii. the wedding. since rudolph had informed her of the murder of fleur-de-marie, countess sarah m'gregor, overwhelmed by this revelation, which ruined all her hopes, tortured by deep remorse, had been attacked by violent nervous spasms, and a frightful delirium; her wound, hardly healed, reopened, and a fainting fit of long duration had caused her attendants to suppose her dead. however, from the strength of her constitution, she did not sink under this severe attack; a new glimmering of life once more reanimated her. seated in an arm-chair, in order to relieve the oppression which suffocated her, sarah, almost regretting the death from which she had just escaped, was occupied with bitter thoughts. suddenly thomas seyton entered the chamber of the countess; he with difficulty restrained some internal agitation; at a sign from him her two women withdrew. "how are you now?" said he to his sister. "in the same state--i am very weak, and from time to time almost suffocated. why did not heaven take me away from this world during my last attack?" "sarah," said thomas seyton, after a pause, "you are between life and death--a violent emotion might kill you, as it might save you." "i have now no more emotions to experience, my brother." "perhaps--" "the death of rudolph would find me indifferent; the ghost of my drowned daughter--drowned by my fault--is there--always there, before me. it is not an emotion--it is incessant remorse. i am really a mother now, since i no longer have a child." "i would prefer to find in you that cold ambition which made you regard your daughter as a means to realize the dream of your life." "the frightful reproaches of the prince have killed this ambition; the maternal sentiment is awakened in me at the picture of the extreme misery of my daughter." "and," said seyton, hesitating and weighing each word, "if by chance-supposing an impossible thing--a miracle--you were informed that your daughter still lived--how would you support such a discovery?" "i should die with shame and despair at the sight of her." "do not believe that--you would be too much elated with the triumph of your ambition; for, if your daughter had lived, the prince would have married you--he told you so." "in admitting this mad supposition, it seems to me that i should not have a right to live. after having received the hand of the prince, my duty would be to deliver him of an unworthy wife--my daughter of an unnatural mother." the embarrassment of thomas seyton increased every moment. charged by rudolph, who was in an adjoining room, to inform sarah that fleur-de-marie was alive, he did not know how to accomplish it. the state of the countess was so critical that she might expire from one moment to another; there was, then, no time to be lost in celebrating the marriage _in extremis_ which was to legitimate the birth of fleur-de-marie. for this sad ceremony, the prince had brought with him a clergyman, with murphy and baron de graun as witnesses; the duke de lucenay and lord douglas, notified in haste by seyton, were to serve as witnesses for the countess, and had just arrived. time was pressing; but remorse, feelings of maternal tenderness, which replaced, in sarah's heart, her merciless ambition, rendered the task of seyton still more difficult. all his hope was that his sister deceived him or deceived herself, and that her pride would be awakened, as soon as she had gained this crown, so long and ambitiously coveted. "sister," said thomas seyton, "i am in a terrible perplexity; one word from me, perhaps, will restore you to life--perhaps will send you to your tomb." "i have already told you that i have no more emotions to dread." "one alone, however--" "which?" "if it concerned your child?" "my child is dead." "if she were not?" "we have exhausted this supposition already. enough, brother, my remorse suffices." "but if it were not a supposition? if by chance--an incredible chance--your daughter had been rescued from death; if she lived?" "you alarm me; do not talk thus." "well, then, may god pardon me and judge you! she lives still." "my daughter?" "she lives, i tell you. the prince is here with a clergyman. i have sent for two of your friends for witnesses; the wish of your life is at length realized--the prediction is fulfilled--you are a sovereign." thomas seyton pronounced these words while fixing on his sister a look of anguish, watching for each sign of emotion. to his great astonishment, the features of sarah remained almost impassible; she placed her hand upon her heart, and falling back in her chair, suppressed a slight cry, which appeared to have been caused by some sudden and excruciating pain, after which her face became composed and calm. "what is the matter, sister?" "nothing--surprise--unhoped-for joy. at length my wishes are crowned." "i was not deceived," thought thomas seyton. "ambition rules--she is saved." then, addressing his sister, he said, "what did i tell you?" "you were right," replied she, with a bitter smile, divining her brother's thoughts; "ambition has once more stifled maternity within me." "you will live; and will love your daughter?" "i do not doubt it--i shall live--see how calm i am. where is the prince?" "he is here." "i wish to see him before the ceremony. my daughter is here also, without doubt." "no; you will see her afterward." "now that i have the time, ask, i pray you, the prince to come." "my sister, i do not know why--but your manner is strange." "would you have me laugh? do you think satisfied ambition has a soft and tender expression? let the prince come!" in spite of himself, seyton was uneasy at sarah's calmness. for a moment he thought he saw in her eyes restrained tears; after a little longer hesitation, he opened a door, which he left open, and went out. "now," said sarah, "let me but see and embrace my child, i shall be satisfied. it will be very difficult to be obtained: rudolph, to punish me, will refuse; but i will succeed." rudolph entered and closed the door. "your brother has told you all?" demanded the prince, coldly. "all!" "your ambition is satisfied?" "it is satisfied." "the clergyman and the witnesses are here." "i know it. one word, my lord." "speak, madame." "i wish to see my daughter." "it is impossible." "i tell your highness that i wish to see my child." "she is hardly convalescent--she has been quite ill this morning; this interview might be fatal to her." "but at least she will embrace her mother." "for what purpose? you are now a sovereign." "i am not yet, and i will not be until i have embraced my child." rudolph looked at the countess with profound astonishment. "how!" he cried, "you subject the satisfaction of your pride--" "to the satisfaction of my maternal tenderness; that surprises your highness." "alas! yes." "shall i see my child?" "but--" "take care, my lord; my moments are perhaps counted. as my brother said, this crisis may save or kill me. at this moment i collect all my strength, all my energy, and i need them much to struggle against the shock of such a discovery. i wish to see my child, or i refuse your hand; and if i die, her birth is not legitimate." "fleur-de-marie is not here; i should have to send for her at my house." "send for her at once, and i consent to all. as my moments, perhaps, are counted, i have said it. the marriage can take place while some one goes for fleur-de-marie." "although this feeling astonishes me, it is too praiseworthy to be disregarded. you shall see fleur-de-marie; i will write to her." "there, on the desk where i was wounded." while rudolph hastily wrote a few lines, the countess wiped away the icy sweat which stood upon her brow; her features now betrayed violent and concealed suffering. his note being written, rudolph arose and said to the lady, "i will send this to my daughter by one of my aids-de-camp. she will be here in half an hour. shall i bring with me, on my return, the clergyman and witnesses?" "you can, or, rather, i beg you will do so. ring--do not leave me alone!" rudolph rang the bell, and requested the servant who answered the summons to desire sir walter murphy to come to him. "this union is sad, rudolph," said the countess, bitterly; "sad for me. for you it will be happy, for i shall not survive it." at this moment murphy entered. "my friend," said rudolph, "send this letter immediately by the colonel; he will bring my daughter back with him in the carriage. beg the clergyman and witnesses to walk into the next room." "oh, heaven!" cried sarah, in a supplicating tone, when the squire had departed, "grant me strength enough to see her--let me not die before she arrives!" "oh, why have you not always been as good a mother?" "thanks to you, at least, i know repentance--devotion--self-denial. yes, just now, when my brother said our child lived--let me say _our_ child--i felt that i was stricken unto death. i did not tell him, but i was happy. the birth of our child will be legitimatized and i should die afterward." "do not speak thus!" "oh! this time i do not deceive you--you will see." "and no vestige remains of that implacable ambition which has ruined you! why has fate willed that your repentance should be so late?" "it is late, but profound--sincere; i swear it to you. at this solemn moment, if i thank heaven to take me from the world, it is because my life has been to you a horrible burden." "sarah, in mercy--" "rudolph, a last prayer--your hand." the prince, turning away his eyes, gave his hand to the countess, who placed it between her own. "oh! your hands are icy cold," cried rudolph with affright. "yes, i am dying. perhaps for a last punishment, heaven does not will that i should embrace my child." "oh! yes, yes, it will be moved by your remorse." "and you, my friend, are you touched? do you pardon me? oh! in mercy, say it. directly, when our child shall be here--if she comes in time--you cannot pardon me before her; that would be to teach her how guilty i have been, and that you would not like. when i am once dead, what matters it to you if she love me?" "be comforted; she shall know nothing." "rudolph, pardon! oh! pardon! will you be without pity! am i not sufficiently unhappy?" "well, may heaven pardon the evil you have done to your child, as i pardon what you have done to me, unhappy woman." "you pardon me--from the bottom of your heart?" "from the bottom of my heart," replied the prince. the lady pressed the hand of rudolph to her dying lips in an ecstasy of joy and gratitude, and said, "let the clergyman come in, my friend, and tell him that afterward he must stay. i feel myself very weak." this scene was heart-rending; rudolph opened the folding-doors, and the clergyman entered, followed by the witnesses. all the actors in this sad scene were grave and sad; m. de lucenay himself had forgotten his habitual frivolity. the contract of marriage between the most illustrious and very puissant prince, his serene highness, gustavus rudolph v., reigning grand duke of gerolstein, and sarah seyton of halsbury, countess m'gregor, had been prepared by the care of baron de graun: it was read by him, and signed by the bride and groom and their witnesses. notwithstanding the repentance of the countess, when the clergyman said, with a solemn voice, to rudolph, "does your royal highness consent to take for wife madame sarah seyton of halsbury, countess m'gregor?" and the prince had answered "yes!" with a loud and firm voice, the deathlike countenance of the lady brightened; a rapid and transitory expression of triumphant pride passed over her livid features; it was the last flash of the ambition which died with her. during this sad and imposing ceremony, not a word was uttered by the witnesses. when it was finished, they all came forward, profoundly saluted the prince, and retired. "brother," said sarah in a low tone, "beg the clergyman to have the goodness to wait a moment in the adjoining room." "how do you feel now, my sister? you are very pale." "i am sure to live now--am i not the grand duchess of gerolstein?" added she, with a bitter smile. remaining alone with rudolph, sarah murmured, in an exhausted voice, while her features changed in an alarming manner, "my strength is gone. i feel that i am dying--i shall never see her." "yes, yes, calm yourself, sarah--you will see her." "i have no more hope--this delay--oh! it needs a strength superhuman. my sight fails already." "sarah!" said the prince, approaching, and taking her hands within his own, "she will come--now she cannot delay." "god has not willed this last consolation." "sarah, listen--listen. i hear a carriage--yes--it is she; here is your child!" "rudolph, you will not tell her that i was a bad mother?" articulated the countess, slowly. the noise of a carriage resounded on the pavement of the court. the countess could not hear it. her words were more and more incoherent. rudolph leaned over her with anxiety; he saw her eyes covered with a film. "pardon--my child--see, my child--pardon--at least--after my death--the honors--of--my--rank----" these were her last intelligible words. the fixed, predominating thought of her whole life returned again, notwithstanding her sincere repentance. at this moment murphy entered the room. "your highness, the princess marie----" "no," cried rudolph, quickly, "let her not enter. tell seyton to bring the clergyman." then, pointing to sarah, who was gradually expiring, rudolph added, "heaven refuses her the last consolation of embracing her child." half an hour afterward, the countess m'gregor had ceased to exist. chapter xxiv. bicetre. fifteen days had passed since rudolph, by marrying the countess m'gregor _in extremis_, had legitimatized the birth of fleur-de-marie. it was mid-lent. this date being established, we will conduct the reader to bicetre. this immense establishment, founded for the treatment of the insane, serves also as a place of refuge for seven or eight hundred poor old men, who are admitted when they have reached the age of seventy, or are afflicted with any very serious infirmity. on arriving at bicetre, the visitor enters at first a vast court planted with large trees, and divided into grass plots, ornamented in summer with flower borders. nothing could be more cheerful, more peaceful, or more salubrious than this promenade, which was specially designed for the indigent old men of whom we have spoken. it surrounds the buildings, in which, on the first floor, are found the spacious sleeping apartments; and on the ground floor, the dining halls, kept in admirable order, where the pensioners of bicetre eat, in common, most excellent food, prepared with great care, thanks to the paternal solicitude of the directors of this establishment. to enumerate completely the different purposes for which this institution is designed, we mention that, at the time of which we speak, the condemned prisoners were brought here after their sentence. it was in one of the cells of this house that widow martial and her daughter calabash awaited the moment of their execution, which was fixed for the next day. nicholas, skeleton, and several other scoundrels, had succeeded in making their escape from la force. we have already said that nothing could be more cheerful than the approach to this edifice, when, on coming from paris, one entered it by the poorhouse yard. thanks to a forward spring, the elms and the lindens were already beginning to shoot forth their leaves; the large plots of grass were of a luxuriant growth; here and there the flower beds were enameled with crocuses, primroses, and auriculas. the sun was shining brightly, and the old pensioners, dressed in gray coats, were walking up and down, or seated on the benches; their placid countenances expressed calmness, or a kind of tranquil indifference. eleven o'clock had just struck, when two carriages stopped before the outer gate: from the first descended madame george, germain, and rigolette; from the second, louise morel and her mother. germain and rigolette had been married a fortnight. we will leave the reader to imagine the saucy gayety, the lively happiness, which shone in the blooming visage of the grisette, whose rosy lips were only opened to smile or embrace madame george, whom she called her mother. the features of germain expressed a felicity more calm, more reflecting, more grave; there was mingled with it a feeling of profound gratitude, almost of respect, toward this noble and excellent girl, who had offered him in prison consolations so sustaining and delightful, which rigolette did not seem to recollect the least in the world; thus, as soon as germain turned the conversation on this subject, she spoke of something else, saying these recollections made her sad. although she had become madame germain, and rudolph had settled on her forty thousand francs, rigolette had not been willing (and her husband was of the same opinion) to change her grisette cap for a hat. certainly, never had humility served better an innocent coquetry; for nothing could be more becoming, more elegant, than her little cap, ornamented on each side with orange bows, which contrasted well with her shining black hair, now worn in long ringlets, since she had _time_ to put them in paper; around her charming neck she wore a richly-embroidered collar and a scarf of french cashmere of the same shade as the ribbons of her cap, which half concealed her fine person; and although she wore no corset, according to her usual custom, her dress showed not the slightest wrinkle on her slender figure. madame george contemplated her son and rigolette with quiet happiness. louise morel, after a rigid examination and autopsy of her child, had been set at liberty; the beautiful features of the daughter of the lapidary expressed a kind of sad and melancholy resignation. thanks to the generosity of rudolph, and the care and attention which he had caused to be shown her, the mother of louise morel, who accompanied her, had recovered her health. the porter at the gate had asked madame george whom she desired to see; she replied that one of the physicians of the asylum for the insane had made an appointment with her and her friends at eleven o'clock. madame george had the option either to wait for the doctor in an office which was pointed out to her, or in the court of which we have spoken. she chose the latter; leaning on the arm of her son, and continuing to converse with the wife of the lapidary, she walked in the garden, louise and rigolette following at a short distance. "how happy i am to see you, dear louise!" said the grisette. "just now when we went to seek you in the rue du temple on our arrival from bouqueval, i wished to go up and see you; but my husband did not wish it, saying it was high up; i waited in the cab. your vehicle followed ours, so that i now see you for the first time since---" "since you came to see me in prison. ah! miss rigolette," cried louise, "what a kind heart! what--" "in the first place, my good louise," said the grisette, interrupting gayly the daughter of the lapidary, in order to escape her thanks, "i am no more miss rigolette, but madame germain. i do not know if you are aware of it, and i am proud of it!" "yes, i knew you were married. but let me thank you again--" "that of which you are most completely ignorant, my good louise," replied madame germain, again interrupting the daughter of morel, in order to change the course of her ideas: "that of which you are ignorant is, that i am married, thanks to the generosity of him who has been our providence--mine as well as yours!" "m. rudolph! oh! we bless him every day! when i came out of prison, the lawyer whom he sent to see me told me that (owing to m. rudolph, who had already done so much for us) m. ferrand," the poor creature shuddered, "m. ferrand, to make amends for his cruelties, had settled some money on my father and me--my poor father, who is still here, but who, thanks to god, gets better and better." "and who will return with us to-day to paris, if the hopes of the worthy doctor are realized." "may heaven grant it!" "it will grant it. your father is so good and honest! i am sure that we will take him back with us. the doctor thinks that now a great effort must be made, and that the unexpected presence of several persons whom your father was accustomed to see almost daily before he lost his reason may effect a cure. as for me, in my poor judgment, it appears certain." "i dare hardly believe it, miss--" "mrs. germain--mrs. germain, if it is all the same to you, my good louise. but to return to what i was speaking about: you do not know who m. rudolph is?" "he is the providence of the unfortunate!" "it is true; and what then? you do not know. well, i am going to tell you." then, addressing her husband, who was walking near her, rigolette cried, "do not go so fast, my dear!--you fatigue our good mother; and, besides, i prefer to have you nearer to me." germain turned round, lessening his pace a little, and smiled on rigolette who playfully threw him a kiss. "how genteel my little germain is! is he not, louise? with that air so stylish! such a fine figure! was i not right when i found him more to my liking than m. girandeau, the traveling clerk, or m. cabrion? oh! speaking of cabrion--m. pipelet and his wife? where are they? the doctor said they ought to come also, because your father often pronounces their names." "they will not long delay. when i left the house, they had been gone for a long time." "oh! then they will not fail to be here; for m. pipelet is as punctual as a clock. but let us return to my marriage and to m. rudolph. only think, louise, it was he who sent me with the order for germain's release. you can imagine our joy on leaving that dreadful prison! we reached my room, and there, aided by germain, i arranged a slight repast, but a repast for real gourmands. it is true, it was of no great use to us, for when we had finished, we had neither of us eaten anything--we were too happy. at eleven o'clock, germain went away; we agreed to meet the next morning. at five o'clock i was up and at work, for i was two days behindhand. at eight o'clock some one knocked; i opened; who should come in but m. rudolph. at once i began to thank him from the bottom of my heart for what he had done for germain; he would not let me finish. 'my neighbor,' said he to me, 'germain will soon be here; give him this letter. you and he will take a cab, and go at once to a little village called bouqueval, near ecouen, on the st. denis road. once there, you will ask for madame george; and i wish you much pleasure.' 'm. rudolph, i am going to tell you it will be another day lost, and, without any reproach, this will make three.' 'reassure yourself, my neighbor; there is some work for you at madame george's, whom you will find an excellent customer.' 'if that is so, very good, m. rudolph.' 'adieu, neighbor.' 'adieu, and thank you, neighbor.' he went, and germain arrived. i told him what had occurred; m. rudolph could not deceive us; we got into a carriage, as frolicsome as children--we, who were so sad the day previous. well! we arrive. oh! my good louise--hold! in spite of myself the tears will come to my eyes. this madame george whom you see before us is the mother of germain." "his mother?" "dear me! yes, his own mother, from whom her child had been carried off when quite young, and whom she had no hope of ever seeing again. you can imagine their happiness. after madame george had wept much, and embraced her son, it was my turn. m. rudolph had written many fine things about me, for she told me, as she held me in her arms, that she knew of my conduct toward her son. 'and if you wish, mother,' said germain, 'rigolette shall be your daughter also.' 'if i wish it, my children? with all my heart. i know you will never find a better or nicer little wife.' behold me, then, installed in a fine farm with germain, his mother, and my birds, which i sent for, poor little things, so that they should be of the party. although i do not like the country, the days passed so quickly, that it was like a dream; i only worked for my pleasure; i assisted madame george, i walked with germain, i sung, i jumped; it was enough to make one crazy. at length our marriage was fixed for two weeks ago yesterday. two days previous, who should arrive in a fine carriage but a stout, bald gentleman, with a very good-natured look, who brought me from m. rudolph a wedding gift. just imagine, louise, a large rosewood box, with these words written in gold on a plate of blue enamel: 'industry and virtue, love and happiness.' i opened the box; what did i find? some small lace caps like the one i have on, dress patterns, jewels, gloves, this scarf, a beautiful shawl; in fine, it was like a real fairy tale." "it is true, it is like a real fairy tale; but, do you see, to have been so good, so industrious, has brought you happiness." "as to being good and industrious, my dear louise, i have not been so purposely; it has so happened: so much the better for me. but this is not all: at the bottom of the box i discovered a handsome portfolio, with these words, 'neighbor to neighbor.' i opened it: there were two packages, one for germain, the other for me; in germain's i found a paper, which named him director of a bank for the poor, with a salary of , francs; in the envelope directed to me, there was a check for , francs on the--on the treasury; yes, that is it; this was my marriage portion. i wished to refuse it, but madame george, who had talked with the tall, bald gentleman and with germain, said to me, 'my child, you can, and ought to accept it; it is the recompense of your virtue, your industry, and of your devotion to those who suffer; for it is only by depriving yourself of your usual hours of repose, at the risk of making yourself sick, and thus losing your sole means of subsistence, that you have been able to go and console your unfortunate friends.'" "oh! that is very true," cried louise; "there is no one else like you, at least, miss--mrs. germain." "very good! i told the bald gentleman that what i had done was my pleasure; he answered, 'no matter! m. rudolph is immensely rich; your marriage portion on his part is a testimony of esteem and friendship; your refusal would cause him great sorrow; he will be present at your marriage, and will force you to accept.' what happiness that so much wealth should be in the possession of a person as charitable as m. rudolph!" "doubtless he is very rich, but if that were all--" "oh! my good louise, if you only knew who m. rudolph is! and i made him carry my bundles! but patience! you shall see. the evening before the marriage, very late, the bald gentleman arrived, having traveled post. m. rudolph could not come; he was indisposed; but the tall gentleman came in his place it is only then, my good louise, that we were informed that your benefactor, that ours, was--guess what? a prince!" "a prince?" "what do i say, a prince? a royal highness, a reigning grand duke, a king on a small scale. germain explained this to me." "m. rudolph!" "my poor louise, yes! and i had asked him to help me wax my floor!" "a prince--almost a king. that is the reason he has so much power to do good." "you comprehend my embarrassment, my good louise. thus, seeing that he was almost a king, i did not dare refuse my marriage portion. we were married. eight days afterward, m. rudolph sent word to us, and madame george, that he would be very happy, if we would make him a bridal visit; we went. you comprehend, my heart beat fast; we arrived at the rue plumet; we entered a palace; we passed through parlors filled with servants in livery, gentlemen in black, wearing silver chains around their necks and words at their sides, and officers in uniform; and then gildings everywhere, almost enough to blind you. at length we found the bald gentleman in a saloon with some other gentlemen, all laced over with embroidery; he introduced us into a large room, where we found m. rudolph--that is to say, the prince, dressed very plainly, and looking so kind, so frank, so little proud--in fine, he looked so much like the m. rudolph of old, that i felt myself at once at my ease, recalling to my mind that i had made him fasten my shawl, mend my pens, and give me his arm in the streets." "you were no longer afraid? oh! how i should have trembled!" "not i, after having received madame george with great kindness, and offered his hand to germain, the prince said to me, smiling, 'well, my neighbor, how are _papa cretu_ and _ramonette?_" (those are the names of my birds; how kind in him to remember them). 'i am sure,' he added, 'that now you and germain rival with your joyous songs those of your little birds?' 'yes, your highness!' (madame george had taught us to say that while we were on the road)--'yes, your highness, our happiness is great, and it seems to us more sweet because we owe it to you.' 'it is not to me you owe it, my child, but to your excellent qualities and to those of germain,' and so forth, and so forth: i pass over the rest of his compliments. finally, we left this good nobleman with our hearts rather full, for we shall see him no more. he told us that he would return to germany in a few days; perhaps he has already gone; but gone or not, we shall always remember him." "since he has subjects, they must be very happy!" "judge! he has done so much good to us, who are nothing to him. i forgot to tell you that it was at this farm where we lived that one of my old prison companions resided, a very good little girl, who, to her happiness, had also met m. rudolph; but madame george had recommended me not to speak about it to the prince; i do not know wherefore; doubtless because he does not like that any one should speak to him of the good he does. what is certain is, that it appears this dear goualeuse has found her parents, who have taken her with them, very far away: all i regret is, not having embraced her before her departure." "so much the better," said louise, bitterly; "she is happy also--she--" "my good louise, pardon me--i am selfish; i only speak to you of happiness, and you have yet so many reasons for sorrow." "if my child had lived," said louise, sadly, "that would have consoled me; for now where is the virtuous man who would have me, although i have money!" "on the contrary, louise, i say that none but a virtuous man can comprehend your position; yes, when he knows all, when he shall know you, he can but pity you, esteem you; and he will be sure to have in you a good and worthy wife." "you say that to console me." "no, i say that because it is true." "well, true or not, it does me good, and i thank you. but who comes here? hold! it is m. pipelet and his wife! goodness! how pleased he is! he who formerly was always so miserable on account of the jokes of m. cabrion." the pipelets came forward joyfully; alfred, wearing his irremovable hat, had on a magnificent coat of grass green in all its pristine luster; his cravat, with embroidered corners, just allowed room for a formidable shirt collar, which concealed half of his cheeks, a large waistcoat, of a deep-yellow ground, with brown stripes; black breeches, rather short; stockings of dazzling whiteness, and well-brushed shoes, completed his attire. anastasia strutted in a robe of amaranth-colored merino, over which showed to great advantage a shawl of deep blue. she proudly displayed to all eyes her wig, freshly curled, and had her cap suspended from her arm by strings of green ribbon, like a reticule. the physiognomy of alfred, ordinarily so grave, so collected, and latterly so much cast down, was beaming, rejoicing, sparkling; as soon as he saw louise and rigolette at a distance, he ran toward them, crying in his bass voice, "delivered--gone!" "oh! m. pipelet," said rigolette, "how very gay you look! what is the matter?" "gone, miss, or, rather, madame, do i, can i, ought i to say, for now you are exactly like anastasia, thanks to the conjugal! just as your husband, m. germain, is exactly like me." "you are very kind, m. pipelet," said rigolette, smiling; "but who has gone, then?" "cabrion!!!" cried m. pipelet, respiring and inhaling the air with inexpressible satisfaction, as if he had been relieved from an enormous weight. "he leaves france forever--forever--for perpetuity--in fine, he is gone." "you are very sure of it?" "i have seen him, with my own eyes, get into a diligence for strasbourg--he and his trunks, and all his effects--that is, to say, a hatbox, a maulstick, and a box of colors." "what is he singing about there, the old darling?" said anastasia, arriving out of breath, for she had with difficulty followed the quick movements of alfred. "i bet he is talking to you of cabrion! he has done nothing but repeat it over and over again all along the way." "that is to say, anastasia, that i could hardly keep on the ground. before, it seemed to me that my hat was lined with lead; now, one would say that the air raised me toward the firmament! gone--at last--gone!!! and he will never return more!" "most happily, the blackguard!" "anastasia, spare the absent; happiness renders me merciful; i will simply say that he was an unworthy blackguard." "and how did you know that he had gone to germany?" asked rigolette. "by a friend of my prince of lodgers. apropos of this dear man, do you not know that, thanks to his good recommendations, alfred is appointed porter of a pawn office and bank for the poor, established in our house by a good soul that i cannot help thinking must be the person for whom m. rudolph was the traveling clerk in good actions!" "that happens very well," said rigolette: "my husband is the director of this bank, for which he is also indebted to the recommendation of m. rudolph." "hooraw!" cried madame pipelet, gayly; "so much the better; so much the better! old faces are preferable to new ones. but to return to cabrion: just imagine, that a tall bald gentleman, on coming to inform us of alfred's appointment as porter, asked us if a painter of much talent, named cabrion had not lived with us. at the name of cabrion, there was my old darling lifting his boot in the air, and already half dead. happily, the great fat bald man added, 'this young painter is about to start for germany; a wealthy person sends him there for some work which will employ him for several years; perhaps he may always remain there.' as a proof of what he had said, the individual gave to my old darling the date of the intended departure of cabrion and the address of the stage-coach office, and i had the unhoped-for happiness to read on the register, 'm. cabrion, painter, leaves for strasbourg.' the departure was fixed for this morning." "i went to the office with my wife." "we saw the knave mount on the imperial, alongside of the conductor." "and just at the moment the diligence started, cabrion perceived me, recognized me, turned round, and cried, 'i go forever--yours for life!' happily, the trumpet of the conductor almost drowned these last words and the indecent familiarity of his address, which i despise; for, at last, heaven be praised, he is gone." "and gone forever, believe it, m. pipelet," said rigolette, restraining a violent desire to laugh. "but what you do not know, and what will astonish you very much is, that m. rudolph was--" "well?" "a prince in disguise--a royal highness." "come, get along--what a sell!" said anastasia. "i swear it to you by my husband," said rigolette, very seriously. "my prince of lodgers, a royal highness!" cried anastasia. "get along! and i asked him to take care of my lodge! pardon--pardon--pardon." and she mechanically put on her cap, as if this head-dress were more suitable when she was speaking of a prince. by a manifestation, diametrically opposed as to form, but quite similar as to the reality, alfred, contrary to his habit, uncovered his head entirely, and saluted the air profoundly, crying, "a prince! a highness in our lodge! and he has seen me between the sheets when i was in bed, in consequence of the indignities of cabrion!" at this moment madame george turned round, and said to her son and to rigolette, "my children, here is the doctor." chapter xxv. the schoolmaster. dr. herbin, a man of ripe age, had a physiognomy very intellectual and lofty, a look of remarkable sagacity and depth of thought, and a smile of extreme goodness. his naturally harmonious voice became full of kindness when he spoke to the lunatics; thus the suavity of his tone and the benevolence of his words seemed oft to calm the natural irritability of these unfortunate people. he was among the first to substitute, in his treatment for madness, commiseration and benevolence for the terrible coercive means employed formerly; no more chains, no more blows, no more shower-baths; above all (save in some few cases), no more solitary confinement. his lofty understanding had comprehended that monomania, insanity, and madness were increased by confinement and abusive treatment; that, on the contrary, by allowing the patients to live together, a thousand distractions, a thousand incidents occurring at each moment, prevented them from being absorbed in a fixed idea, so much the more fatal as it is more concentrated by solitude and intimidation. thus experience proves that solitary confinement is as fatal to lunatics as it is salutary to criminals; the mental perturbation of the former increases in solitude, while the perturbation, or, rather, moral corruption of the latter, is augmented and becomes incurable by the society of their brothers in crime. doubtless, some years hence, the penitentiary system, with its prisons in common (true schools of infamy), with its galleys, its chains, its pillories, and its scaffolds, will appear as corrupt, as savage, as atrocious as the old method of treatment for the insane appears to us of the present day. "doctor," said madame george to m. herbin, "i thought i might be allowed to accompany my son and daughter-in-law, although i do not know m. morel. the situation of this excellent man appeared to me so interesting that i have not been able to conquer my desire to assist with my children in attempting his complete restoration to reason, which, you hope (so we have been told), will be accomplished by the means you are about using." "i count much, madame, on the favorable impression which the presence of his daughter and persons whom he has been accustomed to see will produce upon him." "when they came to arrest my husband," said the wife of morel, with emotion, showing rigolette to the doctor, "our good little neighbor was occupied in assisting me and my children." "my father also well knew m. germain, who has always been very kind to us," added louise. then, noticing alfred and anastasia, she added, "these are the porters of our house; they have also assisted us as much as they could in our misfortunes." "i thank you, sir," said the doctor to alfred, "for having inconvenienced yourself by coming here; but, from what i have been told, i see this visit has not cost you a great deal." "sir," said m. pipelet, with a grave nod, "man should assist his fellow-man here below; he is a brother, without counting that morel was the cream of honest men, before he lost his reason, in consequence of his arrest and his dear louise's." "and over and above all," said anastasia, "i always regret that the porringer full of scalding soup which i threw on the backs of the two bailiffs had not been melted lead." "it is true; and i ought to render this just homage to the affection which my wife has avowed to the morels." "if you do not fear, madame," said doctor herbin, to the mother of germain, "the sight of the lunatics, we will pass through several courts in order to reach the exterior building, where i have had morel conducted; for i have given orders this morning that he should not be led to the farm as usual." "to the farm, sir?" said madame george, "is there a farm here?" "does that surprise you, madame? i can conceive it. yes, we have here a farm cultivated by the lunatics, and its produce is very valuable to the house." "do they work there without restraint, sir?" "yes; and the labor, the quiet of the fields, the sight of nature, are among the best of our remedies. a single keeper conducts them thither, and there is hardly an instance of escape; they go with evident satisfaction, and their slight earning; serve to ameliorate their condition. but here we are at the door of one of the courts." then, seeing a slight shade of apprehension on the face of madame george, the doctor added, "fear nothing, madame; in a few moments you will feel as secure as i do." "i follow you, sir. come, my children." "anastasia," whispered m. pipelet, who was behind with his wife, "when i think that if the infernal conduct of m. cabrion had lasted, your alfred would have become mad, and, as such, would have been confined among these unfortunates whom we are going to see, clothed in costumes the most singular, chained by the middle of their bodies, or shut up in cages like the wild beasts of the garden of plants!" "do not speak of it, old darling! it is said that those who are mad for love are like real apes when they see a woman: they throw themselves against the bars of their cages, uttering the most frightful cooings. their keepers are obliged to soothe them with great blows from a whip, and letting fall on their heads immense quantities of water, which drops from a hundred feet high, and that is not a bit too much to refresh them." "anastasia, do not approach too near to the cages of these madmen," said alfred, gravely: "an accident happens so quickly!" "yes, not to say a word of how ungenerous it would be on my part to have the appearance of defying them; for, after all," added anastasia, with a melancholy sigh, "it is our attractions which make them distracted. hold! i shudder, my alfred, when i think that, if i had refused you your happiness, you would be at this moment crazy from love, like some of these madmen; that you would cling to the bars of your cage the moment you saw a woman, and roar afterward, poor old darling! you who, on the contrary, run away as soon as they attempt to allure you." "my modesty is suspicious, it is true; but, anastasia, the door opens--i shudder. we are going to see abominable figures, hear the noise of chains and grinding of teeth." mr and mrs. pipelet, not having heard the conversation of doctor herbin, partook of the popular prejudice which still exists on the subject of insane hospitals; prejudices which forty years ago were not without foundation. the door of the court was opened. this court, forming a long parallelogram, was planted with trees and furnished with benches; a gallery of elegant construction extended on each side; cells, well ventilated, opened on this gallery; some fifty men, uniformly clothed in gray, were walking, talking, or sitting silent and contemplative in the sun. on the arrival of dr. herbin, a large number of lunatics pressed around him, extending their hands to him with a touching expression of confidence and gratitude, to which he cordially replied, saying to them, "good-day, good-day, my children." some of these unfortunate beings, at too great a distance from the doctor for him to take their hand, came and offered it with a kind of hesitation to the persons who accompanied him. "good-day, my friends," said germain, kindly, shaking hands in a manner which seemed to delight them. "sir," said madame george to the doctor, "are these lunatics?" "these are about the most dangerous in the house," said the doctor, smiling. "we leave them together in the daytime, but at night they are locked up in the cells, of which you see the doors open." "how? these people are completely mad? but are they ever furious?" "at first--at the commencement of their malady, when they are brought here; then, by degrees, the treatment begins to produce its effect, and the sight of their companions calms them and distracts their attention; gentle usage appeases them, and their violent attacks, at first frequent, become more and more rare. hold! here is one of the most violent." this was a robust and powerful man of about forty years of age, with long, black hair, high forehead, sallow complexion; intellectual expression, and most intelligent countenance, he approached the doctor, and said to him, in a tone of exquisite politeness, although slightly constrained, "doctor, i ought, in my turn, to have the right of conversing and walking with the blind man; i have the honor of observing to you that there is a flagrant injustice in depriving this unfortunate man of my conversation, to deliver him" (and the madman smiled with bitter disdain) "to the stupid incoherences of an idiot, who is completely a stranger (i hazard nothing in saying it)--completely a stranger to the least notions of any science whatever, while my conversation might divert the attention of the blind man. thus," added he, with extreme volubility, "i would have told him my opinion on the isothermal and orthogonal superficies, causing him to observe that the equations of partial differences, of which the geometrical explanation is summed up in two orthogonal superficies, cannot generally be integral on account of their complication. i should have proved to him that the united superficies are all necessarily isothermal, and together we would have sought what superficies are capable of composing a trebly isothermal system. if i do not deceive myself, sir, compare this recreation with the stupid nonsense with which they entertain this blind man," added the lunatic, taking breath, "and tell me, is it not a pity to deprive him of my conversation?" "do not take what he has just said, madame, for the wanderings of a madman," whispered the doctor; "he handles in this way sometimes the most difficult questions of geometry or astronomy, with an acuteness which would do honor to the most illustrious learned men. his knowledge is great. he speaks all the living languages, but he is, alas! a martyr to his thirst for erudition and pride of learning. he imagines that he has absorbed all human knowledge, and that, by retaining him here, humanity is thrown back into the darkness of the most profound ignorance." the doctor replied aloud to the lunatic, who seemed to await his reply with a respectful anxiety, "my dear m. charles, your complaint appears to me very just, and this poor blind man, who, i believe, is dumb, but, happily, is not deaf, will have great delight in the conversation of a man as learned as you are. i will see that you have justice done you." "besides, by retaining me here, you deprive the universe of all human knowledge, which i have appropriated to myself by assimilation," said the madman, becoming animated by degrees, and commencing to gesticulate with great violence. "come, come, calm yourself, my good m. charles; happily the world has not yet discovered its deficiencies; as soon as it shall have become enlightened in this respect, we shall endeavor to supply its wants; and in that case, a man of your capacity, of your learning, can always render great services." "but i am for science what noah's ark was for physical nature," cried he, grinding his teeth, his eye looking very wild. "i know it, my dear friend." "you wish to put the light under the bushel!" cried he, clinching his fists. "but then i will break you like glass," added he, with a threatening air, his face purple with anger, and the veins swelling like cords. "ah! m. charles," answered the doctor, fixing on the madman a calm, piercing, steady look, and assuming a caressing and flattering manner, "i thought that you were the greatest professor of modern times." "and past," cried the madman, forgetting all at once his anger in his pride. "you did not let me finish: that you were the greatest professor of time past, and present--" "and future," cried the madman, proudly. "oh! the great babbler, who always interrupts me," said the doctor, smiling, and striking him amicably on the shoulder. "can it be said that i am ignorant of all the admiration that you inspire and deserve! come, let us go and see the blind man." "conduct me to him. doctor, you are a good man; come, come, you will see what he is obliged to listen to when i can tell him such fine things," answered the lunatic, completely calmed, walking before the doctor with a satisfied air. "i confess to you, sir," said germain, who had drawn near to his wife, remarking her fear when the madman spoke and gesticulated so violently, "i confess to you, for a moment i feared a crisis." "formerly, at the very first word of excitement, at the very first sign of a threat, the keepers would have seized, tied, beat, and inundated him with a shower-bath, one of the most atrocious tortures that ever were invented. judge of the effect of such a treatment on an energetic and irritable temperament, whose force of expansion becomes more violent as it is more compressed. then he would have fallen into one of those frightful fits of madness which defy the most powerful restraint; exasperated by their frequency, they become almost incurable; while as you see, by not restraining at first this momentary ebullition, or in turning it aside by the aid of the excessive mobility of mind which is to be remarked among many lunatics, these experimental bubblings are assuaged as soon as they are raised." "and who is this blind man of whom he speaks? is that an illusion of his mind?" asked madame george. "no, madame, it is a very strange history," answered the doctor. "this blind man was taken in a den in the champs elysees, where they arrested a band of robbers and assassins; he was found chained in the middle of a subterranean cavern, alongside of the corpse of a woman, so horribly mutilated that she could could not be recognized." "ah! it is frightful," said madame george, shuddering, never suspecting the truth. "this man is frightfully ugly; his face has been burned with vitriol. since his arrival here, he has not spoken a single word. i do not know whether he is really dumb, or only affects to be so. by a singular chance, the only attacks he has had have occurred during my absence, and always at night. unfortunately, all the questions that have been addressed to him have been unanswered, and it is impossible to obtain any information as to his situation; his attacks seem to be caused by a madness of which the cause is impenetrable, for he does not pronounce a word. the other lunatics pay him great attention; they guide his footsteps, and they like to entertain him, alas! according to their degree of intelligence. hold! here he is!" all the persons who accompanied the doctor recoiled with horror at the sight of the schoolmaster, for it was he. he was not mad, but he pretended to be both mad and dumb. he had massacred la chouette, not in a fit of madness, but in a fit of fever, such as he had been attacked with at bouqueval on the night of his horrible vision. after his arrest in the tavern of the champs elysees, recovering from his transient delirium, the schoolmaster had awoke in a cell of the conciergerie, where the insane are temporarily confined. hearing every one say around him, "he is a furious madman," he resolved to continue to play his part, and pretended dumbness in order not to compromise himself by his answers, in case they should suspect his feigned insanity. this stratagem succeeded. conducted to bicetre, he pretended to have other attacks of madness, always taking care to choose the night for these manifestations, in order to escape the penetrating observation of the chief physician; the attending surgeon, awakened in haste, never arriving until the crisis was over, or nearly at an end. the very small number of the accomplices of the schoolmaster, who knew his real name and his escape from the galleys at rohefort, were ignorant of what had become of him, and, besides, had no interest in denouncing him; thus his identity could not be proved. he hoped to remain always at bicetre, by continuing his part of a madman and mute. yes, always. such was then the sole desire of this man, thanks to the inability to do harm which paralyzed his savage instincts. thanks to the state of profound seclusion in which he had lived in the cellar of bras-rouge, remorse had taken almost entire possession of his iron heart. by dint of concentrating his mind upon one unceasing meditation (the recollection of his past crimes), deprived of all communication with the exterior world, his ideas often assumed a sort of reality, as he had told la chouette; then passed before him sometimes the features of his victims; but this was not madness--it was the power of memory carried to its greatest extent. thus this man, still in the prime of life, of a vigorous constitution--this man, who, without doubt, would live many long years--this man, who enjoyed all the plenitude of his reason, was to pass these long years among madmen, without ever exchanging a word with a human being. otherwise, if he were discovered, he would be led to the scaffold for his new murders, or he would be condemned to a perpetual imprisonment among scoundrels, for whom he felt a horror which was augmented by his repentance. the schoolmaster was seated on a bench; a forest of grayish hair covered his hideous and enormous head; with his elbows on his knees, he supported his chin on his hand. although this frightful man was deprived of sight, two holes replaced his nose, and his mouth was deformed, yet a withering, incurable despair was still manifest on his horrid visage. a lunatic of a sad, benevolent, and juvenile appearance kneeled before the schoolmaster, held his large hands in his own, looked at him with kindness, and, with a sweet voice, constantly repeated, "strawberries! strawberries! strawberries!" "see now," said the learned madman, gravely, "the sole conversation which this idiot can hold with the blind man. yes, with him, the eyes of the body closed, those of the mind are without doubt opened, and he will be pleased if i enter into communication with him." "i do not doubt it," said the doctor; while the poor lunatic with the melancholy face regarded the abominable face of the schoolmaster with compassion, and repeated, in his soft voice, "strawberries! strawberries! strawberries!" "since his entrance here, this poor idiot has uttered no other words than these," said the doctor to madame george, who looked at the schoolmaster with horror; "what mysterious events are connected with these words, i cannot penetrate." "mother," said germain to madame george, "how much this poor blind man seems depressed!" "it is true, my child," answered madame george: "in spite of myself my heart is oppressed! the sight of him sickens me. oh! how sad it is to see humanity under this dreadful aspect." hardly had madame george pronounced these words, than the schoolmaster started; his scarred face became pale under its cicatrices; he arose, and turned his head so quickly toward the mother of germain, that she could not refrain from a cry of horror, although she did not know who he was. the schoolmaster had recognized the voice of his wife, and the words of madame george told him that she had spoken to his son! "what is the matter, mother?" cried germain. "nothing, son; but the movement of this man, the expression of his face--all this has frightened me. pardon my weakness," added she, addressing the doctor, "i almost regret having yielded to my curiosity in accompanying my son." "oh! for once, mother--there is nothing to regret." "very sure am i that our good mother will never return here, nor we either, my little germain," said rigolette: "it is too affecting." "you are a little coward!" said germain, smiling: "is not my wife a little coward, doctor?" "i confess," answered the doctor, "that the sight of this unhappy blind and dumb man has made a strong impression upon me--who have seen so much distress." "what a sight, old darling!" whispered anastasia. "well! in comparison with you, all men appear to me as ugly as this frightful madman. it is on this account that no one can boast of--you comprehend, my alfred?" "anastasia, i shall dream of that face, it is certain--i shall have the nightmare." "my friend," said the doctor to the schoolmaster, "how do you find yourself?" the schoolmaster remained mute. "do you not hear me, then?" continued the doctor, striking him lightly on the shoulder. the schoolmaster made no reply, but bowed his head. at the end of some moments, from his sightless eyes there fell a tear. "he weeps," said the doctor. "poor man!" added germain, with compassion. the schoolmaster shuddered; he heard anew the voice of his son, who evinced for him a sentimental compassion. "what is the matter? what afflicts you?" demanded the doctor. the schoolmaster buried his face in his hands. "we shall obtain nothing," said the doctor. "let me try: i am going to console him," replied the learned madman. "i am going to demonstrate that all kinds of orthogonal surfaces in which the three systems are isothermal, are st, those of the superficies of the second order; nd, those of the ellipsoides of revolution around the small axis and the grand axis; rd, those--but no," said the madman, reflecting, "i will commence with him on the planetary system." then, addressing the young lunatic, who was still kneeling before the schoolmaster, "take yourself off from there with your strawberries." "my boy," said the doctor to the young madman, "each one must have his turn with the old man. let your comrade take your place." the young boy obeyed at once, arose, looked at the doctor timidly with his large blue eyes, showed his deference by a salute, made a parting sign to the schoolmaster, and departed, repeating, in a plaintive voice, "strawberries! strawberries!" the doctor, perceiving the painful effect this scene had produced upon madame george, said to her, "happily, madame, we are going to find morel, and, if my hopes are realized, your heart will expand with joy on seeing this excellent man restored to the tenderness of his wife and daughter." and the physician withdrew, followed by the friends of the artisan morel. the schoolmaster remained alone with the learned madman, who commenced to explain to him, very learnedly and very eloquently, the imposing movement of the stars, which describe their immense revolutions silently in the heavens of which the normal state is night. but the schoolmaster did not listen. he thought, with profound despair, that he should never hear again the voices of his son and wife. confident of the just horror with which he had inspired them, of the misfortune, the shame, the affright into which he would have plunged them by the revelation of his name, he would have endured rather a thousand deaths than have disclosed himself to them. one single last consolation remained to him: for a moment he had inspired his son with pity. and in spite of himself, he recalled to mind the works which rudolph had spoken to him before he had inflicted this terrible chastisement. "each of your words is an oath; each of your words shall be a prayer. you are audacious and cruel because you are strong; you shall be meek and humble because you shall be weak. your heart is closed to repentance; some day you will weep for your victims. from a man you have made yourself a savage beast; some day your understanding shall be restored by repentance. you have not even spared what the wild beasts spare, the female and her young. after a long life consecrated to the expiation of your crimes, your last prayer shall be to supplicate god to grant you the unhoped-for happiness of dying before your wife and your son." * * * * * "we are going to pass into the court of the idiots, and then we shall reach the building where we shall find morel," said the doctor, on leaving the court where the schoolmaster was. chapter xxvi. morel, the diamond-cutter. notwithstanding the sadness with which the sight of the lunatics had inspired her, madame george could not but stop for a moment before a railed court, where the incurable idiots were confined. poor beings! who often have not even the instinct of the beast, and whose origin is almost always unknown--unknown to all as well as to themselves. thus they pass through life, absolute strangers to the affections, to thoughts, experiencing only the most limited animal wants. if madness does not reveal itself at once to a superficial observer by a single inspection of the physiognomy of the lunatic, it is but too easy to recognize the physical character of idiotism. dr. herbin had no occasion to direct the attention of madame george, to the expression of savage brutishness, stupid insensibility, or imbecile amazement, which gave to the features of the unfortunate wretches an expression at once hideous and painful to behold. almost all were clothed in long dirty frocks, ragged and torn; for, in spite of all possible care, these beings, absolutely deprived of instinct and reason, cannot be prevented from tearing and soiling their vestments, crawling and rolling like beasts in the mire of the courts, where they remain during the day. some of them, crouched in the most obscure corners of a shed which sheltered them, gathered in a heap, like animals in their dens, uttered a kind of hollow and continual rattling noise. others, leaning against the wall immovable, looked fixedly at the sun. an old man, of monstrous obesity, seated on a wooden chair, devoured his pittance with animal voracity, casting on either side oblique angry glances. some walked rapidly, describing a circle, limiting themselves to a very small space. this strange exercise would last for entire hours. seated on the ground, others swayed their bodies continually backward and forward, only interrupting this movement of vertiginous monotony by shouts of laughter--the guttural, harsh laugh of idiocy. others, in fine, were almost in a state of annihilation, only opening their eyes at the moment of repast, remaining inert, inactive, deaf, dumb, blind--not a cry, not a gesture announcing their vitality. the complete absence of verbal or intellectual communication is one of the most gloomy characteristics of a company of idiots, lunatics, notwithstanding the incoherency of their words and thoughts, at least speak, know each other, and seek each other; but among idiots there reigns a stupid indifference, an isolated savageness. never do they pronounce an articulate word. sometimes is heard among them savage laughter, or groans and cries which resemble nothing human. scarcely can a few among them recognize their keepers; and yet, let us repeat it with admiration, with reverence to the creator, these unfortunate creatures, who seem no longer to belong to our species, and not even to the animal species, by the complete annihilation of their intellectual faculties; these incurable beings, who partake more of the mollusca than animated life, and who often thus pass through all the stages of a long existence, are surrounded by tender cares, of which we have no idea. doubtless it is well to respect the principle of human dignity, even in these unhappy beings who have only the exterior of men; but let us always repeat, one should also think of the dignity of those who, endowed with all their faculties, filled with zeal and activity, and the living strength of the nation; to give them consciousness of this dignity by encouraging them, and reward them when it is manifested by the love of industry, by resignation, by probity; not to say, in fine, with semi-orthodox selfishness, "let us punish here below, god will recompense above." "poor people!" said madame george, following the doctor, after having cast a last look into the court of the idiots; "how sad it is to think there is no remedy for their woes!" "alas! none, madame!" answered the doctor; "above all, when they have reached this age; for, now, thanks to the progress of the science, idiot children receive a kind of education which develops, at least, the atom of imperfect intelligence with which they are sometimes endowed. we have a school here, directed with as much perseverance as enlightened patience, which already offers the most satisfactory results; by a very ingenious method, the mental and physical capacities are exercised at the same time; and many have been taught the alphabet, figures, and to distinguish colors; they have also succeeded in teaching them to sing in chorus; and i assure you, madame, that there is a kind of strange charm, at once sad and touching, in hearing these plaintive, wondering voices raised toward heaven in a chant, of which almost all the words, although in french, are to them unknown. but here we are at the building where we shall find morel. i have recommended that he should be left alone this morning, that the effect which i hope to produce upon him may have greater power." "and what is his madness, sir?" whispered madame george to the doctor, so as not to be heard by louise. "he imagines that if he does not earn thirteen hundred francs in his day's work, to pay a debt contracted with a notary named jacques ferrand, louise will die on the scaffold for the crime of infanticide." "oh! sir, that notary was a monster!" cried madame george, informed of the hatred of this man against germain. "louise morel and her father are not his only victims; he has persecuted my son with undying animosity." "louise morel has told me all, madame," answered the doctor. "god's mercy! this wretch has ceased to live! but be pleased to wait for a moment, with these good people; i am going to see how poor morel is." then, addressing the daughter of the lapidary, "i beg you, louise, pay great attention! the moment i cry, _come!_ appear at once, but alone; when i say a second time, _come!_ the others will also enter." "oh! sir, my courage fails me," said louise, drying her tears. "poor father! if this trial should be useless!" "i hope it will save him; for a long time i have been preparing for it. come, compose yourself, and remember my instructions." and the doctor, leaving the persons who accompanied him, entered into a room of which the grated windows opened on a garden. thanks to repose, the salutary rules and comforts with which he was surrounded, the features of morel were no longer pale, ghastly, and wrinkled by an unhealthy meagerness; his full face, slightly colored, announced the return of health; but a melancholy smile, a certain fixed expression, indicated that his reason was not yet completely re-established. when the doctor entered, morel, seated and bent over a table, imitated the exercise of his trade of a lapidary, saying, "thirteen hundred francs--thirteen hundred francs, or louise to the scaffold--thirteen hundred francs; let us work--work--work." this aberration, of which the attacks were becoming less and less frequent, had always been the primordial symptom of his madness. the physician, at first vexed to find morel at this moment under the influence of his monomania, soon hoped to make it serve his project; he took from his pocket a purse containing sixty-five golden louis, which he had placed there for the purpose, poured the gold into his hand, and said suddenly to morel, who, profoundly absorbed by his ideal occupation, had not perceived the arrival of the doctor: "my good morel! you have worked enough; you have earned the thirteen hundred francs which you need to save louise--here they are." and the doctor threw on the table his handful of gold. "louise saved!" cried the lapidary, clutching the gold eagerly. "i will run to the notary;" and, rising precipitately, he rushed to the door. "come!" cried the doctor, with a lively anxiety, for the instantaneous cure of the lapidary might depend upon this first impression. hardly had he said "come," than louise appeared at the door, at the moment that her father reached it. morel, stupefied, recoiled two steps, and dropped the gold which he had held. for some moments, he looked at louise with profound amazement, not yet recognizing her. he seemed, however, to be endeavoring to collect his thoughts; then, approaching her by degrees, he looked at her with an uneasy and timid curiosity. louise, trembling with emotion, with difficulty restrained her tears, while the doctor, recommending her, by a sign, to remain silent, watched attentively the smallest movements of the lapidary's countenance. he, leaning toward his daughter, began to turn pale; he passed both his hands over his forehead, covered with sweat; then, taking a step toward her, he wished to speak, but his voice died upon his lips, his paleness increased, and he looked around him with surprise, as if he were just awaking from a dream. "well, well," whispered the doctor to louise, "it is a good sign; when i say 'come,' throw yourself into his arms, calling him father." the lapidary placed his hands on his chest, looking at himself (if we may so express it) from head to foot, as if to convince himself of his identity. his features expressed a sad uncertainty: instead of fixing his eyes on his daughter, he seemed as if he wished to hide himself from her sight. then he said, in a low and broken voice, "no! no! a dream--where am i? impossible--a dream--it is not she." then, seeing the gold scattered on the floor, "and this gold--i do not remember--am i awake? my head turns--i dare not look--i am ashamed: it is not louise." "come!" said the doctor, in a loud voice. "father, recognize me! i am louise, your daughter!" cried she, bursting into tears, and throwing herself into his arms; at the same moment, madame morel, rigolette, madame george, germain, and the pipelets entered the apartment. "oh! heavens!" said morel, whom louise loaded with caresses, "where am i? what do they want with me? what has taken place? i cannot believe." then, after a pause, he took suddenly the head of louise between his two hands, looked at her fixedly, and cried, after some moments of increasing emotion, "louise!" "he is saved," said the doctor. "my husband! my poor morel!" cried the wife of the lapidary, running to join louise. "my wife!" said morel; "my wife and child!" "and i also, m. morel," said rigolette; "all your friends are collected around you." "all your friends! do you see, m. morel?" added germain. "miss rigolette! m. germain!" said the lapidary, recognizing each personage with new astonishment. "and your old friends of the lodge, too!" said anastasia, approaching in her turn, with alfred; "here are the pipelets--the old pipelets--friends till death! daddy morel, here is a great day." "m. pipelet and his wife! so many people around me! it seems to me so long since! and, but, it is louise, is it not?" cried he with emotion, pressing his daughter to his heart. "it is you, louise? very sure?" "my poor father, yes; it is i; it is my mother: here are all your friends--you shall leave us no more--we shall be happy now--very happy." "very happy. but wait until i recollect--all happy; it seems to me, however, that they came to conduct you to prison, louise." "yes, my father; but i have been acquitted--you see it--i am here--near to you." "wait still--wait--my memory returns." then he said, with affright, "and the notary?" "dead." "dead--he! then i believe you; we can be happy; but where am i? how am i here? for how long a time, and why? i do not exactly recollect." "you have been so sick, sir," said the doctor, "that you have been brought here, into the country; you have had a fever--very violent--delirium." "yes, yes i recollect; the last thing--before my illness--i was talking to my daughter, and who--who then? oh! a very generous man, m. rudolph, prevented my arrest. since then i recollect nothing." "your disease was attended by a loss of memory," said the doctor. "the sight of your daughter, of your wife, of your friends, has restored it to you." "and at whose house am i, then?" "at a friend of m. rudolph's," germain hastened to say: "the change of air, it was thought, would be useful to you." "very well," whispered the doctor; and, addressing the superintendent, added, "order the cab round to the garden door, so that he shall not be obliged to pass through the courts to go out at the main entrance." thus, as often happens in cases of madness, morel had no recollection or consciousness of the alienation of mind with which he had been attacked. what remains to be told? some moments afterward, leaning on his wife and daughter, and accompanied by a medical student, who, as a matter of precaution, was to accompany them to paris, morel got into the carriage, and left bicetre, without suspecting that he had been confined there as a lunatic. "you think this man is completely cured?" said madame george to the doctor, who was conducting her to the principal entrance of bicetre. "i think so, madame, and i have expressly left him under the happy influence of this family meeting. i should have feared to separate them. i shall go and see him every day until his cure is perfectly established; for, not only does he interest me very much, but he was particularly recommended to me, on his first entrance here, by the charge d'affaires of the grand duchy of gerolstein." germain and his mother exchanged glances. "i thank you, sir," said madame george, "for the kindness with which you have allowed me to visit this fine establishment; and i congratulate myself at having witnessed a touching scene, which your knowledge and skill had foreseen and predicted." "and i, madame, doubly congratulate myself upon the success which has restored so excellent a man to the arms of his family." some moments afterward, madame george, rigolette and germain had left bicetre, as well as the pipelets. just as dr. herbin returned to the courts, he met one of the superior officers of the house, who said to him, "ah! my dear m. herbin, you cannot imagine what a scene i have just witnessed. for an observer like you it would have been an inexhaustible source of--" "how then? what scene?" "you know that we have here two women who are condemned to death--the mother and daughter--who are to be executed to-morrow?" "doubtless." "never in my life have i seen hardihood and unconcern like this mother's: she is an infernal woman." "is it not widow martial, who showed so much unblushing assurance at her trial?" "the same." "and what has she done more?" "she demanded to be confined in the same cell with her daughter until the moment of her execution. they have granted her request. her daughter, much less hardened than she is, appears to be softened as the fatal moment approaches, while the diabolical assurance of the widow augments still more, if such a thing were possible. just now the venerable chaplain of the prison entered their cell to offer them the consolations of religion. the daughter was about to accept them, when her mother, without losing for a moment her usual coolness, attacked both her and the almoner with such frightful remarks that the venerable priest was obliged to leave the dungeon, after having in vain endeavored to address some holy words to this unmanageable woman." "upon the eve of mounting the scaffold! such hardihood is truly infernal," said the doctor. "would not one say that this was one of the families pursued by a fatality? the father died upon the scaffold; one son is in the galleys; another, also condemned to death, has lately escaped. the eldest son, and two younger children only, have escaped this frightful contagion. however, this woman has sent for the eldest son, the sole honest man of this detestable race, to come to-morrow morning to receive her last wishes! what an interview!" "are you not curious to be present?" "frankly, no. you know my opinion concerning punishment by death, and i have no need of such a spectacle to confirm this opinion. if this horrible woman carries her unwavering firmness and assurance to the scaffold, what a sight for the people! what a deplorable example!" "there is something singular in this double execution--the day has been fixed." "how?" "to-day is mid-lent." "well?" "to-morrow the execution takes place at seven o'clock. now the crowd of maskers, who will pass the night at the balls, will necessarily meet the mournful procession on their return to paris; without speaking of the place of execution, the barrière saint jacques, where will be heard, in the distance, the music at the surrounding taverns; for, to celebrate the last day of the carnival, they dance in the wine-shops until ten or eleven in the morning." the next morning the sun rose clear and glorious. at four o'clock several pickets of infantry and cavalry surrounded and guarded the approaches of bicetre. we will conduct the reader to the cell where we will find the widow and her daughter calabash. chapter xxvii. the toilet. at bicetre, a gloomy corridor, lighted at intervals by grated windows, or kind of air-holes just above the level of the courtyard, leads to the condemned cell. this dungeon received its light only from a large wicket in the upper part of the door, which opened into the dark passage spoken of above. in this cell, with its damp and moldy walls, its floor paved with stones as cold as those of the sepulcher, were confined widow martial and her daughter calabash. the sharp face of the convict's widow, stern and immovable, stood out in bold relief, like a marble mask, from the midst of the obscurity which existed in the dungeon. deprived of the use of her hands, for under her black dress she wore a strait-jacket, she asked that her cap might be taken off, complaining of great heat in the head. her gray hair fell disheveled upon her shoulders. seated on the edge of the bed, her feet on the ground, she looked fixedly on her daughter, calabash, who was separated from her by the width of the dungeon. she, half reclining, and also wearing a strait-jacket had her back against the wall. her head was hanging on her breast, her eyes fixed, her respiration broken. save a slight convulsive movement, which from time to time agitated her under jaw, her features appeared calm, but of livid paleness. at the further end of the dungeon, near the door, under the open wicket, a veteran with the ribbon of the legion of honor, with a rough and swarthy face, a bald head, and long gray mustachios, is seated on a chair. he ought never to lose sight of the condemned. "it is very cold here! and yet my eyes burn; and then i am thirsty--always thirsty," said calabash, at the end of a few moments. "some water, if you please, sir." the old soldier rose and took from a bench a tin pail of water, filled a tumbler, and gave her a drink. after having drunk greedily, she said, "thank you, sir." "will you drink?" asked the soldier of the widow, who shook her head in the negative. "what o'clock is it, sir?" said calabash. "it will soon be half-past four." "in three hours!" resumed calabash, with a sardonic and sinister smile, alluding to the time of her execution, "in three hours--" she dared not finish. the widow shrugged her shoulders. her daughter comprehended her thoughts, and replied, "you have more courage than i, mother, do you never falter--" "never." "i know it well--i see it clearly. your face is as tranquil as if you were seated by the fire of our kitchen, sewing. oh! those good days are so far off--so far----" "parrot!" "it is true; instead of resting there and thinking, without saying anything, i would rather talk--i would rather----" "shake off your thoughts, coward!" "even if it should be so, mother, every one has not your courage. i have done all i could to imitate you. i have not listened to the priest, because you did not wish it. and yet i may have been wrong--for, in fine," added the condemned girl, shuddering, "_hereafter_--who knows? and _hereafter_ will be very soon." "in three hours." "how coldly you say that, mother! and yet it is true; we are here, both of us, not sick, not wishing to die, and yet in three hours----" "in three hours you will have died like a true martial. you will have seen black, that's all; be bold, daughter." "it is not right for you to talk to your daughter in that way," said the old soldier, in a slow and grave tone; "you would have done much better to have allowed her to speak with the ordinary." the widow shrugged her shoulders with savage contempt, and, without turning her head, she continued: "courage, daughter; we will show them that women have more firmness than these men, with their priests--the cowards!" "commandant leblon was the bravest of the third regiment of chasseurs; i saw him covered with wounds in the breach of saragossa, and he died making the sign of the cross," said the veteran. "you were his chaplain, then?" demanded the widow, with a savage burst of laughter. "i was his soldier," answered the veteran, mildly. "it was only to let you know that one can pray when about to die, without being a coward." calabash looked attentively at this man with the bronzed visage, a perfect type of the soldier of the empire; a deep scar furrowed his left cheek, and was lost in his large mustache. the simple words of this veteran, whose features, wounds, and red ribbon announced calm and tried bravery, profoundly struck the widow's daughter. she had refused the consolation of the priest, more from shame and fear of her mother, than from callousness. in her restless and dying thoughts, she compared the impious jesting of her mother with the piety of the soldier. strong in this testimony, she thought she could listen without cowardice to those religious instincts which even intrepid men had obeyed. "in truth," said she, with anguish, "why did i not wish to hear the priest? there is no weakness in that. besides, it would keep off my thoughts, and then, hereafter, who knows?" "again!" said the widow, in a tone of withering scorn. "time is wanting--it is a pity--you would be religious. the arrival of your brother martial will finish your conversion. but he will not come; the honest man, the good son." just as the widow pronounced these last words the door of the prison opened. "already!" cried calabash with a convulsive start. "oh! they have put the clock ahead! they have deceived us!" "so much the better--if the watch of the executioner is too fast--your follies will not dishonor me." "madame," said the prison warder, with that kind of commiseration which forebodes death, "your son is here; will you see him?" "yes," answered the widow, without turning her head. "enter, sir," said the warder. martial entered. the veteran remained in the dungeon, the door of which was left open as a matter of precaution. through the gloom of the corridor, half lighted by the increasing day and by a lamp, several soldiers were seen sitting or standing. martial was as pale as his mother; his countenance expressed deep and profound anguish, his knees trembled under him. in spite of the crimes of this woman, in spite of the aversion that she had always shown for him, he had thought it a duty to obey her last wishes. as soon as he entered the dungeon, the widow cast on him a searching look, and said to him in a hollow and angry voice, as if to awaken in her son a feeling of revenge, "you see what they are going to do with your mother and your sister!" "ay! mother, it is frightful; but i warned you of it, alas!--i told you." the widow bit her pale lips with rage; her son did not comprehend her; she resumed: "they are going to kill us, as they killed your father." "alas! i can do nothing--it is finished. now, what would you have me do? why did you not listen to me--you and sister? you would not have been here." "oh! it is so," answered the widow, with her habitual and savage irony; "you find it all right, do you?" "mother!" "now you are satisfied; you can say, without a lie, that your mother is dead; you shall no longer blush for her." "if i were a bad son," answered martial, quickly, shocked at the unjust harshness of his mother, "i should not be here." "you came from curiosity." "i come to obey you." "oh! if i had listened to you, martial, instead of listening to my mother, i should not be here," cried calabash, in a heart-rending voice, and yielding at length to her anguish and terror, which, until now (through the influence of her mother), she had restrained. "it is your fault: i curse you, my mother!" "she repents--she curses me! you must be delighted now!" said the widow to her son, with a burst of diabolical laughter. without replying to her, martial approached calabash, whose agony continued, and said to her, with compassion, "poor sister! it is too late now." "never too late to be a coward!" cried the mother, with fury. "oh! what a race! what a race! happily nicholas has escaped; happily françois and amandine will escape you. they have already the seeds of vice: poverty will cause them to grow!" "oh, martial! watch well over them, or they will end like my mother and myself. they will also lose their heads," cried calabash, uttering a hollow groan. "he will do well to watch over them," cried the widow, vehemently; "vice and misery will be stronger than he, and some day they will avenge father, mother, and sister." "your horrible hope will not be realized, mother!" answered martial, indignantly. "neither they nor i shall ever more have misery to fear. la louve saved the young girl whom nicholas wished to drown, the relations of this girl have proposed to give us plenty of money, or less money and some lands in algiers. we have preferred the land. there is some danger, but that suits us. to-morrow we leave with the children, and never return." "is what you say true?" asked the widow, in a tone of irritated surprise. "i never told a falsehood." "you do now, to drive me mad." "why? because the welfare of your children is secured?" "yes; of the wolfs cubs you would make lambs. the blood of your father, your sister, mine, will not be avenged." "at this moment, do not talk thus." "i have killed--they kill me. we are even." "mother, repentance." the widow shouted with laughter. "for thirty years i have lived in crime, and to repent for thirty years they give me three days, and death at the end of them. do you think i have time? no, no; when my head falls, it will gnash its teeth with rage and hatred." "brother, help--take me from hence; they are coming," murmured calabash, in a suffocating voice, for the poor creature began to be delirious. "will you hush?" said the widow, exasperated by the weakness of calabash, "will you hush? oh! the wretch! and she _my_ daughter! pah!" "mother! mother!" cried martial, tortured by this horrible scene, "why did you send for me?" "because i thought to give you a heart and revenge: but who has not the one has not the other, coward!" "my mother!" "coward, i say!" at this moment a tramp of footsteps was heard in the corridor. the veteran looked at his watch, and stood up. the rising sun, dazzling and radiant, shot suddenly a golden beam of light through the grated window of the corridor opposite the door of the dungeon. this door was thrown open, and two keepers appeared, bringing two chairs; then the jailer came, and said to the widow, in an agitated voice, "madame, it is time." the widow stood up, impassible; calabash uttered piercing screams. four men entered. three of them, roughly clad, held in their hands small coils of very fine but strong cord. the tallest of these four men, neatly dressed in black, wearing a round hat and a white cravat, handed a paper to the jailer. this man was the executioner. the paper was a receipt for two women fit to be guillotined. the executioner took possession of these two of god's creatures; from that time he was answerable. to the frightful despair of calabash had succeeded a helpless torpor. two of the assistants were obliged to seat her on her bed, and to sustain her. her jaws, clinched by convulsions, hardly allowed her to utter some unmeaning words; she rolled around in vacancy her dull and almost sightless eyes; her chin fell upon her breast, and without the assistance of the two deputies, her body would have sunk to the ground like an inert mass. martial (after having for a long time embraced this unfortunate being) alarmed, not daring nor able to move a step, and as if fascinated by the scene, remained immovable. the brazen hardihood of the widow did not forsake her; with her head erect and thrown back, she assisted to take off the waistcoat, which impeded her movements. it fell to the ground, and she remained in her old dress of black woolen. "where must i place myself?" she asked in a firm voice. "have the kindness to seat yourself in one of these two chairs," said the executioner, pointing to them. the door being left open, several of the keepers, the governor of the prison, and some privileged persons, were seen standing in the corridor. the widow walked with a firm and bold step to the place indicated, passing near her daughter, when she stopped, and said in a voice slightly broken: "daughter, kiss me!" at the voice, calabash was aroused from her apathy, drew up on her seat, and with a gesture of malediction, she cried, "if there is eternal fire, descend into it, accursed." "my child, embrace me!" said the widow again, making a step toward her daughter. "do not approach me! you have ruined me!" murmured the unfortunate, throwing out her hands as if to repulse her mother. "forgive me!" "no, no!" said calabash, in a convulsed voice; and this effort having exhausted her strength, she fell back, almost without consciousness, into the arms of the assistants. a shade passed over the impassible face of the widow; for a moment her dry and burning eyes became moistened. at this instant she met the eyes of her son. after a moment's hesitation, and as if she yielded to the effect of an inward struggle, she said to him, "and you?" martial threw himself sobbing into the arms of his mother. "enough!" said the widow, overcoming her emotion, and disengaging herself from the embraces of her son. "he is waiting," she added, pointing to the executioner. then she walked rapidly toward the chair, where she resolutely seated herself. the spark of maternal sensibility, which had for a moment lighted up the dark recesses of this corrupted heart, was extinguished forever. "sir," said the veteran to martial, approaching him with interest, "do not remain here. come, come." martial, stupefied, with horror and alarm, mechanically followed the soldier. two of the assistants had carried the wretched calabash to the other chair; one of them sustained the almost lifeless body, while the other, by means of whip-cord, exceedingly fine but very strong, tied her hands behind her back, and also fastened her feet together by the ankles, allowing slack enough to enable her walk slowly. the executioner and his other assistant performed the same operation on the widow, whose features underwent no alteration; only from time to time she coughed slightly. when the condemned were thus prevented from offering any resistance, the executioner, drawing from his pocket a long pair of scissors, said to her with marked politeness, "have the goodness to bend your head." the widow obeyed, saying: "we are good customers; you have had my husband; now here are his wife and daughter." without replying, the executioner gathered in his left hand the long gray hair of the condemned, and commenced cutting it short--very short, particularly about the neck. "this makes the third time that i have had my hair dressed in my lifetime," said the widow, with a horrible laugh: "the day of my first communion, when they put on my veil; the day of my marriage, when they put on my orange blossoms; and now to-day--the head-dress of death." the executioner remained silent. the hair of the condemned being thick and coarse, the operation was so long in being performed, that calabash's lay strewed upon the ground before her mother's was half finished. "you do not know of what i am thinking?" said the widow, after having looked at her daughter again. the executioner continued to keep silent. nothing could be heard but the snipping of the scissors and the kind of rattling which from time to time escaped from the throat of calabash. at this moment was seen in the corridor a priest of venerable appearance, who approached the governor, and spoke a few words to him in a low tone. the chaplain came to make a last effort to soften the heart of the widow. "i think," resumed the widow at the end of some moments, and seeing that the executioner did not reply, "i think that at five years old, my daughter, whose head is to be cut off, was the handsomest child that i ever saw. she had flaxen hair and rosy cheeks. then, who would have told me that,--" after a pause, she cried, with a burst of laughter, and an expression impossible to be described, "what a comedy is fate!" at this moment the last locks of the condemned fell upon her shoulders. "it is finished, madame,' said the executioner, politely. "thank you. i recommend to you my son nicholas," said the widow; "you will dress his hair some of these days." a keeper came and whispered a few words to her. "no; i have already said no," answered she, roughly. the priest heard these words, raised his eyes toward heaven, clasped his hands, and disappeared. "madame, we are going to set out; will you take something?" said the executioner, obsequiously. "thank you; to-night i will take a drink of sawdust." and the widow after this new sarcasm stood up erect. although her step was firm and resolute, the executioner obligingly wished to assist her; she made a gesture of impatience and said, in a harsh and imperious tone: "do not touch me; i have a firm step and a good eye. on the scaffold you will see i have a good voice, and if i speak words of repentance." and the widow, leaving the dungeon, escorted by the executioner and an assistant, entered the corridor. the two other assistants were obliged to carry calabash in a chair; she was dying. after having traversed the whole length of the corridor, the funeral procession ascended the same staircase, which conducted to a court on the outside. the sun, with its warm and golden light, gilded the tops of the high white walls which surrounded the court, and strangely contrasted with the pure blue of the sky. the air was soft and balmy; never was a spring morning more smiling, more magnificent. in this court were seen a detachment of police, a cab, and a long, narrow vehicle, painted yellow, drawn by three post horses, which neighed gayly, shaking little bells on their harness. this vehicle was entered from behind like an omnibus. this was the cause of a last joke from the widow. "the conductor will not say full?" said she, as she mounted the step as lightly as the cord which confined her ankles would allow. calabash, expiring, sustained by an assistant, was placed in the carriage opposite her mother, and the door was closed. the hackney-coachman had fallen asleep; the executioner shook him. "excuse me, citizen," said he, descending hastily from his seat; "but a night in mid-lent is rough. i had just taken to vendanges de bourgogne a load of maskers, who were singing, '_la mére godichon_,' when you engaged me by the hour. i--" "enough. follow this vehicle to the boulevard st. jacques." "excuse me, citizen. an hour ago i was going to the 'vendanges;' now to the guillotine! that proves that, as the saying is, there are queer ups and downs in life!" the two vehicles, preceded and followed by the gendarmes, left bicetre and took the road to paris. * * * * * we have presented the picture of the toilet of the condemned in all its frightful reality, because it seems to us that we can derive from it powerful arguments. against punishment of death. against the manner in which it is applied. against the effects which must be expected from such an example given to the populace. the toilet, although divested of that solemnity, at once imposing and religious, which ought, at least to surround all the acts of the highest punishment known to the laws, is the most impressive of all the ceremonies attending the execution of a criminal, and yet it is concealed from the multitude. in spain, on the contrary, the condemned remains exposed during three days in a "_chapelle ardente_;" his coffin is continually before his eyes; the priests say the prayers for the dying; the bells of the church night and day ring a funeral knell. it will be conceived that this kind of initiation to death may alarm the most hardened criminals, and inspire with salutary terror the crowd which surrounds the "_chapelle mortuaire_." then the day of the execution is a day of public mourning; the bells of all the churches toll; the condemned is slowly conducted to the scaffold, with mournful and imposing pomp; his coffin is carried before him; the priests, walking at his side, chant the prayers for the dead; then comes the religious brotherhood; and, finally, the mendicant friars, asking from the crowd money for prayers for the repose of the culprit's soul. the crowd never remains deaf to this appeal. without doubt, all this is frightful, but it is logical and imposing. it shows that they do not cut off from this world a creature of god, full of life and strength, as they would slaughter an ox. it causes the multitude to reflect (who always judge of the crime by the magnitude of the punishment) that homicide is a fearful offense, since its punishment disturbs, afflicts, and sets in commotion a whole city. again, this dreadful spectacle may cause serious reflections, inspire salutary alarms; and that which is barbarous in this human sacrifice, is at least hidden by the awful majesty of its execution. but, we ask, the events taking place exactly as we have described them (and sometimes even _less seriously_), what kind of an example can it afford? early in the morning, the condemned is bound and thrown into a closed carriage; the postilion whips up his horses, reaches the scaffold; the ax descends, and a head falls into a basket, in the midst of the most atrocious jeerings of the vilest of a vile populace! finally, in a hasty and secret execution, where is the example? where is the terror? and then, as the execution takes place, as we may say, privately, in a byplace, with great precipitation, the whole town is ignorant of this bloody and solemn act; nothing announces that, on this day, they are _killing a man_; they laugh and sing at the theaters; the multitudes pass on, careless and indifferent. as it regards society, religion, and humanity, this judicial homicide, committed in the name of the _interests of all_, is, however, something which ought to be of importance to _all_. in fine, let us say it again, say it always, here is the sword, but where is the crown? beside the punishment show the recompense; then only will the lesson be complete and fruitful. if, on the day following this morn of sorrow and of death, the people, who have seen the blood of a great criminal redden the scaffold, should see the truly virtuous man honored and rewarded, they would dread as much the punishment of the first, as they would ambitiously covet the triumphs of the last; terror hardly prevents crime, never does it inspire virtue. does any one consider the effect of capital punishment on the criminals themselves? either they brave it with reckless impudence; or, inanimate, they suffer it, half dead with terror; or they offer their heads with profound and sincere repentance. now the punishment is insufficient for those who defy it; useless for those who are already morally dead; excessive for those who repent with sincerity. let us repeat it: society does not kill the murderer to cause him suffering, or to inflict the _lex talionis_; it kills him to prevent him from doing harm; it kills him that the example of his punishment may serve as a warning to murderers _to come._ we think that the punishment is barbarous, and that it does not sufficiently terrify. if this assertion is doubted, we will recall many proved facts of the deep horror expressed by hardened criminals for solitary confinement. is it not known that some have committed murders in order to be condemned to death, preferring this punishment to a cell? what, then, would be their horror, when _blindness_, joined to solitary confinement, would deprive them of the hope of escape--a hope which he preserves, and which he sometimes realizes, even in a dungeon and loaded with irons. and touching this matter, we also think that the abolishment of capital punishment will be one of the forced consequences of solitary confinement; the alarm which this punishment inspires the generation who at this moment people the prisons and the galleys, being such, that many among these incorrigibles prefer to incur the highest penalty known to the law, than imprisonment in a cell; then, doubtless, the punishment of death ought to be suppressed, in order to sweep away this last and frightful alternative. chapter xxviii. martial and the slasher. before we pursue our narrative, let us say a few words touching the recently established connection between the slasher and martial. as soon as germain had left the prison, the slasher, who easily proved that he had robbed himself, confessed to the judge the reason of this singular deceit, and was set at liberty after receiving a severe and just reproof from the magistrate. not having then recovered fleur-de-marie, and wishing to recompense the slasher (to whom he had already owed his life) for this new act of devotion, rudolph, to crown the happiness of his rude _protégée_, had lodged him in the mansion of the rue plumet, promising him to take him in his train when he returned to germany. we have already said that the slasher felt for rudolph the instinctive, faithful attachment of a dog for his master. to live under the same roof with the prince; to see him sometimes; to await with impatience a new opportunity of sacrificing himself for his interests, were the limits of the ambition and happiness of the slasher, who preferred a thousand times this situation, to money and the possession of the farm at algiers which rudolph had placed at his disposal. but when the prince had discovered his daughter, all was changed: notwithstanding his lively gratitude toward the man to whom he owed his life, he could not resolve to take with him to germany this witness of fleur-de-marie's first shame. determined in any other manner to satisfy the wishes of the slasher, he sent for him for the last time, and told him that he expected a new service from his attachment. at these words, the slasher's face brightened, but it soon became clouded when he learned that not; only must he not follow the prince to germany, but that it was necessary for him to leave the hotel that very day. it is useless to speak of the brilliant compensations that rudolph offered to the slasher: the money that was designed for him--the deed for the farm in algiers--anything more that he wished; all was at his disposal. the slasher, cut to the heart, refused all; and, for the first time in his life, perhaps, this man shed tears. it had needed all the persuasion of rudolph to induce him to accept his previous gifts. the next day the prince sent for la louve and martial; and, without informing them that fleur-de-marie was his daughter, he asked them what he could do for them; all their wishes should be accomplished. perceiving their hesitation, and remembering what fleur-de-marie had told him about the slightly uncivilized tastes of la louve and her husband, he offered them either a considerable amount of money, or the half of this amount, and lands in the vicinity of the farm which he had bought for the slasher. both of them rugged, energetic, both endowed with good natural impulses, sympathized the better with each other, since they each had reasons to seek solitude--the one for her past life, the other for the crimes of his family. he was not deceived; martial and la louve accepted his offer with transport; then, having, through the intervention of murphy, made the acquaintance of the slasher, they mutually congratulated each other on the agreeable prospects before them in algiers. notwithstanding the deep sadness into which he was plunged; or, rather, in consequence of this sadness the slasher, affected by the cordial advances of martial and his wife, responded to them with warmth. in a short time a sincere friendship united the future colonists; persons of their temperament form very sudden attachments. la louve and martial, being unable, in spite of their kind attentions, to divert the melancholy of their new friend discontinued their efforts, trusting that the voyage, and the active employment of their future life, would change his thoughts; for, once in algiers they would be obliged to turn their attention to the cultivation of the lands which had been bestowed upon them. these facts established, it will be understood that, informed of the painful interview that martial was obliged to undergo in obedience to the last wishes of his mother, the slasher had wished to accompany his new friend to the gate of bicetre, where he awaited him in the coach which had brought them, and which took them back to paris, after martial, deeply agitated, had left the dungeon, where the terrible preparations for the execution of mother and sister were being made. the physiognomy of the slasher was completely altered; the expression of boldness and of happiness which ordinarily characterized his manly face was replaced with sorrowful dejection: his voice, also had lost somewhat of its roughness. grief, until now a stranger to him, had broken, prostrated his energetic nature. he looked at martial with compassion. "cheer up," said the slasher to him "you have done all that a brave fellow could do--it is all over, think of your wife, of those children whom you have prevented from following the bad example of their parents; and then, besides, this evening we shall have quitted paris, never to return; and you will never again hear of that which afflicts you." "it is a the same, do you see, slasher. after all, it is my mother and my sister." "but what would you--this has happened; and it's no use crying over spilled milk," said the slasher, suppressing a sigh. after a moment's silence, martial said to him, cordially, "i, also, ought to console you, my poor fellow--always this melancholy." "always, martial." "well, my wife and i confidently hope that, once away from paris, it will be dissipated." "yes," said the slasher, at the expiration of a few seconds, and hardly restraining a shudder, "if i leave paris--" "but we set out this evening." "that is to say, _you_--you go this evening." "and you, then, have you changed your intention recently?" "no." "well, what then?" the slasher again remained silent; then he replied, struggling to preserve his calmness, "hold, martial; i know that you will laugh at me; but i wish to tell you all, so that, if anything should happen to me, this at least will prove that i was not deceived." "what is it, then?" "when m. rudolph asked if it should be agreeable for us to go together to algiers, and to be neighbors there, i did not wish to deceive either you or your wife. i told you what i had been." "let us speak no more about that. you have undergone your punishment--you are as good as the best of us. but i can conceive that, like me, you would prefer to live abroad, thanks to our generous protector, than to remain here, where, no matter how honest, and how easy in our circumstances we may be, we shall always be reproached, you for the crime which you have expiated, and which you still regret, and i for the crimes of my parents, for which i am not responsible. but, between us, the past is gone, and gone forever. be tranquilized; we rely upon you, as you may rely upon us." "between us, perhaps, the past will be forgotten; but, as i said to m. rudolph, martial, there is a providence above, and i have killed a man." "it is a great misfortune; but at the time you did not know what you were doing--you were not yourself; and, besides, you have saved the lives of others, and that ought to count in your favor." "listen, martial, i have now spoken to you of my unhappiness, because, formerly, i often had a dream, in which i saw the sergeant, whom i killed; for a long time i have not had this dream, and last night i dreamed it" "it was chance." "no, this forebodes that some misfortune will happen to me this day." "you are unreasonable, my good comrade." "i have a presentiment that i shall never quit paris." "once more, you have not common sense. your sorrow at the thought of quitting our benefactor, the knowledge that you were to accompany me to bicetre, where so painful an interview awaited me; all this agitated you last night; hence naturally, your dream returned to you." the slasher sadly shook his head. "it has returned to me on the night before the departure of m. rudolph, for it is today that he goes." "today?" "yes; yesterday i sent a messenger to his hotel, not daring to go there myself; he has forbidden it. they told him that the prince would set out this morning, at eleven o'clock, by the barrière charenton. thus, when we shall have arrived in paris, i will post myself there, to endeavor to see him for this last time! the last!" "he appears so good that i comprehend how well you must love him." "love him!" said the slasher, with deep and passionate emotion; oh, yes! do you understand, martial! to sleep on the ground--to eat black bread--to be his dog; but to be where he is, i ask nothing more--that was too much--he did not wish it." "he has been so generous to you!" "it is not that which makes me love him so much--it is because he said to me that i had a heart and honor! yes, and at a time when i was as ferocious as a wild beast, when i despised myself as the vilest of the vile, he made me comprehend that there was still some good in me, since, my punishment inflicted, i had repented, and after having suffered the utmost extremity of want without being guilty of theft, i had industriously labored to gain an honest livelihood: wishing to injure no one, although every one looked upon me as a finished scoundrel, which was not very encouraging. it is true, in most instances, all that is necessary to keep one in the right path are words of encouragement and kindness. is it not so, martial? so when m. rudolph said these words to me, my heart beat high and proudly. since then i would go through fire to do a good action. oh! that the opportunity might offer! you would see--and to whom the thanks? the thanks to m. rudolph." "truly, since you are a thousand times better than you used to be, you should not have such evil presentiments. your dream signifies nothing." "well, we shall see. i do not purposely search for a misfortune; there can be for me no greater one than that which has already happened; never to see him more. m. rudolph! i who thought never more to quit him. in my sphere, i would have been at his service, body and soul, always ready. well, perhaps he is wrong. you know, martial, that i am but an earth-worm in comparison with him; well, sometimes it happens that the most insignificant can be useful to the most powerful. if that should be the case, i would never pardon him for depriving himself of my services." "who knows? one day, perhaps, he will recall you." "oh, no! he said to me, 'my good fellow, you must promise me that you will never endeavor to see me again; by so doing, you will render me a service.' you understand, martial, i have promised; on the honor of a man, i will keep my word; but it is hard." "once at our destination, you will forget, by degrees, your sorrow. we will work, we will live retired and tranquil, like good farmers, except occasionally trying our skill, as marksmen, on the arabs. ah! there la louve will help us." "if it should come to blows, i am at home there, martial," said the slasher, slightly animated. i am unmarried, and i have been a trooper." "and i a poacher!" "but you--you have a wife, and these two children whom you have adopted. as for me, i have nothing but my hide, and since it can no longer serve as a screen for m. rudolph, i have no regard for it. so, if we should be obliged to give them their change, it's my affair." "ah! we'll both have something to do with it." "no; i alone--thunder! leave the bedouins to me." "good; i would rather hear you speak thus than you did a short time since. come, slasher, we will be true brothers, and you can converse with me of your sorrow, if it endures, for i have my own. the recollection of this day will last all my life. one cannot see his mother, his sister, as i have seen mine, without forever bearing it in remembrance. our situations are so similar that it is good for us to be together. we will not fear to look danger in the face; well, we will be half farmers, half soldiers. if we can start any game, we will hunt. if you wish to live alone, you can do so, and we will be near neighbors: if otherwise, we will all live together. we will bring up the children like honest people, and you shall be, almost, their uncle, while we will be brothers. how does it suit you?" said martial, offering his hand to the slasher. "it suits me well, my good martial; and then, sorrow shall kill me or i will kill it, as the saying is." "it will not kill you--we shall grow old in our wilderness, and every night we will say, brother, _thanks_ to m. rudolph--that shall be our prayer for him." "martial, you put balsam on my wound." "good; this foolish dream, you will think no more of it, i hope?" "i will endeavor." "ah! well, you will call for us at four o'clock? the diligence starts at five." "it is agreed upon. but here we are in paris; i will stop the coach, and go on foot to the barrière charenton; i will await m. rudolph, to see him pass." the carriage stopped, and the slasher got out. "don't forget, at four o'clock, my good comrade," said martial: "at four o'clock!" the slasher had forgotten that it was the morning after mid-lent. so he was much surprised at the spectacle, at the same time fantastic and hideous, which was presented to his view when he walked through a part of the exterior boulevard which he crossed on his way to the barridre charenton. chapter xxix. the hand of heaven. the slasher in a few moments was carried along, in spite of himself, by a dense crowd, a popular torrent, which, descending from the taverns of the faubourg de la glacière, collected around the approaches to the barrière, to pour out afterward on the boulevard saint jacques, where the execution was to take place. although it was broad daylight, yet still could be heard at a distance the resounding music of the orchestras of the drinking dens, where, above all, could be distinguished the sonorous vibrations of the cornets-à-piston. it needs the pencil of callot, or rembrandt, or of goya to portray the bizarre, hideous, almost fantastical appearance of this multitude. almost all, men, women, children, were dressed in old masquerading costumes; those who had not been able to obtain this luxury had fastened on their clothes old rags, of flaunting colors; some young men were attired in women's apparel, torn and soiled with mud; all these faces, haggard from debauch and vice, bloated by intoxication, sparkled with savage joy, in thinking that, after a night of drunken orgies, they were going to see the two women put to death, for whom the scaffold was raised. the scum of the population of paris, an immense mob, was composed of bandits and abandoned women, who demand each day from crime their daily bread, and who each night return well filled to their dens. the exterior boulevard being very contracted at this place, the closely-packed crowd entirely blocked up the passageway. in spite of his athletic strength, the slasher was obliged to remain almost immovable in the midst of this compact mass; he submitted. the prince, leaving the rue plumet at ten o'clock, as they had told him, would not leave the barrière charenton until about eleven, and it was not yet seven. although formerly he had associated with the degraded classes to which this mob belonged, the slasher, on again finding himself among them, felt invincible disgust. crowded, by the reflux of the mob, against the wall of one of the wine shops, which swarm on these boulevards, through the open window from whence escaped the deafening sound of a brass band, the slasher saw, against his will, a strange spectacle. in a long low room (one end of which was occupied by the musicians), surrounded by benches and tables covered with the remains of a repast, broken plates, and overturned bottles, a dozen men and women disguised, half drunk, were dancing _la chahut_ a dance which was never performed except at the end of the _ball_, when the municipal guards had retired. among the depraved couples who figured in the revel, the slasher remarked two who won applause above all by the disgusting immodesty of their postures, gestures, and words. the first couple were composed of a man nearly disguised as a bear, by means of a waistcoat and trousers of black sheepskin. the head of the animal, doubtless too heavy to carry, had been replaced by a kind of hood of long hair, which entirely covered the face; two holes near the eyes, and a large slit over the mouth, allowed him to see, speak, and breathe. this masked man, one of the prisoners who had escaped from la force (among whom were also barbillon and the two murderers arrested at the _tapisfranc_ at the comencement of this story), was nicholas martial, the son and brother of the women for whom the scaffold was erected close at hand. dragged into this act of inhuman insensibility by one of his companions, a formidable ruffian, this wretch dared, with the aid of his disguise, to yield himself to the last joys of the carnival. the woman with whom he danced was dressed as a sutler, with a leathern cap rather the worse for wear, the ribbons torn, a kind of jacket of faded red cloth, ornamented with three rows of brass buttons, hussar-fashion; a green petticoat and pantaloons of white calico; her black hair fell in disorder on her face; her ghastly and livid features expressed impudence and effrontery. the _vis-à-vis_ of these dancers were not less vile. the man of very tall stature, disguised as robert macaire, had daubed his bony face with soot in such a manner that he was not recognizable; besides a large band covered his left eye, and the dead white of the right one, standing out in relief with the black face, made it still more hideous. the lower part of the visage of skeleton (doubtless he has been recognized) disappeared entirely in a high cravat made of an old red shawl. he wore, according to the tradition, a gray hat, rasped, flattened, dirty, and without a crown; a green coat in tatters; madder-colored pantaloons, patched in a thousand places, and tied around the ankles with twine; this assassin, overdoing the most grotesque and most impudent positions of the _chahut_, now to the right, now to the left, backward and forward, with his long limbs hard as iron, folded and unfolded them with so much vigor and elasticity, that one would have said they were hung on springs. worthy corypheus of this saturnalian, his partner, a tall, brazen creature dressed as a _débardeur_ wearing a cap stuck on a powdered wig with a long tail, had on a vest and trousers of green velvet, fastened around her waist by an orange scarf, whose long ends floated behind. a fat, masculine-looking woman, the ogress of the _tapis-franc_, seated on one of the benches, held on her lap the plaid cloaks of this creature and the sutler, while they danced with their worthy companions. among the other dancers was remarked a little cripple dressed as a devil with the aid of a black knit guernsey, much too large for him, red drawers, and a horrible grinning green mask. notwithstanding his infirmity, this little monster was of surprising agility; his precocious depravity reached, if it did not surpass, that of his frightful companions, and he gamboled away with equal effrontery opposite his partner, a fat woman disguised as a shepherdess, who excited still more the impudence of her partner by her shouts of laughter. no charge being brought against tortillard, and bras-rouge having been provisionally left in prison, the child, on the demand of his father, had been reclaimed by micou the receiver. as secondary figures of the picture which we have endeavored to paint, let the reader imagine all that is lowest, most shameless, and most monstrous in this idle, reckless, rapacious, sanguinary debauch, which shows itself more hostile to social order, and to which we have wished to call the attention of reflecting persons on terminating this recital. may this last horrible scene symbolize the imminent peril which continually menaces society! yes, let one reflect that the cohesion, the dreaded increase of this race of robbers and murderers is a kind of living protest against the defects of restraining laws, and, above all, against the absence of preventive measures, of provident legislation, of preservative institutions, destined to overlook and guard from infancy this crowd of unfortunates, abandoned or perverted by frightful examples. once more, these disinherited beings, made neither better nor worse than other creatures, do not become thus incurably corrupted but in the filth of misery, ignorance, and brutality, where they crawl into existence. still more excited by the laughter, by the bravos of the crowd collected at the windows, the actors of the abominable orgies which we now relate shouted to the orchestra to play a last _galop_. the musicians, delighted at the prospect of a termination to their labors, yielded to the general wish, and played with energy a lively tune. at the vibrating sounds of the brazen instruments, the excitement increased, the dancers appeared to be seized with a sort of frenzy, and, following skeleton, and his partner, commenced a _ronde infernale_, uttering savage shouts. a thick dust, raised by these furious shufflings, arose from the floor, and cast a kind of red cloud around this whirlwind of men and women, who turned with giddy rapidity. soon--for these heads excited by wine, by the rapid motion, by their own cries, it was no longer inebriety--it was delirium, it was frenzy; room was wanting. skeleton cried with a breathless voice, "clear the door! we are going out--up on the boulevard." "yes, yes!" cried the dense crowd at the windows, "a _galop_ to the barrière saint jacques!" "it will soon be time for them to shorten the two motts!" "the executioner throws a double ace; it is _low!_" "accompanied by the french horn!" "we will dance the cotillon by the guillotine!" "go ahead of the women without any head!" cried tortillard. "it will enliven the condemned." "i invite the widow." "i invite the daughter." "that will make jack ketch gay." "he will dance la chahut in his shop with customers." "death to the nobs. long live the leary coves and nailers!" cried skeleton, in a roar. these jests, and cannibal threats, accompanied by vulgar songs, cries, whistlings, shouts, were augmented still more when the band had made, by its impetuous violence, a large opening through the middle of this compact crowd. then it was a frightful pell-mell; then were heard howlings, imprecations, and bursts of mad laughter, which no longer appeared human. the tumult was suddenly carried to its height by two new incidents. the vehicle containing the condemned, accompanied by its escort of cavalry, appeared in the distance at the corner of the boulevard; then all the mob rushed in this direction, uttering a howl of ferocious satisfaction. at this moment, also, the crowd was met by a courier coming from the boulevard des invalides, and galloping toward the barrière de charenton. he was dressed in a light blue jacket, with a yellow collar, laced with silver on all the seams; but as a sign of deep mourning, he wore black breeches, with heavy boots; his cap, also, bordered with silver was surrounded with a crape. in fine, on the horses blinkers were, in relief, the sovereign arms of gerolstein. the courier walked his horse; but, his progress becoming more and more embarrassed, was almost obliged to stop when he found himself in the midst of the crowd of which we have spoken. although he cried "take care!" and guided his horse with the greatest precaution, cries, threats, abuses, soon arose against him. "does he want to get on our backs with his camel, this fellow?" "a silver door-plate on his body!" cried tortillard, under his green mask with its red tongue. "if he gives us any cheek, we'll put him on his feet." "and we'll cut off the jingles of his jacket to melt them," said nicholas. "and we'll rip you open if you are not satisfied, dirty footman," added skeleton, addressing the courier, and seizing the bridle of his horse, for the crowd had become so dense that the bandit had relinquished his project of dancing to the barrier. the courier, a vigorous and resolute man, said to skeleton, raising the handle of his whip, "if you do not let go the bridle of my horse, i will cut you across the face." "you, you pitiful scoundrel?" "yes; i am walking my horse; i cry 'take care!' you have no right to stop me. the carriage of my lord follows me. i already hear the cracking of the whips. let me pass." "your lord?" said skeleton. "what is your lord to me? i will knock him down if it pleases me. i never have stabbed a lord: this gives me a desire to do it." "there are no more lords--hooraw for the revolution!" cried tortillard, and humming the lines of the _parisienne_: "onward! on! upon their cannon!" he caught hold of one of the courier's boots, and bearing with all his weight, made him shake in his seat. a blow with the butt of his whip on the head of tortillard paid him for his audacity. but immediately the enraged mob threw themselves upon the courier; he dashed the spurs into the sides of his horse, and endeavored to disengage himself, but could not succeed; neither was he able to draw his hunting-knife. dismounted, thrown backward, amid their cries and enraged shouts, he would have been killed, had it not been for the arrival of rudolph's carriage, which diverted the attention of these wretches. for some time the prince's coupé, drawn by four post-horses, went only at a walk, and one of the two footmen, in mourning (on account of the countess m'gregor's death) seated behind, had prudently descended, and stood near one of the doors, the carriage being a very low one. the postilions cried, "look out!" and advanced with caution. rudolph, as well as his daughter, was dressed in deep mourning; holding one of her hands, he looked at her with unspeakable happiness; the sweet, charming face of fleur-de-marie appeared to advantage in her little black crape bonnet, which set off her fair complexion and the brilliant tints of her beautiful flaxen hair; one would have said that the azure of this fine day was reflected in her large eyes, which never had been of a softer and more transparent blue. although her sweet smiling face expressed calmness and happiness, yet, when she looked at her father, a shade of melancholy, sometimes even of indefinable sadness, cast this shadow on the features of fleur-de-marie, when the eyes of her father were turned away. "you are displeased at my calling you so early this morning, and for having advanced the moment of departure?" said rudolph, smiling. "oh, no! father dear--the morning is so beautiful!" "that was my thought; and our day's journey will be better divided by leaving early, and you will be less fatigued. murphy, my aids-de-camp, and the carriage with your women, will join us at our first stopping-place, where you will repose." "dear father, it is i only of whom you are always thinking." "yes, darling, it is impossible for me to have any other thought," said the prince, smiling; then he added, with a burst of tenderness, "oh! i love you so much--i love you so much--your forehead--quick." fleur-de-marie leaned toward her father, and rudolph kissed her beautiful forehead. it was at this moment that the carriage, approaching the crowd, had lessened its speed. rudolph, much astonished let down the window, and said in german to the foot-man who stood near the door, "well, franz, what is the matter? what is this tumult?" "there is such a crowd that the horses cannot your highness." "and what is the reason of the crowd?" "i have just heard that there is an execution about to take place, your highness." "oh! this is frightful!" cried rudolph, throwing himself back in the carriage. "what is the matter, father?" said fleur-de-marie, with anxiety. "nothing--nothing, my child." "but these threatening cries--do you hear? they approach. what is that?" "franz, order the postilions to turn and go to charenton by another road, whatever it may be," said rudolph. "it is too late, your highness! we are in the crowd. they have stopped the horses. some ill-looking people--" the footman could not say another word. the crowd, exasperated by the sanguinary shouts of skeleton and nicholas, suddenly surrounded the carriage. in spite of the efforts and threats of the postilions, the horses were stopped, and rudolph saw himself surrounded on all sides by horrible, threatening, and furious faces: pre-eminent among all, from his great height, was skeleton, who advanced to the carriage door. "father, take care!" cried fleur-de-marie, throwing her arms around rudolph's neck. "is it you, then, who are the lord?" said the skeleton, thrusting his hideous head into the carriage. at this insolence, rudolph would have given way to the natural violence of his charcter, had it not been for the presence of his daughter; but he restrained himself, and answered cooly, "what do you want? why do you stop my carriage?" "because it pleases us," said skeleton, placing his bony hands on the door. "every one in his turn; yesterday you trampled on the poor man; today the poor man will trample on you, if you stir." "father, we are lost!" murmured fleur-de-marie in a low voice. "compose yourself--i comprehend," said the prince; "it is the last day of the carnival. these people are drunk. i will soon get rid of them." "we must make him get out, and his mott also," cried nicholas. "why should they trample on poor folks?" "you appear to be drunk, and doubtless have a desire to drink more," said rudolph, taking a purse from his pocket. "here, this is for you; do not detain my carriage any longer." and he threw out his purse. tortillard caught it. "exactly; you are going a journey; your pockets must be well lined, so hand out some more money or i will kill you. i have nothing to risk. i ask you for your money or your life in broad daylight. it is a rare old game!" said skeleton, completely intoxicated with wine and rage; and he roughly opened the door. the patience of rudolph was exhausted; uneasy for fleur-de-marie, whose alarm increased at each moment, and thinking that a decided stand would overawe this wretch, whom he thought intoxicated, he sprung from his carriage to seize skeleton by the throat. at first the latter drew back quickly, taking from his pocket a long knife; then he threw himself upon rudolph. fleur-de-marie, seeing the poniard of the villain raised against her father, uttered a piercing scream, sprung out of the carriage, and clasped her arms around him. without the aid of the slasher, they would have perished. he, at the commencement of the affray, having recognized the livery of the prince, had succeeded, after superhuman efforts, in approaching the skeleton. at the moment that he threatened the prince with his knife, the slasher with one hand grasped the arm of the villain, and with the other seized him by the throat, and gave him the trip backward. although taken by surprise, skeleton turned, recognized the slasher, and cried, "blue cap of la force! this time i kill you;" and throwing himself furiously on the slasher, he plunged the knife into his breast. the slasher staggered, but did not fall; the crowd supported him. "the guard! here is the guard!" cried several voices. at these words, at sight of the assassination of the slasher, the dense crowd, fearing to be compromised in the murder, dispersed as by enchantment, and fled in all directions. when the guard arrived, guided by the courier, who had succeeded in making his escape when the mob had abandoned him to surround the carriage, there only remained on the mournful scene rudolph, his daughter, and the slasher covered with blood. the two footmen had seated him on the ground, with his back against a tree. all this had passed a thousand times more rapidly than it is possible to write it, at some steps from the wine shop whence had issued skeleton and his band. the prince, pale and agitated, supported the fainting fleur-de-marie in his arms, while the postilions readjusted the traces, which had been injured. "quick!" said the prince to his people, who were occupied in assisting the slasher. "carry this unfortunate man into this tavern. and you," added he, addressing his courier, "get on the box, and drive with all speed to the hotel for dr. david. he was not to leave before eleven o'clock: you will find him there." some minutes afterward, the carriage was rapidly driven off, and the two domestics carried the slasher into the saloon where the orgies had taken place, and where still remained some of the women who had figured in it. "my poor child," said rudolph to his daughter, "i will lead you to a chamber in this house, and you will await me there; for i cannot abandon solely to the care of my people this courageous man, who has once more saved my life." "oh! father, i entreat you, do not leave me!" cried fleur-de-marie with alarm, clinging to the arm of rudolph. "do not leave me alone. i would die with fear. i will go where you go--" "but this is a frightful sight!" "but, thanks to this man, you live for me, father; at least, permit me to unite with you in thanking and consoling him." the perplexity of the prince was great; his daughter seemed so much alarmed at remaining alone, that he was obliged to allow her to accompany him to the room where the slasher had been carried. the master of the tavern, assisted by several of the women who had remained (among whom was the ogress of the white rabbit), had in haste laid the wounded man upon a mattress, and then stanched his wound with napkins. the slasher had just opened his eyes, when rudolph entered. at the sight of the prince, his countenance of deathlike paleness, brightened up a little; he smiled painfully, and said to him, in a feeble voice: "ah! m. rudolph! how fortunate it was that i was at hand." "brave and devoted--as always," said the prince to him in a mournful voice; "you save me again!" "i was going to the barrière de charenton--to see you depart--happily--i was stopped here by the crowd--besides, this was to happen to me--i said so to martial--i had a presentiment." "a presentiment?" "yes, m. rudolph--the dream of the sergeant--last night i had it---" "forget these ideas. hope; your wound will not be mortal." "oh! yes--bones has struck home. never mind, i was right--to say to martial--that an earthworm like me could sometimes be--useful--to a great lord like you---" "but it is life--life!--that i owe you again." "we are quits, m. rudolph. you told me that i had a heart and honor. these words--oh! i suffocate, without you--command--do me the honor--of--your hand!--i feel that i am going---" "no, it is impossible!" cried the prince, bending over the slasher, and pressing in his hands the icy fingers of the dying man. "no; you will live--you will live!" "m. rudolph--do you see that there is something-up there!--i killed--with a _slash_ myself!" said the slasher, in a voice more and more feeble and indistinct. at this moment his eyes were fixed on fleur-de-marie, whom he had not yet perceived. astonishment was painted on his dying face, he started, and said, "oh! la goualeuse." "yes, she is my daughter. she blesses you for having preserved her father." "she--your daughter! here--that reminds me of our acquaintance--m. rudolph--and the--blows with the fists--at the end--but--this--blow with the knife--will be also--the blow--of the end. i have _slashed_--i am _slashed_--it is fair play!" then he uttered a deep sigh, his head falling backward--he was dead! the noise of horses resounded without; the carriage of rudolph had met that of murphy and david, who, in their eagerness to rejoin the prince, had hastened their departure. david and the squire entered. "david," said rudolph, wiping away his tears, and pointing to the slasher, "is there no hope?" "none, your highness," said the doctor, after a minute's examination. during this minute, a mute but frightful scene passed between fleur-de-marie and the ogress, which rudolph had not noticed. when the slasher pronounced in a low tone the name of la goualeuse, the ogress raising her head, had quickly seen fleur-de-marie. already the horrible woman had recognized rudolph in the person whom they called his highness. he called la goualeuse his daughter. such a transformation stupefied the ogress, who kept her staring eyes obstinately fixed on her former victim. fleur-de-marie, pale and alarmed, seemed fascinated by this look. the death of the slasher, the unexpected appearance of the ogress, who had just awakened more grievously than ever the remembrance of her former degradation, seemed to her of mournful presage. from this moment, fleur-de-marie was struck with one of those presentiments which often have, on characters like hers, an irresistible influence. * * * * * a short time after these sad events, rudolph and his daughter had left paris forever. epilogue. _gerolstein._ chapter i. prince henry d'herkausen-oldenzaal to count maximilian kaminetn. "oldenzaal, august d, . i have just returned from gerolstein, where i passed three months with the grand duke and his family. i expected to have found a letter announcing your arrival at oldenzaal, my dear maximilian. imagine my grief and surprise, when i understood that you would be detained in hungary several weeks longer. i have not been able to write to you for four months, not knowing how to direct my letters to you, thanks to your original and adventurous manner of traveling; and yet you had, nevertheless, seriously promised me at vienna, at the moment of our separation, that you would be at oldenzaal the first of august. i must, then, renounce the pleasure of seeing you; and never had i more desire to pour out my heart into yours, my good maximilian, my oldest friend; for though we are both still young, our friendship is old--it dates from our infancy. what shall i say to you? within three months a great revolution has taken place in me. i have reached one of those moments which decide a man's fate. judge if i do not want your presence, your advice. but you will not fail me much longer; whatever concerns detain you in hungary, you will come, maximilian; you must come, i conjure, for i shall, indeed, need the most earnest consolation, and i cannot go to you. my father, whose health becomes more and more feeble, has recalled me from gerolstein. he grows weaker every day. it is impossible for me to leave him. i have so much to tell you, that i shall be prolix, for i have to recount to you the most painful, the most romantic incident of my life. strange and sad chance! during this period we are fatally distant from each other; we inseparables, we brothers, both of us the most fervent apostles of thrice holy friendship, we, who were so proud of proving that the cazlas and posa of our schiller are not idealities, and that, like those divine creations of the great poet, we know how to taste the sweet delights of a tender and mutual attachment! oh, my friend, why were you not there, why were you not there! for three months my heart has been overflowing with emotions at the same time inexpressibly sweet and sad. and i was alone; i am alone now. pity me; you, who know my sensibility, at times so fancifully expansive; you, who have often seen my eyes moistened with tears at the simple recital of a generous action, at the simple view of a beautiful sunset, or in a quiet and starry summer night. you remember the past year, during our excursion to the ruins of oppenfeld--the borders of the great lake--our silent reveries during that magnificent evening, so calm, so poetical, so serene. strange contrast! it was three days before that bloody duel, in which i would not take you for my second, for i should have suffered too much for you if i had been wounded under your eyes--that duel, for a quarrel at play, in which my second unfortunately killed that young frenchman, the viscount st. rémy. apropos, do you know what has become of that dangerous siren st. rémy brought to oppenfeld, and whose name was, i think, cecily david? you will smile with pity, my friend, to see me wander thus among these vague remembrances of the past, instead of proceeding to the grave confessions which i have announced to you; it is because, in spite of myself, i recoil from these confessions. i know your severity; i am afraid of being scolded, yes, scolded, because, instead of having acted with reflection, with wisdom (alas for the wisdom of one-and-twenty!), i have acted foolishly, or, rather, i have not acted at all; i have suffered myself to be borne along blindly on the current which carried me forward. it is only since my return from gerolstein that i have, so to speak, awakened from the enchanting vision in which i have been cradled for the last three months, and this waking is sad. come then, my friend, good maximilian, i assume my best courage. hear me with indulgence. i begin by casting down my eyes; i dare not look at you, for as you read these lines your features will become so grave, so severe. stoical man! having obtained leave of absence for six months, i left vienna, and remained here some time with my father; his health was then good, and he advised me to go and visit my excellent aunt, princess juliana, the superior of the abbey of gerolstein. i have told you, i believe, my friend, that my grandmother was cousin-german of the grandfather of the present grand duke; and that the latter, gustavus rudolph, on account of this relationship, has always treated my father and myself very kindly, very affectionately, as cousins. you know also, i believe, that during a very long journey which the prince recently made into france he gave to my father the charge of the government of the grand duchy. you will believe that it is not from any pride, my friend, that i mention these circumstances to you; it is only by way of explanation of the causes of the extreme intimacy in which i live with the grand duke and his family during my stay at gerolstein. you recollect that last year, during our journey on the banks of the rhine, we were informed that the prince had found in france, and had married _in extremis_, the countess m'gregor, in order to legitimatize the birth of a daughter, whom he had by her in consequence of an early secret marriage, which was afterward broken, from some illegality in the ceremony, and because it had been contracted against the will of the reigning grand duke. this young daughter, so solemnly acknowledged, is that charming princess amelia, [footnote: as the name of marie recalled to rudolph and his daughter such sad recollections, he had given her the name of amelia, after his mother.] of whom lord dudley, who saw her at gerolstein about a year since, spoke to us so often at vienna last winter. you recollect we accused him of exaggeration. strange chance! if any one had then told me--but though you have undoubtedly now almost divined my secret, let me follow the march of events without interruption. the convent of saint hermangilda, of which my aunt is the abbess, is hardly a quarter of a league distant from gerolstein, for the abbey gardens border on the suburbs of the city. a charming house, completely isolated from the cloister, had been placed at my disposition by my aunt, who loves me, as you know, with a maternal tenderness. the day of my arrival she informed me that there was the next day to be a solemn reception and court ceremony; the grand duke on that day was to make the official announcement of his approaching marriage with the marchioness d'harville, who had recently arrived at gerolstein, accompanied by her father, count orbigny. [footnote: the reader is reminded, in order to maintain the probability of this narrative, that the last princess of courtland, a lady as remarkable for the singular superiority of her mind as for the charm of her character, and the admirable goodness of her heart, was mademoiselle de medeur.] some blame the prince for not having sought a sovereign alliance in his marriage (the grand duchess, the former wife of the prince, belonged to the house of bavaria): others, on the contrary, and my aunt is of the number of these, congratulate him for having preferred an amiable young lady, whom he adores, and who belongs to the highest nobility of france, to considerations of ambition. you know, moreover, my friend, that my aunt having always entertained for the grand duke rudolph the most profound attachment, she can appreciate, better than any one else, the eminent qualities of the prince. "my dear child," said she to me, on occasion of this solemn reception, which i was to attend the day after my arrival, "my dear child, the most remarkable part of this _fête_ the _pearl of gerolstein_." "what do you mean, my dear aunt?" "the princess amelia." "the daughter of the grand-duke? lord dudley told us about her at vienna. he spoke of her with an enthusiasm which we called poetical exaggeration." "at my age, with my character, and in my position," replied my aunt, "one is not easily excited; and you will believe my judgment to be impartial, my dear child. indeed, i assure you, that in my whole life i never knew anything so enchanting as the princess amelia. i might speak to you of her angelic beauty, if she were not endowed with an inexpressible charm which is superior even to her beauty. figure to yourself candor with dignity, and grace in modesty. from the first day in which the grand-duke presented me to her, i felt for this young princess an involuntary sympathy. nor am i alone in this opinion. the archduchess sophia has been at gerolstein some days; she is the proudest and most haughty princess whom i know." "very true, my aunt, her irony is terrible; few persons escape her biting pleasantries. at vienna she was dreaded like the fire. can the princess amelia have found favor with her?" "the other day she came here, after having visited the house of refuge, which is placed under the superintendence of the young princess. 'do you know one thing,' said this dreaded archduchess to me, with her abrupt frankness, 'i have a mind singularly disposed to satire, have i not? well, if i were to live long with the daughter of the grand duke, i should become, i am sure, inoffensive; her goodness is so penetrating, so contagious." "but is my cousin, then, an enchantress?" said i to my aunt, smiling. "her most powerful attraction, in my eyes at least," replied my aunt, "is that mingling of gentleness, modesty, and dignity, of which i have spoken to you, and which gives the most touching expression to her angelic face." "modesty is certainly a rare quality in a princess so young, so beautiful, so happy." "remember, too, my dear child, how much better it is for the princess amelia to enjoy without vain ostentation the high position which is incontestably acquired for her; her elevation is recent." [ footnote: on arriving in germany, rudolph had given out that fleur-de-marie, whom he had long supposed dead, had never quitted her mother, the countess m'gregor.] "in her conversations with you, dear aunt, has the princess ever made any allusions to her past fortunes?" "no; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, i have spoken to her with the respect which is due to her, since her royal highness is the daughter of our sovereign, her ingenuous distress, mingled with gratitude and veneration for me, have deeply moved me; for her reserve, at the same time noble and affable, proved to me that the present did not intoxicate her so much as to make her forget the past, and that she rendered to my age what i granted to her rank." "you must have an exquisite tact, my dear aunt, to observe such delicate shades." [illustration: a page of the sixteenth century] "thus, my dear child, the more i have seen of the princess amelia, the more i have felt my first impression confirmed. since she has been here, the good works she has accomplished are incredible, and she has done it all with a reflection, a maturity of judgment, which amazes me in a person of her age. judge of them: at her request, the grand duke has founded at gerolstein an establishment for little orphan girls of five or six years old, and for young girls, also orphans or abandoned by their parents, who have reached the age of sixteen, an age so fatal for the unfortunate who have no one to defend them from the seductions of vice or the pressure of want. the noble nuns of my abbey teach and direct the daughters of this house. in going to visit it, i have often occasion to observe the adoration which these poor disinherited creatures entertain toward the princess amelia. every day she goes to pass several hours in this establishment, which is placed under her especial protection; and i repeat to you, my child, it is not only respect, gratitude, that these poor girls and the nuns feel for her highness, it is almost fanaticism." "the princess amelia must be an angel," replied i to my aunt. "an angel--yes, an angel," replied she, "for you cannot imagine with what melting goodness she treats her favorites, and with what pious solicitude she watches over them--i have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune more delicately treated; it seems as if an irresistible sympathy especially attracts the princess toward this class of the abandoned poor. finally, would you believe it, she, the daughter of a sovereign, never calls these young girls anything but _sisters_." at these last words of my aunt, i confess to you, maximilian, the tears came into my eyes. do you not find something beautiful and holy in this conduct of the princess? you know my sincerity, i protest to you that i report to you, as i will always report to you, the conversation of my aunt, almost word for word. "since the princess," said i to her, "is so marvelously endowed, i shall feel great embarrassment when i am presented to her to-morrow; you know my insurmountable timidity, you know that elevation of character overpowers me more even than that of rank, i am sure i shall appear to the princess as stupid as embarrassed; i know this well enough beforehand." "come, come," said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity on you, my dear child, and the more so as you will not be a new acquaintance to her." "dear aunt?" "certainly." "how so?" "you recollect that when at the age of sixteen years, you quitted oldenzaal to make a journey to russia and england with your father, i had your portrait painted in the costume which you wore at the first fancy ball given by the late grand duchess?" "yes, the costume of a german page of the sixteenth century." "our excellent painter, fritz mokker, while he faithfully reproduced your features, not only retraced a personage of the sixteenth century, but with the caprice of an artist, he amused himself with imitating even the manner and the appearance of age of pictures painted soon after that period. a few days after her arrival in germany, the princess amelia having come to visit me with her father, remarked your portrait, and asked me with great simplicity what this charming picture of the olden time was? her father smiled, and making a signal to me, answered her, 'this portrait is that of one of our cousins, you see by his costume, my dear amelia, of some three hundred years date. when he was very young he exhibited a rare courage and an excellent heart. does he not, in fact, display bravery in his bearing, and goodness in his smile?' (i beg you, maximilian, do not shrug your shoulders with impatient disdain, at my writing such things about myself. it is hard for me to do it, you may suppose, but the sequel of this narrative will prove to you that these puerile details, of which i feel the bitter ridicule, are unfortunately indispensable. i close the parenthesis, and go on:) "the princess amelia," continued my aunt, "the dupe of this innocent pleasantry, agreed in opinion with her father, respecting the gentle and proud expression of your physiognomy, after having attentively examined the portrait. afterward, when i went to see her at gerolstein, she smilingly asked me the news of her cousin of the olden time. i then owned to her our deception, telling her that the fair page of the sixteenth century was simply my nephew, prince henry d'herkausen oldenzaal, now twenty-one years of age, captain of his majesty the emperor of austria's guards, and in everything, excepting, the costume, very like his portrait. at these words, the princess amelia," added my aunt, "blushed and became again serious, as she almost always is. since then, she has not spoken to me again about the picture. nevertheless, you see, my dear child, that you will not be entirely a stranger and a new face to _your cousin_, as the grand duke calls you. so take courage and sustain the honor of your portrait," added my aunt, smiling. this conversation took place, as i have told you, my dear maximilian, on the eve of the day when i was to be presented to the princess, my cousin. i then left my aunt, and returned to my apartment. i have never hidden from you my most secret thoughts, good or evil; i am therefore about to confess to you what absurd and foolish imaginations i allowed myself to indulge in after the conversation which i have just reported to you. chapter ii. prince henry d'herkausen-oldenzaal to count maximilian kaminetz. you have often told me, my dear maximilian, that i have no vanity; i believe that is true, and must believe so, to be able to continue this account without exposing myself to the charge of presumptuousness in your eyes. when i was alone at home, in recalling my aunt's conversation, i could not help dreaming over with a secret satisfaction the fact that the princess amelia having observed the portrait of me, made six or seven years ago, had asked a few days after, in jest, for news of her cousin of the olden time. i acknowledge that nothing was more foolish than to found the least hope upon such an insignificant circumstance; but, as i told you, i shall always use the most entire frankness with you; this insignificant circumstance ravished me. undoubtedly the praises which i had heard lavished upon the princess amelia by a woman as grave and austere as my aunt, while they raised the princess still higher in my eyes, rendered me yet more sensible to the distinction which she had deigned to bestow upon me, or, rather, had granted to my portrait. however, as i tell you, this distinction awakened in me such foolish hopes, that, now, in throwing back a calmer glance upon the past, i ask how i could have allowed myself to be drawn on to those thoughts, which inevitably bordered upon a precipice. although a relation of the grand duke, and always kindly welcomed by him, it was impossible for me to conceive of the least hope of marriage with the princess, even if she had accepted my love, which was still more improbable. our family holds an honorable rank, but it is poor, if we compare our fortune with the immense domains of the grand duke, the richest prince of the germanic confederation; and then, i was hardly twenty-one years old; i was a mere captain in the guards, without renown, without personal reputation; never, in short, would the grand duke dream of me for his daughter. all these reflections should have preserved me from a passion which as yet i did not feel, but of which i had, so to speak, a singular presentiment. alas! i gave myself up, on the contrary to new childishness. i was wearing on my finger a ring which was formerly given me by theckla (the good countess, whom you know); although this token of careless and frivolous love could not trouble me much, i heroically made of it a sacrifice to ray new-born love, and the poor ring disappeared in the water which flows rapidly under my window. it is useless to tell you what a night i passed; you can imagine it i knew that the princess amelia was fair, and of angelic beauty; i endeavored to imagine her features, her stature, her demeanor, the sound of her voice, the expression of her countenance; then, remembering my portrait which she had remarked upon, i recollected with regret that the cursed artist had flattered me; besides, in despair, i compared the picturesque costume of a page of the fifteenth century with the severe uniform of his imperial majesty's captain of the guards. then to these foolish ideas succeeded now and then, i assure you, my friend, some generous thoughts, some noble impulses of the soul; i felt myself moved--yes! deeply moved at the remembrances, of what my aunt had told me of that adorable goodness of the princess amelia who called the poor abandoned ones whom she protected--_her sisters._ in fine--odd and inexplicable contrast--i have, you know, the most humble opinion of myself--and i was, nevertheless, proud enough to suppose that the sight of my portrait had struck the princess; i had good sense enough to understand that an impassable distance separated me from her forever, and yet i asked myself, with real anxiety, whether she would not find me unworthy of my portrait. in short, i had never seen her; i was convinced beforehand that she would hardly look upon me; and, nevertheless, i thought myself right in sacrificing to her the pledge of my former love. i passed in real suffering the night of which i speak, and a part of the next day. the hour of reception arrived. i tried on two or three uniforms, finding each worse than the other, and set out for the palace of the grand duke, much displeased with myself. although gerolstein is hardly a quarter of a league from st. hermangilda's abbey, during the short drive a thousand thoughts assailed me: all the nonsense with which i had busied myself disappeared before a grave, sad, almost threatening idea; an invincible presentiment forwarned me of one of those crises which govern the whole life; a sort of revelation told me that i was about to love, to love passionately, to love as one loves but once; and, to heighten the fatality, this love, so highly and worthily placed, was always to be unfortunate to me. these ideas alarmed me so much, that i suddenly took the wise resolution of stopping my carriage, returning to the abbey, and going to rejoin my father, leaving to my aunt the duty of excusing me to the grand duke for my abrupt departure. unfortunately, one of those vulgar causes, of which the effects are sometimes so immense, prevented me from executing this. my carriage having stopped at the entrance of the avenue leading to the palace, i leaned out at the window to give orders to my people to return, when the baron and baroness roller, who, like me, were on their way to court, perceived me, and ordered their carriage also to stop. the baron, seeing me in uniform, said, "can i assist you in anything, my dear prince? what has happened to you? since you are on your way to the palace, will you not join us, if anything has happened to your horses?" nothing could have been more easy you may say, my friend, than for me to have made some excuse for leaving the baron, and to have regained the abbey. i suppose it would have been; whether it was weakness, or a secret desire to escape from the salutary resolution i had just formed, i replied with an embarrassed air, that i was giving orders to my coachman to inquire at the gate of the palace whether we entered by the new pavilion, or through the marble court. "the entrance is through the marble court, my dear prince," replied the baron; "it is a grand gala reception. tell your coachman to follow mine; i will show you the way." you know, maximilian, how much of a fatalist i am; i would have returned to the abbey, to spare myself the vexations which i foresaw; fate opposed it; i abandoned myself to my star. you do not know the grand ducal palace of gerolstein, my friend. according to all those who have visited the capitals of europe, there is not, with the exception of versailles, a royal residence, of which the whole pile of building, and the avenues to it, have a more majestic aspect. if i enter into some details on this subject, it is that, in recalling at this hour these imposing splendors, i ask myself why they did not all at first call up my nothingness; for the princess amelia was the daughter of the sovereign of this palace, of these guards, of this great wealth. the court of marble, a vast hemicycle, is so called because, with the exception of a broad path around it, in which the carriages pass, it is paved with marble of every color, having magnificent mosaics. in the center of it is placed an immense basin of antique marble, fed by abundant springs of water, which fall continually into a large porphyry vase. this court of honor is surrounded by a row of white marble statues, of the finest execution, bearing torches of gilded bronze, from whence floods of dazzling gas are poured out. alternating with these statues, medicean vases, raised on their richly-sculptured pedestals, contain enormous rose-laurels, real flourishing shrubs, whose lustrous foliage, seen in the resplendent light, shines with a metallic verdure. the carriages stopped at the foot of a double row of balustrades, which led to the peristyle of the palace; at the foot of this staircase, two cavaliers of the guard of the grand duke, mounted on black horses, stood as sentries. the soldiers of the guard were chosen from among the largest-sized non-commissioned officers of the army. you, my friend, who are so fond of military men, would have been struck with the severe and martial air of these two colossal figures, whose cuirasses and brazen casques of an antique form, without ornament or crest, shone in the light. these cavaliers wore blue coats with yellow collar, pantaloons of white buckskin, and stout boots, reaching above the knee. finally, for you, my friend, who are fond of military details, i will add, that at the top of the steps, on each side of the door, two grenadiers of the regiment of infantry of the grand ducal guard were on duty. they resembled, i was told, in appearance, with the single exception of the color of the dress and its facings, napoleon's old guard. after having crossed the vestibule, where, with their halberts in their hands, stood the swiss liveried servants of the prince, i ascended an imposing staircase of white marble, which led to a portico, ornamented with columns of jasper, surmounted by a cupola, painted and gilded. there were ranged two long files of foot servants. i afterward entered into the guard-room, at the door of which were standing a chamberlain and an aid-de-camp on service, whose duty it was to lead up to his royal highness such persons as were entitled to be presented to him. my relationship, though distant, gave me a right to this honor. an aid-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery filled with men in court-dresses or uniforms, and ladies in full costume. while i was slowly passing through this brilliant crowd, i heard words which heightened still more my emotion. on all sides people were admiring the angelic beauty of the princess amelia, the charming face of the marchioness d'harville, and the truly imperial air of the archduchess sophia, who had recently arrived from munich, with the archduke stanislaus, and was soon to go to warsaw. but while all rendered homage to the lofty dignity of the archduchess and to the distinguished grace of the marchioness d'harville, it was acknowledged that nothing was more ideal than the enchanting form of the princess amelia. as i approached the spot where the grand duke and his daughter were standing, i felt my heart beating violently. at the moment when i reached the door of this saloon (i forgot to tell you that there was a ball and court concert), the illustrious liszt had just seated himself at the piano, and the deepest silence succeeded to the slight murmur of conversation. while awaiting the end of the piece, which the artist played with his accustomed superiority, i remained standing at the door. then, my dear maximilian, for the first time i saw the princess amelia. allow me to paint to you the scene, for i feel an inexpressive pleasure in gathering up all these recollections. imagine, my friend, a vast saloon, furnished with royal splendor, dazzling with light, and hung with crimson draperies, about which ran a border of foliage embroidered in gold. in the first row, in large gilded chairs, were seated the archduchess sophia (to whom the prince was doing the honors of the palace), on her left the marchioness d'harville, and on her right the princess amelia. standing behind them was the grand duke, wearing the uniform of colonel of his guards. he seemed to have renewed his youth by his happiness, and did not look more than thirty years old. the military dress set off finely the elegance of his height, and the beauty of his face. near him stood the archduke stanislaus, in the uniform of a field marshal. then came the princess amelia's ladies of honor, the wives of the grand dignitaries of the court, and, finally, the latter themselves. need i tell you that the princess amelia, by her rank, less than by her grace and beauty, reigned supreme in this dazzling assemblage? do not condemn me, my friend, without reading this description. though it fall a thousand times below the reality, you may comprehend my adoration; you will understand that as soon as i saw her, i loved her, and that the suddenness of this passion can be equaled only by its violence, and the intensity of its duration. the princess amelia, dressed in a simple robe of white watered silk, wore, like the archduchess sophia, the grand cordon of the imperial order of saint nepomucene, which had been recently sent her by the empress. a bandeau of pearls, surrounding her noble and open forehead, harmonized most exquisitely with the two large braids of magnificent ashy blond hair which bordered her cheeks, which were lightly tinged with red; her fair arms, still whiter than the waves of lace from which they escaped, were half hidden by her gloves, which did not come up to her dimpled elbow: nothing could be more graceful than her bearing; nothing prettier than her little foot, with its white satin shoe. at the moment when i saw her, her large eyes, of the purest azure, were thoughtful. i do not know whether at this moment she felt the influence of some serious idea, or whether she was deeply impressed by the grave harmony of the piece liszt was playing, but her half smile seemed to me to have a sweet and inexpressible melancholy: her head was slightly bent over on her bosom, and she was playing mechanically with a great bouquet of white violets and roses which she held in her hand. i could never express to you my feelings at that moment; all that my aunt had said to me of the ineffable goodness of the princess amelia came back to my mind. you may smile, my friend, but in spite of myself i felt my eyes moistening as i gazed on this thoughtful, almost sad young girl, so admirably beautiful, surrounded with honors, with such respect, and so idolized by such a father as the grand duke. maximilian, i have often said it to you, i believe man incapable of tasting certain kinds of happiness, which are, so to speak, too complete, too immense for his circumscribed faculties; i think, too, that certain beings are too divinely endowed not to feel sometimes that they are alone here below, and that they feel at times vague regrets for their exquisite delicacy, which exposes them to so many deceptions, to so many chills which are unknown to less tender natures. it seemed to me that at that time the princess amelia felt the reaction of such a thought. suddenly, by some strange chance (there is fatality about everything here), she mechanically turned her eyes toward the place where i was standing. you know how scrupulously etiquette and the hierarchy of rank is observed with us. thanks to my title and to the ties of relationship which attach me to the grand duke, the persons in the midst of whom i had at first placed myself had receded gradually, so that i remained almost alone, and decidedly in the first row, in the embrasure of the gallery door. it must undoubtedly have been this circumstance which caused the princess, as she started from her reverie, to perceive and take notice of me, for she made a slight movement of surprise, and blushed. she had seen my portrait at the abbey, in my aunt's apartments, and she recognized me--nothing was more simple. the princess had scarcely looked at me for a second, but that look made me feel the most violent, the most profound emotion; i felt my cheeks on fire; i cast down my eyes, and remained some minutes without daring to raise them again toward the princess. when i ventured to lift them, she was talking in a low tone with the archduchess sophia, who appeared to listen with the most affectionate interest. liszt having put an interval of some moments between the two pieces he was to play, the grand duke took advantage of that moment to express to him his admiration in the most gracious manner. the prince, as he turned to his place, perceived me, made a sign of the head to me with the greatest kindness, and said some words to the archduchess in pointing me out to her. the latter, after having looked at me for a moment, turned toward the grand duke, who could not help smiling as he replied to her and spoke to his daughter. the princess amelia seemed to be embarrassed, for she again blushed. i was in torments; unfortunately, etiquette did not permit me to quit the spot where i was until the concert was over, which was beginning. two or three times i stole a glance at the princess amelia; she seemed pensive and thoughtful; my heart was oppressed. i suffered a slight feeling of uneasiness, as if i had been the cause of the pain she felt. undoubtedly the grand duke had been asking her, jestingly, if she found any resemblance to the portrait of her cousin of the olden times; and, in her ingenuousness, she perhaps reproached hers. if for not having told her father that she had before recognized me. when the concert was over, i followed the aid-de-camp. he led me toward the grand duke, who advanced a few steps to meet me, took me cordially by the arm, and, approaching the archduchess sophia, said to her: "i beg of your royal highness the permission to present to you my cousin, prince henry of herkausen-oldenzaal." "i have already met the prince at vienna, and i am happy to see him again here," replied the archduchess, before whom i made a profound bow. "my dear amelia," continued the prince, addressing himself to his daughter, "i present to you prince henry, your cousin; he is son of prince paul, one of my most venerable friends, whom i much regret not to see to-day at gerolstein." "be so kind, sir, as to inform prince paul that i share deeply in my father's regrets, for i shall be always happy to become acquainted with his friends," replied my cousin, with a simplicity full of grace. i had not before heard the sound of princess amelia's voice; imagine, my friend, the sweetest, the most delicious, the most harmonious tones; in fine, one of those accents which cause the most delicate chords of the soul to vibrate. "i hope, my dear henry, that you will remain some time with your aunt, to whom i am greatly attached. i respect her as a mother, as you know," said the grand duke kindly to me. "come often to see us, familiarly, in the morning, at three o'clock. if we are going out, you can join us in our walk; you know i have always loved you, because you have one of the most noble hearts." "i do not know how to express to your royal highness my gratitude for the kind reception you condescend to bestow on me." "to prove to me your gratitude, then," said the prince, smiling, "ask your cousin for the second contra-dance; the first belongs of right to the archduke." "will your highness grant me this favor?" said i to the princess amelia, bowing before her. "call each other simply cousins, after the good old german custom," said the grand duke gayly; "ceremony is not proper among relatives!" "will my cousin do me the honor to dance this contra-dance with me?" "yes, cousin," replied the princess amelia. chapter iii. prince henry d'herkausen-oldenzaal to count maximilian kaminetz. "oldenzaal, august th, . i can hardly tell you, my friend, how pleased, and, at the same time, pained, i was at the fatherly cordiality of the grand duke; the confidence he testified toward me, the affectionate kindness with which he induced his daughter and myself to substitute for the formula of etiquette these family terms of a most tender intimacy, all penetrated me with gratitude; i reproached myself so much the more bitterly for the fatal attraction of a love which ought not, or could not be agreeable to the prince. i have promised myself, it is true (and i have not failed in this resolution), never to utter a word which might lead my cousin to suspect the love that i was nourishing; but i feared that my emotion, my glances, might betray me. in spite of myself, however, this sentiment, silent and concealed as it must be, seemed guilty to me. i had time to make these reflections while the princess amelia was dancing the first contra-dance with the archduke stanislaus. here, as everywhere, dancing is no more than a kind of march which follows the measure of the orchestra; nothing could show to more advantage the serious grace of my cousin's carriage. with a happiness mingled with anxiety, i awaited the moment for that conversation that the liberty of the ball would allow me to hold with her. i was sufficiently master of myself to conceal my embarrassment, as i went to seek her with the marchioness d'harville. thinking of the circumstances of the portrait, i expected to see the princess amelia share my embarrassment. i was not mistaken; i recall, almost word for word, our first conversation; let me relate it to you, my friend: "will your highness permit me," said i to her, "to say always my cousin, as the grand duke has authorized me?" "certainly, my cousin," she kindly answered me; "i am always happy to obey my father." "and i am still more proud of this familiarity, my cousin; i have learned through my aunt to know you, that is to say, to appreciate you." "my father has also spoken to me of you, cousin, and what will perhaps astonish you," added she, timidly, "i know you already, if i may say so, by sight. the lady superior of st. hermangilda, for whom i have the most affectionate respect, one day showed to us, to my father and myself, a picture." "where i was represented as a page of the sixteenth century?" "yes, cousin, and my father even used the little deceit of telling me that this portrait was of one of our relations of the olden time, adding such kind words toward this cousin of former days, that our family must be happy to number him among our relations of the present day." "alas! my cousin, i fear i resemble no more the moral portrait that the grand duke designed to make of me, than i do the page of the sixteenth century." "you deceive yourself, cousin," said the princess to me, gayly; "for at the end of the concert, casting my eyes, by chance, toward the side gallery, i recognized you directly, in spite of the difference of costume." then wishing, undoubtedly, to change a subject of conversation that embarrassed her, she said to me, "what a wonderful talent m. liszt possesses! do you not think so?" "wonderful! with what pleasure you listened to him!" "because, indeed, it seems to me there is a double charm in music without words; not only is it played with excellent execution, but we can in a moment apply our own thoughts to the melodies that we hear, and which become, so to speak, their accompaniment, i know not if you understand me, cousin?" "perfectly. our thoughts are, then, the words that we adapt mentally to the air that we hear." "just so, just so; you understand me," said she to me, with an expression of pleased satisfaction; "i fear i should explain but ill what i felt just now, while listening to that melody, so plaintive and so touching." "god grant, my cousin," said i to her, smiling, "that you may have no words to put to an air so sad!" either because my question was indiscreet, and she wished to avoid answering me, or because she had not understood it, the princess amelia immediately said to me, pointing out the grand duke, who, giving his arm to the archduchess sophia was then traversing the dancing gallery: "cousin, look at my father: how handsome he is! how noble and fine his air! how eagerly all glances follow him! it seems to me he is more beloved even than he is revered." "ah!" i exclaimed, "it is not only here, in the midst of this court, that he is cherished. if the blessings of the people should be echoed to posterity, the name of rudolph of gerolstein would be, with justice, immortal." in speaking thus, my enthusiasm was sincere; for you know, my friend, that the dominions of the prince are, with good reason, called the paradise of germany. it is impossible to paint to you the grateful glance my cousin threw upon me on hearing me speak in this manner. "to appreciate my father thus," said she to him, with emotion, "is to be worthy of the attachment he bears to you." "and can no one but myself love and admire him! beside those rare qualities that make great princes, has he not the genius of kindness that makes princes adored?" "you know not how truly you speak," exclaimed the princess, still more moved. "ah, i know--i know it, and all those whom he governs know it as i do. they love him so much that they mourn in his sorrows, as they rejoice in his happiness; the eagerness of all to come and offer their homage to the marchioness d'harville is bestowed on the choice of his royal highness, as well as the true worth of the future grand duchess." "the marchioness d'harville is more worthy than any one of the attachment of my father; this is the highest praise of her i can give you." "and you can, doubtless, appreciate her justly. have you not known her in france, my cousin?" hardly had i uttered these words, when some sudden thought, i know not what, came into the princess amelia's mind, she cast down her eyes, and, for a second, her features wore an expression of sadness, that made me silent with surprise. we were then at the end of the contradance; the last figure separated me a moment from my cousin; when i led her back to the marchioness d'harville, it seemed to me her features were still slightly moved. i believed, and i believe still, that my allusion to the abode of the princess in france, having recalled to her the death of her mother, created in her the painful impression of which i have just spoken to you. during this evening, i remarked a circumstance which will, perhaps, appear to you puerile, but which has been to me a new proof of the fascination this young girl inspires in all. her bandeau of pearls being a little deranged, the archduchess sophia, who was leaning upon her arm, was kind enough to be willing herself to replace the bijou upon her brow. now, to one who knows the proverbial hauteur of the archduchess, such an act of graciousness from her seems scarcely conceivable. besides, the princess amelia, whom i was observing attentively at the moment, appeared at the same time so confused, so grateful, i might almost say so embarrassed, at this graceful attention, that i thought i saw a tear sparkle in her eyes. such, my friend, was my first evening at gerolstein. if i have related it to you with some detail, it is that almost all these circumstances have since had their results for me. i will now abridge: i will only speak to you of some of their principal circumstances relating to my frequent interviews with my cousin and her father. the day after this fête, i was among the very small number of persons invited to the celebration of the marriage of the grand duke and the marchioness d'harville. i never saw the countenance of the princess amelia more radiant and more serene than during this ceremony. she gazed upon her father and the marchioness with a kind of religious ecstasy, that gave a new charm to her features; it might have been said that they reflected the ineffable happiness of the prince and the marchioness d'harville. that day my cousin was very gay, very affable. i gave her my arm in a walk that we took after dinner in the palace gardens, which were magnificently illuminated. she said to me, on speaking of her father's marriage, "it seems to me that the happiness of those we cherish is yet more sweet to us than our own; for is there not always a shade of selfishness in the enjoyment of our own personal happiness?" if i give you, from among a thousand, this reflection of my cousin's, my friend, it is that you may judge of the heart of this adorable creature, who possesses, like her father, the spirit of goodness. some days after the marriage of the grand duke, i held quite a long conversation with him. he asked me of the past, of my plans for the future: he gave me the wisest counsel, the most flattering encouragement; he even spoke to me of several of his plans for government, with a confidence that made me feel as proud as i was flattered; in short--shall i tell it to you? for one moment a most foolish idea crossed my mind; i fancied that the prince had imagined my love, and that in this conversation he wished to study me, feel my sentiments, and perhaps lead me to an avowal. unhappily, this mad hope did not last long; the prince brought the conversation to a close by telling me that the time for great wars had passed away; that i ought to profit by my name, my connections, the education i had received, and the intimate friendship that had united my father and prince m., prime minister to the emperor, and pass through the diplomatic instead of the military career; adding, that all the questions which were decided formerly upon the battle-field, would henceforth be decided by congresses; that soon the intricate and base tradition of ancient diplomacy would give place to an enlarged and _humane_ system of politics concerning the true interests of the people, who from day to day gained more knowledge of their rights; that a high, loyal, and generous spirit might have, before many years, a noble and great part to play in political affairs, and might thus do much good; he proposed to me, in short, the assistance of his high patronage to facilitate me at the outset of the career in which he solicited me to embark. you understand, my friend, that if the prince had had the least design upon me, he had not made me such overtures. i thanked him for his offers with warm gratitude, adding, that i felt all the worth of his counsel, and was determined to follow it. i had at first used some reserve in my visits to the palace, but in consequence of the urgency of the grand duke, i soon went there every day about three o'clock. they lived there in all the simplicity of our german courts. it was the life of the great castles in england, rendered still more attractive by the cordial simplicity, the pleasing liberty of german manners. when the weather permitted, we took long rides with the grand duke, the grand duchess, my cousin, and the people of their household. when we remained in the palace, we were occupied with music. i sung with the grand duchess and my cousin, whose voice was of a tone of unequaled sweetness and purity--such, that i could never hear it without being moved even to the depths of my soul. at other times, we examined in detail the wonderful collection of pictures and works of art, or the admirable library of the prince, who, you know, is one of the most learned and best-informed men in europe; frequently i returned to dine at the palace, and on opera days i accompanied the grand ducal family to the theater. every day passed like a dream: my cousin gradually came to treat me with a true sisterly familiarity; she did not conceal from me the pleasure that she felt in seeing me; she confided to me all that interested her. two or three times she begged me to accompany her when she went with the grand duchess to visit the young orphans; often, also, she spoke to me of my future plans with a maturity of reason, a serious and reflective interest, that astonished me, coming from a girl of her age; she was very fond, too, of inquiring of my infancy, and of my mother, alas! ever regretted. every time that i wrote to my father, she begged me to recall her to his remembrance; then, for she embroidered to admiration, she gave me one day for him a charming piece of tapestry, upon which she had worked for a long time. what more shall i tell you, my friend? a brother and sister, meeting again after a long separation, would not have enjoyed a sweeter intimacy. let me add that, when, by some unusual chance, we were left alone, the entrance of a third could never have changed the subject, or even the accent of our conversation. you will be perhaps astonished, my friend, at this brotherly feeling between two young people, especially as you recall what i have acknowledged to you; but the more confidence and familiarity my cousin showed me, the more i watched over, the more i constrained myself, for fear of putting an end to the adorable familiarity. and then, what increased still more my reserve, the princess showed, in her intercourse with me, so much frankness, so much noble confidence, and especially so little coquetry, that i am almost certain that she has always been ignorant of my violent passion, though there remains a slight doubt on this subject, arising from a circumstance that i will relate immediately. if this brotherly intercourse could always have lasted, perhaps this happiness might have been sufficient for me; but even while i was enjoying this with delight, i reflected that my service or the new career in which the prince was inducing me to engage would soon call me to vienna or abroad; i reflected, in short that, presently, perhaps, the grand duke would think of marrying his daughter in a manner worthy of her. these thoughts became the more painful to me as the moment of my departure approached. my cousin soon observed the change that was at work in me. the evening before the day i left her, she told me for a long time she had found me gloomy and abstracted. i endeavored to elude her questions; i attributed my sadness to a vague ennui. "i cannot believe you," said she to me; "my father treats you almost as a son; everybody loves you; to be unhappy would be ingratitude." "ah well!" said i to her, without being able to conquer my emotion, "it is not ennui; it is grief--yes, a penetrating grief that i feel." "and why? what has happened to you?" she asked me, with interest. "just now, my cousin, you told me that your father treated me as a son; that everybody loved me. ah! well, before long, i must renounce these precious attachments; i must, in short, leave gerolstein, and, i confess to you, this thought fills me with despair." "and the remembrance of those that are dear to us--is this then, nothing, my cousin?" "ah, yes--but years, but events bring so many unforeseen changes!" "there are at least attachments which are not changed: such as my father has always shown you. what i feel for you is of this kind, you know full well; we are brother and sister--never to forget one another," added she, raising toward me her large blue eyes, filled with tears. this glance overwhelmed me; i was on the point of betraying myself; fortunately, i restrained myself. "it is true that feeling lasts," said i to her, in an embarrassed manner; "but circumstances alter. for instance, my cousin, when in a few years i shall return, do you think that then this intimacy, whose charm i value so fully, may yet continue?" "why should it not continue?" "because you will then be, undoubtedly, married, my cousin--you will have other duties--and you will have forgotten your poor brother." * * * * * i swear to you, my friend, i said no more to her. i know not yet if she saw in these words an avowal which was displeasing to her, or whether she, like myself, was sadly struck by the inevitable changes that the future must necessarily make in our intercourse; but, instead of answering me, she remained a moment silent, overwhelmed; then, rising suddenly, her countenance pale and disordered, she went out, after examining some embroidery by the young countess d'oppenheim, one of her ladies of honor, who was working in the embrasure of one of the windows of the saloon where our conversation took place. the evening of this day i received a new letter from my father, which recalled me suddenly here. the next morning i went to take leave of the grand duke; he told me that my cousin was a little unwell, that i might entrust to him my last words to her; he pressed me to his heart, like a father, regretting, he added, my sudden departure, and especially that this departure was occasioned by the anxiety that the health of my father gave me; then, recalling to me, with the greatest kindness, his counsel on the subject of the new career which he begged me to embrace immediately, he added, that on my return from my embassies, or on my leaves of absence, he should see me again at gerolstein with warm pleasure. happily, on my arrival here i found the state of my father a little improved; he still keeps his bed, and is constantly feeble, but his health no longer gives me any serious anxiety. unfortunately, he has already noticed my depression, my gloomy taciturnity, several times; but he has supplicated me in vain to confide to him the cause of my melancholy grief. i should not dare it, notwithstanding his blind tenderness for me; you know his severity as regards everything which appears to him wanting in frankness and loyalty. yesterday, i watched with him; when alone by his side, believing him asleep, i could not restrain my tears, which flowed in silence as i thought of my happy days at gerolstein. he saw me weep, for he soon awaked while i was absorbed in my grief; he questioned me with the most touching kindness; i attributed my sadness to the anxiety that his health had caused me, but he was not deceived by this evasion. now that you know all, my good maximilian, say is not my fate forlorn enough! what shall i do--what resolve? ah, my friend, i cannot tell you my anguish. what is to happen, my god! all is utterably lost! i am the most wretched of men if my father does not renounce his project. i will tell you what has just happened; just now i had finished this letter, when, to my great astonishment, my father, whom i believed in bed, entered my cabinet, where i was writing to you; he saw upon my desk my first four great pages all filled; i was at the end of this last--" "to whom do you write so at length?" he asked, smiling. "to maximilian, father." "oh!" said he to me, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "i know that he possessed your confidence entirely; _he is very happy--he!_" he pronounced these last words so sadly, in such a bounded tone, that, touched by his accent, i replied to him, giving him my letter, almost without reflection: "read, father." my friend, he has read all. do you know what he said to me, after remaining for some time thoughtful? "henry, i am going to write to the grand duke all that passed during your stay at gerolstein." "my father, i conjure you, do not do it." "is what you relate to maximilian perfectly true?" "yes, my father." "in this case, until now your conduct has been upright. the prince will appreciate it. but in future you should not show yourself unworthy of his noble confidence; you would do so if, abusing his offer, you should return hereafter to gerolstein, with the intention, perhaps, of making yourself beloved by his daughter." "my father, could you think----" "i think that you love with passion, and that passion is, sooner or later, an evil consoler." "how, my father? you will write to the prince that----" "'you love your cousin desperately.'" "in the name of heaven, my father, i supplicate you, do nothing of this!" "do you love your cousin?" "i love her to idolatry; but----" my father interrupted me: "if this is the case, i shall write to the grand duke to demand of him for you the hand of his daughter." "but, my father, such a claim is madness for me!" "it is true; nevertheless, i ought frankly to make this demand of the prince, representing to him the reasons that lead me to this step. he has received you with the most true hospitality, he has shown you fatherly kindness; it would be unworthy me and you to deceive him. i know the greatness of his soul; he will feel that i am dealing as an honest man; if he refuses to give you his daughter, and this is almost unquestionable, he will know at least that in future, if you should return to gerolstein, you ought to be no more in the same intimacy with her. you have shown me, my child," added my father, kindly, "the letter that you have written to maximilian. i am now informed of everything; it is my duty to write to the grand duke, and i am going to write this very moment." you know, my friend, that my father is the best of men, but he has an inflexible tenacity of will when the question is what regards his _duty_; judge of my anguish, my terror. though the step he is going to take may be, after all, frank and honorable, it does not trouble me less. how will the grand duke receive this mad offer? will he not be displeased with it? and will not the princess amelia be as much wounded that i have allowed my father to take such a step without her consent? ah, my friend, pity me, i know not what to think. it seems as though i were looking upon an abyss, and that a dizziness were coming over me. i finish in haste this long letter; i shall write you soon. yet once more pity me, for, in truth, i fear i shall become crazy if the fever that excites me lasts longer. adieu, adieu! yours from my heart, and ever, henry d'h.-o. * * * * * we now conduct our reader to the palace of gerolstein, where fleur-de-marie had dwelt since her return from france. chapter iv. the princess amelia. the apartment occupied by fleur-de-marie (we shall call her the princess amelia only officially), in the grand ducal palace, had been furnished by rudolph's care, with extreme taste and elegance. from the balcony of the young girl's oratory could be seen, in the distance, the two towers of the convent of st. hermangilda, which, rising above immense masses of verdure, were themselves commanded by a high wooded mountain, at the foot of which the abbey stood. on a beautiful morning in summer, fleur-de-marie was allowing her glances to wander over the splendid landscape, which extended far away in the distance. her hair was dressed, but she wore a morning dress of thin material, white, with narrow blue stripes; a large handkerchief of plain cambric falling upon her shoulders, left visible the two ends and the knot of a little silk cravat, of the same blue as the girdle of her dress. seated in a large, high-backed elbow chair made of carved ebony and cramoisie velvet, her elbow supported by one arm of this seat, her head a little bent down, she supported her cheek upon the back of her small white hand, delicately veined with azure. the languishing attitude of fleur-de-marie, her paleness, the fixedness of her gaze, the bitterness of her half-smile, revealed a deep melancholy. after some moments, a heavy, sad sigh relieved her breast. then, letting her hand which supported her cheek fall again, she bent her head further upon her breast. you would have said that the wretched girl was bending beneath the weight of some heavy misfortune. at this moment a woman of mature age, with a grave and distinguished air, dressed in elegant simplicity, entered the oratory, almost timidily, and coughed slightly, to attract the attention of fleur-de-marie. arousing herself from her reverie, she raised her head quickly, and said, saluting her with a motion full of grace, "what do you wish, my dear countess?" "i come to inform your highness that my lord begs you to await him; for he will meet you here in a few minutes," replied princess amelia's maid of honor, with respectful formality. "i was wondering that i had not yet saluted my father to-day; i wait his visit each morning with so much impatience! but i hope that i do not owe to any illness of fräulein harneim the pleasure of seeing you, my dear countess, at the palace two days in succession." "let your highness feel no uneasiness on that point; fräulein harneim has begged me to take her place to-day; to-morrow she will have the honor of resuming her service of your highness, who will, perhaps excuse the change." "certainly, for i shall lose nothing by it; after having had the pleasure of seeing you two days in succession, my dear countess, i shall have for two other days fräulien harneim with me." "you highness honors us," replied the maid of honor, bending again; "this extreme kindness encourages me to ask a favor." "speak, speak; you know my eagerness to be of assistance to you." "it is true that for a long time your highness has accustomed me to your goodness; but this regards a subject so painful, that i should not have the courage to enter upon it, if it did not concern a very deserving object; for this reason i dare to depend upon the extreme indulgence of your highness." "your have no need of any indulgence, my dear countess; i am always very grateful for every occasion that is given me for doing a little good." "this concerns a poor creature who, unfortunately, had quitted gerolstein before your highness had established that institution, which is so charitable, and so useful for young orphan or forsaken girls, whom nothing protects from evil passions." "and what has happened to her? what do you beg for her?" "her father, a very adventurous man, went to seek his fortune in america, leaving his wife and daughter to a precarious mode of existence. the mother died; the daughter, hardly sixteen years old when left to herself, quitted the country to follow to vienna a seducer, who soon forsook her. then, as always happens, the first step in the path of vice led this wretched girl to an abyss of infamy; in a short time she became, like so many other miserable creatures, the opprobrium of her sex." fleur-de-marie cast down her eyes, blushed, and could not conceal a slight shudder, which did not escape the maid of honor. fearing to have wounded the chaste susceptibility of the princess by conversing with her upon such a creature, she continued, with embarrassment: "i asks a thousand pardons of your royal highness; i have undoubtedly offended you by drawing your attention to so polluted a being; but the miserable one shows so sincere a repentance, that i thought i could solicit for her a little pity." "and you were right. go on, i pray you," said fleur-de-marie, conquering her sad emotion; "indeed, all errors are worthy of pity when repentance follows them." "and that is the case here, as i have remarked to your highness. after two years of this abominable life, grace touched this abandoned one. a prey to a late remorse, she has returned here. chance so favored her, that, on her arrival here, she was lodged at a house belonging to a worthy widow, whose gentleness and piety are well known. encouraged by the pious goodness of the widow, the poor creature has confessed to her her faults, adding that she felt a just horror for her past life, and that she would purchase, at the price of the most severe penance, the happiness of entering a religious house, where she might expiate her errors and deserve their redemption. the worthy widow to whom she has intrusted this confidence, knowing that i had the honor to serve your highness, has written to me to recommend to me this unfortunate one, who, by means of the all-powerful agency of your highness with the princess juliana, lady superior of the abbey, might hope to enter st. hermangilda abbey as lay sister; she asks as a favor to be employed in the most painful hours that her penance may be more meritorious. i have several times desired to converse with this woman before allowing myself to implore for her the pity of your highness, and i am firmly convinced that her repentance will be lasting. it is neither want nor age that has brought her to the true good; she is scarcely eighteen years old; she is yet very beautiful, and possesses a small sum of money, that she wishes to devote to a charitable object if she obtains the favor that she solicits." "i will take charge of her," said fleur-de-marie, restraining with difficulty her emotion, so much resemblance did her past life offer to that of the unfortunate one in whose favor she was solicited: she added, "the repentance of this miserable one is too praiseworthy to be left without encouragement." "i know not how to express my gratitude to your highness. i hardly dared hope your highness would deign to be so charitably interested in such a creature." "she has been guilty--she repents," said fleur-de-marie, with an accent of commiseration and inexpressible sadness; "it is right to nourish pity for her. the more sincere her remorse, the more painful must it be, my dear countess." "i hear my lord, i believe," said the maid of honor, suddenly, without remarking the deep and increasing emotion of fleur-de-marie. in fact, rudolph was entering a saloon which opened into the oratory, holding in his hand an enormous bunch of roses. at the sight of the prince the countess discreetly retired. hardly had she disappeared, when fleur-de-marie threw herself upon her father's neck, resting her forehead upon his shoulder, and remained thus some seconds without speaking. "good-morning, good-morning, my dear child," said rudolph, pressing his daughter to his breast with feeling, without yet observing her sadness. "see this mass of roses; what a fine harvest i gathered for you this morning; it was this that prevented me from coming sooner; i hope that i have never brought you a more magnificent bouquet. take it." and the prince, still holding his bouquet in his hand, moved backward gently, to disengage his daughter from his arms and look at her; but seeing her burst into tears, he threw the bouquet upon the table, took fleur-de-marie's hands in his, and exclaimed, "you weep! oh, what is the matter?" "nothing, nothing, my dear father," said fleur-de-marie, drying her tears and endeavoring to smile upon rudolph. "tell me, i beg you, what is the matter? what can have made you sad?" "i assure you, father, it is nothing to distress you. the countess has just solicited my interest for a poor woman, so interesting, so unhappy, that in spite of myself i am moved by her recital." "truly? is it only this?" "it is only this," answered fleur-de-marie, taking from a table the flowers that rudolph had thrown there; "but how you spoil me!" added she, "what a magnificent bouquet, and when i think that each day you bring me such, gathered by yourself." "my child," said rudolph, gazing upon his daughter with anxiety, "you conceal something from me; your smile is sad--constrained. tell me, i beg you, what distresses you: do not occupy yourself with this bouquet." "ah, you know this bouquet is my joy every morning; and then i love roses so much--i have always loved them so much. you remember," added she, with an affecting smile, "you remember my poor little rose-bush. i have always kept its remains." at this painful allusion to the past, rudolph exclaimed, "unhappy child! are my suspicions founded? in the midst of the splendor that surrounds you, would you yet sometimes think of that horrible time? alas, i had thought to have made you forget it by tenderness." "pardon, pardon, father! these words escaped me. i make you sad." "i am myself sad, poor angel," said rudolph sorrowfully, "because these returns to the past must be fearful to you--because they would poison your life if you were weak enough to abandon yourself to them." "father, this was by chance. since our arrival here, this is the first time--" "this is the first time you have spoken of it--yes; but, perhaps, this is not the first time that these thoughts have troubled you. i have perceived your moments of melancholy, and sometimes i have accused the past as causing your sadness. but, as i was uncertain, i dared not even attempt to combat the sad influence of these remembrances--to show you the uselessness, the injustice of them--for if your grief had arisen from another cause, if the past had been to you what it ought to be, a vain, bad dream, i should risk awakening in you painful ideas that i should wish to destroy." "how good you are! how these fears show me your ineffable tenderness." "what do you mean? my position was so difficult, so delicate. on another occasion i said nothing, but i was ever thinking of what concerned you. by contracting this marriage, which crowned all my desires, i also hoped to give another guarantee to your repose. i knew too well the excessive delicacy of your heart to hope that you could ever--ever cease to think of the past; but i said to myself, that if, by chance, your thoughts ever lingered there, you ought, feeling yourself cherished as a daughter by the noble woman who knew and loved you in the depth of your misfortunes--you ought, i say, to regard the past as sufficiently expiated for by your heavy miseries, and be indulgent, or rather just, toward yourself: for, indeed, my wife is entitled by her high qualities to the respect of all--is it not so? ah, well, since you are to her a daughter, a cherished sister, ought you not to be encouraged? is not her tender attachment an entire redemption? does it not tell you that she knows, as i do, that you have been a victim--that you are not guilty--that others can, indeed, reproach you only with misfortune, that has overwhelmed you from your birth? had you even committed great faults, would they not be a thousand times expiated, redeemed, by all the good you have done, by all that is excellent and adorable that has been developed in you?" "my father--" "ah, let me--let me tell you all my thoughts, since an accident, for which indeed we ought to be grateful, has caused this conversation. for a long time i have desired, and at the same time dreaded it. god will that it may have a salutary result! it was mine to make you forget so many dreadful sorrows. i have a mission to fulfill towards you so august, so sacred, that i should have had the courage to sacrifice, for your repose, my love for madame d'harville--my friendship for murphy, if i had thought their presence would have recalled to you too bitterly the past." "on, my good father, could you think so? their presence, the presence of those who know _what i was_, and who yet love me tenderly, does not it, on the contrary, personify forgetfulness and pardon? indeed, my father, would not my whole life have been made desolate, had you renounced for me your marriage with madame d'harville?" "ah! i should not have been the only one to desire this sacrifice, if it would secure your happiness. you know not what self-denial clémence has already voluntarily imposed upon herself, for she also comprehends all the extent of my duty to you." "your duty to me, my god! and what have i done to merit so much?" "what have you done, poor dear angel! until the moment you were restored to me, your life was only bitterness, misery, desolation; and for your past sufferings i reproach myself, as if i had caused them. and when i see you smiling, pleased, i believe myself pardoned; my only aim, my only wish, is to render you as entirely happy as you have been unfortunate; to raise you as much as you have been lowered, for it seems to me the last traces of the past are effaced when the most eminent, the most honorable persons pay you the respect which is due to you." "respect to me? no, no, my father; but to my rank, or, rather, to that you have given me." "ah! it is not your rank that is loved, that is revered--it is you, understand; indeed, my dear child, it is yourself, yourself alone. there is homage imposed by rank, but it is another imposed by powers of attraction and fascination! you know not how to distinguish between these, because you know not yourself; because you know not that, by a wonderful intelligence and tact, which renders me as proud as idolatrous of you, carry into all ceremonious intercourse, so new to you, a union of dignity, modesty, and grace, which is irresistible to the most stately characters." "you love me so much, father, and all love you so much, that every one is sure of pleasing you by showing me deference." "oh, the wicked child!" exclaimed rudolph, interrupting his daughter, and embracing her tenderly; "what a wicked child, who will not grant a single satisfaction to my fatherly pride!" "is not this pride sufficiently satisfied by attributing to you the good feeling that is shown me, my good father?" "no, indeed, miss," said the prince, smiling, to his daughter, to chase away the sadness with which he still saw her affected; "no, miss, it is not the same thing; for it is not allowable for me to be proud of myself, and i can and ought to be proud of you--yes, proud. and, again, you know not how divinely you are endowed; in fifteen months your education has become so marvelously complete that the most difficult mother would be satisfied with you, and this education has increased still more the almost irresistible influence that you spread around you without being yourself aware of it." "my father, your praises confuse me." "i speak the truth, nothing but the truth. do you wish for instances? let us speak boldly of the past; it is an enemy that i wish to fight hand to hand; we must look it in the face. do you not, then, remember la louve, that courageous woman who saved you? recall that prison scene which you have related to me; a crowd of prisoners, more hardened indeed than wicked, were bent upon tormenting one of their companions, feeble, infirm, and yet their drudge; you appear, you speak, and, behold, immediately these furies, blushing for their base cruelty toward their victim, show themselves as charitable as they were wicked. is this, then, nothing? again, is it--yes or no--owing to you that la louve, that ungovernable woman, has felt repentance, and desired an honest and laborious life? ah, believe me, my dear child, that which conquered la louve, and her turbulent companions, merely by the ascendancy of goodness, combined with a rare elevation of mind; this, although in other circumstances and in an utterly different sphere, must by the same charm (do not smile at such a parallel, miss) fascinate the stately archduchess sophia and all the circle of my court; for the good and wicked, great and small, submit almost always to the influence of higher, nobler spirits. i do not wish to say that you were born princess in the aristocratic sense of the word; that would be a poor flattery to make you, my child; but you are of that small number of privileged beings who are born both to speak to a queen so as to charm her, and to earn her love, and also to speak to a poor, debased, and abandoned creature, so as to make her better, to console her, and thus gain her adoration." "but, my dear father, i beg--" "oh, it is so much the worse for you, darling, that it is so long since my heart has poured forth. think, then, how, with my fear of awakening in you the remembrances of the past which i wish to annihilate, and that i will forever annihilate in your mind, i dared not converse to you of these comparisons, these parallels, which render you so admirable in my eyes. how many times have clémence and i been enraptured with you. how many times moved so that the tears rose in her eyes, has she said to me, 'is it not wonderful that this child should be what she is, after misfortune has so pursued her? or, rather,' would clémence continue, 'is it not wonderful that, far from impairing that noble and rare nature, misfortune has, on the contrary, given a higher range to what there was excellent in her?'" at this moment the door opened, and clémence, grand duchess of gerolstein, entered, holding a letter in her hand. "here, my friend," said she to rudolph, "is a letter from france. i wish to bring it to you, that i might say good-morning to my indolent child, whom i have not seen this morning," added clémence, embracing fleur-de-marie tenderly. "this letter comes just at the right moment," said rudolph, gayly, after having read it through. "we were talking just now of the past; of that monster we must incessantly combat, my dear clémence, for it threatens the repose and happiness of our dear child." "is this true, my friend? those attacks of melancholy which we have observed--" "have no other cause than wicked remembrances; but, fortunately, we now know our enemy, and we will triumph over it." "but from whom, then, is this letter, my friend?" asked clémence. "from rigolette, the wife of germain." "rigolette!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie; "what happiness to hear from her!" "my friend," said clémence, aside to rudolph, at the same time glancing at fleur-de-marie, "do you not fear that this letter may recall to her painful recollections?" "these are those very remembrances i wish to put an end to, my dear clémence: we must approach them boldly, and i am sure that i shall find in rigolette's letter excellent arms against them, for this excellent little creature adored our child, and appreciated her as she should be." and rudolph read aloud the following letter:-- "bouqueval farm, august th, . "your highness, i take the liberty of writing to you again, to make you a sharer of a great happiness which has befallen us, and to ask a new favor of you, to whom we already owe so many, or, rather, to whom we owe the perfect paradise in which we live, i, my germain, and his good mother. "this is the cause, my lord; for ten days i have been mad with joy, for it is ten days since i have possessed the love of a little girl: i fancy that she is the very picture of germain; be, that she is of me; our dear mamma george says that she resembles both; the fact is she has charming blue eyes like germain, and black hair, curly, like mine. just now, contrary to his custom, my husband is unjust; he wishes to have our little one always upon his knees, while it is my right, is it not, my lord?" "fine, worthy young persons! they ought to be happy," said rudolph. "if ever couple were well matched, it is they." "and rigolette deserves her happiness," said fleur-de marie. "i have always blessed the good fortune that caused me to meet them," said rudolph, and he continued, "but, indeed, my lord, pardon my burdening you with these little family quarrels that end always with a kiss. certainly your ears must tingle well, my lord, for there does not pass a day that we do not say, looking at each other, we too, germain and i, 'how happy we are! o, god, how happy we are!' and, naturally, your name follows directly after these words. excuse the scrawl there is just here, my lord, and the blot; i had written without thinking, m. rudolph, as i used to say, and i have scratched it out. i hope, by the way, that you will find my writing has improved much, as well as my orthography, for germain always shows me how, and i no longer make great blots stretching all across, as when you made my pens." "i must confess," said rudolph, laughing, "that my friend is under a slight illusion, and i am sure that germain is occupied rather with kissing the hand of his pupil than directing it." "come, come, my dear, you are right," said clémence, looking at the letter, "the writing is rather large, but very legible." "in truth, there is some progress," said rudolph; "formerly it would have taken eight pages to contain what she writes now in two." and he continued: "it is, however, true, that you have made pens for me, my lord; when we think of it, germain and i, we are quite ashamed, in recalling how far from proud you were. oh, here again do i find myself speaking to you of something besides what we wish to ask you, my lord; for my husband unites with me, and it is very important; we have formed a plan. you shall see. we supplicate you, then, my lord, to have the goodness to choose and give us a name for our dear girl; it is agreed upon with the godfather and godmother, and this godfather and godmother, do you know who they are, my lord? two persons whom you and her ladyship the marchioness d'harville have raised from misery to render happy, happy as we are. in a word, they are morel, the jeweler, and jeanne duport, the sister of a poor prisoner named pique-vinaigre, a worthy woman whom i saw in prison when i went to visit my poor germain there, and whom, afterward, her ladyship, the marchioness, brought out from the hospital. now, my lord, you must know why we have chosen m. morel for godfather, and jeanne duport for godmother. we said one to another, germain and i, this will be a way of thanking m. rudolph again for his kindness, by taking for godfather and godmother of our little girl worthy people who owe everything to him and to the marchioness, without taking into consideration that morel the jeweler and jeanne duport are the cream of honest people. they are of our class, and besides, as germain and i say, they are our kindred in happiness, for they are like us, of the family of your _protégées_, my lord." "oh, father, has not this idea a charming delicacy," said fleur-de-marie, with emotion, "to take as godfather and godmother of their child those who owe everything to you and my second mother." "you are right, dear child," said clémence; "i am most deeply touched by this token." "and i am very glad that i have so well bestowed my benefits," said rudolph, continuing to read. "besides, with the aid of the money you have given him, m. rudolph, morel is now a dealer in precious stones; he gains something to bring up his family upon, and the means of teaching his children some trade. the good louise will, i think, marry a worthy laborer, who loves and respects her, as he should, for she has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and the betrothed of louise has heart enough to understand this." "i was very certain," exclaimed rudolph, addressing his daughter, "of finding in dear little rigolette's letter arms against our enemy! you hear, it is the expression of the plain common sense of this honest and upright soul. she says of louise, 'she has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and her betrothed has heart enough to understand this.'" fleur-de-marie, more and more moved and saddened by the reading of this letter, trembled at the glance that her father fixed upon her, for a moment, as he emphasized the above last words. the prince continued: "i will tell you also, my lord, that jeanne duport, through the generosity of the marchioness, has been able to be separated from her husband, that wicked man who ate her out of everything and beat her; she has taken her eldest daughter with her, and she keeps a little lace shop, where she sells what she and her children make; their trade prospers. there are nowhere such happy people, and thanks to whom! thanks to you, my lord, to the marchioness, who both know how to give so much, and to give to so good purpose. "by the way, germain will write to you as usual, my lord, at the end of the month, on the subject of the bank for laborers out of employment, and of gratuitous loans; the reimbursements are seldom behindhand, and we perceive already much good that this spreads in this quarter. now, at least, poor families can get through the dull season for work without putting their linens and beds in pledge. then when work returns, you should see with what spirit they put themselves to it; they are so proud that confidence is placed in their work and their probity! and, indeed, it is not only this you should see. besides, how they bless you for having lent them the wherewithal. yes, my lord, they bless you, _you_, for although you say you have done nothing in its institution but to nominate germain for head cashier, and that it is an unknown who has done this good work, we like better to believe that it is to you we owe it; it is more natural. besides, there is a famous trumpet to repeat on every occasion that it is you we should bless; this trumpet is madame pipelet, who repeats to every one that it is only her _prince of tenants_ (excuse me, m. rudolph, she always calls you so) who can have done this charitable work, and her darling alfred is of her opinion. as to him, he is so proud and so pleased with his office of bank porter, that he says that the employment of m. cabrion would be nothing to him. to end your family of _protégées_, my lord, i will add that germain has read in the papers that martial, a planter in algiers, has been spoken of with great praises for the courage he had shown in repulsing, at the head of his farmers, an attack of thievish arabs, and that his wife, as intrepid as himself, had been slightly wounded in the side while she was discharging her gun like a real grenadier. from that time, they say in the papers, she has been called 'mrs. rifle.' excuse this long letter, my lord, but i thought you would not be sorry to hear from us concerning those whose good providence you have been. i write to you from the farm at bouqueval, where we have been since spring with our good mother. germain leaves every morning for his business, and returns at night. in the autumn we shall go back to live in paris. how strange it is, m. rudolph, i, who never loved the country, adore it now. i make it clear to myself: it is because germain loves it so much. speaking of the farm, m. rudolph, you, who undoubtedly know where that good little goualeuse is--if you have an opportunity, tell her how we always remember her as one of the sweetest and best beings in the world; and that i myself never think of our happiness without saying, since m. rudolph was also the m. rudolph of dear fleur-de-marie, through his care she must be as happy as we; and this makes my happiness yet more perfect. how i run on! what will you say to me, my lord? but oh! you are so good! and then, you see, it is your fault if i chatter as much and as joyously as papa cretu and ramonette, who no longer dare to rival me in singing. indeed, m. rudolph, i can tell you, i put it into their mouths. you will not refuse us one request, will you, my lord? if you give a name to our dear little child, it seems to us it will bring her good fortune, it will be like a happy star for her; believe it, m. rudolph, sometimes my good germain and i almost congratulate ourselves for having known so much sorrow, because we feel doubly how happy our child will be not to know what is the misery through which we have passed. if i close by telling, m. rudolph, that we endeavor to aid poor people here and there, according to our means, it is not to boast of ourselves, but that you may know we do not keep to ourselves alone all the happiness you have given us; beside, we always say to those we succor, 'it is not we that you must thank and bless, it is m. rudolph, the best, most generous man that there is in the world; 'and they take you for a kind of _saint_, if nothing more. adieu, my lord! believe me, when our little girl shall begin to spell, the first words she shall read will be your name, m. rudolph, and afterward, those words you caused to be written upon my wedding gift: "labor, and wisdom--honor and happiness." "with the help of these four words, our tenderness and our care, we hope, my lord, that our child will be always worthy to speak the name of him who has been our good providence, and that of all the wretched ones he has known. pardon, my lord, for finishing thus; i have such large tears in my eyes-they are good tears--excuse, if you please--it is not my fault--but i cannot see clearly, so that i write badly. "i have the honor, my lord, to salute you with as much respect as gratitude, rigolette germain." "p.s.--oh! my lord, in reading over my letter, i perceive that i have very often written _m. rudolph_. you will pardon me? i may hope so? you know well that under one name or another, we respect and bless you the same, my lord." "dear little rigolette," said clémence, softened by the letter which rudolph had just read. "this simple epistle is full of sensibility." "undoubtedly," replied rudolph, "a benefit was never better bestowed. our friend is endowed with an excellent disposition; she has a heart of gold, and our dear child appreciates her as we do," added he, addressing his daughter. then, struck with her paleness and emotion, he cried: "but what is the matter?" "alas, what a sad contrast between my position and rigolette's. work and wisdom--honor and happiness--those four words tell all that has happened to her. a laborious and sensible daughter, a beloved wife, a happy mother, an honored woman--such is her destiny--while i--" "great god, what are you saying?" "pardon, my good father, do not accuse me of ingratitude, but notwithstanding your ineffable tenderness, notwithstanding that of my second mother, notwithstanding your sovereign power, notwithstanding the respect and splendor with which i am surrounded, my shame is incurable. nothing can annihilate the past--once more, pardon me, my father. i have until now concealed it from you, but the remembrance of my former degradation throws me into despair--it kills me." "clémence, do you hear her?" cried rudolph, in despair. "but, my poor child," said clémence, taking affectionately the hands of fleur-de-marie in her own, "our tenderness, the affection of those who surround you, and which you so well merit, does not all this prove to you that the past should be to you only a vain and bad dream?" "oh, fatality, fatality!" resumed rudolph. "now i curse my fears and silence; that sad idea, so long rooted in her mind, has made there, unknown to us, dreadful ravages, and it is too late to contend against this deplorable error; alas! how unfortunate i am." "courage, my dear," said clémence to rudolph; "you just now said it is better to know the enemy which threatens us. we now know the cause of our dear child's sorrow! we shall triumph over it, because we shall have reason, justice, and tenderness on our side." "and then at last, because she will see that her affliction, if it were incurable, would render ours incurable also," replied rudolph, "for in truth it would be to despair of all justice, human and divine, if our poor child had only a change of sufferings." after a silence of some moments, during which fleur-de-marie appeared to be collecting herself, she took with one hand rudolph's, with the other clémence's, and said to them, with a voice expressive of deep emotion: "listen to me, my good father, and you also, my loving mother, this day is a solemn one--god has granted, and i thank him for it, that it should be impossible for me to conceal from you any longer what i feel. in a little time i should, in any event, have made to you the confession you are now about to hear, for all suffering has an end, and concealed as mine has been, i should not have been able to keep silence to you much longer." "oh! i understand all," cried rudolph; "there is no longer any hope for her." "i hope for the future, my father, and this hope gives me strength to speak to you thus." "and what can you hope for the future, my poor child, since your present fate causes you only grief and bitterness?" "i am going to tell you, my father; but, before all, permit me to recall the past to you, to own to you, before god who hears me, what i have felt up to this time." "speak, speak, we hear you," said rudolph, seating himself with clémence, by fleur-de-marie. "while i remained at paris, near you, my father," said fleur-de-marie, "i was so happy, oh! so completely happy, that those delicious days would not be too well paid for by years of suffering. you see i have at least known what happiness is." "during some days, perhaps?" "yes, but what pure and unmingled felicity! love surrounded me then, as ever, with the tenderest care. i gave myself up without fear to the emotions of gratitude and affection which every moment raised my heart to you. the future dazzled me: a father to adore, a second mother to love doubly, for she had taken the place of my own, whom i had never known--i must own everything; my pride was excited in spite of myself, so much was i honored in belonging to you. then the few persons of your household who at paris had occasion to speak to me called me 'your highness,' i could not prevent myself from being proud of this title. if i thought then, at times, vaguely of the past, it was to say to myself, 'i, formerly so humble, the beloved daughter of a sovereign prince who is blessed and revered by every one; i, formerly so miserable, i am enjoying all the splendors of luxury, and of an almost royal existence.' alas! my father, my fortune was so unforeseen, your power surrounded me with such a splendid _eclat_ that; i was excusable perhaps in allowing myself to become so blinded." "excusable! nothing was more natural, my poor beloved angel; what wrong was there in being proud of a rank which was your own, of enjoying the advantages of the position to which i had restored you! at that time i recollect you were delightfully gay; how many times have i seen you fall into my arms as if overpowered with happiness, and heard you say to me, with an enchanting accent, 'my father, it is too much, too much happiness!' unfortunately, these are only recollections; they lulled me into a deceitful security, and since then i have not been enough alarmed at the cause of your melancholy." "but, tell us then, my child," asked clémence, "what has changed into sadness this pure, this legitimate joy which you first felt?" "alas! a very sad and entirely unforeseen circumstance." "what circumstance?" "you recollect, my father," said fleur-de-marie, without being able to conquer a shuddering of horror; "you remember the sad scene which preceded our departure from paris, when your carriage was stopped near the barrier?" "yes," replied rudolph, sadly. "brave slasher, after having again saved my life; he died there before us, saying, 'heaven is just; i have killed, they kill me.'" "oh well, father, at the moment when this unfortunate man was expiring, do you know whom i saw looking intently at me? oh, that look, that look! it has pursued me ever since," added fleur-de-marie, shuddering. "what look? of whom do you speak?" cried rudolph. "of the ogress of the white rabbit," murmured fleur-de-marie. "that monster seen again?--where?" "you did not perceive her in the tavern where the slasher breathed his last. she was among the women who surrounded him." "oh, now!" said rudolph, dejectedly, "i understand: already struck with terror by the murder of the slasher, you thought there was something providential in this dreadful meeting." "it is but too true, my father. at the sight of the ogress i felt a mortal shudder. it seemed to me that, under her look, my heart, until then radiant with happiness and hope, was suddenly frozen. yes; to meet this woman at the moment when the slasher was dying and repeating the words 'heaven is just,' this seemed to me a providential reproof of my proud forgetfulness of the past, which i ought to expiate by humiliation and repentance." "but the past was laid upon you; you can answer for it before high heaven! you were constrained, intoxicated, unfortunate child. once precipitated, in spite of yourself, in this abyss, you could not leave it, notwithstanding your remorse, your terror your despair, thanks to the atrocious indifference of that society of which you were the victim. you saw yourself forever chained in that cavern; the chance which placed you in my path could alone have dragged you from it." "and then, my child, as your father has told you, you were the victim, not the accomplice, of the infamy," cried clémence. "but to this infamy i have submitted, my mother," sadly rejoined fleur-de-marie; "nothing can annihilate these horrible recollections. they pursue me incessantly, no longer as formerly, in the midst of the peaceable inhabitants of a farm, or of the degraded women, my companions in saint lazare, but they pursue me even to this palace, peopled with the _elite_ of germany. they pursue me even to the arms of my father, even to the steps of his throne." fleur-de-marie melted into tears. rudolph and clémence remained mute before this frightful expression of invincible remorse. they, too wept, for they felt the powerlessness of their consolations. "since then," resumed fleur-de-marie, drying her tears, "every moment of the day i say to myself, with bitter shame, 'i am honored, i am revered; the most eminent and most venerable surround me with respect; in sight of the whole court, the sister of an emperor has deigned to fasten the bandeau upon my head; yet i had lived in the mud of the city-have been spoken to familiarly by thieves and assassins!' oh, father, forgive me! but the more my position is elevated, the more i have been struck with the profound degradation into which i had fallen. at each new homage which is rendered me, i feel myself guilty of a profanation. think of it, oh, heaven! after having been what _i have been_ to suffer old men to bow before me--to suffer noble young women, women justly respected, to feel themselves flattered to approach me--to suffer finally, that princesses, doubly august by age and their sacerdotal character should heap upon me favors and praises, is not this impious and sacrilegious? and then, if you knew, my father, what i have suffered--what i still suffer every day, in saying, 'if it should please god that the past should be known, with what merited scorn would she be treated who is now elevated so high. what a just--what a frightful punishment!'" "but, unfortunate one, my wife and i, who know the past, are worthy of our rank, and we love, we adore you." "you have for me the blind tenderness of a father and a mother." "and all the good you have done since your abode here--this beautiful and holy institution, this asylum opened by you to orphans and poor abandoned girls--those admirable cares of intelligence and devotion with which you watch over them--you insisting that they call themselves _your sisters_--wishing that they should call you so, since in fact you treat them as such, is this nothing to atone for faults which were not your own? finally, the affection which is shown for you by the worthy abbess of saint hermangilda, who did not know you till after your arrival here--do you not owe it altogether to the elevation of your mind, the beauty of your soul, and your sincere piety?" "while the praises from the abbess are addressed only to my present conduct, i enjoy them without scruple, my father; but when she quotes my example to the noble ladies who are engaged in religious offices in the abbey--when they see in me a model of all the virtues, i am ready to die of confusion, as if i were the accomplice of a wicked falsehood." after a long silence, rudolph resumed, with deep dejection: "i see--i must despair of persuading you: reason is weak when opposed to a conviction, the more firm because it has its source in a generous and elevated sentiment. since every moment you throw back a look on the past, the contrast between these remembrances and your present position must be indeed a continual punishment to you. pardon me in turn, poor child." "you, my good father, ask pardon of me, for what? good heaven, what?" "for not having foreseen your susceptibility. from the exceeding delicacy of your heart, i ought to have divined it; and yet, what could i do? it was my duty solemnly to acknowledge you as my daughter. then this respect, of which the homage is so painful to you, comes of necessity to surround you. yes; but i was wrong in one point. i have been, do you see, too proud of you--i have wished too much to enjoy the charms of your beauty--those charms of the mind which surprised every one who approached you. i ought to have hidden my treasure--to have lived almost in retirement with clémence and you; i should have renounced these _fêtes_--these numerous receptions, at which i loved so much to see you shine, thinking, foolishly, to elevate you so high--so high, that the past would disappear entirely from your eyes. but, alas! the reverse has taken place, and, as you have told me, the more elevated you have been, the deeper and more dark has seemed the abyss from which i drew you. yet once again it is my fault. i meant, however, to do right, but i was mistaken," said rudolph, drying his eyes, "but i was mistaken; and then i supposed myself pardoned too soon. the vengeance of god was not satisfied; it still pursues me in the unhappiness of my daughter!" a discreet knock at the door of the saloon which adjoined the oratory of fleur-de-marie interrupted this sad conversation. rudolph rose, and half opened the door. he saw murphy, who said, "i ask pardon of your royal highness for disturbing you, but a courier from prince herkausen-oldenzaal has just brought a letter, which, he says, is very important, and must be delivered immediately to your royal highness." "thank you, my good murphy; do not go away," said rudolph, with a sigh; "presently i shall want to talk with you." and the prince, having shut the door, remained a moment in the saloon, to read the letter which murphy had just brought him. it was in these words: "my lord,--may i hope that the ties of relationship which attach me to your royal highness, and the friendship with which you have always deigned to honor me, will excuse me for a proceeding which might be considered very rash, if it was not imposed by the conscience of an honest man. it is fifteen months, my lord, since you returned from france, bringing with you a daughter, so much the more beloved because you had thought her forever lost, while, on the contrary, she had never quitted her mother, whom you married at paris _in extremis_, in order to legitimatize the birth of the princess amelia, who is thus the equal of the other princesses of the germanic confederation. her birth is, therefore, sovereign, her beauty is incomparable, her heart is as worthy of her birth as her mind is worthy of her beauty, as my sister, the abbess of saint hermangilda, has written me. the abbess, as you know, has often the honor of seeing this well-beloved daughter of your royal highness. during the time which my son passed at gerolstein he saw, almost every day, the princess amelia; he loves her desperately, but he has always concealed this passion. i have thought it my duty, my lord, to inform you of this circumstance. you have deigned, as a father, to receive my son, and have invited him to the bosom of your family, and to live in that intimacy which was so precious to him. i should fail in loyalty to your highness if i dissimulated a circumstance which modified the reception which was reserved for my son. i know that it would be madness in us to dare hope to ally ourselves more nearly to the family of your royal highness. i know that the daughter of whom you have so good a right to be proud may aspire to a higher destiny. but i know, also, that you are the most tender of fathers, and that if you ever judged my son worthy of belonging to you, and of contributing to the happiness of the princess amelia, you would not be deterred by the grave disproportion which places such a fortune beyond our hopes. it is not for me to make a eulogium of henry, my lord, but i appeal to the encouragement and to the praise you have so often condescended to bestow on him. i dare not and i cannot say more to you, my lord; my emotion is too profound. whatever may be your determination, believe that we shall submit to it with respect, and that i shall be always faithful to the sentiments of the most profound devotion with which i have the honor to be, your royal highness's most humble and obedient servant, gustavus paul, "prince of herkausen-oldenzaal." chapter v after reading the prince's letter, rudolph remained for some time sad and thoughtful: a ray of hope then lighted up his face; he returned to his daughter, on whom clémence was vainly lavishing the most tender consolations. "my child, you have yourself said it was heaven's will that this day should he one of solemn explanations." said rudolph to fleur-de-marie; "i did not anticipate a new and grave circumstance which was to justify your words." "to what does it refer, father?" "my dear, what is it?" "new causes of fear!" "for you." "for me?" "you have confessed to us but half your troubles, my poor child." "be so kind as to explain yourself, my father," said fleur-de-marie, blushing. "now i can do it; i could not sooner, not knowing how much you despaired of your fate. listen, my beloved daughter! you believe yourself, or rather, you are, very unhappy. when, at the beginning of our conversation, you spoke to me of the hopes which remained to you, i understood--my heart was broken, for i was to part with you forever--that i was to see you shut yourself up in a cloister--to see you descend living to a tomb. is it your wish to enter a convent?" "father!" "my child, is this true?" "yes, if you will permit me to do it," replied fleur-de-marie, with a stifled voice. "leave us!" cried clémence. "the abbey of saint hermangilda is very near gerolstein. i shall often see you and father." "do you consider that such vows are eternal, my dear child? you are only eighteen years old, and perhaps some day--" "oh, i shall never repent the resolution i have taken. i shall never find repose and forgetfulness but in the solitude of the cloister, if you, my father, and you my second mother, continue your affection to me." "the duties and consolations of a religious life might, indeed," said rudolph, "if they could not heal, at least calm, the sorrows of your poor depressed and distracted spirit. and though half the happiness of my life is the forfeit, i may perhaps approve your resolution. i know what you suffer, and i do not say that renouncing the world may not be the fatally logical end of your sorrowful existence." "what, you also, rudolph?" cried clémence. "permit me, my dear, to express all my thoughts," replied rudolph. then, addressing his daughter, "but before taking this last determination, we must examine if there may not be other prospects for the future, more agreeable to your wishes and ours. in this case, i should not regard any sacrifice, if i could secure you such a future existence." fleur-de-marie and clémence started with surprise. rudolph continued, fixing his eyes on his daughter, "what do you think of your cousin henry?" after a moment of hesitation, she threw herself weeping into the arms of the prince. "you love him, my poor child?" "you never asked me, father," replied fleur-de-marie, drying her tears. "my dear, we were not deceived," said clémence. "so you love him," added rudolph, taking his daughter's hands in his own, "you love him well, my dear child?" "oh, if you knew," replied fleur-de-marie, "how much it has cost me to hide from you the sentiment as soon as i discovered it in my heart--alas, at the least question from you, i should have owned everything. but shame restrained me, and would always have restrained me." "and do you think that henry knows your love for him?" said rudolph. "great heaven, father, i do not think so," cried fleur-de-marie, in terror. "and do you think he loves you?" "no, father, no--oh, i hope not--he would suffer too much." "and how did this love come, my beloved angel?" "alas, almost without my knowing it-you remember the picture of the page?" "which is in the apartment of the abbess of saint hermangilda--it was henry's portrait." "yes, dear father, believing this to be a painting of another age, one day in your presence, i did not conceal from the superior that i was struck with the beauty of this portrait. you said to me then, in jest, that the picture represented one of our relations of the olden time, who, when very young, had displayed great courage and excellent qualities. the grace of this figure, joined to what you told me of the noble character of this relative, added yet to my first impression. from that day, i often took pleasure in recalling this portrait, and that without the least scruple, believing that it belonged to one of my cousins long since dead. little by little i habituated myself to these gentle thoughts, knowing that it was not permitted me to love on this earth," added fleur-de-marie with a heart-rending expression, and her tears bursting forth anew. "i gave to these romantic reveries a sort of melancholy interest, half smiles, half tears. i looked upon the pretty page of the past time as a lover beyond the grave, whom i should perhaps one day meet in eternity. it seemed to me that such a love was alone worthy of a heart which belonged entirely to you, my father. but pardon me these sad, childish imaginations." "nothing can be more touching, on the contrary, poor child," said clémence. "now," replied rudolph, "i understand why you one day reproached me with an air of regret for having deceived you about the picture." "alas, yes, dear father. judge of my confusion when, afterward, the superior informed me that this picture was that of her nephew, one of our relations. then my trouble was extreme; i endeavored to forget my first impressions, but the more i endeavored, the more they became rooted in my heart, in consequence even of the perseverance of my efforts. unfortunately, yet, i often hear you, dear father, praising the heart, the mind, the character of prince henry." "you already loved him, my dear child, even when you had as yet seen only his portrait, and heard of his rare qualities!" "without loving him, i felt toward him an attraction, for which i bitterly reproached myself. but i consoled myself by thinking that no one in the world would know this sad secret which covered me with shame in mine own eyes. to dare to love, me, me, and then not to be contented with your tenderness and that of my second mother! did i not owe to you enough to employ all my strength, all the resources of my heart, in loving you both? oh, believe me, among the reproaches i made myself, these last were the most painful. finally, i saw my cousin for the first time at that grand fête you gave to the archduchess sophia. prince henry resembled his portrait in such a striking manner, that i recognized him immediately. the same evening, dear father, you presented my cousin to me, authorizing between us the intimacy which our relationship permitted." "and soon you loved each other?" "ah, my father, he expressed his respect, his attachment, his admiration, with so much eloquence; you had yourself told me so much good of him." "he deserved it; there is no more elevated character; there is no better or braver heart." "your pardon, dear father, do not praise him so much; i am already so unhappy." "and i must convince you of all the rare qualities of your cousin. what i say surprises you; i understand it, my child--go on." "i felt the danger that i incurred in seeing prince henry every day, and yet i could not withdraw myself from the danger. notwithstanding my blind confidence in you, dear father, i dared not express my fears to you. i directed all my courage to concealing my love; however, i own to you, dear father, notwithstanding my remorse, often in this fraternal intimacy of every day, forgetting the past, i felt gleams of happiness till then unknown to me, but followed soon, alas! by dark despair, when i again fell under the influence of my sad recollections. for, alas! if they pursued me in the midst of the homage and respect of persons almost indifferent to me, judge, judge, dear father, of my tortures when prince henry lavished on me the most delicate praises, followed me with such frank and pious adoration; putting, as he said, the brotherly attachment that he felt for me under the holy protection of his mother, whom he lost when he was very young. i endeavored to merit this sweet name of sister, which he bestowed upon me, by advising my cousin respecting his future prospects, according to my weak knowledge; by interesting myself in all which related to him; by promising always to ask of you such assistance for him as you might be able to give. but often, also, what torments have i felt, how i have restrained my tears when, by chance, prince henry interrogated me about my infancy, my early youth! to deceive--always to deceive, always to fear, always to lie, always to tremble, before the inexorable look of one's judge. oh! my father, i was guilty, i know it; i had no right to love; but i expiated this sad love by many bitter sorrows. what shall i say to you? the departure of the prince henry, in causing me a new and violent chagrin, enlightened me--i saw that i loved him more than i imagined. thus," added fleur-de-marie, with deep dejection, and as if this confession had exhausted her strength, "i should have soon made you this avowal, for this fatal love has filled up the measure of my sufferings. say, now that you know all, my father, is there any future prospect for me but that of the cloister?" "there is another, my child; yes, and this future is as sweet, as smiling, as happy, as the other is dark and gloomy." "what do you say, dear father?" "hear me in my turn. you must feel that i love you too much, that my tenderness is too clear-sighted, to have allowed your love and that of henry to have escaped me; at the end of a few days i was certain that he loved you, more even, perhaps, than you loved him." "my father, no, no; it is impossible; he does not love me at this time." "he loves you, i tell you; he loves you passionately, to madness, almost." "oh, heaven!" "listen further. when i told you that pleasantry about the picture, i did not know that henry was about to visit his aunt at gerolstein. when he came i yielded to the inclination i have always felt toward him; i invited him to come and see us often. i had before always treated him like my son; i changed in no degree my manner toward him. at the end of some days, clémence and myself no longer doubted the regard you felt for each other. if your position was painful, my poor child, mine was not less so; it was extremely delicate. as a father, knowing the rare and excellent qualities of henry, i could not but be profoundly happy at your attachment, for i could never have dreamed of a husband more worthy of you." "ah! dear father, pity, pity!" "but, as a man of honor, i thought of the sad past life of my child. thus, far from encouraging the hopes of henry, i gave him, in several conversations, advice absolutely contradictory from what he would have expected from me if i had thought of giving him your hand. in such a situation, one so delicate, as a father and a man of honor, it was incumbent on me to keep a rigorous neutrality, not to encourage the love of your cousin, but to treat him with the same affability as formerly. you have been hitherto so unhappy, my beloved child, that seeing you, so to speak, reviving under the impulse of this noble and pure love, i could not for anything in the world have deprived you of its divine and rare joys. admitting even that this love must afterward be broken off, you would at least have known some days of innocent happiness, and then, finally, this love might secure your future repose." "my repose?" "listen again. the father of henry, prince paul, has just written to me--here is his letter. though he regards this alliance as an unhoped-for favor, he asks of me your hand for his son, who, he says, feels for you the most respectful, the most passionate love." "oh!" said fleur-de-marie, hiding her face in her hands, "i might have been so happy!" "courage, my well-beloved daughter; if you wish it, this happiness is yours," cried rudolph, tenderly. "oh! never, never; do you forget?" "i forget nothing; but if to-morrow you enter the convent, riot only i lose you forever, but you quit me for a life of tears and austerity. oh! to _lose_ you! to lose _you_! let me at least know that you are happy, and married to the man you love and who adores you." "married to him! me, dear father!" "yes; but on condition that, immediately after your marriage, contracted here at night, without other witnesses than murphy for you and baron graun for henry, you shall both go to some tranquil retreat in switzerland or italy, to live unknown as wealthy citizens. now, my beloved daughter, do you know why i resign myself to a separation from you? do you know why i desire henry to quit his title when he is out of germany. it is because i am sure that, in the midst of a solitary happiness, concentrated in an existence deprived of all display, little by little you will forget this odious past, which is especially painful to you because it forms such a bitter contrast to the ceremonious homage with which you are constantly surrounded." "rudolph is right," cried clémence: "alone with henry, continually happy with his happiness and your own, you will no longer have time to think, my dear child, of your former sorrows." "then, as it will be impossible for me to be long without seeing you, every year clémence and i will go to visit you." "and some day, when the wound of which you suffer, poor little angel, shall be healed, when you shall have found forgetfulness in happiness, and this moment will come sooner than you think, you will return to us, never to leave us." "forgetfulness in happiness," murmured fleur-de-marie, who, in spite of herself, was soothed by this enchanting vision. "yes, yes, my child," replied clémence, "when at every moment of the day you see yourself blessed, respected, adored by the husband of your choice, by the man whose noble and generous heart your father has extolled to you a thousand times, shall you have leisure to think of the past, and even if you should think of it, why should the past sadden you? why should it prevent you from believing in the radiant felicity of your husband?" "finally it is true, for tell me, my child," replied rudolph, who could scarcely restrain his tears at seeing that his daughter hesitated, "adored by your husband, when you shall have the knowledge and the proof of the happiness which he owes to you, what reproaches can you make yourself?" "father," said fleur-de-marie, forgetting the past for this ineffable hope, "can so much happiness be reserved for me?" "ah, i was sure of it," cried rudolph, in an ecstasy of triumphant joy; "is there a father who wishes it, who cannot restore happiness to an adored child?" "she merits so much that we ought to be heard, my friend," said clémence, sharing the transport of her husband. "to marry henry, and some day to pass my whole life between him, my second mother, and my father," replied fleur-de-marie, yielding more and more to the sweet intoxication of her thoughts. "yes, my beloved angel, we shall all be happy. i will reply to henry's father that i consent to the marriage," cried rudolph, pressing fleur-de marie in his arms with indescribable emotion. "take courage, our separation will be short; the new duties which your marriage will impose upon you will confirm your steps still more in the path of forgetfulness and felicity in which you will henceforth tread, for finally, if you should one day be a mother, it would not be only for yourself that it would be necessary you should be happy." "ah!" cried fleur-de-marie, with a heart-rending cry, for this word _mother_ awoke her from the enchanting dream which was lulling her. "mother? me!--oh, never! i am unworthy that holy name; i should die with shame before my child, if i had not died with shame before its father, in making him the avowal of the past." "what does she say, gracious heaven!" cried rudolph, stunned by the abrupt change. "i a mother!" resumed fleur-de-marie, with bitter despair, "i respected, i blessed by an innocent and pure child, i, formerly the object of everybody's scorn, i profane thus the sacred name of mother? oh, never! miserable thing that i was to allow myself to be drawn away to an unworthy hope!" "my daughter, listen to me, in pity." fleur-de-marie stood upright, pale, and beautiful, in the majesty of incurable misfortune. "my father, we forget that before marrying me prince henry must know my past life." "i have not forgotten it," cried rudolph. "he must know all, he shall know all." "and would you not rather see me die than see me so degraded in his eyes?" "but he shall also know what an irresistible fatality plunged you into the abyss. he shall know your restoration." "and he will finally feel," replied clémence, pressing fleur-de-marie in her arms, "that when i call you my daughter, he may without shame call you his wife!" "and i, mother, i love prince henry too much, i esteem him too much, ever to give him a hand which has been touched by the ruffians of the city." * * * * * a short time after this sad scene, the "official gazette" of gerolstein contained the following announcement: "yesterday took place, at the grand-ducal abbey of saint hermangilda, in presence of his royal highness the reigning grand duke and all the court, the taking of the veil by the very high and most puissant princess, her royal highness amelia of gerolstein. the novice was received by the most illustrious and most reverend lord charles maximilian, archbishop-duke of oppenheim; lord hannibal, andre montano, of the princes of delpha, bishop of ceuta _in partibus infidelium_ and apostolic nuncio, gave the salutation and the papal benediction. the sermon was pronounced by the most reverend lord peter von asfeld, canon of the chapter of cologne, count of the holy roman empire--veni creator optime." chapter vi the profession. _rudolph to clémence._ gerolstein, january th, . [footnote: about six months have passed since fleur-de-marie entered st. hermangilda abbey as a novice.] in assuring me to-day of the complete restoration of your father's health, my dear, you give me reason to hope that you can, by the end of the week, bring him back here. i foresaw that in the residence at rosenfeld, situated in the midst of forests, he would be exposed, notwithstanding all possible precaution, to the severity of our cold; unfortunately, his passion for hunting rendered our advice useless. i conjure you, clémence, as soon as your father can bear the motion of the carriage, to set out immediately, quit that wild country and wild dwelling, only habitable for those old germans of iron frame whose race has disappeared. i fear lest you should also fall sick: the fatigues of this hurried journey, the anxiety which preyed upon you until you reached your father, all these causes must have affected you sadly. why could i not accompany you? clémence, i beg of you, be not imprudent; i know how bold and how devoted you are. i know how anxiously you will attend to your father; but he will be as much in despair as myself if your health should be impaired by this journey. i deplore doubly the illness of the count, for it takes you from me at a moment when i could have drawn deeply up from the fountain of consolation of your tenderness. the ceremony of the profession of our poor child is fixed for to-morrow--to-morrow, the th of january, fatal epoch. it was upon the th of january that i drew the sword against my father. ah! my friend, i too soon thought myself forgiven. the intoxicating hope of passing my life with you and my daughter made me forget that it was not myself, but that it was she who had been punished thus far, and that my punishment was still to come. and it did come--when, six months since, the unhappy one unveiled to us the double torment of her heart; "her incurable shame at the past, added to her unhappy love for henry." these two bitter and burning sensations, the one heightened by the other by a fatal logic, caused her to take up the unconquerable resolution to take the veil. you know, my dear friend, how, in combating this design with all the strength of our adoration for her, we could not deny that her worthy and courageous conduct should have been ours. how could we answer those terrible words? i love prince henry too well to give him a hand which has been touched by the ruffians of the city." she was obliged to sacrifice herself to her noble scruples, to the ineffaceable remembrance of her shame; she has done it valiantly; she has renounced the splendors of the world; she has descended from the steps of a throne to kneel, clothed in sackcloth, upon the pavement of a church; she crossed her hands upon her breast, bowed her angelic head, and her beautiful fair locks, which i loved so much, and which i preserve as a treasure, fell, cut off by the sharp iron. oh! my friend, you know our heart-rending emotion at this mournful and solemn moment; this emotion is, even now, as poignant as at the time. in writing these words to you, i weep like a child. * * * * * i saw her this morning; although she seemed to me less pale than usual, and declares she does not suffer, her health makes me anxious. alas! when, under the veil and band which surround her noble forehead, i see her attenuated features, which have the cold whiteness of marble, and which make her large blue eyes seem larger still, i cannot help dreaming over the gentle and pure splendor with which her beauty sparkled at our marriage. never did she look so charming. our happiness seemed to radiate from her beautiful countenance. as i told you, i saw her this morning; she has not been informed that princess juliana voluntarily resigns in her favor the dignity of abbess; to-morrow, therefore, on the day of her profession, our child will be elected abbess, as there is a unanimous desire among the noble ladies of the community to confer upon her this dignity. since the beginning of her novitiate, there has been but one opinion of her piety, charity, and religious exactness in fulfilling all the duties of her order, whose austerities she exaggerates most unfortunately. she has exercised in this convent the influence which she exercises everywhere without attempting to do so, and in ignorance of the fact which increases her power. her conversation this morning confirmed my doubts. she has not found in the solitude of the cloister, and in the severe practice of monastic duties, repose and forgetfulness. she congratulated herself, however, upon her resolution, which she considers the accomplishment of an imperious duty; but she suffers continually, for she is not formed for those mystical contemplations, in the midst of which certain people, forgetting all affection, all earthly remembrances, are lost in ascetic delights. no; fleur-de-marie believes, prays, submits herself to the rigorous and harsh observance of her order; she pours out the most evangelical consolations, the most humble cares upon the poor sick women who are taken care of in the hospital of the abbey. she has even refused the assistance of a lay sister for the moderate care of that cold and bare cell where we remarked, with such sad astonishment, you remember, my dear friend, the dried branches of her little rose-bush, suspended beneath her crucifix. she is, indeed, the cherished example, the venerated model of the community. but she confessed to me this morning, while bitterly reproaching herself for this weakness, that she is not so much absorbed by the duties and austerities of a religious life as to prevent the past from constantly appearing before her, not only as it was, but as it might have been. "i blame myself for it, my father," said she to me, with that calm and gentle resignation which you know belongs to her, "i blame myself, but i cannot help often thinking that if god had spared me the degradation which has withered forever my future life, i might have lived always near you, beloved by the husband of your choice, in spite of myself, my life is divided between these grievous regrets and the frightful recollections of the city; in vain i pray to god to free me from these frightful recollections, to fill my heart alone with pious love for him, with holy hopes; in short, to take me entirely to himself, since i wish to give myself entirely to him. he does not grant my prayers--undoubtedly because earthly thoughts render me unworthy to enter into communion with him." "but then," cried i, seized with a foolish glimmering of hope, "there is still time--to day your novitiate ends; but it is not until to morrow that your solemn profession will take place; you are still free--renounce this rude and austere life, which does not afford you the consolation you expected; if you must suffer, come and suffer in our arms: let our tenderness assuage your sorrows." shaking sadly her head, she answered me, with that inflexible justness of reasoning which has so often struck us. "it is true, my dear father, the solitude of this cloister is sad for me--for me, already accustomed to your kindness every moment. it is true, i am pursued with bitter regrets and grievous recollections; but, at least, i have the consciousness of fulfilling a duty; i understand, i know, that everywhere but here i should be out of place; i should again be in that cruelly false position in which i have already suffered so much both for myself and for you--for i, too, am proud. your daughter shall be such as she ought to be; shall do what she ought to do; shall suffer what she ought to suffer. to-morrow all will know from what a slough you have rescued me; in seeing the repentant at the foot of the cross, they will, perhaps, pardon the past in consideration of my present humility. it would not be so, my dear father, if they saw me, as a few months ago, shining in the midst of the splendors of your court. besides, to satisfy the just and severe demands of the world, will satisfy myself; and i am grateful to god, with all the power of my soul, when i think that _he alone_ can offer to your daughter an asylum and position worthy of her and of you; a position, in short, which shall not form a sad contrast to my former degradation, and in which i can deserve the only respect which is due to me, that which is granted to repentance and sincere humility." alas! clémence, what could i reply to that? fatality! fatality! for this unfortunate child is endowed, so to speak, with an inexorable logic in all that concerns the sensitiveness of the heart and one's honor. with such a mind and soul, one cannot think of palliating or hiding false positions--we must suffer the imperious consequences. i left her, as usual, with a breaking heart. without founding the least hope upon this interview, which will be the last before her profession, i said to myself "to-day she might renounce the cloister." but you see, my dear friend, her will is irrevocable, and i must indeed agree with her, and repeat her words: "god alone can offer her an asylum and a position worthy of her and of me." once more, her resolution is admirably logical, and suited to the position in society in which we are placed. with fleur-de-marie's exquisite sensibility, no other condition was possible for her. but i have often told you, my friend, if sacred duties, more sacred still than those of family, did not detain me in the midst of a people who love me, and to whom i stand, in a slight degree, in the place of providence, i should go away with you, my daughter, henry, and murphy, to live happily and obscurely in some unknown retreat. then, far from the imperious laws of a society which is powerless to cure the evils which it has caused, we might hare forced this unhappy child into happiness and forgetfulness. while here, in the midst of splendor, of ceremony, as restrained as this, it was impossible. but still, once more, fatality! fatality! i cannot abdicate my power without compromising the happiness of this people, who rely upon me. brave and worthy people! how little do they know how much their happiness costs me! adieu, a tender adieu, my beloved clémence. it is a consolation to me to see you as afflicted as myself at the fate of my child, for thus i can say _our_ sorrow, and there is no egotism in my suffering. sometimes i ask myself, with fear, what would become of me without you, in the midst of such grievous circumstances? often these thoughts make me still more sad at fleur-de-marie's fate; for you remain to me, you. but for her who is there? adieu, a sad adieu, my dear, good angel of unhappy days. come back soon; this absence weighs upon you as well as me. my life and love to you! soul and heart to you! r. i send you this letter by a courier; in case of any unexpected change, i will despatch to you another immediately after the sad ceremony. a thousand wishes and hopes to your father for the establishment of his health. i forgot to give you intelligence of poor henry; his state of health is better, and no longer gives us such anxiety. his excellent father, himself ill, has recovered strength to take care of henry, to watch over him; a miracle of paternal love--which does not astonish us--the rest of us. thus, my dear friend, to-morrow--to-morrow--fatal and unpropitious day for me. yours forever, r. abbey of st. hermangilda, o'clock in the morning. calm yourself, dear clémence, calm yourself; although the hour in which i write this letter, and the place whence it is dated, might alarm you. thanks to heaven, the danger is past, but the crisis was terrible. yesterday, after having written to you, agitated by a fatal presentiment, in recalling to myself the paleness and appearance of suffering in my daughter, the state of weakness in which she had languished for some time, remembering, in short, that she was to pass in prayer, in a large, icy-cold church, almost all the night before her profession, i sent murphy and david to the abbey to ask the princess juliana to permit them to remain, until to-morrow, in the outer house which henry usually inhabited. thus, my daughter could have prompt assistance, _and_ i could have intelligence if, as i feared, strength should fail her to accomplish this rigorous, i will not say cruel, obligation to remain a january night in prayer in the excessive cold. i had also written to fleur-de-marie, that while i respected the exercise of her religious duties, i begged her to take care of her health, and to pass the evening in prayer in her cell, and not in the church. this is the letter she sent in reply. "my dear father, i thank you deeply, and with all my heart, for this new and tender proof of your interest; have no anxiety, i believe i am in the way of accomplishing my duty. your daughter, my dear father, can show neither fear nor weakness. such are the rules; i must conform to them. if some physical sufferings result from it, with joy do i offer them to god! you will approve it, i hope; you, who have always practiced renunciation and duty with so much courage. farewell, my dear father. i will not say i am going to pray for you, when i pray to god, i always pray for you, for it is impossible to prevent mingling you with the divinity i implore; you have been to me on earth what god, if i deserve it, will be to me in heaven. "deign this evening to bless in thought your daughter, my dear father. to-morrow she will be the bride of the lord. "she kisses your hand with pious respect. "sister amelia." this letter, which i could not read without shedding tears, reassured me, however, but little; i, too, must pass a sad evening. night having come, i went to shut myself up in the pavilion which i have had built not far from the monument erected to my father's memory, in expiation of that fatal night. toward one o'clock in the morning, i heard murphy's voice; i shuddered with alarm; he had come in haste from the convent. how shall i tell you, my friend? as i had foreseen, the unfortunate child, notwithstanding her courage and strong will, had not strength to accomplish entirely the barbarous custom, which it had been impossible for the princess juliana to dispense with, as the rules on this subject were precise. at eight o'clock in the evening, fleur-de-marie kneeled down on the stone pavement in the church. until midnight she continued praying. but at this hour, overcome by her weakness, the horrible cold, and her emotion, for she wept long and silently, she fainted. two nuns, who by the princess juliana's order had watched with her, took her up, and carried her to her cell. david was immediately called. murphy came in a carriage to seek me; i flew to the convent; i was received by princess juliana. she told me that david feared the sight of me would make too great an impression upon my daughter; that her fainting, from which she had recovered, presented nothing very alarming, having been only caused by great weakness. at first a horrible dread seized me. i feared they wished to hide from me some great misfortune, or, at least, to prepare me to hear it; but the superior said to me, "i assure you, my lord, princess amelia is out of danger, a simple cordial which dr. david gave her has restored her strength." i could not doubt what the abbess affirmed; i believed her, and awaited intelligence from my daughter with sad impatience. at the end of a quarter of an hour david returned. thanks to heaven, she was better; and she had desired to continue her watching and prayers in the church, consenting only to kneel upon a cushion. and as i resisted, and was indignant that the superior should have granted her request, adding that i formally opposed myself to it, he replied to me that it would have been dangerous to contradict the wishes of my daughter at a time when she was under the influence of a strong nervous emotion; and, besides, he had agreed with princess juliana that the poor child should quit the church at the hour of matins to take a little repose, and prepare for the ceremony. "she is now in church, then?" said i to him. "yes, my lord, but in half an hour she will have quitted it." i caused myself to be conducted to the north gallery, from which the whole choir of the church can be seen. there, in the midst of the darkness of this vast church, only illuminated by the pale light of the lamp from the chancel, i saw her near the grating on her knees, her hands joined, and praying with fervor. i also knelt, and thought of my child. three o'clock struck; two sisters who were seated, but who had not moved their eyes from her, went and whispered to her. in a few moments she made a sign, got up, and crossed the church with a firm step--although, my friend, when she passed under the lamp, her countenance appeared to me as white as the long veil which floated around her. i also went out of the gallery, intending first to go to meet her, but feared a new emotion would prevent her from taking a few moments' repose. i sent david to learn how she was; he came back to tell me she felt better, and intended to try to sleep a little. i remained at the abbey, for the ceremony which will take place to-morrow. i think now, my friend, it is useless to send you this incomplete letter. i shall finish it to-morrow by relating the events of that sad day. until then farewell, my friend. i am worn out with grief. pity me. chapter vii the thirteenth of january. _rudolph to clémence._ thirteenth of january--an anniversary now doubly dreadful! my friend, we are losing her forever! all is over--all! listen to the story! it is indeed true, there is an atrocious pleasure in relating a horrible grief. yesterday i bewailed the chance which retained you away from me. to-day, clémence, i congratulate myself that you are not here; you would suffer too much. this morning--i had hardly slept through the night--i was awakened by the sound of the bells; i groaned with terror; it seemed to me funereal, a funereal knell. in fact, my daughter is dead to us--dead: do you hear, clémence, from this day you must begin to wear mourning for her in your heart--in your heart, so filled with maternal affection for her. is our child buried under the marble of a tomb or under the vaults of a cloister--for us, what is the difference? from this day, do you understand, clémence, we must regard her as dead. besides, she is so very weak; her health, impaired by so much sorrow, by so many shocks, is so feeble. why not that other death, still more complete? fate is not weary. and then, besides, after my letter yesterday, you may understand that it would perhaps be more happy for her if she were dead. dead! the four letters have a singular appearance, do you not think so? when one writes them in reference to an idolized daughter, a daughter so fair, so charming, of such angelic goodness, scarcely eighteen, and yet dead to the world! indeed, for us and for her, why vegetate in suffering in the gloomy tranquillity of this cloister! of what importance that she lives, if she is lost to us--she might have loved life so much--what a fatality has attended her! what i am saying is horrible! there is a barbarous egotism in paternal love. at noon her profession took place with solemn pomp. hidden behind the curtains of our gallery, i was present at it. i felt, over again, but with still more intensity, all those poignant emotions which we suffered at her novitiate. a singular thing, she is adored: it is generally believed that she is drawn toward a religious life by an irresistible call; her profession might be looked upon as a happy event for her, and yet, on the contrary, an overpowering sadness weighs down the whole assembly. at the end of the church, among the people, i saw two officers of my guard, old hardy soldiers, hold down their heads and weep. there seemed to be in the act a sad presentiment. if there was foundation for it, it has been but half realized. the profession terminated, our child was brought back into the hall of the chapter, where the nomination of the new abbess was to take place. thanks to my privilege as sovereign, i went into this hall to await the return of fleur-de-marie. she soon entered. her emotion, her weakness was so great, that two sisters supported her. i was alarmed, less even by her paleness and the deep alteration of her features than by the expression of her smile: it seemed to me marked by a sort of secret satisfaction. clémence, i say to you, perhaps soon we shall need all our courage--much courage-i _feel_ so to speak, _within me_ that our child is struck with death! after all, her life would be so unhappy. here is the second time that, in thinking the death of my daughter possible, i have said that death would put an end to her cruel existence. this idea is a horrible symptom; but if sorrow must strike us, it is better to be prepared, is it not, clémence? to prepare one's self for such a misfortune, to taste little by little beforehand that slow anguish, it is an unheard-of refinement of grief. it is a thousand times more dreadful than to have the blow fall unexpectedly; at least the stupor, the annihilation would spare one a part of this cutting anguish. but the customs of compassion prescribe to us a _preparation_. probably i should never act otherwise myself, my poor friend, if i had to acquaint you with the sad event of which i speak to you. thus be alarmed, if you observe that i speak to you of _her_ with the delicacy, the caution of desperate sadness, after having announced to you that i do not feel serious inquietude respecting her health. yes, be alarmed, if i speak to you as i am writing now, for though i left her, to finish this letter, an hour ago in a tolerably calm state, i repeat it to you, clémence, i seem to _feel within me_ that she suffers more than she appears to do. heaven grant that i deceive myself, and that i take for presentiments the despairing sadness which this melancholy ceremony inspires. fleur-de-marie then entered the large hall of the chapel. all the stalls were occupied by the nuns. she went modestly to take the lowest place on the left, supporting herself on the arm of one of the sisters, for she still seemed very weak. at the upper end of the hall the princess juliana was seated, the grand prioress beside her; on the other hand, a second dignitary, holding in her hand the golden cross, the symbol of the authority of the abbess. a profound silence prevailed. the princess arose, took her cross in her hand, and said, with a serious tone and an expression of much emotion: "my dear daughters, my great age obliges me to confide to younger hands this emblem of my spiritual power;" and she showed her cross. "i am authorized to do it by a bull of our holy father. i will present, then, to the benediction of my lord archbishop of oppenheim, and to the approbation of his royal highness the grand duke, our sovereign, and to yours, my dear daughters, the one of your number whom you have designated to succeed me. our grand-prioress will make known to you the result of the election, and to the person whom you shall have elected i will deliver up my cross and ring." i never moved my eyes from my daughter. standing in her stall, her two hands crossed on her bosom, her eyes cast down, half enveloped in her white veil, and the long descending folds of her black robe, she remained immovable and thoughtful; she had never for a moment supposed that she could be chosen; her elevation had been only confided to me by the abbess. the grand-prioress took a register and read: "each of our dear sisters having been, according to rule, invited, eight days since, to place their votes in the hands of our holy mother, and mutually to keep secret their choice until this moment, in the name of our holy mother i declare that one of you, my dear sisters, has, by her exemplary piety, by her evangelical virtues, merited the unanimous suffrage of the community; and this is our sister amelia, during her life-time the most high and puissant princess of gerolstein." at these words, a sort of murmur of sweet surprise and happy satisfaction passed round the hall; the looks of all the nuns were fixed upon my daughter, with an expression of tender sympathy. notwithstanding my all engrossing anxieties, i was myself deeply moved with this nomination, which, made separately and secretly, offered nevertheless a touching unanimity. fleur-de-marie, astounded, became still more pale; her knees trembled so much that she was obliged to support herself with one hand on the side of the stall. the abbess spoke again with a very clear but grave voice: "my dear daughters, is it indeed sister amelia whom you consider most worthy and most deserving of all of you? is it indeed she whom you acknowledge as your spiritual superior? let each of you in turn answer me, my dear daughters." and each nun answered in a loud tone: "i have voluntarily and freely chosen, and i do choose sister amelia for my holy mother and superior." overpowered with an expressible emotion, my poor child fell on her knees, joined her hands, and so remained till every vote was given. then the abbess, placing the cross and ring in the hands of the grand prioress, advanced toward my daughter, to take her by the hand and lead her to the seat of the abbess. my dear, my love, i have interrupted myself a moment, i must take courage and finish the relation of this heart-rending scene. "rise, my dear daughter," said the abbess to her: "come to take the place which belongs to you; your evangelical virtues, and not your rank, have gained it for you." saying these words, the venerable princess bent toward my daughter to assist her to rise. fleur-de-marie took a few trembling steps, then, arriving in the middle of the hall of the chapel, she stopped and said, with a voice the calmness and firmness of which astonished me: "pardon me, holy mother, i would speak to my sisters." "ascend first, my dear daughter, your seat as abbess," said the princess; "it is from thence that you must let them hear your voice." "that place, holy mother, cannot be mine," replied fleur-de-marie, with a low and trembling voice. "what do you say, my dear daughter?" "such a high dignity is not made for me, holy mother." "but the voices of your sisters call you to it." "permit me, holy mother, to make here on my knees a solemn confession; my sisters will see, and you also, holy mother, that the most humble condition is not humble enough for me." "your modesty misleads you my dear daughter," said the superior, with kindness, believing, in fact, that the unfortunate child was yielding to a feeling of exaggerated modesty; but i, i divined those confessions which fleur-de-marie was about to make. dazed with horror, i cried out in a supplicating voice, "my child i conjure--" at these words, to tell you, my friend all that i read in the profound look which fleur-de marie cast upon me, would be impossible. as you see directly, she had understood me--yes, she had understood that i should partake in the shame of this horrible revelation; she understood that, after such a revelation, i might be accused of falsehood, for i had a ways left it to be believed that fleur-de-marie had never left her mother. at this thought the poor child believed herself guilty of the blackest ingratitude toward me. she had not strength to go on--she was silent, and held down her head from exhaustion. "yes once again, my dear daughter," resumed the abbess, "your modesty deceives you; the unanimity of your sisters' choice proves to you how worthy you are to take my place. if you have taken part in the pleasures of the world, your renouncing these pleasures is but the more meritorious. it is not her royal highness princess amelia who is chosen--it is _sister amelia_. for us, your life began when you entered this house of the lord, and it is this example and holy life which we recompense. i say to you, moreover, my dear daughter, that if before entering this retreat your life had been as guilty as it has been, on the contrary, pure and praiseworthy, that the angelic virtues of which you have given us the example since your abode here would expiate and redeem, in the eyes of the lord, any past life, however guilty it may have been. after this, my daughter, judge if your modesty ought not to be assured." these words of the abbess were the more precious to fleur-de-marie, inasmuch as she believed the past ineffaceable. unfortunately, this scene had deeply distressed her, and, though she affected calmness and firmness, it seemed to me that her countenance changed in an alarming manner. twice she groaned as she passed her poor emaciated hand over her forehead. "i think i have convinced you, my dear daughter," resumed the princess juliana, "and you would not cause your sisters a severe pain by refusing this mark of their conndence and their affection." "no, holy mother," said she, with an expression which struck me, and with a voice becoming weaker and weaker, "i _now_ think i may except it. but, as i feel greatly fatigued and somewhat ill, if you will permit it, holy mother, the ceremony of my consecration shall not take place for a few days." "it shall be as you desire, my dear daughter; but while we wait till your office shall be blessed and consecrated, take this ring: come to your place; our dear sisters will render you their homage, according to the rules." i saw at every moment her emotion increasing, her countenance changing more and more; finally, this scene was beyond her strength; she fainted before the procession of the sisters was finished. judge of my terror; we carried her into the apartment of the abbess. david had not left the convent; he hastened and bestowed the first caress upon her. oh, that he may not have deceived me: he assures me that this new accident was caused only by extreme weakness occasioned by the fastings, the fatigues, and the privation of sleep which my daughter has imposed upon herself during her novitiate. i believe him, because, in fact, her angelic features, though of a frightful paleness, did not betray any suffering; when she recovered her consciousness, i was even struck with the serenity which shone on her forehead. it seems to me that she was concealing the secret hope of an approaching deliverance. the superior having returned to the chapter to close the session, i remained alone with my daughter. "my good father, can you forget my ingratitude? can you forget that, at the moment i was about to make this painful confession, you asked me to spare you!" "oh! do not speak of it, i supplicate you." "and i had not dreamed," continued she, with bitterness, "that in saying, in the face of all, from what an abyss of degradation you had drawn me, i was revealing a secret that you had kept out of tenderness to me; it was to accuse you publicly--you, my father--of a dissimulation to which you had resigned yourself only to secure to me a brilliant and honored existence. oh! can you pardon me?" instead of answering her, i pressed my lips upon her forehead; she felt my tears flow. after having kissed my hands several times, she said to me, "now i feel better, my good father, now that i am, as our rules says, here, and dead to the world. i should wish to make some dispositions in favor of several persons; but as all i posses is yours, will you authorize me, my good father?" "can you doubt it? but i beseech you," said i to her, "do not indulge these sad thoughts; by and by you shall employ yourself in this duty: you have time enough." "undoubtedly, my good father, i have yet much time to live," added she, with an accent that, i know not why, made me shudder. i looked at her most attentively; but no change in her features justified my uneasiness. "yes, i have yet much time to live," resumed she, "but i must not occupy myself longer with terrestrial things, for to-day i renounce all which attached me to the world. i beseech you, do not refuse me." "direct me: i will do anything you wish." "i should wish that my tender mother would always keep in the little back parlor, where she usually sits, my embroidery frame, with the tapestry i have begun in it." "your wishes shall be fulfilled, my child; your room has remained exactly as it was the day you left the palace; for everything belonging to you is an object of religious worships to us. clémence will be deeply touched at your remembrance of her." "as to you, my good father, take, i beg you, my large ebony chair, in which i have thought and dreamed so much." "it shall be placed by the side of mine in my working cabinet, and i shall see you in it every day, seated beside me, as you so often used to sit." could i tell her this, and restrain my tears? "now i should wish to leave some memorials of me to those who took so much interest in me when i was unfortunate. to madame george i should like to give my writing-desk, of which i have lately made use. this gift will be appropriate," added she, with a sweet smile, "for it was she at the farm who began to teach me to write. as to the venerable curate of bouqueval, who instructed me in religion, i destine for him the beautiful christ in my oratory." "good, my child." "i should like to send my bandeau of pearls to good little rigolette. it is a simple ornament that she can wear on her beautiful black hair; and then, if it were possible, since you know where martial and la louve are, in algiers, i should wish that the courageous woman, who once saved my life, should have my enameled cross. these different pledges of remembrance, my good father, i should wish to have sent to them _from fleure-de marie._" "i will execute your wishes; have you forgotten none?" "i believe not, my good father." "think carefully: among those who love you, is there not some one very unhappy--as unhappy as your mother and myself; some one finally who regrets as deeply as we do your entrance into the convent?" the poor child understood me she pressed my hand; a slight blush colored for a moment her pale face. anticipating a question which she feared, undoubtedly, to ask me, i said to her, "he is better; they no longer fear for his life." "and his father?" "he feels the improvement in the health of his son--he, too, is better. and to henry, what will you give? a remembrance from you will be such a dear, such a precious consolation to him." "my father, offer him my praying-desk. alas! i have often watered it with my tears, in begging of heaven strength to forget henry, since i was not worthy of his love." "how happy he will be to see that you had a thought for him!" "the asylum for orphans and young women abandoned by their relations, i should desire, my good father--" here rudolph's letter was interrupted by the following words which were almost illegible: "clémence, murphy will finish this letter: i have no longer any mind--i am distracted. oh, the thirteenth of january!!!" the conclusion of this letter is the handwriting of murphy, was thus conceived: your highness,--in obedience to the orders of his royal highness, i complete this sad recital. the two letters of my lord must have prepared your royal highness for the overwhelming news which it remains to me to acquaint you with. it was three o'clock; my lord was employed in writing to your royal highness; i was waiting in a neighboring apartment until he should give me the letter, to forward it immediately by a courier. suddenly i saw the princess juliana enter with an air of consternation. "where is his royal highness?" said she to me, with a voice filled with emotion. "princess, my lord is writing to the grand duchess the news of the day." "sir walter, you must inform my lord--a terrible event. you are his friend, be so kind as to inform him; from you the blow will be less terrible." i understood everything; i thought it more prudent to take this sad revelation upon myself, the superior having added that the princess amelia was slowly sinking away, and that my lord must hasten to receive the last sighs of his daughter. i unfortunately had not time to take any precautions. i entered the saloon; his royal highness perceived my paleness. "you have come to acquaint me of some misfortune." "an irreparable misfortune, my lord--courage." "ah, my presentiments!" cried he, and, without adding a word, he ran to the cloister. i followed him. from the apartment of the superior, the princess amelia had been transported into her cell after her last interview with my lord. one of the sisters was watching by her; at the end of an hour she perceived that the voice of the princess amelia, who spoke to her at intervals, was becoming weaker, and that she was more distressed. the sister hastened to inform the superior; dr. david was called; he hoped to remedy this new loss of strength by a cordial, but it was in vain; the pulse was scarcely perceptible; he saw, with despair, that reiterated emotions had probably exhausted the strength of the princess amelia; there remained no hope of saving her. it was then that my lord arrived. princess amelia had just received the last sacrament; a ray of intelligence still lingered about her; in one of her hands, crossed on her bosom, was the _remains of her little rose-bush._ my lord fell on his knees by her pillow: he sobbed. "my daughter, my beloved child," cried he in a heart-rending tone. the princess amelia heard him, turned her head gently toward him, opened her eyes, endeavored to smile, and said, with a feeble voice: "my good father, pardon--henry also--my good mother--forgive." such were her last words! after an hour of silent agony, she gave up her spirit to god. when his daughter had yielded up her last sigh, my lord did not say a word; his calmness was frightful; he closed the eyes of the princess, kissed her forehead again and again, took piously the remains of the little rose-bush, and left the cell. "i followed him; he returned to the house without the cloister, and showing me the letter that he had begun to write to your royal highness, and to which he in vain attempted to add some words, for his hand trembled convulsively, he said to me: "it is impossible for me to write. i am distraught, my mind is gone. write to the grand duchess that i no longer have a daughter!" i have executed the orders of my lord. permit me, as his oldest servant, to beseech your royal highness to hasten your return as soon as the health of the count d'orbigny will permit it. the presence of your royal highness alone can calm the despair of the prince. he wishes to watch every night by his daughter till the day when she shall be buried in the grand ducal chapel. i have accomplished my sad task, madame; be so kind as to excuse the incoherence of this letter, and accept the expression of respectful devotion with which i have the honor to be your loyal highness's very obedient servant, walter murphy. the night before the funeral service of the princess amelia, clémence arrived at gerolstein with her father. rudolph was not alone the day of the funeral of fleur-de-marie. the end. [transcriber's note: the following appeared in our print copy. some are rare words or variant spellings; others are typographical errors. we have left these as in the print copy. "countes" in chapter (elsewhere "countess"); "ruldoph" and "ruldolph" ("rudolph") in chapter ; "amoment's" ("a moment's") in chapter ; "ell" (probably for "cell") in chapter ; "th" ("the") in chapter ; "trangress" ("transgress") in chapter ; "blackhole" ("black hole"; i.e., "prison cell") in chapter ; "magsman" (slang for "swindler") in chapter ; "bootlining" ("boot lining") in chapter ; "surprise" in "more and more surprise" ("surprised") in chapter ; "burk" in the poetic quotation in chapter ; "intead" ("instead") in chapter ; "kindnss" ("kindness") in chapter ; "corypheus" in chapter ; "rohefort" ("rochefort") in chapter ; "charcter" ("character") in chapter ; "kaminetn" and "kaminetz" both appear in the epilogue; "timidily" in chapter of the epilogue; "fräulien" (for "fräulein") in chapter of the epilogue; "conndence" in chapter of the epilogue.] a street of paris and its inhabitant by honore de balzac translated by henri pene du bois illustrated by francois courboin preparer's note this ebook was prepared from an edition published by meyer brothers and company, new york, . of this edition copies were printed. copies on japan paper, numbered to . copies on specially made paper, numbered to . preface this little parisian silhouette in prose was written by balzac to be the first chapter of a new series of the "comedie humaine" that he was preparing while the first was finishing. balzac was never tired. he said that the men who were tired were those who rested and tried to work afterwards. "a street of paris and its inhabitant" was in its author's mind when hetzel, engaged in collecting a copy for the work entitled "le diable a paris" that all book lovers admire, asked balzac for an unpublished manuscript. balzac gave him this, after retouching it, in order that it should have the air of a finished story. why hetzel did not use it in "le diable a paris," no one knows. he went into exile, in brussels, at the military revolution that made napoleon iii emperor and, needing money, sold "a street of paris and its inhabitant" with other manuscripts to le siecle. balzac's work was printed entire in three pages of the journal le siecle, in paris, july , . m. le vicomte spoelberch de lovenjoul owns balzac's autograph manuscript of it. these details are given by him and might be reproduced here with his signature. but the publishers wish not to be deprived of the pleasure of paying homage to the vicomte spoelberch de lovenjoul. he has made in the biography of balzac, in editions of his books, in the pious collection of his unpublished writings, the ideal literary man's monument. h. p. du b. i physiognomy of the street paris has curved streets, streets that are serpentine. it counts, perhaps, only the rue boudreau in the chaussee d'antin and the rue duguay-trouin near the luxembourg as streets shaped exactly like a t-square. the rue duguay-trouin extends one of its two arms to the rue d'assas and the other to the rue de fleurus. in the rue duguay-trouin was paved neither on one side nor on the other; it was lighted neither at its angle nor at its ends. perhaps it is not, even to-day, paved or lighted. in truth, this street has so few houses, or the houses are so modest, that one does not see them; the city's forgetfulness of them is explained, then, by their little importance. lack of solidity in the soil is a reason for that state of things. the street is situated on a point of the catacombs so dangerous that a portion of the road disappeared recently, leaving an excavation to the astonished eyes of the scarce inhabitants of that corner of paris. a great clamor arose in the newspapers about it. the government corked up the "fontis"--such is the name of that territorial bankruptcy--and the gardens that border the street, destitute of passers-by, were reassured the more easily because the tax list did not weigh on them. the arm of the street that extends to the rue de fleurus is entirely occupied, at the left, by a wall on the top of which shine broken bottles and iron lances fixed in the plaster--a sort of warning to hands of lovers and of thieves. in this wall is a door, the famous little garden door, so necessary to dramas and to novels, which is beginning to disappear from paris. this door, painted in dark green, having an invisible lock, and on which the tax collector had not yet painted a number; this wall, along which grow thistles and grass with beaded blades; this street, with furrows made by the wheels of wagons; other walls gray and crowned with foliage, are in harmony with the silence that reigns in the luxembourg, in the convent of the carmelites, in the gardens of the rue de fleurus. if you went there, you would ask yourself, "who can possibly live here?" who? wait and see. ii silhouette of the inhabitant one day, about three in the afternoon, that door was opened. out of it came a little old man, fat, provided with an abdomen heavy and projecting which obliges him to make many sacrifices. he has to wear trousers excessively wide, not to be troubled in walking. he has renounced, long ago, the use of boots and trouser straps. he wears shoes. his shoes were hardly polished. the waistcoat, incessantly impelled to the upper part of the gastric cavities by that great abdomen, and depressed by the weight of two thoracic bumps that would make the happiness of a thin woman, offers to the pleasantries of the passers-by a perfect resemblance to a napkin rolled on the knees of a guest absorbed in discussion at dessert. the legs are thin, the arm is long, one of the hands is gloved only on most solemn occasions and the other hand ignores absolutely the advantage of a second skin. that personage avoids the alms and the pity that his venerable green frock coat invites, by wearing the red ribbon at his button-hole. this proves the utility of the order of the legion of honor which has been contested too much in the past ten years, the new knights of the order say. the battered hat, in a constant state of horror in the places where a reddish fuzz endures, would not be picked up by a rag picker, if the little old man let it fall and left it at a street corner. too absent-minded to submit to the bother that the wearing of a wig entails, that man of science--he is a man of science--shows, when he makes a bow, a head that, viewed from the top, has the appearance of the farnese hercules's knee. above each ear, tufts of twisted white hair shine in the sun like the angry silken hairs of a boar at bay. the neck is athletic and recommends itself to the notice of caricaturists by an infinity of wrinkles, of furrows; by a dewlap faded but armed with darts in the fashion of thistles. the constant state of the beard explains at once why the necktie, always crumpled and rolled by the gestures of a disquiet head, has its own beard, infinitely softer than that of the good old man, and formed of threads scratched from its unfortunate tissue. now, if you have divined the torso and the powerful back, you will know the sweet tempered face, somewhat pale, the blue ecstatic eyes and the inquisitive nose of that good old man, when you learn that, in the morning, wearing a silk head kerchief and tightened in a dressing-gown, the illustrious professor--he is a professor--resembled an old woman so much that a young man who came from the depths of saxony, of weimar, or of prussia, expressly to see him, said to him, "forgive me, madame!" and withdrew. this silhouette of one of the most learned and most venerated members of the institute betrays so well enthusiasm for study and absent-mindedness caused by application to the quest of truth, that you must recognize in it the celebrated professor jean nepomucene apollodore marmus de saint-leu, one of the most admirable men of genius of our time. iii madame adolphe when the old man--the professor counted then sixty-two summers--had walked three steps, he turned his head at this question, hurled in an acute tone by a voice that he recognized: "have you a handkerchief?" a woman stood on the step of the garden door and was watching her master with solicitude. she seemed to be fifty years of age, and her dress indicated that she was one of those servants who are invested with full authority in household affairs. she was darning stockings. the man of science came back and said naively: "yes, madame adolphe, i have my handkerchief." "have you your spectacles?" she asked. the man of science felt the side pocket of his waistcoat. "i have them," he replied. "show them to me," she said. "often you have only the case." the professor took the case out of his pocket and showed the spectacles with a triumphant air. "you would do well to keep them on your nose," she said. m. de saint-leu put on his spectacles, after rubbing the glasses with his handkerchief. naturally, he thrust the handkerchief under his left arm while he set his spectacles on his nose. then he walked a few steps towards the rue de fleurus and relaxed his hold on the handkerchief, which fell. "i was sure of it," said madame adolphe to herself. she picked up the handkerchief and cried: "monsieur! monsieur!" "well!" exclaimed the professor, made indignant by her watchfulness. "i beg your pardon," he said, receiving the handkerchief. "have you any money?" asked madame adolphe with maternal solicitude. "i need none," he replied naively, explaining thus the lives of all men of science. "it depends," madame adolphe said. "if you go by way of the pont des arts you need one sou." "you are right," replied the man of science, as if he were retracing instructions for a voyage to the north pole. "i will go through the luxembourg, the rue de seine, the pont des arts, the louvre, the rue du coq, the rue croix-des-petits-champs, the rue des fosses-montmartre. it is the shortest route to the faubourg poissonniere." "it is three o'clock," madame adolphe said. "your sister-in-law dines at six. you have three hours before you--yes--you'll be there, but you'll be late." she searched her apron pocket for two sous, which she handed to the professor. "very well, then," she said to him. "do not eat too much. you are not a glutton, but you think of other things. you are frugal, but you eat when you are absent-minded as if you had no bread at home. take care not to make madame vernet, your sister-in-law, wait. if you make her wait, you will never be permitted again to go there alone, and it will be shameful for you." madame adolphe returned to the threshold of the little door and from there watched her master. she had to cry to him, "to the right! to the right!" for he was turning toward the rue notre-dame-des-champs. "and yet he is a man of science, people say," she muttered to herself. "how did he ever manage to get married? i'll ask madame when i dress her hair." iv inconvenience of quays where are book stalls at four o'clock, professor marmus was at the end of the rue de seine, under the arcades of the institute. those who know him will admit that he had done nobly, since he had taken only one hour to go through the luxembourg and down the rue de seine. there a lamentable voice, the voice of a child, plucked from the good man the two sous that madame adolphe had given to him. when he reached the pont des arts he remembered that he had to pay toll and turned back suddenly to beg for a sou from the child. the little rascal had gone to break the coin, in order to give only one sou to his mother. she was walking up and down the rue mazarine with her baby at her breast. it became necessary for the professor to turn his back on the veteran soldier who guards against the possibility of a parisian passing over the bridge without paying the toll. two roads were open to him: the pont neuf and the pont royal. curiosity makes one lose more time in paris than anywhere else. how may one walk without looking at those little oblong boxes, wide as the stones of the parapet, that all along the quays stimulate book lovers with posters saying, "four sous--six sous--ten sous--twelve sous--thirty sous?" these catacombs of glory have devoured many hours that belonged to the poets, to the philosophers and to the men of science of paris. great is the number of ten-sous pieces spent in the four-sous stalls! the professor saw a pamphlet by vicq-d'azyr, a complete charles bonnet in the edition of fauche borel, and an essay on malus. "and such then is the sum of our achievements," he said to himself. "malus! a genius arrested in his course when he had almost captured the empire of light! but we have had fresnel. fresnel has done excellent things!--oh, they will recognize some day that light is only a mode of substance." the professor held the notice on malus. he turned its pages. he had known malus. he recalled to himself and recited the names of all the maluses. then he returned to malus, to his dear malus, for they had entered the institute together at the return to paris of the expedition to egypt. ah! it was then the institute of france and not a mass of disunited academies. "the emperor had preserved," said marmus to himself, "the saintly idea of the convention. i remember," he muttered aloud, "what he said to me when i was presented to him as a member of the institute. napoleon the first said, 'marmus, i am the emperor of the french, but you are the king of the infinitely little and you will organize them as i have organized the empire.' ah, he was a very great man and a man of wit! the french appreciated this too late." the professor replaced malus and the essay on him in the ten-sous stall, without remarking how often hope had been lit and extinguished alternately in the gray eyes of an old woman seated on a stool in an angle of the quay. "he was there," marmus said, pointing to the tuileries on the opposite bank of the river. "i saw him reviewing his sublime troops! i saw him thin, ardent as the sands of egypt; but, as soon as he became emperor, he grew fat and good-natured, for all fat men are excellent--this is why sinard is thin, he is a gall-making machine. but would napoleon have supported my theory?" v first course it was the hour at which they went to the dinner table in the house of marmus's sister-in-law. the professor walked slowly toward the chamber of deputies, asking himself if his theory might have had napoleon's support. he could no longer judge napoleon save from that point of view. did napoleon's genius coincide with that of marmus in regard to the assimilation of things engendered by an attraction perpetual and continuous? vi second course "no, baron sinard was a worshipper of power. he would have gone to the emperor and told him that my theory was the inspiration of an atheist. and napoleon, who has done a great deal of religious sermonizing for political reasons, would have persecuted me. he had no love for ideas. he was a courtier of facts! moreover, in napoleon's time, it would not have been possible for me to communicate freely with germany. would they have lent me their aid--wytheimler, grosthuys, scheele, stamback, wagner? "to make men of science agree--men of science agree!--the emperor should have made peace; in time of peace, perhaps, he would have taken an interest in my quarrel with sinard! sinard, my friend, my pupil, become my antagonist, my enemy! he, a man of genius-- "yes, he is a man of genius. i do justice to him in the face of all the world." at this moment the professor could talk aloud without trouble to himself or to the passers-by. he was near the chamber of deputies, the session was closed, all paris was at dinner--except the man of science. marmus was haranguing the statues which, it must be conceded, are similar to all audiences. in france there is not an audience that is not prohibited from giving marks of approval or disapproval. otherwise, there is not an audience that would not turn orator. at the iena bridge marmus had a pain in the stomach. he heard the hoarse voice of a cab driver. marmus thought that he was ill and let himself be ushered into the cab. he made himself comfortable in it. when the driver asked, "where?" marmus replied quietly: "home." "where is your home, monsieur?" asked the driver. "number three," marmus replied. "what street?" asked the driver. "ah, you are right, my friend. but this is extraordinary," he said, taking the driver into his confidence. "i have been so busy comparing the hyoides and the caracoides--yes, that's it. i will catch sinard in the act. at the next session of the institute he will have to yield to evidence." the driver wrapped his ragged cloak around him. resignedly, he was saying to himself, "i have seen many odd folks, but this one--" he heard the word "institute." "the institute, monsieur?" he asked. "yes, my friend, the institute," replied marmus. "well he wears the red ribbon," said the driver to himself. "perhaps he has something to do with the institute." the professor, infinitely more comfortable in his cab than on the sidewalk, devoted himself entirely to solving the problem that went against his theory and would not surrender--the rascal! the cab stops at the institute; the janitor sees the academician and bows to him respectfully. the cab driver, his suspicions dispelled, talks with the janitor of the institute while the illustrious professor goes--at eight in the evening--to the academie des sciences. the cab driver tells the janitor where he found his fare. "at the iena bridge," repeats the janitor. "m. marmus was coming back from passy. he had dined, doubtless, with m. planchette, one of his friends of the academy." "he couldn't tell me his address," says the cab driver. "he lives in the rue duguay-trouin, number three," says the janitor. "what a neighborhood!" exclaims the driver. "my friend," asks of the janitor the professor who had found the door shut, "is there no meeting of the academy to-day?" "to-day!" exclaims the janitor. "at this hour!" "what is the time?" asks the man of science. "about eight o'clock," the janitor replies. "it is late," comments m. marmus. "take me home, driver." the driver goes through the quays, the rue du bac, falls into a tangle of wagons, returns by the rue de grenelle, the croix-rouge, the rue cassette, then he makes a mistake. he tries to find the rue d'assas, in the rue honore-chevalier, in the rue madame, in all the impossible streets and, swearing that if he had known he would not have come so far for a hundred sous, disembarks the professor in the rue duguay-trouin. the cab driver claims an hour, for the police ordinances, that defend consumers of time in cabs from the stratagems of cab drivers, had not yet posted the walls of paris with their protecting articles that settle in advance all difficulties. "very well, my friend," says m. marmus to the cab driver. "pay him," m. marmus says to madame adolphe. "i do not feel well, my child." "monsieur, what did i tell you?" she exclaimed. "you have eaten too much. while you were away, i said to myself, 'it is mme. vernet's birthday. they will urge him at table and he will come back sick.' well, go to bed. i will make camomile tea for you." vii dessert the professor walked through the garden into a pavilion at one of its corners, where he lived alone in order not to be disturbed by his wife. he went up the stairway leading to his little room, and complained so much of his pains in the stomach that madame adolphe filled him with camomile tea. "ah, here is a carriage! it is madame returning in great anxiety, i am sure," said madame adolphe, giving to the professor his sixth cup of camomile tea. "now, sir, i hope that you will be able to drink it without me. do not let it fall all over your bed. you know how madame would laugh. you are very happy to have a little wife who is so amiable and so joyful." "say nothing to her, my child," exclaimed the professor, whose features expressed a sort of childish fear. the truly great man is always more or less a child. viii this shows that the wife of a man of science is very unhappy "well, good-bye. return in the cab, it is paid for," madame marmus was saying when madame adolphe arrived at the door. the cab had already turned the corner. madame adolphe, not having seen madame marmus's escort, said to herself: "poor madame! he must be her nephew." madame marmus, a little woman, lithe, graceful, mirthful, was divinely dressed and in a fashion too young for her age, counting her twenty-five years as a wife. nevertheless, she wore well a gown with small pink stripes, a cape embroidered and edged with lace, boots pretty as the wings of a butterfly. she carried in her hand a pink hat with peach flowers. "you see, madame adolphe," she said, "my hair is all uncurled. i told you that in this hot weather it should be dressed in bandeaux." "madame," the servant replied, "monsieur is very sick. you let him eat too much." "what could i do?" madame marmus replied. "he was at one end of the table and i at the other. he returned without me, as his habit is! poor little man! i will go to him as soon as i change my dress." madame adolphe returns to the pavilion to propose an emetic, and scolds the professor for not having returned with madame marmus. "since you wished to come in a cab, you might have spared me the expense of the one that madame marmus took. the charge for your cab was an hour. did you stop anywhere?" "at the institute," he replied. "at the institute! where did you take the cab?" she asked. "in front of a bridge, i think," he replied. "was it still daylight?" she asked. "almost," he said. "then you did not go to madame vernet's!" exclaimed madame adolphe. "why did you not come to madame vernet's?" asked his wife. madame marmus, having come to the door on the tips of her toes, had heard madame adolphe's exclamation. she did not wish to see madame adolphe's astonishment. surely madame adolphe could not have forgotten the assurance with which the professor's wife had placed him in imagination at madame vernet's table. "my dear child, i do not know," said the professor in a repentant tone. "then you have not dined," said madame marmus, whose attitude remained that of the purest innocence. "with what could he have dined, madame? he had two sous," said madame adolphe, looking at madame marmus with an accusing air. "ah, i am truly to be pitied, my poor madame adolphe," said madame marmus. "this sort of thing has been going on for twenty years, and i am not yet accustomed to it. six days after our wedding, we were going out of our room one morning to take breakfast. m. marmus hears the drum of the polytechnic school pupils of whom he was the professor. he quits me to go and see them pass. i was nineteen years of age and when i pouted, you cannot guess what he said to me. he said, 'these young people are the flower and the glory of france!' this is how my marriage began. you can judge of the rest." "oh, monsieur, is it possible?" asked madame adolphe with an indignant air. "i have cornered sinard!" exclaimed m. marmus triumphantly. "oh, he would let himself die!" exclaimed madame adolphe. "get something for him to eat," said madame marmus. "he would let himself do anything. ah, my good madame adolphe, a man of science, you see, is a man who knows nothing--of life." the malady was cured by a cataplasm of italian cheese that the man of science ate without knowing what he was eating, for he held sinard in a corner-- "poor madame," said the kind madame adolphe. "i pity you. he was really so absent-minded as that!" and madame adolphe forgot the strange avowal of her mistress. [illustration: the saucepan thrown in defiance] the mysteries of paris _in three volumes_ volume two by eugene sue [illustration] the mysteries of paris chapter xxxviii. the execution. the surprised lapidary rose and opened the door. two men entered the garret. one of them was tall and thin, with a face mean and pimpled, surrounded by thick, grayish whiskers; he held in his hand a stout loaded cane, and wore a shapeless hat and a large green greatcoat, covered with mud, and buttoned close up to the neck; the black velvet collar, much worn, exposed to view his long, bare, red throat, which resembled a vulture's. this man was one malicorne. the other was short and thick-set, his countenance equally mean, and his hair red. he was dressed with an attempt at finery, quite ridiculous. bright studs fastened the front of his shirt, whose cleanliness was more than doubtful; a long gold chain, passed across his second-hand plaid stuff waistcoat, was left to view by a velveteen jacket, of a yellowish-gray color. this man's name was bourdin. "oh, what a stink of misery and death is here!" said malicorne, stopping at the threshold. "the fact is, it does not smell of musk. what habits!" repeated bourdin, turning up his nose in disgust and disdain. he then advanced toward the artisan, who looked at him with mingled surprise and indignation. through the half-open door was seen hoppy's evil, watchful, and cunning face, who, having followed the strangers, unknown to them, was narrowly watching and listening attentively. "what do you want?" challenged the lapidary, roughly, disgusted with the rudeness of the two men. "jerome morel," responded bourdin. "i am he." "working jeweler?" "the same." "are you quite sure?" "once more, i am that person; you annoy me--what do you want? explain, or leave the room!" "oh, you are coming the _bounce_, are you? i say, malicorne," said this man, turning toward his companion, "there is no catch here; it is not like the haul at viscount de saint-remy's." "no, but when there is much, the door is shut against you, as we found in the rue de---. the bird had watched the net, and would not be taken; while such vermin as these stick to their _cribs_ like a snail to his shell." "it is my opinion that they only require to be jugged to cram themselves." "still the costs will be more than ever the creditor _wolf_ will get here; however, that's his look-out." "hold!" said morel with indignation; "if you were not drunk, as you surely are, i should be very angry. instantly leave my room!" "how very sharp you are this morning, old lopsides!" cried malicorne, insultingly alluding to the deformity in the lapidary's person. "do you hear, malicorne?--he has the impudence to call this place a _room_--a hole where i would not put my dog." "for heaven's sake!" cried madeleine, so alarmed, that till then she had not spoken a word, "call for assistance; perhaps they are thieves. take care of the diamonds!" in truth, seeing these two strangers, of doubtful appearance, approach nearer and nearer to the bench on which lay the jewels, morel, fearing some evil intention, ran forward, and with both hands covered the precious stones. hoppy, always on the watch, and listening, hearing madeleine's words, and seeing the movement of the artisan, said to himself; "they say he is a cutter of false stones; if so, he would not fear their being stolen. just as well to know that. _i take!_ then again, mother mathieu, who comes here so often, is a dealer in _real_; and those she has in her casket are real diamonds. i will put the owl up to this!" added red arm's son. "if you do not leave this room instantly, i will call the police," said morel. the children, frightened at this scene, began to cry, while the old idiot started upright in her bed. "if any one has a right to call the police, we're the men. do you hear, mister sideways?" said bourdin. "you'll see the police lend a hand to take you, if you don't go quietly," added malicorne; "we have not the magistrate with us, it is true; but if you wish to enjoy his society, you shall have a taste of one, just out of his bed, quite hot and heavy. bourdin will go and fetch him." "to prison! me?" cried the astounded morel. "yes, to clichy." "to clichy!" repeated the artisan, with a wild look. "is he hard of hearing?" asked malicorne. "well, then, to the debtor's prison, if you like that better," explained bourdin. "you--you--are--can it be?--the lawyer! oh, my god!" the artisan, pale as death, fell back on his stool, unable to utter another word. "we are the officers who are to take you, if we can; do you understand now, old fellow?" "morel, it is for the bill in the hands of louise's master! we are all lost!" said madeleine, with a sorrowful voice. "this is the warrant," said malicorne, taking from his dirty pocket-book a stamped writ. after having mumbled over in the usual way a part of this document, in a voice hardly intelligible, he pronounced distinctly the last words, unfortunately too well understood by the artisan.-- "as final judgment, the court condemns jerome morel to pay to pierre petit-jean, merchant,[footnote: the crafty notary incompetent to proceed in his own name, had got from the unfortunate morel a blank acceptance, and had introduced a third party's name.] by all his goods, and even with his body, the sum of thirteen hundred francs, with lawful interest, dated from the day of the protest; and he is besides condemned to pay all other and extra costs. given and judged at paris, the th of september," etc., etc. "and louise, then? louise!" cried morel, almost distracted, without appearing to have heard what had just been read. "where is she? she must have left the lawyer, since he sends me to prison. louise! my child! what has become of her?" "who is this louise?" said bourdin. "let him alone," said malicorne. "don't you see he's coming the artful?" then, approaching morel, he added: "come, to the right-about-face, march; i want to breathe the air, i am poisoned here!" "morel, do not go!" said madeleine, wildly. "kill them, the thieves! oh, you are a coward! you will let them take you, and abandon us to our fate." "act as though you were at home, madame," said bourdin, sarcastically; "but if your husband lifts his hand against me, i will give him something to remember it by," continued he, twisting his loaded stick round and round. occupied solely with thoughts of louise, morel heard nothing of what was said. suddenly, an expression of bitter joy lighting up his face, he cried out, "louise has quitted the lawyer's house. i shall go to prison with a light heart!" but then, glancing round him, he exclaimed, "but my wife, and her mother, and my poor children--who will support them? they will not trust me with stones to cut in prison; for it will be supposed that my own misconduct has sent me there. does this lawyer desire the death of all of us?" "once for all, let us be off!" said bourdin; "i am sick of all this. come, dress yourself and march." "my good gentleman, forgive what i have just said to you," cried madeleine, still in bed; "you will not have the cruelty to take away morel; what do you think will become of me, with my five children, and my idiot mother? there she is, huddled up on her mattress. she is foolish, my good gentlemen; she is quite out of her mind." "the old woman that is shorn?" "sure enough she is shaved," said malicorne; "i thought she had on a white scull-cap." "my dear children, throw yourselves at the feet of these two gentlemen," said madeleine, hoping, by a last effort, to soften the bailiffs, "entreat them not to take away your poor father--our only hope." but in spite of the order of their mother, the children, frightened and crying, dared not leave their beds. at the unusual noise, and the sight of the two bailiffs, whom she did not know, the idiot began to utter deafening howls, crouching herself against the wall. morel appeared careless to all that was passing around him; the blow was so frightful, so unexpected, the consequences of this arrest appeared so terrible, that he could scarcely believe in its reality. already weakened by privations of every description, his strength failed him; he remained pale and haggard, seated on his stool, as though incapable of speech or motion, his head drooping on his breast, and his arms hanging listlessly down. "confound it! when will all this end?" cried malicorne; "think you that we come here for fun? off with you, or i shall make you!" so saying, the bailiff put his hand on the artisan's shoulder, and shook him roughly. the threat and action alarmed the children; the three little boys left their mattress half naked, and came, in a flood of tears, to throw themselves at the feet of the bailiffs, and, with clasped hands, cried, in tones of touching earnestness, "pray, pray do not kill father." at sight of these unhappy children, shivering with cold and fear, bourdin, in spite of his natural callousness, and the constant sight of scenes like the present, felt something akin to compassion; his companion, unpitying, brutally disengaged his leg from the grasp of the kneeling supplicants. "hands off, you young ragamuffins! a pretty business ours would be truly, if we had always to do with such beggars!" a fearful addition was made to the horrors of this scene. the elder of the little girls, who had remained in the straw with her sick sister, cried out, "oh, mother, mother! i do not know what is the matter with adele! she is quite cold, and she stares so at me and she don't breathe!" the poor consumptive child had just quietly expired, without a murmur, her looks resting on her sister, whom she tenderly loved. no language can describe the heart-rending cry of anguish uttered by the diamond-cutter's wife at this frightful announcement, for she understood it all. it was one of those stifling, convulsive screams, torn from the depth of a mother's heart. "my sister seems as though she were dead!" continued the child. "oh, how she frightens me! she still looks at me, but how cold her face is!" saying this, the poor child suddenly rose from the side of her dead sister, and, running terrified, threw herself into the arms of her mother; while the distracted parent, forgetful that her paralyzed limbs were incapable of sustaining her, made a violent effort to rise, and ran toward the corpse; but her strength failed her, and she fell on the floor, uttering a last cry of despair. that cry found an echo in morel's heart, and roused him from his stupor; with one step he reached the bed's side, snatching from it his child, four years old. she was dead! cold and want had hastened her end, although her complaint, brought on by the want of common necessaries, was beyond cure. her poor little limbs were already cold and stiff. morel, his gray hair almost standing on end with despair and fright, remained motionless, holding his dead child in his arms, whom he contemplated with fixed, tearless eyes, bloodshot with agony. "morel! morel! give my adele to me!" shrieked the unhappy mother, holding out her arms toward her husband; "it is not true that she is dead: you shall see--i will warm her in my arms!" the idiot's curiosity was excited by the haste with which the two bailiffs approached the lapidary, who would not part with the body of his infant. the old woman ceased to howl, rose from her bed, slowly approached morel, and passing her hideous and stupid face over his shoulder, gazed vacantly on the corpse of her grandchild. the features of the idiot retained their usual expression of ferocity. after a little time, she uttered a sort of hoarse, hollow groan, like a hungry beast, and returning to her bed, she threw herself upon it, crying out, "i am hungry! i am hungry!" "you see, gentlemen, this poor little girl, just four years old-- adele; yes, she was named adele. only last night, she fondly returned my caresses--and now--look at her! you will, perhaps, say that i have one less to feed, and that i ought not to murmur," said the artisan, with a haggard look. the poor man's reason began to totter under so many repeated shocks. "morel, i want my child; i will have her!" said madeleine. "true, true," replied the lapidary, "each in turn, that is but fair!" he went and laid the child in the arms of his wife. then, hiding his face between his hands, he groaned bitterly. madeleine, almost as frenzied as her husband, laid the child in the straw of her couch, and watched it with a sort of savage jealousy; while the other children were kneeling round in tears. the bailiffs, for a moment softened by the death of the child, soon returned to their accustomed brutality of conduct. "oh, look here, my friend," said malicorne to the lapidary, "your child is dead; it is unfortunate, but we are all mortal; we cannot help it, nor can you, so there's an end of it. we have an extra job to do to-day--a _swell_ to grab." morel did not hear the man. completely lost in mournful contemplation, the artisan said to himself, in a hollow and broken voice: "it will be necessary to bury my poor little girl--to watch her here till they come to carry her away. but how?--we have nothing! and the coffin!-- who will give us credit? oh, a little coffin for a child of four years old ought not to cost much! and then we shall want no bearers! one can take it under his arm. ha! ha! ha!" added he, with a frightful burst of laughter, "how lucky i am! she might perhaps have lived to be eighteen, louise's age, and no one would have given me credit for a large coffin!" "egad! this chap seems as though he would lose his senses!" said bourdin to malicorne. "look at him; he quite frightens me! and how the old idiot howls with hunger! what a queer lot!" "we must, however, make a finish; although the arrest of this beggar is only for seventy-six francs, seventy-five centimes, it is only right that we should swell the costs to two hundred and forty or fifty francs. it is the _wolf_ who pays." "you mean who has to _fork out_--for this poor devil here will have to pay the fiddler, since it is he that must dance." "by the time he has paid his creditor two thousand five hundred francs, for principal, interest, costs, and all, he will be warm." "it will not be then as now, for it freezes," said the bailiff, blowing his fingers. "come, old fellow, pack up and let us be off; you can blubber as you go along. who the devil can help the youngun's kicking the bucket!" "besides, when people are so poor, they have no right to have children." "a good idea!" said malicorne. then slapping morel on the shoulder, he continued: "come, come, old boy, we can wait no longer; since you cannot pay, off to prison with you!" "prison!" said a pure, youthful voice; "morel to prison!" a young, bright, rosy brunette suddenly entered the garret. "oh, miss dimpleton!" said one of the children, crying; "you are so good; save papa! they want to take him to prison, and little sister is dead." "adele dead!" exclaimed the girl, whose large, brilliant black eyes were veiled in tears. "your father to prison? this cannot be." stupefied by surprise, she looked alternately at the lapidary, his wife, and the bailiffs. "my pretty girl," said bourdin approaching miss dimpleton, "you're cool, you must try to make this poor man listen to reason; his little girl is dead, but nevertheless he must come with us to clichy--to the debtors' prison. we are sheriffs' officers." "it is, then, all true," said the girl. "quite true. the mother has the little one in her bed--they cannot take it from her; and while she is hugging it there, the father ought to take the opportunity of slipping out." "my god! my god! what misery," said miss dimpleton. "what is to be done?" "pay, or go to prison! there is no other way, unless you have notes for two or three thousand francs to lend them," said malicorne, in a careless tone; "if you have them, _shell out_, and we will _cut_, devilish glad to get away." "oh, this is dreadful!" said miss dimpleton, with indignation; "daring to jest with such dreadful misfortunes." "well then, joking aside," replied the other bailiff, "if you would do some good, endeavor to prevent the woman from seeing us take away her husband. you will thus save each of them a very disagreeable quarter of an hour." the advice was good, though coarsely given, and miss dimpleton, following it, approached madeleine, who, distracted with grief, did not appear to notice the young girl, as she knelt down beside the bed with the children. meanwhile, morel had only recovered from his temporary delirium to sink under the most painful reflections. having become calm, he could view far too clearly the horror of his situation. the notary must be pitiless, since he had gone to such extremity; the bailiffs did but do their duty. the artisan was therefore resigned. "come, come, let's be marching some time to-day," said bourdin to him. "i cannot leave these diamonds here, my wife is half mad," said morel, pointing to the stones scattered upon the bench; "the person for whom i work will come for them this morning, or in the course of the day. their amount is considerable." "good!" said hoppy, who still remained near the half-open door: "good, good! screech-owl shall know that." "grant me only till to-morrow," urged morel, "that i may restore the diamonds." "impossible! we must go immediately." "but i cannot, by leaving the diamonds here, run the risk of their being lost." "take them with you, a coach waits at the door, which you will have to pay for, with the other expenses. we can call on the owner of the stones; if he is not at home you can place them in the registry at clichy; they will be as safe there as in the bank. come, make haste; we will slip away before your wife or children are aware of it." "grant me only till to-morrow, that i may bury my child!" entreated morel, with a supplicating voice, half stifled with the sobs he endeavored to restrain. "no! we have already lost more than an hour waiting here." "this burying still worries you, then?" added malicorne. "oh! yes, it makes me sad," said morel, with bitterness; "you so much fear to grieve people. well, then, a last farewell!" "there, again! confound you, make haste!" said malicorne, with brutal impatience. "how long have you had the order to arrest me?" "the judgment was signed four months since; but it was only yesterday that our officer received instructions from the lawyer to put it in execution." "yesterday only. why was it delayed so long?" "how can i tell? come, pack up." "yesterday! and louise not yet here! where can she be? what has become of her?" said the lapidary, taking from the bench a card-box filled with cotton, in which he arranged the jewels. "but never mind that; in prison i shall have plenty of time for thinking." "come, pack up the duds to take with you, and make haste and dress yourself." "i have no clothes to pack up: i have only these diamonds to take away, and place in the prison registry." "well, then, dress yourself." "i have no other clothes than these." "going out in these rags?" said bourdin. "you will be ashamed of me, doubtless," said the lapidary, bitterly. "no, it is of no consequence, since we go in your coach," answered malicorne. "father, father! mother is calling you," said one of the children. "you hear?" muttered morel, rapidly, appealing to one of the bailiffs; "do not be inhuman; grant me a last favor. i have not the courage to say farewell to my wife and children; it would break my heart. if they see you take me away they will run after me, and i would avoid that. i therefore beg of you to say aloud that you will return in three or four days, and pretend to go away; you can wait for me on the landing below; i will come to you in less than five minutes. that will spare me the pain of saying farewell. i will no longer resist, i promise you. i shall go stark mad; i was nearly so just now." "not so green!--you want to give us the slip!" said malicorne, "want to bolt, old son!" "oh, god! god!" cried morel, with mournful indignation. "i don't think he intends to chouse us," said bourdin, in a low tone to his companion; "let us do as he wishes, or we'll never get away. i will wait outside the door, there is no other outlet from the garret-- he cannot escape us." "very well; but he needn't be so particular about leaving the mucky crib!" then, addressing morel in a low voice, he said: "now then, look sharp, and we will wait for you below. make haste, and offer some pretense for our going." "i thank you," said morel. "very well, it shall be so," said bourdin, in a loud voice, and looking significantly at the artisan; "in such case, as you promise to pay in a short time, we will leave you for the present, and call again in four or five days; but then you must be punctual." "yes, gentlemen, i trust i shall then be able to pay you." the bailiffs left the room; while hoppy, for fear of being seen, had disappeared down the staircase at the same time the bailiffs quitted the garret. "madame morel, do you hear?" said miss dimpleton, trying to withdraw the attention of the mother from her melancholy abstraction; "they will not take away your husband--the two men are gone." "mother, don't you hear? they will not take father away," said the eldest of the boys. "morel, listen to me," murmured madeleine, in a state of delirium. "take one of the large diamonds and sell it--no one will know it, and we shall be saved. our adele will no longer feel cold; she will not be dead." taking advantage of a moment when none belonging to him were observing his actions, the lapidary cautiously left the room. the bailiff was waiting for him upon a sort of little landing, covered also by the roof. upon this landing, opened the door of a loft, which had formerly been part of the garret occupied by the morels, and in which pipelet kept his stock of leather; and the worthy porter called this place his _box at the play_, because, by means of a hole made in the wall between two laths, he was sometimes a witness to the sad scenes that passed in the morels' room. the bailiff noticed the door of the loft; in a moment he thought that most likely his prisoner had reckoned upon that outlet for escape, or to hide himself. "come, march, old fellow!" said he, beginning to descend the stair, and making a sign to the lapidary to follow. "one minute more, i beseech!" said morel; and he fell on his knees upon the floor. through a chink in the door, he threw a last look upon his family, and clasping his hands, he uttered, in a low, heart-rending voice, while tears flowed down his haggard cheeks: "farewell, my dear children--my poor wife! may heaven preserve you all! farewell!" "make haste and cut that sermon," said bourdin, brutally, "malicorne is quite right; you needn't make so much fuss about leaving the stinking kennel. what a hole! what a hole!" morel rose to follow the bailiff, when the words "father! father!" sounded on the staircase. "louise!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his hands toward heaven; "i can then clasp you to my breast before i go!" "i thank thee, god, i am in time!" said the voice, approaching nearer and nearer, and light steps were heard rapidly ascending the stairs. "be calm, my dear," said a third voice, sharp, asthmatic, and out of breath, coming from a lower part of the house; "i will lay in wait, if i must, in the alley, with my broom and my old darling, and they sha'n't leave here till you have spoken to them, the contemptible beggars!" the reader has doubtless recognized mrs. pipelet, who, less nimble than louise, followed her slowly. an instant after, the lapidary's daughter was in her father's arms. "it is indeed you, louise, my darling louise!" said morel, crying; "but how pale you are! for mercy's sake what ails you?" "nothing, nothing, father," stammered louise. "i have run so fast. here is the money!" "how is this?" "you are free!" "so you know?" "yes, yes! here, sir, take the money," said the young girl, giving a rouleau of gold to malicorne. "but this money, louise--this money?" "you shall know all presently; don't be uneasy. come and comfort dear mother." "no, not now!" exclaimed morel, placing himself before the door, remembering that louise was still in ignorance of the death of the little girl; "wait, i must speak to you. now, about this money?" "stay!" said malicorne, as he finished counting the gold, and while putting it in his pocket; "sixty-four, sixty-five--that will just make thirteen hundred francs. have you no more than that, my little dear?" "why, you only owe thirteen hundred francs?" said louise, addressing her father, with a stupefied air. "yes," said the lapidary. "stop!" rejoined the catchpole; "the bill is for thirteen hundred francs. well, the bill is paid; but the expenses? without the execution, they are already eleven hundred and forty francs." [footnote: we append some curious facts about imprisonment for debt, taken from "_le pauvre jacques_," a paper published by the society of christian morality prison committee:-- "a protest and a warrant is legally set down as at francs centimes for the first, and francs centimes for the other, but is generally increased by the warrant-officers to fr. c., and fr. c. respectively. thus fr. c. illegally obtained for what should have been but fr. c. the law sets down bailiff fees thus:--stamp and registry, fr. c.; hackney-coach, fr.; arresting and imprisonment, fr. c.; turnkey's fee, fr. total fr. c. one bill of charges taken as the average of those sent in by sheriffs' officers, swells the above to francs!" in the same paper is this paragraph:-- "m---, bailiff, has written to desire correction of the article on the hanged woman. he did not kill her, he says. we did not say that he did _kill_ that unfortunate woman. we reprint that article:-- "m---, bailiff, having writ out for a cabinet-maker in the rue de la lune, was seen by the latter from the house windows. he called out to his wife.--'i am lost, for there they come to arrest me!' his wife heard this, and fastened the door, while her husband hid him self in the loft. the bailiff called in a locksmith. the wife's room door was forced, and they found the woman had hanged herself! the sight of the corpse did not delay or prevent the officer hunting for the husband. 'i arrest you.' 'i have no money.' 'to prison, then.' 'very well, let me give my wife good-bye.' 'that be hanged, like she is herself. she's dead.' what can you complain of, m---? we only print your own words, which minutely and blackly paint this frightful picture." this same paper quotes three or four hundred facts, of which the following is a fair sample:-- "on collection of a franc debt a warrant-officer charged francs! the debtor, a workman with five children, lay seven months in prison." for two reasons, the present writer quotes from "_le pauvre jacques_," firstly, to show that the chapter just read falls below reality; and again, to prove that, if merely in a philanthropic point of view, the maintenance of such a state of things (the exorbitance of extras, illegally extorted by public servants,) often paralyzes the most generous intentions. for instance, with , francs there might be three or four honest though unfortunate workmen restored to their families from a prison whither petty debts of or francs had driven them; but these sums being tripled by a shameful exaggeration of costs, the most charitable persons often recoil from doing a good deed at the thought of two-thirds of their bounty merely going to sheriffs and their officers. and yet, there are few hardships more worthy of relief than those befalling such unfortunate people as we speak of.] "gracious heaven!" cried louise; "i thought it was only thirteen hundred francs in all! but, sir, we will very soon pay you the remainder; this is a pretty good sum on account--is it not, father?" "soon!--very well; bring the money to the office, and we will then let your father go. come, let's be off." "you will take him away?" "at once. this is on account. when the rest is paid, he will be free. go on, bourdin; let us get out of this." "mercy! mercy!" shrieked louise. "oh, what a row! here it is--the old game over again: it is enough to make one sweat in the depth of winter--on my honor!" said the bailiff, in a brutal tone. then advancing toward morel, he continued: "if you don't come along at once, i will take you by the collar, and bundle you down. this wind-up is beastly!" "oh, poor father! when i had hoped to save you!" said louise, overwhelmed. "no, no! hope nothing for me! heaven is not just!" cried the lapidary, in a voice of deep despair, and stamping his feet with rage. "peace! heaven is just! there is providence for honest men!" said a soft, yet manly voice. the same instant rudolph appeared at the door of the little recess, from whence he had, unseen, witnessed the greater part of the scenes we have just related. he was very pale, and deeply moved. at this sudden interposition, the bailiffs drew back with surprise; while morel and his daughter stared at the prince vacantly. taking from his pocket a small parcel of folded bank notes, rudolph selected three, and giving them to malicorne, said to him: "here are two thousand five hundred francs; give back to this girl the money you have just received from her." more and more surprised, the bailiff took the notes hesitatingly, examined them very suspiciously, turning them over and over, and finally pocketed them. but as his alarm and surprise began to subside, so did his natural coarseness return, and eying rudolph from head to foot with an impertinent stare, he exclaimed, "your notes are good; but how came the likes of you with so large a sum? i hope, at least, it is your own!" added he. rudolph was very humbly dressed, and covered with dust--thanks to his stay in pipelet's loft. "i have bidden you restore that gold to the young girl," answered rudolph, in a sharp, stern voice. "bid me! who gives you the right to order me?" cried the bailiff, advancing toward rudolph, in a threatening manner. "the gold! the gold!" said the prince, seizing the fellow's wrist so violently that he winced under the iron hold, and cried out, "oh, you hurt me! hands off!" "restore the gold! you are paid. take yourself off, without further insolence, or i will kick you to the foot of the stairs." "very well; here is the gold," said malicorne, giving it to the girl; "but mind what you are about, young man--don't fancy you are going to do as you like with me, because you happen to be the strongest." "that's right. who are you, to give yourself such airs?" said bourdin, sheltering himself behind his companion. "who are you?" "who is he? he is my tenant, the king of tenants, you foul-mouthed wretches!" cried mrs. pipelet, who appeared at last, quite out of breath, still wearing the brutus wig. in her hand she held an earthen pot filled with boiling soup, which she was kindly taking to the morels. "what does this old polecat want?" said bourdin. "if you dare to pass any of your blackguard remarks upon me, i'll make you feel my nails--and my teeth too, if necessary!" screamed mrs. pipelet: "and more than that, my lodger, my prince of lodgers, will pitch you from the top to the bottom of the staircase, as he says! and i will sweep you away like a heap of rubbish, as you are!" "this old woman will rouse all the people in the house against us. we are paid, and our expenses also; let us be off!" said bourdin to malicorne. "here are your documents," said the last-named individual, throwing a bundle of papers at morel's feet. "pick them up, and deliver them properly! you are paid for being civil," said rudolph, seizing the bailiff with his vigorous hand, while the other he pointed to the papers. convinced by this new and formidable grasp that he could not struggle against so powerful an adversary, the bailiff stooped down grumbling, picked up the bundle of papers, and gave them to morel, who took them mechanically. the lapidary believed himself under the influence of a dream. "mind, young fellow, although you have an arm as strong as a porter's, never come under our lash!" said malicorne. shaking his fist at rudolph, he nimbly jumped down the stairs, followed by his companion, who looked behind him with fear. mrs. pipelet, burning for revenge on the bailiffs, for the insults offered to rudolph, looked at her saucepan with an air of inspiration, and cried out, heroically: "morel's debts are paid; they will now have plenty to eat, and no longer stand in need of my soup--heads!" leaning over the banisters, the old woman emptied the contents of her saucepan on the backs of the bailiffs, who had just arrived at the first-floor landing. "oh, you are caught, i see!" added the portress. "they are soaked through like two sops! he! he! this is capital!" "a thousand million thunders!" cried malicorne, wet through with mrs. pipelet's culinary preparation. "will you take care what you are about up there, you old baggage!" "alfred!" retorted mrs. pipelet, bawling in a voice sharp enough to split the tympanum of a deaf man. "alfred! have at 'em, old darling! they wanted to behave improperly to thy 'stasie! (anastasia). those rascals would take liberties with me! pitch into them with your broom! call the oyster-woman and the potboy next door to help you. quick!-- quick!--after them! murder! police! thieves! hish!--hish!--hish! bravo! halloo! go it, old darling! broom!--broom!" by way of a formidable finish to these hootings, which she had accompanied with a violent stamping of her feet, mrs. pipelet, carried away by the intoxication of her victory, hurled from the top to the bottom of the staircase her earthenware saucepan, which, breaking with a loud, crashing noise, the very moment the bailiffs, stunned by the frightful cries, were taking the stairs four at a time, added greatly to their fears. "ha! ha! i rayther think you have got enough for once!" cried anastasia laughing loudly, and folding her arms in an attitude of triumph. while mrs. pipelet was thus venting her rage upon the bailiffs, morel, overcome with gratitude, had thrown himself at rudolph's feet. "ah, sir, you have saved our lives! to whom do we owe this unlooked-for succor?" "'_to him who watches over and protects honest men_,' as our immortal beranger says." chapter xxxix. miss dimpleton. louise, the lapidary's daughter, was possessed of remarkable loveliness; tall and graceful, she resembled the classic juno for regularity of features, and the huntress diana for the finish of her tall figure. in spite of her sunburned complexion, her rough and freckled hands, beautifully formed, but hardened by domestic labor; in spite of her humble garments, this girl possessed a nobility of exterior. we will not attempt to describe the gratitude and surprise of this family, so abruptly snatched from a fearful fate; in the first burst of happiness, even the death of the little girl was forgotten. rudolph alone remarked the extreme paleness of louise, and the utter abstraction with which she seemed oppressed, in spite of her father's deliverance. wishing to completely satisfy the morels as to apprehensions about the future, and to explain a liberality which might otherwise betray suspicions as to the character he thought proper to assume, rudolph said to the lapidary, whom he took to the landing (while miss dimpleton broke to louise the news of her sister's death): "yesterday morning a young lady came to see you." "yes, sir, and appeared much distressed at the situation in which she found us." "it is to her you must return thanks, and not to me." "is it indeed true, sir? that young lady--" "is your benefactress. i have often waited upon her with goods from our warehouse. the day before yesterday, while i was here engaging an apartment on the fourth story, i learned from the portress your cruel position. knowing this lady's charity, i went to her. she came, so that she might herself judge of the extent of your misfortunes, with which she was painfully moved; but as your situation might be the result of misconduct, she begged of me as soon as possible, to make some inquiries respecting you, as she was desirous of apportioning her benefits according to your deserts." "good and excellent lady! i had reason to say--" "as you observed to madeleine: 'if the rich knew,' is it not so?" "how, sir!--you know the name of my wife! who told you that?" "since six o' clock this morning," said rudolph, interrupting morel, "i have been concealed in the little loft which adjoins your garret." "you, sir!" "yes, and i have heard all that passed, my honest man." "oh, sir! but why were you there?" "i could employ no better means of getting at your real character and sentiments. i wished to see and hear all, without your knowledge. the porter had spoken to me of this little nook, and offered it to me that i might keep my wood in it. this morning i requested him to permit me to visit it; i remained there an hour, and i feel convinced that there does not exist a character more worthy, noble, and courageously resigned than yours." "nay, sir, indeed i cannot see much merit in my conduct; i was born honest, and cannot act otherwise than i have done." "i know it; and for that reason i do not praise your conduct but appreciate it. i had quitted the loft to release you from the bailiffs when i heard your daughter's voice. i wished to leave her the pleasure of saving you; unhappily the rapacity of the bailiffs prevented poor louise from enjoying so sweet a delight. i then made my appearance. fortunately, i yesterday recovered several sums of money that were due to me, and i was able to give an advance to your benefactress by paying for you this unfortunate debt. but your misfortunes are so great, so unmerited, so nobly sustained, that the interest felt for you and deserved, will not stop here. i can, in the name of your preserving angel, assure you of future repose with happiness to you and yours." "is it possible? but at least tell me her name, sir--the name of this preserving angel, as you have called her." "yes, she is an angel; and you have still reason to say that the great and the lowly have their troubles." "is this lady, then, unhappy?" "who is there without their sorrows? but i see no cause to withhold her name. this lady is called--" remembering that mrs. pipelet knew that lady d'harville had come to her house to inquire for the commander, rudolph, hearing the indiscreet gossiping of the portress, said after a moment's reflection: "i will tell you the name of this lady on one condition--" "oh, pray, speak, sir!" "it is, that you will repeat it to no one. you understand!--to no one." "oh, i will solemnly promise that to you. but cannot i at least offer my thanks to this savior of the unhappy?" "i will ask lady d'harville, and i doubt not she will give her consent." "then this lady is--" "the marchioness d'harville." "oh, i shall never forget that name! it shall be my saint, my adoration! to think that, thanks to her, my wife and children are saved! saved!--no, not all, not all, my poor little adele, we shall never see her again. alas! but it is necessary to remember that any day we might have lost her, for she was doomed." here the poor lapidary brushed the tears from his eyes. "as regards the last sad duties to be performed for this little one," said rudolph, "trust to my advice; this is what must be done: i do not yet occupy my room, which is large, wholesome, and well aired. there is already a bed in it; we will convey thither all that is necessary for yourself and family to be established there till lady d'harville has arranged where to lodge you suitably. your child's body will remain in the garret, where it shall to-night, as is customary, be attended and watched by a priest. i will go and request m. pipelet to undertake the management of these sad duties." "but, sir, it is not necessary to deprive you of your room. now that we are in peace, and i no longer fear being taken to prison, our humble apartment appears to me a palace, particularly if my dear louise remains with us, to attend to the family as formerly." "your louise will not again leave you. you said not long ago it would be a luxury to have her always with you; as some recompense for your past sufferings, she shall never leave you again." "oh, sir, can it be possible? it surely cannot be a reality! my senses seem lulled in a sweet dream. i have never thought much of religion, but this sudden change from so much misery to so much happiness shows the hand of an overruling providence." "and if a father's grief could be assuaged by promises of reward or recompense," said rudolph, "i should remind you, that although the almighty hand has removed one of your daughters from you, he has mercifully restored another." "true, true, sir. henceforth we shall have our dear louise to content us for the loss of poor little adele." "you will accept my chamber, will you not? if you refuse, how can you manage the mournful duties toward the poor child that is gone? think also of your wife, whose mind is already so distracted--to leave her for four-and-twenty hours with such an afflicting spectacle before her eyes!" "you think of everything--of all! how kind you are, sir!" "it is your benefactress you must thank, for her goodness inspires me. i say to you as she would say, and i am sure she would approve of all; so it is agreed that you will accept the offer of my room. now tell me, this jacques ferrand--" a dark frown passed across morel's face. "this jacques ferrand," continued rudolph, "is the same lawyer who resides in the rue du sentier?" "yes, sir; do you know him?" then, his fears newly awakened on the subject of louise, morel exclaimed: "since you have heard all that passed, sir, say, say--have i not a right to hate this man? and who knows, if my child, my louise--" he could not proceed; he hid his face with his hands. rudolph understood his fears. "the lawyer's proceedings," said he to him, "ought to reassure you, as he doubtless ordered your arrest to be revenged for the scorn of your daughter; i have good reason, too, to believe that he is a dishonest man. if he is so," resumed rudolph, after a moment's silence, "let us believe that providence will punish him. if the justice of heaven often appears to slumber it awakens some time or other." "he is very rich, and very hypocritical, sir." "in your deepest despair, a guardian angel came to your assistance, and plucked you from inevitable ruin; so, at a moment when least expected, the almighty avenger may call upon the lawyer to atone for his past crimes if he be guilty." at this moment miss dimpleton came from the garret, wiping her eyes. rudolph said to the young girl, "will it not, my good neighbor, be better that m. morel should occupy my room, with his family, until his benefactress, whose agent i am, shall have provided a suitable lodging?" miss dimpleton regarded rudolph with a look of unfeigned surprise. "oh, sir! are you really in earnest when you make so generous an offer?" "yes, but on one condition, which will depend on yourself." "oh, depend upon all that is in my power!" "i had some accounts required in haste, to arrange for my employers; they will come for them soon. now, if you will be so neighborly as to permit me to work in your room, on a corner of your table, i should not disturb your work in the least, and the morel family can, with the assistance of m. and mrs. pipelet, immediately be settled in my room." "oh, if it be only that, sir, most willingly; neighbors ought to assist each other. you have set so good an example by what you have done for that poor morel, that i am at your service, sir." "no, no, call me neighbor. if you use any ceremony toward me, i shall not have courage to intrude on you," said rudolph. "well, then, it shall be so, i will call you 'neighbor,' because you really are so." "father, father!" cried one of morel's little boys, coming out of the garret, "mother is calling you; come directly, pray do." the lapidary hastily entered the room. "now, neighbor," said rudolph to miss dimpleton, "you must render me a still further service." "with all my heart, if it be in my power." "you are, i am sure, an excellent little housewife. it is necessary to purchase immediately all that is wanted for morel's family to be properly clothed, bedded, and settled in my room, for there is only sufficient for myself as a bachelor, that was brought yesterday. how can we manage to procure instantly all i wish for the morels?" miss dimpleton thought for a moment, and answered: "in a couple of hours you can have all your want; good clothes ready-made, warm and neat, with good clean linen for all the family: two little beds for the children, and one for the grandmother--in short, all that is necessary; but it will cost a great deal of money." "you don't say so! how much?" "oh, at least--at the very least--five or six hundred francs." "for everything?" "yes, it is a great sum of money, you see," said miss dimpleton opening her large eyes, and shaking her bead. "and we can procure all these things--" "in two hours." "you must be a fairy, neighbor." "oh, no, it is quite easy. the temple is only two steps from here, where you will find all of which you are in want." "the temple?" "yes, the temple." "what place is that?" "don't know the temple, neighbor?" "no." "it is, nevertheless, here where people like you and i furnish our rooms, and clothe ourselves, when we would be economical. things are cheaper there than elsewhere, and quite as good." "really?" "i assure you. come, now, i suppose--but what did you pay for this great-coat?" "i do not know exactly." "what, neighbor, can't tell how much your great-coat cost you?" "i acknowledge to you in confidence," said rudolph, smiling, "that i owe for it; now do you understand that i cannot know?" "oh, neighbor, neighbor, i fear you are a spendthrift!" "alas! neighbor!" "you must alter in that respect, if you wish us to be good friends; and i already see that we shall be such, you appear so kind! you shall see that you will be glad to have me for a neighbor; for on that account we can assist each other. i will take care of your linen, and you will help me clean my room. i rise very early, and will call you, so that you may not be late at your shop. i'll knock at the wall until you say to me: 'good-morning, neighbor.'" "it is agreed; you shall wake me, take care of my linen, and i will clean your room." "and you will be very neat?" "certainly." "and when you wish to make any purchase, you will go to the temple, because here is an example; your greatcoat cost, i suppose, eighty francs; very well, you could have had it at the temple for thirty." "why, that is marvelous! then you think that with five or six hundred francs, these poor morels--" "will be stocked with everything, first-class, for a long time to come." "neighbor, an idea has just struck me." "well, what is it about?" "do you understand household affairs--are you clever at making purchases?" "yes--rather so," said miss dimpleton, with a look of simplicity. "take my arm, and let us go to the temple and buy wherewith to clothe the morels; will that suit you?" "oh, what happiness! poor creatures!--but where's the money?" "i have sufficient." "five hundred francs?" "the benefactress of the morels has given me _carte blanche;_ nothing is to be spared that these poor people require. is there even a place where better things are to be had than at the temple?" "you will find nowhere better; then there is everything, and all ready-made--little frocks for the children, and dresses for their mother." "then let us go at once to the temple, neighbor." "oh! but--" "what's wrong?" "nothing; but you see, my time is everything to me; and i am already a little behindhand, in occasionally nursing the poor woman morel; and you may imagine that an hour in one way and an hour in another makes in time a day; a day brings thirty sous, and if we earn nothing one must still live all the same. but, pshaw! never mind; i must spare from my nights; and then, again, parties of pleasure are rare, and i will make this a joyful day; it will seem to me that i am rich, and that it is with my own money i am buying such good things for these poor morels. very well, as soon as i have put on my shawl and cap, i shall be at your service, neighbor." "suppose, during the time, i bring my papers to your room?" "willingly, and then you will see my apartment," said miss dimpleton, with pride; "for it is already put in order, and that will prove to you that i am an early riser, and that if you are sleepy and idle so much the worse for you, for i shall be a troublesome neighbor." so saying, light as a bird, she flew down the stairs, followed by rudolph, who went to his room to brush off the dust he had carried away from pipelet's loft. we will hereafter disclose to the reader how rudolph was not yet informed of the abduction of fleur-de-marie from bouqueval farm, and why he had not visited the morels the day after the conversation with lady d'harville. rudolph, for the sake of appearances, furnished himself with a large roll of papers, which he carried into miss dimpleton's room. miss dimpleton was nearly of the same age as goualeuse, her former prison-friend. there was between these girls the same difference that exists between laughter and tears; between joyful carelessness and melancholy reverie; between daring improvidence and serious, incessant anticipation of the future: between a nature exquisitely delicate, elevated, poetic, morbidly sensitive, incurably wounded by remorse, and a disposition gay, lively, happy, unreflective, although good and compassionate; for, far from being selfish, miss dimpleton only cared for the griefs of others; with them she sympathized entirely, devoting herself, soul and body, to those who suffered; but, to use a common expression, her _back turned_ on them, she thought no more about them. often she interrupted a lively laugh to weep passionately, and checked her tears to laugh again. a real child of paris, miss dimpleton preferred tumult to quiet, bustle to repose, the sharp, ringing harmony of the orchestra at the balls of the _chartreuse_ and the _colysee_, to the soft murmur of wind, water, and trees; the deafening tumult of the streets of paris, to the silence of the country; the dazzling of the fireworks, the glittering of the flowers, the crash of the rockets, to the serenity of a lovely night--starlit, clear, and still. alas! yes, this good girl preferred the black mud of the streets of the capital to the verdure of its flowery meadows; its pavements miry or tortuous, to the fresh and velvet moss of the paths in the woods, perfumed by violets; the suffocating dust at the city gates, or the boulevards, to the waving of the golden ears of corn, enameled by the scarlet of the wild poppy and the azure of the bluebell. miss dimpleton never left home but on sundays, and every morning laid in her provisions of chick-weed, bread, hempseed, and milk for her birds and herself, as mrs. pipelet observed. but she lived in paris for the sake of paris; she would have been miserable elsewhere than in the capital. after a few words upon the personal appearance of the grisette, we will introduce rudolph into his neighbor's apartment. miss dimpleton had scarcely attained her eighteenth year; rather below the middle size, her figure was so gracefully formed and voluptuously rounded, harmonizing so well with a sprightly and elastic step, that an inch more in height would have spoiled the graceful symmetry that distinguished her. the movement of her pretty little feet, incased in faultless boots of black cloth, with a rather stout sole, reminded you of the quick, pretty, and cautious tread of the quail or wagtail. she did not seem to walk, but to pass over the pavement as if she were gliding over its surface. this step, so peculiar to _grisettes_, at once nimble, attractive, and as if somewhat alarmed, may be attributed to three causes; their desire to be thought pretty, their fear of a too-plainly expressed admiration, and the desire they always have not to lose a minute in their peregrinations. rudolph had never seen miss dimpleton but by the somber light in morel's garret, or on the landing, equally obscure; he was therefore dazzled by the brilliant freshness of the girl, when he entered silently her room, lit by two large windows. he remained for an instant motionless, struck by the charming picture before him. standing before a glass, placed over the chimney-piece, miss dimpleton had just finished tying under her chin the strings of a small cap of bordered tulle, trimmed with cherry-colored ribbons. the cap, which fitted tightly, was placed far back on her head, and thus revealed two large thick braids of glossy hair, shining like jet, and falling very low in front. her eyebrows, well-defined, seemed as if traced in ink, and were arched above large black eyes, full of vivacity and expression; her firm and downy cheeks were tinted with a lovely bloom, like a ripe peach sprinkled with the dew of morning. her small, upturned, and saucy nose would have made the fortune of a lisette or marton; her mouth, rather large, with rosy lips and small white teeth, was full of laughter and sport; her cheeks were dimpled and also her chin, not far from which was a little speck of beauty, a dark mole, _killingly_ placed at the corner of her mouth. between a very low worked collar and the border of the little cap, gathered in by a cherry-colored ribbon, was seen beautiful hair, so carefully twisted and turned up, that its roots were as clear and as black as if they had been painted on the ivory of that tempting neck. a plum-colored merino dress, with a plain back and tight sleeves, skillfully made by herself, covered a bust so dainty and supple, that the young girl never wore a corset--for economy's sake. an ease and unusual freedom in the smallest action of the shoulders and body, resembling the facile, undulating motions of a cat, evinced this peculiarity. imagine a gown fitting tightly to a form rounded and polished as marble, and we must agree that miss dimpleton could easily dispense with the accessory to the dress of which we have spoken. the band of a small apron of dark green levantine formed a girdle round a waist which might have been spanned with your two hands. [illustration: the rotunda] supposing herself to be quite alone (for rudolph still remained at the door motionless and unperceived), miss dimpleton, after having smoothed the bands of her hair with her small white hand, placed her little foot upon a chair, and stooped down to tighten her boot-lace. this attitude disclosed to rudolph a snow-white cotton stocking, and half of a beautifully formed leg. after this detailed account we may conclude that miss dimpleton had put on her prettiest cap and apron, to do honor to her neighbor on their visit to the temple. the person of the pretended merchant's clerk was quite to her taste: his face, benevolent, proud, and noble, pleased her greatly: and then he had shown so much compassion toward the poor morels, in giving up his room to them, that, thanks to his kindness of heart, and perhaps also to his good looks, rudolph had made great steps in the confidence of the grisette, who, according to her ideas of the necessity of reciprocal obligations imposed on neighbors, esteemed herself fortunate that rudolph had succeeded the commission-traveler, cabrion, and francois germain; for she had begun to feel that the next room had been too long empty, and she feared, above all, that it would not be _agreeably_ occupied. rudolph took advantage of his being unperceived, to throw a curious look around this room, which he found deserved more praise than mrs. pipelet had given to the extreme neatness of miss dimpleton's humble home. nothing could be gayer or better arranged than this little room. a gray paper, with green flowers, covered the walls; the red-waxed floor shone like a mirror; a saucepan of white earthenware was on the hob, where was also arranged a small quantity of wood, cut so fine and small that you could well compare each piece to a large match. upon the stone mantelpiece, representing gray marble, were placed for ornament two common flower-pots, painted an emerald green; a little wooden stand held a silver watch, which served in lieu of a clock. on one side shone a brass candle-stick, bright as gold, ornamented with an end of wax candle; on the other side, was one of those lamps formed of a cylinder, with a tin reflector, mounted upon a steel stem, with a leaden stand. a tolerably large glass, in a frame of black wood, surmounted the mantel. curtains of green and gray chintz, bordered with worsted galloon, cut out and arranged by miss dimpleton, and placed on slight rods of black iron, draperied the windows; and the bed was covered with a quilt of the same make and material. two glass-fronted cupboards, painted white and varnished, were placed each side of the recess; no doubt containing the household utensils--the portable stove, the broom, etc., etc.; for none of these necessaries destroyed the harmonious arrangement of the room. a walnut chest of drawers, beautifully grained and well polished, four chairs of the same wood, a large table with one of those green cloth covers sometimes seen in country cottages, a straw-bottom armchair, with a footstool--such was the unpretending furniture. there was, too, in the recess in one of the windows, the cage of the two canaries, faithful companions of miss dimpleton. by one of those notable inventions which arise only in the minds of poor people, the cage was set in the middle of a large chest, a foot in depth, upon the table: this chest, which miss dimpleton called the garden of her birds, was filled with earth, covered with moss during the winter, and in the spring with turf and flowers. rudolph gazed into this apartment with interest and curiosity; he perfectly comprehended the joyous humor of this young girl; he pictured the silence disturbed by the warbling birds, and the singing of miss dimpleton. in the summer, doubtless, she worked near the open window, half hidden by a verdant curtain of sweet pea, nasturtium, and blue and white morning-glories; in the winter, she sat by the side of the stove, enlivened by the soft light of her lamp. * * * * * * * rudolph was thus far in these reflections, when, looking mechanically at the door, he noticed a strong bolt--a bolt that would not have been out of place on the door of a prison. this bolt caused him to reflect. it had two meanings, two distinct uses: to shut the door _upon_ lovers within--to shut the door _against_ lovers without. one of these uses would utterly contradict the assertions of mrs. pipelet-- the other would confirm them. rudolph had just arrived at these conclusions, when miss dimpleton, turning her head, perceived him, and, without changing her position, said: "what, neighbor! there you are then!" instantly the pretty leg disappeared under the ample skirt of the currant-colored gown, and miss dimpleton added: "caught you, cunning!" "i am here, admiring in silence." "and what do you admire, neighbor?" "this pretty little room, for you are lodged like a queen." "nay, you see, this is my enjoyment. i seldom go out; so at least i may please myself at home." "but i do not find fault. what tasteful curtains! and the drawers--as good as mahogany. you must have spent heaps of money here." "oh, pray don't remind me of it! i had four hundred and twenty-six francs when i left prison, and almost all is gone." "when you left prison?" "yes; it is quite a story. but you do not, i hope, think i was in prison for any crime?" "certainly not; but how was it?" "after the cholera, i found myself alone in the world; i was then, i believe, about ten years of age." "until that time, who had taken care of you?" "oh, very good people; but they died of the cholera (here the large black eyes became tearful); the little they left was sold to discharge two or three small debts, and i found that no one would shelter me. not knowing what to do i went to the guard-house, opposite where i had resided, and said to the sentinel: 'soldier, my parents are dead, and i do not know where to go. what must i do?' the sub-officer came and took me to the magistrate, who sent me to prison as a vagabond, which i was allowed to quit at sixteen years of age." "but your parents?" "i do not know who was my father; i was six years old when i lost my mother, who had taken me from the foundling hospital, where she had been compelled at first to place me. the kind people of whom i have spoken lived in our house; they had no children, and seeing me an orphan, took care of me." "and how did they live? what was their condition in life?" "papa cretu, so i always called him, was a house-painter, and the female who lived with him worked at her needle." "then they were tolerably well off?" "oh, as well off as most people in their station. though not married, they called each other husband and wife. they had their ups and downs; to-day in abundance, if there was plenty of work; to-morrow straitened, if there was not any; but that did not prevent them from being contented and gay (at this remembrance miss dimpleton's face brightened). there was nowhere near a house like it--always cheerful, always singing; and with all that, good and kind beyond belief! what was theirs, was for others also. mamma cretu was a plump body of thirty, clean as a new penny, lively as an eel, merry as a finch. her husband was a regular jolly old king cole; he had a large nose, a large mouth, always a paper cap on his head, and a face so droll--oh, so droll, that you could not look at him without laughing! when he returned home after work he did nothing but sing, make faces, and gambol like a child. he made me dance, and jump upon his knees; he played with me as if he were my own age, and his wife entirely spoilt me. both required of me but one thing--to be good-humored; and in that, thank god! i never disappointed them; so they baptized me, dimpleton (not simpleton, neighbor!) and the cap fitted. as to gayety, they set me the example: never did i see them sad. if they uttered reproaches at all, it was the wife said to her husband: 'stop, cretu, you make me laugh too much!' or he said to her 'hold your tongue, ramonette (i do not know why he called her ramonette), you will make me ill, you are so funny!' and as for me, i laughed to see them laugh. that's how i was brought up, and how my character was formed; i trust i have profited by it!" "to perfection, neighbor! then they never quarreled?" "never; oh, the biggest kind of never! sunday, monday, sometimes tuesday, they had, as they called it, an outing, and took me always with them. papa cretu was a very good workman; when employed, he could earn what he pleased, and so could his wife too. as soon as they had sufficient for the sunday and monday, and could live till then, well or ill, they were satisfied. after that if they were on short allowance, they were still contented. i remember that when we had only bread and water, papa cretu used to take out of his library--" "he had a library?" "so he called a little chest, where he put his collections of new songs: for he bought all the new songs, and knew them all. when there was nothing in the house but bread, he would take from his library an old cookery-book, and say to us: 'let us see what we will have to eat today--this or that?' and he would read to us a list of many good things. each chose their dish. papa cretu would then take an empty stewpan, and with the drollest manner, and the funniest jests in the world, pretend to put in all the ingredients necessary to make a good stew, and seemed to pour it into a plate, also empty, which he would place on the table, always with grimaces that made us hold our sides, then taking his book again, he would read, for example, the receipt for a good fricassee of chicken that we had chosen, and that made our mouths water; we then eat our bread (while he read) laughing like so many mad things." "and were they in debt?" "not at all! as long as they had money they feasted: when they had none they dined on _water-color_ as papa cretu called it." "and did they not think of the future?" "oh, yes, they thought of it; but then our present and future were like sunday and monday--summer we spent gayly and happily outside the city, the winter we got over at home." "since these poor people agreed so well together, why did they not marry?" "one of their friends once asked the same question, before me." "well?" "they answered: 'if we should ever have children, we will marry; but we are very well as we are. what is the good of compelling us to do that which we now do willingly? besides, it is expensive, and we have no money to spare.' but see how i am gossiping! as i always do on the subject of those good people, who were so kind to me, for i never tire of speaking of them. here, neighbor, be civil enough to take my shawl, which is on the bed, and fasten it under the collar of my dress with this large pin, and we will then go, for we shall be some time selecting all you wish to purchase for the morels." rudolph hastened to obey the instructions; he took from the bed a large plaid shawl, and carefully arranged it on his neighbor's lovely shoulders. "now then, lift up the collar a little, press the dress and shawl close together and stick in the pin. above all, take care not to prick me." the prince executed the given instructions with zealous nicety; then he observed, smilingly, to the grisette, "oh, miss dimpleton, i must not be your _femme de chambre_--there is danger in it!" "yes, yes," answer miss dimpleton, gayly, "there is great danger of my having a pin run into me! but now," added she, after they had left the room and locked the door after them; "here, neighbor, take the key; it is so very heavy, that i always fear it will tear my pocket. it is quite a pistol for size!" and then she laughed merrily. rudolph accordingly took possession of an enormous key--such a one as is sometimes seen in those allegorical representations where the vanquished offer the keys of their cities to the conquerors. although rudolph believed himself sufficiently changed by years not to be recognized by polidori, he yet pulled up the collar of his coat before passing the door of the quack bradamanti. "neighbor, don't forget to tell m. pipelet that some goods will be brought here, which must be taken to your room," said miss dimpleton. "you are right, neighbor; we will step into the lodge as we pass by." pipelet, his everlasting immense hat, as usual, on his head, dressed in his green coat, was sitting gravely before a table, on which were spread pieces of leather and fragments of old shoes; he was occupied in putting a new sole to a boot, which he did with that serious and meditative air which characterized all his doings. anastasia was absent from the lodge. "well, m. pipelet," said miss dimpleton, "i trust things will be better now! thanks to my neighbor, the poor morels were rescued from trouble just as those heartless bailiffs were about to drag the unhappy man to prison." "oh! these bailiffs are really without hearts, or manners either, mademoiselle," added pipelet, in an angry voice, flourishing the boot he was repairing, in which he had thrust his left hand and arm. "no! i do not fear to repeat, in the face of heaven and man, that they are without manners; they took advantage of the darkness of the staircase to make rude remarks on my wife's very person. on hearing the cries of her offended modesty, in spite of myself, i yielded to the impulse of my temper. i do not disguise it, my first movement was to remain perfectly motionless." "but afterward you followed them, i hope, m. pipelet?" said miss dimpleton, who had some trouble to preserve a serious air. "i thought of it," answered pipelet, with a deep sigh; "but when those shameless ruffians passed before my door, my blood rose, and i could not hinder myself from putting my hand before my eyes, to hide the monsters from my sight! but that does not surprise me; i knew something unfortunate would happen to me to-day, for i dreamed--last night--of monster cabrion!" miss dimpleton smiled, as pipelet's painful sighs were mingled with the taps of the hammer, which he vigorously applied to the sole of the old boot. "you truly acted the part of a wise man, my dear m. pipelet, that of despising offenses, and holding it beneath you to revenge them. but let us forget these miserable bailiffs. will you be kind enough to do me a favor?" asked rudolph. "man is born to assist his fellow-man," replied pipelet, in a sententious and melancholy tone: "and more particularly so when his fellow-man is so good a lodger as yourself." "it will be necessary to take up to my room different things which will be brought here presently for the morels." "be assured i will take charge of them," replied pipelet, "and faithfully carry out your wishes." "and afterward," said rudolph, sadly, "you must obtain a priest to watch by the little girl the morels have lost in the night. go and register her death, and order a decent funeral. here is money; spare not, for morel's benefactress, whose mere agent i am, wishes all to go well." "make your mind quite easy, sir," replied pipelet; "directly my wife comes back, i will go to the mayor, the church, and the ham-and-beef shop--to the church for the soul of the dead, to the cook-shop for the body of the living," added pipelet, philosophically and poetically. "you may consider it done--already done, in both cases, my good sir." at the entrance, rudolph and miss dimpleton found themselves face to face with anastasia, who had returned from market, bearing a heavy basket of provisions. "well done!" exclaimed the portress, looking at them both with a knowing and significant air; "already arm-in-arm! that's your sort! young people will be young people--and where's the harm? to a pretty lass, a handsome lad! if you don't enjoy yourselves while young, you will find it difficult to do so when you get old! my poor dear alfred and i, for instance, when we were young, didn't we go the pace--but now, oh, dear! oh, dear!--well, never mind; go along, my dears, and make yourselves happy while you can. love forever!" the old woman disappeared in the darkness of the alley, calling out, "alfred, do not grumble, old darling. here is 'stasie who brings you good things--rare dainties!" the young couple had left the house. * * * * * * * to the mind of rudolph, for miss dimpleton was too little prone to mournful impressions to long reflect on the matter, the troubles of the morels had ceased; but in the grim reality, a calamity, ten fold severer than their direst poverty, was gathering and forming nearer them, ready to burst upon their heads almost before the gay young couple would return from their stroll. what this great evil was, and what fate befalls other characters yet to be introduced, will presently be revealed, in shadow and by sunshine. the slasher, the schoolmaster, the screech-owl, hoppy, and the other wretches whose misdeeds blacken these pages, form the foil; while fleur-de-marie, clemence d'harville, miss dimpleton, and mrs. george are the gems which will be seen to shed their luster and charm over the no less interesting pages of the second division of this work, entitled, "_part second:_ noon." part ii. noon. chapter i. the arrest. to the snow of the past night had succeeded a very sharp wind; so that the pavement of the streets, usually muddy, was almost dry, as rudolph and miss dimpleton directed their steps toward the extensive and singular bazaar called the temple. the girl leaned without ceremony upon the arm of her cavalier, with as little restraint as though they had been intimate for a long time. "isn't mrs. pipelet funny," said the grisette to rudolph, "with the odd remarks she makes?" "indeed, neighbor, i think she is quite right." "in what?" "why when she said: 'young people will be young people--and where's the harm?--love forever!'" "well?" "well! i mean to say that i perfectly agree with her." "agree with her!" "yes, i should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you, taking '_love forever_!' for my motto." "i believe it: you are not difficult to please." "where is the harm? we are neighbors." "if we were not neighbors, i should not walk out with you in this way." "then allow me to hope--" "hope what?" "that you will learn to love me." "i love you already." "really?" "to be sure i do and for a very simple reason. you are good and lively; although poor yourself, you do all you can for those unfortunate morels, in interesting rich people in their behalf; you have a face that pleases me much, and a well-turned figure, which is agreeable and flattering to me, as i shall frequently accept your arm. here are, i think, many reasons that i should love you." then interrupting herself to enjoy a hearty laugh, miss dimpleton cried: "look! look at that fat woman, with her old furrowed shoes; one could imagine her drawn along by two cats without tails!" and again she laughed merrily. "i prefer looking at you, neighbor; i am so happy in thinking you already love me." "i tell you so, because it is so; if you did not please me, i should say so all the same. i cannot reproach myself with having ever deceived or flattered any one; when people please me, i tell them so at once." then, interrupting herself again, to stop before a shop-window, the grisette exclaimed: "oh, look at that beautiful clock, and those two pretty vases! i have already saved up three francs and a half toward buying some like them. in five or six years i may be able to manage it." "saved up, neighbor? then you earn--" "at least thirty sous a day--sometimes forty, but i only reckon upon thirty; it is more prudent, and i regulate my expenses accordingly," said miss dimpleton, with an air as important as though it related to the transactions of a financier. "but with thirty sous a day, how can you manage to live?" "the reckoning is not difficult; shall i explain it to you, neighbor? you appear rather extravagant, so it may serve you as an example." "let's hear it." "thirty sous a day will make forty-five francs a month, will it not?" "yes." "well, then, by that account i have twelve francs for lodging, and twenty-three francs for living." "twenty-three francs for a month's living!" "yes, quite as much. i acknowledge that, for a person like myself, it is enormous; but then, you see, i refuse myself nothing." "oh, you little glutton!" "ah, but i also include food for my birds." "certainly, if you reckon for three, it is less extravagant. but let me hear the detail of your every-day management, that i may benefit by the instruction." "listen then. a pound of bread, that is four sous; milk, two sous-- that makes six; four sous for vegetables in winter, or fruit and salad in summer (i dote on salad and vegetables, because they do not soil the hands)--there is already ten sous; three sous for butter or oil and vinegar, as seasoning--thirteen sous; two pailfuls of water (oh, that is my luxury!) that will make fifteen sous; add to that two sous for chickweed and hempseed for my two birds, which usually share with me my bread and milk--that is twenty-two or twenty-three francs a month, neither more nor less." "and do you never eat meat?" "oh, lord! meat indeed! that costs ten to twelve sous a pound; how can i think of that? besides, it smells of the kitchen, of the stewpan; instead of which, milk, fruit, and vegetables require no cooking. i will tell you a dish i am very fond of, not troublesome, and which i make to perfection." "hold up the dish!" "i put fine potatoes in the oven of my stove; when they are done, i mash them with a little butter and milk, and a pinch of salt. it is a meal for the gods! if you are well behaved i will let you taste them some day." "prepared by your pretty hands, it cannot fail to be excellent. but let us see neighbor; we have already reckoned twenty-three francs for living, and twelve francs for lodging--that makes thirty-five francs a month." "well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs i earn, there remain to me ten or fifteen francs for wood and oil during winter, as well as for my dress and washing--that is to say for soap--as, excepting my sheets, i wash for myself: that is another luxury--a laundress would pretty well ruin me; and as i also iron very well, i thereby save my money. during the five winter months i burn a load and a half of wood, and four or five sous-worth of oil in the day for my lamp; that makes nearly eighteen francs a year for my light and fire." "so that there remain to you more than a hundred francs for your clothing?" "yes; and it is from that i have saved the three francs and a half." "but your dresses--your shoes and stockings--this pretty cap?" "my caps i only wear when i go out, and that does not ruin me, for i make them myself; at home i am satisfied with my hair. as to my dresses and boots--is there not the temple?"--"oh, yes, that contentment, excellent temple! well, you buy there--" "very good and pretty dresses. you must know that rich ladies are accustomed to give their old dresses to their waiting maids--when i say old, i mean that maybe they have worn them in their carriages a month or two--and their servants go and sell them to people who keep shops at the temple for almost nothing. thus, you see, i have a nice merino dress that i bought for fifteen francs, which perhaps cost sixty; it has hardly been put on and is beautifully fine. i altered it to fit me, and i flatter myself it does me credit." "indeed you do it much credit! thanks to the resources of the temple, i begin to think you can manage to dress respectably with a hundred francs a year." "to be sure i can. why, i can buy charming dresses for five or six francs; and boots, the same that i have on now, and almost new, for two or three francs. look! would not any one say that they were made for me?" said miss dimpleton, stooping and showing the tip of her pretty little foot, very nicely set off by the well-made and well-fitting boot. "the foot is charming, truly; but you must find a difficulty in fitting it. after that you will doubtless tell me that they sell children's shoes at the temple." "you are a sad flatterer, neighbor; however, after what i have told you, you will acknowledge that a girl, quite alone and well, can live respectably on thirty sous a day? i must tell you, by-the-by, the four hundred and fifty francs which i brought from prison assisted materially in establishing me. when once known that i possessed furniture, it inspired confidence and i had work intrusted to me to take home; but it was necessary to wait a long time before i could meet with employment. fortunately i kept sufficient money to live upon for three months, without earning anything." "spite of your gay, heedless manner, allow me to say that you possess a great deal of good sense, neighbor." "nay, when one is alone in the world, and would not be under obligation to any one, you must exercise some management to build your nest well, and take care of it when it is built, as the saying is." "and your nest is delightful!" "is it not? for, as i have said, i refuse myself nothing; i consider i have a lodging above my station. then, again, i have birds; in summer always at least two pots of flowers on the mantelpiece, besides the boxes in the windows; and then, as i told you, i had three francs or more in my money-box, toward ornaments i hoped one day to be able to purchase for the chimney-piece." "and what became of these savings?" "why, latterly i have seen those poor morels so unhappy, so very unhappy, that i said to myself: 'there is no sense in having these ugly pieces of money idling in a box, whilst poor people are perishing of hunger beside you,' so i lent them to morel. when i say lent, i mean i told him i only lent them, in order to spare his feelings, for i assure you i gave them freely." "yes, neighbor, but as they are no longer in want, you surely will not refuse to allow them to repay you?" "true, i shall not refuse it; it will be something toward the purchase of chimney-ornaments--my dream." "and then, again, you ought to think a little of the future." "the future?" "should you fall ill, for instance." and, at the bare idea, miss dimpleton burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, so loud, that a fat man, who was walking before her, carrying a dog under his arm, turned round quite angrily, believing himself to be the butt. miss dimpleton, resuming her composure, made a half-courtesy to the stout person, and pointing to the animal under his arm, said: "is your dog so very tired, sir?" the fat man grumbled something, and continued to walk. "come, come, neighbor," said rudolph; "are you losing your senses?" "it is your fault if i am." "my fault?" "yes; because you say such silly things to me." "what, because i tell you that you may fall ill?" "i ill?" "why not?" "am i a likely-looking person to be sick then?" "never have i beheld a face more rosy and fresh!" "very well then, why do you think i shall be ill?" "nay, but--" "at eighteen years of age, leading the life i do, how can that be possible? i rise at five o'clock, winter and summer; i go to bed at ten or eleven; i eat to satisfy my hunger, which is not very great, it is true; i sing like a lark all day, and at night i sleep like a dormouse: i have a mind free, joyful, and contented, with the certainty of plenty of work, because my employers are pleased with what i have done. why should i be sick! what an idea! well, i never!" and miss dimpleton again relapsed into long and hearty laughter. rudolph, struck with this blind, yet happy confidence in the future, reproached himself with having attempted to shake it. he thought, with horror, that an illness of a month could ruin this merry, peaceful mode of existence. miss dimpleton's deep faith in her health and her eighteen years, her only treasures, appeared to rudolph something akin to holiness; for, on the young girl's part, it was neither carelessness nor improvidence, but an instinctive reliance on the commiseration of divine justice, which could not abandon an industrious and virtuous creature, whose only error was a too confident dependence on the youth and health she enjoyed. the birds, as they cleave with gay and agile wings the azure skies in spring, or skim lightly over the blooming fields, do they think of the cheerless winter? "then," said rudolph to the grisette, "you are not ambitious to possess more than you have?" "nothing." "absolutely nothing?" "no--that is to say, i should like to have my chimney-ornaments, and i shall have them, though i do not know when; but i have it in my head to possess them, and i will, if i should have to sit up to work all night to do it." "and besides these ornaments--" "i want for nothing; i cannot recollect a single thing more that i care about possessing now." "how now?" "because, if you had asked me the same question yesterday, i should have told you i was longing for a suitable neighbor; so that i could arrange with him comfortably, as i have always done, to perform little services for him, that he might return nice little attentions to me." "well, it is already agreed, my pretty neighbor, that you shall take charge of my linen, and that i shall clean your room--without naming your waking me early in the morning, by tapping at the wall." "and do you think that will be all?' "what else is there?" "oh, bless your heart, you have not arrived at the end of what i expect of you. is it not necessary that on sundays you take me for a walk on the boulevards?--you know that is the only day i have for recreation." "to be sure. in summer we will go into the country." "no, i detest the country. i like no place so well as paris. nevertheless, i went, once upon a time, out of good nature, with a young friend of mine, who was my companion in prison, to visit meudon and saint-germain. my friend was a very pleasant, good girl, whom they called sweet-throat, because she was always singing." "and what has become of her?" "i do not know. she spent all the money she brought from prison, without appearing to be much amused; she was always sad, but sympathizing and charitable. when we used to go out together, i had not then any work; but when i succeeded in obtaining some, i did not stir from home. i gave her my address, but as she has not been to see me, doubtless she has also some occupation, and, like me, is too busy to get out. i only mention this to let you know, neighbor, that i love paris above every other place. so whenever you can, on sunday, you may take me to dine at the ordinary, sometimes to the play; or, if you have not any money, you can take me to see the fashionable shops, which will amuse me almost as much. rest satisfied, that in our little excursions i shall not disgrace you. you will see how smart i shall look in my pretty dress of blue levantine, that i only wear on sundays: it suits me to perfection. with that i wear a pretty little cap, trimmed with lace and orange-colored ribbon, which does not contrast badly with my black hair; satin boots, that i have made for me; an elegant shawl of silk imitation cashmere! indeed, i expect, neighbor, people will turn round to look after us as we pass along. men will say: 'really, that is a pretty little girl, upon my word!' and the women, on their part, will exclaim: 'look at that tall young man! what an elegant shape! he has an air that is truly fashionable! and his little brown mustache becomes him exceedingly!' and i shall be of their opinion, for i adore mustaches. unfortunately, m. germain did not wear one, because of the situation he held. m. cabrion did, but then it was red, like his long beard, and i do not like those great beards; besides, he made himself so ridiculously conspicuous in the streets, and teased poor m. pipelet so much. now, m. giraudeau, who was my neighbor before m. cabrion, dressed well, and altogether had a very good appearance, but he squinted. at first it annoyed me very much, because he always appeared to be looking at some one at the side of me, and without thinking, i often turned round to see who--" and again miss dimpleton laughed. rudolph, as he listened to this prattle, asked himself, for the third or fourth time, what he ought to think of the _virtue_ of miss dimpleton. sometimes the frankness of the grisette, and the remembrance of the large bolt, made him almost believe that she loved her neighbors merely as _brothers_ or _companions_, and that mrs. pipelet had caluminated her; then again he smiled at his credulity, in thinking it probable that a girl so young, so pretty, so solitary, should have escaped the seductions of giraudeau, cabrion, and germain. still, for all that, miss dimpleton's frankness and originality disposed him to think favorably of her. "you delight me, neighbor, by your manner of disposing of my sundays," said rudolph, gayly; "we will have some famous treats." "stop a moment, mr. spendthrift. i warn you that i shall keep house. in summer, we can dine very well--yes, very well--for three francs, at the chartreuse or at the montmartre hermitage, half a dozen country dances, or valses included, with a ride upon the wooden horses:--oh, i do so love riding on horseback! that will makeup your five francs--not a farthing more, i assure you. do you valse?" "very well." "oh, this pleases me! m. cabrion always trod on my feet, and then for fun he would throw fulminating balls on the ground, which was the reason they would not let him go any more to the chartreuse." "be assured, i will answer for my discretion wherever we go together; and as to the fulminating balls, i will have nothing to do with them. but in winter, what shall we do?" "in winter, we are less hungry, and can dine luxuriously for forty sous; then we shall have three francs left for the play, for i would not have you exceed a hundred sous-- that is indeed too much to spend in pleasure; but if alone, you would spend much more at the wine-shop or the billiard-rooms, with low fellows, who smell horribly of tobacco. is it not better to pass the day pleasantly with a young friend, very laughter-loving and discreet, who will save you some expense, by hemming your cravats, and taking care of your other little domestic affairs?" "it is clearly a gaining for me, neighbor; only if my friends should meet me with my pretty little friend on my arm, what then?" "well, they will look at us and say: 'he is not at all unlucky, that rogue rudolph!'" "you know my name?" "why, to be sure i do. when i learned that the next room was let, i asked to whom!" "yes, when people meet us together, no doubt, as you say, they will remark: 'what a lucky fellow that rudolph is!' and will envy me." "so much the better." "they will think me perfectly happy." "of course they will; and so much the better!" "and if i should not be so happy as i seem?" "what does that matter, provided they believe it; men require nothing further than mere outward show." "but your reputation?" miss dimpleton burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. "the reputation of a grisette! would any one believe in such a phenomenon?" answered she. "if i had father or mother, brother or sister, for them i should be careful of what people would say: but i am alone in the world, and it's my own look out. as long as i am satisfied with myself, i don't care a snap for others!" "but still i should be very uncomfortable." "what for?" "in being thought happy in having you for a companion, while, on the contrary, i love you. it would be something like taking dinner with papa cretu--eating dry bread, whilst a cookery book was being read to me." "nonsense, nonsense! you will be very happy to live after my fashion. i shall prove so mild, grateful, and unwearying, that you will say: 'after all, it is as well to pass my sunday, with her as with any one else.' if you should be disengaged in the evenings, during the week, and it would not annoy you, you might pass them in my room, and have the advantage of my fire and lamp, you could hire romances, and read them aloud to me. better than go and lose your money at billiards. otherwise, if you were kept late at your business, or you liked better to go to the _cafe_, you could wish me good-night on your return, if i were still up. but should i be in bed, at an early hour next day i would say good-morning, by tapping at the wall to waken you. m. germain, my last neighbor, spent all his evenings in that manner with me, and did not complain; he read all walter scott's works to me, which were very interesting. sometimes on sunday, when the weather was bad, instead of leaving home, he bought something nice, and we made a downright banquet in my room; after which we amused ourselves with reading, and i was almost as much pleased as if i had been at the theater. this is to show you that it would not be difficult to live with me, and that i will do what i can to make things pleasant and agreeable. and then, you, who talk of illness, if ever you should be laid up, i'll be a real sister of charity; only ask the morels what sort of a nurse i am! so, you see, you are not aware of all your happiness; it is as good as a lucky hit in the lottery to have me for a neighbor." "that is true, i have always been lucky; but, speaking of m. germain, where is he now?" "in paris, i believe." "then you never see him now?" "since he left this house, he has not been to see me." "but where does he live, and what is he doing?" "why do you ask those questions, neighbor?" "because i feel jealous of him," said rudolph, smiling, "and i would--" "jealous!" exclaimed miss dimpleton, laughing. "there is no reason for that, poor fellow!" "seriously, then, i have the greatest interest in knowing the address of m. germain; you know where he lives, and i may, without boasting, add, that i am incapable of abusing the secret i ask of you; it will be for his interest also." "seriously, neighbor, i believe you wish every good to m. germain, but he made me promise not to give his address to any one; therefore, be assured, that as i do not give it to you, it is because i cannot. you ought not to be angry with me; if you had intrusted a secret to me, you would be pleased to find i acted as i am now doing." "but--" "stop, neighbor! once for all, do not speak to me any more on that subject; i have made a promise, i intend to keep it, and, whatever you may say to me, i shall still answer you in the same way." in spite of her giddiness and frivolity, the girl pronounced these last words so decisively, that rudolph felt, to his great regret, that he would never obtain from her the desired information about germain; and he felt a repugnance to employ artifice in surprising her confidence. he paused a moment, and then resumed: "do not let us speak of it again, neighbor. upon my soul, you keep so well the secrets of others, that i am no longer surprised at your keeping your own." "secrets! i have secrets! i wish i had some; it must be so very amusing." "do you mean to say that you have not a little secret of the heart?" "a secret of the heart!" "in a word, have you never loved?" said rudolph, looking steadfastly at miss dimpleton, to read the truth in her tell-tale face. "loved!--have i not loved m. giraudeau, m. cabrion, m. germain, and you?" "and did you love them the same as you love me--neither more nor less?" "oh, i cannot tell you that, exactly--less, perhaps; for i had to habituate myself to the squint of m. giraudeau, to the red beard and disagreeable jests of m. cabrion, and the melancholy of m. germain, for he was so very sad, poor young man: while you, on the contrary, pleased me instantly." "you will not feel angry, neighbor, if i speak to you as a friend?" "oh, no, don't be afraid--i am very good-natured; and then you are so kind, that i am sure you have not the heart to say anything that would cause me pain." "certainly not; but now, frankly, have you never had--a lover?" "lovers! now, is that very likely? have i time for that?" "but what has time to do with it?" "everything. first of all, i should be as jealous as a tiger, and i should be constantly worrying myself with one idea or the other. then, again, do i earn money enough to enable me to lose two or three hours a day in grief and tears?--and if he deceived me, what weeping, what sorrow! all that would throw me pretty well behindhand, you may guess." "but all lovers are not unfaithful, and do not cause their mistresses to weep." "that would be still worse. if he were very good and loving, could i live a moment away from him? and then, as most likely he would be obliged to stay all day, either at the desk, manufactory, or shop, i should be like a poor restless spirit during his absence. i should invent a thousand chimeras; imagine that others loved him, and that he was with them. heaven only knows what i might be tempted to do in my despair! certain it is, that my work would be neglected, and what would become of me then? i can manage, quiet as i am, to live by working twelve or fourteen hours a day; but, were i to lose two or three days in the week by tormenting myself, how could i make up the lost time? impossible! i must then take a situation. oh, no, i love my liberty too well." "your liberty?" "yes; i could enter as forewoman to the person who now employs me; i should receive four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging." "and you will not accept that?" "no, indeed. i should be dependent on others; instead of which, however humble my home may be, it is my own. i owe no one anything; i have courage, health and gayety: with an agreeable neighbor like yourself, what do i want more?" "then you have never thought of marrying?" "i marry! i could only expect to meet with a husband as poor as myself; and look at the unhappy morels--see where it ends! when you have but yourself to look to, you can always manage somehow." "then you never build castles in the air--never dream?" "yes, i dream of my chimney-ornaments; besides them what can i desire?" "but suppose, now, some relation, of whom you have never heard, should die and leave you a fortune--say twelve hundred francs a year--to you, who live upon five hundred francs----" "it might prove a good thing--perhaps an evil." "an evil?" "i am very happy as i am; i can enjoy the life i now lead, but i do not know how i should pass my time if i were rich. after a hard day's work, i go to bed, my lamp extinguished, and, by a few light embers that remain in my stove, i see my room neat--curtains, drawers, chairs, birds, watch, and my table spread with goods intrusted to me-- and then i say to myself, `all this i owe to myself.' truly, neighbor, these thoughts cradle me softly, and sometimes i go to sleep with pride, always with content. but here we are at the temple! you must confess, now, that it is a very superb show!" although rudolph did not participate in the deep veneration expressed by miss dimpleton at the sight of the temple, he was nevertheless struck by the singular appearance of this enormous bazaar, with its numerous divisions and passages. toward the middle of the rue du temple, not far from a fountain which was placed in the angle of a large square, might be seen an immense parallelogram built of timber, surmounted with a slated roof. that building is the temple. bounded on the left by the rue du petit thouars, on the right by the rue percee, it finished in a vast rotunda, surrounded with a gallery, forming a sort of arcade. a long opening, intersecting this parallelogram in its length, divided it in two equal parts; these were in their turn divided and subdivided by little lateral and transverse courts, sheltered from the rain by the roof of the edifice. in this bazaar new merchandise is generally prohibited; but the smallest rag of any stuff, the smallest piece of iron, brass, or steel, there found its buyer or seller. there you saw dealers in scraps of cloth of all colors, ages, shades, qualities, and fashion, to assimilate either with worn-out or ill-fitting garments. some of the shops presented mountains of old shoes, some trodden down at heel, others twisted, torn, split, and in holes, presenting a mass of nameless, formless, colorless objects, among which were grimly visible some species of _fossil_ soles, about an inch thick, studded with thick nails, like a prison door, and hard as a horseshoe, the actual skeletons of shoes whose other component parts had long since been devoured by time. yet all this moldy, rusty, dried-up accumulation of decaying rubbish found a willing purchaser, an extensive body of _merchants_ trading in this particular line. there existed retailers of trimming, fringes, cords, ravelings of silk, cotton, or thread, during the destruction of curtains, etc., rendered unfit for use. other industrious persons occupied themselves in the business of women's bonnets; these bonnets never came to their shop but in the bags of the retailer, after the most singular changes, the most extraordinary transformations, the most unheard-of discolorations. to prevent the merchandise taking up too much room in a shop usually of the size of a large box, they folded these bonnets in two, after which they smoothed them and pressed them down excessively tight--saving the salt, it is positively the same process as is used in the preservation of herrings: thus you may imagine how much, thanks to this method of stowage, may be contained in a space of four square feet. when the purchaser presents himself, they withdraw these bags from the pressure to which they are subject; the merchant, with a careless air, gives a slight push with his fist to the bottom of the crown, to raise it up, smooths the front upon his knee, and presents to your eyes an object at once whimsically fantastical, which recalls confusedly to your memory those fabulous head-dresses favored by box-keepers, aunts of opera dancers, or duennas of provincial theaters. further on, at the sign of the _gout du jour_, under the arcades of the rotunda, elevated at the end of the wide opening which separates the temple in two parts, were hanging, like _exotics_, numerous clothes, in color, shape, and make still more extravagant than those of the bonnets just described. here were seen frock-coats, flashily set off by three rows of hussar-jacket buttons, and warmly ornamented with a little fur collar of fox's skin. great-coats, formerly of bottle-green, rendered by time _invisible_, edged with a black cord, and brightened by a lining of plaid, blue and yellow, which had a most laughable effect. coats, formerly styled the "swallow-tails," of a reddish-brown, with a handsome collar of plush, ornamented with buttons, once gilt, but now of a copper color. there were also to be seen polish cloaks, with collars of cat-skin, frogged, and faced with old black cotton-velvet; not far from these were dressing-gowns, cunningly made of watchmen's old great-coats, from which were taken the many capes, and lined with pieces of printed cotton; the better sort were of dead blue and dark green, patched up with sundry pieces of variegated colors, and fastened round the waist with an old woolen bell-rope serving for a girdle, making a finish to these elegant _deshabilles_, so exultingly worn by robert macaire. we shall briefly pass over a variety of "loud" costumes, more or less uncouth, in the midst of which might here and there be seen some authentic relics of royalty or greatness, dragged by the revolution of time from palaces and noble halls, to figure on the dingy shelves of the rotunda. these exhibitions of old shoes, old hats, and ridiculous old dresses, were on the grotesque side of the bazaar--the quarter for beggars, ostentatiously decked out and disguised; but it must be allowed, or rather distinctly asserted, that this vast establishment was of immense use to the humble classes, or those of limited means. there they might purchase, at an amazing reduction in price, excellent things, almost new, the actual depreciation in value being almost imaginary. on one side of the temple, set apart for bedding, there were heaps of coverlets, sheets, mattresses, and pillows. further on were carpets, curtains, and all sorts of kitchen utensils, besides clothes, shoes, and head-dresses for all classes and ages. these objects, generally of perfect cleanliness, offered nothing repugnant to the sight. one could scarcely believe, before visiting the bazaar, how little time and money were requisite to fill a cart with all that is necessary to the complete fitting out of two or three families who wanted everything. rudolph was struck by the manner, at once eager, obliging, and merry, with which the various dealers, standing outside their shops, solicited the custom of the passers-by; these manners, stamped with a sort of respectful familiarity, seemed to belong to another age. scarcely had miss dimpleton and her companion appeared in the long passage occupied by those who sold bedding, than they were surrounded by the most seductive offers. "sir, come in and see my mattresses; they are better than new! i will unsew a corner, that you may examine the stuffing; you will think it lambs'-wool, it is so white and soft!" "my pretty little lady, i have sheets of fine holland, finer than at first, for their stiffness has been taken out of them; they are as soft as a glove, strong as steel!" "come, my elegant new-married couple, buy of me a counterpane. see how soft, warm, and light they are--you would imagine them of eider-down; nearly new--have not been used twenty times. look, my little lady; decide for your husband; give me your custom--i will furnish very cheaply for you--you will be satisfied--you will come again to mother bouvard. you will find all you want in my shop; yesterday i made beautiful purchases--you shall see them all. come in, anyhow; it will not cost anything to look." "by my faith, neighbor," said rudolph to miss dimpleton, "this good fat woman shall have the preference. she takes us for young married people; the supposition flatters me, and i decide for her shop." "to the good fat woman's, then," answered miss dimpleton; "her face pleases me too." the grisette and her companion then entered mother bouvard's shop. by a magnanimity perhaps unexampled anywhere but at the temple, the rivals of mother bouvard did not rebel at the preference accorded her; one of the neighbors, indeed, had the generosity to say, "so long as it is mother bouvard, and no other, who has this customer, it is very well: she has a family, and is the oldest inhabitant of the temple, and an honor to it." it was, besides, impossible to have a face more prepossessing, open, and joyous than hers. "here, my pretty little lady," said she to miss dimpleton, who examined everything with the manner of one capable of judging, "this is the purchase of which i spoke; two beds, completely fitted up, and as good as new. if by chance you want a little old secretary, and not dear, there is one," and she pointed to it, "that i had in the same lot. although i do not generally buy furniture, i could not refuse to take it, as the person of whom i had all this seemed so unhappy. poor lady! it was the parting with that, above all, that appeared to rend her heart; an old piece of furniture very long with the family." at these words, while the shopkeeper and miss dimpleton were debating the prices of different articles, rudolph looked more attentively at the piece of furniture which mother bouvard had pointed out. it was one of those old secretaries of rosewood, in shape nearly triangular, shut in by a panel in front, which, thrown back, and supported by two long brass hinges, could be used as a writing-desk. in the middle of the panel, inlaid with different-colored wood, rudolph noticed a cipher in ebony, an m. and r. interlaced, and surmounted by the coronet of a count. he imagined its last possessor to belong to an elevated class of society. his curiosity increased; he examined the secretary with renewed attention; he opened mechanically the drawers, one after the other, when, finding some difficulty in opening the last, and seeking the cause, he discovered and drew out carefully a sheet of paper, partly entangled between the drawer and the bottom of the secretary. while miss dimpleton was finishing her purchases with mother bouvard, rudolph narrowly scrutinized the paper; from the many erasures it was easily to be seen that it was an unfinished draught of a letter. rudolph, with difficulty, read as follows: "sir,--be assured that misfortunes the most frightful could alone compel me to address you. it is not from ill-placed pride i feel these scruples, but the absolute want of any claim to the service i venture to ask of you. the sight of my daughter, reduced, like myself, to the most painful privation, urges me to the task. a few words will explain the cause of the misfortunes which overwhelm me. after the death of my husband, there remained to me a fortune of three hundred thousand francs, placed by my brother with m. jacques ferrand, notary. i received at angers, where i had retired with my daughter, the interest of this sum in remittances from my brother. you remember, sir, the frightful event that put an end to his existence: ruined, as it appeared, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he destroyed himself eight months since. before this melancholy event, i received from him a few lines, written in despair, in which he said, when i read them he should have ceased to exist; he finished by informing me that he possessed no document relative to the sum placed in my name with m. jacques ferrand, as that individual never gave a receipt, but was honor and goodness itself, and it would only be necessary for me to call on him for the affairs to be satisfactorily arranged. as soon as i could possibly turn my attention to anything but the fearful death of my brother, i came to paris, where i knew no one but yourself, sir, and that indirectly, by business you had had with my husband. i told you that the sum placed with m. jacques ferrand comprised the whole of my fortune, and that my brother sent me, every six months, the interest derived from that sum. more than a year having passed since the last payment, i consequently called on the notary, to demand that of which i stood greatly in want. scarcely had i made myself known, than, without respecting my grief, he accused my brother of having borrowed from him two thousand francs, which he had entirely lost by his death; adding, that not only was his suicide a crime toward god and man, but that it was still further an act of dishonesty, of which he was the victim. this odious speech made me indignant. the upright conduct of my brother was well known; he had, it is true, without the knowledge of myself or his friends, lost his fortune in hazardous speculations, but he died with his reputation unsullied, regretted by every one, and leaving no debts, save that to his notary. i replied to m. ferrand that i authorized him to take instantly, from the sum he had in his charge of mine, the two thousand francs my brother was indebted to him. at these words he looked at me in stupefied manner, and asked me of what money i spoke. 'the three hundred thousand francs that my brother placed in your hands eighteen months since, sir; the interest of which you have remitted, through him,' said i not comprehending his question. the notary shrugged his shoulders, smiled in pity, as though my assertion was not true, and answered me that, so far from having placed money with him, he had borrowed two thousand francs. "it is impossible to explain to you my terror at this answer. 'but what, then, has become of this sum?' asked i. 'my daughter and myself have no other resource; if it be taken from us, there remains but the greatest misery. what will become of us?' 'i know nothing about it,' said the notary coolly: 'it is most likely that your brother, instead of placing this sum with me, as he told you, made use of it in those unfortunate speculations to which he gave himself up, without the knowledge of any one.' 'it is false, sir!' i exclaimed; 'my brother was honor's self. far from despoiling myself and child, he sacrificed himself to us. he would never marry, that he might leave all he possessed to my child.' 'dare you assume, then, madame, that i am capable of denying a trust reposed in me?' asked the notary, with an indignation so apparently honorable and sincere, that i replied, 'no, sir; without doubt your reputation for probity is well known; but, notwithstanding, i cannot accuse my brother of so cruel an abuse of confidence.' 'upon what deeds do you found this demand on me?' asked m. ferrand. 'none, sir; eighteen months since, my brother, who took upon himself the management of my affairs, wrote to me, saying, 'i have an excellent opportunity of realizing six per cent.; send me your warrant of attorney; i will deposit three hundred thousand francs, which i have concluded about, with m. ferrand, the notary.' i sent the power of attorney; and, a few days after, he informed me that he had effected the deposit with you, and at the end of six months he sent me the interest of that sum. 'at least you have some letters from him on the subject, madame?' 'no, sir; as they related only to business, i did not preserve them.' 'i, unhappily, madame, know nothing of all this,' replied the notary; 'if my character was not above all suspicion, all attack, i should say to you, 'the law is open to you-- proceed against me; the judges will have to choose between an honorable man, who for thirty years has enjoyed the esteem of persons of consideration, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after ruining himself in the most hazardous speculations, found refuge only in suicide.' in short, i say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare, and the memory of your brother will be dishonored! but i should think that you will nave the good sense to be resigned to a misfortune, doubtless very great, but to which i am a stranger.' 'but, sir, i am a mother; if my fortune is lost to me, my daughter and myself have only the resource of some little furniture; that sold, there remains but misery, sir, appalling misery!' 'you have, unfortunately, been cheated; i can do nothing,' replied the notary. 'again i tell you, madame, your brother deceived you. if you hesitate between my word and his, proceed against me; the law is open to you--i abide by its decision.' i left the office of the notary in the deepest despair. what remained for me to do in this extremity. without any document to prove the validity of my claim, convinced of the strict honesty of my brother, confounded by the assurance of m. ferrand, having no one from whom i could ask advice (you were then traveling), knowing that money was necessary to have the opinion of counsel, and wishing carefully to preserve the little which was left to me, i dared not undertake the commencement of a lawsuit. it was then--" this copy of a letter ended here, for strokes not decipherable, covered some lines which followed: at last, at the bottom, in a corner of the page, rudolph read the following memorandum: "_write to the duchess de lucenay, for m. de saint-remy_." rudolph remained thoughtful after the perusal of this fragment of a letter, in which he had found two names whose connection struck him. although the additional infamy with which m. ferrand appeared to be accused was not proved, this man had shown himself so pitiless towards the unfortunate morel, so infamous to louise, his daughter, that a denial of the deposit, protected as he was from certain discovery, did not appear strange, coming from such a wretch. this mother, who claimed a fortune which had so strangely disappeared, no doubt accustomed to the comforts of life, was ruined by a blow so sudden: knowing no one at paris, as the letter said, what could now be the existence of these two females, deprived of everything, alone in the heart of this immense city? the prince had, as we know, promised to lady d'harville _some intrigues_, which he hazarded for the purpose of occupying her mind, and a part to perform in some future work of charity, feeling certain of finding, before his again meeting the lady, some grief to assuage: he trusted that perhaps chance might throw in his path some worthy, unfortunate person, who could, agreeably to his project, interest the heart and imagination of lady d'harville. the wording of the letter that he held in his hands, a copy of which, without doubt, had never been sent to the person from whom assistance was implored, showed a character proud and resigned, to whom the offer of charity would be no doubt repugnant. in that case, what precautions and delicate deceptions would be necessary to hide the source of a generous succor, or to make it acceptable! and then, what address to gain introduction to this lady, so that you might judge if she really merited the interest it seemed she ought to inspire! rudolph foresaw a crowd of emotions, new, curious, and touching, which ought singularly to amuse lady d'harville, as he had promised her. "well, _husband_," said miss dimpleton, gayly, "what is that scrap of paper you are reading?" "my little _wife_," answered rudolph, "you are very curious. i will tell you presently. have you concluded your purchases?" "certainly, and your poor friends will be established like kings. there remains only to pay. mother bouvard is very accommodating, it must be allowed." "my little _wife_, an idea has just struck me; while i am paying, will you go and choose clothing for mrs. morel and her children; i confess my ignorance on the subject of such purchases. you can tell them to bring the things here, as there need be but one journey, and the poor people will have all at the same time." "you are always right, _husband_. wait for me, i shall not be long; i know two shopkeepers with whom i always deal, and i shall find there all that i want." miss dimpleton went out, saying, "mother bouvard, i trust my _husband_ to you; do not make love to him." and, laughing, she hastily disappeared. "indeed, sir," said mother bouvard to rudolph, after the departure of miss dimpleton, "you must allow that you possess a famous little manager. she understands well how to buy. so pretty! red and white, with beautiful large black eyes, and hair to match!" "is she not charming? am i not a happy husband, mother bouvard?" "as happy a husband as she is a wife, i am quite sure." "you are not mistaken there; but tell me, how much do i owe you?" "your little lady would not go beyond three hundred and thirty francs for all. as there is a heaven above, i only clear fifteen francs, for i did not buy them so cheaply as i might; i had not the heart to beat them down, the people who sold them appeared so very unhappy!" "indeed! were they not the same persons of whom you bought the little secretary?" "yes, sir; and its break my heart only to think of it. there came here the day before yesterday, a lady, still young and beautiful, but so pale and thin, that it gave you pain to see her. although she was neat and clean, her old threadbare, black worsted shawl, her black stuff gown, also much worn and frayed, her straw bonnet in the month of january, for she was in mourning, proclaimed what is termed a _shabby genteel_ appearance, but i am sure she was of real quality. at length she inquired, with a blush, if i would purchase two beds complete, and an old secretary. i replied, that as i sold i must buy, and that, if they suited me, i would have them. she then begged me to go with her, not far from here, on the other side of the street, to a house on the quay of the canal saint martin. i left my shop in charge of my niece, and followed the lady. we came to a shabby-looking house, quite at the bottom of a court; we went up to the fourth story, the lady knocked, and a young girl of fourteen opened the door; she was also in mourning, and equally pale and thin, but in spite of this, beautiful as the day--so beautiful, that i was enraptured!" "well, and this young girl?" "was the daughter of the lady in mourning. although so cold she had on nothing more than a black cotton dress with white spots, and a little black shawl quite worn out." "and their lodging was wretched?" "imagine, sir, two little rooms, very clean, but almost empty, and so cold that i was nearly frozen; a fireplace where you could not perceive the least appearance of ashes; there had not been a fire for a long time. the whole of the furniture consisted of two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers, an old trunk, and the little secretary. upon the trunk was a bundle in a handkerchief. this bundle was all that remained to the mother and daughter, when once their furniture was sold. the landlord selected the two bedsteads, the chairs, trunk, and table, for what they were indebted to him, as the porter said who came up with us. when the lady begged me to put a fair value on the mattress, sheets, curtains, and blankets, on the faith of an honest woman, sir, although i live by buying cheap and selling dear, when i saw the poor young lady, her eyes filled with tears, and her mother, in spite of her calmness, appearing to weep inwardly, i estimated them within fifteen francs of their value to sell again, i assure you; i even consented, to oblige them, to take the little secretary, although it is not in my line of business." "i will buy it of you, mother bouvard." "will you though? so much the better, sir; it would have remained on my hands a long time, and i only took it to serve the lady. i then told her what i would give for the things, and i expected she would ask me more than i had offered; but no, she said not a word about it. this still more satisfied me that she was no common person; _genteel poverty_, sir, be assured. i said, 'so much,' she answered, 'thank you! now let us return to your shop, and you can then pay me, as i shall not come back again to this house.' then, speaking to her daughter, who was sitting on the trunk, crying, she said, 'claire, take the bundle.' i remember the name well. the young lady rose up, but in passing by the side of the little secretary, she threw herself on her knees before it, and began to sob. 'courage, my child, they are looking at us,' said her mother, in a low tone, but yet i heard her. you can understand, sir, they are poor but proud people. when the lady gave me the key of the little secretary, i noticed a tear in her eyes, her heart seemed breaking at parting with the old piece of furniture; but she still tried to preserve her calmness and dignity before strangers. she then gave the porter to understand that i was to take away all the landlord did not keep, and afterward we returned here. the young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her hand the little bundle which contained their all. i paid them three hundred and fifteen francs, and have not since seen them." "but their name?" "i do not know: the lady sold me the things in the presence of the porter; i had not the necessity to ask her name, as what she sold belonged to herself." "but their new abode?" "that, also, i do not know." "perhaps they can inform me at their old lodging?" "no, sir; for when i returned to fetch away the things, the porter said, speaking of the mother and daughter; 'they are very quiet people, but very unhappy; some misfortunes have happened to them. they always appeared calm; but i am sure they were in a state of despair.' 'and where are they going to lodge at this late hour?' i asked him. 'in truth, i know nothing,' answered he; 'it is, however, quite certain they will not return here.'" the hopes that rudolph had entertained for a moment vanished. how could he discover these two unhappy females, having only as a clew the name of the young girl, claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have spoken, at the bottom of which were the words: "_write to madame de lucenay, for m. de saint-remy_." the only chance, and that was a very faint one, of tracing these unfortunates, rested in madame de lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with lady d'harville. "here, madame, pay yourself," said rudolph to the shopkeeper, giving her a note for five hundred francs. "i will give you the difference, sir." "where can i engage a cart to carry the things?" "if it be not very far, a large truck will be sufficient; father jerome has one, quite close by; i always employ him. what is your address?" "no. , rue du temple." "rue du temple, no. . yes, yes, i know the house." "you have been there?" "many times. first, i bought some clothes of a pawnbroker who lived there. it is true, she did not carry on a large business, but that was no affair of mine: she sold, i bought, and we were quits. another time, not six months ago, i went again for the furniture of a young man who lived on the fourth story, and who was going to remove." "m. francois germain, perhaps," said rudolph. "the same. do you know him?" "very well. unhappily, he has not left in the rue du temple his present address, and i do not know where to find him." "if that be all, i can remove the difficulty." "you know where he lives?" "not exactly; but i know where you will be sure to meet with him." "where is that?"-- "at a notary's, where he is employed." "at a notary's?" "yes; who lives in the rue du sentier." "m. jacques ferrand!" exclaimed rudolph. "the same; a worthy man; he has a crucifix and a bit of the true cross in his office, which reminds one of a sacristy." "but how do you know that m. germain is with the notary?" "why, in this way. the young man came to me, and proposed that i should buy all his furniture; although not in my way of business, i agreed, and afterward retailed them here; for, as it suited the young man, i did not like to refuse. well, then, i bought him clean out, and gave him a good price; he was, doubtless, satisfied with me, for at the end of a fortnight he came to buy a bedstead and bedding. he brought with him a truck and a porter; they packed up all; but just as he was about to pay he found he had forgotten his purse. he appeared such an honest young man, that i said to him: 'take the things with you, all the same; i will call for the money.''very well,' he said; 'but i am seldom at home; call, therefore, tomorrow, in the rue du sentier, at m. jacques ferrand's the notary, where i am employed, and i will then pay you.' i went the next day, and he paid me. only, what i thought so odd, was, his selling me all his goods, and buying others in a fortnight after." rudolph thought he could account for the cause of this singularity. germain, wishing that the wretches who pursued him should lose all traces, of him, had sold his goods, thinking that if he removed them it might give a clew to his new abode, and had preferred, to avoid this evil, purchasing others, and taking them himself to his lodgings. rudolph started with joy when he thought of the happiness for mrs. george, who was at last about to see this son, so long and vainly sought. miss dimpleton now returned with joyful eyes and smiling lips. "well, did i not tell you?" she exclaimed. "i was not wrong: we have spent, in all, six hundred and forty francs, and the morels will be housed like princes. see! the shopkeepers are coming: are they not loaded? nothing is wanted for the use of the family--even to a gridiron, two beautiful saucepans newly tinned, and a coffee-pot. i said to myself, since everything is to be had, it shall be so; and, besides all that, i have spent three hours. but make haste and pay, neighbor, and let us go. it is almost noon, and my needle must go at a pretty rate to overtake this morning!" rudolph paid, and left the temple with miss dimpleton. as the grisette and her companion entered the passage of the house, they were almost thrown down by mrs. pipelet, who was running out, troubled, frightened, aghast. "gracious heaven!" said miss dimpleton, "what is the matter with you, mrs. pipelet? where are you running to in that manner?" "is that you, miss dimpleton?" exclaimed anastasia. "providence has sent you. help me! save the life of alfred!" "what do you say?" "that poor old darling has fainted! have pity upon us! run and fetch two sous worth of absinthe--very strong; that is the remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus. be kind; do not refuse me, and i can return to alfred. i am quite confused!" miss dimpleton left rudolph's arm, and ran off to the dram-shop. "but what has happened, mrs. pipelet?" asked rudolph, following the portress, who returned to the lodge. "how should i know, my worthy sir? i left home to go to the mayor's, the church, and the cook-shop, to prevent alfred from tiring himself. i returned; what did i see? the dear old man with his legs and arms all in the air! look, m. rudolph!" said anastasia, opening the door of the room, "is not that a sight to break one's heart?" lamentable spectacle! with his enormous hat still on his head, even further on than usual, for the questionable _castor,_ pushed down, no doubt, by violence, if we may judge by a transverse gap, covered pipelet's eyes, who was on his back on the floor, at the foot of his bed. the fainting was over, and alfred was beginning to make some slight movements with his hands, as though he wished to repulse some one or some thing; and then he tried to remove his troublesome visor. "he kicks! that is a good sign; he recovers!" cried the portress--and stooping down, she bawled in his ears: "what is the matter with my alfred? it is his 'stasie who is here. how are you now? they are coming to bring you some absinthe; that will put you to rights." then, assuming a caressing tone of voice, she added: "have they abused you, killed you, my dear old darling--eh?" alfred sighed deeply, and with a groan uttered a fatal word: "_cabrion!_" his trembling hands seemed as though desirous of repulsing a frightful vision. "cabrion! that devil of a painter again!" exclaimed mrs. pipelet. "alfred all night dreamed so much about him, that he kicked me dreadfully. that monster is his nightmare! not only has he poisoned his days, but his nights also; he persecutes him even in his sleep-- yes, sir, as though alfred was a malefactor, and this cabrion, whom may the devil confound! is his remorseless enemy." rudolph smiled, as he foresaw some new trick on the part of miss dimpleton's former neighbor. "alfred, answer me; do not remain dumb--you alarm me," said mrs. pipelet; "let us get you up. why will you think on that beggarly fellow? you know that, when you think of him, it has the same effect on you as when you eat cabbage--it fills up your gizzard, and stifles you!" "cabrion!" repeated pipelet, lifting with difficulty his hat from his eyes, which he rolled about with a frightened air. miss dimpleton entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe. "thank you, mademoiselle; you are very kind," said the old woman. then she added: "here, darling, pop it down; it will bring you to yourself." and anastasia, presenting the vial quickly to pipelet's lips, insisted on his swallowing the contents. alfred in vain struggled courageously: his wife, profiting by the weakness of her victim, held his head with a firm grasp in one hand, and with the other introduced the neck of the vial between his teeth, and forced him to drink the absinthe; after which she cried triumphantly: "well done! you are again on your pins, my cherished one!" alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his eyes, stood up, and asked in a trembling voice: "have you seen him?" "who?" "is he gone?" "alfred, whom do you mean?" "cabrion!" "has he dared--" cried the portress. pipelet, as dumb as the statue of the commander in _don giovanni,_ bowed his head twice in the affirmative. "m. cabrion, has he been here?" asked miss dimpleton, restraining with difficulty an inclination to laugh. "that monster! has he been let loose upon alfred?" cried mrs. pipelet. "oh, if i had been here with my broom, he should have eaten it up, to the very handle! but speak, alfred; relate to us this horrible affair." pipelet made a sign with his hand that he was about to speak, and they listened to the man of the immense hat in religious silence. pie expressed himself in these terms, with a voice deeply agitated: "my wife had just left me to complete the orders given by you, sir (bowing to rudolph), to call at the mayor's and the cook-shop." "the dear old man had the nightmare all night, and i wished him to rest," said anastasia. "this nightmare was sent me as a warning from above," said the porter, solemnly. "i had dreamed of cabrion--i was to suffer by cabrion. here was i sitting quietly before the table, thinking of an alteration that i wished to make in this boot confided to me, when i heard a noise, a rustling at the window of my lodge--was it a presentiment--a warning from above? my heart beat; i raised my head, and through the window i saw--saw--" "cabrion!" cried anastasia, clasping her hands. "cabrion!" replied pipelet, in a hollow tone. "his hideous face was there, close to the window, looking at me with his cat's eyes--what do i say? tiger's eyes! just as in my dream. i tried to speak, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth: i would have risen--i was glued to my seat; the boot fell from my hands, and, as in every critical and important event of my life, i remained completely motionless. then the key turned in the lock; the door opened, and cabrion entered!" "he entered? what effrontery!" said mrs. pipelet, as much astonished as her husband at such audacity. "cabrion advanced slowly, his looks fixed on me, as a serpent glares on the bird, like a phantom--on, on, chilling, lowering!" "i'm goose-flesh all over!" groaned anastasia. "he came quite close to me; i could no longer endure his revolting aspect; it was too much, i could hold out no longer. i shut my eyes, and i then felt that he dared to put his hands on my hat, took it slowly off my head, and left it naked! i was seized with giddiness--my breathing was suspended--a ringing came in my ears--i was more than ever glued to my seat--i shut my eyes more firmly. then cabrion stooped, took my bald head between his hands, cold as death, and upon my forehead, bathed in sweat, imprinted a lascivious kiss!" anastasia lifted her arms toward heaven. "my most inveterate enemy kissed my forehead! a monstrosity so unparalleled overcame and paralyzed me. cabrion profited by my stupor to replace my hat on my head: then, with a blow on the crown, bonneted me as you saw. the last outrage quite overpowered me--the measure was full; everything about me turned round, and i fainted at the moment when i saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the room as quietly and slowly as he had entered." then, as though this recital had exhausted his strength, pipelet fell back on his chair, raising his hands to heaven in the attitude of mute imprecation. miss dimpleton left the room suddenly; her desire to laugh almost stifled her, and she could no longer restrain herself. rudolph himself had with difficulty preserved his gravity. suddenly a confused murmur, such as announces the assembling of a multitude, was heard in the street; a tumult arose at the end of the passage, and then musket-butts sounded on the door-step. "good heaven, m. rudolph!" cried miss dimpleton, running back, pale and trembling; "here are a commissary of police and the guard!" "divine justice watches over me!" said pipelet, in a burst of religious gratitude; "they come to arrest cabrion! unhappily, it is too late!" a commissary of police, known by a scarf worn under his black coat, entered the lodge. his countenance was grave, dignified, and severe. "m. le commissaire, you are too late; the malefactor has fled!" said pipelet, sadly; "but i can give you his description. villainous smile, impudent manners--" "of whom do you speak?" asked the officer. "of cabrion, m. le commissaire, and if you make all haste, there may be yet time to get hold of him," answered pipelet. "i do not know who this cabrion is," said the officer, impatiently. "does jerome morel, working lapidary, live in this house?" "yes, sir," said mrs. pipelet, standing at the salute. "conduct me to his apartment."' "morel, the lapidary!" resumed the portress, quite surprised; "he is as gentle as a lamb, and incapable of--" "does jerome morel live here or not?" "he does live here, sir, with his family, in the attic." "show me, then, to this garret." then, addressing a man who accompanied him, the magistrate said: "let the two municipal guards wait below, and not leave the alley. send justin for a coach." the man left to execute these orders. "now," said the magistrate, addressing pipelet, "conduct me to morel." "if it be all the same to you, sir, i will go instead of alfred, who is indisposed from the persecution of cabrion; who, just as cabbage does, troubles his gizzard." "you, or your husband, it matters little which--go on." preceded by mrs. pipelet, he began to ascend the stairs; but he soon stopped, perceiving that he was followed by rudolph and miss dimpleton. "who are you, and what do you want?" demanded he. "they are the two fourth-floors," said mrs. pipelet. "pardon me, sir, i did not know that you belonged to the house," said he, to rudolph; who, auguring well from the politeness of the magistrate, said, "you will find a family in great distress, sir. i do not know what new misfortune menaces the unhappy artisan, but he has been cruelly tried last night; one of his children, worn out by illness, is dead beneath his eyes--dead from cold and misery." "is it possible?" "it is the truth," said mrs. pipelet. "if it had not been for the gentleman who now speaks to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for he has saved, by his goodness, poor morel from prison, the whole family of the lapidary must have died from hunger." the commissary looked at rudolph with as much interest as surprise. "nothing is more simple, sir," said the latter. "a person who is very charitable, knowing that morel, to whose worth i pledge my honor, was in a position as deplorable as it was unmerited, instructed me to pay a bill of exchange, for which the bailiffs were about to drag to prison this poor man, the sole support of a large family." struck in his turn by the noble appearance of rudolph, and the dignity of his manner, the magistrate replied, "i do not doubt the probity of morel; i only regret being compelled to fulfill a painful duty before you, sir, who have shown so lively an interest in this family." "what can you mean, sir?" "after the services you have rendered the morels, and from your language, i know that you are a worthy man. having, besides, no reason to conceal the object of the mandate i am about to execute, i will acknowledge that i am about to arrest louise morel, the lapidary's daughter." the rouleau of gold that she had offered to the bailiffs came to the mind of rudolph. "of what is she accused?" "she is accused of infanticide." "she, she! oh, her poor father!" "from what you have told me, sir, i conceive that, under the circumstances in which the artisan is placed, this new blow will be terrible for him. unfortunately i must obey my orders." "but it is only a simple accusation!" cried rudolph. "the proofs are wanting, without doubt?" "i cannot explain myself further on this subject. the authorities have been informed of this crime, or rather, the presumption, by the declarations of a man in every way respectable--the master of louise morel." "jacques ferrand, the notary," said rudolph indignantly. "yes, sir. but why this vivacity?" "m. jacques ferrand, the notary, is a scoundrel, sir!" "i see with pain that you do not know of whom you speak. m. jacques ferrand is the most honorable man in the world; of most exemplary piety, and known probity." "i repeat to you, sir, that the notary is a scoundrel. he wished to imprison morel, because his daughter repulsed his infamous propositions. if louise is only accused on the testimony of such a man--acknowledge, sir, that it merits but little belief." "it does not belong to me, sir, and it does not become me, to discuss the value of the testimony of m. ferrand," said the officer coldly. "justice has taken cognizance of the affair; the tribunals will decide. as to me, i have orders to arrest louise morel, and i shall do it." "you are right, sir. i regret that a movement of indignation, perhaps legitimate, has made me forget that this is neither the time nor place for such a discussion. one word alone: the body of the child he has lost is in the garret. i have offered my room to this family, to spare them the sad sight of the corpse; hence it is, probably, in my chamber you will find the artisan and his daughter. i conjure you, sir, in the name of humanity, do not arrest louise suddenly in the midst of these misfortunes. morel has gone through so many shocks this night, that his reason will give way: his wife is also dangerously sick--such a blow will kill her. if you will permit me, i'll ask you a favor. this is what i propose. the young girl who follows us with the door-keeper occupies a room adjoining mine; i do not doubt but that she will place it at your disposal. you can at first send for louise; then, if it must be, for morel, that his daughter may bid him farewell. you will at least spare a poor, sick, and infirm mother a heart-rending scene. "if this can be arranged so, sir, willingly." the conversation had taken place in an undertone, while rigolette and mrs. pipelet held themselves discreetly at some distance off. rudolph descended, and said to the former: "my poor neighbor, i must ask another favor; you must let me have your room at my disposal for an hour." "as long as you please, m. rudolph. you have my key. but, what is the matter?" "i will tell you directly. this is not all: you must be kind enough to return to the temple to tell them to delay sending home our purchases for an hour." "willingly, m. rudolph; but is there a new misfortune happened to the morels?" "alas! yes; you will know it only too soon." "come, neighbor, i fly to the temple. i, thanks to you, thought them out of trouble," said the grisette, descending rapidly the stairs. rudolph wished to spare rigolette the sad spectacle of the arrest of louise. "officer," said mrs. pipelet, "since my prince of lodgers accompanies you, i can go and find alfred. he alarms me: he has hardly recovered from his attack of--cabrion." "go--go!" said the magistrate; who remained alone with rudolph. both arrived on the landing place of the fourth, opposite the door of the room where the artisan and his family were temporarily placed. suddenly this door was opened. louise, pale and weeping, came out quickly. "adieu, adieu! father," cried she; "i will return--i must go now." "louise, my child, listen to me, then," answered morel, following his daughter, and trying to detain her. at the sight of rudolph and the magistrate they remained immovable. "ah, sir! you, our savior," said the artisan, recognizing rudolph; "aid me to prevent louise from going. i do not know what is the matter with her, she makes me afraid; she wishes to go away. is it not so, sir, that she must not return any more to her master? did you not say, 'louise shall quit you no more--this shall be your recompense'? oh! at this delightful promise, i avow it, for a moment i have forgotten the death of my poor little adele; but to be separated from you, louise, never, never!" rudolph felt himself overcome; be had not strength to utter a word. the officer said severely to louise, "are you louise morel?" "yes, sir!" answered the young girl, amazed. rudolph had opened the chamber of rigolette. "you are jerome morel, her father?" added the magistrate addressing the artisan. "yes, sir! but--" "enter there with your daughter." and the magistrate pointed to the chamber of rigolette, where rudolph already was. reassured by his presence, the artisan and louise, astonished and troubled, obeyed; the officer shut the door, and said to morel, with emotion, "i know your honesty and misfortunes; it is, then, with regret i inform you that, in the name of the law, i come to arrest your daughter." "all is discovered--i am lost!" cried louise, throwing herself in the arms of her father. "what do you say? what do you say?" said morel, stupefied. "are you mad? why lost? arrest you! why arrest you? who will arrest you?" "i--in the name of the law!" and the officer showed his scarf. "oh, unfortunate! unfortunate that i am!" cried louise, falling on her knees. "how, in the name of the law?" said the artisan, whose mind began to wander; "why arrest my daughter in the name of the law? i answer for louise, i--she is my daughter, my worthy daughter--is it not true, louise? how arrest you, when our guardian angel restores you to us, to console us for the death of my little adele? come now! it cannot be! and besides, sir, speaking with respect, only criminals are arrested, do you understand--and louise, my daughter, is not a criminal. very sure, do you see, my child, this gentleman is mistaken. my name is morel; there are more morels than me. you are louise--but there are more of the same name. that's it, you see, sir; there is a mistake!" "unfortunately, there is no mistake! louise morel, say farewell to your father." "you carry away my daughter, will you?" cried the workman, furious from grief, and advancing toward the magistrate with a threatening air. rudolph seized him by the arm, and said, "calm yourself, and hope; your daughter shall be returned to you--her innocence shall be proved; she is doubtless not culpable." "of what? she can be culpable of nothing. i would place my hand in the fire that"--then recollecting the gold that louise had brought to pay the note, morel cried, "but that money, that money, louise?" and he cast on his daughter a terrible look. louise understood it. "i steal!" cried she, and the cheeks colored with generous indignation. her tone of voice, her gesture, satisfied her father. "i knew it!" he cried. "do you see, sir--she denies it--and never in her life has she lied, i swear to you. ask every one who knows her, and they will say the same. she lie? she is too proud for that. besides, the bill was paid by our benefactor. she don't want gold; she was going to return it to the person who lent it, wasn't you, louise?" "your daughter is not accused of theft," said the magistrate. "but of what is she accused, then? i, her father, swear that, whatever she is accused of, she is innocent; and all my life i have never lied." "what good will it do to know what she is accused of?" said rudolph to him; "her innocence shall be proven--the person who interests herself so much in you will protect your daughter. come, come. this time, again, providence will not fail you. embrace your daughter--you will soon see her again." "m. le commissaire," cried morel, without listening to rudolph, "a daughter is not taken away from a father without at least telling him of what she is accused! i wish to know all! louise, will you speak?" "your daughter is accused--of infanticide," said the magistrate. "i--i--do not comprehend--i--you--" "your daughter is accused of having killed her child," said the officer, much overcome at this scene. "but it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime." "oh, no, it is not so, sir, it is not so," cried louise, with force, and raising herself up: "i swear to you it was dead. it breathed no more; it was frozen; i lost all consciousness; that is my crime. but kill my child, oh, never!" "your child, wretch!" cried morel, raising his hands to louise, as if he wished to annihilate her with this gesture and terrible imprecation. "pardon, father, pardon!" cried she. after a moment of frightful silence, morel went on with a calmness still more frightful. "sir, take away this creature; she is not my child." he wished to go out; louise threw herself at his knees, which she embraced with both arms, and, with face upward, frantic and supplicating, she cried, "father, listen to me, only listen to me." "officer, take her away, i abandon her to you," said the artisan, making every effort to disengage himself from the embraces of louise. "listen to her," said rudolph, stopping him; "do not be now without pity." "she, she!" repeated morel, burying his face in his hands, "she dishonored! oh! infamous, infamous!" "is she dishonored to save you?" whispered rudolph. these words made a startling impression on morel; he looked at his weeping child, still kneeling at his feet, then, interrogating her with a look impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice, his teeth grinding with rage, "the notary!" an answer came to the lips of louise. she was about to speak, but, on reflection, she stopped, bent her head, and remained silent. "but no--he wished to imprison me this morning," continued morel; "it is not he? oh, so much the better! so much the better. she has no excuse for her fault; i can curse her without remorse." "no, no! do not curse me, my father; to you i will tell all; to you alone; and you will see--you will see if i do not deserve your pardon." "listen to her for the sake of pity," said rudolph. "what can she tell me? her infamy? it will soon be public; i will wait." "sir!" cried louise to the magistrate, "in mercy let me say a few words to my father before leaving him, perhaps forever. and before you also, our savior, i will speak, but only before you and my father." "i consent," said the magistrate. "will you, then, be insensible? will you refuse this last consolation to your child?" asked rudolph. "if you think you owe me some return for the favors i have directed toward you, grant the prayer of your daughter." after a moment of mournful silence, morel answered, "let us go." "but where shall we go?" asked rudolph; "your family is in the next room." "where shall we go?" cried the artisan, with bitter irony, "where shall we go? up there--up there, in the garret, alongside of the body of my child. the place is well chosen for this confession--is it not? come--we will see if louise will dare to lie in the sight of her sister. come!" morel went out precipitately, with a wild stare, without looking at louise." "sir," whispered the officer to rudolph, "do not prolong this interview. you said truly, his reason will not sustain it; just now his look was that of a madman." "alas! sir, i fear, like you, a terrible and new misfortune: i will shorten as much as possible the touching adieus." and rudolph rejoined the artisan and his daughter. chapter ii. confession. dark and gloomy spectacle. in the garret reposed, on the couch of the idiot, the corpse of the little child. an old piece of sheet covered it. rudolph standing with his back to the wall, was painfully affected. morel, seated on his work-bench, his head down, hands hanging; his looks, fixed, wild, were constantly bent on the bed where reposed the remains of the little adele. at this sight, the anger, the indignation of the artisan became weaker, and changed into a sadness of inexpressible bitterness; his energy abandoned him--he sunk under this new blow. louise, of a mortal paleness, felt her strength fail her. the revelation that she was about to make frightened her. yet she took tremblingly the hand of her father--that poor, thin hand, deformed by excess of labor. he did not withdraw it. then his daughter, bursting into tears, covered it with kisses, and soon felt it press lightly against her lips. the anger of morel had ceased; his tears, for a long time retained, flowed at last. "my father, if you knew--if you knew how much i am to be pitied." "oh! stop; you see, this will be the grief of all my life, louise--of all my life," answered the artisan, weeping. "you in prison--in the dock--you, so proud-when you had the right to be so. no," continued he, in a new access of desperate grief, "no, i should prefer to seeing you under the winding-sheet, alongside your poor little sister." "and i, also, wish it were so," answered louise. "hush, unfortunate child, you give me pain. i was wrong to say that; i went too far. come, speak, but tell the truth. however frightful it may be, tell me all. if i hear it from you, it will appear less cruel to me. speak; alas! our moments are counted; you are waited for. oh! the sad, sad parting." "my father, i will tell you all," said louise, resolutely; "but promise me, and you, our benefactor, promise also, not to repeat this to any one. if he knew that i had spoken, do you see--oh! you would be lost--lost like me; for you do not know the power and ferocity of this man." "of what man?" "my master." "the notary?" "yes," said louise, in a low tone, and looking around her, as if she were afraid of being overheard. "compose yourself," answered rudolph. "this man is cruel and powerful, but no matter; we will face him. besides, if i reveal what you are about to tell us, it will be only in your interest or in that of your father." "and, louise, if i speak, it will be to try to save you. but what has this wicked man done?" "this is not all," said louise, after a moment's reflection; "this sad tale concerns some one who has rendered me a great service--who has been for my father and family full of kindness--this person was employed at m. ferrand's when i went; i have sworn not to mention the name." "if you mean francois germain, be easy; his secret will be kept by your father and myself," said rudolph. louise looked at rudolph with surprise. "you know him?" said she. "the good and excellent young man who lived here for three months, and was employed at the notary's when you went there?" said morel. "the first time you saw him here you appeared not to know him." "that was agreed upon between us. he had grave reasons to conceal that he worked for m. ferrand. it was i who told him of the chamber on the fourth story, knowing he would be a good neighbor for you." "but," said rudolph, "who placed your daughter with the notary?" "when my wife was taken sick, i had said to madame burette, the pawnbroker, who lives in this house, that louise wished to go to service to aid us. madame burette knew the housekeeper of the notary; she gave me a letter to her, in which she strongly recommended louise. cursed--cursed be that letter; it has caused all our misfortunes. so, sir, this is the way my daughter went there." "although i am informed of some of the facts which have caused the hatred of m. ferrand toward your father," said rudolph to louise, "i beg you will relate to me in a few words what passed between you and the notary since you entered his service. this may serve to defend you." "during the first months of my stay at m. ferrand's i had no reason to complain of him. i had much work to do; the housekeeper was often very rough toward me; the house was gloomy; but i endured all with patience; servitude is servitude, otherwise i should have had other disagreements. m. ferrand had a stern look. he went to mass; he often received priests. i did not mistrust him. at first he hardly looked at me. he spoke very cross to me; above all, in the presence of strangers. "except the porter who lodged on the street, in the building where the office is, i was the only domestic with mrs. seraphin, the housekeeper. the building we occupied was an old isolated ruin, between the court and garden. my chamber was quite up to the top. very often i was afraid to remain alone all the evening, either in the kitchen, which was underground, or in my chamber. in the night, i sometimes thought i heard extraordinary noises in the room under mine, which no one occupied, and where m. germain alone often came to work during the day. two of the windows of this story were walled up, and one of the doors, very thick, was strengthened with bars of iron. the housekeeper told me afterward that m. ferrand kept his strong box there. "one night i had sat up very late to finish some mending, which was very urgent; i was about to go to bed, when i heard some one walking very softly in the corridor at the end of which was my chamber: they stopped at my door; at first i thought it was the housekeeper, but as she did not come in, it made me afraid; i dared not stir; i listened, no one stirred; i was, however, sure there was some one behind the door; i asked twice who was there--no one answered. more and more alarmed, i pushed my chest of drawers against the door, which had neither lock nor bolt. i still listened--nothing stirred; at the end of half-an-hour, which appeared very long, i threw myself on my bed; the night passed tranquilly. the next morning i asked the housekeeper for permission to put a bolt on my door, as there was no lock, relating to her my fears of the last night; she answered that i had dreamed, that i must speak to m. ferrand about it; at my demand he shrugged his shoulders, and told me i was a fool. i did not dare to say anything more. "some time after this happened the affair of the diamond. my father, almost desperate, knew not what to do. i related his trouble to mrs. seraphin; she answered, 'm. ferrand is so charitable that perhaps he will do something for your father.' the same evening i waited on table; m. ferrand said to me, bluntly, 'your father has need of thirteen hundred francs; go this night and tell him to come to my office to-morrow; he shall have the money. he is an honest man, and deserves that one should interest himself for him.' at this act of kindness i burst into tears; i did not know how to thank my master. he said to me, in his ordinary rough manner, 'it is well, it is well; what i have done is very simple." in the evening i came to tell the good news to my father, and the next day----" "i had the money, against a bill at three months' date, accepted in blank by me," said morel. "i did like louise; i wept with gratitude: i called him my benefactor. oh! he must needs have been wicked indeed to destroy the gratitude and veneration i vowed to him." "this precaution to make you sign a bill in blank, at such a date that you could not pay it, did not awaken your suspicions?" asked rudolph. [illustration: the arrival of the soldiers] "no, sir, i thought that the notary only took it for security; besides, he told me i need not think of paying it under two years; every three months it should be renewed for the sake of being regular; yet, at the end of the first term, it was presented, and not being paid, he obtained a judgment against me under another name; but he told me not to be troubled, that it was an error of his clerk." "he wished thus to have you in his power," said rudolph. "alas! yes, sir; for it was from the date of his judgment he began to--but continue, louise, continue: i do not know where i am. my head turns. i shall become mad; it is too much--too much!" rudolph soothed him, and louise continued: "i redoubled my zeal to show my gratitude. the housekeeper then held me in great aversion; she often placed me in the wrong by not repeating the orders that m. ferrand gave her for me; i suffered from this, and would have preferred another place, but the obligation of my father to my master prevented my leaving. it was now three months since he had lent the money; he continued to scold me before mrs. seraphin, yet he looked at me sometimes behind her back in such a manner as to embarrass me, and he smiled in seeing me blush." "you comprehend, sir, he was then about to obtain a judgment against me." "one day," continued louise, "the housekeeper went out after dinner, as was her custom; the clerks had left the office; they lodged elsewhere. m. ferrand sent the porter on an errand; i remained in the house alone with my master; i was working in the ante-chamber; he rang for me. i entered his room; he was standing before the fireplace; i drew near; he turned quickly, and took me by the arm. i was alarmed. i ran into the ante-chamber, and shut the door, holding it with all my strength; the key was on his side." "you understand, sir. you hear," said morel to rudolph, "the conduct of this worthy benefactor." "at the end of a few moments the door yielded to his efforts," continued louise. "i blew out the light--he called me. i made no answer. he then said, in a voice trembling with rage, 'if you resist, i will send your father to prison for the money he owes and cannot pay.' i begged him to have pity on me; promised to do everything i could to serve him, and show my gratitude, but i declared nothing could induce me to degrade myself." "yes; this is the language of louise," said morel, "of my louise, when she had the right to be proud. but now? continue--continue." * * * * * * * "the next morning after this scene, in spite of the threats of my master, i came here and told my father all. he wished to make me leave the house at once--but there was the prison. the little that i earned was indispensable to the family, since the illness of my mother; and the bad character which m. ferrand threatened to give me would prevent my seeking or obtaining another place for a long time, perhaps." "yes," said morel, with great bitterness, "we had the cowardice, the selfishness, to let our child return there. oh! poverty, poverty! how many crimes it causes to be committed!" "alas! father! did you not try all means to obtain the money? that being impossible, we had to submit." "go on, go on, continue. your parents have been your executioners; we are guiltier than you are," said the artisan, concealing his face in his hands. "when i saw my master again," said louise, "he acted toward me as usual, cross and harshly; he said not a word of the past; the housekeeper continued to torment me; she hardly gave me enough to eat, locked up the bread; sometimes, out of wickedness, she would defile the remains of the dinner before my eyes, for she always ate with ferrand. at night i hardly slept. i feared at each moment to see the notary enter my room! he had taken away the drawers with which i had barricaded my door; there only remained a chair, a little table, and my trunk; i always retired to bed dressed. for some time he left me tranquil; he did not even look at me. i began to be at ease, thinking that he thought no more of me. one sunday he allowed me to go out; i came to announce this good news to my parents. we were all very happy! it is up to this moment you have known all. what remains to tell," and the voice of louise trembled, "is frightful! i have always concealed it from you." "oh, i was very sure of it--very sure that you concealed a secret from me," cried morel, with a kind of wandering, and a singular volubility of expression which astonished rudolph. "your pallor and expression should have enlightened me. a hundred times i have spoken to your mother; but she always repelled me. look at us well! look at us! to escape a prison, we leave our daughter at this monster's. and where does our child go to? to the dock! because one is poor--yes--but the others--the others." then, stopping as if to collect his thoughts, morel struck himself on the forehead, and cried, "stop, i do not know what i say. my head pains dreadfully. it seems to me i am drunk." and he concealed his face in his hands. rudolph, not wishing to let louise see how much he was alarmed at the incoherent language of her father, said, gravely, "you are not just, morel; it was not for herself alone, but for her mother, for her children, for yourself, that your poor wife feared the consequences of louise leaving the notary. accuse no one. let all the maledictions, all your hatred, fall on one man--this monster of hypocrisy, who placed a girl between dishonor and ruin; the death, perhaps, of her father and his family; on this master, who abused in an infamous manner his power as a master. but, patience; i have told you providence often reserves for great crimes a surprising and frightful vengeance." the words of rudolph were stamped with such force and conviction, in speaking of this providential vengeance, that louise looked at him with surprise, almost with fear. "continue, my child," said he: "conceal nothing; this is more important than you think." "i began, then, to feel some security," said louise, "when one night ferrand and his housekeeper both went out, each their own way. they did not dine at home; i remained alone. as usual, they left me some bread and water, and wine. my work finished, i dined; and then, fearing to remain alone in the apartments, i went up to my own room, after having lighted m. ferrand's lamp. when he went out at night no one waited for him. i began to sew, and, what was very unusual, by degrees, sleep overpowered me. oh, father," cried louise, "you will not believe me--you will accuse me of falsehood; and yet, on the corpse of my little sister, i swear i tell you the truth." "explain yourself," said rudolph. "alas! sir, for seven months i sought in vain to explain to myself this frightful night. i have almost lost my reason in trying to explore this mystery." "oh!" cried the artisan, "what is she going to say?" "contrary to my custom, i fell asleep on my chair," continued louise. "that is the last thing i recollect. before--before--oh, father, pardon! i swear to you i am not culpable." "i believe you, i believe you; but speak!" "i do not know how long i slept; when i awoke i was still in my chamber, but--" * * * * * * * "oh! the wretch, the wretch," cried rudolph. "do you know, morel, what he gave her to drink?" the artisan looked at rudolph, but made no reply. "the housekeeper, his accomplice, had put in the drink of louise a soporific--opium, without doubt; the strength, the senses of your child have been paralyzed for some hours; when she awoke from this lethargic sleep, the crime was committed." "ah! now," cried louise, "my misfortune is explained; you see, father, i am less guilty than i appear. father, father! answer me!" the look of the artisan was of a frightful vagueness. such horrible perversity could not be understood by so honest and simple-hearted a man. he could hardly comprehend the dreadful revelation. and, besides, it must be said, that for some moments his reason had deserted him; at each moment his ideas became more obscure; then he fell into that vacuity of thought which is to the mind what night is to the sight: formidable symptoms of mental alienation. yet morel answered, in a quick, dull, and a mournful tone, "oh! yes, it is very wicked, very wicked, wicked." and he fell back into his apathy. rudolph looked at him with anxiety: he thought that the intensity of indignation began to be exhausted with him; the same as after violent griefs tears are often wanting. wishing to terminate as soon as possible this sad conversation, rudolph said to louise: "courage, my child; finish unveiling this tissue of horrors." "alas! sir, what you have heard is nothing as yet." * * * * * * * "ah! all precautions were taken to conceal his enormity!" said rudolph. "yes, sir, and i was ruined. to all that he said to me i could find no answer. ignorant what drink i had taken, i could not explain my long sleep. appearances were against me. if i complained, every one would condemn me; it must be so, for to me all was an impenetrable mystery." chapter iii the crime rudolph remained confounded at the detestable villainy of ferrand. "then," said he to louise, "you did not dare to complain to your father of the odious conduct of the notary?" "no, sir; i feared he would have thought me the accomplice instead of the victim; and besides, i feared that, in his anger, my father would forget that his liberty, the existence of his family, depended entirely upon my master." "and was his conduct less brutal toward you afterward?" "no, sir. to drive away suspicion, when by chance he had the cure of bonne nouvelle and his vicar to dinner, my master addressed me before them with severe reproaches; he prayed the cure to admonish me; he said that sooner or later i should be lost; that my manners were too free with his clerks; that i was idle; that he kept me out of charity for my father, an honest man with a family, whom he had served. all this was false. i never saw the clerks; they were in a separate building from us." "and when you found yourself alone with m. ferrand, how did he explain his conduct toward you before the cure? "he assured me that he joked. but the cure took these accusations for serious; he told me severely that one must be doubly vicious to act thus in a holy house, where i had religious examples continually under my eyes. to that i did not know what to answer; i held down my head, blushing. my silence, my confusion, turned still more against me; my life was such a burden that several times i was on the point of destroying myself; but i thought of my father, my mother, my brothers and sisters, whom i helped to support. i resigned myself; in the midst of my degradation i found a consolation--at least my father was saved from prison. a new misfortune overwhelmed me--i was _enceinte;_ i saw myself altogether lost. i do not know why, i had a presentiment that m. ferrand, in learning an event which should have rendered him less cruel toward me, would increase his bad treatment; i was, however, far from supposing what would happen." morel recovered from his momentary aberration, looked around him with astonishment, passed his hand over his face, collected his thoughts, and said to his daughter, "it seems to me i have forgotten myself for a moment--fatigue--sorrow. what did you say?" "when m. ferrand was informed of my situation--" the artisan made a movement of despair. rudolph calmed him with a look. "go on; i will listen to the end," said morel. "go on, go on." louise resumed:--"i asked m. ferrand by what means i could conceal my shame. interrupting me with indignation, and a feigned surprise, he pretended not to understand me; he asked me if i were mad; frightened, i cried, 'but, my god, what do you wish to become of me now? if you have no pity on me, have at least some pity on your child!' 'what a horror!' cried he, raising his hands toward heaven. 'how, wretch! you have the audacity to accuse me of being corrupt enough to descend to a girl of your class! you have effrontery enough to accuse me!--i, who have a hundred times repeated before the most respectable witnesses that you would be ruined, vile wanton. leave my house this moment--i thrust you from my door.'" rudolph and morel remained horror-struck; such atrocity overpowered them. "oh! i confess," said rudolph, "this passes all conception." morel said nothing; his eyes became enlarged in a fearful manner: a convulsive spasm contracted his features; he descended from the bench where he was seated, opened quickly a drawer, and took out a strong, very sharp, file, with a wooden handle, and rushed toward the door. rudolph, divining his thoughts, seized him by the arm and stopped him. "morel, where are you going? you will ruin yourself, unfortunate man." "take care!" cried the artisan, furiously struggling; "i shall commit two crimes instead of one!" and the madman threatened rudolph. "father, it is our savior!" cried louise. "he is mocking us! bah, bah! he wishes to save the notary!" answered morel, completely wild, and contending with rudolph. at the end of a second, he succeeded in disarming him, opened the door, and threw the instrument on the staircase. louise ran to the artisan, held him in her arms, and said, "father, he is our benefactor; you have raised your hand on him; come to yourself." these words recalled morel to himself; he covered his face with his hands, and, without saying a word, he fell at rudolph's feet. "rise, unfortunate father!" said rudolph kindly. "patience, patience; i understand your fury, i partake of your hatred; but, in the name even of your vengeance, do not compromise it." "good heavens!" cried the artisan, raising himself up. "what can justice--law--do in such a case? poor as we are, when we go and accuse the powerful, rich, and respected man, they will laugh in our face-- ah, ah, ah!" and he laughed convulsively. "and they will be right. where are our proofs--yes, our proofs? they will not believe us. therefore, i tell you," cried he, in another storm of madness, "i tell you i have no confidence but in the impartiality of the knife!" "silence, morel; grief makes you wander," said rudolph suddenly. "let your daughter speak; moments are precious--the magistrate waits; i must know all--i tell you, all. continue, my child." "it is useless, sir," said louise, "to speak to you of my tears, my prayers. i was disregarded. this took place at ten o'clock in the morning, in the cabinet of m. ferrand. the priest was to breakfast with him that morning; he entered at the moment my master was loading me with reproaches and outrages. he appeared much vexed at the sight of the priest." "and what did he say then?" "he soon made up his mind what course to pursue; he cried, pointing to me, 'well, reverend sir, i said truly that this creature would be ruined. she is lost--lost forever; she has just acknowledged to me her fault and her shame, begging me to save her. and to think that i, through pity, have received such a wretch into my house.' 'how,' said the priest to me, with indignation, 'in spite of the salutary counsels which your master has given you so often before me, you have thus degraded yourself? oh, this is unpardonable. my friend, after the kindness you have shown her and her family, pity would be a weakness. be inexorable,' said the priest, a dupe, like everybody else, of the hypocrisy of m. ferrand." "and you did not at once unmask the scoundrel?" said rudolph. "i was terrified, my head turned; i dared not, i could not pronounce a word, yet i wished to speak, to defend myself. 'but, sir'--i cried. 'not a word more, unworthy creature!' said m. ferrand, interrupting me. 'you have heard the worthy priest: pity would be weakness. in an hour, you leave my house!' then, without giving me time to answer, he led the priest into another room. "after the departure of m. ferrand," continued louise, "i was for a moment, as it were, delirious. i saw myself driven from his house, not able to get another place, on account of my situation and the bad character my master would give me. i did not doubt but that in his anger he would imprison my father; i did not know what would become of me. i went for refuge and to weep, to my chamber. at the end of two hours m. ferrand appeared. 'is your trunk ready?' said he. 'have mercy!' i cried, falling at his feet 'do not send me away in the state in which i am; what will become of me? i can find no other place.' 'so much the better; god will thus punish your conduct and your lies.' 'you dare to say that i lie!' cried i indignantly; 'you dare to say you are not the cause of my ruin?' 'leave my house at once, you infamous creature, since you persist in your calumnies!' cried he, in a terrible voice. 'and to punish you, to-morrow i will imprison your father.' 'well--no, no!' said i, aghast; 'i will accuse you no longer, sir--i promise it; but do not drive me away--have pity on my father; the little that i earn here supports my family. keep me here--i will say nothing--i will conceal everything as long as i can, and then--you can send me away.' "after renewed supplications, m. ferrand consented to my prayers: i regarded it as a great favor, so frightful was my condition. yet, for the five months which followed this cruel scene, i was very unhappy, very cruelly treated. sometimes only m. germain, whom i saw but seldom, interrogated me with kindness on the subject of my sorrows; but shame forbade my confession." "is it not about this time that he came to live here?" "yes, sir. he wished for a room near the temple or the arsenal; there was one to be let here, it suited him." "and you never thought of confiding your sorrows to m. germain?" asked rudolph. "no, sir; he was also a dupe of m. ferrand's; he said he was hard and exacting, but he thought him the most honest man in the world. i passed these five months in tears, in continual agony. with care, i had concealed my situation from all eyes, but i could hope to do so no longer. the future was for me most dreadful; m. ferrand had declared he would not keep me any longer with him. i was thus about to be deprived of the small resource that aided our family to live. cursed, driven away by my father--for, after the falsehoods that i had told him to dissipate his suspicions, he would not believe me to be the victim of m. ferrand--what was to become of me? where was i to fly? where to find a refuge? i had then a very wicked idea. i confess this, sir, because i wish to conceal nothing, even that which may cast suspicion on me, and also to show you to what an extremity i was reduced by the cruelty of m. ferrand. if i had yielded to a fatal thought, would he not have been an accomplice of my crime?" after a moment's silence, louise resumed, with an effort, and in a trembling voice, "i had heard from the portress that a quack lived in the house--and--" she could not finish. rudolph remembered that at his first call on mrs. pipelet he had received from the postman, in her absence, a letter written on coarse paper, in a disguised hand, and on which he had remarked the traces of tears. "and you did write him, unhappy child, three days since? on this letter you have wept; your writing was disguised." louise looked at rudolph with affright. "how do you know, sir?" "calm yourself. i was alone in the lodge of mrs. pipelet when this letter was handed in, and it was my chance to receive it." "yes, sir; in this letter, without signature, i wrote to m. bradamanti, that, not daring to come to him, i begged he would meet me that evening near the château dead. i was half crazy. i wished to ask his fearful advice. i left my master's house to meet him; but my reason returned. i regained the house; i did not see him. thus the scene took place, from the consequences of which i am now suffering-- m. ferrand believing me gone out for two hours, while after a very short time i returned." "in pacing before the little door of the garden, to my great astonishment i saw it open. i entered that way, and i carried the key to the cabinet of m. ferrand, where it was ordinarily kept. this was, next to his bed-chamber, the most retired place in the house: it was there he gave his secret audiences. you will see, sir, why i give you these details. knowing all the ways of the house very well, after having crossed the dining-room, which was lighted, i entered into the saloon in the dark, then to the cabinet, as i said before. the door of his chamber opened at the moment i placed the key on the table. hardly had my master perceived me by the light which was burning in his chamber, than he closed the door quickly on a person whom i could not see. then he threw himself on me, seized me by the throat as if he wished to strangle me, and said to me in a low tone, at once furious and alarmed, 'you were spying; you listened at the door; what did you hear? answer, answer! or i'll strangle you.' but changing his mind, without giving me time to say a word, he pushed me backward into the dining-room. the office was open; he threw me into it brutally, and locked the door." "and you heard nothing of his conversation?" "nothing, sir: if i had known he had anybody in the room, i should have taken care not to have entered the cabinet; he forbade even mrs. seraphin to do so." "and when you came out of the office, what did he say to you?" "it was the housekeeper who came to conduct me, and i did not see him again that night. the alarm i had experienced had made me very ill. the next morning, as i came downstairs, i met m. ferrand. i shuddered in thinking of his threats of the evening previous; what was my surprise when he said to me, almost calmly, 'you know i forbid any one to come into my cabinet when i have some one in my chamber; but for the short time that you have to remain here, it is useless to scold any more,' and he passed into his office. this moderation surprised me, after the violence of the previous evening. i went on with my usual duties; i went to put in order his sleeping apartment. in arranging some clothes in a dark closet near the alcove, i was suddenly taken very ill; i felt that i was about to faint. in falling, i grasped at a cloak which was hanging against the wall. i dragged it along with me; it covered me completely as i lay upon the floor. when i came to myself, the glass door of this closet was shut. i heard the voice of m. ferrand. he spoke very loud. recollecting the scene of the previous evening, i thought myself killed if i stirred. i supposed that, concealed under the mantle which had fallen on me, my master, in shutting the door, had not perceived me. if he discovered me, how could i make him believe that my presence was accidental? i held my breath, and, in spite of myself, i heard the end of this conversation, which doubtless had been commenced for some time." "who was the person who was talking with him?" asked rudolph. "i am ignorant, sir; i did not know the voice." "and what did they say?" "the conversation had lasted for some time, doubtless, for this is all i heard. 'nothing can be plainer,' said this unknown voice. 'a queer fish, called bras-rouge (red-arm), a determined smuggler, has brought me, for the affair i have just spoken about, in connection with a family of fresh-water pirates, who are established at the point of a little island near aspires. they are the greatest bandits in the land; the father and grandfather have both been guillotined, two of the sons are to the galleys for life; but the mother, three sons, and two daughters are left, all as great villains one as the other. it is said that at night, to rob on both sides of the seine, they come down in their boats sometimes as far as barky. they are folks who will kill the first comer for a crown; but we have no need of them; it suffices if they will give hospitality to your country lady. the martial (the name of my pirates) will pass in her eyes for an honest family of fishermen. i will go on your account, and make two or three visits to your young lady; i will order her certain potions, and at the end of eight days she will make acquaintance with aspires cemetery. in the villages, a death passes like a letter through the post-office, while at paris they scrutinize too closely. but when will you send your country girl to the island, so that i can advise the martial what part they have to play?' 'she will arrive to-morrow, and the day after she will be there,' answered ferrand; 'and i will inform her that the doctor vincent will take care of her on my account.' 'agreed for the name of vincent,' said the voice; 'i like that as well as any other.'" "what is this new mystery of crime and infamy?" said rudolph, more and more surprised. "new? no, sir; you will see that it has reference to a crime that you do know," answered louise; and she continued, "i heard the movement of chairs; the conversation was at an end. 'i do not ask you to be secret,' said m. ferrand; 'you hold me as i hold you.' 'that proves that we can serve, but never injure one another,' answered the voice; 'see my zeal. i received your letter last night at ten o'clock; this morning i am here. farewell, accomplice; do not forget the island of asnieres, the fisher martial, and dr. vincent. thanks to these three magical words, your country girl has only eight days left.' 'stop,' said m. ferrand, 'while i go and unbolt the door of my cabinet, and see if there is any one in the ante-chamber, that you may go out by the garden, as you came in.' m. ferrand went out a moment, and then returned, and finally i heard him go off with the unknown person. you may imagine my alarm, sir, during this conversation, and my horror at knowing such a secret. two hours after this conversation, mrs. seraphin came to seek me in my chamber, where i had gone more trembling and sick than i had yet been. 'm. ferrand wants you,' said she; 'you have more good luck than you deserve; come, descend. you are very pale; what you are going to learn will give you more color.' "i followed mrs. seraphin; m. ferrand was in his cabinet. at seeing him, i shuddered in spite of myself; yet he had a less wicked look than usual; he looked at me fixedly for a long time, as if he wished to read my thoughts. i cast down my eyes. 'you appear very ill,' said he. 'yes, sir,' i answered, astonished that he did not address me familiarly as usual. 'it is very plain,' added he, 'it is in consequence of your situation; but notwithstanding your lies, your bad conduct, and your indiscretion of yesterday,' added he, in a softened tone, 'i have pity on you. although i have treated you as you deserved before the cure of the parish, such an affair as this will be a scandal to my house; and, moreover, your family will be in despair. i consent, under these circumstances to come to your assistance.' 'ah, sir,' i cried, 'these words of kindness on your part make me forget all.' 'forget what?' asked he sharply. 'nothing, nothing; pardon me, sir,' answered i, fearing to irritate him, and believing in his professions of pity. 'listen to me,' said he; 'you will go to see your father to-day; you will announce to him that i am going to send you for two or three months in the country to take charge of a house i have just bought; during your absence i will send him your wages. to-morrow you will leave paris; i will give you a letter of recommendation for mrs. martial, the mother of a family of honest fishermen who live near asnieres. you will require to say you came from the country, nothing more. later you will know the object of this letter, all for your interest. mrs. martial will treat you as her child; a physician, a friend of mine, dr. vincent, will take you under his charge. you see how good i am for you!'" "what a horrible plot!" cried rudolph. "now i comprehend all. believing that the evening previous you had become possessed of a secret of great importance to him, he wished to get rid of you. he had probably some interest in deceiving his accomplice, in representing you as a girl from the country. what must have been your affright at this proposition!" "it was a great blow. i was completely bewildered; i knew not what to answer; i looked at m. ferrand with affright; my mind wandered. i was about, perhaps, to risk my life in telling him that i had overheard his projects in the morning, when, happily, i recollected the new dangers to which this would expose me. 'you do not comprehend me, then?' asked he, with impatience. 'yes, sir, but,' said i, trembling, 'i prefer not to go to the country.' 'why not? you will be perfectly well taken care of where i shall send you. 'no, no, i will not go; i prefer to remain in paris, near my family; i had rather confess all, die with shame, if it is necessary.' 'you refuse me!' said m. ferrand, restraining his anger, and looking at me with attention. 'why have you changed your mind so quickly? just now you accepted.' i saw that if he suspected me i was lost; i answered that i did not think that he meant me to leave paris and my family. 'but you will dishonor your family, wretch,' cried he; and not being able any longer to contain himself, he seized me by the arm, and pushed me so violently that i fell. 'i give you until after to-morrow,' cried he; 'to-morrow you shall leave this to go to the martials, or to tell your father i have sent you away, and that he goes the same day to prison.' i remained alone, stretched on the earth; i had not the strength to get up. mrs. seraphin came, and with her assistance i regained my chamber. i threw myself on my bed; i remained there until night." * * * * * * * "amid the horrors of this frightful, solitary night, i had a moment of bitter joy: it was when i pressed my child in my arms." and the voice of louise was suffocated with her tears. morel had listened to the story of his daughter with an apathy and indifference which alarmed rudolph. yet, seeing her in tears, he looked fixedly at her and said: "she weeps--she weeps; why, then, does she weep? oh, yes; i know, i know--the notary. continue, my poor louise; you are my child. i love you still--just now i did not know you; my tears obscured my sight. oh, my head--my head--it gives me great pain." "you see i am not culpable; is it not so, father?" "yes, yes." "it is a great sorrow--but i feared the notary so much!" "the notary? oh! i believe you--he is so bad--so wicked!" "you pardon me now?" "yes." "truly?" "yes, truly. oh, i love you still--go--although--i cannot--say--do you see--because--oh! my head! my bead!" louise looked at rudolph with alarm. "he suffers; let him compose himself. continue." "i pressed my child to my heart. i was astonished not to hear it breathe, but i said to myself, the respiration of so young a child can hardly be heard; and yet it seemed to me that it was very cold. i had no light. i waited until dawn, trying to warm it as well as i could, at daylight i found it was stiff--icy. i placed my hand on its heart; it did not beat--it was dead." and louise burst into bitter sobs. "oh! at this moment," continued she, "thoughts passed impossible to describe, i remember it confusedly as a dream; it was at once despair, terror, anger, and, above all, i was seized with another alarm; i no longer dreaded that ferrand would strangle me, but i feared that if my child was found dead at my side i should be accused of having killed it. then i had but one thought, that of concealing it from all eyes; in that way my dishonor would not be known; i would no longer have to dread the anger of my father; i should escape the vengeance of ferrand; then i could leave his house, procure another place, and continue to earn something toward the support of my family. alas! sir, such are the reasons which induced me to acknowledge nothing, to conceal the body of my child from all eyes. it was wrong, certainly; but the position i was in, overwhelmed on all sides, crushed by long sufferings, almost delirious, i did not reflect to what i exposed myself if i was discovered." "what tortures! what tortures!" said rudolph, overcome. "daylight increased," continued louise, "in a short time every one would be awake in the house. i hesitated no longer. i wrapped up my child as well as i could; i descended very softly; i went to the end of the garden to make a hole in the ground to bury it, but it had frozen all night--the earth was too hard. then i hid the body at the bottom of a kind of cellar where no one entered in winter. i covered it with an empty flower-box, and i returned to my room without seeing any one. of all i tell you, sir, i have but a confused idea. feeble as i was, i can as yet hardly comprehend how i had the nerve to do all this. at nine o'clock, mrs. seraphin came to know why i was not yet up. i said that i was so ill, that i begged her to let me remain in bed all day; the next day i would quit the house, since m. ferrand sent me away. at the end of one hour he came himself. 'you are worse; this is the consequence of your self-will,' said he. 'if you had profited by my offers, to-day you would have been established with kind people, who would have taken every care of you; however, i will not be so inhuman as to let you suffer; to-night dr. vincent will come to see you.' at this threat i shuddered with fear. i answered that i was wrong the night before to refuse his offers; that i accepted them; but that, as yet being too ill to leave, i would go the next day but one to the martials; and that it was useless to send for dr. vincent. i only wished to gain time; i was decided to leave the house, and to go to my father. i hoped in this manner he would be ignorant of all. but, deceived by my promise, m. ferrand was almost affectionate toward me, and recommended me, for the first time in his life, to the care of mrs. seraphin. "i passed the day in mental agony, trembling at each moment that chance would cause a discovery of the body of my child. i only desired one thing--that the cold might cease, so that i might be able to dig a grave. it snowed--that gave me hopes. i remained all day in bed. the night being come, i waited until every one was asleep. i had strength to get up to go to the wood pile to look for a hatchet to cut some wood to make a hole in the frozen ground. after infinite trouble i at last succeeded; then i took the body, i wept over it again, and i buried it as i could in the little flower-box. i did not know the prayer for the dead; i said a pater and an ave, praying god to receive it. i thought my courage would have failed me when i covered it with the earth. a mother interring her child! at length i succeeded. oh! what it cost me! i placed the snow over the grave, so that nothing should be seen. the moon gave me light. when all was finished, i could not make up my mind to come away. poor little thing! in the frozen ground--under the snow. although it was dead, it seemed to me that it must feel the cold. at length i returned to my chamber. i went to my bed with a violent fever. in the morning m. ferrand sent to know how i was. i answered that i felt rather better, and that i should certainly be ready to leave for the country the next day. i remained all this day still in bed, in order to gain strength. in the evening i arose. i went to the kitchen to warm myself. i remained late, all alone. i went to the garden to say a last prayer. at the moment i ascended toward my chamber, i met m. germain on the landing-place of the cabinet, where he sometimes worked; he was very pale. he said to me, quickly, placing a rouleau in my hand, 'your father will be arrested early to-morrow morning; here is the money; as soon as it is day run to his house. it is only to-day i have found out ferrand; he is a bad man; i will unmask him. do not, above all, say that you have this money from me.' and m. germain, not giving me time to thank him, descended the stairs quickly." chapter iv. madness. louise continued: "this morning, before any one was up, i came here with the money, but it was not sufficient; and, without your generosity, he would not have escaped the bailiffs. probably, after my departure, some one had gone to my room and discovered some traces which had led to this discovery. a last service i ask of you, sir," said louise, drawing out the rouleau of gold from her pocket; "will you hand this money to m. germain? i promised him not to tell any one that he was employed at ferrand's; but since you know it, i have not been indiscreet. now, sir, i repeat, before god, who hears me, and before you, i have not said a word that is not true. i have not sought to "--but, interrupting herself suddenly, louise, much alarmed, cried, "oh, sir! look at my father! look at him! what is the matter with him?" morel had listened to the last part of this narrative with somber indifference, which rudolph had explained to himself by attributing it to the overwhelming grief of this unhappy man. after so many violent shocks, so oft repeated, his tears were dried up, his sensibility blunted--he has not even strength enough left to vent his indignation, thought rudolph. he was mistaken. like the flickering light of a lamp about to expire, the reason of morel, already strongly shaken, vacillated for some time, showed forth now and then some last rays of intelligence, and then suddenly became obscured. absolutely a stranger to what was said, to what passed around him, for some moments the artisan had become mad! although his wheel was placed the other side of his work-table, and he had in his hands neither diamonds nor tools, the artisan, attentively occupied, imitated his ordinary occupations. he accompanied this pantomime with a clacking noise with his tongue, like the wheel when in operation. "oh, sir!" said louise, with increased alarm; "look at my father!" then, approaching him, she said, "father! father!" morel looked at his daughter with that vacant stare peculiar to lunatics. without ceasing for a moment his imaginary occupation, he answered, in a soft and mournful voice, "i owe thirteen hundred francs to the notary, the price of louise's blood. i must work, work, work! oh! i will pay, pay, pay!" "this is not possible! this cannot last! he is not altogether mad is he?" cried louise, in a heart-rending tone, "he will come to himself-- it is only momentary----" "morel, my friend," said rudolph, "we are here. your daughter is alongside of you; she is innocent." "thirteen hundred francs," said the artisan, without looking at rudolph, and continuing his imaginary occupation. "father," cried louise, throwing herself at his feet, and taking hold of his hands, "it is i, louise!" "thirteen hundred francs," repeated he, endeavoring to disengage himself from louise; "thirteen hundred francs, or else," added he, in a low and confidential tone, "or else louise is guillotined," and he began to turn his wheel. louise uttered a piercing cry. "he is mad," cried she, "he is mad! and it is i--i--who am the cause. oh, yet it is not my fault; i did not wish to do wrong; it is this monster!" "come, poor child, courage!" said rudolph, "let us hope. this madness will be but momentary. your father has suffered too much, his reason has become weakened, he will get better." "but my mother--my grandmother--my brothers and sister! what will become of them?" cried louise. "see, they are deprived of both my father and myself. they will die with hunger, with poverty, and despair!" "am i not here? be calm, they shall want for nothing. courage, i pray you: your revelation will cause the punishment of a great criminal. you have convinced me of your innocence; it shall certainly be known and acknowledged." "oh, sir, you see dishonor--madness--death; these are the evils he has caused--this man; nothing can be done to him--nothing. ah, this thought completes all my troubles!" "far from that; let a contrary thought aid you in supporting them." "what do you say, sir?" "carry with you the certainty that you shall be avenged." "avenged!" "yes, i swear to you," answered rudolph, with solemnity, that, his crimes proved, this man shall severely expiate the dishonor, madness, and death he has caused. if the laws are powerless, if his cunning and address equal his misdeeds, to his cunning shall be opposed cunning-- to his misdeeds, misdeeds--but which shall be to them what the just and avenging punishment, inflicted on the culpable by an inexorable hand, is to the cowardly and concealed murder." "ah, sir, may god hear you! it is not myself i wish to revenge, it is my crazy father; it is"--then, turning to her father, she cried, "father, farewell. they take me to prison--i shall never see you more; it is your louise who bids you farewell--father, father, father!" at this touching appeal nothing responded; nothing responded in this poor annihilated mind--nothing. the paternal cords, always the last broken, vibrated no more. the garret door opened, and the officer entered. "my time is up, sir," said he to rudolph. "i declare to you, with regret, that it is impossible for me to wait any longer." "the conversation is terminated, sir," answered rudolph bitterly, pointing to the artisan. "louise has nothing more to say to her father; he has nothing more to hear from his daughter--he is mad." "good god! just what i feared. ah, it is frightful," cried the magistrate; and approaching quickly to the artisan, after a moment's examination he was convinced of the sad reality. "ah, sir," said he, sadly, to rudolph, "i have already made sincere wishes that the innocence of this young girl may be proved; but now i will not confine myself to wishes--no, no, i will tell of this last dreadful blow; and, do not doubt it, the judges will have a motive the more to find her innocent." "well, well, sir," said rudolph, "in acting thus, it is not only your duty you fulfill, but you are performing a worthy part." "believe me, sir, some of our missions are so painful, that it is with happiness, with gratitude, that we interest ourselves in what is good and virtuous." "one word more, sir. the revelations of louise morel have evidently proved to me her innocence. can you inform me how her pretended crime has been discovered, or rather denounced?" "this morning," said the magistrate, "a woman in the employ of m. ferrand, notary, came and declared to me that, after the precipitate flight of louise morel, who she knew was _enceinte_, she had gone up into the chamber of this young girl, and that she had there found traces of a clandestine accouchement; after some investigations, some footsteps in the snow had led to the discovery of a newborn child interred in the garden. on the relation of this woman, i went to the rue du sentier. i found m. jacques ferrand very indignant that such a thing should have occurred in his house. the priest of bonne nouvelle church, whom he had sent for, also declared to me that the girl morel had acknowledged her fault before him one day; that she had implored the pity and indulgence of her master, and that, still more, he had often heard m. ferrand give louise morel the most severe reprimands, predicting that, sooner or later, she would be ruined. 'a prediction which had just been realized so unfortunately,' added the priest. the indignation of m. ferrand," continued the magistrate, "appeared to me so real, that i partook of it. he told me that, without doubt, louise morel had taken refuge at her father's. i came here at once; the crime being flagrant, i had the right to proceed to an immediate arrest." rudolph restrained himself in hearing the indignation of m. ferrand spoken of. he said to the magistrate, "i thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness and for the assistance you tender louise. i shall conduct this unfortunate man to a lunatic hospital, as well as the mother of his wife." then, addressing louise, who yet kneeled before her father, trying in vain to restore him to reason, "be resigned, my child, to go without embracing your mother; spare her this touching farewell. be assured as to her welfare--nothing shall henceforth be wanting. i will find a woman who will take care of your mother, and your brothers and sisters, under the superintendence of your good neighbor, miss dimpleton. as to your father, nothing shall be spared, that his cure shall be rapid and complete. courage, then; believe me, virtuous people are often harshly tried by misfortunes, but they always come out of these struggles purer, stronger, and more respected." * * * * * * * two hours after the arrest of louise, the artisan and the old idiot were, by the orders of rudolph, conducted to charenton; they were to have chamber treatment, and receive particular care and attention. morel left the house without assistance; indifferent, he went where they took him; his madness was inoffensive and sad. the grand mother had hunger; they showed her food; she followed this food. the diamonds and rubies confided to the wife of the artisan were the same day given to mrs. mathieu, the broker, who came to get them. unfortunately, this woman was watched and followed by tortillard, who knew the value of the pretended false jewels, from a conversation he had overheard when morel was arrested by the bailiffs. the son of bras-rouge (red arm) ascertained that she lived at no. boulevard saint denis. miss dimpleton informed mrs. morel, with much tact, of the lunacy of her husband and the imprisonment of louise. at first she wept much, uttering sorrowful cries. then, the first spasms of grief over, the poor creature, weak and unsettled, consoled herself by degrees in seeing herself and children surrounded by comforts which they owed to the generosity of their benefactor. rudolph's thoughts were bitter in thinking of the revelations of louise. chapter v. jacques ferrand. at the time when the events passed which we relate, at one of the extremities of the rue du sentier could have been seen a long wall, much cracked, and covered with a coating of plaster, the top protected with pieces of broken glass. this wall, forming the boundary on this side of the garden of jacques ferrand, the notary, extended to a building situated on the street, of only one story and a garret. two large brass plates, the sign of the notary's office, flanked the worm-eaten gate, the primitive appearance of which was no longer to be distinguished under the mud which covered it. this door led to a covered passage; on the right was the lodge of an old porter, half deaf, who was to the fraternity of tailors what pipelet was to the boot-maker; on the left a stable, which served the purposes of a cellar, wash-house, wood-house, and of a growing colony of rabbits, lodged in a manger by the porter, who consoled himself from the pangs of a recent bereavement, in the death of his wife, by raising these domestic animals. alongside the lodge was the crooked, narrow, and obscure staircase, leading to the office, as the clients were informed by a hand painted black, the forefinger pointing to these words on the wall "office-- second floor." on one side of a large paved court, overgrown with grass, were to be seen the unoccupied carriage-houses, on the other, a rusty iron railing, which inclosed the garden; at the end the pavillion, where the notary alone dwelt. a flight of eight or ten steps of tottering, disjointed stones, covered with moss and worn by time, led to this house, composed of a kitchen, and other offices under ground, two floors and an attic, where louise had slept. this pavilion appeared also in a great state of decay; immense cracks were to be seen in the walls; the windows and blinds, once painted gray, had become with age almost black; the six windows of the first story, looking upon the court, had no curtains; the glasses were almost incrusted with dirt; on the ground floor they were rather cleaner, and were hung with faded yellow curtains, red-flowered. on the side toward the garden the pavilion had but four windows; two were walled up. this garden, overgrown with wild briers, seemed abandoned; not a single border, not a bed; a cluster of elms, five or six large trees, some acacias and alders, a yellow grass-plot, walks encumbered with brambles, and bounded by a high wall. such was the sad aspect of the garden and habitation. to this appearance, or rather to this reality, ferrand attached great importance. to vulgar eyes, a carelessness of comfort and prosperity passes almost always for disinterestedness; uncleanliness for austerity. comparing the grand financial luxury of some notaries, or the reported toilets of their wives, to the gloomy mansion of m. ferrand, so contemptuous of elegance and splendor, the clients felt a kind of respect, or, rather, of blind confidence for this man, who, from the number of his employers and the fortune he was supposed to possess, could have said, like many of his brethren, "my equipage, my country-house, my opera-box," etc., and who, far from that, lived with great economy; thus deposits, legacies on trust, investments, all those affairs in fine which depend upon the most tried integrity, or the most perfect good faith, flowed into the hands of ferrand. in living as he did, the notary consulted his taste. he detested society, pomp, pleasures dearly bought; had it been otherwise, he would have, without hesitation, sacrificed his most lively wishes to the appearances which it was important to give himself. some words on the character of this man. he was a son of the grand family of misers. avarice is, above all, a negative, passive passion. yet jacques ferrand risked, and risked much. he counted on his cunning--it was extreme; on his hypocrisy--it was profound; on his understanding--it was fertile and pliable; on his audacity--it was infernal--to assure impunity to his crimes, and they were already numerous. one single passion, or rather appetite, but most disgraceful, ignoble, shameful, but almost ferocious, raised him often to frenzy--lust. save this weakness, jacques ferrand loved but gold he loved gold for the sake of gold. not for the enjoyments it procured; he was stoical. notwithstanding his great cunning, this man had committed two or three errors which the most crafty criminals hardly ever escape from. forced by circumstances, it is true, he had two accomplices: this great fault, as he said himself, had been repaired in part; neither of his accomplices could betray him without betraying themselves; nor could any advantage be derived from their denouncing the notary and themselves to public vindictiveness. he was therefore on this head quite at rest. some words now on the personal appearance of ferrand, and we will introduce the reader into the notary's study, where he will find out the principal personages. ferrand had passed his fiftieth year. he did not appear more than forty; he was of medium size, round-shouldered, square-built, strong, thick-set, red-haired, shaggy as a bear. his hair lay smooth on his temples, the top of his head was bald, his eyebrows hardly to be perceived; his bilious-looking skin was covered with large freckles; but when any lively emotion agitated it, this yellow, clayey visage filled with blood, and became a livid red. his face was as flat as a death's-head, his nose crushed down, his lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed cut in his face; when he smiled in a wicked and sinister manner, the ends of his teeth could be seen, black and decayed. closely shaved to his temples, this man's countenance had an expression austere, sanctified, impassible, rigid, cold and reflecting; his little black eyes--quick, piercing, restless,--were hidden by large green spectacles. jacques ferrand had excellent sight, but under the shelter of his spectacles he had great advantages, observing without being observed; he knew how much a glance of the eye is often and involuntarily significant. in spite of his imperturbable audacity, he had encountered, two or three times in his life, certain powerful looks, before which he had been forced to quail. now, in some circumstances, it is fatal to cast down your eye before the man who interrogates, accuses, or judges you. the large spectacles of ferrand were therefore a kind of covered breastwork, from whence he could attentively examine the maneuvers of the enemy; for many such he had to encounter, because many found themselves more or less his dupes. he affected in his dress a negligence which reached to uncleanliness, or, rather, it was naturally rusty and mean. his face, shaved but once in two or three days, his dirty bald head, his black nails, old snuff-colored-coats, greasy hats, threadbare cravats, black woolen hose, and coarse shoes, recommended him singularly to his clients, by giving him an air of detachment from the world, and a perfume of practical philosophy, which charmed them. "to what pleasures--what passions-- could the notary," said they, "sacrifice the confidence which was shown him? he gained, perhaps, sixty thousand francs a year, and his household was composed of a servant and an old housekeeper; his sole pleasure was to go every sunday to mass and vespers; he knew no opera comparable to the solemn sounds of the organ, no company which could equal an evening passed at his fireside with the parish priest, after a frugal dinner. finally, he placed his delight in his probity, his pride in his honor, his happiness in his religion." such was the opinion of many concerning jacques ferrand, this good and excellent man. chapter vi. the office. his office resembled all offices, his clerks all other clerks. it was reached by an ante-chamber, furnished with four old chairs. in the office, properly so called, surrounded by shelves furnished with paper boxes, containing documents belonging to the clients of the notary, five young men, bending over desks of black wood, laughed, talked, or scribbled incessantly. an adjoining room, in which usually remained the head clerk, then an empty room, which, for the sake of secrecy, separated the notary's sanctum from the other offices, such was this laboratory of all kinds and sorts. two o'clock had just struck by an old cuckoo clock, placed between the two windows of the office; agitation seemed to reign among the clerks, which some fragments of their conversation will explain. "certainly, if any one had told me that francois germain was a thief," said one of the young men, "i should have answered, `you are a liar!'" "and i!" "and i also!" "i! it produced such an effect on me to see him arrested and taken away by the guard that i could not eat my breakfast. i was recompensed, however, for it spared me from eating the daily mess of mother seraphin." "seventeen thousand francs--it is a sum!" "a famous sum!" "and to think that for seventeen months, since he has been cashier, he never has been wanting a centime in his cash account!" "as for me, i think master was wrong to arrest germain, since the poor fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen hundred francs in gold." "yes. and so much the more, that he brought back the amount this morning at the moment the master had sent for the guard!" "that is the consequence of being of such a rigid probity as master. such people are always without pity." "never mind; one ought always to think twice before ruining a poor young man who always conducted himself well until now." "m. ferrand would reply to that, 'it was for the sake of example.'" "example of what? it is of no use to those who are honest; and those who are not, know well enough that they are likely to be discovered if they steal." "this house is, however, a good customer for the officer." "how?" "why, this morning poor louise; just now germain." "as for me, the affair of germain don't appear too clear." "but he has acknowledged it!" "he confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred francs--yes; but he maintained that he had not taken the remaining fifteen thousand francs in bank bills, and the remaining seven hundred francs that were missing." "exactly; since he acknowledged one thing, why not the other?" "it is true, one is as much punished for five hundred as for fifteen thousand francs.". "yes; but one keeps the fifteen thousand francs, and on coming out of prison, that makes a nice little establishment, a rogue would say." "not so bad." "one may well say there is something in that." "and germain, who always defended master when we called him a jesuit!" "it is nevertheless true. 'why hasn't master a right to go to mass?' he would say: 'you have the right to stay away.'" "stop, here is chalomel; now he will be astonished!" "about what! what! my good fellow, is there anything new concerning poor louise?" "you would have known, lazybones, if you hadn't been absent so long." "hold; you think it is only a hop, skip, and a jump from here to the rue de chaillot." "well; this famous viscount de saint remy?" "has he not come yet?" "no." "his carriage was all ready, and his valet told me that he would come at once; but he did not appear pleased, the domestic said. oh! that is a fine hotel; one might say it had belonged to the lords of the olden time, as are spoken of in faublas. oh! faublas! he is my hero, my model!" said chalomel, putting away his umbrella and taking off his overshoes. "i believe that this viscount is in debt, and there are writs out against him." "a writ for thirty-four thousand francs, which has been sent here, since it is here he must come to pay it; the creditor prefers it, why, i know not." "he must be able to pay it now, because he returned last night from the country, where he has been concealed for three days to escape the bailiffs." "but why did they not levy on his furniture?" "he is not such an ass! the house is not his; the furniture is in the name of his valet, who is looked upon as hiring him furnished lodgings, in the same way that his horses and carriages are in the name of his coachman, who says he lets them out to the viscount at so much per month. oh! he is cunning, this viscount de saint remy. but what is that you were talking about? has anything new happened here?" "just imagine--about two hours since, master came in here like a madman: 'germain is not here?' cried he. 'no, sir.' 'well! the scoundrel has robbed me, last night, of seventeen thousand francs!' continued the governor." "germain steal! come, come, draw it mild." "you shall see. 'how sir! are you sure? it is not possible!' we all cried. "'i tell you, gentlemen, that i put yesterday in the desk where he works fifteen notes of a thousand francs, besides two thousand francs in gold in a small box; all has disappeared.' at this moment marriton, the porter, came in and said, 'the guard is coming.'" "and germain?" "stop a moment. the governor said to the porter. 'as soon as germain comes, send him here, without telling him anything. i wish to confound him before you, gentlemen,' continued the governor. at the end of fifteen minutes poor germain arrived, as if nothing was the matter. mother seraphin came to bring us our breakfast; she saluted the governor, and said good-day to us very tranquilly. 'germain, do you not breakfast?' said m. ferrand. 'no, sir, i am not hungry, i thank you.' 'you come very late!' 'yes, sir, i have been to belleville this morning.' 'to conceal, doubtless the money you have stolen from me,' cried m. ferrand with a terrible voice." "and germain?" "oh! the poor boy became as pale as death, stammering, 'sir, i beg you, do not ruin me." "he had stolen?" "now, do wait, chalomel. 'do not ruin me,' said he to the governor. 'you acknowledge then, wretch?' 'yes, sir; but here is the money that is wanting. i thought i should be able to return it this morning before you were up; unfortunately, a friend, who had a small sum of mine, and whom i thought to find at home last night, had been at belleville for two days. i was obliged to go there this morning, which has caused my delay. pardon me, sir, do not ruin me! in taking this money, i knew i could return it this morning. here are the thirteen hundred francs in gold.' 'you have robbed me of fifteen notes of one thousand francs each, that were in a green book, and two thousand francs in gold!' 'i! never!' cried poor germain. 'i took the thirteen hundred francs, but not one penny more. i have seen no pocket-book in the drawer; there was only two thousand francs in gold in a box.' 'oh! the infamous liar!' cried the master. 'you have stolen thirteen hundred francs, you could well steal more; justice will decide. oh! i shall be without pity for such a frightful breach of confidence. it will be an example.' finally, the guard arrived with an officer to make out a commitment; they carried him off, and that's all!" "can it be possible? germain, the cream of honest people!" "it has appeared to us quite as singular." "after all, it must be confessed, germain was reserved; he never would tell where he lived." "that is true." "he always had a mysterious air" "that's no reason why he should steal the money." "doubtless. it is a remark i make." "ah! well, this is news! it is as if some one had given me a stunner on the head--germain--who looked so honest; who would have died without confession!" "one would have said that he had a presentiment of his misfortune." "why?" "for some time past he looked as if something troubled him." "it was, perhaps, concerning louise." "louise?" "oh! i only repeat what mother seraphin said this morning," "what?" "that he was the lover of louise, and the--" "oh! the cunning fellow." "stop, stop, stop!" "bah!" "it is not true!" "how do you know that, chalomel?" "it is not two weeks since, that germain told me, in confidence, that he was dead in love with a little sewing girl, whom he had known in the house where he lived; he had tears in his eyes when he spoke to me about her." "oh!" "he says that faublas is his hero, and yet he is simple enough, stupid enough, not to comprehend that one can be in love with one and the love of another." "i tell you that germain spoke seriously." at this moment the chief clerk entered the office. "well," said he. "chalomel, have you finished all your errands?" "yes, m. dubois, i have been to m. de saint remy: he will be here shortly to pay." "and to countess m'gregor?" "likewise; here is the answer." "and to countess d'orbigny?" "she is much obliged; she arrived yesterday from normandy, she did not expect an answer so soon; here is her letter. i have also been to the marquis d'harville's steward, as he required, for the charges of the contract i signed the other day at the hotel." "you told him that it was not pressing?" "yes, but he would pay it. there is the money. ah! i forgot that this card was here, below, at the porter's; the words in pencil written underneath by the porter; this gentleman asked for m. ferrand; he left this." "'walter murphy,'" read the chief clerk; and then in pencil, "'_will return at three o'clock on important business_.' i do not know this name." "oh! i forgot," continued chalomel; "m. badinot said it was all right, that m. ferrand should do as he pleased; that would be always right." "he did not give a written answer?" "no, sir, he said he hadn't time." "very well." "m. charles robert will also come in the course of the day to speak to the governor; it appears he fought a duel yesterday with the duke of lucenay." "is he wounded?" "i believe not, or they would have told me of it at his house." "look! here is a carriage stopping." "oh! the fine horses, are they not mettlesome." "and the fat english coachman, with his white wig and brown livery, with silver lace and epaulets like a colonel!" "an embassador, surely." "and the chasseur, has not he enough silver lace?" "and grand mustachios." "hold!" said chalomel, "it is the carriage of the viscount de saint remy." "ain't it stylish? whew!" soon afterward saint remy entered the office. we have described the charming face, the exquisite elegance, the ravishing bearing of saint remy, arrived the previous evening from arnouville farm, belonging to the duchess lucenay, where he had found a refuge from the bailiffs. saint remy entered the office hastily, his hat on, his manner haughty and proud, his eyes half closed, asking, in a very impertinent way, without looking at any one, "the notary? where is he?" "m. ferrand is busy in his private office," answered the head clerk; "if you will wait a moment, sir, he will receive you." "i wait?" "but, sir----" "there are no 'but, sirs'; go and tell him that m. de saint remy is here. i find it very singular that this notary makes me wait in his antechamber; it smells of the stove." "please to pass into the next room, sir," said the clerk; "i will go at once and inform m. ferrand." saint remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed the head clerk. at the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed to him very long, and changed his contempt into rage, saint remy was introduced into the cabinet of the notary. nothing could be more curious than the contrast of these two men, both profound physiognomists, and generally accustomed to judge at a first glance with whom they had to deal. saint remy saw jacques ferrand for the first time. he was struck with the characteristics of this wan, rigid, impassible face; the expression concealed by the large green spectacles, the head half-hidden in an old black silk cap. the notary was seated before his desk in a leathern arm-chair, beside a broken-down fireplace, filled with ashes, in which were smoking two black stumps. curtains of green muslin, almost in tatters, suspended from iron rods, concealed the lower part of the windows, and cast into this cabinet, already dark enough, a dull and disagreeable light. shelves of black wood, filled with labeled boxes; some chairs of cherry wood, covered with yellow utrecht velvet; a mahogany clock; a yellow, moist, and slippery floor; a ceiling filled with cracks, and, ornamented with garlands of spider-webs; such was the sanctum sanctorum of jacques ferrand. the viscount had not advanced two steps, had not said a single word, before the notary who knew him by reputation, hated him already. in the first place, he saw in him, so to speak, a rival in knavery; and, although ferrand was of a mean and ignoble appearance himself, he did not the less detest in others elegance, grace, and youth; above all when an air deeply insolent accompanied these advantages. the notary ordinarily affected a sort of rudeness, almost gross, toward his clients, who only felt more esteem for him for these boorish manners. he promised himself to redouble this brutality toward the viscount. he, knowing m. ferrand only by reputation, expected to find in him a kind of scrivener, good-natured or ridiculous, the viscount figuring to himself always that men of proverbial probity must be simpletons. far from this, the other's looks imposed on the viscount an undefinable feeling, half fear, half hatred, although he had no serious reason to fear or hate him. thus, in consequence of his resolute character, saint remy increased his insolence and habitual foppery of manner. the notary kept his cap upon his head; the viscount retained his hat, and cried from the door in a loud, sharp voice: "it is, by jove! very strange, that you give me the trouble to come here, instead of sending to me for the money for the bills i have indorsed for this badinot, for which the fellow has sued me. you should not expose me to wait a quarter of an hour in your antechamber; that is not so polite as it might be." ferrand, without paying the least attention, finished a calculation he was making, wiped his pen methodically on the sponge which lay near his ink-stand, and raised toward the viscount his cold, unearthly, flattened face, encumbered with the green spectacles. it looked like a death's head, whose eyes had been replaced by great, fixed, glassy sockets. after having looked at him for a moment in silence, he said to the viscount, in a rough, short tone, "where is the money?" such coolness exasperated saint remy. he-he! the idol of the women, the envy of men, the paragon of the best company in paris, the renowned duelist, not to produce more effect on a miserable notary! it was odious; although he was _tete-a-tete_ with jacques ferrand, his self-pride revolted. "where are the bills?" with the ends of his fingers, hard as iron, and covered with red hair, the notary, without answering, struck on a large portfolio of leather placed near him. decided to be equally laconic, although bursting with rage, the viscount took from the pocket of his coat a small book of russian leather, clasped with golden hasps, drew out forty-one thousand franc notes and showed them to the notary. "how much?" asked he. "forty thousand francs." "give them to me." "here, and let us finish quickly, sir; do your business, pay yourself, hand me back the papers," said the viscount, throwing the packet impatiently on the table. the notary took them, arose and examined them near the window, turning them over one by one with an attention so scrupulous and so insulting to saint remy, that he grew pale with rage. the notary, as if he had suspected the thoughts which agitated the viscount, shook his head, half turned toward him, and said, in an undefinable tone, "there are such things as--" for a moment astonished, saint remy replied, dryly, "what?" "counterfeits," answered the notary, continuing to examine those he held closely. "for what purpose do you make this remark to me, sir?" jacques ferrand stopped a moment, looked steadily at the viscount through his glasses; then, shrugging his shoulders, he turned again to counting and examining the bills. "by george, master notary, you must know, when i ask a question, i am always answered!" cried saint remy, irritated beyond measure at the calmness of jacques ferrand. "_these_ are good," said the notary, turning toward his bureau, whence he took a bundle of stamped papers, to which were annexed two bills of exchange; he afterward placed one of the notes for a thousand francs and three rouleaux of one hundred francs on the back of the papers; then he said to saint remy, pointing his finger to the money and bills, "there is what is to come to you from the forty thousand francs; my client has ordered me to collect the bill of costs." the viscount had with great difficulty contained himself while jacques ferrand arranged his accounts. instead of answering him and taking the money, he cried, in a voice trembling with anger, "i ask you, sir, why you said to me, respecting the bank bills that i have just given you, _that there were such things as forged notes?_" "why?" "yes." "because i have sent for you here concerning a forgery." the notary turned his green glasses full on the viscount. "how does this forgery affect me?" after a moment's pause ferrand said, with a severe tone, "are you acquainted, sir, with the duties of a notary?" "the duties are perfectly clear to me, sir. i had just now forty thousand francs; i have now remaining but thirteen hundred." "you are very jocose, sir. i will tell you, that a notary is to temporal affairs what a confessor is to spiritual ones; from his profession he often knows ignoble secrets." "what next, sir?" "he is often obliged to be in relations with rogues." "what after this, sir?" "he ought, as much as in his power, to prevent an honorable name from being dragged in the mire." "what have i in common with all this?" "your father has left you a respected name, which you dishoner, sir!" "what do you dare to say?" "but for the interest that this name inspires to all honest people, instead of being cited here before me, you would have been at this moment before the police." "i do not comprehend you." "about two months since, you discounted, through the agency of a broker, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs, drawn by the house of meulaert and co., of hamburgh, in favor of one william smith, and payable in three months, at grimaldi's, banker, in paris." "well!" "that bill is a forgery." "that is not true." "this bill is a forgery! the house of meulaert has never contracted any engagement with william smith; they do not know him." "can it be true!" cried saint remy, with as much surprise as indignation, "but then i have been horribly deceived, sir, for i received this bill as ready money." "from whom?" "from william smith himself; the house of meulaert is so well known, i knew so well myself the probity of smith, that i accepted this bill in payment of a debt he owed me." "william smith has never existed; it is an imaginary person." "sir, you insult me!" "his signature is as false as the others." "i tell you, sir, that william smith does exist; but i have, without doubt, been the dupe of a horrible breach of confidence." "poor young man!" "explain yourself!" cried saint remy, whose anxiety and humiliation were increased by this ironical pity. "in a word, the actual holder of the bill is convinced that you have committed the forgery." "sir!" "he pretends to have the proof; two days ago he came to me to beg me to send for you here, and to propose to return you this forged note, under an arrangement. so far, all was right; this is not; and i only tell you for information. he asks one hundred thousand francs. today even, or to-morrow at noon, the forgery will be made known to the public prosecutor." "this is indignity!" "and what is more, absurdity. you are ruined. you were prosecuted for a sum that you have just paid me, from some resource i do not know of: this is what i told to this third party. he answered, 'that a certain great lady, who is very rich, would not leave you in this embarrassment.'" "enough, sir, enough!" "another indignity! another absurdity! we agree." "in short, sir, what do they want?" "unworthily to take advantage of an unworthy action. i have consented to make this proposition known to you, in branding it as an honest man ought to brand it. now it is your affair. if you are guilty, choose between the court of assize or the terms proposed. my part is altogether professional. i will have nothing more to do with so dirty a business. the third party's name is m. petit jean, oil merchant; he lives on the banks of the seine, no. , quai de billy. settle with him. you are worthy of each other, if you are a forger, as he affirms." saint remy had entered the notary's with an insolent voice and lofty head. although he had committed in his life some disgraceful actions, there remained in him still a certain pride of lineage--a natural courage which had never failed him. at the commencement of this conversation, regarding the notary as an adversary quite unworthy of him, he treated him with contempt. when jacques ferrand spoke of forgery, the viscount felt himself crushed. he found the notary had the advantage in his turn. except for his great self-command, he could not have concealed the great impression made upon him by this unexpected accusation, for the consequences might be most fatal to him, of which even the notary had no idea. after a moment's reflection and silence, he determined--though so proud, so irritable, so vain of his bravery--to throw himself on the mercy of this vulgar man, who had so roughly spoken the austere language of probity. "sir, you give me a proof of interest for which i thank you; i regret the harshness of my opening words," said saint remy, in a cordial manner. "i do not interest myself in you at all," answered the notary, brutally. "your father was honor itself; i did not wish to see his name in the court of assizes, that's all." "i repeat to yon, sir, that i am incapable of the infamy of which i am accused." "you can tell that to m. petit jean." "but i avow that the absence of mr. smith, who has so unworthily taken advantage of my good faith--" "infamous smith!" "the absence of mr. smith places me in a cruel position; i am innocent; let them accuse me, i will prove it, but such an accusation always injures a gallant man." "what next?" "be generous enough to use the sum i have just paid you to quiet, in part, this third person." "this money belongs to my client--it is sacred." "but in two or three days i will repay you." "you cannot do it." "i have resources." "none available, at least. your furniture, your horses, no longer belong to you, as you may say; which to me has the appearance of fraud." "you are very hard, sir. but admitting this, will i not turn everything into money, in a situation so desperate? only as it is impossible for me to procure between this and to-morrow one hundred thousand francs, i conjure you, employ this money to withdraw this unhappy draught. or you, who are so rich, make me an advance; do not leave me in such a position." "i make myself responsible for a hundred thousand francs for you! really, are you a fool?" "sir, i supplicate you, in the name of my father, of whom you have spoken, be so kind as to--" "i am kind for those who deserve it," said the notary, rudely; "an honest man; i hate sharpers; and i should not be sorry to see one of you fine gentlemen, who are without law or gospel, impious and debauched, some fine day, standing in the pillory as an example for others. but, i hear, your horses are very restless, sir viscount," said the notary, smiling, and showing his black teeth. at this moment some one knocked at the door. "who is it?" asked jacques ferrand. "her ladyship the countess d'orbigny," said the clerk. "beg her to wait a moment." "it is the step-mother of the marquise d'harville," cried saint remy. "yes, sir. she has an appointment with me; so, good-morning." "not a word of this, sir," said saint remy, in a threatening tone. "i have told you, sir, that a notary was as discreet as a confessor." jacques ferrand rang the bell, and the clerk appeared. "show in her ladyship." then, addressing the viscount, he added, "take these thirteen hundred francs, sir; it will be so much on account with m. petit jean." lady d'orbigny (formerly madame roland) entered as the viscount went out, his features contracted with rage for having uselessly humiliated himself before the notary. "oh, good-morning, saint remy!" said the countess; "it is a long time since i have seen you." "yes, madame; since the marriage of d'harville, of which i was a witness, i have not had the honor to meet you," said saint remy, bowing, and suddenly assuming a most smiling and affable expression. "since then, you have always remained in normandy?" "dear me! yes. m. d'orbigny cannot live now but in the country; and where he lives, i live. thus you see in me a true 'county lady.' i have not been to paris since the marriage of my dear step-daughter with excellent d'harville. do you see him often?" "d'harville has become very savage and very morose. i meet him very seldom in society," said saint remy, with a shade of impatience; for this conversation was insupportable, both from its inopportuneness, and because the notary seemed to be much amused. but the stepmother of madame d'harville, enchanted at this meeting with a beau of society, was not the woman to let her prey escape so easily. "and my dear step-daughter," continued she, "is not, i hope, as savage as her husband?" "madame d'harville is very fashionable, and always much sought after, as a pretty woman should be; but i fear, madame, i trespass on your time, and--" "not at all, i assure you. i am quite fortunate to meet the 'mold of form, the glass of fashion;' in ten minutes i shall know all about paris, as if i had never left it. and your dear friend, de lucenay, who was with you a witness of d'harville's marriage?" "more of an original than ever; he set out for the east, and he returned just in time to receive yesterday morning a thrust from a sword; of no great harm, however." "the poor duke! and his wife, still beautiful and ravishing?" "you know, madame, that i have the honor to be one of her best friends; my testimony on this subject would be suspected. will you, madame, on your return to aubiers, do me the honor to remember me to m. d'orbigny?" "he will be very sensible of your kind recollections, i assure you, for he often asks after you and your success. he says you remind him of the duke de lauzun." "this comparison alone is quite an eulogium; but, unfortunately for me, it is much more kind than true. adieu, madame; for i dare not hope that you will do me the honor to receive me before your departure." "i should be distressed if you should take the trouble to call upon me. i am for a few days at furnished lodgings; but if, this summer or fall, you pass our way to some of the fashionable country-seats, grant us a few days only by way of contrast, and to rest yourself with some poor country-folks from the giddy round of the chateau life, so elegant and so extravagant; for it is always holidays where you go." "madame----" "i need not tell you how happy d'orbigny and myself would be to receive you; but adieu, sir: i fear that the benevolent humorist," pointing to the notary, "will become tired of our talk." "just the contrary, madame, just the contrary," said ferrand, in an accent which redoubled the restrained rage of the viscount. "acknowledge that m. ferrand is a terrible man," continued madame d'orbigny; "but take care, since he is, fortunately for you, charged with your affairs, he will scold you furiously; he is without pity. but what do i say? a man like you to have m. ferrand for notary--it is a sign of amendment: for every one knows he never lets his clients commit any follies without informing them of it. oh! he does not wish to be the notary of every one." then, addressing jacques ferrand, she said, "do you know, mr. puritan, that this is a superb conversion you have made here--to render wise and prudent the king of fashion!" "it is exactly a conversion, madame; m. le vicomte leaves ray cabinet altogether different from what he entered it." "when i say you perform miracles, it is not astonishing: you are a saint." "oh, madame, you flatter me," said jacques ferrand. saint remy profoundly saluted madame d'orbigny; and at the moment of leaving the notary, wishing to try a last effort to soften him, he said, in a careless manner, which nevertheless disclosed profound anxiety: "decidedly, my dear m. ferrand, you will not grant me what i ask?" "some folly, without doubt! be inexorable, my dear puritan," cried madame d'orbigny, laughing. "you hear, sir; i cannot act contrary to the advice of so handsome a lady." "my dear m. ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious things, and you know that this is so. you refuse decidedly?" asked the viscount, with anguish he could not conceal. the notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate; saint remy had a moment of hope. "how, man of iron, you relent?" said the step-mother of madame d'harville, laughing; "you submit also to the charms of the irresistible?" "faith, madame, i was on the point of yielding, as you say, but you make me blush for my weakness," said ferrand; then turning to the viscount, with an expression of which he comprehended all the signification, he continued, "there, seriously, it is impossible; i will not suffer that, through caprice, you should commit such an absurdity. m. le vicomte, i regard myself as the mentor of my clients; i have no other family, and i should regard myself as an accomplice of any errors i should allow them to commit." "oh! the puritan, the puritan!" cried madame d'orbigny. "yet, see m. petit jean; he will think, i am sure, as i do; and, like me, he will refuse." saint remy left in a state of desperation. after a moment's thought, he said, "it must be!" then, addressing his footman, who held open the door of the carriage, "to lucenay house." while saint remy is on his way to the duchess, we will be present with the reader at the interview between ferrand and the stepmother of madame d'harville. chapter vii. the will. madame d'orbigny was a slender blonde, with eyebrows nearly white, and pale blue eyes, almost round; her speech honeyed, her look hypocritical, her manners insinuating and insidious. "what a charming young man is the viscount de saint remy!" said she to jacques ferrand, when the viscount had gone. "charming; but, madame, let us talk of business. you wrote me from normandy that you wished to consult me on some grave affairs." "have you not always been my adviser since good dr. polidori referred me to you? apropos, have you heard from him?" asked madame d'orbigny, in a careless manner. "since his departure from paris he has not written me once," answered the notary, no less indifferently. we must inform the reader that these two personages lied most boldly to each other. the notary had seen polidori recently (one of his two accomplices), and had proposed to him to go to asnieres, to the martials, the freshwater pirates (of whom we shall speak presently), under the name of dr. vincent, to poison louise morel. the stepmother of madame d'harville came to paris expressly to have a conference with this scoundrel, who now went by the name of caesar bradamanti. "but it is not concerning the good doctor," said madame d'orbigny, "you see me much troubled; my husband is sick--he grows worse daily. without causing me serious fears, his condition troubles me, or, rather, troubles him," continued she, wiping her tearless eyes. "what is the matter?" "he continually speaks of his final arrangements--of his will." here madame d'orbigny hid her face in her handkerchief for some moments. "that is sad, doubtless," said the notary; "but this precaution is not alarming. what are his intentions, madame?" "how can i tell? you know well, when he touches on this subject i change it." "but has he said nothing positive?" "i believe," said madaine d'orbigny, in a most disinterested manner, "i believe he wishes not only to give me all the law allows--but--oh! hold, i beg you, let us not speak of this!" "what shall we speak of?" "alas! you are right, relentless man; we must return to the sad subject which brought me here. well, d'orbigny carries his kindness so far as to wish to convert a part of his fortune, and give me a considerable sum." "but his daughter--his daughter?" cried ferrand, with severity. "i ought to tell you that, for a year past, m. d'harville has given me charge of his affairs. i have lately bought for him a magnificent property. you know my roughness in business. it imports little to me that m. d'harville is my client; that which i plead is the cause of justice. if your husband takes toward his daughter, madame d'harville, a determination which seems to me not proper, i tell you plainly he must not count on me. straightforward! such has always been my line of conduct." "and mine also. thus i repeat to my husband always just as you have said: 'your daughter has treated you badly; so be it; but that is no reason to disinherit her.'" "very well--all right; and what did he answer?" "he answered, 'i will leave my daughter twenty-five thousand francs a year. she had more than a million from her mother; her husband has an enormous income. can i not leave the rest to you, my tender friend, the sole support, the sole consolation of my old age, my guardian angel?' i repeat these too flattering words," said madame d'orbigny, with a modest sigh, "to show you his goodness toward me; yet i have always refused his offers; seeing which, he decided to beg me to come and find you." "but i do not know m. d'orbigny." "but he, like every one else, knows your probity." "but how did he address you to me?" "to silence my scruples. he said, 'i do not ask you to consult my notary, you will think him too much under my orders; but i will leave it to the decision of a man whose honesty is proverbial, m. ferrand. if he finds your delicacy compromised by your acceptance of my offer, we will talk no more about it; if not, you acquiesce.' 'i consent,' said i, and in this way you have become our arbitrator. 'if he approves,' added my husband, 'i will send him a power of attorney to realize, in my name, my real estate and bank stock; he will keep this sum on deposit, and, after my death, you will at least have an income worthy of you." never, perhaps, had ferrand felt more the value of his spectacles than at this moment. without them, madame d'orbigny would have seen how his eyes sparkled at the word "deposit." he answered, however, in a morose tone, "this is troublesome; this is for the tenth or twelfth time that i have been chosen an arbiter, always under pretext of my probity; that is the only word in their mouths--my probity! my probity! great advantage; it only gives me trouble and--" "my good m. ferrand, come, don't scold; you will write to m. d'orbigny; he awaits your letter, to send you his full power to realize the sum." "how much is it?" "he said, i believe, that it was about four or five hundred thousand francs." "the amount is not so large as i thought. after all, you have devoted yourself to m. d'orbigny. his daughter is very rich--you have nothing; i can approve of this. it appears to me you might accept." "really, you think so?" said madame d'orbigny, dupe, like every one else, of the proverbial honesty of the notary, and not undeceived in this respect by polidori. "you may accept," said he. "i shall accept then," said madame d'orbigny, with a sigh. the clerk knocked at the door. "who is it?" demanded ferrand. "her ladyship, the countess m'gregor." "let her wait a moment." "i leave you, then, my dear m. ferrand," said madame d'orbigny; "you will write to my husband, since he desires it, and he will send you full powers tomorrow." "i will write." "adieu, my worthy and good counselor." "ah! you people of the world do not know how disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits--the responsibility which bears on us. i tell you there is nothing more detestable than this fine reputation for probity which brings one nothing but drudgery." "and the admiration of good people." "praise the lord! i place otherwise than here below the recompense i seek for," said ferrand, in a sanctified tone. to madame d'orbigny succeeded countess sarah m'gregor. sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her habitual coolness and assurance. jacques ferrand did not know her; he was ignorant of the object of her visit. he observed her very closely, in the hope to make a new dupe; and, notwithstanding the impassibility of the marble face, he remarked a slight tremor, which appeared to him to betray concealed embarrassment. the notary arose from his chair, and handed a seat to the countess, saying, "you asked for a meeting, madame, yesterday. i was so much occupied that i could not send you an answer until this morning; i make you a thousand excuses." "i desired to see you, sir, on business of the greatest importance. your reputation has made me hope my business with you will be successful." the notary bowed in his chair. "i know, sir, that your discretion is well tried." "it is my duty, madame." "you are, sir, a rigid and incorruptible man." "granted, madame." "yet, if one should say to you, sir, it depends on you to restore life--more than life--reason to an unhappy mother, would you have the courage to refuse?" "state facts, madame, i will answer." "about fourteen years since, in december, , a young man, dressed in mourning, came to propose to you to take, for an annuity, the sum of one hundred and fifty thousand francs, for a child of three years, whose parents desired to remain unknown." "continue, madame," said the notary, avoiding a direct answer. "you consented to receive this amount, and to assure the child an income of eight thousand francs. the one-half of this amount was to be added to the capital until its majority; the other half was to be paid by you to the person who should take charge of this little girl." "continue, madame." "at the end of two years," said sarah, without being able to conquer a slight emotion, "the th november, , this child died." "before continuing this conversation, madame, i shall ask you what interest you have in this affair?" "the mother of this little girl is my _sister_, sir; i have here, for proof of what i advance, the publication of the death of this poor little thing, the letters from the person who had care of her, the receipt of one of your clients, with whom you placed the fifty thousand crowns." "let me see these papers, madame." quite astonished not to be believed at her word, sarah drew from a portfolio several papers, which the notary closely examined. "ah, well, madame, what do you want? the notice of the death is quite correct; the fifty thousand crowns became the property of m. petit jean, my client, by the death of the child; as to the interests, they were always punctually paid by me until its decease." "nothing can be more correct than your conduct in this affair; sir, i am pleased to acknowledge it. the woman to whom the child was confided has also a right to our gratitude; she has taken the greatest care of my poor little niece." "that is true, madame; i was so much pleased with her conduct, that, after the death of the child, i took her in my service; she is still there." "mrs. seraphin is in your service, sir?" "for fourteen years, as housekeeper." "since it is thus, sir, she can be of great assistance, if you will grant a demand which will appear strange, perhaps, even culpable at first; but, when you shall know with what intention--" "a culpable demand, madame; i do not think you are any more capable of making than i am of hearing it." "i know, sir, that you are the last person to whom one should address such a request; but i place all my hopes--my sole hope--in your pity. in every case i rely on your discretion." "yes, madame." "i continue, then. the death of this poor little girl has cast her mother into such a state, her grief is as poignant at the present day as it was fourteen years since; and, after having feared for her life, to-day we fear for her reason." "poor mother!" said ferrand, with a sigh. "oh! yes, very unfortunate mother, sir; for she could only blush at the birth of her daughter, at the time she lost her; while now circumstances are such, that my sister, if her child still lived, could own her, be proud of her, never leave her. thus, this incessant regret, joined to other griefs, makes us fear for her reason." "unfortunately, nothing can be done for her." "oh, yes." "how, madame?" "suppose some one should come and say to the poor mother. 'your child was supposed to be dead; she is not; the woman who had care of her infancy can affirm it.'" "such a falsehood would be cruel, madame. why cause vain hopes to this poor mother?" "but if this was not a falsehood, sir; or, rather, if this supposition could be realized?" "by a miracle! if it only needed, to obtain it, my prayers joined to yours, i would pray from the bottom of my heart. alas! there can be no doubt of her death." "i know it, alas! sir, the child is dead: and yet, if you wish it, the evil is not irreparable." "it is an enigma, madame." "i will speak, then, more plainly. if my sister finds to-morrow her child, not only will she be restored to health, but, what is more, she is sure to marry the father of this child, now as free as she is. my niece died at six years. separated from her parents at this tender age, they have no recollection of her. suppose that a young girl of seventeen could be found; that my sister should be told, 'here is your child; you have been deceived; certain interests required that she should be thought dead. the woman who had charge of her, a respectable notary will affirm, will prove to you that it is she--'" jacques ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak without interrupting her, rose suddenly, and cried, in an indigant manner, "enough, enough, madame. oh! this is infamous." "sir!" "to dare to propose to me--to me--to palm off a child--a criminal action! it is the first time in my life that i have received such an outrage, and i have not deserved it--heaven knows." "but, who is wronged by it? my sister and the person she desires to marry are single; both regret bitterly the child they have lost; to deceive them is to restore to them happiness--life; it is to assure some forsaken young girl a most happy lot: thus it is a noble, generous action, and not a crime." "truly," cried the notary, with increasing indignation, "i see how the most execrable projects can be colored with--" "but reflect." "i repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous. it is a shame to see a woman of your rank contriving such abominations, to which your sister, i hope, is a stranger." "sir!" "enough, madame, enough! i am not a gallant, not i. i tell you the naked truth." sarah cast on the notary one of her dark looks, and said coldly, "you refuse?" "no new insult, madame!" "take care!" "threats?" "threats! and to prove to you that they will not be in vain, learn, in the first place, that i have no sister." "what, madame?" "i am the mother of this child." "you?" "i invented this fable to interest you. you are without pity: i raise the mask. you want war! well, war be it." "war! because i refuse to lend myself to a criminal act? what audacity!" "listen to me, sir; your reputation as an honest man is great--known far and near." "because it is merited. you must have lost your reason before you would have dared to make such a proposition?" "better than any one, i know, sir, how much one ought to suspect these reputations of such strict virtue, which often conceal the gallantries of women and the scoundrelism of men." "you dare to say this, madame?" "since the commencement of our conversation, i do not know wherefore, i doubted that you deserve the consideration and esteem which you enjoy." "truly, madame, this doubt does honor to your perspicacity." "does it not so? for this doubt is founded on nothing--on mere instinct--on inexplicable presentiments; but rarely has this boding deceived me." "let us finish this conversation, madame." "before we do so, know my determination. i begin by telling you, that i am convinced of the death of my poor child; but, no matter, i will pretend she is not dead; the most unlikely events are often brought about. you are at this moment in such a position that you must have many envious rivals; they will regard it as a piece of good fortune to attack you. i will furnish means to them." "you!" "i, in attacking you under an absurd pretext, on an irregularity in the registry of death, let us say--no matter, i will maintain my child is not dead. as i have the greatest interest in having it believed that she still lives, although lost, this process will serve me in giving much notoriety to this affair; a mother who reclaims her child is always interesting; i shall have on my side those who are envious of you, your enemies, and all those who are feeling and romantic." "this is as foolish as wicked. why should i? for what interest should i say your child is dead, if she were not?" "that is true, the motive is sufficiently embarrassing to find. happily, lawyers are plenty. but a thought! ah! an excellent one: wishing to divide with your client the sum paid for the annuity, you have caused the child to be carried off." the notary, without moving a muscle of his face, shrugged his shoulders. "if i had been criminal enough to do that, instead of sending her off, i would have killed her!" [illustration: the duel] sarah shuddered with surprise, remained silent for a moment, then resumed with bitterness: "for a holy man, that is a thought of crime profoundly deep! have i touched to the quick in shooting at random? this sets me thinking. one last word: you see what kind of a woman i am--i crush without pity all who cross my path. reflect well; to-morrow you must decide! you can do with impunity what you are asked. in his joy, the father of my child would not discuss the probability of such a resurrection, if our falsehoods, which will render him so happy, are adroitly combined. he has, besides, no other proofs of the death of our child, than what i wrote to him fourteen years since; it will be easy for me to persuade him that i deceived him on this subject; for then i had just cause of complaint against him. i will tell him that in my anger i wished to break, in his eyes, the last link which still held us together. you cannot therefore in any way be compromised; affirm only, irreproachable man, affirm that all has been concerted between you and me and mrs. seraphin, and you will be believed. as to the money placed with you, that concerns me alone; it shall remain with your client, who must be ignorant of all this; finally, you shall name your own recompense." jacques ferrand preserved all his coolness, notwithstanding his position, so strange and dangerous for him. the countess, believing really in the death of her child, came to ask him to represent as living this child, whom he had himself _passed for dead_ fourteen years before. he was too cunning, and knew too well the perils of his situation, not to comprehend the bearing of sarah's threats. although admirably constructed, the edifice of the notary's reputation was built on sand. the public as easily detach as they attach themselves, and are pleased with the right to trample under foot those whom they once had exalted to the skies. how foresee the consequences of the first attack on the reputation of jacques ferrand? however ridiculous this attack might be, its boldness alone might awaken suspicion. the pertinacity of sarah, and her obduracy, alarmed the notary. this mother had not shown for a moment any feeling in speaking of her child; she had only seemed to consider her death as the loss of a means of action. such dispositions are implacable in their objects, and in their vengeance. wishing to give himself time to seek some means to avoid the dangerous blow, ferrand said coldly to sarah, "you have asked until noon to-morrow. it is i, madame, who give you until the next day to renounce a project, of which you know not the gravity. if, meanwhile, i do not receive a letter from you in which you announce that you have abandoned this foolish and criminal undertaking, you will learn to your cost that justice knows how to protect honest people who refuse to lend themselves to culpable acts." "that is to say, sir, that you demand one day more to reflect on my proposition? that is a good sign; i grant it to you. the day after to-morrow, at this hour, i will return here, and it shall be between us peace or war; i repeat it to you, a war to the knife, without mercy or pity;" and sarah disappeared. "all goes well," said she to herself. "this miserable young girl, for whom rudolph was so much interested--thanks to old one eye, who has delivered me from her, is no longer to be feared. the skill of rudolph has saved madame d'harville from the snare i placed for her, but it is impossible she can escape from the new plot i have contrived; she will then be forever lost to him. then, sad, discouraged, isolated from all ties, will he not be in such a disposition of mind, that he will not desire anything better than to be the dupe of a falsehood, to which, with the aid of the notary, i can give every appearance of truth? and the notary will assist me for i have alarmed him. i can easily find a young orphan girl, interesting and poor who, instructed by me, will fill the part of our child, so bitterly regretted by rudolph. i know the grandeur and generosity of his heart. yes, to give a name and rank to her whom he believes to be his daughter, until then unhappy and abandoned, he will renew those ties which i had thought indissoluble. the predictions of my nurse will at length be realized, and i shall have this time surely attained the constant aim of my life--a crown." hardly had sarah left the mansion of the notary, than charles robert entered it, descending from an elegant cabriolet: he turned toward the private cabinet, as one having free admission. chapter viii. charles robert. the new-comer entered without any ceremony the notary's office, who was in a very thoughtful and splenetic mood, and who said to him very roughly, "i reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to speak to me, come in the morning." "my dear scribbler" (this was one of the pleasantries of m. robert), "it is concerning an important affair, in the first place, and then i wish to assure you myself concerning the fears that you might have." "what fears?" "do you not know?" "what?" "my duel with the duke de lucenay. are you ignorant of it?" "yes." "really?" "why this duel?" "something very serious, which required blood. just imagine that, in the face of the whole embassy, m. de lucenay allowed himself to say to me, to my face, that i had a cough, a complaint that must be very ridiculous." "you fought for this?" "and what the devil would you have one to fight for? do you think that one could, in cold blood, hear one's self accused of having a cough? and before a charming woman, too; what is more, before a little marchioness, who, in brief--it could not be overlooked." "certainly." "we soldiers, you understand, we are always on the look out. my seconds, the day before yesterday, had an interview with those of the duke. i had the question placed very plainly; a duel or a retraction." "a retraction of what?" "of the cough, by jove, which he allowed himself to attribute to me." the notary shrugged his shoulders. "on their side the duke's seconds said, 'we render justice to the honorable character of m. charles robert; but his grace of lucenay cannot, ought not, will not retract.' 'then, gentlemen,' responded my seconds, 'm. de lucenay still continues to insist that m. charles robert has a cough?' 'yes, gentlemen; but he does not intend it as an attack upon m. robert's reputation.' 'then let him retract.' 'no, gentlemen; m. de lucenay recognizes m. robert for a gallant man, but he insists that he has a cough.' you see there was no way of arranging so serious an affair." "none. you were insulted in that which a man holds to be most respectable." "so they agreed on the day and hour of meeting, and yesterday morning at vincennes, all passed in the most honorable manner. i touched the duke slightly in the arm with my sword; the seconds declared my honor satisfied. then the duke said, in a loud voice, 'i never retract before an affair; afterward, it is different: it is therefore my duty to proclaim that i falsely accused m. charles robert of having a cough. gentlemen, i confess, not only that my loyal adversary has no cough, but i affirm that he is incapable of ever having it.' then the duke extended his hand to me cordially, saying, 'are you content? henceforth we are friends in life until death.' i answered, that i owed him as much. the duke has done everything that was right. he might have said nothing at all, or contented himself with saying that i had not the cough; but to affirm that i never could have one was a very delicate proceeding on his part." "this is what i call courage well employed. but what do you mean?" "my dear banker" (another pleasantry of m. robert), "it concerns something of great importance to me. you know that in our agreement, when i advanced you , francs, in order that you might finish the purchase of your notariat, it was stipulated that, by giving you three months' notice, i could withdraw from you this amount for which you now pay interest." "what next?" "well!" said m. robert, with hesitation, "i; no, but--" "what?" "you perceive it is pure caprice; an idea to become a landed proprietor, my dear law-writer." "explain yourself; you annoy me." "in a word, i have been offered a territorial acquisition, and, if it is not disagreeable to you i should wish, that is to say, i should desire, to withdraw my funds from you; and i come to give you notice, according to our agreement." "humph!" "it does not make you angry, i hope!" "why should it?" "because you might think--" "i may think?" "that i am the echo of rumors." "what rumors?" "no, nothing; absurdities." "but, tell me then?" "it is no reason because there _are_ reports in circulation about you----" "about me?" "there is not a word of truth in it--that you have been doing some bad business; pure scandal, no doubt, like when we speculated on the 'change together. that report soon fell to the ground; for i wish that you and i might become----" "then you think your money is no longer safe with me?" "not so; but i prefer to have it in my hands." "wait a minute." ferrand shut the drawer of his bureau, and rose. "where are you going to, my dear banker?" "to look for something to convince you of the truth of the rumors concerning me," said the notary, ironically. and opening a little private staircase which led to the pavilion, without going through the office, he disappeared. hardly had he gone when the clerk knocked at the door. "come in," said charles robert. "is not m. ferrand here?" "no, my worthy blue-baggist." "a veiled lady wishes to speak to master instantly, on very pressing business." "worthy fellow, your master will return directly; i will tell him. is she pretty?" "one must be a wizard to find this out; she wears a black veil, so thick that her face cannot be seen." "good, good! i'll take a look at her when i go out." the clerk left the room. "where the devil is he gone to?" said charles to himself. "if these reports are absurd, so much the better. never mind, i prefer to have my money. i will buy the chateau they have spoken to me of, with gothic towers of the time of louis xiv.; that will give me a noble appearance. it will not be like my affair with this prude of a madame d'harville--fine game! oh, no; i have not made my expenses, as the stupid old portress in the rue du temple said, with her fantastic periwig. this pleasantry has cost meat least a thousand crowns. it is true, the furniture remains; and i can compromise the marquise. but here is the scrivener." ferrand returned, holding in his hand some papers, which he gave to robert. "here," said he to him, "are three hundred and fifty thousand francs in treasury notes. in a few days we will regulate the interest. write me a receipt." "eh!" cried charles, stupefied. "oh! now don't think, at least, that i--" "i think nothing." "but--" "this receipt!" "dear sir." "write; and tell the people who speak to you of my embarrassments how i answer such suspicions." "the fact is, as soon as this is known, your credit will only be the more solid. but, really, take the money; i cannot use it now; i said in three months." "m. charles robert, no one shall suspect me twice." "you are angry?" "the receipt." "oh, obstinacy!" said charles robert; then he added, writing the receipt, "there is a lady closely veiled, who wishes to speak to you on some very pressing business. i shall take a good look at her when i pass. here is your receipt; is it right?" "very well; now go away by the little staircase." "but the lady?" "it is just to prevent your seeing her." the notary rang for the clerk, saying to him, "show the lady in. adieu, m. robert." "well, i must renounce seeing her. no ill-feeling, eh! scrivener?" "believe as much." "well, well! adieu." the notary shut the door on charles robert. after a few moments the clerk introduced the duchess de lucenay, very modestly dressed, wrapped in a large shawl, her face completely concealed by a thick veil of black lace, which covered her moire hat of the same color. chapter ix. the duchess de lucenay. madame de lucenay slowly approached the desk, in an agitated manner; he advanced to meet her. "who are you, madame, and what do you want with me?" said the notary, roughly, whose temper, already fretted by the threat of sarah, was exasperated at the suspicions of robert. besides, the duchess was so modestly dressed, that the notary saw no reason why he should be civil to her. as she hesitated to speak, he said, even more harshly, "will you explain yourself, madame?" "sir," said she, in a trembling voice, trying to conceal her face under the folds of her veil, "sir, can one confide a secret to you of the highest importance?" "anything can be confided to me, madame, but i must see and know to whom i speak." "that, perhaps, is not necessary. i know that you are honor and loyalty itself." "just so, madame, just so; there is some one there waiting. who are you?" "my name is of no importance, sir. one of my friends--of my relations-- has just left you." "his name?" "m. floreston de saint remy." "ah!" said the notary, casting on the duchess an inquisitive and searching glance; then he resumed: "well, madame!" "m. de saint remy has told me everything, sir." "what did he tell you?" "all!" "but what did he say?" "you know well." "i know many things about m. de saint remy." "alas! sir, a terrible thing." "i know a great many terrible things about m. de saint remy." "ah! sir, he told me truly--you are without pity." "for cheats and forgers like him, yes, i am without pity. is saint remy your relation? instead of confessing it, you ought to blush. do you come here to weep, to soften me? it is useless; without saying that you are performing a wretched part for an honest woman, if you are one." this brutal insolence was revolting to the pride and patrician blood of the duchess. she drew herself up, threw her veil back, and with a proud look, and a firm, imperious voice, she said, "sir, i am the duchess of lucenay." this woman assumed so haughty an air, her appearance became so imposing, that the notary, overcome, charmed, fell back astonished; took off, mechanically, his black silk cap, and saluted her profoundly. nothing could be, indeed, more graceful and more majestic than the face and bearing of madame de lucenay; yet she was then over thirty years of age, with a pale face, appearing slightly fatigued; but she had large sparkling brown eyes, splendid black hair, a fine arched nose, a proud and ruby lip, dazzling complexion, very white teeth, tall and slender figure, a form like a "goddess on the clouds," as the immortal st. simon says. she had entered the notary's as a timid woman; all at once she showed herself a grand, proud, and irritated lady. never had jacques ferrand in his life met with a woman of so much insolent beauty, at once so bold and so noble. although old, ugly, mean, and sordid, jacques ferrand was as capable as any one else of appreciating the style of beauty of madame de lucenay. his hatred and his rage against saint remy augmented with his admiration of the charming duchess. he thought to himself that this gentleman forger, who had almost kneeled before him, inspired such love in this grand lady, that she risked a step which might ruin her. at these thoughts the notary felt his audacity, which for a moment was paralyzed, restored. hatred, envy, a kind of burning, savage resentment kindled in his looks, on his forehead, and his cheeks--the most shameful and wicked passions. seeing madame de lucenay on the point of commencing a conversation so delicate, he expected on her part some turnings, expedients. what was his surprise! she spoke to him with as much assurance and pride as if it was concerning the most natural thing in the world, and as if before a man of his species, she had no thought of the reserve and fitness which she had certainly shown to her equals. in fact, the gross insolence of the notary, in wounding her to the quick, had forced madame de lucenay, to quit the humble and imploring part that she had at first assumed with much trouble; returned to her own dignity, she believed it to be beneath her to descend to the least concealment with this scribbler of deeds. "sir notary," said the duchess, resolutely, to jacques ferrand, "m. de saint remy is one of my friends; he has confided to me the embarrassing situation in which he finds himself, from the inconvenience of a double piece of villainy of which he is the victim. everything can be managed with money. how much is necessary to terminate these miserable, shuffling tricks?" jacques ferrand was completely astounded with this cavalier and deliberate manner of opening the business. "they ask a hundred thousand francs," answered he, as soon as he had recovered from his astonishment. "you shall have your hundred thousand francs; and you will send at once the bad papers to m. de saint remy." "where are the hundred thousand francs, your grace?" "did i not tell you that you should have them, sir?" "they must be had to-morrow, before noon, madame; otherwise a complaint of forgery will be made." "well, give this amount; i will be accountable for it; as for you i will pay you well." "but, madame, it is impossible." "you will not tell me, i hope, that a notary like you cannot procure a hundred thousand francs any day?" "on what security, madame?" "what does that mean? explain yourself." "who is to be answerable for this amount?" "i." "but, madame--" "is it necessary for me to tell you that i have property yielding eighty thousand livres rent, at four leagues from paris? that will suffice, i believe, for that which you call guarantee?" "yes, madame, by means of a mortgage." "what does that mean again? some formality, doubtless. make it, sir, make it." "such a deed cannot be drawn up under two weeks, and it needs the consent of your husband, madame." "but this is my property, mine--mine alone," said the duchess, impatiently. "no matter, madame; you are in the power of your husband, and a deed of mortgage is very long and very minute." "but once more, sir, you cannot make me believe that it so difficult to procure one hundred thousand francs in two hours." "then, madame, apply to your own notary, to your steward; with me, it is impossible." "i have reasons, sir, to keep this a secret," said madame de lucenay, heartily. "you know the rogues who wish to rob m. de saint remy; it is on this account i address myself to you." "your confidence infinitely honors me, madame; but i cannot do what you ask." "you have not this amount?" "i have much more than this sum in bank bills, or in gold--here--here, in my safe." "oh, what a waste of words! is it my signature you wish? i give it you; let us finish." "in admitting, madame, that you are the duchess of lucenay." "come in an hour's time to the hôtel de lucenay, sir: i will sign at home what is necessary to be signed." "will his grace sign also?" "i do not understand you, sir." "your signature alone is of no value to me, madame." jacques ferrand enjoyed with cruel delight the impatience of the duchess, who, under the appearance of _sang froid_ and disdain, concealed the most painful anguish. she was for a moment at the end of her resources. the evening previous, her jeweler had advanced her a considerable sum on her diamonds, some of which were confided to morel, the artisan. this sum had served to pay the bills of saint remy, and disarm other creditors; dubreul, the farmer at arnouville, was more than a year in advance, and besides, time was wanting; unfortunately for madame de lucenay, two of her friends, to whom she could have had recourse in an extreme situation, were then absent from paris. in her eyes, the viscount was innocent; he had told her, and she believed it, that he was the dupe of two rogues; but her situation was none the less terrible. he accused, he dragged to prison! then, even if he should take to flight would his name be any less dishonored by such a suspicion? "since you possess the sum i ask for, sir, and my guarantee is sufficient, why do you refuse me?" "because men have their caprices as well as women, madame." "but what is this caprice, which makes you act thus against your interest? for, i repeat to you, make your conditions; whatever they may be, i accept them!" "your grace will accept all the conditions?" said the notary, with a singular expression. "all! two, three, four thousand francs--more, if you will; for i tell you," added the duchess, frankly, in a tone almost affectionate, "i have no resource but in you, sir--in you alone. it will be impossible for me to find elsewhere that which i ask you for to-morrow; and it must be--you understand--it must be absolutely. thus, i repeat to you, whatever condition you impose on me for this service, i accept." in his blindness, he had interpreted in an unworthy manner the last words of the duchess. it was an idea as stupid as it was infamous; but we have already said that sometimes jacques ferrand became a tiger or a wolf; then the beast overpowered the man. he arose quickly and advanced toward the duchess. she, thunder-struck, rose at the same moment and regarded him with astonishment. "you will not regard the cost?" cried he, in a broken voice, approaching still nearer to the duchess. "well, this sum i will lend to you on one condition, one single condition--and i swear that----" he could not finish his declaration. by one of those strange contradictions of human nature at the sight of the hideous face of m. ferrand, at the mere thought of what his conditions might be, madame de lucenay, notwithstanding her inquietudes and troubles, burst out in a laugh so frank, so loud, so mirthful, that the notary recoiled confounded. without giving him time to utter a word, the duchess, abandoning herself more and more to her hilarity, pulled down her veil, and between two renewed bursts of laughter, said to the notary, who was almost blind with rage, hatred, and fury, "i prefer, upon the whole, to ask this favor openly of the duke." she then went out, continuing to laugh so loudly that, though the door of the cabinet was closed, the notary could still hear her. jacques ferrand returned to his senses only to curse his imprudence bitterly. yet, by degrees he reassured himself in thinking that the duchess could not speak of this interview without gravely compromising herself. nevertheless, it was a bad day for him. he was buried in the blackest thoughts, when the private door of his cabinet was opened, and mrs. seraphin entered wildly. "oh, ferrand!" cried she, clasping her hands, "you were right enough in saying that we should some day regret having spared her life!" "whose?" "that cursed little girl's." "how?" "a one-eyed woman, whom i did not know, to whom tournemine delivered the little girl to rid us of her, fourteen years ago, when we said she was dead. oh, who would have thought it!" "speak!" "this woman has just been here; she was below just now. she told me she knew it was i who gave up the child." "malediction! who could have told her? tournemine is at the galleys." "i denied everything, treating her as a liar. but she maintains that she has found this child again, now grown up; that she knows where she is, and that it only depends upon herself to discover everything." "is hell unchained against me to-day?" cried the notary, in a fit of rage that rendered him hideous. "what shall be said to the woman? what must we promise, to keep her silent?" "does she look as if she were poor?" "as i treated her like a beggar, she shook her reticule--there was money in it." "and she knows where this young girl is now?" "she declares she knows." "and she is the daughter of countess m'gregor!" said the notary to himself, "who just now offered me so much to say that her child was not dead! and the child lives. i can restore her to her! yes; but this false certificate of death--if any inquiry is made, i am lost! this crime may put them on the scent of others." after a moment's thought, he said to madame seraphin, "this one-eyed woman knows where the girl is?" "yes." "and this woman will return to-morrow?" "to-morrow." "write to polidori to be here to-night at nine o'clock." "do you mean to get rid of the girl and the old woman? it will be too much for one time, ferrand!" "i tell you to write to folidori to be here to-night by nine o'clock." at the close of this day, rudolph said to murphy, who had not been able to see the notary, "let m. de graun send a courtier off at once. cicily must be in paris in six days." "once more that infernal she-devil! the execrable wife of poor david, as handsome as she is infamous! for what good, your highness?" "for what good, sir walter? in a month's time you may ask this question of the notary, jacques ferrand." chapter x. denunciation. about ten o'clock in the evening of the day on which fleur-de-marie had been carried off by screech-owl and the schoolmaster, a man on horseback arrived at the farm, coming, as he said, on the part of rudolph, to reassure mrs. george as to the disappearance of her young _protegee_, who would return to her in a few days. for several very important reasons, added this man, rudolph begged mrs. george, in the event of her having anything to send him, not to write him at paris, but to hand the letter to the courier, who would take charge of it. this courier was an emissary of sarah's. by this she tranquilized mrs. george, and retarded thus for some days the moment when rudolph must hear of the abduction. in this interval, sarah hoped to force the notary to favor the unworthy scheme of which we have spoken. this was not all. sarah wished also to get rid of madame d'harville, who inspired her with serious fears, and who would have been lost but for rudolph's rescue. on the day when the marquis had followed his wife to the house in the rue du temple, where she was to meet charles robert, but where rudolph led her to the morels, and thus changed the assignation into a call in charity, sarah's brother tom went there, easily set mrs. pipelet jabbering, and learned that a young lady, on the point of being surprised by her husband, had been saved, thanks to a lodger in the house named rudolph. informed of this circumstance, sarah, possessing no material proof of the rendezvous that lady d'harville had given to charles robert, conceived another odious plan. it was concocted to send an anonymous letter to the marquis, in order to effect a complete rupture between him and rudolph, or, at least, to make the marquis so suspicious as to forbid any further intercourse between the prince and his wife. this letter was thus couched: "you have been deceived most shamefully. the other day, your wife, advised that you were following her, pretended an imaginary visit of charity; she went to meet a very _august personage_, who has hired in the rue du temple a room in the fourth story, under the name of rudolph. if you doubt these facts, strange as they may appear, go to the rue du temple, no. , and inform yourself; paint to yourself the features of the _august person_ spoken of, and you will easily acknowledge that you are the most credulous, good-natured husband who has ever been so _sovereignly_ deceived. do not neglect this advice; otherwise it will be supposed that you, also are too much. "the friend of princes." this note was put in the post at five o'clock by sarah, on the day of her interview with the notary. the same evening, rudolph went to pay a visit to a foreign embassy: after which it was his intention to go to madame d'harville's to announce to her that he had found a charitable intrigue worthy of her. we will conduct the reader to madame d'harville's. it will be seen, from the following conversation, that this young lady, in showing herself generous and compassionate towards her husband, whom she had until then treated with extreme coldness, followed already the noble counsels of rudolph. the marquis and his wife had just left the table; the scene passed in the little saloon of which we have spoken; the expression of clemence d'harville was affectionate and kind; d'harville seemed less sad than usual. he had not yet received the now infamous letter from sarah. "what are you going to do to-night?" said he, mechanically, to his wife. "i shall not go out; pray what are your plans?" "i do not know," answered he, with a sigh. "society is insupportable to me. i will pass this evening, like so many other evenings, alone." "why alone, since i am not going out?" m. d'harville looked at his wife with surprise. "doubtless, but--" "well?" "i know that you often prefer solitude when you do not go out." "yes; but as i am very capricious," said clemence, smiling, "at present i prefer to partake my solitude with you, if it is agreeable to you." "really," cried d'harville, with emotion, "how kind you are to anticipate what i dared not express." "do you know, dear, that your astonishment has almost an air of reproach?" "a reproach? oh, no, no! not after my unjust and cruel suspicions the other day. to find you so forgiving, it is, i confess, a surprise for me; but a surprise the most delightful." "let us forget the past," said she to her husband, with an angelic smile. "clemence, can you forget?" answered he, sadly. "have i not dared to suspect you? to tell you to what extremity a blind jealousy has impelled me? but what is all this compared to other wrongs, still greater, more irreparable?" "let us forget the past, i say," repeated clemence, restraining her emotion. "what do i hear? the past also--can you forget it?" "i hope to do so." "can it be true, clemence, you can be so generous? but no, no, i cannot believe in so much happiness; i had renounced it forever." "you were wrong, you see." "what a change! is it a dream? oh, tell me i am not mistaken." "no, no, you are not mistaken." "and, truly, your look is less cold; your voice almost falters. oh, say, is it true? am i not under an illusion?" "no; for i also have need of pardon." "you!" "have i not been cruel towards you! ought i not to have thought that you must have needed a rare courage, a virtue more than human, to act differently from what you did? isolated, unhappy, how resist the desire of seeking some consolation in a marriage which pleased you? alas! when one suffers, one is so disposed to believe in the generosity of others! your error has been, until now, to count on mine. well, henceforth i will try to give you reason." "oh, speak, speak once more!" said d'harville, his hands clasped in a kind of ecstasy. "our existence is forever united. i will do all in my power to render your life less bitter." "is it you i hear?" "i beg you do not be so much astonished; it gives me pain; it is a bitter censure on my past conduct. who else should pity you? who should lend you a friendly and helping hand, if not i? a happy inspiration i have received. i have reflected, well reflected, on the past, on the future. i have seen my errors, and i have found, i believe, the means to repair them." "your errors, poor wife?" "yes; i should have, the next day after our marriage, appealed to your honor, and frankly demanded a separation." "ah, clemence, pity, pity!" "otherwise, since i accepted my position, i should have augmented it by submission, instead of causing you constant self-reproach by my haughty and taciturn coldness. i should have endeavored to console you for a fearful malady, by only remembering your misfortune. by degrees i should have become attached to my work of commiseration, by reason even of the cares, perhaps the sacrifices, which it would have cost me; your gratitude had rewarded me, and then--but what is the matter? you weep!" "yes, i weep--weep with joy. you do not know how many new emotions your words cause me. oh, clemence, let me weep!" "never more than at this moment have i comprehended how culpable i have been in chaining you to my sad destiny!" "and never have i felt more decided to forget. these gentle tears that you shed make me acquainted with a happiness of which i was ignorant. courage, dear, courage; in default of a fortunate and smiling destiny, let us seek our satisfaction in the accomplishment of the serious duties that fate imposes. let us be indulgent to one another; if we falter, let us regard the cradle of our child, let us concentrate on her all our affections, and we shall yet have some joys, melancholy and holy." "an angel, she is an angel!" cried d'harville, joining his hands and looking at his wife with affectionate admiration. "oh! you do not know the pain and pleasure you cause me, clemence! you do not know that your harshest words formerly, your most severe reproaches, alas! the most merited, have never so much overwhelmed me as this adorable, generous resignation, and yet, in spite of myself, you make hope spring up again. you do not know the future that i dare imagine." "and you can have blind and entire faith in what i tell you, albert. this resolution is taken firmly; it shall never fail, i swear it to you. before long i may give you new guarantees of my word." "guarantees?" cried d'harville, more and more excited by happiness so unlooked for, "guarantees! have i need of them? your look, your voice, this beaming expression of goodness which still graces you, the throbbings of my heart, all, all prove to me that what you say is true. but you know, clemence, man is insatiable in his hopes," added the marquis. "your noble and touching words give me courage to hope, yes, to hope what yesterday i regarded as an insensate dream." "albert, i swear to you i shall always be the most devoted of friends, the most tender of sisters; but nothing more. pardon, pardon, if unknowingly my words have ever given you hopes which can never be realized." "never?" cried d'harville, fixing on her a desperate and supplicating look. "never!" answered clemence. this single word, the tone of voice, revealed an irrevocable resolution. clemence, brought back to noble resolutions by the influence of rudolph, was firmly resolved to surround her husband with the most touching attentions; but she felt that she was incapable of ever loving him. an impression still stronger than fright, contempt, hatred, separated clemence from her husband forever. it was a repugnance invincible. after a moment of mournful silence, d'harville passed his hand over his eyes, and said to his wife, bitterly: "pardon me for deceiving myself; pardon me for having abandoned myself to a hope, mad as it was foolish. oh! i am very unfortunate!" "my friend," said clemence to him gently, "i do not wish to reproach you; yet do you reckon as nothing my promise to be for you the most tender of sisters? you will owe to the most devoted friendship attentions that love could not give you. hope for better days. until now you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows; you shall see how i shall compassionate you, and what consolations you will find in my affection." a servant entered, and said to clemence, "his royal highness the grand duke of gerolstein asks if your ladyship will receive him?" clemence looked at her husband, who, recovering his coolness, said to her, "of course." the servant retired. "pardon me, my friend," said clemence; "i did not say that i would not receive. besides, it is a long time since you have seen the prince; he will be happy to find you here. i shall, also, be much pleased to see him; yet i avow, that just now i am so agitated that i should have preferred to receive his visit some other day." "i can comprehend it; but what could we do? here he is." at the same moment, rudolph was announced. "i am a thousand times happy, madame, to have the honor to meet you," said rudolph; "and i doubly appreciate my good fortune, since it also procures me the pleasure of seeing you, my dear albert," added he, turning toward the marquis, whom he cordially shook by the hand. "it is a long time since i have had the honor to pay your highness my respects." "and whose fault is it, invisible lord? the last time i came to pay my respects to madame d'harville, i asked for you; you were absent. it is now three weeks that you have forgotten me; it is very wrong." "be merciless, your highness," said clemence, smiling: "m. d'harville is the more guilty, since he has for your highness the most profound respect, and he might make that doubted by his negligence." "well! see my vanity, madame; whatever d'harville might do, it would always be impossible for me to doubt his affection; but i ought not to say this. i am encouraging him in such conduct." "believe me, your highness, that some unforeseen circumstances alone have prevented me from profiting oftener by your kindness toward me." "between ourselves, my dear albert, i believe you a little too platonic in friendship; very sure that you are loved, you are not pliant enough to give or receive proofs of attachment." through a breach of etiquette, which rather annoyed madame d'harville, a servant entered, bringing a letter to the marquis. it was the anonymous denunciation of sarah, which accused the prince of being the lover of madame d'harville. the marquis, out of deference to the prince, pushed back with his hand the silver salver which the servant handed him, and said, in an undertone, "not now, not now." "my dear albert," said the prince, in the most affectionate tone, "do you stand on ceremony with me?" "but, your highness--" "with the permission of madame d'harville, i beg you to read this letter!" "i assure your highness that there is nothing pressing." "once more, albert, read this letter!" "but--" "i entreat you--i wish it." "since your royal highness requires it," said the marquis, taking the letter from the salver. "certainly. i require you to treat me as a friend." then turning toward the marchioness, while m. d'harville broke the seal of this fatal letter, the contents of which rudolph could not have imagined, he added, smiling, "what a triumph for you, madame, to cause this will, so stern, always to yield!" d'harville drew near one of the candelabra on the chimney-piece, and opened the letter. rudolph and clemence conversed together, while d'harville twice read the letter. his countenance remained composed; a nervous trembling, almost imperceptible, agitated his hands alone; after a moment's hesitation, he put the note into his waistcoat pocket. "at the risk of passing for a savage," said he to rudolph, smiling, "i shall ask permission to go and answer this letter--more important than i thought at first." "shall i not see you again to-night?" "i do not think that i can have that honor; i hope your royal highness will excuse me." "what a man!" said rudolph gayly. "will you not try to retain him, madame!" "i dare not attempt what your highness has attempted in vain." "seriously, my dear albert, try to return to us as soon as your letter is written; if not, promise to grant me an interview some morning. i have a thousand things to say to you." "your royal highness overwhelms me," said the marquis, bowing profoundly as he retired. "your husband is preoccupied," said rudolph to the marchioness, "his smile appeared constrained." "when your royal highness arrived d'harville was profoundly affected; he had great trouble to conceal it." "i have arrived, perhaps, at an inopportune moment." "no, you have even spared me the conclusion of a painful conversation." "how is that?" "i have told d'harville the new line of conduct that i was resolved to follow, promising him support and consolation." "how happy he should be!" "at first he was as much so as myself; for his tears and joy produced an emotion to which i had, as yet, been a stranger. formerly i thought i revenged myself by addressing him a reproach, a sarcasm. sad revenge! my sorrow afterward has only been more bitter. while just now--what a difference! i asked my husband if he were going out: he answered me sadly, that he should pass the evening alone, as was usually the case. when i offered to remain with him--oh! if you could have seen his astonishment! how his expression, always sad, became at once radiant. ah! you were right--nothing is more pleasing than to contrive such surprises of happiness!" "but how did these proofs of goodness on your part lead to this painful conversation of which you have spoken?" "alas!" said clemence, blushing, "to these hopes succeeded hopes more tender, which i was very guarded not to excite, because it will always be impossible for me to realize them." "i comprehend; he loves you tenderly." "as much as i was at first touched with his gratitude, so much was i alarmed at his protestations of love. i could not conceal my alarm. i caused him a sad blow in manifesting thus my invincible repugnance to his love, i regret it. but, at least, d'harville is now forever convinced that he has only to expect from me the most devoted friendship." "i pity him, without being able to blame you; there are susceptibilities, thus to speak, which are sacred. poor albert, so good, so kind! if you knew how much i have been afflicted, for a long time past, with his sadness and dejection, although ignorant of the cause. let us leave all to time, to reason. by degrees he will recognize the value of the affection you offer him, and he will be resigned to it, as he was resigned before having the touching consolations which you offer him." "and which shall never be wanting, i swear to your highness." "now let us think of the other unfortunates. i have promised you a good work, having all the charm of a romance in action. i come to fulfill my engagement." "already! what happiness!" "ah! it was a kind of happy inspiration that induced me to take that poor room in the house of the rue du temple, of which i have spoken to you. you cannot imagine all that i find curious and interesting! in the first place, your _proteges_ of the garret enjoy the comforts your presence had promised them; they have, however, yet to undergo some sad trials; but i do not wish to make you sad. some day you shall know how many horrible calamities may overwhelm one single family." "what must be their gratitude toward you!" "it is your name they bless." "your highness has succored them in my name?" "to render the charity sweeter to them. besides, i have only realized your promises." "oh! i will go and undeceive them: tell them it is to you they owe--" "do not do that! you know i have a room in that house: be guarded against any new cowardly acts of your enemies, or of mine; and since the morels are now out of the reach of want, think of others. let us think of our intrigue. it concerns a poor mother and her daughter, who, formerly in affluence, are at this time, in consequence of an infamous spoliation, reduced to the most frightful misery." "unfortunate women! and where do they live, your highness?" "i do not know." "but how did you find out their situation?" "yesterday i went to the temple. your ladyship does not know what the temple is?" "no, my lord." "it is a bazaar very amusing to see. i went there to make some purchases with my neighbor of the fourth floor." "your neighbor?" "have i not my room in the rue du temple?" "i forgot." "this neighbor is a charming little grisette; she calls herself rigolette; this miss dimpleton is always laughing, and never had a lover." "what virtue for a grisette!" "it is not exactly from virtue that she is virtuous, but because, she says, she has no time to be in love; for she must work from twelve to fifteen hours a-day to earn twenty-five sous, on which she lives." "she can live on so small an amount?" "rather; and she has even articles of luxury; two birds who eat more than she does; her little room is as neat as possible, and her dress really quite coquettish." "live on twenty-five sous a-day! she is a prodigy." "a real prodigy of order, labor, economy, and practical philosophy, i assure you; hence, i recommend her to you. she is, she says, a very skillful seamstress. at all events, you would not be ashamed to wear the clothes she may make." "to-morrow i will send her some work. poor girl! to live on so small a sum, and, so to speak, be unknown to us, who are rich, whose smallest caprices cost a hundred times that amount." "i am rejoiced that you have determined to interest yourself in my little _protegee_. i will now explain our new adventure. i had gone to the temple with rigolette, to purchase some furniture designed for the poor people in the garret, when, upon accidentally examining an old secretary which was for sale, i found the draft of a letter written by a female to some individual, in which she complained that herself and daughter were reduced to the greatest misery, on account of the dishonesty of a lawyer. the secretary was part of a lot of furniture, which a woman of middle age had been compelled by her penury to sell; and i was told by the dealer that the woman and her daughter seemed to belong to the upper classes of society, and to bear their reverses with great fortitude and pride." "and you do not know their abode?" "unfortunately, no. but i have given orders to m. de graun to endeavor to discover it, even if he is obliged to apply to the police. it is possible that, stripped of every thing, the mother and daughter have sought refuge in some miserably furnished lodgings. if it should be so, we have some hope, for the landlords report every evening the strangers who arrive in the course of the day." "what a singular concurrence of circumstances!" said madame d'harville, with astonishment. "this is not all. in a corner of this letter, found in the old secretary were these words, '_write to madame de lucenay_.'" "what good fortune! perhaps we can find out something from the duchess," cried madame d'harville, with vivacity; then she continued, with a sigh, "but i am ignorant of the name of this woman--how designate her to madame de lucenay?" "you must ask if she does not know a widow, still young, of distinguished appearance, whose daughter, aged sixteen or seventeen, is named claire." "i remember the name. the name of my own daughter! it seems to me a motive the more to interest me in their misfortunes." "i forgot to tell you that the brother of this widow committed suicide some months ago." "if madame de lucenay knows this family," said madame d'harville, "such information will suffice to bring them to her mind. how desirous i am of going to see her. i will write her a note to-night, so that i shall be sure to find her to-morrow morning. who can these women be? from what you know of them, they appear to belong to the upper classes of society. and to find themselves reduced to such distress! ah! for them poverty must be doubly frightful!" "by the robbery of a notary, a miserable scoundrel, of whom i already know many other misdeeds--jacques ferrand." "my husband's notary!" cried clemence; "the notary of my step-mother! but you are deceived, my lord; he is looked upon as one of the most honorable men in the world." "i have proofs to the contrary. but do not, i pray you, say a word on this subject to any one; he is as crafty as he is criminal, and to unmask him, i have need that he shall not suspect, or rather, that he shall go on with impunity a short time longer. yes; it is he who has despoiled these unfortunates, by denying a deposit which, from all appearances, had been placed in his hands by the brother of this widow." "and this sum?" "was their sole resource! oh! what a crime--what a crime!" cried rudolph; "a crime that nothing can excuse--neither want nor passion. often does hunger cause robbery, vengeance, murder. but this notary was already rich; and, clothed by society with a character almost holy, which imposes, ay, forces confidence, this man is induced to crime by a cold and implacable cupidity. the assassin only kills you once, and quickly, with his knife; he kills you slowly, by all the horrors of despair and misery into which he plunges you. for a man like this ferrand, no patrimony of the orphan or savings of the poor are sacred! you confide to him gold; this gold tempts him; he makes you a beggar. by the force of privations and toil, you have assured to yourself bread, and an asylum for your old age; _the will_ of this man tears from your old age this bread and shelter. this is not all. see the fearful effects of these infamous spoliations; this widow of whom we speak may die of sorrow and distress; her daughter, young and handsome, without support, without resources, accustomed to a competency, unfit, from her education, to gain a living, soon finds herself between starvation and dishonor! she is lost! by this robbery, jacques ferrand is the cause of the death of the mother, the ruin of the child! he has killed the body of one, he has killed the soul of the other; and this, once more i say it, not at once, like other homicides, but with cruelty, and slowly." [illustration: between dishonor and hunger] clemence had never heard rudolph speak with so much bitterness and indignation; she listened in silence, struck by these words of eloquence, doubtless very sad, but which discovered a vigorous hatred of evil. "pardon me, madame," said rudolph, after a moment's pause; "i cannot restrain my indignation in thinking of the cruel fate which your future _protegees_ may have realized. ah! believe me, the consequences of ruin and poverty are very seldom exaggerated." "oh! on the contrary, i thank your highness for having, by these terrible words, still more augmented, if that is possible, the sincere commiseration i feel for these unfortunates. alas! it is above all for her daughter she must suffer! oh! it is frightful. but we will save them--we will assure their future. i am rich, but not as much so as i could wish, now that i see a new use for money; but, if it is necessary, i will speak to d'harville; i will make him so happy that he cannot refuse any of my new caprices. our _protegees_ are proud, your highness says; i like them better for it: pride in misfortune always proves an elevated mind. i will find the means to save them, without their knowing that they owe the succor they receive to a benefactor. it will be difficult; so much the better! oh! i have already a project; you shall see, your highness, you shall see that i am not wanting in address and cunning." "i already foresee the most machiavelian combinations," said rudolph, smiling. "but we must first discover them; how i wish it was to-morrow! on having madame de lucenay i will go to their old lodgings, i will question their neighbors; i will see for myself. i will ask information from everybody. i will compromise myself, if it is necessary! i shall be so proud to obtain by myself, and by myself alone, the result i desire: oh! i will succeed; this adventure is so touching. poor women: it seems to me i feel more interest in them when i think of my child." rudolph, touched with this charitable eagerness, smiled sadly on seeing this lady, so handsome, so lovely, trying to forget in noble occupations the domestic troubles which afflicted her; the eyes of clemence sparkled with vivacity, her cheeks were slightly suffused; the animation of her gesture, of her speech, gave new attraction to her ravishing countenance. she perceived that rudolph was contemplating her in silence. she blushed, cast down her eyes; then, raising them in charming confusion, she said, "you laugh at my enthusiasm? it is because i am impatient to taste those holy joys which are about to reanimate my existence, until now sad and useless. such, without doubt, was not the life i dreamed of; there is a sentiment, a happiness, more lively still that i can never know; although still very young, i must renounce it!" added clemence, suppressing a sigh. "but thanks to you, my deliverer, always thanks to you, i have created for myself other interests; charity shall replace love. i am already indebted to your advice for such touching emotions! your words, your highness, have so much influence! the more i meditate, the more i reflect on your ideas, the more i find them just, great, and fruitful. oh! how much goodness your mind discloses! from what source have you, then, drawn these feelings of tender commiseration?" "i have suffered much, i still suffer! this is the reason i know the cause of many sorrows." "your highness unhappy!" "yes, for one would say that, to prepare me to solace all kinds of sorrow, fate has willed i should undergo them all. a lover, it has struck me through the first woman that i loved with all the blind confidence of youth; a husband, through my wife; a son, it has struck me through my father; a father, through my child!" "i thought that the grand duchess did not leave you any child?" "she did not; but before my marriage with her i had a daughter, who died very young. well! strange as it may appear to you, the loss of this child, whom i had hardly seen, is the sorrow of my life. the older i become, the more profound my regrets! each year redoubles the bitterness. it seems to increase as her years would have increased. now she would have been seventeen!" "and does her mother still live?" asked clemence. "oh! do not speak of her!" cried rudolph. "her mother is an unworthy creature, a being bronzed by egotism and ambition. sometimes i ask myself if it were not better my child should be dead, than to have remained in the hands of her mother." clemence experienced a kind of satisfaction in hearing rudolph express himself thus. "oh! i conceive," cried she, "how you doubly regret your daughter!" "i should have loved her so well! and, besides, it seems to me that among us princes there is always in our love for a son a kind of interest of race and name; but a daughter is loved for herself alone. and when one has seen, alas! humanity under the most sinister aspects, what delight to contemplate a pure and lovely being! to inhale her virgin purity, to watch over her with tender care! a mother the most fond and most proud of her daughter cannot experience this feeling; she is herself too similar to taste these ineffable delights; she will appreciate much more the manly qualities of a bold and noble boy. for, do you not find that that which renders, perhaps, still more touching the love of a mother for her son, a father for his daughter, is, that there is always in these affections a feeble being who has need of protection. the son protects the mother, the father protects the daughter." "oh, it is true." "but, alas! why understand the ineffable joys, when one can never experience them?" said rudolph, dejectedly. "but pardon me, madame; my regrets and my souvenirs have, in spite of myself, carried me away; you will excuse me?" "ah! believe i partake of your sorrows. have i not the right? have you not partaken of mine? unfortunately, the consolations that i can offer you are in vain." "no, no; the expression of your interest is sweet and salutary to me. it is weakness, but i cannot hear a young girl spoken of without thinking of her whom i have lost." "these thoughts are so natural! hold, my lord; since i have seen you, i have accompanied, in visits to the prisons, a lady of my acquaintance, who is a patroness of the work of the young women confined at saint lazare; this house contains many culprits. if i were not a mother, i should have judged them, doubtless, with still more severity, while i now feel for them pity; much softened in thinking that, perhaps, they had not been lost, except for the state of poverty and neglect they had been in from their infancy. i do not know why, but after these thoughts it seemed to me i loved my child the more." "come, courage," said rudolph, with a melancholy smile: "this conversation leaves me quite reassured as to you. a salutary path is open to you; in following it, you will pass through, without stumbling, these years of trial, so dangerous for women, above all for a woman gifted as you are; your reward shall be great; you will still have to struggle and suffer-for you are very young--but you will renew your strength in thinking of the good you have done--of that which you still do." madame d'harville burst into tears. "at least," said she, "your assistance, your counsels, will never fail me?" "far or near, i shall always take the deepest interest in all that concerns you; always, as much as depends upon me, i will contribute to your happiness: to the man's to whom i have vowed the most constant friendship." "oh! thank your highness for this promise," said clemence, drying her tears; "without your generous support, my strength would abandon me; but, believe me, i swear it here, i will constantly accomplish my duty." on these words, a small door, concealed behind the tapestry, was opened roughly. clemence uttered a cry. rudolph shuddered. d'harville appeared pale and profoundly affected: his eyes were wet with tears. the first astonishment over, the marquis said to rudolph, giving him sarah's letter, "your highness, here is the infamous letter which i received just now before you. i pray you to burn it after you have read it." clemence looked at her husband with alarm. "oh, this is infamous!" cried rudolph, indignantly. "yet there is something still more infamous than this anonymous scurrility--it is my own conduct." "what do you mean to say?" "a little while ago, instead of showing you this letter frankly, boldly, i concealed it from you; i pretended to be calm, while i had jealousy, anger, and despair in my heart; this is not all. do you know what i did, my lord? i shamefully went and concealed myself behind this door to listen to you--to spy--yes, i have been wretch enough to doubt your honor. oh! the author of this letter knows to whom he addresses it; he knows how weak my head is. well, my lord, say, after hearing what i have just heard--for i have not lost a word of your conversation, and know why you go to the rue du temple--ought i not, on my knees, ask for pardon and pity? and i do it, my lord. i do it, clemence; i have no more hope but in your generosity." "my dear albert, what have i to pardon?" said rudolph, extending both hands with the most touching cordiality. "_now_ you know our secrets, i am delighted. i can preach to you at my leisure. i am your confidant by compulsion, and, what is still better, you are the confidant of madeline d'harville; that is to say, you now know all you have to expect from that noble heart." "and, clemence, will you pardon me also?" "yes: on condition that you will assist me in assuring your own happiness," and she extended her hand to her husband, who pressed it with emotion. "my dear marquis," cried rudolph, "our enemies are unlucky; thanks to them, we are only the more intimate from the past. you never have more justly appreciated madame d'harville: she has never been more devoted to you; acknowledge that we are well avenged of the envious and wicked. that will answer while waiting for something better, for i divine from whence this came, and i am not accustomed to suffer patiently the injuries done to my friends. but this regards me. adieu, madame; here is our _intrigue_ discovered; you will no longer be alone in assisting your _protegees_: be assured we will get up some new mysterious enterprise, which the marquis must be very cunning to discover." after having accompanied the prince to his carriage, to thank him again, the marquis retired to his own apartments without seeing clemence again. chapter xi. reflections. it would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and contrary sentiments which agitated d'harville when he found himself alone. he acknowleged with joy the falsity of the accusation against rudolph and clemence, but he was also convinced that he must renounce the hope of being loved by her. the more in her conversation with rudolph clemence had shown herself courageous and resolute to do good, the more he bitterly reproached himself for having, with guilty egotism, linked this unhappy lady to his fate. far from being consoled from the conversation he had just heard, he fell into a state of sadness, of inexpressible despondency. there is in a life of opulence without employment this terrible disadvantage: nothing turns its attention, nothing protects the mind from brooding on its sorrows, on itself. never being compelled to occupy itself with the necessities of the future, or the labors of each day, it remains entirely a prey to great mental afflictions. being able to possess all that gold can procure, it desires or regrets violently that which gold alone cannot procure. the grief of d'harville was desperate; for, after all, he desired nothing but what was just and lawful. to transports of vain anger succeeded a feeling of gloomy dejection. "oh!" cried he, at once softened and cast down, "it is my fault, my fault! poor unhappy woman, i have deceived her, unworthily deceived her! she can, she ought to hate me; and yet, just now, again she evinced the most touching interest for me; but, instead of contenting myself with that, my foolish passions have carried me away. i became tender; i have spoken to her of my love, and hardly had my lips touched her hand, than she trembled with affright. if i could still have had any doubt of the invincible repugnance with which i inspire her, what she has just now said to the prince leaves me no illusion. oh! it is frightful--frightful! "and by what right did she confide to him this hideous secret? it is an unworthy betrayal of confidence? by what right? alas! by the same right as prisoners have to complain of their executioner. poor girl! so young and lovely, all that she could find to say that was cruel against the horrible fate to which i have doomed her, is that such was not the lot she had dreamed of, and that she was very young to renounce love! i know clemence; the word she has given me, which she has given to the prince, she will henceforth keep; she will be for me the most affectionate sister. well! my position is not worthy of envy! to the cold and constrained feeling which existed between us, are going to succeed the most affectionate and the kindest relations, while she might have continued to treat me with a frozen contempt, without my daring to complain. another torture! how i have suffered, my god! when i thought her guilty!--what terrible agony! but no, this fear is vain; clemence has sworn not to fail in her duties; she will keep her promises; but at what a price! just now, when she returned to me with her affectionate words, how her sad, soft, melancholy smile caused me pain! how much this return to her executioner must have cost her! poor woman, how handsome she looked! for the first time i felt acute remorse, for until then her haughty coldness was her revenge. oh, unfortunate man, unfortunate man that i am!" after a long sleepless night of bitter reflections, the agitation of d'harville ceased as by enchantment. he awaited the day with impatience. as soon as it was morning, he rang for his valet, old joseph. on entering the room, the latter heard his master, to his great astonishment, humming a hunting-song, a sign, as rare as it was sure, of d'harville's good-humor. "ah!" said the faithful servant, quite softened, "what a good voice your lordship has! what a shame you do not sing oftener!" "really, joseph, have i a good voice?" said d'harville, laughing. "my lord might have a voice as hoarse as an owl or a rattle, i should still think he had a good voice." "hold your tongue, flatterer!" "when your lordship sings, it is a sign you are contented; and then your voice appears to me the most charming music in the world." "in that case, joseph, learn to open your long ears." "what do you say?" "you can enjoy this charming music every day." "you will be happy every day, my lord?" cried joseph, clasping his hands with astonished delight. "every day, my old joseph! happy every day. yes, no more sorrow--no more sadness. i can tell this to you, who are sole and discreet confidant of all my sorrows! i am overjoyed with happiness! my wife is an angel of goodness! she has asked pardon for her past coldness, attributing it to--can you guess?--to jealousy!" "to jealousy?" "yes; absurd suspicions, caused by anonymous letters." "what indignity!" "you comprehend? women have so much self-love! it needed nothing more to separate us; but, happily, last night we had an explanation. i undeceived her; to tell you of her joy would be impossible; for she loves me! oh, how she loves me! thus, this cruel separation has ceased; judge of my joy!" "can it be true?" cried joseph, with tears in his eyes. "then, my lord, you are forever happy, since the love of her ladyship was alone wanting, as you have told me." "and to whom should i have told it, my poor old joseph? do you not possess a still more sorrowful secret? but let us not talk of sorrow; the day is too happy. you see, perhaps, i have wept! it is thus, you see, happiness overpowers me! i so little expected it! how weak i am!" "yes, yes, my lord can well weep for joy, who has wept so much for sorrow. hold! am i not acting as you are? brave tears! i would not part with them for ten years of my life. i have only one fear: it is that i shall hardly be able to keep from throwing myself at my lady's feet the first time i see her." "old fool! you are as unreasonable as your master. now i have a fear that this will not last. i am too happy! what is wanting?" "nothing, my lord, absolutely nothing." "it is on this account i am mistrustful of happiness so perfect--so complete!" "alas! if it was not for--but no, i dare not." "i understand you: well, believe your fears are vain; the change that my happiness causes me is so great, so profound, that i am almost sure of being saved." "how is that?" "my physician has told me a hundred times, that often a violent mental shock sufficed to induce or cure my malady. why should not emotions of happiness produce the same effect?" "if you believe this, my lord, it will be so--it is so--you are cured! why this is, indeed, a blessed day! ah! as you say, her ladyship is a good angel descended from heaven; and i begin to be almost alarmed myself; it is, perhaps, too much felicity for one day; but i must think--if to reassure you it only needs a small sorrow--i have it!" "how?" "one of your friends has received, very fortunately and seasonably, as it happens, a sword cut--not at all serious, it is true; but no matter, it is enough to make you a little sorry, that there may be, as you desire it, a little trouble on this happy day. it is true, that in regard to that, it had been better if the thrust had been more dangerous; but we must be contented as it is." "will you be quiet? of whom do you speak?" "of his grace the duke of lucenay. he is wounded! a scratch on the arm. he came yesterday to see you, and he said he would come this morning and ask for a cup of tea." "poor lucenay! why did you not tell me?" "last night i was not able to see my lord." after a moment's thought, d'harville replied, "you are right; this light sorrow will doubtless satisfy jealous destiny. but an idea has just struck me; i have a mind to have this morning a bachelor breakfast, all friends of m. de lucenay, to congratulate him on the happy result of his duel: he will be enchanted." "joy forever! make up lost time. how many covers, so that i can give the orders?" "six, in the little winter breakfast parlor." "and the invitations?" "i will go and write them. a man from the stables can take them round on horseback. it is early; they will all be found at home. ring." d'harville entered his cabinet, and wrote the following notes, without any other address than the name of the invited:-- "my dear * * *--this is a circular; an impromptu affair is in agitation. lucenay is to come and breakfast with me this morning; he counts only on a _tete-a-tete_; cause him a very agreeable surprise by joining me, and a few other of his friends, whom i have also advised. "at noon precisely. "a. d'harville." "let some one mount a horse immediately," said d'harville, to a servant who answered the bell, "and deliver these letters." then, turning to joseph, he directed him to address them as follows: "m. le vicomte de saint remy. lucenay cannot do without him," said d'harville to himself. "m. de monville--one of his traveling companions. lord douglas--his faithful partner at whist. baron de sezannes--the friend of his youth. have you written?" "yes, my lord." "send these letters without losing a moment," said d'harville. "ah, philippe! ask m. doublet to come to me." the servant retired. "well! what is the matter?" asked d'harville of joseph, who looked at him with amazement. "i cannot get over it, sir! i never saw you so gay; and, besides, you, who are commonly so pale, have a fine color--your eyes sparkle." "happiness! old joseph, happiness! oh! now you must assist me in a scheme. you must go and find out from juliette who has charge of her ladyship's diamonds." "yes, it is mademoiselle juliette, my lord, who takes care of them; i helped her, not a week ago, to clean them." "you go and ask her the name and address of the jeweler of her mistress; but she must not say a word on the subject to my lady." "ah! i understand! a surprise." "go quickly. here is m. doublet. my dear m. doublet, i am going to frighten you," said he, laughing. "i am going to make you utter cries of distress." "me! my lord?" "you!" "i will do all in my power to satisfy your lordship." "i am going to spend a great deal of money, m. doublet--an enormous amount of money." "what of that, my lord? we are able to do it--well able to do it." "for a long time i've been possessed with the notion of building. i have it in contemplation to add a gallery on the garden to the right wing of the hotel. after a long hesitation, i have quite decided. you must tell my architect to-day so that he can come and talk over the plans. well, m. doublet, you don't groan over this expense?" "i can assure your lordship that i do not groan." "this gallery will be destined for _fetes_; i wish it to be built, as it were, by enchantment; now, enchantments being very dear, you must sell fifteen or twenty thousand livres of stock, to be ready to furnish the funds, for i wish the work commenced as soon as possible." joseph entered. "here is the address of the jeweler, my lord; his name is baudoin." "my dear m. doublet, you will go, i beg you, to this jeweler, and tell him to bring here, in an hour, a diamond necklace worth about two thousand louis. women can never have too many jewels, now that dresses are trimmed with them. you will arrange with the jeweler for the payment." "yes, my lord. it is on account of the surprise that i do not groan this time. diamonds are like buildings, the value remains; and, besides, this surprise to the marchioness! it is as i had the honor to say the other day--there is not in the world a happier man than your lordship." "good m. doublet!" said d'harville, smiling; "his felicitations are always so inconceivably _apropos_" "it is their sole merit, my lord; and they have, perhaps, this merit because they come from the bottom of the heart. i go to the jeweler," said doublet, retiring. as soon as he was gone, d'harville paced the floor, his arms folded, his eyes fixed and meditative. suddenly his countenance changed; it no longer expressed the content of which the attendant and the old servant had just been the dupe, but a calm, cold, and mournful resolution. after having walked some time, he seated himself, as if overcome by the weight of his troubles, with his face buried in his hands. then he suddenly arose, wiped away a tear which moistened his burning eyelid, and said, with an effort, "come, courage." he wrote letters to several persons about insignificant objects, but in the letters he appointed or put off different meetings several days. this correspondence finished, joseph came in; he was so gay that he so far forgot himself as to sing in his turn. "joseph, you have a very fine voice," said his master smiling. "so much the worse, my lord, for i never knew it; something sings so loudly within that it must be heard without." "you will put these letters in the post-office." "yes, my lord; but where will you receive these gentlemen?" "here in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and the odor of the tobacco will not reach her lady-ship." at this moment the noise of a carriage was heard in the courtyard. "it is her ladyship going out; she ordered the horses this morning at an early hour," said joseph. "run and beg her to come here before she goes out." "yes, my lord." hardly had the domestic gone, than d'harville approached a glass, and examined himself minutely. "well, well," said he in a gloomy tone; "that's right--the cheeks flushed, the eye sparkling--joy or fear--no matter--as long as they are deceived. let us see now--a smile on the lips. there are so many kinds of smiles. but who can distinguish the false from the real? who can penetrate under this lying mask, to say, this smile conceals a black despair? no one, happily, no one! stay, yes, love could never be mistaken; no, its instinct would enlighten it. but i hear my wife--my wife! come to your post, inauspicious buffoon." "good-day, albert," said madame d'harville, with a sweet smile, giving him her hand. "but what is the matter, my friend? you appear so happy and gay!" "it is, that at the moment you came in, dear little sister, i was thinking of you. besides, i was under the influence of an excellent resolution." "that does not surprise me." "what took place yesterday--your admirable generity, the noble conduct of the prince--gave me much to think about, and i am a convert to your ideas. you would not have excused me last night if i had too easily renounced your love, i am sure, clemence." "what language, what a happy change!" cried madame d'harville. "oh! i was very sure that in addressing myself to your heart, to your reason, you would comprehend me. now i have no longer any doubt for the future." "nor i, clemence, i assure you. yes, since the resolution i have taken last night, the future, which seemed to me dark and gloomy, has become singularly cleared up--simplified." "nothing is more natural, my friend; now we move toward one object, leaning fraternally on each other: at the end of our career we will find ourselves as we are to-day. in fine, i desire that you shall be happy, and this shall be so, for i have placed it there," said clemence, putting her finger on his forehead, ere she resumed, with a charming expression, lowering her hand to his heart: "no, i am mistaken; it is here that this good thought will incessantly watch for you, and for me also; and you shall see what is the obstinacy of a devoted heart." "dear clemence," answered d'harville, with constrained emotion; then, after a pause, he added gayly, "i begged you to come here before your departure to inform you that i could not take tea with you this morning. i have a number of persons to breakfast with me; it is a kind of impromptu assemblage to congratulate m. de lucenay on the happy issue of his duel." "what a coincidence! m. de lucenay comes to breakfast with you, while i go, perhaps very indiscreetly, to invite myself to do the same with madame de lucenay; for i have much to say to her about my unknown _protegees_. from there i intend to go to the prison of saint lazare, with madame de blinval, for you do not know all my ambition; at this moment i am intriguing to be admitted into the discharged prisoners' aid society." "truly, you are insatiable," said the marquis; "thus," added he, restraining with great difficulty his emotion, "thus i shall see you no more--to-day!" he hastened to add. "are you vexed that i go out this morning so early?" asked madame d'harville, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. "if you ask it, i will put off my visit to madame de lucenay." the marquis was on the point of betraying himself; but said, in the most affectionate manner, "yes, my dear, i am as much vexed to see you go out as i shall be impatient to see you return; these are defects i shall never correct myself of." "and you will do well, dear; for i should be very angry." a bell announcing a visit resounded throughout the hotel. "here are, doubtless, some of your guests," said madame d'harville; "i leave you--by the way, what are you going to do to-night? if you have not disposed of your evening, i wish you would accompany me to the opera; perhaps, now, music will please you more!" "i place myself under your orders with the greatest pleasure." "are you going out soon? shall i see you again before dinner?" "i am not going out. you will find me here." "then, when i return, i will come and see if your bachelor breakfast has been amusing." "adieu, clemence." "by, 'by! i leave you the field clear; i wish you much pleasure. be very gay!" and after having cordially pressed the hand of her husband, clemence went out by one door a moment before m. de lucenay entered by another. "she wishes me much amusement--she tells me to be gay--she went away tranquilly--smiling! this does honor to my dissimulation. by jove! i did not think myself so good an actor. but here is lucenay." the duke de lucenay entered the room; his wound had been so slight that he did not carry his arm in a sling. he was one of those men whose countenances are always cheerful and contemptuous, movements always restless, and mania to make a bustle insurmountable. yet, notwithstanding his caprices, his pleasantries in very bad taste, and his enormous nose, he was not a vulgar man, thanks to a kind of natural dignity and courageous impertinence which never abandoned him. "how indifferent you must suppose me to be as regards anything concerning you, my dear henry!" said d'harville, extending his hand to lucenay; "but it was only this morning i heard of your disagreeable adventure." "disagreeable! come now, marquis! i got the worth of my money, as they say. i never laughed so much in my life! m. robert appeared so solemnly determined not to pass for having a cold. you don't know what was the cause of the duel? the other night at the embassy, i asked him, before your wife and the countess m'gregor, how he got on with his cough; between us, he had not this inconvenience. but never mind. you understand--to say that before handsome women is annoying." "what folly! i recognize you there. but who is this m. robert?" "i' faith! i don't know anything about him; he is a gentleman whom i met at the watering-places; he passed before us in the winter-garden at the embassy; i called him to play off this joke; he answered the second day after by giving me, very gallantly, a nice little thrust with his sword. but don't let us talk of this nonsense. i come to beg a cup of tea." saying this, lucenay threw himself at full length on the sofa; after which, introducing the end of his cane between the wall and the frame of a picture placed over his head, he commenced moving it backward and forward. "i expected you, my dear henry, and i have arranged a little surprise for you." "oh, what is it?" cried lucenay, pushing the picture into a very ticklish position. "you'll end by pulling that picture on your head." "that's true, by jove! you have the eye of an eagle. but your surprise, what is it?" "i have sent for some friends to breakfast with us." "ah, good! marquis, bravo! bravissimo! archibravissimo!" screamed lucenay, striking heavy blows on the sofa cushions. "and whom shall we have?" "saint remy." "no; he has been in the country for some days." "what the devil can he manage to do in the country in winter! are you sure he is not in paris?" "very sure; i wrote him to be my second; he was absent; i fell back on lord douglas and sezannes." "that is fortunate; they breakfast with us." "bravo! bravo!" cried lucenay, anew. then he turned and twisted himself on the sofa, accompanying his loud cries with a series of somersaults that would have astonished a rope-dancer. the acrobatic evolutions were interrupted by the arrival of saint remy. "i have no need to ask if lucenay is here," said the viscount, gayly. "he can be heard below." "how! is it you? beautiful sylvan! countryman! wolf's cub!" cried the duke, much surprised; "i thought you were in the country." "i came back, yesterday; i received the invitation just now, and here i am, quite delighted at this surprise," and saint remy gave his hand to lucenay, and then to the marquis. "i take this very kind in you, my dear saint remy. is it not natural that the friends of lucenay should rejoice at the happy issue of this duel, which, after all, might have had a very grievous result?" "but," resumed the duke obstinately, "what have you been doing in the country in midwinter, saint remy? that beats me." "how curious he is!" said the viscount, addressing d'harville. "i wish to wean myself from paris, since i must so soon quit it." "ah! yes, this beautiful whim to attach yourself to the legation of france at gerolstein. none of your nonsense and stuff about diplomacy; you will never go there. my wife says so, and everybody repeats it." "i assure you that madame de lucenay is mistaken, like every one else." "she told you before me that it was a folly!" "i have committed so many in my lifetime!" "elegant and charming follies, very well, so as to ruin yourself, as they say, by your sardanapalus's magnificence--i admit that; but to go and bury yourself in such a hole of a court as gerolstein! come, now, this is folly, and you are too sensible to do a stupid thing." "take care, my dear lucenay; in abusing this german court you will have a quarrel with d'harville, the intimate friend of the grand duke, who, besides, received me most kindly the other night at the embassade of----where i was presented to him." "really! my dear henry," said d'harville, "if you knew the grand duke as i know him, you would comprehend that saint remy could have no repugnance to go and pass some time at gerolstein," "i believe you, marquis, although, your grand duke is said to be proudly original; but that doesn't prevent that a beau like saint remy, the finest flower among blossoms, cannot live, excepting at paris; his value is only known at paris." the other guests had just arrived, when joseph entered, and said a few words in a low tone to his master. "gentlemen, will you allow me," said the marquis; "it is the jeweler who brings me some diamonds to choose for my wife--a surprise. you know, lucenay, you and i being husbands of the old schools." "oh! if you talk of a surprise," cried the duke, "my wife gave me one yesterday; a famous one, i tell you." "some splendid present?" "she asked me for a hundred thousand francs." "and as you are a magnifico, you--" "lent them! they will be mortgaged on her arnonville farm--short accounts make long friends. but never mind; to lend in two hours one hundred thousand francs to some one who wants them, is generous and rare. is it not, spendthrift? you who are an expert at loans," said the duke de lucenay, laughing, without dreaming of the bearing of his speech. notwithstanding his audacity, the viscount at first slightly blushed, but he said with effrontery, "one hundred thousand francs! enormous. how can a woman ever have need of such an amount. with men that's another story." "i don't know what she wanted with the money. it is all the same to me. some bills, probably some urgent creditors; that's her look-out. and, besides, you well know, my dear saint remy, that in lending her my money, it would have been in the worst taste in the world to ask what she wanted it for." "it is, however, a very excusable curiosity in those who lend, to wish to know what the borrower wants to do with the money," said the viscount, laughing. "saint remy," said d'harville, "you, who have such excellent taste, must aid me in choosing the set i intend for my wife; your approbation will sanction my choice--be it law." the jeweler entered, carrying several caskets in a large leather bag. "ah! here is m. baudoin!" said lucenay. "at your grace's service." "i am sure that it is you who ruin my wife with your infernal and dazzling temptations," said lucenay. "her grace has only had her diamonds reset this winter," said the jeweler, slightly embarrassed. "i have this moment left them with her grace, on my way here." saint remy knew that madame de lucenay, to assist him, had changed her diamonds for false ones; this conversation was very disagreeable to him, but he said boldly, "how curious these husbands are! do not answer, m. baudoin." "curious! goodness, no," answered the duke; "my wife pays; she is richer than i am." during this conversation, baudoin had displayed on a bureau several admirable necklaces of rubies and diamonds. "how splendid! how divinely the stones are cut!" said lord douglas. "alas! my lord," answered the jeweler, "i employed in this work one of the best artisans in paris; unfortunately, he has gone mad, and i shall never find his equal. my broker tells me that it is probably misery which has turned his brain, poor man." "misery! you confide diamonds to a man in poverty!" "certainly, my lord, and i have never known an instance of an artisan concealing or secreting anything confided to him, however poor he might be." "how much for this necklace?" asked d'harville. "your lordship will remark that the stones are of splendid cutting, and the purest water, almost all of the same size." "here are some wordy precautions most menacing for your purse," said saint remy, laughing; "expect now, d'harville, some exorbitant price." "come, m. baudoin, your lowest price?" said d'harville. "i do not wish to make your lordship haggle, so i say the lowest is forty-two thousand francs." "gentlemen!" cried lucenay, "let us admire d'harville in silence. to arrange a surprise for his wife for forty-two thousand francs! the devil! don't go and noise that abroad; it will be a detestable example." "laugh as much as you please, gentlemen," said the marquis, gayly. "i am in love with my wife, i do not conceal it; i boast of it!" "that is easily seen," said saint remy; "such a present speaks more than all the protestations in the world." "i take this necklace, then," said d'harville, "if you approve of the black enamel setting, saint remy." "it sets off to advantage the brilliancy of the stones; they are beautifully arranged." "i decide, then, for this necklace," said d'harville. "you will have to settle with m. doublet, my steward, baudoin." "m. doublet has advised me, my lord," said the jeweler, and he went out, after having put in his sack, without counting them, the different sets of jewels which he had brought, and which saint remy had for a long time handled and examined during this conversation. d'harville, in giving this necklace to joseph, who awaited his orders, whispered to him, "mlle. juliette must put these diamonds quietly with her lady's, without her suspecting it, so that the surprise will be complete." at this moment the butler announced that breakfast was served; the guests passed into the breakfast-room and seated themselves at the table. "do you know, my dear d'harville," said the duke, "that this house is one of the most elegant and best arranged in paris?" "it is commodious enough, but it wants space; my project is to add a gallery on the garden. madame d'harville desires to give some grand balls, and our three saloons are not large enough; besides, i find nothing more inconvenient than the encroachments made by a fete on the apartments which one habitually occupies, and from which, for the time, you are exiled." "i am of your opinion," said saint remy; "nothing is in worse taste, more in the 'city' fashion, than these forced removals by authority of a ball or concert. to give fetes really splendid, without any inconvenience to one's self, a particular suite of apartments must be arranged exclusively for them; and, besides, vast and splendid saloons, destined for grand balls, ought to have a different character from rooms in ordinary occupation: there is between the two species of apartments the same difference as between a splendid fresco and a cabinet picture." "he is right," said d'harville; "what a pity that saint remy has not twelve or fifteen hundred thousand livres a year! what wonders we should enjoy!" "since we have the happiness to enjoy a representative government," said the duke de lucenay, "ought not the country to vote a million a year to saint remy, and charge him to represent at paris french taste and fashion, which would thus decide the fashion of europe and the world?" "adopted!" was cried in chorus. "and this million should be annually raised in form of a tax on those abominable misers who, possessors of enormous fortunes, shall be arraigned, tried, and convicted of living like skinflints," added lucenay. "and as such," said d'harville, "condemned to defray the magnificences which they ought to display." "while waiting for the decision which will legalize the supremacy which saint remy now exercises in fact," said d'harville, "i ask his advice for the gallery i am about to construct." "my feeble lights are at your disposal, d'harville." "and when shall this inauguration take place, my dear fellow?" "next year, i suppose, for i am going to commence immediately." "what a man of projects you are!" "i have many others. i contemplate a complete change at val richer." "your estate in burgundy?" "yes; there are some admirable plans to execute there, if my life is spared." "poor old man! but have you not lately bought a farm near val richer to add to your estate?" "yes, a very good affair that my notary advised." "who is this rare and precious notary who advises such good things?" "m. jacques ferrand." at this name a slight shade passed over the viscount's brow. "is he really as honest a man as he is reputed to be?" asked he, carelessly, of d'harville, who then remembered what rudolph had related to clemence concerning the notary. "jacques ferrand? what a question; why, he is a man of antique probity!" said lucenay. "as respected as respectable. very pious--that hurts no one. excessively avaricious--which is a guarantee for his clients." "he is, in fine, one of our notaries of the old school, who ask you for whom you take them when you speak of a receipt for money confided to them." "for no other cause than that i would confide my whole fortune to him." "but where the devil, saint remy, did you get your doubts concerning this worthy man, of proverbial integrity?" "i am only the echo of vague rumors, otherwise i have no reason to defame this phenix of notaries. but to return to your projects, d'harville; what are you going to build at val richer? the chateau is said to be superb." "you shall be consulted, my dear saint remy, and sooner, perhaps, than you think, for i delight in these works; it seems to me there is nothing more pleasant than to have your plans spread out for years to come. to day this project--in a year this one--still later some other: add to this a charming wife whom one adores, is the motive of all your plans, and life passes gently enough." "i believe you; it is a real paradise on earth." "now," said d'harville, when breakfast was over, "if you will smoke a cigar in my cabinet, you will find some excellent ones there." they arose from the table and returned to the cabinet of the marquis: the door of his sleeping apartment, which communicated with it, was open. the sole ornament of this room was a panoply of arms. lucenay, having lighted a cigar, followed the marquis into his chamber. "here are some splendid guns, truly; faith, i do not know which to prefer, the french or the english." "douglas," cried lucenay, "come and see if these guns will not compare with the best mantons." lord douglas, saint remy, and the two other guests entered the chamber of the marquis to examine the arms. d'harville took a pistol, cocked it, and said, laughing, "here, gentlemen, is the universal panacea for all woes, the spleen, or ennui." he placed the muzzle laughingly to his mouth. "i prefer another specific," said saint remy; "this is only good in desperate cases." "yes, but it is so prompt," said d'harville. "click! and it is done; the will is not more rapid. really! it is marvelous." "take care, d'harville, such jokes are always dangerous, and accidents might happen," said lucenay, seeing the marquis again place the pistol to his lips. "do you think that if it was loaded i would play these tricks?" "doubtless, no, but it is always wrong." "look here, sirs, this is the way they do it; the barrel is introduced delicately between the teeth, and then--" "how foolish you are, d'harville, when you once get a-going," said lucenay, shrugging his shoulders. "the finger is placed on the trigger," added d'harville. "is he not a child--childish at his age?" "a little movement on the lock," continued the marquis, "and one goes straight to the land of spirits." with these words the pistol went off. d'harville had blown his brains out! we will renounce the task; we cannot describe the affright, the amazement, of the guests. the next day was seen in a newspaper: "yesterday an event, as unforeseen as deplorable, agitated the whole faubourg st. germain. one of those imprudent acts, which lead every year to such fatal accidents, has caused a most lamentable affair. here are the facts which we have gathered, the authenticity of which we can guarantee. "the marquis d'harville, possessor of an immense fortune, hardly twenty-six years of age, noted for the elevation of his character and the goodness of his heart, married to a lady whom he adored, had invited a few friends to breakfast. on leaving the table, they passed into the sleeping apartment of m. d'harville, where were displayed several valuable arms. in showing some of his guests, m. d'harville, in jest, placed a pistol, which he did not know was loaded, to his lips. in his security, he drew the trigger; it went off, and the unhappy young nobleman fell dead, with his skull fractured. the frightful consternation of the surrounding friends may easily be imagined, to whom, but a moment before, in the bloom of youth, he had just been conversing of his projects for the future. and as if all the circumstances attending this painful event should be more cruel from contrast, the same morning m. d'harville, wishing to surprise his wife, had just purchased a valuable necklace. and it is just at this moment, when, perhaps, life never appeared more smiling, more desirable, that he falls a victim to a deplorable accident. "before such a misfortune all reflections are useless; we can only remain, as it were, annihilated by the inscrutable decrees of providence." we quote the papers merely to show that general belief attributed the death of d'harville to a deplorable accident. it is hardly necessary to say, that d'harville carried with him to the tomb the mysterious secret of this voluntary death. yes, voluntary; calculated and meditated with as much coolness as genorosity, so that clemence could not have the slightest suspicion of the true cause of this suicide. thus the project of which d'harville had conversed with his friends and his intendant, his confidential communications to his old servant, the surprise which he arranged for his wife, were just so many snares laid for public credulity. how could a man be supposed about to kill himself, who was so much occupied with plans for the future--so desirous of pleasing his wife? his death was therefore attributed, and could only be attributed, to an imprudence. as to the resolution, an incurable despair had dictated it. "my death alone can dissolve these ties--it must be--i shall kill myself." and this is the reason why d'harville had accomplished this grave and melancholy sacrifice. if a suitable law of divorce had existed, would he have committed suicide? no! he would have repaired in part the evil he had done; restored his wife to liberty, permitted her to find happiness in another union. the inexorable immutability of the law, then, often renders certain faults irremediable; or, as in this case, only allows them to be effaced by a new crime. chapter xii. saint lazare. we think we ought to inform the most scrupulous of our readers that the prison of saint lazare, specially devoted to prostitutes and female thieves, is daily visited by several ladies, whose charities, name, and social position command general respect. these ladies, brought up amid the splendors of fortune, who with good reason are classed among the most elevated in society, come every week to pass long hours with the miserable prisoners. observing in these degraded beings the least aspiration after virtue, the least regret for a past crime, they encourage the better tendencies and repentance; and, by the powerful magic of the words "duty," "honor," "virtue," sometimes they rescue from the depths of degradation one abandoned, despised, ruined being. accustomed to the refinements of the best society, these courageous women leave their houses, pressing their lips to the virginal cheeks of their daughters, pure as the angels of heaven, and go to the gloomy prisons to brave the gross indifference, or the criminal conversation, of thieves and prostitutes. faithful to their mission of high morality, they valiantly descend into the infected receptacle, place the hand on all these ulcerated hearts, and if some feeble pulsation of honor reveals to them the slightest hope of saving them, they contend and tear from an almost irrevocable perdition the wretch of whom they do not despair. the scrupulous reader, to whom we address ourselves, will calm, then, his sensibility, in thinking that he will only hear and see, after all, what these venerated women see and hear every day. after having, we hope, appeased the reader's scruples, we introduce him to saint lazare, an immense edifice, of imposing and gloomy aspect, situated in the rue de faubourg saint denis. ignorant of the terrible drama that was passing at home, madame d'harville had gone to the prison, after having obtained some information from madame de lucenay concerning the two unhappy women whom the cupidity of jacques ferrand had plunged into distress. madame de blinval, one of the patronesses before spoken of, not being able to accompany clemence to saint lazare, she came alone. she was received with much kindness by the director, and by several inspectresses, known by their black dresses and a blue ribbon with a silver medal. one of these, a woman of advanced age, of a soft and grave expression, remained alone with madame d'harville, in a small room adjoining the office. madame armand, the inspectress who had remained alone with madame d'harville, possessed to an extreme degree of foreknowledge and insight into the character of the prisoners. her word and judgment was of paramount authority in the house. she said to clemence: "since your ladyship has been kind enough to request me to point out those inmates who, from good conduct or sincere repentance, should merit your interest, i believe i can recommend one unfortunate, whom i believe more unhappy than culpable; for i do not think i deceive myself in affirming, that it is not too late to save this girl, a poor child of sixteen, or seventeen at most." [illustration: the inspection of the dormitory] "for what has she been confined?" "she is guilty of being found on the champs elysees in the evening. as it is forbidden her class, under very severe penalties, to frequent, either day or night, certain places, and the champs elysees is among the number of these prohibited places, she was arrested." "and she appears interesting to you?" "i have never seen more regular or more ingenuous features. imagine, my lady, a picture of the virgin. what gave still more to her appearance a most modest expression was, that when she came here she was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of paris." "she is, then, a country girl?" "no, my lady. the inspectors recognized her. she lived in a horrible house in the city, from which she was absent two or three months but as she had not her name erased from the police registers, she remained under the control of the officers, who sent her here." "but perhaps she left paris to endeavor to reinstate herself?" "i think so. i felt at once interested in her. i interrogated her as to the past; i asked her if she came from the country, telling her to be of good cheer, if, as i hoped, she wished to return to the paths of virtue." "what did she reply?" "lifting on me her large blue, melancholy eyes, full of tears, she said to me, in a tone of angelic sweetness, 'i thank you, madame, for your kindness, but i cannot speak of the past; i have been arrested--i was wrong--i do not complain.' 'but where do you come from? where have you been since you left the city; if you have been to the country to seek an honest existence, say so; prove it: we will write to the police to obtain your discharge. you shall be erased from the police lists, and your good resolutions shall be encouraged.' 'i entreat you, madame, do not question me; i cannot answer you,' she replied. 'but when you leave here, do you wish to return to that horrible house again?' 'oh, never,' she cried, 'what will you do then?' 'heaven knows!' she replied, letting her head fall on her breast." "this is very strange! she expresses herself--" "in very good terms, madame; her deportment is timid, respectful, but without meanness. i will say more. notwithstanding the extreme sweetness of her voice and her look, there is at times in her accent, in her attitude, a kind of sorrowful pride which confounds me. if she did not belong to the unhappy class of which she is a part, i should almost think that this pride is that of a soul conscious of its elevation." chapter xiii. mont saint jean. the clock of the prison struck two. to the severe frost which had reigned for some days, a temperature soft, mild, almost spring-like, had succeeded; the sunbeams were reflected on the water of a large square basin, with a stone margin, situated in the middle of the yard, planted with trees, and surrounded by high, gloomy walls, pierced with a number of grated windows; wooden benches were placed here and there in this vast inclosure, which served as the prisoners' exercise ground. the tinkling of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the prisoners noisily rushed into the court through a strong wicket-door which was opened for them. these women, dressed in uniform, wore black caps and long blue woolen frocks, confined by a belt and iron buckle. there were two hundred prostitutes there, condemned for infringements of the laws which register them, and place them without the common law. at the sight of this collection of lost creatures, one cannot prevent the sad thought, that many among them have been pure and virtuous, at least some time. we make this restriction, because a great number have been vitiated, corrupted, depraved, not only from their youth, but from their most tender infancy. when the prisoners rushed into the court, screeching and shouting, it was easy to see that joy alone at escaping from labor did not render them so noisy. after having pushed through the only door that led to the yard, the crowd separated, and made a circle around a deformed being, whom they overwhelmed with hootings. she was a woman of about thirty-six or forty, short, thick-set, crooked, her neck sunk between unequal shoulders. they had pulled off her cap, and her hair, of a rather faded yellow, uncombed, tangled, striped with gray, fell over her low and stupid face. she was dressed in a blue frock, like the other prisoners, and carried under her arm a bundle tied up in a miserable, ragged handkerchief. she tried to ward off the threatened blows with her left arm. nothing could be more sadly grotesque than the features of this poor creature. it was a ridiculous and hideous face, lengthened to a snout, wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, pierced with nostrils, and small red eyes, squinting and bloodshot; by turns supplicating or angry, she implored and scolded; but they laughed more at her complaints than at her threats. this woman was the butt of the prisoners. one fact alone, however, should have saved her from their bad treatment; she was about to become a mother. but her ugliness and imbecility, and the habit they had of looking upon her as a victim devoted to the general amusement, rendered her persecutors implacable, notwithstanding their ordinary respect for maternity. among the most furious of the enemies of mont saint jean (this was the name of the drudge) could have been remarked la louve--a tall girl of about twenty, active, masculine, with rather regular features; her coarse, black hair was shaded with red; her face was disfigured with pimples; her thick lips were slightly covered with a bluish down; her dark eyebrows, very thick and heavy, met above her large brown eyes; something violent, ferocious, and brutal in her expression, a kind of habitual laugh, which, lifting her upper lip when she was angry, showing her white and scattering teeth, explains her surname of la louve (she-wolf). nevertheless, this face expressed more audacity and insolence than cruelty--in a word, rather vicious than thoroughly bad, this woman was yet susceptible of some good feelings. "oh, dear, what have i done to you?" cried mont saint jean. "why do you treat me so?" "because it amuses us. because you are only fit to be tormented. it is your trade. look at yourself; you will see you have no right to complain." "but you know i do not complain until i can't stand it any longer." "well, we'll leave you alone if you will tell us why you are called mont saint jean." "yes, yes, tell us that." "i have told you this-a hundred times. an old soldier, whom i once loved, was called so because he was wounded in the battle of mont saint jean. i took his name. are you content now? you make me repeat the same things." "if he looked like you he was a beauty! he must have been one of the invalids." "i am ugly, i know. say what you please: all the same to me; but don't strike me, that's all i ask." "what have you got in that old handkerchief?" said la louve. "yes, yes, what is it? come, show it." "oh no, i entreat you!" said the poor creature, holding the bundle tightly in her hands. "you must give it up." "yes; take it from her, la louve." "what is it?" "well, it is baby's clothes i have commenced for my child. i make them with the old pieces of linen i pick up. it is of no consequence to you, is it?" "oh, let us see the baby-linen of mont saint jean! come, come," cried la louve, snatching the bundle from the hands of mont saint jean. the wretched handkerchief was torn to pieces in the struggle, and its contents, composed of rags and bits of stuff of all colors, were strewn on the ground and trampled under foot, amid shouts of laughter. "what rags! what trash! an old rag shop! takes more thread than stuff! here, pick up your duds, mont saint jean!" "how wicked you are! how bad you must be!" cried the poor creature running here and there after the scraps and rags, which she tried to pick up, notwithstanding the blows they gave her. "i have never harmed any one," said she, weeping. "i have offered, if they would let me alone, to do anything for them they wanted; to give them half of my rations, although i am very hungry. ah, well! no, no, it is just the same. but what must i do for peace? they have not even pity on a poor woman in my condition! they must be more savage than wild beasts! i had so much trouble to collect those little scraps of linen. how do you think i shall do, since i have no money to buy anything?" suddenly she cried, in an accent of joy, "oh, now you have come, la goualeuse, i am saved! speak to them for me! they will listen to you, surely, for they love you as much as they hate me." the goualeuse (the songstress) arriving, the last of the prisoners had entered the yard. chapter xiv. goualeuse and louise. before we continue the account of this horrible scene, we must return to the marchioness d'harville and madame armand, whose conversation had been for a moment interrupted. at the ringing of the bell, the inspectress had hastened to one of the doors which opened into the prison yard, to be ready to prevent by her presence, or calm by her authority, any tumult or quarrels that might arise among the scholars, whose passions, restrained for some time by discipline and employment, only wanted the hour of idleness and recreation to be aroused and excited. madame armand had witnessed, in mournful silence, the cruel treatment of which mont saint jean was a victim, and she had already advanced to snatch her from her tormentors, when fleur-de-marie appeared. "she is saved!" said she to herself, and returned to the parlor where madame d'harville awaited her. "but this is quite a romance that you have just related," cried the latter, without giving madame armand time to apologize for her absence. "what are the relations of this girl, whose beauty, language, and manners form such a strange contrast to her past degradation and present situation with the other prisoners? if she is endowed with the elevation of mind that you suppose, she must suffer much from associating with her miserable companions." "everything concerning this girl is a subject of astonishment. hardly has she been here three days, yet already she possesses a kind of influence over the other prisoners." "in so short a time?" "they show her not only interest, but almost respect." "how? these unfortunates--" "have sometimes an instinct of singular delicacy in perceiving the noble qualities of others; yet they often hate those whose superiority they are obliged to admit." "but they do not hate this young girl?" "far from that, madame; not one of them knew her before she entered here. they were at first struck with her beauty. her features, although of rare beauty, are, it is true, veiled with a touching, unhealthy paleness. this sweet and melancholy face inspired them at first with more interest than jealousy. then she became very quiet-- another subject of astonishment for these creatures, who, for the most part, endeavor always to drown the voice of conscience by force of noise and tumult. in short, although dignified and reserved, she showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from being exasperated at her coldness. this is not all. a month ago there came here an unruly creature, called la louve, so violent, audacious, and ferocious is her character. she is a girl of about twenty; tall, masculine, rather a fine face, but very coarse. we are often obliged to put her in confinement to subdue her turbulence. only the day before yesterday she came out of the cell, very much irritated at the punishment she had just received. it was meal-time: the poor girl of whom i have spoken did not eat; she said sadly to her companions, 'who wants my bread?' 'i,' said la louve, first. 'i,' said a poor deformed creature afterward, called mont saint jean, who serves as a laughingstock, and sometimes, in spite of us, as a butt to the other prisoners. the girl gave her bread to the latter, to the great rage of la louve. 'i asked you first,' cried she furiously. 'it is true, but this poor woman has more need of it than you,' answered the girl. la louve snatched the bread from the hands of mont saint jean, and began to vociferate, brandishing her knife. as she is very irascible, and very much feared, no one dared to take the part of poor goualeuse." "what do you call her, madame?" "la goualeuse. it is the name, or rather surname, under which she has been confined here. almost all of them have similar borrowed names." "it is very singular." "it signifies, in their hideous slang, the songstress; for this young girl has, they say, a very fine voice; and i readily believe it, for her tone is enchanting." "and how did she escape from this villainous louve?" "rendered still more furious by la goualeuse's coolness, she ran toward her with an oath and uplifted knife. all the prisoners screamed with terror. goualeuse alone regarded without fear this formidable creature. smiling bitterly, she said, in her angelic voice, 'oh, kill me! kill me! i desire it; but do not make me suffer much.' these words, it was reported to me, were pronounced with a simplicity so touching, that almost all the prisoners had tears in their eyes." "i believe it, said lady d'harville, painfully affected. "the worst characters," answered the inspectress, "happily have sometimes moments of reflection--a kind of return to the correct path. on hearing these words, expressed with such resignation, la louve, touched to the heart, as she afterward said, threw her knife on the ground, trampled it under foot, and cried, 'i was wrong to threaten you, songstress, for i am stronger than you; you were not afraid of my knife; you are courageous--i love courage; so now, if any one attempts to hurt you, i'll defend you.'" "what a singular character." "the example of la louve increased the influence of la goualeuse; and at present, a thing almost without a precedent, hardly any of the prisoners address her familiarly; the greater part respect her, and even offer to render her any little service that can be rendered among prisoners. i asked some of the prisoners who slept in the same room with her, what was the cause of the deference shown her. 'that's more than we can tell,' they answered; 'it is plain to be seen she is not one of our sort.' 'but who told you so?' 'no one told us; we see.' 'by what?' 'in a thousand things. for instance, last night, before she went to bed, she went on her knees and said her prayers; as she prays, so la louve says, she must have a right to pray!'" "what a strange observation!" "these poor creatures have no sentiment of religion, yet they never utter here a sacrilegious or impious word. you will see, madame, in all our rooms a kind of altar, where the statue of the virgin is surrounded with offerings and ornaments made by themselves. but to return to la goualeuse. her companions said to me, 'we see that she is not our sort, from her soft manners, her sadness, the way in which she speaks.' and then said la louve, who was present at this conversation, 'it must be that she is not one of us; for this morning, in our sleeping-room, without knowing why, we were ashamed to dress ourselves before her!" "what strange delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!" cried lady d'harville. "they have a profound sense of their degradation?" "no one can despise them as much as they despise themselves. among some of them, whose repentance is sincere, this original stain of vice remains indelible in their eyes, even when they find themselves in a better situation; others become insane, so much does the sense of their former aberration remain fixed and implacable. i should not be surprised if the profound sorrow of the goualeuse proceeds from some such cause." "if this should be so, what torture for her! a remorse which nothing can soothe!" "happily, madame, for the honor of the human race, this remorse occurs oftener than is supposed; avenging conscience never completely sleeps, or rather, strange thing, sometimes one would say that the spirit watches while the body sleeps. it is an observation that i made only this night again in reference to my _protegee_. very, often, when the prisoners are asleep, i make the rounds of the sleeping apartments. your ladyship cannot imagine how much the physiognomies of these women differ in expression while they sleep. a great number of them, whom i had seen during the day careless, bold, brazen, impudent, seemed completely to have changed when sleep had deprived their features of all the audacity of wickedness; for vice, alas! has its pride. oh, what sorrowful revelations on these countenances, then dejected, melancholy, and sad! what involuntary starts! what mournful sighs torn from them by a dream, doubtless impressed with an inexorable reality! i spoke to you just now, madame, of this girl called la louve. about fifteen days ago she insulted me brutally before all the prisoners. i shrugged my shoulders; my indifference but exasperated her. then she thought to wound me by uttering something disgraceful concerning my mother, whom she had often seen here on a visit to me. ah, how horrid! i acknowledge, stupid as this attack was, she hurt me. la louve saw it, and triumphed. that night i went to make an inspection in the sleeping apartment; i reached the bed of la louve, who was to be put in the cell next morning; i was struck with the sweetness of her face, compared with the hard and insolent expression which was habitual to her; her features seemed supplicating, full of sadness and contrition; her lips were half-open, her breathing oppressed; finally, a thing which appeared to me incredible, for i thought it impossible, tears--tears fell from her eyes. i looked at her in silence for some moments, when i heard her pronounce these words, 'pardon! pardon her, mother!' i listened more attentively, but all that i could hear was my name, madame armand, pronounced with a sigh." "she repented, during her sleep, of having abused your mother?" "i thought so, and it made me less severe." "and the next day, did she express any regret for her past conduct?" "none; she showed herself as wild as ever." "but, madame, you must need great courage, much strength of mind, not to recoil before the unpleasantness of a task which brings such rare returns!" "the consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages me-- besides, sometimes, one is recompensed by some happy discovery." "no matter; women like you, madame, are seldom to be found." "no, no; i assure you what i do others do, and with more success and intelligence than i. one of the inspectresses of the other quarter of saint lazaro, destined for those accused of other crimes, will interest you much more. she related to me the arrival, this morning, of a young girl, accused of infanticide. never have i heard anything more touching. the father of the poor unfortunate has become insane from grief, on learning the shame of his child. it appears that nothing could be more frightful than the poverty of this family, who lived in a wretched garret in the rue du temple!" "the rue du temple!" cried madame d'harville, astonished. "what is the name of the family?" "morel. her name is louise morel." "this poor family has been recommended to me," said clemence, blushing, "but i was far from expecting to hear such terrible news-- and louise morel--" "says she is innocent; she swears her child was dead; and her words have the accent of truth. since you have interested yourself in her family, if you would have the kindness to see her, this mark of your goodness would calm her despair, which they say is fearful." "certainly, i will see her, and the goualeuse also; for all you tell me about this poor girl affects me sincerely. but what must i do to obtain her liberty? then i will find her a place; i will take charge of her." "with the relations your ladyship has, it will be very easy for you to get her discharge to-day or to-morrow; it depends entirely on the prefect of the police. the recommendation of a person of quality would be decisive with him. but i have wandered far, madame, from the observation that i made on the slumber of the goualeuse. on this subject, i must confess, that i should not be astonished that, to the sentiments of profound grief for her first fault, is joined another sorrow, not less cruel." "what do you mean to say, madame?" "perhaps i am deceived; but i should not be astonished that this young girl, emancipated, as it were, from the degradation into which she was first plunged, had experienced perhaps a virtuous love, which was at once her happiness and misery." "why do you think so?" "the obstinate silence she keeps as to the place where she passed the three months which followed her departure from the city, makes me think that she fears to be reclaimed by the persons with whom, perhaps, she found a refuge." "and why this fear?" "because she would then have to avow a past life, of which they are doubtless ignorant." "really, this peasant's dress--" "besides, another circumstance has strengthened my suspicions. last night, as i made my inspection, i drew near the goualeuse's bed; she slept profoundly; her face was calm and serene; her thick flaxen hair, half escaping from under her cap, fell in profusion on her neck and shoulders. she had her small hands clasped over her bosom, as if she had fallen asleep while in the act of prayer. i contemplated with compassion this angelic countenance, when, in a low voice, and in a tone at once respectful, sorrowful and endearing, she pronounced a name." "and this name?" after a moment's silence, madame armand said gravely, "although i consider as sacred that which one hears another express in their sleep, you interest yourself so generously in this unfortunate, madame, that i can confide to you this secret. the name was rudolph." "rudolph!" cried madame d'harville, thinking of the prince. then, reflecting that, after all, the grand duke of gerolstein could have no connection with the rudolph of poor goualeuse, she said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at her exclamation, "this name surprised me, madame, for by a singular chance, one of my relations bears it also; but all you have told me of the goualeuse interests me more and more. can i not see her to-day? now?" "yes, madame, i will go, if you wish, to find her, i can also ask about louise morel, who is in the other part of the prison." "i shall be much obliged," answered madame d'harville, and she remained alone. "it is singular," said she; "i cannot account for the strange impression which the name of rudolph caused me. truly, i am mad! between _him_ and such a creature, what relations can exist?" then, after a pause, she added, "he was right! how much all this interests me! the mind, the heart, expand when they are applied to such noble occupations! as he says, it seems as if one participated in the power of providence, when relieving those who are deserving. and these excursions in a world of whose existence we have no suspicion are so interesting, so _amusing_, as _he_ was pleased to say! what romance could give me such touching emotions, excite to this point my curiosity! this poor goualeuse, for example, inspires me with profound pity, and this unfortunate daughter of the artisan, whom the prince had so generously relieved in my name! poor people! their frightful misery served as a pretext to save me. i have escaped shame, death, perhaps, by a hypocritical falsehood; this deceit oppresses me; but i will expiate it by force of benefactions. this will be easy! it is so sweet to follow the noble counsels of rudolph, it is rather to love than to obey him! oh! i feel it--i know it. i experience a sweet delight in acting through him; for i love him. oh, yes, i love him! yet he will be for ever ignorant of this eternal passion of my life." while madame d'harville awaits the goualeuse, we will return to the prison-yard. chapter xv. wolf and lamb. fleur-de-marie, the songstress, wore the blue dress and black cap of the prisoners; but even in this common costume she was charming. yet since she was carried off from the farm of bouqueval, her features were much altered; her natural paleness, slightly tinted with rose, was now as dead as the whitest alabaster; her expression had also changed; it had now assumed a kind of dignified sadness. fleur-de-marie knew that to endure courageously the grievous sacrifices of expiation is almost to obtain a kind of regeneration. "ask their pardon for me, la goualeuse," said mont saint jean. "see how they drag in the dirt all that i had collected with so much trouble; what good can it do them?" fleur-de-marie did not say a word, but she began actively to collect, one by one, from under the feet of the prisoners, all the rags she could find. one of the prisoners retaining mischievously under her foot a piece of coarse muslin, fleur-de-marie, stooping, raised her enchanting face toward this woman, and said, in her sweet voice, "i beg you to let me take this, in the name of the poor weeping woman." the prisoner withdrew her foot. the muslin was saved, as well as all the other rags, which the goualeuse secured piece by piece. there remained only one little cap, which two of them were contending for, laughing. fleur-de-marie said to them, "come, be good now, and give her that little cap." "my eye! is it for a baby harlequin, this cap? made of gray stuff, with peaks of green and black fustian, and a bedtick lining!" this description of the cap was received with shouts of laughter. "laugh at it as much as you please, but give it to me," said mont saint jean; "don't drag it in the gutter, as you did the rest. i beg your pardon, la goualeuse, for having made you soil your hands for me," added she, in a grateful voice. "give me the harlequin cap," said la louve, who caught it, and shook it in the air as a trophy. "i entreat you to give it to me," said la goualeuse. "no; because you will give it to mont saint jean." "certainly!" "ah! bah! such a fag! it's not worth the trouble." "it is because mont saint jean has nothing but rags to dress her child with that you should have pity on her, la louve," said fleur-de-marie, sadly, extending her hand toward the cap. "you sha'n't have it!" answered la louve, brutally; "must one always give up to you because you are the weakest? you take advantage of this." "where would be the merit of giving it to me if i were the strongest?" answered la goualeuse, with a smile full of grace. "no, no, you wish to twist me about again with your little soft voice; you sha'n't have it." "come, now, la louve, don't be naughty." "leave me alone, you tire me." "i entreat you!" "stop! don't make me angry--i have said no, and no it is!" cried la louve, very much irritated. "have pity upon her; see how she weeps!" "what is that to me? so much the worse for her; she is our target." "that's true, that's true, don't give it up," murmured several of the prisoners, carried away by the example of la louve. "you are right--so much the worse for her!" said fleur-de-marie, with bitterness. "she is your butt; she ought to be resigned to it; her groans amuse you, her tears make you laugh. you must pass the time in some way; if you should kill her on the spot, she has no right to say anything. you are right, la louve--it is just! this poor woman has done no harm; she cannot defend herself; she is one against the whole-- you overpower her--that is very brave and very generous." "are we cowards, then?" cried la louve, carried away by the violence of her character, and by her impatience of all contradiction. "will you answer? are we cowards, eh?" said she, more and more irritated. murmurs, very threatening for the goualeuse, began to be heard. the offended prisoners approached and surrounded her, vociferating, forgetting or revolting against the ascendancy that the young girl had until then obtained over them. "she calls us cowards! by what right does she scold us? is it because she is greater than we are? we have been too good to her, and now she wants to put on airs with us. if we choose to torment mont saint jean, what has she got to say about it? since it is so, you shall be worse beaten than before, do you hear, mont saint jean?" "hold, here is one to begin with," said one of them, giving her a blow. "and if you meddle with what don't concern you, la goualeuse, we'll treat you in the same way." "yes, yes!" "this isn't all!" cried la louve; "la goualeuse must ask our pardon for having called us cowards! if not, and we let her go on, she'll finish by eating us up; we are very stupid not to see that. she must ask our pardon. on her knee! on both knees! or we'll treat her like mont saint jean, her _protegee_. on your knees--on your knees! oh! we are cowards, are we?" fleur-de-marie was not alarmed at these furious cries; she let the storm rage, but as soon as she could be heard, casting a calm and melancholy glance around her, she replied to la louve, who vociferated anew, "dare to repeat that we are cowards!" "you? no, no; it is this poor woman whose clothes you have torn, whom you have beaten, dragged in the mire, who is a coward! do you not see how she weeps, how she trembles in looking at you? it is she who is a coward, since she is afraid of you." the discernment of fleur-de-marie served her perfectly. she might have invoked justice and duty to disarm the stupid and brutal conduct of the prisoners, they would not have listened to her; but in addressing them with this sentiment of natural generosity, which is never extinct even in the most contemptible natures, she awoke a feeling of pity. la louve and her companions still murmured; fleur-de-marie continued: "your target does not deserve compassion, you say; but her child deserves it. alas! does it not feel the blows given to the mother? when she cries for mercy, it is not for herself, it is for her child! when she asks for some of your bread, if you have too much, because she has more hunger than usual, it is not for her, but for her child! when she begs you, with tears in her eyes, to spare these rags, which she has had so much trouble to collect, it is not for her, but for her child! this poor little cap, which you have made so much fun of, is laughable, perhaps; yet only to look at it makes me feel like weeping. i avow it. laugh at us both, mont saint jean and me, if you will." the prisoners did not laugh. la louve even looked sadly at the little cap she held in her hand. "come, now!" continued fleur-de-marie, wiping her eyes with the back of her white and delicate hand; "i know you are not so hard. you torment mont saint jean from want of employment, not from cruelty. but you forget that she has her child. could she hold it in her arms that it should protect her, not only would you not strike her, for fear of hurting the poor innocent, but if it was cold, you would give to its mother all you could to cover it, eh, la louve?" "it is true: who would not pity a child?" "it is very plain." "if it was hungry you would take the bread out of your own mouth; would you not, la louve?" "yes, and willingly. i am no worse than others." "nor we neither." "a poor little innocent!" "who would have a heart to hurt it?" "must be a monster!" "no hearts!" "wild beasts!" "i told you truly," said fleur-de-marie. "that you were not cruel. you are kind; your error is not reflecting that mont saint jean deserves as much compassion as though she had her child in her arms, that's all." "that's all!" cried la louve, with warmth; "no, that's not all. you were right, la goualeuse; we were cowards, and you were brave in daring to tell us so; and you are brave in not trembling after having told us. you see we were right in constantly insisting that _you were not one of us_--it must always come to that. it vexes me; but so it is. we were all wrong just now. you were pluckier than the whole gang of us!" "that's true; this little blonde must have had courage to tell us the truth right in our faces." "after all, it is true, when we strike mont saint jean, we do strike her child." "i didn't think of that." "nor i either." "but la goualeuse thinks of everything." "and to strike a child is shameful!" "there isn't one of us capable of doing it." "nothing is more easily moved than popular passion-nothing more abrupt and rapid than the return from evil to good and from good to evil." the few simple and touching words from fleur-de-marie had caused a sudden reaction in favor of mont saint jean, who wept gently. suddenly la louve, violent and hasty in everything, took the little cap she held in her hand, made a kind of purse of it, fumbled in her pocket, and drew out twenty sous, threw them into the cap, and cried, presenting it to her companions, "i give twenty sous toward buying baby-linen for mont saint jean. we'll cut it all out and sew it ourselves, so that the making-up sha'n't cost a copper!" "yes, yes." "that's it! let us club together." "i'm agreed!" "famous idea!" "poor woman!" "she is as ugly as a monster; but she is a mother, like any one else." "i give ten sous." "i thirty." "i twenty." "i four sous; got no more." "i have nothing; but i will sell my ration for tomorrow-who'll buy?" "i," said la louve; "i put ten sous for you; but you'll keep your ration, and mont saint jean's baby shall be togged out like a princess." to express the surprise and joy of mont saint jean would be impossible; her grotesque and ugly visage became almost touching. happiness and gratitude beamed the fleur-de-marie was also very happy, although she had been obliged to say to la louve, when she held the little cap toward her, "i have no money; but i will work as much as you like." "oh! my good little angel from paradise," cried mont saint jean, falling at the feet of la goualeuse, and trying to take her hand to kiss it. "what is it i have done that you should be so charitable toward me, and all these _ladies_ also? is it possible, my good angel? for my child--everything that i want! who could have believed it? i shall go off my head, i am sure. why, i was just now the scapegoat of every one! in a moment, because you said something in your dear little voice of a seraph, you turn them from evil to good; and now they love me, and i love them. they are so good! i was wrong to get angry. wasn't i a fool, and unjust, and ungrateful? all they have done to me was only for a laugh; they didn't wish me any harm--it was for my good; for here is the proof. why, now, if they were to kill me on the spot, i would not say a word." "we have eighty-four francs and seven sous," said la louve, having finished counting the money she had collected. "who will be treasurer? mustn't give it to mont saint jean; she is too stupid." "let goualeuse take charge of the money," they all cried unanimously. "if you listen to me," said fleur-de-marie, "you will beg madame armand, the inspectress, to take charge of this sum, and make the necessary purchases; and then she will know the good action you have done, and, perhaps, will ask to have your time reduced. well, la louve," added she, taking her companion by the arm, "don't you now feel happier than when you were casting to the winds, just now, the poor rags of mont saint jean?" la louve at first did not answer. to the generous warmth which had for a moment animated her features had succeeded a kind of savage defiance. fleur-de-marie looked at her with surprise, not understanding this sudden change. "la goualeuse, come; i want to talk to you," said la louve, in a sullen manner; and leaving the other prisoners, she led fleur-de-marie near to the basin which was in the center of the court. la louve and her companion seated themselves, isolated from the rest of their companions. the winter's sun shed its pale rays upon them, the blue sky was partially obscured by white and fleecy clouds; some birds, deceived by the mildness of the atmosphere, were warbling in the black branches of the large chestnut-trees in the court; two or three sparrows, bolder than the rest, came to drink and to bathe in a little brook which flowed from the fountain; the stone margin was covered with green moss, and here and there from the interstices rose some tufts of green herbs, which the frost had spared. this description of the prison basin may seem trifling, but fleur-de-marie lost not one of these details; with her eyes fixed sadly on the clouds as they broke the azure of the sky, or reflected the golden rays of the sun, she thought, with a sigh, of the magnificence of nature, which she much loved, admired poetically, and of which she was deprived. "what do you wish to say to me?" asked la goualeuse of her companion, who, seated alongside of her, remained somber and silent. "it is necessary that we have a settlement," cried la louve, harshly, "this can't go on." "i don't understand you, la louve." "just now, in the court, i said to myself, 'i will not yield to la goualeuse,' and yet i have again given way to you." "but--" "i tell you this can't last so." "what have you against me, la louve?" "why, i am no longer the same since your arrival; no, i have no more courage, strength, or hardihood." interrupting herself, she pushed up the sleeve of her dress and showed to la goualeuse her strong white arm, pointing out to her, pricked in with indelible ink, a poniard half plunged in a red heart; over this emblem were these words: "death to dastards! martial. for life!" "do you see that?" cried la louve. "yes; it makes me afraid," said la goualeuse, turning away her head. "when martial, my lover, wrote this with a red-hot needle, he thought me brave; if he knew my conduct for three days past, he would drive his knife in my body, as this poniard is planted in this heart; and he would be right, for be has written there '_death to dastards_' and i am one." "what have you done cowardly?" "everything." "do you regret what you have done just now?" "yes!" "i do not believe you." "i tell you that i regret it, for it is another proof of the power you have over us all. did you not hear what mont saint jean said when she was on her knees to thank you?" "what did she say?" "she said, in speaking of us, that with nothing you turn us from evil to good. i could have strangled her when she said that, for, to our shame, it is true. yes, in a moment you change us from black to white: we listen to you, we give way to our impulses, and we are your dupes." "my dupe--because you have generously assisted this poor woman!" "it shall not be said," cried la louve, "that a little girl like you can trample me under foot." "i! how?" "do i know how? you come here--you commence by offending me." "offend you?" "yes: you ask who wants your bread: i answer first 'i.' mont saint jean only asks for it afterward and you give her the preference. furious at this, i rush on you with my knife raised." "and i said to you, 'kill me if you will, but do not make me suffer too much,'" answered la goualeuse; "that was all." "that was all! yes, that was all! and yet, these words alone caused the knife to fall from my hands; made me ask pardon from you, who had offended me. is it natural? why, when i return to my senses, i pity myself. and the night when you arrived here, when you knelt to say your prayers, why, instead of laughing at you and arousing the whole company--why was it that i said, 'leave her alone; she prays because she has the right to do so.' and, the next morning, why were we all ashamed to dress before you?" "i do not know, la louve." "really!" said this violent creature, with irony, "you don't know! it is, doubtless, as we have told you sometimes in jest, that you are of another family than ours. perhaps you believe that?" "i never said so." "you never said so, but you act so." "i pray you to listen to me." "no! it has been of no service for me to listen to you--to look at you. up to now i have never envied any one. well, two or three times i have surprised myself in envying--can anything be more sneaking?--in envying your face--like the holy virgin's! your soft, sad manner! yes, i have envied even your fair hair, and your blue eyes. i--who have always detested fair faces, since i am a brunette--wish to resemble you!" "no, la louve! me?" "a week ago i should have left my mark on any one who would have dared to tell me this. however, i do not envy you your lot; you are as sad as a magdalen. is it natural? speak!" "how can you expect me to account to you for the impressions i cause?" "oh, you know well enough what you do with your touch-me-not air." "but what design can i have?" "do you think i know? it is exactly because i cannot understand all this that i suspect you. there is another thing: until now i have always been gay or angry, but never a thinker; and you have made me think. yes, there are some words you say which, in spite of me, have touched my heart, and make me think all manner of sad things." "i am sorry to have made you sad, la louve; but i do not remember to have said any--" "oh!" cried la louve; "what you do is often as touching as what you say! you are so malignant!" "do not be angry, la louve! explain yourself." "yesterday, in the workshop, i saw you plainly. you had your eyes down, fixed on your work; a tear fell on your hand; you looked at it for a moment, and then you carried your hand to your lips, as if to kiss away this tear; is it not true?" "it is true," said la goualeuse, blushing. "that has the appearance of nothing! but, at that moment you looked so unhappy--so unhappy, that i felt myself all heartache--every feeling stirred up. say now? do you think this is amusing? i have always been as hard as a rock about everything concerning myself. no one can boast of ever having seen me weep; and it must be that in looking at your little face i should feel cowardice at my heart! yes, for all that is pure cowardice; and the proof is, that for three days i have not dared to write to martial, my conscience accuses me so much. yes, keeping company with you has weakened my character; it must stop; i have enough of it; i wish to remain as i am, and not have people laugh at me." "why should they laugh at you?" "because they would see me acting a stupid good-natured part, who made them all tremble here! no, no, i am twenty; i am as handsome as you, in my style; i am wicked; i am feared, and that's what i want. i laugh at the rest. perish all who say the contrary!" "you are angry with me, la louve!" "yes, you are for me a bad acquaintance; if this is continued, in fifteen days, instead of being called wolf, they will call me sheep. thank you! it's not me they'll baptize so. martial would kill me. in short, i want none of your company; i am going to ask to be put in another hall; if they refuse, i'll flare up so that they will put me in the dungeon until my time is out. that's what i have to say to you, la goualeuse." "i assure you, la louve," said fleur-de-marie, "that you feel an interest in me, not because you are soft, but because you are generous--brave hearts alone feel the misfortunes of others." "there is neither generosity nor courage in this," said la louve, brutally; "it is cowardice. besides, i do not wish you to tell me that i am touched--softened; it is not true." "i will not say so any more, la louve; but since you have shown some interest for me, you will let me be grateful to you for it, will you not?" "to-night i shall be in another hall from you, or alone in the dungeon; and soon i shall be away from here." "and where will you go?" "home; rue pierre lescot. i have my own furnished room." "and martial!" said la goualeuse, who hoped to continue the conversation by speaking of an object interesting to her; "you'll be very happy to see him?" "yes; oh, yes!" answered she. "when i was arrested he was recovering from sickness--a fever which he had, because he is always on the water. for sixteen or seventeen nights i never left him for a moment. i sold half that i possessed to pay for a doctor and medicines. i can boast of it; and i do boast of it. if my man lives, he owes it to me. i yesterday burned a candle before the virgin for him. it is foolish; but never mind, some very good effects have proceeded from this, for he is convalescent." "where is he now? what does he do?" "he lives near the asnieres bridge, on the shore." "on the shore?" "yes, with his family, in a solitary house. he is always warring with the river-keepers; and when once he is in his boat, with his double-barreled gun, it's no good to approach him!" said la louve, proudly. "what is his trade?" "he fishes by stealth at night; his father had some _misunderstanding_ with justice. he has still a mother, two sisters, and a brother. it would be better for him not to have such a brother, for he is a scoundrel, who will be guillotined one of these days; his sisters also. however, never mind, their necks belong to themselves." "where did you first meet martial?" "in paris. he wished to learn the trade of a locksmith; a fine trade, always red-hot iron and fire around one, and danger, too; that suited him, but, like me, he had a bad head--couldn't agree with the slow-pokes: so he returned to his family, and began to maraud on the river. he came to paris to see me, and i went to see him at asnieres; it is very near; but if it had been further, i should have gone, even if i had been obliged to go on my hands and knees." "you will be very happy to go to the country, you, la louve," said the goualeuse, sighing; "above all, if you love, as i do, to walk in the fields." "i prefer to walk in the woods--in the large forests, with martial!" "in forests? are you not afraid?" "afraid! is a wolf afraid? the thicker and darker the forest, the more i like it. a lonely hut, where i should live with martial, who should be a poacher; to go with him at night, to set traps for the game; and then, if the guards come to arrest us, to fire on them, hiding in the bushes--ah! that's what i like!" "you have lived in a, forest. la louve?" "never." "who gave you such ideas?" "martial. he was a poacher in rambouillet wood. about a year ago he was _looked upon_ as having fired upon a guard who had fired upon him--villain of a guard! it was not proved in court, but martial was obliged to leave. so he then came to paris to learn a trade; as i said, he left and went to maraud on the river; it is less slavish. but he always regrets the woods, and will return there some day or other." "and, la louve, where are your parents?" "do you think i know!" "is it a long time since you have seen them?" "i do not know if they are dead or alive." fleur-de-marie, although plunged very young into an atmosphere of corruption, had since respired an air so pure, that she experienced a painful oppression at the horrid story of la louve. suppressing the emotion which the sad confession of her companion had caused her, she said to her, timidly, "listen to me without being angry." "come, say on; i hope i have talked enough; but, in truth, all the same, since it is the last time we shall converse together." "are you happy, la louve?" "what do you mean?" "with the life you lead?" "here at saint lazare?" "no; at your home, when you are free." "yes, i am happy." "always?" "always." "you would not change your lot for any other?" "for what other? there's no other lot for me." "tell me, la louve," continued fleur-de-marie, after a moment's silence, "do you not sometimes like to build castles in the air here in prison? it is so amusing." "castles in the air?" "about martial." "martial?" "yes." "ma foi, i never have." "let me build one for you and martial." "what's the use?" "to pass the time." "well, let us see this castle." "just imagine, for example, that by chance you should meet some one who should say to you, 'abandoned by your father and mother, your childhood has been surrounded by bad examples; that you must be pitied as much as blamed for having become--'" "having become what?" "what you and i--have become," answered goualeuse, in a soft voice. "suppose this person were to say to you, 'you love martial--he loves you; leave your present mode of life, and become his wife.'" la louve shrugged her shoulders. "do you think he would take me for his wife?" "except his poaching, has he ever committed any other culpable action?" "no; he is a poacher on the river, as he was in the woods; and he is right. are not fish, like game, the property of those who can take them? where is the mark of their owner?" "well, suppose, having renounced this, he wishes to become an honest man; suppose that he inspired, by the frankness of his good resolutions, enough confidence in an unknown benefactor to be given a place--as gamekeeper, for instance. to a poacher, it would be to his liking. it is the same trade, only lawful." "lord! yes; it is life in the woods." "only this place would be given to him on the sole condition that he would marry you and take you with him." "i go with martial?" "yes; you would be happy, you say, to live together in a forest. would you not like better, instead of a miserable poacher's hut where you would hide yourselves like criminals, to have a nice little cottage, of which you should be the active, industrious housekeeper?" "you make fun of me. can this be possible?" [illustration: the scaffold] "who knows? though it is only a castle." "ah, true; very well." "i say, la louve, it seems to me i already see you established in your cottage in the forest, with your husband, and two or three children. what happiness!" "children! martial!" cried la louve; "oh, yes, they would be _proudly_ loved." "how much company they would be for you in your solitude. then, when they began to grow up, they could render you some assistance. the smallest could pick up the dead branches for your fire; the largest could drive to pasture the cow which has been given to your husband for his activity; for, having been a poacher himself, he would make all the better gamekeeper." "just so; that's true. ah, these castles in the air are amusing. tell me some more, la goualeuse." "they will be very much pleased with your husband. you will receive from his master some presents; a nice garden. but marry! you will have to work, la louve, from morning to night." "oh, if that was all, once along with martial, work wouldn't make me afraid. i have strong arms." "and you would have enough to occupy them, i answer for it. there is so much to do. there are the meals to prepare, clothes to mend; one day the washing, another day the baking, or the house to clean from top to bottom; so that the other gamekeepers would say, 'oh, there is not a housekeeper like martial's wife; from cellar to garret her house is as nice as a new pin; and the children always so neat and clean. it is because she is so industrious.'" "tell me, la goualeuse, is it true i would be called madame martial?" "it is a great deal better than to be called la louve, is it not?" "certainly; i prefer the name of any man to the name of a beast. but, bah! bah! wolf i am born, and wolf i shall die." "who knows? do not recoil from a hard but honest life that brings happiness. so, work would not alarm you?" "oh, no." "and then, besides, it is not all labor: there are moments of repose. in the winter evenings, while your children are asleep, and your husband smoking his pipe, cleaning his gun, or caressing his dogs, you could have a nice quiet time." "bah! bah! a quiet time, sit with my arms folded. goodness, no; i would prefer to mend the family linen in the evening, in the chimney-corner; that is not so tiresome. the days are so short in winter." at the words of fleur-de-marie, la louve forgot more and more of the present in these dreams of the future. la louve did not conceal the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her. fleur-de-marie had thought, with reason, that if her companion would suffer herself to be sufficiently moved at this picture of a rough, poor, and solitary life, to ardently desire to live such a one, this woman would deserve interest and pity. enchanted at seeing her companion listen with curiosity, la goualeuse continued, smiling: "and, then you see _madame martial_--let me call you so, what do you care?" "on the contrary, it flatters me," said la louve, shrugging her shoulders, but smiling. "what folly--to play _madame!_ what children we are! never mind, go on--it is amusing. you said, then----" "i say, madame martial, that in speaking of your mode of living in winter, in the woods, we only think of the worst part of the season." "no, that is not the worst. to hear the wind whistle at night in the forest, and from time to time the wolves howl, far off--far off; i would not find it tiresome, not i, if i am alongside of a good fire, with my man and my brats; or even all alone with my children, while he is gone to make his rounds. oh! a gun doesn't frighten me. if i had my children to defend, i'd be good then. la louve would take good care of her cubs!" "oh! i believe you--you are very brave; but coward me prefers spring to winter. oh! the spring, madame martial, the spring! when the leaves burst forth; when the pretty wood-flowers blossom, which smell so good--so good, that the air is perfumed. then it is that your children will tumble gayly on the new grass, and the forest will become so thick and bushy, that your house can hardly be seen for the foliage; i think i can see it from here. there is a bower before the door that your husband has planted, which shades the seat of turf where he sleeps during the heat of the day, while you go and come, and tell the children not to wake their father. i do not know if you have remarked it, but at noon in the middle of summer, it is as silent in the woods as during the night. not a leaf stirs, not a bird is heard to sing." "that is true," repeated la louve, mechanically, who, forgetting more and more the reality, believed almost that she saw displayed before her eyes the smiling pictures described by the poetic imagination of fleur-de-marie, instinctively a lover of the beauties of nature. delighted with the profound attention which her companion lent her, she continued, allowing herself to be carried away by the charm of the thoughts she evoked. "there is one thing that i like almost as well as the silence of the woods; it is the patter of the large drops of rain in the summer, falling on the leaves; do you like this also?" "oh yes--i like also, very much, the summer rain." "when the trees, moss, and grass are all well moistened, what a fine fresh odor! and then, how the sun, peeping through the trees, makes all the drops of water sparkle which hang from the leaves after the shower. have you remarked this also?" "yes, but i didn't remember it till you told it me. how droll it is! you tell it so well, la goualeuse, that one seems to see everything as you speak; and--i do not know how to explain this to you; but what you have said--smells good--is refreshing--like the summer rain of which you spoke." thus, like the beautiful and the good, poetry is often contagious. la louve's brutal and savage nature had to submit in everything to the influence of fleur-de-marie. she added, smiling, "we must not believe that we are alone in loving the summer rain. how happy the birds are! how they shake their wings in warbling joyously--not more joyously, however, than your children, free, gay, and lively as they are: see how, at the close of day, the youngest runs through the woods to meet his brother, who brings the heifers from the pasture; they soon heard the tinkling of their bells." "why, la goualeuse, it seems to me that i can see the smallest, yet the boldest, who has been placed by his brother, who sustains him, astride the back of one of the cows." "and one would say that the poor beast knew what burden she was bearing, she walks with so much precaution. "but now it is supper time: your eldest, while the cattle were grazing, has amused himself in filling a basket for you with wild strawberries, which he has brought covered with violets." "strawberries and violets--oh! that must be a balm. but where the mischief do you get such ideas, la goualeuse?" "in the woods, where the strawberries ripen, where the violets bloom; it is only to look and collect, madame martial. but let us speak of the housekeeping: it is night, you must milk your cows, prepare the supper under the arbor, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and soon the voice of their master, who, tired as he is, comes home singing. and why should he not sing, when, on a fine summer evening, with a contented mind, he regains his house, where a good wife and fine children await him?" "true, one could not do otherwise than sing," said la louve, becoming more and more thoughtful. "at least, if one does not weep from joy," continued fleur-de-marie, herself affected. "and such tears are as sweet as songs. and then, when night has closed in, what happiness to remain under the arbor, to enjoy the serenity of a fine evening; to breathe the perfume of the forest; to hear the children prattle; to look at the stars! then the heart is so full that it must be relieved by prayer. how not thank him to whom one owes the freshness of the night, the perfume of the woods, the sweet light of the starry heavens? after these thanks or this prayer, you go to sleep peacefully until the morning, and then again you thank the creator; for this poor, industrious, but calm and honest life, is that of every day." "of every day!" repeated la louve, her head on her bosom, her eyes fixed, her breathing oppressed; "for it is true, god is good to give us the power to live happy on so little." "well, now, say," continued fleur-de-marie, gently, "say, ought he not be blessed and thanked next to heaven, who would give you this peaceful and industrious life, instead of the miserable one you lead in the mud in the streets of paris?" the word "paris" called la louve to the reality. a strange phenomenon had just been occurring in the mind, the soul of this creature. a natural picture of an humble working life, a simple recital, now lighted up by the soft glimmerings of a domestic fireside, gilded by some joyous rays of the sun, refreshed by the gentle winds of the forest, or perfumed by the odor of wild flowers, had made on la louve an impression more profound, more striking, than all the exhortations of transcendent morality could have effected. yes, as fleur-de-marie spoke, la louve had yearned to be an indefatigable housekeeper, an honest wife, a pious and devoted mother. to inspire, even for a moment, a violent, immoral, degraded woman, with a love of family, the respect of duty, the desire to labor, gratitude toward the creator, and that by promising her merely what god gives to all, the sun of heaven and the shade of the forest, what man owes to the sweat of his brow, bread and shelter--was it not a triumph for fleur-de-marie? would the moralist the most severe, the preacher the most fulminating, have obtained more by their menacing threats of every vengeance, human and divine? the angry feelings shown by la louve when she awoke from her dream to the reality, showed the effects or influence of the words of her companion. the more her regrets were bitter on awakening to the sense of her horrible position, the more the triumph of the goualeuse was manifest. after a moment of silent reflection, la louve suddenly raised her head, passed her hand over her face, and arose from her seat, threatening and angry. "you see that i had reason to avoid you, and not listen to you, because it only does me harm! why have you talked in this way to me?-- to laugh at me? to torment me? and because i was fool enough to tell you that i would like to live in a forest with martial! but who are you, then? why do you turn my head in this way? you do not know what you have done, unlucky girl! now in spite of myself, i shall always be thinking of that wood, that house, those children, all that happiness, which i never shall have--never, never! and if i cannot forget what you have told me, my life will be a torment, a hell; and all by your fault--yes, by your fault!" "so much the better!--oh! so much the better!" said fleur-de-marie. "you dare to say so?" cried la louve, with threatening eyes. "yes, so much the better; for if your miserable mode of living from henceforth proves a hell, you will prefer that of which i have spoken." "and what good for me to prefer it, since i cannot enjoy it? why regret being a girl of the streets, since i must die one?" cried la louve, more and more irritated, seizing hold of the small hand of fleur-de-marie. "answer--answer! why have you made me wish for a life i cannot have?" "to wish for an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of such a life, i have told you," answered fleur-de-marie, without seeking to disengage her hand. "well, what then, when i shall be worthy? what does it prove? how advance me?" "to see realized that which you regard as a dream," said fleur-de-marie, in a voice so serious and convincing that la louve, again overpowered, abandoned the hand of la goualeuse, and remained struck with astonishment. "listen to me, la louve," added marie, in a voice full of compassion; "do not think me so cruel as to awaken in you these thoughts, these hopes, if i were not sure, in making you ashamed of your present condition, to give you the means to escape from it." "you cannot do that!" "i--no; but some one who is good, great, almost all-powerful." "all-powerful?" "listen again, la louve. three months since, like you, i was a poor, lost, abandoned creature. one day, he, of whom i speak with tears of gratitude,"--fleur-de-marie wiped her tears--"came to me; he was not afraid, debased and despised although i was, to speak to me words of consolation--the first i ever heard! i told him my sufferings, misery, and shame, without concealing anything, just as you have now related to me your life, la louve. after having listened to me with kindness, he did not blame--but pitied me, he did not deride me for my degradation, but extolled the happy and peaceful life of the country." "like you just now." "then my situation appeared the more frightful, as the possible future which he pointed out seemed to me more enchanting." "like me also." "yes; and like you i said, 'what good, alas! to show this paradise to me, who am condemned to a hell upon earth?' but i was wrong to despair; for he of whom i speak is sovereignly just, sovereignly good, and incapable of causing a false hope to shine in the eyes of a poor creature who asked neither pity, nor hope, nor happiness from any one." "and what did he do for you?" "he treated me like a sick child; i was, like you, plunged in air corrupt, he sent me to respire a salubrious and vivifying atmosphere; i lived also among hideous and criminal beings; he confided me to beings made after his own image, who have purified my soul, elevated my mind; for, to all those he loves and respects, he gives a spark of his celestial intelligence. yes, if my words move you, la louve, if my tears cause your tears to flow, it is his mind, his thoughts inspire me! if i speak to you of a future more happy, which you will obtain by repentance, it is because i can promise you this future in his name, although he is now ignorant of the engagement i make. in short, if i say to you, 'hope!' it is because he always hears the voice of those who desire to become better; for god has sent him on this earth to further the belief in providence." thus speaking, the countenance of fleur-de-marie became glowing and inspired; her pale cheeks were colored for a moment with a slight carnation; her beautiful blue eyes softly sparkled; she beamed forth a beauty so noble, so touching, that la louve, profoundly affected at this conversation, looked at her companion with admiration, and cried, "where am i? do i dream? i have never heard nor seen anything like this; it is not possible! but who are you, once more? oh! i said truly that you were not one of us! but how is it that you who speak so well, who can do so much, who know such powerful people, are here, a prisoner with us? is it to tempt us? you are, then, for good--what the devil is for evil!" fleur-de-marie was about to reply, when madame armand came and interrupted her to conduct her to madame d'harvile. she said to la louve, who remained dumb from surprise, "i see with pleasure that the presence of la goualeuse in this prison has been beneficial to you and your companions. i know that you have made a collection for poor mont saint jean; that is good and charitable, la louve. it shall be reckoned to you. i was sure that you were better than you appeared to be. in recompense for your good action, i think i can promise you that your imprisonment shall be abridged by many days." and madame armand departed, followed by fleur-de-marie. chapter xvi. the protectress. the inspectress entered, with goualeuse, the room where clemence was; the pale cheeks of the girl were slightly flushed from her earnest conversation with la louve. "my lady the marchioness, pleased with the excellent accounts i have given of you," said madame armand to fleur-de-marie, "desires to see you, and perhaps will deign to obtain permission for you to leave here before the expiration of your time." "i thank you, madame," answered fleur-de-marie, timidly, to madame armand, who left her alone with the noble lady. clemence, struck with the beautiful features of her _protegee_, and her graceful and modest bearing, could not help remembering that the goualeuse had, in her sleep, pronounced the name of rudolph, and that the inspectress believed her to be preyed upon by a deep and concealed love. although perfectly convinced that the grand duke rudolph could not be in question, clemence allowed that, at least in point of beauty, la goualeuse was worthy of the love of a prince. at the sight of her protectress, whose expression, as we have said, was that of ineffable goodness, fleur-de-marie felt herself irresistibly drawn toward her. "my child," said clemence, "in praising much the sweetness of your disposition and the exemplary propriety of your conduct, madame armand complains of your want of confidence in her." fleur-de-marie held down her head without replying. "the peasant dress in which you were clothed when you were arrested, your silence on the subject of where you resided before you came here, prove that you conceal something." "madame--" "i have no right to your confidence, my poor child; i wish to ask you no improper questions; only i am assured, that if i ask your release from prison it will be granted. before i ask, i wish to talk with you of your projects and resources for the future. once free, what will you do? if, as i doubt not, you are decided to follow in the good path you have entered, have confidence in me--i will put you in a way to gain your living honorably." la goualeuse was affected to tears at the interest madame d'harville evinced for her. she said, after a moment's thought, "you deign, madame, to show yourself so benevolent and generous, that i ought, perhaps, to break the silence which i have hitherto preserved as to the past. an oath compelled me." "an oath?" "yes, madame; i have sworn to conceal from justice, and from the persons employed in this prison, in what manner i have been brought here; yet, if you will, madame, make me a promise--" "what promise?" "to keep my secret. i can, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my oath, relieve some respectable people, who, doubtless, are very uneasy about me." "count on my discretion; i will only tell what you authorize me to say." "oh, thank you, madame! i feared so much that my silence toward my benefactors would look like ingratitude." the sweet tears of fleur-de-marie, her language, so well chosen, struck madame d'harville with renewed astonishment. "i cannot conceal from you," said she, "that your bearing, your words, all astonish me much. how, with an education such as you appear to have had, how could you---" "fall so low, madame?" said the goualeuse, bitterly. "yes, alas!" "it is but a short time since i received it. i owe it to a generous protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without ever having the favorable accounts which they have given you here of me, took compassion on me." "and who is this protector?" "i am ignorant, madame." "you are ignorant?" "he has only made himself known to me by his inexhaustible goodness. thanks to heaven! i found myself in his way." "where did you meet him?" "one night, in the city, madame," said la goualeuse, casting down her eyes, "a man wanted to strike me; this unknown benefactor courageously defended me. such was my first encounter with him." "he was, then, a man of the common order?" "the first time i saw him he had their dress and language, but afterward--" "afterward?" "the manner in which he spoke to me, the profound respect shown him by the people to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had disguised himself as one of the men who frequent the city." "but for what purpose?" "i do not know." "and the name of this mysterious protector, do you know it?" "oh, yes, madame, thank heaven!" said goualeuse, with warmth; "for i can bless and adore without ceasing this name. my deliverer is known as rudolph, madame." clemence blushed deeply. "and has he no other name?" asked she, quickly, of fleur-de-marie. "i do not know, madame. at the farm where he sent me, he was only known by the name of rudolph." "and his age?" "he is still young, madame." "and handsome?" "oh, yes! handsome, noble--as his heart." the grateful, feeling manner with which fleur-de-marie pronounced these words, caused a disagreeable sensation to madame d'harville. an invincible, an inexplicable presentiment told her that this rudolph was the prince. "the observations of the inspectress were well founded," thought clemence. "the goualeuse loves rudolph; it was his name she pronounced in her sleep. under what strange circumstances had the prince and this poor girl met? why did rudolph go disguised into the city?" she could not resolve these questions; only she remembered that sarah had formerly, wickedly and falsely, related to her some pretended eccentricities of rudolph, and of his strange amours. was it not, indeed, strange that he had taken from a life of misery this creature, of ravishing beauty and of no common mind? clemence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and she loved rudolph profoundly, although she had determined to bury this secret in the very depths of her heart. without reflecting that this, no doubt, was one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to do secretly; without reflecting that, perhaps, she confounded with love a sentiment of warm gratitude; without reflecting, finally, that of this sentiment, even if it were more tender, rudolph might be ignorant, the lady, in the first feeling of bitterness and injustice, could not prevent herself considering the goualeuse as a rival. her pride revolted in feeling that she blushed; that she suffered, in spite of herself, at a rivalry so abject. she resumed, then, in a cold manner, which cruelly contrasted with the affectionate benevolence of her first words, "and how is it, girl, that your protector leaves you in prison? how did you get here?" "madame," said fleur-de-marie, timidly, struck with this change of language: "have i displeased you in any way?" "how could you have displeased me?" demanded madame d'harville, with haughtiness. "it seems to me that just now you spoke to me with more kindness, madame." "truly, girl, must i weigh each of my words, since i consent to interest myself in you? i have the right, i think, to address you questions?" hardly were these words pronounced than clemence, for many reasons, regretted their severity. in the first place, by a praiseworthy return of generosity; then because she thought, by offending her rival, she could learn nothing more of what she wished to know. in effect, the countenance of la goualeuse, one moment open and confiding, became instantly reserved. like the sensitive plant, which at the first touch closes its delicate leaves, and folds them within its bosom, the heart of fleur-de-marie contracted painfully. clemence resumed gently, not to awaken the suspicions of her _protegee_ by too sudden a change. "in truth, i repeat to you, i cannot comprehend that, having so much to praise in your benefactor, you should be a prisoner here; how, after having sincerely returned to the paths of rectitude, could you cause yourself to be arrested in a place to you interdicted? all this seems to me extraordinary. you speak of an oath which so far has imposed silence upon you; but this oath even is so strange!" "i have told the truth, madame." "i am sure of it; one has only to see and hear you to believe you incapable of a falsehood. but, what is incomprehensible in your situation, augments, irritates my impatient curiosity; it is only to that that you must attribute the sharpness of my words just now. come, i avow i was wrong; for, although i had no other right to your confidence than my earnest wish to be useful to you, you have offered to tell me that which you have told to no one, and i am very sensible, believe me, my poor child, of this proof of your faith in the interest i have for you. hence, i promise you, in guarding scrupulously your secret, if you confide it to me, i will do all in my power to meet your wishes." thanks to this palliating speech, madame d'harville regained the confidence of la goualeuse, for a moment impaired. fleur-de-marie, in her innocence, reproached herself for having misinterpreted the words which had wounded her. "pardon me, madame," said she; "i was doubtless wrong not to tell you at once what you wished to know; but you asked me the name of my rescuer; in spite of myself, i cannot resist the pleasure of speaking of him." "nothing is better; it proves how grateful you are toward him. but why have you left the good people with whom he had placed you? does your oath have reference to this?" "yes, madame; but thanks to you, i believe now, still keeping my word, i shall be able to satisfy my benefactors as to my disappearance." "come, my poor child, i listen." "it is about three months since m. rudolph placed me at a farm situated four or five leagues hence." "he conducted you there himself?" "yes, madame; he confided me to the care of a lady as good as she was venerable, whom i soon loved as a mother. she and the cure of the village, at the request of m. rudolph, took charge of my education." "and m. rudolph often came to the farm?" "no, madame; he came there only three times while i was there." clemence could not conceal a thrill of joy. "and when he came to see you, it made you very happy, did it not?" "oh, yes, madame! it was for me more than happiness: it was a sentiment mixed with gratitude, respect, admiration, and even a little fear." "fear!" "from him to me--from him to others--the distance is so great!" "but what is his rank?" "i am ignorant if he has any rank, madame." "yet you speak of the distance which exists between him and others." "oh, madame! that which places him above the rest of the world is the elevation of his character--his inexhaustible generosity for those who suffer; it is the enthusiasm with which he inspires everybody. the wicked even cannot hear his name without trembling; they respect him as much as they fear him. but pardon me, madame, for having again spoken of him--i ought to be silent; for i should give you but an imperfect idea of him whom i ought to content myself with adoring to myself. as well attempt to express by words the grandeur of heaven! this comparison is perhaps sacrilegious, madame. but will it offend to compare to goodness itself the man who has given me a consciousness of good and evil--who has dragged me from the abyss--to whom i owe a new existence?" "i do not blame you, my child; i comprehend your feelings. but how have you abandoned this farm, where you were so happy?" "alas, it was not voluntary, madame!" "who forced you, then?" "one night, a short time since," said fleur-de-marie, trembling at the recital, "i went to the parsonage of the village, when a wicked woman, who had treated me cruelly in my childhood, and a man, her accomplice, who was concealed with her in a ravine, threw themselves upon me, wrapped me up, and carried me off in a carriage." "for what purpose?" "i do not know, madame. my waylayers were acting, i think, under the orders of some powerful persons." "what then ensued?" "hardly had the vehicle moved, than the bad woman, whose name was la chouette (screech-owl), cried, 'i have got some vitriol; i am going to wash the face of la goualeuse, to disfigure her.'" "how horrid! unfortunate child! what saved you from that danger?" "the accomplice of this woman, a blind man, called the schoolmaster." "he defended you?" "yes, madame, on this occasion and on another. this time a struggle ensued between him and la chouette. availing himself of his strength, he forced her to throw out of the window the bottle which contained the vitriol. this was the first service he rendered me, after having assisted in carrying me off. the night was very dark. at the end of an hour and a half the carriage stopped, i believe on the high road which crosses the plain of saint denis; a man on horseback waited for us here. 'well,' said he, 'have you got her at last?' 'yes, we have her,' answered la chouette, who was furious at having been prevented from disfiguring me. 'if you wish to get rid of this little thing there is a good way; i will stretch her on the road--drive the wheels of the carriage over her head--it will look as if she was run over by accident.'" "oh, this is frightful!" "alas, madame! la chouette was well capable of doing what she said. happily, the man on horseback said that he did not wish to harm me; that it was only necessary to keep me shut up for two months in some place where i could neither get out nor write to any one. then la chouette proposed to take me to a man called bras-rouge, who kept a tavern in the champs elysees. in this tavern there were several subterranean chambers; one of them, la chouette said, could answer for my prison. the man on horseback accepted this proposition. then he promised me that, after remaining two months with bras-rouge, i should be so provided for that i would not regret the farm at bouqueval." "what a strange mystery!" "this man gave some money to la chouette, promising her some more when i should be taken from bras-rouge, and set out on a gallop. we continued our route toward paris. a short time before we arrived at the gates, the schoolmaster said to la chouette, 'you wish to shut up la goualeuse in one of bras-rouge's cellars; you know very well that, being near the river, these cellars in winter are always inundated. do you wish to drown her?' 'yes,' answered la chouette." "but what had you done to this horrible woman?" "nothing, madame: and yet, since my infancy, she has always shown this feeling toward me. the schoolmaster answered, 'i will not have the goualeuse drowned; she shall not go to bras-rouge.' la chouette was as much surprised as i was, madame, to hear this man defend me thus. she became furious, and swore that she would take me to bras-rouge in spite of him. 'i defy you,' said he,' for i have la goualeuse by the arm; i will not let her go, and i'll strangle you if you come near her.' but what do you mean to do with her?' cried la chouette, 'since she must be put out of the way for two months.' 'there is a way,' said the schoolmaster; 'we are going to the champs elysees; we will stop the carriage near the guard-house; you will go and look for bras-rouge at his tavern. it is midnight; you will find him there; bring him with you; he will take la goualeuse to the post, and declare she is a gay girl, whom he found near his tavern. as they are condemned to three months' imprisonment when they are caught on the champs elysees, and goualeuse is still on the police lists, she will be arrested, and sent to saint lazare, where she will be as well guarded and concealed as in the cellar of bras-rouge.' 'but,' replied la chouette, 'the goualeuse will not suffer herself to be arrested; once at the guard-house, she will tell all, she will denounce us. supposing, even, that she is imprisoned, she will write to her protectors; all will be discovered.' 'no, she will go to prison willingly,' answered the school-master; 'she must swear that she will not denounce us to any one as long as she remains at saint lazare, nor afterward either. she owes as much to me, for i have prevented her being disfigured by you, and drowned at bras-rouge's; but if after having sworn not to speak, she should do it, we will set the farm at bouqueval a-fire.' then, addressing me, he said, 'decide! swear the oath i ask, you shall go to prison for two months; otherwise i abandon you to la chouette, who will take you to the cellar, where you'll be drowned. come, decide. i know if you swear you will keep your oath.'" "and you have sworn?" "alas! yes, madame; i feared so much to be disfigured by la chouette, or to be drowned in a cellar; that appeared to me so frightful. any other kind of death would nave appeared less fearful. i should not, perhaps, have endeavored to escape." "what a gloomy idea at your age!" said madame d'harville, looking at la goualeuse with surprise. "once away from this place, returned to your benefactors, will you not be very happy? has not your repentance effaced the past?" "can the past be effaced? can the past be forgotten? can repentance destroy the memory, madame?" cried fleur-de-marie, in a tone so despairing that clemence shuddered. "but all faults can be redeemed, unhappy child!" "but the recollection of the stain--madame, does it not become more and more terrible in measure as the mind is purified, as the soul becomes elevated? alas! the more you mount the deeper appears the abyss from which you have emerged." "then you renounce all hope of re-establishment and pardon?" "on the part of others--no, madame; your goodness proves that indulgence is never wanting to the penitent." "you will, then, be the only one without pity toward yourself?" "others may be ignorant, may pardon and forget what i have been. i, madame, never can forget."' "and sometimes you wish to die?" "sometimes!" said la goualeuse, smiling bitterly, "yes, madame, sometimes." "yet you feared to be disfigured by that horrible woman? you cling to your beauty, then, poor child? that announces that life has some charms for you. courage, then--courage!" "it is, perhaps, a weakness to think so; but if i were handsome, as you say, madame, i should wish to die handsome, in pronouncing the name of my benefactor." the eyes of madame d'harville filled with tears. fleur-de-marie had said these words so simply; her angelic features, pale and cast down, her mournful smile, were so much in unison with her words, that no one could doubt the reality of her gloomy desire. madame d'harville was endowed with too much sensibility not to feel what was fatal and inflexible in this thought of la goualeuse-_ "i shall never forget what i have been" _--a fixed, constant idea, which would predominate and torture the life of fleur-de-marie. clemence, ashamed at having for a moment misunderstood the generosity, always so disinterested, of the prince, also regretted that she should have had for a moment a feeling of jealousy toward la goualeuse, who had expressed, with so much warmth, her gratitude toward her protector. strange thing--the admiration which this poor prisoner showed so vividly for rudolph, augmented, perhaps, still more the profound love which clemence was forever to conceal from him. she resumed, to drive away her thoughts: "i hope that, in future, you will be less severe toward yourself. but let us speak of your oath; now i can understand your silence. you did not wish to denounce the wretches?" "although the schoolmaster took part in my abduction, he had twice defended me--i was afraid of being ungrateful toward him." "and you lent yourself to the designs of these monsters?" "yes, madame, i was so much alarmed! la chouette went to seek bras-rouge; he took me to the guard-house, saying he found me roving about his inn; i did not deny it; i was arrested, and brought here." "but your friends at the farm must be very much alarmed." "alas, madame, in my fright i did not reflect that my oath would prevent me from informing them; now it gives me much pain, but i believe that, without breaking my oath, i can beg you to write to madame george, at the farm of bouqueval, to have no uneasiness about me, without telling her where i am, for i have promised to be silent." "my child, these precautions will become useless if, at my recommendation, you are pardoned; to-morrow you shall return to the farm, without having broken your oath; you can then consult your benefactors, to know how far you are restricted by this oath, drawn from you by threats." "you think, madame, that, thanks to your kindness, i can hope to leave here soon?" "you deserve so much interest, that i shall succeed, i am sure, and i doubt not that after to-morrow you can go yourself to reassure your benefactors." "how can i have merited so much kindness on your ladyship's part? how can i show my gratitude?" "by continuing to conduct yourself as you have done. i only regret i can do nothing for your future welfare-it is a pleasure that your friends have reserved." madame armand entered suddenly, with an alarmed air. "madame," said she to clemence, with hesitation, "i am grieved at the message i have to deliver to you." "what do you mean to say, madame?" "the duke de lucenay is below-he comes from your house, madame." "you frighten me; what is it?" "i am ignorant, madame, but m. de lucenay has information for you, he says, as sad, as it was unforeseen. he learned at his wife's that you were here and he came in all haste." "sad news!" said madame d'harville. then suddenly she cried in a heart-rending tone, "my daughter-my child, perhaps! oh, speak, madame!" "i am ignorant, madame." "oh! in mercy, madame, take me to m. de lucenay," cried madame d'harville, going out, quite bewildered, and followed by madame armand. "poor mother!" said the gonaleuse, sadly; "oh, now, it is impossible! at the moment even when she was showing so much benevolence toward me, such a blow to fall! no, no-once more, it is impossible!" chapter xvii. a forged intimacy. we will conduct the reader to the house in the rue du temple, the day of the suicide of m. d'harville, about three o'clock in the afternoon. pipelet, the porter, alone in the lodge, was occupied in mending a boot. the chaste porter was dejected and melancholy. as a soldier, in the humiliation of his defeat, passes his hand sadly over his scars, pipelet breathed a profound sigh, stopped his work, and moved his trembling finger over the transverse fracture of his huge hat, made by an insolent hand. then all the chagrin, inquietude, and fears of alfred pipelet were awakened in thinking of the inconceivable and incessant pursuits of the author. pipelet had not a very extended or elevated mind; his imagination was not the most lively nor the most poetical, but he possessed a very solid, very logical, very common sense. cabrion, a painter, formerly a tenant, had seen fit to make the porter a butt of the most audacious practical jokes, inundating him with caricatures, laughable labels, and startling appearances before his unexpectant appalled sight. unfortunately, by a natural consequence of the rectitude of his judgment, not being able to comprehend practical jokes, pipelet endeavored to find some reasonable motive for the outrageous conduct of cabrion, and on this subject he posed himself with a thousand insoluble questions. thus, sometimes, a new paschal, he felt himself seized with a vertigo in trying to sound the bottomless abyss which the infernal genius of the painter had dug under his feet. how many times, in the overflowings of his imagination, he had been forced to commune within himself thanks to the frenzied skepticism of madame pipelet, who, only looking at facts, and disdaining to seek after causes, grossly considered the incomprehensible conduct of cabrion toward alfred as simple comicality. pipelet, a serious man, could not admit of such an interpretation; he groaned at the blindness of his wife; his dignity as a man revolted at the thought that he could be the plaything of a combination so vulgar as a _lark!_ he was absolutely convinced that the unheard-of conduct of cabriori concealed some mysterious plot under a frivolous appearance. it was to solve this fatal problem that the man in the big hat exhausted his powerful logic. "i would sooner lay my head on the scaffold," said this austere man, who, as soon as he touched them, increased immensely the importance of any propositions. "i would sooner lay my head upon the scaffold than admit that, in the mere intention of a stupid pleasantry, cabrion could be so obstinately exasperated against me; a _farce_ is only played for the gallery. now, in his last undertaking, this obnoxious creature had no witness; he acted alone and in obscurity, as always; he clandestinely introduced himself into the solitude of my lodge to deposit on my forehead a hideous kiss! i ask any disinterested person, for what purpose? it was not from bravado--no one saw him; it was not from pleasure--the laws of nature opposed it; it was not from friendship--i have but one enemy in the world--it is he. it must, then, be acknowledged that there is a mystery there which my reason cannot penetrate! then to what does this diabolical plot, concerted and pursued with a persistence which alarms me, tend? that i cannot comprehend: it is this impossibility to raise the veil, which, by degrees, is undermining and consuming me." such were the painful reflections of pipelet at the moment when we present him to our readers. the honest porter had just torn open his bleeding wounds, by carry--his hand mechanically to the fracture of his hat, when a piercing voice, coming from one of the upper stories of the house, made these words resound again: "mr. pipelet, quick! quick! come up! make haste!" "i do not know that voice," said alfred, after a moment of anxious listening, and he let his arm, inclosed in the boot he was mending, fall on his knees. "mr. pipelet! make haste!" repeated the voice, in a pressing tone. "that voice is completely strange to me. it is masculine; it calls me, that i can affirm. it is not a sufficient reason that i should abandon my lodge. leave it--desert it in the absence of my wife--never!" cried alfred, heroically, "never!" "mr. pipelet," said the voice, "come up quick, mrs. pipelet is off in a swoon." "anastasia!" cried alfred, rising from his seat: then be fell back again, saying to himself, "child that i am--it is impossible; my wife went out an hour ago. yes, but might she not have returned without my seeing her? this would be rather irregular; but i must declare that it is possible." "mr. pipelet, come up; i have your wife in my arms!" "some one has my wife in their arms!" said pipelet, rising abruptly. "i cannot unlace mrs. pipelet all alone!" added the voice. these words produced a magical effect upon alfred: his face flushed, his chastity revolted. "the masculine and unknown voice speaks of unlacing anastasia!" cried he: "i oppose it, i forbid it!" and he rushed out of the lodge; but on the threshold he stopped. pipelet found himself in one of those horribly critical, and eminently dramatical positions, so often described by poets. on the one hand, duty retained him in his lodge: on the other, his chaste and conjugal susceptibility called him to the upper stories of the house. in the midst of these terrible perplexities, the voice said: "you don't come, mr. pipelet? so much the worse--i cut the strings, and i shut my eyes!" this threat decided pipelet. "mossieur!" cried he, in a stentorian voice, "in the name of honor i conjure you to cut nothing--to leave my wife intact! i come!" and alfred rushed upstairs, leaving, in his alarm, the door of the lodge open. hardly had he left it, than a man entered quickly, took from the table a hammer, jumped on the bed, at the back part of the obscure alcove, and vanished. this operation was done so quickly, that the porter, remembering almost immediately that he had left the door open, returned precipitately, shut it, and carried off the key, without suspecting that any one could have entered in this interval. after this measure of precaution, alfred started again to the assistance of anastasia, crying, with all his strength, "cut nothing--i am coming-- here i am--i place my wife under the safeguard of your delicacy!" hardly had he mounted the first flight, before he heard the voice of anastasia, not from the upper story, but in the alley. the voice, shriller than ever cried, "alfred! here you leave the lodge alone! where are you, old gadabout?" at this moment, pipelet was about placing his right foot on the landing-place of the first story; he remained petrified, his head turned toward the bottom of the stairs, his mouth open, his eyes fixed, his foot raised. "alfred!" cried mrs. pipelet anew. "anastasia is below--she is not above, occupied in being sick," said pipelet to himself, faithful to his logical argumentation. "but then this unknown and masculine voice, who threatened to unlace her, is an impostor. he has been playing a cruel game with my emotions! what is his design? there is something extraordinary going on here! no matter: do your duty, happen what may! after having responded to my wife, i shall mount to enlighten this mystery and verify this voice." pipelet descended, very much troubled, and found himself face to face with his wife. "it is you?" said he. "well! yes, it is me; who would you have it to be?" "it is you--my eyes do not deceive me!" "ah, now! what is the matter, that makes your big eyes look like billiard balls? you look at me as if you were going to eat me." "your presence reveals to me that something has been passing here-- things--" "what things? come, give me the key of the lodge; why do you leave it? i come from the office of the normandy diligences, where i went in a hack, to carry the trunk of m. bradamanti, who did not wish it to be known that he was about to leave town to-night, and who could not depend on that little scoundrel tortillard (hoppy)--and he is right!" saying these words, mrs. pipelet took the key, which her husband held in his hand, opened the lodge, and went in before her husband. hardly had they entered, when a person, descending the staircase lightly, passed rapidly and unperceived before the lodge. it was the "masculine voice" which had so deeply excited the inquietudes of alfred. pipelet rested himself heavily on his chair, and said to his wife in a trembling voice, "anastasia, i do not feel at my accustomed ease; things occurring here--events--" "now you repeat that again; but things occur everywhere; what is the matter? come, let us see--why, you are all wet--all in a perspiration! what effort have you been making? he's all a-trickling--the old darling!" "yes, i perspire, as i have reason to;" pipelet passed his hand over his face, dripping with moisture; "for there are regular revolutionary events passing here." "again i ask, what is it? you never can remain quiet. you must always be trotting about like a cat, instead of remaining in your chair to take care of the lodge." "if i trot, it is for you." "for me?" "yes; to spare you an outrage for which we both should have groaned and blushed, i have deserted a post which i consider as sacred as the sentry-box." "some one wished to commit an outrage on me--on me!" "it was not on you, since the outrage of which you were threatened was to have been accomplished upstairs, and you were gone out--" "may old harry run away with me, if i understand a single word of what you are singing there. ah, ah! is it that you are decidedly losing your noddle? i shall begin to think that you are absent-minded--the fault of that beggarly cabrion! since his games of the other day, i don't know you; you look struck all of a heap. that being will be always your nightmare." hardly had anastasia pronounced the words than a strange thing came to pass. alfred remained sitting, his face turned toward the bed. the lodge was lighted by the sickly light of a winter's day, and by a lamp. at the moment his wife pronounced the name cabrion, pipelet thought he saw in the shade of the alcove the immovable, cunning face of the painter. it was he, his pointed hat, long hair, thin face, satanic smile, queer beard, and paralyzing gaze. for a moment, pipelet thought himself in a dream; he passed his hand over his eyes, believing that he was the victim of an illusion. it was not an illusion. nothing could be more real than this apparition. frightful thing! nobody could be seen, but only a head, of which the living flesh stood out in bold relief from the obscurity of the alcove. at this sight pipelet fell over backward, without saying a word; he raised his right arm toward the bed, and pointed at this terrible vision, with a gesture so alarming, that mrs. pipelet turned to seek the cause of an alarm of which she soon partook, in spite of her habitual courage. she recoiled two steps, seized with force the hand of alfred, and cried, "cabrion!" "yes," murmured pipelet, in a hollow voice, almost extinct, shutting his eyes. the stupor of the pair paid the greatest honor to the talent of the artist who had so admirably painted on the pasteboard the features of cabrion. her first surprise over, anastasia, as bold as a lion, ran to the bed, got on it, and tore the picture from the wall. the amazon crowned this valiant enterprise by shouting, as a war-cry, her favorite exclamation, "go ahead!" alfred, with his eyes closed, his hands stretched forth, remained immovable, as he had always been accustomed to do in the critical moments of his life. the convulsive oscillations of his hat alone revealed, from time to time, the continued violence of his interior emotions. "open your eyes, old darling," said mrs. pipelet, triumphantly; "it's nothing! it's a picture; the portrait of that scoundrel cabrion! look, see how i stamp upon him!" and anastasia, in her indignation, threw the picture on the ground, and trampled it under her feet, crying, "that's the way i would like to treat his flesh and bones, the wretch!" then picking it up, "see!" said she, "now it has my marks; look now!" alfred shook his head negatively, without saying a word, and making a sign to his wife to take away the detested picture. "has ever any one seen such impudence? this is not all; he has written at the bottom, in red letters, 'cabrion, to his good friend pipelet, for life,'" said the portress, examining the picture by the light. "his good friend for life!" murmured alfred; raising his hands as if to call heaven to witness this new outrageous irony. [illustration: louise in prison] "but how could he do it?" said anastasia. "this portrait was not there this morning when i made the bed, very sure. you took the key with you just now: nobody could have entered while you were absent? how, then, once more, could this portrait get there? could it be you, by chance, who put it there, old darling?" at this monstrous hypothesis, alfred bounced from his seat; he opened his eyes wide and threatening. "i fasten in my alcove the portrait of this evil-doer, who, not content with persecuting me by his odious presence, pursues me at night in my dreams--the daytime in a picture! would you make me mad, anastasia? mad enough to be chained?" "well! for the sake of making peace, you might have agreed with cabrion during my absence. where would be the great harm?" "i make up with--oh, merciful powers! you hear her?" "and then, he might have given you his portrait, as a pledge of friendship. if this is so, do not deny it." "anastasia!" "if this is so, it must be confessed you are as capricious as a pretty woman." "wife!" "in short, it must have been you who placed the portrait!" "i--oh!" "but who is it then?" "you, madame." "i!" "yes," cried pipelet wildly, "it is you; i have reason to believe it is you. this morning, having my back turned toward the bed i could see nothing." "but, old darling, i tell you it must be you, otherwise i shall think it was the devil." "i have not left the lodge, and when i went upstairs to answer to the call of the masculine organ, i had the key; the door was shut. you opened it; deny that!" "ma foi; it is true!" "you confess, then?" "i confess that i comprehend nothing. it's a game, and it is prettily played." "a game!" cried pipelet, carried away by frenzied indignation. "ah! there you are again! i tell you, i, that all this conceals some abominable plot; there is something under all this--a plot. the abyss is hidden under flowers--they try to stun me to prevent my seeing the precipice from which they wish to plunge me. it only remains for me to place myself under the protection of the laws. happily, the lord is on our side;" and pipelet turned toward the door, "where are you going, old darling?" "to the commissary's, to lodge my complaint, and this portrait as proof of the persecutions i am overwhelmed with." "but what will you complain of?" "what will i complain of? how! my most inveterate enemy shall find means by proceeding fraudulently to force me to have his portrait in my house, even on my nuptial bed, and the magistrates will not take me under the aegis? give me the portrait, anastasia--give it to me--not the side where the painting is, the sight revolts me! the traitor cannot deny it; it is in his hand; cabrion to his good friend pipelet, for life. for life! yes, that's it; for my life, without doubt, he pursues me, and he will finish by having it. i live in continual alarm: i shall think that this infernal being is here, always here-- under the floor, in the walls, in the ceiling! at night he sees me reposing in the arms of my wife; in the daytime he is standing behind me, always with his satanic smile; and who will tell me that even at this moment he is not here, concealed somewhere, like a venomous insect? come, now! are you there, monster? are you here?" cried pipelet, accompanying this furious imprecation with a circular movement of the head, as if he had wished to interrogate all parts of the lodge. "i am here, good friend!" said most affectionately the well-known voice of cabrion. these words seemed to come from the bottom of the alcove, merely from the effects of ventriloquism; for the infernal artist was standing outside the door of the lodge, enjoying the smallest details of this scene; however, after having pronounced these last words, he prudently made off, not without leaving, as we shall see, a new subject of rage, astonishment, and meditation to his victim. mrs. pipelet, always courageous and skeptical, looked under the bed, and in every hole and corner, without success, while m. pipelet, undone by the last blow, had fallen on the chair in a state of utter despair. "it's nothing, alfred," said anastasia; "the scoundrel was concealed behind the door, and while i looked one way, he escaped the other. patience, i'll catch him one of these days, and then, let him look out! he shall taste the handle of my broom!" the door opened, and mrs. seraphin, housekeeper of jacques ferrand, entered. "good-day, mrs. seraphin," said mrs. pipelet, who, wishing to conceal from a stranger her domestic sorrows, assumed a very gracious and smiling air; "what can i do to serve you?" "first, tell me, then, what is your new sign?" "new sign?" "the little sign." "a little sign?" "yes, black with red letters, which is nailed over the door of your alley." "in the street?" "why, yes, in the street, just over your door." "my dear mrs. seraphin, may i never speak again, if i understand a word; and you, old darling?" alfred remained dumb. "in truth, it concerns mr. pipelet," said mrs. seraphin; "he must explain this to me." alfred uttered a sort of low, inarticulate groan, shaking his hat, a pantomime signifying that alfred found himself incapable of explaining anything to others, being sufficiently preoccupied with an infinity of problems, each one more difficult of solution than the other. "pay no attention, mrs. seraphin," said anastasia. "poor alfred has got the cramp; that makes him--" "but what is this sign, then, of which you speak?" "perhaps our neighbor--" "no, no; i tell you it is a little sign nailed over your door." "come, you want to joke." "not at all; i saw it as i came in. there is written on it in large letters, 'pipelet and cabrion, dealers in friendship, etc. apply within.'" "that's written over our door, do you hear, alfred?" pipelet looked at mrs. seraphin with a wild stare. he did not comprehend; he did not wish to comprehend. "it is in the street--on a sign!" repeated mrs. pipelet, confounded at this new audacity. "yes, for i have just read it. then i said to myself, 'what a funny thing! pipelet is a cobbler by trade, and he informs the passer-by that he is engaged in a _commerce d'amitie_ with cabrion. what does it signify? there is something concealed, it is clear; but as the sign says inquire within, mrs. pipelet will explain it." "but look there," cried mrs. seraphin, suddenly, "your husband looks as if he was sick; take care, he will fall backward!" mrs. pipelet received alfred in her arms, in a fainting state. this last blow had been too violent; the man nearly lost all consciousness as he pronounced these words: "the creature has publicly posted me." "i told you, mrs. seraphin, alfred has the cramp, without speaking of an unchained blackguard, who undermines him with his sorry tricks. the poor old darling cannot resist it! happily, i have a drop of bitters here; probably it will put him on his legs." in fact, thanks to the infallible remedy of mrs. pipelet, alfred by degrees recovered his senses; but, alas! hardly had he come to, than he had to undergo another trial. a middle-aged person, neatly dressed, and with a pleasing face, opened the door, and said, "i have just seen on a sign placed over this door, 'pipelet and cabrion, dealers in friendship.' can you, if you please, do me the honor to inform me what this means--you being the porter of this house?" "what this means!" cried pipelet in a thundering voice, giving vent to his indignation, too long suppressed; "this means that mr. cabrion is an infamous impostor, sir!" the man, at this sudden and furious explosion, drew back a step. alfred, much exasperated, with a fiery look and purple face, had stretched his body half out of the lodge, and leaned his contracted hands on the lower half of the door, while the figures of mrs. seraphin and anastasia could be vaguely seen in the background, in the semi-obscure light of the lodge. "learn, sir," cried pipelet, "that i have no dealings with this scoundrel cabrion, and that of friendship still less than any other!" "it is true; and you must be very queer, old noodle that you are to come and ask such a question," cried madame pipelet, sharply, showing her quarrelsome face over the shoulder of her husband. "madame!" said the man sententiously, falling back another step, "notices are made to be read; you put them up, i read; i have the right to do so, but you have no right to say such rude things." "rude things yourself, you beggarly wretch!" replied anastasia, showing her teeth. "you are a low-bred fellow. alfred, your boot-tree, till i take the length of his muzzle, to teach him to come and play the joe miller at his age, old clown!" "insults when one comes to ask the meaning of a notice placed over your own door? it shall not pass over in this way, madame!" "but, sir!" cried the unhappy porter. "but, sir," answered the quiz, pretending to be angry, "be as friendly as you please with your mr. cabrion, but zounds! don't stick it in large letters under the noses of the passers-by! i find myself under the necessity of telling you that you are a pitiful wretch, and that i shall go and make my complaint to the authorities!" and the quiz departed in a great rage. "anastasia!" said mr. pipelet, in a sorrowful tone, "i shall not survive this, i feel it; i am wounded to death. i have no hope of escaping him. you see, my name is publicly stuck up alongside of this wretch. he dares to say that i have a friendly trade with him, and the public will believe it. i inform you--i say it--i communicate it; it is monstrous, it is enormous it is an infernal idea: but it must finish; the measure is full; either he or i must fall in this struggle!" and, overcoming his habitual apathy, pipelet, determined on a vigorous resolution, seized the portrait of cabrion, and rushed toward the door. "where are you going to, alfred?" "to the commissary's. at the same time i am going to tear down this infamous sign; then with this portrait and this sign in my hand, i will cry to the commissary, 'defend me! avenge me! deliver me from cabrion!'" "well said, old darling; stir yourself, shake yourself; if you cannot get the sign down, ask the next door to help you, and lend you his ladder." "rascally cabrion! oh, if i had him, and i could do it, i'd fry him on my stove. i should like so much to see him suffer. yes, people are guillotined who do not deserve it as much as he does. the wretch! i should like to see him on the scaffold, the villain!" alfred showed under these circumstances the most sublime equanimity. notwithstanding his great causes of revenge against cabrion, he had the generosity to feel sentiments akin to pity for him. "no," said he; "no; even if i could, i would not ask for his head." "as for me, i would. go do it!" cried the ferocious anastasia. "no," replied alfred; "i do not like blood; but i have a right to claim the perpetual seclusion of this evil-doer; my repose requires it; my health commands it; the law accords me this reparation; otherwise, i leave la france--ma belle france! that is what they'll gain!" and alfred, swallowed up in his grief, walked majestically out of the lodge, like one of those imposing victims of ancient fatality. chapter xviii. cecily. before we relate the conversation between mrs. seraphin and mrs. pipelet, we will inform the reader that anastasia, without suspecting the least in the world the virtue and devotion of the notary, blamed extremely the severity he had shown toward louise morel and germain. naturally she included mrs. seraphin in her reprobation; but like a skillful politician, for reasons which we will show by and by, she concealed her feeling for the housekeeper under a most cordial reception. after having formally disapproved of the unworthy conduct of cabrion, mrs. seraphin added, "what has become of m. bradamanti (polidori)? last night i wrote to him--no answer; this morning i came to find him--no one. i hope this time i shall be more fortunate." mrs. pipelet feigned to be very much vexed. "ah!" cried she, "you must have bad luck." "how?" "m. bradamanti has not come in." "it is insupportable!" "it is vexing, my poor mrs. seraphin!" "i have so much to say to him." "it is just like fate." "so much the more, as i have to invent so many pretexts for coming here; for if m. ferrand ever suspected that i knew a quack, he being so devout and scrupulous, you can judge of the scene." "just like alfred. he is so prudish, that he is startled at everything." "and you do not know when bradamanti will come in?" "he made an appointment for six or seven o'clock in the evening, for he told me to say to the person to call again if he had not returned. come back this evening, you will be sure to find him." anastasia added to herself: "you can count on this: in one hour he will be on the road to normandy." "i will return then to-night," said mrs. seraphin, much annoyed; "but i have something else to say to you, my dear mrs. pipelet. you know what has happened to this wench of a louise, whom every one thought so virtuous?" "don't speak of it," answered mrs. pipelet, raising her eyes with compunction, "it makes my hair stand on end." "i want to tell you that we have no servant; and that if by chance you should hear a girl spoken of, virtuous, hard-working, honest, you will be very kind if you will address her to me. good subjects are so difficult to find, that one has to look on all sides for them." "be quite easy, mrs. seraphin. if i hear of any one, i will inform you. good places are as difficult to find as good subjects;" then she added mentally, "very likely i'd send you a poor girl to be starved to death in your hovel! your master is too miserly and too wicked--to denounce, in one breath, poor louise and poor m. germain." "i need not tell you," said mrs. seraphin, "how quiet our house is; a girl gains much by getting there, and this louise must have been an incarnate imp to have turned out so bad, notwithstanding all the good and holy advice m. ferrand gave her." "certainly, so depend upon me; if i hear any one spoken of that i think will answer, i will send them to you." "there is one thing more," said mrs. seraphin; "m. ferrand prefers that this servant should have no family, because, you comprehend, having no occasion to go out, she will run less risk; so, if by chance she could be found, monsieur would prefer an orphan, i suppose; in the first place, because it would be a good action, and then because, having no friends, she would have no pretext to go out. this miserable louise is a good lesson for him, my poor mrs. pipelet! that's what makes him so hard to please in the choice of a domestic. such a scandalous affair in a pious house like ours--how horrid! well, goodbye; to-night, when i go to see m. bradamanti, i'll call upon madame burette." "good-bye, mrs. seraphin--you will certainly see him to-night." mrs. seraphin took her departure. "isn't she crazy after bradamanti!" said mrs. pipelet. "what can she want with him? and wasn't he crazy for fear he should see her before he left for normandy? i was afraid she wouldn't go, as m. bradamanti expects the lady who came last night; i couldn't see her, but this time i'll try to unmask her. but who can this lady of m. bradamanti's be? a lady or a common woman? i'd like to know, for i am as curious as a magpie. it is not my fault--i'm made so. it is my character. ah, hold! an idea, a famous one too--to find out her name! i'll try it. but who comes there? ah! it is my prince of lodgers. hail, mr. rudolph," said mrs. pipelet, putting herself in the attitude of carrying arms, the back of her left hand to her wig. it was rudolph, as yet ignorant of the death of m. d'harville. "good-day, madame pipelet," said he on entering. "is mile. rigolette at home? i wish to speak to her." "the poor little puss is always at home at her work! does she ever take a holiday?" "and how is morel's wife? does she cheer up any?" "yes, mr. rudolph, many thanks to you, or to the protector of whom you are the agent, she and her children are so happy now! they are like fish _in_ water; they have fire, air, good beds, good food, a nurse to take care of them, without reckoning little rigolette, who working like a little beaver, without appearing to, keeps them under her eye? and, besides, a negro doctor has been to see them. mr. rudolph, i said to myself, 'ah! but this is the coalheaver doctor, this black man; he can feel their pulse without soiling his hands!' but never mind, color is skin deep; he seems to be a first-rate hand, all the same. he ordered a potion for madame morel, which relieved her at once." "poor woman, she must be very sad." "oh! yes, mr. rudolph, what else? her husband mad, and then her louise in prison. louise is her heart's grief; for an honest family it is terrible; and when i think that just now mother seraphin came here to say such things about her. if i had not a gudgeon to make her swallow, old seraphin would not have got off so easy, but for a quarter of an hour i gave her fair words. didn't she have the brass to come and ask me if i knew of any young body to take the place of louise, at that beggar of a notary's? ain't he close and miserly? just imagine, they want an orphan, if she can be found. do you know why, mr. rudolph? because she would never want to go out. but that is not it--trash, a lie! the truth is, that they want to get hold of a girl who, having no one to advise her, could be ground out of her wages at their pleasure. isn't it true?" "yes, yes," answered rudolph, in a thoughtful manner. learning that mrs. seraphin sought an orphan to take the place of louise, rudolph foresaw in this circumstance a means, perhaps certain of obtaining the punishment of the notary. while mrs. pipelet was speaking, he arranged in his mind the part a tool of his might play, as a principal instrument in the just punishment which he wished to inflict on the executioner of louise morel. "i was sure you would think as i did," said madame pipelet; "yes, i repeat it, and i would sooner die than send any one to them. am i not right, mr. rudolph?" "mrs. pipelet, will you render me a great service?" "lord o' mercy! mr. rudolph, do you wish me to throw myself across the fire, curl my wig with boiling oil? or would you prefer i should bite some one? speak, i am wholly yours! i and my heart are your slaves, except--" "make yourself easy, mrs. pipelet; this is not what i mean. i want a place for a young orphan. she is a stranger; she has never been at paris, and i wish to send her to m. ferrand's." "you suffocate me! how? in his barrack? to that old miser's?" "it is nevertheless a situation. if the girl should not like it, she can leave; but, at least, she will for the time earn her living, and i shall be easy on her account." "marry! mr. rudolph, it's your affair: you are warned. if, notwithstanding, you find the place good, you are the master; and, besides, i must be just--speaking of the notary--if there's something against, there's also something for him. he is as miserly as a dog, hard as an ass, bigoted as a sacristan, it is true; but he is as honest as one can be. he gives small wages, but he pays like a man. the food is bad. in fine, it is a house where one must work like a horse, but where there is no risk of a young girl's reputation. louise was an exception." "madame pipelet, i am going to confide a secret to your honor." "on the faith of anastasia pipelet, whose maiden name was galimard, as true as there is a holiness in heaven, and alfred wears only green coats, i shall be as dumb as a fish." "you must not say a word to mr. pipelet." "i swear it on the head of my old darling! if the motive is honest." "oh, mrs. pipelet!" "it is between ourselves, my prince of lodgers. go on." "the girl of whom i have spoken has committed a fault." "i twig! if i had not at fifteen married alfred, i should have perhaps committed fifty-hundreds of faults! i, that you see--i was a regular saltpeter mine unchained! happily, pipelet extinguished me in his virtue; without that i should have committed follies. if your girl has only committed one fault, there is yet some hope." "i think so also. the girl was a servant in germany, at one of my relatives'; the son of this relative has been the accomplice of the fault: you comprehend?" "whew! i comprehend-as if i had committed the _faux pas_ myself." "the mother drove away the servant; but the young man was mad enough to leave his paternal home, and bring this poor girl to paris." "oh, these young folks--" "after this came reflections--all the wiser as the money they had was all gone. my young relative called upon me; i consented to give him enough to return to his mother, but on condition that he should leave this girl here, and i would endeavor to place her." "i could not have done better for my own son, if pipelet had been pleased to grant me one." "i am enchanted with your approbation; only as the young girl has no recommendations, and is a stranger, it is very difficult to find a place. if you would tell mrs. seraphin that one of your relations in germany had addressed and recommended this young girl to you, and the notary would take her in his service, i should be doubly pleased. cecily--that is her name--having been only led astray, would be made correct, certainly, in a house so strict as that of the notary. it is for this reason i wish to see her enter the service of m. ferrand. i need not tell you that, presented by you--a person so respectable--" "oh! mr. rudolph--" "so estimable--" "oh, my prince of lodgers-" "she will be certainly accepted by madame seraphin; while, presented by me--" "understood! it is as if i presented a young man. oh, well! done! it suits me. stick old seraphin! so much the better! i have a bone to pick with her. i will answer for the affair, mr. rudolph! i'll make her see stars at noon. i'll tell her i had a cousin, ever so long ago, settle in germany, one of the galimards--my family name; that i have just received the news that she is defunct, her husband also, and that their daughter, now an orphan, will be on my hands immediately." "very well. you will take cecily yourself to m. ferrand, without saying anything more to mrs. seraphin. as it is twenty years since you have seen your cousin, you will have nothing to answer, except that since her departure for germany you have received no news from her." "ah, now! but if the young woman only jabbers german?" "she speaks french perfectly; i will give her her lesson; all you have to do is to recommend her strongly to mrs. seraphin; or, rather, i think, no--for she would suspect, perhaps, that you wished to force her. you know it suffices often merely to ask for a thing to have it refused." "to whom do you tell this? that's the way i always served cajolers. if they had asked nothing, i do not say--" "that always happens. you must say, then, that cecily is an orphan and a stranger, very young and very handsome; that she is going to be a heavy charge for you; that you feel but slight affection for her, as you had quarreled with your cousin, and that you are not much obliged for such a present as she has made you." "oh, my! how cunning you are. but be easy--we two'll fix the pair. i say, mr. rudolph, how we understand each other. when i think that if you had been of my age in the time when i was a train of powder--_ma foi_, i don't know--and you?" "hush! if mr. pipelet--" "oh, yes! poor dear man! you don't know a new infamy of cabrion's? but i will tell you directly. as to your young girl, be easy; i bet that i'll lead old seraphin to ask me to place my relation with them." "if you succeed, my dear mrs. pipelet, there is a hundred francs for you. i am not rich, but--" "do you mock at me, mr. rudolph? do you think i do this from interested feelings? it is pure friendship--a hundred francs!" "but remember that if i had this girl for a long time under my charge it would cost me more than that at the end of some months." "it is only to oblige you that i shall take the hundred francs, mr. rudolph; but it was a famous ticket in the lottery for us when you came to this house. i can cry from the roof, you are the prince of lodgers. holloa! a hack! it is doubtless the little lady for m. bradamanti. she came yesterday; i could not see her. i am going to trifle with her, to make her show her face; without counting that i have invented a way to find out her name. you'll see me work; it will amuse you." "no, no, mrs. pipelet, the name and face of this lady are of no importance to me," said rudolph, retreating to the back part of the lodge. "madame!" cried anastasia, rushing out before the lady who entered, "where are you going, madame?" "to m. bradamanti's," said the female, visibly annoyed at thus being stopped in the passage. "he is not at home." "it is impossible; i have an appointment with him." "he is not at home." "you are mistaken." "i am not mistaken at all," trying all the time to catch a glimpse of her face. "m. bradamanti has gone out, certainly gone out--very certainly gone out--that is to say, except for a lady." "well! it is i! you annoy me; let me pass." "your name, madame? i shall soon know if it is the person m. bradamanti told me to pass in. if you have not that name, you must step over my body before you shall enter." "he told you my name?" cried the lady, with as much surprise as inquietude. "yes, madame." "what imprudence!" murmured the lady; then, after a moment's pause, she added impatiently, in a low voice, as if she feared to be overheard, "well! i am lady d'orbigny!" at this name rudolph started. it was the stepmother of madame d'harville. instead of remaining in the shade he advanced; and, by the light of the day and the lamp, he easily recognized her, from the description clemence had more than once given him. "lady d'orbigny!" repeated mrs. pipelet, "that's the name; you can go up, madame." the step-mother of clemence passed rapidly before the lodge. "look at that!" cried the portress, in a triumphant manner; "gammoned the citizen! know her name--she is called d'orbigny; my means were not bad, mr. rudolph? but what is the matter? you are quite pensive!" "this lady has been here before?" asked rudolph. "yes, last night; as soon as she was gone, m. bradamanti went out, probably to take his place in the diligence for to-day; for on his return, last night, he begged me to go with his trunk to the office, as he could not depend upon that little devil tortillard." "and where is m. bradamanti going to? do you know?" "to normandy--to alencon." rudolph remembered that the estate of aubiers, where m. d'orbigny resided, was situated in normandy. there could be no doubt the quack was going to see the father of clemence for no good purpose. "it is the departure of m. bradamanti that will finely provoke old seraphin!" said madame pipelet. "she is like a mad wolf after m. cesar, who avoids her as much as he can; for he told me to conceal from her that he was going to leave to-night; thus, when she returns, she will find nobody at home! i'll profit by this to speak of your young woman. apropos, how is she called--ciec?" "cecely." "it is the same as if you said cecile with an _i_ at the end. all the same; i must put a piece of paper in my snuff-box to remember this name--cici--casi--cecily, good, i have it." "now i go to see mlle. rigolette," said rudolph; and, singularly preoccupied with the visit of madame d'orbigny to polidori, he ascended to the fourth story. chapter xix. rigolette's first grief. rigolette's chamber shone with coquettish nicety; a heavy silver watch, placed on the chimney, marked four o'clock; the very cold weather having passed, the economical workwoman had not put any fire in her stove. hardly could one see from the window any part of the sky, the rough, irregular mass of roofs, garrets, and high chimneys, on the other side of the street, forming the horizon. suddenly a ray of the sun, astray as it were, glancing between two high roofs, came to light up, for some moments, with its purple tints, the windows of the room. rigolette was working, seated near the casement, sewing, with her feet on a stool, placed before her. thus, as a noble amuses himself sometimes, through caprice, in concealing the walls of a cottage by the most splendid draperies, for a moment the setting sun illuminated the little apartment with a thousand sparkling fires, cast its golden rays on the gray and green chintz curtains, made the highly-polished furniture sparkle, the waxed floor to glisten like brass, and surrounded with gilded wire the bird-cage. but, alas! notwithstanding the provoking joyousness of this ray of the sun, its two canaries flew about with an unquiet air, and, contrary to custom, did not sing. it was because, contrary to custom, also, rigolette did not sing. none of the three warbled without the others. almost always the fresh and matinal song of one awoke the song of the others, who, more lazy, did not leave their nests at so early an hour. then it was a challenge, a contest of clear, sonorous, brilliant, silvery notes, in which the birds did not always have the advantage. rigolette sung no more, because, for the first time in her life, she experienced a _sorrow_. until then, the sight of the misery of the morels had often afflicted her, but such scenes are too familiar to the poorer classes to make any durable impression. after having each day assisted these unfortunates as much as was in her power, sincerely wept with them, and for them, the girl felt affected, yet satisfied; affected with their misfortunes, and satisfied with her conduct toward them. but this was no _sorrow_. soon the natural gayety of her character resumed its empire. and besides, without egotism, but from comparison, she found herself so happy in her little chamber, on leaving the horrible den of the morels, that her ephemeral sadness was soon dissipated. before we inform the reader of the cause of the first grief of rigolette, we wish to assure him completely as to the virtue of this young girl. we regret to use the word virtue--a grave, pompous, and solemn word, which always carries along with it ideas of a grievous sacrifice, of a painful contest with the passions, austere meditations on the end of things here below. such was not the virtue of rigolette. she had neither struggled nor meditated. she had worked, laughed, and sung. it depended on a question of time. she had no leisure to be in love. before all--gay, industrious, managing--order, work, gayety, had, unknown to her, defended, sustained, and saved her. perhaps this morality will be found light, easy, and joyous; but what matters the cause, provided the effect subsists? what matters the direction of the roots, if the flower blooms brilliant and perfumed. but let us descend from our utopian sphere, and return to the cause of rigolette's first grief. except germain, a good and serious young man, the neighbors of the grisette had taken, at first, her familiarity and neighborly kindness for very significant encouragement; but these gentlemen had been obliged to acknowledge, with as much surprise as vexation, that they found in rigolette an amiable and gay companion for their sunday recreations, a kind neighbor, and "nice little girl," but nothing more. their surprise and their vexation quailed by degrees to the frank and charming disposition of the grisette, and her neighbors were proud on sunday to have on their arm a pretty girl who did them honor (rigolette cared little for appearances), and who only cost the partaking of their modest pleasures, which her presence and sprightliness enhanced. besides, the dear girl was so easily contented; in the days of penury she dined so well and so gayly on a piece of hot cake, nipped with all the force of her little white teeth; after which she amused herself so much with a walk on the boulevards or streets. francois germain alone founded no foolish hopes on the girl's familiarity. either from penetration or delicacy of mind, he saw at once all that could be agreeable in the mode of living offered by rigolette. that which, of course, would happen, happened. he became desperately in love with his neighbor, without daring to speak of this love. far from imitating his predecessors, who, soon convinced of the vanity of their pursuits, had consoled themselves elsewhere, germain had deliciously enjoyed his intimacy with the girl, passing with her not only sundays, but every evening that he was not occupied. during these long hours, rigolette had conducted herself, as always, lively and gay; germain tender, attentive, serious, and often a little melancholy. this sadness was the only inconvenience; for his manners, naturally uncommon, could not be compared to the ridiculous pretensions of girandeau, the traveling clerk, nor to the noisy eccentricities of cabrion; m. girandeau by his inexhaustible loquacity, and the painter by his hilarity not less so, had the advantage of germain, whose gentle gravity awed a little his lively neighbor. rigolette had not, until now, any marked preference for either of her three lovers; but as she was not wanting in judgment, she found that germain alone united all the qualities necessary to make a reasonable woman happy. these antecedents disposed of, we will say why rigolette was sad, and why neither she nor her birds sung. her round, blooming face was rather pale; her large black eyes, ordinarily bright and sparkling, were cast down and dull; her expression showed unaccustomed fatigue. she had worked more than half the night. from time to time she regarded sadly a letter placed open upon a table beside her; this letter was from germain, and contained what follows: "conciergerie prison. "mademoiselle.--the place whence i write will tell you the extent of my misfortune. i am incarcerated as a thief--i am criminal in the eyes of the world, though i dare to write to you. it would be frightful for me to think that you also looked upon me as a degraded and guilty being. i implore you, do not condemn me before having read this letter. if you cast me off, this last blow will overwhelm me quite. "for some time past i have not lived in the rue du temple, but i knew through poor louise that the morel family, in whom we were so much interested, were more and more wretched. alas i my pity for these poor people has ruined me! i do not repent it, but my fate is a cruel one. yesterday, i remained quite late at m. ferrand's, occupied with some pressing writings. in the room where i worked was a desk; each day my patron locked up in it the work i had done. this night he appeared restless and agitated; he said to me, 'do not go until these accounts are finished; you will place them in the desk, of which i leave you the key,' and he went out. "my work being finished i opened the drawer to put it away; mechanically my eyes fell upon an open letter, where i read the name of jerome morel, the artisan. i confess, seeing that it referred to that unfortunate man, i had the indiscretion to read this letter; i thus learned that the artisan was to be arrested the next morning for a note of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit of m. ferrand, who, under an assumed name, would cause him to be imprisoned. this notice was from the agent of my patron. i knew the situation of the family well enough to foresee what a horrible blow this would be for them. i was as sorry as i was indignant. unfortunately, i saw in the same drawer an open box containing some gold; there was about two thousand francs. at this moment i heard louise on the staircase; without reflecting on the gravity of my action, profiting by the occasion which chance offered, i took thirteen hundred francs; i went into the passage and placed the money in the hand of louise, telling her, 'your father is to be arrested to-morrow at daylight for thirteen hundred francs: here they are; save him, but do not say you had this money from me. m. ferrand is a bad man.' "you see, mademoiselle, my intention was good though my conduct was culpable; i conceal nothing. now hear my excuse. "during a long time, by economy, i have saved and placed at a banker's the small sum of fifteen hundred francs. about a week ago he notified me that the term of his obligation toward me being arrived, he held my funds subject to my order, if i did not wish them to remain with him. "i thus possessed more than i took from the notary. i could the next day replace it; but the cashier of the bank did not reach his office before twelve o'clock, and at daybreak they were to arrest poor morel. it was necessary to place him in a situation to pay, otherwise, even if i were to go and take him from prison, the arrest might have already killed his wife; besides, the very considerable expenses attending this would have been at the cost of the artisan. you comprehend that all these misfortunes would not have happened, if i could have returned the thirteen hundred francs before m. ferrand discovered their loss. "i left the house, no longer under the impression of indignation and pity which had made me act in this manner. i reflected on all the dangers of my position; a thousand fears assailed me. i knew the severity of the notary; he could, after my departure, return and go to the bureau, find out the _theft_; for in his eyes, to the eyes of everybody, it is a theft. "these ideas quite upset me; although it was late, i ran to the banker's to beg him to return my money instantly. i should have explained this extraordinary demand; afterward i would have returned to m. ferrand, and replaced the money i had taken. "the banker, by a fatal chance, had been for two days at belleville, his country house. i awaited the daylight with increasing agony; at length i arrived at belleville. everything seemed leagued against me; the banker had left for paris; i flew back, i got my money; i went to m. ferrand's--all was discovered. "but this is only a part of my misfortunes; now the notary accuses me of having stolen fifteen thousand francs in notes, which were, he said, in the drawer with the two thousand francs in gold. it is a false accusation, an infamous lie. i avow myself guilty of the first charge; but by all that is sacred, i swear to you, mademoiselle, that i am innocent of the second. i have seen no bills in the drawer; there was only the gold, as i said before. "such is the truth, mademoiselle; i am under the charge of an overwhelming accusation, and yet i affirm that you ought to think me incapable of telling a falsehood. but who will believe me? alas! as m. ferrand told me, he who has stolen a small sum can easily steal a large one, and his words deserve no confidence. "i have always found you so good and devoted to the unfortunate, mademoiselle, i know you are so faithful and frank, that your heart will guide you, i hope, in the appreciation of the truth--i ask nothing more. give faith to my words, and you will find me as much to be pitied as blamed; for, i repeat, my intention was good; circumstances impossible to foresee have ruined me. "oh, mile. rigolette, i am very unhappy. if you knew what kind of people i am destined to live among until the day of my trial! yesterday they took me to a place which is called the station-house of the prefecture of police. i cannot tell you what i experienced when, after having mounted a gloomy staircase, i arrived before a door with an iron wicket, which they opened, and soon closed upon me. i was so much troubled, that at first i could distinguish nothing. a hot, disagreeable air struck me in the face; i heard a great noise of voices mingled with sinister laughs, accents of rage and low songs; i held myself immovable near the door, looking at the stone flaggings, daring neither to advance nor raise my eyes, believing that every one was looking at me. they did not trouble themselves about me; one prisoner more or less is of no consequence to them; at length i raised my head. what horrible figures! how many clothed in rags! how many ragged clothes soiled with mud! all the externals of vice and misery. there were about forty or fifty, seated, standing, or lying on benches fastened to the walls; vagabonds, robbers, assassins, in fine, all who had been arrested that night or day. "when they perceived me, i found a sad consolation in seeing that they did not recognize me as one of their fellows. some of them looked at me with an insolent and jeering air; then they began to talk among themselves, in a low tone, and in a hideous language i did not comprehend. at the end of a short time, the most audacious of them came and struck me on the shoulder, and asked me for some money to pay my footing. "i gave them some money, in hopes to purchase repose; it was not enough; they required more; i refused. then several of them surrounded me, loading me with threats and insults; they were about to throw themselves upon me, when happily, attracted by the noise, a keeper entered. i complained to him; he made them give up the money i had given them, and told me that, if i wished, i could, for a small amount, be put alone in a cell. i accepted with gratitude, and left these bandits in the midst of their threats for the future. the keeper placed me in a cell, where i passed the rest of the night. it is hence that i write to you this morning, mlle. rigolette. immediately after my examination, i shall be conducted to another prison, which is called la force, where i fear i shall meet many of my lock-up companions. the keeper, interested by my grief and tears, has promised me to send you this letter, although it is strictly forbidden. i expect, mlle. rigolette, a last service of our old friendship, if now you should not blush at this friendship. "if you are willing to grant my demand, here it is. "you will receive with this a small key, and a line for the porter of the house where i reside, boulevard saint denis, no. . i inform him that you can dispose of all that belongs to me, and that he must obey your orders. he will show you my room. you will have the kindness to open my secretary with the key i send you; you will find a large envelope covering many papers, which i wish you to take care of; one of them was destined for you, as you will see by the address; others have been written concerning you, in our happy days. do not be angry-- you never else would have known it. "i beg you also to take the small sum of money which is in the secretary, also a sachet of satin, inclosing a little cravat of orange silk, that you wore on our last sunday walk, and gave me the day i left the rue du temple. i wish that, with the exception of some linen, which you will send to la force, you would sell the furniture and effects i possess: acquitted or condemned, i shall not be the less ruined and obliged to leave paris. where shall i go? what are my resources? heaven only knows! "madame bouvard, as saleswoman in the temple, who has already sold and bought for me, will doubtless arrange all this: she's an honest woman; this arrangement will spare you much embarrassment, for i know how precious your time is. "i have paid my rent in advance; i beg you to give a small gratuity to the porter. pardon me, mademoiselle, for imposing on you with these details, but you are the only person in the world to whom i dare and can address myself. "i might have asked this service from one of the clerks at m. ferrand's, but i feared his discretion respecting sundry papers: many of them concerning you, as i have already told you; others have reference to some sad events of my life. "oh! believe me, mlle. rigolette, if you grant it, this last proof of your former affection will be my sole consolation in the great trouble which crushes me; in spite of myself, i hope you will not refuse me. "i ask, also, permission to write you sometimes--it will be so soothing, so precious, to be able to pour out, to disclose to a benevolent heart, the sorrows which overwhelm me. "alas! i am alone in the world; no one feels any interest in me. this isolated condition was always painful--judge now what it is! "and yet i am honest; and i have the consciousness of never having injured any one; of having always, even at the peril of my life, shown my aversion for evil, as you will see by the papers, which i beg you to keep and read. but when i say this, who will believe me? m. ferrand is respected by everybody; his reputation is well established; he will crush me; i resign myself, in advance, to my fate. "in brief, mlle. rigolette, if you believe me, you will not have, i hope, any contempt for me; you will pity me, and you will sometimes think of a sincere friend; then, if i cause you much--much pity, perhaps you will push your generosity so far as to come, some day-_a sunday_ (alas! what recollections does not the word awaken)--to brave the reception-room of my prison. "but, no, no! to see you in such a place--i never can dare. yet you are so kind, that-- "i am obliged to stop, and send you this, with the key and the note to the porter, which i shall write in haste, as the keeper has come to tell me i am to be taken before the judge. adieu, adieu, mlle. rigolette. "do not cast me off. i have no hope but in you--in you alone. "francois germain. "p.s.--if you answer address your letter to the prison of la force." the reader can now comprehend the cause of the first grief of la rigolette. her excellent heart was profoundly affected at a calamity of which she had not had until then any suspicion. she believed implicitly in the entire veracity of the story of germain. not very severe, she even found that her old neighbor enormously exaggerated his fault. to save an unfortunate father, he had taken the money, which he knew he could return. this action, in the eyes of the grisette, was only generous. by one of those inconsistencies natural to women, and above all, to those of her class, this girl, who until then had felt for germain, as for her other neighbors, a joyous and cordial friendship, now acknowledged a decided preference. as soon as she knew he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, she thought no more of his rivals. with rigolette it was not yet love; it was a lively, sincere affection, filled with commiseration and resolute devotion: a very new sentiment for her, from the bitterness which was joined to it. such was her mental situation when rudolph entered her room, after having discreetly knocked at the door. "good-day, my neighbor," said rudolph; "i hope i do not disturb you?" "no, neighbor; i am, on the contrary, very glad to see you, for i have much sorrow!" "why do i find you pale? you seem to have been weeping!" "i should think i have wept! there is reason for it. poor germain! here, read;" and rigolette handed to rudolph the letter. "if this is not enough to break one's heart! you told me you were interested in him. now is the time to show it," added she, while rudolph read attentively. "is this villain, ferrand, thirsting for the blood of everybody? first it was louise, now it is germain. oh! i am not cruel; but if some misfortune should happen to this notary i should be content! to accuse such an honest young man of having stolen one thousand three hundred francs! germain! truth and honesty itself, and then so regular, so mild, so sad--is he not to be pitied, among all these scoundrels-in prison! oh! m. rudolph, from to-day i begin to see that all is not _couleur de rose_ in life." "and what do you mean to do my neighbor?" "do? why, everything he asks, and as soon as possible. i should have already been off, but for this work, which i must finish and take to the rue saint honore as i go to germain's room to get the papers he speaks of. i have passed a part of the night in working, so as to gain some hours in advance. i am going to have so many things to do, besides my work, that i must get in readiness. in the first place, madame morel wishes me to see louise in her prison? it is, perhaps, very difficult, but i will try. unfortunately, i do not know who to address myself to." "i have thought of that." "you, my neighbor?" "here is a magistrate's order." "what happiness! can you not get me one also for the prison of this unfortunate germain? it will give him so much pleasure." "i will give you, also, the means to see germain." "oh, thank you, m. rudolph." "you are not afraid, then, to go to the prison?" "very certain my heart will beat the first time. but never mind. when germain was happy, did i not always find him ready to anticipate all my wishes? to take me to the theater, or a walk? to read to me at night? to assist me in arranging my flowers? to wax my floor? well! now he is in trouble, it is my turn; a poor little mouse like me can't do much, i know; but all i can do i will do--he can count on it; he shall see whether i am a good friend! m. rudolph, there is one thing that vexes me; it is his suspicion--he believes me capable of despising him! i ask you why? this old miser of a notary accuses him of theft; but what is that to me? i know it is not true. the letter of germain proves as clear as day that he is innocent, whom i should never have thought guilty. only to see him, to know him, shows he is incapable of a wrong action. one must be as wicked as m. ferrand to maintain such false assertions." "bravo, neighbor, i like your indignation!" "oh! stop--i wish i was a man, to go see this notary, and say to him: 'oh! you maintain that germain has robbed you; well, look here, take that, you old liar, he won't steal this from you.' and i'd beat him to a mummy." "you'd have very expeditious justice," said rudolph, smiling at the animation of rigolette. "it is so revolting; and, as germain says in his letter, everybody will take the master's part against him, because his master is rich, and thought much of, while germain is a poor young man without protection; unless you come to his assistance, m. rudolph, who know so many benevolent persons. can nothing be done?" "he must wait for his trial. once acquitted, as i think he will be, numerous proofs of interest will be shown him, i assure you. but listen, my neighbor. i know from experience that i can count on your discretion." "oh, yes, m. rudolph. i have never been a babbler." "well, no one must know, even germain himself must be ignorant that he has friends who are watching over him, for he has friends." "really." "very powerful and very devoted." "it would give him so much courage to know it." "doubtless; but perhaps he could not keep the secret. then, m. ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard, his suspicions aroused; and as he is very cunning, he would make it difficult to get at him; which would be lamentable, for not only must the innocence of germain be proved, but his calumniator unmasked." "i understand you, m. rudolph." "just so with louise; i bring you this permission to see her, so that you can tell her not to speak to any one of what she had revealed to me. she will know what this means." "that is sufficient, m. rudolph." "in a word, louise must be careful not to complain in her prison of the conduct of her master; it is very important. but she must conceal nothing from the lawyer who will be sent by me to prepare for her defense; recommend all this to her." "be quite easy, neighbor; i will forget nothing. i have a good memory. but i speak of kindness, when it is you who are good and generous! if any one's in trouble, you are there at once!" "i have told you, neighbor, i am only a poor clerk. when, in roving about, i find good people who deserve protection, i inform a benevolent person who has all confidence in me, and they are assisted." "where do you lodge, now that you have given up your room to the morels?" "i lodge--in furnished lodgings." "oh, how i detest that. to be where everybody else has been--it is as if everybody had been in your own room." "i am only there at night, and then--" "i conceive--it is less disagreeable. my home, m. rudolph, rendered me so happy; i had arranged a life so tranquil, that i should not have believed it possible to have a sorrow. yet you see! no, i cannot tell you what a blow the misfortunes of germain have caused me. i have seen the morels and others--much to be pitied, it is true; but misery is misery. among poor folks they expect it; it does not surprise them, and they help one another as they can. but to see a poor young man, honest, and good, who has been your friend for a long time, accused of theft, and imprisoned pell-mell with rogues and cut-throats! oh, m. rudolph! it is true i have no strength against this; it is a misfortune i have never thought of; it upsets me." rigolette's large eyes filled with tears. "courage, courage! your gayety will return when your friend is acquitted." "oh, he must be acquitted! they will only have to read to the judges the letter which he has written me--that will be enough, will it not, m. rudolph?" "in reality, this simple and touching letter has all the marks of truth. you must let me take a copy; it will be useful in his defense." "certainly, m. rudolph. if i did not write like a real cat, in spite of the lessons germain gave me, i should propose to copy it for you; but my writing is so coarse, so crooked, and besides, there are so many--so many faults." "i only ask you to lend me this letter until tomorrow." "there it is, neighbor; but you will take good care of it? i have burned all the _billets doux_ which m. cabrion and m. girandeau wrote me at the commencement of our acquaintance, with bleeding hearts and doves on the top of the paper; but this poor letter of germain, i will take good care of; it and others also, if he writes them. for, in truth m. rudolph, it is a proof in my favor that he asks these little services." "without doubt it proves that you are the best little friend that one can have. but i reflect--instead of going by and by alone to m. germain's, shall i accompany you?" "with pleasure, neighbor. night approaches, and i prefer not to be alone in the streets after dark, especially as i have to go near the palais royal. but to go so far will be tiresome and fatiguing to you, perhaps?" "not at all; we will take a hack." "really! oh, how it would amuse me to go in a carriage, if i had not so much sorrow. and i must have sorrow, for this is the first day since i lived here that i have not sung. my birds are all astonished. poor little things! they do not know what it means; two or three times papa cretu has sung a little to entice me. i wished to amuse him; but after a moment i began to weep; ramonette then tried, but i could answer no more." [illustration: menaced in prison] "what singular names you have given your birds--papa cretu, ramonette?" "m. rudolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude; they are my best friends. i have given them the names of good people who were the joy of my childhood, my best friends. without reckoning, to finish the resemblance, that papa cretu and ramonette were as gay and tuneful as the birds of heaven. my adopted parents were thus called. they are ridiculous names for birds, i know; but it only concerns me. now, it was on this very subject that i saw germain had a good heart." "he had, eh?" "certainly; m. girandeau and m. cabrion--m. cabrion, above all--were forever making jokes on the names of my birds. 'to call a canary papa cretu, did you ever?' m. cabrion never finished, and then he would laugh--such laughs. 'if it were a cock,' said he, 'very well, you i might call it cretu (combed). it is the same with the other one; ramonette sounds too much like ramoneur (chimney sweep).' at length he made me so angry that i would not go out with him for two sundays, just to teach him; and i told him, very seriously, that if he recommenced his jokes, which were unpleasant to me, we should never go out together again." "what a courageous resolution!" "it cost me a good deal, m. rudolph--i looked so eagerly for my sunday excursions. i had a sorrowful heart, i tell you, to remain home all alone of a fine day; but never mind, i preferred rather to sacrifice my sunday than to continue to hear m. cabrion make fun of what i respected. except for this, and the ideas attached to it, i would have preferred to give other names to my birds. there is, above all, one name i should have loved to adoration--humming-bird. well, i cannot do it, because i never shall call my birds otherwise than cretu and ramonette; it would seem to me that i sacrificed them, that i forgot my kind adopted parents-wouldn't it, m. rudolph?" "you are right-a thousand times right. germain did not make fun of these names?" "on the contrary; only the first time it appeared droll to him, as to every one else--it is very simple; but when i explained my reasons, as i had explained them to m. cabrion, the tears came into his eyes. from that day i said, `m. germain has a kind heart; he has nothing against him but his sadness.' and do you see, m. rudolph, that he has brought me misfortune to reproach him for his sadness. then i did not comprehend how one could be sad. now i comprehend it but too well. but now my work is finished, will you give me my shawl, neighbor it is not cold enough for a cloak, is it?" "we shall go in a carriage, and i will bring you back." "it is true, we shall go and return quicker; it will be so much time gained." "but, on reflection, how are you going to manage? your work will suffer from your visit to the prisons?" "oh no, no! i have laid my plans. in the first place, i have my sundays; i will go and see louise and germain on these days--it will serve me for a walk and recreation; then, in the week, i shall go to the prison once or twice; each time will cost me three good hours a day. well, to make up for this, i will work one hour more each day, and i will go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of eleven; that will give me a clear gain of seven or eight hours each week, which i can use in going to see louise and germain. you see, i am richer than i appear to be," added rigolette, smiling. "and do you not fear this will fatigue you?" "bah! i can do it--one can do anything; and, besides, it will not last forever." "here is your shawl, neighbor. i shall not be so indiscreet as to bring my lips too close to this charming neck." "oh, neighbor! take care, you prick me." "come, the pin is crooked." "well, take another--there, on the pincushion. oh, i forget! will you do me a favor, neighbor?" "command, neighbor." "make me a good pen, very coarse, so that i can, on my return, write to poor germain that his commissions are executed. he shall have my letter to-morrow morning early." "and where are your pens?" "there, on the table; the knife is in the drawer. stop, i am going to light my candle, for it grows quite dark." "i shall want it to mend the pen." "and, besides, i can't see to tie my bonnet." rigolette took a match, and lit an end of candle, which was in a very shining candlestick. "dear me! wax candle, neighbor--what luxury!" "the little i burn costs me a trifle more than a tallow candle, but it is so much neater." "not much dearer?" "oh, no. i buy these ends of candles by the pound, and a half-pound serves me a month." "but," said rudolph, mending the pen carefully, while the grisette tied her bonnet before the glass, "i see no preparations for your dinner." "i haven't a shadow of hunger. i took a cup of milk this morning; i will take another to-night, with a little bread! i shall have enough." "will you not come and eat dinner with me when we come away from germain's?" "i thank you, neighbor; i have my heart too full; another time with pleasure. what do you say to the evening of the day that poor germain comes out of prison? i invite myself, and afterward we will go to the play. is it agreed?" "it is, neighbor; i assure you that i shall not forget this engagement. but to-day you refuse me?" "yes, m. rudolph; i should be too stupid to-day; besides, it would take up too much time. only think--it is now, if ever, that i must not be lazy." "come, i will give up this pleasure for to-day." "here, take my bundle, neighbor; go before, i will shut the door." "here is an excellent pen--now, your bundle." "take care you don't tumble it--it is poult de soie--it shows the folds--hold it in your hand--that way--lightly. well, pass on, i will light you." rudolph descended, preceded by rigolette. as they passed the lodge they saw pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, advanced toward them from the bottom of the alley. in one hand he held the sign, which announced to the public that he would "deal in friendship" with cabrion; and in the other, the portrait of the infernal painter. the despair of alfred was so overwhelming that his chin rested on his breast, and nothing could be seen but the top of his hat. on seeing him approach, with his head down, toward rudolph and rigolette, one would have said it was a goat or a negro butt preparing for combat. anastasia appeared on the threshold, and cried at the sight of her husband. "well, old darling! here you are, hey? what did the commissary say to you? alfred, pay attention; now you are going to poke yourself against my prince of lodgers. who has stolen your eyes? pardon, m. rudolph; that beggar cabrion stupefies him more and more-- he certainly will make him turn to a jackass, my poor love! alfred, answer!" at this voice, so dear to his heart, pipelet raised his head; his features were imprinted with a melancholy bitterness. "what did the commissary say to you?" repeated anastasia. "anastasia, we must collect the little that we possess, clasp our friends in our arms, pack our trunks, and expatriate ourselves from france-from my 'belle france!'-for, sure now of impunity, the monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere." "then, the commissary!" "the commissary!" cried pipelet, with savage indignation; "the commissary laughed in my face." "your face! an aged man, who has so respectable an air, that you'd look as stupid as a goose if one did not know your virtues." "well, notwithstanding that, when i had respectfully deposed before him my heap of complaints and griefs against this infernal cabrion, this magistrate, after looking at and laughing--yes, laughing--i say, laughing indecently--over the sign and portrait which i produced as justificatory of my complaint, replied, 'my good man, this cabrion is a funny fellow--a jester--pay no attention to his jokes. i advise you now, in a friendly manner, to laugh at them, for really there is cause.' 'to laugh!' cried i; 'to laugh! but grief is devouring me--my existence is imbittered by those scoundrels--they pester me--they will cause me to lose my reason--i demand that they be locked up--exiled, at least from my street.' at these words the commissary smiled, and obligingly showed me the door. i understood this gesture of the magistrate, and here i am." "magistrate of nothing at all!" cried mrs. pipelet. "all is finished! anastasia, all is finished! no more hope! there is no longer any justice in france! i am atrociously sacrificed!" and by way of peroration, pipelet threw, with all his strength, the portrait and sign to the end of the alley. rudolph and rigolette had, in the obscurity, slightly smiled at pipelet's despair. after having addressed some words of consolation to alfred, whom anastasia was calming in the best way she could, the "prince of lodgers" left the house of the rue du temple with rigolette, and got into a hackney coach to go to the residence of francois germain. chapter xx. the will. francois germain lived on the boulevard saint denis, no. . during the long ride from the rue du temple to the rue saint honore, where the woman lived who supplied rigolette with work, rudolph was able to appreciate still more the girl's excellent feelings. like all characters instinctively good and devoted, she was not conscious of the delicacy and generosity of her conduct, which seemed to her quite natural. nothing would have been easier for rudolph than to have made a liberal provision for rigolette, as well for her present wants as the future, so that she could have gone charitably to console louise and germain, without counting the time she lost in these visits from her work, her only resource; but the prince feared to weaken the merit of the grisette's devotion in rendering it too easy; quite decided to recompense the rare and charming qualities which he had discovered in her, he wished to follow her to the end of this new and interesting trial. at the end of an hour the carriage, on its return from her rue saint honore, stopped on the boulevard saint denis, no. , before a house of modest appearance. rudolph assisted rigolette to alight; she entered the porter's lodge and communicated to him the intentions of germain, without forgetting the promised gratuity. from his amenity of disposition, the clerk was everywhere loved. the _confrere_ of pipelet was much concerned to learn that the house should lose so honest and quiet a lodger: such were his expressions. the grisette, furnished with a light, rejoined her companion; the porter was to follow, after a little while, to receive instructions. the chamber of germain was on the fourth story. on arriving at the door, rigolette said to rudolph, giving him the key, "here, neighbor, open--my hand trembles too much. you will laugh at me; but, in thinking that poor germain will never return here, it seems to me i am about to enter a chamber of the dead." "come, be reasonable now, neighbor--have no such ideas!" "i was wrong, but it was stronger than i;" and she wiped away a tear. without being as much moved as his companion, rudolph nevertheless experienced a painful impression on entering the modest apartment. he knew that the unfortunate young man must have passed many sad hours in this solitude. rigolette placed the light on a table. nothing could be more plain than the furniture of this sleeping-room, composed of a bed, a chest of drawers, a secretary of black walnut, four straw-bottomed chairs, and a table; white cotton curtains covered the windows and the bed recess; the only ornaments on the mantelpiece were a decanter and a glass. from the appearance of the bed, which was made, it could be seen that germain had thrown himself upon it without taking off his clothes the night preceding his arrest. "poor fellow," said rigolette, sadly, examining, with interest, the interior of the chamber: "it is easy to see that lie no longer has me for a neighbor. it is in order, but not neat; there is dust everywhere, the curtains are smoked, the windows are dirty, the floor is not washed. oh! what a difference! rue du temple was not handsome, but it was more gay, because everything shone with neatness, like my own room." "it was because you were there, to give your advice." "but see, now," cried rigolette, showing the bed, "he did not go to rest the other night, so much was he disturbed. look here! his handkerchief, which he has left, has been steeped in tears. that is plain to be seen;" and she took it, adding, "germain has kept a little orange silk cravat of mine, which i gave him when we were happy; i am sure he will not be angry." "on the contrary, he will be very happy at this proof of your affection." "now let us think of serious matters; i will make a package of linen, which i shall find in the drawers, to take to him in prison; mother bouvard, whom i shall send here to-morrow, will manage the rest. first, however, i'll open the secretary and take out the papers and money which m. germain begged me keep for him." "but while i think of it," said rudolph, "louise morel gave me, yesterday, one thousand three hundred francs in gold, which germain had given her to pay the debt of her father, which i had already done; i have this money; it belongs to germain, since he has paid back the notary; i will give it to you; you can add it to the rest." "as you please, m. rudolph; yet i would rather not have so large a sum with me at home, there are so many robbers nowadays. papers are very well--there is nothing to fear; but money is dangerous." "perhaps you are right, neighbor; shall i take charge of this sum? if germain has need of anything, you must let me know at once. i will leave you my address, and i will send you what he wants." "i should not have dared to ask this service from you; it will be much better, neighbor. i will give you also the money i shall receive from the sale of his effects. let us see the papers," said the girl, opening the secretary and several drawers. "ah, it is probably this. here is a large envelope. oh, my gracious! look here, m. rudolph, how sad it is what's written on this." and she read, in a faltering tone: "in case i should die a violent death, or otherwise, i beg the person who should open this secretary to carry these papers to mlle. rigolette, seamstress, rue du temple, no. ." "can i break the seal, m. rudolph?" "doubtless; does he not say that among these papers there is one particularly addressed to you?" the girl broke the seal. several papers were inclosed; one of them, bearing the superscription, "_to mademoiselle rigolette_" contained these words: "mademoiselle--when you read this letter, i shall no longer exist. if, as i fear, i die a violent death, in falling a victim to willful murder, some information, under the title of _notes of my life_ may give a clew to my assassins." "ah! m. rudolph," said rigolette, "i am no longer astonished that he was so sad. poor germain! always pursued by such ideas!" "yes; he must have been much afflicted. but his worst days are over, believe me." "i hope so, m. rudolph. but, however, to be in prison, accused of robbery!" "be comforted. once his innocence recognized, instead of falling into an isolated state, he will find friends. you, in the first place; then a beloved mother, from whom he has been separated since his childhood." "his mother! he has still a mother?" "yes. she thinks him lost to her. judge of her joy when she will see him again. do not speak to him of his mother. i confide this secret to you, because you interest yourself so generously in his favor." "i thank you, m. rudolph; you may be assured i will keep your secret," and rigolette continued the reading of the letter: "if you will, mademoiselle, look over these notes, you will see that i have been all my life very unhappy, except during the time i passed with you. what i should never have dared to tell you, you will find written here, entitled '_my sole days of happiness._' "almost every evening, on leaving you, i thus poured out the consoling thoughts that your affection inspired, and which alone tempered the bitterness of my life. what was friendship when with you, became love when absent from you. i have concealed this until this moment, when i shall be no more for you than perhaps a sad souvenir. my destiny was so unhappy, that i should never have spoken to you of this sentiment; although sincere and profound, it would only have made you unhappy. "one wish alone remains to be fulfilled, and i hope that you will accomplish it. i have seen with what admirable courage you work, and how much method and economy was necessary for you to live on the small amount you earn so industriously. often, without telling, you, i have trembled in thinking that a malady, caused, perhaps, by excess of labor, might reduce you to a situation so frightful that i could not even think of it without alarm. it is very grateful to me to think that i can at least spare you the horrors, and, perhaps, in a great degree, the miseries, which you, in the thoughtlessness of youth, do not foresee, happily." "what does he mean, m. rudolph?" said rigolette, astonished. "continue, we shall see." "i know on how little you can live, and what a resource the smallest sum would be to you in a time of difficulty. i am very poor, but, by economy, i have set aside one thousand five hundred francs, deposited at a banker's; it is all that i possess. by my will, which you will find here, i bequeath it to you; accept it from a friend, a good brother, who is no more." "oh! m. rudolph," said rigolette, bursting into tears, and giving the letter to the prince, "this gives me too much pain. good germain, thus to think of me! oh! what a heart! what an excellent heart!" "worthy and good young man!" replied rudolph, with emotion. "but calm yourself, my child. germain is not dead; this anticipation will only serve as a witness of his love for you." "it is true. to be beloved by so good a young man is very flattering, is it not, m. rudolph?" "and some day, perhaps, you will participate in this love?" "m. rudolph, it is very trying; poor germain is so much to be pitied! i'll put myself in his place--if at the moment when i thought myself abandoned, despised by all the world, a person, a good friend, came to me, still more kind than i could hope for--i should be so happy!" after a moment's pause, rigolette resumed with a sigh, "on the other hand, we are both so poor, that perhaps it would not be reasonable. look here, m. rudolph, i do not wish to think of that; perhaps i am mistaken; but i will do all i can for germain, as long as he remains in prison. once free, it will always be time enough to see if it is love or friendship i feel for him; then if it is love, neighbor, it will be love. but it grows late, m. rudolph; will you collect these papers, while i make up a bundle of linen? oh! i forgot the sachet inclosing the little orange cravat, which i have given him. it is in this drawer, without a doubt. oh! see how pretty it is, all embroidered! poor germain has guarded it like a relic! i well remember the last time i wore it, and when i gave it to him. he was so happy, so happy." at this moment some one knocked at the door. "who is there?" demanded rudolph. "i want to speak to madame mathieu," answered a hoarse and husky voice, with an accent which denoted the speaker to be one of the lowest order. madame mathieu was a diamond broker living in this house, who employed morel. this voice, singularly accented, awakened some vague recollections in the mind of rudolph. wishing to enlighten them, he went and opened the door. he found himself face to face with a fellow whom he recognized at once, so fully and plainly was the stamp of crime marked on his youthful and besotted face. either this wretch had forgotten the features of rudolph, whom he had seen only once, or the change of dress prevented him from recognizing him, for he manifested no astonishment at his appearance. "what do you want?" said rudolph. "here is a letter for madame mathieu. i must give it into her own hands," answered the man. "she does not live here: inquire opposite," said rudolph. "thank you, friend; they told me it was the door to the left; i am mistaken." rudolph did not know the name of the diamond broker; he had therefore no motive to interest himself about the woman to whom the rogue came as a messenger. nevertheless, although he was ignorant of the crimes of this bandit, his face had such a guilty look of perversity, that he remained on the threshold of the door, curious to see the person to whom he brought this letter. hardly had the man knocked at the opposite door when it was opened, and the broker, a large woman of about fifty years of age, appeared, holding a candle in her hand. "madame mathieu?" said the messenger. "that's my name." "here is a letter; i want an answer." he made a step in advance, as if to enter the room; but she made a motion for him not to advance, unsealed the letter, read it, and answered, with a satisfied air: "you will say it is all right, my lad; i will bring what they wish; i will go to-morrow at the same time as before. give my compliments to this lady." "yes, ma'am. don't forget the messenger." "go ask those who sent you; they are richer than i am;" and she closed the door. rudolph re-entered germain's room, seeing the messenger rapidly descending the staircase. the latter met on the boulevard a man of a villainous and ferocious appearance, who waited for him before a shop. although several persons might have heard him, but not understood him, it is true, he appeared so much pleased that he could not help saying to his companion, "come, toss off your tipple, nick! the old girl's toddled into the trap; she'll meet screech owl; mother martial will give us a lift in squeezing the sparklers out of her, and then we will carry the cold meat away in your boat." "look sharp, then; i must be at asnieres early; i am afraid my brother martial will suspect something." and the rogues, after having held this conversation, quite unintelligible to those who might have heard it, directed their steps toward the rue saint denis. a few moments after, rigolette and rudolph left the abode of germain, got into the carriage, and drove to the rue du temple. when the carriage stopped, and the portress came to open the door, rudolph saw by the street light a friend of his, who was waiting for him at the passage door. that presence announced some great event, or, at least, something unexpected, for he alone knew where to find the prince. "what is the matter, murphy?" said rudolph, quickly, while rigolette collected the papers in the vehicle. "a great misfortune, your highness!" "speak, for heaven's sake!" "the marquis d'harville." "you alarm me!" "he gave a breakfast this morning to several of his friends. everything was going off well; he, above all, had never been more gay, when a fatal imprudence--" "go on, go on!" "in playing with a pistol which he did not know was loaded--" "he has wounded himself?" "worse!" "well?" "something very terrible!" "what do you say?" "he is dead!" "d'harville! oh, this is frightful!" cried rudolph in such a heart-rending tone, that rigolette, who had just descended from the carriage with her bundles, said: "what is the matter, m. rudolph?" "some very bad news that i have just told my friend, mademoiselle," said murphy to the girl, for the prince was so much affected that he could not answer. "is it some really great misfortune?" asked rigolette, tremblingly. "a very great misfortune," answered the other. "oh! this is frightful!" said rudolph, after a silence of some moments; then, recollecting rigolette, he said to her: "pardon me, my child, if i do not go with you to your room; to-morrow i will send you my address, and a permit to go to germain's prison. i will soon see you again." "oh! m. rudolph, i assure you i am very sorry for the bad news you have heard. i thank you for having accompanied me to-night. good-bye." the prince and murphy got into the coach, which took them to the rue plumet. immediately rudolph wrote to clemence the following note: "madame,--i learn this moment the unexpected blow which has overwhelmed you, and takes from me one of my best friends: i shall not endeavor to describe my sorrow. "yet i must inform you of things foreign to this cruel event. i have just learned that your step-mother, who has been for some days in paris, without doubt, leaves to-night for normandy, taking with her polidori, alias bradamanti. this will tell you of the dangers your father is threatened with, and allow me to give you some advice. after the frightful affair of this morning, your desire to leave paris will be nothing extraordinary. so set off at once for aubiers, to arrive there, if not before, at least as soon as your step-mother. be assured, madame, far or near, i shall still watch over you; the abominable projects of your step-mother shall be baffled. "adieu, madame: i write this in haste. my heart is almost broken when i think of last evening, when i left him more tranquil, more happy, than he had been for a long time. "believe me, madame, in my profound and sincere devotion. "rudolph." following this advice, madame d'harville, three hours after the receipt of this letter, was on the road to normandy. a post-chaise, which left rudolph's, followed the same route. unfortunately, from the trouble into which she was plunged by this complication of events, and the precipitation of her departure, clemence forgot to acquaint the prince that she had met fleur-de-marie at saint lazare. it will be remembered, perhaps, that the evening previous, la chouette had threatened mrs. seraphin to disclose the fact of the existence of la goualeuse, affirming that she knew (and she told the truth) where the young girl then was. it will also be remembered that after this conversation jacques ferrand, fearing the revelation of his criminal misdeeds, had determined that it was for his interest to put the goualeuse out of the way, whose existence, once known, might compromise him dangerously. he had, therefore, caused to be written to bradamanti a note to summon him to come and hatch some new schemes, of which fleur-de-marie was to be the victim. bradamanti, occupied with the interests, not less pressing, of the stepmother of madame d'harville, who had her own reasons for conducting the quack to the bedside of m. d'orbigny, doubtless finding it more to his advantage to serve his old friend, paid no attention to the invitation of the notary, and set out for normandy without seeing mrs. seraphin. the storm gathered around jacques ferrand; in the course of the day la chouette had returned to reiterate her threats, and, to prove that they were not in vain, she had declared to the notary that the little girl, formerly abandoned by mrs. seraphin, was then a prisoner at saint lazare, under the name of la goualeuse, and that if they did not give her ten thousand francs in three days, this girl should receive some papers which would inform her that she had been in her infancy confided to the care of jacques ferrand. according to his custom, the notary denied all this with audacity, and drove off la chouette as an impudent liar, although he was convinced and frightened by her threats. in the course of the day the notary found means to assure himself that the goualeuse was a prisoner at saint lazare, and so noted for her good conduct that her release was expected soon. furnished with this information, jacques ferrand, having arranged a most diabolical scheme, felt that, to execute it, the assistance of bradamanti was more and more indispensable; hence the frequent attempts of mrs. seraphin to see the quack. learning the same evening of his departure, forced to act by the imminence of his fears and danger, he remembered the martial family--those river pirates established near asnieres bridge, to whom bradamanti had proposed to send louise morel, in order to get rid of her with impunity. having absolutely need of an accomplice, to carry out his wicked designs against fleur-de-marie, the notary took every precaution, in the case a new crime should be committed; and the next morning, after the departure of bradamanti for normandy, mrs. seraphin went in great haste to see the martials. chapter xxi. the river pirate's haunt. the following scenes took place on the evening of the day that mrs. seraphin had, according to the notary's orders, paid a visit to the martials, established on the point of a small island, not far from asnieres bridge. martial, the father, who had died on the scaffold like his own father, left a widow, four sons, and two daughters. the second of these sons was already condemned to the galleys for life. of this numerous family there remained on the island the mother; three sons; the eldest (the lover of la louve) twenty-five, the other twenty, the youngest twelve; two daughters; one eighteen, the second nine. instances of such families, wherein is perpetuated a kind of frightful inheritance in crime, are but too frequent. this must be so, because society thinks only of punishing, never of preventing the evil. the gloomy picture which follows, of the river pirates, has for its object to show what, in a family, inheritance of evil may be, when society either legally or kindly does not interfere to preserve the unfortunate, orphaned by the law, from the terrible consequences of the judgment visited on their father. the head of the martial family, who had first settled on this little island, was a dredger (_ravageur_). they, as well as the _debardeurs_, and the _dechireurs_ of boats, remain almost the entire day plunged in the water to their waists, to follow their trade. the _debardeurs_ bring to land floating wood. the _dechireurs_ knock to pieces the rafts which bring down the wood. quite as aquatic as the preceding operatives, the labor of _ravageurs_ has a very different object. advancing in the water as far as they can, they are enabled, by means of long rakes, to drag the mud and sand from the bed of the river; then, collecting this in large wooden bowls, they wash it, and thus collect a large quantity of pieces of metal of all kinds, iron, copper, lead, and brass. often they find in the sand fragments of gold or silver jewels, carried into the seine either by the gutters or from the masses of snow and ice collected in the streets in winter and thrown into the river. we do not know by virtue of what tradition, or by what usage, these industrious people, generally honest, peaceable, and laborious, are so formidably named. old martial first inhabitant of the island, being a ravageur (a sorry exception), the people living on the banks of the river called it the ravageur's island. the dwelling of the river pirates is situated at the south end of the isle. on a sign which hangs near the door can be seen: "the dredgers' arms. good wines, fish fried and boiled. boats to let." it will be seen that to his other business the head of this family had added an innkeeper's, fisherman's, and the keeping of boats for hire. the widow of this executed criminal continued to keep the house. vagabonds, wandering quacks, and itinerate keepers of animals came to pass sundays and other non-working days in parties of pleasure. martial (the lover of la louve), the eldest son of the family, least vicious of all, fished by stealth, and, for pay, took the part of the weak against the strong. one of his brothers, nicholas, the future accomplice of barbillon in the murder of the diamond broker, was apparently a ravageur, but in fact a pirate along the seine and its banks. finally, francois, the youngest son, took care of those who wished to go boating. we will just mention ambrose martial, imprisoned for life for robbery and attempt at murder the eldest girl, nicknamed calabash, assisted her mother in the kitchen and to wait upon the guests; her sister, amandine, aged nine years, gave what aid she could to them. on this night, thick, heavy clouds, driven by the winds, obscured the sky; hardly one star could be seen through the increasing gloom. the house, with its irregular gables, was completely buried in darkness, except the two windows of the ground-floor, from which streamed a red light, reflected like long trains of fire on the troubled waters near the landing-place, close to the house. the chains of the boats moored there mingled their rattling with the mournful sighing of the wind through the poplars, and the heavy splashing of the water on the shore. part of the family was assembled in the kitchen, a large, low room; opposite the door were two windows, between which was a large dresser; on the left, a high fireplace; to the right, a staircase which led to the upper story; at the side of this, the entrance to a large room, furnished with several tables, destined for the guests. the light of a lamp, joined to the flames of the hearth, shone on a number of saucepans and other cooking utensils of copper, hung on the walls, or arranged on shelves with crockery; a large table stood in the center of the kitchen. the widow was seated by the fire with her three children. tall and thin, she appeared to be about forty-five years of age. she was dressed in black; a mourning kerchief, tied round her head with two loose ear-like ends, concealed her hair, and almost covered her pale, wrinkled forehead; her nose was long, straight, and pointed; her cheek-bones prominent, and cheeks fallen in; her yellow, sickly-looking skin was deeply marked with the small-pox; the corner of her mouth, always drawn down, rendered still harsher the expression of her cold, stern, sinister-looking face, immovable as a mask of marble. her dull blue eyes were surmounted by gray brows. she and her two daughters were occupied with some sewing. the eldest resembled her mother--the same cold, calm, wicked look; her thin nose, mouth, and pale look. only her earthy skin, yellow as saffron, gave her the nickname of calabash. she wore no mourning: her dress was brown; her black lace cap displayed two bands of uncommonly light flaxen hair, with no luster. francois, the youngest son, was seated on a bench, mending a small mesh, a very destructive sort of fishing net, strictly forbidden use on the seine. notwithstanding his sunburned appearance, his skin was fair; red hair covered his head; his features were well turned, his lips thick, his forehead projecting, his eyes sharp and piercing: there was no resemblance to his mother or eldest sister. his expression was timid yet cunning; from time to time, through, the kind of mane which fell over his face, he cast obliquely on his mother a look of defiance, or exchanged with his sister amandine a glance of intelligence and affection. she, seated by his side, was occupied, not in marking, but in unmarking some linen stolen the night previous. she was nine years old, and resembled her brother as much as her sister did her mother; her features, without being any more regular, were less coarse than francois'; although covered with freckles, her skin was of dazzling purity; her lips were thick, but vermilion, her hair red, but fine, silky, and brilliant; her eyes small, but soft and expressive. when they exchanged looks, amandine pointed to the door; at the sign francois answered by a sigh; then, calling the attention of his sister by a rapid gesture, he counted distinctly from the end of his netting needle ten threads of the net. this meant, in their own symbolical language, that their brother martial would not return before ten o'clock. on seeing these two quiet, wicked-looking women, and these two poor, restless, mute, trembling little children, one could easily guess they were two tormentors and two victims. calabash, noticing that amandine had ceased a moment from work, said to her, in a harsh voice, "will you soon have done with that chemise?" the child held down her head without replying; with fingers and scissors, she quickly finished picking out the marks made with red cotton, and then handing the work to her mother, said timidly, "mamma, i have finished it." without making any reply, the widow threw her another piece of linen. the child could not catch it in time, and let it fall. her sister gave her, with her iron hand, a heavy slap on the arm, saying "little stupid fool!" amandine resumed her work, after having exchanged a hasty glance with her brother; a tear glistened in her eye. the same silence continued to reign in the kitchen. the wind howled without, and the sign creaked mournfully on its hinges. the only sounds within were the bubbling of a saucepan placed before the fire. the two children observed with secret alarm that their mother did not speak. although she was habitually very quiet, this complete taciturnity and certain contractions of her lips announced that the widow was in that which they called her white rage, that is to say, a prey to some concentrated irritation. the fire appeared to be going out from want of fuel. "francois, a stick of wood!" said calabash. the young net-mender looked behind the chimney-piece, and answered, "there is no more there." "go to the wood-pile," said calabash. francois murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir. "francois, did you hear me?" said calabash sharply. the widow placed on her knees a napkin, which she was unmarking, and looked at her son. he had his head down, but he thought he felt the terrible look of his mother was upon him. fearing to meet her formidable face, the child remained immovable. "are you deaf, francois'?" resumed calabash, much irritated. "mother--do you see?" amandine, without being perceived, nudged her brother to urge him tacitly to obey calabash. francois did not stir. the eldest sister looked at her mother, as if to demand the punishment of the offender. the widow understood her, and pointed with her long, bony finger to a long willow switch, which stood in the corner. calabash leaned back, took this instrument of correction, and handed it to her mother. francois had perfectly understood the gesture of his mother; he jumped up quickly, and with one bound was out of his mother's reach. "you want mother to beat you soundly?" cried calabash, "do you?" the widow, holding the rod in her hand, bit her lips, and looked at francois with a steady eye, without pronouncing a word. from the slight agitation of amandine's hands, who sat with her head down, while her neck was suffused with red, it could be seen that the child, although accustomed to such scenes, was alarmed at the fate which awaited her brother, who, having taken refuge in a corner of the kitchen, seemed alarmed and yet rebellious. "take care of yourself; mother will get up, and then it will be too late," said calabash. "all the same to me," answered francois, turning pale. "i prefer to be beaten, as i was yesterday, to going to the wood-pile at night." "and why?" said calabash, impatiently. "i am afraid of the wood-pile!" answered francois, shuddering in spite of himself. "you are afraid, fool! of what?" francois hung his head without answering. "will you speak? what are you afraid of?" "i don't know; but i'm afraid." "you have been there a hundred times, and even last night?" "i don't want to go there any more." "there's mother; she's getting up." "so much the worse for me," cried the child. "let her beat me; let her kill me; but i will not go to the wood-pile--at night, above all." "but, once more, i ask you, why not?" said calabash. "well, because there's some one--" "some one?" "buried there," murmured the trembling boy. the widow, notwithstanding her impassibility, could not repress a slight shudder; her daughter imitated her; one would have said that the two had received an electric shock. "some one buried in the wood-house!" said calabash, shrugging her shoulders. "yes," said francois, in a voice so low that he could hardly be heard. "liar!" cried calabash. "i tell you that not long ago, while piling the wood, i saw, in a dark corner of the wood-house, a dead man's bone; it stuck out of the ground, which was damp round about," replied francois. "do you hear him, mother? is he not a fool?" said calabash, making a significant sign to the widow. "they are some mutton bones i threw there." "it was not a mutton bone," answered the child; "it was bones buried-- dead men's bones: a foot which stuck out of the ground. i saw it." "and you instantly told this to your brother, your good friend martial--did you not?" said calabash. francois did not answer. "wicked little spy!" cried calabash, furiously. "because he is as cowardly as a cow, he will get us guillotined, as father was." "since you call me a spy," cried francois, exasperated, "i shall tell everything to martial. i have not told him yet, for i have not seen him since; but when he returns to-night, i--" the child dared not finish, for his mother advanced toward him, calm but inexorable. although she habitually held herself much bent over, her size was very large for a woman. holding the switch in one hand, with the other the widow took her son by the arm, and, in spite of the alarm, resistance, prayers, and tears of the child, dragging him after her, she compelled him to mount the stairs. in a moment was heard the sound of heavy blows, mingled with cries and sobs. when this noise ceased, a door was shut violently, and the widow descended. she placed the whip in its place, seated herself alongside of the fire, and resumed her work without saying a word. chapter xxii. the pirates. after a few moments' silence, the widow said to her daughter, "go and get some wood; we will arrange the woodhouse to-night, on the return of nicholas and martial." "martial! will you also tell him that?" "some wood," repeated the widow, interrupting her daughter. she, accustomed to this iron will, lighted a lantern and went out. at the moment she opened the door it could be seen that the night was very dark, and one could hear the whistling of the wind through the poplars, the clanging of the chains which held the boats, and the wash of the river. these noises were profoundly sad. during the preceding scene, amandine, painfully affected at the fate of francois, whom she loved tenderly, had dared neither to raise her eyes nor wipe her tears, which fell drop by drop obscuring her sight. in her haste to finish the work which was given her, she had wounded her hand with the scissors; the blood flowed freely, but the poor child thought less of the pain than the punishment which she might expect for having stained the linen with her blood. happily, the widow, absorbed in profound thought, perceived nothing. calabash returned bringing a basket filled with wood. at a look from her mother, she answered by a nod, intended to say that the dead man's foot did appear above the earth. the widow bit her lip and continued to work, but she appeared to handle the needle more quickly. calabash replenished the fire, and resumed her seat alongside of her mother. "nicholas does not come," said she. "i hope the old woman who was here this morning, in giving him a rendezvous with bradamanti, has not got him into some bad scrape. she had such a queer air; she would not explain or tell her name, or where she came from." the widow shrugged her shoulders. "you think there is no danger for nicholas, mother? after all, perhaps, you are right. the old woman said he must be on the quai de billy at seven in the evening, opposite the dock, where he would find a man who wished to speak to him, and who would say 'bradamanti' for password. really, that does not seem so very dangerous. if nicholas is late, it is, perhaps, because he has found something on the way, as he did yesterday--this linen, boned from a washing-boat;" and she showed one of the pieces of linen which amandine was unmarking; then, speaking to the child, she said, "what does boning mean?" "this means to take," answered the child, without raising her eyes. "it means to steal, little fool; do you hear, to steal?" "yes, sister." "and when one knows how to bone like nicholas there is always something to gain. the linen he picked up yesterday has only cost us the trouble of picking out the marks--eh, mother?" said calabash, with a burst of laughter which displayed her decayed teeth, as yellow as her skin. the widow did not laugh. "_apropos_ of getting things gratis," continued calabash, "we can, perhaps, furnish ourselves from another shop. you know that an old man, two or three days since, came to live in the country-house of m. griffion, the physician of the paris hospital--the lonely house a few steps from the river, opposite the plaster quarry?" the widow bowed her head. "nicholas said yesterday that now there was, perhaps, a good job to be done there. and i know, since this morning, that there is some booty there for certain. i must send amandine to wander around the house; they will pay no attention to her; she will pretend to be playing, will look well about her, and then come and let us know what she has seen. do you hear what i say?" "yes, sister, i will go," answered the trembling child. "you always say 'i will' but you never do it, you sly puss. the time i told you to take the five francs from the counter of the grocer at asnieres, while i kept him busy at the other end of his shop--it was very easy; no one suspects a child--why didn't you obey?" "sister, my heart failed me: i did not dare." "the other day you dared to steal a handkerchief from the peddler's pack while he was selling at the tavern. did he find it out, fool?" "sister, you forced me--it was for you; and, besides, it was not money." "what of that?" "to take a handkerchief is not so bad as to take money." "on my word! martial teaches you these whims doesn't he?" said calabash, in an ironical manner. "you'll go and tell him everything, little spy! do you think we are afraid that he'll eat us?" then, addressing the widow, calabash added, "mother, this will end badly for him; he wants to lay down the law here. nicholas is furious against him; so am i. he sets amandine and francois against us, against you. can it be borne?" "no!" said the mother, in a short, harsh voice. "it is especially since his louve was saint-lazared that he has gone on like a madman. is it our fault that she is in prison? when she is once out of prison, let her come here, and i will serve her out--good measure--though she is strong." the widow, after a moment's pause, said to her daughter, "you think there is something to be done with the old man who lives in the doctor's house?" "yes, mother." "he looks like a beggar." "that doesn't prevent his being a noble." "a noble?" "yes; or that he should have gold in his purse, although he goes to paris on foot every day, and returns in the same manner, with his heavy stick for his carriage." "how do you know that he has gold?" "the other day i was at the post-office, to see if there were any letters from toulon." at these words, which brought to her mind her son at the galleys, the widow knit her brows and suppressed a sigh. calabash continued: "i awaited my turn, when the old man we speak of came in. i twigged him at once by his beard, as white as his hair, and his black eyebrows. in spite of his hair, he must be a determined old man. he said, 'have you any letters from angers for the count of saint remy?' 'yes,' was the answer, 'here is one.' 'it is for me,' said he; 'here is my passport.' while the postmaster examined it, the old man drew out his purse to pay the postage. at one end i saw the gold glittering through the meshes, at least forty or fifty louis," cried calabash, her eyes twinkling, "and yet he is dressed like a beggar. he is one of those old misers who are stuffed with gold. come, mother, we know his name; it may serve us to get into the crib when amandine finds out if he has any servants." a violent barking of the dogs interrupted calabash. "oh, the dogs bark," said she; "they hear a boat. it is either martial or nicholas." after a few moments the door opened, and nicholas martial made his appearance. his face was ignoble and ferocious; small, thin, pitiful, it could hardly be imagined that he followed so dangerous a calling; but an indomitable energy supplied the place of the physical strength which was wanting. over his blue slop he wore a great-coat, without sleeves, made of goat-skin with long hair. on entering he threw on the ground a roll of copper which he had on his shoulder. "good-night, and good booty, mother," cried he, in a cracked voice; "there are three more rolls in my boat, a bundle of clothes, and a box filled with i don't know what, for i have not amused myself by opening it. perhaps i am sold--we shall see." "and what about the man at the quai de billy?" asked calabash, while the widow looked at her son without saying a word. he, for sole answer, put his hand in his pocket and jingled together a number of pieces of silver. "you took all that from him?" cried calabash. "no, he shelled out himself two hundred francs, and he will come down with eight hundred more when i shall have--but enough; let us unload the boat; we can jaw afterward. isn't martial here?" "no," said the sister. "so much the better; we will lock up the booty without him; just as well he shouldn't know." "you are afraid of him, coward!" said calabash, crossly. "afraid of him? me!" he shrugged his shoulders. "i am afraid he'll sell us, that's all. as to the fear, my sticker has too sharp a tongue." "oh, when he is not here, you brag; let him but come, that shuts your bill." nicholas appeared insensible to this reproach, and said, "come, quick! quick! to the boat. where is francois, mother? he could help us." "mother has shut him upstairs, after having dressed him nicely; he goes to bed without supper," said calabash. "good; but let him come and help us unload the boat all the same--eh, mother? calabash, him, and me, in a twist, will have all housed." the widow pointed upward. calabash understood, and went to look for francois. the gloomy visage of mother martial had become slightly relaxed since the arrival of nicholas; she liked him better than calabash, but not as well as she did her toulon son, as she called him; for the maternal love of this ferocious creature increased in proportion to the criminality of her offspring. this perverse preference sufficiently explains the dislike of the widow to her youngest children, who displayed no bad tendencies, and her profound hatred for martial, her eldest son, who, without leading a blameless life, might have passed for a very honest man if he had been compared to nicholas, calabash, or his brother, the galley--slave at toulon. [illustration: the pillage ] "where have you been plundering to-night?" asked the widow. "on returning from the quai de billy, i cast a sheep's-eye upon a barge fastened to the quay near the invalides bridge. it was dark; i said, no light in the cabin--the sailors are on shore--i'll go on board; if i meet any one, i'll ask for a piece of seizing to mend my oar. i went into the cabin--nobody; then i took what i could, some clothes, a large box, and, on the deck, four rolls of copper; for i returned twice. the barge was loaded with copper and iron. but here come francois and calabash. quick, to the boat! come, be moving--you, too, amandine. you can carry the clothes. a dog learns to carry before he is taught hunting." left alone, the widow busied herself in preparing the supper for the family, placing on the table glasses, bottles, plates, and silver forks and spoons. just as she finished her preparation, her children returned heavily laden. the weight of the two rolls, which he carried on his shoulders, seemed almost to crush francois. amandine was hardly visible under the bundle of clothes which she carried on her head. nicholas and calabash carried between them a deal box, on the top of which was placed the fourth roll of copper. "the box, the box!" cried calabash, with impatience. "let us air the case!" the copper was thrown on the ground. nicholas, armed with a hatchet, endeavored to get it under the cover, so as to force it up. the red flickering light from the earth illuminated this scene of pillage; without, the wind howled with renewed violence. nicholas, kneeling before the box, tried to break it, and uttered the most horrible oaths on seeing his efforts useless. her eyes glistening with cupidity, her cheeks flushing, calabash kneeled on the box, and assisted nicholas with all her strength. the widow, separated from the group by the table, where she stood at full length, also had her eager gaze fixed on the stolen object. finally, a thing, alas! too human, the two children, whose good natural instincts had so often triumphed over the cursed influence of this abominable domestic corruption, forgetting their scruples and their fears, gave way to the attractions of a fatal curiosity. leaning against one another, their eyes sparkling, their breathing oppressed, francois and amandine were not less anxious to know the contents of the box than their brother or sister. at length the top was forced off. "ah!" cried the family, in a joyful tone. and all, from the mother to the little girl, crowded around the stolen case. without doubt, consigned by some paris merchant to some of his country customers, it contained a large quantity of articles for women's use. "nicholas is not sold!" cried calabash, unrolling a piece of muslin de laine. "no," answered the pirate, shaking out a package of foulards; "no, i have paid my expenses." "levantine! that will sell like bread," said the widow, putting her hand in the box. "the bras-rouge's fence, who lives in the rue du temple, will buy the stuffs, and daddy micou, who keeps furnished lodgings in the quartier saint honore, will arrange for the copper." "amandine!" whispered francois to his little sister; "what a pretty cravat this would make." "yes, and it would make a very fine scarf," answered the child, with admiration. "i must say you had some luck, getting on board the barge," said calabash; "look here, famous shawls; three real silk! do look, mother?" "burette will give at least five hundred francs for the whole," said the widow, after a close examination. "then it must be worth at least fifteen hundred francs," said nicholas, "but a receiver is as bad as a thief! bah! i do not know how to cheat. i shall be soft enough this time again to do just as burette wishes, and micou also; but he is a friend." "never mind; the seller of old iron is a robber, just like the rest, but these rascally receivers know one has need of them," said calabash, trying on one of the shawls, "and they abuse it." "there's nothing more," said nicholas, reaching the bottom of the box. "now all must be repacked," said the widow. "i'll keep this shawl," said calabash. "you'll keep it!" cried nicholas, brutally, "if i give it to you. you are always taking--you--miss free-and-easy." "oh! you then refrain from taking?" "i? i nail at the risk of my skin. it's not you who'd have been jugged if they'd caught me on the barge." "well, there's your shawl! i don't care about it," said calabash, sharply throwing it back into the case. "it is not on account of the shawl that i speak; i am not mean enough to value a shawl; for one, more or less, old burette will not change her price; she buys in a lump," said nicholas. "but instead of saying that you'd take the shawl you might ask if i would give it you. come, keep it--keep it, i tell you; or if you won't, i'll pitch it into the fire to make the pot boil." these words soothed calabash's bad temper, and she took the shawl. nicholas was, doubtless, in a generous mood; for, tearing off with his teeth two of the handsomest handkerchiefs, he threw them to francois and amandine. "that's for you, my kids, to put you in the notion to go on the lay. appetite comes with eating. now go to bed; i want to talk with mother. your supper shall be brought upstairs." the children clapped their hands, and waved triumphantly the stolen handkerchiefs which had just been given them. "well, you little blockheads!" said calabash, "will you listen any more to martial? has he ever given you such handsome things?" francois and amandine looked at each other; then hung their heads without replying. "speak!" said calabash, harshly; "has he ever made you presents?" "well, no; he never has," said francois, looking at his red handkerchief with delight. amandine said, in a very low tone, "brother martial does not make us presents, because he hasn't the means." "if he would steal, he'd have them," said nicholas; "eh, francois?" "yes, brother," answered francois. then he added: "oh, the beautiful silk! what a fine cravat for sunday?" "what a fine head-dress!" said amandine. "not to say how wild the children of the lime-burner will be when they see you pass," said calabash, looking at the children to see if they comprehended the bearing of the words. the abominable creature thus called vanity to her assistance to stifle the last scruples of conscience. "the beggars will burst with envy: while you, with your fine silk, will look like little gentry." "that's true," answered francois. "i am much more content with my fine cravat, since the little lime-burners will be so jealous; ain't you, amandine?" "i am content with my fine kerchief." "you'll never be anything but a noodle!" said calabash, disdainfully; and taking from the table a piece of bread and cheese, she gave it to the children and said, "go upstairs to bed. here is a lantern. take care of the fire, and put out the light before you go to sleep." "and," added nicholas, "remember, if you say a word to martial about the box, or the copper, or the clothes, you shall have a dance, so that you'll take fire; not to say taking away the silks." after the departure of the children, nicholas and his sister hid the stolen articles in a little cellar under the kitchen. "mother! some drink, and let it be choice," cried the robber. "i have well earned my day. serve supper, calabash; martial shall gnaw our bones--good enough for him. now let us talk of the customer, 'quai de billy,' for to-morrow or next day that must come off, if i wish to pocket the money he promised. i am going to tell you, mother; but some drink--thunder! let's have some drink. i'll stand some." nicholas rattled the money which he had in his pocket anew; then, throwing off his goatskin jacket and his black woolen cap, he seated himself at table before a ragout of mutton, a piece of cold veal, and salad. when calabash had brought some wine and brandy, the widow seated herself at the table, having nicholas on her right and calabash on her left; opposite were the unoccupied places of martial and the two children. the thief drew from his pocket a long, broad knife, with a horn handle and sharp blade. looking at this murderous weapon with a kind of ferocious satisfaction, he said to the widow, "my rib-tickler still cuts well! pass me the bread, mother!" "speaking of knives," said calabash, "francois saw something in the woodhouse." "what?" said nicholas, not understanding her. "he saw one of the trotters--" "of the man?" cried nicholas. "yes," said the widow, putting a slice of meat on the plate of her son. "that's queer, for the hole was very deep," said the brigand, "but since that time should have been heaped up." "we must throw the lot into the river to-night," said the widow." "it is more sure," answered nicholas. "we can tie a stone to it with a piece of old chain," added calabash. "not so foolish!" said nicholas, pouring out drink; "come, drink with us, mother; it will make you more lively." the widow shook her head, drew back her glass, and said to her son, "and the man at the quai de billy?" "well," said nicholas, continuing to eat and drink. "on arriving at the wharf, i tied up my boat, and mounted on the wharf; seven o'clock struck at the military bakehouse of chaillot; i could hardly see my hand before my face. i walked up and down for about fifteen minutes, when i heard some one walk softly behind me. i stopped; a man wrapped in a cloak approached, coughing; he halted. all that i know of his face is, that his cloak hid his nose, and his hat covered his eyes." (this mysterious personage was jacques ferrand, who, wishing to make away with fleur-de-marie, had that morning dispatched mrs. seraphin to the martials, whom he hoped to make his instruments in this new crime.) "'bradamanti,' said the tax-payer," continued nicholas; "the password agreed upon with the old woman. 'ravageur,' i replied. 'is your name martial?' said he to me. 'rather!' 'a woman came to your island this morning; what did she say?' 'that you had something to say to me from m. bradamanti.' 'do you wish to gain some money?' 'yes, much.' 'have you a boat?' 'four! it is our business; boatmen and ravageurs from father to son, at your service.' 'i'll tell you what is to be done--if you are not afraid--' 'afraid--of what?' 'to see some one _drowned by accident_; only it is necessary to assist the _accident_. do you comprehend?' 'oh, you want to make some cove drink of the seine by chance! that suits me; but, as it is rather a delicate draught, the seasoning will cost rather dear.' 'how much for two?' 'for two! will there be two persons to make soup of in the river?' 'yes.' 'five hundred francs a-head, and not dear.' 'agreed for a thousand francs.' 'pay in advance?' 'two hundred in advance, the remainder afterward.' 'you are afraid to trust me?' 'no, you can pocket my two hundred francs without fulfilling our agreement.' 'and you, old friend, once the affair finished, when i ask you for the remainder, can answer me-- go to the deuce!' 'you must run your chance; does this suit you, yes or no? two hundred francs down, and the night after to-morrow, here, at nine o'clock, i will give you eight hundred francs.' 'and who shall tell you that i have made these two persons drink?' 'i shall know it: that's my affair! is it a bargain?' 'it is.' 'here's your money. now listen to me; you will know the old woman again who came to see you this morning?' 'yes.' 'to-morrow, or the day after at furthest, you will see her arrive, about four o'clock in the afternoon, on the shore opposite your island with a young girl; the old woman will make you a signal by waving her handkerchief.' 'yes.' 'how long does it take to go from the shore to your island?' 'twenty good minutes.' 'your boats have flat bottoms.' 'flat as your hand.' 'you must make a hole in the bottom of one of your boats, so as to be able, by opening it, to make it sink in a twinkling; do you comprehend?' 'very well; you are the devil! i have an old boat that i was about to break up; it will just answer for this last voyage.' 'you set out, then, from your island with this boat; a good boat follows you, conducted by some one of your family. you land; you take the old woman and the young girl on board your boat, and you set off for the island; but, at a reasonable distance from the shore, you feign to stoop to fix something; you open the hole, and you jump lightly into the other boat, while the old woman and the young girl--' 'drink out of the same cup--that's it.' 'but are you sure of not being disturbed should there be any guests at your tavern?' 'no fear, at this time, in winter, above all, no one comes; it is our dead season; and if any one should come, they would not be in the way; on the contrary--all tried friends.' 'very well! besides, you will not be at all compromised; the boat will sink through age, and the old woman with it. in fine, to be well assured that both of them are drowned (remember, by accident), you should, if they appear again, or if they cling to the boat, appear to do all in your power to assist them, and--' 'aid them--to dive again! good again.' 'it is better that the job take place after sunset, so that it be dark when they fall into the water.' 'no, for if one cannot see clear, how can they know whether the two women have drunk their fill, or want some more?' 'that is true; then the accident must happen before dark.' 'very good; but does the old woman suspect anything?' 'no. on arriving she will whisper in your ear: we must drown the girl; a short time before you sink the boat, make me a sign, so that i can escape with you. you must answer in such a manner as to calm any suspicions.' 'so that she thinks to lead the girl to drink?' 'and she will drink with her.' 'it is wisely arranged.' 'above all, let the old woman suspect nothing.' 'be easy; she shall swallow it like honey.' 'well, good luck! if i am pleased, perhaps i shall employ you again.' 'at your service.' thereupon," said the brigand, ending his story, "i left the man in the cloak, got into my boat, and, passing by the barge, i picked up the booty you have seen." it will be seen from this recital, that the notary wished, by a double crime, to get rid of fleur-de-marie and of mrs. seraphin at the same time, by making the latter fall into the snare she believed only laid for la goualeuse. the reasons for putting the latter out of the way are known to the reader; and in sacrificing mrs. seraphin, he silenced one of his accomplices (bradamanti was the other), who could at any time ruin him by ruining themselves, it is true; but jacques ferrand thought his secrets better guarded by the tomb than by personal interest. the widow and calabash had attentively listened to nicholas, who had only interrupted himself to drink to excess. for this reason he began to talk with singular warmth. "that's not all; i have managed another affair with la chouette and barbillon, of the rue aux feves. it is a famous plant, knowingly got up, and if we don't fail, there'll be something to try, i tell you. it is in contemplation to rob a diamond broker, who has sometimes as much as fifty thousand francs' value in her box." "fifty thousand francs!" cried mother and daughter, their eyes sparkling with cupidity. "yes, that's all! bras-rouge is in the game. yesterday he decoyed the broker by a letter which barbillon and i took to her on the boulevard saint denis. brass-rouge is a famous fellow! no one suspects him. to make her bite, he has already sold her a diamond for four hundred francs. she will not fail to come, at dusk, to his tavern in the champs elysees. we will be there concealed. calabash may come also, to take care of my boat. if it is necessary to pack up the broker, dead or alive, this will be a nice carriage, and leave no traces behind. there's a plan for you! rouge of a bras-rouge, what a college-bred scamp!" "i am always suspicious of bras-rouge," said the widow. "after the affair of the rue montmartre, your brother ambrose was sent to toulon, and bras-rouge was released." "because there was no proof against him, he is so cunning! but betray others--never!" the widow shook her head, as if she had been only half convinced of the probity of bras-rouge. "i prefer," said she, "the affair of the quai de billy--the women-drowning. but martial will be in the way, as he always is." "the devil's thunder will not rid us of him then?" cried nicholas, half drunk, sticking his long knife with fury in the table. "i told mother that we had had enough of him; that it could not last," said calabash; "as long as he is here, we can make nothing out of the children." "i tell you he is capable of denouncing us any day, the sneak," said nicholas. "do you see, mother; if you'd have agreed," added he, in a ferocious manner, looking at the widow, "all would have been settled." "there are other means." "this is the best." "at present, no," answered the widow, with a tone so absolute that nicholas was quiet, ruled by her influence. she added, "to-morrow morning he leaves the island forever." "how?" said calabash and nicholas in a breath. "he will soon come in; seek a quarrel--boldly--as you have never dared to do. come to blows, if needs be. he is strong, but you will be two, and i will help you. above all, no knives--no blood; let him be beaten, not wounded." "and what then?" asked nicholas. "we'll have an explanation; we will tell him to leave the island to-morrow, otherwise we'll repeat this again to-morrow night; such continual quarrels will disgust him, i know; we have let him be too quiet." "but he is stubborn as a mule; he'll remain on account of the children," said calabash. "he is dead beat, but an attack will not scare him," added nicholas. "oh, yes," said the widow; "but every day, every day is too much; he will give up." "and if he will not?" "then i have another plan to force him to leave tonight, or to-morrow morning at latest," answered the widow, with a strange smile. "truly, mother?" "yes; but i would rather frighten him by quarreling and fighting; if i do not then succeed, i'll try the other way." "and if the other way don't answer, mother?" said nicholas. "there is still another, which always does," replied the widow. suddenly the door opened and martial entered. it blew so hard outside that they had not heard the barking of the dogs announcing the arrival of the gallows widow's first-born. chapter xxiii. mother and son. ignorant of these evil designs, martial slowly entered into the kitchen. a few words of la louve, in her conversation with fleur-de-marie, have already informed us of the singular life of this man. endowed with good natural instincts, incapable of an action positively bad or wicked, martial did not conduct himself as he should have done. he fished contrary to law, and his strength and audacity inspired so much terror in the river-keepers, that they shut their eyes on his proceedings. the lover of la louve resembled francois and amandine very much; he was of middling stature, but robust and broad-shouldered; his thick, red hair, cut short, laid in points on his open forehead; his thick, heavy beard, his large cheeks, square nose, bold blue eyes, gave to him a singularly resolute expression. he wore an old tarpaulin glazed hat; and, notwithstanding the cold, had nothing on but a wretched blouse over his well-worn vest and coarse velveteen trousers. he held in his hand an enormous knotty stick, which he placed alongside of him on the table. a large dog, with crooked legs, came in with martial; but he remained near the door, not daring to approach the fire, or the people at the table; experience had proved to old miraut, that he was, as well as his master, not in very good odor with the family. "where are the children?" were the first words of martial, as he took his seat at the table. "they are where they are," answered calabash, sharply. "where are the children, mother?" repeated martial, without paying any attention to his sister. "gone to bed," answered the widow, dryly. "have they supped, mother?" "what's that to you?" cried nicholas, brutally, after having swallowed a large glass of wine, to augment his audacity. martial as indifferent to the attacks of nicholas as he was to calabash's, said to his mother, "i am sorry the children have already gone to bed, for i like to have them alongside of me when i sup." "and we, as they trouble us, packed them off," cried nicholas; "if it don't please you, go and look for them!" martial, much surprised, looked fixedly at his brother. then, as if reflecting on the folly of a quarrel, he shrugged his shoulders, cut a piece of bread with his knife, and helped himself to a slice of meat. the terrier had drawn nearer to nicholas, although still at a very respectful distance; the bandit, irritated at the contemptuous indifference of his brother, and hoping to make him lose his patience by striking the dog, gave miraut a furious kick, which made him howl piteously. martial became purple, pressed in his contracted hands the knife which he held, and struck violently on the table; but, still containing himself, he called his dog, and said gently, "here, miraut." the terrier came and laid down at his master's feet. this moderation defeated the projects of nicholas, who wished to push his brother to extremities to bring about a rupture. so he added, "i don't like dogs--i won't have your dog here." for answer, martial poured out a glass of wine, and drank it slowly. exchanging a rapid glance with nicholas, the widow encouraged him by a sign to continue his hostilities, hoping that a violent quarrel would bring about a rupture and a complete separation. nicholas went and took the willow switch which stood in the corner, and, approaching the terrier, struck him, crying, "get out of this, miraut!" up to this time, nicholas had often shown his animosity toward martial, but never before had he dared to provoke him with so much audacity and perseverance. at the yelp from his dog, martial rose, opened the door, put the terrier outside, and returned to continue his supper. this incredible patience, little in harmony with the ordinary character of martial, confounded his aggressors. they looked at each other, very much surprised. he, appearing completely a stranger to what was passing, ate heartily, and kept profound silence. "calabash, take away the wine," said the widow to her daughter. she hastened to obey, when martial said, "stop! i have not finished my supper." "so much the worse!" said the widow, taking away the bottle. "ah! as you like," answered he, and pouring out a large glass of water, he drank it, and smacking his lips, cried, "that's famous water!" this imperturbable coolness still more irritated nicholas, already much excited by his frequent libations; nevertheless, he recoiled before a direct attack, knowing the superior strength of his brother; suddenly he cried: "you have done well to knock under, with your dog, martial; it is a good habit to get into; for you must expect to see la louve kicked out, just as we have kicked out your dog." "oh, yes--for if she has the misfortune to come to the island when she comes out of prison," said calabash, comprehending the intention of nicholas, "i will box her soundly." "and i'll give her a ducking in the mud, near the hovel at the other end of the island," added nicholas; "and if she comes up again, i'll put her under again with a kick--the hussy." this insult, addressed to la louvs whom he loved with unqualified passion, triumphed over the pacific resolutions of martial; he knit his brows, his blood rushed to his face, the veins on his forehead and neck swelled like ropes; yet he still had command over himself to say to nicholas, in a voice altered by suppressed rage. "take care--you seek a quarrel, and you will find a new trick that you do not look for." "a trick--to me?" "yes, better than the last." "how? nicholas," said calabash, with well-feigned attachment, "has martial beat you? i say, mother, do you hear? i am no more astonished that nicholas is afraid of him." "he whipped me, because he took me unawares," cried nicholas, becoming pale with rage. "you lie! you attacked me slyly, i kicked you, and i took pity on you, but if you undertake to speak again of la louve--understand well, of my louve--then i'll have no mercy--you shall carry my marks for a long time." "and if i wish to speak of la louve, i?" said calabash. "i will give you a couple of boxes just to warm you; and if you go on, i'll go on to warm you." "and if i speak of her?" said the widow, slowly. "you?" "yes, me!" "you?" said martial, making a violent effort to contain himself, "you?" "you will beat me also, is it not so?" "no! but if you speak of la louve i'll thrash nicholas; now go on, it is your affair, and his also." "you," cried the enraged bandit, raising his dangerous knife, "you thrash me?" "nicholas, no knife!" cried the widow, endeavoring to seize the arm of her son. but he, drunk with wine and anger, pushed his mother rudely on one side, and rushed at his brother. martial fell back quickly, seized his heavy knotted stick, and put himself on the defensive. "nicholas, no knife!" repeated the widow. "let him alone!" cried calabash, arming herself with a hatchet. nicholas, brandishing his formidable knife, watched a favorable moment to throw himself on his brother. "i tell you," he cried, "that i'll crush you and your louve, both. now, mother--now, calabash! let us cool him; this has lasted too long!" and, believing the time favorable for his attack, the brigand rushed toward his brother with his knife raised. martial, very expert with a club, retreated quickly, lifted his stick, made a quick turn with it in the air, describing the figure eight, and let it fall heavily on the arm of nicholas, who, hurt severely, dropped his knife. "brigand, you have broken my arm!" cried he, taking hold of his arm with his left hand. "no, i felt my club rebound," answered martial, kicking the knife under the table. then, profiting by the situation of nicholas, he took him by the collar, pushed him roughly backward toward the door of the little cellar, opened it with one hand, and with the other threw him in and shut the door. returning afterward to the two women, he took calabash by the shoulders, and, in spite of her resistance, her cries, and a blow from the hatchet which wounded him slightly in the hand, he locked her in the lower room of the tavern, which was adjoining the kitchen; then, addressing the widow, still stupefied at this maneuver, as skillful as it was unexpected, he said, coldly, "now, mother, for us two." "well! yes; for us two," cried the widow, and her stoical face became animated, her wan complexion became suffused, her eyes sparkled, anger and hatred gave a terrible character to her features. "yes; now for us two!" said she, in a threatening tone; "i expected this moment--you shall know at last what i have on my heart." "and i also will tell you." "if you live a hundred years you shall recollect this night." "i shall remember it! my brother and sister wished to murder me; you did nothing to prevent it. but come, speak: what have you against me?" "what's my grudge?" "yes." "since the death of your father, you have done nothing but cowardly acts." "i?" "yes, coward! instead of staying with us to sustain us, you fled to rambouillet, to poach in the woods with the game-peddler you knew at bercy." "if i remained here, i should now have been at the galleys, like ambrose, or fit to go, like nicholas; i did not wish to be a robber like the others. hence your hatred." "and what was your trade? you stole game; you stole fish; no danger in that, coward!" "fish, as well as game, belong to no one; to-day in one place, to-morrow in another; it is for who can get it. i do not steal; as for being a coward---" "you fight for money men who are weaker than you are!" "because they have beaten those who are weaker than they are!" "trade of a coward! trade of a coward!" "there are more honest, it is true; it is not for you to tell me of it." "why have you not followed these honest callings, instead of lounging here and living at my expense?" "i give you the first fish i take, and what money i have--it is not much, but it is enough. i cost you nothing. i have tried to be a locksmith, to gain more; but when one from his infancy has idled on the river and in the woods, one can't do anything else; it is done for life. and besides, i have always preferred to live alone, on the river or in the woods; there no one questions me. instead of that, in other places, if any one should ask me of my father, must i not answer-- guillotined! of my brother--galley-slave! of my sister--thief!" "and of your mother, what would you say!" "i'd say she was dead." "and you would do well; it is all as--i disown you, coward! your brother is at the galleys. your grandfather and father have bravely finished on the scaffold, in defying the priest and the executioner. instead of avenging them, you tremble!" "avenge them!" "yes, to show yourself a real martial, spit on the knife of jack ketch and his red cap, and finish like father and mother, brother and sister." habituated as martial was to the ferocious bombast of his mother, he could not refrain from shuddering. she resumed, with increasing fury, "oh! coward, still more 'creatur' than coward! you wish to be honest. honest? is it that you shall not always be despised, as the son of a murderer, brother of a galley-slave; but you, instead of hugging vengeance, you are afraid; instead of biting, you fly; when they cut off your father's head, you left us, coward! and you knew we could not leave the island without being hunted and howled after like mad dogs. oh, they shall pay for it, they shall pay for it!" "one man--ten men can't make me afraid! but to be pointed at by everybody as the son and brother of condemned criminals--well, no! i could not stand it. i preferred to go and poach with pierre the game-seller." "why did you not remain in your woods?" "i came back on account of my affair with the guard, and above all, on account of the children, because they were of an age to be ruined by bad example!" "what is that to you?" "to me? because i do not wish to see them become like ambrose, nicholas, and calabash." "not possible!" "and alone with you all, they would not have failed, i made myself an apprentice to try to earn something, to take them with me, and leave the island; but at paris every one knew it; it was always son of the guillotined, brother of the galley slave. i had continual fights. it tired me." "and that did not tire you to be honest; that succeeded so well, instead of having the heart to return to us, to do as we do--as the children shall do in spite of you--yes, in spite of you. you think you will stuff them with your preachings, but we are here. francois already belongs to us nearly--the first occasion, and he shall be of the band." "i tell you no." "you will see. i know it. there is vice at the bottom; but you restrain him. amandine, when she is once fifteen, will go alone. ah! they have thrown stones at us, they have hunted us like mad dogs. they shall see what our family is--except you, coward; for you alone make us blush!" "it is a pity." "and as you may be spoiled here with us, to-morrow you will go from this never to return." martial looked at his mother with surprise; after a moment's pause he said, "you tried to get up a quarrel at supper to arrive at this." "yes, to show you what you may expect if you will stay here in spite of us--a hell--do you understand?--a hell upon earth. every day disputes, blows, fights; and we shall not be alone like to-night; we will have friends to help us; you'll not hold on a week." "you think to frighten me?" "i tell you what will happen to you." "no matter. i remain." "you will remain here?" "yes." "in spite of us?" "in spite of you, and calabash, and nicholas, and all others of the same kidney." "stop; you make me laugh." "i tell you i'll remain here until i find the means to earn my living elsewhere with the children; alone, i should not be embarrassed. i should return to the woods; but, on their account, i want more time to find out what i want. until then i remain." "ah! you remain until you can take away the children?" "as you say!" "take away the children?" "when i say to them come, they will come, and running too, i answer for it." the widow shrugged her shoulders, and replied, "listen to me. i told you, just now, if you were to live a thousand years, you would remember this night. i am going to explain to you why; but once more, have you well decided not to go?" "yes! yes! a thousand times, yes!" "directly you will say no! a thousand times, no! listen to me well. do you know what trade your brother follows?" "i suspect, but i do not want to know." "you shall know. he steals." "so much the worse for him." "and for you." "for me?" "he is a burglar, a galley affair; we receive his plunder; if it is discovered, we shall be condemned to the same punishment as receivers, and you also; the family will be carried off, and the children will be turned into the streets, where they will learn the trade of your father and grandfather quite as well as here." "i arrested as a receiver, as your accomplice! on what proof?" "no one knows how you live; you are a vagrant on the water--you have the reputation of a bad man--you live with us. who will you make believe that you are ignorant of our doings?" "i will prove the contrary." "we will accuse you as our accomplice." "accuse me! why?" "to reward you for remaining here in spite of us." "just now you wished to alarm me in one way; now it is in another; that don't take. i shall prove that i have never stolen. i remain." "ah! you remain? listen, then, once more; do you remember what happened last christmas night?" "christmas night?" said martial, endeavoring to collect his thoughts. "recollect well." "i do not recollect." "you do not remember that bras-rouge brought here at night a man well dressed, who wished to be concealed?" "yes, now i remember; i went upstairs to bed, and i left him at supper with you. he passed the night here; before daylight nicholas took him to saint ouen." "you are sure nicholas took him to saint ouen." "you told me so the next morning!" "christmas night you were then here?" "yes. well?" "on that night that man, who had much money with him, was killed in this house." "he! here!" "and robbed, and buried in the little wood-house." "it is not true," cried martial, becoming pale with alarm, and not willing to believe in this new crime of his kindred. "you wish to alarm me. once more i say it is not true." "ask your pet, francois, what he saw in the wood-house." "francois, what did he see?" "one of the feet of the man sticking out of the ground. take the lantern; go there, and satisfy yourself." "no," said martial, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. "no, i do not believe you. you tell me that to---" "to prove to you that, if you live here in spite of us, you run the risk every moment to be arrested as an accomplice in murder and robbery. you were here christmas night; we will say how you gave us your aid; how can you prove the contrary?" "oh!" said martial, hiding his face in his hands. "now will you go?" said the widow, with a sarcastic smile. martial was thunderstruck; he did not doubt the truth of what his mother had said; the roving life he led, his residence with a family so criminal, might cause heavy suspicions to fall upon him, and these might be changed into certainties in the eyes of justice, if his mother, his brother, his sister, pointed to him as their accomplice. the widow enjoyed the situation of her son. "you have the means to escape from this; denounce us!" "i ought to do it, but i shall not; you know it well!" "it is for this i have told you all. now will you go?" martial tried to soften his mother; with a mellowed voice he said, "mother, i do not believe you capable of this murder." "as you like, but go away." "i will go on one condition." "no conditions." "you will place the children as apprentices far from this, in the provinces." "they shall remain here." "come now, mother; when you have made them like nicholas, ambrose, father--what good will it do you?" "to do some good business with their aid. we are not yet too many. calabash remains here with me to keep the tavern. nicholas is alone; once taught, francois and amandine will help him. they threw stones at them also, children as they were; they must revenge themselves." "mother, you love calabash and nicholas, don't you?" "what then?" "they will go to the scaffold like father." "what then, what then?" "and does not their fate make you tremble?" "their fate shall be mine--neither better nor worse. i steal, they steal; i kill, they kill. who takes the mother will take the children. we will not be separated. if our heads fall, they shall fall in the same basket, where they will say adieu! we will not turn back; you are the only coward in the family; we drive you away. get out!" "but the children--the children!" "the children will grow up. i tell you, except for you, they would have been already formed. francois is almost ready; when you are gone, amandine shall make up for lost time." "mother, i entreat you, consent to send the children away as apprentices far from here." "how many times must i tell you that they are in apprenticeship here?" the widow articulated these words in such a stern manner that martial lost all hope of softening this heart of bronze. "since it is thus," said he, in a resolute and brief tone, "listen to me in your turn, mother; i remain." "ah, ah!" "not in this house. i should be murdered by nicholas, or poisoned by calabash; but, as i have not the means to lodge elsewhere, the children and i will live in the hovel at the other end of the island: the door is strong; i will make it stronger. once there, well barricaded, with my gun, my dog, and my club, i fear no one. to-morrow morning i will take away the children; they will come with me, sometimes in my boat, sometimes on the mainland. at night they shall sleep near me in the cabin; we will live on my fishing. this shall continue until i find a place for them; and i will find one." "ah! is it so?" "neither you, nor my brother, nor calabash can prevent it. if your thefts and your murders are discovered while i am still on the island, so much the worse; i must run my chance. i shall explain that i returned: that i remained on account of the children, to prevent their becoming rogues. they can judge. but may the thunder crush me if i leave this island, and if the children remain one day more in this house! yes, i defy you--defy you and yours to drive me from the island!" the widow knew the resolution of martial; the children loved their eldest brother as much as they feared him; they would follow him, then, without hesitation, when he wished it. as to him, well armed, resolute, always on his guard--in his boat during the day, barricaded during the in his cabin--he had nothing to fear from any evil designs of his family. the project of martial could then, on all points, be realized. but the widow had many reasons to prevent the execution. in the first place, like as honest artisans consider sometimes the number of their children as riches, on account of their services, so the widow counted on amandine and francois to assist her in her crimes. then, what she had said of her desire to avenge her husband and her son was true. certain beings, nursed, become aged, hardened in crime, enter into open revolt, into a murderous warfare against society, and believe by new acts of guilt to avenge themselves for the just punishment which has overtaken them and theirs. and then, in fine, the wicked designs of nicholas against fleur-de-marie, and still later against the diamond broker, might be defeated by the presence of martial. the widow had hoped to bring about an immediate separation between herself and martial, either by fomenting the quarrel with nicholas, or by revealing to him what risk he ran by remaining on the island. as cunning as she was acute, the widow, perceiving that she was mistaken, felt that it was necessary to have recourse to perfidy to entrap her son in a bloody snare. she resumed then, after a long silence, and with affected bitterness: "i see your plan; you do not wish to denounce us yourself--you wish to do it through the children." "i?" "they know now that there is a man buried here; they know that nicholas has stolen: once in apprenticeship, they will speak; we shall be taken, and we shall all be executed--you, as well as we; that's what will happen if i listen to you--if i allow you to place the children elsewhere. and yet you say you don't wish us any harm! i do not ask you to love me; but do not hasten the moment when we shall be taken." the softened tones of the widow made martial believe that his threats had produced a salutary effect: he fell into a frightful snare. "i know the children," replied he. "i am sure if i tell them to say nothing they will be quiet; besides, i shall always be with them, and will answer for their silence." "can any one answer for the words of a child? at paris, above all, where people are so curious and talkative? it is as much to keep them silent as to aid us that i wish to keep them here." "do they not go to the village and to paris now? who prevents them from speaking, if they wish to speak? if they were far away from here, so much the better: what they might say would be of no consequence." "far from here! and where is that?" said the widow, looking steadily at her son. "let me take them away; no consequence to you." "how would you live?" "my old master, the locksmith, is a good man. i will tell him what is necessary, and perhaps he will lend me something on account of the children; with that i'll go and bind them out far away from this. we set out in two days, and you will never hear more of us." "no; i prefer to have them with me. i shall be more sure of them." "then i establish myself to-morrow at the hovel, waiting for something better. i have a head also, and you know it." "yes, i know it. oh, how i wish to see you far away from this! why did you not stay in your woods?" "i offer to rid you both of myself and the children." "you would leave la louve, then--she whom you love so well?" "that's my business: i know what i have to do; i have a plan." "if i let you take them away, will you never return to paris?" "in three days we will be off, and like the dead for you." "i prefer to have it so, rather than you should always be here, and be suspicious of them. come, since it must be so, take them away, and clear out as soon as possible, that i may never see you again." "is this settled?" "it is. give me the key of the cellar, so that i can release nicholas." "no he can sleep off his wine there." "and calabash?" "it is different. you can open the door after i have gone to bed; it makes me feel bad to see her." "go; and may the devil confound you!" "is it your good-night, mother?" "yes." "happily, it will be the last," said martial. "the last," replied the widow. her son lighted a candle, and, opening the kitchen door, whistled to his dog, which came bounding in, and followed his master to the upper story of the mansion. "go! your account is finished," muttered the mother, shaking her fist at her son, who had just gone upstairs, "you have brought it upon yourself." then, assisted by calabash, who went to look for a bunch of false keys, the widow picked the lock of the cellar where nicholas was confined, and set him at liberty. chapter xxiv. francois and amandine. francois and amandine slept in a room situated immediately over the kitchen, at the extremity of a corridor, into which opened several other rooms, serving as private dining-rooms to the frequenters of the tavern. after having partaken of their frugal supper, instead of extinguishing their lantern, according to the orders of the widow, the two children had watched, leaving their door open, to see martial when he should come to his room. placed on a rickety stool, the lantern shed a sickly light through the miserable room. walls of plaster, a cot for francois, a child's bedstead, very old, and much too short for amandine, a heap of broken chairs and benches, the result of some of the drunken brawls and turbulent conduct which had taken place at the tavern; such was the interior of this den. amandine, seated on the edge of the cot, tried to dress her head with the stolen gift of her brother nicholas, francois, kneeling, presented a fragment of looking-glass to his sister, who, with her head half-turned round, was occupied in tying the ends of the silk into a large rosette. very attentive, and very much struck with this coiffure, francois neglected for a moment to hold the glass in such a position that his sister could see. "raise the glass higher now--i cannot see; there--so--good. wait a little; now i have finished. look! how do you think it looks?" "oh, very well--very well! what a fine tie! you'll make one just like it with my cravat, won't you?" "yes, directly; but let me walk a little. you go before--backward; hold the glass up so that i can see myself as i walk." francois executed this difficult maneuver very well, to the great satisfaction of amandine, who strutted up and down triumphantly, under the rosette and ears of her _foulard._ very innocent under any other circumstances, this conduct become culpable, as francois and amandine both knew the prize was stolen; another proof of the frightful facility with which children, even well endowed, are corrupted almost without knowing it, when they are continually plunged in a criminal atmosphere. and, besides, the sole mentor of these little unfortunates, their brother martial, was not himself irreproachable, as we have said: incapable of committing a theft or murder, he did not the less lead an irregular and wandering life. they refused to commit certain bad actions, not from honesty, but to obey martial, whom they tenderly loved, and to disobey their mother, whom they feared and hated. it is hard to say how much the perceptions of morality with these children were doubtful, vacillating, precarious; with francois particularly, arrived at that dangerous period where the mind, hesitating, undecided between good and evil, perhaps in one moment may be lost or saved. "how this red becomes you, sister!" said francois. "how pretty it is! when we go and play on the shore in front of the plaster-kilns, you must dress yourself so, to make the children wild, who are always throwing stones at us and calling us little _guillotines._ i'll put on my fine red cravat, and we will tell them, 'never mind, you haven't such handsome handkerchiefs as these.'" "but i say, francois," said amandine, after a pause, "if they knew that they were stolen, they would call us little thieves." "who cares if they do?" "when it is not true, it's all the same; but now--" "since nicholas has given us these, we have not stolen them." "yes, but he did; he took them from a boat; and brother martial says we must not steal." "but since nicholas has stolen them, it is none of our business." "you think so, francois?" "yes, i do." "yet it seems to me that i should have preferred that the person to whom they belonged should have given them to us. don't you think so, francois?" "oh, it's all the same to me. they have been given to us, and that's enough." "you are very sure?" "why, yes, yes; do be quiet." "then, so much the better; we have not done what brother martial forbids, and we have fine handkerchiefs." "i say, amandine, if he knew that the other day calabash made you take that handkerchief from the peddler's pack, when his back was turned!" "oh, francois, do not speak of that!" said the poor child, whose eyes were filled with tears: "brother martial would love me no more. he would leave us all alone here." "don't be afraid, i will not tell him," he said, laughing. "oh, don't laugh at that. francois; i am sorry enough; but i had to do it. sister pinched me till the blood came, and then she looked at me so--so! and yet twice my heart failed me; i thought i could never do it. finally, the peddler saw nothing, and sister kept the kerchief. if he had seen me, francois, they would have put me in prison." "they did not see you; it is just the same as if you had not stolen." "you think so?" "of course!" "and in prison, how unhappy one must be!" "on the contrary." "how, francois, on the contrary?" "look here! you know the big lame man who lives at paris with pere micou; the man who sells for nicholas; who keeps furnished lodgings, passage de la brasserie?" "a big lame man?" "why, yes; who came here at the end of the autumn from pere micou, with a man with monkeys, and two women." "oh, yes, yes; the lame man who spent so much money?" "i think so; he paid for everybody." "do you recollect the excursion on the water?" [illustration: the brigand's attack on his brother] "i went with them, and the man with the monkeys took his organ on board to have some music in the boat." "and then, at night, what fine fireworks they had, francois!" "yes; and he was no miser: he gave me ten sous! he drank nothing but sealed wine; they had chickens at all their meals; they had at least eighty francs' worth." "as much as that, francois?" "oh, yes." "he was very rich, then?" "not at all; what he spent was the money which he earned in prison, from whence he had just come." "he gained all that money in prison?" "yes; he said he had seven hundred francs left; that when all was gone, he would do some good job, and if they took him, he didn't care, because he would return to the prison and join his good friends there." "he wasn't afraid of the prison, then, francois?". "just the contrary; he told calabash that they were all jolly together; that he never had a better bed or better food than in prison: good meat four times a week, fire all winter, and a good sum when he came out, while there are so many stupid fools of honest workmen who were starving for want of work." "did the lame man say that?" "i heard him; for i was rowing in the boat while he told this to calabash and the two women, who said it was the same thing in the prison for women; they had just come out." "but, then, francois, it can't be so wicked to steal, if one is so well off in prison?" "i don't know; here, there is no one but brother martial who says it is wrong to steal, perhaps he is mistaken." "never mind, we must believe him, francois; he loves us so much!" "he loves us, it is true! when he is here no one dares to beat us. if he had been here to-night, mother wouldn't have whipped me. old beast! ain't she wicked? oh! i hate her--hate her. how i wish i was a man, to pay her back all the blows she has given me, and you, who can't bear it as well as i can." "oh! francois, hush, you make me afraid, to hear you say that you would like to strike mother!" cried the poor little thing, weeping, and throwing her arms around the neck of her brother, whom she embraced tenderly. "no, it is true," answered francois, repulsing his sister gently; "why are mother and calabash always so severe and cross to us?" "i do not know," said amandine, wiping her eyes; "it is, perhaps, because they guillotined father and sent ambrose to the galleys." "is that our fault?" "no; but--" "if i am always to receive blows in the end, i would rather steal, as they wish me to; what good does it do me not to steal?" "and what would martial say?" "oh! except for him i should have said 'yes' long ago, for i am tired of being flogged; now to-night, mother never was so wicked--she was like a fury--it was very dark, dark; she said not a word, i only felt her cold hand, which held me by the neck, while with the other she beat me, and i thought i saw her eyes glisten." "poor francois! because you said you saw a dead man's bones in the wood-house?" "yes, a foot which stuck out of the earth," said francois, shuddering with affright: "i am sure of it." "perhaps formerly there was a burying-ground there?" "must think so; but, then, why did mother say she would whip me again if i spoke of it to martial? i tell you what, it is likely some one has been killed in a dispute, and been buried there so it should not be known." "you are right! for, do you remember, such a thing once liked to have happened?" "when was that?" "you know the time that barbillon struck the man with the knife--the tall man, who is so thin--so thin that he shows himself for money?" "ah! yes, the living skeleton, as they call him; mother came and separated them, otherwise barbillon would, perhaps, have killed the great skeleton! did you see how he foamed, and how his eyes stuck out of his head?" "oh! he is not afraid to stick a knife into one for nothing." "he is a madcap!" "oh! yes, so young, and so wicked, francois!" "tortillard is much younger; and he would be quite as bad, if he had the strength." "oh! yes, he is very bad. the other day he struck me because i would not play with him." "he struck you? good--the next time he comes--" "no, no, francois, it was only in fun." "you are sure?" "yes, very sure." "very well--or--but i do not know where he gets so much money from; when he came here with la chouette, he showed us some gold pieces of twenty francs." "how impudent he looked when he told us, 'you could have just the same, if you were not little duffers.'" "duffers?" "yes, that means stupid fools." "oh, yes! true." "forty francs--in gold--how many fine things i would buy with that! and you, amandine?" "oh! i likewise." "and what would you buy?" "let me see," said the child, in a meditative manner; "in the first place i would get a warm coat for brother martial, so that he should not be cold in his boat." "but for yourself--for yourself?" "i would like an infant saviour, in wax, with his lamb and cross, like the image-man had on sunday, you know, at the door of the church of asnieres." "i hope no one will tell mother calabash that they saw us at church." "true, she has so often forbidden us to enter one. it is a pity, for a church is very nice inside, is it not, francois?" "yes, what fine candlesticks!" "and the picture of the holy virgin! how good she looks!" "and the lamps; and the fine cloth on the table at the end, where the priest said mass, with his two friends dressed like himself, who gave him water and wine." "say, francois, do you recollect last year, the fete-dieu, when we saw from here all the little communicants, in their white veils, pass over the bridge?" "what handsome flowers they had!" "how they sung, and held the ribbons of their banners!" "and how the silver fringes of the banners glistened in the sun! that must have cost a deal of money!" "goodness--how handsome it was, francois!" "i believe you, and the communicants with their badges of white satin on the arm, and wax candles with velvet and gold handles." "the little boys had banners also, had they not, francois?" "oh! was i not whipped that day because i asked mother why we did not walk in the procession, like other children!" "then it was that she told us never to enter a church, unless it was to steal the money-box for the poor, 'or from the pockets of people listening to mass,' added calabash, laughing and showing her old, yellow teeth." "bad creature, she is!" "oh, before i would steal in a church, they should kill me! don't you say so, francois?" "there, or elsewhere--what is the difference when one has decided?" "i do not know, but i should have more fear; i never could." "on account of the priests?" "no, perhaps on account of the picture of the holy virgin, who looks so good and kind." "what of that?--the picture can't eat you, little fool!" "true; but i could not; it is not my fault." "speaking of priests, amandine, do you remember the day when nicholas struck me so hard, because he saw me bow to the cure who was passing on the shore? i had seen him saluted--i did the same; i did not think there was any harm." "yes; but that time martial said just the same as nicholas--that we had no need to make a salute to a priest." at this moment francois and amandine heard some one walk in the corridor. martial reached his chamber without any further trouble, after his conversation with the widow, believing nicholas locked up until the next morning. seeing a ray of light issuing from the door of the children's room, he went in. they both ran to him and embraced him tenderly. "not yet gone to bed, little chatterers?" "no, brother; we waited for you to come and say good-night," said amandine. "and, besides, some one was talking very loud downstairs, as if it was a quarrel," added francois. "yes," said martial, "i had a dispute with nicholas, but it is nothing. i am glad to find you up; i have some good news to tell you." "us, brother?" "would you like to go with me away from here--far away?" "oh yes, brother!" "well, in two or three days all three of us leave the island." "how glad i am!" cried amandine, clapping her hands. "but where shall we go to?" asked francois. "you shall see, inquisitive; but never mind, wherever we go, you shall learn a good trade, which will make you able to earn your living, that is sure." "shall i not go any more fishing with you, brother?" "no, my boy; you shall go as an apprentice to a cabinet-maker or a locksmith. you are strong and active; with courage, and by working hard, at the end of a year you will be able to earn something. oh, come now, what is the matter? you do not appear to be pleased." "because, brother, i--" "well, go on." "would rather remain with you, fish, mend your nets, than learn a trade." "really?" "to be shut up in a shop all day is so gloomy; and to be an apprentice is so tiresome." martial shrugged his shoulders. "you would rather be idle, a vagabond, a rover," said he severely, "before becoming a robber?" "no, brother; but i would rather live here with you, as we live here-- that's all." "yes, that's it--to eat, drink, sleep, and amuse yourself with fishing, like a lazybones." "i like that better." "it is very probable; but you must like something else. look here, my poor francois, it is high time that i take you from this place; without knowing it, you will become as bad as the others. mother was right--i am afraid you are rather vicious. but you, amandine, wish to learn a trade?" "oh, yes, brother; i would rather learn one than stay here. i shall be so glad to go away with you and francois?" "but what have you got on your head?" said martial, remarking the triumphant head-dress of amandine. "a handkerchief which nicholas gave me." "he gave me one also," said francois proudly. "and where did they come from? it would surprise me if nicholas should have bought them for you." the children hung their heads, without replying. after a moment's pause, francois said resolutely, "nicholas gave them to us; we don't know where they came from, do we, amandine?" "no, no, brother," answered she, stammering and blushing, and not daring to raise her eyes." "do not tell a lie!" said martial sweetly. "we do not lie!" added francois, boldly. "amandine, my child, tell the truth," said martial, gently. "well, to tell the whole truth," answered amandine, timidly, "they came from a box of goods which nicholas brought to-night in his boat." "stolen?" "i think so, brother, from a barge." "you see, francois, you told a lie!" said martial. the boy held down his head, without answering. "give me the handkerchief, amandine; give me yours, also, francois." the little girl took off her head-dress, took a last look at the enormous rosette, and gave it to martial, stifling a sigh of regret. francois drew his slowly from his pocket, and, like his sister, returned it to martial. "to-morrow morning," said he, "i will give these to nicholas. you should not have taken them, my children; to profit by a theft is the same as to be the thief." "it's a pity--they are so handsome!" said francois. "when you have learned a trade, and earn money, you can buy some quite as handsome. come, go to bed; it is late, children." "you are not angry, brother?" said amandine timidly. "no, no, my girl; it is not your fault. you live with rogues--you do as they do without knowing it. when you are with honest people, you will do as they do; and you soon shall be there--or deuce take me! good-night!" "good-night, brother;" and, embracing them both, martial departed. "what is the matter, francois? you look so sad!" said amandine. "brother has taken my handkerchief; and, besides, did you not hear?" "what?" "he wants to make us apprentices." "are you not glad?" "faith, no!" "you would rather remain here, and be beaten every day?" "i am beaten; but i don't have to work. i am all day in the boat, or fishing or playing, or serving the company, who sometimes give me something for drink, as the lame man did; it is much more amusing than to be shut up from morning till night in a shop, to work like a dog." "but did you not hear brother say, if we remained here any longer we would become bad?" "all the same to me, since other children call us already little thieves. work is too tiresome." "but here they always beat us!" "they beat us because we listen more to martial than to them." "he is so good to us." "he is good, he is good, i do not deny; so i love him well. they do not dare to harm us before him. he takes us out to walk, it is truer but that is all; he never gives us anything." "brother, he has nothing; what he earns he gives to our mother for board." "nicholas has something. i am sure that if we were to listen to him and mother, he would not treat us so; he would give us fine things, like to-day; he would no longer suspect us; we should have money, like tortillard." "but we should have to steal, and that would cause brother martial so much sorrow!" "can't help that!" "oh, francois! besides, if they caught us, we should go to prison." "in prison, or shut up all day in a shop, is the same thing. besides, the lame man said they amused them--selves so much in prison." "but the sorrow we would cause to martial--don't you think of that? it is on our account he came back here, and now remains; alone, he could easily get along: he could return and poach in the woods he likes so well." "well! let him take us in the woods with him," said francois: "that would be best of all; i would be with him i love so much, and i should not have to work at a trade i cannot bear." the conversation of francois and amandine was interrupted. their door locked on the outside with a double turn. "we are shut up!" cried francois. "oh! what for, brother? what are they going to do with us?" "perhaps it is martial." "listen, listen, his dog barks!" said amandine. "it sounds to me as if they were hammering something," said francois; "perhaps they are trying to break open martial's door!" "yes, yes, his dog barks all the time." "listen, francois! now it sounds like driving nails. oh, dear, i am afraid. what could brother have done? now hear how his dog howls!" "amandine, i hear nothing now," said francois, approaching the door. the two children, holding their breath, listened with anxiety. "now they return," said francois, in a low tone, "i hear them walking in the corridor." "let us jump into bed; mother would kill us if she found us up," said amandine. "no!" answered francois, still listening: "they have just passed our door; they are running downstairs; now they open the kitchen door." "you think so?" "yes, yes; i know the noise it makes." "martial's dog keeps on howling," said amandine; then suddenly she cried, "francois, brother calls us." "martial?" "yes, don't you hear him?" and, notwithstanding the thickness of the two closed doors, the stentorian voice of martial, calling to the children, could be heard. "we cannot go to him--we are locked up," said amandine: "they wish to do him some harm, for he calls to us." "oh, if i could," cried francois, resolutely, "i would prevent them, if they were to cut me to pieces! but brother does not know that we are locked up; he will think that we will not help him." "call to him, francois, that we are shut up." he was about to follow the advice of his sister, when a violent blow shook the blind on the outside of the little window of their room. "they are coming that way to kill us!" cried amandine, and, in her fright, she threw herself on the bed, and covered her face with her hands. francois remained immovable, although he partook of the alarm of his sister. yet, after the violent blow of which we have spoken, the blind was not opened; the most profound silence reigned throughout the house. martial had ceased to call the children. somewhat recovered and excited by deep curiosity, francois ventured to half open the window, and tried to see without through the slats of the blinds. "take care, brother," whispered amandine, who, hearing francois open the window had partly raised herself up. "do you see anything?" "no; the night is too dark." "do you hear nothing?" "no; the wind blows too hard." "come back, come back then!" "ah! now i see something." "what?" "the light of a lantern; it comes and goes." "who carries it?" "i only see the light." "oh! now it comes nearer; some one speaks." "who is that?" "listen, listen! it is calabash." "what does she say?" "she tells them to hold the foot of the ladder steady." "oh! do you see, it was in taking away the long ladder which was against our window that they made such a noise just now." "i hear nothing more." "what are they doing with the ladder now?" "i can't see anything more." "do you hear nothing?" "no." "oh, francois, it is, perhaps, to get into brother martial's room by the window that they have taken the ladder?" "that may be." "if you would open the shutter a little to see--" "i dare not." "only a little." "oh! no, no. if mother should see it--" "it is so dark there is no danger." francois, yielding to the entreaties of his sister, opened the blinds and looked out. "well, brother?" said amandine, overcoming her fears, and approaching francois on tiptoe. "by the light of the lantern," said he; "i see calabash holding the foot of the ladder, placed against martial's window." "what then?" "nicholas goes up the ladder; he has his hatchet in his hands; i see it shine." "hullo, you are not gone to bed! you are spying us!" cried the widow suddenly, calling to francois and his sister. just as she was going into the kitchen she saw the light from the half-opened window. the unfortunate children had neglected to extinguish their light. "i am coming up," added the widow, in a terrible voice; "i am coining to you, little spies." such are the events which took place at the ravageur's island, the evening before mrs. seraphin was to conduct thither fleur-de-marie. chapter xxv. furnished rooms. brasserie passage, a dark and gloomy passage, but little known, although situated in the center of paris, extended on one side from the rue traversiere saint honore to the cour saint guillaume on the other. about the middle of this wet, muddy, dark, and gloomy street, where the sun scarcely ever penetrates, stood a furnished house. on a rascally-looking sign was to be seen, "_furnished rooms_;" on the right of an obscure alley opened the door of a shop not less obscure, where the proprietor was generally to be found. this man, whose name has been several times mentioned on ravageur's island, was micou; openly a seller of old iron; but secretly he bought and sold stolen metal, such as iron, lead, copper, and tin. to say that micou was in business and friendly relations with the martials, is sufficiently to appreciate his morality. micou was a corpulent man of about fifty years of age, with a low, cunning look, a pimply nose, and bloated cheeks; he wore an otter-skin cap, and was wrapped up in an old green garrick. over the little iron stove near which he was warming himself, a board with numbers painted on it was nailed against the wall; there were suspended the keys of the rooms whose lodgers were absent. the window looking into the street was soaped in such a manner that those without could not see what was going on within the shop; this window was heavily barred with iron. throughout this large shop reigned great obscurity: on the damp and blackish walls were suspended rusty chains of all sorts and sizes; the floor was nearly covered with fragments and clippings of iron and lead. three peculiar knocks at the door attracted the attention of micou. "come in!" cried he, and nicholas appeared. he was very pale; his face seemed still more sinister-looking than the evening previous, and yet it will be seen he feigned a kind of noisy gayety during the following conversation. this scene took place the morning after his quarrel with his brother martial. "oh! here you are, good fellow!" said the lodging-house keeper, cordially. "yes, daddy micou; i come to have some business with you." "shut the door." "my dog and little cart are there--with the swag." "what do you bring me? folded tripe (stolen sheet-lead)?" "no, micou." "it is not dredge, you are too cunning now; you are no longer a _ravageur_; perhaps it is iron?" "no, micou; it is copper. there must be at least one hundred and fifty pounds; my dog has as much as he can draw." "go and bring the stuff; we will weigh it." "you must help me, micou; i have a lame arm." "what is the matter with your arm?" "nothing--a bruise." "you must make some iron red hot, put it into some water, and bathe your arm in this almost boiling water; it is a dealer-in-old-iron's remedy, but it is excellent." "thank you, daddy micou." "come, let us bring in the metal: i will help you, lazybones!" the copper was then brought in from a little cart drawn by an enormous dog, and placed in the shop. "that barrow is a good idea," said micou, adjusting the scales. "yes; when i have anything to bring, i put my dog and cart into my boat, and i harness him when i land. a jarvey might blab: my dog can't." "all well at home?" demanded the receiver, weighing the copper: "your mother and sister are in good health?" "yes, micou." "the children also?" "the children also." "and your nephew andre, where is he?" "don't speak of it! he was in luck yesterday. barbillon and the big cripple took him away; he only came back this morning; he is already gone on an errand to the post-office, rue jean jacques rousseau." "and your brother martial, is still savage?" "i do not know anything about him." "you don't know anything about him?" "no," said nicholas, affecting an indifferent manner; "for two days we have not seen him; perhaps he has returned to his old trade of a poacher--unless his boat, which was very old, has sunk in the river, and he with--" "that don't give you much concern, good-for-nothing, for you can't feel it much!" "it is true, one has his own ideas. how many pounds of copper are there?" "you made a good guess--one hundred and forty-eight pounds, my boy." "and you will owe me--" "exactly thirty francs." "thirty francs, when copper is a franc a pound? thirty francs!" "we will say thirty-five, and don't turn up your nose, or i will send you to the devil--you, copper, dog and cart." "but, micou you cheat me too much! there's no sense in it." "prove to me this copper belongs to you, and i will give you fifteen sous a pound for it." "always the same song. you are all alike; get out, you nest of thieves! can one gouge a friend in such style? but this is not all. if i take your merchandise in exchange, you should give me good measure at least!" "just so! what do you want? chains or hooks for your boat?" "no; i want four or five iron plates, very strong, such as would answer to line window-shutters with." "i have just what you want--the third of an inch thick; a pistol ball could not go through." "just the thing!" "what size?" "in all, seven or eight feet square." "good! what else do you want?" "three iron bars, three to four feet long, and two inches square." "i tore down the other day some grating from a window; that will suit you like a glove. what next?" "two strong hinges and a latch; to fix and shut at will, a wicket two feet square." "a trap, you mean to say?" "no; a wicket." "i cannot comprehend what you can want with it?" "that is possible, but i can." "very well, you have only to choose; there are the hinges. what else do you need?" "that's all." "it is not much." "get my goods ready at once, daddy micou, i will take them as i pass; i have some more errands to do." "with your cart? i say, i saw a bale of goods in the bottom; is it something more that you have taken from everybody's cupboard, little glutton?" "as you say, daddy micou: but you don't eat this; don't make me wait for my iron, for i must be back to the island by twelve o'clock." "don't be uneasy, it is eight o'clock; if you are not going far, in an hour you can return, all will be ready, will you take a drop?" "to be sure; you can well afford to pay it!" daddy micou took out of an old chest a bottle of brandy, a cracked glass, a cup without a handle, and poured out the liquor. "your health, old 'un!" "yours, my boy, and the ladies' at home!" "thank you; and your lodgings come on well?" "so, so. i have always some lodgers for whom i fear the visits of the grabs; but they pay more in consequence." "why?" "how stupid you are! sometimes i lodge as i buy; to such i no more ask for their passports than i ask you for an invoice." "understood! but to those you let as dear as you buy of me cheap." "must take care of one's self. i have a cousin who keeps a fine hotel in the rue saint honore, while his wife is a mantua-maker, who employs as many as twenty assistants, either at her shop, or at their own homes." "say now, old obstinacy, there must be some pretty ones there?" "i guess so! there are two or three that i have seen sometimes bringing in their work. crimini! ain't they nice! one little puss, who works at home, always laughing, called rigolette. oh, my lark! what a pity i ain't twenty!" "come, come, papa, put yourself out, or i'll cry fire!" "but she is virtuous, my boy; she is virtuous." "get out! and you say that your cousin--" "keeps a very good house, and, as she is of the same number as little rigolette--" "virtuous?" "exactly." "over!" "she will not have lodgers without passports or papers; but if any present themselves, knowing i am not very particular, she sends them to me." "and they pay in consequence?" "always." "but are they all friends of the family, those who have no papers?" "no. ah, now, speaking of that, my cousin sent me, a few days ago, a customer. may the devil burn me, if i can understand it! come, another turn?" "agreed; the liquor is good. your health, micou!" "yours, lad! i say, then, that the other day my cousin sent me a customer whom i cannot make out. just imagine a mother and her daughter, who had a very seedy look, it is true; they carried their luggage in a handkerchief. well, although they must, of course, be nobody, since they had no papers, and they lodge by the fortnight; since they have been here they do not stir out; no one comes to see them, my pal--no one! and yet, if they were not so thin and so pale, they'd be two fine women, the little one above all. she is not more than fifteen at least; she is as white as a white rabbit, with large black eyes--large as that! what eyes! what eyes!" "you'll get on fire again; i'll call the engines! what do these women do for a living?" "i tell you i comprehend nothing about it; they must be virtuous, and yet no papers; without counting that they receive letters without address, their name must be bad to write." "how is that?" "they sent, this morning, my nephew andre to the office of the letters to be called for, to reclaim a letter addressed to madame x. z. the letter was to come from normandy, from a place called aubiers. they wrote that on a piece of paper, so that andre might get the letter. you see they can be no great things, women who take the name of x and a z." "they will never pay you." "it is not for an old ape like me to learn to make faces. they have taken a room without a fireplace, for which i make them pay twenty francs a fortnight, and in advance. they are, perhaps, sick; for two days they have not come down. it certainly is not from indigestion; for i do not think they have cooked anything since they have been here." "if you had only such lodgers as they, micou--" "that comes and goes. if i lodge people without passports, i lodge great folks also; i have at this moment two traveling clerks, a post-office carrier, the leader of the orchestra of the cafe des aveugles, and an independent lady, all very genteel people. they save the reputation of the house, if the police wish to examine too closely; they are not lodgers by night, not they; they are lodgers in the full light of the sun." "whenever it shines in your passage, daddy--" "joker, one more turn." "and the last, for i must take my hook. by-the-bye, does robin, the big lame man, lodge here yet?" "upstairs, next door to the mother and daughter. he has consumed all his prison money, and i believe he has none left." "i say, look out; he's broke his ticket-of-leave." "i know it well; but i can't get rid of him. i believe he is after something. little tortillard, the son of bras-rouge, came here the other night with barbillon, to look for him. i am afraid he will do some harm to my good lodgers that damnable robin. as soon as his term is up, i shall put him out, telling him his room is engaged by an embassador, or by the husband of madame de saint ildefonso?" "the lady?" "i should think so! three rooms and a cabinet on the front, nearly furnished, without counting a garret for her female servant, eighty francs a month, and paid in advance by her uncle, to whom she gives one of her rooms as a stopping-place when he comes from the country. after all, i believe his country house is the rue vivienne, rue saint honore, or in the environs of those places." "understood! she is an independent lady, because the old one pays her rent." "hush, here is her maid." a woman rather advanced in life, wearing a white apron of doubtful purity, entered the shop. "what can i do for you, madame charles?" "daddy micou, your nephew is not here?" "he has gone on an errand to the post-office; he will soon return." "m. badinot wishes he would take this letter to its address; there is no answer, but it is very urgent." "in a quarter of an hour it shall be on the way." "let him hurry." "be easy." the maid retired. "that's the servant of one of your lodgers, micou?" "madame saint ildefonso's. but m. badinot is her uncle; he came yesterday from the country, "answered micou. "but see, now, what fine acquaintances they have! i told you they were people of style; he writes to a viscount." "no!" "well, look: 'to his lordship the viscount of saint remy, rue de chaillot. haste, haste! (_private_).' i hope that when one lodges people who have uncles who write to viscounts, one can very well overlook a poor devil in the fourth story who has no passport!" "i think so. well, good-bye for the present, micou; i am going to fasten my dog and cart to your door; i will carry what i have to carry myself. have my goods and money ready on my return." "all shall be ready. but, i say, before you go i must tell you, since you have been here, i have watched you." "well?" "i don't know, but you seem to have something the matter with you." "i?" "yes." "you are a fool. i am hungry." "hungry! it is possible, but i should say that you wish to appear lively, but at the bottom there is something that bites and pinches you--conscience, as they say; and to trouble you it must bite hard, for you are no prude." "i tell you, you are crazy, micou," said nicholas, shuddering in spite of himself. "one would say that you tremble." "my arm pains me." "then don't forget my recipe: it will cure you." "thank you, father micou. good-bye," said nicholas, taking his departure. the receiver, after having concealed the copper, busied himself in collecting the different articles for nicholas, when a new personage entered the shop. he was a man of about fifty, with a knowing face, heavy gray whiskers, and gold spectacles; he was dressed with some care; the large sleeves of his brown paletot, with velvet cuffs, displayed his straw-colored gloves; his boots undoubtedly the evening previous had been brilliantly polished. such was m. badinot, the uncle of madame de saint ildefonso, whose social position was the pride and security of micou the fence. badinot, formerly a lawyer, but struck off the rolls, and now a chevalier d'industrie, and agent of equivocal affairs, served as a spy for the baron de graün (rudolph's friend), and gave the diplomatist a great deal of information concerning several characters of this narration. "madame charles has just given you a letter?" said badinot to the receiver. "yes, sir; my nephew will soon return; in a moment he will be off again." "no, give me the letter; i have changed my mind; i will go myself to the viscount de saint remy," said badinot, emphasizing purposely the aristocratic address. "here is the letter, sir; have you no other commission?" "no, friend micou," said badinot, with a patronizing air; "but i have reproaches to make to you." "to me, sir?" "very grave reproaches." "how, sir?" "certainly madame de saint ildefonso pays very dear for your first floor. my niece is one of those lodgers to whom one should pay the greatest respect; she came with confidence to this house, disliking the noise of the large streets; she hoped she would be here as in the country." "and she is; just like a village. you ought to find it so, sir, who live in the country--it is just like a real village here." "a village? very fine--always the most infernal noise." "yet it is impossible to find a more quiet house. over madame, there is the leader of the orchestra of the cafe des aveugles and a traveling clerk; over them another clerk; over him again, there is--" "it is not of these persons i complain; they are very quiet; my niece finds no inconvenience from them; but in the fourth story there is a lame man, whom madame de saint ildefonso met yesterday drunk on the staircase; he uttered horrible, savage cries; she almost fainted, she was so much alarmed. if you think with such occupants your house resembles a village--" "i swear to you, sir, that i only wait an opportunity to put this lame man out of doors; he has paid me his term in advance, otherwise he would have been already shown how to get out." "you should not have taken him for a lodger." "but i hope madame has no other cause of complaint? there is a postman, who is the very cream of honest people! and over him, alongside of the lame man, a woman and her daughter, who keep as close as mice." "i repeat, madame de saint iledefonso only complains of the lame man; he is the nightmare of the whole house, that knave! and i warn you, if you keep him, he will cause all the respectable people to leave." "i will send him off, be assured--i do not hold to him." "and you will do well, for they will not remain." "which would not answer my purpose. so, sir, you may regard the lame man as off, for he only has four days to remain here." "that is too many; however, it is your business. at the very first insult my niece leaves the house." "be assured." "all this is for your interest; profit by it, for i only speak once," said badinot, in a patronizing manner, as he left the shop. is it not needless for us to say that this woman and girl who lived so solitary, were victims of the cupidity of the notary? we will conduct the reader into the miserable room they occupied. chapter xxvi. the victims of an abuse of trust. let the reader imagine a closet situated on the fourth story of the house. a pale, gloomy light hardly penetrated this narrow apartment, through a little window of cracked, dirty glass, with a single shutter; a yellowish, dilapidated paper covered the walls; from the broken ceiling hung long spider-webs. the floor, broken in several places, showed the beams and laths of the room below. a deal table, a chair, an old trunk without a lock, and a flock bed with coarse sheets and an old woolen covering--such was the furniture. on the chair was seated the baroness de fermont. in the bed reposed claire de fermont (such were the names of the two victims of jacques ferrand). possessing but one narrow bed, the mother and daughter slept by turns, dividing thus the hours of the night. the mother had too much anguish, too many inquietudes, to get much repose; but the daughter found some moments of rest and forgetfulness. she was now asleep. nothing could be more touching, more sorrowful, than the sight of this misery, imposed by the cupidity of the notary on two women, until then accustomed to the sweet enjoyments of a life of ease, and surrounded in their native town with that consideration which an honorable and honored family always inspire. the baroness de fermont was about thirty-six years of age; her countenance at once expresses mildness and excellence; her features, formerly of remarkable beauty, are now sadly changed; her black hair, divided on her forehead and confined behind her head, already shows some tresses of silver. clothed in a dress of mourning, tattered in several places, the baroness de fermont, with her hand supporting her head, leaned against the wretched bed of her child, and regarded her with inexpressible anguish. claire was only sixteen; her complexion had lost its dazzling purity; her beautiful dark eyelashes reached to her hollow cheeks. once humid and rosy, but now dry and pale, her lips, half-opened, displayed the enamel of her teeth; the rude contact of the bedclothes had given a red appearance in several places to the delicate neck, arms, and shoulders of the young girl. from time to time a slight shudder passed over her, as if she had some painful dream. for a long period the baroness de fermont had not wept; she looked on her daughter with a dry and inflamed eye, consumed by a slow fever, which was undermining her. each day she found herself weaker; but fearing to alarm claire, and not willing, we may say, to alarm herself, she struggled with all her strength against the first symptoms of her sickness. through motives of similar generosity, the daughter endeavored to conceal her sufferings. these two unhappy creatures, afflicted with the same griefs, were yet to be afflicted with the same disease. in misfortunes there are often moments when the future prospect is so frightful, that the most energetic minds dare not look it in the face, but shut their eyes, and endeavor to deceive themselves by mad illusions. such was the position of the fermonts. to express the tortures of this woman, during the long hours when she was thus contemplating her sleeping child, thinking of the past, the present, and the future, would be to describe what, in the holy and sacred griefs of a mother, there is the most poignant, the most desperate, the most insane; enchanting recollections, sinister fears, terrible foresights, bitter regrets, extreme dejectedness, ejaculations of powerless rage against the author of so much misery, vain supplications, violent prayers, and, finally, frightful doubts of the all-powerful justice of him who remains inexorable to this cry, dragged from the bottom of the maternal heart--to this sacred cry, of which the echo ought to reach heaven, "pity for my child!" "how cold she is now!" said the poor mother, touching lightly the icy hand and arm of her daughter. "she is very cold; one hour ago she was burning; it is fever; happily, she does not know she has it. how cold she is! this covering is so thin! i would put my old shawl on the bed; but if i take it from the door, where i have hung it, some of those drunken men will come and look through the cracks, as they did yesterday. what a horrible house! if i had known what kind of place it was before i paid in advance, we should not have stayed here; but i did not know--when one has no papers--could i think that i should ever have need of a passport? when i left angers in my own carriage, could i have thought--but this infamous--because the notary has pleased to rob me, i am reduced to the most frightful extremity, and against him i can do nothing. oh, the notary, he does not know the frightful consequences of his robbery! "alas! yes, i never dare tell my child my fears--not to grieve her; but i suffer; i have fever; i can hardly sustain myself; i feel within me the germs of a malady--dangerous, perhaps--my bosom is on fire; my heart throbs. oh, if i should fall sick--if i should die! no, no! i will not--i cannot die--leave claire--alone, abandoned in paris--can it be possible? no! i am not sick, after all--what do i feel? a little heat, a heaviness about the head, caused, no doubt, from my uneasiness--from cold--oh, it is nothing serious! "come, come, no more of such weakness. it is by cherishing such ideas, it is in listening thus, that one falls really sick. and i have the time, truly! must i not occupy myself in finding some work for claire and myself, since this man, who gave us engravings to color--" then, after a pause, she added, with indignation, "oh! this is abominable, to offer this work at the price of claire's--to take from us this miserable means of existence, because i would not allow my child to go and work at his rooms! perhaps we may find work elsewhere; but when one knows nobody, it is so difficult! when one is so miserably lodged they inspire no confidence; and yet, the small sum that remains once gone, what shall we do? what will become of us? "if the laws leave this crime unpunished, i will not--for, if fate pushes me to the end--if i do not find the means to emerge from the atrocious position in which this wretch has placed me and my child, i do not know what i shall do--i shall be capable of killing him--i-- this man--then they can do what they will with me. yes--but my child? my child? "to leave her alone, abandoned--ah! no, i do not wish to die! for this, i cannot kill this man. what would become of her? she, at sixteen--she is young, and pure as an angel; but she is handsome--but misery, hunger, abandonment--what may they not cause? and then--and then--into what abyss may she not fall? "oh! it is frightful--poverty! frightful enough for any one; but perhaps more so for those who have always lived in opulence. i cannot beg--i must absolutely see my child starve before i can beg! what a coward--yet--" two or three violent knocks at the door made her tremble, and awoke her daughter with a start. "mamma, what is that?" cried claire, sitting up in bed; then, throwing her arms around her mother's neck, who, very much alarmed, pressed her child to her bosom, "mamma, what is it?" repeated claire. "i do not know, my child; but do not be afraid, it is nothing: some one knocked; it is, perhaps, the letter we expect." at this moment the worm-eaten door shook again, under repeated blows with the fist. "who is there?" said madame de fermont in a trembling voice. a coarse, rough voice answered, "are you deaf, neighbors?" "what do you want? i do not know you," said madame de fermont, trying to conceal the agitation of her voice. "i am robin, your neighbor; give me some fire to light my pipe: come, make haste!" "it is that lame man, who is always drunk," said the mother to her child. "are you going to give me any fire! or i'll break all open, in the name of thunder?" "sir, i have no fire." "you must have some matches, then; everybody has them; do you open-- come?" "sir, go away." "you won't open?--one, two--" "i beg you to go away, or i will call." "once--twice--three times--no, you won't! then i'll break all down, then." and the wretch gave such a furious kick against the door, he burst it in, the miserable lock breaking at the first assault. the two women screamed with alarm. madame de fermont, notwithstanding her weakness, threw herself before the rough, and barred his entrance. "this is outrageous: you shall not come in," cried the unhappy mother; "i shall cry for help." "for what--for what?" answered he: "mustn't we be neighborly? if you had opened, i should not have broken in." then, with the stupid obstinacy of drunkenness, he added staggering, "i wish to come in; i will come in, and i will not go out until i light my pipe." "i have neither fire nor matches. in the name of heaven, sir, retire." "it's not true; you say that so i sha'n't see the little one in bed. yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. she is pretty; i want to see her. take care of yourself; i'll scratch your face if you don't let me come in. i tell you that i will see the little one in bed, and i will light my pipe, or i'll smash everything, and you along with it!" "help! help!" cried madame de fermont, who felt the door giving way under the violent push of the lame man. intimidated by the cries, the man stepped backward and shook his fist at madame de fermont, saying, "you shall pay me for this; i will return to-night--i'll catch hold of your tongue, and you cannot cry." and the big cripple, as they called him at ravageurs' island, descended the stairs, uttering horrible oaths. madame de fermont, fearing that he might return, and seeing the lock broken, drew the table against the door to barricade it. claire had been so alarmed at this horrible scene that she had fallen on her cot almost without emotion, with a violent attack of the nerves. madame de fermont, forgetting her own alarm, ran to her daughter, pressed her in her arms, made her drink a little water, and, with the most tender caresses, succeeded in calming her. "be composed, my poor child--the bad man has gone away." then the wretched mother cried, with a touching accent, "yet it is this notary who is the cause of all our troubles. compose yourself, my child," resumed she, tenderly embracing her daughter; "this wretch is gone." "oh, mamma, if he should come back again? you see you have called for help, and no one has come. oh! i entreat you; let us leave this house. i shall die here with fear." "how you tremble! you have a fever!" "no, no," said the young girl, to pacify her mother; "it is nothing; it is fright; it will pass over; and you, how are you? give me your hands. how burning hot they are! ah! you are suffering; you wish to conceal it from me." "do not think so: i am better than ever; it is the emotion which this man has caused me which makes me thus. i slept on the chair very soundly; i only awoke when you did." "yet, mamma, your poor eyes are very red, much inflamed!" "ah! well, my child, on a chair sleep is not so refreshing, you know!" "really, do you not suffer?" "no, no, i assure you; and you?" "nor i; only i tremble still from fear. i entreat you, mamma, let us leave this house." "and where shall we go to? you know with how much trouble we found this wretched place; and, besides, we have paid two weeks in advance; they will not return us our money; and we have so little left--so little, that we should manage as closely as possible." "perhaps some day m. de saint remy will answer your letter." "i no longer hope it; it is so long since i have written." "he might not have received your letter: why do you not write him again? from hence to angers is not so far; we shall soon have an answer." "my poor child, you know how much this has cost me already." "what do you risk? he is so good, notwithstanding his roughness. was he not one of my father's old friends, and, besides, he is our relation." "but he is poor himself; his fortune is very small. perhaps he does not reply, to avoid the mortification of being obliged to refuse us." "but if he has not received your letter, mamma?" "and if he has received it, my child; of two things choose one: either he is in such a situation that he cannot come to our aid, or he feels no interest for us; then why expose ourselves to a refusal or a humiliation?" "come, courage, mamma, we have one hope left. perhaps this morning will bring us a happy answer." "from lord d'orbigny?" "without doubt. this letter, of which you formerly made a draught, was so simple, so touching--exposed so naturally our misfortunes, that he will have pity on us. really, i do not know what tells me you are wrong to despair of assistance." "he has so little reason to interest himself about us: he had, it is true, formerly known your father, and i had often heard my brother speak of lord d'orbigny as of a man with whom he had been on friendly terms before he left paris with his young wife." "it is just on that account that i have hopes; he has a young wife, she will be compassionate; and, besides, in the country one can do so much good. he will take you, i suppose, for housekeeper; i will take care of the linen. since lord d'orbigny is very rich, in a large house there is always employment." "yes; but we have so little right to his interest. we are so unfortunate." "that is frequently a title in the eyes of charitable people. let us hope that lord d'orbigny and his wife are so." "well, in case we need expect nothing from him, i will overcome my false shame, and will write to the duchess de lucenay--this lady of whom m. de saint remy spoke so often, whose generosity and good heart he so often praised. yes, the daughter of the prince de noirmont. he knew her when she was very small, and he treated her almost as his child, for he was intimately connected with the prince. madame de lucenay must have many-acquaintances; she could, perhaps, find us a place." "doubtless, mamma, but i understand your reserve; you do not know her at all, while my poor father and uncle knew lord d'orbigny a little." "finally, in the case that madame d'orbigny can do nothing for us, i will have recourse to a last resource." "what is it, mamma?" "it is a very weak one--a very foolish hope, perhaps; but why not try it? the son of m. de saint remy is---" "m. de saint remy has a son!" cried claire, with astonishment. "yes, my child, he has a son." "he never spoke of him--he never came to angers." "true, for reasons you cannot know. m. de saint remy, having left paris fifteen years ago, has not seen his son since." "fifteen years without seeing his father! can it be possible?" "alas! yes, you see. i tell you that the son of m. de saint remy, being well known in the fashionable world, and very rich--" "very rich! and his father is poor?" "all the fortune of m. de saint remy, the son, came from his mother." "but no matter; how can he leave his father--" "his father would accept nothing from him." "why is that?" "this is once more a question to which i cannot reply, my dear child; but i heard my poor brother say that the generosity of this young man was generally praised. young and generous, he ought to be good. thus, learning from me that my husband was the intimate friend of his father, perhaps he might interest himself in procuring us some work or employment; he has so many brilliant and numerous relations, that this would be easy." "and then we could find out from him, perhaps, if m. de saint remy, his father, should have left angers before you wrote to him; that would explain his silence." "i believe that m. de saint remy, my child, has no intercourse with his father. in fine, it is only to try." "unless m. d'orbigny should answer you in a favorable manner; and i repeat it, i do not know why, but, in spite of myself, i have hope." "but already many days have elapsed, my child, since i have written, and nothing--nothing yet. a letter put in the office before four o'clock in the afternoon, arrives the next morning at aubiere; five days have now passed since we might have received an answer." "perhaps he is thinking, before he writes, in what way he can be useful to us." "god hear you, my child!" "it appears very plain to me, mamma, if he could do nothing for us, he would have informed you at once." "unless he will do nothing at all." "ah, mamma, can it be possible? not deign to answer us, and leave us to hope four days, eight days perhaps--for when one is unfortunate they hope always." "alas! my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the woes which one does not know!" "but your letter." "my letter cannot give him an idea of our troubles, of our sufferings of each moment. can my letter picture to him our unfortunate life, our humiliations of every description, our existence in this frightful house, the alarm we have experienced even just now? can my letter describe to him the horrible future which awaits us, if--but stop, my child, do not let us speak of this. mon dieu! you tremble--you are cold." "no, mamma; pay no attention to it; but tell me, suppose everything fails, that the little money which remains in that trunk is spent, can it be possible that in a rich place like paris we should both die of hunger and misery, for want of work, and because a bad man has taken what you had?" "hush, poor child." "but, mamma, could it be?" "alas!" "but god, who knows all, who can do all, how could he abandon us, he whom we have not offended?" "i entreat you, my child, do not have such gloomy ideas; i would rather see you hope, even against hope. come, rouse me up with your dear illusions; but i am but too apt to be discouraged, you know well." "yes, yes; let us hope; it is better. the nephew of the porter will soon return from the post-office with a letter. one more errand to pay from your little treasure, and through my fault. if i had not been so feeble to-day and yesterday, we could have gone ourselves, as we did before, but you would not leave me alone here to go yourself." "could i, my child? judge then, just now this wretch who broke in the door, if you had been alone." "oh! mamma, hush; only to think of it makes me shudder." at this moment some one knocked sharply at the door. "heavens, it is he," cried madame de fermont, and she pushed with all her strength the table against the door. her fears, however, ceased when she heard the voice of micou. "madame, my nephew, andre, has come from the post-office. it is a letter with an x and a z for address; it comes from a distance. there are eight sous postage and the commission--it is twenty sous." "mamma, a letter from the country; we are saved; it is from m. de saint remy or m. d'orbigny. poor mother, you shall suffer no more, no longer be uneasy about me; you shall be happy. god is just--god is good!" cried the young girl, and a ray of hope lighted up her sweet and charming face. "oh! sir, thank you; give--give me quickly," said madame de fermont, pushing back the table and half opening the door. "it is twenty sous, madame," said the fence, showing the letter so impatiently desired. "i am going to pay you, sir." "oh! madame, there is no hurry. i am going to the roof; in ten minutes i will descend, and take the money as i pass." micou handed the letter to madame de fermont, and disappeared. "the letter is from normandy. on the stamp is _aubiers_; it is from m. d'orbigny!" cried madame de fermont examining the address. "well, mamma, was i right?" "oh, how my heart beats! our good or bad fortune is, however, here," said madame de ferment, in a faltering voice, showing the letter. twice her trembling hand approached the seal to break it. she had not the courage. can one hope to paint the terrible anguish suffered by those who, like madame de fermont, await from a letter hope or despair? the burning and feverish emotion of a player whose last pieces of gold are staked on a single card, and who, breathless, the eye inflamed, awaits the decisive throw which saves or ruins him forever: this emotion, so violent, would hardly give an idea of the terrible anguish of which we speak. in an instant the soul is lifted up with the most radiant hopes, or plunged into the blackest despair. the unfortunate being passes in turn through the most contrary emotions; ineffable feelings of happiness and gratitude toward the generous heart which had pity on his sorrows--a sad and bitter resentment against the selfish or indifferent. "what weakness!" said madame de fermont, with a sad smile, seating herself on the bed of her daughter: "once more, my poor claire, our fate is there. i burn to know it, and i dare not. if it is a refusal, alas! it will be always soon enough." "and if it should be a promise of succor? say, mamma; if this poor little letter contains good and consoling words, which will assure us as to the future, in promising us a modest employ in the house of m. d'orbigny, each minute we lose, is it not a moment of happiness lost?" "yes, my child; but if, on the contrary--" "no, mamma; you are mistaken, i am sure of it--when i told you that m. d'orbigny would not have waited, so long to answer your letter, except to give you a favorable answer. let me look at the letter, mamma; i am sure to guess, only from the writing, if the news is good or bad. hold, i am sure of it now," said claire, taking the letter; "you have only to look at the bold, good, and strong hand, to see that the writer must be accustomed to give to those who suffer." "i entreat you, claire, no more of these foolish hopes, or i can never open the letter." "my god! good little mamma, without opening it i can tell you what it contains; listen: 'madame, your condition and that of your daughter is so worthy of interest, that i beg you will have the goodness to come immediately to me, in case you would like to take charge of my house.'" "my child, once more i entreat you--no insane hopes; the reverse will be frightful. come, courage," said madame de fermont, taking the letter from her daughter, and preparing to break the seal. "courage for you--very well!" said claire, smiling, and carried away by a feeling of confidence so natural at her age. "as for me, i have no need of it: i am so sure of what i advance. stop, do you wish me to open the letter? shall i read it? give it me, timid mamma." "yes--i would rather--here. but no, no; it is better that i should." madame de fermont broke the seal with indescribable emotion. her daughter, also, in spite of her apparent confidence, could hardly breathe. "read it aloud, mamma," said she. "the letter is not long; it is from the countess d'orbigny," said madame de fermont looking at the signature. "so much the better; it is good. do you see, mamma, this excellent young lady has been pleased to answer you herself." "we shall see." "madame-m. le comte d'orbigny, very much indisposed for some time past, could not reply to you during my absence." "you see, mamma, it was not his fault." "listen, listen." "having arrived this morning from paris, i hasten to write to you, madame, after having conferred on the subject of your letter with m. d'orbigny. he has but a faint recollection of the relation which you suppose to have existed between him and your brother. as to the name of your husband, madame, it is not unknown to m. d'orbigny; but he cannot recollect under what circumstances he heard it mentioned. the pretended spoliation, of which so lightly you accuse m. jacques ferrand, whom we have the good fortune to have for a notary, is, in the eyes of m. d'orbigny, a cruel calumny, of which, doubtless, you have not counted the bearing. my husband, as well as myself, madame, know and admire the well-known probity of the respectable and pious man you attack so blindly. this is to inform you, madame, that m. d'orbigny, feeling, doubtless, for the unfortunate position in which you are placed, and of which it is not in his province to find out the real cause, finds it out of his power to assist you. "be pleased to receive, madame, with this expression of the regrets of m. d'orbigny the assurance of my most distinguished sentiments. "comtesse d'orsigny." the mother and daughter looked at each other, incapable of uttering a word. micou knocked at the door and said, "madame, can i come in for the postage and commission? it is twenty sous." "oh! it is right; such good news! well worth what we spend in two days for our living," said madame de fermont, with a bitter smile; and leaving the letter on the bed, she went toward an old trunk without a lock, stooped down, and opened it. "we are robbed!" cried the unhappy woman, with horror. "nothing--no more;" added she, in a mournful tone. and powerless, she leaned on the trunk. "what do you say, mamma? the bag of money?" but madame de fermont arose quickly, went out of the chamber, and, addressing the receiver, she said, with a sparkling eye, and cheeks colored with indignation and alarm, "sir, i had a bag of money in this trunk; some one has robbed me--yesterday, doubtless, for i went out for an hour with my daughter. this money must be found. do you hear? you are responsible." "some one robbed you! it is not true; my house is honest," said the receiver, harshly and insolently. "you say that, so as not to pay me the twenty sous." "i tell you that this money, all that i possessed in the world, some one has stolen; it must be found, or i'll make a complaint. oh! i shall spare nothing, respect nothing--i notify you!" "that would be very fine of you, who have no papers; go and make your complaint; go at once! i defy you." the unhappy woman was overcome. she could not go out and leave her daughter alone in bed, since the fright she had received in the morning, and, above all, after the threats addressed to her by the receiver. he continued, "it is a cheat; you had no more a bag of silver than a bag of gold; you don't want to pay me the postage, hey? good! all the same; when you pass before my door, i will tear off your old black shawl from your shoulders; it is very threadbare, but it is worth at least twenty sous." "oh! sir," cried madame de fermont, bursting into tears, "have pity on us. this small sum was all we had--my daughter and i; that stolen, we have nothing left--nothing, do you understand? nothing-but to starve." "what would you have me to do? if it is true that you are robbed, and silver, too, it has been spent long since: the money--" "alas!" "the lad who stole them would not have been simple enough to mark the money and keep it here, so that he might be caught--if it is some one in this house, which i do not believe--for, as i said only this morning to the uncle of the lady on the first floor, here is no place for plunder! if you are robbed, it is your misfortune. for should you make a hundred thousand complaints, you would not recover a sou--you would gain nothing by it, i tell you--believe me. well," cried the receiver, seeing madame de fermont stagger, "what's the matter? you turn pale? take care of your mother, she is sick," added he, advancing in time to save her from falling. the fictitious energy which had so long sustained her gave way under this new affliction. "mother, what is the matter?" cried claire, still in bed. the receiver, yet active and strong for his age, seized with a transitory feeling of pity, took madame de fermont in his arms, pushed open the door, and entered, saying, "mademoiselle, pardon me for coming in while you are in bed, but i must bring in your mother; she has fainted; it can't last." on seeing this man enter, claire uttered a cry of alarm, and concealed herself as well as she could under the bedclothes. the receiver seated madame de fermont on the chair near the bed, and retired, leaving the door half-open, the big cripple having broken the lock. one hour after this, the violent malady, which for so long a time had threatened madame de fermont, showed itself. attacked by a violent fever and frightful delirium, the unfortunate woman was laid in the bed of her child, who, alone, alarmed and almost as ill as her mother, had neither money nor resources, and feared at any moment to see the ruffian enter who lived upon the same floor. chapter xxvii. in the rue de chaillot. we will precede, by some hours, m. badinot, who had gone in haste to the viscount de saint remy. this last mentioned person lived in the rue de chaillot, occupying a charming little house in this solitary quarter, very near the champs elysees, the most fashionable promenade in paris. it is useless to enumerate the advantages which m. de saint remy derived from a position so wisely chosen. we will only say, a person could enter his house very secretly, through a little garden-door, which opened on a small and very lonesome street. in fine, by a miraculous chance, one of the finest horticultural establishments in paris had also, in this out-of-the-way passage, an exit not much used. the mysterious visitors of saint remy, in case of a surprise or unlooked-for renconter, were armed with a pretext perfectly plausible and rural for having adventured in the lane. they went (they might say) to choose rare flowers at a celebrated florist's renowned for the beauty of his conservatories. these visitors, besides, would only have told half a falsehood; the viscount, with distinguished taste, had a charming green-house, which extended, in part, along the little street we have spoken of; the little door opened into this delicious winter garden, which reached a boudoir situated on the ground-floor of the house. madame de lucenay had demanded a key of this little door. the interior of the mansion of saint remy presented a singular appearance; it was divided into two establishments--the ground-floor, where he received ladies; the first story, where he received gentlemen to dinner and play: in fine, those he called his friends. thus, on the ground-floor was a room which shone with gold, mirrors, flowers, silks, and lace; a small music-room, where were a harp and pianos (saint remy was an excellent musician), a cabinet of pictures and curiosities the boudoir communicating with the green-house, a dining-room, a bathing-room, and a small library. it is useless to say that all these rooms, furnished with exquisite taste, had for ornaments some watteaus but little known, some bouchers unheard of, groups of statuary in biscuit; and on their stands of jasper, a few valuable copies, in white marble, of some of the finest groups of the "musee." joined to this, in summer, for perspective, the deep shade of a verdant green; quiet, loaded with flowers, peopled with birds, watered by a little brook of living water, which, before it spreads itself over the short grass, falls from a black and rustic rock, shining like a ribbon of silver gauze, and is lost in a pearly wave, in a limpid basin, where two fine swans show their graceful forms. and when night came, calm and serene, how much shade, how much perfume, what silence in sweet-scented groves, whose thick foliage served as a canopy to the rustic sofas made of reeds and indian mats. in the winter, on the contrary, except the glass which opened into the conservatory, all was closed; the transparent silk of the blinds, the heavy mass of lace and muslin curtains, rendered the light still more mysterious; on every disposable place large masses of exotics seemed to spring out of vases glittering with gold and enamel. such was the viscount. at athens he would have been, doubtless, admired, exalted, deified, as the equal of aleibiades; at the time of which we speak, the viscount was nothing more than an unworthy forger, a miserable cheat. the first story had an entirely different appearance, altogether masculine. there was nothing coquettish, nothing feminine; the furniture was of a style simple and serene; for ornaments, fire-arms, pictures of race-horses, which had earned for the viscount a good number of gold and silver vases, placed on the tables; the _tabogie_ (smoking-room) and the saloon for play joined a lively-looking dining-room, where eight persons (the number always strictly limited when it was a question of a choice meal) had often appreciated the excellence of the cook, and the not less excellent merit of the cellar, before commencing with him some games of whist for five or six hundred louis, or to rattle the noisy dice box. the apartments being thus thrown open to the reader, he will now please to follow us to more familiar regions, to enter the carriage court, and mount the little staircase which leads to the very comfortable room of edward patterson, chief of the stables. this illustrious coachman had invited to breakfast m. boyer, confidential valet de chambre of the viscount. a very pretty english servant-girl having retired, after having brought in a silver teapot, our two gentlemen were left alone. edward was about forty years of age; never did a more skillful or fatter coachman cause his seat to groan under a rotundity more imposing, nor to ornament with a powdered wig a face more rubicund, nor to collect more elegantly, in his left hand, the quadruple ribbons of a four-in-hand; as good a judge of horses as tattersall of london, having been, in his youth, as good a trainer as the celebrated elder chifney, the viscount had found in edward a rare thing, an excellent coachman and a man very capable of directing the training of some race-horses which he had had for wagers. edward, when he did not display his sumptuous brown and silver livery on the emblazoned hammer-cloth of his seat, looked very much like an honest english farmer; it is under this guise we now shall present him to our readers, adding, that in his broad and red face one could easily perceive the diabolical and unmerciful cunning of a horse-jockey. m. boyer, his guest, the confidential valet, was a tall, slender man, with gray hair, rather bald, and with a sly, cool, discreet, and reserved expression; he used very choice language, had polite, easy manners, rather literary, political opinions of the conservative stamp, and could creditably play his part of first violin in a quartet of amateurs; at short intervals he took, with the best grace in the world, a pinch of snuff from a golden box mounted with fine pearls, after which he brushed negligently, with the back of his hand, the folds of his fine linen shirt, quite as fine as that of his master. "do you know, my dear edward," said boyer, "that your servant, betty, makes quite a supportable plain cook?" "she is a good girl," said edward, who spoke french perfectly, "and i shall take her with me if i should decide on housekeeping; and on this subject, since we are here alone, my dear boyer, let us talk business; you understand it very well." "why, yes, a little," said boyer, modestly, and taking a pinch of snuff. "that is learned so naturally, when one occupies himself with the affairs of others." "i have then, very important advice to ask of you; it is on this account that i begged the favor of your company to a cup of tea this morning." "quite at your service, my dear edward." "you know that besides the race-horses, i had a contract with my lord for the complete maintenance of his stables, cattle, and people; that is to say, eight horses and five or six grooms and jockeys, for the sum of twenty-four thousand francs a year, my wages included." "it was reasonable." "during four years, my lord punctually paid me; but about the middle of last year he said to me, 'patterson, i owe you about twenty-four thousand francs; how much do you estimate, at the lowest price, my horses and vehicles?' 'my lord, the eight horses would not sell for less than three thousand francs each, one with the other, and then they would be given away' (and it is true, boyer, for the phaeton pair cost five hundred guineas), 'that would make twenty-four thousand francs for the horses. as to the carriages, there are four, say twelve thousand francs, which, in all, would make thirty-six thousand francs.' 'well,' answered my lord, 'buy them all from me at this price, on condition that, for the twelve thousand francs remaining after your claim is paid, you will keep and leave at my disposition, horses, servants and carriages for six months.'" "and you wisely agreed to the bargain? it was a golden affair." "certainly it was; in two weeks the six months will have expired, and i enter into possession." "nothing can be plainer. the papers were drawn up by m. badinot, the viscount's agent. in what have you need of my advice?" "what ought i to do? sell the establishment on account of my lord's departure (and it will sell well), or shall i set up as a horse-dealer, with my stable, which will make a fine beginning? what do you advise?" "i advise you to do what i shall do myself." "how?" "i am in the same position that you are." "how?" "my lord detests details. when i came here i had, through economy, and by inheritance, some sixty thousand francs. i paid the expenses of the house, as you did the stables. about the same time that you did, i found myself in advance some twenty thousand francs; and for those who furnished the supplies, some sixty thousand. then the viscount proposed to me, as he did to you, to reimburse myself by buying of him the furniture of the house, comprising the plate--which is fine--the pictures, and so on, the whole estimated at the very lowest price, one hundred and forty thousand francs. there were eighty thousand francs to pay; with the remainder i engaged, as long as it lasted, to defray the expenses of the table, servants, and so forth, and for nothing else: it was a condition of the bargain." "because that on these expenses you would gain something more." "necessarily; for i have made arrangements with those who furnish the supplies that i will not pay until after the sale," said boyer, taking a huge pinch of snuff, "so that at the end of this month--" "the furniture is yours, as the horses and carriages are mine." "evidently. my lord has gained by this, to live as he always liked to live, to the last moment--as a tip-top don--in the very teeth of his creditors, for furniture, silver, horses, vehicles, all had been paid for at his coming of age, and had become my property and yours." "then my lord is ruined?" "in five years." "and how much did he inherit?" "only a poor little million, cash down," said m. boyer, quite disdainfully, taking another pinch of snuff. "add to this million about two hundred thousand francs of debts, it is passable. it is then, to tell you, my dear edward, that i have had an idea of letting this house, admirably furnished as it is, to some english people. some of your compatriots would have paid well for it." "without doubt. why do you not do it?" "yes, but i fancy things are risky, so i have decided to sell. my lord is so well known as a connoisseur, that everything would bring a double price, so that i should realize a round sum. do as i shall, edward; realize, realize, and do not adventure your earnings in speculations. you chief coachman of the viscount de saint remy! it will be, who can get you. only yesterday some one spoke to me of a minor just of age, a cousin of the duchess de lucenay, young duke de montbrison, arrived from italy with his tutor, and about seeing life. two hundred and fifty thousand livres income, in good land; and just entering into life--twenty years old. all the illusions of confidence--all the infatuation of expense--prodigal as a prince. i know the intendant. i can tell you this in confidence: he has already nearly agreed with me as first valet de chambre. he countenances me, the flat!" and m. boyer shrugged his shoulders again, having recourse to his snuff-box. "you hope to foist him out?" "rather! he is imbecile or impertinent. he puts me there as if he had no fear of me! before two months are over i shall be in his place." "two hundred and fifty thousand livres income!" said edward, reflecting, "and a young man. it is a good seat." "i will tell you what there is to do. i will speak for you to my protector," said m. boyer, ironically. "enter there--it is a fortune which has roots, to which one can hang on for a long time. not this miserable million of the viscount's--a real snowball--one ray of parisian sun, and all is over. i saw here that i should only be a bird of passage: it is a pity, for this house does us honor; and up to the last moment, i will serve my lord with the respect and esteem which are his due." "my dear boyer, i thank you, and accept your proposition; but suppose i was to propose to the young duke this stable? it is all ready; it is known and admired by all paris." "exactly so; you might make a mint." "but why do you not propose this house to him, so admirably furnished? what can he find better?" "edward, you are a man of mind; it does not surprise me, but you give me an excellent idea. we must address ourselves to my lord, he is so good a master that he would not refuse to speak for us to the young duke. he can tell him that, leaving for the legation of gerolstein, where he is an _attache_, he wishes to dispose of his whole establishment. let us see: one hundred and sixty thousand francs for the house, all furnished, plate and pictures; fifty thousand francs for the stables and carriages; that makes two hundred and thirty thousand to two hundred and forty thousand francs. it is an excellent affair for a young man who wants everything. he would spend three times this amount before he could get anything half so elegant and select together as this establishment; for it must be acknowledged, edward, there is no one can equal my lord in knowing how to live." "and horses!" "and good cheer! godefroi, his cook, leaves here a hundred times better than when he came. my lord has given him excellent counsels-- has enormously refined him." "besides, they say my lord is such a good player." "admirable! gaining large sums with even more indifference than he loses; and yet i have never seen any one lose more gallantly." "what is he going to do now?" "set out for germany, in a good traveling carriage, with seven or eight thousand francs, which he knows how to get. oh! i feel no embarrassment about my lord: he is one who always falls on his feet, as they say." "and he has no more money to inherit?" "none; for his father has only a small competency." "his father?" "certainly." "my lord's father is not dead?" "he was not about five or six months since. we wrote to him for some family papers." "but he never comes here?" "for a good reason. these fifteen years he has lived in the country, at angers." "but my lord never goes to see him?" "his father?" "yes." "never, never--not he!" "have they quarreled?" "what i am going to tell you is no secret, for i had it from the confidential agent of the prince de noirmont." "the father of madame de lucenay?" said edward, with a cunning and significant look, of which boyer, faithful to his habits of reserve and discretion, took no notice, but resumed, coldly: "the duchess de lucenay is the daughter of the prince de noirmont; the father of my lord was intimately connected with the prince. the duchess was then very young, and saint remy the elder treated her as familiarly as if she had been his own child. notwithstanding his sixty years, he is a man of iron character, courageous as a lion, and of a probity that i shall permit myself to designate as marvelous. he possessed almost nothing, and had married, from love, the mother of the viscount, a young person rather rich, who brought a million, at the christening of which we have just had the honor to assist," and boyer made a low bow. edward did the same. "the marriage was very happy until the moment when my lord's father found, as was said, by chance, some devilish letters, which proved evidently that, during an absence, some three or four years after his marriage, his wife had had a tender weakness for a certain polish count." "that often happens to the poles. when i lived with the marquis de senneval, madame the marchioness--_une enragee_--" boyer interrupted his companion. "you should know, my dear edward, the alliances of our great families before you speak, otherwise you reserve for yourself cruel mistakes." "how?" "the marchioness of senneval is the sister of the duke of montbrison, where you desire to engage." "oh!--the devil!" "judge of the effect if you had spoken of her in this manner before the envious or detractors: you would not have remained twenty-four hours in the house." "it is true, boyer. i will try to know the alliances." "i resume. the father of my lord discovered, then, after twelve or fifteen years of a marriage until then happy, that he had reason to complain of a polish count. fortunately, or unfortunately, the viscount was born nine months after his father, or rather, saint remy had returned from this fatal journey, so that he could not be certain whether it was his child or not. nevertheless, the count separated at once from his wife, not wishing to touch a sou of the fortune she had brought him, and retired to the country, with about eighty thousand francs which he possessed; but you shall see the rancor of this diabolical character. although the outrage was dated back fifteen years when he discovered it, yet he set off, accompanied by m. de fermont, one of his relations, in pursuit of the pole, and found him at venice, after having sought for him in almost all the cities of europe." "what an obstinate!" "a devilish rancor, i tell you, my dear edward! at venice, a terrible duel was fought, in which the pole was killed. all was done fairly; but, my lord's father showed, they say, such ferocious joy at seeing the pole mortally wounded, that his relation, m. de fermont, was obliged to drag him away; the count wishing to see, as he said, his enemy expire under his eyes." "what a man! what a man!" "the count returned to paris, went to the house of his wife, announced to her that he had just returned from killing the pole, and left her. since then, he has never seen her nor his son, but has lived at angers, like a real 'wehr-wolf' as they say, with what remains of his eighty thousand francs, well curtailed, as you may suppose, by his race after this pole. at angers he sees no one, except the wife and daughter of his relation, m. de fermont, who has been dead for some years. and, besides, it would seem as if this was an unfortunate family, for the brother of madame de fermont blew his brains out a few weeks since, it is said." "and the viscount's mother?" "he lost her a long time since. it is on that account that my lord, on his coming of age, has enjoyed the fortune of his mother. so you plainly see, my dear edward, that as regards inheritance, my lord has nothing, or almost nothing, to expect from his father." "who besides must detest him?" "he would never see him after the fatal discovery, persuaded that he is the son of the pole." the conversation of the two personages was interrupted by a footman of gigantic size, carefully powdered, although it was hardly eleven o'clock. "his lordship has rung twice," said the giant. boyer appeared distressed at this neglect; he arose precipitately, and followed the servant with as much eagerness and respect as if he had not been the proprietor of the mansion of his master. chapter xxviii. the old count de saint remy. two hours had passed since boyer had gone to attend the viscount, when the father of the last mentioned knocked at the gate of the house in the rue de chaillot. the count de saint remy was a man of tall stature, still active and vigorous, notwithstanding his age; the almost copper color of his skin contrasted strangely with the silvery whiteness of his beard and hair; his heavy, still black eyebrows overshadowed piercing but sunken eyes. although, from a kind of misanthropy, he wore clothes quite rusty, there was in his whole appearance that which commanded respect. the door of his son's house flew open, and he entered. a porter in a grand livery of brown and silver, profusely powdered, and wearing silk stockings, appeared on the threshold of an elegant lodge, which had as much resemblance to the smoky den of the pipelets as a cobbler's stall could have to the sumptuous shop of a fashionable "emporium." "m. de saint remy?" demanded the viscount, in a low tone. the porter, instead of replying, examined with much contempt the white beard, the threadbare coat, and the old hat of the stranger, who held in his hand a large cane. "m. de saint remy?" repeated the count, impatiently, shocked at the impertinent examination of the porter. "not at home." so saying, pipelet's rival drew the cord, and with a significant gesture, invited the unknown to retire. "i will wait," said the count, and he passed on. "stay, friend! one does not enter that way into houses!" cried the porter, running after and taking him by the arm. "how, scoundrel!" answered the old man, raising his cane; "you dare to touch me!" "i will dare something else, if you do not walk out at once. i have told you that my lord was out, so walk off." at this moment, boyer, attracted by the sound of voices, made his appearance. "what is the matter?" demanded he. "m. boyer, this man will absolutely enter, although i have told him that my lord is out." "let us put a stop to this," replied the count, addressing boyer; "i wish to see my son---if he has gone out, i will wait." we have said that boyer was ignorant neither of the existence nor of the misanthropy of the father, and sufficiently a physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the identity of the count, but bowed low to him, and answered, "if your lordship will be so good as to follow me, i am at his orders." "go on," said saint remy, who accompanied boyer, to the profound dismay of the porter. preceded by the valet, the count arrived on the first story, and still following his guide, was ushered into a little saloon, situated immediately over the boudoir of the ground floor. "my lord has been obliged to go out this morning," said boyer, "and if your lordship will have the kindness to wait, it will not be long before he returns." and the valet disappeared. remaining alone, the count looked around him with indifference, until suddenly he discovered the picture of his wife, the mother of florestan de saint remy. he folded his arms on his heart, held down his head, as if to avoid the sight of this victim, and walked about with rapid steps. "and yet i am not certain---he may be my son---sometimes this doubt is frightful to me. if he is my son, then my abandoning him, my refusal ever to see him, are unpardonable. and then to think my name--of which i have ever been so proud--belongs to the son of a man whose heart i could have torn out! oh! i do not know why i am not bereft of my senses when i think of it." saint remy, continuing to walk with agitation, raised mechanically the curtain which separated the saloon from florestan's study and entered the apartment. he had hardly disappeared for a moment, than a small door, concealed by the tapestry, opened softly, and madame de lucenay, wrapped in a shawl of green cashmere, and wearing a very plain black velvet bonnet, entered the saloon which the count had just left. the duchess, as we have said before, had a key to the little private garden-door; not finding florestan in the apartments below, she had supposed that, perhaps, he was in his study, and without any fear had come up by a small staircase which led from the boudoir to the first story. unfortunately, a very threatening visit from m. badinot had obliged him to go out precipitately. madame de lucenay, seeing no one, was about to enter the cabinet, when the curtains were thrown back, and she found herself face to face with the father of florestan. she could not restrain a cry of alarm. "clotilde!" cried the count, stupefied. the duchess remained immovable, contemplating with surprise the old white-bearded man, so badly clothed, whose features did not appear altogether strange. "you, clotilde!" repeated the count, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, "you here--in my son's house?" these last words decided madame de lucenay; she at length recognized the father of florestan, and cried, "m. de saint remy!" her position was so plain and significant, that the duchess disdained to have recourse to a falsehood to explain the motive of her presence in this house; counting on the paternal affection which the count had formerly shown her, she extended her hand, and said, with an air--gracious, cordial, and fearless--which belonged only to her, "come, do not scold! you are my oldest friend! do you remember, more than twenty years ago, you called me your dear clotilde?" "yes, i called you thus, but--" "i know in advance all that you will say to me; you know my motto; _what is, is; what shall be, shall be._" "ah, clotilde!" "spare me your reproaches; let me rather speak to you of my joy at seeing you! your presence recalls so many things; my poor father, in the first place; and then my fifteenth year. ah! fifteen--sweet fifteen!" "it was because your father was my friend, that--" "oh, yes!" answered the duchess, interrupting him, "he loved you so much! do you remember he called you, laughingly 'green ribbon.' you always said to him, 'you will spoil clotilde; take care!' and he would answer, embracing me, 'i believe i spoil her; and i must hurry and spoil her more, for soon fashion will carry her off, and spoil her in its turn.' excellent father that i lost!" a tear glistened in the fine eyes of madame de lucenay, and giving her hand to saint remy, she said to him, in an agitated voice, "true, i am happy, very happy to see you again; you awaken souvenirs so precious, so dear to my heart! if you have been in paris for any time," continued madame de lucenay, "it was very unkind in you not to come to see me; we should have talked so much of the past; for you know i begin to arrive at the age when there is a great charm in talking to old friends." perhaps the duchess could not have spoken with more nonchalance if she had been receiving a visit at lucenay house. saint remy could not refrain from saying, earnestly, "instead of talking of the past, let us talk of the present. my son may come in at any moment, and--" "no!" said clotilde, interrupting him, "i have the key of the private door, and his arrival is always announced by a bell when he comes in by the gate; at this noise i shall disappear as mysteriously as i came, and leave you alone. what a sweet surprise you are going to cause him! you, who have for so long a time abandoned him!" "hold! i have reproaches to make you." "to me, to me?" "certainly! what guide, what assistance had i on entering into society? and, for a thousand things, the counsels of a father are indispensable. thus, frankly, it has been very wrong in you to--" here madame de lucenay, giving way to the peculiarity of her character, could not prevent herself from laughing heartily, and saying to the count: "you must avow that the position is at least singular, and that it is very piquant that i should preach to you!" "it is rather strange; but i deserve neither your sermons nor your praises. i come to my son; but it is not on account of my son. at his age he can no longer need my counsels." "what do you mean?" "you must know for what reasons i detest society and hold paris in horror!" said the count. "nothing but circumstances of the last importance could have induced me to leave angers, and, above all, to come here--in this house! but i have conquered my repugnance, and have recourse to every one who can aid me in researches of great interest to me." "oh! then," said madame de lucenay, with most affectionate eagerness, "i beg you dispose of me, if i can be of any use to you. is there need of any applications? m. de lucenay ought to have a certain influence: for, on the days when i go to dine with my great aunt de montbrison, he gives a dinner at home to some deputies; this is not done without some motive; this inconvenience must be paid for by some probable advantage. once more, if we can serve you, command us. there is my young cousin, duke de montbrison, connected with all the nobility, perhaps he could do something? in this case, i offer him to you. in a word, dispose of me and mine: you know if i can call myself a devoted friend!" "i know it; and i do not refuse your assistance; although, however--" "come, my dear _alceste_, we are people of the world, let us act like such, whether we are here or elsewhere, it is of no import, i suppose, to the affair which interests you, and which now interests me extremely, since it is yours. let us speak of this, and sincerely; i require it." thus saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, and, leaning against it, she put out the prettiest little foot in the world to warm it. with perfect tact, madame de lucenay seized the occasion to speak no more of the viscount, and to converse with m. de saint remy on a subject to which he attached much importance. "you are ignorant, perhaps, clotilde," said the count, "that for a long time past i have lived at angers?" "no--i knew it." "notwithstanding the isolated state i sought, i had chosen this city, because one of my relations dwelt there, m. de fermont, who, during my troubles, acted as a brother toward me, having acted as a second in a duel." "yes, a terrible duel; my father told me of it," said madame de lucenay, sadly; "but happily, florestan is ignorant of this duel, and also of the cause that led to it." "i was willing to let him respect his mother," answered the count, and, suppressing a sigh, he continued, and related to madame de lucenay the history of madame de fermont up to the time of her leaving angers for paris. that history, if the old count had known and related it all, would have run thus. baron de ferment's brother, ruined by concealed speculations, had left three hundred thousand francs with jacques ferrand. but when the baroness, upon her brother's suicide in desperation, and her husband's death, had claimed it from that honorable man, the notary had challenged her to produce proofs, of which she had not one, and had, moreover, met her with a demand for two thousand francs, a debt of the baron's to the notary. so she began to suffer every hardship from this abuse of trust. presuming this, we let the count proceed: "at the end of some time," said he, "i learned that the furniture of the house which she occupied at angers was sold by her orders, and that this sum had been employed to pay some debts left by madame de fermont. uneasy at this circumstance, i inquired, and learned vaguely that this unfortunate woman and her daughter were in distress--the victims, doubtless, of a bankruptcy. if madame de fermont could, in such an extremity, count on any one, it was on me. yet i received no news from her. you cannot imagine my sufferings--my inquietude. it was absolutely necessary that i should find them, to know why they did not apply to me, poor as i was. i set out for paris, leaving a person at angers, who, if by chance any information was obtained, was to advise me." "well?" "yesterday i had a letter from angers; nothing was known. on arriving here i commenced my researches. i went first to the former residence of the brother of madame de fermont. here they told me she lived by the canal saint martin." "and this--" "had been her lodgings; but she had left, and they were ignorant of her new abode. since then all my inquiries have been useless; and i have come here, in hopes that she may have applied to the son of her old friend. i am afraid that even this will be in vain." for some minutes madame de lucenay had listened to the count with redoubled attention; suddenly she said, "truly, it would be singular if these should be the same as those madame d'harville is so much interested for." "who?" asked the count. "the widow of whom you speak is still young, and of a noble presence?" "she is so. but how do you know?" "her daughter handsome as an angel, and about sixteen?" "yes, yes!" "and is named claire?" "oh, in mercy, speak! where are they?" "alas, i know not!" "you do not know?" "a lady of my acquaintance, madame d'harville, came to me to ask if i know a widow who had a daughter named claire, and whose brother committed suicide. madame d'harville came to me because she had seen these words, 'write to madame de lucenay,' traced on the fragment of a letter which this unhappy woman had written to a person unknown, whose aid she entreated." "she intended to write to you! why?" "i am ignorant; i do not know her." "but she knew you!" cried saint remy, struck with a sudden idea. "what do you say?" "a hundred times she has heard me speak of your father, of you, of your generous and excellent heart. in her trouble, she must have thought of you." "this can be thus explained." "and how did madame d'harville get possession of this letter?" "i am ignorant; all i know is, that, without knowing where this poor mother and child had taken refuge, she was, i believe, on their track." "then i count upon you, clotilde, to introduce me to madame d'harville; i must see her to-day." "impossible. her husband has just fallen a victim to a frightful accident. a gun, which he did not know was loaded, went off while in his hands, and killed him on the spot." "oh, this is horrible!" "she departed immediately, to pass her first mourning at her father's in normandy." "clotilde, i conjure you to write to her to-day; ask for whatever information she may possess. since she interests herself for these poor women, tell her she cannot have a warmer auxiliary than me; my sole desire is to find the widow of my friend, and to partake with her and her daughter the little i possess. it is now my sole family." "always the same---always generous and devoted! count on me; i will write to-day to madame d'harville. where shall i send her answer?" "to asnieres, poste restante." "what eccentricity! why do you lodge there and not at paris?" "i hate paris, on account of the souvenirs it awakens," answered saint remy, with a gloomy air. "my old physician, dr. griffin, has a small country-house on the banks of the seine, near asnieres; he does not live there in winter, and offered it to me; it is almost a suburb of paris; i could, after my researches, find there the solitude which pleases me; i have accepted." "i will write you, then, at asnieres; i can, besides, give you now some information which may perhaps serve you, which i received from madame d'harville. the ruin of madame de fermont has been caused by the roguery of the notary who had the charge of her fortune. he denies the deposit." "the scoundrel! what is the fellow's name?" "jacques ferrand," said the duchess, without being able to conceal her desire to laugh. "what a strange being you are, clotilde! there is nothing in all this but what is serious and sad, yet you laugh!" said the count, surprised and vexed. "pardon me, my friend," answered the duchess; "the notary is such a singular man, and they tell such strange things of him. but, seriously, if his reputation as an honest man is no more merited than his reputation as a pious man (and i declare this usurped), he is a wretch!" "and he lives---" "rue du gentier." "he shall have a visit from me. what you have told me coincides with certain suspicions." "what suspicions?" "from what i can learn respecting the death of the brother of my poor friend, i am almost led to believe that this unfortunate man, instead of committing suicide, has been the victim of an assassination." "goodness! what makes you suppose this?" "several reasons, too long to tell you. i leave you now." "you leave without seeing florestan?" "this interview would be too painful for me--you must comprehend. i only braved it in the hopes of obtaining some information about madame de fermont, wishing to neglect no means to find her. now adieu!" "oh, you are without pity!" "do you not know?" "i know that your son has never had more need of your counsels." "is he not rich--happy?" "yes; but he does not know mankind. blindly prodigal, because he is confiding and generous--in everything, everywhere, and always truly noble. i fear he is abused. if you knew what a noble heart he has! i have never dared to lecture him on the subject of his expense and extravagance; in the first place, because i am at least as foolish as he is; and then for other reasons; but you on the contrary could--" madame de lucenay did not finish; suddenly she heard the voice of florestan de saint remy. he entered precipitately into the cabinet adjoining the saloon. after having quickly shut the door, he said, in an agitated voice, to some one who accompanied him, "but it is impossible!" "but i repeat to you," answered the clear and piercing voice of m. badinot, "i repeat to you, that, without this, in four hours you will be arrested. for if he has not this money, our man will go and make a complaint to the attorney-general, and you know the penalty of a forgery like this--the galleys, my poor lord!" it is impossible to describe the look which madame de lucenay and the father of florestan exchanged on hearing these terrible words. chapter xxix. father and son. on hearing these fearful words addressed to his son by badinot, the count changed color, and clung to a chair for support. his venerable and respected name dishonored by a man whom he had reason to doubt was his son? his first feeling overcome, the angry looks of the old man, and a threatening gesture which he made as he advanced toward the study revealed a resolution so alarming that madame de lucenay caught him by the hand, stopped him, and said, in a low tone, with the most profound conviction, "he is innocent; i swear to you! listen in silence." the count stood still; he wished to believe what the duchess had said was true. she, on her part, was persuaded of his honesty. to obtain new sacrifices from this woman, so blindly generous--sacrifices which alone had saved him from the threats of jacques ferrand--the viscount had sworn to madame de lucenay, that, dupe of a scoundrel from whom he had received in payment the forged bill, he ran the risk of being regarded as an accomplice of the forger, having himself put it in circulation. madame de lucenay knew that the viscount was imprudent, prodigal, and careless; but never for a moment had she supposed him capable of an infamous action, not even the slightest indiscretion. by twice lending him considerable sums under very peculiar circumstances, she had wished to render him a friendly service, the viscount only accepting this money on the express condition of returning it; for there was due to him, he said, more than twice this amount. his apparent luxurious manner of living allowed her to believe it. besides, madame de lucenay, yielding to her natural kind impulses, had only thought of being useful to florestan, without any care whether he could repay or not. he affirmed it, and she did not doubt. in answering for the viscount's honor, in supplicating the old count to listen to the conversation of his son, the duchess thought that he was going to speak of the abuse of confidence of which he had been a victim, and that he would be thus entirely exculpated in the eyes of his father. "once more," continued florestan, in an agitated voice, "i say this petit jean is a scoundrel; he assured me that he had no other bills than those i withdrew yesterday, and three days ago. i thought this one was in circulation: it was payable three months after date, at adams & co., london?" "yes, yes," said the clear and sharp voice of badinot. "i know, my dear viscount, that you have adroitly managed your affairs; your forgeries were not to be discovered until you were far away. but you have been caught by those more cunning than yourself." "oh! it is very well to tell me this now, wretch that you are!" cried florestan, furiously; "did you not yourself introduce this person to me, who has negotiated the paper?" "come, my dear aristocrat," answered badinot, coldly, "be calm! you are very skillful in counterfeiting commercial signatures; it is really wonderful; but that is no reason why you should treat your friends with disagreeable familiarity. if you go on in this way--i leave you to arrange as you please." "do you think one can preserve calmness in such a position? if what you tell me is true--if this complaint is lodged against me to-day, i am lost." "it is exactly as i tell you, unless you should have recourse again to your charming providence with the blue eyes." "that is impossible." "then be resigned. it is a pity it was the last note! for twenty-five thousand paltry francs, to go and take the air of the south at toulon--it is ridiculous, absurd, stupid! how could a cunning man like you suffer yourself to be thus cornered?" "what is to be done? what is to be done? nothing here belongs to me; i have not twenty louis of my own." "your friends?" "oh! i owe to all who could lend me; do you think me such a fool as to have waited until to-day to ask them?" "that is true; pardon me--come, let us talk tranquilly, it is the best way to arrive at a reasonable solution. just now i wanted to tell you how you were attacked by those who were more cunning than yourself. you did not listen to me." "well, speak, if it can be of any use." "let us recapitulate: you said to me about two months since, 'i have about one hundred and thirteen thousand francs in bills on different banking-houses, which have some time to run; can you find means to negotiate them for me, my dear badinot--'" "well! what next?" "stop! i asked to see them. something told me that the bills were forgeries, although perfectly well done. i did not suspect that you, it is true, possessed a caligraphic talent so far advanced; but having the charge of your fortunes, ever since you had no more fortune, i knew you were completely ruined. i had drawn up the deed by which your horses, your carriages, the furniture of this hotel, belonged to boyer and patterson. it was not wonderful for me to be astonished at seeing you possess commercial securities of so much value, was it?" "do me the favor to spare me your astonishment and let us arrive at the facts." "here they are. i had not enough experience or timidity to care to meddle directly in affairs of that description; i recommended a third person to you, who, not less sharp-sighted than i am, suspected the game you wished to play." "that is impossible-he would not have discounted these bills if he had thought them false." "how much money did he give you for the one hundred and thirteen thousand francs?" "twenty-five thousand francs cash, and the remainder in debts to be recovered." "and how much did you ever recover from these?" "nothing, you know well enough; they were imaginary; but he certainly risked twenty-five thousand francs." "how unfledged you are, my dear lord! having my commission of a hundred louis to receive, i took good care not to tell this third person the real state of your affairs. he thought you still quite rich, and he knew, besides, that you were adored by a great lady, who was very rich, and who would never have you in embarrassment; he was then pretty sure to get back what he advanced; he ran some risk, to be sure; but he also had a chance of making a great deal of money, and his calculation was a good one; for, the other day you paid him one hundred thousand francs to withdraw the forgery of fifty-eight thousand francs, and yesterday thirty thousand francs for the second; for this last, he had been contented with receiving its real value. how you procured these thirty thousand francs yesterday may the devil run away with me if i know! for you are a man unique. so you see that at the end of the account, if petit jean forces you to pay the last draft for twenty-five thousand francs, he will have received from you one hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for twenty-five thousand francs which he paid you; now, i had reason to say that you were in the hands of those more cunning than yourself." "but why did he tell me that this last bill, which he presented to-day, was negotiated?" "not to alarm you; he also had told you that, with the exception of the fifty-eight thousand francs, the others were in circulation; the first, once paid, yesterday came the second, and to-day the third." "the scoundrel!" "listen to me, then: every one for himself, as a celebrated lawyer said, and i like the maxim. but let us talk coolly: this proves to you that petit jean (and, between us, i should not be surprised if, notwithstanding his holy reputation, jacques ferrand was half concerned in these speculations), this proves to you, i say, that petit jean, allured by your first payments, speculates on this last bill, quite sure that your friends will not allow you to be dragged before the judges. it is for you to see if these friends are so well used, so drained, that not another golden drop can be squeezed from them, for, if in three hours you have not the twenty-five thousand francs, my noble lord, you are caged." "if you were to repeat this to me forever--" "perhaps you would consent to pluck a last feather from the wing of that generous duchess." "i repeat to you, it must not be thought of. to find in three hours twenty-five thousand francs more, after all the sacrifices she has already made--it would be madness to think of it." "to please you, fortunate mortal, one would try an impossibility." "oh! she has already tried it: this was to borrow one hundred thousand francs from her husband, and she succeeded; but these are experiments that cannot be tried twice. let us see, my dear badinot, until now you have never had any reason to complain of me. i have always been generous; try to obtain some delay from this miserable petit jean. you know i always can find means to recompense those who serve me; this last affair once hushed, i will take a new flight--you shall be content with me." "petit jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable." "i!" "try only to interest once more your generous friend in your sad fate. the devil! tell her right out the truth; not as you have already said, that you are the dupe, but that you are the forger himself." "no, never will i make such an acknowledgment; it would be shame without any advantage." "do you prefer that she should learn it to-morrow by the 'police gazette'?" "i have three hours left--i can fly." "where will you go without money? judge now! on the contrary, this last forgery taken up, you will find yourself in a superb position; you would have no more debts. come, come, promise me to speak once more to the duchess. you are such a rake, you know how to make yourself so interesting in spite of your faults; at the very worst, perhaps, you will be esteemed the less, or even no more, but you will be lifted out of this scrape. come, promise me to see your friend, and i will run to petit jean, and do my best to obtain an hour or two more." "hell! must i drink of shame to the very dregs?" "come now! good luck--be tender, charming, fond; i run to petit jean: you will find me here until three o'clock; later it will no longer be in time: the public prosecutor's office is closed after four o'clock." badinot took his departure. when the door was closed, florestan was heard to cry, in profound despair, "lost!" during this conversation, which unmasked to the count the infamy of his son, and to madame de lucenay the infamy of the man whom she had so blindly loved, both remained immovable, scarcely breathing, under the weight of this frightful revelation. it would be impossible to describe the mute eloquence of the sorrowful scene which passed between this young woman and the count, when there was no longer any doubt of the crime of florestan. extending his arm toward the room where his son remained, the old man smiled with bitter irony, cast a withering look on madame de lucenay, and seemed to say to her: "behold him for whom you have braved all shame, made every sacrifice! behold him you have reproached me for abandoning!" the duchess understood the look; for a moment she hung her head under the weight of her shame. the lesson was terrible. then by degrees, to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of madame de lucenay succeeded a kind of noble indignation. the inexcusable faults of this woman were at least palliated by the fidelity of her love, by the boldness of her devotion, by the grandeur of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion for everything that was cowardly and dishonest. still too young, too handsome, too much sought after, to experience the humility of having been made use of, this proud and decided woman, once the illusion of love having vanished, felt neither hatred nor anger; instantaneously, without any transition, a mortal disgust, an icy disdain, killed her affection, until then so lively; it was no longer a woman deceived by her lover, but it was the lady of fashion discovering that a man of her society was a cheat and a forger. in supposing even that some circumstances might have extenuated the ignominy of florestan, madame de lucenay would not have admitted them; according to her views, the man who overstepped certain limits of honor, either through vice or weakness, no longer existed in her eyes, honor being for her a question of existence or non-existence. the only sorrowful feeling experienced by the duchess, was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on the count, her old friend. for some moments he appeared not to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head hung down, his arms suspended, his paleness livid, and from time to time a convulsive sigh escaped from his bosom. with a man as resolute as he was energetic, such a state of dejection was more alarming than the most furious bursts of rage. madame de lucenay looked at him with much anxiety. "courage, my friend," said she to him, in a low tone, "for you, for me, for this man--i know what remains for me to do." the old man looked at her fixedly; then, as if he had been aroused from his stupor by some violent shock, he raised his head, his features assumed a threatening appearance, and, forgetting that his son might hear him, he cried: "and i, also, for you, for me, for this man--i know what i have to do." "who is there?" cried florestan, surprised. madame de lucenay, fearing to meet the viscount, disappeared through the small door, and descended the private staircase. florestan, having again demanded who was there, and receiving no answer, entered the saloon. the long beard of the old man changed him so much, he was so poorly dressed, that his son, who had not seen him for many years, did not at first recognize him; he advanced rapidly toward him with a menacing air, and said, "who are you? what do you want here?" "i am the husband of that woman!" answered the count, showing the portrait of madame de saint remy. "my father!" cried florestan, retreating in alarm; and he endeavored to recall to mind the features so long forgotten. erect, formidable, his looks irritated, his face purple with rage, his white hair thrown back, his arms crossed on his breast, the count, over-awed, confounded his son, who, with his head down, dared not to raise his eyes upon him. yet saint remy, from some secret motive, made a violent effort to remain calm and to conceal his feelings of resentment. "father!" said florestan, in a faltering voice, "you were there!" "i was there." "you have heard--" "all." "oh!" cried the viscount, mournfully, concealing his face in his hands. there was a moment's pause. florestan, at first as much astonished as vexed at the unexpected apparition of his father, soon began to think what he could make out of this incident. "all is not lost," said he to himself; "the presence of my father is a stroke of fate. he knows all; he will not have his name dishonored; he is not rich, but be must have more than twenty-five thousand francs. let us play close--address, emotion, and a little tenderness. i will let the duchess alone, and i am saved!" then, giving to his charming features an expression of mournful dejection, moistening his eyes with the tears of repentance, assuming his most thrilling tones, his most pathetic manner, he cried, joining his hands with a gesture of despair: "oh, my father: i am very unhappy! after so many years--to see you again, and at such a moment! i must appear so culpable to you! but deign to listen to me, i entreat you--i supplicate you; permit me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct; will you, my father?" old saint remy answered not a word: his features remained immovable: he seated himself, and with his chin resting on the palm of his hand, looked at his son in silence. if florestan had known the thoughts which filled the mind of his father with hatred, fury, and vengeance, alarmed at the apparent calmness of the count, he would not have tried to dupe him. but, ignorant of the suspicions attached to his birth, ignorant of the fault of his mother, florestan doubted not the success of his trick, believing he had only to soften a father who, at once a misanthrope and very proud of his name, would be capable, rather than see his name dishonored, to decide on any sacrifice. "my father," he resumed timidly, "permit me to try, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you how, from involuntary misleadings, i have reached, almost in spite of myself, actions--infamous--i acknowledge." the viscount took the silence of his father for a tacit consent, and continued: "when i had the misfortune to lose my mother--my poor mother, who loved me so well--i was not twenty. i found myself alone, without counsel, without protection. master of a considerable fortune, accustomed to luxury from my childhood, i had made it a habit, a want. ignorant of the difficulty of earning money, i lavished it without measure. unfortunately--and i say unfortunately, because this ruined me--my expenses, foolish as they were, by their elegance were remarkable. by good taste i eclipsed people who were ten times richer than i was. this first success intoxicated me. i became a man of luxury as one becomes a warrior or a statesman; yes, i loved luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but i loved it as the painter loves a picture, as the poet loves poetry; like every other artist, i was jealous of my work; and my work was my luxury. i sacrificed everything to its perfection. i wished it fine, grand, complete, splendidly harmonious in everything, from my stables to my table, from my dress to my house. i wished in everything to be a model of taste and elegance. as an artist, in fine, i was greedy of the applause of the crowd, and of the admiration of people of fashion; this success, so rare, i obtained." in speaking thus, the features of florestan lost by degrees their hypocritical expression; his eyes shone with a kind of enthusiasm; he told the truth; he had been at first reduced by this rather uncommon manner of understanding luxury. he looked inquiringly at his father; he thought he appeared rather softened. he resumed, with growing warmth: "oracle and regulator of the fashions, my praise or censure made the law; i was quoted, copied, extolled, admired, and that by the best company in paris, that is to say, europe, the world. the women partook of the general infatuation; the most charming disputed for the pleasure of coming to some very select fetes which i gave; and everywhere, and always, nothing was heard but of the incomparable elegance and exquisite taste of these fetes, which the millionaires could neither equal nor eclipse; in fine, i was the glass of fashion. this word will tell you all, my father, if you understand it." "i understand it, and i am sure that at the galleys you will invent some refined elegance in the manner of carrying your chain, that will become the fashion in the yard, and will be called a la saint remy," said the old man, with bitter irony; then he added, "and saint remy is my name!" it caused florestan to exercise much control over himself to conceal the wound caused by this sarcasm. he continued, in a more humble tone: "alas! my father, it is not from pride that i recall the fact of this success; for, i repeat to you, this success ruined me. sought after, envied, flattered, praised, not by interested parasites, but by people whose position much surpassed mine, and over whom i only had the advantage derived from elegance-- which is to luxury what taste is to the arts--my head was turned; i did not calculate that my fortune must be spent in a few years; little did i heed it. could i renounce this feverish, dazzling life, in which pleasure succeeded to pleasure, enjoyments to enjoyments, fetes to fetes, intoxications of all sorts to enchantments of all sorts? oh, if you knew, my father, what it is to be everywhere noticed as the hero of the day; to hear the whisperings which announce your entrance into a saloon; to hear the women say, 'it is he!--there he is!' oh! if you knew----" "i know," said the old man, interrupting his son, and without changing his position; "i know. yes, the other day, in a public square, there was a crowd, suddenly i heard a noise, like that with which you are received when you go anywhere; then the looks of all, the women especially, were fixed on a very handsome young man, just as they are fixed on you, and they pointed him out, just as they do you, saying, 'it is he! there he is!' just exactly as they say of you." "but this man, my father?" "was a forger they were placing in the pillory." "ah!" exclaimed florestan, with suppressed rage; then, feigning profound affliction, he added: "my father, have you no pity--what can i say to you now? i do not seek to deny my faults--i only wish to explain to you the fatal cause of them. ah, well! yes, should you again overwhelm me with cruel sarcasms, i will try to go to the end of this confession--i will try to make you understand this feverish vanity which has ruined me, because then, perhaps, you will pity me. yes, for one pities a fool--and i was a fool. shutting my eyes, i abandoned myself to the dazzling vortex, into which i dragged along with me the most charming women, the most amiable men. stop myself-- could i do it? as well say to the poet who exhausts himself, and whose genius is consuming his health, 'pause in the midst of the inspiration which carries you away!' no! i could not; i--i! abdicate this royalty which i exercised, and return, ruined, ashamed, mocked, to the state of a plebeian--unknown; give this triumph to my rivals, whom i had until then defied, ruled, crushed! no, no, i could not! not voluntarily, at least. the fatal day came, when, for the first time, my money was wanting. i was as surprised as if this moment never could happen. yet i had still my horses, my carriages, and the furniture of this house. my debts paid, i should still have sixty thousand francs-- perhaps--what should i do with this trifle? then, my father, i took the first step in infamy. i was still honest. i had only spent what belonged to me; but then i began to contract debts which i could not pay. i sold all i possessed to two of my people, in order to settle with them, and to be able, for six months longer, to enjoy this luxury which intoxicated me, in spite of my creditors. to provide for my wants at play and foolish expenses, i borrowed, in the first place, from the jews; then, to pay the jews, from my friends. these resources exhausted, commenced a new era of my life. from an honest man i had become a chevalier d'industrie, but i was not yet criminal. however, i hesitated. i wished to take a violent resolution. i had proved in several duels that i was not afraid of death. i thought i would kill myself." "indeed?" said the count, ironically. "you do not believe me, my father?" "it was too soon, or too late!" added the old man, quite immovable, and in the same attitude. florestan, thinking he had alarmed his father in speaking to him of his project of suicide, thought it necessary to get up the scene again for a little stage effect. he opened a closet and took from it a little green crystal vial, and said to the count, placing it on the mantelpiece: "an italian quack sold me this poison." "and--it was for yourself?" said the old man, still leaning on his elbow. florestan understood the bearing of his father's words. his face now expressed real indignation, for he spoke the truth. one day, he had had the idea of killing himself--an ephemeral fantasy; people of his stamp are too cowardly to resolve coldly and without witnesses upon death, which they will boldly meet in a duel through a point of honor. he cried, then, in a tone of truth, "i have fallen very low, but at least not so low as that, my father! it was for myself i reserved the poison!" "and you were afraid?" said the count, without change of position. "i confess it, i recoiled before this dreadful extremity; nothing was yet desperate, the persons whom i owed were rich, and could wait. at my age, with my relations, i hoped for a moment, if not to repair my fortune, at least to assure myself an honorable independent position in its place. several of my friends, perhaps, less capable than myself had made rapid strides in diplomacy. i had a velleity of ambition. i had only to request, and i was attached to the legation of gerolstein. unfortunately, some days after this nomination, a gambling debt contracted with a man i hated placed me in the most cruel embarrassment. i had exhausted every resource. a fatal idea occurred to me. believing myself certain of impunity, i committed an infamous action. you see, my father, i conceal nothing from you. i confess the ignominy of my conduct. i seek to extenuate nothing. one of two resolutions remains for me to take, and i have now to decide which. the first is to kill myself, and to leave your name dishonored, for if i do not pay to-day even the twenty-five thousand francs, the complaint is made, the affair known, and, dead or living, i am ruined. the second means is to throw myself in the hands of my father, to say to you, save your son, save your name from infamy, and i swear to leave to-morrow for africa, to enlist as a soldier, and either to be killed or to return some day honorably reinstated. what i now tell you, my father, is true. in face of the extremity which overwhelms me, i have no other way. decide; either i die covered with shame, or thanks to you, i will live to repair my faults. these are not the threats and words of a young man, my father. i am now twenty-five; i bear your name; i have courage enough either to kill myself, or to become a soldier, for i will not go to the galleys." the count arose. "i will not have my name dishonored," said he coldly to florestan. "oh, my father! my savior!" cried the viscount, warmly; and he was about to throw himself into the arms of his father, when he, with an icy gesture, checked the impulse. "they wait for you until three o'clock, at the house of this man who has the forgery?" "yes, my father; and it is now two o'clock." "let us pass into your cabinet--give me something to write with." "here, my father." the count seated himself before the desk of his son, and wrote with a firm hand: "i engage to pay this night, at ten o'clock, the , francs which are owed by my son. "count de saint remy." "your creditor insists upon having the money; notwithstanding his threats, this engagement of mine will make him consent to a new delay; he can go to mr. dupont, banker, in the rue de richelieu, no. , who will inform him of the value of this note." "oh, father! however can--" "you may expect me to-night; at ten o'clock. i will bring you the money. let your creditor be here." "yes, father, and after to-morrow, i start for africa. you shall see if i am ungrateful. then, perhaps, when i have reinstated myself, you will accept my thanks." "you owe me nothing; i have said my name shall be no further dishonored; it shall not be," said m. de saint remy, calmly; and taking his cane, which he had placed on the bureau, he turned toward the door. "father, your hand at least!" said florestan, in a supplicating tone. "here, to-night, at ten-o'clock," replied the count, refusing his hand. and he departed. "saved!" cried florestan, joyfully, "saved!" then, after a moment's reflection, he added, "saved! almost. no matter; so far good. perhaps to-night i will acknowledge the other thing; he is in train; he will not stop halfway and let his sacrifice be useless, because he refuses a second. yet why tell him? who will know it? never mind; if nothing is discovered, i will keep the money that he will give me to pay this last debt. i had a great deal of trouble to move him, this devil of a man! the bitterness of his sarcasms made me doubt my success; but my threat of suicide, the fear of having his name dishonored, decided him; that was the lucky stroke. he is, doubtless, not so poor as he pretends to be, if he possesses a hundred thousand francs. he must have saved money, living as he does. once more, i say his coming was a lucky chance. he has a cross look, but, at the bottom, i think he is a good fellow; but i must hasten to this bailiff." he rang the bell. boyer appeared. "why did you not inform me that my father was here? you are very negligent." "twice i endeavored to speak to you when you came through the garden with m. badinot; but, probably, preoccupied by your conversation with m. badinot, you made a motion with the hand not to be interrupted. i did not permit myself to insist. i should be deeply wounded if my lord could believe me guilty of negligence." "very well; tell edward to harness immediately orion--no--plower, to the cabriolet." boyer bowed respectfully; as he was about to retire, some one knocked at the door. "come in!" said florestan. a second valet appeared, holding in his hand a small salver. boyer took hold of the salver with a kind of jealous officiousness, and came and presented it to the viscount, who took from it a rather voluminous envelope, sealed with black wax. the valets retired ceremoniously. the viscount opened the package. it contained twenty-five thousand francs, in treasury notes; with no other information. "decidedly," cried he, with joy, "the day is lucky--sacred! this time, completely saved. i shall go to the jeweler's--and yet--perhaps--no, let us wait--they can have no suspicion of me--twenty-five thousand francs are good to keep; pardieu! i was a fool ever to doubt my star; at the moment it seems most obscured does it not appear more brilliant than ever? but where does this money come from? the writing of the address is unknown to me; let me look at the seal--the cipher; yes, yes, i am not mistaken--an n and an l--it is clotilde! how has she known?--and not a word--it is strange! how apropos! oh i reflect--i made a rendezvous for this morning--these threats of badinot upset me. i had forgotten clotilde--after having waited some time, she has gone. doubtless, this is sent as a delicate hint that she fears i shall forget her on account of my monetary embarrassments. yes, it is an indirect reproach for not addressing myself to her as usual. good clotilde--always the same!--generous as a queen! what a pity to come again from her--still so handsome! sometimes i regret it; but i have never asked her until, at the last extremity, i have been forced to it." "the cabriolet is ready," said boyer. "who brought this letter?" "i am uninformed, my lord." "exactly--i will ask at the door; but tell me, is there no one below?" added the viscount, looking at boyer in a significant manner. "there is no longer any one, my lord." "i was not deceived," thought florestan. "clotilde has waited for me, and has gone away." "will my lord have the goodness to grant me two minutes?" said boyer. "speak, but make haste." "mr. patterson and i have understood that his grace the duke of montbrison was about to establish himself; if your lordship would have the goodness to propose to let him have his house all furnished, as well as the stables, it would be a good occasion for us to dispose of all; and, perhaps, might also suit my lord." "you are right, boyer! i should much prefer it. i will see montbrison, and will speak to him about it. what are your conditions?" "your lordship understands that we ought to try to profit as much as we can by his generosity." "and gain by your bargain? nothing can be plainer! come, what is the price?" "for the whole, two hundred and sixty thousand francs, my lord." "how much do you and patterson make?" "about forty thousand francs, my lord." "very pretty! however, so much the better; for, after all, i am satisfied with you, and if i had had a will to make, i should have left this sum to you and patterson." the viscount went out to go, in the first place, to his creditor and madame de lucenay, whom he did not suspect of having overheard his conversation with badinot. chapter xxx. the interview. lucenay house was one of those princely habitations of the faubourg saint germain which the unobstructed view renders so magnificent. a modern house could have been placed with ease in the space occupied by the staircase of one of these palaces; and an entire ward on the ground they covered. toward nine o'clock in the evening of this same day, the enormous gateway was opened to a glittering carriage, which, after having described a scientific curve in the immense court stopped before a covered porch, which led to an antechamber. while the stampings of the two vigorous and mettlesome horses resounded on the pavement, a gigantic footman opened the emblazoned door, and a young man descended slowly from this brilliant vehicle, and not less slowly mounted the five or six steps of the porch. this was the viscount de saint remy. on leaving his creditor, who, satisfied with the engagement made by the count de saint remy, had granted the delay asked, and agreed to come to rue chaillot at ten o'clock, florestan was come to thank madame de lucenay for the new service she had rendered; but, not having met the duchess in the morning, he came in great spirits, certain to find her at the hour she habitually reserved for him. from the obsequiousness of the two footmen in the antechamber who ran to open the door as soon as they recognized the carriage; from the profoundly respectful air with which the rest of the liveried servants spontaneously arose as the viscount passed, one could easily see that he was looked upon as the second, if not the real master of the mansion. when the duke de lucenay entered his house, his umbrella in his hand, and his feet in huge overshoes (he detested riding in the daytime), the same domestic evolutions were repeated, and always respectfully; yet to the eyes of an observer, there was a great difference of expression between the reception given to the husband, and that which was reserved for the _cicisbeo_. the same respectful eagerness was manifested in the saloon of the valets when florestan entered there; in a moment, one of them preceded him, to announce him to madame de lucenay. never had florestan been more conceited; never did he feel more easy, more sure of himself, more irresistible. the victory which he had gained in the morning over his father; the new proof of attachment from madame de lucenay; the joy at having so miraculously escaped from so cruel a position; his renewed confidence in his star, gave to his handsome face an expression of boldness and good humor which rendered him still more seducing. in fine, he never was more pleased with himself; and he had reason. a last glance in a mirror completed the excellent opinion that florestan had of himself. the valet opened the folding doors of the saloon, and announced, "his lordship the viscount de saint remy." the astonishment and indignation of the duchess were indescribable. she thought the count must have told his son that she also had overheard all. we have said before, that, on learning the infamy of florestan, the love of madame de lucenay was at once changed into utter disdain. being engaged out that evening, she was, although without diamonds, dressed with her usual taste and magnificence: this splendid toilet; the rouge which she wore boldly; her beauty, quite striking at night; her figure of "the goddess sailing on clouds," rendered still more striking a dignity, which no one possessed more than she did, and which she pushed, when it was necessary, to a most superlative haughtiness. the proud, determined character of the duchess is known to the reader; let him imagine her look, when the viscount, smiling, advanced toward her, and said in loving tones, "my dear clotilde, how kind you are! how much you----" the viscount could not finish. the duchess was seated, and had not stirred; but her actions, the glance of her eye, revealed a contempt at once so calm and so withering, that florestan stopped short. he could not say a word, or make a step in advance. never had madame de lucenay conducted herself thus toward him. he could not believe it to be the same woman whom he had always found so tender and affectionate. his first surprise over, florestan was ashamed of his weakness; he resumed his habitual audacity; making a step toward madame de lucenay to take her hand, he said to her in the most caressing manner, "clotilde, how is this? i have never seen you so handsome, and yet--" "oh! this is too impudent!" cried the duchess, recoiling with such unequivocal disgust and pride, that florestan once more was surprised and confounded. however, assuming a little assurance, he said to her: "you will inform me, at least, clotilde, the cause of this sudden change? what have i done? what do you wish?" without replying to him, madame de lucenay looked at him from head to foot, with an expression so insulting that florestan felt the flush of resentment mount to his forehead, and he cried, "i know, madame, you are habitually very hasty in your ruptures. is it a rupture you wish?" "the pretension is curious!" said madame de lucenay, with a burst of sardonic laughter. "know that when a lackey robs me--i do not break with him--i turn him out." "madame!" "let us put a stop to this," said the duchess, in a decided and haughty tone. "your presence is repugnant to me! what do you want here? have you not got your money?" "i was right then. i guessed it was you. these twenty-five thousand francs--" "your last forgery is withdrawn, is it not? the honor of your family name is saved. it is saved. go away. ah! believe--i much regret this money--it would have succored so many honest people; but it was necessary to think of your father's shame and of mine." "then, clotilde, you know all! oh! look you now; nothing remains for me but to die," cried florestan in the most pathetic and despairing tone. a burst of indignant laughter from the duchess replied to this tragical exclamation, and she added, between two fits of hilarity, "i never could have thought that infamy could make itself so ridiculous!" "madame!" cried florestan, almost blind with rage. the folding doors were thrown open suddenly, and a valet announced, "his grace the duke de montbrison!" notwithstanding his habitual self-command, florestan could hardly restrain himself, which a man more accustomed to society than the duke would certainly have remarked. montbrison was scarcely eighteen. let the reader imagine the charming face of a young girl, fair, white, and red, whose rosy lips and smooth chin shall be slightly shaded with an incipient beard; add to this, large brown eyes, still slightly timid, a figure as graceful as that of the duchess, and he will have, perhaps, an idea of the appearance of this young duke, the most ideal cherubino that a countess and a susanna had ever put on a woman's cap, after admiring the whiteness of his ivory neck. the viscount had the weakness or the audacity to remain. "how kind you are, conrad, to have thought of me tonight!" said madame de lucenay in the most affectionate tone, extending her beautiful hand to the young duke who hastened to shake hands with his cousin; but clotilde shrugged her shoulders, and said to him gayly, "you may kiss them, cousin: you wear your gloves." "pardon me, cousin," said the youth; and he pressed his lips on the charming hand she presented him. "what are you going to do this evening, conrad?" demanded the duchess, without taking the least notice of florestan. "nothing, cousin; when i leave here, i am going to my club." "not at all: you shall accompany m. de lucenay and me to madame de senneval's; it is her night; she has already asked me several times to present you." "cousin, i shall be too happy to place myself under your orders." "and besides, frankly, i do not like to see you so soon accustom yourself to this taste for clubs; you have every requisite to be perfectly well received and even sought after in society. so you must go oftener." "yes, cousin." "and as i am with you pretty much on the footing of a grandmother, my dear conrad, i am disposed to be very maternal. you are emancipated it is true; but still i think you will have need for a long time of a tutor. and you must absolutely accept of me." "with joy, with delight, my cousin!" said the young duke with vivacity. it is impossible to describe the mute rage of florestan, who remained standing, leaning against the chimney-piece. neither the duke nor clotilde paid any attention to him. knowing how quickly madame de lucenay decided on anything, he imagined that she pushed her audacity and contempt so far that she wished to play the coquette openly and before him with the young duke. it was not so; the duchess felt for her young cousin an affection quite maternal. but the young duke was so handsome, he seemed so happy at the gracious reception of his young cousin, that florestan was exasperated by jealousy, or rather by pride; his heart writhed under the cruel stings of envy, inspired by conrad de montbrison, who, rich and charming, entered so splendidly this life of pleasures, which he was leaving--he, ruined, despised, disgraced. saint remy was brave--with the bravery of the head, if we may so express it, which, through anger or vanity, causes one to face a duel; but vile and corrupted, he had not that courage of the heart which triumphs over evil propensities, or which at least gives one the energy to escape infamy by a voluntary death. furious at the sovereign contempt of the duchess, thinking he saw a successor in the young duke, saint remy resolved to match the insolence of clotilde, and, if it was necessary, to select a quarrel with conrad. the duchess, irritated at the audacity of florestan, did not look at him; and montbrison, in his attraction toward his cousin, forgetting the usages of society, had neither bowed nor said a word to the viscount, whom he knew perfectly. he advanced toward conrad, whose back was turned toward him, touched his arm lightly, and said, in an ironical and dry tone, "good-evening, your grace; a thousand pardons for not having perceived you before." montbrison, feeling that he had been wanting in politeness, turned quickly, and said, cordially, "sir, i am confused, truly, but i dare hope that my cousin, who has caused my want of attention, will be pleased to make my excuses, and--" "conrad!" said the duchess, incensed at the impudence of florestan, who persisted in remaining and braving her; "conrad, it is right; no excuses; it is not worth the trouble." montbrison, believing that his cousin reproached him in a playful manner for being too formal, said gayly to the viscount, who was white with rage, "i shall not insist, sir, since my cousin forbids. you see her tutelage commences." "and this tutelage will not stop there, my dear sir, be quite assured. thus, in this view of the case (which her grace the duchess will readily approve, i do not doubt), an idea has just struck me to make you a proposition." "me, sir?" said conrad, beginning to dislike the sneering tone of florestan. "you. i leave in some days for gerolstein. i wish to dispose of my house, all furnished, and my stables; you also should make _an arrangement_." the viscount emphasized these last words, looking at madame de lucenay. "it would be very piquant, would it not, your grace?" "i do not comprehend you, sir," said montbrison, more and more astonished. "i will tell you, conrad, why you cannot accept the offer which has been made you," said clotilde. "and why cannot his grace accept my offer, madame?" "my dear conrad, that which is proposed to be sold to you is already sold to others. you comprehend? you would have the inconvenience of being robbed as on the highway." florestan bit his lips with rage. "take care, madame," cried he. "how? threats here?" said conrad. "come now, conrad, pay no attention," said madame de lucenay, eating a bonbon imperturbably. "a man of honor ought not, nor may not, commit himself with this gentleman. if he insists, i will tell you wherefore." a terrible scene was perhaps about to take place, when the doors were again thrown open, and the duke de lucenay entered, and, according to custom, with much noise and disturbance. "how, my dear! not ready?" said he to his wife. "why, it is astonishing--surprising! good-evening, saint remy; good-evening, conrad. oh, you see before you the most despairing of men--that is to say, i cannot sleep; i cannot eat; i am stupefied; i cannot get used to it. poor d'harville, what an event!" and m. de lucenay, throwing himself backward on a sofa, threw his hat from him with a gesture of despair, and, crossing his left leg over the right knee, he took his foot in his hand, continuing to utter exclamations of grief. the emotions of conrad and florestan had time to be subdued before m. de lucenay, the least observing man in the world, had perceived anything. madame de lucenay, not from embarrassment--she was not a woman to be untimely embarrassed--but the presence of florestan was repugnant and unsupportable, said to the duke, "when you are ready, we will go. i am to present conrad to madame de senneval." "no!" said the duke; and, throwing down a cushion, he arose quickly, and began to walk about, violently gesticulating. "i cannot help but think of poor d'harville; can you, saint remy?" "truly, a frightful event!" said the viscount, who, with hatred and rage in his heart, sought the looks of montbrison; but he, after the last words of his cousin, not from want of courage, but from pride, turned away from a man so terribly debased. "pray, my lord," said the duchess to her husband, "do not regret m. d'harville in a manner so noisy, and, above all, so singularly. ring, if you please, for my servants." "only to think," said m. de lucenay, seizing hold of the bell-pull, "three days ago he was full of life, and now, what remains of him? nothing, nothing, nothing!" these last three exclamations were accompanied by three pulls of the bell so violent, that the cord broke which he held in his hand, separated from the upper string, and fell upon a candelabra filled with waxlights, and overturned two; one fell upon the mantelpiece, and broke a beautiful little vase of sevres china; the other rolled on the ground, and set fire to a rug of ermine, which, for a moment in a blaze, was almost immediately extinguished by conrad. at the same moment, two valets, summoned by the loud ringing, arrived in haste, and found m. de lucenay with the bell rope in his hand, the duchess laughing violently at this ridiculous cascade of candies, and montbrison partaking the hilarity of his cousin. saint remy alone did not laugh. [illustration: capital and labor in harmony ] lucenay, quite habituated to such accidents, preserved a serious countenance; he threw the rope to one of the servants, and said, "the coach!" when he became a little more calm, the duchess said, "really, sir, there is no one else in the world but yourself who could have caused a laugh at so lamentable an event." "lamentable! you may well say frightful! horrible! now, only see, since yesterday i have been thinking how many persons there are, even in my own family, who i would rather should have died than poor d'harville. my nephew emberval, for instance, who is so tiresome with his stammering; or your aunt merinville, who is always talking of her nerves, her blues, and who swallows every day, while waiting for her dinner, an abominable potpie, just like a bricklayer's wife! do you think much of your aunt merinville?" "hush! your grace is crazy!" said the duchess, shrugging her shoulders. "but it is true," answered the duke; "one would give a hundred indifferent persons for a friend. is it not so, saint remy?" "doubtless." "it is always that old story of the tailor. do you know, conrad, the story of the tailor?" "no, cousin." "you will understand at once the allegory. a tailor was condemned to be hung; there was no other tailor in the village; what do the inhabitants do? they said to the judge, 'your honor, we have only one tailor, and we have three shoemakers; if it is all the same to you to hang one of the shoemakers in the place of the tailor, we shall have quite enough with two shoemakers.' do you comprehend the allegory, conrad?" 'yes, cousin." "and you, saint remy?" "i also." "the coach," said one of the servants. "oh! but why do you not wear your diamonds?" said m. de lucenay, unexpectedly; "with this dress they would look devilish well." saint remy shuddered. "for one poor little time that we go out together," continued the duke, "you might have honored me with your diamonds. they are really very handsome. have you ever seen them, saint remy?" "yes; his lordship knows them by heart," said clotilde. "give me your arm, conrad." lucenay followed the duchess with saint remy, who was almost beside himself with rage. "are you not coming with us to the sennevals'?" said lucenay to him. "no, impossible," answered he hastily. "by the way, saint remy, madame de senneval is another one--what do i say, one?--two-whom i would sacrifice willingly; for her husband is also on my list." "what list?" "of those persons whom i would willingly see die, if poor d'harville could have remained." while montbrison was assisting his cousin with her mantle, lucenay said to him, "since you are going with us, conrad, order your carriage to follow ours, unless you will go, saint remy; then you can give me a place, and i will tell you a story worth two of the tailor's." "i thank you," said florestan, dryly: "i cannot accompany you." "then, good-bye. have you had a dispute with my wife? see, she is getting into the carriage without speaking to you!" "cousin!" said conrad, waiting through deference for the duke. "get in, get in," cried he: and stopping for a moment in the porch, he admired the viscount's equipage. "are these your sorrels, saint remy?" "yes." "and your fat driver--what a figure! just see how he holds his horses in his hands! i must confess, there is no one but a saint remy who has the best of everything." "madame de lucenay and her cousin are waiting," said florestan, with bitterness. "it is true; how rude i am! soon again, saint remy. oh, i forgot; if you have nothing better to do, come and dine with us to-morrow. lord dudley has sent me from scotland some grouse and heathcocks. just imagine something monstrous. it is agreed, is it not?" the duke joined his wife and conrad. saint remy remained alone, and saw the carriage depart; his own drew up, and as he took his seat he cast a look of rage, hatred, and despair on this house, where he had so often entered as a master, and which he now left, ignominiously driven away. "home," he said, roughly. "to the hotel," said the footman to patterson, shutting the door. the bitter and sorrowful thoughts of florestan on his way home can easily be imagined. as he entered, boyer, who was waiting for him at the lodge, said, "my lord, the count is upstairs." "it is well." "there is also a man there, to whom the count has given an appointment at ten o'clock." "well, well. oh, what a day!" said florestan, as he was going upstairs to meet his father, whom he found in the saloon where the morning's interview had taken place. "a thousand pardons, father, for not being here when you arrived; but i----" "the man who holds this forged draft is here?" "yes, father, below." "send for him to come up." florestan rang the bell; boyer answered. "tell m. petit jean to come here." "yes, my lord;" and boyer disappeared. "how kind you are, father, to remember your promise!" "i always remember what i promise." "how grateful! how can i ever prove----" "i will not have my name dishonored; it shall not be." "it shall not be; no; and it shall never be more, i swear to you, father." the count looked at his son in a singular manner, and repeated, "no, it shall never be more!" then, with a sneering laugh, he added, "you are a conjuror!" "i read my resolution in my heart." the count made no reply, but walked up and down the room with his hands in the large pockets of his overcoat. "m. petit jean," said boyer, introducing a man with a low and cunning expression of face. "where is that bill?" said the count. "here it is, sir," said petit jean (a man of straw of jacques ferrand) presenting it. "is that it?" said the count to his son. "yes, father." the count drew from the pocket of his waistcoat twenty-five notes of one thousand francs each, handed them to his son, and said, "pay!" florestan paid, and took the draft with a profound sigh of satisfaction. m. petit jean placed the bills carefully in an old pocket-book, and retired. saint remy went with him out of the room, while florestan prudently tore up the note. "at least the twenty-five thousand francs from clotilde remain. if nothing is discovered, it is a consolation. but how she has treated me! now, what can my father have to say to petit jean?" the noise of a key turned in a lock made the viscount shudder. his father re-entered; his pallor had increased. "i thought i heard some one lock the door of my cabinet, father?" "yes, i locked it." "you, father!" cried florestan, surprised. the count placed himself so that his son could not descend the private stairs which led to out-doors. florestan, alarmed, began to remark the sinister look of his father, and followed all his movements with anxiety. without being able to explain it, he felt alarmed. "father, what is the matter?" "this morning, on seeing me, your sole thought has been this: father will not have his name dishonored; he will pay, if i can manage to make him believe in my assumed repentance." "oh! can you think that--" "do not interrupt me. i have been your dupe; you have neither shame nor regret, nor remorse: you are rotten to the heart; you have never had an honest sentiment; you have not robbed as long as you had enough to satisfy your caprices; that is what is called probity by rich people of your stamp; then followed want of decency, then baseness, crime, and forgery. this is only the first period of your life--it is beautiful and pure compared to that which awaits you." "if i did not change my conduct, i acknowledge; but i will change, father. i have sworn it to you." "you would not change." "but--" "you could not change! driven from the society to which you have been accustomed, you would soon become criminal, like the wretches with whom you would associate: a robber inevitably, and, if necessary, an assassin. there is your future life." "i an assassin!" "yes, because you are a coward!" "i have fought duels, and i have proved--" "i tell you, you are a coward! you have preferred infamy to death! a day will come when you will prefer the impunity of your new crimes to the life of others! that cannot be; i arrive in time to save, henceforth, at least, my name from public dishonor. it must be finished." "how, father, finished! what do you mean to say?" cried florestan, more and more alarmed at the expression of his father and his increasing paleness. suddenly some one knocked violently at the door of the cabinet. florestan made a movement, as if to open it, but his father seized him with an iron hand, and withheld him. "who knocks?" demanded the former. "in the name of the law, open, open!" said a voice. "this forgery was not, then, the last?" said the count, in a low voice, looking at his son with a terrible scowl. "yes, father, i swear it," answered florestan, trying in vain to release himself from the hold. "in the name of the law open!" repeated the voice. "what do you want?" demanded the count. "i am an officer of police; i come to make a search on account of a robbery of diamonds, of which m. de saint remy is accused. m. baudoin, jeweler, has the proofs. if you do not open, sir, i shall be obliged to break in the door." "a robber already! i was not deceived," said the count, in a low tone. "i came to kill you--i have delayed too long." "to kill me!" "my name is enough dishonored! let us finish: i have two pistols here-- you are going to blow out your brains, otherwise i will do it for you, and i will say you killed yourself to escape shame." and the count, with frightful _sang-froid_, drew from his pocket a pistol, and with his disengaged hand gave it to his son, saying: "come, proceed, if you are not a coward." after new and fruitless efforts to escape from the bands of the count, his son fell backward, overcome with fright and pale with horror. from the terrible and inexorable looks of his father, he saw there was no pity to expect from him. "father!" he cried. "you must die!" "i repent!" "it is too late! do you hear? they will break down the door!" "i will expiate my faults!" "they are going to enter! must i, then, kill you?" "pardon!" "the door will give way! you will have it so." and the count placed the pistol against the breast of his son. the viscount saw that he was lost. he took a sudden and desperate resolution; no longer struggling with his father, he said, with firmness and resignation, "you are right, my father; give me this pistol. there is infamy enough attached to my name; the life that awaits me is frightful, it is not worth contending for. give me the pistol. you shall see if i am a coward." and he extended his hand. "but, at least, a word, one single word of consolation, of pity, of farewell," said florestan. his trembling lips and ashy paleness evinced the emotion of his trying situation. "if this should be my son!" thought the count, hesitating to give him the instrument, "if this is my son, i ought still less to hesitate at this sacrifice." the door of the cabinet was broken in with a tremendous crash. "father--they come--oh! i feel now that death is a benefaction. thanks, thanks! but at least your hand, and pardon me!" notwithstanding his firmness, the count could not prevent a shudder, and said, in a broken voice, "i pardon you." "father, the door opens; go to them; do not let them suspect you, at least. and then, if they enter here, they will prevent me from finishing. adieu." the footsteps of several persons were heard in the adjoining apartment. florestan pointed the pistol to his heart. it was discharged at the moment when the count, to escape this horrible scene had turned away, and rushed out of the room, the curtains closing after him. at the noise of the explosion, at the sight of the count, pale and trembling, the commissary stopped suddenly at the threshold of the door, making a sign for his officers not to advance. informed by badinot that the viscount was closeted with his father, the magistrate at once comprehended everything, and respected his great sorrow. "dead," cried the count, concealing his face in his hand; "dead!" repeated he, overwhelmed. "it was right--better death than infamy, but it is frightful!" "my lord," said the magistrate, sadly after a few moments' silence, "spare yourself a sorrowful spectacle; leave this house. now there remains for me a duty to perform still more painful than that which brought me here." "you are right, sir," said saint remy. "as to the victim of the robbery, you can tell him to call at m. dupont's, banker." "rue du richelieu. he is well known," answered the magistrate. "at what amount are the stolen diamonds estimated?" "at about thirty thousand francs, my lord; the person who bought them, through whom the robbery was discovered, gave that amount for them to your son." "i can yet pay this, sir. let the jeweler call the day after to-morrow on my banker; i will settle with him." the commissary bowed, and the count departed. as soon as he was gone, the magistrate, profoundly touched at this unexpected scene, turned toward the saloon, the curtains of which were down. he raised them with emotion. "nobody!" cried he, astonished, looking round the room, and not seeing the least trace of the tragic event which was supposed to have occurred. then, remarking the small door in the tapestry, he ran thither. it was locked on the other side. "a trick," cried he in a rage; "he has undoubtedly made his escape in this way." and, in fact, the viscount, before his father, pointed the pistol at his heart, but he had afterwards very dexterously discharged it under his arm, and immediately fled. notwithstanding the most active researches in all parts of the house, he was not to be found. during the conversation between his father and the commissary, he had rapidly gained the boudoir, thence the conservatory, the back street and finally the champs elysees. chapter xxxi. good-bye in prison. the morning after these last-mentioned events a touching scene took place in saint lazare, at the hour of the recreation of the prisoners. on this day, during the promenade of her companions, fleur-de-marie was seated on a bench near the basin, already called hers. by a sort of tacit agreement, the prisoners abandoned this place, which she loved, for the sweet influence of the girl had much increased. goualeuse preferred this seat near the fountain, because the moss which grew around the border of the reservoir recalled to her mind the verdure of the fields, and even the limpid water with which it was filled made her think of the little river of bouqueval village. to the sad gaze of a prisoner, a tuft of grass is a meadow, a flower is a garden. confiding in the kind promise of madame d'harville, fleur-de-marie had been expecting for two days to leave saint lazare. although she had no reason for inquietude at the delay, she from her habitual misfortunes, hardly dared to hope soon for freedom. naturally, from the expectation of so soon seeing her friends at bouqueval and rudolph, fleur-de-marie should have been transported with joy. it was not so. her heart beat sadly; her thoughts returned without ceasing to the words and lofty looks of madame d'harville, when the poor prisoner had spoken with so much enthusiasm of her benefactor. with singular intuition, goualeuse had thus discovered a part of the lady's secret. "the warmth of my gratitude for m. rudolph has wounded this young lady, so handsome, and of a rank so elevated," thought fleur-de-marie. "now i comprehend the bitterness of her words! she expressed disdainful jealousy! she, jealous of me! then she loves him, and i love him, also! my love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! to love him--i--a creature forever ruined! ungrateful, and wretch that i am! oh! if that were so, rather death a hundred times." let us hasten to say, the unhappy child, who seemed doomed to every kind of martyrdom, exaggerated what she called her love. to her profound gratitude toward rudolph was joined an involuntary admiration of the grace, strength, and beauty which distinguished him above all; nothing less material, nothing more pure than this admiration, but it existed lively and powerful, because physical beauty is always attractive. and then, besides, the voice of blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or disowned, sometimes makes itself heard; these bursts of passionate tenderness, which drew fleur-de-marie toward rudolph, and alarmed her because in her ignorance she misconstrued their tendency, resulted from mysterious sympathies as evident, but also as inexplicable, as the resemblance of features. in a word, fleur-de-marie, learning that she was rudolph's daughter, could have at once accounted for her feelings toward him; then, completely enlightened, she could admire without any scruple the beauty of her father. thus is explained the dejectedness of fleur-de-marie, although she expected at any moment to leave saint lazare. fleur-de-marie, melancholy and pensive, was then seated on a bench near the basin, regarding with a kind of mechanical interest the gambols of two daring birds that came to sport on the curbstone. she ceased for a moment to work on a little child's frock which she was hemming. it is necessary to say that this belonged to the generous offering made to mont saint jean by the prisoners, thanks to the touching intervention of fleur-de-marie. the poor, deformed _protegee_ of la goualeuse was seated at her feet; quite busy in making a little cap; from time to time she cast on her benefactress a look at once grateful, timid, and devoted--the look of a dog to his master. the beauty, charms, and adorable sweetness of fleur-de-marie inspired this degraded woman with as much affection as respect. there is always something holy and grand, even in the aspirations of a heart debased, which, for the first time, opens itself to gratitude; and, until then, no one had caused mont saint jean to experience the religious ardor of a sentiment so new to her. at the end of a few moments, fleur-de-marie shuddered slightly, wiped away a tear, and resumed her sewing. "you will not, then, take a little rest during the recreation, my angel?" said mont saint jean to goualeuse. "as i have given no money to buy the lavette, i must furnish my proportion in work," answered the girl. "your part! why, without you, instead of this fine white linen, and warm fustian, to clothe my child, i should only have had those rags which were trampled in the mud. i am very grateful toward my companions; they have been very kind to me, it is true: but you! oh, you! how, then, shall i explain myself?" added the poor creature, hesitatingly, and very much embarrassed to express her thoughts. "hold!" resumed she; "there is the sun, is it not? there is the sun!" "yes, mont saint jean, i listen," answered fleur-de-marie, inclining her enchanting face toward the hideous visage of her companion. "you will laugh at me," answered she, sadly; "i want to speak, and i don't know how." "say on, mont saint jean." "have you not the eyes of an angel!" said the prisoner, looking at fleur-de-marie in a kind of ecstasy; "your beautiful eyes encourage me. come, i will try to say what i wish. there is the sun, is it not? it is very warm, it makes our prison gay, it is pleasant to see and feel, is it not?" "without doubt." "well, let us suppose--this sun did not make itself, and if one is grateful to it, so much the more reason--" "to be grateful toward him who created it, you mean, mont saint jean! you are right; hence, you should pray to him, adore him--it is god." "that's it, there's my idea," cried the prisoner, joyfully; "that's it; i ought to be grateful to my companions, but i ought to pray to you, adore you, la goualeuse, for it is you who have rendered them good to me, instead of being wicked as they were." "but, if i am good, as you say, mont saint jean, it is god who has made me so; it is, then, he whom you must thank." "ah! marry--perhaps so, then, since you say so," answered the prisoner; "if it pleases you to have it so, very well."' "yes, my poor mont saint jean, pray to him often. this will be the best way of proving to me that you love me a little." "love you, la goualeuse! but, do you not recollect what you told the others, to prevent them from beating me? 'it is not her alone you beat, it is also her child.' well! for the same reason, i do not love you for myself alone, but also for my child." "thank you, thank you, mont saint jean; you give me pleasure to hear you say that." at this moment, madame armand, the inspectress, entered the court. after having sought for fleur-de-marie with her eyes, she came to her with a satisfied and smiling air. "good news, my child!" "what do you say, madame?" cried la goualeuse, rising. "your friends have not forgotten you; they have obtained your liberty. the director has just received the notice." "can it be possible, madame! oh! what happiness!" the emotion of fleur-de-marie was so violent, that she turned pale, put her hand to her heart, which beat violently, and fell back on her seat. "calm yourself, my child," said madame armand, kindly: "happily, such shocks are without danger." "ah, madame, how grateful i ought to be!" "it is, doubtless, madame d'harville who has obtained your liberty. there is an old lady here who is charged to conduct you to your friends. wait for me; i will return for you; i have a few words to say in the workroom." it would be difficult to describe the expression of deep grief which spread over the features of mont saint jean on learning that her good angel was to leave saint lazare. the grief of this woman was caused less by the fear of a renewal of her torments, than by the sorrow at parting from the sole being who had ever evinced any interest for her. still seated at the foot of the bench, she took bold of the two tufts of tangled hair which escaped from under her old black cap, as if to tear them out; then, this violent affliction giving way to dejection, she let her head fall, and remained dumb and immovable, with her face buried in her hands. notwithstanding her joy at leaving the prison, fleur-de-marie could not prevent a shudder at the remembrance of la chouette and the maître d'ecole; recollecting that these two monsters had made her swear not to inform her benefactors of her sad fate. but these sad thoughts were soon dispelled at the hope of seeing bouqueval, madame george, and rudolph again; to the latter she wished to recommend la louve and martial; it even seemed to her that the sentiment which she reproached herself for having felt towards her benefactor, being no longer nourished by sorrow and by solitude, would be calmed and modified as soon as she should resume the rustic occupations which she loved so much to partake with the good and honest inhabitants of the farm. astonished at the silence of her companion, of which she did not suspect the cause, she touched her slightly on the shoulder, and said, "mont saint jean, since i am now free, can i be of any service to you?" on feeling the hand of la goualeuse, the prisoner shuddered, let her arms fall, and turned toward the young girl, her face streaming with tears. "listen to me, mont saint jean," said fleur-de marie, touched at the affection of this poor creature. "i can promise you nothing for yourself, although i know some very charitable people; but for your child it is different; it is innocent of every evil; he, and the persons of whom i speak, would, perhaps, take the charge of it when you can part with it." "part from it--never, oh, never!" cried mont saint jean, with warmth. "what would become of me then, now that i have counted on him?" "but how will you support it? son or daughter, it must be honest, and for that----" "it must eat honest bread, is it not so, la goualeuse? i think so; it is my ambition. i say it to myself every day, thus: on leaving here i shall not let the grass grow under my feet. i will become a rag-picker, a crossing-sweeper, but i'll be correct; one owes that, if not to one's self, at least to one's children, when one has the honor of having any," said she with a kind of pride. "and who will take care of your child while you work?" answered la goualeuse; "would it not be better, if that is possible, as i hope it is, to place it in the country with some good people, who would make it a good farmer's girl or a plowboy? you can come from time to time to see it, and some day, perhaps, you would find the means to remain altogether--in the country it costs so little to live." "but to part with it, to part with it! all my joy is in it. i, who have no one to love me!" "you must think more for it than for yourself, my poor mont saint jean; in two or three days i will write to madame armand, and if the demand i mean to make in favor of your child succeeds, you will never have occasion to say again, what you said just now, 'alas! what will become of it?'" the inspectress, madame armand, interrupted this conversation; she came to seek fleur-de-marie. after having again burst into sobs, and bathed with tears of despair the hands of the girl, mont saint jean fell back on the bench quite overcome with sorrow, not even thinking of the promise just made to her by fleur-de-marie. "poor creature!" said madame armand, leaving the yard, followed by la goualeuse; "poor creature, her gratitude toward you gives me a better opinion of her." on learning that fleur-de-marie was pardoned, the other prisoners, instead of being jealous, expressed their joy; some of them surrounded her, and bade her farewell in a cordial manner, congratulating her frankly on her quick deliverance from prison. "all the same," said one of them, "she has made us do some good; it was when we collected for mont saint jean. this will be remembered in saint lazare." when fleur-de-marie had left the prison buildings under the conduct of the inspectress, the latter said to her, "now, my child, go to the wardrobe, where you will leave your prison garments, and resume the peasant's costume, which, from its rustic simplicity, becomes you so well; adieu. you go to be happy, for you go under the protection of worthy people, and you leave this house never to return. but--hold--i am not unreasonable," said madame armand, whose eyes were bathed in tears, "it is impossible for me to conceal from you how much i am already attached to you, poor child!" then, seeing fleur-de-marie much affected, she added, "you do not wish me thus to sadden your departure?" "ah! madame, is it not to your recommendation that this young lady, to whom i owe my liberty, interested herself in my fate?" "yes, and i am happy at what i have done; my presentiments have not deceived me." at this moment a bell rang. "ah! this is the signal for them to resume their work; i must go in. adieu! once more adieu, my dear child!" and madame armand, quite as much affected as fleur-de-marie, embraced her tenderly; she then said to one of the attendants, "conduct her to the wardrobe." a quarter of an hour afterward, fleur-de-marie, clothed as a peasant, entered the office where mrs. seraphin awaited her. this woman, housekeeper of jacques ferrand, came to take the unfortunate child to ravageur's island. chapter xxxii. remembrances. jacque ferrand had easily and promptly obtained the liberty of fleur-de-marie. instructed by la chouette of the sojourn of la goualeuse in saint lazare, he had immediately addressed himself to one of his clients, an influential man, telling him that a girl, led astray but sincerely repentant, and recently confined in saint lazare, ran the risk, from contact with the other prisoners, of having her good resolutions weakened. this girl had been strongly recommended to him by some respectable people, who would take charge of her as soon as she left the prison. jacques ferrand had added, he begged his all-powerful client, in the name of morality, of religion, and of the future rehabilitation of this unfortunate, to solicit her discharge. finally, the notary, so as to completely conceal his part in the transaction, particularly requested his client not to name him in the accomplishment of this good work; this wish, attributed to the philanthropic modesty of jacques ferrand, was scrupulously observed; the release of fleur-de-marie was demanded and obtained solely in the name of the client, who, as soon as it was received, sent it to jacques ferrand that he might address it to the protectors of the girl. mrs. seraphin, on giving this order to the directors of the prison, added that she was charged to conduct la goualeuse to her friends. from the excellent account given by the inspectress to madame d'harville, no one doubted that she owed her freedom to the intervention of the marchioness. thus the notary's housekeeper could in no way excite the suspicions of her victim. mrs. seraphin had, as occasion required, the air of a good soul; it required very close observation to remark something insidious, false and cruel in her crafty look, her hypocritical smile. in spite of her profound wickedness, which had made her the accomplice or confidante of her master's crimes, mrs. seraphin could not help being struck with the touching beauty of this girl, delivered by herself when quite a child to la chouette, whom she was then about to conduct to certain death. "well, my dear," said she, in honeyed tones, "you must be delighted to get out of prison." "oh! yes, ma'am; and, doubtless, i owe my deliverance to the protection of madame d'harville, who has been so kind to me?" "you are not mistaken. but come, we are rather late, and we have got a long road to travel." "we are going to bouqueval farm, to madame george, ma'am?" cried la goualeuse. "yes, certainly, we are going to the country--to madame george," said the housekeeper, to drive away every suspicion from the mind of fleur-de-marie; then she added, with malicious good nature, "but this is not all; before you see madame george, a little surprise awaits you. come, come, our hack is below. what delight you must feel at leaving this place, dear. come, let us go. your servant, sirs." and mrs. seraphin, after having exchanged salutations with the warders, descended with la goualeuse, followed by an officer to open the doors. the last one was closed on the two females, and they found themselves under the large porch which faces the rue du faubourg saint denis, when they met a girl who was coming, doubtless, to visit a prisoner. it was rigolette, ever neat and coquettish. a little plain cap, very clean, and trimmed with cherry-colored ribbons, which harmonized wonderfully with her jet-black hair, surrounded her pretty face; a very white collar was turned over her long brown tartan. she carried on her arm a straw basket, and, thanks to her neat and graceful manner of walking, her thick-soled boots were of marvelous cleanliness, although she came, alas, very far. "rigolette!" cried fleur-de-marie, at once recognizing her. "la goualeuse!" exclaimed the grisette in her turn. and the girls threw themselves into each other's arms. nothing could be more enchanting than the contrast between these young creatures of sixteen, tenderly embracing, both so charming, and yet so different in expression and beauty. the one fair, with large, blue, melancholy eyes, and a profile of angelic pureness; the other a lively brunette, with round and rosy cheeks, pretty black eyes, a charming picture of youth and gayety, a rare and touching example of happiness in indigence, of virtue in destitution, and of joy in industry. when fleur-de-marie, dragged up, rather than brought up, had run away from a hag known as old one-eye, she had been arrested and committed to prison for eight years. taught sewing there, she had saved up some three hundred francs. ignorant, childishly fond of flowers and the open air of the country, she had made rigolette's acquaintance, with hardly a deeper object than to have a companion in her jaunts. her money spent, fleur-de-marie had fallen in with the ogress, the keeper of the lapin blanc tavern, who had kept her for the sinful purposes which had blemished all her life. after an exchange of their mutual caresses, the girls looked at each other. rigolette was joyful at the encounter, fleur-de-marie confused. the sight of her friend recalled to her mind the few days of calm enjoyment which had preceded her first degradation. "it is you--what happiness!" said the grisette. "goodness me! what a delightful surprise, it is so long since we have seen one another," answered la goualeuse. "oh! now i am no longer astonished at not having met you for six months," remarked rigolette, observing the rustic clothes of la goualeuse; "you live in the country?" "yes, since some time," said fleur-de-marie, casting down her eyes. "and you come, like me, to see some one in prison?" "yes--i came--i came to see some one," answered fleur-de-marie, stammering and blushing with shame. "and you are returning home, far from paris, without doubt. dear little goualeuse, always good, i recognize you there. do you remember the poor woman to whom you gave your mattress, linen, and the small amount of money you had, which we were about to spend in the country? for then you were crazy after the country, you little village girl!" "and you did not like it much, rigolette. how kind you were, for it was on my account you went." "and for mine also; for you, who were always a little serious, became so contented, gay, and lively, once in the midst of the fields or woods; if it were only to see you there, it was pleasure to me. but let me look at you again! how this little round cap becomes you! how pretty you look. decidedly, it was your vocation to wear a peasant's cap, as it was mine to wear the grisette's. now you are according to your wishes, you must be happy, it does not surprise me. when i did not see you any more, i said to myself, 'good little goualeuse is not made for paris; she is a real flower of the forest, as the song says, and these flowers cannot live in the capital; the air is not good enough for them. la goualeuse has got a place with some good people in the country.' this is what you have done, is it not?" "yes," said fleur-de-marie, blushing. "only i have a reproach to make you." "to me?" "you should have advised me; one does not leave in this way, at least, without sending some word." "i--i left paris so quick," said fleur-de-marie, more and more confused, "that i could not." "oh! i did not wish it; i am too happy to see you again. in truth, you did right to leave paris, it is so difficult to live here quietly, without reckoning that a poor girl, isolated as we are, might turn to evil without wishing it. when one has nobody to advise with, one has so few means of defense; the men make such fine promises; and then, sometimes poverty is so hard. do you remember little julie, who was so pretty? and rosine, the blonde with black eyes?" "yes, i recollect them." "well! my poor goualeuse, they have both been deceived, then abandoned, and, finally, from misfortune, to misfortune, they have fallen to be such wretched women as are shut up here." "oh!" cried fleur-de-marie, who held down her head and became purple with shame. rigolette, deceived in the sense of the exclamation of her friend, resumed: "don't be as sad as me, don't cry." "you have sorrows?" "i? oh, you know me, a regular roger bontemps. i am not changed, but, unfortunately, everybody is not like me; and as others have their troubles, that causes me to have some." "always kind!" "now just imagine, i came here for a poor girl--a neighbor--a very lamb, who is accused wrongfully, and much to be pitied; she is louise morel, daughter of an honest workman who has become crazy from his misfortunes." at the name of louise morel, one of the victims of the notary, mrs. seraphin shuddered and looked at rigolette attentively. the face of the grisette was absolutely unknown to her; nevertheless, from that moment she paid great attention to the conversation. "poor thing," replied the songstress, "how happy she must be at your not forgetting her in her trouble." "this is not all--it is a fatality, just as you met me, i came a great distance--and from another prison--a prison for men." "you?" "oh! yes, i have there another very sad friend. you see my basket" (and she showed it) "is divided in two; each one has a side; to-day i bring louise a little linen, and just now i carried something to poor germain; my prisoner is called germain. i cannot think of what has just passed between us without having a desire to weep; it is foolish--i know it is of no use, but indeed, it is my nature." "and why do you feel like weeping?" "only think, germain is so unfortunate as to be associated with all the prison rogues; it quite overcomes him; he has a taste for nothing, eats nothing, and is growing thinner every day. i saw that, and i said to myself, 'he is not hungry; i will make him a nice little dainty bit, which he liked so much when he was my neighbor; that will give him an appetite.' when i say a dainty bit, just understand me, it was just some nice potatoes, mashed up with a little milk and sugar; i filled a pretty cup with it, and just now i took it to him in prison, telling him that i had prepared this myself, just as i used to do in our happy days--you understand; i thought, perhaps, i could thus induce him to eat, but it caused him to weep; when he saw the cup in which i had so often taken my milk before him, he burst into tears; and, more than the bargain, i finished by doing as he did, although i tried all i could to prevent it; you see my luck. i thought i was doing good--consoling him, and i made him more sad than before." "yes, but those tears must have been so sweet to him?" "all the same, i should have preferred to console him differently; but i speak of him without telling you who he is; he was an old neighbor of mine, the most honest lad in the world, as gentle and timid as a young girl, and whom i loved as a companion, as a brother." "oh! then i can imagine how his sorrows are yours." "but you will see what a good heart he has. when i left him, i asked him, as i always do, for his commissions, saying to him with a laugh, just to raise his spirits a little, that i was his little housekeeper, and that i should be very exact, very active, to keep his custom. then he, trying to smile, asked me to bring him one of the romances of walter scott, which he used to read to me in the evenings when i worked. this romance is called 'ivan--ivanhoe:' yes, that is the name. i liked this book so much, that he read it to me twice. he begged me to go to the same library, not to hire, but to buy the volumes we used to read together--yes, to buy them--and you may judge it is a sacrifice for him, for he is as poor as we are." "excellent heart!" said goualeuse, quite affected. "there! you are as much moved as i was, when he gave me this commission, my good little goualeuse; but you comprehend, the more i felt a desire to weep, the more i tried to laugh; for to weep twice in a visit made expressly to enliven him was too much. so to drive this gloom away, i recalled to his mind the comic story of a jew, one of the characters of this romance, which formerly had so much amused us. but the more i talked, the more he looked at me with the big, big tears in his eyes. it touched my heart. i had restrained my tears for a quarter of an hour; i ended by doing as he did. when i left him he was sobbing; and i said to myself, furious at my stupidity, 'if this is the way i cheer and console him, it is hardly worth while to go and see him; i, who promised myself to make him laugh! it is astonishing how i have succeeded!'" at the name of francois germain, mrs. seraphin redoubled her attention. "and what has this young man done to be in prison?" asked fleur-de-marie. "he!" cried rigolette, whose compassion gave place to indignation; "he is persecuted by an old monster of a notary, who is also the denouncer of louise." "of louise, whom you came here to see?" "the same. she was the servant of the notary, and germain was his cashier. it would be too long a story to tell you of what they unjustly accuse this poor boy. but what is quite sure is, that this bad man is very angry with these two unfortunates, who have never injured him. but patience--patience; every dog has his day." rigolette pronounced these last words with an expression which made mrs. seraphin uneasy. engaging in the conversation, instead of remaining quiet, she said to fleur-de-marie in a wheedling manner, "my dear child, it is late; we must go; we are waited for. i can well comprehend that what your friend says interests you, for i, who do not know this young girl and this young man, am much affected. is it possible people can be so wicked! and what is the name of this bad notary of whom you speak, please?" rigolette had no reason to be suspicious of mrs. seraphin; nevertheless, remembering the recommendations of rudolph, who had enjoined on her the greatest reserve on the subject of the secret protection which he extended to germain and louise, she regretted she had suffered herself to say, "patience--every dog has his day." "this bad man is one m. ferrand, madame," answered rigolette; adding very adroitly, to repair her slight indiscretion, "and it is so much the more wicked in him to persecute louise and germain thus, as they have no one to interest themselves in their behalf except me, who can be of no use to them." "what a pity!" said mrs. seraphin. "i had hoped the contrary when you said 'but patience.' i thought that you reckoned on some protector to sustain these two unfortunates against this wicked notary." "alas! no, madame," answered rigolette, in order to completely lull the suspicions of mrs. seraphin. "who would be generous enough to take the part of these two poor young folks against a rich and powerful man like m. ferrand?" "oh, there are hearts generous enough for that!" cried fleur-de-marie, after a moment's reflection, and with constrained warmth. "i know some one who makes it a duty to protect those who suffer, and defend them, for he of whom i speak is as charitable to honest people, as he is formidable to the wicked." rigolette looked at goualeuse with astonishment, and was on the point of saying (thinking of rudolph) that she also knew some one who courageously took the part of the weak against the strong; but, still faithful to the requests of her neighbor, she answered fleur-de-marie, "really! you do know some one generous enough to come to the aid of the poor?" "yes. and although i have already implored his pity, his benevolence for other persons, i am sure if he knew the unmerited misfortunes of louise and m. germain, he would save them and punish their persecutor; for his justice and goodness are almost as inexhaustible as god's." mrs. seraphin looked at her victim with surprise. "this little girl would be still more dangerous than we thought," said she to herself. "if i had taken pity on her, what she has just said would render the accident inevitable which will rid us of her." "my good little goualeuse, since you have such a good acquaintance, i beg you will recommend my louise and my germain to him, for they do not deserve their fate," said rigolette, thinking that her friends might gain by having two defenders instead of one. "be tranquil; i promise you to do what i can for your _proteges_ with m. rudolph," said fleur-de-marie. "m. rudolph!" cried rigolette, strangely surprised. "certainly," said la goauleuse. "m. rudolph, a traveling clerk?" "i do not know what he is. but why this astonishment?" "because i know a m. rudolph also." "perhaps it is not the same." "let us see; what does he look like?" "young?" "exactly!" "a face full of nobleness and goodness?" "that's it; just like mine!" said rigolette, more and more surprised; and she added, "is he dark? has he small mustaches?" "yes." "is he tall and slender, fine figure, and an air too stylish for a traveling clerk? does yours look just so?" "without a doubt it is he," answered fleur-de-marie; "only, what is strange is, that you think him a traveling clerk." "as to that, i am sure of it; he told me so." "you know him?" "i know him. he is my neighbor!" "m. rudolph?" "he has a chamber on the fourth floor, alongside of mine." "he! he!" "what is so astonishing in all this? it is very simple: he only earns fifteen or eighteen hundred francs a year; he can only hire a modest room, although he has very little regularity about him, for he does not know what his clothes cost him, my dear." "no, no; it is not the same," said fleur-de-marie, reflecting. "yours, then, is a phoenix for order?" "he of whom i speak, rigolette," said fleur-de-marie, with enthusiasm, "is all-powerful; his name is only pronounced with love and veneration, his appearance is imposing, and one is almost tempted to kneel before his grandeur and his goodness." "then i am at fault, my poor goualeuse; i say as you do, it is not the same; for mine is neither all-powerful nor imposing. he is a very good sort, very lively, and no one kneels before him--just the contrary; for he has promised to help me wax my floor, and take me a walk on sunday. you see he is no great lord. but what am i thinking about? i have truly the heart for a walk! and louise and my poor germain, as long as they are in prison, there can be no pleasure for me." for some moments, fleur-de-marie reflected profoundly; she recalled to her mind that when she first saw rudolph he had the appearance and language of the guests of the ogress, her keeper. might he not play the part of a traveling clerk with rigolette? what could be the object of this new transformation? the grisette, seeing the pensive air of fleur-de-marie, said: "there is no use of cracking your head on this account, my good goualeuse, we shall soon find out if we know the same m. rudolph; when you see yours, speak to him of me; when i see mine, i will speak to him of you. in this way we can satisfy ourselves at once." "and where do you live, rigolette?" "rue du temple, no. ." "now this is strange, and worth remembering," said madame seraphin to herself, having attentively listened to this conversation. "this m. rudolph, a mysterious and all-powerful personage, who doubtless makes himself pass for a clerk, occupies a room adjoining that of this little sewing-girl, who knows more than she chooses to say. good, good; if the grisette and the pretended clerk meddle with what does not concern them, we know where to find them." "when i have spoken to m. rudolph i will write you,'" said la goualeuse; "and i will give you my address, so that you can answer: but repeat your address, for fear i should forget it." "here, i have one of my cards that i leave at my customers';" and she gave fleur-de-marie a little card, on which was written, in magnificent italics, "mademoiselle rigolette, dressmaker, , rue du temple." "it is just as if it were printed, is it not?" added the grisette. "it was poor germain who wrote them for me--he was so kind, so thoughtful. now, look you, it seems as if it were done purposely; one would say i never found out his good qualities until he was unfortunate, and now i am always reproaching myself for having put off so long loving him." "you love him, then?" "oh, dear, yes. i must have a pretext to go and see him in prison. confess that i am a strange girl!" said rigolette, stifling a sigh, and laughing through her tears, as the poets say. "you are as good and generous as ever," said fleur-de-marie, pressing tenderly the hands of her friend. old seraphin had doubtless heard enough of the conversation of the young girl, for she said, almost roughly, to fleur-de-marie, "come, come, my dear, let us go; it is late; here is a quarter of an hour lost." "what a surly look this old woman has! i don't like her face," whispered rigolette to fleur-de-marie. then she added, aloud, "when you come to paris, my good goualeuse, do not forget me; your visit will give me so much pleasure. i shall be so happy to pass a day with you, to show you my housekeeping, my room, my birds! i have birds--it is my luxury." "i will try to come and see you, but i will certainly write. good-bye, rigolette, good-bye. if you knew how happy i am to have met you!" "and i too! but this shall not be the last time, i hope; and then i am so impatient to know if your m. rudolph is the same as mine. write me soon on this subject, i entreat you!" "yes, yes. adieu, rigolette." "adieu, my good little goualeuse;" and the two girls embraced each other tenderly, concealing their emotion. rigolette entered the prison to see louise, and fleur-de-marie got into a hackney-coach with old seraphin, who ordered the coachman to go to batignolles, and to stop at the city gate. a cross-road led from this place almost in a straight line to the banks of the seine, not far from the ravageurs' island. fleur-de-marie, being unacquainted with paris, did not perceive that the carriage was driven on a different road from that to saint denis. it was only when the vehicle stopped at batignolles that she said to mrs. seraphin, who invited her to get out-- "but it seems to me, madame, that this is not the road to bouqueval; and then, how can we go from hence to the farm on foot?" '"all i can say to you, my dear," answered the housekeeper, "is, that i execute the orders of your benefactors, and that you would cause them much trouble if you hesitate to follow me." "oh! madame, do not think it," cried fleur-de-marie; "you are sent by them--i have no question to ask--i follow you blindly; only tell me if madame george is well!" "she is perfectly so." "and--m. rudolph?" "perfectly well also." "you know him, then, ma'am? yet just now, when i spoke of him with rigolette, you said nothing." "because i must say nothing--i have my orders." "did he give them to you?" "isn't she curious, the dear; isn't she curious?" said the housekeeper, laughing. "you are right; pardon my questions, ma'am. since we go on foot to the place to which you conduct me," added fleur-de-marie, sweetly, "i shall know what i so much desire to know." "in fact, my dear, before a quarter of an hour we shall have arrived." the housekeeper, having left behind her the last houses of batignolles followed, with fleur-de-marie, a grassy footpath. the day was calm and beautiful, the sky toward the west half concealed by red and purple clouds; the sun, beginning to decline, cast his oblique rays on the heights of colombe, on the other side of the seine. as fleur-de-marie drew near the banks of the river, her pale cheeks became slightly colored; she inhaled with delight the sharp, pure air of the country, and cried, in a burst of artless joy, "oh! there in the middle of the river, do you see that pretty little island covered with willows and poplars, with the white house on the shore? how charming this habitation must be in summer, when all the trees are covered with leaves! what repose, what refreshing air must be found there." "verily!" said mrs. seraphin with a strange smile, "i am delighted that you find the island pretty." "why, madame?" "because we are going there." "to that island?" "yes; does it surprise you?" "a little, ma'am." "and if you should find your friends there?" "what do you say?" "your friends collected there, to celebrate your deliverance from prison! would you not be more agreeably surprised?" "can it be possible: m. rudolph? ah! is it true i go to see madame george? i cannot believe it." "yet a little patience--in fifteen minutes you will see her, and then you will believe." "what i cannot comprehend," added fleur-de-marie, thoughtfully, "is that madame george awaits me there, instead of at the farm." "always so curious, the dear--always so curious!" "how indiscreet i am, ma'am!" said fleur-de-marie, smiling. "to punish you, i have a mind to tell you of a surprise that your friends intend for you." "a surprise? for me, madame?" "hold, leave me alone, little spy--you will make me speak in spite of myself." we will leave mrs. seraphin and her victim on the road which led to the river. we will precede them both for some moments to the island. chapter xxxiii. on the boat. at night, the appearance of the island inhabited by the martial family was gloomy, but in the brilliant sunlight nothing could be more charming and cheerful than the cursed dwelling-place. bordered by willows and poplars and almost entirely covered with thick grass, intersected with winding paths of yellow gravel, the island contained a small vegetable garden and a number of fruit trees. in this orchard was situated the thatched roof dwelling where martial had wished to retire, with francois and amandine. from this place the island terminated at its point by a breakwater, formed of large piles, to prevent the washing away of the earth. before the house was an arbor of green trellis work, reaching quite to the landing-place, destined to support during the summer the hop-vine and honeysuckle under whose shade were arranged the seats and tables of the guests. at one of the extremities of the main building, painted white and covered with tiles, a woodhouse, surmounted by a granary, formed a wing, much lower than the principal edifice. immediately over this wing was a window with shutters covered with plates of iron, and fastened exteriorly by two bars of the same material. three boats were lying at the landing-place, and at the bottom of one of them nicholas was trying how the trap worked which he had arranged. mounted on a bench outside of the arbor, calabash, with her eyes shaded with her hand, was looking in the direction where she expected seraphin and fleur-de-marie to appear. "no one yet, neither old nor young," said calabash, descending from her bench, and addressing nicholas; "it will be as yesterday! like poor fellows waiting for their ship to come in! if these women don't come before a half hour, we must go: the affair of bras-rouge is better worth our while; he is waiting for us. the broker is to be at his house in the champs elysees at five-o'clock--we must be there before him. this very morning la chouette repeated it to us." "you are right," answered nicholas, leaving his boat. "may the thunder crush this old woman, who physics us for no purpose! the trap works like a charm--of the two jobs perhaps we shall have neither." "besides, bras-rouge and barbillon have need of us--of themselves they can do nothing." "it is true; for while one does the business, red-arm must remain outside his tavern to watch, and barbillon is not strong enough to drag the broker into the cellar alone; this old woman will kick." "did not la chouette tell us, laughingly, that she kept the maitre d'ecole as a boarder in this cellar?" "not in this one; in another which is much deeper, and inundated when the river is high." "mustn't he vegetate there, in that cellar! to be there all alone and blind as he is, after the accident to him!" "he will see clear there, if he sees nowhere else: the cellar is as dark as a furnace." "all the same; when he has sung all the songs he knows to amuse himself, the time must appear devilishly long to him." "la chouette says that he amuses himself in hunting rats, and that this cellar is very full of game." "i say, nicholas, speaking of individuals who must be rather wearied, fatigued," said calabash with a ferocious smile, pointing with her finger to the window just described, "there is one there who must be sucking his own blood." "bah! he is asleep. since this morning he has made no noise; and his dog is silent." "perhaps he has strangled it for food; these two days past they must have been almost mad with hunger up there." "it is their business. martial may endure all this as long as he pleases, if it amuses him; when he has finished, we will say that he died from a severe illness; there will be no difficulty." "you think so?" "most surely. on going this morning to asnieres, mother met ferot, the fisherman; as he expressed his surprise at not having seen his friend martial for two days, she told him that martial did not leave his bed, he was so ill, and his life was despaired of. he swallowed all that just like honey; he will tell it to others--and when the affair happens it will seem all natural." "yes, but he will not die at once; it takes a long time in this way." "there is no other way to manage it. this madman, martial, when he has a mind, is as wicked as the devil, and as strong as a bull in the bargain; had he suspected us, we could not have approached him without danger; while with his door once well nailed up on the outside, what can he do? his window was already ironed." "he could loosen the bars by breaking away the plaster with his knife, which he would have done, if, mounted on a ladder, i had not mangled his hands with the hatchet every time he commenced his work!" "what a duty!" said the other, chuckling; "how much you must have been amused!" "i had to give you time to arrive with the iron plate and bars which you went to micou's for." "how he must have foamed. dear brother!" "he ground his teeth like a madman; two or three times he tried to push me off with blows from his club, but then, having but one hand free, he could not work at the grating." "fortunately, there is no fireplace in the room!" "yes, and the door is strong and his hands wounded! but for this he would be capable of making a hole through the plank." "no, no, there is no danger that he can escape. his bier is more solid than if it were made of oak and lead." "i say--when la louve gets out of prison, and comes here to seek her man, as she calls him?" "well! we will tell her to look for him." "apropos, do you know that if mother had not shut up these scamps of children, they would have been capable of gnawing the door like rats, to deliver martial! that little scoundrel, francois, is a real devil since he suspects that we have shut up our big brother." "but are you going to leave them in the room upstairs while we are away from the island? their window is not grated--they have only to descend from the outside." at this moment cries and sobs in the house attracted the attention of nicholas and calabash. they saw the opened door of the ground-floor shut violently: a moment after the pale and sinister face of the widow appeared at the kitchen-window. with her long, bony arm she beckoned her children to come to the house. "come, there is a squabble! i bet it is francois who kicks," said nicholas. "scoundrel of a martial! except for him the boy would have been all alone. watch well, and if you see the two females coming, call me." while calabash, mounted on the bench, awaited their approach, nicholas entered the house. little amandine, kneeling in the middle of the kitchen, wept, and asked pardon for her brother francois. he, irritated and threatening, stood in one of the corners of the room, brandishing a hatchet. he seemed this time to make a desperate resistance to the wishes of his mother. as usual, quiet and calm, she pointed to the half-open door leading to the cellar, and made a sign to her son that she wished francois shut up there. "i will not go there!" cried the determined child, whose eyes sparkled like those of a wild cat; "you wish to let us die with hunger, like brother martial." "mamma, for the love of god, leave us upstairs in our own room, as you did yesterday," asked the little girl in a supplicating tone, clasping her hands; "in the dark cellar we shall be so much afraid!" the widow looked at nicholas in an impatient manner, as if to reproach him for not having executed her orders, and she again pointed to francois. seeing his brother approach, the young boy brandished his hatchet in a desperate manner, and cried, "if you want to shut me up there, whether it is brother, mother, or calabash--i strike, and the hatchet cuts!" both nicholas and the widow felt the necessity of preventing the two children from going to the assistance of martial during their absence, and also to conceal from them what was about to take place on the river. but nicholas, as cowardly as he was ferocious, and not caring to receive a blow from the dangerous hatchet with which his brother was armed, hesitated to approach him. the widow, vexed at the hesitation of her eldest son, pushed him roughly by the shoulder toward francois. but nicholas, again drawing back, cried, "if he wounds me, what shall i do, mother? you know well enough i am about to need the use of both my arms, and i still feel the blow that martial has given me." the widow shrugged her shoulders with contempt, and made a step toward francois. "do not come near me, mother!" cried the enraged boy, "or you shall be paid for all the blows you have given me and amandine." "brother, rather let yourself be locked up. oh! do not strike our mother!" cried amandine, terrified. at this moment nicholas saw on a chair a large woolen coverlet, which was used for the ironing-table; he seized it, and adroitly threw it over the head of francois, who, in spite of all his efforts, finding himself entangled in its thick folds, could make no use of his arms. then nicholas threw himself upon him, and, with the aid of his mother, carried him into the cellar. amandine had remained kneeling in the middle of the kitchen. as soon as she saw the fate of her brother, she arose quickly, and, notwithstanding her alarm, went of her own accord to join him in his gloomy prison. the door was double-locked on the brother and sister. "it is the fault of martial, if these children are like unchained devils against us," cried nicholas. "nothing has been heard in his chamber since this morning," said the widow, in a thoughtful manner, and she shuddered; "nothing." "that proves, mother, that you did well to say to ferot, the fisherman of asnieres, that martial was sick in bed, and like to die. in this way, when all is over, no one will be astonished." after a moment's pause, as if she wished to escape a horrible thought, the widow said, roughly, "did la chouette come here while i was at asnieres?" "yes, mother." "why did she not remain and go with us to bras-rouge? i am suspicious of her." "bah! you suspect everybody, mother: to-day it is la chouette; yesterday it was bras-rouge." "bras-rouge is at liberty; my son is at toulon; they both committed the same robbery." "you always repeat that old story. bras-rouge escaped because he is as cunning as a steel trap, that's all. la chouette did not remain here, because she had an appointment at two o'clock, near the observatory, with the tall man in black, on whose account she carried off this girl from the country, with the assistance of the maitre d'ecole and tortillard; and it was even barbillon who drove the hack which this tall man in black hired for the occasion. come, now, mother, why should la chouette inform against us, since she tells us what jobs she has in hand, and we do not tell her ours? for she knows nothing of our proposed drowning scrape. be tranquil, mother--dog don't eat dog. the day's work will be a good one. when i think that the broker has often twenty or thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds in her bag, and that in two hours' time we shall have her in red arm's cellar. thirty thousand francs in diamonds! only think of it." "and while we hold the broker, bras-rouge remains outside?" said the widow, with an air of suspicion. "and where should he be? if any one should come in, must he not answer, and prevent them approaching the place where we are doing our job?" "nicholas, nicholas!" cried calabash, from without, "here are the two women." "quick, quick, mother! your shawl! i will row you over--it will be so much done," said nicholas. the widow had replaced her morning-cap with one of black tulle. she wrapped herself in a large shawl of white and gray tartan, locked the kitchen door, placed the key behind one of the shutters, and followed her son to the landing-place. almost in spite of herself, before she left the island, she cast a long, lingering look at martial's window, knit her brows, bit her lips, then, after a sudden fit of shivering, she murmured to herself, "it is his fault--his own fault." "nicholas! do you see them? there, just by that rising ground," cried calabash, pointing to the other side of the river, where mrs. seraphin and fleur-de-marie appeared, descending a small path leading to the shore, near a small elevation, on which was placed a plaster-kiln. "let us wait for the signal, and have no bungling," said nicholas. "are you blind? don't you recognize the fat woman who came here the day before yesterday? look at her orange shawl, and see what a hurry the little peasant girl is in! poor little puss--it is plain to see she don't know what is coming." "yes, i see the fat woman now. come, it looks like work." "the old woman is making a sign with her handkerchief," said calabash: "there they are on the shore." "come, come, step on board, mother," cried nicholas, unfastening the boat: "come in the boat with the hole, so that the women will not suspect anything. and you, calabash, jump into the other one, my girl-- row strong. oh! hold, take my hook, put it alongside of you--it is pointed like a lance--it may be of use--now, push ahead!" said the bandit, placing in the boat a long boathook, one end of which terminated with a sharp spike of iron. in a few moments the two boats touched the shore, where mrs. seraphin and fleur-de-marie had been waiting impatiently. while nicholas was tying his boat to a post, mrs. seraphin approached him, and whispered, hurriedly, "say that madame george awaits us;" then she said in a loud tone, "we are a little behindhand, my lad." "yes, my good lady; madame george has asked for you several times." "you see, my dear, madame george is waiting for us," said mrs. seraphin, turning toward fleur-de-marie, who, notwithstanding her confidence, had felt her heart beat at the appearance of the sinister faces of the widow, calabash and nicholas. but the name of madame george reassured her, and she answered, "i am also very impatient to see her; happily, the passage is short." "won't the dear lady be happy!" said mrs. seraphin. then, turning toward nicholas, she added: "come, bring your boat a little nearer, that we can embark;" and, in a low tone, she whispered, "the little one must be drowned; if she comes up, put her under again." "it is settled; don't you be afraid; when i make a sign, give me your hand. she will sink all alone--all is prepared--you have nothing to fear," answered nicholas, in a low tone. then, with savage imperturbability, without being touched either with the beauty or youth of fleur-de-marie, he offered her his arm. the girl leaned lightly on him, and entered the boat. "now your turn, my good lady," said nicholas to mrs. seraphin. and he offered to assist her. whether it was a presentiment, suspicion, or only a fear that she could not jump quick enough from the boat where la goualeuse and nicholas were seated when it should sink, the housekeeper of jacques ferrand said to nicholas, drawing back, "on second thoughts, i will go in the boat of mademoiselle." and she took a seat alongside of calabash. "very good," said nicholas, exchanging a glance with his sister; and, with the end of his oar, he shoved off his boat, his sister doing the same as soon as mrs. seraphin had taken her seat. standing on the shore, erect, immovable, indifferent to this scene, the widow, pensive and absorbed, kept her eyes fixed on martial's window, which could be distinguished, through the poplar trees, from the shore. during this time the two boats moved slowly off toward the opposite side. chapter xxxiv. does not a meeting like this make amends? before we acquaint the reader with the continuation of the drama which passed on the boats, we will go back a little. a few moments after fleur-de-marie had left saint lazare with mrs. seraphin, la louve had also quitted the prison. thanks to the recommendation of madame armand and of the director, who wished to recompense her for her good action toward mont saint jean, she had been also pardoned and dismissed. a complete change had taken place in this creature, heretofore so headstrong, vile, and corrupted. keeping constantly in mind the description made by fleur-de-marie of a peaceful and solitary life, la louve held in disgust her past crimes. confiding in the aid which fleur-de-marie had promised her in the name of her unknown benefactor, la louve determined to make this laudable proposition to her lover, not without the bitter fear of a refusal, for the goualeuse, in leading her to blush for the past, had also given her a consciousness of her position toward martial. once free, la louve only thought of seeing him. she had received no news from him for many days. in the hope of meeting him on ravageurs' island, she decided to wait there if she did not find him; she got into a cab, and was rapidly driven to the bridge of asnieres, which she crossed about fifteen minutes before mrs. seraphin and fleur-de-marie, coming on foot, had arrived on the shore near the plaster-kiln. as martial did not come to take la louve in his boat to the island, she applied to the old fisherman named ferot, who lived near the bridge. at four o'clock in the afternoon, a cab stopped at the entrance of a little street of asnieres village. la louve gave five francs to the coachman. jumped to the ground, and ran hastily to the abode of ferot. having thrown off her prison dress, she wore a robe of dark green merino, a red shawl, imitation cashmere, and a lace cap trimmed with ribbons: her thick crispy hair was scarcely smoothed. in her impatience to see martial, she had dressed herself with more haste than care. on reaching the house of the fisherman, she found him seated at the door mending his nets. as soon as she saw him, she cried out, "your boat, ferot--quick, quick." "ah! is it you? good-day, good-day. you have not been here for a long time." "yes, but your boat--quick--to the island." "ah, well! fate will have it so; my good girl, it is impossible to-day." "how?" "my boy has taken my boat to go with the others to a rowing match at saint ouen. there is not a single boat left on the whole shore from this to the docks." "zounds!" cried la louve, stamping and clinching her fists; "it happens so expressly for me!" "it's true, on my word. i am very sorry i cannot convey you to the island, for, without doubt, he must be worse." "worse! who?" "martial." "martial?" cried la louve, seizing ferot by the collar; "is martial sick?" "did you not know it?" "martial?" "yes, certainly; but you will tear my blouse; do be quiet." "he is sick. since when?" "two or three days ago." "it is false; he would have written to me." "ah, well, yes! he is too sick to write." "too sick to write! and he is on the island; you are sure of that?" "don't get me into a scrape; this is the story: this morning i said to the widow, 'for two days past i have not seen martial, his boat is there. is he in the city?' thereupon the widow looked at me with her wicked eyes: 'he is sick on the island; and so sick that he will never come off again.' i said to myself, 'how can that be? three days ago--' well," said ferot, interrupting himself, "where are you going to-- where the devil is she running to now?" believing the life of martial menaced by the inhabitants of the island, la louve, overcome with alarm, and transported with rage, listened no longer to the fisherman, but ran along the seine. some topographical details are indispensable to understand the following scene. the island approached nearer the left side of the river than the right shore, from whence fleur-de-marie and mrs. seraphin had embarked. la louve was on the left side. without being very steep, the hills on the island concealed, all its length, the view of one shore from the other. thus, la louve had not seen the embarkation of la goualeusea, and the martial family, of course, could not see her as she ran along the shore on the opposite side. we recall to the reader that the country-house belonging to doctor griffon, where the count de saint remy temporarily dwelt, was built on the hillside, near the shore where la louve was wandering, half-distracted. she passed, without seeing them, near two persons, who, struck with her haggard look, turned to follow her at a distance. these two persons were the count de saint remy and doctor griffon. the first impulse of la louve, on learning the peril of her lover, had been to run impetuously toward the place where she knew he was in danger. but as she approached the island, she thought of the difficulty of getting there. as the old fisherman had told her, she could not count on any strange boat, and no one from the martial family would come for her. breathless, her face flushed, her eyes sparkling, she stopped opposite a point of the island which, forming a curve at this place, was nearest to the mainland. through the leafless branches of the willows and poplars, la louve could see the roof of the house, where, perhaps, martial was dying. at this sight, uttering a fearful groan, she tore off her shawl and cap, and slipping down her robe, keeping on her petticoat, she threw herself into the river, and waded until she lost her footing, when she began to swim vigorously toward the island. it was the climax of savage energy. at each stroke, the thick and long hair of la louve, untied by the violence of her movements, shook about her head like a shaggy mane of copper color. suddenly, from the other side of the island, resounded a cry of distress, of terrible, desperate agony. la louve shuddered, and stopped short. then, treading water, with one hand she pushed back her thick hair, and listened. a new cry was heard, but more feeble, more supplicating, convulsive, expiring and all relapsed into a profound silence. "my martial!" cried la louve, swimming again with all her strength. she thought she had recognized the voice of martial. the count and doctor had not been able to follow la louve quick enough to prevent what she accomplished. they arrived opposite to the island at the moment that the two fearful screams were heard, and stopped, as much alarmed as la louve. seeing her struggle intrepidly against the current, they cried, "the poor thing will be drowned!" these fears were vain; she swam like an otter; still a few more strokes, and she reached the land. she was getting out of the water by the assistance of the poles, which, as we have said, formed a breakwater at the end of the island, when she perceived the body of a young girl, dressed as a peasant, sustained by her clothes, floating down the current. to grasp with one hand the poles, and with the other to seize hold of the girl by her dress, such was the movement of la louve, as rapid as thought. then she drew her so violently toward her and within the stakes, that, for a moment, she disappeared under the water, which was of no great depth at this place. endued with no common strength and address, la louve raised up la goualeuse (for it was she), whom she had not yet recognized, took her up in her robust arms, as one would have taken a child, made some steps in the water, and, finally, laid her on the green bank of the island. "courage, courage!" cried m. de saint remy to her, as a witness, as well as dr. griffon, of this bold act. "we are going to cross the bridge, and will come to your aid in a boat." la louve did not hear these words. let us repeat, that from the right shore of the seine, where nicholas, calabash, and their mother remained after the consummation of their horrible crime, nothing could be seen of the other side, owing to the height of the island. fleur-de-marie, suddenly drawn within the row of piles by la louve, having plunged for a moment, and not reappearing to the sight of her murderers, they believed their victim drowned and ingulfed. some few moments afterward, the current brought down another body, in an eddy, which la louve did not perceive. it was the corpse of the notary's housekeeper. dead--quite dead--this one. nicholas and calabash had as much interest as jacques ferrand to get rid of this witness, the accomplice of their new crime; so when the boat with the hole sunk with fleur-de-marie, nicholas, springing into the boat of his sister, nearly upset it, and seizing a favorable moment, threw the housekeeper into the river, and dispatched her with the boat-hook. out of breath and exhausted, la louve, kneeling on the ground alongside of fleur-de-marie, recruited her strength, and examined the features of her whom she had rescued from death. let her surprise be imagined when she recognized her companion of the prison, who had exercised upon her destiny an influence so rapid, so ameliorating. in her surprise, for a moment she forgot martial. "la goualeuse!" cried she. with bended body, leaning on her hands and knees, her hair disheveled, her clothes dripping with water, she contemplated the unhappy child, extended, almost expiring on the ground. pale, inanimate, her eyes half open and without expression, her beautiful flaxen hair falling flat over her forehead, her blue lips, her small hands, already stiff and icy--one would have thought her dead. "la goualeuse!" repeated la louve, "what chance! i who came to tell my martial the good and evil she had done me with her words and promises; the resolution that i had taken. poor little thing! i find her here dead. but, no, no," cried la louve, approaching still nearer to fleur-de-marie, and feeling an almost imperceptible breath escape from her mouth; "no! she breathes still! i have saved her from death! that has never happened to me before, to save any one. ah! that does me good; it makes me warm. yes, but my martial i must save also. perhaps, at this moment, he is expiring; his mother and brother are capable of killing him. yet i cannot leave this poor little thing here. i will carry her to the widow's; she must take care of her, and show me martial, or i will break everything--i will kill everybody! oh! neither mother, brother, nor sister do i care for, when i know my martial is there!" and immediately getting up, la louve carried fleur-de-marie in her arms. with this light burden she ran toward the house, not doubting but that the widow and her daughter, notwithstanding their wickedness, would lend their assistance to fleur-de-marie. when she reached the highest part of the island, whence could be seen both shores of the seine, nicholas, his mother, and calabash, were far off, going in all haste to bras-rouge's tavern. at this moment also, a man, who, concealed in the plaster-kiln, had invisibly assisted at this horrible tragedy, disappeared, believing, with the murderers, that the crime was executed. this man was jacques ferrand. one of nicholas's boats was tied to a pile near the place where la goualeuse and old seraphin had embarked. hardly had jacques ferrand left the plaster-kiln to return to paris, than m. de saint remy and dr. griffon hastily crossed the bridge of asnieres, running toward the island, thinking to reach it by nicholas's boat, which they had seen from afar. to her great surprise, on arriving at the house of the ravageurs, la louve found the door closed. placing the still inanimate body of fleur-de-marie under the arbor, she drew near the house. she knew the window of martial's chamber. what was her surprise, to see the shutters covered with iron plates, and fastened with bars of the same material! suspecting partly the truth, la louve uttered a hoarse, resounding cry and began to call with all her strength, "martial! my love!" no one answered. alarmed at this silence, la louve began to walk around the building like a savage beast who scents his mate, and seeks, with roaring, the entrance of the den where he is confined. from time to time she cried, "my man--are you there, my man?" in her rage she shook the bars of the kitchen window--she knocked against the wall--she kicked against the door. all at once a hollow sound answered from the interior of the house. la louve shuddered--listened. the noise ceased. "my man has heard me! i must enter, even if i have to gnaw the door with my teeth!" and again she uttered her savage cries. several blows, feebly struck on the inside of the window shutters of martial's room, answered to her shouts. "he is there!" cried she, stopping suddenly under her lover's window, "he is there! if needs must, i will tear off the iron shutters with my nails, but i will open them." so saying, she saw a large ladder placed behind one of the blinds of the lower rooms; in drawing this blind violently toward her, la louve caused the key to fall which the widow had concealed on the window bench. "if it unlocks," said la louve, trying the key in the lock, "i can go up to his chamber. it opens," cried she, with joy; "my friend is saved!" once in the kitchen, she was struck by the cries of the children, who shut up in the cellar and hearing an extraordinary noise, called for help. the widow, believing no one would come to the island or house during her absence, had contented herself with locking francois and amandine in the cellar, leaving the key in the lock. set at liberty by la louve, the brother and sister rushed precipitately from the cellar, crying, "oh, la louve, save brother martial! they wish to kill him; two days he has been walled up in his room." "they have not wounded him?" "no, no; we believe not." "i arrive in time!" cried la louve, rushing to the staircase: then suddenly stopping, she said, "and la goualeuse! whom i forgot. amandine, some fire at once; you and your brother, bring here, near the chimney-place, a poor girl who was drowning. i saved her. she is under the arbor. francois, a pair of pincers, a hatchet, an iron bar, so that i can break down the door of my martial!" "here is an ax to split wood, but it is too heavy for you," said the young boy. "too heavy!" sneered la louve, and she lifted with ease the iron mace, which, under any other circumstances, she could hardly have raised from the ground. then, mounting the stairs four at a time, she repeated to the children, "run and bring in the girl, and place her near the fire." in two bounds, la louve was at the bottom of the corridor, at martial's door. "courage, my friend--here is your louve!" cried she, and raising the ax with both hands, with a furious blow she shook the door. "it is nailed on the outside. draw out the nails," cried martial, in a feeble voice. throwing herself on her knees in the corridor, with the aid of the pincers and of her nails, which she tore, and her fingers, which she cut, la louve succeeded in drawing out the spikes which fastened the door. at length the door was opened. martial, pale, his hands covered with blood, fell almost lifeless into the arms of his darling. "at length i see you! i hold you! i have you!" cried la louve, receiving martial in her arms with joy and savage energy; then sustaining him, almost carrying him, she led him to a seat placed in the corridor. during some moments martial remained weak and feeble, endeavoring to recover from this violent shock, which had exhausted his failing strength. la louve saved her lover at the moment when, in a state of despair, he felt himself about to die, less from the want of food than from the deprivation of air, impossible to be renewed in a small room without a chimney, without any aperture, and hermetically closed through the atrocious foresight of calabash, who had stopped up with old linen even the smallest fissures of the door and window. palpitating with happiness and anguish, her eyes wet with tears, la louve, on her knees, watched the smallest movements of martial. by degrees he seemed to recover, as he breathed the pure and salubrious air. after a slight shudder, he raised his weary head, uttered a long sigh, and opened his eyes. "martial, it is i! your louve; how do you feel?" "better," answered he, in a feeble voice. "what will you have? water, vinegar?" "no, no," cried martial, less and less oppressed. "air! oh, some air! nothing but air!" la louve, at the risk of cutting her hand, broke the glass of a window which she could not open without moving a heavy table. "now i breathe! i breathe! my head is relieved," said martial, coming quite to himself. then, as if for the first time recalling to mind the services she had rendered him, he cried, in a tone of ineffable gratitude, "without you, i should have died, my good louve!" "well, well; how are you now?" "better and better." "are you hungry?" "no, i am too weak. i suffered most from want of air; finally, i suffocated! it was frightful!" "and now?" "i live again! i come out from the tomb; and i come out--thanks to you." "but your hands, your poor hands! these wounds? who did this?--curse them!" "nicholas and calabash, not daring to attack me openly a second time, shut me in my chamber, and left me to die with hunger. i tried to prevent them from nailing up my window--my sister cut my hands with the hatchet!" "the monsters! they wished to have it believed that you were dead from some sickness; your mother had already spread the report that you were in a dying state. your mother, my man, your mother!" "hold! do not speak to me of her," said martial, bitterly; then, for the first time, remarking the wet clothes and strange attire of la louve, he cried, "what has happened to you?--your hair is streaming with water. you are without your dress." "what matters it? you are saved--saved!" "but explain to me why you are wet." "i knew you were in danger--i could find no boat." "and you swam here?" "yes. but your hands; let me kiss them. you suffer--the monsters! and i was not here!" "oh! my brave louve," cried martial, with enthusiasm; "brave among all brave creatures." "did you not write here 'death to dastards'?" and la louve showed her arm, where these words were written in indelible characters. "intrepid! but you feel the cold, you tremble." "it is not the cold." "never mind. go in there; take calabash's cloak to wrap yourself in." "but--" "i wish it." in a second, la louve was enveloped in a plaid cloak, and returned. "for me, to run the risk of drowning!" repeated martial, looking at her with pride. "no risk! a poor girl was almost drowned. i saved her. on reaching the island--" "you saved her also--where is she?" "below with the children; they are taking care of her." "and who is this young girl?" "if you knew what a chance--what happy chance! she was one of my chums in saint lazare--a very extraordinary girl, you be sure!" "how is that?" "imagine that i loved her and hated her because--she at the same time planted both death and happiness in my heart." "she?" "yes; concerning you." "me?" "listen, martial." then, interrupting herself, she added, "no, no. i shall never dare." "what is it then?" "i wished to ask something of you. i came to see you on this account; for when i left paris i did not know that you were in danger." "well, speak." "i dare not." "you dare not--after what you have just done for me!" "exactly; it would seem as if i asked a recompense." "asked a recompense! and do i not owe you one? did you not take care of me, night and day, during my sickness last year?" "are you not my martial?" "then you should speak to me frankly, because i am your martial, and will be always." "always, martial?" "always! true as i am called martial. for me, there shall be no other woman in the world but you, la louve no matter what you have been-- that's my lookout. i love you--you love me; and i owe my life to you. but since you have been in prison, i am no longer the same; much has happened; i have reflected; and you shall no more be what you have been." "what do you mean to say?" "i never wish to leave you again. neither do i wish to leave francois and amandine." "your little brother and sister?" "yes; from this day i must be to them a father--you comprehend. this gives me duties to perform, and tames me. i am obliged to take charge of them. they wished to make finished thieves of them; to save them, i shall take them away." "where?" "i don't know; but certainly far from paris." "and me?" "you? i will take you also." "take me also?" cried la louve, in a joyous delirium. she could not believe in so much happiness. "i shall not leave you?" "no, my brave louve, never. you shall aid me to bring up these children. i know you. on saying to you, i wish that my poor little amandine should be a virtuous girl, i know what you will be for her; a good mother." "oh! thank you, martial, thank you!" "we will live as honest work-folks; be easy, we will find work; we will toil like negroes. at least, these children shall not be gallows' birds, like their father and mother. i shall not hear myself called any more the son and brother of a _guillotine_; in fine, i shall no more pass through the streets where i am known. but what is the matter?" "martial, i am afraid i shall become crazy." "crazy?" "crazy with joy!" "why?" "because this is too much." "what?" "what you ask me. oh! it is too much. saving the goualeuse, this has brought me this happiness; it must be so." "but once more, what is the matter?" "what you have just said. oh, martial, martial!" "well?" "i came to ask you!" "to leave paris?" "yes," answered she, quickly; "to go with you in the woods, where we would have a nice little house, children whom i should love; oh! how i should love them! how your louve would love the children of her martial; or, rather, if you wished it," said la louve, trembling, "i would call you my husband; for we shall not have the place unless you consent to this," she hastened to add, quickly. martial, in his turn, looked at la louve with astonishment, not in the least understanding her words. "of what place do you speak?" "a gamekeeper's." "that i shall have?--and who will give it to me?" "the protectors of the girl whom i have saved." "who is she, then?" i don't know; i can't understand anything; but in my life i have never seen, never heard anything like her; she is like a fairy to read what one has in the heart. when i told her how much i loved you, instantly, on that account, she became interested, not by using hard words (you know how i would have stood that), but by speaking to me of a very laborious, hard life, tranquilly passed with you according to your taste, in the midst of the forest; only, according to her idea, instead of being a poacher you were a gamekeeper, and i your wife; and then our children were to run to meet you when you returned at night from your rounds, with dogs, your gun on your shoulder; and then we should sup at the door of the cabin, in the cool of the evening, under the large trees; and then we would retire to rest so happy, so peaceful. what shall i say? in spite of myself i listened; it was like a charm. if you knew--she spoke so well, so well--that--all that she said, i thought i could see; i dreamed wide awake!" "oh! yes; it would be a happy life," said martial, sighing in his turn; "without being altogether black at heart, poor francois has associated too much with calabash and nicholas; so that the good air of the woods will be much better for him than the air of the city. amandine could help you in the house; i would be a good keeper, as i was a famous poacher. i should have you for a manager, my brave louve; and then, as you say, with children, what should we need? when once one is accustomed to the forest, one is quite at home; a hundred years would pass as one day; but, see now, i am a fool. hold! you should not have spoken to me of this life; it only causes regrets, that's all." "i let you go on, because you say exactly what i did to la goualeuse." "how?" "yes, in listening to these fairy tales, i said to her, 'what a pity that these castles in the air, la goualeuse, are not the truth!' do you know what she answered, martial?" said la louve, her eyes sparkling with joy. "no." "'let martial marry you; promise both of you to live an honest life, and this place, which causes you so much envy, i am almost sure to obtain for you on leaving the prison,' was her answer." "a gamekeeper's place for me?" "yes, for you." "but you are right-it is a dream. if it only were needful that i should marry you to obtain this place, my brave louve, it should be done to-morrow, if i had the means; for, from to-day you are my wife-- my true wife." "martial, i your real wife?" "my real, my sole wife, and i wish you to call me your husband--it is just the same as if the mayor had joined us." "oh! la goualeuse was right; it makes one so proud to say, 'my husband!' martial--you shall see your louve keeping house, at work! you shall see." "but this place--do you believe?" "poor little goualeuse, if she is deceived it is others' faults; for she appeared to believe what she told me. besides, just now, on leaving the prison, the inspectress told me that the protectors of la goualeuse, people of high rank, had taken her from the prison this very day: that proves that she has benefactors, and that she can do what she has promised." "oh!" cried martial, suddenly, rising from his seat, "i do not know what we are thinking about." "what is it?" "this girl is below, dying, perhaps; and instead of helping her, we are here." "be satisfied; francois and amandine are with her; they would have called us if there had been any danger. but you are right; let us go to her; you must see her, she to whom, perhaps, we shall owe our happiness." and martial, leaning on the arm of la louve, descended the stairs. before they enter the kitchen, we will relate what passed since fleur-de-marie had been confided to the care of the children. chapter xxxv. dr. griffon. francois and amandine had just carried fleur-de-marie into the kitchen near the fire, when saint remy and dr. griffon, who had crossed over in nicholas's boat, entered the house. while the children stirred up the fire and threw on some dry fagots, which, soon kindling, gave out a cheerful blaze, dr. griffon exercised all his skill to restore the girl. "the poor child is hardly seventeen," cried the count, profoundly affected; then, turning toward the doctor, he said, "well, what do you think, my friend?" "i can hardly feel the pulse; but, what is very singular, the skin of the face is not colored blue in this subject, as is ordinarily the case in asphyxia from submersion," answered the doctor with imperturbable coolness, looking at fleur-de-marie with an air profoundly meditative. dr. griffon was a tall, thin man, very pale, and completely bald, except two very scanty tufts of black hair, most carefully gathered from behind, and laid flat on his forehead; his face, wrinkled and furrowed by hard study, expressed intelligence reflection, and coldness. of immense knowledge, of consummate experience, a skillful and renowned practitioner, principal physician of a large hospital, dr. griffon had but one defect--that of making, if we may express it, a complete oversight of the patient, and only attending to the disease: young or old, male or female, rich or poor, no matter; he thought only of the medical fact, more or less curious or interesting in a scientific point of view, which the _subject_ offered. for him there only existed _subjects_. "what a charming face! how handsome she is, notwithstanding this frightful pallor!" said saint remy, contemplating fleur-de-marie with sadness. "have you ever seen, my dear doctor, features more regular or more lovely? and so young--so young!" "the age is nothing," said the physician, roughly; "no more than the presence of water in the lungs, which formerly was thought to be mortal. they were most grossly deceived: the admirable experiments of goodwin, of the famous goodwin, have proved it." "but, doctor--" "but it is a fact," answered m. griffon, absorbed by the love of his art. "to ascertain the presence of a foreign liquid in the lungs, goodwin plunged some cats and dogs into a tub of ink for some seconds, drew them out living, and dissected my gentlemen some time afterward. well, he convinced himself that the ink had penetrated into the lungs, and that the presence of liquid in the organs of respiration does not cause death." the count knew the physician to be an excellent man at heart, but that his frenzied passion for the sciences often made him appear hard-hearted and almost cruel. "have you, at least, any hope?" asked he, with impatience. "the extremities of the subject are very cold," said the doctor; "there is but little hope." "oh, to die at her age, poor child--it is frightful!" "the pupil fixed, dilated," answered the immovable doctor, raising with his finger the moveless eyelid of fleur-de-marie. "strange man," cried the count, almost with indignation; "one would think you without feeling; and yet i have seen you watch by my bedside night after night. if i had been your brother, you could not have been more devoted." the doctor, quite occupied in administering to fleur-de-marie, answered the count, without looking at him, and with settled calmness, "do you believe that one meets every day with such a malignant fever, so marvelously complicated, so curious to study, as the one you had? it was admirable, my good friend, admirable! stupor, delirium, twitchings of the sinews, syncopes--your deadly fever united the most varied symptoms. your constitution was also a rare thing, very rare, and eminently interesting; you were also affected, in a partial and momentary manner, with paralysis. if it were only for this fact, your disease had a right to all my attention; you presented to me a magnificent study; for, frankly, my dear friend, all i desire in this world is to come across just such another fine case--but one has no such luck twice." [illustration: feeling for the beating of the pulse] the count shrugged his shoulders impatiently. it was at this moment that martial descended, leaning on the arm of la louve, who had, as the reader knows, thrown over her wet clothes a plaid cloak belonging to calabash. struck with the pale looks of the lover of la louve, and remarking his hands covered with coagulated blood, the count cried, "who is this man?" "_my husband!_" answered la louve, looking at martial with an expression of happiness and noble pride impossible to describe. "you have a good intrepid wife, sir," said the count to him. "i saw her save this unfortunate child with rare courage." "oh, yes, sir; good and intrepid is _my wife!_" answered martial, dwelling on the last words, and looking at la louve in his turn with an air at once tender and affectionate. "yes, intrepid; for she also saved my life!" "yours!" said the astonished count. "see his hands, his poor hands!" said la louve, wiping the tears which softened the indignant sparkling of her eyes. "oh, this is horrible!" cried the count. "this poor fellow has had his hands literally chopped up. look, doctor!" turning his head slightly, and looking over his shoulder at the numerous wounds which calabash had made, the doctor said, "open and shut your hand." martial executed this movement with much pain. the doctor shrugged his shoulders, continued to occupy himself with fleur-de-marie, and said disdainfully, and as if with regret, "those wounds are absolutely nothing serious. none of the tendons are injured; in a week the subject can use his hands." "then, sir, my husband will not be a cripple?" cried la louve with gratitude. the doctor shook his head. "and la goualeuse will live, will she not?" asked la louve. "oh, she must live, my husband and i owe her so much!" then turning toward martial, "poor little thing! there is she of whom i spoke--she who perhaps will be the cause of our happiness--she who gave me the idea of telling you all i have said. see what chance has done, that i should save her--and here too!" "she is our providence!" said martial, struck with the beauty of la goualeuse. "what an angelic face! oh, she will live! will she not, doctor?" "i don't know," answered the physician; "but, in the first place, she ought to remain here. can she have the necessary attentions?" "here!" cried la louve. "why, they murder here!" "hush, hush!" said martial. the count and doctor looked at la louve with surprise. "this house has a bad reputation; it surprises me the less," whispered the physician to saint remy. "you have, then, been the victim of violence?" asked the count. "who wounded you in this manner?" "it is nothing, sir. i had a dispute here, a fight ensued, and i have been wounded. but this girl cannot remain in the house," added he, in a gloomy manner. "i shall not remain myself, neither my wife nor my brother, nor my sister. we leave the island never to return." "oh, what joy!" cried both the children. "then what must we do?" said the doctor, regarding fleur-de-marie. "it is impossible to think of transporting this subject in this state of prostration. yet, happily, my house is close at hand, and my gardener's wife and daughter will make excellent nurses. since this asphyxia from submersion interests you, you can overlook her attendants, my dear saint remy, and i will come and see her every day." "and you play the part of a hard-hearted, unmerciful man," cried the count, "when you have a most generous heart, as this proposition proves." "if the subject sinks, as is possible, there will be a most interesting autopsy, which will allow me to confirm once more the assertions of goodwin." "what you say is frightful!" said the count. "for him who knows how to read it, the human body is a book where one learns to save the life of the sick," said dr. griffon, stoically. "however, you do good," said saint remy, bitterly; "that is the important thing. what matters the cause, as long as the benefit exists! poor child, the more i look at her, the more she interests me." "and she deserves it, sir," cried la louve, passionately, drawing near. "you know her?" said the count. "know her, sir? to her i owe the happiness of my life; in saving her i have not done as much for her as she has done for me." "and who is she?" asked the count. "an angel, sir; all that is good in the world. yes, although she is dressed as a peasant girl there is not a grand lady who can talk as well as she can, with her soft little voice, just like music. she is a noble girl, and courageous and good." "how did she fall in the water?" "i do not know, sir." "she is not a peasant girl, then?" asked the count. "a peasant girl! look at her small white hands, sir!" "it is true," said saint remy. "what a singular mystery! but her name, her family?" "come," said the doctor, interrupting the conversation, "the subject must be carried to the boat." half an hour afterward, fleur-de-marie, who had not yet recovered her senses, was taken to the physician's house, placed in a warm bed, and maternally watched by the gardener's wife, assisted by la louve. the doctor promised saint remy, who was more and more interested in la goualeuse, to return the same evening to visit her. martial went to paris with francois, and amandine, la louve not being willing to leave fleur-de-marie until she was out of danger. the island remained deserted. we shall soon meet with its wretched occupants at bras-rouge's, where they had agreed to meet la chouette, to murder the diamond dealer. in the meanwhile we would conduct the reader to the appointment that tom, the brother of the countess macgregor, had made with the horrible old woman, the schoolmaster's accomplice. chapter xxxvi. the likeness. thomas seyton walked impatiently up and down on one of the boulevards, near the observatory, till he saw la chouette appear. the old wretch had on a white cap, and was wrapped up in a large red plaid shawl; the point of a very sharp dagger stuck through the bottom of the straw basket which she carried on her arm; but tom did not perceive it. "three o'clock is striking from the luxembourg," said the old woman. "i am punctual, i think?" "come," answered seyton; and walking before her, he crossed some waste ground, entered a deserted street situated near the rue cassini, stopped about the middle of the passage, where it was obstructed by a turnstile, opened a small gate, made a sign for la chouette to follow him, and, after having taken a few steps in an alley shaded with large trees, said, "wait here," and disappeared. "i hope he won't make me lose too much time," said la chouette; "i must be at bras-rouge's at five, to settle the broker. ah! speaking of that, my scoundrelly needle has his nose out of the window," added the old woman, seeing the point of the dagger sticking through the basket. "so much for not having put on his cap." and taking it from the basket, she placed it in such a manner that it was completely concealed. "it is a tool of my man's," said she. "did he not ask me for it to kill the rats, which come and laugh at him in his cellar? poor beasts!--not for him. they have only the old blind man to divert them, and keep them company! the least they can do is to nibble him a little. hence i don't wish him to do any harm to the small deer, and i keep the tickler. besides, i shall soon want it for the broker, perhaps. thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds--a treasure for each of us! a good day's work; not like the other day. that fool of a notary whom i wanted to pluck--i did threaten him, if he would not give me money, to inform that it was his housekeeper who gave me la goualeuse, through tournemine, when she was quite small; but nothing frightens him. he called me an old liar, and turned me out of doors. good, good--i will have a letter written to those people at the farm, where pegriotte was sent, and inform them it was the notary who abandoned her. they know, perhaps, her family, and when she leaves saint lazare, it will be hot work for this hound of a ferrand. but some one comes--a little pale lady whom i have seen before," added la chouette, seeing sarah appear at the other end of the alley. "some more business to be done; it must be on account of this little lady that we carried la goualeuse away from the farm. if she pays well for anything new, i'm on it, safe!" on approaching la chouette, whom she saw for the first time since a previous meeting, the countenance of sarah expressed that disdain which people of a certain class feel when they are obliged to come in contact with wretches whom they use as instruments or accomplices. seyton, who until now had actively assisted the criminal machinations of his sister, considering them useless, had refused to continue this miserable game, consenting, nevertheless, to grant his sister, for the last time, an interview with la chouette, without wishing to take part in any new schemes. having been unable to bring rudolph back to her by breaking the ties which she thought dear to him, the countess hoped, as we have said, to render him the dupe of an infamous trick, the success of which might realize the dream of this opinionated, ambitious, and cruel woman. it was in contemplation to persuade rudolph that the daughter, whom he had supposed dead, was alive, and to substitute some orphan in the place of his daughter. the reader knows that jacques ferrand, having formally refused to enter into this plot, in spite of sarah's threats, had resolved to make away with fleur-de-marie, as much from dread of the revelations of la chouette, as from fear of the countess. but she had not renounced her designs, for she was almost certain of corrupting or intimidating the notary, when she had secured a girl capable of playing the part designed for her. after a moment's silence, sarah said to la chouette, "are you adroit, discreet, and resolute?" "adroit as a monkey, resolute as a dog, dumb as a fish; there's la chouette, just as the devil has made her, ready to serve you if she is capable--and she is rather," answered the hag in a lively manner. "i hope we have famously decoyed the young country girl, who is safely fastened up in saint lazare for two good months." "the question is no longer of her, but of other things." "as you wish, my little lady. as long as there is money at the end of what you are about to propose, we shall be like two fingers of a hand." sarah could not suppress a movement of disgust. "you must know," said she, "some common people--some unfortunate family." "there are more of them than millionaires; plenty to pick from; there is a rich misery in paris." "you must find for me a young orphan girl, one who lost her parents very early. she must be of an agreeable face, of a sweet temper, and not more than seventeen." la chouette looked at sarah with astonishment. "such an orphan cannot be difficult to find," resumed the countess; "there are so many foundlings." "my little lady, have you not forgotten la goualeuse? just what you want." "whom do you mean by la goualeuse?" "the young person whom we carried off from bouqueval." "i tell you, we have nothing to do with her!" "but listen to me, then; and above all, reward me with good advice; you wish an orphan, as gentle as a lamb, beautiful as day, and not seventeen." "without doubt." "well, then, take la goualeuse when she comes out of saint lazare; just what you want--as if made to order; for she was only six years old when jacques ferrand (about ten years ago) gave her to me, with a thousand francs, to get rid of her. it was a man named tournemine, now in the galleys at rochefort, who brought her to me, saying, that she was doubtless a child they wanted to get rid of, or pass for dead." "jacques ferrand, say you!" cried sarah, in a voice so changed that la chouette stepped back with alarm. "the notary, jacques ferrand," repeated she, "gave you this child, and"--she could not finish. her emotion was too violent; with her hands stretched toward la chouette, trembling violently, surprise and joy were expressed on her countenance. "but i did not know you were going to fire up in this manner, my little lady," said the old woman. "yet it is very plain. ten years ago, an old acquaintance, toarnemine, said to me, 'do you wish to take charge of a little girl that some one wants to get rid of? if she lives or dies, all the same there is a thousand francs to gain; you may do with the child what you please.'" "ten years ago?" cried sarah. "ten years." "fair?" "fair." "with blue eyes?" "with blue eyes, blue as bluebells." "and it is she who, at the farm--" "we packed up for saint lazare. i must say that i did not expect to find her there." "oh! heaven!" cried sarah, falling on her knees, and raising her hands and eyes toward heaven; "your ways are impenetrable. i bow before mysterious providence. oh! if such happiness were possible--but no, i cannot believe it; it would be too much--no!" then, suddenly rising, she said to la chouette, who looked at her with amazement, "come." she walked before the hag with hurried steps. at the end of the alley, she ascended some steps leading to the glass door of a cabinet, sumptuously furnished. at the moment when la chouette was about to enter, sarah made her a sign to remain without. then she rung the bell violently. a servant appeared. "i am not at home to any one--let no one in, do you understand? absolutely no one." the domestic retired, and to be more secure the lady locked the door. la chouette heard the orders given to the servant, and saw sarah lock the door. the countess, turning to her, said, "come in quickly, and shut the door." la chouette obeyed. hastily opening a secretary, sarah took from it an ebony casket, which she placed on a desk in the middle of the room, and made a sign for la chouette to come near her. the casket contained many jewel-boxes placed one on the other, inclosing magnificent ornaments. sarah was so impatient to reach the bottom of the casket, that she threw out on the table the boxes, splendidly furnished with necklaces, bracelets, and diadems, where rubies, emeralds, and diamonds sparkled with a thousand fires. la chouette was astonished. she was armed, she was shut up alone with the countess, her flight was easy, secure. an infernal idea crossed the mind of this monster. but to execute this new misdeed, she had to get her poniard from the basket, and draw near to sarah, without exciting her suspicions. with the cunning of a tiger-cat, who crawls treacherously on its prey, the old woman profited by the pre-occupation of the countess to steal round the bureau which separated her from her victim. she had already commenced this treacherous evolution, when she was obliged to stop suddenly. sarah drew a medallion from the bottom of the box, leaned on the table, handed it to la chouette with a trembling hand, and said, "look at this portrait." "it is la pegriotte!" cried la chouette, struck with the great likeness; "the little girl who was given to me; i see her as she was when tournemine brought her to me. there is her thick curly hair which i cut off at once, and sold well, ma foi!" "you recognize her? oh! i conjure you do not deceive me!" "i tell you, my little lady, that it is la pegriotte; it is as if i could see her before me," said la chouette, trying to approach sarah without being remarked; "even now she looks like this portrait. if you saw her, you would be struck with it." sarah had experienced no sorrow, no fright on learning that her child had, during ten years, lived miserable and abandoned. no remorse on thinking that she herself had torn her from the peaceful retreat where rudolph had placed her. this unnatural mother did not at once interrogate la chouette with terrible anxiety as to the past life of her child. no; ambition with sarah had for a long time stifled maternal tenderness. it was not joy at finding her daughter which transported her, it was the certain hope of seeing realized the proud dream of all her life. rudolph was interested for this unfortunate creature, had protected without knowing her, what would be his joy when he discovered her to be his child! he was single, the countess a widow--sarah already saw glisten before her eyes a sovereign's crown. la chouette, still advancing with cautious steps, had already reached one end of the table, and placed her dagger perpendicularly in her basket, the handle close to the opening, quite ready. she was only a few steps from the countess, when the latter suddenly said, "do you know how to write?" and pushing back with her hand the boxes and jewels, she opened a blotter placed before an inkstand. "no, madame, i cannot write," answered la chouette at all hazard. "i am going to write then, from your dictation. tell me all the circumstances attending the abandonment of this little girl." and sarah, seating herself in an armchair before the desk, took a pen and made a motion for the old woman to draw near to her. the eyes of la chouette twinkled. at length she was standing erect alongside of sarah's seat. she, bending over the table, prepared to write. "i will read aloud slowly," said the countess, "you will correct my mistakes." "yes, madame," answered la chouette, watching every movement. then she slipped her right hand into her basket, so as to take hold of the dagger without being seen. the lady began to write, "i declare that--" but interrupting herself, and turning toward la chouette, who already had hold of the handle of her dagger, sarah added, "at what time was this child delivered to you?" "in the month of february, ." "by whom?" asked sarah, with her face still turned toward la chouette. "by pierre tournemine, now in the galleys at rochefort. mrs. seraphin, housekeeper of the notary, gave the little girl to him." the countess turned to write and read in a loud voice: "i declare that in the month of february, , a man named--" la chouette had drawn out her dagger. already she raised it to strike her victim between the shoulders. sarah again turned. la chouette, not to be discovered, placed her right arm on the back of the chair, and leaned toward her to answer her new question. "i have forgotten the name of the man who confided the child to you." "pierre tournemine," answered la chouette. "pierre tournemine," repeated sarah, continuing to write--"now in the galleys at rochefort, placed in my hands a child who had been confided to him by the housekeeper of--" the countess could not finish. la chouette, after having softly disencumbered herself of the basket by dropping it on the ground, had thrown herself on the countess with as much rapidity as fury; with her left hand she caught her by the throat, and holding her face down to the table, she had, with her right hand, planted the dagger between the shoulders. this horrible deed was executed so quickly that the countess did not utter a single cry or groan. still seated, she remained with her face on the table. the pen had fallen from her hand. "the same blow as fourline gave the little old man in the rue du roule," said the monster. "another one who will talk no more--her account is made." and gathering in haste the jewels, which she threw into her basket, she did not perceive that her victim still breathed. the murder and robbery accomplished, the horrible old woman opened the glass-door, disappeared rapidly in the green alley, went out by the small door, and reached the waste ground. near the observatory, she took a cab, which conveyed her to bras-rouge's. widow martial, nicholas, calabash, and barbillon had, as the reader knows, made an appointment to meet la chouette in this den, to rob and kill the diamond broker. chapter xxxvii. the detective. the "bleeding heart tavern" was situated on the champs elysees, near the cours la reine, in one of the vast moats which bounded this promenade some years since. the inhabitants of the island had not yet appeared. since the departure of bradamanti, who had accompanied the step-mother of madame d'harville to normandy, tortillard had returned to his father's house. placed as lookout on the top of the staircase leading down to the inn, the little cripple was to notify the arrival of the martials by a concerted signal, bras-rouge being then in secret conference with narcisse borel, a police-officer. this man, about forty years, strong and thickset, had his skin stained, a sharp and piercing eye, and face completely shaved, so as to be able to assume the different disguises necessary to his dangerous expeditions; for it was often necessary for him to unite the sudden transformations of a comedian with the energy and courage of the soldier, to surprise certain bandits whom he was obliged to match in courage and determination. narcisse borel was, in a word, one of the most useful, the most active instruments of the providence, on a small scale, modestly and vulgarly called the police. let us return to the interview between borel and bras-rouge. their conversation seemed very animated. "yes," said the plain-clothes constable, "you are accused of profiting by your position in a double manner, by taking part with impunity in the robberies of a band of very dangerous malefactors, and of giving false information concerning them to the police. take care, bras-rouge; if this should be proved, they would have no mercy on you." "alas! i know i am accused of this; and it is afflicting, my good m. narcisse," replied bras-rouge, giving to his weasel face an expression of hypocritical sorrow. "but i hope that to-day they will render me justice, and that my good faith will be certainly acknowledged." "we shall see." "how can i be suspected? have i not given proofs? was it not i--yes or no--who, in time past secured you ambrose martial, one of the most dangerous malefactors in paris? for, as it is said, that runs in his race, and the martials come from below, where they will soon return." "all this is very fine; but ambrose was informed that he was about to be arrested; if i had not advanced the hour indicated by you, he would have escaped." "do you believe me capable, m. narcisse, of having secretly given him information of your intentions?" "all i know is, that i received a pistol shot from the rascal, which, very fortunately, only went through my arm." "marry! m. narcisse, it is very certain that in your calling one is exposed to such mistakes." "oh! you call that a mistake?" "certainly; for doubtless the scoundrel wanted to plant the ball in your body." "in the arms, body, or head, no matter; it is not of that i complain; every trade has its offsets." "and its pleasures also, m. narcisse; and its pleasures! for instance, when a man as cunning, as adroit, as courageous as you are, is for a long time on the tracks of a nest of robbers; follows them from place to place--from house to house, with a good bloodhound like your servant bras-rouge, and he succeeds in getting them into a trap from which not one can escape, acknowledge, m. narcisse, that there is great pleasure in it--a huntsman's joy--without counting the service rendered to justice," added the landlord of the "bleeding heart." "i should be of your opinion, if the bloodhound was faithful, but i am afraid he is not." "oh! m. narcisse, can you think--" "i think that instead of putting us on the scent, you amuse yourself by deceiving us, and you abuse the confidence placed in you. every day you promise to aid us to place our hands on the band; that day never comes." "what if this day comes to-day, m. narcisse, as i am sure it will; and if i let you pick up barbillon, nicholas martial, the widow, her daughter, and la chouette, will it be a good haul or not? will you still suspect me?" "no; and you will have rendered real service; for we have against this band strong presumptions, almost certain suspicions, but, unfortunately, no proofs." "hold a moment--caught in the very act, allowing you to nab them so, will aid furiously to display their cards, m. narcisse?" "doubtless; and you assure me you are not in the plan they have on hand?" "no, on my honor. it is la chouette who came and proposed to me to entice the broker here, when she learned through my son, that morel, the lapidary, who lived in the rue du temple, cut real instead of false stones, and that mother mathieu had often about her jewels of value. i accepted the affair, proposing for la chouette to add barbillon and the martials, so as to have the whole gang in hand." "and what of the schoolmaster, this man so dangerous, so strong, and so ferocious, who was always with la chouette? one of the old hands of the lapin blanc?" "the schoolmaster?" said bras-rouge, feigning astonishment. "yes, a galley-slave escaped from rochefort, named anselme duresnel, condemned for life. he has disfigured himself so as not to be recognized. have you no information of him?" "none," answered bras-rouge, intrepidly, who had his reasons for this falsehood, for the schoolmaster was then shut up in one of the cellars of the tavern. "there is every reason to believe that the schoolmaster is the author of some late murders. it would be an important capture. for six weeks past, no one knows what has become of him." "thus we are reproached for having lost sight of him. always reproaches, m. narcisse! always." "not without reason. how's your smuggling?" "must i not know all sorts of folks, smugglers as well as anybody else, to put you on the scent? i informed you of the pipe which, beginning outside of the barriere du trone, ended in a house in the street, to introduce untaxed liquor." "i know all that," said narcisse, interrupting bras-rouge; but for one you denounce, you let, perhaps, ten escape, and you continue your trade with impunity. i am sure you feed out of two mangers, as the saying is." "oh! m. narcisse, i am incapable of such dishonest hunger." "and this is not all. in the rue du temple, no. , lives one burette, pawnbroker, who is accused of being your private receiver." "what would you have me do, m. borel? one says so many things, the world is so wicked. once more i say, i must mix with the greatest number of scoundrels possible. i must even do as they do, worse than they, to avoid suspicions; but it cuts me to the heart to imitate them--to the heart--i must be well devoted to the service to follow such a trade." "poor dear man! i pity you with all my heart." "you laugh, m. borel. but if all these stories are believed, why do they not pay mother burette and myself a visit?" "you know well why--not to startle these bandits whom you have for so long a time promised to deliver to us." "and i am going to deliver them to you, m. narcisse; in one hour's time you shall have them bound, and without much trouble, for there are three women. barbillon and nicholas martial are as ferocious as tigers, but cowardly as chickens." "tigers or chickens," said borel, opening his long riding coat and showing the butt-ends of two pistols, which stuck out of his trousers pockets, "i have something here to serve them." "you will do well to take two of your men with you, m. borel; when they find themselves cornered, the greatest cowards become sometimes tigers." "i will place two of my men in the little lower room, alongside of the one where you will put the broker. at the first cry, i will appear at one door, my two men at the other." "you must make haste, for the band may arrive any moment, m. borel." "so be it; i go to place my men. i hope it will not be for nothing this time." the conversation was interrupted by the concerted signal. bras-rouge looked out of a window to see whom tortillard announced. "look! here is la chouette, already! well! do you believe me now, m. narcisse?" "this is something, but not all; we shall see. i go to place my men." the detective disappeared through a side door. chapter xxxviii. screech-owl. her rapidity of step, the ferocious ardor of a desire for rapine and murder which she still possessed, had flushed her hideous visage; her one green eye sparkled with savage joy. tortillard followed her, jumping and limping. just as she was descending the last steps of the stairs, the son of bras-rouge, through a wicked frolic, placed his foot on the trailing folds of la chouette's dress. this caused the old woman to stumble; not being able to catch hold of the balusters, she fell on her knees, her hands both stretched out, abandoning her precious basket, from whence escaped a golden bracelet set with diamonds and fine pearls. la chouette, having, in her fall, excoriated her fingers a little, picked up the bracelet, which had not escaped the quick eyesight of tortillard, rose and threw herself furiously on the little cripple, who approached her with a hypocritical air, saying, "oh! bless us! your foot slipped!" without answering, la chouette seized him by the hair, and, stooping down, bit him in the cheek; the blood spurted from the wound. strange as it may appear, tortillard, notwithstanding his wickedness, and the great pain he endured, uttered not a complaint nor cry. he wiped his bleeding face, and said, with a forced laugh: "i would rather you would not kiss me so hard another time, la chouette." "wicked little devil, why did you step on my gown to make me fall?" "i? oh, now! i swear to you that i did not do it on purpose, my good chouette; as if your little tortillard would wish to hurt you; he loves you too well for that. you did well to beat him, affront him, bite him; he is attached to you like a poor little dog to his master," said the child in a caressing and coaxing voice. deceived by the hypocrisy, la chouette answered, "very well! if i have bitten you wrongfully, it shall be punishment for some other time, when you have deserved it. come, to-day i bear no malice. where is your cheat of a father?" "in the house; shall i call him?" "no; have the martials come yet?" "not yet." "then i have time to go and see my man; i want to speak to old no-eyes." "are you going to the cellar?" asked tortillard, hardly concealing his diabolical joy. "what is that to you?" "to me?" "yes; you asked me that in such a droll way." "because i thought of something funny." "what?" "that you must have brought a pack of cards along to amuse him," answered tortillard, in a cunning manner; "it will be a little change for him; he only plays at biting with the rats; in that game he always wins, and in the end it tires him." la chouette laughed violently at this witticism, and said to the little cripple, "mamma's little monkey. i do not know a blackguard that is more wicked than you are. you little rogue, go, get me a candle; you shall light me down, help me to open his door; you know that i can't move it alone." "oh, no, it is too dark in the cellar," said tortillard, shaking his head. "how? you, as wicked as the devil, a coward; i would like to see that! come, go quick, and say to your father, i will soon return; that i am with my pet; that we are talking about the publication of our bans of marriage," added the monster, chuckling. "come, make haste, you shall be groomsman, and if you are a good boy, you shall have my garter." tortillard went to get a light, and la chouette, elated with the success of her robbery, amused herself while he was gone in handling the precious jewels in her basket. it was to conceal temporarily this treasure that she wished to visit the schoolmaster in his cellar, and not to torment, as was her usual custom, her victim. we will mention presently why, with the consent of bras-rouge, la chouette had confined the schoolmaster in the subterranean hole. tortillard, holding a light, reappeared at the cellar door. la chouette followed him to the lower room, into which opened the large trap-door already described. the son of bras-rouge, protecting his light with the hollow of his hand, and preceding the old woman, descended slowly a flight of steep stone steps, leading to the entrance of the cellar. arrived at the foot, tortillard appeared to hesitate about following la chouette. "well! lazybones, go on," said she, turning round. "it is so dark, and besides, you go so fast, la chouette; i'd rather go back, and leave you the candle." "and the door, imbecile? can i open it alone! will you go on?" "no, i am too much afraid." "if i come to you, take care." "oh, now you threaten me, i'll go back." and he retreated a few steps. "well! listen; be a good boy," answered la chouette, restraining her anger, "i will give you something." "very well," said the boy, drawing near, "speak so to me, and you will make me do all you can wish, mother chouette." "look alive, i am in a hurry." "yes, but promise that you will let me torment the schoolmaster." "some other day; now i have no time." "only a little; just to make him foam." "some other time, i say; i must return at once." "why, then, do you open the door of his prison?" "none of your business. come, now, will you finish? the martials, perhaps, are already above; i want to speak to them. be a good boy, and you sha'n't be sorry; go on." "i must love you well, la chouette, for you can make me do just as you please," said tortillard, advancing slowly. the trembling, sickly light of the candle, only made darkness visible in this gloomy passage, reflecting the black shadow of the hideous boy on the green and crumbling walls streaming with humidity. at the end of the passage, through the obscurity, could be perceived the low, broken arch of the entrance to the cellar, its heavy door secured with bands of iron, and contrasting strongly in the shade with the plaid shawl and white bonnet of la chouette. with their united efforts, the door opened, creaking, on its rusty hinges. a puff of humid vapor escaped from this hole, which was as dark as night. the candle, placed on the ground, cast a ray of light on the first steps of the stone staircase, while the lower part was lost in total obscurity. a cry, or rather a savage howl, came up from the depths of the cellar. "oh, there is my darling, who says 'good-day' to his mamma," said la chouette, ironically; and she descended a few steps to conceal her prize in some corner. "i am hungry!" cried the schoolmaster, in a voice trembling with rage; "do you mean i am to die here like a mad beast?" "you are hungry, poor puss!" said la chouette, shouting with laughter. "well, suck your thumb!" the noise of a chain shaken violently was heard; then a sigh of restrained rage. "take care! take care! you will hurt your leg, poor dear papa!" said tortillard. "the child is right; keep quiet, old pal," said the old woman; "the chain and rings are strong, old no-eyes; they come from old micou, who only sells first rate articles. it is your own fault; for why did you allow yourself to be tied when you were asleep? afterward there was nothing to be done, but to slip on the chain, and bring you down here, in this nice cool place, to preserve you, my sweet!" "it's a shame--he'll grow mouldy," said tortillard. the chains were heard rattling anew. "oh, oh! he jumps like a ladybird, tied by the paw," cried the old woman. "i think i can see him." "ladybird, ladybird, fly away home! your house is on fire, and the schoolmaster is burning!" chanted tortillard. this variation augmented the hilarity of la chouette. having placed her basket in a hole under one of the steps, she said, "look here, my man." "he does not see," answered tortillard. "the boy is right. ah, well! do you hear? you should not have hindered me, when we returned from the farm, from washing pegriotte's face with vitriol. you should not have played the good dog, simpleton. and then, to talk of your conscience, which was becoming prudish. i saw that your cake was all dough; that some day or other you might peach, mister eyeless, and then--" "old no-eyes will nip you, screech-owl, for he is hungry," cried tortillard, suddenly, pushing, with all his strength, the old woman by the back. la chouette fell forward, uttering a dreadful imprecation, and rolled to the foot of the steps. "lick 'em, towser! la chouette is yours! jump on her, old man," added tortillard. then, seizing hold of the basket, which he had seen the old woman hide, he ran up the stairs precipitately, crying with savage joy, "there is a push worth double what i gave you a while ago, la chouette! this time you can't bite me. oh! you thought i didn't care; thank you, i bleed still." "i have her, oh, i have her!" cried the schoolmaster from the depths of the cellar. "if you have her, old man, fair play," said the boy, chuckling, as he stopped on the top step of the staircase. "help!" cried la chouette, in a strangled voice. "thank you, tortillard," answered the schoolmaster; "thank you," and he uttered an aspiration of fearful joy. "oh! i pardon you the harm you have done me, and to reward you, you shall hear la chouette sing! listen to the bird of death--' "bravo, bravo! here am i in the dress circle, private box," said tortillard, seating himself at the top of the stairs. he raised the light to endeavor to see what was going on in the cellar, but the darkness was too great; so faint a light could not dissipate it. bras-rouge's hopeful could distinguish nothing. the struggle between the schoolmaster and la chouette was silent and furious, without a word, without a cry. only, from time to time, could be heard a hard breathing or suffocating respiration, which always accompanies violent and continued struggles. tortillard, seated on the stone step, began to stamp his feet in the manner peculiar to spectators anxious for the commencement of a play; then he uttered the familiar cry of the "gods" in the penny-gaffs. "hoist that rag! trot 'em out! begin, begin! music, music!" "oh, i have you as i wish," murmured the schoolmaster from the bottom of the cellar, "and you shall--" a desperate movement of la chouette interrupted him. she struggled with that energy which is caused by the fear of death. "speak up, we can't hear," cried tortillard. "you have a fine chance in my hand. i have you as i wish to have you," continued the schoolmaster. then, having doubtless succeeded in holding la chouette, he added, "that's it. now listen--" "tortillard, call your father!" cried la chouette, in a breathless, exhausted tone. "help, help!" "turn out that old woman! turn her out! we can't hear," said the little cripple, screaming with laughter. "silence! out with her!" the cries of la chouette could not reach the upper apartments. the wretch, seeing she had no aid to expect from the son of bras-rouge, tried a last effort. "tortillard, go for help; and i will give you my basket, it is full of jewels. it is there under a stone." "how generous you are! thank you, ma'am! don't you know that i have your swag? hold, don't you hear it jingle?" said tortillard shaking it. "but give me two sous to buy some hot cake and i'll go seek papa." "have pity on me, and i--" la chouette could not proceed. again there was a pause. the little cripple recommenced the stamping of his feet, and cried, "why don't you begin? up with the curtain! go ahead, will you, now? music, music!" "la chouette, you can no longer deafen me with your cries," said the schoolmaster, after some minutes, during which he had succeeded in gagging the old woman. "you know well," resumed he, in a slow and hollow tone, "that i do not wish to finish you at once. torture for torture. you have made me suffer enough. i must talk to you a long time before i kill you--yes, a long time. it will be frightful for you! what agony!" "come, none of your nonsense, old man," cried tortillard, half rising. "correct her; but do not hurt her. you speak of killing her; it's only a joke, is it not! i like my chouette. i have lent her to you, but you must return her to me. don't damage her. i will not have any one harm my chouette, or i will go and call papa." "be not alarmed; she shall only have what she deserves--a profitable lesson," said the robber, to reassure tortillard, fearing that the cripple would go for help. "very good! bravo! now the play begins," said the boy, who did not believe that the schoolmaster seriously meditated to destroy la chouette. "let us talk a little," resumed the schoolmaster, in a calm voice, to the old woman. "in the first place, since a dream i had at the farm of bouqueval, which brought before my eyes all our crimes, which almost made me mad, which will make me mad--for in the solitude and profound state of isolation in which i live, all my thoughts, in spite of myself, tend toward this dream--a strange change has taken place within me. yes, i have thought with horror of my past wickedness. in the first place, i did not allow you to disfigure the goualeuse. that was nothing. by chaining me here in this cave, by making me suffer cold and hunger, but by delivering me from your provocation, you have left me alone to all the horrors of my thoughts. oh! you do not know what it is to be alone, always alone, with a black veil over the eyes, as the implacable man said who punished me." (this was rudolph who had had him blinded.) "it is fearful! see now! in this cellar i wished to kill him, but this cellar is the place of my punishment. it will be perhaps my grave! "i repeat to you, this is frightful. all that man predicted is realized. he told me: 'you have abused your strength: you shall be the plaything of the weakest.' this has been. he told me: 'henceforth, separated from the exterior world, face to face with the eternal remembrance of your crimes, one day you will repent them.' that day has arrived; solitude has confirmed it. i could not have thought it possible. another proof that i am, perhaps, less wicked than formerly, is, that i experience an indescribable joy in holding you there, monster, not to avenge myself, but to avenge our victims. yes, i shall have accomplished a duty, when, with my own hand, i shall have punished my accomplice. a voice tells me, that if you had fallen sooner into my power, much blood might have been spared. i feel now a horror of my past murders, and yet, strange! it is without fear, it is with security that i intend to execute on you a frightful murder, with horrible refinement of cruelty. speak, speak! can you realize this?" "bravo, bravo! well played, first old man. you warm up," cried tortillard, applauding. "this is only a joke, though?" "only a joke?" answered the schoolmaster, in a hollow voice. "be still, la chouette; i must finish explaining to you how, little by little, i came to repent. this revelation will be odious to you, heart of iron, and it will also prove to you how merciless i ought to be in the vengeance i wish to exercise on you in the name of our victims. i must hurry on. the joy of having you thus makes my blood run wild, my head throb with violence, as when i think of my dream. my mind wanders; perhaps one of my attacks is coming on; but i shall have time to render the approaches of death more frightful, in forcing you to hear me." "bold, la chouette!" cried tortillard; "be bold with your answer. don't you know your part? come, tell the devil to prompt you, my old dear." "oh! you do well to struggle and bite," said the schoolmaster, after a pause; "you shall not escape; you have cut my ringers to the bone, but i will tear your tongue out if you stir. let us continue to converse. "on finding myself alone--constantly alone in obscurity and silence--i began to have fits of furious rage; powerless, for the first time i lost my senses, my head wandered. yes, although awake, i have dreamed the dream you know: the dream of the old man in the rue de roule--the woman drowned--the drover--all murdered! and you, soaring above all these phantoms! i tell you, it is frightful. i am blind; yet my thoughts assume a form, a body, and represent continually to me in a visible manner, almost palpable, the features of my victims. "i should not have this fearful dream, but that my mind, continually absorbed by the recollection of my past crimes, is troubled with the same visions. "doubtless, when one is deprived of sight, besetting ideas trace themselves almost materially on the brain. yet, sometimes, by force of contemplating them with resigned alarm, it seems to me that these menacing specters have pity on me; they grow dim, fade away, and disappear. then i think i awake from a vivid dream; but i feel myself weak, exhausted, broken, and will you believe it--oh! how you will laugh, la chouette--i weep--do you hear? i weep. you do not laugh? but laugh! i say, laugh!" la chouette uttered a stifled groan. "louder," cried tortillard; "we can't hear." "yes," continued the schoolmaster, "i wept, for i suffered, and rage is fruitless. i say to myself, to-morrow, and to-morrow, forever i shall be a prey to the same delirium, the same mournful desolation. what a life! oh, what a life! better i had chosen death, than to be interred alive in this abyss, which incessantly racks my thoughts! blind, solitary, and a prisoner! what can distract my thoughts? nothing--nothing. "when the phantoms cease for a moment to pass and repass on the black veil which i have before my eyes, there are other tortures--there are overwhelming comparisons. i say to myself, 'if i had remained an honest man, at this moment i should be free, tranquil, happy, loved, and honored by mine own, instead of being blind and chained in this dungeon, at the mercy of my accomplices.' "alas! the regret of happiness, lost by crime, is the first step toward repentance. and when to this repentance is added an expiation of frightful severity--an expiation which changes life into a long sleep filled with avenging hallucinations of desperate reflections, perhaps then the pardon of man will follow remorse and expiation." "take care, old man!" cried tortillard; "you are cutting into the parson's part! found out, found out!" the schoolmaster paid no attention. "does it astonish you to hear me talk thus, la chouette? if i had continued to harden myself, either by other bloody misdeeds, or by the savage drunkenness of a galley-slave's life, this salutary change in me had never taken place, i know well. but alone--blind--and tortured with a visible remorse, what could i think of? new crimes--how commit them? an escape--how escape? and if i escaped, where should i go--what should i do with my liberty? no; i must henceforth live in eternal night, between the anguish of repentance, and the alarm of horrifying apparitions by which i am pursued. yet sometimes a feeble ray of hope shines in the midst of the gloom--a moment of calm succeeds to my torments: yes, for sometimes i succeed in conjuring the specters which besiege me, by opposing to them the recollections of a past life, honest and peaceful--by carrying back my thoughts to the days of my childhood. "happily, you see the blackest villains have had, at least, some years of peace and innocence to offer in opposition to their long years of crime and blood. we are not born wicked. "the most perverse have had the amiable simplicity of childhood--have known the sweet joys of that charming age. so, i repeat, sometimes i feel a bitter consolation in saying, 'though i am at this moment the object of universal execration, there was a time when i was beloved and cherished, because i was inoffensive and good.' "alas! i must take refuge in the past, when i can; there alone can i find any repose." on pronouncing these last words, the voice of the schoolmaster had lost its roughness; the formidable man seemed profoundly affected; he went on: "now, you see, the salutary influence of these thoughts is such that my rage is appeased; courage, strength, the will, all fail me to punish you; no, it is not for me to shed your blood." "bravo, old one! now you see, la chouette, that it was only a joke," cried tortillard, applauding. "no, it is not for me to shed your blood," resumed the schoolmaster; "it would be a murder--excusable, perhaps, but still a murder; and i have enough with three specters! and then, who knows, you, even you! will repent some day." speaking thus, he mechanically relaxed his grasp. la chouette profited by it to seize hold of the dagger, which she had placed in her bosom, after the murder of the countess, and to strike a violent blow with it in order to disembarrass herself of him altogether. he uttered a cry of great anguish. the savage frenzy of his rage, vengeance, and hatred, his sanguinary instincts suddenly aroused, and exasperated at this attack, made an unexpected and terrible explosion, under which his reason sunk, already much shattered by so many trials. "ah! viper, i felt your tooth!" cried he, in a voice trembling with rage, and tightly grasping la chouette, who had thought to escape. "you crawl in the cellar," added he, more and more wandering, "but i am going to crush you, screech-owl. you waited, doubtless, the coming of the phantoms; my ears tingle, my head turns, as when they are about to come. yes, i am not deceived. oh! there they are; out of the darkness they approach--they approach! how pale they are, yet their blood, how it flows, red and smoking. they frighten you--you struggle. oh, well! be tranquil, you shall not see them; i have pity on you; i shall make you blind. you shall be like me, without eyes!" here he paused. [illustration: the countess sarah has just been assassinated] la chouette uttered a yell so horrible that tortillard, alarmed, jumped from his seat, and stood erect. the frightful screams of la chouette seemed to increase the insanity of the schoolmaster. "sing," said he, in a low voice, "sing, la chouette, sing your song of death. you are happy; you will never more see the phantoms of our victims; the old man of the rue de la roule, the drowned woman, the drover. but i see them, they come; they touch me. oh! how cold they are, oh!" the last spark of intelligence in this poor wretch was extinguished in this cry of horror. then he reasoned no more, spoke not; he behaved and roared like a wild beast: he only obeyed the savage instinct of destruction for destruction's sake. horrible, frightful events took place in the gloom of the cellar. a quick, rapid tramping was heard, interrupted at frequent intervals by a dull sound, like that of a bag of bones which rebounded on a stone against which one wished to break it. acute moans, and bursts of infernal laughter, accompanied each of these blows. then there was a death-rattle of agony. then nothing could be heard but the furious trampling; nothing but the heavy and rebounding blows, which still continued. soon a distant noise of footsteps and voices reached even to the depths of the cellar. numerous lights appeared at the extremity of the subterranean passage. tortillard, frozen with terror by the frightful tragedy which he had heard, but not seen, perceived several persons rapidly descend the staircase. in a moment, the cellar was invaded by several police officers, at the head of whom was narcisse borel; municipal guards closed the march. tortillard was seized on the upper steps of the cellar, holding still in his hand la chouette's basket. narcisse borel, followed by some of his men, descended into the cellar. all stopped, struck with such a horrible spectacle. chained by the leg to an enormous stone placed in the middle of the dungeon, the schoolmaster, horrible, monstrous, his hair knotted, his beard long, his mouth foaming, clothed with bloody rags, turned like a wild beast around his dungeon, dragging after him, by the feet, the corpse of la chouette, whose head was horribly mutilated, broken, and crushed. it needed a violent struggle to take from him the bleeding remains of his accomplice, and to secure him. after a vigorous resistance, they succeeded in transporting him to the lower room of the tavern, a dull, gloomy apartment, lighted by a single window. there were found, handcuffed and guarded, barbillon, nicholas martial, his mother and sister. they had been arrested just at the moment they were dragging off the diamond broker to murder her. she was recovering in another room. stretched on the ground, and held, with great difficulty, by two officers, the schoolmaster, slightly wounded in the arm by la chouette, but completely insensible, roared and bellowed like a baited bull. at times he almost raised himself from the earth by his convulsive movements. barbillon, with lowered head, livid face, discolored lips, fixed and savage eye, his long black hair falling on the collar of his blouse, torn in the struggle, was seated on a bench; his arms, confined by handcuffs, rested on his knees. the juvenile appearance of this scoundrel (he was hardly eighteen), and the regularity of his features, rendered still more deplorable the hideous stamp with which debauchery and crime had marked his countenance. unmoved, he said not a word. this apparent insensibility was due to stupidity or to a frigid energy; his breathing was rapid, and from time to time, with his shackled hands, he wiped the sweat from his pale forehead. alongside of him was placed calabash; her cap had been torn, her yellowish hair, tied behind with a string, hung down her back in many tangled and disordered tresses. more enraged than dispirited, her thin and jaundiced cheeks somewhat colored, she regarded with disdain the affliction of her brother nicholas, placed on a chair opposite. foreseeing the fate which awaited him, this bandit, sinking within himself, his head hanging, his knees trembling, was almost dead with affright; his teeth chattered convulsively, and he uttered low and mournful groans. alone, among all, the widow, standing with her back to the wail, had lost nothing of her audacity. with her head erect, she cast a firm look around her. her mask of bronze betrayed not the slightest emotion. yet, at the sight of bras-rouge, who was brought into the lower room, after having assisted in the minute search which the commissary had just made throughout the whole house--yet, at the sight of bras-rouge, we repeat, the features of the widow contracted in spite of herself; her small eyes, ordinarily dull, sparkled with rage; her compressed lips became bloodless: she stiffened her manacled hands. then, as if she had regretted this mute manifestation of rage and impotent hatred, she conquered her emotion, and became of icy calmness. while the commissary drew up his report, narcisse borel, rubbing his hands, cast a complacent look on the important capture he had just made, which delivered paris from a band of dangerous criminals; but feeling of what utility bras-rouge had been in this expedition, he could not help expressing to him by a glance his gratitude. the father of tortillard was obliged to partake, until after their judgment, the prison and fate of those whom he had denounced; like them, he wore handcuffs; still more than them, he had a trembling, alarmed air, uttering sorrowful groans, and giving to his weasel face every expression of terror. he embraced tortillard, as if he sought some consolation in these paternal caresses. the little cripple showed but little sensibility at these proofs of tenderness; he had just learned that, until further orders, he was to be sent to the prison for young offenders. "what a misfortune to part with my darling son!" cried bras-rouge, feigning to weep; "it is we who are the most unfortunate, ma'am martial, for they separate us from our children." the widow could no longer contain herself; not doubting the treason of bras-rouge, which she had prophesied, she cried, "i was sure that you sold my son who is at toulon. there, judas!" and she spat in his face. "you sell our heads; so be it; they will see handsome corpses-corpses of the real martials!" "yes; we will not budge before the scaffold," added calabash, with savage pride. the widow, pointing to nicholas with a withering glance of contempt, said to her daughter, "this coward will dishonor us on the scaffold!" some moments afterward, the widow and calabash, accompanied by two police, were placed in a cab and sent to saint lazare. the three men were conducted to la force. the schoolmaster was transported to the depot of the conciergerie, where there are cells destined to receive temporarily the insane. chapter xxxix. the introduction. some days after the murder of mrs. seraphin, the death of la chouette, and the arrest of the band of malefactors surprised at bras-rouge's, rudolph repaired to the house in the rue du temple. we have said that--intending to overcome cunning by cunning, and to expose the concealed crimes of jacques ferrand to the punishment they merited, notwithstanding the address and hypocrisy with which he disguised them--rudolph had caused to be brought from her prison in germany a girl named cecily. she was a very beautiful quadroon, whose story ran briefly thus: owned by a louisiana planter, he had refused permission for her to marry another of his slaves, known as david, because he had, sultan-like, set his own choice upon her. david, by intelligence, and a long stay in france, had attained the position of surgeon on the plantation, and resisted his master with all the strength of his love for the girl. he was flogged, and cecily locked up. at this juncture, rudolph's yacht was off the plantation. he heard the story, and, landing in the night with a boat's crew, carried off david and cecily in the planter's teeth, leaving him a large sum in indemnification. the slaves were wedded in france, but david won no happiness. he became rudolph's physician-in-chief, worthily filling the post; but cecily's three-part-white blood revolted at her union with a negro, and she flung herself into the first arms open to her. her life was a series of scandals, so that david would have killed her; but rudolph induced him to prefer her life imprisonment in germany. thence she is now brought. having arrived the evening previous, this creature, as handsome as she was perverted, as enchanting as she was dangerous, had received detailed instructions from baron de graun. it will be remembered that after the last interview between rudolph and mrs. pipelet, the latter having adroitly proposed cecily to mrs. seraphin to replace louise morel as servant to the notary, the housekeeper had willingly received her overtures, and promised to speak on the subject to jacques ferrand, which she had done in terms the most favorable to cecily, the very same morning of the day on which she (mrs. seraphin) had been drowned at ravageurs' island. rudolph went to learn the result of cecily's offer. to his great astonishment, on entering the lodge, he found, although it was eleven o'clock in the morning, pipelet in bed, and anastasia standing beside him, offering him drink. alfred, whose forehead and eyes disappeared under a formidable cotton cap, not answering anastasia, she concluded he was asleep, and closed the curtains of his bed. on turning she saw rudolph. immediately she carried, according to custom, the back of her open left hand against her wig. "your servant, my prince of lodgers. you find me overturned, amazed, grown thin! there are famous doings in the house, without counting that alfred has been in bed since yesterday." "and what is the matter?" "why ask?" "why not?" "always the same. the monster yearns more and more after alfred; he alarms me so that i do not know what more to do." "cabrion again?" "again." "he is the devil, then!" "i shall begin to think so, m. rudolph; for the blackguard always guesses when i am out. hardly do i turn on my heels than he is here on the back of my darling, who does not know how to defend himself any more than a child. yesterday again, while i was gone to m. ferrand's, the notary's--there is the place to hear news--" "and cecily?" said rudolph hastily. "i came to know--" "stop, my prince of lodgers; do not fluster me. i have so many things to tell you that i shall lose myself if you break my thread." "well, i listen." "in the first place, as concerns this house; just imagine that yesterday they came and arrested mother burette." "the pawnbroker on the second floor?" "yes. it appears that she had many droll trades besides that of a pawnbroker! she was a fencess, melter-downess, shoplifteress, smasheress, forgeress, coineress, everything that rhymes with dishonestness. the worst of all is, that her old beau, bras-rouge, is also arrested. i told you there was a real earthquake in the house." "what! bras-rouge also arrested?" "yes; in his tavern on the champs-elysees. all are boxed, even to his son tortillard, the wicked little cripple. they say there has been a whole heap of murderers there; that they were a band of assassins; that la chouette, one of the friends of old burette, has been strangled; and that if help had not arrived in time, mathieu the diamond broker would have been murdered. ain't this news?" "bras-rouge arrested! la chouette dead!" said rudolph to himself, with astonishment. "poor fleur-de-marie is avenged." "so much for this. without excepting the new infamy of cabrion, i am going at once to finish with that brigand. you will see what impudence! when old burette was arrested, and we knew that bras-rouge, our landlord, was trapped, i said to my old darling, 'you must trot right off to the proprietor, and tell him that bras-rouge is locked up.' alfred set out. at the end of two hours he came back to me, in such a state--white as a sheet, and blowing like an ox!" "what was the matter?" "you shall see, m. rudolph. only fancy, that six steps from here is a large white wall; my darling, on leaving the house, looked by chance on this wall; what does he see written there with charcoal, in large letters? 'pipelet & cabrion!'--the two names joined by a short _and_. this mark of union with this scoundrel sticks in his stomach the most. that began to upset him; ten steps further, what does he see on the great door of the temple? 'pipelet & cabrion!' always with the sign of union. on he goes; at each step, m. rudolph, he saw written these cursed names on the walls of the houses, on the doors, everywhere, 'pipelet & cabrion.' he began to see stars; he thought every one was looking at him; he pulled his hat down to his nose, he was so much ashamed. he went on the boulevard, thinking that cabrion had confined his indecencies to the rue du temple. all along the boulevard, on each place where there was room to write, always 'pipelet & cabrion,' to the death! finally, the poor dear man arrived at the proprietor's so bewildered, that, after having stuttered and stammered for a quarter of an hour, he could not understand one word of all that alfred said; so he sent him back, calling him an old imbecile, and told him to send me to explain the thing. alfred retired, coming back by another route, in order to avoid the names he had seen written on the walls. but--" "pipelet and cabrion that road too?" "as you say, my prince of lodgers. in this way the poor dear man arrived, stupefied, amazed, wishing to exile himself. he told me his story; i calmed him as well as i could. i left him, and went with cecily to the notary's. you think this is all? oh, no! hardly was my back turned than cabrion, who had watched my departure, had the impudence to send here two great hussies who attacked alfred. my hair stands on an end. i will tell you all this directly. let us finish with the notary. i set out, then, in a coach with cecily, as you are advised. she wore her pretty german peasant's costume, 'as she had just arrived, and had not time to change it,' as i was to tell m. ferrand. you will believe me, if you please, my prince of lodgers, i have seen many pretty girls; i have seen myself in my springtime; but never have i seen (myself included) a young person who could hold a candle to cecily. she has, above all, in the look of her large, wicked, black eyes, something--i don't know what; but, for sure, there is something striking. what eyes! "alfred is not tender, but the first time that she looked at him be became as red as a carrot; for nothing in the world would he have looked a second time--he wriggled on his chair for an hour afterward as if he had been seated on a thorn; he told me afterward that the look had recalled to his mind all the histories of that impudent bradamanti about the savagesses, which made him blush so much, my old prude of an alfred." "but the notary? the notary?" "yes, m. rudolph. it was about seven in the evening when we reached m. ferrand's; i told the porter to tell his master that mrs. pipelet was there with the servant whom old seraphin had spoken about, and told me to bring. hereupon the porter uttered a sigh, and asked me if i knew what had happened to mrs. seraphin. i said no. oh, m. rudolph, here is another earthquake!" "what now?" "old seraphin was drowned in an excursion to the country which she had made with one of her relations." "drowned! a party to the country in winter?" said rudolph, surprised. "yes, m. rudolph, drowned. it astonishes me more than it grieves me; for since the misfortune of poor louise, whom she denounced, i hated seraphin. i said to myself, 'she is drowned, is she; after all, it won't kill me.' that's my character." "and m. ferrand?" "the porter at first said he thought i could not see his master, and begged me to wait in the lodge, but at the end of a moment he returned for me; we crossed the court, and entered a chamber. there was only a single candle burning. the notary was seated at the chimney-corner, where smoked the remains of a firebrand. what a hovel! i have never seen m. ferrand. isn't he horrid? here is another one who might in vain have offered me the throne of araby to prove false to alfred." "and did he appear struck with the beauty of cecily?" "can any one know, with his green spectacles? such an old sacristan ought to be no judge of women. yet when we both entered, he made a kind of start from his chair; it was, doubtless, astonishment at seeing the alsatian costume of cecily; for she had (only ten million times better) the air of one of those little broom girls, with her short petticoats, and her pretty legs in blue stockings with red clocks! my eye, what calves! and such slender ankles! and the little foot! the notary was bewildered at seeing her." "it was doubtless the strange costume which astonished him." "must think so; but the funny moment drew near. happily i remembered the maxim you taught me, m. rudolph; it was my salvation." "what maxim?" "you know: 'hide your desire if you want it granted.' then i said to myself, i must rid my prince of lodgers of his german, by placing her with the master of louise; and i said to the notary, without giving him time to draw breath: 'pardon me, sir, if my niece comes dressed in the costume of her country; but she has just arrived: she has no other clothes than these, and i have no means of getting her others, as it would hardly be worth while; for we came only to thank you for having said to mrs. seraphin that you would consent to see cecily, from the good recommendations i had given her: yet i do not think she can suit, sir.'" "very well, mrs. pipelet." "'why will your niece not suit me?' said the notary, who, seated in the chimney-corner, seemed to look at us from under his spectacles. 'because cecily begins to be home-sick, sir. she has only been here three days, yet she wishes to return, even if she has to beg her way back, and sell brooms like her countrywomen.' 'but you, her relation, will not suffer this?' 'i am her relation, it is true; but she is an orphan; she is twenty years old, and she is mistress of her own actions.' 'bah! bah! mistress of her own actions; at her age she should obey her relation,' answered he, roughly. "hereupon cecily began to cry and tremble, pressing against me; the notary made her afraid, very likely." "and ferrand?" "he grumbled and muttered: 'to abandon a girl at her age is to ruin her. to return to germany as a beggar, it is fine! do you, her aunt, allow such conduct?' 'well, well,' said i to myself, 'you're right. i'll place cecily with you, or i'll lose my name.' 'i am her aunt, it is true,' answered i, 'but it is a very unfortunate relationship for me; i have enough on my hands; i would be just as well pleased to have my niece go away as to have her on my hands. may old nick run away with such relations who send you such great girls as this without paying the postage.' to crown all, there was cecily, who seemed to be up to trap, bursting into tears. thereupon the notary assumed a sniveling tone, like a preacher, and said to me: 'you will have to account above for the trust that providence has placed in your hands; it would be a crime to expose this young girl to perdition. i consent to aid you in your charitable work, if your niece promises me to be industrious, honest, and pious; and above all, never to go out. i will have pity on her, and take her in my service.' 'no, no, i would rather go back to my country,' said cecily, still weeping." "her dangerous duplicity did not fail her," thought rudolph; "the diabolical creature has, i see, perfectly comprised the orders of baron de graun." then the prince said aloud, "did ferrand appear vexed at the perverseness of cecily?" "yes, m. rudolph; he muttered between his teeth, and said to her hastily, 'it is not a question, mademoiselle, of what you prefer, but of what is suitable and decent heaven will not abandon you, if you lead an honest life and fulfill your religious duties. you will be here in a house as strict as holy; if your aunt really loves you, she will profit by my offer; at first you will have but small wages, but if by your conduct and zeal you deserve more, perhaps i will increase them." "good! thought i to myself; the notary is caught! here is cecily fixed at your house, you heartless old miser. seraphin was in your service for many years, and you have not even the appearance of remembering that she was drowned the day before yesterday. and i said aloud: 'doubtless, sir, the place is advantageous, but if the young woman is homesick?' 'that will pass away,' answered the notary; 'come, do you decide--yes or no? if you consent, bring your niece to-morrow night at this hour, and she can enter at once into my service--my porter will instruct her. as to wages, i commence by giving her twenty francs a month and board and lodging.' 'oh, sir, you'll add five francs more?' 'no, by and by--if i am content--we shall see. but i must inform you, that your niece must never go out, and must have no one to come and see her.' 'oh, sir, who would come to see her? she knows no one but me in paris, and i have my own door to take care of; it has incommoded me enough to come with her to-day-you will never see me again-she will be as much of a stranger as if she had never come out of her own country. as to her not going out, there is a very simple way--let her wear her own costume; she would never dare go out in the street dressed in that outdacious manner.' 'you are right,' said the notary; 'it is, besides, respectable to dress in the costume of one's country. she may, then, remain in her alsatian dress. 'come,' said i to cecily, who, with her head down, wept continually; 'you must decide, my child; a good place, in an honest house, is not to be found every day; besides, if you refuse, you must make your own arrangements; i'll have no more to do with them.' then cecily answered sighing, 'that she consented to remain; but on condition that if in a fortnight her homesickness troubled her too much, she might go away.' 'i do not wish to keep you by force,' said the notary; 'and i am not embarrassed to find servants. here is your handsel; your aunt will only have to bring you to-morrow night.' cecily had not ceased to weep. i accepted for her the advance of forty sous from the old screw, and we returned here." "very well, mrs. pipelet; i do not forget my promise. here is what i promised if you should succeed in getting a situation for this girl, who embarrassed me." "wait until to-morrow, my prince of lodgers," said mrs. pipelet, refusing the money; "for, perhaps, he will change his mind when i take cecily to him this evening." "i do not think he will change his mind; but where is she?" "in the cabinet belonging to m. robert's apartments; in obedience to your orders she does not stir from them; she seems as resigned as a lamb, although she has eyes--oh! what eyes! but, apropos of m. robert, isn't he an intriguer? when he came himself to superintend the packing of his furniture, did he not tell me that if there came any letters here addressed to madame vincent, they were for him, and to send them to no. rue mondovi. he to be addressed under the name of a woman, the beautiful bird! how cunning it is! but this is not all; did he not have the impudence to ask me what had become of his wood? 'your wood! why not your forest at once?' i answered. now it is true, for two mean cart-loads of nothing at all--one of drift and the other new wood, for he did not buy all new wood--the save-penny made a fuss! his wood? 'i burned all your wood,' said i, 'to save your furniture from the damp; otherwise mushrooms would have sprung up on your embroidered cap, and on your glowworm robe de chambre that you wore so often while you were waiting for the little lady who quizzed you." a heavy plaintive groan from alfred interrupted. "there is my beauty dreaming, he is going to wake up; you will allow me, my prince of lodgers?" "certainly; i have, besides, some more questions to ask." "well! my sweet, how do you feel?" said mrs. pipelet to her husband, opening the curtains; "here is m. rudolph! he knows the new infamy of cabrion: he pities you with all his heart." "oh, sir!" said alfred, turning his head in a languishing manner toward rudolph; "this time i shall not get over it; the monster has stabbed me to the heart. i am the subject of the placards of the capital; my name can be read on all the walls side by side with this scoundrel's. 'pipelet & cabrion,' with an enormous _and_! i! united to this infernal blackguard in the eyes of the capital of europe!" "m. rudolph knows it; but what he does not know is your adventure of last night with those two strapping women." "oh! sir, he kept his most monstrous infamy for the last; this passed all bounds," said alfred, in a mournful tone. "come, my dear m. pipelet, relate to me this new misfortune." "all he had done previously was nothing to this, sir. he succeeded in his object--thanks to proceedings the most shameful. i do not know if i have the strength to relate it! confusion and shame will impede me at each step." pipelet being painfully raised in the bed, modestly buttoned up his flannel waistcoat, and commenced in these terms: "my wide had just gone out; absorbed in the bitterness caused by the prostitution of my name written on all the walls of the capital, i sought to distract myself by endeavoring to sole a boot, twenty times taken up and twenty times abandoned, thanks to the obstinate persecutions of my tormentor. i was seated before a table when i saw the door of my lodge open, and a woman enter. this woman was wrapped in a cloak, with a hood; i arose politely from my seat, and touched my hat. at this moment, a second woman, also enveloped in a cloak with a hood, entered my lodge, and locked the door inside. "although astonished at the familiarity of this procedure, and the silence which the two women preserved, i again rose from my chair, and again carried my hand to my hat. then, sir; no, no, i never can--my modesty revolts." "come, old modesty, you are among men; go on then!" "then," resumed alfred, becoming crimson, "the mantles fell, and what did i see? two species of sirens or nymphs, with no other clothing than a tunic of leaves, the head also crowned with foliage; i was petrified. then they both advanced toward me, extending their arms, if to invite me to precipitate myself into them." "the hussies!" said anastasia. "the advances of these barefaced individuals revolted me," resumed alfred, animated by chaste indignation; "and, following habit, which never abandons me in the most critical circumstances of my life, i remained completely immovable on my chair; when, profiting by my stupor, the two sirens approached me by a kind of slow whirl, spinning round on their legs, and moving their arms. i became more and more immovable. they reached me, they twisted their arms around me." "twisted their arms around an aged married man! oh, if i had been there with my broomstick," cried anastasia, "i'd have given a cadence, and spinning of legs to some purpose." "when i felt myself embraced," continued alfred, "my blood made one rush--i was half dead. then one of the sirens--the boldest, a large, tall blonde--leaned on my shoulder, raised my hat, and uncovered my head, all to music, spinning on her legs and moving her arms; then her accomplice drew a pair of scissors from among the leaves, collected together an enormous lock of all the hair that remained behind my head, and cut it off. all, sir, all; always with the spinning around on her legs; then she said to me, singing, 'it is for cabrion!' and the other impudence repeated in chorus, 'it is for cabrion! it is for cabrion!'" after a pause, accompanied by a grievous sigh, alfred went on with his story: "during this scandalous spoliation, i raised my eyes, and saw looking through the window of the lodge the infernal face of cabrion, with his beard and pointed hat. he laughed, he was hideous! to escape this odious vision, i shut my eyes. when i opened them again, all had disappeared. i found myself on my chair, my head uncovered, and completely devastated! you see, sir, cabrion has gained his end by force of cunning, audacity, and obstinacy; and by what means! he wished to make me pass for his friend; he began by putting up a notice here that we would carry on a friendly trade together. not content with that, at this very moment my name is connected with his on all the walls of the capital. there is not, at this moment, an inhabitant of paris who can have any doubt of my intimacy with this wretch; he wished some of my hair, he has it; all thanks to the impudent exactions of these brazen sirens. now, sir, you must see, there only remains for me a flight from france--ma belle france! where i thought to live and die." alfred threw himself backward on his bed, and clasped his hands. "but just the contrary, old darling; now that he has your hair, he will leave you quiet." "leave me quiet!" cried pipelet, with a convulsive start; "but you do not know him; he is insatiable. now who knows what he will next want from me?" rigolette, appearing at the entrance of the lodge, put an end to the lamentations. "do not enter, mademoiselle!" cried pipelet, faithful to his habits of chaste susceptibility. "i am in bed." so saying, he drew one of the sheets to his chin. rigolette stopped discreetly at the threshold. "i was just going to see you, neighbor," said rudolph to her. "will you wait one moment?" then, addressing anastasia, "do not forget to conduct cecily to-night to m. ferrand's." "be tranquil, my prince of lodgers; at seven o'clock she shall be installed there. now that madame morel can walk, i will ask her to stay in the lodge, for alfred would not, for an empire, remain alone." the rosy cheeks of rigolette had become paler and paler; her charming face, until now so fresh, so round, had lengthened a little; her piquant countenance, ordinarily so animated and lively, was become serious and still more sad since the last interview between the grisette and fleur-de-marie at the gate of the prison of saint lazare. "how happy i am to see you, neighbor," said she to rudolph, when he came out of the lodge. "i have many things to tell you." "in the first place, how do you do? let me look at your pretty face. is it still gay and rosy? alas! no; i find you pale. i am sure you work too much." "oh! no, m. rudolph; i assure you i am now used to this little increase of work. what changes me is grief. every time i see poor germain i become still more sad." "he is then very much depressed?" "more than ever, m. rudolph; and what is annoying is, that everything that i do to console him increases his despondency; it is like a spell." a tear obscured her large black eyes. "explain this to me." "for instance, yesterday i went to see him to take a book he wished to have, because it was a romance that we used to read together in our happy days. at the sight of this book, he burst into tears, which did not surprise me, it was very natural. dear memento of our evenings, so quiet, so pleasant, seated by my stove, in my snug little room, to compare with this frightful life in prison. poor germain! it is very cruel!" "be comforted," said rudolph to the young girl. "when germain gets out of prison, and his innocence is acknowledged, be will find his mother and friends, and he will soon forget, in their society and yours, the terrible moments of trial." "yes, but until then, m. rudolph, he is going to be still more tormented. and besides, this is not all." "what is there besides?" "as he is the only honest man among all these bandits, they are prejudiced against him, because he cannot agree with them. a turnkey, a very good man, told me to advise germain, for his own sake, to be less proud, to try to be a little more familiar with the men; but he cannot. they are stronger than he is, and i fear that some day they will injure him." then, suddenly, interrupting herself, she said, drying her tears, "but see now, i only think of myself, and forget to speak to you about la goualeuse." "la goualeuse?" said rudolph, with surprise. "the day before yesterday, on going to see louise at saint lazare, i met her." "the goualeuse?" "yes, m. rudolph." "in saint lazare?" "she came out with an old lady." "it is impossible!" cried rudolph, astonished. "i assure you it was she, neighbor." "you must be mistaken." "no, no; although she was dressed as a peasant girl, i knew her at once. she is still very handsome, although pale; and she has the same soft, melancholy manner as formerly." "come to paris without my knowledge! i cannot believe it. what was she doing at saint lazare?" "the same as i was; visiting a prisoner, doubtless. i had no time to ask more questions; the old woman who accompanied her had such a cross look, and was in such a hurry. so you know la goualeuse also, m. rudolph?" "certainly." "then, there is no more doubt that it is you of whom she spoke." "of me?" "yes. i related to her the misfortunes of louise and germain, both so good, so virtuous, and so persecuted by that villain jacques ferrand, taking care not to tell what you forbid, that you interested yourself in them; then la goualeuse told me that if a generous person whom she knew was informed of the unhappy and undeserved fate of my poor prisoners, he would certainly come to their assistance. i asked the name of this person, and she named you, m. rudolph." "it is she, it is she!" "you may suppose that we were both much astonished at this discovery, or resemblance of names. we promised to write if our rudolph was the same person. and it appears that you are the same, m. rudolph." "yes. i have also interested myself for this poor child. but what you have told me of her presence in paris surprises me so much that if you had not given me so many details of your interview with her, i should have persisted in believing that you were mistaken. but, adieu, neighbor; what you have just told me about la goualeuse obliges me to leave you. remain still reserved toward louise and germain as regards the protection of unknown friends. this secrecy is more necessary than ever. apropos, how are the morel family?" "better and better, m. rudolph. the mother is on her feet again; the children improve daily. all owe their life to you--their happiness. you are so generous to them!" "and how is poor morel?" "better. i had news from him yesterday. he seems occasionally to have some lucid moments; there is great hope of restoring him to reason." "come, courage: i shall soon see you again. have you need of anything? do you still earn enough to support yourself?" "oh, yes, m. rudolph; i take a little from my hours of rest, and it is not much damage for i hardly sleep now." "alas! my poor little neighbor, i much fear that papa cretu and ramonette will not sing much more if they wait for you to begin." "you are not mistaken, m. rudolph; my birds and i sing no more, for-- now you are going to laugh! well, it seems to me that they comprehend that i am sad; yes, instead of warbling gayly when i arrive, they utter such low, plaintive notes, that they appear to wish to console me. i am foolish to believe this, am i not, m. rudolph?" "not at all: i am sure that your good friends, the birds, love you too much not to perceive your sorrow." "really, the poor little things are so intelligent!" said rigolette, naively, much satisfied at being assured of the sagacity of the companions of her solitude. "without doubt, nothing is more intelligent than gratitude. come, once more, adieu. soon, neighbor, i hope your pretty eyes will become sparkling, your cheeks very rosy, and your songs so gay--so gay--that papa cretu and ramonette will hardly be able to follow you." "may what you have said be true, m. rudolph," answered rigolette, with a heavy sigh. "good-bye!" "good-bye, for the present!" rudolph could not comprehend how madame george had, without advising him, sent or brought fleur-de-marie to paris; he returned home, to send an express to the farm at bouqueval. the moment he entered the rue de plumet, he saw a postchaise stop before the door of the hotel; it was murphy, who had just returned from normandy. the squire had gone there, as we have stated, to unmask the sinister projects of the step-mother of madame d'harville, and bradamanti, her accomplice. chapter xl. murphy and polidori. radiant with joy was the face of sir walter murphy. on descending from the carriage, he handed to one of the servants a pair of pistols, took off his long riding, coat, and, without losing time to change his dress, he followed rudolph, who, very impatient, had preceded him to his apartment. "good news, your highness, good news!" cried the squire, when he found himself alone with rudolph. "the wretches are unmasked! lord d'orbigny is saved! you sent me off in time; one hour later, a new crime would have been committed." "and madame d'harville?" "she is overjoyed at regaining her father's affection, and at having arrived in time, thanks in your advice, to save him from certain death." "polidori?" "was once more the worthy accomplice of the stepmother of madame d'harville. but what a monster is this step-mother! what audacity! and polidori! oh, my lord, you have often been pleased to thank me for what you call the proofs of my devotedness." "i have always had proofs of your friendship, my good sir walter." "well, never, your highness, never--no, never has this friendship been put to a severer test than in this affair," said the squire, in a half joking manner. "how is that?" "disguises as coalheavers, and so on, were nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the journey i have just made with this infernal polidori." "what do you say? polidori--" "i have brought him with me." "with you?" "with me. judge what a companion! during twelve hours, side by side with the man i despise and hate the most in the world! i would as soon travel with a serpent; my antipathy--" "and where is polidori now?" "in the house of the allee des veuves, under good, sure guard." "did he make no resistance to following you?" "none. i left him the choice of being arrested on the spot by the french authorities, or being my prisoner in the allee des veuves. he did not hesitate." "you were right; it is better to have him thus in our own hands. you are a man of gold, my friend; but relate to me your journey; i am impatient to know how this unworthy woman and her depraved accomplice have been unmasked." "nothing could be plainer. i had only to follow your instructions to the letter to terrify and crush these wretches. in this case, your highness has saved, as usual, people of worth, and punished the wicked; noble providence that you are!" "sir walter, sir walter, do you remember the flatteries of baron de graun?" said rudolph, smiling. "well, let it pass. i will commence then; or, rather, you will first please to read this letter, from madame d'harville, which will inform you of all that occurred previous to my arrival." "a letter? give it to me quickly." murphy, handing rudolph the letter, added, "as it was agreed upon, instead of accompanying the lady to her father's i alighted at an inn, a short distance from the chateau, where i was to stay until her ladyship sent for me." rudolph read what follows, with tender and impatient solicitude: "your highness,--to all i owe you already, i add the life of my father! "i shall let facts speak for themselves; they will tell you better than i can, what new treasures of gratitude toward you i have collected in my heart. "comprehending all the importance of the counsels which you gave me through sir walter murphy, who rejoined me on the road to normandy, just as i left paris, i arrived in all haste at the chateau des aubiers. "i do not know why, but the features of the servants who received me appeared sinister; i did not see among them any of the old servitors of our house; no one knew me; i was obliged to announce myself. i learned that, some days before, my father was quite ill, and my stepmother had just returned from paris with a physician. no more doubt--it was dr. polidori! "wishing to be conducted at once to my father, i asked where an old valet was, to whom he was much attached. this man had left the chateau some time before; this information was given me by a butler, who had conducted me to my apartments, saying 'that he would go and inform my step-mother of my arrival.' "was it an illusion or prejudice? it seemed to me that my arrival was disagreeable even to the servants. everything in the chateau seemed mournful and sad. in the disposition of mind in which i found myself, one seeks to draw conclusions from the merest trifles. i remarked everywhere traces of disorder, of negligence, as if it had been thought useless to take care of a dwelling so soon to be abandoned. "my anxiety increased each moment. after having settled my daughter and her governess in my apartment, i was about to go to my father when my step-mother entered. notwithstanding her duplicity and the command which she ordinarily has over herself, she appeared uneasy at my arrival. "m. d'orbigny did not expect your visit, madame," said she to me. "he is so ill, that such a surprise might be fatal. i think it, then, suitable to leave him in ignorance of your presence; he cannot, in any way--" i did not allow her to finish. "a great misfortune has happened, madame," said i; 'm. d'harville is dead! victim of a fatal imprudence! after such a deplorable event, i cannot remain in paris, and i have come to pass at my father's my mourning." "you are a widow! oh! what overpowering good fortune!' cried my step-mother, in a rage. from what you know of the unhappy marriage, which this woman schemed for me, your highness will comprehend the atrocity of her exclamation. "it is because i feared that you would be also as overpoweringly fortunate as i am, madame, that i came here," said i, perhaps imprudently; "i wish to see my father." "your unexpected appearance may do your father much harm," cried she, placing herself before me, to bar the passage. 'i will not allow you to enter his chamber until i have informed him of your return, with all the precautions his situation requires.' "i was in a state of cruel perplexity. a sudden surprise might, indeed, prove dangerous to my father; but this woman, ordinarily so cold, so much the mistress of herself, seemed so alarmed at my presence; i had so many reasons to doubt the sincerity of her solicitude for the health of him whom she had married from cupidity; finally, the presence of dr. polidori, my mother's murderer, caused a terror so great that, believing the life of my father to be threatened, i did not hesitate between the hope of saving him and the fear of causing him any serious emotions. "'i will see my father at once,' said i to my stepmother. "and although she caught me by the arms, i passed out. "losing her self-possession completely, this woman again endeavored to stop me. this incredible resistance redoubled my alarm. i disengaged myself from her hands. knowing the apartment of my father, i ran thither rapidly; i entered. oh, your highness! on my life, i shall never forget the scene presented to my view. my father, almost unrecognizable, pale, thin, suffering painted on every feature, with his head leaning on a pillow, was stretched out in a large arm-chair. "at the chimney-corner, standing near him, was dr. polidori, prepared to pour in a cup, which a nurse presented to him, some drops of a liquid contained in a little glass bottle which he held in his hand. "his long red beard gave a still more sinister expression to his face. i entered so precipitately, that he made a gesture of surprise, exchanged a look of intelligence with my step-mother, who followed in haste, and instead of giving my father the potion which he had prepared for him, he quickly placed it on the chimney-piece. "guided by an instinct which i cannot yet account for, my first movement was to seize the vial. "remarking the surprise and alarm of my step-mother and polidori, i felicitated myself on my action. my father, stupefied, seemed irritated, at seeing me, as i expected. polidori cast a ferocious glance at me; notwithstanding the presence of my father and that of the nurse, i feared that this wretch, seeing his crime almost discovered, would carry matters to extremities. "i felt the need of help at this decisive moment; i rang the bell; one of the servants appeared; i begged him to say to my valet (who had his instructions) to go and bring some things i had left at the inn; sir walter murphy knew that, not to arouse the suspicions of my stepmother, i would employ this subterfuge to bring him to me. "the surprise of my father and my step-mother was such that the servant retired before they could say a word; i was reassured; in a few moments sir walter would be near me. "'what does this mean?' said my father, at length, in a feeble but imperious and angry tone, 'you here, clemence, without being sent for? and then, hardly arrived, you take possession of the vial which contains the potion that the doctor was about to give me; will you explain this folly?' "'leave the room,' said my step-mother to the nurse. 'calm yourself, dear,' said she, addressing my father; 'you know the least emotion may injure you. since your daughter comes here in spite of you, and her presence is disagreeable, give me your arm, i will conduct you to the little saloon; and leave our good doctor to make madame d'harville understand the imprudence (not to say anything worse) of her conduct.' "and she cast a significant look at her accomplice. i comprehended the design of my step-mother. she wished to lead my father away, and leave me alone with polidori, who, in this extreme case, would have doubtless employed violence to force from me the vial, which might furnish evident proof of his designs. 'you are right,' said my father; 'since she comes and persecutes me even in my own room, without any respect for my wishes, i will leave the place free to her importunacy.' and rising with an effort, he accepted the offered arm, and made some steps toward the small saloon. at this moment, polidori advancing toward me, i drew nearer my father and said, 'i will explain to you the cause of my unexpected arrival, and what is strange in my conduct. i am a widow. i know your days are threatened, father.' "he walked painfully, with his body bent. at these words, he stopped, stood erect, and looking at me with profound astonishment, cried, 'you are a widow? my days threatened? what does all this mean?' "'and who dares to threaten the days of m. d'orbigny, madame?' audaciously asked my step-mother. 'who threatens them?' added polidori. "'you, sir; you, madame,' i answered. 'what an insult!' cried my step-mother, advancing toward me. 'what i say, i will prove, madame.' 'such an accusation is frightful!' said my father. "'i shall leave this house at once, since in it i am exposed to such atrocious calumnies!' said dr. polidori, with the assumed indignation of a man whose honor was outraged. beginning to feel the danger of his position, he doubtless wished to fly. as he opened the door, he found himself face to face with sir walter murphy." rudolph, stopping a moment, extended his hand to the squire, and said: "very timely, my old friend; your presence must have been like a thunderbolt to this wretch." "that is the word, your highness; he became livid, and retreated two steps, looking at me in a kind of stupor; he seemed astounded. to meet me in normandy at such a moment! he thought it was a dream. but continue, my lord; you will see that this infernal countess d'orbigny had also her turn of a thunderbolt, thanks to what you told me of her visit to the quack bradamanti polidori in the house of the rue du temple; for, after all, it is you who act; or, rather, i was only the instrument of your thought." rudolph smiled, and went on with the perusal of the letter of madame d'harville. "at the sight of sir walter, polidori was petrified; my step-mother fell from one surprise into another; my father, alarmed at this scene, and weakened by sickness, was obliged to seat himself in a chair. sir walter double-locked the door by which he entered; and, placing himself before the one which opened into another apartment, so that the doctor could not escape, he said to my father, with the most profound respect: "'i ask a thousand pardons, my lord, for the liberty i take; but imperious necessity, dictated solely by you? interest (as you will soon acknowledge) obliges me to act thus. my name is sir walter murphy, as this wretch can testify, who, at my sight, trembles with fear; i am the confidential adviser of his royal highness, the grand-duke of gerolstein.' "'it is true,' said dr. polidori, confusedly, quite beside himself with alarm. 'but, sir, what do you come here for? what do you want?' "'sir walter murphy,' said i, addressing my father, 'comes to aid me in unmasking these wretches, to whose machinations you were near falling a victim.' then, handing to sir walter the vial, i added, 'i have had the good fortune to become possessed of this at the moment dr. polidori was about administering to my father its contents.' "'a chemist from the neighboring town shall analyze before you the contents of this bottle, which i am going to place in your lordship's hands, and if it be proved that it contains a slow poison,' said sir walter to my father, 'there can remain no more doubt of the danger you have run, which the affection of your daughter has happily prevented.' "my poor father looked at his wife, dr. polidori, sir walter, and myself in a bewildered manner; his features expressed deep agony, i read upon his careworn face the violent struggle which tore his heart. without doubt he was resisting with all his strength growing and terrible suspicions, fearing to be obliged to recognize the guilt of my step-mother; at length, concealing his face in his hands, he cried, 'oh! all this is horrible--impossible! is this, then, a dream?' "'no, it is not a dream!' cried my step-mother, audaciously: 'nothing is more real than this atrocious calumny, previously concocted, to ruin an unhappy woman, whose sole crime has been consecrating her life to you. come, come, my friend, let us not remain a second longer here!' added she, addressing herself to my father; 'perhaps your daughter will not have the insolence to detain you in spite of yourself.' "'yes, yes, let us go,' said my father, almost wild; 'this is not true--cannot be true; i wish to hear nothing further; my reason would give way; frightful suspicions would arise in my mind, empoison the few days remaining for me to live, and nothing could console me for such an abominable discovery!' "my father seemed so suffering, so despairing, that at any sacrifice, i would have put a stop to a scene so cruel for him. sir walter divined my thoughts; but, wishing to do full and entire justice, he answered my father. "'yet a few words, my lord; you are about to experience the affliction, doubtless very painful, of discovering that a woman whom you believe attached to you by gratitude, has always been a monstrous hypocrite; but you will find certain consolation in the affection of your daughter, who has always been true." "'this passes all bounds!' cried my step-mother, in a rage; 'by what right, sir, on what proofs, dare you utter such frightful calumnies? you say the vial contains poison. i deny it, sir; and i will deny it until you prove the contrary; and even if dr. polidori might have by accident mistaken one medicine for another, is that a reason to dare to accuse me of having wished, with him as an accomplice--oh! no, no, i cannot finish--an idea so horrible is already a crime. once more, sir, i defy you to say on what proofs you and madame dare to sustain this frightful calumny,' said my step-mother, with incredible audacity. 'yes, on what proofs?' cried my unfortunate father. 'the torture i suffer must be brought to a close.' "'i have not come here without proofs, my lord,' said sir walter. 'and these proofs the answers of this wretch will furnish directly.' then sir walter spoke to dr. polidori in german, who seemed to have recovered a little assurance, but lost it immediately." * * * * * * * "what did you say to him?" demanded rudolph, laying aside the letter for a moment. "some significant words to this effect: 'you escaped by flight the sentence pronounced against you in the grand duchy; you live in the rue du temple, under the false name of bradamanti; your present occupation is unknown; you poisoned the count's first wife; three days ago madame d'orbigny came to bring you here to poison her husband. his serene highness is in paris, and has the proofs of all i advance. if you confess the truth, so as to convict this miserable woman, you may hope, not pardon, but some mitigation of the punishment you deserve; you must follow me to paris, where i will place you in security, until his royal highness decides your fate. otherwise two things; one, the prince will demand you from the government, or this moment i will send to the neighboring town for a magistrate; this vial containing poison, shall be placed in his hands; you will be arrested at once, your lodgings in the rue du temple searched; you know how much that will compromise you, and french justice shall follow its course. choose then.' these revelations, accusations, and threats, that he knew well-founded, succeeding one another so rapidly, confounded this miscreant, who did not expect to find me so well informed. in the hope of lessening the punishment which awaited him, he did not hesitate to sacrifice his accomplice, and answered, 'interrogate me--i will tell the truth concerning this woman.'" "well, well, my worthy friend, i expected no less from you." "during my interview with polidori, the features of madame d'orbigny changed their expression of assurance alarmingly, although she did not understand german. she saw, from the increasing dejection of her confederate, from his supplicating attitude, that i had him in my power. in great anxiety, she endeavored to catch the eye of polidori, in order to give him courage or to implore his discretion, but he avoided her glances." "and the count?" "his emotion was indescribable; with his contracted fingers he clutched, convulsively, the arm of his chair, the perspiration standing on his forehead: he hardly breathed; his burning and glazed eyes were fixed on mine; his agony equaled that of his wife. the continuation of the letter of madame d'harville will instruct your highness as to the end of this painful scene." rudolph resumed the perusal of the letter. "after a conversation in german, which lasted for some moments, sir walter said to polidori, 'now answer, was it not madame,' and he pointed at my step-mother, 'who, at the time of the illness of my lord's first wife, introduced you in the house as a physician?' 'yes, it was she,' answered polidori. "'in order to serve the fearful projects of madame, have you not been criminal enough to render mortal (by your homicidal prescriptions) the slight illness of the countess d'orbigny?' 'yes,' said polidori. "my father uttered a heart-rending sigh, raised his two hands toward heaven, and let them fall, quite overwhelmed. 'falsehoods and infamy!' cried my stepmother; 'all this is false; they conspire to ruin me!' 'silence, madame!' said sir walter, in an imposing voice; then, continuing to question polidori: "'is it true, that three days ago, madame went to seek you at no. rue du temple, where you reside, concealed under the false name of bradamanti?' "'that is true.' "'did not madame propose to you to come here to murder the count d'orbigny, as you had murdered his wife?' "'alas! i cannot deny it,' said polidori. "'at this overwhelming revelation, my father arose on his feet; he showed the door to my step-mother; then, extending his arms toward me, he cried, in a broken voice, 'in the name of your unfortunate mother, pardon me, pardon me! i have caused you much suffering; but i swear to you i was a stranger to the crime which has conducted her to the tomb.' "and before i could prevent him, he fell at my feet. "when sir walter and myself raised him, he had fainted. i rang for the servants. sir walter took the doctor by the arm, and went out with him, saying to my step-mother, 'believe me, madame, you had better leave this house before an hour, or i will deliver you up to justice.' "the wretched woman left the room in a state of alarm and rage which your highness will easily conceive. "when my father recovered his senses, all that had taken place appeared like a horrid dream. i was under the sad necessity of relating to him my first suspicions concerning the premature death of my mother--suspicions which your highness's knowledge of the previous crimes of dr. polidori changed into certainty. "i was obliged, also, to tell my father how my stepmother had carried her hatred even to my marriage, and what had been her object in causing me to marry m. d'harville. "as much as my father had shown himself weak and blind respecting this woman, just so much he wished to treat her without mercy; he accused himself, with despair, of having been the accomplice of this monster, in giving her his hand after the death of my mother. he wished to give her up to justice; i represented to him the odious notoriety of such proceedings. i engaged him to drive her away forever from his presence, allowing her just enough for her support, since she bore his name. "i had great trouble in procuring my father's consent to this; he wished me to turn her out of the house. this mission would be doubly painful; i thought that sir walter, perhaps, would act for me. he consented." "and i consented with joy," said murphy to rudolph; "nothing pleases me more than to give to the wicked this kind of extreme unction." "and what did this woman say?" "madame d'harville had carried her goodness so far as to ask from her father a pension of one hundred louis for this creature. this appeared to me not goodness, but weakness; it was bad enough to rob justice of such a dangerous woman. i went to find the count; he coincided entirely with me; it was agreed that we should give, in all, twenty-five louis to the infamous wretch, so that she might subsist until she found employment. 'and what kind of employment can the countess d'orbigny find?' demanded she, insolently. 'that's your business; you might be something like a nurse or housekeeper; but, believe me, seek the most humble and obscure calling; for if you have the audacity to tell your title, which you owe to a crime, people will be astonished to see the countess d'orbigny reduced to such a condition; they will inquire, and you can judge of the consequences, if you are fool enough to noise abroad the past. conceal yourself in some distant place; cause yourself to be forgotten; become madame pier re or madame jacques, and repent--if you can.' 'and do you think, sir,' said she to me, 'that i shall not claim the advantages secured to me by my marriage contract?' 'certainly, madame, nothing can be more just; it would be unworthy of m. d'orbigny not to execute his promises, and not to recognize all that you have done for him, and all you would have done. sue, sue; address yourself to justice; i have no doubt the decision will be against your husband. a quarter of an hour after our conversation, the creature was on the road to the neighboring town." "you are right; it is painful to allow such a woman to escape with impunity; but the scandal of such a trial for this old man, already so much debilitated, is not to be thought of." "i have easily persuaded my father to leave les aubiers to-day," resumed rudolph, continuing to read the letter from madame d'harville: "too many sad recollections attend him here; although his health is delicate, the journey and change of air may be of service, as the physician says who has taken the place of dr. polidori. my father wished that he should analyze the contents of the vial, without informing him of what had passed; he answered that he could only do this at his own house, but that in two hours we should know the result. this was, that several doses of this liquid, prepared with infernal skill, would, in a given time, produce death, without leaving any traces. "in a few hours i leave with my father and daughter for fontainebleau; we will remain there for some time; then, according to the wish of my father, we return to paris, but not to my own house; it will be impossible for me to live there after the deplorable accident which has taken place. "thus, as i have said, on commencing this letter, events show all that i owe to your highness's solicitude. warned by you, aided by your advice, strong in the co-operation of your excellent and courageous sir walter, i have been able to snatch my father from certain death, and i am assured of the return of his tenderness. "adieu! it is impossible for me to say more, my heart is too full: too many emotions agitate it; i should badly express all that i feel. "d'orbigny d'harville. "i open this letter in haste, your highness, to repair a neglect of which i am ashamed. in seeking, by your noble advice, to do some good, i went to the prison of saint lazare to visit the poor prisoners. i found there an unfortunate child in whom you are interested; her angelic sweetness and pious resignation are the admiration of the matron who overlooks the inmates. to inform you where the goualeuse (such i believe is her name) can be found is to request you to obtain her liberty. this unfortunate girl will relate to you by what a concourse of sinister circumstances, carried away from the asylum where you had placed her, she has been thrown into this prison, where she is appreciated for the purity of her conduct. permit me also to recall to your highness's mind my two future _protegees_ the unhappy mother and daughter--despoiled by the notary ferrand, where are they? have you had any information concerning them? oh, i pray you endeavor to discover them, so that on my return to paris i can pay them the debt which i have contracted toward all unfortunates!" "goualeuse has, then, left the farm of bouqueval?" cried murphy, as much astonished as rudolph at this new revelation. "i heard but just now that she was seen coming out of saint lazare," answered rudolph. "i am lost in conjecture; the silence of madame george confounds and distresses me. poor little fleur-de-marie, what new misfortunes have happened to you? let a man on horseback be sent off at once to the farm, and write to madame george that i beg her to come at once to paris. say also to m. de graun, i wish an order to enter saint lazare. from what madame d'harville writes, fleur-de-marie is confined there; but no," said rudolph, reflecting, "she is no longer a prisoner, for rigolette saw her come out in company with an aged woman. can it be madame george? otherwise, who is the woman? where is the goualeuse gone to?" "patience, my lord; before to-night you shall know all about it. to-morrow you will have to interrogate this scoundrel polidori; he has, he said, important communications to make to you, but to you alone." "the interview will be hateful to me," said rudolph, sadly; "for i have never seen this man since the fatal day--when--" rudolph could not finish; he concealed his face in his hands. "why consent to what polidori demands? threaten him with the french courts, or an extradition on the government; he must resign himself to confess to me what he is only willing to confess to you." "you are right, my good friend; for the sight of this wretch would render still more torturing these terrible recollections, to which are attached so many incurable griefs; from the death of my father to that of my poor little girl--i do not know but that the more i advance in life, the more i feel the loss of this child. how i should have adored her! how dear and precious to me had been this fruit of my first love, of my first and pure belief, or, rather, my young illusions!" "stay, my lord; i see with pain the increasing sway which these regrets, as fruitless as cruel, have upon your mind." after a pause, rudolph said to murphy: "i can now make a confession to you, my old friend. i love--yes, i love passionately a woman worthy of the most noble and devoted affection. ah! it is since my heart is opened anew to all the delights of love, since i am predisposed to tender emotions, that i feel more vividly the loss of my daughter." "nothing can be plainer, my lord; and, pardon the comparison, but, in the same manner as certain men are joyous and benevolent in their intoxication, you are good and generous in your love." "yet my hatred of the wicked is also become deep; my aversion to sarah increases, doubtless with my grief for the death of my child. i imagine that this bad mother has neglected her; that her ambitious hopes once ruined by my marriage, the countess, in her selfish egotism, has abandoned our child to mercenary hands, and that my daughter perhaps died from want of care. it is also my fault; i did not then know the extent of the sacred duties of paternity. when the true character of sarah was suddenly revealed to me, i should have at once taken my daughter from her, to watch over her with love and solicitude. i ought to have foreseen that the countess could never be more than an unnatural mother. it is my fault, my fault!" "grief causes your highness to err. could you, after such a fatal event had happened, defer for one day the long journey imposed on you--as--" "as an expiation! you are right, my friend," said rudolph, sorrowfully. "have you heard anything from the countess since my departure, my lord?" "no: since her infamous accusations, which twice came near proving the ruin of madame d'harville, i have no news of her. her presence here annoys me; it seems that my evil spirit is near me, that some new misfortune threatens me." "patience, your highness, patience. happily, germany is interdicted for her, and germany expects us." "yes; we will soon depart. at least, during my short stay at paris i shall have accomplished a sacred duty: i shall have made some steps more in the worthy path which an august and merciful will pointed out to me for my redemption. as soon as the son of madame george shall be restored to her arms, innocent and free; as soon as jacques ferrand shall be convicted and punished for his crimes; as soon as i shall be assured of the future comforts of all the honest and industrious creatures who, by their resignation, their courage, and their probity, have deserved my interest, we will return to germany--my journey will not have been fruitless." "above all, if you succeed in unmasking that abominable jacques ferrand, the corner-stone of so many crimes." "although the end justifies the means, and scruples should have no weight as regards this scoundrel, sometimes i regret having employed cecily in this just and avenging reparation." "she ought to arrive soon." "she has arrived." "cecily?" "yes; i did not wish to see her. de graun has given her very detailed instructions; she has promised to conform to them." "will she keep this promise?" "everything seems to promise it--the hope of a mitigation of her punishment, and the fear of being sent immediately back to germany; for de graun has her well watched; at the slightest misstep he will demand her of the government." "it is just. she has arrived like an escaped convict: when they know what crimes caused her perpetual imprisonment, they would give her up at once." "besides, de graun was almost alarmed at the sagacity with which cecily comprehended, or rather, guessed the part, inflaming and yet platonic, she was to play at the notary's. "but can she be introduced to him as early as you wish, through mrs. pipelet? people of the species of jacques ferrand are so suspicious." "i had, with reason, counted on the appearance of cecily to combat and conquer this suspicion." "has he already seen her?" "yesterday. from the account given by mrs. pipelet, i do not doubt but that he was fascinated by the creole; he took her at once into his service." "come, my lord, our game is won." "i hope so; a ferocious cupidity and a savage thirst have led the executioner of louise morel to the most frightful misdeeds. it is in them that he will find the punishment of his crimes. a punishment which will not be barren for his victims; for you see the aim of all the efforts of the creole." "cecily! never did greater depravity, never a more dangerous corruption, never a blacker soul serve to the accomplishment of a project of higher morality, or of a more equitable end; and david, my lord?" "he approves of all. with all the contempt and horror which he has for this creature, he only sees in her the instrument of a just vengeance. 'if this cursed woman can ever merit any compassion after all the injury she has done me,' said he to me, 'it will be in devoting herself to the punishment of this scoundrel, for whom she must be an exterminating demon.'" a servant having tapped at the door, murphy went out, and returned, bringing in two letters, one of which seemed intended for rudolph. "it is a line from madame george!" cried he, reading it rapidly. "well, goualeuse?" "no more doubt," cried rudolph, after having read the letter; "another mysterious plot. the same evening on which the poor child disappeared, at the moment madame george was about to inform me of the event, a man, whom she did not know, arrived express on horseback, came to her, as from me, to reassure her, saying i was informed of the sudden departure of fleur-de-marie, and that some day i would bring her back to the farm. notwithstanding this notice, madame george, uneasy at my silence respecting her _protegee_ cannot, she writes me, resist her desire to have some news of her cherished daughter, as she calls the poor child." "this is strange, my lord." "for what end should she have been carried off?" "my lord," said murphy, suddenly, "the countess m'gregor is no stranger to this affair." "sarah? what makes you think so?" "compare this with her denunciations to madame d'harville." "you are right," cried rudolph, a new light bursting upon him; it's evident: i comprehend now; yes, always the same calculation. the countess persists in believing, that by succeeding in breaking every tie of affection, she will make me feel the want of her. this is as odious as useless. yet such an unworthy prosecution must have an end. it is not only against me, but against all who merit respect, interest, and pity, that this woman directs her attacks. you will send m. de graun at once, officially, to the countess; he will declare to her that i am advised of the part she has taken in the abduction of fleur-de-marie, and that if she does not give me the necessary information, so that i can recover this unhappy child, i shall act without pity, and then it is to justice m. de graun must address himself." "from the letter of madame d'harville, the goualeuse must be confined at saint lazare." "yes, but rigolette affirms that she saw her free, coming out of this prison. there is a mystery to be cleared up." "i will go at once and give your highness's orders to baron de graun; but allow me to open this letter; it is from my correspondent at marseilles, to whom i recommended the chourineur, to facilitate the passage of the poor fellow to algiers." "well! has he gone?" "here is something singular." "what is it?" "after having waited at marseilles a long time for a vessel to depart for algiers, the chourineur, who seemed every day more sad and thoughtful, suddenly declared, the day being fixed for his departure, that he preferred to return to paris." "how singular!" "although my correspondent had, as was agreed upon, placed a considerable sum of money at the disposal of the chourineur, he only took what was absolutely necessary for him to return to paris, where he will soon arrive, as they write me." "then he will explain to us himself why he has changed his mind, but send de graun at once to the countess m'gregor, and go yourself to saint lazare to gain some information concerning fleur-de-marie." in an hour's time the baron de graun returned from the countess's. notwithstanding his habitual and official _sang froid_, the diplomatist seemed troubled; hardly had the usher announced him, than rudolph remarked his paleness. "well! de graun, what is the matter? have you seen her?" "oh! my lord." "what is it?" "will your royal highness pardon me for informing you so suddenly of an event so fatal, so unlooked for, so-- "the countess is dead?" "no, my lord, but her life is despaired of; she has been stabbed with a dagger." "oh! it is frightful!" cried rudolph, touched with pity, notwithstanding his aversion to sarah. "who has committed this crime?" "no one knows, my lord; the murder was accompanied by robbery; some one entered the apartment and carried off a large quantity of jewels." "and how is she now?" "her life is almost despaired of, my lord; she has not yet recovered her consciousness. her brother is in a state of distraction." "you must go every day to inquire after her, my dear de graun." at this moment murphy returned from saint lazare. "learn sad news!" said rudolph to him; "the countess has been wounded! her life is in great danger." "oh! my lord; although she is very culpable, yet i cannot but pity her." "yes; such an end would be frightful! and the goualeuse?" "set at liberty yesterday, my lord, supposed by the intervention of madame d'harville." "but it is impossible! madame d'harville begs me, on the contrary, to make the necessary arrangements to get her out of prison." "doubtless; and yet, an aged woman, of respectable, appearance, came to saint lazare, bringing the order to set fleur-de-marie at liberty. both have left the prison." "this is what rigolette told me; but this aged woman, who is she? where have they gone to? what is this new mystery? the countess alone can enlighten us; and she is in a state to give us no information. may she not carry this secret with her to the grave?" "but her brother, thomas seyton, could certainly throw some light upon the affair. he has always been her adviser." "his sister is dying; some new plot is on foot; he will not speak; but," said rudolph, reflecting, "we must find out the name of the person who applied for her release; thus we can learn something." "yes, my lord." "try, then, to know and see this person as soon as possible, my dear de graun; if you do not succeed, put your m. badinot on the trail; spare nothing to discover the poor child." "your highness may count on my zeal." "my lord," said murphy, "it is, perhaps, as well that the chourineur returns; we may need his services for these researches." "you are right; and now i am impatient to see arrive at paris my brave deliverer, the gallant, 'slasher,' for i shall never forget that to him i owe my life." * * * * * * * forced to extend the unfoldings of the evil and good machinations of the grand-duke rudolph and his enemies into another volume, we do so, promising that even more singular characters, even more striking actions and engaging scenes, will be found in "part third: night." the end. (stanford university, sul books in the public domain) transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . passages in gothic bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs. . other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text. [illustration: "_he took from the bed a large plaid shawl_" etching by adrian marcel, after the drawing by frank t. merrill] +the mysteries of paris.+ _illustrated with etchings by mercier, bicknell, poiteau, and adrian marcel._ _by eugene sue_ _in six volumes volume ii._ _printed for francis a. niccolls & co. boston_ _edition de luxe._ _limited to one thousand copies._ no.______ contents. chapter page i. the ball ii. the rendezvous iii. an idyl iv. the ambuscade v. the rectory-house vi. the rencounter vii. an evening at the farm viii. the dream ix. the letter x. the hollow way xi. clÉmence d'harville xii. misery xiii. judgment and execution xiv. rigolette list of illustrations. page "he took from the bed a large plaid shawl" _frontispiece_ "at length alighted on her shoulder" "'so i have brought turk with me'" "'you must give me leave'" the mysteries of paris. chapter i. the ball. belonging to one of the first families in france, still young, and with a face that would have been agreeable had it not been for the almost ridiculous and disproportionate length of his nose, m. de lucenay joined to a restless love of constant motion the habit of talking and laughing fearfully loud upon subjects quite at variance with good taste or polished manners, and throwing himself into attitudes so abrupt and awkward that it was only by recalling who he was, that his being found in the midst of the most distinguished societies in paris could be accounted for, or a reason assigned for tolerating his gestures and language; for both of which he had now, by dint of long practice and adherence, acquired a sort of free license or impunity. he was shunned like the plague, although not deficient in a certain description of wit, which told here and there amid the indescribable confusion of remarkable phraseology which he allowed himself the use of; in fact, he was one of those unintentional instruments of vengeance one would always like to employ in the wholesale chastisement of persons who have rendered themselves either ridiculous or abhorrent. the duchess de lucenay, one of the most agreeable, and, at the same time, most fashionable women in paris (spite of her having numbered thirty summers), had more than once furnished matter of conversation among the scandal-dealers of paris; but her errors, whatever they were supposed to be, were pardoned, in consideration of the heavy drawback of such a partner as m. de lucenay. another feature in the character of this latter-named individual was a singular affectation of the most absurd and unknown expressions, relative to imaginary complaints and ridiculous infirmities he amused himself in supposing you suffered from, and concerning which he would make earnest inquiries, in a loud voice, and in the immediate presence of a hundred persons. but possessed of first-rate courage, and always ready to take the consequences of his disagreeable jokes, m. de lucenay had been concerned in various affairs of honour arising out of them, with varied success; coming off sometimes victor, sometimes vanquished, without being in any way cured of his unpleasant and annoying tricks. all this premised, we will ask the reader to imagine the loud, harsh voice of the personage we have been describing, shouting from the distance at which he first recognised madame d'harville and sarah: "holla! holla! who is that out there? come, who is it? let's see. what! the prettiest woman at the ball sitting out here, away from everybody! i can't have this; it is high time i returned from the other end of the world to put a stop to such doings as this. i tell you what, marquise, if you persist in thus concealing yourself from general view, and cheating people from looking at you, i will set up a cry of fire! fire! that shall bring every one out of the ballroom, around you." and then, by way of terminating his discourse, m. de lucenay threw himself almost on his back beside the two ladies, crossed his left leg over his right thigh, and held his foot in his hand. "you have soon returned from constantinople, my lord," observed madame d'harville, fancying it was necessary to say something, and, at the same time, drawing away from her unpleasant neighbour with ill-concealed impatience. "ah, that is just what my wife said! 'already back, my lord?' exclaimed she, when she saw me alight from my travelling-carriage; 'why, bless me, i did not expect you so soon!' and, do you know, instead of flying to my arms, as if the surprise had delighted her, she turned quite sulky, and refused to appear with me at this, my first ball since my return! and, upon my soul, i declare her staying away has caused a far greater sensation than my presence,--droll, isn't it? 'pon my life, i declare i can't make it out. when she is with me, nobody pays the least attention to me; but when i entered the room alone to-night, such a crowd came humming and buzzing around me, all calling out at once, 'where is madame de lucenay? is not she coming this evening? oh, dear, what a disappointment! how vexatious! how disagreeable!' etc., etc. and then, marquise, when i come where you are, and expect, after returning all the way from constantinople, you will be overjoyed to see me, you look upon me as if i were a dog running amidst an interesting game of ninepins; and yet, for all i see, i am just as agreeable as other people." "and it would have been so easy for you to have continued agreeable--in the east," added madame d'harville, slightly smiling. "stop abroad, you mean, i suppose; yes, i dare say. i tell you i could not, and i would not; and it is not quite what i like, to hear you say so!" exclaimed m. de lucenay, uncrossing his legs, and beating the crown of his hat after the fashion of a tambourine. "well, for heaven's sake, my lord, be still, and do not call out so very loudly," said madame d'harville, angrily, "or really you will compel me to change my place." "change your place! ah, to be sure! you want to take my arm, and walk about the gallery a little; come along then, i'm ready." "walk with you! certainly not! and pray let me beg of you not to meddle with that bouquet--and have the goodness not to touch the fan either; you will only break it, as you always do." "oh, bless you! talking of breaking fans, i am unlucky. did my wife ever show you a magnificent chinese fan, given to her by madame de vaudémont? well, i broke that!" and, having delivered himself of these comforting words, m. de lucenay again threw himself back on the divan he had been lounging on, but, with his accustomed gaucherie, contrived to pitch himself over the back of it, on to the ground, grasping in his hand a quantity of the floating wreaths of climbing plants which depended from the boughs of the trees under which the party was sitting, and which he had been, for some time, amusing himself with essaying to catch, as, moved by the light breeze admitted into the place, they undulated gracefully over his head. the suddenness of his fall brought down, not only those he held, but the parent stems belonging to them; and poor de lucenay was so covered by the mass of foliage thus unexpectedly obtained, that, ere he could thoroughly disengage himself from their circling tendrils, he presented the appearance of some monarch of may-day crowned with his leafy diadem. so whimsical an appearance as he presented drew down roars of deafening, stunning laughter; much to the annoyance of madame d'harville, who would quickly have got out of the vicinity of so awkward and unpleasant a person had she not perceived m. charles robert (the commandant of madame pipelet's accounts) advancing from the other end of the gallery; and, unwilling to appear as though going to meet him, she once more resumed her seat beside m. de lucenay. "i say, lady macgregor," vociferated the incorrigible de lucenay, "didn't i look preciously like a wild man of the woods, or the god pan, or a sylvan, or a naiad, or some of those savage creatures, with that green wreath round my head? oh, but talking of savages," added he, abruptly approaching sarah, "lady macgregor, i must tell you a most outrageously indecent story. just imagine that at otaheite--" "my lord duke--" interrupted sarah, in a tone of freezing rebuke. "just as you like,--you are not obliged to hear my story if you don't like it; you are the loser, that's all. ah! i see madame de fonbonne out there; i shall keep it for her; she is a dear, kind creature, and will be delighted to hear it; so i'll save it for her." madame de fonbonne was a fat little woman, of about fifty years of age, very pretending, and very ridiculous. her fat double chin rested on her equally fat throat; and she was continually talking, with upturned eyes, of her tender, her sensitive soul; the languor of her soul; the craving of her soul; the aspirations of her soul. to these disadvantages, she added the additional one of being particularly ill-dressed, upon the present occasion, in a horrible-looking copper-coloured turban, with a sprinkling of green flowers over it. "yes," again asserted de lucenay, in his loudest voice, "that charming anecdote shall be told to madame de fonbonne." "may i be permitted, my lord duke, to inquire the subject of your conversation?" said the lady thus apostrophised, who, hearing her name mentioned, immediately commenced her usual mincing, bridling attempts to draw up her chubby self, but, failing in the effort, fell back upon the easier manoeuvre of "rolling up the whites of her eyes," as it is commonly called. "it refers, madame, to a most horribly indecent, revolting, and strange story." "heaven bless me! and who dares--oh, dear me, who would venture--" "i would, madame. i can answer for the truth of the anecdote, and that it would make a stick or a stone blush to hear it; but, as i am aware how dearly you love such stories, i will relate it to you. you must know, then, that in otaheite--" "my lord," exclaimed the indignant lady, turning up her eyes with indignant horror, "it really is surprising you can allow yourself to--" "now for those unkind looks you shall not hear my pretty story either, though i had been reserving it for you. and, now i look at you, i can but wonder that you, so celebrated for the taste and good style of your dress, should have put that wretched thing on your head for a turban, but which looks more like an old copper baking-dish spotted all over with verdigris." so saying, the duke, as if charmed with his own wit, burst into a loud and long peal of laughter. "if, my lord," exclaimed the enraged lady, "you merely returned from the east to resume your offensive jokes, which are tolerated because you are supposed to be only half in your senses, all who know you are bound to hope you intend to return as quickly as you came;" saying which she arose, and majestically waddled away. "i tell you what, lady macgregor, if i don't take devilish good care, i shall let fly at that stupid old prude and pull her old stew-pan off her head," said m. de lucenay, thrusting his hands deep down into his pockets as if to prevent their committing the retaliating mischief he contemplated. "but no," said he, after a pause, "i won't hurt the 'sensitive soul,' poor innocent thing! ha! ha! ha! besides, think of her being an orphan at her tender age!" and renewed peals of laughter announced that the imagination of the duke had again found a fresh fund of amusement in some reminiscence of madame de fonbonne; which, however, soon gave place to an expression of surprise, as the figure of the commandant, sauntering towards them, caught his eye. "holla!" cried he, "there's m. charles robert. i met him last summer at the german baths; he is a deuced fine fellow,--sings like a swan. now, marquise, i'll show you some fun,--just see how i'll bother him. would you like me to introduce him to you?" "be quiet, if you can," said sarah, turning her back most unceremoniously upon m. de lucenay, "and let us alone, i beg." as m. charles robert, while affecting to be solely occupied in admiring the rare plants on either side of him, continued to advance, m. de lucenay had cleverly contrived to get possession of sarah's _flacon d'esprit_, and was deeply and silently engaged in the interesting employment of demolishing the stopper of the trinket. still m. charles robert kept on his gradual approach to the party he was, in reality, making the object of his visit. his figure was tall and finely proportioned; his features boasted the most faultless regularity; his dress was in the first style of modern elegance; yet his countenance, his whole person, were destitute of grace, or that _distingué_ air which is more to be coveted than mere beauty, whether of face or figure; his movements were stiff and constrained, and his hands and feet large and coarse. as he approached madame d'harville his insipid and insignificant countenance assumed, all at once, an expression of the deepest melancholy, too sudden to be genuine; nevertheless he acted the part as closely to nature as might be. m. robert had the air of a man so thoroughly wretched, so oppressed by a multitude of sorrows, that as he came up to madame d'harville she could not help recalling to mind the fearful mention made by sarah touching the violence to which grief such as his might drive him. "how are you? how are you, my dear sir?" exclaimed the duke de lucenay, interrupting the further approach of the commandant. "i have not had the pleasure of seeing you since we met at the spas of ----. but what the devil ails you,--are you ill?" hereupon m. charles robert assumed a languid and sentimental air, and, casting a melancholy look towards madame d'harville, replied, in a tone of deep depression: "indeed, my lord, i am very far from being well." "god bless me! why, what is the matter with you? ah! i suppose that confounded plaguy cough still sticks to you," said m. de lucenay, with an appearance of the most serious interest in the inquiry. at this ridiculous question, m. charles robert stood for a moment as though struck dumb with astonishment, but, quickly recovering himself, said, while his face crimsoned, and his voice trembled with rage, in a short, firm voice, to m. de lucenay: "since you express so much uneasiness respecting my health, my lord, i trust you will not fail calling to-morrow to know how i am." "upon my life and soul, my dear sir, i--but most certainly i will send," said the duke, with a haughty bow to m. charles robert, who, coolly returning it, walked away. "the best of the joke is," said m. de lucenay, throwing himself again by the side of sarah, "that our tall friend there had no more of a spitting complaint than the great turk himself,--unless, indeed, i stumbled upon the truth without knowing it. well, he might have that complaint for anything i know or care. what do you think, lady macgregor,--did that great, tall fellow look, to you, as though he were suffering from _la pituite_?"[ ] [ ] a sort of viscous, phlegmy complaint. sarah's only reply was an indignant rising from her seat, and hasty removal from the vicinage of the annoying duke de lucenay. all this had passed with the rapidity of thought. sarah had experienced considerable difficulty in restraining her inclination to indulge in a hearty fit of laughter at the absurd question put by the duke de lucenay to the commandant; but madame d'harville had painfully sympathised with the feelings of a man so ridiculously interrogated in the presence of the woman he loved. then, horror-struck as the probable consequences of the duke's jest rose to her mind, led away by her dread of the duel which might arise out of it, and still further instigated by a feeling of deep pity for one who seemed to her misled imagination as marked out for every venomed shaft of envy, malice, and revenge, clémence rose abruptly from her seat, took the arm of sarah, overtook m. charles robert, who was boiling over with rage, and whispered to him, as she passed: "to-morrow, at one o'clock, i will be there." then, regaining the gallery with the countess, she immediately quitted the ball. rodolph, in appearing at this fête, besides fulfilling a duty imposed on him by his exalted rank and place in society, was further influenced by the earnest desire to ascertain how far his suspicions, as regarded madame d'harville, were well founded, and if she were, indeed, the heroine of madame pipelet's account. after quitting the winter garden with the countess de ----, he had, in vain, traversed the various salons in the hopes of meeting madame d'harville alone. he was returning to the hothouse when, being momentarily delayed at the top of the stairs, he was witness to the rapid scene between madame d'harville and m. charles robert after the joke played off by the duke de lucenay. the significant glances exchanged between clémence and the commandant struck rodolph powerfully, and impressed him with the firm conviction that this tall and prepossessing individual was the mysterious lodger of the rue du temple. wishing for still further confirmation of the idea, he returned to the gallery. a waltz was about to commence, and in the course of a few minutes he saw m. charles robert standing in the doorway, evidently revelling in the satisfaction of his own ideas; enjoying, in the first place, the recollection of his own retort to m. de lucenay (for m. charles robert, spite of his egregious folly and vanity, was by no means destitute of bravery), and, secondly, revelling in the triumph of thus obtaining a voluntary assignation with madame d'harville for the morrow; and something assured him that this time she would be punctual. rodolph sought for murphy. "do you see that fair young man," said he, "standing in the midst of that group out there?" "you mean the tall individual who seems so much amused with his own thoughts, do you not? yes, yes, i see him." "endeavour to get sufficiently near to him to be enabled to whisper, so that he alone can catch the words, while you carefully avoid allowing him to see the person who utters them, this sentence, 'you are late, my angel!'" the squire gazed at rodolph with a perplexed air. "my lord, do you seriously wish me to do this?" "seriously, my dear murphy, i do; and should he hastily turn around when you have spoken, assume that incomparable air of perfect nonchalance for which you are so justly celebrated, so as to prevent his being able to fix upon you as the person who has spoken." "depend upon my perfect obedience, my lord, although i am far from having the slightest idea of your intention in assigning to me such a task." before the conclusion of the waltz, the worthy murphy had contrived to place himself immediately behind m. charles robert, while rodolph, posted in a situation most advantageous for watching the effect of this experiment, carefully observed murphy's movements. in a minute, m. charles robert turned suddenly around, as though struck with astonishment and wonder. the immovable squire stirred not a feature; and certainly murphy's tall, portly figure, bald head, and grave, composed countenance, appeared the least likely of any in the room to be those of a man taking part in such a trick; and, indeed, it was evident, from the continued gaze of the commandant in every other part of the space they stood in, that m. charles robert was far from suspecting his respectable, middle-aged neighbour of giving utterance to a phrase so disagreeably recalling the _quid pro quo_ of which madame pipelet had been alike the cause and the heroine. the waltz concluded, murphy rejoined rodolph. "well, my lord," said he, "that smart young gentleman jumped as though he had trodden on a hornet's nest. the words i uttered appeared to have the effect of magic on him." "they were so far magical, my dear murphy, as they assisted me to discover a circumstance i was most anxious to find out." conviction thus painfully obtained, rodolph could only deplore the dangerous position in which madame d'harville had placed herself, and which seemed to him fraught with fresh evils, from a vague presentiment of sarah's being either a sharer or a confidant in the transaction, and with this discovery came the fresh pain of believing that he had now found out the source of m. d'harville's secret sorrow; the man he so highly esteemed, and for whom he felt a brother's regard, was pining in silence over the misconduct of a wife he so tenderly loved, yet who, in spite of her many charming qualities, could sacrifice her own and her husband's happiness for the sake of an object so every way unworthy. master of so important a secret, yet incapable of betraying it, unable to devise any plan to open the eyes of madame d'harville, who seemed rather to yield to than resist her unlicensed passion for her lover, rodolph found himself obliged to remain a passive witness to the utter ruin of a woman he had so passionately adored with as much silence as devotion; nay, whom, spite of his best efforts, he still loved. he was roused from these reflections by m. de graün. "if your royal highness," said the baron, bowing, "will deign to grant me a brief interview in one of the lower rooms, which is now quite devoid of company, i shall have the honour to lay before you the particulars you desired me to collect." rodolph signed to m. de graün to conduct him to the place named, when the baron proceeded with his recital, as follows: "the only duchess to whose name the initials 'n.' and 'l.' can possibly belong is madame de lucenay, whose maiden name was normant. her grace is not here this evening. i have just seen m. de lucenay, her husband, who, it seems, left paris five months ago, with the expressed intention of travelling in the east during the next year or two, but has unexpectedly returned within the last day or two." it may be recollected that, during rodolph's visit to the rue du temple, he picked up, on the landing-place adjoining the door of the charlatan dentist's apartments, a cambric handkerchief, richly embroidered and trimmed with costly lace, and bearing in the corner a ducal coronet with the initials "n. l." it will also be borne in mind that this elegant indication of high rank was wetted with the bitter tears of its noble owner. in pursuance of his instructions, but in total ignorance of the circumstances suggesting them, m. de graün had inquired the name of every duchess then in paris, and gleaned the information now repeated to rodolph, and which the latter perfectly comprehended. he had no reason for interesting himself in the fate of madame de lucenay; but he could not reflect without a shudder that, if it were really she who visited the pretended doctor (but who, he felt assured, was no other than the infamous polidori), this wretch, having possessed himself of her real name and address through the agency of tortillard, might make a fearful use of a secret which placed the duchess so completely in his power. "chance is a strange thing, my lord, is it not?" resumed m. de graün. "it is; but how does it apply to the present case?" "why, at the very instant that m. de grangeneuve was giving me these facts concerning m. and madame de lucenay, and was adding, rather ill-naturedly, that the unlooked-for return of the duke must have proved particularly disagreeable, not only to the duchess but to the viscount de saint-remy, one of the most elegant and fashionable men in paris, his excellency the ambassador came up and inquired whether your royal highness would permit him to present the viscount to you, as, having just been appointed on the legation to gerolstein, he would be happy to avail himself of the present opportunity of paying his court to your highness." an expression of impatience escaped rodolph, who exclaimed: "nothing could have been less agreeable to me. however, it is impossible to refuse. let the count know, therefore, that i am ready to receive m. de saint-remy." rodolph knew too well how to support his princely dignity to allow his feelings to interfere with the courtesy and affability required on the present occasion; added to which, the world gave m. de saint-remy as a favoured lover to the duchess de lucenay, and this circumstance greatly excited the curiosity of rodolph. the viscount de saint-remy, conducted by the count de ----, now approached. he was an exceedingly handsome young man, of about twenty-five years of age, tall and slender, with the most _distingué_ air and prepossessing physiognomy; his olive complexion had that rich, soft glow of amber cast over its transparent surface, so remarkable in the paintings of murillo; his glossy black hair, parted over his left temple, was worn smooth over his forehead, and fell in light and easy curls down the sides of his face, almost concealing the pale, well-shaped ear. the deep, dark eyelash contrasted well with the clear eye it shaded, the crystal of which was tinged with that blue cast which bestows so much and such charming expression to the indian eye. by a singular caprice of nature, the thick, silky moustache which graced his lip was the only ornament of a similar description visible on his countenance, the chin and cheeks being smooth as those of a young maiden. perhaps it might be vanity which dictated the narrow black satin cravat placed so low as to reveal the perfect contour of a throat which, for whiteness and symmetrical roundness, might have furnished a model for the artist's studio. the long ends of his cravat were confined by a single pearl, inestimable for its size, the beauty of its shape, and the splendour of its colour,--so vivid, that an opal could scarcely have rivalled its continued prismatic changes. the perfect taste, and exquisite style of m. de saint-remy harmonised well with the magnificent simplicity of this jewel. once seen, the face and figure of m. de saint-remy was never forgotten, so entirely did it differ from the usual style of _élégants_. he spared no expense in procuring the most faultless turnout, and his carriages and horses were everywhere cited as models of taste and correct judgment. he played high, but skilfully; while the annual amount of his betting-book was never less than from two to three thousand louis. the costly elegance of his mansion, in the rue de chaillot, was everywhere spoken of and admired. there he gave the most exquisite dinner-parties. the highest play followed, and the hospitable host would lose large and heavy sums with the most perfect indifference, though it was known that his fortune had been dissipated long ago. all the viscount's property had been derived from his mother; while his father lived in utter seclusion in the wilds of anjou, upon an income of the most slender description. by way of accounting for the unbounded expenditure of m. de saint-remy, many among the envious or ill-natured referred, as sarah had done, to the large fortune of the duchess de lucenay; but they forgot that, setting aside the infamy of the idea, m. de lucenay would naturally direct the disposal of his wife's property, and that m. de saint-remy's annual expenses were at least two hundred thousand francs. suspicions were entertained of his being deeply indebted to imprudent money-lenders; for saint-remy had no further inheritance to look forward to. others, again, spoke of his great successes on the turf, and hinted, in an undertone, dark stories of training-grounds, and jockeys bribed by him to make the horses against which he had betted largely lose; but by far the greater number of the crowd by which saint-remy was surrounded was content to eat his dinners, and occasionally to win his rouleaux, without troubling themselves with conjectures as to how the one was provided, and where the other came from. by birth and education he was fully entitled to the rank he occupied in the fashionable world; he was lively, witty, brave, a most amusing companion, obliging and complaisant to the wishes of others; he gave first-rate bachelor dinners, and afterwards took every bet that was offered him. what more was required to secure his popularity? he was an universal favourite with the fair sex, and could boast the most unvaried success in all his love affairs; he was young, handsome, gallant, and unsparingly munificent upon all occasions where opportunities occurred of marking his devotion towards the high-bred females with whom he associated in the _grande monde_; in a word, thanks to the general infatuation he excited, the air of mystery thrown over the source of the pactolus from which he derived his golden supplies rather embellished him with a certain mysterious charm, which seemed but to add to his attractions. sometimes it would be said, with a careless smile, "what a fellow that saint-remy is: he must have discovered the philosopher's stone to be able to go the pace he does." and when it was known that he had caused himself to be attached to the legation of france to the court of gerolstein, there were not wanting voices to assert that it was a "devilish good way of making an honourable retreat." such was m. de saint-remy. "allow me," said the count de ----, presenting m. de saint-remy, "to introduce to your royal highness the viscount de saint-remy, attached to the embassy of gerolstein." the viscount bowed profoundly, saying: "may i trust your royal highness will deign to pardon my impatience in requesting the honour of this introduction during the present evening? i am, perhaps, unduly hasty in my wishes to secure a gratification i have so long aspired to." "it will give me much pleasure, my lord, to welcome you to gerolstein. do you propose going thither immediately?" "your royal highness being in paris diminishes very materially my desire to do so." "i fear the peaceful contrast of our german courts will scarcely assort with a life of parisian fashion, such as you have always been accustomed to." "permit me to assure your royal highness that the gracious kindness you have now shown me, and which it shall be my study to merit a continuance of in gerolstein, would of itself far outweigh any attractions paris may have had for me." "it will not be my fault, my lord, should you see cause to alter your sentiments when at gerolstein." a slight inclination of rodolph's head announced that the presentation was concluded, upon which the viscount bowed and retired. the prince, a practised physiognomist, was subject to involuntary likes and dislikes upon the first interview with an individual, and these impulses were in his case almost invariably borne out by after-circumstances. his first sensation after the exchange of the very few words we have related between himself and saint-remy was an unaccountable feeling of repugnance and aversion for the gay and fascinating young man; to his eye, the handsome features wore a sinister look, and danger seemed to lurk even in his honeyed words and smooth, polished manner. we shall hereafter meet m. de saint-remy under circumstances differing widely and fearfully from the splendour of the position he occupied at his first interview with rodolph. it will then be seen how far these presentiments were ill or well founded. the presentation over, rodolph, in deep meditation upon the singular rencontres effected by the hand of chance, bent his steps towards the winter garden. it was now the hour of supper, and the rooms were nearly deserted. the most retired spot in the hothouse was at the end of a clump of trees placed against the corner of a wall, and an enormous banana, covered with climbing plants, effectually concealed a small side door, masked by the trellis, and conducting to the banquetting-hall by a long corridor. this door, which was scarcely a yard distant from the tree above mentioned, had been left temporarily ajar. sheltered by this verdant screen, rodolph seated himself, and was soon lost in a profound reverie, when the sound of a well-known voice, pronouncing his name, made rodolph start. it was sarah, who, seated with her brother tom on the other side of the clump of trees which effectually hid rodolph from their view, was conversing with him in the english language. the prince listened attentively, and the following dialogue ensued: "the marquise has just gone to show herself for a few minutes at baron de nerval's ball," said sarah; "she has luckily quitted this place without once having an opportunity of exchanging a word with rodolph, who has been looking everywhere for her. i still dread the influence he possesses over her, even unknown to herself,--an influence it has cost me so much labour and difficulty to combat, and partly to destroy. however, to-morrow will rid me of any further fears of a rival who, if not effectually destroyed, might so powerfully derange and overthrow my plans. listen to me, brother, for it is of serious matters i would speak to you. to-morrow witnesses the eternal ruin of my hated rival." "you are mistaken, sarah," answered tom's well-remembered voice; "rodolph never loved the marquise; of that i am certain; your jealous fears mislead you." "it is time," returned sarah, "that i enlightened you on this subject. many things occurred during your last journey, and as it is necessary to take decisive steps even earlier than i had expected,--nay, this very night,--so soon as we quit this place, it becomes indispensably necessary we should take serious counsel together. happily we are now quite alone, for the gay butterflies of the night have found fresh attraction around the supper-tables. now, then, brother, give your close and undivided attention to what i am about to say." "proceed, i am all impatience." "well, before clémence d'harville met rodolph, i feel assured the passion of love was wholly unknown to her, for what reason i have never been able to discover. she entertains the most invincible repugnance and aversion towards her husband, who perfectly adores her. there is some deep mystery in this part of the business i have never succeeded in fathoming. a thousand new and delightful emotions sprang up in the breast of clémence after she became acquainted with rodolph; but i stifled her growing love by the most frightful disclosures, or rather ingeniously invented calumnies, concerning the prince. still, the void in her heart required an object to fill it, and chance having thrown m. charles robert in her way during a morning call she was making at my house, she appeared struck with his appearance, much after the manner in which we are attracted by a fine picture. unfortunately, however, this man is as silly as he is handsome, though he certainly has a very prepossessing _tout ensemble_. i praised him enthusiastically to madame d'harville, exalted the nobleness of his sentiments, the elevation of his mind, and, as i knew her weak side, i worked upon her sympathy and pity, by representing him as loaded with every trouble and affliction unrelenting fate could heap upon a devoted but most innocent head. i directed m. robert to assume a melancholy and sentimental air; to utter only deep sighs, and to preserve a gloomy and unbroken silence in the presence of madame d'harville. he carefully pursued the path marked out by me, and, thanks to his vocal skill, his fine person and the constant expression of silent suffering, so far engaged the interest of madame d'harville, that, ere long, she transferred to my handsome friend the warm and sympathising regard rodolph had first awakened. do you comprehend me thus far?" "perfectly; proceed." "madame d'harville and robert met only upon terms of intimacy at my house; to draw them more effectually together i projected devoting three mornings in the week to music, and my mournful ally sighed softly as the breath of evening while turning over the leaves of the music, ventured to utter a few impassioned words, and even to slip two or three billets among the pieces he copied out for the marquise to practise at home. i own i was more fearful of his epistolary efforts than even his powers of speech; but a woman always looks indulgently upon the first declaration of love she receives; so far, therefore, the written nonsense of my silly pupil did no harm, for, in obedience to my advice, his _billets doux_ were very laconic. the great point was to obtain a rendezvous, and this was no easy matter, for clémence's principles were stronger than her love; or, rather, her passion was not sufficiently deep to induce her to sacrifice those principles. unknown, even to herself, the image of rodolph still filled her heart, and seemed in a manner to preserve her from yielding to her weak fancy for m. charles robert,--a fancy, as i well knew, far more imaginary than real; but, led on by my continual and exaggerated praises of this brainless apollo, whom i persisted in describing as suffering under the daily increase of every imaginary evil i could invent, clémence, vanquished by the deep despair of her dejected adorer, consented one day, more from pity than love, to grant him the rendezvous so long desired." "did she, then, make you her confidant?" "she confessed to me her regard for m. charles robert,--nothing more; neither did i seek to learn more; it would have annoyed and vexed her. but, as for him, boiling over with love, or, rather, intoxicated with pride, he came voluntarily to impart his good fortune, without, however, entrusting me either with the time or place of the intended meeting." "how, then, did you know it?" "why, karl, by my order, hovered about the door of m. robert during the following day from an early hour; nothing, however, transpired till the next day, when our love-stricken youth proceeded in a _fiacre_ to an obscure part of the town, and finally alighted before a mean-looking house in the rue du temple; there he remained for an hour and a half, when he came out and walked away. karl waited a long while to see whether any person followed m. charles robert out of the house; but no one came. the marquise had evidently failed in her appointment. this was confirmed to me on the morrow, when the lover came to pour out all his rage and disappointment. i advised him to assume even an increase of wretchedness and despair. the plan succeeded; the pity of clémence was again excited; a fresh assignation was wrung from her, but which she failed to keep equally with the former; the third and last rendezvous, however, produced more decided effects, madame d'harville positively going as far as the door of the house i have specified as the appointed place; then, repenting so rash a step, returned home without having even quitted the humble _fiacre_ in which she rode. you may judge by all these capricious changes of purpose how this woman struggles to be free. and wherefore? why, because (and hence arises my bitter, deadly hatred to clémence d'harville) because the recollection of rodolph still lingers in her heart, and, with pertinacious love she shrinks from aught that she fancies breathes of preference for another; thus shielding herself from harm or danger beneath his worshipped image. now this very night the marquise has made a fresh assignation with m. charles robert for to-morrow, and this time i doubt not her punctuality; the duke de lucenay has so grossly ridiculed this young man that, carried away by pity for the humiliation of her admirer, the marquise has granted that to compassion he would not else have obtained. but this time, i feel persuaded she will keep her word, and be punctual to the appointed time and hour." "and how do you propose to act?" "m. charles robert is so perfectly unable to comprehend the delicacy of feeling which this evening dictated the marquise's resolution of meeting him, that he is safe to rush with vulgar eagerness to the rendezvous, and this will effectually ruin his plans, for pity alone has instigated clémence to take this compromising step. no love,--no infatuation has hurried her into a measure so fatal to her future resolution. i know every turn of her mind; and i am confident she will keep her appointment solely from a courageous idea of generous devotion, but with a firm resolve not for one instant to forget her duties as a wife and mother. now the coarse, vulgar mind of m. charles robert is sure to take the fullest advantage of the marquise's concession in his favour. clémence will detest him from that instant; and the illusion once destroyed which has bound herself and charles robert in bonds of imaginary sympathy, she will fall again beneath the influence of her love for rodolph, which i am certain still nestles in her heart." "well?" "well! i would have her for ever lost to rodolph, whose high sense of honour and deep friendship for m. d'harville i feel perfectly sure would not have proved equal to preventing his returning the love of clémence; but i will so manage things that he shall henceforward look upon her with loathing and disgust, as the guilty partner in a crime committed without his participation. no, no! i know my man. he might pardon the offence, but never the being excluded from his share in it." "then do you propose apprising the husband of all that is going on, so that the prince should learn the disgraceful circumstances from the publicity the affair would obtain?" "i do. and the thing is so much the easier to accomplish as, from what fell from clémence to-night, i can learn that the marquis has vague and undefined suspicions, without knowing on whom to fix them. it is now midnight; we shall almost directly leave the ball, i will set you down at the first café we meet with, whence you shall write m. d'harville a minute account of his wife's love affair, with the projected assignation of to-morrow, with the time and place where it is arranged to take place. oh! but i forgot, i didn't state that the place of meeting is no. rue du temple. and the time, to-morrow at one o'clock. the marquis is already jealous of clémence; well, he will by this information surprise her under most suspicious circumstances; the rest follows as a matter of course." "but this is a most abominable mode of action," said seyton, coldly. "what! my trusty and well-behaved brother and colleague growing scrupulous?" said sarah, sarcastically. "this will never do; suppose my modes of action are odious,--so be it. i trample on all and every thing that interferes with my designs,--agreed. i do--i shall, till i have secured my purpose. but let me ask you, who thought of scruples when my destruction was aimed at? who thought of me or my feelings, let me ask you? how have i been treated?" "say no more, sister,--say no more,--here is my hand, and you may safely reckon upon my firm participation in all that concerns you, even to writing the letter to m. d'harville. but still i say, and repeat, such conduct is horrible!" "never mind sermonising, but say, do you consent fully and entirely to what i wish you, or do you not? ay, or nay?" "since it must be so, m. d'harville shall this night be fully instructed as to all his wife's proceedings,--but--what is that? i fancied i heard some one on the other side of this thicket,--there was a rustling of leaves and branches," said seyton, interrupting himself, and speaking to sarah in a low and suppressed voice. "for heaven's sake," cried sarah, uneasily, "don't stop to talk about it, but quick! and examine the other side of this place!" seyton rose,--made the tour of the clump of trees,--but saw no one. rodolph had just disappeared by the side door, of which we have before spoken. "i must have made a mistake," said seyton, returning; "there is no appearance of any persons but ourselves being in this place." "i thought there could not possibly be." "now, then, sarah, hear what i have got to say on the subject of madame d'harville, who, i feel quite satisfied, you make an object of unnecessary apprehension, as far as it would be possible for her to interfere with your schemes. the prince, moreover, has certain principles nothing would induce him to infringe. i am infinitely more alarmed, and with greater justice, too, as to what can have been his intentions in conducting that young girl to his farm at bouqueval, five or six weeks ago. he is constant in his superintendence of her health and comfort; is having her well educated, and, moreover, has been several times to see her. now we are altogether ignorant who she is or where she came from; she seems, however, to belong only to the humbler ranks of society; still, the exquisite style of her beauty, the fact of the prince having worn the disguise he did when escorting her to the farm, the increasing interest he seems to take in her welfare, all go to prove that his regard for her is of no common description. i have, therefore, in this affair anticipated your wishes; but to remove this greater, and, as i believe, more serious obstacle to our plans, the utmost circumspection was requisite to obtain information respecting the lives and habits of these mysterious occupants of the farm, and particularly concerning the girl herself. i have been fortunate enough to learn nearly sufficient to point out what is to be done the moment for action has arrived. a most singular chance threw that horrid old woman in my way, to whom, as you remember, i once gave my address, which she it seems has carefully preserved. her connection with such persons as the robber who attacked us during our late visit to the cité will powerfully assist us. all is provided for and preconsidered,--there can be no proof against us,--and, besides, if, as seems evident, this young creature belongs to the humblest class of society it is not very probable she will hesitate between our offers and the splendid prospect she may, perchance, picture to herself, for the prince, i have ascertained, has preserved a strict incognito towards her. but to-morrow shall decide the question otherwise,--we shall see,--we shall see." "and these two obstacles overcome, then, tom, for our grand project." "there are many, and serious obstacles in the way; still, they may be overcome." "and would it not be a lucky chance if we should bring it to pass at the very moment when rodolph would be writhing under the double misery occasioned by the disclosure of madame d'harville's conduct, and the disappearance of the creature for whom he chooses to evince so deep an interest? would not that be an auspicious moment to persuade him that the daughter, whose loss he daily more and more deplores, still lives? and then--" "silence, sister," interrupted seyton, "i hear the steps of the guests from the supper-table, returning to resume the ball. since you deem it expedient to apprise the marquis d'harville of the morrow's rendezvous, let us depart; it is past midnight." "the lateness of the hour in which the anonymous information will reach m. d'harville, will but tend still more to impress him with an idea of its importance." and with these words tom and sarah quitted the splendid ball of the ambassadress of the court of ----. chapter ii. the rendezvous. determined at all risks to warn madame d'harville of the danger she was incurring, rodolph had quitted the winter garden without waiting to hear the remainder of the conversation between sarah and her brother, thus remaining ignorant of their designs against fleur-de-marie, and of the extreme peril which threatened the poor girl. but, spite of his earnest desire to apprise the marquise of the plot laid against her peace and honour, he was unable to carry his design into execution, for madame d'harville, unable to bear up longer after the trying events of the evening, had abandoned her original intention of visiting the entertainment given by madame de nerval and gone direct home. this contretemps ruined his hopes. nearly the whole of the company present at the ambassadress's ball had been invited to that of madame de nerval's, and rodolph drove rapidly thither, taking with him m. de graün, to whom he gave instructions to look for madame d'harville among the guests, and to acquaint her that the prince, having something of the utmost consequence to communicate to her without the least delay, would walk onwards to the hôtel d'harville, and await her return home, when he would say a few words at the carriage-door while her servants were attending to the opening of the entrance-gates. after much time spent in fruitless endeavours to find madame d'harville, de graün was compelled to return with the account of his ill success. this failure made rodolph despair of being able, now, to save the marquise from impending ruin; his first thought had been to warn her of the treachery intended, and so prevent the statement of sarah, which he had no means of keeping from the hands of m. d'harville, from obtaining the slightest credence. alas! it was now too late. the infamous epistle dictated by the countess macgregor had reached the marquis d'harville shortly after midnight on the night in question. * * * * * it was morning; and m. d'harville continued slowly to pace his sleeping-apartment, the bed of which gave no indication of having been used during the night, though the silken counterpane hung in fragments, evidently proving that some powerful and devastating storm had possessed the mind of its owner. the chamber in question was furnished with elegant simplicity, its only ornaments consisting of a stand of modern arms and a range of shelves furnished with a well-chosen collection of books. yet a sudden frenzy, or the hand of ungovernable rage, had reduced the quiet elegance which ordinarily reigned to a scene of frantic disorder. chairs, tables, broken and overset; the carpet strewed with fragments of the crystal lamp kept burning through the night; the wax-lights and gilded chandelier which had contained them, lying around, gave manifest evidence of a fearful scene. m. d'harville was about thirty years of age, with a fine, manly countenance, whose usual expression was mild and prepossessing, but now contracted, haggard, and livid. he had not changed his dress since the preceding evening; his throat was bare, his waistcoat thrown open, and on the torn and rumpled cambric of his shirt-front were drops of blood. his rich, dark hair, which generally fell in curls around his face, now hung in tangled wildness over his pale countenance. wholly buried in the misery of his own thoughts, with folded arms, drooping head, and fixed, bloodshot eyes, m. d'harville continued to pace his chamber; then, stopping opposite his fireplace, in which, spite of the almost unendurable severity of the frost of the past night, the fire had been allowed to expire, he took from the marble mantelpiece the following brief note, which he continued to read over and over with the most eager attention by the wan, pale light of the cold glimmer of an early winter morning: "to-morrow, at one o'clock, your wife has appointed to meet her favoured lover. go to the rue du temple, no. , and you will obtain every requisite confirmation of this intelligence. "from one who pities you." whilst reading these words, perused, with such deep anguish and sickness of heart, so many times through the long midnight hours, the blue, cold lips of m. d'harville appeared convulsively to spell each syllable of this fatal _billet_. at this moment the chamber door opened and a servant entered; the man who now made his appearance was old, even gray-headed, but the expression of his countenance was frank and honest. the noise of the man entering disturbed not the marquis from his bitter contemplations; he merely turned his head without altering his position, but still grasped the letter in his clenched hands. "what do you want?" inquired he, sternly, of the servant. the man, instead of answering, continued to gaze with an air of painful surprise at the disordered state of the room; then, regarding his master more attentively, exclaimed: "blood on your clothes! my lord, my lord! how is this? you have hurt yourself,--and all alone, too; why, my lord, did you not summon me, as of old, when these attacks came on?" "begone!" "i entreat your lordship's pardon, but your fire is out,--the cold is intense,--indeed, i must remind your lordship that after your late--your--" "will you be silent? leave me i say!" "pray do not be angry, my lord," replied the trembling valet; "but, if your lordship pleases to recollect, you appointed m. doublet to be here to-day at half past ten, and he is now waiting with the notary." "quite proper," said the marquis, with a bitter smile; "when a man is rich he ought, he should look carefully to his affairs. fortune is a fine thing,--a very fine thing; or would be if it could but purchase happiness." then, resuming a cold and collected manner, he added: "show m. doublet into my study." "i have done so, my lord marquis." "then give me my clothes,--quick, i am in haste; i shall be going out shortly. i--" "but if your lordship would only--" "do as i desire you, joseph," said m. d'harville, in a more gentle tone; then added, "is your lady stirring yet?" "i have not yet heard her ladyship's bell, my lord marquis." "let me know when she rings." "i will, my lord." "heaven and earth, man, how slow you are!" exclaimed m. d'harville, whose raging thoughts almost chafed him into madness; "summon philip to assist you; you will keep me all day." "my lord, please to allow me to set matters a little straight first," replied joseph, sorrowfully; "i would much rather no one but myself witnessed the state of your chamber, or they would wonder, and talk about it, because they could not understand what had taken place during the night, my lord." "and if they were to find out, it would be a most shocking affair,--would it not?" asked m. d'harville, in a tone of gloomy irony. "thank god, my lord, not a soul in the house has the least suspicion of it!" "no one suspects it," repeated m. d'harville, despondingly; "no one,--that's well, for her at least; well, let us hope to keep the secret." and, while joseph was occupying himself in repairing the havoc in his master's apartment, d'harville walked up to the stage of arms we before mentioned, examined them with an expression of deep interest, then, turning towards joseph, with a sinister smile, said: "i hope you have not omitted to clean the guns which are placed at the top of the stand,--i mean those in my hunting-case." "i had not your lordship's orders to do so," replied the astonished servant. "you had, sir, and have neglected them!" "i humbly assure you, my lord--" "they must be in a fine state!" "your lordship will please to bear in mind that it is scarcely a month since they were regularly repaired and put in order for use by the gunsmith." "never mind! as soon as i am dressed reach down my shooting-case; i will examine the guns myself. i may very possibly go out shooting either to-morrow or next day." "i will reach them down directly, my lord." the chamber being by this time replaced in its ordinary state, a second _valet de chambre_ was summoned to assist joseph. his toilet concluded, m. d'harville repaired to his study, where the steward (m. doublet) and his lawyer's clerk were awaiting him. "we have brought the agreement that my lord marquis may hear it read over," said the bowing clerk; "my lord will then only have to sign it, and the affair is concluded." "have you perused it, m. doublet?" "i have, my lord, attentively." "in that case i will affix my signature at once." the necessary forms completed, the clerk withdrew, when m. doublet, rubbing his hands, and looking triumphantly, exclaimed: "now, then, by this last addition to your lordship's estates, your manorial property cannot be less than a hundred and twenty-six thousand francs per annum, in round numbers. and permit me to say, my lord marquis, that a rent-roll of a hundred and twenty-six thousand francs per annum is of no common occurrence nowadays." "i am a happy man, am i not, m. doublet? a hundred and twenty-six thousand livres per annum! surely the man owning such an income must be blessed indeed,--sorrow or care cannot reach him through so golden a shield!" "and that is wholly independent of my lord's funded property, amounting at least to two millions more; or reckoning--" "exactly; i know what you would say; without reckoning my other blessings and comforts." "why, heaven be praised, your lordship is as rich in all earthly blessings as in revenue. not a precious gift but it has been largely bestowed upon you; ay, and such as even money will not buy: youth, uninterrupted health, the power of enjoying every happiness, amongst which, or, rather, at the head of which," said m. doublet, gracefully smiling, and gallantly bowing, "place that of being the husband of so sweet a lady as madame la marquise, and the parent of a lovely little girl, who might be mistaken for a cherubim." m. d'harville cast a look of gloomy mistrust on the poor steward; who, revelling in his own ecstasy at seeing the princely rent-roll committed to his charge, exceeding all others in magnificent amount, was far from perceiving the scowling brow of his master, thus congratulated on being the happiest man alive, when, to his own view, a verier wretch, or more complete bankrupt in happiness existed not. striking m. doublet familiarly on the shoulder, and breaking into a wild, ironical laugh, m. d'harville rejoined: "then you think that with an income of two hundred and sixty thousand livres, a wife like mine, and a daughter resembling a cherubim, a man has nothing more to wish for?" "nay, my lord," replied the steward, with honest zeal, "you have still to wish for the blessing of lengthened days, that you may be spared to see mademoiselle married as happily as yourself. ah, my lord, i may not hope to see it, but i should be thankful to witness you and my honoured lady surrounded by your grandchildren,--ay, and great-grandchildren too,--why not?" "excellent, m. doublet! a regular baucis and philemon idea. you have always a capital illustration to your ideas." "you are too good to me, my lord. has your lordship any further orders for me?" "none. stay, though; what cash have you in hand?" "twenty-nine thousand three hundred and odd francs for current expenses, my lord marquis; but there is a heavy sum at the bank belonging to this quarter's income." "well, bring me twenty thousand francs in gold, and, should i have gone out, give them to joseph for me." "does your lordship wish for them this morning?" "i do." "within an hour the gold shall be here. you have nothing else to say to me, my lord?" "no, m. doublet." "a hundred and twenty-six thousand francs per annum, wholly unincumbered," repeated the steward, as he was about to quit the room; "this is a glorious day for me to see; i almost feared at one time that we should not secure this desirable property. your lordship's most humble servant, i take my leave." "good morning, m. doublet." as the door closed upon the steward, m. d'harville, overcome with the mental agony he had repressed thus far, threw himself into an armchair, leaned his elbows on the desk before which he sat, and covering his face with his hands, for the first time since receiving the fatal _billet_, gave vent to a flood of hot, burning tears. "cruel mockery of fate!" cried he, at length, "to have made me rich, but to have given me only shame and dishonour to place within the gilded frame: the perjury of clémence, the disgrace which will descend upon my innocent child. can i suffer this? or shall i for the sake of her unoffending offspring spare the guilty mother from the opprobrium of an exposure?" then rising suddenly from his seat, with sparkling eyes and clenched teeth he cried, in a deep, determined voice, "no, no! blood, blood! the fearful protection from laughter and derision. ah, full well i can now comprehend her coldness, her antipathy, wretched, wretched woman!" then, stopping all at once, as though melted by some tender recollection, he resumed, in a hoarse tone, "aversion! alas! too well i know its cause. i inspire her with loathing, with disgust!" then, after a lengthened silence, he cried, in a voice broken by sighs, "yet, was it my fault or my misfortune? should she have wronged me thus for a calamity beyond my power to avert? surely i am a more fitting object for her pity than scorn and hatred." again rekindling into his excited feelings, he reiterated, "nothing but blood--the blood of both--can wash out this guilty stain! doubtless he, the favoured lover, has been informed why she flies her husband's arms." this latter thought redoubled the fury of the marquis. he elevated his tightly compressed hands towards heaven, as though invoking its vengeance; then, passing his burning fingers over his eyes as he recollected the necessity that existed for concealing his emotion from the servants of his establishment, he returned to his sleeping-apartment with an appearance of perfect tranquillity. there he found joseph. "well, in what state are the guns?" "in perfect order. please to examine them, my lord." "i came for the purpose of so doing. has your lady yet rung?" "i do not know, my lord." "then inquire." directly the servant had quitted the room, m. d'harville hastily took from the gun-case a small powder-flask, some balls and caps; then, locking the case, put the key in his pocket. then going to the stand of arms, he took from it a pair of moderate-sized manton's pistols, loaded them, and placed them without difficulty in the pockets of his morning wrapper. joseph returned with the intimation that madame d'harville was in her dressing-room. "has your lady ordered her carriage?" "my lord, i heard mlle. juliette say to the head-coachman, when he came to inquire her ladyship's orders for the day, that, 'as it was cold, dry walking, if her ladyship went out at all, she would prefer going on foot.'" "very well. stay,--i forgot. i shall not go out hunting before to-morrow, or probably, next day. desire williams to look the small travelling-britcska carefully over. do you understand?" "perfectly, my lord; it shall be attended to. will not your lordship require a stick?" "no. pray tell me, is there not a hackney coach-stand near here?" "quite close, my lord,--in the rue de lille." after a moment's hesitation, the marquis continued: "go and inquire of mlle. juliette whether madame d'harville can see me for a few minutes." joseph obeyed. "yes," murmured the marquis, "i will see the cause of all my misery,--my disgrace. i will contemplate the guilty mask beneath which the impure heart conceals its adulterous designs. i will listen to the false lips that speak the words of innocence, while deep dishonour lurks in the candid smile,--a smile that seemed to me as that of an angel. yet 'tis an appalling spectacle to watch the words, the looks, of one who, breathing only the sentiments of a chaste wife and mother, is about to sully your name with one of those deep, deadly stains which can only be washed out in blood. fool that i am to give her the chance of again bewildering my senses! she will look at me with her accustomed sweetness and candour; greet me (all guilty as she is) with the same pure smile she bestows upon her child, as, kneeling at her lap, it lisps its early prayer. that look,--those eyes, mirrors of the soul,--the more modest and pure the glance" (d'harville shuddered with contempt) "the greater must be the innate corruption and falsehood! alas! she has proved herself a consummate dissembler; and i--i--have been the veriest dupe! only let me consider with what sentiments must that woman look upon me, if just previous to her meeting with her favoured lover i pay her my accustomed visit, and express my usual devotion and love for her,--the young, the virtuous wife, the tender, sensible, and devoted mother, as until this wretched moment i would have died to prove her. can i, dare i, trust myself in her presence, with the knowledge of her being but too impatient for the arrival of that blessed hour which conveys her to her guilty rendezvous and infamous paramour? oh, clémence, clémence, you in whom all my hopes and fondest affections were placed, is this a just return? no! no! no!" again repeated m. d'harville, with rapidly returning excitement. "false, treacherous woman! i will not see you! i will not trust my ears to your feigned words! nor you, my child. at the sight of your innocent countenance i should unman myself, and compromise my just revenge." quitting his apartment, m. d'harville, instead of repairing to those of the marquise, contented himself with leaving a message for her through mlle. juliette, to the effect that he wished a short conversation with madame d'harville, but that being obliged to go out just then, he should be glad, if it assorted with madame la marquise's perfect convenience, to breakfast with her at twelve o'clock. "and so," said the unhappy m. d'harville, "fancying that after twelve o'clock i shall be safe at home, she will consider herself more at liberty to follow out her own plans." he then repaired to the coach-stand contiguous to his mansion, and summoned a vehicle from the ranks. "now, coachee," said he, affecting to disguise his rank, "what's o'clock?" "all right, master," said the man, drawing up to the side of the footway, "where am i to drive to? let's have a right understanding, and a look at the clock. why, it's as close on half-after eleven as may be." "now, then, drive to the corner of the rue st. dominique, and wait at the end of the garden wall which runs along there; do you understand?" "yes, yes,--i know." m. d'harville then drew down the blinds of the _fiacre_; the coachman drove on, and soon arrived opposite the hôtel d'harville, from which point of observation it was impossible for any person to enter or quit the house without the marquis having a full view of them. one o'clock was the hour fixed in the note; and with his eyes riveted on the entrance-gates of the mansion, the marquis waited in painful suspense, absorbed in a whirl of fearful thoughts and maddening conjectures. time stole on imperceptibly; twelve o'clock reverberated from the dome of st. thomas aquinas, when the door opened slowly at the hôtel d'harville, and madame d'harville herself came timidly forth. "already?" exclaimed the unhappy husband; "how punctual she is! she fears to keep him waiting," cried the marquis, with a mixture of irony and savage rage. the cold was excessive; the pavement hard and dry. clémence was dressed in a black velvet bonnet, covered with a veil of the same colour, and a thickly wadded pelisse of dark ruby satin, a large shawl of dark blue cashmere fell to the very hem of her pelisse, which she lightly and gracefully held up while crossing the street. thanks to this movement, the taper foot and graceful ankle of madame d'harville, cased in an exquisitely fitting boot of black satin, were exposed to view. it was strange, that amid the painful and bewildering ideas that crowded the brain of d'harville, he should have found one thought to waste upon the beauty of his wife's foot; but so it was; and at the moment that was about to separate them for ever, to his eager gaze that fairy foot and well-turned ankle had never looked so charming; and then, as by a rapid train of thought he recalled the matchless loveliness of his wife, and, as he had ever believed till now, her purity, her mental graces, he groaned aloud as he remembered that another was preferred to him, and that the light figure that glided on before his fixed gaze, was but the hollow spectre of fallen goodness, a lost, degraded creature, hastening to steep her husband and infant in irremediable disgrace, for the indulging of a base and guilty passion. even in that wretched moment he felt how dearly, how exclusively he had loved her; and for the first time during the blow which had fallen on him, he knew that he mourned the lovely woman almost equally with the virtuous mother and chaste wife. a cry of rage and mingled fury escaped him, as he pictured the rapture of her meeting with the lover of her choice; and a sharp, darting pain quivered through his heart as he remembered that clémence, with all her youth and beauty, her countless charms, both of body and mind, was lost to him for ever. hitherto his passionate grief had been unmixed by any alloy of self. he had bewailed the sanctity of the marriage-vow trampled under foot, the abandonment of all sworn and sacred duties; but his sufferings of rage, jealousy, and regret almost overpowered him, and with much difficulty was he able to command his voice sufficiently to say to the coachman, while partially drawing up the blind: "do you see that lady in the blue shawl and black bonnet walking along by the wall?" "yes, yes! i see her safe enough." "well, then, go slowly along, and keep up with her. should she go to the coach-stand i had you from, pull up; and when she has got into a _fiacre_, follow it wherever it goes." "all right,--i understand! now this is what i call a good joke!" m. d'harville had conjectured rightly. madame d'harville repaired directly to the coach-stand, and beckoning a _fiacre_ off the stand, instantly got in, and drove off, closely followed by the vehicle containing her husband. they had proceeded but a very short distance, when the coachman took the road to the church of st. thomas aquinas, and, to the surprise of m. d'harville, pulled up directly in front. "what is this for? what are you about?" "why, master, the lady you told me to follow has just alighted here, and a smart, tidy leg and foot of her own she has got. her dress somehow caught; so, you see, i couldn't help having a peep, nohow. this is downright good fun though, this is!" a thousand varied thoughts agitated m. d'harville. one minute he fancied that his wife, fearing pursuit, had taken this step to escape detection; then hope whispered that the letter which had given him so much uneasiness, might after all be only an infamous calumny; for if guilty, what could be gained by this false assumption of piety? would it not be a species of sacrilegious mockery? at this suggestion a bright ray of hope shot across the troubled mind of m. d'harville, arising from the striking contrast between clémence's present occupation and the crime alleged as her motive for quitting her home. alas! this consolatory illusion was speedily destroyed. leaning in at the open window the coachman observed: "i say, master, that nice little woman you are after has got back into her coach." "then follow quickly." "i'm off! now this is what i call downright good fun. capital; hang me if it ain't!" the vehicle reached the quais, the hôtel de ville, the rue st. avoye, and, at last, rue du temple. "i say," said the coachman, turning round to speak to m. d'harville from his seat, "master, just look. my mate, there, has stopped at no. ; we are about at . shall i stop here or go on to ?" "stop here." "i say,--look'ee,--you'll lose your pretty lady. she has gone into the alley leading to no. ." "open the door." "i'm coming, sir." and quickly following the steps of his wife, m. d'harville entered the obscure passage up which she had disappeared. madame d'harville, however, had so far the start as to have entered the house previously. attracted by the most devouring curiosity, madame pipelet, with her melancholy alfred and her friend the oyster-woman, were huddled close together on the sill at the lodge door. the staircase was so dark that a person just emerging from the daylight into the gloom of the passage could not discern a single step of it; and madame d'harville, agitated and almost sinking with apprehension, found herself constrained to apply to madame pipelet for further advice how to proceed, saying, in a low, tremulous voice: "which way must i turn, madame, to find the staircase of the house?" "stop, if you please. pray, whom do you want?" "i wish to go to the apartments of m. charles, madame." "monsieur who?" repeated the old woman, feigning not to have heard her, but in reality to afford sufficient leisure to her husband and her friend thoroughly to scrutinise the unhappy woman's countenance, even through the folds of her thick veil. "m. charles, madame," repeated clémence, in a low, trembling tone, and bending down her head, so as to escape the rude and insolent examination to which her features were subjected. "ah! m. charles; very well; you should have spoken so that one could hear you. well, my pretty dear, if you want m. charles,--and a good-looking fellow he is as ever won a woman's heart,--go straight on, and the door will stare you in the face. eh! eh! eh!" laughed out the old woman, shaking her fat sides with spiteful glee, "it seems he has not waited for nothing this time. success to love and love-makings, and a merry end to it!" the marquise, ready to sink with confusion, began slowly to grope her way up the dingy staircase. "i say," bawled out the old shell-fish woman, "our commandant knows what he is about, don't he? leave him alone to choose a pretty girl. his marm is a regular swell, ain't she?" had it not been requisite for her to run the gauntlet of the trio who occupied the entrance-door, madame d'harville, ready to sink with shame and terror, would gladly have retraced her steps. she made another effort, and at last reached the landing-place, where, to her unutterable consternation and surprise, she saw rodolph waiting, impatiently, her arrival. instantly flying to meet her, he hastily placed a purse in her hand, saying, in a hurried manner: "your husband knows all, and is now following your very steps." at this instant, the sharp tones of madame pipelet were heard crying out, "where are you going to, sir?" "'tis he!" exclaimed rodolph, and then, almost forcing madame d'harville up the second staircase, he added, in a rapid manner, "make all haste to the very top of the house; on the fifth floor you will find a wretched family, named morel. remember your sole business in coming hither was to relieve their distress." "i tell you, sir," screamed madame pipelet, "that unless you tell me your name, you shall trample over me, as they walked over our brave men at waterloo, before i let you pass." having, from the entrance to the alley, observed madame d'harville stop to speak to the porteress, the marquis had likewise prepared himself to pass through some sort of questioning. "i belong to the lady who just now entered," said the marquis. "bless me!" exclaimed madame pipelet, looking the picture of wonderment, "why, that, of course, is a satisfactory answer. you can pass on, if you please." hearing an unusual stir, m. charles robert had set the door of his apartments ajar, and rodolph, unwilling to be recognised by m. d'harville, whose quick, searching eye might have detected him, spite of the murkiness of the staircase, hearing him rapidly ascending the stairs, just as he reached the landing-place, dashed into the chamber of the astonished commandant, locking the door after him. m. charles robert, magnificently attired in his _robe de chambre_ of scarlet damask with orange-coloured stripes, and greek cap of embroidered velvet, was struck with astonishment at the unexpected appearance of rodolph, whom he had not seen the preceding evening at the embassy, and who was upon the present occasion very plainly dressed. "what is the meaning of this intrusion?" asked he at length, assuming a tone of killing haughtiness. "be silent!" replied rodolph; and there was that in his voice and manner that charles robert obeyed, even in spite of his own determination to strike terror into the bold invader of his private moments. a violent and continued noise, as of some heavy substance falling from one stair to the other, resounded through the dull silence of the gloomy staircase. "unhappy man! he has murdered her!" exclaimed rodolph. "murdered!" ejaculated m. charles robert, turning very pale; "for the love of heaven, what is all this about?" but, without heeding his inquiry, rodolph partially opened the door, and discovered little tortillard half rolling, half limping, down the stairs, holding in his hand the red silk purse rodolph had just given to madame d'harville. tortillard, with another scrambling shuffle, disappeared at the bottom of the last flight of stairs. the light step of madame d'harville, and the heavier tread of her husband, as he continued his pursuit of her from one story to another, could be distinctly heard. somewhat relieved of his worst fears, yet unable to make out by what chance the purse so recently committed to madame d'harville's hands should have been transferred to those of tortillard, rodolph said, authoritatively, to m. robert: "do not think of quitting your apartments for the next hour, i request!" "upon my life and soul, that is a pretty thing to say to a gentleman in his own house," replied m. robert in an impatient and wrathful tone. "i ask you, again, what is the meaning of all this? who the devil are you, sir? and how dare you dictate to me, a gentleman?" "m. d'harville is informed of everything,--has followed his wife to your very door,--and is now pursuing her to the upper part of the house." "god bless me! here's a situation!" exclaimed charles robert, with an appearance of utter consternation. "but what is to be done? what is the use of her going up-stairs? and how will she manage to get down again unobserved?" "remain where you are, neither speak nor move until the porteress comes to you," rejoined rodolph, who hastened to give his final instructions to madame pipelet, leaving the commandant a prey to the most alarming apprehensions. "well! well!" cried madame pipelet, her face radiant with chuckling exultation; "there's rare sport going on! the lady who came to visit my fine gentleman on the first floor has been followed by another gentleman, who seems rather in a passion,--the husband of that silly young creature, i make no doubt. directly the truth flashed across me, i tells him to go straight up; for, thinks i, he'll be sure to murder our commandant. that'll make a deal of talk in the neighbourhood; and folks will come crowding to see the house, just as they did at no. after the man was killed there. lord! i wonder the fighting has not begun yet. i have been listening to hear them set to; but i can't catch the least sound." "my dear madame pipelet, will you do me a great favour?" said rodolph, putting five louis into her hand. "when this lady comes down-stairs, ask her how she found the poor morels. tell her she has performed an act of real charity in coming to see them, according to her promise, the last time she called to inquire respecting them." madame pipelet looked first at the money and then at rodolph, with an air of petrified astonishment. "what am i to do with this money?" inquired she, at length; "do you give it to me? ah, i see! this handsome lady, then, does not come altogether for the commandant?" "the gentleman who followed her was her husband, as you justly supposed; but, being warned in time, the poor lady went straight on to the morels, as though her only business here was to afford them succour. now do you understand!" "i should think i did,--clear as noonday. 'a nod is as good as a wink,' as the old woman said. i know! you want me to help you cheat the husband? lord bless you! i'm up to all those things,--quick as lightning, silent as the grave! go along with you! i'm a regular good hand at keeping husbands in the dark; you might fancy i'd been used to it all my life. but tell me--" the huge hat of m. pipelet was here observed sending its dark shadow across the floor of the lodge. "anastasie," said alfred, gravely, "you are like m. césar bradamanti; you have no respect for anything or anybody. and let me tell you that there are subjects that should never be made the subject of a jest, even amongst the most familiar acquaintances." "nonsense, my old darling. don't stand there rolling up your eyes, and looking about as wise as a pig in a pound. you know well enough i was only joking; you know well enough that no living soul beneath the canopy of heaven can ever say i gave him a liberty. but that'll do; so let's talk of this good gentleman's business. suppose i do go out of my usual way to save this young lady, i'm sure i do it solely to oblige our new lodger, who, for his generosity, may well deserve to be called the king of lodgers." then, turning towards rodolph, she added, "you shall see how cleverly i will go to work. just hide yourself there in that corner behind the curtain. quick,--quick! i hear them coming." rodolph had scarcely time to conceal himself ere m. and madame d'harville descended the stairs. the features of the marquis shone with happiness, mingled with a confused and astonished expression, while the countenance of his wife, as she hung on his arm, looked calm but pale. "well, my good lady," cried madame pipelet, going out of her lodge to address her, as she descended the last stair, "how did you find the poor creatures,--i mean the morels? ah, i doubt not, such a sight made your heart ache? god knows your charity was well bestowed! i told you the other day, when you called to inquire about them, what a state of starvation and misery they were in. be assured, kind lady, these poor things are fit objects of your bounty; you will never have to regret coming to this out-of-the-way place to examine into their case. they really are deserving all your kindness,--don't you think so, alfred?" alfred, the strictness of whose ideas touching a due regard for all conjugal duties made him revolt at the thoughts of helping to deceive a husband, replied only by a sort of grumbling sound, as vague as discordant. "please to excuse my husband, madame," resumed madame pipelet; "he has got the cramp in his stomach, and cannot speak loud enough to be understood, or he would tell you as well as myself that the poor people you have so fortunately relieved will pray of the almighty, night and day, to bless and reward you, my worthy lady." m. d'harville gazed on his wife with feelings approaching to adoration, as he exclaimed, "angel of goodness, how has base slander dared to disturb your heavenly work!" "an angel!" repeated madame pipelet; "that she is, and one of the very best heaven could send. there is not a better." "let us return home, i entreat!" said madame d'harville, who was suffering acutely under the restraint she had put upon herself since entering the house, and, now that the necessity for exertion was over, found her strength rapidly forsaking her. "instantly," replied the marquis. at the instant of their emerging into the open air from the obscurity of the alley, m. d'harville, observing the pale looks of his wife, said, tenderly: "ah, clémence, i have deep cause to solicit your pity and forgiveness." "alas! my lord," said the marquise, sighing deeply, "which of us has not need of pardon?" rodolph quitted his hiding-place, deeply ruminating upon so terrible a scene, thus intermingled with absurdity and coarseness, and pondering over the curious termination to a drama, the commencement of which had called forth such different passions. "well, now," exclaimed madame pipelet, "you must say i played my part well. didn't i send that donkey of a husband home with longer ears than he came out with? lord bless you! he'll put his wife under a glass case, and worship her from this day forward. poor, dear gentleman! i really could not help feeling sorry for him. oh! but about your furniture, m. rodolph; it has not come yet." "i am now going to see about it. by the by, you had better go and inform the commandant that he may venture out." "true; i'll go and let the caged bird out. but what stuff and nonsense for him to hire apartments of no more use to him than they are to the king of prussia! he is a fine fellow, he is, with his paltry twelve francs a month. this is the fourth time he has been made a fool of." rodolph quitted the house, and madame pipelet, turning to her husband, said, with a chuckling laugh, "now, alfred, the commandant's turn has come; now for it! i mean to have a jolly good laugh at my gentleman,--up and dressed for nothing." arrived at the apartments of m. charles robert, the porteress rang the bell; the door was opened by the commandant himself. "commandant," said anastasie, giving him a military salute, by placing the back of her little fat hand against the front of her wig, "i have come to set you free. your friends have gone away arm in arm, happy as doves, under your very nose. well, you are out of a nice mess, thanks to m. rodolph. you ought to stand something very handsome to him for all he has done upon the present occasion." "then this slim individual with the moustachios is called m. rodolph, is he?" "exactly so; neither more nor less." "and who and what is the fellow?" "fellow, indeed!" cried madame pipelet, in a wrathful voice; "he is as good as other men,--better than some i could mention. why, he is a travelling clerk, but the very king of lodgers; for, though he has only one room, he does not haggle and beat folks down,--not he. why, he gave me six francs for doing for him,--six francs, mind, i say, without a word. think of that!--without ever offering me a sou less. oh, he is a lodger! i wish other people were at all like him!" "there, there, that's enough; take the key." "shall i light the fire to-morrow, commandant?" "no!" "next day?" "no, no! don't bother me." "i say, commandant, if you recollect, i warned you that you would have your trouble for your pains." m. charles robert threw a glance at his grinning tormentor that spoke of annihilation at least, and, dashing furiously by her, quitted the house, wondering much how a mere clerk should have become acquainted with his assignation with the marquise d'harville. as the commandant left the alley, tortillard came hobbling along. "well, what do you want?" said madame pipelet. "has the borgnesse been to call upon me?" asked the young scamp, without attending to the porteress's question. "the chouette? no, you ugly monster! what should she come for?" "why, to take me with her into the country, to be sure," said tortillard, swinging on the lodge gate. "and what does your master say to it?" "oh, father managed all that. he sent this morning to m. bradamanti, to ask him to give me leave to go in the country,--the country,--the country," sang or rather screamed the amiable scion of m. bras rouge, beating time most melodiously on the window-panes. "will you leave off, you young rascal, or are you going to break my window? oh, here comes a coach!" "oh! oh! oh!" shrieked the urchin; "it is my dear chouette! oh, how nice the ride in a coach!" and, looking through the window, they saw reflected upon the red blind of the opposite glass the hideous profile of the borgnesse. she beckoned to tortillard, who ran out to her. the coachman descended from his box, and opened the door; tortillard sprang into the vehicle, which instantly drove off. another person beside the chouette was in the carriage. in the farther corner, and wrapped in an old cloak with a furred collar, his features shrouded by a black silk cap pulled down over his brows, sat the schoolmaster. his inflamed lids formed a horrible contrast with the white globeless space beneath; and this fearful spectacle was rendered still more hideous by the action of the severe cold upon his seamed and frightful countenance. "now, small boy, squat yourself down on the pins of my man; you'll serve to keep him warm," said the borgnesse to tortillard, who crouched like a dog close to the feet of the schoolmaster and the chouette. "now, then, my coves," said the driver, "on we go to the 'ken' at bouqueval, don't we, la chouette? you shall see whether i can 'tool a drag' or not." "and keep your pads on the move, my fine fellow; for we must get hold of the girl to-night." "all right, my blind un; we'll go the pace." "shall i give you a hint?" said the schoolmaster. "what about?" "why, cut it fine as you pass by the 'nabs' at the barrier; the meeting might lead to disagreeable recollections. it is not every old acquaintance it is worth while to renew our friendship with. you have been wanted at the barriers for some time." "i'll keep my weather-eye open," replied the driver, getting on his box. it needs scarcely be told, after this specimen of slang, that the coachman was a robber, one of the schoolmaster's worthy associates. the vehicle then quitted the rue du temple. two hours afterwards, towards the closing of a winter's day, the vehicle containing the chouette, the schoolmaster, and tortillard, stopped before a wooden cross, marking out the sunken and lonely road which conducted to the farm at bouqueval, where the goualeuse remained under the kind protection of madame georges. chapter iii. an idyl. the hour of five had just struck from the church clock of the little village of bouqueval; the cold was intense, the sky clear, the sun, sinking slowly behind the vast leafless woods which crowned the heights of ecouen, cast a purple hue over the horizon, and sent its faint, sloping rays across the extensive plains, white and hard with winter's frost. in the country each season has its own distinctive features, its own peculiar charm; at times the dazzling snow changes the whole scene into immense landscapes of purest alabaster, exhibiting their spotless beauties to the reddish gray of the sky. then may be seen in the glimmer of twilight, either ascending or descending the hill, a benighted farmer returning to his habitation; his horse, cloak, and hat, are covered with the falling snow. bitter is the cold, biting the north wind, dark and gloomy the approaching night; but what cares he? there, amid those leafless trees, he sees the bright taper burning in the window of his cheerful home; while from the tall chimney a column of dark smoke rolls upwards through the flaky shower that descends, and speaks to the toil-worn farmer of a blazing hearth and humble meal prepared by kind affection to welcome him after the fatigues of his journey. then the rustic gossip by the fireside, on which the fagot burns and crackles, and a peaceful, comfortable night's rest, amid the whistling of the winds, and the barking of the various dogs at the different farms scattered around, with the answering cry from the distant watch-dog. daylight opens upon a scene of fairy-land. surely the tiny elves have been celebrating some grand fête, and have left some of their adornments behind them, for on each branch hang long spiracles of crystal, glittering in the rays of a winter's sun with all the prismatic brilliancy of the diamond. the damp, rich soil of the arable land is laid down in furrows, where hides the timid hare in her form, or the speckled partridge runs merrily. here and there is heard the melancholy tinkling of the sheep-bell hanging from the neck of some important leader of the numerous flocks scattered over the verdant heights and turfy valleys of the neighbourhood; while, carefully wrapped in his dark gray cloak, the shepherd, seated under shelter of those knotted trunks and interlaced branches, chants his cheerful lay, while his fingers are busily employed weaving a basket of rushes. occasionally a more animated scene presents itself; distant echo gives out the faint sound of the hunting-horn, and the cry of hounds; suddenly a frightened deer bursts from the neighbouring forest, stands for a few seconds in terrified alarm upon the frozen plain, then darts onward, and is quickly lost amid the thickets on the opposite side. the trampling of horses, the barking of dogs, are rapidly brought nearer by the breeze; and now, in their turn, a pack of dogs with brown and tawny-spotted skins issue from the brushwood from which the frightened deer but just now came; they run eagerly over the sterile ground, the fallow fields, with noses closely pointed to the ground they pursue with loud cries the traces left by the flying deer. at their heels come the hunters in their scarlet coats, bending over the necks of their swift steeds; they encourage their dogs by their voices mingled with the notes of the horn. swift as lightning the brilliant cortège passes on; the noise decreases; by degrees all is still; dogs, horses, and huntsmen are lost in the tangled mazes of the forest, where the frightened stag had sought and found a hiding-place. then peace and calm resumed their reign; and the profound stillness of these vast plains was interrupted only by the monotonous song of the shepherd. these sights,--these rustic views abounded in the environs of the village of bouqueval, which, spite of its proximity to paris, was situated in a sort of desert, to which there was no approach except by cross-roads. concealed during the summer among the trees, like a nest amid the sheltering foliage, the farm which had become the home of the poor goualeuse was now utterly bereft of its leafy screen, and entirely exposed to view. the course of the little river, now quite frozen over, resembled a long silver riband stretched along the ever verdant meadows, through which a number of fine cows were leisurely wending their way to their stable. brought home by the approach of night, flocks of pigeons were successively arriving, and perching on the peaked roof of the dove-house; while the immense walnut-tree, that during the summer afforded an umbrageous screen both to the farmhouse and its numerous out-buildings, stripped of its rich foliage, exhibited only bare branches, through which could plainly be discerned the tiled roof of the one, and the thatched tops of the others, overgrown with patches of moss of mingled green and dingy brown. a heavy cart, drawn by three strong, sturdy horses, with long, thick manes and shining coats, with blue collars ornamented with bells and tassels of red worsted, was bringing in a load of wheat from a neighbouring rick. this ponderous machine entered the courtyard by the large gate, while immense flocks of sheep were pressing eagerly round the side entrances; both men and beasts appeared impatient to escape from the severity of the cold, and to enjoy the comfort of repose. the horses neighed joyously at the sight of their stable, the sheep bleated their satisfaction at returning to their warm folds, while the hungry labourers cast a longing look towards the kitchen windows, from which streamed forth pleasant promise of a warm and savoury meal. the whole of the exterior arrangements of the farm were indicative of the most scrupulous order, neatness, and exactitude. instead of being covered with dirt and dust, scattered about, and exposed to the inclemency of the season, the carts, rollers, harrows, etc., with every agricultural implement (and some were of the last and best invention), were placed, well cleaned and painted, under a vast shed, where the carters were accustomed to arrange their cart-harness with the most symmetrical attention to order and method. large, clean, and well laid out, the court-yard had none of those huge dung-heaps, those stagnant pools of filthy water, which deface the finest establishments of la beauce or la brie. the poultry-yard, surrounded by a green trellising, received and shut in all the feathered tribe, who after wandering in the fields all day, returned home by a small door left open till all were collected, when it was carefully closed and secured. without dwelling too minutely upon every detail, we shall merely observe, that in all respects this farm passed most justly in the environs for a model farm, as much for the excellency of the method by which it was conducted, and the abundant crops it produced, as for the respectability and correct mode of life which distinguished the various labourers employed there, who were soon ranked among the most creditable and efficient workmen of the place. the cause of all this prosperity shall be spoken of hereafter. meanwhile we will conduct the reader to the trellised gate of the poultry-yard, which, for the rustic elegance of its perches and poultry-houses, was noways inferior to the farm itself; while through the centre flowed a small stream of clear, limpid water, the bed of which was laid down with smooth pebbles, carefully cleansed from any obstructing substance. a sudden stir arose among the winged inhabitants of this charming spot; the fowls flew fluttering and cackling from their perches, the turkeys gabbled, the guinea-fowls screamed, and the pigeons, forsaking their elevated position on the summit of the dove-house, descended to the sandy surface of the yard, and stood cooing and caressing each other with every manifestation of joy. the arrival of fleur-de-marie had occasioned all these ecstatic delights. a more charming model than the goualeuse could not have been desired by greuze or watteau, had her cheeks possessed a little more _rondeur_ or been visited by a brighter tinge; but, spite of their delicate paleness, the expression of her features, the _tout ensemble_ of her figure, and the gracefulness of her attitude would have rendered her worthy of exercising the crayons of even the celebrated artists we have alluded to. the small round cap of fleur-de-marie displayed her fair forehead and light, braided hair, in common with all the young girls in the environs of paris; above this cap, but still exposing the crown and ears, she wore a large red cotton handkerchief, folded smoothly, and pinned behind her head; while the long ends waving gracefully over her shoulders formed a costume which, for graceful effect, might be envied by the tasteful _coiffeurs_ of italy or switzerland. a handkerchief of snow-white linen, crossed over her bosom, was half concealed by the high and spreading front of her coarse cloth apron. a jacket of blue woollen cloth with tight sleeves displayed her slender figure, and descended half way down her thick skirt of dark-striped fustian; white cotton stockings and tied shoes, partly covered by sabots, furnished with a leather strap for the instep, completed this costume of rustic simplicity, to which the natural grace of fleur-de-marie lent an inexpressible charm. holding in one hand the two corners of her apron, with the other she distributed handfuls of grain among the winged crowd by which she was surrounded. one beautiful pigeon of a silvery whiteness, with beak and feet of a rich purple colour, more presuming or more indulged than the rest, after having flown several times around fleur-de-marie, at length alighted on her shoulder; the young girl, as though well used to these familiarities, continued, wholly undisturbed, to throw out continued supplies of grain; but, half turning her head till its perfect outline alone was visible, she gently raised her head, and smilingly offered her small rosy lips to meet those of her fond, caressing friend. the last rays of the setting sun shed a pale golden light over this innocent picture. while the goualeuse was thus occupied with her rural cares, madame georges and the abbé laporte, curé of bouqueval, sitting by the fireside in the neat little parlour of the farm, were conversing on the one constant theme,--fleur-de-marie. the old curé, with a pensive, thoughtful air, his head bent downwards, and his elbows leaning on his knees, mechanically stretched his two trembling hands before the fire. madame georges, laying aside the needlework on which she had been occupied, kept an anxious eye on the abbé, as though eagerly waiting for some observation from him. after a moment's silence: "yes," said he, "you are right, madame georges; it will be better for m. rodolph to question marie, for she is so filled with deep gratitude and devotion to him, that she will probably reveal to him what she persists in concealing from us." "then, since you agree with me, m. le curé, i will write, this very evening, to the address he left with me,--the allée des veuves." "poor child," sighed the kind old man, "she ought to have been so happy here! what secret grief can thus be preying on her mind?" [illustration: "_at length alighted on her shoulder_" original etching by l. poiteau] "her unhappiness is too deeply fixed to be removed even by her earnest and passionate application to study." "and yet she has made a most rapid and extraordinary progress since she has been under our care, has she not?" "she has, indeed; already she can read and write with the utmost fluency, and is already sufficiently advanced in arithmetic to assist me in keeping my farm accounts; and then the dear child is so active and industrious, and really affords me so much assistance as both surprises me and moves me to tears. you know that, spite of my repeated remonstrances, she persisted in working so hard, that i became quite alarmed lest such toil should seriously affect her health." "i am thankful to hear from you," resumed the worthy curé, "that your negro doctor has fully quieted your apprehensions respecting the cough your young friend suffered from; he says it is merely temporary, and gives no reason for uneasiness." "oh, that kind, excellent m. david! he really appeared to feel the same interest in the poor girl that we did who know her sad story. she is universally beloved and respected by all on the farm; though that is not surprising, as, thanks to the generous and elevated views of m. rodolph, all the persons employed on it are selected for their good sense and excellent conduct, from all parts of the kingdom; but were it not so,--were they of the common herd of vulgar-minded labourers, they could not help feeling the influence of marie's angelic sweetness, and timid, graceful manner, as though she were always deprecating anger, or beseeching pardon for some involuntary fault. unfortunate being! as though she alone were to blame." after remaining for several minutes buried in reflection, the abbé resumed: "did you not tell me that this deep dejection of marie's might be dated from the time when madame dubreuil, who rents under the duke de lucenay, paid her a visit during the feast of the holy ghost?" "yes, m. le curé, i did. and yet madame dubreuil and her daughter clara (a perfect model of candour and goodness) were as much taken with our dear child as every one else who approaches her; and both of them lavished on her every mark of the most affectionate regard. you know that we pass the sunday alternately at each other's house; but it invariably happens that, when we return from our sunday excursion to arnouville, where madame dubreuil and her daughter reside, the melancholy of my dear marie seems augmented, and her spirits more depressed than ever. i cannot comprehend why this should be, when madame dubreuil treats her like a second daughter, and the sweet clara loves her with the tender affection of a sister." "in truth, madame georges, it is a fearful mystery; what can occasion all this hidden sorrow, when here she need not have a single care? the difference between her present and past life must be as great as that which exists between heaven and the abode of the damned. surely, hers is not an ungrateful disposition?" "she ungrateful! oh, no, m. le curé! her sensitive and affectionate nature magnifies the slightest service rendered her, and she appears as though her gratitude could never be sufficiently evinced. there is, too, in her every thought an instinctive delicacy and fineness of feeling wholly incompatible with ingratitude, which could never be harboured in so noble a nature as that of my charge. dear marie, how anxious does she seem to earn the bread she eats, and how eagerly she strives to compensate the hospitality shown her, by every exertion she can make, or service she can render! and, then, except on sunday, when i make it a point she should dress herself with more regard to appearance to accompany me to church, she will only wear the coarse, humble garments worn by our young peasant girls; and yet there is in her such an air of native superiority, so natural a grace, that one would not desire to see her otherwise attired, would they, m. le curé?" "ah, mother's pride! beware!" said the old priest, smiling. at these words, tears filled the eyes of madame georges; she thought of her long-lost child, and of his possible destiny. "come, come, dear friend, cheer up! look upon our dear marie as sent by a gracious providence to occupy your maternal affections until the blessed moment when he shall restore you your son; and, besides, you have a sacred duty to perform towards this child of your adoption. are you not her baptismal godmother? and, believe me, when that office is worthily discharged, it almost equals that of a mother. as for m. rodolph, he has discharged his obligation of godfather by anticipation, for, in snatching her from the abyss of crime into which her misfortunes and her helplessness had cast her, he may be said to have caused her immortal existence to begin." "doubtless the poor thing has never received the sacrament of our holy church. do you think, m. le curé, she is now sufficiently acquainted with its sanctified purposes to be admitted to a participation of it?" "i will take an opportunity of learning her sentiments on the subject as we walk back to the rectory. i shall then apprise her that the holy ceremony will take place probably in about a fortnight from hence." "how gratefully she will receive such an information; her religious feelings are the strongest i have ever met with." "alas, poor thing! she has deep and heavy expiation to make for the errors of her past life." "nay, m. l'abbé, consider. abandoned so young, without resource, without friends, almost without a knowledge of good or evil, plunged involuntarily into the very vortex of crime, what was there to prevent her from falling the bitter sacrifice she has been?" "the clear, moral sense of right and wrong implanted by the creator in every breast should have withheld her; and, besides, we have no evidence of her having even sought to escape from the horrible fate into which she had fallen. is there no friendly hand to be found in paris to listen to the cries of suffering virtue? is charity so rare, so hard to obtain in that large city?" "let us hope not, m. l'abbé; but how to discover it is the difficulty. ere arriving at the knowledge of one kind, commiserating christian, think of the refusals, the rebukes, the denials to be endured. and, then, in such a case as our poor marie's, it was no passing temporary aid that could avail her, but the steady, continued patronage and support, the being placed in the way to earn an honest livelihood. many tender and pitying mothers would have succoured her had they known her sad case, i doubt not, but it was first requisite to secure the happiness of knowing where to meet with them. trust me, i, too, have known want and misery. but for one of those providential chances which, alas! too late, threw poor marie in the way of m. rodolph,--but for one of those casualties, the wretched and destitute, most commonly repulsed with rude denial on their first applications, believe pity irretrievably lost, and, pressed by hunger, fierce, clamorous hunger, often seek in vice that relief they despair to obtain from commiseration." at this moment the goualeuse entered the parlour. "where have you been, my dear child?" inquired madame georges, anxiously. "visiting the fruit-house, madame, after having shut up the hen-houses and gates of the poultry-yard. all the fruit has kept excellently,--all but those i ran away with and ate." "now, marie, why take all this fatigue upon yourself? you should have left all this tiring work to claudine; i fear you have quite tired yourself." "no, no! dear madame georges; i wouldn't let claudine help me for the world. i take so much delight in my fruit-house,--the smell of the beautiful ripe fruit is so delicious." "m. le curé," said madame georges, "you must go some day and see marie's fruit-house. you can scarcely imagine the taste with which she has arranged it; each different variety of fruit is separated by rows of grapes, and the grapes are again divided off by strips of moss." "oh, yes, m. le curé; pray do come and see it," said the goualeuse, innocently; "i am sure you would be pleased with it. you would be surprised what a pretty contrast the moss makes to the bright rosy apples or the rich golden pears. there are some such lovely waxen apples, quite a pure red and white; and really, as they lie surrounded by the soft green moss, i cannot help thinking of the heads of little cherubim just peeping out from the glorious clouds of heaven," added the delighted goualeuse, speaking with all the enthusiasm of an artist of the work of her creation. the curé looked at madame georges, then smilingly replied to fleur-de-marie: "i have already admired the dairy over which you preside, my child, and can venture to declare it perfect in its way; the most particular dairy-woman might envy you the perfection to which you have brought it. ere long, i promise myself the pleasure of visiting your fruit-house, and passing a similar compliment on your skill in arrangement. you shall then introduce me to those charming rosy apples and delicious golden pears, as well as to the little cherubim pippins so prettily peeping from their mossy beds. but see! the sun has already set; you will scarcely have sufficient time to conduct me back to the rectory-house and return before dark. come, my child, fetch your cloak, and let us be gone; or, now i think of it, do you remain at home this cold bitter night, and let one of the farm servants go home with me." "oh, m. le curé," replied the kind madame georges, "marie will be quite wretched if she is not allowed to accompany you; she so much enjoys the happiness of escorting you home every evening." "indeed, monsieur le curé," added the goualeuse, timidly raising her large blue eyes to the priest's countenance, "i shall fear you are displeased with me if you do not permit me to accompany you as usual." "well, then, my dear child, wrap yourself up very warm, and let us go." fleur-de-marie hastily threw over her shoulders a sort of cloak of coarse white cloth, edged with black velvet, and with a large hood, to be drawn at pleasure over the head. thus equipped, she eagerly offered her arm to her venerable friend. "happily," said he, in taking it, "the distance is but trifling, and the road both good and safe to pass at all hours." "as it is somewhat later to-night than usual," said madame georges, "will you have one of the farm-people to return with you, marie?" "do you take me for a coward?" said marie, playfully. "i am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, madame. no, pray do not let any one be called away on my account. it is not a quarter of an hour's walk from here to the rectory. i shall be back long before dark." "well, as you like. i merely thought it would be company for you; for as to fearing, thank heaven, there is no cause. loose vagabond people, likely to interrupt your progress, are wholly unknown here." "and, were i not equally sure of the absence of all danger, i would not accept this dear child's arm," added the curé, "useful as, i confess, i find it." and, leaning on fleur-de-marie, who regulated her light step to suit the slow and laboured pace of the old man, the two friends quitted the farm. a few minutes' walk brought the goualeuse and the priest close to the hollow road in which the schoolmaster, the chouette, and tortillard, were lying in ambush. chapter iv. the ambuscade. the church and parsonage of bouqueval were placed on the side of a hill covered with chestnut-trees, and commanded an entire view of the village. fleur-de-marie and the abbé reached a winding path which led to the clergyman's home, crossing the sunken road by which the hill was intersected diagonally. the chouette, the schoolmaster, and tortillard, concealed in one of the hollows of the road, saw the priest and fleur-de-marie descend into the ravine, and leave it again by a steep declivity. the features of the young girl being hidden under the hood of her cloak, the chouette did not recognise her old victim. "silence, my old boy," said the old harridan to the schoolmaster; "the young 'mot' and the 'black slug' are just crossing the path. i know her by the description which the tall man in black gave us; a country appearance, neither tall nor short; a petticoat shot with brown, and a woollen mantle with a black border. she walks every day with a 'devil-dodger' to his 'crib,' and returns alone. when she come back, which she will do presently by the end of the road, we must spring upon her and carry her off to the coach." "if she cries for help," replied the schoolmaster, "they will hear her at the farm, if, as you say, the out-buildings are visible from here; for you--you can see," he added, in a sullen tone. "oh, yes, we can see the buildings from here quite plainly," said tortillard. "it is only a minute ago that i climbed to the top of the bank, and, lying down on my belly, i could hear a carter who was talking to his horses in the yard there." "i'll tell you, then, what we must do," said the schoolmaster, after a moment's silence. "let tortillard have the watch at the entrance to the path. when he sees the young girl returning, let him go and meet her, saying that he is the son of a poor old woman who has hurt herself by falling down the hollow road, and beg the girl to come to her assistance." "i'm up to you, _fourline_; the poor old woman is your darling chouette. you're 'wide-awake!' my man, you are always the king of the 'downy ones' (_têtards_). what must i do afterwards?" "conceal yourself in the hollow way on the side where barbillon is waiting with the coach. i will be at hand. when tortillard has brought the wench to you in the middle of the ravine, leave off whimpering and spring upon her, put one 'mauley' round her 'squeeze,' and the other into her 'patter-box,' and 'grab' her 'red rag' to prevent her from squeaking." "i know, i know, _fourline_; as we did with the woman at the canal of st. martin, when we gave her cold water for supper (drowned her), after having 'prigged' her 'negress' (the parcel wrapped in black oil-skin) which she had under her arm,--the same 'dodge,' isn't it?" "yes, precisely. but mind, grab the girl tight whilst tortillard comes and fetches me. we three will then bundle her up in my cloak, carry her to barbillon's coach, from thence to the plain of st. denis, where the man in black will await us." "that's the way to do business, my _fourline_; you are without an equal! if i could, i would let off a firework on your head, and illuminate you with the colours of saint charlot, the patron of 'scragsmen.' do you see, you urchin? if you would be an 'out-and-outer,' make my husband your model," said the chouette, boastingly to tortillard. then, addressing the schoolmaster, "by the way, do you know that barbillon is in an awful 'funk' (fright)? he thinks that he shall be had up before the 'beaks' on a swinging matter." "why?" "the other day, returning from mother martial's, the widow of the man who was scragged, and who keeps the boozing-ken in the ile du ravageur, barbillon, the gros-boiteux, and the skeleton had a row with the husband of the milkwoman who comes every morning from the country in a little cart drawn by a donkey, to sell her milk in the cité, at the corner of the rue de la vieille-draperie, close to the ogress's of the 'white rabbit,' and they 'walked into him with their slashers' (killed him with their knives)." the son of bras rouge, who did not understand slang, listened to the chouette with a sort of disappointed curiosity. "you would like to know, little man, what we are saying, wouldn't you?" "yes. you were talking of mother martial, who is at the ile du ravageur, near asnières. i know her very well, and her daughter calebasse and françois and amandine, who are about as old as i am, and who are made to bear everybody's snubs and thumps in the house. but when you talked of 'walking into (_buter_) any one,' that's slang, i know." "it is; and, if you're a very good chap, i'll teach you to 'patter flash.' you're just the age when it may be very useful to you. would you like to learn, my precious lambkin?" "i rather think i should, too, and no mistake; and i would rather live with you than with my old cheat of a mountebank, pounding his drugs. if i knew where he hides his 'rat-poison for men,' i'd put some in his soup, and then that would settle the quarrel between us." the chouette laughed heartily, and said to tortillard, drawing him towards her: "come, chick, and kiss his mammy. what a droll boy it is--a darling! but, my manikin, how didst know that he had 'rat-poison for men'?" "why, 'cause i heard him say so one day when i was hid in the cupboard in the room where he keeps his bottles, his brass machines, and where he mixes his stuffs together." "what did you hear him say?" asked the chouette. "i heard him say to a gentleman that he gave a powder to, in a paper, 'when you are tired of life, take this in three doses, and you will sleep without sickness or sorrow.'" "who was the gentleman?" asked the schoolmaster. "oh, a very handsome gentleman with black moustachios, and a face as pretty as a girl's. he came another time; and then, when he left, i followed him, by m. bradamanti's order, to find out where he perched. the fine gentleman went into the rue de chaillot, and entered a very grand house. my master said to me, 'no matter where this gentleman goes, follow and wait for him at the door. if he comes out again, still keep your eye on him, until he does not come out of the place where he enters, and that will prove that he lives there. then tortillard, my boy, twist (_tortille_) yourself about to find out his name, or i will twist your ears in a way that will astonish you.'" "well?" "well, i did twist myself about, and found out his name." "how did you manage it?" inquired the schoolmaster. "why, so. i'm not a fool; so i went to the porter at the house in the rue de chaillot, where this gentleman had gone in and not come out again. the porter had his hair finely powdered, with a fine brown coat with a yellow collar trimmed with silver. so i says to him, 'good gentleman, i have come to ask for a hundred sous which the gentleman of the house has promised me for having found his dog and brought it back to him--a little black dog called trumpet; and the gentleman with dark features, with black moustachios, a white riding-coat, and light blue pantaloons, told me he lived at no. rue de chaillot, and that his name was dupont.' 'the gentleman you're talking of is my master, and his name is the viscount de st. remy, and we have no dog here but yourself, you young scamp; so "cut your stick," or i'll make you remember coming here, and trying to do me out of a hundred sous,' says the porter to me; and he gave me a kick as he said it. but i didn't mind that," added tortillard most philosophically, "for i found out the name of the handsome young gentleman with black moustachios, who came to my master's to buy the 'rat-poison for men' who are tired of living. he is called the viscount de st. remy,--my--my--st. remy," added the son of bras rouge, humming the last words, as was his usual habit. "clever little darling--i could eat him up alive!" said the chouette, embracing tortillard. "never was such a knowing fellow. he deserves that i should be his mother, the dear rascal does." and the hag embraced tortillard with an absurd affectation. the son of bras rouge, touched by this proof of affection, and desirous of showing his gratitude, eagerly answered: "only you tell me what to do, and you shall see how i'll do it." "will you, though? well, then, you sha'n't repent doing so." "oh, i should like always to stay with you!" "if you behave well, we may see about that. you sha'n't leave us if you are a good boy." "yes," said the schoolmaster, "you shall lead me about like a poor blind man, and say you are my son. we will get into houses in this way, and then--ten thousand slaughters!" added the assassin with enthusiasm; "the chouette will assist us in making lucky hits. i will then teach that devil of a rodolph, who blinded me, that i am not yet quite done for. he took away my eyesight, but he could not, did not remove my bent for mischief. i would be the head, tortillard the eyes, and you the hand,--eh, chouette? you will help me in this, won't you?" "am i not with you to gallows and rope, _fourline_? didn't i, when i left the hospital, and learnt that you had sent the 'yokel' from st. mandé to ask for me at the ogress's--didn't i run to you at the village directly, telling those chawbacons of labourers that i was your _rib_?" these words of the "one-eyed's" reminded the schoolmaster of an unpleasant affair, and, altering his tone and language with the chouette, he said, in a surly tone: "yes, i was getting tired of being all by myself with these honest people. after a month i could not stand it any longer; i was frightened. so then i thought of trying to find you out; and a nice thing i did for myself," he added, in a tone of increasing anger; "for the day after you arrived i was robbed of the rest of the money which that devil in the allée des veuves had given me. yes, some one stole my belt full of gold whilst i was asleep. it was only you who could have done it; and so now i am at your mercy. whenever i think of it, i can hardly restrain myself from killing you on the spot--you cursed old robber, you!" and he stepped towards the old woman. "look out for yourself, if you try to do any harm to the chouette!" cried tortillard. "i will smash you both--you and she--base vipers as you are!" cried the ruffian, enraged; and, hearing the boy mumbling near him, he aimed at him so violent a blow with his fist, as must have killed him if it had struck him. tortillard, as much to revenge himself as the chouette, picked up a stone, took aim, and struck the schoolmaster on the forehead. the blow was not dangerous, but very painful. the brigand grew furious with passion, raging like a wounded bull, and, rushing forward swiftly and at random, stumbled. "what, break your own back?" shouted the chouette, laughing till she cried. despite the bloody ties which bound her to this monster, she saw how entirely, and with a sort of savage delight, this man, formerly so dreaded, and so proud of his giant strength, was reduced to impotence. the old wretch, by these feelings, justified that cold-blooded idea of la rochefoucauld's, that "there is something in the misfortunes of our best friends which does not displease us." the disgusting brat, with his tawny cheeks and weasel face, enjoyed and participated in the mirth of the one-eyed hag. the schoolmaster tripped again, and the urchin exclaimed: "open your peepers, old fellow; look about you. you are going the wrong way. what capers you are cutting! can't you see your way? why don't you wipe your eye-glasses?" unable to seize on the boy, the athletic murderer stopped, struck his foot violently on the ground, put his enormous and hairy fists to his eyes, and then uttered a sound which resembled the hoarse scream of a muzzled tiger. "got a bad cough, i'm afraid, old chap!" said bras rouge's brat. "you're hoarse, i'm afraid? i have some capital liquorice which a _gen-d'arme_ gave me. p'raps you'd like to try it?" and, taking up a handful of sand, he threw it in the face of the ruffian. struck full in his countenance by this shower of gravel, the schoolmaster suffered still more severely by this last attack than by the blow from the stone. become pale, in spite of his livid and cicatrised features, he extended his two arms suddenly in the form of a cross, in a moment of inexpressible agony and despair, and, raising his frightful face to heaven, he cried, in a voice of deep suffering: "_mon dieu! mon dieu! mon dieu!_" this involuntary appeal to divine mercy by a man stained by every crime, a bandit in whose presence but very recently the most resolute of his fellows trembled, appeared like an interposition of providence. "ha! ha! ha!" said the chouette, in a mocking tone; "look at the thief making the crucifix! you mistake your road, my man. it is the 'old one' you should call to your help." "a knife! oh, for a knife to kill myself! a knife! since all the world abandons me!" shrieked the wretch, gnawing his fists for very agony and rage. "a knife!--there's one in your pocket, cut-throat, and with an edge, too. the little old man in the rue du roule, you know, one moonlight night, and the cattle-dealer in the poissy road, could tell the 'moles' all about it. but if you want it, it's here." the schoolmaster, when thus instructed, changed the conversation, and replied, in a surly and threatening tone: "the chourineur was true; he did not rob, but had pity on me." "why did you say that i had 'prigged your blunt'?" inquired the chouette, hardly able to restrain her laughter. "it was only you who came into my room," said the miscreant. "i was robbed on the night of your arrival, and who else could i suspect? those country people could not have done such a thing." "why should not country people steal as well as other folks? is it because they drink milk and gather grass for their rabbits?" "i don't know. i only know i'm robbed." "and is that the fault of your own chouette? what! suspect me? do you think if i had got your belt that i should stay any longer with you. what a fool you are! why, if i had chosen to 'pouch your blunt,' i could, of course; but, as true as i'm chouette, you would have seen me again when the 'pewter' was spent, for i like you as well now with your eyes white, as i did--you rogue, you! come, be decent, and leave off grinding your 'snags' in that way, or you'll break 'em." "it's just as if he was a-cracking nuts," said tortillard. "ha! ha! ha! what a droll baby it is! but quiet, now, quiet, my man of men; let him laugh, it is but an infant. you must own you have been unfair; for when the tall man in mourning, who looks like a mute at a funeral, said to me, 'a thousand francs are yours if you carry off this young girl from the farm at bouqueval, and bring her to the spot in the plain of st. denis that i shall tell you,' say, cut-throat, didn't i directly tell you of the affair and agree to share with you, instead of choosing some 'pal' with his eyesight clear? why, it's like making you a handsome present for doing nothing; for unless to bundle up the girl and carry her, with tortillard's assistance, you would be of no more use to me than the fifth wheel to an omnibus. but never mind; for, although i could have robbed you if i would, i like, on the contrary, to do you service. i should wish you to owe everything to your darling chouette--that's my way, that is. we must give two hundred 'bob' to barbillon for driving the coach, and coming once before with the servant of the tall man in mourning, to look about the place and determine where we should hide ourselves whilst we waited for the young miss; and then we shall have eight hundred 'bob' between us. what do you say to that old boy? what! still angry with your old woman?" "how do i know that you will give me a 'mag' when once the thing's done? why!--i"--said the ruffian, in a tone of gloomy distrust. "why, if i like, i need not give you a dump, that's true enough; for you are on my gridiron, my lad, as i once had the goualeuse; and so i will broil you to my own taste, till the 'old one' gets the cooking of my darling--ha! ha! ha! what, still sulky with your chouette?" added the horrible woman, patting the shoulder of the ruffian, who stood mute and motionless. "you are right," said he, with a sigh of concentrated rage; "it is my fate--mine--mine! at the mercy of a woman and child whom but lately i could have killed with a blow. oh, if i were not afraid of dying!" said he, falling back against the bank. "what! a coward!--you--you a coward!" said the chouette, contemptuously. "why, you'll be talking next of your conscience! what a precious farce! well, if you haven't more pluck than that, i'll 'cut' and leave you." "and that i cannot have my revenge of the man who in thus making a martyr of me has reduced me to the wretched situation in which i am!" screamed the schoolmaster, in a renewal of fury. "i am afraid of death--yes, i own it, i am afraid. but if i were told, 'this man rodolph is between your arms--your two arms--and now you shall both be flung into a pit,' i would say, 'throw us, then, at once.' yes, for then i should be safe not to relax my clutch, till we both reached the bottom together. i would fix my teeth in his face--his throat--his heart. i would tear him to pieces with my teeth--yes, my teeth; for i should be jealous of a knife!" "bravo, _fourline_! now you are my own dear love again. calm yourself. we will find him again, that wretch of a rodolph, and the chourineur too. come, pluck up, old man; we will yet work our will on them both. i say it, on both!" "well, then, you will not forsake me?" cried the brigand to the chouette in a subdued tone, mingled, however, with distrust. "if you do leave me, what will become of me?" "that's true. i say, _fourline_, what a joke if tortillard and i were to 'mizzle' with the 'drag,' and leave you where you are--in the middle of the fields; and the night air begins to nip very sharp. i say, it would be a joke, old cutpurse, wouldn't it?" at this threat the schoolmaster shuddered, and, coming towards the chouette, said tremulously, "no, no, you wouldn't do that, chouette; nor you, tortillard. it would be too bad, wouldn't it?" "ha! ha! ha! 'too bad,' says he, the gentle dear! and the little old man in the rue du roule; and the cattle-dealer and the woman in saint martin's canal; and the gentleman in the allée des veuves; they found you nice and amiable, i don't think--didn't they--with your 'larding-pin?' why, then, in your turn, shouldn't you be left to such tender mercy as you have showed?" "i'm in your power, don't abuse it," said the schoolmaster. "come, come, i confess i was wrong to suspect you. i was wrong to try and thump tortillard; and, you see, i beg pardon; and of you too, tortillard. yes, i ask pardon of both." "i will have you ask pardon on your knees for having tried to beat the chouette," said tortillard. "you rum little beggar, how funny you are!" said the chouette, laughing loudly; "but i should like to see what a 'guy' you will make of yourself. so on your knees, as if you were 'pattering' love to your old darling. come, do it directly, or we will leave you; and i tell you that in half an hour it will be quite dark, though you don't look as if you thought so, old 'no-eyes.'" "night or day, what's that to him?" said tortillard, saucily. "the gentleman always has his shutters closed." "then here, on my knees, i humbly ask your pardon, chouette; and yours also, tortillard! will not that content you?" said the robber, kneeling in the middle of the highway. "and now will you leave me?" this strange group, enclosed by the embankment of the ravine, and lighted by the red glimmer of the twilight, was hideous to behold. in the middle of the road the schoolmaster, on his knees, extended his large and coarse hands towards the one-eyed hag; his thick and matted hair, which his fright had dishevelled, left exposed his motionless, rigid, glassy, dead eyeballs--the very glance of a corpse. stooping deprecatingly his broad-spread shoulders, this hercules kneels abjectly, and trembles at the feet of an old woman and a child! the old hag herself, wrapped in a red-checked shawl, her head covered with an old cap of black lace, which allowed some locks of her grizzled hair to escape, looked down with an air of haughty contempt and domineering pride on the schoolmaster. the bony, scorched, shrivelled, and livid countenance of the parrot-nosed old harridan expressed a savage and insulting joy; her small but fierce eye glistened like a burning coal; a sinister expression curled her lips, shaded with long straight hairs, and revealed three or four large, yellow, and decayed fangs. tortillard, clothed in a blouse with a leathern belt, standing on one leg, leaned on the chouette's arm to keep himself upright. the bad expression and cunning look of this deformed imp, with a complexion as sallow as his hair, betokened at this moment his disposition--half fiend, half monkey. the shadow cast from the declivity of the ravine increased the horrid _tout ensemble_ of the scene, which the increasing darkness half hid. "promise me,--oh, promise me--at least, not to forsake me!" repeated the schoolmaster, frightened by the silence of the chouette and tortillard, who were enjoying his dismay. "are you not here?" added the murderer, leaning forward to listen, and advancing his arms mechanically. "yes, my man, we are here; don't be frightened. forsake you! leave my love! the man of my heart! no, i'd sooner be 'scragged'! once for all, i will tell you why i will not forsake you. listen, and profit. i have always liked to have some one in my grip--beast or christian. before i had pegriotte (oh! that the 'old one' would return her to my clutch! for i have still my idea of scaling off her beauty with my bottle of vitriol)--before pegriotte's turn, i had a brat who froze to death under my care. for that little job, i got six years in the 'stone jug.' then i used to have little birds, which i used to tame, and then pluck 'em alive. ha! ha! but that was troublesome work, for they did not last long. when i left the 'jug,' the goualeuse came to hand; but the little brat ran away before i had had half my fun out of her carcass. well, then i had a dog, who had his little troubles as well as she had; and i cut off one of his hind feet and one of his four feet; and you never saw such a rum beggar as i made of him; i almost burst my sides with laughing at him!" "i must serve a dog i know of, who bit me one day, in the same way," said the promising master tortillard. "when i fell in again with you, my darling," continued the chouette, "i was trying what i could do that was miserable with a cat. well, now, at this moment, you, old boy, shall be my cat, my dog, my bird, my pegriotte; you shall be anything to worry (_bête de souffrance_). do you understand, my love? instead of having a bird or a child to make miserable, i shall have, as it were, a wolf or a tiger. i think that's rather a bright idea; isn't it?" "hag! devil!" cried the schoolmaster, rising in a desperate rage. "what, my pet angry with his darling old deary? well, if it must be so, it must. have your own way; you have a right to it. good night, blind sheep!" "the field-gate is wide open, so walk alone, mister no-eyes; and, if you toddle straight, you'll reach the right road somehow," said tortillard, laughing heartily. "oh, that i could die! die! die!" said the schoolmaster, writhing and twisting his arms about in agony. at this moment, tortillard, stooping to the ground, exclaimed, in a low voice: "i hear footsteps in the path; let us hide; it is not the young miss, for they come the same way as she did." on the instant, a stout peasant girl in the prime of youth, followed by a large shepherd's dog, carrying on her head an open basket, appeared, and followed the same path which the priest and the goualeuse had taken. we will rejoin the two latter, leaving the three accomplices concealed in the hollow of the path. chapter v. the rectory-house. the last rays of the sun were gradually disappearing behind the vast pile of the château d'ecouen and the woods which surrounded it. on all sides, until the sight lost them in the distance, were vast tracts of land lying in brown furrows hardened by the frost--an extensive desert, of which the hamlet of bouqueval appeared to be the oasis. the sky, which was serenely glorious, was tinted by the sunset, and glowed with long lines of empurpled light, the certain token of wind and cold. these tints, which were at first of a deep red, became violet; then a bluish black, as the twilight grew more and more dark on the atmosphere. the crescent of the moon was as delicately and clearly defined as a silver ring, and began to shine beautifully in the midst of the blue and dimmed sky, where many stars already had appeared. the silence was profound; the hour most solemn. the curate stopped for a moment on the summit of the acclivity to enjoy the calm of this delicious evening. after some minutes' reflection, he extended his trembling hand towards the depths of the horizon, half veiled by the shadows of the evening, and said to fleur-de-marie, who was walking pensively beside him: "look, my child, at the vastness and extent to which we have no visible limit; we hear not the slightest sound. say, does not this silence give us an idea of infinity and of eternity? i say this to you, marie, because you are peculiarly sensitive of the beauties of creation. i have often been struck at the admiration, alike poetical and religious, with which they inspire you,--you, a poor prisoner so long deprived of them. are you not, as i am, struck with the solemn tranquillity of the hour?" the goualeuse made no reply. the curé, regarding her with astonishment, found she was weeping. "what ails you, my child?" "my father, i am unhappy!" "unhappy!--you?--still unhappy!" "i know it is ingratitude to complain of my lot after all that has been and is done for me; and yet--" "and yet?" "father, i pray of you forgive my sorrows; their expression may offend my benefactors." "listen, marie. we have often asked you the cause of these sorrows with which you are depressed, and which excite in your second mother the most serious uneasiness. you have avoided all reply, and we have respected your secret whilst we have been afflicted at not being able to solace your sorrows." "alas; good father, i dare not tell you what is passing in my mind. i have been moved, as you have been, at the sight of this calm and saddening evening. my heart is sorely afflicted, and i have wept." "but what ails you, marie? you know how we love you! come, tell me all. you should; for i must tell you that the time is very close at hand when madame georges and m. rodolph will present you at the baptismal font, and take upon themselves the engagement before god to protect you all the days of your life." "m. rodolph--he who has saved me?" cried fleur-de-marie, clasping her hands; "he will deign to give me this new proof of affection! oh, indeed, my father, i can no longer conceal from you anything, lest i should, indeed, deserve to be called and thought an ingrate." "an ingrate! how?" "that you may understand me, i must begin and tell you of my first day at the farm." "then let us talk as we walk on." "you will be indulgent to me, my father? what i shall say may perhaps be wrong." "the lord has shown his mercy unto you. be of good heart." "when," said fleur-de-marie, after a moment's reflection, "i knew that, on arriving here, i should not again leave the farm and madame georges, i believed it was all a dream. at first i felt giddy with my happiness, and thought every moment of m. rodolph. very often when i was alone, and in spite of myself, i raised my eyes to heaven, as if to seek him there and thank him. afterwards--and i was wrong, father--i thought more of him than god, attributing to him what god alone could do. i was happy--as happy as a creature who had suddenly and entirely escaped from a great danger. you and madame georges were so kind to me, that i thought i deserved pity rather than blame." the curé looked at the goualeuse with an air of surprise. she continued: "gradually i became used to my sweet course of life. i no longer felt fear when i awoke, of finding myself at the ogress's. i seemed to sleep in full security, and all my delight was to assist madame georges in her work, and to apply myself to the lesson you gave me, my father, as well as to profit by your advice and exhortation. except some moments of shame, when i reflected on the past, i thought myself equal to all the world, because all the world was so kind to me. when, one day--" here sobs cut short poor fleur-de-marie's narration. "come, come, my poor child, calm yourself. courage, courage!" the goualeuse wiped her eyes, and resumed: "you recollect, father, during the fêtes of the toussaints, that madame dubreuil, who superintends the duke de lucenay's farm at arnouville, came, with her daughter, to pass some time with us?" "i do; and i was delighted to see you form an acquaintance with clara dubreuil, who is a very excellent girl." "she is an angel--an angel, father. when i knew that she was coming to stay for some days at the farm, my delight was so great that i could think of nothing else but the moment when she should arrive. at length she came. i was in my room, which she was to share with me; and, whilst i was putting it into nice order i was sent for. i went into the saloon, my heart beating excessively, when madame georges, presenting me to the pretty young lady, whose looks were so kind and good, said, 'marie, here is a friend for you.' 'i hope,' added madame dubreuil, 'that you and my daughter will soon be like two sisters;' and hardly had her mother uttered these words, than mademoiselle clara came and embraced me. then, father," continued fleur-de-marie, weeping, "i do not know what came over me; but, when i felt the fresh and fair face of clara pressed against my cheek of shame, that cheek became scorching with guilt--remorse. i remembered who and what i was;--i--i--to receive the caresses of a good and virtuous girl!" "why, my child?" "ah, my father," cried fleur-de-marie, interrupting the curé with painful emotion, "when m. rodolph took me away from the cité, i began vaguely to be conscious of the depth of my degradation. but do you think that education, advice, the examples i receive from madame georges and yourself, have not, whilst they have enlightened my mind, made me, alas! to comprehend but too clearly that i have been more culpable than unfortunate? before clara's arrival, when these thoughts grew upon me, i drove them away by seeking to please madame georges and you, father. if i blushed for the past it was only in my own presence. but the sight of this young lady of my own age, so charming, so virtuous, has conjured up the recollection of the distance that exists between us; and, for the first time, i have felt that there are wrongs which nothing can efface. from that time the thought has haunted me perpetually, and, in spite of myself, i recur to it. from that day i have not had one moment's repose." the goualeuse again wiped her eyes, that swam in tears. after having looked at her for some moments with a gaze of the tenderest pity, the curé replied: "reflect, my child, that if madame georges desired to see you the friend of mademoiselle dubreuil, it was that she felt you were worthy of such a confidence from your good conduct. your reproaches, addressed to yourself, seem almost to impugn your second mother." "i feel that, father, and was wrong, no doubt; but i could not subdue my shame and fear. when clara was once settled at the farm, i was as sad as i had before thought i should be happy, when i reflected on the pleasure of having a companion of my own age. she, on the contrary, was all joy and lightness. she had a bed in my apartment; and the first evening before she went to bed she kissed me, saying that she loved me already, and felt every kind sentiment towards me. she made me to call her clara, and she would call me marie. then she said her prayers, telling me that she would join my name with hers in her prayers, if i would also unite her name with mine. i did not dare to refuse; and, after talking for some time, she went to sleep. i had not got into my bed, and, approaching her bedside, i contemplated her angel face with tears in my eyes; and then, reflecting that she was sleeping in the same chamber with me--with one who had been at the ogress's, mixed up with robbers and murderers, i trembled as if i had committed some crime, and a thousand nameless fears beset me. i thought that god would one day punish me. i went to sleep and had horrid dreams. i saw again those frightful objects i had nearly forgotten--the chourineur, the schoolmaster, the chouette--that horrible, one-eyed woman who had tortured my earliest infancy. oh, what a night! _mon dieu!_--what a night! what dreams!" said the goualeuse, shuddering at their very recollection. "poor marie!" said the curé with emotion. "why did you not earlier tell me all this? i should have found comfort for you. but go on." "i slept so late, that mademoiselle clara awoke me by kissing me. to overcome what she called my coldness, and show her regard, she told me a secret--that she was going to be married when she was eighteen to the son of a farmer at goussainville, whom she loved very dearly, and the union had long been agreed upon by the two families. then she added a few words of her past life, so simple, calm, and happy! she had never quitted her mother, and never intended to do so, for her husband was to take part in the management of the farm with m. dubreuil. 'now, marie,' she said, 'you know me as well as if you were my sister. so tell me all about your early days.' "i thought when i heard the words that i should have died of them; i blushed and stammered; i did not know what madame georges had said of me, and i was fearful of telling a falsehood; i answered vaguely, that i had been an orphan, educated by a very rigid person; and that i had not been happy in my infancy; and that my happiness was dated from the moment when i had come to live with madame georges; then clara, as much by interest as curiosity, asked me where i had been educated, in the city or the country, my father's name, and, above all, if i remembered anything of my mother. all these questions embarrassed as much as they pained me, for i was obliged to reply with falsehood, and you have taught me, father, how wicked it is to lie; but clara did not think that i was deceiving her; she attributed the hesitation of my answers to the pain which my early sorrows renewed; she believed me and pitied me with a sincerity that cut me to the soul. oh, father, you never can know what i suffered in this conversation, and how much it cost me only to reply in language of falsehood and hypocrisy!" "unfortunate girl! the anger of heaven will weigh heavily on those who, by casting you into the vile road of perdition, have compelled you to undergo all your life the sad consequences of a first fault." "oh, yes, they were indeed cruel, father," replied fleur-de-marie, bitterly, "for my shame is ineffaceable. as clara talked to me of the happiness that awaited her,--her marriage, her peaceful joys of home, i could not help comparing my lot with hers; for, in spite of the kindness showered upon me, my fate must always be miserable. you and madame georges, in teaching me what virtue is, have taught me the depth of that abasement into which i had fallen; nothing can take from me the brand of having been the refuse of all that is vilest in the world. alas! if the knowledge of good and evil was to be so sad to me, why not have abandoned me to my unhappy fate?" "oh, marie, marie!" "father, i speak ill, do i not? alas! i dare not confess it; but i am at times so ungrateful as to repine at the benefits heaped upon me, and to say to myself, 'if i had not been snatched from infamy, why, wretchedness, misery, blows, would soon have ended my life; and, at least, i should have remained in ignorance of that purity which i must for ever regret.'" "alas! marie, that is indeed fatal! a nature ever so nobly endowed by the creator, though plunged but for one day in the foul mire from which you have been extricated, will preserve for ever the ineffaceable stigma." "yes, yes, my father," cried fleur-de-marie, full of grief, "i must despair until i die!" "you must despair of ever tearing out this frightful page from the book of your existence," said the priest, in a sad and serious voice; "but you must have faith in the infinite mercy of the almighty. here, on earth, my poor child, there are for you tears, remorse, expiation; but, one day, there,--up there," and he raised his hand to the sky, now filling with stars, "there is pardon and everlasting happiness." "pity, pity, _mon dieu_! i am so young, and my life may still endure so long," said the goualeuse, in a voice rent by agony, and falling at the curé's knees almost involuntarily. the priest was standing at the top of the hill, not far from where his "modest mansion rose;" his black cassock, his venerable countenance, shaded by long white locks, lighted by the last ray of twilight, stood out from the horizon, which was of a deep transparency,--a perfect clearness: pale gold in the west, sapphire over his head. the priest again elevated towards heaven one of his tremulous hands, and gave the other to fleur-de-marie, who bedewed it with her tears. the hood of her gray cloak fell at this moment from her shoulders, displaying the perfect outline of her lovely profile,--her charming features full of suffering, and suffused with tears. this simple and sublime scene offered a strange contrast,--a singular coincidence with the horrid one which, almost at the same moment, was passing in the ravine between the schoolmaster and the chouette. concealed in the darkness of the sombre cleft, assailed by base fears, a fearful murderer, carrying on his person the punishment of his crimes, was also on his knees, but in the presence of an accessory, a sneering, revengeful fury, who tormented him mercilessly, and urged him on to fresh crimes,--that accomplice, the first cause of fleur-de-marie's misery. of fleur-de-marie, whose days and nights were embittered by never-dying remorse; whose anguish, hardly endurable, was not conceivable; surrounded from her earliest days by degraded, cruel, infamous outcasts of society; leaving the walls of a prison for the den of the ogress,--even a more horrid prison; never leaving the precincts of her gaol, or the squalid streets of the cité; this unhappy young creature had hitherto lived in utter ignorance of the beautiful and the good, as strange to noble and religious sentiments as to the magnificent splendour of nature. then all that was admirable in the creature and in the creator was revealed in a moment to her astonished soul. at this striking spectacle her mind expanded, her intelligence unfolded itself, her noble instincts were awakened; and because her mind expanded, because her intelligence was unfolded, because her noble instincts were awakened, yet the very consciousness of her early degradation brings with it the feeling of horror for her past life, alike torturing and enduring,--she feels, as she had described, that, alas! there are stains which nothing can remove. "ah, unhappiness for me!" said the goualeuse, in despair; "my whole life has long to run, it may be; were it as long, as pure as your own, father, it must henceforth be blighted by the knowledge and consciousness of the past; unhappiness for me for ever!" "on the contrary, marie, it is happiness for you,--yes, happiness for you. your remorse, so full of bitterness, but so purifying, testifies the religious susceptibility of your mind. how many there are who, less nobly sensitive than you, would, in your place, have soon forgotten the fact, and only revelled in the delight of the present. believe me, every pang that you now endure will tell in your favour when on high. god has left you for a moment in an unrighteous path, to reserve for you the glory of repentance and the everlasting reward reserved for expiation. has he not said himself, 'those who fight the good fight and come to me with a smile on their lips, they are my chosen; but they who, wounded in the struggle, come to me fainting and dying, they are the chosen amongst my chosen!' courage, then, my child! support, help, counsel,--nothing will fail you. i am very aged, but madame georges and m. rodolph have still many years before them; particularly m. rodolph, who has taken so deep an interest in you, who watches your progress with so much anxiety." [illustration: "'_so i have brought turk with me_'" original etching by adrian marcel] the goualeuse was about to reply, when she was interrupted by the peasant girl whom we have already mentioned, who, having followed in the steps of the curé and marie, now came up to them. she was one of the peasants of the farm. "beg your pardon, m. le curé," she said to the priest, "but madame georges told me to bring this basket of fruit to the rectory, and then i could accompany mlle. marie back again, for it is getting late. so i have brought turk with me," added the dairy-maid, patting an enormous dog of the pyrenees, which would have mastered a bear in a struggle. "although we never have any bad people about us here in the country, it is as well to be careful." "you are quite right, claudine. here we are now at the rectory. pray thank madame georges for me." then addressing the goualeuse in a low tone, the curé said to her, in a grave voice: "i must go to-morrow to the conference of the diocese, but i shall return at five o'clock. if you like, my child, i will wait for you at the rectory. i see your state of mind, and that you require a lengthened conversation with me." "i thank you, father," replied fleur-de-marie. "to-morrow i will come, since you are so good as to allow me to do so." "here we are at the garden gate," said the priest. "leave your basket there, claudine; my housekeeper will take it. return quickly to the farm with marie, for it is almost night, and the cold is increasing. to-morrow, marie, at five o'clock." "to-morrow, father." the abbé went into his garden. the goualeuse and claudine, followed by turk, took the road to the farm. chapter vi. the rencounter. the night set in clear and cold. following the advice of the schoolmaster, the chouette had gone to that part of the hollow way which was the most remote from the path, and nearest to the cross-road where barbillon was waiting with the hackney-coach. tortillard, who was posted as an advanced guard, watched for the return of fleur-de-marie, whom he was desirous of drawing into the trap by begging her to come to the assistance of a poor old woman. the son of bras rouge had advanced a few steps out of the ravine to try and discern marie, when he heard the goualeuse some way off speaking to the peasant girl who accompanied her. the plan had failed; and tortillard quickly went down into the ravine to run and inform the chouette. "there is somebody with the young girl," said he, in a low and breathless tone. "may the hangman squeeze her weasand, the little beggar," exclaimed the chouette in a rage. "who's with her?" asked the schoolmaster. "oh, no doubt, the country wench who passed along the road just now, followed by a large dog. i heard a woman's voice," said tortillard. "hark!--do you hear? there's the noise of their sabots," and, in the silence of the night, the wooden soles sounded clearly on the ground hardened by the frost. "there are two of 'em. i can manage the young 'un in the gray mantle, but what can we do with t'other? _fourline_ can't see, and tortillard is too weak to do for the companion--devil choke her! what can be done?" asked the chouette. "i'm not strong, but, if you like, i'll cling to the legs of the country-woman with the dog. i'll hold on by hands and teeth, and not let her go, i can tell you. you can take away the little one in the meantime, you know, chouette." "if they cry or resist, they will hear them at the farm," replied the chouette, "and come to their assistance before we can reach barbillon's coach. it is no easy thing to carry off a woman who resists." "and they have a large dog with them," said tortillard. "bah! bah! if it was only that, i could break the brute's skull with a blow of my shoe-heel," said the chouette. "here they are," replied tortillard, who was listening still to the echo of their footsteps. "they are coming down the hollow now." "why don't you speak, _fourline_?" said the chouette to the schoolmaster. "what is best to be done, long-headed as you are, eh? are you grown dumb?" "there's nothing to be done to-day," replied the miscreant. "and the thousand 'bob' of the man in mourning," said the chouette; "they are gone, then? i'd sooner--your knife--your knife, _fourline_! i will stick the companion, that she may be no trouble to us; and, as to the young miss, tortillard and i can make off with her." "but the man in mourning does not desire that we should kill any one." "well, then, we must put the cold meat down as an extra in his bill. he must pay, for he will be an accomplice with us." "here they come--down the hill," said tortillard, softly. "your knife, lad!" said the chouette, in a similar tone. "ah, chouette," cried tortillard, in alarm, and extending his hands to the hag, "that is too bad--to kill. no!--oh, no!" "your knife, i tell you!" repeated the chouette, in an undertone, without paying the least attention to tortillard's supplication, and putting her shoes off hastily. "i have taken off my shoes," she added, "that i may steal on them quietly from behind. it is almost dark; but i can easily make out the little one by her cloak, and i will do for the other." "no," said the felon; "to-day it is useless. there will be plenty of time to-morrow." "what! you're afraid, old patterer, are you?" said the chouette, with fierce contempt. "not at all," replied the schoolmaster. "but you may fail in your blow and spoil all." the dog which accompanied the country-woman, scenting the persons hidden in the hollow road, stopped short, and barked furiously, refusing to come to fleur-de-marie, who called him frequently. "do you hear their dog? here they are! your knife!--or, if not--" cried the chouette, with a threatening air. "come and take it from me, then--by force," said the schoolmaster. "it's all over--it's too late," added the chouette, after listening for a moment attentively; "they have gone by. you shall pay for that, gallows-bird," added she, furiously, shaking her fist at her accomplice. "a thousand francs lost by your stupidity!" "a thousand--two thousand--perhaps three thousand gained," replied the schoolmaster, in a tone of authority. "listen, chouette! do you go back to barbillon, and let him drive you to the place where you were to meet the man in mourning. tell him that it was impossible to do anything to-day, but that to-morrow she shall be carried off. the young girl goes every evening to walk home with the priest, and it was only a chance which to-day led her to meet with any one. to-morrow we shall have a more secure opportunity. so to-morrow do you return and be with barbillon at the cross-road in his coach at the same hour." "but thou--thou?" "tortillard shall lead me to the farm where the young girl lives. i will cook up some tale--say we have lost our road, and ask leave to pass the night at the farm in a corner of the stable. no one could refuse us that. tortillard will examine all the doors, windows, and ins and outs of the house. there is always money to be looked for amongst these farming people. you say the farm is situated in a lone spot; and, when once we know all the ways and outlets, we need only return with some safe friends, and the thing is done as easy--" "always 'downy!' what a head-piece!" said the chouette, softening. "go on, _fourline_." "to-morrow morning, instead of leaving the farm, i will complain of a pain which prevents me from walking. if they will not believe me, i'll show them the wound which i have always had since i smashed the 'loop of my darbies,' and which is always painful to me. i'll say it is a burn i had from a red-hot bar when i was a workman, and they'll believe me. i'll remain at the farm part of the day, whilst tortillard looks about him. when the evening comes on, and the little wench goes out as usual with the priest, i'll say i'm better, and fit to go away. tortillard and i will follow the young wench at a distance, and await your coming to us here. as she will know us already, she will have no mistrust when she sees us. we will speak to her, tortillard and i; and, when once within reach of my arms, i will answer for the rest. she's caught safe enough, and the thousand francs are ours. that is not all. in two or three days we can 'give the office' of the farm to barbillon and some others, and share with them if they get any 'swag,' as it will be me who put them on the 'lay.'" "well done, no-eyes! no one can come up to you," said the chouette, embracing the schoolmaster. "your plan is capital! tell you what, _fourline_, when you are done up and old, you must turn consulting 'prig'; you will earn as much money as a 'big-wig.' come, kiss your old woman, and be off as quick as you may, for these joskins go to sleep with their poultry. i shall go to barbillon; and to-morrow, at four o'clock, we will be at the cross-road with the 'trap,' unless he is nabbed for having assisted gros-boiteux and the skeleton to 'do for' the milk-woman's husband in the rue de la vieille-draperie. but if he can't come, another can, for the pretended hackney-coach belongs to the man in mourning who has used it before. a quarter of an hour after we get to the cross-road, i will be here and wait for you." "all right! good-by till to-morrow, chouette." "i had nearly forgot to give the wax to tortillard, if there is any lock to get the print of at the farm. here, chickabiddy, do you know how to use it?" said the one-eyed wretch to tortillard, as she gave him a piece of wax. "yes, yes, my father showed me how to use it. i took for him the print of the lock of the little iron chest which my master, the quack doctor, keeps in his small closet." "ah, that's all right; and, that the wax may not stick, do not forget to moisten the wax after you have warmed it well in your hand." "i know all about it," replied tortillard. "to-morrow, them, _fourline_," said the chouette. "to-morrow," replied the schoolmaster. the chouette went towards the coach. the schoolmaster and tortillard quitted the hollow way, and bent their steps towards the farm, the lights which shone from the windows serving to guide them on their way. strange fatality, which again brought anselm duresnel under the same roof with his wife, who had not seen him since his condemnation to hard labour for life! chapter vii. an evening at the farm. perhaps a more gratifying sight does not exist than the interior of a large farm-kitchen prepared for the evening meal, especially during the winter season. its bright wood fire, the long table covered with the savoury, smoking dishes, the huge tankards of foaming beer or cider, with the happy countenances scattered round, speak of peaceful labour and healthful industry. the farm-kitchen of bouqueval was a fine exemplification of this remark. its immense open chimney, about six feet high and eight feet wide, resembled the yawning mouth of some huge oven. on the hearth blazed and sparkled enormous logs of beech or oak; and from this prodigious brazier there issued forth such a body of light, as well as heat, that the large lamp suspended from the centre beam sunk into insignificance, and was rendered nearly useless. every variety of culinary utensils, sparkling in all the brightness of the most elaborate cleanliness, and composed invariably of copper, brass, and tin, glowed in the bright radiance of the winter fire, as they stood ranged with the utmost nicety and effect on their appropriate shelves. an old-fashioned cistern of elaborately polished copper showed its bright face, polished as a mirror; and close beside stood a highly polished bread-trough and cover, composed of walnut-tree wood, rubbed by the hand of housewifery till you could see your face in it and from which issued a most tempting smell of hot bread. a long and substantial table occupied the centre of the kitchen; a tablecloth, which, though coarse in texture, vied with the falling snow for whiteness, covered its entire length; while for each expected guest was placed an earthenware plate, brown without, but white within, and by its side a knife, fork, and spoon, lustrous as silver itself. in the midst of the table, an immense tureen of vegetable soup smoked like the crater of a volcano, and diffused its savoury vapours over a dish of ham and greens, flanked by a most formidable array of mutton, most relishly stewed with onions and potatoes. below was placed a large joint of roast veal, followed by two great plates of winter salad, supported by a couple of baskets of apples; and a similar number of cheeses completed the arrangements of the table. three or four stone pitchers filled with sparkling cider, and a like quantity of loaves of brown bread, equal in size to the stones of a windmill, were placed at the discretionary use of the supping party. an old, shaggy, black shepherd dog, almost toothless, the superannuated patriarch of all the canine tribe employed on the farm, was, by reason of his great age and long services, indulged with permission to enjoy the cheering warmth of the chimney-corner; but, using his privilege with the utmost modesty and discretion, this venerable servitor, who answered to the pastoral name of lysander, lay quietly stretched out in a secure side-nook, his nose resting on his paws, watching with the deepest attention the various culinary preparations which preceded the supper. the bill of fare thus presented to the reader, as the ordinary mode of living at the farm of bouqueval, may strike some of our readers as unnecessarily sumptuous; but madame georges, faithfully following out the wishes of rodolph, endeavoured by all possible means to improve the comforts of the labourers on the farm, who were always selected as being the most worthy and industrious individuals of their district. they were well paid, liberally treated, and so kindly used that to be engaged on the bouqueval farm was the highest ambition of all the best labourers in that part of the country--an ambition which most essentially promoted the welfare and advantage of the masters they then served; for no applicant for employment at bouqueval could obtain a favourable hearing, unless he came provided with most satisfactory testimonials from his last employer. thus, though on a very small scale, had rodolph created a species of model farm, which had for its aim not only the improvement of animals and agricultural operations, but, above all, improving the nature of man himself; and this he effected by making it worth their while to be active, honest, and intelligent. after having completed all the preparations for supper, and placed on the table a jug of wine to accompany the dessert, the farm-cook sounded the welcome tocsin, which told all that the cheering meal was prepared, and, their evening toil concluded, they might freely enjoy the delights of wholesome and temperate refreshment. ere the sound had ceased to vibrate on the ear, a merry, joyous throng, composed of men and maidens to the number of twelve or fifteen, crowded around the table; the men had open, manly countenances, the women looked healthy and good-humoured, while the young girls belonging to the party wore the brightest glow of youth and innocence. every face was lighted up with frank gaiety, content, and the satisfaction arising from the consciousness of having well fulfilled one's duty. thus happily prepared in mind and body to do justice to the excellent fare set before them, the happy party took their appointed places at table. the upper end was occupied by an old, white-haired labourer, whose fine, bold, yet sensible expression of face, bespoke him a descendant of the ancient gaulish mothers of the soil. father châtelain (for so was this nestor called) had worked on the farm from his early childhood. when rodolph purchased the farm, the old servant had been strongly recommended to him, and he was forthwith raised to the rank of overlooker, and, under the orders of madame georges, general superintendent of all outdoor work; and unbounded, indeed, was the influence possessed by father châtelain by virtue of his age, his knowledge, and experience. every one having taken their seat, father châtelain, having fervently invoked a blessing, then, in pursuance of an ancient and pious custom, marked one of the loaves with the figure of a cross, and cut off a large slice as the share of the virgin or the poor, then, pouring out a glass of wine with a similar consecration to charitable purposes, he reverently placed both bread and wine on a plate placed in the centre of the table purposely to receive them. at this moment the yard dogs barked furiously; old lysander replied by a low growl, and, curling back his upper lip, displayed two or three still formidable fangs. "some person is passing near the wall of the courtyard," observed father châtelain. scarcely had the words been uttered, than the bell of the great gate sounded. "who can this possibly be at so late an hour?" said the old labourer; "every one belonging to the place is in. go and see who it is, jean rené." the individual thus addressed was a stout, able-bodied young labourer on the farm, who was then busily employed blowing his scalding hot soup, with a force of lungs that Æolus himself might have envied; but, used to prompt obedience, in a moment the half-raised spoon was deposited in its place, and, half stifling a sigh of regret, he departed on his errand. "this is the first time our good madame georges and mlle. marie have failed paying a visit to the warm chimney-corner, and looking on whilst we took our supper, for this long time," said father châtelain. "i am hungry as a hunter, but i shall not relish my supper half so well." "madame georges is in the chamber of mlle. marie, who found herself somewhat indisposed on her return from escorting m. le curé to the rectory," replied claudine, the girl who had conducted la goualeuse back from the rectory, and thus unconsciously frustrated the evil designs of the chouette. "i trust mlle. marie is only indisposed, not seriously ill, is she, claudine?" inquired the old man, with almost paternal anxiety. "oh, dear, no, father châtelain! god forbid! i hope and believe our dear mademoiselle is only just a little struck with the cold of the night, and her walk perhaps fatigued her. i trust she will be quite well by to-morrow; indeed madame georges told me as much, and said that, if she had had any fears, she should have sent to paris for m. david, the negro doctor, who took such care of mademoiselle when she was so ill. well, i cannot make out how any one can endure a black doctor! for my part i should not have the slightest confidence in anything he said or did. no, no! if one must have a doctor, let it be a christian man with a white skin; but a downright blackamoor! o saints above! why, the very sight of him by my bedside would kill me!" "but did not this monsieur david cure mlle. marie from the long illness with which she suffered when she first came here?" inquired the old man. "yes, father châtelain, he certainly did." "well?" "ah! but for all that, father châtelain, a doctor with a black face is enough to terrify any one--i should scream myself into fits if he were to come rolling up the great whites of his eyes at me." "but is not this m. david the same person who cured dame anica of that dreadful wound in her leg, which had confined her to her bed for upwards of three years?" "yes, exactly so, father châtelain; he certainly did set old dame anica up again." "well, then, my child?" "nay, but only think!--a black man! and when one is ill, too! when one can so ill bear up against such horrid things. if he were only a little dark, or even deep brown, but quite, quite a black--all black--oh, father châtelain, i really cannot bring myself to think of it!" "tell me, my child, what colour is your favourite heifer musette?" "oh, white--white as a swan, father châtelain; and such a milcher! i can say that for the poor thing without the least falsehood, a better cow we have not got on the farm." "and your other favourite, rosette?" "rosette? oh, she is as black as a raven, not one white hair about her i should say; and, indeed, to do her justice, she is a first-rate milcher also. i hardly know which is the best, she or my pretty musette." "and what coloured milk does she give?" "why, white, of course, father châtelain; i really thought you knew that." "is her milk as white and as good as the milk of your snowy pet, musette?" "every bit as good in colour and quality." "although rosette is a black cow?" "to be sure! why, father châtelain, what difference can it possibly make to the milk whether the cow that gives it is black, white, red, or brown?" "how, then, my good girl, can it in any way signify whether a doctor has a black or white skin, or what his complexion may be?" "well," answered claudine, fairly hunted into a corner from which no argument could rescue her,--"well, as regards what makes a black doctor not so good as a white one, it is--it is, because a black skin is so very ugly to look at, and a white one is so much more agreeable to one's eyes; i'm sure i can't think of any other reason, father châtelain, if i try for ever; but with cows the colour of the skin makes not the very least difference, of that you may be assured; but, then, you know there's a deal of difference between a cow and a man." these not very clear physiognomical reflections of claudine, touching the effect of light or dark skins in the human and animal race, were interrupted by the return of jean rené, blowing his fingers with animation as he had before blown his soup. "oh, how cold! how cold it is this night!" exclaimed he, on entering; "it is enough to freeze one to death; it is a pretty deal more snug and comfortable in-doors than out this bitter night. oh, how cold it is!" "why,-- 'the frost that cometh from north and east biteth the most and ceaseth the least.' don't you know that, my lad?" said the old superintendent châtelain. "but who was it that rang so late?" "a poor blind man and a boy who leads him about, father châtelain." "and what does this poor blind man want?" inquired châtelain. "the poor man and his son were going by the cross-road to louvres, and have lost themselves in the snow; and as the cold is enough to turn a man into an icicle, and the night is pitch dark, the poor blind father has come to entreat permission for himself and lad to pass the night on the farm; he says he shall be for ever thankful for leave to lie on a little straw under a hovel, or in any out-building." "oh, as for that, i am quite sure that madame georges, who never refuses charity to any unfortunate being, will willingly permit them to do so; but we must first acquaint her with it; go, claudine, and tell her the whole story." claudine disappeared. "and where is this poor man waiting?" asked father châtelain. "in the little barn just by." "but why in the barn? why put him there?" "bless you, if i had left him in the yard, the dogs would have eaten him up alive! why, father châtelain, it was no use for me to call out 'quiet, médor! come here, turk! down, sultan!' i never saw dogs in such a fury. and, besides, we don't use our dogs on the farm to fly at poor folks, as they are trained to do at other places." "well, my lads, it seems that the 'share for the poor' has not been laid aside in vain to-night. but try and sit a little closer; there, that'll do; now put two more plates and knives and forks for this blind traveller and his boy, for i feel quite certain what madame georges's answer will be, and that she will desire them to be housed here for the night." "it is really a thing i can't make out," said jean rené, "about the dogs being so very violent, especially turk, who went with claudine this evening to the rectory. why, when i stroked him, to try and pacify him, i felt his coat standing up on end like so many bristles of a porcupine. now, what do you say to that, eh, father châtelain--you who know almost everything?" "why, my lad, i, 'who know everything,' say just this, that the beasts know far more than i do, and can see farther. i remember, in the autumn, when the heavy rains had so swollen the little river, i was returning with my team-horses one dark night--i was riding upon cuckoo, the old roan horse, and deuce take me if i could make out any spot it would be safe to wade through, for the night was as dark as the mouth of a pit. well, i threw the bridle on old cuckoo's back, and he soon found what, i'll answer for it, none of us could have discovered. now, who taught the dumb brute to know the safe from the unsafe parts of the stream, let me ask you?" "ay, father châtelain, that's what i was waiting to ask you. who taught the old roan to discover danger and escape from it so cleverly?" "the same almighty wisdom which instructs the swallow to build in our chimneys, and guides the marten to make his nest among the reeds of our banks, my lad. well, claudine," said the ancient oracle of the kitchen to the blooming dairymaid, who just then entered, bearing on her arms two pairs of snowy white sheets, from which an odoriferous smell of sage and thyme was wafted along,--"well, i make no doubt but madame georges has sent permission for these poor creatures, the blind man and his child, to sleep here, has she not?" "these sheets are to prepare beds for them, in the little room at the end of the passage," said claudine. "go and bid them come in, then, jean rené; and you, claudine, my good girl, put a couple of chairs near the fire--they will be glad of a good warm before sitting down to table." the furious barking of the dogs was now renewed, mingled with the voice of jean rené, who was endeavoring to pacify them; the door of the kitchen was abruptly opened, and the schoolmaster and tortillard entered with as much precipitation as though they feared a pursuit from some dangerous foe. "for the love of heaven, keep off your dogs!" cried the schoolmaster, in the utmost terror; "they have been trying to bite us!" "they have torn a great bit out of my blouse," whined tortillard, shivering with cold and pale with fear. "don't be frightened, good man," said jean rené, shutting the door securely; "but i never before saw our dogs in such a perfect fury--it must be the cold makes them so spiteful; perhaps, being half frozen, they fancied biting you would serve to warm them--there is no knowing what mere animals may mean by what they do." "why, are you going to begin, too?" exclaimed the old farmer, as lysander, who had hitherto lain perfectly happy in the radiance of the glowing fire, started up, and, growling fiercely, was about to fly at the strangers. "this old dog is quiet enough, but, having heard the other dogs make such a furious noise, he thinks he must do the same. will you lie down and be quiet, you old brute? do you hear, sir? lie down!" at these words from father châtelain, accompanied by a significant motion of the foot, lysander, with a low, deep growl of dissatisfaction, slowly returned to his favourite corner by the hearth, while the schoolmaster and tortillard remained trembling by the kitchen-door, as though fearful of approaching farther. the features of the ruffian were so hideous, from the frightful effects produced by the cold, that some of the servants in the kitchen shuddered with alarm, while others recoiled in disgust; this impression was not lost on tortillard, who felt reassured by the terrors of the villagers, and even felt proud of the repulsiveness of his companion. this first confusion over, father châtelain, thinking only of worthily discharging the duties of hospitality, said to the schoolmaster: "come, my good friend--come near the fire and warm yourself thoroughly, and then you shall have some supper with us; for you happened to come very fortunately, just as we were sitting down to table. here, sit down, just where i have placed your chair. but what am i thinking about?" added the worthy old labourer. "i ought to have spoken to your son, not you, seeing that it has pleased god to take away your eyesight--a heavy loss, a heavy loss; but let us hope all for your good, my friend, though you may not now think so. here, my boy, lead your father to that snug place in the chimney-corner." "yes, kind sir," drawled out tortillard, with a nasal twang and canting, hypocritical tone; "may god bless you for your charity to the poor blind! here, father, take my arm; lean on my shoulder, father; take care, take care, gently;" and, with affected zeal and tenderness, the urchin guided the steps of the brigand till they reached the indicated spot. as the pair approached lysander, he uttered a low, growling noise; but as the schoolmaster brushed past him, and the sagacious animal had full scent of his garments, he broke out into one of those deep howls with which, it is asserted by the superstitious, dogs frequently announce an approaching death. "what, in the devil's name, do all these cursed animals mean by their confounded noise?" said the schoolmaster to himself. "can they smell the blood on my clothes, i wonder? for i now recollect i wore the trousers i have on at present the night the cattle-dealer was murdered." "did you notice that?" inquired jean rené of father châtelain. "why, i vow that, as often as old lysander had caught scent of the wandering stranger, he actually set up a regular death-howl." and this remark was followed up by a most singular confirmation of the fact; the cries of lysander were so loud and mournful that the other dogs caught the sound (for the farmyard was only separated from the kitchen by a glazed window in the latter), and, according to the custom of the canine race, they each strove who should outdo the other in repeating and prolonging the funereal wail, which, according to vulgar belief, always foretells death. though but little given to superstitious dread, the farm-people looked from one to another with a feeling of wonder not unmixed with awe. even the schoolmaster himself, diabolically hardened as he was, felt a cold shudder steal over him at the thought that all these fatal sounds burst forth upon the approach of him--the self-convicted murderer! while tortillard, too audacious and hardened to enter into such alarms, with all the infidelity in which he had been trained, even from his mother's arms, looked on with delighted mockery at the universal panic, and was, perhaps, the only person present devoid of an uneasy feeling; but, once freed from his apprehensions of suffering from the violence of the animals, he listened even with pleasure to the horrible discord of their long-drawn-out wailings, and felt almost tempted to pardon them the fright they had originally occasioned him, in consideration of the perfect terror they had struck into the inhabitants of the farm, and for the gratification he derived from the convulsive horror of the schoolmaster. but after the momentary stupor had passed away jean rené again quitted the kitchen, and the loud cracking of his whip soon put an end to the prophetic howlings of médor, turk, and sultan, and quickly dispersed them to their separate kennels, and as the noise ceased, the gloomy cloud passed away from the kitchen, and the peasants looked up with the same honest cheerfulness they had worn upon the entrance of the two travellers. ere long they had left off wondering at the repulsive ugliness of the schoolmaster, and only thought with pity of his great affliction, in being blind; they commiserated the lameness of the poor boy, admired the interesting sharpness of his countenance, the deep, cute glance of his ever-moving eye, and, above all, loaded him with praises for the extreme care and watchfulness with which he attended to his afflicted parent. the appetite of the labourers, which had been momentarily forgotten, now returned with redoubled violence, and for a time nothing could be heard but the clattering of plates and rattling of knives and forks. still, however busily employed with their suppers, the servants assembled round the table, both male and female, could not but remark, with infinite pleasure, the tender assiduity of the lad towards the blind creature who sat beside him. nothing could exceed the devoted affection and filial care with which tortillard prepared his meat for him, cutting both that and his bread with most accurate nicety, pouring out his drink, and never attempting even to taste a morsel himself, till his father expressed himself as having completed his supper. but, for all this dutiful attention, the young ruffian took ample and bitter revenge. instigated as much by an innate spirit of cruelty as the desire of imitation natural to his age, tortillard found an equal enjoyment with the chouette in having something to torment (_a bête de souffrance_); and it was a matter of inexpressible exultation to his wretched mind that he, a poor, distorted, crippled, abject creature, should have it in his power to tyrannise over so powerful and ferocious a creature as the schoolmaster,--it was like torturing a muzzled tiger. he even refined his gratification, by compelling his victim to endure all the agonies he inflicted, without wincing or exhibiting the slightest external sign of his suffering. thus he accompanied each outward mark of devoted tenderness towards his supposed parent, by aiming a severe kick against the schoolmaster's legs, on one of which there was (in common with many who had long worked in the galleys) a deep and severe wound, the effect of the heavy iron chain worn during the term of punishment around the right leg; and, by way of compelling the miserable sufferer to exercise a greater degree of stoical courage, the urchin always seized the moment when the object of his malice was either drinking or speaking. "here, dear father! here is a nice peeled nut," said tortillard, placing on the plate of his supposed parent a nut carefully prepared. "good boy," said old châtelain, smiling kindly at him. then, addressing the bandit, he added: "however great may be your affliction, my friend, so good a son is almost sufficient to make up even for the loss of sight; but providence is so gracious, he never takes away one blessing without sending another." "you are quite right, kind sir! my lot is a very hard one, and, but for the noble conduct of my excellent child, i--" a sharp cry of irrepressible anguish here broke from the quivering lips of the tortured man; the son of bras rouge had this time aimed his blow so effectually, that the point of his heavy-nailed shoe had reached the very centre of the wound, and produced unendurable agony. "father! dear father! what is the matter?" exclaimed tortillard, in a whimpering voice; then, suddenly rising, he threw both his arms round the schoolmaster's neck, whose first impulse of rage and pain was to stifle the limping varlet in his herculean grasp; and so powerfully did he compress the boy's chest against his own, that his impeded respiration vented itself in a low moaning sound. a few minutes, and tortillard's last prank would have been played; but, reflecting that the lad was for the present indispensable to the furtherance of the schemes he had on hand, the schoolmaster, by a violent effort, controlled his desire to annihilate his tormentor, and contented himself with pushing him off his shoulders back into his own chair. the sympathising group around the table were far from seeing through all this, and merely considered these close embraces as an interchange of paternal and filial tenderness, while the half suffocation and deadly pallor of tortillard they attributed to emotion caused by the sudden illness of his beloved father. "what ailed you just now, my good man?" inquired father châtelain; "only see, you have quite frightened your poor boy. why, he looks pale as death, and can scarcely breathe. come, my little man; you must not take on so--your father is all right again." "i beg your pardon, gentlemen all," replied the schoolmaster, controlling himself with much difficulty, for the pain he was still enduring was most excruciating. "i am better now. i'll tell you, with your kind leaves, all about it. you see i am by trade a working locksmith, and, one day that i was employed in beating out a huge bar of red hot iron, it fell over on my two legs, and burnt them so dreadfully that it has never healed; unfortunately, just now, i happened to strike the leg that is worst against the table, and the sudden agony it occasioned me drew forth the sudden cry which so much disturbed all this good company, and for which i humbly beg pardon." "poor dear father!" whined out tortillard, casting a look of fiendish malice at the shivering schoolmaster, and wholly recovered from his late attack of excessive emotion. "poor father! you have indeed got a bad leg nobody can cure. ah, kind gentlemen, i hope you will never have such a shocking wound, and be obliged to hear all the doctors say it never will get well. no! never--never. oh, my dear, dear father! how i wish i could but suffer the pain instead of you!" at this tender, moving speech, the females present expressed the utmost admiration for the dutiful speaker, and began feeling in their vast pockets for some more substantial mark of their regard. "it is unlucky, my honest friend," said old châtelain, addressing the schoolmaster, "you had not happened to come to this farm about three weeks ago, instead of to-night." "and why so, if you please?" "because we had staying for a few days in the house a celebrated paris doctor, who has an infallible remedy for all diseases of the legs. a worthy old woman, belonging to our village, had been confined to her bed upwards of three years with some affection of the legs. well, this doctor, being here, as i said, heard of the case, applied an unguent to the wounds, and now, bless you, she is as surefooted, ay, and as swift, too, as any of our young girls; and the first holiday she makes she intends walking to the house of her benefactor, in the allée des veuves, at paris, to return her grateful thanks. to be sure it is a good step from hence, but then, as mother anica says--why, what has come over you again, my friend? is your leg still so painful?" the mention of the allée des veuves had recalled such frightful recollections to the schoolmaster, that, involuntarily, a cold shudder shook his frame, while a fearful spasm, by contracting his ghastly countenance, made it appear still more hideous. "yes," replied he, trying to conceal his emotion, "a sudden darting pain seized me, and--pray excuse my interrupting your kind and sensible discourse, and be pleased to proceed." "it really is a great pity," resumed the old labourer, "that this excellent doctor should not be with us at present; but i tell you what, he is as good as he is skilful, and i am quite sure if you let your little lad conduct you to his house when you return to paris, that he will cure you. his address is not difficult to recollect, it is allée des veuves. even should you forget the number, it will not matter, for there are but very few doctors in the neighbourhood, and no other negro surgeon,--for, only imagine, this clever, kind, and charitable man is a black, but his heart is white and good. his name is david,--doctor david,--you will be able to remember that name, i dare say." the features of the schoolmaster were so seamed and scarred that it was difficult to perceive when his colour varied. he did, however, on the present occasion, turn ghastly pale as he first heard the exact number mentioned of rodolph's house, and afterwards the description of the black doctor,--of david, the negro surgeon, who, by rodolph's orders, had inflicted on him the fearful punishment, the terrible results of which were each hour more painfully developed. father châtelain, however, was too much interested in his subject to notice the deadly paleness of the schoolmaster, and proceeded with his discourse: "when you leave us, my poor fellow, we will be sure to write his address on a slip of paper and give it to your son, for i know that, besides putting you in a certain way to be cured of your painful wound, it would be gratifying to m. david to be able to relieve your sufferings. oh, he is so good,--never so happy as when he has rendered any person a service. i wish he had not always that mournful and dejected look. i fear he has some heavy care near his heart; and he is so good, so full of pity for all who suffer. well, well, providence will bless him in another world; but come, friend, let us drink to the health and happiness of your future benefactor,--here take this mug." "no, thank you!" returned the schoolmaster, with a gloomy air; "none for me. i--i am not thirsty, and i never drink unless i am." "nay, friend, but this is good old wine i have poured out for you; not cider," said the labourer. "many tradespeople do not drink as good. bless your heart, this farm is not conducted as other farms are,--what do you think of our style of living, by the by? have you relished your supper?" "all very good," responded the schoolmaster mechanically, more and more absorbed in the painfulness of his ideas. "well, then, as we live one day, so we do another. we work well, we live well, we have a good conscience, and an equally good bed to rest upon after the labours of the day. our lives roll on in peace and contentment. there are seven labourers constantly employed on the farm, who are paid almost double wages to what others get; but then i can venture to assert, that if we are paid double, we do as much work among us as fourteen ordinary labourers would do. the mere husbandry servants have one hundred and fifty crowns a year, the dairy-women and other females engaged about the place sixty crowns, and a tenth share of the produce of the farm is divided among us all. you may suppose we do not idle away much time, or fail to make hay while the sun shines, for nature is a bountiful mother, and ever returns a hundredfold to those who assiduously seek her favour; the more we give her, the more she returns." "your master cannot get very rich if he treats you and pays you thus liberally," said the schoolmaster. "oh, our master is different to all others, and has a mode of repaying himself peculiarly his own." "from what you say," answered the blind man, hoping by engaging in conversation to escape from the gloominess of his own thoughts, "your master must be a very extraordinary person." "indeed he is, my good man, a most uncommon master to meet with. now, as chance has brought you among us, and a strange though a lucky chance for you it has proved, lying out of the highroad as this village does, it is so very seldom any stranger ever finds it out. well, i was going to say, here you are, and no fault to find with your quarters, is there? now, in all human probability, when you turn your back upon the place you will never return to it, but you shall not depart without hearing from me a description of our master and all he has done for the farm, upon condition that you promise to repeat it again wherever you go, and to whomsoever you may meet with. you will see, i mean, i beg pardon, you will then be able to understand." "i listen to you," answered the schoolmaster; "proceed." "and i can promise you you will not be throwing away your time by listening," replied the venerable châtelain. "now, one day our master thought all at once: 'here am i, rich enough to eat two dinners a day if i liked, but i don't. now, suppose i were to provide a meal for those who have none at all, and enable such as can hardly procure half a dinner to enjoy as much good food as they desired, would not that be better than over-indulging myself? so it shall be,' says he, and away he goes to work, and, first thing, he buys this farm, which was not much of a concern then, and scarcely kept a couple of ploughs at work; and, being born and bred on the place, i ought to know something about it. next, master made considerable additions to the farm. i'll tell you all about that by and by. at the head of the farm he placed a most worthy and respectable female, who had known a great deal of trouble in her past life--master always chose out people for their goodness and their misfortunes--and, when he brought the person i am telling you of here, he said to her in my hearing, 'i wish this place to be like the temple of our great maker, open to the deserving and the afflicted, but closed against the wicked and hardened reprobate.' so idle beggars are always turned from the gate; but those who are able and willing to work have always the opportunity set before them: the charity of labour, our master says, is no humiliation to him who receives it, but a favour and service conferred on the person whose labour is thus done; and the rich man who does not act upon this principle but ill employs his wealth. so said our master. but he did more than talk--he acted. there was formerly a road from here to ecouen, which cut off a good mile of distance, but, lord love you! it was one great rutty bog, impossible to get up or down it; it was the death of every horse, and certain destruction to every vehicle that attempted to pass through it. a little labour, and a trifling amount of money from each farmer in the adjoining country would soon have repaired the road; but they never could be brought to any unanimity on the subject, and, in proportion as one farmer would be anxious to contribute towards putting the road in order, the others would invariably decline sending either men or money to assist. so our master, perceiving all this, said, 'the road shall be repaired; but as those who can afford to contribute will not, and as it is more for convenience and accommodation to the rich than necessity for the poor, it shall first become useful to those who would work if they could get it to do, who have heart, and hands, and courage, but no employ. well, this road shall be reserved as a constant occupation for persons of this description. horsemen and carriages belonging to the rich and affluent, who care not how roads are repaired, so that they can travel at their ease, may go round by the farther side.' so, for example, whenever a strong, sturdy fellow presented himself at the farm, pleading hunger and want of work, i'd say to him, 'here, my lad; here is a basin of warm nourishing soup--take it and welcome; then, if you wish for work, here is a pickaxe and spade; one of our people will show you the ecouen road; make every day twelve feet of it good, by spreading and breaking the flints; and every evening, after your work is examined, you shall receive at the rate of forty sous for the quantity named; twenty sous for half as much; ten sous for a quarter; for less than that, nothing at all.' then, towards evening, upon my return from labour, i used to go on the road, measure their work, and examine whether it was well done." "and only to think," interposed jean rené, in a fit of virtuous indignation, "only think, now, of there coming two heartless vagabonds, who drank their soup and walked off with the pickaxe and shovel. it is enough to sicken one of doing good or trying to benefit one's fellow creatures." "quite right, master rené," exclaimed the other labourers; "so it is." "come, come, lads," resumed father châtelain, "don't be too warm. just see here. we might as well say it is useless to plant trees, or sow grain, because there are caterpillars, weevils, and other injurious insects that gnaw the leaves or devour the seeds put in the ground. no, no! we destroy the vermin. but god almighty, who is no niggard, causes fresh buds to burst forth and new ears of corn to sprout; the damage is abundantly repaired, and no trace remains of the mischievous insects which have passed over our work. am i not right, my friend?" said the old labourer, addressing the schoolmaster. "no doubt--no doubt," replied the latter, who had appeared for some time past lost in a train of serious meditation. "then, as for women and children, there is plenty of occupation for them also, according to their age and strength," added father châtelain. "yet, spite of all this," observed claudine, joining in the conversation, "the road gets on but very slowly." "which only goes to prove, my good girl, that in this part of the country there is happily no scarcity of employment for the honest and industrious labourer." "but now, as in the case of a poor, helpless, afflicted creature such as i am," said the schoolmaster, hastily, "would not the worthy owner of the farm grant me a humble corner in it for charity's sake--a shelter and a morsel of bread for the little while i have to remain a burden to any one in this troublesome world? oh, my worthy sir, could i but obtain such a boon i would pass the remainder of my days in praying for a blessing on my benefactor." and these words were really pronounced in entire sincerity of meaning; not that compunction for his many crimes touched the brigand's stony heart, but he contrasted the happy peacefulness of the lives of these labourers to his own wretched, stormy existence; and still further did he envy them when he reflected upon all that the chouette might have in store for him; he shuddered as he reflected upon the future she would provide for him, and more than ever regretted, by having recalled his old accomplice, having for ever lost the means of dwelling with good and honest persons, such as those with whom the chourineur had placed him. father châtelain surveyed the schoolmaster with an air of surprise. "my good man," said he, "i did not know you were so utterly destitute." "alas! yes, it is even so. i lost my sight by an accident while working at my trade. i am going to louvres to endeavour to find a distant relation there, who, i hope, may be willing to assist me. but, you are aware, people are not always so open-hearted as they should be; they do not like distressed objects, such as myself, coming to claim kindred, and are frequently harsh and unkind," answered the schoolmaster, sighing deeply. "but the most selfish heart would grieve at your distress," replied the old labourer. "the most hard-hearted relative would pity a man like you--a good and honest workman overtaken by a sudden calamity, and left without hope or help. then the moving spectacle of this young and tender child, your only friend and guide, would wring pity from the very stones. but how is it that the master for whom you worked previously to your accident has done nothing for you?" "he is now dead," said the schoolmaster, after a short hesitation; "and he was my only friend on earth." "but then there is the hospital for the blind." "i am not the right age to qualify me for admission." "poor man! yours is, indeed, a hard case." "do you think it likely that, in the event of my relation at louvres refusing to assist me, your master, whom i already respect without knowing, would take pity on me?" "unfortunately, you see, the farm is not a hospital. our general rule is to grant all infirm or afflicted travellers a temporary shelter of a night or a day in the house. then some assistance is furnished, and they are put on their road with a prayer to kind providence to take them under its charge." "then you think there is no hope of interesting your master in my unhappy fate?" asked the brigand, with a sigh of regret. "i tell you what is the general custom here, my good man; but so compassionate a person as our master might go any lengths to serve you." "do you really think so?" said the schoolmaster. "oh, if he would but permit me to remain here, i could live in any retired corner, and be happy and grateful for such a mere trifle of subsistence!" "as i said before, our master is capable of the most generous actions. but, were he to consent to your remaining at the farm, there would be no occasion for you to hide yourself; you would fare in every respect as you have seen us treated to-day. some occupation would be found for your son suitable to his age and strength. he would not want for good instruction or wise counsels; our venerable minister would teach him with the other children of the village, and, in the words of scripture, he would grow in goodness and in stature beneath the pious care of our excellent curé. but the best way for you to manage this will be to lay every particular of your case and petition before our 'lady of ready help,' when she comes into the kitchen, as she is sure to do before you start on your journey to-morrow morning." "what name did you call your lady by?" "nay, i meant our mistress, who always goes by that appellation amongst us. if she interests herself for you, your suit will be granted; for, in matters of charity, our master never opposes her smallest wish." "oh, then," exclaimed the schoolmaster, in a joyous tone, already exulting in his hoped-for deliverance from the power of the chouette, "i will thankfully follow your advice, and speak to her whenever i have the blessed opportunity!" this hope found no echo in the mind of tortillard, who felt not the slightest disposition to avail himself of the offers of the old labourer, and grow up in goodness under the auspices of the venerable curé. the inclinations of bras rouge's son were anything but rural, neither did his turn of mind incline to the pastoral. faithful to the code of morality professed by the chouette, and promulgated by her, he would have been severely distressed to see the schoolmaster emancipate himself from their united tyranny; and he now thought it high time to recall the brigand from the illusory visions of flowery meads and all the _et coeteras_ of a country life, in which his fancy seemed revelling, to the realities of his present position. "yes, oh, yes," repeated the schoolmaster; "i will assuredly address my prayers to your 'lady of ready help.' she will pity me and kindly--" tortillard here interrupted him by a vigorous and artfully managed kick, so well directed, that, as before, it took the direst effect on the most sensitive spot. the intense agony for a time quite bereft the brigand of speech or breath; but remembering the fatal consequences of giving way to the feelings which boiled within him, he struggled for self-command, and, after a pause of a few minutes, added, in a faint and suffering voice, "yes, i venture to hope your good mistress would pity and befriend me." "dear father," said tortillard, in a hypocritical tone, "you forget my poor dear aunt, madame la chouette, who is so fond of you. poor aunty chouette, she would never part with you so easily, i know. directly she heard of your staying here, she would come along with m. barbillon and fetch you away--that she would, i know." "madame la chouette and m. barbillon. why this honest man seems to have relations among all the 'birds of the air and fishes of the sea,'" uttered jean rené in a voice of mirthful irony, giving his neighbour rather a vigorous poke with his elbow. "funny, isn't it, claudine?" "oh, you great unfeeling calf! how can you make a joke on these poor creatures?" replied the tender-hearted dairy-maid, returning jean rené's thrust with sufficient interest to compromise the safety of his ribs. "is madame la chouette a relation of yours?" inquired the old labourer of the schoolmaster. "yes, a distant one," answered the other, with a dull, dejected manner. "and is she the person you were going to louvres to try and find?" asked father châtelain. "she is," replied the blind man; "but i think my son overrates her zeal on my account. however, under any circumstances, i shall speak to your excellent lady to-morrow, and entreat her aid to further my request with the kind, charitable owner of this farm, but," added he, purposely to divert the conversation into another channel, and so put an end to the imprudent remarks of tortillard, "talking of farms, you promised to explain to me the difference that exists in the management of this farm and farms in general." "i did so," replied father châtelain, "and i will keep my word. now, after having planned all i told you about the charity of labour, our master said to himself, 'there are many institutions where plans are devised, and rewards assigned, for improvements in the breed of horses, cattle, sheep, and other animals for the best constructed ploughs, and other agricultural implements. and i cannot help thinking that all this time we are not going to the fountain-head, and beginning, as we ought to begin, by improving the condition of the labouring classes themselves, before we give all this heed to the beast which perisheth. good beasts are capital things, but good men are better, and more difficult to meet with. give your horses and cattle plenty of good food, clear running water; place them either out-of-doors in a fine, healthy atmosphere, or give them a clean, well-managed stable, with good and regular attendance, and they will thrive to your heart's content, and be capable of reaching any degree of excellence. but with men, look you, it is quite another thing. you cannot elevate a man's mind as you can fatten an ox. the animal fattens on his pasture because its taste gratifies his palate; he eats because he likes what he feeds on, and his body profits and thrives in proportion to the pleasure with which he has devoured his food. well, then, my opinion is, that to make good advice really profitable to men, they should be enabled clearly to perceive their own personal advantage in following it.'" "just as the ox is profited by eating the fine grass that grows around him, father châtelain?" said several voices. "precisely the same." "but, father châtelain," exclaimed another voice. "i have heard talk of a sort of farm where young thieves, who might in other respects have conducted themselves very well, are taken in, taught all sorts of farming knowledge, and fed and treated like princes." "you have heard quite right, my good fellow, there is such an institution, and, as far as it goes, is founded on pure and just motives, and is calculated to do much good. we should never despair for the wicked, but we should also hope all things for the good. suppose now a strong, healthy, and industrious young man, of excellent character, ready and willing to work, but desirous of receiving good instruction in his way of life, were to present himself at the place you are speaking of--this farm of reclaimed thieves--well, the first question would be, 'well, my chap, are you a rogue and a vagabond?' 'no!' 'oh, then we can't receive you here--we've no room for honest lads.'" "what you say, father, is right, every word of it," rejoined jean rené. "rascals are provided for, while honest men want; and beasts are considered, and their condition continually improved, while men are passed over and left in ignorance and neglect." "it was purposely to remedy what you complain of, my brave lad, that our master took this farm (as i was mentioning to our blind visitor). 'i know very well,' said he, 'that honest men will be rewarded on high, but then, you see, it is far and long to look forward to, and there are many (and much to be pitied are they) who can neither look to such a distance, nor wait with patience the indefinite period which bids them live on hope alone. then how are these poor, depressed, and toil-worn creatures to find leisure thus to seek religious comfort? rising at the first dawn of day, they toil and labour with weary limbs, till night releases them and sends them to their wretched hovels. sunday is spent by them at the public-house, drinking to drive away the recollections both of their past and future wretchedness. neither can these poor beings turn their very hardships to a good account by extracting a useful moral from them. after a hard day's work does their bread seem less coarse and black, their pallet less hard, their infants less sickly and meagre, their wives less worn down by giving nourishment to the feeble babes of their breast? no, no, far from it. alas, the thin, half-starved mother is but ill calculated to nourish another, when she is obliged to yield her slender share of the family meal to still the clamours of her famishing children. yet all this might be endured, aye, even cheerfully, for use has familiarised them with hardships and privations; their bread is food, though coarse and homely, their straw bed rests their weary limbs, and their children, though stunted and sickly, live on. all these, i say, could be borne, did no comparison arise between their own poverty and the condition of others; but, when they visit the town or city on market-days, they see an abundance of good white loaves crowding the windows of the bakers' shops; warm, soft mattresses and blankets are displayed for sale to such as have the means of purchasing; children fresh and blooming as the flowers of may are playing joyously about, and even from the superabundance of their meals casting a portion to the dogs and other pet animals. ah! human courage gives way at this reverse in the picture of human condition; and when the tired, care-worn men return to their mud hovels, their black bread and straw pallet, and are surrounded by a number of squalid, half-starved, wailing infants, to whom they would gladly have brought the share of cakes and buns thrown by the pampered children of great towns in the streets, or cast to the animals, then bitter discontent and repining take possession of their mind, and, utterly forgetting that on high is one who careth for all, they say, "why is this difference allowed? and, if there must be both rich and poor in the world, why were not we born to riches? why should not every man have his turn in worldly prosperity? we are not justly used or fairly treated in being always poor and hard worked." of course, all this is both sinful and unreasonable; neither does it in any manner serve to lighten their load; and yet they must go on, bending, staggering under the burden too heavy for them to bear, till they sink, utterly exhausted and worn out. they must toil, toil on, without hope, without relaxing their daily efforts, or without once daring to entertain the idea that, by a long continuance in honest, virtuous, industrious conduct, the day might come when, like the great creator of all, they might rest from their labours, and behold peaceful ease succeeding the hard-griping hand of poverty. think of a whole life passed thus, in one continued struggle for the bare means of life, without a glimmer of hope to cheer the thorny path. what must such a life be like? why, it would resemble one long rainy day, without a single ray of brightness from the blessed sun to help us through it. then labour is resumed with an unwilling and dissatisfied spirit. "what does it signify to us," cry the worn-out labourers, "whether the harvest yields ill or well? whether the ears of corn be heavy or light makes no difference to us. why should we overwork ourselves, or trouble our heads with matters that only concern our master? it is sufficient for us to act with strict honesty. we will not commit any crime, because there are laws ready to punish such as do; but neither will we try to perform acts of goodness, because for those the laws provide no recompense." such a mode of arguing, my boys, is as unwise as it is wrong and sinful, but, depend upon it, it is true to nature. from this indifference comes idleness, and from idleness to crime the distance is very short. now, unfortunately, among the class i have been describing, the far greater proportion consists of those whose conduct may be considered as neither good nor bad, that is to say, without any particular leaning either way, and, consequently, a mere trifle might firmly enlist them in the service of virtue or vice. these are the very individuals,' continued our master, 'we ought to try and improve, just as we should have done had they been born to the honour of figuring as animals with hoofs, horns, or woolly coats. let us continue to point out to them how completely it is to their interest to be active, industrious, steady, and well qualified to discharge their several duties; let us effectually convince them that, by becoming better men, they will also be much happier; let them see how closely their good behaviour and prosperity are interwoven, and, that good advice may sink the deeper into their hearts, give them, as it were, such a taste of earthly comfort as shall, in a slight degree, communicate to them the hope and notion of expecting the unspeakable reward prepared by the great giver of all, whose dwelling is on high.' "having well arranged his plans, our master caused it to be made known in the environs that he wished to engage twelve farm servants, six men and six females; but that his choice would be entirely regulated by the most satisfactory certificates of good conduct obtained from the civil and religious authorities in their native place. they were to be paid like princes, fed upon the best food to their hearts' content; and further, a tenth part of the produce of the harvest was to be shared among the labourers. the engagement at the farm was to last but two years, at the end of which time they were to give place to other labourers, chosen upon the same terms; but, at the expiration of five years, the original labourers were taken on again, in the event of there being any vacancies; so that, since the establishment of this farm, it is usual for the labourers and working classes in the neighbourhood to say, 'let us be active, honest, and industrious, so as to obtain a high character for such good qualities, and, perhaps, one day we may be fortunate to get engaged at bouqueval farm. there, for a couple of years, we shall lead a life of perfect happiness. we shall learn our business thoroughly; we shall save a little money, so that, when our time is up, every one will be glad to engage us, because they know that we must have had first-rate characters to have been admitted on the establishment at all.'" "i am already bespoke by m. dubreuil for his farm at arnouville," said jean rené. "and i am engaged to a first-rate service at gonesse," chimed in another labourer. "you see, my good friend, by this plan everybody is a gainer, the neighbouring farmers particularly. there are but twelve places for servants on the farm, but there are, perhaps, fifty candidates who have all earned their right to solicit an engagement by certificates and testimonials of excellent conduct. well, though thirty-eight out of the fifty must be disappointed, yet the good which is in them will still remain; and there are so many good and deserving characters in the environs we can safely reckon upon; for, though they have failed in this application, they still live in hopes of succeeding another time. why, for every prize animal to which the medal is assigned, whether for swiftness, strength, or beauty, there must be a hundred or more trained to stand forward and dispute the choice; and those animals rejected do not lose any of those qualifications because they were not accepted; far from it; their value is acknowledged, and they quickly find persons desirous of possessing them. now, friend," said father châtelain, having fairly talked himself out of breath, "do you not confess that i was right when i said ours was no common farm, any more than our employer was no ordinary master?" "indeed," said the schoolmaster, "your account is most interesting, and fully bears out all you asserted. but, the more i hear of the exalted views and noble generosity of your master, the more earnestly do i pray he may be induced to look with pity on my wretched condition. to such a man, so filled with a desire to improve the condition of god's creatures, a charitable action more or less would make but little difference. oh, tell me beforehand his name, and that of your kind lady of the ready help, that i may already bless and thank them; for full certain am i, minds so bent upon good deeds will never turn a deaf ear to my petition." "now i dare say you expect to be told the high-sounding titles of some great, grand personages. but, bless you! no such thing; no more parade about their names than those of the saints themselves. 'our lady of help' is called madame georges, and our good master plain m. rodolph." "merciful powers! my wife! my judge! my executioner!" faintly exclaimed the robber, struck almost speechless at this unexpected revelation. "rodolph!--madame georges!" it was wholly impossible for the schoolmaster to entertain a doubt respecting the identity of the persons to whom those names belonged. previously to adjudging him his fearful punishment, rodolph had spoken of the lively interest he took in all that concerned madame georges. the recent visit of the negro david to this farm was another conclusive proof of there being no mistake in the matter. it seemed as though the very hand of providence had brought about this singular rencontre, overthrowing as it so completely did his recently cherished hopes of emancipation from his present misery, through the intervention of the generosity of the proprietor of this farm. to fly was his first impulse. the very name of rodolph inspired him with the most intense terror. possibly he was even now in the house. scarcely recovered from his first alarm, the brigand rose from the table, and, grasping the hand of tortillard, exclaimed, in a wild and terrified manner: "let us be gone!--quick!--lead me hence. let us go, i say." the whole of the servants looked on with astonishment. "go!" said father châtelain, with much surprise. "why? wherefore should you go? what are you thinking about, my friend? come, what fresh whim is this? are you quite in your right senses?" tortillard cleverly availed himself of this last suggestion, and, uttering a deep sigh, touched his forehead significantly with his forefinger, so as to convey to the minds of the wondering labourers the impression that his pretended parent was not quite right in his head. the signal elicited a corresponding gesture of pity and due comprehension. "come, i say, come!" persisted the schoolmaster, endeavouring to draw the boy along with him; but, fully determined not to quit such comfortable quarters to wander about in the fields all night during the frost and snow, tortillard began in a whimpering voice to say: "oh, dear! oh, dear! poor father has got one of his old fits come on again. there, there, father, sit down and keep yourself quiet. pray do, and don't think of wandering out in the cold--it would kill you, maybe. no, not if you are ever so angry with me, will i be so wicked as to lead you out in such weather." then, addressing himself to the labourers, he said, "will none of you good gentlemen help me to keep my poor dear father from risking his life by going out to-night?" "yes, yes, my boy," answered father châtelain; "make yourself perfectly easy. we will not allow your father to quit the place. he shall stay here to-night, in spite of himself." "surely you will not keep me here against my will?" inquired the wretched schoolmaster, in hurried accents; "and perhaps, too, i should offend your master by my presence--that monsieur rodolph. you told me the farm was not an hospital; once more, therefore, i ask you to let me go forth in peace on my way." "offend our master!--that you would not, i am quite sure. but make yourself easy on that score. i am sorry to say that he does not live here, neither do we see him half as frequently as we could wish. but, if even he had been here, your presence would have made no sort of difference to him." "no, no," persisted the blind man with continued alarm; "i have changed my mind about applying to him. my son is right. no doubt my relation at louvres will take care of me. i will go there at once." "all i have got to say," replied father châtelain, kindly conceiving that he was speaking to a man whose brain was unhappily affected, "is just this--that to attempt to proceed on your journey with this poor child to-night is wholly out of the question. come, let me put matters to rights for you, and say no more about it." although now being reassured of rodolph's not being at bouqueval, the terrors of the schoolmaster were by no means dissipated; and, spite of his frightfully disfigured countenance, he was in momentary dread of being recognized by his wife, who might at any moment enter the kitchen, when he was perfectly persuaded she would instantly denounce and give him into custody; his firm impression having been, from the hour of receiving his horrible punishment from the hands of rodolph, that it was done to satisfy the hatred and vengeance of madame georges. but, unable to quit the farm, the ruffian found himself wholly at the mercy of tortillard. resigning himself, therefore, to what was unavoidable, yet anxious to escape from the eyes of his wife, he said to the venerable labourer: "since you kindly assure me my being here will in no way displease either your master or mistress, i will gladly accept your hospitality; but, as i am much fatigued, and must set out again at break of day, i would humbly ask permission to go at once to my bed." "oh, yes, to-morrow morning by all means, and as soon as you like; we are very early people here. and, for fear even that you should again wander from the right road, some one shall conduct you part of the way." "if you have no objection," said jean rené, addressing father châtelain, "i will see the poor man a good step on the road; because madame georges said yesterday i was to take the chaise and go to the lawyer's at villiers le bel to fetch a large sum of money she requires of him." "go with the poor blind traveller by all means," replied father châtelain; "but you must walk, mind. madame has changed her mind about sending to villiers del bel, and, wisely reflecting that it was not worth while to have so large a sum of money lying useless at the farm, has determined to let it remain with the lawyer till monday next, which will be the day she requires it." "of course, father châtelain; mistress knows best. but please to tell me why she should consider it unsafe to have money at the farm. what is she afraid of?" "of nothing, my lad. thank god, there is no occasion for fear. but, for all that, i would much rather have five hundred sacks of corn on the premises than ten bags of crowns. come," said old châtelain, addressing himself to the brigand and tortillard, "come, follow me, friend; and you too, my lad." then, taking up a small lamp, he conducted his two guests to a chamber on the ground floor, first traversing a large passage into which several doors opened. placing the light on a table, the old labourer said to the schoolmaster, "here is your lodging, and may god grant you a good and peaceful night's repose, my good friend. as for you, my little man, you are sure to sleep sound and well; it belongs to your happy age to do so." the schoolmaster, pensive and meditative, sat down by the side of the bed to which tortillard conducted him. at the instant when father châtelain was quitting the room, tortillard made him a sign indicative of his desire to speak with him alone, and hastily rejoined him in the passage. "what is it, my boy, you have to say to me?" inquired the old man, kindly. "ah, my kind sir, i only wanted to say that my father is frequently seized during the night with most violent convulsion-fits, which require a much stronger person than i am to hold him; should i be obliged to call for help, is there any person near who could hear me?" "poor child!" said the labourer, sympathisingly; "make yourself easy. there,--do you see that door beside the staircase?" "oh, yes, good, kind gentleman; i see it." "well, one of the farm labourers sleeps in that room. you will only just have to run to him. he never locks his door; and he will come to your father in an instant." "thank you, sir; god bless you! i will remember all your kindness when i say my prayers. but suppose, sir, the man and myself were not strong enough together to manage my poor father when these violent convulsions come on, could you, who look so good, and speak so kind--could you be kind enough to come and tell us what to do?" "me, my boy? oh, i sleep, as well as all the other men servants, out of the house, in a large outbuilding in the courtyard. but make yourself quite comfortable. jean rené could manage a mad bull, he is so powerful. besides, if you really wished any further help he would go and call up our old cook; she sleeps on the first floor, even with our mistress and young mademoiselle, and i can promise you that our old woman is a most excellent sick-nurse should your father require any one to attend to him when the fit is over." "thank you, kind gentleman, a thousand times. good-night, sir. i will go now and pray of god to bless you for your kindness and pity to the poor blind." "good night, my lad! let us hope both you and your father will enjoy a sound night's rest, and have no occasion to require any person's help. you had better return to your room now; your poor father may be wanting you." "i will, sir. good night, and thank you!" "god preserve you both, my child!" and the old man returned to the kitchen. scarcely had he turned his back than the limping rascal made one of those supremely insulting and derisive gestures familiar to all the blackguards of paris, consisting in slapping the nape of the neck repeatedly with the left hand, darting the right hand quite open continually out in a straight line. with the most consummate audacity, this dangerous child had just gleaned, under the mask of guileless tenderness and apprehension for his father, information most important for the furtherance of the schemes of the chouette and schoolmaster. he had ascertained during the last few minutes that the part of the building where he slept was only occupied by madame georges, fleur-de-marie, an old female servant, and one of the farm-labourers. upon his return to the room he was to share with the blind man, tortillard carefully avoided approaching him. the former, however, heard his step, and growled out: "where have you been, you vagabond?" "what! you want to know, do you, old blind 'un?" "oh, i'll make you pay for all you have made me suffer this evening, you wretched urchin!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, rising furiously, and groping about in every direction after tortillard, feeling by the walls as a guide. "i'll strangle you when i catch you, you young fiend--you infernal viper!" "poor, dear father! how prettily he plays at blind-man's buff with his own little boy," said tortillard, grinning, and enjoying the ease with which he escaped from the impotent attempts of the schoolmaster to seize him, who, though impelled to the exertion by his overboiling rage, was soon compelled to cease, and, as had been the case before, to give up all hopes of inflicting the revenge he yearned to bestow on the impish son of bras rouge. thus compelled to submit to the impudent persecution of his juvenile tormentor, and await the propitious hour when all his injuries could safely be avenged, the brigand determined to reserve his powerless wrath for a fitting opportunity of paying off old scores, and, worn out in body by his futile violence, threw himself, swearing and cursing, on the bed. "dear father!--sweet father!--have you got the toothache that you swear so? ah, if monsieur le curé heard you, what would he say to you? he would give you such penance! oh, my!" "that's right!--go on!" replied the ruffian, in a hollow and suppressed voice, after long enduring this entertaining vivacity on the part of the young gentleman. "laugh at me!--mock me!--make sport of my calamity, cowardly scoundrel that you are! that is a fine, noble action, is it not? just worthy of such a mean, ignoble, contemptible soul as dwells within that wretched, crooked body!" "oh, how fine we talk! how nice we preach about being generous, and all that, don't we?" cried tortillard, bursting into peals of laughter. "i beg your pardon, dear father, but i can't possibly help thinking it so funny to hear you, whose fingers were regular fish-hooks, picking and stealing whatever came in their way; and, as for generosity, i beg you don't mention it, because, till you got your eyes poked out i don't suppose you ever thought of such a word!" "but, at least, i never did you any harm. why, then, torment me thus?" "because, in the first place, you said what i did not like to the chouette; then you had a fancy for stopping and playing the fool among the clodhoppers here. perhaps you mean to commence a course of asses' milk?" "you impudent young beggar! if i had only had the opportunity of remaining at this farm--which i now wish sunk in the bottomless pit, or blasted with eternal lightning--you should not have played your tricks of devilish cruelty with me any longer!" "you to remain here! that would be a farce! who, then, would madame la chouette have for her _bête de souffrance_? me, perhaps, thank ye!--don't you wish you may get it?" "miserable abortion!" "abortion! ah, yes, another reason why i say, as well as aunt chouette, there is nothing so funny as to see you in one of your unaccountable passions--you, who could kill me with one blow of your fist; it's more funny than if you were a poor, weak creature. how very funny you were at supper to-night! _dieu de dieu!_ what a lark i had all to myself! why, it was better than a play at the gaîté. at every kick i gave you on the sly, your passion made all the blood fly in your face, and your white eyes became red all round; they only wanted a bit of blue in the middle to have been real tri-coloured. they would have made two fine cockades for the town-sergeant, wouldn't they?" "come, come, you like to laugh--you are merry: bah! it's natural at your age--it's natural--i'm not angry with you," said the schoolmaster, in an air of affected carelessness, hoping to propitiate tortillard; "but, instead of standing there, saying saucy things, it would be much better for you to remember what the chouette told you; you say you are very fond of her. you should examine all over the place, and get the print of the locks. didn't you hear them say they expected to have a large sum of money here on monday? we will be amongst them then, and have our share. i should have been foolish to have stayed here; i should have had enough of these asses of country people at the end of a week, shouldn't i, boy?" asked the ruffian, to flatter tortillard. "if you had stayed here i should have been very much annoyed, 'pon my word and honour," replied bras rouge's son, in a mocking tone. "yes, yes, there's a good business to be done in this house; and, if there should be nothing to steal, yet i will return here with the chouette, if only to have my revenge," said the miscreant, in a tone full of fury and malice, "for now i am sure it is my wife who excited that infernal rodolph against me; he who, in blinding me, has put me at the mercy of all the world, of the chouette, and a young blackguard like yourself. well, if i cannot avenge myself on him, i will have vengeance against my wife,--yes, she shall pay me for all, even if i set fire to this accursed house and bury myself in its smouldering ruins. yes, i will--i will have--" "you will, you want to get hold of your wife, eh, old gentleman? she is within ten paces of you! that's vexing, ain't it? if i liked, i could lead you to the door of her room, that's what i could, for i know the room. i know it--i know it--i know it," added tortillard, singing according to his custom. "you know her room?" said the schoolmaster, in an agony of fervent joy; "you know it?" "i see you coming," said tortillard; "come, play the pretty, and get on your hind legs like a dog when they throw him a dainty bone. now, old cupid!" "you know my wife's chamber?" said the miscreant, turning to the side whence the sound of tortillard's voice proceeded. "yes, i know it; and, what's still better, only one of the farm servants sleeps on the side of the house where we are. i know his door--the key is in it--click, one turn, and he's all safe and fast. come, get up, old blind cupid!" "who told you all this?" asked the blind scoundrel, rising involuntarily. "capital, cupid! by the side of your wife's room sleeps an old cook--one more turn of the key, and click! we are masters of the house--masters of your wife, and the young girl with the gray mantle that you must catch hold of and carry off. now, then, your paw, old cupid; do the pretty to your master directly." "you lie! you lie! how could you know all this?" "why, i'm lame in my leg, but not in my head. before we left the kitchen i said to the old guzzling labourer that sometimes in the night you had convulsions, and i asked him where i could get assistance if you were attacked. he said if you were attacked i might call up the man servant and the cook; and he showed me where they slept; one down, the other up stairs in the first floor, close to your wife--your wife--your wife!" and tortillard repeated his monotonous song. after a lengthened silence the schoolmaster said to him, in a calm voice, but with an air of desperate determination: "listen, boy. i have stayed long enough. lately--yes, yes, i confess it--i had a hope which now makes my lot appear still more frightful; the prison, the _bagne_, the guillotine, are nothing--nothing to what i have endured since this morning; and i shall have the same to endure always. lead me to my wife's room; i have my knife here; i will kill her. i shall be killed afterwards; but what of that? my hatred swells till it chokes me; i shall have revenge, and that will console me. what i now suffer is too much--too much! for me, too, before whom everybody trembled. now, lad, if you knew what i endure, even you would pity me. even now my brain appears ready to burst; my pulse beats as if my veins would burst; my head whirls--" "a cold in your 'knowledge-box,' old chap--that's it; sneeze--that'll cure you," said tortillard, with a loud grin; "what say you to a pinch of snuff, old brick?" and striking loudly on the back of his left hand, which was clenched, as if he were tapping on the lid of a snuff-box, he sang: "j'ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatière; j'ai du bon tabac, tu n'en auras pas." "_oh, mon dieu! mon dieu!_ they will drive me mad!" cried the brigand, becoming really almost demented by a sort of nervous excitement arising from bloodthirsty revenge and implacable hatred, which in vain sought to satiate itself. the exuberant strength of this monster could only be equalled by the impossibility of satisfying his deadly desires. let us imagine a hungry, furious, maddened wolf, teased during a whole day by a child through the bars of his den, and scenting within two paces of him a victim who would at once satisfy his hunger and his rage. at the last taunt of tortillard the brigand almost lost his senses; unable to reach his victim, he desired in his frenzy to shed his own blood, for his blood was stifling him. one moment he resolved to kill himself, and, had he had a loaded pistol in his hand, he would not have hesitated; he fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a clasp-knife, opened it, and raised it to strike; but, quick as were his movements, reflection, fear, and vital instinct were still more rapid,--the murderer lacked courage,--his arm fell on his knees. tortillard had watched all his actions with an attentive eye, and, when he saw the finale of this pseudo-tragedy, he continued, mockingly,-- "how, boys, a duel? ah, pluck the chickens!" the schoolmaster, fearing that he should lose his senses if he gave way to an ineffectual burst of fury, turned a deaf ear to this fresh insult of tortillard, who so impertinently commented on the cowardice of an assassin who recoiled from suicide. despairing of escape from what he termed, by a sort of avenging fatality, the cruelty of his cursed child, the ruffian sought to try what could be done by assailing the avarice of the son of bras rouge. "ah," said he to him, in a tone almost supplicatory, "lead me to the door of my wife's room, and take anything you like that's in her room and run away with it! leave me to myself. you may cry out 'murder' if you like; they will apprehend me--kill me on the spot--i care not, i shall die avenged, if i have not the courage to end my existence myself. oh, lead me there--lead me there; depend on it she has gold, jewels, anything, and you may take all, all for yourself, for your own, do you mind?--your own; only lead me to the door where she is." "yes, i mind well enough; you want me to lead you to her door, then to her bed, and then to tell you when to strike, then to guide your hand--eh! that's it, ain't it? you want to make me a handle to your knife, old monster!" replied tortillard, with an expression of contempt, anger, and horror, which, for the first time in his life gave an appearance of seriousness to his weasel face, usually all impertinence and insolence; "i'll be killed first, i tell you, sooner than i'll lead you to where your wife is!" "you refuse?" the son of bras rouge made no reply. he approached with bare feet and without being heard by the schoolmaster, who, seated on the bed, still held his large knife in his hand, and then, in a moment, with marvellous quickness and dexterity, tortillard snatched from him his weapon, and with one jump skipped to the further end of the chamber. "my knife! my knife!" cried the brigand, extending his arms. "no; for then you might to-morrow morning ask to speak with your wife and try to kill her, since, as you say, you have had enough of life, and are such a coward that you don't dare kill yourself." "how he defends my wife against me!" said the bandit, whose intellect became obscure. "this little wretch is a devil! where am i? why does he try to save her?" "because i like it," said tortillard, whose face resumed its usual appearance of sly impudence. "ah, is that it?" murmured the schoolmaster, whose mind was wandering; "well, then, i'll fire the house! we'll all burn--all! i prefer that furnace to the other. the candle! the candle!" "ah! ah! ah!" exclaimed tortillard, bursting out again into loud laughter. "if your own candle--your 'peepers'--had not been snuffed out, and for ever, you would have known that ours had been extinguished an hour ago." and tortillard sang: "ma chandelle est morte, je n'ai plus de feu." the schoolmaster gave a deep groan, stretched out his arms, and fell heavily on the floor, his face on the ground, and, struck by a rush of blood, remained motionless. "not to be caught, old boy," said tortillard; "that's only a trick to make me come to you that you may serve me out! when you have been long enough on the floor you'll get up." bras rouge's boy resolved not to go to sleep for fear of being surprised by the schoolmaster, so seated himself in a chair, with his eyes fixed on the ruffian, persuaded that it was a trap laid for him, and not believing the schoolmaster in any danger. that he might employ himself agreeably tortillard drew silently and carefully from his pocket a little red silk purse, and counted slowly, and with looks of joy and avarice, the seventeen pieces of gold which it contained. tortillard had acquired his ill-gotten riches thus: it may be remembered that madame d'harville was nearly surprised by her husband at the rendezvous which she had granted to the commandant. rodolph, when he had given the purse to the young lady had told her to go up to the fifth story to the morels, under the pretence of bringing them assistance. madame d'harville ran quickly up the staircase holding the purse in her hands. when tortillard, who was coming from the quack's, caught a glimpse of the purse, and, pretending to stumble as he passed the marquise, pushed against her, and, in the shock, slily stole the purse. madame d'harville, bewildered, and hearing her husband's footsteps, hurried on to the fifth story without thinking or complaining of the impudent robbery of the little cripple. after having counted and recounted his gold tortillard cast his eyes towards the schoolmaster who was extended still on the ground. disquieted for a moment, he listened, and hearing the robber breathe freely he thought that he was still meditating some trick against him. chance saved the schoolmaster from a congestion of the brain which else must have proved mortal. his fall had caused a salutary and abundant bleeding at the nose. he then fell into kind of a feverish torpor--half sleep, half delirium, and then had this wild, this fearful dream! chapter viii. the dream. this was the schoolmaster's dream: he was again in rodolph's house in the allée des veuves. the saloon in which the miscreant had received his appalling punishment had not undergone any alteration. rodolph himself was sitting at the table on which were the schoolmaster's papers and the little _saint-esprit_ of _lapis_ which he had given to the chouette. rodolph's countenance was grave and sad. on his right the negro david was standing motionless and silent; on his left was the chourineur, who looked on with a bewildered mien. in his dream the schoolmaster was no longer blind, but saw through a medium of clear blood, which filled the cavities of his eyeballs. all and everything seemed to him tinted with red. as birds of prey hover on motionless wing above the head of the victim which they fascinate before they devour, so a monstrous screech-owl (_chouette_), having for its head the hideous visage of the one-eyed hag, soared over the schoolmaster, keeping fixed on him her round, glaring, and green eye. this fixed stare was upon his breast like a heavy weight. the schoolmaster discerned a vast lake of blood separating him from the table at which rodolph was seated. then this inflexible judge, as well as the chourineur and the negro, grew and grew, expanding into colossal proportions, until they touched the ceiling; and then it also became higher in proportion. the lake of blood was calm, and as unruffled as a red mirror; the schoolmaster saw his hideous countenance reflected therein. then that was suddenly effaced by the tumult of the swelling waves. from their troubled surface there arose a vapour resembling the foul exhalation of a marsh, a livid-coloured mist of that violet hue peculiar to the lips of the dead. in proportion as this miasma rises--rises, the faces of rodolph, the chourineur, and the negro continue to expand and expand in an extraordinary manner, and always remain above this fearful cloud. in the midst of the awful vapour, the schoolmaster sees the pale ghosts, and those murderous scenes in which he had been the actor. in this fantastic mirage he first sees a little bald-headed old man, clad in a long brown coat, and wearing an eye-shade of green silk. he is employing himself in a dilapidated chamber in counting and arranging pieces of gold into piles by the light of a lamp. through the window, lighted by the dim moonlight reflected on the tops of some high trees waving in the wind, the schoolmaster recognises his own figure. pressing his distorted features against the glass, following every motion of the old man with glaring eyes, then breaking a pane, he opens the window itself, leaps with a bound upon his victim, and stabs him between the shoulders with his long and keen knife. the movement is so rapid, the blow so quick and sure, that the dead body of the old man remains seated in the chair. the murderer tries to withdraw his weapon from the dead body,--he cannot! he redoubles his efforts,--in vain! he then seeks to quit the deadly steel,--impossible! the hand of the assassin clings to the handle of the poignard, as the blade of the poignard clings to the frame of the wounded man. the murderer then hears the sound of clinking spurs and clashing swords in the adjoining room. he must escape at all risks, and attempts to carry with him the body of the feeble old man, from which he cannot withdraw either his weapon or his hand. he cannot do even this. the light and feeble carcass weighs him down like a mass of lead. despite his herculean shoulders, his desperate efforts, the schoolmaster cannot even stir this overwhelming weight. the sound of echoing steps and jingling sabres comes nearer and nearer. the key turns in the lock,--the door opens. the vision disappears. and then the screech-owl flaps her wing, and shrieks out: "it is the old miser of the rue de la roule. your maiden murder! murder! murder!" a moment's darkness,--then the miasma which covers the lake of blood resumes its transparency, and another spectre is revealed. the day begins to dawn,--the fog is thick and heavy. a man, clothed like a cattle-dealer, lies stretched, dead on the bank of the highroad. the trampled earth, the torn turf, proved that the victim had made a desperate resistance. the man has five bleeding wounds in his breast. he is lifeless; yet still he seems to whistle on his dogs, calling to them, "help! help!" but his whistling, his cries, proceed from five large and gaping wounds,-- "each one a death in nature,"-- which move like so many complaining lips. the five calls, the five whistlings, all made and heard at once, come from the dead man by the mouths of his gushing wounds; and fearful are they to hear! at this instant the chouette waves her wings, and mocks the deathly groans of the victim with five bursts of laughter,--a laughter as unearthly and as horrible as the madman's mirth; and then again she shrieks: "the cattle-dealer of poissy. murder! murder! murder!" protracted and underground echoes first repeat aloud the malevolent laughter of the screech-owl. then they seem to die away in the very bowels of the earth. at this sound two large dogs, as black as midnight, with eyes glaring like burning coals, begin to run rapidly around--around--around the schoolmaster, baying furiously. they almost touch him, and yet their bark appears as distant as if carried on the wind of the morning. gradually these spectres fade away as the previous one did, and are lost in the pale vapour which is continually ascending. a new exhalation now arises from the lake of blood, and spreads itself on its surface. it is a sort of greenish, transparent mist; it resembles the vertical section of a canal filled with water. at first he sees the bed of the canal covered in by a thick vase formed of numberless reptiles usually imperceptible to the unassisted eye, but which, enlarged, as if viewed through a microscope, assume monstrous forms, vast proportions relatively to their actual size. it is no longer mud, but a compact, living, crawling mass,--an inextricable conglomeration which wriggles and curls; so close, so dense, that a sullen and low undulation hardly stirs the level of this vase, or rather bed of foulest animalculæ. above trickles gently--gently, a turbid stream, thick and stagnating, which, in its dilatory flow, disturbs the filth incessantly vomited by the sewers of a great city,--fragments of all sorts, carcasses of animals, etc., etc. suddenly the schoolmaster hears the plash of a body, which falls heavily on the water; in its recoil the water sprinkles his very face. in the midst of the air-bubbles which rise thick and fast to the surface of the canal he sees the body of a woman, which sinks rapidly as she struggles--struggles. then he sees himself and the chouette running hastily along the banks of st. martin's canal, carrying with them a box covered with black cloth; and yet he is still present during all the variations of agony suffered by the victim whom he and the chouette have thrown into the canal. after the first immersion the victim rises to the surface and moves her arms in violent agitation like some one who, not knowing how to swim, tries in vain to save herself. then she utters a piercing cry,--a cry of one in the last extremity,--despairing--which ends in the sullen, stifled sound of involuntary choking; and the woman the second time sinks beneath the troubled waters. the screech-owl, which hovers continually motionless, imitates the convulsive rattle of the drowning wretch, as she mocked the dying groans of the cattle-dealer. in the midst of bursts of deathlike laughter the screech-owl utters, "glou! glou! glou!" the subterranean echoes repeated the sound. a second time submerged the woman is fast suffocating, and makes one more desperate effort for breath; but, instead of air, it is water which she inspires. then her head falls back, her convulsed features are swollen and become livid, her neck becomes blue and tumefied, her arms stiffen, and, in a last spasmodic effort, the drowning woman in her agony moves her feet, which are resting on the vase. then she is surrounded by a mass of black soil, which ascends with her to the surface of the water. scarcely has the choked wretch breathed her last sigh than she is covered with myriads of the microscopic reptiles,--the greedy and horrible vermin of the mud. the carcass floats for a moment, balances for a moment, and then sinks slowly, horizontally, the feet lower than the head, and between the double waters begins to follow the current of the land. sometimes the dead corpse turns, and its pale face is before the schoolmaster. then the spectre fixes on him glaringly its two blue, glassy, and opaque eyes; the livid mouth opens. the schoolmaster is far away from the drowning woman, and yet her lips murmur in his ears, "glou! glou! glou!" accompanying these appalling syllables with that singular noise which a bottle thrust into the water makes when filling itself. the screech-owl repeats, "glou! glou! glou!" flapping her wings, and shrieking: "the woman of the canal st. martin! murder! murder! murder!" the vision of the drowned woman disappears. the lake of blood, through which the schoolmaster still constantly beholds rodolph, becomes of a bronzed, black colour, then red again, and then changes instantaneously into a liquid, furnace-like, molten metal. then that lake of fire rises--rises--rises towards the sky like an immense whirlpool. there is now a fiery horizon like iron at a white heat. this immense, boundless horizon dazzles and scorches the very eyes of the schoolmaster, who, fascinated, fastened to the spot, cannot turn away his gaze. then, at the bottom of this burning lava, whose reflection seems to consume him, he sees pass and repass, one by one, the black and giant spectres of his victims. "the magic-lanthorn of remorse! remorse! remorse!" shrieks the night-bird, flapping her hideous wings, and laughing mockingly. notwithstanding the intolerable anguish which his impatient gaze creates, the schoolmaster has his eyes fixed on the grisly phantoms which move in the blazing sheet. then an indefinable horror steals over him. passing through every step of indescribable torture, by dint of contemplating this blazing sight, he feels his eyeballs--which have replaced the blood with which his orbits were filled at the commencement of his dream--he feels his eyeballs grow hot, burning, and melt in this furnace--to smoke and bubble--and at last to become calcined in their cavities like two crucibles filled with red fire. by a fearful power, after having seen as well as felt the successive transformations of his eyeballs into ashes, he falls into the darkness of his actual blindness. but now, suddenly, his intolerable agonies are assuaged as though by enchantment. an odorous air of delicious freshness passes over his burning eyeballs. this air is a lovely admixture of the scents of springtime, which exhale from flowers bathed in evening dew. the schoolmaster hears all about him a gentle murmur, like that of the breeze which just stirs the leaves--like that of a brook of running waters, which rushes and murmurs on its bed of stone and moss "in the leafy month of june." thousands of birds warble the most enchanting melodies. they are stilled, and the voices of children, of angelic tone, sing strange, unknown words--words that are "winged" (if we may use the expression), and which the schoolmaster hears mount to heaven with gentle motion. a feeling of moral health, of tranquillity, of undefined languor, creeps over him by degrees. it is an expansion of the heart, an elevation of the mind, an effort of the soul, of which no physical feeling, how delicious soever it may be, can impart the least idea. he feels himself softly soaring in a heavenly sphere; he seems to rise to an immeasurable height. · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · after having for some moments revelled in this unspeakable felicity he again finds himself in the dark abyss of his habitual thoughts. his dream continues; but he is again but the muzzled miscreant who blasphemes and curses in the paroxysm of his impotent rage. a voice is heard--sonorous--solemn. it is rodolph's. the schoolmaster starts "like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons." he has the vague consciousness of a dream; but the alarm with which rodolph inspires him is so great that he tries, but vainly, to escape from this fresh vision. the voice speaks--he listens. the tone of rodolph is not severe; it is "rather in sorrow than in anger." "unhappy man," he says to the schoolmaster, "the hour of your repentance has not yet sounded. god only knows when it will strike. the punishment of your crimes is still incomplete; you have suffered, but not expiated. destiny follows out its work of full justice. your accomplices have become your tormentors. a woman, a child, tame, subdue, conquer you. when i sentenced you to a terrible punishment for your crimes i said--do you remember my words?--'you have wickedly abused the great bodily strength bestowed upon you; i will paralyse that strength. the strongest have trembled before you; i will make you henceforward shrink in the presence of the weakest of beings.' you have left the obscure retreat in which you might have dwelt for repentance and expiation. you were afraid of silence and solitude. you sought to drown remembrance by new crimes. just now, in a fearful and bloodthirsty access of passion, you have wished to kill your wife. she is here under the same roof as yourself. she sleeps without defence. you have a knife. her apartment is close at hand. there was nothing to prevent you from reaching her. nothing could have protected her from your rage--nothing but your impotence. the dream you have had, and in which you are still bound, may teach you much, may save you. the mysterious phantoms of this dream bear with them a most pregnant meaning. the lake of blood, in which your victims have appeared, is the blood you have shed. the molten lava which replaced it is the gnawing, eating remorse, which must consume you before one day, that the almighty, having mercy on your protracted tortures, shall call you to himself, and let you taste the ineffable sweetness of his gracious forgiveness. but this will not be. no, no! these warnings will be useless. far from repenting, you regret every day, with horrid blasphemies, the time when you could commit such atrocities. alas! from this continual struggle between your bloodthirsty desires and the impossibility of satisfying them,--between your habits of fierce oppression and the compulsion of submitting to beings as weak as they are depraved,--there will result to you a fate so fearful, so appalling. ah, unhappy wretch!" rodolph's voice faltered, and for a moment he was silent, as if emotion and horror had hindered him from proceeding. the schoolmaster's hair bristled on his brow. what could be--would be--that fate, which even his executioner pitied? "the fate that awaits you is so horrible," resumed rodolph, "that, if the almighty, in his inexorable and all-powerful vengeance, would make you in your person expiate all the crimes of all mankind, he could not devise a more fearful punishment! ah, woe for you! woe for you!" at this moment the schoolmaster uttered a piercing shriek, and awoke with a bound at this horrid, frightful dream. chapter ix. the letter. the hour of nine had struck on the bouqueval clock, when madame georges softly entered the chamber of fleur-de-marie. the light slumber of the young girl was quickly broken, and she awoke to find her kind friend standing by her bedside. a brilliant winter's sun darted its rays through the blinds and chintz window-curtains, the pink linings of which cast a bright glow on the pale countenance of la goualeuse, giving it the look of health it so greatly needed. "well, my child," said madame georges, sitting down and gently kissing her forehead, "how are you this morning?" "much better, madame, i thank you." "i hope you were not awoke very early this morning?" "no, indeed, madame." "i am glad of it; the blind man and his son, who were permitted to sleep here last night, insisted upon quitting the farm immediately it was light, and i was fearful that the noise made in opening the gates might have woke you." "poor things! why did they go so very early?" "i know not. after you became more calm and comfortable last night, i went down into the kitchen for the purpose of seeing them, but they had pleaded extreme weariness, and begged permission to retire. father châtelain tells me the blind man does not seem very right in his head; and the whole body of servants were unanimous in praising the tenderness and care with which the boy attended upon his blind parent. but now, my dear marie, listen to me; you must not expose yourself to the risk of taking fresh cold after the attack of fever you suffered from last night, and, therefore, i recommend your keeping quite quiet all day, and not leaving the parlour at all." "nay, madame, i have promised m. le curé to be at the rectory at five o'clock; pray allow me to go, as i am expected." "indeed i cannot, it would be very imprudent; i can perceive you have passed a very bad night, your eyes are quite heavy." "i have not been able to rest through the most frightful dreams which pursued me whenever i tried to sleep. i fancied myself in the power of a wicked woman who used to torment me most cruelly when i was a child; and i kept starting up in dread and alarm. i am ashamed of such silly weakness as to allow dreams to frighten me, but, indeed, i suffered so much during the night that when i awoke my pillow was wetted with my tears." "i am truly sorry for this weakness, as you justly style it, my dear child," said madame georges, with affectionate concern, seeing the eyes of fleur-de-marie again filling fast, "because i perceive the pain it occasions you." the poor girl, overpowered by her feelings, threw her arms around the neck of her adopted mother and buried her sobs in her bosom. "marie, marie! my child, you terrify me; why, why is this?" "pardon me, dear madame, i beseech you! indeed, i know not myself what has come over me, but for the last two days my heart has seemed full almost to bursting. i cannot restrain my tears, though i know not wherefore i weep. a fearful dread of some great evil about to befall me weighs down my spirits and resists every attempt to shake it off." "come! come! i shall scold you in earnest if you thus give way to imaginary terrors." at this moment claudine, whose previous tap at the door had been unheard, entered the room. "what is it, claudine?" "madame, pierre has just arrived from arnouville, in madame dubreuil's chaise; he brings a letter for you which he says is of great importance." madame georges took the paper from claudine's hand, opened it and read as follows: "my dear madame georges: "you could do me a considerable favour, and assist me under very perplexing circumstances, by hastening to the farm here without delay. pierre has orders to wait till you are ready, and will drive you back after dinner. i really am in such confusion that i hardly know what i am about. m. dubreuil has gone to the wool-fair at pontoise; i have, therefore, no one to turn to for advice and assistance but you and marie. clara sends her best love to her very dear adopted sister, and anxiously expects her arrival. try to be with us by eleven o'clock, to luncheon. "ever yours most sincerely, "f. dubreuil." "what can possibly be the matter?" asked madame georges of fleur-de-marie; "fortunately the tone of madame dubreuil's letter is not calculated to cause alarm." "do you wish me to accompany you, madame?" asked the goualeuse. "why, that would scarcely be prudent, so cold as it is. but, upon second thoughts," continued madame georges, "i think you may venture if you wrap yourself up very warm; it will serve to raise your spirits, and possibly the short ride may do you good." the goualeuse did not immediately reply, but, after a few minutes' consideration, she ventured to say: "but, madame, m. le curé expects me this evening, at five o'clock, at the rectory." "but i promise you to be back in good time for you to keep your engagement; now will you go?" "oh, thank you, madame! indeed, i shall be so delighted to see mlle. clara." "what! again?" uttered madame georges, in a tone of gentle reproach. "mlle. clara? she does not speak so distantly to you when she addresses you." "oh, no, madame!" replied the poor girl, casting down her eyes, while a bright flush rose even to her temples; "but there is so great a difference between us that--" "dear marie! you are cruel and unkind thus needlessly to torment yourself. have you so soon forgotten how i chided you but just now for the very same fault? there, drive away all such foolish thoughts! dress yourself as quickly as you can, and pray wrap up very carefully. if we are quick, we may reach arnouville before eleven o'clock." then, leaving fleur-de-marie to perform the duties of her simple toilet, madame georges retired to her own chamber, first dismissing claudine with an intimation to pierre that herself and niece would be ready to start almost immediately. half an hour afterwards, madame georges and marie were on their way to arnouville, in one of those large, roomy cabriolets, in use among the rich farmers in the environs of paris; and briskly did their comfortable vehicle, drawn by a stout norman horse, roll over the grassy road which led from bouqueval to arnouville. the extensive buildings and numerous appendages to the farm, tenanted by m. dubreuil in the latter village, bore testimony to the wealth and importance of the property bestowed as a marriage-portion on mlle. césarine de noirmont upon her union with the duke de lucenay. the loud crack of pierre's whip apprised madame dubreuil of the arrival of her friend, madame georges, with fleur-de-marie, who were most affectionately greeted by clara and her mother. madame dubreuil was a good-looking woman of middle age, with a countenance expressive of extreme gentleness and kindness; while her daughter clara was a handsome brunette, with rich hazel eyes, and a happy, innocent expression for ever resting on her full, rosy lips, which seemed never to open but to utter words of sweetness and amiability. as clara eagerly threw her arms around her friend's neck as she descended the vehicle, the goualeuse saw with extreme surprise that the kind-hearted girl had laid aside her more fashionable attire, and was habited as a simple country maiden. "why, clara!" said madame georges, affectionately returning her embrace, "what is the meaning of this strange costume?" "it is done in imitation and admiration of her sister marie," answered madame dubreuil; "i assure you she let me have no peace till i had procured her a woollen bodice, and a fustian skirt exactly resembling your marie's. but, now we are talking of whims and caprices, just come this way with me," added madame dubreuil, drawing a deep sigh, "while i explain to you my present difficulty, as well as the cause of my so abruptly summoning you hither; but you are so kind, i feel assured you will not only forgive it, but also render me all the assistance i require." following madame georges and her mother to their sitting-room, clara lovingly conducted the goualeuse also thither, placing her in the warmest corner of the fireside, and tenderly chafing her hands to prevent the cold from affecting her; then fondly caressing her, and styling her again and again her very dear sister marie, she playfully reproached her for allowing so long an interval to pass away without paying her a visit. after the recent conversation which passed between the poor goualeuse and the curé (no doubt fresh in the reader's memory), it will easily be believed that these tender marks of affection inspired the unfortunate girl with feelings of deep humility, combined with a timid joy. "now, then, dear madame dubreuil," said madame georges, when they were comfortably seated, "do pray tell me what has happened, and in what manner i can be serviceable to you." "oh, in several ways! i will tell you exactly how. in the first place, i believe you are not aware that this farm is the private property of the duchesse de lucenay, and that we are accountable to her alone, having nothing whatever to do with the duke or his steward." "no, indeed, i never heard that before." "neither should i have troubled you with so unimportant a matter now, but that it forms a necessary part of the explanation i am about to give you of my present pressing need of your kind services. you must know, then, that we consider ourselves as the tenants of madame de lucenay, and always pay our rent either to herself or to madame simon, her head _femme de chambre_; and, really, spite of some little impetuosity of temper, madame la duchesse is so amiable that it is delightful to have business with her. dubreuil and i would go through fire and water to serve her: but, la! that is only natural, considering we have known her from her very cradle, and were accustomed to see her playing about as a child during the visits she used annually to pay to the estate during the lifetime of her late father, the prince de noirmont. latterly she has asked for her rent in advance. forty thousand francs is not 'picked up by the roadside,' as the old proverb says; but happily we had laid that sum by as clara's dowry, and the very next morning after the request reached us we carried madame her money in bright, shining, golden louis. these great ladies spend so much, you see, in luxuries such as you and i have no idea of. yet it is only within the last twelvemonth madame de lucenay has wished to be paid beforehand, she used always to seem as though she had plenty of money; but things are very different now." "still, my dear madame dubreuil, i do not yet perceive in what way i can possibly assist you." "don't be in a hurry! i am just coming to that part of my story; but i was obliged to tell you all this that you might be able to understand the entire confidence madame la duchesse places in us. to be sure, she showed her great regard for us by becoming, when only thirteen years of age, clara's godmother, her noble father standing as the other sponsor; and, ever since, madame de lucenay has loaded her godchild with presents and kind attentions. but i must not keep you--i see you are impatient; so i will at once proceed with the business part of my tale. you must know, then, that last night i received by express the following letter from madame de lucenay: "my dear madame dubreuil: "'you must prepare the small pavilion in the orchard for occupation by to-morrow evening. send there all the requisite furniture, such as carpets, curtains, etc., etc. let nothing be wanted to render it, in every respect, as _comfortable_ as possible.' "do you mark the word 'comfortable,' madame georges?" inquired madame dubreuil, pausing in the midst of her reading; "it is even underlined." then looking up at her friend with a thoughtful, puzzled expression of countenance, and receiving no answer, she continued the perusal of her letter: "'it is so long since the pavilion has been used that it will require large and constant fires both night and day to remove the dampness from the walls. i wish you to behave in every respect to the person who will occupy the apartments as you would do to myself. and you will receive by the hands of the new visitant a letter from me explanatory of all i expect from your well-known zeal and attachment. i depend entirely on you and feel every assurance that i may safely reckon on your fidelity and desire to serve me. adieu, my dear madame dubreuil; remember me most kindly to my pretty goddaughter; and believe me ever, "'yours, sincerely and truly, "'noirmont de lucenay. "'p.s. the person whom i so strongly recommend to your best care and attention will arrive the day after to-morrow, about dusk. pray do your very utmost to render the pavilion as _comfortable_ as you possibly can.' "comfortable again, you see, and underlined as before," said madame dubreuil, returning the letter of madame de lucenay to her pocket. "well," replied madame georges, "all this is simple enough!" "how do you mean, simple enough? you cannot have heard me read the letter. madame la duchesse wishes particularly 'that the pavilion should be rendered as comfortable as possible.' now that is the very reason of my asking you to come to me to-day; clara and i have been knocking our heads together in vain to discover what 'comfortable' can possibly mean, but without being able to find it out. yet it seems odd, too, that clara should not know its meaning, for she was several years at school at villiers le bel, and gained a quantity of prizes for history and geography; however, she knows as little as i do about that outlandish word. i dare say it is only known at court, or in the fashionable world. however, be that as it may, madame la duchesse has thrown me into a pretty fuss by making use of it; she says, and you see twice repeats the words, and even underlines it, 'that she requests i will furnish the pavilion as comfortably as possible.' now what are we to do when we have not the slightest notion of the meaning of that word?" "well, heaven be praised, then, that i can relieve your perplexity by solving this grand mystery!" said madame georges, smiling. "upon the present occasion the word comfortable merely means an assemblage of neat, well-chosen, well-arranged, and convenient furniture, so placed, in apartments well warmed and protected from cold or damp, that the occupant shall find every thing that is necessary combined with articles that to some might seem superfluities." "thank you. i perfectly understand what comfortable means as regards furnishing apartments; but your explanation only increases my difficulties." "how so?" "madame la duchesse speaks of carpets, furniture, and many _et coeteras_; now we have no carpets here, and our furniture is of the most homely description. neither can i make out by the letter whether the person i am to expect is a male or female; and yet every thing must be prepared by to-morrow evening. what shall i do? what can i do? i can get nothing here. really, madame georges, it is enough to drive one wild to be placed in such an awkward situation." "but, mother," said clara, "suppose you take the furniture out of my room, and whilst you are refurnishing it i will go and pass a few days with dear marie at bouqueval." "my dear child, what nonsense you talk! as if the humble fittings-up of your chamber could equal what madame la duchesse means by the word 'comfortable,'" returned madame dubreuil, with a disconsolate shrug of the shoulders. "lord! lord! why will fine ladies puzzle poor folks like me by going out of their way to find such expressions as comfortable?" "then i presume the pavilion in question is ordinarily uninhabited?" said madame georges. "oh, yes! there, you see that small white building at the end of the orchard--that is it. the late prince de noirmont, father of madame la duchesse, caused it to be built for his daughter when, in her youthful days, she was accustomed to visit the farm, and she then occupied it. there are three pretty chambers in it, and a beautiful little swiss dairy at the end of the garden, where, in her childish days, madame la duchesse used to divert herself with feigning to manage. since her marriage, she has only been twice at the farm, but each time she passed several hours in the pavilion. the first time was about six years ago, and then she came on horseback with--" then, as though the presence of clara and fleur-de-marie prevented her from saying more, madame dubreuil interrupted herself by saying, "but i am talking instead of doing; and that is not the way to get out of my present difficulty. come, dear, good madame georges, and help a poor bewildered creature like myself!" "in the first place," answered madame georges, "tell me how is this pavilion furnished at the present moment." "oh, scarcely at all! in the principal apartment there is a straw matting on the centre of the floor; a sofa, and a few arm-chairs composed of rushes, a table, and some chairs, comprise all the inventory, which, i think you will allow, falls far short of the word comfortable." "well, i tell you what i should do in your place. let me see; it is eleven o'clock. i should send a person on whom you can depend to paris." "our overseer![ ] there cannot be a more active, intelligent person." [ ] a species of overseer employed in most of the large farming establishments in the environs of paris. "exactly! just the right sort of messenger. well, in two hours at the utmost, he may be in paris. let him go to some upholsterer in the chaussée d'antin--never mind which--and give him the list i will draw out, after i have seen what is wanting for the pavilion; and let him be directed to say that, let the expense be what it may--" "i don't care about expense, if i can but satisfy the duchess." "the upholsterer, then, must be told that, at any cost, he must see that every article named in the list be sent here either this evening or before daybreak to-morrow, with three or four of his most clever and active workmen to arrange them as quickly as possible." "they might come by the gonesse diligence, which leaves paris at eight o'clock every evening." "and as they would only have to place the furniture, lay down carpets, and put up curtains, all that could easily be done by to-morrow evening." "oh, my dear madame georges, what a load you have taken off my mind! i should never have thought of this simple yet proper manner of proceeding. you are the saving of me! now, may i ask you to be so kind as to draw me out the list of articles necessary to render the pavilion--what is that hard word? i never can recollect it." "comfortable! yes, i will at once set about it, and with pleasure." "dear me! here is another difficulty. don't you see we are not told whether to expect a lady or a gentleman? madame de lucenay, in her letter, only says 'a person.' it is very perplexing, isn't it?" "then make your preparations as if for a lady, my dear madame dubreuil; and, should it turn out a gentleman, why he will only have better reason to be pleased with his accommodations." "quite right; right again, as you always are." a servant here announced that breakfast was ready. "let breakfast wait a little," said madame georges. "and, while i draw out the necessary list, send some person you can depend upon to take the exact height and width of the three rooms, that the curtains and carpets may more easily be prepared." "thank you. i will set our overseer to work out this commission." "madame," continued the servant, speaking to her mistress, "the new dairy-woman from stains is here with her few goods in a small cart drawn by a donkey. the beast has not a heavy load to complain of, for the poor body's luggage seems but very trifling." "poor woman!" said madame dubreuil, kindly. "what woman is it?" inquired madame georges. "a poor creature from stains, who once had four cows of her own, and used to go every morning to paris to sell her milk. her husband was a blacksmith, and one day accompanied her to paris to purchase some iron he required for his work, agreeing to rejoin her at the corner of the street where she was accustomed to sell her milk. unhappily, as it afterwards turned out, the poor woman had selected a very bad part of paris; for, when her husband returned, he found her in the midst of a set of wicked, drunken fellows, who had, for mere mischief's sake, upset all her milk into the gutter. the poor blacksmith tried to reason with them upon the score of their unfair conduct, but that only made matters worse; they all fell on the husband, who sought in vain to defend himself from their violence. the end of the story is, that, in the scuffle which ensued, the man received a stab with a knife, which stretched him a corpse before the eyes of his distracted wife." "dreadful, indeed!" ejaculated madame georges. "but, at least, the murderer was apprehended?" "alas, no! he managed to make his escape during the confusion which ensued, though the unfortunate widow asserts she should recognise him at any minute she might meet him, having repeatedly seen him in company with his associates, inhabitants of that neighbourhood. however, up to the present hour all attempts to discover him have been useless. but, to end my tale, i must tell you that, in consequence of the death of her husband, the poor widow was compelled, in order to pay various debts he had contracted, to sell not only her cows but some little land he possessed. the bailiff of the château at stains recommended the poor creature to me as a most excellent and honest woman, as deserving as she was unfortunate, having three children to provide for, the eldest not yet twelve years of age. i happened, just then, to be in want of a first-rate dairy-woman, therefore offered her the place, which she gladly accepted, and she has now come to take up her abode on the farm." "this act of real kindness on your part, my dear madame dubreuil, does not surprise me, knowing you as well as i do." "here, clara," said madame dubreuil, as though seeking to escape from the praises of her friend, "will you go and show this good woman the way to the lodge she is to occupy, while i hasten to explain to our overseer the necessity for his immediate departure for paris?" "willingly, dear mother! marie can come with me, can she not?" "of course," answered madame dubreuil, "if she pleases." then added, smilingly, "i wonder whether you two girls could do one without the other!" "and now," said madame georges, seating herself before a table, "i will at once begin my part of the business, that no time may be lost; for we must positively return to bouqueval at four o'clock." "dear me!" exclaimed madame dubreuil; "how early! why, what makes you in such a hurry?" "marie is obliged to be at the rectory by five o'clock." "oh, if her return relates to that good abbé laporte, i am sure it is a sacred duty with which i would not interfere for the world. well, then, i will go and give the necessary orders for everything being punctual to that hour. those two girls have so much to say to each other that we must give them as much time as we can." "then we shall leave you at three o'clock, my dear madame dubreuil?" "yes; i promise not to detain you since you so positively wish it. but pray let me thank you again and again for coming. what a good thing it was i thought of sending to ask your kind assistance," rejoined madame dubreuil. "now then, clara and marie, off with you!" as madame georges settled herself to her writing, madame dubreuil quitted the room by a door on one side, while the young friends, in company with the servant who had announced the arrival of the milkwoman from stains, went out by the opposite side. "where is the poor woman?" inquired clara. "there she is, mademoiselle, in the courtyard, near the barns, with her children and her little donkey-cart." "you shall see her, dear marie," said clara, taking the arm of la goualeuse. "poor woman! she looks so pale and sad in her deep widow's mourning. the last time she came here to arrange with my mother about the place she made my heart ache. she wept bitterly as she spoke of her husband; then suddenly burst into a fit of rage as she mentioned his murderer. really, she quite frightened me, she looked so desperate and full of fury. but, after all, her resentment was natural. poor thing! i am sure i pity her; some people are very unfortunate, are they not, marie?" "alas, yes, they are, indeed!" replied the goualeuse, sighing deeply. "there are some persons who appear born only to trouble and sorrow, as you justly observe, miss clara." "this is really very unkind of you, marie," said clara, colouring with impatience and displeasure. "this is the second time to-day you have called me 'miss clara.' what can i have possibly done to offend you? for i am sure you must be angry with me, or you would not do what you know vexes me so very much." "how is it possible that you could ever offend me?" "then why do you say 'miss?' you know very well that both madame georges and my mother have scolded you for doing it. and i give you due warning, if ever you repeat this great offence, i will have you well scolded again. now then, will you be good or not? speak!" "dear clara, pray pardon me! indeed, i was not thinking when i spoke." "not thinking!" repeated clara, sorrowfully. "what, after eight long days' absence you cannot give me your attention even for five minutes? not thinking! that would be bad enough; but that is not it, marie. and i tell you what, it is my belief you are too proud to own so humble a friend as myself." fleur-de-marie made no answer, but her whole countenance assumed the pallor of death. a woman, dressed as a widow, and in deep mourning, had just caught sight of her, and uttered a cry of rage and horror which seemed to freeze the poor girl's blood. this woman was the person who supplied the goualeuse with her daily milk, during the time the latter dwelt with the ogress at the _tapis-franc_. the scene which ensued took place in one of the yards belonging to the farm, in the presence of all the labourers, both male and female, who chanced just then to be returning to the house to take their mid-day meal. beneath a shed stood a small cart, drawn by a donkey, and containing the few household possessions of the widow; a boy of about twelve years of age, aided by two younger children, was beginning to unload the vehicle. the milk-woman herself was a woman of about forty years of age, her countenance coarse, masculine, and expressive of great resolution. she was, as we before stated, attired in the deepest mourning, and her eyelids looked red and inflamed with recent weeping. her first impulse at the sight of the goualeuse had been terror; but quickly did that feeling change into grief and rage, while the most violent anger contracted her features. rapidly darting towards the unhappy girl, she seized her by the arm, and, presenting her to the gaze of the farm servants, she exclaimed: "here is a creature who is acquainted with the assassin of my poor husband! i have seen her more than twenty times speaking to the ruffian when i was selling my milk at the corner of the rue de la vieille-draperie; she used to come to buy a ha'porth every morning. she knows well enough who it was struck the blow that made me a widow, and my poor children fatherless. 'birds of a feather flock together,' and such loose characters as she is are sure to be linked in with thieves and murderers. oh, you shall not escape me, you abandoned wretch!" cried the milk-woman, who had now lashed herself into a perfect fury, and who, seeing poor fleur-de-marie confused and terror-stricken at this sudden attack, endeavouring to escape from it by flight, grasped her fiercely by the other arm also. clara, almost speechless with surprise and alarm at this outrageous conduct, had been quite incapable of interfering; but this increased violence on the part of the widow seemed to restore her to herself, and angrily addressing the woman she said: "what is the meaning of this improper behaviour? are you out of your senses? has grief turned your brain? good woman, i pity you! but let us pass on; you are mistaken." "mistaken!" repeated the woman, with a bitter smile. "me mistaken! no, no, there is no mistake! just look at her pale, guilty looks! hark how her very teeth rattle in her head! ah, she knows well enough there is no mistake! ah, you may hold your wicked tongue if you like, but justice will find a way to make you speak. you shall go with me before the mayor; do you hear? oh, it is not worth while resisting! i have good strong wrists; i can hold you. and sooner than you should escape i would carry you every step of the way." "you good-for-nothing, insolent woman! how dare you presume to speak in this way to my dear friend and sister?" "your sister, mlle. clara! believe me, it is you who are deceived--it is you who have lost your senses," bawled the enraged milk-woman, in a loud, coarse voice. "your sister! a likely story a girl out of the streets, who was the companion of the very lowest wretches in the worst part of the cité, should be a sister of yours!" at these words the assembled labourers, who naturally enough took that part in the affair which concerned a person of their own class, and who really sympathised with the bereaved milk-woman, gave utterance to deep, threatening words, in which the name of fleur-de-marie was angrily mingled. the three children, hearing their mother speaking in a loud tone, and fearing they knew not what, ran to her, and, clinging to her dress, burst out into a loud fit of weeping. the sight of these poor little fatherless things, dressed also in deep mourning, increased the pity of the spectators for the unfortunate widow, while it redoubled their indignation against fleur-de-marie; while clara, completely frightened by these demonstrations of approaching violence, exclaimed, in an agitated tone, to a group of farm labourers: "take this woman off the premises directly! do you not perceive grief has driven her out of her senses? marie! dear marie! never mind what she says. she is mad, poor creature, and knows not what she does!" the poor goualeuse, pale, exhausted, and almost fainting, made no effort to escape from the powerful grasp of the incensed milk-woman; she hung her head, as though unable or unwilling to meet the gaze of friend or foe. clara, attributing her condition to the terror excited by so alarming a scene, renewed her commands to the labourers, "did you not hear me desire that this mad woman might be instantly taken away from the farm? however, unless she immediately ceases her rude and insolent language, i can promise her, by way of punishment, she shall neither have the situation my mother promised her nor ever be suffered to put her foot on the premises again." not a person stirred to obey clara's orders; on the contrary, one of the boldest among the party exclaimed: "well, but, miss clara, if your friend there is only a common girl out of the streets, and, as such, acquainted with the murderer of this poor woman's husband, surely she ought to go before the mayor to give an account of herself and her bad companions!" "i tell you," repeated clara, with indignant warmth, and addressing the milk-woman, "you shall never enter this farm again unless you this very instant, and before all these people, humbly beg pardon of mlle. marie for all the wicked things you have been saying about her!" "you turn me off the premises then, mademoiselle, do you?" retorted the widow with bitterness. "well, so be it. come, my poor children, let us put the things back in the cart, and go and seek our bread elsewhere. god will take care of us. but, at least, when we go, we will take this abandoned young woman with us. she shall be made to tell the mayor, if she won't us, who it was that took away your dear father's life; for she knows well enough--she who was the daily companion of the worst set of ruffians who infest paris. and you, miss," added she, looking spitefully and insolently at clara, "you should not, because you choose to make friends with low girls out of the streets, and because you happen to be rich, be quite so hard-hearted and unfeeling to poor creatures like me!" "no more she ought," exclaimed one of the labourers; "the poor woman is right!" "of course she is,--she is only standing up for her own!" "poor thing, she has no one now to do so for her! why, they have murdered her husband among them! i should think that might content them, without trampling the poor woman under foot." "one comfort is, nobody can stop her from doing all in her power to bring the murderers of her husband to justice." "it is a shame to send her away in this manner, like a dog!" "can she help it, poor creature, if miss clara thinks proper to take up with common girls and thieves, and make them her companions?" "infamous to turn an honest woman, a poor widow with helpless children, into the streets for such a base girl as that!" these different speeches, uttered nearly simultaneously by the surrounding crowd, were rapidly assuming a most hostile and threatening tone, when clara joyfully exclaimed: "thank god, here comes my mother!" it was, indeed, madame dubreuil, who was crossing the courtyard on her return from the pavilion. "now, then, my children," said madame dubreuil, gaily approaching the assembled group, "will you come in to breakfast? i declare it is quite late! i dare say you are both hungry? come, marie!--clara!" "mother," cried clara, pointing to the widow, "you are fortunately just in time to save my dear sister marie from the insults and violence of that woman. oh, pray order her away instantly! if you only knew what she had the audacity to say to marie!" "impossible, clara!" "nay, but, dear mother, only look at my poor dear sister! see how she trembles! she can scarcely support herself. oh, it is a shame and disgrace such conduct should ever have been offered to a guest of ours! my dear, dear friend--marie, dear!--look up, and say you are not angry with us. pray tell me you will try and forget it!" "what is the meaning of all this?" inquired madame dubreuil, looking around her with a disturbed and uneasy look, after having observed the despairing agony of the goualeuse. "ah, now we shall have justice done the poor widow woman!" murmured the labourers. "madame will see her righted, no doubt about it!" "now, then," exclaimed the milk-woman, exultingly, "here is madame dubreuil. now, my fine miss," continued she, addressing fleur-de-marie, "you will have your turn of being turned out-of-doors!" "is it true, then," cried madame dubreuil, addressing the widow, who still kept firm hold of fleur-de-marie's arm, "that you have dared to insult my daughter's friend, as she asserts? is this the way you show your gratitude for all i have done to serve you? will you leave that young lady alone?" "yes, madame," replied the woman, relinquishing her grasp of fleur-de-marie, "at your bidding i will; for i respect you too much to disobey you. and, besides, i owe you much gratitude for all your kindness to a poor, friendless creature like myself. but, before you blame me, and drive me off the premises with my poor children, just question that wretched creature that has caused all this confusion what she knows of me. i know a pretty deal more of her than is to her credit!" "for heaven's sake, marie," exclaimed madame dubreuil, almost petrified with astonishment, "what does this woman allude to? do you hear what she says?" "are you, or are you not known by the name of the goualeuse?" said the milk-woman to marie. "yes," said the wretched girl, in a low, trembling voice, and without venturing to lift up her eyes towards madame dubreuil,--"yes, i am called so." "there you see!" vociferated the enraged labourers. "she owns it! she owns it!" "what does she own?" inquired madame dubreuil, half frightened at the assent given by fleur-de-marie. "leave her to me, madame," resumed the widow, "and you shall hear her confess that she was living in a house of the most infamous description in the rue-aux-fêves in the cité, and that she every morning purchased a half-pennyworth of milk of me. she cannot deny either having repeatedly spoken in my presence to the murderer of my poor husband. oh, she knows him well enough, i am quite certain; a pale young man, who smoked a good deal, and always wore a cap and a blouse, and wore his hair very long; she could tell his name if she chose. is this true, or is it a lie?" vociferously demanded the milk-woman. "i may have spoken to the man who killed your husband," answered fleur-de-marie, in a faint voice; "for, unhappily, there are more than one in the cité capable of such a crime. but, indeed, i know not of whom you are speaking!" "what does she say?" asked madame dubreuil, horror-struck at her words. "she admits having possibly conversed with murderers?" "oh, such lost wretches as she is," replied the widow, "have no better companions!" at first, utterly stupefied by so singular a discovery, confirmed, indeed, by fleur-de-marie's own admission, madame dubreuil seemed almost incapable of comprehending the scene before her; but quickly the whole truth presented itself to her mental vision, and shrinking from the unfortunate girl with horror and disgust, she hastily seized her daughter by the dress, as she was about to sustain the sinking form of the poor goualeuse, and, drawing her towards her with sudden violence, she exclaimed: "clara! for heaven's sake approach not that vile, that abandoned young woman! oh, dreadful, indeed, ever to have admitted her here! but how came madame georges to have her under her roof? and how could she so far insult me as to bring her here, and allow my daughter to--this is, indeed, disgraceful! i hardly know whether to trust the evidence of my own senses. but madame georges must have been as much imposed on as myself, or she never would have permitted such an indignity! no, no! she is incapable of such dishonourable conduct. it would, indeed, be a disgrace for one female so to have deceived another." poor clara, terrified and almost heart-broken at this distressing scene, could scarcely believe herself awake. it seemed as though she were under the influence of a fearful dream. her innocent and pure mind comprehended not the frightful charges brought against her friend; but she understood enough to fill her with the most poignant grief at the unfortunate position of la goualeuse, who stood mute, passive and downcast, like a criminal in the presence of the judge. "come, come, my child," repeated madame dubreuil, "let us quit this disgraceful scene." then, turning towards fleur-de-marie, she said: "as for you, worthless girl, the almighty will punish you as you deserve for your deceit! that my child, good and virtuous as she is, should ever have been allowed to call you sister or friend. her sister! you--the very vilest of the vile! the outcast of the most depraved and lost wretches! what hardihood, what effrontery you must have possessed, to dare to show your face among good and honest people, when your proper place would have been along with your bad companions in a prison!" "ay, ay!" cried all the labourers at once; "let her be sent off to prison at once. she knows the murderer! let her be made to declare who and what he is." "she is most likely his accomplice!" "you see," exclaimed the widow, doubling her fist in the face of the goualeuse, "that my words have come true. justice will overtake you before you can commit other crimes." "as for you, my good woman," said madame dubreuil to the milk-woman, "far from sending you away i shall reward you for the service you have done me in unmasking this infamous girl's real character." "there, i told you," murmured the voices of the labourers, "our mistress always does justice to every one!" "come, clara," resumed madame dubreuil, "let us retire and seek madame georges, that she may clear up her share of this disgraceful business, or she and i never meet again; for either she has herself been most dreadfully deceived, or her conduct towards us is of the very worst description." "but, mother, only look at poor marie!" "oh, never mind her! let her die of shame, if she likes,--there will be one wicked, hardened girl less in the world. treat her with the contempt she deserves. i will not suffer you to remain another instant where she is. it is impossible for a young person like you to notice her in any way without disgracing herself." "my dear mother," answered clara, resisting her mother's attempts to draw her away, "i do not understand what you mean. marie must be wrong in some way, since you say so! but look, only look at her--she is fainting! pity her! oh, mother, let her be ever so guilty, pray take pity on her present distress!" "oh, mlle. clara, you are good--very, very good--to pardon me and care for me," uttered poor fleur-de-marie, in a faint voice, casting a look of unutterable gratitude on her young protectress. "believe me, it was sorely against my will ever to deceive you; and daily, hourly, have i reproached myself for so doing." "mother," exclaimed clara, in the most piteous tones, "are you then so merciless? can you not pity her?" "pity!" returned madame dubreuil, scornfully. "no, i waste no pity on such as she is. come, i say! were it not that i consider it the office of madame georges to clear the place of so vile a creature, i would have her spurned from the doors, as though she carried the plague about with her." so saying, the angry mother seized her daughter's hand, and, spite of all her struggles, led her away, clara continually turning back her head, and saying: "marie, my sister, i know not what they accuse you of, but i am quite convinced of your innocence. be assured of my constant love, whatever they may say or do." "silence! silence! i command!" cried madame dubreuil, placing her hand over her daughter's mouth. "speak not another word, i insist! fortunately, we have plenty of witnesses to testify that, after the odious discovery we have just made, you were not suffered to remain a single instant with this lost and unfortunate young woman. you can all answer for that, can you not, my good people?" continued she, speaking to the assembled labourers. "yes, yes, madame," replied one of them, "we all know well enough that mlle. clara was not allowed to stop with this bad girl a single instant after you found out her wickedness. no doubt she is a thief or she would not be so intimate with murderers." madame dubreuil led clara to the house, while the goualeuse remained in the midst of the hostile circle which had now formed around her. spite of the reproaches of madame dubreuil, her presence, and that of clara, had, in some degree, served to allay the fears of fleur-de-marie as to the probable termination of the scene. but, after the departure of both mother and daughter, when she found herself so entirely at the mercy of the enraged crowd, her strength seemed to forsake her, and she was obliged to keep herself from falling by leaning on the parapet of the deep watering-place where the farm cattle were accustomed to drink. nothing could be conceived more touching than the attitude of the unfortunate girl, nor could a more threatening appearance have been displayed than was exhibited in the words and looks of the countrymen and women who surrounded her. seated, or rather supporting herself on the narrow margin of the wall which enclosed the drinking-place, her head hanging down, and concealed by both hands, her neck and bosom hid by the ends of the little red cotton handkerchief which was twisted around her cap, the poor goualeuse, mute and motionless, presented a most touching picture of grief and resignation. at some little distance from fleur-de-marie stood the widow of the murdered man. triumphant in her vindictive rage, and still further excited by the indignation expressed by madame dubreuil, she pointed out the wretched object of her wrath to the labourers and her children, with gestures of contempt and detestation. the farm servants, who had now formed into a close circle, sought not to conceal their disgust and thirst for vengeance; their rude countenances expressed at once rage, desire for revenge, and a sort of insulting raillery. the women were even still more bitter, and bent upon mischief. neither did the striking beauty of the goualeuse tend to allay their wrath. but neither men nor women could pardon fleur-de-marie the heinous offence of having, up to that hour, been treated by their superiors as an equal; and some of the men now present, having been unsuccessful candidates for the vacant situations at bouqueval, and attributing their failure to madame georges, when, in reality, their disappointment arose entirely from their recommendations not being sufficiently satisfactory, determined to avail themselves of the opportunity now before them to wreak their vexation and ill-will on the head of one she was known to protect and love. the impulses of ignorant minds always lead to extremes either of good or bad. but they speedily put on a most dangerous form, when the fury of an enraged multitude is directed against those who may already have awakened their personal anger or aversion. although the greater number of the labourers now collected together might not have been so strictly virtuous and free from moral blame as to be justified in throwing the first stone at the trembling, fainting girl, who was the object of all their concentrated wrath, yet, on the present occasion, they unanimously spoke and acted as though her very presence was capable of contaminating them; and their delicacy and modesty alike revolted at the bare recollection of the depraved class to which she had belonged, and they shuddered to be so near one who confessed to having frequently conversed with assassins. nothing, then, was wanting to urge on a blind and prejudiced crowd, still further instigated by the example of madame dubreuil. "take her before the mayor!" cried one. "ay, ay! and, if she won't walk, we'll drag her." "and for her to have the impudence to dress herself like one of us honest girls!" said an awkward, ill-looking farm-wench. "i'm sure," rejoined another female, with her mock-modest air, "one might have thought she would go to heaven, spite of priest or confession!" "why, she had the assurance even to attend mass!" "no! did she? why did she not join in the communion afterwards then, i should like to know?" "and then she must play the young lady, and hold up her head as high as our betters!" "as though we were not good company enough for her!" "however, every dog has his day!" "oh, i'll make you find your tongue, and tell who it was took my husband's life!" vociferated the enraged widow, breaking out into a fresh storm, now she felt her party so strong. "you all belong to one gang; and i'm not sure but i saw you among them at the very time and place when the bloody deed was done! come, come; don't stand there shedding your crocodile tears; you are found out, and may as well leave off shamming any more. show your face, i say! you are a beauty, ain't you?" and the infuriated woman, suiting the action to the word, violently snatched the two hands of poor fleur-de-marie from the pale and grief-worn countenance they concealed, and down which tears were fast streaming. the goualeuse, sinking under a sense of shame, and terrified at finding herself thus at the mercy of her persecutors, joined her hands, and, turning towards the milk-woman her supplicating and timid looks, she said, in a gentle voice: "indeed, indeed, madam, i have been at the farm of bouqueval these last two months. how could i, then, have been witness to the dreadful misfortune you speak of? and--" the faint tones of fleur-de-marie's voice were drowned in the loud uproarious cries of the surrounding multitude. "let us take her before the mayor! she can speak; and she shall, too, to some purpose. march, march, my fine madam! on with you!" so saying, the menacing crowd pressed upon the poor girl, who, mechanically crossing her hands on her bosom, looked eagerly around, as though in search of help. "oh," cried the milk-woman, "you need not stare about in that wild way. mlle. clara is not here now to take your part. you don't slip through my fingers, i promise you!" "alas! madam," uttered fleur-de-marie, trembling violently, "i seek not to escape from you. be assured, i am both ready and willing to answer all the questions put to me, if i can be of any service to you by so doing. but what harm have i done to these people, who surround and threaten me in this manner?" "what have you done?" repeated a number of voices, "why, you have dared to stick yourself up with our betters, when we, who were worth thousands more than such as you, were made to keep our distance,--that's what you have done!" "and what right had you to cause this poor woman to be turned away with her fatherless children?" cried another. "indeed, it was no fault of mine. it was mlle. clara, who wished--" "that is not true!" interrupted the speaker. "you never even opened your mouth in her favour. no, not you? you were too well pleased to see her bread taken from her." "no, no! no more she did," chimed in a burst of voices, male and female. "she is a regular bad one!" "a poor widow-woman, with three helpless children!" "if i did not plead for her with mlle. clara, it was because i had not power to utter a word." "you could find strength enough to talk to a set of thieves and murderers!" and, as is frequently the case in public commotions, the country people, more ignorant than vicious, actually talked themselves into a fury, until their own words and violence excited them to fresh acts of rage and vengeance against their unhappy victim. the menacing throng, gesticulating, and loudly threatening, advanced closer and closer towards fleur-de-marie, while the widow appeared to have lost all command over herself. separated from the deep pond only by the parapet on which she was leaning, the goualeuse shuddered at the idea of their throwing her into the water; and, extending towards them her supplicating hands, she exclaimed: "good, kind people! what do you want with me? for pity's sake do not harm me!" and as the milk-woman, with fierce and angry gestures, kept coming nearer and nearer, holding her clenched fist almost in the face of fleur-de-marie, the poor girl, drawing herself back in terror, said, in beseeching tones: "pray, pray, do not press so closely on me, or you will cause me to fall into the water." these words suggested a cruel idea to the rough spectators. intending merely one of those practical jokes which, however diverting to the projectors, are fraught with serious harm and suffering to the unfortunate object of them, one of the most violent of the number called out, "let's give her a plunge in! duck her! duck her!" "yes, yes!" chimed several voices, accompanied with brutal laughter, and noisy clapping of hands, with other tokens of unanimous approval. "throw her in!--in with her!" "a good dip will do her good! water won't kill her!" "that will teach her not to show her face among honest people again!" "to be sure. toss her in!--fling her over!" "fortunately, the ice was broken this morning!" "and when she has had her bath she may go and tell her street companions how the folks at arnouville farm serve such vile girls as she is!" as these unfeeling speeches reached her ear, as she heard their barbarous jokes, and observed the exasperated looks of the brutally excited individuals who approached her to carry their threat into execution, fleur-de-marie gave herself over for lost. but to her first horror of a violent death succeeded a sort of gloomy satisfaction. the future wore so threatening and hopeless an aspect for her that she thanked heaven for shortening her trial. not another complaining word escaped her; but gently falling on her knees, and piously folding her hands upon her breast, she closed her eyes, and meekly resigned herself to her fate. the labourers, surprised at the attitude and mute resignation of the goualeuse, hesitated a moment in the accomplishment of their savage design; but, rallied on their folly and irresolution by the female part of the assemblage, they recommenced their uproarious cries, as though to inspire themselves with the necessary courage to complete their wicked purpose. just as two of the most furious of the party were about to seize on fleur-de-marie a loud, thrilling voice was heard, exclaiming: "stop! i command you!" and at the very instant madame georges, who had forced a passage through the crowd, reached the still kneeling goualeuse, took her in her arms, and, raising her, cried: "rise up, my child! stand up, my beloved daughter! the knee should be bent to god alone!" the expression and attitude of madame georges were so full of courageous firmness that the actors in this cruel scene shrunk back speechless and confounded. indignation coloured her usually pale features, and casting on the labourers a stern look she said to them, in a loud and threatening voice: "wretches! are you not ashamed of such brutal conduct to a helpless girl like this?" "she is--" "my daughter!" exclaimed madame georges, with severity, and abruptly interrupting the man who was about to speak, "and, as such, both cherished and protected by our worthy curé, m. l'abbé laporte, whom every one venerates and loves; and those whom he loves and esteems ought to be respected by every one!" these simple words effectually imposed silence on the crowd. the curé of bouqueval was looked upon throughout his district almost as a saint, and many there present were well aware of the interest he took in the goualeuse. still a confused murmur went on, and madame georges, fully comprehending its import, added: "suppose this poor girl were the very worst of creatures--the most abandoned of her sex--your conduct is not the less disgraceful! what offence has she committed? and what right have you to punish her?--you, who call yourselves men, to exert your strength and power against one poor, feeble, unresisting female! surely it was a cowardly action all to unite against a defenceless girl! come, marie! come, child of my heart! let us return home; there, at least, you are known, and justly appreciated." madame georges took the arm of fleur-de-marie, while the labourers, ashamed of their conduct, the impropriety of which they now perceived, respectfully dispersed. the widow alone remained; and, advancing boldly to madame georges, she said, in a resolute tone: "i don't care for a word you say; and, as for this girl, she does not quit this place until after she has deposed before the mayor as to all she knows of my poor husband's murder." "my good woman!" said madame georges, restraining herself by a violent effort, "my daughter has no deposition to make here, but, at any future period that justice may require her testimony let her be summoned, and she shall attend with myself; until then no person has a right to question her." "but, madame, i say--" madame georges prevented the milk-woman from proceeding by replying, in a severe tone: "the severe affliction you have experienced can scarcely excuse your conduct, and you will one day regret the violence you have so improperly excited. mlle. marie lives with me at the bouqueval farm; inform the judge who received your deposition of that circumstance, and say that we await his further orders." the widow, unable to argue against words so temperately and wisely spoken, seated herself on the parapet of the drinking-place, and, embracing her children, began to weep bitterly. almost immediately after this scene pierre brought the chaise, into which madame georges and fleur-de-marie mounted, to return to bouqueval. as they passed before the farmhouse of arnouville, the goualeuse perceived clara, who had hid herself behind a partly closed shutter, weeping bitterly. she was evidently watching for a last glimpse of her friend, to whom she waved her handkerchief in token of farewell. "ah, madame! what shame to me, and vexation to you, has arisen this morning from our visit to arnouville!" said fleur-de-marie to her adopted parent, when they found themselves in the sitting-room at bouqueval; "you have probably quarrelled for ever with madame dubreuil, and all on my account! oh, i foresaw something terrible was about to happen! god has justly punished me for deceiving that good lady and her daughter! i am the unfortunate cause of perpetual disunion between yourself and your friend." "my dear child, my friend is a warm-hearted, excellent woman, but rather weak; still i know her too well not to feel certain that by to-morrow she will regret her foolish violence of to-day." "alas! madame, think not that i wish to take her part in preference to yours. no, god forbid! but pardon me if i say that i fear your great kindness towards me has induced you to shut your eyes to--put yourself in the place of madame dubreuil--to be told that the companion of your darling daughter was--what i was--ah, could any one blame such natural indignation?" unfortunately madame georges could not find any satisfactory reply to this question of fleur-de-marie's, who continued with much excitement: "soon will the degrading scene of yesterday be in everybody's mouth! i fear not for myself, but who can tell how far it may affect the reputation of mlle. clara? who can answer for it that i may not have tarnished her fair fame for ever? for did she not, in the face of the assembled crowd, persist in calling me her friend--her sister? i ought to have obeyed my first impulse, and resisted the affection which attracted me towards mlle. dubreuil, and, at the risk of incurring her dislike, have refused the friendship she offered me. but i forgot the distance which separated me from her, and now, as you perceive, i am suffering the just penalty; i am punished--oh, how cruelly punished! for i have perhaps done an irreparable injury to one so virtuous and so good." "my child," said madame georges, after a brief silence, "you are wrong to accuse yourself so cruelly. 'tis true your past life has been guilty--very highly so; but are we to reckon as nothing your having, by the sincerity of your repentance, obtained the protection and favour of our excellent curé? and was it not under his auspices and mine you were introduced to madame dubreuil? and did not your own amiable qualities inspire her with the attachment she so voluntarily professed for you? was it not she herself who requested you to call clara your sister? and, finally, as i told her just now, for i neither wished nor ought to conceal the whole truth from her, how could i, certain as i felt of your sincere repentance--how could i, by divulging the past, render your attempts to reinstate yourself more painful and difficult, perhaps impossible, by throwing you, in despair of being again received by the good and virtuous, back upon the scorn and derision of those who, equally guilty, equally unfortunate as you have been, would not perhaps like you have preserved the secret instinct of honour and virtue? the disclosure made by the woman to-day is alike to be lamented and feared; but could i, in anticipation of an almost impossible casualty, sacrifice your present comfort and future repose?" "ah, madame, a convincing proof of the false and miserable position i must ever hold may be found in the fact of your being obliged to conceal the past; and that the mother of clara despises me for that past; views me in the same contemptuous light all will henceforward behold me, for the scene at the farm of arnouville will be quickly spread abroad,--every one will hear of it! oh, i shall die with shame! never again can i meet the looks of any human being!" "not even mine, my child?" said madame georges, bursting into tears, and opening her arms to fleur-de-marie, "you will never find in my heart any other feeling than the devoted tenderness of a mother. courage, then, dear marie! console yourself with the knowledge of your hearty and sincere repentance; you are here surrounded with true and affectionate friends, let this home be your world. we will anticipate the exposure you dread so much; our worthy abbé shall assemble the people about the farm, who all regard you with love and respect, and he shall tell them the sad history of your past life; and, trust me, my child, told as the tale would be by him, whose word is law here, such a disclosure will but serve to increase the interest all take in your welfare." "i would fain think so, dear madame, and i submit myself. yesterday, when we were conversing together, m. le curé predicted to me that i should be called upon painfully to expiate my past offences; i ought not, therefore, to be astonished at their commencement. he told me also that my earthly trials would be accepted as some atonement for the great wrong i have done; i would fain hope so. supported through these painful ordeals by you and my venerable pastor, i will not--i ought not to complain." "you will go to his presence ere long, and never will his counsels have been more valuable to you. it is already half-past four; prepare yourself for your visit to the rectory, my child. i shall employ myself in writing to m. rodolph an account of what occurred at the farm at arnouville, and send my letter off by express; i will then join you at our venerable abbé's, for it is most important we should talk over matters together." shortly after the goualeuse quitted the farm in order to repair to the rectory by the hollow road, where the old woman, the schoolmaster, and tortillard had agreed to meet. * * * * * as may have been perceived in her conversations with madame georges and the curé of bouqueval, fleur-de-marie had so nobly profited by the example of her benefactors, so assimilated herself with their principles, that, remembering her past degradation, she daily became more hopeless of recovering the place she had lost in society. as her mind expanded so did her fine and noble instincts arrive at mature growth, and bring forth worthy fruits in the midst of the atmosphere of honour and purity in which she lived. had she possessed a less exalted mind, a less exquisite sensibility, or an imagination of weaker quality, fleur-de-marie might easily have been comforted and consoled; but, unfortunately, not a single day passed in which she did not recall, and almost live over again, with an agony of horror and disgust, the disgraceful miseries of her past life. let the reader figure to himself a young creature of sixteen, candid and pure, and rejoicing in that very candour and purity, thrown, by frightful circumstances, into the infamous den of the ogress, and irrecoverably subjected to the dominion of such a fiend,--such was the reaction of the past on the present on fleur-de-marie's mind. let us still further display the resentful retrospect, or, rather, the moral agony with which the goualeuse suffered so excruciatingly, by saying that she regretted, more frequently than she had courage to own to the curé, the not having perished in the midst of the slough of wickedness by which she was encompassed. however little a person may reflect, or however limited his knowledge of life may be, he will not refuse to assent to our remarks touching the commiseration which such a case as fleur-de-marie's fully called for. she was deserving of both interest and pity, not only because she had never known what it was to have her affections fairly roused, but because all her senses were torpid, and as yet unawakened by noble impulses--untaught, unaided, unadvised. is it not wonderful that this unfortunate girl, thrown at the tender age of sixteen years in the midst of the herd of savage and demoralised beings who infest the cité, should have viewed her degrading position with horror and disgust, and have escaped from the sink of iniquity morally pure and free from sin? chapter x. the hollow way. the sun was descending, and the fields were silent and deserted. fleur-de-marie had reached the entrance to the hollow way, which it was necessary to cross in her walk to the rectory, when she saw a little lame lad, dressed in a gray blouse and blue cap, come out of the ravine. he appeared in tears, and directly he saw the goualeuse he ran towards her. "oh, good lady, have pity on me, i pray!" he exclaimed, clasping his hands with a supplicating look. "what do you want? what is the matter with you, my poor boy?" said the goualeuse, with an air of interest. "alas, good lady! my poor grandmother, who is very, very old, has fallen down in trying to climb up the ravine, and hurt herself very much. i am afraid she has broken her leg, and i am too weak to lift her up myself. _mon dieu!_ what shall i do if you will not come and help me? perhaps my poor grandmother will die!" the goualeuse, touched with the grief of the little cripple, replied: "i am not very strong myself, my child; but perhaps i can help you to assist your poor grandmother. let us go to her as quickly as we can! i live at the farm close by here; and, if the poor old woman cannot walk there with us, i will send somebody to help her!" "oh, good lady, _le bon dieu_ will bless you for your kindness! it is close by here--not two steps down this hollow way, as i told you. it was in going down the slope that she fell." "you do not belong to this part of the country?" said the goualeuse, inquiringly following tortillard, whom our readers have, no doubt, recognised. "no, good lady, we came from ecouen." "and where are you going?" "to a good clergyman's, who lives on the hill out there," said bras rouge's son, to increase fleur-de-marie's confidence. "to the abbé laport's, perhaps?" "yes, good lady; to the abbé laport's. my poor grandmother knows him very, very well." "and i was going there also. how strange that we should meet," said fleur-de-marie, advancing still farther into the hollow way. "grandmamma, i'm coming, i'm coming! take courage, and i will bring you help!" cried tortillard, to forewarn the schoolmaster and the chouette to prepare themselves to lay hands on their victim. "your grandmother, then, did not fall down far off from here?" inquired the goualeuse. "no, good lady; behind that large tree there, where the road turns, about twenty paces from here." suddenly tortillard stopped. the noise of a horse galloping was heard in the silence of the place. "all is lost again!" said tortillard to himself. the road made a very sudden bend a few yards from the spot where bras rouge's son was with the goualeuse. a horseman appeared at the angle, and when he came nigh to the young girl he stopped. and then was heard the trot of another horse; and some moments after there followed a groom in a brown coat with silver buttons, white leather breeches, and top-boots. a leathern belt secured around his waist his master's macintosh. his master was dressed simply in a stout brown frock-coat, and a pair of light gray trousers, which fitted closely. he was mounted on a thoroughbred and splendid bay horse, which he sat admirably, and which, in spite of the fast gallop, had not a bead of sweat on his skin, which was as bright and brilliant as a star. the groom's gray horse, which stood motionless a few paces behind his master, was also well-bred and perfect of his kind. in the handsome dark face of the gentleman tortillard recognised the vicomte de saint-rémy, who was supposed to be the lover of the duchesse de lucenay. "my pretty lass," said the viscount to the goualeuse, whose lovely countenance struck him, "would you be so obliging as to tell me the way to the village of arnouville?" fleur-de-marie's eyes sunk before the bold and admiring look of the young man, as she replied: "on leaving the sunken road, sir, you must take the first turning to the right, and that path will lead you to an avenue of cherry-trees, which is the straight road to arnouville." "a thousand thanks, my pretty lass! you tell me better than an old woman, whom i found a few yards further on stretched under a tree, for i could only get groans and moans out of her." "my poor grandmother!" said tortillard, in a whining tone. "one word more," said m. de saint-rémy, addressing la goualeuse. "can you tell me if i shall easily find m. dubreuil's farm at arnouville?" goualeuse could not prevent a shudder at these words, which recalled to her the painful scene of the morning. she replied: "the farm-buildings border the avenue which you must enter to reach arnouville, sir." "once more, many thanks, my pretty dear," said m. de saint-rémy; and he galloped off with his groom. the handsome features of the viscount were in full animation whilst he was talking to fleur-de-marie, but when he was again alone they became darkened and contracted by painful uneasiness. fleur-de-marie, remembering the unknown person for whom they were so hastily preparing a pavilion at the farm of arnouville by madame de lucenay's orders, felt convinced it was for this young and good-looking cavalier. the sound of the horses' feet as they galloped on was heard for some time on the hard and frozen ground, and by degrees grew fainter, then were no longer heard, and all was once more hushed in silence. tortillard breathed again. desirous of encouraging and warning his accomplices, one of whom, the schoolmaster, was concealed from the horsemen, bras rouge's son called out: "granny! granny! here i am! with the good lady who is coming to help you!" "quick, quick, my boy! the gentleman on horseback has made us lose some time," said the goualeuse, walking at a quicker pace, that she might reach the turning into the hollow way. she had scarcely entered it when the chouette, who was hidden there, exclaimed: "now then, _fourline_!" then springing upon the goualeuse, the one-eyed hag seized her by the neck with one hand, whilst with the other she pressed her mouth; and tortillard, throwing himself at the young girl's feet, clung round her legs, that she might not be able to stir. this took place so rapidly that the chouette had no time to examine the goualeuse's features; but during the few instants it required for the schoolmaster to quit the hole in which he was ensconced, to grope his way along with his cloak, the beldame recognised her old victim. "la pegriotte!" she exclaimed, in great surprise. then adding with savage delight, "what, is it you? ah, the baker (the devil) sends you! it is your fate, then, to fall into my clutches! i have my vitriol in the _fiacre_ now, and your white skin shall have a touch, miss; for it makes me sick to see your fine lady countenance. come, my man, mind she don't bite; and hold her tight whilst we bundle her up." the schoolmaster seized the goualeuse in his two powerful hands, and before she could utter a cry the chouette threw the cloak over her head, and wrapped her up in it, tightly and securely. in a moment, fleur-de-marie, tied and enveloped, was without any power to move or call for assistance. "now take up your parcel, _fourline_," said the chouette. "he, he, he! this is not such a load as the 'black peter' of the woman who was drowned in the canal of st. martin---is it, my man?" and as the brigand shuddered at these words, which reminded him of his fearful vision, the one-eyed hag resumed, "well, well, what ails you, _fourline_? why, you seem frozen! ever since the morning your teeth chatter as if you had the ague; and you look in the air as if you were looking for something there!" "vile impostor! he is looking to see the flies," said tortillard. "come, quick! haste forward, my man! up with pegriotte! that's it!" said the chouette, as she saw the ruffian lift fleur-de-marie in his arms as he would carry a sleeping infant. "quick to the coach! quick,--quick!" "but who will lead me?" inquired the schoolmaster, in a hoarse voice, and securing his light and flexible burden in his herculean arms. "old wise head!--he thinks of every thing!" said the chouette. then, lifting aside her shawl, she unfastened a red pocket-handkerchief which covered her skinny neck, and, twisting it into its length, said to the schoolmaster: "open your ivories, and take the end of this 'wipe' between them. hold tight! tortillard will take the other end in his hand, and you have nothing to do but to follow him. the good blind man requires a good dog! here, brat!" the cripple cut a caper, and made a sort of low and odd barking. then, taking the other end of the handkerchief in his hand, he led the schoolmaster in this way, whilst the chouette hastened forward to apprise barbillon. we have not attempted to paint fleur-de-marie's terror when she found herself in the power of the chouette and the schoolmaster. she felt all her strength leave her, and could not offer the slightest resistance. some minutes afterwards the goualeuse was lifted into the _fiacre_ which barbillon drove, and although it was night they closed the window-blinds carefully; and the three accomplices went, with their almost expiring victim, towards the plain of st. denis, where thomas seyton awaited them. chapter xi. clÉmence d'harville. the reader will kindly excuse our having left one of our heroines in a most critical situation, the _dénouement_ of which we shall state hereafter. it will be remembered that rodolph had preserved madame d'harville from an imminent danger, occasioned by the jealousy of sarah, who had acquainted m. d'harville with the assignation clémence had so imprudently granted to m. charles robert. deeply affected with the scene he had witnessed, the prince returned directly home after quitting the rue du temple, putting off till the next day the visit he purposed paying to mlle. rigolette and the distressed family of the unfortunate artisan, of whom we have spoken, believing them out of the reach of present want, thanks to the money he had given madame d'harville to convey to them, in order that her pretended charitable visit to the house might assume a more convincing appearance in the eyes of her husband. unfortunately, rodolph was ignorant of tortillard's having possessed himself of the purse, although the reader has already been told how the artful young thief contrived to effect the barefaced cheat. about four o'clock the prince received the following letter, which was brought by an old woman, who went away the instant she had delivered it without awaiting any answer. "my lord: "i owe you more than life; and i would fain express my heartfelt gratitude for the invaluable service you have rendered me to-day. to-morrow shame would, perhaps, close my lips. if your royal highness will honour me with a call this evening, you will finish the day as you began it--by a generous action. "d'orbigny d'harville. "p.s. do not, my lord, take the trouble to write an answer. i shall be at home all the evening." however rejoiced rodolph felt at having been the happy instrument of good to madame d'harville, he yet could not help regretting the sort of a forced intimacy which this circumstance all at once established between himself and the marquise. deeply struck with the graceful vivacity and extreme beauty of clémence, yet wholly incapable of infringing upon the friendship which existed between himself and the marquis, rodolph, directly he became aware of the passion which was springing up in his heart for the wife of his friend, almost denied himself (after having previously devoted a whole month to the most assiduous attentions) the pleasure of beholding her. and now, too, he recollected with much emotion the conversation he had overheard at the embassy between tom and sarah, when the latter, by way of accounting for her hatred and jealousy, had affirmed, and not without truth, that madame d'harville still felt, even unknown to herself, a serious affection for rodolph. sarah was too acute, too penetrating, too well versed in the knowledge of the human heart, not to be well aware that clémence, believing herself scorned by a man who had made so deep an impression on her heart, and yielding, from the effects of her irritated feelings, to the importunities of a perfidious friend, might be induced to interest herself in the imaginary woes of m. charles robert, without, consequently, forgetting rodolph. other women, faithful to the memory of a man they had once distinguished, would have remained indifferent to the melancholy looks of the commandant. clémence d'harville was therefore doubly blamable, although she had only yielded to the seduction of unhappiness, and, fortunately for her, had been preserved alike by a keen sense of duty and the remembrance of the prince (which still lurked in her heart, and kept faithful watch over it) from the commission of an irreparable fault. a thousand contradictory emotions disturbed the mind of rodolph, as he thought of his interview with madame d'harville. firmly resolved to resist the predilection which attracted him to her society, sometimes he congratulated himself on being able to cast off his love for her by the recollection of her having entangled herself with such a being as charles robert; and the next instant he bitterly deplored seeing the flattering veil with which he had invested his idol fall to the ground. * * * * * clémence d'harville, on her part, awaited the approaching interview with much anxiety; but the two prevailing sentiments which pervaded her breast were painful confusion, when she remembered the interference of rodolph, and a fixed aversion when she thought of m. charles robert, and many reasons were concerned in this feeling of dislike almost approaching hatred itself. a woman will risk her honour or her life for a man, but she will never pardon him for having placed her in a mortifying or a ridiculous situation. madame d'harville felt her cheeks flush, and her pulse beat rapidly as she indignantly recalled the insulting looks and impertinent remarks of madame pipelet. nor was this all. after receiving from rodolph an intimation of the danger she was incurring, clémence had proceeded rapidly towards the fifth floor, as directed, but the position of the staircase was such that, as she hurried on, she perceived m. charles robert in his dazzling _robe de chambre_, at the very instant when, recognising the light step of the woman he expected, he, with a self-satisfied, confident, and triumphant look, set the door of his apartment half open. the air of insolent familiarity, expressed by the _negligée_ toilet he had assumed, quickly enabled the marquise to perceive how entirely she had been mistaken in his character. led away by the kindness and goodness of her heart, and the generosity of her disposition, to take a step which might for ever destroy her reputation, she had accorded this meeting, not from love, but solely from commiseration, in order to console him for the ridiculous part the bad taste of the duke de lucenay had made him play before her at the embassy. words can ill describe the disgust and vexation with which madame d'harville beheld the slipshod _déshabillé_ of the commandant, implying as it did his opinion how completely her ill-judged condescension had broken down the barriers of etiquette, and led him to consider no further respect towards her necessary. the timepiece in the small salon which madame d'harville ordinarily occupied struck nine o'clock. dressmakers and tavern-keepers have so much abused the style of louis xv. and the renaissance, that the marquise, a woman of infinite taste, had excluded from her apartments this description of ornament, now become so vulgarised, and confined it to that part of the hôtel devoted to the reception of visitors and grand entertainments. nothing could be more elegant or more _distingué_ than the fitting-up of the salon in which the marquise awaited rodolph. the colour of the walls as well as the curtains (which, without either valances or draperies, were of indian texture) was bright straw colour, on which were embroidered, in a darker shade, in unwrought silk, arabesques of the most beautiful designs and whimsical devices. double curtains of point d'alençon entirely concealed the windows. the rosewood doors were set off with gold mouldings, most beautifully carved, surrounding in each panel an oval medallion of sèvres china, nearly a foot in diameter, representing a numberless variety of birds and flowers of surpassing brilliancy and beauty. the frames of the looking-glasses and the cornices of the curtains were also of rosewood, ornamented with similar raised work of silver gilt. the white marble mantelpiece, with its supporting caryatides of antique beauty and exquisite grace, was from the chisel of the proud and imperious marochetti, that great artist having consented to sculpture this delicious _chef-d'oeuvre_ in imitation of benvenuto cellini, who disdained not to model ewers and armour. two candelabras, and two candlesticks of vermeil, forming groups of small figures beautifully executed, stood on either side of the timepiece, which was formed of a square block of lapis lazuli raised on a pedestal of oriental jasper, and surmounted with a large and magnificently enamelled golden cup, richly studded with rubies and pearls, once the property of the florentine republic. several excellent pictures of the venetian school, of middle size, completed this assemblage of elegance and refined taste. thanks to a most charming invention but recently introduced, this splendid yet simple apartment was lighted only by the soft rays of a lamp, the unground surface of whose crystal globe was half hid among a mass of real flowers, contained in an immensely large and deep blue and gold japan cup, suspended from the ceiling like a lustre by three chains of vermeil, around which were entwined the green stalks of several climbing plants; while some of the flexible branches, thickly laden with flowers, overhanging the edge of the cup and hanging gracefully down, formed a waving fringe of fresh verdure, beautifully contrasting with the blue and gold enamel of the purple porcelain. we have been thus precise in these details, trifling as they may seem, in order to give some idea of the exquisite taste possessed by madame d'harville (the almost invariable companion of an elevated mind), and also because misfortunes always strike us as more poignantly cruel when they insinuate themselves into abodes like this, the favoured possessors of which seem gifted by providence with everything to make life happy and enviable. buried in the downy softness of a large armchair, totally covered by the same straw-coloured indian silk as formed the rest of the hangings, clémence d'harville sat, awaiting the arrival of rodolph. her hair was arranged in the most simple manner. she wore a high dress of black velvet, which well displayed the beauty and admirable workmanship of her large collar and cuffs of english lace, which prevented the extreme black of the velvet from contrasting too harshly with the dazzling whiteness of her throat and hands. in proportion as the hour approached for her interview with rodolph, the emotion of the marquise increased; but by degrees her embarrassment ceased, and firmer resolves took possession of her mind. after a long and mature reflection she came to the determination of confiding to rodolph a great, a cruel secret, hoping by her frankness to win back that esteem she now so highly prized. awakened by gratitude, her pristine admiration of rodolph returned with fresh force; one of those secret whispers, which rarely deceives the heart that loves, told her that chance alone had not brought the prince so opportunely to her succour, and that his studied avoidance of her society during the last few months had originated in anything but indifference. a vague suspicion also arose in her mind as to the reality and sincerity of the affection sarah professed for her. while deeply meditating on all these things, a _valet de chambre_, having first gently tapped at the door, entered, saying: "will it please you, my lady, to see madame ashton and my young lady?" madame d'harville made an affirmative gesture of assent, and a little girl slowly entered the room. the child was about four years old, and her countenance would have been a very charming one but for its sickly pallor and extreme meagreness. madame ashton, the governess, held her by the hand, but, directly claire (that was the name of the little girl) saw her mother, she opened her arms, and, spite of her feebleness, ran towards her. her light brown hair was plaited, and tied at each side of her forehead with bows of cherry-coloured riband. her health was so delicate that she wore a wrapping-dress of dark brown silk instead of one of those pretty little white muslin frocks trimmed with ribands of a similar colour as those in the hair, and well cut over the bosom to show the plump, pinky arms, and smooth, fair shoulders, so lovely in healthy children. so sunken were the cheeks of poor claire that her large dark eyes looked quite enormous. but, spite of every appearance of weakness, a sweet and gentle smile lit up her small features when she was placed on the lap of her mother, whom she kissed and embraced with intense yet mournful affection. "how has she been of late, madame ashton?" inquired madame d'harville of the governess. "tolerably well, madame; although at one time i feared." "again!" cried clémence, pressing her daughter to her heart with a movement of involuntary horror. "fortunately, madame, i was mistaken," said the governess, "and the whole passed away without any further alarm; mademoiselle claire became composed, and merely suffered from a momentary feeling of weakness. she has not slept much this afternoon, but i could not coax her to bed without allowing her the pleasure of paying a visit to you." "dear little angel!" cried madame d'harville, covering her daughter with kisses. the interesting child repaid her mother's caresses with infantine delight, when the groom of the chambers entered and announced: "his royal highness the grand duke of gerolstein." claire, standing on her mother's lap, had thrown her arms about her neck, and was clasping her with all the force of which her tiny arms were capable. at the sight of rodolph, clémence blushed deeply, set her child gently down on the carpet, and signed to madame ashton to take her away; she then rose to receive her guest. "you must give me leave," said rodolph, smilingly, after having respectfully bowed to the marquise, "to renew my acquaintance with my little friend here, who i fear has almost forgotten me." and, stooping down a little, he extended his hand to claire, who, first gazing at him with her large eyes, curiously scrutinised his features, then, recognising him, she made a gentle inclination of the head, and blew him a kiss from the tips of her small, thin fingers. "you remember my lord, then, my child?" asked clémence of little claire, who gave an assenting nod, and kissed her hand to rodolph a second time. "her health appears to me much improved since i last saw her," said he, addressing himself with unfeigned interest to clémence. "thank heaven, my lord, she is better, though still sadly delicate and suffering." the marquise and the prince, mutually embarrassed at the thoughts of the approaching interview, would have been equally glad to defer its commencement, through the medium of claire's presence; but, the discreet madame ashton having taken her away, rodolph and clémence were left quite alone. [illustration: "_you must give me leave_" original etching by l. poiteau] the armchair in which madame d'harville was reclining stood on the right hand of the chimney, and rodolph remained without attempting to seat himself, gracefully leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece. never had clémence been so strongly impressed with admiration at the noble and prepossessing appearance of the prince; never had his voice sounded more gentle or sweet upon her ear. fully understanding how painful it must be to the marquise to open the conversation, rodolph at once proceeded to the main point by observing: "you have been, madame, the victim of a base and treacherous action. a cowardly and dishonourable disclosure on the part of the countess macgregor has well-nigh effected irremediable mischief." "is it, indeed, so?" exclaimed clémence, painfully surprised; "then my presentiments were not ill-founded! and by what means did your royal highness discover this?" "last night, at the ball given by the countess c----, i discovered this infamous secret. i was sitting in a lone part of the 'winter garden,' when countess sarah and her brother, unconscious that a mass of verdure alone concealed me from them, while it enabled me to hear each word they spoke, began conversing freely upon their own projects, and the snare they had spread for you. anxious to warn you of the danger with which you were threatened, i hastened to madame de nerval's ball, hoping to meet you there, but you did not appear. to write and direct my letter here was to incur the risk of its falling into the hands of the marquis, whose suspicions were already aroused by your treacherous friend; and i therefore preferred awaiting your arrival in the rue du temple, that i might unfold to you the perfidy of countess macgregor. let me hope you will pardon my thus long dwelling on a subject which must be so painful to you. and, but for the few lines you were kind enough to write, never would my lips have in any way reverted to it." after a momentary silence, madame d'harville said to rodolph: "there is but one way, my lord, in which i can prove to you my gratitude for your late generous conduct. it is to confess to you that which i have never revealed to a human being. what i have to say will not exculpate me in your estimation, but it will, perhaps, enable you to make some allowances for my imprudence." "candidly speaking, madame," said rodolph, smiling, "my position as regards you is a very embarrassing one." clémence, astonished at the almost jesting tone in which he spoke, looked at rodolph with extreme surprise, while she said, "how so, my lord?" "thanks to a circumstance you are doubtless acquainted with, i am obliged to assume the grave airs of a mentor touching an incident which, since you have so happily escaped the vile snare laid for you by countess sarah, scarcely merits being treated with so much importance. but," continued rodolph with a slight shade of gentle and affectionate earnestness, "your husband and myself are almost as brothers; and, before our time, our fathers had vowed the sincerest friendship for each other. i have, therefore, a double motive in most warmly congratulating you on having secured the peace and happiness of your husband!" "and it is from my knowledge of the high regard and esteem with which you honour m. d'harville, that i have determined upon revealing the whole truth, as well as to explain myself relative to an interest which must appear to you as ill-chosen and unworthy as it now seems to me. i wish also to clear up that part of my conduct which bears an injurious appearance against the tranquillity and honour of him your highness styles 'almost a brother.'" "believe me, madame, i shall at all times be most proud and happy to receive the smallest proof of your confidence. yet permit me to say, as regards the interest you speak of, that i am perfectly aware it originated as much in sincere pity as from the constant importunities of countess sarah macgregor, who had her own reasons for seeking to injure you. and i also know equally well that you long hesitated ere you could make up your mind to take the step you now so much regret." clémence looked at the prince with surprise. "you seem astonished. well, that you may not fancy i dabble in witchcraft, some of these days i will tell you all about it," said rodolph, smiling. "but your husband is perfectly tranquillised, is he not?" "yes, my lord," said clémence, looking down in much confusion; "and it is most painful to me to hear him asking my pardon for having ever suspected me, and then eulogising my modest silence respecting my good deeds." "nay, do not chide an illusion which renders him so happy. on the contrary, endeavour to maintain the innocent deception. were it not forbidden to treat your late adventure lightly, and had not you, madame, been so much involved in it, i would say that a woman never appears more charming in the eyes of her husband than when she has some fault to conceal. it is inconceivable how many little cajoleries, and what winning smiles, are employed to ease a troubled conscience. when i was young," added rodolph, smiling, "i always, in spite of myself, mistrusted any unusual marks of tenderness. and, by the same rule, i can say of myself, that i never felt more disposed to appear in an amiable light than when i was conscious of requiring forgiveness. so, directly i perceived a more than ordinary anxiety to please and gratify me, i was very sure (judging by my own conduct) to ascribe it to some little peccadillo that needed overlooking and pardoning." the light tone with which rodolph continued to discuss an affair which might have been attended with circumstances so fearful, at first excited madame d'harville's wonder; but she quickly perceived that the prince, beneath his outward appearance of trifling, sought to conceal, or at least lessen, the importance of the service he had rendered her. and, profoundly touched with his delicacy, she said: "i comprehend your generous meaning, my lord; and you are fully at liberty to jest and forget as much as you like the peril from which you have preserved me. but that which i have to relate to you is of so grave, so serious, and mournful a nature, is so closely connected with the events of this morning, and your advice may so greatly benefit me, that i beseech you to remember that to you i owe both my honour and my life: yes, my lord, my life! my husband was armed; and he has owned, in the excess of his repentance, that it was his intention to have killed me, had his suspicions proved correct." "great god!" exclaimed rodolph with emotion. "and he would have been justified in so doing," rejoined madame d'harville, bitterly. "i beseech you, madame," said rodolph,--and this time he spoke with deep seriousness,--"i beseech you to be assured i am incapable of being careless or indifferent to any matter in which you are concerned. if i seemed but now to jest, it was but to make you think less of a circumstance which has already occasioned you so much pain. but now, madame, you may command my most solemn attention. since you honour me by saying my advice may be useful, i listen most anxiously and eagerly." "you can, indeed, counsel me most beneficially, my lord. but, before i explain to you my reasons for seeking your aid, i must say a few words concerning a period of which you are ignorant,--i mean the years which preceded my marriage with m. d'harville." rodolph bowed, and clémence continued: "at sixteen years of age i lost my mother (and here a tear stole down the fair cheek of madame d'harville). i cannot attempt to describe how much i adored that beloved parent. imagine, my lord, the very personification of all earthly goodness. her fondness for me was excessive, and appeared her only consolation amid the many bitter sorrows she had to endure. caring but little for what is styled the world, with delicate health, and a natural predilection for sedentary occupation, her great delight had been in attending solely to my education, and her ample store of solid and varied knowledge well fitted her for the task. conceive, my lord, her astonishment and mine when, in my sixteenth year, my dear preceptress considered my education nearly completed, my father--making the feeble health of my mother a pretext--announced to us that a young and accomplished widow, whose misfortunes rendered her justly interesting, would henceforth be charged with finishing what my dear parent had begun. my mother at first resolutely refused obedience to my father's command, while i in vain besought him not to interpose a stranger's authority between myself and my beloved mother. he was inexorable alike to our tears and prayers, and madame roland, who stated herself to be the widow of a colonel who had died in india, came to take up her abode with us, in the character of governess to myself." "what! the same madame roland your father married almost immediately after the death of your mother?" "the same, my lord." "was she, then, very beautiful?" "tolerably so,--nothing more." "clever,--witty, perhaps?" "she was a clever dissembler,--a skilful manoeuvrer; her talent went no higher. she might be about five and twenty years of age, with extremely light hair and nearly white eyelashes; her eyes were large, round, and a clear blue; the expression of her countenance was humble and gentle; and while her outward manner was attentive, even to servility, her real disposition was as perfidious as it was unfeeling." "and what were her acquirements?" "positively none at all, my lord; and i cannot conceive how my father, who until then had been so completely a slave to the dictates of worldly propriety, did not reflect that the utter incapacity of this woman must shamefully proclaim the real cause of her being in the house. my mother earnestly pointed out to him the extreme ignorance of madame roland; he, however, merely replied, in a tone which admitted of no further argument, that, competent or otherwise, the young and interesting widow should retain the situation in his establishment in which he had placed her. this i heard subsequently. from that instant my poor mother comprehended the whole affair, over which she deeply grieved; regretting less, i fancy, her husband's infidelity than the domestic unhappiness which would result from so indecorous a _liaison_, the account of which she feared might reach my ears." "but, even so far as his foolish passion was concerned, it seems to me that your father acted very unwisely in introducing this woman into his house." "and you would be still more at a loss to understand his conduct if you had but known the extreme formality and circumspection of his character. nothing could ever have induced him thus to trample under foot all the established rules of society but the unbounded influence of madame roland,--an influence she exercised with so much the more certainty as she veiled her designs under the mask of the most passionate love for him." "but what was your father's age then?" "about sixty." "and he really credited the professions of love made by so much younger a woman?" "my father had been in his time one of the most fashionable and admired men of the day. and madame roland, either following the suggestions of her own artful mind or urged on by the counsels of others, who could countenance much more--" "counsel such a person!" "i will tell you, my lord. imagining that a man whose reputation for gallantry had always stood high in the world would, as he advanced in years, be more easily delighted than another by being flattered upon his personal advantages, and more credulously receive such compliments as served to recall those days most soothing to his vanity to remember, well, my lord, incredible as it may appear, this woman began to flatter my poor misguided father upon the graceful _tournure_ of his features and the inimitable elegance of his shape. and he in his sixtieth year! strange as you may consider it, spite of the excellent sense with which my father was endowed, he fell blindly into the snare, coarse and vulgar as it was. such was--such still is, i doubt not--the secret of the unbounded influence this woman obtained over him. and really, my lord, spite of my present disinclination for mirth, i can scarcely restrain a smile at the recollection of having frequently, before my marriage, heard madame roland assert and maintain that what she styled real maturity was the finest portion of a person's existence, and that this maturity never began until about the fifty-fifth or sixtieth year of one's age." "i suppose that happened to be your father's age?" "precisely so, my lord! then, and then only, according to madame roland, had the understanding, combined with experience, attained their full development; then only could a man, occupying a distinguished position in the world, enjoy the consideration to which he was entitled; at that period only were the _tout ensemble_ of his countenance, and the exquisite grace of his manners, in their highest perfection; the physiognomy offering at this delightful epoch of a man's life a heavenly mixture of winning serenity and gentle gravity. then the slight tinge of melancholy, caused by the many recollections of the past deceit experience is fain to look back upon, completes the irresistible charm of real maturity; unappreciable (madame roland hastily added) except by women with head and heart sufficiently good to despise the youthful frivolity of a poor, inexperienced forty years, when the character and countenance can scarcely be called formed, and when good taste turns away from the boyish folly of such an immature season of life, and seeks the fine, majestic features impressed with the sublime and poetic expression resulting from a sixty years' study of the vast book of human existence." rodolph could not restrain smiling at the powerful irony with which madame d'harville sketched the portrait of her mother-in-law. "there is one thing," said he to the marquise, "for which i cannot forgive ridiculous people." "what is that, my lord?" "the being also wicked; which prevents our being able to laugh at them as much as they deserve." "they probably calculate upon that available advantage," replied clémence. "indeed, it is very probable, though equally lamentable, for, if it were not for the recollection of all the pain madame roland has occasioned you, i could be highly diverted with her system of real maturity as opposed to the insipidity of mere boys of only forty years of age, who, according to her assertion, would be scarcely out of their leading-strings, as our grandfathers and grandmothers would say." "what principally excited my aversion for her was the shamefulness of her conduct towards my dear mother, and the unfortunately over-zealous part she took in my marriage," said the marquise, after a moment's pause. rodolph looked at her with much surprise. "nay, my lord," said clémence, in a firm, though gentle tone, "i well remember that m. d'harville is your friend and my husband. i know perfectly the grave importance of the words i have just uttered: hereafter you yourself shall admit the justice of them. but to return to madame roland, who was now, spite of her acknowledged incapacity, established as my instructress: my mother had a long and most painful altercation with my father on the subject, which drew down on us his extreme displeasure, and from that period my mother and myself remained secluded in our apartments, while madame roland, in quality of my governess, directed the whole household, and almost publicly did the honours of the mansion." "what must your mother have suffered!" "she did, indeed, my lord; but her sorrow was less for herself than me, whose future destiny might be so deeply affected by the introduction of this woman. her health, always delicate, became daily weaker, and she fell seriously ill. it chanced, most unfortunately, that our family doctor, m. sorbier, in whom she had the highest confidence, died about this period, to my mother's extreme regret. madame roland immediately urged my father to place my mother's case in the hands of an italian doctor, a particular friend of her own, and whom she described as possessing a more than ordinary skill in the treatment of diseases. thanks to her importunities, my father, who had himself consulted him in trifling maladies, and found no cause to be dissatisfied, proposed him to my mother, who, alas, raised no objection. and this man it was who attended upon her during her last illness." tears filled the eyes of madame d'harville as she uttered these words. "i am ashamed to confess my weakness, my lord," added she; "but, for the simple reason of this doctor having been appointed at the suggestion of madame roland, he inspired me (and at that time without any cause) with the most involuntary repugnance, and it was with the most painful misgivings i saw him established in my mother's confidence. still, as regarded his knowledge of his profession, doctor polidori--" "what do i hear?" exclaimed rodolph. "are you indisposed, my lord?" inquired clémence, struck with the sudden expression the prince's countenance had assumed. "no, no!" said rodolph, as though unconscious of the presence of madame d'harville, "no, i must be mistaken. five or six years must have elapsed since all this occurred, while i am informed that it is not more than two years since polidori came to paris, and then under a feigned name. he it was i saw yesterday,--i am sure of it,--the quack dentist bradamanti and polidori are one and the same. still, 'tis singular; two doctors of the same name,[ ]--what a strange rencontre!" [ ] we must remind the reader that polidori was a doctor of some eminence when he undertook the education of rodolph. "madame," said rodolph, turning to madame d'harville, whose astonishment at his preoccupation still increased, "we will, if you please, compare notes as to this italian. what age was he?" "about fifty." "and his appearance,--his countenance?" "most sinister. never shall i forget his clear, piercing, green eye, and his nose curved like the bill of an eagle." "'tis he,--'tis he himself!" exclaimed rodolph. "and do you think, madame, that the doctor polidori you were describing is still in paris?" "that i cannot tell you, my lord. he quitted paris about a year after my father's marriage. a lady of my acquaintance, who at this period also employed the italian as her medical adviser--this lady, madame de lucenay--" "the duchess de lucenay?" interrupted rodolph. "yes, my lord. but why this surprise?" "permit me to be silent on that subject. but, at the time of which you speak, what did madame de lucenay tell you of this man?" "she said that he travelled much after quitting paris, and that she often received from him very clever and amusing letters, descriptive of the various places he visited. now i recollect that, about a month ago, happening to ask madame de lucenay whether she had heard lately from m. polidori, she replied, with an embarrassed manner, 'that nothing had been heard of or concerning him for some time; that no one knew what had become of him; and that by many he was supposed to be dead.'" "strange, indeed," said rodolph, recalling the recent visit of madame de lucenay to the charlatan bradamanti. "you know this man, then, my lord?" "unfortunately for myself, i do; but let me beseech you to continue your recital; hereafter i will give you an insight into the history of this polidori." "do you mean the doctor?" "say, rather, the wretch stained with the most atrocious crimes." "crimes!" cried madame d'harville, in alarm; "can it be possible, the man whom madame roland so highly extolled, and into whose hands my poor mother was delivered, was guilty of crimes? alas, my dear parent lingered but a very short time after she passed into his care! ah, my lord, my presentiments have not deceived me!" "your presentiments?" "oh, yes! i was telling you just now of the invincible antipathy i felt for this man from the circumstance of his having been introduced among us by madame roland; but i did not tell you all, my lord." "how so?" "i was fearful lest the bitterness of my own griefs should make me guilty of injustice towards an innocent person; but now, my lord, you shall know everything. my mother had lain dangerously ill about five days; i had always watched beside her, night as well as day. one evening, that i felt much oppressed with confinement and fatigue, i went to breathe the fresh air on the terrace of the garden: after remaining about a quarter of an hour, i was returning by a long and obscure gallery; by a faint light which streamed from the apartment of madame roland i saw m. polidori quit the room, accompanied by the mistress of the chamber. being in the shadow, they did not perceive me; madame roland spoke some words to the doctor, but in so low a tone i could not catch them; the doctor's answer was given in a louder key, and consisted only of these words: 'the day after to-morrow;' and, when madame roland seemed to urge him, still in so low a voice as to prevent the words reaching me, he replied, with singular emphasis, 'the day after to-morrow, i tell you,--the day after to-morrow.'" "what could those words mean?" "what did they mean? alas, alas, my lord, it was on the wednesday evening i heard m. polidori say 'the day after to-morrow;' on the friday my mother was a corpse!" "horrible, indeed!" "after this mournful event i was consigned to the care of a relation, who, forgetful of the afflicted state of my mind, as well as tender age, told me, without reserve or consideration of the consequences, what powerful reasons there were for my hating madame roland, and fully enlightened me as to the ambitious projects entertained by this woman: full well i could then imagine all my poor mother must have endured. i thought my heart would break the first time i again saw my father, which was upon the occasion of his coming to fetch me from the house of my relation to take me into normandy, where we were to pass the first months of our mourning. during the journey he informed me, without the least embarrassment, and as though it had been the most natural thing in the world, that, out of regard for himself and me, madame had kindly consented to take the command of the establishment, and to act as my guide and friend. on arriving at aubiers (so was my father's estate called), the first object we beheld was madame roland, who had established herself here on the very day of my mother's death. spite of her modest, gentle manner, her countenance betrayed an ill-disguised triumph; never shall i forget the look, at once ironical and spiteful, she cast on me as i descended from the carriage; it seemed to say, 'i am mistress here,--'tis you who are the intruder.' a fresh grief awaited me; whether from an inexcusable want of proper judgment or unpardonable assurance, this woman occupied the apartment which had been my mother's: in my just indignation i loudly complained to my father of this unpleasant forgetfulness of my rights as well as wishes. he reprimanded me severely for making any remonstrance on the subject, adding that it was needless for me either to feel or express surprise on the subject, as it was his desire i should habituate myself to consider madame roland in every respect as a second mother, and show her a corresponding deference. i replied that it would be a profanation to that sacred name to act as he commanded; and, to his extreme wrath, i never allowed any opportunity to escape by which i could evince my deeply rooted aversion to madame roland. at times my father's rage knew no bounds, and bitterly would he reproach me in the presence of that woman for the coldness and ingratitude of my conduct towards an angel, as he styled her, sent by heaven for our consolation and happiness. 'let me entreat of you to speak for yourself alone,' said i, one day, quite wearied with the hypocritical conduct of madame roland and my father's blind infatuation. the harshness and unreasonableness of his conduct became at last quite unendurable; while madame roland, with the honeyed words of feigned affection, would artfully intercede for me, because she well knew by so doing she should only increase the storm she had raised. 'you must make some allowances for clémence,' she would say; 'the sorrow she experiences for the excellent parent we all deplore is so natural, and even praiseworthy, that you should respect her just grief, and pity her for her unfounded suspicions.' 'you hear her! you hear her!' would my father exclaim, pointing with mingled triumph and admiration to the accomplished hypocrite; 'what angelic goodness! what enchanting nobleness and generosity! instantly entreat her pardon for the unworthiness of your conduct.' 'never!' i used to reply; 'the spirit of my angel mother, who now beholds me, would be pained to witness such a degradation in her child;' and, bursting with grief and mortification, i would fly to my own chamber, leaving my father to dry the tears, and calm the ruffled feelings of the woman i despised and hated. you will, i hope, excuse me, my lord, for dwelling so long and so minutely on all my early troubles, but it is only by so doing i can accurately describe to you the sort of life i led at that period." "i can enter fully into the painful subject; yet how often have the same scenes been enacted in other families, and still, it is much to be feared, will they be repeated till the end of time. but in what capacity did your father introduce madame roland to the neighbourhood?" "as my instructress and his friend, and she was estimated accordingly." "i need scarcely inquire whether he shared in the solitude to which her questionable character condemned the lady?" "with the exception of some few and unavoidable visits, she saw no one. my father, guided by his passion, or influenced by madame roland, threw off his mourning for my mother ere he had worn it three months, under the plea that the sable garb continually reminded him of his loss, and prevented him from regaining his lost tranquillity. his manners to me daily became colder and more estranged, while his perfect indifference concerning me allowed a degree of liberty almost incredible in a person of my age. i met him only at breakfast, after which he returned to his study with madame roland, who acted as his secretary, read and answered all his letters, etc.; that completed, they either walked or drove out together, returning only an hour before dinner, against which, madame roland would array herself in an elegant and well-chosen evening dress; while my father would make a most studiously elaborate toilet, as uncalled for as ill-adapted to his time of life. occasionally, after dinner, he received a few persons he could not avoid asking to his house, when he would play at tric-trac with madame roland until ten o'clock, at which hour he would offer his arm to conduct her to my mother's apartment, and return to his guests. as for myself, i had unrestrained permission to go where i pleased throughout the whole day. attended by a servant, i used to take long rides in the extensive woods surrounding the château, and when, as occasionally happened, i felt my spirits unequal to appearing at the dinner-table, not the slightest inquiry was ever made after me, or my absence noticed." "what singular neglect and forgetfulness!" "having accidentally encountered one of our neighbours during several successive days of my excursions in the woods, i gave up riding there, and confined myself entirely to the park." "and how did this infamous woman conduct herself towards you when alone?" "she shunned all occasions of being with me as sedulously as i avoided her; but once that we were unexpectedly _tête-à-tête_ with each other, and that she was reproaching me for some severe words i had spoken the preceding evening, she said, coldly, 'have a care: you cannot contend against my power; any such attempt will bring down certain ruin on your head.' 'as it did upon that of my mother,' answered i. 'it is a pity, madame, you have not m. polidori by your side, to announce to you that your vengeance can be satisfied--the day after to-morrow." "and what reply did she make when you thus recalled those fearful words?" "she changed colour rapidly, her features were almost convulsed; then, by a strong effort conquering her emotion, she angrily demanded what i meant by the expression. 'ask your own heart, madame,' answered i; 'in the solitude of your chamber inquire of yourself to what i allude: your conscience will find a ready explanation.' shortly after that, a scene occurred which for ever sealed my destiny. "among a great number of family portraits, which graced the walls of the salon in which we usually spent the evening, was that of my mother. one day i observed it had been removed from its accustomed place. two neighbours had dined with us. one of them, a m. dorval, a country lawyer, had always expressed the utmost veneration and respect for my mother. when we reached the salon after dinner, i inquired of my father what had become of my dear mother's picture. 'cease!' cried my father, significantly pointing to our guests, as though intimating his desire that they should not hear any discussion on the subject; 'the reason of the picture being taken away is that the sight of it continually reminded me of the heavy loss i have sustained, and so prevented my regaining my usual calmness and peace of mind.' 'and where is the portrait at present?' inquired i. turning towards madame roland, with an impatient and uneasy air, he said, 'where has the picture been put?' 'in the lumber-room,' replied she, casting on me a glance of defiance, evidently under the impression that the presence of witnesses would prevent me from proceeding further in the matter. 'i can easily believe, madame,' cried i, indignantly, 'that the recollection of my mother must have been painful to you; but that was not a sufficient reason for banishing from the walls the likeness of her who, when you were in want and misery, kindly and charitably afforded you the shelter of her roof.'" "excellent!" exclaimed rodolph; "yours was, indeed, a stinging and a just reproach." "'mademoiselle,' cried my father, 'you forget that this lady has watched, and still continues to preside, with maternal solicitude over your education; you also seem to banish from your recollection the very high esteem and respect you are aware i entertain for her; and, since you allow yourself thus to attack her before strangers, you will permit me to tell you that, in my opinion, the charge of ingratitude lies at the door of her who, overlooking the tender cares she has received, presumes to reproach a person, deserving of the utmost interest and respect, with misfortunes and calamities she so nobly sustained.' 'i cannot venture to discuss the subject with you, my dear father,' said i, submissively. 'perhaps, then, mademoiselle, you will favour me with your polite arguments in favour of rudeness and unmerited abuse,' cried madame roland, carried away by rage into a neglect of her usual caution and prudence; 'perhaps you will permit me to assert that, so far from owing the slightest obligation to your mother, i have nothing to remember but the constant coldness and dislike she invariably manifested towards me, fully expressive of the disgust and displeasure with which my residence in the house inspired her.' 'forbear, madame!' exclaimed i, interrupting her. 'out of respect for my father, if not to spare your own blushes, cease such shameful confessions as the one you have just made, or you will make even me regret having exposed you to so humiliating a disclosure.'" "better and better!" cried rodolph; "this was, indeed, cutting with a two-edged sword. pray go on. and what said this woman?" "by a very hackneyed, though convenient expedient, madame roland contrived to end a scene in which she felt she was likely to have the worst. with a sudden cry she threw herself into a chair, and very naturally imitated a fainting-fit. thanks to this incident, the two visitors quitted the room in search of restoratives; while i retired to my own apartment, leaving my father hanging in deep anxiety over the wicked cause of all this confusion." "doubtless your next interview with your father must have been a stormy one." "he came to me next morning, and, without further preamble, addressed me as follows: 'in order to prevent a recurrence of the disgraceful scene of yesterday, i think proper to inform you, that, immediately that decency permits both you and myself to throw off our mourning, it is my intention to celebrate my marriage with madame roland, which will compel you to treat her with the respect and deference due to my wife. for certain reasons, it is expedient you should marry before me. you will have as a dowry your mother's fortune, amounting to more than a million francs. from this very day, i shall take the necessary steps to form a suitable match for you, and, for that purpose, i shall accept one of the many offers i have received for your hand.' after this conversation, i lived more alone than ever, never meeting my father except at mealtimes, which generally passed off in the utmost silence. so really dull and lonely was my present existence, that i only waited for my father to propose any suitor he might approve of, to accept him with perfect willingness. madame roland, having relinquished all further ill-natured remarks upon the memory of my deceased parent, indemnified herself by inflicting on me the continual pain of seeing her appropriate to herself the various trifles my dear mother had exclusively made use of. her easy chair, embroidery-frame, the books which composed her private library, even a screen i myself had embroidered for her, and in the centre of which were our united ciphers: this woman laid her sacrilegious hands on all the elegant articles with which my mother's taste and my affection had ornamented her apartments." "i can well imagine all the horror these profanations must have caused you." "still, great as were my sufferings, the state of loneliness, in which i found myself, rendered them even greater." "and you had no one, no person in whom you could confide?" "no one; but at this time i received a touching proof of the interest my fate excited, and which might have opened my eyes to the dangers preparing for me. one of the two persons present, during the scene with madame roland i so lately described, was a m. dorval, a worthy old notary, to whom my mother had rendered some signal service. by my father's orders, i never since then entered the salon when strangers were there; i had never, therefore, seen m. dorval after the eventful day when i spoke so undisguisedly to madame roland; great, therefore, was my surprise to see him coming towards me one day, in the park, while i was taking my accustomed walk. 'mademoiselle,' said he to me, with a mysterious air, 'i am fearful of being observed by your father; here is a letter,--read it, and destroy it immediately,--its contents are most important to you.' so saying, he disappeared as quickly as he came. in the letter he informed me that it was in agitation to marry me to the marquis d'harville, and that the match appeared in every respect eligible, inasmuch as every one concurred in bearing testimony to the many excellent qualities of m. d'harville, who was young, rich, good-looking, and highly distinguished for his talents and mental attainments; yet that the families of two young ladies, with whom he had been on the point of marriage, had abruptly broken off the matches. the notary added that, although entirely ignorant of the cause of these ruptures, he still considered it his duty to apprise me of them, without in the slightest degree insinuating that they originated in any circumstance prejudicial to the high opinion entertained of m. d'harville. the two young ladies alluded to were, one, the daughter of m. beauregard, a peer of france; the other, of lord dudley. m. dorval concluded by saying that his motive in making the communication was because my father, in his extreme desire to conclude the marriage, did not appear to attach sufficient importance to the facts now detailed." "now you recall it to my recollection," said rodolph, after some minutes spent in deep meditation on what he had just heard, "i remember that your husband, at intervals of nearly twelve months, told me of two marriages which had been broken off just as they were on the point of taking place, and ascribing their abrupt termination to a difficulty in arranging matters of a mere pecuniary nature." madame d'harville smiled bitterly as she replied: "you shall know what those motives really were, my lord, very shortly. after reading the letter, so kindly intentioned on the part of the worthy notary, i felt both my uneasiness and curiosity rapidly increase. who was d'harville? my father had never mentioned him to me. in vain i ransacked my memory; i could not recollect ever to have heard the name. soon, however, the current of my thoughts was directed into another channel by the abrupt departure of madame roland for paris. although the period of her absence was limited to eight days at the utmost, yet my father expressed the deepest grief at even this trifling separation from her. his temper became altogether soured, and his coldness towards me hourly increased; he even went so far as to reply, when one day i inquired after his health, 'i am ill,--and all through you.' 'through me?' exclaimed i. 'assuredly, through you; you know full well how indispensable to my happiness is the company of madame roland, yet this incomparable woman, who has been so grossly insulted by you, has left me to undertake her present journey solely on your account.' this mark of interest on the part of madame roland filled me with the most lively apprehensions of evil, and a vague presentiment floated across my mind that my marriage was in some way or other mixed up with it. i must leave it to your imagination, my lord, to picture the delight of my father upon the return of my future mother-in-law. the next day he sent to desire my company; i found him alone with her. 'i have, for some time,' said he, 'been thinking of establishing you in the world; in another month your mourning will have expired. to-morrow i expect m. d'harville, a young man possessed of every requisite, both as to fortune and figure, to secure any woman's approbation; he is well looked upon in society, and is capable of securing the happiness of any lady he may seek in marriage. now, having seen you, though accidentally, his choice has fallen on you. in fact, he is most anxious to obtain your hand. every pecuniary arrangement is concluded. it therefore remains solely with yourself to be married ere the next six weeks have elapsed. if, on the contrary, from any capricious whim impossible for me to foresee, you think fit to refuse the unlooked-for good offer now before you, it will in no respect alter my own plans, as my marriage will take place, according to my original intention, directly my mourning expires. and, in this latter case, i am bound to inform you that your presence in my house will not be agreeable to me, unless i have your promise to treat my wife with the respect and tenderness to which she is entitled.' 'i understand you,' replied i; 'whether i accept m. d'harville or no, you will marry; and my only resource will then be to retire to the convent of the holy heart?' 'it will,' answered he, coldly." "his conduct now ceases to be classed under the term weakness," said rodolph; "it assumes the form of positive cruelty." "shall i tell you, my lord, what has always prevented me from feeling the least resentment at my father's conduct? it is because i have always had a strong presentiment that he would one day pay dearly--too dearly, alas!--for his blind passion for madame roland. thank heaven, that evil day has not yet arrived!" "and did you not mention to your father what the old notary had informed you of,--the abrupt breaking off of the two marriages m. d'harville had been on the point of contracting?" "indeed, i did, my lord. i signified to my father, upon the occasion of the conversation i was relating to you, a wish to speak with him alone, upon which madame roland abruptly rose and quitted the apartment. 'i have no objection to the union you propose with m. d'harville,' said i; 'only, as i understand, he has twice been upon the point of marriage, and--' 'enough--enough!' interrupted he, hastily. 'i know all about those two affairs, which were so abruptly broken off merely because matters of a pecuniary nature were not satisfactorily arranged; although, i am bound to assure you, that not the slightest shadow of blame was attributable to m. d'harville. if that be your only objection, you may consider the match as concluded on, and yourself as married,--ay, and happily, too,--for, spite of your conduct, my first wish is for your happiness.'" "no doubt madame roland was delighted with your marriage?" "delighted? yes, my lord," said clémence, with bitterness. "she was, and well might be, delighted with this union, which was, in fact, of her effecting. she it was who had first suggested it to my father; she knew full well the real occasion of breaking off the marriages so nearly completed by m. d'harville, and hence arose her exceeding anxiety for him to become my husband." "what motive could she possibly have had?" "she sought to avenge herself on me by condemning me to a life of wretchedness." "but your father--" "deceived by madame roland, he fully and implicitly believed that interested motives alone had set aside the two former marriages of m. d'harville." "what a horrible scheme! but what was this mysterious reason?" "you shall know shortly. well, m. d'harville arrived at aubiers, and, i confess, i was much pleased with his appearance, manners, and cultivated mind. he seemed very amiable and kind, though somewhat melancholy. i remarked in him a contradiction which charmed and astonished me at the same time. his personal and mental advantages were considerable, his fortune princely, and his birth illustrious; yet, at times, the expression of his countenance would change, from a firm and manly energy and decision of purpose, to an almost timid, shrinking look, as though he feared even his own self; then an utter dejection of spirits and exhaustion would ensue. there was, at these strangely contrasted periods, such a look of deprecating humility, such an appearance of conscious wrong, as touched me deeply, and won my pity to a great extent. i admired greatly the kindness of manner he ever evinced to an old servant,--a _valet de chambre_ who had been about him from his birth, and who alone was suffered to attend upon his master now he had reached man's estate. shortly after m. d'harville's arrival he remained for two days secluded in his apartment. my father wished to visit him; but the old servant alluded to objected, stating that his master had so violent a headache, he could receive no one. when m. d'harville emerged from his chamber, he was excessively pale, and looked extremely ill. he afterwards appeared to experience a sort of impatience and uneasiness when any reference was made to his temporary indisposition. in proportion as i became better acquainted with m. d'harville, i discovered that, on many points, a singular similarity of taste existed between us. he had so much to be proud of, and so many reasons for being happy, that his excessive and shrinking modesty struck me as something more than admirable. the day for our marriage being fixed, he seemed to delight in anticipating every wish i could form for the future, and, when sometimes i alluded to the deep melancholy which at times possessed him, and begged to know the cause, he would speak of his deceased parents, and of the delight it would have afforded them to see him married, to their hearts' dearest wish, to one so justly approved both by his own judgment and affections, i could not well find fault with reasons so complimentary to myself. m. d'harville easily guessed the terms on which i must have been living with my father and madame roland, although the former, delighted at my marriage, which would serve as a plea for accelerating his own, had latterly treated me with excessive tenderness. in some of our conversations, m. d'harville, with infinite tact and good feeling, explained to me that his regard was considerably heightened by the knowledge of all i had suffered since my dear mother's death. i thought it my duty to hint to him, at such a time, that, as my father was about to marry again, it might very possibly affect the property i might be expected to inherit. he would not even permit me to proceed, but most effectually convinced me of his own utterly disinterested motives in seeking my hand. i could not but think that the families, who had so abruptly broken off his former projected alliances, must have been very unreasonable or avaricious people if they made pecuniary matters a stumbling-block with one so generous, easy, and liberal as m. d'harville." "and such as you describe him, so have i always found him," cried rodolph; "all heart, disinterestedness, and delicacy! but did you never speak to him of the marriages so hastily broken off?" "i will confess to you, my lord, that the question was several times on my lips; but, when i recollected the sensitiveness of his nature, i feared to pain him by questions which might, at any rate, have wounded his self-love, or taxed his honour to reply to truly. the nearer the day fixed for our marriage approached, the more delighted did m. d'harville appear. yet i several times detected him absorbed in the most perfect dejection, the deepest melancholy. one day, in particular, i caught his eyes fixed on me with a settled gaze, as though resolving to confide to me some important secret he yet could not bring himself to reveal. i perceived a large tear trickle slowly down his cheek, as though wrung from his very heart. the recollection of his two former prospects of marriage, so suddenly destroyed, rose to my mind; and, i confess, i almost felt afraid to proceed. a vague presentiment whispered within me that the happiness of my whole life was at stake,--perhaps perilled for ever. but then, on the other hand, such was my eager desire to quit my father's house, that i turned a deaf ear to every suggestion of evil arising from my union with m. d'harville." "and did m. d'harville make you no voluntary confession?" "not any. when i inquired the cause of his continual fits of melancholy, he would answer, 'pray, do not heed it! but i am always most sad when most happy.' these words, pronounced in the kindest and most touching manner, reassured me a little. and how, indeed, was it possible, when his voice would quiver with emotion, and his eyes fill with tears, to manifest any further suspicion, by repeating my questions as to the past, when it was with the future only i had any business? the persons appointed to witness the contract on the part of m. d'harville, m. de lucenay and m. de saint-rémy, arrived at aubiers some days previous to the marriage; my nearest relations alone were invited. immediately after the conclusion of the ceremony, we were to depart for paris; and it is true i felt for m. d'harville none of that love with which a young wife ought to regard the man she vows her future life to, but i admired and respected his character and disposition, and, but for the disastrous events which followed this fatal union, a more tender feeling could doubtless soon have attached me to him. well, we were married." at these words, madame d'harville turned rather pale, and her resolution appeared to forsake her. after a pause, she resumed: "immediately after the ceremony, my father embraced me tenderly, as did madame roland also. before so many persons i could not avoid the display of this fresh exhibition of hypocrisy. with her dry and white hand she squeezed mine so hard as to pain me, and said, in a whisper, and in a tone as gentle as it was perfidious, these words, which i never can forget: 'think of me sometimes in the midst of your bliss, for it was i who arranged your marriage.' alas, i was far from comprehending at that moment the full force of those words! our marriage took place at eleven o'clock, and we immediately entered our carriage, followed by my waiting-woman and the old _valet de chambre_ of m. d'harville's, and we travelled so rapidly that we reached paris before ten o'clock in the evening. i should have been surprised at the silence and melancholy of m. d'harville had i not known that he had what he termed his happy sadness. i was myself painfully disturbed; i was returning to paris for the first time since my mother's death; i arrived there alone with my husband, whom i had hardly known more than six weeks, and who, up to the evening before, had not addressed a word to me but what was marked by respectful formality. men, however well bred, do not think sufficiently of the fear which the sudden change in their tone and manners occasions to a young female as soon as she belongs to them; they do not reflect that a youthful maiden cannot in a few hours forget all her timidity and virgin scruples." "nothing is to me more barbarous than this system of carrying off a young female as soon as the wedding ceremony is over,--a ceremony which ought to consecrate the right and duty to employ still more every tenderness of love and effort to render mutual affection still stronger and more endearing." "you will imagine, monseigneur, the indefinable alarm with which i found myself in paris,--in the city in which my mother had died hardly a year before. we reached the hôtel d'harville--" the emotion of the young lady redoubled, her cheeks were flushed with scarlet, and she added, in a voice scarcely intelligible: "you must know all; if not, i shall appear too contemptible in your eyes. well, then," she resumed, with desperate resolution, "i was led to my apartment and left there alone; after an hour m. d'harville joined me there. i was weeping bitterly. my husband came towards me, and was about to take my arm, when he fell at my feet in agony. he could not hear my voice, his countenance was spasmodic with fearful convulsions, his eyes rolled in their orbits with a rapidity that appalled me, his contorted mouth was filled with blood and foam, and his hand grasped me with inconceivable force. i made a desperate effort, and his stiffened fingers at length unclasped from my wrist, and i fainted at the moment when m. d'harville was struggling in the paroxysm of this horrible attack. this was my wedding night, my lord,--this was the vengeance of madame roland!" "unhappy woman!" said rodolph, overwhelmed. "i understand,--an epileptic. ah, 'tis horrible!" "and that is not all," added clémence, in a voice almost choked by emotion; "my child, my angel girl, she has inherited this frightful malady." "your daughter! she! what? her paleness--her weakness--" "is, i dread to believe, hereditary; and the physicians think, therefore, that it is incurable." madame d'harville hid her face in her hands; overcome by this painful disclosure, she had not courage to add another word. rodolph also remained silent. his mind recoiled affrighted from the terrible mysteries of this night. he pictured to himself the young maiden, already sad, in consequence of her return to the city in which her mother had died, arriving at a strange house, alone with a man for whom she felt an interest and esteem, but not love, nor any of those sentiments which enchant the mind, none of the engrossing feeling which removes the chaste alarms of a woman in the participation of a lawful and reciprocal affection. no, no; on the contrary, clémence arrived agitated and distressed, with depressed spirits and tearful eyes. she was, however, resolved on resignation and the fulfilment of duty, when, instead of listening to language full of devotion, love, and tenderness, which would compensate for the sorrowful feelings which were uppermost in her mind, she sees convulsed at her feet a stricken man, who twists, and foams, and shrieks, in the hideous convulsions of one of the most fearful infirmities with which a man can be incurably smitten! this is not all: his child, poor little innocent angel! is also withered from her birth. these sad and painful avowals excited bitter reflections in rodolph's mind. "such," said he, "is the law of the land. a young, handsome, and pure girl, the confiding and gentle victim of a shameful dissimulation, unites her destiny to that of a man tainted with an incurable malady,--a fatal inheritance which he will assuredly transmit to his children. the unhappy wife discovers this horrid mystery. what can she do? nothing,--nothing but suffer and weep; nothing but endeavour to overcome her disgust and fright; nothing but pass her days in anguish, in indefinable and endless terror; nothing but seek, perhaps, culpable consolation without the desolate existence which has been created around her. again," said rodolph, "these strange laws sometimes produce horrible unions: fearful for humanity. in these laws, animals always appear superior to man in the care bestowed upon them; in the improvements that are studied for them; in the protection which encircles, the guarantees which attend them. buy an animal, and, if an infirmity decried by the law is detected after the purchase, the sale is null and void. indeed, what a shame, what a case of public injury would it be to compel a man to keep an animal which has a cough, is lame, or has lost an eye! why, it would be scandalous, criminal, unheard-of infamy! only imagine being compelled to keep, and keep for ever, a mule with a cough, a horse that was blind, or an ass that was lame! what frightful consequences might not such injustice entail on the community! therefore, no such bargains hold good, no words bind, no contract is valid: the omnipotent law unlooses all that was thus bound. but if it relates to a creature made after god's own image, if it respects a young girl who, in the full and innocent reliance on the good faith of a man, unites her lot with his, and wakes up in the company of an epileptic, an unhappy wretch stricken with a fearful malady, whose moral and physical consequences are immeasurably distressing, a malady which may throw disorder and aversion into a family, perpetuate a horrible disease, vitiate whole generations, yes, this law, so inexorable when lame, blind, or coughing animals are the consideration--this law, so singularly clear-sighted, which will not allow an unsound horse to increase the species--this law will not loosen the victim of a union such as we have described. these bonds are sacred, indissoluble: it is to offend god and man to break them. in truth," continued rodolph, "men sometimes display a humility most shameful and an egotistical pride which is only execrable. he values himself at less than the beast which he protects by warranties which he refuses for himself; and he imposes on himself, makes sacred, and perpetuates his most distressing infirmities by putting them under the protection of the immutability of laws, human and divine." rodolph greatly blamed m. d'harville, but he promised to himself to excuse him in the eyes of clémence, although fully persuaded, after her sad disclosure, that the marquis was for ever alienated from her heart. one thought led to another, and rodolph said to himself, "i have kept aloof from a woman i love, and who, perhaps, already feels a secret inclination for me. either from an attachment of heart or friendship, she has bestowed her honour--her life--for the sake of a fool whom she thought unhappy. if, instead of leaving her, i had paid her all sorts of attentions, love, and consideration, my name would have been such that her reputation would not have received the slightest stain, the suspicions of her husband would never have been excited: whilst, now, she is all but at the mercy of such an ass as m. charles robert, who, i fear, will become the more indiscreet in proportion as he has the less right to be so. and then, too, who knows if, in spite of the dangers she has risked, the heart of madame d'harville will always remain free? any return to her husband is henceforward impossible. young, handsome, courted, with a disposition sympathising with all who suffer, what dangers, what shoals and quicksands, lie before her! for m. d'harville, what anguish and what deep chagrin! at the same time jealous of and in love with his wife, who cannot subdue the disgust and fright which he excited in her on their nuptials,--what a lot is his!" clémence, with her forehead hidden by her hands, her eyes brimful of tears, and her cheek reddened by embarrassment, avoided rodolph's look, such pain had the disclosure cost her. "ah, now," said rodolph, after a long silence, "i can understand the cause of m. d'harville's sadness, which i could not before account for. i can imagine his regrets--" "his regrets!" exclaimed clémence; "say his remorse, monseigneur, if he have any, for never was such a crime more coolly meditated." "a crime, madame?" "what else is it, my lord, to bind to yourself in indissoluble bonds a young girl, who confides in your honour, when you are fatally stricken with a malady which inspires fear and horror? what else is it, to devote with certainty an unhappy child to similar misery? what forced m. d'harville to make two victims? a blind, insensate passion? no; he found my birth, my fortune, and my person, to his taste. he wished to make a convenient marriage, because, doubtless, a bachelor's life wearied him." "madame, at least pity him." "pity him? if you wish pity, pray let it be bestowed on my child. poor victim of this odious union, what nights and days have i passed near her! what tears have not her misfortunes wrung from me!" "but her father suffers from the same unmerited afflictions." "yet it is that father who has condemned her to a sickly infancy, a withering youth, and, if she should survive, to a life of isolation and misery, for she will never marry. ah, no! i love her too well to expose her to the chance of one day's weeping over her own offspring, similarly smitten, as i weep over her. i have suffered too much from treachery, to render myself guilty of, or an accomplice in, such wickedness!" "you are right; the vengeance of your mother-in-law was really atrocious. but patience, and perhaps in your turn you will be avenged," said rodolph, after a moment's reflection. "what do you mean, my lord?" inquired clémence, astonished at the change in his voice. "i have generally had the satisfaction of seeing those whom i have known to be wicked most severely punished," he replied, in a voice that made clémence shudder. "but the day after this unhappy event what did your husband say?" "he confessed, with singular candour, that his two former marriages had been broken off in consequence of the families becoming acquainted with the secret of his fearful malady. thus, then, after having been twice rejected, he had the shameful, the unmanly courage, to drag a third poor victim into the abyss of misery the kind intervention of friends had preserved the others from. and this is what the world calls a gentleman and a man of honour!" "for one so good, so full of pity to others, yours are harsh words." "because i feel i have been unworthily treated. m. d'harville easily penetrated the girlish openness of my character; why, then, did he not trust to my sympathy and generosity of feeling, and tell me the whole truth?" "because you would have refused him." "this very expression proves how guilty he was, and how treacherous was his conduct, if he really entertained the idea of my rejecting his hand if informed of the truth!" "he loved you too well to incur the risk of losing you." "no, no, my lord; had he really loved me, he would never have sacrificed me to his selfish passion. nay, so wretched was my position at that time, and such was my desire to quit my father's roof, that, had he been candid and explicit with me, it is more than probable he would have moved me to pity the species of misery he was condemned to endure, and to sympathise with one so cut off from the tender ties which sweeten life. i really believe, at this moment, that, touched by his open, manly confession, as well as interested for one labouring under so severe an infliction of the almighty's hand, i should scarcely have had the courage to refuse him my hand; and, once aware of all i had undertaken, nothing should have deterred me from the full and conscientious discharge of every solemn duty towards him. but to compel this pity and interest, merely because he had me in his power, and to exact my consideration and sympathy, because, unhappily, i was his wife, and had sworn to obligations, the full force of which had been concealed from me, was at once the act of a coward and a wrong-judging mind. how could i hold myself bound to endure the heavy penalties of my unfortunate marriage, when my husband had trampled on every tie which binds an honourable mind? and now, my lord, you may form some little idea of my wedded life; you are now aware how shamefully i was deceived, and that, too, by the person in whose hands i unsuspectingly placed the future happiness of my whole existence. i had implicitly trusted in m. d'harville, and he had most dishonourably and treacherously repaid my trustfulness with bitter and irremediable wrongs. the gentle, timid melancholy which had so greatly interested me in his favour, and which he attributed to pious recollections, was, in truth, only the workings of a conscience ill at ease, and the knowledge of his own incurable infirmity." "still, were he a stranger or an enemy, a heart so noble and generous as yours would pity such sufferings as he endures?" "but can i calm those sufferings? if he could distinguish my voice, or if only a look of recognition answered my sorrowing glance! but no. oh, my lord, it is impossible for such as have never seen them to form an idea of those frightful paroxysms, in which every sense is suspended, and the unfortunate sufferer merely recovers from his frenzy to fall into a sort of sullen dejection! when my dear child experiences one of these attacks, it almost breaks my heart to see her tender frame twisted, stiffened, and distorted, by the dreadful convulsions which accompany it. still, she is my own, my beloved infant, and, when i see her bitter agonies, my hatred and aversion to her father are increased an hundredfold. but, when my poor child becomes calmer, so does my irritation against my husband subside also; and then--ah, then--the natural tenderness of my heart makes my angry feelings give place to a species of sorrow and pity for him. yet surely i did not marry at only seventeen years of age merely to experience the alternations of hatred and painful commiseration, and to weep over a frail and sickly infant, whom, after all, i may not be permitted to rear. and, as regards this beloved object of my incessant prayers, permit me, my lord, to anticipate a reproach i doubtless deserve, and which you would be unwilling to make. my daughter, young as she is, is capable of interesting my affections and fully occupying my heart; but the love she inspires is so cruelly mixed with present anguish and future apprehensions, that my tenderness for my child invariably ends in tears and bitter grief. when i am with her, my heart is torn with agony, a heavy, crushing weight presses on my heart at the thoughts of her hopeless, suffering state. not all the fondest devices of a mother's love can overcome a malady pronounced by all our faculty as incurable. thus, then, by way of relief and refuge from the atmosphere of wretchedness which surrounded me, i had pictured to myself the possibility of finding calm and repose for my troubled spirit in an attachment, so vain, so empty, that--but i have been deceived a second time, most unworthily deceived; and there is now nothing left for me but to resign myself to the gloom and misery of the life my husband's want of candour has entailed upon me. but tell me, my lord, is it such an existence as i was justified in expecting when i bestowed my hand on m. d'harville? and am i alone to blame for those injuries, to avenge which my husband had this day determined to take my life? my fault was great, very great; and the more so, because the object i had selected was every way so unworthy, and leaves me the additional shame of having to blush for my choice. happily for me, my lord, the conversation you overheard between the countess sarah and her brother on the subject of m. charles robert spares me much of the humiliation i should otherwise have experienced in making this confession. i only venture to hope that, since listening to my relation, you may be induced to consider me as much an object of pity as i admit i am of blame." "i cannot express to you, madame, how deeply your narrative has touched me. what gnawing grief, what hidden sorrows have you not been called upon to endure, from the death of your mother to the birth of your child! who would ever believe such ills could reach one so envied, so admired, and so calculated to enjoy and impart happiness to others?" "oh, my lord, there are some sorrows so deep, so unapproachable, that for worlds we would not even have them suspected; and the severest increase of suffering would arise from the very doubt of our being the enviable creatures we are believed to be." "you are right; nothing would be more painful than the question, openly expressed, 'is she or he as happy as they seem to be?' still, if there is any happiness in the knowledge, be assured you are not the only one who has to struggle with the fearful contrast between reality and that which the world believes." "how so, my lord?" "because, in the eyes of all who know you, your husband is esteemed even happier than yourself, since he possesses one so rich in every good gift; and yet is not he also much to be pitied? can there be a more miserable existence than the one he leads? he has acted unfairly and selfishly towards you, but has he not been bitterly punished? he loves you with a passion, deep and sincere, worthy of you to have inspired, yet he knows that your only feeling towards him is insurmountable aversion and contempt. in his feeble, suffering child he beholds a constant reproach; nor is that all he is called upon to endure; jealousy also assails him with her nameless tortures." "and how can i help that, my lord? by giving him no occasion for jealousy, you reply. and certainly you are right. but, think you, because no other person would possess my love, it would any the more be his? he knows full well it would not. since the fearful scene i related to you, we have lived entirely apart, while in the eyes of the world i have kept up every necessary appearance of married happiness. with the exception of yourself, my lord, i have never breathed a syllable of this fatal secret to mortal ears: thus, therefore, i venture to ask advice of you i could not solicit from any human being." "and i, madame, can with truth assure you that, if the trifling service i have rendered you be deemed worthy of notice, i hold myself a thousand times overpaid by the confidence you have reposed in me. but, since you deign to ask my advice, and permit me to speak candidly--" "oh, yes, my lord, i beseech you to use the frankness and sincerity you would show to a sister!" "then allow me to tell you that, for want of employing one of your most precious qualities, you lose vast enjoyments, which would not only fill up that void in your heart, but would distract you from your domestic sorrows and supply that need of stirring emotions, excitement, and," added the prince, smiling, "i dare almost to venture to add,--pray forgive me for having so bad an opinion of your sex,--that natural love for mystery and intrigue which exercises so powerful an empire over many, if not all, females." "what do you mean, my lord?" "i mean that, if you would play at the game of doing good, nothing would please or interest you more." madame d'harville surveyed rodolph with astonishment. "and understand," resumed he, "i speak not of sending large sums carelessly, almost disdainfully, to unfortunate creatures, of whom you know nothing, and who are frequently undeserving of your favour. but if you would amuse yourself, as i do, at playing, from time to time, at the game of providence, you would acknowledge that occasionally our good deeds put on all the piquancy and charms of a romance." "i must confess, my lord," said clémence, with a smile, "it never occurred to me to class charity under the head of amusements." "it is a discovery i owe to my horror of all tediums, all wearisome, long-protracted affairs,--a sort of horror which has been principally inspired by long political conferences and ministerial discussions. but to return to our game of amusing beneficence: i cannot, alas, aspire to possess that disinterested virtue which makes some people content to entrust others with the office of either ill or well distributing their bounty, and, if it merely required me to send one of my chamberlains to carry a few hundred louis to each of the divisions in and around paris, i confess, to my shame, that the scheme would not interest me nearly as much as it does at present, while doing good, after my notions on the subject, is one of the most entertaining and exciting amusements you can imagine. i prefer the word 'amusing,' because to me it conveys the idea of all that pleases, charms, and allures us. and, really, madame, if you would only become my accomplice in a few dark intrigues of this sort, you would see that, apart from the praiseworthiness of the action, nothing is really more curious, inviting, attractive, or diverting, than these charitable adventures. and then, what mystery is requisite to conceal the benefits we render! what precautions to prevent ourselves from being discovered! what varied, yet powerful, emotions are excited at the aspect of poor but worthy people shedding tears of joy and calling down heaven's blessing on your head! depend upon it, such a group is, after all, more gratifying than the pale, angry countenance of either a jealous or an unfaithful lover, and there are very few who do not class either under one head or the other. the emotions i describe are closely allied to those you experienced this morning while going to the rue du temple. simply dressed, that you may escape observation, you go forth with a palpitating heart; you also ascend with a throbbing breast some modest _fiacre_, carefully drawing down the blinds to prevent yourself from being seen; then, looking cautiously from side to side that you are not observed, you quickly enter a mean-looking dwelling, just like this morning, you see, the only difference being that, whereas to-day you said, 'if i am discovered i am lost!' then you would only smile as you mentally uttered, 'if i am discovered, they will overwhelm me with praises and blessings!' now, since you possess your many adorable qualities in all their pure modesty, you would employ the most artful schemes, the most complicated manoeuvres, to prevent yourself from being known, and, consequently, wept over and blessed as an angel of goodness." "ah, my lord," cried madame d'harville, deeply moved, "you are indeed my preserver! i cannot express the new ideas, the consoling hopes, awakened within me by your words. you are quite right; to endeavour to gain the blessing and gratitude of such as are poor and in misery is almost equal to being loved even as i would wish to be; nay, it is even superior in its purity and absence of self. when i compare the existence i now venture to anticipate with the shameful and degraded lot i was preparing for myself, my own reproaches become more bitter and severe." "i should, indeed, be grieved," said rodolph, smiling, "were that to be the case, since all my desire is to make you forget the past, and to prove to you that there are various modes of recreating and distracting our minds; the means of good and evil are very frequently nearly the same: it is the end, only, which differs. in a word, if good is as attractive, as amusing, as evil, why should we prefer the latter? i am going to use a very commonplace and hackneyed simile. why do many women take as lovers men not nearly as worthy of that distinction as their own husbands? because the greatest charm of love consists in the difficulties which surround it; for once deprived of the hopes, the fears, the anxieties, difficulties, mysteries, and dangers, and little or nothing would remain, merely the lover, stripped of all the prestige derivable from these causes, and a very every-day object he would appear; very much after the fashion of the individual who, when asked by a friend why he did not marry his mistress, replied, 'why, i was thinking of it; but, if i did, where should i go to pass my evenings?'" "your picture is coloured after nature, my lord," said madame d'harville, smiling. "well, then, if i can find the means of enabling you to experience the fears, the anxieties, the excitement, which seem to have such charms for you, if i can render useful your natural love for mystery and romance, your inclination for dissimulation and artifice,--you see my bad opinion of your sex will peep out in spite of me," added rodolph, gaily,--"shall i not change into fine and generous qualities instincts which otherwise are mere ungovernable and unmanageable impulses, excellent, if well employed, most fatal, if directed badly? now, then, what do you say? shall we get up all manner of benevolent plots and charitable dissipations? we will have our rendezvous, our correspondence, our secrets, and, above all, we will carefully conceal all our doings from the marquis, for your visit of to-day to the morels has, in all probability, excited his suspicions. there, you see, it only requires your consent to commence a regular intrigue." "i accept with joy and gratitude the mysterious associations you propose, my lord," said clémence; "and, by way of beginning our romance, i will return to-morrow to visit those poor creatures to whom, unfortunately, this morning i could only utter a few words of consolation; for, taking advantage of my terror and alarm, the purse you so thoughtfully supplied me with was stolen from me by a lame boy as i ascended the stairs. ah, my lord," added clémence (and her countenance lost the expression of gentle gaiety by which a few minutes before it was animated), "if you only knew what misery, what a picture of wretchedness--no! oh, no! i never could have believed so horrid a scene, or that such want existed; and yet i bewail my condition and complain of my severe destiny." rodolph, wishing to conceal from madame d'harville how deeply he was touched at this application of the woes of others, as teaching patience and resignation, yet fully recognising in the meek and subdued spirit the fine and noble qualities of her mind, said, gaily: "with your permission, i shall except the morels from your jurisdiction; you shall resign them to my care, and, above all things, promise me not again to enter that miserable place, for, to tell you the truth, i live there." "you, my lord? what an idea!" "nay, but you really must believe me when i say i live there, for it is actually true. i confess mine is somewhat a humble lodging, a mere matter of eight pounds a year, in addition to which i pay the large and liberal sum of six francs a month to the porteress, madame pipelet, that ugly old woman you saw; but, to make up for all this, i have as my next neighbour, mlle. rigolette, the prettiest grisette in the quartier du temple. and you must allow that, for a merchant's clerk, with a salary of only seventy-two pounds a year (i pass as a clerk), such a domicile is well suited to my means." "your unhoped-for presence in that fatal house proves to me that you are speaking seriously, my lord; some generous action leads you there, no doubt! but what good action do you reserve for me? what part do you propose for me to sustain?" "that of an angel of consolation, and--pray excuse and allow me the word--a very demon of cunning and manoeuvres! for there are some wounds so painful, as well as delicate, that the hand of a woman only can watch over and heal them. there are, also, unfortunate beings so proud, so reserved, and so hidden from observation, that it requires uncommon penetration to discover them, and an irresistible charm to win their confidence." "and when shall i have an opportunity of displaying the penetration and skill for which you give me credit?" asked madame d'harville, impatiently. "soon, i hope, you will have to make a conquest worthy of you; but, to succeed, you must employ all your most ingenious resources." "and when, my lord, will you confide this great secret to me?" "let me see! you perceive, we have already got as far as arranging our rendezvous. could you do me the favour to grant me an audience in four days' time?" "dear me! so long first?" said clémence, innocently. "but what would become of the mystery of the affair, and all the strict forms and appearances necessary to be kept up, if we were to meet sooner? just imagine! if our partnership were suspected, people would be on their guard, and we should seldom achieve our purpose. i may very probably have to write to you. who was that aged female who brought me your note?" "an old servant of my mother's, the very personification of prudence and discretion." "i will then address my letters under cover to her, and she will deliver them into your hands. if you are kind enough to return any answer, address 'to m. rodolph, rue plumet,' and let your maid put your letters in the post." "i will do that myself, my lord, when taking my usual morning's walk." "do you often walk out alone?" "in fine weather nearly every day." "that's right! it is a custom all young women should observe from the very earliest period of their marriage,--either from a good or an improper provision against future evil. the habit once established, it becomes what the lawyers style a precedent; and, in subsequent days, these habitual promenades excite no dangerous interpretations. if i had been a woman,--and, between ourselves, i fear i should have been very charitable, but equally flighty,--the very day after my marriage i should, in all possible innocence, have taken the most mysterious steps, and, with perfect simplicity, have involved myself in all manner of suspicious and compromising proceedings, for the purpose of establishing the precedent i spoke of, in order to be at liberty either to visit my poor pensioners or to meet my lover." "but that would be downright perfidy to one's husband, would it not, my lord?" said madame d'harville, smiling. "fortunately for you, madame, you have never been driven to the necessity of admitting the utility of such provisionary measures." madame d'harville's smile left her lips. she cast down her eyes, and, blushing deeply, said, in a low and sad voice, "this is not generous, my lord!" at first rodolph regarded the marquise with astonishment, then added, "i understand you, madame. but, once for all, let us weigh well your position as regards m. charles robert. i will just imagine that one of your acquaintances may one day have pointed out to you one of those pitiable-looking mendicants who roll their eyes most sentimentally, and play on the clarionet with desperate energy, to awaken the sympathy of the passers-by. 'that is really and truly a genuine case of distress,' observes your friend. 'that interesting musician has at least seven children, and a wife deaf, dumb, blind,' etc. 'ah, poor fellow!' you reply, charitably aiding him with your purse. and so, each time you meet this case of genuine distress, the clarionet-player, the moment he discerns you from afar, fixes his imploring eyes upon you, while the most touching strains of his instrument are directed to touch your charitable sympathies, and that, too, so successfully, that again your purse opens at this fresh appeal. one day, more than usually disposed to pity this very unfortunate object by the importunities of the friend who first pointed him out to you, and who is most wickedly abusing your generous heart, you resolve to visit this case of genuine distress, as your false friend terms it, and to behold the poor object of your solicitude in the midst of his misery. well, you go. but, lo! the grief-stricken musician has vanished; and in his place you find a lively, rollicking fellow, enjoying himself over some of the good things of this world, and mirthfully carolling forth the last new alehouse catch. then disgust succeeds to pity; for you have bestowed your sympathy and charity alike upon an impostor, neither more nor less. is it not so?" madame d'harville could not restrain a smile at this singular apologue. she, however, soon checked it, as she added: "however grateful i may feel for this mode of justifying my great imprudence, my lord, i can but confess i dare not avail myself of so favourable a pretext as that of mistaken charity." "yet, after all, yours was an error based upon motives of noble and generous pity for the wounded feelings of one you believed a genuine object for commiseration. fortunately, there are so many ways left you of atoning for one indiscretion, that your regret need be but small. shall i not have the pleasure of seeing m. d'harville this evening?" "no, my lord. the scene of this morning has so much affected him that he is--ill," said the marquise, in a low, tremulous tone. "ah," replied rodolph, sadly, "i understand! come, courage! you were saying that you required an aim, a motive, a means of directing your thoughts. permit me to hope that all this will be accomplished by following out the plan i have proposed. your heart will be then so filled with the delightful recollection of all the happiness you have caused, and all the good you have effected, that, in all probability, you will find no room for resentment against your husband. in place of angry feelings, you will regard him with the same sorrowing pity you look on your dear child. and as for the interesting little creature herself, now you have confided to me the cause of her delicate health, i almost think myself warranted in bidding you yet to entertain hopes of overcoming the fearful complaint which has hitherto affected her tender frame." "oh, my lord!" exclaimed clémence, clasping her hands with eagerness, "can it be possible? how? in what manner can my child be saved?" "i have, as physician to myself and household, a man almost unknown, though possessed of a first-rate science. great part of his life was passed in america; and i remember his speaking to me of some marvellous cures performed by him on slaves attacked by this distressing complaint." "and do you really think, my lord--" "nay, you must not allow yourself to dwell too confidently upon success; the disappointment would be so very severe. only, do not let us wholly despair." clémence d'harville cast a hasty glance of unutterable gratitude over the noble features of rodolph, the firm, unflinching friend, who reconciled her to herself with so much good sense, intelligence, and delicacy of feeling. then she asked herself how, for one instant, she could ever have been interested in the fate of such a being as m. charles robert,--the very idea was hateful to her. "what do i not owe you, my lord?" cried she, in a voice of thrilling emotion; "you console me for the past; you open to me a glimpse of hope for my child; and you place before me a plan of future occupation which shall afford me both consolation and the delight of doing my duty. ah, was i not right when i said that, if you would come here to-night, you would finish the day as you had begun it,--by performing a good action?" "and pray, madame, do not omit to add,--an action after my own heart, where all is pleasure and unmixed enjoyment in its performance. and now, adieu!" said rodolph, rising as the clock struck half-past eleven. "adieu, my lord, and pray do not forget to send me news ere long of those poor people in the rue du temple." "i will see them to-morrow, for, unfortunately, i knew not of that little limping rascal having stolen your purse; and i fear that the unhappy creatures are in the most deplorable want. have the kindness to bear in mind that, in the course of four days, i shall come to explain to you the nature of the part you will be required to undertake. one thing i must prepare you for; and that is, the probability of its being requisite for you to assume a disguise on the occasion." "a disguise? oh, how charming! what sort of one, my lord?" "i cannot tell you at present. i will leave the choice to you." * * * * * "all that is requisite," said the prince, on his return home, "to save this excellent woman from the perils of another attachment, is to fill her mind with generous thoughts; and, since an invincible repugnance separates her from her husband, to employ her love for the romantic in such charitable actions as shall require being enshrouded in mystery." chapter xii. misery. the reader has probably not forgotten that the garret in the rue du temple was occupied by an unfortunate family, the father of whom was a working lapidary, named morel. we shall now endeavour to describe the wretched abode of morel and his children. it was six o'clock in the morning; a deep silence dwelt around. the streets were still deserted, for the snow fell fast, and the cold, biting wind froze as it blew. a miserable candle, stuck upon a small block of wood, and supported by two slips of the same material, scarcely penetrated with its yellow, flickering light the misty darkness of the garret,--a narrow, low-built place, two-thirds of which was formed by the sloping roof, which communicated by a sharp angle with the wretched flooring, and freely exposed the moss-covered tiles of the outer roof. walls covered with plaster, blackened by time, and split into countless crevices, displayed the rotten, worm-eaten laths, which formed the frail division from other chambers, while in one corner of this deplorable habitation a door off the hinges opened upon a narrow staircase. the ground, of a nameless colour, but foul, fetid, and slippery, was partly strewed with bits of dirty straw, old rags, and bones, the residue of that unwholesome and vitiated food sold by the dealers in condemned meat, and frequently bought by starving wretches, for the purpose of gnawing the few cartilages that may adhere.[ ] [ ] it is no uncommon thing to meet, in densely crowded parts of paris, with persons who openly sell the flesh of animals born dead, as well as of others who have died of disease, etc. so wretched a condition either arises from improvidence and vice, or from unavoidable misery,--misery so great, so overwhelming and paralysing, as to enfeeble every energy, and to render the unhappy object of it too hopeless, too despairing, even to attempt to extricate himself from the squalor of his utter destitution, and he crouches in his dirt and desolation like an animal in its den. during the day, morel's garret was lighted by a species of long, narrow skylight formed in the descending roof, framed and glazed, and made to open and shut by means of a pulley and string; but, at the hour which we are describing, a heavy fall of snow encumbered the window, and effectually prevented its affording any light. the candle placed on morel's working-table, which stood in the centre of the chamber, diffused a kind of halo of pale, sickly beams, which, gradually diminishing, was at last lost in the dim shadow which overspread the place, in whose murky duskiness might be seen the faint outline of several white-looking masses. on the work-table, which was merely a heavy and roughly cut wooden block of unpolished oak, covered with grease and soot, lay, loosely scattered about, a handful of rubies and diamonds, of more than ordinary size and brilliancy, while, as the mean rays of the small candle were reflected on them, they glittered and sparkled like so many coruscating fires. morel was a worker of real stones, and not false ones, as he had given out, and as was universally believed, in the rue du temple. thanks to this innocent deception, the costly jewels entrusted to him were merely supposed to be so many pieces of glass, too valueless to tempt the cupidity of any one. such riches, confided to the care of one as poor and miserably destitute as morel, will render any reference to the honesty of his character quite unnecessary. seated on a high stool, and wholly overcome by fatigue, cold, and weariness, after a long winter's night, passed in unceasing labour, the poor lapidary had fallen asleep on his block, with his head upon his half-frozen arms, and his forehead resting against a small grindstone, placed horizontally on the table, and generally put in motion by a little hand-wheel, while a fine steel saw, and various other tools belonging to his trade, were lying beside him. the man himself, of whom nothing but the skull, surrounded by a fringe of gray hairs, was visible, was dressed in a shabby fustian jacket, without any species of linen or garment beneath it, and an old pair of cloth trousers, while his worn-out slippers scarcely concealed the blue, cold feet they partially covered, from resting solely on the damp, shiny floor; and so bitter, so freezing, was the sharp winter wind which freely entered into this scarcely human dwelling, that, spite of the weariness and exhaustion of the overworked artisan, his frame shuddered and shivered with involuntary frequency. the length of the wick of the unsnuffed candle bespoke the length of time even this uneasy slumber must have lasted, and no sound save his troubled and irregular breathing broke the deathlike silence that prevailed; for, alas! the other occupants of this mean abode were not so fortunate as to be able to forget their sufferings in sleep. yet this narrow, pent-up, unwholesome spot contained no less than seven other persons,--five children, the youngest of whom was four years of age, the eldest twelve, a sick and declining wife, with an aged grandmother, the parent of morel's wife, now in her eightieth year, and an idiot! the cold must have been intense, indeed, when the natural warmth of so many persons, so closely packed together in so small a place, could not in any way affect the freezing atmosphere; it was evident, therefore, to speak scientifically, that but little caloric was given out by the poor, weak, emaciated, shivering creatures, all suffering and almost expiring with cold and hunger, from the puny infant to the idiotic old grandmother. with the exception of the father of the family, who had temporarily yielded to the aching of his heavy eyelids, no other creature slept,--no other; because cold, starvation, and sickness will not allow so sweet an enjoyment as the closing the eyes in peaceful rest. little does the world believe how rarely comes that sound, healthful, and refreshing slumber to the poor man's pillow, which at once invigorates the mind and body, and sends the willing labourer back to his toil refreshed and recruited by the blessing of a beneficent creator. to taste of nature's sweet, refreshing, balmy sleep, sickness, sorrow, poverty, and mental disquietude must not share the humble pallet. in contrasting the deep misery of the poor artisan, with whose woes we are now occupying the reader, with the immense value of the jewelry confided to him, we are struck by one of those comparisons which afflict while they elevate the mind. with the distracting spectacle of his family's want and wretchedness, embracing a wide field from cold and hunger to drivelling idiocy, constantly before his eyes, this man, in the pursuance of his daily labour, is compelled to touch and handle and gaze upon bright and sparkling gems, the smallest of which would be a mine of wealth to him, and save those dearest to him from sufferings and privations which wring his very heart; would snatch them from the slow and lingering death which is consuming them before his eyes. yet, amid all these trials and temptations, the artisan remains firmly, truly, and unflinchingly honest, and would no more appropriate one of the glittering stones entrusted to him than he would satisfy his hunger at the expense of his starving babes. doubtless the man but performed his duty to his employer,--his simple duty; but because it is enjoined to all to be honest and faithful in that which is committed to them, does that render the action itself less noble, magnanimous, or praiseworthy? is not this unfortunate artisan, so courageously, so bravely upright and honest while entrusted with the property of another, the type and model of an immense class of working people, who, doomed to a life of continual poverty and privation, see, with calm, patient looks, thousands of their brethren rolling in splendour and abounding in riches, yet they toil on, resigned and unenvying, but still industriously striving for bread their hardest efforts cannot always procure? and is there not something consolatory, as well as gratifying to our feelings, to consider that it is neither force nor terror, but good natural sense and a right mind which alone restrain this formidable ocean, this heaving mass, whose bounds once broken, a moral inundation would ensue, in which society itself would be swallowed up? shall we, then, refuse to cooperate with all the powers of our mind and body with those generous and enlightened spirits, who ask but a little sunshine for so much misfortune, courage, and resignation? * * * * * let us now return to the, alas! too true specimen of distressing want we shall endeavour to describe in all its fearful and startling reality. the lapidary possessed only a thin mattress and a portion of a blanket appropriated to the old grandmother, who, in her stupid and ferocious selfishness, would not allow any person to share them with her. in the beginning of the winter she had become quite violent, and had even attempted to strangle the youngest child, who had been put to sleep with her. this poor infant was a sickly little creature, of about four years old, now far gone in consumption, and who found it too cold inside the mattress, where she slept with her brothers and sisters. hereafter we shall explain this mode of sleeping so frequently employed by the very poor, in comparison with whom the very animals are treated luxuriously, for their litter is changed. such was the picture presented in the humble garret of the poor lapidary, when the eye was enabled to pierce the gloomy penumbra caused by the flickering rays of the candle. by the side of the partition wall, not less damp and cracked than the others, was placed on the floor the mattress on which the idiot grandmother reposed; as she could not bear anything on her head, her white hair was cut very short, and revealed the shape of her head and flat forehead; while her shaggy, gray eyebrows shaded the deep orbits, from which glared a wild, savage, yet crafty look; her pale, hollow, wrinkled cheeks hung upon the bones of the face and the sharp angles of her jaws. lying upon her side, and almost doubled up, her chin nearly touching her knees, she lay, shivering with cold, beneath the gray rug, too small to cover her all over, and which, as she drew it over her shoulders, exposed her thin, emaciated legs, as well as the wretched old petticoat in which she was clad. an odour most fetid and repulsive issued from this bed. at a little distance from the mattress of the grandmother, and still extending along the side of the wall, was placed the _paillasse_ which served as a sleeping-place for the five children, who were accommodated after the following manner: an opening was made at each side of the cloth which covered the straw, and the children were inserted into this bed, or, rather, foul and noisome dunghill, the outer case serving both for sheet and counterpane. two little girls, one of whom was extremely ill, shivered on one side, and three young boys on the other, all going to bed without undressing, if, indeed, the miserable rags they wore could be termed clothes. masses of thick, dry, light hair, tangled, ragged, and uncombed, left uncut because their poor mother fancied it helped to keep them warm, half covered their pale, thin, pinched features. one of the boys drew, with his cold, benumbed fingers, the covering over their straw bed up to his chin, in order to defend himself from the cold; while another, fearful of exposing his hands to the influence of the frost, tried to grasp the bed-covering with his teeth, which rattled and shook in his head; while a third strove to huddle up to his brothers in the hopes of gaining a little warmth. the youngest of the two girls, fatally attacked by consumption, leaned her poor little face, which already bore the hue of death, languidly against the chilly bosom of her sister, a girl just one year older, who vainly sought, by pressing her in her arms, to impart comfort and ease to the little sufferer, over whom she watched with the anxious solicitude of a parent. on another _paillasse_, also placed on the ground, at the foot of that of the children, the wife of the artisan was extended, groaning in helpless exhaustion from the effects of a slow fever and an internal complaint, which had not permitted her to quit her bed for several months. madeleine morel was in her thirty-sixth year; a blue cotton handkerchief, tied round her low forehead, made the bilious pallor of her countenance and sharp, emaciated features still more conspicuous. a dark halo encircled her hollow, sunken eyes, while her lips were split and bleeding from the effects of the fever which consumed her; her dejected, grief-worn physiognomy, and small, insignificant features, indicated one of those gentle but weak natures, without resource or energy, which unable to struggle with misfortunes, yield at once, and know no remedy but vain and ceaseless lamentations and regrets. weak, spiritless, and of limited capacity, she had remained honest because her husband was so; had she been left to herself, it is probable that ignorance and misfortune might have depraved her mind and driven her to any lengths. she loved her husband and her children, but she had neither the courage nor resolution to restrain giving vent to loud and open complaints respecting their mutual misery; and frequently was the lapidary, whose unflinching labour alone maintained the family, obliged to quit his work to console and pacify the poor valetudinarian. over and above an old ragged sheet of coarse brown cloth, which partially covered his wife, morel had, in order to impart a little warmth, laid a few old clothes, so worn out, and patched and pieced, that the pawnbroker had refused to have anything to do with them. a stove, a saucepan, a damaged earthen stewpan, two or three cracked cups, scattered about on the floor, a bucket, a board to wash on, and a large stone pitcher, placed beneath the angle of the roof near the broken door, which the wind kept continually blowing to and fro, completed the whole of the family possessions. this picture of squalid misery and desolation was lighted up by the candle, whose flame, agitated by the cold northeasterly wind which found its way through the tiles on the roof, sometimes imparted a pale, unearthly light on the wretched scene, and then, playing on the heaps of diamonds and rubies lying beside the sleeping artisan, caused a thousand scintillating sparks to spring forth and dazzle the eye with their prismatic rays of brightness. although the profoundest silence reigned around, seven out of the eight unfortunate dwellers in this attic were awake; and each, from the grandmother to the youngest child, watched the sleeping lapidary with intense emotion, as their only hope, their only resource, and, in their childlike selfishness, they murmured at seeing him thus inactive and relinquishing that labour which they well knew was all they had to depend on; but with different feelings of regret and uneasiness did the lookers-on observe the slumber of the toil-worn man. the mother trembled for her children's meal; the children thought but of themselves; while the idiot neither thought of nor cared for any one. all at once she sat upright in her wretched bed, crossed her long, bony arms, yellow and dry as box-wood, on her shrivelled bosom, and kept watching the candle with twinkling eyes; then, rising slowly and stealthily, she crept along, trailing after her her old ragged coverlet, which clung around her as though it had been her winding-sheet. she was above the middle height, and her hair being so closely shaven made her head appear disproportionately small; a sort of spasmodic movement kept up a constant trembling in her thick, pendulous under-lip, while her whole countenance offered the hideous model of ferocious stupidity. slowly and cautiously the idiot approached the lapidary's work-table, like a child about to commit some forbidden act. when she reached the candle, she held her two trembling hands over the flame; and such was their skeleton-like condition, that the flickering light shone through them, imparting a pale, livid hue to her features. from her pallet madeleine morel watched every movement of the old woman, who, still warming herself over the candle, stooped her head, and with a silly kind of delight watched the sparkling of the diamonds and rubies, which lay glittering on the table. wholly absorbed in the wondrous contemplation of such bright and beautiful things, the idiot allowed her hands to fall into the flame of the candle, nor did she seem to recollect where they were till the sense of burning recalled her attention, when she manifested her pain and anger by a harsh, screaming cry. at this sound morel started, and quickly raised his head. he was about forty years of age, with an open, intelligent, and mild expression of countenance, but yet wearing the sad, dejected look of one who had been the sport of misery and misfortune till they had planted furrows in his cheeks and crushed and broken his spirit. a gray beard of many weeks' growth covered the lower part of his face, which was deeply marked by the smallpox; premature wrinkles furrowed his already bald forehead; while his red and inflamed eyelids showed the overtaxed and sleepless days and nights of toil he so courageously endured. a circumstance, but too common with such of the working class as are doomed by their occupation to remain nearly all day in one position, had warped his figure, and, acting upon a naturally feeble constitution, had produced a contraction of his whole frame. continually obliged to stoop over his work-table and to lean to the left, in order to keep his grindstone going, the lapidary, in a manner petrified, ossified in the attitude he was frequently obliged to preserve from twelve to fifteen hours a day, had acquired an habitual stoop of the shoulders, and was completely drawn on one side. so his left arm, incessantly exercised by the difficult management of the grindstone, had acquired a considerable muscular development; whilst the right arm, always inert and leaning on the table, the better to present the faces of the diamonds to the action of the grindstone, had wasted to the most extreme attenuation; his wasted limbs, almost paralysed by complete want of exercise, could scarcely support the weary, worn-out body, as though all strength, substance, and vitality had concentrated themselves in the only part called into play when toiling for the subsistence of, with himself, eight human creatures. and often would poor morel touchingly observe: "it is not for myself that i care to eat, but to give strength to the arm which turns the mill." awaking with a sudden start, the lapidary found himself directly opposite to the poor idiot. "what ails you? what is the matter, mother?" said morel; and then added, in a lower tone, for fear of awaking the family, whom he hoped and believed were asleep, "go back to bed, mother; madeleine and the children are asleep!" "no, father," cried the eldest of the little girls, "i am awake; i am trying to warm poor little adèle." "and i am too hungry to go to sleep," added one of the boys; "it was not my turn to-night to have supper with mlle. rigolette." "poor things!" said morel, sorrowfully; "i thought you were asleep--at least--" "i was afraid of awaking you, morel," said the wife, "or i should have begged of you to give me a drink of water; i am devoured with thirst! my feverish fit has come on again!" "i will directly," said the lapidary; "only let me first get mother back to bed. come! come! what are you meddling with those stones for? let them alone, i say!" cried he to the old woman, whose whole attention seemed riveted upon a splendid ruby, the bright scintillations of which had so charmed the poor idiot that she was trying by every possible means to gain possession of it. "there's a pretty thing! there, there!" replied the woman, pointing with vehement gestures to the prize she so ardently coveted. "i shall be angry in a few minutes," exclaimed morel, speaking in a loud voice to terrify his mother-in-law into submission, and gently pushing back the hand she advanced to seize her desired treasure. "oh, morel! morel!" murmured madeleine, "i am parching, dying with thirst. how can you be so cruel as to refuse me a little water?" "but how can i at present? i must not allow mother to meddle with these stones,--perhaps to lose me a diamond, as she did a year ago; and god alone knows the wretchedness and misery it cost us,--ay, may still occasion us. ah, that unfortunate loss of the diamond, what have we not suffered by it!" as the poor lapidary uttered these words, he passed his hand over his aching brow with a desponding air, and said to one of the children: "felix, give your mother something to drink. you are awake, and can attend to her." "no, no," exclaimed madeleine; "he will take cold. i will wait." "oh, mother," said the boy, rising, "never mind me. i shall be quite as warm up as i am in this _paillasse_." "come, will you let the things alone?" cried morel, in a threatening tone, to the idiot woman, who kept bending over the precious stones and trying to seize them, spite of all his efforts to move her from the table. "mother," called out felix, "what shall i do? the water in the pitcher is frozen quite hard." "then break the ice," murmured madeleine. "it is so thick, i can't," answered the boy. "morel!" exclaimed madeleine, in a querulous and impatient tone, "since there is nothing but water for me to drink, let me at least have a draught of that! you are letting me die with thirst!" "god of heaven grant me patience!" cried the unfortunate man. "how can i leave your mother to lose and destroy these stones? pray let me manage her first." but the lapidary found it no easy matter to get rid of the idiot, who, beginning to feel irritated at the constant opposition she met with, gave utterance to her displeasure in a sort of hideous growl. "call her, wife!" said morel. "she will attend to you sometimes." "mother! mother!" called madeleine, "go to bed, and be good, and then you shall have some of that nice coffee you are so fond of!" "i want that! and that! there! there!" replied the idiot, making a desperate effort this time to possess herself of a heap of rubies she particularly coveted. morel firmly, but gently, repulsed her,--all in vain; with pertinacious obstinacy the old woman kept struggling to break from his grasp, and snatch the bright gems, on which she kept her eyes fixed with eager fondness. "you will never manage her," said madeleine, "unless you frighten her with the whip; there is no other means of making her quiet." "i am afraid not," returned morel; "but, though she has no sense, it yet goes to my heart to be obliged to threaten an old woman, like her, with the whip." then, addressing the old woman, who was trying to bite him, and whom he was holding back with one hand, he said, in a loud and terrible voice: "take care; you'll have the whip on your shoulders if you don't make haste to bed this very instant!" these menaces were equally vain with his former efforts to subdue her. morel then took a whip which lay beside his work-table, and, cracking it violently, said: "get to bed with you directly! get to bed!" as the loud noise of the whip saluted the ear of the idiot, she hurried away from the lapidary's work-table, then, suddenly turning around, she uttered low, grumbling sounds between her clenched teeth; while she surveyed her son-in-law with looks of the deepest hatred. "to bed! to bed, i say!" continued he, still advancing, and feigning to raise his whip with the intention of striking; while the idiot, holding her fist towards her son-in-law, retreated backwards to her wretched couch. the lapidary, anxious to terminate this painful scene, that he might be at liberty to attend to his sick wife, kept still advancing towards the idiot woman, brandishing and cracking his whip, though without allowing it to touch the unhappy creature, repeatedly exclaiming, "to bed! to bed,--directly! do you hear?" the old woman, now thoroughly conquered, and fully believing in the reality of the threats held out, began to howl most hideously; and crawling into her bed, like a dog to his kennel, she kept up a continued series of cries, screams, and yells, while the frightened children, believing their poor old grandmother had actually been beaten, began crying piteously, exclaiming, "don't beat poor granny, father! pray don't flog granny!" it is wholly impossible to describe the fearful effect of these nocturnal horrors, in which were mingled, in one turmoil of sounds, the supplicating cries of the children, the furious yellings of the idiot, and the wailing complaints of the lapidary's sick wife. to poor morel such scenes as this were but too frequent. still, upon the present occasion, his patience and courage seemed utterly to forsake him; and, throwing down the whip upon his work-table, he exclaimed, in bitter despair, "oh, what a life! what a life!" "is it my fault if my mother is an idiot?" asked madeleine, weeping. "is it mine, then?" replied morel. "all i ask for is peace and quiet enough to allow me to work myself to death for you all. god knows i labour alike night and day! yet i complain not. and, as long as my strength holds out, i will exert myself to the utmost; but it is quite impossible for me to attend to my business, and be at once a keeper to a mad woman and a nurse to sick people and young children. and heaven is unjust to put it upon me,--yes, i say unjust! it is too much misery to heap on one man," added morel, in a tone bordering on distraction. so saying, the heart-broken lapidary threw himself on his stool, and covered his face with his hands. "can i help the people at the hospital having refused to receive my mother, because she was not raving mad?" asked madeleine, in a low, peevish, and complaining voice. "what can i do to alter it? what is the use of your grumbling to me about my mother? and, if you fret ever so much about what neither you nor i can alter, what good will that do?" "none at all," rejoined the artisan, hastily brushing the large bitter drops despair had driven to his eyes; "none whatever,--you are right; but when everything goes against you, it is difficult to know what to do or say." "gracious father!" cried madeleine; "what an agony of thirst i am enduring! my lips are parched with the fever which is consuming me, and yet i shiver as though death were on me!" "wait one instant, and i will give you some drink!" so saying, morel took the pitcher which stood beneath the roof, and, after having with difficulty broken the ice which covered the water, he filled a cup with the frozen liquid, and brought it to the bedside of his wife, who stretched forth her impatient hands to receive it; but, after a moment's reflection, he said, "no, no, i must not let you have it cold as this; in your present state of fever it would be dangerous." "so much the better if it be dangerous! quick, quick--give it me!" cried madeleine, with bitterness; "it will the sooner end my misery, and free you from such an incumbrance as i am; then you will only have to look after mad folks and young children,--there will be no sick-nurse to take up your time." "why do you say such hard words to me, madeleine?" asked morel, mournfully; "you know i do not deserve them. pray do not add to my vexations, for i have scarcely strength or reason enough left to go on with my work; my head feels as though something were amiss with it, and i fear much my brain will give way,--and then what would become of you all? 'tis for you i speak; were there only myself, i should trouble very little about to-morrow,--thank heaven, the river flows for every one!" "poor morel!" said madeleine, deeply affected. "i was very wrong to speak so angrily to you, and to say i knew you would be glad to get rid of me. pray forgive me, for indeed i did not mean any harm; for, after all, what use am i either to you or the children? for the last sixteen months i have kept my bed! gracious god! what i do suffer with thirst! for pity's sake, husband, give me something to moisten my burning lips!" "you shall have it directly; i was trying to warm the cup between my hands." "how good you are! and yet i could say such wicked things to you!" "my poor wife, you are ill and in pain, and that makes you impatient; say anything you like to me, but pray never tell me again i wish to get rid of you!" "but what good am i to any one? what good are our children? none whatever; on the contrary, they heap more toil upon you than you can bear." "true; yet you see that my love for them and you has endued me with strength and resolution to work frequently twenty hours out of the twenty-four, till my body is bent and deformed by such incessant labour. do you believe for one instant that i would thus toil and struggle on my own account? oh, no! life has no such charms for me; and if i were the only sufferer, i would quickly put an end to it." "and so would i," said madeleine. "god knows, but for the children i should have said to you, long ago, 'morel, we have had more than enough to weary us of our lives; there is nothing left but to finish our misery by the help of a pan of charcoal!' but then i recollected the poor, dear, helpless children, and my heart would not let me leave them, alone and unprotected, to starve by themselves." "well, then, you see, wife, that the children are, after all, of real good to us, since they prevent us giving way to despair, and serve as a motive for exerting ourselves," replied morel, with ready ingenuity, yet perfect simplicity of tone and manner. "now, then, take your drink, but only swallow a little at a time, for it is very cold still." "oh, thank you, morel!" cried madeleine, snatching the cup, and drinking it eagerly. "enough! enough! no more! you shall not have any more just now, madeleine." "gracious heaven!" exclaimed madeleine, giving back the cup, "how cold it seems now i have swallowed it,--it has brought back those dreadful shiverings!" "alas!" ejaculated morel, "i told you so,--ah, now you are quite ill again!" "i have not strength even to tremble,--i seem as though i were covered over with ice." morel took off his jacket, and laid it over his wife's feet, remaining quite naked down to his waist,--the unhappy man did not possess a shirt. "but you will be frozen to death, morel!" "never mind me; if i find it cold by and by, i will put my jacket on for a few minutes." "poor fellow!" sighed madeleine. "ah, as you say, heaven is not just! what have we done to be so wretched, while so many others--" "every one has their troubles,--some more, some less,--the great as well as the small." "yes; but great people know nothing of the gnawings of hunger, or the bitter pinching of the cold. why, when i look on those diamonds, and remember that the smallest amongst them would place us and the poor children in ease and comfort, my heart sickens, and i ask myself why it is some should have so much, and others nothing? and what good are these diamonds, after all, to their owners?" "why, if we were to go to the question of what half the luxuries of life are really good for, we might go a great way; for instance, what is the good of that grand gentleman madame pipelet calls the commandant having engaged and furnished the first floor of this house, when he seldom enters it? what use is it his having there good beds, and warm covering to them, since he never sleeps in them?" "very true; there is more furniture lying idle there than would supply two or three poor families like ours. and then madame pipelet lights a fire every day, to preserve the things from the damp. only think of so much comfortable warmth being lost, while we and the children are almost frozen to death! but then, you will say, we are not articles of value; no, indeed, we are not. oh, these rich folks, what hard hearts they have!" "not harder than other people's, madeleine; but then, you see, they do not know what misery or want are. they are born rich and happy, they live and die so. how, then, do you expect they can ever think such poor distressed beings exist in a world which to them is all happiness? no! i tell you, they have no idea of such things as fellow creatures toiling beyond their strength for food, and perishing at last with hunger! how is it possible for them to imagine privations like ours? the greater their hunger, the greater enjoyment of their abundant meal. is the weather severe, or the cold intense, they call it a fine frost, a healthful, bracing season. if they walk out, they return to a glowing, cheerful fire, which the cold only makes them relish the more; so that they can scarcely be expected to sympathise with such as are said to suffer from cold and hunger, when those two things rather add to than diminish their pleasure." "ah, poor folks are better than rich, since they can feel for each other, and are always ready and willing to assist each other as much as lies in their power. look at that kind, good mlle. rigolette, who has so often sat up all night, either with me or the children, during our illness. why, last night she took jérome and pierre into her room, to share her supper, and it was not much, either, she had for herself,--only a cup of milk and some bread; at her age, all young people have good appetites, and she must have deprived herself to give to the children." "poor girl! she is indeed most kind,--and why is she so? because she knows what poverty is. as i said to you just now, if the rich only knew--" "and then that nice-looking lady who came, seeming so frightened all the while, to ask us if we wanted anything. well, now she knows that we do want everything, will she ever come again, think you?" "i dare say she will; for, spite of her uneasy and terrified looks, she seemed very good and kind." "oh, yes; if a person be but rich, they are always right in your opinion. one might almost suppose that rich folks are made of different materials to poor creatures like us." "stop, wife!" said morel, gently; "you are getting on too fast. i did not say that; on the contrary, i agree that rich people have as many faults as poor ones; all i mean is, that, unfortunately, they are not aware of the wretchedness of one-half of the world. agents in plenty are employed to hunt out poor wretches who have committed any crime, but there are no paid agents to find out half-starving families and honest artisans, worn-out with toil and privations, who, driven to the last extremity of distress, are, for want of a little timely succour, led into sore temptation. it is quite right to punish evil-doers; it would, perhaps, be better still to prevent ill deeds. a man may have striven hard to remain honest for fifty years; but want, misery, and utter destitution put bad thoughts in his head, and one rascal more is let loose on the world; whilst there are many who, if they had but known of his distressed condition--however, it is no use talking of that,--the world is as it is: i am poor and wretched, and therefore i speak as i do; were i rich, my talk would be of fêtes, and happy days, and worldly engagements--and how do you find yourself now, wife?" "much the same; i seem to have lost all feeling in my limbs. but how you shiver! here, take your jacket, and pray put it on. blow out that candle, which is burning uselessly,--see, it is nearly day!" and, true enough, a faint, glimmering light began to struggle through the snow with which the skylight was encumbered, and cast a dismal ray on the interior of this deplorable human abode, rendering its squalidness still more apparent; the shade of night had at least concealed a part of its horrors. "i shall wait now for the daylight before i go back to work," said the lapidary, seating himself beside his wife's _paillasse_, and leaning his forehead upon his two hands. after a short interval of silence, madeleine said: "when is madame mathieu to come for the stones you are at work upon?" "this morning. i have only the side of one false diamond to polish." "a false diamond! how is that?--you who only make up real stones, whatever the people in the house may believe." "don't you know? but i forgot, you were asleep the other day when madame mathieu came about them. well, then, she brought me ten false diamonds--rhine crystals--to cut exactly to the same size and form as the like number of real diamonds she also brought. there, those are them mixed with the rubies on my table. i think i never saw more splendid stones, or of purer water, than those ten diamonds, which must, at least, be worth , francs." "and why did she wish them imitated?" "because a great lady to whom they belonged--a duchess, i think she said--had given directions to m. baudoin, the jeweller, to dispose of her set of diamonds, and to make her one of false stones to replace it. madame mathieu, who matches stones for m. baudoin, explained this to me, when she gave me the real diamonds, in order that i might be quite sure to cut the false ones to precisely the same size and form. madame mathieu gave a similar job to four other lapidaries, for there are from forty to fifty stones to cut; and i could not do them all, as they were required by this morning, because m. baudoin must have time to set the false gems. madame mathieu says that grand ladies, very frequently unknown to anybody but the jeweller, sell their valuable diamonds, and replace them with rhenish crystals." "why, don't you see, the mock stones look every bit as well as the real stones? yet great ladies, who only use such things as ornaments, would never think of sacrificing one of their diamonds to relieve the distress of such unfortunate beings as we are." "come, come, wife! be more reasonable than this; sorrow makes you unjust. who do you think knows that such people as morel and his family are in existence, still less that they are in want?" "oh, what a man you are, morel! i really believe, if any one were to cut you in pieces, that, while they were doing it, you would try to say, 'thank you!'" morel compassionately shrugged his shoulders. "and how much will madame mathieu owe you this morning?" asked madeleine. "nothing; because you know i have already had an advance of francs." "nothing! why, our last sou went the day before yesterday. we have not a single farthing belonging to us!" "alas, no!" cried morel, with a dejected air. "well, then, what are we to do?" "i know not." "the baker refuses to let us have anything more on credit,--will he?" "no; and i was obliged yesterday to beg madame pipelet to lend me part of a loaf." "can we borrow anything more of mother burette?" "she has already every article belonging to us in pledge. what have we to offer her to lend more money on,--our children?" asked morel, with a smile of bitterness. "but yourself, my mother, and all the children had but part of a loaf among you all yesterday. you cannot go on in this way; you will be starved to death. it is all your fault that we are not on the books of the charitable institution this year." "they will not admit any persons without they possess furniture, or some such property; and you know we have nothing in the world. we are looked upon as though we lived in furnished apartments, and, consequently, ineligible. just the same if we tried to get into any asylum, the children are required to have at least a blouse, while our poor things have only rags. then, as to the charitable societies, one must go backwards and forwards twenty times before we should obtain relief; and then what would it be? why, a loaf once a month, and half a pound of meat once a fortnight.[ ] i should lose more time than it would be worth." [ ] such is the ordinary allowance made at charitable societies, in consequence of the vast number of applicants for relief. "but, still, what are we to do?" "perhaps the lady who came yesterday will not forget us!" "perhaps not. but don't you think madame mathieu would lend us four or five francs, just to keep us from starving? you have worked for her upwards of ten years; and surely she will not see an honest workman like you, burthened with a large and sickly family, perish for want of a little assistance like that?" "i do not think it is in her power to aid us. she did all in her power when she advanced me little by little francs. that is a large sum for her. because she buys diamonds, and has sometimes , francs in her reticule, she is not the more rich for that. if she gains francs a month, she is well content, for she has heavy expenses,--two nieces to bring up; and five francs is as much to her as it would be to me. there are times when one does not possess that sum, you know; and being already so deeply in her debt, i could not ask her to take bread from her own mouth and that of her family to give it to me." "this comes of working for mere agents in jewelry, instead of procuring employment from first-hand master jewellers. they are sometimes less particular. but you are such a poor, easy creature, you would almost let any one take the eyes out of your head. it is all your fault that--" "my fault!" exclaimed the unhappy man, exasperated by this absurd reproach. "was it or was it not your mother who occasioned all our misfortunes, by compelling me to make good the price of the diamond she lost? but for that we should be beforehand with the world; we should receive the amount of my daily earnings; we should have the , francs in our possession we were obliged to draw out of the savings-bank to put to the , francs lent us by m. jacques ferrand. may every curse light on him!" "and you still persist in not asking him to help you? certainly he is so stingy that i daresay he would do nothing for you; but then it is right to try. you cannot know without you do try." "ask him to help me!" cried morel. "ask him! i had rather be burnt before a slow fire. hark ye, madeleine! unless you wish to drive me mad, mention that man's name no more to me." as he uttered these words, the usually mild, resigned expression of the lapidary's countenance was exchanged for a look of gloomy energy, while a slight suffusion coloured the ordinarily pale features of the agitated man, as, rising abruptly from the pallet beside which he had been sitting, he began to pace the miserable apartment with hurried steps; and, spite of the deformed and attenuated appearance of poor morel, his attitude and action bespoke the noblest, purest indignation. "i am not ill-disposed towards any man," cried he, at length, pausing of a sudden; "and never, to my knowledge, harmed a human being. but, i tell you, when i think of this notary, i wish him--ah! i wish him--as much wretchedness as he has caused me." then pressing both hands to his forehead, he murmured, in a mournful tone: "just god! what crime have i committed that a hard fate should deliver me and mine, tied hand and foot, into the power of such a hypocrite? have his riches been given him only to worry, harass, and destroy those his bad passions lead him to persecute, injure, and corrupt?" "that's right! that's right!" said madeleine; "go on abusing him. you will have done yourself a great deal of good, shall you not, when he puts you in prison, as he can do any day, for that promissory note of , francs on which he obtained judgment against you? he holds you fast as a bird at the end of a string. i hate this notary as badly as you do; but since we are so completely in his power, why you should--" "let him ruin and dishonour my child, i suppose?" burst from the pale lips of the lapidary, with violent and impatient energy. "for heaven's sake, morel, don't speak so loud; the children are awake, and will hear you." "pooh, pooh!" returned morel, with bitter irony; "it will serve as a fine example for our two little girls. it will instruct them to expect that, one of these days, some villain or other like the notary may take a fancy to them,--perhaps the same man; and then, i suppose, you would tell me, as now, to be careful how i offended him, since he had me in his power. you say, if i displease him, he can put me in prison. now, tell the truth: you advise me, then, to leave my daughter at his mercy, do you not?" and then, passing from the extreme of rage at the idea of all the wickedness practised by the notary to tender recollections of his child, the unhappy man burst into a sort of convulsive weeping, mingled with deep and heavy sobs, for his kindly nature could not long sustain the tone of sarcastic indignation he had assumed. "oh, my children!" cried he, with bitter grief; "my poor children! my good, my beautiful, too--too beautiful louise! 'tis from those rich gifts of nature all our troubles proceeded. had you been less lovely, that man would never have pressed his money upon me. i am honest and hard-working; and if the jeweller had given me time, i should never have been under the obligation to the old monster, of which he avails himself to seek to dishonour my child. i should not then have left her a single hour within his power; but i dare not remove her,--i dare not! for am i not at his mercy? oh, want! oh, misery! what insults do they not make us endure!" "but what can you do?" asked madeleine. "you know he threatens louise that if she quits him he will put you in prison directly." "oh, yes! he dares address her as though she were the very vilest of creatures." "well, you must not mind that; for should she leave the notary, there is no doubt he would instantly throw you into prison, and then what would become of me, with these five helpless creatures and my mother? suppose louise did earn twenty francs a month in another place, do you think seven persons can live on that?" "and so that we may live, louise is to be disgraced and left to ruin?" "you always make things out worse than they are. it is true the notary makes offers of love to louise; she has told us so repeatedly. but then you know what a good girl she is; she would never listen to him." "she is good, indeed; and so right-minded, active, and industrious! when, seeing how badly we were off in consequence of your long illness, she insisted upon going to service that she might not be a burthen to us, did i not say what it cost me to part with her? to think of my sweet louise being subjected to all the harshness and humiliation of a servant's life,--she who was naturally so proud that we used jokingly--ah, we could joke then!--to call her the princess, because she always said that, by dint of care and cleanliness, she would make our little home like a palace! dear louise! it would have been my greatest happiness to have kept her with me, though i had worked all day and all night too. and when i saw her blooming face, with her bright eyes glancing at me as she sat beside my work-table, my labour always seemed lightened; and when she sung like a bird those little songs she knew i liked to hear, i used to fancy myself the happiest father alive. poor dear louise! so hard-working, yet always so gay and lively! why, she could even manage your mother, and make her do whatever she wished. but i defy any one to resist her sweet words or winning smile. and how she watched over and waited upon you! what pains she would take to try and divert you from thinking of what you suffered! and how tenderly she looked after her little brothers and sisters, finding time for everything! ah, with our louise all our joy and happiness--all--all--left us!" "don't go on so, morel. don't remind me of all these things, or you will break my heart," cried madeleine, weeping bitterly. "and, then, when i think that perhaps that old monster--do you know, when that idea flashes across my brain, my senses seem disturbed, and i have but one thought, that of first killing him and then killing myself?" "what would become of all of us if you were to do so? besides, i tell you again, you make things worse than they really are. i dare say the notary was only joking with louise. he is such a pious man, and goes so regularly to mass every sunday, and only keeps company with priests folks say. why, many people think that he is safer to place money with than the bank itself." "well, and what does all that prove? merely that he is a rich hypocrite, instead of a poor one. i know well enough what a good girl louise is; but then she loves us so tenderly that it breaks her heart to see the want and wretchedness we are in. she knows well enough that if anything were to happen to me you would all perish with hunger; and by threatening to put me into prison he might work on the dear child's mind,--like a villain as he is,--and persuade her, on our account! o, god, my brain burns! i feel as though i were going mad." "but, morel, if ever that were the case, the notary would be sure to make her a great number of fine presents or money, and, i am sure, she would not have kept them all to herself. she would certainly have brought part to us." "silence, woman! let me hear no more such words escape your lips. louise touch the wages of infamy! my good, my virtuous girl, accept such foul gifts! oh, wife!" "not for herself, certainly. but to bring to us perhaps she would--" "madeleine," exclaimed morel, excited almost to frenzy, "again, i say, let me not hear such language from your lips; you make me shudder. heaven only knows what you and the children also would become were i taken away, if such are your principles." "why, what harm did i say?" "oh, none." "then what makes you uneasy about louise?" the lapidary impatiently interrupted his wife by saying: "because i have noticed for the last three months that, whenever louise comes to see us, she seems embarrassed, and even confused. when i take her in my arms and embrace her, as i have been used to do from her birth, she blushes." "ah, that is with delight at seeing you, or from shame." "she seems sadder and more dejected, too, each visit she pays us." "because she finds our misery constantly increasing. besides, when i spoke to her concerning the notary, she told me he had quite ceased his threats of putting you in prison." "but did she tell you the price she has paid to induce him to lay aside his threats? she did not tell you that, i dare say, did she? ah, a father's eye is not to be deceived; and her blushes and embarrassments, when giving me her usual kiss, make me dread i know not what. why, would it not be an atrocious thing to say to a poor girl, whose bread depended on her employer's word, 'either sacrifice your virtuous principles, and become what i would have you, or quit my house? and if any one should inquire of me respecting the character you have with me, i shall speak of you in such terms that no one will take you into their service.' well, then, how much worse is it to frighten a fond and affectionate child into surrendering her innocence, by threatening to put her father into prison if she refused, when the brute knows that upon the labour of that father a whole family depends? surely the earth contains nothing more infamous, more fiendlike, than such conduct." "ah," replied madeleine, "and then only to think that with the value of one, only one of those diamonds now lying on your table, we might pay the notary all we owe him, and so take louise out of his power and keep her at home with us. don't you see, husband?" "what is the use of your repeating the same thing over and over again? you might just as well tell me that if i were rich i should not be poor," answered morel, with sorrowful impatience. for such was the innate and almost constitutional honesty of this man, that it never once occurred to him that his weak-minded partner, bowed down and irritated by long suffering and want, could ever have conceived the idea of tempting him to a dishonourable appropriation of that which belonged to another. with a heavy sigh, the unfortunate man resigned himself to his hard fate. "thrice happy those parents who can retain their innocent children beneath the paternal roof, and defend them from the thousand snares laid to entrap their unsuspecting youth. but who is there to watch over the safety of the poor girl condemned at an early age to seek employment from home? alas, no one! directly she is capable of adding her mite to the family earnings, she leaves her dwelling at an early hour, and repairs to the manufactory where she may happen to be engaged. meanwhile, both father and mother are too busily employed to have leisure to attend to their daughter's comings or goings. 'our time is our stock in trade,' cry they, 'and bread is too dear to enable us to lay aside our work while we look after our children.' and then there is an outcry raised as to the quantity of depraved females constantly to be met with, and of the impropriety of conduct among those of the lower orders, wholly forgetting that the parents have neither the means of keeping them at home, nor of watching over their morals when away from them." thus mentally moralised morel. then, speaking aloud, he added: "after all, our greatest privation is when forced to quit our parents, wives, or children. it is to the poor that family affection is most comforting and beneficial. yet, directly our children grow up, and are capable of becoming our dearest companions, we are forced to part with them." at this moment some one knocked loudly at the door. chapter xiii. judgment and execution. the lapidary, much astonished, rose and opened the door. two men entered the garret. one, tall, lanky, with an ill-favoured and pimply face, shaded by thick grizzly whiskers, held in his hand a thick cane, loaded at the head; he wore a battered hat, and a long-tailed and bespattered green coat, buttoned up close to his throat. above the threadbare velvet collar was displayed his long neck, red and bald like that of a vulture. this man's name was malicorne. the other was a shorter man, with a look as low-lived, and red, fat, puffed features, dressed with a great effort at ridiculous splendour. shiny buttons were in the folds of the front of his shirt, whose cleanliness was most suspicious, and a long chain of mosaic gold serpentined down a faded plaid waistcoat, which was seen beneath his seedy chesterfield, of a yellowish gray colour. this gentleman's name was bourdin. "how poverty-stricken this hole smells," said malicorne, pausing on the threshold. "why, it does not scent of lavender-water. confound it, but we have a lowish customer to deal with," responded bourdin, with a gesture of disgust and contempt, and then advanced towards the artisan, who was looking at him with as much surprise as indignation. through the door, left a little ajar, might be seen the villainous, watchful, and cunning face of the young scamp tortillard, who, having followed these strangers unknown to them, was sneaking after, spying, and listening to them. "what do you want?" inquired the lapidary, abruptly, disgusted at the coarseness of these fellows. "jérome morel?" said bourdin. "i am he!" "working lapidary?" "yes." "you are quite sure?" "quite sure. but you are troublesome, so tell me at once your business, or leave the room." "really, your politeness is remarkable! much obliged! i say, malicorne," said the man, turning to his comrade, "there's not so much fat to cut at here as there was at that 'ere viscount de saint-rémy's." "i believe you; but when there is fat, why the door's kept shut in your face, as we found in the rue de chaillot. the bird had hopped the twig, and precious quick, too, whilst such vermin as these hold on to their cribs like a snail to his shell." "i believe you; well, the stone jug just suits such individuals." "the sufferer (creditor) must be a good fellow, for it will cost him more than it's worth; but that's his lookout." "if," said morel, angrily, "you were not drunk, as you seem to be, i should be angry with you. leave this apartment instantly!" "ha! ha! he's a fine fellow with his elegant curve," said bourdin, making an insulting allusion to the contorted figure of the poor lapidary. "i say, malicorne, he has cheek enough to call this an apartment,--a hole in which i would not put my dog." "oh, dear! oh, dear!" exclaimed madeleine, who had been so frightened that she could not say a word before. "call for assistance; perhaps they are rogues. take care of your diamonds!" and, seeing these two ill-looking strangers come closer to his working-bench, on which his precious stones were still lying, morel, fearful of some evil intentions, ran towards the table, and covered the jewels with his two hands. tortillard, still on the watch, caught at madeleine's words, observed the movement of the artisan, and said to himself: "ha! ha! ha! so they said he was a lapidary of sham stones; if they were mock he would not be afraid of being robbed; this is a good thing to know. so mother mathieu, who comes here so often, is a matcher of _real_ stones, after all, and has real diamonds in her basket; this is a good thing to know, and i'll tell the chouette," added bras rouge's brat. "if you do not leave this room, i will call in the guard," said morel. the children, alarmed at this scene, began to cry, and the idiotic mother sat up in her bed. "if any one has a right to call for the guard, it is we, you mister twistabout," said bourdin. "and the guard would lend us a hand to carry you off to gaol if you resist," added malicorne. "we have not the magistrate with us, it is true; but if you have any wish for his company, we'll find you one, just out of bed, hot and heavy; bourdin will go and fetch him." "to prison! me?" exclaimed morel, struck with dismay. "yes, to clichy." "to clichy?" repeated the artisan, with an air of despair. "it seems a hardish pill," said malicorne. "well, then, to the debtors' jail, if you like that better," said bourdin. "you--what--indeed--why--the notary--ah, _mon dieu_!" and the workman, pale as death, fell on his stool, unable to add another word. "we are bound bailiffs, come to lay hold of you; now are you fly?" "morel, it is the note of louise's master! we are undone!" exclaimed madeleine, in a tone of agony. "hear the judgment," said malicorne, taking from his dirty and crammed pocketbook a stamped writ. after having skimmed over, according to custom, a part of this document in an unintelligible tone, he distinctly articulated the last words, which were, unfortunately, but too important to the artisan: "judgment finally given. the tribunal condemns jérome morel to pay to pierre petit-jean, merchant,[ ] by every available means, even to the arrest of body, the sum of , francs, with interest from the day of protest, and to pay all other and extra costs. given and judged at paris, september, etc., etc." [ ] the cunning notary, unable to prosecute in his own name, had made the unfortunate morel give a blank acceptance, and had filled up the note of hand with the name of a third party. "and louise! louise!" cried morel, almost distracted in his brain, and apparently unheeding the long preamble which had just been read. "where is louise, then, for, doubtless, she has quitted the notary, since he sends me to prison? my child! my louise! what has become of you?" "who the devil is louise?" asked bourdin. "let him alone!" replied malicorne, brutally; "don't you see the respectable old twaddler is not right in his nonsense-box?" then, approaching morel, he added: "i say, my fine fellow, right about file! march on! let us get out of here, will you, and have a little fresh air. you stink enough to poison a cat in this here hole!" "morel!" shrieked madeleine, wildly, "don't go! kill those wretches! oh, you coward, not to knock them down! what! are you going to let them take you away? are you going to abandon us all?" "pray don't put yourself out of the way, ma'am," said bourdin, with an ironical grin. "i've only just got to remark that if your good man lays his little finger on me, why i'll make him remember it," continued he, swinging his loaded stick round and round. entirely occupied with thoughts of louise, morel scarcely heard a word of what was passing. all at once an expression of bitter satisfaction passed over his countenance, as he said: "louise has doubtless left the notary's house; now i shall go to prison willingly." then, casting a troubled look around him, he exclaimed: "but my wife! her mother! the children! who will provide for them? no one will trust me with stones to work at in prison, for it will be supposed my bad conduct has sent me there. does this hard-hearted notary wish the destruction of myself and all my family also?" "once, twice, old chap," said bourdin, "will you stop your gammon? you are enough to bore a man to death. come, put on your things, and let us be off." "good gentlemen, kind gentlemen," cried madeleine, from her sick-bed, "pray forgive what i said just now! surely you will not be so cruel as to take my husband away; what will become of me and my five poor children, and my old mother, who is an idiot? there she lies; you see her, poor old creature, huddled up on her mattress; she is quite out of her senses, my good gentlemen; she is, indeed, quite mad!" "la! what, that old bald-headed thing a woman? well, hang me if that ain't enough to astonish a man!" "i'll be hanged if it isn't, then!" cried the other bailiff, bursting into a horse-laugh; "why, i took it for something tied up in an old sack. look! her old head is shaved quite close; it seems as though she had got a white skull-cap on." "go, children, and kneel down, and beg of these good gentlemen not to take away your poor father, our only support," said madeleine, anxious by a last effort to touch the hearts of the bailiffs. but, spite of their mother's orders, the terrified children remained weeping on their miserable mattress. at the unusual noise which prevailed, added to the aspect of two strange men in the room, the poor idiot turned herself towards the wall, as though striving to hide from them, uttering all the time the most discordant cries and moans. morel, meanwhile, appeared unconscious of all that was going on; this last stroke of fate had been so frightful and unexpected, and the consequences of his arrest were so dreadful, that his mind seemed almost unequal to understanding its reality. worn out by all manner of privations, and exhausted by over-toil, his strength utterly forsook him, and he remained seated on his stool, pale and haggard, and as though incapable of speech or motion, his head drooping on his breast, and his arms hanging listlessly by his side. "deuce take me," cried malicorne, "if that old patterer is not going fast asleep! why, i say, my chap, you seem to think nothing of keeping gen'l'men like us waiting; just remember, will you, our time is precious! you know this is not exactly a party of pleasure, so march, or i shall be obliged to make you." suiting the action to the word, the man grasped the artisan by the shoulder, and shook him roughly; which so alarmed the children, that, unable to restrain their terror, the three little boys emerged from their _paillasse_, and, half naked as they were, came in an agony of tears to throw themselves at the feet of the bailiffs, holding up their clasped hands, and crying, in tones of touching earnestness: "pray, pray don't hurt our dear father!" at the sight of these poor, shivering, half-clad infants, weeping with affright, and trembling with cold, bourdin, spite of his natural callousness and long acquaintance with scenes of this sort, could not avoid a feeling almost resembling compassion from stealing over him, while his pitiless companion, brutally disengaging himself from the grasp of the small, weak creatures who were clinging to him, exclaimed: "hands off, you young ragamuffins! a devilish fine trade ours would be, if we were to allow ourselves to be mauled about by a set of beggars' brats like you!" as though the scene were not sufficiently distressing, a fearful addition was made to its horrors. the eldest of the little girls, who had remained in the _paillasse_ with her sick sister, suddenly exclaimed: "mother! mother! i don't know what's the matter with adèle! she is so cold, and her eyes are fixed on my face, and yet she does not breathe." the poor little child, whose consumptive appearance we have before noticed, had expired gently, and without a sigh, her looks fixed earnestly on the sister she so tenderly loved. no language can describe the cry which burst from the lips of the lapidary's wife at these words, which at once revealed the dreadful truth; it was one of those wild, despairing, convulsive shrieks, which seem to sever the very heart-strings of a mother. "my poor little sister looks as though she were dead!" continued the child; "she frightens me, with her eyes fixed on me, and her face so cold!" saying which, in an agony of terror, she leaped from beside the corpse of the infant, and ran to shelter herself in her mother's arms, while the distracted parent, forgetting that her almost paralysed limbs were incapable of supporting her, made a violent effort to rise and go to the assistance of her child, whom she could not believe was actually past recovery; but her strength failed her, and with a deep sigh of despair she sunk upon the floor. that cry found an echo in the heart of morel, and roused him from his stupor. he sprang with one bound to the _paillasse_, and withdrew from it the stiffened form of an infant four years old, dead and cold. want and misery had accelerated its end, although its complaint, which had originated in the positive want of common necessaries, was beyond the reach of any human aid to remove. its poor little limbs were already rigid with death. morel, whose very hair seemed to stand on end with despair and terror, stood holding his dead child in his arms, motionlessly contemplating its thin features with a fixed bloodshot gaze, though no tear moistened his dry, burning eyeballs. "morel! morel, give adèle to me!" cried the unhappy mother, extending her arms towards him; "she is not dead,--it is not possible! let me have her, and i shall be able to warm her in my arms." the curiosity of the idiot was excited by observing the pertinacity with which the bailiffs kept close to the lapidary, who would not part with the body of his child. she ceased her yells and cries, and, rising from her mattress, approached gently, protruded her hideous, senseless countenance over morel's shoulder, staring in vacant wonder at the pale corpse of her grandchild, the features of the idiot retaining their usual expression of stupid sullenness. at the end of a few minutes, she uttered a sort of horrible yawning noise, almost resembling the roar of a famished animal; then, hurrying back to her mattress, she threw herself upon it, exclaiming: "hungry! hungry! hungry!" "well, gentlemen," said the poor, half-crazed artisan, with haggard looks, "you see all that is left me of my poor child, my adèle,--we called her adèle, she was so pretty she deserved a pretty name; and she was just four years old last night. ay, and this morning even i kissed her, and she put her little arms about my neck and embraced me,--oh, so fondly! and now, you see, gentlemen, perhaps you will tell me there is one mouth less to feed, and that i am lucky to get rid of one,--you think so, don't you?" the unfortunate man's reason was fast giving way under the many shocks he had received. "morel," cried madeleine, "give me my child! i will have her!" "to be sure," replied the lapidary; "that is only fair. everybody ought to secure their own happiness!" so saying, he laid the child in its mother's arms, and uttering a groan, such as comes only from a breaking heart, he covered his face with his hands; while madeleine, almost as frenzied as her husband, placed the body of her child amid the straw of her wretched bed, watching it with frantic jealousy, while the other children, kneeling around her, filled the air with their wailings. the bailiffs, who had experienced a temporary feeling of compassion at the death of the child, soon fell back into their accustomed brutality. "i say, friend," said malicorne to the lapidary, "your child is dead, and there's an end of it! i dare say you think it a misfortune; but then, you see, we are all mortal, and neither we nor you can bring it back to life. so come along with us; for, to tell you the truth, we're upon the scent of a spicy one we must nab to-day. so don't delay us, that's a trump!" but morel heard not a word he said. entirely preoccupied with his own sad thoughts, the bewildered man kept up a kind of wandering delivery of his own afflicting ideas. "my poor adèle!" murmured he; "we must now see about laying you in the grave, and watching by her little corpse till the people come to carry it to its last home,--to lay it in the ground. but how are we to do that without a coffin,--and where shall we get one? who will give me credit for one? oh, a very small coffin will do,--only for a little creature of four years of age! and we shall want no bearers! oh, no, i can carry it under my arm. ha! ha! ha!" added he, with a burst of frightful mirth; "what a good thing it is she did not live to be as old as louise! i never could have persuaded anybody to trust me for a coffin large enough for a girl of eighteen years of age." "i say, just look at that chap!" said bourdin to malicorne. "i'll be dashed if i don't think as he's a-going mad, like the old woman there! only see how he rolls his eyes about,--enough to frighten one! come, i say, let's make haste and be off. only hark, how that idiot creature is a-roaring for something to eat! well, they are rum customers, from beginning to end!" "we must get done with them as soon as we can. although the law only allows us seventy-six francs, seventy-five centièmes, for arresting this beggar, yet, in justice to ourselves, we must swell the costs to two hundred and forty or two hundred and fifty francs. you know the sufferer (the creditor) pays us!" "you mean, advances the cash. old gaffer there will have to pay the piper, since he must dance to the music." "well, by the time he has paid his creditor , francs for debt, interest, and expenses, etc., he'll find it pretty warm work." "a devilish sight more than we do our job up here! i'm a'most frost-bitten!" cried the bailiff, blowing the ends of his fingers. "come, old fellow, make haste, will you! just look sharp! you can snivel, you know, as we go along. why, how the devil can we help it, if your brat has kicked the bucket?" "these beggars always have such a lot of children, if they have nothing else!" "yes, so they have," responded malicorne. then, slapping morel on the shoulder, he called out in a loud voice, "i tell you what it is, my friend, we're not going to be kept dawdling here all day,--our time is precious. so either out with the stumpy, or march off to prison, without any more bother!" "prison!" exclaimed a clear, youthful voice; "take m. morel to prison!" and a bright, beaming face appeared at the door. "ah, mlle. rigolette," cried the weeping children, as they recognised the happy, healthful countenance of their young protectress and friend, "these wicked men are going to take our poor father away, and put him in prison! and sister adèle is just dead!" "dead!" cried the kind-hearted girl, her dark eyes filling with compassionating tears; "poor little thing! but it cannot be true that your father is in danger of a prison;" and, almost stupefied with surprise, she gazed alternately from the children to morel, and from him to the bailiffs. "i say, my girl," said bourdin, approaching rigolette, "as you do seem to have the use of your senses, just make this good man hear reason, will you? his child has just died. well, that can't be helped now; but, you see, he is a-keeping of us, because we're a-waiting to take him to the debtors' prison, being sheriffs' officers, duly sworn in and appointed. tell him so!" "then it is true!" exclaimed the feeling girl. "true? i should say it was and no mistake! now, don't you see, while the mother is busy with the dead babby--and, bless you! she's got it there, hugging it up in bed, and won't part with it!--she won't notice us? so i want the father to be off while she isn't thinking nothing about it!" "good god! good god!" replied rigolette, in deep distress; "what is to be done?" "done? why, pay the money, or go to prison! there is nothing between them two ways. if you happen to have two or three thousand francs by you you can oblige him with, why, shell out, and we'll be off, and glad enough to be gone!" "how can you," cried rigolette, "be so barbarous as to make a jest of such distress as this?" "well, then," rejoined the other man, "all joking apart, if you really do wish to be useful, try to prevent the woman from seeing us take her husband away. you will spare them both a very disagreeable ten minutes!" coarse as was this counsel, it was not destitute of good sense; and rigolette, feeling she could do nothing else, approached the bedside of madeleine, who, distracted by her grief, appeared unconscious of the presence of rigolette, as, gathering the children together, she knelt with them beside their afflicted mother. meanwhile morel, upon recovering from his temporary wildness, had sunk into a state of deep and bitter reflections upon his present position, which, now that his mind saw things through a calmer medium, only increased the poignancy of his sufferings. since the notary had proceeded to such extremities, any hope from his mercy was vain. he felt there was nothing left but to submit to his fate, and let the law take its course. "are we ever to get off?" inquired bourdin. "i tell you what, my man, if you are not for marching, we must make you, that's all." "i cannot leave these diamonds about in this manner,--my wife is half distracted," cried morel, pointing to the stones lying on his work-table. "the person for whom i am polishing them will come to fetch them away either this morning or during the day. they are of considerable value." "capital!" whispered tortillard, who was still peeping in at the half closed door; "capital, capital! what will mother chouette say when i tell her this bit of luck?" "only give me till to-morrow," said morel, beseechingly; "only till i can return these diamonds to my employer." "i tell you, the thing can't be done. so let's have no more to say about it." "but it is impossible for me to leave diamonds of such value as these exposed, to be lost or even stolen in my absence." "well, then, take them along with you. we have got a coach waiting below, for which you will have to pay when you settle the costs. we will go all together to your employer's house, and, if you don't meet with him, why, then, you can deposit these jewels at the office of the prison, where they will be as safe as in the bank; only look sharp, and let's be off before your wife and children perceive us." "give me but till to-morrow,--only to bury my child!" implored morel, in a supplicating voice, half stifled by the heavy sobs he strove in vain to repress. "nonsense, i tell you; why, we have lost an hour here already!" "besides, it's dull work going to berrins," chimed in malicorne. "it would be too much for your feelings, p'raps." "yes," said morel, bitterly; "it is dull work to see what we would have given our lives to save laid in the cold earth. but, as you are men, grant me that satisfaction." then, looking up, and observing the nonchalant air with which his prayer was received, he added, "but no, persons of so much feeling as you are would fear to indulge me, lest i should find it a gloomy sight. well, then, at least grant me one word!" "the deuce take your last words! why, old chap, there seems no end to them. come, put the steam on; make haste," said malicorne, with brutal impatience, "or we shall lose t'other gent we're after." "when did you receive orders to arrest me?" "oh, why, judgment was signed four months ago! but it was only yesterday our officer got instructions to put it in execution." "only yesterday! and why has it been delayed so long?" "how the devil should i know? come, look about you, and put up your things." "only yesterday? and during the whole day we saw nothing of louise! where can she be? or what has become of her?" inquired the lapidary mentally, as he took from his table a small box filled with cotton, in which he placed his stones. "but never mind all that now. i shall have plenty of time to think about it when i am in prison." "come, look sharp there a bit. tie up your things to take with you, and put your clothes on, there's a fine fellow!" "i have no clothes to tie up, and have nothing whatever to take with me except these jewels, that i may deposit them at the office of the prison." "well, then, dress yourself as quick as you can." "i have no other dress than that you now see me in." "i say, mate," cried bourdin, "does he really mean to be seen in our company with such rags as those on?" "i fear, indeed, i shall shame such gentlemen as you are!" said morel, bitterly. "it don't much signify," replied malicorne, "as nobody will see us in the coach." "father!" cried one of the children, "mother is calling for you!" "listen to me!" said morel, addressing one of the men with hurried tones; "if one spark of human pity dwells within you, grant me one favour! i have not the courage to bid my wife and children farewell; it would break my heart! and if they see you take me away, they will try to follow me. i wish to spare all this. therefore, i beseech you to say, in a loud voice, that you will come again in three or four days, and pretend to go away. you can wait for me at the next landing-place, and i will come to you in less than five minutes; that will spare all the misery of taking leave. i am quite sure it would be too much for me, and that i should become mad! i was not far off it a little while ago." "not to be caught!" answered malicorne; "you want to do me! but i'm up to you! you mean to give us the slip, you old chouse!" "god of heaven!" cried morel, with a mixture of grief and indignation, "has it come to this?" "i don't think he means what you say," whispered bourdin to his companion; "let us do what he asks; we shall never get away unless we do. i'll stand outside the door; there is no other way of escaping from this garret; he cannot get away from us." "very well. but what a dog-hole! what a place for a man to care about leaving! why, a prison will be a palace to it!" then, addressing morel, he said, "now, then, be quick, and we will wait for you on the next landing; so make up some pretence for our going." "well," said bourdin in a loud voice, and bestowing a significant look on the unhappy artisan, "since things are as you say, and as you think you shall be able to pay us in a short time, why, we shall leave you for the present, and return in about four or five days; but you must not disappoint us then, remember!" "thank you, gentlemen. i have no doubt i shall be able to pay you then." the bailiffs then withdrew, while tortillard, hearing the men talk of quitting the room, had hastened down-stairs for fear of being detected listening. "there, madame morel!" said rigolette, endeavouring to draw the wife of the lapidary from the state of gloomy abstraction into which she had fallen, "do you hear that? the men have gone, and left your husband undisturbed." "mother! mother!" exclaimed the children, joyfully, "they have not taken father away!" "morel, morel!" murmured madeleine, her brain quite turned, "take one of those diamonds--take the largest--and sell it; no one will know it, and then we shall be delivered from our misery; poor little adèle will get warm then, and come back to us." taking advantage of the instant when no one was observing him, the lapidary profited by it to steal from the room. one of the men was waiting for him on the little landing-place, which was also covered only by the roof; on this small spot opened the door of a garret, which adjoined the apartment occupied by the morels, and in which m. pipelet kept his dépôt of leather; and, further, this little angular recess, in which a person could not stand upright, was dignified by the melancholy porter with the name of his melodramatic cabinet, because, by means of a hole between the lath and plaster, he frequently indulged in the luxury of woe by witnessing the many touching scenes occasioned by the distress of the wretched family who dwelt in the garret beyond it. this door had not escaped the lynx eye of the bailiff, who had, for a time, suspected his prisoner of intending either to escape or conceal himself by means of it. "now, then, let us make a start of it!" cried he, beginning to descend the stairs as morel emerged from the garret. "rather a ragged recruit to march with," added he, beckoning to the lapidary to follow him. "only an instant, one single instant, for the love of god!" exclaimed morel, as, kneeling down, he cast a last look on his wife and children through a chink in the door. then clasping his hands, he said, in a low, heart-broken voice, while bitter tears flowed down his haggard cheeks: "adieu, my poor children! my wife! may heaven preserve you all! farewell, farewell!" "come, don't get preaching!" said bourdin, coarsely, "or your sermons may keep us here till night, which is what i can't stand, for i am almost froze to death as it is. ugh! what a kennel! what a hole!" morel rose from his knees and was about to follow the bailiff, when the words, "father! father!" sounded up the staircase. "louise!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his hands towards heaven in a transport of gratitude; "thank god i shall be able to embrace you before i go!" "heaven be praised, i am here in time!" cried the voice, as it rapidly approached, and quick, light steps were distinguishable, swiftly ascending the stairs. "don't be uneasy, my dear," said a second voice, evidently proceeding from some individual considerably behind the first speaker, but whose thick puffing and laborious breathing announced the coming of one who did not find mounting to the top of the house so easy an affair as it seemed to her light-footed companion. the reader may, perhaps, have already guessed that the last comer was no other than madame pipelet, who, less agile than louise, was compelled to advance at a much slower pace. "louise! is it, indeed, you, my own, my good louise?" said morel, still weeping. "but how pale you look! for mercy's sake, my child, what is the matter?" "nothing, father, nothing, i assure you!" said louise, in much agitation; "but i have run so fast! see, i have brought the money!" "what?" "you are free!" "you knew, then, that--" "oh, yes! here, sir, you will find it quite right," said the poor girl, placing the rouleau of gold in the hands of malicorne. "but this money, louise,--how did you become possessed of it?" "i will tell you all about it by and by; pray do not be uneasy; let us go and comfort my mother. come, father." "no, not just this minute!" cried morel, remembering that, as yet, louise was entirely ignorant of the death of her little sister; "wait an instant. i have something to say to you first. but about this money?" "all right," said malicorne, as, having finished counting the gold, he put it in his pocket; "precisely one thousand three hundred francs. and is that all you have got for me, my pretty dear?" "i thought, father," said louise, struck with alarm and surprise at the man's question, "that you only owed one thousand three hundred francs." "nor do i," replied morel. "precisely so!" answered the bailiff; "the original debt is one thousand three hundred francs; well, that is all right now, and we may put 'settled' against that: but then, you see, there are the costs, caption, etc., amounting to eleven hundred and forty francs, still to be paid." "gracious heavens!" cried louise, "i thought one thousand three hundred francs would pay everything! but, sir, we will make up the money, and bring it to you very soon; take this for the present, it is a good sum; take it as paid on account; it will go towards the debt, at least, won't it, father?" "very well; then all you have to do is to bring the required sum to the prison, and then, and not till then, your father--if he is your father--will be set at liberty. come, master, we must start, or we never shall get there." "do you really mean to take him away?" "do i? don't i? just look here; i am ready to give you a memorandum of having received so much on account; and, whenever you bring the rest, you shall have a receipt in full, and your father along with it. there, now, that's a handsome offer, ain't it?" "mercy! mercy!" supplicated louise. "whew!" cried the man, "here's a scene over again! my stars, i hope this one isn't a-going mad, too, for the whole family seems uncommon queer about the head! well, i declare i never see anything like it! it is enough to set a man 'prespiring' in the midst of winter!" and here the bailiff burst into a loud, coarse laugh at his own brutal wit. "oh, my poor, dear father!" exclaimed louise, almost distractedly; "when i had hoped to have saved you!" "no, no!" cried the lapidary, in a tone of utter despair, and stamping his foot in wild desperation, "hope nothing for me; god has forgotten me, and heaven has ceased to be just to a wretch like me!" "calm yourself, my worthy friend," said a rich, manly voice; "there is always a kind providence that watches over and preserves good and honest men like you." at the same instant rodolph appeared at the door of the small recess we have spoken of, from whence he had been an invisible spectator of much that we have related; he was pale, and extremely agitated. at this sudden apparition the bailiff drew back, with surprise; while morel and his daughter gazed on the stranger with bewildered wonder. taking from his waistcoat pocket a quantity of folded bank-notes, rodolph selected three, and, presenting them to malicorne, he said: "here are two thousand five hundred francs; give this young woman back the money you have just received from her." still more and more astonished at this singular interference, the man half hesitated to take the notes, and, when he had received them, he eyed them with the utmost suspicion, turning and twisting them about in every direction; at length, satisfied both as to their reality and genuineness, he finally deposited them in his pocketbook: but, as his surprise and alarm began to subside, so did his natural coarseness of idea return, and, eyeing rodolph from head to foot with an impertinent stare, he exclaimed: "the notes are right enough; but pray who and what are you that go about with such sums? i should just wish to know whose it is, and how you came by it?" rodolph was very plainly dressed, and his appearance by no means improved by the dust and dirt his clothes had gathered during his stay in m. pipelet's cabinet of melodrama. "i desired you to give back the gold you received just now from this young person," replied rodolph, in a severe and authoritative tone. "you desired me! and who the devil are you, to give your orders?" answered the man, approaching rodolph in a threatening manner. "give back the gold! give it back, i say!" said the prince, grasping the wrist of malicorne so tightly that the unhappy bailiff winced beneath his iron clutch. "i say," bawled he, "hands off, will you? curse me if i don't think you're old nick himself! i am sure your fingers are cased with iron." "then return the money! why, you despicable wretch! do you want to be paid twice over? now return the gold and begone, or, if you utter one insolent word, i'll fling you over the banisters!" "well, don't kick up such a row! there's the girl's money," said malicorne, giving back to louise the rouleau he had received. "but mind what you are about, my sparky, and don't think to ill-use me because you happen to be the strongest!" "that's right!" said bourdin, ensconcing himself behind his taller associate. "and who are you, i should like to know, who give yourself such airs?" "who is he? why, my lodger, my king of lodgers, you ill-looking, half-starved, hungry hounds! you ill-taught, dirty fellows!" exclaimed madame pipelet, who, puffing and panting for breath, had at last reached the landing where they stood; her head, as usual, adorned with her brutus wig, which, during the heat and bustle she had experienced in ascending the stairs, had got pushed somewhat awry, while in her hand she bore an earthen stewpan, filled with smoking-hot broth, which she was charitably conveying to the morels. "what the devil does this old hedgehog want?" cried bourdin. "if you dare make any of your saucy speeches about me," returned madame pipelet, "i'll make you feel my nails,--ay, and my teeth, too, if you provoke me! and, if you don't mend your manners, my lodger, my king of lodgers will pitch you over the banisters, and i will sweep you out into the street, as i would a heap of rubbish." "this old beldam will bring the whole house about our ears," said bourdin to malicorne; "we've touched the blunt, our expenses and all, so i say 'off' is a good word." "here, take your property," said the latter, flinging a bundle of law-papers at the feet of morel. "pick them up, and deliver them decently; you have been paid as a respectable officer would have been, act like one!" cried rodolph, seizing the bailiff vigorously with one hand, while with the other he pointed to the papers. fully convinced by this second powerful grip how useless any attempt at resistance would prove, the bailiff stooped down, and, mechanically picking up the papers, gave them to morel, who, scarcely venturing to credit his senses, believed himself under the influence of a delightful dream. "well, young chap," grumbled out malicorne, "although you have got a fist as strong as a drayman's, mind you, if ever you fall into my clutches, i'll make you smart for this!" so saying, he doubled his fist at rodolph, and then scrambled down the stairs, taking four or five at a time, followed by his companion, who kept looking behind him with indescribable terror; while madame pipelet, burning to avenge the insults offered to her king of lodgers, looked at her steaming stewpan with an air of inspiration, and heroically exclaimed: "the debts of the morels are paid! henceforward they will have plenty of food, and can do without my messes! look out there below!" so saying, she stooped over the banisters, and poured the contents of her stewpan down the backs and shoulders of the two bailiffs, who had just reached the first floor landing. "there goes!" screamed out the delighted porteress. "capital! ha, ha, ha! there they are! two regular sops, in the pan! well, i do enjoy this!" "what the devil is this?" exclaimed malicorne, thoroughly soaked with the hot, greasy liquid. "i say, i wish you would mind what you are about up there, you old figure of fun!" "alfred!" bawled madame pipelet, in a tone sharp and shrill enough to have split the tympanum of a deaf man; "alfred, my old darling, have at 'em! they wanted to behave ill to your 'stasie (anastasie)! the nasty fellows have been taking liberties,--quite violent! knock them down with your broom! and call the oyster-woman, and the man at the wine-vaults, to help you! get out, you! get--get--get out! cht, cht, cht! thieves! thieves! robbers! cht--b-r-r-r-r-r-r--hou, hou, hou! knock them--knock them down! that's right, old dear! pay them off! break their bones! serve them out! boum, boum, boum!" and, by way of conclusion to this concatenation of discordant noises, accompanied by a constant succession of stamping and kicking of feet, madame pipelet, carried away by the excitement of the moment, flung her earthen stewpan to the bottom of the staircase, which, breaking into a thousand pieces at the very instant that the two bailiffs, terrified by the yells and noises from overhead, were precipitately descending the stairs with hasty strides, added not a little to their terror. "ah, ah, ah!" cried anastasie, bursting into loud fits of laughter. "now be off with you,--i think you have had enough!" then, crossing her arms, she stood, like a triumphant amazon, rejoicing in the victory she had achieved. while madame pipelet was thus venting her rage upon the bailiffs, morel had thrown himself, in heartfelt gratitude, at the feet of rodolph. "ah, sir," exclaimed he, when at last words came to his assistance, "you have saved a whole family! to whom do we owe this unhoped-for assistance?" "'to the god who watches over and protects all honest men,' as your immortal béranger says." note.--the following are some curious particulars relative to bodily restraint, as cited in the "pauvre jacques," a journal published under the patronage of the "society for the furtherance and protection of christianity:" (prison committee.) (_comité des prisons._) "a protest and intimation of bodily restraint are generally carried about by sheriffs' officers, and charged by law, the first, _f._ _c._, the second, _f._ _c._; for these, however, the officers usually demand, for the former, _f._ _c._, for the second, _f._ _c._; thus illegally claiming from the unfortunate victims of law _f._ _c._, for that which is fixed by that very law at _f._ _c._ "for an arrest, the legal charge is, including stamp and registering, _f._ _c._; coach-hire, _f._; for arrest and entry in the prison books, _f._ _c._; office dues, _f._ total, _f._ _c._ a bill of the usual scale ordinarily charged by sheriffs' officers, now lying before us, shows that these allowances by law are magnified by the extortion of the officers into a sum of about _f._, instead of the _f._ they are alone entitled to claim." the same journal says: "sheriffs' officer ---- has been to our office, requesting us to correct an article which appeared in one of our numbers, headed, 'a woman hung.' 'i did not hang the woman!' observed he, angrily. we did not assert that he did, but, to prevent any further misapprehension, content ourselves with reprinting the paragraph in question: 'a few days ago, a sheriffs' officer, named ----, went to the rue de la lune, to arrest a carpenter, who dwelt there. the man, perceiving him from the street, rushed hastily into his house, exclaiming, "i am a ruined man! the officers are here to arrest me!" his wife, at these words, hastened to secure the door; while the carpenter ran to a room on the top of the house, to conceal himself. the officer, finding admittance refused, went and fetched a magistrate and a blacksmith; the door was forced, and, on proceeding up-stairs, the woman was found hanging in her own bedchamber. the officer did not allow himself to be diverted from the pursuit by the sight of the corpse; he continued his search, and at length discovered the husband in his hiding-place. "i arrest you!" cried the bailiff. "i have no money!" replied the man. "then you must go to prison." "let me at least bid my wife adieu!" "it is not worth while waiting for that,--your wife is dead! she has hung herself!"' now, m. ---- (adds the journal we have quoted), what have you to say to that? you see we have merely copied your own statement upon oath, in which you have detailed all these frightful circumstances with horrible minuteness!" the same journal also cites two or three hundred similar facts, of which the following may serve as a specimen: "the expenses upon a note of hand for _f._ have been run up by the sheriffs' officers to _f._; the debtor, therefore, who is a mere artisan, with a family of five children, has been detained in prison for the last seven months!" the author of this work had a double reason for borrowing thus largely from the pages of the "pauvre jacques." in the first place, to show that the horrors of the last chapter are far below reality in their painful details. and secondly, to prove that, if only viewed in a philanthropic light, the allowing such a state of things to go on (namely, the exorbitant and illegal fees both demanded and exacted by certain public functionaries), frequently acts as a preventive to the exercise of benevolence, and paralyses the hand of charity. thus, were a small capital of _f._ collected among kind-hearted individuals, three or four honest, though unfortunate, artisans might be released from a prison and restored to their families, by employing the above-named sum in paying the debts of such as were incarcerated for amounts varying from to _f._! but when the original debt is increased threefold by the excessive and illegal expenses, even the most charitable recede from the good work of delivering a fellow creature, from the impression that two-thirds of their well-intentioned bounty would only go into the pockets of pampered sheriffs' officers and their satellites. and yet no class of unfortunate beings stand more in need of aid and charitable assistance than the unfortunate class we have just been speaking of. chapter xiv. rigolette. louise, the daughter of the lapidary, was possessed of more than ordinary loveliness of countenance, a fine, tall, graceful person, uniting, by the strict regularity of her faultless features and elegance of her figure, the classic beauty of juno with the lightness and elegance assigned to the statue of the hunting diana. spite of the injury her complexion had received from exposure to weather, and the redness of her well-shaped hands and arms, occasioned by household labour,--despite even the humble dress she wore, the whole appearance of louise morel was stamped with that indescribable air of grace and superiority nature sometimes is pleased to bestow upon the lowly-born, in preference to the descendant of high lineage. we shall not attempt to paint the joy, the heartfelt gratitude of this family, so wondrously preserved from so severe a calamity; even the recent death of the little girl was forgotten during the first burst of happiness. rodolph alone found leisure to remark the extreme paleness and utter abstraction of louise, whose first ecstasy at finding her father free passed away, apparently plunged in a deep and painful reverie. anxious to relieve the mind of morel of any apprehensions for the future, and also to explain a liberality which might have raised suspicions as to the character he chose to assume, rodolph drew the lapidary to the further end of the staircase, leaving to rigolette the task of acquainting louise with the death of her little sister, and said to him: "did not a young lady come to visit you and your family on the morning of the day before yesterday?" "yes, and appeared much grieved to see the distress we were in." "then you must thank her,--not me." "can it be possible, sir? that young lady--" "is your benefactress. i frequently wait upon her from our warehouse; when i hired an apartment here, i learned from the porteress all the particulars of your case, and the painful situation you were placed in; relying on this lady's well-known kindness and benevolence, i hastened to acquaint her with all i had heard respecting you; and, the day before yesterday, she came herself, in order to be fully aware of the extent of your misery. the distress she witnessed deeply affected her; but as it might have been brought about by misconduct, she desired me to take upon myself the task of inquiring into every circumstance relative to your past and present condition with as little delay as possible, being desirous of regulating her benevolent aid by the good or bad accounts she might receive of your honesty and good conduct." "kind, excellent lady! well might i say--" "as you observed just now to madeleine, 'if the rich did but know!'--was not that it?" "is it possible that you are acquainted with the name of my wife? who could have told you that?" "my worthy friend," said rodolph, interrupting morel, "i have been concealed in the little garret adjoining your attic since six o'clock this morning." "have you, indeed, sir?" "yes, my honest fellow, i have, and from my hiding-place heard all that passed among you." "oh, sir! but why did you do so?" "i could not have employed more satisfactory means of getting at your real character and sentiments; and i was desirous of seeing and hearing all you did or said without your being aware of my presence. the porter had made me acquainted with this small retreat, which he offered to me for a wood-closet. this morning, i asked his permission to visit it, and remained there more than an hour, during which time i had ample proof that a more upright, noble mind did not exist, and that the courageous resignation with which you bore your heavy trials was above all praise." "nay, indeed, sir, i do not merit such words as these. i was born honest, i hope, and it comes natural to me to act as i have done." "i am quite sure of that; therefore i do not laud your conduct, i appreciate it. just as i was about to quit my hiding-place, to relieve you of the presence of the bailiffs, i heard the voice of your daughter, and i meant to have allowed her the happiness of saving you. unhappily, the rapacity of the men deprived poor louise of the full completion of her pious task. i then made my appearance. fortunately, i yesterday received several sums that were due to me, so that i was enabled to advance the money for your benefactress, and to pay off your unfortunate debt. but your distress has been so great, so unmerited, and so nobly sustained, that the well-deserved interest you have excited shall not stop here; and i take upon myself, in the name of your preserving angel, to promise you henceforward calmness, peace, and happiness, for yourself and family." "can it be possible? but, at least, sir, let me beseech you to tell me the name of this angel of goodness,--this heavenly preserver,--that it may dwell in our hearts and on our lips! by what name shall we bless her in our prayers?" "think of her and speak of her as the angel she is. ah, you were right in saying just now that both rich and poor had their sorrows!" "and is this dear lady, then, unhappy?" "who is free from care and suffering in this world of trial? but i see no cause for concealing from you the name of your protectress. the lady, then, is named--" remembering that madame pipelet was aware of madame d'harville's having, at her first coming to the house, inquired for the commandant, and fearing her indiscreet mention of the circumstance, rodolph resumed, after a short pause: "i will venture to tell you this lady's name, upon one condition--" "pray go on, sir." "that you never mention it again to any one,--mind, i say to any person whatever." "i solemnly promise you never to let it pass my lips; but may i not hope to be permitted to thank this friend of the unfortunate?" "i will let madame d'harville know your wish; but i scarcely think she will consent to it." "then this generous lady is called--" "the marquise d'harville." "never will that name be forgotten by me! henceforward it will be to me as that of my patron saint,--the object of my grateful worship! oh, when i remember that, thanks to her, my wife, children,--all, are saved!--saved--no, no, not all,--my little adèle has gone from us! we shall see her sweet face no more; but still, i know we must have parted with her sooner or later; the dear child's doom was long since decreed!" here the poor lapidary wiped away the tears which filled his eyes at the recollection of his lost darling. "as for the last duties that have now to be performed for your poor child," said rodolph, "if you will be guided by me, this is how we will arrange it. i have not yet begun to occupy my chamber; it is large, airy, and convenient. there is already one bed in it; and i will give orders to add all that may be requisite for the accommodation of yourself and family, until madame d'harville is enabled to find an eligible abode for you. the remains of your little daughter can then be left in your attic, where, until the period of interment, they can be properly watched and guarded by a priest with all requisite attention. i will request m. pipelet to take upon himself every necessary arrangement for the mournful office of laying the poor babe in its peaceful grave." "nay, sir,--but, indeed, i cannot allow you to be turned out of your apartment! now that we are so happily freed from our misery, and that i have no longer the dread of being dragged to prison, our poor garret will seem to me like a palace,--more especially if my louise remains to watch over the family as she used to do." "your daughter shall never again quit you. you said, awhile ago, that the first desire of your heart was to have louise always with you. well then, as a reward for your past sufferings, i promise you she shall never leave you more." "oh, sir, this is too much; it cannot be reality! it seems as though i were dreaming some happy dream. i fear i have never been as religious as i ought. i have, in fact, known no other religion than that of honour. but such a reverse, such a change from wretchedness to joy, would make even an atheist believe, if not in priests, at least in a gracious, interposing, and preserving providence." "and if," said rodolph, sadly, "a father's sorrow for the loss of his child can be assuaged by promises of rewards or recompense, i would say that the heavenly hand which takes one child from you gives you back the other." "true,--most true! and henceforward our dear louise will be with us to help us to forget our poor adèle." "then you will accept the offer of my chamber, will you not? or else how shall we be able to arrange for the mournful duties to the poor infant? think of your wife, whose head is already in so weak a state. it will never do to allow her to remain with so afflicting a spectacle constantly before her eyes." "what goodness," exclaimed the lapidary, "thus to remember all,--to think of all! oh, you are indeed a friend! may heaven bless and recompense you!" "come, you must reserve your thanks for the excellent lady you term your protecting angel. 'tis her goodness inspires me with a desire to imitate her benevolence and charity. i feel assured i am but speaking as she would speak, were she here, and that all i do she will fully approve. so now, then, it is arranged you will occupy my room. but, just tell me, this jacques ferrand--" the forehead of morel became clouded over at the mention of this name. "i suppose," continued rodolph, "there is no doubt as to his being the same jacques ferrand who practises as a notary in the rue du sentier?" "none whatever, sir," answered morel; "but do you know him?" then, assailed afresh by his fears for louise, the lapidary continued: "since you overheard all our conversation, tell me, sir,--tell me, do you not think i have just cause to hate this man, as i do? for who knows but my daughter--my louise--" the unhappy artisan could not proceed; he groaned with anguish, and concealed his face with his hands. rodolph easily divined the nature of his apprehensions. "the very step taken by the notary ought to reassure your mind," said he, "as, there can be no doubt, he was instigated by revenge for your daughter's rejection of his improper advances to proceed to the hostile measures adopted. however, i have every reason to believe he is a very bad and dangerous man; and if my suspicions respecting him are realised," said rodolph, after a few moments' silence, "then rely on providence to punish him. if the just vengeance of the almighty seems occasionally to slumber, it awakens, sooner or later." "he is both rich and hypocritical!" cried the lapidary. "at the moment of your deepest despair, a guardian angel appeared to save you from ruin; so, at the moment when least expected, will an inexorable avenger call upon the notary to atone for his past crimes, if he be guilty." at this moment rigolette came out of the miserable garret belonging to morel; the kind-hearted girl had evidently been shedding tears, and was trying to dry her eyes before she descended the stairs. directly rodolph perceived her, he exclaimed: "tell me, my good neighbour, will it not be much better for m. morel and his family to occupy my chamber while they are waiting till his benefactress, whose agent i am, shall have found a comfortable residence for him?" rigolette surveyed rodolph with an air of unfeigned surprise. "really," cried she, at length, "are you in earnest in making so kind and considerate an offer?" "quite so, on one condition, which depends on yourself." "oh, all that is in my power!" "you see, i had some rather difficult accounts to arrange for my employer, which are wanted as early as possible,--indeed, i expect they will be sent for almost directly; my papers are in my room. now would you be neighbourly enough to let me bring my work into your apartment, and just spare a little corner of your table? i should not disturb your work the least in the world, and then the whole of the morel family, by the assistance of madame pipelet and her husband, may be at once established in my apartment." "certainly i will, and with great pleasure; neighbours should always be ready to help and oblige each other. i am sure, after all you have done for poor m. morel, you have set a good example; so i shall be very glad to give you all the assistance in my power, monsieur." "no, no,--don't call me monsieur! say 'my dear friend,' or 'neighbour,' whichever you prefer; unless you lay aside all ceremony, i shall not have courage to intrude myself and papers into your room," said rodolph, smiling. "well, pray don't let that be any hindrance; then, if you like, i'll call you 'neighbour,' because, you know, you are so." "father! father!" said one of morel's little boys, coming out of the garret, "mother is calling for you! make haste, father,--pray do!" the lapidary hastily followed the child back to his chamber. "now, then, neighbour," said rodolph to rigolette, "you must do me one more service." "with all my heart, if it lies in my power to do so." "i feel quite sure you are a clever manager and housekeeper; now we must go to work at once to provide the morels with comfortable clothing, and such matters as may be essential for their accommodation in my apartment, which at present merely contains my slender stock of bachelor's furniture, sent in yesterday. beds, bedding, and a great quantity of requisites will be needed for so many persons; and i want you to assist me in procuring them all the comforts i wish them to have with as little delay as possible." rigolette reflected a moment, and then replied: "you shall have all this before two hours have passed: good clothes, nicely made, warm and comfortable, good white linen for all the family, two small beds for the children, one for the grandmother, and, in fact, all that is required; but, i can tell you, all this will cost a great, great deal of money." "_diable!_ and how much?" "oh, at least--the very least, five or six hundred francs." "for everything?" "yes; you see it is a great sum of money," said rigolette, opening her eyes very wide and shaking her head. "but we could procure all this?" "within two hours." "my little neighbour, you must be a fairy!" "oh, no! it is easy enough. the temple is but two steps from here, and you will get there everything you require." "the temple?" "yes, the temple." "what place is that?" "what, neighbour, don't you know the temple?" "no, neighbour." "yet it is the place where such persons as you and i fit themselves out in furniture and clothes, when they are economical. it is much cheaper than any other place, and the things are also good." "really!" "i think so. well, now, i suppose--how much did you pay for your greatcoat?" "i cannot say precisely." "what, neighbour! not know how much you gave for your greatcoat?" "i will tell you, in confidence, neighbour," said rodolph, smiling, "that i owe for it; so, you see, i cannot exactly say." "oh, neighbour, neighbour, you do not appear to me to be very orderly in your habits!" "alas, neighbour, i fear not!" "i must cure you of that, if you desire that we should continue friends; and i see already that we shall be, for you seem so kind! you will not be sorry to have me for a neighbour, i can see. you will assist me and i shall assist you,--we are neighbours, and that's why. i shall look after your linen; you will give me your help in cleaning my room. i am up very early in the morning, and will call you, that you may not be late in going to your work; i will knock against the wainscot until you say to me, 'good morning, neighbour!'" "that's agreed; you shall awaken me, you shall take charge of my linen, and i will clean out your room." "certainly. and, when you have anything to buy, you must go to the temple; for see now, for example, your greatcoat must have cost you eighty francs, i have no doubt; well, you might have bought one just as good at the temple for thirty francs." "really, that is marvellous! and so you think that for four or five hundred francs these poor morels--" "will be completely set up, and very comfortable for a long while." "neighbour, an idea comes across me." "well, what is this idea?" "do you understand all about household affairs?" "yes; i should think so," said rigolette, with a slight affectation of manner. "take my arm, then, and let us go to the temple and buy all these things for the morels; won't that be a good way?" "oh, how capital! poor souls! but, then, the money?" "i have it." "what, five hundred francs?" "the benefactor of the morels has given me _carte blanche_; and she will spare nothing to see these poor people restored to comfort. is there any place where we can buy better supplies than at the temple?" "certainly not; you will not find better things anywhere; and then there is everything, and all ready, there; little frocks for children, and gowns for the mother." "well, then, neighbour, let us go at once to the temple:" "ah, _mon dieu_! but--" "what?" "nothing; only, you see, my time is everything to me, and i am already a little behindhand, through coming here to watch over poor madame morel; and you must know that an hour in one way, and an hour in another, that by little and little makes whole days; well, a day is thirty sous, and, whether we gain something or nothing, we must live; but bah! never mind. i will make up for that at night, and then, d'ye see, parties of pleasure are very rare, and i call this one. it will seem to me that i am rich, rich, rich, and that it is with my own money that i shall buy all these things for the morels. so come along, neighbour, i will throw on my shawl and cap, and then i am ready." "suppose, whilst you are doing this, i bring my papers to your apartment?" "willingly; and then you will see my room," said rigolette, with pride, "for it is all tidy, which will convince you how early i am in the morning; and that, if you are idle and a sluggard, so much the worse for you, for i shall be a troublesome neighbour." so saying, light as a bird, rigolette descended the staircase, followed by rodolph, who went into his own room to brush off the dust which had settled on him in m. pipelet's garret. we will hereafter disclose how it was that rodolph was not informed of the carrying off of fleur-de-marie from the farm at bouqueval, and why he had not visited the morels the day after his conversation with madame d'harville. rodolph, furnished, by way of saving appearances, with a thick roll of papers, entered rigolette's chamber. rigolette was nearly the same age as goualeuse, her old prison acquaintance. there was between these two young girls the same difference that there is between laughter and tears; between joyous light-heartedness and melancholy dejection; between the wildest thoughtlessness and a dark and constant reflection on the future; between a delicate, refined, elevated, poetic nature, exquisitely sensitive, and incurably wounded by remorse, and a gay, lively, happy, good, and compassionate nature. rigolette had no sorrows but those derived from the woes of others, and with these she sympathised with all her might, devoting herself, body and soul, to any suffering fellow creature; but, her back turned on them, to use a common expression, she thought no more about them. she often checked her bursts of laughter by a flood of tears, and then checked her tears by renewing her laughter. like a real parisian, rigolette preferred excitement to calm, and motion to repose; the loud and echoing harmony of the orchestra at the fête of the chartreuse or the colysée to the soft murmurs of the breeze, waters, and leaves; the bustling disturbance of the thoroughfares of paris to the silent solitude of the fields; the brilliancy of fireworks, the flaring of the grand finale, the uproar of the maroons and roman candles, to the serenity of a lovely night,--starlight, clear, and still. alas, yes! the dear, good little girl actually preferred the pavement of the streets of the capital to the fresh moss of the shaded paths, perfumed with violets; the dust of the boulevards to the waving of the ears of corn, mingled with the scarlet of the wild poppies and the azure of the bluebells. rigolette only left her chamber on sundays, and each morning to provide her prescribed allowance of chickweed, bread, milk, and millet, for herself and her two birds, as madame pipelet observed; but she lived in paris for paris, and would have been wretched to have resided anywhere but in the capital. a few words as to the personal appearance of the grisette, and we will then introduce rodolph into the chamber of his neighbour. rigolette was scarcely eighteen years of age, of middle height, rather small than large, but so gracefully formed, so admirably proportioned, so delightfully filled out, so entirely in accordance with her step, which was light and easy, that she seemed perfect of her kind. the movement of her finely formed feet, always encased in well-made boots of black cloth, with a rather thick sole, reminded you of the quick, pretty, and cautious tread of the quail or wagtail. she did not seem to walk, but to pass over the pavement as if she were gliding over the surface. this step, so peculiar to grisettes, at once nimble, attractive, and as if somewhat alarmed, may doubtless be attributed to three causes: their desire to be thought pretty, their fear of being mistaken for what they are not, and to the desire they always have not to lose a minute in their peregrinations. rodolph had not seen rigolette but by the dim light of morel's garret, or on the landing-place, equally obscure, and he was therefore really struck by the bright and fresh countenance of the young girl when he softly entered her apartment, which was lighted up by two large windows. he remained motionless for a moment, in admiration of the striking picture before his eyes. standing in front of a glass placed over her mantelpiece, rigolette was tying under her chin the ribands of a small cap of bordered tulle, ornamented with a light trimming of cherry-coloured riband. the cap, which fitted tightly, was placed at the back of her head, and thus revealed two large and thick bandeaux of glossy hair, shining like jet, and falling very low in front. her eyebrows, fine and well defined, seemed as if traced in ink, and curved above two large black, piercing, and intelligent eyes; her firm and velvety cheeks were suffused with the rosy hue of health, fresh to the eye, fresh to the touch, like a ripe peach covered with the dew of dawn; her small, upturned, attractive, and saucy nose, would have been a fortune to any lisette or marton; her mouth, which was rather large, had rosy and moist lips, small, white, close, and pearly teeth, and was laughter-loving and sportive; three charming dimples, which gave a characteristic grace to her features, were placed, two in her cheeks, and the other in her chin, close to a beauty-spot, a small ebony speck, which was most killingly situated at the corner of her mouth. between a worked collar, which fell very low, and the border of the little cap, gathered in by a cherry-coloured riband, was seen a forest of beautiful hair, so accurately twisted and turned up that their roots were seen as clearly and as black as if they had been painted on the ivory of that lovely neck. a plum-coloured merino gown, with a plain back and close sleeves, made skilfully by rigolette, covered a figure so small and slender that the young girl never wore a corset,--for economy's sake. an ease and unusual freedom in the smallest action of the shoulders and body, which resembled the facile undulations of a cat's motions, evinced this fact. imagine a gown fitting tightly to a form rounded and polished as marble, and we must agree that rigolette could easily dispense with this accessory to the toilet of which we have spoken. the tie of a small apron of dark green levantine formed a girdle around a waist which might have been spanned by the ten fingers. believing herself to be alone (for rodolph still remained at the door, motionless and unperceived), the grisette, having smoothed down her bandeaux with her small hand, white and delicately clean, put her small foot on a chair and stooped to tie the lace of her boot. this attitude developed to rodolph a portion of a cotton stocking, white as snow, and a well-formed ankle and leg. after the detail we have given of this toilet, we may guess that rigolette had selected her prettiest cap and best apron to do honour to her neighbour on their excursion to the temple. she found the pretended tradesman's clerk very much to her taste; his face, at once kind, bold, and animated, pleased her greatly; and then he had been so kind to the morels, by giving up his room to them; so that, thanks to this proof of goodness, and, perhaps, also to his good looks, rodolph had unwittingly advanced into the confidence of the grisette with giant strides. she, according to her ideas, founded on the compelled intimacy and reciprocal obligation which neighbourhood invites, thought herself very fortunate in having such a neighbour as rodolph to succeed to the travelling clerk, cabrion, and françois germain; for she was beginning to find that the next room had remained very long empty, and was afraid that she should never again see it occupied in an agreeable manner. rodolph took advantage of his invisibility to cast a curious eye around him, and he found the apartment even beyond the praises which madame pipelet had bestowed on the extreme cleanliness of the humble home of rigolette. nothing could be more lively or better arranged than this apartment. a gray paper, with green garlands, covered the walls; the floor, painted of a red colour, shone like a looking-glass; a small earthenware stone was placed in the chimney, where was piled up, very symmetrically, a small store of wood, cut so short, so thin, that, without exaggeration, each piece might have been compared to a very large match. on the stone mantelpiece, painted gray marble, there were, for ornaments, two pots of common flowers, covered in with green moss; a small case of boxwood contained a silver watch instead of a pendule. on one side was a brass candlestick, shining like gold, and having in it a small piece of wax-light; and, on the other side, no less resplendently, one of those lamps formed by a cylinder and a brass reflector, supported by a bar of steel, and having a base of lead. a tolerably large square glass, in a black wood frame, was over the mantelpiece. curtains of gray and green persian cloth, with a woollen-fringed border, cut and worked by rigolette, and hung in light rings of black iron, decorated the windows; and the bed was covered with a counterpane of the same make and material. two closets, with glass doors, and painted white, were in each side of the recess, enclosing, no doubt, household utensils,--the portable stove, the fountain, brooms, etc.; for none of these things spoiled the neat appearance of the chamber. a chest of drawers of well veined and shining walnut-tree; four chairs of the same wood; a large table for ironing and working, covered with one of those green woollen coverings which we sometimes see in a peasant's cottage; a straw armchair, with a stool to match, the constant seat of the workwoman,--such was the unpretending furniture. there was, too, in one of the window-seats, a cage with two canary birds, the faithful companions of rigolette. by one of those notable ideas which occur to the poor, this cage was placed in the middle of a large wooden chest, about a foot deep, placed on a table. this chest, which rigolette called her bird's garden, was filled with mould, covered with moss during the winter, and in spring the young girl sowed grass seeds, and planted flowers there. rodolph examined the place with interest, and entered fully into the cheerful disposition of the grisette. he pictured to himself this solitude, enlivened by the song of the birds and of rigolette herself. in summer, no doubt, she worked at the open window, half veiled by a verdant curtain of sweet peas, roses, nasturtiums, and blue and white convolvulus. in winter she warmed herself near her small stove, by the soft light of her lamp. rodolph was thus reflecting, when, looking mechanically at the door, he saw there a large bolt,--a bolt which would not have been out of place on the door of a prison. this bolt made him reflect. it might have two meanings, two very distinct uses: to close the door on the lover within; to close the door on the lover without. rodolph was aroused from his reflections by rigolette, who, turning her head, saw him, and, without changing her attitude, said to him: "what, neighbour, are you there?" then the well-formed ankle instantly disappeared beneath the ample skirt of the plum-coloured gown, and rigolette added, "ah, mr. cunning!" "i was here admiring in silence." "admiring what, neighbour?" "this pretty little room; for, neighbour, you are lodged like a queen." "why, you must know that is my enjoyment. i never go out, and so i can do no less than make my home comfortable." "but really i never saw anything half so nice. what pretty curtains! and the drawers as handsome as mahogany! you must have spent a great deal of money here." "oh, don't mention it! i had, of my own, four hundred and twenty-five francs when i left the prison, and almost all has been spent." "when you left the prison!--you?" "yes, but it is a very long story. of course, you do not suppose that i was in prison for anything wrong?" "of course not; but how was it?" "after the cholera, i was quite alone in the world. i was then, i think, ten years of age." "but who had taken care of you till then?" "ah, some excellent people! but they died of the cholera;" here rigolette's large eyes became moistened. "they had sold the little they possessed to pay their small debts, and i remained without having any one who would take care of me. not knowing what to do, i went to the guard-house, opposite to our house, and said to the sentinel: 'sir, my relations are dead, and i do not know where to go to; what must i do?' then the officer came, and he took me to the commissary, who put me in prison as a vagabond, and i did not go out until i was sixteen years old." "but your relations?" "i do not know who my father was, and i was six years old when i lost my mother, who had recovered me from the enfants trouvés (foundling hospital), where she had been compelled at first to place me. the kind people of whom i spoke to you lived in our house; they had no children, and, seeing me an orphan, they took care of me." "and what were they? what was their business or pursuit?" "papa crétu, so i always called him, was a house-painter, and his wife worked at her needle." "then they were pretty well off?" "oh, like other people in their station, though they were not married; but they called each other husband and wife. they had their ups and downs; to-day plenty, if there was work to be had; to-morrow short commons, if there was none; but that did not prevent the couple from being content and always cheerful;" at this remembrance rigolette's face brightened up. "there was not such a household in the quarter,--always merry, always singing, and, with it all, as good as they could be. what they had any one was welcome to share. mamma crétu was a plump body, about thirty years old, as neat as a penny, as active as an eel, as merry as a lark. her husband was a regular good-tempered fellow, with a large nose, a wide mouth, and always a paper cap on his head, and such a funny face,--oh, so funny,--you could not look at him without laughing. when he came home after work, he did nothing but sing, and make faces, and gambol like a child. he used to dance me on his knees, and play with me like a child of my own age; and his wife spoiled me, as if i had been a blessing to her. they both required only one thing from me, and that was to be in a good humour; and in that i never thwarted them, thank heaven. so they called me rigolette,[ ] and the name has stuck to me. as to mirth, they set me the example, for i never saw them sorrowful. if ever there was a word, it was the wife who said to her husband, 'crétu, you silly fellow, do be quiet, you make me laugh too much.' then he said to her, 'hold your foolish tongue, ramonette,'--i don't know why he called her ramonette,--'do be still, you really make my sides ache, you are so funny.' and then i laughed to see them laugh, and in this way i was brought up, and in this way they formed my disposition; and i hope i have profited by it." [ ] the french verb _rigoler_ is "to be merry."--e. t. "most assuredly you have, neighbour. so there never were any disputes between them?" "never, oh, never! sunday, monday, and sometimes on tuesday, they made holiday, or kept wedding-day, as they called it, and always took me with them. papa crétu was an excellent workman, and, when he chose to work, he could earn what he pleased, and so could his wife, too. if they had got enough to do for sunday and monday, and live on pretty comfortably, they were perfectly satisfied. if, after this, they were on short allowance for a time, they didn't mind it. i remember, when we had only bread and water, papa crétu took from his library--" "he had a library, then?" "oh, he used to call a little box so, in which he put his collection of new songs; for he bought all the new ones, and knew them every one. when, then, there was nothing but bread in the house, he used to take an old cookery book from his library, and say to us, 'well, now, let us see, what shall we eat to-day? this, or that?' and then he used to read out a long list of good things. each of us chose a dish, and then papa crétu took an empty saucepan, and, with the funniest airs and gestures in the world, pretended to put into the saucepan all the ingredients requisite for making a capital stew; and then he used to pretend to pour it all out into a dish--also empty--which he placed on the table, with still the same drolleries, which almost split our sides. then he took up his book again, and, whilst he was reading to us, for instance, the recipe of a good fricassée of chicken, which we had chosen, and which made our mouths water, we ate our bread, all laughing like so many mad people." "and, in this happy household, were there any debts to trouble them?" "none whatever. so long as the money lasted, they ate, drank, and made merry, and, when it was all gone, they lived upon 'make believe,' as before." "and did they never think of the future?" "oh, yes, they thought of it, of course; but what is the future to such as we? present and future are like sunday and monday; the one we spend gaily and happily outside the barriers, the other is got over in the faubourgs." "and why, since this couple seemed so well assorted, did they never marry?" "a friend of theirs once put that very question in my presence." "well, and what did they say?" "'oh,' said they, 'if ever we have any children, it may be all very well to marry, but as far as we are concerned, we do very well as we are. and why should we make an obligation of that which we now perform willingly? besides, getting married costs money, and we have none to spare in unnecessary expenses.' but, my goodness," added rigolette, "how i am running on. but, really, when once i begin to talk of these kind people, who were so good to me, i never know when to leave off. here, neighbour, will you give me my shawl off the bed, and put it nicely over my shoulders, then pin it underneath the collar of my habit-shirt with this large pin, and then we will set off, for it will take us some time to select the different things you wish to buy for the poor morels." rodolph readily obeyed the directions of rigolette. first he took from the bed a large plaid shawl, which he placed with all imaginable care on the well-formed shoulders of rigolette. "that will do, neighbour. now, lift up my collar, and press the shawl and dress together; then stick in the pin; but pray try not to prick me with it." the prince executed the orders given with zealous accuracy; then observed, smilingly, to the grisette: "ah, mlle. rigolette, i should not like to be your _femme de chambre_; there is danger in it!" "yes, i know," answered rigolette gaily; "there is great danger for me of having a pin run in by your awkwardness. but now," added she, after they had left the room, and carefully locked the door after them, "take my key; it is so large, i always expect it will burst my pocket; it is as large as a pistol," and here the light-hearted girl laughed merrily at her own conceit. rodolph accordingly "took charge" (that is the prescribed form of speech) of an enormous key, which might well have figured in one of those allegorical devices in which the vanquished are represented as humbly offering the keys of their lost cities to the conquerors. although rodolph believed himself too much changed by years to run any risk of being recognised by polidori, he still deemed it prudent to draw up the collar of his paletot as he passed by the door of the apartments belonging to the quack, bradamanti. "neighbour," said rigolette, "don't forget to tell m. pipelet that you are about to send in some things which are to be carried at once up to your chamber." "you are right, my good friend; let us step into the porter's lodge for an instant." m. pipelet, with his everlasting bell-shaped hat on his head, dressed, as usual, in the accustomed green coat, and seated before a table covered with scraps of leather and fragments of boots and shoes, was occupied in fixing a new sole on a boot, his whole look and manner impressed with the same deeply meditative air which characterised his usual proceedings. anastasie was just then absent from the lodge. "well, m. pipelet," said rigolette, "i hope you will be pleased to hear the good news. thanks to my good neighbour here, the poor morels have got out of trouble. la! when one thinks of that poor man being taken off to prison--oh, those bailiffs have no hearts!" "nor manners either, mademoiselle," rejoined m. pipelet, in an angry tone, wrathfully brandishing the boot then in progress of repair, and into which he had inserted his left hand and arm. "no! i have no hesitation in declaring, in the face of all mankind, that they are a set of mannerless scoundrels. why, taking advantage of the darkness of our stairs, they actually carried their indecent violence so far as to lay their audacious fingers upon the waist of my wife. when i first heard the cries of her insulted modesty, i could not restrain myself, and, spite of all efforts to restrain myself, i yielded to the natural impetuosity of my disposition. yes, i will frankly confess, my first impulse was to remain perfectly motionless." "but, i suppose, afterwards," said rigolette, who had much ado to preserve a serious air, "afterwards, m. pipelet, you pursued them, and bestowed the punishment they so well deserved?" "i'll tell you, mademoiselle," answered pipelet, deliberately; "when these shameless ruffians passed before my lodge, my blood boiled, and i could not prevent myself from hastily covering my face, that i might not be shocked by the sight of these luxurious malefactors; but, afterwards, i ceased to be astonished; for well i knew i might expect some sight or sound to shock my senses; full well i was prepared for some direful misfortune ere the day had passed, for i dreamed last night of cabrion." rigolette smiled, while the heavy groans which broke from the oppressed mind of the porter were mingled with blows of his hammer, as he vigorously applied it to the sole of the boot he was mending. "you wisely chose the wisest part, my dear m. pipelet, that of despising offences, and holding it beneath you to revenge them; but try to forget these ill-conducted bailiffs, and oblige me by doing me a great favour." "man is born to help his fellow man," drawled out pipelet, in a melancholy and sententious tone; "and he is still further called upon so to do when a good and worthy gentleman, moreover, a lodger in one's house, is concerned." "what i have to request of you is to carry up to my apartments for me several things i am about to send in, and which are for the morels." "make yourself easy upon that point, monsieur," replied pipelet. "i will faithfully perform your wishes." "and afterwards," said rodolph, mournfully, "you must obtain a priest to watch by a little girl the morels have lost in the night. go and give the requisite notification of the death, and bespeak a suitable funeral." "make your mind easy, monsieur," replied pipelet, more gravely even than before; "directly my wife returns, i will go to the mayor, the church, and the _traiteur's_: to the church, for the soul of the dead; to the _traiteur's_, for the body of the living," added m. pipelet, philosophically and poetically. "consider it done in both cases; my good sir, consider it done." at the entrance to the alley, rodolph and rigolette encountered anastasie returning from market with a huge basket of provisions. "that's right! that's right!" cried the porteress, looking at the pair with a knowing and significant air; "there you go, arm in arm already. to be sure, look and love, love and look. young people will be young people, no doubt on't. me and alfred was just the same. whoever heard of a pretty girl without a beau? so, go along, my dears, and make yourselves happy while you can." then, after gazing after them some minutes, the old woman disappeared in the depths of the alley, crying out, "alfred, my old darling! don't worry yourself; 'stasie's coming to bring you something nice,--oh, so nice!" end of volume ii. * * * * * transcriber's notes: this e-text was prepared from numbered edition of the printed. minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without comment. minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly throughout the text have been made without comment. word variations appearing in the original text which have been retained: "box-wood" and "boxwood" "court-yard" and "courtyard" "dairy-maid" and "dairymaid" "incumber" and "encumber" "milk-woman" and "milkwoman" "out-building" and "outbuilding" "saint-remy" ( ) and "saint-rémy" ( ) "stew-pan" and "stewpan" words using the [oe] ligature, which have been herein represented as "oe": manoeuvre, et coeteras, chef-d'oeuvre throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on facing pages. for the purpose of this e-text these pages have been combined into one entry. footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears. (stanford university, sul books in the public domain) transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . passages in gothic bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs. . other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text. [illustration: _took my head between his hands._ original etching by mercier.] +the mysteries of paris.+ _illustrated with etchings by mercier, bicknell, poiteau, and adrian marcel._ _by eugene sue_ _in six volumes_ _volume iii._ _printed for francis a. niccolls & co. boston_ +edition de luxe+ _this edition is limited to one thousand copies, of which this is_ no.______ contents. chapter page i. the temple ii. the arrest iii. jacques ferrand iv. the office v. the clients vi. the anonymous letter vii. reflections viii. the bachelors' breakfast ix. st. lazare x. mont saint-jean xi. la louve and la goualeuse xii. the protectress xiii. the forced friendship xiv. cecily illustrations. page took my head between his hands _frontispiece_ drew carefully out a sheet of paper morel fell back on the stool he will scold you awfully m. d'harville had blown his brains out la goualeuse in the prison the mysteries of paris. chapter i. the temple. to the deep snow which had fallen during the past night had succeeded a very sharp wind, so that the ordinarily muddy pavement was hard and dry, as rigolette and rodolph wended onwards to the immense and singular bazar called the temple, the young girl leaning unceremoniously on the arm of her cavalier, who, on his part, appeared as much at his ease as though they had been old familiar friends. "what a funny old woman madame pipelet is!" observed the grisette to her companion; "and what very odd things she says!" "well, i thought her remarks very striking, as well as appropriate." "which of them, neighbour?" "why, when she said 'young people would be young people,' and '_vive l'amour!_'" "well?" "well! i only mean to say those are precisely my sentiments." "your sentiments?" "yes, i should like nothing better than to pass my youth with you, taking '_vive l'amour!_' for my motto." "i dare say, for certainly you are not hard to please." "why, where would be the harm,--are we not near neighbours? of course we are, or else i should not be seen walking out with you in this manner in broad day." "then you allow me to hope--" "hope what?" "that you will learn to love me." "oh, bless you, i do love you already!" "really?" "to be sure i do. why, how can i help it? you are good and gay; though poor yourself, you have done all in your power by interesting rich people in the fate of the morels; your appearance pleases me; and you have altogether a nice look, and a sort of air such as one is glad to find in a person we expect to go about with a great deal. so there, i think, are abundant reasons for my loving you." then, suddenly breaking into loud fits of laughter, rigolette abruptly exclaimed, "look there, only look at that fat woman with the furred shoes! what does she remind you of? i'll tell you,--of a great sack being drawn along by two cats without tails!" and again she laughed merrily. "i would rather look at you, my pretty neighbour, than at all the fat old women or tailless cats in europe. i am so delighted to find you already love me." "i only tell you the truth; if i disliked you, i should speak just as plainly. i cannot reproach myself with ever having deceived or flattered any one; but, if a person pleases me, i tell them so directly." again interrupting the thread of her discourse, the grisette drew up suddenly before the windows of a shop, saying, "oh, do pray only look at that pretty clock and those two handsome vases! i had already saved up three francs and a half, and had put it in my money-box, to buy such a set as that. in five or six years i might have been able to buy them." "saved up, do you say? then, i suppose, you earn--" "at least thirty sous a day,--sometimes forty; but i never reckon upon more than thirty, which is the more prudent; and i regulate all my expenses accordingly," said rigolette, with an air as important as though she was settling the financial budget. "but with thirty sous a day, how do you manage to live?" "oh, bless you! that is easily reckoned. shall i tell you how i manage, neighbour? i fancy you are rather extravagant in your notions; so, perhaps, it may serve as a lesson for you." "yes, pray do." "well, then, thirty sous a day make five and forty francs a month, do they not?" "yes." "well, then, out of that i pay twelve francs for lodging; that leaves me twenty-three francs for food, etc." "is it possible? twenty-three francs for one month's food!" "yes, really, all that! certainly, for such a person as myself, it does seem an enormous sum; but then, you see, i deny myself nothing." "oh, you little glutton!" "ah! but then, remember, i include the food for both my birds in that sum." "certainly it seems less exorbitant, when you come to reckon, for three than for one; but just tell me how you manage day by day, that i may profit by your good example." "well, then, be attentive, and i will go over the different things i spend in it. first of all, one pound of bread, that costs four sous; then two sous' worth of milk make six; four sous' worth of vegetables in winter, or fruit and salad in summer,--i am very found of salad, because, like vegetables, it is such a nice clean thing to prepare, and does not soil the hands; there goes ten sous at once; then three sous for butter, or oil and vinegar, to season the salad with, that makes thirteen sous; a pail of nice fresh water,--oh, i must have that! it is my principal extravagance,--that brings it to fifteen sous, don't you see? then add two or three sous a week for chickweed and seed for my birds, who generally have part of my bread and milk; all this comes to exactly twenty-three francs a month, neither more nor less." "and do you never eat meat?" "meat, indeed! i should think not. why, it costs from ten to twelve sous a pound! a likely thing for me to buy! besides, there is all the nuisance and smell of cooking; instead of which, milk, vegetables, or fruit, are always ready when you wish for them. i tell you what is a favourite dish of mine, without being troublesome to prepare, and which i excel in making." "oh, pray let me know what it is?" "why, i get some beautiful ripe, rosy apples, and put them at the top of my little stove; when they are quite tender, i bruise them with a little milk, and just a taste of sugar. it is a dish for an emperor. if you behave well, i will let you taste it some day." "prepared by your hands, it can scarcely fail being excellent; but let us keep to our reckoning. let me see, we counted twenty-three francs for living, etc., and twelve francs for lodging; that makes thirty-five francs a month." "well, then, out of the forty-five or fifty francs i earn, there remains from ten to fifteen francs a month for my wood and oil during the winter, as well as for my clothes and washing; that is to say, for soap and other requisites; because, excepting my sheets, i wash my own things; that is another of my extravagances,--a good laundress would pretty well ruin me; while, as i am a very quick and good ironer, the expense is principally that of my own time. during the five winter months i burn a load and a half of wood, while i consume about four or five sous' worth of oil for my lamp daily; that makes it cost me about eighty francs a year for fire and lights." "so that you have, in fact, scarcely one hundred francs to clothe yourself, and find you in pocket money." "no more; yet out of that sum i managed to save my three francs and a half." "but your gowns, your shoes,--this smart little cap?" "as for caps, i never wear one but when i go out, so that is not ruinous; and, at home, i go bareheaded. as for my gowns and boots, have i not got the temple to go to for them?" "ah, yes, this convenient, handy temple! so you buy there?" "all sorts of pretty and excellent dresses. why, only imagine, great ladies are accustomed to give their old, cast-off gowns, etc., to their maids. when i say old, i mean that, perhaps, they have worn them for a month or two, just to ride out in the carriage. well, and then the ladies' maids sell them to the persons who have shops at the temple for almost nothing. just look at the nice dark merino dress i have on; well, i only gave fourteen francs for it, when, i make no doubt, it cost at least sixty, and had scarcely been put on. i altered it to fit myself; and i flatter myself it does me credit." "indeed, it does, and very great credit, too. yes, i begin to see now, thanks to the temple, you really may contrive to make a hundred francs a year suffice for your dress." "to be sure; why, i can buy in the summer sweet pretty gowns for five or six francs; boots, like these i have on, and almost new, for two or three francs a pair; just look at my boots. now, would not any one say they had been made for me?" said rigolette, suddenly stopping, and holding up one of her pretty little feet, really very nicely set off by the well-fitting boot she wore. "it is, indeed, a charming foot; but you must have some difficulty in getting fitted. however, i suppose, at the temple, they keep shoes and boots of all sizes, from a woman's to a child's." "ah, neighbour, i begin to find out what a terrible flatterer you are. however, after what i have told you, you must see now that a young girl, who is careful, and has only herself to keep, may manage to live respectably on thirty sous a day; to be sure, the four hundred and fifty francs i brought out of prison with me helped me on famously, for when people saw that i had my own furniture in my apartments, they felt more confidence in entrusting me with work to take home. i was some time, though, before i met with employment. fortunately for me, i had kept by me as much money as enabled me to live three months without earning anything." "shall i own to you that, under so gay and giddy a manner, i scarcely expected to hear so much sound sense as that uttered by your pretty mouth, my good neighbour?" "ah! but let me tell you that, when one is all alone in the world, and has no wish to be under any obligation, it is quite necessary, as the proverb says, to mind how we build our nest, to take care of it when it is built." "and certainly yours is as charming a nest as the most fastidious bird could desire." "yes, isn't it? for, as i say, i never refuse myself anything. now, i consider my chamber as above my means; in fact, too handsome for one like me; then i have two birds; always, at least, two pots of flowers on my mantelpiece, without reckoning those on the window-ledges; and yet, as i told you, i had actually got three francs and a half in my money-box, towards the ornaments i hoped some day to be able to buy for my mantelpiece." "and what became of this store?" "oh, why, lately, when i saw the poor morels so very, very wretched, i said to myself, 'what is the use of hoarding up these stupid pieces of money, and letting them lie idle in a money-box, when good and honest people are actually starving for want of them?' so i took out the three francs, and lent them to morel. when i say lent, i mean i told him i only lent them, to spare his feelings; but, of course, i never meant to have them back again." "yes, but my dear neighbour, you cannot refuse to let them repay you, now they are so differently situated." "why, no; i think if morel were to offer them to me now, i should not refuse them; it will, at any rate, enable me to begin my store for buying the chimney ornaments i do so long to possess. you would scarcely believe how silly i am; but i almost dream of a beautiful clock, such a one as i showed you just now, and two lovely vases, one on each side." "but, then, you should think a little of the future." "what future?" "suppose you were to be ill, for instance." "me ill? oh, the idea!" and the fresh, hearty laugh of rigolette resounded through the street. "well, why should you not be?" "do i look like a person likely to be sick?" "certainly i never saw a more bright or blooming countenance." "well, then, what could possibly have put it into your head to talk such nonsense as to suppose i could ever be ill?" "nay, but--" "why, i am only eighteen years of age, and, considering the sort of life i lead, there is no chance of such a thing. i rise at five o'clock, winter or summer; i am never up after ten, or, at latest, eleven; i eat sufficient to satisfy my appetite, which certainly is not a very great one; i do not suffer from exposure to cold; i work all day, singing as merrily as a lark; and at night i sleep like a dormouse. my heart is free, light, and happy. my employers are so well satisfied with what i do for them, that i am quite sure not to want for work; so what is there for me to be ill about? it really is too amusing to hear you try to talk sense, and only utter nonsense! me ill!" and, at the very absurdity of the idea, rigolette again burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, so loud and prolonged that a stout gentleman who was walking before her, carrying a dog under his arm, turned around quite angrily, believing all this mirth was excited by his presence. resuming her composure, rigolette slightly curtseyed to the stout individual, and pointing to the animal under his arm, said: "is your dog so very tired, sir?" the fat man grumbled out some indistinct reply, and continued on his way. "my dear neighbour," said rodolph, "are you losing your senses?" "it is your fault if i am." "how so?" "because you talk such nonsense to me." "do you call my saying that perhaps you might be ill, talking foolishly?" and, once more overcome by the irresistible mirth awakened by the absurdity of rodolph's suggestion, rigolette again relapsed into long and hearty fits of laughter; while rodolph, deeply struck by this blind, yet happy reliance upon the future, felt angry with himself for having tried to shake it, though he almost shuddered as he pictured to himself the havoc a single month's illness would make in this peaceful mode of life. then the implicit reliance entertained by rigolette on the stability of her employ, and her youthful courage, her sole treasures, struck rodolph as breathing the very essence of pure and contented innocence; for the confidence expressed by the young dressmaker arose neither from recklessness nor improvidence, but from an instinctive dependence and belief in that divine justice which would never forsake a virtuous and industrious creature,--a simple girl, whose greatest crime was in relying too confidently on the blessed gifts of youth and health, the precious boon of a heavenly benefactor. do the birds of the air remember, as they flit on gay and agile wing amidst the blue skies of summer, or skim lightly over the sweet-smelling fields of blooming lucerne, that bleak, cold winter must follow so much enjoyment? "then," said rodolph to the grisette, "it seems you have no wish for anything more than you already possess?" "no, really i have not." "positively, nothing you desire?" "no, i tell you. stay, yes, now i recollect, there are those sweet pretty chimney ornaments; but i shall be sure to have them some of these days, though i do not know exactly when; but still, they do so run in my head, that, sooner than be disappointed, i will sit up all night to work." "and besides these ornaments?" "oh, nothing more; no, i cannot recollect any one other thing i care for more especially now." "why now, particularly?" "because, yesterday, if you had asked me the same question, i should have replied, there was nothing i wanted more than an agreeable neighbour in your apartments, to give me an opportunity of showing all the little acts of kindness i have been accustomed to perform, and to receive nice little attentions in return." "well, but you know, my dear neighbour, we have already entered into an agreement to be mutually serviceable to each other; you will look after my linen for me, and i shall clean up and polish your chamber for you; and besides attending to my linen, you are to wake me every morning early by tapping against the wainscot." "and do you think you have named all i shall expect you to do?" "what else can i do?" "oh, bless you, you have not yet come to the end of your services! why, do you not intend to take me out every sunday, either to the boulevards or beyond the barriers? you know that is the only day i can enjoy a little pleasure." "to be sure i do; and when summer comes we will go into the country." "no, no, i hate the country! i cannot bear to be anywhere but in paris. yet i used, once upon a time, to go, out of good nature, with a young friend of mine, who was with me in prison, to visit meudon and st. germain. my friend was a very nice, good girl, and because she had such a sweet voice, and was always singing, people used to call her the goualeuse." "and what has become of her?" "i don't know. she spent all the money she brought with her out of prison, without seeming to have much pleasure for it; she was inclined to be mournful and serious, though kind and sympathising to every one. at the time we used to go out together i had not met with any work to do, but directly i procured employment, i never allowed myself a holiday. i gave her my address, but, as she never came to see me, i suppose she, like myself, was too busy to spare the time. but i dare say you don't care to hear any more about her; i only mentioned it because i wanted to show you that it is no use asking me to go into the country with you, for i never did, and never will go there, except with the young friend i was telling you about; but whenever you can afford to take me out to dinner or to the play, i shall be quite ready to accompany you, and when it does not suit you to spend the money, or when you have none to spend, why then we will take a walk, and have a good look at the shops, which is almost the nicest thing i know, unless it is buying at them. and i promise you, you shall have no reason to feel ashamed of my appearance, let us go out among ever such company. oh, when i wear my dark blue levantine silk gown, i flatter myself i _do_ look like somebody! it is such a love of a dress, and fits me so beautifully! i never wear it but on sundays, and then i put on such a love of a lace cap, trimmed with shaded orange-colour riband, which looks so well with dark hair like mine; then i have some such elegant boots of satin hue, made for me, not bought at the temple! and last of all comes such a shawl! oh, neighbour, i doubt if you ever walked with any one in such perfect beauty; it is a real _bourre-de-soie_, in imitation of cashmere. i quite expect we shall be stared at and admired by every one as we go along; the men will look back as they pass me, and say, 'upon my word that's an uncommon pretty-looking girl,--she is, 'pon honour!' then the women will cry, 'what a stylish-looking man! do you see that tall, thin person? i declare, he has such a fashionable appearance that he might pass as somebody if he liked; what a becoming and handsome moustachio he has!' and between ourselves, neighbour, i quite agree with these remarks, and especially about the moustachio, for i dearly love to see a man wear them. unfortunately m. germain did not wear a moustachio, on account of the situation he held; i believe his employer did not permit his young men to wear them. to be sure, m. cabrion did wear moustachios, but then, his were quite red, like his great bushy beard, and i hate those huge beards; and besides, i did not like cabrion for two other reasons; one was, he used to play all kinds of scampish tricks out in the street, and the other thing i disliked was his tormenting poor old pipelet as he did. certainly, m. giraudeau, the person who lived next to me before m. cabrion, was rather a smart-looking man, and dressed very well; but then he squinted, and at first that used to put me out very much, because he always seemed to be looking past me at some one by my side, and i always found myself, without thinking of it, turning around to see who it could be." and here rigolette indulged in another peal of merry laughter. as rodolph listened to all this childish and voluble talk, he felt almost at a loss how to estimate the pretensions of the grisette to be considered of first-rate prudence and virtue; sometimes the very absence of all reserve in her communications, and the recollection of the great bolt on her door, made him conclude that she bore a general and platonic affection only for every occupant of the chamber adjoining her own, and that her interest in them was nothing more than that of a sister; but again he smiled at the credulity which could believe such a thing possible, when the unprotected condition of the young dressmaker, and the fascinations of messrs. giraudeau, cabrion, and germain were taken into account. still, the frankness and originality of rigolette made him pause in the midst of his doubts, and refuse to allow him to judge harshly of the ingenuous and light-hearted being who tripped beside him. "i am delighted at the way you have disposed of my sundays," said rodolph, gaily. "i see plainly we shall have some capital treats." "stop a little, mr. extravagance, and let me tell you how i mean to regulate our expenses; in the summer we can dine beautifully, either at the chartreuse or the montmartre hermitage, for three francs, then half a dozen quadrilles or waltzes, and a ride upon the wooden horses,--oh, i do so love riding on horseback!--well, that will bring it altogether to about five francs, not a farthing more, i assure you. do you waltz?" "yes, very well." "i am glad of that. m. cabrion always trod on my toes, so that he quite put me out; and then, too, by way of a joke, he used to throw fulminating balls about on the ground; so at last the people at the chartreuse would not allow us to be admitted there." "oh, i promise you to be very well behaved whenever we are met together; and as for the fulminating balls, i promise you never to have anything to do with them; but when winter comes, how shall we manage then?" "why, in the winter we shall be able to dine very comfortably for forty sous. i think people never care so much for eating in the winter as summer; so then we shall have three francs left to pay for our going to the play, for i shall not allow you to exceed a hundred sous for the whole of our expenses, and that is a great deal of money to spend in pleasure; but then, if you were out alone, it would cost you much more at the tavern or billiard-rooms, where you would only meet a parcel of low, ignorant men, smelling of tobacco enough to choke you. is it not much better for you to pass a pleasant day with a nice little, cheerful, good-tempered companion, who, in return for the holiday you so agreeably pass with her, will contrive to make up the extra expense she costs you by hemming your handkerchiefs, and looking after your domestic affairs?" "nothing can be more advantageous, as far as i am concerned; but suppose any of my friends should meet me walking with my pretty neighbour, what then?" "what then! why, they would just look at you, and then at me; and then they would smile and say, 'that's a lucky fellow, that rodolph!'" "you know my name, do you?" "why, of course, when i heard that the chamber adjoining mine was let, i inquired the name of the person who had taken it." "yes, i dare say every one who met us out together would remark, as you observe, what a lucky fellow i was; then the next thing would be to envy me." "so much the better." "they would believe i was perfectly happy." "of course, of course they would." "all the while i should only be so in appearance." "well, what does that signify? as long as people think you happy, what does it matter whether you are really so or not? men neither require nor care for more than outward show." "but your reputation might suffer." rigolette burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "the reputation of a grisette!" said she. "do you suppose that any person believes in such a phenomenon? ah, if i had either father, mother, brother, or sister, for their sakes i should fear what people might say of me, and be anxious about the world's opinion; but i am alone in the world, and have no person to consider but myself, so, while i know myself to be free from blame or reproach, i care not for what any one may say of me, or think either." "but still i should be very unhappy." "what for?" "to pass for being a happy as well as a lucky fellow, when, after the fashion of papa crétu's dinner, i should be expected to make a meal off a dry crust, while all the tempting dishes contained in a cookery-book were being read to me." "oh, nonsense! you will be quite contented to live as i describe. you will find me so grateful for every little act of kindness, so easily pleased, and so little troublesome, that i know you will say, 'why, after all, i may as well spend my sunday with her as with any one else.' if you have any time in the evening, and have no objection to come and sit with me, you can have the use of my fire and light. if it would not tire you to read aloud, you would amuse me by reading some nice novel or romance. better do that than lose your money at cards or billiards; otherwise, if you are occupied at your office, or prefer going to a café, you can just bid me good night when you come in, if i happen still to be up; but should i have gone to bed, why then i will wish you good morning at an early hour next day, by tapping against your wainscot to awaken you. why, m. germain, my last fellow lodger, used to pass all his evenings with me in that manner, and never complained of their being dull. he read me all walter scott's novels in the course of the winter, which was really very amusing. sometimes, when it chanced to be a wet sunday, he would go and buy something at the pastry-cook's, and we used to have a nice little dinner in my room; and afterwards we amused ourselves with reading; and we liked that almost as well as going to the theatre. you see by this that i am not hard to please, but, on the contrary, am always ready to do what i can to make things pleasant and agreeable. and then you were talking about illness. oh, if ever you should be ill, then, indeed, i should be a comfort to you, a real sister of charity! only ask the morels what sort of a nurse i am. you don't half know your own good fortune, m. rodolph; you have drawn a real prize in the lottery of good luck to have me for a neighbour, i can assure you." "i quite agree with you; but i always was lucky. apropos of your late fellow lodger, m. germain, where is he at present?" "in paris, i believe." "then you do not see much of him now?" "no, he has never been to see me since he quitted the house." "but where is he living? and what is he doing at present?" "why do you want to know?" "because," said rodolph, smiling, "i am jealous of him, and i wish--" "jealous!" exclaimed rigolette, bursting into a fit of laughter. "la, bless you, there is no occasion for that, poor fellow!" "but, seriously, my good neighbour, i wish most particularly to obtain m. germain's address, or to be enabled to meet him. you know where he lives; and without any boast, i think i have good reason to expect you would trust me with the secret of his residence, and to believe me quite incapable of revealing again the information i ask of you, assuring you most solemnly it is for his own interest more than mine i am solicitous of finding him." "and seriously, my good neighbour, although it is probable and possible your intentions towards m. germain are as you report them, i am not at liberty to give you the address of m. germain, he having strictly and expressly forbidden my so doing to any person whatever; therefore, when i refuse to tell _you_, you may be quite sure it is because i really am not at liberty to do so; and that ought not to make you feel offended with me. if you had entrusted me with a secret, you would be pleased, would you not, to have me as careful of it, and determined not to reveal it, as i am about m. germain's affair?" "nay, but--" "neighbour, once and for all, do not say anything more on this subject. i have made a promise which i will keep faithfully and honourably; so now you know my mind, and if you ask me a hundred times, i shall answer you just the same." spite of her thoughtlessness and frivolity, the young dressmaker pronounced these last words with so much firmness that, to his great regret, rodolph perceived the impossibility of gaining the desired information respecting germain through her means; and his mind revolted at the idea of laying any snare to entrap her into a betrayal of her secret; he therefore, after a slight pause, gaily replied: "well, let us say no more about it, then; but, upon my life, i don't wonder at you, who can so well keep the secrets of others, guarding your own so closely." "me have secrets?" cried rigolette. "i only wish i had some more secrets of my own; it must be very amusing to have secrets." "do you really mean to assert that you have not a 'nice little secret' about some love-affair?" "love-affair!" "are you going to persuade me you have never been in love?" said rodolph, looking fixedly at rigolette, the better to read the truth in her telltale features. "been in love? why, of course i have, with m. giraudeau, m. cabrion, m. germain, and you!" "are you sure you loved them just as you do me, neither more nor less?" "oh, really, i cannot tell you so very exactly! if anything, i should say less; because i had to become accustomed to the squinting eyes of m. giraudeau, the disagreeable jokes and red beard of m. cabrion, and the low spirits and constant dejection of m. germain, for the poor young man was very sad, and always seemed to have a heavy load on his mind, while you, on the contrary, took my fancy directly i saw you." "come now, my pretty neighbour, you must not be angry with me; i am going to speak candidly and sincerely, like an old friend." "oh, don't be afraid to say anything to me; i am very good-natured; and besides, i feel certain you are too kind; you could never have the heart to say anything to me that would give me pain." "you are quite right; but do tell me truly, have you never had any lovers?" "lovers! i should think not! what time have i for such things?" "what has time got to do with it?" "why, everything, to be sure. in the first place, i should be jealous as a tigress; and i should be continually worrying myself with one idea or another; and let me ask you whether you think it is likely i could afford to lose two or three hours a day in fretting and grieving. and then, suppose my lover were to turn out false! oh, what tears it would cost me; how wretched i should be! all that sort of thing would put me sadly behindhand with my work, i can tell you." "well, but all lovers are not faithless and a cause of grief and sorrow to their mistress." "oh, bless you! it would be still worse for me, if he were all goodness and truth. why, then i should not be able to live without him for a single hour; and as most probably he would be obliged to remain all day in his office, or shop, or manufactory, i should be like some poor, restless spirit all the time of his absence. i should imagine all sorts of things, picture to myself his being at that moment pleasantly engaged in company with one he loved better than myself. and then, if he forsook me, oh, heaven only knows what i might be tempted to do in my despair, or what might become of me. one thing is very certain, that my work would suffer for it; and then what should i do? why, quietly as i live at present, it is much as i can manage to live by working from twelve to fifteen hours a day. where should i be, if i were to lose three or four days a week by tormenting myself? how could i ever catch up all that time? oh, i never could; it would be quite impossible! i should be obliged, then, to take a situation, to live under the control of a mistress; but no, no, i will never bring myself to that,--i love my liberty too well." "your liberty?" "yes, i might go as forewoman to the person who keeps the warehouse for which i work; she would give me four hundred francs a year, with board and lodging." "and you will not accept it?" "no, indeed! i should then be the slave and servant of another; whereas, however humble my home, at least there is no one there to control me. i am free to come and go as i please. i owe nothing to any one. i have good health, good courage, good heart, and good spirits; and now that i can say a good neighbour also, what is there left to desire?" "then you have never thought of marriage?" "marriage, indeed! why, what would be the use of my thinking about it, when, poor as i am, i could not expect to meet with a husband better off than myself? look at the poor morels; just see the consequences of burthening yourself with a family before you have the means of providing for one; whilst, so long as there is only oneself to provide for, one can always manage somehow." "and do you never build castles in the air?--never dream?" "dream? oh, yes!--of my chimney ornaments; but, besides them, what can i have to wish for?" "but, suppose now some relation you never heard of in your life were to die, and leave you a nice little fortune--twelve hundred francs a year, for instance--you have made five hundred sufficient to supply all your wants?" "perhaps it might prove a good thing; perhaps a bad one." "how could it be a bad one?" "because i am happy and contented as i am; but i do not know what i might be if i came to be rich. i can assure you that, when, after a hard day's work, i go to bed in my own snug little room, when my lamp is extinguished, and by the glimmer of the few cinders left in my stove i see my neat, clean little apartment, my curtains, my chest of drawers, my chairs, my birds, my watch, my table covered with the work confided to me, left all ready to begin the first thing in the morning, and i say to myself, all this is mine,--i have no one to thank for it but myself,--oh, neighbour, the very thoughts lull me into such a happy state of mind that i fall asleep believing myself the most fortunate creature on earth to be so surrounded with comforts. but, i declare, here we are at the temple! you must own it is a beautiful object?" although not partaking of the profound admiration expressed by rigolette at the first glimpse of the temple, rodolph was, nevertheless, much struck by the singular appearance of this enormous bazar with its many diverging passages and dependencies. towards the middle of the rue du temple, not far from the fountain which stands in the corner of a large square, may be seen an immense parallelogram, built of wood, and surmounted with a slated roof. this building is the temple, bounded on the left by the rue du petit thouars, and on the right by the rue percée; it leads to a large circular building,--a colossal rotunda, surrounded with a gallery, forming a sort of arcade. a long opening, intersecting this parallelogram in its length and breadth, divides it into two equal parts, which are again divided and subdivided into an infinity of small lateral and transverse openings, crossing each other in all directions, and sheltered by the roof of the building from all severity of weather. in this bazar new merchandise is generally prohibited; but the smallest fragment of any sort of material, the merest morsel of iron, brass, lead, or pewter, will here find both a buyer and a seller. here are to be found dealers in pieces of every coloured cloth, of all ages, qualities, shades, and capabilities, for the service of such as wish to repair or alter damaged or ill-fitting garments. some of the shops present huge piles of old shoes, some trodden down of heel, others twisted, torn, worn, split, and in holes, presenting a mass of nameless, formless, colourless objects, among which are grimly visible some species of fossil soles about an inch thick, studded with thick nails, resembling the door of a prison and hard as a horse's hoof, the actual skeletons of shoes whose other component parts have long since been consumed by the devouring hand of time. yet all this mouldy, dried up accumulation of decaying rubbish will find a willing purchaser, an extensive body of merchants trading in this particular line. then there are the vendors of gimps, fringes, bindings, cords, tassels, and edgings of silk, cotton, or thread, arising out of the demolition of curtains past all cure and defying all reparation. other enterprising individuals devote themselves to the sale of females' hats and bonnets, these articles only reaching their emporium by the means of the dealers in old clothes, and after having performed the strangest journeys and undergone the most surprising transformations, the most singular changes of colour. in order that the article traded in may not take up too much room in a warehouse ordinarily the size of a large box, these bonnets are carefully folded in half, then flattened and laid upon each other as closely as they can be packed, with the exception of the brim. they are treated in every respect the same as herrings, requiring to be stowed in a cask. by these means it is almost incredible what a quantity of these usually fragile articles may be accommodated in a small space of about four feet square. should a purchaser present himself, the various specimens are removed from the high pressure to which they have been exposed, the vendor, with a _dégagé_ air, gives the crown a dexterous blow with his fist, which makes the centre rise to its accustomed situation, then presses the front out upon his knee, concluding by holding up, with an air of intense satisfaction at his own ingenuity, an object so wild, so whimsical, and withal so irresistibly striking, as to remind one of those traditional costumes ascribed for ages past to fishwomen, apple-women, or any whose avocation involves the necessity of carrying a basket on the head. farther on, at the sign of the goût du jour, beneath the arcades of the rotunda, elevated at the end of the large opening which intersects the temple and divides it into two parts, are suspended myriads of vestments of all colours, forms, and fashions, even more various and extraordinary in their respective styles than the bonnets just described. there may be seen stylish coats of unbleached linen, adorned with three rows of brass buttons _à la hussarde_, and sprucely ornamented with a small fur collar of fox-skin; great-coats, originally bottle-green, but changed, by age and service, to the hue of the pistachio nut, edged with black braid, and set off with a bright flaming lining of blue and yellow plaid, giving quite a fresh and youthful appearance, and producing the most genteel and tasty effect; coats that, when new, bore the appellation, as regards their cut, of being _à queue de morue_, of a dark drab colour, with velvet, shag, or plush collar, and further decorated with buttons, once silver-gilt, but now changed to a dull coppery hue. in the same emporium may be observed sundry pelisses or polonaises of maroon-coloured cloth, with cat-skin collar, trimmed with braiding, and rich in brandenburgs, tassels, and cords. not far from these are displayed a great choice of dressing-gowns most artistically constructed out of old cloaks, whose triple collars and capes have been removed, the inside lined with remnants of printed cotton, the most in request being blue or dark green, made up here and there with pieces of various distinct shades, and embroidered with old braid, and lined with red cotton, on which is traced a flowing design in vivid orange, collar and cuffs similarly adorned; a cord for the waist, made out of an old bell-rope, serves as a finish to these elegant _déshabillés_ so exultingly worn by robert macaire. we shall briefly pass over a mass of costumes more or less uncouth, in the midst of which may be found some real and authentic relics of royalty or greatness, dragged by the revolution of time from the palaces of the rich and mighty to the dingy shelves of the rotunda of the temple. these displays of old shoes, hats, and coats are the grotesque parts of the bazar,--the place where rags and faded finery seek to set up their claim to notice. but it must be allowed, or rather distinctly asserted, that the vast establishment we are describing is of immense utility to the poor or persons in mediocre circumstances. there they may purchase, at an amazing decrease of price, most excellent articles, nearly new, and whose wear has been little or none. one side of the temple was devoted to articles of bedding, and contained piles of blankets, sheets, mattresses, and pillows. farther on were carpets, curtains, every description of useful household utensil. close at hand were stores of wearing apparel, shoes, stockings, caps, and bonnets, for all ages, as well as all classes and conditions. all these articles were scrupulously clean and devoid of anything that could offend or shock the most fastidious person. those who have never visited this bazar will scarcely credit in how short a space of time, and with how little money, a cart may be filled with every requisite for the complete fitting out of two or three utterly destitute families. rodolph was particularly struck with the manner, at once attentive, eager, and cheerful, of the various dealers, as, standing at the door of their shops, they solicited the patronage and custom of the passers-by. their mode of address, at once familiar and respectful, seemed altogether unlike the tone of the present day. scarcely had rigolette and her companion entered that part of the place devoted to the sale of bedding, than they were surrounded by the most seducing offers and solicitations. "walk in, sir, and look at my mattresses, if you please," said one. "they are quite new. i will just open a corner to show you how beautifully white and soft the wool is,--more like the wool of a lamb than a sheep." "my pretty lady, step in and see my beautiful, fine white sheets. they are better than new, for the first stiffness has been taken out of them. they are soft as a glove, and strong as iron." "come, my new-married couple, treat yourselves to one of my handsome counterpanes. only see how soft, light, and warm it is,--quite as good as eider-down,--every bit the same as new,--never been used twenty times. now, then, my good lady, persuade your husband to treat you to one. let me have the pleasure of serving you, and i will fit you up for housekeeping as cheaply as you can desire. oh, you'll be pleased, i know,--you'll come again to see mother bouvard! you will find i keep everything. i bought a splendid lot of second-hand goods yesterday. pray walk in and let me have the pleasure of showing them to you. come, you may as well see if you don't buy. i shall charge you nothing for looking at them." "i tell you what, neighbour," said rodolph to rigolette, "this fat old lady shall have the preference. she takes us for husband and wife. i am so pleased with her for the idea that i decide upon laying out my money at her shop." "well, then, let it be the fat old lady," said rigolette. "i like her appearance, too." rigolette and her companion then went into mother bouvard's. by a magnanimity, perhaps unexampled before in the temple, the rivals of mother bouvard made no disturbance at the preference awarded to her. one of her neighbours, indeed, went so far as to say: [illustration: _drew carefully out a sheet of paper._ original etching by adrian marcel.] "so long as it is mother bouvard, and no one else, that has this customer; she has a family, and is the dowager and the honour of the temple." it was, indeed, impossible to have a face more prepossessing, more open, and more frank than that of the dowager of the temple. "here, my pretty little woman," she said to rigolette, who was looking at sundry articles with the eye of a connoisseur, "this is the second-hand bargain i told you of: two bed furnitures and bedding complete, and as good as new. if you would like a small old _secrétaire_ very cheap, here is one (and mother bouvard pointed to one). i had it in the same lot. i do not usually buy furniture, but i could not refuse this, for the poor people of whom i had it appeared to be so very unhappy! poor lady! it was the sale of this piece of furniture which seemed to cut her to the very heart. i dare say it was a family piece of 'furniture.'" at these words, and whilst the shopkeeper was settling with rigolette as to the prices of the various articles of purchase, rodolph was attentively looking at the _secrétaire_ which mother bouvard had pointed out. it was one of those ancient pieces of rosewood furniture, almost triangular in shape, closed by a front panel, which let down, and, supported by two long brass hinges, served for a writing-table. in the centre of this panel, which was inlaid with ornaments of wood of different patterns, rodolph observed a cipher let in, of ebony, and which consisted of an m. and an r., intertwined and surmounted with a count's coronet. he conjectured, therefore, that the last possessor of this piece of furniture was a person in an elevated rank of society. his curiosity increased, and he looked at the _secrétaire_ with redoubled scrutiny; he opened the drawers mechanically, one after the other, when, having some difficulty in drawing out the last, and trying to discover the obstacle, he perceived, and drew carefully out, a sheet of paper, half shut up between the drawer and the bottom of the opening. whilst rigolette was concluding her bargain with mother bouvard, rodolph was engrossed in examining what he had found. from the numerous erasures which covered this paper, he perceived that it was the copy of an unfinished letter. rodolph, with considerable difficulty, made out what follows: "sir: be assured that the most extreme misery alone could compel me to the step which i now take. it is not mistaken pride which causes my scruples, but the absolute want of any and every claim on you for the service which i am about to ask. the sight of my daughter, reduced, as well as myself, to the most frightful destitution, has made me throw aside all hesitation. a few words only as to the cause of the misfortunes which have overwhelmed me. after the death of my husband, all my fortune was three hundred thousand francs ( , _l._), which was placed by my brother with m. jacques ferrand, the notary; i received at angers, whither i had settled with my daughter, the interest of this sum, remitted to me by my brother. you know, sir, the horrible event which put an end to his days. ruined, as it seems, by secret and unfortunate speculations, he put an end to his existence eight months since. after this sad event, i received a few lines, written by him in desperation before this awful deed. 'when i should peruse them,' he wrote, 'he should no longer exist.' he terminated this letter by informing me that he had not any acknowledgment of the sum which he had placed, in my name, with m. jacques ferrand, as that individual never gave any receipt, but was honour and piety itself; that, therefore, it would be sufficient for me to present myself to that gentleman, and my business would be regularly and satisfactorily adjusted. as soon as i was able to turn my attention to anything besides the mournful end of my poor brother, i came to paris, where i knew no one, sir, but yourself, and you only by the connection that had subsisted between yourself and my husband. i have told you that the sum deposited with m. jacques ferrand was my entire fortune, and that my brother forwarded to me every six months the interest which arose from that sum. more than a year had elapsed since the last payment, and, consequently, i went to m. jacques ferrand to ask the amount of him, as i was greatly in want of it. scarcely was i in his presence, than, without any consideration of my grief, he accused my brother of having borrowed two thousand francs of him, which he had lost by his death, adding, that not only was suicide a crime before god and man, but, also, that it was an act of robbery, of which he, m. jacques ferrand, was the victim. i was indignant at such language, for the remarkable probity of my poor brother was well known; he had, it is true, unknown to me and his friends, lost his fortune in hazardous speculations, but he had died with an unspotted reputation, deeply regretted by all, and not leaving any debt except to his notary. i replied to m. ferrand, that i authorised him at once to take the two thousand francs, which he claimed from my brother, from the three hundred thousand francs of mine, which had been deposited with him. at these words, he looked at me with an air of utter astonishment, and asked me what three hundred thousand francs i alluded to. 'to those which my brother placed in your hands eighteen months ago, sir, and of which i have, till now, received the interest paid by you through my brother,' i replied, not comprehending his question. the notary shrugged his shoulders, smiled disdainfully, as if my words were not serious, and replied that, so far from depositing any money with him, my brother had borrowed two thousand francs from him. "it is impossible for me to express to you my horror at this reply. 'what, then, has become of this sum?' i exclaimed. 'my daughter and myself have no other resource, and, if we are deprived of that, nothing remains for us but complete wretchedness. what will become of us?' 'i really don't know,' replied the notary, coldly. 'it is most probable that your brother, instead of placing this sum with me, as you say, has used it in those unfortunate speculations in which, unknown to any one, he was engaged.' 'it is false, sir!' i exclaimed. 'my brother was honour itself, and, so far from despoiling me and my daughter, he would have sacrificed himself for us. he would never marry, in order that he might leave all he had to my child.' 'dare you to assert, madame, that i am capable of denying a deposit confided in me?' inquired the notary, with indignation, which seemed so honourable and sincere that i replied, 'no, certainly not, sir; your reputation for probity is well known; but yet i can never accuse my brother of so cruel an abuse of confidence.' 'what are your proofs of this claim?' inquired m. ferrand. 'i have none, sir. eighteen months since, my brother, who undertook the management of my affairs, wrote to me, saying, "i have an excellent opportunity of obtaining six per cent.; send me your power of attorney to sell your stock, and i will deposit the three hundred thousand francs, which i will make up, with m. jacques ferrand, the notary." i sent the papers which he asked for to my brother, and a few days afterwards he informed me that the investment was made by you, and at the end of six months he remitted to me the interest due.' 'at least, then, you have some letters on this subject, madame?' 'no, sir; they were only on family matters, and i did not preserve them.' 'unfortunately, madame, i cannot do anything in this matter,' replied the notary. 'if my honesty was not beyond all suspicion, all attack, i should say to you, the courts of law are open to you,--attack me; the judges will have to choose between the word of an honourable man, who for thirty years has had the esteem of worthy men, and the posthumous declaration of a man who, after being ruined in most foolish undertakings, has found refuge only in suicide. i say to you now, attack me, madame, if you dare, and your brother's memory will be dishonoured! but i believe you will have the good sense to resign yourself to a misfortune which, no doubt, is very severe, but to which i am an entire stranger.' 'but, sir, i am a mother! if my fortune is lost, my daughter and i have nothing left but a small stock of furniture; if that is sold, we have nothing left, sir,--nothing, but the most frightful destitution staring us in the face.' 'you have been cheated,--it is a misfortune, but i can do nothing in the matter,' answered the notary. 'once more, madame, your brother has deceived you. if you doubt between his word and mine, attack me; go to law, and the judges will decide.' i quitted the notary's in the deepest despair. what could i do in this extremity? i had no means of proving the validity of my claim; i was convinced of the strict honour of my brother, and confounded at the assertion of m. ferrand, and having no person to whom i could turn for advice (for you were travelling), and knowing that i must have money to pay for legal opinions and advice, and desiring to preserve the very little that i had left, i dared not commence a suit at law. it was at this juncture--" this sketch of the letter ended here, for what followed was covered with ink erasures, which completely blotted out the lines. at the bottom of the page, and in the corner, rodolph found this kind of memorandum: "to write to the duchesse de lucenay, for m. de saint-remy." rodolph remained deeply thoughtful after the perusal of this fragment of a letter, in which he had found two names whose connection struck him. although the fresh infamy which appeared to accuse jacques ferrand was not proved, yet this man had proved himself so pitiless towards the unhappy morel, had behaved so shamefully to louise, his daughter, that the denial of a deposit, protected by certain impunity, on the part of such a wretch, appeared to him by no means improbable. this mother, who claimed a fortune which had disappeared so strangely, was, doubtless, used to a life of ease and comfort. ruined by a sudden blow, and knowing no one in paris, as the letter said, what must have been the existence of these two females, perhaps utterly destitute and alone in the midst of this vast metropolis! the prince had, as we know, promised sure occupation to madame, by giving her accidentally, and to employ her mind, a part to play in some future work of charity, being certain to find sure misery for her to curtail before his next meeting with that lady. he thought that, perhaps, chance might bring before him some unfortunate and worthy person, who would, as he trusted, interest the heart and imagination of madame d'harville. the sketch of the letter which he held in his hands, and the copy of which had, doubtless, never been sent to the person whose assistance was implored, evinced a high and resigned mind, which would revolt from an offer of alms. so, then, how many precautions, how many plans, how much delicacy, must be employed to conceal the source of such generous succour, or to make it accepted! and, then, how much address to introduce oneself to such a female, in order to judge if she really merited the interest which she seemed capable of inspiring! rodolph foresaw in the development of this mysterious affair a multitude of new and touching emotions, which would singularly attract madame d'harville in the way he had previously proposed to her. "well, husband," said rigolette, gaily, to rodolph, "what is there so interesting in that piece of paper, which you are reading there?" "my little wife," replied rodolph, "you are very inquisitive; i will tell you by and by. have you bought all you want?" "yes; and your poor friends will be set up like kings. there is nothing to do now but to pay; madame bouvard has made every allowance, i must do her that credit." "my little wife, an idea occurs to me; whilst i am paying, suppose you go and choose the clothes for madame morel and her children? i confess my ignorance on the subject of such purchases. you can tell them to bring everything here, and then all the things will be together, and the poor people will have everything at once." "you are right, husband. wait here, and i shall not be long; i know two shopkeepers here, where i am a regular customer, and i shall find in their shops all i require." and rigolette went out, saying: "madame bouvard, take care of my husband, and do not flirt with him, mind, whilst i am gone." and then came the laugh, and away the merry maiden ran. "i must say, sir," said mother bouvard to rodolph, "that you have a capital little manager there. _peste!_ she knows how to make a bargain! and then she is so prettily behaved and pretty-looking! red and white, with those large, beautiful black eyes, and such hair!" "is she not charming? and ain't i a happy husband, madame bouvard?" "as happy a husband as she is a wife, i am sure of that." "you are not mistaken. but tell me how much i owe you." "your little lady would only give me three hundred and thirty francs for the whole; as true as heaven's above us, i only make fifteen francs by the bargain, for i did not try to get the things as cheaply as i might, for i hadn't the heart to bate 'em down; the people who sold 'em seemed so uncommon miserable!" "really! were they the same people that you bought this little _secrétaire_ of?" "yes, sir; and it cuts my heart to think of it! only imagine, the day before yesterday there came here a young and still pretty girl, but so pale and thin one could almost see through her; and you know that pains people that have any feeling at all. although she was, as they say, neat as a new-made pin, her old threadbare black worsted shawl, her black stuff gown, which was also worn bare, her straw bonnet, in the month of january, for she was in mourning, all showed what we call great distress, for i am sure she was a real lady. at last, blushing up to the very eyes, she asked me if i would buy two beds and bedding complete, and a little old _secrétaire_. i said that, as i sold, of course i bought, and that if they would suit me i would have them, but that i must see the things. she then asked me to go with her to her apartment, not far off, on the other side of the boulevards, in a house on the quay of st. martin's canal. i left my niece in the shop, and followed the lady until we reached a smallish house at the bottom of a court; we went up to the fourth floor, and, the lady having knocked, the door was opened by a young girl about fourteen years of age, who was also in mourning, and equally pale and thin, but still very, very pretty, so much so that i was quite astonished." "well, and this young girl?" "was the daughter of the lady in mourning. though it was very cold, yet a thin gown of black cotton with white spots, and a small, shabby mourning shawl, that was all she had on her." "and their rooms were wretched?" "imagine, sir, two little rooms, very neat, but nearly empty, and so cold that i was almost froze; there was not a spark of fire in the grate, nor any appearance of there having been any for a very long time. all the furniture was two beds, two chairs, a chest of drawers, an old portmanteau, and the small _secrétaire_, and on the chest was a parcel, wrapped in a pocket-handkerchief. this small parcel was all the mother and child had left when their furniture was once sold. the landlord had taken the two bedsteads, the chairs, a trunk, and a table, for what was due to him, as the porter said, who had gone up-stairs with us. then the lady begged me fairly to estimate the mattresses, sheets, curtains, and quilts; and, as i am an honest woman, sir, although it is my business to buy cheap and sell dear, yet, when i saw the poor young thing with her eyes full of tears, and her mother, who, in spite of her affected calmness, seemed to be weeping in her heart, i offered for the things fifteen francs more than they were worth to sell again, i swear i did; i agreed, too, just to oblige them, to take this small _secrétaire_, although it is not a sort of thing i ever deal in." "i will buy it of you, madame bouvard." "will you though? so much the better, sir, for it is else likely to stay with me for some time; i took it, as i say, only to oblige the poor lady. i told her then what i would give for the things, and i expected that she would haggle a bit and ask me something more, i did. then it was that i saw she was not one of the common; she was in downright misery, she was, and no mistake about it, i am sure! i says to her, 'it's worth so much,' she answers me, and says, 'very well; let us go back to your shop, and you can pay me there, for we shall not return here again to this house.' then she says to her daughter, who was sitting on the trunk a-crying, 'claire, take this bundle.' i remember her name, and i'm sure she called her claire. then the young lady got up, but, as she was crossing the room, as she came to the little _secrétaire_ she went down on her knees before it, and, dear heart! how the poor thing did sob! 'courage, my dear child; remember some one sees you,' said her mother to her, in a low voice, but yet i heard her. you may tell, sir, they were poor, but very proud notwithstanding. when the lady gave me the key of the little _secrétaire_, i saw a tear in her red eyes, and it seemed as if her very heart bled at parting with this old piece of furniture; but she tried to keep up her courage, and not seem downcast before strangers. then she told the porter that i should come and take away all that the landlord did not keep, and after that we came back here. the young lady gave her arm to her mother, and carried in her hand the small bundle, which contained all they possessed in the world. i handed them their three hundred and fifteen francs, and then i never saw them again." "but their name?" "i don't know; the lady sold me the things in the presence of the porter, and so i had no occasion to ask her name, for what she sold belonged to her." "but their new address?" "i don't know that either." "no doubt they know at their old lodging?" "no, sir; for, when i went back to get the things, the porter told me, speaking of the mother and daughter, 'that they were very quiet people, very respectable, and very unfortunate,--i hope no misfortune has happened to them! they appeared to be very calm and composed, but i am sure they were quite in despair.' 'and where are they gone now to lodge?' i asked. '_ma foi_, i don't know!' was the answer; 'they left without telling me, and i am sure they will not return here.'" the hopes which rodolph had entertained for a moment vanished; how could he go to work to discover these two unfortunate females, when all the trace he had of them was that the young daughter's name was claire, and the fragment of a letter, of which we have already made mention, and at the bottom of which were these words: "to write to madame de lucenay, for m. de saint-remy?" the only, and very remote chance of discovering the traces of these unfortunates was through madame de lucenay, who, fortunately, was on intimate terms with madame d'harville. "here, ma'am, be so good as to take your money," said rodolph to the shopkeeper, handing her a note for five hundred francs. "i will give you the change, sir. what is your address?" "rue du temple, no. ." "rue du temple, no. ; oh, very well, very well, i know it." "have you ever been to that house?" "often. first i bought the furniture of a woman there, who lent money on wages; it is not a very creditable business, to be sure, but that's no affair of mine,--she sells, i buy, and so that's settled. another time, not six weeks ago, i went there again for the furniture of a young man, who lived on the fourth floor, and was moving away." "m. françois germain, perhaps?" said rodolph. "just so. did you know him?" "very well; and, unfortunately, he has not left his present address in the rue du temple, so i do not know where to find him. but where shall we find a cart to take the goods?" "as it is not far, a large truck will do, and old jérome is close by, my regular commissionaire. if you wish to know the address of m. françois germain, i can help you." "what? do you know where he lives?" "not exactly, but i know where you may be sure to meet with him." "where?" "at the notary's where he works." "at a notary's?" "yes, who lives in the rue du sentier." "m. jacques ferrand?" exclaimed rodolph. "yes; and a very worthy man he is. there is a crucifix and some holy boxwood in his study; it looks just as if one was in a sacristy." "but how did you know that m. germain worked at this notary's?" "why, this way: this young man came to me to ask me to buy his little lot of furniture all of a lump. so that time, too, though rather out of my line, i bought all his kit, and brought it here, because he seemed a nice young fellow, and i had a pleasure in obliging him. well, i bought him right clean out, and i paid him well; he was, no doubt, very well satisfied, for, a fortnight afterwards, he came again, to buy some bed furniture from me. a commissionaire, with a truck, went with him, everything was packed: well, but, at the moment he was going to pay me, lo and behold! he had forgotten his purse; but he looked so like an honest man that i said to him, 'take the things with you,--never mind, i shall be passing your way, and will call for the money.' 'very good,' says he; 'but i am never at home, so call to-morrow in the rue du sentier, at m. jacques ferrand's, the notary, where i am employed, and i will pay you.' i went next day, and he paid me; only, what was very odd to me was that he sold his things, and then, a fortnight afterwards, he buys others." rodolph thought that he was able to account for this singular fact. germain was desirous of destroying every trace from the wretches who were pursuing him: fearing, no doubt, that his removal might put them on the scent of his fresh abode, he had preferred, in order to avoid this danger, selling his goods, and afterwards buying others. the prince was overjoyed to think of the happiness in store for madame georges, who would thus, at length, see again that son so long and vainly sought. rigolette now returned, with a joyful eye and smiling lips. "well, did not i tell you so?" she exclaimed. "i am not deceived: we shall have spent six hundred and forty francs all together, and the morels will be set up like princes. here come the shopkeepers; are they not loaded? nothing will now be wanting for the family; they will have everything requisite, even to a gridiron, two newly tinned saucepans, and a coffee-pot. i said to myself, since they are to have things done so grandly, let them be grand; and, with all that, i shall not have lost more than three hours. but come, neighbour, pay as quickly as you can, and let us be gone. it will soon be noon, and my needle must go at a famous rate to make up for this morning." rodolph paid, and quitted the temple with rigolette. at the moment when the grisette and her companion were entering the passage, they were almost knocked over by madame pipelet, who was running out, frightened, troubled, and aghast. "mercy on us!" said rigolette, "what ails you, madame pipelet? where are you running to in that manner?" "is it you, mlle. rigolette?" exclaimed anastasie; "it is providence that sends you; help me to save the life of alfred." "what do you mean?" "the darling old duck has fainted. have mercy on us! run for me, and get me two sous' worth of absinthe at the dram-shop,--the strongest, mind; it is his remedy when he is indisposed in the pylorus,--that generally sets him up again. be kind, and do not refuse me, i can then return to alfred; i am all over in such a fluster." rigolette let go rodolph's arm, and ran quickly to the dram-shop. "but what has happened, madame pipelet?" inquired rodolph, following the porteress into the lodge. "how can i tell, my worthy sir? i had gone out to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop, to save alfred so much trotting about; i returned, and what should i see but the dear old cosset with his legs and arms all in the air! there, m. rodolph," said anastasie, opening the door of her dog-hole, "say if that is not enough to break one's heart!" lamentable spectacle! with his bell-crowned hat still on his head, even further on than usual, for the ambiguous castor, pushed down, no doubt, by violence, to judge by a transverse gap, covered m. pipelet's eyes, who was on his back on the ground at the foot of his bed. the fainting was over, and alfred was beginning to make some slight gesticulations with his hands, as if he sought to repulse somebody or something, and then he tried to push off this troublesome visor, with which he had been bonneted. "he kicks,--that's a beautiful symptom! he comes to!" exclaimed the porteress, who, stooping down, bawled in his ears, "what's the matter with my alfred? it's his 'stasie who is with him. how goes it now? there's some absinthe coming, that will set you up." then, assuming a falsetto voice of much endearment, she added: "what, did they abuse and assassinate him,--the dear old darling, the delight of his 'stasie, eh?" alfred heaved an immense sigh, and, with a mighty groan, uttered the fatal word: "cabrion!" and his tremulous hands again seemed desirous of repulsing the fearful vision. "cabrion! what, that cussed painter again?" exclaimed madame pipelet. "alfred dreamed of him all night long, so that he kicked me almost to death. this monster is his nightmare; not only does he poison his days, but he poisons his nights also,--he pursues him in his very sleep; yes, sir, as though alfred was a malefactor, and this cabrion, whom may heaven confound! was his unceasing remorse." rodolph smiled, discreetly detecting some new freak of rigolette's former neighbour. "alfred! answer me; don't remain mute, you frighten me," said madame pipelet; "let's try and get you up. why, lovey, do you keep thinking of that vagabond fellow? you know that, when you think of that fellow, it has the same effect on you that cabbage has,--it fills up your pylorus and stifles you." "cabrion!" repeated m. pipelet, pushing up, with an effort, the hat which had fallen so low over his eyes, which he rolled around him with an affrighted air. rigolette entered, carrying a small bottle of absinthe. "thankee, ma'amselle, you are so kind!" said the old body; and then she added, "come, deary, suck this down, that will make you all right." and anastasie, presenting the phial quickly to m. pipelet's lips, contrived to make him swallow the absinthe. in vain did alfred struggle vigorously. his wife, taking advantage of the victim's weakness, held up his head firmly with one hand, whilst with the other she introduced the neck of the little bottle between his teeth, and compelled him to swallow the absinthe, after which she exclaimed, triumphantly: "ther-r-r-r-e, now-w-w! you're on your pins again, my ducky!" and alfred, having wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, opened his eyes, rose, and inquired, in accents of alarm: "have you seen him?" "who?" "is he gone?" "who, alfred?" "_cabrion!_" "has he dared--" asked the porteress. m. pipelet, as mute as the statue of the commandant, like that redoubtable spectre, bowed his head twice with an affirmative air. "what! has m. cabrion been here?" inquired rigolette, repressing a violent desire to laugh. "what! has the monster been unchained on alfred?" said madame pipelet. "oh, if i had been there with my broom, he should have swallowed it, handle and all! but tell us, alfred, all about this horrid affair." m. pipelet made signs with his hand that he was about to speak, and they listened to the man with the bell-crowned hat in religious silence, whilst he expressed himself in these terms, and in a voice of deep emotion: "my wife had left me, to save me the trouble of going out, according to the request of monsieur," bowing to rodolph, "to the mayor's, to church, and the cook-shop." "the dear old darling had had the nightmare all night, and i wished to save him the journey," said anastasie. "this nightmare was sent me as a warning from on high," responded the porter, religiously. "i had dreamed of cabrion, and i was to suffer from cabrion. here was i sitting quietly in front of my table, reflecting on an alteration which i wished to make in the upper leather of this boot confided to my hands, when i heard a noise, a rustling, at the window of my lodge,--was it a presentiment, a warning from on high? my heart beat, i lifted up my head, and, through the pane of glass, i saw--i saw--" "cabrion!" exclaimed anastasie, clasping her hands. "cabrion!" replied m. pipelet, gloomily. "his hideous face was there, pressed close against the window, and he was looking at me with eyes like a cat's--what do i say?--a tiger's! just as in my dream. i tried to speak, but my tongue clave to my mouth; i tried to rise, i was nailed to my seat. my boot fell from my hands, and, as in all the critical and important events of my life, i remained perfectly motionless. then the key turned in the lock, the door opened,--cabrion entered!" "he entered? owdacious monster!" replied madame pipelet, as much astonished as her spouse at such audacity. "he entered slowly," resumed alfred, "stopped a moment at the threshold, as if to fascinate me with his look, atrocious as it was, then he advanced towards me, pausing at each step, and piercing me through with his eye, but not uttering a word,--straight, mute, and threatening as a phantom!" "i declare, my very heart aches to hear him," said anastasie. "i remained still more motionless, and glued to my chair; cabrion still advanced slowly towards me, fixing his eye as the serpent glares at the bird; he so frightened me that, in spite of myself, i kept my eye on him; he came close to me, and then i could no longer endure his revolting aspect, it was too much, and i could not. i shut my eyes, and then i felt that he dared to place his hands upon my hat, which he took by the crown and lifted gently off my head, leaving it bare. i began to be seized with vertigo, my breathing was suspended, there was a singing in my ears, and i was completely fastened to my seat, and i closed my eyes still closer and closer. then cabrion stooped, took my head between his hands, which were as cold as death, and on my forehead, covered with an icy damp, he deposited a brazen kiss, indecent wretch!" anastasie lifted her hands towards heaven. "my enemy, the most deadly, imprinted a kiss on my forehead; such a monstrosity overcame and paralysed me. cabrion profited by my stupor to place my hat on my head, and then, with a blow of his fist, drove it down over my eyes, as you saw. this last outrage destroyed me; the measure was full, all about me was turning around, and i fainted at the moment when i saw him, from under the rim of my hat, leave the lodge as quietly and slowly as he had entered." then, as if the recital had exhausted all his strength, m. pipelet fell back in his chair, raising his hands to heaven in a manner of mute imprecation. rigolette went out quickly; she could not restrain herself any longer; her desire to laugh almost stifled her. rodolph had the greatest difficulty to keep his countenance. suddenly there was a confused murmur, such as announces the arrival of a mob, heard from the street, and a great noise came from the door at the top of the entrance, and then butts of grounded muskets were heard on the steps of the door. chapter ii. the arrest. "good gracious! m. rodolph," exclaimed rigolette, running in, pale and trembling, "a commissary of police and the guard have come here." "divine justice watches over me," said m. pipelet, in a transport of pious gratitude. "they have come to arrest cabrion; unfortunately it is too late." a commissary of police, wearing his tricoloured scarf around his waist underneath his black coat, entered the lodge. his countenance was impressive, magisterial, and serious. "m. le commissaire is too late; the malefactor has escaped," said m. pipelet, in a sorrowful voice; "but i will give you his description,--villainous smile, impudent look, insulting--" "of whom do you speak?" inquired the magistrate. "of cabrion, m. le commissaire; but, perhaps, if you make all haste, it is not yet too late to catch him," added m. pipelet. "i know nothing about any cabrion," said the magistrate, impatiently. "does one jérome morel, a working lapidary, live in this house?" "yes, mon commissaire," said madame pipelet, putting herself into a military attitude. "conduct me to his apartment." "morel, the lapidary!" said the porteress, excessively surprised; "why, he is the mildest lambkin in the world. he is incapable of--" "does jérome morel live here or not?" "he lives here, sir, with his family, in one of the attics." "lead me to his attic." then, addressing himself to a man who accompanied him, the magistrate said: "let two of the municipal guard wait below, and not leave the entrance. send justing for a hackney-coach." the man left the lodge to put these orders in execution. "now," continued the magistrate, addressing himself to m. pipelet, "lead me to morel." "if it is all the same to you, mon commissaire, i will do that for alfred; he is indisposed from cabrion's behaviour, which, just as the cabbage does, troubles his pylorus." "you or your husband, it is no matter which. go forward." and, preceded by madame pipelet, he ascended the staircase, but soon stopped when he saw rodolph and rigolette following him. "who are you, and what do you want?" he inquired. "they are two lodgers in the fourth story," said madame pipelet. "i beg your pardon, sir, i did not know that you belonged to the house," said he to rodolph. the latter, auguring well from the polite behaviour of the magistrate, said to him: "you are going to see a family in a state of deep misery, sir. i do not know what fresh stroke of ill fortune threatens this unhappy artisan, but he has been cruelly tried last night,--one of his daughters, worn down by illness, is dead before his eyes,--dead from cold and misery." "is it possible?" "it is, indeed, the fact, mon commissaire," said madame pipelet. "but for this gentleman who speaks to you, and who is a king of lodgers, for he has saved poor morel from prison by his generosity, the whole family of the lapidary must have died of hunger." the commissary looked at rodolph with equal surprise and interest. "nothing is more easily explained, sir," said rodolph. "a person who is very charitable, learning that morel, whose honour and honesty i will guarantee to you, was in a most deplorable and unmerited state of distress, authorised me to pay a bill of exchange for which the bailiffs were about to drag off to prison this poor workman, the sole support of his numerous family." the magistrate, in his turn, struck by the noble physiognomy of rodolph, as well as the dignity of his manners, replied: "i have no doubt of morel's probity. i only regret i have to fulfil a painful duty in your presence, sir, who have so deeply interested yourself in this family." "what do you mean, sir?" "from the services you have rendered to the morels, and your language, i see, sir, that you are a worthy person. having, besides, no reason for concealing the object of the warrant which i have to execute, i will confess to you that i am about to apprehend louise morel, the lapidary's daughter." the recollection of the rouleau of gold, offered to the bailiffs by the young girl, occurred to rodolph. "of what is she then accused?" "she lies under a charge of child-murder." "she! she! oh, her poor father!" "from what you have told me, sir, i imagine that, under the miserable circumstances in which this artisan is, this fresh blow will be terrible for him. unfortunately, i must carry out the full instructions with which i am charged." "but it is at present only an accusation?" asked rodolph. "proofs, no doubt, are still wanting?" "i cannot tell you more on that point. justice has been informed of this crime, or rather the presumptive crime, by the statement of an individual most respectable in every particular, louise morel's master." "jacques ferrand, the notary?" said rodolph, with indignation. "yes, sir--" "m. jacques ferrand is a wretch, sir!" "i am pained to see that you do not know the person of whom you speak, sir. m. jacques ferrand is one of the most honourable men in the world; his rectitude is universally recognised." "i repeat to you, sir, that this notary is a wretch. it was he who sought to send morel to prison because his daughter repulsed his libidinous proposals. if louise is only accused on the denunciation of such a man, you must own, sir, that the charge deserves but very little credit." "it is not my affair, sir, and i am very glad of it, to discuss the depositions of m. ferrand," said the magistrate, coldly. "justice is informed in this matter, and it is for a court of law to decide. as for me, i have a warrant to apprehend louise morel, and that warrant i must put into execution." "you are quite right, sir, and i regret that an impulse of feeling, however just, should have made me forget for a moment that this was neither the time nor the place for such a discussion. one word only: the corpse of the child which morel has lost is still in the attic, and i have offered my apartments to the family to spare them the sad spectacle of the dead body. you will, therefore, find the lapidary, and possibly his daughter, in my rooms. i entreat you, sir, in the name of humanity, do not apprehend louise abruptly in the midst of the unhappy family only a short time since snatched from their state of utter wretchedness. morel has had so many shocks during this night that it is really to be feared his reason may sink under it; already his wife is dangerously ill, and such a blow would kill him." "sir, i have always executed my orders with every possible consideration, and i shall act similarly now." "will you allow me, sir, to ask you one favour? it is this: the young female who is following us occupies an apartment close to mine, which, i have no doubt, she would place at your disposal. you could, in the first instance, send for louise, and, if necessary, for morel afterwards, that his daughter may take leave of him. you will thus save a poor sick and infirm mother from a very distressing scene." "most willingly, sir, if it can be so arranged." the conversation we have just described was carried on in an undertone, whilst rigolette and madame pipelet kept away discreetly a few steps' distance from the commissary and rodolph. the latter then went to the grisette, whom the presence of the commissary had greatly affrighted, and said to her: "my good little neighbour, i want another service from you,--i want you to leave your room at my disposal for the next hour." "as long as you please, m. rodolph. you have the key. but, oh, say what is the matter?" "i will tell you all by and by. but i want something more; you must return to the temple, and tell them not to bring our purchases here for the next hour." "to be sure i will, m. rodolph; but has any fresh misfortune befallen the morels?" "alas! yes, something very sad indeed, which you will learn but too soon." "well, then, neighbour, i will run to the temple. alas, alas! i was thinking that, thanks to your kindness, these poor people had been quite relieved from their trouble!" said the grisette, who then descended the staircase very quickly. rodolph had been very desirous of sparing rigolette the distressing scene of louise morel's arrest. "mon commissaire," said madame pipelet, "since my king of lodgers will direct you, i may return to my alfred. i am uneasy about him, for when i left him he had hardly recovered from his indisposition which cabrion had caused." "go, go," said the magistrate, who was thus left alone with rodolph. they both ascended to the landing-place on the fourth story, at the door of the chamber in which the lapidary and his family had been temporarily established. suddenly the door opened. louise, pale and in tears, came out quickly. "adieu, adieu, father!" she exclaimed. "i will come back again, but i must go now." "louise, my child, listen to me a moment," said morel, following his daughter, and endeavouring to detain her. at the sight of rodolph and the magistrate, louise and the lapidary remained motionless. "ah, sir, you, our kind benefactor!" said the artisan, recognising rodolph, "assist me in preventing louise from leaving us. i do not know what is the matter with her, but she quite frightens me, she is so determined to go. now there is no occasion for her to return to her master, is there, sir? did you not say to me, 'louise shall not again leave you, and that will recompense you for much that you have suffered?' ah! at that kind promise, i confess that for a moment i had forgot the death of my poor little adèle; but i must not again be separated from thee, louise, oh, never, never!" rodolph was wounded to the heart, and was unable to utter a word in reply. the commissary said sternly to louise: "is your name louise morel?" "yes, sir," replied the young girl, quite overcome. "you are jérome morel, her father?" added the magistrate, addressing the lapidary. rodolph had opened the door of rigolette's apartment. "yes, sir; but--" "go in there with your daughter." and the magistrate pointed to rigolette's chamber, into which rodolph had already entered. reassured by his preserver, the lapidary and louise, astonished and uneasy, did as the commissary desired them. the commissary shut the door, and said with much feeling to morel: "i know that you are honest and unfortunate, and it is, therefore, with regret that i tell you that i am here in the name of the law to apprehend your daughter." "all is discovered,--i am lost!" cried louise, in agony, and throwing herself into her father's arms. "what do you say? what do you say?" inquired morel, stupefied. "you are mad! what do you mean by lost? apprehend you! why apprehend you? who has come to apprehend you?" "i, and in the name of the law;" and the commissary showed his scarf. "oh, wretched, wretched girl!" exclaimed louise, falling on her knees. "what! in the name of the law?" said the artisan, whose reason, severely shaken by this fresh blow, began to totter. "why apprehend my daughter in the name of the law? i will answer for louise, i will,--this my child, my good child, ain't you, louise? what! apprehend you, when our good angel has restored you to us to console us for the death of our poor, dear little adèle? come, come, this can't be. and then, to speak respectfully, m. le commissaire, they apprehend none but the bad, you know; and my louise is not bad. so you see, my dear, the good gentleman is mistaken. my name is morel, but there are other morels; you are louise, but there are other louises; so you see, m. le commissaire, there is a mistake, certainly some mistake!" "unhappily there is no mistake. louise morel, take leave of your father!" "what! are you going to take my daughter away?" exclaimed the workman, furious with grief, and advancing towards the magistrate with a menacing air. rodolph seized the lapidary by the arm, and said to him: "be calm, and hope for the best; your daughter will be restored to you; her innocence must be proved; she cannot be guilty." "guilty of what? she is not guilty of anything. i will put my hand in the fire if--" then, remembering the gold which louise had brought to pay the bill with, morel cried, "but the money--that money you had this morning, louise!" and he gave his daughter a terrible look. louise understood it. "i rob!" she exclaimed; and her cheeks suffused with generous indignation, her tone and gesture, reassured her father. "i knew it well enough!" he exclaimed. "you see, m. le commissaire, she denies it; and i swear to you, that she never told me a lie in her life; and everybody that knows her will say the same thing as i do. she lie! oh, no, she is too proud to do that! and, then, the bill has been paid by our benefactor. the gold she does not wish to keep, but will return it to the person who lent it to her, desiring him not to tell any one; won't you, louise?" "your daughter is not accused of theft," said the magistrate. "well, then, what is the charge against her? i, her father, swear to you that she is innocent of whatever crime they may accuse her of, and i never told a lie in my life either." "why should you know what she is charged with?" said rodolph, moved by his distress. "louise's innocence will be proved; the person who takes so great an interest in you will protect your daughter. come, come! courage, courage! this time providence will not forsake you. embrace your daughter, and you will soon see her again." "m. le commissaire," cried morel, not attending to rodolph, "you are going to deprive a father of his daughter without even naming the crime of which she is accused! let me know all! louise, why don't you speak?" "your daughter is accused of child-murder," said the magistrate. "i--i--i--child-mur--i don't--you--" and morel, aghast, stammered incoherently. "your daughter is accused of having killed her child," said the commissary, deeply touched at this scene; "but it is not yet proved that she has committed this crime." "oh, no, i have not, sir! i have not!" exclaimed louise, energetically, and rising; "i swear to you that it was dead. it never breathed,--it was cold. i lost my senses,--this is my crime. but kill my child! oh, never, never!" "your child, abandoned girl!" cried morel, raising his hands towards louise, as if he would annihilate her by this gesture and imprecation. "pardon, father, pardon!" she exclaimed. after a moment's fearful silence, morel resumed, with a calm that was even more frightful: "m. le commissaire, take away that creature; she is not my child!" the lapidary turned to leave the room; but louise threw herself at his knees, around which she clung with both arms; and, with her head thrown back, distracted and supplicating, she exclaimed: "father, hear me! only hear me!" "m. le commissaire, away with her, i beseech you! i leave her to you," said the lapidary, struggling to free himself from louise's embrace. "listen to her," said rodolph, holding him; "do not be so pitiless." "to her! to her!" repeated morel, lifting his two hands to his forehead, "to a dishonoured wretch! a wanton! oh, a wanton!" "but, if she were dishonoured through her efforts to save you?" said rodolph to him in a low voice. these words made a sudden and painful impression on morel, and he cast his eyes on his weeping child still on her knees before him; then, with a searching look, impossible to describe, he cried in a hollow voice, clenching his teeth with rage: "the notary?" an answer came to louise's lips. she was about to speak, but paused,--no doubt a reflection,--and, bending down her head, remained silent. "no, no; he sought to imprison me this morning!" continued morel, with a violent burst. "can it be he? ah, so much the better, so much the better! she has not even an excuse for her crime; she never thought of me in her dishonour, and i may curse her without remorse." "no, no; do not curse me, my father! i will tell you all,--to you alone, and you will see--you will see whether or not i deserve your forgiveness." "for pity's sake, hear her!" said rodolph to him. "what will she tell me,--her infamy? that will soon be public, and i can wait till then." "sir," said louise, addressing the magistrate, "for pity's sake, leave me alone with my father, that i may say a few words to him before i leave him, perhaps for ever; and before you, also, our benefactor, i will speak; but only before you and my father." "be it so," said the magistrate. "will you be pitiless, and refuse this last consolation to your child?" asked rodolph of morel. "if you think you owe me any gratitude for the kindness which i have been enabled to show you, consent to your daughter's entreaties." after a moment's sad and angry silence, morel replied: "i will." "but where shall we go!" inquired rodolph; "your family are in the other room." "where shall we go," exclaimed the lapidary, with a bitter irony, "where shall we go? up above,--up above, into the garret, by the side of the body of my dead daughter; that spot will well suit a confession, will it not? come along, come, and we will see if louise will dare to tell a lie in the presence of her sister's corpse. come! come along!" and morel went out hastily with a wild air, and turning his face from louise. "sir," said the commissary to rodolph, in an undertone, "i beg you for this poor man's sake not to protract this conversation. you were right when you said his reason was touched; just now his look was that of a madman." "alas, sir, i am equally fearful with yourself of some fresh and terrible disaster! i will abridge as much as i can this most painful farewell." and rodolph rejoined the lapidary and his daughter. however strange and painful morel's determination might appear, it was really the only thing that, under the circumstances, could be done. the magistrate consented to await the issue of this conversation in rigolette's chamber; the morel family were occupying rodolph's apartment, and there was only the garret at liberty; and it was into this horrid retreat that louise, her father, and rodolph betook themselves. sad and affecting sight! in the middle of the attic which we have already described, there lay, stretched on the idiot's mattress, the body of the little girl who had died in the morning, now covered by a ragged cloth. the unusual and clear light, reflected through the narrow skylight, threw the figures of the three actors in this scene into bold relief. rodolph, standing up, was leaning with his back against the wall, deeply moved. morel, seated at the edge of his working-bench, with his head bent, his hands hanging listless by his sides, whilst his gaze, fixed and fierce, rested on, and did not quit, the mattress on which the remains of his poor little adèle were deposited. at this spectacle, the anger and indignation of the lapidary subsided, and were changed to inexpressible bitterness; his energy left him, and he was utterly prostrated beneath this fresh blow. louise, who was ghastly pale, felt her strength forsake her. the revelation she was about to make terrified her. still she ventured, tremblingly, to take her father's hand,--that miserable and shrivelled hand, withered and wasted by excess of toil. the lapidary did not withdraw it, and then his daughter, sobbing as if her heart would burst, covered it with kisses, and felt it slightly pressed against her lips. morel's wrath had ended, and then his tears, long repressed, flowed freely and bitterly. "oh, father, if you only knew!" exclaimed louise; "if you only knew how much i am to be pitied!" "oh, louise, this, this will be the heaviest bitter in my cup for the rest of my life,--all my life long," replied the lapidary, weeping terribly. "you, you in prison,--in the same bench with criminals; you so proud when you had a right to be proud! no," he resumed in a fresh burst of grief and despair, "no; i would rather have seen you in your shroud beside your poor little sister!" "and i, i would sooner be there!" replied louise. "be silent, unhappy girl, you pain me. i was wrong to say so; i have been too harsh. come, speak; but in the name of heaven, do not lie. however frightful the truth may be, yet tell it me all; let me learn it from your lips, and it will be less cruel. speak, for, alas! our moments are counted, they are waiting for you down below. ah, just heaven, what a sad, sad parting!" "my father, i will tell you all,--everything," replied louise, taking courage; "but promise me--and our kind benefactor must promise me also--not to repeat this to any person,--to any person. if he knew that i had told!--oh," and she shuddered as she spoke, "you would be destroyed, destroyed as i am; for you know not the power and ferocity of this man." "what man?" "my master!" "the notary?" "yes," said louise in a whisper, and looking around her as if she feared to be overheard. "take courage," said rodolph; "no matter how cruel and powerful this man may be, we will defeat him! besides, if i reveal what you are about to tell us, it would only be in the interest of yourself or your father." "and me too, louise, if i speak, it would be in endeavouring to save you. but what has this villain done?" "this is not all," said louise, after a moment's reflection; "in this recital there will be a person implicated who has rendered me a great service, who has shown the utmost kindness to my father and family; this person was in the employ of m. ferrand when i entered his service, and he made me take an oath not to disclose his name." rodolph, believing that she referred to germain, said to louise: "if you mean françois germain, make your mind tranquil, his secret shall be kept by your father and myself." louise looked at rodolph with surprise. "do you know him?" said she. "what! was the good, excellent young man, who lived here for three months, employed at the notary's when you went to his service?" said morel. "the first time you met him here, you appeared as if you had never seen him before." "it was agreed between us, father; he had serious reasons why he did not wish it known that he was working at m. ferrand's. it was i who told him of the room to let on the fourth story here, knowing that he would be a good neighbour for you." "but," inquired rodolph, "who, then, placed your daughter at the notary's?" "during the illness of my wife, i said to madame burette--the woman who advanced money on pledges, who lived in this house--that louise wished to get into service in order to assist us. madame burette knew the notary's housekeeper, and gave me a letter to her, in which she recommended louise as a very good girl. cursed letter! it was the cause of all our misfortune. this was the way, sir, that my daughter got into the notary's service." "although i know some of the causes which excited m. ferrand's hatred against your father," said rodolph to louise, "i beg you to tell me as shortly as possible what passed between you and the notary after your entering into his service; it may, perhaps, be useful for your defence." "when i first went into m. ferrand's house," said louise, "i had nothing to complain of with respect to him. i had a great deal to do, and the housekeeper often scolded me, and the house was very dull; but i endured everything very patiently. service is service, and, perhaps, elsewhere i should have other disagreeables. m. ferrand was a very stern-looking person; he went to mass, and frequently had priests in his house. i did not at all distrust him; for at first he hardly ever looked at me, spoke short and cross, especially when there were any strangers. except the porter who lived at the entrance, in the same part of the house as the office is in, i was the only servant, with madame séraphin, the housekeeper. the pavilion that we occupied was isolated between the court and the garden. my bedroom was high up. i was often afraid, being, as i was, always alone, either in the kitchen, which is underground, or in my bedroom. one day i had worked very late mending some things that were required in a hurry, and then i was going to bed, when i heard footsteps moving quietly in the little passage at the end of which my room was situated; some one stopped at my door. at first i supposed it was the housekeeper; but, as no one entered, i began to be alarmed. i dared not move, but i listened; however, i heard no one; yet i was sure that there was some one behind my door. i asked twice who was there, but no one answered; i then pushed my chest of drawers against the door, which had neither lock nor bolt. i still listened, but nothing stirred; so at the end of half an hour, which seemed very long to me, i threw myself on my bed, and the night passed quietly. the next morning i asked the housekeeper's leave to have a bolt put on my door, which had no fastening, telling her of my fright on the previous night, and she told me i had been dreaming, and that, if i wanted a bolt, i must ask m. ferrand for it. when i asked him, he shrugged up his shoulders, and said i was crazy; so i did not dare say any more about it. some time after this, the misfortune about the diamond happened. my father in his despair did not know what to do. i told madame séraphin of his distress, and she replied; 'monsieur is so charitable, perhaps he will do something for your father.' the same afternoon, when i was waiting at table, m. ferrand said to me, suddenly, 'your father is in want of thirteen hundred francs; go and tell him to come to my office this evening, and he shall have the money.' at this mark of kindness i burst into tears, and did not know how to thank him, when he said, with his usual bluntness, 'very good, very good; oh, what i do is nothing!' the same evening, after my work, i came to my father to tell him the good news; the next day--" "i had the thirteen hundred francs, giving him my acceptance in blank at three months' date," said morel. "i did like louise, and wept with gratitude, called this man my benefactor. oh, what a wretch must he be thus to destroy the gratitude and veneration i entertained for him!" "this precaution of making you give him a blank acceptance, at a date falling due so soon that you could not meet it, must have raised your suspicion?" said rodolph. "no, sir, i only thought the notary took it for security, that was all; besides, he told me that i need not think about repaying this sum in less than two years; but that, every three months, the bill should be renewed for the sake of greater regularity. it was, however, duly presented here on the day it became due, but, as you may suppose, was not paid. the usual course of law was followed up, and judgment was obtained against me in the name of a third party. all this i was desired not to feel any uneasiness respecting, as it had been caused by an error on the part of the officer in whose hands the bill had been placed." "his motive is very evident," said rodolph; "he wished to have you entirely in his power." "alas, sir, it was from the very day in which he obtained judgment that he commenced! but, go on, louise, go on. i scarcely know where i am. my head seems giddy and bewildered, and at times my memory entirely fails me. i fear my senses are leaving me, and that i shall become mad. oh, this is too much--too hard to bear!" rodolph having succeeded in tranquillising the lapidary, louise thus proceeded: "with a view to prove my gratitude to m. ferrand for all his kindness towards my family, i redoubled my endeavours to serve him well and faithfully. from that time the housekeeper appeared to take an utter aversion to me, and to embrace every opportunity of rendering me uncomfortable, continually exposing me to anger by withholding from me the various orders given by m. ferrand. all this made me extremely miserable, and i would gladly have sought another place; but the knowledge of my father's pecuniary obligation to my master prevented my following my inclinations. "the money had now been lent about three months, and, though m. ferrand still continued harsh and unkind to me in the presence of madame séraphin, he began casting looks of a peculiar and embarrassing description at me whenever he could do so unobserved, and would smile and seem amused when he perceived the confusion it occasioned me." "take notice, i beg, sir, that it was at this very time the necessary legal proceedings, for enabling him at any moment to deprive me of my liberty, were going on." "one day," said louise, in continuation, "the housekeeper went out directly after dinner, contrary to her usual custom; the clerks, none of whom lived in the house, were dismissed from further duty for the day, and retired to their respective homes; the porter was sent out on a message, leaving m. ferrand and myself alone in the house. i was doing some needlework madame séraphin had given me, and by her orders was sitting in a small antechamber, from whence i could hear if i was wanted. after some time the bell of my master's bedroom rang; i went there immediately, and upon entering found him standing before the fire. as i approached he turned around suddenly and caught me in his arms. alarm and surprise at first deprived me of power to move; but, spite of his great strength, i at last struggled so successfully, that i managed to free myself from his grasp, and, running back with all speed to the room i had just quitted, i hastily shut the door, and held it with all my force. unfortunately, the key was on the other side." "you hear, sir,--you hear," said morel to rodolph, "the manner in which this generous benefactor behaved to the daughter of the man he affected to serve!" "at the end of a few minutes," continued louise, "the door yielded to the efforts of m. ferrand. fortunately, the lamp by which i had been working was within my reach, and i precipitately extinguished it. the antechamber was at some distance from his bedchamber, and we were, therefore, left in utter darkness. at first he called me by name; but, finding that i did not reply, he exclaimed, in a voice trembling with rage and passion, 'if you try to escape from me, your father shall go to prison for the thirteen hundred francs he owes, and is unable to pay.' i besought him to have pity on me, promised to do all in my power to serve him faithfully, and with gratitude for all his goodness to my family, but declared that no consideration on earth should induce me to disgrace myself or those i belonged to." "there spoke my louise," said morel, "or, rather, as she would have spoken in her days of proud innocence. how, then, if such were your sentiments--but go on, go on." "i was still concealed by the darkness, which i trusted would preserve me, when i heard the door closed which led from the antechamber, and which my master had contrived to find by groping along the wall. thus, having me wholly in his power, he returned to his chamber for a light, with which he quickly returned, and then commenced a fresh attack, the particulars of which, my dearest father, i will not venture to describe; suffice it, that promises, threats, violence, all were tried; but anger, fear, and despair armed me with fresh strength, and, while i continually eluded his grasp, and fled for safety from room to room, his rage at my determined resistance knew no bounds. in his fury he even struck me with such frenzied violence as to leave my features streaming with blood." "you hear! you hear!" exclaimed the lapidary, raising his clasped hands towards heaven, "and are crimes like this to go unpunished? shall such a monster escape and not pay a heavy penalty for his wickedness?" "trust me," said rodolph, who seemed profoundly meditating on what he heard, "trust me, this man's time and hour will come. but continue your painful narration, my poor girl, and shrink not from telling us even its blackest details." "the struggle between us had now gone on so long that my strength began to fail me. i was conscious of my own inability to resist further, when the porter, who had returned home, rang the bell twice,--the usual signal when letters arrived and required to be fetched from his hands. fearing that, if i did not obey the summons, the porter would bring the letters himself, m. ferrand said, 'go; utter but one word, and to-morrow sees your father in prison. if you endeavour to quit this house, the consequences will fall on him; and, as for you, i will take care no one shall take you into their house, for, without exactly affirming it, i will contrive to make every one think you have robbed me. then, should any person refer to me for your character, i shall speak of you as an idle, unworthy girl whom i could keep no longer.' "the following day after this scene, spite of the menaces of my master, i ran home to complain to my father of the unkind usage i received, without daring, however, to tell him all. his first desire was for me to quit the house of m. ferrand without delay. but, then, a prison would close upon my poor parent; added to which, my small earnings had become indispensably necessary to our family since the illness of my mother, and the bad character promised me by m. ferrand might possibly have prevented me from finding another service for a very long time." "yes," said morel, with gloomy bitterness, "we were selfish and cowardly enough to allow our poor child to return to that accursed roof. oh, i spoke truly when i said, 'want, want, what mean, what degrading acts do you not force us to commit!'" "alas, dear father, did you not try by every possible means to procure these thirteen hundred francs? and, that being impossible, there was nothing left but to submit ourselves to our fate." "go on, go on; your parents have been your executioners, and we are far more guilty than yourself of all the fearful consequences!" exclaimed the lapidary, concealing his face with his hands. "when i next saw my master," said louise, "he had resumed the harsh and severe manner with which he ordinarily treated me. he made not the slightest reference to the scene i have just related, while his housekeeper persisted in her accustomed tormenting and unkind behaviour towards me, giving me scarcely sufficient food to maintain my strength, and even locking the bread up so that i could not help myself to a morsel; she would even carry her cruelty so far as to wilfully spoil and damage the morsels left by herself and m. ferrand for my repasts, i always taking my meals after my master and the housekeeper, who invariably sat down to table together. my nights were as painful as my days. i durst not indulge in sleep, lest i should be surprised by the entrance of the notary. i had no means of securing my chamber door, and the chest of drawers with which i used to fasten myself in had been taken away, leaving me only a small table, a chair, and my box. with these articles i barricaded the door as well as i could, and merely lay down in my clothes, ready to start up at the least noise. some time elapsed, however, without my having any further alarm as regarded m. ferrand, who seemed to have altogether forgotten me, and seldom bestowed even a look on me. by degrees my fears died away, and i became almost persuaded i had nothing more to dread from the persecutions of my master. one sunday i had permission to visit my home, and with extreme delight hastened to announce the happy change that had taken place to my parents. oh, how we all rejoiced to think so! up to that moment, my dear father, you know all that occurred. what i have still to tell you," murmured louise, as her voice sunk into an inarticulate whisper, "is so dreadful that i have never dared reveal it." "i was sure, ah, too sure," cried morel, with a wildness of manner and rapidity of utterance which startled and alarmed rodolph, "that you were hiding something from me. too plainly did i perceive, by your pale and altered countenance, that your mind was burthened with some heavy secret. many a time have i said so to your mother; but she, poor thing! would not listen to me, and even blamed me for making myself unnecessarily miserable. so you see, that weakly, and selfish to escape from trouble ourselves, we allowed our poor, helpless child to remain under this monster's roof. and to what have we reduced our poor girl? why, to be classed with the felons and criminals of a prison! see, see what comes of parents sacrificing their children. and, then, too, be it remembered--after all--who knows? true, we are poor--very poor, and may be guilty--yes, yes, quite right, guilty of throwing our daughter into shame and disgrace. but, then, see how wretched and distressed we were! besides, such as we--" then, as if suddenly striving to collect his bewildered ideas, morel struck his forehead, exclaiming, "alas! i know not what i say. my brain burns and my senses seem deserting me. a sort of bewilderment seems to come over me as though i were stupefied with drink. alas, alas! i am going mad!" so saying, the unhappy man buried his face between his hands. unwilling that louise should perceive the extent of his apprehensions as regarded the agitated state of the lapidary, and how much alarm he felt at his wild, incoherent language, rodolph gravely replied: "you are unjust, morel; it was not for herself alone, but for her aged and afflicted parent, her children, and you, that your poor wife dreaded the consequences of louise's quitting the notary's house. accuse no one; but let all your just anger, your bitter curses, fall on the head that alone deserves it,--on that hypocritical monster who offered a weak and helpless girl the alternative of infamy or ruin; perhaps destruction; perhaps death to those she most tenderly loved,--on the fiend who could thus abuse the power he held, thus prey upon the tenderest, holiest feelings of a loving daughter, thus shamelessly outrage every moral and religious duty. but patience; as i before remarked, providence frequently reserves for crimes so black as this a fearful and astounding retribution." as rodolph uttered these words, he spoke with a tone so expressive of his own conviction of the certain vengeance of heaven, that louise gazed at her preserver with a surprise not unmingled with fear. "go on, my poor girl," resumed rodolph, addressing louise; "conceal nothing from us: it is more important than you can be aware that you should relate the most minute details of your sad story." thus encouraged, louise proceeded: "i began, therefore, as i told you, to regain my tranquillity, when one evening both m. ferrand and his housekeeper went out. they did not dine at home. i was quite alone in the house. as usual, my allowance of bread, wine, and water was left for me, and every place carefully locked. when i had finished my work, i took the food placed for me, and, having made my meal, i retired to my bedroom, thinking it less dull than remaining down-stairs by myself. i took care to leave a light in the hall for my master, as when he dined out no one ever sat up for him. once in my chamber, i seated myself and commenced my sewing; but, contrary to my usual custom, i found the greatest difficulty in keeping myself awake. a heavy drowsiness seemed to steal over, and a weight like lead seemed to press on my eyelids. alas, dear father!" cried louise, interrupting herself as though frightened at her own recital, "i feel sure you will not credit what i am about to say, you will believe i am uttering falsehoods; and yet, here, over the lifeless body of my poor little sister, i swear to the truth of each word i speak." "explain yourself, my good girl," said rodolph. "indeed, sir," answered louise, "you ask me to do that i have been vainly trying to accomplish during the last seven months. in vain have i racked my brains to endeavour to account for the events of that fatal night. sometimes i have almost grown distracted while trying to clear up this fearful and mysterious occurrence." "merciful heaven!" exclaimed the lapidary, suddenly rousing from one of those fits of almost apathetic stupor into which he had occasionally fallen from the very commencement of this narration, "what dreadful thing is she going to tell us?" "this lethargic feeling," continued louise, "so completely overpowered me, that, unable any longer to resist it, i at length, contrary to my usual custom, fell asleep upon my chair. this is all i recollect before--before--oh, forgive me, father, forgive me! indeed, indeed, i am not guilty; yet--" "i believe you--i believe you; but proceed." "i know not how long i slept; but when i awoke it was to shame and dishonour, for i found m. ferrand beside me." "'tis false! 'tis false!" screamed the lapidary, in a tone of frenzied violence. "confess that you yielded to violence or to the dread of seeing me dragged to prison, but do not seek to impose on me by falsehoods such as this." "father! father! i call heaven to witness i am telling you the truth only." "i tell you 'tis a base falsehood. why should the notary have wished to throw me in prison, since you had freely yielded to his wishes?" "yielded! oh, no, dear father, i would have died first! so deep was my sleep that it resembled that of death. it may seem to you both extraordinary and impossible, and i assure you that, up to the present hour, i myself have never been able to understand it or account for it--" "but i can do so at once," said rodolph, interrupting louise. "this crime alone was wanting to complete the heavy calendar of that man's offences. accuse not your daughter, morel, of seeking to deceive you. tell me, louise, when you made your meal, before ascending to your chamber, did you not remark something peculiar in the taste of the wine given you to drink? try and recollect this circumstance." after reflecting a short time, louise replied: "yes, i do indeed remember," answered she, "that the wine and water left for me as usual had a somewhat bitter taste; but i did not pay much attention to it, because the housekeeper would frequently, when spitefully inclined, amuse herself with throwing salt or pepper into what i drank." "but, on the day you were describing, your wine had a bitter taste?" "it had, sir, but not sufficiently so to prevent my drinking it; and i attributed it to the wine being turned." morel, with fixed eye and haggard look, listened both to the questions of rodolph and the answers of louise without appearing to understand to what they tended. "and before falling asleep on your chair, did not your head seem unusually heavy, and your limbs weary?" "oh, yes, sir, i felt a fullness and throbbing in my temples, an icy coldness seemed to fill my veins, and a feeling of unusual discomfort oppressed me." "wretch, villainous wretch!" exclaimed rodolph. "are you aware, morel, what this man made your poor child take in her wine?" the artisan gazed at rodolph without replying to his question. "his accomplice, the housekeeper, had mingled in louise's drink some sort of stupefying drug, most probably opium, by which means both the bodily and mental powers of your unfortunate daughter were completely paralysed for several hours; and when she awoke from this lethargic state it was to find herself dishonoured and disgraced." "ah, now," exclaimed louise, "my misfortune is explained. you see, dear father, i am less guilty than you thought me. father! dear, dear father! look upon me, bestow one little look of pity and of pardon on your poor louise!" but the glance of the lapidary was fixed and vacant; his honest mind could not comprehend the idea of so black, so monstrous a crime as that ascribed to the notary, and he gazed with blank wonder at the words he heard, as though quite unable to affix any meaning to them. and besides, during the latter part of the discourse, his intellect became evidently shaken, his ideas became a shapeless, confused mass of wandering recollections; a mere chaotic mass of griefs and sorrows possessed his brain, and he sank into a state of mental prostration, which is to intellect what darkness is to the sight,--the formidable symptoms of a weakened brain. after a pause of some length, morel replied, in a low, hasty tone: "yes, yes; it is bad, very, very bad; cannot be worse!" and then relapsed into his former apathy; while rodolph, watching him with pained attention, perceived that the energy, even of indignation, was becoming exhausted within the mind of the miserable father, in the same manner as excess of grief will frequently dry up the relief of tears. anxious to put an end as quickly as possible to the present trying scene, rodolph said to louise: "proceed, my poor child, and let us have the remainder of this tissue of horrors." "alas, sir! what you have heard is as nothing to that which follows. when i perceived m. ferrand by my side i uttered a cry of terror. my first impulse was to rush from the room, but m. ferrand forcibly detained me; and i still felt so weak, so stupefied with the medicine you speak of as having been mingled in my drink, that i was powerless as an infant. 'why do you wish to escape from me now?' inquired m. ferrand, with an air of surprise which filled me with dread. 'what fresh caprice is this? am i not here by your own free will and consent?' 'oh, sir!' exclaimed i, 'this is most shameful and unworthy, to take advantage of my sleep to work my ruin; but my father shall know all!' here my master interrupted me by bursting into loud laughter. 'upon my word, young lady,' said he, 'you are very amusing. so you are going to say that i availed myself of your being asleep to effect your undoing. but who do you suppose will credit such a falsehood? it is now four in the morning, and since ten o'clock last night i have been here. you must have slept long and soundly not to have discovered my presence sooner. come, come, no more attempts at shyness, but confess the truth, that i came hither with your perfect good-will and consent. you must be less capricious or we shall not keep good friends, i fear. your father is in my power. you have no longer any cause to fly me. be obedient to my wishes and we shall do very well together; but resist me, and the consequences shall fall heavily on you, and your family likewise.' 'i will tell my dear father of your conduct,' sobbed i; 'he will avenge me, and the laws will punish you.' m. ferrand looked at me as though at a loss to comprehend me. 'why, you have lost your senses,' cried he; 'what, in heaven's name, can you tell your father? that you thought proper to invite me to your bedroom? but, invent any tale you please, you will soon find what sort of a reception it will meet with. why, your father will not look at you, much more believe you.' 'but you know,' cried i, 'you well know, sir, i gave no permission for your being here. you are well aware you entered my chamber without my knowledge, and are now here against my will.' 'against your will! and is it possible you have the effrontery to utter such a falsehood, to dare insinuate that i have employed force to gain my ends? do you wish to be convinced of the folly of such an imputation? why, by my orders, germain, my cashier, returned here last night at ten o'clock to complete some very important papers, and until one o'clock this morning he was writing in the chamber directly under yours; would he not then have been sure to have heard the slightest sound, much less the repetition of such a struggle as we had together a little while ago, my saucy little beauty, when you were not quite in as complying a humour as i found you in last evening? germain must have heard you during the stillness of the night had you but called for assistance. ask him, when you see him, whether any such sound occurred; he will tell you no, and that he worked on uninterruptedly during the very hours you are accusing me of forcibly entering your bedchamber.'" "ah!" cried rodolph, "the villain had evidently taken every precaution to prevent detection." "he had, indeed. as for me, sir," continued louise, "i was so thunderstruck with horror at these assertions of m. ferrand, that i knew not what to reply. ignorant of my having taken anything to induce sleep, i felt wholly unable to account for my having slept so unusually heavy and long. appearances were strongly against me; what would it avail for me to publish the dreadful story? no one would believe me innocent. how, indeed, could i hope or expect they should, when even to myself the events of that fatal night continued an impenetrable mystery?" even rodolph remained speechless with horror at this fearful revelation of the diabolical hypocrisy of m. ferrand. "then," said he, after a pause of some minutes, "you never ventured to inform your father of the infamous treatment you had received?" "no," answered she, "for i dreaded lest he might suppose i had willingly listened to the persuasions of my master; and i also feared that, in the first burst of his indignation, my poor father would forget that not only his own freedom, but the very existence of his family, depended upon the pleasure of m. ferrand." "and probably," continued rodolph, desirous if possible to save louise the painful confession, "probably, yielding to constraint, and the dread of endangering the safety of your father and family by a refusal, you continued to be the victim of this monster's brutality?" louise spoke not, but her cast-down eyes, and the deep blushes which dyed her pale cheek, answered most painfully in the affirmative. "and was his conduct afterwards less barbarous and unfeeling than before?" "not in the least. and when, by chance, my master had the curé and vicaire of bonne nouvelle to dine with him, the better to avert all suspicion from himself, he would scold me severely in their presence, and even beg m. le curé to admonish me, assuring him that some day or other i should fall into ruin; that i was a girl of free and bold manners, and that he could not make me keep my distance with the young men in his office; that i was an idle, unworthy person, whom he only kept out of charity and pity for my father, who was an honest man with a large family, whom he had greatly served and obliged. with the exception of that part of the statement which referred to my father, the rest was utterly false. i never, by any chance, saw the clerks belonging to his office, as it was situated in a building entirely detached from the house." "and, when alone with m. ferrand, how did he account for his treatment of you before the curé?" "he assured me he was only jesting. however, the curé believed him, and reprehended me very severely, saying that a person must be vicious indeed to go astray in so godly a household, where i had none but the most holy and religious examples before my eyes. i knew not what answer to make to this address; i felt my cheeks burn and my eyes involuntarily cast down. all these indications of shame and confusion were construed to my disadvantage, until, at length, sick at heart, and weary, and disgusted, my very life seemed a burden to me, and many times i felt tempted to destroy myself; but the thoughts of my parents, my poor brothers and sisters, that my small earnings helped to maintain, deterred me from ending my sorrows by death. i therefore resigned myself to my wretched fate, finding one consolation, amidst the degradation of my lot, in the thought that, at least, i had preserved my father from the horrors of a prison. but a fresh misfortune overwhelmed me; i became _enceinte_. i now felt myself lost indeed. a secret presentiment assured me that, when m. ferrand became aware of a circumstance which ought, at least, to have rendered him less harsh and cruel, he would treat me even more unkindly than before. i was still, however, far from expecting what afterwards occurred." at this moment, morel, recovering from his temporary abstraction, gazed around him, as though trying to collect his ideas, then, pressing his hand upon his forehead, looked at his daughter with an inquiring glance, and said: "i fancy i have been ill, or something is wrong with my head--grief--fatigue--tell me, my child--what were you saying just now? i seem almost unable to recollect." "when," continued louise, unheeding her father's look, "when m. ferrand discovered that i was likely to become a mother--" here the lapidary waved his hand in despairing agony, but rodolph calmed him by an imploring look. "yes, yes," said morel, "let me hear all; 'tis fit and right the tale should be told. go on, go on, my girl, and i will listen from beginning to end." louise went on. "i besought m. ferrand to tell me by what means i should conceal my shame, and the consequence of a crime of which he was the author. alas, dear father, i can scarcely hope or believe you will credit what i am about to tell you." "what did he say? speak." "interrupting me with much indignation and well-feigned surprise, he affected not to understand my meaning, and even inquired whether i had not lost my senses. terrified, i exclaimed, 'oh, sir, what is to become of me? alas, if you have no pity on me, pity at least the poor infant that must soon see the light!' "'what a lost, depraved character!' cried m. ferrand, raising his clasped hands towards heaven. 'horrible, indeed! why, you poor, wretched girl, is it possible that you have the audacity to accuse me of disgracing myself by any illicit acquaintance with a person of your infamous description? can it be that you have the hardihood to lay the fruits of your immoral conduct and gross irregularity at my door,--i, who have repeated a hundred times, in the presence of respectable witnesses, that you would come to ruin some day, vile profligate that you are? quit my house this instant, or i will drive you out!'" rodolph and morel were struck with horror; a system of wickedness like this seemed to freeze their blood. "by heaven!" said rodolph, "this surpasses any horrors that imagination could have conceived." morel did not speak, but his eyes expanded fearfully, whilst a convulsive spasm contracted his features. he quitted the stool on which he was sitting, opened a drawer suddenly, and, taking out a long and very sharp file, fixed in a wooden handle, he rushed towards the door. rodolph, guessing his thoughts, seized his arm, and stopped his progress. "morel, where are you going? you will do a mischief, unhappy man!" "take care," exclaimed the infuriated artisan, struggling, "or i shall commit two crimes instead of one!" and the madman threatened rodolph. "father, it is our benefactor!" exclaimed louise. "he is jesting at us; he wants to save the notary," replied morel, quite crazed, and struggling with rodolph. at the end of a second, the latter disarmed him, carefully opened the door, and threw the file out on the staircase. louise ran to the lapidary, embraced him, and said: "father, it is our benefactor! you have raised your hand against him,--recover yourself." these words recalled morel to himself, and hiding his face in his hands, he fell mutely on his knees before rodolph. [illustration: _morel fell back on the stool._ original etching by adrian marcel.] "rise, rise, unhappy father," said rodolph, in accents of great kindness; "be patient, be patient, i understand your wrath and share your hatred; but, in the name of your vengeance, do not compromise your daughter!" "louise!--my daughter!" cried the lapidary, rising, "but what can justice--the law--do against that? we are but poor wretches, and were we to accuse this rich, powerful, and respected man, we should be laughed to scorn. ha! ha! ha!" and he laughed convulsively, "and they would be right. where would be our proofs?--yes, our proofs? no one would believe us. so, i tell you--i tell you," he added, with increased fury, "i tell you that i have no confidence but in the impartiality of my knife." "silence, morel! your grief distracts you," said rodolph to him sorrowfully; "let your daughter speak; the moments are precious; the magistrate waits; i must know all,--all, i tell you; go on, my child." morel fell back on the stool, overwhelmed with his anguish. "it is useless, sir," continued louise, "to tell you of my tears, my prayers. i was thunderstruck. this took place at ten o'clock in the morning in m. ferrand's private room. the curate was coming to breakfast with him, and entered at the moment when my master was assailing me with reproach and accusations. he appeared much put out at the sight of the priest." "what occurred then?" "oh, he soon recovered himself, and exclaimed, call him by name, 'well, monsieur l'abbé, i said so, i said this unhappy girl would be undone. she is ruined, ruined for ever; she has just confessed to me her fault and her shame, and entreated me to save her. only think that, from commiseration, i have received such a wanton into my house!' 'how,' said the abbé to me with indignation, 'in spite of the excellent counsels which your master has given you a hundred times in my presence, have you really sunk so low? oh, it is unpardonable! my friend, my friend, after the kindness you have evinced towards this wretched girl and her family, any pity would be weakness. be inexorable,' said the abbé, the dupe, like the rest of the world, of m. ferrand's hypocrisy." "and you did not unmask the scoundrel on the spot?" asked rodolph. "ah, no! monsieur, i was terrified, my head was in a whirl, i did not dare, i could not pronounce a word,--yet i was anxious to speak and defend myself. 'but sir--' i cried. 'not one word more, unworthy creature,' said m. ferrand, interrupting me. 'you heard m. l'abbé. pity would be weakness. in an hour you leave my house!' then, without allowing me time to reply, he led the abbé into another room. after the departure of m. ferrand," resumed louise, "i was almost bereft of my senses for a moment. i was driven from his house, and unable to find any home elsewhere, in consequence of my condition, and the bad character which my master would give with me. i felt sure, too, that in his rage he would send my father to prison; and i did not know what to do. i went to my room, and there i wept bitterly. at the end of two hours m. ferrand appeared. 'is your bundle made up?' said he. 'pardon,' i exclaimed, falling at his feet, 'do not turn me from your house in my present condition. what will become of me? i have no place to turn to.' 'so much the better; this is the way that god punishes loose behaviour and falsehood.' 'dare you say that i tell falsehood?' i asked, indignantly, 'dare you say that it is not you who have caused my ruin?' 'leave my house this moment, you wretch, since you persist in your calumnies!' he replied in a terrible voice; 'and to punish you i will to-morrow send your father to the gaol.' 'well, no, no!' said i, terrified; 'i will not again accuse you, sir; that i promise you; but do not drive me away from the house. have pity on my father. the little i earn here helps to support my family. keep me here; i will say nothing. i will endeavour to hide every thing; and when i can no longer do so, oh, then, but not till then, send me away!' after fresh entreaties on my part, m. ferrand consented to keep me with him; and i considered that a great favour in my wretched condition. during the time that followed this cruel scene, i was most wretched, and miserably treated; only sometimes m. germain, whom i seldom saw, kindly asked me what made me unhappy; but shame prevented me from confessing anything to him." "was not that about the time when he came to reside here?" "yes, sir, he was looking out for an apartment near the rue du temple or de l'arsenal. there was one to let here, and i told him of that one which you now occupy, sir, and it suited him exactly. when he quitted it, about two months ago, he begged me not to mention his new address here, but that they knew it at m. ferrand's." the necessity under which germain was to conceal himself from those who were trying to find him explained all these precautions to rodolph. "and it never occurred to you to make a confidant of germain?" he said to louise. "no, sir, he was also a dupe to the hypocrisy of m. ferrand; he called him harsh and exacting; but he thought him the honestest man on the face of the earth." "when germain was lodging here, did he never hear your father at times accuse the notary of desiring to seduce you?" "my father never expressed his fears before strangers; and besides, at this period, i deceived his uneasiness, and comforted him by the assurances that m. ferrand no longer thought of me. alas! my poor father will now forgive me those falsehoods? i only employed them to tranquillise your mind, father dear, that was all." morel made no reply; he only leaned his forehead on his two arms, crossed on his working-board, and sobbed bitterly. rodolph made a sign to louise not to address herself to her father, and she continued thus: "i led from this time a life of tears and perpetual anguish. by using every precaution, i had contrived to conceal my condition from all eyes; but i could not hope thus to hide it during the last two months. the future became more and more alarming to me, as m. ferrand had declared that he would not keep me any longer in the house; and therefore i should be deprived of the small resources which assisted our family to live. cursed and driven from my home by my father, for, after the falsehoods i had told him to set his mind at ease, he would believe me the accomplice, and not the victim of m. ferrand, what was to become of me? where could i find refuge or place myself in my condition? i then had a criminal idea; but, fortunately, i recoiled from putting it into execution. i confess this to you, sir, because i will not keep any thing concealed, not even that which may tell against myself; and thus i may show you the extremities to which i was reduced by the cruelty of m. ferrand. if i had given way to such a thought, would he not have been the accomplice of my crime?" after a moment's silence, louise resumed with great effort, and in a trembling voice: "i had heard say by the porteress that a quack doctor lived in the house,--and,--" she could not finish. rodolph recollected that, at his first interview with madame pipelet, he had received from the postman, in her absence, a letter written on coarse paper, in a feigned hand, and on which he had remarked the traces of tears. "and you wrote to him, unhappy girl, three days since? you wept over your letter; and the handwriting was disguised." louise looked at rodolph in great consternation. "how did you know that, sir?" "do not alarm yourself; i was alone in madame pipelet's lodge when they brought in the letter; and i remarked it quite accidentally." "yes, sir, it was mine. in this letter, which bore no signature, i wrote to m. bradamanti, saying that, as i did not dare to go to him, i would beg him to be in the evening near the château d'eau. i had lost my senses. i sought fearful advice from him; and i left my master's house with the intention of following them; but, at the end of a minute, my reason returned to me, and i saw what a crime i was about to commit. i returned to the house, and did not attend the appointment i had written for. that evening an event occurred, the consequences of which caused the misfortune which has overwhelmed me. m. ferrand thought i had gone out for a couple of hours, whilst, in reality, i had been gone but a very short time. as i passed before the small garden gate, to my great surprise i saw it half open. i entered by it, and took the key into m. ferrand's private room, where it was usually kept. this apartment was next to his bedroom, the most retired place in the house; and it was there he had his private meetings with clients and others, transacting his every-day business in the office. you will see, sir, why i give you these particulars. as i very well knew the ways of the apartments, after having crossed the dining-room, which was lighted up, i entered into the salon without any candle, and then into the little closet, which was on this side of his sleeping-room. the door of this latter opened at the moment when i was putting the key on a table; and the moment my master saw me by the light of the lamp, which was burning in his chamber, then he suddenly shut the door on some person whom i could not see, and then, in spite of the darkness, rushed towards me and, seizing me by the throat as if he would strangle me, said, in a low voice, and in a tone at once savage and alarmed, 'what! listening!--spying at the door! what did you hear? answer me,--answer directly, or i'll strangle you.' but, suddenly changing his idea, and not giving me time to say a word, he drove me back into the dining-room; the office door was open, and he brutally thrust me in and shut the door." "and you did not hear the conversation?" "not a word, sir; if i had known that there was any one in his room with him, i should have been careful not to have gone there. he even forbade madame séraphin from doing so." "and, when you left the office, what did he say to you?" "it was the housekeeper who let me out, and i did not see m. ferrand again that night. his violence to me, and the fright i had undergone, made me very ill indeed. the next day, at the moment when i went down-stairs, i met m. ferrand, and i shuddered when i remembered his threats of the night before; what then was my surprise when he said to me calmly, 'you knew that i forbid any one to enter my private room when i have any person there; but, for the short time longer you will stay here, it is useless to scold you any more.' and then he went into his study. this mildness astonished me after his violence of the previous evening. i went on with my work as usual, and was going to put his bedchamber to rights. i had suffered a great deal all night, and was weak and exhausted. whilst i was hanging up some clothes in a dark closet at the end of the room near the bed, i was suddenly seized with a painful giddiness, and felt as if i should lose my senses; as i fell, i tried to support myself by grasping at a large cloak which hung against the wainscot; but in my fall i drew this cloak down on me, and was almost entirely covered by it. when i came to myself, the glass door of the above closet was shut. i heard m. ferrand's voice,--he was speaking aloud. remembering the scene of the previous evening, i thought i should be killed if i stirred. i suppose that, hidden by the cloak which had fallen on me, my master did not perceive me when he shut the door of this dark wardrobe. if he found me, how could i account for, and make him believe, this singular accident? i, therefore, held my breath, and in spite of myself, overheard the conclusion of this conversation which, no doubt had begun some time." "and who was the person who was talking with the notary and shut up in this room with him?" inquired rodolph of louise. "i do not know, sir; i did not recognise the voice." "and what were they saying?" "no doubt they had been conversing some time; but all i heard was this: 'nothing more easy,' said the unknown voice; 'a fellow named bras rouge has put me, for the affair i mentioned to you just now, in connection with a family of "fresh-water pirates,"[ ] established on the point of a small islet near asnières. they are the greatest scoundrels on earth; the father and grandfather were guillotined; two of the sons were condemned to the galleys for life; but there are still left a mother, three sons, and two daughters, all as infamous as they can possibly be. they say that at night, in order to plunder on both sides of the seine, they sometimes come down in their boats as low as bercy. they are ruffians, who will kill any one for a crown-piece; but we shall not want their aid further than their hospitality for your lady from the country. the martials--that is the name of these pirates--will pass in her eyes for an honest family of fishers. i will go, as if from you, to pay two or three visits to your young lady. i will order her a few comforting draughts; and at the end of a week or ten days, she will form an acquaintance with the burial-ground of asnières. in villages, deaths are looked on as nothing more than a letter by the post, whilst in paris they are a little more curious in such matters. but when do you send your young lady from the provinces to the isle of asnières, for i must give the martials notice of the part they have to play?' 'she will arrive here to-morrow, and next day i shall send her to them,' replied m. ferrand; 'and i shall tell her that doctor vincent will pay her a visit at my request.' 'ah, vincent will do as well as any other name,' said the voice." [ ] we shall hear more particulars of these worthies in another chapter. "what new mystery of crime and infamy?" said rodolph, with increased astonishment. "new? no, sir, you will see that it is in connection with another crime that you know of," resumed louise, who thus continued: "i heard a movement of chairs,--the interview had ended. 'i do not ask the secret of you,' said m. ferrand, 'you behave to me as i behave to you.' 'thus we may mutually serve without any power mutually to injure each other,' answered the voice. 'observe my zeal! i received your letter at ten o'clock last night, and here i am this morning. good-by, accomplice; do not forget the isle of asnières, the fisher martial, and doctor vincent. thanks to these three magic words, your country damsel has only eight days to look forward to.' 'wait,' said m. ferrand, 'whilst i go and undo the safety-bolt, which i have drawn to in my closet, and let me look out and see that there is no one in the antechamber, in order that you may go out by the side path in the garden by which you entered.' m. ferrand went out for a moment, and then returned; and i heard him go away with the person whose voice i did not know. you may imagine my fright, sir, during this conversation, and my despair at having unintentionally discovered such a secret. two hours after this conversation, madame séraphin came to me in my room, whither i had gone, trembling all over, and worse than i had been yet. 'my master is inquiring for you,' said she to me; 'you are better off than you deserve to be. come, go down-stairs. you are very pale; but what you are going to hear will give you a colour.' i followed madame séraphin, and found m. ferrand in his private study. when i saw him, i shuddered in spite of myself, and yet he did not look so disagreeable as usual. he looked at me steadfastly for some time, as if he would read the bottom of my thoughts. i lowered my eyes. 'you seem very ill?' he said. 'yes, sir,' i replied, much surprised at being thus addressed. 'it is easily accounted for,' added he; 'it is the result of your condition and the efforts you make to conceal it; but, in spite of your falsehoods, your bad conduct, and your indiscretion yesterday,' he added, in a milder tone, 'i feel pity for you. a few days more, and it will be impossible to conceal your situation. although i have treated you as you deserve before the curate of the parish, such an event in the eyes of the world will be the disgrace of a house like mine; and, moreover, your family will be deeply distressed. under these circumstances i will come to your aid.' 'ah! sir,' i cried, 'such kind words from you make me forget everything.' 'forget what?' asked he, hastily. 'nothing,--nothing,--forgive me, sir!' i replied, fearful of irritating him, and believing him kindly disposed towards me. 'then attend to me,' said he; 'you will go to see your father to-day, and tell him that i am going to send you into the country for two or three months, to take care of a house which i have just bought. during your absence i will send your wages to him. to-morrow you will leave paris. i will give you a letter of introduction to madame martial, the mother of an honest family of fishers, who live near asnières. you will say you came from the country and nothing more. you will learn hereafter my motive for this introduction, which is for your good. madame martial will treat you as one of the family, and a medical man of my acquaintance, dr. vincent, will give you all you require in your situation. you see how kind i am to you!'" "what a horrible snare!" exclaimed rodolph; "i see it all now. believing that overnight you had listened to some secret, no doubt very important for him, he desired to get rid of you. he had probably an interest in deceiving his accomplice by describing you as a female from the country. what must have been your alarm at this proposal?" "it was like a violent blow; it quite bereft me of sense. i could not reply, but looked at m. ferrand aghast; my head began to wander. i should, perhaps, have risked my life by telling him that i had overheard his projects in the morning, when fortunately i recollected the fresh perils to which such an avowal would expose me. 'you do not understand me, then?' he said, impatiently. 'yes, sir,--but,' i added, all trembling, 'i should prefer not going into the country.' 'why not? you will be taken every care of where i send you.' 'no, no, i will not go; i would rather remain in paris, and not go away from my family; i would rather confess all to them, and die with them, if it must be so.' 'you refuse me, then?' said m. ferrand, repressing his rage, and looking fixedly at me. 'why have you so suddenly changed your mind? not a minute ago you accepted my offer.' i saw that if he guessed my motive i was lost, so i replied that i did not then think that he desired me to leave paris and my family. 'but you dishonour your family, you wretched girl!' he exclaimed, and unable any longer to restrain himself, he seized me by the arms, and shook me so violently that i fell. 'i will give you until the day after to-morrow,' he cried, 'and then you shall go from here to the martials, or go and inform your father that i have turned you out of my house, and will send him to gaol to-morrow.' he then left me, stretched on the floor, whence i had not the power to rise. madame séraphin had run in when she heard her master raise his voice so loud, and with her assistance, and staggering at every step, i regained my chamber, where i threw myself on my bed, and remained until night, so entirely was i prostrated by all that had happened. by the pains that came on about one o'clock in the morning, i felt assured that i should be prematurely a mother." "why did you not summon assistance?" "oh, i did not dare. m. ferrand was anxious to get rid of me, and he would certainly have sent for dr. vincent, who would have killed me at my master's instead of killing me at the martials, or else m. ferrand would have stifled me, and said that i had died in my confinement. alas, sir, perhaps these were vain terrors, but they came over me at this moment and caused my suffering; otherwise i would have endured the shame, and should never have been accused of killing my child. instead of calling for help, and for fear my cries should be heard, i stuffed my mouth full with the bedclothes. at length, after dreadful anguish, alone, in the midst of darkness, the child was born, and,--dead,--i did not kill it!--indeed, i did not kill it,--ah, no! in the midst of this fearful night i had one moment of bitter joy, and that was when i pressed my child in my arms." and the voice of louise was stifled with sobs. morel had listened to his daughter's recital with a mournful apathy and indifference which alarmed rodolph. however, seeing her burst into tears, the lapidary, who was still leaning on his work-board with his two hands pressed against his temples, looked at louise steadfastly, and said: "she weeps,--she weeps,--why is she weeping?" then, after a moment's hesitation, "ah, yes,--i know, i know,--the notary,--isn't it? go on my poor louise,--you are my daughter,--i love you still,--just now i did not recognise you,--my eyes were darkened with my tears,--oh, my head,--how badly it aches,--my head, my head!" "you do not believe me guilty, do you, father, do you?" "oh, no, no!" "it is a terrible misfortune; but i was so fearful of the notary." "the notary? ah, yes, and well you might be; he is so wicked, so very wicked!" "but you will forgive me now?" "yes, yes." "really and truly?" "yes--ah, yes! ah! i love you the same as ever,--although i cannot--not say--you see--because--oh, my head, my head!" louise looked at rodolph in extreme alarm. "he is suffering deeply; but let him calm himself. go on." louise, after looking twice or thrice at morel with great disquietude, thus resumed: "i clasped my infant to my breast, and was astonished at not hearing it breathe. i said to myself, 'the breathing of a baby is so faint that it is difficult to hear it.' but then it was so cold. i had no light, for they never would leave one with me. i waited until the dawn came, trying to keep it warm as well as i could; but it seemed to me colder and colder. i said to myself then; 'it freezes so hard that it must be the cold that chills it so.' at daybreak i carried my child to the window and looked at it; it was stiff and cold. i placed my mouth to its mouth, to try and feel its breath. i put my hand on its heart; but it did not beat; it was dead." and louise burst into tears. "oh! at this moment," she continued, "something passed within me which it is impossible to describe. i only remember confusedly what followed,--it was like a dream,--it was at once despair, terror, rage, and above all, i was seized with another fear; i no longer feared m. ferrand would strangle me, but i feared that, if they found my child dead by my side, i should be accused of having killed it. then i had but one thought, and that was to conceal the corpse from everybody's sight; and then my dishonour would not be known, and i should no longer have to dread my father's anger. i should escape from m. ferrand's vengeance, because i could now leave his house, obtain another situation, and gain something to help and support my family. alas! sir, such were the reasons which induced me not to say any thing, but try and hide my child's remains from all eyes. i was wrong, i know; but, in the situation in which i was, oppressed on all sides, worn out by suffering, and almost mad, i did not consider to what i exposed myself if i should be discovered." "what torture! what torture!" said rodolph with deep sympathy. "the day was advancing," continued louise, "and i had but a few moments before me until the household would be stirring. i hesitated no longer, but, wrapping up the unhappy babe as well as i could, i descended the staircase silently, and went to the bottom of the garden to try and make a hole in the ground to bury it; but it had frozen so hard in the night that i could not dig up the earth. so i concealed the body in the bottom of a sort of cellar, into which no one entered during the winter, and then i covered it up with an empty box which had held flowers, and returned to my apartment, without any person having seen me. of all i tell you, sir, i have but a very confused recollection. weak as i was, it is inexplicable to me how i had strength and courage to do all i did. at nine o'clock madame séraphin came to inquire why i had not risen. i told her that i was so very ill, and prayed of her to allow me to remain in bed during the day, and that on the following day i should quit the house, as m. ferrand had dismissed me. at the end of an hour's time, he came himself. 'you are worse to-day. ah! that is the consequence of your obstinacy,' said he; 'if you had taken advantage of my kind offer, you would to-day have been comfortably settled with some worthy people, who would have taken every care of you; but i will not be so cruel as to leave you without help in your present situation; and this evening doctor vincent shall come and see you.' at this threat i shuddered; but i replied to m. ferrand that i was wrong to refuse his offers the evening before, and that i would now accept them; but that, being too ill to move then, i could not go until the day after the next to the martials, and that it was useless to send for doctor vincent. i only sought to gain time, for i had made up my mind to leave the house, and go the next day to my father, whom i hoped to keep in ignorance of all. relying on my promise, m. ferrand was almost kind to me, and, for the first time in his life, recommended madame séraphin to take care of me. i passed the day in mental agony, trembling every instant lest the body of my child should be accidentally discovered. i was only anxious that the frost should break up, so that, the ground not being so hard, i might be able to dig it up. the snow began to fall, and that gave me some hopes. i remained all day in bed, and when the night came, i waited until every one should be asleep, and then i summoned strength enough to rise and go to the wood-closet, where i found a chopper, with which i hoped to dig a hole in the ground which was covered with snow. after immense trouble i succeeded, and then, taking the body, i wept bitterly over it, and buried it as well as i could in the little box that had held flowers. i did not know the prayer for the dead; but i said a pater and an ave, and prayed to the good god to receive it into paradise. i thought my courage would fail me when i was covering the mould over the sort of bier i had made. a mother burying her own child! at length i completed my task, and ah, what it cost me! i covered the place all over with snow, that it might conceal every trace of what i had done. the moon had lighted me; yet, when all was done, i could hardly resolve to go away. poor little innocent!--in the icy ground,--beneath the snow! although it was dead, yet i still seemed to fear that it must feel the cold. at length i returned to my chamber; and when i got into bed i was in a violent fever. in the morning m. ferrand sent to know how i found myself. i replied that i was a little better, and that i felt sure i should be strong enough to go next day into the country. i remained the whole of the day in bed, hoping to acquire a little strength, and in the evening i arose and went down into the kitchen to warm myself. i was then quite alone, and then went out into the garden to to say a last prayer. as i went up to my room i met m. germain on the landing-place of the study in which he wrote sometimes, looking very pale. he said to me hastily, placing a rouleau of money in my hand, 'they are going to arrest your father to-morrow morning for an over-due bill of thirteen hundred francs; he is unable to pay it; but here is the money. as soon as it is light, run to him. it was only to-day that i found out what sort of a man m. ferrand is; and he is a villain. i will unmask him. above all, do not say that you have the money from me.' "m. germain did not even give me time to thank him, but ran quickly down-stairs. this morning," continued louise, "before any one had risen at m. ferrand's, i came here with the money which m. germain had given me to save my father; but it was not enough, and but for your generosity, i could not have rescued him from the bailiff's hands. probably, after i had left, they went into my room and, having suspicions, have now sent to arrest me. one last service, sir," said louise, taking the rouleau of gold from her pocket, "will you give back this money to m. germain; i had promised him not to say to any one that he was employed at m. ferrand's; but, since you know it, i have not broken my confidence. now, sir, i repeat to you before god, who hears me, that i have not said a word that is not quite true; i have not tried to hide my faults, and--" but, suddenly interrupting herself, louise exclaimed with alarm: "sir, sir, look at my father! what can be the matter with him?" morel had heard the latter part of this narration with a dull indifference, which rodolph had accounted for by attributing it to the heavy additional misfortune which had occurred to him. after such violent and repeated shocks, his tears must have dried up, his sensibility have become lost; he had not even the strength left to feel anger, as rodolph thought; but rodolph was mistaken. as the flame of a candle which is nearly extinguished dies away and recovers, so morel's reason, already much shaken, wavered for some time, throwing out now and then some small rays of intelligence, and then suddenly all was darkness. absolutely unconscious of what was said or passing around him, for some time the lapidary had become quite insane. although his hand-wheel was placed on the other side of his working-table, and he had not in his hands either stones or tools, yet the occupied artisan was feigning the operations of his daily labour, and affecting to use his implements. he accompanied this pantomime with a sort of noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, in imitation of the noise of his lathe in its rotatory motions. "but, sir," said louise again, with increasing fright, "look, pray look at my father!" then, approaching the artisan, she said to him: "father! father!" morel gazed on his daughter with that troubled, vague, distracted, wandering look which characterises the insane, and without discontinuing his assumed labour, he replied, in a low and melancholy tone: "i owe the notary thirteen hundred francs; it is the price of louise's blood,--so i must work, work, work!--oh, i'll pay, i'll pay, i'll pay!" "can it be possible? this cannot be,--he is not mad,--no, no!" exclaimed louise, in a heart-rending voice. "he will recover,--it is but a momentary fit of absence!" "morel, my good fellow," said rodolph to him, "we are here. your daughter is near you,--she is innocent." "thirteen hundred francs!" said the lapidary, not attending to rodolph, but going on with his sham employment. "my father!" exclaimed louise, throwing herself at his feet, and clasping his hands in her own, in spite of his resistance, "it is i--it is your louise!" "thirteen hundred francs," he repeated, wresting his hands from the grasp of his daughter. "thirteen hundred francs,--and if not," he added, in a low and as it were, confidential tone, "and if not, louise is to be guillotined." and again he imitated the turning of his lathe. louise gave a piercing shriek. "he is mad!" she exclaimed, "he is mad! and it is i--it is i who am the cause! oh! yet it is not my fault,--i did not desire to do ill,--it was that monster." "courage, courage, my poor girl," said rodolph, "let us hope that this attack is but momentary. your father has suffered so much; so many troubles, all at once, were more than he could bear. his reason wanders for a moment; it will soon be restored." "but my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, my brothers, what will become of them all?" exclaimed louise, "now they are deprived of my father and myself, they must die of hunger, misery and despair!" "am i not here?--make your mind, easy; they shall want for nothing. courage, i say to you. your disclosure will bring about the punishment of a great criminal. you have convinced me of your innocence, and i have no doubt but that it will be discovered and proclaimed." "ah, sir, you see,--dishonour, madness, death,--see the miseries which that man causes, and yet no one can do any thing against him! nothing! the very thought completes all my wretchedness." "so far from that, let the contrary thought help to support you." "what mean you, sir?" "take with you the assurance that your father, yourself, and your family shall be avenged." "avenged!" "yes, that i swear to you," replied rodolph, solemnly; "i swear to you that his crimes shall be exposed, and this man shall bitterly expiate the dishonour, madness, and death which he has caused. if the laws are powerless to reach him, if his cunning and skill equal his misdeeds, then his cunning must be met by cunning, his skill must be counteracted by skill, his misdeeds faced by other misdeeds, but which shall be to his but a just and avenging retribution, inflicted on a guilty wretch by an inexorable hand, when compared to a cowardly and base murder." "ah, sir, may heaven hear you! it is no longer myself whom i seek to avenge, but a poor, distracted father,--my child killed in its birth--" then, trying another effort to turn morel from his insanity, louise again exclaimed: "adieu, father! they are going to lead me to prison, and i shall never see you again. it is your poor louise who bids you adieu. my father! my father! my father!" to this distressing appeal there was no response. in that poor, destroyed mind there was no echo,--none. the paternal cords, always the last broken, no longer vibrated. * * * * * the door of the garret opened; the commissary entered. "my moments are numbered, sir," said he to rodolph. "i declare to you with much regret that i cannot allow this conversation to be protracted any longer." "this conversation is ended, sir," replied rodolph, bitterly, and pointing to the lapidary. "louise has nothing more to say to her father,--he has nothing more to hear from his daughter,--he is a lunatic." "i feared as much. it is really frightful!" exclaimed the magistrate. and approaching the workman hastily, after a minute's scrutiny, he was convinced of the sad reality. "ah, sir," said he sorrowfully to rodolph, "i had already expressed my sincerest wishes that the innocence of this young girl might be discovered; but after such a misfortune i will not confine myself to good wishes,--no,--no! i will speak of this honest and distressed family; i will speak of this fearful and last blow which has overwhelmed it; and do not doubt but that the judges will have an additional motive to find the accused innocent." "thanks, thanks, sir!" said rodolph; "by acting thus it will not be a mere duty that you fulfil, but a holy office which you undertake." "believe me, sir, our duty is always such a painful one that it is most grateful to us to be interested in any thing which is worthy and good." "one word more, sir. the disclosures of louise morel have fully convinced me of her innocence. will you be so kind as inform me how her pretended crime was discovered, or rather denounced?" "this morning," said the magistrate, "a housekeeper in the service of m. ferrand, the notary, came and deposed before me that, after the hasty departure of louise morel, whom she knew to be seven months advanced in the family way, she went into the young girl's apartment, and was convinced that she had been prematurely confined; footsteps had been traced in the snow, which had led to the detection of the body of a new-born child buried in the garden. after this declaration i went myself to the rue du sentier, and found m. jacques ferrand most indignant that such a scandalous affair should have happened in his house. the curé of the church bonne nouvelle, whom he had sent for, also declared to me that louise morel had owned her fault in his presence one day, when, on this account, she was imploring the indulgence and pity of her master; that, besides, he had often heard m. ferrand give louise morel the most serious warnings, telling her that, sooner or later, she would be lost,--'a prediction,' added the abbé, 'which has been unfortunately fulfilled.' the indignation of m. ferrand," continued the magistrate, "seemed to me so just and natural, that i shared in it. he told me that, no doubt, louise morel had taken refuge with her father. i came hither instantly, for the crime being flagrant, i was empowered to proceed by immediate apprehension." rodolph with difficulty restrained himself when he heard of the indignation of m. ferrand, and said to the magistrate: "i thank you a thousand times, sir, for your kindness, and the support you promise louise. i will take care that this poor man, as well as his wife's mother, are sent to a lunatic asylum." then, addressing louise, who was still kneeling close to her father, endeavouring, but vainly, to recall him to his senses: "make up your mind, my poor girl, to go without taking leave of your mother,--spare her the pain of such a parting. be assured that she shall be taken care of, and nothing shall in future be wanting to your family, for a woman shall be found who will take care of your mother and occupy herself with your brothers, and sisters, under the superintendence of your kind neighbour, mlle. rigolette. as for your father, nothing shall be spared to make his return to reason as rapid as it is complete. courage! believe me, honest people are often severely tried by misfortune, but they always come out of these struggles more pure, more strong, and more respected." * * * * * two hours after the apprehension of louise, the lapidary and the old idiot mother were, by rodolph's orders, taken to the bicêtre by david, where they were to be kept in private rooms and to receive particular care. morel left the house in the rue du temple without resistance; indifferent as he was, he went wherever they led him,--his lunacy was gentle, inoffensive, and melancholy. the grandmother was hungry, and when they showed her bread and meat she followed the bread and meat. the jewels of the lapidary, entrusted to his wife, were the same day given to madame mathieu (the jewel-matcher), who fetched them. unfortunately she was watched and followed by tortillard, who knew the value of the pretended false stones in consequence of the conversation he had overheard during the time morel was arrested by the bailiffs. the son of bras rouge discovered that she lived, boulevard saint-denis, no. . rigolette apprised madeleine morel, with considerable delicacy, of the fit of lunacy which had attacked the lapidary, and of louise's imprisonment. at first, madeleine wept bitterly, and uttered terrible shrieks; then, the first burst of her grief over, the poor creature, weak and overcome, consoled herself as well as she could by seeing that she and her children were surrounded by the many comforts which she owed to the generosity of their benefactor. as to rodolph, his thoughts were very poignant when he considered the disclosures of louise. "nothing is more common," he said, "than this corrupting of the female servant by the master, either by consent or against it; sometimes by terror and surprise, sometimes by the imperious nature of those relations which create servitude. this depravity, descending from the rich to the poor, despising (in its selfish desire) the sanctity of the domestic hearth,--this depravity, still most deplorable when it is voluntarily submitted to, becomes hideous, frightful, when it is satisfied with violence. it is an impure and brutal slavery, an ignoble and barbarous tyranny over a fellow-creature, who in her fright replies to the solicitations of her master by her tears, and to his declarations with a shudder of fear and disgust. and then," continued rodolph, "what is the consequence to the female? almost invariably there follow degradation, misery, prostitution, theft, and sometimes infanticide! and yet the laws are, as yet, strangers to this crime! every accomplice of a crime has the punishment of that crime; every receiver is considered as guilty as the thief. that is justice. but when a man wantonly seduces a young, innocent, and pure girl, renders her a mother, abandons her, leaving her but shame, disgrace, despair, and driving her, perchance, to infanticide, a crime for which she forfeits her life, is this man considered as her accomplice? pooh! what, then, follows? oh, 'tis nothing,--nothing but a little love-affair! the whim of the day for a pair of bright eyes. then she is left, and he looks out for the next. still more, it is just possible that the man may be of an original, an inquisitive turn, perhaps, at the same time, an excellent brother and son, and may go to the bar of the criminal court and see his paramour tried for her life! if by chance he should be subpoenaed as a witness, he may amuse himself by saying to the persons desirous of having the poor girl executed as soon as possible, for the greater edification of the public morals, 'i have something important to disclose to justice.' 'speak!' 'gentlemen of the jury,--this unhappy female was pure and virtuous, it is true. i seduced her,--that is equally true; she bore me a child,--that is also true. after that, as she has a light complexion, i completely forsook her for a pretty brunette,--that is still more true; but, in doing so, i have only followed out an imprescriptible right, a sacred right which society recognizes and accords to me.' 'the truth is, this young man is perfectly in the right,' the jury would say one to another; 'there is no law which prevents a young man from seducing a fair girl, and then forsaking her for a brunette; he is a gay young chap, and that's all.' 'now, gentlemen of the jury, this unhappy girl is said to have killed her child,--i will say our child,--because i abandoned her; because, finding herself alone and in the deepest misery, she became frightened, and lost her senses! and wherefore? because having, as she says, to bring up and feed her child, it was impossible that she could continue to work regularly at her occupation, and gain a livelihood for herself and this pledge of our love! but i think these reasons quite unworthy of consideration, allow me to say, gentlemen of the jury. could she not have gone to the lying-in hospital, if there was room for her? could she not, at the critical moment, have gone to the magistrate of her district and made a declaration of her shame, so that she might have had authority for placing her child in the enfants trouvés? in fact, could she not, whilst i was playing billiards at the coffee-house, whilst awaiting my other mistress, could she not have extricated herself from this affair by some genteeler mode than this? for, gentlemen of the jury, i will admit that i consider this way of disposing of the pledge of our loves as rather too unceremonious and rude, under the idea of thus quietly escaping all future care and trouble. what, is it enough for a young girl to lose her character, brave contempt, infamy, and have an illegitimate child? no; but she must also educate the child, take care of it, bring it up, give it a business, and make an honest man of it, if it be a boy, like its father; or an honest girl, who does not turn wanton like her mother. for, really, maternity has its sacred duties, and the wretches who trample them under foot are unnatural mothers, who deserve an exemplary and notable punishment; as a proof of which, gentlemen of the jury, i beg you will unhesitatingly hand over this miserable woman to the executioner, and you will thus do your duty like independent, firm, and enlightened citizens. _dixi!_' 'this gentleman looks at the question in a very moral point of view,' will say some hatmaker or retired furrier, who is foreman of the jury; 'he has done, i'faith, what we should all have done in his place; for the girl is very pretty, though rather pallid in complexion. this gay spark, as the song says: "'"has kissed and has prattled with fifty fair maids, and changed them as oft, do you see;" and there is no law against that. as to this unfortunate girl, after all, it is her own fault! why did she not repulse him? then she would not have committed a crime,--a monstrous crime! which really puts all society to the blush.' and the hatter or the furrier would be right,--perfectly right. what is there to criminate this gentleman? of what complicity, direct or indirect, moral or material, can he be charged? this lucky rogue has seduced a pretty girl, and he it is who has brought her there; he does not deny it; where is the law that prevents or punishes him? society merely says: there are gay young fellows abroad,--let the pretty girls beware! but if a poor wretch, through want or stupidity, constraint, or ignorance of the laws which he cannot read, buys knowingly a rag which has been stolen, he will be sent to the galleys for twenty years as a receiver, if such be the punishment for the theft itself. this is logical, powerful reasoning,--'without receivers there would be no thieves, without thieves there would be no receivers.' no, no more pity, then--even less pity--for him who excites to the evil than he who perpetrates it. let the smallest degree of complicity be visited with terrible punishment! good; there is in that a serious and fertile thought, high and moral. we should bow before society which had dictated such a law; but we remember that this society, so inexorable towards the smallest complicity of crime against things, is so framed that a simple and ingenuous man, who should try to prove that there is at least moral similarity, material complicity, between the fickle seducer and the seduced and forsaken girl, would be laughed at as a visionary. and if this simple man were to assert that without a father there would, in all probability, not be offspring, society would exclaim against the atrocity,--the folly! and it would be right,--quite right; for, after all, this gay youth who might say these fine things to the jury, however little he might like tragic emotions, might yet go tranquilly to see his mistress executed,--executed for child-murder, a crime to which he was an accessory; nay more, the author, in consequence of his shameless abandonment! does not this charming protection, granted to the male portion of society for certain gay doings suggested by the god of love, show plainly that france still sacrifices to the graces, and is still the most gallant nation in the world?" chapter iii. jacques ferrand. at the period when the events were passing which we are now relating, at one end of the rue du sentier a long old wall extended, covered with a coat of whitewash, and the top garnished with a row of broken flint-glass bottles; this wall, bounding on one side the garden of jacques ferrand, the notary, terminated with a _corps de logis_ facing the street, only one story high, with garrets. two large escutcheons of gilt copper, emblems of the notarial residence, flanked the worm-eaten _porte cochère_, of which the primitive colour was no longer to be distinguished under the mud which covered it. this entrance led to an open passage; on the right was the lodge of an old porter, almost deaf, who was to the body of tailors what m. pipelet was to the body of boot-makers; on the left a stable, used as a cellar, washhouse, woodhouse, and the establishment of a rising colony of rabbits belonging to the porter, who was dissipating the sorrows of a recent widowhood by bringing up these domestic animals. beside the lodge was the opening of a twisting staircase, narrow and dark, leading to the office, as was announced to the clients by a hand painted black, whose forefinger was directed towards these words, also painted in black upon the wall, "the office on the first floor." on one side of a large paved court, overgrown with grass, were empty stables; on the other side, a rusty iron gate, which shut in the garden; at the bottom the pavilion, inhabited only by the notary. a flight of eight or ten steps of disjointed stones, which were moss-grown and time-worn, led to this square pavilion, consisting of a kitchen and other underground offices, a ground floor, a first floor, and the top rooms, in one of which louise had slept. the pavilion also appeared in a state of great dilapidation. there were deep chinks in the walls; the window-frames and outside blinds, once painted gray, had become almost black by time; the six windows on the first floor, looking out into the courtyard, had no curtains; a sort of greasy and opaque deposit covered the glass; on the ground floor there were visible through the window-panes more transparent, faded yellow cotton curtains, with red bindings. on the garden side the pavilion had only four windows. the garden, overgrown with parasitical plants, seemed wholly neglected. there was no flower border, not a bush; a clump of elms; five or six large green trees; some acacias and elder-trees; a yellowish grass-plat, half destroyed by moss and the scorch of the sun; muddy paths, choked up with weeds; at the bottom, a sort of half cellar; for horizon, the high, naked, gray walls of the adjacent houses, having here and there skylights barred like prison windows,--such was the miserable appearance of the garden and dwelling of the notary. to this appearance, or rather reality, m. ferrand attached great importance. in the eyes of the vulgar, carelessness about comfort almost always passes for disinterestedness; dirt, for austerity. comparing the vast financial luxury of some notaries, or the costly toilets of their wives, to the dull abode of m. ferrand, so opposed to elegance, expense, or splendour, clients felt a sort of respect for, or rather blind confidence in, a man who, according to his large practice and the fortune attributed to him, could say, like many of his professional brethren, my carriage, my evening party, my country-house, my box at the opera, etc. but, far from this, jacques ferrand lived with rigid economy; and thus deposits, investments, powers of attorney, in fact, all matters of trust and business requiring the most scrupulous and recognised integrity, accumulated in his hands. living thus meanly as he did, the notary lived in the way he liked. he detested the world, show, dearly purchased pleasures; and, even had it been otherwise, he would unhesitatingly have sacrificed his dearest inclinations to the appearances which he found it so profitable to assume. a word or two on the character of the man. he was one of the children of the large family of misers. misers are generally exhibited in a ridiculous and whimsical light; the worst do not go beyond egotism or harshness. the greater portion increase their fortune by continually investing; some (they are but few) lend at thirty per cent.; the most decided hardly venture any risk with their means; but it is almost an unheard-of thing for a miser to proceed to crime, even murder, in the acquisition of fresh wealth. that is easily accounted for; avarice is especially a negative passion. the miser, in his incessant calculations, thinks more of becoming richer by not disbursing; in tightening around him, more and more, the limits of strict necessity, than he does of enriching himself at the cost of another; he is especially the martyr to preservation. weak, timid, cunning, distrustful, and, above all, prudent and circumspect, never offensive, indifferent to the ills of his neighbour,--the miser at least never alludes to these ills,--he is, before all and above all, the man of certainty and surety; or, rather, he is only a miser because he believes only in the substantial, the hard gold which he has locked up in his chest. speculations and loans, on even undoubted security, tempt him but little, for, how improbable soever it may be, they always offer a chance of loss, and he prefers rather to lose the interest of his money than expose his capital. a man so timorous will, therefore, seldom have the savage energy of the wretch who risks the galleys or his neck to lay hands on the wealth of another. risk is a word erased from the vocabulary of the miser. it is in this sense that jacques ferrand was, let us say, a very singular exception, perhaps a new variety of the genus miser; for jacques ferrand did risk, and a great deal. he relied on his craft, which was excessive; on his hypocrisy, which was unbounded; on his intellect, which was elastic and fertile; on his boldness, which was devilish, in assuring him impunity for his crimes, and they were already numerous. jacques ferrand was a twofold exception. usually these adventurous, energetic spirits, which do not recoil before any crime that will procure gold, are beset by turbulent passions--gaming, dissipation, gluttony, or other pleasures. jacques ferrand knew none of these violent and stormy desires; cunning and patient as a forger, cruel and resolute as an assassin, he was as sober and regular as harpagon. one passion alone was active within him, and this we have seen too fatally exhibited in his early conduct to louise. the loan of thirteen hundred francs to morel at high interest was, in ferrand's hands, a snare--a means of oppression and a source of profit. sure of the lapidary's honesty, he was certain of being repaid in full some day or other. still louise's beauty must have made a deep impression on him to have made him lay out of a sum of money so advantageously placed. except this weakness, jacques ferrand loved gold only. he loved gold for gold's sake; not for the enjoyments it procured,--he was a stoic; not for the enjoyments it might procure,--he was not sufficiently poetical to enjoy speculatively, like some misers. with regard to what belonged to himself, he loved possession for possession's sake; with regard to what belonged to others, if it concerned a large deposit, for instance, liberally confided to his probity only, he experienced in returning this deposit the same agony, the same despair, as the goldsmith, cardillac, did in separating himself from a casket of jewels which his own exquisite taste had fashioned into a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of art. with the notary, his character for extreme probity was his _chef-d'oeuvre_ of art; a deposit was to him a jewel, which he could not surrender but with poignant regrets. what care, what cunning, what stratagems, what skill, in a word, what art, did he use to attract this sum into his own strong box, still maintaining that extreme character for honour, which was beset with the most precious marks of confidence, like the pearls and diamonds in the golden diadems of cardillac. the more this celebrated goldsmith approached perfection, they say, the more value did he attach to his ornaments, always considering the last as his _chef-d'oeuvre_, and being utterly distressed at giving it up. the more jacques ferrand grew perfect in crime, the more he clung to the open and constant marks of confidence which were showered upon him, always considering his last deceit as his _chef-d'oeuvre_. we shall see in the sequel of this history that, by the aid of certain means really prodigious in plan and carrying out, he contrived to appropriate to himself, with impunity, several very considerable sums. his secret and mysterious life gave him incessant and terrible emotions, such as gaming gives to the gambler. against all other men's fortunes jacques ferrand staked his hypocrisy, his boldness, his head; and he played on velvet, as it is called, far out of the reach of human justice, which he vulgarly and energetically characterised as a chimney which might fall on one's head; for him to lose was only not to gain; and, moreover, he was so criminally gifted that, in his bitter irony, he saw a continued gain in boundless esteem, the unlimited confidence which he inspired, not only in a multitude of rich clients, but also in the smaller tradespeople and workmen of his district. a great many of these placed their money with him, saying, "he is not charitable, it is true; he is a devotee, and that's a pity; but he is much safer than the government or the savings-banks." in spite of his uncommon ability, this man had committed two of those mistakes from which the most skilful rogues do not always escape; forced by circumstances, it is true, he had associated with himself two accomplices. this immense fault, as he called it, had been in part repaired; neither of his two associates could destroy him without destroying themselves, and neither would have reaped from denunciation any other profit but of drawing down justice on themselves as well as on the notary; on this score he was quite easy. besides, he was not at the end of his crimes, and the disadvantages of accompliceship were balanced by the criminal aid which at times he still obtained. a few words as to the personal appearance of m. ferrand, and we will introduce the reader into the notary's study, where we shall encounter some of the principal personages in this recital. m. ferrand was fifty years of age, but did not appear forty; he was of middle height, with broad and stooping shoulders, powerful, thickset, strong-limbed, red-haired, and naturally as hirsute as a bear. his hair was flat on his temples, his forehead bald, his eyebrows scarcely perceptible; his bilious complexion was almost concealed by innumerable red spots, and, when strong emotion agitated him, his yellow and murky countenance was injected with blood, and became a livid red. his face was as flat as a death's head, as is vulgarly said; his nose thick and flat; his lips so thin, so imperceptible, that his mouth seemed incised in his face, and, when he smiled with his villainous and revolting air, his teeth seemed as though supplied by black and rotten fangs. his pallid face had an expression at once austere and devout, impassible and inflexible, cold and reflective; whilst his small, black, animated, peering, and restless eyes were lost behind large green spectacles. jacques ferrand saw admirably well; but, sheltered by his glasses, he had an immense advantage; he could observe without being observed; and well he knew how often a glance is unwittingly full of meaning. in spite of his imperturbable audacity, he had met twice or thrice in his life certain potent and magnetic looks, before which his own had compulsorily been lowered; and in some important circumstances it is fatal to lower the eyes before the man who interrogates, accuses, or judges you. the large spectacles of m. ferrand were thus a kind of covert retrenchment, whence he could reconnoitre and observe every movement of the enemy; and all the world was the notary's enemy, because all the world was, more or less, his dupe; and accusers are but enlightened or disgusted dupes. he affected a negligence in his dress almost amounting to dirtiness, or rather, he was naturally so; his chin shaven only every two or three days, his grimy and wrinkled head, his broad nails encircled in black, his unpleasant odour, his threadbare coat, his greasy hat, his coarse neckcloth, his black-worsted stockings, his clumsy shoes, all curiously betokened his worthiness with his clients, by giving him an air of disregard of the world, and an air of practical philosophy, which delighted them. they said: "what tastes, what passions, what feelings, what weaknesses, must the notary sacrifice to obtain the confidence he inspires! he gains, perhaps, sixty thousand francs ( , _l._) a year, and his household consists of a servant and an old housekeeper. his only pleasure is to go on sundays to mass and vespers, and he knows no opera comparable to the grave chanting of the organ, no worldly society which is worth an evening quietly passed at his fireside corner with the curé of the parish after a frugal dinner; in fine, he places his enjoyment in probity, his pride in honour, his happiness in religion." such was the opinion of the contemporaries of m. jacques ferrand. chapter iv. the office. the office of m. ferrand resembled all other offices, and his clerks all other clerks. it was approached through an antechamber, furnished with four old chairs. in the office, properly so-called, surrounded by rows of shelves, ornamented with pasteboard boxes, containing the papers of the clients of m. ferrand, five young men, stooping over black wooden desks, were laughing, gossiping, or scribbling perpetually. a waiting-room, also filled with pasteboard boxes, and in which the chief clerk was constantly stationed, and another room, which, for greater secrecy, was kept unoccupied, between the notary's private room and the waiting-room, completed the total of this laboratory of deeds of every description. an old cuckoo-clock, placed between the two windows of the office, had just struck two o'clock, and a certain bustle prevailed amongst the clerks; a part of their conversation will inform the reader as to the cause of this excitement. "well, if any one had told me that françois germain was a thief," said one of the young men, "i should have said, 'that's a lie!'" "so should i." "and i." "and i. it really quite affected me to see him arrested and led away by the police. i could not eat any breakfast; but i have been rewarded by not having to eat the daily mess doled out by mother séraphin, for, as the song goes: 'to eat the allowance of old séraphin, one must have a twist indeed.'" "capital! why, chalamel, you are beginning your poetry already." "i demand chalamel's head!" "folly apart, it is very terrible for poor germain." "seventeen thousand francs ( _l._) is a lump of money!" "i believe you!" "and yet, for the fifteen months that germain has been cashier, he was never a farthing deficient in making up his books." "i think the governor was wrong to arrest germain, for the poor fellow swore that he had only taken thirteen hundred francs ( _l._) in gold, and that, moreover, he brought back the thirteen hundred francs this morning, to return them to the money-chest, at the very moment when our master sent for the police." "ah, that's the bore of people of such ferocious honesty as our governor, they have no pity!" "but they ought to think twice before they ruin a poor young fellow, who, up to this time, has behaved with strict honesty." "m. ferrand said he did it for an example." "example? what? it is none to the honest, and the dishonest know well enough what they expose themselves to if they are found out in any delinquencies." "our house seems to produce lots of jobs for the police officers." "what do you mean?" "why, this morning there was poor little louise, and now poor germain." "i confess that germain's affair was not quite clear to me." "but he confessed?" "he confessed that he had taken thirteen hundred francs, certainly; but he declared most vehemently that he had not taken the other fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes, and the other seven hundred francs which are short in the strong box." "true; and, if he confessed one thing, why shouldn't he confess another?" "exactly so; for a man is as much punished for five hundred francs as he is for fifteen thousand francs." "yes; only they retain the fifteen thousand francs, and, when they leave prison, this forms a little fund to start upon; and, as the swan of cambrai sings: 'to get a jolly lot of "swag" a cove must dip deep in the lucky-bag.'" "i demand chalamel's head!" "can't you talk sense for five minutes?" "ah, here's jabulot! won't he be astonished?" "what at, my boys? what at? anything fresh about poor louise?" "you would have known, roving blade, if you had not been so long in your rounds." "what, you think it is but a step from here to the rue de chaillot?" "i never said so." "well, what about that gallant don, the famous viscount de saint-rémy?" "has he not been here yet?" "no." "well, his horses were harnessed, and he sent me word by his _valet de chambre_, that he would come here directly. but he didn't seem best pleased, the servant said. oh, my boys! such a lovely little house, furnished most magnificently, like one of the dwellings of the olden time that faublas writes about. oh, faublas! he is my hero--my model!" said the clerk, putting down his umbrella and taking off his clogs. "you are right, jabulot; for, as that sublime old blind man, homer, said: 'faublas, that amorous hero, it is said, forsook the duchess for the waiting-maid.'" "yes; but then, she was a theatrical 'waiting-maid,' my lads." "i demand chalamel's head!" "but about this viscount de saint-rémy? jabulot says his mansion is superb." "pyramidic!" "then, i'll be bound, he has debts not a few, and arrests to match, this viscount." "a bill of thirty-four thousand francs ( , _l._) has been sent here by the officer. it is made payable at the office. this is his creditors' doing; i don't know why or wherefore." "well, i should say that this dandy viscount would pay now, because he came from the country last night, where he has been concealed these three days, in order to escape from the bailiffs." "how is it, then, that they have not seized the furniture already?" "why? oh, he's too cunning! the house is not his own; all the furniture is in the name of his _valet de chambre_, who is said to let it to him furnished; and, in the same way, his horses and carriages are in his coachman's name, who declares that he lets to the viscount his splendid turn-out at so much a month. ah, he's a 'downy' one, is m. de saint-rémy! but what were you going to tell me? what has happened here fresh?" "why, imagine the governor coming in here two hours ago in a most awful passion. 'germain is not here?' he exclaimed. 'no, sir.' 'well, the rascal has robbed me last night of seventeen thousand francs!' says the governor." "germain--rob--ah, come, that's 'no go!'" "you will hear. 'what, sir, are you sure? but it cannot be,' we all cried out. 'i tell you, gentlemen,' said the governor, 'that yesterday i put in the drawer of the bureau at which he writes, fifteen notes of one thousand francs each, and two thousand francs in gold, in a little box, and it is all gone.' at this moment old marriton, the porter, came in, and he said, 'sir, the police are coming; where is germain?' 'wait a bit,' said the governor to the porter; 'as soon as m. germain returns, send him into the office, without saying a word. i will confront him before you all, gentlemen,' said the governor. at the end of a quarter of an hour in comes poor germain, as if nothing had happened. old mother séraphin had brought in our morning mess. germain made his bow to the governor, and wished us all 'good morning,' as usual. 'germain, don't you take your breakfast?' inquired m. ferrand. 'no, thank you, sir, i am not hungry.' 'you're very late this morning.' 'yes, sir; i was obliged to go to belleville this morning.' 'no doubt to hide the money you have stolen from me!' m. ferrand said, in a terrible voice." "and germain?" "the poor fellow turned as pale as death, and stammered out, 'pray--pray, sir, do not ruin me--'" "what! he had stolen--" "listen, jabulot: 'do not ruin me,' says he to the governor. 'what! you confess it, then, you villain?' 'yes, sir; but here is the money; i thought i could replace it before you came into the office this morning; but, unfortunately, a person who had a small sum of mine, and whom i expected to find at home last night, had been at belleville these two days, and i was compelled to go there this morning; that made me late. pray, sir, forgive me,--do not destroy me! when i took the money i knew i could return it this morning; and here are the thirteen hundred francs in gold.' 'what do you mean by thirteen hundred francs?' exclaimed m. ferrand; 'what's the use of talking of thirteen hundred francs? you have stolen, from the bureau in my room, fifteen thousand francs that were in a green pocket-book, and two thousand francs in gold.' 'i? never!' cried poor germain, quite aghast. 'i took thirteen hundred francs in gold, but not a farthing more. i did not even see the pocket-book in the drawer; there were only two thousand francs, in gold, in a box.' 'oh, shameless liar!' cried the governor; 'you confess to having plundered thirteen hundred francs, and may just as well have stolen more; that will be for the law to decide. i shall be without mercy for such an infamous breach of trust; you shall be an example.' in fact, my dear jabulot, the police came in at that moment, with the commissary's chief clerk, to draw up the depositions, and they laid hands on poor germain; and that's all about it." "really, you do surprise me! i feel as if some one had given me a thump on the head. germain--germain, who seemed such an honest fellow,--a chap to whom one would have given absolution without confession." "i should say that he had some presentiment of his misfortune." "how?" "for some days past he seemed to have something on his mind." "perhaps about louise." "louise?" "why, i only repeat what mother séraphin said this morning." "what did she say?" "what? that he was louise's lover, and the father of her child." "sly dog! do you think so?" "why--why--why--" "pooh! pooh!" "that's not the case." "how do you know, master jabulot?" "because it is not a fortnight ago that germain told me, in confidence, that he was over head and ears in love with a little needle-woman, a very correct lass, whom he had known in the house where he lived; and, when he talked of her, the tears came in his eyes." "why, jabulot, you are getting quite poetical." "he says faublas is his hero, and he is not 'wide awake' enough to know that a man may be in love with one woman and a lover of another at the same time; for, as the tender fénélon says, in his instructions to the duke of burgundy: 'a spicy blade, of the right cock-feather, may love a blonde and brunette together.'" "i demand chalamel's head!" "i tell you that germain spoke in earnest." at this moment the head clerk entered the office. "well, m. jabulot," said he, "have you completed your rounds?" "yes, m. dubois; i have been to m. de saint-remy, and he will come and pay immediately." "and as to the countess macgregor?" "here is her answer." "and the countess d'orbigny?" "she returns her compliments to our employer. she only arrived from normandy yesterday morning, and did not know that her reply was required so soon; here is a note from her. i also called on the marquis d'harville's steward, as he desired me to receive the money for drawing up the contract which i witnessed at their house the other day." "you should have told him there was no hurry." "i did, but the steward insisted on paying. here is the money. oh! i had almost forgotten to say, m. badinot said that m. ferrand had better do as they had agreed; it was the best thing to do." "he did not write an answer?" "no, sir; he said he had not time." "very well." "m. charles robert will come in the course of the morning to speak to our master. it seems that he fought a duel yesterday with the duke de lucenay." "and is he wounded?" "i think not, or else they would have told me so at the house." "hark! there's a carriage stopping at the door." "oh, what fine horses! how full of spirits they are!" "and that fat english coachman, with his white wig, and brown livery striped with silver, and his epaulettes like a colonel!" "it must be some ambassador's." "and the _chasseur_, look how he is bedizened all over with silver!" "and what moustachios!" "oh," said jabulot, "it is the viscount de saint-remy's carriage!" "what! is that the way he does it? oh, my!" soon after the viscount de saint-remy entered the office. we have already described the handsome appearance, elegance of style, and aristocratical demeanour of m. de saint-remy, when he was on his way to the farm of arnouville (the estate of madame de lucenay), where he had found a retreat from the pursuit of the bailiffs, malicorne and bourdin. the viscount, who entered unceremoniously into the office, with his hat on his head, a haughty and disdainful look, and his eyes half closed, asked, with an air of extreme superciliousness, and without looking at anybody: "where is the notary?" "m. ferrand is engaged in his private room," said the chief clerk. "if you will please to wait a moment, sir, he will see you." "what do you mean by wait a moment?" "why, sir--" "there is no why in the case, sir. go and tell him that m. de saint-remy is here; and i am much surprised that this notary should make me dance attendance in his waiting-room. it is really most annoying." "will you walk into this side room, sir?" said the chief clerk, "and i will inform m. ferrand this instant." m. de saint-remy shrugged his shoulders, and followed the head clerk. at the end of a quarter of an hour, which seemed very tedious to him, and which converted his spleen into anger, the viscount was introduced into the notary's private apartment. nothing could be more striking than the contrast between these two men, both of them profound physiognomists, and habituated to judge at a glance of the persons with whom they had business. m. de saint-remy saw jacques ferrand for the first time, and was struck with the expression of his pallid, harsh, and impassive features,--the look concealed by the large green spectacles; the skull half hid beneath an old black silk cap. the notary was seated at his writing-desk, in a leathern armchair, beside a low fireplace, almost choked up with ashes, and in which were two black and smoking logs of wood. curtains of green cotton, almost in rags, hung on small iron rings at the windows, and, concealing the lower window-panes, threw over the room, which was naturally dark, a livid and unpleasant hue. shelves of black wood were filled with deed-boxes, all duly labelled. some cherry-wood chairs, covered with threadbare utrecht velvet; a clock in a mahogany case; a floor yellow, damp, and chilling; a ceiling full of cracks, and festooned with spiders' webs,--such was the _sanctum sanctorum_ of m. jacques ferrand. hardly had the viscount made two steps into his cabinet, or spoken a word, than the notary, who knew him by reputation, conceived an intense antipathy towards him. in the first place, he saw in him, if we may say so, a rival in rogueries; and then he hated elegance, grace, and youth in other persons, and more especially when these advantages were attended with an air of insolent superiority. the notary usually assumed a tone of rude and almost coarse abruptness with his clients, who liked him the better for being in behaviour like a boor of the danube. he made up his mind to double this brutality towards m. de saint-remy, who, only knowing the notary by report also, expected to find an attorney either familiar or a fool; for the viscount always imagined men of such probity as m. ferrand had the reputation for, as having an exterior almost ridiculous, but, so far from this, the countenance and appearance of the attorney at law struck the viscount with an undefinable feeling,--half fear, half aversion. consequently, his own resolute character made m. de saint-remy increase his usual impertinence and effrontery. the notary kept his cap on his head, and the viscount did not doff his hat, but exclaimed, as he entered the room, with a loud and imperative tone: "_pardieu_, sir! it is very strange that you should give me the trouble to come here, instead of sending to my house for the money for the bills i accepted from the man badinot, and for which the fellow has issued execution against me. it is true you tell me that you have also another very important communication to make to me; but then, surely, that is no excuse for making me wait for half an hour in your antechamber: it is really most annoying, sir!" m. ferrand, quite unmoved, finished a calculation he was engaged in, wiped his pen methodically in a moist sponge which encircled his inkstand of cracked earthenware, and raised towards the viscount his icy, earthy, flat face, shaded by his spectacles. he looked like a death's head in which the eye-holes had been replaced by large, fixed, staring green eyeballs. after having looked at the viscount for a moment or two, the notary said to him, in a harsh and abrupt tone: "where's the money?" this coolness exasperated m. de saint-rémy. he--he, the idol of the women, the envy of the men, the model of the first society in paris, the dreaded duellist--produced no effect on a wretched attorney-at-law! it was horrid; and, although he was only _tête-à -tête_ with jacques ferrand, his pride revolted. "where are the bills?" inquired the viscount, abruptly. with the point of one of his fingers, as hard as iron, and covered with red hair, the notary rapped on a large leathern pocket-book which lay close beside him. resolved on being as laconic, although trembling with rage, m. de saint-remy took from the pocket of his upper coat a russian leather pocket-book, with gold clasps, from which he drew forth forty notes of a thousand francs each, and showed them to the notary. "how many are there?" he inquired. "forty thousand francs." "hand them to me!" "take them! and let this have a speedy termination. ply your trade, pay yourself, and give me the bills," said the viscount, as he threw the notes on the table, with an impatient air. the notary took up the bank-notes, rose, went close to the window to examine them, turning and re-turning them over and over, one by one, with an attention so scrupulous, and really so insulting for m. de saint-rémy, that the viscount actually turned pale with rage. jacques ferrand, as if he had guessed the thoughts which were passing in the viscount's mind, shook his head, turned half towards him, and said to him, with an indefinable accent: "i have seen--" m. de saint-remy, confused for a moment, said, drily: "what?" "forged bank-notes," replied the notary, continuing his scrutiny of a note, which he had not yet examined. "what do you mean by that remark, sir?" jacques ferrand paused for a moment, looked steadfastly at the viscount through his glasses, then, shrugging his shoulders slightly, he continued to investigate the notes, without uttering a syllable. "monsieur notary! i would wish you to learn that, when i ask a question, i have an answer!" cried m. de saint-remy, exasperated at the coolness of jacques ferrand. "these notes are good," said the notary, turning towards his bureau, whence he took a small bundle of stamped papers, to which were annexed two bills of exchange; then, putting down one of the bank-notes for one thousand francs and three rouleaus, of one hundred francs each, on the table, he said to m. de saint-remy, pointing to the money and the bills with his finger: "here's your change out of the forty thousand francs; my client has desired me to deduct the expenses." the viscount had contained himself with great difficulty whilst jacques ferrand was making out the account, and, instead of taking up the money, he exclaimed, in a voice that literally shook with passion: "i beg to know, sir, what you meant by saying, whilst you looked at the bank-notes which i handed to you, that you 'had seen forged notes?'" "what i meant?" "yes." "because i sent for you to come here on a matter of forgery." and the notary fixed his green spectacles on the viscount. "and how can this forgery in any way affect me?" after a moment's silence, m. ferrand said to the viscount, with a stern air: "are you aware, sir, of the duties which a notary fulfils?" "those duties appear to me, sir, very simple indeed; just now i had forty thousand francs, now i have thirteen hundred francs left." "you are facetious, sir; i will tell you that a notary is, in temporal matters, what a confessor is in spiritual affairs; by virtue of his position, he often becomes possessed of disgraceful secrets." "go on, i beg, sir." "he is often brought into contact with rogues." "go on, sir." "he ought, as well as he can, to prevent an honourable name from being dragged through the mud." "what is all this to me?" "your father's name is deservedly respected; you, sir, dishonour it." "how dare you, sir, to address such language to me?" "but for the interest which the gentleman, of whom i speak, inspires in the minds of all honest men, instead of being summoned before me, you would, at this moment, be standing before a police-magistrate." "i do not understand you." "two months since, you discounted, through an agent, a bill for fifty-eight thousand francs ( , _l._), accepted by the house of meulaert & company, of hamburg, in favour of a certain william smith, payable in three months, at the bank of m. grimaldi, of paris." "well?" "that bill was a forgery." "impossible!" "that bill was a forgery! the firm of meulaert never gave such a bill to william smith, and never had such a transaction with such an individual." "can this be true?" exclaimed m. de saint-rémy, with equal surprise and indignation; "then i have been most infamously deceived, sir, for i took the bill as ready money." "from whom?" "from m. william smith himself; the house of meulaert is so well known, and i was so firmly convinced myself of the honour of m. william smith, that i took the bill in payment of a debt he owed me." "william smith never existed,--he is an imaginary personage." "sir, you insult me!" "his signature is forged and false, as well as all the rest of the bill." "i assert that m. william smith is alive; but i must have been the dupe of a horrible abuse of confidence." "poor young man!" "explain yourself, sir." "the actual holder of the bill is convinced you committed the forgery." "sir!" "he declares that he has proof of this; and he came to me the day before yesterday, requesting me to see you, and offer to give up this forged document, under certain conditions. up to this point all was straightforward, but what follows is not so, and i only speak to you now according to my instructions. he requires one hundred thousand francs ( , _l._) down this very day, or else to-morrow, at twelve o'clock at noon, the forged bill will be handed over to the king's attorney-general." "this is infamous, sir!" "it is more,--it is absurd. you are a ruined man; you were all but arrested for the sum which you have just paid me, and which you have scraped up i cannot tell from where; and this i have told to the holder of the bill, who replied, that a certain great and very rich lady would not allow you to remain in this embarrassment." "enough, sir! enough!" "more infamous! more absurd! agreed." "well, sir, and what is required of me?" "why, to work out infamously an action infamously commenced. i have consented to communicate this proposition to you, although it disgusts me, as an honest man ought to feel disgust on such an occasion; but now it is your affair. if you are guilty, choose between a criminal court and the means of ransom offered to you; my duty is only an official one, and i will not dirty my fingers any further in so foul a transaction. the third party is called m. petit-jean, an oil merchant, who lives on the banks of the seine, quai de billy, no. . make your arrangements with him; you are fit to meet if you are a forger, as he declares." m. de saint-remy had entered jacques ferrand's study with a lip all scorn, and a head all pride. although he had in his life committed some shameful actions, he still retained a certain elevation of race, and an instinctive courage, which had never forsaken him. at the beginning of this conversation, considering the notary as an adversary beneath him, he had been content to treat him with disdain; but, when jacques ferrand began to talk of forgery, he felt annihilated; in his turn he felt himself rode over by the notary. but for the entire command of self which he possessed, he could not have concealed the terrible impression which this unexpected revelation disclosed to him, for it might have incalculable consequences to him,--consequences unsuspected by the notary himself. after a moment of silence and reflection, he resigned himself,--he, so haughty, so irritable, so vain of his self-possession!--to beg of this coarse man, who had so roughly addressed to him the stern language of probity: "sir, you give me a proof of your interest, for which i thank you, and i regret that any hasty expressions should have escaped me," said m. de saint-remy, with a tone of cordiality. "i do not take the slightest interest in or for you," replied the notary, brutally. "your father is the soul of honour, and i would not wish that in the depth of that solitude in which he lives, as they tell me, at angers, he should learn that his name has been exposed, tarnished, degraded, in a court of justice, that's all." "i repeat to you, sir, that i am incapable of the infamy which is attributed to me." "you may tell that to m. petit-jean." "but i confess that, in the absence of m. smith, who has so unworthily abused my confidence, that--" "the scoundrel smith!" "the absence of m. smith places me in a cruel embarrassment. i am innocent,--let them accuse me, i will prove myself guiltless; but such an accusation, even, must always disgrace a gentleman." "well?" "be so good as to use the sum i have just handed to you in part payment to the person who holds the acceptance." "that money belongs to a client and is sacred." "in two or three days i will repay you." "you will not be able." "i have resources." "you have none; not visible at least. your household furniture, your horses, do not belong to you, as you declare; this has to me the appearance of a disgraceful fraud." "you are severe, sir; but, admitting what you say, do you not suppose that i shall turn everything into money in such a desperate extremity? only, as it will be impossible for me to procure, between this and noon to-morrow, the one hundred thousand francs, i entreat you to employ the money i have just handed to you in procuring this unfortunate bill, or, at least, as you are very rich, advance the money. do not leave me in such a position." "me? why, is the man mad?" "sir, i beseech you, in my father's name, which you have mentioned to me, be so kind as to--" "i am kind to those who deserve it," said the notary, harshly. "an honest man myself, i hate swindlers, and should not be sorry to see one of those high-minded gentlemen, without faith or honour, impious and reprobate, put in the pillory, as an example to others; but i hear your horses, who are impatient to depart, m. le vicomte," said the notary, with a smile that displayed his black fangs. at this moment some one knocked at the door of the apartment. "who's there?" inquired jacques ferrand. "madame the countess d'orbigny," said the chief clerk. "request her to wait a moment." "the stepmother of the marchioness d'harville?" exclaimed m. de saint-remy. "yes, sir; she has an appointment with me,--so, your servant, sir." "not a word of this, sir!" cried m. de saint-remy, in a menacing voice. "i told you, sir, that a notary is as discreet as a confessor." jacques ferrand rang, and the clerk appeared. "show madame d'orbigny in." then, addressing the viscount, "take these thirteen hundred francs, sir; they will be something towards an arrangement with m. petit-jean." madame d'orbigny (formerly madame roland) entered at the moment when m. de saint-remy went out, his features convulsed with rage at having so uselessly humiliated himself before the notary. "ah, good day, m. de saint-remy," said madame d'orbigny; "what a time it is since i saw you!" "why, madame, since d'harville's marriage, at which i was present, i do not think i have had the pleasure of meeting you," said m. de saint-remy, bowing, and assuming an affable and smiling demeanour. "you have remained in normandy ever since, i think?" "why, yes! m. d'orbigny will only live in the country, and what he likes i like; so you see in me a complete country wife. i have not been in paris since the marriage of my dear stepdaughter with that excellent m. d'harville. do you see him frequently?" "d'harville has grown very sullen and morose; he is seldom seen in the world," said m. de saint-remy, with something like impatience, for the conversation was most irksome to him, both because of its untimeliness and that the notary seemed amused at it; but madame d'harville's stepmother, enchanted at thus meeting with a dandy of the first water, was not the woman to allow her prey to escape her so easily. "and my dear stepdaughter," she continued,--"she, i hope, is not as morose as her husband?" "madame d'harville is all the fashion, and has the world at her feet, as a lovely woman should have. but i take up your time, and--" "not at all, i assure you. it is quite agreeable to me to meet the 'observed of all observers,'--the monarch of fashion,--for, in ten minutes, i shall be as _au fait_ of paris as if i had never left it. and your dear m. de lucenay, who was also present at m. d'harville's marriage?" "a still greater oddity. he has been travelling in the east, and returned in time to receive a sword-wound yesterday,--nothing serious, though." "poor dear duke! and his wife, always lovely and fascinating?" "madame, i have the honour to be one of her profoundest admirers, and my testimony would, therefore, be received with suspicion. i beg, on your return to aubiers, you will not forget my regards to m. d'orbigny." "he will, i am sure, be most sensible of your kindness; he often talks of you, and says you remind him of the duke de lauzun." "his comparison is a eulogy in itself, but, unfortunately, infinitely more flattering than true. adieu, madame, for i fear i must not ask to be allowed to pay my respects to you before your departure." "i should lament to give you the trouble of calling on me, for i have pitched my tent for a few days in a furnished hôtel; but if, in the summer or autumn, you should be passing our way, _en route_ to some of those fashionable châteaus where the leaders of _ton_ dispute the pleasure of receiving you, pray give us a few days of your society, if it be only by way of contrast, and to rest yourself with us poor rustic folk from the whirl of your high life of fashion and distinction; for where you are it is always delightful to be." "madame!" "i need not say how delighted m. d'orbigny and myself would be to receive you; but adieu, sir, i fear the kind attorney (she pointed to ferrand) will grow impatient at our gossip." "quite the reverse, madame, quite the reverse," said ferrand, with an emphasis that redoubled the repressed rage of m. de saint-remy. [illustration: _he will scold you awfully._ original etching by adrian marcel.] "is not m. ferrand a terrible man?" said madame d'orbigny, affectedly. "mind now, i tell you, that, if he has charge of your affairs, he will scold you awfully. he is the most unpitying man--but that's my nonsense; on the contrary, why, such an exquisite as you to have m. ferrand for his solicitor is a proof of reformation, for we know very well that he never allows his clients to do foolish things; if they do, he gives up their business. oh, he will not be everybody's lawyer!" then, turning to jacques ferrand: "do you know, most puritanical solicitor, that you have made a splendid conversion there? if you reform the exquisite of exquisites, the king of the mode--" "it is really a conversion, madame. the viscount left my study a very different man from what he entered it." "there, i tell you that you perform miracles!" "ah, madame, you flatter me," said jacques ferrand, with emphasis. m. de saint-remy made a low bow to madame d'orbigny, and then, as he left the notary, desirous of trying once more to excite his pity, he said to him, in a careless tone, which, however, betrayed deep anxiety: "then, my dear m. ferrand, you will not grant me the favour i ask?" "some wild scheme, no doubt. be inexorable, my dear puritan," cried madame d'orbigny, laughing. "you hear, sir? i must not contradict such a handsome lady." "my dear m. ferrand, let us speak seriously of serious things, and, you know, this is a most serious matter. do you really refuse me?" inquired the viscount, with an anxiety which he could not altogether dissemble. the notary was cruel enough to appear to hesitate; m. de saint-remy had an instant's hope. "what, man of iron, do you yield?" said madame d'harville's stepmother, laughing still. "do you, too, yield to the charm of the irresistible?" "_ma foi_, madame! i was on the point of yielding, as you say; but you make me blush for my weakness," added m. ferrand. and then, addressing himself to the viscount, he said to him, with an accent of which saint-remy felt all the meaning, "well then, seriously," (and he dwelt on the word), "it is impossible." "ah, the puritan! hark to the puritan!" said madame d'orbigny. "see m. petit-jean. he will think precisely as i do, i am sure, and, like me, will say to you 'no!'" m. de saint-remy rushed out in despair. after a moment's reflection he said to himself, "it must be so!" then he added, addressing his chasseur, who was standing with the door of his carriage opened, "to the hôtel de lucenay." whilst m. de saint-remy is on his way to see the duchess, we will present the reader at the interview between m. ferrand and the stepmother of madame d'harville. chapter v. the clients. the reader may have forgotten the portrait of the stepmother of madame d'harville as drawn by the latter. let us then repeat, that madame d'orbigny was a slight, fair, delicate woman, with eyelashes almost white, round and palish blue eyes, with a soft voice, a hypocritical air, insidious and insinuating manners. any one who studied her treacherous and perfidious countenance would detect therein craft and cruelty. "what a delightful young man m. de saint-remy is!" said madame d'orbigny to jacques ferrand, when the viscount had left them. "delightful! but, madame, let us now proceed to our business. you wrote to me from normandy that you desired to consult me upon most serious matters." "have you not always been my adviser ever since the worthy doctor polidori introduced me to you? by the way, have you heard from him recently?" inquired madame d'orbigny, with an air of complete carelessness. "since he left paris he has not written me a single line," replied the notary, with an air of similar indifference. let the reader understand that these two persons lied most unequivocally to each other. the notary had seen polidori (one of his two accomplices) recently, and had proposed to him to go to asnières, to the martials, the fresh-water pirates, of whom we shall presently speak,--had proposed to him, we say, to poison louise morel, under the name of doctor vincent. madame d'harville's stepmother, on her side, had come to paris in order to have a secret meeting with this scoundrel, who had been for a long time concealed, as we have said, under the name of césar bradamanti. "but it is not the good doctor of whom we have to discourse," continued madame d'harville's stepmother. "you see me very uneasy. my husband is indisposed; his health becomes weaker and weaker every day. without experiencing serious alarm, his condition gives me much concern,--or rather, gives him much concern," said madame d'orbigny, drying her eyes, which were slightly moistened. "what is the business, madame?" "he is constantly talking of making his last arrangements,--of his will." here madame d'orbigny concealed her face in her pocket-handkerchief for some minutes. "it is very afflicting, no doubt," said the notary; "but the precaution has nothing terrible in itself. and what may be m. d'orbigny's intentions, madame?" "dear sir! how do i know? you may suppose that when he commences the subject i do not allow him to dwell on it long." "well, then, he has not up to this time told you anything positive?" "i think," replied madame d'orbigny, with a deep sigh,--"i think that he wishes to leave me not only all that the law will allow him to bequeath to me, but--but, really, i pray of you, do not let us talk of that." "of what, then, shall we talk?" "alas, you are right, pitiless man! i must, in spite of myself, return to the sad subject that brings me here to see you. well, then, m. d'orbigny's inclination extends so far that he desires to sell a part of his estate and present me with a large sum." "but his daughter--his daughter?" exclaimed m. ferrand, harshly. "i must tell you that, during the last year, m. d'harville has placed his affairs in my hands, and i have lately purchased a splendid estate for him. you know my blunt way of doing business? whether m. d'harville is my client or not is no matter. i stand up only for justice. if your husband makes up his mind to behave to his daughter in a way that i do not approve, i tell you plainly he must not reckon on my assistance. upright and downright, such has always been my line of conduct." "and mine, also! therefore it is that i am always saying to my husband what you now say to me, 'your daughter has behaved very ill to you, that is but too true; but that is no reason why you should disinherit her.'" "very good,--quite right! and what answer does he make to that?" "he replies, 'i shall leave my daughter twenty-five thousand livres of annual income ( , _l._); she had more than a million ( , _l._) from her mother. her husband has an enormous fortune of his own; and, therefore, why should i not leave you the residue of my fortune,--you, my tender love, the sole support, the only comfort of my declining years, my guardian angel?' i repeat these very flattering words to you," said madame d'orbigny, with an air of modesty, "to prove to you how kind m. d'orbigny is to me. but, in spite of that, i have always refused his offers; and, as he perceives that, he has compelled me to come and seek you." "but i do not know m. d'orbigny." "but he, like all the world, knows your high character." "but why should he send you to me?" "to put an end to all my scruples and refusals, he said to me, 'i will not ask you to consult my notary, because you will think him too much devoted to my service; but i will trust myself entirely to the decision of a man of whose extreme probity of character i have heard you so frequently speak in praise,--m. jacques ferrand. if he considers your delicacy compromised by your consent to my wishes, we will not say another word on the subject; otherwise, you must comply without a word.' 'i consent!' i replied to m. d'orbigny. and so now you are the arbitrator between us. 'if m. ferrand approves,' added my husband, 'i will send him ample power to realise in my name my rents and investments, and he shall keep the proceeds in his hands as a deposit; and thus, after my decease, my tender love, you will at least have an existence worthy of you.'" perhaps m. ferrand never had greater need of his spectacles than at this moment; for, had he not worn them, madame d'orbigny would doubtless have been struck with the sparkle of the notary's eyes, which seemed to dart fire when the word deposit was pronounced. however, he replied, in his usual coarse way: "it is very tiresome. this is the tenth or twelfth time that i have been made the arbitrator in a similar matter, always under the pretence of my honesty,--that is the only word in people's mouths. my honesty!--my honesty! what a fine quality, forsooth!--which only brings me in a great deal of tiresome trouble." "my good m. ferrand! come, do not repulse me. you will write at once to m. d'orbigny, who only awaits your letter to send you full powers to act for him, and to realise the sum required." "which amounts to how much?" "why, i think he said four or five hundred thousand francs" ( , _l._ or , _l._). "the sum, after all, is not so much as i thought. you are devoted to m. d'orbigny. his daughter is very rich; you have nothing. that is not just; and i really think you should accept it." "really, do you think so, indeed?" said madame d'orbigny, who was the dupe, like the rest of the world, of the proverbial probity of the notary, and who had not been enlightened by polidori in this particular. "you may accept," he repeated. "i will accept, then," said madame d'orbigny, with a sigh. the chief clerk knocked at the door. "who is there?" inquired m. ferrand. "madame the countess macgregor." "request her to wait a moment." "i will go, then, my dear m. ferrand," said madame d'orbigny. "you will write to my husband, since he wishes it, and he will send you the requisite authority by return of post?" "i will write." "adieu, my worthy and excellent counsellor!" "ah, you do not know, you people of the world, how disagreeable it is to take charge of such deposits,--the responsibility which we then assume. i tell you that there is nothing more detestable in the world than this fine character for probity, which brings down upon one all these turmoils and troubles." "and the admiration of all good people." "thank heaven, i place otherwise than here below the hopes of the reward at which i aim!" said m. ferrand, in a hypocritical tone. to madame d'orbigny succeeded sarah macgregor. sarah entered the cabinet of the notary with her usual coolness and assurance. jacques ferrand did not know her, nor the motives of her visit, and he therefore scrutinised her carefully in the hope of catching another dupe. he looked most attentively at the countess; and, despite the imperturbability of this marble-fronted woman, he observed a slight working of the eyebrows, which betrayed a repressed embarrassment. the notary rose from his seat, handed a chair, and, motioning to sarah to sit down, thus accosted her: "you have requested of me, madame, an interview for to-day. i was very much engaged yesterday, and could not reply until this morning. i beg you will accept my apology for the delay." "i was desirous of seeing you, sir, on a matter of the greatest importance. your reputation for honesty, kindness, and complaisance has made me hope that the step i have taken with you will be successful." the notary bent forward slightly in his chair. "i know, sir, that your discretion is perfect." "it is my duty, madame." "you are, sir, a man of rigid, moral, and incorruptible character." "yes, madame." "yet, sir, if you were told that it depended on you to restore life--more than life, reason--to an unhappy mother, should you have the courage to refuse her?" "if you will state the circumstances, madame, i shall be better able to reply." "it is fourteen years since, at the end of the month of december, , a man in the prime of life, and dressed in deep mourning, came to ask you to take, by way of life-annuity, the sum of a hundred and fifty thousand francs ( , _l._), which it was desired should be sunk in favour of a child of three years of age, whose parents were desirous of remaining unknown." "well, madame?" said the notary, careful not to reply in the affirmative. "you assented, and took charge of this sum, agreeing to insure the child a yearly pension of eight thousand francs ( _l._). half this income was to accumulate for the child's benefit until of age; the other half was to be paid by you to the person who took care of this little girl." "well, madame?" "at the end of two years," said sarah, unable to repress a slight emotion, "on the th of november, , the child died." "before we proceed any farther, madame, with this conversation, i must know what interest you take in this matter?" "the mother of this little girl, sir, was--my sister.[ ] i have here proofs of what i advance: the declaration of the poor child's death, the letters of the person who took charge of her, and the acknowledgment of one of your clients with whom you have placed the hundred and fifty thousand francs." [ ] it is, perhaps, unnecessary to remind the reader that the child in question is fleur-de-marie, daughter of rodolph and sarah, and that the latter, in speaking of a pretended sister, tells a falsehood necessary for her plans, as will be seen. sarah was convinced, as was rodolph, also, of the death of the little girl. "allow me to see those papers, madame." somewhat astonished at not being believed on her word, sarah drew from a pocket-book several papers, which the notary examined with great attention. "well, madame, what do you desire? the declaration of decease is perfectly in order. the hundred and fifty thousand francs came to my client, m. petit-jean, on the death of the child. it is one of the chances of life-annuities, as i remarked to the person who placed the affair in my hands. as to the pension, it was duly paid by me up to the time of the child's decease." "i am ready to declare, sir, that nothing could be more satisfactory than your conduct throughout the whole of the affair. the female who had charge of the child is also entitled to our gratitude, for she took the greatest care of my poor little niece." "true, madame. and i was so much satisfied with her conduct, that, seeing her out of place after the death of the child, i took her into my employment; and, since that time, she has remained with me." "is madame séraphin in your service, sir?" "she has been my housekeeper these fourteen years, and i must ever speak in her praise." "since that is the case, sir, she may be of the greatest use to us, if you will kindly grant me a request, which may appear strange, perhaps even culpable, at first sight, but when you know the motive--" "a culpable request, madame, is what i cannot believe you capable of addressing to me." "sir, i am acquainted with the rectitude of your principles; but all my hope--my only hope--is in your pity. under any event, i may rely on your discretion?" "madame, you may." "well, then, i will proceed. the death of this poor child was so great a shock to her mother, that her grief is as great now as it was fourteen years since, and, having then feared for her life, we are now in dread for her reason." "poor mother!" said m. ferrand, in a tone of sympathy. "oh, yes, poor unhappy mother, indeed, sir! for she could only blush at the birth of her child at the time when she lost it; whilst now circumstances are such, that, if the child were still alive, my sister could render her legitimate, be proud of her, and never again allow her to quit her. thus this incessant regret, coming to add to her other sorrows, we are afraid every hour lest she should be bereft of her senses." "it is unfortunate that nothing can be done in the matter." "yes, sir--" "what, madame?" "suppose some one told the poor mother, 'your child was reported to be dead, but she did not die: the woman who had charge of her when she was little could vouch for this.'" "such a falsehood, madame, would be cruel. why give so vain a hope to the poor mother?" "but, supposing it were not a falsehood, sir? or, rather, if the supposition could be realised?" "by a miracle? if it only required my prayers to be united with your own to obtain this result, i would give them to you from the bottom of my heart,--believe me, madame. unfortunately, the register of decease is strictly regular." "oh, yes, sir, i know well enough that the child is dead; and yet, if you will agree, that misfortune need not be irreparable." "is this some riddle, madame?" "i will speak more clearly. if my sister were to-morrow to recover her daughter, she would be certain not only to be restored to health, but to be wedded to the father of her child, who is now as free as herself. my niece died at six years old. separated from her parents from a very tender age, they have not the slightest recollection of her. suppose a young girl of seventeen was produced (my niece would be about that age),--a young girl (such as there are many) forsaken by her parents,--and it was said to my sister, 'here's your daughter, for you have been imposed upon. important interests have required that she should have been said to be dead. the female who brought her up and a respectable notary will confirm these facts, and prove to you that it is really she--'" jacques ferrand, after having allowed the countess to speak on without interruption, rose abruptly, and exclaimed, with an indignant air: "madame, this is infamous!" "sir!" "to dare to propose such a thing to me--to me! a supposititious child, the destruction of a registry of decease; a criminal act, indeed! it is the first time in my life that i was ever subjected to so outrageous a proposal,--a proposal i have not merited, and you know it!" "but, sir, what wrong does this do to any one? my sister and the individual she desires to marry are widow and widower, and childless, both bitterly lamenting the child they have lost. to deceive them is to restore them to happiness, to life, is to ensure a happy destiny to some poor, forsaken girl; and it becomes, therefore, a noble, a generous action, and not a crime!" "really, madame, i marvel to see how the most execrable projects may be coloured, so as to pass for beautiful pictures!" "but, sir, reflect--" "i repeat to you, madame, that it is infamous! and it is shameful to see a lady of your rank lend herself to such abominable machinations,--to which, i trust, your sister is a stranger." "sir--" "enough, madame, enough! i am not a polished gentleman, i am not, and i shall speak my mind bluntly." sarah gave the notary a piercing look with her jet-black eyes, and said, coldly: "you refuse?" "i pray, madame, that you will not again insult me." "beware!" "what! threats?" "threats! and that you may learn they are not vain ones, learn, first, that i have no sister--" "what, madame?" "i am the mother of this child!" "you?" "i--i made a circuitous route to reach my end--coined a tale to excite your interest; but you are pitiless. i raise the mask, you are for war. well, war be it then!" "war! because i refuse to associate myself with you in a criminal machination! what audacity!" "listen to me, sir! your reputation as an honest man is established, acknowledged, undisputed--" "because deserved; and, therefore, you must have lost your reason to make me such a proposal as you have done, and then threaten me because i will not accede to it." "i know, sir, better than any one how much reputations for immaculate virtue are to be distrusted; they often mask wantonness in women and roguery in men." "madame?" "ever since our conversation began,--i do not know why, but i have mistrusted your claim to the esteem and consideration which you enjoy." "really, madame, your mistrust does honour to your penetration!" "does it not? for this mistrust is based on mere nothings--on instinct--on inexplicable presentiments; but these intimations have rarely beguiled me." "madame, let us terminate this conversation." "first learn my determination. i begin by telling you that i am convinced of the death of my poor daughter. but, no matter, i shall pretend that she is not dead: the most unlikely things do happen. you are at this moment in a position of which very many must be envious, and would be delighted at any weapon with which to assail you. i will supply one." "you?" "i, by attacking you under some absurd pretext, some irregularity in the declaration of death; say--no matter what--i will insist that my child is not dead. as i have the greatest interest in making it believed that she is still alive, though lost, this action will be useful to me in giving a wide circulation to the affair. a mother who claims her child is always interesting; and i should have with me those who envy you,--your enemies, and every sensitive and romantic mind." "this is as mad as it is malevolent! what motive could i have in making your daughter pass for dead, if she were not really defunct?" "that is true enough, and the motive may be difficult to find; but, then, have we not the attorneys and barristers at our elbows? now i think of it (excellent idea!), desirous of sharing with your client the sum sunk in the annuity on this unfortunate child, you caused her disappearance." the unabashed notary shrugged his shoulders. "if i had been criminal enough for that, instead of causing its disappearance, i should have killed it!" sarah started with surprise, remained silent for a moment, and then said, with bitterness: "for a pious man, this is an idea of crime deeply reflective! can i by chance, then, have hit the mark when i fired at random? i must think of this,--and think i will. one other word. you see the sort of woman i am: i crush without remorse all obstacles that lie in my onward path. reflect well, then, for to-morrow this must be decided on. you may do what i ask you with impunity. in his joy, the father of my daughter will not think of doubting the possibility of his child's restoration, if our falsehoods, which will make him happy, are adroitly combined. besides, he has no other proofs of the death of our daughter than those i wrote to him of fourteen years ago, and i could easily persuade him that i had deceived him on this subject; for then i had real causes of complaint against him. i will tell him that in my grief i was desirous of breaking every existing tie that bound us to each other. you cannot, therefore, be compromised in any way. affirm only, irreproachable man. affirm that all was in former days concerted between us,--you and me and madame séraphin,--and you will be credited. as to the fifteen thousand francs sunk in an annuity for my child, that is my affair solely. they will remain acquired by your client, who must be kept profoundly ignorant of this; and, moreover, you shall yourself name your own recompense." jacques ferrand maintained all his _sang-froid_ in spite of the singularity of his situation, remarkable and dangerous as it was. the countess, really believing in the death of her daughter, had proposed to the notary to pass off the dead child as living, whom, living, he had declared to have died fourteen years before. he was too clever, and too well acquainted with the perils of his position, not to understand the effect of all sarah's threats. his reputation, although admirably and laboriously built up, was based on a substructure of sand. the public detaches itself as easily as it becomes infatuated, liking to have the right to trample under foot him whom but just now it elevated to the skies. how could the consequences of the first assault on the reputation of jacques ferrand be foreseen? however absurd the attack might be, its very boldness might give rise to suspicions. wishing to gain time to determine on the mode by which he would seek to parry the dangerous blow, the notary said, frigidly, to sarah: "you have given me, madame, until to-morrow at noon; i give you until the next day to renounce a plot whose serious nature you do not seem to have contemplated. if, between this and then, i do not receive from you a letter informing me that you have abandoned this criminal and crazy enterprise, you will learn to your cost that justice knows how to protect honest people who refuse guilty associations, and what may happen to the concoctors of hateful machinations." "you mean to say, sir, that you ask from me one more day to reflect on my proposals? that is a good sign, and i grant the delay. the day after to-morrow, at this hour, i will come here again, and it shall be between us peace or war,--i repeat it,--but a 'war to the knife,' without mercy or pity." and sarah left the room. * * * * * "all goes well," she said. "this miserable girl, in whom rodolph capriciously takes so much interest, and has sent to the farm at bouqueval, in order, no doubt, to make her his mistress hereafter, is no longer to be feared,--thanks to the one-eyed woman who has freed me from her. rodolph's adroitness has saved madame d'harville from the snare into which i meant she should fall; but it is impossible that she can escape from the fresh plot i have laid for her, and thus she must be for ever lost to rodolph. thus, saddened, discouraged, isolated from all affection, will he not be in a frame of mind such as will best suit my purpose of making him the dupe of a falsehood to which, by the notary's aid, i can give every impress of truth? and the notary will aid me, for i have frightened him. i shall easily find a young orphan girl, interesting and poor, who, taught her lesson by me, will fill the character of our child so bitterly mourned by rodolph. i know the expansiveness, the generosity of his heart,--yes, to give a name, a rank to her whom he will believe to be his daughter, till now forsaken and abandoned, he will renew those bonds between us which i believed indissoluble. the predictions of my nurse will be at length realised, and i shall thus and then attain the constant aim of my life,--a crown!" * * * * * sarah had scarcely left the notary before m. charles robert entered, after alighting from a very dashing cabriolet. he went like a person on most intimate terms to the private room of jacques ferrand. the commandant, as madame pipelet called him, entered without ceremony into the notary's cabinet, whom he found in a surly, bilious mood, and who thus accosted him: "i reserve the afternoon for my clients; when you wish to speak to me come in the morning, will you?" "my dear lawyer" (this was a standing pleasantry of m. robert), "i have a very important matter to talk about in the first place, and, in the next, i was anxious to assure you in person against any alarms you might have--" "what alarms?" "what! haven't you heard?" "what?" "of my duel--" "your duel?" "with the duke de lucenay. is it possible you have not heard of it?" "quite possible." "pooh! pooh!" "but what did you fight about?" "a very serious matter, which called for bloodshed. only imagine that, at a very large party, m. de lucenay actually said that i had a phlegmy cough!" "that you had--" "a phlegmy cough, my dear lawyer; a complaint which is really most ridiculously absurd!" "and did you fight about that?" "what the devil would you have a man fight about? can you imagine that a man could stand calmly and hear himself charged with having a phlegmy cough? and before a lovely woman, too! before a little marchioness, who--who--in a word, i could not stand it!" "really!" "the military men, you see, are always sensitive. my seconds went, the day before yesterday, to try and obtain some explanation from those of the duke. i put the matter perfectly straight,--a duel or an ample apology." "an ample apology for what?" "for the phlegmy cough, _pardieu!_--the phlegmy cough that he fastened on me." the notary shrugged his shoulders. "the duke's seconds said, 'we bear testimony to the honourable character of m. charles robert, but m. de lucenay cannot, ought not, and will not retract.' 'then, gentlemen,' replied my seconds, 'm. de lucenay is obstinately determined to assert that m. charles robert has a phlegmy cough?' 'yes, gentlemen, but he does not therefore mean in the slightest way to impugn the high respectability of m. charles robert.' 'then let him retract--' 'no, gentlemen, m. de lucenay acknowledges m. robert as a most decidedly worthy gentleman, but still asserts that he has a phlegmy cough.' you see there was no means of arranging so serious an affair." "to be sure not. you were insulted in the point which a man holds dearest." "wasn't i? well, time and place were agreed on; and yesterday morning we met at vincennes, and everything passed off in the most honourable manner possible. i touched m. de lucenay slightly in the arm, and the seconds declared that honour was satisfied. then the duke, with a loud voice, said, 'i never retract before a meeting, but, afterwards, it is a very different thing. it is, therefore, my duty, and my honour impels me to declare, that i falsely accused m. charles robert of having a phlegmy cough. gentlemen, i not only declare that my honourable opponent had not a phlegmy cough, but i trust he never will have one.' then the duke extended his hand in the most cordial manner, saying,'are you now satisfied?' 'we are friends through life and death,' i replied; and it was really due to him to say so. the duke has behaved to perfection. either he might have said nothing, or contented himself with declaring that i had not the phlegmy cough. but to express his wish that i might never have it, was a most delicate attention on his part." "this is what i call courage well employed! but what do you want?" "my dear cashkeeper" (this was another of m. robert's habitual pleasantries), "it is a matter of great importance to me. you know that, according to our agreement, i have advanced to you three hundred and fifty thousand francs ( , _l._) to complete a particular payment you had; and it was stipulated that i was to give you three months' notice of my wish to withdraw that money, the interest of which you pay me regularly." "go on." "well," said m. robert, hesitatingly, "i--no--that is--" "what?" "why, it is only a whim of becoming a landed proprietor." "come to the point, pray! you annoy me." "in a word, then, i am anxious to become a landed proprietor. and, if not inconvenient to you, i should like--that is i should wish--to have my funds now in your hands; and i came to say so." "ah, ah!" "that does not offend you, i hope?" "why should i be offended?" "because you might think--" "i might think--?" "that i am the echo of certain reports--" "what reports?" "oh, nothing. mere folly." "but, tell me--" "oh, there can be no certainty in the gossip about you!" "what gossip?" "oh, it is false from beginning to end. but there are chatterers who say that you are mixed up in some unpleasant transactions. idle gossip, i am quite certain. it is just the same as the report that you and i speculated on the exchange together. these reports soon died away. for i will always say that--" "so you suppose that your money is not safe with me?" "oh, no--no! but, at this moment, i should like to have it in my own hands." "wait a moment." m. ferrand shut the drawer of his bureau, and rose. "where are you going, my dear cashkeeper?" "to fetch what will convince you of the truth of the reports as to the embarrassment of my affairs," said the notary, ironically; and, opening the door of a small private staircase, which enabled him to go into the pavilion at the back without passing through the office, he disappeared. he had scarce left the room, when the head clerk rapped again. "come in," said charles robert. "is not m. ferrand here?" "no, my worthy pounce and parchment" (another joke of m. robert). "there is a lady with a veil on, who wishes to see my employer this moment on a very urgent affair." "worthy quill-driver, the excellent employer will be here in a moment, and i will inform him. is the lady handsome?" "one must be very keen-sighted to discover; for she has on a black veil, so thick that it is impossible to see her face." "really, really, i will make her show her face as i go out. i'll tell the governor as soon as he returns." the clerk left the room. "where the devil has the attorney at law vanished?" said m. charles robert. "to examine the state of his finances, no doubt. if these reports are groundless, so much the better. and, when all is said and done, they can but be false reports. men of jacques ferrand's honesty always have so many people jealous of them! still, at the same time, i should just as well like to have my own cash. i will certainly buy the château in question. there are towers and gothic turrets quite _à la louis quatorze_, the real _renaissance_, and, in a word, all that is most _rococo_. it would give me a kind of landed proprietor's sort of air which would be capital. it would not be like my _amour_ with that flirt of a madame d'harville. has she really cut me? can she really have given me the 'go-by?' no, no! i am not trifled with as that stupid porteress in the rue du temple, with her bob-wig, says. yet this agreeable little flirtation has cost me at least one thousand crowns. true, the furniture is left, and i have quite enough in my power to compromise the marchioness. but here comes the lawyer!" m. ferrand returned, holding in his hands some papers, which he handed to m. charles robert. "here," said he, "are three hundred and fifty thousand francs in bank-bills. in a few days we will balance the account of interest. give me a receipt." "what!" exclaimed m. robert, astonished; "do not go to think that--" "i don't think anything." "but--" "the receipt!" "dear cashkeeper!" "write it; and tell the persons who talk to you of my embarrassments, how i reply to such suspicions." "the fact is that, as soon as they hear this, your credit will be more solid than ever. but, really, take the money back again; i do not want it at this moment. i told you it was three months hence." "monsieur charles robert, no man suspects me twice." "you are angry?" "the receipt,--the receipt!" "man of iron, that you are!" said m. charles robert. "there!" he added, writing the receipt. "there is a lady, closely veiled, who desires to speak to you directly on a very urgent affair. won't i have a good look at her as i go out! there's your receipt; is it all right?" "quite. now i'll thank you to go out this way." "and so not see the lady?" "precisely so." and the notary rang; and when the chief clerk made his appearance, he said: "ask the lady to walk in. good day, m. robert." "well, i see i must give up the chance of seeing her. don't bear malice, lawyer. believe me, if--" "there--there; that'll do. good-bye." and the notary shut the door on m. charles robert. after the lapse of a few moments, the chief clerk introduced the duchess de lucenay, very simply attired, wearing a large shawl, and her features entirely concealed by a thick veil of black lace, depending from her watered silk bonnet of the same colour. madame de lucenay, a good deal agitated, walked slowly towards the notary's bureau, who advanced a few paces to meet her. "who are you, madame; and what may be your business with me?" said jacques ferrand, abruptly; for sarah's menaces and m. charles robert's suspicions had a good deal ruffled him. moreover, the duchess was clad so simply, that the notary did not see any reason why he should not be rude. as she did not immediately reply, he continued, abruptly: "will you be so kind as to inform me, madame?" "sir," she said, in a faltering voice, and endeavouring to conceal her face in the folds of her veil, "sir, may i entrust you with a secret of extreme importance?" "you may trust me with anything, madame. but it is requisite that i should know and see to whom i speak." "that, sir, perhaps, is not necessary. i know that you are probity and honour itself--" "to the point, madame,--to the point. i have some one waiting for me. who are you?" "my name is of no consequence, sir. one--of--my friends,--a relative,--has just left you." "his name?" "m. florestan de saint-remy." "ah!" said the notary; and he cast a scrutinising and steadfast glance on the duchess. then he added, "well, madame?" "m. de saint-remy has told me--all,--sir!" "what has he told you, madame?" "all!" "what all?" "sir; you know--" "i know many things about m. de saint-remy." "alas, sir, this is a terrible thing!" "i know many terrible things about m. de saint-remy." "oh, sir, he was right when he told me that you were pitiless." "for swindlers and forgers like him,--yes, i am pitiless. so this saint-remy is a relative of yours? instead of owning it, you ought to blush at it. do you mean to try and soften me with your tears? it is useless,--not to add that you have undertaken a very disgraceful task for a respectable female." at this coarse insolence the pride and patrician blood of the duchess revolted. she drew herself up, threw back her veil; and then, with a lofty air, imperious glance, and firm voice, said: "i am the duchess de lucenay, sir!" the lady then assumed the lofty look of her station; and her appearance was so imposing that the notary, controlled, fascinated, receded a pace, quite overcome, took off mechanically the black silk cap that covered his cranium, and made a low bow. in truth, nothing could be more charming and aristocratic than the face and figure of madame de lucenay, although she was turned thirty, and her features were pale and somewhat agitated. but then she had full, brown eyes, sparkling and bold; splendid black hair; a nose thin and arched; a lip red and disdainful; a dazzling complexion; teeth of ivory; and a form tall and slender, graceful, and full of distinction,--the carriage of a goddess in the clouds, as the immortal saint-simon says. with her hair powdered, and a costume of the eighteenth century, madame de lucenay would have represented, physically and morally, one of those gay and careless duchesses of the regency who carried on their flirtations (or worse) with so much audacity, giddiness, and real kindness of heart, who confessed their peccadilloes from time to time with so much candour and naïveté, that the most punctilious said, with a smile, "she is, doubtless, light and culpable; but she is so kind--so delightful; loves with so much intensity, passion, and fidelity,--as long as she does love,--that we cannot really be angry with her. after all, she only injures herself, and makes so many others happy!" except the powder and the large skirts to her dress, such also was madame de lucenay, when not depressed by sombre thoughts. she entered the office of m. jacques ferrand like a plain tradesman's wife; in the instant she came forth as a great, proud, and irritated lady. jacques ferrand had never in his life seen a woman of such striking beauty,--so haughty and bold, and so noble in her demeanour. the look of the duchess, her glorious eyes, encircled with an imperceptible bow of azure, her rosy nostrils, much dilated, betokened her ardent nature. although old, ugly, ignoble, and sordid, jacques ferrand was as capable as any one of appreciating the style of beauty of madame de lucenay. the hatred and rage which the notary felt against m. de saint-remy was increased by the admiration which his proud and lovely mistress inspired in him. devoured by all his repressed passions, he said to himself, in an agony of rage, that this gentleman forger, whom he had compelled almost to fall at his feet when he threatened him with the assizes, could inspire such love in such a woman that she actually risked the present step in his behalf, which might prove fatal to her reputation. as he thus thought, the notary felt his boldness, which had been for a moment paralysed, restored to him. hatred, envy, a kind of savage and burning resentment, lighted up his eyes, his forehead, and his cheeks. seeing madame de lucenay on the point of commencing so delicate a conversation, he expected from her caution and management. what was his astonishment! she spoke with as much assurance and haughtiness as if she were discoursing about the simplest thing in the world; and as if, before a man of his sort, she had no care for reserve or those concealments which she would assuredly have maintained with her equals. in fact, the coarse brutality of the notary wounded her to the quick, and had led madame de lucenay to quit the humble and supplicating part she was acting with much difficulty to herself. returned to herself, she thought it beneath her to descend to the least concealment with a mere scribbler of acts and deeds. high-spirited, charitable, generous, overflowing with kindness, warm-heartedness, and energy, in spite of her faults,--but the daughter of a mother of no principle, and who had even disgraced the noble and respectable, though fallen position of an _émigrée_,--madame de lucenay, in her inborn contempt for certain classes, would have said with the roman empress who took her bath in the presence of a male slave, "he is not a man!" "monsieur notary," said the duchess, with a determined air, to jacques ferrand, "m. de saint-remy is one of my friends, and has confided to me the embarrassment under which he is at this moment suffering, from a twofold treachery of which he is the victim. all is arranged as to the money. how much is required to terminate these miserable annoyances?" jacques ferrand was actually aghast at this cavalier and deliberate manner of entering on this affair. "one hundred thousand francs are required," he repeated, after having in some degree surmounted his surprise. "you shall have your one hundred thousand francs; so send, at once, these annoying papers to m. de saint-remy." "where are the one hundred thousand francs, madame la duchesse?" "have i not said you should have them, sir?" "i must have them to-morrow, and before noon, madame; or else proceedings will be instantly commenced for the forgery." "well, do you pay this sum, which i will repay to you." "but madame, it is impossible." "but, sir, you will not tell me, i imagine, that a notary, like you, cannot find one hundred thousand francs by to-morrow morning?" "on what securities, madame?" "what do you mean? explain!" "who will be answerable to me for this sum?" "i will." "still, madame--" "need i say that i have an estate four leagues from paris, which brings me in eighty thousand francs ( , _l._) a year? that will suffice, i should think, for what you call your securities?" "yes, madame, when the mortgage is properly secured." "what do you mean? some formality of law, no doubt? do it, sir, do it." "such a deed cannot be drawn up in less than a fortnight, and we must have your husband's assent, madame." "but the estate is mine, and mine only," said the duchess, impatiently. "no matter, madame, you have a husband; and mortgage deeds are very long and very minute." "but, once again, sir, you will not ask me to believe that it is so difficult to find one hundred thousand francs in two hours?" "then, madame, apply to the notary you usually employ, or your steward; as for me, it is impossible." "i have my reasons for keeping this secret," said madame de lucenay, haughtily. "you know the rogues who seek to take advantage of m. de saint-remy, and that is the reason why i address myself to you." "your confidence does me much honour, madame; but i cannot do what you ask of me." "you have not this sum?" "i have much more than that sum, in bank-notes or bright and good gold, here in my chest." "then why waste time about it? you require my signature, i suppose? well, let me give it to you, and let us end the matter." "even admitting, madame, that you were madame de lucenay--" "come to the hôtel de lucenay in one hour, sir, and i will sign whatever may be requisite." "and will the duke sign, also?" "i do not understand, sir." "your signature, alone, would be worthless to me, madame." jacques ferrand delighted, with cruel joy, in the manifest impatience of the duchess, who, under the appearance of coolness and hauteur, repressed really painful agony. for an instant she was at her wits' end. on the previous evening, her jeweller had advanced her a considerable sum on her jewels, some of which had been confided to morel, the lapidary. this sum had been employed in paying the bills of m. de saint-remy, and thus disarming the other creditors; m. dubreuil, the farmer of arnouville, was more than a year's rent in advance on the farm; and, then, the time was so pressing. still more unfortunately for madame de lucenay, two of her friends, to whom she could have had recourse in this moment of distress, were then absent from paris. in her eyes, the viscount was innocent of the forgery. he had said, and she had believed him, that he was the victim of two rogues; but yet his position was not the less terrible. he accused! he led to prison! and, even if he took flight, his name would be no less dishonoured by the suspicion that would light on him. at these distressing thoughts, madame de lucenay trembled with affright. she blindly loved this man, at the same time so degraded, and gifted with such strong seductive powers; and her passion for him was one of those affections which women, of her character and her temperament, ordinarily experience when they attain an age of maturity. jacques ferrand carefully watched every variation in the physiognomy of madame de lucenay, who seemed to him more lovely and attractive at every moment, and awakened still more his ardent feeling. yet he felt a fierce pleasure in tormenting, by his refusals, this female, who could only entertain disgust and contempt for him. the lady had spurned the idea of saying a word to the notary that might seem like a supplication; yet, when she found the uselessness of other attempts, which she had addressed to him who alone could save m. de saint-remy, she said, at length, trying to repress all evidence of emotion: "since you have the sum of money which i ask of you, sir, and my guarantee is sufficient, why do you refuse it to me?" "because men have their caprices, as well as ladies, madame." "well, what is this caprice which thus impels you to act against your own interest? for i repeat, sir, that whatever may be your conditions, i accept them." "you will accept all my conditions, madame?" said the notary, with a singular expression. "all,--two, three, four thousand francs, more, if you please. for you must know, sir," added the duchess, in a tone almost confidential, "i have no resource but in you, sir, and in you only. it will be impossible for me at this moment to find elsewhere what i require for to-morrow, and i must have it, as you know,--i must absolutely have it. thus i repeat to you that, whatever terms you require for this service, i accept them; nothing will be a sacrifice to me,--nothing." the breath of the notary became thick, and, in his ignoble blindness, he interpreted the last words of madame de lucenay in an unworthy manner. he saw, through his darkened understanding, a woman as bold as some of the females of the old court,--a woman driven to her wits' end for fear of the dishonour of him whom she loved, and capable, perhaps, of any sacrifice to save him. it was even more stupid than infamous to think so, but, as we have said already, jacques ferrand sometimes, though rarely, forgot himself. he quitted his chair abruptly, and approached madame de lucenay, who, surprised, rose when he did, and looked at him with much astonishment. "nothing will be a sacrifice to you, say you? to you, who are so lovely?" he exclaimed, with a voice trembling and broken with agitation, as he went towards the duchess. "well, then, i will lend you this sum, on one condition,--one condition only,--and i swear to you--" he could not finish his declaration. by one of those singular contradictions of human nature, at the sight of the singularly ugly features of m. ferrand, at the strange and whimsical thoughts which arose in madame de lucenay's mind, at his ridiculous pretensions, which she guessed in spite of her disquietude and anxiety, she burst into a fit of laughter, so hearty, so loud, and so excessive, that the disconcerted notary reeled back. then, without allowing him a moment to utter another word, the duchess gave way still more to her increasing mirth, lowered her veil, and, between two bursts of irrepressible laughter, she said to the notary, overwhelmed by hatred, rage, and fury: "really, i should much rather prefer asking this advance from m. de lucenay." she then left the room, laughing so heartily that, even when the door of his room was closed, the notary heard her still. jacques ferrand no sooner recovered his reason than he cursed his imprudence; but he became reassured on reflecting that the duchess could not allude to this adventure without compromising herself. still, the day had been unpropitious, and he was plunged in thought when the door of his study opened, and madame séraphin entered in great agitation. "ah, ferrand," she exclaimed, "you were right when you declared that, one day or other, we should be ruined for having allowed her to live!" "who?" "that cursed little girl!" "what do you mean?" "a one-eyed woman, whom i did not know, and to whom tournemine gave the little chit to get rid of her, fourteen years ago, when we wished to make her pass for dead--ah, who would have thought it!" "speak! speak! why don't you speak?" "this one-eyed woman has been here, was down-stairs just now, and told me that she knew it was i who had delivered up the little brat." "malediction! who could have told her? tournemine is at the galleys." "i denied it, and treated the one-eyed woman as a liar. but bah! she declares she knows where the girl is now, and that she has grown up, that she has her, and that it only depends on her to discover everything." "is hell, then, unchained against me to-day?" exclaimed the notary, in a fit of rage. "what shall i say to this woman? what shall i offer her to hold her tongue? does she seem well off?" "as i treated her like a beggar, she shook her hand-basket, and there was money inside of it." "and she knows where this young girl is now?" "so she says." "and she is the daughter of the countess sarah macgregor!" said the stupefied notary; "and just now she offered me so much to declare that her daughter was not dead; and the girl is alive, and i can restore her to her mother! but, then, the false register of her death! if a search were made, i am ruined! this crime may put others on the scent." after a moment's silence, he said to madame séraphin: "this one-eyed woman knows where the child is?" "yes." "and the woman will call again?" "to-morrow." "write to polidori, to come to me this evening, at nine o'clock." "what! will you rid yourself of the young girl and the old woman, too? ferrand, that will be too much at once!" "i bid you write to polidori, to come here this evening, at nine o'clock!" * * * * * at the end of this day, rodolph said to murphy: "desire m. de graün to despatch a courier this instant; cecily must be in paris in six days." "what! that she-devil again? the diabolical wife of poor david, as beautiful as she is infamous! for what purpose, monseigneur?" "for what purpose, sir walter murphy? ask that question, in a month hence, of the notary, jacques ferrand." chapter vi. the anonymous letter. towards ten o'clock in the evening of the same day in which fleur-de-marie was carried off by the chouette and schoolmaster, a man on horseback arrived at the bouqueval farm, representing himself as coming from m. rodolph to tranquillise madame georges as to the safety of her young friend, and to assure her of her safe return ere long. the man further stated that m. rodolph, having very important reasons for making the request, particularly desired no letters might be addressed to him at paris for the present; but that, in the event of madame georges having anything particular to communicate, the messenger now sent would take charge of it, and deliver it punctually. this pretended envoy on the part of rodolph was, in fact, an emissary sent by sarah, who, by this stratagem, effected the twofold purpose of quieting the apprehensions of madame georges and also obtaining a delay of several days ere rodolph learned that the goualeuse had been carried off; during which interval sarah hoped to have induced the notary, jacques ferrand, to promote her unworthy attempt to impose a supposititious child on rodolph, after the manner which has already been related. nor was this all the evil planned by the countess; she ardently desired to get rid of madame d'harville, on whose account she entertained very serious misgivings, and whose destruction she had so nearly compassed, but for the timely interposition of rodolph. on the day following that in which the marquis followed his wife into the house in the rue du temple, tom repaired thither, and, by skilfully drawing madame pipelet into conversation, contrived to learn from her how a young and elegantly dressed lady, upon the point of being surprised by her husband, had been preserved through the presence of mind and cleverness of a lodger in the house, named m. rodolph. once informed of this circumstance, and possessing no positive proof of the assignation made by clémence with m. charles robert, sarah conceived a plan evidently more hateful than the former: she resolved to despatch a second anonymous letter to m. d'harville, calculated to bring about a complete rupture between himself and rodolph; or, failing that, to infuse into the mind of the marquis suspicions so unworthy of his wife and friend as should induce him to forbid madame d'harville ever admitting the prince into her society. this black and malignant epistle was couched in the following terms: "... you have been grossly deceived the other day; your wife, being apprised of your following her, invented a tale of imaginary beneficence; the real purpose of her visit to the rue du temple was to fulfil an assignation with an august personage, who has hired a room on the fourth floor in the house situated rue du temple,--this illustrious individual being known only at his lodging under the simple name of rodolph. should you doubt these facts, which may probably appear to you too improbable to deserve credit, go to no. rue du temple, and make due inquiries; obtain a description of the face and figure of the august personage alluded to; and you will be compelled to own yourself the most credulous and easily duped husband that was ever so royally supplanted in the affections of his wife. despise not this advice, if you would not have the world believe you carry your devotion to your prince rather too far." this infamous concoction was put into the post by sarah herself, about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day which had witnessed her interview with the notary. on this same day, after having given renewed directions to m. de graün to expedite the arrival of cecily in paris by every means in his power, rodolph prepared to pass the evening with the ambassadress of ----, and on his return to call on madame d'harville, for the purpose of informing her he had found a charitable intrigue worthy even of her coöperation. we shall now conduct our readers to the hôtel of madame d'harville. the following dialogue will abundantly prove that, in adopting a tone of kind and gentle conciliation towards a husband she had hitherto treated with such invariable coldness and reserve, the heart of madame d'harville had already determined to practise the sound and virtuous sentiments dictated by rodolph. the marquis and his lady had just quitted the dinner-table, and the scene we are about to describe took place in the elegant little salon we have already spoken of. the features of clémence wore an expression of kindness almost amounting to tenderness, and even m. d'harville appeared less sad and dejected than usual. it only remains to premise that the marquis had not as yet received the last infamous production of the pen of sarah macgregor. "what are your arrangements for this evening?" inquired m. d'harville, almost mechanically, of his wife. "i have no intention of going out. and what are your own plans?" "i hardly know," answered he, with a sigh. "i feel more than ordinarily averse to gaiety, and i shall pass my evening, as i have passed many others, alone." "nay, but why alone, since i am not going out?" m. d'harville gazed at his wife as though unable to comprehend her. "i am aware," said he, "that you mentioned your intention to pass this evening at home; still, i--" "pray go on, my lord." "i did not imagine you would choose to have your solitude broken in upon. i believe you have always expressed a wish to be alone when you did not receive company?" "perhaps i may have done so," said clémence, with a smile; "but let me, for once, plead my sex's privilege of changing my mind, and so, even at the risk of astonishing you by my caprice, i will own that i should greatly prefer sharing my solitude with you,--that is, if it would be quite agreeable to you." "oh, how very good of you," exclaimed m. d'harville, with much delight, "thus to anticipate my most ardent desire, which i durst not have requested had you not so kindly encouraged me!" "ah, my lord, your very surprise is a severe reproach to me." "a reproach! oh, not for worlds would i have you so understand me! but to find you so kindly considerate, so attentive to my wishes, after my cruel and unjust conduct the other day, does, i confess, both shame and surprise me; though the surprise is of the most gratifying and delightful sort." "come, come, my lord," said madame d'harville, with a smile of heavenly sweetness, "let the past be for ever forgotten between us." "can you, clémence," said m. d'harville, "can you bring yourself to forget that i have dared to suspect you; that, hurried on by a wild, insensate jealousy, i meditated violence i now shudder to think of? still, what are even these deep offences to the greater and more irreparable wrong i have done you?" "again i say," returned clémence, making a violent effort to command herself, "let us forget the past." "what do i hear? can you,--oh, is it possible you will pardon me, and forget all the past?" "i will try to do so, and i fear not but i shall succeed." "oh, clémence! can you, indeed, be so generous? but no, no,--i dare not hope it! i have long since resigned all expectation that such happiness would ever be mine." "and now you see how wrong you were in coming to such a conclusion." "but how comes this blessed change? or do i dream? speak to me, clémence! tell me i am not deceiving myself,--that all is not mere illusion! speak! say that i may trust my senses!" "indeed you may; i mean all i have said." "and, now i look at you, i see more kindness in your eye,--your manner is less cold,--your voice tremulous. oh, tell me, tell me, is this indeed true? or am i the sport of some illusion?" "nay, my lord, all is true, and safely to be believed. i, too, have need of pardon at your hands, and therefore i propose that we mutually exchange forgiveness." "you, clémence! you need forgiveness! oh, for what, or wherefore?" "have i not been frequently unkind, unrelenting, and perhaps even cruel, towards you? ought i not to have remembered that it required a more than ordinary share of courage to act otherwise than you did,--a virtue more than human to renounce the hope of exchanging a cheerless, solitary life, for one of wedded sympathy and happiness? alas, when we are in grief or suffering, it is so natural to trust to the kindness and goodness of others! hitherto your fault has been in depending too much on my generosity; henceforward it shall be my aim to show you, you have not trusted in vain." "oh, go on! go on! continue still to utter such heavenly words!" exclaimed m. d'harville, gazing in almost ecstasy on the countenance of his wife, and clasping his hands in fervid supplication. "let me again hear you pronounce my pardon, and it will seem as though a new existence were opening upon me." "our destinies are inseparably united, and death only can dissever us. believe me, it shall for the future be my study to render life less painful to you than it has been." "merciful heaven! do i hear aright? clémence, can it be you who have spoken these dear, these enchanting words?" "let me conjure you to spare me the pain and humiliation of hearing you express so much astonishment at my speaking as my duty prompts me to do; indeed, your reluctance to credit my assertions grieves me more than i can describe. how cruel a censure does it imply upon my past conduct! ah, who will pity and soothe you in your severe trials, if not i? i seem inspired by some holy voice, speaking within my breast, to reflect upon my past conduct. i have deeply meditated on all that has happened, as well as on the future. my faults rise up in judgment against me; but with them come also the whisperings of my awakened feelings, teaching me how to repair my past errors." "your errors, my poor injured clémence! alas, you were not to blame!" "yes, i was. i ought frankly to have appealed to your honour to release me from the painful necessity of living with you as your wife; and that, too, on the day following our marriage,--" "clémence, for pity's sake no more!" "otherwise, in accepting my position, i ought to have elevated it by my entire submission and devotion. under the circumstances in which i was placed, instead of allowing my coldness and proud reserve to act as a continual reproach, i should have directed all my endeavours to console you for so heavy a misfortune, and have forgotten everything but the severe affliction under which you laboured. by degrees i should have become attached to my work of commiseration, and, probably, the very cares and sacrifices it would have required to fulfil my voluntary duty; for which your grateful appreciation would have been a rich reward. i might, at last--but what ails you, my lord? are you ill? surely you are weeping!" "but they are tears of pure delight. ah, you can scarcely imagine what new emotions are awakened in my heart! heed not my tears, beloved clémence; trust me, they flow from an excess of happiness, arising from those dear words you just now uttered. never did i seem so guilty in my own eyes as i now appear, for having selfishly bound you to such a life as mine!" "and never did i find myself more disposed to forget the past, and to bury all reference to it in oblivion; the sight of your gently falling tears, even, seems to open to me a source of happiness hitherto unknown to me. courage! courage! let us, in place of that bright and prosperous life denied us by providence, seek our enjoyment in the discharge of the serious duties allotted us. let us be mutually indulgent and forbearing towards each other; and, should our resolution fail, let us turn to our child, and make her the depositary of all our affections. thus shall we secure to ourselves an unfailing store of holy, of tranquil joys." "sure, 'tis some angel speaks!" cried m. d'harville, contemplating his wife with impassioned looks. "oh, clémence, you little know the pleasure and the pain you cause me. the severest reproach you ever addressed me--your hardest word or most merited rebuke never touched me as does this angelic devotion, this disregard of self, this generous sacrifice of personal enjoyment. even despite myself, i feel hope spring up within me. i dare hardly trust myself to believe the blessed future which suggests itself to my imagination." "ah, you may safely and implicitly believe all i say, albert! i declare to you, by all that is sacred and solemn, that i have firmly taken the resolution i spoke of, and that i will adhere to it in strictest word and deed. hereafter i may even be enabled to give you further pledges of my truth." "pledges!" exclaimed m. d'harville, more and more excited by a happiness so wholly unlocked for. "what need have i of any pledges? do not your look, your tone, the heavenly expression of goodness which animates your countenance, the rapturous pulsations of my own heart, all convince me of the truth of your words? but, clémence, man, you know, is a creature not easily satisfied; and," added the marquis, approaching his wife's chair, "your noble, generous conduct inspires me with the boldness, the courage, to hope--to hope,--yes, clémence, to venture to hope for that which, only yesterday, i should have considered it even worse than madness to presume to think of." "for mercy's sake, explain yourself!" said clémence, alarmed at the impassioned words and glances of her husband. "yes," cried he, seizing her hand, "yes, by dint of tender, untiring, unwearied love,--clémence, do you understand me?--i say, by dint of love such as mine i venture to hope to obtain a return of my affection. i dare to anticipate being loved by you,--not with a cold, lukewarm regard, but with a passion ardent as my own for you. ah, you know not the real nature of such a love as i would inspire you with! alas! i never even dared to breathe it in your ears,--so frigid, so repulsive were you to me. never did you bestow on me a look, a word of kindness, far less make my heart leap with such joy as thrilled through my breast but now, when your words of sweet and gentle tenderness drew happy tears from my eyes, and which, still ringing in my ears, make me almost beside myself with gladness; and, amid the intoxicating delight which floats through my brain, comes the proud consciousness of having earned even so rich a reward by the deep, the passionate ardour of my love for you. oh, clémence, when you will let me only tell you half i have suffered,--how i have writhed in despairing anguish at your coldness, your disdain, how i have watched and sighed in vain for one encouraging glance,--you will own that, for patient devotion to one beloved object, i am inferior to none. whence arose that melancholy, that avoidance of all society, our best friends have so fruitlessly sought to rouse me from? can you not guess the cause? ah, it originated in desolation of spirit and despair of ever obtaining your love. yes, dearest clémence, to that overwhelming dread was owing the sombre taciturnity, the dislike to company, the desponding gloom, which excited so many different conjectures. think, too, how much my sufferings must have been increased by the fact that she, the beloved object of my heart's idolatry, was my own,--legally, irrevocably mine,--dwelling beneath the same roof, yet more completely alienated from me than though we dwelt in the opposite parts of the earth. but my burning sighs, my bitter tears, reached not you; or, i feel almost persuaded, they would have moved even you to pity me. and now it seems to me that you must have divined my sufferings, and have come, like an angel of goodness as you are, to whisper in my ears bright promises of days of unclouded happiness. no longer shall i be doomed to gaze in unavailing yet doting admiration on your graceful beauty; no more shall i account myself most blessed yet most accursed in possessing a creature of matchless excellence, whose charms of mind and body, alas! i am forbidden to consider as mine; but now the envious barrier which has thus long divided us is about to be withdrawn, and the treasure my beating heart tells me is all my own will henceforward be freely, indisputably mine! will it not, dear clémence? speak to me, and confirm that which the busy throbbings of my joyful heart tell me to hope for and expect, as the reward of all i have so long endured!" as m. d'harville uttered these last words, he seized the hand of his wife, and covered it with passionate kisses; while clémence, much grieved at the mistake her husband had fallen into, could not avoid withdrawing her hand with a mixture of terror and disgust. and the expression of her countenance so plainly bespoke her feelings, that m. d'harville saw at once the fearful error he had committed. the blow fell with redoubled force after the tender visions he had so lately conjured up. a look of intense agony replaced the bright exultation of his countenance exhibited a little while since, when madame d'harville, eagerly extending her hand towards him, said, in an agitated tone: "albert, receive my solemn promise to be unto you as the most tender and affectionate sister,--but nothing more. forgive me, i beseech you, if, inadvertently, my words have inspired you with hopes which can never be realised." "never?" exclaimed m. d'harville, fixing on his wife a look of despairing entreaty. "never!" answered she. the single word, with the tone in which it was spoken, proved but too well the irrevocable decision clémence had formed. brought back, by the influence of rodolph, to all her nobleness of character, madame d'harville had firmly resolved to bestow on her husband every kind and affectionate attention; but to love him she felt utterly out of her power; and to this immutable resolution she was driven by a power more forcible than either fear, contempt, or even dislike,--it was a species of repugnance almost amounting to horror. after a painful silence of some duration, m. d'harville passed his hand across his moist eyelids and said, in a voice of bitterness: "let me entreat your pardon for the unintentional mistake i have made. oh, refuse not to forgive me for having ventured to believe that happiness could exist for me!" and again a long pause ensued, broken at last by d'harville's vehemently exclaiming, "what a wretch am i!" "albert," said clémence, gently, "for worlds would i not reproach you; yet is my promise of being unto you the most loving and affectionate of sisters unworthy any estimation? you will receive from the tender cares of devoted friendship more solid happiness than love could afford. look forward to brighter days. hitherto you have found me almost indifferent to your sorrows; you shall henceforward find me all zeal and solicitude to alleviate them, and eager to share with you every grief or cause of suffering, whether of body or of mind." at this moment a servant, throwing open the folding doors, announced: "his highness the grand duke of gerolstein." m. d'harville started; then, by a powerful effort, recovering his self-command, he advanced to meet his visitor. "i am singularly fortunate, madame," said rodolph, approaching clémence, "to find you at home to-night; and i am still more delighted with my good fortune, since it procures me the pleasure of meeting you, also, my dear albert," continued he, turning to the marquis, and shaking him cordially by the hand. "it is, indeed, some time since i have had the honour of paying my respects to your royal highness." "if the truth must be spoken, my dear albert," said the prince, smilingly, "you are somewhat platonic in your friendships, and, relying on the certain attachment of your friends, care very little about either giving or receiving any outward proof of affection." by a breach of etiquette, which somewhat annoyed madame d'harville, a servant here entered the room with a letter for the marquis. it was the anonymous epistle of sarah, accusing rodolph of being the lover of madame d'harville. the marquis, out of deference for the prince, put away with his hand the small silver salver presented to him by the servant, saying, in an undertone: "another time,--another time." "my dear albert," said rodolph, in a voice of the most genuine affection, "why all this ceremony with me?" "my lord!" "with madame d'harville's permission, let me beg of you to read your letter without delay." "i assure you, my lord, it is not of the slightest consequence." "again i say, albert, read your letter all the same for my being here." "but, my lord, indeed--" "nay, i ask you to do so; or, if you will have it, i desire you to read it immediately." "if your highness commands it, my duty is obedience," said the marquis, taking the letter from the salver. "yes, i positively command you to treat me as one old friend ought to treat another." then turning towards madame d'harville, while the marquis was breaking the seal of the fatal letter, the contents of which were, of course, unknown to rodolph, he said, smilingly, to madame d'harville: "what a triumph for you, madame, to bend this untractable spirit, and make it bow to your very caprice!" m. d'harville having opened sarah's infamous letter, approached the wax-lights burning on the mantelpiece, the better to read it. his features bore no visible mark of agitation as he perused the vile scrawl. a slight trembling of the hand alone was visible, as, after a short hesitation, he refolded the paper and placed it in the pocket of his waistcoat. "at the risk of passing for a perfect goth," said he, with a smile, to rodolph, "i will ask you to excuse me, my lord, while i retire to reply to this letter, which is more important than it at first appeared." "shall i not see you again this evening?" "i am fearful i shall not have that honour, my lord; and i trust your royal highness will condescend to excuse me." "what a slippery person you are!" cried rodolph, gaily. "will you not, madame, endeavour to prevent his quitting us?" "nay, i dare not attempt that your highness has failed to accomplish." "but seriously, my dear albert, endeavour to come back as soon as you have concluded your letter; or, if that is not possible, promise to give me a few minutes in the morning. i have a thousand things to say to you." "your highness overwhelms me with kindness," answered the marquis, as, bowing profoundly, he withdrew, leaving clémence and the prince alone. "your husband has some heavy care on his mind," observed rodolph to the marquise; "his smile appeared to me a forced one." "at the moment of your highness's arrival, m. d'harville was much excited, and he has had great difficulty in concealing his agitation from you." "my visit was, probably, _mal à propos_?" "oh, no, my lord! you came just in time to spare me the conclusion of a most painful conversation." "indeed! may i inquire the subject of it?" "i had explained to m. d'harville the line of conduct i had determined to pursue towards him for the future, assuring him of my future sympathy and affectionate attention to his happiness." "how happy you must have rendered him by such gratifying words!" "he did, indeed, at first, seem most truly happy; and so was i, likewise; for his tears and his joys caused in me a feeling of delight i never before experienced. once i fancied i did but indulge a just revenge each time i addressed to him a reproach or a sarcasm; but it was a weak and impotent mode of torture, which always recoiled upon myself, as my better judgment pointed out the unworthiness of such conduct; while just now how great was the difference! i had inquired of my husband if he were going out, to which he mournfully replied that he had no intention of so doing, but should pass the evening alone, as he most frequently did. ah, my lord, could you but have seen his surprise when i offered to be his companion, and how suddenly did the gloomy expression of his features give place to a bright glow of happiness! ah, you were quite right, there is nothing more really delightful than preparing happy surprises for those around us." "but how could so much kindness on your part have brought about the painful conversation you were alluding to just now?" "alas, my lord!" said clémence, blushing deeply, "m. d'harville, not satisfied with the hopes i felt myself justified in holding out, allowed himself to form others of a nature too tender to admit of their being realised, and in proportion to my consciousness of my utter inability to respond to such sentiments had been my anxiety not to arouse them; and, greatly as i had felt touched by the warmth of my husband's gratitude for my proffered affection, i was even still more terrified and alarmed by the passionate ardour of his manner and expressions; and when, carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, he pressed his lips upon my hand, a cold shudder pervaded my whole frame, and i found it impossible to conceal the disgust and alarm i experienced. doubtless this manifestation of my invincible repugnance pained him deeply, and i much lament having been unable to prevent his perceiving my feelings. but now that the blow has fallen, it will, at least, serve to convince m. d'harville of the utter impossibility of my ever being more to him than the most tender and devoted friend." "i pity him most sincerely, without being able to blame you in the slightest degree for the part you have acted. there are certain feelings which must ever be held sacred. but poor albert! with his noble, generous spirit, his frank, confiding nature, his warm, enthusiastic heart,--if you only knew how long i have been vainly trying to discover the cause of the hidden melancholy which was evidently preying upon his health. well, we must trust to the soothing effects of time and reason. by degrees he will become more sensible of the value of the affection you offer him, and he will resign himself as he did before, when he had not the consolatory hopes you now present to his view." "hopes which i solemnly assure you, my lord, it is my fixed determination to realise in their fullest extent." "and now let us turn our attention to others who are also called upon to suffer and taste of heavy sorrows. you know i promised to occupy you in a charitable work, which should have all the charm of a romance of real life; and i am here to perform my promise." "what, already, my lord? indeed, you rejoice me greatly." "it was a most fortunate idea of mine to hire the small chamber i told you of in the rue du temple; you can scarcely imagine all the curious and interesting objects it has made me acquainted with. in the first place your poor protégées in the garrets are now enjoying that happiness your presence secured to them. they have still some severe trials to undergo; but i will not enter upon the painful details at the present moment. one of these days you shall learn how many direful evils may be heaped upon one unfortunate family." "how grateful they must feel towards you!" "nay, 'tis your name is ever on their lips, loaded with praises and blessings." "ah, my lord, is it then in my name you have succoured them?" "to increase the value of the gift, i confess i did presume to name you as their benefactress. besides, what have i done more than carry out your promises?" "i cannot allow of even this pious fraud, and to-morrow they shall learn from me whom they have to thank. i will tell them the extent of their obligations to you." "oh, pray do no such thing, or you will spoil all my fine schemes. remember that i have a small apartment in the house; that for the sake of much good i hope to effect, i am anxious to preserve a strict _incognito_ there. recollect, also, that the morels are now beyond the reach of further distress; and, finally, let me remind you that there are other claimants for your benevolence. and now for the subject of our present intrigue. i want your generous aid and assistance in behalf of a mother and daughter, who from former affluence are at this moment reduced to the most abject penury, in consequence of having been most villainously despoiled of their just rights." "poor things! and where do these unfortunate beings reside, my lord?" "i do not know." "then how did you become acquainted with their misfortunes?" "yesterday i was at the temple,--perhaps, madame la marquise, you do not know what sort of place the temple is?" "indeed, my lord, i do not." "it is a bazaar of the most amusing description. well, i went there for the purpose of making several purchases in company with a female lodger who occupies an apartment adjoining my own--" "indeed! a female neighbour?" "yes, my next-door neighbour on the fourth floor. don't you recollect i told you i had a chamber in the rue du temple?" "pardon me, my lord, i had quite forgotten that circumstance." "i must tell you that this same neighbour is one of the prettiest little mantua-makers you ever saw. she is called rigolette, is for ever laughing, and never was in love." "upon my word, a most uncommon specimen of her class!" "she even admits that her indifference to the tender passion arises less from prudence than because she has not time to think about love or lovers, both of which she says would take up too much of her time; as, working from twelve to fifteen hours daily, it is with difficulty she manages to earn twenty-five sous a day, yet on that trifling sum she lives contentedly." "is it possible?" "possible! why, she even launches out into luxuries,--has a couple of birds, who consume as much food as herself, arranges her chamber with the most scrupulous and pretty neatness, while her dress would make a modern belle grow pale with envy." "and all this effected upon five and twenty sous a day? it is almost difficult to believe it." "i assure you my fair neighbour is a pattern of industry, order, economy, and practical philosophy; and as such i beg to recommend her to your notice in her capacity of dressmaker, in which she is reported to have much skill. if you will honour her with your commands, her fortune will be surely made; although there is no occasion for your carrying your beneficence so far as to wear the dresses you permit her to make." "oh, i will take care to give her employment immediately. poor girl! living honestly and contentedly upon a sum squandered by the rich for the most trifling whim or caprice." "well, now then that you have undertaken to interest yourself in my deserving young neighbour, let us proceed to the little adventure i was about to relate to you. i went, as i told you, to the temple with mlle. rigolette in order to purchase many articles necessary for the comfort of the poor family in the garret, when, accidentally examining the drawers of an old _secrétaire_ exposed for sale, i found the fragment of a letter in a female hand, in which the writer bitterly deplored the destitution to which herself and daughter were exposed in consequence of the villainy of the person in whose hands their money had been placed. i inquired of the mistress of the shop how she became possessed of the piece of furniture in question. she told me it was part of a lot of very common household goods she purchased of a person still young, who had evidently disposed of all her effects from stern necessity, and being without any other means of raising money. both mother and daughter, continued my informant, seemed much superior to their condition, and each bore their distress with a proud yet calm fortitude." "and do you not know where these poor ladies can be found, my lord?" "i do not, unfortunately, at the present moment, but i have given directions to m. de graün to use every effort to discover them, and, if needs must be, even to apply to the police for assistance. it is just probable that the unfortunate parent and child, finding themselves stripped of their little stock of furniture, may have sought refuge in some obscure lodging; and if so, there is every chance of discovering their abode, since the keepers of lodging-houses are obliged to write a daily report of every fresh inmate they receive." "what a singular combination of events!" said madame d'harville, much astonished: "your account is, indeed, a most interesting one." "you have not heard all yet. in a corner of the fragment of writing found in the old _secrétaire_, are these words, 'to write to madame de lucenay.'" "oh, how fortunate!" exclaimed madame d'harville, with much animation. "no doubt the duchess can tell me all about these unfortunate ladies. but then," added she, thoughtfully, "i do not see, after all, how we shall be able to describe them, as we do not even know their name." "nay, it will be easy to inquire whether she is acquainted with a widow still in the prime of life, whose air and manner indicate her being far superior to her present circumstances, and who has a daughter about sixteen years of age named claire. i am sure it was claire the woman told me the younger female was called." "how very strange! that is my child's name; and furnishes an additional reason for my interesting myself in their misfortunes." "i forgot to tell you that the brother of this unhappy widow died by his own hands a very few months ago." madame d'harville was silent for some minutes, as though reflecting deeply; at length she said: "if madame de lucenay be in any way acquainted with this unfortunate family, these particulars will be quite sufficient to identify them; besides which the lamentable end of the brother must have fixed every circumstance connected with them more strongly in her memory. how impatient i feel to question the duchess on the subject! i will write her a note this very evening, begging of her not to go out to-morrow till i have seen her. who can these interesting people be? from your account, my lord, i should say they certainly belong to the higher class of society, and must, therefore, feel their present distress so much the more keenly. alas, to such as they the falling into such utter destitution must inflict a deeper, keener sting!" "and all their sufferings have arisen from the knavery of an unprincipled scoundrel,--a notary, named jacques ferrand. but i am in possession of other acts of villainy on his part equally black with this." "that is the name of the person acting as the legal adviser both of my husband and mother-in-law," exclaimed clémence; "and, indeed, my lord, i think you must be mistaken in your opinion of him, for he is universally regarded as a person of the strictest honour and probity." "i assure you i have the most irrefragable proofs of what i assert. meanwhile let me beg of you to be perfectly silent as to the character i assign this man, who is as subtle as unprincipled; and the better to unmask his nefarious practices, it is necessary he should be allowed to think himself secure from all danger; a few days will enable me to perfect my schemes for bringing him to a severe reckoning. he it was who brought such unmerited affliction upon the interesting females i have been telling you of, by defrauding them of a large sum, which, it appears, was consigned to his care by the brother of the unfortunate widow." "and this money?" "was their sole dependence." "this is, indeed, a crime of the most heinous description!" "'tis, indeed, of blackest die," exclaimed rodolph, "having nothing to extenuate it, and originating neither in passion nor necessity. the pangs of hunger will often instigate a man to commit a theft, the thirst for revenge lead on to murder; but this legal hypocrite is passing rich, and invested, by common consent, with a character of almost priestly sanctity, while his countenance and manners are moulded with such studious art as to inspire and command universal confidence. the assassin kills you at a blow,--this villain tortures, prolongs your sufferings, and leaves you, after the death-blow has been inflicted, to sink under the gnawing agonies of want, misery, and despair. nothing is safe from the cupidity of such a man as ferrand: the inheritance of the orphan, the hard-earned savings of the laborious poor,--all excite alike his unprincipled avarice; and that which in other men arises out of the impulse of the moment is with this wretch the result of a cold and unrelenting calculation. you entrust him with your wealth,--to see it is to covet it, and with him to desire is to possess himself, without the smallest scruple. totally unheeding your future wretchedness, the grasping deceiver deprives you of your property, and without a pang consigns you to beggary and destitution. suppose that, by a long course of labour and privations, you have contrived to amass a provision against the wants and infirmities of old age; well, no sooner is this cold-blooded hypocrite made the depositary of your little treasure, than he unhesitatingly appropriates it, leaving you to drag on a miserable existence, without a morsel of bread but such as the hand of charity doles out to you. nor is this all. let us consider the fearful consequences of these infamous acts of spoliation. take the case of the widow of whom we were speaking just now,--imagine her dying of grief and a crushed spirit, the results of her heavy afflictions; she leaves a young and helpless girl to struggle alone in the world,--a weak and delicate being, whose very loveliness increases her dangers and difficulties. without friends or support, unaccustomed to the rough realities of life, the poor orphan has but to choose between starvation and dishonour. in an evil hour she falls, and becomes a lost, degraded creature. and thus jacques ferrand, by his dishonest appropriation of the things committed to his charge, occasions not only the death of the mother, but the dishonour of the child; he destroys the body of the one and the soul of the other,--and again, i say, not with the merciful despatch of the assassin's dagger, but by the slow tortures of lingering cruelty!" clémence listened in profound silence, not unmixed with surprise, at hearing rodolph express himself with so much indignation and bitterness. accustomed only to witness the most urbane suavity in the tone and manner of her guest, she felt more than ordinarily struck by his vehement and excited language; which, however, seemed to show his intense abhorrence of all crooked and nefarious dealings. "i must entreat your pardon, madame," said the prince, after a pause, "for having permitted myself to use so much warmth in the presence of a lady; but, in truth, i could not restrain my indignation when i reflected on all the horrible dangers which may overwhelm your future protégées. but, be assured, it is quite impossible to exaggerate those fearful consequences brought about by ruin and misery." "indeed! indeed, my lord, you rather merit my thanks, for having so powerfully and energetically augmented, if possible, the tender pity i feel for this unfortunate parent, whose heart is, doubtless, wrung with anguish rather for her young and innocent daughter than for herself. it is, in truth, a fearful situation. but we shall soon be enabled to relieve her mind, and rescue her from her present misery, shall we not, my lord? oh, yes, i feel assured we shall,--and henceforward their happiness shall be my care. i am rich,--though not so much so as i could wish, now that i perceive how worthily wealth may be employed; but should there be occasion for further aid than i am enabled to afford, i will apply to m. d'harville in their behalf. i will render him so happy, that he shall find it impossible to refuse any of my new caprices, and i foresee that i shall have plenty of them. you told me, did you not, my lord, that our protégées are proud? so much the better. i am better pleased to find them so; for pride under unmerited misfortune always betokens a great and elevated mind. but i shall be able to overreach them, for i will so contrive that they shall be relieved from their present misery without ever guessing to what channel they owe their deliverance from misery. you think i shall find it difficult to deceive them? so much the better. oh, i have my own plans of action, i can assure you, my lord; and you will see that i shall be deficient neither in cunning nor address." "i fully anticipate the most machiavelian system of ruse and deep combination," said rodolph, smiling. "but we must, first of all, discover where they are. oh, how i wish to-morrow were come! when i leave madame de lucenay, i shall go directly to their old residence, make inquiries of their late neighbours, collect all the information i can, and form my own conclusions from all i see and hear. i should feel so proud and delighted to work out all the good i intend to these poor ladies, without being assisted by any person; and i shall accomplish it,--i feel sure i shall. this adventure affects me greatly. poor things! i seem even to feel a livelier interest in their misfortunes when i think of my own child." deeply touched at this charitable warmth, rodolph smiled with sincere commiseration at seeing a young creature of scarcely twenty years of age, seeking to lose, amid occupations so pure and noble, the sense of the severe domestic afflictions which bore so heavily upon her. the eyes of clémence sparkled with enthusiasm, a delicate carnation tinged her pale cheek, while the animation of her words and gestures imparted additional beauty to her lovely countenance. the close and silent scrutiny of rodolph did not escape the notice of madame d'harville. she blushed, looked down for a few minutes, then, raising her eyes in sweet confusion, said: "i see, my lord, you are amused at my girlish eagerness. but, in truth, i am impatient to taste those sources of delight which are about to gild an existence hitherto so replete with grief and sadness, and, unfortunately, so useless to every one. alas, this was not the life my early dreams had pictured to me,--the one great passion of life i must for ever renounce! though young, i must live, and act, and think, as though scores of years had passed over my head. alas, alas!" continued clémence, with a sigh, "to me is denied the dear domestic joys my heart could so fondly have prized." after a minute's pause she resumed: "but why should i dwell on such vain and fruitless regrets? thanks to you, my lord, charity will replace the void left in my heart by disappointed affection. already have i owed to your counsels the enjoyment of the most touching emotions. your words, my lord, affect me deeply, and exercise unbounded influence over me. the more i meditate on what you have advanced, the more i search into its real depth and value, the more i am struck by its vast power and truth, the more just and valuable does it appear to me. then, when i reflect that, not satisfied with sympathising with sufferings of which you can form no idea from actual experience, you aid me with the most salutary counsels, and guide me, step by step, in the new and delightful path of virtue and goodness pointed out by you to relieve a weary and worn-out heart, oh, my lord, what treasure of all that is good must your mind contain! from what source have you drawn so large a supply of tender pity for the woes of all?" "nay, the secret of my sincere commiseration with the woes of others consists in my having deeply suffered myself,--nay, in still sighing over heavy sorrows none can alleviate or cure." "you, my lord! surely you cannot have tasted thus bitterly of grief and misfortune?" "yes, 'tis even so. i sometimes think that i have been made to taste of nearly every bitter which fills our cup of worldly sorrows, the better to fit me for sympathising with all descriptions of worldly trials. wounded and sorely afflicted as a friend, a husband, and a parent, what grief can there be in which i am not qualified to participate?" "i always understood, my lord, that your late wife, the grand duchess, left no child?" "true; but, before i became her husband, i was the father of a daughter, who died quite young. and, however you may smile at the idea, i can with truth assert that the loss of that child has poisoned all my subsequent days. and this grief increases with my years. each succeeding hour but redoubles the poignancy of my regrets, which, far from abating, appear to grow,--strengthen, even as my daughter would have done had she been spared me. she would now have been in her seventeenth year." "and her mother," asked clémence, after a trifling hesitation, "is she still living?" "oh, name her not, i beseech you!" exclaimed rodolph, whose features became suddenly overcast at this reference to sarah. "she to whom you allude is a vile, unworthy woman, whose feelings are completely buried beneath the cold selfishness and ambition of her nature. sometimes i even ask myself whether it is not better that my child has been removed by death than for her to have been contaminated by the example of such a mother." clémence could not restrain a feeling of satisfaction at hearing rodolph thus express himself. "in that case," said she, "i can imagine how doubly you must bewail the loss of your only object of affection!" "oh, how i should have doted on my child! for it seems to me that, among princes, there is always mixed up with the affection we bear a son, a sort of interested regard for the being destined to perpetuate our race,--a kind of political calculation. but a daughter!--oh, she is loved for herself alone! and when, alas! one is weary of witnessing the many fearful pictures of fallen humanity an intercourse with the world compels us to behold, what joy to turn from the dark pictures of guilt and crime to refresh ourselves by the contemplation of a young and innocent mind, and to delight in watching the unfolding of all those pure and tender feelings so guilelessly true to nature! the proudest, the happiest mother feels not half the exquisite joy of a father in observing the gradual development of a daughter's character. a mother will dwell with far greater rapture on the bold and manly qualities of a son. for have you never remarked that the cause which still further cements the doting affection of a mother for her son, or a father for his daughter, is the feeling of either requiring or bestowing aid and protection? thus, the mother looks upon her son in the light of a future support and protection; while the father beholds in his young and helpless daughter a weak and fragile creature, clinging to him for safety, counsel, and protection from all the storms of life." "true, my lord,--most true!" "but what avails it thus to dwell on sources of delight for ever lost to me?" cried rodolph, in a voice of the deepest dejection. his mournful tones sunk into the very heart of clémence, who could not restrain a tear, which trickled slowly down her cheek. after a short pause, during which the prince, making a powerful effort to restrain himself, and feeling almost ashamed of allowing his feelings thus to get the better of him in the presence of madame d'harville, said, with a smile of infinite sadness, "your pardon, madame, for thus allowing myself to be drawn away by the remembrance of my past griefs!" "i beseech you, my lord, make no apology to me; but, on the contrary, believe that i most sincerely sympathise with your very natural regrets. have i not a right to share your griefs, for have i not made you a participator in mine? my greatest pain is, that the only consolation i could offer you would be vain and useless to assuage your grief." "not so; the very expression of your kind commiseration is grateful and beneficial to me; and i find it a relief to disburden my mind, and tell you all i suffer. but, courage!" added rodolph, with a faint and melancholy smile; "the conversation of this evening entirely reassures me on your account. a safe and healthful path is opened to you, by following which you will escape the trials and dangers so fatal to many of your sex, and, still more so, for those as highly endowed as yourself. you will have much to endure, to struggle against, and contend with; but in proportion to the difficulties of your position will be your merit in overcoming them. you are too young and lovely to escape without a severe ordeal; but, should your courage ever fail you, the recollection, not only of the good you have done, but also that you propose to effect, will serve to strengthen your virtuous resolutions, and arm you with fresh courage." madame d'harville melted into tears. "at least," said she, "promise me your counsels and advice shall never fail me. may i depend on this, my lord?" "indeed, indeed, you may. whether near or afar off, believe that i shall ever feel the most lively interest in your welfare and well-doing; and, so far as in me lies, will i devote my best services to promote your happiness, or that of the man whom i glory in calling my dearest friend." "thanks, my lord," said clémence, drying her tears, "for this consoling promise. but for your generous aid, i feel too well that my own strength would fail me. still i bind myself now, and in your presence, faithfully and courageously to perform my duty, however hard or painful that duty may be." as clémence uttered these last words, a small door, concealed by the hangings, suddenly opened; and m. d'harville, pale, agitated, and evidently labouring under considerable excitement, appeared before madame d'harville and rodolph. the latter involuntarily started, while a faint cry escaped the lips of the astonished wife. the first surprise over, the marquis handed to rodolph the letter received from sarah, saying: "here, my lord, is the letter i but just now received in your presence. have the kindness to cast your eyes over it, and afterwards commit it to the flames." clémence gazed on her husband with utter astonishment. "most infamous!" exclaimed rodolph, indignantly, as he finished the perusal of the vile scrawl. "nay, my lord, there is an act more dastardly even than the sending an anonymous letter; and that act i have committed." "for the love of heaven, explain yourself!" "instead of at once fearlessly and candidly showing you this letter, i concealed its contents from you. i feigned calmness and tranquillity, while jealousy, rage, and despair filled my heart. nor is this all. to what detestable meanness do you suppose, my lord, my ungoverned passions led me? why, to enact the part of a spy,--to hide myself basely and contemptibly behind this door, to overhear your conversation and espy your actions. yes, hate me, despise me as you will, i merit all for having insulted you by a suspicion. oh, the writer of these fiendish letters knew well the culpable weakness of him to whom they were addressed. but, after all i have heard,--for not a word has escaped me, and i now know the nature of the interest which attracts you to frequent the rue du temple,--after having, by my mean and unworthy jealousy, given support to the base calumny by believing it even for an instant, how can i hope for pardon, though i sue for it upon my knees? still, still, i venture to implore from you, so superior to myself in nobleness and generosity of soul, pity, and, if you can, forgiveness for the wrong i have done you!" "no more of this, my dear albert," said rodolph, extending his hands towards his friend with the most touching cordiality; "you have nothing to ask pardon for. indeed, i feel quite delighted to find you have discovered the secrets of madame d'harville and myself. now that all further restraint is at an end, i shall be able to lecture you as much and as frequently as i choose. but, what is better still, you are now installed as the confidant of madame d'harville,--that is to say, you now know what to expect from a heart so pure, so generous, and so noble as hers." "and you, clémence," said m. d'harville, sorrowfully, to his wife, "can you forgive me my last unworthy act, in addition to the just causes you already have to hate and despise me?" "on one condition," said she, extending her hand towards her husband, which he warmly and tenderly pressed, "that you promise to aid me in all my schemes for promoting and securing your happiness!" "upon my word, my dear marquis," exclaimed rodolph, "our enemies have shown themselves bunglers after all! they have afforded you an opportunity you might never otherwise have obtained, of rightly appreciating the tender devotion of your incomparable wife, whose affection for you, i venture to say, has shone out more brightly and steadily under the machinations of those who seek to render us miserable, than amidst all the former part of your wedded life; so that we are enabled to take a sweet revenge for the mischief intended to be effected: that is some consolation, while awaiting a fuller atonement for this diabolical attempt. i strongly suspect the quarter from which this scheme has emanated; and however patiently i may bear my own wrongs, i am not of a nature to suffer those offered to my friends to remain unpunished. this, however, is my affair. adieu, madame,--our intrigue is discovered; and you will be no more at liberty to work alone in befriending your protégées. but, never mind! before long we will get up some mysterious enterprise, impossible to be found out; and we will even defy the marquis, with all his penetration, to know more than we choose to tell him." * * * * * after accompanying rodolph to his carriage with reiterated thanks and praises, the marquis retired to his apartments without again seeing clémence. chapter vii. reflections. it would be difficult to describe the tumultuous and opposing sentiments that agitated m. d'harville when alone. he reflected with delight on the detection of the unworthy falsehood charged upon rodolph and clémence; but he was, at the same time, thoroughly convinced that he must for ever forego the hope of being loved by her. the more clémence had proved herself, in her conversation with rodolph, resigned, full of courage, and bent on acting rightly, the more bitterly did m. d'harville reproach himself for having, in his culpable egotism, chained the lot of his unhappy young wife to his own. far from being consoled by the conversation he had overheard, he fell into a train of sorrowful thought and indescribable anguish. riches, without occupation, bring with them this wretchedness. nothing can divert it, nothing relieve it, from the deepest feelings of mental torture. not being compulsorily preoccupied by cares for the future or daily toil, it is utterly exposed to heavy moral affliction. able to acquire all that money can purchase, it desires or regrets with intense violence-- "what gold could never buy." the mental torture of m. d'harville was intense, for, after all, what he desired was only what was just, and actually legal,--the society, if not the love, of his wife. but, when placed beside the inexorable refusal of clémence, he asked himself if there was not the bitterest derision in these words of the law: the wife belongs to her husband. to what influence, to what means could he have recourse to subdue this coldness, this repugnance, which turned his whole existence into one long punishment, since he could not--ought not--would not love any woman but his wife? he could not but see in this, as in many other positions of conjugal life, the simple will of the husband or the wife imperatively substituted, without appeal or possibility of prevention, for the sovereign will of the law. to the paroxysms of vain anger there succeeded a melancholy depression. the future weighed him down, heavy, dull, and chill. he only saw before him the grief that would doubtless render more frequent the attacks of his fearful malady. "oh," he exclaimed, at once in tears and despair, "it is my fault,--it is my fault! poor, unhappy girl! i deceived her,--shamefully deceived her! she must,--she ought to hate me; and yet but now she displayed the deepest interest in me, and, instead of contenting myself with that, my mad passion led me away, and i became tender. i spoke of my love, and scarcely had my lips touched her hand than she became startled, and bounded with fright. if i could for a moment have doubted the invincible repugnance with which i inspire her, what she said to the prince must for ever destroy that illusion. ah, it is frightful,--frightful! by what right has she confided to him this hideous secret? it is an unworthy betrayal! by what right?--alas, by the right the victim has to complain of its executioner! poor girl! so young,--so loving! all she could find most cruel to say against the horrid existence i have entailed upon her was, that such was not the lot of which she had dreamed, and that she was very young to renounce all hopes of love! i know clémence, and the word she gave me,--the word she gave to the prince,--she will abide by for ever. she will be to me the tenderest of sisters! well, is not my position still most enviable? to the cold and constrained demeanour which existed between us will succeed affectionate and gentle intercourse, whilst she might have treated me always with icy disdain of which it was impossible that i could complain. so, then, i will console myself by the enjoyment of what she offers to me. shall i not be too happy then?--too happy? ah, how weak i am! how cowardly! is she not my wife, after all? is she not mine and mine only? does not the law recognise my right over her? my wife refuses, but is not the right on my side?" he interrupted himself, with a burst of sardonic laughter. "oh, yes,--be violent, eh? what, another infamy? but what can i do? for i love her yet,--love her to madness! i love her and her only! i want but her,--her love, and not the lukewarm regard of a sister. ah, at last she must have pity; she is so kind, and she will see how unhappy i am! but no, no! never! mine is a case of estrangement which a woman never can surmount. disgust,--yes, disgust,--i cannot but see it,--disgust! i must convince myself that it is my horrid infirmity that frightens her, and always must,--always must!" exclaimed m. d'harville, in his fearful excitement. after a moment of gloomy silence, he continued: "this anonymous attack, which accused the prince and my wife, comes from the hand of an enemy; and yet, but an hour ago, before i saw through it, i suspected him. him!--to believe him capable of such base treachery! and my wife, too, i included in the same suspicion! ah, jealousy is incurable! and yet i must not abuse myself. if the prince, who loves me as his best and dearest friend, has made clémence promise to occupy her mind and heart in charitable works, if he promises her his advice, his support, it is because she requires advice, needs support. and, indeed, lovely and young, and surrounded as she is, and without that love in her heart which protects and even almost excuses her wrongs through mine, which are so atrocious, must she not fall? another torturing thought! what i have suffered when i thought her guilty,--fallen,--heaven knows what agony! but, no; the fear is vain! clémence has sworn never to fail in her duties, and she will keep her promise,--strictly keep it! but at what a price! at what a price! but now, when she turned towards me with affectionate language, what agony did i feel at the sight of her gentle, sad, and resigned smile! how much this return to me must have cost! poor love! how lovely and affecting she seemed at that moment! for the first time i felt a fierce remorse, for, up to that moment, her haughty coldness had sufficiently avenged her. oh, wretch!--wretch that i am!" * * * * * after a long and sleepless night, spent in bitter reflections, the agitation of m. d'harville ceased, as if by enchantment. he had come to an unalterable resolution. he awaited daybreak with excessive impatience. * * * * * early in the morning he rang for his _valet de chambre_. when old joseph entered his master's room, to his great surprise he heard him hum a hunting song,--a sign, as rare as certain, that m. d'harville was in good humour. "ah, m. le marquis," said the faithful old servant, quite affected, "what a charming voice you have! what a pity that you do not sing more frequently!" "really, joseph, have i a charming voice?" said m. d'harville, smiling. "if m. le marquis had a voice as hoarse as a night raven or as harsh as a rattle, i should still think he had a charming voice." "be silent, you flatterer!" "why, when you sing, m. le marquis, it is a sign you are happy, and then your voice sounds to me the most beautiful music in the world." "in that case, joseph, my old friend, prepare to open your long ears." "what do you mean, sir?" "you may enjoy every day the music which you call charming, and of which you seem so fond." "what! you will be happy every day, m. le marquis?" exclaimed joseph, clasping his hands with extreme delight. "every day, my old joseph, happy every day. yes, no more sorrow,--no more sadness. i can tell you, the only and discreet confidant of my troubles, that i am at the height of happiness. my wife is an angel of goodness, and has asked my forgiveness for her past estrangement, attributing it (can you imagine?) to jealousy." "to jealousy?" "yes, absurd suspicions, excited by anonymous letters." "how shameful!" "you understand? women have so much self-love,--a little more and we should have been separated; but, fortunately, last evening she explained all frankly to me, and i disabused her mind. to tell you her extreme delight would be impossible, for she loves me,--oh, yes, she loves me! the coldness she evinced towards me lay as cruelly on herself as on me, and now, at length, our distressing separation has ended. only conceive my delight!" "can it be true?" cried joseph, with tears in his eyes. "can it really be true, m. le marquis? and now your life will be happy, for it was only my lady's love that you required, or, rather, since her estrangement was your sole misery, as you told me." "and to whom but you should i have told it, my worthy old joseph? do not you possess, also, a still sadder secret? but do not let us say anything more of sorrows now,--it is too bright a time. you see, perhaps, that i have been weeping? it is because this happiness has come over me so suddenly, when i so little anticipated it! how weak i am!--am i not?" "well, well, m. le marquis, you may weep for joy as much as you please, for you have wept long enough for pain; and now see, do not i do as you do? they are right sort of tears, and i would not give them for ten years more of life. i have now but one fear, and that is, not to be able to prevent myself from falling at the feet of madame la marquise the first time i see her." "silly old fellow! why you are as weak as your master. and now i have but one fear." "and what is that?" "that this will not last; i am too happy. what now is wanting to me?" "nothing,--nothing, m. le marquis,--absolutely nothing." "that is why i mistrust such perfect happiness,--too complete." "alas! if that is all, why, m. le marquis--but no, i dare not." "i understand you. well, i believe your fears are vain. the change which my happiness causes me is so intense, so complete, that i am almost sure of being nearly cured." "how?" "my doctor has told me a hundred times that a violent emotion is frequently sufficient either to bring on or to cure this terrible malady." "you are right, monsieur,--you are cured, and what a blessing that is! ah, as you say, m. le marquis, the marquise is a good angel come down from heaven; and i begin myself to be almost alarmed lest the happiness is too great; but now i think of it, if you only want a small matter just to annoy you, thank god, i have just the very thing!" "what is it?" "one of your friends has very luckily had a sword-wound, very slight, to be sure; but that's all the same, it is quite enough for you, as you desire to make a small black spot in your too happy day." "what do you mean, and of whom do you speak?" "the duke de lucenay." "is he wounded?" "a scratch in the arm. m. the duke came yesterday to call on you, sir, and told me he should come again this morning, and invite himself to a cup of tea." "poor lucenay! and why did you not tell me this?" "i could not see you last night, m. le marquis." after a moment's reflection, m. d'harville resumed: "you are right, this slight regret will, doubtless, satisfy jealous fate. but an idea has come across me; i should like to get up a bachelors' breakfast this morning of all the friends of m. de lucenay, to celebrate the fortunate result of his duel; not anticipating such a meeting, he will be delighted." "a capital idea, m. le marquis. _vive la joie!_ let us make up for lost time. for how many shall i desire the _maître d'hôtel_ to lay covers?" "for six, in the small winter dining-room." "and the invitations?" "i will write them. let a groom get his horse ready, and take them instantly. it is very early, and he will find everybody at home. ring." joseph rang the bell. m. d'harville entered into his cabinet, and wrote the following letter, with no other alteration than the name of each invited guest. "my dear ----: this is a circular, and is also an impromptu. lucenay is coming to breakfast with me this morning, expecting only a _tête-à -tête_. will you join me and several friends, whom i also invite, in giving him an agreeable surprise? "twelve punctually. "m. d'harville." a servant entered. "desire some one to get on horseback, and deliver these notes directly," said m. d'harville; and then, addressing joseph, "write the addresses: m. le vicomte de saint-remy,--lucenay cannot get on without him," said m. d'harville to himself; "m. de monville, one of the duke's travelling companions; lord douglas, his beloved partner at whist; the baron de sézannes, one of the friends of his childhood. have you done?" "yes, m. le marquis." "send them off, then, without losing a minute's time," said m. d'harville. "ah, philippe, request m. doublet to come and speak to me." philippe left the room. "well, what is the matter with you?" inquired m. d'harville of joseph, who looked at him with astonishment. "i cannot get over it, sir; i never saw you in such spirits,--so lively; and then you, who are usually so pale, have got such a colour, and your eyes sparkle." "happiness, my old friend,--happiness, and nothing else; and you must assist me in my little plot. you must go and learn of mlle. juliette, madame d'harville's waiting-woman, who has the care of her diamonds." "yes, m. le marquis, it is mlle. juliette who has the charge of them, for it is not eight days since i helped her to clean them." "ask her to tell you the name of her lady's jeweller, but not to say a word on the subject to her mistress." "ah, i understand,--a surprise." "go as quickly as possible. here is m. doublet." and the steward entered as joseph quitted the apartment. "i have the honour to attend the orders of m. le marquis." "my dear m. doublet, i am going to alarm you," said m. d'harville, smiling; "i shall compel you to utter fearful cries of distress." "me, sir?" "you." "i will endeavour to give satisfaction to m. le marquis." "i am going to spend an enormous sum, m. doublet." "why not, m. le marquis? we are well able to do so." "i have been planning a considerable extent of building. i propose to annex a gallery in the garden, on the right wing of the hôtel. after having hesitated at this folly, of which i have not before spoken to you, i have made up my mind on the point, and i wish you to send to-day to my architect, desiring him to come and talk over the plans with me. well, m. doublet, you do not seem to object to the outlay." "i can assure your lordship that i have no objection whatsoever." "this gallery is destined for fêtes, and i wish to have it erected as though by enchantment; and, as enchantments are very dear, we must sell fifteen or twenty thousand livres of income in order to meet the expenditure, for i wish the work to be begun as speedily as possible." "i have always said there is nothing which m. le marquis wants, unless it be a certain taste. that for building has the advantage of having the buildings always left; as to money, m. le marquis need not alarm himself, and he may, if he pleases, build the gallery." joseph returned. "here, m. le marquis, is the address of the jeweller, whose name is m. baudoin," said he to m. d'harville. "my dear m. doublet, will you go to this jeweller's, and desire him to bring here in an hour a river of diamonds, worth, say, two thousand louis? women never have too many jewels, now they wear gowns decorated with them. you can arrange with the jeweller as to the payment." "yes, m. le marquis; and i do not even yet begin to groan. diamonds are like buildings,--they remain. and then, no doubt, the surprise will greatly please madame la marquise, without counting the pleasure that you yourself will experience. it is as i had the honour of saying the other day, there is not in the world any person whose existence can be more delightful than that of m. le marquis." "my dear m. doublet," said m. d'harville, with a smile, "your congratulations are always so peculiarly apropos." "that is their only merit, m. le marquis; and they possess that merit, perhaps, because they proceed from the heart. i will run to the jeweller." as soon as he was alone, m. d'harville began to pace up and down his cabinet, with his arms folded, and his eye fixed and meditative. his features suddenly changed, and no longer expressed that somewhat feverish contentment of which the steward and his old servant had been the dupes, but assumed a calm, sad, and chilling resolution. afterwards, having paced up and down for a short time, he sunk into a chair heavily, and, as though weighed down with sorrow, placed his elbows on his desk, and hid his face in his hands. after a moment he rose suddenly, wiped a tear which moistened his red eyelid, and said with effort: "come, come! courage, courage!" he then wrote to several persons on very trifling matters, and postponed various meetings for some days. the marquis had concluded this correspondence when joseph again entered, so gay, and so forgetful of himself, as to hum a tune in his turn. "m. joseph, what a charming voice you have!" said his master, jestingly. "_ma foi!_ so much the worse, m. le marquis, for i don't care about it. i am singing so merrily within, that my music must be heard without." "send these letters to the post." "yes, m. le marquis; but where will you receive the gentlemen who are expected this morning?" "here, in my cabinet; they will smoke after breakfast, and then the smell of the tobacco will not reach madame d'harville." at this moment the noise of carriage wheels was heard in the courtyard of the hôtel. "it is madame la marquise going out; she ordered her carriage very early this morning," said joseph. "run and request her to be so kind and come here before she goes out." "yes, m. le marquis." the domestic had scarcely left the room when m. d'harville approached a mirror, and looked at himself attentively. "well, well," said he, in a hoarse voice, "it is there,--the flushed cheeks--the bright look--joy or fever, it is little consequence which, so that they are deceived; now, then, for the smile on the lips,--there are so many sorts of smiles! but who can distinguish the false from the true? who can peep beneath the false mask, and say, 'that laugh hides a dark despair, that noisy gaiety conceals a thought of death?' who could guess that? no one,--fortunately, no one,--no one! ah, yes, love would never be mistaken; his instinct would enlighten him. but i hear my wife,--my wife! now, then, sinister actor, play thy part." clémence entered m. d'harville's apartment. "good morrow, dear brother albert," she said, in a tone full of sweetness. then, observing the smiling expression of her husband's countenance, "but what is it, my dear, that gives you such a smiling air?" "it was because, when you entered, my dear sister, i was thinking of you, and, moreover, i was under the influence of an excellent resolution." "that does not surprise me." "what took place yesterday,--your extreme generosity, the prince's noble conduct,--has given me much food for reflection, and i am converted,--entirely converted to your ideas." "indeed! that is a happy change!" exclaimed madame d'harville. "ah! i was sure that, when i appealed to your heart, to your reason, you would understand me; and now i have no doubt about the future." "nor i either, clémence, i assure you. yes, since my resolution last night, the future, which seemed so vague and sombre, is singularly brightened and simplified." "nothing can be more natural, my dear. now we both go towards the same end, like a brother and sister, mutually dependent on each other; at the end of our career we shall find each other what we are to-day. the feeling will be unalterable. in a word, i wish you to be happy; and you shall be, for i have resolved it there," said clémence, placing her finger on her forehead. then she added, with charming emphasis, lowering her hand to her heart, "no, i mistake, it is here. that is the good thought that will watch over you incessantly, and myself also; and you shall see, my brother, in what the obstinacy of a devoted heart consists." "dear clémence!" said m. d'harville with repressed emotion; then, after a moment's silence, he continued, in a gay tone: "i sent to beg you to come here before you went out, to tell you that i could not take tea with you this morning. i have some friends to breakfast,--a sort of impromptu,--to celebrate the fortunate result of a duel of poor lucenay, who, by the way, was only very slightly wounded by his adversary." madame d'harville blushed when she reflected on the origin of this duel,--an absurd remark addressed in her presence by the duke de lucenay to m. charles robert. it reminded her of an _erreur_ of which she was ashamed, and, to escape from the pain she felt, she said to her husband: "what a singular chance! m. de lucenay is coming to breakfast with you, and i am going, perhaps rather indiscreetly, to invite myself this morning to madame de lucenay's; for i have a great deal to say to her about my two unknowns. from her, it is my intention to go to the prison of st. lazare with madame de blinval, for you do not know all my projects; at this time i am intriguing to get admittance into the workroom of the young prisoner-girls." "you are really insatiable," said m. d'harville, with a smile; and then he added, with a painful emotion, which, despite his efforts, betrayed itself a little, "then i shall see you no more to-day." "does it annoy you that i should go out so early?" asked clémence, quickly, astonished at the tone of his voice. "if you wish it, i can put off my visit to madame de lucenay." the marquis had nearly betrayed himself, but continued, in an affectionate tone: "yes, my dear little sister, i am as annoyed to see you go out, as i shall be impatient to see you return, and these are faults of which i shall never be corrected." "and you are quite right, dear; for if you did i should be very, very sorry." the sound of a bell, announcing a visit, was now heard. "here is one of your guests, no doubt," said madame d'harville. "i leave you; but, by the way, what are you going to do in the evening? if you have no better engagement, i require you to accompany me to the italian opera; perhaps now you will like the music better." "i am at your orders with the utmost pleasure." "are you going out by and by? shall i see you before dinner?" "i shall not go out; you will find me here." "well, then, on my return, i shall come and inquire if your bachelors' breakfast has been amusing." "adieu, clémence!" "adieu, dear! we shall soon meet again. i leave you a clear house, and wish you may be as merry as possible. be very gay and lively, mind." having cordially shaken her husband's hand, clémence went out of one door as m. de lucenay entered by another. "she wished me to be as merry as possible, and bade me be gay! in the word adieu, in that last cry of my soul in its agony, in that word of complete and eternal separation, she has understood that we should meet again soon,--this evening,--and leaves me tranquilly, and with a smile! it does honour to my dissimulation. by heaven, i did not think that i was so good an actor! but here is lucenay." chapter viii. the bachelors' breakfast. m. de lucenay came into the room. the duke's wound had been so slight, that he did not even carry his arm in a sling. his countenance was, as usual, mirthful, yet proud; his motion perpetual; and his restlessness, as usual, unconquerable. in spite of his awkwardness, his ill-timed pleasantries, and in spite of his immense nose, which gave his face a grotesque and odd character, m. de lucenay was not, as we have already said, a vulgar person, thanks to a kind of natural dignity and bold impertinence, which never forsook him. "how indifferent you must think me to what concerns you, my dear henry!" said m. d'harville, extending his hand to m. de lucenay; "but it was only this morning that i heard of your unfortunate adventure." "unfortunate! pooh--pooh, marquis! i had my money's worth, as they say. i really never laughed so in my life. the worthy m. robert was so religiously determined to maintain that he never had a phlegmy cough, in all his life,--but you do not know! this was the cause of the duel. the other evening at the ---- embassy, i asked him, before your wife and the countess macgregor, how his phlegmy cough was? _inde iræ!_ for, between ourselves, he had nothing of the kind; but it was all the same, and, you may suppose, to have such a thing alluded to before pretty women was very provoking." "how foolish! yet it is so like you! but who is this m. robert?" "_ma foi!_ i have not the slightest idea in the world. he is a person whom i met at the spas; he passed by us in the winter garden at the embassy, and i called to him to play off this foolish jest, to which he gallantly replied the next day by giving me a touch with his sword-point. this is the history of our acquaintance. but let us speak no more of such follies. i have come to ask you for a cup of tea." so saying, m. de lucenay flung himself down full length on the sofa; after which, poking the point of his cane between the wall and the frame of a picture hanging over his head, he began to move it about, and try and balance the frame. "i expected you, my dear henry; and i have got up a surprise for you," said m. d'harville. "ah, bah! and in what way?" exclaimed m. de lucenay, giving to the picture a very doubtful kind of balance. "you will unquestionably unhook that picture, and let it down on your head." "_pardieu!_ i believe you are right. what an eagle's eye you have! but, tell me, what is this surprise of yours?" "i have invited some of our friends to come and breakfast with us!" "really! well, that is capital! bravo, marquis,--bravissimo! ultra-bravissimo!" exclaimed m. de lucenay, in a lusty voice, and beating the sofa cushions with his cane with all his might. "and who shall we have,--saint-remy? no, i recollect; he has been in the country for some days. what the devil can he be pattering about in the country in the mid-winter for?" "are you sure he is not in paris?" "quite sure; for i wrote to him to go out with me, and learned he was absent; and so i fell back upon lord douglas, and sézannes." "nothing can be better; they breakfast with us." "bravo! bravo! bravo!" exclaimed m. de lucenay again, with lusty lungs; and then, wriggling and twisting himself on the sofa, he accompanied his cries with a series of fishlike bounds and springs, which would have made a boatman envious. the acrobatic exercises of the duke de lucenay were interrupted by the arrival of m. de saint-remy. "there was no occasion to ask if lucenay was here," said the viscount, gaily; "one could hear him below stairs." "what! is it you, graceful sylvan, country swain,--wolf of the woods?" exclaimed the duke, in his surprise, and sitting up suddenly. "i thought you were in the country!" "i came back yesterday; and, having this instant received d'harville's invitation, i have hastened hither, quite delighted to make one in so pleasant a surprise." and m. de saint-remy extended his hand to m. de lucenay, and then to the marquis. "let me thank you for your speed, my dear saint-remy. is it not natural? the friends of lucenay ought to rejoice in the fortunate result of this duel, which, after all, might have had very serious results." "but," resumed the duke, doggedly, "what on earth have you been doing in the country in the middle of winter, saint-remy? it mystifies me." "how inquisitive he is!" said the viscount, addressing m. d'harville; and then, turning to the duke, "i am anxious to wean myself gradually from paris, as i am soon to quit it." "ah, yes, the beautiful idea of attaching you to the legation from france to gerolstein! pray leave off those silly ideas of diplomacy! you will never go. my wife says so, everybody says the same." "i assure you that madame de lucenay is mistaken, as well as all the rest of the world." "she told you, in my presence, that it was a folly." "how many have i committed in my life?" "yes, elegant, charming follies, true;--such as people said would ruin you in your sardanapalian magnificences,--that i admit. but to go and bury yourself alive in such a court,--at gerolstein! what an idea! psha! it is a folly, an absurdity; and you have too much good sense to commit absurdities." "take care, my dear lucenay. when you abuse this german court, you will get up a quarrel with d'harville, the intimate friend of the grand duke regnant, who, moreover, received me with the best possible grace at the embassy, where i was presented to him." "really, my dear henry," said m. d'harville, "if you knew the grand duke as i know him, you would understand that saint-remy could have no repugnance to passing some time at gerolstein." "i believe you, marquis, although they do say that he is very haughty and very peculiar, your grand duke; but that will not hinder a don like saint-remy, the finest sifting of the finest flour, from being unable to live anywhere but in paris. it is in paris only that he is duly appreciated." the other guests of m. d'harville now arrived, when joseph entered, and said a few words in a low voice to his master. "gentlemen," said the marquis, "will you allow me?--it is my wife's jeweller, who has brought some diamonds to select for her,--a surprise. you understand that, lucenay? we are husbands of the old sort, you and i." "ah, _pardieu_! if it is a surprise you mean," shouted the duke, "my wife gave me one yesterday, and a famous one too!" "some magnificent present?" "she asked me for a hundred thousand francs ( , _l._)." "and you are such a magnifico--you--" "lent them to her; they are advanced as mortgage on her arnouville estate. right reckonings make good friends,--but that's by the by. to lend in two hours a hundred thousand francs to a friend who requires that sum is what i call pretty, but rare. is it not prodigal, you who are a connoisseur in loans?" said the duke, laughingly, to saint-remy, little thinking of the cutting purport of his words. in spite of his effrontery, the viscount blushed slightly, and then replied, with composure: "a hundred thousand francs?--that is immense! what could a woman ever want with such a sum as a hundred thousand francs? as for us men, that is quite a different matter." "_ma foi!_ i really do not know what she could want with such a sum as that. but that's not my affair. some arrears for the toilet, probably? the tradespeople hungry and annoying,--that's her affair. and, as you know very well, my dear saint-remy, that, as it was i who lent my wife the money, it would have been in the worst possible taste in me to have inquired the purpose for which she required it." "yet," said the viscount, with a laugh, "there is usually a singular curiosity on the part of those who lend money to know what is done with it." "_parbleu!_ saint-remy," said m. d'harville, "you have such exquisite taste, that you must help me to choose the ornament i intend for my wife. your approbation will consecrate my choice; your decisions are sovereign in all that concerns the fashion." the jeweller entered, bringing with him several caskets of gems in a large leather bag. "ah, it is m. baudoin!" said m. de lucenay. "at your grace's service." "i am sure that it is you who ruined my wife with your dazzling and infernal temptations," said m. de lucenay. "madame la duchesse has only had her diamonds reset this winter," said the jeweller, slightly embarrassed; "and now, as i came to m. le marquis, i left them with her grace." m. de saint-remy knew that madame de lucenay, to aid him, had changed her jewels for false stones. he was disagreeably embarrassed at this rencontre, but said, boldly: "how curious these husbands are!--don't answer any inquisitive interrogatories, m. baudoin." "curious; _ma foi!_ no," said the duke; "it is my wife who pays. she can afford all her whims, for she is much richer than i am." during this conversation, m. baudoin had displayed on a table several superb necklaces of rubies and diamonds. "what a fine water, and how exquisitely those stones are cut!" said lord douglas. "alas, sir!" said the jeweller, "i employed in this work one of the most skilful lapidaries in paris, named morel; but, unfortunately, he has become insane, and i shall never find such another workman. my matcher of stones says that, in all probability, it was his wretched condition that deprived the man of his senses, poor fellow!" "wretched condition! what! do you trust diamonds to people in distress?" "certainly, sir; and there is no instance of a lapidary having ever pilfered anything, however miserable and destitute his condition." "how much for this necklace?" inquired m. d'harville. "m. le marquis will observe that the stones are of a splendid water and cut, and nearly all of a size." "these oratorical prefaces threaten your purse," said m. de saint-remy, with a laugh. "now, my dear d'harville, look out for a high price." "come, m. baudoin, have a conscience, and ask the price you mean to take!" said m. d'harville. "i will not haggle with your lordship. the lowest price is forty-two thousand francs ( , _l._)." "gentlemen," exclaimed m. de lucenay, "let us who are married admire d'harville in silence. a man who contrives a surprise for his wife to the amount of forty-two thousand francs! _diable!_ we must not noise that abroad, or it would be a detestable precedent." "laugh on, gentlemen, as much as you please," said the marquis, gaily. "i love my wife, and am not ashamed to confess it; on the contrary, i boast of it." "it is plain enough to be seen," said m. de saint-remy; "such a present speaks more eloquently than all the protestation in the world." "i will take this necklace, then," said m. d'harville, "if the setting of black enamel seems to you in good taste, saint-remy." "oh, it sets off the brilliancy of the stones; it is exquisitely devised." "then this it shall be," said m. d'harville. "you will settle, m. baudoin, with m. doublet, my man of business." "m. doublet told me as much, my lord marquis," said the jeweller, who quitted the apartment, after having packed up his bag without counting the jewels which he had brought (such was his confidence), and notwithstanding m. de saint-remy had for a long time and curiously handled and examined them during the interview. m. d'harville gave the necklace to joseph, who was waiting, and said to him, in a low tone: "mlle. juliette must put these diamonds cleverly away with those of her mistress, so that la marquise may not suspect; and then her surprise will be the greater." at this moment the _maître d'hôtel_ announced that the breakfast was ready; and the guests, passing into the dining-room, seated themselves. "do you know, my dear d'harville," said m. de lucenay, "that this house is one of the most elegant and best arranged in paris?" "it is very convenient, certainly, but we want room; i have a plan to add a gallery on the garden. madame d'harville wishes to give some grand balls, and our salons are not large enough. then, i think, nothing is more inconvenient than the encroachments of fêtes on the apartments one usually occupies, and from which, on such occasions, you are necessarily driven." "i am quite of d'harville's opinion," said m. de saint-remy; "nothing is more wretched, more tradesmanlike, than these movings, compelled by the coming of balls and concerts. to give fêtes, really of the first class, without inconveniencing oneself, there must be devoted to their uses peculiar and special suites of apartments; and then vast and splendid rooms, devoted to a magnificent ball, ought to assume an appearance wholly distinct from that of ordinary salons. there is the same difference between these two sets of apartments as between a monumental fresco-painting and a sketch on a painter's easel." "he is right," said m. d'harville. "what a pity, gentlemen, that saint-remy has not twelve or fifteen hundred thousand livres a year! what wonders he would create for our admiration!" "since we have the happiness to possess a representative government," said the duke de lucenay, "the country ought to vote a million or two a year to saint-remy, and authorise him to represent in paris the french taste and elegance, which should decide the taste and elegance of all europe,--all the world." "adopted!" cried the guests in chorus. "and we would raise these annual millions as compulsory taxes on those abominable misers, who, being possessors of colossal fortunes, should be marked down, accused, and convicted of living like gripe-farthings," added m. de lucenay. "and as such," added m. d'harville, "condemned to defray those splendours which they ought to display." "not including that these functions of high priest, or, rather, grand master of elegance, which would devolve on saint-remy," continued m. de lucenay, "would have, by imitation, an enormous influence on the general taste." "he would be the type which all would seek to resemble." "that is evident." "and, in endeavouring to imitate him, taste would become purified." "at the time of the renaissance taste became universally excellent, because it was modelled on that of the aristocracy, which was exquisite." "by the serious turn which the question has taken," said m. d'harville, gaily, "i see that we have only to address a petition to the chambers for the establishment of the office of grand master of french elegance." "and as the deputies have credit for possessing very elevated, very artistic, and very magnificent ideas, of course it will be voted by acclamation." "whilst we are waiting the decision which shall establish as a right the supremacy which saint-remy exercises in fact," said m. d'harville, "i will ask him his opinion as to the gallery which i propose to erect; for i have been struck with his ideas as to the right splendour of fêtes." "my faint lights are at your service, d'harville." "and when shall we commence our magnificences, my dear fellow?" "next year, i suppose, for i intend to begin my works without delay." "how full of projects you are!" "_ma foi!_ i have others also; i contemplate an entire alteration of val-richer." "your estate in burgundy?" "yes; there is much that may be done there, if, indeed, god grants me life." "poor old fellow!" "have you not recently bought a farm near val-richer to complete your ring-fence?" "yes, a very nice thing, to which i was advised by my notary." "and who is this rare and precious notary who advises such admirable purchases?" "m. jacques ferrand." at this name a slight shudder came over m. de saint-remy, and he frowned imperceptibly. "is he really the honest man they call him?" he inquired, carelessly, of m. d'harville, who then remembered what rodolph had related to clémence about the notary. "jacques ferrand? what a question! why, his honesty is a proverb," said m. de lucenay. "as respected as respectable." "and very pious; which does him no harm." "excessively stingy; which is a guarantee for his clients." "in fact, he is one of the notaries of the 'old rock,' who ask you whom you take them for when you ask them for a receipt for the money which you place in their hands." "that would have no effect on me; i would trust him with my whole fortune." "but where the deuce did saint-remy imbibe his doubts with respect to this honest man, whose integrity is proverbial?" "i am but the echo of certain vague reports; besides, i have no reason for running down this phoenix of notaries. but to return to your plans, d'harville, what is it you wish to build at val-richer? i have heard that the château is excessively beautiful." "make yourself easy, my dear saint-remy, for you shall be consulted, and sooner than you expect, perhaps, for i take much pleasure in such works. i think that there is nothing more interesting than to have those affairs in hand, which expand as you examine them, and they advance, giving you occupation for years to come. to-day one project, next year another, after that something else springs up. add to this a charming woman whom one adores, and who shares your every taste and pleasure, then, _ma foi!_ life passes sweetly enough." "i think so, _pardieu_! why, it then makes earth a perfect paradise." "now, gentlemen," said d'harville, when the breakfast was finished, "if you will smoke a cigar in my cabinet, you will find some excellent havannahs there." they rose from the table, and returned to the cabinet of the marquis. the door of his bedchamber, which communicated with it, was open. we have said the only decoration of the room consisted of two small racks of very beautiful arms. m. de lucenay, having lighted a cigar, followed the marquis into his room. "you see, i am still a great lover of good weapons," said d'harville to him. "yes, and i see you have here some splendid english and french guns. _ma foi!_ i hardly know which to admire most. douglas," exclaimed m. de lucenay, "come and see if these fowling-pieces are not equal to your crack mantons." lord douglas, saint-remy, and the two other guests went into the marquis's room to examine the arms. m. d'harville, taking down a duelling-pistol, cocked it, and said, laughingly: "here, gentlemen, is the universal panacea for all the ills,--spleen, disgust, weariness." and as he spoke, jestingly, he placed the muzzle to his lips. "_ma foi!_ i prefer another specific," said saint-remy; "that is only good in the most desperate cases." "yes, but it is so speedy," said m. d'harville. "click! and it is done!" "pray be cautious, d'harville; these jokes are always so rash and dangerous; and accident happens in an instant," said m. de lucenay. "my dear fellow, do you think i would do so if it were loaded?" "of course not, but it is always imprudent." "see, gentlemen, how it is done. you introduce the muzzle delicately between the teeth, and then--" "how foolish you are, d'harville, to place it so!" said m. de lucenay. "you place your finger on the trigger--" continued m. d'harville. "what a child! what folly at your age!" "a small touch on the lock," added the marquis, "and one goes--" as he spoke the pistol went off. m. d'harville had blown his brains out. it is impossible to paint the horror,--the stupor, of m. d'harville's guests. [illustration: _m. d'harville had blown his brains out._ original etching by mercier.] next day the following appeared in one of the newspapers: "yesterday an event, as unforeseen as deplorable, put all the faubourg st. germain in a state of excitement. one of those imprudent acts, which every year produce such sad accidents, has caused this terrible misfortune. the following are the facts which we have gathered, the authenticity of which may be relied upon. "the marquis d'harville, the possessor of an immense fortune, and scarcely twenty-six years of age, universally known for his kind-hearted benevolence, and married but a few years to a wife whom he idolised, had some friends to breakfast with him; on leaving the table, they went into m. d'harville's sleeping apartment, where there were several firearms of considerable value. whilst the guests were looking at some choice fowling-pieces, m. d'harville in jest took up a pistol which he thought was not loaded, and placed the muzzle to his lips. though warned by his friends, he pressed on the trigger,--the pistol went off, and the unfortunate young gentleman dropped down dead, with his skull horribly fractured. it is impossible to describe the extreme consternation of the friends of m. d'harville, with whom but a few instants before he had been talking of various plans and projects, full of life, spirits, and animation. in fact, as if all the circumstances of this sad event must be still more cruel by the most painful contrasts, that very morning m. d'harville, desirous of agreeably surprising his wife, had purchased a most expensive ornament, which he intended as a present to her. it was at this very moment, when, perhaps, life had never appeared more smiling and attractive, that he fell a victim to this most distressing accident. "all reflections on such a dreadful event are useless. we can only remain overwhelmed at the inscrutable decrees of providence." we quote this journal in order to show the general opinion which attributed the death of clémence's husband to fatal and lamentable imprudence. is there any occasion to say that m. d'harville alone carried with him to the tomb the mysterious secret of his voluntary death,--yes, voluntary and calculated upon, and meditated with as much calmness as generosity, in order that clémence might not conceive the slightest suspicion as to the real cause of his suicide? thus the projects of which m. d'harville had talked with his steward and his friends,--those happy confidences to his old servant, the surprise which he proposed for his wife, were all but so many precautions for the public credulity. how could it be supposed that a man so preoccupied as to the future, so anxious to please his wife, could think of killing himself? his death was, therefore, attributed to imprudence, and could not be attributed to anything else. as to his determination, an incurable despair had dictated that. by showing herself as affectionate towards him, and as tender as she had formerly been cold and disdainful, by again appearing to entertain a high regard, clémence had awakened in the heart of her husband deep remorse. seeing her so sadly resigned to a long life without love, passed with a man visited by an incurable and frightful malady, and utterly persuaded that, after her solemn conversation, clémence could never subdue the repugnance with which he inspired her, m. d'harville was seized with a profound pity for his wife, and an entire disgust for himself and for life. in the exasperation of his anguish, he said to himself: "i only love,--i never can love,--but one woman in the world, and she is my own wife. her conduct, full of noble-heartedness and high mind, would but increase my mad passion, if it be possible to increase it. and she, my wife, can never belong to me! she has a right to despise,--to hate me! i have, by base deceit, chained this young creature to my hateful lot! i repent it bitterly. what, then, should i do for her? free her from the hateful ties which my selfishness has riveted upon her. my death alone can break those rivets; and i must, therefore, die by my own hand!" this was why m. d'harville had accomplished this great,--this terrible sacrifice. the inexorable immutability of the law sometimes makes certain terrible positions irremediable, and, as in this case (as divorce was unattainable), only allows the injury to be effaced by an additional crime. chapter ix. st. lazare. the prison of st. lazare, especially devoted to female thieves and prostitutes, is daily visited by many ladies, whose charity, whose names, and whose social position command universal respect. these ladies, educated in the midst of the splendours of fortune,--these ladies, properly belonging to the best society,--come every week to pass long hours with the miserable prisoners of st. lazare; watching in these degraded souls for the least indication of an aspiration towards good, the least regret for a past criminal life, and encouraging the good tendencies, urging repentance, and, by the potent magic of the words, duty, honour, virtue, withdrawing from time to time one of these abandoned, fallen, degraded, despised creatures, from the depths of utter pollution. accustomed to delicacy and the most polished breeding of the highest circles, these courageous females quit their homes, after having pressed their lips on the virgin foreheads of their daughters, pure as the angels of heaven, and go into dark prisons to brave the coarse indifference or infamous language of these thieves and lost women. faithful to their tasks of high morality, they boldly plunge into the tainted soil, place their hands on those gangrened hearts, and, if any feeble pulsation of honour reveals to them a slight hope of recovery, they contend for and snatch from irrevocable perdition the wretched soul of which they have never despaired. having said so much by way of introduction to the new scenes to which we are about to direct attention, we will introduce the reader to st. lazare, an immense edifice of imposing and repulsive aspect, situated in the faubourg st. denis. ignorant of the shocking drama that was passing at her own house, madame d'harville had gone to the prison, after having received certain information from madame de lucenay as to the two unhappy females whom the cupidity of jacques ferrand had plunged into misery. madame de blinval, one of the patronesses of the charity of the young prisoners, being on this day unable to accompany clémence to st. lazare, she had gone thither alone. she was received with great attention by the governor and the several female superintendents, who were distinguished by their black garments and the blue riband with the silver medal which they wore around their necks. one of these superintendents, a female of mature age, with a serious but kind expression of countenance, remained alone with madame d'harville, in a small room attached to the registry office. we may easily suppose that there is often unrecognised devotion, understanding, commiseration, and sagacity amongst the respectable females who devote themselves to the humble and obscure function of superintendent of the prisoners. nothing can be more excellent, more practical, than the notions of order, work, and duty which they endeavour to instil into the prisoners, in the hope that these instructions may survive their term of imprisonment. in turns indulgent and firm, patient and severe, but always just and impartial, these females, incessantly in contact with the prisoners, end, after the lengthened experience of years, by acquiring such a knowledge of the physiognomy of these unfortunates that they can judge of them almost invariably from the first glance, and can at once classify them according to their degree of immorality. madame armand, the inspectress who remained with madame d'harville, possessed in a remarkable degree this almost supernatural prescience as to the character of the prisoners; her words and decisions had very great weight in the establishment. madame armand said to clémence: "since madame wishes me to point out to her such of our prisoners as have by good conduct, or sincere repentance, deserved that an interest should be taken in them, i believe i can mention to her a poor girl whom i believe to be more unfortunate than culpable; for i am not deceived when i say that it is not too late to save this young girl, an unhappy creature of not more than sixteen or seventeen years of age." "and for what is she imprisoned?" "she is guilty of being found in the champs elysées in the evening. as it is prohibited to such females, under very severe penalties, to frequent, by day or night, certain public places, and as the champs elysées are in the number of the forbidden promenades, she was apprehended." "and does she appear to you interesting?" "i never saw features more regular, more ingenuous. picture to yourself, my lady, the face of a virgin; and what adds still more to the expression of modesty in her countenance is that, on coming here, she was dressed like a peasant girl of the environs of paris." "she is, then, a country girl?" "no, my lady; the inspectors knew her again. she had lived for some weeks in a horrible abode in the cité, from which she has been absent for two or three months; but, as she had not demanded the erasure of her name from the police registries, she comes under the power of that body, which has sent her hither." "but, perhaps, she had quitted paris to try and reinstate herself?" "i think so, madame; and it is therefore i have taken such an interest in her. i have questioned her as to her past life, inquired if she came from the country, and told her to hope, as i did myself, that she might still return to a course of good life." "and what reply did she make?" "lifting her full and melancholy blue eyes on me, filled with tears, she said, with angelic sweetness, 'i thank you, madame, for your kindness; but i cannot say one word as to the past; i was apprehended,--i was doing wrong, and i do not therefore complain.' 'but where do you come from? where have you been since you quitted the cité? if you went into the country to seek an honest livelihood, say so, and prove it. we will write to the prefect to obtain your liberty, your name will be scratched off the police register, and you will be encouraged in your good resolutions.' 'i beseech you, madame, do not ask me; i cannot answer you,' she replied. 'but, on leaving this house, would you return again to that place of infamy?' 'oh, never!' she exclaimed. 'what, then, will you do?' 'god only knows!' she replied, letting her head fall on her bosom." "very singular! and she expresses herself--" "in very excellent terms, madame; her deportment is timid and respectful, but without servility; nay, more, in spite of the extreme gentleness of her voice and look, there is in her accent and her attitude a sort of proud sorrow which puzzles me. if she did not belong to that wretched class of which she forms one, i should say that her haughtiness announces a soul which has a consciousness of dignity." "but this is all a romance!" exclaimed clémence, deeply interested, and finding, as rodolph had told her, that nothing was more interesting than to do good. "and how does she behave with the other prisoners? if she is endowed with that dignity of soul that you imagine, she must suffer excessively in the midst of her wretched associates." "madame, for me, who observe all from my position, and from habit, all about this young girl is a subject of astonishment. although she has been here only three days, yet she already possesses a sort of influence over the other prisoners." "in so short a time?" "they feel for her not only interest, but almost respect." "what! these unhappy women--" "have sometimes the instinct of a remarkable delicacy in recognising and detecting noble qualities in others; only, they frequently hate those persons whose superiority they are compelled to admit." "but do they hate this poor girl?" "far from it, my lady; none of them knew her before she came here. they were at first struck with her appearance. her features, although of singular beauty, are, if i may so express myself, covered with a touching and sickly paleness; and this melancholy and gentle countenance at first inspired them with more interest than jealousy. then she is very silent, another source of surprise for these creatures, who, for the most part, always endeavour to banish thought by making a noise, talking, and moving about. in fact, although reserved and retiring, she showed herself compassionate, which prevented her companions from taking offence at her coldness of manner. this is not all: about a month since, an intractable creature, nicknamed la louve (the she-wolf), such is her violent and brutal character, became a resident here. she is a woman of twenty years of age, tall, masculine, with good-looking but strongly marked features, and we are sometimes compelled to place her in the black-hole to subdue her violence. the day before yesterday, only, she came out of the cell, still irritated at the punishment she had undergone; it was meal-time, the poor girl of whom i speak could not eat, and said, sorrowfully, to her companions, 'who will have my bread?' 'i will!' said la louve. 'i will!' then said a creature almost deformed, called mont saint-jean, who is the laughing-stock and, sometimes in spite of us, the butt of the other prisoners, although several months advanced in pregnancy. the young girl gave her bread to this latter, to the extreme anger of la louve. 'it was i who asked you for the allowance first!' she exclaimed, furiously. 'that is true; but this poor woman is about to become a mother, and wants it more than you do,' replied the young girl. la louve, notwithstanding, snatched the bread from the hands of mont saint-jean, and began to wave her knife about, and to vociferate loudly. as she is very evil-disposed and much feared, no one dared take the part of the poor goualeuse, although all the prisoners silently sided with her." "what do you call her name, madame?" "la goualeuse; it is the name, or rather the nickname, under which they brought her here who is my protégée, and will, i hope, my lady, soon be yours. almost all of them have borrowed names." "this is a very singular one." "it signifies in their horrid jargon 'the singer,' for the young girl has, they told me, a very delightful voice; and i believe it, for her speaking tones are sweetness itself." "but how did she escape from this wretch, la louve?" "rendered still more furious by the composure of la goualeuse, she rushed towards her, uttering menaces, and with her uplifted knife in her hand. all the prisoners cried out with fear; la goualeuse alone, looking at this fierce creature without alarm, smiled at her bitterly and said, in her sweet voice, 'oh, kill me! kill me! i am willing to die. but do not make me suffer too great pain!' these words, they told me, were uttered with a simplicity so affecting, that almost all the prisoners burst into tears." "i can imagine so," said madame d'harville, deeply moved. "the worst characters," continued the inspectress, "have, fortunately, occasional good feelings. when she heard these words, bearing the stamp of such painful resignation, la louve, touched (as she afterwards declared) to her inmost core, threw her knife on the ground, fell at her feet and exclaimed, 'it was wrong--shameful to threaten you, goualeuse, for i am stronger than you! you are not afraid of my knife; you are bold--brave! i like brave people; and now, from this day forth, if any dare to molest you, let them beware, for i will defend you.'" "what a singular being!" "this incident strengthened la goualeuse's influence still more and more. a thing almost unexampled here, none of the prisoners accost her familiarly. the majority are respectful to her, and even proffer to do for her all the little services that prisoners can render to one another. i spoke to some of the women of her dormitory, to learn the reason of this deference which was evinced towards her. 'it is hardly explicable to ourselves,' they replied; 'but it is easy to perceive she is not one of us.' 'but who told you so?' 'no one told us; it is easy to discover it.' 'by what?' 'by a thousand things. in the first place, before she goes to bed, she goes down on her knees and says her prayers; and if she pray, as la louve says, why, she must have a right to do so.'" "what a strange observation!" "these unhappy creatures have no religious feeling, and still they never utter here an impious or irreligious word. you will see, madame, in all our rooms small altars, where the statue of the virgin is surrounded with offerings and ornaments which they have made. every sunday they burn a quantity of wax candles before them in _ex-voto_. those who attend the chapel behave remarkably well; but generally the very sight of holy places frightens them. to return to la goualeuse; her companions said to me, 'we see that she is not one of us, by her gentle ways, her sadness, and the manner in which she talks.' 'and then,' added la louve (who was present at this conversation), abruptly, 'it is quite certain that she is not one of us, for this morning, in the dormitory, without knowing why, we were all ashamed of dressing ourselves before her.'" "what remarkable delicacy in the midst of so much degradation!" exclaimed madame d'harville. "yes, madame, in the presence of men, and amongst themselves, modesty is unknown to them, and yet they are painfully confused at being seen half dressed by us or the charitable visitors who come, like your ladyship, to the prison. thus the profound instinct of modesty, which god has implanted in us, reveals itself even in these fallen creatures, at the sight of those persons whom they can respect." "it is at least consolatory to find some good and natural feelings, which are stronger even than depravity." "assuredly it is; and these women are capable of devoted attachments which, were they worthily placed, would be most honourable. there is also another sacred feeling with them, who respect nothing, fear nothing, and that is maternity. they honour it, rejoice at it; and they are admirable mothers, considering nothing a sacrifice to keep their children near them. they will undergo any trouble, difficulty, or danger that they may bring them up; for, as they say, these little beings are the only ones who do not despise them." "have they, then, so deep a sense of their abject condition?" "they are not half so much despised by others as they despise themselves. with those who sincerely repent, the original blot of sin is ineffaceable in their own eyes, even if they should find themselves in a better position; others go mad, so irremediably is this idea imprinted in their minds; and i should not be surprised, madame, if the heartfelt grief of la goualeuse is attributable to something of this nature." "if so, how she must suffer!--a remorse which nothing can soothe!" "fortunately, madame, this remorse is more frequent than is commonly believed. the avenging conscience is never completely lulled to sleep; or, rather, strange as it may appear, sometimes it would seem that the soul is awake whilst the body is in a stupor; and this remark i again made last night in reference to my protégée." "what! la goualeuse?" "yes, madame." "in what way?" "frequently, when the prisoners are asleep, i walk through the dormitories. you would scarcely believe, my lady, how the countenances of these women differ in expression whilst they are slumbering. a good number of them, whom i have seen during the day, saucy, careless, bold, insolent, have appeared entirely changed when sleep has removed from their features all exaggeration of bravado; for, alas, vice has its pride! oh, madame, what sad revelations on those dejected, mournful, and gloomy faces! what painful sighs, involuntarily elicited by some dream. i was speaking to your ladyship just now of the girl they call la louve,--an untamed, untamable creature. it is but a fortnight since that she abused me in the vilest terms before all the prisoners. i shrugged up my shoulders, and my indifference whetted her rage. then, in order to offend me more sorely, she began to say all sorts of disgraceful things of my mother, whom she had often seen come here to visit me." "what a shameful creature!" "i confess that, although this attack was not worth minding, yet it made me feel uncomfortable. la louve perceived this, and rejoiced in it. the same night, about midnight, i went to inspect the dormitories; i went to la louve's bedside (she was not to be put in the dark cell until next day) and i was struck with her calmness,--i might say the sweetness of her countenance,--compared with the harsh and daring expression which is habitual to it. her features seemed suppliant, filled with regret and contrition; her lips were half open, her breast seemed oppressed, and--what appeared to me incredible, for i thought it impossible--two tears, two large tears, were in the eyes of this woman, whose disposition was of iron! i looked at her in silence for several minutes, when i heard her say, 'pardon! pardon! her mother!' i listened more attentively, but all i could catch, in the midst of a murmur scarcely intelligible, was my name, 'madame armand,' uttered with a sigh." "she repented, during her sleep, of having uttered this bad language about your mother." "so i believe; and that made me less severe. no doubt she desired, through a miserable vanity, to increase her natural insolence in her companions' eyes, whilst, perhaps, a good instinct made her repent in her sleep." "and did she evince any repentance for her bad behaviour next day?" "not the slightest, but conducted herself as usual, and was coarse, rude, and obstinate; but i assure your ladyship that nothing disposes us more to pity than the observations i have mentioned to you. i am persuaded (i may deceive myself, perhaps) that, during their sleep, these unfortunates become better, or rather return to themselves, with all their faults, it is true, but also with certain good instincts, no longer masked by the detestable assumption of vice. from all i have observed, i am led to believe that these creatures are generally less wicked than they affect to be; and, acting upon this conviction, i have often attained results it would have been impossible to realise, if i had entirely despaired of them." madame d'harville could not conceal her surprise at so much good sense, and so much just reasoning, joined to sentiments of humanity so noble and so practical, in an obscure inspectress of degraded women. "but my dear madame," observed clémence, "you must have a great deal of courage, and much strength of mind, not to be repulsed by the ungratefulness of the task, which must so very seldom reward you by satisfactory results!" "the consciousness of fulfilling a duty sustains and encourages, and sometimes we are recompensed by happy discoveries; now and then we find some rays of light in hearts which have hitherto been supposed to be in utter darkness." "yet, madame, persons like you are very rarely met with?" "no, i assure your ladyship, others do as i do, with more success and intelligence than i have. one of the inspectresses of the other division of st. lazare, which is occupied by females charged with different crimes, would interest you much more. she told me this morning of the arrival of a young girl accused of infanticide. i never heard anything more distressing. the father of the unhappy girl, a hard-working, honest lapidary, has gone mad with grief on hearing his daughter's shame. it seems that nothing could be more frightful than the destitution of all this family, who lived in a wretched garret in the rue du temple." "the rue du temple!" exclaimed madame d'harville, much astonished; "what is the workman's name?" "his daughter's name is louise morel." "'tis as i thought, then!" "she was in the service of a respectable lawyer named m. jacques ferrand." "this poor family has been recommended to me," said clémence, blushing; "but i was far from expecting to see it bowed down by this fresh and terrible blow. and louise morel--" "declares her innocence, and affirms her child was born dead; and it seems as if hers were accents of truth. since your ladyship takes an interest in this family, if you would be so good as to see the poor girl, perhaps this mark of your kindness might soothe her despair, which they tell me is really alarming." "certainly i will see her; then i shall have two protégées instead of one, louise morel and la goualeuse, for all you tell me relative to this poor girl interests me excessively. but what must be done to obtain her liberty? i will then find a situation for her. i will take care of her in future." "with your connections, madame, it will be very easy for you to obtain her liberty the day after to-morrow, for it is at the discretion of the prefect of police, and the application of a person of consequence would be decisive with him. but i have wandered from the observation which i made on the slumber of la goualeuse; and, with reference to this, i must confess that i should not be astonished if, to the deeply painful feeling of her first error, there is added some other grief no less severe." "what mean you, madame?" "perhaps i am deceived; but i should not be astonished if this young girl, rescued by some circumstance from the degradation in which she was first plunged, has now some honest love, which is at the same time her happiness and her torment." "what are your reasons for believing this?" "the determined silence which she keeps as to where she has passed the three months which followed her departure from the cité makes me think that she fears being discovered by the persons with whom she in all probability found a shelter." "why should she fear this?" "because then she would have to own to a previous life, of which they are no doubt ignorant." "true; her peasant's dress." "and then a subsequent circumstance has confirmed my suspicions. yesterday evening, when i was walking my round of inspection in the dormitory, i went up to la goualeuse's bed. she was in a deep sleep, and, unlike her companions, her features were calm and tranquil. her long, light hair, half disengaged from their bands, fell in profusion down her neck and shoulders. her two small hands were clasped, and crossed over her bosom, as if she had gone to sleep whilst praying. i looked for some moments with interest at her lovely face, when, in a low voice, and with an accent at once respectful, sad, and impassioned, she uttered a name." "and that name?" after a moment's silence, madame armand replied, gravely: "although i consider that anything learnt during sleep is sacred, yet you interest yourself so generously in this unfortunate girl, madame, that i will confide this name to your secrecy. it was rodolph." "rodolph!" exclaimed madame d'harville, thinking of the prince. then, reflecting that, after all, his highness the grand duke of gerolstein could have no connection with the rodolph of the poor goualeuse, she said to the inspectress, who seemed astonished at her exclamation: "the name has surprised me, madame, for, by a singular chance, it is that of a relation of mine; but what you tell me of la goualeuse interests me more and more. can i see her to-day? now--directly?" "yes, madame, i will go, as you wish it, and ask her; i can also learn more of louise morel, who is in the other side of the prison." "i shall, indeed, be greatly obliged to you, madame," replied madame d'harville, who the next moment was alone. "how strange!" she said. "i cannot account for the singular impression which this name of rodolph makes upon me! i am really quite insane! what connection can there be between him and such a creature?" then, after a moment's silence, the marchioness added, "he was right; how all this does interest me! the mind, the heart, expand when they are occupied so nobly! 'tis as he said; we seem to participate somewhat in the power of providence when we aid those who deserve it; and, then, these excursions into a world of which we had no idea are so attractive,--so amusing, as he said so pleasantly! what romance could give me such deep feelings, excite my curiosity to such a pitch? this poor goualeuse, for instance, has inspired me with deep pity, after all i have heard of her; and i will blindly follow up this commiseration, for the inspectress has too much experience to be deceived with respect to our protégée. and the other unhappy girl,--the artisan's daughter, whom the prince has so generously succoured in my name! poor people! their bitter suffering has served as a pretext to save me. i have escaped shame, perhaps death, by a hypocritical falsehood. this deceit weighs on my mind, but i will expiate my fault by my charity, though that may be too easy a mode. it is so sweet to follow rodolph's noble advice! it is to love as well as to obey him. oh, i feel it with rapture! his breath, alone, animates and fertilises the new existence which he has given me in directing me to console those who suffer. i experience an unalloyed delight in acting but as he directs, in having no ideas but his; for i love him,--ah, yes, i love him! and yet he shall always be in ignorance of this, the lasting passion of my life." * * * * * whilst madame d'harville is waiting for la goualeuse, we will conduct the reader into the presence of the prisoners. chapter x. mont saint-jean. it was just two o'clock by the dial of the prison of st. lazare. the cold, which had lasted for several days, had been succeeded by soft, mild, and almost spring weather; the rays of the sun were reflected in the water of the large square basin, with its stone corners, formed in the centre of a courtyard planted with trees, and surrounded by dark, high walls pierced with a great many iron-barred windows. wooden benches were fastened here and there in this large paved enclosure, which served for the walking-place of the prisoners. the ringing of a bell announcing the hour of recreation, the prisoners came in throngs by a thick wicket-door which was opened to them. these women, all clad alike, wore black skull-caps and long loose gowns of blue woollen cloth, fastened around the waist by a band and iron buckle. there were there two hundred prostitutes, sentenced for breach of the particular laws which control them and place them out of the pale of the common law. at first sight their appearance had nothing striking, but, after regarding them with further attention, there might be detected in each face the almost ineffaceable stigmas of vice, and particularly that brutishness which ignorance and misery invariably engender. whilst contemplating these masses of lost creatures, we cannot help recollecting with sorrow that most of them have been pure and honest, at least at some former period. we say "most of them," because there are some who have been corrupted, vitiated, depraved, not only from their youth, but from tenderest infancy,--even from their very birth, if we may say so; and we shall prove it as we proceed. we ask ourselves, then, with painful curiosity, what chain of fatal causes could thus debase these unhappy creatures, who have known shame and chastity? there are so many declivities, alas, which verge to that fall! it is rarely the passion of the depraved for depravity; but dissipation, bad example, perverse education, and, above all, want, which lead so many unfortunates to infamy; and it is the poor classes alone who pay to civilisation this impost on soul and body. * * * * * when the prisoners came into the yard, running and crying out, it was easy to discern that it was not alone the pleasure of leaving their work that made them so noisy. after having hurried forth by the only gate which led to this yard, the crowd spread out and made a ring around a misshapen being, whom they assailed with shouts. she was a small woman, from thirty-six to forty years of age; short, round-shouldered, deformed, and with her neck buried between shoulders of unequal height. they had snatched off her black cap, and her hair, which was flaxen, or rather a pale yellow, coarse, matted, and mingled with gray, fell over her low and stupid features. she was clad in a blue loose gown, like the other prisoners, and had under her right arm a small bundle, wrapped up in a miserable, ragged, checked pocket-handkerchief. with her left elbow she endeavoured to ward off the blows aimed at her. nothing could be more lamentably ludicrous than the visage of this unhappy woman. she was hideous and distorted in figure, with projecting features, wrinkled, tanned, and dirty, which were pierced with two holes for nostrils, and two small, red, bloodshot eyes. by turns wrathful and imploring, she scolded and entreated; but they laughed even more at her complaints than her threats. this woman was the plaything of the prisoners. one thing ought, however, to have protected her from such ill-usage,--she was evidently about to become a mother; but her ugliness, her imbecility, and the custom they had of considering her as a victim intended for common sport, rendered her persecutors implacable, in spite of their usual respect for maternity. amongst the fiercest enemies of mont saint-jean (that was the unhappy wretch's name), la louve was conspicuous. la louve was a strapping girl of twenty, active, and powerfully grown, with regular features. her coarse black hair was varied by reddish shades, whilst her blood suffused her skin with its hue; a brown down shaded her thin lips; her chestnut eyebrows, thick and projecting, were united over her large and fierce eyes. there was something violent, savage, and brutal in the expression of this woman's physiognomy,--a sort of habitual sneer, which curled her upper lip during a fit of rage, and, exposing her white and wide-apart teeth, accounted for her name of la louve (the she-wolf). yet in that countenance there was more of boldness and insolence than cruelty; and, in a word, it was seen that, rather become vicious than born so, this woman was still susceptible of certain good impulses, as the inspectress had told madame d'harville. "alas! alas! what have i done?" exclaimed mont saint-jean, struggling in the midst of her companions. "why are you so cruel to me?" "because it is so amusing." "because you are only fit to be teased." "it is your business." "look at yourself, and you will see that you have no right to complain." "but you know well enough that i don't complain as long as i can help it; i bear it as long as i can." "well, we'll let you alone, if you will tell us why you call yourself mont saint-jean." "yes, yes; come, tell us all that directly." "why, i've told you a hundred times. it was an old soldier that i loved a long while ago, and who was called so because he was wounded at the battle of mont saint-jean; so i took his name. that's it; now are you satisfied? you will make me repeat the same thing over, and over, and over!" "if your soldier was like you, he was a beauty!" "i suppose he was in the invalids?" "the remains of a man--" "how many glass eyes had he?" "and wasn't his nose of block tin?" "he must have been short of two arms and two legs, besides being deaf and blind, if he took up with you." "i am ugly,--a monster, i know that as well as you can tell me. say what you like,--make game of me, if you choose, it's all one to me; only don't beat me, that's all, i beg!" "what have you got in that old handkerchief?" asked la louve. "yes, yes! what is it?" "show it up directly!" "let's see! let's see!" "oh, no, i beg!" exclaimed the miserable creature, squeezing up the little bundle in her hands with all her might. "what! must we take it from you?" "yes, snatch it from her, la louve!" "oh, you won't be so wicked? let it go! let it go, i say!" "what is it?" "why, it's the beginning of my baby linen; i make it with the old bits of linen which no one wants, and i pick up. it's nothing to you, is it?" "oh, the baby linen of mont saint-jean's little one! that must be a rum set out!" "let's look at it." "the baby clothes! the baby clothes!" "she has taken measure of the keeper's little dog, no doubt." "here's your baby clothes," cried la louve, snatching the bundle from mont saint-jean's grasp. the handkerchief, already torn, was now rent to tatters, and a quantity of fragments of stuff of all colours, and old pieces of linen half cut out, flew around the yard, and were trampled under feet by the prisoners, who holloaed and laughed louder than before. "here's your rags!" "why, it is a ragpicker's bag." "patterns from the ragman's." "what a shop!" "and to sew all that rubbish!" "why, there's more thread than stuff." "what nice embroidery!" "here, pick up your rags and tatters, mont saint-jean." "oh, how wicked! oh, how cruel!" exclaimed the poor ill-used creature, running in every direction after the pieces, which she endeavoured to pick up in spite of pushes and blows. "i never did anybody any harm," she added, weeping. "i have offered, if they would let me alone, to do anything i could for anybody, to give them half my allowance, although i am always so hungry; but, no! no! it's always so. what can i do to be left in peace? they haven't even pity of a poor woman in the family way. they are more cruel than the beasts. oh, the trouble i had to collect these little bits of linen! how else can i make the clothes for my baby, for i have no money to buy them with? what harm was there in picking up what nobody else wanted when it was thrown away?" then mont saint-jean exclaimed suddenly, with a ray of hope, "oh, there you are, goualeuse! now, then, i'm safe; do speak to them for me; they will listen to you, i am sure, for they love you as much as they hate me." la goualeuse was the last of the prisoners who entered the enclosure. fleur-de-marie wore the blue woollen gown and black skull-cap of the prisoners; but even in this coarse costume she was still charming. yet, since her carrying off from the farm of bouqueval (the consequences of which circumstance we will explain hereafter), her features seemed greatly altered; her pale cheeks, formerly tinged with a slight colour, were as wan as the whiteness of alabaster; the expression, too, of her countenance had changed, and was now imprinted with a kind of dignified grief. fleur-de-marie felt that to bear courageously the painful sacrifices of expiation is almost to attain restored position. "ask a favour for me, goualeuse," said poor mont saint-jean, beseechingly, to the young girl; "see how they are flinging about the yard all i had collected, with so much trouble, to begin my baby linen for my child. what good can it do them?" fleur-de-marie did not say a word, but began very actively to pick up, one by one, from under the women's feet, all the rags she could collect. one prisoner ill-temperedly kept her foot on a sort of little bed-gown of coarse woollen cloth. fleur-de-marie, still stooping, looked up at the woman, and said to her in a sweet tone: "i beg of you let me pick it up. i ask it in the name of this poor woman who is weeping." the prisoner removed her foot. the bed-gown was rescued, as well as most of the other scraps, which la goualeuse acquired piece by piece. there remained to obtain a small child's cap, which two prisoners were struggling for, and laughing at. fleur-de-marie said to them: "be all good, pray do. let me have the little cap." "oh, to be sure! it's for a harlequin in swaddling-clothes this cap is! it is made of a bit of gray stuff, with points of green and black fustian, and lined with a bit of an old mattress cover." the description was exact, and was hailed with loud and long-continued shoutings. "laugh away, but let me have it," said mont saint-jean; "and pray do not drag it in the mud as you have some of the other things. i'm sorry you've made your hands so dirty for me, goualeuse," she added, in a grateful tone. "let me have the harlequin's cap," said la louve, who obtained possession of it, and waved it in the air as a trophy. "give it to me, i entreat you," said goualeuse. "no! you want to give it back to mont saint-jean." "certainly i do." "oh, it is not worth while, it is such a rag." "mont saint-jean has nothing but rags to dress her child in, and you ought to have pity upon her, la louve," said fleur-de-marie, in a mournful voice, and stretching out her hand towards the cap. "you sha'n't have it!" answered la louve, in a brutal tone; "must everybody always give way to you because you are the weakest? you come, i see, to abuse the kindness that is shown to you." "but," said la goualeuse, with a smile full of sweetness, "where would be the merit of giving up to me, if i were the stronger of the two?" "no, no; you want to wheedle me over with your smooth, canting words; but it won't do,--you sha'n't have it, i tell you." "come, come, now, la louve, do not be ill-natured." "let me alone! you tire me to death!" "oh, pray do!" "i will not!" "yes, do,--let me beg of you!" "now, don't put me in a passion," exclaimed la louve, thoroughly irritated. "i have said no, and i mean no." "take pity on the poor thing, see how she is crying!" "what is that to me? so much the worse for her; she is our pain-bearer" (_souffre douleur_). "so she is," murmured out a number of the prisoners, instigated by the example of la louve. "no, no, she ought not to have her rags back! so much the worse for mont saint-jean." "you are right," said fleur-de-marie, with bitterness; "it is so much the worse for her; she is your pain-bearer, she ought to submit herself to your pleasure,--her tears and sighs amuse and divert you!--and you must have some way of passing your time. were you to kill her on the spot, she would have no right to say anything. you speak truly, la louve, this is just and fair, is it not? here is a poor, weak, defenceless woman; alone in the midst of so many, she is quite unable to defend herself, yet you all combine against her! certainly your behaviour towards her is most just and generous!" "and i suppose you mean to say we are all a parcel of cowards?" retorted la louve, carried away by the violence of her disposition and extreme impatience at anything like contradiction. "answer me, do you call us cowards, eh? speak out, and let us know your meaning," continued she, growing more and more incensed. a murmur of displeasure against la goualeuse, not unmixed with threats, arose from the assembled crowd. the offended prisoners thronged around her, vociferating their disapprobation, forgetting, or remembering but as a fresh cause of offence, the ascendency she had until the present moment exercised over them. "she calls us cowards, you see!" "what business has she to find fault with us?" "is she better than we are, i should like to know?" "ah, we have all been too kind to her!" "and now she wants to give herself fine lady airs, and to domineer over us! if we choose to torment mont saint-jean, what need has she to interfere?" "since it has come to this, i tell you what, mont saint-jean, you shall fare the worse for it for the future." "take this to begin with!" said one of the most violent of the party, giving her a blow. "and if you meddle again with what does not concern you, la goualeuse, we will serve you the same." "yes, that we will." "but that is not all!" said la louve. "la goualeuse must ask our pardon for having called us cowards. she must and she shall! if we don't put a stop to her goings on, she will soon leave us without the power of saying our soul is our own, and we are great fools not to have seen this sooner." "make her ask our pardon." "on her knee." "on both knees." "or we will serve her precisely the same as we did her protégée, mont saint-jean!" "down on her knees! down with her!" "lo! we are cowards, are we?" "dare to say it again!" fleur-de-marie allowed this tumult to pass away, ere she replied to the many furious voices that were raging around her. then, casting a mild and melancholy glance at the exasperated crowd, she said to la louve, who persisted in vociferating, "will you dare to call us cowards again?" "you? oh, no, not you! i call this poor woman, whom you have so roughly treated, whom you have dragged through the mud, and whose clothes you have nearly torn off, a coward. do you not see how she trembles, and dares not even look at you? no, no! i say again, 'tis she who is a coward, for being thus afraid of you." fleur-de-marie had touched the right chord; in vain might she have appealed to their sense of justice and duty, in order to allay their bitter irritation against poor mont saint-jean; the stupid or brutalised minds of the prisoners would alike have been inaccessible to her pleadings; but, by addressing herself to that sentiment of generosity, which is never wholly extinct, even in the most depraved characters, she kindled a spark of pity, that required but skilful management to fan into a flame of commiseration, instead of hatred and violence. la louve, amid their continued murmurings against la goualeuse and her protégée, felt, and confessed, that their conduct had been both unwomanly and cowardly. fleur-de-marie would not carry her first triumph too far. she contented herself with merely saying: "surely, if this poor creature, whom you call yours, to tease, to torment, to ill-use,--in fact, your _souffre douleur_,--be not worthy of your pity, her infant has done nothing to offend you. did you forget, when striking the mother, that the unborn babe might suffer from your blows? and when she besought your mercy, 'twas not for herself, but her child. when she craves of you a morsel of bread, if, indeed, you have it to spare, 'tis not to satisfy her own hunger she begs it, but that her infant may live; and when, with streaming eyes, she implored of you to spare the few rags she had with so much difficulty collected together, it arose from a mother's love for that unseen treasure her heart so loves and prizes. this poor little patchwork cap, and the pieces of old mattresses she has so awkwardly sewed together, no doubt appear to you fit objects of mirth; but, for my own part, i feel far more inclined to cry than to laugh at seeing the poor creature's instinctive attempts to provide for her babe. so, if you laugh at mont saint-jean, let me come in for my share of your ridicule." not the faintest attempt at a smile appeared on any countenance, and la louve continued, with fixed gaze, to contemplate the little cap she still held in her hand. "i know very well," said fleur-de-marie, drying her eyes with the back of her white and delicate hand,--"i know very well that you are not really ill-natured or cruel, and that you merely torment mont saint-jean from thoughtlessness. but consider that she and her infant are one. if she held it in her arms, not only would you carefully avoid doing it the least injury, but i am quite sure, if it were cold, you would even take from your own garments to cover it. would not you, la louve? oh, i know you would, every one of you!" "to be sure we would,--every one pities a tender baby." "that is quite natural." "and if it cried with hunger, you would take the bread from your own mouth to feed it with. would not you, la louve?" "that i would, and willingly, too! i am not more hard-hearted than other people!" "nor more are we!" "a poor, helpless, little creature!" "who could have the heart to think of harming it?" "they must be downright monsters!" "perfect savages!" "worse than wild beasts!" "i told you so," resumed fleur-de-marie. "i said you were not intentionally unkind; and you have proved that you are good and pitying towards mont saint-jean. the fault consisted in your not reflecting that, although her child is yet unborn, it is still liable to harm from any mischief that befalls its mother. that is all the wrong you have done." "all the wrong we have done!" exclaimed la louve, much excited. "but i say it is not all. you were right, la goualeuse. we acted like a set of cowards; and you alone deserve to be called courageous, because you did not fear to tell us so, or shrink from us after you had told us. it is nonsense to seek to deny the fact that you are not a creature like us,--it is no use trying to persuade ourselves you are like such beings as we are, so we may as well give it up. i don't like to own it, but it is so; and i may just as well confess it. just now, when we were all in the wrong, you had courage enough, not only to refuse to join us, but to tell us of our fault." "that is true enough; and the fair-faced girl must have had a pretty stock of courage to tell us the truth so plainly to our faces." "but, bless you, these blue-eyed people, who look so soft and gentle, if once they are worked up--" "they become courageous as lions." "poor mont saint-jean! she has good reason to be thankful to her!" "what she says is true enough. we could not injure the mother without harming the child also." "i never thought of that." "nor i either." "but you see la goualeuse did,--she never forgets anything." "the idea of hurting an infant! horrible! is it not?" "i'm sure there is not one of us would do it for anything that could be offered us." nothing is more variable than popular passion, or more abrupt than its rapid transition from bad to good, and even the reverse. the simple yet touching arguments of fleur-de-marie had effected a powerful reaction in favour of mont saint-jean, who shed tears of deep joy. every heart seemed moved; for, as we have already said, the womanly feelings of the prisoners had been awakened, and they now felt a solicitude for the unhappy creature in proportion as they had formerly held her in dislike and contempt. all at once, la louve, violent and impetuous in all her actions, twisted the little cap she held in her hand into a sort of purse, and feeling in her pocket brought out twenty sous, which she threw into the purse; then presenting it to her companions, exclaimed: "here is my twenty sous towards buying baby clothes for mont saint-jean's child. we will cut them out and make them ourselves, in order that the work may cost nothing." "oh, yes, let us." "to be sure,--let us all join!" "i will for one." "what a capital idea!" "poor creature!" "though she is so frightfully ugly, yet she has a mother's feelings the same as another." "la goualeuse was right. it is really enough to make one cry one's eyes out, to see what a wretched collection of rags the poor creature has scraped together for her baby." "well, i'll give thirty sous." "and i ten." "i'll give twenty sous." "i've only got four sous, but i'll give them." "i have no money at all; but i'll sell my allowance for to-morrow, and put whatever any one will give for it into the collection. who'll buy my to-morrow's rations?" "i will," said la louve. "so, here i put in ten sous for you; but you shall keep your rations. and now, mont saint-jean shall have baby clothes fit for a princess." to express the joy and gratitude of mont saint-jean would be wholly impossible. the most intense delight and happiness illumined her countenance, and rendered even her usual hideous features interesting. fleur-de-marie was almost as happy, though compelled to say, when la louve handed to her the collecting-cap: "i am very sorry i have not a single sou of money, but i will work as long as you please at making the clothes." "oh, my dear heavenly angel!" cried mont saint-jean, throwing herself on her knees before la goualeuse, and striving to kiss her hand. "what have i ever done to merit such goodness on your part, or the charity of these kind ladies? gracious father! do i hear aright? baby things! and all nice and comfortable for my child! a real, proper set of baby clothes! everything i can require! who would ever have thought of such a thing? i am sure i never should. i shall lose my senses with joy! only to think that a poor, miserable wretch like myself, the make-game of everybody, should all at once, just because you spoke a few soft, sweet words out of that heavenly mouth, have such wonderful blessings! see how your words have changed those who meant to harm me, but who now pity me and are my friends; and i feel as though i could never thank them enough, or express my gratitude! oh, how very, very kind of them! how wrong of me to be offended and angry with what they said! how stupid and ungrateful i must have been not to perceive that they were only playing with me,--that they had no intention of harming me. oh, no! it was all meant for my good. here is a proof of it. oh, for the future, if they like to knock me about ever so, i will not so much as cry out! oh, i was too impatient when i complained before; but i will make up for it next time!" "eighty-eight francs seven sous!" said la louve, finishing her reckoning of the collection gathered by handing about the little bonnet. "who will be treasurer till we lay out the money? we must not entrust it to mont saint-jean, she is too simple." "let la goualeuse take charge of it!" cried a unanimous burst of voices. "no," said fleur-de-marie; "the best way will be to beg of the inspectress, madame armand, to take charge of the sum collected, and to buy the necessary articles for mont saint-jean's confinement; and then,--who knows?--perhaps madame armand may take notice of the good action you have performed, and report it, so as to be the means of shortening the imprisonment of all whose names are mentioned as being concerned in it. tell me, la louve," added fleur-de-marie, taking her companion by the arm, "are you not better satisfied with yourself than you were just now, when you were throwing about all mont saint-jean's poor baby's things?" la louve did not immediately reply. to the generous excitement which a few moments before animated her features, succeeded a sort of half savage air of defiance. unable to comprehend the cause of this sudden change, fleur-de-marie looked at her with surprise. "come here, la goualeuse," said la louve at last, with a gloomy tone; "i want to speak to you." then abruptly quitting the other prisoners, she led fleur-de-marie to a reservoir of water, surrounded by a stone coping, which had been hollowed out in the midst of an adjoining meadow. near the water was a bench, also of stone, on which la louve and la goualeuse placed themselves, and were thus, in a manner, beyond the observation or hearing of their companions. chapter xi. la louve and la goualeuse. we firmly believe in the influence of certain master minds so far sympathising with the masses, so powerful over them as to impose on them the bias of good or evil. some, bold, enthusiastic, indomitable, addressing themselves to the worst passions, will rouse them, as the storm raises the foam of the sea; but, like all tempests, these are as ephemeral as they are furious; to these terrible effervescences will succeed the sullen reversion of sadness and restlessness, which will obtain supremacy over the most miserable conditions. the reaction of violence is always severe; the waking after an excess is always painful. la louve, if you will, personifies this fatal influence. other organisations, more rare, because their generous instincts must be fertilised by intelligence, and with them the mind is on an equality with the heart,--others, we say, will inspire good, as well as some inspire evil. their wholesome influence will gently penetrate into the soul, as the warm rays of the sun penetrate the body with invigorating heat, as the arid and burning earth imbibes the fresh and grateful dew of night. fleur-de-marie, if you will, personifies this benevolent influence. the reaction to good is not so sudden as the reaction to evil; its effects are more protracted. it is something delicious, inexplicable, which gradually extends itself, calms and soothes the most hardened heart, and gives it the feeling of inexpressible serenity. unfortunately the charm ceases. after having seen celestial brightness, ill-disposed persons fall back into the darkness of their habitual life; the recollections of sweet emotions which have for a moment surprised them are gradually effaced. still they sometimes seek vaguely to recall them, even as we try to murmur out the songs with which our happy infancy was cradled. thanks to the good action with which she had inspired them, the companions of la goualeuse had tasted of the passing sweetness of these feelings, in which even la louve had participated; but this latter, for reasons we shall describe hereafter, remained a shorter time than the other prisoners under this benevolent feeling. if we are surprised to hear and see fleur-de-marie, hitherto so passively, so painfully resigned, act and speak with courage and authority, it was because the noble precepts she had imbibed during her residence at the farm at bouqueval had rapidly developed the rare qualities of her admirable disposition. fleur-de-marie understood that it is not sufficient to bewail the irreparable past, and that it is only in doing or inspiring good that a reinstatement can be hoped for. * * * * * we have said that la louve was sitting on a wooden bench, beside la goualeuse. the close proximity of these two young girls offered a singular contrast. the pale rays of a winter sun were shed over them; the pure sky was speckled in places with small, white, and fleecy clouds; some birds, enlivened by the warmth of the temperature, were warbling in the black branches of the large chestnut-trees in the yard; two or three sparrows, more bold than their fellows, came and drank in a small rivulet formed by the overflow of the basin; the green moss covered the stones of the fountain, and between their joints, here and there, were tufts of grass and some small creepers, spared by the frost. this description of a prison-basin may seem puerile; but fleur-de-marie did not lose one of the details, but with her eyes fixed mournfully on the little verdant corner, and on this limpid water in which the moving whiteness of the clouds over the azure of the heavens was reflected, in which the golden rays of a lovely sun broke with beautiful lustre, she thought with a sigh of the magnificence of the nature which she loved, which she admired so poetically, and of which she was still deprived. "what did you wish to say to me?" asked la goualeuse of her companion, who, seated beside her, was gloomy and silent. "we must have an explanation," said la louve, sternly; "things cannot go on as they are." "i do not understand you, la louve." "just now, in the yard, referring to mont saint-jean, i said to myself, 'i won't give way any more to la goualeuse,' and yet i do give way now." "but--" "but i tell you it cannot continue so." "in what have i offended you, la louve?" "why, i am not the same person i was when you came here; no, i have neither courage, strength, nor boldness." then suddenly checking herself, la louve pulled up the sleeve of her gown, and showing la goualeuse her white arm, powerful, and covered with black down, she showed her, on the upper part of it, an indelible tattooing, representing a blue dagger half plunged in a red heart; over this emblem were these words: mort aux lÃ�ches! martial p. l. v. (_pour la vie_.) (death to cowards! martial for life!) "do you see that?" asked la louve. "yes; and it is so shocking, it quite frightens me," said la goualeuse, turning away her head. "when martial, my lover, wrote, with a red-hot needle, these words on my arm, 'death to cowards!' he thought me brave; if he knew my behaviour for the last three days, he would stick his knife in my body, as this dagger is driven into this heart,--and he would be right, for he wrote here, 'death to cowards!' and i am a coward." "what have you done that is cowardly?" "everything." "do you regret the good resolution you made just now?" "yes." "i cannot believe you." "i say i do regret it,--for it is another proof of what you can do with all of us. didn't you understand what mont saint-jean meant when she went on her knees to thank you?" "what did she say?" "she said, speaking of you, that with nothing you turned us from evil to good. i could have throttled her when she said it, for, to our shame, it was true. yes, in no time you change us from black to white. we listen to you,--give way to our first feelings, and are your dupes, as we were just now." "my dupe! for having generously succoured this poor woman?" "oh, it has nothing to do with all that," exclaimed la louve, with rage. "i have never till now stooped my head before a breathing soul. la louve is my name, and i am well named: more than one woman bears my marks, and more than one man, too; and it shall never be said that a little chit like you can place me beneath her feet." "me! and in what way?" "how do i know! you come here, and first begin by insulting me." "insult you?" "yes,--you ask who'll have your bread. i first say--_i._ mont saint-jean did not ask for it till afterwards, and yet you give her the preference. enraged at that, i rushed at you with my uplifted knife--" "and i said to you, 'kill me, if you like, but do not let me linger long,' and that is all." "that is all? yes, that is all. and yet these words made me drop my knife,--made me--ask your pardon,--yes, pardon of you who insulted me. is that natural? why, when i recovered my senses, i was ashamed of myself. the evening you came here, when you were on your knees to say your prayers,--why, instead of making game of you, and setting all the dormitory on you, did i say, 'let her alone; she prays, and has a right to pray?' then the next day, why were i and all the others ashamed to dress ourselves before you?" "i do not know, la louve." "indeed!" replied the violent creature, with irony. "you don't know! why, no doubt, it is because, as we have all of us said, jokingly, that you are of a different sort from us. you think so, don't you?" "i have never said that i thought so." "no, you have not said so; but you behave just as if it were so." "i beg of you to listen to me." "no, i have been already too foolish to listen to you--to look at you. till now, i never envied any one. well, two or three times i have been surprised at myself. am i growing a fool or a coward? i have found myself envious of your face, so like the holy virgin's; of your gentle and mournful look. yes, i have even been envious of your chestnut hair and your blue eyes. i, who detest fair women, because i am dark myself, wish to resemble you. i! la louve! i! why, it is but eight days since, and i would have marked any one who dared but say so. yet it is not your lot that would tempt one, for you are as full of grief as a magdalene. is it natural, i say, eh?" "how can i account to you for the impression i make upon you?" "oh, you know well enough what you do, though you look as if you were too delicate to be touched." "what bad design can you suppose me capable of?" "how can i tell? it is because i do not understand anything of all this that i mistrust you. another thing, too: until now i have always been merry or passionate, and never thoughtful, but you--you have made me thoughtful. yes, there are words which you utter, that, in spite of myself, have shaken my very heart, and made me think of all sorts of sad things." "i am sorry, la louve, if i ever made you sad; but i do not remember ever having said anything--" "oh," cried la louve, interrupting her companion with angry impatience, "what you do is sometimes as affecting as what you say! you are so clever!" "do not be angry, la louve, but explain what you mean." "yesterday, in the workroom, i noticed you,--you bent your head over the work you were sewing, and a large tear fell on your hand. you looked at it for a minute, and then you lifted your hand to your lips, as if to kiss and wipe it away. is this true?" "yes," said la goualeuse, blushing. "there was nothing in this; but at the moment you looked so unhappy, so very miserable, that i felt my very heart turned, as it were, inside out. tell me, do you find this amusing? why, now, i have been as hard as flint on all occasions. no one ever saw me shed a tear,--and yet, only looking at your chit face, i felt my heart sink basely within me! yes, for this is baseness,--pure cowardice; and the proof is, that for three days i have not dared to write to martial, my lover, my conscience is so bad. yes, being with you has enfeebled my mind, and this must be put an end to,--there's enough of it; this will else do me mischief, i am sure. i wish to remain as i am, and not become a joke and despised thing to myself." "you are angry with me, la louve?" "yes, you are a bad acquaintance for me; and if it continues, why, in a fortnight's time, instead of calling me the she-wolf, they would call me the ewe! but no, thank ye, it sha'n't come to that yet,--martial would kill me; and so, to make an end of this matter, i will break up all acquaintance with you; and that i may be quite separated from you, i shall ask to be put in another room. if they refuse me, i will do some piece of mischief to put me in wind again, and that i may be sent to the black-hole for the remainder of my time here. and this was what i had to say to you, goualeuse." timidly taking her companion's hand, who looked at her with gloomy distrust, fleur-de-marie said: "i am sure, la louve, that you take an interest in me, not because you are cowardly, but because you are generous-hearted. brave hearts are the only ones which sympathise in the misfortunes of others." "there is neither generosity nor courage in it," said la louve, coarsely; "it is downright cowardice. besides, i don't choose to have it said that i sympathise with any one. it ain't true." "then i will not say so, la louve; but since you have taken an interest in me, you will let me feel grateful to you, will you not?" "oh, if you like! this evening, i shall be in another room than yours, or alone in the dark hole, and i shall soon be out, thank god!" "and where shall you go when you leave here?" "why, home, to be sure, to the rue pierre-lescat. i have my furniture there." "and martial?" said la goualeuse, who hoped to keep up the conversation with la louve, by interesting her in what she most cared for; "shall you be glad to see him again?" "yes, oh, yes!" she replied, with a passionate air. "when i was taken up, he was just recovering from an illness,--a fever which he had from being always in the water. for seventeen days and seventeen nights i never left him for a moment, and i sold half my kit in order to pay the doctor, the drags and all. i may boast of that, and i do boast of it. if my man lives, it is i who saved him. yesterday i burnt another candle for him. it is folly,--a mere whim,--but yet it is all one, and we have sometimes very good effects in burning candles for a person's recovery." "and, martial, where is he now? what is he doing?" "he is still on an island, near the bridge, at asnières." "on an island?" "yes, he is settled there, with his family, in a lone house. he is always at loggerheads with the persons who protect the fishing; but when he is once in his boat, with his double-barrelled gun, why, they who approach him had better look out!" said la louve, proudly. "what, then, is his occupation?" "he poaches in the night; and then, as he is as bold as a lion, when some coward wishes to get up a quarrel with another, why, he will lend his hand." "where did you first know martial?" "at paris. he wished to be a locksmith,--a capital business,--always with red-hot iron and fire around you; dangerous you may suppose, but then that suited him. but he, like me, was badly disposed, and could not agree with his master; and then, too, they were always throwing his father and one of his brothers in his teeth. but that's nothing to you. the end of it was, that he returned to his mother, who is a very devil in sin and wickedness, and began to poach on the river. he cannot see me at paris, and in the daytime i go to see him in his island, the ile du ravageur, near asnières. it's very near; though if it were farther off, i would go all the same, even if i went on my hands and knees, or swam all the way, for i can swim like an otter." "you must be very happy to go into the country," said la goualeuse, with a sigh; "especially if you are as fond as i am of walking in the fields." "i prefer walking in the woods and large forests with my man." "in the forests! oh, ain't you afraid?" "afraid! oh, yes, afraid! i should think so! what can a she-wolf fear? the thicker and more lonely the forest, the better i should like it. a lone hut in which i should live with martial as a poacher, to go with him at night to set the snares for the game, and then, if the keepers came to apprehend us, to fire at them, both of us, whilst my man and i were hid in underwood,--ah, that would indeed be happiness!" "then you have lived in the woods, la louve?" "never." "who gave you these ideas, then?" "martial." "how did he acquire them?" "he was a poacher in the forest of rambouillet; and it is not a year ago that he was supposed to have fired at a keeper who had fired at him, the vagabond! however, there was no proof of the fact, but martial was obliged to leave that part of the country. then he came to paris to try and be a locksmith, and then i first saw him. as he was too wild to be on good terms with his master, he preferred returning to his relations at asnières, and poach in the river; it is not so slavish. still he always regrets the woods, and some day or other will return to them. from his talking to me of poaching and forests, he has crammed my head with these ideas, and i now think that is the life i was born for. but it is always so. what your man likes, you like. if martial had been a thief, i should have been a thief. when one has a man, we like to be like him." "and where are your own relations, la louve?" "how should i know?" "is it long since you saw them?" "i don't know whether they are dead or alive." "were they, then, so very unkind to you?" "neither kind nor unkind. i was about eleven years old, i think, when my mother went off with a soldier. my father, who was a day-labourer, brought home a mistress with him into our garret, and two boys she had,--one six, and the other my own age. she was a barrow-woman. she went on pretty well at first, but after a time, whilst she was out with her fruit, a fish-woman used to come and drink with my father, and this the apple-woman found out. then, from this time, every evening, we had such battles and rows in the house that i and the two boys were half dead with fright. we all three slept together, for we had but one room. one day,--it was her birthday, sainte madeleine's fête,--and she scolded him because he had not congratulated her on it. from one word another arose, and my father concluded by breaking her head with the handle of the broom. i really thought he had killed her. she fell like a lump of lead, but _la mère_ madeleine was hard-lived, and hard-headed also. after that she returned my father with interest all the blows he had given her, and once bit him so savagely in the hand that the piece of flesh remained between her teeth. i must say that these contests were what we may call the _grandes eaux_ at versailles. on common and working-days the skirmishes were of a lighter sort,--there were bruises, but no blood." "was this woman unkind to you?" "mère madeleine? no; on the contrary. she was a little hasty, but, otherwise, a good sort of woman enough. but at last my father got tired, and left her and the little furniture we had. he came out of burgundy, and most probably returned to his own country. i was fifteen or sixteen at this time." "and were you still with the old mistress of your father?" "where else should i be? then she took up with a tiler, who came to lodge with us. of the two boys of mère madeleine, one, the eldest, was drowned at the ile des cygnes, and the other went apprentice to a carpenter." "and what did you do with this woman?" "oh, i helped to draw her barrow, made the soup, and carried her man his dinner; and when he came home drunk, which happened oftener than was his turn, i helped mère madeleine to keep him in order, for we still lived in the same apartment. he was as vicious as a sandy-haired donkey, when he was tipsy, and tried to kill us. once, if we had not snatched his axe from him, he would certainly have murdered us both. mère madeleine had a cut on the shoulder, which bled till the room looked like a slaughter-house." "and how did you become--what--we--are?" said fleur-de-marie, hesitatingly. "why, little charley, madeleine's son, who was afterwards drowned at the ile des cygnes, was my first lover, almost from the time when he, his mother, and his brother, came to lodge with us when we were but mere children; after him the tiler was my lover, who threatened else to turn me out-of-doors. i was afraid that mère madeleine would also send me away if she discovered anything. she did, however; but as she was really a good creature, she said, 'as it is so, and you are sixteen years old, and fit for nothing, for you are too self-willed to take a situation or learn a business, you shall go with me and be inscribed in the police-books; as you have no relations, i will answer for you, as i brought you up, as one may say; and that will give you a position authorised by the government, and you will have nothing to do but to be merry and dress smart. i shall have no uneasiness about you, and you will no longer be a charge to me. what do you say to it, my girl?' 'why, i think indeed you are right,' was my answer; 'i had not thought of that.' well, we went to the bureau des moeurs. she answered for me, in the usual way, and from that time i was _inscrite_. i met mère madeleine a year afterwards. i was drinking with my man, and we asked her to join us, and she told us that the tiler had been sentenced to the galleys. since then i have never seen her, but some one, i don't remember who, declared that she had been seen at the morgue three months ago. if it were true, really so much the worse, for mère madeleine was a good sort of woman,--her heart was in her hand, and she had no more gall than a pigeon." fleur-de-marie, though plunged young in an atmosphere of corruption, had subsequently breathed so pure an air that she experienced a deeply painful sensation at the horrid recital of la louve. and if we have had the sad courage to make it, it has been because all the world should know that, hideous as it is, it is still a thousand times less revolting than other countless realities. ignorance and misery often conduct the lower classes to these fearful degradations, human and social. yes; there is a crowd of hovels and dens, where children and adults, girls and boys, legitimate children and bastards, lying pell-mell on the same mattress, have continually before their eyes these infamous examples of drunkenness, violence, debauch, and murder. yes, and too frequently unnatural crimes at the tenderest age add to this accumulation of horrors. the rich may shroud their vices in shadow and mystery, and respect the sanctity of the domestic hearth, but the most honest artisans, occupying nearly always a single chamber with their family, are compelled, from want of beds and space, to make their children sleep together, sons and daughters, close to themselves, husbands and wives. if we shudder at the fatal consequences of such necessity almost inevitably imposed on poor, but honest artisans, what must it be with workpeople depraved by ignorance or misconduct? what fearful examples do they not present to unhappy children, abandoned, or rather excited, from their tenderest youth to every brutal impulse and animal propensity? have they even the idea of what is right, decent, and modest? must they not be as strange to social laws as the savages of the new world? poor creatures! corrupted at their very birth, who in the prisons, whither their wanderings and idleness often lead them, are already stigmatised by the coarse and terrible metaphor, "graines de bagne" (seeds of the gaol)! and the metaphor is a correct one. this sinister prediction is almost invariably accomplished: the galleys or the bridewell, each sex has its destiny. we do not intend here to justify any profligacy. let us only compare the voluntary degradation of a female carefully educated in the bosom of a wealthy family, which has set her none but the most virtuous examples. let us compare, we say, this degradation with that of la louve, a creature, as it were, reared in vice, by vice, and for vice, and to whom is pointed out, not without reason, prostitution as a condition protected by the government! this is true. there is a bureau where she is registered, certificated, and signs her name. a bureau where a mother has a right to authorise the prostitution of her daughter; a husband the prostitution of his wife. this place is termed the "bureau des moeurs" (the office of manners). must not society have a vice most deeply rooted, incurable in the place of the laws which regulate marriage, when power,--yes, power,--that grave and moral abstraction, is obliged, not only to tolerate, but to regulate, to legalise, to protect, to render it less injurious and dangerous, this sale of body and soul; which, multiplied by the unbridled appetites of an immense population, acquires daily an almost incalculable amount. * * * * * goualeuse, repressing the emotion which this sad confession of her companion had made in her, said to her, timidly: "listen to me without being angry." "well, what have you to say? i think i have gossiped enough; but it is no matter, as it is the last time we shall talk together." "are you happy, la louve?" "what do you mean?" "does the life you lead make you happy?" "here,--at st. lazare?" "no; when you are at home and free." "yes, i am happy." "always?" "always." "you would not change your life for any other?" "for any other? what--what other life can there be for me?" "tell me, la louve," continued fleur-de-marie, after a moment's silence, "don't you sometimes like to build castles in the air? it is so amusing in prison." "castles in the air! about what?" "about martial." "about my man?" "yes." "_ma foi!_ i never built any." "let me build one for you and martial." "bah! what's the use of it?" "to pass away time." "well, let's have your castle in the air." "well, then, only imagine that a lucky chance, such as sometimes occurs, brings you in contact with a person who says, 'forsaken by your father and mother, your infancy was surrounded by such bad examples that you must be pitied, as much as blamed, for having become--'" "become what?" "what you and i have become," replied goualeuse, in a soft voice; and then she continued, "suppose, then, that this person were to say to you, 'you love martial; he loves you. do you and he cease to lead an improper life,--instead of being his mistress, become his wife.'" la louve shrugged her shoulders. "do you think he would have me for his wife?" "except poaching, he has never committed any guilty act, has he?" "no; he is a poacher in the river, as he was in the woods, and he is right. why, now, ain't fish like game, for those to have who can catch them? where do they bear the proprietor's mark?" "well, suppose that, having given up the dangerous trade of marauding on the river, he desires to become an honest man; suppose he inspires, by the frankness of his good resolutions, so much confidence in an unknown benefactor that he gives him a situation,--let us see, our castle is in the air,--gives him a situation--say as gamekeeper, for instance. why, i should suppose that, as he had been a poacher, nothing could better suit his taste; it is the same occupation, but in the right way." "yes, _ma foi!_ it would be still to live in the woods." "only he would not have the situation but on condition that he would marry you, and take you with him." "i go with martial?" "yes; why, you said you should be so happy to live together in the depths of the forest. shouldn't you prefer, instead of the miserable hut of the poacher, in which you would hide like guilty creatures, to have a neat little cottage, which you would take care of as the active and hard-working housekeeper?" "you are making game of me. can this be possible?" "who knows what may happen? but it's only a castle in the air." "ah, if it's only that, all very well!" "la louve, i think that i already see you established in your little home in the depths of the forest, with your husband and two or three children. children,--what happiness! are they not?" "the children of my man!" exclaimed la louve, with intense eagerness. "ah, yes! they would be dearly loved,--they would!" "how they would keep you company in your solitude! and, then, when they grew up they would be able to render you great service: the youngest would pick up the dead branches for fuel; the eldest would go into the grass of the forest to watch a cow or two, which they would give you as a reward for your husband's activity, for as he had been a poacher he would make a better keeper." "to be sure; that's true enough. but really your castles in the air are very amusing. go on, goualeuse." "they would be very much satisfied with your husband, and you would have some allowances from your master, a poultry-yard, a garden; and, in fact, you would have to work very hard, la louve, from morning till night." "oh, if that were all, if i once had my good man near me, i should not be afraid of work! i have stout arms." "and you would have plenty to employ them, i will answer for that. there is so much to do,--so much to do! there is the stable to clean, the meals to get ready, the clothes to mend; to-day is washing day, next day there's the bread to bake, or perhaps the house to clean from top to bottom; and, then, the other keepers would say, 'there is no such manager as martial's wife; from the cellar to the garret, in her house, it is a pattern of cleanliness, and the children are taken such care of! but then she is so very industrious, madame martial.'" "really though, la goualeuse, is it true? i should call myself madame martial," said la louve, with a sort of pride,--"madame martial!" "which is better than being called la louve,--is it not?" "_pardieu!_ why, there's no doubt but i should rather be called by my man's name than the name of a wild beast; but--bah!--bah! _louve_ i was born, _louve_ i shall die!" "who knows? who can say? not to shrink from a life that is hard, but honest, will ensure success. so, then, work would not frighten you?" "oh, certainly not! it is not a husband and four or five brats to take care of that would give me any trouble!" "but then it would not be all work; there are moments for rest. in the winter evenings, when the children were put to bed, and your husband smoked his pipe whilst he was cleaning his gun or caressing his dogs, you would have a little leisure." "leisure,--sit with my arms crossed before me! _ma foi!_ no, i would rather mend the linen, by the side of the fire in the evening. that is not a very hard job, and in winter the days are so short." as fleur-de-marie proceeded, la louve forgot more and more of the present for the dreams of the future, as deeply interested as la goualeuse had been before her, when rodolph had talked to her of the rustic delights of the bouqueval farm. la louve did not attempt to conceal the wild tastes with which her lover had inspired her. remembering the deep and wholesome impression which she had experienced from the smiling picture of rodolph in relation to a country life, fleur-de-marie was desirous of trying the same means of action on la louve, thinking, with reason, that, if her companion was so far affected at the sketch of a rude, poor, and solitary life, as to desire ardently such an existence, she merited interest and pity. delighted to see her companion listen to her with attention, la goualeuse continued, smiling: "and then you see, madame martial,--let me call you so,--what does it matter--" "quite the contrary; it flatters me." then la louve shrugged her shoulders, and, smiling, also added, "what folly to play at madame! are we children? well, it's all the same; go on,--it's quite amusing. you said--" "i was saying, madame martial, that in speaking of your life, the winter in the thickest of the woods, we were only alluding to the worst of the seasons." "_ma foi!_ no, that is not the worst. to hear the wind whistle all night in the forest, and the wolves howl from time to time far off, very far off,--i shouldn't tire of that; provided i was at the fireside with my man and my children, or even quite alone, if my man was going his rounds. ah, i am not afraid of a gun! if i had my children to defend, i could do that,--the wolf would guard her cubs!" "oh, i can well believe you! you are very brave--you are; but i am a coward. i prefer spring to the winter, when the leaves are green, when the pretty wild flowers bloom, and they smell so sweet, so sweet that the air is quite scented; and then your children would roll about so merrily in the fresh grass; and then the forest would be so thick that you could hardly see your house in the midst of the foliage,--i can fancy that i see it now. in front of the house is a vine full of leaves, which your husband has planted, and which shades the bank of turf where he sleeps during the noonday heat, whilst you are going backwards and forwards desiring the children not to wake their father. i don't know whether you have remarked it, but in the heat of summer about midday there is in the woods as deep silence as at midnight, you don't hear the leaves shake, nor the birds sing." "yes, that's true," replied la louve, almost mechanically, who became more and more forgetful of the reality, and almost believed she saw before her the smiling pictures which the poetical imagination of fleur-de-marie, so instinctively amorous of the beauties of nature, presented before her. delighted at the deep attention which her companion lent her, la goualeuse continued, allowing herself to be drawn on by the charm of the thoughts which she called up: "there is one thing which i love almost as well as the silence of the woods, and that is the noise of the heavy drops of rain falling on the leaves; do you like that, too?" "oh, yes! i am very fond of a summer shower." "so am i; and when the trees, the moss, and the grass, are all moistened, what a delightfully fresh odour they give out! and then, how the sun, as it passes over the trees, makes all the little drops of water glisten as they hang from the leaves! have you ever noticed that?" "yes; i remember it now because you tell me of it. yet, how droll all this is! but, goualeuse, you talk so well that one seems to see everything,--to see everything just as you talk; and then, i really do not know how to explain it all. but now, what you say seems good, it is quite pleasant,--just like the rain we were talking of." "oh, don't suppose that we are the only creatures who love a summer shower! the dear little birds, how delighted they are! how they shake their feathers, whilst they warble so joyously; not more joyously, though, than your children,--your children as free, and gay, and light-hearted as they! and then, look! as the day declines the youngest children run across the wood to meet the elder, who brings back the two heifers from pasture, for they have heard the tinkling of the bell in the distance!" "yes, goualeuse, and i think i see the smallest and boldest, whom his brother has put astride on the back of one of the cows." "and one would say that the poor animal knows what burden she bears, she steps so carefully. but it is supper-time; your eldest child, whilst he has been tending the cows at pasture, has amused himself with gathering for you a basket of beautiful strawberries, which he has brought quite fresh under a thick covering of wild violets." "strawberries and violets,--ah, what a lovely smell they have! but where the deuce did you find all these ideas, la goualeuse?" "in the woods, where the strawberries ripen and the violets blow, you have only to look and gather them--but let us go on with our housekeeping. it is night, and you must milk your heifers, prepare your supper under the shelter of the vine, for you hear your husband's dogs bark, and then their master's voice, who, tired as he is, comes home singing,--and who could not sing when on a fine summer's eve with cheerful heart you return to the house where a good wife and five children are waiting for you?--eh, madame martial?" "true, true; one could not but sing," replied la louve, becoming more and more thoughtful. "unless one weeps for joy," continued fleur-de-marie, herself much touched, "and such tears are as sweet as songs. and then, when night has completely come, what a pleasure to sit in the arbour and enjoy the calmness of a fine evening, to breathe the sweet odour of the forest, to hear the prattle of the children, to look at the stars, then the heart is so full,--so full that it must pour out its prayer; it must thank him to whom we are indebted for the freshness of the evening, the sweet scent of the woods, the gentle brightness of the starry sky! after this thanksgiving or this prayer, we go to sleep tranquilly till the next day, and then again thank our creator. and this poor, hard-working, but calm and honest life, is the same each and every day." "every day!" repeated la louve, with her head drooping on her chest, her look fixed, her breast oppressed, "for it is true the good god is good to give us wherewithal to live upon, and to make us happy with so little." "well, tell me now," continued fleur-de-marie, gently,--"tell me, ought not he to be blessed, after god, who should give you this peaceable and laborious life, instead of the wretched existence you lead in the mud of the streets of paris?" this word paris suddenly recalled la louve to reality. a strange phenomenon had taken place in the mind of this creature. the simple painting of a humble and rude condition--the mere recital by turns--lighted up by the soft rays from the domestic hearth, gilded by some joyful sunbeams, refreshed by the breeze of the great woods, or perfumed by the odour of wild flowers,--this narrative had made on la louve a more profound or more sensible impression than could an exhortation of the most pious morality have effected. in truth, in proportion as fleur-de-marie spoke, la louve had longed to be, and meant to be, an indefatigable manager, a worthy wife, an affectionate and devoted mother. to inspire, even for an instant, a violent, immoral, and degraded woman with a love of home, respect for duty, a taste for labour, and gratitude towards her creator; and that, by only promising her what god gives to all, the sun, the sky, and the depths of the forest,--what society owes to those who lack a roof and a loaf,--was, indeed, a glorious triumph for fleur-de-marie! could the most severe moralist--the most overpowering preacher--have obtained more in threatening, in their monotonous and menacing orations, all human vengeances--all divine thunders? the painful anger with which la louve was possessed when she returned to the reality, after having allowed herself to be charmed by the new and wholesome reverie in which, for the first time, fleur-de-marie had plunged her, proved the influence of her words on her unfortunate companion. the more bitter were la louve's regrets when she fell back from this consoling delusion to the horrors of her real position, the greater was la goualeuse's triumph. after a moment's silence and reflection, la louve raised her head suddenly, passed her hand over her brow, and rose threatening and angry. "see, see! i had reason to mistrust you, and to desire not to listen to you, because it would turn to ill for me! why did you talk thus to me? why make a jest of me? why mock me? and because i have been so weak as to say to you that i should like to live in the depths of a forest with my man. who are you, then, that you should make a fool of me in this way? you, miserable girl, don't know what you have done! now, in spite of myself, i shall always be thinking of this forest, the house, and--and--the children--and all that happiness which i shall never have--never--never! and if i cannot forget what you have told me, why, my life will be one eternal punishment,--a hell,--and that by your fault! yes, by your fault!" "so much the better! oh, so much the better!" said fleur-de-marie. "you say, so much the better!" exclaimed la louve, with her eyes glaring. "yes,--so much the better! for if your present miserable life appears to you a hell, you will prefer that of which i have spoken to you." "what is the use of preferring it, since it is not destined for me? what is the use of regretting that i walk the streets, since i shall die in the streets?" exclaimed la louve, more and more irritated, and taking in her powerful grasp the small hand of fleur-de-marie. "answer--answer! why do you try to make me desire that which i cannot have." "to desire an honest and industrious life is to be worthy of that life, as i have already told you," replied fleur-de-marie, without attempting to disengage her hand. "well, and what then? suppose i am worthy, what does that prove? how much the better off will that make me?" "to see realised what you consider as a dream," answered fleur-de-marie, in a tone so serious and full of conviction that la louve, again under control, let go la goualeuse's hand, and gazed at her in amazement. "listen to me, la louve," said fleur-de-marie, in a voice full of feeling; "do you think me so wicked as to excite such ideas and hopes in you, if i were not sure that, whilst i made you blush at your present condition, i gave you the means to quit it?" "you! you can do this?" "i! no; but some one who is good, and great, and powerful." "great and powerful?" "listen, la louve. three months ago i was, like you, a lost, an abandoned creature. one day he of whom i speak to you with tears of gratitude,"--and fleur-de-marie wiped her eyes,--"one day he came to me, and he was not afraid, abased and despised as i was, to say comforting words to me, the first i had ever heard. i told him my sufferings, my miseries, my shame; i concealed nothing from him, just as you have related to me all your past life, la louve. after having listened to me with kindness, he did not blame, but pitied me; he did not even reproach me with my disgraceful position, but talked to me of the calm and pure life which was found in the country." "as you did just now?" "then my situation appeared to me the more frightful, in proportion as the future he held out to me seemed more beautiful." "like me?" "yes, and so i said as you did,--what use, alas! is it to make me fancy this paradise,--me, who am chained to hell? but i was wrong to despair; for he of whom i speak is so good, so just, that he is incapable of making a false hope shine in the eyes of a poor creature who asked no one for pity, happiness, or hope." "and what did he do for you?" "he treated me like a sick child. i was, like you, immersed in a corrupted air, and he sent me to breathe a wholesome and reviving atmosphere. i was also living amongst hideous and criminal beings, and he confided me to persons as good as himself, who have purified my soul and elevated my mind; for he communicates to all those who love and respect him a spark of his own refined intelligence. yes, if my words move you, la louve, if my tears make your tears flow, it is that his mind and thought inspire me. if i speak to you of the happier future which you will obtain by repentance, it is because i can promise you this future in his name, although, at this moment, he is ignorant of the engagement i make. in fact, i say to you, hope! because he always listens to the voice of those who desire to become better; for god sent him on earth to make people believe in his providence!" [illustration: _la goualeuse in the prison._ original etching by adrian marcel.] as she spoke, fleur-de-marie's countenance became radiant, and her pale cheeks suffused with a delicate carnation; her beautiful eyes sparkled, and she appeared so touchingly beautiful that la louve gazed on her with respectful admiration, and said: "where am i? do i dream? who are you, then? oh, i was right when i said you were not one of us! but, then, you talk so well,--you, who can do so much, you, who know such powerful people, how is it that you are here, a prisoner with us?" fleur-de-marie was about to reply, when madame armand came up and interrupted her, to conduct her to madame d'harville. la louve remained overwhelmed with surprise, and the inspectress said to her: "i see, with pleasure, that the presence of la goualeuse in the prison has brought good fortune to you and your companions. i know you have made a subscription for poor mont saint-jean; that is kind and charitable, la louve, and will be of service to you. i was sure that you were better than you allowed yourself to appear. in recompense for this kind action, i think i can promise you that the term of your imprisonment shall be shortened by several days." madame armand then walked away, followed by fleur-de-marie. * * * * * we must not be astonished at the almost eloquent language of fleur-de-marie, when we remember that her mind, so wonderfully gifted, had rapidly developed itself, thanks to the education and instruction she had received at bouqueval farm. the young girl was, indeed, strong in her experience. the sentiments she had awakened in the heart of la louve had been awakened in her own heart by rodolph, and under almost similar circumstances. believing that she detected some good instincts in her companion, she had endeavoured to lure her back to honesty, by proving to her (according to rodolph's theory, applied to the farm at bouqueval) that it was her interest to become honest, by pointing out to her restitution to the paths of rectitude in smiling and attractive colours. and here let us repeat that, in our opinion, an incomplete as well as stupid and inefficacious mode is employed to inspire the poor and ignorant classes with a hatred of evil and a love of good. in order to turn them away from the bad path, they are incessantly threatened with divine and human vengeance; incessantly a sinister clank is sounded in their ears: prison-keep, fetters, handcuffs; and, in the distance, in dark shadow, at the extreme horizon of crime, they have their attention directed to the executioner's axe glittering amidst the glare of everlasting flames. we observe that the intimidation is constant, fearful, and appalling. to him who does ill, imprisonment, infamy, punishment. this is just. but to him who does well does society award noble gifts, glorious distinctions? no. does society encourage resignation, order, probity, in that immense mass of artisans who are for ever doomed to toil and privation, and almost always to profound misery, by benevolent rewards? no. is the scaffold which the criminal ascends a protection for the man of integrity? no. strange and fatal symbol! justice is represented as blind, bearing in one hand a sword to punish, and in the other scales in which she weighs accusation and defence. this is not the image of justice. this is the image of law, or, rather, of the man who condemns or acquits according to his conscience. justice should hold in one hand a sword, and in the other a crown,--one to strike the wicked, and the other to recompense the good. the people would then see that, if there is a terrible punishment for evil, there is a brilliant recompense for good; whilst as it is, in their plain and simple sense, the people seek in vain for the contrary side of tribunals, gaols, galleys, and scaffolds. the people see plainly a criminal justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, enlightened men, always employed in searching out, detecting, and punishing the evil-doers. they do not see the virtuous justice, consisting of upright, inflexible, and enlightened men, always searching out and rewarding the honest man. all says to him, tremble! nothing says to him, hope! all threatens him; nothing consoles him! the state annually expends many millions for the sterile punishment of crimes. with this enormous sum it keeps prisoners and gaolers, galley-slaves and galley-sergeants, scaffolds and executioners. this is necessary? agreed. but how much does the state disburse for the rewards (so salutary, so fruitful) for honest men? nothing. and this is not all, as we shall demonstrate when the course of this recital shall conduct us to the state prison; how many artisans of irreproachable honesty would attain the summit of their wishes if they were assured of enjoying one day the bodily comforts of prisoners, always certain of good food, good bed, and good shelter? and yet, in the name of their dignity, as honest men, long and painfully tried, have they not a right to claim the same care and comforts as criminals,--such, for instance, as morel, the lapidary, who had toiled for twenty years, industrious, honest, and resigned, in the midst of bitter misery and sore temptations? do not such men deserve sufficiently well of society, that society should try and find them out, and if not recompense them, for the honour of humanity, at least support them in the painful and difficult path which they tread so courageously? is the man of worth so modest that he finds greater security than the thief or assassin? and are not these always detected by criminal justice? alas, it is a utopia, but it is consoling! suppose, for the moment, a society were so organised that it would hold an assizes of virtue, as we have assizes of crime,--a public ministry pointing out noble actions, disclosing them to the view of all, as we now denounce crimes to the avenging power of the laws. we will give two instances--two justices--and let our readers say which is most fruitful in instruction, in consequences, in positive results. one man has killed another, for the purpose of robbing him; at break of day they stealthily erect the guillotine in an obscure corner of paris and cut off the assassin's head before the dregs of the populace, which laughs at the judge, the sufferer, and the executioner. this is the last resort of society. this is the chastisement she bestows on the greatest crime which can be committed against her. this is the most terrible, the most wholesome warning she can give to her population,--the only one, for there is no counterpoise to this keen axe, dripping with blood; no, society has no spectacle, mild and benevolent, to oppose to this funereal scene. let us go on with our utopia. would it not be otherwise if almost every day the people had before their eyes some illustrious virtues greatly glorified and substantially rewarded by the state? would it not be to encourage good continually, if we often saw an august, imposing, and venerable tribunal summon before it, in presence of an immense multitude, a poor and honest artisan, whose long, intelligent, and enduring life should be described, whilst he was thus addressed: "for twenty years you have manfully struggled against misfortune, your family has been brought up by you in the principles of honour and rectitude, your superior virtues have greatly distinguished you,--you merit praise and recompense. society, always vigilant, just, and all-powerful, never leaves in oblivion either good or evil. every man is recompensed according to his works. the state assures to you a pension sufficient for your wants. obtaining this deserved mark of public notice, you will end in leisure and ease a life which is an example to all; and thus are and will be exalted those who, like yourself, shall have struggled for many years with an admirable persistence in good, and given proof of rare and grand moral qualities. your example will encourage a great many to imitate you; hope will lighten the painful burden which their destiny imposes on them for so many years of their life. animated by a salutary emulation, they will energetically struggle to accomplish the most arduous duties, in order that one day they may be distinguished from the rest, and rewarded as you are." we ask, which of the two sights--the beheaded assassin, or the good man rewarded--would act on the million with more salutary and more fruitful effect? no doubt many delicate minds will be indignant at the bare thought of these ignoble substantial rewards awarded to the most ethereal thing in the world,--virtue! they will find all sorts of arguments, more or less philosophical, platonic, theological, and especially economic, against such a proposition; such as, "virtue is its own reward;" "virtue is a priceless gem;" "the satisfaction of the conscience is the noblest of recompenses;" and, finally, this triumphant and unanswerable objection, "the eternal happiness which awaits the just in another life ought to be sufficient to encourage mankind to do well." to this we reply that society, in order to intimidate and punish the guilty, does not appear to us to rely entirely and exclusively on the divine vengeance, which they tell us will visit them in another world. society anticipates the last judgment by human judgments. awaiting the inexorable hour of the archangels in armour, with sounding trumpets and fiery swords, society modestly comforts herself with--_gens-d'armes_. we repeat, to terrify the wicked, we materialise, or rather we reduce to human, perceptible, and visible proportions, the anticipated effects of divine wrath. why should we not do the same with the divine rewards to worthy and virtuous people? * * * * * but let us leave these mad, absurd, stupid, impracticable utopianisms, like real utopianisms, as they are. society is as well as it is. ask those merry souls, who, with uncertain step, stupid look, and noisy laugh, have just quitted the gay banquet, if it is not. chapter xii. the protectress. the inspectress soon entered with goualeuse into the little room where clémence was staying. the pale cheek of the young girl was still slightly coloured in consequence of her conversation with la louve. "madame la marquise, pleased with the excellent character i have given of you," said madame armand to fleur-de-marie, "has desired to see you, and will, perhaps, be so good as to have you released from here before the expiration of your time." "i thank you, madame," replied fleur-de-marie, timidly, to madame armand, who left her alone with the marchioness. the latter, struck by the candid expression of her protégée's features, and by her carriage, so full of grace and modesty, could not help remembering that la goualeuse had pronounced the name of rodolph in her sleep, and that the inspectress believed the youthful prisoner to be a prey to deep and hidden love. although perfectly convinced that it could not be a question as to the grand duke rodolph, clémence acknowledged to herself that, with regard to beauty, la goualeuse was worthy of a prince's love. at the sight of her protectress, whose physiognomy, as we have said, displayed excessive goodness, fleur-de-marie felt herself sympathetically attracted towards her. "my girl," said clémence to her, "whilst commending the gentleness of your disposition and the discreetness of your behaviour, madame armand complains of your want of confidence in her." fleur-de-marie bowed her look, but did not reply. "the peasant's dress in which you were clad when you were apprehended, your silence on the subject of the place where you resided before you were brought here, prove that you conceal certain particulars from us." "madame--" "i have no right to your confidence, my poor child, nor would i ask you any question that would distress you; but, as i am assured that if i request your discharge from prison it will be accorded to me, before i do so i should wish to talk to you of your own plans, your resources for the future. once free, what do you propose to do? if, as i doubt not, you decide on following the good path you have already entered upon, have confidence in me, and i will put you in the way of gaining an honest subsistence." la goualeuse was moved to tears at the interest which madame d'harville evinced for her. after a moment's hesitation, she replied: "you are very good, madame, to show so much benevolence towards me,--so generous, that i ought, perhaps, to break the silence which i have hitherto kept on the past, to which i was forced by an oath--" "an oath?" "yes, madame, i have sworn to be secret to justice, and the persons employed in this prison, as to the series of events by which i was brought hither. yet, madame, if you will make me a promise--" "of what nature?" "to keep my secret. i may, thanks to you, madame, without breaking my oath, comfort most worthy persons who, no doubt, are excessively uneasy on my account." "rely on my discretion. i will only say what you authorise me to disclose." "oh, thanks, madame! i was so fearful that my silence towards my benefactors would appear like ingratitude!" the gentle accents of fleur-de-marie, and her well-selected phrases, struck madame d'harville with fresh surprise. "i will not conceal from you," said she, "that your demeanour, your language, all surprise me in a remarkable degree. how could you, with an education which appears polished,--how could you--" "fall so low, you would say, madame?" said goualeuse, with bitterness. "alas! it is but a very short time that i have received this education. i owe this benefit to a generous protector, who, like you, madame, without knowing me, without even having the favourable recommendation which you have received in my favour, took pity upon me--" "and who is this protector?" "i do not know, madame." "you do not know?" "he only makes himself known, they tell me, by his inexhaustible goodness. thanks be to heaven, he found me in his path!" "and when did you first meet?" "one night,--in the cité, madame," said goualeuse, lowering her eyes, "a man was going to beat me; this unknown benefactor defended me courageously; this was my first meeting with him." "then he was one of the people?" "the first time i saw him he had the dress and language; but afterwards--" "afterwards?" "the way in which he spoke to me, the profound respect with which he was treated by the persons to whom he confided me, all proved to me that he had only assumed the exterior disguise of one of the men who are seen about the cité." "but with what motive?" "i do not know." "and do you know the name of this mysterious protector?" "oh, yes, madame," said la goualeuse, with excitement; "thank heaven! for i can incessantly bless and adore that name. my preserver is called m. rodolph, madame." clémence blushed deeply. "and has he no other name," she asked, quickly, of fleur-de-marie. "i know no other, madame. in the farm, where he sent me, he was only known as m. rodolph." "and his age?" "still young, madame." "and handsome?" "oh, yes! handsome,--noble as his own heart." the grateful and impassioned accent with which fleur-de-marie uttered these words caused a deeply painful sensation in madame d'harville's bosom. an unconquerable and inexplicable presentiment told her that it was indeed the prince. "the remarks of the inspectress were just," thought clémence. "goualeuse loves rodolph; that was the name which she pronounced in her sleep. under what strange circumstance had the prince and this unfortunate girl met? why did rodolph go disguised into the cité?" the marquise could not resolve these questions. she only remembered what sarah had wickedly and mendaciously told her as to the pretended eccentricities of rodolph. was it not, in fact, strange that he should have extricated from the dregs of society a girl of such excessive loveliness, and evidently so intelligent and sensible? clémence had noble qualities, but she was a woman, and deeply loved rodolph, although she had resolved to bury that secret in her heart's very core. without reflecting that this was unquestionably but one of those generous actions which the prince was accustomed to do by stealth, without considering that she was, perchance, confounding with love a sentiment that was but excess of gratitude, without considering that, even if this feeling were more tender, rodolph must be ignorant of it, the marchioness, in the first moment of bitterness and injustice, could not help looking on goualeuse as her rival. her pride revolted when she believed she was suffering, in spite of herself, with such a humiliating rivalry; and she replied, in a tone so harsh as to contrast cruelly with the affectionate kindness of her first words: "and how is it, then, mademoiselle, that your protector leaves you in prison? how comes it that you are here?" "oh, madame," said fleur-de-marie, struck at this sudden change of tone, "have i done anything to displease you?" "in what could you have displeased me?" asked madame d'harville, haughtily. "it appeared to me just now that you spoke to me so kindly, madame." "really, mademoiselle, is it necessary that i should weigh every word i utter? since i take an interest in you, i have, i think, a right to ask you certain questions!" scarcely had clémence uttered these words, than she regretted their severity; first from a praiseworthy return of generosity, and then because she thought by being harsh with her rival she might not learn any more of what she was so anxious to know. in fact, goualeuse's countenance, just now so open and confiding, became suddenly alarmed. like the sensitive plant, which, on the first touch, curls up its leaves and withdraws within itself, the heart of fleur-de-marie became painfully contracted. clémence replied, gently, in order that she might not awaken her protégée's suspicions by too sudden a return to a milder tone: "really i must repeat that i cannot understand why, having so much to praise your benefactor for, you are left here a prisoner. how is it that, after having returned with all sincerity to the paths of rectitude, you could have been apprehended, at night, in a forbidden place? all this, i confess to you, appears to me very extraordinary. you speak of an oath, which has bound you to silence; but this very oath is so strange!" "i have spoken the truth, madame--" "i am sure of that; it is only to see and hear you to be convinced that you are incapable of falsehood; but what is so incomprehensible in your situation makes me the more curious and impatient to have it cleared up; and to this alone must you attribute the abruptness of my language just now. i was wrong, i feel i was, for, although i have no claim to your confidence beyond my anxious desire to be of service to you, yet you have offered to disclose to me what you have not yet told to any person; and i can assure you, my poor girl, that this proof of your confidence in the interest i feel for you touches me very nearly. i promise you to keep your secret most scrupulously, if you confide it to me, and i will do everything in my power to effect what you may wish to have done." thanks to this skilful patching up (the phrase will be excused, we trust), madame d'harville regained la goualeuse's confidence, which had been for a moment repressed. fleur-de-marie, in her candour, reproached herself for having wrongly interpreted the words which had wounded her. "excuse me, madame," she said to clémence; "i was, no doubt, wrong not to tell you at once what you desired to know, but you asked me for the name of my preserver, and, in spite of myself, i could not resist the pleasure of speaking of him." "nothing could be more praiseworthy, and it proves how truly grateful you are to him. tell me how it was that you left the worthy people with whom you were, no doubt, placed by m. rodolph? is it to this event that the oath you were compelled to take, refers?" "yes, madame; but, thanks to you, i think i may still keep my word faithfully, and, at the same time, inform my benefactors as to my disappearance." "now, then, my poor girl, i am all attention to you." "it is three months nearly since m. rodolph placed me at a farm, which is situated four or five leagues from paris--" "did m. rodolph take you there himself?" "yes, madame, and confided me to the charge of a worthy lady, as good as she was venerable; and i loved her like my mother. she and the curé of the village, at the request of m. rodolph, took charge of my education." "and m.--rodolph,--did he often come to the farm?" "no, madame, he only came three times during the whole time i was there." clémence's heart throbbed with joy. "and when he came to see you that made you very happy, did it not?" "oh, yes, madame! it was more than happiness to me; it was a feeling mingled with gratitude, respect, adoration, and even a degree of fear." "of fear?" "between him and me, between him and others, the distance is so great!" "but what, then, was his rank?" "i do not know that he had any rank, madame." "yet you allude to the distance which exists between him and others." "oh, madame, what places him above all the rest of the world is the elevation of his character, his inexhaustible generosity towards those who suffer, the enthusiasm which he inspires in every one. the wicked, even, cannot hear his name without trembling, and respect as much as they dread him! but forgive me, madame, for still speaking of him. i ought to be silent, for i seek to give you an adequate idea of him who ought to be adored in silence. i might as well try to express by words the goodness of heaven!" "this comparison--" "is, perhaps, sacrilegious, madame; but will it offend the good god to compare to him one who has given me the consciousness of good and evil, one who has snatched me from the abyss, one, in fact, to whom i owe a new existence?" "i do not blame you, my child; i can understand all your noble exaggerations. but how was it that you abandoned this farm, where you must have been so happy?" "alas, not voluntarily, madame!" "who, then, forced you away?" "one evening, some days since," said fleur-de-marie, trembling even as she spoke, "i was going towards the parsonage-house in the village, when a wicked woman, who had used me very cruelly during my infancy, and a man, her accomplice, who had concealed themselves in a ravine, threw themselves upon me, and, after having gagged me, carried me off in a hackney-coach." "for what purpose?" "i know not, madame. my ravishers, as i think, were acting in conformity to orders from some powerful personages." "what followed this?" "scarcely was the hackney-coach in motion, than the wicked creature, who is called la chouette, exclaimed, 'i have some vitriol here, and i'll rub la goualeuse's face, to disfigure her with it!'" "oh, horrible! unhappy girl! and who has saved you from this danger?" "the woman's confederate, a blind man called the schoolmaster." "and he defended you?" "yes, madame, this and another time also. on this occasion there was a struggle between him and la chouette: exerting his strength, the schoolmaster compelled her to throw out of window the bottle which held the vitriol. this was the first service he rendered me, after having, however, aided in carrying me off. the night was excessively dark. at the end of an hour and a half the coach stopped, as i think, on the highroad which traverses the plain st. denis, and here was a man on horseback, evidently awaiting us. 'what!' said he, 'have you got her at last?' 'yes, we've got her,' answered la chouette, who was furious because she had been hindered from disfiguring me. 'if you wish to get rid of the little baggage at once, it will be a good plan to stretch her on the ground, and let the coach wheels pass over her skull. it will appear as if she had been accidentally killed.'" "you make me shudder." "alas, madame, la chouette was quite capable of doing what she said! fortunately, the man on horseback replied that he would not have any harm done to me, and all he wanted was to have me confined somewhere for two months in a place whence i could neither go out nor be allowed to write to any one. then la chouette proposed to take me to a man's called bras rouge, who keeps a tavern in the champs elysées. in this tavern there are several subterranean chambers, and one of these, la chouette said, would serve me for a prison. the man on horseback agreed to this proposition; and he promised me that, after remaining two months at bras rouge's, i should be properly taken care of, and not be sorry for having quitted the farm at bouqueval." "what a strange mystery!" "this man gave money to la chouette, and promised her more when she should bring me from bras rouge's, and then galloped away. our hackney-coach continued its way on to paris; and a short time before we reached the barrier the schoolmaster said to la chouette, 'you want to shut goualeuse up in one of bras rouge's cellars, when you know very well that, being so close to the river's side, these cellars are always under water in the winter! do you wish to drown her?' 'yes,' replied la chouette." "poor girl! what had you ever done to this horrid woman?" "nothing, madame; and from my very infancy she had always been so full of hatred towards me. the schoolmaster replied, 'i won't have goualeuse drowned! she sha'n't go to bras rouge's!' la chouette was as astonished as i was, madame, to hear this man defend me thus, and she flew into a violent rage, and swore she would take me to bras rouge's in spite of the schoolmaster. 'i defy you!' said he, 'for i have got goualeuse by the arm, and i will not let go my hold of her; and, if you come near her, i'll strangle you!' 'what do you mean, then, to do with her,' cried la chouette, 'since she must be concealed somewhere for two months, so that no one may know where she is?' 'there's a way,' said the schoolmaster. 'we are going by the champs elysées; we will stop the coach a little way off the guard-house, and you shall go to bras rouge's tavern. it is midnight, and you will be sure to find him; bring him here, and he shall lead la goualeuse to the guard-house, declaring that she is a _fille de la cité_, whom he has found loitering about his house. as girls are sentenced to three months' imprisonment if found in the champs elysées, and as la goualeuse is still on the police books, she will be apprehended and sent to st. lazare, where she will be better taken care of and concealed than in bras rouge's cellar.' 'but,' answered la chouette, 'goualeuse will not allow herself to be arrested even at the _corps-de-garde_. she will declare that we have carried her off, and give information against us; and, supposing even that she goes to prison, she will write to her protectors, and all will be discovered.' 'no, she will go to prison willingly,' answered the schoolmaster; 'and she shall take an oath not to give any information against any person as long as she is in st. lazare, nor afterwards, either. this is a debt she owes me, for i prevented you from disfiguring her, la chouette, and saved her from being drowned at bras rouge's; but if, after having sworn not to speak, she dares to do so, we will attack the farm at bouqueval with fire and blood!' then, addressing me, the schoolmaster added,'decide, then: take the oath i demand of you, and you shall get off for three months in prison; if not, i abandon you to la chouette, who will take you to bras rouge's, where you will be drowned, and we will set bouqueval farm on fire. so, come, decide. i know, if you take the oath, you will keep it.'" "and you did swear?" "alas, yes, madame! i was so fearful they would do my protectors at the farm an injury, and then i so much dreaded being drowned by la chouette in a cellar, it seemed so frightful to me; another death would have seemed to me less horrid, and, perhaps, i should not have tried to escape it." "what a dreadful idea at your age!" said madame d'harville, looking at la goualeuse with surprise. "when you have left this place, and have been restored to your benefactors, shall you not be very happy? has not your repentance effaced the past?" "can the past ever be effaced? can the past ever be forgotten? can repentance kill memory, madame?" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, in a tone so despairing that clémence shuddered. "but all faults are retrieved, unhappy girl!" "and the remembrance of stain, madame, does not that become more and more terrible in proportion as the soul becomes purer, in proportion as the mind becomes more elevated? alas, the higher we ascend, the deeper appears the abyss which we have quitted!" "then you renounce all hope of restoration--of pardon?" "on the part of others--no, madame, your kindness proves to me that remorse will find indulgence." "but you will be pitiless towards yourself?" "others, madame, may not know, pardon, or forget what i have been, but i shall never forget it!" "and do you sometimes desire to die?" "sometimes!" said goualeuse, smiling bitterly. then, after a moment's silence, she added, "sometimes,--yes, madame." "still you were afraid of being disfigured by that horrid woman; and so you wish to preserve your beauty, my poor little girl. that proves that life has still some attraction for you; so courage! courage!" "it is, perhaps, weakness to think of it, but if i were handsome, as you say, madame, i should like to die handsome, pronouncing the name of my benefactor." madame d'harville's eyes filled with tears. fleur-de-marie had said these last words with so much simplicity; her angelic, pale, depressed features, her melancholy smile, were all so much in accord with her words, that it was impossible to doubt the reality of her sad desire. madame d'harville was endued with too much delicacy not to feel how miserable, how fatal, was this thought of la goualeuse: "i shall never forget what i have been!"--the fixed, permanent, incessant idea which controlled and tortured fleur-de-marie's life. clémence, ashamed at having for an instant misconstrued the ever disinterested generosity of the prince, regretted also that she had for a moment allowed herself to be actuated by any feeling of absurd jealousy against la goualeuse, who, with such pure excitement, expressed her gratitude towards her protector. it was strange that the admiration which this poor prisoner felt so deeply towards rodolph perhaps increased the profound love which clémence must for ever conceal from him. she said, to drive away these thoughts: "i trust that, for the future, you will be less severe towards yourself. but let us talk of this oath, for now i can explain your silence. you will not denounce these wretches?" "although the schoolmaster shared in my carrying off, yet he twice defended me, and i would not be ungrateful towards him." "then you lent yourself to the plans of these monsters?" "yes, madame, i was so frightened! the chouette went to seek for bras rouge, who conducted me to the guard-house, saying he had found me roving near his cabaret. i did not deny it, and so they took me into custody and brought me here." "but your friends at the farm must be in the utmost anxiety about you!" "alas, madame, in my great alarm, i did not reflect that my oath would prevent me from assuring them of my safety. now that makes me wretched! but i think (and hope you think so, too) that, without breaking my word, i may beg of you to write to madame georges at the farm of bouqueval, and assure her that she need have no fears for me, without informing her where i am; for i have promised to be silent." "my child, these precautions will be useless if, at my recommendation, you are pardoned. to-morrow you will return to the farm without having betrayed your oath by that; and you may consult your friends hereafter to know how far you are bound by a promise which was extorted from you by a threat." "you believe then, madame, that, thanks to your kindness, i may hope to leave here very soon?" "you deserve my interest so much that i am sure i shall succeed, and i have no doubt but that the day after to-morrow you may rely on going in person to your benefactors." "so soon! madame, how have i deserved so much goodness on your part? how can i ever repay your kindness?" "by continuing to behave as you have done. i only regret that i cannot do anything towards your future existence; that is a pleasure which your friends have reserved for themselves." at this moment madame armand entered abruptly, and with a troubled air. "madame la marquise," she said, addressing clémence with hesitation, "i am deeply pained with a message i have to convey to you." "what do you mean, madame?" "the duke de lucenay is below, just come from your house, madame." "la, how you frighten me! what's the matter?" "i do not know, madame; but m. de lucenay has, he told me, some very distressing information to communicate to you. he learnt from the duchess, his lady, that you were here, and has come in great haste." "distressing information!" said madame d'harville to herself; then she suddenly shrieked out, in agonised accents, "my daughter, my daughter, my daughter, perhaps! oh, speak, madame!" "i do not know, your ladyship." "oh, for mercy's sake--for mercy's sake, take me to m. de lucenay!" cried madame d'harville, rushing out with a bewildered air, followed by madame armand. "poor mother! she fears for her child!" said la goualeuse, following clémence with her eyes. "oh, no, it is impossible! at the very moment when she was so benevolent and kind to me such a blow could not strike her! no, no; once again i say it is impossible!" chapter xiii. the forced friendship. we shall now conduct the reader to the house in the rue du temple, about three o'clock on the day in which m. d'harville terminated his existence. at the time mentioned, the conscientious and indefatigable m. pipelet sat alone in his lodge, occupied in repairing the boot which had, more than once, fallen from his hand during cabrion's last attack; the physiognomy of the delicate-minded porter was dejected, and exhibited a more than usually melancholy air. all at once a loud and shrill voice was heard calling from the upper part of the house, exclaiming, in tones which reëchoed down the staircase: "m. pipelet! m. pipelet! make haste! come up as fast as you can! madame pipelet is taken very ill!" "god bless me!" cried alfred, rising from his stool. "anastasie ill!" but, quickly resuming his seat, he said to himself, "what a simpleton i must be to believe such a thing! my wife has been gone out more than an hour! ah, but may she not have returned without my observing it? certainly, such a mode of proceeding would be somewhat irregular, but i am not the less bound to admit that it is possible." "m. pipelet!" called out the up-stairs voice again. "pray come as quickly as you can; i am holding your wife in my arms!" "holloa!" said pipelet, springing up abruptly. "somebody got my wife in his arms!" "i really cannot manage to unlace madame pipelet's stays by myself!" screamed out the voice, in tones louder than before. these words perfectly electrified alfred, and the blush of offended modesty empurpled his melancholy features. "sir-r-r!" cried he in a stentorian voice, as he rushed frantically from his lodge. "sir-r-r! i adjure you, in the name of honour, to leave my wife and her stays alone! i come! i come!" and so saying, alfred dashed into the dark labyrinth called a staircase, forgetting, in his excitement, to close the door of the lodge after him. scarcely had he quitted it than an individual entered quickly, snatched from the table the cobbler's hammer, sprung on the bed, and, by means of four small tacks, previously inserted into each corner of a thick cardboard he carried with him, nailed the cardboard to the back of the dark recess in which stood pipelet's bed; then disappeared as quickly as he had come. so expeditiously was the operation performed, that the porter, having almost immediately recollected his omission respecting the closing the lodge door, hastily descended, and both shut and locked it; then putting the key in his pocket, returned with all speed to succour his wife above-stairs, without the slightest suspicion crossing his mind that any foot had trod there since his own. having taken this precautionary measure, alfred again darted off to the assistance of anastasie, exclaiming, with all the power of his lungs: "sir-r-r! i come! behold me! i place my wife beneath the safeguard of your delicacy!" but a fresh surprise awaited the worthy porter, and had well-nigh caused him to fall from the height he had ascended to the sill of his own lodge,--the voice of her he expected to find fainting in the arms of some unknown individual was now heard, not from the upper part of the house, but at the entrance! in well-known accents, but sharper and shriller than usual, he heard anastasie exclaim: "why, alfred! what do you mean by leaving the lodge? where have you got to, you old gossip?" at this appeal, m. pipelet managed to descend as far as the first landing, where he remained petrified with astonishment, gazing downwards with fixed stare, open mouth, and one foot drawn up in the most ludicrous manner. "alfred, i say!" screamed madame pipelet, a second time, in a voice loud enough to awake the dead. "anastasie down there? then it is impossible she can be ill up-stairs," said pipelet, mentally, faithful to his system of close and logical argumentation. "whose, then, was the manly voice that spoke of her illness, and of his undoing her stays? an impostor, doubtless, to whom my distraction and alarm have been a matter of amusement; but what motive could he have had in thus working upon my susceptible feelings? something very extraordinary is going on here. however, as soon as i have been to answer my wife's inquiry, i will return to clear up this mystery, and to discover the person whose voice summoned me in such haste." in considerable agitation did m. pipelet descend, and find himself in his wife's presence. "it is you, then, this time?" inquired he. "of course it is me; who did you expect it was?" "'tis you, indeed! my senses do not deceive me!" "alfred, what is the matter with you? why do you stand there, staring and opening your mouth, as if you meant to swallow me?" "because your presence reveals to me that strange things are passing here, so strange that--" "oh, stuff and nonsense! give me the key of the lodge! what made you leave it when i was out? i have just come from the office where the diligence starts from for normandy. i went there in a coach to take m. bradamanti's trunk, as he did not wish that little rascal, tortillard, to know anything about it, since, it seems, he had rather no one should be acquainted with the fact of his leaving paris this evening; and, as for his mistrusting the boy, why, i don't wonder at it." saying these words, madame pipelet took the key from her husband's hand, opened the lodge, and entered it before her partner; but scarcely were they both safe within its dark recesses, than an individual, lightly descending the staircase, passed swiftly and unobserved before the lodge. this personage was cabrion, who, having managed to steal up-stairs, had so powerfully worked upon the porter's tender susceptibilities. m. pipelet threw himself into his chair, saying to his wife, in a voice of deep emotion: "anastasie; i do not feel myself comfortable to-day; strange and mysterious things are going on in this house." "what! are you going to break out again? what an old fool you are! why, strange things happen in every house. what has come over you? come, let's look at you! well, i declare, you are all of a sweat, just as if you had been dragged out of the water! what have you been doing since i left you? overexerting yourself, i am sure, and i forbid you ever doing so. la! look how the great drops pour from him, poor old chick!" "and well they may!" exclaimed m. pipelet, passing his hand over his face, bathed in its own dew; "well may i sweat,--ay, even blood and water,--for there are facts connected with this house past belief or comprehension. first, you summon me up-stairs, and, at the same moment, i find you waiting below! oh, it is too, too much for my poor brain!" "deuce take me, if i can comprehend one word of all you are saying! lord, help us! it is to be hoped your poor old brain is not cracked. i tell you what, if you go on so, i shall just set you down for cracked; and all through that scamp of a cabrion,--the devil take him! ever since that last trick he played the other day, i declare you have not been yourself, so flustered and bewildered! do you mean to live in fear and dread of that abominable painter all your days?" but scarcely had anastasie uttered these words than a fearful thing occurred. alfred continued sitting, with his face turned towards the bed, while the lodge was dimly illumined by the faint glimmer of a winter's afternoon and a lamp that stood burning on the table, near alfred's work. by these doubtful lights, m. pipelet, just as his wife pronounced the name of cabrion, imagined he saw, in the shadow of the recess, the half stolid, half chuckling features of his enemy. alas! too truly, there he was. his steeple-crowned hat, his flowing locks, thin countenance, sardonic smile, pointed beard, and look of fiendish malice, all were there, past all mistake. for a moment, m. pipelet believed himself under the influence of a dream, and passed his hand across his eyes, in hopes that the illusion might disperse; but no; there was nothing illusive in what his eyes glared so fearfully upon,--nothing could be more real or positive. yet, horror of horrors! this object seemed merely to possess a head, which, without allowing any part of the body to appear, grinned a satanic smile from the dark draperies of the recess in which stood the bed. at this horrific vision m. pipelet fell back, without uttering a word. with uplifted arm he pointed towards the source of his terrors, but with so strong a manifestation of intense alarm that madame pipelet, spite of her usual courage and self-possession, could not help feeling a dread of--she knew not what. she staggered back a few steps, then, seizing alfred by the hand, exclaimed: "cabrion!" "i know it!" groaned forth m. pipelet, in a deep, hollow voice, shutting his eyes to exclude the frightful spectre. nothing could have borne more flattering tribute to the talent which had so admirably delineated the features of cabrion than the overwhelming terror his pasteboard likeness occasioned to the worthy couple in the lodge; but the first surprise of anastasie over, she, bold as a lioness, rushed to the bed, sprang upon it, and, though not without some trepidation, tore the painting from the wall, against which it had been nailed; then, crowning her valiant deed by her accustomed favourite expression, the amazon triumphantly exclaimed: "get along with you!" alfred, on the contrary, remained with closed eyes and extended hands, fixed and motionless, according to his wont during the most critical passages of his life; the continued oscillation of his bell-crowned hat alone revealing, from time to time, the violence of his internal emotions. "open your eyes, my old duck!" cried madame pipelet, triumphantly. "it is nothing to be afraid of, only a picture, a portrait of that scoundrel cabrion. look here, lovey,--look at 'stasie stamping on it!" continued the indignant wife, throwing the painting on the ground, and jumping upon it with all her force; then added, "ah, i wish i had the villain here, to serve the same! i'll warrant i'd mark him for life!" then, picking up the portrait, she said, "well, i've served you out, anyhow! just look, old dear, if i haven't!" but poor alfred, with a disconsolate shake of the head, made signs that he had rather not, and further intimating, by expressive gestures, his earnest desire that his wife would remove the detested likeness of his bitter foe far from his view. "well," cried the porteress, examining the portrait by the aid of the lamp, "was there ever such imperance? why, alfred, the vile feller has presumed to write in red letters at the bottom of the picture, 'to my dear friend pipelet; presented by his friend for life, cabrion!'" "for life!" groaned pipelet; then, heaving a deep sigh, he added, "yes, 'tis my life he aims at; and he will finish by taking it. i shall exist, from this day forward, in a state of continual alarm, believing that the fiend who torments me is ever near,--hid, perhaps, in the floor, the wall, the ceiling, and thence watches me throughout the day; or even at night, when sleeping in the chaste arms of my wife, his eye is still on me. and who can tell but he is at this very instant behind me, gazing with that well-known sardonic grin; or crouched down in some corner of the room, like a deadly reptile! say, you monster, are you there? are you there, i demand?" cried m. pipelet, accompanying this furious adjuration by a sort of circular motion of the head, as though wishing to interrogate every nook and corner of the lodge. "yes, dear friend, here i am!" answered the well-known voice of cabrion, in blandly affectionate tones. by a simple trick in ventriloquism, these words were made to appear as though issuing from the recess in which stood the bed; but the malicious joker was in reality close to the door of the lodge, enjoying every particular look and word that passed within. however, after uttering the last few words, he prudently disappeared with all haste, though not (as will be seen) without leaving his victim a fresh subject for rage, astonishment, and meditation. madame pipelet, still skeptical and courageous, carefully examined under the bed, as well as in every corner of the lodge, but, discovering no trace of the enemy, actually went out into the alley to prosecute her researches; while m. pipelet, completely crushed by this last blow, fell back into his chair in a state of boundless despair. "never mind, alfred!" said anastasie, who always exhibited great determination upon all critical occasions. "bless you! the villain had managed to hide himself somewhere near the door, and, while we were looking in one direction, he managed to slip out in another. but just wait a bit: i shall catch him one of these days, and then see if i don't make him taste my broomstick! let him take care, that's all!" the door opened as she concluded this animating address, and madame séraphin, the housekeeper of the notary, jacques ferrand, entered the lodge. "good day, madame séraphin," said madame pipelet, who, in her extreme anxiety to conceal her domestic troubles from a stranger, assumed all at once a most gracious and winning manner; "what can i have the pleasure of doing for you?" "why, first of all, tell me what is the meaning of your new sign?" "our new sign?" "yes; the small printed board." "printed board!" "to be sure; that black board with red letters, hung over the door leading from the alley up to your lodge." "what, out in the street?" "in the street, i tell you, precisely over your door." "i wish i may die if i understand a single word of what you are talking about! do you, old dear?" alfred spoke not. "certainly," continued madame séraphin, "since it relates to m. pipelet, he can best explain to me what this board means." alfred uttered a sort of heavy, inarticulate groan, while his bell-crowned hat recommenced its convulsive agitations. this pantomimic action was meant to express that alfred was in no condition to explain anything to anybody, having his mind already sufficiently burdened with an infinity of problematical questions he sought in vain to solve. "don't take any notice of poor dear alfred, madame séraphin; he has got the cramp in his stomach, and that makes him so very--but what is this board of which you were speaking? very likely it has just been put up by the man who keeps the wine-shop at the corner." "i tell you again it is no such thing. it is a small painted board, hung up over your door,--i mean the door leading from the alley to the street." "ah, you are laughing at us!" "indeed i am not. i saw it just now, as i came in; on it is written, in large letters, 'pipelet and cabrion, dealers in friendship and similar articles. inquire of the porter.'" "gracious goodness! do you hear that, alfred? do you hear what is written up over our door?" alfred gazed at madame séraphin with a bewildered look, but he neither understood nor sought to understand her meaning. "do you mean to say," continued madame pipelet, confounded by this fresh audacity, "that you positively saw a little board out in the street with all that about alfred and cabrion, and dealing in friendship?" "i tell you i have just seen it, and read with my own eyes what i described to you. 'well,' said i to myself, 'this is droll enough! m. pipelet is a shoemaker by trade, but here he writes up publicly that he is a dealer in friendship along with a m. cabrion! what can all this mean? there is something meant more than meets the eye!' still, as the board further directed all persons desirous of knowing more to apply to the porter, 'oh,' thinks i, 'madame pipelet can explain all this to me!' but, look, look!" cried madame séraphin, suddenly breaking off in her remarks. "your husband is taken ill! mind what you are about, or he will fall backwards!" madame pipelet flew to her afflicted partner, and was just in time to receive him, half fainting, in her arms. the last blow had been too overwhelming,--the man in the bell-crowned hat had but just strength left to murmur forth, "the scoundrel has, then, publicly placarded me!" "i told you, madame séraphin, that poor alfred was suffering dreadful with the cramp in his stomach, besides being worried to death by a crack-brained vagabond, who is at him night and day: he'll be the death of my poor old duck at last. never mind, darling, i've got a nice little drop of aniseed to give you; so drink it, and see if you can't shake your old feathers and be yourself again!" thanks to the timely application of madame pipelet's infallible remedy, alfred gradually recovered his senses; but, alas, scarcely was he restored to full consciousness ere he was subjected to another and equally cruel trial of his feelings! an individual of middle age, respectably dressed, and possessing a countenance so simple, or rather so silly, as to render it impossible to suspect him of any malice prepense or intended irony, opened the upper and glazed part of the lodge door, saying, with the most genuine air of mystification: "i have just read on a small board placed over the door, at the entrance to the alley, the following words: 'pipelet and cabrion, dealers in friendship and similar articles. inquire of the porter.' will you oblige me by explaining the meaning of those words, if you are, as i presume you to be, the porter in question?" "the meaning!" exclaimed m. pipelet, in a voice of thunder, and giving vent at length to his so long restrained indignation; "the meaning is simply, sir-r-r, that m. cabrion is an infamous scoundrel,--an impostor!" the simple-looking interrogator drew back, in dread of the consequences that might follow this sudden and furious burst of wrath, while, wrought up to a state of fury, alfred leaned over the half door of the lodge, his glaring eyeballs and clenched hands indicating the intensity of his feelings; while the figures of madame séraphin and anastasie were dimly revealed amid the murky shades of the small room. "let me tell you, sir-r-r!" cried m. pipelet, addressing the placid-looking man at the door, "that i have no dealings with that beggar cabrion, and certainly none in the way of friendship!" "no, that i'm sure you have not!" screamed out madame pipelet, in confirmation of her husband's words; adding, as she displayed her forbidding countenance over her husband's shoulder, "and i wonder very much where that old dunderhead has come from to ask such a stupid question?" "i beg your pardon, madame," said the guileless-looking individual thus addressed, again withdrawing another step to escape the concentrated anger of the enraged pair; "placards are made to be read,--you put out a board, which i read,--now allow me to say that i am not to blame for perusing what you set up purposely to attract attention, but that you are decidedly wrong to insult me so grossly when i civilly come to you, as your own board desires, for information." "oh, you old fool! get along with you!" exclaimed anastasie, with a most hideous distortion of visage. "you are a rude, unmannerly woman!" "alfred, deary, just fetch me your boot-jack: i'll give that old chatterer such a mark that his own mother shall not know her darling again!" "really, madame, i can't say i understand receiving such rough treatment when i come, by your own directions, to make inquiries respecting what you or your husband have publicly notified in the streets." "but, sir-r-r--!" cried the unhappy porter. "sir!" interrupted the hitherto placid inquirer, now worked up into extreme rage, "sir! you may carry your friendship with your m. cabrion as far as you please, but, give me leave to tell you, you have no business to parade yourself or your friendships in the face of everybody in the streets. and i think it right, sir, to let you know a bit of my mind; which is, that you are a boasting braggart, and that i shall go at once and lay a formal complaint against you at the police office." saying which, the individual departed in an apparently towering passion. "anastasie," moaned out poor pipelet, in a dolorous voice, "i shall never survive all this! i feel but too surely that i am struck with death,--i have not a hope of escape! you hear my name is publicly exposed in the open streets, in company with that scoundrel's! he has dared to placard the hideous tale of my having entered into a treaty of friendship with him! and the innocent, unsuspecting public will read the hateful statement--remember it--repeat it--spread the detestable report! oh, monstrous, enormous, devilish invention! none but a fiend could have had such a thought. but there must be an end to this. the measure is full,--ay, to overflowing; and things have come to such a pass that either this accursed painter or myself must perish in the deadly struggle!" and, wrought up to such a state of vigorous resolution as to completely conquer his usual apathy, m. pipelet seized the portrait of cabrion and rushed towards the door. "where are you going, alfred?" screamed the wife. "to the commissary of police, and, at the same time, to tear down that vile board! then, bearing the board in one hand and the portrait in the other, i will cry aloud to the commissary, 'defend, avenge an injured man! deliver me from cabrion!'" "so do, old darling! there, hold up your head and pluck up courage! and i tell you what, if the board is too high for you to reach, ask the man at the wine-shop to lend you his small ladder. that blackguard of a cabrion! i only wish i had him in my power, i'd fry him for half an hour in my largest stew-pan! why, scores of people have been publicly executed who did not deserve death a quarter as much as he does! the villain! i should like to see him just ready to have the guillotine dropped upon his head. wouldn't i give him my blessing in a friendly way? a rascal!" alfred, amid all his woes, yet displayed a rare magnanimity, contrasting strongly with the vindictive spirit of his partner. "no, no," said he; "spite of the wrongs he has done me, i would not, even if his life were in my power, 'demand his head!'" "but i would! i would! i would!" vociferated the ferocious anastasie. "if he had fifty heads, i would demand every one of them! i would not leave him one! but go along; make haste, alfred, and set the commissary of police to work upon him." "no," cried alfred, "i desire not his blood; but i have a right to demand the perpetual imprisonment of this malicious being. my repose requires it,--my health peremptorily calls for it. the laws of my country must either grant me this reparation for all i have suffered, or i quit france. yes, beautiful and beloved france! i turn my back on you for ever! and that is all an ungrateful nation would gain by neglecting to heal the wounds of my tortured mind;" and, bending beneath the weight of his grief, alfred majestically quitted the lodge, like one of the ancient victims of all-conquering fatality. chapter xiv. cecily. before we introduce the reader to the conversation between madame séraphin and madame pipelet, we must premise that anastasie, without entertaining the very slightest suspicion of the virtue and piety of the notary, felt the greatest indignation at the severity manifested by him in the case both of louise morel and m. germain; and, as a natural consequence, the angry porteress included madame séraphin in the same censure; but still, like a skilful politician, madame pipelet, for reasons we shall hereafter explain, concealed her dislike to the _femme-de-charge_ under the appearance of the greatest cordiality. after having explicitly declared her extreme disapprobation of the conduct pursued by cabrion, madame séraphin went on to say: "by the way, what has become of m. bradamanti polidori? i wrote to him yesterday evening, but got no reply; this morning i came to see him, but he was not to be found. i trust i shall be more fortunate this time." madame pipelet affected the most lively regret. "really," cried she, "you are doomed to be unlucky!" "how so?" "m. bradamanti has not yet returned." "upon my word, this is enough to tire a saint!" "so it is, i declare, madame séraphin. i'm sure i'm as sorry about it as if it was my own self." "i had so much to say to him." "it is all for the world as though you were bewitched!" "why, yes, it is so much the more vexatious, because i have to find all manner of excuses to run down here; for, if once m. ferrand were to find out that i came to consult a quack doctor, he who is so devout, so scrupulous in all things, we should have a fearful scene!" "la! he is just like alfred, who is so silly that really he is afraid of everything and everybody!" "and you do not know, i suppose, when m. bradamanti will return home?" "no, not precisely; but i know very well that he expects some one about six or seven o'clock this evening, for he told me to request the person to call again, should he not be at home at the time mentioned. so, if you will call again in the evening, you will be sure to see him." but, as anastasie said these words, she mentally added, "i would not have you too sure of that; in an hour's time he will be on his road to normandy!" "very well, then," said madame séraphin, with an air of considerable chagrin. then, pausing a brief space, she added, "i had also something to say to you, my dear madame pipelet. you know, i suppose, what happened to that girl, louise morel, whom everybody thought so good and virtuous--" "oh, pray don't mention her!" replied madame pipelet, rolling her eyes with affected horror. "it makes one's hair stand on end." "i merely alluded to her by way of saying that we are now quite without a servant, and that, if you should chance to hear of a well-disposed, honest, and industrious young person, i should take it as a favour if you would send her to us. upon my word, girls of good character are so difficult to be met with that one had need search in twenty places at once to find one." "depend upon it, madame séraphin, that, should i hear of anybody likely to suit you, i will let you know; but, in my opinion, good situations are more rare even than good servants." then, again relapsing into a fit of abstraction, anastasie added, though mentally, "a likely story that i should send any young girl to be starved to death in your dungeon of a house; your master is too stingy and hard-hearted! the idea of throwing that poor louise and m. germain both in prison!" "i need not tell you," continued madame séraphin, "what a still, quiet house ours is; any young person must be improved by living in a family where there is continually something to be learned; and that louise must have been naturally a depraved creature, to turn out badly spite of the good and religious advice bestowed on her by m. ferrand." "no doubt; but depend upon it that, directly i hear of a young person likely to suit you, i will be sure to let you know." "there is just one thing more i should like to mention," resumed madame séraphin, "and that is, that m. ferrand would greatly prefer taking a person who had no relatives or friends, because then, you understand, having no motive for wishing to go out, she would be less exposed to danger, neither would her mind be so likely to be upset; so that, if you should happen to meet with an orphan, i think m. ferrand would prefer taking her, in the first place, because it would be doing a good action; and, secondly, as, having neither friends nor followers, she could not have any excuse for wishing to go out. i assure you that wretched girl, louise, gave m. ferrand a severe lesson, i can tell you, madame pipelet, and one that will make him very careful what sort of a servant he engages. only imagine such a scandalous affair occurring in a house like ours! dreadful! well, then, i will call again this evening to see m. bradamanti, and, at the same time, i can have a little conversation with mother burette." "then i will say adieu, madame séraphin, till this evening, when you will be quite sure of finding m. bradamanti." madame séraphin returned the salutation, and quitted the lodge. "what a deuce of a worry she is in about bradamanti!" said madame pipelet, when her visitor had disappeared. "i wonder what she wants with him? and then, too, m. bradamanti is just as anxious to avoid seeing her before he starts for normandy. i was dreadfully afraid she meant to stick here till he did return home, and that would have been the more awkward, as m. bradamanti expects the same lady who came last night; i could not manage to have a squint at her then, but i am determined to-night to stare her regularly out of countenance, like i did the lady who came on the sly to visit my five-farthing commandant. ah, the screw! the nipcheese! he has never ventured to show his face here since. however, by way of teaching him better, i shall make good use of his wood; yes, yes, my fine gentleman, it shall keep the lodge warm, as well as air your shut-up apartments. a disappointed puppy! ha, ha, ha! go, and be hanged with your paltry twelve francs a month! better learn to pay people honest wages, than go flaunting about in a bright green dressing-gown, like a great lanky grasshopper! but who the plague can this lady of m. bradamanti's be, i wonder? is she respectable, or t'other? i should like to know, for i am as curious as a magpie; but that is not my fault; i am as god made me, so i can't help it. i know one's disposition is born with us, and so the blame does not lie at my door. stop a bit; i've just thought of a capital plan to find out who this lady really is; and, what's more, i'll engage it turns out successful. who is that i see coming? ah, my king of lodgers! your servant, m. rodolph!" cried madame pipelet, saluting him, after the military fashion, by placing the back of her left hand to her wig. it was, in truth, rodolph, who, as yet ignorant of the death of m. d'harville, approached gaily, saying: "good day to you, madame pipelet! can you tell me if mlle. rigolette is at home? i have something to say to her, if she is." "at home, poor girl! why, when is she ever out? when does she lose an hour, or idle instead of working?" "and how gets on morel's unfortunate wife? does she appear more reconciled to her misfortunes?" "yes, m. rodolph, i am glad to say she does; and how can she be otherwise, when, thanks to you, or the generous friend whose agent you are, she is supplied with every comfort, both for herself and her children, who are as happy as fishes in the sea? why, they want for nothing; they have good air, good food, good fires, and good beds, with a nurse to take care of them, besides mlle. rigolette, who, although working like a little busy bee, and without seeming to take part in their proceedings, never loses sight of them, bless you! and they have had a black doctor to see them, who says he comes from you. 'well,' says i, when i looked at him, 'you are a funny one for a doctor, you are! i suppose, mr. nigger, you are physician to a company of charcoalmen, because there is no fear of your blacking your hands when you feel their pulse?' but la, m. rodolph, i'm only joking! for what difference does colour make? leastways your blacky seems to be a first-rate clever man, spite of his dingy face, for the first thing he did was to order a composing draught for morel's wife, which did her a world of good!" "poor thing! i doubt not she is still very miserable?" "why, yes, m. rodolph, naturally enough she is, for she has plenty of grief before her: her husband in a madhouse, and her daughter in prison! ah, that poor louise! that is the sorest of her heartaches; such a blow as that to an honest family, such as theirs has always been, is not to be got over so easily. and that madame séraphin, housekeeper to the notary, who has caused all this misery, has just been here, saying all manner of cruel things about the poor girl. if i had not had my own game to play, she should not have told the tale quite her own way; but i've got a pill for her to swallow by and by, so i'll let her off easy. why, only conceive her assurance in coming to ask me if i could not recommend her some young person to supply the place of louise in the establishment of that old brute of a notary. what a blessed pair the master and his housekeeper are! just fancy their preferring an orphan, if they can obtain one, to be their servant! don't you see through that, m. rodolph? they pretend that their reason for wishing for an orphan is, because, having neither parents nor friends, she would never wish to go out, and would be more free from interruption; but that is not it, that is all a fudge; the truth is, they think that, if they could get a poor, friendless girl into their clutches, having nobody to see her righted, they could cheat her out of her wages as much as they liked. now is not that true, m. rodolph?" "no doubt," replied the person addressed, with the air of one who is thinking deeply on a subject. the information thus afforded him as to madame séraphin seeking an orphan girl, to replace louise as servant in the family of m. ferrand, appeared to present the almost certain means of accomplishing the just punishment of the notary; and, while madame pipelet was yet speaking, he was arranging every point of the part he had mentally destined for cecily, whom he purposed making the principal instrument in effecting the retributive justice he meant to inflict on the vile persecutor of louise morel. "oh, i was quite sure you would be of my opinion," continued madame pipelet, "and that you would agree with me in thinking that their only reason for desiring to engage an orphan girl is, that they may do her out of her wages; and, i can tell you, i would sooner drop down dead than send any poor, friendless creature to such a house! certainly, i don't happen to know of any one, but, if i knew of fifty, they should not enter into such a wretched house, if i could hinder them. don't you think i'm right, m. rodolph?" "madame pipelet, will you do me a great favour?" "do you a favour, m. rodolph? lord love your heart and soul! just say what there is i can do for you, and then see whether i will or no. come, what is it? shall i jump into the fire? or curl my best wig with boiling oil? or is there anybody i can worry, bite, pinch, or scold for you? only say the word. i am wholly at your service, heart and body, your most humble slave; always stipulating that in my service there shall be no offence to alfred's prior claims on me." "oh, my dear madame pipelet, make yourself perfectly easy! i want you to manage a little affair for me, which is this: i have got to place out a young orphan girl, who is utterly a stranger to paris; and i wish very much, with your assistance, to obtain for her the situation vacant in m. ferrand's establishment." "you don't mean it? la, i never can think you are in earnest! what! send a poor, friendless girl to live with such a miserly wretch as that hard-hearted old notary? no, no, m. rodolph, that was not what you wanted me to do, i'm sure!" "but, indeed, it is; why, a place is a place, and, if the young person i mentioned to you should not like it, she is not obliged to stay there; and then, don't you see, she would at once be able to maintain herself, while i should have no further uneasiness about her?" "oh, as far as that goes, m. rodolph, it is your affair, not mine; and, whatever happens, remember i warned you. if, after all you have heard, you still think the place would suit your young friend, why, of course, you can please yourself; and, then, to be sure, as far as regards the notary, there are always two sides to every picture, a for and against to every tale; he is hard-hearted as a flint-stone, obstinate as a jackass, bigoted as a jesuit, that's true enough; but then he is of the most scrupulous punctuality in all his affairs; he gives very low wages, but, then, he pays on the nail; the living is very bad at his house, still it is the same one day as another. in a word, though it is a house where a servant must work like a horse, yet, at the same time, it is one of those dull, quiet, stupid places, where there is certainly nothing to tempt a girl to get into mischief. certainly, louise managed to go wrong, but that was all a chance." "madame pipelet, i am going to confide a great secret to your honour." "well, then, upon the word and honour of anastasie pipelet, whose maiden name was gulimard, as true as there is a god and heaven, and that alfred always wears green coats, i will be silent as a stockfish!" "you must not breathe a word to m. pipelet." "that i won't, i swear by the head of that dear old duck himself, if it relates to a proper and correct affair." "surely, madame pipelet, you have too good an opinion of me to suppose, for a minute, that i would insult your chaste ears with anything that was not?" "well, then, go it! let's know all about it, and, i promise you, alfred shall never be the wiser, be it what it may. bless you! he is as easy to cheat as a child of six years old." "i rely implicitly on you; therefore listen to my words." "i will, my king of lodgers; and remember that we are now sworn friends for life or for death. so go on with your story." "the young person i spoke to you about has, unfortunately, committed one serious fault." "i was sure of it! why, lord bless you, if i had not married alfred when i was fifteen years of age, i dare say i should have committed, fifties and hundreds of faults! i? there, just as you see. i was like a barrel of gunpowder at the very sight or mention of a smart young fellow. luckily for me, pipelet extinguished the warmth of my nature in the coolness of his own virtue; if he had not, i can't say what might have happened, for i did dearly love the gay deceivers! i merely mention this to say that, if the young person has only done wrong once, then there are great hopes of her." "i trust, indeed, she will atone for her past misconduct. she was living in service, in germany, with a relation of mine, and the partner of her crime was the son of this relative. do you understand?" "do i? don't i? go along with you! i understand as well as though i had committed the fault myself." "the angry mistress, upon discovering her servant's guilt, drove her from her house; but the young man was weak enough to quit his paternal roof, and to bring the unfortunate girl to paris." "well, la, m. rodolph! what else could you expect? why, young people will be young people. i'm sure i--" "after this act of folly came stern reflection, rendered still more severe by the fact of the slender stock of money he possessed being exhausted. in this dilemma, my young relation applied to me; and i consented to furnish him with the means of returning home, on condition of his leaving behind him the companion of his flight, whom i undertook to place out in some respectable capacity." "well, i declare, i could not have done more for a son, if it had pleased heaven--and pipelet--that i should have had one!" "i am delighted that you approve of my conduct; still, as the young girl is a stranger, and has no one to give her a recommendation, i fear it will be rather difficult to get her placed. now, if you would tell madame séraphin that a relation of yours, living in germany, has sent her to you, with a very excellent character, the notary would, possibly, take her into his service; and i should be doubly delighted. cecily (for that is her name), having only once gone astray, would, doubtless, soon regain the right path in a house as severe and saintly as that of the notary's; and it is for that reason i am desirous of seeing the poor girl enter into the service of m. ferrand; and, of course, if introduced by so respectable a person as yourself, madame pipelet, there would be no fear of her obtaining the place." "oh, m. rodolph!" "yes, indeed, my good madame, i am sure that one word from so justly esteemed an individual as you--" "oh, my king of lodgers!" "i repeat that, if you would patronise the young girl so far as to introduce her to madame séraphin, i have no fears but that she would be accepted; whereas, you know, if i were to accompany her to the notary's house--" "i see what you mean; to be sure, it would look just as queer as if i were to introduce a young man. well, i will do what you wish; it will be serving old séraphin out as she deserves. i can tell you i have had a crow to pluck with her a long time, and this seems a famous way of serving her out; besides, it's a good lark, any way. so look upon the thing as done, m. rodolph. i'll cram the old woman well. i will tell her that a relation of my own, long established in germany, has just died, as well as her husband, leaving a daughter wholly dependent on me." "capital! well, then, without saying anything more to madame séraphin, you shall take cecily to m. ferrand. all you will have to say is, that, not having seen or heard anything of your relation during the last twenty years, you consider it best to let her speak for herself." "ah, but then, if the girl only jabbers german?" "i assure you she speaks french perfectly well. i will give her proper instructions, therefore you need do nothing more than strongly recommend her to madame séraphin,--or, stay, upon second thoughts, perhaps you had better not say any more than you have done on the subject, for fear she should suspect you want to force the girl upon her. you know that, frequently, the very asking a thing produces a refusal." "i should think i did, too! why, that was the way i got rid of all the flattering lovers that came about me. if they had never asked me a favour, i don't know what i might have done." "it is always the case; therefore say nothing more to madame séraphin than just this, that cecily is an orphan, and a stranger here, very young and very pretty, that she will be a heavy burden to you, and that you are not particularly fond of her, in consequence of having long since quarrelled with her mother, and, consequently, not retaining a very great affection for the charge bequeathed to your care." "what a deep one you are! but never mind, there's a pair of us! i say, m. rodolph, is it not odd you and i should understand each other so well? ah, we two should have suited one another to a hair! gracious, m. rodolph, when i think what might have happened, if we had chanced to have met when i was such a tender-hearted, susceptible young creature, and so fond of handsome young men,--don't you fancy we should have seemed like made for one another,--eh, m. rodolph?" "hush! suppose m. pipelet--" "i forgot him, poor old duck! his brain is half turned since this last abominable prank of cabrion's; but i'll tell you about that another time. as for your young relation, make yourself quite easy; i will undertake to play my part so well that old séraphin shall come to me, and beg to have her as a servant." "and if you succeed, madame pipelet, i have one hundred francs quite at your service. i am not rich, but--" "are you making fun of me, m. rodolph, or do you imagine i am doing what i do for the sake of gain? i declare to god it's out of nothing but pure friendship! one hundred francs! that's handsome, however!" "why, i consider it but an act of justice, as well as gratitude, to offer you a sum which, if left several months on my hands, the girl must soon have cost me." "ah, well, then, since i can serve you by accepting your hundred francs, of course i have no further objection, m. rodolph; but we drew a famous prize in the lottery when you came into the house, and i don't care who hears me say it, for i'd as lief cry it on the housetops. you are the very prince and king of good lodgers! halloa, there is a hackney-coach! no doubt, the lady m. bradamanti expects; i could not manage to see her well when she came yesterday, but i'll have a precious good stare at her this time; added to which, i've got a capital plan for finding out her name. come, you shall see me go to work; it will be a famous lark for us!" "no, i thank you, madame pipelet; i have not the slightest curiosity respecting either the name or features of this lady," returned rodolph, withdrawing to the very end of the lodge. "where do you wish to go, madame?" cried anastasie, rushing towards the female, who was entering. "i am going to m. bradamanti's," returned the person addressed, visibly annoyed at having her progress thus arrested. "he is not at home." "you are mistaken." "oh, no, i am not!" said the porteress, skilfully contriving so to place herself as to command a perfect view of the stranger's features. "m. bradamanti has gone out, positively, absolutely gone out; that is to say, he is not at home, except to one lady." "'tis i, he expects me; and pray, my good woman, allow me to pass; you are really troublesome!" "your name, madame, if you please? i shall soon see if it is the name of the person m. bradamanti desired me to admit. should yours not be the right name, you don't go up-stairs, unless you first trample on my body!" "is it possible he could be so imprudent as to tell you my name?" cried the female, with as much surprise as uneasiness. "certainly he did, madame, or how should i know it?" "how very thoughtless!" murmured the stranger. then, after a momentary hesitation, she said, impatiently, in a low voice, and as if fearful of being overheard, "my name is d'orbigny." rodolph started at the word, as it reached his ear, for it was the name of madame d'harville's mother-in-law. advancing, therefore, from the dark corner in which he stood, he managed, by the light of the lamp, to obtain a clear view of the stranger, in whose features he easily traced the portrait so skilfully drawn by clémence of the author of all her sufferings. "madame d'orbigny!" repeated madame pipelet, in a loud tone. "ah, then you may go up-stairs; that is the name m. bradamanti gave me." madame d'harville's mother-in-law waited for no second bidding, but rapidly passed by the lodge. "well done us!" shouted the porteress, with a triumphant air; "i have caught my fish, done the great lady! now, then, i know her name,--she is madame d'orbigny. that wasn't a bad scheme of mine, was it, m. rodolph? but what the plague is the matter with you? how sad and thoughtful you have grown all of a minute!" "this lady has been to see m. bradamanti before, has she not?" "yes, she was here yesterday evening; and, directly she was gone, m. bradamanti went out, most probably, to take his place in the diligence for to-day, because, when he came back, he asked me to take his trunk to the coach office, as he could not trust that little rascal, tortillard." "and do you know where m. bradamanti is going?" "to normandy, by way of alençon." rodolph called to his remembrance that aubiers, the seat of m. d'orbigny, was situated in normandy. there was no longer a doubt that the charlatan was proceeding to the paternal home of clémence, and, as a matter of course, to aid and assist in some scheme of wickedness. "the departure of m. bradamanti will put old séraphin out preciously!" resumed madame pipelet. "i can't make out what she wants with him; but she seems as much bent upon seeing him as he is on avoiding her; for he charged me particularly not to tell her that he leaves paris to-night at six o'clock. so, when she calls again, she will find nobody at home; that will give me an opportunity of talking to her about your young person. let's see, what is her name? cissy--" "cecily!" "ah, i see! just clap two more letters to the word i said,--that'll do. i must tie a knot in the corner of my handkerchief, that i may be able to recollect this bother of a name. ciss--cissy--cecily--i've got it!" "well, now, i think it is time for me to visit mlle. rigolette," said rodolph to madame pipelet, as he quitted the lodge. "and when you come down-stairs, m. rodolph, i hope you will just speak a word or two to my dear old darling of a husband. he has had a deal of trouble lately, and i know it will be a great relief to him to tell you all about it. that beast of a cabrion has been at his old tricks again!" "be assured, madame pipelet, i shall always be ready to sympathise with your worthy husband in all his troubles." and with these words rodolph, strangely preoccupied with the recent visit of madame d'orbigny to polidori, slowly pursued his way to the apartment of mlle. rigolette. end of volume iii. * * * * * transcriber's notes: this e-text was prepared from numbered edition of the printed. minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without comment. minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly throughout the text have been made without comment. contents, corrected printers error of chapter iii page reference from page to page . p. , removed duplicate "and" (strictly and expressly forbidden) p. , changed "ask" to "asked" ("...on the spot?" asked rodolph.) word variations appearing in the original text which have been retained: "duchess" and "duchesse" "good-by" and "good-bye" "halloa" and "holloa" "saint-remy" and "saint rémy" words using the [oe] ligature, which have been herein represented as "oe": "subpoenaed", "_chef-d'oeuvre_", "phoenix", "bureau des moeurs" throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on facing pages. for the purpose of this e-text these pages have been combined into one entry. footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears. (stanford university, sul books in the public domain) transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . passages in gothic bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs. . other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text. [illustration: _portrait of eugene sue_ etching by bicknell, from a portrait] +the mysteries of paris.+ _illustrated with etchings by mercier, bicknell, poiteau, and adrian marcel._ _by eugene sue_ _in six volumes volume i._ _printed for francis a. niccolls & co. boston_ _edition de luxe._ _limited to one thousand copies._ no. _____ contents. chap. page i. the tapis-franc ii. the ogress iii. history of la goualeuse iv. the chourineur's history v. the arrest vi. thomas seyton and the countess sarah vii. "your money or your life" viii. the walk ix. the surprise x. castles in the air xi. murphy and rodolph xii. the rendezvous xiii. preparations xiv. the bleeding heart xv. the vault xvi. the sick-nurse xvii. the punishment xviii. the isle adam xix. recompense xx. the departure xxi. researches xxii. history of david and cecily xxiii. a house in the rue du temple xxiv. the four stories xxv. tom and sarah xxvi. the ball list of illustrations. page portrait of eugene sue _frontispiece_ the chourineur, rodolph, and la goualeuse "she proffered to rodolph the bouquet" "'ah, here is the darling one!'" "rodolph addressed the schoolmaster." "this individual was seated by the stove" "'this, i suppose, is the work of m. cabrion'" the mysteries of paris. chapter i. the tapis-franc.[ ] it was on a cold and rainy night, towards the end of october, , that a tall and powerful man, with an old broad-brimmed straw hat upon his head, and clad in a blue cotton carter's frock, which hung loosely over trousers of the same material, crossed the pont au change, and darted with a hasty step into the cité, that labyrinth of obscure, narrow, and winding streets which extends from the palais de justice to notre dame. [ ] _tapis-franc_: literally, a "free carpet;" a low haunt equivalent to what in english slang is termed "a boozing ken." although limited in space, and carefully watched, this quarter serves as the lurking-place, or rendezvous, of a vast number of the very dregs of society in paris, who flock to the _tapis-franc_. this word, in the slang of theft and murder, signifies a drinking-shop of the lowest class. a returned convict, who, in this foul phraseology, is called an "ogre," or a woman in the same degraded state, who is termed an "ogress," generally keep such "cribs," frequented by the refuse of the parisian population; freed felons, thieves, and assassins are there familiar guests. if a crime is committed, it is here, in this filthy sewer, that the police throws its cast-net, and rarely fails to catch the criminals it seeks to take. on the night in question, the wind howled fiercely in the dark and dirty gullies of the cité; the blinking and uncertain light of the lamps which swung to and fro in the sudden gusts were dimly reflected in pools of black slush, which flowed abundantly in the midst of the filthy pavement. the murky-coloured houses, which were lighted within by a few panes of glass in the worm-eaten casements, overhung each other so closely that the eaves of each almost touched its opposite neighbour, so narrow were the streets. dark and noisome alleys led to staircases still more black and foul, and so perpendicular that they could hardly be ascended by the help of a cord fixed to the dank and humid walls by holdfasts of iron. stalls of charcoal-sellers, fruit-sellers, or venders of refuse meat occupied the ground floor of some of these wretched abodes. notwithstanding the small value of their commodities, the fronts of nearly all these shops were protected by strong bars of iron,--a proof that the shopkeepers knew and dreaded the gentry who infested the vicinity. the man of whom we have spoken, having entered the rue aux fêves, which is in the centre of the cité, slackened his pace: he felt he was on his own soil. the night was dark, and strong gusts of wind, mingled with rain, dashed against the walls. ten o'clock struck by the distant dial of the palais de justice. women were huddled together under the vaulted arches, deep and dark, like caverns; some hummed popular airs in a low key; others conversed together in whispers; whilst some, dumb and motionless, looked on mechanically at the wet, which fell and flowed in torrents. the man in the carter's frock, stopping suddenly before one of these creatures, silent and sad as she gazed, seized her by the arm, and said, "ha! good evening, la goualeuse."[ ] [ ] sweet-throated: in reference to the tone of her voice. the girl receded, saying, in a faint and fearful tone, "good evening, chourineur.[ ] don't hurt me." [ ] one who strikes with the knife; the stabber, or slasher. this man, a liberated convict, had been so named at the hulks. "now i have you," said the fellow; "you must pay me the glass of 'tape' (_eau d'aff_), or i'll make you dance without music," he added, with a hoarse and brutal laugh. "oh, heaven! i have no money," replied goualeuse, trembling from head to foot, for this man was the dread of the district. "if you're stumped, the ogress of the _tapis-franc_ will give you tick for your pretty face." "she won't; i already owe her for the clothes i'm wearing." "what, you want to shirk it?" shouted the chourineur, darting after la goualeuse, who had hid herself in a gully as murk as midnight. "now, then, my lady, i've got you!" said the vagabond, after groping about for a few moments, and grasping in one of his coarse and powerful hands a slim and delicate wrist; "and now for the dance i promised you." "no, it is _you_ who shall dance!" was uttered by a masculine and deep voice. "a man! is't you, bras rouge? speak, why don't you? and don't squeeze so hard. i am here in the entrance to your 'ken,' and you it must be." "'tis not bras rouge!" said the voice. "oh! isn't it? well, then, if it is not a friend, why, here goes at you," exclaimed the chourineur. "but whose bit of a hand is it i have got hold of? it must be a woman's!" "it is the fellow to this," responded the voice. and under the delicate skin of this hand, which grasped his throat with sudden ferocity, the chourineur felt himself held by nerves of iron. the goualeuse, who had sought refuge in this alley, and lightly ascended a few steps, paused for an instant, and said to her unknown defender, "thanks, sir, for having taken my part. the chourineur said he would strike me because i could not pay for his glass of brandy; but i think he only jested. now i am safe, pray let him go. take care of yourself, for he is the chourineur." "if he be the chourineur, i am a bully boy who never knuckles down," exclaimed the unknown. all was then silent for a moment, and then were heard for several seconds, in the midst of the pitchy darkness, sounds of a fierce struggle. "who the devil is this?" then said the ruffian, making a desperate effort to free himself from his adversary, whose extraordinary power astonished him. "now, then, now you shall pay both for la goualeuse and yourself!" he shouted, grinding his teeth. "pay! yes, i will pay you, but it shall be with my fists; and it shall be cash in full," replied the unknown. "if," said the chourineur, in a stifled voice, "you do but let go my neckcloth, i will bite your nose off." "my nose is too small, my lad, and you haven't light enough to see it." "come under the 'hanging glim'[ ] there." [ ] under the lamp, called _reverbère_. "that i will," replied the unknown, "for then we may look into the whites of each other's eyes." he then made a desperate rush at the chourineur, whom he still held by the throat, and forced him to the end of the alley, and then thrust him violently into the street, which was but dimly lighted by the suspended street-lamp. the bandit stumbled; but, rapidly recovering his feet, he threw himself furiously upon the unknown, whose slim and graceful form appeared to belie the possession of the irresistible strength he had displayed. after a struggle of a few minutes, the chourineur, although of athletic build, and a first-rate champion in a species of pugilism vulgarly termed the _savate_, found that he had got what they call his master. the unknown threw him twice with immense dexterity, by what is called, in wrestling, the leg-pass, or crook. unwilling, however, to acknowledge the superiority of his adversary, the chourineur, boiling with rage, returned again to the charge. then the defender of la goualeuse, suddenly altering his mode of attack, rained on the head and face of the bandit a shower of blows with his closed fist, as hard and heavy as if stricken by a steel gauntlet. these blows, worthy of the admiration of jem belcher, dutch sam, tom cribb, or any other celebrated english pugilist, were so entirely different from the system of the _savate_, that the chourineur dropped like an ox on the pavement, exclaiming, as he fell, "i'm floored!" (_mon linge est lavé!_) "_mon dieu! mon dieu!_ have pity on him!" exclaimed la goualeuse, who, during the contest, had ventured on the threshold of the alley, adding, with an air of astonishment, "but who are you, then? except the schoolmaster and skeleton, there is no one, from the rue saint eloi to notre dame, who can stand against the chourineur. i thank you very, very much, sir, for, indeed, i fear that, without your aid, he would have beaten me." the unknown, instead of replying, listened with much attention to the voice of this girl. perhaps a tone more gentle, sweet, and silvery never fell on human ear. he endeavoured to examine the features of la goualeuse; but the night was too dark, and the beams of the street-lamp too flickering and feeble. after remaining for some minutes quite motionless, the chourineur shook his legs and arms, and then partly rose from the ground. "pray be on your guard!" exclaimed the goualeuse, retreating again into the dark passage, and taking her champion by the arm; "take care, or he will have his revenge on you." "don't be frightened, my child; if he has not had enough, i have more ready for him." the brigand heard these words. "thanks," he murmured; "i'm half throttled, and one eye is closed,--that is quite enough for one day. some other time, perhaps, when we may meet again--" "what! not content yet,--grumbling still?" said the unknown, with a menacing tone. "no, no,--not at all; i do not grumble in the least. you have regularly served me out,--you are a lad of mettle," said the chourineur, in a coarse tone, but still with that sort of deference which physical superiority always finds in persons of his grade. "you are the better man, that's clear. well, except the skeleton, who seems to have bones of iron, he is so thin and powerful, and the schoolmaster, who could eat three herculeses for his breakfast, no man living could boast of having put his foot on my neck." "well, and what then?" "why, now i have found my master, that's all; you will find yours some day sooner or later,--everybody does. one thing, however, is certain; now that you are a better man than the chourineur, you may 'go your length' in the cité. all the women will be your slaves; ogres and ogresses will give you credit, if it is only for fear; you may be a king in your way! but who and what are you? you 'patter flash' like a family man! if you are a 'prig' i'll have nothing to do with you. i have used the knife, it is true, because, when the blood comes into my eyes, i see _red_, and i must strike, in spite of myself; but i have paid for my slashing, by going to the hulks for fifteen years. my time is up, and i am free from surveillance. i can now live in the capital, without fear of the 'beaks;' and i have never prigged,--have i, la goualeuse?" "no, he was never a thief," said the girl. "come along, then, and let us have a glass of something together, and i'll tell you who i am," said the unknown. "come, don't let us bear malice." "bear malice! devil a bit! you are master,--i confess it. you do know how to handle your fists; i never knew anything like it. thunder and lightning! how your thumps fell on my sconce,--i never felt anything like it. yours is a new game, and you must teach it to me." "i will recommence whenever you like." "not on me, though, thank ye,--not on me," exclaimed the chourineur, laughing; "your blows fell as if from a sledge-hammer; i am still giddy from them. but do you know bras rouge, in whose passage you were?" "bras rouge?" said the unknown, who appeared disagreeably surprised at the question; adding, however, with an indifferent air, "i do not know bras rouge. is he the only person who inhabits this abode? it rained in torrents, and i took shelter in the alley. you meant to beat this poor girl, and i have thrashed you,--that's all." "you're right; i have nothing to do with your affairs. bras rouge has a room here, but does not occupy it often. he is usually at his _estaminet_ in the champs elysées. but what's the good of talking about him?" then turning to the goualeuse, "on my word, you are a good wench, and i would not have beaten you; you know i would not harm a child,--it was only my joke. never mind; it was very good of you not to set on this friend of yours against me when i was down, and at his mercy. come and drink with us; he pays for all. by the way, my trump," said he to the unknown, "what say you, instead of going to tipple, shall we go and have a crust for supper with the ogress at the white rabbit? it is a _tapis-franc_." "with all my heart. i will pay for the supper. you'll come with us, goualeuse?" inquired the unknown. "thanks, sir," she replied, "but, after having seen your struggle, it has made my heart beat so that i have no appetite." "pooh! pooh! one shoulder of mutton pokes the other down," said the chourineur; "the cookery at the white rabbit is first-rate." the three personages then, in perfect amity, bent their steps together towards the tavern. during the contest between the chourineur and the unknown, a charcoal-seller, of huge size, ensconced in another passage, had contemplated with much anxiety the progress of the combat, but without attempting to offer the slightest assistance to either antagonist. when the unknown, the chourineur, and the goualeuse proceeded to the public-house, the charcoal-man followed them. the beaten man and the goualeuse first entered the _tapis-franc_; the unknown was following, when the charcoal-man accosted him, and said, in a low voice, in the german language, and in a most respectful tone of remonstrance, "pray, your highness, be on your guard." the unknown shrugged his shoulders, and rejoined his new companion. the charcoal-dealer did not leave the door of the cabaret, but listened attentively, and gazed from time to time through a small hole which had been accidentally made in the thick coat of whitening, with which the windows of such haunts as these are usually covered on the inside. chapter ii. the ogress. the white rabbit is situated in the centre of the rue aux fêves. this tavern occupies the ground floor of a lofty house, the front of which is formed by two windows, which are styled "a guillotine." hanging from the front of the door leading to a dark and arched passage, was an oblong lamp, on the cracked panes of which were written, in red letters, "nightly lodgings here." the chourineur, the unknown, and the goualeuse entered into a large but low apartment, with the ceiling smoked, and crossed by black rafters, just visible by the flickering light of a miserable suspended lamp. the cracked walls, formerly covered with plaster, were now ornamented in places with coarse drawings, or sentences of flash and obscenity. the floor, composed of earth beaten together with saltpetre, was thick with dirt; an armful of straw--an apology for a carpet--was placed at the foot of the ogress's counter, which was at the right hand of the door, just beneath the dim lantern. on each side of this room there were six tables, one end of each of which was nailed to the wall, as well as the benches on either side of them. at the farther end was a door leading to a kitchen; on the right, near the counter, was a passage which led into a den where persons slept for the night at three halfpence a head. a few words will describe the ogress and her guests. the lady was called mother ponisse; her triple trade consisted in letting furnished apartments, keeping a public-house, and _lending_ clothes to the miserable creatures who infest these foul streets. the ogress was about forty years of age, bulky, fat, and heavy. she had a full colour, and strong symptoms of a beard. her deep voice, her enormous arms, and coarse hands betokened uncommon strength. she wore on her cap a large red and yellow handkerchief; a shawl of rabbit-skin was crossed over her bosom, and tied behind; her woollen gown fell upon black wooden shoes, scorched almost black by the small stove at which she warmed her feet; and, to crown her beauty, she had a copper complexion, which the use of strong liquors had materially tended to heighten. the counter, covered with lead, was decked with jugs with iron hoops, and various pewter measures. in an open cupboard, fastened to the wall, there were several flasks of glass, so fashioned as to represent the pedestrian figure of the emperor. these bottles contained sundry cordials, red and green in colour, and known by the names of "drops for the brave," "ratafia of the column," etc., etc. a large black cat, with green eyes, was sitting near the ogress, and seemed the familiar demon of the place. then, in strange contrast, a holy branch of boxwood, bought at church by the ogress, was suspended at the back of an old cuckoo clock. two marvellously ill-favoured fellows, with unshaven beards, and their garb all in tatters, hardly tasted of the pitcher of wine before them, and conversed together in low voices, and with uneasy aspect. one of the two, very pale and livid, pulled, from time to time, his shabby skull-cap over his brows, and concealed as much as possible his left hand, and, even when compelled to use it, he did so with caution. further on there was a young man, hardly sixteen years of age, with beardless chin, and a countenance wan, wrinkled, and heavy, his eye dull, and his long black hair straggling down his neck. this youthful rake, the emblem of precocious vice, was smoking a short black pipe. his back was resting against the wall, and his two hands were in the pockets of his blouse, and his legs stretched along the bench. he did not cease smoking for a moment, unless it was to drink from a cannikin of brandy placed before him. the other inmates of the _tapis-franc_, men and women, presented no remarkable characteristics. there was the ferocious or embruted face,--the vulgar and licentious mirth; but from time to time there was a deep and dull silence. such were the guests of the _tapis-franc_ when the unknown, the chourineur, and the goualeuse entered. these three persons play such important parts in our recital, that we must put them in relief. the chourineur was a man of lofty stature and athletic make, with hair of a pale brown, nearly white; thick eyebrows, and enormous whiskers of deep red. the sun's rays, misery, and the severe toil of the galleys had bronzed his skin to that deep and olive hue which is peculiar to convicts. in spite of his horrible nickname, his features did not express ferocity, but a sort of coarse familiarity and irrepressible audacity. we have said already that the chourineur was clothed in trousers and frock of blue cotton, and on his head he had one of those large straw hats usually worn by workmen in timber-yards, and barge-emptiers. the goualeuse was, perhaps, about sixteen and a half years old. a forehead, of the purest and whitest, surmounted a face of perfect oval and angel-like expression; a fringe of eyelids, so long that they curled slightly, half veiled her large blue eyes, which had a melancholy expression. the down of early youth graced cheeks lightly coloured with a scarlet tinge. her small and rosy mouth, which hardly ever smiled, her nose, straight, and delicately chiselled, her rounded chin, had, in their combined expression, a nobility and a sweetness such as we can only find in the most beautiful of raphael's portraits. on each side of her fair temples was a band of hair, of the most splendid auburn hue, which descended in luxuriant ringlets half way down her cheeks, and was then turned back behind the ear, a portion of which--ivory shaded with carnation--was thus visible, and was then lost under the close folds of a large cotton handkerchief, with blue checks, tied, as it is called, _en marmotte_. her graceful neck, of dazzling whiteness, was encircled by a small necklace of grains of coral. her gown, of brown stuff, though much too large, could not conceal a charming form, supple and round as a cane; a worn-out small orange-coloured shawl, with green fringe, was crossed over her bosom. the lovely voice of the goualeuse had made a strong impression on her unknown defender, and, in sooth, that voice, so gentle, so deliciously modulated and harmonious, had an attraction so irresistible that the horde of villains and abandoned women, in the midst of whom this unfortunate girl lived, often begged her to sing, and listened to her with rapture. the goualeuse had another name, given, doubtless, to the maiden sweetness of her countenance,--she was also called fleur-de-marie. the defender of la goualeuse (we shall call the unknown rodolph) appeared about thirty-six years of age; his figure, tall, graceful, and admirably proportioned, yet did not betoken the astonishing vigour which he had displayed in his rencounter with the chourineur. it would have been difficult to assign a decided character to the physiognomy of rodolph. certain wrinkles in his forehead betokened a man of meditation; and yet the firm expression of his mouth, the dignified and bold carriage of the head, assured us of the man of action, whose physical strength and presence of mind would always command an ascendancy over the multitude. [illustration: _the chourineur, rodolph, and la goualeuse_ etching by adrian marcel, after the drawing by frank t. merrill] in his struggle with the chourineur, rodolph had neither betrayed anger nor hatred. confident in his own strength, his address, and agility, he had only shown a contempt for the brute beast which he subdued. we will finish this bodily picture of rodolph by saying that his features, regularly handsome, seemed too beautiful for a man. his eyes were large, and of a deep hazel, his nose aquiline, his chin rather projecting, his hair bright chestnut, of the same shade as his eyebrows, which were strongly arched, and his small moustache, which was fine and silky. thanks to the manners and the language which he assumed with so much ease, rodolph was exactly like the other guests of the ogress. round his graceful neck, as elegantly modelled as that of the indian bacchus, he wore a black cravat, carelessly tied, the ends of which fell on the collar of his blue blouse. a double row of nails decorated his heavy shoes, and, except that his hands were of most aristocratic shape, nothing distinguished him from the other guests of the _tapis-franc_; though, in a moral sense, his resolute air, and what we may term his bold serenity, placed an immense distance between them. on entering the _tapis-franc_, the chourineur, laying one of his heavy hands on the shoulders of rodolph, cried, "hail the conqueror of the chourineur! yes, my boys, this springald has floored me; and if any young gentleman wishes to have his ribs smashed, or his 'nob in chancery,' even including the schoolmaster and the skeleton, here is their man; i will answer for him, and back him!" at these words, all present, from the ogress to the lowest ruffian of the _tapis-franc_, contemplated the victor of the chourineur with respect and fear. some, moving their glasses and jugs to the end of the table at which they were seated, offered rodolph a seat, if he were inclined to sit near them; others approached the chourineur, and asked him, in a low voice, for the particulars of this unknown, who had made his entrance into their world in so striking a manner. then the ogress, accosting rodolph with one of her most gracious smiles,--a thing unheard of, and almost deemed fabulous, in the annals of the white rabbit,--rose from the bar to take the orders of her guest, and know what he desired to have for the refreshment of his party,--an attention which she did not evince either to the schoolmaster or the skeleton, two fearful ruffians, who made even the chourineur tremble. one of the men with the villainous aspect, whom we have before described as being very pale, hiding his left hand, and continually pulling his cap over his brows, leaned towards the ogress, who was carefully wiping the table where rodolph had taken his seat, and said to her, in a hoarse tone, "hasn't the gros-boiteux been here to-day?" "no," said mother ponisse. "nor yesterday?" "yes, he came yesterday." "was calebasse with him,--the daughter of martial, who was guillotined? you know whom i mean,--the martials of the ile de ravageur?" "what! do you take me for a spy, with your questions? do you think i watch my customers?" said the ogress, in a brutal tone. "i have an appointment to-night with the gros-boiteux and the schoolmaster," replied the fellow; "we have some business together." "that's your affair,--a set of ruffians, as you are, altogether." "ruffians!" said the man, much incensed; "it is such ruffians you get your living by." "will you hold your jaw?" said the amazon, with a threatening gesture, and lifting, as she spoke, the pitcher she held in her hand. the man resumed his place, grumbling as he did so. "the gros-boiteux has, perhaps, stayed to give that young fellow germain, who lives in the rue du temple, his gruel," said he, to his companion. "what, do they mean to _do_ for him?" "no, not quite, but to make him more careful in future. it appears he has 'blown the gaff' in the job at nantes, so bras rouge declares." "why, that is gros-boiteux's affair; he has only just left prison, and has his hands full already." fleur-de-marie had followed the chourineur into the tavern of the ogress, and he, responding to a nod given to him by the young scamp with the jaded aspect, said, "ah, barbillon! what, pulling away at the old stuff?" "yes; i would rather fast, and go barefoot any day, than be without my drops for my throttle, and the weed for my pipe," said the rapscallion, in a thick, low, hoarse voice, without moving from his seat, and puffing out volumes of tobacco-smoke. "good evening, fleur-de-marie," said the ogress, looking with a prying eye on the clothes of the poor girl,--clothes which she had lent her. after her scrutiny, she said, in a tone of coarse satisfaction, "it's really a pleasure--so it is--to lend one's good clothes to you; you are as clean as a kitten, or else i would never have trusted you with that shawl. such a beauty as that orange one is, i would never have trusted it to such gals as tourneuse and boulotte; but i have taken every care _on_ you ever since you came here six weeks ago; and, if the truth must be said, there is not a tidier nor more nicer girl than you in all the cité; that there ain't; though you be al'ays so sad like, and too particular." the goualeuse sighed, turned her head, and said nothing. "why, mother," said rodolph to the old hag, "you have got some holy boxwood, i see, over your cuckoo," and he pointed with his finger to the consecrated bough behind the old clock. "why, you heathen, would you have us live like dogs?" replied the ogress. then addressing fleur-de-marie, she added, "come, now, goualeuse, tip us one of your pretty little ditties" (_goualantes_). "supper, supper first, mother ponisse," said the chourineur. "well, my lad of wax, what can i do for you?" said the ogress to rodolph, whose good-will she was desirous to conciliate, and whose support she might, perchance, require. "ask the chourineur; he orders, i pay." "well, then," said the ogress, turning to the bandit, "what will you have for supper, you 'bad lot?'" "two quarts of the best wine, at twelve sous, three crusts of wheaten bread, and a harlequin,"[ ] said the chourineur, after considering for a few moments what he should order. [ ] a "harlequin" is a collection of odds and ends of fish, flesh, and fowl, after they come from table, which the parisian, providing for the class to which the chourineur belongs, finds a profitable and popular composition. "ah! you are a dainty dog, i know, and as fond as ever of them harlequins." "well, now, goualeuse," said the chourineur, "are you hungry?" "no, chourineur." "would you like anything better than a harlequin, my lass?" said rodolph. "no, i thank you; i have no appetite." "come, now," said the chourineur, with a brutal grin, "look my master in the face like a jolly wench. you have no objection, i suppose?" the poor girl blushed, and did not look at rodolph. a few moments afterwards, and the ogress herself placed on the table a pitcher of wine, bread, and a harlequin, of which we will not attempt to give an idea to the reader, but which appeared most relishing to the chourineur; for he exclaimed, "_dieu de dieu!_ what a dish! what a glorious dish! it is a regular omnibus; there is something in it to everybody's taste. those who like fat can have it; so can they who like lean; as well as those who prefer sugar, and those who choose pepper. there's tender bits of chicken, biscuit, sausage, tarts, mutton-bones, pastry crust, fried fish, vegetables, woodcock's heads, cheese, and salad. come, eat, goualeuse, eat; it is so capital! you have been to a wedding breakfast somewhere this morning." "no more than on other mornings. i ate this morning, as usual, my ha'porth of milk, and my ha'porth of bread." the entrance of another personage into the cabaret interrupted all conversation for a moment, and everybody turned his head in the direction of the newcomer, who was a middle-aged man, active and powerful, wearing a loose coat and cap. he was evidently quite at home in the _tapis-franc_, and, in language familiar to all the guests, requested to be supplied with supper. he was so placed that he could observe the two ill-looking scoundrels who had asked after gros-boiteux and the schoolmaster. he did not take his eyes off them; but in consequence of their position, they could not see that they were the objects of such marked and constant attention. the conversation, momentarily interrupted, was resumed. in spite of his natural audacity, the chourineur showed a deference for rodolph, and abstained from familiarity. "by jove," said he to rodolph, "although i have smarted for it, yet i am very glad to have met with you." "what! because you relish the harlequin?" "why, may be so; but more because i am all on the fret to see you 'serve out' the schoolmaster. to see him who has always crowed over me, crowed over in his turn would do me good." "do you suppose, then, that for your amusement i mean to spring at the schoolmaster, and pin him like a bull-dog?" "no, but he'll have at you in a moment, when he learns that you are a better man than he," replied the chourineur, rubbing his hands. "well, i have coin enough left to pay him in full," said rodolph, in a careless tone; "but it is horrible weather: what say you to a cup of brandy with sugar in it?" "that's the ticket!" said the chourineur. "and, that we may be better acquainted, we will tell each other who we are," added rodolph. "the albinos called the chourineur a freed convict, worker at the wood that floats at st. paul's quay; frozen in the winter, scorched in the summer, from twelve to fifteen hours a day in the water; half man, half frog; that's my description," said rodolph's companion, making him a military salute with his left hand. "well, now, and you, my master, this is your first appearance in the cité. i don't mean anything to offend; but you entered head foremost against my skull, and beating the drum on my carcass. by all that's ugly, what a rattling you made, especially with these blows with which you doubled me up! i never can forget them--thick as buttons--what a torrent! but you have some trade besides 'polishing off' the chourineur?" "i am a fan-painter, and my name is rodolph." "a fan-painter! ah! that's the reason, then, that your hands are so white," added the chourineur. "if all your fellow workmen are like you, there must be a tidy lot of you. but, as you are a workman, what brings you to a _tapis-franc_ in the cité, where there are only prigs, cracksmen or freed convicts like myself, and who only come here because we cannot go elsewhere? this is no place for you. honest mechanics have their coffee-shops, and don't talk slang." "i come here because i like good company." "gammon!" said the chourineur, shaking his head with an air of doubt. "i found you in the passage of bras rouge. well, man, never mind. you say you don't know him?" "what do you mean with all your nonsense about your bras rouge? let him go to the--" "stay, master of mine. you, perhaps, distrust me; but you are wrong, and if you like i will tell you my history; but that is on condition that you teach me how to give those precious thumps which settled my business so quickly. what say you?" "i agree, chourineur; tell me your story, and goualeuse will also tell hers." "very well," replied the chourineur; "it is not weather to turn a mangy cur out-of-doors, and it will be an amusement. do you agree, goualeuse?" "oh, certainly; but my story is a very short one," said fleur-de-marie. "and you will have to tell us your history, comrade rodolph," added the chourineur. "well, then, i'll begin." "fan-painter!" said goualeuse, "what a very pretty trade!" "and how much can you earn if you stick close to work?" inquired the chourineur. "i work by the piece," responded rodolph; "my good days are worth three francs, sometimes four, in summer, when the days are long." "and you are idle sometimes, you rascal?" "yes, as long as i have money, though i do not waste it. first, i pay ten sous for my night's lodging." "your pardon, monseigneur; you sleep, then, at ten sous, do you?" said the chourineur, raising his hand to his cap. the word monseigneur, spoken ironically by the chourineur, caused an almost imperceptible smile on the lips of rodolph, who replied, "oh, i like to be clean and comfortable." "here's a peer of the realm for you! a man with mines of wealth!" exclaimed the chourineur; "he pays ten sous for his bed!" "well, then," continued rodolph, "four sous for tobacco; that makes fourteen sous; four sous for breakfast, eighteen; fifteen sous for dinner; one or two sous for brandy; that all comes to about thirty-four or thirty-five sous a day. i have no occasion to work all the week, and so the rest of the time i amuse myself." "and your family?" said the goualeuse. "dead," replied rodolph. "who were your friends?" asked the goualeuse. "dealers in old clothes and marine stores under the pillars of the market-place." "how did you spend what they left you?" inquired the chourineur. "i was very young, and my guardian sold the stock; and, when i came of age, he brought me in his debtor for thirty francs; that was my inheritance." "and who is now your employer?" the chourineur demanded. "his name is gauthier, in the rue des bourdonnais, a beast--brute--thief--miser! he would almost as soon lose the sight of an eye as pay his workmen. now this is as true a description as i can give you of him; so let's have done with him. i learned my trade under him from the time when i was fifteen years of age; i have a good number in the conscription, and my name is rodolph durand. my history is told." "now it's your turn, goualeuse," said the chourineur; "i keep my history till last, as a _bonne bouche_." chapter iii. history of la goualeuse. "let us begin at the beginning," said the chourineur. "yes; your parents?" added rodolph. "i never knew them," said fleur-de-marie. "the deuce!" said the chourineur. "well, that is odd, goualeuse! you and i are of the same family." "what! you, too, chourineur?" "an orphan of the streets of paris like you, my girl." "then who brought you up, goualeuse?" asked rodolph. "i don't know, sir. as far back as i can remember--i was, i think, about six or seven years old--i was with an old one-eyed woman, whom they call the chouette,[ ] because she had a hooked nose, a green eye quite round, and was like an owl with one eye out." [ ] the screech-owl. "ha! ha! ha! i think i see her, the old night-bird!" shouted the chourineur, laughing. "the one-eyed woman," resumed fleur-de-marie, "made me sell barley-sugar in the evenings on the pont neuf; but that was only an excuse for asking charity; and when i did not bring her in at least ten sous, the chouette beat me instead of giving me any supper." "are you sure the woman was not your mother?" inquired rodolph. "quite sure; for she often scolded me for being fatherless and motherless, and said she picked me up one day in the street." "so," said the chourineur, "you had a dance instead of a meal, if you did not pick up ten sous?" "yes. and after that i went to lie down on some straw spread on the ground; when i was cold--very cold." "i do not doubt it, for the feather of beans (straw) is a very cold sort of stuff," said the chourineur. "a dung-heap is twice as good; but then people don't like your smell, and say, 'oh, the blackguard! where has he been?'" this remark made rodolph smile, whilst fleur-de-marie thus continued: "next day the one-eyed woman gave me a similar allowance for breakfast as for supper, and sent me to montfauçon to get some worms to bait for fish; for in the daytime the chouette kept her stall for selling fishing-lines, near the bridge of notre dame. for a child of seven years of age, who is half dead with hunger and cold, it is a long way from the rue de la mortellerie to montfauçon." "but exercise has made you grow as straight as an arrow, my girl; you have no reason to complain of that," said the chourineur, striking a light for his pipe. "well," said the goualeuse, "i returned very, very tired; then, at noon, the chouette gave me a little bit of bread." "ah, eating so little has kept your figure as fine as a needle, girl; you must not find fault with that," said chourineur, puffing out a cloud of tobacco-smoke. "but what ails you, comrade--i mean, master rodolph? you seem quite down like; are you sorry for the girl and her miseries? ah, we all have, and have had, our miseries!" "yes, but not such miseries as mine, chourineur," said fleur-de-marie. "what! not i, goualeuse? why, my lass, you were a queen to me! at least, when you were little you slept on straw and ate bread; i passed my most comfortable nights in the lime-kilns at clichy, like a regular vagabond; i fed on cabbage-stumps and other refuse vegetables, which i picked up when and where i could; but very often, as it was so far to the lime-kilns at clichy, and i was tired after my work, i slept under the large stones at the louvre; and then, in winter, i had white sheets,--that is, whenever the snow fell." "a man is stronger; but a poor little girl--" said fleur-de-marie. "and yet, with all that, i was as plump as a skylark." "what! you remember that, eh?" "to be sure i do. when the chouette beat me i fell always at the first blow; then she stamped upon me, screaming out, 'ah, the nasty little brute! she hasn't a farden's worth of strength,--she can't stand even two thumps!' and then she called me pegriotte (little thief). i never had any other name,--that was my baptismal name." "like me. i had the baptism of a dog in a ditch, and they called me 'fellow,' or 'you, sir,' or 'albino.' it is really surprising, my wench, how much we resemble each other!" said the chourineur. "that's true,--in our misery," said fleur-de-marie, who addressed herself to the chourineur almost always, feeling, in spite of herself, a sort of shame at the presence of rodolph, hardly venturing to raise her eyes to him, although in appearance he belonged to that class with whom she ordinarily lived. "and when you had fetched the worms for the chouette, what did you do?" inquired the chourineur. "why, she made me beg until night; then, in the evening, she went to sell fried fish on the pont neuf. oh, dear! at that time it was a long while to wait for my morsel of bread; and if i dared to ask the chouette for something to eat, she beat me and said, 'get ten sous, and then you shall have your supper.' then i, being very hungry, and as she hurt me very much, cried with a very full heart and sore body. the chouette tied my little basket of barley-sugar round my neck, and stationed me on the pont neuf, where, in winter, i was frozen to death. yet sometimes, in spite of myself, i slept as i stood,--but not long; for the chouette kicked me until i awoke. i remained on the bridge till eleven o'clock, my stock of barley-sugar hanging round my neck, and often crying heartily. the passengers, touched by my tears, sometimes gave me a sou; and then i gained ten and sometimes fifteen sous, which i gave to the chouette, who searched me all over, and even looked in my mouth, to see if i had kept back anything." "well, fifteen sous was a good haul for a little bird like you." "it was. and then the one-eyed woman seeing that--" "with her one eye?" said the chourineur, laughing. "of course, because she had but one. well, then, she finding that when i cried i got most money, always beat me severely before she put me on the bridge." "brutal, but cunning." "well, at last i got hardened to blows; and as the chouette got in a passion when i did not cry, why i, to be revenged upon her, the more she thumped me the more i laughed, although the tears came into my eyes with the pain." "but, poor goualeuse, did not the sticks of barley-sugar make you long for them?" "ah, yes, chourineur; but i never tasted them. it was my ambition, and my ambition ruined me. one day, returning from montfauçon, some little boys beat me and stole my basket. i came back, well knowing what was in store for me; and i had a shower of thumps and no bread. in the evening, before going to the bridge, the chouette, savage because i had not brought in anything the evening before, instead of beating me as usual to make me cry, made me bleed by pulling my hair from the sides of the temples, where it is most tender." "_tonnerre!_ that was coming it too strong," said the bandit, striking his fist heavily on the table, and frowning sternly. "to beat a child is no such great thing, but to ill-use one so--heaven and earth!" rodolph had listened attentively to the recital of fleur-de-marie, and now looked at the chourineur with astonishment: the display of such feeling quite surprised him. "what ails you, chourineur?" he inquired. "what ails me? ails me? why, have you no feeling? that devil's dam of a chouette who so brutally used this girl! are you as hard as your own fists?" "go on, my girl," said rodolph to fleur-de-marie, without appearing to notice the chourineur's appeal. "i have told you how the chouette ill-used me to make me cry. i was then sent on to the bridge with my barley-sugar. the one-eyed was at her usual spot, and from time to time shook her doubled fist at me. however, as i had not broken my fast since the night before, and as i was very hungry, at the risk of putting the chouette in a passion, i took a piece of barley-sugar, and began to eat it." "well done, girl!" "i ate another piece--" "bravo! go it, my hearties!" "i found it so good, not from daintiness, but real hunger. but then a woman, who sold oranges, cried out to the one-eyed woman, 'look ye there, chouette; pegriotte is eating the barley-sugar!'" "oh, thunder and lightning!" said the chourineur; "that would enrage her,--make her in a passion! poor little mouse, what a fright you were in when the chouette saw you!--eh?" "how did you get out of that affair, poor goualeuse?" asked rodolph, with as much interest as the chourineur. "why, it was a serious matter to me,--but that was afterwards; for the chouette, although boiling over with rage at seeing me devour the barley-sugar, could not leave her stove, for the fish was frying." "ha! ha! ha! true, true,--that was a difficult position for her," said the chourineur, laughing heartily. "at a distance, the chouette threatened me with her long iron fork; but when her fish was cooked, she came towards me. i had only collected three sous, and i had eaten six sous' worth. she did not say a word, but took me by the hand and dragged me away with her. at this moment, i do not know how it was that i did not die on the spot with fright. i remember it as well as if it was this very moment,--it was very near to new year's day, and there were a great many shops on the pont neuf, all filled with toys, and i had been looking at them all the evening with the greatest delight,--beautiful dolls, little furnished houses,--you know how very amusing such things are for a child." "you had never had any playthings, had you, goualeuse?" asked the chourineur. "i? _mon dieu!_ who was there to give me any playthings?" said the girl, in a sad tone. "well, the evening passed. although it was in the depth of winter, i only had on a little cotton gown, no stockings, no shift, and with wooden shoes on my feet: that was not enough to stifle me with heat, was it? well, when the old woman took my hand, i burst out into a perspiration from head to foot. what frightened me most was, that, instead of swearing and storming as usual, she only kept on grumbling between her teeth. she never let go my hand, but made me walk so fast--so very fast--that i was obliged to run to keep up with her, and in running i had lost one of my wooden shoes; and as i did not dare to say so, i followed her with one foot naked on the bare stones. when we reached home it was covered with blood." "a one-eyed old devil's kin!" said the chourineur, again thumping the table in his anger. "it makes my heart quite cold to think of the poor little thing trotting along beside that cursed old brute, with her poor little foot all bloody!" "we lived in a garret in the rue de la montellerie; beside the entrance to our alley there was a dram-shop, and there the chouette went in, still dragging me by the hand. she then had a half pint of brandy at the bar." "the deuce! why, i could not drink that without being quite fuddled!" "it was her usual quantity; perhaps that was the reason why she beat me of an evening. well, at last we got up into our cock-loft; the chouette double-locked the door; i threw myself on my knees, and asked her pardon for having eaten the barley-sugar. she did not answer me, but i heard her mumbling to herself, as she walked about the room, 'what shall i do this evening to this little thief, who has eaten all that barley-sugar? ah, i see!' and she looked at me maliciously with her one green eye. i was still on my knees, when she suddenly went to a shelf and took down a pair of pincers." "pincers!" exclaimed the chourineur. "yes, pincers." "what for?" "to strike you?" inquired rodolph. "to pinch you?" said the chourineur. "no, no," answered the poor girl, trembling at the very recollection. "to pull out your hair?" "no; to take out one of my teeth." the chourineur uttered a blasphemous oath, accompanied with such furious imprecations that all the guests in the _tapis-franc_ looked at him with astonishment. "why, what is the matter with you?" asked rodolph. "the matter! the matter! i'll skin her alive, that infernal old hag, if i can catch her! where is she? tell me, where is she? let me find her, and i'll throttle the old--" "and did she really take out your tooth, my poor child,--that wretched monster in woman's shape?" demanded rodolph, whilst the chourineur was venting his rage in a volley of the most violent reproaches. "yes, sir; but not at the first pull. how i suffered! she held me with my head between her knees, where she held it as if in a vice. then, half with her pincers, half with her fingers, she pulled out my tooth, and then said, 'now i will pull out one every day, pegriotte; and when you have not a tooth left i will throw you into the river, and the fish shall eat you.'" "the old devil! to break and pull out a poor child's teeth in that way!" exclaimed the chourineur, with redoubled fury. "and how did you escape her then?" inquired rodolph of the goualeuse. "next day, instead of going to montfauçon, i went on the side of the champs elysées, so frightened was i of being drowned by the chouette. i would have run to the end of the world, rather than be again in the chouette's hands. after walking and walking, i fairly lost myself; i had not begged a farthing, and the more i thought the more frightened did i become. at night i hid myself in a timber-yard, under some piles of wood. as i was very little, i was able to creep under an old door and hide myself amongst a heap of logs. i was so hungry that i tried to gnaw a piece of the bark, but i could not bite it,--it was too hard. at length i fell asleep. in the morning, hearing a noise, i hid myself still further back in the wood-pile. it was tolerably warm, and, if i had had something to eat, i could not have been better off for the winter." "like me in the lime-kiln." "i did not dare to quit the timber-yard, for i fancied that the chouette would seek for me everywhere, to pull out my teeth and drown me, and that she would be sure to catch me if i stirred from where i was." "stay, do not mention that old beast's name again,--it makes the blood come into my eyes! the fact is, that you have known misery,--bitter, bitter misery. poor little mite! how sorry i am that i threatened to beat you just now, and frightened you. as i am a man, i did not mean to do it." "why, would you not have beaten me? i have no one to defend me." "that's the very reason, because you are not like the others,--because you have no one to take your part,--that i would not have beaten you. when i say no one, i do not mean our comrade rodolph; but his coming was a chance, and he certainly did give me my full allowance when we met." "go on, my child," said rodolph. "how did you get away from the timber-yard?" "next day, about noon, i heard a great dog barking under the wood-pile. i listened, and the bark came nearer and nearer; then a deep voice exclaimed, 'my dog barks,--somebody is hid in the yard!' 'they are thieves,' said another voice; and the men then began to encourage the dog, and cry, 'find 'em! find 'em, lad!' the dog ran to me, and, for fear of being bitten, i began to cry out with all my might and main. 'hark!' said one of them; 'i hear the cry of a child.' they called back the dog; i came out from the pile of wood, and saw a gentleman and a man in a blouse. 'ah, you little thief! what are you doing in my timber-yard?' said the gentleman, in a cross tone. i put my hands together and said, 'don't hurt me, pray. i have had nothing to eat for two days, and i've run away from the chouette, who pulled out my tooth, and said she would throw me over to the fishes. not knowing where to sleep, i was passing before your door, and i slept for the night amongst these logs, under this heap, not thinking i hurt anybody.' "'i'm not to be gammoned by you, you little hussy! you came to steal my logs. go and call the watch,' said the timber-merchant to his man." "ah, the old vagabond! the old reprobate! call the watch! why didn't he send for the artillery?" said the chourineur. "steal his logs, and you only eight years old! what an old ass!" "'not true, sir,' his man replied. 'steal your logs, master! how can she do that? she is not so big as the smallest piece!' 'you are right,' replied the timber-merchant; 'but if she does not come for herself, she does for others. thieves have a parcel of children, whom they send to pry about and hide themselves to open the doors of houses. she must be taken to the commissary, and mind she does not escape.'" "upon my life, this timber-merchant was more of a log than any log in his own yard," said the chourineur. "i was taken to the commissary," resumed goualeuse. "i accused myself of being a wanderer, and they sent me to prison. i was sent before the tribunal, and sentenced, as a rogue and vagabond, to remain until i was sixteen years of age in a house of correction. i thank the judges much for their kindness; for in prison i had food, i was not beaten, and it was a paradise after the cock-loft of the chouette. then, in prison i learned to sew; but, sad to say, i was idle: i preferred singing to work, and particularly when i saw the sun shine. ah, when the sun shone on the walls of the prison i could not help singing; and then, when i could sing, i seemed no longer to be a prisoner. it was after i began to sing so much that they called me goualeuse, instead of pegriotte. well, when i was sixteen, i left the gaol. at the door, i found the ogress here, and two or three old women, who had come to see my fellow prisoners, and who had always told me that when i left the prison they would find work for me." "yes, yes, i see," said the chourineur. "'my pretty little maid,' said the ogress and her old companions, 'come and lodge with us; we will give you good clothes, and then you may amuse yourself.' i didn't like them, and refused, saying to myself, 'i know how to sew very well, and i have two hundred francs in hand. i have been eight years in prison, i should like to enjoy myself a bit,--that won't hurt anybody; work will come when the money is spent.' and so i began to spend my two hundred francs. ah, that was my mistake," added fleur-de-marie, with a sigh. "i ought first to have got my work; but i hadn't a soul on earth to advise me. at sixteen, to be thrown on the city of paris, as i was, one is so lonely; and what is done is done. i have done wrong, and i have suffered for it. i began then to spend my money: first, i bought flowers to put in my room,--i do love flowers!--then i bought a gown, a nice shawl, and i took a walk in the bois de boulogne, and i went to st. germains, vincennes, and other country places. oh, how i love the country!" "with a lover by your side, my girl?" asked the chourineur. "oh, _mon dieu!_ no! i like to be my own mistress. i had my little excursions with a friend who was in prison with me,--a good little girl as can be: they call her rigolette, because she is always laughing." "rigolette! rigolette! i don't know her," said the chourineur, who appeared to be appealing to his memory. "i didn't think you knew her. i am sure rigolette was very well behaved in prison, and always so gay and so industrious, she took out with her when she left the prison at least four hundred francs that she had earned. and then she is so particular!--you should see her! when i say i had no one to advise me, i am wrong: i ought to have listened to her; for, after having had a week's amusement together, she said to me, 'now we have had such a holiday, we ought to try for work, and not spend our money in waste.' i, who was so happy in the fields and the woods,--it was just at the end of spring, this year,--i answered, 'oh, i must be idle a little longer, and then i will work hard.' since that time i have not seen rigolette, but i heard a few days since that she was living near the temple,--that she was a famous needlewoman, and earned at least twenty-five sous a-day, and has a small workroom of her own; but now i could not for the world see her again,--i should die with shame if i met her." "so, then, my poor girl," said rodolph, "you spent your money in the country,--you like the country, do you?" "like it? i love it! oh, what would i not give to live there? rigolette, on the contrary, prefers paris, and likes to walk on the boulevards; but she is so nice and so kind, she went into the country only to please me." "and you did not even leave yourself a few sous to live upon whilst you found work?" said the chourineur. "yes, i had reserved about fifty francs; but it happened that i had for my washerwoman a woman called lorraine, a poor thing, with none but the good god to protect her. she was then very near her confinement, and yet was obliged all day long to be with her hands and feet in her washing-tubs. she fell sick, and, not being able to work, applied for admittance to a lying-in hospital, but there was no room. she could not work, and her time was very near at hand, and she had not a son to pay for the bed in a garret, from which they drove her. fortunately, she met one day, at the end of the pont notre-dame, with goubin's wife, who had been hiding for four days in a cellar of a house which was being pulled down behind the hôtel dieu--" "but why was goubin's wife hiding?" "to escape from her husband, who threatened to kill her; and she only went out at night to buy some bread, and it was then she met with the poor lorraine, ill, and hardly able to drag herself along, for she was expecting to be brought to bed every hour. well, it seems this goubin's wife took her to the cellar where she was hiding,--it was just a shelter, and no more. there she shared her bread and straw with the poor lorraine, who was confined in this cellar of a poor little infant; her only covering and bed was straw! well, it seems that goubin's wife could not bear it, and so, going out at all risks, even of being killed by her husband, who was looking for her everywhere, she left the cellar in open day, and came to me. she knew i had still a little money left, and that i could assist her if i would; so, when helmina had told me all about poor lorraine, who was obliged to lie with her new-born babe on straw, i told her to bring them both to my room at once, and i would take a chamber for her next to mine. this i did; and, oh, how happy she was, poor lorraine, when she found herself in a bed, with her babe beside her in a little couch which i had bought for her! helmina and i nursed her until she was able to get about again, and then, with the rest of my money, i enabled her to return to her washing-tubs." "and when all your money was spent on lorraine and her infant, what did you do, my child?" inquired rodolph. "i looked out for work; but it was too late. i can sew very well, i have good courage, and thought that i had only to ask for work and get it. ah! how i deceived myself! i went into a shop where they sell ready-made linen, and asked for employment, and as i would not tell a story, i said i had just left prison. they showed me the door, without making me any answer. i begged they would give me a trial, and they pushed me into the street as if i had been a thief. then i remembered, too late, what rigolette had told me. little by little i sold my small stock of clothes and linen, and when all was gone they turned me out of my lodging. i had not tasted food for two days; i did not know where to sleep. at this moment i met the ogress and one of her old women who knew where i lodged, and was always coming about me since i left prison. they told me they would find me work, and i believed them. i went with them, so exhausted for want of food that my senses were gone. they gave me brandy to drink, and--and--here i am!" said the unhappy creature, hiding her face in her hands. "have you lived a long time with the ogress, my poor girl?" asked rodolph, in accents of the deepest compassion. "six weeks, sir," replied goualeuse, shuddering as she spoke. "i see,--i see," said the chourineur; "i know you now as well as if i were your father and mother, and you had never left my lap. well, well, this is a confession indeed!" "it makes you sad, my girl, to tell the story of your life," said rodolph. "alas! sir," replied fleur-de-marie, sorrowfully, "since i was born this is the first time it ever happened to me to recall all these things at once, and my tale is not a merry one." "well," said the chourineur, ironically, "you are sorry, perhaps, that you are not a kitchen-wench in a cook-shop, or a servant to some old brutes who think of no one but themselves." "ah!" said fleur-de-marie, with a deep sigh, "to be quite happy, we must be quite virtuous." "oh, what is your little head about now?" exclaimed the chourineur, with a loud burst of laughter. "why not count your rosary in honour of your father and mother, whom you never knew?" "my father and mother abandoned me in the street like a puppy that is one too many in the house; perhaps they had not enough to feed themselves," said goualeuse, with bitterness. "i want nothing of them,--i complain of nothing,--but there are lots happier than mine." "yours! why, what would you have? you are as handsome as a venus, and yet only sixteen and a half; you sing like a nightingale, behave yourself very prettily, are called fleur-de-marie, and yet you complain! what will you say, i should like to know, when you will have a stove under your 'paddlers,' and a chinchilla boa, like the ogress?" "oh, i shall never be so old as she is." "perhaps you have a charm for never growing any older?" "no; but i could not lead such a life. i have already a bad cough." "ah, i see you already in the 'cold-meat box.' go along, you silly child, you!" "do you often have such thoughts as these, goualeuse?" said rodolph. "sometimes. you, perhaps, m. rodolph, understand me. in the morning, when i go to buy my milk from the milkwoman at the corner of rue de la vieille-draperie, with the sous which the ogress gives me, and see her go away in her little cart drawn by her donkey, i do envy her so, and i say to myself, 'she is going into the country, to the pure air, to her home and her family;' and then i return alone into the garret of the ogress, where you cannot see plainly even at noonday." "well, child, be good--laugh at your troubles--be good," said the chourineur. "good! _mon dieu!_ and how do you mean be good? the clothes i wear belong to the ogress, and i am in debt to her for my board and lodging. i can't stir from her; she would have me taken up as a thief. i belong to her, and i must pay her." when she had uttered these last words, the unhappy girl could not help shuddering, and a tear trembled in her long eyelashes. "well, but remain as you are, and do not compare yourself to a country milkwoman," said the chourineur. "are you taking leave of your senses? only think, you may yet cut a figure in the capital, whilst the milkwoman must boil the pot for her brats, milk her cows, gather grass for her rabbits, and, perhaps, after all, get a black eye from her husband when he comes home from the pot-house. why, it is really ridiculous to hear you talk of envying her." the goualeuse did not reply; her eye was fixed, her heart was full, and the expression of her face was painfully distressed. rodolph had listened to the recital, made with so painful a frankness, with deep interest. misery, destitution, ignorance of the world, had weighed down this wretched girl, cast at sixteen years of age on the wide world of paris! rodolph involuntarily thought of a beloved child whom he had lost,--a girl, dead at six years of age, and who, had she survived, would have been, like fleur-de-marie, sixteen years and a half old. this recollection excited the more highly his solicitude for the unhappy creature whose narration he had just heard. chapter iv. the chourineur's history. the reader has not forgotten the two guests at the _tapis-franc_ who were watched so closely by the third individual who had come into the cabaret. we have said that one of these fellows, who had on a greek cap, and concealed his left hand with much care, asked the ogress if the schoolmaster and gros-boiteux had not arrived. during the story of the goualeuse, which they could not overhear, they had been constantly talking in a very low tone, throwing occasional hurried glances at the door. he who wore the greek cap said to his comrade, "the gros-boiteux does not 'show,' nor the schoolmaster." "perhaps the skeleton has 'done for him,' and made off with the 'swag.'" "a precious 'go' that would be for us, who 'laid the plant,' and look out for our 'snacks,'" replied the other. the newcomer, who observed the two men, was seated too far off to hear a word they said, but, after having cautiously consulted a small paper concealed at the bottom of his cap, he appeared satisfied with his remarks, rose from the table, and said to the ogress, who was sleeping at the bar, with her feet on the stove, and her great cat on her knee: "i say, mother ponisse, i shall soon be back again; take care of my pitcher and my plate; i don't want any one to make free with them." "make yourself easy, my fine fellow," said mother ponisse; "if your plate and pitcher are empty, no one will touch them." the newcomer laughed loudly at the joke of the ogress, and then slipped out, so that his departure was unnoticed. at that moment when this man retired, and before the door could be shut, rodolph saw the charcoal-dealer, whose black face and tall form we have already alluded to, and he had just time to manifest to him, by an impatient gesture, how much he disliked his watchful attendance; but the charcoal-man did not appear to heed this in the least, and still kept hanging about the _tapis-franc_. the countenance of the goualeuse became still more saddened; with her back to the wall, her head drooping on her bosom, her full blue eyes gazing mechanically about her, the unfortunate being seemed bowed down with the weight of her oppressive thoughts. two or three times, having met rodolph's fixed look, she turned away, unable to account to herself for the singular impression which the unknown had caused her. weighed down and abashed at his presence, she almost regretted having made so candid a narrative to him of her unhappy life. the chourineur, on the contrary, was quite in high spirits; he had devoured the whole harlequin without the least assistance; the wine and brandy had made him very communicative; the fact of his having found his master, as he called him, had been forgotten in the generous conduct of rodolph; and he also detected so decided a physical superiority, that his humiliation had given way to a sentiment of admiration, mingled with fear and respect. this absence of rancour, and the savage pride with which he boasted of never having robbed, proved that the chourineur was not as yet thoroughly hardened. this had not escaped the sagacity of rodolph, and he awaited the man's recital with curiosity. "now, my boy," said he, "we are listening." the chourineur emptied his glass, and thus began: "you, my poor girl, were at last taken to by the chouette, whom the devil confound! you never had a shelter until the moment when you were imprisoned as a vagabond. i can never recollect having slept in what is called a bed before i was nineteen years of age,--a happy age!--and then i became a trooper." "what, you have served, then, chourineur?" said rodolph. "three years; but you will hear all about it: the stones of the louvre, the lime-kilns of clichy, and the quarries of montrouge, these were the hôtels of my youth. then i had my house in paris and in the country. who but i--" "and what was your trade?" "faith, master, i have a foggy recollection of having strolled about in my childhood with an old rag-picker, who almost thumped me to death; and it must be true, for i have never since met one of these old cupids, with a wicker-work quiver, without a longing to pitch into him,--a proof that one of them must have thumped me when i was a child. my first employment was to help the knackers to cut the horses' throats at montfauçon. i was about ten or twelve. when i began to slash (_chouriner_) these poor old beasts, it had quite an impression on me. at the month's end i thought no more about it; on the contrary, i began to like my trade. no one had his knife so sharpened and keen-edged as mine; and that made me rejoice in using it. when i had cut the animals' throats, they gave me for my trouble a piece of the thigh of some animal that had died of disease; for those that they slaughter are sold to the 'cag-mag' shops near the school of medicine, who convert it into beef, mutton, veal, or game, according to the taste of purchasers. however, when i got to my morsel of horse's flesh, i was as happy as a king! i went with it into the lime-kiln like a wolf to his lair, and then, with the leave of the lime-burners, i made a glorious fry on the ashes. when the burners were not at work, i picked up some dry wood at romainville, set light to it, and broiled my steak under the walls of the bone-house. the meat certainly was bloody, and almost raw, but that made a change." "and your name? what did they call you?" asked rodolph. "i had hair much more flaxen than now, and the blood was always in my eyes, and so they called me the 'albino.' the albinos are the white rabbits amongst men; they have red eyes," added the chourineur, in a grave tone, and, as it were, with a physiological parenthesis. "and your relations? your family?" "my relations? oh! they lodge at the same number as the goualeuse's. place of my birth? why, the first corner of no-matter-what street, either on the right or left-hand side of the way, and either going up or coming down the kennel." "then you have cursed your father and mother for having abandoned you?" "why, that would not have set my leg if i had broken it! no matter; though it's true they played me a scurvy trick in bringing me into the world. but i should not have complained if they had made me as beggars ought to be made; that is to say, without the sense of cold, hunger, or thirst. beggars who don't like thieving would find it greatly to their advantage." "you were cold, thirsty, hungry, chourineur, and yet you did not steal?" "no; and yet i was horribly wretched. it's a fact, that i have often gone with an empty bread-basket (fasted) for two days at a time: that was more than my share; but i never stole." "for fear of a gaol?" "pooh!" said the chourineur, shrugging his shoulders, and laughing loudly, "i should then not have stolen bread, for fear of getting my allowance, eh? an honest man, i was famishing; a thief, i should have been supported in prison, and right well, too! but i did not steal, because--because--why, because the idea of stealing never came across me; so that's all about it!" this reply, noble as it was in itself, but of the rectitude of which the chourineur himself had no idea, perfectly astonished rodolph. he felt that the poor fellow who had remained honest in the midst of the most cruel privations was to be respected twofold, since the punishment of the crime became a certain resource for him. rodolph held out his hand to this ill-used savage of civilisation, whom misery had been unable wholly to corrupt. the chourineur looked at his host in astonishment,--almost with respect; he hardly dared to touch the hand tendered to him. he felt impressed with some vague idea that there was a wide abyss between rodolph and himself. "'tis well," said rodolph to him, "you have heart and honour." "heart? honour? what, i? come, now, don't chaff me," he replied, with surprise. "to suffer misery and hunger rather than steal, is to have heart and honour," said rodolph, gravely. "well, it may be," said the chourineur, as if thinking, "it may be so." "does it astonish you?" "it really does; for people don't usually say such things to me; they generally treat me as they would a mangy dog. it's odd, though, the effect what you say has on me. heart! honour!" he repeated, with an air which was actually pensive. "well, what ails you?" "i' faith, i don't know," replied the chourineur, in a tone of emotion; "but these words, do you see, they quite make my heart beat; and i feel more flattered than if any one told me i was a 'better man' than either the skeleton or the schoolmaster. i never felt anything like it before. be sure, though, that these words, and the blows of the fist at the end of my tussle,--you did lay 'em on like a good 'un,--not alluding to what you pay for the supper, and the words you have said--in a word," he exclaimed, bluntly, as if he could not find language to express his thoughts, "make sure that in life or death you may depend on the chourineur." rodolph, unwilling to betray his emotion, replied in a tone as calm as he could assume, "how long did you go on as an amateur knacker?" "why, at first, i was quite sick of cutting up old worn-out horses, who could not even kick; but when i was about sixteen, and my voice began to get rough, it became a passion--a taste--a relish--a rage--with me to cut and slash. i did not care for anything but that; not even eating and drinking. you should have seen me in the middle of my work! except an old pair of woollen trousers, i was quite naked. when, with my large and well-whetted knife in my hand, i had about me fifteen or twenty horses waiting their turn, by jupiter! when i began to slaughter them, i don't know what possessed me,--i was like a fury. my ears had singing in them, and i saw everything _red_,--all was red; and i slashed, and slashed, and slashed, until my knife fell from my hands! thunder! what happiness! had i had millions, i could have paid them to have enjoyed my trade!" "it is that which has given you the habit of stabbing," said rodolph. "very likely; but when i was turned of sixteen, the passion became so strong that when i once began slashing, i became mad; i spoiled my work; yes, i spoiled the skins, because i slashed and cut them across and across; for i was so furious that i could not see clearly. at last they turned me out of the yard. i wanted employment with the butchers, for i have always liked that sort of business. well, they quite looked down upon me; they despised me as a shoemaker does a cobbler. then i had to seek my bread elsewhere, and i didn't find it very readily; and this was the time when my bread-basket was so often empty. at length i got employment in the quarries at montrouge; but, at the end of two years, i was tired of going always around like a squirrel in his cage, and drawing stone for twenty sous a day. i was tall and strong, and so i enlisted in a regiment. they asked my name, my age, and my papers. my name?--the albino. my age?--look at my beard. my papers?--here's the certificate of the master quarryman. as i was just the fellow for a grenadier, they took me." "with your strength, courage, and taste for chopping and slashing, you ought, in war-time, to have been made an officer." "thunder and lightning! what do you say? what! to cut up english or prussians! why, that would have been better than to cut up old horses; but, worse luck, there was no war, but a great deal of discipline. an apprentice tries to hit his master a thump; well, if he be the weaker, why, he gets the worst of it; if he be the stronger, he has the best of it; he is turned out-of-doors, perhaps put into the cage,--and that is all. in the army it is quite a different thing. one day our sergeant had bullied me a good deal, to make me more attentive,--he was right, for i was very slow; i did not like a poke he gave me, and i kicked at him; he pushed me again, i returned his poke; he collared me, and i gave him a punch of the head. they fell on me, and then my blood was up in my eyes, and i was enraged in a moment. i had my knife in my hand--i belonged to the cookery--and i 'went it my hardest.' i cut, slashed,--slashed, chopped, as if i was in the slaughter-house. i made 'cold meat' of the sergeant, wounded two soldiers,--it was a real shambles; i gave the three eleven wounds,--yes, eleven. blood flowed, flowed everywhere, blood, as though we were in the bone-house,--i swam in it--" the brigand lowered his head with a sombre, sullen air, and was silent. "what are you thinking of, chourineur?" asked rodolph, with interest. "nothing," he replied, abruptly; and then, with an air of brutish carelessness, he added, "at length they handcuffed me, and brought me before the 'big wigs,' and i was cast for death." "you escaped, however?" "true; but i had fifteen years at the galleys instead of being 'scragged.' i forgot to tell you that whilst in the regiment i had saved two of my comrades from drowning in the marne, when we were quartered at milan. at another time,--you will laugh, and say i am amphibious either in fire or water when saving men or women,--at another time, being in garrison at rouen, all the wooden houses in one quarter were on fire, and burning like so many matches. i am the lad for a fire, and so i went to the place in an instant. they told me that there was an old woman who was bedridden, and could not escape from her room, which was already in flames. i went towards it, and, by jove! how it did burn; it reminded me of the lime-kilns in my happy days. however, i saved the old woman, although i had the very soles of my feet scorched. thanks to my having done these things, and the cunning of my advocate, my sentence was changed, and, instead of being 'scragged,' i was only sent to the hulks for fifteen years. when i found that my life would be spared, and i was to go to the galleys, i would have jumped upon the babbling fool, and twisted his neck, at the moment when he came to wish me joy, and to tell me he had saved my life, and be hanged to him! only they prevented me." "were you sorry, then, to have your sentence commuted?" "yes; for those who sport with the knife, the headsman's steel is the proper fate; for those who steal, the 'darbies' to their heels: each his proper punishment. but to force you to live amongst galley-slaves, when you have a right to be guillotined out of hand, is infamous; and, besides, my life, when i first went to the bagne, was rather queer; one don't kill a man, and soon forget it, you must know." "you feel some remorse, then, chourineur?" "remorse? no; for i have served my time," said the savage; "but at first, a night did not pass but i saw--like a nightmare--the sergeant and soldiers whom i had slashed and slaughtered; that is, they were not alone," added the brigand, in a voice of terror; "these were in tens, and dozens, and hundreds, and thousands, each waiting his turn, in a kind of slaughter-house, like the horses whose throats i used to cut at montfauçon, awaiting each his turn. then, then, i saw _red_, and began to cut and slash away on these men as i used formerly to do on the horses. the more, however, i chopped down the soldiers, the faster the ranks filled up with others; and as they died, they looked at one with an air so gentle,--so gentle, that i cursed myself for killing 'em; but i couldn't help it. that was not all. i never had a brother; and yet it seemed as if every one of those whom i killed was my brother, and i loved all of them. at last, when i could bear it no longer, i used to wake covered all over with sweat, as cold as melting snow." "that was a horrid dream, chourineur!" "it was; yes. that dream, do you see, was enough to drive one mad or foolish; so, twice, i tried to kill myself, once by swallowing verdigris, and another time by trying to choke myself with my chain; but, confound it, i am as strong as a bull. the verdigris only made me thirsty; and as for the twist of the chain round my neck, why, that only gave me a natural cravat of a blue colour. afterwards, the desire of life came back to me, nay nightmare ceased to torment me, and i did as others did." "at the bagne, you were in a good school for learning how to thieve?" "yes, but it was not to my taste. the other 'prigs' bullied me; but i soon silenced them with a few thumps of my chain. it was in this way i first knew the schoolmaster; and i must pay him the compliment due to his blows,--he paid me off as you did some little time ago." "he is, then, a criminal who has served his time?" "he was sentenced for life, but escaped." "escaped, and not denounced?" "i'm not the man to denounce him. besides, it would seem as if i were afraid of him." "but how is it that the police do not detect him? have they not got his description?" "his description? oh! yes, yes; but it is long since he has scraped out from his phiz what nature had placed there; now, none but the 'baker who puts the condemned in his oven' (the devil) could recognise him" (the schoolmaster). "what has he done to himself?" "he began by destroying his nose, which was an ell long; he ate it off with vitriol." "you jest." "if he comes in this evening, you'll see. he had a nose like a parrot, and now it is as flat as in a death's head; to say nothing of his lips, which are as thick as your fist, and his face, which is as wrinkled as the waistcoat of a rag-picker." "and so he is not recognised?" "it is six months since he escaped from rochefort, and the 'traps' have met him a hundred times without knowing him." "why was he at the bagne?" "for having been a forger, thief, and assassin. he is called the schoolmaster because he wrote a splendid hand, and has had a good education." "and is he much feared?" "he will not be any longer, when you have given him such a licking as you gave me. oh, by jove, i am anxious to see it!" "what does he do for a living?" "he is associated with an old woman as bad as himself, and as deep as the 'old one;' but she is never seen, though he has told the ogress that some day or other he would bring his 'mot' (woman) with him." "and this women helps him in his robberies?" "yes, and in his murders too. they say he brags of having already, with her assistance, 'done for' two or three persons; and, amongst others, three weeks ago, a cattle-dealer on the road to poissy, whom they also robbed." "he will be taken sooner or later." "they must be very cunning, as well as powerful, to do that, for he always has under his blouse a brace of loaded pistols and a dagger. he says that charlot (the executioner) waits for him, and he can only lose his head once, and so he will kill all he can kill to try and escape. oh! he makes no mystery of it; and as he is twice as strong as you and i, they will have a tough job who take him." "what did you do, chourineur, when you left the bagne?" "i offered myself to the master-lighterman of the quai st. paul, and i get my livelihood there." "but as you have never been a 'prig,' why do you live in the cité?" "why, where else can i live? who likes to be seen with a discharged criminal? i should be tired of always being alone, for i like company, and here i am with my equals. i have a bit of a row sometimes, and they fear me like fire in the cité; but the police have nothing to say to me, except now and then for a 'shindy,' for which they give me, perhaps, twenty-four hours at the watch-house, and there's an end of that." "what do you earn a day?" "thirty-five sous for taking in the river foot-baths, up to the stomach from twelve to fifteen hours a day, summer and winter; but let me be just, and tell the truth; so if, through having my toes in the water, i get the _grenouille_,[ ] i am allowed to break my arms in breaking up old vessels, and unloading timber on my back. i begin as a beast of burden, and end like a fish's tail. when i lose my strength entirely, i shall take a rake and a wicker basket, like the old rag-picker whom i see in the recollections of my childhood." [ ] a disease of the skin to which all who work in the water are liable. "and yet you are not unhappy." "there are worse than i am; and without my dreams of the sergeant and soldiers with their throats cut,--for i have the dream still sometimes,--i could quietly wait for the moment when i should drop down dead at the corner of some dunghill, like that at which i was born; but the dream--the dream--by heaven and earth! i don't like even to think of that," said the chourineur, and he emptied his pipe at the corner of the table. the goualeuse had hardly listened to the chourineur; she seemed wholly absorbed in a deep and melancholy reverie. rodolph himself was pensive. a tragic incident occurred, which brought these three personages to a recollection of the spot in which they were. chapter v. the arrest. the man who had gone out for a moment, after having requested the ogress to look after his jug and plate, soon returned, accompanied by a tall, brawny man, to whom he said, "it was a chance to meet in this way, old fellow! come in, and let us have a glass together." the chourineur said, in a low voice, to rodolph and the goualeuse, pointing to the newcomer, "we shall have a row. he's a 'trap.' look out for squalls." the two ruffians, one of whom, with the greek skull-cap pulled over his brows, had inquired several times for the schoolmaster and the gros-boiteux, exchanged rapid glances of the eye, and, rising suddenly from the table, went towards the door; but the two police officers, uttering a peculiar note, seized them. a fierce struggle ensued. the door of the tavern opened, and all of the policemen dashed into the room, whilst, outside, were seen the muskets of the _gens-d'armes_. taking advantage of the tumult, the charcoal-seller, of whom we have spoken, advanced to the threshold of the _tapis-franc_, and, meeting the eye of rodolph, he put to his lips the forefinger of his right hand. rodolph, with a gesture as rapid as it was imperious, desired him to go, and then turned his attention to the scene before him. the man with the greek skull-cap shrieked with rage, and, half extended on a table, struggled so desperately, that three men could scarcely hold him. his companion, enfeebled, dejected, with livid aspect and pale lips, his lower jaw fallen, and shaking convulsively, made no resistance, but held out his hands to be enclasped by the handcuffs. the ogress, seated at her bar, and used to such scenes, remained motionless, with her hands in the pockets of her apron. "what have these fellows done, my dear m. narcisse borel?" inquired she of one of the policemen whom she knew. "killed an old woman yesterday in the rue st. christophe, and robbed her chamber. before she died, the poor old thing said that she had bitten one of her murderers in the hand. we had our eyes on these two scoundrels; and my comrade, having come to make sure of his men, why, we have made free to take them." "how lucky they paid me beforehand for their pint!" said the ogress. "won't you take a dram o' nothin' 'short,' m. narcisse? just a 'go' of 'ratifi' of the column.'" "thanks, mother ponisse, but i must make sure of my game; one fellow shows fight still." the assassin in the greek cap was furious with rage, and when they tried to get him into a hackney-coach which was waiting in the street, he resisted so stoutly that they were obliged to carry him. his accomplice, seized with a nervous tremor, could hardly support himself, and his blue lips trembled as though he were speaking. they threw him, helpless and unresisting, into the vehicle. before he left the _tapis-franc_, the head officer looked attentively at the other guests assembled, and said to the chourineur, in a tone almost kind: "what, you here, you bad lot? why, it is a long time since we heard anything of you. what, no more rows? are you growing steady?" "steady as a stone figure. why, you know that now i never break a head, even if i am begged to do so!" "oh, i don't think that would cost you much trouble, strong as you are." "yet here is my master," said the chourineur, laying his hand on rodolph's shoulder. "stay, i do not know him," said the _agent de police_, looking steadfastly at rodolph. "and i do not think we shall form an acquaintance now," replied he. "i hope not, for your sake, my fine fellow," said the agent; then, turning to the ogress, "good night, mother ponisse; your _tapis-franc_ is a regular mouse-trap; this is the third assassin i have taken here." "i hope it won't be the last, m. narcisse; it is quite at your service," said the ogress, making a very insinuating nod with her head. after the departure of the police, the young vagabond with the haggard visage, who was smoking and drinking brandy, refilled his pipe, and said in a hoarse voice to the chourineur: "didn't you 'twig' the 'cove' in the greek cap? he's boulotte's man. when i saw the traps walk in, i says to myself, says i, there's something up; and then, too, i saw him keep his hand always under the table." "it's lucky for the schoolmaster and gros-boiteux that they were not here," said the ogress; "greek cap asked twice for him, and said they had business together; but i never turn 'nose' (informer) on any customer. if they take them, very well,--every one to his trade; but i never sell my friends. oh, talk of the old gentleman, and you see his horns," added the hag, as at the moment a man and woman entered the cabaret; "here they are,--the schoolmaster and his companion. well, he was right not to show her, for i never see such an ugly creetur in my born days. she ought to be very much obliged to him for having taken up with such a face." at the name of the schoolmaster, a sort of shudder seemed to circulate amongst the guests of the _tapis-franc_. rodolph, himself, in spite of his natural intrepidity, could not wholly subdue a slight emotion at the sight of this redoubtable ruffian, whom he contemplated for some seconds with a mixed feeling of curiosity and horror. the chourineur had spoken truth when he said that the schoolmaster was frightfully mutilated. nothing can be imagined more horrible than the countenance of this man. his face was furrowed in all directions with deep, livid cicatrices; the corrosive action of the vitriol had puffed out his lips; the cartilages of his nose were divided, and two misshapen holes supplied the loss of nostrils. his gray eyes were bright, small, circular, and sparkled savagely; his forehead, as flat as a tiger's, was half hidden beneath a fur cap, with long yellow hair, looking like the crest of a monster. the schoolmaster was not more than five feet four or five; his head, which was disproportionately large, was buried between two shoulders, broad, powerful, and fleshy, displaying themselves even under the loose folds of his coarse cotton blouse; he had long, muscular arms, hands short, thick, and hairy to the very fingers' end, with legs somewhat bowed, whose enormous calves betokened his vast strength. this man presented, in fact, the exaggeration of what there is of short, thickset, and condensed, in the type of the hercules farnese. as to the expression of ferocity which suffused this hideous mask, and the restless, wild, and glaring look, more like a wild beast than a human being, it is impossible to describe them. the woman who accompanied the schoolmaster was old, and rather neatly dressed in a brown gown, with a plaid shawl, of red and black check, and a white bonnet. rodolph saw her profile, and her green eye, hooked nose, skinny lips, peaked chin, and countenance at once wicked and cunning, reminded him involuntarily of la chouette, that horrible old wretch who had made poor fleur-de-marie her victim. he was just on the point of saying this to the girl, when he saw her suddenly turn pale with fright, whilst looking at the hideous companion of the schoolmaster, and seizing the arm of rodolph with a trembling hand, the goualeuse said, in a low voice: "oh, the chouette! the chouette!--the one-eyed woman!" at this moment the schoolmaster, after having exchanged a few words in an undertone with barbillon, came slowly towards the table where rodolph, the goualeuse, and the chourineur were sitting, and addressing himself to fleur-de-marie, in a hoarse voice, said: "ah, my pretty, fair miss, you must quit these two 'muffs,' and come with me." the goualeuse made no reply, but clung to rodolph, her teeth chattering with fright. "and i shall not be jealous of my man, my little _fourline_" (a pet word for assassin), added the chouette, laughing loudly. she had not yet recognised in goualeuse "pegriotte," her old victim. "well, my little white face, dost hear me?" said the monster, advancing. "if thou dost not come, i'll poke your eye out, and make you a match for the chouette. and thou with the moustache," he said to rodolph, "if thou dost not stand from between me and the wench, i'll crack thy crown." "defend me! oh, defend me!" cried fleur-de-marie to rodolph, clasping her hands. then, reflecting that she was about to expose him to great danger, she added, in a low voice, "no, no, do not move, mister rodolph; if he comes nearer, i will cry out for help, and for fear of the disturbance, which may call in the police, the ogress will take my part." "don't be alarmed, my child," said rodolph, looking calmly at the schoolmaster; "you are beside me,--don't stir; and as this ill-looking scoundrel makes you as well as myself feel uncomfortable, i will kick him out." "thou?" said the schoolmaster. "i!" said rodolph. and, in spite of the efforts of the goualeuse, he rose from the table. despite his hardihood, the schoolmaster retreated a step, so threatening were the looks, so commanding the deportment, of rodolph. there are peculiar glances of the eye which are irresistible, and certain celebrated duellists are said to owe their bloody triumphs to this fascinating glance, which unmans, paralyses, and destroys their adversaries. the schoolmaster trembled, retreated a step, and, for once, distrustful of his giant strength, felt under his blouse for his long cut-and-thrust knife. a murder would have stained the _tapis-franc_, no doubt, if the chouette, taking the schoolmaster by the arm, had not screamed out: "a minute, a minute, _fourline_,--let me say a word! you shall walk into these two 'muffs' all the same, presently." the schoolmaster looked at her with astonishment. for some minutes she had been looking at fleur-de-marie with fixed and increasing attention, as if trying to refresh her memory. at length no doubt remained, and she recognised the goualeuse. "is it possible?" she cried, clasping her hands in astonishment. "it is pegriotte, who stole my barley-sugar. but where do you come from? is it the devil who sends you back?" and she shook her clenched hand at the young girl. "you won't come into my clutch again, eh? but be easy; if i do not pull out your teeth, i will have out of your eyes every tear in your body. come, no airs and graces. you don't know what i mean. why, i have found out the people who had the care of you before you were handed over to me. the schoolmaster saw at the _pré_ (the galleys) the man who brought you to my 'crib' when you were a brat, and he has proofs that the people who had you first were 'gentry coves'" (rich people). "my parents! do you know them?" cried fleur-de-marie. "never mind whether i know them or not, you shall know nothing about it. the secret is mine and my _fourline's_, and i will tear out his tongue rather than he shall blab it. what! it makes you snivel, does it, pegriotte?" "oh, no," said goualeuse, with a bitterness of accent; "_now_ i do not care ever to know my parents." whilst la chouette was speaking, the schoolmaster had resumed his assurance, for, looking at rodolph, he could not believe that a young man of slight and graceful make could for a moment cope with him, and, confident in his brutal force, he approached the defender of goualeuse, and said to the chouette, in an imperious voice: "hold your jaw! i'll tackle with this swell, and then the fair lady may think me more to her fancy than he is." with one bound rodolph leaped on the table. "take care of my plates!" shouted the ogress. the schoolmaster stood on his guard, his two hands in front, his chest advanced, firmly planted on his legs, and arched, as it were, on his brawny legs, which were like balusters of stone. at the moment when rodolph was springing at him, the door of the _tapis-franc_ opened with violence, and the charcoal-man, of whom we have before spoken, and who was upwards of six feet high, dashed into the apartment, pushed the schoolmaster on one side rudely, and coming up to rodolph, said, in german, in his ear: "monseigneur, the countess and her brother--they are at the end of the street." at these words rodolph made an impatient and angry gesture, threw a louis d'or on the bar of the ogress, and made for the door in haste. the schoolmaster attempted to arrest rodolph's progress, but he, turning to him, gave him two or three rapid blows with his fists over the nose and eyes, and with such potent effect, that the beast staggered with very giddiness, and fell heavily against a table, which alone prevented his prostration on the floor. "_vive la charte!_ those are _my_ blows,--i know them," cried the chourineur; "two or three more lessons like that, and i shall know all about it." restored to himself after a few moments, the schoolmaster darted off in pursuit of rodolph, but he had disappeared with the charcoal-man in the dark labyrinth of the streets of the cité, and the brigand found it useless to follow. at the moment when the schoolmaster had returned, foaming with rage, two persons, approaching from the opposite side to that by which rodolph had disappeared, entered into the _tapis-franc_, hastily, and out of breath, as if they had been running far and fast. their first impulse was to look around the room. "how unfortunate!" said one of them; "he has gone,--another opportunity lost." the two newcomers spoke in english. the goualeuse, horror-struck at meeting with the chouette, and dreading the threats of the schoolmaster, took advantage of the tumult and confusion caused by the arrival of the two fresh guests in the _tapis-franc_, and, quietly gliding out by the half-opened door, left the cabaret. chapter vi. thomas seyton and the countess sarah. the two persons who had just entered the _tapis-franc_ were quite of another class from those who ordinarily frequented it. one, tall and erect, had hair almost white, black eyebrows and whiskers, a long and tanned face, with a stiff, formal air. his long frock coat was buttoned up to the throat, _à la militaire_. we shall call this individual thomas seyton. his companion was young, pale, and handsome, and appeared about thirty-one or two years of age. his hair, eyebrows, and eyes were of a deep black, which showed off the more fully the pure whiteness of his face. by his step, the smallness of his stature, and the delicacy of his features, it was easy to detect a woman in male habiliments. this female was the countess sarah macgregor. we will hereafter inform our readers of the motives and events which had brought the countess and her brother into this cabaret of the cité. "call for something to drink, thomas, and ask the people here about _him_; perhaps they may give us some information," said sarah, still speaking english. the man with white hair and black eyebrows sat down at a table, whilst sarah was wiping her forehead, and said to the ogress, in excellent french, "madame, let us have something to drink, if you please." the entrance of these two persons into the _tapis-franc_ had excited universal attention. their dress, their manners, all announced that they never frequented low drinking-shops, whilst, by their restless looks and disturbed countenances, it might be judged that some very powerful motives had led them hither. the chourineur, the schoolmaster, and the chouette viewed them with increasing curiosity. startled by the appearance of such strange customers, the ogress shared in the general surprise. thomas seyton, a second time, and with an impatient tone, said, "we have called for something to drink, ma'am; pray let us have it." mother ponisse, flattered by their courtesy of manner, left her bar, and, coming towards her new guests, leaned her arms on their table, and said, "will you have a pint of wine in measure or a bottle?" "a bottle of wine, glasses, and some water." the ogress brought the supplies demanded, and thomas seyton threw her a five-franc piece, and refused the change which she offered to him. "keep it, my good woman, for yourself, and perhaps you will take a glass with us." "you're uncommon purlite, sir," looking at the countess's brother with as much surprise as gratitude. "but tell me, now," said he; "we had appointed to meet a friend in a cabaret in this street, and have, perhaps, mistaken the house in coming here." "this is the 'white rabbit,' at your service, sir." "that's right enough, then," said thomas, making a sign to sarah; "yes, it was at the 'white rabbit' that he was to give us the meeting." "there are not two 'white rabbits' in this street," said the ogress, with a toss of her head. "but what sort of a person was your friend?" "tall, slim, and with hair and moustaches of light chestnut," said seyton. "exactly, exactly; that's the man who has just gone out. a charcoal-man, very tall and stout, came in and said a few words to him, and they left together." "the very man we want to meet," said tom. "were they alone here?" inquired sarah. "why, the charcoal-man only came in for one moment; but your comrade supped here with the chourineur and goualeuse;" and with a nod of her head, the ogress pointed out the individual of the party who was left still in the cabaret. thomas and sarah turned towards the chourineur. after contemplating him for a few minutes, sarah said, in english, to her companion, "do you know this man?" "no; karl lost all trace of rodolph at the entrance of these obscure streets. seeing murphy disguised as a charcoal-seller, keeping watch about this cabaret, and constantly peeping through the windows, he was afraid that something wrong was going on, and so came to warn us. murphy, no doubt, recognised him." during this conversation, held in a very low tone, and in a foreign tongue, the schoolmaster said to the chouette, looking at tom and sarah, "the swell has shelled out a 'bull' to the ogress. it is just twelve, rains and blows like the devil. when they leave the 'crib,' we will be on their 'lay,' and draw the 'flat' of his 'blunt.' as his 'mot' is with him, he'll hold his jaw." if tom and sarah had heard this foul language, they would not have understood it, and would not have detected the plot against them. "be quiet, _fourline_," answered the chouette; "if the 'cull' sings out for the 'traps,' i have my vitriol in my pocket, and will break the phial in his 'patter-box.' nothing like a drink to keep children from crying," she added. "tell me, darling, sha'n't we lay hands on pegriotte the first time we meet with her? and only let me once get her to our place, and i'll rub her chops with my vitriol, and then my lady will no longer be proud of her fine skin." "well said, chouette; i shall make you my wife some day or other," said the schoolmaster; "you have no equal for skill and courage. on that night with the cattle-dealer, i had an opportunity of judging of you; and i said, 'here's the wife for me; she works better than a man.'" "and you said right, _fourline_; if the skeleton had had a woman like me at his elbow, he would not have been nabbed with his gully in the dead man's weasand." "he's done up, and now he will not leave the 'stone jug,' except to kiss the headsman's daughter, and be a head shorter." "what strange language these people talk!" said sarah, who had involuntarily heard the last few words of the conversation between the schoolmaster and the chouette. then she added, pointing to the chourineur, "if we ask this man some questions about rodolph, perhaps he may be able to answer them." "we can but try," replied thomas, who said to the chourineur, "comrade, we expected to find in this cabaret a friend of ours; he supped with you, i find. perhaps, as you know him, you will tell us which way he has gone?" "i know him because he gave me a precious good hiding two hours ago, to prevent me from beating goualeuse." "and have you never seen him before?" "never; we met by chance in the alley which leads to bras rouge's house." "hostess, another bottle of the best," said thomas seyton. sarah and he had hardly moistened their lips, and their glasses were still full; but mother ponisse, doubtless anxious to pay proper respect to her own cellar, had frequently filled and emptied hers. "and put it on the table where that gentleman sits, if he will permit," added thomas, who, with sarah, seated themselves beside the chourineur, who was as much astonished as flattered by such politeness. the schoolmaster and the chouette were talking over their own dark plans in low tones and "flash" language. the bottle being brought, and sarah and her brother seated with the chourineur and the ogress, who had considered a second invitation as superfluous, the conversation was resumed. "you told us, my good fellow, that you met our comrade rodolph in the house where bras rouge lives?" inquired thomas seyton, as he hob and nobbed with the chourineur. "yes, my good fellow," replied he, as he emptied his glass at a gulp. "what a singular name is bras rouge! what is this bras rouge?" "_il pastique la maltouze_" (smuggles), said the chourineur, in a careless tone, and then added, "this is jolly good wine, mother ponisse!" "if you think so, do not spare it, my fine fellow," said seyton, and he filled the chourineur's glass as he spoke. "your health, mate," said he, "and the health of your little friend, who--but mum. 'if my aunt was a man, she'd be my uncle,' as the proverb says. ah! you sly rogue, i'm up to you!" sarah coloured slightly as her brother continued, "i did not quite understand what you meant about bras rouge. rodolph came from his house, no doubt?" "i told you that bras rouge _pastique la maltouze_." thomas regarded the chourineur with an air of surprise. "what do you mean by _pastique la mal_--what do you call it?" "_pastiquer la maltouze._ he smuggles, i suppose you would call it; but it seems you can't 'patter flash?'" "my fine fellow, i don't understand one word you say." "i see you can't talk slang like m. rodolph." "slang?" said thomas seyton, looking at sarah with an astonished air. "ah! you are yokels; but comrade rodolph is an out-and-out pal, he is. though only a fan-painter, yet he is as 'downy' in 'flash' as i am myself. well, since you can't speak this very fine language, i tell you, in plain french, that bras rouge is a smuggler, and, besides that, has a small tavern in the champs elysées. i say, without breaking faith, that he is a smuggler, for he makes no secret of it, but owns it under the very nose of the custom-house officers. find him out, though, if you can; bras rouge is a deep one." "what could rodolph want at the house of this man?" asked sarah. "really, sir, or madam, which you please, i know nothing about anything, as true as i drink this glass of wine. i was chaffing to-night with the goualeuse, who thought i was going to beat her, and she ran up bras rouge's alley, and i after her; it was as dark as the devil. instead of hitting goualeuse, however, i stumbled on master rodolph, who soon gave me better than i sent. such thumps! and especially those infernal thwacks with his fist at last. my eyes! how hot and heavy they did fall! but he's promised to teach me, and to--" "and bras rouge, what sort of a person is he?" asked tom. "what goods does he sell?" "bras rouge? oh, by the holy! he sells everything he is forbidden to sell, and does everything which it is forbidden to do. that's his line, ain't it, mother ponisse?" "oh! he's a boy with more than one string to his bow," answered the ogress. "he is, besides, principal occupier of a certain house in the rue du temple,--a rum sort of a house, to be sure; but mum," added she, fearing to have revealed too much. "and what is the address of bras rouge in that street?" asked seyton of the chourineur. "no. , sir." "perhaps we may learn something there," said seyton, in a low voice, to his sister. "i will send karl thither to-morrow." "as you know m. rodolph," said the chourineur, "you may boast the acquaintance of a stout friend and a good fellow. if it had not been for the charcoal-man, he would have 'doubled up' the schoolmaster, who is there in the corner with the chouette. by the lord! i can hardly contain myself, when i see that old hag, and know how she behaved to the goualeuse,--but patience, 'a blow delayed is not a blow lost,' as the saying is." the hotel de ville clock struck midnight; the lamp of the tavern only shed a dim and flickering light. except the chourineur and his two companions, the schoolmaster, and the screech-owl, all the guests of the _tapis-franc_ had retired one after the other. the schoolmaster said, in an undertone, to the chouette, "if we go and hide in the alley opposite, we shall see the swells come out, and know which road they take. if they turn to the left, we can double upon them at the turning of the rue saint eloi; if to the right, we will wait for them by the ruins close to the tripe-market. there's a large hole close by, and i have a capital idea." the schoolmaster and the chouette then went towards the door. "you won't, then, take a 'drain' of nothin' to-night?" said the ogress. "no, mother ponisse, we only came in to take shelter from the rain," said the schoolmaster, as he and the chouette went out. chapter vii. "your money or your life." the noise which was made by the shutting of the door aroused tom and sarah from their reverie, and they rose, and, having thanked the chourineur for the information he had given them, the fellow went out, the wind blowing very strongly, and the rain falling in torrents. the schoolmaster and the chouette, hidden in an alley opposite the _tapis-franc_, saw the chourineur go down the street, in the direction of the street in which the house in ruins was situated. his steps, which were somewhat irregular, in consequence of the frequent libations of the evening, were soon unheard amidst the whistling of the storm and the sheets of rain which dashed against the walls. sarah and tom left the tavern in spite of the tempest, and took a contrary direction to the chourineur. "they're done for," said the schoolmaster, in a low key, to the chouette; "out with your vitriol, and mind your eye." "let us take off our shoes, and then they won't hear us as we follow," suggested the chouette. "you are right,--always right; let us tread like cats, my old darling." the two monsters took off their shoes, and moved stealthily along, keeping in the shadows of the houses. by means of this stratagem they followed so closely, that, although within a few steps of sarah and tom, they did not hear them. "fortunately our hackney-coach is at the end of the street; the rain falls in torrents. are you not cold, sarah?" "perhaps we shall glean something from this smuggler,--this bras rouge," said sarah, in a thoughtful tone, and not replying to her brother's inquiry. he suddenly stopped, and said, "i have taken a wrong turning; i ought to have gone to the right when i left the tavern; we must pass by a house in ruins to reach the _fiacre_. we must turn back." the schoolmaster and the chouette, who followed on the heels of their intended victims, retreated into the dark porch of a house close at hand, so that they might not be perceived by tom and sarah, who, in passing, almost touched them with their elbows. "i am glad they have gone that way," said the schoolmaster, "for if the 'cove' resists, i have my own idea." sarah and her brother, having again passed by the _tapis-franc_, arrived close to the dilapidated house, which was partly in ruins, and its opened cellars formed a kind of gulf, along which the street ran in that direction. in an instant, the schoolmaster, with a leap resembling in strength and agility the spring of a tiger, seized seyton with one hand by the throat, and exclaimed, "your money, or i will fling you into this hole!" then the brigand, pushing seyton backwards, shoved him off his balance, and with one hand held him suspended over the mouth of the deep excavation; whilst, with his other hand, he grasped the arm of sarah, as if in a vice. before tom could make the slightest struggle, the chouette had emptied his pockets with singular dexterity. sarah did not utter a cry, nor try to resist; she only said, in a calm tone, "give up your purse, brother;" and then accosting the robber, "we will make no noise; do not do us any injury." the chouette, having carefully searched the pockets of the two victims of this ambush, said to sarah, "let's see your hands, if you've got any rings. no," said the old brute, grumblingly, "no, not one ring. what a shame!" tom seyton did not lose his presence of mind during this scene, rapidly and unexpectedly as it had occurred. "will you strike a bargain? my pocketbook contains papers quite useless to you; return it to me, and to-morrow i will give you twenty-five louis d'ors," said tom to the schoolmaster, whose hand relaxed something of its fierce gripe. "oh! ah! to lay a trap to catch us," replied the thief. "be off, without looking behind you, and be thankful that you have escaped so well." "one moment," said the chouette; "if he behaves well, he shall have his pocketbook. there is a way." then, addressing thomas seyton, "you know the plain of st. denis?" "i do." "do you know where st. ouen is?" "yes." "opposite st. ouen, at the end of the road of la revolte, the plain is wide and open. across the fields, one may see a long way. come there to-morrow, quite alone, with your money in your hand; you will find me and the pocketbook ready. hand me the cash, and i will hand you the pocketbook." "but he'll trap you, chouette." "oh, no, he won't; i'm up to him or any of his dodges. we can see a long way off. i have only one eye, but that is a piercer; and if the 'cove' comes with a companion, he won't find anybody; i shall have 'mizzled.'" a sudden idea seemed to strike sarah, and she said to the brigand, "will you like to gain some money?" "yes." "did you see, in the cabaret we have just left--for i know you again--the man whom the charcoal-man came to seek?" "a dandy with moustaches? yes, i would have stuck it into the fellow, but he did not give me time. he stunned me with two blows of his fists, and upset me on the table,--for the first time that any man ever did so. curses on him! but i will be revenged." "he is the man i mean," said sarah. "he?" cried the schoolmaster, "a thousand francs, and i'll kill him." "wretch! i do not seek his life," replied sarah to the schoolmaster. "what, then, would you have?" "come to-morrow to the plain of st. denis; you will there find my companion," she replied; "you will see that he is alone, and he will tell you what to do. i will not give you one thousand, but two thousand, francs, if you succeed." "_fourline_," said the chouette, in a low tone, to the schoolmaster, "there's 'blunt' to be had; these are a 'swell' lot, who want to be revenged on an enemy, and that enemy is the beggar that you wished to 'floor.' let's go and meet him. i would go, if i were you. fire and smoke! old boy, it will pay for looking after." "well, my wife shall be there," said the schoolmaster; "you will tell her what you want, and i shall see--" "be it so; to-morrow at one." "at one o'clock." "in the plain of st. denis?" "in the plain of st. denis." "between st. ouen and the road of la revolte, at the end of the road?" "agreed." "i will bring your pocketbook." "and you shall have the five hundred francs i promised you, and we will agree in the other matter, if you are reasonable." "now, you go to the right, and we to the left hand. do not follow us, or else--" the schoolmaster and the chouette hurried off, whilst tom and the countess went in the other direction, towards notre dame. a concealed witness had been present at this transaction; it was the chourineur, who had entered the cellars of the house to get shelter from the rain. the proposal which sarah made to the brigand respecting rodolph deeply interested the chourineur, who, alarmed for the perils which appeared about to beset his new friend, regretted that he could not warn him of them. perhaps his detestation of the schoolmaster and the chouette might have something to do with this feeling. the chourineur resolved to inform rodolph of the danger which threatened him; but how? he had forgotten the address of the self-styled fan-painter. perhaps rodolph would never again come to the _tapis-franc_, and then how could he warn him? whilst he was conning all this over in his mind, the chourineur had mechanically followed tom and sarah, and saw them get into a coach which awaited them near notre dame. the _fiacre_ started. the chourineur got up behind, and at one o'clock it stopped on the boulevard de l'observatoire, and thomas and sarah went down a narrow entrance, which was close at hand. the night was pitch dark, and the chourineur, that he might know the next day the place where he then was, drew from his pocket his clasp-knife, and cut a deep notch in one of the trees at the corner of the entrance, and then returned to his resting-place, which was at a considerable distance. for the first time for a very long while, the chourineur enjoyed in his den a comfortable sleep, which was not once interrupted by the horrible vision of the "sergeant's slaughter-house," as, in his coarse language, he styled it. chapter viii. the walk. on the day after the evening on which the various events we have described had passed, a bright autumnal sun shone from a pure sky; the darkness of the night had wholly disappeared. although always shaded by the height of the houses, the disreputable neighbourhood into which the reader has followed us seemed less horrible when viewed in the light of open day. whether rodolph no longer feared meeting with the two persons whom he had evaded the over-night, or did not care whether he faced them or not, about eleven o'clock in the morning he entered the rue aux fêves, and directed his steps towards the tavern of the ogress. rodolph was still in a workman's dress; but there was a decided neatness in his costume. his new blouse, open on his chest, showed a red woollen shirt, closed by several silver buttons; whilst the collar of another shirt, of white cotton, fell over a black silk cravat, loosely tied around his neck. from under his sky blue velvet cap, with a bright leather peak, several locks of chestnut hair were seen; and his boots, cleaned very brightly, and replacing the heavy iron shoes of the previous evening, showed off to advantage a well-formed foot, which seemed all the smaller from appearing out of a loose pantaloon of olive velveteen. the costume was well calculated to display the elegant shape and carriage of rodolph, which combined so much grace, suppleness, and power. the ogress was airing herself at her door when rodolph presented himself. "your servant, young man; you have come, no doubt, for your change of the twenty francs," she said, with some show of respect, not venturing to forget that the conqueror of the chourineur had handed her a louis d'or the previous evening. "there is seventeen francs ten sous coming to you; but that's not all. there was somebody here asking after you last night,--a tall gent, well dressed, and with him a young woman in men's clothes. they drank my best wine along with the chourineur." "oh, with the chourineur, did they? and what could they have to say to him?" "when i say they drank, i make a mistake; they only just sipped a drain or so, and--" "but what did they say to the chourineur?" "oh, they talked of all manner of things,--of bras rouge, and the rain, and fine weather." "do they know bras rouge?" "not by no means; the chourineur told 'em all about him, and as how as you--" "well, well, that is not what i want to know." "you want your change." "yes, and i want to take goualeuse to pass the day in the country." "oh, that's impossible!" "why?" "why? because she may never come back again. her things belong to me, not including as she owes me a matter of ninety francs as a balance for her board and lodging, for the six weeks as she has lodged with me; and if i didn't know her to be as honest a gal as is, i should never let her go out of sight." "goualeuse owes you ninety francs?" "ninety francs ten sous; but what's that to you, my lad? are you a-going to come 'my lord,' and pay it for her?" "yes," said rodolph, throwing five louis on the ogress's bar, "and what's your price for the clothes she wears?" the old hag, amazed, looked at the louis one after the other, with an air of much doubt and mistrust. "what! do you think i have given you bad money? send and get change for one of them; but make haste about it. i say, again, how much for the garments the poor girl is wearing?" the ogress, divided between her desire to make a good harvest, her surprise to see a workman with so much money, the fear of being cheated, and the hopes of still greater gain, was silent for an instant, and then replied, "oh, them things is well worth a hundred francs." "what! those rags? come, now, you shall keep the change from yesterday, and i'll give you another louis, and no more. if i give you all i have, i shall cheat the poor, who ought to get some alms out of me." "well, then, my fine fellow, i'll keep my things, and goualeuse sha'n't go out. i have a right to sell my things for what i choose." "may lucifer one day fry you as you deserve! here's your money; go and look for goualeuse." the ogress pocketed the gold, thinking that the workman had committed a robbery, or received a legacy, and then said, with a nasty leer, "well, indeed! why not go up-stairs, and find goualeuse yourself; she'll be very glad to see you, for, on my life, she was much smitten with you yesterday?" "do you go and fetch her, and tell her i will take her into the country; that's all you need say; not a word about my having paid you her debt." "why not?" "what's that to you?" "oh, nothing; it's no matter to me; i would rather that she still believed herself in my clutch--" "will you hold your tongue, and do as i bid you?" "oh, what a cross creetur you are! i pity anybody who is under you. well, i'm going, i'm going;" and the ogress went up-stairs. after a few minutes she came down again. "goualeuse would not believe me, and really turned quite crimson when she knew you were here; and when i told her that i would give her leave to pass the day in the country, i thought she would have gone crazy,--for the first time in her life she was inclined to throw her arms about my neck." "that was her delight at leaving you." fleur-de-marie entered at this moment, dressed as she was the over-night, with her gown of brown stuff, her little orange shawl tied behind her, and her handkerchief of red checks over her head, leaving only two thick bands of light hair visible. she blushed when she saw rodolph, and looked down with a confused air. "would you like to pass the day in the country with me, my lass?" asked rodolph. "very much, indeed, m. rodolph," said goualeuse, "since madame gives me leave." "yes, yes, you may go, my little duck, because you're such a good gal. come and kiss me afore you go." and the old beldam offered her bloated lips to fleur-de-marie. the poor girl, overcoming her disgust, bent her forehead to the ogress, but rodolph, giving a sudden push with his elbow, shoved the hag back on her seat, took fleur-de-marie's arm, and left the _tapis-franc_, amidst the loud maledictions of mother ponisse. "mind, m. rodolph," said goualeuse; "the ogress will, perhaps, throw something at you,--she is very spiteful." "oh, don't heed her, my girl. but what's the matter with you? you seem embarrassed, sad. are you sorry for having come out with me?" "oh, dear, no; but--but--you give me your arm!" "well, and what of that?" "you are a workman, and some one may tell your master that they met you with me, and harm may come of it; masters do not like their workmen to be unsteady." and goualeuse gently removed her arm from that of rodolph, adding, "go on by yourself; i will follow you to the barrier; when we are once in the fields i can walk with you." "do not be uneasy," said rodolph, touched by the poor girl's consideration, and taking her arm again; "my master does not live in this quarter, and we shall find a coach on the quai aux fleurs." "as you please, m. rodolph; i only said so that you might not get into trouble." "i am sure of that, and thank you very much. but tell me, is it all the same to you what part of the country we go into?" "yes, quite so, m. rodolph, so that it be the country. it is so fine and it is so nice to breathe the open air! do you know that i have not been farther than the flower-market for these six weeks? and now, if the ogress allows me to leave the cité, she must have great confidence in me." "and when you came here, was it to buy flowers?" "oh, no, i had no money; i only came to look at them, and breathe their beautiful smell. during the half-hour which the ogress allowed me to pass on the quay on market-days, i was so happy that i forgot everything else." "and on returning to the ogress, and those filthy streets?" "oh, why, then i returned more sad than when i set out; but i wiped my eyes, that i might not be beaten for crying. yet, at the market, what made me envious--oh, so envious!--was to see neat, clean little workwomen, who were going away so gaily with a beautiful pot of flowers in their hands." "i am sure that if you had had but a few flowers in your own window, they would have kept you company." "what you say is quite true, m. rodolph. only imagine, one day, on her birthday, the ogress, knowing my taste, gave me a little rose-tree. if you only knew how happy it made me,--i was never tired of looking at it,--my own rose-tree! i counted its leaves, its flowers; but the air of the cité is bad, and it began to wither in two days. then--but you'll laugh at me, m. rodolph." "no, no; go on." "well, then, i asked the ogress to let me go out, and take my rose-tree for a walk, as i would have taken a child out. well, then, i carried it to the quay, thinking that to be with other flowers in the fresh and balmy air would do it good. i bathed its poor fading leaves in the clear waters of the fountain, and then to dry it i placed it for a full quarter of an hour in the sun. dear little rose-tree! it never saw the sun in the cité any more than i did, for in our street it never descends lower than the roof. at last i went back again, and i assure you, m. rodolph, that, thanks to these walks, my rose-tree lived at least ten days longer than it would have done, had i not taken such pains with it." "no doubt of it. but when it died, what a loss it must have been to you!" "i cried heartily, for it grieved me very, very much; and you see, m. rodolph,--for you know one loves flowers, although one hasn't any of one's own,--you see, i felt grateful to it, that dear rose-tree, for blooming so kindly for me, although i was so--" goualeuse bent her head, and blushed deeply. "unhappy child! with this feeling of your own position, you must often--" "have desired to end it, you mean, sir?" said goualeuse, interrupting her companion. "yes, yes, more than once. a month ago i looked over the parapet at the seine; but then, when i looked at the flowers, and the sun, then i said, 'the river will be always there; i am but sixteen and a half,--who knows?'" "when you said 'who knows,' you had hope?" "yes." "and what did you hope?" "to find some charitable soul who would get me work, so that i might be enabled to leave the ogress; and this hope comforted me. then i said to myself, i am very wretched, but i have never injured anybody, and if i had any one to advise me i should not be as i am. this lightened my sorrow a little, though it had greatly increased at the loss of my rose-tree," added goualeuse, with a sigh. "always so very sad." "yes; but look, here it is." and goualeuse took from her pocket a little bundle of wood trimmed very carefully, and tied with a rose-coloured bow. "what, have you kept it?" "i have, indeed; it is all i possess in the world." "what, have you nothing else?" "nothing." "this coral necklace?" "belongs to the ogress." "and you have not a piece of riband, a cap, or handkerchief?" "no, nothing,--nothing but the dead branches of my poor rose-tree; and that is why i love it so." when rodolph and goualeuse had reached the quai aux fleurs, a coach was waiting there, into which rodolph handed goualeuse. he got in himself, saying to the driver: "to st. denis; i will tell you presently which road to take." the coach went on. the sun was bright, and the sky cloudless, whilst the air, fresh and crisp, circulated freely through the open windows. "here is a woman's cloak!" said goualeuse, remarking that she had seated herself on the garment without having at first noticed it. "yes, it is for you, my child; i brought it with me for fear you should be cold." little accustomed to such attention, the poor girl looked at rodolph with surprise. "_mon dieu!_ m. rodolph, how kind you are; i am really ashamed--" "because i am kind?" "no; but you do not speak as you did yesterday; you appear quite another person." "tell me, then, fleur-de-marie, which do you like best,--the rodolph of yesterday, or the rodolph of to-day?" "i like you better now; yet yesterday i seemed to be more your equal." then, as if correcting herself, and fearing to have annoyed rodolph, she said to him, "when i say your equal, m. rodolph, i do not mean that i can ever be that." "one thing in you astonishes me very much, fleur-de-marie." "and what is that, m. rodolph?" "you appear to have forgotten that the chouette said to you yesterday that she knew the persons who had brought you up." "oh! i have not forgotten it; i thought of it all night, and i cried bitterly; but i am sure it is not true; she invented this tale to make me unhappy." "yet the chouette may know more than you think. if it were so, should you not be delighted to be restored to your parents?" "alas, sir! if my parents never loved me, what should i gain by discovering them? they would only see me and--but if they _did_ ever love me, what shame i should bring on them! perhaps i should kill them!" "if your parents ever loved you, fleur-de-marie, they will pity, pardon, and still love you. if they have abandoned you, then, when they see the frightful destiny to which they have brought you, _their_ shame and remorse will avenge you." "what is the good of vengeance?" "you are right; let us talk no more on the subject." at this moment the carriage reached st. ouen, where the road divides to st. denis and the revolte. in spite of the monotony of the landscape, fleur-de-marie was so delighted at seeing the fields, as she called them, that, forgetting the sad thoughts which the recollection of the chouette had awakened in her, her lovely countenance grew radiant with delight. she leaned out of the window, clasping her hands, and crying: "m. rodolph, how happy i am! grass! fields! may i get out? it is so fine! i should so like to run in the meadows." "let us run, then, my child. coachman, stop." "what! you, too? will you run, m. rodolph?" "i'm having a holiday." "oh! what pleasure!" and rodolph and goualeuse, taking each other's hand, ran as fast as they could over a long piece of latter-grass, just mowed. it would be impossible to describe the leaps and exclamations of joy, the intense delight, of fleur-de-marie. poor lamb! so long a prisoner, she inspired the free air with indescribable pleasure. she ran, returned, stopped, and then raced off again with renewed happiness. at the sight of the daisies and buttercups goualeuse could not restrain her transport,--she did not leave one flower which she could gather. after having run about in this way for some time, she became rather tired, for she had lost the habit of exercise, and stopped to take breath, sitting down on the trunk of a fallen tree which was lying at the edge of a deep ditch. [illustration: "_she proffered to rodolph the bouquet_" etching by mercier, after the drawing by frank t. merrill] the clear and white complexion of fleur-de-marie, generally rather pale, was now heightened by the brightest colour. her large blue eyes sparkled brightly, her vermilion lips, partly opened to recover her breath, displayed two rows of liquid pearls; her bosom throbbed under her worn-out little orange shawl, and she placed one of her hands upon her heart, as if to restrain its quickened pulsation, whilst with the other hand she proffered to rodolph the bouquet of field flowers which she had just gathered. nothing could be more charming than the combination of innocence and pure joy which beamed on her expressive countenance. when fleur-de-marie could speak, she said to rodolph, with an accent of supreme happiness and of gratitude, almost amounting to piety: "how good is the great god to give us so fine a day!" a tear came into rodolph's eye when he heard this poor, forsaken, despised, lost creature utter a cry of happiness and deep gratitude to the creator, because she enjoyed a ray of sunshine and the sight of a green field. he was roused from his reverie by an unexpected occurrence. chapter ix. the surprise. we have said that goualeuse was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, at the edge of a deep ditch. suddenly a man, springing up from the bottom of this hollow, shook the rubbish from him under which he had concealed himself, and burst into a loud fit of laughter. goualeuse turned around, screaming with alarm. it was the chourineur. "don't be frightened, my girl," said the chourineur, when he saw her extreme fear, and that she had sought protection from her companion. "ah, master rodolph, here's a curious meeting, which i am sure neither you nor i expected." then he added, in a serious tone, "listen, master. people may say what they like, but there is something in the air,--there, up there, above our heads, very wonderful; which seems to say to a man, 'go where i send you.' see how you two have been sent here. it is devilish wonderful!" "what are you doing there?" said rodolph, greatly surprised. "i was on the lookout in a matter of yours, master; but, thunder and lightning! what a high joke that you should come at this particular moment into this very neighbourhood of my country-house! there's something in all this,--decidedly there is something." "but again i ask you, what are you doing there?" "all in good time, i'll tell you; only let me first look about me for a moment." the chourineur then ran towards the coach, which was some distance off, looked this way and that way over the plain with a keen and rapid glance, and then rejoined rodolph, running quickly. "will you explain to me the meaning of all this?" "patience, patience, good master; one word more. what's o'clock?" "half past twelve," said rodolph, looking at his watch. "all right; we have time, then. the chouette will not be here for the next half-hour." "the chouette!" cried rodolph and the girl both at once. "yes, the chouette; in two words, master, i'll tell you all. yesterday, after you had left the _tapis-franc_, there came--" "a tall man with a woman in man's attire, who asked for me; i know all about that, but then--" "then they paid for my liquor, and wanted to 'draw' me about you. i had nothing to tell them, because you had communicated nothing to me, except those fisticuffs which settled me. all i know is, that i learned something then which i shall not easily forget. but we are friends for life and death, master rodolph, though the devil burn me if i know why. i feel for you the regard which the bulldog feels for his master. it was after you told me that i had 'heart and honour;' but that's nothing, so there's an end of it. it is no use trying to account for it; so it is, and so let it be, if it's any good to you." "many thanks, my man; but go on." "the tall man and the little lady in men's clothes, finding that they could get nothing out of me, left the ogress's, and so did i; they going towards the palais de justice, and i to notre dame. on reaching the end of the street i found it was raining pitchforks, points downward,--a complete deluge. there was an old house in ruins close at hand, and i said to myself, 'if this shower is to last all night, i shall sleep as well here as in my own "crib."' so i rolled myself into a sort of cave, where i was high and dry; my bed was an old beam, and my pillow a heap of lath and plaster, and there i slept like a king." "well, well, go on." "we had drank together, master rodolph; i had drank, too, with the tall man and the little woman dressed in man's clothes, so you may believe my head was rather heavy, and, besides, nothing sends me off to sleep like a good fall of rain. i began then to snooze, but i had not been long asleep, i think, when, aroused by a noise, i sat up and listened. i heard the schoolmaster, who was talking in a friendly tone with somebody. i soon made out that he was parleying with the tall man who came into the _tapis-franc_ with the little woman dressed in man's clothes." "they in conference with the schoolmaster and the chouette?" said rodolph, with amazement. "with the schoolmaster and the chouette; and they agreed to meet again on the morrow." "that's to-day!" said rodolph. "at one o'clock." "this very moment!" "where the road branches off to st. denis and la revolte." "this very spot!" "just as you say, master rodolph, on this very spot." "the schoolmaster! oh, pray be on your guard, m. rodolph," exclaimed fleur-de-marie. "don't be alarmed, my child, he won't come; it's only the chouette." "how could the man who, with the female in disguise, sought me at the _tapis-franc_, come into contact with these two wretches?" said rodolph. "i'faith i don't know, and i think i only awoke at the end of the affair, for the tall man was talking of getting back his pocketbook, which the chouette was to bring here in exchange for five hundred francs. i should say that the schoolmaster had begun by robbing him, and that it was after that that they began to parley, and to come to friendly terms." "it is very strange." "_mon dieu!_ it makes me quite frightened on your account, m. rodolph," said fleur-de-marie. "master rodolph is no chicken, girl; but as you say, there may be something working against him, and so i am here." "go on, my good fellow." "the tall man and the little woman have promised two thousand francs to the schoolmaster to do to you--i don't know what. the chouette is to be here directly to return the pocketbook, and to know what is required from them, which she is to tell the schoolmaster, who will undertake it." fleur-de-marie started. rodolph smiled disdainfully. "two thousand francs to do something to you, master rodolph; that makes me think that when i see a notice of a dog that has been lost (i don't mean to make a comparison), and the offer of a hundred francs reward for his discovery, i say to myself, 'animal, if you were lost, no one would give a hundred farthings to find you.' two thousand francs to do something to you! who are you, then?" "i'll tell you by and by." "that's enough, master. when i heard this proposal, i said to myself, i must find out where these two dons live who want to set the schoolmaster on the haunches of m. rodolph; it may be serviceable. so when they had gone away, i got out of my hiding-place, and followed them quietly. i saw the tall man and little woman get into a coach near notre dame, and i got up behind, and we went on until we reached the boulevard de l'observatoire. it was as dark as the mouth of an oven, and i could not distinguish anything, so i cut a notch in a tree, that i might find out the place in the morning." "well thought of, my good fellow." "this morning i went there, and about ten yards from the tree i saw a narrow entrance, closed by a gate. in the mud there were little and large footsteps, and at the end of the entrance a small garden-gate, where the traces ended; so the roosting-place of the tall man and the little woman must be there." "thanks, my worthy friend, you have done me a most essential piece of service, without knowing it." "i beg your pardon, master rodolph, but i believed i was serving you, and that was the reason i did as i did." "i know it, my fine fellow, and i wish i could recompense your service more properly than by thanks; but, unfortunately, i am only a poor devil of a workman, although you say they offer two thousand francs for something to be done against me. i will explain that to you." "yes, if you like, but not unless. somebody threatens you with something, and i will come across them if i can; the rest is your affair." "i know what they want. listen to me. i have a secret for cutting fans in ivory by a mechanical process, but this secret does not belong to me alone. i am awaiting my comrade to go to work, and, no doubt, it is the model of the machine which i have at home that they are desirous of getting from me at any price, for there is a great deal of money to be made by this discovery." "the tall man and the little woman then are--" "work-people with whom i have been associated, and to whom i have refused my secret." this explanation appeared satisfactory to the chourineur, whose apprehension was not the clearest in the world, and he replied: "now i understand it all. the beggars! you see they have not the courage to do their dirty tricks themselves. but to come to the end of my story. i said to myself this morning, i know the rendezvous of the chouette and the tall man; i will go there and wait for them; i have good legs, and my employer will wait for me. i came here and found this hole, and, taking an armful of stuff from the dunghill yonder, i hid myself here up to my nose, and waited for the chouette. but, lo and behold! you came into the field, and poor goualeuse came and sat down on the very edge of my park, and then i determined to have a bit of fun, and, jumping out of my lair, i called out like a man on fire." "and now what do you propose to do?" "to wait for the chouette, who is sure to come first; to try and overhear what she and the tall man talk about, for that may be useful for you to know. there is nothing in the field but this trunk of a tree, and from here you may see all over the plain; it is as if it were made on purpose to sit down upon. the rendezvous of the chouette is only four steps off at the cross-road, and i will lay a bet they come and sit here when they arrive. if i cannot hear anything, then, as soon as they separate, i will follow the chouette, who is sure to stay last, and i'll pay her the old grudge i owe her for the goualeuse's tooth; and i'll twist her neck until she tells me the name of the parents of the poor girl, for she says she knows them. what do you think of my idea, master rodolph?" "i like it very well, my lad; but there is one part which you must alter." "oh, chourineur, do not get yourself into any quarrel on my account. if you beat the chouette, then the schoolmaster--" "say no more, my lass. the chouette shall not go scot free for me. confound it! why, for the very reason that the schoolmaster will defend her, i will double her dose." "listen, my man, to me; i have a better plan for avenging the chouette's brutalities to goualeuse, which i will tell you hereafter. now," said rodolph, moving a few paces from goualeuse, and speaking low, "now, will you render me a real service?" "name it, master rodolph." "the chouette does not know you?" "i saw her yesterday for the first time at the _tapis-franc_." "this is what you must do. hide yourself first; but, when you see her come close to you, get out of this hole--" "and twist her neck?" "no, defer that for a time. to-day, only prevent her from speaking to the tall man. he, seeing some one with her, will not approach; and if he does, do not leave her alone for a moment. he cannot make his proposal before you." "if the man thinks me curious, i know what to do; he is neither the schoolmaster nor master rodolph. i will follow the chouette like her shadow, and the man shall not say a word that i do not overhear. he will then be off, and after that i will have one little turn with the chouette. i must have it; it will be such a sweet drop for me." "not yet; the one-eyed hag does not know whether you are a thief or not?" "no, not unless the schoolmaster has talked of me to her, and told her that i did not do business in that line." "if he have, you must appear to have altered your ideas on that subject." "i?" "yes." "ten thousand thunders! m. rodolph, what do you mean? indeed--truly--i don't like it; it does not suit me to play such a farce as that." "you shall only do what you please; but you will not find that i shall suggest any infamous plan to you. the tall man once driven away, you must try and talk over the chouette. as she will be very savage at having missed the good haul she expected, you must try and smooth her down by telling her that you know of a capital bit of business which may be done, and that you are then waiting for your comrade, and that, if the schoolmaster will join you, there is a lump of money to be made." "well, well." "after waiting with her for an hour, you may say, 'my mate does not come, and so the job must be put off;' and then you may make an appointment with the chouette and the schoolmaster for to-morrow, at an early hour. do you understand me?" "quite." "and this evening, at ten o'clock, meet me at the corner of the champs elysées and the allée des veuves, and i will tell you more." "if it is a trap, look out! the schoolmaster is a scoundrel. you have beaten him, and, no doubt, he will kill you if he can." "have no fear." "by jove! it is a 'rum start;' but do as you like with me. i do not hesitate, for something tells me that there is a rod in pickle for the schoolmaster and the chouette. one word, though, if you please, m. rodolph." "say it." "i do not think you are the man to lay a trap, and set the police on the schoolmaster. he is an arrant blackguard, who deserves a hundred deaths; but to have them arrested, that i will not have a hand in." "nor i, my boy; but i have a score to wipe off with him and the chouette, because they are in a plot with others against me; but we two will baffle them completely, if you will lend me your assistance." "of course i will; and, if that is to be the game, i am your man. but quick, quick," cried the chourineur, "down there i see the head of the chouette. i know it is her bonnet. go, go, and i will drop into my hole." "to-night, then, at ten o'clock." "at the corner of the champs elysées and the allée des veuves; all right." fleur-de-marie had not heard a word of the latter part of the conversation between the chourineur and rodolph, and now entered again into the coach with her travelling companion. chapter x. castles in the air. for some time after this conversation with the chourineur, rodolph remained preoccupied and pensive, while fleur-de-marie, too timid to break the silence, continued to gaze on him with saddened earnestness. at length rodolph looked up, and, meeting her mournful look, smiled kindly on her, and said, "what are you thinking of, my child? i fear our rencontre with the chourineur has made you uncomfortable, and we were so merry, too." "oh, no, m. rodolph, indeed, i do not mind it at all; nay, i even believe the meeting with the chourineur may be useful to you." "did not this man pass amongst the inhabitants of the _tapis-franc_ as possessing some good points among his many bad ones?" "indeed, i know not, m. rodolph; for although, previously to the scene of yesterday, i had frequently seen him, i had scarcely ever spoken to him. i always looked upon him as bad as all the rest." "well, well, do not let us talk any more about him, my pretty fleur-de-marie. i should be sorry, indeed, to make you sad,--i, who brought you out purposely that you might spend a happy day." "oh, i am happy. it is so very long since i have been out of paris." "not since your grand doings with rigolette." "yes, indeed, m. rodolph; but that was in the spring. yet, though it is now autumn, i enjoy it quite as much. how beautifully the sun shines! only look at the gold-coloured clouds out there--there, i mean; and then that hill, with its pretty white houses half hid among the trees, and the leaves still so green, though we are in the middle of the month of october. do not you think it is wonderful, m. rodolph, they should so well preserve their verdure? in paris, all the leaves wither so soon. look! look at those pigeons! how many there are! and how high they fly! now they are settling on that old mill. one is never tired in the open fields of looking at all these amusing sights." "it, is, indeed, a pleasure to behold the delight you seem to take in all these trifling matters, fleur-de-marie; though they, in reality, constitute the charm of a landscape." and rodolph was right; for the countenance of his companion, while gazing upon the fair, calm scene before her, was lit up with an expression of the purest joy. "see!" she exclaimed, after intently watching the different objects that unfolded themselves to her eager look, "see how beautifully the clear white smoke rises from those cottages, and ascends to the very clouds themselves; and there are some men ploughing the land. what a capital plough they have got, drawn by those two fine gray horses. oh, if i were a man, how i should like to be a husbandman, to go out in the fields, and drive one's own plough; and then when you look to see the blue skies, and the green shiny leaves of the neighbouring forests,--such a day as to-day, for instance, when you feel half inclined to weep, without knowing why, and begin singing old and melancholy songs, like 'geneviève de brabant.' do you know 'geneviève de brabant,' m. rodolph?" "no, my child; but i hope you will have the kindness to sing it to me before the day is over. you know our time is all our own." at these words, which reminded the poor goualeuse that her newly tasted happiness was fast fleeting away, and that, at the close of this, the brightest day that had ever shone on her existence, she must return to all the horrors of a corrupt city, her feelings broke through all restraint, she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. much surprised at her emotion, rodolph kindly inquired its cause. "what ails you, fleur-de-marie? what fresh grief have you found?" "nothing,--nothing indeed, m. rodolph," replied the girl, drying her eyes and trying to smile. "pray forgive me for being so sad, and please not to notice it. i assure you i have nothing at all to grieve about,--it is only a fancy; and now i am going to be quite gay, you will see." "and you were as gay as could be a few minutes ago." "yes, i know i was; and it was my thinking how soon--" answered fleur-de-marie, naïvely, and raising her large, tearful blue eyes, with touching candour, to his face. the look, the words, fully enlightened rodolph as to the cause of her distress, and, wishing to dissipate it, he said, smilingly: "i would lay a wager you are regretting your poor rose-tree, and are crying because you could not bring it out walking with you, as you used to do." la goualeuse fell into the good-natured scheme for regaining her cheerfulness, and by degrees the clouds of sadness cleared away from her fair young face; and once again she appeared absorbed in the pleasure of the moment, without allowing herself to recollect the future that would succeed it. the vehicle had by this time almost arrived at st. denis, and the tall spires of the cathedral were visible. "oh, what a fine steeple!" exclaimed la goualeuse. "it is that of the splendid church of st. denis: would you like to see it? we can easily stop our carriage." poor fleur-de-marie cast down her eyes. "from the hour i went to live with the ogress," said she, in a low tone, while deep blushes dyed her cheek, "i never once entered a church,--i durst not. when in prison, on the contrary, i used to delight in helping to sing the mass; and, against the fête-dieu, oh, i made such lovely bouquets for the altar!" "but god is merciful and good; why, then, fear to pray to him, or to enter his holy church?" "oh, no, no, m. rodolph! i have offended god deeply enough; let me not add impiety and sacrilege to my sins." after a moment's silence, rodolph again renewed the conversation, and, kindly taking the hand of la goualeuse, said, "fleur-de-marie, tell me honestly, have you ever known what it is to love?" "never, m. rodolph." "and how do you account for this?" "you saw the kind of persons who frequented the _tapis-franc_. and then, to love, the object should be good and virtuous--" "why do you think so?" "oh, because one's lover, or husband, would be all in all to us, and we should seek no greater happiness than devoting our life to him. but, m. rodolph, if you please, we will talk of something else, for the tears will come into my eyes." "willingly, fleur-de-marie; let us change the conversation. and now tell me, why do you look so beseechingly at me with those large, tearful eyes? have i done anything to displease you?" "on the contrary, 'tis the excess of your goodness that makes me weep; indeed, i could almost fancy that you had brought me out solely for my individual pleasure and enjoyment, without thinking of yourself. not content with your generous defence of me yesterday, you have to-day procured for me happiness such as i never hoped to enjoy." "you are, then, truly and entirely happy?" "never, never shall i forget to-day." "happiness does not often attend us on earth," said rodolph, sighing. "alas, no! seldom, perhaps never." "for my own part, to make up for a want of reality in its possession, i often amuse myself with pictures of what i would have if i could, saying to myself, this is how, and where, i should like to live,--this is the sort of income i should like to enjoy. have you never, my little fleur-de-marie, amused yourself with building similar 'castles in the air?'" "yes, formerly, when i was in prison, before i went to live with the ogress,--then i used to do nothing all day but dance, sing, and build these fairy dreams; but i very seldom do so now. tell me, m. rodolph, if you could have any wish you liked, what should you most desire?" "oh, i should like to be rich, with plenty of servants and carriages; to possess a splendid hôtel, and to mix in the first circles of fashion; to be able to obtain any amusement i pleased, and to go to the theatres and opera whenever i chose." "well, then, you would be more unreasonable than i should. now i will tell you exactly what would satisfy me in every respect: first of all, sufficient money to clear myself with the ogress, and to keep me till i could obtain work for my future support; then a pretty, little, nice, clean room, all to myself, from the window of which i could see the trees while i sat at my work." "plenty of flowers in your casement, of course?" "oh, certainly! and, if it could be managed, to live in the country always. and that, i think, is all i should want." "let me see: a little room, and work enough to maintain you,--those are positive necessaries; but, when one is merely wishing, there is no harm in adding a few superfluities. should you not like such nice things as carriages, diamonds, and rich clothes?" "not at all! all i wish for is my free and undisturbed liberty,--a country life, and the certainty of not dying in a hospital. oh, that idea is dreadful! above all things, i would desire the certainty of its never being my fate. oh, m. rodolph, that dread often comes across me and fills me with terror." "alas! poor folks, such as we are, should not shrink from such things." "'tis not the dying in a charitable institution i dread, or the poverty that would send me into it, but the thoughts of what they do to your lifeless remains." "what do they do that shocks you so much?" "is it possible, m. rodolph, you have never been told what will become of you if you die in one of those places?" "no, indeed, i have not; do you tell me." "well, then, i knew a young girl, who had been a sort of companion to me when i was in prison; she afterwards died in a hospital, and what do you think? her body was given to the surgeons for dissection!" murmured the shuddering fleur-de-marie. "that is, indeed, a frightful idea! and do these miserable anticipations often trouble you, my poor girl?" "ah, m. rodolph, it surprises you that, after my unhappy life, i can feel any concern as to what becomes of my miserable remains! god knows, the feeling which makes me shrink from such an outrage to modesty is all my wretched fate has left me!" the mournful tone in which these words were uttered, and the bitter feelings they contained, went to the heart of rodolph; but his companion, quickly perceiving his air of dejection, and blaming herself for having caused it, said, timidly: "m. rodolph, i feel that i am behaving very ill and ungratefully towards you, who so kindly brought me out to amuse me and give me pleasure; in return for which i only keep talking to you about all the dull and gloomy things i can think of! i wonder how i can do so!--to be able even to recollect my misery, when all around me smiles and looks so gay! i cannot tell how it is, words seem to rise from my lips in spite of myself; and, though i feel happier to-day than i ever did before in my life, my eyes are continually filling with tears! you are not angry with me, are you, m. rodolph? see, too, my sadness is going away as suddenly as it came. there now, it is all gone, and shall not return to vex you any more, i am determined. look, m. rodolph, just look at my eyes,--they do not show that i have been crying, do they?" and here fleur-de-marie, having repeatedly closed her eyes to get rid of the rebellious tears that would gather there, opened them full upon rodolph, with a look of most enchanting candour and sweetness. "put no restraint on yourself, i beseech you, fleur-de-marie: be gay, if you really feel so; or sad, if sadness most suits your present state of mind. i have my own hours of gloom and melancholy, and my sufferings would be much increased were i compelled to feign a lightness of heart i did not really possess." "can it be possible, m. rodolph, that you are ever sad?" "quite possible, my child, and true. alas! the prospect before me is but little brighter than your own. i, like you, am without friends or parents; what would become of me if i were to fall ill and be unable to earn my daily bread,--for i need scarcely tell you i live but from day to day, and spend my money quite as fast as i obtain it?" "oh, but that is wrong, m. rodolph,--very, very wrong!" said la goualeuse, in a tone of such deep and grave remonstrance as made him smile. "you should always lay by something. look at me: why, all my troubles and misfortunes have happened because i did not save my money more carefully. if once a person can get a hundred francs beforehand, he need never fear falling into any one's power; generally, a difficulty about money puts very evil thoughts into our head." "all that is very wise and very sensible, my frugal little friend; but a hundred francs!--that is a large sum; how could a man like myself ever amass so much?" "why, m. rodolph, it is really very easy, if you will but consider a little. first of all, i think you said you could earn five francs a day?" "yes, so i can, when i choose to work." "ah! but you should work, constantly and regularly; and yours is such a pretty trade. to paint fans! how nice such work must be,--mere amusement, quite a recreation! i cannot think why you should ever be tired or dull. indeed, m. rodolph, i must tell you plainly i do not pity you at all; and, besides, really you talk like a mere child when you say you cannot save money out of such large earnings," added la goualeuse, in a sweet, but, for her, severe tone. "why, a workman may live well upon three francs a day; there remain forty sous; at the end of a month, if you manage prudently, you will have saved sixty francs. think of that! there's a sum!--sixty francs in one month!" "oh, but one likes to show off sometimes, and to indulge in a little idleness." "there now, m. rodolph, i declare you make me quite angry to hear you talk so childishly! pray let me advise you to be wiser." "come, then, my sage little monitress, i will be a good boy, and listen to all your careful advice. and your idea of saving, too, is a remarkably good one; i never thought of it before." "really!" exclaimed the poor girl, clapping her hands with joy. "oh, if you knew how delighted i am to hear you say so! then you will begin from to-day to lay by the forty sous we were talking about, will you? will you, indeed?" "i give you my honour that, from this very hour, i will resolve to follow up your most excellent plan, and save forty sous out of each day's pay." "are you quite, quite sure you will?" "nay, have i not promised you that i will?" "you will see how proud and happy you will be with your first savings; and that is not all--ah, if you would promise not to be angry!" "do i look as though i could be so unkind, fleur-de-marie, as to find fault with anything you said?" "oh, no, indeed, that you do not; only i hardly know whether i ought--" "you ought to tell me everything you think or feel, fleur-de-marie." "well, then, i was wondering how _you_, who, it is easily seen, are above your condition, can frequent such low cabarets as that kept by the ogress." "had i not done so, i should not have had the pleasure of wandering in the fields with you to-day, my dear fleur-de-marie." "that is, indeed, true, m. rodolph; but, still, it does not alter my first opinion. no, much as i enjoy to-day's treat, i would cheerfully give up all thoughts of ever passing such another if i thought it could in any way injure you." "injure me! far from it! think of the excellent advice you have been giving me." "which you have promised me to follow?" "i have; and i pledge my word of honour to save henceforward at least forty sous a day." thus speaking, rodolph called out to the driver of their vehicle, who was passing the village of sarcelles, "take the first road to the right, cross villiers to bel, turn to the left, then keep along quite straight." "now," said rodolph, turning to his companion, "that i am a good boy, and promised to do all you tell me, let us go back to our diversion of building castles in the air: that does not run away with much money. you will not object to such a method of amusing myself, will you?" "oh, no, build as many as you like, they are very cheaply raised, and very easily knocked down when you are tired of them. now, then, you begin." "well, then--no! fleur-de-marie, you shall build up yours first." "i wonder if you could guess what i should choose, if wishing were all, m. rodolph." "let us try. suppose that this road--i say _this_ road, because we happen to be on it--" "yes, yes, of course; this road is as good as any other." "well, then, i say, i suppose that this road leads to a delightful little village, at a considerable distance from the highroad--" "oh, yes; that makes it so much more still and quiet!" "it is built facing the south, and half surrounded by trees--" "and close by flows a gentle river." "exactly!--a clear, gently flowing river. at the end of this village stands a pretty farm, with a nice orchard on one side of it, and a garden, filled with flowers, on the other--" "that farm shall be called my farm, to which we will pretend we are now going." "just so." "and where we know we shall get some delicious milk to drink after our journey!" "milk, indeed! excellent cream, and newly laid eggs, if you please." "and where we would be glad to stay all our lives!" "all our lives! quite right,--go on." "and then we should go and see all the cows!" "to be sure we should." "and afterwards visit the dairy?" "visit the dairy! yes." "then the pigeon-house?" "yes, so we should." "oh, how very, very nice, only to think of such things!" "but let me finish the description of the farm--" "yes, pray do! i quite forgot that." "well, then, the ground floor contains two rooms; one, a large kitchen for the farm servants, and the other for the owner of the place." "make that room have green blinds, m. rodolph,--do, pray; they are so cool, and look so pretty!" "yes, yes,--green blinds to the windows. i quite agree with you,--they do look uncommonly pretty, and set off a place so well! of course, the person tenanting this farm is your aunt." "of course she is my aunt, and a very good, sensible, kind woman, m. rodolph, is she not?" "particularly so, and loves you like her own child." "dear, good aunt! oh, how delightful to have some one to love us!" "and you return the tender affection she bears you?" "oh, with all my heart!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, clasping her hands, and raising her eyes to heaven with an expression impossible to describe. "and i should help her to work, to attend to the family linen, to keep everything neat and clean, to store up the summer fruits against winter--oh, she would never have to complain that i was idle, i promise! first of all, in the morning--" "wait a bit, fleur-de-marie; you are in too great a hurry. i want to finish describing the house to you; never mind your aunt just yet." "ah, ha, mr. painter! all this is taken from some pretty landscape you have been painting on a fan. now i know what makes you so expert at describing it!" said la goualeuse, laughing merrily at her own little jest. "you little chatterer, be quiet, will you?" "yes, i am a chatterer, indeed, to interrupt you so often, m. rodolph; but pray go on, and i will not speak again till you have finished painting this dear farm." "your room is on the first floor--" "my room! how charming! oh, go on--go on, please, m. rodolph, and describe all about it to me!" and the delighted girl opened her large laughing eyes, and pressed more closely against rodolph, as if she expected to see the picture in his hand. "your chamber has two windows looking out upon the flower garden, and a small meadow, watered by the river we mentioned. on the opposite bank of the stream rises a small hill, planted with fine old chestnut-trees; and from amongst them peeps out the village church--" "oh, how beautiful,--how very beautiful, m. rodolph! it makes one quite long to be there." "three or four fine cows are grazing in the meadow, which is only separated from the garden by a hedge of honeysuckle--" "and from my windows i can see the cows?" "perfectly." "and one among them ought to be my favourite, you know, m. rodolph; and i ought to put a little bell round its neck, and use it to feed out of my hands!" "of course she would come when you called her. let me see, what name shall we give her? suppose we say, musette. do you like that? she shall be very young and gentle, and entirely white." "oh, what a pretty name! musette! ah, musette, musette, i shall be always feeding you and patting you to make you know me." "now we will finish the inside of your apartment, fleur-de-marie. the curtains and furniture are green, like the blinds; and outside the window grow an enormous rose-tree and honeysuckle, which entirely cover this side of the farm, and so surround your casements that you have only to stretch out your hand to gather a large bunch of roses and honeysuckle wet with the early morning dew." "ah, m. rodolph, what a good painter you are!" "now this is the way you will pass your day--" "yes, yes, let us see how i shall employ myself all day." "early in the morning your good aunt wakes you with a tender kiss; she brings with her a bowl of new milk, just warm, which she prays you to drink, as she fancies you are delicate about the lungs, poor dear child! well, you do as she wishes you; then rise, and take a walk around the farm; pay a visit to musette, the poultry, your pets the pigeons, the flowers in the garden, till nine o'clock, when your writing-master arrives--" "my writing-master?" "why, you know, unless you learned such necessary things as reading, writing, and accounts, you would not be able to assist your aunt to keep her books relative to the produce of the farm." "oh, to be sure! how very stupid of me not to recollect that i must learn to write well, if i wished to help my aunt!" cried the young girl, so thoroughly absorbed in the picture of this peaceful life as to believe for the moment in its reality. "after your lesson is concluded, you will occupy yourself in household matters, or embroider some pretty little article of dress for yourself; then you will practise your writing for an hour or two, and, when that is done, join your aunt in her round of visits to the different operations of the farm; in the summer, to see how the reapers get on in the hay field; in harvest-time, to observe the reapers, and afterwards to enjoy the delight with which the gleaners pick up the scattered ears of grain; by this time you will have almost tired yourself, and gathering a large handful of wild herbs, carefully selected by you as the known favourites of your dear musette, you turn your steps homewards--" "but we go back through the meadow, dear m. rodolph, do we not?" inquired la goualeuse, as earnestly as though every syllable her ears drank in was to be effectually brought to pass. "oh, yes! by all means; and there happens, fortunately, to be a nice little bridge, by which the river separating the farm-land from the meadow may be crossed. by the time you reach home, upon my word, it is seven o'clock; and, as the evenings begin to be a little chill, a bright, cheerful fire is blazing in the large farm kitchen; you go in there for a few minutes, just to warm yourself and to speak a few kind words to the honest labourers, who are enjoying a hearty meal after the day's toil is over. then you sit down to dinner with your aunt; sometimes the curé, or a neighbouring farmer, is invited to share the meal. after dinner you read or work, while your aunt and her guest have a friendly game at piquet. at ten o'clock she dismisses you, with a kiss and a blessing, to your chamber; you retire to your room, offer prayers and thanksgivings to the great author of all your happiness, then sleep soundly till morning, when the same routine begins again." "oh, m. rodolph, one might lead such a life as that for a hundred years, without ever knowing one moment's weariness." "but that is not all. there are sundays and fête-days to be thought of." "yes; and how should we pass those?" "why, you would put on your holiday dress, with one of those pretty little caps _à la paysanne_, which all admit you look so very nicely in, and accompany your aunt in her large old-fashioned chaise, driven by james the farm servant, to hear mass in the village church; after which, during summer, your kind relative would take you to the different fêtes given in the adjoining parishes. you, so gentle, so modest and good-looking, so tenderly beloved by your aunt, and so well spoken of by the curé for all the virtues and qualifications which make a good wife, will have no scarcity of offers for your hand in the dance,--indeed, all the principal young farmers will be anxious to secure you as a partner, by way of opening an acquaintance which shall last for life. by degrees you begin to remark one more than the others; you perceive his deep desire to attract your undivided attention, and so--" and here rodolph, struck by the continued silence of la goualeuse, looked up at her. alas! the poor girl was endeavouring, though fruitlessly, to choke the deep sobs which almost suffocated her. for a brief period, carried away by the words of rodolph, the bright future presented to her mental vision had effaced the horrible present; but too quickly did the hideous picture return, and sweep away for ever the dear delight of believing so sweet, so calm an existence could ever be hers. "fleur-de-marie," asked rodolph, in a kind and affectionate tone, "why is this? why these tears?" "ah, m. rodolph, you have unintentionally caused me much pain. foolish girl that i was, i had listened to you till i quite fancied this paradise were a true picture." "and so it is, my dear child! this paradise, as you call it, is no fiction." "stop, coachman!" "now look! see! observe where we are!" as the carriage stopped, la goualeuse, at rodolph's bidding, mechanically raised her head,--they were on the summit of a little hill. what was her surprise, her astonishment, at the scene which revealed itself to her gaze! the pretty village, built facing the south, the farm, the meadow, the beautiful cows, the little winding river, the chestnut grove, the church in the distance,--the whole picture, so vividly painted, was before her eyes. nothing was wanting,--even the milk-white heifer, musette, her future pet, was peacefully grazing as she had been described. the rich colouring of an october sun gilded the charming landscape, while the variegated tint of the chestnut-leaves, slightly tinged by the autumnal breezes, stood out in bold relief against the clear blue of the surrounding sky. "well, my little fleur-de-marie, what do you say to this? am i a good painter, or not?" la goualeuse looked at him with a surprise in which a degree of uneasiness was mingled; all she saw and heard appeared to her to partake largely of the supernatural. "m. rodolph," she at length exclaimed, with a bewildered look, "how can this be? indeed, indeed, i feel afraid to look at it,--it is so exactly alike. i cannot believe it is anything but a dream you have conjured up, and which will quickly pass away. speak to me! pray do; and tell me what to believe." "calm yourself, my dear child! nothing is more simple or true than what you behold here. the good woman who owns this farm was my nurse, and brought me up here; intending to give myself a treat, i sent to her early this morning to say i was coming to see her. you see i painted after nature." "you are quite right, m. rodolph," sighed la goualeuse. "there is, indeed, nothing but what is quite natural in all this." the farm to which rodolph had conducted fleur-de-marie was situated at the outer extremity of the village of bouqueval,--a small, isolated, and unknown hamlet, entirely surrounded by its own lands, and about two leagues' distance from ecouen; the vehicle, following the directions of rodolph, rapidly descended the hill, and entered a long avenue bordered with apple and cherry trees, while the wheels rolled noiselessly over the short fine grass with which the unfrequented road was overgrown. fleur-de-marie, whose utmost efforts were unavailing to shake off the painful sensations she experienced, remained so silent and mournful that rodolph reproached himself with having, by his well-intentioned surprise, been the cause of it. in a few moments more, the carriage, passing by the large entrance to the farm, entered a thick avenue of elm-trees, and stopped before a little rustic porch, half hidden by the luxuriant branches of the vine which clustered round it. "now, fleur-de-marie, here we are. are you pleased with what you see?" "indeed i am, m. rodolph. but how shall i venture before the good person you mentioned as living here? pray do not let her see me,--i cannot venture to approach her." "and why, my child?" "true, m. rodolph; i forget she does not know me, and will not guess how unworthy i am." and poor fleur-de-marie tried to suppress the deep sigh that would accompany her words. the arrival of rodolph had, no doubt, been watched for; the driver had scarcely opened the carriage door when a prepossessing female, of middle age, dressed in the style of wealthy landholders about paris, and whose countenance, though melancholy, was also gentle and benevolent in its expression, appeared in the porch, and with respectful eagerness advanced to meet rodolph. poor goualeuse felt her cheeks flush and her heart beat as she timidly descended from the vehicle. "good day, good day, madame georges," said rodolph, advancing towards the individual so addressed, "you see i am punctual." then turning to the driver, and putting money into his hand, he said, "here, my friend, there is no further occasion to detain you; you may return to paris as soon as you please." the coachman, a little, short, square-built man, with his hat over his eyes, and his countenance almost entirely concealed by the high collar of his driving-coat, pocketed the money without a word, remounted his seat, gave his horses the whip, and disappeared down the _allée verte_ by which he had entered. fleur-de-marie sprang to the side of rodolph, and with an air of unfeigned alarm, almost amounting to distress, said, in a tone so low as not to be overheard by madame georges: "m. rodolph! m. rodolph! pray do not be angry, but why have you sent away the carriage? will it not return to fetch us away?" "of course not; i have quite done with the man, and therefore dismissed him." "but the ogress!" "what of her? why do you mention her name?" "alas! alas! because i must return to her this evening; indeed, indeed, i must, or--or she will consider me a thief. the very clothes i have on are hers, and, besides, i owe her--" "make yourself quite easy, my dear child; it is my part to ask your forgiveness, not you mine." "my forgiveness! oh, for what can you require me to pardon you?" "for not having sooner told you that you no longer owe the ogress anything; that it rests only with yourself to decide whether you will henceforward make this quiet spot your home, and cast off the garments you now wear for others my kind friend, madame georges, will furnish you with. she is much about your height, and can supply you with everything you require. she is all impatience to commence her part of 'aunt,' i can assure you." poor fleur-de-marie seemed utterly unable to comprehend the meaning of all she saw and heard, and gazed with wondering and perplexed looks from one companion to the other, as though fearing to trust either her eyes or ears. "do i understand you rightly?" she cried at length, half breathless with emotion. "not go back to paris? remain here? and this lady will permit me to stay with her? oh, it cannot be possible; i dare not hope it; that would, indeed, be to realise our 'castles in the air.'" "dear fleur-de-marie, your wishes are realised,--your dream a true one." "no, no, you must be jesting; that would be too much happiness to expect, or even dare to hope for." "nay, fleur-de-marie, we should never find fault with an oversupply of happiness." "ah, m. rodolph, for pity's sake deceive me not; you cannot believe the misery i should experience were you to tell me all this happiness was but a jest." "my child, listen to me," said rodolph, with a tone and manner which, although still affectionate, was mingled with a dignified accent and manner fleur-de-marie had never previously remarked in him. "i repeat that, if you please, you may from this very hour lead here, with madame georges, that peaceful life whose description but a short time since so much delighted you. though the kind lady with whom you will reside be not your aunt, she will feel for you the most lively and affectionate interest, and with the personages about the farm you will pass as being really and truly her niece, and this innocent deception will render your residence here more agreeable and advantageous. once more i repeat to you, fleur-de-marie, you may now at your own pleasure realise the dream of our journey. as soon as you have assumed your village dress," said rodolph, smilingly, "we will take you to see that milk-white heifer, musette, who is to be your favourite henceforward, and who is only waiting for the pretty collar you designed to ornament her with; then we will go and introduce ourselves to your pets, the pigeons, afterwards visit the dairy, and so go on till we have been all over the farm. i mean to keep my promise in every respect, i assure you." fleur-de-marie pressed her hands together with earnest gratitude. surprise, joy, and the deepest thankfulness, mingled with respect, lit up her beautiful countenance, while, with eyes streaming with tears, she exclaimed: "m. rodolph, you are, you must be, one of those beneficent angels sent by the almighty to do good upon earth, and to rescue poor fallen creatures, like myself, from shame and misery." "my poor girl," replied rodolph, with a smile of deep sadness and ineffable kindness, "though still young, i have already deeply suffered. i lost a dear child, who, if living, would now be about your age. let that explain my deep sympathy with all who suffer, and for yourself particularly, fleur-de-marie, or, rather, _marie_ only. now, go with madame georges, who will shew you the pretty chamber, with its clustering roses and honeysuckle to form your morning bouquets. yes, marie, henceforward let that name, simple and sweet as yourself, be your only appellation. before my departure we will have some talk together, and then i shall quit you, most happy in the knowledge of your full contentment." fleur-de-marie, without one word of reply, gracefully bent her knee, and, before rodolph could prevent her, gently and respectfully raised his hand to her lips; then rising with an air of modest submission, followed madame georges, who eyed her with a profound interest, out of the room. chapter xi. murphy and rodolph. upon quitting the house, rodolph bent his steps towards the farmyard, where he found the individual who, the preceding evening, disguised as a charcoal-man, had warned him of the arrival of tom and sarah. murphy, which was the name of this personage, was about fifty years of age; his head, nearly bald, was still ornamented with a fringe of light brown hair at each side, which the hand of time had here and there slightly tinged with gray; his face was broad, open, and ruddy, and free from all appearance of hair, except very short whiskers, of a reddish colour, only reaching as low as the tip of the ear, from which it diverged, and stretched itself in a gentle curve across his rubicund cheeks. spite of his years and _embonpoint_, murphy was active and athletic; his countenance, though somewhat phlegmatic, was expressive of great resolution and kindliness of nature; he wore a white neck-handkerchief, a deep waistcoat, and a long black coat, with very wide skirts; his breeches, of an olive green colour, corresponded in material with the gaiters which protected his sturdy legs, without reaching entirely to the knee, but allowing the strings belonging to his upper garment to display themselves in long unstudied bows; in fact, the dress and whole _tournure_ of murphy exactly accorded with the idea of what in england is styled a "gentleman farmer." now, the personage we are describing, though an english squire, was no farmer. at the moment of rodolph's appearance in the yard, murphy was in the act of depositing, in the pocket of a small travelling _caléche_, a pair of small pistols he had just been carefully cleaning. "what the devil are you going to do with those pistols?" inquired rodolph. "that is my business, my lord," replied murphy, descending the carriage steps; "attend to your affairs, and i will mind mine." "at what o'clock have you ordered the horses?" "according to your directions,--at nightfall." "you got here this morning, i suppose?" "i did, at eight o'clock. madame georges has had ample time to make all the preparations you desired." "what has gone wrong, murphy? you seem completely out of humour. have i done anything to offend you?" "can you not, my lord, accomplish your self-imposed task without incurring so much personal risk?" "surely, in order to lull all suspicion in the minds of the persons i seek to understand and fully appreciate, i cannot do better than, for a time, to adopt their garb, their language, and their customs." "but all this did not prevent you, my lord, last night (in that abominable place where we went to unkennel bras rouge, in hopes of getting out of him some particulars relative to that unhappy son of madame georges), from being angry, and ready to quarrel with me, because i wished to aid in your tussle with the rascal you encountered in that horrid cut-throat alley." "i suppose, then, murphy, you do not think i am capable of defending myself, and you either doubt my courage or the strength of my arm?" "unfortunately, you have given me too many reasons to form a contrary opinion of both. thank god! flatman, the bertrand of germany, perfected you in the knowledge of fencing; tom cribb taught you to box; lacour, of paris, accomplished you in single-stick, wrestling, and slang, so as to render you fully provided for your venturesome excursions. you are bold as a lion, with muscles like iron, and, though so slight in form, i should have no more chance with you than a dray-horse would against a racer, were they to compete with each other. no mistake about that." "then what are you afraid of?" "why, i maintain, my lord, that it is not the right thing for you to throw yourself in the way of all these blackguards. i do not say that because of the nuisance it is to a highly respectable individual of my acquaintance to blacken his face with charcoal, and make himself look like a devil. no, god knows, spite of my age, my figure, and my gravity, i would disguise myself as a rope-dancer, if, by so doing, i could serve you. but i still stick to what i say, and--" "oh! i know all you would say, my excellent old fellow, and that when once you have taken an idea into your thick skull, the very devil himself could no more drive it out of you than he could, by all his arts, remove the fidelity and devotion implanted in your brave and valiant heart." "come, come, my lord, now you begin to flatter me, i suspect you are up to some fresh mischief." "think no such thing, murphy; give yourself no uneasiness, but leave all to me." "my lord, i cannot be easy; there is some new folly in hand, and i am sure of it." "my good friend, you mean well; but you are choosing a very ill hour for your lectures; forbear, i beg." "and why, my lord, can you not listen to me now, as well as any other time?" "because you are interfering with one of my short-lived moments of pride and happiness. i am here, in this dear spot!" "where you have done so much good. i know it. your 'model farm,' as you term it, built by you to instruct, to encourage, and to reward deserving labourers, has been of incalculable service to this part of the country. ordinary men think but of improving their cattle; you, more wisely and benevolently, have directed your exertions for the bettering your fellow creatures. nothing can be better; and when you placed madame georges at the head of the establishment, you acted with the utmost wisdom and provident good sense. what a woman she is! no, she is an angel!--so good, so firm, so noble, and upright! i am not easily moved, my lord, as you know; but often have i felt my eyes grow moist, as her many trials and misfortunes rise to my recollection. but about your new protégée, however, my lord; if you please, we will not say much on that subject. 'the least said is soonest mended,' as the old proverb has it." "why not, murphy?" "my lord, you will do what you think proper." "i do what is just," said rodolph, with an air of impatience. "what is just, according to your own interpretation." "what is just before god and my own conscience," replied rodolph, in a severe tone. "well, my lord, this is a point on which we cannot agree, and therefore let us speak no more about it." "i desire you will continue to talk about it!" cried rodolph, imperiously. "i have never been so circumstanced that your royal highness should have to bid me hold my tongue, and i hope i shall not now be ordered to speak when i should be silent," said murphy, proudly. "mr. murphy!" said rodolph, with a tone of increased irritation. "my lord!" "you know, sir, how greatly i detest anything like concealment." "your royal highness will excuse me, but it suits me to have certain concealments," said murphy, bluntly. "if i descend to familiarity with you, sir, it is on condition that you, at least, act with entire frankness towards me." it is impossible to describe the extreme hauteur which marked the countenance of rodolph as he uttered these words. "i am fifty years of age, i am a gentleman, and your royal highness should not address me in such a tone." "be silent!" "my lord!" "be silent! i say." "your royal highness does wrong in compelling a man of honour and feeling to recall the services he has rendered to you," said the squire, in a calm tone. "have i not repaid those services in a thousand ways?" it should be stated that rodolph had not attached to these bitter words the humiliating sense which could place murphy in the light of a mercenary; but such, unfortunately, was the esquire's interpretation of them. he became purple with shame, lifted his two clenched hands to his forehead with an expression of deep grief and indignation, and then, in a moment, as by a sudden revulsion of feeling, throwing his eyes on rodolph, whose noble countenance was convulsed by the violence of extreme disdain, he said, in a faltering voice, and stifling a sigh of the tenderest pity, "my lord, be yourself; you surpass the bounds of reason." these words impelled rodolph to the very height of irritation; his glance had even a savage glare in it; his lips were blanched; and, advancing towards murphy with a threatening aspect, he exclaimed, "dare you?" murphy retreated, and said, in a quick tone, and as if in spite of himself, "my lord, my lord, _remember the thirteenth of january!_" these words produced a magical effect on rodolph. his countenance, contracted by anger, now expanded. he looked at murphy steadfastly, bowed his head, and then, after a moment's silence, murmured, in faltering accents, "ah, sir, you are now cruel, indeed. i had thought that my repentance--my deep remorse--and yet it is you--you--" rodolph could not finish; his voice was stifled; he sunk, subdued, on a stone bench, and concealed his countenance with both his hands. "my lord," said murphy, in deep distress, "my good lord, forgive me! forgive your old and faithful murphy. it was only when driven to an extremity, and fearing, alas! not for myself, but for you, the consequences of your passion, that i uttered those words. i said them in spite of myself, and with sorrow. my lord, i was wrong to be so sensitive. _mon dieu!_ who can know your character, your feelings, if i do not,--i, who have never left you from your childhood! pray, oh, pray say that you forgive me for having called to your recollection that sad, sad day. alas! what expiations have you not made--" rodolph raised his head; he was very pale, and said to his companion, in a gentle and saddened voice, "enough, enough, my old friend; i thank you for having, by one word, checked my headlong passion. i make no apologies to you for the severe things i have said; you know well that 'it is a long way from the heart to the lips,' as the good people at home say. i was wrong; let us say no more on the subject." "alas! now we shall be out of spirits for a long time, as if i were not sufficiently unhappy! i only wished to see you roused from your low spirits, and yet i add to them by my foolish tenaciousness. good heaven! what's the use of being an honest man, and having gray hairs, if it does not enable us to endure reproaches which we do not deserve?" "be it so, be it so; we were both in the wrong, my good friend," said rodolph, mildly; "let us forget it, and return to our former conversation. you approved entirely of my establishment of this farm, and the deep interest i have always felt in madame georges. you will allow, won't you, that she had merited it by her excellent qualities, her misfortunes, even if she did not belong to the family of harville,--a family to which my father had vowed eternal gratitude." "i have always approved of the sentiments which your lordship has entertained for madame georges." "but you are astonished at the interest i take in this poor girl, are you not?" "pray, pray, my lord, i was wrong; i was wrong." "no, i can imagine that appearances have deceived you; but, as you know my life--all my life, and as you aid me always with as much fidelity as courage in my self-inflicted expiation, it is my duty, or, if you like the phrase better, my gratitude, to convince you that i am not acting from a frivolous impulse." "of that i am sure, my lord." "you know my ideas on the subject of the good which a man ought to do who has the knowledge, the will, and the power. to succour unhappy, but deserving, fellow creatures is well; to seek after those who are struggling against misfortune with energy and honour, and to aid them, sometimes without their knowledge,--to prevent, in right time, misery and temptation, is better; to reinstate such perfectly in their own estimation,---to lead back to honesty those who have preserved in purity some generous and ennobling sentiments in the midst of the contempt that withers them, the misery that eats into them, the corruption that encircles them, and, for that end, to brave, in person, this misery, this corruption, this contagion, is better still; to pursue, with unalterable hatred, with implacable vengeance, vice, infamy, and crime, whether they be trampling in the mud, or be clothed in purple and fine linen, that is justice; but to give aid inconsiderately to well-merited degradation, to prostitute and lavish charity and commiseration, by bestowing help on unworthy and undeserving objects, is most infamous; it is impiety,--very sacrilege! it is to doubt the existence of the almighty; and so, he who acts thus ought to be made to understand." "my lord, i pray you do not think that i would for a moment assert that you have bestowed your benefits unworthily." "one word more, my old friend. you know well that the child whose death i daily deplore--that that daughter whom i should have loved the more, as her unworthy mother, sarah, had shown herself so utterly indifferent about her--would have been sixteen years of age, like this unhappy girl. you know, too, that i cannot prevent the deep, and almost painful, sympathy i feel for young girls of that age." "true, my lord; and i ought so to have interpreted the interest you evince for your protégée. besides, to succour the unfortunate is to honour god." "it is, my friend, when the objects deserve it; and thus nothing is more worthy of compassion and respect than a woman like madame georges, who, brought up by a pious and good mother in the strict observance of all her duties, has never failed,--never! and has, moreover, courageously borne herself in the midst of the most severe trials. but is it not to honour god in the most acceptable way, to raise from the dust one of those beings of the finest mould, whom he has been pleased to endow richly? does not she deserve compassion and respect,--yes, respect,--who, unhappy girl! abandoned to her own instinct,--who, tortured, imprisoned, degraded, sullied, has yet preserved, in holiness and pureness of heart, those noble germs of good first implanted by the almighty? if you had but seen, poor child! how, at the first word of interest expressed for her,--the first mark of kindness and right feeling,--the most charming natural impulses, the purest tastes, the most refined thoughts, the most poetic ideas, developed themselves abundantly in her ingenuous mind, even as, in the early spring, a thousand wild flowers lift up their heads at the first rays of the sun! in a conversation of about an hour with fleur-de-marie, i have discovered treasures of goodness, worth, prudence,--yes, prudence, old murphy. a smile came to my lips, and a tear in my eye, when, in her gentle and sensible prattle, she urged on me the necessity of saving forty sous a day, that i might be beyond want or evil temptations. poor little creature! she said all this with so serious and persuasive a tone. she seemed so delighted to give me good advice, and experienced so extreme a pleasure in hearing me promise to follow it! i was moved even to tears; and you,--it affects you, my old friend." "it does, my lord; the idea of making you lay by forty sous a day, thinking you a workman, instead of urging you to spend money on her; that does touch me." "hush; here are madame georges and marie. get all ready for our departure; we must be in paris in good time." thanks to the care of madame georges, fleur-de-marie was no longer like her former self. a pretty peasant's cap, and two thick braids of light brown hair, encircled her charming face. a large handkerchief of white muslin crossed her bosom, and disappeared under the high fold of a small shot taffetas apron, whose blue and red shades appeared to advantage over a dark nun's dress, which seemed expressly made for her. the young girl's countenance was calm and composed. certain feelings of delight produce in the mind an unspeakable sadness,--a holy melancholy. rodolph was not surprised at the gravity of fleur-de-marie; he had expected it. had she been merry and talkative, she would not have retained so high a place in his good opinion. in the serious and resigned countenance of madame georges might easily be traced the indelible marks of long-suffering; but she looked at fleur-de-marie with a tenderness and compassion quite maternal, so much gentleness and sweetness did this poor girl evince. "here is my child, who has come to thank you for your goodness, m. rodolph," said madame georges, presenting goualeuse to rodolph. at the words, "my child," goualeuse turned her large eyes slowly towards her protectress, and contemplated her for some moments with a look of unutterable gratitude. "thanks for marie, my dear madame georges; she deserves this kind interest, and always will deserve it." "m. rodolph," said goualeuse, with a trembling voice, "you understand, i know, i feel that you do, that i cannot find anything to say to you." "your emotion tells me all, my child." "oh, she feels deeply the good fortune that has come to her so providentially," said madame georges, deeply affected; "her first impulse on entering my room was to prostrate herself before my crucifix." "because now, thanks to you, m. rodolph, i dare to pray," said goualeuse. murphy turned away hastily; his pretensions to firmness would not allow of any one seeing to what extent the simple words of goualeuse had touched him. rodolph said to her, "my child, i wish to have some conversation with madame georges. my friend murphy will lead you over the farm, and introduce you to your future protégés. we will join you presently. well, murphy, murphy, don't you hear me?" the worthy gentleman turned his back, and pretended to blow his nose with a very loud noise, then put his handkerchief in his pocket, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, turning half around, offered his arm to marie, managing so skilfully that neither rodolph nor madame georges could see his face. taking the arm of marie, he walked away with her towards the farm buildings, and so quickly, that, to keep up with him, goualeuse was obliged to run, as in her infant days she ran beside the chouette. "well, madame georges, what do you think of marie?" inquired rodolph. "m. rodolph, i have told you: she had scarcely entered my room, when, seeing the crucifix, she fell on her knees before it. it is impossible for me to tell you, to describe the spontaneous and naturally religious feeling that evidently dictated this. i saw in an instant that hers was no degraded soul. and then, m. rodolph, the expression of her gratitude to you had nothing exaggerated in it; but it is not the less sincere. and i have another proof of how natural and potent is this religious instinct in her. i said to her, 'you must have been much astonished, and very happy, when m. rodolph told you that you were to remain here for the future? what an effect it must have had on you!' 'yes, oh, yes,' was her reply; 'when m. rodolph told me so, i cannot describe what passed within me; but i felt that kind of holy happiness which i experience in going into a church. when i could go there,' she added, 'for you know, madame--' 'i know, my child, for i shall always call you my child (i could not let her go on when i saw her cover her face for shame), i know that you have suffered deeply; but god blesses those who love and fear him, those who have been unhappy, and those who repent.'" "then, my good madame georges, i am doubly happy at what i have done. this poor girl will greatly interest you, her disposition is so excellent, her instincts so right." "what has besides affected me, m. rodolph, is that she has not allowed one single question to escape her about you, although her curiosity must be so much excited. struck with a reserve so full of delicacy, i wished to know what she felt. i said to her, 'you must be very curious to know who your mysterious benefactor is?' 'know him!' she replied, with delightful simplicity; 'he is my benefactor.'" "then you will love her. excellent woman! she will find some interest in your heart." "yes, i shall occupy my heart with her as i should with _him_," said madame georges, in a broken voice. rodolph took her hand. "do not be discouraged; come, come, if our search has been unsuccessful so far, yet one day, perhaps--" madame georges shook her head sorrowfully, and said, in bitter accents, "my poor son would be now twenty years old!" "say he is that age--" "god hear you, and grant it, m. rodolph." "he will hear, i fully believe. yesterday i went (but in vain) to find a certain fellow called bras rouge who might, perhaps, have given me some information about your son. coming away from this bras rouge's abode, after a struggle in which i was engaged, i met with this unfortunate girl--" "alas! but your kind endeavour in my behalf has thrown in your way another unfortunate being, m. rodolph." "you have no intelligence from rochefort?" "none," said madame georges, shuddering, and in a low voice. "so much the better! we can no longer doubt but that the monster met his death in the attempt to escape from the--" rodolph hesitated to pronounce the horrible word. "from the bagne? oh, say it!--the bagne!" exclaimed the wretched woman with horror, and almost frantic as she spoke. "the father of my child! ah! if the unhappy boy still lives--if, like me, he has not changed his name--oh, shame! shame! and yet it may be nothing: his father has, perhaps, carried out his horrid threat! what has he done with my boy? why did he tear him from me?" "that mystery i cannot fathom," said rodolph, with a pensive air. "what could induce the wretch to carry off your son fifteen years ago, and when he was trying to escape into a foreign land? a child of that age could only embarrass his flight." "alas, m. rodolph! when my husband" (the poor woman shuddered as she pronounced the word) "was arrested on the frontier and thrown into prison, where i was allowed to visit him, he said to me these horrible words: 'i took away the brat because you were fond of him, and it will be a means of compelling you to send me money, which may or may not be of service to him,--that's my affair. whether he lives or dies it is no matter to you; but if he lives, he will be in good hands: you shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!' alas! a month afterwards my husband was condemned to the galleys for life; and since then all my entreaties, my prayers, and letters have been in vain. i have never been able to learn the fate of my boy. ah, m. rodolph! where is my child at this moment? these frightful words are always ringing in my ears: 'you shall drink as deep of the shame of the son as you have of the disgrace of the father!'" "this atrocity is most inexplicable; why should he demoralise the unhappy child? why carry him off?" "i have told you, m. rodolph,--to compel me to send him money; although he had nearly ruined me, yet i had still some small resources, but they at length were exhausted also. in spite of his wickedness, i could not believe but that he would employ, at least, a portion of this money in the bringing-up of this unhappy child." "and your son had no sign, no mark, by which he could be recognised?" "no other than that of which i have spoken to you, m. rodolph,--a small saint esprit, sculptured in lapis lazuli, tied round his neck by a chain of silver: a sacred relic, blessed by the holy father." "courage, courage; god is all-powerful." "providence placed me in your path, m. rodolph." "too late, madame georges; too late. i might have saved you many years of sorrow." "ah, m. rodolph, how kind you have been to me!" "in what way? i bought this farm; in time of your prosperity you were not idle, and now you have become my manager here, where--thanks to your excellent superintendence, intelligence, and activity--this establishment produces me--" "produces you, my lord?" said madame georges, interrupting rodolph; "why, all the returns are employed, not only in ameliorating the condition of the labourers, who consider the occupation on this model farm as a great favour, but, moreover, to succour all the needy in the district; through the mediation of our good abbé laporte--" "ah, the dear abbé!" said rodolph, desirous of escaping the praise of madame georges; "have you had the kindness to inform him of my arrival? i wish to recommend my protégée to him. he has had my letter?" "mr. murphy gave it to him when he came this morning." "in that letter i told our good curé, in a few words, the history of this poor girl. i was not sure that i should be able to come to-day myself, and if not, then murphy would have conducted marie--" a labourer of the farm interrupted this conversation, which had been carried on in the garden. "madame, m. le curé is waiting for you." "are the post-horses arrived, my lad?" inquired rodolph. "yes, m. rodolph; and they are putting to." and the man left the garden. madame georges, the curé, and the inhabitants of the farm only knew fleur-de-marie's protector as m. rodolph. murphy's discretion was faultless; and although when in private he was very precise in "my-lording" rodolph, yet before strangers he was very careful not to address him otherwise than as _m. rodolph_. "i forgot to mention, my dear madame georges," said rodolph, when he returned to the house, "that marie has, i fear, very weak lungs,--privations and misery have tried her health. this morning early i was struck with the pallor of her countenance, although her cheeks were of a deep rose colour; her eyes, too, seem to me to have a brilliancy which betokens a feverish system. great care must be taken of her." "rely on me, m. rodolph; but, thank god! there is nothing serious to apprehend. at her age, in the country, with pure air, rest, and quiet, she will soon be quite restored." "i hope so; but i will not trust to your country doctors. i will desire murphy to bring here my medical man,--a negro,--a very skilful person, who will tell you the best regimen to pursue. you must send me news of marie very often. some time hence, when she shall be better, and more at ease, we will talk about her future life; perhaps it would be best that she always remained with you, if you were pleased with her." "i should like it greatly, m. rodolph; she would supply the place of the child i have lost, and must for ever bewail." "let us still hope for you and for her." at the moment when rodolph and madame georges approached the farm, murphy and marie also entered. the worthy gentleman let go the arm of goualeuse, and said to rodolph in a low voice, and with an air of some confusion: "this girl has bewitched me; i really do not know which interests me most, she or madame georges. i was a brute--a beast!" "i knew, old murphy, that you would do justice to my protégée," said rodolph, smiling, and shaking hands with the squire. madame georges, leaning on marie's arm, entered with her into a small room on the ground floor, where the abbé laporte was waiting. murphy went away, to see all ready for their departure. madame georges, marie, rodolph, and the curé remained together. plain, but very comfortable, this small apartment was fitted up with green hangings, like the rest of the house, as had been exactly described to goualeuse by rodolph. a thick carpet covered the floor, a good fire burnt in the grate, and two large nosegays of daisies of all colours, placed in two crystal vases, shed their agreeable odour throughout the room. through the windows, with their green blinds, which were half opened, was to be seen the meadow, the little stream, and, beyond it, the bank planted with chestnut-trees. the abbé laporte, who was seated near the fireplace, was upwards of eighty years of age, and had, ever since the last days of the revolution, done duty in this small parish. nothing can be imagined more venerable than his aged, withered, and somewhat melancholy countenance, shaded by long white locks, which fell on the collar of his black cassock, which was pieced in more places than one; the abbé liked better, as they said, to clothe one or two poor children in good warm broadcloth, than _faire le muguet_; that is, to wear his cassocks less than two or three years. the good abbé was so old, so very old, that his hands trembled continually, and when he occasionally lifted them up, when speaking, it might have been supposed that he was giving a benediction. "m. l'abbé," said rodolph, respectfully, "madame georges has undertaken the guardianship of this young girl, for whom i also beg your kindness." "she is entitled to it, sir, like all who come to us. the mercy of god is inexhaustible, my dear child, and he has evinced it in not abandoning you in most severe trials. i know all." and he took the hand of marie in his own withered and trembling palms. "the generous man who has saved you has realised the words of holy writ, 'the lord is near to all those who call upon him; he will fulfil the desire of those who fear him; he will hear their cries, and he will save them.' now deserve his bounty by your conduct, and you will always find one ready to encourage and sustain you in the good path on which you have entered. you will have in madame georges a constant example, in me a careful adviser. the lord will finish his work." "and i will pray to him for those who have had compassion on me and have led me to him, father," said la goualeuse, throwing herself on her knees before the priest. her emotion overcame her; her sobs almost choked her. madame georges, rodolph, and the abbé were all deeply affected. "rise, my dear child," said the curé; "you will soon deserve absolution from those serious faults of which you have rather been the victim than the criminal; for, in the words of the prophet, 'the lord raises up all those who are ready to fall, and elevates those who are oppressed.'" murphy, at this moment, opened the door. "m. rodolph," he said, "the horses are ready." "adieu, father! adieu, madame georges! i commend your child to your care,--our child, i should say. farewell, marie; i will soon come and see you again." the venerable pastor, leaning on the arms of madame georges and la goualeuse, who supported his tottering steps, left the room to see rodolph depart. the last rays of the sun shed their light on this interesting yet sad group: an old priest, the symbol of charity, pardon, and everlasting hope; a female, overwhelmed by every grief that can distress a wife and mother; a young girl, hardly out of her infancy, and but recently thrown into an abyss of vice through misery and the close contact with crime. rodolph got into the carriage, murphy took his place by his side, and the horses set off at speed. chapter xii. the rendezvous. the day after he had confided the goualeuse to the care of madame georges, rodolph, still dressed as a mechanic, was, at noon precisely, at the door of a cabaret with the sign of the panier-fleuri, not far from the barrier of bercy. the evening before, at ten o'clock, the chourineur was punctual to the appointment which rodolph had fixed with him. the result of this narrative will inform our readers of the particulars of the meeting. it was twelve o'clock, and the rain fell in torrents; the seine, swollen by perpetual falls of rain, had risen very high, and overflowed a part of the quay. rodolph looked from time to time, with a gesture of impatience, towards the barrier, and at last observed a man and woman, who were coming towards him under the shelter of an umbrella, and whom he recognised as the chouette and the schoolmaster. these two individuals were completely metamorphosed. the ruffian had laid aside his ragged garments and his air of brutal ferocity. he wore a long frock coat of green cloth, and a round hat; whilst his shirt and cravat were remarkable for their whiteness. but for the hideousness of his features and the fierce glance of his eyes, always restless and suspicious, this fellow might have been taken, by his quiet and steady step, for an honest citizen. the chouette was also in her sunday costume, wearing a large shawl of fine wool, with a large pattern, and held in her hand a capacious basket. the rain having ceased for the moment, rodolph, overcoming a sensation of disgust, went to meet the frightful pair. for the slang of the _tapis-franc_ the schoolmaster now substituted a style almost polished, and which betokened a cultivated mind, in strange contrast with his real character and crimes. when rodolph approached, the brigand made him a polite bow, and the chouette curtseyed respectfully. "sir, your humble servant," said the schoolmaster. "i am delighted to pay my respects to you--delighted--or, rather, to renew our acquaintance; for the night before last you paid me two blows of the fist which were enough to have felled a rhinoceros. but not a word of that now; it was a joke on your part, i am sure,--merely done in jest. let us not say another word about it, for serious business brings us now together. i saw the chourineur yesterday, about eleven o'clock, at the _tapis-franc_, and appointed to meet him here to-day, in case he chose to join us,--to be our fellow labourer; but it seems that he most decidedly refuses." "you, then, accept the proposal?" "your name, sir, if you be so good?" "rodolph." "m. rodolph, we will go into the panier-fleuri,--neither myself nor madame has breakfasted,--and we will talk over our little matters whilst we are taking a crust." "most willingly." "we can talk as we go on. you and the chourineur certainly do owe some satisfaction to my wife and myself,--you have caused us to lose more than two thousand francs. chouette had a meeting near st. ouen with the tall gentleman in mourning, who came to ask for you at the _tapis-franc_. he offered us two thousand francs to do something to you. the chourineur has told me all about this. but, finette," said the fellow, "go and select a room at the panier-fleuri, and order breakfast,--some cutlets, a piece of veal, a salad, and a couple of bottles of vin de beaune, the best quality,--and we will join you there." the chouette, who had not taken her eye off rodolph for a moment, went off after exchanging looks with the schoolmaster, who then said: "i say, m. rodolph, that the chourineur has edified me on the subject of the two thousand francs." "what do you mean by edified you?" "you are right,--the language is a little too refined for you. i would say that the chourineur nearly told me all that the tall gentleman in mourning, with his two thousand francs, required." "good." "not so good, young man; for the chourineur, having yesterday morning met the chouette, near st. ouen, did not leave her for one moment, when the tall gentleman in mourning came up, so that he could not approach and converse with her. you, then, ought to put us in the way of regaining our two thousand francs." "nothing easier; but let us 'hark back.' i had proposed a glorious job to the chourineur, which he at first accepted, but afterwards refused to go on with." "he always had very peculiar ideas." "but whilst he refused he observed to me--" "he made you observe--" "oh, _diable_! you are very grand with your grammar." "it is my profession, as a schoolmaster." "he made me, then, observe, that if he would not go on this 'lay,' he did not desire to discourage any other person, and that you would willingly lend a hand in the affair." "may i, without impertinence, ask why you appointed a meeting with the chourineur at st. ouen yesterday, which gave him the advantage of meeting the chouette? he was too much puzzled at my question to give me a clear answer." rodolph bit his lips imperceptibly, and replied, shrugging his shoulders: "very likely; for i only told him half my plan, you must know, not knowing if he had made up his mind." "that was very proper." "the more so as i had two strings to my bow." "you are a careful man. you met the chourineur, then, at st. ouen, for--" rodolph, after a moment's hesitation, had the good luck to think of a story which would account for the want of address which the chourineur had displayed, and said: "why, this it is. the attempt i propose is a famous one, because the person in question is in the country; all my fear was that he should return to paris. to make sure, i went to pierrefitte, where his country-house is situated, and there i learned that he would not be back again until the day after to-morrow." "well, but to return to my question; why did you appoint to meet the chourineur at st. ouen?" "why, you are not so bright as i took you for. how far is it from pierrefitte to st. ouen?" "about a league." "and from st. ouen to paris?" "as much." "well, if i had not found any one at pierrefitte,--that is, if there had been an empty house there,--why, there also would have been a good job; not so good as in paris, but still well worth having. i went back to the chourineur, who was waiting for me at st. ouen. we should have returned then to pierrefitte, by a cross-path which i know, and--" "i understand. if, on the contrary, the job was to be done in paris?" "we should have gained the barrier de l'Étoile by the road of the rivolte, and thence to the allée des veuves--" "is but a step; that is plain enough. at st. ouen you were well placed for either operation,--that was clear; and now i can understand why the chourineur was at st. ouen. so the house in the allée des veuves will be uninhabited until the day after to-morrow?" "uninhabited, except the porter." "i see. and is it a profitable job?" "sixty thousand francs in gold in the proprietor's cabinet." "and you know all the ways?" "perfectly." "silence, here we are; not a word before the vulgar. i do not know if you feel as i do, but the morning air has given me an appetite." the chouette was awaiting them at the door. "this way; this way," she said. "i have ordered our breakfast." rodolph wished the brigand to pass in first, for certain reasons; but the schoolmaster insisted on showing so much politeness, that rodolph entered before him. before he sat down, the schoolmaster tapped lightly against each of the divisions of the wainscot, that he might ascertain their thickness and power of transmitting sounds. "we need not be afraid to speak out," said he; "the division is not thin. we shall have our breakfast soon, and shall not be disturbed in our conversation." a waiter brought in the breakfast, and before he shut the door rodolph saw the charcoal-man, murphy, seated with great composure at a table in a room close at hand. the room in which the scene took place that we are describing was long and narrow, lighted by one window, which looked into the street, and was opposite to the door. the chouette turned her back to this window, whilst the schoolmaster was at one side of the table, and rodolph on the other. when the servant left the room, the brigand got up, took his plate, and seated himself beside rodolph and between him and the door. "we can talk better," he said, "and need not talk so loud." "and then you can prevent me from going out," replied rodolph, calmly. the schoolmaster gave a nod in the affirmative, and then, half drawing out of the pocket of his frock coat a stiletto, round and as thick as a goose's quill, with a handle of wood which disappeared in the grasp of his hairy fingers, said: "you see that?" "i do." "advice to amateurs!" and bringing his shaggy brows together, by a frown which made his wide and flat forehead closely resemble a tiger's, he made a significant gesture. "and you may believe me," added the chouette, "i have made the tool sharp." rodolph, with perfect coolness, put his hand under his blouse, and took out a double-barrelled pistol, which he showed to the schoolmaster, and then put into his pocket. "all right; and now we understand each other; but do not misunderstand me, i am only alluding to an impossibility. if they try to arrest me, and you have laid any trap for me, i will make 'cold meat' of you." and he gave a fierce look at rodolph. "and i will spring upon him and help you, _fourline_," cried the chouette. rodolph made no reply, but shrugged his shoulders, and, pouring out a glass of wine, tossed it off. his coolness deceived the schoolmaster. "i only put you on your guard." "well, then, put up your 'larding-pin' into your pocket; you have no chicken to lard now. i am an old cock, and know my game as well as most," said rodolph. "but, to our business." "yes, let us talk of business; but do not speak against my 'larding-pin;' it makes no noise, and does not disturb anybody." "and does its work as should be; doesn't it, _fourline_?" added the old beldam. "by the way," said rodolph to the chouette, "do you really know the goualeuse's parents?" "my man has in his pocket two letters about it, but she shall never see them,--the little slut! i would rather tear her eyes out with my own hands. oh, when i meet her again at the _tapis-franc_, won't i pay her off--" "there, that'll do, finette; we have other things to talk of, and so leave off your gossip." "may we 'patter' before the 'mot?'" asked rodolph. "most decidedly! she's true as steel, and is worth her weight in gold to watch for us, to get information or impressions of keys, to conceal stolen goods or sell them,--nothing comes amiss to her. she is a first-rate manager. good finette!" added the robber, extending his hand to the horrid hag. "you can have no idea of the services she has done me. take off your shawl, finette, or you'll be cold when you go out; put it on the chair with your basket." the chouette took off her shawl. in spite of his presence of mind, and the command which he had over himself, rodolph could not quite conceal his surprise when he saw suspended by a ring of silver, from a thick chain of metal which hung round the old creature's neck, a small saint esprit in lapis lazuli, precisely resembling that which the son of madame georges had round his neck when he was carried off. at this discovery, a sudden idea flashed across the mind of rodolph. according to the chourineur's statement, the schoolmaster had escaped from the bagne six months ago, and had since defied all search after him by disfiguring himself as he had now; and six months ago the husband of madame georges had disappeared from the bagne. rodolph surmised that, very possibly, the schoolmaster was the husband of that unhappy lady. if this were so, he knew the fate of the son she lamented,--he possessed, too, some papers relative to the birth of the goualeuse. rodolph had, then, fresh motives for persevering in his projects, and, fortunately, his absence of mind was not observed by the schoolmaster, who was busy helping the chouette. "_morbleu!_ what a pretty chain you have!" said rodolph to the one-eyed woman. "pretty, and not dear," answered the old creature, laughing. "it is only a sham till my man can afford to give me a real one." "that will depend on this gentleman, finette. if our job comes off well, why then--" "it is astonishing how well it is imitated," continued rodolph. "and what is that little blue thing at the end?" "it is a present from my man, which i shall wear until he gives me a 'ticker.' isn't it, _fourline_?" rodolph's suspicions were thus half confirmed, and he waited with anxiety for the reply of the schoolmaster, who said: "you must take care of that, notwithstanding the 'ticker,' finette; it is a talisman, and brings good luck." "a talisman!" said rodolph, in a careless tone; "do you believe in talismans? and where the devil did you pick it up? give me the address of the shop." "they do not make them now; the shop is shut up. as you see it, that bit of jewelry has a very great antiquity,--three generations. i value it highly, for it is a family loom," added he, with a hideous grin; "and that's why i gave it to finette, that she might have good fortune in the enterprises in which she so skilfully seconds me. only see her at work! only see her! if we go into 'business' together, why--but let us now to our affair in hand. you say that in the allée des veuves--" "at no. there is a house inhabited by a rich man, whose name is--" "i will not be guilty of the indiscretion of asking his name. you say there are sixty thousand francs in gold in a cabinet?" "sixty thousand francs in gold!" exclaimed the chouette. rodolph nodded his head in the affirmative. "and you know this house, and the people in it?" said the schoolmaster. "quite well." "is the entry difficult?" "a wall seven feet high on the side of the allée des veuves, a garden, windows down to the ground, and the house has only the ground floor throughout." "and there is only the porter to guard this treasure?" "yes." "and what, young man, is your proposed plan of proceeding?" "simple enough: to climb over the wall, pick the lock of the door, or force open a shutter or lock. what do you think of it?" "i cannot answer you before i have examined it all myself,--that is, by the aid of my wife; but, if all you tell me is as you say, i think it would be the thing to do it at once this evening." and the ruffian looked earnestly at rodolph. "this evening!--impossible!" replied he. "why, since the occupier does not return until the day after to-morrow?" "yes, but i--i cannot this evening--" "really? well, and i--i cannot to-morrow." "why not?" "for the reason that prevents you this evening," said the robber, in a tone of mockery. after a moment's reflection, rodolph replied: "well, then, this evening be it. where shall we meet?" "we will not separate," said the schoolmaster. "why not?" "why should we?" "what is the use of separating? the weather has cleared up, and we will go and walk about, and give a look at the allée des veuves; you will see how my woman will work. when that is done, we will return and play a hand at piquet, and have a bit of something in a place in the champs elysées that i know, near the river; and, as the allée des veuves is deserted at an early hour, we will walk that way about ten o'clock." "i will join you at nine o'clock." "do you or do you not wish that we should do this job together?" "i do wish it." "well, then, we do not separate before evening, or else--" "or else?" "i shall think that you are making 'a plant' for me, and that's the reason you wish to part company now." "if i wished to set the 'traps' after you, what is to prevent my doing so this evening?" "why, everything. you did not expect that i should propose the affair to you so soon, and if you do not leave us you cannot put anybody up to it." "you mistrust me, then?" "most extremely. but as what you propose may be quite true and honest, and the half of sixty thousand francs is worth a risk, i am willing to try for it; but this evening, or never; if never, i shall have my suspicions of you confirmed, and one day or other i will take care and let you dine off a dish of my cooking." "and i will return your compliment, rely on it." "oh, this is all stuff and nonsense!" said the chouette. "i think with _fourline_, to-night or never." rodolph was in a state of extreme anxiety; if he allowed this opportunity to escape of laying hands on the schoolmaster, he might never again light on him. the ruffian would ever afterwards be on his guard, or if recognised, apprehended, and taken back to the bagne, would carry with him that secret which rodolph had so much interest in discovering. confiding in his address and courage, and trusting to chance, he said to the schoolmaster: "agreed, then; and we will not part company before evening." "then i'm your man. it is now two o'clock; it is some distance from here to the allée des veuves; it is raining again in torrents; let us pay the reckoning and take a coach." "if we have a coach, i should like first to smoke a cigar." "why not?" said the schoolmaster. "finette does not mind the smell of tobacco." "well, then, i'll go and fetch some cigars," said rodolph, rising. "pray don't give yourself that trouble," said the schoolmaster, stopping him; "finette will go." rodolph resumed his seat. the schoolmaster had penetrated his design. the chouette went out. "what a clever manager i have, haven't i?" said the ruffian; "and so tractable, she would throw herself into the fire for me." "apropos of fire, it is not overwarm here," replied rodolph, placing both his hands under his blouse; and then, continuing his conversation with the schoolmaster, he took out a lead-pencil and a morsel of paper, which he had in his waistcoat pocket, without being detected, and wrote some words hastily, taking care to make his letters wide apart, so that they might be more legible; for he wrote under his blouse, and without seeing what he wrote. this note escaped the penetration of the schoolmaster; the next thing was to enable it to reach its address. rodolph rose and went listlessly towards the window, and began to hum a tune between his teeth, accompanying himself on the window glasses. the schoolmaster came up to the window and said to rodolph: "what tune are you playing?" "i am playing '_tu n'auras pas ma rose._'" "and a very pretty tune it is. i should like to know if it would have the effect of making any of the passers-by turn round?" "i had no such intention." "you are wrong, young man; for you are playing the tambourine on that pane of glass with all your might. but i was thinking, the porter of this house in the allée des veuves is perhaps a stout fellow; if he resists, you have only your pistol, which is a noisy weapon, whilst a tool like this (and he showed rodolph the handle of his poniard) makes no noise, and does not disturb anybody." "do you mean, then, to assassinate him?" exclaimed rodolph. "if you have any such intention, let us give up the job altogether; i will have no hand in it,--so don't rely on me--" "but if he wakes?" "we will take to our heels." "well, just as you like; only it is better to come to a clear understanding beforehand. so, then, ours is simply a mere robbery with forcible entry--" "nothing more." "that's very silly and contemptible; but so be it." "and as i will not leave you for a second," thought rodolph, "i will prevent you from shedding blood." chapter xiii. preparations. the chouette returned to the room, bringing the cigars with her. "i don't think it rains now," said rodolph, lighting his cigar. "suppose we go and fetch the coach ourselves,--it will stretch our legs." "what! not rain!" replied the schoolmaster; "are you blind? do you think i will expose finette to the chance of catching cold, and exposing her precious life, and spoiling her new shawl?" "you are right, old fellow; it rains cats and dogs. let the servant come and we can pay him, and desire him to fetch us a coach," replied rodolph. "that's the most sensible thing you have said yet, young fellow; we may go and look about as we seek the allée des veuves." the servant entered, and rodolph gave her five francs. "ah, sir, it is really an imposition,--i cannot allow it," exclaimed the schoolmaster. "oh, all right; your turn next time." "be it so, but on condition that i shall offer you something, by and by, in a little cabaret in the champs elysées,--a capital little snuggery that i know of." "just as you like." the servant paid, and they left the room. rodolph wished to go last, out of politeness to the chouette, but the schoolmaster would not allow it, and followed close on his heels, watching his every movement. the master of the house kept a wine-shop also, and amongst other drinkers, a charcoal-man, with his face blackened and his large hat flapping over his eyes, was paying his "shot" at the bar when these three personages appeared. in spite of the close lookout of the schoolmaster and the one-eyed hag, rodolph, who walked before the hideous pair, exchanged a rapid and unperceived glance with murphy as he got into the hackney-coach. "which way am i to go, master?" asked the driver. rodolph replied, in a loud voice: "allée des--" "des acacias, in the bois de boulogne," cried the schoolmaster, interrupting him. then he added, "and we will pay you well, coachman." the door was shut. "what the devil made you bawl out which way we were going before these people?" said the schoolmaster. "if the thing were found out to-morrow, we might be traced and discovered. young man,--young man, you are very imprudent!" the coach was already in motion. rodolph answered: "true; i did not think of that. but with my cigar i shall smoke you like herrings; let us have a window open." and, joining the action to the words, rodolph, with much dexterity, let fall outside the window the morsel of paper, folded very small, on which he had hastily written a few words in pencil under his blouse. the schoolmaster's glance was so quick, that, in spite of the calmness of rodolph's features, the ruffian detected some expression of triumph, for, putting his head out of the window, he called out to the driver: "whip behind! whip behind! there is some one getting up at the back of the coach!" the coach stopped, and the driver, standing on his seat, looked back, and said: "no, master, there is no one there." "_parbleu!_ i will look myself," replied the schoolmaster, jumping out into the street. not seeing any person or anything (for since rodolph had dropped the paper the coach had gone on several yards), the schoolmaster thought he was mistaken. "you will laugh at me," he said, as he resumed his seat, "but i don't know why i thought some one was following us." the coach at this moment turned round a corner, and murphy, who had not lost sight of it with his eyes, and had seen rodolph's manoeuvre, ran and picked up the little note, which had fallen into a crevice between two of the paving-stones. at the end of a quarter of an hour the schoolmaster said to the driver of the hackney-coach: "my man, we have changed our minds; drive to the place de la madelaine." rodolph looked at him with astonishment. "all right, young man; from hence we may go to a thousand different places. if they seek to track us hereafter, the deposition of the coachman will not be of the slightest service to them." at the moment when the coach was approaching the barrier, a tall man, clothed in a long white riding-coat, with his hat drawn over his eyes, and whose complexion appeared of a deep brown, passed rapidly along the road, stooping over the neck of a high, splendid hunter, which trotted with extraordinary speed. "a good horse and a good rider," said rodolph, leaning forward to the door of the coach and following murphy (for it was he) with his eyes. "what a pace that stout man goes! did you see him?" "_ma foi!_ he passed so very quickly," said the schoolmaster, "that i did not remark him." rodolph calmly concealed his satisfaction; murphy had, doubtless, deciphered the almost hieroglyphic characters of the note which he had dropped, and which had escaped the vigilance of the schoolmaster. certain that the coach was not followed, he had become more assured, and desirous of imitating the chouette, who slept, or rather pretended to sleep, he said to rodolph: "excuse me, young man, but the motion of the coach always produces a singular effect on me,--it sends me off to sleep like a child." the ruffian, under the guise of assumed sleep, thought to examine whether the physiognomy of his companion betrayed any emotion; but rodolph was on his guard, and replied: "i rose so early that i feel sleepy, and will have a nap, too." he shut his eyes, and very soon the hard breathing of the schoolmaster and the chouette, who snored in chorus, so completely deceived rodolph, that, thinking his companions sound asleep, he half opened his eyes. the schoolmaster and the chouette, in spite of their loud snoring, had their eyes open, and were exchanging some mysterious signs by means of their fingers curiously placed or bent in the palms of their hands. in an instant this mute language ceased. the brigand no doubt perceived, by some almost imperceptible sign, that rodolph was not asleep, and said, in a laughing tone: "ah, ah, comrade! what, you were trying your friends, were you?" "that can't astonish you, who sleep with your eyes open." "i, who--that's different, young man; i am a somnambulist." the hackney-coach stopped in the place de la madelaine. the rain had ceased for a moment, but the clouds, driven by the violence of the wind, were so dark and so low, that it was almost night in appearance. rodolph, the chouette, and the schoolmaster went towards the cours la reine. "young man, i have an idea, which is not a bad one," said the robber. "what is it?" "to ascertain if all that you have told us respecting the interior of the house in the allée des veuves is true." "you surely will not go there now, under any circumstances? it would awaken suspicion." "i am not such a flat as that, young fellow; but why have i a wife whose name is finette?" the chouette drew up her head. "do you see her, young man? why, she looks like a war-horse when he hears the blast of the trumpet!" "you mean to send her as a lookout?" "precisely so." "no. , allée des veuves, isn't it, my man?" cried the chouette, impatiently. "make yourself easy: i have but one eye, but that is a good one." "do you see, young man,--do you see she is all impatience to be at work?" "if she manages cleverly to get into the house, i do not think your idea a bad one." "take the umbrella, _fourline_; in half an hour i will be here again, and you shall see what i will do," said the chouette. "one moment, finette; we are going down to the bleeding heart,--only two steps from here. if the little tortillard (cripple) is there, you had better take him with you; he will remain outside on the watch whilst you go inside the house." "you are right,--little tortillard is as cunning as a fox; he is not ten years of age, and yet it was he who the other day--" a signal from the schoolmaster interrupted the chouette. "what does the 'bleeding heart' mean? it is an odd sign for a cabaret," asked rodolph. "you must complain to the landlord." "what is his name?" "the landlord of the bleeding heart?" "yes." "what is that to you? he never asks the names of his customers." "but, still--" "call him what you like,--peter, thomas, christopher, or barnabas,--he will answer to any and all. but here we are, and it's time we were, for the rain is coming down again in floods; and how the river roars! it has almost become a torrent! why, look at it! two more days of such rain, and the water will overflow the arches of the bridge." "you say that we are _there_, but where the devil is the cabaret? i do not see any house here." "certainly not, if you look round about you." "where should i look, then?" "at your feet." "at my feet?" "yes." "and whereabouts?" "here,--look; do you see the roof? mind, and don't step upon it." rodolph had not remarked one of those subterraneans which used to be seen, some years since, in certain spots in the champs elysées, and particularly near the cours la reine. a flight of steps, cut out of the damp and greasy ground, led to the bottom of this sort of deep ditch, against one end of which, cut perpendicularly, leaned a low, mean, dilapidated hovel; its roof, covered with moss-covered tiles, was scarcely so high as the ground on which rodolph was standing; two or three out-buildings, constructed of worm-eaten planks, serving as cellar, wood-house, and rabbit-hutches, surrounded this wretched den. a narrow path, which extended along this ditch, led from the stairs to the door of the hut; the rest of the ground was concealed under a mass of trellis-work, which sheltered two rows of clumsy tables, fastened to the ground. a worn-out iron sign swung heavily backwards and forwards on its creaking hinges, and through the rust that covered it might still be seen a red heart pierced with an arrow. the sign was supported by a post erected above this cave,--this real human burrow. a thick and moist fog was added to the rain as night approached. "what think you of this hôtel, young fellow?" inquired the schoolmaster. "why, thanks to the torrents that have fallen for the last fortnight, it must be deliciously fresh. but come on." "one moment,--i wish to know if the landlord is in. hark!" the ruffian then, thrusting his tongue forcibly against his palate, produced a singular noise,--a sort of guttural sound, loud and lengthened, something like p-r-r-r-r-r-r-r!!! a similar note came from the depths of the hovel. "he's there," said the schoolmaster. "pardon me, young man,--respect to the ladies,--allow the chouette to pass first; i follow you. mind how you come,--it's slippery." chapter xiv. the bleeding heart. the landlord of the bleeding heart, after having responded to the signal of the schoolmaster, advanced politely to the threshold of his door. this personage, whom rodolph had been to see in the cité, and whom he did not yet know under his true name, or, rather, his habitual surname, was bras rouge. lank, mean-looking, and feeble, this man might be fifty years of age. his countenance resembled both the weasel and the rat; his peaked nose, his receding chin, his high cheek-bones, his small eyes, black, restless, and keen, gave his features an indescribable expression of malice, cunning, and sagacity. an old brown wig, or, rather, as yellow as his bilious complexion, perched on the top of his head, showed the nape of the old fellow's withered neck. he had on a round jacket, and one of those long black aprons worn by the waiters at the wine shops. our three acquaintances had hardly descended the last step of the staircase when a child of about ten years of age, rickety, lame, and somewhat misshapen, came to rejoin bras rouge, whom he resembled in so striking a manner that there was no mistaking them for father and son. there was the same quick and cunning look, joined to that impudent, hardened, and knavish air, which is peculiar to the scamp (_voyou_) of paris,--that fearful type of precocious depravity, that real 'hemp-seed' (_graine de bagne_), as they style it, in the horrible slang of the gaol. the forehead of the brat was half lost beneath a thatch of yellowish locks, as harsh and stiff as horse-hair. reddish-coloured trousers and a gray blouse, confined by a leather girdle, completed tortillard's costume, whose nickname was derived from his infirmity. he stood close to his father, standing on his sound leg like a heron by the side of a marsh. "ah, here is the darling one (_môme_)!" said the schoolmaster. "finette, night is coming on, and time is pressing; we must profit by the daylight which is left to us." "you are right, my man; i will ask the father to spare his darling." "good day, old friend," said bras rouge, addressing the schoolmaster, in a voice which was cracked, sharp, and shrill. "what can i do for you?" "why, if you could spare your 'small boy' to my mistress for a quarter of an hour, she has lost something which he could help her to look for." bras rouge winked his eye and made a sign to the schoolmaster, and then said to the child: "tortillard, go with madame." the hideous brat hopped forward and took hold of the "one-eyed's" hand. "love of a bright boy, come along! there is a child!" said finette. "and how like his father! he is not like pegriotte, who always pretended to have a pain in her side when she came near me,--a little baggage!" "come, come away!--be off, finette! keep your weather-eye open, and bright lookout. i await you here." "i won't be long. go first, tortillard." the one-eyed hag and the little cripple went up the slippery steps. "finette, take the umbrella," the brigand called out. [illustration: "'_ah, here is the 'darling one'!_'" original etching by adrian marcel] "it would be in the way, my man," said the old woman, who quickly disappeared with tortillard in the midst of the fog, which thickened with the twilight, and the hollow murmur of the wind as it moaned through the thick and leafless branches of the tall elms in the champs elysées. "let us go in," said rodolph. it was requisite to stoop in passing in at the door of the cabaret, which was divided into two apartments. in one was a bar and a broken-down billiard-table; in the other, tables and garden chairs, which had once been painted green. two narrow windows, with their cracked panes festooned with spiders' webs, cast a dim but not religious light on the damp walls. rodolph was alone for one moment only, during which bras rouge and the schoolmaster had time to exchange some words, rapidly uttered, and some mysterious signs. "you'll take a glass of beer,--or brandy, perhaps,--whilst we wait for finette?" said the schoolmaster. "no; i am not thirsty." "do as you like,--i am for a 'drain' of brandy," said the ruffian; and he seated himself on one of the little green tables in the second apartment. darkness came on to this den so completely, that it was impossible to see in one of the angles of this inner apartment the open mouth of one of those cellars which are entered by a door in two divisions, one of which was constantly kept open for the convenience of access. the table at which the schoolmaster sat was close upon this dark and deep hole, and he turned his back upon it, so that it was entirely concealed from rodolph's view. he was looking through the window, in order to command his countenance and conceal the workings of his thoughts. the sight of murphy speeding through the allée des veuves did not quite assure him; he was afraid that the worthy squire had not quite understood the full meaning of his note, necessarily so laconic, and containing only these words: "this evening--ten o'clock. be on your guard." resolved not to go to the allée des veuves before that moment, nor to lose sight of the schoolmaster for an instant, he yet trembled at the idea of losing the only opportunity that might ever be afforded him of obtaining that secret which he was so excessively anxious to possess. although he was powerful and well armed, yet he had to deal with an unscrupulous assassin, capable of any and every thing. not desiring, however, that his thoughts should be detected, he seated himself at the table with the schoolmaster, and, by way of seeming at his ease, called for a glass of something. bras rouge having exchanged a few words, in a low tone, with the brigand, looked at rodolph with an air in which curiosity, distrust, and contempt were mingled. "it is my advice, young man," said the schoolmaster, "that if my wife informs us that the persons we wish to see are within, we had better make our call about eight o'clock." "that will be two hours too soon," said rodolph; "and that will spoil all." "do you think so?" "i am sure of it." "bah! amongst friends there should be no ceremony." "i know them well, and i tell you that we must not think of going before ten o'clock." "are you out of your senses, young man?" "i give you my opinion, and devil fetch me if i stir from here before ten o'clock." "don't disturb yourself,--i never close my establishment before midnight," said bras rouge, in his falsetto voice; "it is the time when my best customers drop in; and my neighbours never complain of the noise which is made in my house." "i must agree to all you wish, young man," continued the schoolmaster. "be it so, then; we will not set out on our visit until ten o'clock." "here is the chouette!" said bras rouge, hearing and replying to a warning cry similar to that which the schoolmaster had uttered before he descended to the subterraneous abode. a minute afterwards the chouette entered the billiard-room alone. "it is all right, my man,--i've done the trick!" cried the one-eyed hag, as she entered. bras rouge discreetly withdrew, without asking a word about tortillard, whom, perhaps, he did not expect to see return. the beldam sat with her face towards rodolph and the brigand. "well?" said the schoolmaster. "the young fellow has told us all true, so far." "ah! you see i was right," exclaimed rodolph. "let the chouette tell her tale, young man. come, tell us all about it, finette." "i went straight to no. , leaving tortillard on the lookout and concealed in a corner. it was still daylight, and i rung at a side door which opens outwards, and here's about two inches of space between it and the sill; nothing else to notice. i rang; the porter opened. before i pulled the bell i had put my bonnet in my pocket, that i might look like a neighbour. as soon as i saw the porter i pretended to cry violently, saying that i had lost a pet parrot, cocotte,--a little darling that i adored. i told him i lived in the rue marboeuf, and that i had pursued cocotte from garden to garden, and entreated him to allow me to enter and try and find the bird." "ah!" said the schoolmaster, with an air of proud satisfaction, pointing to finette, "what a woman!" "very clever," said rodolph. "and what then?" "the porter allowed me to look for the creature, and i went trotting all around the garden, calling 'cocotte! cocotte!' and looked about me in every direction to scrutinise every thing. inside the walls," continued the horrid old hag, going on with her description of the premises, "inside the walls, trellis-work all around,--a perfect staircase; at the left-hand corner of the wall a fir-tree, just like a ladder,--a lying-in woman might descend by it. the house has six windows on the ground floor, and has no upper story,--six small windows without any fastening. the windows of the ground floor close with shutters, having hooks below and staples in the upper part: press in the bottom, use your steel file--" "a push," said the schoolmaster, "and it is open." the chouette continued: "the entrance has a glass door, two venetian blinds outside--" "memorandum," said the ruffian. "quite correct; it is as precise as if we saw it," said rodolph. "on the left," resumed the chouette, "near the courtyard, is a well; the rope may be useful (for at that particular spot there is no trellis against the wall), in case retreat should be cut off in the direction of the door. on entering into the house--" "you got inside the house, then? young man, she got inside the house!" said the schoolmaster, with pride. "to be sure i got in! not finding cocotte, i had made so much lamentation that i pretended i was quite out of breath; i begged the porter to allow me to sit down on the step of the door, and he very kindly asked me to step in, offering me a glass of wine and water. 'a glass of plain water,' i said; 'plain water only, my good sir.' then he made me go into the antechamber,--carpeted all over; good precaution,--footsteps or broken glass cannot be heard, if we must 'mill the glaze' (break a pane of glass); right and left, doors with sliding bolts, which open by a gentle push from the top. at the bottom was a strong door, locked,--it looked very like a money-chest. i had my wax in my basket--" "she had her wax, young man! she never goes without her wax!" said the brigand. the chouette proceeded: "it was necessary to approach the door which smelled so strongly of the cash, so i pretended that i was seized with a fit of coughing,--so violent, that i was compelled to lean against the wall for support. hearing me cough, the porter said,'i'll fetch you a morsel of sugar to put in your water.' he probably looked for a spoon, for i heard plate chink,--plate in the room on the left-hand; don't forget that, _fourline_. well, coughing and wheezing, i reached the door at the bottom,--i had my wax in the palm of my hand. i leaned against the lock as though accidentally, and here is the impression; we may not want it to-day, but another time it may be useful." and the chouette gave the brigand a bit of yellow wax, on which the print of the lock was perfectly impressed. "you can tell us whether this is the door of the money-chest," said the chouette. "it is, and there is the cash," replied rodolph; and then said to himself, "has murphy, then, been the dupe of this cursed old hag? perhaps so, and he only expects to be assailed at ten o'clock; by that time every precaution will have been taken." "but all the money is not there," continued the chouette, and her one green eye sparkled. "as i approached the windows, still searching for my darling cocotte, i saw in one of the chambers (door on the left) some bags of crown pieces, in a bureau. i saw them as plainly as i see you, my man; there were at least a dozen of them." "where is tortillard?" said the schoolmaster. "in his hiding-place,--not more than two paces from the garden. he can see in the dark like a cat. there is only that one entrance to no. , so when we go he will tell us if any one has come or not." "that's good--" the schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words than he made a sudden rush at rodolph, grappled him by the throat, and flung him violently down the cellar which was yawning behind the table. the attack was so rapid, unexpected, and powerful, that rodolph could neither foresee nor avoid it. the chouette, alarmed, uttered a piercing shriek; for at the first moment she had not seen the result of the struggle. when the noise of rodolph's body rolling down the steps had ceased, the schoolmaster, who knew all the ways and windings of the underground vaults in the place, went down the stairs slowly, listening as he went. "_fourline_, be on your guard," cried the beldam, leaning over the opening of the trap; "draw your 'pinking iron.'" the brigand disappeared without any reply. for a time nothing was heard, but at the end of a few moments the distant noise of a door shutting, which creaked on its rusty hinges, sounded harshly in the depths of the cavern; then all was again still as death. the darkness was complete. the chouette fumbled in her basket, and then, producing a lucifer-match, lighted a wax taper, whose feeble ray made visible the darkness of this dreary den. at this moment the monster-visage of the schoolmaster appeared at the opening of the trap. the chouette could not repress an exclamation of horror at the sight of his ghastly, seamed, mutilated, and fearful face, with eyes that gleamed like phosphorus, and seemed to glare on the ground even in the midst of the darkness which the lighted taper could not entirely dissipate. having subdued her feeling of fright, the old hag exclaimed, in a tone of horrible flattery: "you must be an awful man, _fourline_, for even i was frightened!--yes, i!" "quick, quick, for the allée des veuves!" said the ruffian, securely closing the double flap of the trap with a bar of iron. "in another hour, perhaps, it will be too late. if it is a trap, it is not yet baited; if it is not, why, we can do the job alone." chapter xv. the vault. stunned by his horrible fall, rodolph lay senseless and motionless at the bottom of the stairs, down which he had been hurled. the schoolmaster, dragging him to the entrance of a second and still deeper cavern, thrust him into its hideous recesses, and closing and securely bolting a massy iron-shod door, returned to his worthy confederate, the chouette, who was waiting to join him in the proposed robbery (it might be murder) in the allée des veuves. about the end of an hour rodolph began, though slowly, to resume his consciousness. he found himself extended on the ground, in the midst of thick darkness; he extended his hand and touched the stone stairs descending to the vault; a sensation of extreme cold about his feet induced him to endeavour, by feeling the ground, to ascertain the cause: his fingers dabbled in a pool of water. with a violent effort he contrived to seat himself on the lower step of the staircase; the giddiness arising from his fall subsided by degrees, and as he became able to extend his limbs he found, to his great joy, that, though severely shaken and contused, no bones were broken. he listened: the only sound that reached his ear was a low, dull, pattering, but continued noise, of which he was then far from divining the cause. as his senses became more clear, so did the circumstances, to which he had been the unfortunate victim, return to his imagination; and just as he had recalled each particular, and was deeply considering the possible result of the whole, he became aware that his feet were wholly submerged in water; it had, indeed, risen above his ankle. in the midst of the heavy gloom and deep silence which surrounded him, he heard still the same dull, trickling sound he had observed before; and now the matter was clear to him. now, indeed, he comprehended all the horrors of his situation: the cave was filling with water, arising from the fearful and formidable overflowing of the seine,--the dungeon in which he had been thrown was doubtless beneath the level of the river, and was chosen by his gaolers for that purpose, as offering a slow though certain means of destruction. the conviction of his danger recalled rodolph entirely to himself. quick as lightning he made his way up the damp, slippery stairs; arrived at the top, he came in contact with a thick door; he tried in vain to open it,--its massy hinges resisted his most vigorous efforts to force them. at this moment of despair and danger, his first thought was for murphy. "if he be not on his guard, those monsters will murder him!" cried he. "it will be i who shall have caused his death,--my good, my faithful murphy!" this cruel thought nerved the arm of rodolph with fresh vigour, and again he bent his most powerful energy to endeavour to force the ponderous door. alas! the thickly plated iron with which it was covered mocked his utmost efforts; and sore, weary, and exhausted, he was compelled to relinquish the fruitless task. again he descended into the cave, in hopes of obtaining something which might serve as a lever to force the hinges or wrench the fastenings. groping against the slimy walls, he felt himself continually treading on some sort of round elastic bodies, which appeared to slip from under his feet, and to scramble for safety past him. they were rats, driven by the fast-rising water from their retreats. groping about the place on all fours, with the water half way up his leg, rodolph felt in all directions for the weapon he so much desired to find; nothing but the damp walls met his touch, however, and, in utter despair, he resumed his position at the top of the steps,--of the thirteen stairs which composed the flight, three were already under water. thirteen had ever been rodolph's unlucky number. there are moments when the strongest minds are under the influence of superstitious ideas, and, at this juncture, rodolph viewed the fatal amount of stairs as an ill augury. again the possible fate of murphy recurred to him, and, as if inspired by a fresh hope, he eagerly felt around the door to discover some slight chink, or opening, by which his cries for help might be heard. in vain; the dampness of the soil had swollen the wood, and joined it hermetically to the wet, slimy earth. rodolph next tried the powers of his voice, and shouted with the fullest expansion of his lungs, trusting that his cries for assistance might reach the adjoining cabaret; and then, tired and exhausted, sat down to listen. nothing was to be heard, no sound disturbed the deep silence which reigned, but the drop, drop, drop, the dull, trickling, monotonous bubbling of the fast-increasing waters. his last hope extinguished, rodolph seated himself in gloomy despair, and, leaning his back against the door, bewailed the perilous situation of his faithful friend,--perhaps at that very moment struggling beneath the assassin's knife. bitterly did he then regret his rash and venturesome projects, however good and generous the motives by which he had been instigated; and severely did he reproach himself for having taken advantage of the devotion of murphy, who, rich, honoured, and esteemed by all who knew him, had quitted a beloved wife and child, to assist rodolph in the bold undertaking he had imposed on himself. during these sorrowful reflections, the water was still rising rapidly, and five steps only now remained dry. rodolph now found himself compelled to assume a standing position, though, in so doing, his forehead was brought in close contact with the very top of the vault. he calculated the probable duration of his mortal agony,--of the period which must elapse ere this slow, inch-like death would put a period to his misery; he bethought him of the pistol he carried with him, and, at the risk of injuring himself in the attempt, he determined to fire it off against the door, so as to disturb some of the fastenings by the concussion; but here, again, a disappointment awaited him,--the pistol was nowhere to be found, and he could but conclude it had fallen from his pocket during his struggle with the schoolmaster. but for his deep concern on murphy's account, rodolph would have met his death unmoved,--his conscience acquitted him of all intentional offence; nay, it solaced him with the recollection of good actually performed, and much more meditated. to the decrees of an all-wise and inscrutable providence he resigned himself, and humbly accepted his present punishment as the just reward for a criminal action as yet unexpiated. a fresh trial of his fortitude awaited him. the rats, still pursued by the fast-gathering waters, finding no other means of escape, sought refuge from one step to another, ascending as fast as the rising flood rendered their position untenable; unable to scale the perpendicular walls or doors, they availed themselves of the vestments of rodolph, whose horror and disgust rose to an indescribable degree, as he felt their cold, clammy paws, and wet, hairy bodies, crawling or clinging to him; in his attempts to repulse them, their sharp, cold bite inflicted on him a most acute agony, while his face and hands streamed with blood, from the multitude of wounds received. again he called for help, shouted aloud, and almost screamed in his pain and wretchedness. alas! the dull echo of the vault and the gurgling waters alone replied. a few short moments, and he would be bereft even of the power of calling upon god or man to help him; the rapidly rising flood had now reached his very throat, and ere long would have ascended to his lips. the choked air began, too, to fail in the narrow space now left it, and the first symptoms of asphyxia began to oppress rodolph; the arteries of his temples beat violently, his head became giddy, and the faint sickness of death seemed to make his chest heave convulsively. already were the waters gurgling in his ears; a dizziness of sight and a confusion of ideas had well-nigh deprived him of all powers of sight or sound; the last glimmer of reason was well-nigh shaken from her throne, when hasty steps and the sound of voices on the other side of the door were heard. hope recalled his expiring strength, and, making one powerful effort, rodolph was able to distinguish the following words, after which all consciousness forsook him: "did i not tell you so? there, you see there is no one here!" "deuce take it! no more there is," replied the voice of the chourineur, in a tone of vexation and disappointment. and the sounds died away. rodolph, utterly exhausted, had no longer power to sustain himself; his limbs sunk from under him, and he slid unresistingly down the stone steps. all at once the door of the vault was abruptly opened from the other side, and the swelling masses contained in the inner vault, glad to find a further outlet, rushed onwards as though bursting through the gates of a sluice, and the chourineur, whose opportune return shall be accounted for by and by, seized the two arms of rodolph, who, half dead, had mechanically clung to the threshold of the door, and bore him from the black and rushing waters which had nigh proved his grave. chapter xvi. the sick-nurse. snatched by the chourineur from a certain death, and removed to the house in the allée des veuves which had been reconnoitred by the chouette, previously to the attempt on it by the schoolmaster, rodolph was placed in bed, in a comfortably furnished apartment; a cheerful fire was burning on the hearth. a lamp, placed on a neighbouring table, diffused a strong, clear light; while the bed of rodolph, shaded by thick curtains of green damask, remained protected from the glare, and in the shadow of its deep recess. a negro of middle stature, with white hair and eyebrows, wearing an orange and green riband at the buttonhole of his blue coat, sat by the bedside, holding in his right hand a seconds' watch, which he appeared to consult while counting with his left the beating of rodolph's pulse. the expression of the negro's countenance was at once sad and pensive, and he continued from time to time to gaze on the sleeping man with the most tender solicitude. the chourineur, clad in rags and soiled with mud, stood motionless, with folded arms, at the foot of the bed; his red beard was long and matted, in disorder; his thick, bushy hair was tangled with mud and wet, which still dripped from it; while his hard, bronzed features were marked by the most profound pity for the patient: hardly venturing to breathe lest the heaving of his huge chest should disturb the invalid, he awaited with the most intense anxiety the result of the doctor's observations on the sick man's state; then, as though to while away the fearful apprehension of an unfavourable opinion, he continued to deliver his thoughts aloud, after the following manner: "who would think, now, to see him lying there so helpless, he could ever have been the man to give me such a precious drubbing as i got from him? i dare say, though, he will soon be up again, well and strong as ever. don't you think so, m. le docteur? faith, i only wish he could drum himself well upon my back; i'd lend it him as long as he liked. but, perhaps, that would shake him too much, and overfatigue him; would it, sir?" addressing the negro, whose only reply was an impatient wave of the hand. the chourineur was instantly silent. "the draught!" said the doctor. the chourineur, who had respectfully left his nailed shoes at the door, at these words arose, and walked towards the table indicated by the negro's finger; going on the very top of his toes, drawing up his legs, extending his arms, and swelling out his back and shoulders, in a manner so ludicrous as, under other circumstances, would have been highly diverting. the poor fellow seemed endeavouring to collect his whole weight, so that no portion of it should touch the floor; which, in spite of his energetic efforts to prevent it, groaned beneath his ponderous limbs as they moved towards the desired spot. unfortunately, between his overanxiety to acquit himself well in his important mission, and his fear of dropping the delicate phial he was bringing so overcarefully, he grasped the slight neck so tightly in his huge hand that it shivered to atoms, and the precious liquid was expended on the carpet. at the sight of this unfortunate mischance the chourineur remained in mute astonishment, one of his huge legs in the air, his toes nervously contracted, and looking with a stupefied air alternately from the doctor to the fragments of the bottle, and from that to the morsel his thumb and finger were yet tightly holding. "awkward devil!" exclaimed the negro, impatiently. "yes, that i am!" responded the chourineur, as though grateful for the sound of a voice to break the frightful bewilderment of his ideas. "ah!" cried the Æsculapius, observing the table attentively, "happily you took the wrong phial,--i wanted the other one." "what, that little one with the red stuff?" inquired the unlucky sick-nurse, in a low and humble tone. "of course i mean that; why, there is no other left." the chourineur, turning quickly around upon his heels, after his old military fashion, crushed the fragments of glass which lay on the carpet beneath his feet. more delicate ones might have suffered severely from the circumstance, but the _ex-débardeur_ had a pair of natural sandals, hard as the hoofs of a horse. "have a care!" cried the physician. "you will hurt yourself!" to this caution the chourineur paid no attention, but seemed wholly absorbed in so discharging his new mission as should effectually destroy all recollection of his late clumsiness. it was really beautiful to behold the scrupulous delicacy and lightness of touch with which, spreading out his two first fingers, he seized the fragile crystal; avoiding all use of the unlucky thumb whose undue pressure, he rightly conceived, had brought about his previous accident, he kept so widely stretched from his forefinger that a butterfly might have passed between, with outspread wings, without losing one atom of its golden plumage. the black doctor trembled lest all this caution should lead to a second misadventure, but, happily, the phial reached its destination in safety. as the chourineur approached the bed, he again smashed beneath his tread some of the fallen relics of the former potion. "the deuce take you, man! do you want to _maim_ yourself for life?" "_lame_ myself?" asked the eager nurse. "why, yes; you keep walking upon glass as though you were trying for it." "oh, bless you! never mind that; the soles of my feet are hard as iron; must be something sharper than glass could hurt them." "a teaspoon--" said the doctor. the chourineur recommenced his _évolutions sylphidiques_, and returned with the article required. after having swallowed a few spoonfuls of the mixture, rodolph began to stir in his bed, and faintly moved his hands. "good! good! he is recovering from his stupor," said the doctor, speaking to himself. "that bleeding has relieved him; he is now out of danger." "saved? bravo! vive la charte!" exclaimed the chourineur, in the full burst of his joy. "hold your tongue! and pray be quiet!" said the negro, in a tone of command. "to be sure i will, m. le médécin." "his pulse is becoming regular--very well, indeed--excellent--" "and that poor friend of m. rodolph's,--body and bones of me!--when he comes to know that--but, then, luckily--" "silence! i say." "certainly, m. le docteur." "and sit down." "but, m. le--" "sit down, i tell you! you disturb me, twisting and fidgeting about in that manner,--you distract my attention. come, sit down at once, and keep still." "but, doctor, don't you perceive i am as dirty as a pile of floating wood just going to be unloaded?--all slime and wet, you see. i should spoil the furniture." "then sit down on the ground." "i should soil the carpet." "do what you like, but, for heaven's sake, be quiet!" said the doctor, in a tone of impatience; then, throwing himself into an armchair, he leaned his head upon his clasped hands, and appeared lost in deep reflection. after a moment of profound meditation, the chourineur, less from any need he felt for repose than in obedience to the doctor's commands, took a chair with the utmost precaution, turned it upside down with an air of intense self-satisfaction at having at length devised a plan to act in strict conformity with the orders received, and yet avoid all risk of soiling the silken cushion; having laid the back on the ground, he proceeded, after all manner of delicate arrangements, to take his seat on the outer rails; but, unhappily, the chourineur was entirely ignorant of the laws of the lever and the equilibrium of bodies, the chair overbalanced, and the luckless individual seated thereon, in endeavouring to save himself from falling, by an involuntary movement caught hold of a small stand, on which was a tray containing some tea-things. at the formidable noise caused by so many falling articles clattering upon the head of the unfortunate cause of all this discord and havoc, the doctor sprung from his seat, while rodolph, awaking with a start, raised himself on his elbow, looked about him with an anxious and perturbed glance, then, passing his hand over his brows, as though trying to arrange his ideas, he inquired: "where is murphy?" "your royal highness need be under no apprehensions on his account," answered the negro, respectfully; "there is every hope of his recovery." "recovery! he is, then, wounded?" "unhappily, my lord, he is." "where is he? let me see him!" and rodolph endeavoured to rise, but fell back again, overcome by weakness and the intense pain he felt from his many and severe contusions. "since i cannot walk," cried he, at length, "let me be instantly carried to murphy,--this moment!" "my lord, he sleeps at present; it would be highly dangerous, at this particular juncture, to expose him to the slightest agitation." "you are deceiving me, and he is dead! he has been murdered! and i--i am the wretched cause of it!" cried rodolph, in a tone of agony, raising his clasped hands towards heaven. "my lord knows that his servant is incapable of a falsehood. i assert by my honour, that, although severely wounded, murphy lives, and that his chance of recovery is all but certain." "you say that but to prepare me for more disastrous tidings; he lies, doubtless, wounded past all hope; and he, my faithful friend, will die!" "my lord--" "yes, you are seeking to deceive me till all is over. but i will see him,--i will judge for myself; the sight of a friend cannot be hurtful. let me be instantly removed to his chamber." "once more, my lord, i pledge my solemn assurance, that, barring chances not likely to occur, murphy will soon be convalescent." "my dear david, may i indeed believe you?" "you may, indeed, my lord." "hear me. you know the high opinion i entertain of your ability and knowledge, and that, from the hour in which you were attached to my household, you have possessed my most unbounded confidence,--never, for one instant, have i doubted your great skill and perfect acquaintance with your profession; but i conjure you, if a consultation be necessary--" "my lord, that would have been my first thought, had i seen the slightest reason for such a step; but, up to the present moment, it would be both useless and unnecessary. and, besides, i should be somewhat tenacious of introducing strangers into the house until i knew whether your orders of yesterday--" "but how has all this happened?" said rodolph, interrupting the black. "who saved me from drowning in that horrid cellar? i have a confused recollection of having heard the chourineur's voice there; was i mistaken?" "not at all mistaken, my lord. but let the brave fellow, to whom all praise is due, relate the affair in which he was the principal actor himself." "where is he? where is he?" the doctor looked about for the recently elected sick-nurse, and at length found him, thoroughly silenced and shamed by his late tumble, ensconced behind the curtains of the bed. "here he is," said the doctor; "he looks somewhat shamefaced." "come forward, my brave fellow!" said rodolph, extending his hand to his preserver. the confusion of the poor chourineur was still further increased from having, when behind his curtain, heard the black doctor address rodolph continually as "my lord," or "your royal highness." "approach, my friend,--my deliverer!" said rodolph, "and give me your hand." "i beg pardon, sir,--i mean, my lord,--no, highness,--no--" "call me m. rodolph, as you used to do; i like it better." "and so do i,--it comes so much easier to one. but be so good as to excuse my hand; i have done so much work lately, that--" "your hand, i tell you,--your hand!" overcome by this kind and persevering command, the chourineur timidly extended his black and horny palm, which rodolph warmly shook. "now, then, sit down, and tell me all about it,--how you discovered the cellar. but i think i can guess. the schoolmaster?" "we have him in safety," said the black doctor. "yes, he and the chouette, tied together like two rolls of tobacco. a pair of pretty creatures they look, as ever you would wish to see, and, i doubt not, sick enough of each other's company by this time." "and my poor murphy! what a selfish wretch must i be to think only of myself! where is he wounded, david?" "in the right side, my lord; but, fortunately, towards the lower false rib." "oh, i must have a deep and terrible revenge for this! david, i depend upon your assistance." "my lord knows full well that i am wholly devoted to him, both body and soul," replied the negro, coldly. "but how, my noble fellow, were you able to arrive here in time?" said rodolph to the chourineur. "why, if you please, my lor--no, sir--highness--rodolph--i had better begin by the beginning--" "quite right. i am listening,--go on. but mind, you are only to call me m. rodolph." "very well. you know that last night you told me, after you returned from the country, where you had gone with poor goualeuse, 'try and find the schoolmaster in the cité; tell him you know of a capital "put-up," that you have refused to join it, but that if he will take your place he has only to be to-morrow (that's to-day) at the barrier of bercy, at the panier-fleuri, and there he will see the man who has "made the plant" (_qui a nourri le poupard_).'" "well." "on leaving you, i pushed on briskly for the cité. i goes to the ogress's,--no schoolmaster; then to the rue saint eloi; on to the rue aux fêves; then to the rue de la vieille draperie,--couldn't find my man. at last i stumbled upon him and that old devil's kin, chouette, in the front of notre dame, at the shop of a tailor, who is a 'fence'[ ] and thief; they were 'sporting the blunt' which they had prigged from the tall gentleman in black, who wanted to do something to you; they bought themselves some toggery. the chouette bargained for a red shawl,--an old monster! i told my tale to the schoolmaster and he snapped at it, and said he would be at the rendezvous accordingly. so far so good. this morning, according to your orders, i ran here to bring you the answer. you said to me, 'my lad, return to-morrow before daybreak; you must pass the day in the house, and in the evening you will see something which will be worth seeing.' you did not let out more than that, but i was 'fly,' and said to myself, 'this is a "dodge" to catch the schoolmaster to-morrow, by laying a right bait for him. he is a----scoundrel; he murdered the cattle-dealer, and, as they say, another person besides, in the rue du roule. i see all about it--'" [ ] receiver of stolen goods. "my mistake was not to have told you all, my good fellow; then this horrible result would not have occurred." "that was your affair, m. rodolph; all that concerned me was to serve you; for, truth to say, i don't know how or why, but, as i have told you before, i feel as if i were your bulldog. but that's enough. i said, then, 'm. rodolph pays me for my time, so my time is his, and i will employ it for him.' then an idea strikes me: the schoolmaster is cunning, he may suspect a trap. m. rodolph will propose to him the job for to-morrow, it is true, but the 'downy cove' is likely enough to come to-day and lurk about, and reconnoitre the ground, and if he is suspicious of m. rodolph he will bring some other 'cracksman' (robber) with him, and do the trick on his own account. to prevent this, i said to myself, 'i must go and plant myself somewhere where i may get a view of the walls, the garden-gate,--there is no other entrance. if i find a snug corner, as it rains, i will remain there all day, perhaps all night, and to-morrow morning i shall be all right and ready to go to m. rodolph's.' so i goes to the allée des veuves to place myself, and what should i see but a small tavern, not ten paces from your door! i entered and took my seat near the window, in a room on the ground floor. i called for a quart of drink and a quart of nuts, saying i expected some friends,--a humpbacked man and a tall woman. i chose them because it would appear more natural. i was very comfortably seated, and kept my eye on the door. it rained cats and dogs; no one passed; night came on--" "but," interrupted rodolph, "why did you not go at once to my house?" "you told me to come the next day morning, m. rodolph, and i didn't dare return there sooner; i should have looked like an intruder,--a sneak (_brosseur_), as the troopers call it. you understand? well, there i was at the window of the wine-shop, cracking my nuts and drinking my liquor, when, through the fog, i saw the chouette approach, accompanied by bras rouge's brat, little tortillard. 'ah, ah!' said i to myself, 'now the farce begins!' well, the little hound of a child hid himself in one of the ditches of the allée, and was evidently on the lookout. as for that----, the chouette, she takes off her bonnet, puts it into her pocket, and rings the gate-bell. our poor friend, m. murphy, opens the door, and the one-eyed mother of mischief tosses up her arms and makes her way into the garden. i could have kicked myself for not being able to make out what the chouette was up to. at last out she comes, puts on her bonnet, says two words to tortillard, who returns to his hole, and then 'cuts her stick.' i say to myself, 'caution! no blunder now! tortillard has come with the chouette; then the schoolmaster and m. rodolph are at bras rouge's. the chouette has come out to reconnoitre about the house; then, sure as a gun, they'll "try it on" this very night! if they do, m. rodolph, who believes they will not go to work till to-morrow, is quite over-reached; and if he is over-reached, i ought to go to bras rouge's and see for him. true; but then suppose that the schoolmaster arrives in the meantime,--that's to be thought of. suppose i go to the house and see m. murphy,--mind your eye! that urchin tortillard is near the door; he will hear me ring the bell, see me, and give the word to the chouette; and if she returns, that will spoil all; and the more particularly as perhaps m. rodolph has, after all, made his arrangements for this evening.' confound it! these yes and no bothered my brain tremendously. i was quite bewildered, and saw nothing clear before me. i didn't know what to do for the best, so i said, 'i'll walk out, and perhaps the clear air will brighten my thoughts a bit.' i went out, and the open air cleared my brain; so i took off my blouse and my neck-handkerchief, i went to the ditch where tortillard lay, and taking the young devil's kin by the cuff of his neck,--how he did wriggle, and twist, and scuffle, and scratch!--i put him into my blouse, tying up one end with the sleeves and the bottom tightly with my cravat. he could breathe very well. well, then i took the bundle under my arm, and passing a low, damp garden, surrounded by a little wall, i threw the brat tortillard into the midst of a cabbage-bed. he squeaked like a sucking-pig, but nobody could hear him two steps off. i cut off; it was time. i climbed up one of the high trees in the allée, just in front of your door, and over the ditch in which tortillard had been stationed. ten minutes afterwards i heard footsteps; it was raining still, and the night was very dark. i listened,--it was the chouette. 'tortillard! tortillard!' says she, in a low voice. 'it rains, and the little brat is tired of waiting,' said the schoolmaster, swearing; 'if i catch him, i'll skin him alive!' '_fourline_, take care!' replied the chouette. 'perhaps he has gone to warn us of something that has happened,--maybe, some trap for us. the young fellow would not make the attempt till ten o'clock.' 'that's the very reason,' replies the schoolmaster; 'it is now only seven o'clock. you saw the money,--nothing venture, nothing have. give me the ripping chisel and the jemmy--'" "what instruments are they?" asked rodolph. "they came from bras rouge's. oh, he has a well-furnished house! in a crack the door is opened. 'stay where you are,' said the schoolmaster to the chouette; 'keep a bright lookout, and give me the signal if you hear anything.' 'put your "pinking-iron" in the buttonhole of your waistcoat, that you may have it handy,' said the old hag. the schoolmaster entered the garden, and i instantly, coming down from the tree, fell on the chouette. i silenced her with two blows of my fist,--my new style,--and she fell without a word. i ran into the garden, but, thunder and lightning, m. rodolph! it was too late--" "poor murphy!" "he was struggling on the ground with the schoolmaster at the entrance, and, although wounded, he held his voice and made no cry for help. excellent man! he is like a good dog, bites, but doesn't bark. well, i went bang, heads or tails, at it, hitting the schoolmaster on the shoulder, which was the only place i could at the moment touch. 'vive la charte! it's i!' 'the chourineur!' shouts m. murphy. 'ah, villain! where do you come from?' cries out the schoolmaster, quite off his guard at that. 'what's that to you?' says i, fixing one of his legs between my knees, and grasping his 'fin' with my other hand; it was that in which he held his dagger. 'and m. rodolph?' asked m. murphy of me, whilst doing all in his power to aid me--" "worthy, kind-hearted creature!" murmured rodolph, in a tone of deep distress. "'i know nothing of him,' says i; 'this scoundrel, perhaps, has killed him.' and then i went with redoubled strength at the schoolmaster, who tried to stick me with his larding-pin; but i lay with my breast on his arm, and so he only had his fist at liberty. 'you are, then, quite alone?' says i to m. murphy, whilst we still struggled desperately with the schoolmaster. 'there are people close at hand,' he replied; 'but they did not hear me cry out.' 'is it far off?' 'they would be here in ten minutes.' 'let us call out for help; there are passers-by who will come and help us.' 'no, as we have got him we must hold him here. but i am growing weak, i am wounded.' 'thunder and lightning! then run and get assistance, if you have strength left; i will try and hold him.' m. murphy then disengaged himself, and i was alone with the schoolmaster. i don't want to brag, but, by jove! these were moments when i was not having a holiday. we were half on the ground, half on the bottom step of the flight. i had my arms round the neck of the villain, my cheek against his cheek; and he was puffing like a bull, i heard his teeth grind. it was dark, it rained pouring; the lamp left in the passage lighted us a little. i had twisted one of my legs around his, but, in spite of that, his loins were so powerful that he moved himself and me on to the bare ground. he tried to bite me, but couldn't; i never felt so strong. thunder! my heart beat, but it was in the right place. i said, 'i am like a man who is grappling with a mad dog, to prevent him from fastening on some passer-by.' 'let me go, and i will do you no harm,' said the schoolmaster, in an exhausted voice. 'what! a coward?' says i to him. 'so, then, your pluck is in your strength? so you wouldn't have stabbed the cattle-dealer at poissy, and robbed him, if he had only been as strong as me, eh?' 'no,' says he; 'but i will kill you as i did him.' and saying that, he made so violent a heave, and gave so powerful a jerk with his legs at the same time, that he half threw me over; if i had not kept a tight hold of his wrist which held the stiletto, i was done for. at this moment my left hand was seized with the cramp, and i was compelled to loosen my hold; that nearly spoiled all, and i said to myself, 'i am now undermost and he at top,--he'll kill me. never mind, i had rather be in my place than his; m. rodolph said that i had heart and honour.' i felt it was all over with me, and at that moment i saw the chouette standing close by us, with her glaring eye and red shawl. thunder and lightning! i thought i had the nightmare. 'finette,' cries the schoolmaster, 'i have let fall the knife; pick it up, there, there, under him, and strike him home, in the back, between the shoulders; quick! quick!' 'only wait, only wait till i find it, till i see it, _fourline_.' and then the cursed chouette turned and poked about us, like an old bird of mischief as she was. at last she found the dagger and sprung towards it, but as i was flat on my belly i gave her a kick in the stomach, which sent her neck over crop; she got up, and in a desperate rage. i could do no more; i still held on and struggled with the schoolmaster, but he kept giving me such dreadful blows on my jaw that i was about to let go my hold, when i saw three or four armed men who came down the stairs, and m. murphy, pale as ashes, and with difficulty supporting himself with the assistance of the doctor here. they seized hold of the schoolmaster and the chouette, and soon bound them hand and foot. that was not all, i still wanted m. rodolph. i sprang at the chouette; remembering the tooth of the poor dear goualeuse, i grasped her arm and twisted it, saying, 'where is m. rodolph?' she bore it well, and silently. i took a second turn, and then she screeched out, 'at bras rouge's, in the vault at the bleeding heart!' all right! as i went, i meant to take tortillard from his cabbage-bed, as it was on my road. i looked for him, but only found my blouse,--he had gnawed his way out with his teeth. i reached the bleeding heart, and i laid hold of bras rouge. 'where is the young man who came here this evening with the schoolmaster?' 'don't squeeze so hard, and i'll tell you. they wanted to play him a trick and shut him up in my cellar; we'll go now and let him out.' we went down, but there was no one to be seen. 'he must have gone out whilst my back was turned,' says bras rouge; 'you see plain enough he is not here.' i was going away sad enough, when, by the light of the lantern, i saw at the bottom of the cellar another door. i ran towards it and opened the door, and had, as it were, a pail of water thrown at me. i saw your two poor arms in the air. i fished you out and brought you here on my back, as there was nobody at hand to get a coach. that's all my tale, m. rodolph; and i may say, without bragging, that i am satisfied with myself." "my man, i owe my life to you; it is a heavy debt, but be assured i will pay it. david, will you go and learn how murphy is," added rodolph, "and return again instantly?" the black went out. "where is the schoolmaster, my good fellow?" "in another room, with the chouette. you will send for the police, m. rodolph?" "no." "you surely will not let him go! ah, m. rodolph, none of that nonsensical generosity! i say again, he is a mad dog,--let the passengers look out!" "he will never bite again, be assured." "then you are going to shut him up somewhere?" "no; in half an hour he will leave this house." "the schoolmaster?" "yes." "without _gens-d'armes_?" "yes." "_he_ will go out from here, and free?" "free." "and quite alone?" "quite alone." "but he will go--" "wherever he likes," said rodolph, interrupting the chourineur with a meaning smile. the black returned. "well, david, well, and how is murphy?" "he sleeps, my lord," said the doctor, despondingly; "his respiration is very difficult." "not out of danger?" "his case is very critical, my lord; yet there is hope." "oh, murphy! vengeance! vengeance!" exclaimed rodolph, in a tone of concentrated rage. then he added, "david, a word--" and he whispered something in the ear of the black. he started back. "do you hesitate?" said rodolph. "yet i have often suggested this idea to you; the moment is come to put it into practice." "i do not hesitate, my lord; the suggestion is well worthy the consideration of the most elevated jurists, for this punishment is at the same time terrible and yet fruitful for repentance. in this case it is most applicable. without enumerating the crimes which have accumulated to send this wretch to the bagne for his life, he has committed three murders,--the cattle-dealer, murphy, and yourself; it is in his case justice--" "he will have before him an unlimited horizon for expiation," added rodolph. after a moment's silence he resumed: "and five thousand francs will suffice, david?" "amply, my lord." "my good fellow," said rodolph to the bewildered chourineur, "i have two words to say to m. david; will you go into that chamber on the other side, where you will see a large red pocketbook on a bureau; open it and take out five notes of a thousand francs each, and bring them to me." "and," inquired the chourineur, involuntarily, "who are those five thousand francs for?" "for the schoolmaster. and do you, at the same time, tell them to bring him in here." chapter xvii. the punishment. the scene we are about to describe took place in a room hung with red, and brilliantly lighted. rodolph, clothed in a long dressing-gown of black velvet, which increased the pallor of his features, was seated before a large table covered with a green cloth. on this table was the schoolmaster's pocketbook, the pinchbeck chain of the chouette (to which was suspended the little saint esprit of lapis lazuli), the blood-stained stiletto with which murphy had been stabbed, the crowbar with which the door had been forced, and the five notes of a thousand francs each, which the chourineur had fetched out of the next apartment. the negro doctor was seated at one side of the table, the chourineur on the other. the schoolmaster, tightly bound with cords, and unable to move a limb, was placed in a large armchair on casters, in the middle of the salon. the people who had brought in this man had withdrawn, and rodolph, the doctor, the chourineur, and the assassin were left alone. rodolph was no longer out of temper, but calm, sad, and collected; he was about to discharge a solemn, self-imposed, and important duty. the doctor was lost in meditation. the chourineur felt an indescribable fear; he could not take his eyes off rodolph. the schoolmaster's countenance was ghastly; he was in an agony of fear. the most profound silence reigned within; nothing was heard but the splash, splash of the rain without, as it fell from the roof on to the pavement. rodolph addressed the schoolmaster: "anselm duresnel, you have escaped from the bagne at rochefort, where you were condemned for life for forgery, robbery, and murder!" "it's false!" said the schoolmaster, in a hollow voice, and looking about him with his restless and glaring glance. "you are anselm duresnel, and you murdered and robbed a cattle-dealer on the road to poissy--" "it's a lie!" "you shall confess it presently." the scoundrel looked at rodolph with an air of astonishment. "this very night you came here to rob, and you have stabbed the master of this house--" "it was you who suggested this robbery!" assuming an air of assurance. "i was attacked, and i defended myself." "the man you stabbed did not attack you,--he was unarmed. true, i did suggest this robbery to you,--i'll tell you why. last night only, after having robbed a man and woman in the cité, you offered to kill me for a thousand francs--" "i heard him," said the chourineur. the schoolmaster darted at him a glance of deadliest hate. rodolph continued: "you see there was no occasion to tempt you to do mischief." "you are not my judge, and i will not answer you another question." [illustration: "_rodolph addressed the schoolmaster_" etching by mercier, after the drawing by frank t. merrill] "i'll tell you why i proposed this robbery to you. i knew you were a runaway convict,--you know the parents of the unfortunate girl, all whose misfortunes have been caused by your miserable accomplice, the chouette. i wished to draw you here by the temptation of a robbery, because this was the only temptation that could avail with you. once in my power, i leave you the choice of being handed over to the hands of justice, which will make you pay with your head the assassination of the cattle-dealer--" "it is false! i did not commit that crime." "or of being conducted out of france, under my direction, to a place of perpetual confinement, where your lot will be less painful than at the bagne; but i will only allow you this relaxation of punishment on condition that you give me the information which i desire to acquire. condemned for life, you have broken away from your confinement, and by seizing upon you and placing you hereafter beyond the possibility of doing injury, i serve society; and from your confession i may, perhaps, find the means of restoring to her family a poor creature much more unfortunate than guilty. this was my first intention,--it was not legal; but your escape and your fresh crimes forbid any such course on my part now, and place you beyond all law. yesterday, by a remarkable revelation, i discovered that you are anselm duresnel--" "it's false! i am not called duresnel." rodolph took from the table the chain of the chouette, and pointing to the little saint esprit of lapis lazuli said, in a threatening voice: "sacrilege! you have prostituted to an infamous wretch this holy relic,--thrice holy, for your infant boy had this pious gift from his mother and grandmother!" the schoolmaster, dumfounded at this discovery, lowered his head and made no response. "you carried off your child from his mother fifteen years ago, and you alone possess the secret of his existence. i had in this an additional motive for laying hands on you when i had detected who you were. i seek no revenge for what you have done to me personally, but to-night you have again shed blood without provocation. the man you have assassinated came to you in full confidence, not suspecting your sanguinary purpose. he asked you what you wanted: 'your money or your life!' and you stabbed him with your poniard." "so m. murphy said when i first came to his aid," said the doctor. "it's false! he lied!" "murphy never lies," said rodolph, calmly. "your crimes demand a striking reparation. you came into this garden forcibly; you stabbed a man that you might rob him; you have committed another murder; you ought to die on this spot; but pity, respect for your wife and son, they shall save you from the shame of a scaffold. it will be said that you were killed in a brawl with weapons in your hand. prepare, the means for your punishment are at hand." rodolph's countenance was implacable. the schoolmaster had remarked in the next room two men, armed with carbines. his name was known; he thought they were going to make away with him and bury in the shade his later crimes, and thus spare his family the new opprobrium. like his fellows, this wretch was as cowardly as he was ferocious. thinking his hour was come, he trembled, and cried "mercy!" "no mercy for you," said rodolph. "if your brains are not blown out here, the scaffold awaits you--" "i prefer the scaffold,--i shall live, at least, two or three months longer. why, why should i be punished at once? mercy! mercy!" "but your wife--your son--they bear your name--" "my name is dishonoured already. if only for eight days, let me live! in mercy do!" "not even that contempt of life which is sometimes displayed by the greatest criminals!" said rodolph, with disgust. "besides, the law forbids any one to take justice into their own hands," said the schoolmaster, with assurance. "the law! the _law!_" exclaimed rodolph. "do you dare to invoke the law? you, who have always lived in open revolt and constant enmity against society?" the ruffian bowed his head and made no answer; then added, in a more humble tone: "at least, for pity's sake, spare my life!" "will you tell me where your son is?" "yes, yes, i will tell you all i know." "will you tell me who are the parents of the young girl whose childhood the chouette made one scene of torture?" "in my pocketbook there are papers which will put you on the track of the persons who gave her to the chouette." "where is your son?" "will you let me live?" "first make a full confession." "and then, when i have told you all--" said the schoolmaster with hesitation. "you have killed him!" "no, no! i have confided him to one of my accomplices, who, when i was apprehended, effected his escape." "what did he do with him?" "he brought him up, and gave him an education which fitted him to enter into a banking-house at nantes, so that we might get information, manage an introduction to the banker, and so facilitate our plans. although at rochefort, and preparing for my escape, i arranged this plan and corresponded in cipher with my friend--" "oh, _mon dieu!_ his child! his son! this man appals me!" cried rodolph, with horror, and hiding his head between his hands. "but it was only of forgery that we thought," exclaimed the scoundrel; "and when my son was informed what was expected of him, he was indignant, told all to his employer, and quitted nantes. you will find in my pocketbook notes of all the steps taken to discover his traces. the last place we ascertained he had lived in was the rue du temple, where he was known under the name of françois germain; the exact address is also in my pocketbook. you see i do not wish to conceal anything,--i have told you everything i know. now keep your promise. i only ask you to have me taken into custody for _this_ night's robbery." "and the cattle-merchant at poissy?" "that affair can never be brought to light,--there are no proofs. i own it to _you_, in proof of the sincerity with which i am speaking, but before any other person i should deny all knowledge of the business." "you confess it, then, do you?" "i was destitute, without the smallest means of living,--the chouette instigated me to do it; but now i sincerely repent ever having listened to her. i do, indeed. ah! would you but generously save me from the hands of justice, i would promise you most solemnly to forsake all such evil practices for the future." "be satisfied, your life shall be spared; neither will i deliver you into the hands of the law." "do you, then, pardon me?" exclaimed the schoolmaster, as though doubting what he heard. "can it be? can you be so generous as to forgive?" "i both judge you and award your sentence," cried rodolph, in a solemn tone. "i will not surrender you to the power of the laws, because they would condemn you to the galleys or the scaffold; and that must not be. no, for many reasons. the galleys would but open a fresh field for the development of your brutal strength and villainy, which would soon be exercised in endeavouring to obtain domination over the guilty or unfortunate beings you would be associated with, to render yourself a fresh object of horror or of dread; for even crime has its ambition, and yours has long consisted in a preëminence in vicious deeds and monstrous vices, while your iron frame would alike defy the labours of the oar or the chastisement of those set over you. and the strongest chains may be broken, the thickest wall pierced through,--steep ramparts have been scaled before now,--and you might one day burst your yoke and be again let loose upon society, like an infuriated beast, marking your passage with murder and destruction; for none would be safe from your herculean strength, or from the sharpness of your knife; therefore such consequences must be avoided. but since the galleys might fail to stop your infamous career, how is society to be preserved from your brutal violence? the scaffold comes next in consideration--" "it is my life, then, you seek!" cried the ruffian. "my life! oh, spare it!" "peace, coward! hope not that i mean so speedy a termination to your just punishment. no; your eager craving after a wretched existence would prevent you from suffering the agony of anticipated death, and, far from dwelling upon the scaffold and the block, your guilty soul would be filled with schemes of escape and hopes of pardon; neither would you believe you were truly doomed to die till in the very grasp of the executioner; and even in that terrible moment it is probable that, brutalised by terror, you would be a mere mass of human flesh, offered up by justice as an expiatory offering to the manes of your victims. that mode of settling your long and heavy accounts will not half pay the debt. no; poor, wretched, trembling craven! we must devise a more terrific method of atonement for you. at the scaffold, i repeat, you would cling to hope while one breath remained within you; wretch that you are, you would dare to hope! you, who have denied all hope and mercy to so many unhappy beings! no, no! unless you repent, and that with all your heart, for the misdeeds of your infamous life, i would (in this world, at least) shut out from you the faintest glimmer of hope--" "what man is this? what have i ever done to injure _him_?--whence comes he thus to torture me?--where am i?" asked the schoolmaster, in almost incoherent tones, and nearly frantic with terror. rodolph continued: "if even you could meet death with a man's courage, i would not have you ascend the scaffold; for you it would be merely the arena in which, like many others, you would make a disgusting display of hardened ferocity; or, dying as you have lived, exhale your last sigh with an impious scoff or profane blasphemy. that must not be permitted. it is a bad example to set before a gazing crowd the spectacle of a condemned being making sport of the instrument of death, swaggering before the executioner, and yielding with an obscene jest the divine spark infused into man by the breath of a creating god. to punish the body is easily done; to save the soul is the great thing to be laboured for and desired. 'all sin may be forgiven,' said our blessed saviour, but from the tribunal to the scaffold the passage is too short,--time and opportunity are required to repent and make atonement; this leisure you shall have. may god grant that you turn it to the right purpose!" the schoolmaster remained utterly bewildered; for the first time in his life a vague and confused dread of something more horrible far than death itself crossed his guilty mind,--he trembled before the suggestions of his own imagination. rodolph went on: "anselm duresnel, i will not sentence you to the galleys, neither shall you die--" "then do you intend sending me to hell? or what are you going to do with me?" "listen!" said rodolph, rising from his seat with an air of menacing authority. "you have wickedly abused the great bodily strength bestowed upon you,--i will paralyse that strength; the strongest have trembled before you,--i will make you henceforward shrink in the presence of the weakest of beings. assassin! murderer! you have plunged god's creatures into eternal night; your darkness shall commence even in this life. now--this very hour--your punishment shall be proportioned to your crimes. but," added rodolph, with an accent of mournful pity, "the terrible judgment i am about to pronounce will, at least, leave the future open to your efforts for pardon and for peace. i should be guilty as you are were i, in punishing you, to seek only for vengeance, just as is my right to demand it; far from being unrelenting as death, your sentence shall bring forth good fruits for hereafter; far from destroying your soul, it shall help you to seek its salvation. if, to prevent you from further violating the commandments of your maker, i for ever deprive you of the beauties of this outer world, if i plunge you into impenetrable darkness, with no other companion than the remembrance of your crimes, it is that you may incessantly contemplate their enormity. yes, separated for ever from this external world, your thoughts must needs revert to yourself, and your vision dwell internally upon the bygone scenes of your ill-spent life; and i am not without hope that such a mental and constantly presented picture will send the blush of shame even upon your hardened features, that your soul, deadened as it now is to every good and holy impulse, will become softened and tender by repentance. your language, too, will be changed, and good and prayerful words take place of those daring and blasphemous expressions which now disgrace your lips. you are brutal and overbearing, because you are strong; you will become mild and gentle when you are deprived of that strength. now your heart scoffs at the very mention of repentance, but the day will come when, bowed to the earth with deep contrition, you will bewail your victims in dust and ashes. you have degraded the intelligence placed within you by a supreme power,--you have reduced it to the brutal instincts of rapine and murder; from a man formed after the image of his creator, you have made yourself a beast of prey: one day, as i trust and believe, that intelligence will be purified by remorse and rendered again guiltless through divine expiation. you, more inhuman than the beast which perisheth, have trampled on the tender feelings by which even animals are actuated,--you have been the destroyer of your partner and your offspring. after a long life, entirely devoted to the expiation of your crimes, you may venture to implore of the almighty the great though unmerited happiness of obtaining the pardon of your wife and son, and dying in their presence." as rodolph uttered these last words his voice trembled with emotion, and he was obliged to conclude. the schoolmaster's terrors had, during this long discourse, entirely yielded to an opinion that he was only to be subjected to a long lecture on morality, and so forth, and then discharged upon his own promise of amendment; for the many mysterious words uttered by rodolph he looked upon as mere vague expressions intended to alarm him,--nothing more. still further reassured by the mild tone in which rodolph had addressed him, the ruffian assumed his usually insolent air and manner as he said, bursting into a loud and vulgar laugh: "well done, upon my word! a very good sermon, and very well spoken! only we must recollect where we leave off in our moral catechism, that we may begin all right next lesson day. come, let us have something lively now. what do you say, master; will you guess a charade or two, just to enliven us a bit?" instead of replying, rodolph addressed the black doctor: "proceed, david! and if i do wrong, may the almighty punish me alone!" the negro rang; two men entered. david pointed to a side door, which opened into an adjoining closet. the chair in which the schoolmaster remained bound, so as to be incapable of the smallest movement, was then rolled into the anteroom. "are you going to murder me, then? mercy! mercy!" shrieked the wretched man, as he was being removed. "gag him!" cried the negro, entering the closet. rodolph and the chourineur were left alone. "m. rodolph," said the chourineur, pale and trembling, "m. rodolph, what is going to be done? i never felt so frightened. pray speak; i must be dreaming, surely. what have they done to the schoolmaster? he does not cry out,--all is so silent; it makes me more fearful still!" at this moment david issued from the cabinet; his complexion had that livid hue peculiar to the negro countenance, while his lips were ashy pale. the men who had conveyed the schoolmaster into the closet now replaced him, still bound in his chair, on the spot he had previously occupied in rodolph's presence. "unbind him, and remove the gag!" exclaimed david. there was a moment of fearful silence while the two attendants relieved the schoolmaster of his gag and untied the cords which bound him to the chair. as the last ligature gave way, he sprang up, his hideous countenance expressing rage, horror, and alarm. he advanced one step with extended hands, then, falling back into the chair, he uttered a cry of unspeakable agony, and, raising his hands towards the ceiling, exclaimed, with maddened fury: "blind, by heaven!" "give him this pocketbook, david," said rodolph. the negro placed a small pocketbook in the trembling hands of the schoolmaster. "you will find in that pocketbook wherewithal to provide yourself with a home and the means of living for the remainder of your days. go, seek out some safe and solitary dwelling, where, by humble repentance, you may seek to propitiate an offended god! you are free! go and repent; the lord is merciful, and his ears are ever open to such as truly repent." "blind! quite blind!" repeated the schoolmaster, mechanically grasping the pocketbook. "open the doors,--let him depart!" said rodolph. "blind! blind!" repeated the bewildered and discomfited ruffian. "you are free; you have the means of providing for yourself; begone!" "and whither am i to go?" exclaimed he, with the most unbounded rage. "you have taken away my sight; how, then, do i know in which direction to go? call you not this a crime thus to abuse your power over one unhappily in your hands? thus to--" "to abuse my power!" repeated rodolph, in a solemn voice. "and how have you employed the power granted to you? how used _your_ superior strength?" "o death! how gladly would i now accept you!" cried the wretched man. "to be henceforward at every one's mercy,--to fear the weakest, the smallest object!--a child might now master me! gracious god! what will become of me?" "you have plenty of money." "it will be taken from me!" cried the ruffian. "mark those words,--'it will be taken from me!' see how they fill you with fear and dread! you have plundered so many, unmindful of their helpless, destitute condition,--begone!" "for the love of god," cried the schoolmaster, in a suppliant tone, "let some person lead me forth! what will become of me in the streets? oh, in mercy kill me! take my miserable life! but do not turn me out thus wretched, thus helpless! kill, for pity's sake, and save me from being crushed beneath the first vehicle i encounter!" "no! live and repent." "repent!" shouted the schoolmaster, in a fearful voice. "never! i will live for vengeance,--for deep and fearful vengeance!" and again he threw himself from the chair, holding his clenched fists in a menacing attitude towards the ceiling, as though calling upon heaven to witness the fixedness of his resolve. in an instant his step faltered; he again hesitated, as though fearful of a thousand dangers. "alas! alas! i cannot proceed,--i dare not move! and i, lately so strong and so dreaded by all,--look at me now! yet no one pities me,--no one cares for me,--no hand is stretched out to help the wretched blind upon his lonely way!" it is impossible to express the stupefaction and alarm expressed by the countenance of the chourineur during this terrible scene. his rough features exhibited the deepest compassion for his fallen foe, and approaching rodolph, he said, in a low tone: "m. rodolph, he was an accomplished villain, and has only got what he richly deserves; he wanted to murder me a little while ago, too. but he is now blind,--he does not even know how to find his way out of the house, and he may be crushed to death in the streets; may i lead him to some safe place, where, at least, he may remain quiet for a time?" "nobly said!" replied rodolph, kindly pressing the hand of the chourineur. "go, my worthy fellow! go with him, by all means!" the chourineur approached the schoolmaster and laid his hand on his shoulder; the miserable villain started. "who touches me?" asked he, in a husky voice. "it is i." "i? who? who are you,--friend or foe?" "the chourineur." "and you have come to avenge yourself now you find i am incapable of protecting myself, i suppose?" "nothing of the sort. here, take my arm; you cannot find the way out by yourself; let me lead you--there--" "you, chourineur? you!" "yes, for all you doubt it; but you vex me by not seeming to like my help. come, hold tight by me; i will see you all right before i leave you." "are you quite sure you do not mean me some harm? that you are only laying a trap to ensnare me?" "i am not such a scoundrel as to take advantage of your misfortune. but let us begone. come on, old fellow; it will be daylight directly." "day! which i shall never more behold! day and night to me are henceforward all the same!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, in such piteous tones that rodolph, unable longer to endure this scene, abruptly retired, followed by david, who first dismissed his two assistants. the chourineur and the schoolmaster remained alone. after a lengthened silence the latter spoke first, by inquiring whether it were really true that the pocketbook presented to him contained money. "yes, i can positively speak to its containing five thousand francs," replied the chourineur, "since i put them in it with my own hand. with that sum you could easily place yourself to board with some quiet, good sort of people, who would look to you,--in some retired spot in the country, where you might pass your days happily. or would you like me to take you to the ogress's?" "she! she would not leave me a rap." "well, then, will you go to bras rouge?" "no, no! he would poison me first and rob me afterwards." "well, then, where shall i take you?" "i know not. happily for both, you are no thief, chourineur. here, take my pocketbook, and conceal it carefully in my waistcoat, that la chouette may not see it; she would plunder me of every sou." "oh, bless you! the chouette is quite safe just now; she lies in the hôpital beaujon. while i was struggling with you both to-night i happened to dislocate her leg, so she's obliged to lie up for the present." "but what, in heaven's name, shall i do with this black curtain continually before my eyes? in vain i try to push it away; it is still there, fixed, immovable; and on its surface i see the pale, ghastly features of those--" he shuddered, and said in a low, hoarse voice, "chourineur, did i quite do for that man last night?" "no." "so much the better," observed the robber. and then, after some minutes' silence, he exclaimed, under a fresh impulse of ungovernable fury, "and it is you i have to thank for all this! rascal! scoundrel! i hate you! but for you, i should have 'stiffened' my man and walked off with his money. my very blindness i owe to you; my curses upon you for your meddling interference! but through you i should have had my blessed eyes to see my own way with. how do i know what devil's trick you are planning at this moment?" "try to forget all that is past,--it can't be helped now; and do not put yourself in such a terrible way,--it is really very bad for you. come, come along--now, no nonsense--will you? yes or no?--because i am regularly done up, and must get a short snooze somewhere. i can tell you i have had a bellyful of such doings, and to-morrow i shall get back to my timber-pile, and earn an honest dinner before i eat it. i am only waiting to take you wherever you decide upon going, and then on goes my nightcap and i goes to sleep." "but how can i tell you where to take me, when i do not know myself? my lodging--no, no, that will not do; i should be obliged to tell--" "well, then, hark ye. will you, for a day or two, make shift with my crib? i may meet with some decent sort of people, who, not knowing who you really are, would receive you as a boarder; and we might say you were a confirmed invalid, and required great care and perfect retirement. now i think of it, there is a person of my acquaintance, living at port st. nicolas, has a mother, a very worthy woman, but in humble circumstances, residing at st. mandé: very likely she would be glad to take charge of you. what do you say,--will you come or not?" "one may trust you, chourineur. i am not at all fearful of going, money and all, to your place; happily you have kept yourself honest, amidst all the evil example others have set you." "ay, and even bore the taunts and jests you used to heap upon me, because i would not turn prig like yourself." "alas! who could foresee?" "now, you see, if i had listened to you, instead of trying to be of real service to you, i should clean you out of all your cash." "true, true. but you are a downright good fellow, and have neither malice nor hatred in your heart," said the unhappy schoolmaster, in a tone of deep dejection and humility. "you are a vast deal better to me than, i fear, i should have been to you under the same circumstances." "i believe you, too. why, m. rodolph himself told me i had both heart and honour." "but who the devil is this m. rodolph?" exclaimed the schoolmaster, breaking out fresh at the mention of his name. "he is not a man; he is a monster,--a fiend,--a--" "hold, hold!" cried the chourineur. "now you are going to have another fit, which is bad for you and very disagreeable to me, because it makes you abuse my friends. come, are you ready? shall we set forth on our journey?" "we are going to your lodging, are we not, chourineur?" "yes, yes, if you are agreeable." "and you swear to me that you bear me no ill-will for the events of the last twelve hours?" "swear it? of course i swear it. why, i have no ill-will against you nor anybody." "and you are certain that he (the man, i mean) is not dead?" "i am as sure of it as that i am living myself." "that will at least give me one crime the less to answer for. if they only knew--and that little old man of the rue du roule--and that woman of the canal st. martin--but it is useless thinking of all those things now; i have enough to occupy my thoughts without trying to recall past misfortunes. blind! blind!" repeated the miserable wretch, as, leaning on the arm of the chourineur, he slowly took his departure from the house in the allée des veuves. chapter xviii. the isle-adam. a month has elapsed since the occurrence of the events we have just narrated. we now conduct the reader into the little town of the isle-adam, situated in a delightful locality on the banks of the oise, and at the foot of a forest. the least things become great events in the country; and so the idlers of isle-adam, who were on the morning before us walking in the square before the church, were very anxiously bestirring themselves to learn when the individual would arrive who had recently become the purchaser of the most eligible premises for a butcher in that town, and which were exactly opposite to the church. one of those idlers, more inquisitive than his companions, went and asked the butcher-boy, who, with a merry face and active hands, was very busy in completing the arrangements of the shop. this lad replied that he did not know who was the new proprietor, for he had bought the property through an agent. at this moment two persons, who had come from paris in a cabriolet, alighted at the door of the shop. the one was murphy, quite cured of his wound, and the other the chourineur. at the risk of repeating a vulgar saying, we will assert that the impression produced by dress is so powerful, that the guest of the "cribs" of the cité was hardly to be recognised in his present attire. his countenance had undergone the same change; he had put off, with his rags, his savage, coarse, and vulgar air; and to see him walk with both his hands in the pockets of his long and warm coat of dark broadcloth, he might have been taken for one of the most inoffensive citizens in the world. "'faith, my fine fellow, the way was long and the cold excessive; were they not?" "why, i really did not perceive it, m. murphy; i am too happy, and joy keeps one warm. besides, when i say happy, why--" "what?" "yesterday you came to seek for me at the port st. nicolas, where i was unloading as hard as i could to keep myself warm. i had not seen you since the night when the white-haired negro had put out the schoolmaster's eyes. by jove! it quite shook me, that affair did. and m. rodolph, what a countenance!--he who looked so mild and gentle! i was quite frightened at that moment; i was, indeed--" "well, what then?" "you said to me, 'good day, chourineur.' 'good day, m. murphy,' says i. 'what, you are up again, i see! so much the better,--so much the better. and m. rodolph?' 'he was obliged to leave paris some days after the affair of the allée des veuves, and he forgot you, my man.' 'well, m. murphy, i can only say that if m. rodolph has forgotten me, why--i shall be very sorry for it, that's all.' 'i meant to say, my good fellow, that he had forgotten to recompense your services, but that he should always remember them.' so, m. murphy, those words cheered me up again directly. _tonnerre!_ i--i shall never forget him. he told me i had heart and honour,--that's enough." "unfortunately, my lad, monseigneur left without giving any orders about you. i have nothing but what monseigneur gives me, and i am unable to repay as i could wish all that i owe you personally." "come, come, m. murphy, you are jesting with me." "but why the devil did you not come back again to the allée des veuves after that fatal night? then monseigneur would not have left without thinking of you." "why, m. rodolph did not tell me to do so, and i thought that perhaps he had no further occasion for me." "but you might have supposed that he would, at least, desire to express his gratitude to you." "did you not tell me that m. rodolph has not forgotten me, m. murphy?" "well, well, don't let us say another word about it; only i have had a great deal of trouble to find you out. you do not now go to the ogress's?" "no." "why not?" "oh, from some foolish notions i have had." "very well. but to return to what you were telling me--" "to what, m. murphy?" "you told me, i am glad i have found you, and still happy, perhaps--" "oh, yes, m. murphy! why, you see, when you came to where i was at work at the timber-yard, you said, 'my lad, i am not rich, but i can procure you a situation where your work will be easier than on the quai, and where you will gain four francs a day.' four francs a day! vive la charte! i could not believe it; 'twas the pay of an adjutant sub-officer! i replied, 'that's the very thing for me, m. murphy!' but you said then that i must not look so like a beggar, as that would frighten the employer to whom you would take me. i answered, 'i have not the means of dressing otherwise.' you said to me, 'come to the temple.' i followed you. i chose the most spicy attire that mother hubart had,--you advanced me the money to pay her,--and in a quarter of an hour i was as smart as a landlord or a dentist. you appointed me to meet you this morning at the porte st. denis, at daybreak; i found you there in a cab, and here we are." "well, do you find anything to regret in all this?" "why, i'll tell you, m. murphy. you see, to be dressed in this way spoils a fellow; and so, you see, when i put on again my old smock-frock and trousers, i sha'n't like it. and then, to gain four francs a day,--i, who never earned but two,--and that all at once! why, i seem to have made too great a start all of a sudden, and that it cannot last. i would rather sleep all my life on the wretched straw bed in my cock-loft, than sleep five or six nights only in a good bed. that's my view of the thing." "and you are by no means peculiar in your view; but the best thing is to sleep always in a good bed." "and no mistake; it is better to have a bellyful of victuals every day than to starve with hunger. ah! here is a butchery here," said the chourineur, as he listened to the blows of the chopper which the boy was using, and observed the quarters of beef through the curtains. "yes, my lad; it belongs to a friend of mine. would you like to see it whilst the horse just recovers his wind?" "i really should, for it reminds me of my boyish days, if it was only when i had montfauçon for a slaughter-house and broken-down horses for cattle. it is droll, but if i had the means, a butcher's is the trade in which i should set up, for i like it. to go on a good nag to buy cattle at fairs,--to return home to one's own fireside, to warm yourself if cold, or dry yourself if wet,--to find your housekeeper, or a good, jolly, plump wife, cheerful and pleasant, with a parcel of children to feel in your pockets to see if you have brought them home anything! and then, in the morning, in the slaughter-house, to seize an ox by the horns, particularly when he's fierce,--_nom de nom!_ he must be fierce!--then to put on the ring, to cleave him down, cut him up, dress him,--_tonnerre!_ that would have been my ambition, as it was the goualeuse's to suck barley-sugar when she was a little 'un. by the way, that poor girl, m. murphy,--not seeing her any more at the ogress's, i supposed that m. rodolph had taken her away from there. that's a good action, m. murphy. poor child! she never liked to do wrong,--she was so young! and then the habit! ah, m. rodolph has behaved quite right!" "i am of your opinion. but will you come into the shop until our horse has rested awhile?" the chourineur and murphy entered the shop, and then went to see the yard, where three splendid oxen and a score of sheep were fastened up; they then visited the stable, the chaise-house, the slaughter-house, the lofts, and the out-buildings of the house, which were all in excellent order, and kept with a cleanliness and care which bespoke regularity and easy circumstances. when they had seen all but the up-stairs, murphy said: "you must own that my friend is a lucky fellow. this house and property are his, without counting a thousand crowns in hand to carry on his business with; and he is, besides, only thirty-eight, strong as a bull, with an iron constitution, and very fond of his business. the industrious and civil journeyman that you saw in the shop supplies his place, with much capability, when he goes to the fairs to purchase cattle. i say again, is he not a lucky fellow?" "he is, indeed, m. murphy. but, you see, there are lucky and unlucky people; and when i think that i am going to gain four francs a day, and know how many there are who only earn the half, or even less--" "will you come up and see the rest of the house?" "with all my heart, m. murphy." "the person who is about to employ you is up-stairs." "the person who is going to employ me?" "yes." "why, then, didn't you tell me that before?" "i'll tell you--" "one moment," said the chourineur, with a downcast and embarrassed air, taking murphy by the arm; "listen whilst i say a word to you, which perhaps m. rodolph did not tell you, but which i ought not to conceal from the master who employs me, because, if he is offended by it--why then, you see--why, afterwards--" "what do you mean to say?" "i mean to say--" "well, what?" "that i am a convict, who has served his time,--that i have been at the bagne," said chourineur, in a low voice. "indeed!" replied murphy. "but i never did wrong to any one," exclaimed the chourineur; "and i would sooner die of hunger than rob; but i have done worse than rob," he added, bending his head down; "i have killed my fellow creature in a passion. but that is not all," he continued, after a moment's pause. "i will tell everything to my employer; i would rather be refused at first than detected afterwards. you know him, and if you think he would refuse me, why, spare me the refusal, and i will go as i came." "come along with me," said murphy. the chourineur followed murphy up the staircase; a door opened, and they were both in the presence of rodolph. "my good murphy," said he, "leave us together awhile." chapter xix. recompense. "vive la charte!" cried the chourineur. "how precious glad i am to see you again, m. rodolph--or, rather, my lord!" "good day, my excellent friend. i am equally glad to see you." "oh, what a joker m. murphy is! he told me you had gone away. but stay, my lord--" "call me m. rodolph; i like that best." "well, then, m. rodolph, i have to ask your pardon for not having been to see you after the night with the schoolmaster. i see now that i was guilty of a great rudeness; but i do not suppose that you had any desire to see me?" "i forgive you," said rodolph, smiling; and then added, "murphy has shown you all over the house?" "yes, m. rodolph; and a fine house and fine shop it is,--all so neat and so comfortable! talking of comfortable, i am the man that will be so, m. rodolph! m. murphy is going to put me in the way of earning four francs a day,--yes, four francs a day!" "i have something better than that to propose to you, my good fellow." "better! it's unpolite to contradict you, but i think that would be difficult. four francs a day!" "i tell you i have something better: for this house, all that it contains, the shop, and a thousand crowns which are in this pocketbook,--all are yours." the chourineur smiled with a stupid air, flattened his long-napped hat between his knees, and squeezed it convulsively, evidently not understanding what rodolph said to him, although his language was plain enough. rodolph, with much kindness, said to him: "i can imagine your surprise; but i again repeat, this house and this money are yours,--they are your property." the chourineur became purple, passed his horny hand over his brow, which was bathed with perspiration, and stammered out, in a faltering voice: "what!--eh!--that is--indeed--my property!" "yes, your property; for i bestow it all upon you. do you understand? i give it to you." the chourineur rocked backwards and forwards on his chair, scratched his head, coughed, looked down on the ground, and made no reply. he felt that the thread of his ideas had escaped him. he heard quite well what rodolph said to him, and that was the very reason he could not credit what he heard. between the depth of misery, the degradation in which he had always existed, and the position in which rodolph now placed him, there was an abyss so wide that the service he had rendered to rodolph, important as it was, could not fill it up. "does what i give you, then, seem beyond your hopes?" inquired rodolph. "my lord," said the chourineur, starting up suddenly, "you offer me this house and a great deal of money,--to tempt me; but i cannot take them; i never robbed in my life. it is, perhaps, to kill; but i have too often dreamed of the sergeant," added he, in a hoarse tone. "oh, the unfortunate!" exclaimed rodolph, with bitterness. "the compassion evinced for them is so rare, that they can only explain liberality as a temptation to crime!" then addressing the chourineur, in a voice full of gentleness: "you judge me wrong,--you mistake: i shall require from you nothing but what is honourable. what i give you, i give because you have deserved it." "i," said the chourineur, whose embarrassments recommenced, "i deserve it! how?" "i will tell you. abandoned from your infancy, without any knowledge of right or wrong, left to your natural instinct, shut up for fifteen years in the bagne with the most desperate villains, assailed by want and wretchedness, compelled by your own disgrace, and the opinion of honest men, to continue to haunt the low dens infested by the vilest malefactors, you have not only remained honest, but remorse for your crime has outlived the expiation which human justice had inflicted upon you." this simple and noble language was a new source of astonishment for the chourineur; he contemplated rodolph with respect, mingled with fear and gratitude, but was still unable to convince himself that all he heard was reality. "what, m. rodolph, because you beat me, because, thinking you a workman, like myself, because you spoke 'slang' as if you had learned it from the cradle, i told you my history over two bottles of wine, and afterwards i saved you from being drowned,--you give me a house--money--i shall be master! say really, m. rodolph, once more, is it possible?" "believing me like yourself, you told me your history naturally and without concealment, without withholding either what was culpable or generous. i have judged you, and judged you well, and i have resolved to recompense you." "but, m. rodolph, it ought not to be; there are poor labourers who have been honest all their lives, and who--" "i know it, and it may be i have done for many others more than i am doing for you; but, if the man who lives honestly in the midst of honest men, encouraged by their esteem, deserves assistance and support, he who, in spite of the aversion of good men, remains honest amidst the most infamous associates on earth,--he, too, deserves assistance and support. this is not all; you saved my life, you saved the life of murphy, the dearest friend i have; and what i do for you is as much the dictate of personal gratitude as it is the desire to withdraw from pollution a good and generous nature, which has been perverted, but not destroyed. and that is not all." "what else have i done, m. rodolph?" rodolph took his hand, and, shaking it heartily, said: "filled with commiseration for the mischief which had befallen the very man who had tried just before to kill you, you even gave him an asylum in your humble dwelling,--no. , close to notre dame." "you knew, then, where i lived, m. rodolph?" "if you forget the services you have done to me, i do not. when you left my house you were followed, and were seen to enter there with the schoolmaster." "but m. murphy told me that you did not know where i lived, m. rodolph." "i was desirous of trying you still further; i wished to know if you had disinterestedness in your generosity, and i found that, after your courageous conduct, you returned to your hard daily labour, asking nothing, hoping for nothing, not even uttering a word of reproach for the apparent ingratitude with which i repaid your services; and when murphy yesterday proposed to you employment a little more profitable than that of your habitual toil, you accepted it with joy, with gratitude." "why, m. rodolph, do you see, sir, four francs a day are always four francs a day. as to the service i rendered you, why, it is rather i who ought to thank you." "how so?" "yes, yes, m. rodolph," he added, with a saddened air, "i do not forget that, since i knew you, it was you who said to me those two words,'you have both heart and honour!' it is astonishing how i have thought of that. they are only two little words, and yet those two words had that effect. but, in truth, sow two small grains of anything in the soil, and they will put forth shoots." this comparison, just and almost poetical as it was, struck rodolph. in sooth, two words, but two magic words for the heart that understood them, had almost suddenly developed the generous instincts which were inherent in this energetic nature. "you placed the schoolmaster at st. mandé?" said rodolph. "yes, m. rodolph. he made me change his notes for gold, and buy a belt, which i sewed round his body, and in which i put his 'mopuses;' and then, good day! he boards for thirty sous a day with good people, to whom that sum is of much service. when i have time to leave my wood-piles, i shall go and see how he gets on." "your wood-piles! you forget your shop, and that you are here at home!" "come, m. rodolph, do not amuse yourself by jesting with a poor devil like me; you have had your fun in 'proving' me, as you term it. my house and my shop are songs to the same tune. you said to yourself,'let us see if this chourineur is such a gulpin as to believe that i will make him such a present.' enough, enough, m. rodolph; you are a wag, and there's an end of the matter." and he laughed long, loud, and heartily. "but, once more, believe--" "if i were to believe you, then you would say, 'poor chourineur! go! you are a trouble to me now.'" rodolph began to be really troubled how to convince the chourineur, and said in a solemn, impressive, and almost severe tone: "i never make sport of the gratitude and sympathy with which noble conduct inspires me. i have said this house and this establishment are yours, if they suit you, for the bargain is conditional. i swear to you, on my honour, all this belongs to you; and i make you a present of it, for the reasons i have already given." the dignified and firm tone, and the serious expression of the features of rodolph, at length convinced the chourineur. for some moments he looked at his protector in silence, and then said, in a voice of deep emotion: "i believe you, my lord, and i thank you much. a poor man like me cannot make fine speeches, but once more, indeed, on my word, i thank you very much. all i can say is, that i will never refuse assistance to the unhappy; because hunger and misery are ogresses of the same sort as those who laid hands on the poor goualeuse; and, once in that sink, it is not every one that has the fist strong enough to pull you out again." "my worthy fellow, you cannot prove your gratitude more than in speaking to me thus." "so much the better, my lord; for else i should have a hard job to prove it." "come, now, let us visit your house; my good old murphy has had the pleasure, and i should like it also." rodolph and the chourineur came down-stairs. at the moment they reached the yard, the shopman, addressing the chourineur, said to him, respectfully: "since you, sir, are to be my master, i beg to tell you that our custom is capital. we have no more cutlets or legs of mutton left, and we must kill a sheep or two directly." "_parbleu!_" said rodolph to the chourineur; "here is a capital opportunity for exercising your skill. i should like to have the first sample,--the open air has given me an appetite, and i will taste your cutlets." "you are very kind, m. rodolph," said the chourineur, in a cheerful voice; "you flatter me, but i will do my best." "shall i bring two sheep to the slaughter-house, master?" asked the journeyman. "yes; and bring a well-sharpened knife, not too thin in the blade, and strong in the back." "i have just what you want, master. there, you could shave with it. take it--" "_tonnerre_, m. rodolph!" said the chourineur, taking off his upper coat with haste, and turning up his shirtsleeves, which displayed a pair of arms like a prize-fighter's; "this reminds me of my boyish days and the slaughter-house. you shall see how i handle a knife! _nom de nom!_ i wish i was at it. the knife, lad! the knife! that's it; i see you know your trade. this is a blade! who will have it? _tonnerre!_ with a tool like this i could face a wild bull." and the chourineur brandished his knife,--his eyes began to fill with blood; the beast was regaining the mastery; the instinct and thirst for blood reappeared in all the fullness of their fearful predominance. the butchery was in the yard,--a vaulted, dark place, paved with stones, and lighted by a small, narrow opening at the top. the man drove one of the sheep to the door. "shall i fasten him to the ring, master?" "fasten him! _tonnerre!_ and i with my knees at liberty? oh, no; i will hold him here as fast as if in a vice. give me the beast, and go back to the shop." the journeyman obeyed. rodolph was left alone with the chourineur, and watched him attentively, almost anxiously. "now, then, to work!" said he. "oh, i sha'n't be long. _tonnerre!_ you shall see how i handle a knife! my hands burn, and i have a singing in my ears; my temples beat, as they used when i was going to 'see red.' come here, thou--ah, _madelon!_ let me stab you dead!" then his eyes sparkled with a fierce delight, and, no longer conscious of the presence of rodolph, the chourineur lifted the sheep without an effort; with one spring he carried it off as a wolf would do, bounding towards his lair with his prey. rodolph followed him, and leaned on one of the wings of the door, which he closed. the butchery was dark; one strong ray of light, falling straight down, lighted up, _à la rembrandt_, the rugged features of the chourineur, his light hair, and his red whiskers. stooping low, holding in his teeth a long knife, which glittered in the "darkness visible," he drew the sheep between his legs, and, when he had adjusted it, took it by the head, stretched out its neck, and cut its throat. at the instant when the sheep felt the keen blade, it gave one gentle, low, and pitiful bleat, and, raising its dying eyes to the chourineur, two spurts of blood jetted forth into the face of its slayer. the cry, the look, the blood that spouted out, made a fearful impression on the man. his knife fell from his hands; his features grew livid, contracted, and horrible, beneath the blood that covered them; his eyes expanded, his hair stiffened; and then retreating, with a gesture of horror, he cried, in a suffocating voice, "oh, the sergeant! the sergeant!" rodolph hastened to him: "recover yourself, my good fellow!" "there! there! the sergeant!" repeated the chourineur, retreating step by step, with his eyes fixed and haggard, and pointing with his finger as if at some invisible phantom. then uttering a fearful cry, as if the spectre had touched him, he rushed to the bottom of the butchery, into the darkest corner; and there, with his face, breast, and arms against the wall, as if he would break through it to escape from so horrible a vision, he repeated, in a hollow and convulsive tone, "oh, the sergeant! the sergeant! the sergeant!" chapter xx. the departure. thanks to the care of murphy and rodolph, who with difficulty calmed his agitation, the chourineur was completely restored to himself, and was alone with the prince in one of the rooms on the first floor in the house. "my lord," said he, despondingly, "you have been very kind, indeed, to me; but, hear me: i would rather be a thousand times more wretched than i have yet been than become a butcher." "yet reflect a little." "why, my lord, when i heard the cry of the poor animal which could not make the slightest resistance; when i felt its blood spring into my face,--hot blood, which seemed as coming from a living thing; you cannot imagine what i felt; then i had my dream all over again,--the sergeant and those poor young fellows whom i cut and stabbed, who made no defence, and died giving me a look so gentle, so gentle that they seemed as if they pitied me! my lord, it would drive me mad!" and the poor fellow hid his face in his hands with a convulsive start. "come, come, calm yourself." "excuse me, my lord; but just now the sight of blood--of a knife--i could not bear; at every instant it would renew those dreams which i was beginning to forget. to have every day my hands and feet in blood, to cut the throats of poor animals who do not so much as make a struggle--oh, no, no! i could not for the world. i would rather lose my eyesight at once, like the schoolmaster, than be compelled to follow such a business." it is impossible to depict the energetic gesture, action, and countenance of the chourineur, as he thus expressed himself. rodolph was deeply affected by it, and satisfied with the horrible effect which the sight of the blood had caused to his protégé. for a moment the savage feeling, the bloodthirsty instinct, had overcome the human being in the chourineur; but remorse eventually overwhelmed the instinct. that was as it should be, and it was a fine lesson. "forgive me, my lord," said the chourineur, in a faltering voice; "i make but a bad recompense for all your kindness to me, but--" "not at all, my good fellow; i told you that our bargain was conditional. i selected for you the business of a butcher, because your inclinations and taste seemed to lie in that direction--" "alas! my lord, that's true; and, had it not been for what you know of, that would have been the trade of all others i should have chosen. i was only saying so to m. murphy a little while since." "as it was just possible that your taste did not lie that way, i have thought of another arrangement for you. a person who has a large tract of property at algiers will give me up, for you, one of the extensive farms he holds in that country. the lands belonging to it are very fertile, and in full bearing; but i will not conceal from you, this estate is situated on the boundaries of the atlas mountains,--that is, near the outposts, and exposed to the frequent attacks of the arabs, and one must be as much of a soldier as a husbandman: it is, at the same time, a redoubt and a farm. the man who occupies this dwelling in the absence of the proprietor will explain everything to you; they say he is honest and faithful, and you may retain him there as long as you like. once established there, you will not only increase your means by your labour and ability, but render a real service to your country by your courage. the colonists have formed a militia, and the extent of your property, the number of your tenants who will depend on you, will make you the chief of a very considerable troop. headed by your courage, this band may be extremely useful in protecting the properties which are throughout the plain. i repeat to you, that this prospect for you would please me very much, in spite of, or, rather, in consequence of the danger; because you could at the same time display your natural intrepidity; and because, having thus expiated, and, as i may say, ransomed yourself from a great crime, your restitution to society would be more noble, more complete, more heroic, if it were worked out, in the midst of perils in an unconquered clime, than in the midst of the quiet inhabitants of a little town. if i did not first offer you this, it was because it was probable that the other would suit you, and the latter is so hazardous that i would not expose you to it without giving you the choice. there is still time, and, if this proposition for algiers does not suit you, tell me so frankly, and we will look out for something else; if not, to-morrow everything shall be signed, and you will start for algiers with a person commissioned by the former proprietor of the farm to put you in full possession. two years' rent will be due, and paid to you on your arrival. the land yields three thousand francs a year: work, improve it, be active, vigilant, and you will soon increase your comfort and the security of the colonists, whom you will aid and assist i am sure, for you will always be charitable and generous; and remember, too, to be rich implies that we should give much away. although separated from you, i shall not lose sight of you, and never forget that i and my best friend owe our lives to you. the only proof of attachment and gratitude i ask, is to learn to write and read as quickly as you can, that you may inform me regularly, once a week, what you do, and to address yourself to me direct if you need any advice or assistance." it is useless to describe the extreme delight of the chourineur. his disposition, his instincts, are already sufficiently known to the reader, so that he may understand that no proposal could have been made more acceptable to him. next day all was arranged, and the chourineur set out for algiers. chapter xxi. researches. the house which rodolph had in the allée des veuves was not his usual place of residence; he lived in one of the largest mansions in the faubourg st. germain, situated at the end of the rue plumet and the boulevard des invalides. to avoid the honours due to his sovereign rank, the prince had preserved his incognito since his arrival in paris, his _chargé d'affaires_ at the court of france having announced that his master would pay his official and indispensable visits under the name and title of the count de duren. thanks to this usage (a very common one in the northern courts), a prince may travel with as much liberty as pleasure, and escape all the bore of ceremonious introductions. in spite of his slight incognito, rodolph kept up in his mansion full state and etiquette. we will introduce the reader into the hôtel of the rue plumet, the day after the chourineur had started for algiers. the clock had just struck ten, a.m. in the middle of a large salon on the ground floor and which formed the antechamber to rodolph's business chamber, murphy was seated before a bureau, and sealing several despatches. a groom of the chambers, dressed in black and wearing a silver chain around his neck, opened the folding-doors and announced: "his excellency m. le baron de graün." murphy, without ceasing from his employment, received the baron with a nod at once cordial and familiar. "m. le chargé d'affaires," said he, smiling, "will you warm yourself at the fire? i will be at your service in one moment." "m. the private secretary, i await your leisure," replied m. de graün, gaily, and making, with mock respect, a low and respectful bow to the worthy squire. the baron was about fifty years of age, with hair gray, thin, and lightly curled and powdered. his chin, rather projecting, was partly concealed in a high cravat of white muslin, starched very stiffly, and of unimpeachable whiteness. his countenance was expressive of great intelligence, and his carriage was _distingué_; whilst beneath his gold spectacles there beamed an eye as shrewd as it was penetrating. although it was only ten o'clock in the morning, m. de graün wore a black coat,--that was etiquette,--and a riband, shot with several bright colours, was suspended from his buttonhole. he placed his hat on a chair and took his station near the fireplace, whilst murphy continued his work. "his royal highness, no doubt, was up the best part of the night, my dear murphy, for your correspondence appears considerable?" "monseigneur went to bed at six o'clock this morning. he wrote, amongst other letters, one of eight pages to the grand marshal, and dictated to me one equally long to the chief of the upper council, the prince herkhaüsen-oldenzaal, his royal highness's cousin." "you know that his son, prince henry, has entered as lieutenant in the guards in the service of his majesty the emperor of austria?" "yes; monseigneur recommended him most warmly as his relation; and he really is a fine, excellent young man, handsome as an angel, and as good as gold." "the fact is, my dear murphy, that if the young prince henry had had his _entrée_ to the grand ducal abbey of ste. hermenegilde, of which his aunt is the superior, the poor nuns--" "baron! baron! why--" "my dear sir, the air of paris--but let us talk seriously. shall i await the rising of his royal highness to communicate all the particulars which i have procured?" "no, my dear baron. monseigneur has desired that he should not be called before two or three o'clock in the afternoon; he desires, also, that you send off this morning these despatches by a special courier, instead of waiting till monday. you will entrust me with all the particulars you have acquired, and i will communicate them to monseigneur when he wakes. these are his orders." "nothing can be better, and i think his royal highness will be satisfied with what i have collected. but, my dear murphy, i hope the despatch of the special courier is not a bad sign; the last despatches which i had the honour of sending to his royal highness--" "announced that all was going on well at home; and it is precisely because my lord is desirous of expressing as early as possible his entire satisfaction, that he wishes a courier to be despatched this very day to prince herkhaüsen-oldenzaal, chief of the supreme council." "that is so like his royal highness; were it to blame instead of commend, he would observe less haste." "nothing new has transpired with us, my dear baron,--nothing at all. our mysterious adventures--" "are wholly unknown. you know that, since the arrival of his royal highness in paris, his friends have become used to see him but little in public; it is understood that he prefers seclusion, and is in the habit of making frequent excursions to the environs of paris, and, with the exception of the countess sarah macgregor and her brother, no person is aware of the disguises assumed by his royal highness; and neither of the personages i have mentioned have the smallest interest in betraying the secret." "ah! my dear baron," exclaimed murphy, heaving a deep sigh, "what an unfortunate thing it is that this accursed countess should be left a widow at this very important moment!" "she was married, i think, in or ?" "in , shortly after the death of the unfortunate child, who would now be in her sixteenth or seventeenth year, and whose loss his royal highness seems daily more to deplore." "far more so, indeed, than he appears to feel for the loss of his legitimate offspring." "and thus, my dear baron, we may account for the deep interest his royal highness takes in the poor goualeuse, arising as it does from the fact that the daughter so deeply deplored would, had she lived, have been precisely the same age as this unfortunate young creature." "it is, indeed, an unfortunate affair that the countess sarah, from whom we fancied we were for ever freed, should have become a widow exactly eighteen months after his royal highness had been deprived by death of the wife with whom he had passed years of wedded happiness. the countess, i am persuaded, looks upon this double freedom from all marriage vows as a signal intervention of providence to further her views." "and her impetuous passion has become more ardent than ever, though she is well aware that my lord feels for her the deepest aversion and well-merited contempt. was not her culpable indifference the cause of her child's death? did she not cause--ah, baron," said murphy, leaving the sentence unfinished, "this woman is our evil genius. god grant she may not reappear amongst us laden with fresh misfortunes!" "but still, under present circumstances, any views countess sarah may entertain must be absurd in the greatest degree; the death of the unfortunate child you just now alluded to has broken the last tie which might have attached my lord to this dangerous woman. she must be mad, as well as foolish, to persist in so hopeless a pursuit." "if she be mad, there is a dangerous 'method in her madness;' her brother, you are aware, partakes of her ambitious schemes and obstinate opinions of ultimate success. although this worthy pair have as much reason for utter despair as they had eighteen years since of entire success--" "eighteen years! what an accumulation of evil has been wrought during that period by the criminal compliance of that rascally polidori!" "by the way, talking of that miserable wretch, i have traced that he was here about a year or two ago, suffering, no doubt, from the most perfect destitution, or else subsisting by disgraceful and dishonourable practices." "what a pity that a man so largely endowed with penetration, talent, deep learning, and natural intelligence, should sink so low!" "the innate perversity of his character marred all these high qualities. it is to be hoped he and the countess will not meet; the junction of two such evil spirits is indeed to be feared, for what frightful consequences might there not result from it! now, touching the facts you have been collecting, have you them about you?" "here," said the baron, drawing a paper from his pocket, "are the various particulars i have been enabled to collect touching the birth of a young girl known as la goualeuse, and also of the now residence of an individual called françois germain, son of the schoolmaster." "be kind enough to read me the result of your inquiries, my dear de graün. i am well aware what are his royal highness's intentions in the matter; i shall be able to judge then whether the information you possess will be sufficient to enable him to carry them into effect. you have every reason to be satisfied with the agent you employ, i suppose?" "oh, he is a rare fellow! so precise, methodical, zealous, and intelligent! i am, indeed, sometimes obliged to moderate his energy; for i am well aware there are certain points, the clearing up of which his highness reserves for himself." "and, of course, your agent is far from suspecting the deep interest his royal highness has in the matter?" "entirely so. my diplomatic position affords an excellent pretext for the inquiries i have undertaken. m. badinot (for such is the name of the person i am speaking of) is a sharp, shrewd individual, having connections, either recognised or concealed, in every grade of society. he was formerly a lawyer, but compelled to quit his profession from some very serious breach of trust; he has, however, retained very accurate recollections touching the fortunes and situations of his old clients; he knows many a secret, which he boasts, with considerable effrontery, of having turned to a good account. by turns, rich and poor,--now successful, and then a ruined man,--he only ceased his speculations when none could be found to take part in them with him; reduced to live from day to day by expedients more or less illegal, he became a curious specimen of the figaro school,--so long as his interest was concerned he would devote himself, soul and body, to his employer; and we are sure of his fidelity, for the simple reason that he has nothing to gain, though a great deal to lose, by deceiving us; and, besides, i make him careful of our interests, even unknown to himself." "the particulars he has hitherto furnished us with have been very correct and satisfactory." "oh, he has a very straightforward manner of going to work! and i assure you, my dear murphy, that m. badinot is the very original type of one of those mysterious existences which are to be met with, and only possible, in paris. he would greatly amuse his royal highness, if it were not necessary to avoid their being known to each other in this business." "you can augment the pay of m. badinot if you deem it necessary." "why, really, five hundred francs a month, and his expenses, amounting to nearly the same sum, appear to me quite sufficient; we shall see by and by." "and does he not seem ashamed of the part he plays?" "on the contrary, he is not a little vain of his employment, and when he brings me any particulars assumes a certain air of importance he would fain pass off as due to his diplomatic functions; for the fellow either thinks, or feigns to do so, that he is deeply engaged in state affairs, and ventures to observe at times, in a sort of undertone, how very marvellous it is that such close and intimate relationship should be found to exist between every-day events and the destinies of kingdoms! yes, really, he had the impudence to remark to me the other day, 'what complicated machinery is contained in the grand machine of state affairs! who would think now, m. le baron, those little humble notes collected by me will have their part to play in directing and regulating the affairs of europe!'" "yes, yes, rascals generally seek to veil their mean and base practices beneath some high-sounding pretext. but the notes you are to give me, my dear baron, have you them with you?" "here they are, drawn up precisely from the accounts furnished by m. badinot." "pray let me hear them; i am all attention." m. de graün then read as follows: "_note relative to fleur-de-marie._--about the beginning of the year , a man named pierre tournemine, then under sentence in the galleys at rochefort for forgery, proposed to a woman named gervais, but also known as la chouette, to take perpetual charge of a little girl, then between five and six years of age, for a sum of one thousand francs paid down. "the bargain being concluded, the child was delivered over to the woman, with whom she remained two years, when, unable longer to endure the cruelty shown her, the little girl disappeared; nor did the chouette hear anything of her for several years, when she unexpectedly met with her at a small public-house in the cité, nearly seven weeks ago. the infant, now grown into a young woman, then bore the appellation of la goualeuse. "a few days previously to this meeting, the above mentioned tournemine, who had become acquainted with the schoolmaster at the galleys of rochefort, had sent to bras rouge (the regular, though concealed correspondent of every rogue and felon either in prison or out of it) a lengthened detail of every particular relative to the child formerly confided to the woman gervais, otherwise the chouette. "from this account, and the declarations of the chouette, it appeared that one madame séraphin, housekeeper to a notary named jacques ferrand, had in instructed tournemine to find a person who, for the sum of one thousand francs, would be willing to take the entire charge of a child of from five to six years of age whom it was desired to get rid of, as has before been mentioned. "the chouette accepted the proposition, and received both the child and the stipulated sum of money. "the aim of tournemine, in addressing these particulars to bras rouge, was to enable the latter to extort money from madame séraphin, whom tournemine considered but as the agent of a third party, under a threat of revealing the whole affair unless well paid for silence. "bras rouge entrusted the chouette, long the established partner in all the schoolmaster's schemes of villainy; and this explains how so important a document found its way to that monster's possession, and also accounts for the expression used by the chouette at her rencontre with the goualeuse in the cabaret of the white rabbit, when, by way of tormenting her victim, she said, 'we have found out all about your parents, but you shall never know who or what they are.' "the point to be decided was as to the veracity of the circumstances detailed by tournemine in his letter to the chouette. "it has been ascertained that madame séraphin and the notary, jacques ferrand, are both living; the address of the latter is rue du sentier, no. , where he passes for a person of pious and austere life; at least, he is constant in his attendance at church,--his attention to his professional duties, close and severe, though some accuse him of following up the severity of the law with unnecessary rigour. in his mode of living he observes a parsimony bordering on avarice. madame séraphin still resides with him, as manager of his household; and m. jacques ferrand, spite of his original poverty, has invested thirty-five thousand francs in the funds, the greatest part of this sum having been supplied to him through a m. charles robert, a superior officer of the national guard,--a young and handsome man, in high repute with a certain class of society. 'tis true that some ill-natured persons are found to assert that, owing either to fortunate speculations or lucky hits upon the stock exchange, undertaken in partnership with the above mentioned charles robert, the worthy notary could now well afford to pay back the original loan with high interest; but the rigidly austere and self-denying life of this worthy man gives a flat denial to all such gossiping reports, and, spite of the incredulity with which he is occasionally listened to, he persists in styling himself a man struggling for a maintenance. there can be no manner of doubt but that madame séraphin, this worthy gentleman's housekeeper, could, if she pleased, throw an entire light upon every circumstance connected with la goualeuse." "bravo, my dear baron!" exclaimed murphy; "nothing can be better. these declarations of tournemine carry with them an appearance of truth, and it seems more than probable that we may, through jacques ferrand, obtain the right clue to discovering the parents of this unfortunate girl. now tell me, have you been equally successful in the information collected touching the son of the schoolmaster?" "perhaps, as regards him, i am not furnished with such minute particulars; but, upon the whole, i think the result of our inquiries very satisfactory." "upon my word, your m. badinot is a downright treasure!" "you see, bras rouge is the hinge upon which everything turns. m. badinot, who has several acquaintances in the police, pointed him out to us as the go-between of several notorious felons, and knew the man directly he was set to discover what had become of the ill-fated son of madame georges duresnel, the unfortunate wife of this atrocious schoolmaster." "and it was in going to search for bras rouge, in his den in the cité (rue aux fêves, no. ), that my lord fell in with the chourineur and la goualeuse. his royal highness hoped, too, that the opportunity now before him, of visiting these abodes of vice and wretchedness, might afford him the means of rescuing some unfortunate being from the depths of guilt and misery. his benevolent anticipations were gratified, but at what risk it is painful even to remember." "whatever dangers attended the scheme, you, at least, my dear murphy, bravely bore your share in them." "was not i, for that very purpose, appointed charcoal-man in waiting upon his royal highness?" replied the squire, smilingly. "say, rather, his intrepid body-guard, my worthy friend. but to touch upon your courage and devotion is only to repeat what every one knows. i will, therefore, spare your modesty, and continue my relation. here are the various particulars we have been able to glean concerning françois germain, son of madame georges and the schoolmaster, properly called duresnel: "about eighteen months since, a young man, named françois germain, arrived in paris from nantes, where he had been employed in the banking-house of noël and co. "it seems, both from the confession of the schoolmaster as well as from several letters found upon him, that the scoundrel to whom he had entrusted his unfortunate offspring, for the purpose of perverting his young mind, and rendering him one day a worthy assistant to his unprincipled father in his nefarious schemes, proposed to the young man to join in a plot for robbing his employers, as well as to forge upon the firm to a considerable amount. this proposition was received by the youth with well-merited indignation, but, unwilling to denounce the man by whom he had been brought up, he first communicated anonymously to his master the designs projected against the bank, and then privately quitted nantes, that he might avoid the rage and fury of those whose sinful practices his soul sickened and shuddered to think of, far less to bear the idea of participating in. "these wretches, aware that they had betrayed themselves to the young man, and dreading the use he might make of his information, immediately upon finding he had quitted nantes followed him to paris, with the most sinister intentions of silencing him for ever. after long and persevering inquiries, they succeeded in discovering his address, but, happily for the persecuted object of their search, he had a few days previously encountered the villain who had first sought to corrupt his principles, and, well divining the motive which had brought him to paris, lost no time in changing his abode; and so, for this time, the schoolmaster's hapless son escaped his pursuers. still, however, following up the scent, they succeeded in tracing the youth to his fresh abode, rue du temple. one evening, however, he narrowly escaped falling into an ambush laid for him (the schoolmaster concealed this circumstance from my lord), but again providence befriended him, and he escaped, though too much alarmed to remain in his lodgings; he once more changed his abode, since which time all traces of him have been lost. and matters had reached thus far when the schoolmaster received the just punishment of his crimes; since which period, by order of my lord, fresh inquiries have been instituted, of which the following is the result. "françois germain lived for about three months at no. rue du temple, a house rendered worthy of observation by the habits and ingenious practices of its inhabitants. germain was a great favourite among them, by reason of his kind and amiable disposition, as well as for the frank gaiety of his temper. although his means of livelihood appeared very slender, yet he had rendered the most generous assistance to an indigent family occupying the garrets of the house. in vain has been every inquiry made in the rue du temple touching the present residence of françois germain, or the profession he was supposed to follow; every one in the house believed him to be employed in some counting-house, or office, as he went out early in the morning and never returned till late in the evening. the only person who really knows the present residence of the young man is a female, lodging in the house no. rue du temple,--a young and pretty grisette, named rigolette, between whom and germain a very close acquaintance appears to have existed. she occupies the adjoining room to that which germain tenanted, and which chamber, by the by, is still vacant; and it was under pretext of inquiring about it that these particulars were obtained." "rigolette!" exclaimed murphy, after having been for several minutes apparently in deep thought. "yes, i am sure i know her." "_you!_ sir walter murphy," replied the baron, much amused. "you, most worthy and respectable father of a family! _you_ know anything of pretty grisettes! and so the name of mlle. rigolette is familiar to you, is it? fie, fie! oh, positively i am ashamed of you!" "'pon my soul, my lord compelled me to have so many strange acquaintances, that such a mere trifle as this should pass for nothing. but wait a bit. yes, now i recollect perfectly, that when my lord was relating the history of la goualeuse, i could not help laughing at the very odd name of rigolette, which, as far as i can call to mind, was the name of a prison acquaintance of that poor fleur-de-marie." "well, then, just at this particular juncture mlle. rigolette may be of the utmost service to us. let me conclude my report: "there might possibly be an advantage in engaging the vacant chamber recently belonging to germain, in the rue du temple. we have no instructions to proceed further in our investigations, but, from some words which escaped the porteress, there is every reason to believe that not only would it be possible to find in this house certain indications of where the schoolmaster's son may be heard of, through the means of mlle. rigolette, but the house itself would afford my lord an opportunity of studying human nature amid wants, difficulties, and misery, the very existence of which he is far from suspecting." "thus you see, my dear murphy," said m. de graün, finishing his report and presenting it to his companion, "you see evidently that it is from the notary, jacques ferrand, we must hope to obtain information respecting the parentage of la goualeuse, and that we must go to mlle. rigolette to trace the dwelling of françois germain. it seems to me a great point to have ascertained the direction in which to search." "undoubtedly, baron; you are quite right; and, besides, i am sure my lord will find a fine field for observation in the house of which you speak. but i have not yet done with you. have you made any inquiries respecting the marquis d'harville?" "i have; and, so far as concerns money matters, his royal highness's fears are wholly unfounded. m. badinot affirms (and he is very likely to be well informed on the subject) that the fortune of the marquis has never been in a more prosperous condition, or better managed." "why, after having in vain exhausted every other conjecture as to the secret grief which is preying upon m. d'harville, my lord imagined that it was just probable the marquis had some pecuniary difficulties; had it proved so, he would have removed them with that delicate assumption of mystery you know he so frequently employs to veil his munificence. but, since even this conjecture has failed, he must abandon all hope of guessing the enigma; and this he will do the more reluctantly, as his great desire to discover it arose out of his ardent friendship for m. d'harville." "a friendship which is founded on a grateful recollection of the important services rendered by the marquis's father to his own parent. are you aware, my dear murphy, that at the remodelling of the states in , at the germanic confederation, the father of his royal highness had a chance of being excluded, from his well-known attachment to napoleon? thanks to the friendship with which the emperor alexander honoured him, the deceased marquis d'harville was enabled to render most effectual service to the father of our patron. the emperor, whose warm regard for the late marquis had taken its date from the period of that nobleman's emigration to russia, exerted his powerful influence in congress so successfully, that at the grand meeting to decide the destinies of the princes of germany, the father of our noble employer was reinstated in all his pristine rights. as for the friendship now subsisting between the present marquis and his royal highness, i believe it commenced when, as mere boys, they met together on a visit paid by the then reigning grand duke to the late marquis d'harville." "so i have heard; and they appear to have retained a most lively recollection of this happy period of their youth. nor is this all i have to say on the subject of the interest our noble master takes in every matter concerning the house of d'harville. so profound is his gratitude for the services rendered to his father, that all bearing the honoured name of d'harville, or belonging to the family, possess a powerful claim on the kindness of the prince. thus, not alone to her virtues or her misfortunes does poor madame georges owe the increasing and unwearied goodness of my lord." "madame georges!" exclaimed the astounded baron. "what, the wife of duresnel, the felon known as the schoolmaster?" "and the mother of françois germain, the youth we are seeking for, and whom, i trust, we shall find." "is the relation of m. d'harville?" "she was his mother's cousin, and her most intimate friend; the old marquis entertained the most perfect friendship and esteem for madame georges." "but how, for heaven's sake, my dear murphy, did it ever come about that the d'harville family ever permitted a descendant of theirs to marry such a monster as this duresnel?" "why, thus it was. the father of this unfortunate woman was a m. de lagny, who, previous to the revolution, possessed considerable property in languedoc, and who, having fortunately escaped the proscription so fatal to many, availed himself of the first tranquillity which succeeded these days of discord and anarchy to establish his only daughter in marriage. among the various candidates for the hand of the young heiress was this duresnel, the representative of a wealthy and respectable family, possessing powerful parliamentary influence, and concealing the depravity of his disposition beneath the most specious exterior. to this man was mlle. de lagny united, by desire of her father; but a very short time sufficed to strip the mask from his vicious character, and to display his natural propensities. a gambler, a spendthrift, and profligate, addicted to the lowest vices that can disgrace a human being, he quickly dissipated, not only his own fortune, but that of his wife also. even the estate to which madame georges duresnel had retired was involved in the general ruin occasioned by her worthless husband's passion for play, and his dissolute mode of life; and the unfortunate woman would have been left without a shelter for herself or infant son but for the kind affection of her relation, the marquise d'harville, whom she loved with the tenderness of a sister. with this valued friend madame duresnel found a welcome home, while her wretched husband, finding himself utterly ruined, plunged into the blackest crimes, and stopped at no means, however guilty and desperate, to supply his pleasures. he became the associate of thieves, murderers, pickpockets, and forgers, and ere long, falling into the hands of the law, was sentenced to the galleys for the term of his natural life. yet, while suffering the just punishment of his crimes, his base mind devised the double atrocity of tearing the child from its miserable mother, for the sake of breaking down every good principle it might have imbibed, and of training it up in vicious readiness to join his future schemes of villainy. you know the rest. after the condemnation of her husband, madame georges, without giving any reason for so doing, quitted the marquise d'harville, and went to hide her shame and her sorrows in paris, where she soon fell into the utmost distress. it would occupy too much time to tell you by what train of events my lord became aware of the misfortunes of this excellent woman, as well as the ties which connect her with the d'harville family; it is sufficient that he came most opportunely and generously to her assistance, induced her to quit paris and establish herself at the farm at bouqueval, where she now is, with the goualeuse. in this peaceful retreat she has found tranquillity, if not happiness; and the overlooking and management of the farm may serve to recreate her thoughts, and prevent them from dwelling too deeply on her past sorrows. as much to spare the almost morbid sensibility of madame georges, as because he dislikes to blazon forth his good deeds, my lord has not even acquainted m. d'harville with the fact of his having relieved his kinswoman from such severe distress." "i comprehend now the twofold interest which my lord has in desiring to discover the traces of the son of this poor woman." "you may also judge by that, my dear baron, of the affection which his royal highness bears to the whole family, and how deep is his vexation at seeing the young marquis so sad, with so many reasons to be happy." "what can there be wanting to m. d'harville? he unites all,--birth, fortune, wit, youth; his wife is charming, and as prudent as she is lovely." "true, and his royal highness only had recourse to the inquiries we have been talking over after having in vain endeavoured to penetrate the cause of m. d'harville's deep melancholy; he showed himself deeply affected by the kind attentions of monseigneur, but still has been entirely reserved on the subject of his low spirits. it may be some _peine de coeur_." "yet it is said that he is excessively fond of his wife, and she does not give him the least cause for jealousy. i often meet her in society, and, although she is constantly surrounded by admirers (as every young and lovely woman is), still her reputation is unsullied." "the marquis is always speaking of her in the highest terms; he has had, however, one little discussion with her on the subject of the countess sarah macgregor." "has she, then, seen her?" "by a most unlucky chance, the father of the marquis d'harville knew sarah seyton of halsburg, and her brother tom, seventeen or eighteen years ago, during their residence in paris, and when they were much noticed by the lady of the english ambassador. learning that the brother and sister were going into germany, the old marquis gave them letters of introduction to the father of our noble lord, with whom he kept up a constant correspondence. alas! my dear de graün, perhaps but for these introductions many misfortunes would have been avoided, for then monseigneur would not have known this woman. when the countess sarah returned hither, knowing the friendship of his royal highness for the marquis, she presented herself at the hotel d'harville, in the hope of meeting monseigneur; for she shows as much pertinacity in pursuing him as he evinces resolution to avoid her." "only imagine her disguising herself in male attire, and following him into the cité! no woman but she would have dreamt of such a thing." "she, perhaps, hoped by such a step to touch his royal highness and compel him to an interview, which he has always refused and avoided. to return to madame d'harville: her husband, to whom monseigneur has spoken of sarah as she deserved, has begged his wife to see her as seldom as possible; but the young marquise, seduced by the hypocritical flatteries of the countess, has gone somewhat counter to the marquis's request. some trifling differences have arisen, but not of sufficient importance to cause or explain the extreme dejection of the marquis." "oh, the women! the women! my dear murphy, i am very sorry that madame d'harville should have formed any acquaintance with this sarah. so young and charming a woman must suffer by the contact with such an infernal--" "talking of infernal creatures," said murphy, "here is a communication relative to cecily, the unworthy spouse of the excellent david." "between ourselves, my dear murphy, this audacious _métisse_[ ] well deserves the terrible punishment that her husband, our dear black doctor, has inflicted on the schoolmaster by monseigneur's order. she has also shed blood, and her unblushing infamy is astounding." [ ] the creole issue of a white and quadroon slave. the _métisses_ only differ from the whites by some peculiarities hardly perceptible. "yet she is so very handsome,--so seductive! a perverted mind within an attractive outside always inspires me with twofold disgust." "in this sense cecily is doubly hateful. but i hope that this despatch annuls the last orders issued by monseigneur with regard to this wretched creature." "on the contrary, baron." "my lord, then, desires that her escape from the fortress in which she had been shut up for life may be effected?" "yes." "and that her pretended ravisher should bring her to france,--to paris?" "yes; and, besides, this despatch orders the arrangement to be carried out as soon as possible, and that cecily be made to travel hither so speedily that she may arrive here in a fortnight." "i am lost in astonishment! monseigneur has always evinced such a horror of her!" "and that horror he still experiences; if possible, stronger than ever." "and yet he causes her to be sent to him! to be sure, it will always be easy to apprehend cecily again, if she does not carry out what he requires of her. orders are given to the son of the gaoler of the fortress of gerolstein to carry her off, as if he were enamoured of her, and every facility will be given to him for effecting this purpose. overjoyed at this opportunity of escaping, the _métisse_ will follow her supposed ravisher, and reach paris; then she will always have her sentence of condemnation hanging over her, always be but an escaped prisoner, and i shall be always ready, when it shall please his royal highness to desire, again to lay hands upon and incarcerate her." "i should tell you, my dear baron, that when david learned from monseigneur of the proposed arrival of cecily, he was absolutely petrified, and exclaimed, 'i hope that your royal highness will not compel me to see the monster?' 'make yourself easy,' replied monseigneur; 'you shall not see her, but i may require her services for a particular purpose.' david felt relieved of an enormous weight off his mind. nevertheless, i am sure that some very painful reminiscences were awakened in his mind." "poor negro! he loves her still. they say, too, that she is yet so lovely!" "charming!--too charming! it requires the pitiless eye of a creole to detect the mixed blood in the all but imperceptible shade which lightly tinges her rosy finger-nails. our fresh and hale beauties of the north have not a more transparent complexion, nor a skin of more dazzling whiteness." "i was in france when monseigneur returned from america, accompanied by david and cecily, and i know that that excellent man was from that time attached to his royal highness by ties of the strongest gratitude; but i never learned how he became attached to the service of our master, and how he had married cecily, whom i saw, for the first time, about a year after his marriage; and god knows the scandal that followed!" "i can tell you every particular that you may wish to learn, my dear baron; i accompanied monseigneur in his voyage to america, when he rescued david and the _métisse_ from the most awful fate." "you are always most kind, my dear murphy, and i am all attention," said the baron. chapter xxii. history of david and cecily. "mr. willis, a rich american planter, settled in florida," said murphy, "had discovered in one of his young black slaves, named david, who was employed in the infirmary attached to his dwelling, a very remarkable degree of intelligence, combined with a constant and deep commiseration for the sick poor, to whom he gave, with the utmost attention and care, the medicine ordered by the doctors, and, moreover, so strong a prepossession for the study of botany, as applied to medicine, that without any tuition he had composed and classified a sort of flora of the plants around the dwelling and the vicinity. the establishment of mr. willis, situated on the borders of the sea, was fifteen or twenty leagues from the nearest town; and the medical men of the district, ignorant as they were, gave themselves no great deal of care or trouble, in consequence of the long distance and the difficulty in procuring any means of conveyance. desirous of remedying so extreme an inconvenience in a country subject to violent epidemics, and to have at hand at all times a skilful practitioner, the colonist made up his mind to send david to france to learn surgery and medicine. enchanted at this offer, the young black set out for paris, and the planter paid all the expenses of his course of study. david, having for eight years studied with great diligence and remarkable effect, received the degree of surgeon and physician with the most distinguished success, and then returned to america to place himself and his skill under the direction of his master." "but david ought to have considered himself free and emancipated, in fact and in law, when he set foot in france." "david's loyalty is very rare: he had promised mr. willis to return, and he did so. he did not consider as his own the instruction which he had acquired with his master's money; and, besides, he hoped to improve morally as well as physically the sufferings of the slaves, his former companions; he trusted to become not only their doctor, but their firm friend and defender with the colonist." "he must, indeed, be imbued with the most unflinching probity and the most intense love for his fellow creatures to return to a master,--an owner,--after having spent eight years in the midst of the society of the most democratic young men in europe." "judge of the man by this one trait. well, he returned to florida, and, truth to tell, was used by mr. willis with consideration and kindness, eating at his table, sleeping under his roof. but this colonist was as stupid, malevolent, selfish, and despotic as most creoles are, and he thought himself very generous in giving david six hundred francs ( _l._) a year salary. at the end of some months a terrible typhus fever broke out in the plantation. mr. willis was attacked by it, but soon restored through the careful attentions and efficacious remedies of david. out of thirty negroes dangerously affected by this fatal disease, only two perished. mr. willis, much gratified by the services which david had so auspiciously rendered, raised his wages to twelve hundred francs, to the extreme gratification of the black doctor, whose fellows regarded him as a divinity amongst them, for he had, with much difficulty it is true, obtained from their master some few indulgences, and was hoping to procure still more. in the meanwhile, he consoled these poor people, and exhorted them to patience; spake to them of god, who watches over the black and the white man with an equal eye; of another world not peopled with masters and slaves, but with the just and the unjust; of another life in eternity, where man was no longer the beast of burden,--the property,--the thing of his fellow man, but where the victims of this world were so happy that they prayed in heaven for their tormentors. what shall i tell you more? to those unhappy wretches who, contrary to other men, count with bitter joy the hours which bring them nearer to the tomb,--to those unfortunate creatures, who looked forward only to nothingness hereafter, david breathed the language and the hope of a free and happy immortality; and then their chains appeared less heavy and their toil less irksome. he was their idol. a year passed away in this manner. amongst the handsomest of the female slaves at the house was a _métisse_, about fifteen years of age, named cecily, and for this poor girl mr. willis took a fancy. for the first time in his life his advances were repulsed and obstinately resisted; cecily was in love, and with david, who, during the late fearful distemper, had attended her with the most vigilant care. afterwards a deep and mutual love repaid him the debt of gratitude. david's taste was too refined to allow him to boast of his happiness before the time when he should marry cecily, which was to be when she had turned her sixteenth year. mr. willis, ignorant of their love, had thrown his handkerchief right royally at the pretty _métisse_, and she, in deep despair, sought david, and told him all the brutal attempts that she had been subjected to and with difficulty escaped. the black comforted her, and instantly went to mr. willis to request her hand in marriage." "_diable!_ my dear murphy, i can easily surmise the answer of the american sultan,--he refused?" "he did. he said he had an inclination for the girl himself; that in his life before he had never experienced the repulse of a slave; he meant to possess her, and he would. david might choose another wife or mistress, whichsoever might best suit his inclination; there were in the plantation ten _capusses_ or _métisses_ as pretty as cecily. david talked of his love,--love so long and tenderly shared, and the planter shrugged his shoulders; david urged, but it was all in vain. the creole had the cool impudence to tell him that it was a bad 'example' to see a master concede to a slave, and that he would not set that 'example' to satisfy a caprice of david's! he entreated,--supplicated, and his master lost his temper. david, blushing to humiliate himself further, spake in a firm tone of his services and disinterestedness,--that he had been contented with a very slender salary. mr. willis was desperately enraged, and, telling him he was a contumacious slave, threatened him with the chain. david replied with a few bitter and violent words; and, two hours afterwards, bound to a stake, his skin was torn with the lash, whilst they bore cecily to the harem of the planter in his sight." "the conduct of the planter was brutal and horrible; it was adding absurdity to cruelty, for he must after that have required the man's services." "precisely so; for that very day the very fury into which he had worked himself, joined to the drunkenness in which the brute indulged every evening, brought on an inflammatory attack of the most dangerous description, the symptoms of which appeared with the rapidity peculiar to such affections. the planter was carried to his bed in a state of the highest fever. he sent off an express for a doctor, but he could not reach his abode in less than six and thirty hours." "really, this attack seems providential. the desperate condition of the man was quite deserved by him." "the malady made fearful strides. david only could save the colonist, but willis, distrustful, as all evil-doers are, imagined that the black would revenge himself by administering poison; for, after having scourged him with a rod, he had thrown him into prison. at last, horrified at the progress of his illness, broken down by bodily anguish, and thinking that, as death also stared him in the face, he had one chance left in trusting to the generosity of his slave, after many distrusting doubts, willis ordered david to be unchained." "and david saved the planter?" "for five days and five nights he watched and tended him as if he had been his father, counteracting the disease, step by step, with great skill and perfect knowledge, until, at last, he succeeded in defeating it, to the extreme surprise of the doctor who had been sent for, and who did not arrive until the second day." "and, when restored to health at last, the colonist--" "not desiring to blush before his own slave, whose presence constantly oppressed him with the recollection of his excessive nobleness of conduct, the colonist made an enormous sacrifice to attach the doctor he had sent for to his establishment, and david was again conducted to his dungeon." "horrible, but by no means astonishing. david must have been in the eyes of his brutal master a complete living remorse." "such conduct was dictated alike by revenge and jealousy. the blacks of mr. willis loved david with all the warmth of gratitude, for he had saved them body and soul. they knew the care he had bestowed on him when he lay tossing with fever between life and death, and, shaking off the deadening apathy which ordinarily besets slavery, these unfortunate creatures evinced their indignation, or rather grief, most powerfully when they saw david lacerated by the whip. mr. willis, deeply exasperated, affected to discover in this manifestation the appearance of revolt, and, when he considered the influence which david had acquired over the slaves, he believed him capable of placing himself at the head of a rebellion to avenge himself of his wrongs. this fear was another motive with the colonist for using david in the most shameful manner, and entirely preventing him from effecting the malicious designs of which he suspected him." "considering him as actuated by an irrepressible amount of terror, this conduct seems less stupid, but quite as ferocious." "a short time after these events we arrived in america. monseigneur had freighted a danish brig at st. thomas's, and we visited incognito all the settlements of the american coast along which we were sailing. we were most hospitably received by mr. willis, who, the evening after our arrival, after he had been drinking, and as much from the excitement of wine as from a desire to boast, told us, in a horrid tone of brutal jesting, the history of david and cecily. i forgot to say that, after having maltreated the girl, he had thrown her into a dungeon also, as a punishment for her disdain of him. his royal highness, on hearing willis's fearful narration, thought the man was either drunk or a liar; but he was drunk,--it was no lie. to remove any and all doubt, the colonist rose from the table, and desired a slave to bear a lantern and conduct us to david's cell." "well, what followed?" "in my life i never saw so distressing a spectacle. pale, wan, meagre, half naked, and covered with wounds, david and the unhappy girl, chained by the middle of the body, one at one end and the other at the other end of the dungeon, looked like spectres. the lantern that lighted us threw over this scene a still more ghastly hue. david did not utter a word when he saw us; his gaze was fixed and fearful. the colonist said to him, with cruel irony, 'well, doctor, how goes it? you, who are so clever, why don't you cure yourself?' the black replied by a noble word and a dignified gesture; he raised his right hand slowly, his forefinger pointed to the roof, and, without looking at the colonist, said in a solemn tone, 'god!' and then was silent. 'god?' replied the planter, bursting into a loud fit of laughter, 'tell him, then,--tell god to come and snatch you from my power! i defy him!' then willis, overcome by fury and intoxication, shook his fist to heaven, and said, in blasphemous language, 'yes, i defy god to carry off my slaves before they are dead!'" "the man was mad as well as brutal." "we were utterly disgusted. monseigneur did not say a word, and we left the cell. this dungeon was situated, as well as the house, on the seashore. we returned to our brig, which was moored a short distance off, and at one o'clock in the morning, when all in the building were plunged in profound sleep, monseigneur went on shore with eight men well armed, and, going straight to the prison, burst open the doors, and freed david and cecily. the two victims were carried on board so quietly that they were not perceived; and then monseigneur and i went to the planter's house. strange contrast! these men torture their slaves, and yet do not take any precaution against them, but sleep with doors and windows open. we easily got access to the sleeping-room of the planter, which was lighted on the inside by a small glass lamp. monseigneur awakened the man, who sat upright in his bed, his brain still disturbed by the effect of his drunkenness. 'you have to-night defied god to carry off your two victims before their death, and he has taken them,' said monseigneur. then taking a bag which i carried, and which contained twenty-five thousand francs in gold, he threw it on the fellow's bed, and added, 'this will indemnify you for the loss of your two slaves,--to your violence that destroys i oppose a violence that saves. god will judge between us.' we then retreated, leaving mr. willis stupefied, motionless, and believing himself under the influence of a dream. a few minutes later we were again on board the brig, which instantly set sail." "it appears to me, my dear murphy, that his royal highness overpaid this wretch for the loss of his slaves; for, in fact, david no longer belonged to him." "we calculated, as nearly as we could, the expense which his studies had cost for eight years, and then the price, thrice over, of himself and cecily as slaves. our conduct was contrary to the rights of property, i know; but if you had seen in what a horrible state we found this unfortunate and half-dead couple, if you had heard the sacrilegious defiance almost cast in the face of the almighty by this man, drunk with wine and ferocity, you would comprehend how monseigneur desired, as he said, on this occasion to act as it were in behalf of providence." "all this is as assailable and as justifiable as the punishment of the schoolmaster, my worthy squire. and had not this adventure any consequences?" "it could not. the brig was under danish colours; the incognito of his royal highness was closely kept; we were taken for rich englishmen. to whom could willis have addressed his complaints, if he had any to make? in fact, he had told us himself, and the medical man of monseigneur declared it in a _procès verbal_, that the two slaves could not have lived eight days longer in this frightful dungeon. it required the greatest possible care to snatch david and cecily from almost certain death. at last they were restored to life. from this period david has been attached to the suite of monseigneur as a medical man, and is most devotedly attached to him." "david married cecily, of course, on arriving in europe?" "this marriage, which ought to have been followed by results so happy, took place in the chapel of the palace of monseigneur; but, by a most extraordinary revulsion of conduct, hardly was she in the full enjoyment of an unhoped-for position, when, forgetting all that david had suffered for her and what she had suffered for him, blushing in the new world to be wedded to a black, cecily, seduced by a man of most depraved morals, committed her first fault. it would seem as though the natural perversity of this abandoned woman, having till then slumbered, was suddenly awakened, and developed itself with fearful energy. you know the rest, and all the scandal of the adventures that followed. after having been two years a wife, david, whose confidence in her was only equalled by his love, learned the full extent of her infamy,--a thunderbolt aroused him from his blind security." "they say he tried to kill his wife." "yes; but, through the interference of monseigneur, he consented to allow her to be immured for life in a prison, and it is thence that monseigneur now seeks to have her released,--to your great astonishment, as well as mine, my dear baron. but it is growing late, and his royal highness is anxious that your courier should start for gerolstein with as little delay as possible." "in two hours' time he shall be on the road. so now, my dear murphy, farewell till the evening." "till the evening, adieu." "have you, then, forgotten that there is a grand ball at the ---- embassy, and that his royal highness will be present?" "true. i have always forgotten that, since the absence of colonel verner and the count d'harneim, i have the honour to fulfil the functions of chamberlain and aide-de-camp." "ah, apropos of the count and the colonel, when may we expect their return? will they have soon completed their respective missions?" "you know that monseigneur will keep them away as long as possible, that he may enjoy more solitude and liberty. as to the errand on which his royal highness has employed each of them, as an ostensible motive for getting rid of them in a quiet way,--sending one to avignon and the other to strasbourg,--i will tell you all about it some day, when we are both in a dull mood; for i will defy the most hypochondriacal person in existence not to burst with laughter at the narrative, as well as with certain passages in the despatches of these worthy gentlemen, who have assumed their pretended missions with so serious an air." "to tell the truth, i have never clearly understood why his royal highness attached the colonel and the count to his private person." "why, my dear fellow, is not colonel verner the accurate type of military perfection? is there, in the whole germanic confederation, a more elegant figure, more flourishing and splendid moustaches, and a more complete military figure? and when he is fully decorated, screwed in, uniformed, gold-laced, plumed, etc., etc., it is impossible to see a more glorious, self-satisfied, proud, handsome--animal." "true, but it is his very good looks that prevent him from having the appearance of a man of refined and acute intellect." "well! and monseigneur says that, thanks to the colonel, he is in the habit of finding even the dullest people in the world bearable. before certain audiences, which are of necessity, he shuts himself up with the colonel for a half-hour or so, and then leaves him, full of spirits and light as air, quite ready to meet bores and defy them." "just as the roman soldier who, before a forced march, used to sole his sandals with lead, and so found all fatigue light by leaving them off. i now discover the usefulness of the colonel. but the count d'harneim?" "is also very serviceable to our dear lord; for, always hearing at his side the tinkling of this old cracked bell, shining and chattering,--continually seeing this soap-bubble so puffed up with nothingness, so magnificently variegated, and, as such, portraying the theatrical and puerile phase of sovereign power,--his royal highness feels the more sensibly the vanity of those barren pomps and glories of the world, and, by contrast, has often derived the most serious and happy ideas from the contemplation of his useless and pattering chamberlain." "well, well; but let us be just, my dear murphy: tell me, in what court in the world would you find a more perfect model of a chamberlain? who knows better than dear old d'harneim the numberless rules and strict observances of etiquette? who bears with more becoming demeanour an enamelled cross around his neck, or more majestically comports himself when the keys of office are suspended from his shoulders?" "apropos, baron; monseigneur declares that the shoulders of a chamberlain have a peculiar physiognomy: that is, he says, an appearance at once constrained and repulsive, which it is painful to look at; for, alas and alackaday! it is at the back of a chamberlain that the symbol of his office glitters, and, as monseigneur avers, the worthy d'harneim always seems tempted to present himself backwards, that his importance may at once be seen, felt, and acknowledged." "the fact is, that the incessant subject of the count's meditations is to ascertain by what fatal imagination and direction the chamberlain's key has been placed behind the chamberlain's back; for it is related of him that he said, with his accustomed good sense, and with a kind of bitter grief, 'what, the devil! one does not open a door with one's back, at all events!'" "baron, the courier! the courier!" said murphy, pointing to the clock. "sad old reprobate, to make me chatter thus! it is your fault. present my respects to his royal highness," said m. de graün, taking his hat up in haste. "and now, adieu till the evening, my dear murphy." "till the evening, my dear baron, fare thee well. it will be late before we meet, for i am sure that monseigneur will go this very day to pay a visit to the mysterious house in the rue du temple." chapter xxiii. a house in the rue du temple. in order to profit by the particulars furnished by baron de graün respecting la goualeuse and germain, the schoolmaster's son, it became necessary for rodolph to visit the house in the rue du temple, formerly the abode of that young man, whose retreat the prince likewise hoped to discover through the intervention of mlle. rigolette. although prepared to find it a difficult task, inasmuch as it was more than probable, if the grisette were really sufficiently in germain's confidence to be aware of his present abode, she also knew too well his anxiety to conceal it to be likely to give the desired information. by renting the chamber lately occupied by the young man, rodolph, besides being on the spot to follow up his researches, considered he should also be enabled to observe closely the different individuals inhabiting the rest of the house. the same day on which the conversation passed between the baron de graün and murphy, rodolph, plainly and unpretendingly dressed, wended his way about three o'clock, on a gloomy november afternoon, towards the rue du temple. situated in a district of much business and dense population, the house in question had nothing remarkable in its appearance; it was composed of a ground floor, occupied by a man keeping a low sort of dram-shop, and four upper stories, surmounted by attics. a dark and narrow alley led to a small yard, or, rather, a species of square well, of about five or six feet in width, completely destitute of either air or light, and serving as a pestilential receptacle for all the filth thrown by the various occupants of the respective chambers from the unglazed sashes with which each landing-place was provided. at the bottom of a damp, dismal-looking staircase, a glimmering light indicated the porter's residence, rendered smoky and dingy by the constant burning of a lamp, requisite, even at midday, to enlighten the gloomy hole, into which rodolph entered for the purpose of asking leave to view the apartment then vacant. a lamp, placed behind a glass globe filled with water, served as a reflector; and by its light might be seen, at the far end of the "lodge" (as in courtesy it was styled), a bed, covered with a sort of patchwork counterpane, exhibiting a mingled mass of every known colour and material. a walnut-tree table graced the side of the room, bearing a variety of articles suited to the taste and ornamental notions of its owners. first in order appeared a little waxen saint john, with a very fat lamb at his feet, and a large peruke of flowing white curls on his head, the whole enclosed in a cracked glass case, the joinings of which were ingeniously secured by slips of blue paper; secondly, a pair of old plated candlesticks, tarnished by time, and bearing, instead of lights, two gilded oranges,--doubtless an offering to the porteress on the last new year's day; and, thirdly, two boxes, the one composed of variegated straw, the other covered with multitudinous shells, but both smelling strongly of the galleys or house of correction[ ] (let us hope, for the sake of the morality of the porteress in the rue du temple, that these precious specimens were not presented to her from the original owners and fabricators of them); and, lastly, between the two boxes, and just beneath a circular clock, was suspended a pair of red morocco dress-boots, small enough for the feet of fairies, but elaborately and skilfully designed and completed. this _chef-d'oeuvre_, as the ancient masters of the craft would style them, joined to the fantastic designs sketched on the walls representing boots and shoes, abundantly indicated that the porter of this establishment devoted his time and his talents to the repairing of shoes and shoe leather. [ ] these boxes were the exclusive manufacture of the criminals confined either in the galleys or prisons, and who spent nearly all their spare hours in making them. at the instant when rodolph ventured into the smoky den, m. pipelet, the porter, temporarily absent, had left his better half, madame pipelet, as his representative. this individual was seated by the stove in the centre of the lodge, deeply engrossed in watching the boiling of a pot placed over it. the description of madame pipelet may be given in a few words. she was the most ugly, forbidding, wrinkled, toothless old hag one might meet in the course of a long life. her dress was dirty, tawdry, and untidy; while her head-dress was composed of a brutus wig, originally of a blond colour, but changed by time into every shade of red, brown, and yellow, the stiff ends of the perished hair standing out like the ears of wheat in a wheat-sheaf. much did madame pipelet pride herself upon this tasteful covering to her sexagenarian skull; nor was it believed she ever laid it aside, whether sleeping or waking. at the sight of rodolph the porteress inquired, in a surly tone: "well, and pray what do you want?" "i believe, madame," replied rodolph, laying a profound emphasis on the word madame, "i believe there is an apartment to be let in this house?" the deep respect implied in his voice and words somewhat mollified the porteress, who answered, rather less sourly: [illustration: "_this individual was seated by the stove_" original etching by adrian marcel] "yes, there is a room to let on the fourth floor, but you cannot see it now,--alfred has gone out." "you are speaking of your son, i presume, madame; may i take the liberty of asking whether he is expected in shortly?" "i am not speaking of my son, but my husband. i suppose there is no act of parliament why my pipelet should not be called 'alfred.' is there, pray?" "none, certainly, madame, that i am aware of; but, with your kind permission, i will await his return. i am very desirous of taking the vacant chamber,--both the street and neighbourhood suit me; and the admirable order in which the house seems kept pleases me excessively. but, previously to viewing the lodging i am anxious to take, i should be very glad to ascertain whether you, madame, could do me the favour to take the management of my little housekeeping off my hands? i never like to have any one about me but the authorised housekeeper belonging to the house, when such arrangements meet with their approbation." this proposition, so flatteringly expressed, and the word "housekeeper" completely won madame pipelet, who replied: "with the greatest of pleasure, sir, i will attend to all you require. i am sure i shall be proud to wait upon such a gentleman; and, for the small charge of six francs a month, you shall be treated like a prince." "then for six francs a month, i may reckon upon your valuable services. will you permit me to ask your name?" "pomona fortunata anastasia pipelet." "well, then, madame pipelet, having agreed as to your own terms, will you be pleased to tell me those for the apartment i wish to engage?" "with the adjoining small closet, one hundred and fifty francs a month,--not a farthing less. the principal lessee is a screw,--a regular skinflint." "what is his name?" "m. bras rouge." this name, and the remembrances so unexpectedly presented by it, made rodolph start. "i think, madame pipelet, you were saying that the principal lessee of the house is----" "m. bras rouge." "and he lives----" "rue aux fêves, no. . he also keeps an estaminet near the champs elysées." all doubt was then at an end,--it was the bras rouge of infamous notoriety; and singular indeed did the circumstance of thus coming across him strike rodolph. "but though m. bras rouge is your principal lessee, he is not, i presume, the owner of the house; may i ask who is?" "m. bourdon; but i have never had communication with any one besides m. bras rouge." with the design of still further ingratiating himself with the porteress, rodolph resumed: "my dear madame, this cold day would make a little of something warm and comfortable very acceptable. might i venture to solicit the favour of your stepping as far as the spirit-shop, kept so conveniently at hand, and bring a bottle of cassia and two glasses? for i feel very tired, and the cold has quite seized me. stay, madame, we will have three glasses, if you please; because i hope your husband will join us when he returns." so saying, he placed a franc in the fat, dirty hand of the porteress. "ah, monsieur, you are determined to make us all fall in love with you!" cried madame pipelet, nodding her approval of the commission, and thereby sending the flush of pleasure into a face glowing with all the fiery honours of an excited bacchante. "to be sure! there is nothing like a drop of really good cordial such a day as this; and they do keep most excellent here at hand. i'll go,--of course i will; but i shall only bring a couple of glasses, for alfred and i always drink out of the same glass. poor old darling! he is so very nice and particular in showing all those sort of delicate attentions to women." "then go along, my good madame pipelet, and we will wait till alfred comes." "but, then, suppose any one wants me whilst i am out, who will mind the lodge?" "oh, i'll take care of the lodge." the old woman departed on her agreeable errand. at the termination of a few minutes the postman tapped at the lodge window, and putting his hand into the apartment, presented two letters, merely saying, "three sous." "six sous, you mean, for two letters," replied rodolph. "one is free," answered the man. having paid and dismissed the postman, rodolph mechanically examined the two letters thus committed to his charge; but at a further glance they seemed to him worthy a more attentive observation. the epistle addressed to madame pipelet exhaled through its hot-pressed envelope a strong odour of russia leather; it bore, on a seal of red wax, the initials "c. r." surmounted by a helmet, and supported by a cross of the legion of honour. the direction was written in a firm, bold hand. the heraldic device of the commingled casque and cross made rodolph smile, and confirmed him in the idea that the writer of the letter in question was not a female. who was this scented, emblazoned correspondent of old anastasia pipelet? rodolph felt an undefinable curiosity to know. the other epistle, written upon coarse and common paper, was united only by a common wafer, pricked over with the point of a pin, and was addressed to "m. césar bradamanti, operating dentist." evidently disguised, the superscription was entirely composed of capital letters. whether founded on a true or false presage, this letter seemed to rodolph to wear a mournful look, as though evil or misery were contained within its shabby folds. he perceived that some of the letters in the direction were fainter than the others, and that the paper there seemed a little rumpled: a tear had evidently fallen upon it. madame pipelet returned, bearing the bottle of cassia and two glasses. "i have dawdled,--have i not, monsieur?" said she, gaily. "but let you once get into that good père joseph's shop, and it is hard work to get out again. oh, that old man is a very insinuating----" "here, madame," interrupted rodolph, "here are two letters the postman left while you were gone." "dear me! two letters! pray excuse me, monsieur. i suppose you paid for them?" "i did." "you are very good. i tell you what, then, we will settle that out of the first money you have to pay me; how much was it?" "three sous," answered rodolph, much amused at the ingenious method of reimbursement employed by madame pipelet. "but may i, without offence, observe that one of the letters is addressed to you, and that you possess in the writer a correspondent whose _billets-doux_ are marvellously well perfumed?" "let us see what it is about," said the porteress, taking the epistle in the scented envelope. "yes, upon my word, it is scented up like a real _billet-doux_! now, i should very much like to know who would dare write _me_ a love-letter! he must be a villain!" "and suppose it had fallen into your husband's hands, madame pipelet?" "oh, for goodness' sake don't mention that, or i shall faint away in your arms! but how stupid i am! now i know all about it," replied the fat porteress, shrugging her shoulders. "to be sure! to be sure! it comes from the commandant! lord bless me, what a fright i have had! for alfred is as jealous as a turk." "here is another letter addressed to m. césar bradamanti." "ah! to be sure, the dentist on the third floor. i will put it in the letter-boot." rodolph fancied he had not caught the right words, but, to his astonishment, he saw madame pipelet gravely throw the letter alluded to into an old top-boot hanging up against the wall. he looked at her with surprise. "do you mean," said he at length, "to put the gentleman's letter in----" "oh, yes, that is all right," replied the porteress. "i have put it in the letter-boot,--there, you see. so now nobody's letters can be mislaid; and when the different lodgers return home, alfred or myself turns the boot upside down,--we sort them out, and everybody gets his own." so saying, the porteress proceeded to break the seal of the letter addressed to her; which having done, she turned it round and round, looked at it in every direction, then, after a short appearance of embarrassment and uncertainty, she said to rodolph: "alfred generally reads my letters for me, because i do not happen to be able to read them myself; perhaps you would not mind just looking over this for me?" "with the utmost pleasure!" quickly replied rodolph, curious to dive into the mysteries of who madame pipelet's correspondent might be; and forthwith he read what follows, written upon hot-pressed paper, stamped in its right-hand corner with the helmet, the letters "c. r.," the heraldic supporters, and the cross of honour. "to-morrow (friday), about eleven o'clock, let there be a good (not an overfierce) fire lighted in both rooms; have everything well dusted, and remove the coverings from the furniture, taking especial care not to scratch the gilding, or to soil or burn the carpet while lighting the fires. if i should not be in about one o'clock, when a lady will arrive in a hackney-coach and inquire for me by the name of m. charles, let her be shown up to the apartment; after which the key is to be taken down-stairs again, and kept till my arrival." spite of the want of finished composition displayed in this _billet_, rodolph perfectly comprehended to whom and what it alluded, and merely added, after perusing it: "who lives on the first floor, then?" the old woman placed her yellow, shrivelled finger upon her pendulous lip, and replied, by a half-malicious grin: "hush! there is a woman in the way,--silence!" "oh, my dear madame pipelet, i merely asked because, before living in a house, one likes to know a little." "yes, yes! of course, everybody likes to know all they can; that is all fair enough; and i am sure i have no objection to tell you all i know myself, and that is but very little. well, but to begin. about six weeks ago a carpet-maker came here to look at the first floor, which was then to let, and to ask the price, and other particulars about it. next day he came again, accompanied by a young man of fair complexion, small moustaches, and wearing a cross of honour and very fine linen. the carpet-maker called him commandant." "a military man, i suppose?" said rodolph. "military!" exclaimed madame pipelet, with a chuckle. "not he! why, alfred might as well call himself porter to a prince." "how so?" "why, he is only in the national guard! the carpet-maker only called him commandant to flatter him: just the same as it tickles up alfred's vanity to be styled _concierge_ instead of porter. so when the commandant (that is the only name we know him by) had looked over the rooms, he said to the upholsterer, his friend, 'well, i think the place will do for me,--just see the landlord, and arrange all about it.' 'yes, commandant,' says the other. and the very next day the upholsterer-man signed the lease with m. bras rouge (in his own name, mind you); and, further, paid six months in advance, because, he said, the gentleman did not wish to be bored about references. and such a power of fine furniture as was sent into the first floor! _sophesus_ (sarcophagus) curtains, all silk; glasses set in gold, and everything you can mention, all beautiful enough to astonish you; just, for all the world, like one of them grand cafes on the boulevards! as for the carpets,--oh, you never trod on the like of them, i'll be bound. put your foot on them, and you'd fancy you was stepping on velvet, and take it off again for fear of spoiling it. when everything was completed, the commandant came to look at it,--just to see if he could find out anything more he wanted; but he could not. so then he spoke to alfred, and says he, 'could you take charge of my rooms and keep them in nice order, light fires from time to time, and get them ready for me when i wish to occupy them? i shall not be here often,' says he, 'and would always write you a line before coming, to give you time to prepare them.' 'yes, commandant, i can,' answers my flatterer of an alfred. 'and what shall you charge?' 'twenty francs a month, commandant.' 'twenty francs!' exclaimed the commandant. 'why, porter, you are jesting, surely!' and hereupon he began bating alfred down in the most shabby manner, trying to squeeze poor people like us out of two or three miserable francs, when he had been squandering thousands in fitting up his grand apartments, which, after all, he did not mean to live in! however, after a deal of battling, we got twelve francs a month out of him,--a paltry, pitiful, two-farthing captain! what a difference, now, between you and him!" added the porteress, addressing rodolph with an admiring glance. "you don't call yourself fine names and titles,--you only look like a plain body,--you must be poor, or you would not perch yourself on the fourth floor; and yet you agreed with me for six francs, without attempting to bate me down!" "and when did the commandant pay you his next visit?" "i'll tell you,--and good fun it is, too. my gentleman must have been nicely choused by somebody. three times did he write (same as to-day), ordering us to light a fire and have everything ready for the reception of a lady he expected would come. come! yes, i daresay he may expect a long time first, i rather think." "nobody came then?" "listen. the first time the commandant arrived, strutting and swelling like a turkey-cock, humming and singing, after his manner, all the gay tunes of the day, walking up and down his fine room with his hands stuck in his pockets, and occasionally stopping to arrange his hair before the glass,--we were watching him all the time. well, this went on for two or three hours, when, i suppose, he knew it was no use waiting any longer; so he came down-stairs very softly, and with quite a different manner to the pride and consequence he had marched up with. by way of teasing him, pipelet and i went out to him and said, 'commandant, there has been no lady whatever to inquire for you,' 'very well! very well!' exclaimed he, half mad and half ashamed of being laughed at, and, buttoning up his coat, he walked off as fast as he could. the next time, before he came himself, a small note was brought here by a man, directed to m. charles; i strongly suspected he was done again, and pipelet and me were enjoying a hearty good laugh over it when the commandant arrived. 'captain,' says i, putting the back of my hand up to my wig, by way of military salute, 'here is a letter for you, but i am afraid it contains news of a second countermarch against you.' he looked at me sour as a crab, snatched the letter from my hand, read it, turned scarlet as a boiled lobster, then walked off, pretending to whistle; but he was finely vexed,--ready to hang himself, i could see he was,--and it was rare nuts to me. 'go, and swallow that pill, my two-farthing captain,' says i to myself; 'that serves you right for only giving twelve francs a month for minding your apartments.'" "and the third time?" "ah, the third time i really thought it was all right. the commandant arrived more stuck up with pride than ever; his eyes staring with self-satisfied admiration at himself and the certainty of not being disappointed this time. let me tell the truth about him; he really is a good-looking man, and dresses well, though he stinks of musk like a civet cat. well, there was my gentleman arrayed in all his finery, and scarcely condescending to look at us poor folks; he seemed as though he conferred a favour on the earth by deigning to walk on it, and went, sticking his nose into the air, as if he meant to touch the clouds with it. he took the key, and said to us, as he passed up-stairs, in a jeering, self-complacent tone, as though to revenge himself for having been laughed at twice before, 'you will direct the lady to my apartments when she comes.' well, pipelet and i were so anxious to see the lady he expected, though we did not much reckon upon her keeping her appointment, even if she ever made one, that we went and hid ourselves behind the little door that belongs to the alley; and, behold! in a short time a blue hackney-coach, with its blinds drawn down, stopped at the entrance to the house. 'there she is!' says i to alfred. 'there is his madame; let's keep back a bit for fear we frighten her away.' the coachman got off his box and opened the door. then we saw a female, closely covered with a black veil, and carrying a muff; she had apparently been crying, for she kept her handkerchief to her face; for when the steps were let down, instead of alighting, she said some few words to the driver, who, much surprised, shut the door up again." "then the lady did not get out?" "no! she threw herself back in the coach and pressed her handkerchief tightly to her eyes. i rushed out, and before the coachman had time to get on his seat again, i called out, 'hallo, there, coachy! are you going back again?' 'yes,' says he. 'where?' says i. 'where i came from,' answers he. 'and where did you come from?' asks i again. 'from the rue st. dominique, corner of the rue belle chasse.'" rodolph started at these words. his dearest friend, the marquis d'harville, who, as elsewhere stated, had been for some time labouring under a deep melancholy none could penetrate, lived in the very place just mentioned by madame pipelet. could this mysterious female in the blue _fiacre_ be the marquise d'harville? and was it from the lightness and frivolity of her conduct that the mind of her excellent husband was bowed down by doubts and misgivings? these painful suggestions crowded on rodolph's mind, but, although well acquainted with all the various guests received by the marquise, he could recollect no one answering the description of the commandant; added to which, any female might have taken a hackney-coach from that spot without necessarily living in the street. there was really nothing to identify the unknown of the blue _fiacre_ with madame d'harville, and yet a thousand vague fears and painful suspicions crossed his mind; his uneasy manner and deep abstraction did not escape the porteress. "what are you thinking of, sir?" asked she at length. "i was wondering what could have induced the lady, after coming to the very door, to change her mind so suddenly." "there is no saying; some sudden thought,--dread or fear,--for we poor women are but weak, cowardly things," said the porteress, assuming a timid, frightened manner. "well, i think if it had been myself now, coming secretly to visit alfred, i should have had to try back a great many times before i could have screwed up my courage to venture in. but then, as for visiting your great dons in this kind of way, i never could have done such a thing. no, never! i am sure there is nobody under the face of heaven can say i ever give them the least freedom,--i should think not, indeed, while my poor dear old darling of a husband is left." "no doubt,--no doubt, madame pipelet; but about the young person you were describing in the blue _fiacre_?" "oh! mind, i don't know whether she was young or old; i could not even catch a glimpse of the tip of her nose; all i can say is she went as she came, and that is all about it. as for alfred and me, we were better pleased than if we had found ten francs." "why so?" "by enjoying the rage and confusion of the commandant when he found himself a third time disappointed; but, instead of going and telling him at once that his 'madame' had been and gone, we allowed him to fume and fret for a whole hour. then i went softly up-stairs with only my list slippers on. i reached his door, which i found half shut; as i pushed against it, it creaked; the staircase is as black as night, and the entrance to the apartment quite as obscure. scarcely had i crept into the room, when the commandant caught me in his arms, saying, in a languishing voice, 'my dearest angel! what makes you so late?'" spite of the serious nature of the thoughts crowding upon his mind, rodolph could not restrain a smile as he surveyed the grotesque periwig and hideously wrinkled, carbuncled visage of the heroine of this comic scene. madame pipelet, however, resumed her narration with a mirthful chuckle that increased her ugliness: "that was a go, wasn't it? but stop a bit. well, i did not make the least reply, but, almost keeping in my breath, i waited to see what would be the end of this strange reception. for a minute or two the commandant kept hugging me up, then, all of a sudden, the brute pushed me away, exclaiming with as much disgust as though he had touched a toad, 'who the devil are you?' 'me, commandant,--the porteress,--madame pipelet; and, as such, i will thank you to keep your hands off my waist, and not to call me your angel, and scold me for being late. suppose alfred had heard you, a pretty business we should have made of it!' 'what the deuce brings you here?' cried he. 'merely to let you know the lady in the hackney-coach has just arrived!' 'well, then, you stupid old fool, show her up directly. did i not tell you to do so?' 'yes, commandant; you said i was to show her up.' 'then why do you not obey me?' 'because the lady--' 'speak out, woman, if you can!' 'the lady has gone again.' 'something you have said or done, then, to offend her, i am sure!' roared he in a perfect fury. 'not at all, commandant. the lady did not alight, but when the coach stopped and the driver opened the door, she desired him to take her back to where she came from.' 'the vehicle cannot have got far by this time,' exclaimed the commandant, hastening towards the door. 'it has been gone upwards of an hour,' answered i, enjoying his fury and disappointment. 'an hour! an hour! and what, in the devil's name, hindered you from letting me know this sooner?' 'because, commandant, alfred and i thought we would spare you as long as we could the tidings of this third breakdown, which we fancied might be too much for you.' come, thinks i, there is something to make you remember flinging me out of your arms, as though it made you sick to touch me. 'begone!' bawled out the commandant. 'you hideous old hag! you can neither say nor do the thing that is right,' and with this he pulled off his dressing-gown and threw his beautiful greek cap, made of velvet embroidered with gold, on the ground: it was a real shame, for the cap was a downright beauty; and as for the dressing-gown, oh, my! it would set anybody longing. meanwhile the commandant kept pacing the room, with his eyes glaring like a wild beast and glowing like two glow-worms." "but were you not afraid of losing his employ?" "he knew too well what he was about for that; we had him in a fix, we knew where his 'madame' lived, and had he said anything to us, we should have threatened to expose the whole affair. and who do you think for his beggarly twelve francs would have undertaken to attend to his rooms,--a stranger? no! that we would have prevented; we would soon have made the place too hot to hold any person he might appoint,--poor, shabby fellow that he is! what do you think? he actually had the meanness to examine his wood and put out the quantity he should allow to be burnt while he was away. he is nothing but an upstart, i am sure,--a nobody, who has suddenly tumbled into money he does not know how to spend properly,--a rich man's head and a beggar's body, who squanders with one hand and nips and pinches with the other. i do not wish him any harm, but it amuses me immensely to think how he has been befooled; and he will go on believing and expecting from day to day, because he is too vain to imagine he is being laughed at. at any rate, if the lady ever comes in reality, i will let my friend the oyster-woman next door know; she enjoys a joke as well as i do, and is quite as curious as myself to find out what sort of person she is, whether fair or dark, pretty or plain. and--who knows?--this woman may be cheating some easygoing simpleton of a husband for the sake of our two-penny-halfpenny of a commandant! well, that is no concern of mine, but i am sorry, too, for the poor, dear, deceived individual, whoever he may be. dear me! dear me! my pot is boiling over,--excuse me a minute, i must just look to it. ah, it is time alfred was in, for dinner is quite ready, and tripe, you know, should never be kept waiting. this tripe is done to a turn. do you prefer the thick or thin tripe? alfred likes it thick. the poor darling has been sadly out of spirits lately, and i got this dainty dish to cheer him up a bit; for, as alfred says himself, that for a bribe of good thick tripe he would betray france itself,--his beloved france. yes, the dear old pet would change his country for such fine fat tripe as this, he would." while madame pipelet was thus delivering her domestic harangue upon the virtues of tripe and the powerful influence it possessed over even the patriotism of her husband, rodolph was buried in the deepest and most sombre reflections. the female, whose visits to the house had just been detailed, be she the marquise d'harville or any other individual, had evidently long struggled with her imprudence ere she had brought herself to grant a first and second rendezvous, and then, terrified at the probable consequences of her imprudence, a salutary remorse had, in all probability, prevented her from fulfilling her dangerous engagement. it might be that the fine person this m. charles was described as possessing had captivated the senses of madame d'harville, whom rodolph knew well as a woman of deep feeling, high intellect, and superior taste, of an elevated turn of mind, and a reputation unsullied by the faintest breath of slander. after long and mature consideration, he succeeded in persuading himself that the wife of his friend had nothing to do with the unknown female in the blue _fiacre_. madame pipelet, having completed her culinary arrangements, resumed her conversation with rodolph. "and who lives on the second floor?" inquired he of the porteress. "why, mother burette does,--a most wonderful woman at fortune-telling; bless you, she can read in your hand the same as a book, and many quite first-rate people come to her to have the cards consulted when they are anxious about any particular matter. she earns her weight in gold, and that is not a trifle, for she is a rare bundle of an old body. however, telling fortunes is only one of her means of gaining a livelihood." "why, what does she do besides?" "she keeps what you would call a pawnbroker's shop upon a small scale." "i see; your second-floor lodger lends out again the money she derives from her skill in foretelling events by reading the cards." "exactly so; only she is cheaper and more easy to deal with than the regular pawnbrokers: she does not confuse you with a heap of paper tickets and duplicates,--nothing of the sort. now suppose: some one brings mother burette a shirt worth three francs; well, she lends ten sous upon condition of being paid twenty at the end of the week, otherwise she keeps the shirt for ever. that is simple enough, is it not? always in round figures, you see,--a child could understand it. and the odd things she has brought her as pledges you would scarcely believe. you can hardly guess what she sometimes is asked to lend upon. i saw her once advance money upon a gray parrot that swore like a trooper,--the blackguard did." "a parrot? but to what amount did she advance money?" "i'll tell you; the parrot was well known; it belonged to a madame herbelot, the widow of a factor, living close by, and it was also well understood that madame herbelot valued the parrot as much as she did her life. well, mother burette said to her, 'i will lend you ten francs on your bird, but if by this day week at twelve o'clock i do not receive twenty francs with interest (it would amount to that in round numbers), if i am not paid my twenty francs, with the expenses of his keep, i shall give your polly a trifling dose of arsenic mixed with his food.' she knew her customer well, bless you! however, by this threat mother burette received her twenty francs at the end of seven days, and madame herbelot got back her disagreeable, screaming parrot." "mother burette has no other way of living besides the two you have named, i suppose?" "not that i know of. i don't know, however, what to say of some rather sly and secret transactions, carried on in a small room she never allows any one to enter, except m. bras rouge and an old one-eyed woman, called la chouette." rodolph opened his eyes with unmixed astonishment as these names sounded on his ear, and the porteress, interpreting the surprise of her future lodger according to her own notions, said: "that name would make any one stare with astonishment. certainly la chouette is uncommonly odd; is it not?" "it is, indeed. does the woman who is so styled come here frequently?" "we saw her the day before yesterday, for the first time these six weeks. she was rather lame, i observed." "and what do you suppose she wants with the fortune-telling woman?" "that i do not know; at least, as to what takes place in the little room i was telling you of, where la chouette alone is admitted with m. bras rouge and mother burette. i have, however, particularly observed that on those occasions the one-eyed woman always has a large bundle with her in her basket, and that m. bras rouge also carries a parcel of some size beneath his cloak, and that they always return empty-handed." "and what can these packets contain?" "the lord above knows, for i don't; only they kick up the devil's own row with them, whatever they are. and then such whiffs of sulphur, charcoal, and melted lead, as you go up the stairs; and blow, blow, blow, like a smith's forge. i verily believe mother burette has dealings with the old one, and practises magic in this private apartment; leastways, that is what m. césar bradamanti, our third-floor lodger, said to me. a very clever individual is m. césar. when i say an 'individual,' i mean an italian, though he speaks as good french as you or me, excepting his accent, and that is nothing. oh, he is very clever, indeed! knows all about physic; and pulls out teeth, not for the sake of the money but the honour of his profession,--yes, really, sir, for downright honour. now, suppose you had six decayed teeth,--and he says the same thing to all who choose to listen to him,--well, then he will take out five for nothing, and only charge you for the sixth. besides which, he sells all manner of remedies for all sorts of complaints,--diseases of the lungs, coughs, colds, every complaint you can name; but then he makes his own drugs, and he has for his assistant the son of our principal lessee, little tortillard. he says that his master is going to buy himself a horse and a red coat, and to sell his drugs in the market-places, and that young tortillard is to be dressed like a page and be at the drum, to attract customers." "this seems to me a very humble occupation for the son of your principal lessee." "why, his father says unless he gets a pretty strong hand over him, and a tolerably powerful taste of whipcord, in the way of a sound thrashing, every now and then, he is safe to come to the scaffold. and he is about the ugliest, most spiteful, ill-disposed young rascal one would wish to meet: he has played more than one abominable trick upon poor m. césar bradamanti, who is the best creature possible; for he cured alfred of a rheumatic attack, and i promise you we have not forgotten it. yet there are some people wicked enough to--but no, i will not tell you: it would make the hair of your head stand on end. as alfred says, if it were true, it would send him to the galleys." "why, what do they accuse him of?" "oh, i really cannot tell you! i can't, indeed; for it is so--" "then we will drop the subject." "and to say such things of a young man! upon my life and soul, it is too bad." "pray, madame pipelet, do not give yourself the trouble of saying any more about it: let us speak of other matters." "why, i don't know but, as you are to live in the house, it is only fair and right to prepare you for any falsehoods you may hear. i suppose you are sufficiently well off to make the acquaintance of m. césar bradamanti, and unless you are put on your guard against these reports, they might lead to your breaking off with him. so, just put your ear down and i'll whisper what it is people say about him." and the old woman, in a low tone, muttered a few words as rodolph inclined his head; he started from her, with mingled disgust and horror. "impossible!" exclaimed he. "surely human nature is not capable of such crimes!" "shocking! is it not? but treat it as i do,--all scandal and lies. what, do you think the man who cured alfred's rheumatism,--who draws five teeth out of six for nothing,--who has testimonies (testimonials) from every prince and king in the world,--and, above all, pays as he goes, down on the nail, would go for to do such things? not he! i'll stake my blessed life upon it." while madame pipelet thus vented her indignant opinion concerning the reports in circulation, rodolph recalled to his memory the letter he had seen addressed to the quack dentist; he remembered the counterfeited writing and the coarse, common paper, stained with tears, which had well-nigh obliterated part of the address,--too well did he see in the mysterious grief-stained epistle the opening of a drama of deep and fearful import; and while these sad presages filled his mind, a powerful impression whispered within him that the dreadful doings ascribed to the italian were not altogether unfounded. "oh, i declare, here comes alfred!" exclaimed the porteress. "now he will tell you his opinion of all these spiteful stories about poor m. bradamanti. bless you! alfred thinks him as innocent as a lamb, ever since he cured his rheumatics." m. pipelet entered the lodge with a grave, magisterial air. he was about sixty years of age, comfortably fat, with a large, broad countenance, strongly resembling in its cast and style the faces carved upon the far-famed nutcrackers of nuremberg; a nose, of more than ordinary proportions, helping to complete the likeness. an old and dingy-looking hat, with a very deep brim, surmounted the whole. alfred, who adhered to this upper ornament as tenaciously as his wife did to her brutus wig, was further attired in an ancient green coat, with immense flaps turned up with grease,--if so might be described the bright and shiny patches of long-accumulated dirt, which had given an entirely different hue to some portions of the garment. but, though clad in a hat and coat esteemed by pipelet and his wife as closely resembling full dress, alfred had not laid aside the modest emblem of his trade, but from his waist uprose the buff-coloured triangular front of his leathern apron, partly concealing a waistcoat boasting nearly as great a variety of colours as did the patchwork counterpane of madame pipelet. the porter's recognition of rodolph as he entered was gracious in the extreme; but, alas! he smiled a melancholy welcome, and his countenance and languid air marked a man of secret sorrow. "alfred," said madame pipelet, when she had introduced her two companions, "here is a gentleman after the apartment on the fourth floor, and we have only been waiting for you to drink a glass of cordial he sent for." this delicate attention won for rodolph the entire trust and confidence of the melancholy porter, who, touching the brim of his hat, said, in a deep bass voice worthy of being employed in a cathedral: "we shall give the gentleman every satisfaction as porters, and, doubtless, he will act the same by us as a lodger; 'birds of a feather flock together,' as the proverb says." then, interrupting himself, m. pipelet anxiously added, "providing, sir, you are not a painter!" "no, i am not a painter, but a plain merchant's clerk." "my most humble duty to you, sir. i congratulate you that nature did not make you one of those monsters called artists." "artists, monsters!" returned rodolph. "tell me, pray, why you style them so." instead of replying, m. pipelet elevated his clasped hands towards the ceiling, and allowed a heavy sound, between a grunt and a groan, to escape his overcharged breast. "you must know, sir," said madame pipelet, in a low tone, to rodolph, "that painters have embittered alfred's life; they have worried my poor old dear almost out of his senses, and made him half stupefied, as you see him now." then speaking loud, she added, in a caressing tone, "oh, never mind the blackguard, there's a dear, but try and forget all about it, or you will be ill, and unable to eat the nice tripe i have got for your dinner." "let us hope i shall have courage and firmness enough for all things," replied m. pipelet, with a dignified and resigned air; "but he has done me much harm; he has been my persecutor, almost my executioner,--long have i suffered, but now i despise him! ah," said he, turning to rodolph, "never allow a painter to enter your doors; they are the plague--the ruin--the destruction of a house!" "you have, then, had a painter lodging with you, i presume?" "unhappily, sir, i did have one," replied m. pipelet, with much bitterness, "and that one named cabrion. ah!" at the recollections brought back by this name, the porter's declaration of courage and endurance utterly failed him, and again his clenched fists were raised, as though to invoke the vengeance he had so lately described himself as despising. "and was this individual the last occupant of the chamber i am about engaging?" inquired rodolph. "no, no! the last lodger was an excellent young man named m. germain. no, this cabrion had the room before he came. ah, sir, since cabrion left, he has all but driven me stark staring mad!" "did you, then, so much regret him?" asked rodolph. "regret him! regret cabrion!" screamed the astounded porter; "why, only imagine, m. bras rouge paid him two quarters' rent to induce him to quit the place, for, unluckily, he had taken his apartments for a term. what a scamp he was! you have no idea of the horrible tricks he played off upon all the lodgers as well as us. why, just to give you one little proof of his villainy, there was hardly a single wind instrument he did not make use of as a sort of annoyance to the lodgers; from the french horn to the flageolet, he made use of all, and even carried his rascality so far as to play false and to keep blowing the same note for hours together; it was enough to worry one out of one's senses. well, i suppose there were upwards of twenty different petitions sent to our chief lessee, m. bras rouge, to turn the beggar out; and, at last, he was only got rid of by paying him two quarters' rent,--rather droll, is it not, for a landlord to pay his lodger? but, bless you, the house was so upset by him that he might have had any price so he would but take himself off; however, he _did_ go. and now you suppose we were clear of m. cabrion? i'll tell you. next night, about eleven o'clock, i was in bed, when rap, rap, rap, comes to the gate. i pulls up the string,--somebody walks up to my door, 'how do you do, porter?' says a voice; 'will you oblige me with a lock of your hair?' 'somebody has mistaken the door,' says my wife. so i calls out to the stranger, 'you are wrong, friend, you want next door.' 'i think not,' returns the voice; 'this is no. , is it not, and the porter's name is pipelet? i'm all right; so please to open the door and oblige me with a lock of your beautiful hair.' 'my name is pipelet, certainly,' answers i. 'well, then, friend pipelet, cabrion has sent me for a piece of your hair; he says he must and he will have it.'" as pipelet uttered the last words he gave his head a mournful shake, and, folding his arms, assumed an attitude of martyrlike resolution. "do you perceive, sir? he sends to me, his mortal enemy, whom he overwhelmed with insults and continually outraged in every way, to beg a lock of my hair,--a favour which even ladies have been known to refuse to a lover!" "but, supposing this cabrion had been as good a lodger as was m. germain," replied rodolph, with some difficulty preserving the gravity of countenance, "do you think you might have accorded him the favour?" "not to the best lodger that treads shoe-leather would i grant a similar request," replied the man in the flapped hat, waving it majestically over his brows as he spoke; "it is contrary to my principles and habits to give my hair to any one,--only i should have refused with the most scrupulous regard to politeness." "that is not all," chimed in the porteress. "only conceive, sir, the abominable conduct of that cabrion, who, from morning to night, at all hours and at all times, sends a swarm of vagabonds like himself to ask alfred for a lock of his hair,--always for cabrion!" "ah, monsieur," sighed out poor pipelet, "had i committed the most atrocious crimes, my sleep could not have been rendered more broken and unrefreshing; scarcely do i fall into a doze than i wake starting with the idea of being called by that cursed cabrion! i suspect everybody,--in each person who approaches me i see an emissary from my persecutor come to request a lock of my hair. i am losing my good spirits, my temper, and becoming gloomy, suspicious, peevish, and ill-natured. this infernal cabrion has murdered my whole life!" and pipelet heaved so profound a sigh that his hat, vibrating for some time from the consequences of the convulsive shake of the head occasioned thereby, fell forward and completely veiled his care-stricken features. "i can well understand, now," said rodolph, "that you are not particularly partial to painters; but i suppose the m. germain you were praising so highly made up for the bad treatment you received from m. cabrion?" "yes, yes, sir; as i told you, m. germain was a delightful young man, so honourable and kind-hearted, open as the day, and ever ready to serve and oblige; he was cheerful and merry as need be, but then he always kept his high spirits within proper bounds instead of worrying people to death by his unmeaning hoaxes, like that cabrion, who i wish was at the devil!" "come, come, my good m. pipelet, i must not let you thus excite yourself; and who, now, is the person fortunate enough to possess such a pattern of a lodger as this m. germain seems to have been?" "that is more than i can tell you; no one knows whither he has gone, nor are they likely, except, indeed, through mlle. rigolette." "and who is mlle. rigolette?" demanded rodolph. "why, she is a needlewoman, also living on the fourth floor," cried madame pipelet; "another pattern lodger, always pays her rent in advance, and keeps her little chamber so nice and clean; then she is well behaved to every one, so merry and happy, like a bird, though, poor thing! very like a caged bird, obliged to work early and late to earn two francs a day, and often not half that, let her try ever so hard." "how does it happen that mlle. rigolette should be the only person entrusted with the secret of m. germain's present abode?" "why, when he was going away, he came to us and said," returned madame pipelet, "'i do not expect any letters; but if, by chance, any should come, please to give them to mlle. rigolette.' and she is well worthy of his confidence, if his letters were filled with gold; don't you think so, alfred?" "the fact is," said the porter, in a severe tone, "that i know no harm of mlle. rigolette, excepting her permitting herself to be wheedled over by that vile scamp, cabrion." "but you know, alfred, that nothing more than a few harmless attentions passed between them," interrupted the porteress; "for, though mlle. rigolette is as merry as a kitten, she is as prudent and correct as i am myself. you should see the strong bolts she has inside her door; and if her next-door neighbour will make love to her, that is not her fault; it follows as a matter of course when people are so close to each other. it was just the same with the travelling-clerk we had here before cabrion, and so it was when m. germain took the room this abominable painter occupied. so, as i say, there is no blame to mlle. rigolette; it arises out of the two rooms joining one another so closely,--naturally that brings about a little flirtation, but nothing more." "so, then, it becomes a matter of course, does it," said rodolph, "that every one who occupies the apartment i am to have should make love to mlle. rigolette?" "why, of course, monsieur; how can you be good neighbours without it,--don't you see? now, imagine yourself lodging in the very next room to a nice, pretty, obliging young person, like mlle. rigolette; well, then, young people will be young people,--sometimes you want a light, sometimes a few live coals to kindle up your fire, maybe a little water,--for one is sure always to find plenty of fresh spring water at mlle. rigolette's, she is never without it; it is her only luxury,--she is like a little duck, always dabbling in it; and if she does happen to have a little leisure, such a washing down of floors and cleaning of windows! never the least soil or neglect about either herself or her apartment, and so you will find." "and so m. germain, by reason of his close proximity to mlle. rigolette, became what you style upon perfectly neighbourly terms with her?" "oh, bless you, yes! why, the two seemed cut out for each other, so young and so good-looking! it was quite a pleasure to look at them as they came down-stairs of a sunday to take the only walk, poor things! they could afford themselves throughout the week; she dressed in a smart little cap and a gown that cost, probably, not more than twenty-five sous the ell, but made by herself, and that so tastily that it became her as much as though it had been of satin; he, mind ye, dressed and looking like a regular gentleman." "and m. germain has not been to see mlle. rigolette, i suppose, since he quitted the house?" "no, monsieur; unless on sunday, for mlle. rigolette has no time during the other six days of the week to think of sweethearting. why, the poor girl rises at five or six o'clock, and works incessantly till ten or eleven o'clock at night, never once leaving her room except for a few minutes in the morning, when she goes out to buy food for herself and her two canary-birds; and the three eat but very little, just a penn'orth of milk, a little bread, some chickweed, bird-seed, and clear fresh water, and the whole three of them sing away as merrily as though they fared ever so sumptuously. and mlle. rigolette is kind and charitable, too, as far as lies in her power; that is to say, she gives her time, her sleep, and her services; for, poor girl! she can scarcely manage to keep herself by working closely for twelve hours a day. those poor, unfortunate creatures in the attics, whom m. bras rouge is going to turn into the streets in two or three days' time, if even he wait so long,--why, mlle. rigolette and m. germain sat up with the children night after night!" "you have a distressed family, then, here?" "distressed! oh, god bless you, my good sir, i think we have, indeed. why, there are five young children, an almost dying mother, an idiotic grandmother, and their only support a man who, though he slaves like a negro, cannot even get bread enough to eat,--and a capital workman he is, too; three hours' sleep out of the twenty-four is all he allows himself,--and what sleep it is! broken by his children crying for food, by the groans of his sick wife tossing on her miserable straw bed, or the idiotic screams of the poor bedridden old grandmother, who sometimes howls like a wolf,--from hunger, too,--for, poor creature! she has not sense or reason to know better, and when she gets very hungry you may hear cries and screams all down the staircase." "horrible!" exclaimed rodolph, with a shudder; "and does no one afford them any assistance?" "truly, sir, we do all we can; we are but poor ourselves; however, since the commandant has allowed me his paltry twelve francs a month for looking after his apartments, i have managed once a week to make a little broth for these poor, unfortunate creatures. mlle. rigolette deprives herself of her night's rest, and sits up, poor girl (though it burns her candles), contriving out of one bit and the other of her cutting out, to make up a few clothes for the children; sometimes from the morsels left of her work she manages a small nightcap or gown; and m. germain, who had not a franc more than he knew what to do with, used to pretend, from time to time, that he had received a present of a few bottles of wine from his friends; and morel (that is the name of the workman with the sick family) was sure to be invited to share it with him; and it was really wonderful to see how refreshed and strengthened poor morel used to seem after m. germain had made him take a good pull at his wine, to put, as he used to say, a little life and soul into his half-exhausted body." "and the surgeon-dentist, what did he do for this wretched family?" "m. bradamanti?" said the porter. "ah! he cured my rheumatism, and i owe him my eternal gratitude; but from that day i said to my wife, 'anastasia, m. bradamanti'--hum!--hum!--did i not say so, anastasia?" "exactly; that is precisely what you did say." "but i want to know what this m. bradamanti did to assist the poor starving beings in your garrets." "why, you see, monsieur, when i mentioned to m. bradamanti the misery and utter destitution of poor morel--by the way, he first began the conversation by complaining that the raving and screaming of the old idiot woman throughout the night for food prevented him from sleeping, and that he found it very unpleasant; however, he listened to my description of the state the whole family was in, and then he said, 'well, if they are so much distressed, you may tell them that if they want any teeth drawn, i will excuse them paying even for the sixth.'" "i tell you what, madame pipelet," said rodolph, "i have a decidedly bad opinion of this man. and your female pawnbroker, was she more charitable?" "very much after the fashion of m. bradamanti," said the porteress; "she lent a few sous upon their wretched clothes; every garment they had has passed into her hands, and even their last mattress; but they were not long coming to the last, for they never had but two." "but she gave them no further aid?" "help them, poor creatures! not she. mother burette is as great a brute in her way as her lover, m. bras rouge, is in his; for between you and i," added the porteress, with an uncommonly knowing wink of the eye and sagacious shake of the head, "there is something rather tender going on between these two." "really!" cried rodolph. "i think so,--i do, upon my life. and why not? why, the folks in st. martin are as loving as the rest of the world; are they not, my old pet?" a melancholy shake of the head, which produced a corresponding motion in the huge black hat, was m. pipelet's only answer. as for madame pipelet, since she had begun expressing sympathy for the poor sufferers in the attics, her countenance had ceased to strike rodolph as repulsive, and he even thought it wore an agreeable expression. "and what is this poor morel's trade?" "a maker of false jewelry; he works by the piece; but, dear me! that sort of work is so much imitated, and so cheaply got up that--for a man can but work his best, and he cannot do more than he can; besides, when you have got to find bread for seven persons without reckoning yourself, it is rather a hard job, i take it. and though his eldest daughter does her best to assist the family, she has but very little in her power." "how old is this daughter?" "about eighteen, and as lovely a young creature as you would see in a long summer's day. she lives as servant with an old miserly fellow, rich enough to buy and sell half paris,--a notary, named m. jacques ferrand." "m. jacques ferrand!" exclaimed rodolph, surprised at the fresh coincidence which brought under his notice the very individual from whom, or from whose confidential housekeeper, he expected to glean so many particulars relative to la goualeuse. "m. jacques ferrand, who lives in the rue du sentier, do you mean?" inquired he. "the very same; are you acquainted with him?" "not at all; but he does the law business for the firm i belong to." "ah! then you must know that he is a regular money-grubbing old usurer; but then, let me do the man justice. he is strictly religious, and devout as a monk; never absent from mass or vespers, making his easter offerings, and going regularly to confession. if he ever enjoys himself, it is only along with the priests, drinking holy water, and eating blessed bread. oh, he is almost a saint in the strictness of his life; but, then, his heart is as hard as iron, and as stern and rigid towards others as he is severe towards himself. why, poor louise, daughter to our sick lodger, has been his only servant for the last eighteen months. and what a good girl she is! gentle as a lamb in temper and disposition, but willing as a horse to work; and he only gives this poor thing, who slaves herself to death for him, eighteen francs a month,--not a farthing more, i give you my word; and out of this she only keeps back six francs for her own maintenance, and hands over the other twelve to her starving family; that has been all their dependence for some time past; but when seven persons have to live upon it, it does not go far." "but what does the father earn,--i mean, provided he is industrious?" "industrious! god bless you, he has always overworked himself; he is the soberest, steadiest creature alive; and i verily believe that if he had the promise of obtaining any favour he liked to ask of heaven, it would be that the day might be made doubly as long as it now is, that he might earn bread enough to stop the cries of his starving brats." "then the father cannot earn enough if he were to try ever so hard, it seems?" "why, the poor man was ill abed for three months, and that threw them all behind; his wife's health was quite ruined by the fatigue of nursing him and the severe want she experienced of common necessaries for herself and family. she now lies in a dying state; they have had nothing for all that period besides louise's wages and what they could obtain from mother burette upon the few wretched articles they could dispose of. true, the master for whom morel had worked advanced them a trifle, out of respect for a man he had always found punctual and honest when he could work. but, la! eight people only to be found in bread, that is what i say,--just imagine how hard it must be to keep life and soul together upon such small means; and if you could only see the hole they are all huddled together in--but do not let us talk any more about that, monsieur, for our dinner is ready, and the very thought of their wretched garret turns my stomach. however, happily, m. bras rouge is going to clear the house of them,--when i say happily, i don't mean it ill-naturedly in the least; but since these poor morels have fallen into such misery, and it is quite out of our power to help them, why let them go and be miserable elsewhere; it will be a heartache the less for us all." "but, if they are turned out from here, where will they go to?" "truly, i don't know." "and how much can this poor workman earn daily when in health, and without any calls upon his time or attention?" "why, if he had not to attend to his old mother, nurse his sick wife, and look after the five children, he could earn his three or four francs a day, because he works like a downright slave; but now that at least three-quarters of his time are taken up with the family, he can hardly manage to earn forty sous." "that is little, indeed,--poor creatures!" "yes, it is easy to say poor creatures, but there are so many equally poor creatures, that, as we can do nothing for them, it is no use to worry ourselves about it,--is it, alfred? and, talking of consoling ourselves, there stands the cassia, and we have never thought of tasting it." "to tell you the truth, madame pipelet, after what i have just heard i have no inclination to partake of it. you and m. pipelet must drink my health in it when i am gone." "you are extremely kind, sir," said the porter; "but will you not like to see the rooms up-stairs?" "i shall be glad to do so, if perfectly convenient; and, if they suit, i will engage them at once and leave a deposit." the porter, followed by rodolph, emerged from the gloomy lodge, and proceeded up-stairs. chapter xxiv. the four stories. the damp, dark staircase looked still more gloomy through the fog of a november day. the entrance to each separate set of apartments in this house bore its own peculiar and distinctive character to the observant eye. thus, the door conducting to those of the commandant bore evidences of having been recently painted in close imitation of ebony, being further set off with a brass knob rubbed up to a most dazzling brightness, while a gay-coloured bell-rope, finished by an enormous tassel of scarlet silk, contrasted strongly with the mean and shabby wall against which it hung. the door of the flight above, where dwelt the female money-lender and dealer in divination, was singularly characterised by the appearance of that mystical symbol of deep wisdom and oracular knowledge, an owl, which, stuffed to resemble life as closely as the artist could contrive it, was nailed on a small bracket just above the doorway; while a sort of small wicket, latticed with wire-work, enabled all visitors to be duly scrutinised ere they were admitted. the dwelling of the italian charlatan, who was said to pursue such fearful avocations, had, likewise, its whimsical mode of designating the pursuits of its occupant, whose name, traced in large letters formed of horses' teeth upon a square black board, was nailed to the entrance-door; while, instead of adopting the classical agency of a deer's foot or a hare's pad for the handle of his bell, there hung dangling from the cord the hand and arm of a dried ape,--the withered limb, the shrivelled hand, with its five fingers, each so distinctly preserved, and the articulation of every joint so clearly defined, the tiny tips bearing the nails long and taper as those of a human creature, presented a close and hideous resemblance to the hand and arm of a child. as rodolph passed before a door so singularly indicative of all his worst suspicions, he fancied he could detect the sound of smothered sobs from within. then rose up a cry so full of agony, of convulsive, irrepressible misery,--a cry as if wrung from a breaking heart or the last wail of expiring nature, that the whole house seemed to reëcho it. rodolph started; then, by a movement more rapid than thought itself, he rushed to the door and violently pulled the bell. "what is the matter, sir?" inquired the astonished porter. "that cry!" said rodolph; "did you not hear it?" "yes, yes, i heard it; i dare say it is some person whose teeth m. bradamanti is taking out; perhaps he may be taking out several,--and it is painful!" this explanation, though a probable one, did not satisfy rodolph as to the horrid scream which still resounded in his ears. though he had rung the bell with considerable violence, no person had as yet replied to his summons; he could distinctly hear the shutting of several doors, and then, behind a small oval glass let in beside the door, and on which rodolph had mechanically kept his eyes fixed, he saw the haggard, cadaverous countenance of a human being; a mass of reddish hair strongly mixed with gray, and a long beard of the same hue, completed the hideous ensemble; the face was seen but for an instant, and vanished as quickly as though it had been a mere creation of fancy, leaving rodolph in a state of perturbation impossible to describe. short as had been the period of this apparition's visit, he had yet in those brief instants recalled features precisely similar and for ever engraved on his memory,--the eyes shining with the colour and brilliancy of the _aqua marina_ beneath their bushy sandy eyebrows, the livid complexion, the nose thin, projecting, and curving like an eagle's beak, with its nostrils so curiously expanded and carved out till they exposed a portion of the nasal cartilage, resembled closely a certain polidori, whose name had been so unceremoniously committed by murphy, in his conversation with graün, to regions not mentionable to polite ears. though rodolph had not seen polidori during the last sixteen or seventeen years, he had a thousand reasons for keeping every feature well in his remembrance. the only thing that told against the identity of the individual he believed existed under the disguised name of this quack dentist was the circumstance of his having red hair, while the polidori of rodolph's acquaintance had almost black. that rodolph experienced no wonder (always supposing his conjectures as to the identity correct) at finding a man whose profound learning, rare talent, and vast intelligence he well knew, sunk to such a degradation,--it might even be infamy,--was because he knew equally well that all these high attainments and noble gifts were allied to such entire perversity, such wild and irregular passions, inclinations so corrupt, and, above all, an affected scorn and contempt for the opinion of the world, which might lead this man, when want and misery overtook him, to seek, from choice, the lowest and least honourable paths of subsistence, and to enjoy a sort of malevolent satisfaction in the idea of him, the talented, the learned, burying all these precious treasures beneath the ignoble calling to which he had devoted his vast powers of mind and body. still, be it remembered that, spite of the close resemblance between the charlatan surgeon-dentist and the polidori of bygone years, there still existed discrepancies so great that rodolph balanced, in deep uncertainty, respecting their proving to be one and the same person. at length, turning to pipelet, he inquired: "how long has this m. bradamanti been an inmate of this house?" "about a year, sir, as nearly as i can remember,--yes, it is a year; i recollect he took the lodgings in the january quarter. oh, he is a very regular and exact lodger; he cured me of a desperate attack of rheumatism." "madame pipelet was telling me of the reports which are circulated of him." "how could she be so foolish?" "nay, pray do not fear me! i assure you i may safely be trusted." "but, really, sir," rejoined pipelet, "i do not think there is the least dependence to be placed in such reports. i do not believe them, for one. i never can believe them; my modesty would not let me," added m. pipelet, turning very red, and preceding his new lodger to the floor above. the more resolved upon clearing up his doubts in proportion to the very great annoyance he felt that the residence of polidori in the same house would prove to him, and becoming momentarily more disposed to affix a painful solution to the enigma of the piercing cry he had heard from the apartments of the italian, rodolph bound himself by a rigid promise to investigate the matter, so as to place it beyond the power of a doubt, and followed the porter to the upper floor, where was situated the chamber he was desirous of engaging. it was easy to ascertain the abode of his next-door neighbour mlle. rigolette. thanks to the charming gallantry of the painter, pipelet's mortal foe, the door of her chamber was ornamented after the manner of watteau, with a panel design representing about half a dozen fat little chubby loves, grouped round a space painted sky blue, and on which was traced, in pink letters, "_mademoiselle rigolette, dressmaker_." these plump little cupids had all a task to perform besides encircling this important announcement. one held the thimble of mlle. rigolette upon his tiny finger; another held her scissors; a third was provided with a smoothing-iron for her use; whilst a fourth held up a mirror, as if to tempt the young sempstress to forsake her work for the more gratifying view of her own pretty countenance. the whole was surrounded with a well-chosen wreath of flowers, whose gay colours contrasted agreeably with the sea-green colour of the door; the whole offering a very unfavourable contrast to the mean and shabby-looking staircase. at the risk of opening anew the bleeding wounds of alfred, rodolph ventured to observe, while pointing to the door of mlle. rigolette: "this, i suppose, is the work of m. cabrion?" "it is; he destroyed the painting of the door by daubing it over with a parcel of fat, indecent children he called his _loves_. had it not been for the entreaties of mlle. rigolette, and the weakness of m. bras rouge, i would have scratched it all off, as well as this palette filled with horrid monsters, with their equally abominable master, whom you can see drawn amongst them. you may know him by his steeple-crowned hat." and there, sure enough, on the door of the room rodolph was about to hire, might be seen a palette surrounded by all kinds of odd and whimsical creatures, the witty conceit of which might have done honour to callot. rodolph followed the porter into a tolerably good-sized room, accessible by a small entrance-closet, or antechamber, having two windows opening into the rue du temple. some fantastic sketches from the pencil of m. cabrion, on the second door, had been scrupulously respected by m. germain. rodolph saw too many reasons for desiring to obtain this lodging to hesitate further; therefore, modestly placing a couple of francs in the hand of the porter, he said: [illustration: "'_this, i suppose, is the work of m. cabrion_'" etching by mercier, after the drawing by frank t. merrill] "this chamber will exactly suit me. here is a deposit to complete the bargain. to-morrow i will send in my furniture; but let me beg of you not to destroy the merry creatures painted on the palette at the entrance. it is really very droll! don't you think so?" "droll!" groaned poor pipelet; "not i! ah, sir, how would you like to dream night after night that you were being hunted by a legion of little ugly devils like these on the door, with cabrion at their head urging them on, and then fancying you are trying to get away, and cannot? oh, i have woke all in a perspiration from such dreams hundreds of times since that infamous cabrion began persecuting me." "why, honestly speaking, i cannot say the chase would be a very agreeable one, even though but a dream. however, tell me, have i any need to see m. bras rouge--your great man here--about renting this apartment?" "none whatever, sir. he rarely comes near the place, except when he has any private matters to arrange with mother burette. i am the only person to treat with about hiring apartments. i must beg the favour of your name." "rodolph." "rodolph what?" "plain rodolph, m. pipelet,--nothing more, if you please." "just as you please, sir. i did not ask from curiosity. every man has a right to his own free will, as well as to decide upon the name he chooses to be called." "what do you think, m. pipelet, as to the propriety of my going to-morrow, as a new neighbour of morel's, to inquire whether i can be of any service to them? since my predecessor, m. germain, was permitted to assist them according to _his_ means, why should they not accept of what trifling help i can afford?" "why, sir, i see no harm in your going to call on the morels, because it may please the poor things; but i hardly see much good it can do, as they are so shortly to be turned out of the house." then, as if suddenly struck with a new idea, m. pipelet exclaimed, winking at rodolph with what he intended should be a very facetious and penetrating look, "i see, i see,--you mean to begin making acquaintance with the lodgers at the top of the house, that you may be able to work your way down to mlle. rigolette. ah, i've found you out, you see,--pretty girl--" "well, i think you have discovered my intentions, so i will confess at once that i mean to try and be on friendly terms with my agreeable neighbour." "there is no harm in that, sir,--it is customary; only all correct, all right and honourable,--you understand. between you and me, i strongly suspect mlle. rigolette heard us coming up-stairs, and that she is watching to have a look as we go down. i will make a noise purposely in locking the door; if you look sharp, you will see her as we pass the landing." and, true to the porter's suspicions, the door so tastefully enlivened by the fat cupids, _à la watteau_, was seen to open gently, and rodolph had a brief view of a little, turned-up nose, and a pair of large, staring black eyes, peeping through the narrow space; but, as he slacked his steps, the door was hastily shut. "i told you she was watching us," said the porter. then added, "excuse me one instant, sir; i want to step up to my warehouse." "where is that?" "at the top of this ladder is the landing-place, on which the door of morel's garret opens, and in the wainscoting of this landing is a small dark cupboard, where i keep my leather, and the wall is so full of cracks, that when i am in this hole i can see and hear everything, the same as if i was in morel's room. not that i wish to spy what the poor creatures are about, god knows,--quite the contrary. but please to excuse me for a few minutes, sir, whilst i fetch my bit of leather. if you will have the goodness to go down-stairs, i will rejoin you." and, so saying, pipelet commenced ascending the steep ladder communicating with his warehouse, as he styled it,--a somewhat perilous feat for a person of his age. rodolph, thus left alone, cast another glance towards the chambers of mlle. rigolette, remembering with deep interest all he had heard of her being the favourite companion of the poor goualeuse, and recalling also the information she was said to possess touching the residence of the schoolmaster's son, when the sound of some person quitting the apartments of the quack doctor below attracted his attention, and he could distinctly hear the light step of a female, with the rustling of a silk dress. rodolph paused till the sounds had died away, and then descended the stairs. something white had fallen about half-way down; it had evidently been dropped by the person who had just quitted polidori. rodolph picked it up, and carried it to one of the narrow windows which lighted the staircase. it was a pocket-handkerchief, of the finest cambric, trimmed with costly lace, and bearing in one corner the initials "l. n." beautifully embroidered, and surmounted with a ducal coronet. the handkerchief was literally soaked in tears. rodolph's first impulse was to follow the person from whose hand this mute evidence of deep woe had fallen, with the view of restoring it, but, reflecting that such a step might be mistaken for impertinent curiosity, he determined to preserve it carefully, as the first link in an adventure he found himself almost involuntarily engaged in, and from which he augured a painful and melancholy termination. as he returned to the porteress, he inquired whether a female had not just come down-stairs. "a female! no indeed, sir,--it was a fine, tall, slender-looking lady, not a female, and covered over with a thick black veil. she has come from m. bradamanti. little tortillard fetched a coach for her, and she has just driven away in it. what struck me was the impudence of that little beggar to seat himself behind the coach. i dare say, though, it was to see where the lady went to, for he is as mischievous as a magpie, and as prying as a ferret, for all his club-foot." "so, then," thought rodolph, "the name and address of this unhappy lady will soon be known to this imposter, since it is, doubtless, by his directions she is followed and watched by this imp of an emissary." "well, sir, and what do you think of the apartment? will it suit you?" inquired madame pipelet. "nothing could have suited me better. i have taken it, and to-morrow i shall send in my furniture." "well, then, thank god for a good lodger! i am sure it was a lucky chance for us sent you here." "i hope you will find it so, madame. i think it is well understood between us that you undertake to manage all my little domestic matters for me. i shall come and superintend the removal of my goods. adieu!" so saying, rodolph left the lodge. the results of his visit to the house in the rue du temple were highly important, both as regarded the solution of the deep mystery he so ardently desired to unravel, and also as affording a wide field for the exercise of his earnest endeavours to do good and to prevent evil. after mature calculation, he considered himself to have achieved the following results: first, he had ascertained that mlle. rigolette was in possession of the address of germain, the schoolmaster's son. secondly, a young female, who, from appearances, might unhappily be the marquise d'harville, had made an appointment with the commandant for the morrow,--perhaps to her own utter ruin and disgrace; and rodolph had (as we have before mentioned) numerous reasons for wishing to preserve the honour and peace of one for whom he felt so lively an interest as he took in all concerning m. d'harville. an honest and industrious artisan, crushed by the deepest misery, was, with his whole family, about to be turned into the streets through the means of bras rouge. further, rodolph had undesignedly caught a glimpse of an adventure in which the charlatan césar bradamanti (possibly polidori) and a female, evidently of rank and fashion, were the principal actors. and, finally, la chouette, having lately quitted the hospital, where she had been since the affair in the allée des veuves, had reappeared on the stage, and was evidently engaged in some underhand proceedings with the fortune-teller and female money-lender who occupied the second floor of the house. having carefully noted down all these particulars, rodolph returned to his house, rue plumet, deferring till the following day his visit to the notary, jacques ferrand. it will be no doubt fresh in the memory of our readers, that on this same evening rodolph was engaged to be present at a grand ball given by the ambassador of ----. before following our hero in this new excursion, let us cast a retrospective glance on tom and sarah,--personages of the greatest importance in the development of this history. chapter xxv. tom and sarah. sarah seyton, widow of count macgregor, and at this time thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age, was of an excellent scotch family, daughter of a baronet, and a country gentleman. beautiful and accomplished, an orphan at seventeen years old, she had left scotland with her brother, thomas seyton of halsbury. the absurd predictions of an old highland nurse had excited almost to madness the two leading vices in sarah's character,--pride and ambition; the destiny predicted for her, and in which she fully believed, was of the highest order,--in fact, sovereign rank. the prophecy had been so often repeated, that the young scotch girl eventually fully credited its fulfilment; and she constantly repeated to herself, to bear out her ambitious dream, that a fortune-teller had thus promised a crown to the handsome and excellent creature who afterwards sat on the throne of france, and who was queen as much by her graces and her kind heart as others have been by their grandeur and majesty. strange to say, thomas seyton, as superstitious as his sister, encouraged her foolish hopes, and resolved on devoting his life to the realisation of sarah's dream,--a dream as dazzling as it was deceptive. however, the brother and sister were not so blind as to believe implicitly in this highland prophecy, and to look absolutely for a throne of the first rank in a splendid disdain of secondary royalties or reigning principalities; on the contrary, so that the handsome scotch lassie should one day encircle her imperial forehead with a sovereign crown, the haughty pair agreed to condescend to shut their eyes to the importance of the throne they coveted. by the assistance of the _almanach de gotha_ for the year of grace , seyton arranged, before he left scotland, a sort of synopsis of the ages of all the kings and ruling powers in europe then unmarried. although very ridiculous, yet the brother and sister's ambition was freed from all shameful modes; seyton was prepared to aid his sister sarah in snatching at the thread of the conjugal band by which she hoped eventually to fasten a crown upon her brows. he would be her participator in any and all stratagems which could tend to consummate this end; but he would rather have killed his sister than see her the mistress of a prince, even though the _liaison_ should terminate in a marriage of reparation. the matrimonial inventory that resulted from seyton and sarah's researches in the _almanach de gotha_ was satisfactory. the germanic confederation furnished forth a numerous contingent of young presumptive sovereigns. seyton was not ignorant of the sort of german wedlock which is called a "left-handed marriage," to which, as being legitimate to a certain extent, he would, as a last resource, have resigned his sister. to germany, then, it was resolved to bend their steps, in order to commence this search for the royal spouse. if the project appears improbable, such hopes ridiculous, let us first reply by saying that unbridled ambition, excited by superstitious belief, rarely claims for itself the light of reason in its enterprises, and will dare the wildest impossibilities; yet, when we recall certain events, even in our own times, from high and most reputable morganatic marriages between sovereigns and female subjects, down to the loving elopement of miss penelope smith and the prince of capua, we cannot refuse some chance of fortunate result to the imagination of seyton and sarah. let us add that the lady united to a very lovely person, singular abilities and very varied talents; whilst there were added a power of seduction the more dangerous as it was united to a mind unbending and calculating, a disposition cunning and selfish, a deep hypocrisy, a stubborn and despotic will,--all covered by the outward show of a generous, warm, and impassioned nature. in her appearance, there was as much deceit as in her mind. her full and dark eyes, now sparkling, now languishing, beneath her coal black brow, could well dissimulate all the warmth of love and desire. yet the burning impulses of love never throbbed beneath her icy bosom; no surprise of the heart or of the senses ever intervened to disturb the cold and pitiless calculations of this woman,--crafty, selfish, and ambitious. when she reached the continent, she resolved, in accordance with her brother's advice, not to commence her conjugal and regal campaign until she had resided some time in paris, where she determined to complete her education, and rub off the rust of her native country, by associating with a society which was embellished by all that was elegant, tasteful, and refined. sarah was introduced into the best society and the highest circles, thanks to the letters of recommendation and considerate patronage of the english "ambassador's" lady and the old marquis d'harville, who had known tom and sarah's father in england. persons of deceitful, calculating, and cold dispositions acquire with great facility language and manners quite in opposition to their natural character, as with them all is outside, surface, appearance, varnish, bark; or they soon find that, if their real characters are detected, they are undone; so, thanks to the sort of instinct of self-preservation with which they are gifted, they feel all the necessity of the moral mask, and so paint and costume themselves with all the alacrity and skill of a practised comedian. thus, after six months' residence in paris, sarah was in a condition to contest with the most parisian of parisian women, as to the piquant finish of her wit, the charm of her liveliness, the ingenuousness of her flirtation, and the exciting simplicity of her looks, at once chaste and passionate. finding his sister in full panoply for his campaign, seyton left with her for germany, furnished with the best letters of introduction. the first state of the german confederation which headed sarah's "road-book" was the grand duchy of gerolstein, thus styled in the diplomatic and infallible _almanach de gotha_ for the year of grace : "_genealogy of the sovereigns of europe and their families_. "gerolstein. "grand duke: maximilian rodolph, th december, . succeeded his father, charles frederic rodolph, st april, . widower january, , by decease of his wife, louisa amelia, daughter of john augustus, prince of burglen. "_son_: gustavus rodolph, born th april, . "_mother_: dowager grand duchess judith, widow of the grand duke, charles frederic rodolph, st april, ." seyton, with much practical good sense, had first noted down on his list the youngest princes whom he coveted as brothers-in-law, thinking that extreme youth is more easily seduced than ripened age. moreover, we have already said that the brother and sister were particularly recommended to the reigning duke of gerolstein by the old marquis d'harville, caught, like the rest of the world, by sarah, whose beauty, grace, and, above all, delightful manners, he could not sufficiently admire. it is superfluous to say that the presumptive heir of the grand duchy of gerolstein was gustavus rodolph: he was hardly eighteen when tom and sarah were presented to his father. the arrival of the young scotch lady was an event in the german court, so quiet, simple, and almost patriarchal in its habits and observances. the grand duke, a most worthy gentleman, governed his states with wise firmness and paternal kindness. nothing could exceed the actual and moral happiness of the principality, whose laborious and steady population, by their soberness and piety, presented a pure specimen of the german character. this excellent people enjoyed so much real felicity, and were so perfectly contented with their condition, that the enlightened care of the grand duke was not much called into action to preserve them from the mania of constitutional innovations. as far as modern discovery went, and those practical suggestions which have a wholesome influence over the well-being and morals of his people, the grand duke was always anxious to acquire knowledge himself, and apply it invariably for the use and benefit of his people, his residents at the capitals of the different states of europe having little else to occupy themselves whilst on their mission but to keep their master fully informed as to the rise and progress of science and all the arts which are connected with public welfare and public utility. we have said that the duke felt as much affection as gratitude for the old marquis d'harville, who, in , had rendered him immense service; and so, thanks to his powerful recommendation, sarah of halsbury and her brother were received at the court of gerolstein with every distinction, and with marked kindness. a fortnight after her arrival, the young scotch girl, endued with so profound a spirit of observation, had easily penetrated the firm character and open heart of the grand duke. before she began to seduce his son,--a thing of course,--she had wisely resolved to discover the disposition of the father. although he had appeared to dote on his son, she was yet fully convinced that this father, with all his tenderness, would never swerve from certain principles, certain ideas as to the duty of princes, and would never consent to what he would consider a _mésalliance_ for his son, and that not through pride, but from conscience, reason, and dignity. a man of this firm mould, and the more affectionate and good in proportion as he is firm and determined, never abates one jot of that which affects his conscience, his reason, and his dignity. sarah was on the point of renouncing her enterprise in the face of obstacles so insurmountable; but, reflecting that, as rodolph was very young, and his gentleness and goodness, his character at once timid and meditative, were generally spoken of, she thought she might find compensation in the feeble and irresolute disposition of the young prince, and therefore persisted in her project, and again revived her hopes. on this new essay, the management of herself and brother were most masterly. the young lady knew full well how to propitiate all around her, and particularly the persons who might have been jealous or envious of her accomplishments, and she caused her beauty and grace to be forgotten beneath the veil of modest simplicity with which she covered them. she soon became the idol, not only of the grand duke, but of his mother, the dowager grand duchess judith, who, in spite of, or through, her ninety years of age, loved to excess every thing that was young and charming. sarah and her brother often talked of their departure, but the sovereign of gerolstein would never consent to it; and that he might completely attach the two to him, he pressed on sir thomas seyton the acceptance of the vacant post of his "first groom of the chamber," and entreated sarah not to quit the grand duchess judith, as she could not do without her. after much hesitation, overcome by the most pressing entreaties, sarah and seyton accepted such brilliant offers, and decided on establishing themselves at the court of gerolstein, where they had been for two months. sarah, who was an accomplished musician, knowing the taste of the grand duchess for the old masters, and, above all, for gluck, sent for the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of this attractive composer, and fascinated the old princess by her unfailing complaisance, as well as the remarkable skill with which she sang those old airs, so beautiful in their melody, so expressive in their character. as for seyton, he knew how to make himself very useful in the occupation which had been conferred upon him. he was a good judge of horses, was orderly and firm in his conduct and arrangements, and so, in a short time, completely remodelled the stables of the grand duke, which, up to that time, had been neglected, and become disorganised. the brother and sister were soon equally beloved, fêted, and admired in this court. the master's preference soon commands the preference of those below him. sarah required, in aid of her future projects, too much aid not to employ her insinuating powers in acquiring partisans. her hypocrisy, clothed in most attractive shapes, easily deluded the simple-hearted germans, and the general feeling soon authorised the extreme kindness of the grand duke. thus, then, our designing pair were established at the court of gerolstein, agreeably and securely placed without any reference to rodolph. by a lucky chance, some days after the arrival of sarah, the young prince had gone away to the inspection of troops, with an aide-de-camp and the faithful murphy. this absence, doubly auspicious to the views of sarah, allowed her to arrange at her ease the principal threads of the fillet she was weaving, without being deterred by the presence of the young prince, whose too open admiration might, perhaps, have awakened the suspicions of the grand duke. on the contrary, in the absence of his son, he did not, unfortunately, reflect that he was admitting into the closest intimacy a young girl of surpassing beauty, and of lively wit, as rodolph must discover at every moment of the day. sarah was perfectly insensible to a reception so kind and generous,--to the full confidence with which she was introduced into the very heart of this sovereign family. neither brother nor sister paused for a moment in their bad designs; they determined upon a principle to bring trouble and annoyance into this peaceable and happy court; they calmly calculated the probable results of the cruel divisions they should establish between a father and son, up to that period so tenderly united. * * * * * a few words concerning rodolph's early days may be necessary. during his infancy, he had been extremely delicate. his father reasoned thereon in this strange manner: "english country gentlemen are generally remarkable for their robust health. this advantage results generally from their bodily training, which is simple, rural, and develops their full vigour. rodolph must leave the hands of women; his temperament is delicate, and, perhaps, by accustoming this child to live like the son of an english farmer (with some few exceptions), i shall strengthen his constitution." the grand duke sent to england for a man worthy of the trust, and capable of directing such a course of bodily culture, and sir walter murphy, an athletic specimen, of a yorkshire country gentleman, was entrusted with this important charge. the direction which he gave to the mind and body of the young prince were such as entirely coincided with the views and wishes of the grand duke. murphy and his pupil lived for many years in a beautiful farmhouse, situated in the midst of woods and fields, some leagues from the capital of gerolstein, and in a most picturesque and salubrious spot. rodolph, free from all etiquette, and employed with murphy in outdoor labour proportionate to his age, lived the sober, manly, and regular life of the country, having for his pleasure and amusement the violent exercises of wrestling, pugilism, riding on horseback, and hunting. in the midst of the pure air of the meadows, woods, and mountains, he underwent an entire change, and grew up as vigorous as a young oak; his pale cheek became suffused with the ruddy glow of health; always lithe and active, he underwent now the most severe fatigues, his address, energy, and courage supplying what was deficient in his muscular power; so that, when only in his fifteenth or sixteenth year, he was always the conqueror in his contests with young men his superiors in age. his scientific education necessarily suffered from the preference given to his physical training, and rodolph's knowledge was very limited; but the grand duke very wisely reflected that, to have a well-informed mind, it must be supported by a strong physical frame, and that, this acquired, the intellectual faculties would develop themselves the more rapidly. the kind walter murphy was by no means a sage, and could only convey to rodolph some primary instruction; but no one knew better than he how to inspire his pupil with the feeling of what is just, loyal, and generous, and a horror of every thing that was mean, low, and contemptible. these repugnances, these powerful and wholesome admonitions, took deep and lasting root in the very soul of rodolph; and although, in after life, these principles were violently shaken by the storm of passions, yet they were never eradicated from his heart. the levin bolt strikes, splits, and rends the deeply planted tree; but the sap still maintains its hold in the roots, and a thousand green branches spring fresh from what was taken for a withered and dead tree. murphy, then, gave to rodolph, if we may use the expression, health to both body and mind; he made him robust, active, and daring, with a love for all that was good and right, and a hatred for whatsoever was wicked and bad. having fulfilled his task to admiration, the squire, called to england on very important business, left germany for some time, to the great regret of rodolph, who loved him extremely. his son's health having been so satisfactorily established, the grand duke turned his most serious attention to the mental education of his dearly beloved son. a certain doctor césar polidori, a renowned linguist, a distinguished chemist, learned historian, and deeply versed in the study of all the exact and physical sciences, was entrusted with the charge of cultivating and improving the rich but virgin soil so carefully and well prepared by murphy. this time the grand duke's choice was a most unfortunate one, or, rather, his religious feelings were infamously imposed upon by the person who introduced the doctor to him, and caused him to think on polidori as the preceptor of the young prince. atheist, cheat, and hypocrite, full of stratagem and trick, concealing the most dangerous immorality, the most hardened scepticism, under an austere exterior, profoundly versed in the knowledge of human nature, or, rather, only having tried the worst side,--the disgraceful passions of humanity,--doctor polidori was the most hateful mentor that could have been entrusted with the education of a young man. rodolph left with the deepest regrets the independent and animating life which he had hitherto led with murphy to go and become pale with the study of books, and submit himself to the irksome ceremonies of his father's court, and he at once entertained a strong prejudice against his tutor. it could not be otherwise. on quitting his young friend, the poor squire had compared him, and with justice, to a young wild colt, full of grace and fire, carried off from his native prairies, where he had dwelt, free as air, and joyous as a bird, to be bridled and spurred, that he might under that system learn how to moderate and economise those powers which, hitherto, he had only employed in running and leaping in any way he pleased. rodolph began by telling polidori that he had no taste for study, but that he greatly preferred the free exercise of his arms and legs, to breathe the pure air of the fields, to traverse the woods and the mountains, and that a good horse and a good gun were preferable to all the books in the universe. the doctor was prepared for this antipathy, and was secretly delighted at it, for, in another way, the hopes of this man were as ambitious as those of sarah. although the grand duchy of gerolstein was only a secondary state, polidori indulged the idea of being one day its richelieu, and of making rodolph play the part of the do-nothing prince. but, desirous above all things of currying favour with his pupil, and of making him forget murphy, by his own concession and compliance, he concealed from the grand duke the young prince's repugnance for study, and boasted of his application to, and rapid progress in, his studies; whilst some examinations arranged between himself and rodolph, which had the air of being impromptu questions, confirmed the grand duke in his blind and implicit confidence. by degrees the dislike which rodolph at first entertained for the doctor changed, on the young prince's part, into a cool familiarity, very unlike the real attachment he had for murphy. by degrees, he found himself leagued with polidori (although from very innocent causes) by the same ties that unite two guilty persons. sooner or later, rodolph was sure to despise a man of the age and character of the doctor, who so unworthily lied to excuse the idleness of his pupil. this polidori knew; but he also knew that if we do not at once sever our connections with corrupt minds in disgust, by degrees, and in spite of our better reason, we become familiar with and too frequently admire them, until, insensibly, we hear without shame or reproach those things mocked at and vituperated which we formerly loved and revered. besides, the doctor was too cunning all at once to shock certain noble sentiments and convictions which rodolph had derived from the admirable lessons of murphy. after having vented much raillery on the coarseness of the early occupations of his young pupil, the doctor, laying aside his thin mask of austerity, had greatly aroused the curiosity and heated the fancy of the young prince, by the exaggerated descriptions, strongly drawn and deeply coloured, of the pleasures and gallantries which had illustrated the reigns of louis xiv., the regent, and especially louis xv., the hero of césar polidori. he assured the misled boy, who listened to him with a fatal earnestness, that pleasures, however excessive, far from demoralising a highly accomplished prince, often made him merciful and generous, inasmuch as fine minds are never more predisposed to benevolence and clemency than when acted upon by their own enjoyments. louis xv., the _bien aimé_, the well-beloved, was an unanswerable proof of this. and then, added the doctor, how entirely have the greatest men of all ages and all countries abandoned themselves to the most refined epicureanism,--from alcibiades to maurice of saxony, from anthony to the great condé, from cæsar to vendome! such conversations must make deep and dangerous impressions on a young, ardent, and virgin mind, and such theories could not be without their results. in the midst of this well regulated and virtuous court, accustomed, after the example of its ruler, to honest pleasures and harmless amusements, rodolph, instructed by polidori, dreamt of the dissipated nights of versailles, the orgies of choisy, the attractive voluptuousness of the parc-au-cerfs, and also, from time to time, of some romantic amours contrasting with these. neither had the doctor failed to prove to rodolph that a prince of the germanic confederation should not have any military pretension beyond sending his contingent to the diet. the feeling of the time was not warlike. according to the doctor, to pass his time delightfully and idly amongst women and the refinements of luxury,--to repose from time to time from the animation of sensual pleasures, amidst the delightful attractions of the fine arts,--to hunt occasionally, not as a nimrod, but as an intelligent epicurean, and enjoy the transitory fatigues which make idleness and repose taste but the sweeter,--this, this was the only life which a prince should think of enjoying, who (and this was his height of happiness) could find a prime minister capable of devoting himself boldly to the distressing and overwhelming burden of state affairs. rodolph, in abandoning himself to ideas which were free from criminality, because they did not spring from the circle of fatal probabilities, resolved that when providence should call to himself the grand duke, his father, he would devote himself to the life which césar polidori had painted to him under such brilliant and attractive colours, and to have as his prime minister one whose knowledge and understanding he admired, and whose blind complaisance he fully appreciated. it is useless to say that the young prince kept the most perfect silence upon the subject of those pernicious hopes which had been excited within him. knowing that the heroes of the grand duke's admiration were gustavus adolphus, charles xii., and the great frederic (maximilian rodolph had the honour of belonging to the royal house of brandenburg), rodolph thought, reasonably enough, that the prince, his father, who professed so profound an admiration for these king-captains, always booted and spurred, continually mounted on their chargers, and engaged in making war, would consider his son out of his senses if he believed him capable of wishing to displace the tudescan gravity of his court by the introduction of the light and licentious manners of the regency. a year--eighteen months--passed away. at the end of this time murphy returned from england, and wept for joy on again embracing his young pupil. after a few days, although unable to discover the reason of a change which so deeply afflicted him, the worthy squire found rodolph chilled and constrained in his demeanour towards him, and almost rude when he recalled to him his sequestered and rural life. assured of the natural kind heart of the young prince, and warned by a secret presentiment, murphy thought him for a time perverted by the pernicious influence of doctor polidori, whom he instinctively abhorred, and resolved to watch very narrowly. the doctor, for his part, was very much annoyed by murphy's return, for he feared his frankness, good sense, and keen penetration. he instantly resolved, therefore, cost what it might, to ruin the worthy englishman in rodolph's estimation. it was at this crisis that seyton and sarah were presented and received at the court of gerolstein with such extreme distinction. we have said that rodolph, accompanied by murphy, had been absent from the court on a journey for some weeks. during this absence the doctor was by no means idle. it is said that intriguers discover and recognise each other by certain mysterious signs, which allow of them observing each other until their interests decide them to form a close alliance, or declare unremitting hostility. some days after the establishment of sarah and her brother at the court of the grand duke, polidori became a close ally of seyton's. the doctor confessed to himself, with delectable cynicism, that he felt a natural affinity for rogues and villains, and so he said that without pretending to discover the end which sarah and her brother desired to achieve, he was attracted towards them by a sympathy so strong as to lead him to imagine that they plotted some devilish purpose. some questions of seyton's as to the disposition and early life of rodolph, questions which would have passed without notice with a person less awake to all that occurred than the doctor, in a moment enlightened him as to the ulterior aims of the brother and sister; all he doubted was, that the aspirations of the scotch lady were at the same time honourable as well as ambitious. the arrival of this lovely young woman appeared to polidori a godsend. rodolph's mind was already inflamed with amorous imaginings; sarah might become, or be made, the delicious reality which should substantiate so many glorious dreams. it was not to be doubted but that she would secure an immense influence over a heart submitted to the witching spell of a first love. the doctor instantly laid his plan to direct and secure this influence, and to make it serve also as the means of destroying murphy's power and reputation. like a skilful intriguer, he soon informed the aspiring pair that they must come to an understanding with him, as he alone was responsible to the grand duke for the private life of the young prince. sarah and her brother understood him in a moment, although they had not told the doctor a syllable of their secret designs. on the return of rodolph and murphy, all three, combined by one common intent, tacitly leagued against the squire, their most redoubtable enemy. * * * * * what was to happen did happen. rodolph saw sarah daily after his return, and became desperately enamoured. she soon told him that she shared his love, although she foresaw that this love would create great trouble. he could never be happy; the distance that separated them was too wide! she then recommended to rodolph the most profound discretion, for fear of arousing the grand duke's suspicions, as he would be inexorable, and deprive them of their only happiness,--that of seeing each other every day. the young prince promised to be cautious, and conceal his love. the scotch maiden was too ambitious, too self-possessed, to compromise and betray herself in the eyes of the court; and rodolph, perceiving the necessity of dissimulation, imitated sarah's prudence. the lovers' secret was carefully preserved for some time; nor was it until the brother and sister saw the unbridled passion of their dupe reach its utmost excess, and that his infatuation, which he could hardly restrain, threatened to burst forth afresh, and destroy all, that they resolved on their final _coup_. the doctor's character authorising the confidence, besides the morality which invested it, seyton opened to him on the necessity of a marriage between rodolph and sarah; otherwise, he added, with perfect sincerity, he and his sister would instantly leave gerolstein. sarah participated in the prince's affection, but, preferring death to dishonour, she could only be the wife of his highness. this exalted flight of ambition stupefied the doctor, who had never imagined that sarah's imagination soared so high. a marriage surrounded by numberless difficulties and dangers appeared impossible to polidori, and he frankly told seyton the reasons why the grand duke would never submit to such a union. seyton agreed in the importance of the reasons, but proposed, as a _mezzo termini_ which should meet all objections, a marriage, which, although secret, should be legal, and only avowed after the decease of the grand duke. sarah was of a noble and ancient house, and such a union was not without precedent. seyton gave the prince eight days to decide; his sister could not longer endure the cruel anguish of uncertainty, and, if she must renounce rodolph's love, she must act up to her painful resolve as promptly as might be. certain that he could not mistake sarah's views, the doctor was sorely perplexed. he had three ways before him,--to inform the grand duke of the matrimonial project, to open rodolph's eyes as to the manoeuvres of tom and sarah, to lend himself to the marriage. but to inform the grand duke would be to alienate from him for ever the heir presumptive to the throne. to enlighten rodolph on the interested views of sarah was to expose himself to the reception which a lover is sure to give when she whom he loves is depreciated in his eyes; and then, what a blow for the vanity or the heart of the young prince, to let him know that it was for his royal rank alone that the lady was desirous to wed him! on the other hand, by lending himself to this match, polidori bound rodolph and sarah to him by a tie of the strongest gratitude, or, at least, by the complicity of a dangerous act. no doubt, all might be discovered, and the doctor exposed to the anger of the grand duke, but then the marriage would have been concluded, the union legal. the storm would blow over, and the future sovereign of gerolstein would become the more bound to polidori, in proportion as the doctor had undergone greater dangers in his service. after much consideration, therefore, he resolved on serving sarah, but with a certain qualification, which we will presently refer to. rodolph's passion had reached a height almost of frenzy. violently excited by constraint, and the skilful management of sarah, who pretended to feel still more than he did the insurmountable obstacles which honour and duty placed between them and their liberty, in a few days more the young prince would have betrayed himself. thus, when the doctor proposed that he must never see his enchantress again, or possess her by a secret marriage, rodolph threw himself on polidori's neck, called him his saviour, his friend, his father; he only wished that the temple and the priest were at hand, that he might marry her that instant. the doctor resolved (for reasons of his own) to undertake the management of all. he found a priest,--witnesses; and the union (all the formalities of which were carefully scrutinised and verified by seyton) was secretly celebrated during a temporary absence of the grand duke at a conference of the german diet. the prophecy of the scotch soothsayer was fulfilled,--sarah wedded the heir to a throne. without quenching the fire of his love, possession rendered rodolph more circumspect, and cooled down that violence which might have compromised the secret of his passion for sarah; but, directed by seyton and the doctor, the young couple managed so well, and observed so much circumspection towards each other, that they eluded all detection. an event, impatiently desired by sarah, soon turned this calm into a tempest,--she was about to become a mother. it was then that this woman evinced all those exactions which were so new to, and so much astonished, rodolph. she protested, with hypocritical tears streaming from her eyes, that she could no longer support the constraint in which she lived; a constraint rendered the more insupportable by her pregnancy. in this extremity she boldly proposed to the young prince to tell all to his father, who was, as well as the dowager grand duchess, fonder than ever of her. no doubt, she added, he will be very angry, greatly enraged, at first, but he loves his son so tenderly, so blindly, and had for her (sarah) so strong an affection, that his paternal anger would gradually subside, and she would at last take in the court of gerolstein the rank which was due to her, she might say in a double sense, because she was about to give birth to a child, which would be the heir presumptive to the grand duke. these pretensions alarmed rodolph: he knew the deep attachment which his father had for him, but he also well knew the inflexibility of his principles with regard to all the duties of a prince. to all these objections sarah replied, unmoved: "i am your wife in the presence of god and men. in a short time, i shall no longer be able to conceal my situation; and i ought not to blush at that of which i am, on the contrary, so proud, and would desire openly to acknowledge." the expectation of posterity had redoubled rodolph's tenderness for sarah, and, placed between the desire to accede to her wishes and the dread of his father's wrath, he experienced the bitterest anguish. seyton sided with his sister. "the marriage is indissoluble," said he to his royal brother-in-law; "the grand duke may exile you from his court,--you and your wife,--nothing more; but he loves you too much to have recourse to such an extremity. he will endure what he cannot prevent." these reasons, strong enough in themselves, did not soothe rodolph's anxieties. at this juncture, seyton was charged by the grand duke with an errand to visit several breeding studs in austria. this mission, which he could not refuse, would only detain him a fortnight: he set out with much regret, and in a very important moment for his sister. she was chagrined, yet satisfied, at the departure of her brother; for she would lose his advice, but then he would be safe from the grand duke's anger if all were discovered. sarah promised to keep seyton fully informed, day by day, of the progress of events, so important to both of them; and, that they might correspond more surely and secretly, they agreed upon a cipher, of which polidori also held the key. this precaution alone proves that sarah had other matters to tell her brother of besides her love for rodolph. in truth, this selfish, cold, ambitious woman had not felt the ice of her heart melt even by the beams of the passionate love which had been breathed to her. her maternity was only with her a means of acting more effectually on rodolph, and had no softening effect on her iron soul. the youth, headlong love, and inexperience of the prince, who was hardly more than a child, and so perfidiously ensnared into an inextricable position, hardly excited an interest in the mind of this selfish creature; and, in her confidential communications with him, she complained, with disdain and bitterness, of the weakness of this young man, who trembled before the most paternal of german princes, who lived, however, very long! in a word, this correspondence between the brother and sister clearly developed their unbounded selfishness, their ambitious calculations, their impatience, which almost amounted to homicide, and laid bare the springs of that dark conspiracy crowned by the marriage of rodolph. one of sarah's letters to her brother was abstracted by polidori, the channel of their mutual communications; for what purpose we shall see hereafter. a few days after seyton's departure, sarah was at the evening court of the dowager grand duchess. many of the ladies present looked at her with an astonished air, and whispered to their neighbours. the grand duchess judith, in spite of her ninety years, had a quick ear and a sharp eye, and this little whispering did not escape her. she made a sign to one of the ladies in waiting to come to her, and from her she learned that everybody was remarking that the figure of miss sarah seyton of halsbury was less slender, less delicate in its proportions than usual. the old princess adored her young protégée and would have answered to god himself for sarah's virtue. indignant at the malevolence of these remarks, she shrugged her shoulders, and said aloud, from the end of the saloon in which she was sitting: "my dear sarah, come here." sarah rose. it was requisite to cross the circle to reach the place where the princess was seated, who was anxious most kindly to destroy the rumour that was circulated, and, by the simple fact of thus crossing the room, confound her calumniators, and prove triumphantly that the fair proportions of her protégée had lost not one jot of their symmetry and delicacy. alas! the most perfidious enemy could not have devised a better plan than that suggested by the worthy princess in her desire to defend her protégée. sarah came towards her, and it required all the deep respect due to the grand duchess to repress the murmur of surprise and indignation when the young lady crossed the room. the nearest-sighted persons saw what sarah would no longer conceal, for her pregnancy might have been hidden longer had she but have chosen; but the ambitious woman had sought this display in order to compel rodolph to declare his marriage. the grand duchess, who, however, would not be convinced in spite of her eyesight, said, in a low voice, to sarah: "my dear child, how very ill you have dressed yourself to-day,--you, whose shape may be spanned by ten fingers. i hardly know you again." we will relate hereafter the results of this discovery, which led to great and terrible events. at this moment, we will content ourselves with stating, what the reader has no doubt already guessed, that fleur-de-marie was the fruit of the secret marriage of rodolph and sarah, and that they both believed their daughter dead. it has not been forgotten that rodolph, after having visited the house in the rue du temple, had returned home, and intended, in the evening, to be present at a ball given by the ---- ambassadress. it was to this fête that we shall follow his royal highness, the reigning grand duke of gerolstein, gustavus rodolph, travelling in france under the name of the count de duren. chapter xxvi. the ball. as the eleventh hour of the night sounded from the different clocks in paris, the gates of an hôtel in the rue plumet were thrown open by a swiss in rich livery, and forthwith issued a magnificent dark blue berlin carriage, drawn by two superb long-tailed gray horses; on the seat, which was covered by a rich hammercloth, trimmed with a mossy silk fringe, sat a portly-looking coachman, whose head was ornamented by a three-cornered hat, while his rotund figure looked still more imposing in his dress livery-coat of blue cloth, trimmed up the seams with silver lace, and thickly braided with the same material; the whole finished by a splendid sable collar and cuffs. behind the carriage stood a tall powdered lacquey, dressed in a livery of blue turned up with yellow and silver; and by his side was a chasseur, whose fierce-looking moustaches, gaily embroidered dress and hat, half concealed by a waving plume of blue and yellow feathers, completed a most imposing _coup-d'oeil_. the bright light of the lamps revealed the costly satin lining of the interior of the vehicle we are describing, in which were seated rodolph, having on his right hand the baron de graün, and opposite to him the faithful murphy. out of deference for the sovereign represented by the ambassador to whose ball he was then proceeding, rodolph wore no other mark of distinction than the diamond order of ----. round the neck of sir walter murphy, and suspended by a broad orange riband, hung the enamelled cross of the grand commander of the golden eagle of gerolstein; and a similar insignia decorated the baron de graün, amidst an infinite number of the crosses and badges of honour belonging to all countries, depending by a gold chain placed in the two full buttonholes of the diplomatist's coat. "i am delighted," said rodolph, "with the very favourable accounts i have received from madame georges respecting my poor little protégée at the farm of bouqueval. david's care and attention have worked wonders. apropos of la goualeuse: what do you think, sir walter murphy, any of your cité acquaintances would say at seeing you so strangely disguised, as at present they would consider you, most valiant charcoal-man, to be? they would be somewhat astonished, i fancy." "much in the same degree as the surprise your royal highness would excite among your new acquaintances in the rue du temple, were you to proceed thither, as now attired, to pay a friendly visit to madame pipelet, and to inquire after the health of cabrion's victim, the poor melancholy alfred!" "my lord has drawn so lively a sketch of alfred, attired in his long-skirted green coat and bell-crowned hat," said the baron, "that i can well imagine him seated in magisterial dignity in his dark and smoky lodge. let me hope that your royal highness's visit to the rue du temple has fully answered your expectations, and that you are in every way satisfied with the researches of my agent?" "perfectly so," answered rodolph. "my success was even beyond my expectations." then, after a moment's painful silence, and to drive away the train of thought conjured up by the recollection of the probable guilt of madame d'harville, he resumed, in a tone more gay: "i am almost ashamed to own to so much childishness, but i confess myself amused with the contrast between my treating madame pipelet in the morning to a glass of cordial, and then proceeding in the evening to a grand fête, with all the pomp and prestige of one of those privileged beings who, by the grace of god, 'reign over this lower world.' some men of small fortune would speak of my revenues as those of a millionaire," added rodolph, in a sort of parenthesis, alluding to the limited extent of his estates. "and many millionaires, my lord, might not have the rare, the admirable good sense, of the man of narrow means." "ah, my dear de graün, you are really too good, much too good! you really overwhelm me," replied rodolph, with an ironical smile, while the baron glanced at murphy with the consciousness of a man who has just discovered he has been saying a foolish thing. "really, my dear de graün," resumed rodolph, "i know not how to acknowledge the weight of your compliment, or how to repay such delicate flattery in its own way." "my lord, let me entreat of you not to take the trouble," exclaimed the baron, who had for the instant forgotten that rodolph, who detested every species of flattery, always revenged himself by the most unsparing raillery on those who, directly or indirectly, addressed it to him. "nay, baron, i cannot allow myself to remain in your debt. you have praised my understanding,--i will, in return, admire your countenance; for by my honour, as i sit beside you, you look like a youth of twenty. antinous himself could not boast of finer features, or a more captivating expression." "my lord! my lord! i cry your mercy!" "behold him, murphy, and say whether apollo could display more graceful limbs, more light, and youthful proportions!" "i beseech you, my lord, to pardon me, from the recollection of how long it is since i have permitted myself to utter the slightest compliment to your royal highness." "observe, murphy, this band of gold which restrains, without concealing, the locks of rich black hair flowing over this graceful neck, and--" "my lord! my lord! for pity's sake spare me! i repent, most sincerely, of my involuntary fault," said the unfortunate baron, with an expression of comic despair on his countenance truly ludicrous. it must not be forgotten that the original of this glowing picture was at least fifty years of age; his hair gray, frizzled and powdered; a stiff white cravat round his throat; a pale, withered countenance; and golden spectacles upon the horny bridge of his sharp, projecting nose. "pardon, my lord! pardon, for the baron," exclaimed the squire, laughing. "i beseech you not to overwhelm him beneath the weight of your mythological allusions. i will be answerable to your royal highness that my unlucky friend here will never again venture to utter a flattery, since so truth is translated in the new vocabulary of gerolstein." "what! old murphy, too? are you going to join in the rebellion against sincerity?" "my lord, i am so sorry for the position of my unfortunate _vis-à-vis_, that--i beg i may divide his punishment with him." "charcoal-man in ordinary, your disinterested friendship does you honour. but seriously now, my dear de graün, how have you forgotten that i only allow such fellows as d'harneim and his train to flatter, for the simple reason that they know not how to speak the truth? that cuckoo-note of false praise belongs to birds of such feather as themselves, and the species they claim relationship with; but for a person of your mind and good taste to descend to its usage--oh, fie! baron, fie!" "it is all very well, my lord," said the baron, sturdily; "but i must be allowed to say (with all due apology for my boldness) that there is no small portion of pride in your royal highness's aversion to receive even a just compliment." "well said, baron! come, i like you better now you speak plain truths. but tell me how you prove your assertion?" "why, just so, my lord; because you repudiate it upon the same principle that might induce a beautiful woman, well aware of her charms, to say to one of her most enthusiastic admirers, 'i know perfectly well how handsome i am, and therefore your approval is perfectly uncalled for and unnecessary. what is the use of reiterating what everybody knows? is it usual to proclaim in the open streets that the sun shines, when all may see and feel certain of his midday brightness?'" "now, baron, you are shifting your ground, and becoming more dangerous as you become more adroit; and, by way of varying your punishment, i will only say that the infernal polidori himself could not have more ingeniously disguised the poisonous draught of flattery, when seeking to persuade some poor victim to swallow it." "my lord, i am now effectually silenced." "then," said murphy (and this time with an air of real seriousness), "your royal highness has now no doubt as to its being really polidori you encountered in the rue du temple?" "i have ceased to have the least doubt on the subject, since i learned through you that he had been in paris for some time past." "i had forgotten, or, rather, purposely omitted to mention to your lordship," said murphy in a sorrowing tone, "a name that never failed to awaken painful feelings; and knowing as i do how justly odious the remembrance of this man was to your royal highness, i studiously abstained from all reference to it." the features of rodolph were again overshadowed with gloom, and, plunged in deep reverie, he continued to preserve unbroken the silence which prevailed until the carriage stopped in the courtyard of the embassy. the windows of the hôtel were blazing with a thousand lights, which shone brightly through the thick darkness of the night, while a crowd of lacqueys, in full-dress liveries, lined the entrance-hall, extending even to the salons of reception, where the grooms of the chamber waited to announce the different arrivals. m. le comte ----, the ambassador, with his lady, had purposely remained in the first reception-room until the arrival of rodolph, who now entered, followed by murphy and m. de graün. rodolph was then in his thirty-sixth year, in the very prime and perfection of manly health and strength. his regular and handsome features, with the air of dignity pervading his whole appearance, would have rendered him, under any circumstances, a strikingly attractive man; but, combined with the _éclat_ of high birth and exalted rank, he was a person of first-rate importance in every circle in which he presented himself, and whose notice was assiduously sought for. dressed with the utmost simplicity, rodolph wore a white waistcoat and cravat; a blue coat, buttoned up closely, on the right breast of which sparkled a diamond star, displayed to admiration the light yet perfect proportions of his graceful figure, while his well-fitting pantaloons, of black kerseymere, defined the finely formed leg and handsome foot in its embroidered stocking. from the rareness of the grand duke's visits to the _haut monde_, his arrival produced a great sensation, and every eye was fixed upon him from the moment that, attended by murphy and baron de graün, he entered the first salon at the embassy. an attaché, deputed to watch for his arrival, hastened immediately to appraise the ambassadress of the appearance of her illustrious guest. her excellency instantly hurried, with her noble husband, to welcome their visitor, exclaiming: "your royal highness is, indeed, kind, thus to honour our poor entertainment." "nay, madame," replied rodolph, gracefully bowing on the hand extended to him, "your ladyship is well aware of the sincere pleasure it affords to pay my compliments to yourself; and as for m. le comte, he and i are two old friends, who are always delighted to meet. are we not, my lord?" "your royal highness, in deigning to continue to me so flattering a place in your recollection, makes it still more impossible for me ever to forget your many acts of condescending kindness." "i assure you, m. le comte, that in my memory the past never dies; or, at least, the pleasant part of it; for i make it a strict rule never to preserve any reminiscences of my friends but such as are agreeable and gratifying." "your royal highness has found the secret of being happy in your thoughts, and rendering others so at the same time," rejoined the ambassador, smiling with gratified pride and pleasure at a conference so cordially carried on before a gathering crowd of admiring auditors. "thus, then, madame," replied rodolph, "will your flattering reception of to-night live long in my memory; and i shall promise myself the happiness of recalling this evening's fête, with its tasteful arrangements and crowd of attending beauties. ah, madame la comtesse, who like you can effect such a union of taste and elegance as now sparkles around us?" "your royal highness is too indulgent." "but i have a very important question to ask you: why is it that, lovely as are your fair guests, their charms are never seen to such perfection as when assembled beneath your hospitable roof?" "your royal highness is pleased to view our fair visitants through the same flattering medium with which you are graciously pleased to behold our poor endeavours for your and their amusement," answered the ambassador, with a deferential bow. "your pardon, count," replied rodolph, "if i differ with you in opinion. according to my judgment, the cause proceeds wholly from our amiable hostess, madame l'ambassadrice." "may i request of your royal highness to solve this enigma?" inquired the countess, smiling. "that is easily given, madame, and may be found in the perfect urbanity and exquisite grace with which you receive your lovely guests, and whisper to each a few charming and encouraging words, which, if the least bit exceeding strict truth," said rodolph, smiling with good-tempered satire, "renders those who are even praised above their merits more radiant in beauty from your kind commendations, while those whose charms admit of no exaggeration are no less radiant with the happiness of finding themselves so justly appreciated by you; thus each countenance, thanks to the gentle arts you practise, is made to exhibit the most smiling delight, for perfect content will set off even homely features. and thus i account for why it is that woman, all lovely as she is, never looks so much so as when seen beneath your roof. come, m. l'ambassadeur, own that i have made out a good case, and that you entirely concur with me in opinion." "your royal highness has afforded me too many previous reasons to admire and adopt your opinions for me to hesitate in the present instance." "and for me, my lord," said the countess, "at the risk of being included among those fair ladies who get a little more praise or flattery (which was it your highness styled it?) than they deserve, i accept your very flattering explanation with as much qualified pleasure as if it were really founded on truth." "in order more effectually to convince you, madame, that nothing is more correct than all i have asserted, let us make a few observations touching the fine effect of praise in animating and lighting up the countenance." "ah, my lord, you are laying a very mischievous snare for me," said the countess, smiling. "well, then, i will abandon that idea; but upon one condition, that you honour me by taking my arm. i have been told wonderful things of a 'winter garden,'--a work from fairyland. may i put up my humble petition to be allowed to see this new wonder of a 'hundred and one nights?'" "oh, my lord, with the utmost pleasure. but i see that your highness had received a most exaggerated account. perhaps you will accompany me, and judge for yourself. only in this instance i would fain hope that your habitual indulgence may induce you to feel as little disappointment as possible at finding how imperfectly the reality equals your expectations." the ambassadress then took the offered arm of rodolph, and proceeded with him to the other salons, while the count remained conversing with the baron de graün and murphy, whom he had been acquainted with for some time. and a more beautiful scene of enchantment never charmed the eye than that presented by the aspect of the winter garden, to which rodolph had conducted his noble hostess. let the reader imagine an enclosure of about forty feet in length, and thirty in width (leading out of a long and splendid gallery), surmounted by a glazed and vaulted roof, the building being securely covered in for about fifty feet. round the parallelogram it described, the walls were concealed by an infinite number of mirrors, over which was placed a small and delicate trellis of fine green rushes, which, thanks to the strong light reflected on the highly polished glass, resembled an arbour, and were almost entirely hidden by a thick row of orange-trees, as large as those of the tuileries, mixed with camellias of equal size; while the golden fruit and verdant foliage of the one contrasted beautifully with the rich clusters of waxen flowers, of all colours, with which the other was loaded. the remainder of the garden was thus devised: five or six enormous clumps of trees, and indian or other tropical shrubs, planted in immense cases filled with peat earth, were surrounded by alleys paved with a mosaic shell-work, and sufficiently wide for two or three persons to walk abreast. it is impossible to describe the wondrous effect produced by this rich display of tropical vegetation in the midst of a european winter, and almost in the very centre of a ballroom. here might be seen gigantic bananas stretching their tall arms to the glass roof which covered them, and blending the vivid green of their palms with the lanceolated leaves of the large magnolias, some of which already displayed their matchless and odoriferous flowers with their bell-shaped calices, purple without and silvery white within, from which started forth the little gold-threaded stamens. at a little distance were grouped the palm and date-trees of the levant; the red macaw, and fig-trees from india; all blooming in full health and vigour, and displaying their foliage in all its luxuriance, gave to the _tout ensemble_ a mass of rich, brilliant tropical verdure, which, glittering among the thousand lights, sparkled with the colours of the emerald. along the trellising, between the orange-trees, and amid the clumps, were trained every variety of rare climbing plants; sometimes hanging their long wreaths of leaves and flowers in graceful festoons, then depending like blooming serpents from the tall boughs; now trailing at their roots, then ambitiously scaling the very walls, till they hung their united tresses round the transparent and vaulted roof, from which again they floated in mingled masses, waving in the pure, light breeze loaded with so many odours. the winged pomegranate, the passion-flower, with its large purple flowers striated with azure, and crowned with its dark violet tuft, waved in long spiral wreaths over the heads of the admiring crowd, then, as though fatigued with the sport, threw their colossal garlands of delicate flowers across the hard, prickly leaves of the gigantic aloes. the bignonia of india, with its long, cup-shaped flower of dark sulphur colour, and slight, slender leaves, was placed beside the delicate flesh-coloured petals of the stephanotis, so justly appreciated for its exquisite perfume; the two stems mutually clinging to each other for support, and mingling their leaves and flowers in one confused mass, disposed them in elegant festoons of green fringe spangled with gold and silver spots, around the immense velvet foliage of the indian fig. farther on, started forth, and then fell again in a sort of variegated and floral cascade, immense quantities of the stalks of the asclepias, whose leaves, large, umbellated, and in clusters of from fifteen to twenty star-shaped flowers, grew so thickly, so evenly, that they might have been mistaken for bouquets of pink enamel surrounded with leaves of fine green porcelain. the borders of the cases containing the orange sand camellias were filled with the choicest cape heaths, the tulips of thol, the narcissus of constantinople, the hyacinth, irides, and cyclamina of persia; forming a sort of natural carpet, presenting one harmonious blending of the loveliest tints. chinese lanterns of transparent silk, some pale blue, others pink, partly concealed amid the foliage, threw a soft and gentle light over this enchanting scene; nor could a more ingenious idea have been resorted to than in the happy amalgamation of these two colours, by which a charming and almost unearthly light was produced combining the clear cerulean blue of a summer's night with the rose-coloured coruscations emitted from sparkling rays of an aurora borealis. the entrance to this immense hothouse was from a long gallery glittering with gold, with mirrors, crystal vases filled with the choicest perfumes, and brilliantly lighted, and also raised a few steps above the fairy palace we have been endeavouring to describe. the dazzling brightness of the approach served as a sort of penumbra, in which were indistinctly traced out the gigantic exotics discernible through a species of arch, partly concealed by two crimson velvet curtains looped back with golden cords so as to give a dim and misty view of the enchanted land that lay beyond. an imaginative mind might easily have persuaded himself he stood near a huge window opening on some beautiful asiatic landscape during the tranquillity of a summer's twilight. the sounds of the orchestra, weakened by distance, and broken by the joyous hum proceeding from the gallery, died languidly away among the motionless foliage of the huge trees. insensibly each fresh visitant to this enchanting spot lowered his voice until his words fell in whispers; for the light genuine air, embalmed with a thousand rich odours, appeared to cast a sort of somnolency over the senses; every breath seemed to speak of the clustering plants whose balmy sweetness filled the atmosphere. certainly two lovers, seated in some corner of this eden, could conceive no greater happiness to be enjoyed on earth, than thus dreamily to rest beneath the trees and flowers of this terrestrial paradise. at the end of this winter garden were placed immense divans beneath canopies of leaves and flowers; the subdued light of the hothouse forming a powerful contrast with the gallery, the distance seemed filled with a species of gold-coloured, shining fog, in the midst of which glittered and flickered, like a living embroidery, the dazzling and varied robes of the ladies, combined with the prismatic scintillations of the congregated mass of diamonds and precious stones. rodolph's first sensation upon arriving at this enchanting triumph of art over nature was that of most unfeigned surprise. "this is, indeed, a wonderfully beautiful carrying out of a poetical idea," said he, almost involuntarily; then, turning to the ambassadress, he exclaimed, "madame, till now, i had not deemed such wonders practicable. we have not in the scene before us a mere union of unbounded expense with the most exquisite taste, but you give us poetry in action. instead of writing as a master poet, or painting as a first-rate artist, you create that which they would scarcely venture to dream of." "your royal highness is too indulgent." "nay, but candidly, all must agree that the mind which could so faithfully depict this ravishing scene, with its charm of colours and contrasts,--beyond us, the loud notes of joy and mirthful revelry, here the soft silence and sweet, gentle murmurs of distant voices, that lull the spirit into a fancied flight beyond this fitful existence,--surely, surely, without suspicion of flattery, it may be said of the planner and contriver of all this, such a one was born a poet and a painter combined." "the praises of your royal highness are so much the more dangerous from the skill and cleverness with which they are uttered, and which makes us listen to them with delight, even in defiance of our sternest resolutions. but allow me to call your royal highness's attention to the very lovely person who is approaching us. i must have you admit that the marquise d'harville must shine preeminently beautiful any and every where. is she not graceful? and does not the gentle elegance of her whole appearance acquire a fresh charm, from the contrast with the severe yet classic beauty by whom she is accompanied?" the individuals thus alluded to were the countess sarah macgregor and the marquise d'harville, who were at this moment descending the steps which led from the gallery to the winter garden. neither was the panegyric bestowed by the ambassadress on madame d'harville at all exaggerated. no words can accurately describe the loveliness of her person, and the marquise d'harville was then in the first bloom of youthful charms; but her beauty, delicate and fragile as it was, appeared less to belong to the strict regularity of her features than to the irresistible expression of sweetness and universal kindness, which imparted a charm to her countenance impossible to resist or to describe; and this peculiar charm served invariably to distinguish madame d'harville from all other fashionable beauties; for goodness of heart and kindliness of disposition are but rarely seen as the prevailing passions revealed in a face as fair, as young, high-born, and ardently worshipped by all, as was the marquise d'harville, who shone forth in all her lustre as the brightest star in the galaxy of fashion. too wise, virtuous, and right-minded to listen to the host of flatterers by whom she was surrounded, madame d'harville smiled as gratefully on all as though she could have given them credit for speaking the truth, had not her own modest opinion of her just claims to such homage have forbidden her accepting of praise she never could have deserved. wholly indifferent to flattery, yet sensibly alive to kindness, she perfectly distinguished between sympathy and insincerity. her acute penetration, correct judgment, and lively wit, unmixed by the slightest ill-nature, made her wage an early, though good-tempered war with those vain and egotistical beings who crowd and oppress society with the view of monopolising general attention, and, blinded by their own self-love, expect one universal deference and submission. "those kind of persons," said madame d'harville one day, laughingly, "appear to me as if their whole lives were passed in dancing '_le cavalier seul_' before an invisible mirror." an unassuming and unpretending person, however reserved and consequently unpopular he might be with others, was sure to find a steady friend and partial observer in madame d'harville. this trifling digression is absolutely essential to the right understanding of facts of which we shall speak hereafter. the complexion of madame d'harville was of the purest white, tinged with the most delicate carnation; her long tresses of bright chestnut hair floated over her beautifully formed shoulders, white and polished as marble. it would be an impossible task to describe her large dark gray eyes, fringed with their thick lashes, and beaming with angelic sweetness; her coral lips, with their gentle smile, gave to her eyes the indefinable charm that her affable and winning mode of expressing herself derived from their mild and angelic expression of approving goodness. we will not farther delay the reader by describing the perfection of her figure, nor dwell upon the distinguished air which marked her whole appearance. she wore a white crape dress, trimmed with the natural flowers of the camellia, intermixed with its own rich green leaves. here and there a diamond sparkled among the waxy petals, as if a dewdrop fresh from its native skies had fallen there. a garland of the same flowers, equally ornamented with precious stones, was placed with infinite grace upon her fair and open brow. the peculiar style of the countess sarah macgregor's beauty served to set off the fair feminine loveliness of her companion. though turned thirty-five years of age, sarah looked much younger. nothing appears to preserve the body more effectually from all the attacks of sickness or decay than a cold-hearted, egotistical disregard of every one but ourselves; it encrusts the body with a cold, icy covering, which alike resists the inroads of bodily or mental wear and tear. to this cause may be ascribed the wonderful preservation of countess sarah's appearance. the lady whose name we last mentioned wore a dress of pale amber watered silk, beneath a crape tunic of the same colour. a simple wreath of the dark leaves of the _pyrus japonicus_ encircled her head, and harmonised admirably with the bandeaux of raven hair it confined. this classically severe mode of head-dress gave to the profile of this imperious woman the character and resemblance of an antique statue. many persons, mistaking their real cast of countenance, imagine some peculiar vocation delineated in their traits. thus one man, who fancies he possesses a warlike air, assumes the warrior; another imagines "his eye, in a fine frenzy rolling," marks him out as a poet; instantly he turns down his shirt-collar, adopts poetical language, and writes himself poet. so the self-imagined conspirator wastes days and hours in pondering over mighty deeds he feels called upon to do. the politician, upon the same terms, bores the world and his friends with his perpetual outpourings upon political economy; and the man whose saintly turn of countenance persuades its owner into the belief of a corresponding character within, forthwith abjures the pomps and vanities of the world, and aims at reforming his brethren by his pulpit eloquence. now, ambition being sarah's ruling passion, and her noble and aristocratical features well assisting the delusion, she smiled as the word "diadem" crossed her thoughts, and lent a willing ear to the predictions of her highland nurse, and firmly believed herself predestined to a sovereign destiny. spite of the trifling embonpoint that gave to her figure (which, though fatter than madame d'harville's, was not less slender and nymph-like) a voluptuous gracefulness, sarah boasted of all the freshness of early youth, and few could long sustain the fire of her black and piercing eyes; her nose was aquiline; her finely formed mouth and rich ruby lips were expressive of the highest determination, haughtiness, and pride. the marquise and sarah had recognised rodolph in the winter garden at the moment they were descending into it from the gallery; but the prince feigned not to observe their presence. "the prince is so absorbed with the ambassadress," said madame d'harville to sarah, "that he pays not the slightest attention to us." "you are quite mistaken, my dear clémence," rejoined the countess; "the prince saw us as quickly and as plainly as we saw him, but i frightened him away; you see he still bears malice with me." "i am more than ever at a loss to understand the singular obstinacy with which he persists in shunning you,--you, formerly an old friend. 'countess sarah and myself are sworn enemies,' replied he to me once in a joking manner; 'i have made a vow never to speak to her; and you may judge how sacred must be the vow that hinders me from conversing with so charming a lady.' and, strange and unaccountable as was this reply, i had no alternative but to submit to it." "and yet i can assure you that the cause of this deadly feud, half in jest, and half in earnest as it is, originates in the most simple circumstance. were it not that a third party is implicated in it, i should have explained the whole to you long ago. but what is the matter, my dear child? you seem as though your thoughts were far from the present scene." "nothing, nothing, i assure you," replied the marquise, faintly; "but the gallery is so very hot, it gave me a violent headache. let us sit down here for a minute or two. i hope and believe it will soon be better." "you are right; see, here is a nice quiet corner, where you will be in perfect safety from the researches of those who are lamenting your absence," added sarah, pronouncing the last words with marked emphasis. the two ladies then seated themselves on a divan, almost concealed beneath the clustering shrubs and overhanging plants. "i said those who would be lamenting your absence, my dear clémence,--come, own that i deserve praise for so discreetly forming my speech." the marquise blushed slightly, cast down her eyes, but spoke not. "how unreasonable you are!" exclaimed sarah, in a tone of friendly reproach. "can you not trust me, my dear child?--yes, child; for am i not old enough to be your mother?" "not trust you?" uttered the marquise, sadly; "alas! have i not on the contrary confessed that to you which i should hardly have dared to own to myself?" "well, then, come, rouse yourself; now, let us have a little talk about him: and so you have really sworn to drive him to despair?" "for the love of heaven," exclaimed madame d'harville, "think what you are saying!" "i tell you i know him better than you do, my poor child; he is a man of cool and decided energy, who sets but little value on his life; he has had misfortunes enough to make him quite weary of it; and it really seems as if you daily found greater pleasure in tormenting him, and playing with his feelings." "is it possible you can really think so?" "indeed, in spite of myself, i cannot refrain from entertaining that opinion. oh, if you but knew how over-susceptible some minds are rendered by a continuance of sorrows and afflictions,--just now i saw two large tears fall from his eyes, as he gazed on you." "are you quite sure of what you say?" "indeed, i am quite certain; and that, too, in a ballroom, at the risk of becoming an object of general derision, if this uncontrollable misery were perceived! ah! let me tell you, a person must truly love to bear all this, and even to be careless about concealing his sufferings from the world." "for the love of heaven, do not speak thus!" replied madame d'harville, in a voice trembling with emotion. "alas! you have touched me nearly; i know too well what it is to struggle with a hidden grief, yet wear an outward expression of calmness and resignation. alas! alas! 'tis the deep pity and commiseration i feel for him has been my ruin," added she, almost unconsciously. "nonsense! what an over-nice person you are, to talk of a little innocent flirtation being ruinous, and that, too, with a man so scrupulously guarded as to abstain from ever appearing in your husband's presence, for fear of compromising you. you must admit that m. charles robert is a man of surprising honour, delicacy, and real feeling. i feel the more inclined to espouse his cause from the recollection that you have never met him elsewhere but at my house, and because i can answer for his principles, and that his devoted attachment to you can only be equalled by the deep respect he bears you." "i have never doubted the many noble qualities you have so repeatedly assured me he possesses, but you know well that it is his long succession of bitter afflictions which have so warmly interested me in his favour." "and well does he merit this interest, and most fully do his excellent qualities absolve you of all blame in thus bestowing it. surely so fine and noble a countenance bespeaks a mind equally superior to all mankind. how completely are you reminded, while gazing on his tall and finely proportioned figure, of the _preux chevaliers_ of bygone days,'_sans peur et sans reproche_.' i once saw him dressed in his uniform as commandant of the national guard, and, handsome as he is, i really think he looked surpassingly well, and i could but say to myself, that, if nobility were the award of inward merit and external beauty, m. charles robert, instead of being so called, would take precedence of nearly all our dukes and peers. would he not be a fitting representative of any of the most distinguished families in france?" "you know, my dear countess, how very little importance i attach to mere birth, and you yourself have frequently reproached me with being strongly inclined to republicanism," said madame d'harville, smiling gently. "for my own part, i always thought, with you, that m. charles robert required not the aid of rank or titles to render him worthy of universal admiration. then, what extreme talent he possesses! what a fine voice he has! and what delightful morning concerts we three have been able to achieve, owing to his all-powerful assistance! ah, my dear clémence, do you remember the first time you ever sang with him: what passionate expression did he not throw into the words of that beautiful duet, so descriptive of his love, and his fear of offending her who was the object of it, by revealing it?" "let me entreat of you," said madame d'harville, after a long silence, "to speak of something else; indeed i dare not listen further: what you but just now intimated of his depressed and unhappy appearance has caused me much pain." "nay, my dear friend, i meant not to grieve you, but merely to point out the probability that a man, rendered doubly sensitive by the succession of past misfortunes, might feel his courage insufficient to encounter the fresh trial of your rejection of his suit, and thus be induced to end his hopeless love and his life together." "oh, no more! no more!" almost shrieked madame d'harville, interrupting sarah; "this fearful idea has glanced across my mind already." then, after a second silence of some minutes, the marquise resumed, "let us, as i said before, talk of somebody else,--of your mortal enemy, for instance," added she, with assumed gaiety of manner; "come, we will take the prince for a fresh theme of conversation; i had not seen him, previously to this evening, for a very long time. do you know that i think he looks handsomer than ever? though all but king, he has lost none of the winning sweetness and affability of his manner, and, spite of my republicanism, i must confess i have seldom, if ever, known so irresistible a person." sarah threw a side glance of deep and scrutinising hatred upon her unconscious rival, but, quickly recovering herself, she said, gaily: "now, my dear clémence, you must confess to being a most capricious little lady; you have regular alternating paroxysms of admiration and violent dislike for the prince; why, a few months ago, i mean about his first arrival here, you were so captivated by him, that, between ourselves, i was half afraid you had lost your heart past all hope of recall." "thanks to you," replied madame d'harville, smiling, "my admiration was very short-lived; for so well did you act up to your character of the prince's sworn foe, and such fearful tales did you tell me of his profligacy and misconduct, that you succeeded in inspiring me with an aversion as powerful as had been the infatuation which led you to fear for the safety of my heart; which, by the way, i cannot think would ever have been placed in any danger from the attempts of your enemy to disturb its repose, since, shortly before you gave me those frightful particulars of the prince's character, he had quite ceased to honour me with his visits, although on the most intimate and friendly terms with my husband." "talking of your husband, pray is he here to-night?" inquired sarah. "no," replied madame d'harville, in a tone of embarrassment; "he preferred remaining at home." "he seems to me to mix less and less in the world." "he never liked what is called fashionable gaiety." the marquise's agitation visibly increased; and sarah, whose quick eye easily perceived it, continued: "the last time i saw him he looked even paler than usual." "he has been very much out of health lately." "my dearest clémence, will you permit me to speak to you without reserve?" "oh, yes, pray do!" "how comes it that the least allusion to your husband always throws you into such a state of extraordinary alarm and uneasiness?" "what an idea! is it possible you can mean it seriously?" asked poor madame d'harville, trying to smile. "indeed, i am quite in earnest," rejoined her companion; "whenever you are speaking of him, your countenance assumes, even in spite of yourself,--but how shall i make myself understood?" and sarah, with the tone and fixed gaze of one who wished to read the most secret thoughts of the person she addressed, slowly and emphatically added, "a look of mingled aversion and fear!" the fixed pallid features of madame d'harville at first defied even sarah's practised eye, but her keen gaze soon detected a slight convulsive working of the mouth, with a tremulous movement of the under lip of her victim; but feeling it unsafe to pursue the subject farther at this moment so as to awaken the marquise's mistrust of her friendly intentions, by way, therefore, of concealing her real suspicions, she continued: "yes, just that sort of dislike any woman would entertain for a peevish, jealous, ill-tempered--" at this explanation of the countess's meaning, as regarded madame d'harville's imagined dislike for her husband, a heavy load seemed taken from her; the working of her lip ceased, and she replied: "let me assure you m. d'harville is neither peevish nor jealous." then, as if searching for some means of breaking a conversation so painful to her feelings, she suddenly exclaimed, "ah! here comes that tiresome friend of my husband's, the duke de lucenay. i hope he has not seen us. where can he have sprung from? i thought he was a thousand miles off!" "it was reported that he had gone somewhere in the east for a year or two, and behold, at the end of five months, here he is back again! his unexpected arrival must have sadly annoyed the duchess de lucenay, though poor de lucenay is a very inoffensive creature," said sarah, with an ill-natured smile. "nor will madame de lucenay be the only one to feel vexation at his thus changing his mind; her friend, m. de st. remy, will duly and affectionately sympathise in all her regrets on the subject." "come, come, my dear sarah, i cannot allow you to scandalise; say that this return of m. de lucenay is a nuisance to everybody; the duke is sufficiently disagreeable for you to generalise the regret his unexpected presence occasions." "i do not slander, i merely repeat. it is also said that m. de st. remy, the model of our young _élégantes_, whose splendid doings have filled all paris, is all but ruined! 'tis true, he has by no means reduced either his establishment or his expenditure; however, there are several ways of accounting for that; in the first place, madame de lucenay is immensely rich." "what a horrible idea!" "still i only repeat what others say. there, the duke sees us; he is coming towards us; we must resign ourselves to our fate,--miserable, is it not? i know nothing so hard to bear as that man's company; he makes himself so very disagreeable, and then laughs so disgustingly loud at the silly things he says. indeed, he is so boisterous that the bare idea of him makes one think of pretending to faint, or any other pretext, to avoid him. talking of fainting, pray let me beg of you, if you have the least regard for your fan or essence-bottle, to beware how you allow him to handle either, for he has the unfortunate habit of breaking whatever he touches, and all with the most facetious self-satisfied air imaginable." end of volume i. * * * * * transcriber's notes: this e-text was prepared from numbered edition of the printed. minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without comment. minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly throughout the text have been made without comment. word variations appearing in the original text which have been retained: "bull-dog" ( ) and "bulldog" ( ) "protégé" ( ), "protégée" ( ) and "protégés" ( ) "rencontre" ( ) and "rencounter" ( ) "sarah seyton of halsburg" ( ) and "sarah seyton of halsbury" ( ) words using the [oe] ligature, which have been herein represented as "oe": "manoeuvre", "coeur", "chef-d'oeuvre", "coup-d'oeil". throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on facing pages. for the purpose of this e-text these pages have been combined into one entry. footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears. (stanford university, sul books in the public domain) transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . passages in gothic bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs. . other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text. [illustration: _the abduction._ original etching by mercier.] +the mysteries of paris.+ _illustrated with etchings by mercier, bicknell, poiteau, and adrian marcel._ _by eugene sue_ _in six volumes volume iv._ _printed for francis a. niccolls & co. boston_ +edition de luxe+ _this edition is limited to one thousand copies, of which this is_ no.____ contents. chapter page i. rigolette's first sorrow ii. the will iii. l'ile du ravageur iv. the freshwater pirate v. the mother and son vi. franÇois and amandine vii. a lodging-house viii. the victims of misplaced confidence ix. the rue de chaillot x. the comte de saint-remy xi. the interview xii. the search xiii. the adieux xiv. recollections xv. the boats xvi. the happiness of meetings xvii. doctor griffon xviii. the portrait xix. the agent of safety xx. the chouette illustrations. page the abduction _frontispiece_ the brigand dashed at his brother he exhibited such ferocious joy was about to embrace his father the mysteries of paris. chapter i. rigolette's first sorrow. rigolette's apartment was still in all its extreme nicety; the large silver watch placed over the mantelpiece, in a small boxwood stand, denoted the hour of four. the severe cold weather having ceased, the thrifty little needlewoman had not lighted her stove. from the window, a corner of blue sky was scarcely perceptible over the masses of irregularly built roofs, garrets, and tall chimneys, which bounded the horizon on the other side of the street. suddenly a sunbeam, which, as it were, wandered for a moment between two high gables, came for an instant to purple with its bright rays the windows of the young girl's chamber. rigolette was at work, seated by her window; and the soft shadow of her charming profile stood out from the transparent light of the glass as a cameo of rosy whiteness on a silver ground. brilliant hues played on her jet black hair, twisted in a knot at the back of her head, and shaded with a warm amber colour the ivory of her industrious little fingers, which plied the needle with incomparable activity. the long folds of her brown gown, confined at the waist by the bands of her green apron, half concealed her straw-seated chair, and her pretty feet rested on the edge of a stool before her. like a rich lord, who sometimes amuses himself in hiding the walls of a cottage beneath splendid hangings, the setting sun for a moment lighted up this little chamber with a thousand dazzling fires, throwing his golden tints on the curtains of gray and green stuff, and making the walnut-tree furniture glisten with brightness, and the dry-rubbed floor look like heated copper; whilst it encircled in a wire-work of gold the grisette's bird-cage. but, alas! in spite of the exciting splendour of this sun-ray, the two canaries (male and female) flitted about uneasily, and, contrary to their usual habit, did not sing a note. this was because, contrary to her usual habit, rigolette did not sing. the three never warbled without one another; almost invariably the cheerful and matin song of the latter called forth that of the birds, who, more lazy, did not leave their nests as early as their mistress. then there were rivalries,--contentions of clear, sonorous, pearly, silvery notes, in which the birds had not always the advantage. rigolette did not sing, because, for the first time in her life, she experienced a sorrow. up to this time, the sight of the misery of the morels had often affected her; but such sights are too familiar to the poorer classes to cause them any very lasting melancholy. after having, almost every day, succoured these unfortunates as far as was in her power, sincerely wept with and for them, the young girl felt herself at the same time moved and satisfied,--moved by their misfortunes, and satisfied at having shown herself pitiful. but this was not a sorrow. rigolette's natural gaiety soon regained its empire; and then, without egotism, but by a simple fact of comparison, she found herself so happy in her little chamber, after leaving the horrible den of the morels, that her momentary sadness speedily disappeared. this lightness of impression was so little affected by personal feeling, that, by a mode of extremely delicate reasoning, the grisette considered it almost a duty to aid those more unhappy than herself, that she might thus unscrupulously enjoy an existence so very precarious and entirely dependent on her labour, but which, compared with the fearful distress of the lapidary's family, appeared to her almost luxurious. "in order to sing without compunction, when we have near us persons so much to be pitied," she said, naïvely, "we must have been as charitable to them as possible." before we inform our reader the cause of rigolette's first sorrow, we are desirous to assure him, or her, completely as to the virtue of this young girl. we are sorry to use the word virtue,--a serious, pompous, solemn word, which almost always brings with it ideas of painful sacrifice, of painful struggle against the passions, of austere meditations on the final close of all things here below. such was not the virtue of rigolette. she had neither deeply struggled nor meditated; she had worked, and laughed, and sung. her prudence, as she called it, when speaking frankly and sincerely to rodolph, was with her a question of time,--she had not the leisure to be in love. particularly lively, industrious, and orderly, order, work, and gaiety had often, unknown to herself, defended, sustained, saved her. it may be deemed, perchance, that this morality is light, frivolous, casual; but of what consequence is the cause, so that the effect endures? of what consequence are the directions of the roots of a plant, provided the flower blooms pure, expanded, and full of perfume? apropos of our utopianisms, as to the encouragement, help, and recompenses which society ought to grant to artisans remarkable for their eminent social qualities, we have alluded to that protection of virtue (one of the projects of the emperor, by the way). let us suppose this admirable idea realised. one of the real philanthropists whom the emperor proposed to employ in searching after worth has discovered rigolette. abandoned without advice, without aid, exposed to all the perils of poverty, to all the seductions with which youth and beauty are surrounded, this charming girl has remained pure; her honest, hard-working life might serve for a model and example. would not this young creature deserve, not a mere recompense, not succour only, but some impressive words of approbation and encouragement, which would give her a consciousness of her own worth, exalt her in her own eyes, and lay on her obligations for the future? at least she would know that she was followed by eyes full of solicitude and protection in the difficult path in which she is progressing with so much courage and serenity; she would know that, if one day the want of work or sickness threatened to destroy the equilibrium of the poor and occupied life, which depends solely on work and health, a slight help, due to her former deserts, would be given to her. people, no doubt, will exclaim against the impossibility of this tutelary surveillance, which would surround persons particularly worthy of interest through their previous excellent lives. it seems to us that society has already resolved this problem. has it not already imagined the superintendence of the police, for life or for a period, for the most useful purpose of constantly controlling the conduct of dangerous persons, noted for the infamy of their former lives? why does not society exercise also a superintendence of moral charity? but let us leave the lofty stilts of our utopianisms, and return to the cause of rigolette's first sorrow. with the exception of germain, a well-behaved, open-hearted young man, the grisette's neighbours had all, at first, begun on terms of familiarity, believing her offers of good neighbourship were little flirtations; but these gentlemen had been compelled to admit, with as much astonishment as annoyance, that they found in rigolette an amiable and mirthful companion for their sunday excursions, a pleasant neighbour, and a kind-hearted creature, but not a mistress. their surprise and their annoyance, at first very great, gradually gave way before the frank and even temper of the grisette; and then, as she had sagaciously said to rodolph, her neighbours were proud on sundays to have on their arms a pretty girl, who was an honour to them in every way (rigolette was quite regardless of appearances), and who only cost them the share of the moderate pleasures, whose value was doubled by her presence and nice appearance. besides, the dear girl was so easily contented! in her days of penury she dined well and gaily off a morsel of warm cake, which she nibbled with all the might of her little white teeth; after which, she amused herself so much with a walk on the boulevards or in the arcades. if our readers feel but little sympathy with rigolette, they will at least confess that a person must be very absurd, or very cruel, to refuse once a week these simple amusements to so delightful a creature, who, besides having no right to be jealous, never prevented her cavaliers from consoling themselves for her cruelty by flirtations with other damsels. françois germain alone never founded any vain hopes on the familiarity of the young girl, but, either from instinct of heart or delicacy of mind, he guessed from the first day how very agreeable the singular companionship of rigolette might be made. what might be imagined happened, and germain fell passionately in love with his neighbour, without daring to say a word to her of his love. far from imitating his predecessors, who, convinced of the vanity of their pursuit, had consoled themselves with other loves, without being on that account the less on good terms with their neighbour, germain had most supremely enjoyed his intimacy with the young girl, passing with her not only his sunday but every evening when he was not engaged. during these long hours rigolette was, as usual, merry and laughing; germain tender, attentive, serious, and often somewhat sad. this sadness was his only drawback, for his manners, naturally good, were not to be compared with the foppery of m. girandeau, the commercial traveller, alias bagman, or with the noisy eccentricities of cabrion; but m. girandeau by his unending loquacity, and the painter by his equally interminable fun, took the lead of germain, whose quiet composure rather astonished his little neighbour, the grisette. rigolette then had not, as yet, testified any decided preference for any one of her beaux; but as she was by no means deficient in judgment, she soon discovered that germain alone united all the qualities requisite for making a reasonable woman happy. having stated all these facts, we will inquire why rigolette was sad, and why neither she nor her birds sang. her oval and fresh-looking face was rather pale; her large black eyes, usually gay and brilliant, were slightly dulled and veiled; whilst her whole look bespoke unusual fatigue. she had been working nearly all the night; from time to time she looked sorrowfully at a letter which lay open on a table near her. this letter had been addressed to her by germain, and contained as follows: "prison of the conciergerie. "mademoiselle:--the place from which i address you will sufficiently prove to you the extent of my misfortune,--i am locked up as a robber. i am guilty in the eyes of all the world, and yet i am bold enough to write to you! it is because it would, indeed, be dreadful to me to believe that you consider me as a degraded criminal. i beseech you not to condemn me until you have perused this letter. if you discard me, that will be the final blow, and will indeed overwhelm me. i will tell you all that has passed. for some time i had left the rue du temple, but i knew through poor louise that the morel family, in whom you and i took such deep interest, were daily more and more wretched. alas, my pity for these poor people has been my destruction! i do not repent it, but my fate is very cruel. last night i had stayed very late at m. ferrand's, occupied with business of importance. in the room in which i was at work was a bureau, in which my employer shut up every day the work i had done. this evening he appeared much disturbed and troubled, and said to me, 'do not leave until these accounts are finished, and then put them in the bureau, the key of which i will leave with you;' and then he left the room. when my work was done i opened the drawer to put it away, when, mechanically, my eyes were attracted by an open letter, on which i read the name of jérome morel, the lapidary. i confess that, seeing that it referred to this unfortunate man, i had the indiscretion to read this letter; and i learnt that the artisan was to be arrested next day on an overdue bill of thirteen hundred francs, at the suit of m. ferrand, who, under an assumed name, had imprisoned him. this information was from an agent employed by m. ferrand. i knew enough of the situation of the morel family to be aware of the terrible blow which the imprisonment of their only support must inflict upon them, and i was equally distressed and indignant. unfortunately i saw in the same drawer an open box, with two thousand francs in gold in it. at this moment i heard louise coming up the stairs, and without reflecting on the seriousness of my offence, but profiting by the opportunity which chance offered, i took thirteen hundred francs, went to her in the passage, and put the money in her hand, saying, 'they are going to arrest your father to-morrow at daybreak, for thirteen hundred francs,--here they are. save him, but do not say that the money comes from me. m. ferrand is a bad man.' you see, mademoiselle, my intention was good, but my conduct culpable. i conceal nothing from you, but this is my excuse. by dint of saving for a long time i had realised, and placed with a banker, the sum of fifteen hundred francs, but the cashier of the banker never came to the office before noon. morel was to be arrested at daybreak, and therefore it was necessary that she should have the money so as to pay it in good time; if not, even if i could have gone in the day to release him from prison, still he would be arrested and carried off in presence of his wife, whom such a blow must have killed. besides, the heavy costs of the writ would have been added to the expenses of the lapidary. you will understand, i dare say, that all these new misfortunes would not have befallen me if i had been able to restore the thirteen hundred francs i had taken back again to the bureau before m. ferrand discovered anything; unfortunately, i fell into that mistake. i left m. ferrand's, and was no longer under the impression of indignation and pity which had impelled me to the step. i began to reflect upon all the dangers of my position. a thousand fears then came to assail me. i knew the notary's severity, and he might come after i left and search in his bureau and discover the theft; for in his eyes--in the eyes of the world--it is a theft. these thoughts overwhelmed me, and, late as it was, i ran to the banker's to supplicate him to give me my money instantly. i should have found an excuse for this urgent request, and then i should have returned to m. ferrand and replaced the money i had taken. by an unlucky chance, the banker had gone to belleville for two days, to his country-house, where he was engaged in some plantations. everything seemed to conspire against me. i waited for daybreak with intense anxiety, and hastened to belleville,--the banker had just left for paris. i returned, saw him, obtained my money, hastened to m. ferrand; everything was discovered. but this is only a portion of my misfortunes. the notary at once accused me of having robbed him of fifteen thousand francs in bank-notes, which, he declared, were in the drawer of the bureau, with the two thousand francs in gold. this was a base accusation,--an infamous lie! i confess myself guilty of the first abstraction, but, by all that is most sacred in the world, i swear to you, mademoiselle, that i am innocent of the second. i never saw a bank-note in the drawer. there were only two thousand francs in gold, from which i took the thirteen hundred francs i have mentioned. this is the truth, mademoiselle. i am under this terrible accusation, and yet i affirm that you ought to know me incapable of a lie. but will you,--do you believe me? alas, as m. ferrand said, 'he who has taken a small sum may equally have taken a large amount, and his word does not deserve belief.' i have always seen you so good and devoted to the unhappy, mademoiselle, and i know you are so frank and liberal-minded, that your heart will guide you in the just appreciation of the truth, i hope. i do not ask any more. give credit to my words, and you will find in me as much to pity as to blame; for, i repeat to you, my intention was good, and circumstances impossible to foresee have destroyed me. oh, mlle. rigolette, i am very unhappy! if you knew in the midst of what a set of persons i am doomed to exist until my trial is over! yesterday they took me to a place which they call the dépôt of the prefecture of police. i cannot tell you what i felt when, after having gone up a dark staircase, i reached a door with an iron wicket, which was opened and soon closed upon me. i was so troubled in my mind that i could not, at first, distinguish anything. a hot and fetid air came upon me, and i heard a loud noise of voices mingled with sinister laughs, angry exclamations, and depraved songs. i remained motionless at the door for awhile, looking at the stone flooring of the apartment, and neither daring to advance nor lift up my eyes, thinking that everybody was looking at me. they were not, however, thinking of me; for a prisoner more or less does not at all disturb these men. at last i ventured to look up, and, oh, what horrid countenances! what ragged wretches! what dirty and bespattered garments! all the exterior marks of misery and vice! there were forty or fifty seated, standing, or lying on benches secured to the wall,--vagrants, robbers, assassins, and all who had been apprehended during the night and day. when they perceived me i found a sad consolation in seeing that they did not recognise me as belonging or known to them. some of them looked at me with an insulting and derisive air, and then began to talk amongst themselves in a low tone, and in some horrible jargon, not one word of which did i understand. after a short time one of the most brutal amongst them came, and, slapping me on the shoulder, asked me for money to pay my footing. i gave them some silver, hoping thus to purchase repose; but it was not enough, and they demanded more, which i refused. then several of them surrounded me and assailed me with threats and imprecations, and were proceeding to extremities, when, fortunately for me, a turnkey entered, who had been attracted by the noise. i complained to him, and he insisted on their restoring to me the money i had given them already, adding that, if i liked to pay a small fee, i should go to what is called the pistole; that is, be in a cell to myself. i accepted the offer gratefully, and left these ruffians in the midst of their loud menaces for the future; 'for,' said they, 'we are sure to meet again, when i could not get away from them.' the turnkey conducted me to a cell, where i passed the rest of the night. it is from here that i now write to you, mlle. rigolette. directly after my examination i shall be taken to another prison, called la force, where i expect to meet many of my companions in the station-house. the turnkey, interested by my grief and tears, has promised me to forward this letter to you, although such kindnesses are strictly forbidden. i ask, mlle. rigolette, a last service of your friendship, if, indeed, you do not blush now for such an intimacy. in case you will kindly grant my request, it is this: with this letter you will receive a small key, and a line for the porter of the house i live in, boulevard st. denis, no. . i inform him that you will act as if it were myself with respect to everything that belongs to me, and that he is to attend to your instructions. he will take you to my room, and you will have the goodness to open my _secrétaire_ with the key i send you herewith. in this you will find a large packet containing different papers, which i beg of you to take care of for me. one of them was intended for you, as you will see by the address; others have been written of you, in happier days. do not be angry. i did not think they would ever come to your knowledge. i beg you, also, to take the small sum of money which is in this drawer, as well as a satin bag, which contains a small orange silk handkerchief, which you wore when we used to go out on sundays, and which you gave me on the day i quitted the rue du temple. i should wish that, excepting a little linen which you will be so good as send to me at la force, you would sell the furniture and things i possess; for, whether acquitted or found guilty, i must of necessity be obliged to quit paris. where shall i go? what are my resources? god only knows. madame bouvard, the saleswoman of the temple, who has already sold and bought for me many things, will perhaps take all the furniture, etc., at once. she is a very fair-dealing woman, and this would save you a great deal of trouble, for i know how precious your time is. i have paid my rent in advance, and i have, therefore, only to ask you to give a small present to the porter. excuse, mademoiselle, the trouble of these details; but you are the only person in the world to whom i dare and can address myself. i might, perhaps, have asked one of m. ferrand's clerks to do this service for me, as we were on friendly terms, but i feared his curiosity as to certain papers. several concern you, as i have said, and others relate to the sad events in my life. ah, believe me, mlle. rigolette, if you grant me this last favour, this last proof of former regard, it will be my only consolation under the great affliction in which i am plunged; and, in spite of all, i hope you will not refuse me. i also beg of you to give me permission to write to you sometimes. it will be so consoling, so comforting to me, to be able to pour out my heavy sorrows into a kind heart. alas, i am alone in the world,--no one takes the slightest interest in me! this isolation was before most painful to me. think what it must be now! and yet i am honest, and have the consciousness of never having injured any one, and of always having, at the peril of my life, testified my aversion for what is wicked and wrong; as you will see by the papers, which i pray of you to take care of, and which you may read. but when i say this, who will believe me? m. ferrand is respected by all the world; his reputation for probity is long established; he has a just cause of accusation against me, and he will crush me. i resign myself at once to my fate. now, mlle. rigolette, if you do believe me, you will not, i hope, feel any contempt for me, but pity me; and you will, perhaps, carry your generosity so far as to come one day,--some sunday (alas, what recollections that word brings up!)--some sunday, to see me in the reception-room of my prison. but no, no; i never could dare to see you in such a place! yet you are so good, so kind, that--if--i am compelled to break off this letter and send it to you at once, with the key, and a line for the porter, which i write in great haste. the turnkey has come to tell me that i am going directly before the magistrate. adieu, adieu, mlle. rigolette! do not discard me, for my hope is in you, and in you only! "franÇois germain. "p. s.--if you reply, address your letter to me at the prison of la force." we may now divine the cause of rigolette's first sorrow. her excellent heart was deeply wounded at a misfortune of which she had no suspicion until that moment. she believed unhesitatingly in the entire veracity of the statement of germain, the unfortunate son of the schoolmaster. not very strait-laced, she thought her old neighbour exaggerated his fault immensely. to save the unhappy father of a family, he had momentarily appropriated a sum which he thought he could instantly refund. this action, in the grisette's eyes, was but generous. by one of those contradictions common to women, and especially to women of her class, this young girl, who until then had not felt for germain more than her other neighbours, but a kind and mirthful friendship, now experienced for him a decided preference. as soon as she knew that he was unfortunate, unjustly accused, and a prisoner, his remembrance effaced that of all his former rivals. yet rigolette did not all at once feel intense love, but a warm and sincere affection, full of pity and determined devotion,--a sentiment which was the more new with her in consequence of the better sensations it brought with it. such was the moral position of rigolette when rodolph entered her chamber, having first rapped very discreetly at the door. "good morning, neighbour," said rodolph to rigolette; "do not let me disturb you." "not at all, neighbour. on the contrary, i am delighted to see you, for i have had something to vex me dreadfully." "why, in truth, you look very pale, and appear as though you had been weeping." "indeed, i have been weeping, and for a good reason. poor germain! there--read!" and rigolette handed the letter of the prisoner to rodolph. "is not that enough to break one's heart? you told me you took an interest in him,--now's the time to prove it!" she added, whilst rodolph was attentively reading the letter. "is that wicked old m. ferrand at war with all the world? first he attacked that poor louise, and now he assails germain. oh, i am not ill-natured; but if some great harm happened to this notary, i should really be glad! to accuse such an honest young man of having stolen fifteen thousand francs from him! germain, too! he who was honesty itself! and such a steady, serious young man; and so sad, too! oh, he is indeed to be pitied, in the midst of all these wretches in his prison! ah, m. rodolph, from to-day i begin to see that life is not all _couleur-de-rose_." "and what do you propose to do, my little neighbour?" "what do i mean to do? why, of course, all that germain asks of me, and as quickly as possible. i should have been gone before now, but for this work, which is required in great haste, and which i must take instantly to the rue st. honoré, on my way to germain's room, where i am going to get the papers he speaks of. i have passed part of the night at work, that i might be forward. i shall have so many things to do besides my usual work that i must be excessively methodical. in the first place, madame morel is very anxious that i should see louise in prison. that will be a hard task, but i shall try to do it. unfortunately, i do not know to whom i should address myself." "i had thought of that." "you, neighbour?" "here is an order." "how fortunate! can't you procure me also an order for the prison of poor, unhappy germain? he would be so delighted!" "i will also find you the means of seeing germain." "oh, thank you, m. rodolph." "you will not be afraid, then, of going to his prison?" "certainly not; although my heart will beat very violently the first time. but that's nothing. when germain was free, was he not always ready to anticipate all my wishes, and take me to the theatre, for a walk, or read to me of an evening? well, and now he is in trouble, it is my turn. a poor little mouse like me cannot do much, i know that well enough; but all i can do i will do, that he may rely upon. he shall find that i am a sincere friend. but, m. rodolph, there is one thing which pains me, and that is that he should doubt me,--that he should suppose me capable of despising him! i!--and for what, i should like to know? that old notary accuses him of robbery. i know it is not true. germain's letter has proved to me that he is innocent, even if i had thought him guilty. you have only to see him, and you would feel certain that he is incapable of a bad action. a person must be as wicked as m. ferrand to assert such atrocious falsehoods." "bravo, neighbour; i like your indignation." "oh, how i wish i were a man, that i might go to this notary and say to him, 'oh, you say that germain has robbed you, do you? well, then, that's for you! and that he cannot steal from you, at all events?' and thump--thump--thump, i would beat him till i couldn't stand over him." "you administer justice very expeditiously," said rodolph, smiling. "because it makes my blood boil. and, as germain says in his letter, all the world will side with his employer, because he is rich and looked up to, whilst germain is poor and unprotected, unless you will come to his assistance, m. rodolph,--you who know such benevolent persons. do not you think that something could be done?" "he must await his sentence. once acquitted, as i believe he will be, he will not want for proofs of the interest taken in him. but listen, neighbour; for i know i may rely on your discretion." "oh, yes, m. rodolph, i never blab." "well, then, no one must know--not even germain himself--that he has friends who are watching over him,--for he has friends." "really!" "very powerful and devoted." "it would give him much courage to know that." "unquestionably; but perhaps he might not keep it to himself. then m. ferrand, alarmed, would be on his guard,--his suspicions would be aroused; and, as he is very cunning, it would become very difficult to catch him, which would be most annoying; for not only must germain's innocence be made clear, but his denouncer must be unmasked." "i understand, m. rodolph." "it is the same with louise; and i bring you this order to see her, that you may beg of her not to tell any person what she disclosed to me. she will know what that means." "i understand, m. rodolph." "in a word, let louise beware of complaining in prison of her master's wickedness. this is most important. but she must conceal nothing from the barrister who will come from me to talk with her as to the grounds of her defence. be sure you tell her all this." "make yourself easy, neighbour, i will forget nothing; i have an excellent memory. but, when we talk of goodness, it is you who are so good and kind. if any one is in trouble, then you come directly." "i have told you, my good little neighbour, that i am but a poor clerk; but when i meet with good persons who deserve protection, i instantly tell a benevolent individual who has entire confidence in me, and they are helped at once. that's all i do in the matter." "and where are you lodging, now you have given up your chamber to the morels?" "i live in a furnished lodging." "oh, how i should hate that! to be where all the world has been before you, it is as if everybody had been in your place." "i am only there at nights, and then--" "i understand,--it is less disagreeable. yet i shouldn't like it, m. rodolph. my home made me so happy, i had got into such a quiet way of living, that i did not think it was possible i should ever know a sorrow. and yet, you see--but no, i cannot describe to you the blow which germain's misfortune has brought upon me. i have seen the morels, and others beside, who were very much to be pitied certainly. but, at best, misery is misery; and amongst poor folk, who look for it, it does not surprise them, and they help one another as well as they can. to-day it is one, to-morrow it is another. as for oneself, what with courage and good spirit, one extricates oneself. but to see a poor young man, honest and good, who has been your friend for a long time,--to see him accused of robbery, and imprisoned and huddled up with criminals!--ah, really, m. rodolph, i cannot get over that; it is a misfortune i had never thought of, and it quite upsets me." "courage, courage! your spirits will return when your friend is acquitted." "oh, yes, he must be acquitted. the judges have only to read his letter to me, and that would be enough,--would it not, m. rodolph?" "really, this letter has all the appearance of truth. you must let me have a copy of it, for it will be necessary for germain's defence." "certainly, m. rodolph. if i did not write such a scrawl, in spite of the lessons which good germain gave me, i would offer to copy it myself; but my writing is so large, so crooked, and has so many, many faults." "i will only ask you to trust the letter with me until to-morrow morning." "there it is; but you will take great care of it, i hope. i have burnt all the notes which m. cabrion and m. girandeau wrote me in the beginning of our acquaintance, with flaming hearts and doves at the top of the paper, when they thought i was to be caught by their tricks and cajoleries; but this poor letter of germain's i will keep carefully, as well as the others, if he writes me any more; for they, you know, m. rodolph, will show in my favour that he has asked these small services,--won't they, m. rodolph?" "most assuredly; and they will prove that you are the best little friend any one can desire. but, now i think of it, instead of going alone to germain's room, shall i accompany you?" "with pleasure, neighbour. the night is coming on, and, in the evening, i do not like to be alone in the streets; besides that, i have my work to carry nearly as far as the palais royal. but perhaps it will fatigue and annoy you to go so far?" "not at all. we will have a coach." "really! oh, how pleased i should be to go in a coach if i had not so much to make me melancholy! and i really must be melancholy, for this is the first day since i have been here that i have not sung during the day. my birds are really quite astonished. poor little dears! they cannot make it out. two or three times papa crétu has piped a little to try me; i endeavoured to answer him, but, after a minute or two, i began to cry. ramonette then began; but i could not answer one any better than the other." "what singular names you have given your birds: papa crétu and ramonette!" "why, m. rodolph, my birds are the joy of my solitude,--my best friends; and i have given them the names of the worthy couple who were the joy of my childhood, and were also my best friends, not forgetting that, to complete the resemblance, papa crétu and ramonette were gay, and sang like birds." "ah, now, yes, i remember, your adopted parents were called so." "yes, neighbour, they are ridiculous names for birds, i know; but that concerns no one but myself. and besides, it was in this very point that germain showed his good heart." "in what way?" "why, m. girandeau and m. cabrion--especially m. cabrion--were always making their jokes on the names of my birds. to call a canary papa crétu! there never was such nonsense as m. cabrion made of it, and his jests were endless. if it was a cock bird, he said, 'why, that would be well enough to call him crétu. as to ramonette, that's well enough for a hen canary, for it resembles ramona.' in fact, he quite wore my patience out, and for two sundays i would not go out with him in order to teach him a lesson; and i told him very seriously, that if he began his tricks, which annoyed me so much, we should never go out together again." "what a bold resolve!" "yes, it was really a sacrifice on my part, m. rodolph, for i was always looking forward with delight to my sundays, and i was very much tried by being kept in all alone in such beautiful weather. but that's nothing. i preferred sacrificing my sundays to hearing m. cabrion continue to make ridicule of those whom i respected. certainly, after that, but for the idea i attached to them, i should have preferred giving my birds other names; and, you must know, there is one name which i adore,--it is colibri.[ ] i did not change, because i never will call those birds by any other name than crétu and ramonette; if i did, i should seem to make a sacrifice, that i forgot my good, adopted parents,--don't you think so, m. rodolph?" [ ] colibri is a celebrated chanson of béranger, the especial poet of grisettes.--_english translator_. "you are right a thousand times over. and germain did not turn these names into a jest, eh?" "on the contrary, the first time he heard them he thought them droll, like every one else, and that was natural enough. but when i explained to him my reasons, as i had many times explained them to m. cabrion, tears started to his eyes. from that time i said to myself, m. germain is very kind-hearted, and there is nothing to be said against him, but his weeping so. and so, you see, m. rodolph, my reproaching him with his sadness has made me unhappy now. then i could not understand why any one was melancholy, but now i understand it but too well. but now my packet is completed, and my work is ready for delivery. will you hand me my shawl, neighbour? it is not cold enough to take a cloak, is it?" "we shall go and return in a coach." "true; we shall go and return very quickly, and that will be so much gained." "but, now i think of it, what are you to do? your work will suffer from your visits to the prison." "oh, no, no; i have made my calculations. in the first place, i have my sundays to myself, so i shall go and see louise and germain on those days; that will serve me for a walk and a change. then, in the week, i shall go again to the prison once or twice. each time will occupy me three good hours, won't it? well, to manage this comfortably, i shall work an hour more every day, and go to bed at twelve o'clock instead of eleven o'clock; that will be a clear gain of seven or eight hours a week, which i can employ in going to see louise and germain. you see i am richer than i appear," added rigolette, with a smile. "and you have no fear that you will be overfatigued?" "bah! not at all; i shall manage it. and, besides, it can't last for ever." "here is your shawl, neighbour." "fasten it; and mind you don't prick me." "ah, the pin is bent." "well, then, clumsy, take another then,--from the pincushion. ah, i forgot! will you do me a great favour, neighbour?" "command me, neighbour." "mend me a good pen, with a broad nib, so that when i return i may write to poor germain, and tell him i have executed all his commissions. he will have my letter to-morrow morning in the prison, and that will give him pleasure." "where are your pens?" "there,--on the table; the knife is in the drawer. wait until i light my taper, for it begins to grow dusk." "yes, i shall see better how to mend the pen." "and i how to tie my cap." rigolette lighted a lucifer-match, and lighted a wax-end in a small bright candlestick. "the deuce,--a wax-light! why, neighbour, what extravagance!" "oh, what i burn costs but a very small trifle more than a candle, and it's so much cleaner!" "not much dearer?" "indeed, they are not! i buy these wax-ends by the pound, and a half a pound lasts nearly a year." "but," said rodolph, who was mending the pen very carefully, whilst the grisette was tying on her cap before the glass, "i do not see any preparations for your dinner." "i have not the least appetite. i took a cup of milk this morning, and i shall take another this evening, with a small piece of bread, and that will be enough for me." "then you will not take a dinner with me quietly after we have been to germain's?" "thank you, neighbour; but i am not in spirits,--my heart is too heavy,--another time with pleasure. but the evening when poor germain leaves his prison, i invite myself, and afterwards you shall take me to the theatre. is that a bargain?" "it is, neighbour; and i assure you i will not forget the engagement. but you refuse me this to-day?" "yes, m. rodolph. i should be a very dull companion, without saying a word about the time it would occupy me; for, you see, at this moment, i really cannot afford to be idle, or waste one single quarter of an hour." "then, for to-day i renounce the pleasure." "there is my parcel, neighbour. now go out first, and i will lock the door." "here's a capital pen for you; and now for the parcel." "mind you don't rumple it; it is _pout-de-soie_, and soon creases. hold it in your hand,--carefully,--there, in that way; that's it. now go, and i will show you a light." and rodolph descended the staircase, followed by rigolette. at the moment when the two neighbours were passing by the door of the porter's lodge they saw m. pipelet, who, with his arms hanging down, was advancing towards them from the bottom of the passage, holding in one hand the sign which announced his partnership of friendship with cabrion, and in the other the portrait of the confounded painter. alfred's despair was so overwhelming that his chin touched his breast, so that the wide crown of his bell-shaped hat was easily seen. seeing him thus, with his head lowered, coming towards rodolph and rigolette, he might have been compared to a ram, or a brave breton, preparing for combat. anastasie soon appeared on the threshold of the lodge, and exclaimed, at her husband's appearance: "well, dearest old boy, here you are! and what did the commissary say to you? alfred, alfred, mind what you're doing, or you'll poke your head against my king of lodgers. excuse him, m. rodolph. it is that vagabond of a cabrion, who uses him worse and worse. he'll certainly turn my dear old darling into a donkey! alfred, love, speak to me!" at this voice, so dear to his heart, m. pipelet raised his head. his features were impressed with a bitter agony. "what did the commissary say to you?" inquired anastasie. "anastasie, we must collect the few things we possess, embrace our friends, pack up our trunk, and expatriate ourselves from paris,--from france,--from my beautiful france; for now, assured of impunity, the monster is capable of pursuing me everywhere, throughout the length and breadth of the departments of the kingdom." "what, the commissary?" "the commissary," exclaimed m. pipelet, with fierce indignation,--"the commissary laughed in my teeth!" "at you,--a man of mature age, with an air so respectable that you would appear as silly as a goose if one did not know your virtues?" "well, notwithstanding that, when i had respectfully deposed in his presence my mass of complaints and vexations against that infernal cabrion, the magistrate, after having looked and laughed--yes, laughed, and, i may add, laughed indecorously--at the sign and the portrait which i brought with me as corroborative testimony,--the magistrate replied, 'my good fellow, this cabrion is a wag,--a practical joker. but pay no attention to his pleasantries. i advise you to laugh at him, and heartily, too, for really there is ample cause to do so.' 'to laugh at it, sir-r-r!' i exclaimed,--'to laugh at it, when grief consumes me,--when this scamp poisons my very existence; he placards me, and will drive me out of my wits. i demand that they imprison, exile the monster,--at least from my street!' at these words the commissary smiled, and politely pointed to the door. i understood the magistrate, sighed, and--and--here i am!" "good-for-nothing magistrate!" exclaimed madame pipelet. "it is all over, anastasie,--all is ended,--hope ceases. there's no justice in france; i am really atrociously sacrificed." and, by way of peroration, m. pipelet dashed the sign and portrait to the farther end of the passage with all his force. rodolph and rigolette had in the shade smiled at m. pipelet's despair. after having said a few words of consolation to alfred, whom anastasie was trying to calm as well as she could, the king of lodgers left the house in the rue du temple with rigolette, and they both got into a coach to go to françois germain's. chapter ii. the will. françois germain resided no. boulevard st. denis. it may not be amiss to recall to the reader, who has probably forgotten the circumstance, that madame mathieu, the diamond-matcher, whose name has been already mentioned as the person for whom morel the lapidary worked, lodged in the same house as germain. during the long ride from the rue du temple to the rue st. honoré, where dwelt the dressmaker for whom rigolette worked, rodolph had ample opportunities of more fully appreciating the fine natural disposition of his companion. like all instinctively noble and devoted characters, she appeared utterly unconscious of the delicacy and generosity of her conduct, all she said and did seeming to her as the most simple and matter-of-course thing possible. nothing would have been more easy than for rodolph to provide liberally both for rigolette's present and future wants, and thus to have enabled her to carry her consoling attentions to louise and germain, without grieving over the loss of that time which was necessarily taken from her work,--her sole dependence; but the prince was unwilling to diminish the value of the grisette's devotion by removing all the difficulties, and, although firmly resolved to bestow a rich reward on the rare and beautiful qualities he hourly discovered in her, he determined to follow her to the termination of this new and interesting trial. it is scarcely necessary to say that, had the health of the young girl appeared to suffer in the smallest degree from the increase of labour she so courageously imposed on herself, in order to dedicate a portion of each week to the unhappy daughter of the lapidary and the son of the schoolmaster, rodolph would instantaneously have stepped forward to her aid; and he continued to study with equal pleasure and emotion the workings of a nature so naturally disposed to view everything on its sunny side, so full of internal happiness, and so little accustomed to sorrow that occasionally she would smile, and seem the mirthful creature nature had made her, spite of all the grief by which she was surrounded. at the end of about an hour, the _fiacre_, returning from the rue st. honoré, stopped before a modest, unpretending sort of house, situated no. boulevard st. denis. rodolph assisted rigolette to alight. the young sempstress then proceeded to the porter's lodge, where she communicated germain's intentions, without forgetting the promised gratuity. owing to the extreme amenity of his disposition, the son of the schoolmaster was unusually beloved, and the _confrère_ of m. pipelet was deeply grieved to learn that so quiet and well-conducted a lodger was about to quit the house, and to that purpose the worthy porter warmly expressed himself. having obtained a light, rigolette proceeded to rejoin her companion, having first arranged with the porter that he should not follow her up-stairs till a time she indicated should have elapsed, and then merely to receive his final orders. the chamber occupied by germain was situated on the fourth floor. when they reached the door, rigolette handed the key to rodolph, saying: "here, will you open the door? my hand trembles so violently, i cannot do it. i fear you will laugh at me. but, when i think that poor germain will never more enter this room, i seem as though i were about to pass the threshold of a chamber of death." "come, come, my good neighbour, try and exert yourself; you must not indulge such thoughts as these." "i know it is wrong; but, indeed, i cannot help it." and here rigolette tried to dry up the tears with which her eyes were filled. without being equally affected as his companion, rodolph still experienced a deep and painful emotion as he penetrated into this humble abode. well aware of the detestable pertinacity with which the accomplices of the schoolmaster pursued, and were possibly still pursuing, germain, he pictured to himself the many hours the unfortunate youth was constrained to pass in this cheerless solitude. rigolette placed the light on the table. nothing could possibly be more simple than the fittings-up of the apartment itself. its sole furniture consisted of a small bed, a chest of drawers, a walnut-tree bureau, four rush-bottomed chairs, and a table; white calico curtains hung from the windows and around the bed. the only ornament the mantelpiece presented was a water-bottle and glass. the bed was made; but, by the impression left on it, it would seem that germain had thrown himself on it without undressing on the night previous to his arrest. "poor fellow!" said rigolette, sadly, as she examined each minute detail of the interior of the apartment; "it is very easy to see i was not near him. his room is tidy, to be sure, but not as neat as it ought to be. everything is covered with dust. the curtains are smoke-dried, the windows want cleaning, and the floor is not kept as it should be. oh, dear, what a difference! the rue du temple was not a better room, but it had a much more cheerful look, because everything was kept so bright and clean,--like in my apartment!" "because in the rue du temple he had the benefit of your advice and assistance." "oh, pray look here!" cried rigolette, pointing to the bed. "only see,--the poor fellow never went to bed at all the last night he was here! how uneasy he must have been! see, he has left his handkerchief on his pillow, quite wet with his tears! i can see that plainly enough." then, taking up the handkerchief, she added, "germain has kept a small, orange-coloured silk cravat i gave him once during our happy days. i have a great mind to keep this handkerchief in remembrance of his misfortune. do you think he would be angry?" "on the contrary, he would but be too much delighted with such a mark of your affection." "ah, but we must not indulge in such thoughts now; let us attend to more serious matters. i will make up a parcel of linen from the contents of those drawers, ready to take to the prison, and mother bouvard, whom i will send to-morrow, will see to the rest; but first of all i will open the bureau, in order to get out the papers and money germain wished me to take charge of." "but, now i think of it, louise morel gave me back yesterday the thirteen hundred francs in gold she received from germain, to pay the lapidary's debt, which i had already discharged. i have this money about me; it justly belongs to germain, since he repaid the notary what he withdrew from the cash-box. i will place it in your hands, in order that you may add it to the sum entrusted to your care." "just as you like, m. rodolph, although really i should prefer not having so large a sum in my possession, really there are so many dishonest people nowadays! as for papers, that's quite another thing; i'll willingly take charge of as many papers as you please, but money is such a dangerous thing!" "perhaps you are right; then i tell you what we will do--eh, neighbour? i will be banker, and undertake the responsibility of guarding this money. should germain require anything, you can let me know; i will leave you my address, and whatever you send for shall be punctually and faithfully sent." "oh, dear, yes, that will be very much better! how good of you to offer, for i could not have ventured to propose such a thing to you! so that is settled; i will beg of you, also, to take whatever this furniture sells for. and now let us see about the papers," continued rigolette, opening the bureau and pulling out several drawers. "ah, i dare say this is it! see what a large packet! but, oh, good gracious, m. rodolph, do pray look what mournful words these are written on the outside!" and here rigolette, in a faltering voice, read as follows: "'in the event of my dying by either a violent or natural death, i request whoever may open this bureau to carry these papers to mlle. rigolette, dressmaker, no. rue du temple.' do you think, m. rodolph, that i may break the seals of the envelope?" "undoubtedly; does not germain expressly say that among the papers you will find a letter particularly addressed to yourself?" the agitated girl broke the seals which secured the outward cover, and from it fell a quantity of papers, one of which, bearing the superscription of mlle. rigolette, contained these words: "mademoiselle:--when this letter reaches your hands, i shall be no more, if, as i fear, i should perish by a violent death, through falling into a snare similar to that from which i lately escaped. a few particulars herein enclosed, and entitled 'notes on my life,' may serve to discover my murderers." "ah, m. rodolph," cried rigolette, interrupting herself, "i am no longer astonished poor germain was so melancholy! how very dreadful to be continually pursued by such ideas!" "he must, indeed, have suffered deeply; but, trust me, his worst misfortunes are over." "alas, m. rodolph, i trust it may prove so! still, to be in prison, and accused of theft!" "make yourself quite easy about him; his innocence once proved, instead of returning to his former seclusion and loneliness, he will regain his friends. you, first and foremost, and then a dearly loved mother, from whom he has been separated from his childhood." "his mother! has he, then, still a mother?" "he has, but she has long believed him lost to her for ever. imagine her delight at seeing him again, cleared from the unworthy charge now brought against him. you see i was right in saying that his greatest troubles were over; do not mention his mother to him. i entrust you with the secret, because you take so generous an interest in the fate of germain that it is but due to your devotedness that you should be tranquillised as to his future fate." "oh, thank you, m. rodolph! i promise you to guard the secret as carefully as you could do." rigolette then proceeded with the perusal of germain's letter; it continued thus: "'should you deign, mademoiselle, to cast your eyes over these notes, you will find that i have been unfortunate all my life, always unhappy, except during the hours i have passed with you; you will find sentiments i should never have ventured to express by words fully revealed in a sort of memorandum, entitled "my only days of happiness." nearly every evening, after quitting you, i thus poured forth the cheering thoughts with which your affection inspired me, and which only sweetened the bitterness of a cup full even to overflowing. that which was but friendship in you, was, in my breast, the purest, the sincerest love; but of that love i have never spoken. no, i reserved its full disclosure till the moment should arrive when i could be but as an object of your sorrowing recollection. no, never would i have sought to involve you in a destiny as thoroughly miserable as my own. but, when your eye peruses these pages, there will be nothing to fear from the power of my ill-starred fate. i shall have been your faithful friend, your adoring lover, but i shall no longer be dangerous to your future happiness in either sense. i have but one last wish and desire, and i trust that you will kindly accomplish it. i have witnessed the noble courage with which you labour day by day, as well as the care and management requisite to make your hard-earned gain suffice for your moderate wants. often have i shuddered at the bare idea of your being reduced by illness (brought on, probably, by overattention to your work) to a state too frightful to dwell upon. and it is no small consolation to me to believe it in my power to spare you, not only a considerable share of personal inconvenience, but also to preserve you from evils your unsuspicious nature dreams not of.' "what does that last part mean, m. rodolph?" asked rigolette, much surprised. "proceed with the letter; we shall see by and by." rigolette thus resumed: "'i know upon how little you can live, and of what service even a small sum would be to you in any case of emergency. i am very poor myself, but still, by dint of rigid economy, i have managed to save fifteen hundred francs, which are placed in the hands of a banker; it is all i am worth in the world, but by my will, which you will find with this, i have ventured to bequeath it to you; and i trust you will not refuse to accept this last proof of the sincere affection of a friend and brother, from whom death will have separated you when this meets your eye.' "oh, m. rodolph," cried rigolette, bursting into tears, "this is too much! kind, good germain, thus to consider my future welfare! what an excellent heart he must have!" "worthy and noble-minded young man!" rejoined rodolph, with deep emotion. "but calm yourself, my good girl. thank god, germain is still living! and, by anticipating the perusal of his last wishes, you will at least have learned how sincerely he loved you,--nay, still loves you!" "and only to think," said rigolette, drying up her tears, "that i should never once have suspected it! when first i knew m. girandeau and m. cabrion, they were always talking to me of their violent love, and flames, and darts, and such stuff; but finding i took no notice of them, they left off wearying me with such nonsense. now, on the contrary, germain never named love to me. when i proposed to him that we should be good friends, he accepted the offer as frankly as it was made, and ever after that we were always excellent companions and neighbours; but--now i don't mind telling you, m. rodolph, that i was not sorry germain never talked to me in the same silly strain." "but still it astonished you, did it not?" "why, m. rodolph, i ascribed it to his melancholy, and i fancied his low spirits prevented his joking like the others." "and you felt angry with him, did you not, for always being so sad?" "no," said the grisette, ingenuously; "no, i excused him, because it was the only fault he had. but now that i have read his kind and feeling letter, i cannot forgive myself for ever having blamed him even for that one thing." "in the first place," said rodolph, smiling, "you find that he had many and just causes for his sadness; and secondly, that, spite of his melancholy, he did love you deeply and sincerely." "to be sure; and it seems a thing to be proud of, to be loved by so excellent a young man!" "whose love you will, no doubt, return one of these days?" "i don't know about that, m. rodolph, though it is very likely, for poor germain is so much to be pitied. i can imagine myself in his place. suppose, just when i fancied myself despised and forsaken by all the world, some one whom i loved very dearly should evince for me more regard than i had ventured to hope for, don't you think it would make me very happy?" then, after a short silence, rigolette continued, with a sigh, "on the other hand, we are both so poor that, perhaps, it would be very imprudent. ah, well, m. rodolph, i must not think of such things. perhaps, too, i deceive myself. one thing, however, is quite sure, and that is, that so long as germain remains in prison i will do all in my power for him. it will be time enough when he has regained his liberty for me to determine whether 'tis love or friendship i feel for him. until then it would only torment me needlessly to try to make up my mind what i had better do. but it is getting late, m. rodolph. will you have the goodness to collect all those papers, while i make up a parcel of linen? ah, i forgot the little bag containing the little orange-coloured cravat i gave him. no doubt it is here--in this drawer. oh, yes, this is it. oh, see, what a pretty bag! how nicely embroidered! poor germain! i declare he has kept such a trifle as this little handkerchief with as much care as though it had been some holy relic. i well remember the last time i had it around my throat; and when i gave it to him, poor fellow, how very pleased he was!" at this moment some one knocked at the door. "who's there?" inquired rodolph. "want to speak to ma'am mathieu," replied a harsh, hoarse voice, and in a tone which is peculiar to the lowest orders. (madame mathieu was the matcher of precious stones to whom we have before referred.) this voice, whose accent was peculiar, awoke some vague recollections in rodolph's breast; and, desirous of elucidating them, he took the light, and went himself to open the door. he found himself confronted by a man who was one of the frequenters of the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, and recognised him instantly, so deeply was the print of vice stamped upon him, so completely marked on his beardless and youthful features. it was barbillon. barbillon, the pretended hackney-coachman, who had driven the schoolmaster and the chouette to the hollow way of bouqueval,--barbillon, the assassin of the husband of the unhappy milkwoman, who had set the labourers of the farm at arnouville on against la goualeuse. whether this wretch had forgotten rodolph's face, which he had never seen but once at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, or that the change of dress prevented him from recognising the chourineur's conqueror, he did not evince the slightest surprise at his appearance. "what do you want?" inquired rodolph. "here's a letter for ma'am mathieu, and i must give it to her myself," was barbillon's reply. "she does not live here,--it's opposite," said rodolph. "thank ye, master. they told me the left-hand door; but i've mistook." rodolph did not recollect the name of the diamond-matcher, which morel the lapidary had only mentioned once or twice, and thus had no motive for interesting himself in the female to whom barbillon came with his message; but yet, although ignorant of the ruffian's crimes, his face was so decidedly repulsive that he remained at the threshold of the door, curious to see the person to whom barbillon brought the letter. barbillon had scarcely knocked at the door opposite to germain's, than it opened, and the jewel-matcher, a stout woman of about fifty, appeared with a candle in her hand. "ma'am mathieu?" inquired barbillon. "that's me, my man." "here's a letter, and i waits for an answer." and barbillon made a step forward to enter the doorway, but the woman made him a sign to remain where he was, and unsealed the letter, which she read by the light of the candle she held, and then replied with an air of satisfaction: "say it's all right, my man, and i will bring what is required. i will be there at the same hour as usual. my respects to the lady." "yes, missus. please to remember the porter!" "oh, you must ask them as sent you; they are richer than i am." and she shut the door. rodolph returned to germain's room, when he saw barbillon run quickly down the staircase. the ruffian found on the boulevard a man of low-lived, brutal appearance, waiting for him in front of a shop. although the passers-by could hear (it is true they could not comprehend), barbillon appeared so delighted that he could not help saying to his companion: "come and 'lush a drain of red tape,' nicholas; the old mot swallows the bait, hook and all. she'll show at the chouette's. old mother martial will lend a hand to peel her of the swag, and a'terwards we can box the 'cold meat' in your 'barkey.'"[ ] [ ] "come and let's have some brandy together, nicholas. the old woman falls easily into the snare. she will come to the chouette's; mother martial will help us to take her jewels from her forcibly, and then we can remove the dead body away in your boat." "let's mizzle,[ ] then; for i must get back to asnières early, or else my brother martial will smell summut." [ ] "let's be quick, then." and the two robbers, after having exchanged these words in their own slang, went towards the rue st. denis. * * * * * some minutes afterwards rigolette and rodolph left germain's, got into the hackney-coach, and reached the rue du temple. the coach stopped. at the moment when the door opened, rodolph recognised by the light of the dram-shop lamps his faithful murphy, who was waiting for him at the door of the entrance. the squire's presence always announced some serious and sudden event, for it was he alone who knew at all times where to find the prince. "what's the matter?" inquired rodolph, quickly, whilst rigolette was collecting several things out of the vehicle. "a terrible circumstance, monseigneur!" "speak, in heaven's name!" "m. the marquis d'harville--" "you alarm me!" "had several friends to breakfast with him this morning. he was in high spirits, had never been more joyous, when a fatal imprudence--" "pray come to the point--pray!" "and playing with a pistol, which he did not believe to be loaded--" "wounded himself seriously." "monseigneur!" "well?" "something dreadful!" "what do you mean?" "he is dead!" "d'harville! ah, how horrible!" exclaimed rodolph, in a tone so agonised that rigolette, who was at the moment quitting the coach with the parcels, said: "alas! what ails you, m. rodolph?" "some very distressing information i have just told my friend, mademoiselle," said murphy to the young girl, for the prince was so overcome that he could not reply. "is it, then, some dreadful misfortune?" said rigolette, trembling all over. "very dreadful, indeed!" replied the squire. "yes, most awful!" said rodolph, after a few moment's silence; then recollecting rigolette, he said to her, "excuse me, my dear neighbour, if i do not go up to your room with you. to-morrow i will send you my address, and an order to go to see germain in his prison. i will soon see you again." "ah, m. rodolph, i assure you that i share in the grief you now experience! i thank you very much for having accompanied me; but i shall soon see you again, sha'n't i?" "yes, my child, very soon." "good evening, m. rodolph," added rigolette, and then disappeared down the passage with the various things she had brought away from germain's room. the prince and murphy got into the hackney-coach, which took them to the rue plumet. rodolph immediately wrote the following note to clémence: "madame:--i have this instant learned the sudden blow which has struck you, and deprived me of one of my best friends. i forbear any attempt to portray my horror and my regret. yet i must mention to you certain circumstances unconnected with this cruel event. i have just learned that your stepmother, who has been, no doubt, in paris for several days, returns this evening to normandy, taking with her polidori. no doubt but this fact will convince you of the peril which threatens your father; and pray allow me to give you some advice, which i think requisite. after the appalling event of this morning, every one must but too easily conceive your anxiety to quit paris for some time; go, therefore, go at once, to aubiers, so that you may arrive there before your stepmother, or, at least, as soon as she. make yourself easy, madame, for i shall watch at a distance, as well as close, the abominable projects of your stepmother. adieu, madame; i write these few lines to you in great haste. my heart is lacerated when i remember yesterday evening, when i left him,--him,--more tranquil and more happy than he had been for a very long time. "believe, madame, in my deep and lasting devotion, "rodolph." following the prince's advice, three hours after she had received this letter, madame d'harville, accompanied by her daughter, was on the road to normandy. a post-chaise, despatched from rodolph's mansion, followed in the same route. unfortunately, in the troubled state into which this complication of events and the hurry of her departure had driven her, clémence had forgotten to inform the prince that she had met fleur-de-marie at st. lazare. our readers may, perhaps, remember that, on the previous evening, the chouette had been menacing madame séraphin, and threatening to unfold the whole history of la goualeuse's existence, affirming that she knew (and she spoke truth) where the young girl then was. the reader may also recollect that, after this conversation, the notary, jacques ferrand, dreading the disclosure of his criminal course, believed that he had a strong motive for effecting the disappearance of la goualeuse, whose existence, once known, would compromise him fatally. he had, in consequence, written to bradamanti, one of his accomplices, to come to him that they might together arrange a fresh plot, of which fleur-de-marie was to be the victim. bradamanti, occupied by the no less pressing interests of madame d'harville's stepmother, who had her own sinister motives for taking the charlatan with her to m. d'orbigny, finding it, no doubt, more profitable to serve his ancient female ally, did not attend to the notary's appointment, but set out for normandy without seeing madame séraphin. the storm was gathering over the head of jacques ferrand. during the day the chouette had returned to reiterate her threats; and to prove that they were not vain, she declared to the notary that the little girl, formerly abandoned by madame séraphin, was then a prisoner in st. lazare, under the name of la goualeuse; and that if he did not give ten thousand francs ( _l._) in three days, this young girl would receive the papers which belonged to her, and which would instruct her that she had been confided in her infancy to the care of jacques ferrand. according to his custom, the notary denied all boldly, and drove the chouette away as an impudent liar, although he was perfectly convinced, and greatly alarmed at the dangerous drift of her threats. thanks to his numerous connections, the notary found means to ascertain that very day (during the conversation of fleur-de-marie and madame d'harville) that la goualeuse was actually a prisoner in st. lazare, and so marked for her good conduct that they were expecting her discharge every moment. thus informed, jacques ferrand, having determined on his deadly scheme, felt that, in order to carry it into execution, bradamanti's help was more than ever indispensable; and thereon came madame séraphin's vain attempts to see the doctor. having at length heard, in the evening, of the departure of the charlatan, the notary, driven to act by the imminence of his fears and danger, recalled to mind the martial family, those freshwater pirates established near the bridge of asnières, with whom bradamanti had proposed to place louise, in order to get rid of her undetected. having absolutely need of an accomplice to carry out his deadly purposes against fleur-de-marie, the notary took every precaution not to be compromised in case a fresh crime should be committed; and, the day after bradamanti's departure for normandy, madame séraphin went with all speed to the martials. chapter iii. l'ile du ravageur. the following scenes took place during the evening of the day in which madame séraphin, in compliance with jacques ferrand the notary's orders, went to the martials, the freshwater pirates established at the point of a small islet of the seine, not far from the bridge of asnières. the father martial had died, like his own father, on the scaffold, leaving a widow, four sons, and two daughters. the second of these sons was already condemned to the galleys for life, and of the rest of this numerous family there remained in the ile du ravageur (a name which was popularly given to this place; why, we will hereafter explain) the mother martial; three sons, the eldest (la louve's lover) twenty-five years of age, the next twenty, and the youngest twelve; two girls, one eighteen years of age, the second nine. the examples of such families, in whom there is perpetuated a sort of fearful inheritance of crime, are but too frequent. and this must be so. let us repeat, unceasingly, society thinks of punishing, but never of preventing, crime. a criminal is sentenced to the galleys for life; another is executed. these felons will leave young families; does society take any care or heed of these orphans,--these orphans, whom it has made so, by visiting their father with a civil death, or cutting off his head? does it substitute any careful or preserving guardianship after the removal of him whom the law has declared to be unworthy, infamous,--after the removal of him whom the law has put to death? no; "the poison dies with the beast," says society. it is deceived; the poison of corruption is so subtle, so corrosive, so contagious, that it becomes almost invariably hereditary; but, if counteracted in time, it would never be incurable. strange contradiction! dissection proves that a man dies of a malady that may be transmitted, and then, by precautionary measures, his descendants are preserved from the affection of which he has been the victim. let the same facts be produced in the moral order of things; let it be demonstrated that a criminal almost always bequeaths to his son the germ of a precocious depravity. will society do for the safety of this young soul what the doctor does for the body, when it is a question of contending against hereditary vitiation? no; instead of curing this unhappy creature, we leave him to be gangrened, even to death; and then, in the same way as the people believe the son of the executioner to be an executioner, perforce, also, they will believe the son of a criminal also a criminal. and then we consider that the result of an inheritance inexorably fatal, which is really a corruption caused by the egotistical neglect of society. thus, if, in spite of the evil mark on his name, the orphan, whom the law has made so, remains, by chance, industrious and honest, a barbarous prejudice will still reflect on him his father's offences; and thus subjected to undeserved reprobation, he will scarcely find employment. and, instead of coming to his aid, to save him from discouragement, despair, and, above all, the dangerous resentments of injustice, which sometimes drive the most generous disposition to revolt to ill, society will say: "let him go wrong if he will,--we shall watch him. have we not gaolers, turnkeys, and executioners?" thus for him who (and it is as rare as it is meritorious) preserves himself pure in spite of the worst examples, is there any support, any encouragement? thus for him who, plunged from his birth in a focus of domestic depravity, is vitiated quite young, what hope is there of cure? "yes, yes, i will cure him, the orphan i have made," replies society; "but in my own way,--by and by. to extirpate the smallpox, to cut out the imposthume, it must come to a head." a criminal desires to speak. "prisons and galleys, they are my hospitals. in incurable cases there is the executioner. as to the cure of my orphan," adds society, "i will reflect upon it. let the germ of hereditary corruption ripen; let it increase; let it extend its ravages far and wide. when our man shall be rotten to the heart, when crime oozes out of him at every pore, when a robbery or desperate murder shall have placed him at the same bar of infamy at which his father stood, then we will cure this inheritor of crime,--as we cured his progenitor. at the galleys or on the scaffold the son will find his father's seat still warm." society thus reasons; and it is astonished, and indignant, and frightened, to see how robberies and murders are handed down so fatally from generation to generation. the dark picture which is now to follow--the freshwater pirates--is intended to display what the inheritance of evil in a family may be when society does not come legally or officially to preserve the unfortunate victims of the law from the terrible consequences of the sentence executed against the father.[ ] [ ] in proportion as we advance in this work, its moral aim is attacked with so much bitterness, and, as we think, with so much injustice, that we ask permission to dwell a little on the serious and honourable idea which hitherto has sustained and guided us. many serious, delicate, and lofty minds, being desirous of encouraging us in our endeavours, and having forwarded to us the flattering testimonials of their approval, it is due, perhaps, to these known and unknown friends to reply over again to the blind accusations which have reached, we may say, even to the bosom of the legislative assembly. to proclaim the odious immorality of our work is to proclaim decidedly, it appears to us, the odiously immoral tendencies of the persons who honour us with the deepest sympathies. it is in the name of these sympathies, as well as in our own, that we shall endeavour to prove, by an example selected from amongst others, that this work is not altogether destitute of generous and practical ideas. we gave, some time back, the sketch of a model farm founded by rodolph, in order to encourage, teach, and remunerate poor, honest, and industrious labourers. we add to this: honest men who are unfortunate deserve, at least, as much interest as criminals; yet there are numerous associations intended for the patronage of young prisoners, or those discharged, but there is no society founded for the purpose of giving succour to poor young persons whose conduct has been invariably exemplary. so that it is absolutely necessary to have committed an offence to become qualified for these institutions, which are, unquestionably, most meritorious and salutary. and we make a peasant of the bouqueval farm to say: "it is humane and charitable not to make the wicked desperate, but it is also requisite that the good should not be without hope. if a stout, sturdy, honest fellow, desirous of doing well, and of learning all he can, were to present himself at the farm for young ex-thieves, they would say to him, 'my lad, haven't you stolen some trifle, or been somewhat dissolute?' 'no!' 'well, then, this is no place for you.'" this discordance of things had struck minds much superior to our own, and, thanks to them, what we considered as an utopianism was realised. under the superintendence of one of the most distinguished and most honourable men of the age, m. le comte portalis, and under the able direction of a real philanthropist with a generous heart and an enlightened and practical mind, m. allier, a society has been established for the purpose of succouring poor and honest persons of the department of the seine, and of employing them in agricultural colonies. this single and sole result is sufficient to affirm the moral idea of our work. we are very proud and very happy to have been met in the midst of our ideas, our wishes, and our hopes by the founders of this new work of charity; for we are one of the most obscure, but most convinced, propagators of these two great truths,--that it is the duty of society to prevent evil, and to encourage and recompense good, as much as in it lies. whilst we are speaking of this new work of charity, whose just and moral idea ought to have a salutary and fruitful result, let us hope that its founders will perchance think of supplying another vacancy, by extending hereafter their tutelary patronage, or, at least, their solicitude, over young children whose fathers have been executed, or condemned to an infamous sentence involving civil death, and who, we will repeat, are made orphans by the act and operation of the law. such of these unfortunate children as shall be already worthy of interest from their wholesome tendencies and their misery will still more deserve particular notice, in consequence of their painful, difficult, and dangerous position. let us add: the family of a condemned criminal, almost always victims of cruel repulses, apply in vain for labour, and are compelled, in order to escape universal reprobation, to fly from the spot where they have hitherto found work. then, exasperated and enraged by injustice, already branded as criminals, for faults of which they are innocent, frequently at the end of all honourable resource, these unfortunates would sink and die of famine if they remained honest. if they have, on the other hand, already undergone an almost inevitable corruption, ought we not to try and rescue them whilst there is yet time? the presence of these orphans of the law in the midst of other children protected by the society of whom we have spoken, would be, moreover, a useful example to all. it would show that if the guilty is unfailingly punished, his family lose nothing, but rather gain in the esteem of the world, if by dint of courage and virtues they achieve the reëstablishing of a tarnished name. shall we say that the legislature desires to render the chastisement still more terrible by virtually striking the criminal father in the fortune of his innocent son? that would be barbarous, immoral, irrational. is it not, on the contrary, of the highest moral consequence to prove to the people that there is no hereditary succession of evil; that the original stain is not ineffaceable? let us venture to hope that these reflections will appear deserving of some attention from the new society of patronage. unquestionably it is painful to think that the state never takes the initiative in these questions so vital and so deeply interesting to social organisation. the ancestor of the martial family who first established himself on this islet, on payment of a moderate rent, was a _ravageur_ (a river-scavenger). the ravageurs, as well as the _débardeurs_ and _déchireurs_ of boats, remain nearly the whole of the day plunged in water up to the waist in the exercise of their trade. the _débardeurs_ bring ashore the floating wood. the _déchireurs_ break up the rafts which have brought the wood. equally aquatic as these other two occupations, the business of a _ravageur_ is different. going into the water as far as possible, the _ravageur_, or mud-lark, draws up, by aid of a long drag, the river sand from beneath the mud; then, collecting it in large wooden bowls, he washes it like a person washing for gold dust, and extracts from it metallic particles of all kinds,--iron, copper, lead, tin, pewter, brass,--the results of the relics of all sorts of utensils. the _ravageurs_, indeed, often find in the sand fragments of gold and silver jewelry, brought into the seine either by the sewers which are washed by the stream, or by the masses of snow or ice collected in the streets, and which are cast into the river. we do not know by what tradition or custom these persons, usually honest and industrious, are called by a name so formidable. martial, the father, the first inhabitant of this islet, being a _ravageur_ (and a sad exception to his comrades), the inhabitants of the river's banks called it the ile du ravageur. the dwelling of these freshwater pirates was placed at the southern end of the island. in daytime there was visible, on a sign-board over the door: "au rendezvous des ravageurs. good wine, good eels, and fried fish. boats let by the day or hour." we thus see that the head of this depraved family added to his visible or hidden pursuits those of a public-house keeper, fisherman, and letter of boats. the felon's widow continued to keep the house, and reprobates, vagrants, escaped convicts, wandering wild-beast showmen, and scamps of every description came there to pass sundays and other days not marked with a red letter in the calendar, in parties of pleasure. martial (la louve's lover), the eldest son of the family, the least guilty of all the family, was a river poacher, and now and then, as a real champion, and for money paid, took the part of the weak against the strong. one of his brothers, nicholas, the intended accomplice of barbillon in the murder of the jewel-matcher, was in appearance a _ravageur_, but really a freshwater pirate in the seine and its banks. françois, the youngest son of the executed felon, rowed visitors who wished to go on the river in a boat. we have alluded to ambroise martial, condemned to the galleys for burglary at night with attempt to murder. the eldest daughter, nicknamed calabash (_calebasse_), helped her mother in the kitchen, and waited on the company. her sister, amandine, nine years of age, was also employed in the house according to her years and strength. at the period in question it was a dull night out of doors; heavy, gray, opaque clouds, driven by the wind, showed here and there in the midst of their openings a few patches of dark blue spotted with stars. the outline of the islet, bordered by high and ragged poplars, was strongly and darkly defined in the clear haze of the sky and in the white transparency of the river. the house, with its irregular gables, was completely buried in the shade; two windows in the ground floor only were lighted, and these windows showed a deep red light, which was reflected like long trails of fire in the little ripples which washed the landing-place close to the house. the chains of the boats which were moored there made a continual clashing, that mingled unpleasantly with the gusts of the wind in the branches of the poplars, and the hoarse murmurs of the main stream. a portion of the family was assembled in the kitchen of the house. this was a large low-roofed apartment. facing the door were two windows, under which a long stove extended. to the left hand there was a high chimney; on the right a staircase leading to the upper story. at the side of this staircase was the entrance to a large room, containing several tables for the use of the guests at the cabaret. the light of a lamp, joined to the flame of the fire, was strongly reflected by a number of saucepans and other copper utensils suspended against the wall, or ranged on shelves with a quantity of earthenware; and a large table stood in the middle of the kitchen. the felon's widow, with three of her children, was seated in the corner near the fireplace. this woman, tall and meagre, seemed about five and forty years of age. she was dressed in black, with a mourning handkerchief tied about her head, concealing her hair, and surrounding her flat, livid, and wrinkled brows; her nose was long and straight; her cheek-bones prominent; her cheeks furrowed; her complexion bilious and sallow; the corners of her mouth, always curved downwards, rendered still harsher the expression of her countenance, as chilling, sinister, and immovable as a marble mask. her gray eyebrows surmounted her dull blue eyes. the felon's widow was employed with needlework, as well as her two daughters. the eldest girl was tall and forbidding like her mother, with her features, calm, harsh, and repulsive, her thin nose, her ill-formed mouth, and her pale look. her yellow complexion, which resembled a ripe quince, had procured for her the name of calabash (_calebasse_). she was not in mourning, but wore a brown gown, whilst a cap of black tulle did not conceal two bands of scanty hair of dull and dingy light brown. françois, the youngest of the martial sons, was sitting on a low stool repairing an _aldrel_, a thin-meshed net forbidden to be used on the seine. in spite of the tan of his features, this boy seemed in perfect health; a forest of red hair covered his head; his face was round, his lips thick, his forehead projecting, his eyes quick and piercing. he was not like his mother or his elder sister, but had a subdued and sly look, as from time to time, through the thick mass of hair that fell over his eyes, he threw a stealthy and fearful glance at his mother, or exchanged a look of intelligence and affection with his little sister, amandine. the latter was seated beside her brother, and was occupied, not in marking, but in unmarking, some linen stolen on the previous evening. she was nine years old, and was as like her brother as her sister was like her mother. her features, without being more regular, were less coarse than those of françois. although covered with freckles, her complexion was remarkably clear, her lips thick and red, her hair also red, but silky, and her eyes, though small, were of a clear bright blue. when amandine's look met that of her brother, she turned a glance towards the door, and then françois replied by sigh; after which, calling his sister's attention by a slight gesture, he counted with the end of his needle ten loops of the net. this was meant to imply, in the symbolical language of children, that their brother martial would not return until ten o'clock that evening. seeing these two women so silent and ill-looking, and the two poor little mute, frightened, uneasy children, we might suppose they were two executioners and two victims. calabash, perceiving that amandine had ceased from her occupation for a moment, said, in a harsh tone: "come, haven't you done taking the mark out of that shirt?" the little girl bowed her head without making any reply, and, by the aid of her fingers and scissors, hastily finished taking out the red cotton threads which marked the letters in the linen. after a few minutes amandine, addressing the widow timidly, showed her the shirt, and said: "mother, i have done it." without making any reply, the widow threw her another piece of linen. the child did not catch it quickly enough, and it fell on the ground. her tall sister gave her, with her hand as hard as wood, a sharp slap on the arm, saying: "you stupid brat!" amandine resumed her seat, and set to work actively, after having exchanged with her brother a glance of her eye, into which a tear had started. the same silence continued to reign in the kitchen. without, the wind still moaned and dashed about the sign in front of the house. this dismal creaking, and the dull boiling of a pot placed over the fire, were the only sounds that were heard. the two children observed, with secret fright, that their mother did not speak. although she was habitually taciturn, this complete silence, and a certain drawing in of the lips, announced to them that the widow was in what they called her white passion, that is to say, was a prey to concentrated irritation. the fire was going out for want of fuel. "françois, a log," said calabash. the young mender of forbidden nets looked into a nook beside the chimney, and replied: "there are no more there." "then go to the wood-pile," said calabash. françois murmured some unintelligible words, but did not stir. "do you hear me, françois?" inquired calabash, harshly. the felon's widow laid on her knees a towel she was also unmarking, and looked at her son. he had lowered his head, but he guessed he felt, if we may use the expression, the fierce look his mother cast upon him, and, fearful of encountering her dreaded countenance, the boy remained without stirring. "i say, are you deaf, françois?" said calabash, in an irritated tone. "mother, you see!" the tall sister seemed to be happy in finding fault with the two children, and to seek for them the punishment which the widow pitilessly inflicted. amandine, without being observed, gently touched her brother's elbow, to make him quietly do what calabash desired. françois did not stir. the elder sister still looked at her mother as demanding the punishment of the offender, and the widow understood her. with her long lean finger she pointed to a stick of stout and pliant willow placed in a recess near the chimney. calabash stooped forward, took up this staff of chastisement, and handed it to her mother. françois had seen his mother's gesture, and, rising suddenly, sprung out of the reach of the threatening stick. "do you want mother to break your back?" exclaimed calabash. the widow, still holding the willow stick in her hand, pinching her pale lips together more and more, looked at françois with a fixed eye, but without uttering a syllable. by the slight tremor of amandine's hands, with her head bent downwards, and the redness which suddenly overspread her neck, it was easy to see that the child, although habituated to such scenes, was alarmed at the fate that threatened her brother, who had taken refuge in a corner of the kitchen, and seemed frightened and irritated. "mind yourself, mother's going to begin, and then it will be too late!" said the tall sister. "i don't care!" replied françois, turning pale. "i'd rather be beaten as i was the day before yesterday, than--go to the wood-pile--and at night--again." "and why?" asked calabash, impatiently. "i am--afraid of the wood-pile--i--" answered the boy, shuddering as he spoke. "afraid--you stupid! and of what?" françois shook his head, but did not reply. "will you answer? what are you afraid of?" "i don't know. but i am frightened." "why, you've been there a hundred times, and last night, too." "i won't go there any more." "mother's going to begin." "so much the worse for me," exclaimed the lad. "but she may beat me, kill me, and i'll not go near the wood-pile--not at night." "once more--why not?" inquired calabash. "why, because--" "because--?" "because there's some one--" "there's some one--" "buried there!" said françois, with a shudder. the felon's widow, in spite of her impassiveness, could not repress a sudden start; her daughter did the same. it seemed as though the two women were struck with an electric shock. "some one buried by the wood-pile?" said calabash, shrugging her shoulders. "i tell you that just now, whilst i was piling up some wood, i saw in a dark corner near the wood-pile a dead man's bone; it was sticking a little way out of the ground where it was damp, just by the corner," added françois. "do you hear him, mother? why, the boy's a fool!" said calabash, making a signal to the widow. "they are mutton-bones i put there for washing-lye." "it was not a mutton-bone," replied the boy, with alarm, "it was a dead person's bones,--a dead man's bones. i saw quite plainly a foot that stuck out of the ground." "and, of course, you told your brother, your dear friend martial, of your grand discovery, didn't you?" asked calabash, with brutal irony. françois made no reply. "nasty little spy!" said calabash, savagely; "because he is as cowardly as a cur, and would as soon see us scragged, as our father was scragged before us." "if you call me a spy, i'll tell my brother martial everything!" said françois, much enraged. "i haven't told him yet, for i haven't seen him since; but, when he comes here this evening, i'll--" the child could not finish; his mother came up to him, calm and inexorable as ever. although she habitually stooped a little, her figure was still tall for a woman. holding the willow wand in one hand, with the other the widow took her son by the arm, and, in spite of alarm, resistance, prayers, and tears of the child, she dragged him after her, and made him ascend the staircase at the further end of the kitchen. after a moment's interval, there was heard heavy trampling, mingled with cries and sobs. some minutes afterwards this noise ceased. a door shut violently; the felon's widow descended. then, as impassive as ever, she put the stick in its usual place, seated herself close to the fireplace, and resumed her occupation, without saying a word. chapter iv. the freshwater pirate. after a silence of several minutes, the criminal's widow said to her daughter: "go and get some wood; we will set the wood-pile to rights when nicholas and martial return home this evening." "martial! do you mean to tell him also that--" "the wood, i say!" repeated the widow, abruptly interrupting her daughter, who, accustomed to yield to the imperious and iron rule of her mother, lighted a lantern, and went out. during the preceding scene, amandine, deeply disquieted concerning the fate of françois, whom she tenderly loved, had not ventured either to lift up her eyes, or dry her tears, which fell, drop by drop, on to her lap. her sobs, which she dared not give utterance to, almost suffocated her, and she strove even to repress the fearful beatings of her heart. blinded by her fast gathering tears, she sought to conceal her emotion by endeavouring to pick the mark from the chemise given to her, but, from the nervous trembling of her hand, she ran the scissors into her finger sufficiently deep to cause considerable effusion of blood; but the poor child thought much less of the pain she experienced than of the certain punishment which awaited her for staining the linen with her blood. happily for her, the widow was too deeply absorbed in profound reflection to take any notice of what had occurred. calabash now returned, bearing a basket filled with wood. to the inquiring look of her mother, she returned an affirmative nod of the head, which was intended to acquaint her with the fact of the dead man's foot being actually above the ground. the widow compressed her lips, and continued the work she was occupied upon; the only difference perceptible in her being that she plied her needle with increased rapidity. calabash, meanwhile, renewed the fire, superintended the state of the cookery progressing in the saucepan beside the hearth, and then resumed her seat near her mother. "nicholas is not here yet," said she to her parent. "it is to be hoped that the old woman who this morning engaged him to meet a gentleman from bradamanti has not led him into any scrape. she had such a very offhand way with her; she would neither give any explanation as to the nature of the business nicholas was wanted for, nor tell her name, or where she came from." the widow shrugged her shoulders. "you do not consider nicholas is in any danger, i see, mother. and, after all, i dare say you are quite right! the old woman desired him to be on the quai de billy, opposite the landing-place, about seven o'clock in the evening, and wait there for a person who wished to speak with him, and who would utter the word 'bradamanti' as a sort of countersign. certainly there is nothing very perilous in doing so much. no doubt nicholas is late from having to-day found, as he did yesterday, something on the road. look at this capital linen which he contrived to filch from a boat, in which a laundress had just left it!" so saying, she pointed to one of the pieces of linen amandine was endeavouring to pick the mark out of. then, addressing the child, she said, "what do folks mean when they talk of filching?" "i believe," answered the frightened child, without venturing to look up, "it means taking things that are not ours." "oh, you little fool! it means stealing, not taking. do you understand?--stealing!" "thank you, sister!" "and when one can steal as cleverly as nicholas, there is no need to want for anything. look at that linen he filched yesterday; how comfortably it set us all up; and that, too, with no other trouble than just taking out the marks; isn't it true, mother?" added calabash, with a burst of laughter, which displayed her decayed and irregular teeth, yellow and jaundiced as her complexion. the widow received this pleasantry with cold indifference. "talking of fitting ourselves up without any expense," continued calabash, "it strikes me we might possibly do so at another shop. you know quite well that an old man has come, within the last few days, to live in the country-house belonging to m. griffon, the doctor of the hospital at paris. i mean that lone house about a hundred steps from the river's side, just opposite the lime-kilns,--eh, mother? you understand me, don't you?" the widow bowed her head, in token of assent. "well, nicholas was saying yesterday that it was very likely a good job might be made out of it," pursued calabash. "now i have ascertained, this very morning, that there is good booty to be found there. the best way will be to send amandine to watch the place a little; no one will take notice of a child like her; and she could pretend to be just playing about, and amusing herself; all the time she can take notice of everything, and will be able to tell us all she sees or hears. do you hear what i say?" added calabash, roughly addressing amandine. "yes, sister," answered the trembling child; "i will be sure to do as you wish me." "yes, that is what you always say; but you never do more than promise, you little slink! that time that i desired you to take a five-franc piece out of the grocer's till at asnières, while i managed to keep the man occupied at the other end of the shop, you did not choose to obey me; and yet you might have done it so easily; no one ever mistrusts a child. pray what was your reason for not doing as you were bid?" "because, sister, my heart failed me, and i was afraid." "and yet, the other day, you took a handkerchief out of the peddler's pack, when the man was selling his goods inside the public-house. pray did he find it out, you silly thing?" "oh, but, sister, you know the handkerchief was for you, not me; and you made me do it. besides, it was not money." "what difference does that make?" "oh, why, taking a handkerchief is not half so wicked as stealing money!" "upon my word," said calabash, contemptuously, "these are mighty fine notions! i suppose it is martial stuffs your head with all this rubbish. i suppose you will run open-mouthed to tell him every word we have said,--eh, little spy? but lord bless you! we are not afraid of you or martial either; you can neither eat us nor drink us, that is one good thing." then, addressing herself to the widow, calabash continued, "i tell you what, mother, that fellow will get himself into no good by trying to rule, and domineer, and lay down the law here, as he does; both nicholas and myself are determined not to submit to it. he sets both amandine and françois against everything either you or i order them to do. do you think this can last much longer?" "no!" said the mother, in a harsh, abrupt voice. "ever since his louve has been sent to st. lazare, martial has gone on like a madman, savage as a bear with every one. pray is it our fault? can we help his sweetheart being put in prison? only let her show her face here when she comes out, and i'll serve her in such a way she sha'n't forget one while! i'll match her! i'll--" here the widow, who had been buried in profound reflection, suddenly interrupted her daughter by saying: "you think something profitable might be got out of the old fellow who lives in the doctor's house, do you not?" "yes, mother!" "he looks poor and shabby as any common beggar!" "and, for all that, he is a nobleman." "a nobleman?" "true as you're alive! and, what's more, he carries a purse full of gold, spite of his always going into paris, and returning, on foot, leaning on an old stick, just for all the world like a poor wretch that had not a sou in the world." "how do you know that he has gold?" "a little while ago i was at the post-office at asnières, to inquire whether there was any letter for us from toulon--" at these words, which recalled the circumstance of her son's confinement in the galleys, the brows of the widow were contracted with a dark frown, while a half repressed sigh escaped her lips. unheeding these signs of perturbation, calabash proceeded: "i was waiting my turn, when the old man who lives at the doctor's house entered the office. i knew him again directly, by his white hair and beard, his dark complexion, and thick black eyebrows. he does not look like one that would be easily managed, i can tell you; and, spite of his age, he has the appearance of a determined old fool that would die sooner than yield. he walked straight up to the postmistress. 'pray,' said he, 'have you any letters from angers for m. le comte de remy?' 'yes,' replied the woman, 'here is one.' 'then it is for me,' said the old man; 'here is my passport.' while the postmistress was examining it, he drew out a green silk purse, to pay the postage; and, i promise you, one end was stuffed with gold till it looked as large as an egg. i know it was gold, for i saw the bright, yellow pieces shining through the meshes of the purse; and i am quite certain there must have been at least forty or fifty louis in it!" cried calabash, her eyes glowing with a covetous eagerness to possess herself of such a treasure. "and only to think," continued she, "of a person, with all that money in his pocket, going about like an old beggar! no doubt he is some old miser, too rich to be able to count his hoards. one good thing, mother, we know his name; that may assist us in gaining admittance into the house. as soon as amandine can find out for us whether he has any servants or not--" a loud barking of dogs here interrupted calabash. "listen, mother," cried she; "no doubt the dogs hear the sound of a boat approaching; it must be either martial or nicholas." at the mention of martial's name, the features of amandine expressed a sort of troubled joy. after waiting for some minutes, during which the anxious looks of the impatient child were fixed on the door, she saw, to her extreme regret, nicholas, the future accomplice of barbillon, make his appearance. the physiognomy of the youth was at once ignoble and ferocious; small in figure, short in stature, and mean in appearance, no one would have deemed him a likely person to pursue the dangerous and criminal path he trod. unhappily, a sort of wild, savage energy supplied the place of that physical force in which the hardened youth was deficient. over his blue loose frock he wore a kind of vest, without sleeves, made of goatskin, covered with long brown hair. as he entered, he threw on the ground a lump of copper, which he had with difficulty carried on his shoulder. "a famous good night i have made of it, mother!" said he, in a hoarse and hollow voice, after he had freed himself from his burden. "look there! there's a prize. well, i've got three more lumps of copper, quite as big as that, in my boat, a bundle of clothes, and a case filled with something, i know not what, for i did not waste my time in opening it. perhaps i have been robbed on my way home; we shall see." "and the man you were to meet on the quai de billy?" inquired calabash, while the widow regarded her son in silence. the only reply made by the young man consisted in his plunging his hand into the pocket of his trousers, and jingling a quantity of silver. "did you take all that from him?" cried calabash. "no, i didn't; he shelled out two hundred francs of his own accord; and he will fork out eight hundred more as soon as i have--but that's enough; let's, first of all, unload my boat; we can jabber afterwards. is not martial here?" "no," said his sister. "so much the better; we will put away the swag before he sees it; leastways, if he can be kept from knowing about it." "what! are you afraid of him, you coward?" asked calabash, provokingly. nicholas shrugged his shoulders significantly; then replied: "afraid of him? no, i should rather think not! but i have a strong suspicion he means to sell us,--that is my only fear; as for any other sort of dread, my weazen-slicer (knife) has rather too keen an edge for that!" "ah, when he is not here, you are full of boast and brag; but only let him show his face, and you are quiet as a mouse!" this reproach seemed quite thrown away upon nicholas, who, affecting not to have heard it, exclaimed: "come, come! let's unload the boat at once. where is françois, mother? he could help us a good deal." "mother has locked him up, after having preciously flogged him; and, i can tell you, he will have to go to bed without any supper." "well and good as far as that goes; but still, he might lend a hand in unloading the boat,--eh, mother? because, then myself and calabash could fetch all in at once." the widow raised her hand, and pointed with her finger towards the ceiling. her daughter perfectly comprehended the signal, and departed at once to fetch françois. the countenance of the widow martial had become less cloudy since the arrival of nicholas, whom she greatly preferred to calabash, but by no means entertaining for him the affection she felt for her toulon son, as she designated him; for the maternal love of this ferocious woman appeared to increase in proportion to the criminality of her offspring. this perverse preference will serve to account for the widow's indifference towards her two younger children, neither of whom exhibited any disposition to evil, as well as her perfect hatred of martial, her eldest son, who, although not leading an altogether irreproachable life, might still have passed for a perfectly honest and well-conducted person if placed in comparison with nicholas, calabash, or his brother, the felon at toulon. "which road did you take to-night?" inquired the widow of her son. "why, as i returned from the quai de billy, where, you know, i had to go to meet the gentleman who appointed to see me there, i spied a barge moored alongside the quay; it was as dark as pitch. 'halloa!' says i, 'no light in the cabin? no doubt,' says i, 'all hands are ashore. i'll just go on board, and have a look; if i meet any one, it's easy to ask for a bit of string, and make up a fudge about wanting to splice my oar.' so up the side i climbs, and ventures into the cabin. not a soul was there; so i began collecting all i could find: clothes, a great box, and, on the deck, four quintals of copper. so, you may guess, i was obliged to make two journeys. the vessel was loaded with copper and iron; but here comes françois and calabash. now, then, let's be off to the boat. here, you young un, you amandine! look sharp, and make yourself useful; you can carry the clothes; we must get new things, you know, before we can throw aside our old ones." left alone, the widow busied herself in preparations for the family supper. she placed on the table bottles, glasses, earthenware, plates, with forks and spoons of silver; and, by the time this occupation was completed, her offspring returned heavily laden. little françois staggered beneath the weight of copper which he carried on his shoulders, and amandine was almost buried beneath the mass of stolen garments which she bore on her head, while nicholas and calabash brought in between them a wooden case, on the top of which lay the fourth lump of copper. "the case,--the case!" cried calabash, with savage eagerness. "come, let's rip it open, and know what's in it." the lumps of copper were flung on the ground. nicholas took the heavy hatchet he carried in his belt, and introduced its strong iron head between the lid and the box which he had set down in the middle of the kitchen, and endeavoured with all his strength to force it open. the red and flickering light of the fire illumined this scene of pillage, while, from without, the loud gusts of the night wind increased in violence. nicholas, meanwhile, attired in his goatskin vest, stooped over the box, and essayed with all his might to wrench off the top, breaking out into the most horrible and blasphemous expressions, as he found the solidity of the fastenings resist all his endeavours to arrive at a knowledge of its contents; and calabash, her eyes inflamed by covetousness, her cheeks flushed by the excitement of plunder, knelt down beside the case, on which she leaned her utmost weight, in order to give more power to the action of the lever employed by nicholas. the widow, separated from the group by the table, on the other side of which she was standing, in her eagerness to behold the spoils, threw herself almost across the table, the better to gaze on the booty; her longing eyes sparkled with eagerness to learn the value of it. and finally--though unhappily, too true to human nature--the two children, whose naturally good inclinations had so often triumphed over the sea of vice and domestic corruption by which they were surrounded, even they, forgetting at once both their fears and their scruples, were alike infected by the same fatal curiosity. huddling close to each other, their eyes glittering with excitement, the breathing short and quick, françois and amandine seemed of all the party most impatient to ascertain the contents of the case, and the most irritated and out of patience with the slow progress made by nicholas in his attempts to break it open. at length the lid yielded to the powerful and repeated blows dealt on it by the vigorous arm of the young man, and as its fragments fell on the ground a loud, exulting cry rose from the joyful and almost breathless group, who, joining in one wild mass, from the mother to the little girl, rushed forward, and with savage haste threw themselves on the opened box, which, forwarded, doubtless, by some house in paris to a fashionable draper and mercer residing near the banks of the river, contained a large assortment of the different materials employed in female attire. "nicholas has not done amiss!" cried calabash, unfolding a piece of mousseline-de-laine. "no, faith!" returned the plunderer, opening, in his turn, a parcel of silk handkerchiefs; "i shall manage to pay myself for my trouble." "levantine, i declare!" cried the widow, dipping into the box, and drawing forth a rich silk. "ah, that is a thing that fetches a price as readily as a loaf of bread." "oh, bras rouge's receiver, who lives in the rue du temple, will buy all the finery, and be glad of it. and father micou, the man who lets furnished lodgings in the quartier st. honoré, will take the rest of the swag." "amandine," whispered françois to his little sister, "what a beautiful cravat one of those handsome silk handkerchiefs nicholas is holding in his hand would make, wouldn't it?" "oh, yes; and what a sweet pretty _marmotte_ it would make for me!" replied the child, in rapture at the very idea. "well, it must be confessed, nicholas," said calabash, "that it was a lucky thought of yours to go on board that barge,--famous! look, here are shawls, too! how many, i wonder? one, two, three. and just see here, mother! this one is real bourre de soie." "mother burette would give at least five hundred francs for the lot," said the widow, after closely examining each article. "then, i'll be sworn," answered nicholas, "if she'll give that, the things are worth at least fifteen hundred francs. but, as the old saying is, 'the receiver's as bad as the thief.' never mind; so much the worse for us! i'm no hand at splitting differences; and i shall be quite flat enough this time to let mother burette have it all her own way, and father micou also, for the matter of that; but then, to be sure, he is a friend." "i don't care for that, he'd cheat you as soon as another; i'm up to the old dealer in marine stores. but then these rascally receivers know we cannot do without them," continued calabash, putting on one of the shawls, and folding it around her, "and so they take advantage of it." "there is nothing else," said nicholas, coming to the bottom of the box. "now, let us put everything away," said the widow. "i shall keep this shawl for myself," exclaimed calabash. "oh, you will, will you?" cried nicholas, roughly; "that depends whether i choose to let you or not. you are always laying your clutches on something or other; you are madame free-and-easy!" "you are so mighty particular yourself--about taking whatever you have a fancy to, arn't you?" "ah, that's as different as different can be! i filch at the risk of my life; and if i had happened to have been nabbed on board the barge, you would not have been trounced for it." "la! well, don't make such a fuss,--take your shawl! i'm sure i don't want it; i was only joking about it," continued calabash, flinging the shawl back into the box; "but you never can stand the least bit of fun." "oh, i don't speak because of the shawl; i am not stingy enough to squabble about a trumpery shawl. one more or less would make no difference in the price mother burette would give for the things; she buys in the lump, you know," continued nicholas; "only i consider that, instead of calling out you should keep the shawl, it would have been more decent to have asked me to give it you. there--there it is--keep it--you may have it; keep it, i say, or else i'll just fling it into the fire to make the pot boil." these words entirely appeased calabash, who forthwith accepted the shawl without further scruple. nicholas appeared seized with a sudden fit of generosity, for, ripping off the fag end from one of the pieces of silk, he contrived to separate two silk handkerchiefs, which he threw to amandine and françois, who had been contemplating them with longing looks, saying: "there! that's for you brats; just a little taste to give you a relish for prigging; it's a thing you'll take to more kindly if it's made agreeable to you. and now, get off to bed. come, look sharp, i've got a deal to say to mother. there--you shall have some supper brought up-stairs to you." the delighted children clapped their hands with joy, and triumphantly waved the stolen handkerchiefs which had just been presented to them. "what do you say now, you little stupids?" said calabash to them; "will you ever go and be persuaded by martial again? did he ever give you beautiful silk handkerchiefs like those, i should be glad to know?" françois and amandine looked at each other, then hung down their heads, and made no answer. "answer, can't you?" persisted calabash, roughly. "i ask you whether you ever received such presents from martial?" "no," answered françois, gazing with intense delight on his bright red silk handkerchief, "brother martial never gives us anything." to which amandine replied, in a low yet firm voice: "ah, françois, that is because martial has nothing to give anybody." "he might have as much as other people if he chose to steal it, mightn't he, françois?" said nicholas, brutally. "yes, brother," replied françois. then, as if glad to quit the subject, he resumed his ecstatic contemplation of his handkerchief, saying: "oh, what a real beauty it is! what a fine cravat it will make for sundays, won't it?" "that it will," answered amandine. "and just see, françois, how charming i shall look with my sweet pretty handkerchief tied around my head,--so, brother." "what a rage the little children at the lime-kilns will be in when they see you pass by!" said calabash, fixing her malignant glances on the poor children to ascertain whether they comprehended the full and spiteful meaning of her words,--the hateful creature seeking, by the aid of vanity, to stifle the last breathings of virtue within their young minds. "the brats at the lime-kilns," continued she, "will look like beggar children beside you, and be ready to burst with envy and jealousy at seeing you two looking like a little lady and gentleman with your pretty silk handkerchiefs." "so they will," cried françois. "ah, and i like my new cravat ever so much the better, sister calabash, now you have told me that the children at the kilns will be so mad with me for being smarter than they; don't you, amandine?" "no, françois, i don't find that makes any difference. but i am quite glad i have got such a nice new pretty _marmotte_ as that will make, all the same." "go along with you, you little mean-spirited thing!" cried calabash, disdainfully; "you have not a grain of proper pride in you." then, snatching from the table a morsel of bread and cheese, she thrust them into the children's hands, saying, "now, get off to bed,--there is a lanthorn; take care you don't set fire to anything, and be sure to put it out before you go to sleep." "and hark ye," added nicholas, "remember that if you dare to say one word to martial of the box, the copper, or the clothes, i'll make you dance upon red-hot iron; and, besides that, your pretty silk handkerchiefs shall be taken from you." after the departure of the children, nicholas and his sister concealed the box, with its contents, the clothes, and lumps of copper, in a sort of cellar below the kitchen, the entrance to which was by a low flight of steps not far from the fireplace. "that'll do!" cried the hardened youth. "and now, mother, give us a glass of your very best brandy; none of your poor, every-day stuff, but some of the real right sort, and plenty of it. faith! i think i've earned a right to eat and to drink whatever you happen to have put by for grand occasions. come, calabash, look sharp, and let's have supper. never mind martial, he may amuse himself with picking the bones we may leave; they are good enough for him. now, then, for a bit of gossip over the affair of the individual i went to meet on the quai de billy, because that little job must be settled at once if i mean to pouch the money he promised me. i'll tell you all about it, mother, from beginning to end. but first give me something to moisten my throat. give me some drink, i say! devilish hard to be obliged to ask so many times, considering what i have done for you all to-day! i tell you i can stand treat, if that's what you are waiting for." and here nicholas again jingled the five-franc pieces he had in his pocket; then flinging his goatskin waistcoat and black woollen cap into a distant part of the room, he seated himself at table before a huge dish of ragout made of mutton, a piece of cold veal, and a salad. as soon as calabash had brought wine and brandy, the widow, still gloomy and imperturbable, took her place at one side of the table, having nicholas on her right hand and her daughter on her left; the other side of the table had been destined for martial and the two younger children. nicholas then drew from his pocket a long and wide spanish knife, with a horn handle and a trenchant blade. contemplating this murderous weapon with a sort of savage pleasure, he said to the widow: "there's my bread-earner,--what an edge it has! talking of bread, mother, just hand me some of that beside you." "and talking of knives, too," replied calabash, "françois has found out--you know what--in the wood-pile!" "what do you mean?" asked nicholas, not understanding her. "why, he saw--one of the feet!" "phew!" whistled nicholas; "what, of the man?" "yes," answered the widow, concisely, at the same time placing a large slice of meat on her son's plate. "that's droll enough," returned the young ruffian; "i'm sure the hole was dug deep enough; but i suppose the ground has sunk in a good deal." "it must all be thrown into the river to-night," said the widow. "that is the surest way to get rid of further bother," said nicholas. "yes," chimed in calabash, "throw it in the river, with a heavy stone fastened to it, with part of an old boat-chain." "we are not quite such fools as that either," returned nicholas, pouring out for himself a brimming glass of wine. then, holding the bottle up, he said, addressing the widow: "come, mother, let's touch glasses, and drink to each other. you seem a cup too low, and it will cheer you up." the widow drew back her glass, shook her head, and said to her son: "tell me of the man you met on the quai de billy." "why, this is it," said nicholas, without ceasing to eat and drink: "when i got to the landing-place, i fastened my boat, and went up the steps of the quay as the clock was striking seven at the military bakehouse at chaillot. you could not see four yards before you, but i walked up and down by the parapet wall for a quarter of an hour, when i heard footsteps moving softly behind me. i stopped, and a man, completely wrapped up in a mantle, approached me, coughing as he advanced. as i paused, he paused; and all i could make out of him was that his cloak hid his nose, and his hat fell over his eyes." we will inform our readers that this mysterious personage was jacques ferrand, the notary, who, anxious to get rid of fleur-de-marie, had, that same morning, despatched madame séraphin to the martials, whom he hoped to find the ready instruments of his fresh crime. "'bradamanti,' said the man to me," continued nicholas; "that was the password agreed upon by the old woman, that i might know my man. 'ravageur,' says i, as was agreed. 'is your name martial?' he asked. 'yes, master.' 'a woman was at your isle to-day: what did she say to you?' 'that you wished to speak to me on the part of m. bradamanti.' 'you have a boat?' 'we have four, that's our number: boatmen and ravageurs, from father to son, at your service.' 'this is what i want you to do if you are not afraid--' 'afraid of what, master?' 'of seeing a person accidentally drowned. only you must assist with the accident. do you understand?' 'perfectly, master; we must make some individual have a draught of the seine, as if by accident? i'll do it; only, as the dish to be dressed is a dainty one, why, the seasoning will cost rather dear.' 'how much for two?' 'for two? what! are there two persons who are to have a mess of broth in the river?' 'yes.' 'five hundred francs a head, master; that's not too dear.' 'agreed, for a thousand francs.' 'money down, master?' 'two hundred francs now, and the rest afterwards.' 'then you doubt me, master?' 'no; you may pocket the two hundred francs, without completing the bargain.' 'and you may say, after it's done, "don't you wish you may get it?"' 'that as may be; but does it suit you? yes or no. two hundred francs down, and on the evening of the day after to-morrow, here, at nine o'clock, i will give you the eight hundred francs.' 'and who will inform you that i have done the trick with these two persons?' 'i shall know; that is my affair. is it a bargain?' 'yes, master.' 'here are two hundred francs. now listen to me; you will know again the old woman who was at your house this morning?' 'yes, master.' 'to-morrow, or next day at latest, you will see her come, about four o'clock in the evening, on the bank in face of your island with a young fair girl. the old woman will make a signal to you by waving her handkerchief.' 'yes, master.' 'what time does it take to go from the bank-side to your island?' 'twenty minutes, quite.' 'your boats are flat-bottomed?' 'flat as your hand, master.' 'then you must make, very skilfully, a sort of large hole in the bottom of one of these boats, so that, when you open it, the water may flow in rapidly. do you understand?' 'quite well, master; how clever you are! i have by me a worn-out old boat, half rotten, that i was going to break up, but it will just do for this one more voyage.' 'you will then leave the island with this boat, with the hole prepared; let a good boat follow you, conducted by some one of your family. go to the shore, accost the old woman and the fair young girl, and take them on board the boat with the hole in it; then go back towards your island; but, when you are at some distance from the bank, pretend to stoop for some purpose, open the hole, and leap into the other boat, whilst the old woman and the fair young girl--' 'drink out of the same cup,--that's it,--eh, master?' 'but are you sure you will not be interrupted? suppose some customers should come to your house?' 'there is no fear, master. at this time, and especially in winter, no one comes, it is our dead time of year; and, if they come, that would not be troublesome; on the contrary, they are all good friends.' 'very well. besides, you in no way compromise yourselves; the boat will be supposed to have sunk from old age, and the old woman who brings the young girl will disappear with her. in order to be quite assured that they are drowned (by accident, mind! quite by accident), you can, if they rise to the surface, or if they cling to the boat, appear to do all in your power to assist them, and--' 'help them--to sink again! good, master!' 'it will be requisite that the passage be made after sunset, in order that it may be quite dark when they fall into the water.' 'no, master; for if one does not see clear, how shall we know if the two women swallow their doses at one gulp, or want a second?' 'true; and, therefore, the accident will take place before sunset.' 'all right, master; but the old woman has no suspicion, has she?' 'not the slightest. when she arrives, she will whisper to you: "the young girl is to be drowned; a little while before you sink the boat, make me a signal, that i may be ready to escape with you." you will reply to the old woman in such a way as to avoid all suspicion.' 'so that she may suppose the young 'un only is going to swallow the dose?' 'but which she will drink as well as the fair girl.' 'it's "downily" arranged, master.' 'but mind the old woman has not the slightest suspicion.' 'be easy on that score, master; she will be done as nicely as possible.' 'well, then, good luck to you, my lad! if i am satisfied, perhaps i shall give you another job.' 'at your service, master.' then," said the ruffian, in conclusion, "i left the man in the cloak, and 'prigged the swag' i've just brought in." we may glean from nicholas's recital that the notary was desirous, by a twofold crime, of getting rid at once of fleur-de-marie and madame séraphin, by causing the latter to fall into the snare which she thought was only spread for the goualeuse. it is hardly necessary to repeat that, justly alarmed lest the chouette should inform fleur-de-marie at any moment that she had been abandoned by madame séraphin, jacques ferrand believed he had a paramount interest in getting rid of this young girl, whose claims might mortally injure him both in his fortune and in his reputation. as to madame séraphin, the notary, by sacrificing her, got rid of one of his accomplices (bradamanti was the other), who might ruin him, whilst they ruined themselves, it is true; but jacques ferrand believed that the grave would keep his secrets better than any personal interests. the felon's widow and calabash had listened attentively to nicholas, who had not paused except to swallow large quantities of wine, and then he began to talk with considerable excitement. "that is not all," he continued. "i have begun another affair with the chouette and barbillon of the rue aux fêves. it is a capital job, well planted; and if it does not miss fire, it will bring plenty of fish to net, and no mistake. it is to clean out a jewel-matcher, who has sometimes as much as fifty thousand francs in jewelry in her basket." "fifty thousand francs!" cried the mother and daughter, whose eyes sparkled with cupidity. "yes--quite. bras rouge is in it with us. he yesterday opened upon the woman with a letter which we carried to her--barbillon and i--at her house, boulevard st. denis. he's an out-and-outer, bras rouge is! as he appears--and, i believe, is--well-to-do, nobody mistrusts him. to make the jewel-matcher bite he has already sold her a diamond worth four hundred francs. she'll not be afraid to come towards nightfall to his cabaret in the champs elysées. we shall be concealed there. calabash may come with us, and take care of my boat along the side of the seine. if we are obliged to carry her off, dead or alive, that will be a convenient conveyance, and one that leaves no traces. there's a plan for you! that beggar bras rouge is nothing but a good 'un!" "i have always distrusted bras rouge," said the widow. "after that affair of the rue montmartre your brother ambroise was sent to toulon, and bras rouge was set at liberty." "because he's so downy there's no proofs against him. but betray others?--never!" the widow shook her head, as if she were only half convinced of bras rouge's probity. after a few moments' reflection she said: "i like much better that affair of the quai de billy for to-morrow or next day evening,--the drowning the two women. but martial will be in the way as usual." "will not the devil's thunder ever rid us of him?" exclaimed nicholas, half drunk, and striking his long knife savagely on the table. "i have told mother that we had enough of him, and that we could not go on in this way," said calabash. "as long as he is here we can do nothing with the children." "i tell you that he is capable of one day denouncing us,--the villain!" said nicholas. "you see, mother, if you would have believed me," he added, with a savage and significant air, "all would have been settled!" "there are other means--" "this is the best!" said the ruffian. "now? no!" replied the widow, with a tone so decided that nicholas was silent, overcome by the influence of his mother, whom he knew to be as criminal, as wicked, but still more determined than himself. the widow added, "to-morrow he will quit the island for ever." "how?" inquired nicholas and calabash at the same time. "when he comes in pick a quarrel with him,--but boldly, mind,--out to his face, as you have never yet dared to do. come to blows, if necessary. he is powerful, but you will be two, for i will help you. mind, no steel,--no blood! let him be beaten, but not wounded." "and what then, mother?" asked nicholas. "we shall then explain afterwards. we will tell him to leave the island next day; if not, that the scenes of the night before will occur over and over again. i know him; these perpetual squabbles disgust him; until now we have let him be too quiet." "but he is as obstinate as a mule, and is likely enough to insist upon staying, because of the children," observed calabash. "he's a regular hound; but a row don't frighten him," said nicholas. "one? no!" said the widow. "but every day--day by day--it is hell in earth, and he will give way." "suppose he don't?" "then i have another sure means to make him go away,--this very night or to-morrow at farthest," replied the widow, with a singular smile. "really, mother!" "yes, but i prefer rather to annoy him with a row; and, if that don't do, why, then, it must be the other way." "and if the other way does not succeed, either, mother?" said nicholas. "there is one which always succeeds," replied the widow. suddenly the door opened, and martial entered. it blew so strong without that they had not heard the barkings of the dogs at the return of the first-born son of the felon's widow. chapter v. the mother and son. unaware of the evil designs of his family, martial entered the kitchen slowly. some few words let fall by la louve in her conversation with fleur-de-marie have already acquainted the reader with the singular existence of this man. endowed with excellent natural instincts, incapable of an action positively base or wicked, martial did not, however, lead a regular life: he poached on the water; but his strength and his boldness inspired so much fear that the keepers of the river shut their eyes on this irregularity. to this illegal occupation martial joined another that was equally illicit. a redoubtable champion, he willingly undertook--and more from excess of courage, from love of the thing, than for gain--to avenge in pugilistic or single-stick encounters those victims who had been overcome by too powerful opponents. we should add that martial was very particular in the selection of those causes which he pleaded by strength of fist, and usually took the part of the weak against the strong. la louve's lover was very much like françois and amandine. he was of middle height, stout, and broad-shouldered; his thick red hair, cropped short, came in five points over his open brow; his close, harsh, short beard, his broad, bluff cheeks, his projecting nose, flattened at the extremity, his blue and bold eyes, gave to his masculine features a singularly resolute expression. he was covered with an old glazed hat; and, despite the cold, he had only a worn-out blouse over his vest, and a pair of velveteen trousers, which had seen considerable service. he held in his hand a very thick, knotted stick, which he put down beside him near the dresser. a large dog, half terrier, half hound, with crooked legs and a black hide, marked with bright red, came in with martial, but he remained close to the door, not daring to approach the fire, nor the guests who were sitting at table, experience having proved to old miraut (that was the name of martial's poaching companion) that he, as well as his master, did not possess much of the sympathy of the family. "where are the children?" were martial's first words, as he sat down to table. "where they ought to be," replied calabash, surlily. "where are the children, mother?" said martial again, without taking the slightest notice of his sister's reply. "gone to bed," replied the widow, in a harsh tone. "haven't they had their supper, mother?" "what's that to you?" exclaimed nicholas, brutally, after having swallowed a large glass of wine to increase his courage, for his brother's disposition and strength had a very strong effect on him. martial, as indifferent to the attacks of nicholas as to those of calabash, then said to his mother, "i'm sorry the children are gone to bed so soon." "so much the worse," responded the widow. "yes, so much the worse; for i like to have them beside me when i am at supper." "and we, because they were troublesome and annoyed us, have sent them off," cried nicholas; "and if you don't like it, why, you can go after them." martial, astonished, looked steadfastly at his brother. then, as if convinced of the futility of a quarrel, he shrugged his shoulders, cut off a slice of bread and a piece of meat. the dog had come up towards nicholas, although keeping at a very respectful distance; and the ruffian, irritated at the disdain with which his brother treated him, and hoping to wear out his patience by ill-using his dog, gave miraut a savage kick, which made the poor brute howl fearfully. martial turned red, clasped in his hand the knife he held, and struck violently on the table with the handle; but, again controlling himself, he called the dog to him, saying, quietly, "here, miraut!" the hound came, and crouched at his master's feet. this composure quite upset nicholas's plans, who was desirous of pushing his brother to extremities, in order to produce an explosion. so he added, "i hate dogs--i do; and i won't have this dog remain here." martial's only reply was to pour out a glass of wine, and drink it off slowly. exchanging a rapid glance with nicholas, the widow encouraged him by a signal to continue his hostilities towards martial, hoping, as we have said, that a violent quarrel would arise that would lead to a rupture and complete separation. nicholas, then, taking up the willow stick which the widow had used to beat françois, went up to the dog, and, striking him sharply, said, "get out, you brute, miraut!" up to this time nicholas had often shown himself sulkily offensive towards martial, but he had never dared to provoke him with so much audacity and perseverance. la louve's lover, thinking they were desirous of driving him to extremities for some secret motive, quelled every impulse of temper. at the cry of the beaten dog, martial rose, opened the door of the kitchen, made the dog go out, and then returned, and went on with his supper. this incredible patience, so little in harmony with martial's usual demeanour, puzzled and nonplussed his aggressors, who looked at each other with amazement. he, affecting to appear wholly unconscious of what was passing around him, ate away with great appetite, keeping profound silence. "calabash, take the wine away," said the widow to her daughter. she hastened to comply, when martial said, "stay, i haven't done my supper." "so much the worse," said the widow, taking the bottle away herself. "oh, that's another thing!" answered la louve's lover. and pouring out a large glass of water, he drank it, smacking his tongue, and exclaiming, "capital water!" this excessive calmness irritated the burning anger of nicholas, already heated by copious libations; but still he hesitated at making a direct attack, well knowing the vast power of his brother. suddenly he cried out, as if delighted at the idea, "martial, you were quite right to turn the dog out. it is a good habit to begin to give way, for you have but to wait a bit, and you will see us kick your sweetheart out just as we have driven away your dog." "oh, yes; for if la louve is impudent enough to come to the island when she leaves gaol," added calabash, who quite understood nicholas's motive, "i'll serve her out." "and i'll give her a dip in the mud by the hovel at the end of the island," continued nicholas; "and, if she gets out, i'll give her a few rattlers over the nob with my wooden shoe, the----" this insult addressed to la louve, whom he loved with savage ardour, triumphed over the pacific resolutions of martial; he frowned, and the blood mounted to his cheeks, whilst the veins in his brow swelled and distended like cords. still, he had so much control over himself as to say to nicholas, in a voice slightly altered by his repressed wrath: "take care of yourself! you are trying to pick a quarrel, and you will find a bone to pick that will be too tough for you." "a bone for me to pick?" "yes; and i'll thrash you more soundly than i did last time." "what! nicholas," said calabash, with a sardonic grin, "did martial thrash you? did you hear that, mother? i'm not astonished that nicholas is so afraid of him." "he walloped me, because, like a coward, he took me off my guard," exclaimed nicholas, turning pale with rage. "you lie! you attacked me unexpectedly; i knocked you flat, and then showed you mercy. but if you talk of my mistress,--i say, mind you, of my mistress,--this time i look it over,--you shall carry my marks for many a long day." "and suppose i choose to talk of la louve?" inquired calabash. "why, i'll pull your ears to put you on your guard; and if you begin again, why, so will i." "and suppose i speak of her?" said the widow, slowly. "you?" "yes,--i!" "you?" said martial, making a violent effort over himself; "you?" "you'll beat me, too, i suppose,--won't you?" "no; but, if you speak to me unkindly of la louve, i'll give nicholas a hiding he shall long remember. so now, mind! it is his affair as well as yours." "you?" exclaimed the ruffian, rising, and drawing his dangerous spanish knife; "you give me a hiding?" [illustration: _the brigand dashed at his brother._ original etching by adrian marcel.] "nicholas, no steel!" cried the widow, quickly, leaving her seat, and trying to seize her son's arm; but he, drunk with wine and passion, repulsed his mother savagely, and rushed at his brother. martial receded rapidly, laid hold of the thick, knotted stick which he had put down by the dresser, as he entered, and betook himself to the defensive. "nicholas, no steel!" repeated the widow. "let him alone!" cried calabash, taking up the ravageur's hatchet. nicholas, still brandishing his formidable knife, watched for a moment when he could spring on his brother. "i tell you," he exclaimed, "you and your trollop, la louve, that i'll slash your eyes out; and here goes to begin! help, mother! help, calabash! let's make cold meat of the scamp; he's been in our way too long already!" and, believing the moment favourable for his attack, the brigand dashed at his brother with his uplifted knife. martial, who was a dexterous cudgeller, retreated a pace rapidly, raising his stick, which, as quick as lightning, cut a figure of eight, and fell so heavily on the right forearm of nicholas that he, seized with a sudden and overpowering pain, dropped his trenchant weapon. "villain, you have broken my arm!" he shouted, grasping with his left hand the right arm, which hung useless by his side. "no; for i felt my stick rebound!" replied martial, kicking, as he spoke, the knife underneath the dresser. then, taking advantage of the pain which nicholas was suffering, he seized him by the collar, and thrust him violently backwards, until he had reached the door of the little cellar we have alluded to, which he opened with one hand, whilst, with the other, he thrust his brother into it, and locked him in, all stupefied as he was with this sudden attack. then, turning round upon the two women, he seized calabash by the shoulders, and, in spite of her resistance, her shrieks, and a blow from the hatchet, which cut his head slightly, he shut her up in the lower room of the cabaret, which communicated with the kitchen. then addressing the widow, who was still stupefied with this manoeuvre, as skilful as it was sudden, martial said to her, calmly, "now, mother, you and i are alone." "yes, we are alone," replied the widow, and her usually immobile features became excited, her sallow skin grew red, a gloomy fire lighted up her dull eye, whilst anger and hate gave to her countenance a terrible expression. "yes, we two are alone now!" she repeated, in a menacing voice. "i have waited for this moment; and at length you shall know all that i have on my mind." "and i will tell you all i have on my mind." "if you live to be a hundred years old, i tell you you shall remember this night." "i shall remember it, unquestionably. my brother and sister have tried to murder me, and you have done nothing to prevent them. but come, let me hear what you have against me?" "what have i?" "yes." "since your father's death you have acted nothing but a coward's part." "i?" "yes, a coward's! instead of remaining with us to support us, you went off to rambouillet, to poach in the woods with that man who sells game whom you knew at bercy." "if i had remained here, i should have been at the galleys like ambroise, or on the point of going there like nicholas. i would not be a robber like the rest, and that is the cause of your hatred." "and what track are you following now? you steal game, you steal fish,--thefts without danger,--a coward's thefts!" "fish, like game, is no man's property. to-day belongs to one, to-morrow to another. it is his who can take it. i don't steal. as to being a coward--" "why, you fight--and for money--men who are weaker than yourself." "because they have beaten men weaker than themselves." "a coward's trade,--a coward's trade!" "why, there are more honest pursuits, it is true. but it is not for you to tell me this!" "then why did you not take up with those honest trades, instead of coming here skulking and feeding out of my saucepans?" "i give you the fish i catch, and what money i have. it isn't much, but it's enough; and i don't cost you anything. i have tried to be a locksmith to earn more; but when one has from one's infancy led a vagabond life on the river and in the woods, it is impossible to confine oneself to one spot. it is a settled thing, and one's life is decided. and then," added martial, with a gloomy air, "i have always preferred living alone on the water or in the forest. there no one questions me; whilst elsewhere men twit me about my father, who was (can i deny it?) guillotined,--of my brother, a galley-slave,--of my sister, a thief!" "and what do you say of your mother?" "i say--" "what?" "i say she is dead." "you do right; it is as if i were, for i renounce you, dastard! your brother is at the galleys; your grandfather and your father finished their lives daringly on the scaffold, mocking the priest and the executioner! instead of avenging them you tremble!" "avenging them?" "yes, by showing yourself a real martial, spitting at the headsman's knife and the red cassock, and ending like father, mother, brother, sister--" accustomed as he was to the savage excitement of his mother, martial could not forbear shuddering. the countenance of the widow as she uttered the last words was fearful. she continued, with increasing wrath: "oh, coward! and even worse than coward! you wish to be honest! honest? why, won't you ever be despised, repulsed, as the son of an assassin or the brother of a felon? but you, instead of rousing your revenge and wrath, this makes you frightened! instead of biting, you run away! when they guillotined your father, you left us,--coward! and you knew we could not leave the island to go into the city, because they call after us, and pelt us with stones, like mad dogs. oh, they shall pay for it, i can tell you,--they shall pay for it!" "a man?--ten men would not make me afraid! but to be called after by all the world as the son and brother of criminals! well, i could not endure it. i preferred going into the woods and poaching with pierre, who sells game." "why didn't you remain in the woods?" "i returned because i got into trouble with a keeper, and besides on the children's account, because they are of an age to take to evil from example." "and what is that to you?" "to me? why, i will not allow them to become depraved like ambroise, nicholas, and calabash." "indeed!" "and if they were left with you, then they would not fail to become so. i went apprentice to try and gain a livelihood, so that i might take them into my own care and leave the island with the children; but in paris everything was known, and it was always, 'you son of the guillotined!' or, 'you brother of the felon!' i had battles daily, and i grew tired of it." "but you didn't grow tired of being honest,--that answered so well! instead of having the pluck to come to us, and do as we do,--as the children will do, in spite of you,--yes, in spite of you! you think to cajole them with your preaching! but we are always here. françois is already one of us, or nearly. let the occasion serve, and he'll be one of the band." "i tell you, no!" "you will see,--yes! i know what i say. he has vice in him; but you spoil him. as to amandine, as soon as she is fifteen she will begin on her own account! ah, they throw stones at us! ah, they pursue us like mad dogs! they shall see what our family is made of! except you, dastard; for here you are the only one who brings down shame upon us!"[ ] [ ] these frightful facts are, unfortunately, not exaggerated. the following is from the admirable report of m. de bretignères on the penitentiary colony of mettray (march , ): "the civil condition of our colonists it is important to state. amongst them we count thirty-two natural children; thirty-four whose fathers and mothers are re-married; fifty-one whose parents are in prison; whose parents have not been pursued by justice, but are in the utmost distress. these figures are eloquent, and full of instruction. they allow us to go from effects to causes, and give us the hope of arresting the progress of an evil whose origin is thus arrived at. the number of parents who are criminals enable us to appreciate the education which the children have received under the tutelage of such instructors. taught evil by their fathers, the sons have become wicked by their orders, and have believed they were acting properly in following their example. arrested by the hand of the law, they resign themselves to share the destiny of their family in prison, to which they only bring the emulation of vice; and it is absolutely necessary that a ray of divine light should still exist within these rude and coarse natures, in order that all the germs of honesty should not be utterly destroyed." "that's a pity!" "and as you may be spoiled amongst us, why, to-morrow you shall leave this place, and never return to it." martial looked at his mother with surprise, then, after a moment's silence, said, "was it for this that you tried to get up a quarrel with me at supper?" "yes, to show you what you might expect if you would stay here in spite of us,--a hell upon earth,--i tell you, a hell! every day a quarrel and blows--struggles. and we shall not be alone as we were this, evening; we shall have friends who will help us. and you will not hold out for a week." "do you think to frighten me?" "i only tell you what will happen." "i don't heed it. i shall stay!" "you will stay?" "yes." "in spite of us?" "in spite of you, of calabash, of nicholas, and all blackguards like him." "really, you make me laugh." from the lips of this woman, with her repulsive and ferocious look, these words were horrible. "i tell you i will remain here until i find the means of gaining my livelihood elsewhere with the children. alone, i should not long be unemployed, for i could return to the woods; but, on their account, i may be some time in finding what i am seeking for. in the meanwhile, here i remain." "oh, you remain until the moment when you can take away the children?" "exactly as you say." "take away the children?" "when i say to them 'come!' they will come; and quickly too, i promise you." the widow shrugged her shoulders, and replied: "listen! i told you a short time since that, even if you were to live for a hundred years, you should recollect this night. i will explain those words. but, before i do so, have you quite made up your mind?" "yes! yes! yes! a thousand times over, yes!" "in a little while, however, you will say 'no! no! no! a thousand times, no!' listen to me attentively! do you know the trade your brother follows?" "i have my suspicions; but i do not wish to know." "you shall know. he steals!" "so much the worse for him!" "and for you!" "for me?" "he commits robberies at night, with forcible entry,--burglary; a case of the galleys. we receive what he plunders. if we are discovered, we shall be sentenced to the same punishment as he is, as receivers, and you too. they will sweep away the whole family, and the children will be turned out into the streets, where they will learn the trade of their father and grandfather as well as here." "i apprehended as a receiver,--as your accomplice? where's the proofs?" "no one knows how you live. you are vagabondising on the water; you have the reputation of a bad fellow; you dwell with us, and who will believe that you are ignorant of our thefts and receivings?" "i will prove the contrary." "we will accuse you as our accomplice." "accuse me! and why?" "to pay you off for staying amongst us against our will." "just now you tried to make me frightened in one way, now you are trying another tack. but it won't do. i will prove that i never robbed. i remain." "ah! you remain? listen then, again! do you remember last year a person who passed the christmas night here?" "christmas night?" said martial, trying to recall his memory. "try and remember,--try!" "i do not recollect." "don't you recollect that bras rouge brought here in the evening a well-dressed man, who was desirous of concealing himself?" "yes, now i remember. i went up to bed and left him taking his supper with you. he passed the night here, and, before daybreak, nicholas took him to st. ouen." "you are sure nicholas took him to st. ouen?" "you told me so next morning." "on christmas night you were here?" "yes; and what of that?" "why, that night this man, who had a good deal of money about him, was murdered in this house." "mur--! he! here?" "and robbed and buried by the little wood-pile." "it is not true!" cried martial, becoming pale with horror, and unable to believe in this fresh crime of his family. "you mean to frighten me. once more, it is not true?" "ask françois what he saw this morning in the wood-pile." "françois! and what did he see?" "a man's foot sticking out of the ground. take a lantern; go and convince your eyes!" "no," said martial, wiping his brow, which had burst forth in a cold sweat. "no, i do not believe you. you say it to--" "to prove to you that, if you remain here in spite of us, you risk every moment being apprehended as an accomplice in robbery and murder. you were here on christmas night, and we shall declare that you helped us to do this job. how will you prove the contrary?" "merciless wretch!" said martial, hiding his face in his hands. "now will you go?" said the widow, with a devilish smile. martial was overwhelmed. he, unfortunately, could not doubt what his mother had said to him. the wandering life he led, his dwelling with so criminal a family, must induce the most horrible suspicions of him, and these suspicions would be converted into certainty in the eyes of justice, if his mother, brother, and sister declared him to be their accomplice. the widow was rejoiced at the depression of her son: "you have one means of getting out of the difficulty: denounce us!" "i ought, but i will not; and you know that right well." "that is why i have told you all this. now, will you go?" martial, wishing to soften this hag, said to her, in a subdued voice: "mother, i do not believe you are capable of this murder!" "as you please; but go!" "i will go on one condition." "no condition at all!" "you shall put the children apprentices somewhere in the country." "they shall remain here!" "but, mother, when you have made them like nicholas, calabash, ambroise, my father,--what good will that be to you?" "to make good 'jobs' by their assistance. we are not too many now. calabash will remain here with me to keep the cabaret. nicholas is alone. once properly instructed, françois and amandine will help him. they have already been pelted with stones,--young as they are,--and they must revenge themselves!" "mother, you love calabash and nicholas, don't you?" "well, if i do, what then?" "suppose the children imitate them, and their crimes are detected?" "well, what then?" "they will come to the scaffold, like my father." "what then? what then?" "and does not their probable fate make you tremble?" "that fate will be mine, neither better nor worse. i rob, they rob; i kill, they kill. whoever takes the mother will take the young ones; we will not leave each other. if our heads fall, theirs will fall in the same basket, and we shall all take leave at once! we will not retreat! you are the only coward in the family, and we drive you from us!" "but the children,--the children!" "the children will grow up, and, but for you, they would have been quite formed already. françois is almost ready, and, when you are gone, amandine will make up for lost time." "mother, i entreat of you, consent to having the children sent away from here, and put in apprenticeship at a distance." "i tell you that they are in apprenticeship here!" the felon's widow uttered these last words so immovably that martial lost all hope of mollifying this soul of bronze. "since it is so," he replied, "hear me in my turn, mother,--i remain!" "ha! ha!" "not in this house. i shall be assassinated by nicholas, or poisoned by calabash. but, as i have no means of lodging elsewhere, i and the children will occupy the hovel at the end of the island; the door of that is strong, and i will make it still more secure. once there, i will barricade myself, and, with my gun, my stick, and my dog, i am afraid of no one. to-morrow morning i will take the children with me. during the day they will be with me, either in my boat or elsewhere; and, at night, they shall sleep near me in the hovel. we can live on the fish i catch until i find some means of placing them, and find it i will." "oh! that's it, is it?" "neither you, nor my brother, nor calabash can prevent this, can you? if your robberies and murders are discovered during my abode on the island, so much the worse; but i'll chance it. i will declare that i came back and remained here in consequence of the children, to prevent them from becoming infamous. they will decide. the children shall not remain another day in this abode; and i defy you and your gang to drive me from this island!" the widow knew martial's resolution, and the children, who loved their eldest brother as much as they feared her, would certainly follow him unhesitatingly whenever and wherever he called them. as to himself, well armed and most determined, always on his guard, in his boat during the day, and secure and barricaded in the hovel on the island at night, he had nothing to fear from the malevolence of his family. martial's project, then, might be realised in every particular; but the widow had many reasons for preventing its execution. in the first place, as honest work-people sometimes consider the number of their children as wealth, in consequence of the services which they derive from them, the widow relied on amandine and françois to assist her in her atrocities. then, what she had said of her desire to avenge her husband and son was true. certain beings, nurtured, matured, hardened in crime, enter into open revolt, into war of extermination, against society, and believe that, lay fresh crimes, they shall avenge themselves for the just penalties which have been exacted from them and those belonging to them. then, too, the sinister designs of nicholas against fleur-de-marie, and afterwards against the jewel-matcher, might be thwarted by martial's presence. the widow had hoped to effect an immediate separation between herself and martial, either by keeping up and aiding nicholas's quarrel, or by disclosing to him that, if he obstinately persisted in remaining in the island, he ran the risk of being suspected as an accomplice in many crimes. as cunning as she was penetrating, the widow, perceiving that she had failed, saw that she must have recourse to treachery to entrap her son in her bloody snare, and she therefore replied, after a lengthened pause, with assumed bitterness: "i see your plan. you will not inform against us yourself, but you will contrive that the children shall do so." "i?" "they know now that there is a man buried here; they know that nicholas has robbed. once apprenticed they would talk, we should be apprehended, and we should all suffer,--you with us. that is what would happen if i listened to you, and allowed you to place the children elsewhere. yet you say you do not wish us any harm? i do not ask you to love me; but do not hasten the hour of our apprehension!" the milder tone of the widow made martial believe that his threats had produced a salutary effect on her, and he fell into the fearful snare. "i know the children," he replied; "and i am sure that, in desiring them to say nothing, not a word will they say. besides, in one way or another, i shall be always with them, and i will answer for their silence." "can we answer for the chatter of children, especially in paris, where people are so curious and so gossiping? it is as much that they should not betray us, as that they should assist us in our plans, that i desire to keep them here." "don't they go sometimes to the villages, and even to paris? who could prevent them from talking if they were inclined to talk? if they were a long way off, why, so much the better; for what they would then say would do us no harm." "a long way off,--and where?" inquired the widow, looking steadfastly at her son. "let me take them away,--where is no consequence to you." "how will you and they live?" "my old master, the locksmith, is a worthy man, and i will tell him as much as he need know, and, perhaps, he will lend me something for the sake of the children; with that i will go and apprentice them a long way off. we will leave in two days, and you will hear no more of us." "no, no! i prefer their remaining with me. i shall then be perfectly sure of them." "then i will take up my quarters in the hovel on the island until something turns up. i have a way and a will of my own, and you know it." "yes, i know it. oh, how i wish you were a thousand miles away! why didn't you remain in your woods?" "i offer to rid you of myself and the children." "what! would you leave la louve here, whom you love so much?" asked the widow, suddenly. "that's my affair. i know what i shall do. i have my plans." "if i let you take away amandine and françois, will you never again set foot in paris?" "before three days have passed, we shall have departed, and be as dead to you." "i prefer that to having you here, and always distrusting you and them. so, since i must give way, take them, and be off as quickly as possible, and never let me see you more!" "agreed!" "agreed! give me the key of the cellar, that i may let nicholas out!" "no; let him sleep his liquor off, and i'll give you the key to-morrow morning." "and calabash?" "ah, that's another affair! let her out when i have gone. i can't bear the sight of her." "go, and may hell confound you!" "that's your farewell, mother?" "yes." "fortunately your last!" said martial. "my last!" responded the widow. her son lighted a candle, then opened the kitchen door, whistled to his dog, who ran in, quite delighted at being admitted, and followed his master to the upper story of the house. "go,--your business is settled!" muttered the widow, shaking her clenched hand at her son, as he went up the stairs; "but it is your own act." then, by calabash's assistance, who brought her a bundle of false keys, the widow unlocked the cellar door where nicholas was, and set him at liberty. chapter vi. franÇois and amandine. françois and amandine slept in a room immediately over the kitchen, and at the end of a passage which communicated with several other apartments that were used as "company rooms" for the guests who frequented the cabaret. after having eaten their frugal supper, instead of putting out their lantern, as the widow had ordered them, the two children watched, leaving their door ajar, for their brother martial's passing on his way to his own chamber. placed on a crippled stool, the lantern shed its dull beams through the transparent horn. walls of plaster, with here and there brown deal boards, a flock-bed for françois, a little old child's bed, much too short, for amandine, a pile of broken chairs and dismembered benches, mementoes of the turbulent visitors to the cabaret of the isle du ravageur,--such was the interior of this dog-hole. amandine, seated at the edge of the bed, was trying how to dress her head _en marmotte_, with the stolen silk handkerchief, the gift of her brother nicholas. françois was on his knees, holding up a piece of broken glass to his sister, who, with her head half turned, was employed in spreading out the large rosette which she had made in tying the two ends of the kerchief together. wonder-struck at this head-dress, françois for an instant neglected to present the bit of glass in such a way that her face could be reflected in it. "lift the looking-glass higher," said amandine; "i can't see myself at all now! there, that's it,--that'll do! hold it so a minute! now i've done it! well, look! how have i done my head?" "oh, capitally,--excellently! what a handsome rosette! you'll make me just such a one for my cravat, won't you?" "yes, directly. but let me walk up and down a little. you can go before me--backwards--holding the glass up, just in that way. there--so! i can then see myself as i walk." françois then went through this difficult manoeuvre to the great satisfaction of amandine, who strutted up and down in all her pride and dignity, under the large bow of her head attire. very simple and unsophisticated under any other circumstances, this coquetry became guilt when displayed in reference to the produce of a robbery of which françois and amandine were not ignorant. another proof of the frightful facility with which children, however well disposed, become corrupted almost imperceptibly when they are continually immersed in a criminal atmosphere. then, the sole mentor of these unfortunate children, their brother martial, was by no means irreproachable himself, as we have already said. incapable, it is true, of a theft or a murder, still he led a vagabond and ill-regulated life. undoubtedly his mind revolted at the crimes of his family. he loved these two children very fondly, and protected them from ill-treatment, endeavouring to withdraw them from the pernicious influences of the family; but not taking his stand on the foundations of rigorous and sound morality, his advice was but an ineffective safeguard to these children. they refused to commit certain bad actions, not from honest sentiments, but in order to obey martial, whom they loved, and to disobey their mother, whom they dreaded and hated. as to ideas of right and wrong, they had none, familiarised as they were with the infamous examples which they had every day under their eyes; for, as we have said, this country cabaret, haunted by the refuse of the lowest order, was the theatre of most disgraceful orgies and most disgusting debaucheries; and martial, opposed as he was to thefts and murders, appeared perfectly indifferent to these infamous saturnalia. it may be supposed, therefore, that the instincts of morality in these children were doubtful and precarious, especially those of françois, who had reached that dangerous time of life when the mind pauses, and, oscillating between good and evil, might be in a moment lost or saved. * * * * * "how well you look in that handkerchief, sister!" said françois; "it is very pretty. when we go to play on the shore by the chalk-burner's lime-kiln you must dress yourself in this manner, to make the children jealous who pelt us with stones and call us little guillotines. and i shall put on my nice red cravat, and we will say to them, 'never mind, you haven't such pretty silk handkerchiefs as we have!'" "but, i say, françois," said amandine, after a moment's reflection, "if they knew that the handkerchiefs we wear were stolen, they would call us little thieves." "well, and what should we care if they did call us little thieves?" "why, not at all, if it were not true. but now--" "since nicholas gave us these handkerchiefs, we didn't steal them!" "no; but he took them out of a barge; and brother martial says no one ought to steal." "but, as nicholas states, that is no affair of ours." "do you think so, françois?" "of course i do." "still, it seems to me that i would rather the person who really owns them had given them to us. what do you say, françois?" "oh, it's all one to me! they were given to us, and so they're ours." "are you sure of that?" "why, yes--yes; make yourself easy about that." "so much the better, then, for we are not doing what brother martial forbids, and we have such nice handkerchiefs!" "but, amandine, if he had known the other day that calabash had made you take the plaid handkerchief from the peddler's pack whilst his back was turned?" "oh, françois, don't talk about it; i have been so very sorry. but i was really forced to do it, for my sister pinched me until the blood came, and looked at me so--oh, in such a way! and yet my heart failed me twice, and i thought i never could do it. the peddler didn't find it out; yet, if they had caught me, françois, i should have been sent to prison." "but you weren't caught; so it's just the same as if you had not stolen." "do you think so?" "yes." "and in prison how unhappy we must be." "on the contrary--" "how do you mean on the contrary?" "why, you know the fat cripple who lodges at father micou's, the man who buys all nicholas's things, and keeps a lodging-house in the passage de la brasserie?" "a fat cripple?" "why, yes, who came here the end of last autumn from father micou, with a man who had monkeys and two women." "ah, yes, a stout, lame man, who spent such a deal of money." "i believe you; he paid for everybody. don't you recollect the rows on the water when i pulled them, and the man with the monkeys brought his organ, that they might have music in the boat?" "yes; and in the evening the beautiful fireworks they let off, françois?" "and the fat cripple was not stingy, either. he gave me ten sous for myself. he drank nothing but our best wine, and they had chickens at every meal. he spent full eighty francs." "so much as that, françois?" "oh, yes!" "how rich he must be!" "not at all. what he spent was money he had gained in prison, from which he had just come." "gained all that money in prison?" "yes; he said he had seven hundred francs beside, and that, when that was all gone, he should try another good 'job;' and if he were taken, he didn't care, because he should go back to his jolly 'pals in the stone jug,' as he said." "then he wasn't afraid of prison, françois?" "on the contrary; he told calabash that they were a party of friends and merrymakers all together; and that he had never had a better bed and better food than when he was in prison. good meat four times a week, fire all the winter, and a lump of money when he left it; whilst there are fools of honest workmen who are starving with cold and hunger, for want of work." "are you sure he said that, françois,--the stout lame man?" "i heard him, for i was rowing him in the punt whilst he told his story to calabash and the two women, who said that it was the same thing in the female prisons they had just left." "but then, françois, it can't be so bad to steal, if people are so well off in prison." "oh, the deuce! i don't know. here it is only brother martial who says it is wrong to steal; perhaps he is wrong." "never mind if he is, françois. we ought to believe him, for he loves us so much!" "yes, he loves us; and, when he is by, there is no fear of our being beaten. if he had been here this evening, our mother would not have thrashed me so. an old beast! how savage she is! oh, how i hate her--hate her! and how i wish i was grown up, that i might pay her back the thumps she gives us, especially to you, who can't bear them as well as i can." "oh, françois, hold your tongue; it quite frightens me to hear you say that you would beat mother!" cried the poor little child, weeping, and throwing her arms around her brother's neck, and kissing him affectionately. "it's quite true, though," answered françois, extricating himself gently from amandine. "why are my mother and calabash always so savage to us?" "i do not know," replied amandine, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "it is, perhaps, because they sent brother ambroise to the galleys, and guillotined our father, that they are unjust towards us." "is that our fault?" "oh, no! but what would you have?" "_ma foi!_ if i am always to have beatings,--always, always, at last i should rather steal, as they do, i should. what do i gain by not being a thief?" "ah, what would martial say to that?" "ah, but for him, i should have said yes a long time ago, for i am tired of being thumped for ever; why, this evening, my mother was more savage than ever; she was like a fury! it was pitch dark. she didn't say a word; and i felt nothing but her clammy hand holding me by the scruff of my neck, whilst with the other she beat me; and whilst she did so, her eyes seemed to glare in the dark." "poor françois! for only having said you saw a dead man's bone by the wood-pile." "yes, a foot that was sticking out of the ground," said françois, shuddering with fright; "i am quite sure of it." "perhaps there was a burying-ground there once." "perhaps; but then, why did mother say she'd be the death of me, if i said a word about the bone to our brother martial? i rather think it is some one who has been killed in a quarrel, and that they have buried him there, that no one might know anything about it." "you are right; for don't you remember that such a thing did nearly happen once?" "when?" "don't you remember once when m. barbillon wounded with a knife that tall man, who is so very thin, that he showed himself for money?" "oh, the walking skeleton, as they call him? yes; and mother came and separated them; if she hadn't, i think barbillon would have killed the tall, thin man. did you see how barbillon foamed at the mouth? and his eyes seemed ready to start from his head. oh, he does not mind who he cuts and slashes with his knife,--he's such a headstrong, passionate fellow!" "so young and so wicked, françois?" "tortillard is much younger, and he would be quite as wicked as he, if he were strong enough." "oh, yes, he's very, very wicked! the other day he beat me, because i would not play with him." "he beat you, did he? then, the first time he comes--" "no, no, françois; it was only in jest." "are you sure?" "yes, quite sure." "very well, then, for, if not--but i don't know how he manages, the scamp! but he always has so much money. he's so lucky! when he came here with the chouette, he showed us pieces of gold of twenty francs; and didn't he look knowing as he said, 'oh, you might have the same, if you were not such little muffs!'" "muffs?" "yes; in slang that means fools, simpletons." "yes, to be sure." "forty francs in gold! what a many fine things i could buy with that! couldn't you, amandine?" "that i could." "what should you buy?" "let's see," said the little girl, bending her head, and meditating. "i should first buy brother martial a good thick outside coat, that would keep him warm in his boat." "but for yourself,--for yourself." "i should like a crucifixion, like those image-sellers had on sunday, you know, under the church porch at asnières." "yes; and, now i think of it, we must not tell mother or calabash that we went into a church." "to be sure, for she has always forbidden us to go into a church. what a pity! for church is such a nice place inside, isn't it, françois?" "yes; and what beautiful silver candlesticks!" "and the picture of the holy virgin, how kind she looks!" "and did you look at the fine lamps, and the handsome cloth on the large table at the bottom, when the priest was saying mass with his two friends, dressed like himself, and who gave him water and wine?" "tell me, françois, do you remember last year, at the fête-dieu, when we saw from here the little communicants, with their white veils, pass over the bridge?" "what nice nosegays they had!" "how they sang in a soft tone, holding the ribands of their banners!" "and how the silver lace of their banners shone in the sunshine! what a deal of money it must have cost!" "oh, how beautiful it was! wasn't it, françois?" "i believe you! and the communicants with their bows of white satin on the arm, and their wax candles, with red velvet and gold on the part by which they hold them." "and the little boys had their banners, too, hadn't they, françois? ah, françois, how i was thumped that day for asking our mother why we did not go in the procession, like the other children!" "and it was then she forbade us from ever going into a church when we should go into the town, or to paris; 'unless it was to rob the poor-box, or the pockets of the people who were hearing mass,' calabash said, grinning, and showing her nasty yellow teeth. oh, what a bad thing she is!" "oh, and as for that, they should kill me before i would rob in a church; and you, too, françois?" "there, or anywhere; what difference does it make, when once one has made up one's mind?" "why, i don't know; but i should be so frightened, i could never do it." "because of the priests?" "no; but because of the portrait of the holy virgin, who seems so kind and good." "what consequence is a portrait? it won't eat or drink, you silly child!" "that's very true; but then i really couldn't. it is not my fault." "talking of priests, amandine, do you remember that day when nicholas gave me two such hard boxes on the ear, because he saw me make a bow to the curate, who passed on the bank? i had seen everybody salute him, and so i saluted him; i didn't think i was doing any wrong." "yes; but then, you know, brother martial said, as nicholas did, that there was no occasion to salute the priests." at this moment françois and amandine heard footsteps in the passage. martial was going to his chamber, without any mistrust, after his conversation with his mother, believing that nicholas was safely locked up until the next morning. seeing a ray of light coming from out the closet in which the children slept, martial came into the room. they both ran to him, and he embraced them affectionately. "what! not in bed yet, little gossips?" "no, brother, we waited until you came, that we might see you, and wish you good night," said amandine. "and then we heard you speaking very loud below, as if there were a quarrel," added françois. "yes," said martial, "i had some dispute with nicholas, but it was nothing. besides, i am glad to see you awake, as i have some good news for you." "for us, brother?" "should you like to go away from here, and come with me a long way off?" "oh, yes, brother!" "yes, brother!" "well, then, in two or three days we shall all three leave the island." "oh, how delightful!" exclaimed amandine, clapping her hands with joy. "and where shall we go to?" inquired françois. "you will see, mr. inquisitive; no matter; but where you will learn a good trade, which will enable you to earn your living, be sure of that." "then i sha'n't go fishing with you any more, brother?" "no, my boy, you will be put apprentice to a carpenter or locksmith. you are strong and handy, and with a good heart; and working hard, at the end of a year you may already have earned something. but you don't seem to like it: why, what ails you now?" "why, brother,--i--" "come, come! speak out." "why, i'd rather not leave you, but stay with you, and fish, and mend your nets, than go and learn a trade." "really?" "why, to be shut up in a workshop all day is so very dull; and then it must be so tiresome to be an apprentice." martial shrugged his shoulders. "so, then, you would rather be an idler, a scamp, a vagabond,--eh?" said he, in a stern voice; "and then, perhaps, a thief?" "no, brother; but i should like to live with you elsewhere, as we live here, that's all." "yes, that's it; eat, drink, sleep, and amuse yourself with fishing, like an independent gentleman,--eh?" "yes, i should like it." "very likely; but you must prefer something else. you see, my poor dear lad, that it is quite time i took you away from here; for, without perceiving it, you have become as idle as the rest. my mother was right,--i fear you have vice in you. and you, amandine, shouldn't you like to learn some business?" "oh, yes, brother; i should like very much to learn anything rather than stay here. i should dearly like to go with you and françois." "but what have you got on your head, my child?" inquired martial, observing amandine's very fine head-dress. "a handkerchief that nicholas gave me." "and he gave me one, too," said françois, with an air of pride. "and where did these handkerchiefs come from? i should be very much surprised to learn that nicholas bought them to make you a present of." the two children lowered their eyes, and made no reply. after a second, françois said, with a resolute air, "nicholas gave them to us. we do not know where they came from, do we, amandine?" "no, no, brother," replied amandine, stammering, and turning very red, not daring to look martial in the face. "don't tell lies," said martial, harshly. "we don't tell lies," replied françois, doggedly. "amandine, my child, tell the truth," said martial, mildly. "well, then, to tell the whole truth," replied amandine, timidly, "these fine handkerchiefs came out of a box of things that nicholas brought in this evening in his boat." "and which he had stolen?" "i think so, brother,--out of a barge." "so then, françois, you lie?" said martial. the boy bent down his head, but made no reply. "give me this handkerchief, amandine; and yours, too, françois." the little girl took off her head-dress, gave a last look at the large bow, which was not untied, and gave the handkerchief to martial, repressing a sigh of regret. françois drew his slowly out of his pocket, and then gave it to his brother, as his sister had done. "to-morrow morning," he said, "i will return these handkerchiefs to nicholas. you ought not to have taken them, children. to profit by a robbery is as if one robbed oneself." "it is a pity those handkerchiefs were so pretty!" said françois. "when you have learned a trade, and earn money by your work, you will buy some as good. go to bed, my dears,--it is very late." "you are not angry, brother?" said amandine, timidly. "no, no, my love, it is not your fault. you live with ill-disposed persons, and you do as they do unconsciously. when you are with honest persons, you will do as they do; and you'll soon be with such, or the devil's in it. so now, good night!" "good night, brother!" martial kissed the children. they were now alone. "what's the matter with you, françois,--you seem very sorrowful!" said amandine. "why, brother has taken my nice handkerchief; and besides, didn't you hear what he said?" "what?" "he means to take us with him, and put us apprentice." "and ain't you glad?" "_ma foi_, no!" "would you rather stay here and be beaten every day?" "why, if i am beaten i am not made to work. i am all day in the boat, fishing, or playing, or waiting on the customers, who sometimes give me something, as the stout lame man did. it is much more amusing than to be from morning till night shut up in a workshop working like a dog." "but didn't you understand? why, brother said that if we remained here longer we should become evil-disposed." "ah! bah! that's all one to me, since the other children call us already little thieves,--little guillotines! and then to work is too tiresome!" "but here they are always beating us, brother!" "they beat us because we listen to martial more than to any one else." "oh, he is so kind to us!" "yes, he is kind,--very kind,--i don't say he ain't; and i am very fond of him. no one dares to be unkind to us when he is by. he takes us out with him,--that's true; but that's all; he never gives us anything." "why, he has nothing. what he gains he gives our mother to pay for his eating, drinking, and lodging." "nicholas has something. you may be sure if we attend to what he and mother say, they would not make our lives so uncomfortable, but give us pretty things, as they did to-day. they would not distrust us, and we should have money like tortillard." "but we must steal for that; and how that would grieve dear, good martial!" "well, so much the worse!" "oh, françois! and then we should be taken up and put into prison." "to be in a prison or shut up in a workshop all day is the same thing. besides, the gros-boiteux says they amuse themselves very much in prison." "but how sorry martial would be; only think of that! and then it is on our account that he returned here, and remains with us! for himself only he would not have any difficulty, but could go again and be a poacher in the woods which he is so very fond of." "oh, if he'll take us with him into the woods," said françois, "that would be better than anything else. i should be with him i am so fond of, and should not work at any business that would tire me." the conversation of françois and amandine was interrupted. some one outside double-locked their door. "they have fastened us in," said françois. "oh, what can it be for, brother? what are they going to do to us?" "it is martial, perhaps." "listen, listen,--how his dog barks!" said amandine, listening. after a few minutes, françois added: "it sounds as if some one were knocking at his door with a hammer. perhaps they want to force it open!" "yes; but how the dog barks still!" "listen, françois! it is as if they were nailing something. oh, dear, oh, dear, how frightened i am! what are they doing to our brother? and how the dog howls still!" "amandine, i hear nothing now," said françois, going towards the door. the two children held their breath, and listened anxiously. "they are coming from my brother's room," said françois, in a low voice; "i hear them walking in the passage." "let us throw ourselves on our beds; mother would kill us if she found us out of bed," said amandine, terrified. "no," said françois, still listening; "they have just passed by our door, and are running down the staircase." "oh, dear, oh, dear, what can it be?" "ah, now they are opening the kitchen door." "do you think so?" "yes, yes; i know the sound." "martial's dog is still howling," said amandine, listening. suddenly she exclaimed, "françois, our brother calls us." "martial?" "yes; don't you hear him? don't you hear him now?" and at this moment, in spite of the thickness of the two closed doors, the powerful voice of martial, who called to the children from his room, reached them. "indeed, we can't go to him; we are locked in," said amandine. "they must be doing something wrong to him, as he calls us." "oh, as to that, if i could hinder them," exclaimed françois, resolutely, "i would, even if they were to cut me to pieces!" "but our brother does not know that they have double-locked our door, and he will believe that we would not go to his help. call out to him that we are locked in, françois." the lad was just going to do as his sister bade him, when a violent blow was struck outside the shutter of the window of the room in which the two children were. "they are coming in by the window to kill us!" cried amandine, and, in her fright, she threw herself on her bed and hid her head between her hands. françois remained motionless, although he shared his sister's terror. however, after the violent blow we have mentioned, the shutter was not opened, and the most profound silence reigned throughout the house. martial had ceased calling to the children. a little assured, and excited by intense curiosity, françois ventured to open the window a little way, and tried to look out through the leaves of the blind. "mind, brother!" said amandine, in a low voice, and sitting up when she heard françois open the shutter. "can you see anything?" she added. "no, the night is too dark." "don't you hear anything?" "no, the wind is too high." "come in, then; come in." "oh, now i see something!" "what?" "the light of a lantern, which moves backwards and forwards." "who's carrying it?" "i can only see the light. ah, she comes nearer,--she is speaking!" "who?" "listen,--listen! it is calabash." "what does she say?" "she says the ladder must be fixed securely." "oh, it was then in taking away the high ladder that was placed against our shutter that they made that noise just now." "i don't hear anything now." "what have they done with the ladder?" "i can't see it now." "can you hear anything?" "no." "françois, perhaps they are going to use it to enter our brother martial's room by the window!" "very likely." "if you could open our window a little more you might see." "i am afraid." "only a little bit." "oh, no, no! if mother saw us!" "it is so dark, there is no danger." françois, much against his will, did as his sister requested, and pushing the shutter back, looked out. "well, brother?" said amandine, surmounting her fears, and approaching françois on tiptoe. "by the gleam of the lantern," said he, "i see calabash, who is holding the foot of the ladder, which is resting against martial's window." "well?" "nicholas is going up the ladder with his axe in his hand. i see it glitter." "ah, you are not in bed, then, but watching us!" exclaimed the widow, addressing françois and his sister from outside. as she was returning to the kitchen she saw the light, which escaped through the open window. the unfortunate children had neglected putting out the lantern. "i am coming," added the widow, in a terrible voice; "i am coming to you, you little spies!" such were the events which passed in the isle du ravageur on the evening of the day before that on which madame séraphin was to take fleur-de-marie thither. chapter vii. a lodging-house. the passage de la brasserie, a dark street, narrow, and but little known, although situated in the centre of paris, runs at one end into the rue traversière st. honoré, and at the other into the cour st. guillaume. towards the middle of this damp thoroughfare, muddy, dark, and unwholesome, and where the sun but rarely penetrates, there was a furnished house (commonly called a _garni_, lodging-house, in consequence of the low price of the apartments). on a miserable piece of paper might be read, "chambers and small rooms furnished." to the right hand, in a dark alley, was the door of a store, not less obscure, in which constantly resided the principal tenant of this _garni_. father micou was ostensibly a dealer in old metal ("marine stores"), but secretly purchased and received stolen metal, iron, lead, brass, and tin. when we mention that father micou was connected in business and friendship with the martial family, we give a tolerable idea of his morality. the tie that binds--the sort of affiliation, the mysterious communion, which connects--the malefactors of paris, is at once curious and fearful. the common prisons are the great centres whence flow, and to which reflow, incessantly those waves of corruption which gradually gain on the capital, and leave there such pernicious waifs and strays. father micou was a stout man, about fifty years of age, with a mean and cunning countenance, a mulberry nose, and wine-flushed cheeks. he wore a fur cap and an old green long-skirted coat. over his small stove, near which he was standing, there was a board fastened to the wall, and bearing a row of figures, to which were affixed the keys of the chambers of the absent lodgers. the panes of glass in the door which opened on to the street were so painted that from the outside no one could see what was going on within. the whole of this extensive store was very dark. from the damp walls there hung rusty chains of all sizes; and the floor was strewed with iron and other metals. three blows struck at the door in a particular way attracted the attention of the landlord, huckster, receiver. "come in!" he cried. it was nicholas, the son of the felon's widow. he was very pale, his features looked even more evil than they did on the previous evening, and yet he feigned a kind of overgaiety during the following conversation. (this scene takes place on the day after his quarrel with. martial.) "ah, is it you, my fine fellow?" said micou, cordially. "yes, father micou, i have come to see you on a trifle of business." "then shut the door,--shut the door." "my dog and cart are there outside with the stuff." "what do you bring me, double tripe (sheet lead)?" "no, father micou." "what is it, scrapings? but no, you're too downy now, you've left off work. perhaps it is a bit of hard (iron)?" "no, daddy micou, it's some flap (sheet copper). there must be, at least, a hundred and fifty pounds weight, as much as my dog could stagger along with." "go and fetch the flap, and let's weigh it." "you must lend a hand, daddy, for i've hurt my arm." and, at the recollection of his contest with his brother martial, the ruffian's features expressed, at once, the resentment of hatred and savage joy, as if his vengeance were already satisfied. "what's the matter with your arm, my man?" "nothing,--only a sprain." "you must heat an iron in the fire, and plunge it red-hot into the water, then put your arm in the water as hot as you can bear it. it is an iron-dealer's remedy, but none the worse for that." "thank ye, father micou." "go and fetch the flap, and i'll come and help you, idle-bones." at twice the copper was brought out of the cart, drawn by an enormous dog, and conveyed into the shop. "that cart of yours is a good idea," said the worthy micou, as he adjusted the wooden frames of an enormous pair of scales that hung from a beam in the ceiling. "yes; when i've anything to bring, i put my dog and cart into the punt, and harness them as we come along. a hackney-coach might, perhaps, tell a tale, but my dog never chatters." "and they're all pretty well at home,--eh?" inquired the receiver, weighing the copper; "mother and sister, both pretty bobbish?" "yes, father micou." "and the little uns?" "yes, the little uns, too. and your nephew, andré, where is he?" "don't mention him; he was out on a spree yesterday. barbillon and gros-boiteux brought him back this morning. he is out for a walk now towards the general post-office in the rue st. jacques rousseau. and your brother, martial, is he just such a rum un as ever?" "_ma foi!_ i don't know." "don't know?" "no," replied nicholas, assuming an indifferent air; "we have seen nothing of him for the last two days. perhaps he's gone poaching in the woods again; unless his boat, which was very, very old, has sunk in the river, with him in it." "at which you would not be dreadfully affected, you bad lot, for you can't bear your brother, i know." "true; we have strange likes and dislikes. how many pounds of metal d'ye make?" "you're right to a hair, just a hundred and fifty pounds, my lad." "and you owe me--" "just thirty francs." "thirty francs! when copper is twenty sous a pound? thirty francs!" "say thirty-five francs, and there's an end of the matter, or go to the devil with you! you, and your copper, and your dog, and your cart." "but, father micou, you are really chiselling me down; that's not the right thing by no means." "if you'll tell me how you came by your copper, i'll give you fifteen sous a pound for it." "that's the old strain. you are all alike, a regular lot of cheats. how can you bear to 'do' your friends in this way? but that's not all; if i swap with you for some things, you ought to give me good measure." "to a hair's turn. what do you want? chains and hooks for your punts?" "no, i want four or five sheets of stout iron, as if to line shutters with." "i've just the thing, a quarter of an inch thick; a pistol-ball wouldn't go through it." "just what i want." "what size?" "why, altogether about seven or eight feet square." "good, and what else?" "three bars of iron, from three to four feet long, and two inches square." "i have just broken up an iron wicket; nothing can be better for you. what next?" "two strong hinges and a latch, so that i can open or shut an opening two feet square when i wish." "a trap, you mean?" "no, a valve." "i don't understand what you can want with a valve." "never you mind; i know what i want." "that's all right; you have only to choose; there's a heap of hinges. what's the next thing?" "that's all." "and not much, either." "get it all ready, father micou, and i'll take it as i come back; for i've got some other places to call at." "with your cart? why, you dog, i saw a bundle underneath. what, some little trifle you have taken from the world's wardrobe? ah, you sly rogue!" "just as you say, father micou; but you don't deal in such things. don't keep me waiting for the iron goods, for i must be back at the island before noon." "i'll be ready. it is only eight, and, if you are not going far, come back in an hour, and you shall find everything prepared,--money and goods. won't you take a drain?" "thank ye, i won't say no, for i think you owe it me." father micou took from an old closet a bottle of brandy, a cracked glass, and a cup without a handle, and filled them. "here's to you, daddy micou!" "and to you likewise, my boy, and the ladies at home!" "thank ye. and the lodging-house goes on well, eh?" "middling,--middling. i have always some lodgers for whom i am always fearing a visit from the commissary; but they pay in proportion." "how d'ye mean?" "why, are you stupid? i sometimes lodge as i buy, and don't ask them for their passport, any more than i ask you for your bill of parcels." "good; but to them you let as dear as you have bought cheaply of me." "i must look out. i have a cousin who has a handsome furnished house in the rue st. honoré. his wife is a milliner in a large way, and employs, perhaps, twenty needlewomen, either in the house, or having the work at home." "i say, old boy, i dare say there's some pretty uns among 'em?" "i believe you. there's two or three that i have seen bring home work sometimes,--my eyes, ain't they pretty, though? one little one in particular, who works at home, and is always a-laughing, and they calls her rigolette, oh, my pippin, what a pity one ain't twenty years old all over again!" "halloa, daddy, how you are going it!" "oh, it's all right, my boy,--all right!" "'walker!' old boy. and you say your cousin--" "does uncommon well with his house, and, as it is the same number as that of the little rigolette--" "what, again?" "oh, it's all right and proper." "'walker!'" "he won't have any lodgers but those who have passports and papers; but if any come who haven't got 'em, he sends me those customers." "and they pays accordingly?" "in course." "but they are all in our line who haven't got their riglar papers?" "by no manner of means! why, very lately, my cousin sent me a customer,--devil burn me if i can make him out! another drain?" "just one; the liquor's good. here's t'ye again, daddy micou!" "here's to you again, my covey! i was saying that the other day my cousin sent me a customer whom i can't make out. imagine a mother and daughter, who looked very queer and uncommon seedy; they had their whole kit in a pocket-handkerchief. well, there warn't much to be expected out of this, for they had no papers, and they lodge by the fortnight; yet, since they've been here, they haven't moved any more than a dormouse. no men come to see them; and yet they're not bad-looking, if they weren't so thin and pale, particularly the daughter, about sixteen,--with such a pair of black eyes,--oh, such eyes!" "halloa, dad! you're off again. what do these women do?" "i tell you i don't know; they must be respectable, and yet, as they receive letters without any address, it looks queer." "what do you mean?" "they sent, this morning, my nephew andré to the _poste-restante_ to inquire for a letter addressed to 'madame x. z.' the letter was expected from normandy, from a town called aubiers. they wrote that down on paper, so that andré might get the letter by giving these particulars. you see, it does not look quite the thing for women to take the name of 'x.' and 'z.' and yet they never have any male visitors." "they won't pay you." "oh, my fine fellow, they don't catch an old bird like me with chaff. they took a room without a fireplace, and i made them pay the twenty francs down for the fortnight. they are, perhaps, ill, for they have not been down for the last two days. it is not indigestion that ails them, for i don't think they have cooked anything since they came here." "if you had all such customers, father micou--" "oh, they go and come. if i lodge people without passports, why, i also have different people. i have now two travelling gents, a postman, the leader of the band at the café des aveugles, and a lady of fortune,--all most respectable persons, such as save the reputation of a house, if the commissary is inclined to look a little too closely into things; they are not night-lodgers, but tenants of the broad sunshine." "when it comes into your alley, father micou." "you're a wag. another drain, yes, just one more." "well, it must be my last, for then i must cut. by the way, doesn't robin, the gros-boiteux, lodge here still?" "yes, up-stairs, on the same landing as the mother and daughter. he's pretty nearly run through his money he earned in gaol." "i say, mind your eye,--he's outlawed." "i know it, but i can't get rid of him. i think he's got something in hand, for little tortillard came here the other night along with barbillon. i'm afraid he'll do something to my lodgers, so, when his fortnight is up, i shall bundle him, telling him his room is taken for an ambassador, or the husband of madame saint-ildefonse, my independent lady." "an independent lady?" "i believe you! three rooms and a cabinet in the front,--nothing less,--newly furnished, to say nothing of an attic for her servant. eighty francs a month, and paid in advance by her uncle, to whom she gives one of her spare rooms when he comes up from the country. but i believe his country-house is about the rue vivienne, or the rue st. honoré." "i twig! she's independent because the old fellow pays." "hush! here's her maid." a middle-aged woman, wearing a white apron of very doubtful cleanliness, entered the dealer's warehouse. "what can i do for you, madame charles?" "father micou, is your nephew within?" "he has gone to the post-office; but i expect him in immediately." "m. badinot wishes him to take this letter to its address instantly. there's no answer, but it is in great haste." "in a quarter of an hour he will be on his way thither, madame." "he must make great haste." "he shall, be assured." the servant went away. "is she the maid of one of your lodgers, father micou?" "she is the _bonne_ of my independent lady, madame saint-ildefonse. but m. badinot is her uncle; he came from the country yesterday," said the respectable micou, who was looking at the letter, and then added, reading the address, "look, now, what grand acquaintances! why, i told you they were high folks; he writes to a viscount." "oh, bah!" "see here, then, 'to monsieur the vicomte de saint-remy, rue de chaillot. in great haste. private.' i hope, when we lodge independent persons who have uncles who write to viscounts, we may allow some few of our other lodgers higher up in the house to be without passports, eh?" "i believe you. well, then, father micou, we shall soon be back. i shall fasten my dog and cart to your door, and carry what i have; so be ready with the goods and the money, so that i may cut at once." "i'll be ready. four good iron plates, each two feet square, three bars of iron two feet long, and two hinges for your valve. this valve seems very odd to me; but it's no affair of mine. is that all?" "yes, and my money?" "oh, you shall have your money. but now i look at you in the light--now i get a good view of you--" "well?" "i don't know--but you seem as if something was the matter." "i do?" "yes." "oh, nonsense! if anything ails me it is that i'm hungry." "you're hungry? like enough; but it rather looks as if you wanted to appear very lively, whilst all the while there's something that worries you; and it must be _something_, for it ain't a trifle that puts you out." "i tell you you're mistaken, father micou," said nicholas, shuddering. "why, you quite tremble!" "it's my arm that pains me." "well, don't forget my prescription, that will cure you." "thank ye, i'll soon be back." and the ruffian went on his way. the receiver, after having concealed the lumps of copper behind his counter, occupied himself in collecting the various things which nicholas had requested, when another individual entered his shop. it was a man about fifty years of age, with a keen, sagacious face, a thick pair of gray whiskers, and gold spectacles. he was extremely well dressed; the wide sleeves of his brown paletot, with black velvet cuffs, showing his hands covered with thin coloured kid gloves, and his boots bore evidence of having been on the previous evening highly polished. it was m. badinot, the independent lady's uncle, that madame saint-ildefonse, whose social position formed the pride and security of père micou. the reader may, perchance, recollect that m. badinot, the former attorney, struck off that respectable list, then a chevalier d'industrie, and agent in equivocal matters, was the spy of baron de graün, and had given that diplomatist many and very precise particulars as to many personages connected with this tale. "madame charles has just given you a letter to send?" said m. badinot, to the dealer in _et ceteras_. "yes, sir; my nephew i expect every moment, and he shall go directly." "no, give me the letter again, i have changed my mind. i shall go myself to the comte de saint-remy," said m. badinot, pronouncing this aristocratic name very emphatically, and with much importance. "here's the letter, sir; have you any other commission?" "no, père micou," said m. badinot, with a protecting air, "but i have something to scold you about." "me, sir?" "very much, indeed." "about what, sir?" "why, madame de saint-ildefonse pays very expensively for your first floor. my niece is a lodger to whom the greatest respect ought to be paid; she came highly recommended to your house, and, having a great aversion to the noise of carriages, she hoped she should be here as if she were in the country." "so she is; it is quite like a village here. you ought to know, sir,--you who live in the country,--this is a real village." "a village! very like, indeed! why, there is always such an infernal din in the house." "still, it is impossible to find a quieter house. above the lady, there is the leader of the band at the café des aveugles, and a gentleman traveller; over that, another traveller; over that--" "i am not alluding to those persons; they are very quiet, and appear very respectable. my niece has no fault to find with them; but in the fourth, there is a stout lame man, whom madame de saint-ildefonse met yesterday tipsy on the stairs; he was shrieking like a savage, and she nearly had a fit, she was so much alarmed. if you think that, with such lodgers, your house resembles a village--" "sir, i assure you i only wait the opportunity to turn this stout lame man out-of-doors; he has paid his last fortnight in advance, otherwise i should already have turned him out." "you should not have taken in such a lodger." "but, except him, i hope madame has nothing to complain of. there is a twopenny postman, who is the cream of honest fellows, and overhead, beside the chamber of the stout lame man, a lady and daughter, who do not move any more than dormice." "i repeat, madame de saint-ildefonse only complains of this stout lame man, who is the nightmare of the house; and i warn you that, if you keep such a fellow in your house, you will find all your respectable lodgers leave you." "i will send him away, you may be assured. i have no wish to keep him." "you will only do what's right, for else your house will be forsaken." "which will not answer my purpose at all; so, sir, consider the stout lame man as gone, for he has only four more days to stay here." "which is four days too many; but it is your affair. at the first outbreak, my niece leaves your house." "be assured, sir--" "it is all for your own interest,--and look to it, for i am not a man of many words," said m. badinot, with a patronising air, and he went out. need we say that this female and her young daughter, who lived so lonely, were the two victims of the notary's cupidity? we will now conduct the reader to the miserable retreat in which they lived. chapter viii. the victims of misplaced confidence.[ ] let the reader picture to himself a small chamber on the fourth floor of the wretched house in the passage de la brasserie. scarcely could the faint glimmers of early morn force their pale rays through the narrow casements forming the only window to this small apartment; the three panes of glass that apology for a window contained were cracked and almost the colour of horn, a dingy and torn yellow paper adhered in some places to the walls, while from each corner of the cracked ceiling hung long and thick cobwebs; and to complete the appearance of wretchedness so evident in this forlorn spot, the flooring was broken away, and, in many places, displayed the beams which supported it, as well as the lath and plaster forming the ceiling of the room beneath. a deal table, a chair, an old trunk, without hinges or lock, a truckle-bed, with a wooden headboard, covered by a thin mattress, coarse sheets of unbleached cloth, and an old rug,--such was the entire furniture of this wretched chamber. [ ] "the average punishment awarded to such as are convicted of breach of trust is two months' imprisonment and a fine of twenty-five francs."--_art. and of the "code penal."_ on the chair sat the baroness de fermont, and in the bed reposed her daughter, claire de fermont. such were the names of these two victims of the villainy of jacques ferrand. possessing but one bed, the mother and child took it by turns to sleep. too much uneasiness and too many bitter cares prevented madame de fermont from enjoying the blessing of repose; but her daughter's young and elastic nature easily yielded to the natural impulse which made her willingly seek in short slumbers a temporary respite from the misery by which she was surrounded during her waking hours. at the present moment she was sleeping peacefully. nothing could be imagined more touchingly affecting than the picture of misery imposed by the avarice of the notary on two females hitherto accustomed to every comfort, and surrounded in their native city by that respect which is ever felt for honourable and honoured families. madame de fermont was about six and thirty years of age, with a countenance at once expressive of gentleness and intelligence, mingled with an indescribably noble and majestic air. her features, which had once boasted extreme beauty, were now pale and careworn; her dark hair was separated on her forehead, and formed two thick, lustrous bandeaux, which, after shading her pallid countenance, were twisted in with her back hair, whose tresses the hand of sorrow had already mingled with gray. dressed in an old shabby black dress, patched and pieced in various places, madame de fermont, her head supported by her hand, was surveying her child with looks of ineffable tenderness. claire was but sixteen years of age, and her gentle and innocent countenance, thin and sorrowful as that of her mother, looked still more pallid as contrasted with the coarse, unbleached linen which covered her bolster, filled only with sawdust. the once brilliant complexion of the poor girl had sickened beneath the privations she endured; and, as she slept, the long, dark lashes which fringed her large and lustrous eyes stood out almost unnaturally upon her sunken cheek; the once fresh and rosy lips were now dry, cracked, and colourless, yet, half opened as they were, they displayed the faultless regularity of her pearly teeth. the harsh contact of the rough linen which covered her bed had caused a temporary redness about the neck, shoulders, and arms of the poor girl, whose fine and delicate skin was marbled and spotted by the friction both of the miserable sheets and rug. a sensation of uneasiness and discomfort seemed to pervade even her slumbers; for the clearly defined eyebrows, occasionally contracted, as though the sleeper were under the influence of an uneasy dream, and the pained expression observable on the features, foretold the deadly nature of the disease at work within. madame de fermont had long ceased to find relief in tears, but, like her suffering daughter, she found that weakness, languor, and dejection, which is ever the precursor of severe illness, rapidly and daily increasing; but, unwilling to alarm claire, and wishing, if possible, even to conceal the frightful truth from herself, the wretched mother struggled against the first approaches of her malady, while, from a similar feeling of devotion and affection, claire sought to hide from her parent the extreme suffering she herself experienced. to attempt to describe the tortures endured by the tender mother, as, during the greater part of the night, she watched her slumbering child, her thoughts alternately dwelling on the past, the present, and the future, would be to paint the sharpest, bitterest, wildest agony that ever crossed the brain of a loving and despairing mother; to give alternately her reminiscences of bygone happiness, her shuddering dread of impending evil, her fearful anticipations, her bitter regrets, and utter despondency, mingled with bursts of frenzied rage against the author of all her sorrows, vain supplications, eager, earnest prayers, ending at last fearfully and dreadfully in openly expressed mistrust of the omnipotence and justice of the great being who could thus remain insensible to the cry which arose from a mother's breaking heart, to that holy plea whose sound should reach the throne of grace,--"pity, pity, for my child!" "how cold she is!" cried the poor mother, lightly touching with her icy hand the equally chill arm of her child; "how very, very cold! and scarcely an hour ago just as hot! alas, 'tis the cruel fever which has seized upon her! happily the dear creature is as yet unconscious of her malady! gracious heaven, she is becoming cold as death itself! what shall i do to bring warmth to her poor frame? the bed-coverings are so slight! a good thought! i will throw my old shawl over her. but no, no! i dare not remove it from the door over which i have hung it, lest those men so brutally intoxicated should endeavour, as they did yesterday, to look into the room through the disjointed panels or openings in the framework. "what a horrible place we have got into! oh, if i had but known by what description of persons it was inhabited before i paid the fortnight in advance! certainly, we would not have remained here. but, alas, i knew it not; and when we have no vouchers for our respectability, it is so difficult to obtain furnished lodgings. who could ever have thought i should have been at a loss,--i who quitted angers in my own carriage, deeming it unfit my daughter should travel by any public conveyance? how could i have imagined that i should experience any difficulty in obtaining every requisite testimonial of my honour and honesty?" then bursting into a fit of anger, she exclaimed, "'tis too, too hard, that because this unprincipled, hard-hearted notary chooses to strip us of all our possessions, i have no means of punishing him! yes; had i money i might sue him legally for his misconduct. but would not that be to bring obloquy and contempt on the memory of my good, my noble-minded brother; to have it publicly proclaimed that he consummated his ruin by taking away his own life, after having squandered my fortune and that of my child; to hear him accused of reducing us to want and wretchedness? oh, never,--never! still, however dear and sacred is the memory of a brother, should not the welfare of my child be equally so? "and wherefore, too, should i give rise to useless tales of family misery, unprovided as i am with any proofs against the notary? oh, it is, indeed, a cruel,--a most cruel case. sometimes, too, when irritated, goaded by my reflections almost to madness, i find myself indulging in bitter plaints against my brother, and think his conduct more culpable than even the notary's, as though it were any alleviation of my woes to have two names to execrate instead of one. but quickly do i blush at my own base and unworthy suspicions of one so good, so honourable, so noble-minded as my poor brother! this infamous notary knows not all the fearful consequences of his dishonesty. he fancies he has but taken from us our worldly goods, while he has plunged a dagger in the hearts of two innocent, unoffending victims, condemned by his villainy to die by inches. alas, i dare not breathe into the ear of my poor child the full extent of my fears, lest her young mind should be unable to support the blow! "but i am ill,--very, very ill; a burning fever is in my veins; and 'tis only with the greatest energy and resolution i contrive to resist its approaches. but too certainly do i feel aware that the germs of a possibly mortal disease are in me. i am aware of its gaining ground hourly. my throat is parched, my head burns and throbs with racking pains. these symptoms are even more dangerous than i am willing to own even to myself. merciful god! if i were to be ill,--seriously, fatally ill,--if i should die! but no, no!" almost shrieked madame fermont, with wild excitement; "i cannot,--i will not die! to leave claire at sixteen years of age, alone, and without resource, in the midst of paris! impossible! oh, no, i am not ill; i have mistaken the effects of sorrow, cold, and want of rest, for the precursory symptoms of illness. any person similarly placed would have experienced the same. it is nothing, nothing worth noticing. there must be no weakness on my part. 'tis by yielding to such dismal anticipations that one becomes really attacked by the very malady we dread. and besides, i have not time to be ill. oh, no! on the contrary, i must immediately exert myself to find employment for claire and myself, since the wretch who gave us the prints to colour has dared to--" after a short silence, madame de fermont, leaving her last sentence unfinished, indignantly added: "horrible idea! to ask the shame of my child in return for the work he doles out to us, and to harshly withdraw it because i will not suffer my poor claire to go to his house unaccompanied, and work there during the evening alone with him! possibly i may succeed in obtaining work elsewhere, either in plain or ornamental needlework. yet it is so very difficult when we are known to no one; and very recently i tried in vain. persons are afraid of entrusting their materials to those who live in such wretched lodgings as ours. and yet i dare not venture upon others more creditable; for what would become of us were the small sum we possess once exhausted? what could we do? we should be utterly penniless; as destitute as the veriest beggar that ever walked the earth. "and then to think i once was among the richest and wealthiest! oh, let me not think of what has been; such considerations serve but to increase the already excited state of my brain. it will madden me to recollect the past; and i am wrong--oh, very wrong--thus to dwell on ideas that sadden and depress instead of raising and invigorating my enfeebled mind. had i gone on thus weakly indulging regrets, i might, indeed, have fallen ill,--for i am by no means so at present. no, no," continued the unfortunate parent, placing her fingers upon the wrist of her left hand, "my fever has left me,--my pulse beats tranquilly." alas! the quick, irregular, and hurried pulsation perceptible beneath the parched yet icy skin allowed not of such flattering hopes; and, after pausing in deep and heartfelt wretchedness for a short space, the unhappy madame de fermont thus continued: "wherefore, o god of mercies, thus visit with thine anger two wretched and helpless creatures, utterly unconscious of having merited thy displeasure? what has been the crime that has thus drawn down such heavy punishments upon our heads? was not my child a model of innocent piety, as her father was of honour? have i not ever scrupulously fulfilled my duties both as wife and mother? why, then, permit us to become the victims of a vile, ignoble wretch,--my sweet, my innocent child more especially? oh, when i remember that, but for the nefarious conduct of this notary, the rising dawn of my daughter's existence would have been clear and unclouded, i can scarcely restrain my tears. but for his base treachery we should now be in our own home, without further care or sorrow than such as arose from the painful and unhappy circumstances attending the death of my poor brother. in two or three years' time i should have begun to think of marrying my sweet claire, that is, if i could have found any one worthy of so good, so pure-minded, and so lovely a creature as herself. who would not have rejoiced in obtaining such a bride? and further, after having merely reserved to myself a trifling annuity, sufficient to have enabled me to live somewhere in the neighbourhood, i intended, on her marriage, to bestow on her the whole of my remaining possessions, amounting to at least one hundred thousand crowns; for i should have been enabled to lay by something. and, when a lovely and beautiful young creature, like my claire, gifted with all the advantages of a superior education, can, in addition, boast of a dowry of more than one hundred thousand crowns--" then, as she again returned to the realities of her present position, altogether overcome by the painful contrast, madame de fermont exclaimed, almost frantically: "still, it is not to be supposed that, because the notary so wills it, i shall sit tamely by and see my only and beloved child reduced to the most abject misery, entitled as she is to a life of the most unalloyed felicity. if i can obtain no redress from the laws of my country, i will not permit the infamous conduct of this man to escape unpunished. for if i am driven to desperation, if i find no means of extricating my daughter and myself from the deplorable condition to which the villainy of this man has brought us, i cannot answer for myself, or what i may do. i may be driven by madness to retaliate on this man, even by taking his life. and what if i did, after all i have endured, after all the scalding tears he has caused me to shed, who could blame me? at least i should be secure of the pity and sympathy of all mothers who loved their children as i do my claire. yes; but, then, what would be her position,--left alone, friendless, unexperienced, and destitute? oh, no, no, that is my principal dread; therefore do i fear to die. "and for that same reason dare i not harm the traitor who has wrought our ruin. what would become of her at sixteen?--pure and spotless as an angel, 'tis true. but then she is so surpassingly lovely; and want, desolation, cold, and misery are fearful things to oppose alone and unaided. how fearful a conflict might be presented to one of her tender years, and into how terrible an abyss might she not fall? oh, want,--fatal word! as i trace it, a crowd of sickening images rise before me, and distract my senses. destitution, dreadful as it is to all, is still more formidable to those who have lived surrounded not only with every comfort, but even luxury. one thing i cannot pardon myself for, and that is that, in the face of all these overwhelming trials, i have not yet been able to subdue my unfortunate pride; and i feel persuaded that nothing but the sight of my child, actually perishing before my eyes for want of bread, could induce me to beg. how weak, how selfish and cowardly! still--" then, as her thoughts wandered to the source of all her present sufferings and anguish, she mournfully continued: "the notary has reduced me to a state of beggary; i must, therefore, yield to the stern necessity of my situation. there must be an end of all delicacy as well as scruples. they might have been well enough in bygone days; but my duty is now to stretch forth my hand to solicit charitable aid for both my daughter and myself. and if i fail in procuring work, i must make up my mind to implore the charity of my fellow creatures, since the roguery of the notary has left me no alternative. doubtless in that, as in other trades, there is an art, an expertness to be acquired, and which experience alone can bestow. never mind," continued she, with a sort of feverish wildness, "one must learn one's craft, and only practice can make perfect. surely mine must be a tale to move even the most unfeeling. i have to tell of misfortunes alike severe and unmerited,--of an angelic child, but sixteen years of age, exposed to every evil of life. but then it requires a practised hand to set forth all these qualifications, so as best to excite sympathy and compassion. no matter; i shall manage it, i feel quite sure. and, after all," exclaimed the half distracted woman, with a gloomy smile, "what have i so much to complain of? fortune is perishable and precarious; and the notary will, at least, if he has taken my money, have compelled me to adopt a trade." for several minutes madame de fermont remained absorbed in her reflections, then resumed more calmly: "i have frequently thought of inquiring for some situation. what i seem to covet is just such a place as a female has here who is servant to a lady living on the first floor. had i that situation i might probably receive wages sufficient to maintain claire; and i might even, through the intervention of the mistress i served, be enabled to obtain occupation for my daughter, who then would remain here. neither should i be obliged to quit her. oh, what joy, could it be so arranged! but no, no, that would be happiness too great for me to expect; it would seem like a dream. and then, again, if i obtained the place, the poor woman now occupying it must be turned away. possibly she is as poor and destitute as ourselves. well, what if she be? no scruple has arisen to save us from being stripped of our all, and my child's preservation outweighs all fastidious notions of delicacy in my breast. the only difficulty consists in obtaining an introduction to the lady on the first floor, and contriving to dispossess the servant of a place which would be to me the very perfection of ease and comfort." several loud and hasty knocks at the door startled madame de fermont, and made her daughter spring up with a sudden cry. "for heaven's sake, dear mother," asked poor claire, trembling with fear, "what is the matter?" and then, without giving her agitated parent time to recover herself, the terrified girl threw her arms around her mother's neck, as if she sought for safety in that fond, maternal bosom, while madame de fermont, pressing her child almost convulsively to her breast, gazed with terror at the door. "mamma, mamma," again moaned claire, "what was that noise that awoke me? and why do you seem so much alarmed?" "i know not, my child, what it was. but calm yourself, there is nothing to fear; some one merely knocked at the door,--possibly to bring us a letter from the post-office." at this moment the worm-eaten door shook and rattled beneath the blows dealt against it by some powerful fist. "who is there?" inquired madame de fermont, in a trembling tone. a harsh, coarse, and vulgar voice replied, "holloa, there! what, are you so deaf there's no making you hear? holloa, i say, open your door; and let's have a look at you. hip, hip, holloa! come, sharp's the word; i'm in a hurry." "i know you not," exclaimed madame de fermont, striving to command herself sufficiently to speak with a steady voice; "what is it you seek here?" "not know me? why, i'm your opposite neighbour and fellow lodger, robin. i want a light for my pipe. come, cut about. whoop, holloa! don't go to sleep again, or i must come in and wake you." "merciful heavens!" whispered the mother to her daughter, "'tis that lame man, who is nearly always intoxicated." "now, then, are you going to give me a light? because, i tell you fairly, one i will have if i knock your rickety old door to pieces." "i have no light to give you." "oh, bother and nonsense! if you have no candle burning you must have the means of lighting one. nobody is without a few lucifer matches, be they ever so poor. do you or do you not choose to give me a light?" "i beg of you to go away." "you don't choose to open your door, then? once,--twice,--mind, i will have it." "i request you to quit my door immediately, or i will call for assistance." "once,--twice,--thrice,--you will not? well, then, here goes! now i'll smash your old timbers, into morsels too small for you to pick up. hu!--hu!--hallo! well done! bravo!" and suiting the action to the word, the ruffian assailed the door so furiously that he quickly drove it in, the miserable lock with which it was furnished having speedily broken to pieces. the two women shrieked loudly; madame de fermont, in spite of her weakness, rushed forward to meet the ruffian at the moment when he was entering the room, and stopped him. "sir, this is most shameful; you must not enter here," exclaimed the unhappy mother, keeping the door closed as well as she could. "i will call for help." and she shuddered at the sight of this man, with his hideous and drunken countenance. "what's all this? what's all this?" said he. "oughtn't neighbours to be obliging? you ought to have opened; i shouldn't have broken anything." then with the stupid obstinacy of intoxication, he added, reeling on his tottering legs: "i wanted to come in, and i will come in; and i won't go out until i've lighted my pipe." "i have neither fire nor matches. in heaven's name, sir, do go away." "that's not true. you tell me that i may not see the little girl who's in bed. yesterday you stopped up all the holes in the door. she's a pretty chick, and i should like to see her. so mind, or i shall hurt you if you don't let me enter quietly. i tell you i will see the little girl in her bed, and i will light my pipe, or i'll smash everything before me, and you into the bargain." "help, help, help!" exclaimed madame de fermont, who felt the door yielding before the broad shoulders of the gros-boiteux. alarmed by her cries, the man retreated a step; and clenching his fist at madame de fermont, he said: "you shall pay me for this, mind. i will come back to-night and wring your tongue out, and then you can't squall out." and the gros-boiteux, as he was called at the isle du ravageur, went down the staircase, uttering horrible threats. madame de fermont, fearing that he might return, and seeing that the lock was broken, dragged the table across the room, in order to barricade it. claire had been so alarmed, so agitated, at this horrible scene, that she had fallen on her bed almost senseless, and overcome by a nervous attack. her mother, forgetting her own fears, ran to her, embraced her, gave her a little water to drink, and by her caresses and attentions revived her. when she saw her gradually recovering she said to her: "calm yourself; don't be alarmed, my dearest child, this wicked man has gone." then the unfortunate mother exclaimed, in a tone of indescribable indignation and grief, "and it is that notary who is the first cause of all our sufferings." claire looked about her with as much astonishment as fear. "take courage, my child," said madame de fermont, embracing her tenderly; "the wretch has gone." "oh, mamma, if he should come back again! you see, though you cried so loud for help, no one came. oh, pray let us leave this house, or i shall die with fear!" "how you tremble; you are quite in a fever." "no, no," said the young girl, to reassure her mother, "it is nothing--only fright,--and that will soon pass away. and you,--how do you feel? give me your hands. oh, how they burn! it is, indeed, you who are suffering; and you try to conceal it from me!" "don't think so; i feel better than i did. it is only the fright that man caused me which makes me so. i was sleeping soundly in my chair, and only awoke when you did." "yet, mamma, your poor eyes look so red and inflamed!" "why, you see, my dear, one does not sleep so refreshingly in a chair." "and you really do not suffer?" "no, no, i assure you. and you?" "nor i either. i only tremble with fear. pray, mamma, let us leave this house!" "and where shall we go to? you know what trouble we had to find this miserable chamber; for, unfortunately, we have no papers,--and, besides, we have paid a fortnight in advance. they will not return our money; and we have so very, very little left, that we must take all possible care of it." "perhaps m. de saint-remy will answer you in a day or two." "i cannot hope for that. it is so long since i wrote to him." "he cannot have received your letter. why did not you write to him again? from here to angers is not so far, and we should soon have his answer." "my poor child, you know how much that has cost me already!" "but there's no risk; and he is so good in spite of his roughness. wasn't he one of the oldest friends of my father? and then he is a relation of ours." "but he is poor himself,--his fortune is very small. perhaps he does not reply to us that he may avoid the pain of a refusal." "but he may not have received your letter, mamma!" "and if he has received it, my dear,--one of two things, either he is himself in too painful a position to come to our aid, or he feels no interest in us. what, then, is the use of exposing ourselves to a refusal or humiliation?" "come, come, courage, mamma; we have still a hope left. perhaps this very morning will bring us a kind answer." "from m. d'orbigny?" "yes; the letter of which you had made the rough copy was so simple and touching. it showed our miserable condition so naturally that he will have pity on us. really, i don't know why, but something tells me you are wrong to despair of him." "he has so little motive for taking any interest in us. it is true he formerly knew your father, and i have often heard my poor brother speak of m. d'orbigny as a man with whom he was on good terms before the latter left paris to retire into the country with his young wife." "it is that which makes me hope. he has a young wife, and she will be compassionate. and then in the country one can do so much good. he will take you, i should think, as a housekeeper, and i could work in the needle-room. then m. d'orbigny is very rich, and in a great house there is always so much to do." "yes; but we have so little claim on his kind interest!" "we are so unfortunate!" "it is true that is a claim in the eyes of charitably disposed persons." "let us hope that m. d'orbigny and his wife are so." "then if we do not have any or an unfavorable answer from him, i will overcome my false shame, and write to the duchesse de lucenay." "the lady of whom m. de saint-remy has spoken so often, and whose kindness and generosity he so much, praised?" "the same,--daughter of the prince de noirmont. he knew her when she was very young, and treated her almost always as if she were his own child, for he was on terms of the closest intimacy with the prince. madame de lucenay must have many acquaintances, and, no doubt, could easily find situations for us." "no doubt, mamma. but i understand your delicacy; you do not know her, whilst, at least, my father and my uncle both knew a little of m. d'orbigny." "well, but in case madame de lucenay cannot do anything for us, i have still another resource." "what is that, mamma?" "a very poor one,--a very weak hope, perhaps. but why should i not try it? m. de saint-remy's son is--" "has m. de saint-remy a son?" exclaimed claire, interrupting her mother with great astonishment. "yes, my dear, he has a son." "yet he never spoke of him when he used to come to angers." "true, and, for reasons which you cannot understand, m. de saint-remy, having quitted paris fifteen years ago, has not seen his son since that period." "fifteen years without seeing his father! is that possible?" "alas, yes! as you see, the son of m. de saint-remy, being very much sought after in society, and very rich--" "very rich, whilst his father is poor?" "all young m. de saint-remy's wealth came from his mother." "what of that,--how could he leave his father?" "his father would not accept anything from him." "why?" "that is a question to which i cannot reply, my dear child; but i have heard it said by my poor brother that this young man was reputed vastly generous. young and generous, he ought to be good. learning from me that my husband had been his father's intimate friend, perhaps he will interest himself in trying to find us work or employment. he has such high and extensive connections, that this would be no trouble to him." "and then, perhaps, too, we could learn from him if m. de saint-remy, his father, had not quitted angers before you wrote to him: that would account for his silence." "i think, my dear, that m. de saint-remy has not kept up any connection with--still, we cannot but try." "unless m. d'orbigny replies to you favourably, and i repeat, i don't know why, but i have hopes, in spite of myself." "it is now many days, my dear, since i wrote to him, telling him all the causes of our misfortunes, and yet to this time we have no reply,--none. a letter put in the post before four o'clock in the evening reaches aubiers next morning, and thus we might have had his answer five days ago." "perhaps, before he replies, he is considering in what way he can best be useful to us." "may heaven hear thee, my child!" "it appears to me plain enough, mamma, if he could not do anything for us, he could have written at once, and said so." "unless he will do nothing." "oh, mamma, is that possible? to refuse to answer us, and leave us in hope for four days--eight days, perhaps; for when one is miserable we always hope." "alas, my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the miseries persons have never known!" "but your letter--" "my letter cannot give him any idea of our actual disquietude, our constant sufferings; my letter will not depict to him our unhappy life, our constant humiliations, our existence in this horrid house,--the fright we have but this instant experienced. my letter will not describe the horrible future which is in store for us, if--but, my love, do not let us talk of that. you tremble,--you are cold." "no, mamma, don't mind me; but tell me, suppose all fails us, the little money we have in the box is spent,--is it possible that, in a city as rich as paris, we shall both die of hunger and misery--for want of work, and because a wicked man has taken from you all you had in the world?" "oh, be silent, my unfortunate child!" "but really, mamma, is it possible?" "alas!" "but god, who knows all, who can do all, will he abandon us, who have never offended him?" "i entreat you, my dearest girl, do not give way to these distressing ideas. i would prefer seeing you hope, without great reason, either. come, come, comfort me rather with your consoling ideas; i am but too apt to be discouraged, as you well know." "yes, yes, let us hope, that is best. no doubt the porter's nephew will return to-day from the _poste-restante_ with a letter. another errand to pay out of your little stock, and through my fault. if i had not been so weak yesterday and to-day we should have gone to the post-office ourselves, as we did the day before yesterday; but you will not leave me here alone and go yourself." "how could i, my dear? only think, just now, that horrid man who burst open the door! suppose you had been alone?" "oh, mamma, pray don't talk of it; it quite frightens me only to think of it." at this moment some one knocked suddenly at the door. "heaven, it is he again!" exclaimed madame de fermont, still under her first fears; and she pushed the table against the door with all her strength. her fears ceased when she heard the voice of father micou: "madame, my nephew, andré, has come from the _poste-restante_. he has brought a letter with an 'x' and a 'z.' it comes a long way; there are eight sous for postage, and commission makes twenty sous." "mamma, a letter from the country,--we are saved! it is from m. de saint-remy or m. d'orbigny. poor mother! you will not suffer any more; you will no longer be uneasy about me, you will be so happy! god is just! god is good!" exclaimed the young girl, and a ray of hope lighted up her mild and lovely face. "oh, sir, thank you; give it to me quickly!" said madame de fermont, moving the table as well as she could, and half opening the door. "twenty sous," said the man, giving her the anxiously desired letter. "i will pay you, sir." "oh, madame, there's no hurry, i am going up higher; in ten minutes i shall be down again, and can call for the money as i pass." "the letter is from normandy, with the postmark of 'les aubiers.' it is from madame d'orbigny!" exclaimed madame de fermont, examining the address, "to madame x. z., _poste-restante_, à paris." "well, mamma, am i right? oh, how my heart beats!" "our good or bad fate is in it," said madame de fermont; and twice her trembling hand was extended to break the seal; she had not courage. how can we describe the terrible agony to which they are a prey who, like madame de fermont, expect a letter which brings them either hope or despair? the burning, fevered excitement of the player whose last pieces of gold are hazarded on a card, and who, breathless, with inflamed eye, awaits for a decisive cast which brings his ruin or his fortune,--this emotion, violent as it is, may perhaps give some idea of the painful anguish of which we speak. in a second the soul is elevated to the most radiant hope or relapses into the most mortal discouragement. according as he hopes to be aided, or fears to be refused, the unhappy wretch suffers in turn emotions of a most contrary nature,--unutterable feelings of happiness and gratitude to the generous heart which pities his miserable condition--bitter and intense resentment against selfish indifference! when it is a question of deserving sufferers, those who give often would perhaps give always, and those who always refuse would perhaps give frequently, if they knew or saw that the hope of benevolent aid or the fear of a haughty refusal--that their decision, indeed--can excite all that is distressing or encouraging in the hearts of their petitioners. "what weakness!" said madame de fermont, with a deep sigh, seating herself by her daughter; "once again, my poor claire, our destiny is in this envelope; i burn with anxiety to know its contents, and yet i dare not read it. if it be a refusal, alas, it will be soon enough!" "and if it be a promise of assistance, then, mamma--if this poor little letter contain consoling words, which shall assure us for the future, by promising us a humble employment in the establishment of m. d'orbigny, every moment lost is a moment of happiness lost,--is it not?" "yes, my love; but on the other hand--" "no, mamma, you are mistaken; i told you that m. d'orbigny had only delayed so long that he might mention something certain to you. let me see the letter, mamma. i am sure i can guess if it is good or bad by the writing. and i am sure," said claire, looking at the letter, "that it is a kind and generous hand, accustomed to execute benevolence towards those who suffer." "i entreat you, claire, not to give way to vain hopes; for, if you do, i shall not have the courage to open the letter." "my dear mother, without opening it, i can tell you almost word for word what it contains. listen: 'madame,--your fate and that of your daughter are so worthy of interest, that i beg you will come to me, in case you should like to undertake the superintendence of my house.'" "pray, my dearest, i beseech you, do not give way to vain hopes; the disappointment would be terrible!" said madame de fermont, taking the letter. "come, dear mamma," said claire, smiling, and excited by one of those feelings of certainty so natural to her age, "give me the letter; i have courage to read it!" "no," said madame de fermont, "i will read it! it is from the comtesse d'orbigny." "so much the better," replied claire. "we shall see." and madame de fermont read as follows in a trembling voice: "'madame:--m. the comte d'orbigny, who has been a great invalid for some time, could not reply to you during my absence--'" "you see, mamma, it was no one's fault." "listen, listen! "'on arriving from paris this morning, i hasten to write to you, madame, after having discussed your letter with m. d'orbigny. he recollects but very indistinctly the intimacy you allude to as having subsisted between him and your brother. as to the name of your husband, madame, it is not unknown to m. d'orbigny; but he cannot recall to mind under what circumstances he has heard it. the spoliation of which you so unhesitatingly accuse m. jacques ferrand, whom we have the happiness to call our solicitor, is, in the eyes of m. d'orbigny, a cruel calumny, whose effects you have by no means calculated upon. my husband, as well as myself, madame, know and admire the extreme probity of the respectable and pious individual whom you so blindly assail; and i am compelled to tell you, madame, that m. d'orbigny, whilst he regrets the painful situation in which you are placed, and the real cause of which it is not his business to find out, feels it impossible to afford you the assistance requested. accept, madame, with the expression of m. d'orbigny's regrets, my best compliments. "'comtesse d'orbigny.'" the mother and daughter looked at each other perfectly stupefied, and incapable of uttering a word. father micou rapped at the door, and said: "madame, may i come in for the postage and commission? it's twenty sous." "ah, true, such good news is worth a sum on which we exist for two days," said madame de fermont, with a bitter smile, laying the letter down on her daughter's bed, and going towards an old trunk without a lock, to which she stooped down and opened. "we are robbed!" exclaimed the unhappy woman, with alarm. "nothing--not a sou left!" she added, in a mournful voice; and, overwhelmed, she supported herself on the trunk. "what do you say, mamma,--the bag with the money in it?" but madame de fermont, rising suddenly, opened the room door, and, addressing the receiver, who was on the landing-place: "sir," she said, whilst her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks were flushed with indignation and alarm, "i had a bag of silver in this trunk; it was stolen from me, no doubt, the day before yesterday, when i went out for an hour with my daughter. the money must be restored, i tell you,--you are responsible for it!" "you've been robbed! that's false, i know. my house is respectable," said the fellow, in an insolent and brutal tone; "you only say that in order not to pay me my postage and commission." "i tell you, sir, that this money was all i possessed in the world; it has been stolen from me, and i must have it found and restored, or i will lodge an information. oh, i will conceal nothing--i will respect nothing--i tell you!" "very fine, indeed! you who have got no papers. go and lay your information,--go at once. why don't you? i defy you, i do!" the wretched woman was thunderstruck. she could not go out and leave her daughter alone, confined to her bed as she was by the fright the gros-boiteux had occasioned her in the morning, and particularly after the threats with which the receiver of stolen goods had menaced her. he added: "this is a fudge! you'd as much a bag of silver there as a bag of gold. will you pay me for the letter,--will you or won't you? well, it's just the same to me. when you go by my door, i'll snatch off your old black shawl from your shoulders. it's a precious shabby one; but i daresay i can make twenty sous out of it." "oh, sir," exclaimed madame de fermont, bursting into tears, "i beseech you have pity upon us! this small sum is all we possess, my daughter and i, and, that stolen, we have nothing left--nothing--i say nothing, but--to die of starvation!" "what can i do? if it's true that you have been robbed, and of silver, too (which appears to me very unlikely), why, the silver has been melted long since, rely on it." "_mon dieu! mon dieu!_" "the chap who did the trick was not so soft, rely on it, as to mark the pieces, and keep 'em here, to lead to his own detection. supposing it's any one in the house, which i don't believe (for, as i was a-saying this morning to the uncle of the lady on the first floor, this is really a village), if any one has robbed you, it is a pity. you may lay a hundred informations, but you won't recover a centime. you won't do any good by that, i tell you, and you may believe me. well, but i say--" exclaimed the receiver, stopping short, and seeing madame de fermont stagger. "what's the matter? how pale you are! mademoiselle, your mother's taken ill!" added micou, just advancing in time to catch the unhappy mother, who, overcome by this last shock, felt her senses forsake her,--the forced energy which had supported her so long failed before this fresh blow. "mother, dear, oh, what ails you?" exclaimed claire, still in her bed. the receiver, still vigorous in spite of his fifty years, seized with a momentary feeling of pity, took madame de fermont in his arms, pushed the door open with his knee, and, entering the chamber, said: "your pardon, mademoiselle, for entering whilst you are in bed, but i was obliged to bring in your mother; she has fainted, but it won't last long." on seeing the man enter, claire shrieked loudly, and the unhappy girl hid herself as well as she could under the bedclothes. the huckster seated madame de fermont in a chair beside the bed, and then went out, leaving the door ajar, for the gros-boiteux had broken the lock. * * * * * one hour after this last shock, the violent malady which had so long hung over and threatened madame de fermont had developed itself. a prey to a burning fever and to fearful delirium, the unhappy woman was placed beside her daughter, who, horror-struck, aghast, alone, and almost as ill as her mother, had neither money nor recourse, and was in an agony of fear every moment lest the ruffian who lodged on the same floor should enter the apartment. chapter ix. the rue de chaillot. we will precede m. badinot by some hours, as in haste he proceeded from the passage de la brasserie to the vicomte de saint-remy. the latter, as we have said, lived in the rue de chaillot, and occupied a delightful small house, built between the court and the garden in this quarter, so solitary, although so close to the champs elysées, the most fashionable promenade in paris. it is useless to enumerate the advantages which m. de saint-remy, who was decidedly a man _à bonnes fortunes_, derived from the position of a residence so sagaciously selected. we will only say that a gentleman (or a lady) could enter very privately by a small door in the large garden which opened into a back lane absolutely deserted, communicating from the rue marboeuf to the rue de chaillot. by wonderful chance, one of the finest nursery-grounds in paris having also in this quiet passage a way out that was little frequented, the mysterious visitors of m. de saint-remy, in case of a surprise or sudden rencounter, were armed with a most plausible and bucolical excuse for their visit to the lonely alley: they were there (they might say if they pleased) to choose some rare flowers from the celebrated gardener who was so renowned for the beauty of his conservatories. the visitors need only thus tell half falsehoods; for the vicomte, plentifully imbued with all the tastes of most costly luxuries, had a delightful greenhouse, which extended along the side of the alley we have alluded to. the small private door opened on this delightful winter garden, which terminated in a boudoir (forgive the superannuated expression), which was on the ground floor of the house. we may say, therefore, without metaphor, that a female who passed this dangerous threshold, to enter m. de saint-remy's house, ran to her ruin through a flowery path; for, in the winter particularly, this lonely alley was bordered with real bushes of bright and perfumed flowers. madame de lucenay, jealous as a woman deeply in love always is, had demanded the key of this small door. if we dwell somewhat on the general aspect of this dwelling, it is that it reflected (if we may be allowed the expression) one of those degrading existences which from day to day become happily more rare, but which it may be as well to note down as one of the peculiarities of the epoch. the interior of m. de saint-remy's house presented (viewed in this light) a curious appearance, or rather the house was separated into two distinct zones,--the ground floor, where he received his female visitors; the first story, where he received his gambling companions or his dinner or hunting associates; in a word, what he called his friends. thus on the ground floor was a bedchamber, which was nothing but gold, mirrors, flowers, satin, and lace; then a small music-room, in which was a harp and piano (m. de saint-remy was an excellent musician); a cabinet of pictures; and then the boudoir, which communicated with the conservatory; a dining-room for two persons, who were served and passed away the dishes and plates by a turning window; a bath-room, a model of luxury and oriental refinement; and, close at hand, a small library, a portion of which was arranged after the catalogue of that which la mettrie had collected for frederic the great. such was this apartment. it would be unavailing to say that all these rooms, furnished with exquisite taste, and with a sardanapalian luxury, had as ornaments watteaus little known; bouchers never engraved; wanton subjects, formerly purchased at enormous prices. there were, besides, groups modelled in terra-cotta, by clodien, and here and there, on plinths of jasper or antique breccia, some rare copies, in white marble, of the most jovial and lovely bacchanals of the secret museum of naples. add to this, in summer there were in perspective the green recesses of a well-planted garden, lonely, replete with flowers and birds, watered by a small and sparkling fountain, which, before it spread itself on the verdant turf, fell from a black and shaggy rock, scintillated like a strip of silver gauze, and dashed into a clear basin like mother-of-pearl, where beautiful white swans wantoned with grace and freedom. then, when the mild and serene night came on, what shade, what perfume, what silence, was there in those odorous clumps, whose thick foliage served as a dais for the rustic seats formed of reeds and indian mats. during the winter, on the contrary, except the glass door which opened to the hothouse, all was kept close shut. the transparent silk of the blinds, the net lace of the curtains, made the daylight still more mysterious. on all the pieces of furniture large tufts of exotic plants seemed to put forth their large flowers, resplendent with gold and enamel. in order to do the honours of this temple, which seemed raised to antique love, or the denuded divinities of greece, behold a man, young, handsome, elegant, and distinguished,--by turns witty and tender, romantic or libertine; now jesting and gay to folly, now full of charm and grace; an excellent musician, gifted with one of those impassioned, vibrating voices which women cannot hear without experiencing a deep impression, almost physical,--in fact, a man essentially made for love,--such was the vicomte. in athens, no doubt, he would have been admired, exalted, deified, as was alcibiades; in our days, and at the period of which we write, the vicomte was nothing more than a base forger, a contemptible swindler. the first story of m. de saint-remy's house was exceedingly masculine in its whole appearance. it was there he received his many friends, all of whom were of the very highest society. there was nothing effeminate, nothing coquettish. the furniture was plain, but elegant, the ornaments being first-rate weapons of all sorts, pictures of race-horses, who had won for the vicomte a great number of magnificent gold and silver vases, which were placed on the tables and sideboards. the smoking-room and play-room were closed by a cheerful dining-room, where eight persons (the number to which the guests were rigidly confined when there was a first-class dinner) had often appreciated the excellence of the cook, and the no less high merit of the wine of the vicomte, before they faced him at some high game of whist for five or six hundred louis, or shook the noisy dice-box at infernal hazard or roulette. these two widely opposite shades of m. de saint-remy disclosed, the reader will follow us into the regions below, to the very comfortable apartment of edwards patterson, the master of the horse of m. de saint-remy, who had invited m. boyer to breakfast. a very pretty english maid-servant having withdrawn after she had brought in the silver teapot, these two worthies remained alone. edwards was about forty years of age, and never did more skilful or stouter coachman make a seat groan under his most imposing rotundity; never did powdered wig enclose a more rubicund visage; and never did a more knowing and competent driver hold in his four fingers and thumb the reins of a four-in-hand. as good a judge of a horse as tattersal (and in his youth he had been as good a trainer as the old and celebrated chiffney), edwards had been to the vicomte a most excellent coachman, and a man perfectly capable of superintending the training of race-horses on which he had betted heavily. when he did not assume his sumptuous brown and silver livery on the emblazoned hammercloth of his box, edwards very much resembled an honest english farmer; and it is under this aspect that we shall present him to the reader, adding, at the same time, that beneath this round and red visage there lurked all the pitiless and devilish cunning of the horse-dealer. m. boyer, his guest, the confidential servant of the vicomte, was a tall, thin man, with gray, smooth hair, bald forehead, cunning glance, with a countenance calm, discreet, and reserved. he expressed himself in somewhat choice phraseology, with polite, easy manners; he was tolerably well informed, his political opinions being legitimist, and he could take his part as first violin in an amateur quartette. from time to time, and with the best air in the world, he took a pinch of snuff from a gold snuff-box, set around with fine pearls, after which he negligently shook with the back of his hand (as white and carefully attended to as his master's) the particles of snuff from the frill of his fine holland shirt. "do you know, my dear edwards," said boyer, "that your maid, betty, really does your meals in a very fair manner! _ma foi!_ now and then one gets tired of high living." "the fact is that betty is a very good girl," said edwards, who spoke very good french. "i shall take her with me into my establishment, if i make up my mind to set up in housekeeping; and on this point, since we are alone, my dear boyer, let us talk of business matters which you know as well as i do." "why, yes, tolerably," said boyer, modestly taking a pinch of snuff, "one learns them so naturally, when they are the affairs of others that occupy us." "i want your advice on a very important point, and that's the reason i have begged you to come and take a cup of tea with me." "i'm at your service, my dear edwards." "you know that, besides the race-horses, i had an agreement with m. le vicomte to the complete providing of his stable, horses, and men, that is to say, eight horses and five or six grooms and boys, for twenty-four thousand francs (nine thousand guineas) a year, including my wages." "that was moderate enough." "for four years m. le vicomte paid me very regularly; but about the middle of last year he said to me, 'edwards, i owe you about twenty-four thousand francs. what value, at the lowest, do you set on my horses and carriages?' 'monsieur le vicomte, the eight horses ought to fetch three thousand francs ( _l._) each, one with another, and that would make (and it's true, boyer, for the pair of phaeton horses cost five hundred guineas) exactly twenty-four thousand francs for the horses. as to the carriages, there are four, let us say, for twelve thousand francs; that, added to the twenty-four thousand francs for the horses, makes thirty-six thousand francs.' 'well,' replied the vicomte, 'buy the whole of me at that price, on condition that for the twelve thousand francs which you will owe me, paid as it were in advance, you shall keep and place at my disposal horses, servants, and carriages for six months.'" "and you very wisely acceded to the proposal, edwards? it was a golden gain to you." "no doubt. in another fortnight the six months will have expired, and i become proprietor of the horses and carriages." "nothing plainer. the agreement was drawn up by m. badinot, the vicomte's man of business, what do you want with my advice?" "what should i do? to sell the horses and carriages in consequence of m. le vicomte's departure? all would sell well, as he is known as one of the first judges in paris; or ought i to set up as a horse-dealer with my stud, which would make a capital beginning? what is your opinion--your advice?" "i advise you to do what i shall do myself." "in what way?" "i am in the same position as yourself." "you?" "m. le vicomte detests details. when i entered in his service i had, by savings and inheritance, sixty thousand francs ( , _l._). i paid the expenses of the house as you did of the stables; and every year m. le vicomte paid me without examining my account. at nearly the same time as yourself i found myself out of pocket about twenty thousand francs on my own account, and, to the tradespeople, sixty thousand francs. then m. le vicomte made me the same proposition as to yourself, in order to reimburse me. i was to sell the furniture of the house, including the plate, which is very handsome, very fine paintings, etc., the whole estimated at a hundred and forty thousand francs ( , _l._). there were eighty thousand francs to pay, and there remained sixty thousand francs which i was to disburse until they were quite exhausted, in the expenses of the table, the servants' wages, etc., and in nothing else. these were the terms of the agreement." "because on that outlay you have a profit." "as a matter of course; for i made all the agreements with the tradespeople, whom i shall not pay until after the sale," said boyer, taking a huge pinch of snuff; "so that at the end of this month--" "the furniture is yours, as the horses and carriages are mine." "precisely so. m. le vicomte has gained by this, by living for the last few months as he likes to live, _en grand seigneur_,--and that in the very teeth of his creditors; for furniture, plate, horses, carriages, which had all been paid for ready money when he came of age, have now become the property of yourself and myself." "and so m. le vicomte is really ruined?" "in five years." "and m. le vicomte inherited--" "only a miserable million ( , _l._), ready money," said m. boyer, with a disdainful air, and taking a pinch of snuff. "add to this two hundred thousand francs of debts ( , _l._), about--that's pretty well! it was, therefore, to tell you, my dear edwards, that i had an intention of letting this house, so admirably furnished as it is, to some english family, linen, glass, china, silver, conservatory. some of your country-people would pay a good rent for it?" "unquestionably. why don't you do so?" "why, there's considerable risk, and so i make up my mind to sell the whole at once. m. le vicomte is also known as a connoisseur in first-class furniture and objects of art, so that anything that he has selected will always fetch double its value, and i am safe to realise a large sum. do as i do, edwards, and realise--realise. don't risk your profits in speculation. you, first coachman of m. le vicomte de saint-remy,--why, there'll be a competition for you. and yesterday i just heard of a minor who has recently been emancipated, a cousin of madame la duchesse de lucenay, the young duc de montbrison, who has just arrived from italy with his tutor, and is forming his establishment. two hundred and fifty thousand livres of income ( , _l._) from land, my dear edwards, two hundred and fifty thousand livres a year,--just entering into life,--twenty years of age only,--with all the illusions of simple confidence, and all the desires of expenditure,--prodigal as a prince. i know the steward; and i tell you, in confidence, he has all but concluded with me as first _valet de chambre_. he patronises me,--the fool!" and m. boyer shrugged his shoulders, whilst he inhaled another large pinch of snuff. "you hope to get rid of him?" "_parbleu_, he is a jackanapes,--an ass! he places me there as if he ought not to have any fears of me. before two months i shall be in his place." "two hundred and fifty thousand livres a year in land!" replied edwards, reflecting; "and a young man! it is a good house?" "i tell you there is everything to make a man comfortable. i will speak to my protector for you," said m. boyer, with irony. "take the place; it is a fortune which has roots to it, and one may hold on by it for a long time. it is not like the unfortunate million of m. le vicomte, a snowball, and nothing else,--a ray of a parisian sun, and that's all. i soon saw that i should only be a bird of passage here. it's a pity, for the establishment did us credit; and, to the last moment, i will serve m. le vicomte with the respect and esteem due to him." "_ma foi_, my dear boyer, i thank you, and accept your proposition. and, now i think of it, suppose i were to propose the stud of m. le vicomte to this young duke! it is all ready, and known and admired all over paris." "true, you may make a profitable affair of it." "and you, why don't you propose to him this house so admirably fitted up in every way? what could he find better?" "bravo! edwards, you are a man of sense decidedly; you have suggested a most excellent idea. we must ask the vicomte; he is such a good master that he will not refuse to speak for us to the young duke. he may say that, as he is going on the legation of gerolstein, to which he is attached, he wishes to get rid of his whole establishment. let us see. one hundred and sixty thousand francs for the house furnished, twenty thousand francs for plate and pictures, fifty thousand francs for stable and carriages, that makes two hundred and thirty thousand francs; and it is a bargain for a young man who wishes to be set up at once in the first style." "and the horses!" "and the capital table! gallefroi, his cook, will leave a hundred times better off than when he came here first. m. le vicomte has given him capital instruction,--has regularly refined him!" "they say, too, that m. le vicomte is such a capital player?" "admirable! gaining large sums with even more indifference than he loses them! and yet i never saw any one lose with better taste!" "and the women, boyer,--the women! ah, you could tell a tale! you have the sole _entrée_ to the apartments of the ground floor--" "i have my secrets as you have yours, my dear fellow." "mine?" "when m. le vicomte ran his horses, had you not your confidences? i will not attack the honesty of the jockeys of your opponents; but there were reports--" "hush, my dear boyer, a gentleman never compromises the reputation of a jockey who is against him, and has the weakness to listen--" "then a gallant never compromises the reputation of a woman who has been kind to him. so, i say, let's keep our secrets, or, rather, the secrets of m. le vicomte, my dear edwards." "ah, good! what will he do now?" "he is going to germany in a good travelling carriage, with seven or eight thousand francs, which he knows when to lay his hand upon. oh, i have no fears for the vicomte! he is one of those personages who always fall on their feet, as they say." "and he has no future expectancies?" "none; for his father has nothing but just enough to live upon." "his father?" "certainly." "m. le vicomte's father is not dead?" "he was not dead five or six months ago when m. le vicomte wrote to him for some family papers." "but we never see him here?" "for reasons good. for fifteen years he has resided in the country at angers." "but m. le vicomte never visits him?" "his father?" "yes." "never--never!" "have they quarrelled, then?" "what i am going to tell you is no secret, for i have it from the old man of business of m. the prince de noirmont." "father of madame de lucenay?" said edwards, with a knowing glance at boyer, who, appearing not to understand him, replied coolly: "madame la duchesse de lucenay is the daughter of m. the prince de noirmont. the father of m. le vicomte was bosom friend of the prince. madame la duchesse was then very young, and m. de saint-remy, senior, who was very fond of her, treated her as if she were his own child. i learnt these details from simon, the prince's man of business; and i may speak unhesitatingly, for the adventure i am about to narrate to you was, at the time, the talk of all paris. in spite of his sixty years, the father of m. le vicomte is a man of iron disposition, with the courage of a lion, of probity which i call almost fabulous. he had scarcely any property of his own, and had married the vicomte's mother for love. she was a young person of good fortune, possessing about a million of francs, at the melting of which we have had the honour to be present." and m. boyer bowed. edwards imitated him. "the marriage was a very happy one, until the moment when the father of m. le vicomte found--accidentally, as they say--some letters, which proved that, during one of his absences three or four years after his marriage, his wife had had an attachment for a certain polish count." "that often happens to these poles. when i was at the marquis de senneval's, the marquise, a regular she-devil--" "my dear edwards," interrupted m. boyer, "you should learn the alliances of our great families before you speak, or you will sadly blunder." "how?" "madame la marquise de senneval is sister of m. le duc de montbrison, into whose establishment you wish to enter." "ah, the devil!" "judge of the effect if you had spoken thus of her before tattling people! you would not have remained in the house twenty-four hours." "true, boyer; i must endeavour to 'get up' my peerage." "i resume. the father of m. le vicomte discovered, after twelve or fifteen years of a marriage very happy until then, that he had this polish count to complain of. fortunately, or unfortunately, m. le vicomte was born nine months after his father, or rather m. le comte de saint-remy, had returned from this unpropitious journey, so that he could not be certain, in spite of the greatest probabilities, whether or not m. le vicomte could fairly charge him with paternity. however, the comte separated instantly from his wife, would not touch a stiver of the fortune she had brought him, and returned into the country with about eighty thousand francs which he possessed of his own. but you have yet to learn the rancour of this diabolical character. although the outrage had been perpetrated fifteen years when he detected it, the father of m. le vicomte, accompanied by m. de fermont, one of his relatives, sought out this polonese seducer, and found him at venice, after having sought for him during eighteen months in every city in europe." "what determination!" "a demon's rancour, i say, my dear edwards! at venice there was a ferocious duel, in which the pole was killed. all passed off honourably; but they tell me that, when the father of m. le vicomte saw the pole fall at his feet mortally wounded, he exhibited such ferocious joy that his relative, m. de fermont, was obliged to take him away from the place of combat; the comte wishing, as he declared, to see his enemy die before his eyes." "what a man! what a man!" "the comte returned to paris, saw his wife, told her he had killed the pole, and went back into the country. since that time he never saw her or her son, and resided at angers, where he lived, as they say, like a regular old wolf, with what was left of his eighty thousand francs, which had been sweated down not a little, as you may suppose, by his chase after the pole. at angers he saw no one, unless it were the wife and daughter of his relative, m. de fermont, who has been dead some years now. besides, it was an unfortunate family, for the brother of madame de fermont blew his brains out some months ago." "and the mother of m. le vicomte?" "he lost her a long time ago; that's the reason that, when he attained his majority, m. le vicomte came into his mother's fortune. so, you see, my dear edwards, that, as to inheritance, the vicomte has nothing, or almost less than nothing, to expect from his father." "who, moreover, detests him." [illustration: _he exhibited such ferocious joy._ original etching by mercier.] "he never would see him after the discovery in question, being fully persuaded, no doubt, that he is the son of the pole." the conversation of these two personages was interrupted by a gigantic footman, elaborately powdered, although it was scarcely eleven o'clock. "m. boyer, m. le vicomte has rung his bell twice," said the giant. boyer appeared immensely distressed at having apparently been inattentive to his duty, rose hastily, and followed the footman with as much haste and respect as if he had not been himself, in his proper person, the proprietor of his master's house. chapter x. the comte de saint-remy. it was about two hours after boyer had left edwards to go to m. de saint-remy, when the father of the latter knocked at the door of the house in the rue de chaillot. m. de saint-remy, senior, was a tall man, still active and vigorous in spite of his age. the extreme darkness of his complexion contrasted singularly with the peculiar whiteness of his beard and hair; his thick eyebrows still remained black, and half covered his piercing eyes deeply sunk in his head. although from a kind of misanthropic feeling he wore clothes which were extremely shabby, yet there was in his entire appearance something so calm and dignified as to inspire general respect. the door of his son's house opened, and he went in. a porter in dress livery of brown and silver, with his hair carefully powdered, and dressed in silk stockings, appeared on the threshold of an elegant lodge, which resembled the smoky cave of the pipelets as much as does the tub of a stocking-darner the splendid shop of a fashionable dressmaker. "m. de saint-remy?" said the comte, in an abrupt tone. the porter, instead of replying, scrutinised with impertinent curiosity the white beard, the threadbare frock coat, and the napless hat of the unknown, who held a stout cane in his hand. "m. de saint-remy?" again said the comte, impatiently, and much irritated at the insolent demeanour of the porter. "m. le vicomte is not at home." so saying, the co-mate of m. pipelet opened the door, and, with a significant gesture, invited the unknown to retire. "i will wait for him," said the comte, and he moved forward. "holloa! come, i say, my friend, that's not the way people enter other people's houses!" exclaimed the porter, running after the comte, and taking him by the arm. "what, fellow!" replied the old man, with a threatening air, and lifting his cane, "dare you to lay your hands on me?" "i dare do more than that if you do not be off quickly. i tell you the vicomte is not within; so now go away, will you?" at this moment boyer, attracted by the sound of contending voices, appeared on the steps which led to the house. "what is the meaning of this noise?" he inquired. "m. boyer, it is this man, who will go into the house, although i have told him that m. le vicomte is not within." "hold your tongue!" said the comte. and then addressing boyer, who had come towards them, "i wish to see my son. he is out, and therefore i will wait for him." we have already said that boyer was neither ignorant of the existence nor the misanthropy of his master's father; and being, moreover, a physiognomist, he did not for a moment doubt the comte's identity, but, bowing respectfully, replied: "if m. le comte will follow me, i will conduct him--" "very well!" said m. de saint-remy, who followed boyer, to the extreme amazement of the porter. preceded by the _valet de chambre_, the comte reached the first story, and followed his guide across the small sitting-room of florestan de saint-remy (we shall in future call the viscount by his baptismal name to distinguish him more easily from his father) until they reached a small antechamber communicating with the sitting-room, and sitting immediately over the boudoir on the ground floor. "m. le vicomte was obliged to go out this morning," said boyer. "if m. le comte will be so kind as to wait a little for him, he will not be long before he comes in." and the _valet de chambre_ quitted the apartment. left alone, the count looked about him with entire indifference; but suddenly he started, his face became animated, his cheeks grew purple, and anger agitated his features. his eyes had lighted on the portrait of his wife, the mother of florestan de saint-remy! he folded his arms across his breast, bowed his head, as if to escape this sight, and strode rapidly up and down the room. "this is strange!" he said. "that woman is dead--i killed her lover--and yet my wound is as deep, as sensitive, as the first day i received it; my thirst of vengeance is not yet quenched; my savage misanthropy, which has all but entirely isolated me from the world, has left me alone, and in constant contemplation of the thought of my injury. yes; for the death of the accomplice of this infamy has avenged the outrage, but not effaced its memory from my remembrance. oh, yes! i feel that what renders my hatred inextinguishable is the thought that, for fifteen years, i was a dupe; that for fifteen years i treated with respect and esteem a wretched woman who had infamously betrayed me; that i have loved her son--the son of crime--as if he had indeed been my own child; for the aversion with which florestan now inspires me proves but too clearly that he is the offspring of adultery! and yet i have not the absolute conviction of his illegitimacy: it is just possible that he is still my child! and sometimes that thought is agony to me! if he were indeed my son! then my abandonment of him, the coldness i have always testified towards him, my constant refusals to see him, are unpardonable. but, after all, he is rich, young, happy; and of what use should i be to him? yes; but then, perchance, his tenderness might have soothed the bitter anguish which his mother has caused me!" after a moment of deep reflection the comte shrugged his shoulders and continued: "still these foolish suppositions, weak as useless, which revive all my suffering! let me be a man, and overcome the absurd and painful emotion which i experience when i think that i am again about to see him whom, for ten years, i have loved with the most mad idolatry,--whom i have loved as my son; he--he--the son of the man whose blood i saw flow with such intense joy! and they would not let me be present at his last agony,--at his death! ah, they know not what it was to have been stricken as deeply as i was! then, too, to think that my name--always honoured and respected--should have been so often mentioned with scoff and derision, as is always mentioned that of a wronged husband! to think that my name--a name of which i had always been so proud--should now belong to a man whose father's heart i could have plucked out! ah, i only wonder i do not go mad when i think of it!" m. de saint-remy continued walking up and down in great agitation, and mechanically lifted up the curtain which separated the apartment in which he was from florestan's private sitting-room, and advanced several strides into that chamber. he had disappeared for the moment, when a small door hidden in the hangings of the wall opened softly, and madame de lucenay, wrapped in a large green cashmere shawl, having a very plain black velvet bonnet on, entered the salon, which the comte had but that instant quitted. it is necessary to offer some explanation of this unexpected visit. florestan de saint-remy on the previous evening made an appointment with the duchess for the next morning. she having, as we have said, a key of the little gate in the narrow lane, had, as usual, entered by the conservatory, relying on finding florestan on the ground floor boudoir; but, not finding him there, she believed (as had before occurred) that the vicomte was engaged in his cabinet. a secret staircase led from the boudoir to the story above. madame de lucenay went up without hesitation, supposing that m. de saint-remy had given orders, as usual, to be denied to everybody. unluckily, a threatening call from m. badinot had compelled florestan to go out hastily, and he had forgotten his rendezvous with madame de lucenay. she, not seeing any person, was about to enter the cabinet, when the curtain was thrown on one side, and the duchess found herself confronted with florestan's father. she could not repress a shriek. "clotilde!" exclaimed the comte, greatly astonished. intimately acquainted with the prince de noirmont, father of madame de lucenay, m. de saint-remy had known her from her childhood, and, during her girlhood, calling her, as he now did, by her baptismal name. the duchess, motionless with surprise, continued gazing on the old man with his white beard and mean attire, whose features she could not recall to mind. "you, clotilde!" repeated the comte, in an accent of painful reproach; "you here, in my son's house!" these last words confirmed the vague reminiscence of madame de lucenay, who then recognised florestan's father, and said: "m. de saint-remy?" the position was so plain and declaratory that the duchess, whose peculiar and resolute character is known to the reader, disdained to have recourse to falsehood, in order to account for her appearance there; and, relying on the really paternal affection which the comte had always testified for her, she said to him, with that air at once graceful, cordial, and decided, which was so peculiarly her own: "come, now, do not scold; you are my old, very old friend. recollect you called me your dear little clotilde at least twenty years ago." "yes, i called you so then; but--" "i know beforehand all you would say: you know my motto, 'what is, is what will be.'" "oh, clotilde!" "spare your reproaches, and let me rather express my extreme delight at seeing you again: your presence reminds me of so many things,--my poor dear father, in the first place, and then--heigho! my 'sweet fifteen!' oh, how delightful it is to be fifteen!" "it is because your father was my friend that--" "oh, yes," said the duchess, interrupting m. de saint-remy, "he was so very fond of you! you remember he always called you the man with the green ribands, and you always told him, 'you spoil clotilde; mind, i tell you so;' and he replied, whilst he kissed me, 'i really do believe i spoil her, and i must make all haste and double my spoiling, for very soon the world will deprive me of her to spoil her in their turn.' dear father! what a friend i lost!" and a tear started to the lovely eyes of madame de lucenay; then, extending her hand to m. de saint-remy, she said, in a faltering voice, "but indeed, in truth, i am happy, very happy, to see you again, you call up such precious remembrances,--memories so dear to my heart!" the comte, although he had long been acquainted with her original and decisive disposition, was really amazed at the ease with which clotilde reconciled herself to her exceedingly delicate position, which was no other than to meet her lover's father in her lover's house. "if you have been in paris for any time," continued madame de lucenay, "it is very naughty of you not to have come and seen me before this; for we should have had such long talks over the past; for you must know that i have reached an age when there is an excessive pleasure in saying to old friends, 'don't you remember!'" assuredly the duchess could not have discoursed with more confirmed tranquillity if she were receiving a morning visit at the hôtel de lucenay. m. de saint-remy could not prevent himself from saying with severity: "instead of talking of the past, it would be more fitting to discourse of the present. my son is expected every instant, and--" "no," said clotilde, interrupting him, "i have the key of the little door of the conservatory, and his arrival is always announced by a ring of the bell when he returns by the principal entrance; and at that sound i shall disappear as mysteriously as i arrived, and will leave you to all your pleasure, at again seeing florestan. what a delightful surprise you will give him! for it is so long since you forsook him. really, now i think of it, it is i who have to reproach you." "me? reproach me?" "assuredly. what guide, what aid had he, when he entered on the world? whilst there are a thousand things for which a father's counsels are indispensable. so, really and truly, it is very wrong of you--" here madame de lucenay, yielding to the whimsicality of her character, could not help laughing most heartily, and saying to the comte: "it must be owned that our position is at least an odd one, and that it is very funny that it should be i who am sermonising you." "why, it does seem very strange to me, i assure you; but i deserve neither your sermons nor your praises. i have come to my son's house, but not for my son's sake. at his age, he has not, or has no longer, any need of my advice." "what do you mean?" "you ought to know the reason for which i hold the world, and paris, especially, in such horror," said the comte, with a painful and distressing expression; "and you may therefore believe that nothing but circumstances of the utmost importance could have induced me to leave angers and have come hither--to this house. but i have been forced to overcome my repugnance, and have recourse to everybody who could aid or help me in a search which is most interesting to me." "oh, then," said madame de lucenay, with affectionate eagerness, "i beg you will make use of me; dispose of me in any way in which i can be useful to you. do you want any interest? because de lucenay must have some degree of influence; for, the days when i go to dine with my great-aunt, de montbrison, he entertains the deputies; and men don't do that without some motives; and the trouble ought to be recompensed by some contingent advantages, such as a certain amount of influence over persons, who, in their turn, have a great deal of interest. so, i repeat, if we can assist you, rely on us. then there is my cousin, the young duke de montbrison, who, being a peer himself, is connected with all the young peers. if he can do anything, why, i am sure you have but to command him. in a word, dispose of me and mine. you know whether or not i deserve the title of a warm and devoted friend!" "i know it well, and do not refuse your aid, although--" "come, my dear alcestis, we know how the world wags, and let us act as if we did. whether we are here or elsewhere, it is of little consequence, i imagine, as to the affair which interests you, and which now interests me very much because it is yours. let us then talk of it, and tell me all i request of you." so saying, the duchess approached the fireplace, leaned on the mantelpiece, and placed on the fender one of the prettiest feet in the world, which were, at the moment, somewhat chilled. with perfect tact madame de lucenay seized the opportunity of saying no more about the vicomte, and of engaging m. de saint-remy to talk of a subject to which he attached such great importance. clotilde's conduct would have been very different in the presence of his mother, and to her she would have avowed with pleasure and pride how long he had been so dear to, so beloved by, her. * * * * * in spite of his strictness and surliness, m. de saint-remy yielded to the influence of the cavalier and cordial demeanour of this lady, whom he had seen and loved when a child, and he almost forgot that he was talking to the mistress of his son. besides, how could he resist the contagion of example, while the subject of a position which was inexpressibly embarrassing did not seem disturbed, or even think she ought to be disturbed, by the difficulty of the situation in which she unexpectedly found herself? "perhaps you do not know, clotilde," said the comte, "that i have been living at angers for a very long time?" "yes, i know it." "in spite of the solitude i sought, i had selected that city because one of my relations lived there,--m. de fermont,--who, after the heavy blow that had smitten me, behaved to me like a brother. after having accompanied me to almost every city in europe, where i hoped to meet with the man i desired to slay, he served me for second in the duel--" "yes, that terrible duel; my father told me all concerning it!" answered the duchess, in a sad tone of voice. "but, fortunately, florestan is ignorant of that duel, as well as the cause that led to it." "i wished to let him still respect his mother," replied the comte, stifling a sigh. he then continued: "some years afterwards, m. de fermont died at angers in my arms, leaving a daughter and a wife, whom, in spite of my misanthropy, i was obliged to love, because nothing in the world could be more pure, more noble, than these two excellent creatures. i lived alone in a remote quarter of the city; but when my fits of black melancholy gave me some respite, i went to madame de fermont to talk with her and her daughter of him we had both lost. as whilst he was alive, so still i came to soothe and calm myself in that gentle friendship in whose bosom i had henceforth concentrated all my affections. the brother of madame de fermont dwelt in paris, and managed all his sister's affairs after her husband's decease. he had placed about a hundred thousand crowns ( , _l._), which was all the widow's fortune, with a notary. "after some time another and fearful shock affected madame de fermont. her brother, m. de renneville, killed himself about eight months ago. i did all in my power to comfort her. her first sorrow somewhat abated, she went to paris to arrange her affairs. after some time i learned that, by her orders, they were selling off the furniture she had in her small abode at angers, and that the money was applied to the payment of a few little debts she had left there. this disturbed me, and, on inquiry, i learned that this unhappy lady and her daughter were in dire distress,--the victims, no doubt, of a bankruptcy. if madame de fermont could, in such straits, rely on any one, it was on me, and yet i never received any information or application from her. it was when i lost this acquaintance that was so delightful to me that i felt all its value. you cannot imagine my suffering and my uneasiness after the departure of madame de fermont and her daughter. their father--husband--had been a brother to me, and i was resolved, therefore, to find them again, to learn how it was they had not addressed me in their ruin, poor as i was; and therefore i set out, leaving at angers a person who, if anything was learned, would inform me instantly of the news." "well?" "yesterday a letter from angers reached me,--they know nothing. when i reached paris i began my researches. i went first to the old servant of madame de fermont's brother; then they told me she lived on the quai of the canal st. martin." "well, that address--" "had been theirs; but they had moved, and where to was not known. unfortunately, up to the present time, my researches have been useless. after a thousand vain attempts before i utterly despaired, i resolved to come here. perhaps madame de fermont, who, from some inexplicable motive, has not asked from me aid or assistance, may have had recourse to my son as to the son of her husband's best friend. no doubt this hope has but very slight foundation; but i will not neglect any chance that may enable me to discover the poor woman and her child." the duchess de lucenay, who had been listening to the comte with the utmost attention, said, suddenly: "really it would be very singular if these should be the same persons in whom madame d'harville takes so much interest." "what persons?" inquired the comte. "the widow of whom you speak is still young, is she not?--her face very striking?" "yes, but how do you know?" "her daughter, as lovely as an angel, and about sixteen at most?" "yes, yes." "and her name is claire?" "oh, for mercy's sake, say, where are they?" "alas! i know not." "you know not?" "i will tell you all i know. a lady of my acquaintance, madame d'harville, came to me to inquire whether or not i knew a widow lady whose daughter was named claire, and whose brother had committed suicide. madame d'harville inquired of me because she had seen these words, 'write to madame de lucenay,' written at the bottom of a rough sketch of a letter which this unfortunate lady was writing to some stranger of whom she was asking assistance." "she wished to write to you; and wherefore to you?" "i cannot solve your question." "but she knew you, it would seem," said m. de saint-remy, struck with a sudden idea. "what mean you?" "she had heard me speak of your father a hundred times, as well as of you and your generous and excellent heart. in her misfortune, it occurred to her to address you." "that really does explain this." "and madame d'harville--tell me, how did she get this sketch of a letter into her possession?" "that i do not know; all i can say is, that, without knowing whither this poor mother and child had gone for refuge, she was, i believe, on the trace of them." "then i rely on you, clotilde, to introduce me to madame d'harville. i must see her this very day." "impossible! her husband has just been the victim of a most afflicting accident: a pistol which he did not know to be loaded went off in his hands, and he was killed on the spot." "how horrible!" "the marquise went instantly to pass the first months of her mourning with her father in normandy." "clotilde, i beseech you, write to her to-day; ask her for all the information in her power, and, as she takes an interest in these poor women, say she cannot find a warmer auxiliary than myself; that my only desire is to find the widow of my friend, and share with her and her daughter the little i possess. they are now all my family." "ever the same, always generous and devoted! rely on me. i will write to-day to madame d'harville. where shall i address my answer?" "to asnières _poste-restante_." "how odd! why do you live there, and not in paris?" "i detest paris, because of the recollections it excites in me!" said m. de saint-remy, with a gloomy air. "my old physician, doctor griffon, with whom i have kept up a correspondence, has a small house on the banks of the seine, near asnières, which he does not occupy in the winter; he offered it to me; it is almost close to paris, and there i could be undisturbed, and find the solitude i desire. so i accepted it." "i will then write to you at asnières, and i can give you some information which may be useful to you, and which i had from madame d'harville. madame de fermont's ruin has been occasioned by the roguery of the notary in whose hands all your deceased relative's fortune was deposited. the notary denied that the money was ever placed in his hands." "the scoundrel! and his name?" "m. jacques ferrand," replied the duchess, without being able to conceal her inclination to laugh. "how strange you are, clotilde!" said the comte, surprised and annoyed; "nothing can be more serious, more sad than this, and yet you laugh." in fact, madame de lucenay, at the recollection of the amorous declaration of the notary, had been unable to repress her hilarity. "pardon me, my dear sir," she replied, "but this notary is such a singular being, and they tell such odd stories about him; but, in truth, if his reputation as an honest man is not more deserved than his reputation as a religious man (and i declare that is hypocrisy) he is a great wretch." "and he lives--" "rue du sentier." "i will call upon him. what you tell me confirms certain other suspicions." "what suspicions?" "from certain information as to the death of the brother of my poor friend, i should be almost tempted to believe that that unhappy man, instead of committing suicide, had been the victim of assassination." "and what can make you suppose that?" "several reasons, which would be too long to detail to you now. i will leave you. do not forget the promises of service which you have made me in your own and your husband's name." "what, will you go without seeing florestan?" "you may suppose how painful this interview would be to me. i would brave it only in the hope of finding some information as to madame de fermont, being unwilling to neglect anything to discover her. now, then, adieu!" "ah, you are pitiless!" "do you not know?" "i know that your son was never in greater need of your advice." "what, is he not rich--happy?" "yes, but he is ignorant of mankind. blindly extravagant, because he is generous and confiding in everything, and everywhere and always free and noble, i fear people take advantage of his liberality. if you but knew the nobleness of his heart! i have never dared to preach to him on the subject of his expenditure and want of care: in the first place, because i am as inconsiderate as himself, and next, in the second place, for other reasons; whilst you, on the contrary--" madame de lucenay could not finish. the voice of florestan de saint-remy was heard. he entered hastily into the cabinet next to the room in which they were, and, after having shut the door suddenly, he said, in a broken voice, to some one who accompanied him: "but it is impossible." "i tell you again," replied the clear and sharp voice of m. badinot, "i tell you again that, if not, why, in four hours you will be apprehended; for, if he has not the cash forthwith, our man will lodge his complaint with the king's attorney-general; and you know the result of a forgery like this,--the galleys, the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!" chapter xi. the interview. it is impossible to paint the look which madame de lucenay and the father of florestan exchanged at these terrible words,--"the galleys, the galleys, my poor dear vicomte!" the comte became deadly pale, and leant on the back of an armchair, whilst his knees seemed to sink beneath him. his venerable and respected name,--his name dishonoured by the man whom he accused of being the fruit of adultery! the first feeling over, the contracted features of the old man, a threatening gesture which he made as he advanced towards the adjoining apartment, betrayed a resolution so alarming that madame de lucenay seized his hand, and said, in an accent of the most perfect conviction: "he is innocent; i will swear it. listen in silence." the comte paused. he wished to believe what the duchess said to him, and she was entirely persuaded of florestan's untarnished honour. to obtain fresh sacrifices from this woman, so blindly generous,--sacrifices which alone could save him from arrest,--and the prosecution of jacques ferrand, the vicomte had affirmed to madame de lucenay that, duped by a scoundrel from whom he had taken a forged bill in exchange, he ran the risk of being considered as the forger's accomplice, as having himself put this bill into circulation. madame de lucenay knew that the vicomte was imprudent, extravagant, reckless; but she never for an instant supposed him capable, not only of a base or an infamous action, but even of the slightest indiscretion. twice lending him considerable sums under very trying circumstances, she had wished to render him a friendly service, the vicomte expressly accepting these loans under the condition that he should return them; for there were persons, he said, who owed him double that amount; and his style of living made it seem probable. besides, madame de lucenay, yielding to the impulse of her natural kindness, had only thought of how she could be useful to florestan, without ever reflecting as to whether or not he would ever return the sums thus advanced. he said so, and she did not doubt him; for, otherwise, would he have accepted such large amounts? when, then, she thus answered for florestan's honour, entreating the old comte to listen to his son's conversation, the duchess thought that it was a question of the breach of honour of which the vicomte had declared himself the victim, and that he must stand forth completely exonerated in the eyes of his father. "again i declare," continued florestan, in a troubled voice, "this petit-jean is a scamp; he assured me that he had no other bills in his hands but those which i received from him yesterday and three days previously. i believed this one was still in circulation, and only due three months hence, in london, at the house of adams and company." "yes, yes," said the sarcastic voice of badinot, "i know, my dear vicomte, that you had managed the affair very cleverly, so that your forgeries would not be detected until you were a long way off; but you tried to 'do' those who were more cunning than yourself." "and you dare to say that to me, now, rogue as you are," exclaimed florestan, furious with anger, "when was it not you yourself who brought me into contact with the person who negotiated these bills?" "now, my dear aristocrat," replied badinot, coolly, "be cool! you very skilfully counterfeit commercial signatures; but, although they are so adroitly done, that is no reason why you should treat your friends with disagreeable familiarity; and, if you give way to unseemly fits of temper, i shall leave you, and then you may arrange this matter by yourself." "and do you think it possible for a man to be calm in such a position as that in which i find myself? if what you say be true, if this charge be to-day preferred at the office of the attorney-general, i am lost!" "it is really as i tell you, unless you have again recourse to your charming, blue-eyed providence." "impossible!" "then make up your mind to the worst. it is a pity; it was the last bill; and for five and twenty thousand miserable francs ( , _l._) to go and take the air at toulon is awkward, absurd, foolish! how could a clever fellow like you allow yourself to be thus taken aback?" "what can i do? what can i do? nothing here is my own, and i have not twenty louis in the world left." "your friends?" "why, i am in debt to every one who could lend me. do you think else that i am such a fool as to have waited until to-day before i applied to them?" "true; but, come, let us discuss the matter quietly; that is the best way of arriving at a reasonable conclusion. just now, i wish to explain to you how you had been met by a party more clever than yourself, but you did not attend to me." "well, tell me now, if that will do any good." "let us recapitulate. you said to me two months since, 'i have bills on different banking-houses, at long dates, for a hundred and thirteen thousand francs ( , _l._), and, my dear badinot, i wish you to find me the means of cashing them.'" "well, and then--" "listen: i asked you to let me see these bills; a certain something made me suspect that they were forged, although so admirably done. i did not suspect, it is true, that you were so expert in calligraphy; but, employing myself in looking after your fortune when you had no longer any fortune to look after, i found you were completely done up! i had arranged the deed by which your horses, your carriages, and the furniture of this house became the property of boyer and edwards. thus, then, there was no wonder at my astonishment when i found you in possession of commercial securities to such a considerable amount, eh?" "never mind your astonishment, but come to the point." "i am close upon it. i have enough experience or timidity not to be very anxious to mix myself up with affairs of this nature; i therefore advised you to consult a third party, who, no less clear-sighted than myself, suspected the trick you desired to play him." "impossible! he would not have discounted the bills if he had believed them forged." "how much money down did you get for these hundred and thirteen thousand francs?" "twenty-five thousand francs in ready money, and the rest in small debts to collect." "and how much of these small debts did you collect?" "nothing, as you very well know; they were fictitious; but still he risked twenty-five thousand francs." "how green you are, my dear vicomte! having my commission of a hundred louis to receive of you if the affair came off, i took very good care not to say a word to no. as to the real state of your affairs. thus he believed you entirely at your ease, and he, moreover, knew how you were adored by a certain great lady, immensely rich, who would not allow you to be left in any difficulties, and thus he was quite sure of recovering at least as much as he advanced. he ran a risk, certainly, of losing something, but he also ran a chance of gaining very considerably; and his calculation was correct, for, the other day, you counted out to him a hundred thousand francs, good and sound, in order to retire the bill for fifty-eight thousand francs; and, yesterday, thirty thousand francs for the second; for that he contented himself, it is true, with the actual amount. how you raised these thirty thousand francs yesterday, devil fetch me, if i can guess! but you are a wonderful fellow! you see, now, that, to wind up the account, if petit-jean forces you to pay the last bill of twenty-five thousand francs, he will have received from you a hundred and fifty-five thousand francs for the twenty-five thousand which he originally handed to you. so i was quite right when i said that you had met with a person even more clever than yourself." "but why did he say that this last bill which he presents to-day was negotiated?" "that you might not take the alarm, he told you also that, except that of fifty-eight thousand francs, the others were in circulation; the first being paid, yesterday comes the second, and to-day the third." "scoundrel!" "listen: every one for himself; but let us talk coolly. this must prove to you that petit-jean (and, between ourselves, i should not be astonished to find out that, in spite of his sanctity, jacques ferrand went snacks in the speculation), this must prove, i say, that petit-jean, led on by your first payments, speculates on this last bill, as he has speculated on the others, quite certain that your friends will not allow you to be handed over to a court of assizes. it is for you to see whether or not these friendships are yet drained dry, or if there are yet a few more drops to be squeezed out; for if, in three hours, the twenty-five thousand francs are not forthcoming, noble vicomte, you will be in the 'stone jug.'" "which you keep saying to me--" "in order that you may thoroughly comprehend me, and agree, perhaps, to try and draw another feather from the wing of this generous duchess." "i repeat, it is useless to think of such a thing. any hope of finding twenty-five thousand francs in three hours, after the sacrifices she has already made, would be madness to expect." "to please you, happy mortal, impossibilities would be attempted!" "oh, she has already tried impossibilities; for it was one to borrow a hundred thousand francs from her husband, and to succeed; but such phenomena are not expected twice in a lifetime. now, my dear badinot, up to this time you have had no cause to complain of me. i have always been generous. try and obtain some delay from this wretch, petit-jean. you know very well i always find a way of recompensing those who serve me; and when once this last affair is got over i will try again, and you shall be satisfied." "petit-jean is as inflexible as you are unreasonable." "i!" "try once more to interest your generous friend in your sad fate. devil take it! why not tell her plump all about it; not, as you have already, that you have been the dupe of forgers, but that you are a forger yourself?" "i will never make to her any such confession; it would be to shame myself for no advantage." "do you prefer, then, that she should learn the fact to-morrow by the _gazette des tribunaux_." "i have three hours before me, and can fly." "where can you go without money? but look at the other side of the matter. this last forged bill retired, you will be again in a splendid position; you will only have a few debts. come, promise me that you will again speak to your duchess. you are such a fellow for the women! you know how to make yourself interesting in spite of your errors; and, let the worst come to the worst, they will like you a little the worse, or not at all; but they will extricate you from your mess. come, come, see your lovely and loving friend once more. i will run to petit-jean, and i feel sure i shall get a respite of an hour or two." "hell! must i, then, drink the draught of shame to the very dregs?" "come, come, good luck; be tender, passionate, charming. i will run to petit-jean; you will find me there until three o'clock; later than that will be useless; the attorney-general's office closes at four o'clock." and m. badinot left the apartment. when the door was closed, they heard florestan exclaim in accents of the deepest despair: "_mon dieu! mon dieu! mon dieu!_" during this conversation, which unveiled to the comte the infamy of his son, and to madame de lucenay the infamy of the man she had so blindly loved, both had remained motionless, scarcely breathing, beneath this fearful disclosure. it would be impossible to depict the mute eloquence of the agonising scene which took place between this young lady and the comte when he had no longer any possible doubt as to florestan's crime. extending his arms to the room in which his son was, the old man smiled with bitterest sarcasm, casting an overwhelming look on madame de lucenay, which seemed to say, "and this is the man for whom you have braved all shame,--made every sacrifice! this is he whom you have reproached me for abandoning?" the duchess understood the reproach, and, bowing her head, she felt all the weight of her shame. the lesson was terrible. by degrees, however, a haughty indignation succeeded to the cruel anxiety which had contracted the features of madame de lucenay. the inexcusable faults of this lady were at least palliated by the sincerity and disinterestedness of her love, by the boldness of her devotion and the boundlessness of her generosity, by the frankness of her character, and by her inexorable aversion from all that was contemptible and base. still too young, too handsome, too _recherché_, to feel the humiliation of having been merely made a tool of, when once the feeling of love was suddenly crushed within her, this haughty and decided woman felt no longer hatred or anger, but instantaneously, and without any transition, a deadly disgust, an icy disdain, at once destroyed all that affection hitherto so strong. she was no longer the mistress, unworthily deceived by her lover, but the lady of high blood and rank detecting a man of her circle to be a swindler and a forger, and driving him forth. supposing that there were even some extenuating circumstances for the ignominy of florestan, madame de lucenay would not have admitted them; for, in her estimation, the man who crossed certain bounds of honour, whether from vice, weakness, or persuasion, no longer had an existence in her eyes, honourable demeanour being with her a question of existence or non-existence. the only painful feeling which the duchess experienced was excited by the terrible effect which this unexpected revelation produced on her old friend, the comte. for some moments he seemed neither to see nor hear; his eyes were fixed, his head bowed, his arms hanging by his side, his face livid as death; whilst from time to time a convulsive sigh heaved his breast. with such a man, as resolute as energetic, such a condition was more alarming than the most violent transports of anger. madame de lucenay regarded him with great uneasiness. "courage, my dear friend," she said to him, in a low voice, "for you,--for me,--for this man,--i know what remains for me to do." the old man looked steadfastly at her, and then, as if aroused from his stupor by a violent internal commotion, he raised his head, his features assumed a menacing appearance, and, forgetting that his son could hear him, he exclaimed: "and i, too, for you,--for me,--and for this man,--i know what remains for me to do." "who is there?" inquired florestan, surprised. madame de lucenay, fearing to find herself in the vicomte's presence, disappeared by the little door, and descended the secret staircase. florestan having again asked who was there, and receiving no reply, entered the salon. he found the comte there alone. the old man's long beard had so greatly altered him, and he was so miserably clad, that his son, who had not seen him for several years, not recognising him at the moment, advanced towards him with a menacing air. "what are you doing there? who are you?" "the husband of that woman!" replied the comte, pointing to the picture of madame de saint-remy. "my father!" exclaimed florestan, recoiling in alarm, as he recalled the features of the comte, so long forgotten. standing erect, with threatening air, angry look, his forehead scarlet, the comte looked down upon his son, who, with his head bent down, dared not raise his eyes towards him. still, m. de saint-remy, for some motive, made a violent effort to remain calm, and conceal his real feelings and resentment. "my father!" said florestan, half choked. "you were there?" "i was there." "you heard, then?" "all!" "ah!" cried the vicomte, in agony, and hiding his face in his hands. there was a minute's silence. florestan, at first as much astonished as annoyed at the unexpected appearance of his father, began to reflect upon what advantage he could derive from this incident. "all is not lost," he said to himself; "my father's presence is a stroke of fate. he knows all; he will not have his name dishonoured. he is not rich, but he must possess more than twenty-five thousand francs. a little skill, and i may leave my duchess at peace, and be saved!" then, giving to his handsome features an expression of grief and dejection, moistening his eye with the tears of repentance, assuming his most touching tone of voice, he exclaimed, clasping his hands with a gesture of despair: "ah, father, i am indeed wretched! after so many years,--to see you--at such a moment! i must appear to you most culpable; but deign to listen to me! i beseech you, allow me, not to justify myself, but to explain to you my conduct! will you, my father?" m. de saint-remy made no reply; his features remained rigid; but, seating himself, his chin leaning on the palm of his hand, he contemplated the vicomte in silence. had florestan known the motives which filled the mind of his father with fury and vengeance, alarmed by the apparent composure of the comte, he would not, doubtless, have tried to dupe him. but, ignorant of the suspicions respecting the legitimacy of his birth, and of his mother's lapse of virtue, he had no doubt of the success of his deceit, thinking his father, who was very proud of his name, was capable of making any sacrifice rather than allow it to be dishonoured. "my father," resumed florestan, timidly, "allow me to endeavour, not to exculpate myself, but to tell you by what a series of involuntary temptations i have done, in spite of myself,--such--an infamous action." the vicomte took his father's silence for tacit consent, and continued: "when i had the misfortune to lose my mother--my poor mother!--i was alone, without advice or support. master of a considerable fortune, used to luxury from my cradle, it became to me a necessity. ignorant how difficult it is to earn money, i was immeasurably prodigal. unfortunately, my expenses, foolish as they were, were remarkable for their elegance. by my taste, i eclipsed men ten times richer than myself. this first success intoxicated me, and i became a man of extravagance, as one becomes a man of arms, or a statesman. yes, i liked luxury, not from vulgar ostentation, but i liked it as a painter loves his art. like every artist, i was jealous of my work, and my work was to me luxury. i sacrificed everything to its perfection. i wished to have it beautiful and complete in everything, from my stable to my drawing-room, from my coat to my house. i wished my life to be the emblem of taste and elegance. in fact, as an artist, i sought the applause of the mob and the admiration of the élite. this success is rare, but i acquired it." as he spake, florestan's features gradually lost their hypocritical assumption, and his eyes kindled with enthusiasm. he looked in his father's face, and, thinking it was somewhat softened, continued: "oracle and regulator of the world, my praise or blame were law: i was quoted, copied, boasted of, admired, and that by the best circle in paris, which is to say in europe--in the world. the women participated in the general enthusiasm, and the loveliest contended for the pleasure of being invited to certain fêtes which i gave, and everywhere wonder was expressed at the incomparable elegance and taste displayed at these fêtes, which millionaires could not equal. in fine, i was the monarch of fashion. this word will tell you all, my father, if you comprehend it." "i do comprehend it, and i am sure that at the galleys you will invent some refined elegance in your fashion of wearing your chain that will become the mode in your gang, and will be called _à la_ saint-remy," said the old man, with cutting irony, adding, "and saint-remy,--that is my name!" and again he was silent. florestan had need of all his self-control to conceal the wound which this bitter sarcasm inflicted. he continued in a more humble tone: "alas! father, it is not from pride that i revive the recollection of my success, for, i repeat to you, it is that success which has undone me. sought, envied, and flattered, not by interested parasites, but by persons much superior in position to myself, i no longer calculated my fortune must be expended in a few years; that i did not heed. could i renounce this favourite, dazzling life, in which pleasures succeeded pleasures, every kind of intoxication to every kind of enchantment? ah, if you knew, father, what it is to be hailed as the hero of the day, to hear the murmur which greets your entrance into the salon, to hear the women say, 'that is he! there he is!'--oh, if you knew--" "i know," said the old man, without moving from his attitude,--"i know. yes, the other day, in a public place, there was a crowd; suddenly a murmur was heard, like that which greets you when you enter some place; then the women's eyes were all turned eagerly on a very handsome young man, just as they are turned towards you, and they pointed him out to one another, saying, 'that's he! there he is!' just as if they were directing attention to you." "and this man, my father?" "was a forger they were conveying to gaol." "ah!" exclaimed florestan, with concentrated rage. then affecting the deepest affliction, he added, "my father, you are pitiless,--what shall i then say to you? i do not seek to deny my errors, i only desire to explain to you the fatal infatuation which has caused them. well, then, even if you should overwhelm me still with your bitterest sarcasms, i will endeavour to go through with this confession,--i will endeavour to make you comprehend this feverish excitement which has destroyed me, because then, perchance, you may pity me,--yes, for there is pity for a madman, and i was mad! shutting my eyes, i abandoned myself to the dazzling whirl into which i was drawn, and drew with me the most charming women, the most delightful men. how could i check myself? as easily say to the poet who exhausts himself, and whose genius preys upon his health, 'pause in the midst of the inspiration which urges you!' no! he could not--i could not, abdicate the royalty which i exercised, and return shamed, ruined, and mocked at, into the unknown mob, giving this triumph to those who envied me, and whom, until then, i had defied, controlled, overpowered! no! no! i could not, voluntarily, at least. "then came the fatal day, when, for the first time, money failed me. i was surprised as much as if such a moment never could have arrived. yet i had still my horses, my carriages, the furniture of this house. when my debts were paid there would, perhaps, still remain to me about sixty thousand francs. what could i do in such misery? it was then, father, that i made my first step in the path of disgrace; until this time i was honourable,--i had only spent what belonged to me, but then i began to incur debts which i had no chance of paying. i sold all i had to two of my domestics in order to pay my debt to them, and to be enabled to continue for six months longer, in spite of my creditors, to enjoy the luxury which intoxicated me. "to supply my play debts and extravagant outlay i first borrowed of the jews, then, to pay the jews, of my friends, then, to pay my friends, of my mistresses. these resources exhausted, there was another period of my life; from an honest man i became a gambler, but, as yet, i was not criminal--i still hesitated--i desired to take a violent resolution. i had proved in several duels that i did not fear death. i determined to kill myself!" "ah! bah! really?" said the comte, with fierce irony. "you do not believe me, father?" "it was too soon or too late!" replied the old man, still unmoved, and in the same attitude. florestan, believing that he had moved his father by speaking to him of his project for committing suicide, thought it necessary to increase the effect by a _coup de théâtre_. he opened a drawer, took from it a small bottle of greenish glass, and said to the comte, depositing it on the table: "an italian quack sold me this poison." "and was this poison for yourself?" said the old man, still having his chin in the palm of his hand. florestan understood the force of the remark, his features expressed real indignation; for this time he spoke the truth. one day he took it into his head to kill himself,--an ephemeral fancy! persons of his stamp are usually too cowardly to make up their minds calmly, and without witnesses, to the death which they face as a point of honour in a duel. he therefore exclaimed, with an accent of truth: "i have fallen very low, but not so low as that. it was for myself that i reserved this poison." "and then were afraid of it?" asked the comte, without changing his posture. "i confess i recoiled before this trying extremity,--nothing was yet desperate. the persons to whom i owed money were rich and could wait. at my age, and with my connections, i hoped for a moment, if not to repair my fortunes, at least to acquire for myself an honourable position, an independence which would have supplied my present situation. many of my friends, perhaps less qualified than myself, had made rapid progress in diplomacy. i had ambition. i had but to make it known, and i was attached to the legation to gerolstein. unfortunately, a few days after this nomination, a gaming debt, contracted with a man who detested me, placed me in a cruel dilemma. i had exhausted my last resources. a fatal idea flashed across my mind. believing that i was assured of impunity, i committed an infamous action. you see, my father, i conceal nothing from you. i avow the ignominy of my conduct,--i do not seek to extenuate anything. two alternatives are now before me, and i am equally inclined to either. the one is to kill myself, and leave your name dishonoured; for if i do not pay this very day the twenty-five thousand francs, the accusation is made, and all is made public, and, dead or alive, i am disgraced. the second is to throw myself into your arms, father, to say to you, 'save your son,--save your name from infamy;' and i swear to you to depart for africa to-morrow, and die a soldier's death, or return to you completely restored in reputation. what i say to you, father, is true,--in face of the extremity which overwhelms me, i have no other resource. decide: shall i die covered with shame, or, thanks to you, live to repair my fault? these are not the threats of a young man. i am twenty-five; i bear your name, and i have sufficient courage either to kill myself, or to become a soldier; for i will not go to the galleys." [illustration: _was about to embrace his father._ etching by marcel after the drawing by frank t. merrill.] the comte rose from his seat, saying: "i do not desire to have my name dishonoured." "oh, my father!" exclaimed the vicomte, with warmth, and was about to embrace his father, when the old man, repressing his enthusiasm, said: "you are expected until three o'clock at the man's house who has the forged bill?" "yes, father, and it is now two o'clock." "let us go into your cabinet; give me writing materials." "they are here, father." the comte sat down and wrote, with a firm hand: "i undertake to pay this evening, at ten o'clock, the twenty-five thousand francs which my son owes. "comte de saint-remy." "your creditor merely wants his money; my guarantee will obtain a further delay. let him go to m. dupont, the banker, at no. in the rue richelieu, and he will assure him of the validity of this promise." "oh, my father! how can i ever--" "expect me this evening; at ten o'clock i will bring the money. let your creditor be here." "yes, father, and the day after i will set out for africa. you shall see that i am not ungrateful! then, perhaps, when i am again restored to honour you will accept my thanks?" "you owe me nothing. i have said that my name shall not be dishonoured again; nor shall it be," said m. de saint-remy, in reply, taking up his cane, and moving towards the door. "my father, at least shake hands with me!" said florestan. "here this evening at ten o'clock," said the comte, refusing his hand. "saved!" exclaimed florestan, joyously,--"saved!" then he continued, after a moment's reflection: "saved--almost--no matter--it is always so. perhaps this evening i shall tell him of the other thing. he is in the vein, and will not allow a first sacrifice to become useless for lack of a second. yet why should i tell him? who will ever know it? yet, if nothing should be discovered, i shall keep the money he will give me to pay this last debt. i had some work to move him. the bitterness of his sarcasms made me suspicious of his good resolution; but my threat of suicide, the fear of seeing his name dishonoured, decided him. that was the way to hit him. no doubt he is not so poor as he appears to be. but his arrival was indeed a godsend. now, then, for the man of law!" he rang the bell, and m. boyer appeared. "how was it that you did not inform me that my father was here? really, this is most negligent." "twice i endeavoured to address your lordship when you came in by the garden gate with m. badinot, but your lordship made me a sign with your hand not to interrupt you. i did not venture to insist. i should be very much grieved if your lordship should impute negligence to me." "very well. desire edwards to harness orion or ploughboy in the cabriolet immediately." m. boyer made a respectful bow. as he was about to quit the room, some one knocked. he looked at the vicomte with an inquiring air. "come in!" said florestan. a second _valet de chambre_ appeared, bearing in his hand a small silver-gilt waiter. m. boyer took hold of the waiter with a kind of jealous haste, and presented it to the vicomte, who took from it a thick packet, sealed with black wax. the two servants withdrew discreetly. florestan broke open the envelope. it contained twenty-five thousand francs in treasury bills, but not a word of writing. "decidedly," he exclaimed, in a joyful tone, "the day is propitious! saved this time, and at this moment completely saved! i will run to the jeweller; and yet," he added, "perhaps--no--let us wait--he cannot have any suspicion of me. twenty-five thousand francs is a pleasant sum to have by one! _pardieu!_ i was a fool ever to doubt the luck of my star; at the moment when it seemed most obscure, has it not burst forth more brilliant than ever? but where does this money come from? the writing of the address is unknown to me. let me examine the seal,--the cipher. yes, yes, i cannot mistake; an n and an l,--it is clotilde! how could she know? and not a word,--that's strange! how very opportune, though! ah, _mon dieu!_ now i remember. i had an appointment with her this morning. that badinot's threats drove it out of my head. i forgot clotilde. after having waited for me down-stairs, no doubt she went away; and this is, unquestionably, a delicate way of making me understand that she fears i may forget her through some pecuniary embarrassment. yes, it is an indirect reproach that i have not applied to her as usual. good clotilde! always the same,--generous as a queen! what a pity i was ever driven to ask her,--her still so handsome! i sometimes regret it, but i only did it in a direful extremity, and on sheer compulsion." "your lordship's cabriolet is at the door," said m. boyer, on entering the room. "who brought this letter?" florestan inquired. "i do not know, my lord." "well, i will ask below. but tell me, was there no one in the ground floor?" asked the vicomte, looking significantly at boyer. "there is no one there now, my lord." "i was not mistaken," thought florestan; "clotilde waited for me, and is now gone." "if your lordship would have the goodness to grant me two minutes," said boyer. "speak, but be quick!" "edwards and myself have learnt that the duc de montbrison is desirous of forming an establishment. if your lordship would but just be so kind to propose your own ready furnished, with the stable in first-rate order, it would be a most admirable opportunity for edwards and myself to get the whole off our hands, and, perhaps, for your lordship a good reason for disposing of them." "_pardieu!_ boyer, you are right. as for me, i should prefer such an arrangement. i will see montbrison, and speak to him. what are your terms?" "your lordship will easily understand that we are desirous of profiting as much as possible by your generosity." "and turn your bargain to the best advantage? nothing can be plainer! let us see,--what's the price?" "the whole, two hundred and sixty thousand francs ( , _l._), my lord." "and you and edwards will thus clear--" "about forty thousand francs ( , _l._), my lord." "a very nice sum! but so much the better, for, after all, i am very much satisfied with you, and, if i had to make my will, i should have bequeathed that sum to you and edwards." and the vicomte went out, first to call on his creditor, then on madame de lucenay, whom he did not suspect of having been present at his conversation with badinot. chapter xii. the search. the hôtel de lucenay was one of those royal residences of the faubourg st. germain, which the space employed, and, as it were, lost, make so vast. a modern house might, with ease, be contained in the limits devoted to the staircase of one of these palaces, and a whole quarter might be built in the extent they occupy. about nine o'clock in the evening of this day the two vast folding-doors of this hôtel opened on the arrival of a magnificent chariot, which, after having taken a dashing turn in the spacious courtyard, stopped before the large covered flight of steps which led to the first antechamber. whilst the hoofs of two powerful and high-couraged horses sounded on the echoing pavement, a gigantic footman opened the door, emblazoned with armorial bearings, and a young man alighted gracefully from this brilliant carriage, and no less gracefully walked up the five or six steps of the entrance. this young man was the vicomte de saint-remy. on leaving his creditor, who, satisfied with the undertaking of florestan's father, had granted the required delay, and was to come and receive his money at ten o'clock in the rue de chaillot, m. de saint-remy had gone to madame de lucenay's, to thank her for the fresh service she had rendered him, and, not having seen the duchess during the morning, he came triumphant, certain of finding her in _prima sera_, the hour which she constantly reserved for him. by the attention of the footmen in the antechamber, who hastened to open the glass door as soon as they saw florestan's carriage, by the profoundly respectful air with which the rest of the livery all rose as the vicomte passed by, and by certain, yet almost imperceptible touches, it was evident that here was the second, or, rather, the real master of the house. when the duc de lucenay returned home, with his umbrella in his hand and his feet protected by clumsy goloshes (he hated going out in a carriage in the daytime), the same domestic evolutions were gone through with similar respect; still, in the eyes of a keen observer, there was a vast difference between the reception accorded to the husband and that reserved for the lover. a corresponding attention displayed itself in the footman's waiting-room when florestan entered it, and one of the valets instantly arose to announce him to madame de lucenay. the vicomte had never been more joyous, never felt himself more at his ease, more confident of himself, more assured of conquest. the victory he had obtained over his father in the morning, the fresh proof of attachment on the part of madame de lucenay, the joy at having escaped, as it were, by a miracle, from a terrible situation, his renewed confidence in his star, gave his handsome features an expression of boldness and good humour which rendered it still more captivating. in fact, he had never felt himself more himself. and he was right. never had his slender and graceful figure displayed a finer carriage, never had his look been more elevated, never had his pride been more deliciously tickled by the thought, "the great lady--the mistress of this palace is mine--is at my feet! this very morning she waited for me in my own house!" florestan had given way to these excessively vain-glorious reflections as he traversed three or four apartments, which led to a small room in which the duchess usually sat. a last look at himself in a glass which he passed completed the excellent opinion which florestan had of himself. the _valet de chambre_ opened the folding-doors of the salon, and announced, "monsieur the vicomte de saint-remy!" it is impossible to paint the astonishment and indignation of the duchess. she believed the comte had not concealed from his son that she also had overheard all. we have already said that, on discovering florestan's infamy, madame de lucenay's love, suddenly quenched, had changed into the most frigid disdain. we have also said that, in the midst of her errors, her frailties, madame de lucenay had preserved pure and intact her feelings of rectitude, honour, and chivalric frankness, whose strength and requirements were excessively strong. she possessed the better qualities of her faults, the virtues of her vices. treating love as cavalierly as a man treats it, she pushed as far, nay, further, than a man, devotion, generosity, courage, and, above all, intense horror of all baseness. madame de lucenay, being about to go to a party in the evening, was, although without her diamonds, dressed with her accustomed taste and magnificence; and her splendid costume, the rouge she wore without attempt at concealment, like a court lady, up to her eyelids, her beauty, which was especially brilliant at candle-light, her figure of a goddess walking in the clouds, rendered still more striking that noble air which no one displayed to greater advantage than she did, and which she carried, if requisite, to a height of insolence that was overwhelming. we know the haughty and resolute disposition of the duchess, and we may imagine her physiognomy, her look, when the vicomte, advancing towards her, conceited, smiling, confident, said, in a tone of love: "dearest clotilde, how good you are! how you--" the vicomte could not finish. the duchess was seated, and had not risen; but her gesture, her glance, betokened contempt, at once so calm and crushing that florestan stopped short. he could not utter another word, nor advance another step. he had never before seen madame de lucenay under this aspect. he could not believe that it was the same woman, whom he had always found gentle, tender, and passionately submissive; for nothing is more humble, more timid, than a determined woman in the presence of the man whom she loves and who controls her. his first surprise past, florestan was ashamed of his weakness; his habitual audacity resumed its ascendency, and, making a step towards madame de lucenay in order to take her hand, he said, in his most insinuating tone: "clotilde, what ails you? i never saw you look so lovely, and yet--" "really, this is too impudent!" exclaimed the duchess, recoiling with such disgust and hauteur that florestan was again overcome with surprise. resuming some assurance, he said to her: "will you, at least, clotilde, tell me the cause of this change, sudden, singular as it is? what have i done? how have i offended?" without making any reply, madame de lucenay looked at him, as is vulgarly said, from head to foot, with so insulting an expression that florestan felt red with the anger which displayed itself upon his brow, and exclaimed: "i am aware, madame, that it is thus you habitually break off. is it a rupture that you now desire?" "the question is singular!" said madame de lucenay, with a sarcastic laugh. "learn, sir, that when a lackey robs me, i do not break with him, i turn him away." "madame!" "oh, a truce to this!" said the duchess, in a stern and peremptory tone. "your presence disgusts me! why are you here? have you not had your money?" "it is true, then, as i guessed, the twenty-five thousand francs--" "your last forgery is withdrawn, is it not? the honour of your family's name is saved,--that is well,--go!" "ah! believe me--" "i very much regret that money, for it might have succoured so many honest families; but it was necessary to think of the shame to your father and to myself." "so then, clotilde, you know all? ah, then, now nothing is left me but to die!" exclaimed florestan, in a most pathetic and despairing tone. a burst of derisive laughter from the duchess hailed this tragic exclamation, and she added, between two fits of fresh hilarity: "i could never have believed infamy could appear so ridiculous!" "madame!" cried florestan, his features contracted with rage. the two folding-doors opened with a loud noise, and m. le duc de montbrison was announced. in spite of his self-command, florestan could scarcely repress the violence of his resentment, which any man more observing than the duke must certainly have perceived. m. de montbrison was scarcely eighteen years of age. let our readers imagine a most engaging countenance, like that of a young girl, white and red, whose vermilion lips and downy chin were slightly shaded by a nascent beard. let them add to this large brown eyes, as yet timid, but which in time would gleam like a falcon's, a figure as graceful as that of the duchess herself, and then, perhaps, they may have some idea of this young duke, the cherubino as complete in idea as ever countess or waiting-maid decked in a woman's cap, after having remarked the ivory whiteness of his neck. the vicomte had the weakness or the audacity to remain. "how kind of you, conrad, to think of me this evening!" said madame de lucenay, in a most affectionate voice, and extending her hand to the young duke, who was about to shake hands with his cousin, but clotilde raised her hand a little, and said to him gaily: "kiss it, cousin,--you have your gloves on." "pardon me, my dear cousin," said the young man, as he applied his lips to the naked and charming hand that was offered to him. "what are you going to do this evening, conrad?" inquired madame de lucenay, without seeming to take the slightest notice in the world of florestan. "nothing, cousin; when i leave you, i shall go to the club." "indeed you shall not; you shall accompany us, m. de lucenay and me, to madame de senneval's; she gives a party, and has frequently asked me to introduce you to her." "i shall be but too happy." "then, too, i must tell you frankly that i don't like to see you begin so early with your habits and tastes for clubs. you are possessed of everything necessary in order to be everywhere welcomed, and even sought after, in the world, and you ought, therefore, to mix with it as much as possible." "yes, you are right, cousin." "and as i am on the footing of a grandmother with you, my dear conrad, i am determined to exact a great deal from you. you are emancipated, it is true, but i believe you will want a guardian for a long time to come, and you must, therefore, consider me in that light." "most joyfully, happily, cousin!" said the young duke, emphatically. it is impossible to describe the mute rage of florestan, who was standing up, and leaning with his elbow on the mantelpiece. neither the duke nor clotilde paid the slightest attention to him. knowing the rapidity with which madame de lucenay decided, he imagined she was pushing her boldness and contempt so far as to commence at once, and in his presence, a regular flirtation with the duc de montbrison. it was not so. the duchess felt for her cousin nothing beyond a truly maternal affection, having almost seen him born. but the young duke was so handsome, and seemed so happy at the agreeable reception of his cousin, that the jealousy, or, rather, pride of florestan was aroused. his heart writhed beneath the cruel wounds of envy, excited by conrad de montbrison, who, rich and handsome, was beginning so splendidly that life of pleasures, enjoyments, and fêtes, from which he, ruined, undone, despised, dishonoured, was expelled. m. de saint-remy was brave with that bravery of the head, if we may so call it, which will urge a man, by anger or by vanity, to face a duel. but, vitiated and corrupted, he had not the courage of the heart which triumphs over bad inclinations, or which, at least, gives the energy which enables a man to escape infamy by a voluntary death. furious at the bitter contempt of the duchess, believing he saw a successor in the young duke, m. de saint-remy resolved to confront madame de lucenay with all insolence, and, if need were, to seek a quarrel with conrad. the duchess, irritated at florestan's audacity, did not look towards him, and m. de montbrison, in his anxious attention to his cousin, forgetting something of his high breeding, had not saluted or spoken a word to the vicomte, with whom he was acquainted. the latter, advancing to conrad, whose back was towards him, touched his arm lightly, and said, in a dry and ironical tone: "good evening, sir; a thousand pardons for not having observed you before." m. de montbrison, perceiving that he had really failed in politeness, turned around instantly, and said cordially to the vicomte: "really, sir, i am ashamed; but i hope that my cousin, who caused my forgetfulness, will be my excuse, and--" "conrad," interposed the duchess, immeasurably annoyed at florestan's impudence, persisting as he did in remaining, as it were, to brave her,--"conrad, that will do; make no apologies; it is not worth while." m. de montbrison, believing that his cousin was reproaching him in joke for being somewhat too formal, said, in a gay tone, to the vicomte, who was livid with rage: "i will not say more, sir, since my cousin forbids me. you see her guardianship has begun." "and will not stop when it begins, my dear sir, be assured of that. thus, with this notice (which madame la duchesse will hasten to fulfil, i have no doubt)--with this notice, i say, i have it in my mind to make you a proposal." "to me, sir?" said conrad, beginning to take offence at the sardonic tone of florestan. "to you yourself. i leave in a few days for the legation to gerolstein, to which i am attached. i wish, therefore, to get my house, completely furnished, and my stable, entirely arranged, off my hands; and you might find it a suitable arrangement;" and the vicomte insolently emphasised his last words, looking madame de lucenay full in the face. "it would be very piquant, would it not, madame la duchesse?" "i do not understand you, sir," said m. de montbrison, more and more astonished. "i will tell you, conrad, why you cannot accept the offer that is made you," said clotilde. "and why, madame la duchesse, cannot the duke accept my offer?" "my dear conrad, what is offered you for sale is already sold to others. so, you understand, you would have the inconvenience of being robbed just as if you were in a wood." florestan bit his lips with rage. "take care, madame!" he cried. "what, threats! and here, sir?" exclaimed conrad. "pooh, pooh! conrad, pay no attention," said madame de lucenay, taking a lozenge from a sweetmeat box with the utmost composure; "a man of honour ought not and cannot have any future communication with that person. if he likes, i will tell you why." a tremendous explosion would no doubt have occurred, when the two folding-doors again opened, and the duc de lucenay entered, noisily, violently, hurriedly, as was "his usual custom in the afternoon," as well as the forenoon. "ah, my dear! what, dressed already?" said he to his wife. "why, how surprising! quite astonishing! good evening, saint-remy; good evening, conrad. ah, you see the most miserable of men; that is to say, i neither sleep nor eat, but am completely 'done up.' can't reconcile myself to it. poor d'harville, what an event!" and m. de lucenay threw himself back in a sort of small sofa with two backs, and, crossing his left knee over his right, took his foot in his hand, whilst he continued to utter the most distressing exclamations. the excitement of conrad and florestan had time to calm down, without being perceived by m. de lucenay, who was the least clear-sighted man in the world. madame de lucenay, not from embarrassment, for she was never embarrassed, as we know, but because florestan's presence was as disgusting as it was insupportable, said to the duke: "we are ready to go as soon as you please. i am going to introduce conrad to madame de senneval." "no, no, no!" cried the duke, letting go his foot to seize one of the cushions, on which he struck violently with his two fists, to the great alarm of clotilde, who, at the sudden cries of her husband, started from her chair. "monsieur, what ails you?" she inquired; "you frighten me exceedingly." "no," replied the duke, thrusting the cushion from him, rising suddenly, and walking up and down with rapid strides and gesticulations, "i cannot get over the idea of the death of poor dear d'harville; can you, saint-remy?" "indeed, it was a frightful event!" said the vicomte, who, with hatred and rage in his heart, kept his eye on m. de montbrison; but this latter, after the last words of his cousin, turned away from a man so deeply degraded, not from want of feeling, but from pride. "for goodness' sake, my lord," said the duchess to her husband, "do not regret the loss of m. d'harville in so noisy and really so singular a manner. ring, if you please for my carriage." "yes, it is really true," said m. de lucenay, seizing the bell-rope, "really true that, three days ago, he was full of life and health, and, to-day, what remains of him? nothing! nothing! nothing!" these three last exclamations were accompanied by three such violent pulls that the bell-rope, which the duke held in his hand whilst he was gesticulating, broke away from the upper spring, fell on a candelabra filled with lighted wax candles, knocked two of them out of the sconces, one of which, falling on the mantelpiece, broke a lovely little cup of old sèvres china; whilst the other, falling on the ground, rolled on a fur hearth rug, which took flame, but was soon extinguished under conrad's foot. at the same moment, two _valets de chambre_, summoned by the furious ringing, entered hastily, and found m. de lucenay with the bell-rope in his hand, the duchess laughing heartily at this ridiculous fall of the wax lights, and m. de montbrison sharing her mirth. m. de saint-remy alone did not laugh. m. de lucenay, quite accustomed to such accidents, preserved his usual seriousness, and, throwing the bell-rope to one of the men, said: "the duchess's carriage." clotilde, having somewhat recovered her composure, said: "really, my lord, there is no man in the world but yourself capable of exciting laughter at so lamentable an event." "lamentable! say fearful. why, now, only yesterday, i was recollecting how many persons in my own family i would rather should have died than poor d'harville. first, there's my nephew, d'emberval, who stutters so annoyingly; then there's your aunt mérinville, who is always talking about her nerves and her headache, and who always gobbles up every day, whilst she is waiting for dinner, a mess of broth like a porter's wife. are you very fond of your aunt mérinville?" "really, my lord, have you lost your wits?" said the duchess, shrugging her shoulders. "it's true enough, though," continued the duke; "one would give twenty indifferent persons for one friend; eh, saint-remy?" "unquestionably." "it is the old story of the tailor over again. do you know it, conrad,--the story of the tailor?" "no, cousin." "you will understand the allegory at once. a tailor was going to be hanged; he was the only tailor in the village. what were the inhabitants to do? they said to the judge, 'please your judgeship, we have only one tailor, and we have three shoemakers; if it is all the same to you, please to hang one of the three shoemakers in the place of the tailor, for two shoemakers are enough.' do you understand the allegory, conrad?" "yes, cousin." "and you, saint-remy?" "quite." "her grace's carriage!" said one of the servants. "but, i say, why haven't you put on your diamonds?" asked m. de lucenay, abruptly; "with that dress they would look remarkably well." saint-remy shuddered. "for the one poor time we are going out together," continued the duke, "you might have done us the honour to wear your diamonds. the duchess's diamonds are particularly fine. did you ever see them, saint-remy?" "yes, he knows them well enough!" said clotilde; and then she added, "your arm, conrad." m. de lucenay followed the duchess with saint-remy, who could scarcely repress his anger. "aren't you coming with us to the sennevals, saint-remy?" inquired m. de lucenay. "no, impossible," he replied, briefly. "by the way, saint-remy, there's madame de senneval, too,--what, do i say one? there's two--whom i would willingly sacrifice, for her husband is also on my list." "what list?" "that of the people whom i should not have cared to see die, provided d'harville had been left to us." at the moment when they were in the anteroom, and m. de montbrison was helping the duchess on with her mantle, m. de lucenay, addressing his cousin, said to him: "since you are coming with us, conrad, desire your carriage to follow ours; unless you will decide on coming, saint-remy, and then you shall take me, and i will tell you another story quite as good as that of the tailor." "thank you," said saint-remy, dryly, "i cannot accompany you." "well, then, good night, my dear fellow. have you and my wife quarrelled, for she is getting into her carriage without saying a word to you?" and at this moment, the duchess's berline having drawn up at the steps, she entered it. "now, cousin," said conrad, waiting for m. de lucenay with an air of deference. "get in! get in!" said the duke, who had stopped a moment, and, from the door, was contemplating the elegant equipage of the vicomte. "are those your grays, saint-remy?" "yes." "and your jolly-looking edwards! he's what i call a right sort of coachman. how well he has his horses in hand! to do justice, there is no one who, like saint-remy, does things in such devilish high style!" "my dear fellow, madame de lucenay and your cousin are waiting for you," said m. de saint-remy, with bitterness. "_pardieu!_ and that's true. what a forgetful rascal i am! _au revoir_, saint-remy. ah, i forgot," said the duke, stopping half way down the steps, "if you have nothing better to do, come and dine with us to-morrow. lord dudley has sent us some grouse from scotland, and they are out-of-the-way things, you know. you'll come, won't you?" and the duke sprang into the carriage which contained his wife and conrad. saint-remy remained alone on the steps, and saw the carriage drive away. his own then drove up. he got into it, casting on that house which he had so often entered as master, and which now he so ignominiously quitted, a look of anger, hatred, and despair. "home!" he said, abruptly. "to the hôtel!" said the footman to edwards, as he closed the door. we may imagine how bitter and desolating were saint-remy's thoughts as he returned to his house. at the moment when he reached it, boyer, who awaited him at the portico, said to him: "m. le comte is above, and waits for m. le vicomte." "very well." "and there is also a man whom your lordship appointed at ten o'clock,--a m. petit-jean." "very well. oh, what an evening party!" said florestan, as he went up-stairs to see his father, whom he found in the salon on the first floor, the same room in which their meeting of the morning had taken place. "a thousand pardons, my father, that i was not awaiting you when you arrived; but i--" "is the man here who holds the forged bill?" inquired the comte, interrupting his son. "yes, father, he is below." "desire him to come up." florestan rang, and boyer appeared. "desire m. petit-jean to come up." "yes, my lord," and boyer withdrew. "how good you are, father, to remember your kind promise!" "i always remember what i promise." "what gratitude do i owe you! how can i ever prove to you--" "i will not have my name dishonoured! it shall not be!" "it shall not be! no, it shall never be, i swear to you, my father!" the comte looked strangely at his son, and repeated: "no, it shall never be!" then he added, with a sarcastic air, "you are a prophet." "i read my resolution in my heart." florestan's father made no rejoinder. he walked up and down the room with his two hands thrust into the pockets of his long coat. he was very pale. "m. petit-jean," said boyer, introducing a man of a mean, sordid, and crafty look. "where is the bill?" inquired the comte. "here it is, sir," said petit-jean (jacques ferrand the notary's man of straw), handing the bill to the comte. "is this it?" said the latter, showing the bill to his son. "yes, father." the comte took from his waistcoat pocket twenty-five notes of a thousand francs each, handed them to his son, and said: "pay!" florestan paid, and took the bill with a deep sigh of the utmost satisfaction. m. petit-jean put the notes carefully in an old pocket-book, made his bow, and retired. m. de saint-remy left the salon with him, whilst florestan was very carefully tearing up the bill. "at least clotilde's twenty-five thousand francs are still in my pocket, and if nothing is revealed, that is a comfort. but how she treated me! but what can my father have to say to the man petit-jean?" the noise of a door being double-locked made the vicomte start. his father returned to the room. his pallor had even increased. "i fancied, father, i heard you lock the door of my cabinet?" "yes, i did." "and why, my dear father?" asked florestan, greatly amazed. "i will tell you." and the comte placed himself so that his son could not pass out by the secret staircase which led to the ground floor. florestan, greatly disquieted, now observed the sinister look of his father, and followed all his movements with mistrust. without being able to account for it, he felt a vague alarm. "what ails you, father?" "this morning when you saw me, your only thought was, 'my father will not allow his name to be dishonoured; he will pay if i can but contrive to wheedle him by some feigned words of repentance.'" "can you indeed think--" "do not interrupt me. i have not been your dupe; you have neither shame, regret, nor remorse. you are vicious to the very core, you have never felt one honest aspiration, you have not robbed as long as you have been in possession of wherewithal to gratify your caprices,--that is what is called the probity of rich persons of your stamp. then came the want of delicate feeling, then meannesses, then crime, then forgery. this is but the first period of your life,--it is bright and pure in comparison with that which would be yet to come." "if i did not change my conduct, assuredly; but i shall change it, father, i have sworn to you." "you will not change it." "but--" "you will not change it! expelled from society in which you have hitherto lived, you would become very quickly criminal, like the wretches amongst whom you would be cast, a thief inevitably, and, if your need were, an assassin. that would be your future life." "i an assassin?--i?" "yes, because you are a coward!" "i have had duels, and have evinced--" "i tell you, you are a coward! you have already preferred infamy to death. a day would come in which you would prefer the impunity for fresh crimes to the life of another. this must not be,--i will not allow it. i have come in time, at least, to save my name from public dishonour hereafter. there must be an end to this." "what do you mean, dearest father? how an end to this? what would you imply?" exclaimed florestan, still more alarmed at the fearful expression and the increased pallor of his father's countenance. suddenly there was a violent blow struck on the cabinet door. florestan made a motion to go and open it, in order to put an end to a scene which terrified him; but the comte seized him with a hand of iron, and held him fast. "who knocks?" inquired the comte. "in the name of the law, open! open!" said a voice. "that forgery, then, was not the last," exclaimed the comte, in a low voice, and looking at his son with a terrible air. "yes, my father, i swear it!" exclaimed florestan, endeavouring, but vainly, to extricate himself from the vigorous grasp of his father. "in the name of the law, open!" repeated the voice. "what is it you seek?" demanded the comte. "i am a commissary of police, and i have come to make a search after a robbery of diamonds, of which m. de saint-remy is accused. m. baudoin, a jeweller, has proofs. if you do not open, sir, i shall be compelled to force open the door." "already a thief! i was not then deceived," said the comte, in a low voice. "i came to kill you,--i have delayed too long." "kill me?" "there is already too much dishonour on my name,--it must end. i have here two pistols; you must blow out your brains, or i will blow them out, and i will say that you killed yourself in despair in order to escape from shame." and, with a fearful _sang-froid_, the comte drew a pistol from his pocket, and, with the hand that was free, presented it to his son, saying: "now an end to this, if, indeed, you are not a coward!" after repeated and ineffectual attempts to free himself from the comte's hand, his son fell back aghast and livid with fear. he saw by the fearful look, the inexorable demeanour of his father, that he had no pity to expect from him. "my father!" he exclaimed. "you must die!" "i repent!" "it is too late. hark! they are forcing in the door!" "i will expiate my faults!" "they are entering! must i then kill you with my own hand?" "pardon!" "the door gives way! you will then have it so!" and the comte placed the muzzle of the weapon against florestan's breast. the noise without announced that the door of the cabinet could not long resist. the vicomte saw he was lost. a sudden and desperate resolution lighted up his countenance. he no longer struggled with his father, and he said to him, with equal firmness and resignation: "you are right, my father! give me the pistol! there is infamy enough on my name! the life in store for me is frightful, and is not worth the trouble of a struggle. give me the pistol! you shall see if i am a coward!" and he put forth his hand to take the pistol. "but, at least, one word,--one single word of consolation,--pity,--farewell!" said florestan; and his trembling lips, his paleness, his agitated features, all betokened the terrible emotion of this frightful moment. "but what if he were, indeed, my son!" thought the comte, with terror, and hesitating to hand him the deadly instrument. "if he were my son i ought to hesitate before such a sacrifice." a loud cracking of the cabinet door announced that it was being forced. "my father, they are coming! oh, now i feel that death is indeed a benefit. yes, now i thank you! but, at least, your hand,--and forgive me!" in spite of his sternness, the comte could not repress a shudder, as he said, in a voice of emotion: "i forgive you." "my father, the door opens; go to them, that, at least, they may not even suspect you. besides, if they enter here, they will prevent me from completing,--adieu!" the steps of several persons were heard in the next room. florestan placed the muzzle of the pistol to his heart. it went off at the instant when the comte, to avoid the horrid sight, turned away his head, and rushed out of the salon, whose curtains closed upon him. at the sound of this explosion, at the sight of the comte, pale and haggard, the commissary stopped short at the threshold of the door, making a sign to his agents to pause also. informed by boyer that the vicomte was shut up with his father, the magistrate understood all, and respected his deep grief. "dead!" exclaimed the comte, hiding his face in his hands. "dead!" he repeated in a tone of agony. "it was just,--better death than infamy! but it is horrible!" "sir," said the magistrate, sorrowfully, after a few minutes' silence, "spare yourself a painful spectacle,--leave the house. and now i have another duty to fulfil, even more painful than that which summoned me hither." "you are quite right, sir," said m. de saint-remy; "as to the sufferer by this robbery, you will request him to call on m. dupont, the banker." "in the rue richelieu? he is very well known," replied the magistrate. "what is the estimated value of the stolen diamonds?" "about thirty thousand francs. the person who bought them, and by whom the fraud was detected, gave that amount for them to your son." "i can still pay it, sir. let the jeweller go to my banker the day after to-morrow, and i will have it all arranged." the commissary bowed. the comte left the room. after the departure of the latter, the magistrate, deeply affected by this unlooked-for scene, went slowly towards the salon, the curtains of which were closed. he moved them on one side with agitation. "nobody!" he exclaimed, amazed beyond measure, and looking around him, unable to see the least trace of the tragic event which he believed had just occurred. then, seeing a small door in the panel of the apartment, he went towards it. it was fastened in the side of the secret staircase. "it was a trick, and he has escaped by this door!" he exclaimed, with vexation. and in fact, the vicomte, having in his father's presence placed the pistol on his heart, had very dexterously fired it under his arm, and rapidly made off. in spite of the most careful search throughout the house, they could not discover florestan. during the conversation with his father and the commissary, he had quickly gained the boudoir, then the conservatory, then the lone alley, and so to the champs elysées. * * * * * the picture of this ignoble degradation in opulence is a sad thing. we are aware of it. but for want of warnings, the richer classes have also fatally their miseries, vices, crimes. nothing is more frequent and more afflicting than those insensate, barren prodigalities which we have now described, and which always entail ruin, loss of consideration, baseness, or infamy. it is a deplorable, sad spectacle, just like contemplating a flourishing field of wheat destroyed by a herd of wild beasts. no doubt that inheritance, property, are, and ought to be, inviolable, sacred. wealth acquired or transmitted ought to be able to shine with impunity and magnificently in the eyes of the poor and suffering masses. we must, too, see those frightful disproportions which exist between the millionaire saint-remy, and the artisan morel. but, inasmuch as these inevitable disproportions are consecrated, protected by the law, so those who possess such wealth ought morally to be accountable to those who have only probity, resignation, courage, and desire to labour. in the eyes of reason, human right, and even of a well-understood social interest, a great fortune should be a hereditary deposit, confided to prudent, firm, skilful, generous hands, which, entrusted at the same time to fructify and expend this fortune, know how to fertilise, vivify, and ameliorate all that should have the felicity to find themselves within the scope of its splendid and salutary rays. and sometimes it is so, but the instances are very rare. how many young men, like saint-remy, masters at twenty of a large patrimony, spend it foolishly in idleness, in waste, in vice, for want of knowing how to employ their wealth more advantageously either for themselves or for the public. others, alarmed at the instability of human affairs, save in the meanest manner. thus there are those who, knowing that a fixed fortune always diminishes, give themselves up, fools or rogues, to that hazardous, immoral gaming, which the powers that be encourage and patronise. how can it be otherwise? who imparts to inexperienced youth that knowledge, that instruction, those rudiments of individual and social economy? no one. the rich man is thrown into the heart of society with his riches, as the poor man with his poverty. no one takes any more care of the superfluities of the one than of the wants of the other. no one thinks any more of making the one moralise than the other. ought not power to fulfil this great and noble task? if, taking to its pity the miseries, the continually increasing troubles, of the still resigned workmen, repressing a rivalry injurious to all, and, addressing itself finally to the imminent question of the organisation of labour, it gave itself the salutary lesson of the association of capital and labour; and if there were an honourable, intelligent, equitable association, which should assure the well-doing of the artisan, without injuring the fortune of the rich, and which, establishing between the two classes the bonds of affection and gratitude, would for ever keep safeguard over the tranquillity of the state,--how powerful, then, would be the consequences of such a practical instruction! amongst the rich, who then would hesitate as to the dishonourable, disastrous chances of stock-jobbing, the gross pleasures of avarice, the foolish vanities of a ruinous dissipation; or, a means at once remunerative and beneficial, which would shed ease, morality, happiness, and joy, over scores of families? chapter xiii. the adieux. the day after that on which the comte de saint-remy had been so shamefully tricked by his son, a touching scene took place at st. lazare at the hour of recreation amongst the prisoners. on this day, during the walk of the other prisoners, fleur-de-marie was seated on a bench close to the fountain of the courtyard, which was already named "la goualeuse's bench." by a kind of taciturn agreement, the prisoners had entirely given up this seat to her, as she had evinced a marked preference for it,--for the young girl's influence had decidedly increased. la goualeuse had selected this bench, situated close to the basin, because the small quantity of moss which velveted the margin of the reservoir reminded her of the verdure of the fields, as the clear water with which it was filled reminded her of the small river of bouqueval. to the saddened gaze of a prisoner a tuft of grass is a meadow, a flower is a garden. relying on the kind promises of madame d'harville, fleur-de-marie had for two days expected her release from st. lazare. although she had no reason for being anxious about the delay in her discharge, the young girl, from her experience in misfortune, scarcely ventured to hope for a speedy liberation. since her return amongst creatures whose appearance revived at each moment in her mind the incurable memory of her early disgrace, fleur-de-marie's sadness had become more and more overwhelming. this was not all. a new subject of trouble, distress, and almost alarm to her, had arisen from the impassioned excitement of her gratitude towards rodolph. it was strange, but she only fathomed the depth of the abyss into which she had been plunged, in order to measure the distance which separated her from him whose perfection appeared to her more than human, from this man whose goodness was so extreme, and his power so terrible to the wicked. in spite of the respect with which her adoration for him was imbued, sometimes, alas! fleur-de-marie feared to detect in this adoration the symptoms of love, but of a love as secret as it was deep, as chaste as it was secret, and as hopeless as it was chaste. the unhappy girl had not thought of reading this withering revelation in her heart until after her interview with madame d'harville, who was herself smitten with a love for rodolph, of which he himself was ignorant. after the departure and the promises of the marquise, fleur-de-marie should have been transported with joy on thinking of her friends at bouqueval, of rodolph whom she was again about to see. but she was not. her heart was painfully distressed, and to her memory occurred incessantly the severe language, the haughty scrutiny, the angry looks, of madame d'harville, as the poor prisoner had been excited to enthusiasm when alluding to her benefactor. by singular intuition la goualeuse had thus detected a portion of madame d'harville's secret. "the excess of my gratitude to m. rodolph offended this young lady, so handsome and of such high rank," thought fleur-de-marie; "now i comprehend the severity of her words, they expressed a jealous disdain. she jealous of me! then she must love him, and i must love, too--him? yes, and my love must have betrayed itself in spite of me! love him,--i--i--a creature fallen for ever, ungrateful and wretched as i am! oh, if it were so, death were a hundred times preferable!" let us hasten to say that the unhappy girl, thus a martyr to her feelings, greatly exaggerated what she called her love. to her profound gratitude towards rodolph was united involuntary admiration of the gracefulness, strength, and manly beauty which distinguished him from other men. nothing could be less gross, more pure, than this admiration; but it existed in full and active force, because physical beauty is always attractive. and then the voice of blood, so often denied, mute, unknown, or misinterpreted, is sometimes in full force, and these throbs of passionate tenderness which attracted fleur-de-marie towards rodolph, and which so greatly startled her, because in her ignorance she misinterpreted their tendency, these feelings resulted from mysterious sympathies, as palpable, but as inexplicable, as the resemblance of features. in a word, fleur-de-marie, on learning that she was rodolph's daughter, could have accounted to herself for the strong affection she had for him, and thus, completely enlightened on the point, she would have admired without a scruple her father's manly beauty. thus do we explain fleur-de-marie's dejection. although she was every instant awaiting, according to madame d'harville's promise, her release from st. lazare, fleur-de-marie, melancholy and pensive, was seated on her bench near the basin, looking with a kind of mechanical interest at the sports of some bold little birds who came to play on the margin of the stone-work. she had ceased for an instant to work at a baby's nightgown, which she had just finished hemming. need we say that this nightgown belonged to the lying-in clothes so generously offered to mont saint-jean by the prisoners, through the kind intervention of fleur-de-marie? the poor misshapen protégée of la goualeuse was sitting at her feet, working at a small cap, and, from time to time, casting at her benefactress a look at once grateful, timid, and confiding, such a look as a dog throws at his master. the beauty, attraction, and delicious sweetness of fleur-de-marie had inspired this fallen creature with sentiments of the most profound respect. there is always something holy and great in the aspirations of a heart, which, although degraded, yet feels for the first time sensations of gratitude; and, up to this time, no one had ever given mont saint-jean the opportunity of even testifying whether or not she could comprehend the religious ardour of a sentiment so wholly unknown to her. after some moments fleur-de-marie shuddered slightly, wiped a tear from her eyes, and resumed her sewing with much activity. "you will not then leave off your work even during the time for rest, my good angel?" said mont saint-jean to la goualeuse. "i have not given you any money towards buying your lying-in clothes, and i must therefore furnish my part with my own work," replied the young girl. "your part! why, but for you, instead of this good white linen, this nice warm wrapper for my child, i should have nothing but the rags they dragged in the mud of the yard. i am very grateful to my companions who have been so very kind to me; that's quite true! but you!--ah, you!--how can i tell you all i feel?" added the poor creature, hesitating, and greatly embarrassed how to express her thought. "there," she said, "there is the sun, is it not? that is the sun?" "yes, mont saint-jean; i am attending to you," replied fleur-de-marie, stooping her lovely face towards the hideous countenance of her companion. "ah, you'll laugh at me," she replied, sorrowfully. "i want to say something, and i do not know how." "oh, yes, say it, mont saint-jean!" "how kind you look always," said the prisoner, looking at fleur-de-marie in a sort of ecstasy; "your eyes encourage me,--those kind eyes! well, then, i will try and say what i wish: there is the sun, is it not? it is so warm, it lights up the prison, it is very pleasant to see and feel, isn't it?" "certainly." "but i have an idea,--the sun didn't make itself, and if we are grateful to it, why, there is greater reason still why--" "why we should be grateful to him who created it; that is what you mean, mont saint-jean? you are right; and we ought to pray to, adore him,--he is god!" "yes, that is my idea!" exclaimed the prisoner, joyously. "that is it! i ought to be grateful to my companions, but i ought to pray to, adore you, goualeuse, for it is you who made them so good to me, instead of being so unkind as they had been." "it is god you should thank, mont saint-jean, and not me." "yes, yes, yes, it is you, i see you; and it is you who did me such kindness, by yourself and others." "but if i am as good as you say, mont saint-jean, it is god who has made me so, and it is he, therefore, whom we ought to thank." "ah, indeed, it may be so since you say it!" replied the prisoner, whose mind was by no means decided; "and if you desire it, let it be so; as you please." "yes, my poor mont saint-jean, pray to him constantly, that is the best way of proving to me that you love me a little." "if i love you, goualeuse? don't you remember, then, what you said to those other prisoners to prevent them from beating me?--'it is not only her whom you beat, it is her child also!' well, it is all the same as the way i love you; it is not only for myself that i love you, but also for my child." "thanks, thanks, mont saint-jean, you please me exceedingly when you say that." and fleur-de-marie, much moved, extended her hand to her companion. "what a pretty, little, fairy-like hand! how white and small!" said mont saint-jean, receding as though she were afraid to touch it with her coarse and clumsy hands. yet, after a moment's hesitation, she respectfully applied her lips to the end of the slender fingers which fleur-de-marie extended to her, then, kneeling suddenly, she fixed on her an attentive, concentrated look. "come and sit here by me," said la goualeuse. "oh, no, indeed; never, never!" "why not?" "respect discipline, as my brave mont saint-jean used to say; soldiers together, officers together, each with his equals." "you are crazy; there is no difference between us two." "no difference! and you say that when i see you, as i do now, as handsome as a queen. oh, what do you mean now? leave me alone, on my knees, that i may look at you as i do now. who knows, although i am a real monster, my child may perhaps resemble you? they say that sometimes happens from a look." then by a scruple of incredible delicacy in a creature of her position, fearing, perhaps, that she had humiliated or wounded fleur-de-marie by her strange desire, mont saint-jean added, sorrowfully: "no, no, i was only joking, goualeuse; i never could allow myself to look at you with such an idea,--unless with your free consent. if my child is as ugly as i am, what shall i care? i sha'n't love it any the less, poor little, unhappy thing; it never asked to be born, as they say. and if it lives what will become of it?" she added, with a mournful and reflective air. "alas, yes, what will become of us?" la goualeuse shuddered at these words. in fact, what was to become of the child of this miserable, degraded, abased, poor, despised creature? "what a fate! what a future!" "do not think of that, mont saint-jean," said fleur-de-marie; "let us hope that your child will find benevolent friends in its way." "that chance never occurs twice, goualeuse," replied mont saint-jean, bitterly, and shaking her head. "i have met with you, that is a great chance; and then--no offence--i should much rather my child had had that good luck than myself, and that wish is all i can do for it!" "pray, pray, and god will hear you." "well, i will pray, if that is any pleasure to you, goualeuse, for it may perhaps bring me good luck. indeed, who could have thought, when la louve beat me, and i was the butt of all the world, that i should meet with my little guardian angel, who with her pretty soft voice would be even stronger than all the rest, and that la louve who is so strong and so wicked--" "yes, but la louve became very good to you as soon as she reflected that you were doubly to be pitied." "yes, that is very true, thanks to you; i shall never forget it. but, tell me, goualeuse, why did she the other day request to have her quarters changed,--la louve, she, who, in spite of her passionate temper, seemed unable to do without you?" "she is rather wilful." "how odd! a woman, who came this morning from the quarter of the prison where la louve now is, says that she is wholly changed." "how?" "instead of quarrelling and contending with everybody, she is sad, quite sad, and sits by herself, and if they speak to her she turns her back and makes no answer. it is really wonderful to see her quite still, who used always to be making such a riot; and then the woman says another thing, which i really cannot believe." "and what is that?" "why, that she had seen la louve crying; la louve crying,--that's impossible!" "poor louve! it was on my account she changed her quarters; i vexed her without intending it," said la goualeuse, with a sigh. "you vex any one, my good angel?" at this moment, the inspectress, madame armand, entered the yard. after having looked for fleur-de-marie, she came towards her with a smiling and satisfied air. "good news, my child." "what do you mean, madame?" said la goualeuse, rising. "your friends have not forgotten you, they have obtained your discharge; the governor has just received the information." "can it be possible, madame? ah, what happiness!" fleur-de-marie's emotion was so violent that she turned pale, placed her hand on her heart, which throbbed violently, and fell back on the seat. "don't agitate yourself, my poor girl," said madame armand, kindly. "fortunately these shocks are not dangerous." "ah, madame, what gratitude!" "no doubt it is madame d'harville who has obtained your liberty. there is an elderly female charged to conduct you to the persons who are interested in you. wait for me, i will return for you; i have some directions to give in the work-room." it would be difficult to paint the expression of extreme desolation which overcast the features of mont saint-jean, when she learned that her good angel, as she called la goualeuse, was about to quit st. lazare. this woman's grief was less caused by the fear of becoming again the ill-used butt of the prison, than by her anguish at seeing herself separated from the only being who had ever testified any interest in her. still seated at the foot of the bench, mont saint-jean lifted both her hands to the sides of her matted and coarse hair, which projected in disorder from the sides of her old black cap, as if to tear them out; then this deep affliction gave way to dejection, and she drooped her head and remained mute and motionless, with her face hidden in her hands, and her elbows resting on her knees. in spite of her joy at leaving the prison, fleur-de-marie could not help shuddering when she thought for an instant of the chouette and the schoolmaster, recollecting that these two monsters had made her swear never to inform her benefactors of her wretched fate. but these dispiriting thoughts were soon effaced from fleur-de-marie's mind before the hope of seeing bouqueval once more, with madame georges and rodolph, to whom she meant to intercede for la louve and martial. it even seemed to her that the warm feeling which she reproached herself for having of her benefactor, being no longer nourished by sadness and solitude, would be calmed down as soon as she resumed her rustic occupations, which she so much delighted in sharing with the good and simple inhabitants of the farm. astonished at the silence of her companion, a silence whose source she did not suspect, la goualeuse touched her gently on the shoulder, saying to her: "mont saint-jean, as i am now free, can i be in any way useful to you?" the prisoner trembled as she felt la goualeuse's hand upon her, let her hands drop on her knees, and turned towards the young girl, her face streaming with tears. so bitter a grief overspread the features of mont saint-jean that their ugliness had disappeared. "what is the matter?" said la goualeuse. "you are weeping!" "you are going away!" murmured the poor prisoner, with a voice broken by sobs. "and i had never thought that you would go away, and that i should never see you more,--never, no, never!" "i assure you that i shall always think of your good feeling towards me, mont saint-jean." "oh, and to think how i loved you, when i was sitting there at your feet on the ground! it seemed as if i was saved,--that i had nothing more to fear! it was not for the blows which the other women may, perhaps, begin again to give me that i said that i have led a hard life; but it seemed to me that you were my good fortune, and would bring good luck to my child, just because you had pity on me. but, then, when one is used to be ill-treated, one is then more sensible than others to kindness." then, interrupting herself, to burst again into a loud fit of sobs,--"well, well, it's done,--it's finished,--all over! and so it must be some day or other. i was wrong to think any otherwise. it's done--done--done!" "courage! courage! i will think of you, as you will remember me." "oh, as to that, they may tear me to pieces before they shall ever make me forget you! i may grow old,--as old as the streets,--but i shall always have your angel face before me. the first word i will teach my child shall be your name, goualeuse; for but for you it would have perished with cold." "listen to me, mont saint-jean!" said fleur-de-marie, deeply affected by the attachment of this unhappy woman. "i cannot promise to do anything for you, although i know some very charitable persons; but, for your child, it is a different thing; it is wholly innocent; and the persons of whom i speak will, perhaps, take charge of it, and bring it up, when you can resolve on parting from it." "part from it! never, oh, never!" exclaimed mont saint-jean, with excitement. "what would become of me now, when i have so built upon it?" "but how will you bring it up? boy or girl, it ought to be made honest; and for that--" "it must eat honest bread. i know that, goualeuse,--i believe it. it is my ambition; and i say so to myself every day. so, in leaving here, i will never put my foot under a bridge again. i will turn rag-picker, street-sweeper,--something honest; for i owe that, if not to myself, at least to my child, when i have the honour of having one," she added, with a sort of pride. "and who will take care of your child whilst you are at work?" inquired the goualeuse. "will it not be better, if possible, as i hope it will be, to put it in the country with some worthy people, who will make a good country girl or a stout farmer's boy of it? you can come and see it from time to time; and one day you may, perhaps, find the means to live near it constantly. in the country, one lives on so little!" "yes, but to separate myself from it,--to separate myself from it! it would be my only joy,--i, who have nothing else in the world to love,--nothing that loves me!" "you must think more of it than of yourself, my poor mont saint-jean. in two or three days i will write to madame armand, and if the application i mean to make in favour of your child should succeed, you will have no occasion to say to it, as you said so painfully just now, 'alas! what will become of it?'" madame armand interrupted this conversation, and came to seek fleur-de-marie. after having again burst into sobs, and bathed with her despairing tears the young girl's hands, mont saint-jean fell on the seat perfectly overcome, not even thinking of the promise which fleur-de-marie had just made with respect to her child. "poor creature!" said madame armand, as she quitted the yard, accompanied by fleur-de-marie, "her gratitude towards you gives me a better opinion of her." learning that la goualeuse was discharged, the other prisoners, far from envying her this favour, displayed their delight. some of them surrounded fleur-de-marie, and took leave of her with adieux full of cordiality, frankly congratulating her on her speedy release from prison. "well, i must say," said one, "this little fair girl has made us pass an agreeable moment, when we agreed to make up the basket of clothes for mont saint-jean. that will be remembered at st. lazare." when fleur-de-marie had quitted the prison buildings, the inspectress said to her: "now, my dear child, go to the clothing-room, and leave your prison clothes. put on your peasant girl's clothes, whose rustic simplicity suits you so well. adieu! you will be happy, for you are going to be under the protection of good people, and leave these walls, never again to return to them. but i am really hardly reasonable," said madame armand, whose eyes were moistened with tears. "i really cannot conceal from you how much i am attached to you, my poor girl!" then, seeing the tears in fleur-de-marie's eyes, the inspectress added, "but we must not sadden your departure thus." "ah, madame, is it not through your recommendation that this young lady to whom i owe my liberty has become interested in me?" "yes, and i am happy that i did so; my presentiments had not deceived me." at this moment a clock struck. "that is the hour of work; i must return to the rooms. adieu! once more adieu, my dear child!" madame armand, as much affected as fleur-de-marie, embraced her tenderly, and then said to one of the women employed in the establishment: "take mademoiselle to the vestiary." a quarter of an hour afterwards, fleur-de-marie, dressed like a peasant girl, as we have seen her at the farm at bouqueval, entered the waiting-room, where madame séraphin was expecting her. the housekeeper of the notary, jacques ferrand, had come to seek the unhappy girl, and conduct her to the isle du ravageur. chapter xiv. recollections. jacques ferrand had quickly and readily obtained the liberty of fleur-de-marie, which, indeed, only required a simple official order. instructed by the chouette of la goualeuse being at st. lazare, he had immediately applied to one of his clients, an honourable and influential man, saying that a young female who had once erred, but afterwards sincerely repented, being now confined in st. lazare, was in danger of forgetting her good resolutions, in consequence of her association with the other prisoners. this young girl having been (added the notary) strongly recommended to him by persons of high respectability, who wanted to take care of her when she quitted the prison, he besought his client, in the name of religion, virtue, and the future return to goodness of the poor girl, to interest himself in obtaining her liberation. and, further to screen himself from all chance of future consequences, the notary most earnestly charged his client not to allow his name to transpire in the business on any account, as he was desirous of avoiding any mention of having been employed in the furtherance of so good and charitable a work. this request, which was attributed to the unassuming modesty and benevolence of jacques ferrand, a man equally esteemed for his piety as for honour and probity, was strictly complied with, the liberation of fleur-de-marie being asked and obtained in the client's name alone; and by way of evincing a still greater regard for the shrinking delicacy of the notary's nature, the order for quitting the prison was sent under cover to jacques ferrand, that he might send it on to the parties interesting themselves for the young girl. and when madame séraphin presented the order to the directors of the prison, she stated herself to have been sent by the parties feeling a desire to save the young person it referred to. from the favourable manner in which the matron of the prison had spoken to madame d'harville of fleur-de-marie, not a doubt existed as to its being to that lady la goualeuse was indebted for her return to freedom. there was, therefore, no chance of the appearance of madame séraphin exciting any mistrust in the mind of her victim. madame séraphin could so well assume the look and manner of what is commonly styled "a nice motherly kind of person," that it required a more than ordinary share of penetration to discover a strong proportion of falsehood, deceit, and cunning behind the smooth glance or the hypocritical smile; but, spite of the hardened villainy with which she had shared so long and deeply in the nefarious practices of her employer, madame séraphin, old and hackneyed as she was, could not view without emotion the exquisite loveliness of the being her own hand had surrendered, even as a child, to the cruel care of the chouette, and whom she was now leading to an inevitable death. "well, my dear," cried madame séraphin, speaking in a tone of honeyed sweetness, as fleur-de-marie drew near, "i suppose you are very glad to get away from prison." "oh, yes, indeed, ma'am. i presume it is madame d'harville who has had the goodness to obtain my liberty for me?" "you are not mistaken in your guess. but, come, we are already a little behindhand, and we have still some distance to go." "we are going to madame georges at the farm at bouqueval, are we not, madame?" cried la goualeuse. "oh, yes, certainly, by all means!" answered the _femme de charge_, in order to avert all suspicion from the mind of her victim. "yes, my dear, we are going into the country, as you say;" and then added, with a sort of good-humoured teasing, "but that is not all; before you see madame georges, a little surprise awaits you--come, come, our coach is waiting below! ah, how you will be astonished by and by! come, then, let us go. your most obedient servant, gentlemen!" and, with a multitude of bows and salutations from madame séraphin to the registrar, his clerk, and all the various members of the establishment then and there assembled, she descended the stairs with la goualeuse, followed by an officer, to command the opening of the gates through which they had to pass. the last had just closed behind them, and the two females found themselves beneath the vast porch which looks out upon the street of the faubourg st. denis, when they nearly ran against a young female, who appeared hurrying towards the prison, as though full of anxiety to visit one of its inmates. it was rigolette, as pretty and light-footed as ever, her charming face set off by a simple yet becoming cap, tastefully ornamented with cherry-coloured riband; while her dark brown hair was laid in bright glossy bands down each clear and finely rounded cheek. she was wrapped in a plaid shawl, over which fell a snowy muslin collar, secured by a small knot of riband. on her arm she carried a straw basket; while, thanks to her light, careful way of picking her steps, her thick-soled boots were scarcely soiled; and yet the poor girl had walked far that day. "rigolette!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, as she recognised her old prison companion, and the sharer in her rural excursions.[ ] [ ] the reader will, perhaps, recollect that in the recital made by la goualeuse to rodolph, at their first meeting at the ogress's, of the early events of her life, she spoke to him of rigolette, who, a friendless child like herself, had been (with her) confined in a _maison de detention_ until she had reached the age of sixteen. "la goualeuse!" returned the grisette, and with one accord the two girls threw themselves into each other's arms. nothing more touchingly beautiful could be imagined than the contrast between these two young creatures, both so lovely, though differing so entirely from one another in appearance: the one exquisitely fair, with large, melancholy blue eyes, and an outline of feature of faultless purity, the pale, pensive, intellectual cast of the whole countenance reminding the observer of one of those sweet designs of a village maid by greuze,--the same clear delicacy of complexion, the same ineffable mixture of graceful pensiveness and candid innocence; the other a sparkling brunette, with round rosy cheek and bright black eyes, set off by a laughing, dimpled face and mirthful air,--the very impersonation of youthful gaiety and light-heartedness, the rare and touching specimen of happy poverty, of contented labour, and honest industry! after the first burst of their affectionate greetings had passed away, the two girls regarded each other with close and tender scrutiny. the features of rigolette were radiant with the joy she experienced at this unexpected meeting; fleur-de-marie, on the contrary, felt humbled and confused at the sight of her early friend, which recalled but too vividly to her mind the few days of peaceful calm she had known previous to her first degradation. "dear, dear goualeuse!" exclaimed the grisette, fixing her bright eyes with intense delight on her companion. "to think of meeting you at last, after so long an absence!" "it is, indeed, a delightful surprise!" replied fleur-de-marie. "it is so very long since we have seen each other." "ah, but now," said rigolette, for the first time remarking the rustic habiliments of la goualeuse, "i can account for seeing nothing of you during the last six months,--you live in the country, i see?" "yes," answered fleur-de-marie, casting down her eyes, "i have done so for some time past." "and i suppose that, like me, you have come to see some friend in this prison?" "yes," stammered poor fleur-de-marie, blushing up to her eyes with shame and confusion; "i was going--i mean i have just been seeing some one, and, of course, am now returning home." "you live a good way out of paris, i dare say? ah, you dear, kind girl! it is just like you to come all this distance to perform a good action. do you remember the poor lying-in woman to whom you gave, not only your mattress, with the necessary baby-clothes, but even what money you had left, and which we meant to have spent in a country excursion; for you were then crazy for the country, my pretty village maid?" "and you, who cared nothing about it, how very good-natured and obliging of you to go thither, merely for the sake of pleasing me!" "well, but i pleased myself at the same time. why, you, who were always inclined to be grave and serious, when once you got among the fields, or found yourself in the thick shade of a wood, oh, then, what a wild, overjoyed little madcap you became! nobody would have fancied it the same person,--flying after the butterflies,--crowding your hands and apron with more flowers than either could hold. it made me quite delighted to see you! it was quite treat enough for a week to recollect all your happiness and enjoyment. but do let me have another look at you: how sweetly pretty you look in that nice little round cap! yes, decidedly, you were cut out to be a country girl,--just as much as i was to be a paris grisette. well, i hope you are happy, since you have got the sort of line you prefer; and, certainly, after all, i cannot say i was so very much astonished at your never coming near me. 'oh,' said i, 'that dear goualeuse is not suited for paris; she is a true wild flower, as the song says; and the air of great cities is not for them. so,' said i, 'my pretty, dear goualeuse has found a place in some good honest family who live in the country.' and i was right, was i not, dear?" "yes," said fleur-de-marie, nearly sinking with confusion, "quite right." "there is only one thing i have to reproach you for." "reproach me?" inquired fleur-de-marie, looking tearfully at her companion. "yes, you ought to have let me know before you went. you should have said 'good-bye,' if you were only leaving me at night to return in the morning; or, at any rate, you should have sent me word how you were going on." "i--i--quitted paris so suddenly," stammered out fleur-de-marie, becoming momentarily more and more embarrassed, "that, indeed--i--was not able--" "oh, i'm not at all angry! i don't speak of it to scold you! i am far too happy in meeting you unexpectedly; and, besides, i commend you for getting out of such a dangerous place as paris, where it is so difficult to earn a quiet livelihood; for, you know, two poor friendless girls like you and me might be led into mischief, without thinking of, or intending, any harm. when there is no person to advise, it leaves one so very defenceless; and then come a parcel of deceitful, flattering men, with their false promises, when, perhaps, want and misery are staring you in the face. there, for instance, do you recollect that pretty girl called julie?--and rosine, who had such a beautiful fair skin, and such coal black eyes?" "oh, yes, i recollect them very well!" "then, my dear goualeuse, you will be extremely sorry to hear that they were both led astray, seduced, and deserted, till at last, from one unfortunate step to another, they have become like the miserable creatures confined in this prison!" "merciful heaven!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, hanging down her head, and blushing the deep blush of shame. rigolette, misinterpreting the real cause of her friend's exclamation, continued: "i admit that their conduct is wrong, nay wicked; but then, you know, my dear goualeuse, because you and i have been so fortunate as to preserve ourselves from harm,--you, because you have been living with good and virtuous people in the country, out of the reach of temptation; and i, because i had no time to waste in listening to a set of make-believe lovers; and also because i found greater pleasure in having a few birds, and in trying to get things a little comfortable and snug around me,--i say, it is not for you and me to be too severe with others; and god alone knows whether opportunity, deceit, and destitution may not have had much to do in causing the misery and disgrace of julie and rosine! and who can say whether, in their place, we might not have acted as they have done?" "alas!" cried fleur-de-marie, "i accuse them not; on the contrary, i pity them from my heart!" "come, come, my dear child!" interrupted madame séraphin, impatiently offering her arm to her victim, "you forget that i said we were already behind our time." "pray, madame, grant us a little more time," said rigolette. "it is so very long since i saw my dear goualeuse!" "i should be glad to do so," replied madame séraphin, much annoyed at this meeting between the two friends; "but it is now three o'clock, and we have a long way to go. however, i will manage to allow you ten minutes longer gossip. so pray make the best of your time." "and tell me, i pray, of yourself," said fleur-de-marie, affectionately pressing the hands of rigolette between her own. "are you still the same merry, light-hearted, and happy creature i always knew you?" "i was happy and gay enough a few days ago; but now--" "you sorrowful? i can hardly believe it." "ah, but indeed i am! not that i am at all changed from what you always found me,--a regular roger bontemps,--one to whom nothing was a trouble. but then, you see, everybody is not like me; so that, when i see those i love unhappy, why, naturally, that makes me unhappy, too." "still the same kind, warm-hearted girl!" "why, who could help being grieved as i am? just imagine my having come hither to visit a poor young creature,--a sort of neighbouring lodger in the house where i live,--as meek and mild as a lamb she was, poor thing! well, she has been most shamefully and unjustly accused,--that she has; never mind of what just now! her name is louise morel. she is the daughter of an honest and deserving man, a lapidary, who has gone mad in consequence of her being put in prison." at the name of louise morel, one of the victims of the notary's villainy, madame séraphin started, and gazed earnestly at rigolette. the features of the grisette were, however, perfectly unknown to her; nevertheless, from that instant, the _femme de charge_ listened with an attentive ear to the conversation of the two girls. "poor thing," continued the goualeuse; "how happy it must make her to find that you have not forgotten her in her misfortunes!" "and that is not all; it really seems as though some spell hung over me! but, truly and positively, this is the second poor prisoner i have left my home to-day to visit! i have come a long way, and also from a prison,--but that was a place of confinement for men." "you, rigolette,--in a prison for men?" "yes, i have, indeed. i have a very dejected customer there, i can assure you. there,--you see my basket; it is divided in two parts, and each of my poor friends has an equal share in its contents. i have got some clean things here for poor louise, and i have left a similar packet with germain,--that is the name of my other poor captive. i cannot help feeling ready to cry when i think of our last interview. i know it will do no good, but still, for all that, the tears will come into my eyes." "but what is it that distresses you so much?" "why, because, you see, poor germain frets so much at being mixed up in his prison with the many bad characters that are there, that it has quite broken his spirits; he seems to have no taste, no relish for anything, has quite lost his appetite, and is wasting away daily. so, when i perceived the change, i said to myself: 'oh, poor fellow, i see he eats nothing. i must make him something nice and delicate to tempt his appetite a little; he shall have one of those little dainties he used to be so fond of when he and i were next-room neighbours.' when i say dainties, of course i don't mean such as rich people expect by that name. no, no, my dish was merely some beautiful mealy potatoes, mashed with a little milk and sugar. well, my dear goualeuse, i prepared this for him, put it in a nice little china basin and took it to him in his prison, telling him i had brought him a little titbit he used once to be fond of, and which i hoped he would like as well as in former days. i told him i had prepared it entirely myself, hoping to make him relish it. but alas, no! what do you think?" "oh, what?" "why, instead of increasing his appetite, i only set him crying; for, when i displayed my poor attempts at cookery, he seemed to take no notice of anything but the basin, out of which he had been accustomed to see me take my milk when we supped together; and then he burst into tears, and, by way of making matters still better, i began to cry, too, although i tried all i could to restrain myself. you see how everything went against me. i had gone with the intention of enlivening his spirits, and, instead of that, there i was making him more melancholy than ever." "still, the tears he shed were, no doubt, sweet and consoling tears!" "oh, never mind what sort of tears they were, that was not the way i meant to have consoled him. but la! all this while i am talking to you of germain as if you knew him. he is an old acquaintance of mine, one of the best young men in the world, as timid and gentle as any young girl could be, and whom i loved as a friend and a brother." "oh, then, of course, his troubles became yours also." "to be sure. but just let me show you what a good heart he must have. when i was coming away, i asked him as usual what orders he had for me, saying jokingly, by way of making him smile, that i was his little housekeeper, and that i should be very punctual and exact in fulfilling whatever commissions he gave me, in order to remain in his employ. so then he, trying to smile in his turn, asked me to bring him one of walter scott's romances, which he had formerly read to me while i worked,--that romance was called 'ivan--' 'ivanhoe,' that's it. i was so much amused with this book that germain read it twice over to me. poor germain! how very, very kind and attentive he was!" "i suppose he wished to keep it as a reminiscence of bygone days?" "no doubt of it; for he bade me go to the library from whence we had had it, and to purchase the very same volumes that had so much entertained us, and which we had read together,--not merely to hire them,--yes, positively to buy them out and out; and you may imagine that was something of a sacrifice for him, for he is no richer than you or i." "he must have a noble and excellent heart to have thought of it," said the goualeuse, deeply touched. "i declare you are as much affected by it as i was, my dear, kind goualeuse! but then, you see, the more i felt ready to cry, the more i tried to laugh; for, to shed tears twice during a visit, intended to be so very cheering and enlivening as mine was, was rather too bad. so, to drive all those thoughts out of my head, i began to remind him of the amusing story of a jew,--a person we read about in the romance i was telling you of. but the more i rattled away, and the greater nonsense i tried to talk, the faster the large round tears gathered in his eyes, and he kept looking at me with such an expression of misery as quite broke my heart. and so--and so--at last my voice quite failed me, and i could do nothing but mingle my sobs with his. he had not regained his composure when i left him, and i felt quite provoked with myself for my folly. 'if that is the way,' said i,'that i comfort and cheer up poor germain, i think i had better stay away!' really, when i remember all the fine things i intended to have said and done, by way of keeping up his spirits, i feel quite spiteful towards myself for having so completely failed." at the name of germain, another victim of the notary's unprincipled persecution, madame séraphin redoubled her before close attention. "and what has this poor young man done to deserve being put in prison?" inquired fleur-de-marie. "what has he done?" exclaimed rigolette, whose grief became swallowed up in indignation; "why, he has had the misfortune to fall into the hands of a wicked old notary,--the same as persecutes poor louise." "of her whom you have come to see?" "to be sure; she lived as servant with this notary, and germain was also with him as cashier. it is too long a story to tell you now, how or of what he unjustly accuses the poor fellow; but one thing is quite certain, and that is, that the wretch of a notary pursues these two unfortunate beings, who have never done him the least harm, with the most determined malice and hatred. however, never mind,--a little patience, 'every one in their turn,'--that's all." rigolette uttered these last words with a peculiarity of manner and expression that created considerable uneasiness in the mind of madame séraphin. instead, therefore, of preserving the distance she had hitherto observed, she at once joined in the conversation, saying to fleur-de-marie, with a kind and maternal air: "my dear girl, it is really growing too late for us to wait any longer,--we must go; we are waited for, i assure you, with much anxiety. i am sorry to hurry you away, because i can well imagine how much you must be interested in what your friend is relating; for even i, who know nothing of the two young persons she refers to, cannot help feeling my very heart ache for their undeserved sufferings. is it possible there can be people in the world as wicked as the notary you were mentioning? pray, my dear mademoiselle, what may be the name of this bad man,--if i may make so bold as to ask?" although rigolette entertained not the slightest suspicion of the sincerity of madame séraphin's affected sympathy, yet, recollecting how strictly rodolph had enjoined her to observe the utmost secrecy respecting the protection he bestowed on both germain and louise, she regretted having been led away by her affectionate zeal for her friends to use such words,--"patience; every one has his turn!" "his name, madame, is ferrand,--m. jacques ferrand, notary," replied rigolette, skilfully adding, by way of compensation for her indiscreet warmth, "and it is the more wicked and shameful of him to torment louise and germain as he does, because the poor things have not a friend upon earth but myself, and, god knows, it is little i can do besides wishing them well out of their troubles!" "dear me,--poor things!" observed madame séraphin. "well, i'm sure i hoped it was otherwise when i heard you say, 'patience; every one has their turn!' i supposed you reckoned for certain upon some powerful protector to defend these people against that dreadful notary." "alas, no, madame!" answered rigolette, hoping to destroy any suspicion madame séraphin might still harbour; "such, i am sorry to say, is not the case. for who would be generous and disinterested enough to take the part of two poor creatures like my unfortunate friends against a rich and powerful man like m. ferrand?" "oh, there are many good and noble-minded persons capable of performing so good an action," pursued fleur-de-marie, after a moment's consideration, and with ill-restrained excitement; "i myself know one to whom it is equally a duty and a pleasure to succour and assist all who are in need or difficulty,--one who is beloved and valued by all good persons, as he is dreaded and hated by the bad." rigolette gazed on the goualeuse with deep astonishment, and was just on the point of asserting that she, too (alluding to rodolph), knew some one capable of courageously espousing the cause of the weak against the strong; but, faithful to the injunctions of her neighbour (as she styled the prince), she contented herself with merely saying, "really, do you indeed know anybody capable of generously coming forward in defence of poor oppressed individuals, such as we have been talking of?" "indeed, i do. and, although i have already to solicit his goodness in favour of others also in severe trouble, yet, i am quite sure that, did he but know of the undeserved misfortunes of louise and germain, he would both rescue them from misery and punish their wicked persecutor; for his goodness and justice are inexhaustible." madame séraphin surveyed her victim with surprise. "this girl," said she, mentally, "might be even more dangerous than we thought for. and, even if i had been weak enough to feel inclined to pity her, what i have just heard would have rendered the little 'accident,' which is to rid us of her, quite inevitable." "then, dear goualeuse, since you have so valuable an acquaintance, i beseech of you to recommend poor louise and germain to his notice," said rigolette, wisely considering that her two protégées would be all the better for obtaining two protectors instead of one. "and pray say that they do not in the least deserve their present wretched fate." "make yourself perfectly easy," returned fleur-de-marie; "i promise to try to interest m. rodolph in favour of your poor friends." "who did you say?" exclaimed rigolette, "m. rodolph?" "yes," replied la goualeuse; "do you know him?" "m. rodolph?" again repeated rigolette, perfectly bewildered; "is he a travelling clerk?" "i really don't know what he is. but why are you so much astonished?" "because i know a m. rodolph!" "perhaps it is not the same." "well, describe yours. what is he like?" "in the first place, he is young." "so is mine." "with a countenance full of nobleness and goodness." "precisely," exclaimed rigolette, whose amazement increased. "oh, it must be the very man! is your m. rodolph rather dark-complexioned, with a small moustache?" "yes, yes." "is he tall and thin, with a beautiful figure, and quite a fashionable, gentlemanly sort of air,--wonderfully so, considering he is but a clerk? now, then, does your m. rodolph answer to that description?" "perfectly," answered fleur-de-marie; "and i feel quite sure that we both mean the same. the only thing that puzzles me is your fancying he is a clerk." "oh, but i know he is. he told me so himself." "and you know him intimately?" "why, he is my next-door neighbour." "m. rodolph is?" "i mean next-room neighbour; because he occupies an apartment on the fourth floor, next to mine." "he--m. rodolph--lodges in the next room to you?" "why, yes. but what do you find so astonishing in a thing as simple as that? he only earns about fifteen or eighteen hundred francs a year, and, of course, he could not afford a more expensive lodging,--though, certainly, he does not strike me as being a very careful or economical person; for, bless his dear heart, he actually does not know the price of the clothes he wears." "no, no, it cannot be the same m. rodolph i am acquainted with," said fleur-de-marie, reflecting seriously; "oh, no, quite impossible!" "i suppose yours is a pattern of order and exactness?" "he of whom i spoke, i must tell you, rigolette," said fleur-de-marie, with enthusiasm, "is all-powerful; his name is never pronounced but with love and veneration; there is something awe-inspiring in his very aspect, giving one the desire to kneel in his presence and offer humble respect to his goodness and greatness." "ah, then, it is no use trying the comparison any further, my dear goualeuse; for my m. rodolph is neither powerful, great, nor imposing. he is very good-natured and merry, and all that; but oh, bless you, as for being a person one would be likely to go on one's knees to, why, he is quite the reverse. he cares no more for ceremony than i do, and even promised me to come and help me clean my apartment and polish the floor. and then, instead of being awe-inspiring, he settled with me to take me out of a sunday anywhere i liked to go. so that, you see, he can't be a very great person. but, bless you, what am i thinking of? it seems as if my heart were wholly engrossed by my sunday pleasures, instead of recollecting these poor creatures shut up and deprived of their liberty in a prison. ah, poor dear louise--and poor germain, too! until they are restored to freedom there is no happiness for me!" for several minutes fleur-de-marie remained plunged in a deep reverie; she all at once recalled to her remembrance that, at her first interview with rodolph, at the house of the ogress, his language and manners resembled those of the usual frequenters of the _tapis-franc_. was it not, then, possible that he might be playing the part of the travelling clerk, for the sake of some scheme he had in view? the difficulty consisted in finding any probable cause for such a transformation. the grisette, who quickly perceived the thoughtful meditation in which fleur-de-marie was lost, said, kindly: "never mind puzzling your poor brains on the subject, my dear goualeuse; we shall soon find out whether we both know the same m. rodolph. when you see yours, speak of me to him; when i see mine, i will mention you; by these means we shall easily discover what conclusion to come to." "where do you live, rigolette?" "no. rue du temple." "come!" said madame séraphin (who had attentively listened to all this conversation) to herself, "that is not a bad thing to know. this all-powerful and mysterious personage, m. rodolph, who is, no doubt, passing himself off for a travelling clerk, occupies an apartment adjoining that of this young mantua-maker, who appears to me to know much more than she chooses to own to; and this defender of the oppressed, it seems, is lodging in the same house with morel and bradamanti. well, well, if the grisette and the travelling clerk continue to meddle with what does not concern them, i shall know where to lay my hand upon them." "as soon as ever i have spoken with m. rodolph," said the goualeuse, "i will write to you, and give you my address where to send your answer; but tell me yours over again, i am afraid of forgetting it." "oh, dear, how fortunate! i declare i have got one of my cards with me! i remember a person i work for asked me to leave her one, to give a friend who wished to employ me. so i brought it out for that purpose; but i will give it to you, and carry her one another time." and here rigolette handed to fleur-de-marie a small card, on which was written, in beautiful text-hand, "mademoiselle rigolette, dressmaker, rue du temple." "there's a beauty!" continued the grisette. "oh, isn't it nicely done? better, a good deal, than printing! ah, poor dear germain wrote me a number of cards long ago! oh, he was so kind, so attentive! i don't know how it could have happened that i never found out half his good qualities till he became unfortunate; and now i continually reproach myself with having learned to love him so late." "you love germain, then?" "oh, yes, that i do! why, you know, i must have some pretext for visiting him in prison. am i not an odd sort of girl?" said rigolette, choking a rising sigh, and smiling, like an april shower, amid the tears which glittered in her large dark eyes. "you are good and generous-hearted, as you ever were!" said fleur-de-marie, tenderly pressing her friend's hands within her own. madame séraphin had evidently learned all she cared to know, and feeling very little interest in any further disclosure of rigolette's love for young germain, hastily approaching fleur-de-marie, she abruptly said: "come, my dear child, do not keep me waiting another minute, i beg; it is very late, and i shall be scolded, as it is, for being so much behind my time; we have trifled away a good quarter of an hour, and must endeavour to make up for it." "what a nasty cross old body that is!" said rigolette, in a whisper, to fleur-de-marie. "i don't like the looks of her at all!" then, speaking in a louder voice, she added, "whenever you come to paris, my dear goualeuse, be sure to come and see me. i should be so delighted to have you all to myself for a whole day, to show you my little home and my birds; for i have got some, such sweet pretty ones! oh, that is my chief indulgence and expense!" "i will try to come and see you, but certainly i will write you. so good-bye, my dear, dear rigolette! adieu! oh, if you only knew how happy i feel at having met with you again!" "and, i am sure, so do i; but i trust we shall soon see each other again; and, besides, i am so impatient to know whether your m. rodolph is the same as mine. pray write to me very soon upon this subject, will you? promise you will!" "indeed i will! adieu, dear rigolette!" "farewell, my very dear goualeuse!" and again the two poor girls, each striving to conceal their distress at parting, indulged in a long and affectionate embrace. rigolette then turned away, to enter the prison for the purpose of visiting louise, according to the kind permission obtained for her by rodolph, while fleur-de-marie, with madame séraphin, got into the coach which was waiting for them. the coachman was instructed to proceed to batignolles, and to stop at the barrier. a cross-road of inconsiderable length conducted from this spot almost directly to the borders of the seine, not far from the isle du ravageur. wholly unacquainted with the locality of paris, fleur-de-marie was unable to detect that the vehicle did not take the road to the barrier st. denis; it was only when the coach stopped at batignolles, and she was requested by madame séraphin to alight, that she said: "it seems to me, madame, that we are not in the road to bouqueval; and how shall we be able to walk from hence to the farm?" "all that i can tell you, my dear child," answered the _femme de charge_, kindly, "is, that i am obeying their orders given me by your benefactors, and that you will pain them greatly if you keep your friends waiting." "oh, not for worlds would i be so presuming and ungrateful as to oppose their slightest wish!" exclaimed poor fleur-de-marie, with kindling warmth, "and i beseech you, madame, to pardon my seeming hesitation; but, since you plead the commands of my revered protectors, depend upon my following you blindly and silently whithersoever you are pleased to take me. only tell me, is madame georges quite well?" "oh, in most excellent health and spirits!" "and m. rodolph?" "perfectly well, also." "then you know him? but, madame, when i was speaking to rigolette concerning him just now, you did not seem to be acquainted with him; at least, you did not say so." "because, in pursuance with the directions given me, i affected to be ignorant of the person you alluded to." "and did m. rodolph, himself, give you those orders?" "why, what a dear, curious little thing this is!" said the _femme de charge_, smilingly; "i must mind what i am about, or, with her innocent ways of putting questions, she will find out all my secrets!" "indeed, madame, i am ashamed of seeming so inquisitive, but if you could only imagine how my heart beats with joy at the bare thoughts of seeing my beloved friends again, you would pardon me; but, as we have only to walk on to the place whither you are taking me, i shall soon be able to gratify my wishes, without tormenting you by further inquiries." "to be sure you will, my dear, for i promise you that in a quarter of an hour we shall have reached the end of our journey." the _femme de charge_, having now left behind the last houses in the village of batignolles, conducted fleur-de-marie across a grassy road, bordered on each side by lofty walnut-trees. the day was warm and fine, the sky half covered by the rich purple clouds of the setting sun, which now cast its declining rays on the heights of the _colombes_, situated on the other side of the seine. as fleur-de-marie approached the banks of the river, a delicate bloom tinged her pale cheeks, and she seemed to breathe with delight the pure fresh air that blew from the country. indeed, so strongly was the look of happiness imprinted on her countenance, that even madame séraphin could not avoid noticing it. "you seem full of joy, my dear child; i declare it is quite a pleasure to see you." "oh, yes, indeed, i am overflowing with gratitude and eagerness at the thoughts of seeing my dear madame georges so soon, and perhaps, too, m. rodolph! i trust i may, for, besides my own happiness at beholding him, i want to speak to him in favour of several poor unfortunate persons i should be so glad to recommend to his kindness and protection. how, then, can i be sad when i have so many delightful things to look forward to? oh, who could be unhappy, with such a prospect as mine? and see, too, how gay and beautiful the sky is, all covered with bright, golden clouds! and the dear soft green grass,--i think it seems greener than ever, spite of the season. and look--look out there! see, where the river flows behind those willow-trees! oh, how wide and sparkling it seems; and, when the sun shines on it, it almost dazzles my eyes to gaze on it! it seems like a sheet of gold. ah, i saw it shining in the same way in the basin of the prison a little while ago! god does not forget even the poor prisoners, but allows them to have a sight of his wondrous works. though they are separated by high stone walls from their fellow creatures, the glorious sun shows them his golden face, and sparkles and glitters upon the water there, the same as in the gardens of a king!" added fleur-de-marie, with pious gratitude. then, incited by a reference to her captivity still more to appreciate the charms of liberty, she exclaimed, with a burst of innocent delight: "oh, pray, madame, do look there, just in the middle of the river, at that pretty little island, bordered with willows and poplars, and that sweet little white house, almost close to the water's edge! how delicious it must be to live there in the summer, when all the leaves are on the trees and the birds sing so sweetly among the branches! oh, how quiet and cool it must be in that nice place!" "well, really, now, my dear," said madame séraphin, with a grim smile, "it is singular enough your being so much struck with that little isle!" "why, madame?" "because it is there we are actually going to." "going to that island?" "yes; does that astonish you?" "rather so, madame." "but suppose you found your friends there?" "oh, what do you mean?" "suppose, i say, you found all your friends had assembled there, to welcome you on your release from prison, should you not then be greatly surprised?" "oh, if it were but possible! my dear madame georges?--m. rodolph?" "upon my word, my dear, i am just like a baby in your hands, and you turn and twist me just as you please; it is useless for me to try to conceal anything, for, with your little winning ways, you find out all secrets." "then i shall soon see them again? dear madame, how can i ever thank you sufficiently for your goodness to a poor girl like me? feel how my heart beats! it is all with joy and happiness!" "well, well, my love, be as wild with delight as you please, but pray do not hurry on so very fast. you forget, you little mad thing, that my old bones cannot run as fast as your nimble young feet." "i beg your pardon, madame; but i cannot help being quite impatient to arrive where we are going." "to be sure you cannot; don't fancy i mean to blame you for it; quite the contrary." "the road slopes a little now, madame, and it is rather rough, too; will you accept of my arm to assist you down?" "i never refuse a good offer, my dear; for i am somewhat infirm, as well as old, while you are young and active." "then pray lean all your weight on me, madame; don't be afraid of tiring me." "many thanks, my child! your help was really very serviceable, for the descent is so extremely rapid just here. now, then, we are once more on smooth, level ground." "oh, madame, can it, indeed, be true that i am about to meet my dear madame georges? i can scarcely persuade myself it is reality." "a little patience,--another quarter of an hour, and then you will see whether it is true or false." "but what puzzles me," said fleur-de-marie, after a moment's reflection, "is, why madame georges should have thought proper to meet me here, instead of at the farm." "still curious, my dear child, still wanting to know everybody's reasons." "how very foolish and unreasonable i am, am i not, madame?" said fleur-de-marie, smiling. "and, by way of punishing you, i have a great mind to tell you what the surprise is that your friends have prepared for you." "for me, madame, a surprise?" "be quiet, you little chatterbox! you will make me reveal the secret, in spite of myself." we shall now leave madame séraphin and her victim proceeding along the road which led to the river's side, while we precede them, by a few minutes, to the isle du ravageur. chapter xv. the boats. during the night the appearance of the isle inhabited by the martial family was very gloomy, but by the bright light of day nothing could be more smiling than this accursed spot. bordered by willows and poplars, almost entirely covered with thick grass, in which wound several paths of yellow sand, the islet included a kitchen-garden and a good number of fruit-trees. in the midst of the orchard was to be seen the hovel, with the thatched roof, into which martial had expressed his intention to retire with françois and amandine. on this side, the isle terminated at its point by a kind of stockade, formed of large piles, driven in to prevent the soil from wearing away. in front of the house, and almost touching the landing-place, was a small arbour of green trellis-work, intended to support in summer-time the creeping shoots of the young vines and hops,--a cradle of verdure, beneath which were arranged tables for the visitors. at one end of the house, painted white and covered with tiles, a wood-house, with a loft over it, formed at the angle a small wing, much lower than the main body of the building. almost precisely over this wing there appeared a window, with the shutters covered with iron plates, and strengthened without by two transverse iron bars attached to the wall by strong clamps. three boats were undulating in the water, fastened to posts at the landing-place. seated in one of these boats, nicholas was making sure that the valve he had introduced performed its part properly. standing on a bench at the mouth of the arbour, calabash, with her hands placed over her eyes so as to shade away the sun, was looking out in the direction in which madame séraphin and fleur-de-marie were to come to reach the isle. "i don't see any one yet, old or young," said calabash, getting off the bench and speaking to nicholas. "it will be just as it was yesterday; we may as well wait for the king of prussia. if these women do not come in half an hour, we can't wait any longer; bras-rouge's 'dodge' is much better, and he'll be waiting for us. the diamond-matcher is to be at his place in the champs elysées at five o'clock. we ought to be there before her; the chouette said so this morning." "you are right," replied nicholas, leaving the boat. "may thunder smite the old devil's kin, who has given us all the trouble for nothing! the valve works capitally. it appears we shall only have one instead of two jobs." "besides, bras-rouge and barbillon will want us; they can do nothing by their two selves." "true, again; for, whilst the job is doing, bras-rouge must keep watch outside the cabaret, and barbillon is not strong enough to drag the matcher into the cellar, for the old ---- will fight for it, i know!" "didn't the chouette say that, for a joke, she had got the schoolmaster at 'school' in the cellar?" "not in this one; in another much deeper, and which is filled with water at spring-tides." "how the schoolmaster must rage and foam there in the cellar! there all alone, and blind, too!" "that is no matter, for, if he saw as clear as ever, he could see nothing there; the cellar is as dark as an oven." "still, when he has done singing all the songs he knows, to pass away the time, his days must hang precious heavy on his hands." "the chouette says that he amuses himself with rat-hunting, and that the cellar is full of game." "i say, nicholas, talking of certain persons who must be tired, and fume, and fret," remarked calabash, with a savage smile, and pointing to the window fastened up with the iron plates, "there is one there who must be ready to devour his own flesh and blood." "bah! he's asleep. since the morning he hasn't stirred, and his dog is silent." "perhaps he has strangled him for food. for two days, they must both be desperate hungry and thirsty up there together." "that is their affair. martial may still last a long time in this way, if it amuses him. when it is done, why, we shall say he died of his complaint, and there'll be an end of that affair." "do you think so?" "of course i do. as mother went to asnières this morning, she met père férot, the fisherman, and, as he was very much astonished at not having seen his friend martial for the last two days, mother told him that martial was confined to his bed, and was so ill that his life was despaired of. daddy férot swallowed all, like so much honey; he'll tell everybody else, and when the thing's done and over, why, it'll all seem nat'ral enough." "yes, but he won't die directly; this way is a tedious one." "what else is to be done? there was no way of doing otherwise. that devil of a martial, when he's put up, is as full of mischief as the old one himself, and as strong as a bull; particularly when he suspects anything, it is dangerous to approach him; but, now his door is well nailed up on the outside, what can he do? his window is strongly fastened with iron, too." "why, he might have driven out the bars by cutting away the plaster with his knife, and he would have done it, only i got up the ladder, and chopped at his fingers with the bill-hook every time he tried to go to work." "what a pleasant watch!" said the ruffian, with a chuckle; "it must have been vastly amusing!" "why, it was to give you time to come with the iron plates you went to get from père micou." "what a rage the dear brother must have been in!" "he ground his teeth like a lunatic. two or three times he tried to drive me away from the iron bars with his stick, but then, as he had only one hand at liberty, he could not work and release the iron bars, which was what he was trying at." "fortunately, there's no fireplace in his room, and the door is solid, and his hands finely cut; if not, he would work his way through the floor." "what! through those heavy beams? no, no, there's no chance of his escaping; the shutters are covered with iron plates and strengthened with two bars of iron, the door is nailed up outside with large boat-nails three inches long. his coffin is more solid than if it were made of oak and lead." "i say, though, when la louve comes out of prison, and makes her way here, to see her man, as she calls him?" "well, we shall say, 'look for him.'" "by the way, do you know that, if mother had not shut up those young 'rips' of children, they would have gnawed their ways through the door, like young rats, to free martial? that little vagabond françois is quite furious since he suspects we have packed away his tall brother." "but, you know, they mustn't be left in the room up-stairs whilst we leave the island; the window is not barred, and they have only to drop down outside." at this moment the attention of nicholas and calabash was attracted by the sound of cries and sobs which came from the house. they saw the door of the ground floor, which had been open until then, close violently, and a minute afterwards the pale and sinister countenance of mère martial appeared through the bars of the kitchen window. with her long lean arm the culprit's widow made a sign to her children to come to her. "there's a row, i know; i'll bet that it is françois, who's giving himself some airs again," said nicholas. "that beggar martial! but for him, this young scamp would be by himself. you keep a good look-out, and, if you see the two women coming, give me a call." whilst calabash again mounted the bench, and looked out for the arrival of séraphin and the goualeuse, nicholas entered the house. little amandine was on her knees in the centre of the kitchen, sobbing and asking pardon for her brother françois. enraged and threatened, the lad, ensconced in one of the angles of the apartment, had nicholas's hatchet in his hand, and appeared determined this time to offer the most desperate resistance to his mother's wishes. impassive as usual, showing nicholas the cellar, the widow made a sign to her son to shut françois up there. "i will never be shut up there!" cried the boy, in a determined tone. "you want to make us die of hunger, like brother martial." the widow looked at nicholas with an impatient air, as if to reproach him for not instantly executing her commands, as, with another imperious gesture, she pointed to françois. seeing his brother advance towards him, the young boy brandished the axe with a desperate air and cried: "if you try to shut me up there, whether it is mother, brother, or calabash, so much the worse. i shall strike, and the hatchet cuts." nicholas felt as the widow did the pressing necessity there was to prevent the two children from going to martial's succour whilst the house was left to itself, as well as to put them out of the way of seeing the scenes which were about to pass, for their window looked onto the river in which they were about to drown fleur-de-marie. but nicholas was as cowardly as he was ferocious, and, afraid of receiving a blow from the dangerous hatchet with which his young brother was armed, hesitated to approach him. the widow, angry at his hesitation, pushed him towards françois; but nicholas, again retreating, exclaimed: "but, mother, if he cuts me? you know i want all my arms and fingers at this time, and i feel still the thump that brute martial gave me." the widow shrugged her shoulders, and advanced towards françois. "don't come near me, mother," shrieked the boy in a fury, "or you'll pay dear for all the beatings you have given me and amandine!" "let 'em shut us up; don't strike mother!" cried amandine, in fear. at this moment nicholas saw upon a chair a large blanket which he used to wrap his booty in at times, and, taking hold of and partly unfolding it, he threw it completely over françois's head, who, in spite of his efforts, finding himself entangled under its folds, could not make use of his weapon. nicholas then seized hold of him, and, with his mother's help, carried him into the cellar. amandine had continued kneeling in the centre of the kitchen, and, as soon as she saw her brother overcome, she sprang up and, in spite of her fright, went to join him in the dark hole. the door was then double-locked on the brother and sister. "it will still be that infernal martial's fault, if these children behave in this outrageous manner to us," said nicholas. "nothing has been heard in his room since this morning," said the widow, with a pensive air, and she shuddered, "nothing!" "that's a sign, mother, that you were right to say to père férot, the fisherman at asnières, that martial had been so dangerously ill as to be confined to his bed for the last two days; for now, when all is known, it will not astonish anybody." after a moment's silence, as and if she wished to escape a painful thought, the widow replied, suddenly: "didn't the chouette come here whilst i was at asnières?" "yes, mother." "why didn't she stay and accompany us to bras-rouge's? i mistrust her." "bah! you mistrust everybody, mother; you are always fancying they are going to play you some trick. to-day it is the chouette, yesterday it was bras-rouge." "bras-rouge is at liberty,--my son is at toulon, yet they committed the same robbery." "you are always saying this. bras-rouge escaped because he is as cunning as a fox--that's it; the chouette did not stay, because she had an appointment at two o'clock, near the observatory, with the tall man in black, at whose desire she has carried off this young country girl, by the help of the schoolmaster and tortillard; and barbillon drove the hackney-coach which the tall man in black had hired for the job. so how, mother, do you suppose the chouette would inform against us, when she tells us the 'jobs' she has in hand, and we do not tell her ours? for she knows nothing of this drowning job that is to come off directly. be easy, mother; wolves don't eat each other, and this will be a good day's work; and when i recollect, too, that the jewel-matcher has often about her twenty to thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds in her bag, and that, in less than two hours, we shall have her in bras-rouge's cellar! thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds, mother! think of that!" "and, whilst we lay hands on this woman, bras-rouge is to remain outside the cabaret?" inquired the widow, with an air of suspicion. "well, and where would you have him, i should like to know? if any one comes to his house, mustn't he be outside the door to answer them, and prevent them from entering the place whilst we are doing our 'job?'" "nicholas! nicholas!" cried calabash, at this moment from outside, "here come the two women!" "quick, quick, mother! your shawl! i will land you on the other side, and that will be so much done," said nicholas. the widow had replaced her mourning head-dress with a high black cap, in which she now made her appearance. at the instigation of nicholas, she wrapped herself in a large plaid shawl, with gray and white checks; and, after having carefully closed and secured the kitchen door, she placed the key behind one of the window-shutters on the ground-floor, and followed her son, who was hastily pursuing his way to the landing-place. almost involuntarily, as she quitted the island, she cast a long and meditative look at martial's window; and the train of thought to which its firmly nailed and iron-bound exterior gave rise seemed, to judge by their effect, to be of a very mingled and complicated character, for she knitted her brows, pursed her lips, and then, after a sudden convulsive shudder, she murmured, in a low hesitating voice: "it is his own fault--it is his own fault!" "nicholas, do you see them? just down there, along the path,--a country girl and an old woman!" exclaimed calabash, pointing to the other side of the river, where madame séraphin and fleur-de-marie were descending a narrow, winding path which passed by a high bank, on the top of which were the lime-kilns. "let us wait for the signal; don't let us spoil the job by too much haste," said nicholas. "what! are you blind? don't you recognise the stout woman who came the day before yesterday? look at her orange shawl; and the little country girl, what a hurry she seems in! she's a good little thing, i know; and it's plain she has no idea of what is going to happen to her, or she wouldn't hasten on at that pace, i'm thinking." "yes, i recollect the stout woman now. it's all right, then--all right! although they are so much behind the time i had almost given up the job as bad. but let us quite understand the thing, calabash. i shall take the old woman and the young girl in the boat with a valve to it; you will follow me close on, stern to stern; and mind and row steadily, so that, with one spring, i may jump from one boat to the other, as soon as i have opened the pipe and the water begins to sink the boat." "don't be afraid about me, it is not the first time i've pulled a boat, is it?" "i am not afraid of being drowned, you know i can swim; but, if i did not jump well into the other boat, why, the women, in their struggles against drowning, might catch hold of me and--much obliged to you, but i have no fancy for a bath with the two ladies." "the old woman waves her handkerchief," said calabash; "there they are on the bank." "come, come along, mother, let's push off," said nicholas, unmooring. "come you into the boat with the valve, then the two women will not have any fear; and you, calabash, jump into t'other, and use your arms, my girl, and pull a good one. ah, by the way, take the boat-hook and put it beside you, it is as sharp as a lance, and it may be useful," added the ruffian, as he placed beside calabash in the boat a long hook with a sharp iron point. a few moments, and the two boats, one rowed by nicholas and the other by calabash, reached the shore where, for some moments, madame séraphin and fleur-de-marie had been waiting. whilst nicholas was fastening his boat to a post on the bank, madame séraphin approached him, and said, in a low and rapid tone: "say that madame georges is waiting for us at the island,--you understand?" and then, in a louder voice, she added, "we are rather late, my lad." "yes, my good lady, madame georges has been asking for you several times." "you see, my dear young lady, madame georges is waiting for us," said madame séraphin, turning to fleur-de-marie, who, in spite of her confidence, had felt considerable repugnance at the sight of the sinister countenances of calabash, nicholas, and the widow; but the mention of madame georges reassured her, and she replied: "i am just as impatient to see madame georges; fortunately, it is not a long way across." "how delighted the dear lady will be!" said madame séraphin. then, addressing nicholas, "now, then, my lad, bring your boat a little closer that we may get in." adding, in an undertone, "the girl must be drowned, mind; if she comes up thrust her back again into the water." "all right, ma'am; and don't be alarmed yourself, but, when i make you the signal, give me your hand, she'll then pass under all alone, for everything's ready, and you have nothing to fear," replied nicholas, in a similar tone; and then, with savage brutality, unmoved by fleur-de-marie's youth and beauty, he put his hand out to her. the young girl leaned lightly on him and entered the boat. "now you, my good lady," said nicholas to madame séraphin, offering her his hand in turn. was it presentiment, or mistrust, or only fear that she could not spring quickly enough out of the little bark in which nicholas and the goualeuse were, that made jacques ferrand's housekeeper say to nicholas, shrinking back, "no, i'll go in the boat with mademoiselle?" and she took her seat by calabash. "just as you please," said nicholas, exchanging an expressive look with his sister as, with a vigorous thrust with his oar, he drove his boat from the bank. his sister did the same directly madame séraphin was seated beside her. standing, looking fixedly on the bank, indifferent to the scene, the widow, pensive and absorbed, fixed her look obstinately on martial's window, which was discernible from the landing-place through the poplars. during this time the two boats, in the first of which were nicholas and fleur-de-marie and in the other calabash and madame séraphin, left the bank slowly. chapter xvi. the happiness of meeting. before the reader is made acquainted with the _dénouement_ of the drama then passing in nicholas's boat, we shall beg leave to retrace our steps. shortly after fleur-de-marie had quitted st. lazare in company of madame séraphin, la louve also left that prison. thanks to the recommendations of madame armand and the governor, who were desirous of recompensing her for her kindness towards mont saint-jean, the few remaining days the beloved of martial had still to remain in confinement were remitted her. a complete change had come over this hitherto depraved, degraded, and intractable being. forever brooding over the description of the peaceful, wild, and retired life, so beautifully depictured by fleur-de-marie, la louve entertained the utmost horror and disgust of her past life. to bury herself with martial in the deep shades of some vast forest, such was her waking and dreaming thought,--the one fixed idea of her existence, against which all her former evil inclinations had in vain struggled when, separating herself from la goualeuse, whose growing influence she feared, this singular creature had retired to another part of st. lazare. to complete this sincere though rapid conversion, still more assured by the ineffectual resistance attempted by the perverse and froward habits of her companion, fleur-de-marie, following the dictates of her own natural good sense, had thus reasoned: "la louve, a violent and determined creature, is passionately fond of martial. she would, then, hail with delight the means of quitting the disgraceful life she now, for the first time, views with shame and disgust, for the purpose of entirely devoting herself to the rude, unpolished man whose taste she so entirely partakes of, and who seeks to hide himself from the world, as much from inclination as from a desire of escaping from the universal reprobation in which his family is viewed." assisted by these small materials, gleaned during her conversation with la louve, fleur-de-marie, in giving a right direction to the unbridled passion and restraining the daring hardihood of the reckless creature, had positively converted a lost, wretched being into an honest woman; for what could the most virtuous of her sex have desired more than to bestow her undivided affections on the man of her choice, to dwell with him in the silence and solitude of woods, where hard labour, privations and poverty, would all be cheerfully borne and shared for his dear sake, to whom her heart was given? and such was the constant, ardent prayer of la louve. relying on the assistance which fleur-de-marie had assured her of in the name of an unknown benefactor, la louve determined to make her praiseworthy proposal to her lover, not, indeed, without the keen and bitter apprehension of being rejected by him, for la goualeuse, while she brought her to blush for her past life, awakened her to a just sense also of her position as regarded martial. once at liberty, la louve thought only of seeing "her man," as she called him. he took exclusive possession of her mind; she had heard nothing of him for several days. in the hopes of meeting with him in the isle du ravageur, and with the determination of waiting there until he came, should she fail to find him at first, she paid the driver of a cabriolet liberally to conduct her with all speed to the bridge of asnières, which she crossed about a quarter of an hour before madame séraphin and fleur-de-marie (they having walked from the barrier) had reached the banks of the river near the lime-kilns. as martial did not present himself to ferry la louve across to the isle du ravageur, she applied to an old fisherman, named father férot, who lived close by the bridge. it was about four o'clock in the day when a cabriolet stopped at the entrance of a small street in the village of asnières. la louve leaped from it at one bound, threw a five-franc piece to the driver, and proceeded with all haste to the dwelling of old férot, the ferryman. la louve, no longer dressed in her prison garb, wore a gown of dark green merino, a red imitation of cashmere shawl with large, flaming pattern, and a net cap trimmed with riband; her thick, curly hair was scarcely smoothed out, her impatient longing to see martial having rendered an ordinary attention to her toilet quite impossible. any other female would, after so long a separation, have exerted her very utmost to appear becomingly adorned at her first interview with her lover; but la louve knew little and cared less for all these coquettish arts, which ill accorded with her excitable nature. her first, her predominating desire was to see "her man" as quickly as possible, and this impetuous wish was caused, not alone by the fervour of a love which, in minds as wild and unregulated as hers, sometimes leads on to madness, but also from a yearning to pour into the ear of martial the virtuous resolutions she had formed, and to reveal to him the bright vista of happiness opened to both by her conversation with fleur-de-marie. the flying steps of la louve soon conducted her to the fisherman's cottage, and there, seated tranquilly before the door, she found father férot, an old, white-headed man, busily employed mending his nets. even before she came close up to him, la louve cried out: "quick, quick, father férot! your boat! your boat!" "what! is it you, my girl? well, how are you? i have not seen you this long while." "i know, i know; but where is your boat? and take me across to the isle as fast as you can row." "my boat? well to be sure! now, how very unlucky! as if it was to be so. bless you, my girl, it is quite out of my power to ferry you across to-day." "but why? why is it?" "why, you see, my son has taken my boat to go up to the boat-races held at st. ouen. bless your heart, i don't think there's a boat left all along the river's side." "distraction!" exclaimed la louve, stamping her foot and clenching her hand. "then all is lost; i shall not be able to see him!" "'pon my honour and word, it's true, though," said old férot. "i am extremely sorry i am unable to ferry you over, because, no doubt, by your going on so, he is very much worse." "who is much worse? who?" "why, martial!" "martial!" exclaimed la louve, snatching the sleeve of old férot's jacket, "my man ill?" "bless me! did you not know it?" "martial? do you mean martial?" "to be sure i do; but don't hold me so tight, you'll tear my blouse. now be quiet, there's a good girl. i declare you frighten me, you stare about so wildly." "ill! martial ill? and how long has he been so?" "oh, two or three days." "'tis false! he would have written and told me of it, had it been so." "ah, but then, don't you see? he's been too bad to handle a pen." "too ill to write! and he is on the isle! are you sure--quite sure he is there?" "why, i'll tell you. you must know, this morning, i meets the widow martial. now you are aware, my girl, that most, in general, when i notice her coming one way, i make it my business to go the other, for i am not particular fond of her,--i can't say i am. so then--" "but my man--my man! tell me of him!" "wait a bit,--i'm coming to him. so when i found i couldn't get away from the mother, and, to speak the honest truth, that woman makes me afraid to seem to slight her. she has a sort of an evil look about her, like one as could do you any manner of harm for only wishing for; i can't account for it, i don't know what it is, for i am not timorous by nature, but somehow the widow martial does downright scare me. well, says i, thinking just to say a few words and pass on, 'i haven't seen anything of your son martial these last two or three days,' says i, 'i suppose he's not with you just now?' upon which she fixed her eyes upon me with such a look! 'tis well they were not pistols, or they would have shot me, as folks say." "you drive me wild! and then--and what said she?" father férot was silent for a minute or two, and then added: "come, now, you are a right sort of a girl; if you will only promise me to be secret, i will tell you all i know." "concerning my man?" "ay, to be sure, for martial is a good fellow, though somewhat thoughtless; and it would be a sore pity should any mischance befall him through that old wretch of a mother or his rascally brother!" "but what is going on? what have his mother or brother done? and where is he, eh? speak, i tell you! speak!" "well, well, have a little patience! and, i say, do just let my blouse alone! come, take your hands off, there's a good girl; if you keep interrupting me, and tear my clothes in this way, i shall never be able to finish my story, and you will know nothing at last." "oh, how you try my patience!" exclaimed la louve, stamping her foot with intense passion. "and you promise never to repeat a word of what i am about to tell you?" "no, no, i never will!" "upon your word of honour?" "father férot, you will drive me mad!" "oh, what a hot-headed girl it is! well, now, then, this is what i have got to say; but, first and foremost, i must tell you that martial is more than ever at variance with his family; and, if he were to get some foul play at their hands, i should not be at all surprised; and that makes me the more sorry my boat is not at hand to help you across the water, for, if you reckon upon either nicholas or calabash taking you over to the isle, why, you'll just find yourself disappointed, that's all." "i know that as well as you do; but what did my man's mother tell you? he was in the isle, then, when he fell ill, was he not?" "don't you put me out so with your questions; let me tell my story my own way. this morning i says to the widow,'why,' says i,'i have seen nothing of martial these last two or three days. i mark his boat is still moored,--he don't seem to use it as usual; i suppose he's gone away a bit? maybe he's in paris upon his business?' upon which the widow gave me, oh, such a devil's look! so says she,'he's bad a-bed in the isle, and we don't look for him to get better!' 'oh, oh!' says i to myself,'that's it, is it? it's three days since--' holla! stop, i say!" cried old férot, interrupting himself; "where the deuce are you going? what is the girl after now?" believing the life of martial in danger from the inhabitants of the isle, and unable longer to endure the twaddle of the old fisherman, la louve rushed, half frantic with rage and fear, towards the banks of the seine. some topographical descriptions will be requisite for the perfect understanding of the ensuing scene. the isle du ravageur was nearer to the left bank of the river than it was to the right, from which fleur-de-marie and madame séraphin had embarked. la louve stood on the left bank. without being extremely high, the surface of the isle completely prevented those on one side the river from seeing what was passing on the opposite bank; thus la louve had been unable to witness the embarkation of la goualeuse, while the martial family had been equally prevented from seeing la louve, who, at that very instant, was rushing in wild desperation along the banks of the other side of the river. let us also recall to the reader, that the country-house belonging to doctor griffon, and temporarily occupied by the count saint-remy was midway between the land and that part of the shore where la louve arrived half wild with apprehension and impatience. unconsciously she rushed past two individuals, who, struck with her excited manner and haggard looks, turned back to watch her proceedings. these two personages were the count saint-remy and doctor griffon. the first impulse of la louve, upon learning the danger which threatened her lover, was to hurry towards the spot from whence the peril proceeded; but, as she reached the water's edge, she became painfully sensible of the difficulties that stood in the way of her reaching the opposite land. as the old fisherman had assured her, she well knew the folly of expecting any strangers to pass by, and none of the martial family would take the trouble of rowing over to fetch her to the isle. heated and breathless, her eyes sparkling with eager excitement, she stopped opposite that point of the isle which, taking a sudden bend in this direction, was the nearest approach from the shore. through the leafless branches of the willows and poplars, la louve could see the roof of the very house where martial perhaps lay dying. at this distracting idea la louve uttered a wild cry of desperation, then, snatching off her shawl and cap, she slipped out of her gown; and, undressed as she was to her petticoat, she threw herself intrepidly into the river, waded until she got out of her depth, and then, fearlessly striking out, she swam determinedly towards the isle, affording a strange spectacle of wild and desperate energy. at each fresh impulsion of the arms the long, thick hair of la louve, unfastened by the violent exercise she was using, shook and waved about her head like the rich mane of a war-horse. but for the fixedness of her gaze, constantly riveted on the house which contained martial, and the contraction of her features, drawn together by almost the convulsive agonies of fear and dreadful anticipation of arriving too late, the poacher's mistress might have been supposed to have been merely enjoying the cool refreshment of the water for her own sport and diversion, so boldly and freely did she swim. tattooed in remembrance of her lover, her white but sinewy arms, strong as those of a man, divided the waters with a stroke which sent the sparkling element in rushing streams of liquid pearls over her broad shoulders and strong, expansive chest, resembling a block of half-submerged marble. all at once, from the other side of the isle, rose a cry of distress,--a cry of agony at once fearful and despairing. la louve started, and suddenly stopped in her rapid course; then supporting herself with one hand, with the other she pushed back her thick, dripping hair, and listened. again the cry was repeated, but more feebly, supplicatory, convulsive, and expiring; and then the most profound silence reigned around. "'tis martial--'tis his cry! he calls me to his aid!" exclaimed la louve, swimming with renewed vigour, for, in her excited state of mind, the voice which had rent the air, and sent a pang through her whole frame, seemed to her to be that of her lover. the count and the doctor, whom la louve had rushed so quickly by, were quite unable to overtake her in time to prevent her daring attempt; but both arrived immediately opposite the isle at the moment when those frightful cries were heard. both stopped, as perfectly shocked and startled as la louve had been. observing the desperate energy with which she battled with the water, they exclaimed: "the unfortunate creature means to drown herself!" but their fears were vain. martial's mistress swam like an otter, and, with a few more vigorous strokes, the intrepid creature had reached the land. she gained her feet, and, to assist her in climbing up the bank, she took hold of one of the stakes used as a sort of protecting stockade at the extremity of the isle, when at that instant, as partially in the water and holding on by one hand, she saw drifting along the form of a young female, dressed after the fashion of the country girls who come to paris with their wares. the body floated slowly on with the current, which drove it against the piles, while the garments served to render it buoyant. to cling to one of the strongest stakes, and with the hand left free to snatch at the clothes of the female as it was passing, was the instantaneous impulse of la louve,--an impulse executed as rapidly as conceived. in her extreme eagerness, however, she drew the unfortunate being she sought to save so suddenly and violently towards herself and within the small enclosure formed by the piles, that the body sunk completely under water, though here it was shallow enough to walk to land. gifted with skill and strength far from common, la louve raised la goualeuse (for she it was, although not as yet recognised by her late friend), took her up in her powerful arms as though she had been a child, and laid her on the grassy banks of the isle. "courage! courage!" shouted m. de saint-remy, from the opposite side, having, as well as doctor griffon, witnessed this bold deliverance. "we will make all haste to cross the bridge of asnières, and bring a boat to your assistance." after thus speaking, both the count and his companion proceeded as quickly as they were able in the direction of the bridge; but la louve heard not the words addressed to her. let us again repeat, that, from the right bank of the seine, on which nicholas, calabash, and their mother assembled after the commission of their atrocious crime, it was impossible, owing to its steepness, to observe what was passing on the opposite shore. fleur-de-marie, abruptly drawn by la louve within the piles, having first sunk completely from the eyes of her murderers, was thus in safety from any further pursuit on their part, they believing that she had effectually perished. a few instants after, the current, as it swept by, carried with it a second body, floating near to the surface of the water; but la louve perceived it not. it was the corpse of madame séraphin, the notary's _femme de charge_. she, however, was perfectly dead. it was as much the interest of nicholas and calabash as it was of jacques ferrand to remove so formidable a witness as well as sharer of their crime; seizing the opportunity, therefore, when the boat sunk with fleur-de-marie, to spring into that rowed by his sister, and in which was madame séraphin, he contrived to give the small vessel so great a shock as almost threw the _femme de charge_ into the water, and, while struggling to recover herself, he managed to thrust her overboard, and then to finish her with his boat-hook. * * * * * breathless and exhausted, la louve, kneeling on the grass beside fleur-de-marie, tried to recover her strength, and, at the same time, to make out the features of her she had saved from certain death. who can describe her surprise, her utter astonishment, as she recognised her late prison companion,--she who had exercised so beneficial an influence on her mind, and produced so complete a change in her conduct and ideas? in the first bewilderment of her feelings even martial was forgotten. "la goualeuse!" exclaimed she, as, with head bent down, her hair dishevelled, her garments streaming with wet, she, kneeling, contemplated the unhappy girl stretched almost dying before her on the grass. pale, motionless, her half closed eyes vacant and senseless, her beautiful hair glued to her pallid brows, her lips blue and livid, her small, delicate hands stiff and cold, la goualeuse might well have passed for dead to any but the watchful eye of affection. "la goualeuse!" again cried la louve. "what a singular chance that i should have come hither to relate to my man all the good and harm she has done me with her words and promises, as well as the resolution i have taken, and to find the poor thing thus to give me the meeting! poor girl! she is cold and dead. but, no, no!" exclaimed la louve, stooping still more closely over fleur-de-marie, and, as she did so, finding a faint--indeed, almost imperceptible--breath escape her lips; "no, she lives! merciful father, she breathes! and 'tis i have snatched her from death! i, who never yet saved any one! oh, how happy the thought makes me! my heart glows with a new delight. how thankful i feel that none but i saved her! ha! but my man,--i must save him also. perhaps he is even now in his death-throes--his mother and brother are even wretches enough to murder him! what shall i do? i cannot leave this poor creature here,--i will carry her to the widow's house. she must and she shall succour the poor goualeuse and let me see martial, or i will smash everything in my way. no mother, brother, or sister shall hinder me from going wherever my man is!" and, springing up as she spoke, la louve raised fleur-de-marie in her strong arms. charged with this slender burthen, she hurried towards the house, never for a moment doubting that, spite of their hard and wicked natures, the widow and her daughter would bestow on fleur-de-marie every requisite care. when martial's mistress had reached that point of the isle from which both sides of the seine were distinguishable, nicholas, his mother, and calabash had quitted the place, certain of the accomplishment of their double crime; they then repaired, in all haste, to the house of bras-rouge. at this moment a man who, hidden in one of the recesses of the river concealed by the lime-kiln, had, without being seen himself, witnessed the whole progress of this horrible scene, also disappeared; believing, as well as the guilty perpetrators, that the fell deed had been fully achieved. this man was jacques ferrand. one of nicholas's boats was rocking to and fro, moored to a stake on the river's bank, just by where madame séraphin and la goualeuse had embarked. scarcely had jacques ferrand quitted the lime-kiln to return to paris than m. de saint-remy and doctor griffon hastily crossed the bridge of asnières, for the purpose of reaching the isle; which they contemplated doing by means of nicholas's boat, which they had discerned from afar. to the extreme astonishment of la louve, when she arrived at the house in the isle du ravageur, she found the door shut and fastened. placing the still inanimate form of fleur-de-marie beneath the porch, she more closely examined the dwelling. the window of martial's chamber was well known to her; what was her surprise to find the shutters belonging to it closed, and sheets of tin nailed over them, strongly secured from without by two bars of iron! suspecting a part of the cause of this, la louve, in a loud, hoarse voice of mingled fury and deep tenderness, screamed out as loudly as she could: "martial! my man!" no answer was returned. terrified at this silence, la louve began pacing round and round the house like a wild beast who scents the spot whither her mate has been entrapped, and with deep roars and savage growls demands admittance to him. still pursuing her agitated search, la louve kept shouting from time to time, "my man! are you there, my man?" and in her desperate fury she shook and rattled the bars of the kitchen windows, beat against the walls, and knocked long and loudly at the door. all at once a dull, indistinct noise was heard from withinside the house. eagerly and attentively la louve listened; the noise, however, ceased. "my man heard me! i must and will get in somehow, if i gnaw the door away with my teeth." and again she reiterated her frantic cries and adjurations to martial. several faint blows struck inside the closed shutters of martial's chamber replied to the yells and screams of la louve. "he is there!" cried she, suddenly stopping beneath the window of her lover. "he is there! i am sure of it; and if all other means fail i will strip off that tin with my nails, but i will wrench those shutters open!" so saying, she glanced frantically around in search of something to aid her efforts to free her lover, when her eye caught sight of a ladder partly hanging against one of the outside shutters of the sitting-room. hastily pulling the shutter, the more quickly to disengage the ladder, the key of the outer door, left by the widow on the sill of the window, fell to the ground. "oh, if this be only the right key!" cried la louve, trying it in the lock of the entrance door; "i can go straight up stairs to his chamber. oh, it turns! it opens!" exclaimed la louve, with delight; "and my man is saved!" once in the kitchen she was struck by the cries of the two children, who, shut up in the cellar, and hearing an unusual noise, called loudly for help. the widow, persuaded that no person would visit the isle or her dwelling, had contented herself with double-locking the door upon françois and amandine, leaving the key in the lock. released by la louve, the two children hurried from the cellar to the kitchen. "oh, la louve!" exclaimed françois, "save our dear brother martial; they want him to die! for two days he has been shut up in his room!" "they have not wounded him, have they?" "no, no, i think not!" "i have arrived just in time, it seems," cried la louve, rushing towards the staircase, and hastily mounting the stairs. then, suddenly stopping, she exclaimed, "ah, but la goualeuse! i quite forgot her. amandine, my child, light a fire directly; and then do you and your brother fetch a poor, half-drowned girl you will find lying outside the door under the porch, and place her before the fire. she would have been quite dead, if i had not saved her. françois, quick! bring me a crowbar, a hatchet, an axe, anything, that i may break in the door that confines my man!" "there is the cleaver we split wood with, but it is too heavy for you," said the lad, dragging forward an enormous chopper. "too heavy! i don't even feel it!" cried la louve, swinging the ponderous weapon, which, at another time, she would have had much difficulty in lifting, as though it had been a feather. then, proceeding with hurried steps up-stairs, she called out to the children: "go and fetch the young girl i told you of, and place her by the fire." and, with two bounds, la louve reached the corridor, at the end of which was situated the apartment of martial. "courage! courage, my man! your louve is here!" cried she, and, lifting the cleaver with both hands, she dashed it furiously against the door. "it is fastened on the outside," moaned martial, in a feeble voice; "draw out the nails,--you cannot open it otherwise." throwing herself upon her knees in the passage, by the help of the edge of the cleaver, her nails, which she almost tore bleeding from their roots, and her fingers, which were lacerated and torn, la louve contrived to extract the huge nails which fastened the door all around. at length her heroic exertions were crowned with success,--the door yielded to her efforts, and martial, pale, bleeding, and almost exhausted, fell into the arms of his mistress. "at last--i have you--i hold you--i press you to my heart!" exclaimed la louve, as she received and tenderly pressed martial in her arms, with a joy of possession that partook almost of savage energy. she supported, or, rather, carried him to a bench placed in the corridor. for several minutes martial remained weak and haggard, endeavouring to recover from the violent surprise which had proved nearly too much for his exhausted strength. la louve had come to the succour of her lover at the very instant when, worn-out and despairing, he felt himself dying,--less from want of food than air, which it was impossible to obtain in so small an apartment, unprovided with a chimney or any other outlet, and hermetically closed, thanks to the fiendish contrivance of calabash, who had stopped even the most trifling crevices in the door and window with pieces of old rag. trembling with joy and apprehension, her eyes streaming with tears, la louve, kneeling beside martial, watched his slightest movements, and intently gazed on his features. the unfortunate youth seemed gradually to recover as his lungs inhaled a freer and more healthful atmosphere. after a few convulsive shudderings he raised his languid head, heaved a deep sigh, and, opening his eyes, looked eagerly around him. "martial! 'tis i!--your louve! how are you now?" "better!" replied he, in a feeble voice. "thank god! will you have a little water or some vinegar?" "no, no," replied martial, speaking more naturally; "air, air! oh, i want only air!" at the risk of gashing the backs of her hands, la louve drove them through the four panes of a window she could not have opened without first removing a large and heavy table. "now i breathe! i breathe freely! and my head seems quite relieved!" said martial, entirely recovering his senses and voice. then, as if recalling for the first time the service his mistress had rendered him, he exclaimed, with a burst of ineffable gratitude: "but for you, my brave louve, i should soon have been dead!" "oh, never mind thinking of that! but tell me, how do you find yourself now?" "better--much better!" "you are hungry, i doubt not?" "no; i feel myself too weak for that. what i have suffered most cruelly from has been want of air. at last i felt suffocating, strangling, choking. oh, it was dreadful!" "but now?" "i live again. i come forth from the very tomb itself; and that, too, thanks to you!" "and these cuts upon your poor bleeding hands! for god's sake, what have they done to you?" "nicholas and calabash, not daring to attack me openly a second time, fastened me up in my chamber to allow me to perish of hunger in it. i tried to prevent their nailing up my shutters, and my sister chopped my fingers with a hatchet." "the monsters! they wished to make it appear that you had died of sickness. your mother had spread the report of your being in a hopeless state. your mother, my man,--your own mother!" "hold!" cried martial, with bitterness; "mention her not." then for the first time remarking the wet garments and singular state of la louve's attire, he added, "but what has happened to you? your hair is dripping wet; you have only your underclothes on; and they are drenched through." "no matter, no matter what has happened to me, since you are saved. oh, yes,--saved!" "but explain to me how you became thus wet through." "i knew you were in danger, and finding no boat--" "you swam to my rescue?" "i did. but your hands? give them to me that i may heal them with my kisses! you are in pain, i fear? oh, the monsters! and i not here to help you!" "oh, my brave louve!" exclaimed martial, enthusiastically; "bravest and best of all brave creatures!" "did not your hand trace on my arm 'death to the cowardly?' see!" cried la louve, showing her tattooed arm, on which these very words were indelibly engraved. "yes, you are bold and intrepid; but the cold has seized you,--you tremble!" "indeed, it is not with cold." "never mind,--go in there. you will find calabash's cloak; wrap yourself well in it." "but--" "i insist!" in an instant la louve, who had quickly flown at her lover's second command, returned wrapped in a plaid mantle. "to think you ran the risk of drowning yourself,--and all for me!" resumed martial, gazing on her with enthusiastic delight. "oh, no, not altogether for you. a poor girl was nearly perishing in the river, and i saved her as i landed." "saved her also. and where is she?" "below with the children, who are taking care of her." "and who is she?" "oh, dear, you can scarcely credit what a singular and lucky chance brought me to her rescue! she was one of my companions at st. lazare,--a most extraordinary sort of girl. oh, you don't half know--" "how so?" "only conceive my both hating and loving her; for she had introduced happiness and death into my heart and thoughts." "who? this girl?" "yes; and all on your account." "on mine?" "hark ye, martial!" then interrupting her proposed speech, la louve continued, "no, no; i never, never can--" "what?" "i had a request to make to you, and for that purpose i came hither; because when i quitted paris i knew nothing of your danger." "then speak,--pray do!" "i dare not." "dare not,--after all you have done for me?" "no; for then it would appear as though i claimed a right to be rewarded." "a right to be rewarded? and have you not already earned that right? do i not already owe you much? and did you not tend my sick bed with unfailing watchfulness, both night and day during my illness of the past year?" "are you not 'my man,--my own dear man?'" "and for the reason that i am and ever shall be 'your man,' are you not bound to speak openly and candidly to me?" "for ever, martial?" "yes, for ever; as true as my name is martial. i shall never care for any other woman in the world but you, my brave louve. never mind what you may have been, or what you may have done; that is nobody's affair but mine. i love you, and you love me; and, moreover, i owe you my life. but somehow, do you know, since you have been in prison i have not been like the same person. all sorts of fresh thoughts have come into my mind. i have thought it well over, and i have resolved that you shall no more be what you have been." "what can you mean?" "that i will never more quit you; neither will i part from françois and amandine." "your young sister and brother?" "yes; from this day forward i must be as a second father to these poor children. don't you see, by imposing on myself fresh duties, i am compelled to alter and amend what is amiss in my way of conducting myself? but i consider it my positive task to take charge of these young things, or they will be made artful thieves. and the only way to save them is to take them from here." "where to?" "that i know not; but certainly far from paris." "and me?" "you? why, of course, you go with me!" "with you?" exclaimed la louve, with joyful surprise,--she could not credit the reality of such happiness. "and shall i never again be parted from you?" "no, my brave girl--never! you will help me to bring up my little sister and young brother. i know your heart. when i say to you, 'i greatly wish my poor little amandine to grow up a virtuous and industrious woman. just talk to her about it, and show her what to do,' i am quite sure and certain that you will be to her all the best mother could be to her own child." "oh, thanks, martial,--thanks, thanks!" "we shall live like honest workpeople. never fear but we shall find work; for we will toil like slaves to content our employers; but, at least, these children will not be depraved and degraded beings like their parents. i shall not continually hear myself taunted with my father and brother's disgraceful end, neither shall i go through streets where you are known. but what is the matter,--what ails you?" "oh, martial, i feel as though i should go mad." "mad!--for what?" "for joy." "and why should you go mad with joy?" "because--because,--it is too much--" "what?" "i mean that what you propose is too great happiness for one like me to hope for. oh, indeed, indeed, it is more than i can bear! but who knows? perhaps saving la goualeuse has brought me good luck,--that's it, i am sure and certain." "still, i ask you, what is the matter, and why are you thus agitated?" exclaimed martial. "oh, martial, martial, the very thing you have been proposing--" "well?" "i was going to ask you." "to quit paris?" "yes," replied she, in a hurried tone; "and to try your consent to accompany you to the forests, where we should have a nice, neat little house, and children whom i should love as la louve would the children of her man--or, if you would permit me," continued la louve, in a faltering voice, "instead of calling you 'my man,' to say 'my husband?' for," added she, confusedly and rapidly, "for without that change, we should not obtain the place." martial, in his turn, regarded la louve with deep astonishment, unable to comprehend her meaning. "what place are you speaking of?" said he, at length. "of that of gamekeeper." "that i should have?" "yes." "and who would give it to me?" "the protector of the young girl i saved." "they do not know me." "but i have told her all about you, and she will recommend us to her protector." "and what have you told her about me?" "oh, martial, can you not guess? of what could i speak but of your goodness--and my love for you?" "my excellent louve!" "and then, you know, being in prison together makes folks talk to each other, and open their hearts in the way of confidence. besides which, there was something so gentle and engaging about this young creature, that i could not help feeling drawn towards her, even in spite of myself; for i very quickly discovered she was a very different person to such as you and i have been used to." "and who is she?" "i know not, neither can i guess; but certainly i never met with any one like her. bless you, she can read the very thoughts of your heart, the same as if she were a fairy. i merely told her of my love for you, and she immediately interested herself in us. she made me feel ashamed of my past life; not by saying harsh and severe things,--you know very well that would not have done much good with me,--but by talking of the pleasures of a life passed in hard but peaceful labour, tranquilly within the quiet shades of deep forests, where you might be occupied according to your tastes and inclinations; only, instead of your being a poacher, she made you a gamekeeper, and in place of my being only your mistress, she pictured me as your true and lawful wife. and then we were to have fine, healthy children who ran joyfully to meet you when you returned at night, followed by your faithful dogs, and carrying your gun on your shoulder. then we all sat down so gay and happy, to eat our supper beneath the cool shade of the large trees that overhung our cottage door, while the fresh wind blew, and the moon peeped at us from amongst the thick branches, and the little ones prattled and you related to us all you had seen and done during the day, while wandering in the forests; until, at last, cheerful and contented, we retired to rest, to rise the following day, and with light hearts to recommence our labours. i cannot tell you how it was, but i listened and listened to these delightful pictures till i quite believed in their reality. i seemed bound by a spell when she spoke of happiness like this, though i tried ever so much against it. i always found it impossible to disbelieve that it would surely come to pass. oh, but you have no idea how beautifully she described it all! i fancied i saw it--you--our children--our forest home. i rubbed my eyes, but it was ever before them, although a waking dream." "ah, yes!" said martial, sighing; "that would, indeed, be a sweet and pleasant life! without being bad at heart, poor françois has been quite enough in the society of calabash and nicholas to make it far better he should dwell in the solitude of woods and forests, rather than be exposed to the further contamination of great towns. amandine would help you in your household duties, and i should make a capital gamekeeper, from the very fact of my having been a poacher of some notoriety. i should have you for my housekeeper and companion, my good louve; and then, as you know, we should have our children also. bless their little hearts, i doubt not our having a fine flock about us! and what more could we wish for or desire? when once we got used to a forest life, it would seem as though we had always lived there; and fifty or a hundred years would glide away like a single day. but you must not talk to me of such happiness; it makes one so full of sadness and regrets that it cannot be realised. no, no, don't let us ever mention it again; because, don't you see, la louve, it comes over one like--i should soon work myself up to madness if i allowed my thoughts to dwell on it." "ah, martial, i let you go on because i thought i was quite as bad myself. i said just those very words to la goualeuse." "did you, really?" "i did, indeed. for, after listening to all these tales of enchantment, i said to her, 'what a pity, la goualeuse, that these castles in the air, as you call them, are not true!' and what do you think, martial," asked la louve, her eyes flashing with joy, "what do you think she answered me?" "i don't know." "'why,' said she, 'only let martial marry you, and give me your promise to live honestly and virtuously henceforward, and directly i quit the prison i will exert myself to get the place i have been speaking of for him.'" "get me a gamekeeper's place?" "yes; i declare to you, martial, she said so." "oh, but as you say, that can be but a dream--a mere fancy. if, indeed, nothing were requisite for our obtaining the place but our being married, my good girl, that should be done to-morrow, if i had the means; though, from this very day and hour, i consider you as my true and lawful wife." "oh, martial! i your lawful wife?" "the only woman who shall ever bear that title. and, for the future, i wish you to call me 'husband;' for such i am in word and heart, as firmly and lastingly as though we had been before the _maire_." "oh, la goualeuse was right. a woman feels so proud and happy to say 'my husband!' oh, martial, you shall see what a good, faithful, devoted wife i will be to you; how hard i will work! oh, i shall be so delighted to labour for you!" "and do you really think there is any chance of our getting this place?" "if the poor dear goualeuse deceives herself about it, it is that others deceive her; for she seemed quite sure of being able to fulfil her promises. and besides, when i was quitting the prison a little while ago, the inspectress told me that the protectors of la goualeuse, who were people of rank and consequence, had removed her from confinement that very day. now that proved her having powerful friends; so that she can keep her word to us if she likes." "but," cried martial, suddenly rising, "i don't know what we have been thinking of all this time!" "thinking about--what do you mean, martial?" "why, the poor girl you saved from drowning is down-stairs--perhaps dying; and, instead of rendering her any assistance, we are attending to our own affairs up-stairs." "make yourself perfectly easy; françois and amandine are there watching her, and they would have come to call us had there been any danger or necessity. still you are right; let us go to her. you must see her to whom we shall, perhaps, owe all our future happiness." and martial, supported by la louve, descended to the lower part of the house. before they have reached the kitchen, let us in a few words describe what had occurred there from the time when fleur-de-marie had been confided to the charge of the two children. chapter xvii. doctor griffon. françois and amandine had contrived to convey fleur-de-marie near the fire, when m. de saint-remy and doctor griffon, who had crossed the river in nicholas's boat, entered the house. whilst the children were making the fire burn up, doctor griffon bestowed on the young girl his utmost care. "the poor girl cannot be more than seventeen at most!" exclaimed the count, who was looking on. "what do you think of her, doctor?" "her pulse is scarcely perceptible; but, strange to say, the skin of the face is not livid in the subject, as is usually the case in asphyxia from submersion," replied the doctor, with professional calmness, and contemplating fleur-de-marie with a deeply meditative air. doctor griffon was a tall, thin man, pallid and completely bald, except two tufts of thin black hair, carefully brushed back on the poll, and flattened on the temples. his countenance, wrinkled and furrowed by the fatigues of study, was calm, intelligent, and reflective. profoundly learned, of great experience, and a skilful practitioner, first surgeon at a civil hospital, where we shall again encounter him, doctor griffon had but one defect, that of completely abstracting himself from the patient, and only considering the disease. young or old, rich or poor, was no matter,--he only thought of medical fact, more or less remarkable, which the subject presented. for him there was nothing but subjects. "what a lovely face! how beautiful she is in spite of this frightful paleness!" said m. de saint-remy. "did you ever see milder or more expressive features, my dear doctor? and so young--so young!" "age is no consequence," said the doctor, abruptly, "no more than the presence of water in the lungs, which was formerly thought fatal. it was a gross error, which the admirable experiments of goodwin--the famous goodwin--incontestably detected and exposed." "but doctor--" "but it is a fact," replied m. griffon, absorbed by the love of his art. "to detect the presence of any foreign liquid in the lungs, goodwin plunged some cats and dogs several times into tubs filled with ink for some seconds, taking them out alive, and then, after a time, dissected the animals. well, he was convinced from the dissection that the ink had penetrated the lungs, and that the presence of this liquid in the respiratory organs had not caused the death of the subject." the count knew the doctor was a worthy creature at heart, but that his mad passion for science made him often appear harsh and cruel. "have you any hope?" inquired m. de saint-remy, impatiently. "the extremities of the subject are very cold," said the doctor; "there is but very slight hope." "ah, poor child! to die at that age is indeed terrible!" "pupil fixed--dilated!" observed the doctor, impassive, and pushing up the frigid eyelid of fleur-de-marie with his forefinger. "what a singular man!" exclaimed the comte, almost with indignation. "one would suppose you pitiless, and yet i have seen you watch by my bedside for nights together. had i been your brother, you could not have been more generously devoted to me." doctor griffon, still occupied in doing all that was requisite and possible for fleur-de-marie, replied to the comte without looking at him, and with imperturbable phlegm: "_parbleu!_ do you think one meets with an intermittent fever so wonderfully complicated as that you had! it was wonderful, my dear friend--astonishing! stupor, delirium, muscular action of the tendons, syncopes,--that important fever combined the most varied symptoms. you were, indeed, affected by a partial and momentary attack of paralysis; and, if it had presented nothing else, why, your attack was entitled to all the attention in my power. you presented a magnificent study; and, truth to say, my dear friend, what i desire most in the world is to meet with such another glorious fever. but that is a piece of good fortune that never occurs twice!" at this moment martial descended, leaning on the arm of la louve, who still retained over her wet clothes the plaid cloak which belonged to calabash. struck with the paleness of martial, and remarking his hands covered with dried blood, the comte exclaimed, "who is this man?" "my husband!" replied la louve, looking at martial with an expression of happiness and noble pride impossible to describe. "you have a good and intrepid wife, sir," said the comte to him. "i saw her save this unfortunate young girl with singular courage." "yes, sir, my wife is good and intrepid," replied martial, with emphasis, and regarding la louve with an air at once full of love and tenderness. "yes, intrepid; for she has also come in time to save my life." "your life?" exclaimed the comte. "look at his hands--his poor hands!" said la louve, wiping away the tears which softened the wild brightness of her eyes. "horrible!" cried the comte. "see, doctor, how his hands are hacked!" doctor griffon, turning his head slightly, and looking over his shoulder at martial's hands, said to him, "open and shut your hand." martial did so with considerable pain. the doctor shrugged his shoulders, and continued his attentions to fleur-de-marie, saying merely, and as if with regret: "there's nothing serious in those cuts,--there's no tendon injured. in a week the subject will be able to use his hands again." "then, sir, my husband will not be crippled?" said la louve, with gratitude. the doctor shook his head affirmatively. "and la goualeuse will recover--won't she, sir?" inquired la louve. "oh, she must live, for i and my husband owe her so much!" then turning towards martial, "poor dear girl! there she is, as i told you,--she who will, perhaps, be the cause of our happiness; for it was she who gave me the idea of coming and saying to you all i have said. what a chance that i should save her--and here, too!" "she is a providence," said martial, struck by the beauty of la goualeuse. "what an angel's face! oh, she will recover, will she not, doctor?" "i cannot say," replied the doctor. "but, in the first place, can she remain here? will she have all necessary attention?" "here?" cried la louve; "why, they commit murder here!" "silence--silence!" said martial. the comte and the doctor looked at la louve with surprise. "this house in the isle has a bad reputation hereabouts, and i am not astonished at it," observed the doctor, in a low tone, to m. de saint-remy. "you have, then, been the victim of some violence?" observed the comte to martial. "how did you come by those wounds?" "they are nothing--nothing, sir. i had a quarrel--a struggle ensued, and i was wounded. but this young peasant girl cannot remain in this house," he added, with a gloomy air. "i cannot remain here myself--nor my wife, nor my brother, nor my sister, whom you see. we are going to leave the isle, never to return to it." "oh, how nice!" exclaimed the two children. "then what are we to do?" said the doctor, looking at fleur-de-marie. "it is impossible to think of conveying the subject to paris in her present state of prostration. but then my house is quite close at hand, my gardener's wife and her daughter are capital nurses; and since this asphyxia by submersion interests you, my dear saint-remy, why, you can watch over the necessary attentions, and i will come and see her every day." "and you assume the harsh and pitiless man," exclaimed the comte, "when, as your proposal proves, you have one of the noblest hearts in the world!" "if the subject sinks under it, as is possible, there will be an opportunity for a most interesting dissection, which will allow me to confirm once again goodwin's assertions." "how horridly you talk!" cried the comte. "for those who know how to read, the dead body is a book in which they learn to save the lives of the diseased!" replied dr. griffon, stoically. "at last, then, you do good?" said m. de saint-remy, with bitterness; "and that is important. what consequence is the cause provided that benefit results? poor child! the more i look at her the more she interests me." "and well does she deserve it, i can tell you, sir," observed la louve, with excitement, and approaching him. "do you know her?" inquired the comte. "do i know her, sir? why, it is to her i owe the happiness of my life; and i have not done for her half what she has done for me." and la louve looked passionately towards her husband,--she no longer called him her man! "and who is she?" asked m. de saint-remy. "an angel, sir,--all that is good in this world. yes; and although she is dressed as a country girl, there is no merchant's wife, no great lady, who can discourse as well as she can, with her sweet little voice just like music. she is a noble girl, i say,--full of courage and goodness." "by what accident did she fall into the water?" "i do not know, sir." "then she is not a peasant girl?" asked the comte. "a peasant girl,--look at her small white hands, sir!" "true," observed m. de saint-remy; "what a strange mystery! but her name--her family?" "come along," said the doctor, breaking into the conversation; "we must convey the subject into the boat." half an hour after this, fleur-de-marie, who had not yet recovered her senses, was in the doctor's abode, lying in a good bed, and maternally watched by m. griffon's gardener's wife, to whom was added la louve. the doctor promised m. de saint-remy, who was more and more interested in la goualeuse, to return to see her again in the evening. martial went to paris with françois and amandine, la louve being unwilling to quit fleur-de-marie before she had been pronounced out of danger. the isle du ravageur remained deserted. we shall presently find its sinister inhabitants at bras-rouge's, where they were to be joined by the chouette for the murder of the diamond-matcher. in the meantime we will conduct the reader to the rendezvous which tom, sarah's brother, had with the horrible hag, the schoolmaster's accomplice. chapter xviii. the portrait. thomas seyton, the brother of the countess sarah macgregor, was walking impatiently on the boulevards near the observatory, when he saw the chouette arrive. the horrible beldame had on a white cap and her usual plaid shawl. the point of a stiletto, as round as a thick swan's quill, and very sharp, having perforated a hole at the bottom of her large straw basket which she carried on her arm, the extremity of this murderous weapon, which had belonged to the schoolmaster, might be seen projecting. thomas seyton did not perceive that the chouette was armed. "it has just struck three by the luxembourg," said the old woman. "here i am, like the hand of the clock." "come," replied thomas seyton. and, preceding her, he crossed some open fields; and turning down a deserted alley near the rue cassini, he stopped half way down the lane, which was barred by a turnstile, opened a small door, motioned to the chouette to follow him; and, after having advanced with her a few steps down a path overgrown by thick trees, he said, "wait here," and disappeared. "that is, if you don't keep me on the 'waiting lay' too long," responded the chouette; "for i must be at bras rouge's at five o'clock to meet the martials, and help silence the diamond-matcher. it's very well i have my 'gulley' (poniard). oh, the vagabond, he has got his nose out of window!" added the hag, as she saw the point of the stiletto coming through the seam in the basket. and taking the weapon, which had a wooden handle, from the basket, she replaced it so that it was completely concealed. "this is _fourline's_ tool," she continued, "and he has asked me for it so many times to kill the rats who came skipping about him in his cellar. poor things! they have no one but the old blind man to divert them and keep them company. they ought not to be hurt if they play about a bit; and so i will not let him hurt the dears, and i keep his tool to myself. besides, i shall soon want it for this woman, perhaps. thirty thousand francs' worth of diamonds,--what a 'haul' for each of us! it'll be a good day's work, and not like that of the other day with that old notary whom i thought to squeeze. it was no use to threaten him if he would not 'stand some blunt' that i would lay information that it was his housekeeper who had sent la goualeuse to me by tournemine when she was a little brat. nothing frightened the old brute, he called me an old hag, and shoved me out-of-doors. well, well, i'll send an anonymous letter to these people at the farm where pegriotte was, to inform them that it was the notary who formerly abandoned her to me. perhaps they know her family; and when she gets out of st. lazare, why, the matter will get too hot for that old brute, jacques ferrand. some one comes,--ah, it is the pale lady who was dressed in men's clothes at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, and with the tall fellow who just left me, the same that the _fourline_ and i robbed by the excavations near notre-dame," added the chouette, as she saw sarah appear at the extremity of the walk. "here's another job for me, i see; and this little lady must have something to do with our having carried off la goualeuse from the farm. if she pays well for another job of work, why, that will be 'the ticket.'" as sarah approached the chouette, whom she saw again for the first time since their rencontre at the _tapis-franc_, her countenance expressed the disdain, the disgust, which persons of a certain rank feel when they come in contact with low wretches whom they take as tools or accomplices. thomas seyton, who, until now, had actively served the criminal machinations of his sister, although he considered them as all but futile, had refused any longer to continue this contemptible part, consenting, nevertheless, for the first and last time to put his sister in communication with the chouette, without himself interfering in the fresh projects they might plan. the countess, unable to win back rodolph to her by breaking the bonds or the affections which she believed so dear to him, hoped, as we have seen, to render him the dupe of a base deceit, the success of which might realise the vision of this obstinate, ambitious, and cruel woman. her design was to persuade rodolph that their daughter was not dead, and to substitute an orphan for the child. we know that jacques ferrand--having formally refused to participate in this plot in spite of sarah's menaces--had resolved to make away with fleur-de-marie, as much from the fear of the chouette's disclosure, as from fear of the obstinate persistence of the countess. but the latter had by no means abandoned her design, feeling persuaded that she should corrupt or intimidate the notary when she should be assured of having obtained a young girl capable of filling the character which she desired her to assume. after a moment's silence sarah said to the chouette, "you are adroit, discreet, and resolute?" "adroit as a monkey, resolute as a bulldog, and mute as a fish; such is the chouette, and such the devil made her; at your service if you want her,--and you do," replied the old wretch, quickly. "i hope we have managed well with the young country wench who is now in st. lazare for two good months." "we are not talking of her, but of something else." "anything you please, my handsome lady, provided there's money at the end of what you mean to propose, and then we shall be as right as my fingers." sarah could not control a movement of disgust. "you must know," she resumed, "many people in the lower ranks of life,--persons who are in misfortune?" "there are more of them than there are of millionaires; you may pick and choose. we have plentiful wretchedness in paris." "i want to meet with a poor orphan girl, and particularly if she lost her parents young. she must be good-looking, of gentle disposition, and not more than seventeen years of age." the chouette gazed at sarah with amazement. "such an orphan girl must be by no means difficult to meet with," continued the countess; "there are so many foundling children!" "why, my good lady, you forget la goualeuse. she is the very thing." "who is la goualeuse?" "the young thing we carried off from bouqueval." "we are not talking of her now, i tell you." "but hear me, and be sure you pay me well for my advice. you want an orphan girl, as quiet as a lamb, as handsome as daylight, and who is only seventeen, you say?" "certainly." "well, then, take la goualeuse when she leaves st. lazare; she is the very thing for you, as if we had made her on purpose. for she was about six years of age when that scamp, jacques ferrand (and it's now ten years ago), gave her to me with a thousand francs, in order to get rid of her,--that is to say, it was tournemine, who is now at the galleys at rochefort, who brought her to me, saying there was no doubt she was some child they wanted to get rid of or pass off for dead." "jacques ferrand, do you say?" exclaimed sarah, in a voice so choked that the chouette receded several paces. "the notary, jacques ferrand, gave you this child--and--?" she could not finish, her emotion was too violent; and with her two clasped hands extended towards the chouette, she trembled convulsively, surprise and joy agitating her features. "i don't know what it is that makes you so much in earnest, my good lady," replied the old hag; "but it is a very simple story. ten years ago tournemine, an old pal of mine, said to me: 'have you a mind to take charge of a little girl that they want to get out of the way? no matter whether she slips her wind or not. there's a thousand francs for the job, and do what you like with the 'kinchin.'" "ten years ago?" cried sarah. "ten years." "a little fair girl?" "a little fair girl." "with blue eyes?" "blue eyes--as blue as blue bells." "and it was she who was at the farm?" "and we packed her up and carted her off to st. lazare. i must say, though, that i didn't expect to find her--pegriotte--in the country as i did, though." "oh, _mon dieu!_ _mon dieu!_" exclaimed sarah, falling on her knees, and elevating her hands and eyes to heaven, "thy ways are inscrutable, and i bow down before thy providence! oh, if such happiness be possible! but, no, i cannot yet believe it; it would be too fortunate! no!" then rising suddenly she said to the chouette, who was gazing at her with the utmost astonishment, "follow me!" and sarah walked before her with hasty steps. at the end of the alley she ascended several steps that led by a glass door to a small room sumptuously furnished. at the moment when the chouette was about to enter, sarah made a sign to her to remain outside, and then rang the bell violently. a servant appeared. "i am not at home to anybody, and let no one enter here,--no one, do you hear?" the servant bowed and retired. sarah, for the sake of greater security, pushed to the bolt. the chouette heard the order given to the servant, and saw sarah fasten the bolt. the countess then turning towards her, said: "come in quickly, and shut the door." the chouette did as she was bidden. hastily opening a _secrétaire_, sarah took from it an ebony coffer, which she placed on a writing-table in the centre of the room, and beckoned the chouette towards her. the coffer was filled with small caskets lying one upon the other, and containing splendid jewelry. sarah was in so much haste to arrive at the bottom of the coffer, that she hastily scattered over the table these jewel-cases, splendidly filled with necklaces, bracelets, tiaras of rubies, emeralds, and diamonds, which sparkled with a thousand fires. the chouette was dazzled. she was armed, was alone with the countess; escape was easy--certain. an infernal idea shot through the brain of this monster. but to put this new crime into execution it was necessary to extricate her stiletto from her basket, and approach sarah without exciting her suspicions. with the craft of the tiger-cat, who grovels along treacherously towards its prey, the beldame profited by the countess's preoccupation to move imperceptibly around the table which separated her from her victim. the chouette had already begun her perfidious movement, when she was compelled suddenly to stop short. sarah took a locket from the bottom of the box, leaned over the table, and, handing it to the chouette with a trembling hand, said: "look at this portrait." "it is pegriotte!" exclaimed the chouette, struck with the strong resemblance; "it is the little girl who was handed to me! i think i see her just as she was when tournemine brought her to me. that's just like her long curling hair, which i cut off and sold directly, _ma foi!_" "you recognise her; it is really she? oh, i conjure you, do not deceive me--do not deceive me!" "i tell you, my good lady, it is pegriotte, as if i saw herself there," said the chouette, trying to draw nearer to sarah without being remarked. "and even now she is very like this portrait; if you saw her you would be struck by the likeness." sarah had not uttered one cry of pain or alarm when she learned that her daughter had been for ten years leading a wretched existence, forsaken as she was. not one feeling of remorse was there when she reflected that she herself had snatched her away disastrously from the peaceful retreat in which rodolph had placed her. this unnatural mother did not eagerly question the chouette with terrible anxiety as to the past life of the child. no! in her heart ambition had long since stifled every sentiment of maternal tenderness. it was not joy at again being restored to a lost daughter that transported her,--it was the hope of seeing at length realised the vain dream of her whole existence. rodolph had felt deeply interested in this unfortunate girl, had protected her without knowing her; what would then be his feelings when he discovered that she was--his daughter? he was free--the countess was a widow! sarah already saw the sovereign crown sparkling on her brow. the chouette, still stealing on with slow steps, had at length reached one end of the table, and had her stiletto perpendicularly in her basket, its handle on a level with the opening, and within her clutch. she was but a step or two from the countess. "do you know how to write?" inquired sarah of her; and, pushing from her the casket and gems, she opened a blotting-book, which was by an inkstand. "no, madame; i do not!" replied the chouette, at all risks. "i will write, then, at your dictation. tell me all the circumstances of the abandonment of this little girl." and sarah, sitting in an armchair before the writing-table, took up a pen, and made a sign to the chouette to come close to her. the old wretch's one eye sparkled. at last she was standing up, close to the seat on which sarah was sitting, and, stooping over a table, was preparing to write. "i will read aloud, and then," said the countess, "you can correct any mistakes." "yes, madame," replied the chouette, narrowly watching every motion of sarah; and she furtively introduced her hand into her basket, that she might be able to grasp the poniard without being observed. the countess commenced writing. "i declare that--" then interrupting herself, and turning towards the chouette, who was at the moment touching the handle of her poniard, sarah added: "at what period was the child brought to you?" "in the month of february, ." "and by whom?" continued sarah, turning towards the chouette. "by pierre tournemine, now at the galleys at rochefort. it was madame séraphin, the notary's housekeeper, who brought the young girl to him." the countess continued writing, and then read aloud: "i declare that, in the month of february, , a person named--" the chouette had drawn the poniard; already had she raised her arm to strike her victim between the shoulders; sarah turned again. the chouette, that she might not be off her guard, leaned her right hand, armed as it was, on the back of sarah's armchair, and then stooped towards her, as if in attitude to reply to her question. "tell me again the name of the man who handed the child to you?" said the countess. "pierre tournemine," repeated sarah, as she wrote it down, "at this time at the galleys of rochefort, brought me a child, which had been confided to him by the housekeeper of--" the countess could not finish. the chouette having got rid of her basket by allowing it to slide from her arm onto the floor, threw herself on the countess with equal fury and rapidity; and having grasped the back of her neck with her left hand, forced her face down on the table, and then with her right hand drove the stiletto in between her two shoulders. this atrocious assassination was so promptly effected that the countess did not utter a cry--a moan. still sitting, she remained with her head and the front of her body on the table. her pen fell from her fingers. "just the very blow which _fourline_ gave the little old man in the rue du roule!" said the monster. "one more who will never wag tongue again! her account is settled!" and the chouette, gathering up the jewels together, huddled them into her basket, not perceiving that her victim still breathed. the murder and robbery effected, the horrid old devil opened the glass door, ran swiftly along the tree-covered path, went out by the small side door, and reached the lone tract of ground. near the observatory she took a hackney-coach, which drove her to bras-rouge's in the champs elysées. the widow martial, nicholas, calabash, and barbillon had, as we know, an appointment with the chouette in this den of infamy, in order to rob and murder the diamond-matcher. chapter xix. the agent of safety. the reader already knows the bleeding heart in the champs elysées, near the court de la reine, in one of the deep ditches which, a few years since, were close to this promenade. the inhabitants of the isle du ravageur had not yet arrived. after the departure of bradamanti, who had, as we know, accompanied madame d'harville's stepmother into normandy, tortillard had returned to his father. placed as a sentinel at the top of the staircase, the little cripple was to announce the arrival of the martials by a certain cry, bras-rouge being at this moment in secret conference with an _agent-de-sûreté_ named narcisse borel, whom the reader may perchance remember to have seen at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress, when he came there to arrest two miscreants accused of murder. this agent, a man about forty years of age, was thickset and powerful, with a high colour, a keen, quick eye, his face entirely shaven, in order that he might better assume the various disguises necessary for his dangerous expeditions; for it was frequently necessary for him to unite the transformations of the actor to the courage and energy of the soldier, in order to seize on certain ruffians with whom he had to contend in cunning and determination. narcisse borel was, in a word, one of the most useful and most active instruments of that providence on a small scale which is modestly and commonly termed the police. * * * * * we will return to the conversation between narcisse borel and bras-rouge, which appeared to be very animated. "yes," said the agent of safety; "you are accused of profiting by your double-faced position, and of taking with impunity a share in the booty of a band of most dangerous malefactors, and then giving false information respecting them to the protective police. take care, bras-rouge; for if you are detected no mercy will be shown you!" "alas! i know i am accused of this; and it is very distressing for me, my good m. narcisse," replied bras-rouge, whilst his weasel's face assumed a hypocritical air of vexation. "but i hope that this day will at last do me justice, and my good faith will be recognised." "that remains to be proved." "how can i be distrusted--have i not given proofs? was it i or was it not who, at the time, enabled you to apprehend ambroise martial, one of the most dangerous malefactors in paris, in the very fact?" "all this is very fine and good; but ambroise was warned they were going to arrest him, and if i had not been earlier than the hour you told me of, he would have escaped." "do you think me capable, m. narcisse, of having secretly told him of your coming?" "i only know that i received from the scoundrel a pistol-shot aimed full at me, but which, fortunately, only grazed my arm." "why, to be sure, m. narcisse, in your profession you must be occasionally exposed to such mistakes!" "ah, you call these mistakes, eh?" "certainly; for, no doubt, the wicked fellow intended to lodge the ball in your body." "in the arm, body, or head, no matter, i don't complain of that; every profession has its disagreeables." "and its pleasures, too, m. narcisse, and its pleasures. for instance, when a man as cunning, as skilful, and as courageous as you, has been for a long time on the track of a gang of villains, whom he follows from quarter to quarter, from lurking-place to lurking-place, with a good bloodhound like your poor servant to command, bras-rouge, and, finally, marks them down and comes upon them in a trap from which not one of them can escape, why, then, you must say, m. narcisse, that there is great pleasure in it,--the joy of a sportsman,--not including the service he renders to justice!" added the host of the bleeding heart, with a grave air. "i should fully agree with you if the bloodhound were faithful, but i fear it is not." "ah, m. narcisse, you think--" "i think that, instead of putting us on the track, you amuse yourself with setting us on a false scent, and abuse the confidence placed in you. every day you promise to aid us to lay hands on the gang, and that day never arrives." "what if the day arrives to-day, m. narcisse, as i am sure it will? what if i bring together in a parcel barbillon, nicholas martial, the widow, her daughter, and the chouette? will that or will it not be a good sweep of the net? will you then mistrust me any longer?" "no; and you will have rendered a real service; for there are very strong presumptive facts against this gang,--suspicions almost assured, but, unfortunately, no proofs." "so, then, a small fag-end of actual crime, which would allow of their being apprehended, would help amazingly to unravel the difficult skein,--eh, m. narcisse?" "most decidedly. and you assure me that there has not been the slightest incitement on your part towards the _coup_ which they are now going to attempt?" "no, on my honour! it is the chouette, who came to me to propose inveigling the diamond-matcher here when that infernal hag learned from my son that morel, the lapidary, who lives in the rue du temple, was a workman in real stones, and not in false, and that mother mathieu had frequently considerable value about her person, i acceded to the proposition, and suggested to the chouette that the martials and barbillon should join her, so that i might be able to put the whole party into your hands." "and the schoolmaster,--that fellow who is so dangerous, so powerful, and so ferocious, and who was always with the chouette,--one of the frequenters of the _tapis-franc_?" "the schoolmaster?" said bras-rouge, feigning astonishment. "yes, a convict escaped from the galleys at rochefort, anselm duresnel by name, sentenced for life. we know now that he disfigured himself on purpose, that he might not be recognised. have you no trace of him?" "none," replied bras-rouge, boldly, for he had his reasons for the lie, the schoolmaster being at this very moment shut up in one of the cellars of the cabaret. "there is every reason to believe that the schoolmaster is the author of fresh murders. he would be an important capture." "no one knows what has become of him for the last six weeks." "and that's the reason you are reproached with having lost all trace of him." "always reproaches, m. narcisse, always!" "not for want of ample cause! and how goes on the smuggling?" "is it not necessary that i should know something of all kinds of persons--smugglers as well as others--in order to put you on the scent? i disclosed to you that pipe to introduce liquids, established outside the barrière du trône, and coming into a house in the street." "i know that," said narcisse, interrupting bras-rouge; "but for one that you denounce, you allow ten to escape, and continue your traffic with impunity. i am sure you eat at two mangers, as the saying is." "oh, m. narcisse, i am incapable of an appetite so dishonest!" "that is not all: in the rue du temple, no. , there lives a woman named burette, who lends money on deposit, who, they say, is a private receiver of stolen goods on your account." "what would you have me do, m. narcisse? the world is so slanderous,--says so many wicked things! once again, i say, it is necessary for me to mix with as many rogues as possible, that i even seem one of themselves--so much the worse for them--in order that they may not have any suspicions; but it cuts me to the heart to imitate them,--cuts me to the heart. i must, indeed, be devoted to the service, to give myself up to such a thing as that." "poor, dear man! i pity you with all my soul!" "you are laughing at me, m. narcisse; but, if that was believed, why has there not been a search made at mother burette's and in my house?" "you know well enough,--that we might not alarm the ruffians, whom, for so long a time, you have promised to deliver into our hands." "and i am now about to deliver them, m. narcisse; before an hour you will have them all handcuffed, and that without much trouble, for there are three women. as to barbillon and nicholas martial, they are as savage as tigers, but as cowardly as pullets." "tigers or pullets," said narcisse, half opening his long frock coat, and showing the butts of two pistols in the pockets of his trousers, "i have wherewithal here for them." "you will do well to have two of your men with you, m. narcisse. when they see themselves caught, the most cowardly sometimes show fight." "i shall station two of my men in the small parlour at the entrance, by the side of the room into which you are to introduce the jewel-matcher. at the first cry, i shall appear at one door, and my two men at the other." "you must be speedy, then, for i expect the gang here every moment, m. narcisse." "very well, i will go at once and place my men, provided that all this is not another humbug." the conversation was cut short by the peculiar whistle intended as a signal. bras-rouge looked out of a window to see whom it was that tortillard announced. "ah, ha! it is the chouette already. well, do you believe me now, m. narcisse?" "why, this looks something like; but it is not all. but we shall see. and now to station my men." and the agent of safety disappeared at a side door. chapter xx. the chouette. the precipitation of the chouette's step, the fierce throbbings of a fever of rapine and murder which still animated her, had suffused her hideous features with a deep purple, whilst her green eye sparkled with savage joy. tortillard followed her, hopping and skipping. at the moment when she descended the last steps of the stairs, bras-rouge's son, from pure mischief, put his foot on the long and dragging skirts of the chouette's gown. this sudden stoppage made the old woman stumble, and, unable to catch hold of the baluster, she fell on her knees, her two hands extended, and dropping her precious basket, whence escaped a gold bracelet set with emeralds and pearls. the chouette having, in her fall, somewhat excoriated her fingers, picked up the bracelet, which had not escaped the keen sight of tortillard, and, recovering her feet, turned furiously to the little cripple, who approached her with a hypocritical air, saying to her: "oh, dear me! did your foot slip?" without making any reply, the chouette seized tortillard by the hair, and, stooping to a level with his cheek, she bit it with such fury that the blood spurted out beneath her teeth. strange, however, tortillard, in spite of his usual vindictiveness, in spite of feeling such intense pain, did not utter a murmur or a cry. he only wiped his bleeding cheek, and said, with a forced laugh: "i hope next time you will not kiss me so hard,--eh, la chouette?" "wicked little brat! why did you tread on my gown on purpose to make me fall?" "me? oh! how could you think so? i swear i didn't do it on purpose, my dear chouette! don't think your little tortillard would do you any harm; he loves you too well for that. you should never beat him, or scold him, or bite him, for he is as fond of you as if he were a poor little dog, and you were his mistress!" said the boy, in a gentle and insinuating tone. deceived by tortillard's hypocrisy, the chouette believed him, and replied: "well, well, if i was wrong to bite you, why, let it go for all the other times you have deserved it, you little villain! but, _vive la joie_! to-day i bear no malice. where is your old rogue of a father?" "in the house. shall i go and find him for you?" "no; are the martials here?" "not yet." "then i have time to go down and visit _fourline_. i want to speak to old no-eyes." "will you go into the schoolmaster's cellar?" inquired tortillard, scarcely concealing his diabolical delight. "what's that to you?" "to me?" "yes, you ask me the question with such an odd air." "because i was thinking of something odd." "what?" "why, that you ought, at least, to have brought him a pack of cards to pass away his time," replied tortillard, with a cunning look; "that would divert him a little; now he has nothing to play at but not to be bitten by the rats; and he always wins at that game, and after awhile it becomes tiresome." the chouette laughed heartily at tortillard's wit, and said to the cripple: "love of a baby boy to his mammy! i do not know any chap who has more vice than this scamp. go and get me a candle, that you may light me down to see _fourline_, and you can help me to open his door. you know that i can hardly push it by myself." "well, no, it is so very dark in the cellar," said tortillard, shaking his head. "what! what! you who are as wicked as devil to be a coward? i like to see that, indeed! go directly, and tell your father that i shall be with him almost immediately; that i am with _fourline_; and that we are talking of putting up the banns for our marriage. he, he, he!" added the disgusting wretch, grinning. "so make haste, and you shall be bridesman, and, if you are a good boy, you shall have my garter." tortillard went, with a sulky air, to fetch a light. whilst she was waiting for him, the chouette, perfectly intoxicated with the success of her robbery, put her hand into her basket to feel the precious jewels it enclosed. it was for the purpose of temporarily concealing this treasure that she desired to descend into the schoolmaster's cellar, and not, according to her habit, to enjoy the torments of her new victim. we will presently explain why, with bras-rouge's connivance, the chouette had immured the schoolmaster in the very subterranean cave into which this miscreant had formerly precipitated rodolph. tortillard, holding a light, now appeared at the door of the cabaret. the chouette followed him into the lower room, in which opened the trap with the folding-doors, with which we are already acquainted. bras-rouge's son, sheltering the light in the hollow of his hand, and preceding the old woman, slowly descended a stone staircase, which led to a sharp declivity, at the end of which was the thick door of the cellar which had so nearly proved rodolph's grave. when he reached the bottom of the staircase, tortillard pretended to hesitate in following the chouette. "well, now, you little vagabond, go on!" she said. "why, it is so dark; and you go so fast, chouette! and, indeed, i'd rather go back again, and leave you the light." "and then, foolish imp, how am i to open the cellar door by myself? will you come on?" "no, i am so frightened!" "if i begin with you! mind--" "if you threaten me, i'll go back again!" and tortillard retreated several paces. "well, listen to me, now,--be a good boy," said the chouette, repressing her anger, "and i'll give you something." "well, what?" said tortillard, coming up to her. "speak to me so always, and i'll do anything you wish me, mother chouette." "come, come, i'm in a hurry!" "yes; but promise me that i may have some fun with the schoolmaster." "another time; i haven't time to-day." "only a little bit,--just let me tease him for five minutes?" "another time; i tell you that i want to return up-stairs as quickly as possible." "why, then, do you want to open the door of his apartment?" "that's no affair of yours. come, now, have done with this. perhaps the martials are come by this time, and i must have some talk with them. so be a good boy, and you sha'n't be sorry for it. come along." "i must love you very much, chouette, for you make me do just what you like," said tortillard, slowly advancing. the dim, wavering light of the candle, which but imperfectly lighted this gloomy way, reflected the black profile of this hideous brat on the slimy walls, which were full of crevices and reeking with damp. at the end of this passage, through the half obscurity, might be seen the low and crumbling arch of the entrance to the cellar, the thick door strengthened with iron bars, and, standing out in the shade, the red shawl and white cap of the chouette. by the united exertions of the two, the door opened harshly on its rusty hinges; a puff of humid vapour escaped from this den, as dark as midnight. the light, placed on the ground, threw its faint beams on the first steps of the stone staircase, the bottom of which was completely lost in the darkness. a cry, or, rather, a savage roar, came from the depths of the cave. "ah, there's _fourline_ wishing his mamma good-morning!" said the chouette, with a sneer. and she descended several steps, in order to conceal her basket in some hole. "i'm hungry!" exclaimed the schoolmaster, in a voice that shook with rage; "do you wish to kill me like a mad dog?" "what's the deary lovey hungry?" said the chouette, with a laugh of mockery; "then smell its thumb." there was a sound like that of a chain twisted violently; then a groan of mute, repressed passion. "take care! take care, or you'll have a bump in your leg, as you had at bouqueval farm, poor dear pa!" said tortillard. "he's right, the boy is,--keep yourself quiet, _fourline_," continued the hag; "the ring and chain are solid, old no-eyes, for they came from father micou's, and he sells nothing but the best goods. it is your fault, too; why did you allow yourself to be bound whilst you were asleep? we only had then to put the ring and chain in this place, and bring you down here in the cool to preserve you, old darling." "that's a pity! he'll grow mouldy," said tortillard. again the clank of the chain was heard. "he, he, _fourline_! why, he's dancing like a cockchafer tied by the claw," said the beldame, "i think i see him!" "cockchafer, cockchafer, fly away home! fly, fly, fly! your husband is the schoolmaster!" sung tortillard. this increased the chouette's hilarity. having deposited her basket in a hole formed by the lowering of the wall of the staircase, she stood erect, and said: "you see, _fourline_--" "he don't see," said tortillard. "the brat's right. will you hear, _fourline_? there was no occasion, when we came away from the farm, to be such a booby as to turn compassionate, and prevent me from marking pegriotte's face with my vitriol; and then, too, you talked of your conscience, which was getting troubled. i saw you were growing lily-livered, and meant to come the 'honest dodge;' and so, some of these odd-come-shortlies, you would have turned 'nose' (informer), and have 'made a meal' of us, old no-eyes; and then--" "then old no-eyes will make a meal of you, for he is hungry, chouette," said tortillard, suddenly, and with all his strength pushing the old woman by her back. the chouette fell forward with a horrible imprecation. she might have been distinctly heard as she rolled from the top to the bottom of the staircase. "bump, bump, bump, bump! there's the chouette for you--there she is! why don't you jump upon her, old buffer?" added tortillard. then, seizing the basket from under the stone where he had seen the old woman place it, he scampered up the stairs, exclaiming, with a shout of savage joy: "here's a pull worth more than that you had before,--eh, chouette? this time you won't bite me till the blood comes,--eh? ah, you thought i bore no spite--much obliged--my cheek bleeds still!" "oh, i have her! i have her!" cried the schoolmaster, from the depth of the cave. "if you have her, old lad, i cry snacks," said tortillard, with a laugh. and he stopped on the top step of the stairs. "help!" shrieked the chouette, in a strangling voice. "thanks, tortillard!" said the schoolmaster, "thanks. and, to reward you, you shall hear the night-bird (chouette) shriek! listen, boy,--listen to the bird of death!" "bravo! here i am in the dress-boxes!" said tortillard, seating himself on the top of the stairs. as he said this, he raised the light to endeavour to see the fearful scene which was going on in the depths of the cavern; but the darkness was too thick, so faint a light could not disperse it: bras-rouge's son could not see anything. the struggle with the schoolmaster and the chouette was mute, deadly, without a word, without a cry; only from time to time was heard the hard breathing, or the stifled groan, which always accompanies violent and desperate efforts. tortillard, seated on the step, began to stamp his feet with that cadence peculiar to an audience impatient to see the beginning of a play; then he uttered the cry so familiar to the frequenters of the gallery of the minor theatres: "music! music! play up! up with the curtain!" "oh, now i have hold of you, as i desired," murmured the schoolmaster, from the recess of the cellar; "and you were going--" a desperate movement of the chouette interrupted him; she struggled with all the energy which the fear of death inspires. "louder! can't hear!" bawled tortillard. "it is in vain you try to gnaw my hand, i will hold you as i like," said the schoolmaster. then, having, no doubt, succeeded in keeping the chouette down, he added, "that's it! now listen--" "tortillard, call your father!" shrieked the chouette, with a faltering, exhausted voice. "help! help!" "turn her out, the old thing! she won't let us hear," said the little cripple, with a shout of laughter; "put her out!" the chouette's cries were not audible from this cavern, low as it was. the wretched creature, seeing that there was no chance of help from bras-rouge's son, resolved to try a last effort. "tortillard, go and fetch help, and i will give you my basket; it is full of jewels. there it is, under a stone." "how generous! thank ye, madame. why, haven't i got it already? hark! don't you hear how it rattles?" said tortillard, shaking it. "but now, if you'll give us half a pound of gingerbread nuts, i'll go and fetch pa." "have pity on me, and i will--" the chouette was unable to conclude. again there was a profound silence. the little cripple again began to beat time on the stone staircase on which he was seated, accompanying the noise of his feet with the repeated cry: "why don't you begin? up with the curtain! music! music!" "in this way, chouette, you can no longer disturb me with your cries," said the schoolmaster, after a few minutes, during which he had, no doubt, gagged the old woman. "you know very well," he continued, in a slow, hollow voice, "that i do not wish to end this all at once; torture for torture! you have made me suffer enough, and i must speak at length to you before i kill you,--yes, at length. it will be very terrible for you, agonising!" "come, no stuff and nonsense, old parson," said tortillard, raising himself half up from his seat; "punish her, but don't do her any harm. you say you'll kill her,--that's only a hum; i am very fond of my chouette; i have only lent her to you, and you must give her back again. don't spoil her,--i won't have my chouette spoiled,--if you do, i'll go and fetch pa!" "be quiet, and she shall only have what she deserves, a profitable lesson," said the schoolmaster, in order to assure tortillard, and for fear the cripple should go and fetch assistance. "all right! bravo! now the play's going to begin!" said bras-rouge's son, who did not seriously believe that the schoolmaster intended to kill the chouette. "let us discourse a little, chouette," continued the schoolmaster, in a calm voice. "in the first place, you see, since that dream at the bouqueval farm, which brought all my crimes before my eyes, since that dream, which did all but drive me mad,--which will drive me mad, for, in my solitude, in the deep isolation in which i live, all my thoughts dwell on this dream, in spite of myself,--a strange change has come over me; yes, i have a horror of my past ferocity. in the first place, i would not allow you to make a martyr of la goualeuse, though that was nothing. chaining me here in the cellar, making me suffer from cold and hunger, and detaining me for your wicked suggestions, you have left me to all the fear of my own reflections. oh, you do not know what it is to be left alone,--always alone,--with a dark veil over your eyes, as the pitiless man said who punished me. oh, it is horrid! it was in this very cavern that i flung him, in order to kill him; and this cavern is the place of my punishment, it may be my grave. i repeat that this is horrid! all that that man predicted to me has come to pass; he said to me, 'you have abused your strength,--you will be the plaything, the sport of the most weak.' and it has been so. he said to me, 'henceforward separated from the exterior world, face to face with the eternal remembrance of your crimes, one day you will repent those crimes.' and that day has come; the loneliness has purified me; i could not have believed it possible. another proof that i am perhaps less wicked than formerly, is that i feel inexpressible joy in holding you here, monster! not to avenge myself, but to avenge your victims,--yes, i shall have accomplished a duty when, with my own hands, i shall have punished my accomplice. a voice says to me, that, if you had fallen into my power earlier, much blood, much blood would have been spared. i have now a horror of my past murders; and yet, is it not strange? it is without fear, it is even with security, that i am now about to perpetrate on you a fearful murder, with most fearful refinements. say, say! do you understand that?" "bravo! well played, old no-eyes! he gets on," exclaimed tortillard, applauding. "it is really something to laugh at." "to laugh at?" continued the schoolmaster, in a hollow voice. "keep still, chouette; i must complete my explanation as to how i gradually came to repentance. this revelation will be hateful to you, heart of stone, and will prove to you also how remorseless i ought to be in the vengeance which i should wreak on you in the name of our victims. i must be quick. my delight at grasping you thus makes my blood throb in my veins,--my temples beat with violence, just as when, by thinking of my dream, my reason wanders. perhaps one of my crises will come on; but i shall have time to make the approaches of death frightful to you by compelling you to hear me." "at him, chouette!" cried tortillard. "at him! and reply boldly! why, you don't know your part. tell the 'old one' to prompt you, my worthy elderly damsel." "it is useless for you to struggle and bite me," said the schoolmaster, after another pause. "you shall not escape me,--you have bitten my fingers to the bone; but i will pull your tongue out, if you stir. let us continue our discourse. when i have been alone--alone in the night and silence--i have begun to experience fits of furious, impotent rage; and, for the first time, my senses wandered. oh! though i was awake, i again dreamed the dream--you know--the dream. the little old man in the rue du roule, the drowned woman, the cattle-dealer, and you--soaring over these phantoms! i tell you it was horrible! i am blind, and my thoughts assume a form, a body, in order to represent to me incessantly, and in a visible, palpable manner, the features of my victims. i should not have dreamed this fearful vision, had not my mind, continually absorbed by the remembrance of my past crimes, been troubled with the same fantasies. unquestionably, when one is deprived of sight, the ideas that beset us form themselves into images in the brain. yet sometimes, by dint of viewing them with resigned terror, it would appear that these menacing spectres have pity on me,--they grow dim--fade away--vanish. then i feel myself awakened from my horrid dream, but so weak--cast down--prostrated--that--would you believe it? ah, how you will laugh, chouette!--that i weep! do you hear? i weep! you don't laugh? laugh! laugh! laugh, i say!" the chouette gave a dull and stifled groan. "louder," said tortillard; "can't hear." "yes," continued the schoolmaster, "i weep, for i suffer and rage in vain. i say to myself, 'to-morrow, next day, for ever, i shall be a prey to the same attacks of delirium and gloomy desolation. 'what a life! oh, what a life! and i would not choose death rather than be buried alive in this abyss which incessantly pervades my thoughts! blind, alone, and a prisoner,--what can relieve me from my remorse? nothing, nothing! when the fantasies disappear for a moment, and do not pass and repass the black veil constantly before my eyes, there are other tortures,--other overwhelming reflections. i say to myself, 'if i had remained an honest man, i should be at this moment free, tranquil, happy, beloved, and honoured by my connections, instead of being blind and chained in this dungeon at the mercy of my accomplices.' alas! the regret of happiness lost from crime is the first step towards repentance; and when to repentance is joined an expiation of fearful severity,--an expiation which changes life into a long, sleepless night, filled with avenging hallucinations or despairing reflections,--perhaps then man's pardon succeeds to remorse and expiation." "i say, old chap," exclaimed tortillard, "you are borrowing a bit from m. moissard's part! come, no cribbing--gammon!" the schoolmaster did not hear bras-rouge's son. "you are astonished to hear me speak thus, chouette? if i had continued to imbrue myself either in bloody crimes or the fierce drunkenness of the life of the galleys, this salutary change would never have come over me i know full well. but alone, blind, stung with remorse, which eats into me, of what else could i think? of new crimes,--how to commit them? escape,--how to escape? and, if i escaped, whither should i go? what should i do with my liberty? no; i must henceforth live in eternal night, between the anguish of repentance and the fear of formidable apparitions which pursue me. sometimes, however, a faint ray of hope comes to lighten the depth of my darkness, a moment of calm succeeds to my torments,--yes, for sometimes i am able to drive away the spectres which beset me by opposing to them the recollections of an honest and peaceable past, by ascending in thought to my youthful days, to my hours of infancy. happily, the greatest wretches have, at least, some years of peace and innocence to oppose to their criminal and blood-stained years. none are born wicked; the most infamous have had the lovely candour of infancy,--have tasted the sweet joys of that delightful age. and thus, i again say, i sometimes find a bitter consolation in saying to myself, 'i am, at this hour, doomed to universal execration, but there was a time when i was beloved, protected, because i was inoffensive and good. alas! i must, indeed, take refuge in the past, when i can, for it is there only that i can find calm.'" as he uttered these last words, the tones of the schoolmaster lost their harshness; this man of iron appeared deeply moved, and he added: "but now the salutary influence of these thoughts is such that my fury is appeased; courage, power will fail me to punish you. no, it is not i who will shed your blood." "well said, old buck! so, you see, chouette, it was only a lark," cried tortillard, applauding. "no, it is not i who will shed your blood," continued the schoolmaster; "it would be a murder, excusable perhaps, but still a murder; and i have enough with three spectres; and then--who knows?--perhaps one day you will repent also?" and, as he spake thus, the schoolmaster had mechanically given the chouette some liberty of movement. she took advantage of it to seize the stiletto which she had thrust into her stays after sarah's murder, and aimed a violent blow with this weapon at the ruffian, in order to disengage herself from him. he uttered a cry of extreme pain. the ferocity of his hatred, his vengeance, his rage, his bloody instincts, suddenly aroused and exasperated by this attack, now all burst forth suddenly, terribly, and carried with it his reason, already so strongly shaken by so many shocks. "ah, viper, i feel your teeth!" he exclaimed in a voice that shook with passion, and seizing, with all his might, the chouette, who had thought thus to escape him. "you are in this dungeon, then?" he added, with an air of madness. "but i will crush the viper or screech-owl. no doubt you were waiting for the coming of the phantoms. yes; for the blood beats in my temples,--? my ears ring,--my head turns--as when they are about to appear! yes; i was not deceived; here they are,--they advance from the depths of darkness,--they advance! how pale they are; and their blood, how it flows,--red and smoking! it frightens you,--you struggle. well, be still, you shall not see the phantoms,--no, you shall not see them. i have pity on you; i will make you blind. you shall be, like me,--eyeless!" here the schoolmaster paused. the chouette uttered a cry so horrible that tortillard, alarmed, bounded off the step, and stood up. the horrid shrieks of the chouette served to place the copestone on the fury of the schoolmaster. "sing," he said, in a low voice, "sing, chouette,--night-bird! sing your song of death! you are happy; you do not see three phantoms of those we have assassinated,--the little old man in the rue du roule, the drowned woman, the cattle-dealer. i see them; they approach; they touch me. ah, so cold,--so cold! ah!" the last gleam of sense of this unhappy wretch was lost in this cry of condemnation. he could no longer reason, but acted and roared like a wild beast, and only obeyed the savage instinct of destruction for destruction. a hurried trampling was now heard, interrupted frequently at intervals with a heavy sound, which appeared like a box of bones bounding against a stone, upon which it was intended to be broken. sharp, convulsive shrieks, and a burst of hellish laughter accompanied each of these blows. then there was a gasp of agony. then--nothing. suddenly a distant noise of steps and voices reached the depths of the subterranean vault. tortillard, frozen with terror by the fearful scene at which he had been present without seeing it, perceived several persons holding lights, who descended the staircase rapidly. in a moment the cave was full of agents of safety, led by narcisse borel. the municipal guards followed. tortillard was seized on the first steps of the cellar, with the chouette's basket still in his hand. narcisse borel, with some of his men, descended into the schoolmaster's cavern. they all paused, struck by the appalling sight. chained by the leg to an enormous stone placed in the middle of the cave, the schoolmaster, with his hair on end, his long beard, foaming mouth, was moving like a wild beast about his den, drawing after him by the two legs the dead carcase of the chouette, whose head was horribly fractured. it required desperate exertions to snatch her from his grasp and manacle him. after a determined resistance they at length conveyed him into the low parlour of the cabaret, a large dark room, lighted by a solitary window. there, handcuffed and guarded, were barbillon, nicholas martial, his mother and sister. they had been apprehended at the very moment when laying violent hands on the jewel-matcher to cut her throat. she was recovering herself in another room. stretched on the ground, and hardly restrained by two men, the schoolmaster, slightly wounded, but quite deranged, was roaring like a wild bull. barbillon, with his head hanging down, his face ghastly, lead-coloured, his lips colourless, eye fixed and savage, his long and straight hair falling on the collar of his blouse, torn in the struggle, was seated on a bench, his wrists, enclosed in handcuffs, resting on his knees. the juvenile appearance of this fellow (he was scarcely eighteen years of age), the regularity of his beardless features, already emaciated and withered, were rendered still more deplorable by the hideous stamp which debauchery and crime had imprinted on his physiognomy. impassive, he did not say a word. it could not be determined whether this apparent insensibility was owing to stupor or to a calm energy; his breathing was rapid, and, at times, he wiped away the perspiration from his pale brow with his fettered hands. by his side was calabash, whose cap had been torn off, and her yellowish hair, tied behind with a piece of tape, hung down in several scanty and tangled meshes. more savage than subdued, her thin and bilious cheeks were somewhat suffused, as she looked disdainfully at her brother, nicholas, who was in a chair in front of her. anticipating the fate that awaited him, this scoundrel was dejected. with drooping head and trembling knees he was overcome with fright; his teeth chattered convulsively, and he heaved heavy groans. the mother martial, the only one unmoved, exhibited every proof that she had lost nothing of her accustomed audacity. with head erect, she looked unshrinkingly around her. however, at the sight of bras-rouge,--whom they brought into the low room, after having made him accompany the commissary and his clerk in the minute search they had made all over the place,--the widow's features contracted, in spite of herself, and her small and usually dull eyes lighted up like those of an infuriated viper; her pinched-up lips became livid, and she twisted her manacled arms. then, as if sorry she had made this mute display of impotent rage, she subdued her emotion, and became cold and calm again. whilst the commissary and his clerk were writing their depositions, narcisse borel, rubbing his hands, cast a satisfied look on the important capture he had made, and which freed paris from a band of dangerous criminals; but, confessing to himself how useful bras-rouge had really been in the affair, he could not help casting on him an expressive and grateful look. tortillard's father was to share until after trial the confinement and lot of those he had informed against, and, like them, he was handcuffed; and even more than them did he assume a trembling air of consternation, twisting his weasel's features with all his might, in order to give them a despairing expression, and heaving tremendous sighs. he embraced tortillard, as if he should find some consolation in his paternal caresses. the little cripple did not seem much moved by these marks of tenderness; he had just learned that, for a time, he would be moved off to the prison for young offenders. "what a misery to have a dear child!" cried bras-rouge, pretending to be greatly affected. "it is we two who are most unfortunate, madame, for we shall be separated from our children." the widow could no longer preserve her calmness; and having no doubt of bras-rouge's treachery, which she had foretold, she exclaimed: "i was sure it was you who had sold my son at toulon. there, judas!" and she spat in his face. "you sell our heads! well, they shall see the right sort of deaths,--deaths of true martials!" "yes; we shan't shrink before the carline (guillotine)," added calabash, with savage excitement. the widow, glancing towards nicholas, said to her daughter, with an air of unutterable contempt: "that coward there will dishonour us on the scaffold!" some minutes afterwards the widow and calabash, accompanied by two policemen, got into a hackney-coach to go to st. lazare; barbillon, nicholas, and bras rouge were conveyed to la force, whilst the schoolmaster was conveyed to the conciergerie, where there are cells for the reception of lunatics. end of volume iv. * * * * * transcriber's notes: this e-text was prepared from numbered edition of the printed. minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without comment. minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly throughout the text have been made without comment. p. , "that'll" to "that" (that i'll slash your eyes out;) p. , "caligraphy" to "calligraphy" (expert in calligraphy) word variations appearing in the original text which have been retained: "bras rouge" ( ) and "bras-rouge" ( ) "halloa" ( ) and "holloa" ( ) and "holla" ( ) "ile du ravageur" ( ) and "isle du ravageur" ( ) "rencontre" ( ) and "rencounter" ( ) "work-people" ( ) and "workpeople" ( ) words using the [oe] ligature, which have been here represented as "oe": "manoeuvre". throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on facing pages. for the purpose of this e-text these pages have been combined into one entry. footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears. (stanford university, sul books in the public domain) transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . passages in gothic bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs. . other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text. [illustration: "_kneeling down, placed it on the ground_" original etching by mercier] +the mysteries of paris.+ _illustrated with etchings by mercier, bicknell, poiteau, and adrian marcel._ _by eugene sue_ _in six volumes volume vi._ _printed for francis a. niccolls & co. boston_ +edition de luxe+ _this edition is limited to one thousand copies, of which this is_ no.____ contents. chapter page i. punishment ii. rodolph and sarah iii. love's frenzy iv. the hospital v. hope vi. the father and daughter vii. the marriage viii. bicÊtre ix. the toilet x. martial and the chourineur xi. the finger of providence epilogue. i. gerolstein ii. the princess amelie iii. the vows iv. the thirteenth of january list of illustrations. page "kneeling down placed it on the ground" _frontispiece_ "was looking at herself in a mirror" "they took her to their guilty haunts" "the schoolmaster was sitting on a bench" "in the church in prayer" the mysteries of paris. chapter i. punishment. we will again conduct the reader into the study of jacques ferrand. availing ourselves of the loquacity of the clerks, we shall endeavour, through their instrumentality, to narrate the events that had occurred since the disappearance of cecily. "a hundred sous to ten, if his present state continues, that in less than a month our governor will go off with a pop." "the fact is, since cecily left, he is only skin and bones." "and now he takes to the priests again more than ever." "the curé of the parish is a most respectable man, and i overheard him say yesterday, to another priest who accompanied him, 'it is admirable! m. jacques ferrand is the personification of charity.'" "well, then, when the curé declares a thing one must credit it; and yet to believe that the governor is charitable is almost beyond my belief." "remember the forty sous for our breakfast." "yes, but then the head clerk says that three days ago the governor realised a large sum in the funds, and that he is about to sell his business." "well, no doubt he has the means to retire." "he has speculated on the bourse, and gained lots of money." "what astonishes me is this friend who follows him like his shadow." "yes, he does not leave m. ferrand for a moment; they eat together, and seem as if they were inseparable." "it seems to me as if i had seen this intruder somewhere!" "have you not remarked that every two hours there comes a man with large light moustaches, with a military air, who inquires for the intruder of the porter? this friend then goes down-stairs, discourses for a moment with the hero with moustaches, after which the military gent turns on his heel, goes away, and returns two hours afterwards." "yes, i have remarked it. it appears to me that, as i go and come, i see in the street men who appear to be watching the house." "perhaps the head clerk knows more of this than we do. by the way, where is he?" "at the house of the countess macgregor, who has been assassinated, and is now despaired of. they sent for the governor to-day, but the head clerk was despatched in his stead." "he has plenty in his hands, then, for i suppose he will fill germain's place as cashier." "talking of germain, an odd thing has occurred. the governor, in order to free him from prison, has declared that he made a mistake in his accounts, and that he has found the money he accused germain of taking." "i do not see anything odd in that,--it is but justice. i was sure that germain was incapable of theft." "ah, here's a coach, gents!" said chalamel, looking out of the window; "it is not a spicy turn-out like that of the famous vicomte, the gay saint-remy, but a hack concern." "who is coming out of it?" "only the curé,--a very worthy man he is, too." "silence! some one comes in! to your work, my boys!" and all the clerks, leaning over their desks, began to scrawl away with much apparent industry, and as if their attention had not been taken off their business for a single instant. the pale features of the priest expressed at once a gentle melancholy combined with an air of intelligence and venerable serenity. a small black cap covered the crown of his head, while his long gray locks hung down over the collar of his greatcoat. let us merely add to this hasty sketch, that owing to the worthy priest's implicit confidence in the words and actions of others, he was, and ever had been, completely blinded by the deep and well-practised hypocrisy of jacques ferrand. "is your worthy employer in his room, my children?" inquired the curé. "yes, m. l'abbé, he is," answered chalamel, as, rising respectfully, he opened the door of an adjoining study, and waited for the priest to enter. hearing loud voices in the apartment, and unwilling to overhear words not intended for his ears, the abbé walked rapidly forwards, and tapped briskly at the door. "come in," said a voice with a strong italian accent; and, entering, the priest found himself in the presence of polidori and jacques ferrand. the clerks did not appear to have erred in calculating upon the approaching end of their employer. he was, indeed, scarcely to be recognised. spite of the almost spectral thinness and pallor of his sharpened features, a deep red fever-spot burned and scorched upon his projecting cheek-bones; a sort of incessant tremor, amounting occasionally to convulsive spasms and starts, shook his attenuated frame. his coarse but wasted hands seemed parched with feverish heat, while his bloodshot eyes were shrouded from view by the large green glasses he wore. altogether his face was a fearful index of the internal ravages of a fast consuming disease. the physiognomy of polidori offered a strong contrast to that of the notary. nothing could express a more bitter irony, a more biting contempt, than the features of this hardened villain, surrounded as they were by a mass of red hair, slightly mingled with gray, hanging in wild disorder over his pale, wrinkled brow, and partially hiding his sharp, penetrating eyes, which, green and transparent as the stone known as the _aqua marine_, were placed very close to his hooked nose, and imparted a still more sinister character to the look of sarcastic malevolence that dwelt on his thin, compressed lips. such was polidori, as, attired in a suit of entire black, he sat beside the desk of jacques ferrand. at the sight of the priest both rose. "and how do you find yourself, my good m. ferrand?" inquired the abbé, in a tone of deep solicitude; "let me hope you are better." "much the same as you last saw me, m. l'abbé," replied the notary. "no sleep, no rest, and constantly devoured by fever; but god's will be done!" "alas, m. l'abbé!" interposed polidori, "my poor friend is no better; but what a blessed spirit he is in! what resignation! finding no other relief from his suffering than in doing good!" "have the goodness to cease these praises, which i am far from meriting," said the notary, in a short, dry tone, as though struggling hard to restrain his feelings of rage and resentment; "to the lord alone belongs the right of judging what is good and what evil,--i am but a miserable sinner!" "we are all sinners," replied the abbé, mildly; "but all have not the extreme charity by which you are distinguished, my worthy friend. few, indeed, like you, are capable of weaning their affections from their earthly goods, that they may be employed only as a means of leading a more christianlike life. are you still determined upon retiring from your profession, the better to devote yourself to religious duties?" "i disposed of my practice a day or two ago, for a large and handsome sum. this money, united with other property, will enable me to found the institution i was speaking to you of, and of which i have entirely sketched out the plan. i am about to lay it before you, and to ask your assistance in improving it where necessary." "my noble-minded friend," exclaimed the abbé, with the deepest and holiest admiration, "how naturally and unostentatiously you do these things! ah, well might i say there were but few who resembled you; and upon the heads of such too many blessings can scarcely be prayed for and wished." "few persons, like my friend jacques here," said polidori, with an ironical smile, which wholly escaped the abbé, "are fortunate enough to possess both piety and riches, charity and discrimination as to the right channel into which to pour their wealth, in order that it may work well for the good of their soul." at this repetition of sarcastic eulogium, the notary's hand became clenched with internal emotion, while, through his spectacles, he darted a look of deadly hatred on polidori. "do you perceive, m. l'abbé," said the dear friend of jacques ferrand, hastily, "he has these convulsive twitchings of the limbs continually?--and yet he will not have any advice. he really makes me quite wretched to see him, as it were, killing himself! nay, my excellent friend, spite of those displeased looks, i will persist in declaring, in the presence of m. l'abbé, that you are destroying yourself by refusing all succour as you do." as polidori uttered these words, a convulsive shudder shook the notary's whole frame; but in another instant he had regained the mastery over himself, and was calm as before. a less simple-minded man than the abbé might have perceived, both during this conversation and in that which followed, a something unnatural in the language and forced actions of jacques ferrand, for it is scarcely necessary to state that his present proceedings were dictated to him by a will and authority he was powerless to resist, and that it was by the command of rodolph the wretched man was compelled to adopt words and conduct diametrically the reverse of his own sentiments or inclinations. and so it was that, when sore pressed, the notary seemed half inclined to resist the arbitrary and invisible power he found himself obliged to obey. but a glance at polidori soon put an end to his indecision, and, restraining all his rage and impotent fury, jacques ferrand forbore any further manifestation of futile rage, and bent beneath the yoke he could neither shake off nor break. "alas, m. l'abbé!" resumed polidori, as though taking an infernal pleasure in thus torturing the miserable notary, "my poor friend wholly neglects his health. let me entreat of you to join your request to mine, that he will be more careful of his precious self, if not for himself or his friends, at least for the sake of the poor and needy, whose hope and support he is." "enough! enough!" murmured the notary, in a deep, guttural voice. "no," said the priest, much moved, "'tis not enough! you can never be reminded too frequently that you belong not to yourself, and that you are to blame for neglecting your health. during the ten years i have known you i cannot recollect your ever being ill before the present time, but really the last month has so changed you that you are scarcely like the same person. and i am the more struck with the alteration in your appearance, since for some little time i have not seen you. you may recollect that when you sent for me the other day, i could not conceal my surprise on finding you so changed; during the short space of time that has elapsed since that visit, i find you even more rapidly altered for the worse. you are visibly wasting away, and occasion us all very serious uneasiness. i therefore most earnestly entreat of you to consider and attend to your health." "believe me, m. l'abbé, i feel most grateful for the kind interest you express, but that i cannot bring myself to believe my situation as dangerous as you do." "nay," said polidori, "since you are thus obstinate, m. l'abbé shall know all. he greatly loves, esteems, and honours you; but how will those feelings be increased when he learns the real cause of your languishing condition, with the fresh claims your additional merits give you to his regard and veneration!" "m. l'abbé," said the notary, impatiently, "i sent to beg your company that i might confer with you on a matter of importance, and not to take up your time in listening to the absurd and exaggerated eulogiums of my friend!" "you know, jacques," said polidori, fixing a piercing glance of fearful meaning on the notary, "that it is useless attempting to escape from me, and that you must hear all i have got to say." the person so addressed cast down his eyes, and durst not reply. polidori continued: "you may probably have remarked, m. l'abbé, that the first symptoms of our friend's illness manifested themselves in a sort of nervous attack, which followed the abominable scandal raised by the affair of louise morel, while in his service." a sort of aguish shivering ran over the notary. "is it possible that you, sir, are acquainted with that unfortunate girl's story?" inquired the priest, greatly astonished. "i imagined you had only been in paris a few days." "and you were correctly informed; but my good friend jacques told me all about it, as a man would relate such a circumstance to his friend and physician, since he attributed the nervous shock under which he is now labouring to the excessive indignation awakened in his mind by the discovery of his servant's crime. but that is not all. my poor friend's sympathies have been still more painfully awakened by a fresh blow, which, as you perceive, has had a very serious effect on his health. an old and faithful servant, attached to him by many years of well-requited service--" "you allude to the untimely end of madame séraphin, i presume," said the curé, interrupting polidori. "i heard of the melancholy affair; she was drowned, i believe, from some carelessness or imprudence manifested by her while making one in a party of pleasure. i can quite understand the distress such a circumstance must have occasioned m. ferrand, whose kind heart would be unable to forget that she who was thus snatched from life had, for ten long years, been his faithful, zealous domestic; far from blaming such regrets, i think them but natural, and reflecting as much honour on the survivor as the deceased." "m. l'abbé," said the notary, "let me beseech of you to cease commending my virtues; you confuse--you make me really uncomfortable." "and who, then, shall speak of them as they deserve?" asked polidori, with feigned affection. "will you? oh, no! but, m. l'abbé, you shall have a fresh opportunity of praising him as he deserves. listen! you are, perhaps, ignorant that jacques took a third servant, to replace louise morel and madame séraphin? if you are not aware of that fact, you have still to learn all his goodness towards poor cecily; for that was the name of the new domestic, m. l'abbé." involuntarily the notary sprung from his seat, and with eyes glaring with rage and madness, even in spite of the glasses he wore, he cried, while a deep, fiery glow overspread his before livid countenance: "silence! i command! i insist! i forbid another word on this subject!" "come, come!" said the abbé, soothingly, "compose yourself. it seems there is still some generous action i have not yet been told of. i really must plead guilty to admiring the candour of your friend, however his love of truth may offend your modesty. i was not acquainted with the servant you alluded to, as, unfortunately, just about the time she entered the service of our worthy m. ferrand, he became so overwhelmed with cares and business as to be obliged temporarily to interrupt our frequent friendly meetings." "that was merely a pretext to conceal the fresh act of goodness he meditated, m. l'abbé, and, at the risk of paining his modesty, i am determined you shall know all about it," said polidori, with a malignant smile, while jacques ferrand, in mute rage, leaned his elbows on his desk, while he concealed his face with his hands. "imagine, then, m. l'abbé," resumed polidori, feigning to address himself to the curé, but at each phrase contriving to direct an ironical glance towards jacques ferrand, "imagine that my kind-hearted friend here found his new domestic possessed of the purest and rarest qualifications, the most perfect modesty, with the gentleness and piety of an angel; nor was this all. the quick penetration of my friend jacques soon discovered that the female in question (who, by the way, was both young and beautiful) had never been accustomed to a servant's life, and that, to the most austere virtue, she added great and varied information, with first-rate talents, which had received the highest cultivation." "indeed!" exclaimed the abbé, much interested in the recital. "i was not aware of this. but what ails you, my good m. ferrand? you seem ill and disturbed!" "a slight headache," answered the notary, wiping the cold, clammy drops from his brow, for the restraint he imposed upon himself was most severe,--"nothing more! it will soon pass off." polidori shrugged up his shoulders, smiled maliciously, and said: "observe, m. l'abbé, that jacques is always seized with the same symptoms directly any of his good actions are brought forward. but never mind,--i am determined that his light shall no longer be hid under a bushel, and it is my firm intention to reveal all his hidden charities. but first let me go on with the history of his generous exertions in favour of cecily, who, on her side, had quickly discovered the excellency of jacques's heart, and, when questioned by him touching the past, she candidly confessed that, left a stranger and wholly destitute in a foreign land, by the imprudence of her husband, she considered herself particularly fortunate in being able to obtain a shelter under so sanctified a roof as m. ferrand's as a most singular interposition of providence. the sight of so much misfortune, united to so much heavenly resignation, banished all hesitation from the mind of jacques, and he wrote to the birthplace of the unfortunate girl for further information respecting her. the reply to his inquiries was most satisfactory, as well as confirmatory of all the young person had previously stated. then, assured of rightly dispensing his benevolence, jacques bestowed the most paternal kindness on cecily, whom he sent back to her own country, with a sum of money to support her till better days should dawn, or she be enabled to obtain some suitable employment. now i will not utter one word in jacques's praise for doing all this,--let the facts speak for themselves." "excellent! most excellent!" exclaimed the deeply affected curé. "m. l'abbé," said jacques ferrand, in a hoarse and abrupt tone, "i do not desire to take up your valuable time in discoursing of myself, but of the project respecting which i requested your presence, and for the furtherance of which i wished to obtain your valuable concurrence." "i can well understand that the praises so justly bestowed on you by your friend are painful to one of your extreme modesty; let us, then, merely speak of your good works as though you were not the author of them. but, first of all, let me give an account of my own proceedings in the matters you confided to me. according to your desire, i have deposited the sum of one hundred thousand crowns in the bank of france, in my own name, with the intention of employing that amount in the act of restitution of which you are the medium, and which i am to effect. you preferred the money being lodged in the bank, although, in my opinion, it would have been in equal safety with you." "and in so doing, m. l'abbé, i only acted in concurrence with the wishes of the person making this restitution for the sake of his conscience. his request to me was to place the sum mentioned by you in your hands, and to entreat of you to forward it to the widow lady, madame fermont, whose maiden name was renneville (the notary's voice trembled as he pronounced these two names), whenever that person should present herself to you. i fully substantiate her claims." "be assured," replied the priest, "i will with pleasure discharge the trust committed to me." "but that is not the only matter in which your assistance is solicited." "so much the better, if the others resemble this, for, without seeking the motives which dictate it, a voluntary restitution is always calculated to excite a deep interest; these rigid decrees of an awakened conscience are always the harbingers of a deep and sincere repentance, and such an expiation cannot fail to bring forth good fruits." "true, m. l'abbé, the soul must indeed be in a perilous state when such a sum as one hundred thousand crowns is voluntarily refunded. for my part, i confess to having felt more inquisitive on the subject than yourself; but what chance had my curiosity against the firm and unshaken discretion of my friend jacques? i am, therefore, still in ignorance of the name of the individual who thus restores such immense wealth for their conscience' sake." "but," continued polidori, eyeing jacques ferrand with a keen, significant glance, "you will hear to what an extent are carried the generous scruples of the author of this restitution; and, to tell the truth, i strongly suspect that our right-minded friend here was the first to awaken the slumbering feelings of the guilty person, as well as to point out the surest and fittest way of tranquillising them." "how so?" inquired the priest. "what do you mean?" asked the notary. "why, remember the morels, those honest, deserving people." "true, true!" interposed jacques ferrand, in a hasty tone, "i had forgotten them." "imagine, m. l'abbé, that the author of this restitution, doubtless influenced by jacques, not contented with the restitution of this large sum, wishes also--but my worthy friend shall speak for himself--i will not deprive him of the pleasure of relating so fine an action." "pray let me hear all about it, my dear m. ferrand," said the priest. "you are aware," replied jacques ferrand, with affected sympathy, strangely mingled with the deep repugnance he entertained at being compelled to play a part so opposite to his inclinations, and which betrayed itself in the alteration his voice and manner exhibited, even in spite of all his attempts to be on his guard,--"you are aware, i say, m. l'abbé, that the misconduct of that unhappy girl, louise morel, took so deep an effect on her father as to deprive him of his senses, and to reduce his numerous family to the very verge of destitution, thus bereft of their sole support and prop. happily providence interposed in their behalf, and the person whose voluntary restitution you have so kindly undertaken to arrange, not satisfied with this step, believed his abuse of confidence required still further expiation, and, therefore, inquired of me if i knew any genuine case of real and unmerited distress. i immediately thought of the morel family, and recommended them so warmly that the unknown personage begged me to hand over to you (as i shall do) the necessary funds for purchasing an annuity of eighty pounds a year for the joint lives of morel, his wife, and children." "truly," said the abbé, "such conduct is beyond my poor praise. most gladly will i add this commission to the former; still permit me to express my surprise that you were not yourself selected to arrange an affair of this nature, the proceedings of which must be so much more familiar to you than to me." "the reason for your being preferred, m. l'abbé, was because the individual in question believed that his expiatory acts would go forth even in greater sanctity if they passed through hands as pure and pious as your own." "then be it so! and i will at once proceed to arrange for an annuity to morel, the worthy but unfortunate parent of louise. still i am inclined to think, with your friend, that you are not altogether a stranger to the motives which dictated this additional expiation." "nay, m. l'abbé, let me beg of you to believe that all i did was to recommend the morel family as a deserving case upon which to exercise charitable sympathy; i had no further share in the good work," said jacques ferrand. "now, then," said polidori, "you are next to be gratified, m. l'abbé, with seeing to what an extent my worthy friend there has carried his philanthropic views, as manifested in the foundation of such an establishment as that we have already discussed. he will read to you the plan definitely decided on. the necessary money for its endowment is ready, and all is prepared for immediate action; but since yesterday a doubt has crossed his mind, and if he does not like to state it himself i will do so for him." "there is no occasion for your taking that trouble," said jacques, who seemed to find a relief in talking himself rather than be compelled to sit in silence and listen to the ironical praises of his accomplice. "the fact is this, m. l'abbé, i have reflected upon our purposed undertaking, and it occurs to me that it would be more in accordance with a right spirit of humility and christian meekness if the projected establishment were instituted in your name, and not in mine." "nay, nay!" exclaimed the abbé, "such humility is exaggerated beyond all reasonable scruples. you may fairly pride yourself upon having originated so noble a charity, and it becomes your just right, as well as your duty, to give it your own name." "pardon me for insisting in this instance on having my own way. i have thought the matter well over, and am resolved upon preserving a strict _incognito_ as to being the founder of the undertaking. i therefore venture to hope you will do me the favour to act for me, and carry the scheme into execution, selecting the various functionaries requisite for its several departments. i merely desire to have the nomination of the chief clerk and one of the doorkeepers. to this kindness you must add the most inviolable secrecy as regards myself." "independently of the pleasure it would afford me to coöperate in such a work as yours, my duty to my fellow creatures would not permit me to do otherwise than accede to your wishes; you may therefore reckon upon me in every way you desire." "then, with your permission, m. l'abbé, my friend will read you the plan he has decided on adopting." "perhaps," said jacques ferrand, bitterly, "you will spare me the fatigue of reading it, by taking that office on yourself? you will oblige me by so doing, will you not?" "by no means!" answered polidori. "the pure philanthropy which dictated the scheme will sound far better from your lips than mine." "enough!" interrupted the notary; "i will read it myself." polidori, so long the accomplice of jacques ferrand, and consequently well acquainted with the black catalogue of his crimes, could not restrain a fiendish smile as he saw the notary compelled in his own despite to read aloud and adopt as his own the words and sentiments so arbitrarily dictated by rodolph. "establishment of the bank for workmen out of employ. "we are instructed to 'love one another!' these divine words contain the germ of all charities. they have inspired the humble founder of this institution. limited as to the means of action, the founder has desired at least to enable as many as possible to participate in what he offers. in the first place, he addresses himself to the honest, hard-working workmen, burdened with families, whom the want of employment frequently reduces to the most cruel extremities. it is not a degrading alms which he offers to his brethren, but a gratuitous loan he begs them to accept. and he hopes that this loan may frequently prevent them from involving their future by distressing loans, which they are forced to make in order to await a return of work, their only resource for a family of whom they are the sole support. as a guarantee of this loan he only requires from his brethren an undertaking on honour, and a keeping of the word pledged. he invests a sum producing an annual income of twelve thousand francs, and to this amount loans of twenty to forty francs, without interest, will be advanced to married men out of work. these loans will only be made to workmen or workwomen with certificates of good conduct given by the last employer, who will mention the cause and date of the suspension from labour. these loans to be repaid monthly by one-sixths' or one-tenths', at the option of the borrower, beginning from the day when he again procures employment. he must sign a simple engagement, on his honour, to return the loan at the periods fixed. this engagement must be also signed by two fellow workmen as guarantees, in order to develop and extend by their conjunction the sacredness of the promise sworn to. the workman and his two sureties who do not return the sum borrowed must never again have another loan, having forfeited his sacred engagement, and, especially, having deprived so many of his brethren of the advantage he has enjoyed, as the sum he has not repaid is for ever lost to the bank for the poor. the sums lent being, on the contrary, scrupulously repaid, the loans will augment from year to year. not to degrade man by a loan, not to encourage idleness by an unprofitable gift, to increase the sentiments of honour and probity natural to the labouring classes, to come paternally to the aid of the workman, who, already living with difficulty from day to day, owing to the insufficiency of wages, cannot, when work stops, suspend the wants of himself and family because his labour is suspended,--these are the thoughts which have presided over this institution. may his holy name who has said 'love one another!' be alone glorified!" "ah, sir," exclaimed the abbé, "what a charitable idea! now i understand your emotion on reading these lines of such touching simplicity." in truth, as he concluded the reading, the voice of jacques ferrand had faltered, his patience and courage were at an end; but, watched by polidori, he dared not infringe rodolph's slightest order. "m. l'abbé, is not jacques's idea excellent?" asked polidori. "ah, sir, i, who know all the wretchedness of the city, can more easily comprehend of what importance may be for poor workmen out of employ a loan which may seem so trifling to the happy in this world! ah, what good may be done if persons but knew that with thirty or forty francs, which would be scrupulously repaid, if without interest, they might often save the future, and sometimes the honour of a family, whom the want of work places in the grasp of misery and want!" "jacques values your praises, monsieur l'abbé," replied polidori. "and you will have still more to say to him when you hear of his institution of a gratuitous mont-de-piété (pawnbroking establishment), for jacques has not forgotten this, but made it an adjunct to his bank for the poor." "can it be true?" exclaimed the priest, clasping his hands in admiration. the notary contrived to read with a rapid voice the other details, which referred to loans to workmen whose labour was suspended by fatigue or illness, and his intention to establish a bank for the poor producing twenty-five thousand francs a year for advances on pledges, which were never to go beyond ten francs for each pledge, without any charges for interest. the management and office of the loans in the bank for the poor was to be in the rue du temple, number , in a house bought for the purpose. an income of ten thousand francs a year was to be devoted to the costs and management of the bank for the poor, whose manager was to be-- polidori here interrupted the notary, and said to the priest: "you will see, sir, by the choice of the manager, that jacques knows how to repair an involuntary error. you know that by a mistake, which he deeply deplores, he had falsely accused his cashier of embezzling a sum which he afterwards found. well, it is this honest fellow, françois germain by name, that jacques has named as manager of the institution, with four thousand francs a year salary. is it not admirable, monsieur l'abbé?" "nothing now can astonish me, or rather nothing ever astonished me so much before," the priest replied; "the fervent piety, the virtues of our worthy friend, could only have such a result sooner or later. to devote his whole fortune to so admirable an institution is most excellent!" "more than a million of francs ( , _l._), m. l'abbé," said polidori; "more than a million, amassed by order, economy, and probity! and there were so many wretches who accused jacques of avarice! by what they said, his business brings him in fifty or sixty thousand francs a year, and yet he leads a life of privations!" "to that i would reply," said the abbé, with enthusiasm, "that during fifteen years he lived like a beggar, in order one day to console those in distress most gloriously." "but be at least proud and joyful at the good you do," cried polidori, addressing jacques ferrand, who, gloomy, beaten, and with his eye fixed, seemed absorbed in painful meditation. "alas!" said the abbé, in a tone of sorrow, "it is not in this world that one receives the recompense of so many virtues! there is a higher ambition." "jacques," said polidori, lightly touching the notary's shoulder, "finish reading your prospectus." the notary started, passed his hand across his forehead, and addressing himself to the priest, "your pardon, m. l'abbé," said he, "but i was lost in thought; i felt myself involuntarily carried away by the idea of how immensely the funds of this 'bank for the poor' might be augmented if the sums lent out were, when repaid, allowed to accumulate only for a year. at the end of four years, the institution would be in a condition to afford loans, either wholly gratuitously, or upon security, to the amount of fifty thousand crowns! enormous! and i am delighted to find it so," continued he, as he reflected, with concealed rage, on the value of the sacrifice he was compelled to make. he then added, "a revenue of ten thousand francs will be secured for the expenses and management of the 'bank for unemployed workmen,' whose perpetual director shall be françois germain; and the housekeeper, the present porter in the place, an individual named pipelet. m. l'abbé dumont, in whose hands the necessary funds for carrying out the undertaking will be placed, will establish a board of superintendence, composed of the magistrate of the district and other legal functionaries, in addition to all such influential personages whose patronage and support may be likely to advance the interests of the 'poor man's bank;' for the founder would esteem himself more than paid for the little he has done, should his example induce other charitable persons to come forward in aid of his work." "the opening of 'the bank' will be duly announced by every channel calculated to give publicity." "in conclusion, the founder has only to disclaim any desire to attract notoriety or draw down applause, his sole motive being an earnest wish to reëcho the divine precept of 'love ye one another!'" the notary had now concluded; and without making any reply to the congratulations of the abbé, he proceeded to furnish him with the cash and notes requisite for the very considerable outlay required in carrying out the institution just described, and purchasing the annuity for morel; after which he said, "let me hope, m. l'abbé, that you will not refuse the fresh mission confided to your charity. there is, indeed, a stranger, one sir walter murphy, who has given me the benefit of his advice in drawing up the plan i have lately read to you, who will in some degree relieve you of the entire burden of this affair; and this very day he purposes conversing with you on the best means of bringing our schemes to bear, as well as to place himself at your disposal whenever he can render you the slightest service. to him you may speak freely and without any reserve, but to all others i pray of you to preserve the strictest secrecy as regards myself." "you may rely on me. but you are surely ill! tell me, my excellent friend, is it bodily or mental pain that thus blanches your cheek? are you ill?" "somewhat indisposed, m. l'abbé; the fatigue of reading that long paper, added to the emotions called up by your gratifying praises, have combined to overcome me; and, indeed, i have been a great sufferer during the last few days. pray excuse me," said jacques ferrand, as he threw himself back languidly in his chair; "i do not apprehend any serious consequences from my present weakness, but must own i do feel quite exhausted." "perhaps," said the priest, kindly, "your best plan would be to retire to bed, and allow your physician to see you." "i am a physician, m. l'abbé," said polidori; "the condition of my friend jacques requires the greatest care, and i shall immediately do my best to relieve his present symptoms." the notary shuddered. "well, well," said the curé, "let us hope that a little rest is all you require to set you to rights! i will now take my leave; but first let me give you an acknowledgment for the money i have received." while the priest was writing the receipt, a look wholly impossible to describe passed between jacques ferrand and polidori. "come, come," said the priest, as he handed the paper he had written to jacques ferrand, "be of good cheer! depend upon it, it will be long ere so faithful and devout a servant is suffered to quit a life so usefully and religiously employed. i will come again to-morrow, and inquire how you are. adieu, monsieur! farewell, my good, my holy, and excellent friend!" and with these words the priest quitted the apartment, leaving jacques ferrand and polidori alone there. no sooner was the door closed than a fearful imprecation burst from the lips of jacques ferrand, whose rage and despair, so long and forcibly repressed, now broke forth with redoubled fury. breathless and excited, he continued, with wild and haggard looks, to pace to and fro like a furious tiger going the length of his chain, and then again retracing his infuriated march; while polidori, preserving the most imperturbable look and manner, gazed on him with insulting calmness. "damnation!" exclaimed jacques ferrand, at last, in a voice of concentrated wrath and violence; "the idea of my fortune being thus swallowed up in founding these humbugging philanthropic institutions, and to be obliged to give away my riches in such absurdities as building banks for other people! your master must be the fiend himself to torture a man as he is doing me!" "i have no master," replied polidori, coldly; "only, like yourself, i have a judge whose decrees there is no escaping!" "but thus blindly and idiotically to follow the most trifling order of this man!" continued jacques ferrand, with redoubled rage. "to compel me, constrain me, to the very actions most galling and hateful to me!" "nay, you have your chance between obedience and the scaffold!" "and to think that there should be no way to escape this accursed domination! to be obliged to part with such a sum as that i lately handed over to that old proser,--a million sterling! the very extent of all my earthly possessions are now this house and about one hundred thousand francs. what more can he want with me?" "oh, but you have not done yet! the prince has learned, through badinot, that your man of straw, 'petit jean,' was only your own assumed title, under which you made so many usurious loans to the count de remy, whom you so roughly took to task for his forgeries. the sums repaid by saint-remy were supplied him by a lady of high rank; and you may, very probably, be called upon to make a second restitution in that case, as well as the former; however, you may escape that in consequence of the fear entertained of wounding the delicacy of the noble lender, were the facts brought before the public." "and fixed, chained here!" "as firmly as though bound by an iron cable!" "with such a wretch as you for my gaoler!" "why, it is the prince's system to punish crime by crime,--the guilty by the hand of his accomplice. so how can you object to me?" "oh, rage!" "but, unhappily, powerless rage; for until he sends me his orders to permit you to leave this house, i shall follow you like your shadow! i, like yourself, have placed my head in danger of falling on the scaffold; and should i fail to perform my prescribed task of gaoler, there it would quickly fall. so that, you perceive, my integrity as your keeper is necessarily incorruptible. and as for our both attempting to free ourselves by flight, that is wholly impossible. not a step could we take without immediately falling into the hands of those who, day and night, keep vigilant watch around and at each door of this house." "death and fury! i know it." "then resign yourself to what is inevitable; for if even flight were practicable, what would it do for our ultimate safety? we should be hunted down by the officers of justice, and speedily overtaken, with certain death before us; while, on the contrary, by your submitting and my superintending your obedience, we are quite sure to keep our heads on our shoulders." "do not exasperate me by this cool irony, or--" "well, go on--or what? oh, bless you, i am not afraid of you or your anger; but i know you too well not to adopt every precaution. i am well armed, i can tell you; and though you may have possessed yourself of the celebrated poisoned stiletto carried by cecily, it would not be worth your while to try its power on me. you are aware that i am obliged, every two hours, to send to him who has a right to demand it a bulletin of your precious health! should i not present myself with the required document, murder would be suspected, and you be taken into custody. but i wrong you in supposing you capable of such a crime. is it likely that, after sacrificing more than a million of money to save your life, you would place it in danger for the poor satisfaction of avenging yourself on me by taking my life? no, no! you are not quite such a fool as that, at any rate!" "oh, misery, misery! endless and inextricable! whichever way i turn, i see nothing but death or disgrace! my curse be on you--on all mankind!" "your misanthropy, then, exceeds your philanthropy; for while the former embraces the whole world, the latter merely relates to a small part of paris." "go on, go on, monster! mock as you will!" "would you rather i should overwhelm you with reproaches? whose fault is it but yours that we are placed in our present position? why would you persist in hanging to that letter of mine relative to the murder i assisted you in, which gained you one hundred thousand crowns, although you contrived to make it appear the man had fallen by his own hand? why, i say, did you keep that letter of mine suspended around your neck, as though it had been a holy relic, instead of the confession of a crime?" "why, you contemptible being! why, because having handed over to you fifty thousand francs for your share and assistance in the deed, i exacted from you that letter containing an admission of your participation in the affair, in order that i might have that security for your playing me fair; for with that document in existence, to betray me would have been to denounce yourself. that letter was the security, both for my life and fortune. now are you answered as to my reasons for keeping it so carefully about me?" "i see! it was skilfully devised on your part, for by betraying you i gained nothing but the certainty of perishing with you on the same scaffold; and yet your cleverness has ruined us, while mine has assured our safety, up to the present moment." "great safety, certainly, if our present situation is taken into consideration!" "who could foresee the turn things have taken? but according to the ordinary course of events, our crime would have remained for ever under the same veil of concealment my management had thrown over it." "your management?" "even so! why, do you not recollect that, after we had killed the man, you were for merely counterfeiting his writing, in order to despatch a letter as if from himself to his sister, stating his intention of committing suicide in consequence of having utterly ruined himself by losses at play? you believed it a great stroke of policy not to make any mention, in this letter, of the money entrusted to your charge. this was absurd because the sister, being aware of the deposit left in your hands, would be sure to claim it; it was wiser to take the contrary path, and make mention, as we did, of the money deposited with you; so that, should any suspicions arise as to the manner in which the murdered man met his death, you would be the very last on whom suspicion could fall; for how could it be supposed for an instant that you would first kill a man to obtain possession of the treasure placed under your care, and then write to inform the sister of the fact of the money having been lodged with you? and what was the consequence of this skilful suggestion on my part? every one believed the dead man had destroyed himself. your high reputation for probity enabled you successfully to deny the circumstance of any such sum of money as that claimed ever having been placed in your hands; and the general impression was, that the unprincipled brother had first dissipated his sister's fortune, and then committed suicide." "but what does all this matter now, since the crime is discovered?" "and who is to be thanked for its discovery? is it my fault if my letter has become a sort of two-edged sword? why were you so weak, so silly, as to surrender so formidable a weapon to--that infernal cecily?" "silence!" exclaimed jacques ferrand, with a fearful expression of countenance; "name her not!" "with all my heart! i don't want to bring on an attack of epilepsy. you see plainly enough that, as regards the common course of ordinary justice, our mutual precautions were quite sufficient to ensure our safety; but he who now holds us in his formidable power goes to work differently; he believes that cutting off the heads of criminals is not a sufficient reparation for the wrongs they have done. with the proofs he has against us, he might give you and myself up to the laws of our country; but what would be got by that? merely a couple of dead bodies, to help to enrich the churchyard." "true, true! this prince, devil, or demon--whichever he is--requires tears, groans, wringings of the heart, ere he is satisfied. and yet 'tis strange he should work so much woe for me, who know him not, neither have ever done him the least harm. why, then, is he so bitter against me?" "in the first place, because he professes to sympathise with the sufferings of other men, whom he calls, simply enough, his brethren; and, secondly, because he knows those you have injured, and he punishes you according to his ideas." "but what right has he to exercise any such power over me?" "why, look you, jacques! between ourselves it is not worth while to question the right of a man who might legally consign us to a scaffold. but what would be the result? your two only relations are both dead; consequently government would profit by your wealth, to the injury of those you have wronged. on the other hand, by making your fortune the price of your life, morel (the father of the unhappy girl you dishonoured), with his numerous family, may be placed beyond the reach of want; madame de fermont, the sister of the pretended self-murderer, renneville, will get back her one hundred thousand crowns; germain, falsely accused by you of robbery, will be reinstated in life, and placed at the head of the 'bank for distressed workmen,' which you are compelled to found and endow as an expiation for your many offences against society. and, candidly looking at the thing in the same point of view as he who now holds us in his clutches, it must be owned that, though mankind would have gained nothing by your death, they will be considerably advantaged by your life." "and this it is excites my rage, that forms my greatest torture!" "the prince knows that as well as you do. and what is he going to do with us, after all? i know not. he promised us our lives, if we would blindly comply with all his orders; but if he should not consider our past offences sufficiently expiated, he will find means to make death itself preferable a thousand times to the existence he grants us. you don't know him. when he believes himself called upon to be stern, no executioner can be more inexorable and unpitying to the criminal his hand must deprive of life. he must have had some fiend at his elbow, to discover what i went into normandy for. however, he has more than one demon at his command; for that cecily, whom may the descending lightning strike to the earth--" "again i say, silence! name her not! utter not the word cecily!" "i tell you i wish that every curse may light upon her! and have i not good reason for hating one who has placed us in our present situation? but for her, our heads would be safe on our shoulders, and likely to remain so. to what has your besotted passion for that creature brought us!" instead of breaking out into a fresh rage, jacques ferrand replied, with the most extreme dejection, "do you know the person you are speaking of? tell me, have you ever seen her?" "never; but i am aware she is reported to be very beautiful." "beautiful!" exclaimed the notary, emphatically; then, with an expression of bitter despair, he added, "cease to speak of that you know not. what i did you would have done if similarly tempted." "what, endanger my life for the love of a woman?" "for such a one as cecily; and i tell you candidly i would do the same thing again, for the same hopes as then led me on." "by all the devils in hell," cried polidori, in utter amazement, "he is bewitched!" "hearken to me," resumed the notary, in a low, calm tone, occasionally rendered more energetic by the bursts of uncontrollable despair which possessed his mind. "listen! you know how much i love gold, as well as all i have ventured to acquire it. to count over in my thoughts the sums i possessed, to see them doubled by my avarice, to know myself master of immense wealth, was at once my joy, my happiness; to possess, not for the sake of expending or enjoying, but to hoard, to gloat over, was my life, my delight. a month ago, had i been told to choose between my fortune and my head, i should certainly have sacrificed the latter to save the former." "but what would be the use of possessing all this wealth, if you must die?" "the ecstasy of dying in the consciousness of its possession; to enjoy till the last moment the dear delightful feeling of being the owner of those riches for which you have braved everything, privations, disgrace, infamy, the scaffold itself, to be able to say, even as you lay your head on the fatal block,'those vast treasures are mine!' oh, death is far sweeter than to endure the living agonies i suffer at seeing the riches accumulated with so much pain, difficulties, and dangers torn from me! dreadful, dreadful! 'tis not dying daily, but each minute in the day; and this dreadful state of misery may be protracted for years! oh, how greatly should i prefer being struck down by that sudden and rapid death that carries you off ere one fragment of your beloved riches is taken from you! for still, with your dying breath, you might sigh forth, 'those treasures are mine,--all, all mine! none but me can or dare approach them!'" polidori gazed on his accomplice with profound astonishment. "i do not understand you," said he, at last; "if such be the case, why have you obeyed the commands of him whose denunciation of you would bring you to a scaffold? why, if life be so horrible to you, have you chosen to accept it at his hands, and pay the heavy price you are doing for it?" "because," answered the notary, in a voice that sunk so low as to be scarcely audible, "because death brings forgetfulness--annihilation--and then, too, cecily--" "what!" said polidori, "do you still hope?" "no," said the notary, "i possess--" "what?" "the fond impassioned remembrance of her." "but what folly is this when you are sure never to see her more, and when she has brought you to a scaffold!" "that matters not; i love her even more ardently, more frantically than ever!" exclaimed jacques ferrand, amid a torrent of sighs and sobs that contrasted strongly with the previous gloomy dejection of his last remark. "yes," continued he, with fearful wildness, "i love her too well to be willing to die, while i can feast my senses upon the recollection only of that night--that memorable night in which i saw her so lovely, so loving, so fascinating! never is her image, as i then beheld her, absent from my brain; waking or sleeping, she is ever before me, decked in all the intoxicating beauty that was displayed to my impassioned gaze! still do her large, lustrous eyes seem to dart forth their fiery glances, and i almost fancy i can feel her warm breath on my cheek, while her clear, melodious voice seems ringing its full sounds into my ear with promises of bliss, alas, never to be mine! yet, though to live thus is torturing--horrible--yet would i prefer it to the apathy, the still nothingness of the grave. no, no, no; let me live, poor, wretched, despised,--a branded galley-slave, if you will,--but give me yet the means of doting in secret on the recollection of this wonderful being; whether she be fiend or angel, yet does she engross my every thought!" "jacques," said polidori, in a voice and manner contrasting strongly with his habitual tone of cool, provoking sarcasm, "i have witnessed almost every description of bodily and mental suffering, but certainly nothing that equalled what you endure. he who holds us in his power could not have devised more cruel torture than that you are compelled to endure. you are condemned to live, to await death through a vista of long, wasting torments, for your description of your feelings fully explains to me the many alarming symptoms i have observed in you from day to day, and of which i have hitherto vainly sought to find the cause." "but the symptoms you speak of as alarming are nothing but exhaustion, a sort of reaction of the bodily and mental powers; do you not think so? tell me! i am not surely in any danger of dying?" "there is no immediate danger, but your situation is precarious; and there are some thoughts you must cease to dwell on--nay, banish from your memory--or your danger is imminent." "i will do whatever you bid me, so that my life be preserved,--for i will not die. oh, let priests talk of the sufferings of the damned, but what are their tortures compared to mine? tormented alike by passion and avarice, i have two open wounds rankling in my heart, each occasioning mortal agony. the loss of my fortune is dreadful, but the fear of death is even still more so. i have desired to live; and though my existence may probably be but one protracted scene of endless wretchedness, it is preferable to death and annihilation; for it would be the termination of my fatal happiness,--the power of recalling each word and look of cecily!" "you have at least one vast consolation," said polidori, resuming his accustomed _sang-froid_, "in the recollection of the good actions by which you have sought to expiate your crimes!" "rail on! mock my misery! turn me on the hot coals on which my ill fortune has placed me! but you well know, mean and contemptible being that you are, how i hate, how i loathe all mankind, and that these forced expiations to which i am condemned only serve to increase my detestation of those who compel me to make them, and those who profit by them. by all that is sacred, it passes human malice to condemn me to live in endless misery, such as would dismay the stoutest nature, while my fellow creatures, as they are called, have all their griefs assuaged at the cost of my dearly prized treasures! oh, that priest who but now quitted us, loading me with blessings while my heart seemed like one vast ocean of fiery gall and bitterness against himself and all mankind--oh, how i longed to plunge a dagger in his breast! 'tis too much--too much for endurance!" cried he, pressing his clenched hands to his forehead; "my brain burns, my ideas become confused, i shall not be able much longer to resist these violent attacks of impotent, futile rage,--these unending tortures; and all through you, cecily,--fatal, adored cecily! will you ever know all the agonies i have borne on your account, and will you still haunt me with that mocking smile? cecily, cecily! back to the fiends from whom you sprung, and drive me not to destruction!" all at once a hasty knock was heard at the door of the apartment. polidori immediately opened it, and perceived the principal clerk in the notary's office, who, pale and much agitated, exclaimed, "i must speak with m. ferrand directly!" "hush!" answered polidori, in a low tone, as he came forth from the room and shut the door after him; "he is very ill just now, and cannot be disturbed on any account." "then do you, sir, who are m. ferrand's best and most intimate friend, step forward to help and assist him; but come quickly, for there is not an instant to be lost!" "what has happened?" "by m. ferrand's orders, i went to-day to the house of the countess macgregor, to say that he was unable to wait on her to-day, according to her request. this lady, who seems quite out of danger at present, sent for me to her chamber; when i went in, she exclaimed, in an angry, threatening manner,'go back to m. ferrand, and say to him that if he is not here in half an hour, or at least before the close of the day, he shall be arrested for felony. the child he passed off as dead is still living; i know into whose hands he gave her up, and i also know where she is at this present minute.'" "this lady must be out of her senses," cried polidori, shrugging up his shoulders. "poor thing!" "i should have thought so myself, but for the confident manner in which the countess spoke." "i have no doubt but that her illness has affected her head; and persons labouring under any delusion are always impressed with the most perfect conviction of the truth of their fancies." "i ought also to state that, just as i was leaving the room, one of the countess's female attendants entered all in a hurry, and said, 'his highness will be here in an hour's time!'" "you are sure you heard those words?" asked polidori. "quite, quite sure, sir! and i remember it the more, because i immediately began wondering in my own mind what highness she could mean." "it is quite clear," said polidori, mentally, "she expects the prince; but how comes that about? what strange course of events can have induced him to visit one he ought never again to meet? i know not why, but i greatly mistrust this renewal of intimacy. our position, bad as it is, may even be rendered still worse by it." then, addressing himself to the clerk, he added, "depend upon it there is nothing of any consequence in the message you have brought; 'tis merely the effects of a wandering imagination on the part of the countess; but, to prevent your feeling any uneasiness, i promise to acquaint m. ferrand with it directly he is well enough to converse upon any matter of business." we shall now conduct the reader to the house of the countess sarah macgregor. chapter ii. rodolph and sarah. a salutary crisis had occurred, which relieved the countess macgregor from the delirium and suffering under which, for several days, her life had been despaired of. the day had begun to break when sarah, seated in a large easy chair, and supported by her brother, thomas seyton, was looking at herself in a mirror which one of her woman on her knees held up before her. this was in the apartment where la chouette had made the attempt to murder. the countess was as pale as marble, and her pallor made her dark eyes, hair, and eyebrows even more striking; and she was attired in a dressing-gown of white muslin. "give me my bandeau of coral," she said to one of her women, in a voice which, although weak, was imperious and abrupt. "betty will fasten it on for you," said seyton; "you will exhaust yourself; you are already very imprudent." "the bandeau,--the bandeau!" repeated sarah, impatiently, who took this jewel and arranged it on her brow. "now fasten it, and leave me!" she said to the women. the instant they were retiring, she said, "let m. ferrand be shown into the little blue salon." then she added, with ill-dissembled pride, "as soon as his royal highness the grand duke of gerolstein comes, let him be introduced instantly to this apartment." [illustration: "_was looking at herself in a mirror_" original etching by adrian marcel] "at length," said sarah, as soon as she was alone with her brother, "at length i trust this crown--the dream of my life: the prediction is on the eve of fulfilment!" "sarah, calm your excitement!" said her brother to her; "yesterday your life was despaired of, and to be again disappointed would deal you a mortal blow!" "you are right, thomas; the fall would be fearful, for my hopes were never nearer realisation! of this i feel assured, for it was my constant thought of profiting by the overwhelming revelation which this woman made me at the moment of her assassination that prevented me from sinking under my sufferings." "again, sarah, let me counsel you to beware of such insensate dreams,--the awaking would be terrible!" "insensate dreams! what, when rodolph learns that this young girl, who is now locked up in st. lazare, and formerly confided to the notary, who has passed her off for dead, is our child! do you suppose that--" seyton interrupted his sister. "i believe," he said, bitterly, "that princes place reasons of state, political conveniences, before natural duties." "do you then rely so little on my address?" "the prince is no longer the ingenuous and impassioned youth whom you attracted and swayed in other days; that time is long ago, both for him and for you, sister." sarah shrugged her shoulders, and said, "do you know why i was desirous of placing this bandeau of coral in my hair,--why i put on this white dress? it is because the first time rodolph saw me at the court of gerolstein i was dressed in white, and wore this very bandeau of coral in my hair." "what!" said seyton, "you would awake those remembrances? do you not rather fear their influence?" "i know rodolph better than you do. no doubt my features, changed by time and sufferings, are no longer those of the young girl of sixteen, whom he so madly loved,--only loved, for i was his first love; and that love, unique in the life of man, always leaves ineffaceable traces in the heart. thus, then, brother, trust me that the sight of this ornament will awaken in rodolph not only the recollection of his love, but those of his youth also; and for men these souvenirs are always sweet and precious." "but these sweet and precious souvenirs will be united with others so terrible: the sinister _dénouement_ of your love, the detestable behaviour of the prince's father to you, your obstinate silence to rodolph. after your marriage with the count macgregor, he demanded his daughter, then an infant,--your child,--of whose death, ten years since, you informed him so coldly in your letter. do you forget that from that period the prince has felt nothing but contempt and hatred for you?" "pity has replaced his hatred. since he has learned that i am dying, he has sent the baron de graün every day to inquire after me; and just now he has promised to come here; and that is an immense concession, brother." "he believes you dying,--that you desire a last adieu,--and so he comes. you were wrong not to write to him of the discovery you are about to disclose to him." "i know why i do so. this discovery will fill him with surprise, joy, and i shall be present to profit by his first burst of softened feeling. to-day or never he will say to me, 'a marriage must legitimise the birth of our child!' if he says so, his word is sacred, and then will the hope of my life be realised!" "yes, if he makes you the promise." "and that he may do so, nothing must be neglected under these decisive circumstances. i know rodolph; and once having found his daughter, he will overcome his aversion for me, and will not retreat from any sacrifice to assure her the most enviable lot, to make her as entirely happy as she has been until now wretched." "however brilliant the destiny he may assure to your daughter, there is, between the reparation to her and the resolution to marry you in order to legitimise the birth of this child, a very wide abyss." "her father will pass over this abyss." "but this unfortunate child has, perhaps, been so vitiated by the misery in which she has lived that the prince, instead of feeling attracted towards her--" "what are you saying?" cried sarah, interrupting her brother. "is she not as handsome, as a young girl, as she was a lovely infant? rodolph, without knowing her, was so deeply interested in her as to take charge of her future destiny, and sent her to his farm at bouqueval, whence we carried her off." "yes, thanks to your obstinacy in desiring to break all the ties of the prince's affection, in the foolish hope of one day leading him back to yourself!" "and yet, but for this foolish hope, i should not have discovered, at the price of my life, the secret of my daughter's existence. is it not through this woman, who had carried her off from the farm, that i have learned the infamous deceit of the notary, ferrand?" "it would have been better to have awaited the young creature's coming out of prison, before you sent to request the grand duke to come here." "awaited! and do i know that the salutary crisis in which i now am will last until to-morrow? perhaps i am but momentarily sustained by my ambition only." "what proofs have you for the prince, and will he believe you?" "he will believe me when he reads the commencement of, the disclosure which i wrote from the dictation of that woman who stabbed me,--a disclosure of which i have, fortunately, forgotten no circumstance. he will believe me when he reads your correspondence with madame séraphin and jacques ferrand, as to the supposed death of the child; he will believe me when he hears the confession of the notary, who, alarmed at my threats, will come here immediately; he will believe me when he sees the portrait of my daughter at six years of age, a portrait which the woman told me was still a striking resemblance. so many proofs will suffice to convince the prince that i speak the truth, and to decide him as to his first impulse, which will make me almost a queen. oh, if it were but for a day, i could die content!" at this moment a carriage was heard to enter the courtyard. "it is he! it is rodolph!" exclaimed sarah. thomas seyton drew a curtain hastily aside, and replied, "yes, it is the prince; he is just alighting from the carriage." "leave me! this is the decisive moment!" said sarah, with unshaken coolness; for a monstrous ambition, a pitiless selfishness, had always been and still was the only moving spring of this woman. even in the almost miraculous reappearance of her daughter, she only saw a means of at last arriving at the one end and aim of her whole existence. seyton said to her, "i will tell the prince how your daughter, believed dead, was saved. this conversation would be too dangerous for you,--a too violent emotion would kill you; and after so long a separation, the sight of the prince, the recollection of bygone times--" "your hand, brother!" replied sarah. then, placing on her impassive heart tom seyton's hand, she added, with an icy smile, "am i excited?" "no, no; not even a hurried pulsation," said seyton, amazed. "i know not what control you have over yourself; but at such a moment, when it is for a crown or a coffin you play, your calmness amazes me!" "and wherefore, brother? till now, you know, nothing has made my heart beat hastily; and it will only throb when i feel the sovereign crown upon my brow. i hear rodolph--leave me!" when rodolph entered the apartment, his look expressed pity; but, seeing sarah seated in her armchair, and, as it were, full dressed, he recoiled in surprise, and his features became gloomy and mistrustful. the countess, guessing his thoughts, said to him, in a low and faint voice, "you thought to find me dying! you came to receive my last adieu!" "i have always considered the last wishes of the dead as sacred, but it appears now as if there were some sacrilegious deceit--" "be assured," said sarah, interrupting rodolph, "be assured that i have not deceived you! i believe that i have but very few hours to live. pardon me a last display of coquetry! i wished to spare you the gloomy symptoms that usually attend the dying hour, and to die attired as i was the first time i saw you. alas, after ten years of separation, i see you once again! thanks, oh, thanks! but in your turn give thanks to god for having inspired you with the thought of hearing my last prayer! if you had refused me, i should have carried my secret with me to the grave, which will now cause the joy, the happiness of your life,--joy, mingled with some sadness, happiness, mingled with some tears, like all human felicity; but this felicity you would yet purchase at the price of half the remainder of your existence!" "what do you mean?" asked the prince, with great amazement. "yes, rodolph, if you had not come, this secret would have followed me to the tomb! that would have been my sole vengeance. and yet, no, no! i shall not have the courage. although you have made me suffer deeply, i yet must have shared with you that supreme happiness which you, more blessed than myself, will, i hope, long enjoy!" "madame, what does this mean?" "when you know, you will be able to comprehend my slowness in informing you, for you will view it as a miracle from heaven; but, strange to say, i, who with a word can cause you pleasure greater than you have ever experienced, i experience, although the minutes of my life are counted, i experience an indefinable satisfaction at prolonging your expectation. and then, i know your heart; and in spite of the fierceness of your character, i fear, without preparation, to reveal to you so incredible a discovery. the emotions of overwhelming joy have also their dangers." "your paleness increases, you can scarcely repress your violent agitation," said rodolph; "all this indicates something grave and solemn." "grave and solemn!" replied sarah, in an agitated voice; for, in spite of her habitual impassiveness, when she reflected on the immense effect of the disclosure she was about to make to rodolph, she was more troubled than she believed possible; and, unable any longer to restrain herself, she exclaimed, "rodolph, our daughter lives!" "our daughter!" "lives, i say!" these words, the accents of truth in which they were pronounced, shook the prince to his very heart. "our child!" he repeated, going hurriedly to the chair in which sarah was, "our child--my daughter!" "is not dead, i have irresistible proof; i know where she is; to-morrow you shall see her." "my daughter! my daughter!" repeated rodolph, with amazement. "can it be that she lives?" then, suddenly reflecting on the improbability of such an event, and fearing to be the dupe of some fresh treachery on sarah's part, he cried, "no, no, it is a dream! impossible! i know your ambition--of what you are capable--and i see through the drift of this proposed treachery!" "yes, you say truly; i am capable of all--everything! yes, i desired to abuse you; some days before the mortal blow was struck, i sought to find out some young girl that i might present to you as our daughter. after this confession, you will perhaps believe me, or, rather, you will be compelled to credit irresistible evidence. yes, rodolph, i repeat i desired to substitute a young and obscure girl for her whom we both deplore; but god willed that at the moment when i was arranging this sacrilegious bargain, i should be almost fatally stabbed!" "you--at this moment!" "god so willed it that they should propose to me to play the part of falsehood--imagine whom? our daughter!" "are you delirious, in heaven's name?" "oh, no, i am not delirious! in this casket, containing some papers and a portrait, which will prove to you the truth of what i say, you will find a paper stained with my blood!" "your blood!" "the woman who told me that our daughter was still living declared to me this disclosure when she stabbed me with her dagger." "and who was she? how did she know?" "it was she to whom the child was confided when very young, after she had been declared dead." "but this woman? can she be believed? how did you know her?" "i tell you, rodolph, that this is all fated--providential! some months ago you snatched a young girl from misery, to send her to the country. jealousy and hatred possessed me. i had her carried off by the woman of whom i have been speaking." "and they took the poor girl to st. lazare?" "where she is still." "she is there no longer. ah, you do not know, madame, the fearful evil you have occasioned me by snatching the unfortunate girl away from the retreat in which i had placed her; but--" "the young girl is no longer at st. lazare!" cried sarah, with dismay; "ah, what fearful news is this!" "a monster of avarice had an interest in her destruction. they have drowned her, madame! but answer! you say that--" "my daughter!" exclaimed sarah, interrupting rodolph, and standing erect, as straight and motionless as a statue of marble. "what does she say? good heaven!" cried rodolph. "my daughter!" repeated sarah, whose features became livid and frightful in their despair. "they have murdered my daughter!" "the goualeuse your daughter!" uttered rodolph, retreating with horror. "the goualeuse! yes, that was the name which the woman they call the chouette used. dead--dead!" repeated sarah, still motionless, with her eyes fixed. "they have killed her!" "sarah!" said rodolph, as pale and as fearful to look upon as the countess; "be calm,--recover yourself,--answer me! the goualeuse,--the young girl whom you had carried off by the chouette from bouqueval,--was she our daughter?" "yes. and they have killed her!" "oh, no, no; you are mad! it cannot be! you do not know! no, no; you cannot tell how fearful this would be! sarah, be firm,--speak to me calmly,--sit down,--compose yourself! there are often resemblances, appearances which deceive if we are inclined to believe what we desire. i do not reproach you; but explain yourself to me, tell me all the reasons which induced you to think this; for it cannot be,--no, no, it cannot be,--it is not so!" after a moment's pause, the countess collected her thoughts, and said to rodolph, in a faltering voice, "learning your marriage, and thinking of marrying myself, i could not keep our child with me; she was then four years of age." "but at that time i begged her of you with prayers, entreaties," cried rodolph, in a heartrending tone, "and my letters were unanswered; the only one you wrote to me announced her death!" "i was desirous of avenging myself of your contempt by refusing your child. it was shameful; but hear me! i feel my life ebbs from me; this last blow has overcome me!" "no, no, i do not believe you; i will not believe you! the goualeuse my daughter! oh, _mon dieu_! you would not have this so!" "listen to me! when she was four years old, my brother charged madame séraphin, the widow of an old servant, to bring the child up until she was old enough to go to school. the sum destined to support our child was deposited by my brother with a notary, celebrated for his honesty. the letters of this man and madame séraphin, addressed at the time to me and my brother, are there, in the casket. at the end of a year they wrote me word that my daughter's health was failing,--eight months afterwards that she was dead, and they sent the register of her decease. at this time madame séraphin had entered the service of jacques ferrand, after having given our daughter over to the chouette, through the medium of a wretch who is now at the galleys at rochefort. i was writing down all this when the chouette stabbed me. this paper is there also, with a portrait of our daughter when four years of age. examine all,--letters, declaration, portrait,--and you who have seen her, the unhappy child, will judge--" these words exhausted sarah, and she fell fainting into her armchair. rodolph was thunderstruck at this disclosure. there are misfortunes so unforeseen, so horrible, that we try not to believe them until the overwhelming evidence compels us. rodolph, persuaded of the death of fleur-de-marie, had but one hope,--that of convincing himself that she was not his daughter. with a frightful calmness that alarmed sarah, he approached the table, opened the casket, and began to read the letters, examining with scrupulous attention the papers which accompanied them. these letters, bearing the postmark, and dated, written to sarah and her brother by the notary and madame séraphin, related to the infancy of fleur-de-marie, and the investment of the money destined for her. rodolph could not doubt the authenticity of this correspondence. the chouette's declaration was confirmed by the particulars collected at rodolph's desire, in which a felon named pierre tournemine, then at rochefort, was described as the individual who had received fleur-de-marie from the hands of madame séraphin, for the purpose of giving her up to the chouette,--the relentless tormentor of her early years,--and whom she afterwards so unexpectedly recognised when in company with rodolph at the _tapis-franc_ of the ogress. the attestation of the child's death was duly drawn up and attested, but ferrand himself had confessed to cecily that it had merely been employed to obtain possession of a considerable sum of money due to the unfortunate infant, whose decease it so falsely recorded, and who had subsequently been drowned by his order while crossing to the isle du ravageur. it was, therefore, with appalling conviction rodolph learnt at once the double facts of the goualeuse being his long-lost daughter, and of her having perished by a violent death. unfortunately, everything seemed to give greater certitude to his belief, and to render further doubt impossible. ere the prince could bring himself to place implicit credence in the self-condemnation of jacques ferrand, as conveyed in the notes furnished by him to cecily, he had made the closest inquiries at asnières, and had ascertained that two females, one old, the other young, dressed in the garb of countrywomen, had been drowned while crossing the river to the isle du ravageur, and that martial was openly accused of having committed this fresh crime. let us add, in conclusion, that, despite the utmost care and attention on the part of doctor griffon, count de saint-remy, and la louve, fleur-de-marie was long ere she could be pronounced out of danger, and then so extreme was her exhaustion, both of body and mind, that she had been unfit for the least conversation, and wholly unequal to making any effort to apprise madame georges of her situation. this coincidence of circumstances left the prince without the smallest shadow of hope; but had such even remained, it was doomed to disappear before a last and fatal proof of the reality of his misfortune. he, for the first time, ventured to cast his eyes towards the miniature he had received. the blow fell with stunning conviction on his heart; for in the exquisitely beautiful features it revealed, rich in all the infantine loveliness ascribed to cherubic innocence, he recognised the striking portrait of fleur-de-marie,--her finely chiselled nose, the lofty forehead, with the small, delicately formed mouth, even then wearing an expression of sorrowing tenderness. alas! had not madame séraphin well accounted for this somewhat uncommon peculiarity in an infant's face by saying, in a letter written by her to sarah, which rodolph had just perused, "the child is continually inquiring for its mother, and seems to grieve very much at not seeing her." there were also those large, soft, blue eyes, "the colour of a blue-bell," as the chouette observed to sarah, upon recognising in this miniature the features of the unfortunate creature she had so ruthlessly tormented as pegriotte, and as a young girl under the appellation of la goualeuse. at the sight of this picture the violent and tumultuous emotions of the prince were lost amid a flood of mingled tears and sighs. while rodolph thus indulged his bitter grief, the countenance of sarah become powerfully agitated; she saw the last hope which had hitherto sustained her of realising the ambitious dreams of her life fade away at the very moment when she had expected their full accomplishment. all at once rodolph raised his head, dashed away his tears, and, rising from his chair, advanced towards sarah with folded arms and dignified, determined air. after silently gazing on her for some moments, he said: "'tis fair and right it should be so! i raised my sword against my father's life, and i am stricken through my own child! the parricide is worthily punished for his sin! then, listen to me, madame! 'tis fit you should learn in this agonising moment all the evils which have been brought about by your insatiate ambition, your unprincipled selfishness! listen, then, heartless and unfeeling wife, base and unnatural mother!" "mercy, mercy! rodolph, pity me, and spare me!" "there is no pity, there can be no pardon for such as you, who coldly trafficked in a love pure and sincere as was mine, with the assumed pretext of sharing a passion generous and devoted as was my own for you. there can be no pity for her who excites the son against the father, no pardon for the unnatural parent who, instead of carefully watching over the infancy of her child, abandons it to the care of vile mercenaries, in order to satisfy her grasping avarice by a rich marriage, as you formerly gratified your inordinate ambition by espousing me. no! there is no mercy, pity, or pardon for one who, like yourself, first refuses my child to all my prayers and entreaties, and afterwards, by a series of profane and vile machinations, causes her death! may heaven's curse light on you, as mine does, thou evil genius of myself and all belonging to me!" "he has no relenting pity in his heart! he is deaf to all my appeals! wretched woman that i am! oh, leave me--leave me--i beseech!" "nay, you shall hear me out! do you remember our last meeting, now seventeen years ago? you were unable longer to conceal the consequences of our secret marriage, which, like you, i believed indissoluble. i well knew the inflexible character of my father, as well as the political marriage he wished me to form; but braving alike his displeasure and its results, i boldly declared to him that you were my wife before god and man, and that ere long you would bring into the world a proof of our love. my father's rage was terrible; he refused to believe in our union. such startling opposition to his will appeared to him impossible; and he threatened me with his heaviest displeasure if i presumed again to insult his ear by the mention of such folly. i then loved you with a passion bordering on madness. led away by your wiles and artifices, i believed your cold, stony heart felt a reciprocity of tenderness for me, and i therefore unhesitatingly replied that i never would call any woman wife but yourself. at these words his fury knew no bounds. he heaped on you the most insulting epithets, exclaiming that the marriage i talked of was null and void, and that to punish you for your presumption in daring even to think of such a thing, he would have you publicly exposed in the pillory of the city. yielding alike to the violence of my mad passion, and the impetuosity of my disposition, i presumed to forbid him, who was at once my parent and my sovereign, speaking thus disrespectfully of one i loved far beyond my own life, and i even went so far as to threaten him if he persisted in so doing. exasperated at my conduct, my father struck me. blinded by rage, i drew my sword, and threw myself on him with deadly fury. happily the intervention of murphy turned away the blow, and saved me from being as much a parricide in deed as i was in intention. do you hear me, madame? a parricide! and in your defence!" "alas! i knew not this misfortune." "in vain have i sought to expiate my crime. this blow to-day is sent by heaven's avenging hand to repay my heavy crime." "but have i not sufficiently suffered from the inveterate enmity of your father, who dissolved our marriage? wherefore add to my misery by doubts of the sincerity of my affection for you?" "wherefore?" exclaimed rodolph, darting on her looks of the most withering contempt. "learn now my reasons, and cease to wonder at the loathing horror with which you inspire me. after the fatal scene in which i had threatened the life of my father, i surrendered my sword, and was kept in the closest confinement. polidori, through whose instrumentality our union had been effected, was arrested; and he distinctly proved that our marriage had never been legally contracted, the minister, as well as the other persons concerned in its solemnisation, being merely creatures tutored and bribed by him; so that both you, your brother, and myself, were equally deceived. the more effectually to turn away my father's wrath from himself, polidori did still more; he gave up one of your letters to your brother, which he had managed to intercept during a journey taken by seyton." "heavens! can it be possible?" "can you now account for my contempt and aversion towards you?" "too, too well!" "in this letter you developed your ambitious projects with unblushing effrontery. me you spoke of with the utmost indifference, treating me but as the blind instrument by which you should arrive at the princely station predicted for you. you expressed your opinion that my father had already lived long enough,--perhaps too long; and hinted at probabilities and possibilities too horrible to repeat!" "alas! all is now but too apparent. i am lost for ever!" "and yet to protect you, i had even menaced my father's existence!" "when he next visited me, and, without uttering one word of reproach, put into my hands your letter, every line of which more clearly revealed the black enormity of your nature, i could but kneel before him and entreat his pardon. but from that hour i have been a prey to the deepest, the most acute remorse. i immediately quitted germany for the purpose of travelling, with the intent, if possible, of expiating my guilt; and this self-imposed task i shall continue while i live. to reward the good, to punish the evil-doer, relieve those who suffer, penetrate into every hideous corner where vice holds her court, for the purpose of rescuing some unfortunate creatures from the destruction into which they have fallen,--such is the employment i have marked out for myself." "it is a noble and holy task,--one worthy of being performed by you." "if i speak of this sacred vow," said rodolph, disdainfully, "it is not to draw down your approbation or praise. but hearken to what remains to be told; i have lately arrived in france, and i wished not to let my great purpose of continual expiatory acts stand still during my sojourn in this country. while i sought then to succour those of good reputation, who were in unmerited distress, i was also desirous of knowing that class of miserable beings who are beaten down, trampled under feet, and brutalised by want and wretchedness, well knowing that timely help, a few kind and encouraging words, may frequently have power to save a lost creature from the abyss into which he is falling. in order to be an eye-witness of the circumstances under which my work of expiation would be useful, i assumed the dress and appearance of those i wished to mix with. it was during one of these exploring adventures that i first encountered--" then, as though shuddering at the idea of so terrible a disclosure, rodolph, after a momentary hesitation, added, "no, no; i have not courage to finish the dreadful story!" "for the love of heaven, tell me what horror have you now to unfold?" "you will hear it but too soon! but," added he, with sarcastic bitterness, "you seem to take so lively an interest in past events that i cannot refrain from relating to you a few events which preceded my return to france. after passing some time in my travels, i returned to germany, filled with a spirit of obedience to my father, by whose desire i espoused a princess of prussia. during my absence you had been banished from the grand duchy. subsequently, learning your marriage with count macgregor, i again entreated you to allow me to have my child. to this earnest request no answer was returned; nor could my strictest inquiries ever discover whither you had sent the unfortunate infant, for whom my father had made a handsome provision. about ten years ago i received a letter from you, stating that our child was dead. would to god your information had been correct, and that she had indeed rendered up her innocent life at that tender age! i should then have been spared the deep, incurable anguish which must for ever embitter my life!" "i cease now to wonder," said sarah, in a feeble voice, "at the disgust and aversion with which i seem to have inspired you; and i feel, too surely, that i shall not survive this last blow. you are right; pride and ambition have been my ruin. ignorant of the just causes you had to hate and despise me, my former hopes returned with greater force than ever. our mutual widowhood inspired me with a still stronger belief in the prediction which promised me a crown; and when, by singular chance, i again found my daughter, it appeared to me as though the hand of providence had bestowed this unhoped-for good fortune on me to further my so long cherished plans. yes, i will confess that i went so far as to persuade myself that, spite of the aversion you entertained for me, you would bestow on me your name, and that, out of regard for your child, you would accept me as your wife, if but to elevate her to the rank to which she is entitled." "then let your execrable ambition be satisfied, and punished as it deserves; for, spite of the abhorrence i now hold you in, i would, out of love for my child, or, rather, from a deep pity for its early sorrows,--i would, although firmly determined always to live apart from you, by a marriage which should have legitimised my daughter, have rendered her future lot as brilliant and exalted as her past life has been wretched." "i had not, then, deceived myself? oh, misery! to think it is now too late!" "oh, i am well aware it is not your child you regret, but the loss of that rank you have so eagerly and obstinately striven to obtain. may your unfeeling and disgraceful regrets pursue you to your grave!" "then they will not long torment me; for i feel i shall not long survive this final ending of all my ambitious schemes." "but ere your existence closes, it is but fair and just you should be made aware what sort of life your poor deserted child's has been. do you recollect the night on which you and your brother followed me into a den in the cité?" "perfectly! but why this question? it freezes me with horror; your looks fill me with dread!" "as you approached this low haunt of vice, you saw--did you not?--standing at the corners of the low streets with which that neighbourhood abounds, groups of poor, unfortunate, guilty creatures, who--who--but i cannot finish the dreadful tale!" cried rodolph, concealing his face with his hands. "i dare not proceed; my own words affright me!" "as they do me! what more have i to learn?" "you saw them, i ask,--did you not?" resumed rodolph, making a powerful struggle to overcome his emotion. "you observed these base and degraded creatures, the shame and disgrace of their own sex? but did you remark among them a young girl of about sixteen years of age, lovely as an angel,--a poor child, who, amid the infamy in which she had lived during the last few weeks, still retained a look so pure, so innocent, and good that even the ruffians by whom she was surrounded called her fleur-de-marie? did you observe this,--this fair, this interesting being? answer,--answer,--tender, exemplary mother!" "no!" answered sarah, almost mechanically; "i did not observe the young person you speak of." but the teeth rattled in sarah's head as she spoke, and her whole frame seemed oppressed with a vague though fearful dread of coming evil. "indeed!" cried rodolph, with a sardonic smile. "indeed! i am surprised at that! well, i did remark, and upon the following occasion. listen attentively to what i am about to relate! during one of the exploring excursions i before spoke of, i found myself in the cité, not far from the den to which you followed me. a man was just going to beat one of the unfortunate creatures who herd together there; i interposed, and saved her from his brutal rage. now then, careful, kind, and anxious mother, tell me, if you can, whom it was i saved! can you not guess? speak! say your heart whispers to you who was the miserable being i found in this sink of wickedness and pollution! you know, do you not, without my assistance?" "no, no,--i cannot say! i beseech you to go--and leave me to my thoughts!" "then i will tell you who the wretched, trembling creature i thus saved from brutal violence was. her name was fleur-de-marie!" "merciful powers!" "and is it possible that you, most irreproachable of mothers, that you cannot divine who fleur-de-marie was?" "be merciful, and kill me; but torture me not thus!" "she was your daughter--known as the goualeuse!" cried rodolph, with almost frantic violence. "yes, the helpless girl i rescued from the hands of a felon was my own, my lost child!--the offspring of rodolph of gerolstein! oh, there was in this meeting with a daughter i unconsciously saved a visible interposition of the hand of providence! it brought a blessing to the man who had striven so earnestly to succour his fellow men, and it conveyed a well-merited chastisement for the impious wretch who had dared to aim at his father's life!" "alas!" murmured sarah, falling back in her armchair, and concealing her face with her hands, "my destiny is accomplished! i die, carrying with me out of the world the curse both of god and man!" "and when," continued rodolph, with much difficulty restraining his resentment, and vainly striving to repress the sobs which from time to time interrupted his voice, "when i had released her from the ill-usage with which she was menaced, struck with the indescribable sweetness of her voice and manner, as well as by the angelic expression of her lovely countenance, i found it impossible to abandon the interest she excited in me. i led her on to tell me the history of her life, made up of neglect, grief, and misery. with what simple eloquence did she express the yearnings of a heart that had never expanded into virtue beneath a mother's fostering care after a life of innocence, and how touchingly did she dwell on the the destitution which had led her where she was! ah, madame, to have brought down your pride and haughtiness, you should have listened as i did while your daughter described her early years as passed in shivering beggary, soliciting charity in the streets all day, and at night, when the cold winter's wind pierced through the few rags she wore, creeping to her bed of straw strewn in the corner of a wretched garret; and when the horrible old hag who tortured her had exhausted every other means of inflicting pain on her, what do you think she did, madame? why, wrenched out her teeth! and all this starving and desolation was experienced by your own child, while you were revelling in every sort of luxury, and indulging in ambitious dreams of sharing a crown!" "oh, that i could die, and so escape the direful agony i suffer!" "nay you have more to hear! escaping from the hands of the chouette, wandering about, penniless and starving, at the tender age of only ten years she was taken up as a vagabond, and as such thrown into prison. and yet, madame, that period was the happiest your poor deserted child had ever known. and each night, though surrounded by her prison walls, she gratefully thanked god that she no longer suffered from hunger, thirst, or blows. it was in a prison she passed those years so precious to the well-being of a young female, those years over which a good and affectionate mother so carefully and anxiously watches. as her sixteenth year commenced, your daughter, instead of being surrounded by the tender solicitude of loving relatives, and enriched with all the gifts of education, had seen and known nothing more edifying or elevated than the brutal indifference of her gaolers. yet this naturally pure-minded, beautiful, and ingenuous creature was at that dangerous moment sent forth from her safe asylum--a gaol--and left to wander unaided and unprotected in a world of which she knew so little! unfortunate, deserted, friendless child!" continued rodolph, giving free vent to the swelling sobs which had continually impeded his voice, "yours was, indeed, a bitter lot, thrown thus young and helpless amid the mire and pollution of a great city! [illustration: "_they took her to their guilty haunts_" original etching by mercier] "ah, madame!" cried he, addressing sarah, "however cold, hard, and selfish your heart may be, you could not have refrained from weeping at the recital of your poor, neglected child's misery and privations! poor, hapless girl! sullied, but not corrupted; chaste in heart even amid the degradation into which she had fallen; for each word she uttered breathed the most unfeigned horror and disgust at the mode of life to which she was so fatally condemned. oh, could you but have known what delicate thoughts, what noble, high-minded inspirations were betrayed in her every word and action! how good, how feeling, how innately charitable was her nature! for it was to relieve a degree of misery even greater than her own that she exhausted the small sum of money she had received on quitting her prison, and which, while it lasted, formed her only defence from the abyss of infamy into which she was afterwards plunged; for there came a time,--a hideous time, when, without employment, food, or shelter, some horrible women found her almost perishing from weakness and want of support. under pretence of aiding her, they took her to their guilty haunts, administered intoxicating drugs, and--and--" rodolph could proceed no further. he uttered a distracting cry, and exclaimed, "and this was my child!" "may heaven's punishment be on me for what i have done!" said sarah, hiding her face as though she feared to meet the light of day. "ay!" exclaimed rodolph. "and it will assuredly cling to you all your life, and haunt even your dying pillow; for it is your neglect and abandonment of all a mother's most sacred duties which have led to all these horrors. accursed may you ever be for your double wickedness towards your unoffending child! for even after i had succeeded in removing her from the guilt and pollution by which she was surrounded, and had placed her in a safe and peaceful asylum, you set your vile accomplices on to tear her thence! my curse be for ever on you! for it was owing to your causing her to be forcibly carried off which threw her back into the power of jacques ferrand." as rodolph pronounced this name he suddenly stopped and shuddered. the features of the prince assumed an expression of concentrated rage and hatred impossible to describe; mute and motionless he stood, as though crushed to the earth by the reflection that the murderer of his child was still in existence. spite of the increasing weakness of sarah and the agitation caused by this interview with rodolph, she was so much struck with his threatening aspect that she faintly exclaimed: "in mercy say what fresh idea has taken possession of your mind?" "no, no," responded rodolph, as though speaking to himself; "till now i thought to spare this monster, believing a life of enforced charity would be to him one of never ending torment. now i must revenge my infant child, delivered up by him to want and misery! i have to wash out the stain of my daughter's infamy, caused by his diabolical villainy and cupidity; and his blood alone will serve to wipe out that foul wrong! yes, he dies--and by my hand!" and, with these words, the prince sprang forward to the door. "whither are you going?" cried sarah, extending her supplicating hands towards rodolph. "oh, leave me not to die alone--" "alone? oh, no! fear not to die alone! the spectre of the innocent child, doomed by you to an early grave, will bear you company." exhausted and alarmed, sarah uttered a scream, as though she really beheld the phantom of her child, exclaiming, "forgive me! i am dying!" "die then, accursed woman!" shouted rodolph, wild with fury. "now i must have the life of your accomplice, for it was you who delivered your child to this monster!" and hastening from the apartment, rodolph ordered himself to be rapidly driven to the residence of jacques ferrand. chapter iii. love's frenzy. it was nightfall when rodolph went to the notary's. the pavilion occupied by jacques ferrand was plunged in the deepest obscurity; the wind roared and the rain fell as it did on the terrible night when cecily, before she quitted the notary's abode for ever, had excited the passions of that man to frenzy. extended on his bed, feebly lighted up by a lamp, jacques ferrand was dressed in a black coat and waistcoat. one of the sleeves of his shirt was tucked up and spotted with blood; a ligature of red cloth, which was to be seen on his nervous arm, announced that he had been bled by polidori, who, standing near his bed, leaned one hand on the couch, and seemed to watch his accomplice's features with uneasiness. nothing could be more frightfully hideous than was jacques ferrand, whilst plunged in that somnolent torpor which usually succeeds violent crises. of an ashy paleness, his face was bedewed with a cold sweat, and his closed eyelids were so swollen, so injected with blood, that they appeared like two red balls in the centre of his cadaverous countenance. "another such an attack and he is a dead man!" exclaimed polidori, in a low voice. "all the writers on this subject have agreed that all who are attacked by this strange and frightful malady usually sink under it on the seventh day, and it is now six days since that infernal creole kindled the inextinguishable flame which is consuming this man." after some minutes of further meditation, polidori left the bedside and walked slowly up and down the chamber. the tempest was still raging without, and fell with such fury on this dilapidated house as to shake it to its centre. despite his audacity and wickedness, polidori was superstitious, and dark forebodings came over him; he felt an undefinable uneasiness. in order to dissipate his gloomy thoughts, he again examined ferrand's features. "now," he said, leaning over him, "his eyelids are injected. it would seem as though his blood flowed thither and stagnated. no doubt his sight will now present, as his hearing did just now, some remarkable appearance! what agonies now they endure! how they vary! oh," he added, with a bitter smile, "when nature determines on being cruel and playing the part of a tormentor, she defies all the efforts of man; and thus in this illness, caused by an erotic frenzy, she submits every sense to unheard-of, superhuman tortures." the storm still howled without, and polidori, throwing himself into an armchair, exclaimed, "what a night! what a night! nothing could be worse for jacques's present state. yes," he continued, "the prince is pitiless, and it would have been a thousand times better for ferrand to have allowed his head to fall upon a scaffold; better fire, the wheel, molten lead, which burns and eats into the flesh, than the miserable punishment he endures! as i see him suffer i begin to feel affright for my own fate! what will become of me? what is in reserve for me as the accomplice of jacques? to be his gaoler will not suffice for the prince's vengeance. perhaps a perpetual imprisonment in the prisons of germany awaits me! but that is better than death! yet i know that the prince's word is sacred! but i, who have so often violated all laws, human and divine, dare i invoke a sworn promise? inasmuch as it was to my interest that jacques should not escape, so will it be equally my interest to prolong his days. but his symptoms grow worse and worse; nothing but a miracle can save him. what is to be done? what is to be done?" at this moment, a crash without, occasioned by the fall of a stack of chimneys, roused jacques ferrand, and he turned on his bed. polidori became more and more under the influence of the vague terror which had seized on him. "it is folly to believe in presentments," he said, in a troubled voice; "but the night seems to me very appalling!" a heavy groan from the notary attracted polidori's attention. "he is awaking from his torpor," he said, approaching his bed very quietly; "perhaps another crisis may ensue!" "polidori!" muttered jacques ferrand, still extended on the bed, and with his eyes closed. "polidori, what noise was that?" "a chimney that fell," replied polidori, in a low voice, fearing to strike too loudly on the hearing of his accomplice. "a fearful tempest shakes the house to its foundation; it is a horrible night!" the notary did not hear, and replied, turning away his head, "polidori, you are not there, then?" "yes, yes, i am here," said polidori, in a louder voice; "but i answered gently for fear of giving you pain." "no; i hear you now without any pain such as i had just now, for then it seemed as if the least noise burst like thunder on my brain. and yet in the midst of it all,--of these horrible sufferings,--i distinguish the thrilling voice of cecily, who was calling to me--" "still that infernal woman! but drive away these thoughts,--they will kill you." "these thoughts are life to me, and, like my life, they resist all tortures." "madman that you are, it is these thoughts that cause your tortures! your illness is your sensual frenzy, which has attained its utmost height. once again, drive from your brain these thoughts or you will die." "drive away these thoughts!" cried ferrand. "oh, never, never! when my pains give me one moment's repose, cecily, the demon whom i cherish and curse, rises before my eyes!" "what incredible fury! it frightens me!" "there,--now!" said the notary, with a harsh voice, and his eyes fixed on a dark corner of the room. "i see now the outline of an obscure and white form; there--there!" and he extended his hairy and bony finger in the direction of his sight. "there,--there she is!" "jacques, this is death to you!" "yes, i see her!" continued ferrand, with his teeth clenched, and not replying to polidori. "there she is! and how beautiful! how her black hair floats gracefully down her shoulders, and her small white teeth, shining between her half opened lips,--her lips so red and humid! what pearls! and how her black eyes sparkle and die! cecily," he added, with inexpressible excitement, "i adore you!" "jacques, do not excite yourself with such visions!" "it is not a vision." "mind, mind! just now, you know, you imagined you heard this woman's love-songs, and your hearing was suddenly smitten with horrible agony. mind, i say!" "leave me,--leave me! what is the use of hearing but to hear, of seeing but to see?" "but the tortures which follow, miserable wretch!" "i will brave them all for a deceit, as i have braved death for a reality; and to me this burning image is reality. ah, cecily, you are beautiful! yet why torture me thus? would you kill me? ah, execrable fury, cease,--cease, or i will strangle thee!" cried the notary, in delirium. "you kill yourself, unhappy man!" exclaimed polidori, shaking the notary violently, in order to rouse him from his excitement. in vain; jacques continued: "oh, beloved queen, demon of delight, never did i see--" the notary could not finish; he uttered a sudden cry of pain and threw himself back. "what is it?" inquired polidori, with astonishment. "put out that candle--it shines too brightly. i cannot endure it--it blinds me!" "what!" said polidori, more and more surprised. "there is but one lamp covered with its shade, and that shines very feebly." "i tell you, the light increases here. now, again--again! oh, it is too much; it is intolerable!" added jacques ferrand, closing his eyes with an expression of increasing suffering. "you are mad--the room is scarcely lighted. i tell you, open your eyes and you will see." "open my eyes! why, i shall be blinded by torrents of burning light, with which this room is filled. here! there! on all sides, there are rays of fire--millions of dazzling scintillations!" cried the notary, sitting up. and then again shrieking, he lifted both his hands to his eyes: "but i am blind; this burning fire is through my closed lids,--it burns--devours me! ah, now my hands shield me a little! but put out the light, for it throws an infernal flame!" "it is beyond doubt now!" said polidori. "his sight is struck with the same excess of sensitiveness as his hearing was; he is a dead man! to bleed him in this state would at once destroy him." a fresh cry ensued, sharp and terrible, from jacques ferrand, which resounded in the chamber. "villain, put out that lamp! its glaring beams penetrate through my hands, which they make transparent. i see the blood circulate in the net of my veins, and i try in vain to close my eyelids, for the burning lava will flow in. oh, what torture! there are gushes as dazzling as if some one were thrusting a red-hot iron into my eyes. help, help!" he shrieked, twisting himself on his bed, a prey to the horrible convulsions of his extreme agony. polidori, alarmed at the excess of this fresh fit, suddenly extinguished the lamp, and they were both in perfect darkness. at this moment the noise of a carriage was heard at the door in the street. when the chamber had been rendered entirely dark in which polidori and ferrand were, the latter was somewhat relieved from his extreme pains. "where are you going?" said polidori, suddenly, when he heard jacques ferrand rise, for the deepest obscurity reigned in the apartment. "i am going to find cecily!" "you shall not go; the sight of that room would kill you!" "cecily awaits me up there!" "you shall not go--i will prevent you!" said polidori, seizing the notary by the arm. jacques ferrand having reached the extremity of exhaustion, was unable to contend with polidori, who grasped him with a powerful clutch. "what, would you prevent me from seeking cecily?" "yes; and besides, there is a lamp in the next room, and you know what an effect light so recently produced on your sight!" "cecily is up above; she is waiting for me, and i would cross a red-hot furnace to rejoin her. let me go! she called me her old tiger; mind you, then, for my claws are sharp!" "you shall not go! i will sooner tie you down to your bed like a furious madman!" "listen, polidori! i am not mad--i am perfectly in my senses. i know that cecily is not really up there; but to me the phantoms of my imagination are equal to realities." "silence!" cried polidori, suddenly, and listening. "i just now thought i heard a carriage stop at the door--and i was not mistaken! now i hear a sound of voices in the courtyard." "you want to deceive me," said jacques; "but i am not so easily deceived." "but, unhappy man, listen--listen! don't you hear?" "let me go! cecily is up-stairs; she calls me. do not make me furious! and now i say to you, mind--beware!" "you shall not go out!" "take care!" "you shall not go out. it is for my interest that you should remain." "you would hinder me from seeking cecily, and it is my interest that you should die. there--there!" said the notary, in a gloomy tone. polidori uttered a cry. "wretch! you have stabbed me in the arm. but your hand was weak--the wound is slight--and you shall not escape me." "your wound is mortal, for it was given by the poisoned stiletto of cecily, which i always carried about me. await the effects of its poison--ah! you release me! then now you are about to die! i was not to be hindered from going up above to find cecily!" added jacques, endeavouring to grope his way in darkness to the door. "oh," murmured polidori, "my arm becomes benumbed--a deathlike coldness seizes on me--my knees tremble under me--my blood freezes in my veins--my head whirls around. help, help! i die!" and he fainted. the crash of glass doors, opened with so much violence that several panes of glass were broken to atoms, the resounding voice of rodolph, and the noise of hastily approaching steps, seemed to reply to polidori's cry of anguish. jacques ferrand having at length discovered the lock of the door, opened it suddenly, with his dangerous stiletto in his hand. at the same instant, as menacing and formidable as the genius of vengeance, the prince entered the apartment from the other side. "monster!" he exclaimed, advancing towards jacques ferrand, "it was my daughter whom you have killed! you are going--" the prince could not conclude, but recoiled in amazement. it would seem as if his words had been a thunderbolt to ferrand, for, casting away his dagger, and raising both his hands to his eyes, the unhappy wretch fell with his face to the ground, uttering a cry that was scarcely human. to complete the phenomenon which we have attempted to describe, and the action which profound obscurity had suspended, when jacques ferrand entered the apartment so brilliantly lighted up, he was struck with an overwhelming vertigo, just as though he had been suddenly cast into the midst of a torrent of light as blazing as the disk of the sun. it was a fearful spectacle to see the agony of this man, who was twisting in convulsions, tearing the floor with his nails, as if he would have dug himself a hole to escape from the atrocious tortures occasioned by this powerful light. rodolph, one of his servants, and the porter of the house, who had been compelled to guide the prince hither, were struck with horror. in spite of his just hatred, rodolph felt a pity for the unheard-of sufferings of jacques ferrand, and desired that he should be laid on the sofa. this was not effected without difficulty, for, from fear of being subjected to the direst influence of the lamp, the notary struggled violently; and when his face was covered with the full glare of the light, he uttered another shriek,--a shriek which chilled rodolph with terror. after fresh and long torture, the phenomenon ceased by its very violence. having reached the last bounds of suffering without death following, the visual torment ceased; but, according to the regular course of the malady, a delirious excitement followed the crisis. jacques ferrand became suddenly as stiffened in frame as an epileptic; his eyelids, until then obstinately closed, suddenly opened, and, instead of avoiding the light, his eyes fixed themselves on it immovably, the pupils, in a state of extraordinary dilation and fixedness, seeming phosphorescent and internally lighted up. he appeared plunged in a kind of ecstatic contemplation; his body and limbs remained at first in a state of complete immobility, his features being agitated by nervous twitches and spasms. his hideous countenance, thus contracted and twisted, had no longer any human appearance; and it appeared as if the appetites of the animal, by stifling the intelligence of the man, impressed on the features of this wretch a character absolutely bestial. having attained the mortal point of his madness, he remembered in his delirium the words of cecily, who had called him her tiger; gradually his reason forsook him, and he imagined he was a tiger. his half uttered, breathless words displayed the disorder of his brain, and the singular aberration that had seized on him. gradually his limbs, until then stiff and motionless, extended; he fell from the sofa, and tried to rise and walk, but his strength failed him; and he was compelled now to crawl like a reptile, and now to drag himself along on his hands and knees,--going, coming, this way and that way, as his visions impelled or obtained possession of him. crouched in one of the corners of the room, like a tiger in his den, his hoarse and furious cries, his grinding of teeth, the convulsive twistings of the muscles of his face and brows, and his ardent gaze, gave him a wild and frightful resemblance to this ferocious brute. "tiger--tiger--tiger--that i am!" he said, in a harsh voice, and gathering himself into a heap. "yes, tiger! what blood! in my cavern what rent carcasses--la goualeuse--the brother of this widow--a small child, louise's baby,--these are the carcasses, and my tigress cecily will have her share." then looking at his torn fingers, the nails of which had grown immensely during his illness, he added, in broken language, "oh, my sharp nails--sharp and keen! an old tiger i am, but agile, strong, and bold; no one dares dispute my tigress cecily with me. ah, she calls--she calls!" he said, advancing his hideous visage and listening. after a moment's silence he huddled himself against the wall again and continued: "no! i thought i had heard her; but she is not there. yet i see her; oh, yes, always--always! ah, there she is! she calls me; she roars--roars down there! i'm here--i'm here!" and ferrand dragged himself towards the centre of the room on his hands and knees. although his strength was exhausted, he made a convulsive leap from time to time, then paused, and listened attentively. "where is she? i approach--she goes away. cecily, here is your old tiger!" he cried, as, with a last effort, he arose and balanced himself on his knees. suddenly falling back with affright, his body bending on his heels, his hair on end, his look haggard, his mouth twisted with terror, his two hands extended, he seemed to struggle with desperation with some invisible object, uttering incoherent words, and exclaiming, in broken tones, "what a bite! help! my hands are powerless; i cannot drive away these sharp teeth! no, no! oh! not such eyes! help! a serpent--a black snake--with its flat head and fiery eyes. how it looks at me! it is the fiend! ah, he knows me--jacques ferrand--at church--the pious man--always at church! go, go--cross yourself!" and the notary, raising himself a little, and leaning with one hand on the floor, endeavoured to cross himself with the other. his livid brow was bathed in cold sweat, his eyes began to lose their transparency and become dim, all the symptoms of approaching death manifested themselves. rodolph and the other witnesses of the scene remained as motionless and mute as if they had been under the effect of a frightful dream. "oh!" continued jacques ferrand, still half stretched on the floor, and supporting himself by one hand, "the demon vanishes. i am going to church--i am a holy man--i pray! what, no one will know it? do you think so? no, no, tempter--be quite sure! well, let them come--these women--all! yes, all--if no one finds it out! but the secret!" he continued, in a tone of exhaustion, "the secret! ah, here they are! three! what says this one?--i am louise morel! oh, yes--louise morel; i know it! i am only one of the people! you think me handsome? here--take her! what does she bring me?--her head cut off by the executioner! it looks at me, that head of death! it speaks! the livid lips move and say, 'come--come--come!' i will not--i will not! demon, leave me! go--go--go! and this other woman?--ah, beautiful, beautiful!--jacques, i am the duchesse de lucenay. see my angelic figure,--my smile,--my bold glance! come, come! yes, i come. but wait! and who is this one who turns away her face? oh, cecily--cecily! yes, jacques, 'tis cecily! you see the three graces,--louise, the duchess, and myself. choose! beauty of the people, patrician beauty, the savage beauty of the tropics,--and hell with us! come--come! hell with you? yes!" shrieked jacques ferrand, again rising on his knees, and extending his arms to seize these phantoms. this last effort was followed by a mortal throe, and he fell back again stiff and lifeless; his eyes starting from their orbits, whilst fierce convulsions were visible on his features, unnaturally distorted; a bloody foam on his lips; his voice hoarse and strangling, like that of a person in hydrophobia, for, in its last paroxysm, this fearful malady shows the same symptoms as madness. the breath of this monster was extinguished in the midst of a final and horrible vision, for he stammered forth these words, "black night!--black spectres!--skeletons of brass, red-hot with fire! unfold me! their burning fingers make my flesh smoke; my marrow is scorched! fleshless, horrid spectre! no--no! cecily--fire--flame--agony--cecily!" these were jacques ferrand's last words, and rodolph left the place overcome with horror. chapter iv. the hospital. it will be remembered that fleur-de-marie, saved by la louve, had been conveyed not far from the isle du ravageur to the country-house of doctor griffon, one of the surgeons of the hospital, to whom we shall now introduce the reader. this learned doctor, who had obtained from high influence his position in the hospital, considered the wards as a kind of school of experiments, where he tried on the poor the remedies and applications which he afterwards used with his rich clients. these terrible experiments were, indeed, a human sacrifice made on the altar of science; but doctor griffon did not think of that. in the eyes of this prince of science, as they say in our days, the hospital patients were only a matter of study and experiment; and as, after all, there resulted from his essays occasionally a useful fact or a discovery acquired by science, the doctor showed himself as ingenuously satisfied and triumphant as a general after a victory which has been costly in soldiers. nothing could be more melancholy than the sombre appearance of the vast ward of the hospital, into which we now introduce the reader. the length of its high, dark walls, pierced here and there with grated windows like those of a prison, was filled with two rows of beds parallel, and faintly lighted by the sepulchral glare of a lamp hanging from the ceiling. the atmosphere is so nauseous, so heavy, that the fresh patients frequently did not become accustomed to it without danger, and this increase of suffering is a sort of tax which every newcomer invariably pays for his miserable sojourn in the hospital. in one of the beds was the corpse of a patient who had just died. amongst the females who did not sleep, and who had been present whilst the priest performed the last rites with the dying woman, were three persons whose names have been already mentioned in this history,--mlle. de fermont, the daughter of the unfortunate widow ruined by the cupidity of jacques ferrand; la lorraine, the poor laundress, to whom fleur-de-marie had formerly given the small sum of money she had left; and jeanne duport, the sister of pique-vinaigre. la lorraine was a woman about twenty, with mild and regular features, but extremely pale and thin; she was consumptive to the last degree, and there was no hope of saving her. she was aware of her condition, and was slowly dying. "there is another gone!" said la lorraine, in a faint voice, and speaking to herself. "she will suffer no more; she is very happy!" "she is very happy if she has no children!" added jeanne. "aren't you asleep, neighbour?" asked la lorraine. "how are you after your first night here? last night, when you came in, they made you go to bed directly, and i dared not speak to you, because i heard you sob so." "yes, i cried a good deal; but i went to sleep at last, and only awoke when the noise of the doors roused me; and when the priest and the sisters came in and knelt down; i saw it was some woman who was dying, and i said a _pater_ and _ave_ for her." "and so did i; and, as i am ill with the same complaint as she had, i could not help crying out, 'there is one who suffers no more; she is very happy!'" "yes, as i said, if she has no children." "then you have children?" "three!" said pique-vinaigre's sister with a sigh. "and you?" "i had a little girl, but i did not keep her long. the poor babe was injured before she was born,--and i was so wretched during my pregnancy! i am a washerwoman in the boats, and worked as long as i could. but everything has an end, and when my strength failed me, bread failed me also. they turned me out of my lodging; and i do not know what would have become of me if a poor woman had not taken me into a cellar, where she was hiding from her husband, who had sworn he would kill her. there i was brought to bed on the straw; but, thanks to goodness, the good woman knew a young girl as good and charitable as an angel from heaven. this young girl had a little money, and took me from the cellar, and put me in a furnished room, where she paid a month in advance, and gave me, besides, a wicker cradle for my baby, and forty francs, with a little linen besides. thanks to her, i was enabled to resume my work." "kind girl! well, and i, also, met by chance with such another, a young, hard-working sempstress. i was going to see my poor brother, who is a prisoner," said jeanne, after a moment's hesitation, "and met this work-girl in the prison; and when she heard me tell my brother that i was not happy, she came to me and offered me all in her power, poor girl! i accepted her offer, and she gave me her address; and two days afterwards dear little mlle. rigolette--she is called rigolette--sent me an order." "rigolette!" exclaimed lorraine; "how strange! the young girl who was so generous to me often mentioned the name of mlle. rigolette in my hearing; they were great friends." "well, then," said jeanne, smiling sadly, "since we are neighbours in bed, we should be friends like our two benefactresses." "with all my heart! my name is annette gerbier, called la lorraine, a washerwoman." "and i am jeanne duport, a fringe-maker. oh, it is so fortunate to find in this melancholy place some one not quite a stranger to you, especially when you come for the first time, and are very full of trouble. but don't let us talk of that! tell me, lorraine, what was the name of the young girl who was so kind to you?" "she was called goualeuse, and was exceedingly handsome, with light brown hair and blue eyes, so soft--oh, so soft! unfortunately, in spite of her assistance, my poor babe died at two months old. it was so puny, it could hardly breathe!" and la lorraine wiped a tear from her eye. "and your husband?" "i am not married. i washed by the day at a rich tradesman's in my country, and had always been prudent; but the master's son whispered his tales in my ear, and then--when i found in what a state i was, i dared not remain any longer in the country, and m. jules gave me fifty francs to take me to paris, assuring me that he would send me twenty francs every month for my lying-in; but since i left i have not had one sou, not even a message. i wrote to him once, but he sent me no answer; and i was afraid to write again, as i saw he did not wish to hear any more of me." "at least he ought not to have forgotten you, if it was only for the sake of the child!" "that was the reason; he was angry with me for being in the family way, because it embarrassed him. i regret my child for myself, but not on its own account, poor little darling! it must have been miserable, and have been an orphan very early, for i have not long to live." "oh, you ought not to have such ideas at your age. have you been long ill?" "nearly three months. why, when i had to work for myself and my child, i began too soon. the winter was very cold; i was attacked with a cold on my chest. i lost my child at this time, too; and nursing her, i neglected myself, and then my sorrow; so that i fell into a consumption--decided--like the actress who has just died." "there's always hope at your age!" "the actress was only two years older than i am." "what, was she an actress who is just dead?" "yes. and see what fate is! she had been as beautiful as daylight, and had money, carriages, diamonds; but, unfortunately, the smallpox disfigured her, and then came want and misery, and, at last, death in a hospital. no one ever came to see her; and yet, four or five days ago, she told me, she had written to a gentleman whom she had formerly known in her gay days, and who had been much in love with her. she wrote to him to beg him to claim her dead body, because she was wretched at the idea of thinking she would be dissected--cut in pieces." "and did the gentleman come?" "no. every moment she was asking for him and perpetually saying, 'oh, he'll come! oh, he'll be sure to come!' and yet she died without any one coming, and what she so much dreaded will befall her poor frame. after having been rich and happy, to die so is very terrible! we, at least, only change our miseries!" "i wish," said lorraine, after a moment's hesitation, "i wish you would render me a service!" "what is it?" "if i die, as is probable, before you go from here, will you claim my body? i have the same dread as the actress, and have laid aside the small sum of money necessary to bury me." "oh, do not have such ideas!" "still promise me, all the same!" "but let us hope the case will not happen!" "yes; but if it does happen--thanks to you, i shall not have the same misery as the actress." "poor woman! after having been rich to come to such an end!" "the actress is not the only one in this room who has been rich." "who else?" "a young girl of about fifteen or so, brought here yesterday evening. she was so weak that they were obliged to support her. the sister said that the young lady and her mother were very reputable persons, who had been ruined." "and is her mother here, too?" "no, the mother was too ill to be moved. the poor girl would not leave, so they took advantage of her fainting to convey her. the proprietor of a wretched lodging-house, for fear they should die in his rooms, made the report at the police station. she is there--in the bed opposite you." "and she is fifteen? the age of my eldest girl!" and jeanne duport wept bitterly. "pardon me," said la lorraine, "if i have given you pain unconsciously in speaking of your children! are they, too, ill?" "alas! i do not know. what will become of them if i remain here for a week?" "and your husband?" "as we are friends together, lorraine, i will tell you my troubles, as you have told me yours, and that will comfort me. my husband was an excellent workman, but became dissipated, and forsook me and my children, after having sold everything we possessed. i went to work; some good souls aided me, and i began to get easy again, and was bringing up my little family as well as i could, when my husband returned with a vile creature, his mistress, and again stripped me of everything; and so i had to begin all over again." "poor jeanne! you could not help it." "i ought to have separated myself from him in law,--but, as my brother says, the law is too dear! i went to see my brother one day, and he gave me three francs, which he had collected amongst the prisoners on telling his tales. so i took courage, believing my husband would not return for a very long time, as he had taken all he could from us. but i was mistaken," added the poor creature, with a shudder; "there was my poor catherine still to take!" "your daughter?" "you will hear--you will hear! three days ago, as i was at work with my children around me, my husband came in. i saw by his look that he had been drinking. 'i have come for catherine,' says he. i took my daughter's arm, and i said to duport, 'where do you want to take her to?' 'what's that to you? she's my daughter. let her make up her bundle and come along with me.' at these words my blood ran cold in my veins; for you must know, lorraine, that that bad woman is still with my husband, and it makes me shudder all over to say it. but so it was; she had long been urging him to earn something by our daughter, who is young and pretty. 'take away catherine?' said i to duport; 'never! i know what that wicked woman would do with her.' 'i say,' said my husband, whose lips were white with rage, 'do not oppose me or i'll kill you!' and then he seized my daughter by the arm, saying, 'come along, catherine!' the poor child threw her arms around my neck, and burst into tears, exclaiming, 'i will stay with mother!' when he saw this, duport became furious, tore my daughter from me, and hit me a blow in my stomach, which knocked me down; and when i was on the ground--he was very drunk, you may be sure--he trampled on me and hurt me dreadfully. my poor children begged for mercy on their knees,--catherine, too; and then he said to her, swearing like a lunatic, 'if you will not come with me i'll do for your mother!' i was spitting blood; i felt half dead, and could not move an inch. but i cried to catherine, 'let him kill me first!' 'what, you won't be quiet?' said duport, giving me another kick, which deprived me of all consciousness; and when i returned to myself, i found my two little boys crying bitterly." "and your daughter?" "gone!" exclaimed the unhappy mother, with convulsive sobs. "yes; gone. my other children told me that their father had beaten them and threatened to finish me. then the poor girl was quite distracted and embraced me and her brothers, weeping dreadfully; and then my husband dragged her away. ah, that bad woman was waiting for him on the stairs, i know!" "and didn't you complain to the police?" "at first i felt only grief at catherine's departure; but i felt soon great pain in all my limbs,--i could not walk. alas, what i had so long dreaded had happened! yes, i told my brother that one day my husband would beat me so that i should be obliged to go to the hospital,--and then what would become of my children? and now here i am in the hospital, and what, indeed, will become of my children? the neighbours went for the commissary, who came. i didn't like to denounce duport, but i was obliged, in consequence of my daughter; only i said that in our quarrel about our daughter he had pushed me, that it was nothing, but i wanted my daughter catherine because i feared the bad woman with whom my husband lived would be the ruin of her." "well, and what did the commissary say?" "why, that my husband had a right to take away his daughter, as we were not separated; that it would be a misfortune if my daughter turned out badly from evil counsels, but that they were only suppositions, after all, and that was not sufficient for a complaint against my husband. 'you have but one way--plead in the courts, demand a separation--and then the beatings your husband has given you, his behaviour with a vile woman, will be in your favour, and they will force him to restore your daughter to you; but, otherwise, he has a right to keep her with him.' 'but how can i plead when i have my children to feed?' 'what can be done?' said the clerk; 'that's the only way!'" and poor jeanne sobbed bitterly, adding, "and he is right--that is the only way! and so, in three months, my daughter may be walking the streets, whilst if i could plead and be separated it would not happen. alas, poor catherine, so gentle and so affectionate!" "oh, you have, indeed, a bitter sorrow; and yet i was complaining!" said la lorraine, drying her eyes. "and your other children?" "why, on their account, i did all i could to bear the pains i was suffering, and not go to the hospital; but i could not go on. i vomited blood three or four times a day, and a fever took away the use of my arms and legs, and i was at last unable to work. if i am quickly cured i may return to my children, if they are not first dead from hunger or locked up as beggars. who will maintain them whilst i am here?" "oh, it is very terrible! have you no kind neighbours?" "they are as poor as myself, and have five children already. it is very hard, but they promised to do a little something for them for a week; that is all they could do. and so, cured or not cured, i must go out in a week." "but your friend, mademoiselle rigolette?" "unfortunately, she is in the country, and going to be married, the porter said. no, i must be cured in eight days; and i asked all the doctors who spoke to me yesterday, but they laughed as they replied, 'you must ask the principal surgeon.' when will he come, lorraine?" "hush! i think i hear him now. and no one is allowed to speak during his visit," replied lorraine, in a low voice. the daylight had appeared during the conversation of the two women. a bustle announced the arrival of doctor griffon, who entered the room accompanied by his friend, the comte de saint-remy, who took so warm an interest in madame de fermont and her daughter, but was very far from expecting to find the unfortunate young lady in the hospital. as he entered the ward, the cold and harsh features of doctor griffon seemed to expand. casting around him a look of satisfaction and authority, he answered the obsequious reception of the sisters by a protecting nod. the coarse and austere countenance of the old comte de saint-remy was imprinted with the deepest sorrow. his ineffective attempts to find any traces of madame de fermont, and the ignominious baseness of the vicomte, who had preferred a life of infamy to death, overwhelmed him with grief. "well," said doctor griffon to him, with an air of triumph, "what do you think of my hospital?" "really," replied m. de saint-remy, "i do not know why i yielded to your desire; nothing is more harrowing than the sight of rooms filled with sick persons. since i entered, my feelings have been severely distressed." "bah, bah! in a quarter of an hour you will think no more of it. you, who are a philosopher, will find here ample matter for observation; and besides, it would have been a shame for you, one of my oldest friends, not to have known the theatre of my glory, my labours, and seen me at work. i take pride in my profession--is that wrong?" "no, certainly; and after your excellent care of fleur-de-marie, whom you have saved, i could refuse you nothing." "well, have you ascertained anything as to the fate of madame de fermont and her daughter?" "nothing!" replied m. de saint-remy, with a sigh. "and my last hope is in madame d'harville, who takes such deep interest in these two unfortunates; she may find some traces of them. madame d'harville, i hear, is expected daily at her house; and i have written to her on the subject, begging her to reply as soon as possible." during the conversation between m. de saint-remy and doctor griffon, several groups were formed gradually around a large table in the middle of the apartment, on which was a register in which the pupils of the hospital (who were to be recognised by their long white aprons) came in their turns to sign the attendance-sheet. "you see, my dear saint-remy, that my staff is pretty considerable." "it is indeed! but all these beds are occupied by women, and the presence of so many men must inspire them with painful confusion!" "all these fine feelings must be left at the door, my dear alcestis. here we begin on the living those experiments and studies which we complete on the dead body in the amphitheatre." "doctor, you are one of the best and worthiest of men, and i owe you my life, and i recognise all your excellent qualities; but the practice and love of your art makes you take views of certain questions which are most revolting to me. i leave you. these are things which disgust and pain me; and i foresee that it would be a real punishment to me to be present at your visit. i will wait for you here at the table." "what a strange person you are with these scruples! but i will not let you have quite your own way. so remain here till i come for you." "now, then, gentlemen," said doctor griffon; and he began his round, followed by his numerous auditory. on reaching the first bed on the right hand, the curtains of which were closed, the sister said to the doctor: "sir, no. died at half past four o'clock this morning." "so late? it astonishes me. yesterday morning i would not have given her the day through. has her body been claimed?" "no, sir." "so much the better. it is a very fine one; we will not dissect it, but i will make a man happy." then turning to one of the pupils, "my dear dunoyer, you have long desired a subject; your name is down for the first, and it is yours." "oh, sir, you are too good." "i am only desirous of rewarding your zeal, my dear fellow; but mark the subject--take possession; there are so many who covet it." as the doctor passed onwards, the pupil, with his scalpel, incised very delicately an f. and d. (his initials) on the arm of the defunct actress, in order "to take possession," as the doctor termed it. and the round continued. "lorraine," said jeanne duport, in a low voice, to her neighbour, "who is all this crowd of people with the surgeon?" "it is pupils and students." "oh, will all these young men look on whilst the doctor asks me questions and examines me?" "alas, yes!" "but it is in my chest that i am ill; will they examine me before all these men?" "yes--yes--it must be so. i cried bitterly the first time, and thought i should have died of shame. i resisted, and they threatened to send me away, and that made me so ill. only imagine, almost naked before everybody! it is very painful." "before the doctor alone i can easily comprehend it is necessary, and even that is a great deal to submit to; but why before all these young men?" "they learn and practise on us; that is why we are here,--why they admit us into the hospital." "ah, i understand," said jeanne duport, with bitterness; "they give us nothing for nothing. yet still there are times when even that could not be. suppose my poor girl catherine, who is only fifteen, were to come to the hospital, would they dare with her, before so many young men, to--oh, no! i would rather see her die at home!" "oh, if she came here she must make up her mind to do as the others do,--as you and i. but hold your tongue; if the poor young lady in front hears you--they say she was rich, and, perhaps, has never left her mother before,--and yet her turn comes now. only think how confused and distressed she will be." "i shudder when i think of her! poor child!" "hush, jeanne! here is the doctor!" said lorraine. after having quickly visited several patients who presented nothing remarkable in their cases, the doctor at last came to jeanne. at the sight of this crowd coming around her bed, anxious to see and learn, the poor creature, overcome with fear and shame, pulled the bed-clothes tightly around her. the severe and meditative countenance of the doctor, his penetrating glance, his eyebrows, always drawn down by his reflective habit, his abrupt mode of speech, impatient and quick, increased the alarm of poor jeanne. "a new subject!" said the doctor, as he read the placard in which was inscribed the nature of the patient's malady, and throwing on jeanne a lengthened look of scrutiny. there was a profound silence amongst the assistants, who, in imitation of the prince of science, fixed a scrutinising glance on the patient. after an examination of several minutes, the doctor, remarking something wrong in the yellow tint of the patient's eyeball, approached her more closely, and, raising the lid with his finger, examined it silently. then several of the students, responding to the kind of mute invitation of their professor, drew near, and gazed at jeanne's eye with attention. the doctor then began: "your name?" "jeanne duport," she murmured, more and more alarmed. "are you married?" "alas, yes, sir!" with a profound sigh. "have you any children?" here, instead of replying, the poor mother gave way to a flood of tears. "it is no use crying,--answer! have you any children?" "yes, sir,--two little boys, and a girl of sixteen." then followed a string of questions impossible to repeat, but to which jeanne could only reply in stammering, and after many severe rebukes from the doctor. the poor woman was overwhelmed with shame, compelled as she was to reply aloud to such questions before such a numerous auditory. the doctor, completely absorbed by scientific feelings, did not give the smallest heed to jeanne's distress, and continued: "how long have you been ill?" "four days, sir," replied jeanne, drying her tears. "tell us how your illness first disclosed itself." "sir,--why,--there are so many persons here, that i dare not." "pooh! where do you come from, my dear woman?" inquired the doctor, impatiently; "would you like to have a confessional brought? come, come, make haste!" "sir, these are family matters." "oh, be easy, we are all family men here; a large family, too, as you see," added the prince of science, who was in very high spirits that day. "come, come, let us have an end of this." more and more alarmed, jeanne, stammering and hesitating at each moment, said: "i had--a quarrel with my husband--about the children; i mean my eldest daughter, that he wanted to take away; and i wouldn't agree, because of a wicked woman he lived with, and who might give bad advice to my daughter. so then, my husband, who was tipsy,--yes, sir,--for if not, he'd never have done it,--my husband gave me a very hard push, and i fell; and then, soon after, i began to vomit blood." "pooh, pooh, pooh! your husband pushed you, and you fell; you describe it very nicely! why, he did more than push you; he must have struck you in the stomach; perhaps trampled on you, or kicked you? come, answer,--let's have the truth." "oh, sir, i assure you that he was tipsy; but for that he would never have been so wicked." "good or wicked, drunk or sober, it is not to the purpose, my good woman. i am not a public officer, and only want a fact accurately described. now, were you not knocked down, and trampled under foot?" "yes!" said jeanne, weeping; "and yet i never gave him any cause of complaint. i worked as long as i could, and--" "the epigastrium must be very painful. don't you feel great heat around that region?--uneasiness, lassitude, nausea?" "yes, sir. i was quite worn out when i gave up, if not, i should never have left my children; and then, my catherine! oh, if you--" "put out your tongue," said the doctor, again interrupting the patient. this appeared so strange to jeanne, who thought to excite the doctor's pity, that she did not reply immediately, but looked at him with alarm. "show me your tongue, which you know so well how to use," said the doctor, with a smile; and he pushed down jeanne's lower jaw with the end of his finger. after having had his pupils successively, and for some time, feel and examine the subject's tongue, in order to ascertain its colour and dryness, jeanne, overcoming her fear for a moment, said, in a tremulous voice: "sir, i was going to say to you, my neighbours, who are as poor as myself, have been so kind as to take care of my children for a week only, which is a great deal; so at the end of that time i must be back home again. so i beg of you, in god's name, to cure me as quickly as you can, or nearly so, that i may return to work; and i have but a week before me,--for--" "discoloured face,--complete state of prostration,--yet the pulse strong, quick, and regular," said the doctor, imperturbably, and pointing to jeanne. "remark her well, gentlemen: oppression, heat in the epigastric regions. all these symptoms certainly betoken hæmatemesis, probably complicated by hepatitis, caused by domestic troubles, as is indicated by the yellow discoloration of the eyeball. the subject has had violent blows in the regions of the epigastrium and abdomen; the vomiting blood is the necessary consequence of some organic injury to the viscera. on this point let me call your attention to a very curious, remarkably curious, feature. the post-mortem appearances of those who die of the injuries under which the subject is suffering frequently present remarkable appearances; frequently the malady, very severe and very dangerous, carries off the patient in a few days, and then no trace of it is found." doctor griffon then, throwing off the bed-clothes, nearly denuded poor jeanne. it would be repugnant to describe the struggle of the unfortunate creature, who, in her shame, implored the doctor and his auditory. but at the threat, "you will be turned out of the hospital, if you do not submit to the established usages,"--a threat so terrible for those to whom the hospital is the sole and last refuge,--jeanne submitted to a public scrutiny, which lasted a long time, very long, for doctor griffon analysed and explained every symptom; and then the most studious of the pupils declared their wish to unite practice with theory, and also examine the patient. the end of this scene was that poor jeanne felt such extreme emotion that she fell into a nervous crisis, for which doctor griffon gave an extra prescription. the round continued, and the doctor soon reached the bed of mlle. claire de fermont, a victim, like her mother, to the cupidity of jacques ferrand. mlle, de fermont, dressed in a cap of the hospital, was leaning her head languidly on the bolster of the bed. in spite of the ravages of her malady, there might be detected on her open and sweet countenance the traces of a beauty full of distinction. after a night of keen anguish, the poor girl had fallen into a kind of feverish stupor, and when the doctor and his scientific train entered the ward she was not aroused by the noise. "another first subject, gentlemen," said the prince of science. "disease, a slow nervous fever; if the receiving surgeon is not mistaken in the symptoms, this is a real godsend. for a long time i have desired a slow nervous fever, for that is not an ordinary complaint amongst the poor. these affections are usually produced after severe trouble in the social position of the subject, and i need hardly add that the higher the position of the patient, the more deep is the disease. it is, moreover, a complaint the more remarkable from its peculiar characteristics. it is traced to the very remotest antiquity, and the writings of hippocrates have no doubt reference to it. this fever, i repeat, has almost always been produced from the most violent grief, and grief is as old as the world. yet, strange to say, before the eighteenth century, this disease was never accurately described by any author; it was huxham, whom the science of medicine of the age so highly honours,--huxham, i say, who first defined accurately nervous fever; and yet it is a malady of the olden time," added the doctor, jocosely. "eh, eh, eh! it belongs to the great, antique, and illustrious family of _febris_, whose origin is lost in the darkness of ages. but we may be rejoicing too soon; let us see if really we have the good fortune to possess here a sample of this curious affection; it would be doubly desirable, inasmuch as, for a very long time, i have been anxious to try the effect of the internal use of phosphorus. yes, gentlemen," continued the doctor, hearing amongst his auditory a kind of shudder of curiosity,--"yes, gentlemen, of phosphorus; it is a singular experiment that i wish to try, and a bold one, and but _audaces fortuna juvat_, and the opportunity would be excellent. we will first try if the subject offers in all parts of the body, and particularly in the chest, that miliary eruption, so symptomatic according to huxham, and you will assure yourselves, by feeling the subject, of the kind of uneven surface which this eruption produces. but do not let us sell the skin of our bear before we have killed it," added the prince of science, who was decidedly in very high spirits. and he shook mlle. de fermont's shoulder very gently, in order to wake her. the young girl started and opened her large eyes, hollowed by the malady. it is impossible to describe her amaze and alarm. whilst a crowd of men surrounded her bed, all fixing their eyes upon her, she felt the doctor's hand gliding under the quilt into her bed, in order to take her hand and feel her pulse. mlle. de fermont, collecting all her strength, in a cry of anguish, exclaimed: "mother! help! mother! mother!" by an almost providential chance, at the moment when the cries of mlle. de fermont made the old count de saint-remy spring from his chair, for he recognised the voice, the door of the apartment opened, and a young lady, dressed in mourning, entered very hastily, accompanied by the governor of the hospital; this lady was the marquise d'harville. "i beg of you, sir," she said to him, "to lead me to mlle. de fermont." "be so kind as to follow me," he replied, respectfully; "the young lady is in no. ." "unhappy girl! here--here!" said madame d'harville, drying her tears. "ah, this is really frightful!" the marquise, preceded by the governor, rapidly approached the group assembled beside the bed of mlle. de fermont, when they heard these words uttered with indignation: "i tell you it is infamous murder; you will kill her, sir!" "but, my dear saint-remy, do pray hear me!" "i repeat, sir, that your conduct is atrocious! i consider mlle. de fermont as my daughter, and i forbid you going near her; i will have her immediately removed hence." "but, my dear friend, it is a case of slow nervous fever, very rare; i am desirous of trying phosphorus. it is a unique occasion. promise me, at least, that i shall have the care of her, and take her where you like, since you are determined to deprive us of so valuable a clinical subject." "if you were not a madman, you would be a monster!" replied the count. clémence listened to these words with increasing anguish, but the crowd was so dense around the bed that the governor was obliged to say, in a loud voice: "make way, if you please, for the marquise d'harville, who has come to see no. ." at these words, the pupils made way with equal haste and respectful admiration when they saw clémence's lovely face, which was radiant with so much emotion. "madame d'harville!" exclaimed the count de saint-remy, pushing the doctor rudely aside, and going hastily towards clémence. "ah, it is god who sends one of his angels here! madame, i knew you took an interest in these two unfortunate beings, and, more happy than me, you have found them, whilst it was chance only that led me hither, to be present at a scene of unparalleled barbarity. unhappy child! see, madame; and you, gentlemen, in the name of your sisters and daughters, have pity, i entreat, on a girl of sixteen, and leave her alone with madame and these good sisters; when she recovers her senses, i will have her conveyed hence." "very well, let it be so; i will sign her discharge!" exclaimed the doctor; "but i will not lose sight of her; she is a subject of mine, and i will attend her, do what you will. i'll not risk the phosphorus, i promise that; but i will pass my nights, if needs be, as i passed them with you, ungrateful saint-remy, for this fever is as curious as yours was; they are two sisters, who have an equal right to my interest." "confound the man! why has he so much science?" said the count, knowing that he could not confide the young girl to more able hands. "eh! it is simple enough," said the doctor, in a whisper. "i have a great deal of science because i study, because i experimentalise, because i risk and practise a great deal on my subjects; and so, old fellow, i shall still have my slow nervous fever,--eh?" "yes; but is it safe to move this young girl?" "certainly." "then, for the love of heaven, disappear with your train!" "come, gentlemen," said the prince of science, "we shall be deprived of a precious study; but i will make my reports on it to you." and doctor griffon, with his suite, continued his round, leaving m. de saint-remy and madame d'harville with mlle. de fermont. during this scene, mlle. de fermont, still in a swoon, had been attended to by clémence and the two nuns. saint-remy said in a low tone to clémence: "and the mother of this unhappy girl, madame?" the marchioness replied, in a voice deeply affected: "she has no longer a mother, sir. i learnt yesterday only, on my return, the address of madame de fermont, and her dying condition; at one o'clock in the morning i went to her with a medical man. ah, sir, what a fiction! it was misery in all its horror! and no hope of saving the poor mother, whose last words were, 'my daughter!'" "what a death! good heaven! and she so tender, so devoted a mother,--it is frightful!" "i will watch her until she can be moved," said clémence, "and, when she can be removed, i will take her with me." "ah, madame, bless you for what you say and do!" said m. de saint-remy. "but excuse me for not having before mentioned my name to you, i am the comte de saint-remy; madame de fermont's husband was my most intimate friend. i live at angers, and left that city from uneasiness at not receiving any news of these two noble and excellent women; they had until then lived in that city, and were said to be completely ruined, which was the more terrible as until then they had lived in ease and plenty." "ah, sir! you do not know all; madame de fermont was shamefully robbed." "by her notary, perhaps? i had my suspicions." "that man was a monster, sir! alas! that was not the only crime he committed; but fortunately," said clémence, with excitement, as she thought of rodolph, "a providential genius had compelled him to do justice, and i was enabled to close madame de fermont's eyes, assuring her as to the future provision for her daughter; thus her death was rendered less cruel." "i understand; knowing her daughter to have your support henceforth, my poor friend died more tranquil." "not only is my interest excited for ever towards mlle. de fermont, but her fortune will be restored to her." "her fortune! the notary--" "has been compelled to refund the money. this man had caused the assassination of madame de fermont's brother, in order to make it appear that the unhappy man had committed suicide, after having dissipated his sister's fortune; but he has now placed the sum in the hands of the worthy curé of bonne-nouvelle, and it will be given to mlle. de fermont. the infamous wretch has committed another murder equally infamous!" "what mean you, madame?" "but a few days since he got rid of an unfortunate young girl, whom he had an interest in drowning, assured that her death would be attributed to accident." m. de saint-remy started, looked at madame d'harville with surprise, as he recollected fleur-de-marie, and exclaimed: "ah, madame, what a singular coincidence! this young girl they sought to drown--" "in the seine, near asnières, as i am told." "'tis she! 'tis she!" cried saint-remy. "of whom do you speak, sir?" "of the young girl whom this monster sought to drown. do you know her, madame?" "poor dear! i love her tenderly. ah, if you knew, sir, how lovely, how prepossessing she was! but tell me what you mean." "doctor griffon and i gave her the first assistance." "first assistance to her! and in what way?" "at the isle du ravageur, where she was saved." "saved! fleur-de-marie saved?" "by a worthy creature, who, at the risk of her life, saved her from the seine. but what ails you, madame?" "ah, sir, i fear to believe in such good fortune; but, i pray of you, tell me what is the appearance of this young girl?" "singularly beautiful!" "large, blue eyes,--light brown hair?" "yes, madame." "and when she was drowned, there was an elderly woman with her?" "it was only yesterday she was well enough to speak, and she is still very weak; she said an elderly woman accompanied her." "praised be heaven!" said clémence, clasping her hands with fervour; "i can now tell him that his protégée still lives! what joy for him who, in his last letter, spoke to me of this poor child with such bitter regrets! excuse me, sir, but you know not how happy your intelligence renders me, and will make a person who, more than myself, has loved and protected fleur-de-marie. but, for mercy's sake, tell me, where is she at this moment?" "near asnières, in the house of one of the surgeons of this hospital, doctor griffon; she was taken there, and has had every attention." "and is she out of danger?" "yes, madame, but only during the last two or three days, and to-day she will be permitted to write to her protector." "oh, i will undertake to do that, sir; or, rather, i shall have the pleasure of taking her to those who, believing her dead, regret her so bitterly!" "i can understand those regrets, madame, for it is impossible to see fleur-de-marie without being charmed with her grace and sweetness. the woman who saved her, and has since watched her night and day as she would an infant, is a courageous and devoted person, but of a disposition so excitable that she has been called la louve." "i know la louve," said the marquise, smiling as she thought of the pleasure she had in store for the prince. what would have been her ecstasy, had she known she was the daughter he believed dead that she was about to restore to rodolph! then, addressing the nun who had given some spoonfuls of a draught to mlle. de fermont, she said, "well, sister, is she recovering?" "not yet, madame, she is so weak. poor, young thing! one can scarcely feel her pulse beat." "i will wait, then, until she is sufficiently restored to be put into my carriage; but tell me, sister, amongst these unfortunate patients, do you know any who particularly deserve interest and pity, and to whom i could be useful before i leave the hospital?" "ah, madame, heaven has sent you here!" said the sister. "there," and she pointed to the bed of pique-vinaigre's sister, "is a poor woman much to be pitied, and very bad; she only came in when quite exhausted, and is past all comfort, because she has been obliged to abandon her two small children, who have no other support in the world. she said just now to the doctor that she must go out, cured or not, in a week, because her neighbours had promised to take care of her children for that time only and no longer." "take me to her bed, i beg of you, sister," said madame d'harville, rising and following the nun. jeanne duport, who had scarcely recovered from the violent shock which the investigations of doctor griffon had caused her, had not remarked the entrance of madame d'harville; what, then, was her astonishment, when the marquise, lifting up the curtains of her bed, and looking at her with great pity and kindness, said: "my good woman, do not be uneasy about your children, i will take care of them; so only think of getting well, that you may go to them." poor jeanne thought she was in a dream, she could only clasp her hands in speechless gratitude, and gaze on her unknown benefactress. "once again assure yourself, my worthy woman, and have no uneasiness," said the marquise, pressing in her small and delicate white hands the burning hand of jeanne duport; "and, if you prefer it, you shall leave the hospital this very day and be nursed at home; everything shall be done for you, so that you need not leave your children; and, if your lodging is unhealthy or too small, you shall have one found that is more convenient and suitable, so that you may be in one room and your children in another; you shall have a good nurse, who will watch them whilst she attends to you, and when you entirely recover, if you are out of work, i will take care that you are provided for until work comes, and i will also take care of your children for the future." "ah, what do i hear?" said jeanne duport, all trembling and hardly daring to look her benefactress in the face. "why are so many kindnesses showered on me? it is not possible! i leave the hospital, where i have wept and suffered so much, and not leave my children again! have a nurse! why, it is a miracle!" "it is no miracle, my good woman," said clémence, much affected. "what i do for you," she added, blushing slightly at the remembrance of rodolph, "is inspired by a generous spirit, who has taught me to sympathise with misfortune, and it is he whom you should thank." "ah, madame, i shall ever bless you!" said jeanne, weeping. "well, then, you see, jeanne," said lorraine, much affected, "there are also amongst the rich rigolettes and goualeuses with good hearts." madame d'harville turned with much surprise towards lorraine when she heard her mention the two names. "do you know la goualeuse and a young workwoman called rigolette?" she inquired of lorraine. "yes, madame; la goualeuse--good little angel!--did for me last year, according to her small means, what you are going to do for jeanne. yes, madame, and it does me good to say and repeat it to everybody, la goualeuse took me from a cellar in which i had been brought to bed on the straw, and--dear, good girl!--placed me and my child in a room where there was a good bed and a cradle; la goualeuse spent the money from pure charity, for she scarcely knew me, and was poor herself. but how good it was! was it not, madame?" said lorraine. "yes, yes; charity from the poor to the poor is great and holy!" said clémence, with her eyes moistened by soft tears. "it was the same with mademoiselle rigolette, who, according to her little means as a sempstress," said lorraine, "some days ago offered her kind services to jeanne." "how singular!" said clémence to herself, more and more affected, for each of these two names, goualeuse and rigolette, reminded her of a noble action of rodolph. "and you, my child, what can i do for you?" she said to lorraine; "i could wish that the names you pronounce with so much gratitude should also bring you good fortune." "thank you, madame," said lorraine, with a smile of bitter resignation. "i had a child, it is dead; i am in a decline and past all hope." "what a gloomy idea! at your age there is always hope." "oh, no, madame, i saw a consumptive patient die last night. yet as you are so good, a great lady like you must be able to do anything." "tell me, what do you wish?" "since i have seen the actress who is dead so distressed at the idea of being cut in pieces after her death, i have the same fear. jeanne had promised to claim my body, and have me buried." "ah, this is horrible!" said clémence, shuddering. "be tranquil, although i hope the time is far distant, yet, when it comes, be assured that your body shall rest in holy ground." "oh, thank you--thank you, madame!" exclaimed lorraine. "might i beg to kiss your hand?" clémence presented her hand to the parched lips of lorraine. half an hour afterwards, madame d'harville, who had been painfully affected by lorraine's condition, accompanied by m. de saint-remy, took with her the young orphan, from whom she concealed her mother's death. the same day, madame d'harville's man of business, after having obtained favourable particulars respecting jeanne duport's character, hired for her some large and airy rooms, and the same evening she was conveyed to her new residence, where she found her children and a nurse. the same individual was instructed to claim and inter the body of lorraine when she died. after having conveyed mlle. de fermont to her own house, madame d'harville started for asnières with m. de saint-remy, in order to go to fleur-de-marie, and take her to rodolph. chapter v. hope. spring was approaching, and already the sun darted a more genial warmth, the sky was blue and clear, while the balmy air seemed to bring life and breath upon its invigorating wings. among the many sick and suffering who rejoiced in its cheering presence was fleur-de-marie, who, leaning on the arm of la louve, ventured to take gentle exercise in the little garden belonging to doctor griffon's house; the vivifying rays of the sun, added to the exertion of walking, tinged the pale, wasted countenance of la goualeuse with a faint glow that spoke of returning convalescence. the dress she had worn when rescued from a watery grave had been destroyed in the haste with which the requisite attempts had been made for her resuscitation, and she now appeared in a loose wrapping dress of dark blue merino, fastened around her slender waist by worsted cord of the same colour as the robe. "how cheering the sun shines!" said she to la louve, as she stopped beneath a thick row of trees, planted beside a high gravelled walk facing the south, and on which was a stone bench. "shall we sit down and rest ourselves here a few minutes?" "why do you ask me?" replied la louve, almost angrily; then taking off her nice warm shawl, she folded it in four, and, kneeling down, placed it on the ground, which was somewhat moist from the extreme shelter afforded by the overhanging trees, saying, as she did so, "here, put your feet on this." "oh, but la louve!" said fleur-de-marie, perceiving too late the kind intention of her companion, "i cannot suffer you to spoil your beautiful shawl in that way." "don't make a fuss about nothing; i tell you the ground is cold and moist. there, that will do." and, taking the tiny feet of fleur-de-marie, she forcibly placed them on her shawl. "you spoil me terribly, la louve." "it is not for your good behaviour, if i do; always trying to oppose me in everything i try to do for your good. are you not very much tired? we have been walking more than half an hour; i heard twelve o'clock just strike from asnières." "i do feel rather weary, but still the walk has done me good." "there now--you were tired, and yet could not tell me so!" "pray don't scold me; i assure you i was not conscious of my weariness until i spoke. it is so delightful to be able to walk out in the air, after being confined by sickness to your bed, to see the trees, the green fields, and the beautiful country again, when you had given up all hope of ever enjoying that happiness, or of feeling the warm beams of the sun fill you with strength and hope!" "certainly, you were desperately ill, and for two days we despaired of your life. i don't mind telling you, now the danger is over." "only imagine, la louve, that, when i found myself in the water, i could not help thinking of a very bad, wicked woman, who used to torment me when i was young, and frighten me by threatening to throw me to the fishes that they might eat me, and, even after i had grown up, she wanted to drown me; and i kept thinking that it was my destiny to be devoured by fishes, and that it was no use to try and escape from it." "was that really your last idea when you believed yourself perishing?" "oh, no!" replied fleur-de-marie, with enthusiasm; "when i believed i was dying, my last thought was for him whom i so reverence, and to whom i owe so much, and, when i came to myself after you had saved me, my first thought was of him likewise." "it is a pleasure to render you any service, you think so much of it." "no, la louve; the pleasure consists in falling asleep with our grateful recollection of kind acts, and remembering them upon waking!" "ah, you would induce people to go through fire and water to serve you! i'm sure i would, for one." "i can assure you that one of the causes which made me thankful for life was the hope of being able to advance your happiness. do you recollect the castles in the air we used to build at st. lazare?" "oh, as for that, there is time enough to think about that." "how delighted i should be, if the doctor would only allow me to write a few lines to madame georges, i am sure she must be so very uneasy; and so must m. rodolph, too," added fleur-de-marie, pensively sighing. "perhaps they think me dead." "as those wretches do who were set on to murder you!" "then you still believe my falling into the water was not an accident?" "accident! yes, one of the martial family's accidents;--mind, when i say that, you must bear in mind that my martial is not at all like the rest of his relations, any more than françois and amandine." "but what interest could they have had in my death?" "i don't care for that; the martials are such a vile set that they would murder any one, provided they were well paid for it. a few words the mother let drop when my man went to see her in prison prove that." "has he really been to see that dreadful woman?" "yes; and he tells me there is no hope of pardon for herself, calabash, or nicholas. a great many things have been discovered against them; and all the judges and those kind of people say they want to make a public example of them, to frighten others from doing such things." "how very shocking for nearly a whole family to perish in this way." "and they certainly will, unless, indeed, nicholas manages to make his escape; he is in the same prison with a monstrous ruffian whom they call the skeleton, and this man is getting up a plot to escape with several of his companions. nicholas sent to tell martial of this, by a prisoner who was discharged from prison the other day, for i must tell you, my man had been weak enough to go and see his brother in la force; so, encouraged by this visit, that hateful wretch nicholas sent to tell my man that he might effect his escape at any minute, and that his brother was to send money and clothes to disguise himself in, ready for him, to father micou's." "ah, your martial is so kind-hearted, i'm sure he will do it!" "a fig for such kind-heartedness! i call it downright foolery to help the very man who tried to take his life. no, no, martial shall do no such thing; quite enough if he does not tell of the scheme for breaking out of prison, without furnishing clothes and money, indeed. besides, now you are out of danger, myself, martial, and the two children are about to start on our rambles over france in search of work, and, depend upon it, we never mean to set our feet in paris again. martial found it quite galling enough to be called the son of a man who was guillotined; how, then, could he endure being taunted with the disgraceful ends of all his family?" "well, but, at least, you will defer your departure till i have been enabled to see and speak with m. rodolph; you have returned to virtue, and i promised you a reward if you would but forsake evil ways, and i wish to keep my word. you saved me from death, and, not satisfied with that, have nursed me with the tenderest care during my severe illness." "suppose i did; well, it would seem as though i had done the little good in my power for the sake of gain, were i to allow you to ask your friends for anything for me! no, no; i say again, i am more than repaid in seeing you safe and likely to do well." "my kind louve, make yourself perfectly easy; it shall not be said that you were influenced by interested motives, but that i was desirous of proving my gratitude to you." "hark!" said la louve, hastily rising, "i fancy i hear the sound of a carriage coming this way; yes--yes, there it is! did you observe the lady who was in it?" "dear me!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, "i fancy i recognised a young and beautiful lady i saw at st. lazare." "then she knows you are here, does she?" "i cannot tell you whether she does or no, but one thing is very certain, that she is acquainted with the person i have so often mentioned to you, who, if he pleases, and i hope that he will please, can realise all those schemes of happiness we used to build when in prison." "what about getting a gamekeeper's place for my man?" asked la louve, with a sigh; "and a cottage in the middle of the woods for us all to live in? oh, no! that is too much like what we read of in fairy tales, and quite impossible ever to happen to a poor creature like myself." quick steps were heard advancing rapidly from behind the trees, and in a minute françois and amandine (who, thanks to the kind consideration of the count de saint-remy, had been permitted to remain with la louve, during her attendance on la goualeuse) presented themselves, quite out of breath, exclaiming: "la louve, here is a beautiful lady come along with m. de saint-remy to see fleur-de-marie, and they want to see her directly!" at the same moment, madame d'harville, accompanied by m. de saint-remy, appeared from the side of the walk, the impatience of the former not allowing her to wait the arrival of fleur-de-marie. directly the marquise saw her, she ran and embraced her, exclaiming: "my poor dear child! what happiness does it not afford me to find you thus in life and safety, when i believed you dead!" "be assured, madame," answered fleur-de-marie, as she gracefully and modestly returned the affectionate pressure of madame d'harville, "that i have equal pleasure in seeing again one whose former kindness has made so deep an impression on my heart!" "ah, you little imagine the joy and rapture with which the intelligence of your existence will be welcomed by those who have so bitterly bewailed your supposed loss!" fleur-de-marie, taking la louve, who had withdrawn to a distance from the affecting scene, by the hand, and presenting her to madame d'harville, said: "since, madame, my benefactors are good enough to take so lively an interest in my welfare and preservation, permit me to solicit their kindness and favour for my companion, who saved my life at the expense of her own." "make yourself perfectly easy on that score, my child; your friends will amply testify to the worthy la louve how fully they appreciate the service they well know she has rendered you, and that 'tis to her they owe the delight of seeing you again." confused and blushing, la louve ventured neither to reply nor raise her eyes towards madame d'harville, so completely did the presence of that dignified person abash and overpower her. yet, at hearing her very name pronounced, la louve could not restrain an exclamation of astonishment. "but we have not a minute to lose," resumed the marquise. "i am dying with impatience to carry off fleur-de-marie, and i have a cloak and warm shawl for her in the carriage. so come, my child, come!" then, addressing the count, she said, "may i beg of you to give my address to this brave woman, that she may be enabled to come to-morrow to say good-bye to fleur-de-marie? that will oblige you to pay us a visit," continued madame d'harville, speaking to la louve. "depend upon my coming, madame," replied the person addressed. "since it is to bid adieu to la goualeuse, i should be grieved, indeed, if i were to miss that last pleasure." a few minutes after this conversation, madame d'harville and la goualeuse were on the road to paris. * * * * * after witnessing the frightful death by which jacques ferrand atoned for the heinous offences of his past life, rodolph had returned home deeply agitated and affected. after passing a long and sleepless night, he sent to summon sir walter murphy, in order to relieve his overcharged heart by confiding to this tried and trusty friend the overwhelmingly painful discovery of the preceding evening relative to fleur-de-marie. the honest squire was speechless with astonishment; he could well understand the death-blow this must be to the prince's best affections, and as he contemplated the pale, careworn countenance of his unhappy friend, whose red, swollen eyes and convulsed features amply bespoke the agony of his mind, he ransacked his brain for some gleam of comfort, and his invention for words of hope and comfort. "take courage, my lord," said he at last, drying his eyes, which, spite of all his accustomed coolness, he had not been able to prevent from overflowing, "take courage; yours is indeed an infliction, one that mocks at all vain attempts at consolation; it is deep, lasting, and incurable!" "you are right; what i felt yesterday seems as nothing to my sense of misery to-day." "yesterday, my lord, you were stunned by the blow that fell on you, but as your mind dwells more calmly on it, so does the future seem more dark and dispiriting. i can but say, rouse yourself, my lord, to bear it with courage, for it is beyond all attempts at consolation." "yesterday the contempt and horror i felt for that woman,--whom may the great being pardon, before whose tribunal she now stands,--mingled with surprise, disgust, and terror, occasioned by her hideous conduct, repressed those bursts of despairing tenderness i can no longer restrain in your sympathising presence, my faithful friend. i fear not to indulge the natural emotions of my heart, and my hitherto pent-up tears may now freely vent themselves. forgive my weakness, and excuse my thus cowardly shrinking from the trial i am called upon to endure, but it seems to have riven my very heart-strings, and to have left me feeble as an infant! oh, my child! my loved, my lost child! long must these scalding tears flow ere i can forget you!" "ah, my lord, weep on, for your loss is indeed irreparable!" "what joy to have atoned to her for all the wretchedness with which her young days have been clouded! what bliss to have unfolded to her the happy destiny that was to recompense her for all her past sorrows! and, then, i should have used so much care and precaution in opening her eyes to the brilliant lot that was to succeed her miserable youth, for the tale, if told too abruptly, might have been too much for her delicate nerves to sustain; but, no, i would by degrees have revealed to her the history of her birth, and prepared her to receive me as her father!" then, again bursting into an agony of despair, rodolph continued: "but what avails all that i would have done, when i am tortured by the cruel reflection that, when i had my child all to myself during the ill-fated day i conducted her to the farm, when she so innocently displayed the rich treasures of her pure and heavenly nature, no secret voice whispered to me that in her i beheld my cherished and lamented daughter? i might have prevented this dreadful calamity by keeping her with me instead of sending her to madame georges. oh, if i had, i should have been spared my present sufferings, and needed only to have opened my arms and folded her to my heart as my newly found treasure,--more really great and noble by the beauty of her heart and mind, and perhaps more worthy to fill the station to which i should raise her, than if she had always been reared in opulence and with a knowledge of her rank! i alone am to blame for her death; but mine is an accursed existence. i seem fated to trample on every duty,--a bad son and a bad father!" murphy felt that grief such as rodolph's admitted of no ordinary consolation. he did not therefore attempt to interrupt its violence by any hackneyed phrases or promises of comfort he well knew could never be realised. after a long silence, rodolph resumed, in an agitated voice: "i cannot stay here after what has happened. paris is hateful to me; i will quit it to-morrow." "you are quite right in so doing, my lord." "we will go by a circuitous route, and i will stop at bouqueval as i pass, that i may spend some few hours alone with my sad thoughts, in the chamber where my poor child enjoyed the only peaceful days she was ever permitted to taste. all that was hers shall be carefully collected together,--the books from which she studied, her writings, clothes, even the very articles of furniture and hangings of the chamber; i will make a careful sketch of the whole, and when i return to gerolstein i will construct a small building containing the fac-simile of my poor child's apartment, with all that it contained, to be erected in the private ground in which stands the monument built by me in memory of my outraged parent; there i will go and bewail my daughter. these two funeral mementos will for ever remind me of my crime towards my father, and the punishment inflicted on me through my own child." after a fresh silence, rodolph said, "let all be got ready for my departure to-morrow." anxious, if possible, to create if but a momentary change of ideas in the prince's mind, murphy said, "all shall be prepared, my lord, according to your desire; only you appear to have forgotten that to-morrow is fixed for the celebration of the marriage of rigolette with the son of madame georges, and that the ceremony was to take place at bouqueval. not contented with providing for germain as long as he lives, and liberally endowing his bride, you also promised to be present to bestow the hand of your young protégée on her lover." "true, true,--i did engage to do so; but i confess i have not sufficient courage to venture in a scene of gaiety. i cannot, therefore, visit the farm to-morrow, for to join in the wedding festivities is impossible." "perhaps the scene might serve to calm your wounded feelings, with the thought that, if miserable yourself, you have made others happy." "no, my friend, no! grief is ever selfish, and loves to indulge itself in solitude. you shall supply my place to-morrow; and beg of madame georges to collect together all my poor child's possessions; then when the room is fitly arranged, you will have an exact copy taken of it, and cause it to be sent to me in germany." "and will you not even see madame d'harville, my lord, ere you set out on your journey?" at the recollection of clémence, rodolph started; his affection for her burned as steadfastly and sincerely as ever, but, for the moment, it seemed buried beneath the overwhelming grief which oppressed him. the tender sympathy of madame d'harville appeared to him the only source of consolation; but, the next instant, he rejected the idea of seeking consolation in the love of another as unworthy his paternal sorrow. "no, my kind friend, i shall not see madame d'harville previously to quitting paris. i wrote to her a few days since, telling her of the death of fleur-de-marie, and the pain it had caused me. when she learns that the ill-fated girl was my long-lost daughter, she will readily understand that there are some griefs, or rather fatal punishments, it is requisite to endure alone." a gentle knock was heard at the door at this minute. rodolph, with displeasure at the interruption, signed for murphy to ascertain who it was. the faithful squire immediately rose, and, partly opening the door, perceived one of the prince's aides-de-camp, who said a few words in a low tone, to which murphy replied by a motion of the head, and, returning to rodolph, said, "have the goodness, my lord, to excuse me for an instant! a person wishes to see me directly on business that concerns your royal highness." "go!" replied the prince. scarcely had the door closed on murphy, than rodolph, covering his face with his hands, uttered a heavy groan. "what horrible feelings possess me!" cried he. "my mind seems one vast ocean of gall and bitterness; the presence of my best and most faithful friend is painful to me; and the recollection of a love pure and elevated as mine distresses and embarrasses me. last night, too, i was cowardly enough to learn the death of sarah with savage joy. i felicitated myself on being free from an unnatural being like her, who had caused the destruction of my child; i promised myself the horrible satisfaction of witnessing the mortal agonies of the wretch who deprived my child of life. but i was baffled of my dear revenge. another cruel punishment!" exclaimed he, starting with rage from his chair. "yet although i knew yesterday as well as to-day that my child was dead, i did not experience such a whirlwind of despairing, self-accusing agony as now rends my soul; because i did not then recall to mind the one torturing fact that will for ever step in between me and consolation. i did not then recall the circumstance of my having seen and known my beloved child, and, moreover, discovered in her untold treasures of goodness and nobleness of character. yet how little did i profit by her being at the farm! merely saw her three times--yes, three times--no more! when i might have beheld her each day--nay, have kept her ever beside me. oh, that will be my unceasing punishment, my never-ending reproach and torture,--to think i had my daughter near me, and actually sent her from me! nor, though i felt how deserving she was of every fond care, did i even admit her into my presence but three poor distant times." while the unhappy prince thus continued to torment himself with these and similar reflections, the door of the apartment suddenly opened and murphy entered, looking so pale and agitated that even rodolph could not help remarking it; and rising hastily, he exclaimed: "for heaven's sake, murphy, what has happened to you?" "nothing, my lord." "yet you are pale!" "'tis with astonishment." "astonishment at what?" "madame d'harville." "madame d'harville! gracious heaven! some fresh misfortune?" "no, no, my lord--indeed, nothing unfortunate has occurred. pray compose yourself! she is--in the drawing-room--" "here--in my house? madame d'harville here? impossible!" "my lord, i told you the surprise had quite overpowered me!" "tell me what has induced her to take such a step! speak, i conjure you! in heaven's name, explain the reason for her acting so contrary to her usually rigid notions!" "indeed, my lord, i know nothing. but i cannot even account to myself for the strange feelings that come over me." "you are concealing something from me!" "no, indeed, my lord; on the honour of a man, i know only what the marquise said to me." "and what did she say?" "'sir walter,' said she, with an unsteady voice, though her countenance shone with joy, 'no doubt you are surprised at my presence here; but there are some circumstances so imperative as to leave no time to consider the strict rules of etiquette. beg of his royal highness to grant me an immediate interview of a few minutes only in your presence, for i know well that the prince has not a better friend than yourself. i might certainly have requested him to call on me, but that would have caused at least an hour's delay; and when the prince has learned the occasion of my coming, i am sure he will feel grateful to me for not delaying the interview i seek for a single instant.' and as she uttered these words, her countenance wore an expression that made me tremble all over." "but," returned rodolph, in an agitated tone, and, spite of all his attempts at retaining his composure, being even paler than murphy himself, "i cannot guess what caused your emotion; there must be something beyond those words of madame d'harville's to occasion it." "i pledge you my honour if there be i am wholly ignorant of it; but i confess those few words from madame la marquise seemed quite to bewilder me. but even you, my lord, are paler than you were." "am i?" said rodolph, supporting himself on the back of his chair, for he felt his knees tremble under him. "nay, but, my lord, you are quite as much overcome as i was. what ails you?" "though i die in making the effort," exclaimed the prince, "it shall be done. beg of madame d'harville to do me the honour to walk in." by a singular and sympathetic feeling this extraordinary and wholly unexpected visit of madame d'harville had awakened in the breasts of murphy and rodolph the same vague and groundless hope, but so senseless did it seem that neither was willing to confess it to the other. * * * * * madame d'harville, conducted by murphy, entered the apartment in which was the prince. chapter vi. the father and daughter. ignorant of fleur-de-marie's being the prince's daughter, madame d'harville, in the fullness of her delight at restoring to him his protégée, had not reckoned upon its being necessary to observe any particular precaution in presenting her young companion, whom she merely left in the carriage until she had ascertained whether rodolph chose to make known his real name and rank to the object of his bounty, and to receive her at his own house; but perceiving the deep alteration in his features, and struck with the visible gloom which overspread them, as well as the marks of recent tears so evident in his sunken eye, clémence became alarmed with the idea that some fresh misfortune, greater than the loss of la goualeuse would be considered, had suddenly occurred. wholly losing sight, therefore, of the original cause of her visit, she anxiously exclaimed: "for heaven's sake, my lord, what has happened?" "do you not know, madame? then all hope is at an end! alas! your earnest manner, the interview so unexpectedly sought by you, all made me believe--" "let me entreat of you not to think for a moment of the cause of my visit; but, in the name of that parent whose life you have preserved, i adjure you to explain to me the cause of the deep affliction in which i find you plunged. your paleness, your dejection, terrify me. oh, be generous, my lord, and relieve the cruel anxiety i suffer." "wherefore should i burden your kind heart with the relation of woes that admit of no relief?" "your words, your hesitation, but increase my apprehensions. oh, my lord, i beseech you tell me all! sir walter, will you not take pity on my fears? for the love of heaven explain the meaning of all this! what has befallen the prince?" "nay," interrupted rodolph, in a voice that vainly struggled for firmness, "since you desire it, madame, learn that since i acquainted you with the death of fleur-de-marie i have learned she was my own daughter." "your daughter!" exclaimed clémence, in a tone impossible to describe. "fleur-de-marie your daughter!" "and when just now you desired to see me, to communicate tidings that would fill me with joy,--pardon and pity the weakness of a parent half distracted at the loss of his newly-found treasure!--i ventured to hope--but no,--no,--i see too plainly i was mistaken! forgive me, my brain seems wandering, and i scarce know what i say or do." and then sinking under the failure of this last fond imagination of his heart, and unable longer to struggle with his black despair, rodolph threw himself back in his chair and covered his face with his hands, while madame d'harville, astonished at what she had just heard, remained motionless and silent, scarcely able to breathe amid the conflicting emotions which took possession of her mind; at one instant glowing with delight at the thoughts of the joy she had it in her power to impart, then trembling for the consequences her explanation might produce on the overexcited mind of the prince. both these reflections were, however, swallowed up in the enthusiastic gratitude which she felt in the consideration that to her had been deputed the happiness not only of announcing to the grief-stricken father that his child still lived, but that the unspeakable rapture of placing that daughter in her parent's arms was likewise vouchsafed to her. carried away by a burst of pious thankfulness, and wholly forgetting the presence of rodolph and murphy, madame d'harville threw herself on her knees, and, clasping her hands, exclaimed, in a tone of fervent piety and ineffable gratitude: "thanks, thanks, my god, for this exceeding goodness! ever blessed be thy gracious name for having permitted me to be the happy bearer of such joyful tidings,--to wipe away a father's tears by telling him his child lives to reward his tenderness!" although these words, pronounced with the sincerest fervour and holy ecstasy, were uttered almost in a whisper, yet they reached the listening ears of rodolph and his faithful squire; and as clémence rose from her knees, the prince gazed on her lovely countenance, irradiated as it was with celestial happiness and beaming with more than earthly beauty, with an expression almost amounting to adoration. supporting herself with one hand, while with the other she sought to still the rapid beating of her heart, madame d'harville replied by a sweet smile and an affirmative inclination of the head to the eager, soul-searching look of rodolph, a look wholly beyond our poor powers to describe. "and where is she?" exclaimed the prince, trembling like a leaf. "in my carriage." but for the intervention of murphy, who threw himself before rodolph with the quickness of lightning, the latter would have rushed to the vehicle. "would you kill her, my lord?" exclaimed the squire, forcibly retaining the prince. "she was merely pronounced convalescent yesterday," added clémence; "therefore, as you value her safety, do not venture to try the poor girl's strength too far." "you are right," said rodolph, scarcely able to restrain himself sufficiently to follow this prudent advice, "you are quite right. yes, i will be calm,--i will not see her at present; i will wait until her first emotions have subsided. oh, 'tis too much to endure in so short a space of time!" then addressing madame d'harville, he said, in an agitated tone, while he extended to her his hand, "i feel that i am pardoned, and that you are the angel of forgiveness who brings me the glad tidings of my remission." "nay, my lord, we do but mutually requite our several obligations. you preserved to me my father, and heaven permits me to restore your daughter at a time you bewailed her as lost. but i, too, must beg to be excused for the weakness which resists all my endeavours to control it; the sudden and unexpected news you have communicated to me has quite overcome me, and i confess i should not have sufficient command over myself to go in quest of fleur-de-marie,--my emotion would terrify her." "and by what means was she preserved?" exclaimed rodolph; "and whose hand snatched her from death? i am most ungrateful not to have put these questions to you earlier." "she was rescued from drowning by a courageous female, who snatched her from a watery grave just as she was sinking." "do you know who this female was?" "i do; and to-morrow she will be at my house." "the debt is immense!" rejoined the prince; "but i will endeavour to repay it." "heaven must have inspired me with the idea of leaving fleur-de-marie in the carriage," said the marquise. "had i brought her in with me the shock must have killed her." "now, then," said the prince, who had been for some minutes occupied in endeavouring to subdue his extreme agitation, "i can promise you, my kind friends, that i have my feelings sufficiently under control to venture to meet my--my--daughter. go, murphy, and fetch her to my longing arms." rodolph pronounced the word daughter with a tenderness of voice and manner impossible to describe. "are you quite sure you are equal to the trying scene, my lord?" inquired clémence; "for we must run no risks with one in fleur-de-marie's delicate state." "oh, yes,--yes! be under no alarm! i am too well aware of the dangerous consequences any undue emotion would occasion my child; be assured i will not expose her to anything of the sort. but go--go--my good murphy; i beseech you hasten to bring her hither." "don't be alarmed, madame," said the squire, who had attentively scrutinised the countenance of the prince; "she may come now without danger. i am quite sure that his royal highness will sufficiently command himself." "then go--go--my faithful friend; you are keeping me in torments." "just give me one minute, my lord," said the excellent creature, drying the moisture from his eyes; "i must not let the poor thing see i have been crying. there, there--that will do! i should not like to cross the antechamber looking like a weeping magdalen." so saying, the squire proceeded towards the door, but suddenly turning back, he said, "but, my lord, what am i to say to her?" "yes, what had he better say?" inquired the prince of clémence. "that m. rodolph wishes to see her,--nothing more." "oh, to be sure! how stupid of me not to think of that! m. rodolph wishes to see her,--capital, excellent!" repeated the squire, who evidently partook of madame d'harville's nervousness, and sought to defer the moment of his embassy by one little pretext and the other. "that will not give her the least suspicion, not the shadow of a notion what she is wanted for. nothing better could have been suggested." but still murphy stirred not. "sir walter," said clémence, smiling, "you are afraid!" "well, i won't deny it!" said the squire. "and, spite of my standing six feet high, i feel and know i am trembling like a child." "then take care, my good fellow!" said rodolph. "you had better wait a little longer if you do not feel quite sure of yourself." "no, no, my lord; i have got the upper hand of my fears this time!" replied murphy, pressing his two herculean fists to his eyes. "i know very well that at my time of life it is ridiculous for me to show such weakness! i'm going, my lord, don't you be uneasy!" so saying, murphy left the room with a firm step and composed countenance. a momentary silence followed his departure, and then, for the first time, clémence remembered she was alone with the prince, and under his roof. rodolph drew near to her, and said, with an almost timid voice and manner: "if i select this day--this hour--to divulge to you the dearest secret of my heart, it is that the solemnity of the present moment may give greater weight to that i would impart, and persuade you to believe me sincere, when i assure you i have loved you almost from the hour i first beheld you. while obstacles stood in the way of my love i studiously concealed it; but you are now free to hear me declare my affection, and to ask you to become a mother to the daughter you restore to me." "my lord," cried madame d'harville, "what words are these?" "oh, refuse me not," said rodolph, tenderly; "let this day decide the happiness of my future life." clémence had also nourished a deep and sincere passion for the prince; and his open, manly avowal of a similar feeling towards herself, made under such peculiar circumstances, transported her with joy, and she could but falter out in a hesitating voice: "my lord, 'tis for me to remind you of the difference of our stations, and the interests of your sovereignty." "permit me first to consider the interest of my own heart, and that of my beloved child. oh, make us both happy by consenting to be mine! so that i who, but a short time since, owned no blessed tie, may now proudly indulge in the idea of having both a wife and daughter; and give to the sorrowing child who is just restored to my arms the delight of saying, 'my father--my mother--my sister!'--for your sweet girl would become mine also." "ah, my lord," exclaimed clémence, "my grateful tears alone can speak my sense of such noble conduct!" then suddenly checking herself, she added, "i hear persons approaching, my lord; your daughter comes." "refuse me not, i conjure you!" responded rodolph, in an agitated and suppliant tone. "by the love i bear you, i beseech you to make me happy by saying, 'our daughter comes!'" "then be it _our_ daughter, if such is your sincere wish," murmured clémence, as murphy, throwing open the door, introduced fleur-de-marie into the salon. the astonished girl had, upon entering the immense hôtel from the spacious portico under which she alighted from the marquise's carriage, first crossed an anteroom filled with servants dressed in rich liveries; then a waiting-room, in which were other domestics belonging to the establishment, also wearing the magnificent livery of the house of gerolstein; and lastly, the apartment in which the chamberlain and aides-de-camp of the prince attended his orders. the surprise and wonder of the poor goualeuse, whose ideas of splendour were based on the recollection of the farm at bouqueval, as she traversed those princely chambers glittering with gold, silver, paintings, and mirrors, may easily be imagined. directly she appeared, madame d'harville ran towards her, kindly took her hand, and throwing her arm around her waist, as though to support her, led her towards rodolph, who remained supporting himself by leaning one arm on the chimneypiece, wholly incapable of advancing a single step. having consigned fleur-de-marie to the care of madame d'harville, murphy hastily retreated behind one of the large window curtains, not feeling too sure of his own self-command. at the sight of him who was, in the eyes of fleur-de-marie, not only her benefactor but the worshipped idol of her heart, the poor girl, whose delicate frame had been so severely tried by illness, became seized with a universal trembling. "compose yourself, my child!" said madame d'harville. "see, there is your kind m. rodolph, who has been extremely uneasy on your account, and is most anxious to see you." "oh, yes--uneasy, indeed!" stammered forth rodolph, whose breast was wrung with anguish at the sight of his child's pale, suffering looks, and, spite of his previous resolution, the prince found himself compelled to turn away his head to conceal his deep emotion. "my poor child!" said madame d'harville, striving to divert the attention of fleur-de-marie, "you are still very weak!" and, leading her to a large gilded armchair, she made her sit down, while the astonished goualeuse seemed almost to shrink from touching the elegant cushions with which it was lined. but she did not recover herself; on the contrary, she seemed oppressed. she strove to speak, but her voice failed her, and her heart reproached her with not having said one word to her venerated benefactor of the deep gratitude which filled her whole soul. at length, at a sign from madame d'harville, who, leaning over fleur-de-marie, held one of the poor girl's thin, wasted hands in hers, the prince gently approached the side of the chair, and now, more collected, he said to fleur-de-marie, as she turned her sweet face to welcome him: "at last, my child, your friends have recovered you, and be sure it is not their intention ever to part with you again. one thing you must endeavour to do, and that is to banish for ever from your mind all your past sufferings." "yes, my dear girl," said clémence, "you can in no way so effectually prove your affection for your friends as by forgetting the past." "ah, m. rodolph, and you, too, madame, pray believe that if, spite of myself, my thoughts do revert to the past, it will be but to remind me that but for you that wretched past would still be my lot." "but we shall take pains to prevent such mournful reminiscences ever crossing your mind. our tenderness will not allow you time to look back, my dear marie," said rodolph; "you know i gave you that name at the farm." "oh, yes, m. rodolph, i well remember you did. and madame georges, who was so good as even to permit me to call her mother, is she quite well?" "perfectly so, my child; but i have some most important news for you. since i last saw you some great discoveries have been made respecting your birth. we have found out who were your parents, and your father is known to us." the voice of rodolph trembled so much while pronouncing these words that fleur-de-marie, herself deeply affected, turned quickly towards him, but, fortunately, he managed to conceal his countenance from her. a somewhat ridiculous occurrence also served at this instant to call off the attention of the goualeuse from too closely observing the prince's emotion,--the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain, feigning to be very busily occupied in gazing upon the garden belonging to the hôtel, suddenly blew his nose with a twanging sound that reëchoed through the salon; for, in truth, the worthy man was crying like a child. "yes, my dear marie," said clémence, hastily, "your father is known to us--he is still living." "my father!" cried la goualeuse, in a tone of tender delight, that subjected the firmness of rodolph to another difficult test. "and some day," continued clémence,--"perhaps very shortly, you will see him. but what will, no doubt, greatly astonish you, is that he is of high rank and noble birth." "and my mother, shall i not see her, too, madame?" "that is a question your father will answer, my dear child. but tell me, shall you not be delighted to see him?" "oh, yes, madame," answered fleur-de-marie, casting down her eyes. "how much you will love him when you know him!" said clémence. "a new existence will commence for you from that very day, will it not, marie?" asked the prince. "oh, no, m. rodolph," replied fleur-de-marie, artlessly; "my new existence began when you took pity on me, and sent me to the farm." "but your father loves you fondly--dearly!" said the prince. "i know nothing of my father, m. rodolph; but to you i owe everything in this world and the next." "then you love me better, perhaps, than you would your father?" "oh, m. rodolph, i revere and bless you with all my heart! for you have been a saviour and preserver to me both of body and soul," replied la goualeuse, with a degree of fervour and enthusiasm that overcame her natural diffidence. "when this kind lady was so good as to visit me in prison, i said to her, as i did to every one else, 'oh, if you have any trouble, only let m. rodolph know it, and he will be sure to relieve you.' and when i saw any person hesitating between good and evil, i used to advise them to try and be virtuous, telling them m. rodolph always found a way to punish the wicked. and to such as were far gone in sin, i said, 'take care, m. rodolph will recompense you as you deserve.' and even when i thought myself dying, i felt comfort in persuading myself that god would pity and pardon me, since m. rodolph had deigned to do so." carried away by her intense feelings of gratitude and reverence for her benefactor, fleur-de-marie broke through her habitual timidity; while thus expressing herself a bright flush coloured her pale cheeks, while her soft blue eyes, raised towards heaven as though in earnest prayer, shone with unusual brilliancy. a silence of some seconds succeeded to this burst of enthusiasm, while the spectators of the scene were too deeply affected to attempt a reply. "it seems, then, my dear child," said rodolph, at length, "that i have almost usurped your parent's place in your affections?" "indeed, m. rodolph, i cannot help it! perhaps it is very wrong in me to prefer you as i do, but i know you, and my father is a stranger to me." then letting her head fall on her bosom, she added, in a low, confused manner, "and besides, m. rodolph, though you are acquainted with the past, you have loaded me with kindness; while my father is ignorant of--of--my shame,--and may, probably, regret, when he does know, having found an unfortunate creature like myself. and then, too," continued the poor girl, with a shudder, "madame tells me he is of high birth; how, then, can he look upon me without shame and aversion?" "shame!" exclaimed rodolph, drawing himself up with proud dignity; "no, no, my poor child, your grateful, happy father will raise you to a position so great, so brilliant, that the richest and highest in the land shall behold you with respect. despise and blush for you!--never! you shall take your place among the first princesses of europe, and prove yourself worthy of the blood of queens which flows in your veins." "my lord! my lord!" cried clémence and murphy at the same time, equally alarmed at the excited manner of rodolph, and the increasing paleness of fleur-de-marie, who gazed on her father in silent amazement. "ashamed of you!" continued he. "oh, if ever i rejoiced in my princely rank it is now that it affords me the means of raising you from the depths to which the wickedness of others consigned you. yes, my child! my long-lost, idolised child! in me behold your father!" and utterly unable longer to repress his feelings, the prince threw himself at the feet of fleur-de-marie, and covered her hand with tears and caresses. "thanks, my god," exclaimed fleur-de-marie, passionately clasping her hands, "for permitting me to indulge that love for my benefactor with which my heart was filled. my father! oh, blessed title, that enables me to love him even as i--" and unable to bear up against the suddenness of the disclosure, fleur-de-marie fell fainting in the prince's arms. murphy rushed to the waiting-room, and shouted vehemently: "send for doctor david directly! directly, do you hear? for his royal highness,--no--no, for some one who is suddenly taken ill here." "wretch that i am!" exclaimed rodolph, sobbing almost hysterically at his daughter's feet, "i have killed her! marie, my child, look up! it is your father calls you! forgive--oh, forgive my precipitancy--my want of caution in disclosing to you this happy news! she is dead! god of heaven! have i then but found her to see her torn from me for ever?" "calm yourself, my lord," said clémence, "there is no danger, depend upon it. the colour returns to her cheeks; the surprise overcame her." "but so recently risen from a bed of sickness that surprise may kill her! unhappy man that i am, doomed for ever to misery and suffering!" at this moment the negro doctor, david, entered the room in great haste, holding in one hand a small case filled with phials, and in the other a paper he handed to murphy. "david!" exclaimed rodolph, "my child is dying! i once saved your life, repay me now by saving that of my daughter." although amazed at hearing the prince speak thus, david hurried to fleur-de-marie, whom madame d'harville was supporting in her arms, examined her pulse and the veins of her temples, then turning towards rodolph, who in speechless agony was awaiting his decree, he said: "your royal highness has no cause for alarm; there is no danger." "can it be true? are you quite sure she will recover?" "perfectly so, my lord; a few drops of ether administered in a glass of water is all that is requisite to restore consciousness." "thanks, thanks, my good, my excellent david!" cried the prince, in an ecstasy of joy. then addressing clémence, rodolph added, "our daughter will be spared to us." murphy had just glanced over the paper given him by david; suddenly he started, and gazed with looks of terror at the prince. "yes, my old and faithful friend," cried rodolph, misinterpreting the expression of murphy's features, "ere long my daughter will enjoy the happiness of calling the marquise d'harville mother." "yesterday's news," said murphy, trembling violently, "was false." "what say you?" "the report of the death of the countess macgregor, my lord, is unfounded; her ladyship had undergone a severe crisis of her illness, and had fallen into a state of insensibility, which was mistaken by those around her for death itself, and from hence originated the account of her having expired; but to-day hopes are entertained of her ultimate recovery." "merciful heavens! can this be possible?" exclaimed the prince, filled with sudden alarm; while clémence, who understood nothing of all this, looked on with undisguised astonishment. "my lord," said david, still occupied with fleur-de-marie, "there is no need of the slightest apprehension respecting this young lady, but it is absolutely necessary she should be in the open air; this chair might be easily rolled out on the terrace, by opening the door leading to the garden; she would then immediately recover consciousness." murphy instantly ran to open the glass door, which led to a broad terrace, then, aided by david, he gently rolled the armchair on to it. "alas!" cried rodolph, as soon as murphy and david were at a distance, "you have yet to learn that the countess sarah is the mother of fleur-de-marie; and i believed her dead." a few moments of profound silence followed; madame d'harville became deadly pale, while an icy coldness seemed to chill her heart. "let me briefly explain," continued rodolph, in extreme agitation, mingled with bitter sarcasm, "that this ambitious and selfish woman, caring for nothing but my rank and title, contrived, during my extreme youth, to draw me into a secret marriage, which was afterwards annulled. being desirous of contracting a second marriage, the countess occasioned all the misfortunes of her unhappy child, by abandoning her to the care of mercenary and unprincipled people." "now i can account for the repugnance you manifested towards her." "and you may likewise understand why she so bitterly pursued you, and had twice so nearly effected your destruction by her infamous slanders. still a prey to her insatiate ambition, she hoped, by separating me from any other attachment, to draw me a second time within her snares. and this heartless woman still exists." "nay, nay, my lord, that tone of bitter regret is not worthy of you, any more than the feeling which dictated it." "you do not know the wretchedness she has already caused me; and even now that i had dared to dream of happiness, and looked forward to obtaining in you the comfort and solace of my life, as well as a mother for my newly recovered child, this woman again crosses my path, and, like the spirit of evil, dashes the cup from my lips ere it is tasted." "come, come, my lord," said poor clémence, striving to look cheerful, though her tears flowed fast, spite of all her efforts to restrain them, "take courage, you have a great and holy duty to perform. but just now, when impelled by a natural burst of paternal affection, you said that the future destiny of your daughter should be happy and prosperous as her past life had been the reverse, that you would elevate her in the eyes of the world even more than she had been sunken and depressed. to do this you must legitimise her birth, and the only means by which that can be achieved is by espousing the countess macgregor." "never, never! that would be to reward the perjury, selfishness, and unbridled ambition of the unnatural mother of my poor child. but marie shall not suffer by my resolution. i will publicly acknowledge her, you will kindly take her under your protection, and, i venture to hope, afford her a truly maternal shelter." "no, my lord, you will not act thus! you will not permit the cloud of doubt or mystery to hang over the birth of your daughter. the countess sarah is descended from an ancient and noble family; such an alliance is, certainly, disproportionate for you, but still is an honourable one; it will effectually legitimise your daughter, and whatever may be her future destiny, she will have cause to boast of her father, and openly declare who was her mother." "but think not i can or will resign you! it were easier to lay down my life than surrender the blessed hope of dividing my time and affection between two beings i so dearly love as yourself and my daughter." "your child will still remain to you, my lord. providence has miraculously restored her to you; it would be sore ingratitude on your part to deem your happiness incomplete." "you could not argue thus if you loved as i love." "i will not undeceive you, great as is your error; on the contrary, i would have you persist in that belief, it will make the task i recommend less painful to you." "but if you really loved me,--if you suffered as bitterly and severely as i do at the thoughts of my marrying another, you would be wretched as i am. what will console you for our separation?" "my lord, i shall try to find solace in the discharge of my charitable duties,--duties i first learned to love and practise from your counsels and suggestions, and which have already afforded me so much consolation and sweet occupation." "hear me, i beseech you,--since you tell me it is right, i will marry this woman; but the sacrifice once accomplished, think not i will remain a single hour with her, or suffer her to behold my child; thus fleur-de-marie will lose in you the best and tenderest of mothers." "but she will still retain the best and tenderest of fathers. by your marriage with the countess sarah she will be the legitimate daughter of one of europe's sovereign princes, and, as you but just now observed, my lord, her position will be as great and splendid as it has been miserable and obscure." "you are then pitilessly determined to shut out all hope from me? unhappy being that i am!" "dare you style yourself unhappy,--you so good, so just, so elevated in rank, as well as in mind and feeling? who so well and nobly understand the duty of self-denial and self-sacrifice? when but a short time since you bewailed your child's death with such heartfelt agony, had any one said to you, 'utter the dearest wish of your soul and it shall be accomplished,' you would have cried, 'my child--my daughter! restore her to me in life and health!' this unexpected blessing is granted you, your daughter is given to your longing arms, and yet you style yourself miserable! ah, my lord, let not fleur-de-marie hear you, i beseech you!" "you are right," said rodolph, after a long silence, "such happiness as i aspired to would have been too much for this world, and far beyond my right even to dream of. be satisfied your words have prevailed,--i will act according to my duty to my daughter, and forget the bleeding wound it inflicts on my own heart. but i am not sorry i hesitated in my resolution, since i owe to it a fresh proof of the perfection of your character." "and is it not to you i owe the power of struggling with personal feelings and devoting myself to the good of others? was it not you who raised and comforted my poor depressed mind, and encouraged me to look for comfort where only it could be found? to you, then, be all the merit of the little virtue i may now be practising, as well as all the good i may hereafter achieve. but take courage, my lord, bear up, as becomes one of your firm, right-minded nature. directly fleur-de-marie is equal to the journey, remove her to germany; once there, she will benefit so greatly by the grave tranquillity of the country that her mind and feelings will be soothed and calmed down to a placidity and gentle enjoyment of the present, while the past will seem but as a troubled dream." "but you--you?" "ah, i may now confess with joy and pride that my love for you will be, as it were, a shield of defence from all snares and temptations,--a guardian angel that will preserve me from all that could assail me in body or mind. then i shall write to you daily. pardon me this weakness, 'tis the only one i shall allow myself; you, my lord, will also write to me occasionally, if but to give me intelligence of her whom once, at least, i called my daughter," said clémence, melting into tears at the thoughts of all she was giving up, "and who will ever be fondly cherished in my heart as such; and when advancing years shall permit me fearlessly and openly to avow the regard which binds us to each other, then, my lord, i vow by your daughter that, if you desire it, i will establish myself in germany, in the same city you yourself inhabit, never again to quit you, but so to end a life which might have been passed more agreeably, as far as our earthly feelings were concerned, but which shall, at least, have been spent in the practice of every noble and virtuous feeling." "my lord," exclaimed murphy, entering with eagerness, "she whom heaven has restored to you has regained her senses. her first word upon recovering consciousness was to call for you. 'my father!--my beloved father!' she cried, 'oh, do not take me from him!' come to her, my lord, she is all impatience again to behold you!" * * * * * a few minutes after this madame d'harville quitted the prince's hôtel, while the latter repaired in all haste to the house of the countess macgregor, accompanied by murphy, baron de graün, and an aide-de-camp. chapter vii. the marriage. from the moment in which she had learnt from rodolph the violent death of fleur-de-marie, sarah had felt crushed and borne down by a disclosure so fatal to all her ambitious hopes. tortured equally by a too late repentance, she had fallen into a fearful nervous attack, attended even by delirium; her partially healed wound opened afresh, and a long continuation of fainting fits gave rise to the supposition of her death. yet still the natural strength of her constitution sustained her even amid this severe shock, and life seemed to struggle vigorously against death. seated in an easy chair, the better to relieve herself from the sense of suffocation which oppressed her, sarah had remained for some time plunged in bitter reflections, almost amounting to regrets, that she had been permitted to escape from almost certain death. suddenly the door of the invalid's chamber opened, and thomas seyton entered, evidently struggling to restrain some powerful emotion. hastily waving his hand for the countess's attendants to retire, he approached his sister, who seemed scarcely to perceive her brother's presence. "how are you now?" inquired he. "much the same; i feel very weak, and have at times a most painful sensation of being suffocated. why was i not permitted to quit this world during my late attack?" "sarah," replied thomas seyton, after a momentary silence, "you are hovering between life and death,--any violent emotion might destroy you or recall your feeble powers and restore you to health." "there can be no further trial for me, brother!" "you know not that--" "i could now even hear that rodolph were dead without a shock. the pale spectre of my murdered child--murdered through my instrumentality, is ever before me. it creates not mere emotion, but a bitter and ceaseless remorse. oh, brother, i have known the feelings of a mother only since i have become childless." "i own i liked better to find in you that cold, calculating ambition, that made you regard your daughter but as a means of realising the dream of your whole existence." "that ambition fell to the ground, crushed for ever beneath the overwhelming force of the prince's reproaches. and the picture drawn by him of the horrors to which my child had been exposed awakened in my breast all a mother's tenderness." "and how," said seyton, hesitatingly and laying deep emphasis on each word he uttered, "if by a miracle, a chance, an almost impossibility, your daughter were still living, tell me how you would support such a discovery." "i should expire of shame and despair!" "no such thing! you would be but too delighted at the triumph such a circumstance would afford to your ambition; for had your daughter survived, the prince would, beyond a doubt, have married you." "and admitting the miracle you speak of could happen, i should have no right to live; but so soon as the prince had bestowed on me the title of his consort, my duty would have been to deliver him from an unworthy spouse, and my daughter from an unnatural mother." the perplexity of thomas seyton momentarily increased. commissioned by rodolph, who was waiting in an adjoining room, to acquaint sarah that fleur-de-marie still lived, he knew not how to proceed. so feeble was the state of the countess's health, that an instant might extinguish the faint spark that still animated her frame; and he saw that any delay in performing the nuptial rite between herself and the prince might be fatal to every hope. determined to legitimise the birth of fleur-de-marie by giving every necessary formality to the ceremony, the prince had brought with him a clergyman to perform the sacred service, and two witnesses in the persons of murphy and baron de graün. the duc de lucenay and lord douglas, hastily summoned by seyton, had arrived to act as attesting witnesses on the part of the countess. each moment became important, but the remorse of sarah, mingled as it was with a maternal tenderness that had entirely replaced the fiery ambition that once held sway in her breast, rendered the task of seyton still more difficult. he could but hope that his sister deceived either herself or him, and that her pride and vanity would rekindle in all their former brightness at the prospect of the crown so long and ardently coveted. "sister," resumed seyton, in a grave and solemn voice, "i am placed in a situation of cruel perplexity. i could utter one word of such deep importance that it might save your life or stretch you a corpse at my feet." "i have already told you nothing in this world can move me more." "yes, one--one event, my sister." "and what is that?" "your daughter's welfare." "i have no longer a child,--she is dead!" "but if she were not?" "cease, brother, such useless suppositions,--we exhausted that subject some minutes since. leave me to unavailing regrets!" "nay, but i cannot so easily persuade myself that if, by some almost incredible chance, some unhoped-for aid, your daughter had been snatched from death, and still lived--" "i beseech you talk not thus to me,--you know not what i suffer." "then listen to me, sister, while i declare that, as the almighty shall judge you and pardon me, your daughter lives!" "lives! said you? my child lives?" "i did, and truly so; the prince, with a clergyman and the necessary witnesses, awaits in the adjoining chamber; i have summoned two of our friends to act as our witnesses. the desire of your life is at length accomplished, the prediction fulfilled, and you are wedded to royalty!" as thomas seyton slowly uttered the concluding part of his speech, he observed, with indescribable uneasiness, the want of all expression in his sister's countenance, the marble features remained calm and imperturbable, and her only sign of attending to her brother's words was a sudden pressure of both hands to her heart, as if to still its throbbing, or as though under the influence of some acute pain, while a stifled cry escaped her trembling lips as she fell back in her chair. but the feeling, whatever it was, soon passed away, and sarah became fixed, rigid, and tranquil, as before. "sister!" cried seyton, "what ails you? shall i call for assistance?" "'tis nothing! merely the result of surprise and joy at the unhoped-for tidings you have communicated to me. at last, then, the dearest wish of my heart is accomplished!" "i was not mistaken," thought seyton, "ambition still reigns paramount in her heart, and will carry her in safety through this trial. well, sister," said he, aloud, "what did i tell you?" "you were right," replied she, with a bitter smile, as she penetrated the workings of her brother's thoughts, "ambition has again stifled the voice of maternal tenderness within me!" "you will live long and happily to cherish and delight in your daughter." "doubtless i shall, brother. see how calm i am!" "ah, but is your tranquillity real or assumed?" "feeble and exhausted, can you imagine it possible for me to feign?" "you can now understand the difficulty i felt in breaking this news to you?" "nay, i marvel at it, knowing as you did the extent of my ambition. where is the prince?" "he is here." "i would fain see and speak with him before the ceremony." then, with affected indifference, she added, "and my daughter is also here, as a matter of course?" "she is not here at present; you will see her by and by." "true, there is no hurry; but send for the prince, i entreat of you." "sister, i know not why, but your manner alarms me, and there is a strangeness in your very looks as well as words!" and seyton spoke truly. the very absence of all emotion in sarah inspired him with a vague and indefinable uneasiness; he even fancied he saw her eyes filled with tears she hastily repressed. but unable to account for his own suspicions, he at once quitted the chamber. "now, then," said sarah, "if i may but see and embrace my daughter, i shall be satisfied. i fear there will be considerable difficulty in obtaining that happiness; rodolph will refuse me, as a punishment for the past. but i must and will accomplish my longing desire! oh, yes! i cannot--will not be denied! but the prince comes!" rodolph entered, and carefully closed the door after him. addressing sarah in a cold, constrained manner, he said: "i presume your brother has told you all?" "he has!" "and your ambition is satisfied." "quite--quite satisfied?" "every needful preparation for our marriage has been made; the minister and attesting witnesses are in the next room." "i know it." "they may enter, may they not, madame?" "one word, my lord. i wish to see my daughter." "that is impossible!" "i repeat, my lord, that i earnestly desire to see my child." "she is but just recovering from a severe illness, and she has undergone one violent shock to-day; the interview you ask might be fatal to her." "nay, my lord, she may be permitted to embrace her mother without danger to herself." "why should she run the risk? you are now a sovereign princess!" "not yet, my lord; nor do i intend to be until i have embraced my daughter!" rodolph gazed on the countess with unfeigned astonishment. "is it possible," cried he, "that you can bring yourself to defer the gratification of your pride and ambition?" "till i have indulged the greater gratification of a mother's feelings. does that surprise you, my lord?" "it does indeed!" "and shall i see my daughter?" "i repeat--" "have a care, my lord,--the moments are precious,--mine are possibly numbered! as my brother said, the present trial may kill or cure me. i am now struggling, with all my power, with all the energy i possess, against the exhaustion occasioned by the discovery just made to me. i demand to see my daughter, or otherwise i refuse the hand you offer me, and, if i die before the performance of the marriage ceremony, her birth can never be legitimised!" "but fleur-de-marie is not here; i must send for her." "then do so instantly, and i consent to everything you may propose; and as, i repeat, my minutes are probably numbered, the marriage can take place while they are conducting my child hither." "although 'tis a matter of surprise to hear such sentiments from you, yet they are too praiseworthy to be treated with indifference. you shall see fleur-de-marie; i will write to her to come directly." "write there--on that desk--where i received my death-blow!" while rodolph hastily penned a few lines, the countess wiped from her brows the cold damps that had gathered there, while her hitherto calm and unmovable features were contracted by a sudden spasmodic agony, which had increased in violence from having been so long concealed. the letter finished, rodolph arose and said to the countess: "i will despatch this letter by one of my aides-de-camp; she will be here in half an hour from the time my messenger departs. shall i, upon my return to you, bring the clergyman and persons chosen to witness our marriage, that we may at once proceed?" "you may,--but no, let me beg of you to ring the bell; do not leave me by myself; let sir walter despatch the letter, and then return with the clergyman." rodolph rang; one of sarah's attendants answered the summons. "request my brother to send sir walter murphy here," said the countess, in a faint voice. the woman went to perform her mistress's bidding. "this marriage is a melancholy affair, rodolph," said the countess, bitterly, "i mean as far as i am concerned; to you it will be productive of happiness." the prince started at the idea. "nay, be not astonished at my prophesying happiness to you from such a union; but i shall not live to mar your joys." at this moment murphy entered. "my good friend," said the prince, "send this letter off to my daughter. colonel ---- will be the bearer of it, and he can bring her back in my carriage; then desire the minister and all concerned in witnessing the marriage ceremony to assemble in the adjoining room." "god of mercy!" cried sarah, fervently clasping her hands as the squire disappeared, "grant me strength to fold my child to my heart! let me not die ere she arrives!" "alas! why were you not always the tender mother you now are?" "thanks to you, at least, for awakening in me a sincere repentance for the past, and a hearty desire to devote myself to the good of those whose happiness i have so fearfully disturbed! yes, when my brother told me, a short time since, of our child's preservation,--let me say our child, it will not be for long i shall require your indulgence,--i felt all the agony of knowing myself irrecoverably ill, yet overjoyed to think that the birth of our child would be legitimised; that done, i shall die happy!" "do not talk thus." "you will see i shall not deceive you again; my death is certain." "and you will die without one particle of that insatiate ambition which has been your return! by what fatality has your repentance been delayed till now?" "though tardy, it is sincere; and i call heaven to witness that, at this awful moment, i bless god for removing me from this world, and that i am spared the additional misery of living, as i am aware i should have been a weight and burden to you, as well as a bar to your happiness elsewhere. but can you pardon me? for mercy's sake, say you do! do not delay to speak forgiveness and peace to my troubled spirit until the arrival of my child, for in her presence you would not choose to pronounce the pardon of her guilty mother. it would be to tell her a tale i would fain she never knew. you will not refuse me the hope that, when i am gone, my memory may be dear to her?" "tranquillise yourself, she shall know nothing of the past." "rodolph, do you too say i am forgiven! oh, forgive me--forgive me! can you not pity a creature brought low as i am? alas, my sufferings might well move your heart to pity and to pardon!" "i do forgive you from my innermost soul!" said the prince, deeply affected. the scene was most heartrending. rodolph opened the folding-doors, and beckoned in the clergyman with the company assembled there, that is to say, murphy and baron de graün as witnesses on the part of rodolph, and the duc de lucenay and lord douglas on the part of the countess; thomas seyton followed close behind. all were impressed with the awful solemnity of the melancholy transaction, and even m. de lucenay seemed to have lost his usual petulance and folly. the contract of marriage between the most high and powerful prince gustave rodolph, fifth reigning duke of gerolstein, and sarah seyton of halsburg, countess macgregor, which legitimised the birth of fleur-de-marie, had been previously drawn up by baron de graün, and, being read by him, was signed by the parties mentioned therein, as well as duly attested by the signature of their witnesses. spite of the countess's repentance, when the clergyman, in a deep solemn voice, inquired of rodolph whether his royal highness was willing to take sarah seyton of halsburg, countess macgregor, for his wife, and the prince had replied in a firm, distinct voice, "i will," the dying eyes of sarah shone with unearthly brilliancy, an expression of haughty triumph passed over her livid features,--the last flash of expiring ambition. not a word was spoken by any of the spectators of this mournful ceremony, at the conclusion of which the four witnesses, bowing with deep but silent respect to the prince, quitted the room. "brother," said sarah, in a low voice, "request the clergyman to accompany you to the adjoining room, and to have the goodness to wait there a moment." "how are you now, my dear sister?" asked seyton. "you look very pale." "nay," replied she, with a haggard smile, "fear not for me; am i not grand duchess of gerolstein?" left alone with rodolph, sarah murmured in a feeble and expiring voice, while her features underwent a frightful change, "i am dying; my powers are exhausted! i shall not live to kiss and bless my child!" "yes, yes, you will. calm yourself; she will soon be here." "it will not be! in vain i struggle against the approach of death. i feel too surely his icy hand upon me; my sight grows dim; i can scarcely discern even you." "sarah!" cried the prince, chafing her damp, cold hands with his. "take courage, she will soon be here; she cannot delay much longer!" "the almighty has not deemed me worthy of so great a consolation as the presence of my child!" "hark, sarah! methinks i hear the sound of wheels. yes, 'tis she,--your daughter comes!" "promise me, rodolph, she shall never know the unnatural conduct of her wretched but repentant mother," murmured the countess, in almost inarticulate accents. the sound of a carriage rolling over the paved court was distinctly heard, but the countess had already ceased to recognise what was passing around her, her words became more indistinct and incoherent. rodolph bent over her with anxious looks; he saw the rising films of death veil those beautiful eyes, and the exquisite features grow sharp and rigid beneath the touch of the king of terrors. "forgive me,--my child! let me--see--my--child! pardon--at least! and--after--death--the honours--due--to my--rank--" she faintly said, and these were the last articulate words she uttered,--the one, fixed, dominant passion of her life mingled, even in her last moments, with the sincere repentance she expressed and, doubtless, felt. just at that awful moment murphy entered. "my lord," cried he, "the princess marie is arrived!" "let her not enter this sad apartment. desire seyton to bring the clergyman hither." then pointing to sarah, who was slowly sinking into her last moments, rodolph added, "heaven has refused her the gratification of seeing her child!" shortly after that the countess sarah macgregor breathed her last. chapter viii. bicÊtre. a fortnight had elapsed since sarah's death, and it was mid-lent sunday. this date established, we will conduct the reader to bicêtre, an immense building, which, though originally designed for the reception of insane persons, is equally adapted as an asylum for seven or eight hundred poor old men, who are admitted into this species of civil invalid hospital when they have reached the age of seventy years, or are afflicted with severe infirmities. the entrance to bicêtre is by a large court, planted with high trees, and covered in the centre by a mossy turf, intersected with flower beds duly cultivated. nothing can be imagined more healthful, calm, or cheerful than the promenade thus devoted to the indigent old beings we have before alluded to. around this square are the spacious and airy dormitories, containing clean, comfortable beds; these chambers form the first floor of the building, and immediately beneath them are the neatly kept and admirably arranged refectories, where the assembled community of bicêtre partake of their common meal, excellent and abundant in its kind, and served with a care and attention that reflects the highest praise on the directors of this fine institution. in conclusion of this short notice of bicêtre, we will just add that at the period at which we write the building also served as the abode of condemned criminals, who there awaited the period of their execution. it was in one of the cells belonging to the prison that the widow martial and calabash were left to count the hours till the following day, on which they were to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. nicholas, the skeleton, and several of the same description of ruffians had contrived to escape from la force the very night previous to the day on which they were to have been transferred to bicêtre. eleven o'clock had just struck as two _fiacres_ drew up before the outer gate; from the first of which descended madame georges, germain, and rigolette, and from the second louise morel and her mother. germain and rigolette had now been married for some fifteen days. we must leave the reader to imagine the glow of happiness that irradiated the fair face of the grisette, whose rosy lips parted but to smile, or to lavish fond words upon madame georges, whom she took every occasion of calling "her dear mother." the countenance of germain expressed a more calm and settled delight. with his sincere affection for the merry-hearted being to whom he was united was mingled a deep and grateful sense of the kind and disinterested conduct of rigolette towards him when in prison, although the charming girl herself seemed to have completely forgotten all about it, and even when germain spoke of those days she would entreat him to change the subject, upon the plea of finding all such recollections so very dull and dispiriting. neither would the pretty grisette substitute a bonnet for the smart little cap worn before her marriage, and certainly never was humility and avoidance of pretension better rewarded; for nothing could have been invented more becoming to the piquant style of rigolette's beauty than the simple cap _à la paysanne_, trimmed with a large orange-coloured rosette at each side, contrasting so tastefully with the long tresses of her rich dark hair, now worn in long hanging curls; for, as she said, "she could now allow herself to take a little pains with her appearance." the fair bride wore a handsome worked muslin collar, while a scarf, of similar colour to the trimmings of her cap, half concealed her graceful, pliant figure, which, notwithstanding her having leisure to adorn herself, was still unfettered by the artificial restraints of stays; although the tight gray silk dress she wore fitted without a fold or a crease over her lightly rounded bosom, resembling the beautiful statue of galatea in marble. madame georges beheld the happiness of the newly married pair with a delight almost equal to their own. as for louise morel, she had been set at liberty after undergoing a most searching investigation, and when a post-mortem examination of her infant had proved that it had come to its death by natural means; but the countenance of the poor victim of another's villainy had lost all the freshness of youth, and bore the impress of deep sorrow, now softened and subdued by gentleness and resignation. thanks to rodolph, and the excellent care that had been taken of her through his means, the mother of louise, who accompanied her, had entirely recovered her health. madame georges having informed the porter at the lodge that she had called by the desire of one of the medical officers of the establishment, who had appointed to meet herself and the friends by whom she was accompanied at half past eleven o'clock, she was requested to choose whether she would await the doctor within doors or in the large square before the building; determining to do the latter, and supporting herself on the arm of her son, while the wife of morel walked beside her, she sauntered along the shady alleys that bordered this delightful spot, louise and rigolette following them. "how very glad i am to see you again, dear louise," said the bride. "when we came to fetch you on our arrival from bouqueval, i wanted to run up-stairs to you, but my husband would not let me; he said i should tire myself, so i stayed in the coach, and that is the reason why we meet now for the first time since--" "you so kindly came to console me in prison, mlle. rigolette," cried louise, deeply affected. "you are so feeling for all in trouble, whether of body or mind!" "in the first place, my dear louise," replied the grisette, hastily interrupting praises that were to her oppressive, "i am not mlle. rigolette any longer, but madame germain. i do not know whether you heard--" "that you were married? oh, yes, i did. but pray let me thank you as you deserve." "ah, but louise," persisted madame germain, "i am quite sure you have not learnt all the particulars; how my marriage is all owing to the generosity of him who was at once the protector and benefactor of yourself and family, germain, his mother, and my own self." "ah, yes, m. rodolph,--we bless his name morning and evening. when i came out of prison the lawyer who had been to see me from time to time, by m. rodolph's order, told me that, thanks to the same kind friend who had already interested himself so much for us, m. ferrand (and here at the very mention of the name an involuntary shudder passed over the poor girl's frame) had settled an annuity on my poor father and myself,--some little reparation for the wrongs he had done us. you are aware that my poor dear father is still confined here, though still improving in health." "and i also know that the kind doctor who has appointed our being here to-day even hopes your dear parent may be enabled to return with you to paris; he thinks that it will be better to take some decided steps to throw off this malady, and that the unexpected presence of persons your father was in the daily habit of seeing may produce the most favourable effects,--perhaps cure him; and that is what i think will be the case." "ah, mademoiselle, i dare not hope for so much happiness." "madame germain, my dear louise, if it is all the same to you; but to go on with what i was telling you, you have no idea, i am sure, who m. rodolph really is?" "yes, i have,--the friend and protector of all who are unhappy." "true, but that is not all. well, as i see you really are ignorant of many things concerning our benefactor, i will tell you all about it." then addressing her husband, who was walking before her with madame georges, she said, "don't walk so very fast, germain, you will tire our mother!" and, with a look of proud satisfaction, she said, turning to louise, "does not he deserve to have a good wife? see how attentive he is to his mother! he certainly is very handsome, too,--a thousand times more so than cabrion, or m. girandeau, the travelling clerk! you remember him, don't you, louise? "talking of cabrion puts me in mind to ask you whether m. pipelet and his wife have arrived yet? the doctor wished them to come here to-day with us, because your father has talked much about them during his wanderings." "no, they are not here at present, but they will not be long. when we called for them they had already set out." "and then as for being punctual in keeping an appointment, m. pipelet is as exact as a clock to the hour and minute! but let me tell you a little more about my marriage and m. rodolph. only think, louise, it was he who sent me with the order for germain's liberation! you can imagine our delight at quitting that horrid prison. well, we went home to my room, and there germain and i together prepared a nice little bit of dinner; but, bless you! we might just as well have spared ourselves the trouble, for, after it was ready, neither of us could eat a bit for joy. when evening came germain left me, promising to return the next day. "well, at five o'clock next morning, i got up and sat down to my work, for i was terribly behindhand with it. as eight o'clock struck some one knocked at the door; who should it be but m. rodolph! directly i saw him, i began to thank him from the bottom of my heart for all he had done for germain and myself. he would not allow me to proceed. 'my kind neighbour,' said he, 'i wish you to give this letter to germain, who will soon be here. then you will take a _fiacre_, and proceed without delay to a small village, near ecouen, called bouqueval. once there, inquire for madame georges; and i wish you all imaginable pleasure from your trip.' 'm. rodolph,' i said, 'pray excuse me, but that will make me lose another day's work and i have already got two to make up for.' 'make yourself perfectly easy, my pretty neighbour,' said he, you will find plenty of work at madame georges's, i promise you; she will prove an excellent customer, i have no doubt, and i have particularly recommended you to her.' 'oh, that alters the case, m. rodolph, then i'm sure i shall be but too glad to go.' 'adieu, neighbour,' said m. rodolph. 'good-bye,' cried i, 'and many thanks for so kindly recommending me.' "when germain came, i told him all about it; so as we were quite sure m. rodolph would not send us upon any foolish errand, we set off as blithe as birds. only imagine, louise, what a surprise awaited us on our arrival! i declare i can scarcely think of it without tears of happiness coming into my eyes. we went to the very madame georges you see walking before us, and who should she turn out to be but the mother of germain!" "his mother?" "yes, his own very mother, from whom he had been taken when quite a baby! you must try to fancy their mutual joy! well, when madame georges had wept over her son, and embraced and gazed at him a hundred times, my turn came to be noticed. "no doubt m. rodolph had written something very favourable about me, for, clasping me in her arms, she said, 'she was acquainted with my conduct towards her son.' 'then, mother,' interposed germain, 'it only rests with you to ask her, and rigolette will be your child as well as i.' 'and i do ask her to be my daughter with all my heart,' replied his mother, 'for you will never find a better or a prettier creature to love as your wife.' "so there i was quite at home, in such a sweet farm, along with germain, his mother, and my birds; for i had taken the poor, little, dear things with me, just to hear how delightedly they would sing when they found themselves in the country. the days passed like a dream. i did only just what i liked,--helped madame georges, walked about with germain, and danced and sung like a wild thing. "well, our marriage was fixed to take place on yesterday fortnight; the evening before, who should arrive but a tall, elderly, bald-headed gentleman, who looked so kind; and he brought me a _corbeille de mariage_ from m. rodolph. only think, louise, what a beauty it must have been,--made like a large rosewood box, with these words written in letters of gold, on medallion of blue china, 'industry and prudence--love and happiness.' and what do you suppose this charming box contained? why, a number of lace caps similar to the one i have now on, pieces for gowns, gloves, ornaments, a beautiful shawl, and this pretty scarf. oh, i thought i should lose my senses with delight! but that is not all. at the bottom of the box i found a handsome pocketbook, with these words written on a bit of paper affixed to it, 'from a friend to a friend.' inside were two folded papers, one addressed to germain, and the other to me. in that addressed to germain was an order for his appointment as director of a bank for the poor with a salary of four thousand francs a year; while he found under the envelope, directed to me, a money order for forty thousand francs on the treasury,--yes, that's the word; it was called my marriage portion. "i did not like to take so large a sum, but madame georges said to me, 'my dear child, you both can and must accept it, as a recompense for your prudence, industry, and devotion to those who were in misfortune; for did you not run the risk of injuring your health, and probably deprive yourself of your only means of support, by sitting up all night at work, in order to make up for the time you spent in attending to others?'" "oh, that is quite true," exclaimed louise, with fervour. "i do not think there is any one upon earth who would have done all that you have done, mademoi--madame germain!" "there's a good girl, she has learned her lesson at last! well, i said to the elderly gentleman that i did not merit such a reward, that what little i had done was purely because it afforded me pleasure. to which he answered, 'that makes no difference; m. rodolph is immensely rich, and he sends you this dowry as a mark of his friendship and esteem, and your refusal of it would pain him very much indeed. he will himself be present at your marriage, and then he will compel you to take it.'" "what a blessing that so charitable a person as m. rodolph should be possessed of such riches!" "of course it is! but i haven't told you all yet. oh, louise, you never can guess who and what m. rodolph turns out to be; and to think of my making him carry large parcels for me! but have a little patience, you will hear about it directly. "the night before the marriage the elderly gentleman came again very late, and in great haste,--it was to tell us that m. rodolph was ill, and could not attend the wedding, but that his friend, the bald-headed gentleman, would take his place. and then only, my dear louise, did we learn that our benefactor was--guess what--a prince! a prince, do i say? bless you, ever so much higher than that! a royal highness!--a reigning duke!--a sort of a second-rate king! germain explained all about his rank to me!" "m. rodolph a prince!--a duke!--almost a king!" "just think of that, louise! and imagine my having asked him to help me to clean my room! a pretty state of confusion it threw me into when i recollected all that, and how free i had spoken to him! so of course you know when i found that he was as good as a king, i did not dare refuse his gracious wedding present. "well, my dear, when we had been married about a week, m. rodolph sent us word that he should be glad if germain, his mother, and myself would pay him a wedding visit; so we did. i can tell you my heart beat as though it would come through my side! well, we stopped at a fine palace in the rue plumet, and were ushered into a number of splendid apartments, filled with servants in liveries, all covered with gold lace, gentlemen in black, with silver chains around their necks and swords by their sides, officers in rich uniforms, and all sorts of gay looking people. the rooms we passed through were all gilt, and filled with such beautiful things they quite dazzled my eyesight only to look at them. "at last we got to the apartment where the bald-headed old gentleman was sitting, with a quantity of grand folks, all covered with gold lace and embroidery. well, when our elderly friend saw us, he rose and conducted us to an adjoining room, where we found m. rodolph--i mean the prince--dressed so simply, and looking so good and kind--just like the m. rodolph we first knew--that i did not feel at all frightened at the recollection of how i had set him to pin my shawl for me, mend my pens, and walked with him arm in arm in the street, just like two equals, as, certainly, then i thought we were." "oh, i should have trembled like a leaf if i had been you!" "well, i did not mind it at all, he smiled so encouragingly; and, after kindly welcoming madame georges, he held out his hand to germain, and then said, smilingly, to me, 'well, neighbour, and how are "papa crétu" and "ramonette?"' (those were the names i called my birds by. was it not kind of him to recollect them?) "'i feel quite sure,' added he, 'that yourself and germain can sing as merry songs as your birds.' 'yes, indeed, my lord,' replied i (madame georges had taught me as we came along how i was to address the prince), 'we are as happy as it is possible to be, and our happiness is the greater because we owe it to you.' "'nay, nay, my good child,' said he, 'you may thank your own excellent qualities and that of germain for the felicity you enjoy,' etc. i need not go on with that part of the story, louise, because it would oblige me to repeat all the charming praises i received; and, certainly, i cannot recollect ever doing more than my strict duty, though the prince was pleased to think differently. "well, we all came away more sorrowful than we went, for we found it was to be our farewell visit to our benefactor, he being about to return to germany. whether or not he has gone i cannot tell you, but, absent or present, our most grateful remembrance and respectful esteem will ever attend him. "i forgot to tell you that a dear, good girl i knew when we were both in prison together had been living at the farm with madame georges; it seems my young friend had, fortunately, found a friend in m. rodolph, who had placed her there. but madame georges particularly cautioned me not to say a word on the subject to the prince, who had some reason for desiring it should not be talked about,--no doubt because he could not bear his benevolent deeds should be known. however, i learnt one thing that gave me extreme pleasure, that my sweet goualeuse had found her parents, and that they had taken her a great, great way from paris; i could not help feeling grieved, too, that i had not been able to wish her good-bye before she went. "but forgive me, dear louise, for being so selfish as to keep talking to you of every one's happiness when you have so much reason to be sorrowful yourself." "had my child but been spared to me," said poor louise, sadly, "it would have been some consolation to me; for how can i ever hope to find any honest man who would make me his wife, although i have got money enough to tempt any one." "for my part, louise, i feel quite sure that one of these days i shall see you happily married to a good and worthy partner, who will pity you for your past troubles, and love and esteem you for the patience with which you endured them." "ah, madame germain, you only say so to try and comfort me; but whether you really believe what you say or no, i gratefully feel and thank you for your kindness. but who are these? i declare, m. and madame pipelet! how very gay he looks; so different from the sad, dejected appearance he always wore, while m. cabrion was tormenting him as he did!" louise was right. pipelet advanced in high spirits, and as though treading on air; on his head he wore the well-known bell-crowned hat, a superb grass-green coat adorned his person, while a white cravat, with embroidered ends, was folded around his throat, in such a manner as to permit the display of an enormous collar, reaching nearly up to his eyes, and quite concealing his cheeks. a large, loose waistcoat, of bright buff, with broad maroon-coloured stripes, black trousers, somewhat short for the wearer, snowy white stockings, and highly polished shoes completed his equipment. anastasie displayed a robe of violet-coloured merino, tastefully contrasted with a dark blue shawl. she proudly exhibited her freshly curled brutus wig to the gaze of all she met, while her cap was slung on her arm by its bright green strings, after the manner of a reticule. the physiognomy of alfred--ordinarily so grave, thoughtful, and dejected--was now mirthful, jocund, and hilarious. the moment he caught a glimpse of rigolette and louise, he ran towards them, exclaiming in his deep, sonorous voice, "delivered! gone!" "how unusually joyful you seem, m. pipelet," said rigolette. "do pray tell us what has occasioned such a change in your appearance!" "gone! i tell you, mademoiselle,--or, rather, madame, as i may, do, and ought to say, now that, like my anastasie, you are tied up for life." "you are very polite, m. pipelet; but please to tell me who has gone?" "cabrion!" responded m. pipelet, inspiring and respiring the air with a look of indescribable delight, as though relieved of an enormous weight; "he has quitted france for ever--for a perpetuity! at length he has departed, and i am myself again." "are you quite sure he has gone?" "i saw him with my eyes ascend the diligence, en route for strasburg with all his luggage and baggage; that is to say, a hat-case, a maul-stick, and a box of colours." "what is my old dear chattering about?" cried anastasie, as she came puffing and panting to the spot where the little group were assembled; "i'll be bound he was giving you the history of cabrion's going off--i'm sure he has talked of nothing else all the way we came." "because i'm half wild with delight; i seem to have got into another world,--such a lightness has come over me. a little while ago my hat used to seem as though loaded with lead, and as if it pressed forwards in spite of me; now i seem as though borne on the breeze towards the firmament, to think that he is gone--actually set out--and never to return!" "yes, the blackguard is off at last!" chimed in madame pipelet. "anastasie," cried her husband, "spare the absent! happiness calls for mercy and forbearance on our parts. i will obey its dictates, and merely allow myself to remark that cabrion was a--a--worthless scoundrel!" "but how do you know that he has gone to germany?" inquired rigolette. "by a friend of our 'king of lodgers.' talking of that dear man, you haven't heard that, owing to the handsome manner in which he recommended us, alfred has been appointed house-porter to a sort of charitable bank, established in our house by a worthy christian, who wishes, like m. rodolph, to do all the good he can?" "ah!" replied rigolette. "and, perhaps, you don't know, either, that my dear germain is appointed manager of this same bank? all owing to the kind intervention of m. rodolph." "well, i never!" exclaimed madame pipelet, "all our good luck comes together; and i'm sure i'm heartily glad we shall keep old friends and acquaintances around us. i hate fresh faces, for my part. i'm certain i would not change my old duck of a husband even for your young handsome one, madame germain. "but to go back to cabrion. only imagine a bald-headed, stout, elderly gentleman, coming to tell us of alfred's new situation, and at the same time inquiring if a talented artist of the name of cabrion did not once lodge in the house with us. oh, my poor darling! directly cabrion's name was mentioned down went the boot he was mending, and if i had not caught him he would have swooned away. but, fortunately, the bald gentleman added, 'this young painter has been engaged by a very wealthy person to do some work, which will occupy him for years, and he may, very probably, establish himself in another country.' in confirmation of which the old gentleman gave my alfred the date of cabrion's departure, with the address of the office from which he started." "and i had the unhoped-for satisfaction of reading on the ticket, 'm. cabrion, artist in painting, departs for strasburg, and further, by the company's diligence.' the hour named was for this morning. i need not say i was in the inn yard with my wife." "and there we saw the rascal take his seat on the box beside the driver." "just as the vehicle was set in motion cabrion perceived me, turned around, and cried,'yours for ever! i go to return no more.' thank heaven! the loud blast of the guard's horn nearly drowned these familiar and insulting words, as well as any others he might have intended to utter. but i pity and forgive the wretched man,--i can afford to be generous, for i am delivered from the bane and misery of my life." "depend upon it, m. pipelet," said rigolette, endeavouring to restrain a loud fit of laughter,--"depend upon it, you will see him no more. but listen to me, and i will tell you something i am sure you are ignorant of and which it will be almost difficult for you to credit. what do you think of our m. rodolph not being what we took him for, but a prince in disguise,--a royal highness!" "go along with you!" said anastasie. "that is a joke!" "oh, but really," cried rigolette, "i am not joking; it is as true as--as--that i am married to my dear germain." "goodness gracious me!" exclaimed anastasie. "my king of lodgers a royal highness! oh, dear, here's a pretty go! and i asked him to mind the lodge for me. oh, pardon! pardon! pardon!" and then, carried away by the excess of her reverence and regret for having so undervalued a prince, though a disguised one, madame pipelet placed her cap on her head, as though she imagined herself in the presence of royalty. alfred, on the contrary, manifested his respect for royalty in a manner diametrically the reverse of the form adopted by his wife. snatching off his hat, that hat which had never before been seen to quit his head, he commenced bowing to empty space, as though standing in the presence of the august personage he apostrophised, while he exclaimed, "have i, then, been honoured by a visit from royalty? has my poor lodge been so far favoured? and to think of his illustrious eyes having seen me in my bed, when driven thither by the vile conduct of cabrion!" at this moment madame georges, turning around, cried out: "my children, the doctor comes." doctor herbin, the individual alluded to, was a man of about the middle age, with a countenance expressive of great kindness and benevolence, united to extreme skill and penetration in discovering the extent of malady with which his unfortunate patients were affected. his voice, naturally harmonious, assumed a tone of gentle suavity when he spoke to the poor lunatics; who, however bereft of reason, seemed always to listen with peculiar delight to his soft, soothing words, which frequently had the effect of subduing the invariable irritability attendant on this fearful complaint. m. herbin had been among the first to substitute, in his treatment of madness, sympathy and commiseration for the frightful remedies ordinarily employed. he abandoned the coercive system, so repugnant to every principle of humanity, for kind words, conciliating looks, and a ready attention to every request that could reasonably be granted. he banished chains, whips, drenching with cold water, and even solitary confinement, except in cases of urgent necessity. "monsieur," said madame georges, addressing the doctor, "i have ventured hither with my son and daughter, although personally unknown to m. morel; but my interest in his unfortunate state made me desirous of witnessing the experiment you are about to make to restore his reason. you have every hope of succeeding, have you not?" "i certainly reckon much, madame, on the good effects likely to be produced by the sight of his daughter and the persons he has been in the constant habit of seeing." "when my husband was arrested," said morel's wife, pointing to rigolette, "our kind young friend here was nursing me and my children." "and my father knew m. germain quite well," said louise; then directing the attention of m. herbin to alfred and anastasie, she added, "monsieur and madame here were porters at the house, and assisted our family to the utmost of their ability." "i am greatly obliged to you, my worthy friend," said the doctor, addressing alfred, "for quitting your occupation to come hither; but i see by your amiable countenance that you have cheerfully sacrificed your time to visit your poor lodger here." "sir-r!" replied pipelet, gravely bowing. "men should help each other in this sublunary world, and remember that all are brothers; added to which your unfortunate patient was the very cream and essence of an honest man, and therefore do i respect him." "if you are not afraid, madame," said doctor herbin to madame georges, "of the sight of the poor creatures here, we will cross some of the yards leading to that part of the building where i have deemed it advisable to remove morel, instead of allowing him to accompany the others to the farm as usual." "the farm!" exclaimed madame georges. "have you a farm here?" "your surprise is perfectly natural, madame. yes, we have a farm, the produce of which is most serviceable to the establishment, although entirely worked by the patients." "is it possible? can you make these lunatics work, and allow them to be at liberty while they do so?" "certainly; exercise, the calm tranquillity of the fields, with the aspect of nature, are among our most certain means of cure. only one keeper goes with them, and we have rarely had an instance of any patient endeavouring to get away; they are delighted to be employed, and the trifling reward they gain serves still to improve their condition, by enabling them to purchase different little indulgences. but we have reached the gate conducting to one of these courts." then perceiving a slight appearance of alarm on the countenance of madame georges, the doctor added, "lay aside all apprehension, madame; in a very few minutes you will feel as tranquil as i do myself." "i follow you, sir. come, my children." "anastasie," whispered pipelet, "when i think that, had the persecutions of that odious cabrion continued, your poor dear alfred might have become mad, like the unhappy wretches we are about to behold, clad in the most wild and singular state, chained up by the middle, or confined in dens like the wild beasts in the 'jardin des plantes--'" "oh, bless your dear old heart, don't talk of such a thing! la! i've heard say that them as has gone mad for love are for all the world like born devils directly they see a woman; dashing against the bars of their dens, and making all sorts of horrid noises, till the keepers are forced to flog them till they drop, or else turn great taps of water on their heads before they can quiet them." "anastasie," rejoined pipelet, gravely, "i desire you will not go too close to these dreadful creatures, an accident so soon happens." "besides," answered anastasie, with a tone of sentimental melancholy, "poor things, i have no business to show myself just for the sake of tantalising them. 'tis woman's beauty and fascination reduces them to this horrid state. i declare i feel a cold shudder creep over me as i reflect that, perhaps, if i had refused to make you a happy man, alfred, you might at this very minute be raving mad for love, and shut up in one of these dens, roaring out the moment you caught sight of a woman; while as it is, my poor old duck is glad to get out of the way of the naughty females that will be trying to make him notice them." "'tis true, my modesty is easily alarmed. but, anastasie, the door opens, i tremble with dread of what we are about to witness; no doubt the most hideous looking people, and all sorts of dreadful noises, rattling of chains, and grinding of teeth." the door being opened admitted them into a long courtyard, planted with rows of trees, under which benches were placed. on each side was a well-constructed and spacious portico, or covered stone terrace, with which a range of large, airy cells communicated. a number of men, all alike clad in a gray dress, were walking, talking, or conversing in this pleasant retreat, while others were seated on the benches, enjoying the refreshing shade and fresh open air. at the sight of doctor herbin a number of the unfortunate lunatics pressed around him, with every manifestation of joy and delight, extending to him their hands with an expression of grateful confidence, to which he cordially responded, by saying: "good day--good day, my worthy fellows! i am glad to see you all so well and happy." some of the poor lunatics, too far from the doctor to be able to seize his hand, ventured, with a sort of timid hesitation, to offer theirs to the persons who were with him. "good morning, friends," said germain, shaking hands in a manner so cordial as to fill the unfortunate beings with happiness. "are these the mad patients?" inquired madame georges. "nearly the worst belonging to the establishment," answered the doctor, smiling; "they are permitted to be together during the day, but at night they are locked up in the cells you see there." "can it be possible that these men are really mad! but when are they violent?" "generally at the first outbreak of their malady, when they are brought here. after a short time the soothing treatment they experience, with the society of their companions, calms and amuses them, so that their paroxysms become milder and less frequent, until at length, by the blessing of god, they recover their senses." "what are those individuals talking so earnestly about?" inquired madame georges. "one of them seems referring to a blind man, who, in addition to the loss of sight, seems likewise deprived of speech and reason. have you such a one among your patients, or is the existence of this person but a mere coinage of the brain?" "unhappily, madame, it is a fact but too true, and the history connected with it is a most singular one. the blind man concerning whom you inquire was found in a low haunt in the champs elysées, in which a gang of robbers and murderers of the worst description were apprehended; this wretched object was discovered, chained in the midst of an underground cave, and beside him lay stretched the dead body of a woman, so horribly mutilated that it was wholly impossible to attempt to identify it. the man himself was hideously ugly, his features being quite destroyed by the application of vitriol. he has never uttered a single word since he came hither; whether his dumbness be real or affected i know not, for, strange to say, his paroxysms always occur during the night, and when i am absent, so as to baffle all conjecture as to his real situation; but his madness seems occasioned by violent rage, the cause of which we cannot find out, for, as i before observed, he never speaks or utters an articulate sound. but here he is." the whole of the party accompanying the doctor started with horror at the sight of the schoolmaster, for he it was, who merely feigned being dumb and mad to procure his own safety. the dead body found beside him was that of the chouette, whom he had murdered, not during a paroxysm of madness, but while under the influence of such a burning fever of the brain as had produced the fearful dream he had dreamed the night he passed at the farm of bouqueval. after his apprehension in the vaults of the tavern in the champs elysées, the schoolmaster had awakened from his delirium to find himself a prisoner in one of the cells of the conciergerie, where mad persons are temporarily placed under restraint. hearing all about him speak of him as a raving and dangerous lunatic, he resolved to continue to enact the part, and even feigned absolute dumbness for the purpose of avoiding the chance of any questions being attempted to be put to him. his scheme succeeded. when removed to bicêtre he affected occasional fits of furious madness, taking care always to select the night for these outrageous bursts, the better to escape the vigilant eye of the head surgeon; the house doctor, hastily summoned, never arriving in time to witness either the beginning or ending of these attacks. the few of his accomplices who knew either his name, or the fact of his having escaped from the galleys at rochefort, were ignorant of what had become of him; and even if they did, what interest could they have in denouncing him? neither would it have been possible to establish his identity--burnt and mutilated as he was--with the daring felon of rochefort. he hoped, therefore, by continuing to act the part of a madman, to be permitted to abide permanently at bicêtre; such was now the only desire of the wretch, unable longer to indulge his appetite for sinful and violent deeds. during the solitude in which he lived in bras rouge's cellar, remorse gradually insinuated itself into his strong heart; and, cut off from all communication with the outer world, his thoughts fled inwards, and presented him with ghastly images of those he had destroyed, till his brain burned with its own excited torture. and thus this miserable creature, still in the full vigour and strength of manhood, before whom were, doubtless, long years of life, and enjoying the undisturbed possession of his reason, was condemned to linger out the remainder of his days as a self-imposed mute, and in the company of fools and madmen; or if his imposition was discovered, his murderous deeds would conduct him to a scaffold, or condemn him to perpetual banishment among a set of villains, for whom his newly awakened penitence made him feel the utmost horror. the schoolmaster was sitting on a bench; a mass of grizzled, tangled locks hung around his huge and hideous head; leaning his elbow on his knee, he supported his cheek in his hand. spite of his sightless eyes and mutilated features, the revolting countenance still expressed the most bitter and overwhelming despair. "dear mother," observed germain, "what a wretched looking object is this unfortunate blind man!" [illustration: "the schoolmaster was sitting on a bench" original etching by porteau] "oh, yes, my son!" answered madame georges; "it makes one's heart ache to behold a fellow creature so heavily afflicted. i know not when anything has so completely shocked me as the sight of this deplorable being." scarcely had madame georges given utterance to these words than the schoolmaster started, and his countenance, even despite its cicatrised and disfigured state, became of an ashy paleness. he rose and turned his head in the direction of madame georges so suddenly that she could not refrain from faintly screaming, though wholly unsuspicious of who the frightful creature really was; but the schoolmaster's ear had readily detected the voice of his wife, and her words told him she was addressing her son. "mother!" inquired germain, "what ails you? are you ill?" "nothing, my son; but the sudden movement made by that man terrified me. indeed, sir," continued she, addressing the doctor, "i begin to feel sorry i allowed my curiosity to bring me hither." "nay, dear mother, just for once to see such a place cannot hurt you!" "i tell you what, germain," interposed rigolette, "i don't feel very comfortable myself; and i promise you neither your mother nor i will desire to come here again--it is too affecting!" "nonsense! you are a little coward! is she not, m. le docteur?" "why, really," answered m. herbin, "i must confess that the sight of this blind lunatic affects even me, who am accustomed to such things." "what a scarecrow, old ducky! isn't he?" whispered anastasie; "but, la! to my eyes every man looks as hideous as this dreadful blind creature in comparison with you, and that is why no one can ever boast of my having granted him the least liberty,--don't you see, alfred?" "i tell you what, anastasie," replied pipelet, "i shall dream of this frightful figure. i know he will give me an attack of nightmare. i won't eat tripe for supper till i have quite forgot him." "and how do you find yourself now, friend?" asked the doctor of the schoolmaster; but he asked in vain, no attempt was made to reply. "come, come!" continued the doctor, tapping him lightly on the shoulder, "i am sure you hear what i say; try to make me a sign at least, or speak,--something tells me you can if you will!" but the only answer made to this address was by the schoolmaster suddenly drooping his head, while from the sightless eyes rolled a tear. "he weeps!" exclaimed the doctor. "poor creature!" murmured germain, in a compassionate tone. the schoolmaster shuddered; again he heard the voice of his son, breathing forth commiseration for his wretched, though unknown parent. "what is the matter?" inquired the doctor; "what is it grieves you?" but, without taking any notice of him, the schoolmaster hid his face with his hands. "we shall make nothing of him," said the doctor. then, perceiving how painfully this scene appeared to affect madame georges, he added, "now, then, madame, we will go to morel, and, if my expectations are fulfilled, you will be amply rewarded for the pain you have felt hitherto, in witnessing the joy of so good a husband and father in being restored to his family." with these words the doctor, followed by the party that had accompanied him, proceeded on his way, leaving the schoolmaster a prey to his own distracting thoughts, the most bitter of which was the certainty of having heard his son's voice, and that of his wife, for the last time. aware of the just horror with which he inspired them, the misery, shame, and affright with which they would have heard the disclosure of his name made him prefer a thousand deaths to such a revelation. one only, but great, consolation remained in the certainty of having awakened the pity of his son; and, with this thought to comfort him, the miserable being determined to endure his sufferings with repentance and submission. "we are now about to pass by the yard appropriated to the use of the idiot patients," said the doctor, stopping before a large grated door, through which the poor idiotic beings might be seen huddled together, with every appearance of the most distressing imbecility. spite of madame georges's recent agitation, she could not refrain from casting a glance through the railing. "poor creatures!" said she, in a gentle, pitying voice; "how dreadful to think their sufferings are hopeless! for i presume there is no remedy for such an affliction as theirs?" "alas, none, madame!" replied the doctor. "but i must not allow you to dwell too long on this mournful picture of human misery. we have now arrived at the place where i expect to find morel, whom i desired should be left entirely alone, in order to produce a more startling effect in the little project on which i build my hopes for his restoration to reason." "what idea principally occupies his mind?" asked madame georges. "he believes that if he cannot earn thirteen hundred francs by his day's work, in order to pay off a debt contracted with one ferrand, a notary, his daughter will perish on a scaffold." "that man ferrand was, indeed, a monster!" exclaimed madame georges; "poor louise morel and her father were not the only victims to his villainy, he has persecuted my son with the bitterest animosity." "i have heard the whole story from louise," replied the doctor. "happily the wretch can no more wring your hearts with agony. but be so good as to await me here while i go to ascertain the state of morel." then, addressing louise, he added, "you must carefully watch for my calling out 'come!' appear instantly; but let it be alone. when i call out 'come!' for the second time, the rest of the party may make their appearance." "alas, sir, my heart begins to fail me!" replied louise, endeavouring to suppress her tears. "my poor father! what if the present trial fail!" "nay, nay, keep up your courage! i am most sanguine of success in the scheme i have long meditated for the restoration of your father's reason. now, then, all you have to do for the present is carefully to attend to my directions." so saying, the doctor, quitting his party, entered a small chamber, whose grated window looked into the garden. thanks to rest, care, sufficiency of nourishing diet, morel was no longer the pale, careworn, haggard creature that had entered those walls; the tinge of health began to colour his before jaundiced cheek, but a melancholy smile, a fixed, motionless gaze, as though on some object for ever present to his mental view, proved too plainly that reason had not entirely resumed her empire over him. when the doctor entered, morel was sitting at a table, imitating the movements of a lapidary at his wheel. "i must work," murmured he, "and hard, too. thirteen hundred francs! ay, thirteen hundred is the sum required, or poor louise will be dragged to a scaffold! that must not be! no, no, her father will work--work--work! thirteen hundred francs! right!" "morel, my good fellow," said the doctor, gently advancing towards him, "don't work so very hard; there is no occasion now, you know that you have earned the thirteen hundred francs you required to free louise. see, here they are!" and with these words the doctor laid a handful of gold on the table. "saved! louise saved!" exclaimed the lapidary, catching up the money, and hurrying towards the door; "then i will carry it at once to the notary." "come!" called out the doctor, in considerable trepidation, for well he knew the success of his experiment depended on the manner in which the mind of the lapidary received its first shock. scarcely had the doctor pronounced the signal than louise sprang forwards, and presented herself at the door just as her father reached it. bewildered and amazed, morel let fall the gold he clutched in his hands, and retreated in visible surprise. for some minutes he continued gazing on his daughter with a stupefied and vacant stare, but by degrees his memory seemed to awaken, and, cautiously approaching her, he examined her features with a timid and restless curiosity. poor louise, trembling with emotion, could scarcely restrain her tears; but a sign from the doctor made her exert herself to repress any manifestation of feeling calculated to disturb the progress of her parent's thoughts. meanwhile morel, bending over his daughter, and peering, with uneasy scrutiny, into her countenance, became very pale, pressed his hands to his brows, and then wiped away the large damp drops that had gathered there. drawing closer and closer to the agitated girl, he strove to speak to her, but the words expired on his lips. his paleness increased, and he gazed around him with the bewildered air of a person awakening from a troubled dream. "good, good!" whispered the doctor to louise; "now, when i say 'come,' throw yourself into his arms and call him 'father!'" the lapidary, pressing his two hands on his breast, again commenced examining the individual before him from head to foot, as if determined to satisfy his mind as to her identity. his features expressed a painful uncertainty, and, instead of continuing to watch the features of his daughter, he seemed as if trying to hide himself from her sight, saying, in a low, murmuring, broken tone: "no, no! it is a dream! where am i? it is impossible! i dream,--it cannot be she!" then, observing the gold strewed on the floor, he cried, "and this gold! i do not remember,--am i then awake? oh, my head is dizzy! i dare not look,--i am ashamed! she is not my louise!" "come!" cried the doctor, in a loud voice. "father! dearest father!" exclaimed louise. "do you not know your child,--your poor louise?" and as she said these words she threw herself on the lapidary's neck, while the doctor motioned for the rest of the group to advance. "gracious heavens!" exclaimed morel, while louise loaded him with caresses. "where am i? what has happened to me? who are all these persons? oh, i cannot--dare not believe the reality of what i see!" then, after a short silence, he abruptly took the head of louise between his two hands, gazed earnestly and searchingly at her for some moments, then cried, in a voice tremulous with emotion, "louise?" "he is saved!" said the doctor. "my dear morel,--my dear husband!" exclaimed the lapidary's wife, mingling her caresses with those of her daughter. "my wife! my child and wife both here!" cried morel. "pray don't overlook the rest of your friends, m. morel," said rigolette, advancing; "see, we have all come to visit you at once!" "i for one am delighted to renew my acquaintance with the worthy m. morel," said germain, coming forward and extending his hand. "and your old acquaintances at the lodge beg that they may not be overlooked," chimed in anastasie, leading alfred up to the astonished and delighted lapidary. "you know us, don't you, m. morel,--the pipelets--the hearty old pipelets, and your everlasting friends? come, pluck up courage, and look about you, m. morel! hang it all, daddy morel, here's a happy meeting! may we see many such! _ail-l-l-l-ez donc!_" "m. pipelet and his wife! everybody here! it seems to me so long since--but--but no matter--'tis you, louise, my child--'tis you, is it not?" exclaimed he, joyfully pressing his daughter in his arms. "oh, yes, my dearest father, 'tis your own poor louise! and there is my mother; here are all our kind friends. you will never quit us more, never know sorrow or care again, and henceforward we shall all be happy and prosperous!" "happy? let me try and recollect a little of past things. i seem to have a faint recollection of your being taken to prison--and--and then, louise, all seems a blank and confusion here," continued morel, pressing his hand to his temples. "never mind all that, dearest father! i am here and innocent,--let that comfort and console you." "stay, stay! that note of hand i gave! ah, now i remember it all!" cried the lapidary, with shuddering horror. then, in a voice of assumed calmness, he said, "and what has become of the notary?" "he is dead, dearest father," murmured louise. "dead? he dead? then indeed i may hope for happiness! but where am i? how came i here? how long have i left my home, and wherefore was i brought hither? i have no recollection of any of these things!" "you were extremely ill," said the doctor, "and you were brought here for air and good nursing. you have had a severe fever, and been at times a little lightheaded." "yes, yes, i recollect now; and when i was taken ill i remember i was talking with my daughter, and some other person,--who could it be? ah, now i know!--a kind, good man, named m. rodolph, who saved me from being arrested. afterwards, strange to say, i cannot recall a single circumstance." "your illness was attended with an entire absence of memory," said the doctor. "and in whose house am i now?" "in that of your friend, m. rodolph," interposed germain, hastily; "it was thought that country air would be serviceable to you, and promote your recovery." "excellent!" said the doctor, in a low tone; then speaking to a keeper who stood near him, he said, "send the coach around to the garden-gate to prevent the necessity of taking our recovered patient through the different courts, filled with those less fortunate than himself." as frequently occurs in cases of madness, morel had not the least idea or recollection of the aberration of intellect under which he had suffered. shortly afterwards, morel, with his wife and daughter, ascended the _fiacre_, attended also by a surgeon of the establishment, who, for precaution's sake, was charged to see him comfortably settled in his abode ere he left him; and in this order, and followed by a second carriage, conveying their friends, the lapidary quitted bicêtre without entertaining the most remote suspicion of ever having entered it. "and do you consider this poor man effectually cured?" asked madame georges of the doctor, as he led her to the coach. "i hope so, at least; and i wished to leave him wholly to the beneficial effects of rejoining his family, from whom it would now be almost dangerous to attempt to separate him; added to which, one of my pupils will remain with him and give the necessary directions for his regimen and treatment. i shall visit him myself daily, until his cure is confirmed, for not only do i feel much interested in him, but he was most particularly recommended to me when he first came here by the _chargé d'affaires_ of the grand duke of gerolstein." a look of intelligence was exchanged between germain and his mother. much affected with all they had seen and heard, the party now took leave of the doctor, reiterating their gratification at having been present during so gratifying a scene, and their grateful acknowledgments for the politeness he had shown them in conducting them over the establishment. as the doctor was reëntering the house, he was met by one of the superior officers of the place, who said to him,-- "ah, my dear m. herbin, you cannot imagine the scene i have just witnessed; it would have afforded an inexhaustible fund of reflection for so skilful an observer as yourself." "to what do you allude?" "you are aware that we have here two females, a mother and a daughter, who are condemned to death, and that their execution is fixed for to-morrow. well, in my life, i never witnessed such a cool indifference as that displayed by the mother; she must be a female fiend!" "you allude to the widow martial, i presume; what fresh act of daring has she committed?" "you shall hear. she had requested permission to share her daughter's cell until the final moment arrived; her wish was complied with. her daughter, far less hardened than her parent, appeared to feel contrition as the hour of execution approached, while the diabolical assurance of the old woman seemed, if possible, to augment. just now the venerable chaplain of the prison entered their dungeon to offer to them the consolations of religion. the daughter was about to accept them, when the mother, without for one instant losing her coolness or frigid self-possession, began to assail the chaplain with such insulting and derisive language that the venerable priest was compelled to quit the cell, after trying in vain to induce the violent and unmanageable woman to listen to one word he said. "it is a fearful fact connected with this family that a sort of depravity seems to pervade it. the father was executed, a son is now in the galleys, a second has only escaped a public and disgraceful end by flight; while the eldest son and two young children have alone been able to resist this atmosphere of moral contagion. "what a singular circumstance connected with this double execution it is that the day of mid-lent should have been selected. at seven o'clock to-morrow, the hour fixed, the streets will be filled with groups of masqueraders, who, having passed the night at the different balls and places of entertainment beyond the barriers, will be just returning home; added to which, at the place of execution, the barrière st. jacques, the noise of the revels still being kept up in honour of the carnival can be distinctly heard." * * * * * the following morning's sun rose bright and cloudless. at four o'clock in the morning various troops of soldiers surrounded the approaches to bicêtre. we shall now return to calabash and her mother in their dungeon. chapter ix. the toilet. the condemned cell of bicêtre was situated at the end of a gloomy passage, into which a trifling portion of light and air was admitted by means of small gratings let into the lower part of the wall. the cell itself would have been wholly dark but for a kind of wicket, let into the upper part of the door, which opened into the corridor before mentioned. in this wretched dungeon, whose crumbling ceiling, damp, mouldy walls, and stone-paved floor struck a death-chill like that of the grave, were confined the widow martial, and her daughter calabash. the harsh, angular features of the widow stood out amidst the imperfect light of the place, cold, pale, and immovable as those of a marble statue. deprived of the use of her hands, which were fastened beneath her black dress by the strait-waistcoat of the prison, formed of coarse gray cloth and tightly secured behind her, she requested her cap might be taken off, complaining of an oppression and burning sensation in her head; this done, a mass of long, grizzled hair fell over her shoulders. seated at the side of her bed, she gazed earnestly and fixedly at her daughter, who was separated from her by the width of the dungeon, and, wearing like her mother the customary strait-waistcoat, was partly reclining and partly supporting herself against the wall, her head bent forward on her breast, her eye dull and motionless, and her breathing quick and irregular. from time to time a convulsive tremor rattled her lower jaw, while her features, spite of their livid hue, remained comparatively calm and tranquil. within the cell, and immediately beneath the wicket of the entrance door, was seated an old, gray-headed soldier, whose rough, sunburnt features betokened his having felt the scorch of many climes, and borne his part in numerous campaigns. his duty was to keep constant watch over the condemned prisoners. "how piercing cold it is here!" exclaimed calabash; "yet my eyes burn in my head, and i have a burning, quenchless thirst!" then addressing the bald-headed veteran, she said, "water! pray give me a drink of water!" the old soldier filled a cup of water from a pitcher placed near him, and held it to her lips. eagerly swallowing the draught, she bowed her head in token of thankfulness, and the soldier proceeded to offer the same beverage to the mother. "would you not like to moisten your lips?" asked he, kindly. with a rough, repulsive gesture, she intimated her disinclination, and the old man sat down again. "what's o'clock?" inquired calabash. "nearly half past four," replied the soldier. "only three hours!" replied calabash, with a sinister and gloomy smile. "three hours more! and then--" she could proceed no further. the widow shrugged up her shoulders. her daughter divined her meaning, and said, "ah, mother, you have so much more courage than i have,--you never give way, you don't." "never!" "i see it, and i know you too well to expect it. you look at this moment as calm and collected as if we were sitting sewing by our own fireside. ah! those happy days are gone,--gone forever!" "folly! why prate thus?" "nay, mother, i cannot bear to rest shut up with my own wretched thoughts! it relieves my heart to talk of bygone times, when i little expected to come to this." "mean, cowardly creature!" "i know i am a coward, mother. i am afraid to die! every one cannot boast of your resolution. i do not possess it. i have tried as much as i could to imitate you. i refused to listen to the priest because you did not like it. still i may have been wrong in sending the holy man away; for," added the wretched creature, with a shudder, "who can tell what is after death? mother, do you hear me? after, i say! and it only wants--" "exactly three hours, and you will know all about it!" "how can you speak so indifferently on such a dreadful subject? yet true enough; in three short hours, we who now sit talking to each other, who, if at liberty, should ail nothing, but be ready to enjoy life, must die. oh, mother, can you not say one word to comfort me?" "be bold, girl, and die as you have lived, a true martial!" "you should not talk thus to your daughter," interposed the old soldier, with a serious air; "you would have acted more like a parent had you allowed her to listen to the priest when he came." again the widow contemptuously shrugged her shoulders, and, without deigning to notice the soldier further than by bestowing on him a look of withering contempt, she repeated to calabash: "pluck up your courage, my girl, and let the world see that women have more courage than men, with their priests and cowardly nonsense!" "general leblond was one of the bravest officers of the regiment he belonged to. well, this dauntless man fell at the siege of saragossa, covered with wounds, and his last expiring act was to sign himself with the cross," said the veteran. "i served under him. i only tell you this to prove that to die with a prayer on our lips is no sign of cowardice!" calabash eyed the bronzed features of the speaker with deep attention. the scarred and weather-beaten countenance of the old man told of a life passed in scenes of danger and of death, encountered with calm bravery. to hear those wrinkled lips urging the necessity of prayer, and associating religion with the memory of the good and valiant, made the miserable, vacillating culprit think that, after all, there could be no cowardice in recommending one's soul to the god who gave it, and breathing a repentant supplication for the past. "alas, alas!" cried she. "why did i not attend to what the priest had to say to me? it could not have done me any harm, and it might have given me courage to face that dreadful afterwards, that makes death so terrible." "what! again?" exclaimed the widow, with bitter contempt. "'tis a pity time does not permit of your becoming a nun! the arrival of your brother martial will complete your conversion; but that honest man and excellent son will think it sinful to come and receive the last wishes of his dying mother!" as the widow uttered these last words, the huge lock of the prison was heard to turn with a loud sound, and then the door to open. "so soon!" shrieked calabash, with a convulsive bound. "surely the time here is wrong,--it cannot be the hour we were told! oh, mother! mother! must we die at least two hours before we expected?" "so much the better if the executioner's watch deceives me! it will put an end to your whining folly, which disgraces the name you bear!" "madame," said an officer of the prison, gently opening the door, "your son is here,--will you see him?" "yes," replied the widow, without turning her head. martial entered the cell, the door of which was left open that those without in the corridor might be within hearing, if summoned by the old soldier, who still remained with the prisoners. through the gloom of the corridor, lighted only by the faint beams of the early morning, and the dubious twinkling of a single lamp, several soldiers and gaolers might be seen, the former standing in due military order, the later sitting on benches. martial looked as pale and ghastly as his mother, while his features betrayed the mental agony he suffered at witnessing so afflicting a sight. still, spite of all it cost him, as well as the recollection of his mother's crimes and openly expressed aversion for himself, he had felt it imperatively his duty to come and receive her last commands. no sooner was he in the dungeon than the widow, fixing on him a sharp, penetrating look, said, in a tone of concentrated wrath and bitterness, with a view to rouse all the evil passions of her son's mind: "well, you see what the good people are going to do with your mother and sister!" "ah, mother, how dreadful! alas, alas! have i not warned you that such would be the end--" interrupting him, while her lips became blanched with rage, the widow exclaimed: "enough! 'tis sufficient that your mother and sister are about to be murdered, as your father was!" "merciful god!" cried martial. "and to think that i have no power to prevent it! 'tis past all human interference. what would you have me do? alas! had you or my sister attended to what i said, you would not now have been here." "oh, no doubt!" returned the widow, with her usual tone of savage irony. "to you the spectacle of mine and your sister's sufferings is a matter of delight to your proud heart; you can now tell the world without a lie that your mother is dead,--you will have to blush for her no more!" "had i been wanting in my duty as a son," answered martial, indignant at the unjust sarcasms of his mother, "i should not now be here." "you came but from curiosity! own the truth if you dare!" "no, mother! you desired to see me, and i obeyed your wish." "ah, martial," cried calabash, unable longer to struggle against the agonising terror she endured, "had i but listened to your advice, instead of being led by my mother, i should not be here!" then losing all further control of herself, she exclaimed, "'tis all your fault, accursed mother! your bad example and evil counsel have brought me to what i am!" "do you hear her?" said the widow, bursting into a fiendish laugh. "come, this will repay you for the trouble of paying us a last visit! your excellent sister has turned pious, repents of her own sins, and curses her mother!" without making any reply to this unnatural speech, martial approached calabash, whose dying agonies seemed to have commenced, and, regarding her with deep compassion, said: "my poor sister! alas, it is now too late to recall the past!" "it is never too late to turn coward, it seems!" cried the widow, with savage excitement. "oh, what a race you are! happily nicholas has escaped; françois and amandine will slip through your fingers; they have already imbibed vice enough, and want and misery will finish them!" "oh, martial," groaned forth calabash, "for the love of god, take care of those two poor children, lest they come to such an end as mother's and mine!" "he may watch over them as much as he likes," cried the widow, with settled hatred in her looks, "vice and destitution will have greater effect than his words, and some of these days they will avenge their father, mother, and sister!" "your horrible expectations, mother, will never be fulfilled," replied the indignant martial; "neither my young brother, sister, nor self have anything to fear from want. la louve saved the life of the young girl nicholas tried to drown, and the relations of the young person offered us either a large sum of money or a smaller sum and some land at algiers; we preferred the latter, and to-morrow we quit europe, with the children, for ever." "is that absolutely true?" asked the widow of martial, in a tone of angry surprise. "mother, when did i ever tell you a falsehood?" "you are doing so now to try and put me into a passion!" "what, displeased to learn that your children are provided for?" "yes, to find that my young wolves are to be turned into lambs, and to hear that the blood of father, mother, and sister have no prospect of being avenged!" "do not talk so--at a moment like this!" "i have murdered, and am murdered in my turn,--the account is even, at any rate." "mother, mother, let me beseech you to repent ere you die!" again a peal of fiendish laughter burst from the pallid lips of the condemned woman. "for thirty years," cried she, "have i lived in crime; would you have me believe that thirty years' guilt is to be repented of in three days, with the mind disturbed and distracted by the near approach of death? no, no, three days cannot effect such wonders; and i tell you, when my head falls its last expression will be rage and hatred!" "brother, brother," ejaculated calabash, whose brain began to wander, "help, help! take me from hence," moaned she in an expiring voice; "they are coming to fetch me--to kill me! oh, hide me, dear brother, hide me, and i will love you ever more!" "will you hold your tongue?" cried the widow, exasperated at the weakness betrayed by her daughter. "will you be silent? oh, you base, you disgraceful creature! and to think that i should be obliged to call myself your parent!" "mother," exclaimed martial, nearly distracted by this horrid scene, "will you tell me why you sent for me?" "because i thought to give you heart and hatred; but he who has not the one cannot entertain the other. go, coward, go!" at this moment a loud sound of many footsteps was heard in the corridor; the old soldier looked at his watch. a rich ray of the golden brightness, which marked the rising of that day's sun, found its way through the loopholes in the walls, and shed a flood of light into the very midst of the wretched cell, rendered now completely illumined by means of the opening of the door at the opposite end of the passage to that in which the condemned cell was situated. in the midst of this blaze of day appeared two gaolers, each bearing a chair; an officer also made his appearance, saying to the widow in a voice of sympathy: "madame, the hour has arrived." the mother arose on the instant, erect and immovable, while calabash uttered the most piercing cries. then four more persons entered the cell; four of the number, who were very shabbily dressed, bore in their hands packets of fine but very strong cord. the taller man of the party was dressed in black, with a large cravat; he handed a paper to the officer. this individual was the executioner, and the paper a receipt signifying his having received two females for the purpose of guillotining them. the man then took sole charge of these unhappy creatures, and, from that moment, was responsible for them. to the wild terror and despair which had first seized calabash, now succeeded a kind of stupefaction; and so nearly insensible was she that the assistant executioners were compelled to seat her on her bed, and to support her when there; her firmly closed jaws scarcely enabled her to utter a sound, but her hollow eyes rolled vacantly in their sockets, her chin fell listlessly on her breast, and, but for the support of the two men, she would have fallen forwards a lifeless, senseless mass. after having bestowed a last embrace on his wretched sister, martial stood petrified with terror, unable to speak or move, and as though perfectly spellbound by the horrible scene before him. the cool audacity of the widow did not for an instant forsake her; with head erect, and firm, collected manner, she assisted in taking off the strait-waistcoat she had worn, and which had hitherto fettered her movements; this removed, she appeared in an old black stuff dress. "where shall i place myself?" asked she, in a clear, steady voice. "be good enough to sit down upon one of those chairs," said the executioner, pointing to the seats arranged at the entrance of the dungeon. with unfaltering step, the widow prepared to follow the directions given her, but as she passed her daughter she said, in a voice that betokened some little emotion: "kiss me, my child!" but as the sound of her mother's voice reached her ear, calabash seemed suddenly to wake up from her lethargy, she raised her head, and, with a wild and almost frenzied cry, exclaimed: "away! leave me! and if there be a hell, may it receive you!" "my child," repeated the widow, "let us embrace for the last time!" "do not approach me!" cried the distracted girl, violently repulsing her mother; "you have been my ruin in this world and the next!" "then forgive me, ere i die!" "never, never!" exclaimed calabash; and then, totally exhausted by the effort she had made, she sank back in the arms of the assistants. a cloud passed over the hitherto stern features of the widow, and a moisture was momentarily visible on her glowing eyeballs. at this instant she encountered the pitying looks of her son. after a trifling hesitation, during which she seemed to be undergoing some powerful internal conflict, she said: "and you?" sobbing violently, martial threw himself into his mother's arms. "enough!" said the widow, conquering her emotion, and withdrawing herself from the close embrace of her son; "i am keeping this gentleman waiting," pointing to the executioner; then, hurrying towards a chair, she resolutely seated herself, and the gleam of maternal sensibility she had exhibited was for ever extinguished. "do not stay here," said the old soldier, approaching martial with an air of kindness. "come this way," continued he, leading him, while martial, stupefied by horror, followed him mechanically. the almost expiring calabash having been supported to a chair by the two assistants, one sustained her all but inanimate form, while the other tied her hands behind with fine but excessively strong whipcord, knotted into the most inextricable meshes, while with a cord of the same description he secured her feet, allowing her just so much liberty as would enable her to proceed slowly to her last destination. the widow having borne a similar pinioning with the most imperturbable composure, the executioner, drawing from his pocket a pair of huge scissors, said to her with considerable civility: "be good enough to stoop your head, madame." yielding immediate obedience to the request, the widow said: "we have been good customers to you; you have had my husband in your hands, and now you have his wife and daughter!" without making any reply, the executioner began to cut the long gray hairs of the prisoner very close, especially at the nape of the neck. "this makes the third time in my life," continued the widow, with a dismal smile, "that i have had my head dressed by a professor: when i took my first communion the white veil was arranged; then on my marriage, when the orange-flowers were placed there; and upon the present occasion; upon my word, i hardly know which became me most. you cannot guess what i am thinking of?" resumed the widow, addressing the executioner, after having again contemplated her daughter. but the man made her no sort of answer, and no sound was heard but that of the scissors, and the sort of convulsive and hysterical sob that occasionally escaped from calabash. at this moment a venerable priest approached the governor, and addressed him in a low, earnest voice, the import of which was to express his desire to make another effort to rescue the souls of the condemned. "i was thinking that at five years old my daughter, whose head you are going to cut off, was the prettiest child i ever saw, with her fair hair and red cheeks. who that saw her then would have said that--" she was silent for a moment, and then said, with a burst of indescribable laughter, "what a farce is destiny!" at this moment the last of her hair was cut off. "i have done, madame," said the executioner, politely. "many thanks; and i recommend my son nicholas to you," said the widow; "you will cut off his hair some day." a turnkey came in and said a few words to her in a low tone. "no,--i have already said no!" she answered, angrily. the priest hearing these words, and seeing any further interference useless, immediately withdrew. "madame, we are all ready to go. will you take anything?" inquired the executioner, civilly. "no, i thank you; this evening i shall take a mouthful of earth." and after this remark the widow rose firmly. her hands were tied behind her back, and a rope was also attached to each ankle, allowing her sufficient liberty to walk. although her step was firm and resolute, the executioner and his assistant offered to support her; but she turned to them disdainfully, and said, "do not touch me, i have a steady eye and a firm foot, and they will hear on the scaffold whether or not i have a good voice." calabash was carried away in a dying state. after having traversed the long corridor, the funereal cortège ascended a stone staircase, which led to an exterior court, where was a picquet of _gens-d'armes_, a hackney-coach, and a long, narrow carriage with a yellow body, drawn by three post-horses, who were neighing loudly. "we shall not be full inside," said the widow, as she took her seat. the two vehicles, preceded and followed by the picquet of _gens-d'armes_, then quitted the outer gate of bicêtre, and went quickly towards the boulevard st. jacques. chapter x. martial and the chourineur. before we proceed we have a few words to say as to the acquaintance recently established between the chourineur and martial. when germain had left the prison, the chourineur proved very easily that he had robbed himself; and making a statement of his motive for this singular mystification to the magistrate, he was set at liberty, after having been severely admonished. desirous of recompensing the chourineur for this fresh act of devotion, rodolph, in order to realise the wishes of his rough protégé, had lodged him in the hôtel of the rue plumet, promising that he should accompany him on his return to germany. the chourineur's blind attachment to rodolph was like that of a dog for his master. when, however, the prince had found his daughter, all was changed, and, in spite of his warm gratitude for the man who had saved his life, he could not make up his mind to take with him to germany the witness of fleur-de-marie's fallen state; yet, determined to carry out the chourineur's wishes, he sent for him, and told him that he had still another service to ask of him. at this the chourineur's countenance brightened up; but he was greatly distressed when he learned that he must quit the hôtel that very day, and would not accompany the prince to germany. it is useless to mention the munificent compensations which rodolph offered to the chourineur,--the money he intended for him, the farm in algeria, anything he could desire. the chourineur was wounded to the heart, refused, and (perhaps for the first time in his life) wept. rodolph was compelled to force his presents on him. next day the prince sent for la louve and martial, and inquired what he could do for them. remembering what fleur-de-marie had told him of the wild taste of la louve and her husband, he proposed to the hardy couple either a considerable sum of money, or half the sum and land in full cultivation adjoining the farm he had bought for the chourineur, believing that by bringing them together they would sympathise, from their desire to seek solitude, the one in consequence of the past, and the other from the crimes of his family. he was not mistaken. martial and la louve accepted joyfully; and then, talking the matter over with the chourineur, they all three rejoiced in the prospects held out to them in algeria. a sincere good feeling soon united the future colonists. persons of their class judge quickly of each other, and like one another as speedily. the chourineur accompanied his new friend martial to the bicêtre and awaited him in the hackney-coach, which conducted them back to paris after martial, horror-struck, had left the dungeon of his mother and sister. the countenance of the chourineur had completely changed; the bold expression and jovial humour which usually characterised his harsh features had given way to extreme dejection; his voice had lost something of its coarseness; a grief of heart, until then unknown to him, had broken down his energetic temperament. he looked kindly at martial, and said: "courage! you have done all that good intentions could do; it is ended. think now of your wife, and the children whom you have prevented from becoming criminals like their father and mother. to-night we leave paris never to return to it, and you will never again hear of what so much distresses you now." "true--true! but, after all, they are my sister and mother!" "yes; but when things must be, we must submit!" said the chourineur, checking a deep sigh. after a moment's silence, martial said, kindly, "and i ought, in my turn, to try and console you who are so sad. my wife and i hope that when we have left paris this will cease." "yes," said the chourineur, with a shudder, "if i leave paris!" "why, we go this evening!" "yes,--you do; you go this evening!" "and have you changed your intention, then?" "no! yet, martial, you'll laugh at me; but yet i will tell you all. if anything happens to me it will prove that i am not deceived. when m. rodolph asked if we would go to algeria together, i told you my mind at once, and also what i had been." "yes, you did; let us mention it no more. you underwent your punishment, and are now as good as any one. but, like myself, i can imagine you would like to go and live a long way off, instead of living here, where, however honest we may be, they might at times fling in your teeth a misdeed you have atoned for and repented, and, in mine, my parents' crimes, for which i am by no means responsible. the past is the past between us, and we shall never reproach each other." "with you and me, martial, the past is the past; but, you see, martial, there is something above,--i have killed a man!" "a great misfortune, assuredly; but, at the moment, you were out of your senses,--mad. and besides, you have since saved the lives of other persons, and that will count in your favour." "i'll tell you why i refer to my misdeed. i used to have a dream, in which i saw the sergeant i killed. i have not had it for a long time until last night, and that foretells some misfortune for to-day. i have a foreboding that i shall not quit paris." "oh, you regret at leaving our benefactor! the thought of coming with me to the bicêtre agitated you; and so your dream recurred to you." the chourineur shook his head sorrowfully and said, "it has come to me just as m. rodolph is going to start,--for he goes to-day. yesterday i sent a messenger to his hôtel, not daring to go myself. they sent me word that he went this morning at eleven o'clock by the barrier of charenton, and i mean to go and station myself there to try and see him once more,--for the last time!" "he seems so good that i easily understand your love for him." "love for him!" said the chourineur, with deep and concentrated emotion. "yes, yes, martial,--to lie on the earth, eat black bread, be his dog, to be where he was, i asked no more. but that was too much,--he would not consent." "he has been very generous towards you!" "yet it is not for that i love him, but because he told me i had heart and honour. yes, and that at a time when i was as fierce as a brute beast. and he made me understand what was good in me, and that i had repented, and, after suffering great misery, had worked hard for an honest livelihood, although all the world considered me as a thorough ruffian,--and so, when m. rodolph said these words to me, my heart beat high and proudly, and from this time i would go through fire and water to serve him." "why, it is because you are better than you were that you ought not to have any of those forebodings. your dream is nothing." "we shall see. i shall not try and get into any mischief, for i cannot have any worse misfortune than not to see again m. rodolph, whom i hoped never again to leave. i should have been in my way, you see, always with him, body and soul,--always ready. never mind, perhaps he was wrong,--i am only a worm at his feet; but sometimes, martial, the smallest may be useful to the greatest." "one day, perhaps, you may see him." "oh, no; he said to me, 'my good fellow, you must promise never to seek nor see me,--that will be doing me a service.' so, of course, martial, i promised; and i'll keep my word, though it is very hard." "once at algeria, you will forget all your vexations." "yes, yes; i'm an old trooper, martial, and will face the bedouins." "come, come, you'll soon recover your spirits. we'll farm and hunt together, and live together, or separate, just as you like. we'll bring up the children like honest people, and you shall be their uncle,--for we are brothers, and my wife is good at heart; and so we'll be happy, eh?" and martial extended his hand to the chourineur. "so we will, martial," was the reply; "and my sorrow will kill me, or i shall kill my sorrow." "it will not kill you. we shall pass our days together; and every evening we will say, 'brother, thanks to m. rodolph,'--that shall be our prayer to, him." "martial, you comfort me." "well, then, that is all right; and as to that stupid-dream, you will think no more of it, i hope?" "i'll try." "well, then, you'll come to us at four o'clock; the diligence goes at five." "agreed. but i will get out here and walk to the barrier at charenton, where i will await m. rodolph, that i may see him pass." the coach stopped, and the chourineur alighted. chapter xi. the finger of providence. the chourineur had forgotten that it was the day after mid-lent, and was consequently greatly surprised at the sight, at once hideous and singular, which presented itself to his view when he arrived at the exterior boulevard, which he was traversing to reach the barrier of charenton. he found himself suddenly in the thickest of a dense throng of people, who were coming out of the cabarets of the faubourg de la glacière, in order to reach the boulevard st. jacques, where the execution was to take place. although it was broad daylight, there was still heard the noisy music of the public-houses, whence issued particularly the loud echoes of the cornets-à-piston. the pencil of callot, of rembrandt, or of goya is requisite to limn the strange, hideous, and fantastical appearance of this multitude. almost all of them, men, women, and children, were attired in old masquerade costumes. those who could not afford this expense had on their clothes rags of bright colours. some young men were dressed in women's clothes, half torn and soiled with mud. all their countenances, haggard from debauchery and vice, and furrowed by intoxication, sparkled with savage delight at the idea that, after a night of filthy orgies, they should see two women executed on the scaffold prepared for them. the foul and fetid scum of the population of paris,--this vast mob--was formed of thieves and abandoned women, who every day tax crime for their daily bread, and every evening return to their lairs with their vicious spoils.[ ] [ ] it is calculated that there are in paris , persons who have no other means of existence but theft. the crowd entirely choked up the means of circulation, and, in spite of his gigantic strength, the chourineur was compelled to remain almost motionless in the midst of this compact throng. he was, however, willing to remain so, as the prince would not pass the barrier of charenton until eleven o'clock, and it was not yet seven; and he had a singular spectacle before him. in a large, low apartment, occupied at one end by musicians, surrounded by benches and tables laden with the fragments of a repast, broken plates, empty bottles, etc., a dozen men and women, in various disguises and half drunk, were dancing with the utmost excitement that frantic and obscene dance called _la chahut_. amongst the dissipated revellers who figured in this saturnalia, the chourineur remarked two couples who obtained the most overwhelming applause, from the revolting grossness of their attitudes, their gesticulations, and their language. the first couple consisted of a man disguised as a bear, and nearly covered with a waistcoat and trousers of black sheepskin. the head of the animal, being too troublesome to carry, had been replaced by a kind of hood with long hair, which entirely covered his features; two holes for his eyes, and a long one for his mouth, allowed him to see, speak, and breathe. this man--one of the prisoners escaped from la force (amongst whom were barbillon and the two murderers arrested at the ogress's at the _tapis-franc_, at the beginning of this recital)--this man so masked was nicholas martial, the son and brother of the two women for whom the scaffold was prepared but a few paces distant. induced into this act of atrocious insensibility and infamous audacity by one of his associates, this wretch had dared with this disguise to join in the last revels of the carnival. the woman who danced with him, dressed as a _vivandière_, wore a round leather cap with ragged ribands, a kind of bodice of threadbare red cloth, ornamented with three rows of brass buttons, a green skirt, and trousers of white calico. her black hair fell in disorder all about her head, and her haggard and swollen features evinced the utmost effrontery and immodesty. the _vis-à-vis_ of these dancers were no less disgusting. the man, who was very tall, and disguised as robert macaire, had so begrimed his features with soot that it was impossible to recognise him, and, besides, a large bandage covered his left eye; the white of the right eye being thus the more heightened, rendered him still more hideous. the lower part of the skeleton's countenance (for it was he) disappeared in a high neckcloth made of an old red shawl. wearing an old, white, napless hat with a crushed side, dirty, and without a crown, a green coat in rags, and tight mulberry-coloured pantaloons, patched in every direction, and tied around the instep with pieces of packthread, this assassin outraged the most _outré_ and revolting attitudes of the _chahut_, darting from right to left, before and behind, his lanky limbs as hard as steel, and twisting and twining, and springing and bounding with such vigour and elasticity, that he seemed set in motion by steel springs. a worthy coryphée of this filthy saturnalia, his lady partner, a tall and active creature with impudent and flushed features, attired _en débardeur_, wore a flat cap on one side of a powdered wig with a thick pigtail, a waistcoat and trousers of worn green velvet, adjusted to her shape by an orange scarf, with long ends flowing down her back. a fat, vulgar, coarse woman, the brutal ogress of the _tapis-franc_, was seated on one of the benches, holding on her knees the plaid cloaks of this creature and the _vivandière_, whilst they were rivalling the bounds, and jumps, and gross postures of the skeleton and nicholas martial. amongst the other dancers there was a lame boy, dressed like a devil, by means of a black net vest, much too large for him, red drawers, and a green mask hideous and grotesque. in spite of his infirmity, this little monster was wonderfully agile, and his precocious depravity equalled, if it could not exceed, that of his detestable companions, and he gambolled as impudently as any of them before a fat woman, dressed as a shepherdess, who excited her partner the more by her shouts of laughter. no charge having been raised against tortillard (our readers have recognised him), and bras rouge having been for the while left in prison, the boy, at his father's request, was reclaimed by micou, the receiver of the passage of the brasserie, who had not been denounced by his accomplices. as secondary figures in this picture, let imagination conceive all there is of the lowest, most shameful, and most monstrous, in this idle, wanton, insolent, rapacious, atheistical, sanguinary assemblage of infamy, which is most hostile to social order, and to which we would call the attention of all thinking persons as our recital draws to a close. excited by the shouts of laughter and the cheers of the mob assembled around the windows, the actors in the infamous dance cried to the orchestra for a finale galop. the musicians, delighted to reach the end of their labours, complied with the general wish, and played a galoppade with the utmost energy and rapidity. at this the excitement redoubled; the couples encircled each other and dashed away, following the skeleton and his partner, who led off their infernal round amidst the wildest cries and acclamations. the crowd was so thick, so dense, and the evolutions so multiplied and rapid, that these creatures, inflamed with wine, exercise, and noise, their intoxication became delirious frenzy, and they soon ceased to have space for their movements. the skeleton then cried, in a breathless voice, "look out at the door! we will go out on to the boulevard." "yes, yes!" cried the mob at the windows; "a galop as far as the barrière st. jacques!" "the two 'mots' will soon be here." "the headsman cuts double! how funny!" "yes, with a cornet-à-piston accompaniment." "i'll ask the widow to be my partner." "and i the daughter." "death to the informers!" "long live the prigs and lads of steel!" cried the skeleton in a voice of thunder, as he and the dancers, forcing their way in the midst of the mass, set the whole body in motion; and then were heard cries, and imprecations, and shouts of laughter, which had nothing human in their sound. suddenly this uproar reached its height by two fresh incidents. the vehicle which contained the criminals, accompanied by its escort of cavalry, appeared at the angle of the boulevard, and then all the mob rushed in that direction, shouting and roaring with ferocious delight. at this moment, also, the crowd was met by a courier coming from the boulevard des invalides, and galloping towards the barrière de charenton. he was dressed in a light blue jacket with yellow collar, with a double row of silver lace down the seams, but, as a mark of deep mourning, he wore black breeches and high boots; his cap also, with a broad band of silver, was encircled with crape, and on the winkers of his horse were the arms of gerolstein. he walked his horse, his advance becoming every moment more difficult, and he was almost obliged to stop when he found himself in the midst of the sea of people we have described. although he called to them, and moved his horse with the greatest caution, cries, abuse, and threats were soon directed against him. "does he want to ride us down, that vagabond?" "he's got lots o' silver on his precious body!" cried tortillard. "if he comes against us we'll make him alight and strip the 'tin' off his jacket to go to the melter's," said nicholas. "and we'll take the seams out of your carcase if you are not careful, you cursed jockey!" added the skeleton, addressing the courier and seizing the bridle of his horse,--for the crowd was so dense that the ruffian had given up his idea of dancing to the barrier. the courier, who was a powerful and resolute fellow, said to the skeleton, lifting the handle of his whip, "if you do not let go my bridle i'll lay my whip over you. let me pass; my lord's carriage is coming close behind. let me go forward, i say." "your lord!" said the skeleton; "what is your lord to me? i'll slit his weasand if i like! i never did for a lord; i should like to try my hand." "there are no more lords now. _vive la charte!_" shouted tortillard; and as he said so he whistled a verse of the "parisienne," and clinging to one of the courier's legs nearly drew him out of his saddle. a blow with the handle of his whip on tortillard's head punished his insolence; but the populace instantly attacked the courier, who in vain spurred his horse,--he could not advance a step. dismounted, amidst the shouts of the mob, he would have been murdered but for the arrival of rodolph's carriage, which took off the attention of these wretches. the prince's travelling carriage, drawn by four horses, had for some time past advanced at only a foot pace, and one of the two footmen had got down from the rumble and was walking by the side of the door, which was very low; the postilions kept crying out to the people, and went forward very cautiously. rodolph was dressed in deep mourning, as was also his daughter, one of whose hands he held in his own, looking at her with affection. the gentle and lovely face of fleur-de-marie was enclosed in a small capot of black crape, which heightened the dazzling brilliancy of her skin and the beautiful hue of her lovely brown hair; and the azure of this bright day was reflected in her large eyes, which had never been of more transparent and softened blue. although her features wore a gentle smile, and expressed calmness and happiness when she looked at her father, yet a tinge of melancholy, and sometimes of undefinable sadness, threw its shadow over her countenance when her eyes were not fixed on her father. at this moment the carriage came amongst the crowd and began to slacken its pace. rodolph lowered the window, and said in german to the lackey who was walking by the window, "well, frantz, what is the meaning of this?" "monseigneur, there is such a crowd that the horses cannot move." "what has this assemblage collected for?" "monseigneur, there is an execution going on." "ah, frightful!" said rodolph, throwing himself back in his carriage. "what is it, my dear father?" asked fleur-de-marie with uneasiness. "nothing--nothing, dearest." "only listen,--these threatening cries approach us! what can it be?" "desire them to reach charenton by another road," said rodolph. "monseigneur, it is too late, the crowd has stopped the horses." the footman could say no more. the mob, excited by the savage encouragement of the skeleton and nicholas, suddenly surrounded the carriage, and, in spite of the threats of the postilions, stopped the horses, and rodolph saw on all sides threatening, furious countenances, and above them all the skeleton, who came to the door of the carriage. "take care, my dear father!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, throwing her arms around rodolph's neck. "oh, you are the 'my lord,' are you?" said the skeleton, thrusting his hideous head into the carriage. had it not been for his daughter's presence, rodolph would have given way to the natural impetuosity of his character at this insolence; but he controlled himself, and coolly replied: "what do you want, and why do you stop my carriage?" "because we choose," said the skeleton. "each in his turn. yesterday you trampled on the mob, and to-day the mob will crush you if you stir." "father, we are lost!" murmured fleur-de-marie. "take courage, love! i understand," replied the prince; "it is the last day of the carnival,--these fellows are tipsy; i will get rid of them." "i say, my 'covey,' come, get out, and your 'mot' with you!" cried nicholas; "why should you trample upon a parcel of poor people!" "you seem to have drunk a good deal, and to desire to drink more," said rodolph; "here, take this, and do not delay my carriage any longer," and he threw out his purse, which tortillard caught. "oh, what, you are going to travel, eh? well, then, you've got your pockets well lined, no doubt. come, shell out, my blade, or i'll have your life." and he opened the door suddenly. rodolph's patience was exhausted. alarmed for fleur-de-marie, whose alarm increased every moment, and believing that a display of vigour would daunt the wretch, whom he believed to be only drunk, he sprung from the carriage, intending to seize the skeleton by the throat. the latter suddenly receded, and then, drawing a long knife-dirk from his pocket, rushed at rodolph. fleur-de-marie, seeing the dirk raised to stab her father, gave a shriek, sprung from the carriage, and threw her arms around him. her father's life must have been sacrificed but for the chourineur, who at the commencement of this tumult, having recognised the livery of the prince, had contrived, by superhuman efforts, to reach the skeleton; and at the moment when that ruffian menaced the prince with his knife the chourineur seized on his arm with one hand, and, with the other grasping his collar, threw him backwards. although surprised, and from behind too, the skeleton turned around, and, recognising the chourineur, cried, "what! the man in the gray blouse from la force? this time, then, i'll do for you!" and rushing furiously at the chourineur, he plunged his knife in his breast. the chourineur staggered, but did not fall. the crowd kept him on his legs. "the guard! here come the guard!" exclaimed several voices in alarm. at these words, and at the sight of the murder of the chourineur, all this dense crowd, fearing to be compromised in the assassination, dispersed as if by magic, and fled in every direction; the skeleton, nicholas, martial, and tortillard amongst the earliest. when the guard came up, guided by the courier (who had escaped when the crowd had let him go to surround the prince's carriage), there only remained in this sad scene, rodolph, his daughter, and the chourineur, bathed in his blood. the two servants of the prince had seated him on the ground, with his back to a tree. all this passed more quickly than it can be described, and at a few paces from the _guinguette_ from which the skeleton and his band had issued. the prince, pale and agitated, held in his arms fleur-de-marie, half fainting, whilst the postilions were repairing the harness broken in the scuffle. "quick!" said the prince to his servants engaged in aiding the chourineur, "convey this poor fellow to the cabaret; and you," he added, turning to the courier, "get on the box, and gallop back for doctor david at the hôtel; you will find him there, as he does not leave until eleven o'clock." the carriage went away at a great speed, and the two servants conveyed the chourineur to the low apartment in which the orgies had taken place; several of the women were still there. "my poor, dear child!" said rodolph, to his daughter, "let me take you to some room in this place where you can await me, for i cannot abandon this brave fellow, who has again saved my life." "oh, my dearest father, i entreat you do not leave me!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, with alarm, and seizing rodolph's arm. "do not leave me alone! i should die with fright! where you go i will go!" "but this frightful spectacle?" "yes, thanks to this worthy man, you still live for me, my father, and therefore allow me to join you in thanking and consoling him." the prince's perplexity was very great. his daughter evinced so much just fear of remaining alone in a room in this low haunt that he made up his mind to allow her to enter with him into the apartment, where they found the chourineur. the mistress of the tavern and many of the women who had remained (and amongst whom was the ogress of the _tapis-franc_) had hastily laid the wounded man on a mattress, and then stanched and bound his wound with napkins. the chourineur opened his eyes as rodolph entered. at the sight of the prince his features, pale with approaching death, became animated. he smiled painfully, and said in a low voice: "ah, m. rodolph, it was very fortunate i was there!" "brave and devoted as ever!" said the prince, in an accent of despair. "again you have saved my life!" "i was going to the barrier of--charenton--to try and see you go by--see you for the last time. fortunately--i was unable to get in for the crowd--besides--it was--to happen--i told martial so--i had a presentiment." "a presentiment?" "yes, m. rodolph--the dream--of the sergeant--last night." "oh, try and forget such ideas! let us hope the wound is not mortal." "oh, yes, the skeleton struck home! never mind--i told martial that a worm of the earth like me--might sometimes be useful--to a great lord--like you." "but my life--i owe my life again to you!" "we are quits, m. rodolph. you told me--that i had--heart and honour. that word, you see--oh, i am choking! sir, without--my asking--do me the honour--to give me your hand--i feel i am sinking." "no, no! impossible!" exclaimed the prince, bending towards the chourineur, and clasping in his hands the icy hand of the dying man, "no--you will live--you will live!" "m. rodolph, there is something, you see, above--i killed--with a blow of a knife--i die from the blow of a knife!" said the chourineur, who was sinking fast. at this moment his eyes turned towards fleur-de-marie, whom he had not before perceived. amazement was depicted on his dying features; he made a movement, and said: "ah!--the goualeuse!" "yes, my daughter, who blesses you for having preserved her father!" "she--your daughter--here? that reminds me of how our acquaintance began--m. rodolph--and the blows--with the fist; but this blow with a knife will be the last--last blow. i slashed--and in my turn am slashed--stabbed. it is just." he heaved a deep sigh--his head fell back--he was dead. the sound of horses without was heard; rodolph's carriage had met that of murphy and david, who, in their desire to rejoin the prince, had anticipated the hour fixed for their departure. "david," said rodolph, wiping his eyes, and pointing to the chourineur, "is there no hope?" "none, monseigneur," replied the doctor, after a moment's examination. during this moment there passed a mute and terrible scene between fleur-de-marie and the ogress, whom rodolph had not observed. when the chourineur had uttered the name of la goualeuse, the ogress had raised her head and looked at fleur-de-marie. the horrid hag had already recognised rodolph; he was called monseigneur--he called la goualeuse his daughter. such a metamorphosis astounded the ogress, who obstinately fixed her stupid, wondering eyes on her former victim. fleur-de-marie, pale and overcome, seemed fascinated by her gaze. the death of the chourineur, the unexpected appearance of the ogress, which came to awaken more painfully than ever the remembrance of her former degradation, appeared to her a sinister presage. from this moment, fleur-de-marie was struck with one of those presentiments which, in dispositions like hers, have most frequently an irresistible influence. * * * * * a few days after these events and rodolph and his daughter quitted paris for ever. epilogue. chapter i. gerolstein. _prince henry of herkaüsen-oldenzaal to the count maximilian kaminetz._ oldenzaal, th august, . i am just arrived from gerolstein, where i have passed three months with the grand duke and his family. i expected to find a letter announcing your arrival at oldenzaal, my dear maximilian. judge of my surprise--of my regret, on hearing that you will be detained in hungary for several weeks. for more than four months i have been unable to write to you, not knowing where to direct my letters, thanks to your original and adventurous manner of travelling. you had, however, formally promised me at vienna that you would be at oldenzaal the first of august; i must then give up the pleasure of seeing you, and yet i have never had greater need of pouring forth my sorrows to you, maximilian, my oldest friend, for although we are both of us still very young, our friendship is of long standing, as it dates from our childhood. what shall i say to you? during the last three months a complete revolution has taken place in me. i am at one of those moments that decide the existence of a man. judge, then, how necessary your presence and your advice are to me. but you will not long be wanting, whatever motives you have for remaining in hungary. come! come! i entreat of you, maximilian, for i stand in need of you to console me, and i cannot go to seek you. my father, whose health is daily declining, has summoned me from gerolstein. each day makes so great an alteration in him that it is impossible for me to leave him. i have so much to say that i shall become tedious, but i must relate to you the most important--the most romantic incident of my life. why were you not there, my friend? why were you not there? for three months my heart has been a prey to emotions equally sweet and sorrowful, and i was alone--i was alone. sympathise with me, you who know the sensibility of my heart, you who have seen my eyes filled with tears at the simple recital of a noble or generous action, at the simple sight of a splendid sunset--of the sky studded with bright stars. do you recollect last year, on our excursion to the ruins of oppenfeld, on the shore of the vast lake, our reveries during that evening, so full of calm, of poesy, and of peace? strange contrast! it was three days before that bloody duel, in which i would not accept you for my second, for i should have suffered too much for you had i been wounded before your eyes,--the duel in which, for a dispute at play, my second unhappily killed the young frenchman, the comte de saint-remy. apropos, do you know what has become of the dangerous siren whom m. de saint-remy brought with him to oppenfeld, and whose name was, i think, cecily david? you will doubtless, my friend, smile with pity at seeing me thus losing myself amongst idle recollections of the past, instead of coming at once to the grave disclosures that i have announced my intention of making; but, in spite of myself, i delay the time from moment to moment. i know how severe you are, and i am fearful of being blamed. yes, blamed; because, instead of acting with reflection and prudence (prudence of one and twenty, alas!), i have acted foolishly, or, rather, i have not acted at all as--i have suffered myself to be carried away by the stream that urged me on, and it is only since my return from gerolstein that i have been awakened from the enchanting vision that has lulled me to sleep for the last three months, and this awaking has been a sorrowful one. now, my friend, my dear maximilian, i take courage. hear me indulgently; i begin with fear and trembling--i dare not look at you, for when you read these lines, how grave and stern will your face become, stoic that you are! after having obtained leave of absence for six months, i left vienna, and remained some time with my father. his health was then good, and he advised me to visit my aunt, the princess juliana, superior of the abbey of gerolstein. i think i have already told you that my grandfather was cousin-german to the present duke's grandfather, and the duke gustavus rodolph, thanks to this relationship, had always treated my father and myself as his cousins. you also know, i think, that during a long stay the prince made recently in france my father was left at the head of the affairs of the duchy. it is not any feeling of ostentatious pride, as you well know, maximilian, that makes me recapitulate all these circumstances, but to explain to you the causes of the extreme intimacy that existed between the grand duke and myself during my stay at gerolstein. do you recollect that last year, after our voyage on the banks of the rhine, we heard that the prince had found and married, _in extremis_, the countess macgregor, in order to legitimise the daughter he had had by her by a previous and secret marriage, afterwards annulled, because it had been contracted against the consent of the late grand duke? this young girl, thus formally recognised, this charming princess amelie, of whom lord dudley, who had seen her at gerolstein about a year ago, spoke to us with an enthusiasm that we suspected of exaggeration, strange chance! who would have said then-- but although you have doubtless penetrated my secret, let me pursue the progress of events. the convent of ste. hermangeld, of which my aunt is abbess, is scarcely a quarter of a league from gerolstein, for the gardens of the abbey touch the outskirts of the town. a charming house, perfectly isolated from the cloisters, had been placed at my disposal by my aunt, who has, as you know, the affection of a mother for me. the day of my arrival she informed me a grand drawing-room would be held the next day, as the grand duke was going formally to announce his intended marriage with la marquise d'harville, who had just arrived at gerolstein with her father, the comte d'orbigny. the duke was blamed by some for not having sought an alliance with some royal house, but others, and amongst them my aunt, congratulated him on having chosen, instead of a marriage of ambition, a young and lovely woman to whom he was deeply attached, and who belonged to one of the first families in france. you know, too, that my aunt has always had the greatest regard for the grand duke, and has always appreciated his fine qualities. "my dear child," said she to me, speaking of the drawing-room, to which i was going the next day,--"my dear child, the most astonishing sight you will see to-morrow will be the pearl of gerolstein." "of whom are you talking, my dear aunt?" "of the princess amelie." "the grand duke's daughter? lord dudley spoke of her at vienna with warmth we suspected of exaggeration." "at my age and in my position," replied my aunt, "people do not exaggerate, so you can trust to my judgment, and i assure you i never knew any one more enchanting than the princess amelie. i would speak of her beauty were it not for an indefinable charm she possesses, superior even to her beauty. from the first day that the grand duke presented me to her, i felt myself irresistibly drawn towards her; and i am not the only person. the archduchess sophia is at gerolstein, and is the most proud and haughty princess i know." "very true, aunt; her irony is terrible, very few persons escape from her sarcasms; at vienna every one dreaded her. can the princess amelie have found favour in her eyes?" "the other day she came here after visiting the asylum placed under the princess's direction. 'do you know,' said this redoubtable archduchess to me, 'that if i resided long with the grand duke's daughter i should become quite harmless, so contagious is her goodness!'" "why, my cousin must be an enchantress!" said i, laughing, to my aunt. "her most powerful charm, at least in my eyes," replied my aunt, "is the mixture of sweetness, modesty, and dignity that i have told you of, and which gives a most touching expression to her face." "indeed, aunt, modesty is a rare quality in a princess so young, so beautiful, and so happy." "reflect that the princess is still more deserving of praise for her modesty, as her elevation is so very recent." "in her interview with you, aunt, did the princess make any reference to her early life?" "no; but when, notwithstanding my advanced age, i addressed her with the respect due to her rank, since her royal highness is the grand duke's daughter, her ingenuous confusion, mingled with gratitude and veneration for me, quite overpowered me; for her reserve, full of dignity and affability, proved to me that her present elevation did not make her forget her past life, and that she accorded to my age what i accorded to her rank." "it must require," said i, "the most perfect tact to observe those nice differences." "my dear boy, the more i see of the princess, the more i congratulate myself on my first impression. since she has been here the number of charitable acts she has done is incredible, and that with a reflection and a judgment that in a person of her age quite surprises me. judge yourself. at her request the grand duke has founded at gerolstein an establishment for orphans of five or six years, and for young girls (who are either orphans or abandoned by their parents) of the age of sixteen, that age so fatal to those who are not protected against the temptations of vice or the pressure of want. "the good sisters of my convent teach and direct the children of this asylum. during my visits there i have had ample opportunities of judging of the adoration that these poor, unfortunate creatures have for the princess. every day she spends several hours at this place, which is placed under her protection, and i repeat that it is not merely gratitude and respect that the children and nuns feel towards the princess, it almost amounts to fanaticism." "the princess must be an angel," said i to my aunt. "an angel, indeed!" replied she, "for you cannot conceive with what touching kindness she treats her young protégées. i have never seen the susceptibility of misfortune meet with more delicate sympathy. you would think some irresistible attraction drew the princess towards this class of unfortunates. will you believe it? she, the daughter of a sovereign, only addresses these poor children as 'my sisters!'" at these last words of my aunt i confess i felt my eyes fill with tears. do you not also admire the admirable and pious conduct of this young princess? "since the princess," said i, "is so marvellously gifted, i shall be greatly embarrassed when i am presented to her to-morrow. you know how timid i am; you know, also, that elevation of character imposes upon me more than high birth, so that i am certain to appear both stupid and embarrassed to-morrow; so i make up my mind to that beforehand." "come, come!" said my aunt, smiling, "she will take pity upon you, the more readily as you are not quite a stranger to her." "i am not a stranger to her, aunt?" "certainly not." "how so?" "you recollect that when at the age of sixteen you left oldenzaal, to travel with your father through russia and england, i had your portrait painted in the costume you wore at the first _bal costumé_ the late duchess gave?" "yes, aunt, the costume of a german page of the sixteenth century." "our famous painter, fritz mocker, whilst he painted a faithful likeness of you, not only produced a page of that century, but even the style of the pictures of that time. "some days after her arrival at gerolstein, the princess amelie, who had come with her father to visit me, remarked your portrait, and asked what was that charming picture of olden times. her father smiled, and said, 'this is the portrait of a cousin of ours, who would be, were he now alive (as you see by his dress), some three hundred years old, but who, although very young, made himself remarkable for his courage and goodness of heart; has he not bravery in his eyes and goodness in his smile?'" do not, i entreat you, maximilian, shrug your shoulders with disdain at seeing me write these puerile details of myself, which are, alas, necessary to my story. "the princess amelie," continued my aunt, "deceived by this innocent pleasantry, after a long examination of your portrait, joined with her father in praising the amiable and determined expression of your face. some time after, when i went to gerolstein, she questioned me playfully about 'her cousin of the olden time.' "i then explained the trick to her, and told her that the handsome page of the sixteenth century was really the prince henry d'herkaüsen-oldenzaal, a young man of one and twenty, captain in the guards of his majesty the emperor of austria, and in every other respect than the costume very like his picture. at these words the princess," continued my aunt, "blushed and became serious, and has never since spoken of the picture. however, you see that you are not quite a stranger to your cousin; so take courage, and maintain the reputation of your portrait." this conversation took place, as i have already told you, the evening previous to the day on which i was to be presented to the princess my cousin. i left my aunt, and returned to my own apartments. you have often told me, my dear maximilian, that i was totally free from vanity; i must therefore trust to that to prevent my appearing vain during this recital. as soon as i was alone i reflected with a secret satisfaction that the princess amelie, after seeing my portrait, painted five or six years ago, had inquired after "her cousin of the olden time." nothing could be more absurd than to build the slightest hope on so trivial a circumstance, i acknowledge; but i always treat you with the most perfect confidence, and i acknowledge that this trifling circumstance delighted me. no doubt the praise i had just heard bestowed on the princess by so grave and austere a person as my aunt, by raising her in my estimation, rendered this circumstance more agreeable. why should i tell you? the hopes i conceived from this trifling event were so mad that, now that i look back more calmly on the past, i ask myself how i could have indulged in ideas that must have ended in my destruction. although related to the grand duke, and always treated by him with the greatest kindness, yet it was impossible to entertain the slightest hope of a marriage with the princess; even had she returned my affection it would still have been impossible. our family holds an honourable position, but it is poor when compared with the grand duke, the richest prince of the german confederation; and besides, i was only one and twenty, a simple captain in the guards, without any reputation or any position. never could the grand duke think of me as a suitor for his daughter. all these reflections ought to have saved me from a passion i did not as yet feel, but of which i had a strange presentiment. alas! i rather gave way to fresh puerilities; i wore on my finger a ring that thecla (the countess of whom i have so often spoken) had given me, although this souvenir of a boyish love could not have much embarrassed me. i sacrificed it to my new flame, and, opening the window, i cast the ring into the waves of the river that flowed beneath. i have no need to tell you what a night i passed, you can imagine; i knew the princess was very beautiful; i sought to picture to myself her features, her air, her manner, her figure, the sound of her voice; and thinking of my portrait which she had noticed i recollected that the artist had flattered me excessively, and i contrasted the picturesque dress of a page of the sixteenth century with the simple uniform of a captain of the austrian guards. but amidst all these absurd ideas some generous thoughts crossed my mind, and i was overcome,--yes, overcome by the recollection of the tenderness of the princess for those poor girls whom she always terms "my sisters." the next day the hour for the reception came. i tried on several uniforms one after another, found them all to fit me very ill, and departed very dissatisfied with myself. although gerolstein is only a quarter of a league from ste. hermangeld, during the short journey all the childish ideas that had so occupied me during the night had given place to one sad and grave thought. an invincible presentiment told me i was approaching one of the crises of my life. a magical inspiration revealed to me that i was about to love, to love as a man loves but once in his life; and, as if to complete my misfortunes, this love, as loftily as deservedly bestowed, was doomed to be unhappy. you do not know the grand ducal palace of gerolstein. in the opinion of every one who has visited the capitals of europe, there is, with the exception of versailles, no royal residence that has a more regal and imposing appearance. if at this time i speak of this, it is because, thinking over them, i wonder how they did not recall me to myself; for the princess amelie was the daughter of the sovereign of this palace, these guards, and of these riches. you arrived at the palace by the marble court; so called, because, with the exception of a drive for the carriages, it is paved with variegated marble, forming the most magnificent mosaics, in the centre of which is a basin of breccia antique, into which a stream of water flows from a porphyry vase. this court of honour is surrounded by a row of beautiful marble statues, holding candelabras of gilt bronze, from which sprung brilliant jets of gas. alternately with these statues are the medicean vases, raised on richly sculptured pedestals, and filled with rose laurels, whose leaves shine in the lights with a metallic lustre. the carriages stopped at the foot of the double staircase leading to the peristyle of the palace. at the foot of this staircase were stationed on guard, mounted on their black horses, two soldiers of the regiment of the guards of the grand duke. you would have been struck with the stern and warlike appearance of these two giants, whose cuirasses and helmets, made like those of the ancients, without crest or plume, sparkled in the sun. these soldiers wore blue coats with yellow collars, buckskin breeches, and jack-boots. to please you who are so fond of military details, i add, that at the top landing of the staircase were stationed, as sentinels, two grenadiers of the foot-guards of the duke. their uniform, with the exception of the colour of the coat and facings, resembles, i am told, that of napoleon's grenadiers. after traversing the vestibule, where the porters of the duke were stationed, halberd in hand, i ascended a splendid staircase of white marble, which opened upon a portico, ornamented with jasper columns, and surmounted by a painted and gilt cupola. there were two long files of domestics. i then entered the guard-room, at the door of which i found a chamberlain and an aide-de-camp, whose duty it was to present to his royal highness those persons who were entitled to this honour. my relationship, though distant, procured me a special presentation. an aide-de-camp preceded me into a long gallery, filled with gentlemen in full court dress or uniform, and splendidly attired ladies. whilst i passed through this brilliant assembly, i heard here and there remarks that augmented my embarrassment. every one admired the angelic beauty of the princess amelie, the charming appearance of the marquise d'harville, and the imperial air of the archduchess sophia, who, recently arrived from munich with the archduke stanislaus, was about to depart for warsaw; but whilst rendering their just tribute of admiration to the lofty bearing of the duchess and to the charms of the marquise d'harville, every one agreed that nothing could exceed the loveliness of the princess amelie. as i approached the spot where the grand duke and the princess were i felt my heart beat more and more violently. at the moment that i entered the salon (i forgot to tell you there was a concert and ball at court) the famous liszt sat down to the piano, and instantly the most profound silence succeeded to the conversation that was going on. i waited in the embrasure of a door until liszt had finished the piece he was playing with his accustomed taste. it was then that i saw the princess amelie for the first time. i must tell you all that passed, for i feel an indescribable pleasure in writing it. picture to yourself a large salon furnished with regal splendour, brilliantly lighted up, and hung with crimson silk, embroidered with wreaths of flowers in gold. in the first row, on large gilt chairs, sat the archduchess sophia with madame d'harville on her left, and the princess amelie on her right. behind them stood the duke in the uniform of colonel of the guards. he seemed scarcely thirty, and the military uniform set off his fine figure and noble features. beside him was the archduke stanislaus in the uniform of a field-marshal; then came the princess's maids of honour, the ladies of the grand dignitaries of the court, and then the dignitaries themselves. i need scarcely tell you that the princess amelie was less conspicuous by her rank than by her extraordinary beauty. do not condemn me without reading this description of her. although it falls far short of the reality, you will understand my adoration. you will understand that as soon as i saw her i loved her; and that the suddenness of my passion can only be equalled by its violence and its eternity. the princess amelie was dressed in a plain white watered silk dress, and wore, like the archduchess, the riband of the imperial order of st. nepomucenus recently sent to her by the empress. a diadem of pearls surrounded her head, and harmonised admirably with two splendid braids of fair hair that shaded her delicate cheeks. her arms, whiter than the lace that ornamented them, were half hidden in long gloves, reaching nearly to her elbow. nothing could be more perfect than her figure, nothing more charming than her foot in its satin slipper. at the moment when i saw her her beaming blue eyes wore a pensive expression. i do not know whether some serious thought came over her, or whether she was impressed with the grave melody of the piece liszt was playing; but the expression of her countenance seemed to me full of sweetness and melancholy. never can i express my feelings at that moment. all that my aunt had related of her goodness crossed my mind. smile if you will, but my eyes became full of tears when i saw this young girl, so beautiful and so idolised by such a father, seem so melancholy and pensive. you know how scrupulously etiquette and the privileges of rank are observed by us. thanks to my title and my relationship to the grand duke, the crowd in the midst of which i stood gradually fell back, and i found myself left almost alone in the embrasure of the door. it was, no doubt, owing to this circumstance that the princess, awaking from her reverie, perceived, and no doubt recognised me, for she started and blushed. she had seen my portrait at my aunt's, and recognised me; nothing could be more simple. the princess's eyes did not rest upon me an instant, but that look threw me into the most violent confusion. i felt my cheeks glow, i cast down my eyes, and did not venture to raise them for some time. when i dared at last to steal a glance at the princess she was speaking in a low tone to the archduchess, who seemed to listen to her with the most affectionate interest. liszt having paused for a few moments between the pieces he was playing, the grand duke took the opportunity of expressing his admiration. on returning to his place he perceived me, nodded kindly to me, and said something to the archduchess, fixing his eyes on me at the same time. the duchess, after looking at me a moment, turned to the duke, who smiled and said something to his daughter that seemed to embarrass her, for she blushed again. i was on thorns; but, unfortunately, etiquette forbade my leaving my place until the concert was over. as soon as the concert was finished i followed the aide-de-camp; he conducted me to the grand duke, who deigned to advance a few steps towards me, took me by the arm, and said to the archduchess sophia: "permit me to present to your royal highness my cousin, prince henry of herkaüsen-oldenzaal." "i have seen the prince at vienna, and meet him here with pleasure," replied the duchess, before whom i inclined myself respectfully. "my dear amelie," continued the prince, addressing his daughter, "this is prince henry, your cousin, the son of one of my most valued friends, prince paul, whom i greatly lament not seeing here to-day." "pray, monseigneur, inform the prince that i equally regret his absence, for i am always delighted to know any of my father's friends." i had not until then heard the princess's voice, and i was struck with its intense sweetness. "i hope, my dear henry, you will stay some time with your aunt," said the grand duke. "come and see us often about three o'clock _en famille_; and if we ride out you must accompany us. you know how great an affection i have always felt for you, for your noble qualities." "i cannot express my gratitude for your royal highness's kindness." "well, to prove it," said the grand duke, smiling, "engage your cousin for the second quadrille; the first belongs to the archduke." "will your royal highness do me the honour?" said i to my cousin. "oh, call each other cousin, as in the good old times," replied the duke, laughing. "there should be no ceremony between relations." "will you dance with me, cousin?" "yes, cousin," replied the princess. i cannot tell how much i felt the touching kindness of the grand duke, and how bitterly i reproached myself for yielding to an affection the prince would never authorise. i vowed inwardly that nothing should induce me to acquaint my cousin with my affection, but i feared my emotion would betray me. i had leisure for these reflections whilst my cousin danced the first quadrille with the archduke stanislaus. nothing was more suited to display the graces of the princess's person than the slow movements of the dance. i anxiously awaited my turn; and i succeeded in concealing my emotion when i led her to the quadrille. "does your royal highness sanction my calling you cousin?" said i. "oh, yes, cousin, i am always delighted to obey my father." "i rejoice in this familiarity, since i have learnt from my aunt to know you." "my father has often spoken of you, cousin; and what may, perhaps, astonish you," added she, timidly, "i also knew you by sight; for one day the abbess of ste. hermangeld, your aunt, for whom i have the greatest respect, showed me your picture." "as a page of the sixteenth century?" "yes, cousin; and my father was malicious enough to tell me that it was an ancestor of ours, and spoke so highly of his courage and his other qualities that our family ought to be proud of their descent from him." "alas, cousin, i fear my resemblance to my portrait is not great!" "you are mistaken, cousin," said the princess. "for at the end of the concert i recognised you immediately, in spite of the difference of costume." then, wishing to change the conversation, she added, "how charmingly m. liszt plays!--does he not?" "yes. how attentively you listened to him!" "because there is to me a double charm in music without words. not only you hear the execution, but you can adapt your thoughts to the melody. do you understand me?" "perfectly; your own thoughts become words to the air." "yes, you quite comprehend me," said she, with a gesture of satisfaction. "i feared i could not express what i felt just now." "i thank god, cousin," said i, smiling, "you can have no words to set to so sad an air." i know not whether my question was indiscreet or whether she had not heard me, but suddenly she exclaimed, pointing out to me the grand duke, who crossed the room with the archduchess on his arm, "cousin, look at my father, how handsome he is! how noble! how good! every one looks at him as if they loved him more than they feared him." "ah," cried i, "it is not only here he is beloved. if the blessing of his people be transmitted to their posterity, the name of rodolph of gerolstein will be immortal." "to speak thus is to be, indeed, worthy of his attachment." "i do but give utterance to the feelings of all present; see how they all hasten to pay their respects to madame d'harville!" "no one in the world is more worthy of my father's affections than madame d'harville." "you are more capable than any one of appreciating her, as you have been in france." scarcely had i pronounced these words than the princess cast down her eyes, and her features assumed an air of melancholy; and when i led her back to her seat the expression of them was still the same. i suppose that my allusion to her stay in france recalled the death of her mother. in the course of the evening a circumstance occurred which you may think too trivial to mention, perhaps, but which evinces the extraordinary influence this young girl universally inspires. her bandeau of pearls having become disarranged, the archduchess sophia, who was leaning on her arm, kindly readjusted the ornament upon her brow. knowing, as we do, the hauteur of the archduchess, such condescension is almost inconceivable. the next morning i was invited, together with a few other persons, to be present at the marriage of the grand duke with madame la marquise d'harville. i had never seen the princess so radiant and happy. some days after the duke's marriage i had a long interview with him. he questioned me about my past life, my future career. he gave me the most admirable advice, the kindest encouragement. so much so that the idea crossed my mind that he had perceived my love and wished to bring me to confess it. but this idea was soon dispelled. the prince concluded by telling me that the great wars were over, that i ought to avail myself of my name, my connections, the education i had received, and my father's friendship with the prince de m----, prime minister of the emperor, in order to follow a diplomatic instead of a military career. in a word, he offered me his sovereign protection to facilitate my entry in the career he proposed to me. i thanked him for his offers with gratitude, and added that i felt the weight of his advice and would follow it. i at first visited the palace very seldom; but, thanks to the duke's reiterated invitations, i was soon there almost every day. we lived in the peaceful retirement resembling that of some english mansions. when the weather permitted we rode out with the duke, the duchess, and the grand personages of the court. when we were forced to remain at home we sang, and i accompanied the grand duchess and my cousin, who had the sweetest and most expressive voice i ever heard. at other times we inspected the magnificent picture galleries and museums, and the library of the prince, who is one of the most accomplished men in europe. i often dined at the palace, and on the opera nights i accompanied the duke's family to the theatre. could this intimacy have lasted for ever i should have been happy, perhaps, but i reflected that i should be summoned to vienna by my duties. i reflected, also, that the duke would soon think of finding a suitable alliance for his daughter. my cousin remarked this change in me. the evening before i quitted gerolstein she told me she had for several days remarked my abstracted manner. i endeavoured to evade this question, saying that my approaching departure was the cause. "i can scarcely believe it," replied she. "my father treats you like a son; every one loves you. it would be ingratitude if you were unhappy." "alas!" said i, unable to restrain my emotion, "it is grief i am a prey to!" "why, what has happened?" "just now, cousin, you have told me your father treated me like a son, and that every one loved me; and yet, ere long, i must quit gerolstein. it is this that grieves me." "and are the recollections of those you have left as nothing?" "doubtless; but time brings so many changes." "there are affections, at least, that are unchangeable; such as that of my father for you, such as that i feel for you. when you are once brother and sister you never forget each other," added she, looking up, her large blue eyes full of tears. i was on the point of betraying myself; however, i controlled my feelings in time. "do you think then, cousin," said i, "that when i return in a few years this affection will continue?" "why should it not?" "because you will be probably married; you will have other duties to perform, and you will forget your poor brother." this was all that passed; i know not if she was offended at these words, or whether she was like myself grieved at the changes the future must bring; but, instead of answering me, she was silent for a moment, then, rising hastily from her seat, her face pale and altered, she left the room, after having looked for a few seconds at the embroidery of the young countess d'oppenheim, one of her maids of honour. the same evening i received a second letter from my father, urging me to return. the next morning i took leave of the grand duke. he told me my cousin was unwell, but that he would make my adieux; he then embraced me tenderly, renewed his promises of assistance, and added that, whenever i had leave of absence, nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see me at gerolstein. happily, on my arrival, i found my father better; still confined to his bed, and very weak, it is true, but out of danger. now that you know all, maximilian, tell me, what can i do? just as i finished this letter, my door opened, and, to my great surprise, my father, whom i believed to be in bed, entered; he saw the letter on the table. "to whom are you writing so long a letter?" said he, smiling. "to maximilian, father." "oh," said he, with an expression of affectionate reproach, "he has all your confidence! he is very happy!" he pronounced these last words in so sorrowful a tone that i held out the letter to him, almost without reflection, saying: "read it, father." my friend, he has read all! after having remained musing some time he said to me: "henry, i shall write and inform the grand duke of all that passed during your stay at gerolstein." "father, i entreat you not!" "is what you have written to maximilian scrupulously true?" "yes." "do you love your cousin?" "i adore her; but--" my father interrupted me. "then, in that case, i shall write to the grand duke and demand her hand for you." "but, father, such a demand will be madness on my part!" "it is true; but still, in making this demand, i shall acquaint the prince with my reasons for making it. he has received you with the greatest kindness, and it would be unworthy of me to deceive him. he will be touched at the frankness of my demand, and, though he refuse it, as he certainly will, he will yet know that, should you ever again visit gerolstein, you cannot be on the same familiar terms with the princess." you know that, although so tenderly attached to me, my father is inflexible in whatever concerns his duty; judge, then, of my fears, of my anxiety. i hastily terminate this long letter, but i will soon write again. sympathise with me, for i fear i shall go mad if the fever that preys on me does not soon abate. adieu, adieu! ever yours, henry d'h.-o. we will now conduct the reader to the palace of gerolstein, inhabited by fleur-de-marie since her return from france. chapter ii. the princess amelie. the apartment of fleur-de-marie (we only call her the princess amelie officially) had been by rodolph's orders splendidly furnished. from the balcony of the oratory the two towers of the convent of ste. hermangeld were visible, which, embosomed in the woods, were in their turn overtopped by a high hill, at the foot of which the abbey was built. one fine summer's morning fleur-de-marie gazed listlessly at this splendid landscape; her hair was plainly braided, and she wore a high, white dress with blue stripes; a large muslin collar was fastened around her throat by a small blue silk handkerchief, of the same hue as her sash. seated in a large armchair of carved ebony, she leant her head on her small and delicately white hand. fleur-de-marie's attitude and the expression of her face showed that she was a prey to the deepest melancholy. at this instant a female of a grave and distinguished appearance entered the room, and coughed gently to attract fleur-de-marie's attention. she started from her reverie, and, gracefully acknowledging the salutation of the newcomer, said: "what is it, my dear countess?" "i come to inform your royal highness that the grand duke will be here in a few minutes, and, also, to ask a favour of you." "ask it, you know how happy i am to oblige you." "it concerns an unhappy creature who had unfortunately quitted gerolstein before your royal highness had founded the asylum for orphans and children abandoned by their parents." "what do you wish i should do for her?" "the father went to seek his fortune in america, leaving his wife and daughter to gain a precarious subsistence. the mother died, and this poor girl, then only sixteen, was seduced and abandoned. she fell lower and lower, until at length she became, like so many others, the opprobrium of her sex." fleur-de-marie turned red and shuddered. the countess, fearing she had wounded the delicacy of the princess by the mention of this girl's condition, replied: "i pray your royal highness to pardon me; i have, doubtless, shocked you by speaking of this wretched creature, but her repentance seemed so sincere that i ventured to plead for her." "you were quite right. pray continue," said fleur-de-marie, subduing her emotion. "every fault is worthy of pity when followed by repentance." "after two years passed in this wretched mode of existence she repented sincerely, and came back to gerolstein. she chanced to lodge in the house of a good and pious widow; encouraged by her kindness, the poor creature told her all her sad story, adding that she bitterly regretted the faults of her early life, and that all she desired was to enter some religious house, where by prayer and penitence she might atone for her sins. she is only eighteen, very beautiful, and possesses a considerable sum of money, which she wishes to bestow on the convent she enters." "i undertake to provide for her," said fleur-de-marie; "since she repents, she is worthy of compassion; her remorse must be more bitter in proportion as it is sincere." "i hear the grand duke," said the lady in waiting, without remarking fleur-de-marie's agitation; and, as she spoke, rodolph entered, holding a large bouquet of roses in his hand. at the sight of the prince the countess retired, and scarcely had she left the apartment than fleur-de-marie threw herself into her father's arms, and leant her head on his shoulder. "good morning, love," said rodolph, pressing her to his heart. "see what beautiful roses; i never saw finer ones." and the prince made a slight motion as if to disengage himself from her and look at her, when, seeing her weeping, he threw down the bouquet, and, taking her hands, cried: "you are weeping! what is the matter?" "nothing, dear father," said fleur-de-marie, striving to smile. "my child," replied rodolph, "you are concealing something from me; tell me, i entreat you, what thus distresses you. never mind the bouquet." "oh, you know how fond i am of roses; i always was! do you recollect," added she, "my poor little rose-tree? i have preserved the pieces of it so carefully!" at this terrible allusion, rodolph cried: "unhappy child! is it possible that, in the midst of all the splendour that surrounds you, you think of the past? alas! i hoped my tenderness had made you forget it." "forgive me, dear father; i did not mean what i said. i grieve you." "i grieve, my child, because i know how painful it is for you thus to ponder over the past." "dear father, it is the first time since i have been here." "the first time you have mentioned it, but not the first time you have thought of it; i have for a long time noticed your sadness, and was unable to account for it. my position was so delicate, though i never told you anything, i thought of you constantly. when i contracted my marriage, i thought it would increase your happiness. i did not venture to hope you would quite forget the past; but i hoped that, cherished and supported by the amiable woman whom i had chosen for my wife, you would look upon the past as amply atoned for by your sufferings. no matter what faults you had committed, they have been a thousand times expiated by the good you have done since you have been here." "father!" "oh, let me tell you all, since a providential chance has brought about this conversation i at once desired and dreaded! i would, to secure your happiness, have sacrificed my affection for madame d'harville and my friendship for murphy, had i thought they recalled the past to you." "oh, their presence, when they know what i was, and yet love me so tenderly, seems a proof of pardon and oblivion to me! i should have been miserable if for my sake you had renounced madame d'harville's hand." "oh, you know not what sacrifice clémence herself would have made, for she was aware of the full extent of my duties to you!" "duties to me! what have i done to deserve so much goodness?" "until the moment that heaven restored you to me, your life had been one of sorrow and misery, and i reproach myself with your sufferings as if i had caused them, and when i see you happy, it seems to me i am forgiven. my only wish, my sole aim, is to render you as happy as you were before unhappy, to exalt you as you have been abased, for the last trace of your humiliation must disappear when you see the noblest in the land vie with each other who shall show you most respect." "respect to me! oh, no! it is to my rank and not to myself they show respect." "it is to you, dear child,--it is to you!" "you love me so much, dear father, that every one thinks to please you by showing me respect." "oh, naughty child!" cried rodolph, tenderly kissing his daughter; "she will not cede anything to my paternal pride." "is not your pride satisfied at my attributing the kindness i receive to you only?" "no, that is not the same thing; i cannot be proud of myself, but of you. you are ignorant of your own merits; in fifteen months your education has been so perfected that the most enthusiastic mother would be proud of you." at this moment the door of the salon opened, and clémence, grand duchess of gerolstein, entered, holding a letter in her hand. "here, love, is a letter from france," said she to rodolph; "i brought it myself, because i wished to bid good-morrow to my dear child, whom i have not yet seen to-day." "this letter arrives most opportunely," said rodolph. "we were speaking of the past; that monster we must destroy, since he threatens the repose of our child." "is it possible that these fits of melancholy we have so often remarked--" "were occasioned by unhappy recollections; but now that we know the enemy we shall destroy him." "from whom is this letter?" asked clémence. "from rigolette, germain's wife." "rigolette?" cried fleur-de-marie. "oh, i am so glad!" "do you not fear that this letter may serve to awaken fresh recollections?" said clémence, in a low tone to rodolph. "on the contrary, i wish to destroy these recollections, and i shall, doubtless, find arms in this letter, for rigolette is a worthy creature, who appreciated and adored our child." rodolph then read the following letter aloud: "bouqueval farm, august , . "_monseigneur_:--i take the liberty of writing to you to communicate a great happiness which has occurred to us, and to ask of you another favour,--of you, to whom we already owe so much, or rather to whom we owe the real paradise in which we live, myself, my dear germain, and his good mother. it is this, monseigneur: for the last ten days i have been crazy with joy, for ten days ago i was confined with such a love of a little girl, which i say is the image of germain, he says it is exactly like me, and our dear mother says it is like us both; the fact is, it has beautiful blue eyes like germain, and black curly hair like mine." "good, worthy people, they deserve to be happy!" said rodolph. "if ever there was a couple well matched it is they." "but really, monseigneur, i must ask your pardon for this chatter. your ears must often tingle, monseigneur, for the day never passes that we do not talk of you, when we say to each other how happy we are, how happy we were, for then your name naturally occurs. excuse this blot, monseigneur; but, without thinking of it, i had written monsieur rodolph, as i used to say formerly, and then i scratched it out. i hope you will find my writing improved as well as my spelling, for germain gives me lessons, and i do not make those long ugly scrawls i used to do when you mended my pens." "i must confess," said rodolph, with a smile, "that my little protégée makes a mistake, and i am sure germain is more frequently employed in kissing the hand of his scholar than in directing it." "my dear duke, you are unjust," said clémence, looking at the letter; "it is rather a very large hand, but very legible." "why, yes, she has really improved," observed rodolph; "it would in former days have taken eight pages to contain what she now writes in two." and he continued: "it is quite true, you know, monseigneur, that you used to mend my pens, and when we think of it, we two germains, we feel quite ashamed when we recollect how free from pride you were. ah, i am again chattering instead of saying what we wish to ask of you, monseigneur; for my husband unites with me, and it is very important, for we attach a great deal to it, as you will see. we entreat of you, monseigneur, to have the goodness to choose for us and give us a name for our dear little daughter; this has been the wish of the godfather and godmother,--and who do you think they are, monseigneur? two persons whom you and the marquise d'harville have taken from misery and made very happy, as happy as we are. they are morel, the lapidary, and jeanne duport, a worthy creature whom i met in prison when i went there to visit my dear germain, and whom the marquise afterwards took out of the hospital. "and now, monseigneur, you must know why we have chosen m. morel for godfather, and jeanne duport for godmother. we said it would be one way of again thanking m. rodolph for all his kindness, to have, as godfather and godmother for our little one, worthy persons who owe everything to him and the marchioness; whilst, at the same time, morel and jeanne duport are the worthiest people breathing, they are of our own class in life, and besides, as we say with germain, they are our kinsfolk in happiness, for, like us, they are of the family of your protégés." "really, my dear father, this idea is most delightful and excellent!" said fleur-de-marie; "to take for godfather and godmother persons who owe everything to you and my dear second mother!" "yes, indeed, dearest," said clémence; "and i am deeply touched at their remembrance." "and i am very happy to find that my favours have been so well bestowed," said rodolph, continuing his letter. "with the money you gave him, morel has now become a jewel broker, and earns enough to bring up his family very respectably. poor louise, who is a very good girl, is going, i believe, to be married to a very worthy young man, who loves and respects her as he ought to do, for she has been unfortunate, but not guilty, and louise's husband that is to be is perfectly sensible of this." rodolph laid great stress on these last words, looked at his daughter for a moment, and then continued: "i must add, monseigneur, that jeanne duport, through the generosity of the marquise, has been separated from her husband, that bad man who beat her and took everything from her; she has now her eldest daughter with her: they keep a small trimming shop, and are doing very well. germain writes to you regularly, monseigneur, every month, on the subject of the bank for mechanics out of work and gratuitous loans; there are scarcely any sums in arrear, and we find already the good effects of it in this quarter. nine, at least, poor families can support themselves in the dead season of work without sending their clothes and bedding to the pawnbroker's. and when work comes in, it does one's heart good to see the haste with which they return the money lent, and they bless you for the loans so serviceably advanced. "yes, monseigneur, they bless you; for, although you say you did nothing in this but appoint germain, and that an unknown did this great benefit, we must always, suppose it was you who founded it, as it appears to us the most natural idea. there is, besides, a most famous trumpet to repeat that it is you who are the real benefactor. this trumpet is madame pipelet, who repeats to every one that it could be no one but her king of lodgers (excuse her, m. rodolph, but she always calls you so) who established such a charitable institution, and her old darling alfred is of the same opinion; he is so proud and contented with his post as porter to the bank that he says all the tricks of m. cabrion would not have the slightest effect on him now. "germain has read in the newspapers that martial, a colonist of algeria, has been mentioned with great praise for the courage he had shown in repulsing, at the head of the settlers, an attack of plundering arabs, and that his wife, as intrepid as himself, had been slightly wounded by his side, where she handled her musket like a real grenadier; since this time, says the newspaper, she has been called madame carabine. "excuse this long letter, monseigneur, but i think you will not be displeased to hear from us news of all those whose benefactor you have been. i write to you from the farm at bouqueval, where we have been since the spring with our good mother. germain leaves us in the morning for his business, and returns in the evening. in the autumn we shall return to paris. "it is so strange, m. rodolph, that i, who could never endure the country, am now so fond of it; i suppose it is because germain likes it so very much. "as to the farm, m. rodolph, you who know, no doubt, where the good little goualeuse is, will perhaps tell her that we very often think of her as one of the dearest and gentlest creatures in the world; and that, for myself, i never think of my own happy condition without saying to myself, since m. rodolph was also the m. rodolph of dear fleur-de-marie, that, no doubt, she is by his kindness as happy as we are, and that makes one feel still more happy. ah, how i chatter! what will you say to all this? but you are so good, and then, you know, it is your fault if i go on as long and as merrily as papa crétu and ramonette, who no longer have a chance with me in singing. you will not refuse our request, will you, monseigneur? if you will give a name to our dear little child, it will seem to us that it will bring her good fortune, like a lucky star. "if i conclude by saying to you, m. rodolph, that we try to give every assistance in our power to the poor, it is not to boast, but that you may know that we do not keep to ourselves all the happiness you have given to us; besides, we always say to those we succour: 'it is not us whom you should thank and bless; it is m. rodolph, the best, most generous person in the world.' "adieu, monseigneur! and pray believe that when our dear little child begins to lisp, the first word she shall utter will be your name, m. rodolph, and the next those you wrote on the basket which contained your generous wedding presents to me, 'labour and discretion, honour and happiness.' thanks to these four words, our love and our care, we hope, monseigneur, that our child will be always worthy to pronounce the name of him who has been our benefactor, and that of all the unfortunates he ever knew--forgive me, monseigneur, but i cannot finish without the big tears in my eyes, but they are tears of happiness. excuse all errors, if you please; it is not my fault, but i cannot see very clearly, and i scribble. "i have the honour to be, monseigneur, your respectful and most grateful servant, "rigolette germain. "p.s. ah, monseigneur, in reading my letter over again, i see i have often written m. rodolph, but you will excuse me, for you know, monseigneur, that under any and every name we respect and bless you alike." "dear little rigolette!" said clémence, affected by the letter; "how full of good and right feeling is her letter!" "it is, indeed!" replied rodolph. "she has an admirable disposition, her heart is all that is good; and our dear daughter appreciates her as we do," he added, addressing fleur-de-marie, when, struck by her pale countenance, he exclaimed, "but what ails you, dearest?" "alas! what a painful contrast between my position and that of rigolette. 'labour and discretion, honour and happiness,' these four words declare all that my life has been, all that it ought to have been,--a young, industrious, and discreet girl, a beloved wife, a happy mother, an honoured woman, such is her destiny; whilst i--" "what do you say?" "forgive me, my dear father; do not accuse me of ingratitude. but in spite of your unspeakable tenderness and that of my second mother, in spite of the splendour with which i am surrounded, in spite of your sovereign power, my shame is incurable. nothing can destroy the past. forgive me, dear father. until now i have concealed this from you; but the recollection of my original degradation drives me to despair--kills me--" "clémence, do you hear?" cried rodolph, in extreme distress. "oh, fatality--fatality! now i curse my fears, my silence. this sad idea, so long and deeply rooted in her mind, has, unknown to us, made fearful ravages; and it is too late to contend against this sad error. oh, i am indeed wretched!" "courage, my dearest!" said clémence to rodolph. "you said but now that it is best to know the enemy that threatens us. we know now the cause of our child's sorrow, and will triumph over it, because we shall have with us reason, justice, and our excessive love for her." "and then she will see, too, that her affliction, if it be, indeed, incurable, will render ours incurable," said rodolph. after a protracted silence, during which fleur-de-marie appeared to recover herself, she took rodolph's and clémence's hands in her own, and said in a voice deeply affected, "hear me, beloved father, and you my best of mothers. god has willed it, and i thank him for it, that i should no longer conceal from you all that i feel. i must have done so shortly, and told you what i will now avow, for i could not longer have kept it concealed." "ah, now i comprehend!" ejaculated rodolph, "and there is no longer any hope for her." "i hope in the future, my dear father, and this hope gives me strength to speak thus to you." "and what can you hope for the future, poor child, since your present fate only causes you grief and torment?" "i will tell you; but before i do so let me recall to you the past, and confess before god, who hears me, what i have felt to this time." "speak--speak--we listen!" was rodolph's reply. "as long as i was in paris with you, my dearest father, i was so happy that such days of bliss cannot be paid for too dearly by years of suffering. you see i have at least known happiness." "for some days, perhaps." "yes, but what pure and unmingled happiness! the future dazzled me,--a father to adore, a second mother to cherish doubly, for she replaced mine, whom i never knew. then--for i will confess all--my pride was roused in spite of myself. so greatly did i rejoice in belonging to you. if then i sometimes thought vaguely of the past, it was to say to myself, 'i, formerly so debased, am the beloved daughter of a sovereign prince, whom everybody blesses and reveres; i, formerly so wretched, now enjoy all the splendours of luxury, and an existence almost royal.' alas! my father, my good fortune was so unlooked for, your power surrounded me with so much brilliancy, that i was, perhaps, excusable in allowing myself to be thus blinded." "excusable! nothing could be more natural, my angelic girl. what was there wrong in being proud of a rank which was your own, in enjoying the advantages of a position to which i had restored you? i remember at this time you were so delightfully gay, and said to me in accents i never can again hope to hear, 'dearest father, this is too, too much happiness!' unfortunately it was these recollections that begat in me this deceitful security." "do you remember, my father," said fleur-de-marie, unable to overcome a shudder of horror, "do you remember the terrible scene that preceded our departure from paris when your carriage was stopped?" "yes," answered rodolph; in a tone of melancholy. "brave chourineur! after having once more saved my life--he died--there, before our eyes." "well, my father, at the moment when that unhappy man expired, do you know whom i saw looking steadfastly at me? ah, that look--that look! it has haunted me ever since!" added fleur-de-marie, with a shudder. "what look? of whom do you speak?" cried rodolph. "of the ogress of the _tapis-franc_!" answered fleur-de-marie. "that monster! you saw her!--and where?" "did you not see her in the tavern where the chourineur died? she was amongst the women who surrounded us." "ah, now," said rodolph, in a tone of despair, "i understand. struck with horror as you were at the murder of the chourineur, you must have imagined that you saw something prophetic in the sinister rencontre!" "yes, indeed, father, it was so. at the sight of the ogress i felt a death-like shiver, and it seemed that under her scowl my heart, which, until then, had been light, joyous, bounding, was instantly chilled to ice. yes, to meet that woman at the very instant when the chourineur died, saying, 'heaven is just!' it seemed to me as a rebuke from providence for my proud forgetfulness of the past, which i was hereafter to expiate by humility and repentance." "but the past was forced on you, and you are not responsible for that in the sight of god!" "you were driven to it--overcome--my poor child!" "once precipitated into the abyss in spite of yourself, and unable to quit it in spite of your remorse and despair, through the atrocious recklessness of the society of which you were a victim, you saw yourself for ever chained to this den, and it required that chance should throw you in my way to rescue you from such thraldom." "then, too, my child, your father says you were the victim and not the accomplice of this infamy," said clémence. "but yet, my mother, i have known this infamy!" replied fleur-de-marie, in a tone of deepest grief. "nothing can destroy these fearful recollections,--they pursue me incessantly, not as formerly, in the midst of the peaceful inhabitants of the farm, or the fallen women who were my companions in st. lazare, but they pursue me even in this palace, filled with the élite of germany; they pursue me even to my father's arms, even to the steps of his throne!" and fleur-de-marie burst into an agony of tears. rodolph and clémence remained silent in presence of this fearful expression of unextinguishable remorse; they wept, too, for they perceived that their consolations were vain. "since then," continued fleur-de-marie, drying her tears, "i say to myself every moment in the day, with bitter shame, 'i am honoured, revered, and the most eminent and venerated persons surround me with respect and attention. in the eyes of a whole court the sister of an emperor has deigned to fasten my bandeau on my forehead, and i have lived in the mire of the cité, familiar with thieves and murderers.' forgive me, dearest father, but the more elevated my position, the more deeply sensitive have i been to the deep degradation into which i had fallen; and at every homage paid me i feel myself guilty of profanation, and think it sacrilege to receive such attentions, knowing what i have been; and then i say to myself, 'if god should please that the past were all known, with what deserved scorn would she be treated whom now they elevate so high! what a just and fearful punishment!'" "but, poor girl, my wife and i know the past; we are worthy of our rank, and yet we cherish you." "because you feel for me the tenderness of a father and mother." "but remember all the good you have done since your residence here, and the excellent and holy institution you have founded for orphans and poor forsaken girls! then, too, the affection which the worthy abbess of ste. hermangeld evinces towards you, ought not that to be attributed to your unfeigned piety?" "whilst the praises of the abbess of ste. hermangeld refer only to my present conduct, i accept it without scruple; but when she cites my example to the noble young ladies who have taken vows in the abbey, i feel as if i were the accomplice of an infamous falsehood." after a long silence rodolph resumed, with deep melancholy: "i see it is unavailing to persuade you! reasoning is impotent against a conviction the more steadfast as it is derived from a noble and generous feeling. the contrast of your past and present position must be a perpetual punishment; forgive me for saying so, my beloved one!" "forgive you! and for what, my dear father?" "for not having foreseen your excessive susceptibility, which, from the delicacy of your heart, i should have anticipated. and yet what could i have done? it was my duty solemnly to recognise you as my daughter; yet i was wrong--wrong to be too proud of you! i should have concealed my treasure, and lived in retirement with clémence and you, instead of raising you high, so high that the past would disappear as i hoped from your eyes." several knocks were heard at this moment, which interrupted the conversation. rodolph opened the door, and saw murphy, who said: "i beg your your royal highness's pardon for thus disturbing you, but a courier from the prince of herkaüsen-oldenzaal has just arrived with this letter, which he says is very important, and must be delivered immediately to your royal highness." "thanks, good murphy. do not go away," said rodolph, with a sigh, "i shall want you presently." and the prince, closing the door, remained a moment in the ante-room to read the letter which murphy had brought him, and which was as follows: "_my lord_:--trusting that the bonds of relationship existing between us, as well as the friendship with which you have ever honoured me, will excuse the boldness of the step i am about to take, i will at once enter upon the purport of my letter, dictated as it is by a conscientious desire to act as becomes the man your highness deigns to style his friend. "fifteen months have now elapsed since you returned from france, bringing with you your long-lost daughter, whom you so happily discovered living with that mother from whom she had never been parted, and whom you espoused when _in extremis_, in order to legitimise the princess amelie. "thus ennobled, of matchless beauty, and, as i learn from my sister, the abbess of ste. hermangeld, endowed with a character pure and elevated as the princely race from which she springs, who would not envy your happiness in possessing such a treasure? "i will now candidly state the purport of my letter, although i should certainly have been the bearer of the request it contains, were it not that a severe indisposition detains me at oldenzaal. "during the time my son passed at gerolstein he had frequent opportunities of seeing the princess amelie, whom he loves with a passionate but carefully concealed affection. this fact i have considered it right to acquaint you with, the more especially as, after having received and entertained my son as affectionately as though he had been your own, you added to your kindness by inviting him to return, as quickly as his duties would allow, to enjoy that sweet companionship so precious to his heart; and it is probable that my apprising you of this circumstance may induce you to withdraw your intended hospitality to one who has presumed to aspire to the affections of your peerless child. "i am perfectly well aware that the daughter of whom you are so justly proud might aspire to the first alliance in europe, but i also know that so tender and devoted a parent as yourself would not hesitate to bestow the hand of the princess amelie on my son, if you believed by so doing her happiness would be secured. "it is not for me to dwell upon henry's merits,--you have been graciously pleased to bestow your approval on his conduct thus far, and i venture to hope he will never give you cause to change the favourable opinion you have deigned to express concerning him. "of this be assured, that whatever may be your determination, we shall bow in respectful and implicit submission to it, and that i shall never be otherwise than your royal highness's most humble and obedient servant, "gustave paul, "_prince of herkaüsen-oldenzaal_." after the perusal of this letter rodolph remained for some time sad and pensive; then a gleam of hope darting across his mind, he returned to his daughter, whom clémence was most tenderly consoling. "my dear child," said he, as he entered, "you yourself observed that this day seemed destined to be one of important discoveries and solemn explanations, but i did not then think your words would be so strikingly verified as they seem likely to be." "dear father, what has happened?" "fresh sources of uneasiness have arisen." "on whose account?" "on yours, my child. i fear you have only revealed to us a portion of your griefs." "be kind enough to explain yourself," said fleur-de-marie, blushing. "then hearken to me, my beloved child. you have, perhaps, good cause to fancy yourself unhappy. when, at the commencement of our conversation, you spoke of the hopes you still entertained, i understood your meaning, and my heart seemed broken by the blow with which i was menaced, for i read but too clearly that you desired to quit me for ever, and to bury yourself in the eternal seclusion of a cloister. my child, say, have i not divined your intentions?" "if you would consent," murmured forth fleur-de-marie, in a faint, gasping voice. "would you, then, quit us?" exclaimed clémence. "the abbey of ste. hermangeld is in the immediate neighbourhood of gerolstein, and i should frequently see yourself and my father." "remember, my child, that vows such as you would take are not to be recalled. you are scarcely eighteen years of age, and one day you may--possibly--" "oh, think not i should ever regret my choice! there is no rest or peace for me save in the solitude of a cloister. there i may be happy, if you and my second mother will but continue to me your affection." "the duties and consolations of a religious life," said rodolph, "might, certainly, if not cure, at least alleviate the anguish of your lacerated and desponding mind, and although your resolution will cost me dear, i cannot but approve of it." "rodolph!" cried the astonished clémence, "do i hear aright? is it possible you--" "allow me more fully to explain myself," replied rodolph. then addressing his daughter, he said, "but before an irrevocable decision is pronounced, it would be well to ascertain if nothing more suitable, both to your inclinations and our own, could be found for you than the life of a nun." fleur-de-marie and clémence started at rodolph's words and manner, while, fixing an earnest gaze on his daughter, the prince said, abruptly: "what think you, my child, of your cousin, prince henry?" the brightest blush spread over the fair face of fleur-de-marie, who, after a momentary hesitation, threw herself weeping in her father's arms. "then you love him, do you not, my darling child?" cried rodolph, tenderly pressing her hands. "fear not to confide the truth to your best friends." "alas!" replied fleur-de-marie, "you know not what it has cost me to conceal from you the state of my heart! had you questioned me on the subject, i would gladly have told you all, but shame closed my lips, and would still have done so, but for your inquiry into the nature of my feelings." "and have you any suspicion that henry is aware of your love?" "gracious heavens, dearest father!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, shrinking back in terror, "i trust not!" "do you believe he returns your affection?" "oh, no, no! i trust he does not! he would suffer too deeply." "and what gave rise to the love you entertained for your cousin?" "alas, i know not! it grew upon me almost unconsciously. do you remember a portrait of a youth dressed as a page, in the apartments of the abbess de ste. hermangeld?" "i know; it was the portrait of henry." "believing the picture to be of distant date, i one day in your presence remarked upon the extreme beauty of the countenance, when you jestingly replied that it was the likeness of an ancestor who, in his youth, had displayed an extraordinary share of sense, courage, and every estimable quality; this strengthened my first impression, and frequently after that day i used to delight in recalling to my mind the fine countenance and noble features of one i believed to have been long numbered with the dead. by degrees these reveries began to form one of my greatest pleasures, and many an hour have i passed gazing, amid smiles and tears, on one i fondly hoped i might be permitted to know and to love in another world. for in this," continued poor fleur-de-marie, with a most touching expression, "i well know i am unworthy to aspire to the love of any one but you, my kind, indulgent parents." "i can now understand the nature of the reproof you once gave me for having misled you on the subject of the portrait." "conceive, dearest father, what was my confusion when i learnt from the superior that the portrait was a living subject,--that of her nephew! my trouble was extreme, and earnestly did i endeavour to erase from my heart all the fond associations connected with that picture. in vain! the pertinacity with which i strove to forget but riveted the impression i had received; and, unfortunately, dear father, you rendered the task of forgetting more difficult, by continually eulogising the heart, disposition, and principles of prince henry." "you loved him, then, my child, from merely seeing his likeness and hearing his praises?" "without positively loving him, i felt myself attracted towards him by an irresistible impulse, for which i bitterly reproached myself; my only consolation was the thought that no person knew my fatal secret. for how could i presume to love? how excuse my ingratitude in not contenting myself with the tenderness bestowed on me by you, my father, and you, also, dearest mother? in the midst of all these conflicting feelings i met my cousin, for the first time, at a ball given by you to the archduchess sophia; his resemblance to the portrait too well assured me it was he; and your introducing prince henry to me as a near relative afforded me ample opportunities of discovering that his manners were as captivating as his mind was cultivated." "it is easy to conceive, then, that a mutual passion sprung up between you! indeed, he won upon my regard ere i was aware of the ground he had gained; he spoke of you so admiringly, yet so respectfully." "you had yourself praised him so highly." "not more than he deserved. it is impossible to possess a more noble nature, or a more generous and elevated character." "i beseech you, dearest father, to spare me the fresh trial of hearing him thus praised by you. alas! i am already wretched enough." "go on, my child. i have a reason in thus extolling your cousin--i will explain hereafter. proceed." "though aware of the danger of thus daily associating with my cousin, i felt unable to withdraw myself from the pleasure his society afforded me; nor, spite of my implicit reliance on your indulgence, dear father, durst i disclose my fears to you. i could then only redouble my efforts to conceal my unfortunate attachment, and--shall i confess?--there were moments when, forgetting the past, i gave myself up to all the dear delights of a friendship hitherto unknown to me. but the departure of prince henry from your court tore the veil from my eyes, and showed me how truly and ardently i loved him, though not with a sister's love, as i had made myself believe. i had resolved to open my heart entirely to you on this subject," continued fleur-de-marie, whose strength seemed utterly exhausted by her long confession, "and then to ask you what remained for one so every way unfortunate but to seek the repose of a cloister." "then, dearest daughter, let me answer the question ere you have put it, by saying there is a prospect as bright and smiling awaits your acceptance, as that you propose is cheerless and gloomy." "what mean you?" "now, then, listen to me. it was impossible for an affection as great as mine to be blinded to the mutual affection subsisting between yourself and your cousin; my penetration also quickly discovered that his passion for you amounted to idolatry; that he had but one hope, one desire on earth,--that of being loved by you. at the time i played off that little joke respecting the portrait, i had not the least expectation of henry's visiting gerolstein. when, however, he did come, i saw no reason for changing the manner in which i had always treated him, and i therefore invited him to visit us on the same terms of friendly relationship he had hitherto done. a very little time had elapsed ere clémence and myself saw plainly enough the cause of his frequent visits, or the mutual delight you felt in each other's society. then mine became a difficult task. "on the one hand, i rejoiced as a father that one so every way worthy of you should have won your affection; then on the other hand, my poor dear child, your past misfortunes forbade me to encourage the idea of uniting you to your cousin, to whom i several times spoke in a manner very different to the tone i should have adopted, had i contemplated bestowing on him your hand. "thus placed in a position so delicate, i endeavoured to preserve a strict neutrality, discouraging prince henry's attentions by every means in my power, and yet manifesting towards himself the same paternal kindness with which i had always treated him; and besides, my poor girl, after a life of so much unhappiness as yours, i could not bring myself suddenly to tear away the innocent pleasure you appeared to feel in the company of your cousin. it was something to see you even temporarily happy and cheerful, and even now your acquaintance with prince henry may be the means of securing your future tranquillity." "dear father, i understand you not." "prince paul, henry's father, has just sent me this letter. while considering such an alliance as an honour too great to aspire to, he solicits your hand for his son, who, he states, is inspired with a passion for you." "dearest father!" cried fleur-de-marie, concealing her face with her hands, "do you forget?" "i forget nothing,--not even that to-morrow you enter a convent, where, besides, being for ever lost to me, you will pass the remainder of your days in tears and austerity. if i must part with you, let it be to give you to a husband who will love you almost as tenderly as your father." "married!--and to him, father! you cannot mean it!" "indeed i do; but on one condition: that directly after your marriage has been celebrated here, without pomp or parade, you shall depart with your husband for some tranquil retreat in italy or switzerland, where you may live unknown, and merely pass for opulent persons of middle rank. and my reason for attaching this proviso to my consent is because i feel assured that, in the bosom of simple and unostentatious happiness, you would by degrees forget the hateful past, which is now only more painfully contrasted with the pomp and ceremony by which you are surrounded." "rodolph is right," said clémence. "with henry for your companion, and happy in each other's affection, past sorrows will soon be forgotten." "and as i could not wholly part with you, clémence and i would pay you a visit each year. then when time shall have healed your wounded spirit, my poor child, and present felicity shall have effaced all recollections of the past, you will return to dwell among us, never more to part." "forget the past in present happiness!" murmured fleur-de-marie. "even so, my child," replied rodolph, scarcely able to restrain his emotion at seeing his daughter's scruples thus shaken. "can it be possible," cried fleur-de-marie, "that such unspeakable felicity is reserved for me? the wife of henry. and one day to pass my life between him--yourself--and my second mother!" continued she, more subdued by the ineffable delight such a picture created in her mind. "all--all that happiness shall be yours, my precious child!" exclaimed rodolph, fondly embracing fleur-de-marie. "i will reply at once to henry's father that i consent to the marriage. comfort yourself with the certainty that our separation will be but short; the fresh duties you will take upon yourself in a wedded life will serve to drive away all past retrospections and painful reminiscences; and should you yourself be a mother, you will know and feel how readily a parent sacrifices her own regrets and griefs to promote the happiness of her child." "a mother! i a mother!" exclaimed fleur-de-marie, with bitter despair, awakening at that word from the sweet illusion in which her memory seemed temporarily lulled. "oh, no! i am unworthy to bear that sacred name! i should expire of shame in the presence of my own child, if indeed i could survive the horrible disclosures i must necessarily make to its father of my past life! oh, never--never!" "my child, for pity's sake, listen to me!" pale and beautiful amidst her deep distress, fleur-de-marie arose with all the majesty of incurable sorrow, and, looking earnestly at rodolph, she said, "we forget that, ere prince henry made me his wife, he should be acquainted with the past!" "no, no, my daughter," replied rodolph, "i had by no means forgotten what he both ought to know and shall learn of the melancholy tale." "think you not that i should die, were i thus degraded in his eyes?" "and he will also admit and feel," added clémence, "that if i style you my daughter, he may, without fear or shame, safely call you his wife." "nay, dearest mother, i love prince henry too truly to bestow on him a hand that has been polluted by the touch of the ruffians of the cité." * * * * * a short time after this painful scene, the following announcement appeared in the official gazette of gerolstein: "the taking of the veil by the most high and mighty princess amelie of gerolstein took place yesterday in the abbey of ste. hermangeld, in the presence of the reigning grand duke and all his court. the vows of the novice were received by the right reverend and illustrious lord charles maximus, archbishop of oppenheim; monseigneur annibal andré, one of the princes of delphes and bishop of ceuta, _in partibus infidelium_, and apostolic nuncio, bestowed the salutation and papal benediction. the sermon was preached by the most reverend seigneur pierre d'asfeld, canon of the chapter of cologne, and count of the holy roman empire. _veni creator optime!_" chapter iii. the vows. _rodolph to clémence._ gerolstein, th january, . your assurance that your father is better induces me to hope you will be enabled to return here with him shortly. i dreaded that at rosenfeld, situated in the midst of the woods, he would be exposed to the piercing cold of our rigorous winters, but, unfortunately, his fondness for hunting rendered all our advice useless. i entreat you, clémence, as soon as your father can bear the motion of the carriage, quit that country and this habitation, only fit for those germans of an iron frame whose race has now disappeared. the ceremony of our poor child's taking the vows is fixed for to-morrow, the thirteenth of january, the fatal day on which i drew my sword on my father! alas! i thought too soon i was forgiven! the hope of passing my life with you and my child made me forget that it was she who had been punished up to the present time, and that my punishment was to come. and it is come, when, six months ago, she disclosed the double torture she suffered,--her incurable shame for the past, and her hopeless passion for henry. these two sentiments became, by a fatal logic, the cause of her fixed resolve to take the veil. you know that we could not conceal from her that, had we been in her place, we should have pursued the same noble and courageous course she has adopted. how could we answer those humble words, "i love prince henry too much to give him a hand that has been touched by the bandits of the cité!" i have seen her this morning, and though she seemed less pale than usual, though she said she did not suffer, yet her health gives me the most mortal alarm. alas! this morning, when i saw beneath the veil those noble features, i could not refrain from thinking how beautiful she looked the day of our marriage; it seemed that our happiness was reflected on her face. as i told you, i saw her this morning. she does not know that to-morrow the princess juliana resigns her abbatical dignity, and that she has been unanimously chosen to succeed her. since the beginning of her novitiate there has been but one opinion of her piety, her charity, and the exactitude with which she fulfils all the rules of the order; she even exaggerates their austerity. she exercises in the convent that authority she exercised everywhere, but of which she herself is ignorant. she confessed to me this morning that she is not so absorbed by her religious duties as to forget the past. "i accuse myself, dear father," said she, "because i cannot help reflecting that, had heaven pleased to spare me the degradation that has stained my life, i might have lived happily with you and my husband. spite of myself, i reflect on this, and on what passed in the cité. in vain i beseech heaven to deliver me from these temptations,--to fill my heart with himself; but he does not hear my prayers, doubtless because my life has rendered me unworthy of communion with him." "but," cried i, clinging to this faint glimmer of hope, "it is not yet too late; your novitiate is only over to-day; you are yet free. renounce this austere life, dwell again with us, and our tenderness shall soften your grief." shaking her head sorrowfully, she replied: "the cloister is, indeed, solitary for me, accustomed as i have been to your tender care; doubtless cruel recollections come over me, but i am consoled by the knowledge that i am performing my duty. i know that everywhere else i should be liable to be placed in that position in which i have already suffered so much. your daughter shall do what she ought to do, suffer what she ought to suffer." without founding any great hopes on this interview, i yet said to myself, "she can renounce the cloister. but as she is determined, i can but repeat her words, 'god alone can offer me a refuge worthy of himself.'" adieu, dear clémence! it consoles me to see you grieve with me, for i can say 'our' child without egotism in my sufferings. often this thought lightens my sorrow, for you are left to me, and what is left to fleur-de-marie? adieu again; return soon. r. abbey of ste. hermangeld. four o'clock in the morning. reassure yourself, clémence! thank god, the danger is over, but the crisis was terrible! last evening, agitated by my thoughts, i recollected the paleness and languor of my poor child, and that she was obliged to pass almost all the night in the church in prayer. i sent murphy and david to demand the princess juliana's permission to remain until the morrow in the mansion that henry occupied usually; thus my child would have prompt assistance, and i prompt intelligence, in case that her strength failed under this rigorous, i will not say cruel, obligation to pass the whole of a cold winter's night in the church. [illustration: "in the church in prayer" original etching by mercier] i wrote to fleur-de-marie that, whilst i respected her religious exercises, i besought her to watch in her cell and not in the church. this was her reply: "_my dear father_:--i thank you for this fresh proof of your tenderness, but be not alarmed, i am sufficiently strong to perform my duty. your daughter must be guilty of no weakness. the rule orders it, i must submit. should it cause me some physical sufferings, how joyfully shall i offer them to god! adieu, dear father! i cannot say i pray for you, because whenever i pray to heaven i cannot help remembering you in my prayers. you have been to me on earth what god will be, if i merit it, in heaven. bless your child, who will be to-morrow the spouse of heaven. "sister amelie." this letter, in some measure, reassured me; however i had, also, a vigil to keep. at nightfall i went to a pavilion i had built, near my father's monument, in expiation of this fatal night. about one o'clock i heard murphy's voice. he came from the convent in order to inform me that, as i had feared, my unhappy child, spite of her resolution, had not had sufficient strength to accomplish this barbarous custom. at eight o'clock in the evening fleur-de-marie knelt and prayed until midnight, but, overpowered by her emotion and the intense cold, she fainted; two nuns instantly raised her, and bore her to her cell. david was instantly summoned, and murphy came to me. i hastened to the convent, where the abbess assured me that my daughter's swoon, from which she had recovered, had been caused only by her weakness, but that david feared that my presence might seriously affect her. i feared they were preparing me for something more dreadful, but the superior said: "i assure you, monseigneur, the princess is in no danger; the restorative the doctor has given her has greatly recruited her strength." david soon returned. she was better, but had insisted upon continuing her vigil, consenting only to kneel upon a cushion. "she is in the church, then?" cried i. "yes, monseigneur, but she will quit it in a quarter of an hour." i entered the church, and, by the faint light of a lamp, i saw her kneeling and praying fervently. three o'clock struck; two sisters, seated in the stalls, advanced and spoke to her; she crossed herself, rose, and traversed the choir with a firm step, and yet as she passed the lamp she seemed to me deathly pale. i remain at the abbey until the ceremony be over. i think now it is useless to send this letter incomplete. i will forward it to-morrow, with all the details of this sad day. adieu, dearest!--i am heart-broken--pity! r. the last chapter. the thirteenth of january. _rodolph to clémence._ the thirteenth of january! now a doubly sinister anniversary! dearest, we have lost her for ever! all is over,--ended all. it is true, then, that there is a horrid pleasure in relating a terrible grief. yesterday i was complaining of the necessity that kept you from me; to-day, clémence, i congratulate myself that you are not here,--you would have suffered too much. this morning i was in a light slumber, and was awakened by the sound of bells. i started in affright; it seemed to me a funereal sound,--a knell! in fact, our daughter is dead,--dead to us! and from to-day, clémence, you must begin to wear her mourning in your heart, a heart always so maternally disposed towards her. whether our child be buried beneath the marble of the tomb or the vault of the cloister, what is the difference to us? hardly eighteen years of age, yet dead to the world! at noon the profession took place, with solemn pomp, and i was present, concealed behind the curtains of our pew. i felt, but even with greater intensity, all the poignant emotion we underwent at her novitiate. how strange! she is adored! and they believe, universally, that she was attracted to a religious life by an irresistible vocation; and yet whilst they believed it was a happy event for her, an overwhelming sadness weighed down the spectators. there appeared in the very air, as it were, a doleful foreboding, and it was founded, if only half realised. the profession terminated, they led our child into the chapter-room, where the nomination of the new abbess was to take place, and, thanks to my sovereign privilege, i went into this room to await fleur-de-marie's return to the choir. she soon entered; her emotion and weakness were so excessive that two of the sisters supported her. i was alarmed, less at her paleness and the great change in her features, than at the peculiar expression of her smile, which seemed to me imprinted with a kind of secret satisfaction. clémence, i say to you, perhaps we may very soon require all our courage,--i feel within myself that our child is mortally smitten. may heaven grant that i am deceived, and may my presentiments arise only from the despairing sadness which this melancholy spectacle has inspired! fleur-de-marie entered the chapter-room, all the stalls were filled by the nuns. she went modestly to place herself last on the left-hand side, still leaning on the arm of one of the sisters, for she yet appeared very weak. the princess juliana was seated at the end of the apartment, with the grand prioress on one side and another dignitary on the other, holding in her hand the golden crozier, the symbol of abbatial authority. there was profound silence; and then the lady abbess rose, took the crozier in her hand, and said, in a voice of great emotion: "my dear daughters, my great age compels me to confide to younger hands this emblem of my spiritual power," and she pointed to the crozier. "i am authorised by a bull of our holy father; i will, therefore, present to the benediction of monseigneur the archbishop of oppenheim, and to the approbation of his royal highness the grand duke our sovereign, whosoever of my dear daughters shall be pointed out by you to succeed me. our grand prioress will inform you of the result of the election, and she who has been chosen will receive my crozier and ring." i did not take my eyes off my daughter. standing up in her stall, her two hands folded over her bosom, her eyes cast down, and half covered by her white veil and the long folds of her black gown, she was pensive and motionless, not supposing for a moment that she would herself be elected, as this fact had been communicated by the abbess to no one but myself. the grand prioress took a book and read: "each of our dear sisters having been, according to the rule, requested a week since to place her vote in the hands of our holy mother, and keep her choice secret until this moment, in the name of our holy mother i declare to you, my dear, dear sisters, that one of you has, by her exemplary piety, merited the unanimous suffrages of the community, and that she is our sister amelie, the most noble and puissant princess of gerolstein." at these words a murmur of pleased surprise and satisfaction went around the apartment; the eyes of all the nuns were fixed on my daughter with an expression of tender sympathy, and, in spite of my painful forebodings, i was myself deeply touched at this nomination, which, done isolatedly and secretly, had yet presented such an affecting unanimity. the abbess continued, in a serious and loud voice: "my dear daughters, if it be, indeed, sister amelie whom you think the most worthy and most deserving of you all,--if it be she whom you recognise as your spiritual superior, let each of you reply to me in turn, my dear daughters." and each nun replied in a clear voice: "freely and voluntarily i have chosen, and i do choose, sister amelie for my holy mother and superior." overcome by inexpressible emotion, my poor child fell on her knees, clasped her hands, and remained so until each vote was declared. then the abbess, placing the crozier and the ring in the hands of the grand prioress, advanced towards my daughter to take her hand and conduct her to the abbatial seat. "rise, my dear daughter," said the abbess; "come and assume the place that belongs to you. your virtues, and not your rank, have obtained for you the position you have gained." fleur-de-marie, trembling, advanced a few steps, and said: "pardon me, holy mother, but i would speak to my sisters." "then first place yourself, my dear child, in your abbatial seat," said the princess; "it is from thence your voice shall be heard." "that place, holy mother, never can be mine!" replied fleur-de-marie, in a low and tremulous voice. "what mean you, my dear daughter?" "so high a dignity was not made for me, holy mother." "but the wishes of all your sisters call you to it." "permit me, holy mother, to make here, on my knees, a solemn confession; and my sisters will see, and you, also, holy mother, that the humblest condition is not humble enough for me." "this arises from your modesty, my dear child," said the superior, with kindness, believing that the unhappy girl was giving way to a feeling of overdelicacy. but i divined the confession fleur-de-marie was about to make, and, greatly alarmed, i exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty: "my child, i conjure thee--" it is impossible, my dearest clémence, to describe the look which fleur-de-marie gave me. in an instant she understood all, and saw how deeply i should share in the shame of this horrible revelation. she comprehended that after such a confession they might accuse me of falsehood, for i had always made it out that fleur-de-marie had never left her mother. at this reflection the poor dear child thought she would be guilty of the blackest ingratitude towards me; she had not power to continue, but bowed down her head, overcome--overwhelmed. "again i assure you, my dear child," said the abbess, "your modesty deceives you. the unanimity of the choice of your sisters proves how worthy you are to replace me. it is not the princess--it is sister amelie who is elected. for us your life began on the day when you first put foot in this house of the lord, and it is this exemplary and holy life that we recompense. i will say more, my dear daughter; if before you entered this retreat your life had been as wrong as it has been, on the contrary, pure and praiseworthy, the heavenly virtues of which you have given me an example since your abode here would expiate and ransom, in the eyes of the lord, any past life, however culpable. and now, my dear daughter, judge if your modesty ought not to be reassured." these words of the abbess were, as you may think, my clémence, the more precious for fleur-de-marie, as she believed the past ineffaceable. unfortunately, this scene had deeply moved her, and, although she affected calmness and serenity, i saw that her features altered in a most distressing manner. "i believe i have convinced you, my dear daughter," said the princess juliana; "and you will not cause so great a grief to your sisters as to refuse this mark of their confidence and affection?" "no, holy mother," she said, with an expression which struck me, and in a voice more and more feeble, "i think now i may accept; but as i feel myself fatigued and in pain, if you will permit it, holy mother, the ceremony of the consecration shall not take place for a few days." "as you wish, my dear daughter; but in the meanwhile, until your dignity is blessed and consecrated, take this ring, come to your place, and our dear sisters will do you homage according to our rules." and the superior, putting the pastoral ring on fleur-de-marie's finger, led her to the abbatial seat. it was a simple and touching sight. supported on one side by the grand prioress, bearing the golden crozier, and on the other by the princess juliana, each of the sisters, as she passed by, made obeisance to our child, and respectfully kissed her hand. but judge of my affright when she swooned before the procession of the sisters was terminated. david had not quitted the convent, and he hastened to the abbess's apartment, whither we had conveyed her, and then attended to her. the superior having returned to close the sitting of the chapter, i remained alone with my daughter. after looking at me for some time, she said: "my dear father, can you forget my ingratitude? can you forget that at the moment when i was about to make my painful confession--when you implored me--" "silence! i beseech you!" "and i did not reflect," she continued, with bitterness, "that, in telling in the face of all the world from what an abyss of depravity you had rescued me, i revealed a secret which you had preserved out of tenderness to me! it would have been to accuse you publicly--you, my father--of a dissimulation, which you only resigned yourself to to assure me a brilliant and honoured existence! can you ever forgive me?" instead of replying, i pressed my lips on her forehead; she felt my tears flow. having kissed my hands many times, she said: "now i feel better, and, as now i am dead to the world, i should like to make a few bequests in favour of several persons; but as all i have comes from you, do you authorise me, dearest father?" "say, dearest, and i will do all you desire." "i should wish my beloved mother to keep always in the little boudoir in which she usually sits my embroidery-frame, with the work i began." "it shall be so, love; your apartment is as when you left it. clémence will be deeply touched by your thought of her." "as for you, dear father, take, i pray, my large ebony armchair, in which i have thought of--reflected upon so much." "i will put it beside my own, in my own private closet, and will imagine i see you in it every day, where you have so often sat," i said, unable to repress my tears. "and now i would leave some souvenirs to those who took so much interest in me when i was unhappy. to madame georges i would give the writing-desk i have lately used; she taught me to write originally, so the gift will be very appropriate," she said, with her sweet smile. "as to the venerable curé of bouqueval, who instructed me in religion, i intend for him the beautiful crucifix in my oratory." "very well, my dearest child." "i should like to send my bandeau of pearls to my good little rigolette; it is a simple ornament which she may wear in her beautiful black hair. and as you know where martial and la louve are in algeria, i should like to send to the brave woman who saved my life my gold enamelled cross. these different keepsakes, dearest father, i would have sent to them 'from fleur-de-marie.'" "i will do all you wish,--i will not forget one." "i am sure you will not, dearest father." "is there no other person present to your memory?" the dear child understood me, and pressed my hand, whilst a slight blush tinged her pale cheeks as i said, "he is better--out of danger." "and his father?" "better as his son is better. and what will you give to henry? a souvenir from you will be a consolation so dear and precious!" "my father, offer him my _prie-dieu_. alas! i have often watered it with my tears when begging from heaven for strength to forget henry, as i was unworthy of his love." "how happy it will make him to see that you have had one thought of him!" "as to the asylum for the orphans and young girls abandoned by their parents, i should wish, my dear father, that--" here rodolph's letter was broken off by these words, almost illegible: "clémence, murphy will conclude this letter! i am lost,--bereft of sense! ah, the thirteenth of january!" at the end of this letter murphy had written as follows: _madame_:--by the order of his royal highness i complete this sorrowful recital. the two letters of monseigneur will have prepared your royal highness for the overwhelming news i have to communicate. three hours since, whilst monseigneur was writing to your royal highness, i was waiting in the antechamber for a letter to be despatched by a courier, when suddenly i saw the princess juliana enter in the greatest consternation. "where is his royal highness?" she said to me, in an agitated voice. "writing to the grand duchess," i replied. "sir walter," she said, "you must inform monseigneur of a terrible event. you are his friend,--you should tell him; from you the blow may be less terrible!" i understood all, and thought it most prudent to charge myself with the distressing intelligence. the superior having added that the princess amelie was sinking gradually, and that monseigneur must hasten to receive his daughter's last sigh, i went into the duke's room, who saw how pale i was. "you have some bad news for me?" "terrible, monseigneur! but courage! courage!" "ah, my forebodings!" he exclaimed; and, without adding a word, he ran to the cloisters. i followed him. from the apartment of the superior, the princess amelie had been conveyed to her cell, after her last interview with monseigneur. one of the sisters watched over her, and at the end of an hour she perceived that the princess amelie's voice, who spoke to her at intervals, was weaker, and more and more oppressed. the sister hastened to inform the superior, who sent for doctor david, who administered a cordial; but it was useless, the pulse was scarcely perceptible. he saw with despair that the reiterated emotions having probably exhausted the little strength of the princess amelie, there was not a hope of saving her left. monseigneur arrived at this moment. the princess amelie had just received the last sacrament; a slight degree of consciousness remained. in one hand, crossed over her chest, she held the remains of her little rose-tree. monseigneur fell on his knees at the foot of the bed, and sobbed, "my child! my beloved child!" in a voice of piercing agony. the princess amelie heard him, turned her head a little towards him, opened her eyes, tried to smile, and said, in a faint voice, "my dearest father, pardon!--henry, too!--and my beloved mother!--pardon!" these were her last words. after a slight struggle of one hour, she rendered her soul to god. when his daughter had breathed her last sigh, monseigneur did not say a word; his calmness and silence were frightful. he closed the eyelids of the princess, kissed her forehead several times, took piously from her hands the relics of the little rose-tree, and left the cell. i followed him, and he returned to the house outside the cloister, when, showing me the letter he had commenced writing to your royal highness, and to which he in vain endeavoured to add a few words, for his hand trembled too convulsively, he said to me, "i cannot write! i am crushed! my senses are gone! write to the grand duchess that i have no longer a daughter!" i have executed the orders of monseigneur. may i be allowed, as his old servant, to entreat your royal highness to hasten your return as soon as the health of m. d'orbigny will permit? nothing but the presence of your royal highness can calm monseigneur's despair. he will watch his daughter's remains every night until the day when she is to be buried in the grand-ducal chapel. i have accomplished my sad task, madame. deign, to excuse the incoherence of this letter, and to receive the expression of respectful devotion with which i have the honour to be your royal highness's most obedient servant, walter murphy. on the evening before the funeral of the princess amelie, clémence arrived at gerolstein with her father. rodolph was not alone on the day of fleur-de-marie's interment. the end. * * * * * transcriber's notes: this e-text was prepared from numbered edition of the printed. minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without comment. minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly throughout the text have been made without comment. word variations appearing in the original text which have been retained: "ante-room" ( ) and "anteroom" ( ) "death-like" ( ) and "deathlike" ( ) "for ever" ( ) and "forever" ( ) "protégés" ( ) and "protégées" ( ) "work-girl" ( ) and "workwoman" ( ) throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on facing pages. for the purpose of this e-text these pages have been combined into one entry. footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears. (stanford university, sul books in the public domain) transcriber's notes: . passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. . passages in gothic bold are surrounded by +plus+ signs. . other transcription notes appear at the end of this e-text. [illustration: "_'cecily! cecily!' murmured a voice_" original etching by adrian marcel] +the mysteries of paris.+ _illustrated with etchings by mercier, bicknell, poiteau, and adrian marcel._ _by eugene sue_ _in six volumes volume v._ _printed for francis a. niccolls & co. boston_ +edition de luxe+ _this edition is limited to one thousand copies, of which this is_ no.______ contents. chap. page i. the presentation ii. murphy and polidori iii. the clerk's office iv. avoid temptation v. la force vi. pique-vinaigre vii. maÎtre boulard viii. franÇois germain ix. the lions' den x. the story-teller xi. gringalet and cut-in-half list of illustrations. page "'cecily! cecily!' murmured a voice" _frontispiece_ "slowly dancing and whirling around me" "then left me" "touched with his lips through the grating" "the skeleton staggered at first" the mysteries of paris. chapter i. the presentation. a few days after the murder of madame séraphin, the death of the chouette, and the arrest of the gang of desperadoes taken by surprise at bras-rouge's house, rodolph paid another visit to the house in the rue du temple. we have already observed that, with the view of practising artifice for artifice with jacques ferrand, discovering his hidden crimes, obliging him to repair them, and inflicting condign punishment should the guilty wretch, either by skill or hypocrisy, continue to evade the just punishment of the laws, rodolph had sent to fetch from one of the prisons in germany a young and beautiful creole, the unworthy wife of the negro david. this female, lovely in person as depraved in mind, as fascinating as dangerous, had reached paris the preceding evening, and had received the most minute instructions from baron de graün. the reader will recollect that in the last interview between rodolph and madame pipelet, the latter having very cleverly managed to propose cecily to madame séraphin, as a servant to the notary in place of louise morel, her proposition had been so well received that the _femme de charge_ had promised to speak to jacques ferrand on the subject; and this she had done, in terms most flattering to cecily, the very morning of the day on which she (madame séraphin) had been drowned at the isle du ravageur. the motive for rodolph's visit was, therefore, to inquire the result of cecily's introduction. to his great astonishment, he found, on entering the lodge, that although eleven o'clock in the morning had struck by all the neighbouring dials, pipelet had not yet risen, while anastasie was standing beside his bed, offering him some sort of drink. as alfred, whose forehead and eyes were entirely concealed beneath his huge cotton nightcap, did not reply to his wife's inquiries, she concluded he slept, and therefore closed the curtains of his bed. turning around, she perceived rodolph, and, as usual, gave him a military salute, by lifting the back of her left hand up to her wig. "ah, my king of lodgers! service to you! how are you? as for me, i'm upset--bewildered--stupefied. pretty doings have there been in the house since you was here. and my poor alfred,--obliged to keep his bed ever since yesterday!" "why, what has happened?" "positively, don't you guess? still going on in the old way with that monster of a painter, who is more bitter than ever against alfred. he has quite muddled his brains, till i declare i don't know what to do with him." "cabrion again?" "oh, _he'll_ never leave off." "he must be the very devil!" "really, m. rodolph, i shall very soon think so; for he always knows the very instant i quit the house. scarcely is my back turned, than there he is, in the twinkling of an eye, worrying and tormenting my poor old dear of a husband, who is as helpless and frightened as a babby. only last night, when i had just stepped out as far as m. ferrand's the notary's--ah, there's pretty work there, too!" "but cecily?" said rodolph, with some little impatience. "i called to know--" "hold hard, my king of lodgers! don't be in such a hurry, or you'll put me out. and i've such a deal to tell you, i don't know when i shall have done; and if once i'm interrupted in a story, i never know when to begin again." "there now, go on as fast as you can; i'm listening." "well, then, first and foremost, what do you think has happened in the house? ah, you'll never guess, so i'll tell you. only imagine, old mother burette's being taken up!" "what, the female pawnbroker?" "oh, lord, she seems to have had a curious mixture of trades: for besides being a money-lender, she was a receiver of stolen goods, a melter of gold and silver, a fortune-teller, a cheat, a dealer in second-hand clothes, and any sort of contraband articles. the worst of the story is that m. bras-rouge, her old sweetheart and our principal lodger, is also arrested. i tell you the house is thoroughly upset with these strange doings." "arrested! bras-rouge arrested?" "that he was, i can promise you. why, even his mischievous little imp of a son--the lame boy we call tortillard--has also been locked up. they say that lots of murders have been planned and managed at his house, which was the well-known resort of a gang of ruffians; that the chouette, one of mother burette's most particular friends, has been strangled; and that, if assistance had not arrived in time, mother mathieu, the dealer in precious stones for whom morel worked, would also have been murdered. come, i think there's a pretty penn'orth of news for you,--and cheap, too, at the price!" "bras-rouge arrested and the chouette dead!" murmured rodolph to himself, in deep astonishment at the tidings. "well, the vile old hag deserved her fate, and poor fleur-de-marie is at least avenged!" "so that is the state of things here," continued anastasie. "as for m. cabrion and his devil's tricks, i'll tell you all about it. oh, you never knew such a bold howdacious willin as he is! but you shall hear,--i'll go straight on with my story. but there never,--no, there never was his feller for inperence! so when mother burette was took up, and we heard how that m. bras-rouge, our principal lodger, was quodded also, i says to my old boy, 'alfred, darling,' says i, 'you must toddle off to the landlord and let him know as m. bras-rouge is in the stone jug.' well, alfred goes; but in about two hours' time back he comes--in such a state!--such a state! white as a sheet and puffing like an ox!" "why, what was the matter?" "i'm a-going to tell you. i suppose, m. rodolph, you recollect the high wall about ten steps from here? well, my poor, dear, darling husband was going along thinking of nothing, when, quite by chance, he just looked upon this wall. and what do you think he saw written in great staring letters with a piece of charcoal?--why, 'pipelet and cabrion!'--the two names joined together by a sort of true-lover's knot. (ah, it is that true-lover's knot which sticks so tight in the gizzard of my poor old chick!) that sight rather upset him; but still he tried to act like a man and not mind it. so on he went. but hardly had he proceeded ten steps farther when, on the principal entrance to the temple, there again were the same hateful words, 'pipelet and cabrion,' united as before! still he walked on; but at every turn he saw the same detestable writing on the walls, doors, and even shutters of houses! everywhere pipelet and cabrion danced before his eyes, for ever bound in the same tender tie of love or friendship! my poor dear alfred's head began to turn around, and his eyes to grow dizzy; all sorts of horrid objects seemed to meet him and laugh him to scorn. he fancied the very people in the streets were laughing at him. so, quite confused and ashamed, he pulled his hat over his face, and took the road towards the boulevards, believing that the scamp cabrion would have confined his abominations to the rue du temple. but no--not he! all along the boulevards, wherever a blank spot remained or a place could be found to hold the words, had he written 'pipelet and cabrion!'--sometimes adding, 'till death!' at last my poor dear man arrived at the house of the landlord, but so bewildered and stupefied that, after hammering and stammering and bodgering about without being able to utter a clear sentence, the landlord, having tried for nearly half an hour to bring him sufficiently to his senses to say what had made him come to his house, got quite in a passion, and called him a stupid old fool, and told him to go home and send his wife or somebody who could speak common sense. well, poor dear alfred left as he was ordered, thinking, at any rate, he would return by a different road, so as to escape those dreadful words that had so overcome him going. do you believe he could get rid of them, though? no; there they were, large as life, scrawled upon every place, and united by the lover's band as before." "what, pipelet and cabrion still written along the walls?" "precisely so, my king of lodgers. the end of it was that my poor darling came home to me regularly brain-struck, talked in the wildest and most desperate way of leaving france, exiling himself for ever, and no one knows what. well, i persuaded him to tell me all that had happened; then i did my best to quiet him, and persuade him not to worry himself about such a beggar as that cabrion; and when i found he had grown a little calmer, i left him, and went to take cecily to the notary's, before i proceeded on to the landlord to finish poor alfred's message. now, perhaps, you think i've done? but i haven't, though. no; i had hardly quitted the place, than that abominable cabrion, who must have watched me out, sent a couple of impudent great creatures, who pursued alfred with the most determined villainy. oh, bless you, it makes my very hair stand on end when i think of it! i'll tell you all about their proceedings another time; let me first finish about the notary. well, off i started with cecily in a hackney-coach,--as you told me to do, you know. she was dressed in her pretty costume of a german peasant; for having only just arrived, she had not had time to procure any other, which i was to explain to m. ferrand, and beg of him to excuse. you may believe me or not, just as you please, my king of lodgers, but though i have seen some pretty girls in my time,--myself, for instance,--yet i never saw one (not even myself) comparable to cecily. and then she has such a way of using those wicked black eyes of hers! she throws into them a look--a look--that seems--to mean--i know not what--only they seem to pierce you through, and make you feel so strange; i never saw such eyes in my life! why, there's my poor, dear, darling alfred, whose virtue has never been suspected; well, the first time that she fixed her looks on him, the dear fellow turned as red as a carrot, and nothing in the world could have induced him to gaze in her face a second time. i'm sure for more than an hour afterwards he kept fidgeting about in his chair, as though he were sitting upon nettles. he told me afterwards he could not account for it, but that somehow the look cecily bestowed on him seemed to bring to his thoughts all the dreadful stories that shameless bradamanti used to tell about the female savages, and which used to make my poor dear simpleton of an alfred blush to his very fingers' ends." "but i want to hear what passed at the notary's. never mind alfred's modesty just now, but tell me." "i was just going, m. rodolph. it was just seven o'clock in the evening when we arrived at m. ferrand's, and i told the porter to let his master know that madame pipelet was there with the young woman she had spoke to madame séraphin about, and by whose orders she had brought her. upon which the porter heaved a deep sigh, and asked me if i knew what had happened to madame séraphin? i told him, 'no; i hadn't heard of anything being the matter with her.' ah, m. rodolph, prepare for another strange event,--a most astounding circumstance!" "what can it be?" "why, madame séraphin was drowned while on a party of pleasure to which she had gone with her relations." "drowned, and on a party of pleasure in the winter?" exclaimed rodolph, much surprised. "yes, drowned, m. rodolph. for my part i must say that i was more astonished than distressed at the news; for since that affair of poor louise, who was taken to prison entirely through her information, i downright hated madame séraphin. so when i heard what had befallen her, all i did was to say to myself, 'oh, she's drowned, is she,--drowned? well, i don't mean to make myself ill with crying, that's very sure. i sha'n't die of grief,--that's my disposition.'" "and m. ferrand?" "the porter said at first he did not think i could see his master, and begged me to wait in his lodge while he went to see. but he almost directly came back to fetch me. we crossed the courtyard, and entered an apartment on the ground floor, where a single miserable candle was twinkling its best to light it, but without success. the notary was sitting beside the fireplace, and on the hearth a few smouldering ashes still sent out a small degree of warmth. but such a wretched hole i never saw! it was my first view of m. ferrand. oh, my stars, what a downright ugly fellow he is! such a man as he might have offered to make me queen of arabia before i would have played alfred false." "and tell me, did the notary appear much struck with cecily when she entered?" "why, how can any one tell what he thinks while he keeps those great green spectacles on? besides, a godly saint such as he passes for has no business to know whether a woman is handsome or ugly. however, when we both walked into the room and stood before him, he gave quite a spring up from his seat. most likely, he was astonished at cecily's dress, for she looked for all the world (only a hundred thousand times better) like one of those 'buy-a-broom' girls with her short petticoats and her handsome legs set off by her blue stockings with red clocks. my conscience, what a leg she has! such a slender ankle!--and then, oh, such a calf! with a foot as small and delicate as an opera dancer's. i can tell you that the notary seemed almost speechless with surprise, after he had looked at her through his green specs from head to toe." "doubtless, as you say, he was struck by the whimsicality of cecily's costume." "well, maybe so; however, i felt that the critical moment had arrived, and began to feel rather queer; fortunately, just as my courage began to fail me, m. rodolph, i recollected a maxim i learned from you, and that got me safe through my difficulty." "what maxim do you mean,--i don't remember teaching you any?" "don't you know?--'it is always enough for one to wish, for the other to refuse; or, for one to desire, for the other to be unwilling.' 'so,' said i to myself, 'here goes to rid my king of lodgers of his german niece, and to burthen the hard-hearted master of poor louise with her. now, then, for a good piece of shamming;' and, without giving the notary breathing time, i began by saying, in a polite and insinuating tone, 'i hope, sir, you'll excuse my niece being dressed as she is, but she has only just arrived, and has brought nothing with her but the costume of her country; and i am sure it don't lay in my power to provide her with others; and, besides, it would not be worth while, since we have merely called to thank you for having allowed madame séraphin to say you would see cecily, in consequence of the favourable character i had given her. still, sir, i don't think, after all, she would suit you.'" "capital, madame pipelet; go on." "'and why so?' inquired the notary, who had established himself by the warmest corner of the fire, and seemed to be looking very attentively at us from over his green spectacles, 'why should you suppose your niece not likely to suit me?' 'because, sir, cecily is already quite homesick; she has only been here three days and yet she wants to go back; and so, she says, she will, too, if she is obliged to beg her way, or sing songs and sell little brooms, like the rest of her countrywomen.' 'but bless me!' answered m. ferrand, 'do you, who are her principal relation, mean to allow of that?' 'i don't see how i am to hinder her, sir,' said i. 'certainly, i am the nearest relation she has, for the poor thing is an orphan, as i told good madame séraphin; but then she is twenty years of age, and, of course, mistress of her own actions.' 'stuff and nonsense!' interrupted he, quite impatiently; 'don't tell me about being her own mistress; at her time of life she is bound to obey her relations, and take their advice in all things.' upon which cecily began to cry and to creep up to me, all of a tremble, as if she was quite afraid of the notary." "and what said jacques ferrand further?" "oh, he kept muttering in a grumbling tone, 'a young creature at that age left to her own guidance! why, it would be the ruin of her! and, as for begging her way back to germany--a pretty idea! and you mean to call yourself her aunt, and say that you would sanction such conduct?' 'all right,' says i to myself; 'you are falling into the trap as neat as ninepence, you miserly old hunks, and if i do not saddle you with cecily, my name is not what it is!' 'yes,' cried i, in a discontented voice, 'i'm her aunt, sure enough, and worse luck to me for having such an encumbrance; i have difficulty enough to earn my bread, without having a great overgrown girl like that, to take it out of my mouth; and i would much rather she went back to her own country than stop here to be a burthen to me. the deuce take people who can't manage to maintain their own children, but just send them for others to work for and keep without even so much as paying their travelling expenses!' and then, as if cecily were up to my schemes, and desirous of playing into my hands, she burst out into such a fit of crying and sobbing as quite touched the notary, who began in a sniffling, whining tone, as though preaching a sermon, 'let me tell you that you are accountable before providence for the charge he has entrusted to your care and keeping, and you are answerable for any false step this poor girl may take. now i am willing to join you in a charitable action; and if your niece will promise me to be honest, industrious, virtuous, pious, and, above all, never upon any occasion to desire to leave the house, i will take pity on her, and receive her into my service.' 'no, no!' said cecily, crying more violently than ever, 'i don't want to stop here with this gentleman; i wish to go back to my home; and i will, too!'" "ah, ah," thought rodolph, "her dangerous falsehood has not deserted her,--the depraved creature has, evidently, fully comprehended the instructions she received from baron de graün." then, speaking aloud, the prince continued, "did cecily's resistance appear to displease m. jacques ferrand?" "yes, m. rodolph, it seemed to make him as savage as could be, and he muttered something between his teeth i could not make out. then he said, abruptly, 'it is not what you would prefer, young woman, but what is most suitable and creditable that is to be considered. providence will never forsake you, so long as you conduct yourself respectably and virtuously, and carefully attend to your religious duties. you will be here in a family as pious as it is strict in all such matters; and if your aunt has any real regard for your welfare, she will take advantage of my offer. your wages will be trifling at first, but hereafter i may be induced to increase them should your good behaviour render you deserving of encouragement.' 'bravo!' thinks i to myself, 'i've regularly hooked the miser, and fixed him with cecily as right as a trivet. why, you old curmudgeon! you old skinflint! you miserable, hard-hearted old hypocrite! you know very well that séraphin was your slave for years, and yet you seem to have forgotten her death, and the dreadful manner of it, as much as though nothing had happened.' then i said out loud, 'no doubt, sir, yours is a very good place, and one as many would be thankful to have, but if this girl is so homesick, what am i to do?' 'oh, take no notice of it,' replied the notary, 'and it will soon wear away. but make up your minds,--just say one way or the other; if you decide upon your niece entering my service, bring her here to-morrow evening at the same hour you came to-night; and my porter will show her about the premises, and also explain her work to her. as for her wages, i shall begin with twenty francs a month and her food.' 'oh, sir, i hope you will make it twenty-five francs,--twenty is really too little!' 'no, no, not at present; by and by perhaps i may, if i am satisfied. one thing, however, i must impress upon you, and that is, that your niece will never go beyond these walls, neither will she be allowed to receive any visitors.' 'bless your heart, sir! who could come to see her? why, she does not know a single soul in paris, except myself, and i am obliged to stay at home to mind my lodge. i have been terribly put about to come out this evening, so you will see nothing of me; and as for my niece, she will be as great a stranger to me as though she was in her own country; and the best way to prevent her going out will be to make her wear the costume of her country,--she could not venture in the streets dressed in that manner.' 'you are quite right,' replied the notary; 'it is, besides, always respectable to wear the dress of our own country; your niece shall, therefore, continue to dress as she now is.' 'come, my girl,' said i to cecily, who, with her head hanging down, and her finger in the corner of her mouth, was keeping up a continual weeping, 'come, make up your mind. a good place with a worthy master is not to be found every day; so, if you choose to refuse it, do, but don't look to me for any further support; i'll have nothing to do with you, i can tell you!' upon which cecily, swelling as though her heart would burst, replied, sobbing, 'very well, then, if aunt was so particular, she should stay, but only on condition that, if she did not find herself comfortable, she might come away at the end of a fortnight.' 'don't be alarmed,' answered the notary, 'i shall not force you to stop against your will. i can promise you there are too many young persons would be thankful to have my situation; but i pity your position as an orphan, and, therefore, give you the preference. there, take your earnest money; and let your aunt bring you here about this time to-morrow evening.' cecily was too busy crying to take the two francs' piece the old starvemouse offered, so i took it for her. we made our courtesies and came away." "you have managed admirably, madame pipelet; and i do not forget my promise; here is what i promised you, if you managed to get this girl taken off my hands." "wait till to-morrow before you give it me, my king of lodgers!" cried madame pipelet, putting back the money rodolph offered her; "perhaps, when i go to take cecily this evening, m. ferrand may have changed his mind." "not he, depend upon it! but where is she?" "in the small room adjoining the apartments of the commandant; she will not stir out after the orders you gave. she seems mild and gentle as a lamb; but then, her eyes! oh, dear! it is difficult to fancy her either one or the other, when one looks at those--talking of the commandant, what a plotting, mysterious person he is! would you believe it? when he came here to superintend the packing up of his furniture, he told me that if any letters came addressed to 'madame vincent,' they were for him, and that i was to send them to the rue mondine, no. . the idea of the pretty creature having his letters addressed as if for a female! what a conceited jackanapes he is! but the best of it was, he asked me what had become of his wood! 'your wood?' said i, 'why don't you ask after your forest when you are about it?' oh, i said it so flat and plain! a mean, grasping hound, to trouble himself to ask after two pitiful loads of wood,--his wood, indeed! 'what has become of your wood?' repeated i, still working him on, till he got quite white with passion, 'why, i burnt it to keep your things from the damp, which would otherwise have made mushrooms grow upon your fine embroidered cap, and the mildew from rotting your smart, glittering _robe de chambre_, which you must love so dearly, because you have put it on so many times when you were fool enough to wait for those who never meant to come, but were only laughing at you,--like the lady who made believe she was going to pay you a visit, and then passed your door, though you had set it wide open to show yourself decked in all your finery. your wood, indeed! i like that! you poor squeeze-penny of a commandant,--enough to disgust one with men altogether.'" a deep, plaintive groan, something between a grunt and a sigh, from the bed on which alfred reposed, here interrupted madame pipelet. "ah, there's the old duck beginning to stir; he will not be long before he wakes now. will you excuse me, my king of lodgers?" "certainly; but i have yet some particulars to inquire of you." "oh, very well," answered madame pipelet. then going up to her husband, she drew back the curtains, saying, "how are you by this time, my old chick? look! there's m. rodolph, who has heard all about this fresh villainy of cabrion's, and is as sorry about it as can be." "ah, m. rodolph," murmured alfred, languidly turning his head towards the announced visitor, "this time the monster has struck at my heart; i shall quit this bed no more. i am now the object of all the placards of this vast city; my name is blazoned upon every wall in paris, linked with that of a wretch unworthy of mention. yes, _môssieur_, there you may see 'pipelet and cabrion,' bound together by an enormous band of union. yes, i--i--the injured pipelet--united in bonds of seeming amity and intimacy with that fellow cabrion! oh, _môssieur_, pity me! my name joined with his in the eyes of all the dwellers of this great capital,--the leading city of europe!" "ah, m. rodolph knows all about that; but he has yet to be told of your yesterday's adventures with those two singular women, or whatever they were." "alas, monsieur," sighed alfred, in a mournful voice, "he reserved his master-stroke of wickedness and fiendish malice till the last. this, however, passes all bounds, and human patience can bear no more!" "come, my dear m. pipelet, calm yourself, and endeavour to relate this fresh annoyance to me." "all that he has hitherto done to vex and insult me is as nothing compared to his last malignant scheme to break my heart and ruin my peace. but now the shameless monster has gone the full extent of fiendish provocation. i know not whether i have the power of describing to you the scene of last night; when i attempt to speak, shame, confusion, and outraged modesty seem to deprive me of voice and breath." m. pipelet, having managed with some difficulty to raise himself in his bed, modestly buttoned his flannel waistcoat up to his throat, and began in the following terms: "my wife had just gone out, absorbed in the bitter reflections arising from the sight of my name so disgracefully prostituted on every wall in paris; i sought to while away my solitary hours by attending to the new soling of a boot twenty times commenced and as often abandoned,--thanks to the unceasing persecutions of my pitiless persecutor. well, sir, i was sitting at a table with the boot on my arm, though my thoughts were far otherwise engaged, when i saw the lodge door open and a female enter. the person who had just come in was wrapped in a large hooded cloak, and, without thinking any harm, i civilly rose from my seat, and put my hand to my hat. then i observed another female, also attired in a similar cloak, with a large hood, enter the lodge and shut the door after her. although somewhat astonished at the familiarity of such a proceeding, and the silence maintained by both the women, i rose a second time from my chair, and a second time i lifted my hand to my hat. and then, sir,--but no, no, i can never finish the recital; my wounded modesty chokes my utterance." "come, come, old pet," said madame pipelet, encouragingly, "get on with your story; we are all men here." "well, then," stammered forth alfred, his face becoming scarlet as the fullest blown peony, "then their mantles fell to the ground. and what do you think i saw? why, a couple of sirens, or nymphs, or witches of one kind or the other, with no sort of clothing except a petticoat made of leaves, while a wreath of similar descriptions decorated their heads. and then the two advanced towards me with outstretched arms, as though inviting me to throw myself into them." "oh, the impudent sluts!" exclaimed anastasie. "their impure advances disgusted me," continued alfred, animated with a chaste indignation; "and, in conformity with a habit which has ever attended the most critical moments of my life, i remained still and motionless on my chair. then, profiting by my surprise and stupor, the two sirens came gently forward to a sort of low music, turning and twisting and extending their arms and legs in all directions. i became petrified, as though changed to stone; i waited their approach in silent agony. they came nearer and nearer, till at last they wrapped me tight in their arms." "did they, though?" cried anastasie. "oh, the hussies! i only wish i had been there with my broomstick; i'd have taught them how to come hopping and skipping, and holding out their arms for an innocent, virtuous, married man to tumble into,--i would, the bold-faced beggars!" [illustration: "_slowly dancing and whirling around me_" original etching by porteau] "when i felt myself in a manner half stifled between them, i gave myself up for lost. my blood retreated from my heart,--i felt as if struck with death; when one of the sirens--a great, fair girl, and the boldest of the two--leaned upon my shoulder, took off my hat, and, still slowly dancing and whirling around me, left me bald-headed and defenceless. then the other one, accompanying the action with all sorts of attitudes and singular dances, and waving of the arms, draws out a pair of scissors she must have hid somewhere,--for i'm quite sure she had no pockets,--came close behind me, and grasping with one hand all my remaining hair, snipped it all off with one cut of her huge scissors; yes, all,--every lock,--every hair i had to cover my poor old head; dancing, and wheeling, and balancing, first on one foot, then on the other, swaying out legs and arms in all sorts of stage-struck ways; then joining voices, the pair of audacious spirits began singing, ''tis for cabrion,--for cabrion; we take your locks for cabrion,--your dear friend cabrion!' whilst the second voice repeated in a louder strain, 'your head is shorn for cabrion,--for cabrion, your friend!'" after a pause, interrupted by repeated sighs and groans, alfred resumed: "during this impudent spoliation i once ventured to raise my eyes, and then i saw flat against the windows of the lodge the detestable countenance of cabrion, with his large beard and pointed-crowned hat. he was laughing, too,--laughing with all his might. oh, how i shuddered at the horrible vision! to escape from so harrowing a sight i closed my eyes. when i opened them again all had disappeared, and i found myself seated on my chair, bald-headed and completely disfigured for life. you see, monsieur, that, by dint of obstinacy, impudence, and cunning, cabrion has at length effected his fell design. but by what fearful, what diabolical means, has he succeeded! he wishes the world to believe he is my accepted friend; began by sticking up a notice here in my immediate neighbourhood to the effect that he and i had entered into a treaty of friendship! then, not content with so infamous an assertion, he has caused my name, in conjunction with his own, to be displayed on every wall in paris, binding them together with an enormous band of union, so that at this moment the whole of this vast capital is impressed with the most perfect belief of my close intimacy with this scoundrel. then he desired locks of my hair, and he has every hair off my head,--no doubt with the view, the guilty view, of exhibiting them as proofs of our sworn friendship. thanks to the merciless exaction of his bold-faced dancing women, my last lock is stolen. so now, monsieur, you see plainly there is nothing left for me but to quit france,--my lovely and beloved france,--in whose dear bosom i had hoped to live and die!" and with these pathetic words alfred clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and threw himself back upon his bed. "oh, nonsense, you old duck!" cried anastasie. "on the contrary, now the villain has gained his point and stolen your hair, he will let you alone for the future. he has no further cause to disturb and torment you." "let me alone?" exclaimed m. pipelet, with a convulsive spring upwards. "oh, you know him not; he is insatiable. true, he has got the hair he so much desired to obtain; but who can say what he may further require of me?" the appearance of rigolette at the entrance to the lodge put a stop to the lamentations of m. pipelet. "stay where you are, mademoiselle!" cried he, faithful to his habitual chaste delicacy. "pray don't think of coming in, for i am undressed and in bed!" so saying, he covered himself up almost to his eyes, while rigolette, surprised and bewildered, remained at the threshold of the door. "oh, my pretty neighbour," said rodolph, pitying her confusion, "i was just coming up to speak with you. can you wait for me one minute?" then addressing anastasie, he said, "pray let nothing prevent your taking cecily to jacques ferrand's this evening." "make yourself perfectly easy, my king of lodgers; at seven o'clock precisely she shall be duly placed there. now that morel's wife is able to get about, i will ask her to mind the lodge for me while i am away; for, bless you, alfred would not stay by himself,--not for a 'varsal crown!" the bright freshness of rigolette's complexion was daily fading away, while her once round, dimpled cheek had sunk and given place to a pale, careworn countenance, the usually gay, mirthful expression of which had changed into a grave, thoughtful cast, more serious and mournful still since her meeting with fleur-de-marie at the gate of st. lazare. "i am so glad to see you," said rigolette to rodolph, when they were at a convenient distance from the lodge of madame pipelet. "i have so much to say to you; i have, indeed." "well, then, first of all, tell me of yourself and your health. let me look at this pretty face, and see whether it is as gay and blooming as usual. no, indeed. i declare you have grown quite pale and thin; i am sure you work too hard." "oh, no, indeed, m. rodolph, it is not that. on the contrary, my work does me good; it hinders me from thinking too much, for i am obliged to attend to what i am about. but it is grief, m. rodolph, and nothing else, that has altered me so much. and how can i help it? every time i see that poor germain, i grieve more and more." "he is still as desponding as ever, then?" "oh, worse than ever, m. rodolph. and what is the most distressing is, that, whatever i try to do to cheer him up, takes quite the contrary effect; it seems as though a spell hung over me!" and here the large, dark eyes of rigolette were filled with tears. "how do you know, my dear neighbour?" "why, only yesterday i went to see him, and to take him a book he was desirous of having; it was a romance we read together when we lived happily as near neighbours and dear friends. well, directly he saw the book, he burst into tears; but that did not astonish me,--it seemed natural enough. poor fellow! i dare say it brought back to his recollection those happy evenings when he used to sit beside the fire in my nice, pretty little room; while now he was in a horrid prison, the companion of vile and wicked men, who only jeered at his melancholy. poor, dear germain! it is very, very hard!" "take courage, my dear friend," said rodolph. "when germain quits his prison, and his innocence is proved, he will find his mother and many dear friends, in whose society, as well as in yours, he will soon forget his present sufferings, as well as the hard trials he has undergone." "that's all very pleasant when it arrives, but that won't stop his tormenting himself till it does. but that is not all, neither." "what other uneasiness has he?" "why, he being the only innocent man among all the bad people there, they are always annoying and behaving ill to him, because he will not join in their idle and vicious amusements. the head turnkey, who is a very good sort of man, advised me to recommend germain, for his own sake, not to keep himself at quite such a distance from his companions, but to try and familiarise himself with these bad men. however, it is no use trying; he cannot bring himself to endure their company or conversation. and i am constantly tormented with the dread that some of these days they will do him some harm out of spite." then all at once interrupting herself, and drying her tears, rigolette resumed: "but, dear me, how selfish i am! i keep talking of my own concerns without ever recollecting to speak to you about the goualeuse." "the goualeuse!" exclaimed rodolph, with surprise. "i met her the day before yesterday, when i went to see louise at st. lazare." "the goualeuse?" "yes, indeed, m. rodolph." "at st. lazare?" "she was leaving the prison in company with an elderly female." "it cannot be," exclaimed rodolph, in extreme astonishment; "you must be mistaken." "i assure you it was herself, m. rodolph." "you really must be in error." "oh, no, i was not mistaken; although she was dressed as a country girl i recollected her again directly. she looked beautiful as ever, though pale; and she had just the same melancholy look she used to have." "how very strange that she should be in paris without my having heard of it! i can scarcely credit it. and what had she been doing at st. lazare?" "i suppose, like myself, she had been to see some one confined there; but i had not time to ask her many questions, for the person who was with her seemed so very cross, and to be in such a hurry! then it seems you know the goualeuse as well as myself, m. rodolph?" "i do, certainly." "oh, then, that settles the matter! and it must have been of you she spoke." "of me?" "yes, indeed, m. rodolph. for, you see, i was just mentioning to her what had happened to poor louise and germain,--both so good, yet so persecuted by that wicked jacques ferrand,--taking care to do as you bid me, and not say a word of your being interested in their welfare so then the goualeuse told me if a generous person she knew were once acquainted with their hard fate, and how little they deserved it, he would be sure to assist them. and then i asked her the name of the person she alluded to, and she named you, m. rodolph." "oh, then, it was her, sure enough." "you can't imagine how much surprised we both were at this discovery, either of resemblance or name; and before we parted we agreed to let each other know whether our m. rodolph was one and the same. and it seems you are the very identical rodolph both of la goualeuse and myself. are you not, neighbour?" "i believe so; and i can, at least, assure you i take the greatest possible interest in the fate of this poor girl,--still i am much surprised to find, by what you say, that she is in paris. and so great is my astonishment that, had you not so faithfully related your interview, i should have persisted in believing you were mistaken. but i must say good-bye for the present,--what you tell me respecting la goualeuse obliges me to quit you. be as careful as ever in not mentioning to any one that there are certain unknown friends watching over the welfare both of louise and germain, who will come forward at a right moment and see them safe through their troubles; it is more essential than ever that strict secrecy should be kept on this point. by the way, how are the morel family getting on?" "oh, extremely well, m. rodolph. the mother has quite got about again, and the children are daily improving. ah, the whole family owe their life and happiness to you! you are so good and so generous to them." "and how is poor morel himself? does he get any better?" "oh, dear, yes; i heard of him yesterday, he seems from time to time to have some lucid moments, and hopes are entertained of his madness being curable. so be of good heart, neighbour, take care of yourself, and good-bye for the present." "but first tell me truly, are you quite sure you want for nothing? are you still able to maintain yourself with the profits of your needle?" "oh, yes, thank you, m. rodolph. i work rather later at night to make up for my lost time during the day. but it does not matter much, for if i go to bed i don't sleep." "poor, dear neighbour! why, you have grown sadly out of spirits. i am afraid that papa crétu and ramonette don't sing much, if they wait for you to set them the example." "you are right enough, m. rodolph, my birds have quite left off singing, as well as myself. now i know you will laugh at me, but i'll tell you what i firmly think and believe,--the poor little creatures are aware that i am dull and out of spirits, and instead of singing and warbling as if their little throats would burst for joy when they see me, they just give a little gentle twitter, as though they would not disturb me for the world, but would be so glad to console me if they had the power. it is very stupid of me to fancy such things, is it not, m. rodolph?" "not at all! and i am quite sure that your affectionate friends the birds have observed your being less happy than usual." "well, i'm sure i shouldn't wonder! the poor, dear things are so very clever," said rigolette, innocently, delighted to find her own opinion as to the sagacity of her companions in solitude thus powerfully confirmed. "oh, i am quite sure about it, nothing is more intelligent than gratitude. but once more, good-bye,--i shall see you again soon, i hope, and by that time, i trust your pretty eyes will have grown brighter, your cheeks regained their usual roses, and your merry voice have recovered all its gaiety, till papa crétu and ramonette will scarcely be able to keep up with you." "heaven grant you may prove a true prophet, m. rodolph!" said rigolette, heaving a deep sigh. "but, good-bye, neighbour, don't let me keep you." "fare you well, for the present!" rodolph, wholly at a loss to understand why madame georges should have brought or sent fleur-de-marie to paris without giving him the least intimation of her intention, hastened home for the purpose of despatching a special messenger to the farm at bouqueval. just as he entered the rue plumet he observed a travelling carriage drawn up before the entrance of his hotel. the vehicle contained murphy, who had that instant returned from normandy, whither he had gone, as the reader is already aware, to counteract the base schemes of the stepmother of madame d'harville and her infamous confederate, bradamanti. chapter ii. murphy and polidori. sir walter murphy's features were beaming with satisfaction. when he alighted from the carriage he gave a brace of pistols to one of the prince's servants, took off his long travelling coat, and, without giving himself time to change his clothes, followed rodolph, who impatiently had preceded him to his apartment. "good news, monseigneur! good news!" exclaimed the squire, when he was alone with rodolph; "the wretches are unmasked, m. d'orbigny is saved. you despatched me just in time; one hour later and another crime would have been committed." "and madame d'harville?" "is overjoyed at having again acquired her father's affection; and full of happiness at having arrived, thanks to your advice, in time to snatch him from certain death." "so, then, polidori--" "was, in this instance, the worthy accomplice of madame d'harville's stepmother. but what a wretch is this stepmother! what _sang-froid_! what audacity! and this polidori! ah, monseigneur, you have frequently desired to thank me for what you call my proofs of devotion." "i have always said proofs of friendship, my dear murphy." "well, monseigneur, never--no, never--has this friendship been exposed to a severer trial than in this present case!" said the squire, with an air half serious, half pleasant. "what mean you?" "the disguises of the coalman, the peregrinations in the cité, and all that sort of thing, they have been as nothing, actually nothing, when compared with the journey i have just made with that infernal polidori." "what do you mean? polidori?" "i have brought him back with me." "with you?" "with me: judge what company! during twelve hours side by side with the man i most despise and hate in the world,--i'd as soon travel with a serpent--any beast of antipathy!" "and where is polidori now?" "in the house in the allée des veuves, under good and safe guard." "then he made no resistance to following you?" "none. i offered him the choice between being apprehended at once by the french authorities, or being my prisoner in the allée des veuves,--he didn't hesitate for an instant." "you are right; it is best to have him thus in our grasp. you are worth your weight in gold, my dear old murphy. but tell me all about your journey; i am impatient to know how this shameless woman, and her equally shameless accomplice, were at last unmasked." "nothing could be more simple. i had only to follow the letter of your instructions in order to terrify and crush these wretches. under these circumstances, monseigneur, you have served, as you always do, persons of worth, and punished the wicked, noble preserver that you are!" "sir walter! sir walter! do you recollect the flatteries of the baron de graün?" said rodolph, smiling. "well, then, monseigneur, i will begin,--or, perhaps, you would prefer first reading this letter of the marquise d'harville's, which will inform you on every point that occurred previous to my arrival, which so completely confounded polidori." "a letter! pray let me have it immediately." murphy gave the letter of the marquise to rodolph, adding: "as we had agreed, instead of accompanying madame d'harville to her father's, i alighted at a small inn quite close to the château, where i was to wait until the marquise sent for me." rodolph read what follows with tender and impatient solicitude: "monseigneur:--after all i owe you already, i now owe to you my father's life. i will allow facts to speak for themselves; they will say better than i can what fresh accumulations of gratitude to you i have added to those already amassed in my heart. understanding all the importance of the advice you sent to me by sir walter murphy, who overtook me on my way to normandy a short distance from paris, i travelled as speedily as possible to the château des aubiers. i know not why, but the countenances of the persons who received me appeared to me sinister. i did not see amongst them any one of the old servitors of our house; no one knew me. i was obliged to tell them my name. "i learned that for several days my father had been suffering greatly, and that my stepmother had just brought a physician from paris. i had no doubt but this was doctor polidori. desirous of being immediately conducted to my father, i inquired for an old _valet de chambre_ to whom he was much attached; he had quitted the château some time previously. this i learned from a house-steward who had shown me to my apartment, saying that he would inform my stepmother of my arrival. was it illusion or suspicion? it seemed to me that my coming annoyed the people at the château where all was gloomy and sinister. in the bent of mind in which i was we seek to draw inferences from the slightest circumstances. i remarked in every part traces of disorder and neglect, as if it had been too much trouble to take care of a house which was so soon to be abandoned. my uneasiness--my anxiety increased at every moment. "after having established my daughter and her governess in an apartment, i was about to proceed to my father, when my stepmother entered the apartment. in spite of her artfulness, in spite of the control which she ordinarily exercised over herself, she appeared alarmed at my sudden arrival. 'm. d'orbigny does not expect your visit, madame,' she said to me, 'and he is suffering so much that a surprise may be fatal. i think it, therefore, best that he should not be told of your arrival, for he would be unable to account for it, and--' "i did not allow her to finish. 'a terrible event has occurred, madame,' i said, 'm. d'harville is dead, in consequence of a fatal imprudence. after so deplorable a result, i could no longer remain in paris in my own house, and i have, therefore, come to my father's, in order to pass the first days of my mourning.' "'a widow! ah, that, indeed, is unexpected happiness!' exclaimed my stepmother, in a rage. from what you know, monseigneur, of the unhappy marriage which this woman had planned in order to avenge herself on me, you will comprehend the brutality of her remark. "'it is because i fear you might be as unexpectedly happy as myself, madame, that i came here,' was my (perhaps imprudent) reply. 'i wish to see my father.' "'that's impossible, at this moment!' she replied, turning very pale; 'the sight of you would cause a dangerous degree of excitement.' "'if my father is so seriously ill,' i observed, 'why was i not informed of it?' "'such was m. d'orbigny's will,' replied my stepmother. "'i do not believe you, madame! and i shall go and assure myself of the truth,' i said, and turned towards the door of my chamber. "'i tell you again that the unexpected sight of you may have a most prejudicial effect on your father!' she cried, coming before me so as to hinder my further progress; 'i will not allow you to go into his room, until i have informed him of your arrival with all the care and precaution which his situation requires.' "i was in a cruel perplexity, monseigneur. a sudden surprise might really be dangerous to my father, but this woman,--usually so calm, so self-possessed--seemed to me so overcome by my presence, i had so many reasons to doubt the sincerity of her solicitude for the health of him whom she had married from cupidity; and then, too, the presence of doctor polidori, the murderer of my mother, caused me altogether such extreme alarm that, believing my father's life menaced, i did not hesitate between the hope of saving him and the fear of causing him severe emotion. 'i will see my father, and that instantly!' i said to my stepmother. and although she tried to retain me by the arm, i went out of the room. completely losing her presence of mind, this woman tried a second time, and almost by force, to prevent me from quitting the chamber. this incredible resistance increased my alarm, i disengaged myself from her grasp, and, knowing my father's apartment, i ran thither with all speed, and entered the room. "oh, monseigneur, during my life i never can forget that scene, and the picture presented to my eyes. my father, scarcely to be recognised, pale and meagre, with suffering depicted in every feature, his head reclining on a pillow, was lying extended on a large armchair. at the corner of the fireplace, standing close to him, was doctor polidori, just about to pour into a cup, which a nurse presented to him, some drops of a liquor contained in a small glass bottle which he held in his hand. his long red beard gave even a more than usually sinister appearance to his physiognomy. i entered so hastily that he gave a look of surprise at my stepmother, who followed me with hasty steps; and instead of handing to my father the draught he had prepared for him, he suddenly placed the phial on the mantelpiece. guided by an instinct for which i am unable to account, my first movement was to seize the phial. remarking instantly the surprise and alarm of my stepmother and polidori, i congratulated myself on my promptitude. my father, amazed, seemed irritated at the sight of me. i expected this. polidori darted at me a ferocious scowl, and, in spite of the presence of my father and the nurse, i feared the wretch, seeing his crime so nearly disclosed, would have recourse to violence with me. i felt the necessity of support at a moment so decisive; and ringing the bell, one of my father's servants came in, whom i requested to tell my _valet de chambre_ (who had already been informed) to go and seek some things i had left at the little inn. sir walter murphy was aware that, in order not to arouse my stepmother's suspicions, in case it should be necessary to give my orders in her presence, i should employ this means of requesting him to come to me. such was the surprise of my father and stepmother, that the servant quitted the room before they could utter a word. i felt my courage then rise, for, in a few minutes, sir walter murphy would be at my side. "'what does all this mean?' said my father to me, in a voice feeble, but still angry and imperious. 'you here, clémence without my sending for you? then, scarcely arrived, you seize the phial containing the draught the doctor was about to give me. will you explain this madness?' "'leave the room,' said my stepmother to the nurse. the woman obeyed. 'compose yourself, my dear!' said my stepmother, addressing my father; 'you know how injurious the slightest emotion is to you. since your daughter will come here in spite of you, and her presence is so disagreeable to you, give me your arm. i will lead you into the small salon, and then our good doctor will make madame d'harville comprehend how imprudent her conduct has been, to say the least of it.' and she gave her accomplice a meaning look. i at once saw through my stepmother's design. she was desirous of leading my father away, and leaving me alone with polidori, who, in this extreme case, no doubt, would have used force to obtain from me the phial which might supply so evident a proof of his criminal designs. "'you are right,' said my father to my stepmother. 'since i am thus pursued, even in my private apartments, without respect for my wishes, i will leave the place free to intruders.' and rising with difficulty, he took the arm that was offered to him by my stepmother, and went towards the salon. "at this moment polidori advanced towards me; but i went close up to my father and said to him, 'i will explain to you why i have arrived so suddenly, and what may appear strange in my conduct. i became yesterday a widow; and it was yesterday, father, that i learned your life was threatened.' he was walking very much bent, but at these words he stopped, threw himself erect, and looking at me with intense surprise, said: "'you are a widow? my life is threatened? what does all this mean?' "'and who dares threaten the life of m. d'orbigny, madame?' asked my stepmother, most audaciously. "'yes, who threatens it?' added polidori. "'you, sir!--you, madame!' i replied. "'what horror!' exclaimed my stepmother, advancing a step towards me. "'what i assert i will prove, madame!' i replied. "'such an accusation is most frightful!' cried my father. "'i will leave the house this very moment, since i am exposed to such shameful calumnies,' said doctor polidori, with the apparent indignation of a man whose honour has been outraged. beginning to feel the danger of his position, no doubt, he was desirous of effecting his escape. at the moment when he was trying to open the door, it opened, and he found himself face to face with sir walter murphy." rodolph ceased reading, held out his hand to the squire, and said: "well done, my good old friend; your presence must have crushed the scoundrel!" "that's precisely the word, monseigneur. he turned livid, receded a couple of paces, looking at me aghast; he seemed thunderstruck. to find me at the further extremity of normandy, in such a moment, he must have thought he had a terrible dream. but go on, monseigneur; you will see that this infernal comtesse d'orbigny had her share of the overwhelming shame, thanks to what you told me as to her visit to the charlatan bradamanti--polidori--in the house in the rue du temple; for, after all, it was you who acted in this, i assure you, and you came in most happily and opportunely to the rescue on this occasion." rodolph smiled, and continued reading madame d'harville's letter: "at the sight of sir walter murphy, polidori was panic-struck; my stepmother went on from one surprise to another; my father, agitated at this scene, weakened by his malady, was compelled to sit down in an armchair. sir walter double-locked the door by which he had entered; and placing himself before that which led to the next apartment, that doctor polidori might not escape, he said to my poor father, with a tone of the utmost respect, 'a thousand pardons, monsieur le comte, for the liberty i take, but an imperious necessity, dictated by your interest alone (and which you will speedily recognise), compels me to act thus. my name is sir walter murphy, as this wretch can testify, who at the sight of me trembles in every limb. i am the private adviser of his royal highness monseigneur the grand duke regnant of gerolstein.' "'quite true!' stammered forth doctor polidori, overcome with fright. 'but then, sir, what have you come here for? what seek you?' "'sir walter murphy,' i observed, addressing my father, 'is here with me to unmask the wretches whose victim you have so nearly been.' then handing the phial to sir walter, i added, 'i was suddenly tempted to seize on this phial at the moment when doctor polidori was about to pour some drops of the liquor it contains into a draught he was about to offer to my father.' "'a practitioner in the neighbouring village shall analyse before you the contents of this bottle, which i will deposit in your hands, m. le comte; and if it is proved to contain a slow and sure poison,' said sir walter murphy to my father, 'you cannot have any further doubt as to the dangers you have run, and which the tender care of your daughter will most happily have averted.' "my poor father looked by turns at his wife, doctor polidori, and sir walter, with an air of doubt and anxiety; his features betrayed indescribable anguish. no doubt but he resisted with all his might increasing and terrible suspicions, fearing to be obliged to confess the infamy of my stepmother. at length, concealing his head in his hands, he exclaimed, 'oh, this is, indeed, horrible!--impossible! am i in a dream?' "'no, it is no dream!' cried my stepmother, audaciously; 'nothing can be more real than this atrocious calumny, concerted beforehand to destroy an unhappy woman, whose only crime is that of consecrating her whole existence to you. come, come, my dear, do not remain a moment longer here!' she continued, addressing my father; 'i do not suppose that your daughter will have the insolence to retain you here against your will.' "'yes, yes, let me go!' said my father, highly excited; 'all this is not true--cannot be true! i will not hear any more, my brain cannot endure it. fearful misgivings would arise in my mind, which would embitter the few days i have still to live, and nothing could console me for so horrible a discovery.' "my father seemed to suffer so much, to be so despairing that, at all hazards, i resolved on putting an end to this scene, which was so acutely trying for him. sir walter guessed my desire, but desirous of full and entire justice, he replied to my father, 'but a few words more, m. le comte. you will, no doubt, suffer chagrin of a most painful kind, when you detect in the woman's conduct, whom you believe attached to you by gratitude, a system of most atrocious ingratitude,--in herself a hypocritical monster. but you will find your consolation in the affections of your daughter, who has never failed you.' "'this passes all bounds!' cried my stepmother, with rage. 'and by what right, sir, and on what proofs, dare you to base such infamous calumnies? you say the phial contains poison? i deny it, and will deny it until you prove the contrary. and even supposing doctor polidori has by mistake confounded one medicine with another, is that a reason why you should dare to accuse me of having sought--desired to be his accomplice? oh, no, no! i cannot go on! an idea so horrible is already a crime! once again, sir, i defy you to say upon what proofs you and madame here dare rely to support this shameful calumny!' said my stepmother, with incredible audacity. "'yes, on what proofs?' exclaimed my poor father; 'the torture i undergo must have an end.' "'i am not here, sir, without proofs, m. le comte,' replied sir walter; 'and these proofs, the answer of this wretch shall supply to you instantly.' then sir walter spoke in german to doctor polidori, who seemed to have suddenly assumed a little assurance, but lost it as soon." "what did you say to him?" inquired rodolph of the squire, pausing from his perusal of the letter. "a few significant words, monseigneur, something like this: 'you have escaped by flight from the sentence passed upon you by law and justice in the grand duchy; you live in the rue du temple, under the false name of bradamanti; we know the infamous calling you pursue there. you poisoned the count's first wife. three days since madame d'orbigny went to find you, in order to bring you here to poison her husband. his royal highness is in paris, and has proofs of all i now aver. if you confess the truth in order to confound this wretched woman, you may hope, not for pardon, but for an amelioration of the punishment you deserve. you will accompany me to paris, where i will deposit you in a safe place, until his royal highness decides on what shall be done with you. if not, one of two things: either his royal highness will demand and obtain your delivery up to him, or this very moment i will send for the nearest magistrate, this phial containing the poison shall be handed to him, you will be apprehended on the spot, and a search be made instantly at your domicile in the rue du temple; you know how utterly that must compromise you, and then the justice of the french courts will take its course. choose therefore.' these disclosures, accusations, and threats, which he knew to be so well founded, succeeding each other thus rapidly, overwhelmed the scoundrel, who did not dream of my being so thoroughly informed. in the hope of diminishing his expected punishment, he did not hesitate to sacrifice his accomplice, and replied to me, 'interrogate me, and i will disclose the whole truth as regards this woman.'" "capital! excellent! my dear murphy. i expected no less of you." "during my conversation with polidori, the features of madame d'harville's stepmother became greatly agitated. although she did not understand german, she saw, by the increasing dejection of her accomplice, by his deprecating attitude, that i controlled him. in a state of fearful anxiety, she endeavoured to catch polidori's glance, in order to inspire him with courage, or implore his discretion, but he carefully avoided looking towards her." "and the count?" "his agitation was inexpressible! with his clenched hands he grasped convulsively the arms of his chair, the perspiration stood on his brow, and he scarcely breathed, whilst his burning and fixed eyes never quitted mine; his agony was equal to his wife's. the remainder of madame d'harville's letter will tell you the conclusion of this painful scene, monseigneur." rodolph continued the perusal of madame d'harville's letter: "after a conversation in german, which lasted for some minutes, between sir walter murphy and polidori, sir walter said to the latter, 'now reply. was it not madame,' and he looked towards my stepmother, 'who, during the illness of the count's first wife, introduced you to him as a physician?' "'yes, it was!' replied polidori. "'in order that you might serve the horrid projects of madame, were you not criminal enough to render mortal, by your deadly prescriptions, the malady of the countess d'orbigny, which was but slight in the first instance?' "'yes!' replied polidori. my father heaved a painful sigh, raised both his hands to heaven, and let them fall perfectly overcome. "'lies and infamies!' cried my stepmother; 'it is all false,--a plot got up to destroy me!' "'silence, madame!' said sir walter murphy, in an authoritative voice. then continuing to address polidori, 'is it true that three days since madame was at your residence in the rue du temple, no. , where you lived under the assumed name of bradamanti?' "'that is true.' "'did not madame propose to you to come here to assassinate the comte d'orbigny, as you had assassinated his wife?' "'alas! i cannot deny it!' said polidori. "at this overwhelming revelation my father rose up, then, extending his arms to me, he exclaimed, in a broken voice, 'in the name of your unfortunate mother, pardon, pardon! i made her suffer much, but i swear to you i was a stranger to the crime which led her to the tomb!' and before i could prevent it, my father fell at my knees. when sir walter and i raised him he had fainted. i rang for the servants. sir walter took polidori by the arm and led him out of the room with him, saying to my stepmother, 'believe me, madame, it is best for you to leave this house within an hour, otherwise i will deliver you up to justice.' the wretched woman left the room in a state of rage and affright, which you will easily conceive. when my father recovered his senses, all that had occurred seemed to him a horrid dream. i was under the sad necessity of imparting to him my first suspicions as to my mother's premature death, suspicions which your knowledge of doctor polidori's earlier crimes had converted into certainty. i also told him how my stepmother had persecuted me to the time of my marriage, and what had been her object in making me marry m. d'harville. in proportion as my father had shown himself weak with respect to this woman, so was he now pitiless towards her. he was desirous of handing madame d'orbigny over to the tribunals. i represented to him the horrible scandal of such a process, the publicity of which must be so distressing to him; and i induced him to allow her as much as was requisite for her to live upon. i had considerable difficulty in persuading my father to these terms, and he then wished me to dismiss her. this task was so painful that i requested sir walter to perform it for me, which he did." "i consented with pleasure," interrupted murphy. "and what said this woman?" "madame d'harville kindly solicited a pension of a hundred louis for this woman: this appeared to me not only kindness, but weakness; it was bad enough to allow her to escape from justice; and the count agreeing with me, it was arranged that we should give her in all twenty-five louis to maintain her until she should find some occupation. 'and to what occupation can i, the countess d'orbigny, turn?' she asked me, insolently. '_ma foi!_ that is your affair,--you may do as a nurse or housekeeper; but take my advice and seek some humbler, more obscure occupation, for if you have the daring to mention your name--a name which you owe to a crime--people will be astonished to see the countess d'orbigny reduced to such a condition; they will then begin to make inquiries, and you may judge what will be the result, if you are so indiscreet as to say one word of the past. hide yourself, therefore, at a distance,--try and become forgotten; become madame pierre or madame jacques, and repent if you can.' 'and do you suppose, sir,' she said, having, no doubt, resolved on a piece of stage effect, 'do you suppose that i shall not sue for the advantage which my marriage settlement awards me?' 'why, madame, nothing can be more just; it will be dishonourable of m. d'orbigny not to execute his promises, and forget all you have done--and particularly all you wished to do towards him. go to law--go to law! try for justice, and, no doubt, it will right you with your husband.' a quarter of an hour after our conversation the wretch of a woman was on the road to the neighbouring town." "you are right, it is painful to leave such an abandoned creature unpunished, but a law proceeding is impossible." "i easily persuaded my father to leave aubiers the same day," resumed rodolph, continuing the perusal of madame d'harville's letter, "as too many painful feelings were excited by his being where he was. his weak health will be benefited by a few days' change of air and scene, as the doctor saw, whom polidori had succeeded, and for whom i sent from the neighbouring town. my father wished him to analyse the contents of the phial, without giving him any information as to what had passed. the doctor informed us that he must do this at home, and that in two hours we should know the result of his scrutiny; which was that several doses of this liquor, composed with devilish skill, would, within a certain time, cause death, without leaving any traces beyond those of an ordinary malady, which he mentioned. in a few hours, monseigneur, i go with my father and daughter to fontainebleau, where we shall remain for some time; then my father wishes to return to paris, but not to my house, for i could not reside there after the late appalling event. as i mentioned in the beginning of my letter, monseigneur, facts prove all i shall owe to your inexhaustible care and solicitude. forewarned by you, aided by your advice, strong in the assistance of your excellent and high-couraged sir walter, i have been enabled to snatch my father from certain death, and am again assured of his love. adieu, monseigneur, it is impossible for me to say more; my heart is too full, and i explain but faintly all i feel." "d'orbigny d'harville." "i open my letter to repair something i had, i regret to say, forgotten. according to your noble suggestion, i went to the prison of st. lazare, to visit the poor women prisoners, and i found there an unhappy girl in whom you are interested. her angelic mildness, her pious resignation, were the admiration of the respectable women who superintend the prisoners. to say that she is called la goualeuse is to urge you to obtain her liberty instantly. the poor girl will tell you under what circumstances she was carried off from the asylum in which you had placed her, and was put in prison, where, at least, the candour and sweetness of her disposition have been appreciated. permit me, also, to recall to you my two future protégées, the unhappy mother and daughter despoiled by the notary ferrand,--where are they? i pray of you to try and discover them, so that, on my return to paris, i may pay the debt i have contracted towards all unfortunate beings." "what! has la goualeuse, then, left the bouqueval farm?" inquired murphy, as much astonished as rodolph at this fresh discovery. "just now i was informed that she had been seen quitting st. lazare," replied rodolph. "i am quite bewildered on the subject; madame georges's silence surprises and disturbs me. poor little fleur-de-marie, what fresh disasters can have befallen her? send a man on horseback directly to the farm, and write to madame georges that i beg of her to come to paris instantly. request m. de graün to procure for me a permission to visit st. lazare. by what madame d'harville says to me, fleur-de-marie must be confined there. yet, no," he added, "she cannot be there, for rigolette saw her leave the prison with an aged woman. could it be madame georges? if not, who could be the woman that accompanied la goualeuse?" "patience, monseigneur; before the evening you will know all about it. then to-morrow you can interrogate that vagabond polidori, who has, he assures me, important disclosures to make,--but to you alone." "this interview will be most odious to me!" said rodolph, sorrowfully; "for i have never seen this man since the fatal day when i--" rodolph, unable to finish, hid his face in his hands. "but, monseigneur, why accede to polidori's request? threaten him with the justice of the french law, or immediate surrender to your authority, and then he will reveal to me what he now declares he will only reveal to you." "you are right, my worthy friend; for the presence of this wretch would make my terrible recollections even still more distressing, connected as they are with incurable griefs,--from my father's death to that of my daughter. i know not how it is, but as i advance in life the more i seem to miss that dear child. how i should have adored her! how very dear and precious to me she would have been, this offspring of my first love, of my earliest and purest beliefs--or, rather, my young illusions! i should have poured out on this innocent creature those treasures of affection of which her hateful mother is so unworthy; and it seems to me that, as i have dreamt, this child, by the beauty of her mind, the charm of her qualities, would have soothed and softened all my griefs, all these pangs of remorse, which are, alas, attached to her fatal birth." "monseigneur, i see with grief the increasing empire which these regrets, as vain as they are bitter, assume over your mind." after some moments' silence, rodolph said to murphy: "i will now make a confession to you, my old friend. i love--yes, i passionately love--a woman worthy of the noblest, the most devoted affection. since my heart has again expanded to all the sweetness of love, since i am thus again affected by tender emotions, i feel more deeply than ever the loss of my daughter. i might have feared that an attachment of the heart would weaken the bitterness of my regrets. it is not so; all my loving qualities--my affections--are but the keener. i feel myself better, more charitable; and more than ever is it afflicting to me not to have my daughter to adore." "nothing more easily explained, monseigneur,--forgive me the comparison,--but, as certain men have a joyous and benevolent intoxication, so you have good and generous love." "still, my hatred of the wicked has become more intense; my aversion for sarah increases, in proportion, no doubt, to the grief i experience at my daughter's death. i imagine to myself that that wretched mother must have neglected her, and that, when once her ambitious hopes were ruined by my marriage, the countess, in her pitiless selfishness, abandoned our daughter to mercenary hands, and, perhaps, my child died from actual neglect. it is my fault, also. i did not then think of the sacred duties which paternity imposes. when sarah's real character was suddenly revealed to me, i ought instantly to have taken my daughter from her, and watched over her with love and anxiety. i ought to have foreseen that the countess would make but a very unnatural mother. it is my fault,--yes, indeed, my fault." "monseigneur, grief distracts you! could you, after the sad event you know of, delay for a day the long journey imposed on you, as--" "as an expiator! you are right, my friend," said rodolph, greatly agitated. "you have not heard anything of the countess sarah since my departure, monseigneur?" "no; since those infamous plots which twice nearly destroyed madame d'harville, i have heard nothing of her. her presence here is hateful to me,--oppresses me; it seems as though my evil demon was near me, and some new misfortune threatens me." "patience, patience, monseigneur! fortunately germany is forbidden ground to her, and germany awaits us." "yes, we shall go very soon. at least, during my short residence in paris, i shall have accomplished a sacred vow, and have made some steps in the meritorious path which an august and merciful will has traced for my redemption. as soon as madame georges's son is restored to her tender arms, free and innocent; as soon as jacques ferrand shall be convicted and punished for his crimes; as soon as i am assured of the good prosperity of all the honest and hard-working creatures who, by their resignation, courage, and probity, have deserved my interest, we will return to germany, and then my journey will not have been wholly unfruitful." "particularly if you achieve the exposure of that abominable wretch, jacques ferrand, monseigneur,--the angular stone, the pivot on which turn so many crimes." "although the end justifies the means, and scruples with such a scoundrel are absurd, yet i sometimes regret that i have allowed cecily to become an instrument in working out this just and avenging reparation." "she ought to be here very shortly." "she has arrived." "cecily?" "yes; i refused to see her. de graün has given her ample instructions, and she has promised to comply with them." "will she keep that promise?" "why, everything conspires to make me think so. there is the hope of ameliorating her future condition, and the fear of being instantly sent back to germany to prison; for de graün will not lose sight of her, and the least defection on her part will cause her being handed over to justice." "true, she comes here as an escaped criminal, and when we know the crimes that have led to her perpetual imprisonment, she would be at once surrendered to our demand." "and then, even if it were not her interest to aid our schemes, the task which is assigned to her being one which can only be effected by stratagem, perfidy, and the most devilish seduction, cecily must be (and the baron assures me she really is) overjoyed at such an opportunity for playing off those infernal advantages with which she is so liberally endowed." "is she as handsome as she was, monseigneur?" "de graün declares that she is more attractive than ever; he told me that he was really quite dazzled at her beauty, to which the alsatian costume she had chosen gave even more piquancy. the glance of this devil in petticoats, he says, has still the same really magic expression." "why, monseigneur, i have never been what is called a dissipated fellow, a man without heart or conduct, but if at twenty years of age i had met with cecily, even knowing her then to be as dangerous, as wicked as i do now, i assure you i would not have answered for myself, if i had been for any time exposed to the fire of her large, black, and brilliant eyes, sparkling in the centre of her pale and ardent countenance. yes, by heaven! i dare not think of the extremities into which so fatal an amour might have urged me." "i am not astonished, my dear murphy, for i know this woman. moreover, the baron was really frightened at the quickness with which cecily understood--or, rather guessed--the part, at once inciting and platonic, which she was to play with the notary." "but will she, think you, be introduced as easily as you wish, monseigneur, by the intervention of madame pipelet? individuals like jacques ferrand are so suspicious." "i had relied, with reason, on the sight of cecily to overcome and dissipate the notary's distrust." "what! has he already seen her?" "yesterday. and from what madame pipelet told me, i have no doubt but he was fascinated by the creole, for he instantly took her into service." "then, monseigneur, the game is won, and ours." "i hope so. a ferocious cupidity, a brutal passion, have impelled the injurer of louise morel to the most odious crimes. it is in his passion and his cupidity that he shall find the terrible punishment of his crimes,--a punishment which, moreover, shall not be without fruit for his victims, for you know the aim of all the creole's wiles." "cecily! cecily! never did greater wickedness, never more dangerous corruption, never blacker soul have served for the accomplishment of a more strict morality, a more just result! and david, monseigneur, what does he say to this arrangement?" "approves of everything. at the pitch of contempt and horror which he has reached for this creature, he sees in her only the instrument of a just vengeance. 'if this accursed woman ever could deserve any commiseration after all the ill she has done me,' he said to me, 'it would be by devoting herself to the remorseless punishment of this scoundrel, whose exterminating demon she may become.'" a servant having knocked at the door, murphy went out, but soon returned with two letters, only one of which was for rodolph. "a line from madame georges," he said, as he hastily perused it. "well, monseigneur, and la goualeuse?" "there can be no further doubt," exclaimed rodolph, after having read, "there is some dark plot afoot. on the evening of the day when the poor girl disappeared from the farm, and at the instant when madame georges was about to inform me of this event, a man unknown to her, sent express and on horseback, came as from me to tell her that i was aware of the sudden disappearance of fleur-de-marie, and that in a few days i should take her back to the farm. in spite of this, madame georges, uneasy at my silence with respect to her protégée, cannot, as she says, resist the desire to hear how her dear daughter is, for so she calls her." "it is very strange, monseigneur." "what could be the motive for carrying off fleur-de-marie?" "monseigneur!" said murphy, suddenly, "the countess sarah is no stranger to this carrying off." "sarah! and what makes you think so?" "compare this event with her denunciations against madame d'harville." "you are right!" cried rodolph, struck with a sudden light, "it is evident--now i understand. yes, constantly the one calculation. the countess persists in thinking that by breaking down all the affections which she supposes me to form, she will make me feel the necessity of attaching myself to her. this is as odious as it is absurd. still, such unworthy persecution must be put a stop to. it is not only myself, but all that deserve respect, interest, and pity, that this woman assails. send m. de graün instantly and officially to the countess and let him say that i have the certain assurance that she has been instrumental in carrying off fleur-de-marie, and if she does not give me at once such information as is necessary for me to find the poor girl, i will show no mercy; and then m. de graün will go to the law officers of the crown." "according to madame d'harville's letter, la goualeuse must be in st. lazare." "yes, but rigolette declares that she saw her free, and quit the prison. there is some mystery which i must clear up." "i will instantly go and give the baron de graün your orders, monseigneur. but allow me to open this letter, which comes from my correspondent at marseilles, to whom i had recommended the chourineur, as he was to facilitate the passage of the poor devil to algeria." "well, has he set sail?" "monseigneur, it is really singular!" "what is it?" "after having waited for a long time at marseilles for a ship to convey him to algeria, the chourineur, who seemed every day more sad and serious, suddenly protested, on the very day fixed for his embarkation, that he should prefer returning to paris." "what a whim!" "although my correspondent had, as agreed, placed a considerable sum at the disposal of the chourineur, he had only taken sufficient for his return to paris, where he must shortly arrive." "then he will explain to us his change of resolution. but despatch de graün immediately to the countess macgregor, and go yourself to st. lazare, and inquire about fleur-de-marie." * * * * * after the lapse of an hour, the baron de graün returned from the countess sarah macgregor's. in spite of his habitual and official _sang-froid_, the diplomatist seemed overwhelmed; the groom of the chambers had scarcely admitted him before rodolph observed his paleness. "well, de graün, what ails you? have you seen the countess?" "your royal highness must prepare for very painful intelligence--so unexpected--the countess macgregor--" "the countess, then, is dead?" "no, but her life is despaired of; she has been stabbed with a stiletto." "horrible!" exclaimed rodolph. "who committed the crime?" "that is not ascertained; the murder was accompanied with robbery; a large quantity of jewels have been stolen." "and how is she now?" "she has not recovered her senses yet; her brother is in despair." "send some one daily to make inquiries, my dear de graün." at this moment murphy entered, having returned from st. lazare. "sad news!" said rodolph to him; "sarah has been stabbed." "ah, monseigneur, though very guilty, one must still pity her." "yes, such a fearful end! and la goualeuse?" "set at liberty by the intercession of madame d'harville." "that is impossible! for madame d'harville entreats me to take the necessary steps for getting the poor, unhappy girl out of prison." "yet an elderly woman came to st. lazare, bringing an order to set fleur-de-marie at liberty, and they both quitted the prison together." "as rigolette said. but this elderly woman, who can she be? the countess sarah alone can clear this up, and she is in no state to afford us particulars." "but her brother, tom seyton, may throw some light on it, he has always been in his sister's confidence." "his sister is dying, and if there is any fresh plot, he will not say a word. but," added rodolph, "we must learn the name of the person who liberated fleur-de-marie, and then we shall arrive at something." "true, monseigneur." "try, then, and find out this person, my dear de graün; and if you do not succeed, put your m. badinot on the scent." "your royal highness may rely on my zeal." "upon my word, monseigneur," said murphy, "it is, perhaps, fortunate that the chourineur returns to us, his services may be useful." "you are right; and now i am impatient to see my brave preserver arrive in paris, for i never can forget that i owe my life to him." chapter iii. the clerk's office. several days had elapsed since jacques ferrand had taken cecily into his service. we will conduct the reader (who already knows the place) into the notary's office, whilst his clerks are at breakfast. unheard of, extravagant, wonderful thing! instead of the meagre and repulsive broth brought each morning to these young men by the late madame séraphin, an enormous cold roast turkey, placed in a large box, was enthroned in the centre of one of the office-tables, flanked by two new loaves, a dutch cheese, and three bottles of wine; an ancient leaden inkstand served to hold a mixture of pepper and salt. each clerk, provided with a knife and a strong appetite, awaited the arrival of the head clerk with hungry impatience, without whom they could not, without a breach of etiquette, begin to breakfast. a revolution so radical in jacques ferrand's office bespoke some extraordinary domestic mutation. the following conversation may throw some light on this phenomenon: "here is a turkey who did not expect when he was ushered into life ever to appear on the breakfast-table of our governor's clerks." "no more than the governor, when he was ushered into the life of a notary, expected to give his clerks a turkey for breakfast." "but, at least, the turkey is ours!" said the junior fag of the office, with a greedy grin. "hop-the-gutter, my friend, you forget yourself; this poultry is and must be a stranger to you." "and, like a good frenchman, you should have a wholesome hatred of the stranger." "all that will come to your share may be his feet." "emblem of the velocity with which you run on the office errands." "i thought i might at least have a right to the carcass to pick!" muttered hop-the-gutter. "perchance, as an excessive favour, but not as a right; just as with the charter of , which was but another carcass of liberty!" said the mirabeau of the office. "talking of carcasses," observed one youth, with brutal insensibility, "may heaven receive the soul of madame séraphin! for since she was drowned in her water-party of pleasure, we are no longer condemned to eternal 'cag-mag.'" "and, for a whole week, the governor, instead of giving us breakfast--" "allows us each two francs a day." "it was that which made me say, 'heaven receive the soul of mother séraphin!'" "talking of madame séraphin, who has seen the servant who has come in her place?" "the alsatian girl whom the portress of the house in which poor louise lived brought one evening, as the porter told us?" "yes." "_parbleu!_ it is quite impossible to get a glimpse of her; for the governor is more resolute than ever in preventing us from entering into the pavilion in the courtyard." "and besides, as it is the porter who now cleans out the office, how can one see this damsel?" "well, i've seen her." "you?" "when i say i've seen her, i've seen her cap; such a rum cap!" "oh, pooh! what sort?" "it was cherry-coloured velvet, i think; a kind of skull-cap like the 'buy-a-broom' girls wear." "like the alsaciennes? why, that's simple enough, as she is an alsacienne!" "i was passing across the yard the day before yesterday, and she was leaning with her back against one of the windows of the ground floor." "what! the yard?" "no, donkey, no,--the servant! the panes of the lower part are so dirty that i could not see much of the alsacienne; but those in the middle of the window were not so grubby, and i saw her cherry-coloured cap and a profusion of curling hair as black as jet, for she had her head dressed _à la titus_." "i'm sure the governor has not seen even as much as that through his spectacles; for he is one who, as they say, if he were left alone with one woman on the earth, then the world would end." "that is not astonishing. 'he laughs best who laughs last!' and the more so, as 'punctuality is the politeness of monarchs!'" "jupiter! how stupid chalamel is when he likes!" "deuce take it! tell me where you go, and i'll tell you who you are!" "beautiful!" "as for me, i think it is superstition which makes our governor more and more hoggish." "and, perhaps, it is as a penitence that he gives us forty sous a day for our breakfast." "he must, indeed, have taken leave of his senses." "or be ill." "i have thought him very much bewildered these many days past." "it is not that we see so much of him. he who, for our misery, was in his study at sunrise, and always at our backs, is now two days without even poking his nose into the office." "that gives the head clerk so much to do." "and we are obliged to die of hunger waiting for him this morning." "what a change in the office!" "how poor germain would be astonished if any one told him, 'only think, old fellow, of the governor giving us forty sous for our breakfast.' 'pooh! impossible!' 'quite possible! and i, chalamel, announce the fact in my own proper person.' 'what, you want to make me laugh?' 'yes. well, this is the way it came about. for the two or three days which followed the death of madame séraphin we had no breakfast at all; and, in one respect, that was an improvement, because it was less nasty, but, in another, our refection cost us money. still we were patient, saying, "the governor has no servant or housekeeper; as soon as he gets one we shall resume the filthy paste gruel." no, by no means, my dear germain; the governor has a servant, and yet our breakfast continued buried in the wave of oblivion. then i was appointed as a deputation to inform the governor of the griefs of our stomachs. he was with the chief clerk. "i will not feed you any longer in the morning," he replied, in his harsh tone, and as if thinking of something else; "my servant has no time to prepare your breakfast." "but, sir, it was agreed that you should find us in breakfasts." "well, send for your breakfasts from some house, and i will pay for it. how much is sufficient,--forty sous each?" he added; all the time evidently thinking of something else, and saying forty sous as he would say twenty sous or a hundred sous. "yes, sir, forty sous will be sufficient," cried i, catching the ball at the bound. "be it so; the head clerk will pay you and settle with me." and so saying, the governor respectfully slammed the door in my face.' you must own, messieurs, that germain would be most extraordinarily astonished at the liberality of the governor." "seriously, i think the governor is ill. for the last ten days he has scarcely been recognisable; his cheeks are so furrowed you could hide your fist in them." "and so absent; you should just see him. the other day he lifted his spectacles to read a deed, and his eyes were as red and glaring as fiery coals." "he was right. 'short reckonings make long friends!'" "let me say a word. i will tell you, gentlemen, something very strange. i handed this deed to the governor, and it was topsy-turvy." "the governor? how strange! what could he mean by topsy-turvying thus? enough to choke him, unless, as you say, his habits are so completely altered." "oh, what a fellow you are, chalamel! i say i gave him the deed wrong end up'ards." "wasn't he in a rage?" "not the slightest. he did not even notice it, but kept his great red eyes fixed upon it for at least ten minutes, and then handed me back the deed, saying, 'very good!'" "what, still topsy-turvy?" "yes." "then he couldn't have read it?" "_pardieu!_ not unless he can read upside down." "how odd!" "the governor looked so dull and cross at the moment that i did not dare to say a word, and so i left him, just as if nothing had occurred." "well, four days ago i was in the head clerk's office; there came a client, then two or three clients with whom the governor had appointments. they got tired of waiting; and, at their request, i went and knocked at his study door. no answer; so in i went." "well?" "m. jacques ferrand had his arms crossed on his desk, and his bald and not overdelicate forehead leaning on his hands. he never stirred." "was he asleep?" "i thought so, and went towards him: 'sir, there are clients waiting with whom you have made appointments.' he didn't stir. 'sir!' no answer. then i touched his shoulder, and he bounced up as if the devil had bitten him. in his start his large green spectacles fell from his eyes on to his nose, and i saw--you'll never believe it--" "well, what?" "tears." "oh, what nonsense!" "quite true." "what! the governor snivel? no, i won't have that." "when that's the case why cockchafers will play the cornet-à-piston." "and cocks and hens wear top-boots." "ta, ta, ta, ta; all your folly will not prevent my having seen what i did see as plain as i see you." "weeping?" "yes, weeping. and he was in such a precious rage at being surprised in this lachrymose mood that he adjusted his spectacles in great haste, and said to me, 'get out--get out!' 'but, sir--' 'get out!' 'three clients are waiting to whom you have given appointments, and--' 'i have not time; let them go to the devil along with you!' then he got up in a desperate rage to turn me out, but i didn't wait, but went and dismissed the clients, who were not by any means satisfied; but, for the honour of the office, i told them that the governor had the whooping-cough." this interesting conversation was interrupted by the head clerk, who entered apparently quite overcome. his arrival was hailed by general acclamation, and all eyes were sympathetically turned towards the turkey with impatient anxiety. "without saying a word, seigneur, you have kept us waiting an infernally long while," said chalamel. "take care! another time our appetite will not remain so subordinate." "well, gents, it was no fault of mine. i have had much to annoy me,--more than you have. on my word and honour, the governor must be going mad." "didn't i say so?" "but that need not prevent one eating." "on the contrary." "we can talk just as well with something in our mouths." "we can talk better," cried hop-the-gutter; whilst chalamel, dissecting the turkey, said to the head clerk: "what makes you think that the governor is mad?" "we have a right to suppose he is perfectly beside himself when he allows us forty sous a head for our daily breakfast." "i confess that has surprised me as much as yourselves, gents. but that is nothing--absolutely nothing--to what has just now occurred." "really?" "what! has the unhappy old gent become so decidedly lunatic that he insists on our dining at the cadran bleu every day at his expense?" "theatre in the evening?" "then coffee, with punch to follow?" "and then--" "gents, laugh as much as you please; but the scene i have just witnessed is rather alarming than pleasant." "well, then, relate this scene to us." "yes, do. don't mind your breakfast," observed chalamel; "we are all ears." "and jaws, my lads. i think i see you whilst i am talking working away with your teeth; and the turkey would be finished before my tale. by your leave, patience, and the story shall come in with the dessert." whether it was the spur of appetite or curiosity which incited the young men we will not decide, but they went through their gastronomic operation with such celerity that the moment for the head clerk's history came in no time. in order that they might not be surprised by their employer, they sent hop-the-gutter into the adjoining room as a sentinel, having liberally supplied him with the carcass and drumsticks of the bird. the head clerk then said to his colleagues, "you must know, in the first place, the porter has been very uneasy, for he has frequently seen m. ferrand, in spite of the cold and rain, pace the garden at night for a considerable time. once he ventured to ask his master if he wanted anything; but he sent him about his business in such a manner that he has not again ventured to intrude himself." "perhaps the governor is a sleep-walker?" "that is not probable. but, to continue; a short time since i wanted his signature to several papers. as i was turning the handle of his door, i thought i heard some one speaking. i stopped, and made out two or three repressed sounds, like stifled groans. after pausing an instant in fear, i opened the door, and saw the governor kneeling on the floor, his forehead buried in his hands, and his elbows resting on the seat of one of his old armchairs." "oh, it's all plain enough: he has turned pious, and was saying an extra prayer." "well, then, it was a strong prayer enough. i heard stifled groans, and every now and then he murmured between his teeth '_mon dieu! mon dieu! mon dieu!_' like a despairing man. then,--and this is very singular,--in a movement which he made as if to tear his breast with his nails, his shirt came partly open, and i saw on his hairy chest a small red pocketbook fastened around his neck by a steel chain. when i saw that i did not really know whether i ought to retreat or advance. i remained, however, very much embarrassed, when he rose and suddenly turned around, holding between his teeth an old check pocket-handkerchief; his spectacles were left on the chair. let me say, gents, that i never in my life saw such a figure; he looked like one of the damned. i retreated really in alarm. then he--" "seized you by the throat?" "you are quite wrong. he looked at me first with a bewildered air; then letting fall his handkerchief, he threw himself into my arms, exclaiming, 'oh, i am very unhappy!'" "what a farce!" "well, but that did not prevent his voice--in spite of his death's-head look--from being so distressing, i may say so imploring--" "imploring! come, come, no gammon! why, there is no night-owl with a cold in her head which is not music to the governor's voice." "that may be; but yet at this moment his voice was so plaintive that i was almost affected. 'sir,' i said to him, believe me--' 'let me!--let me!' replied he, interrupting me. 'it is so consoling to be able to say to any one that we are suffering!' he evidently mistook me for some other person. you may suppose that when he thus addressed me i felt sure it was a mistake, or that he had a brain fever. i disengaged myself from him, saying, 'sir, compose yourself, it is i!' then he looked at me with a stupid air, and exclaimed, 'who is it? who's there? what do you want with me?' and he passed, at each question, his hand over his brow, as if to dispel the cloud which obscured his mind." "which obscured his mind! capital! well spoken! we'll get up a melodrama amongst us! "'methinks a man with such a power of words, should try his hand at melodrame!'" "chalamel, will you be quiet?" "what could ail the governor?" "_ma foi!_ how can i tell? but of this i'm sure, that when he recovers he'll sing to another tune, for he frowned terribly, and said to me sharply, without giving me time to reply, 'what did you come for? have you been here long? am i to be surrounded with spies? what did i say? reply--answer!' _ma foi!_ he looked so savage that i replied, 'i heard nothing, sir; i only this moment entered.' 'you are not deceiving me?' 'no, sir.' 'well, what do you want?' 'some signatures, sir.' 'give me the papers!' and then he signed and signed--without reading--half a dozen notarial deeds; he who never put his initials to a deed without spelling it over word by word, and twice over from one end to the other. i remarked that from time to time his hand relaxed in the middle of his signature, as if he were absorbed in some fixed idea; then he went on signing very quick, and, as it were, convulsively. when all were signed he told me to retire, and i heard him descend the small staircase which leads from his room to the courtyard." "i still ask what can be the matter with him?" "gentlemen, it is perhaps madame séraphin whom he regrets." "he? what, he regret any one?" "now i think of it, the porter said that the curé of bonne nouvelle and the vicar had called several times to see the governor, and he was denied to them. is not that surprising?--they who almost lived here!" "what puzzles me is to know what the workpeople are at." "they have been working at the pavilion three days running." "and one evening they brought furniture covered up with a carpet." "perhaps he feels remorse for having put germain into prison?" "talking of germain, he will have some fine recruits in his prison, poor fellow! for i read in the _gazette des tribunaux_ that the band of robbers and assassins, whom they seized in the champs elysées, in one of the small underground public-houses, had been locked up in la force." "poor germain! what society for him!" "louise morel, too, will have her share of the recruits; for in this gang, they say, there is a whole family of thieves." "then they will send the women to st. lazare, where louise is?" "perhaps it was some of that gang who stabbed the countess, one of the governor's clients. he has often sent me to inquire after the state of this countess, and seems much interested in her recovery." "did they let you enter the house and see the spot where the assassination was committed?" "oh, no! i could not go farther than the entrance; and the porter was not at all a person inclined to talk." "gents, gents, take your places; here's the gov'nor coming up!" shouted hop-the-gutter, coming into the office with the carcass still in his hand. the young men instantly took their seats at their respective desks, over which they bent, handling their pens with great dexterity; whilst hop-the-gutter deposited his turkey's skeleton in a box filled with law papers. jacques ferrand entered the room. his red hair, mingled with gray, escaping from beneath an old black silk cap, fell in disorder down each side of his temples. some of the veins which marbled his head appeared injected with blood, whilst his face, his flat nose, his furrowed cheeks, were all of ghastly paleness. the expression of his look, concealed by his large green spectacles, could not be seen; but the great alteration in the man's features announced the ravages of a consuming passion. he crossed the office slowly, without saying a word to one of the clerks, or without even appearing to notice that they were there; then went into the room in which the chief clerk was employed, traversed it as well as his own cabinet, and again instantly descended the small staircase which led to the courtyard. jacques ferrand having left all the doors open behind him, the clerks had a right to be astonished at the strange demeanour of their employer, who had come up one staircase and gone down another without pausing for a moment in any of the apartments he had mechanically traversed. chapter iv. avoid temptation! it is night. profound silence reigns in the pavilion inhabited by jacques ferrand, interrupted only at intervals by gusts of wind and the dashing of rain, which falls in torrents. these melancholy sounds seemed to render still more complete the solitude of this abode. in a sleeping-room in the first floor, very nicely and newly furnished, and covered with a thick carpet, a young female is standing up before a fireplace, in which there is a cheerful blaze. it is strange, but in the centre of the door, carefully bolted, and which is opposite to the bed, is a small glass door, five or six inches square, which opens from the outside. a small reflecting lamp casts a half shadow in this chamber, hung with garnet-coloured paper; the curtains of the bed and the window, as well as the cover of the large sofa, are of silk and woollen damask of the same colour. we are precise in the details of this demi-luxury so recently imported into the notary's residence, because it announces a complete revolution in the habits of jacques ferrand, who, until now, was of the most sordid avarice, and of spartan disregard (especially as it concerned others) to everything that respected comfortable existence. it is on this garnet-coloured ground that was shadowed forth the figure of cecily, which we will now attempt to paint. tall and graceful, the creole was in the full flower of her age. her spreading shoulders and hips made her waist appear so singularly small that it seemed as if it could be easily spanned. as simple as it was coquettish, her alsatian costume was of singular taste, somewhat theatrical,--but for that reason more capable of producing the effect she desired. her bodice, of black cassimere, half open on her full bosom, was very long-waisted, with tight sleeves, plain back, and slightly embroidered with purple wool down the seams, perfected by a row of small cut silver buttons. a short petticoat, of orange merino, which seemed of vast fullness, descended little lower than the knee; her stockings were of scarlet, with blue clocks, as we see them in the drawings of the old flemish painters, who so complacently show us the garters of their robust heroines. no artist ever drew more perfect legs than were those of cecily: symmetrical and slim beneath the swelling calf, they terminated in a small foot, quite at ease, and yet restrained in a small slipper of black morocco, with silver buckles. cecily was looking into the glass over the mantelpiece. the slope of her bodice displayed her elegant and dimpled neck of dazzling but not transparent whiteness. taking off her cap of cherry-coloured velvet to replace it with a kerchief, she displayed her thick, magnificent head of hair, of lustrous black, which, divided over her brows, and naturally curling, came down only to the necklace of venus, which unites the neck and shoulders. it is necessary to know the inimitable taste with which the creoles twist around their heads their kerchiefs of bright hues, to have an idea of the graceful head-dress of cecily, and the piquant contrast of this variegated covering of purple, blue, and orange, with the black silky tresses, which, escaping from beneath the tight fold of the nightkerchief, surrounded her pale but round and firm cheeks. with her two arms raised above her head, she proceeded with the ends of her fingers, as slender as spindles of ivory, to arrange a large rosette, placed very low on the left side, almost over the ear. cecily's features were such as once seen it is impossible ever to forget. a bold forehead, somewhat projecting, surmounts her face, which was a perfect oval; her pearly white complexion, the satiny freshness of the camelia leaf slightly touched by a sun-ray; her eyes, of almost disproportionate size, have a singular expression, for their irises, extremely large, black, and brilliant, hardly allow the blue transparency of the orbits, at the two extremities of the lids, fringed with long lashes, to be visible; her chin is very distinctly prominent; her nose, straight and thin, ends in two delicate nostrils, which dilate on the least emotion; her mouth, insolent and amorous, is of bright purple. we must imagine this colourless countenance, with its bright black glance, its two red, pulpy, and humid lips, which glisten like wet coral. such was cecily. her infamous instincts, at first repressed by her real attachment for david, not being developed till she reached europe, civilisation and the influence of northern climates had tempered their violence. we have already said that cecily had scarcely reached germany, when, first seduced by a man of desperately depraved habits, she, unknown to david, who loved her with equal idolatry and blindness, exercised and turned to account, for a considerable time, all her seductive powers; but soon the scandal of her adventures was raised abroad, and such exposures ensued that she was sentenced to perpetual imprisonment. to all this let there be joined a plastic, adroit, insinuating mind, an intelligence so wonderful that in a year she spoke french and german with perfect ease, sometimes even with natural eloquence; then add a corrupted heart worthy of the courtesan queen of ancient rome, an audacity and courage proof against everything, instincts of diabolical wickedness, and then we may understand the new servant of jacques ferrand, the resolute being who had dared to venture into the wolf's den. yes, strange anomaly! on learning from m. de graün the inciting and platonic part she was to play with the notary, and what avenging ends were to be derived from her seductions, cecily had promised to go through the character with love, or, rather, terrible hatred against jacques ferrand, being sincerely indignant at the recital of the infamous violence he had exercised against louise,--a recital necessary to be unfolded to the creole, to put her on her guard against the hypocritical attempts of this monster. a few retrospective words as to this latter are indispensable. when cecily was presented by madame pipelet as an orphan over whom she did not desire to maintain any right, any control, the notary was, perhaps, less smitten by the beauty of the creole than fascinated by her irresistible look,--a look which, at the first interview, disturbed the reason of jacques ferrand. we have already said, in reference to the insensate boldness of some of his words when conversing with madame de lucenay, that this man, usually so completely master of himself, so calm, so cunning, so subtle, forgot the cold calculations of his deep dissimulation when the demon of desire darkened his better sense. besides, he had no cause to distrust the protégée of madame pipelet. after her conversation with alfred's spouse, madame séraphin had proposed to jacques ferrand a young girl, almost destitute, to replace louise, and he had eagerly accepted the offer, in the hopes of taking advantage of the isolated and precarious position of his new servant. moreover, far from being predisposed to mistrust, jacques ferrand found, in the march of events, fresh motives for security. all succeeded to his utmost wishes. the death of madame séraphin released him from a dangerous accomplice; the death of fleur-de-marie (he believed her dead) delivered him from a living proof of one of his earliest crimes. finally, thanks to the death of the chouette, and the unexpected murder of the countess macgregor (whose life was despaired of), he no longer had these two women to fear, whose disclosures and attacks might have been most disastrous to him. the disposition, habits, and former life of jacques ferrand known and displayed, the exciting beauty of the creole admitted, as we have endeavoured to paint her, together with other facts we shall detail as we proceed, will account, we presume, for the sudden passion, the unbridled desire of the notary for this seductive and dangerous creature. then we must add, that if women of cecily's stamp inspire nothing but repugnance and disgust to men endued with tender and elevated sentiments, with delicate and pure tastes, they exercise a sudden action, a magic omnipotence, over men of brutal sensuality like jacques ferrand. thus a just, an avenging fatality, brought the creole into contact with the notary, and a terrible expiation was beginning for him. a fierce passion had urged him on to persecute, with pitiless malice, an indigent and honest family, and to spread amongst them misery, madness, and death. this passion was now to be the formidable chastisement of this great culprit. although jacques ferrand was never to have his desires realised, the creole took care not to deprive him of all hope; but the vague and distant prospects she held out were so coloured by caprices that they were an additional torture, and more completely enslaved him. if we are astonished that a man of such vigour and audacity had not recourse to stratagem or violence to triumph over the calculating resistance of cecily, we forget that cecily was not a second louise. besides, the day after her presentation to the notary, she had played quite another part from that by aid of which she had been introduced to her master, for he had not been the dupe of his servant two days. forewarned of the fate of louise by the baron de graün, and knowing besides by what abominable means she had become the prey of the notary, the creole, on entering this solitary house, had taken excellent precautions for passing her first night there in perfect security. the evening of her arrival, being alone with jacques ferrand, he, in order not to alarm her, pretended scarcely to look at her, and rudely ordered her to bed. she told him, _naïvely_, that she was afraid of thieves in the night, but that she was resolute, and capable of defending herself; at the same time drawing from her large woollen pelisse a small but exceedingly keen stiletto, the sight of which set the notary thinking. believing that cecily was afraid of robbers only, he showed her to the late chamber of louise; after having examined it, cecily said, trembling, she would sleep in a chair, because the door had neither lock nor bolt. jacques ferrand, unwilling to compromise himself by rousing cecily's suspicions, promised a bolt should be fixed. the creole did not go to bed. in the morning the notary sent to her to show her how to set about her work. he had promised himself to preserve for the first few days a hypocritical reserve with respect to his new servant, in order to inspire her with confidence; but smitten by her beauty, which by daylight was even more striking, blinded, maddened by his desires, which already got the better of him, he stammered out some compliments as to the figure and beauty of cecily. she, with keen sagacity, had judged that, from her first interview with the notary, he was completely caught in her spells; at the confession he made of his flame, she thought it policy to cast aside at once her feigned timidity, and, as we have said, to change her mask. the creole suddenly assumed a bold air. jacques ferrand again complimented her beauty and her graceful figure. "look at me well!" said cecily to him, in a bold tone. "although i am dressed as an alsatian peasant, do i look like a servant?" "what do you mean?" cried jacques ferrand. "look at this hand, does it appear accustomed to hard labour?" and she presented a white, delicate hand, with long and slender fingers, with nails as rosy and polished as agate, but whose root, slightly browned, betrayed the creole blood. "and this foot, is it that of a servant?" and she protruded a beautiful small foot, coquettishly shod, which the notary had not before remarked, and from which he only removed his eyes to gaze on cecily with amazement. "i told my aunt pipelet what story i chose; she knew nothing of my former life, and believes me reduced to my present condition through the death of my parents, and takes me for a servant,--but you, i hope, have too much sagacity to show her error, dear master." "who, then, are you?" exclaimed jacques ferrand, more and more surprised at her language. "that is my secret. for reasons best known to myself i was obliged to quit germany in this attire. i wished to remain concealed in paris for some time, being as secluded as possible. my aunt, supposing me reduced to misery, proposed to me your service, telling me of the solitary life which i must of compulsion lead in your house, informing me that i should never have leave to quit it. i accepted the offer unhesitatingly,--without knowing it my aunt had anticipated my most earnest desire. who would think of looking for and finding me here?" "and what have you done to compel you to seek concealment?" "agreeable sins, perhaps; but that is, also, my secret." "and what are your intentions, mademoiselle?" "what they always have been. but for your significant compliments as to my shape and beauty, perhaps i should not have confessed so much to you; although, no doubt, your clear-sightedness would, sooner or later, have induced my confession. now listen to me, my dear master. i have for the moment accepted the condition--or, rather, the character--of a servant; circumstances compelled me. i have courage enough to sustain the character to the end, and will risk all the consequences. i will serve you with zeal, activity, and respect, in order to retain my situation, that is to say, a sure and unknown asylum. but on the least word of gallantry, the least liberty you take with me, i will leave you,--not from prudery, there is nothing of the prude about me, i fancy." and she darted a look at the notary which had full effect. "no, i am no prude!" she continued, with a provoking smile, which displayed her teeth of dazzling whiteness. "indeed, no, when i love, i do love! but be discreet, and you will see that your unworthy servant has no desire but honestly to discharge her duty as a servant. "now you have my secret, or, at least, a portion of it. but should you, by any chance, desire to act as a gentleman, should you find me too handsome to serve you, should you like to change parts, and become my slave, be it so! frankly speaking, i should prefer it, and had rather you should feel paternally disposed towards me. that would not prevent you from saying that you found me charming; this will be the recompense of your devotion and discretion." "the only one? the only one?" stammered jacques ferrand. "the only one, unless solitude make me mad,--which is impossible, for you will keep me company. come, make up your mind,--no ambiguity. i either serve you, or you shall serve me; if not, i leave your house, and beg my aunt to find me another place. all this may, perhaps, appear strange to you; but if you take me for an adventuress, without any means of existence, you are wrong. in order that my aunt should be my accomplice without knowing it, i have made her believe that i was so poor that i could not purchase any other garments than those i now wear. i have, however, as you see, a tolerably well filled purse; on this side gold, on the other diamonds" (and cecily displayed before the notary's eyes a long, red silk purse, filled with gold, and through the meshes of which he could also see several sparkling gems). "unfortunately all the money in the world could not purchase for me a retreat so secure as your house,--so isolated, from the very solitude in which you live. accept, then, one or other of my offers, and you will do me a kindness. you see i place myself almost at your discretion; for to say to you, i conceal myself, is to say to you i am sought for. but i am sure you will not betray me, even if you could." this romantic confidence, this sudden change of character, completely upset all jacques ferrand's ideas. who was this woman? why did she conceal herself? was it chance alone that had brought her to him? if she came with some secret aim, what could it be? amongst all the ideas which this singular adventure gave rise to in the notary's mind, the real motive of the creole's presence did not occur to him. he had not, or, rather, he believed he had no other enemies than the victims of his licentiousness and his cupidity, and all these were in such miserable circumstances that he could not suspect them capable of spreading any net for him, of which cecily should be the bait. and then, moreover, what could be the motive of any such snare? no, the sudden transformation of cecily inspired jacques ferrand with one fear only--he believed that this woman did not tell the truth, and was, perhaps, an adventuress, who, thinking him rich, had introduced herself into his house to wheedle and get money from him, and, perhaps, induce him to marry her. but although his avarice at once revolted at this idea, he perceived (and trembled) that his suspicions and reflections were too late, for he might by one word have calmed his distrust by sending away this woman from his house,--but this word he could not say. these thoughts hardly occupied him a moment, so fascinated had he become. he already loved, after his own fashion, and the idea of being separated from this enchanting creature seemed impossible; and he felt also a jealousy, which made him say to himself, "so long as she is immured in my house, she can have no other lover." the boldness of her language, the wantonness of her look, the freedom of her manner, all revealed that she was not (as she had said) a prude. this conviction, giving vague hopes to the notary, still more assured cecily's empire. in a word, jacques ferrand's passion choking the calm voice of reason, he blindly resigned himself to all that might result. * * * * * it was agreed that cecily should only be the servant in appearance; thus there would be no scandal. besides, in order the more completely to render his guest at her ease, he was not to engage any other servant, but make up his mind to wait on her and on himself. the meals were brought from a neighbouring tavern, the porter swept out and attended to the office, and he paid for his clerks' breakfast. then the notary would furnish at once an apartment on the first floor, as cecily wished. she desired to pay for it, but he refused, and spent two thousand francs ( _l._). this was enormous generosity, and proved the unheard-of violence of his passion. then began the terrible life of this miserable wretch. enclosed in the impenetrable solitude of this house, inaccessible to all, more and more under the galling yoke of his mad love, careless of penetrating the secret of this singular woman; from a master he was made a slave,--he was cecily's valet, served her at meal-times, and took care of her apartment. forewarned by the baron that louise had been overcome by a narcotic, the creole drank only pure water, eating only of dishes with which it was impossible to tamper. she had selected the apartment she was to occupy, assuring herself that there was there no concealed entrance. besides, jacques ferrand soon discovered that cecily was not a woman whom he could assail with impunity; she was vigorous, agile, and dangerously armed; thus a frenzied delirium alone could have incited him to attempt force, and she was quite protected from this peril. yet, that she might not weary and utterly repulse the notary's passion, the creole seemed sometimes touched by his assiduities, and flattered by the control which she exercised over him. and, perceiving that he hoped, by dint of proofs of devotion and self-denial, he should contrive to make her overlook his age and ugliness, she amused herself with telling him that, if she ever could love him, how excessive that love would be. with this jacques ferrand's reason wandered, and he would frequently walk in his garden at night absorbed in his own reflections. sometimes he gazed for hours into the bedroom of the creole; for she had allowed a small window to be made in the door, which she frequently and intentionally left open. absorbed, lost, wandering, indifferent to his most important interests, or the preservation of his reputation as an austere, serious, and pious man,--a reputation usurped, it is true, but, at the same time, acquired after long years of dissimulation and chicanery,--he amazed his clerks by his aberration of mind, offended his clients by his refusals to receive them, and abruptly refused the visits of the priests, who, deceived by his hypocrisy, had been until then his warmest champions. we have said that cecily was dressing her head before her glass. at a slight noise in the corridor she turned her head towards the door. in spite of the noise she had heard, cecily continued her night toilet tranquilly. she drew from her corsage, where it was placed almost like a busk, a stiletto five or six inches long, enclosed in a case of black shagreen, having a small ebony handle, with silver threads,--a plain handle, but very fit for use; it was not a mere weapon for show. cecily took the dagger from its scabbard with excessive precaution, and laid it on the marble mantelpiece. the blade, of finest temper and damascus steel, was triangular, with keen edges; and the point, as sharp as a needle, would have pierced a shilling without turning the edge. impregnated with a subtle and rapid poison, the slightest puncture of this poniard was mortal. jacques ferrand having one day alluded to the danger of this weapon, the creole made in his presence an experiment, _in animâ vita_,--that is to say, on the unfortunate house-dog, which, slightly pricked on the nose, fell and died in horrible convulsions. the stiletto placed on the mantelpiece, cecily took off her black bodice, and was then, with her shoulders, neck, and arms denuded, like a lady in her ball-dress. like most of the creole women, she wore, instead of stays, another bodice of stout linen, which fitted her figure very closely; her orange-coloured petticoat, remaining attached to this sort of white spencer, with short sleeves, and cut very low, formed a costume less precise than the other, and harmonised wonderfully with the scarlet stocking, and the coloured handkerchief, so coquettishly arranged around the creole's head. nothing could be more perfect, more beautifully defined, than the graceful contour of her arms and shoulders. a heavy sigh aroused cecily's attention. she smiled, as she twisted around her finger one of her curling tresses, which had escaped from beneath her head-dress. "cecily! cecily!" murmured a voice, which was plaintive though coarse. and through the wicket was visible the pale and flat face of jacques ferrand. cecily, silent until then, began to hum a creole air; the words of this melody were sweet and expressive. although repressed, the full contra-alto of cecily was heard above the noise of the torrents of the rain and gusts of wind, which seemed to shake the old house to its very foundation. "cecily! cecily!" repeated jacques ferrand, in a tone of supplication. the creole paused suddenly and turned her head around quickly, as if, for the first time, she then heard the notary's voice; and going towards the door,-- "what, dear master (she called him so in derision), you there?" she said, with a slight foreign accent, which gave additional charm to her full and sarcastic voice. "oh, how beautiful you are!" murmured the notary. "you think so?" said cecily. "doesn't my head-dress become me?" "i think you handsomer every day." "only see how white my arm is." "monster, begone! begone!" shouted jacques ferrand, furious. cecily burst into a loud fit of laughter. "no, no, it is too much to suffer! oh, if i were not afraid of death!" said the notary, gloomily. "but to die is to renounce you altogether, and you are so beautiful! i would rather, then, suffer--and look at you." "look at me? why, that's what the wicket was made for; and so we can thus chat, like two friends in our solitude, which really is not irksome to me, you are such a good master! what a dangerous confession i make through the door!" "will you never open this door? you see how submissive i am; this evening i might have tried to enter into your chamber with you, but i did not do so." "you are submissive for two reasons: in the first place, because you know that, having, from the necessity of my wandering life, always had the precaution to carry a stiletto, i can manage with a strong hand this inestimable jewel, whose tooth is sharper than a viper's; and you know, too, that, from the day in which i have to complain of you, i will quit this roof for ever, leaving you a thousand times more enamoured than ever,--since you have so greatly honoured your unworthy servant as to say that you are enamoured of her." "my servant? it is i who am your slave,--your mocked, derided, despised slave!" "that's true enough." "and yet it does not move you?" "it amuses me; the days, and especially the nights, are so long!" "accursed creature!" "but, seriously, you look so perfectly wretched, your features have so sensibly altered, that i am quite flattered at it. it is a poor triumph, but you are the only one here." "to hear that, and me consume in impotent rage!" "have you really any understanding? why, i never said anything more tender." "jeer at me,--jeer at me!" "i do not jeer. i never before saw a man of your age in love after your fashion; and, i must confess, a young and handsome man would be incapable of these outrageous passions. an adonis admires himself as much as he admires us; he likes us, and we choose to notice him,--nothing more simple. he has a claim to our love, but is hardly grateful; but to show favour to a man like you, my master dear, would be to take him from earth to heaven, to fulfil his wildest dreams, his most insensate hopes. for if some being were to say to you, 'you love cecily to distraction, if i chose she should be yours next minute,' you would suppose such a being endued with supernatural power, shouldn't you, master dear?" "yes! ah, yes!" "well, if you could convince me more satisfactorily of your passion, i might, perchance, have the whimsical fancy to enact this supernatural part myself in your favour. do you comprehend?" "i comprehend that you are still fooling me,--that you are still pitiless." "perhaps,--for solitude creates so many singular fancies." until this moment cecily's accent had been sarcastic, but she pronounced these last words with a serious, reflecting tone, and accompanied them with a look which made the notary start. "silence! do not look at me thus,--you will drive me mad! i would rather you denied me,--at least, i could then hate you,--drive you from my house!" cried jacques ferrand, who again gave himself up to a vain hope. "yes, for i should then hope nothing from you. but, misery! misery! i know you well enough now to hope, in spite of myself, that one day i might, from your very hate or proud caprice, obtain what i shall never owe to your love. you bid me convince you of my passion,--do you not see how unhappy i am? i will do all i can to please you. you desire to, be concealed from all eyes, and from all eyes i conceal you, perchance at the risk of compromising myself most seriously; for, indeed, i know not who you are. i respect your secret,--i never speak to you of it. i have interrogated you as to your past life, and you have given me no answer." "well, then, i was very wrong. i'll give you a mark of blind confidence, oh, master, dear! and so, listen." "another bitter jest, no doubt." "no, a serious tale. you ought, at least, to know the life of her to whom you afford such generous hospitality." then cecily continued, in a tone of hypocritical and lachrymose earnestness, "daughter of a brave soldier, brother of my aunt pipelet, i received an education, beyond my condition. i was seduced, and then abandoned, by a rich young gentleman; then, to escape the anger of my father, whose notions of honour were most strict, i fled my native country." then bursting into a loud fit of laughter, cecily added, "now i hope that's what you call a very pretty and particularly probable tale, for it has been very often told. amuse your curiosity with that until you get hold of some other story more interesting." "i was certain it was some cruel jest," said the notary, with concentrated rage; "nothing touches you,--nothing. what must i do? tell me. i serve you like the lowest footboy, for you i neglect my dearest interests,--i no longer know what i do. i am a subject of astonishment and derision to my own clerks; my clients hesitate any longer to entrust me with their affairs; i have severed my connection with some religious persons whom i knew intimately. i dare not think of what the world will say of my change of demeanour and habits. but you do not know,--no, you do not know the fatal consequences my mad passion for you may entail on me. yet i give you ample proof of my devotion. will you have more? speak! is it gold you would have? they think me richer than i am, but i--" "what could i do with your gold?" asked cecily, interrupting the notary, and shrugging her shoulders; "living in this chamber, what is the use of gold? your invention is at fault." "it is no fault of mine if you are a prisoner. is this chamber displeasing to you? will you have one more splendid? speak! order!" "once more, what is the use? what is the use? oh, if i might here expect a beloved one, full of the love he inspires and participates, i would have gold, silks, flowers, perfumes, all the wonders of luxury; nothing could be too sumptuous, too enchanting to enshrine my love," said cecily, with an impassioned voice. "well, these wonders of luxury, say but a word, and--" "what's the use? what's the use? why make a frame for which there is no picture? and the adored one! where is he,--where is he, master, dear?" "true," exclaimed the notary, with bitterness, "i am old, i am ugly, i can only inspire disgust and aversion. she overwhelms me with contempt, jests at me,--and yet i have not the resolution, the power to send her away. i have only the resolution to suffer!" "oh, silly old mourner! and what an absurd elderly gentleman, with his sufferings!" cried cecily, in a contemptuous and sarcastic tone; "he only knows how to groan, to despair,--and yet he has been for ten days shut up alone with a young woman in a lone house." "but this woman scorns me,--this woman is armed,--this woman is shut up!" groaned the notary, furiously. "well, conquer her scorn, make the dagger fall from her hands, compel her to open the door which separates her from yourself! but not by brute force, that would be useless." "how, then?" "by the strength of your passion." "passion! and can i inspire it?" "why, you are nothing but a lawyer, affecting piety,--i really pity you. is it for me to teach you your part? you are ugly,--be terrible, and one may forget your ugliness. you are old,--be energetic, and one may forget your age. you are repulsive,--become menacing. since you cannot be the noble steed that neighs proudly in the midst of his harem, do not become the stupid camel that bends the knee and offers his back; be the tiger! the old tiger, that roars in the midst of carnage, still excites admiration; his tigress responds to him from the deepest recesses of the desert." at this language, which was not deficient in a sort of natural and hardy eloquence, jacques ferrand shuddered; struck by the expression, wild and almost fierce, which cecily's features displayed, as, with her bosom palpitating, her nostrils open, her mouth defying, she fastened on him her large and brilliant black eyes. never had she seemed to him more fascinating, or more resplendently beautiful than at this moment. "speak,--speak again!" he exclaimed, with excitement. "for now you speak in earnest. oh, if i could--" "one can do what one wishes," replied cecily, sternly. "but--" "but i tell you, old as you are, if i were in your place i would undertake to engage the affections of a young and handsome woman, and once having achieved this result, what had been against me would turn to my advantage. what pride, what triumph to say to oneself, i have made my age and ugliness forgotten! the love that is shown me i do not owe to pity, but to my spirit, my courage, and my skill. yes, and now if there were here some handsome young fellows, brilliant with grace and attractions, the lovely woman, whom i have subdued by proofs of a resistless and unbounded devotion, would not deign to cast a look at them. no; for she would know that these elegant effeminates would fear to compromise the tie of their cravat, or a curl of their hair, in obedience to her caprices; whilst if she cast her handkerchief in the midst of flames, on a signal from her her old tiger would rush into the furnace with a roar of ecstasy." "yes, i would do it! try! try!" exclaimed jacques ferrand, more and more excited. cecily continued drawing nearer to the aperture, and fixing on jacques ferrand a steadfast and penetrating look. "for this woman would well know," continued the creole, "that she would have some exorbitant caprice to satisfy,--that these dandies would look at their money, if they had any, or, if they had not, at some other low consideration, whilst her old tiger--" "would consider nothing,--nothing, i tell you. fortune,--honour,--he--he--would sacrifice all!" "really?" said cecily, putting her lovely fingers on the bony fingers of jacques ferrand, whose clutched hands, passed through the small glass door, were clasping the top of the ledge. "would not this woman be ardently loved?" added cecily. "if she had an enemy, and with a gesture pointed him out to her old tiger, and said to him, strike--" "and he would strike!" exclaimed jacques ferrand, attempting to press cecily's fingers with his parched lips. "really, the old tiger would strike?" said the creole, placing her hand gently on the hand of jacques ferrand. "to possess you," cried the wretch, "i could commit a crime--" "ah, master," said cecily, suddenly, and withdrawing her hand, "go--go,--in my turn i scarcely know you,--you do not seem to me so ugly as you did just now. but go--go!" and she left the aperture abruptly. the artful creature gave to her gestures and these last words an appearance of truth so perfect, and a look of such surprise, as if angry and disappointed with herself for having for an instant only appeared to forget the ugliness of jacques ferrand, that he, transported by frenzied hope, cried, as he clung convulsively to the ledge of the aperture: "cecily, come back,--come back! bid me do what you will, i will be your tiger." "no, no, master!" said cecily, still retreating. "and in order to forget you, i will sing a song of my country." "cecily, return!" exclaimed jacques ferrand, in a supplicating tone. "no, no! later, when i can without danger. but the light of this lamp hurts my eyes,--a soft languor overcomes my senses!" and cecily extinguished the lamp, took down a guitar, and made up the fire, whose increased blaze then lighted up the whole apartment. from the narrow window, where he stood motionless, such was the picture that jacques ferrand perceived. in the midst of the luminous circle formed by the flickering blaze on the fire cecily, in a position full of softness and _abandonnement_, half reclining on a large sofa of garnet damask, held a guitar, on which she ran over several harmonious preludes. the fire-light threw its red tints on the creole, who appeared thus in strong relief. to complete the tableau, the reader must call to mind the mysterious and singular appearance of a room in which the fire from the grate struggles with the deep and large black shadows, which tremble on the ceiling and the walls. the storm without increased, and roared loudly. whilst she preludised on her guitar, cecily fixed her eyes immovably on jacques ferrand, who, fascinated, could not take his look from her. "now, master mine," said the creole, "listen to a song of my country. we do not understand how to make verses, but have a simple recitative, without rhyme, and between each rest we improvise, as well as we can, a symphony appropriate to the idea of the couplet; it is very simple and pastoral, and i am sure, master, it will please you." and cecily began a kind of recitative, much more accentuated by the expression of the voice than the modulation of the music. some soft and vibrating chords served as accompaniment. this was cecily's song: "flowers--still flowers, everywhere. my lover is coming--my hope of happiness unnerves me. let us subdue the glare of daylight, pleasure seeks the softer shade. my lover prefers my breath to the perfume of the sweetest flowers. the brightness of day will not affect his eyelids, for my kisses will keep them closed. come--come--come--come, love! come--come--come!" these words, uttered with animation, as if the creole was addressing an unseen lover, were rendered by her the theme of a delicious melody; her charming fingers produced from the guitar, an instrument of no great power, vibrations full of harmony. the impassioned look of cecily, her half closed, humid eyes fastened on jacques ferrand, were full of the expression of expectation. words of love, delicious music, together conspired at the moment to bereave jacques ferrand of his reason; and, half frenzied, he exclaimed: "mercy, cecily, mercy! you will drive me distracted! oh, be silent, or i die! oh, that i were mad!" "listen to the second couplet, master," said the creole, again touching the chords; and she thus continued her impassioned recitative: "if my lover were here, and his hand touched my bare shoulder, i should tremble and die. if he were here, and his curly hair touched my cheek, my pale cheek would become purple--my pale cheek would be on fire. soul of my soul, if thou wert here, my parched lips would not utter a word. life of my life, if thou wert here, i should expiring ask thy pardon. 'tis sweet to die for and with those we love. angel, come--come to my heart--come--come--come!" if the creole had rendered the first strophe with languid pleasure, she put in her last words all the enthusiasm of antique love; and as if the music had been powerless to express her intense passion, she threw her guitar from her, and, half rising and extending her arms towards the door, where jacques ferrand stood, she repeated, in a faltering, dying tone, "oh, come--come--come!" it would be impossible to depict the electric look with which she accompanied these words. jacques ferrand uttered a terrible cry. "oh, death! death to him whom you could thus love!" he cried, shaking the door in a burst of jealousy and furious rage. agile as a panther, cecily was at the door with one bound; and, as if she with difficulty repressed her feigned transports, she said to jacques ferrand, in a low, concentrated, palpitating voice: "well, then, i will confess i am excited by my song. i did not mean to approach the door again, yet here i am, in spite of myself; for i hear still the words you said just now, 'if you bade me strike, i would strike.' you love me, then?" "will you have gold,--all my gold?" "no, i have enough." "have you an enemy? i will kill him." "i have no enemy." "will you be my wife? i'll marry you." "i am married." "what would you, then? oh, what would you?" "prove to me that your passion for me is blind,--furious! and that you would sacrifice all to it." "ah!--yes--all. but how?" "i do not know,--but a moment since your eyes fascinated me. if again you give me one of those marks of intense love, which excite the imagination of a woman to madness, i know not of what i should not be capable. make haste, then, for i am capricious, and to-morrow, perhaps, all the impression will be effaced." "but what proof can i give you at this moment?" cried the notary. "you are but a fool, after all!" replied cecily, retreating from the aperture with an air of disdain. "i was deceived,--i believed you capable of energetic devotion. goodnight! it's a pity!" "cecily, do not leave me! return! what can i do?" "i was but too much disposed to listen to you; you will never have such another opportunity." "but oh, tell me what you would have!" cried the notary, half mad. "eh! if you were as passionately in love as you say, you would find means to persuade me. good night!" "cecily." "i will shut the door, instead of opening it." "cecily,--listen! i will give you yet another proof of my devotion." "what is this proof of your love?" said the creole, who, having approached the mantelpiece to resume her dagger, returned slowly towards the door, lighted by the flame of the hearth. then, unobserved by the notary, she made sure of the action of an iron chain, which terminated in two small knobs, one of which was screwed into the door, and the other into the door-post. "listen!" said jacques ferrand, in a hoarse and broken voice, "listen! if i place my honour, my fortune, my life, at your mercy,--now, this very instant,--will you then believe i love you?" "your honour, your fortune, your life! i do not comprehend you." "if i confide to you a secret which may bring me to the scaffold, will you then believe me?" "you a criminal? you do but jest. what, then, of your austere life,--your piety,--your honesty?" "all--all a lie!" "you pass for a saint, and yet you boast of these iniquities! no, there is no man so craftily skilful, so fortunately bold, as thus to captivate the confidence and respect of men; that were, indeed, a fearful defiance cast in the teeth of society!" "i am that man,--i have cast that sarcasm, that defiance, in the face of society!" exclaimed the monster, in a tone of ecstatic pride. "jacques! jacques! do not speak thus!" said cecily, with a tone of emotion. "you make me mad!" "my head for your love,--will you have it so?" "ah, this, indeed, is love! here, take my poniard,--you disarm me!" jacques ferrand took, through the wicket, the dangerous weapon, with due precaution, and flung it from him to a distance in the corridor. "cecily, you believe me, then!" he exclaimed with transport. "do i believe you?" said the creole, energetically pressing her beautiful fingers on the clasped hands of jacques ferrand. "oh, yes, i do! for now, again, you look as you did a short time since, when my very soul seemed fascinated by your gaze." "cecily, you will speak the words of, truth--and truth only--to me?" "and can you doubt it for a moment? ah, you will soon have ample proof of my sincerity. but what you are about to tell me is quite true,--is it not?" "i repeat that you may believe each word i utter." "so much the better, since you are enabled to prove your passion by the avowal of them." "and if i tell you all?" "then will i, in return, withhold nothing from you; for if, indeed, you have this blind, this courageous confidence in me, jacques, i will call no more for the ideal lover of my song, but you,--my hero, my tiger! to whom i will sing, 'come--come--oh, come!'" as cecily uttered these words, with an air and voice of seductive tenderness, she drew so close to the wicket that jacques ferrand could feel the hot breath of the creole pass over his cheek, while her fresh, full lip lightly touched his coarse, vulgar hand. "call me your tiger,--your slave,--what you will,--and if after that you but divulge what i entrust to you, my life will be the consequence. yes, enchantress, a word from you, and i perish on a scaffold. my honour, reputation, nay, my very existence, are henceforward in your hands." "your honour?" "yes, even so. but listen. about ten years ago i was entrusted with the care of a child, and a sum of money for her use, amounting to two hundred thousand francs; well, i wronged the little creature by spreading a false report of her death, and then appropriated the money to my own purposes." "it was boldly and cleverly done! who would ever have believed you capable of such conduct?" "again. i had a cashier whom i detested, and i determined upon ruining him one way or other. well, one evening, under some great emergency, he took from my cash-box a trifling amount of gold, which he paid back the next day; but to wreak my malice on the object of my dislike, i accused him of having stolen a large sum. of course my testimony was believed, and the wretched man was thrown into prison. now is not my honour--my very safety--at your will and pleasure? at your word both would be in peril." "then you love me, jacques,--oh, truly, blindly love me! since you thus surrender to me the most precious secrets of your heart, how plainly does it prove the empire i must have over you! ah, believe me, i will not be niggardly in repaying you. stoop that brow, from which have emanated so many infernal schemes, that i may press it with my lips." "were the scaffold erected for me," cried the excited notary, "did death stare me in the face, i would not now recall my words. but hearken to what i have still to confess. the child i formerly wronged and forsook has again crossed my path, her reappearance disquieted me, and i have had her murdered." "murdered! and by your orders? but how--in what manner?" "a few days since; it occurred thus: near the bridge of asnières, at the isle du ravageur, a man named martial, for a bribe, contrived to sink her in a boat made purposely with a false bottom. are these particulars sufficient? will you believe me now?" "oh, fiend! demon! you terrify while you fascinate me! in what consists your marvellous power and influence?" "but listen further, for i have not yet finished my catalogue of crimes. previously to that a man had entrusted me with one hundred thousand crowns. i contrived to waylay and blow out his brains, making it appear he had fallen by his own hand. afterwards, when his sister claimed the money entrusted to my charge, i denied all knowledge of it. now, then, i have proclaimed myself a malefactor, guilty of every crime. will you not open your door, and admit a lover so ardent, so impatient as myself?" "jacques," exclaimed the creole, with much excitement, "i admire,--love,--nay, adore you!" "let a thousand deaths come!" cried the notary, in a state of enthusiastic delight impossible to describe, "i will brave them all! oh, you are right! were i ever so young, so handsome, or so seducing, i could not hope for joy such as now swells my heart. but delay not, charmer of my soul,--give me the key, or yourself undo the bolts which separate us. i can endure this torturing suspense no longer!" the creole took from the lock, which she had carefully secured beforehand, the key so ardently prayed for, and, handing it to the notary through the aperture, said, in a languishing tone of utter abandonnement: "jacques, my senses seem forsaking me,--my brain is on fire,--i know not what i do or say." "you are mine, then, at length, my adorable beauty!" cried he, with a wild shout of savage exultation, and hastily turning the key in the lock. but the firmly bolted door yielded not yet. "come, beloved of my heart!" murmured cecily, in a languid voice; "bless me with your presence,--come!" "the bolt! the bolt!" gasped out jacques ferrand, breathless with his exertions to force open the door. "but what if you have been deceiving me?" cried the creole, as though a sudden thought had seized her; "if you have only invented the secrets with which you affect to entrust me, to mock at my credulity, to ensnare my confidence?" the notary appeared thunderstruck with surprise at this fresh expression of doubt, at the very moment when he believed himself upon the point of attaining his wishes; to find a new obstacle arise when he considered success certain drove him almost furious. he rapidly thrust his hand into his breast, opened his waistcoat, impatiently snapped a steel chain, to which was suspended a small red morocco pocketbook, took it, and showing it to cecily, through the aperture, cried, in a thick, palpitating voice: "this book contains papers that would bring me to a scaffold; only undo the bolts which deny me entrance to your presence, and this book, with all its precious documents, is yours." "oh, then, let us seal the compact!" exclaimed cecily, as, drawing back the bolt with as much noise as possible with one hand, with the other she seized the pocketbook. but jacques ferrand permitted it not to leave his possession till he felt the door yield to his pressure. but though it partially gave way, it was but to leave an opening about half a foot wide, the solid chain which passed across it above the lock preventing any person's entering as completely as before. at this unexpected obstacle jacques ferrand precipitated himself against the door and shook it with desperate fury, while cecily, with the rapidity of thought, took the pocket-book between her teeth, opened the window, threw a large cloak out into the yard below, and, light and agile as bold and daring, seized a knotted cord previously secured to the balcony, and glided from her chamber on the first floor to the court beneath, descending with the swiftness of an arrow shot from a bow. then wrapping herself hastily in the mantle, she flew to the porter's lodge, opened the door, drew up the string, ran into the street, and sprang into a hackney-coach, which, ever since cecily had been with jacques ferrand, came regularly every evening, in case of need, by baron graün's orders, and took up its station a short distance from the notary's house. directly she had entered the vehicle it drove off at the topmost speed of the two strong, powerful horses that drew it, and had reached the boulevards ere jacques ferrand had even discovered cecily's flight. we will now return to the disappointed wretch. from the situation of the door he was unable to perceive the window by which the creole had contrived to prepare and make good her flight; but concentrating all his powers, by a vigorous application of his brawny shoulders jacques ferrand succeeded in forcing out the chain which kept the door from opening. with furious impatience he rushed into the chamber,--it was empty. the knotted cord was still suspended to the balcony of the window from which he leaned; and then, at the other extremity of the courtyard, he saw by means of the moon, which just then shone out from behind the stormy clouds which had hitherto obscured it, the dim outline of the outer gate swinging to and fro as though left open by some person having hastily passed through. then did jacques ferrand divine the whole of the scheme so successfully laid to entrap him; but a glimmer of hope still remained. determined and vigorous, he threw his leg over the balcony, let himself down in his turn by the cord, and hastily quitted the house. the street was quite deserted,--not a creature was to be seen; and the only sound his ear could detect was the distant rumbling of the wheels of the vehicle that bore away the object of his search. the notary, who supposed it to be the carriage of some person whose business or pleasure took them late from home, paid no attention to this circumstance. there was then no chance of finding cecily, whose absence was the more disastrous, as she carried with her the positive proof of his crimes. as this fearful certainty came over him, he fell, struck with consternation, on a bench placed against his door, where he long remained, mute, motionless, and as though petrified with horror. his eyes fixed and haggard, his teeth clenched, and his lips covered with foam, tearing his breast, as though unconsciously, till the blood streamed from it, he felt his very brain dizzy with thought, till his ideas were lost in a fathomless abyss. when he recovered from his stupor he arose and staggered onwards with an unsteady and faltering step, like a person just aroused from a state of complete intoxication. he violently shut the entrance door and returned to the courtyard. the rain had by this time ceased, but the wind still continued strong and gusty, and drove rapidly along the heavy gray clouds which veiled without entirely excluding the brightness of the moon, whose pale and sickly light shone on the house. somewhat calmed by the clear freshness of the night air, jacques ferrand, as though hoping to find relief from his internal agitation by the rapidity of his movements, plunged into the muddy paths of his garden, walking with quick, hurried steps, and from time to time pressing his clenched hands against his forehead. heedless of the direction he proceeded in, he at length reached the termination of a walk, adjoining to which was a dilapidated greenhouse. suddenly he stumbled heavily against a mass of newly disturbed earth. mechanically he stooped down to examine the nature of the impediment which presented itself; the deep hole which had been dug, and morsels of torn garments lying by, told him with awful certainty that he stood by the grave dug by poor louise morel to receive the remains of her dead infant,--her infant, which was also the child of the heartless, hardened wretch who now stood trembling and conscience-stricken beside this fearful memento of his sensuality and brutal persecution of a poor and helpless girl. and spite of his hardihood, his long course of sin and seared conscience, a deadly tremor shook his frame, he felt an instinctive persuasion that the hour of deep retribution was at hand. under other circumstances jacques ferrand would have trampled the humble grave beneath his feet without remorse or concern, but now, exhausted by the preceding scene, he felt his usual boldness forsake him, while fear and trembling came upon him. a cold sweat bedewed his brow, his tottering knees refused to support him, and he fell motionless beside the open grave. chapter v. la force. we may, perhaps, be accused, from the space accorded to the following scenes, of injuring the unity of our story by some episodical pictures; but it seems to us that, at this moment particularly, when important questions of punishment are engaging the attention of the legislature, that the interior of a prison--that frightful pandemonium, that gloomy thermometer of civilisation--will be an opportune study. in a word, the various physiognomies of prisoners of all classes, the relations of kin or affection, which still bind them to the world from which their gaol walls separate them, appear to us worthy of interest and attention. we hope, therefore, to be excused for having grouped about many prisoners known to the readers of this history other secondary characters, intended to put in relief certain ideas of criticism, and to complete the initiation of a prison life. * * * * * let us enter la force. there is nothing sombre or repulsive in the aspect of this house of incarceration in the rue du roi de sicile, in the marais. in the centre of one of the first courts there are some clumps of trees, thickened with shrubs, at the roots of which there are already, here and there, the green, precocious shoots of primroses and snowdrops. a raised ascent, surmounted by a porch covered with trellis-work, in which knotty stalks of the vine entwine, leads to one of the seven or eight walks assigned to the prisoners. the vast buildings which surround these courts very much resemble those of barrack or manufactory kept with exceeding care. there are lofty façades of white stone, pierced with high and large windows, which admit of the free circulation of pure air. the stones and pavement of the enclosures are kept excessively clean. on the ground floor, the large apartments, warmed during the winter, are kept well ventilated during the summer, and are used during the day as places of conversation, work, or for the meals of the prisoners. the upper stories are used as immense dormitories, ten or twelve feet high, with dry and shining floors; two rows of iron beds are there arranged, and excellent bedding it is, consisting of a palliasse, a soft and thick mattress, a bolster, white linen sheets, and a warm woollen blanket. at the sight of these establishments, comprising all the requisites for comfort and health, we are much surprised, in spite of ourselves, being accustomed to suppose that prisons are miserable, dirty, unwholesome, and dark. this is a mistake. it is such dogholes as that occupied by morel the lapidary, and in which so many poor and honest workmen languish in exhaustion, compelled to give up their truckle-bed to a sick wife, and to leave, with hopeless despair, their wretched, famishing children, shuddering with cold in their infected straw--that is miserable, dark, dirty, and pestilent! the same contrast holds with respect to the physiognomy of the inhabitants of these two abodes. incessantly occupied with the wants of their family, which they can scarcely supply from day to day, seeing a destructive competition lessen their wages, the laborious artisans become dejected, dispirited; the hour of rest does not sound for them, and a kind of somnolent lassitude alone breaks in upon their overtasked labour. then, on awakening from this painful lethargy, they find themselves face to face with the same overwhelming thoughts of the present, and the same uneasiness for the future. but the prisoner, indifferent to the past, happy with the life he leads, certain of the future (for he can assure it by an offence or a crime), regretting his liberty, doubtless, but finding much compensation in the actual enjoyment, certain of taking with him when he quits prison a considerable sum of money, gained by easy and moderate labour, esteemed, or rather dreaded, by his companions, in proportion to his depravity and perversity, the prisoner, on the contrary, will always be gay and careless. again, we ask, what does he want? does he not find in prison good shelter, good bed, good food, high wages,[ ] easy work, and, especially, society at his choice,--a society, we repeat, which measures his consideration by the magnitude of his crimes? a hardened convict knows neither misery, hunger, nor cold. what is to him the horror he inspires honest persons withal? he does not see, does not know them. his crimes made his glory, his influence, his strength, with the ruffians in the midst of whom he will henceforward pass his life. why should he fear shame? instead of the serious and charitable remonstrances which might compel him to blush for and repent the past, he hears the ferocious applauses which encourage him to theft and murder. scarcely imprisoned, he plans fresh crimes. what can be more logical? if discovered, and at once apprehended, he will find the repose, the bodily supplies of a prison, and his joyous and daring associates of crime and debauchery. if his experience in crimes be less than that of others, does he for that evince the less remorse? it follows that he is exposed to brutal scoffing, infernal taunts, and horrible threats. and--a thing so rare that it has become the exception to the rule--if the prisoner leaves this fearful pandemonium with the firm resolution to return to the paths of honesty by excessive labour, courage, patience, and honesty, and has been able to conceal the infamy of his past career, the meeting with one of his old comrades in gaol is sufficient to overturn this good intention for the restoration of his character, so painfully struggled for. [ ] high wages, if we reflect that, with all expenses paid, a prisoner may gain from five to ten sous a day. how many workmen are there who can save such a sum? and in this way: a hardened, discharged convict proposes a job to a repentant comrade; the latter, in spite of bitter menaces, refuses this criminal association; forthwith an anonymous information reveals the life of the unfortunate fellow who was desirous, at every sacrifice, of concealing and expiating a first fault by honourable behaviour. then, exposed to the contempt, or, at least, the distrust, of those whose good-will he had acquired by dint of industry and probity, this man, reduced to distress, and urged by want, yielding at length to incessant temptations, although nearly restored to society, will again fall, and for ever, into the depths of that abyss whence he had escaped with such difficulty. in the following scenes we shall endeavour to demonstrate the monstrous and inevitable consequences of confinement in masses. after ages of barbarous experiments and pernicious hesitations, it seemed suddenly understood how irrational it is to plunge into an atmosphere of deepest vice persons whom a pure and salubrious air could alone save. how many centuries to discover that, in placing in dense contact diseased beings, we redouble the intensity of their malignity, which is thus rendered incurable! how many centuries to discover that there is, in a word, but one remedy for this overwhelming leprosy which threatens society,--isolation! we should esteem ourselves happy if our feeble voice could be, if not relied upon, at least spread amongst all those which, more imposing, more eloquent than our own, demand with such just and impatient urgency the entire and unqualified application of the cell system. one day, perchance, society will know that wickedness is an accidental, not an organic malady; that crimes are almost always the results of perverted instincts, impulses, still good in their essence, but falsified, rendered evil, by ignorance, egotism, or the carelessness of governments; and that the health of the soul, like that of the body, is unquestionably kept subordinate to the laws of a healthy and preserving system of control. god bestows on all passions that strive for predominance, strong appetites, the desire to be at ease, and it is for society to balance and satisfy these wants. the man who only participates in strength, good-will, and health has a right--a sovereign right--to have his labour justly remunerated, in a way that shall assure to him not the superfluities, but the necessaries of life,--the means of continuing healthy and strong, active and industrious, and, consequently, honest and good, because his condition is rendered happy. the gloomy regions of misery and ignorance are peopled with morbid beings with withered hearts. purify these moral sewers, spread instruction, the inducement to labour, fair wages, just rewards, and then these unhealthy faces, these perishing frames, will be restored to virtue, which is the health, the life of the soul. * * * * * let us now introduce the reader into the room in the prison of la force in which the prisoners are allowed to see persons who visit them. it is a dark place, partitioned in its length into two equal parts, by a narrow grated division. one of these divisions communicates with the interior of the prison, and is the place for the prisoners. the other communicates with the turnkey's lobby, and is devoted to the persons admitted to visit the prisoners. these interviews and conversations take place through the double iron grating of the reception room, in presence of the turnkey, who remains in the interior, at the extremity of the passage. the appearance of the prisoners, who were in this room on the day in question, offered great contrasts. some were clad in wretched attire, others seemed to belong to the working class, and some to the wealthy citizen body. the same contrasts were remarkable amongst the visitors to the prisoners, who were nearly all women. the prisoners generally appear less downcast than the visitors, for, strange and sad to say, yet proved by experience, there is but little sorrow or shame left after the experience of three or four days spent in prison in society. those who most dreaded this hideous community habituate themselves to it quickly; the contagion gains upon them. surrounded by degraded beings, hearing only the language of infamy, a kind of ferocious rivalry excites them; and, either to emulate their companions in the struggle for brutalism, or to make themselves giddy by the usual drunkenness, the newcomers almost invariably display as much depravity and recklessness as the _habitués_ of the prison. let us return to the reception-room. notwithstanding the noisy hum of a great many conversations carried on in undertones on each side of the divisions, prisoners and visitors, after some experience, are able to converse with each other without being for a moment disturbed by, or attentive to, the conversation of their neighbours, which creates a kind of secrecy in the midst of this noisy interchange of words, each being compelled to hear the individual who addressed him, but not to hear a word of what was said around him. amongst the prisoners called into the reception-room by visitors, the one the farthest off from the turnkey was nicholas martial. to the extreme depression with which he was seized on his apprehension, had succeeded the most brazen assurance. already the detestable and contagious influence of a prison in common bore its fruits. no doubt, had he been at once conveyed to a solitary cell, this wretch, still under the influence of his first terror, and alone with the thought of his crimes, fearful of impending punishment, might have experienced, if not repentance, at least that wholesome dread from which nothing would have distracted him. and who knows what incessant, compulsory meditation may produce on a guilty mind, reflecting on the crimes committed and the punishment that is to follow? far from this, thrown into the midst of a horde of bandits, in whose eyes the least sign of repentance is cowardice,--or, rather, treason,--which they make him dearly expiate; for, in their savage obduracy, their senseless bravado, they consider every man as a spy on them, who, sad and disconsolate, regretting his fault, does not join in their audacious recklessness, and trembles at their contact. thrown into the midst of these miscreants, nicholas martial, who had for a long time, by report, known the prison manners, overcame his weakness, and wished to appear worthy of a name already celebrated in the annals of robbery and murder. several old offenders had known his father, who had been executed, and others his brother, who was at the galleys; he was received and instantly patronised by these veterans in crime with savage interest. this fraternal reception between murderer and murderer elevated the widow's son; the praises bestowed on the hereditary infamy of his family intoxicated him. soon forgetting, in this horrible mood, the future that threatened him, he only remembered his past crimes to glory in them, and elevate himself still higher in the eyes of his companions. the expression of nicholas's physiognomy was then as insolent as that of his visitor was disturbed and alarmed. this visitor was daddy micou, the receiver and lodging-house keeper in the passage de la brasserie, into whose abode madame de fermont and her daughter, victims of jacques ferrand's cupidity, had been compelled to retreat. father micou knew the penalties to which he was amenable for having many a time and oft obtained at low prices the fruits of the robberies of nicholas and many others of his stamp. the widow's son being apprehended, the receiver felt he was almost at the mercy of the ruffian, who might impeach him as a regular buyer. although this accusation could not be supported by flagrant proofs, still it was not the less dangerous, the less dreaded by daddy micou, and he had thus instantly obeyed the orders which nicholas had transmitted to him by a discharged prisoner. "ah, ah! how goes it, daddy micou?" said the brigand. "at your service, my good fellow," replied the receiver, eagerly. "as soon as i saw the person you sent to me, i directly--" "oh, you are becoming ceremonious, daddy!" said nicholas, with impatience. "why is this, because i'm in trouble?" "no, no, my lad,--no, no!" replied the receiver, who was not anxious to seem on terms of familiarity with this ruffian. "come, come, be as familiar as usual, or i shall think you have forgotten our intimacy, and that would break my heart." "well, well," said micou, with a groan, "i directly went about your little commissions." "that's all right, daddy. i knew well enough that you would not forget your friends. and my tobacco?" "i have left two pounds at the lodge, my boy." "is it good?" "cannot be better." "and the knuckle of ham?" "left at the lodge, also, with a four-pound white loaf; and i have added something that will surprise you, in the shape of a dozen hard eggs and a dutch cheese." "this is what i call doing the thing like a friend! and the wine?" "six bottles of capital. but, you know, you will only have one bottle a day." "well, that can't be helped, and so one must make up one's mind to it." "i hope you are satisfied with me, my boy?" "certain, and i shall be so again, and for ever, father micou; for the ham, the cheese, the eggs, and the wine will only last just so long as it takes to swallow them; but, as a friend of mine remarked, when they are gone there'll be more where they came from, thanks to you, who will always do the handsome thing so long as i do the same." "what! you expect--" "that in two or three days you will renew my little stock, daddy dear." "devil burn me if i do! it's all very good for once--" "for once! what d'ye mean, man? why, ham and wine are always good, you know that very well." "certainly, but i have not undertaken to feed you in delicacies." "oh, daddy micou, that's shabby--indecent. what, refuse me ham! one who has so often brought you 'double tresse' (stolen lead)!" "hush, hush! you mischievous fellow," cried the alarmed receiver. "no, i'll put the question to the big-wig (the judge). i'll say to him, only imagine now, sir, that daddy micou--" "hush, hush!" exclaimed the receiver, seeing with equal alarm and anger that nicholas was much disposed to abuse the influence which their guilty companionship gave him. "i'll agree--i will renew your provision when it is consumed." "that's all right, and what's fair. and you mustn't forget, too, to send some coffee to mother and calabash, who are at st. lazare; they like a cup in a morning, and they'll miss it." "what more? would you ruin me, you extortionate fellow?" "oh, just as you like, daddy micou,--don't say another word, but i shall ask the big-wig--" "well, then, they shall have the coffee," said the receiver, interrupting him. "but devil take you! accursed be the day when i first knew you!" "old boy, i say quite the contrary. i am delighted to have your valuable acquaintance at this particular moment. i revere you as a nursing father." "i hope you have nothing more to ask of me?" said micou, with bitterness. "yes; say to my mother and sister that, if i was frightened when they apprehended me, i am no longer so, but as determined as they two are." "i'll say so. anything more?" "stay another moment or two. i forgot to ask you for a couple of pairs of warm woollen stockings,--you'd be sorry if i caught cold, shouldn't you?" "i should be glad if you were dead." "thank ye, daddy, thank ye! but that pleasure is yet to come, and to-day i'm alive and kicking, and inclined to take things easy. if they serve me as they did my father, at least i shall have enjoyed my life while it lasted." "it's a nice life, yours is!" "superb! since i have been here i've enjoyed myself like a king. if we had lamps and fireworks, they would have lighted them up, and fired them off in my honour, when they knew i was the son of the famous martial who was guillotined." "how affecting! what a glorious parentage!" "why, d'ye see, there are many dukes and marquises. why, then, shouldn't we have our nobility, too?--such as us!" said the ruffian, with bitter irony. "to be sure, and charlot (the headsman) will give you your letters of nobility on the place du palais." "you may be sure it won't be the gaol chaplain. but in prison we should have the nobility of top-sawyers (noted robbers) to be thought much of; if not, you are looked upon as nobody at all. you should only see how they behave to those who are not tip-tops and give themselves airs. now there's in here a chap called germain, a young fellow, who appears disgusted with us, and seems to despise us all. let him take care of his hide! he's a sulky hound, and they say he is a 'nose' (a spy); if he is, they'll screw his nose around, just by way of warning." "germain? a young man called germain?" "yes; d'ye know him? is he one of us? if so, in spite of his looks, we--" "i don't know him; but if he is the germain i have heard speak of, his affair is settled." "how?" "why, he has only just escaped from a plot which velu and the stout-cripple laid for him lately." "why?" "i don't know, but they said that in the country somewhere he had tricked one of their pals." "i was sure of it, germain is a spy. well, we'll spy him! i'll go and tell our friends; that'll set them sharper against him. by the way, how does gros-boiteux get on with your lodgers?" "thank heaven, i have got rid of him,--a blackguard! you'll see him here to-day or to-morrow." "all right; how we shall laugh! he's a boy who is never taken aback!" "it's because i knew that he would find this germain here that i said his affair was settled,--if it's the same chap." "why have they got hold of the gros-boiteux?" "for a robbery committed with a discharged convict, who wanted to turn honest and work. well, you see, the gros-boiteux soon got him in a string; he is such a vicious devil, the boiteux! i am certain it was he who broke open the trunk of the two women who live in the little room on my fourth floor." "what women?--ah, yes, two women! you was smitten by the young 'un, i remember, you old vagabond, because you thought her so nice." "they'll not smite anybody any more, for by this time the mother must be dead, and the daughter is scarcely alive. i shall lose a fortnight's rent, and i sha'n't give a sou to pay for their burial. i've had so many losses, without talking of the little matters you entreat me to give you and your family, that my affairs are quite disarranged. i've had the luck of it this year." "pooh, pooh! you are always complaining, old gentleman; you who are as rich as croesus. but don't let me detain you." "you're polite." "you'll call and tell me how mother and calabash are when you bring me my other provisions?" "yes, if i must." "ah, i'd nearly forgot; whilst you're about it, bring me a new cap, of plaid velvet, with an acorn at top; mine's regularly done for." "come, now, you're laughing at me." "no, daddy, by no means; i want a plaid velvet cap. that's my wish." "then you're resolved to make a beggar of me?" "come, i say, micou, don't get out of temper about it. it's only yes or no,--i do not force you, but--you understand?" the receiver, reflecting that he was at the mercy of nicholas, rose, fearing that if he prolonged his visit he would be exposed to fresh demands. "you shall have your cap," he replied; "but mind, if you ask me for anything more, i will give you nothing,--let what will occur, you'll suffer as much as i shall." "make your mind easy, i'll not make you sing (force you to give money under the threat of certain disclosures) more than is sufficient for you not to lose your voice; for that would be a pity, you sing so well." the receiver went away, shrugging his shoulders with rage, and the turnkey conducted nicholas back to the interior of the prison. at the moment when micou quitted the reception-room, rigolette entered it. the turnkey, a man about forty years of age, an old soldier, with stern and marked features, was dressed in a round jacket, with a blue cap and trousers; two silver stars were embroidered on the collar and facings of his jacket. at the sight of the grisette the face of this man brightened up, and assumed an expression of benevolence. he had always been struck by the grace, gentleness, and touching kindness with which rigolette consoled germain when she came there to see him. germain was, besides, not an ordinary prisoner; his reserve, his peaceable demeanour, and his melancholy inspired the persons about the prison with deep interest,--an interest which they did not manifest, for fear of exposing him to the ill-treatment of his brutal companions, who, as we have said, looked upon him with mistrusting hate. it was raining in torrents, but, thanks to her goloshes and umbrella, rigolette had boldly faced the wind and rain. "what a shocking day, my poor girl!" said the turnkey, kindly. "it requires a good deal of courage to leave home such weather as this." "when we think as we come along of the pleasure we shall give a poor prisoner, we don't think much about the weather, sir." "i need not ask you whom you have come to see?" "certainly not. and how is poor germain?" "why, my dear, i have seen many prisoners; they have been sad for a day,--two days, perhaps,--and then gradually got into the same way as the others; and those who were most out of sorts at first often ended by becoming the merriest of all. but m. germain, is not one of these, he has still that melancholy air." "how sorry i am to hear it!" "when i'm on duty in the yards, i look at him from the corner of my eye, he is always alone. i have already told you that you should advise him not to do so, but to resolve on conversing with the others, or it will end with his becoming suspected and ill-used by them. we keep a close look-out, but a mischievous blow is soon given." "oh, sir, is there any danger threatens him?" cried rigolette. "not precisely, but these ruffians see that he is not one of them, and hate him because he has an honest and proud look." "yet i advised him to do what you told me, sir, and make up his mind to talk to some of the least wicked! but he cannot help it, he cannot get over his repugnance." "he is wrong--wrong! a struggle is so soon begun." "can't he, then, be separated from the others?" "for the last two or three days, since i have seen their ill-will towards him, i advised him to place himself what we call _à la pistole_,--that is, in a room." "well?" "i had not thought of one thing. a whole row of cells is undergoing repair, and the others are full." "but these wretches may kill him!" said rigolette, her eyes filling with tears. "and if, by chance, he had any protectors, what could they do for him, sir?" "nothing, but enable him to obtain what these debtors who can pay for it obtain,--a chamber, _à la pistole_." "alas, then, he is lost, if they hate him in prison." "oh, don't be downhearted, we will look well to him. but i repeat, my dear, do advise him to familiarise himself a little,--the first step is half the battle." "i will advise him as strongly as i can, sir. but for a good and honest heart it is very hard, you know, to familiarise itself with such people." "of two evils we must choose the least. now i will fetch m. germain. but now i think of it," said the turnkey, "there are only two visitors; wait until they are gone, there'll not be any more to-day, for it is two o'clock. i will then fetch m. germain, and you can talk at your ease. i can then, when you are alone, let him come into the passage, so that you will be separated by one grating instead of two. won't that be better?" "ah, sir, how kind you are, and how much i thank you!" "hush! do not let any one hear you, or they may be jealous. sit down there at the end of the bench, and when this man and woman have gone, i will tell m. germain." the turnkey returned to his post inside the grating, and rigolette sat down very melancholy at the end of the visitors' bench. whilst the grisette is awaiting the coming of germain, we will allow the reader to overhear the conversation of the prisoners who remained there after the departure of nicholas martial. chapter vi. pique-vinaigre. the prisoner who was beside barbillon was a man about forty-five years of age, thin, mean-looking, with a keen, intelligent, jovial, merry face. he had an enormous mouth, almost entirely toothless; and, when he spoke, he worked it from side to side, very much after the style of those orators who are accustomed to harangue from booths at fairs. his nose was flat, his head disproportionately large and nearly bald; he wore an old gray knit worsted waistcoat, a pair of trousers of indescribable colour, torn and patched in a thousand places; his feet, half wrapped up in pieces of old linen, were thrust into wooden shoes. this man, fortuné gobert, called pique-vinaigre, formerly a juggler, a convict freed after condemnation for the crime of uttering false money, was charged with having broken from gaol and committed violent burglary. having been confined but very few days in la force, pique-vinaigre already filled the office of story-teller, to the general satisfaction of his fellow prisoners. now story-tellers have become very rare, but formerly each ward had usually, for a slight general subscription, its official story-teller, who, by his narrations, made the long winter evenings appear less tedious when the prisoners went to bed at sunset. if it be curious to note the desire for these fictions which these outcasts display, it is yet a more singular thing to reflect upon the hearing of these recitals. men corrupted to the very marrow, thieves, and murderers, prefer especially the histories in which are expressed generous, heroic sentiments, recitals in which weakness and goodness are avenged in fierce retribution. it is the same thing with women of lost reputation; they are singularly fond of simple, touching, and sentimental details, and almost invariably refuse to read obscene books. pique-vinaigre excelled in that kind of heroic tales in which weakness, after a thousand trials, concludes by triumphing over persecution. he possessed, besides, a deep fund of satire, which had procured for him his name, his repartees being very frequently ironical or merry. he had just entered the reception-room. opposite to him, on the other side of the grating, was a female of about thirty-five years of age, of pale, mild, and interesting countenance, meanly but cleanly clad. she was weeping bitterly, and held a handkerchief to her eyes. pique-vinaigre looked at her with a mixture of impatience and affection. "come, jeanne," he said, "do not play the child. it is sixteen years since we met, and to keep your handkerchief up to your eyes is not the way for us to know each other again." "brother--my poor, dear fortuné! i am choking--i cannot speak." "ah, nonsense! what ails you?" his sister repressed her sobs, wiped her eyes, and, looking at him with astonishment, replied, "what ails me? what, when i find you again in prison, where you have already been fifteen years!" "true. it is six months to-day since i left melun; and i didn't call upon you in paris because the capital was forbidden to me." "why did you leave beaugency when you were under surveillance?" "in the first place, jeanne, since the gratings are between us, you must fancy i have embraced you, squeezed you in my arms, as a man ought to do who has not seen his sister for an eternity. now let us talk. a prisoner at melun, who is called the gros-boiteux, told me that there was at beaugency an old convict of his acquaintance, who employed the freed prisoners in a factory of white lead. those who work at it in a month or two catch the lead-colic. one in three of those attacked die. it is true that others die also; but they take their time about it and get on, sometimes as long as a year or even eighteen months. then the trade is better paid than most others, and there are fellows who hold out at it for two or three years. but they are elders--patriarchs--of the white-leaders. they die, it is true, but that is all." "and why did you choose a trade so dangerous that they die at it?" "what could i do? when i went to melun for that well-known job of the forged coin i was a thimble-rigger. as in gaol there was no scope for my line of business, and i am not stronger than a good stout flea, they put me to making children's toys. there was a tradesman in paris who found it very advantageous to have his wooden trumpets and swords made by the prisoners. why, i must have made half the wooden swords used by the children of paris; and i was great in the trumpet line. rattles, too,--why, with two of my manufacture i could have set on edge the teeth of a whole battalion! well, when my time was up i was a first-rate maker of penny trumpets, and my only resource was making child's playthings. now, supposing that a whole town, young and old, were inclined to play tur-tu-tu-tu on my trumpets, i should still have had a good deal of trouble to earn a livelihood; and then i could not have induced a whole population to continue playing the trumpet from morning to night." "you are still such a jester!" "better joke than cry. well, then, seeing that at forty leagues from paris my trade of juggler was no more useful to me than my trumpets, i requested the surveillance at beaugency, intending to become a white-leader. it is a trade that gives you indigestion enough to send you mad; but until one bursts one lives, and that is always something, and it was better than turning thief. i am neither brave nor strong enough to thieve, and it was from pure accident that i did the thing i have just mentioned to you." "and yet you had the courage to take up with a deadly trade! come now, fortuné, you wish to make yourself out worse than you are." "i thought that the malady would have so little to take hold of in me that it would go elsewhere, and that i should become one of the patriarchal white-leaders. well, when i came out of prison, i found my earnings had considerably increased by telling stories." "so you told us. you remember how it amused poor old mother?" "dear soul! she never suspected that i was at melun?" "never. she thought you had gone abroad." "why, my girl, my follies were my father's fault, who dressed me up as a clown to help in his mountebank displays, to swallow tow and spit fire, which did not allow me spare time to form acquaintance with the sons of the peers of france; and so i fell into bad company. but to return to beaugency. when once i had left melun, like the rest, i thought i must see some fun; if not, what was the use of my money? well, i reached beaugency, with scarcely a sou in my pocket. i asked for velu, the friend of gros-boiteux, the head of the manufactory. your servant! there was no longer any white-lead factory; it had killed eleven persons in the year, and the old convict had shut up shop. so here i was in the middle of this city, with my talent for trumpet-making as my only means of existence, and my discharge from prison as my only certificate of recommendation. i did my best to procure work, but in vain. one called me a thief, another a beggar, a third said i had escaped from gaol; all turned their backs upon me. so i had nothing to do but die of hunger in a city which i was not to leave for five years. seeing this, i broke my ban, and came to paris to utilise my talents. as i had not the means to travel in a coach and four, i came begging and tramping all the way, avoiding the _gens-d'armes_ as i would a mad dog. i had luck, and reached auteuil without accident. i was very tired, hungry as a wolf, and dressed, as you may see, not in the height of the fashion." and pique-vinaigre glanced comically at his rags. "i had not a sou, and was liable to be taken up as a vagabond. well, _ma foi!_ an occasion presented itself; the devil tempted me, and, in spite of my cowardice--" "enough, brother,--enough!" said his sister, fearing lest the turnkey might hear his dangerous confession. "are you afraid they listen?" he said. "be tranquil; i have nothing to conceal. i was taken in the act." "alas!" said jeanne, weeping bitterly; "how calmly you say this!" "if i spoke warmly what should i gain by it? come, listen to reason, jeanne. must i have to console you?" jeanne wiped her eyes and sighed. "well, to go back to my affair," continued pique-vinaigre. "i had nearly reached auteuil, in the dusk. i could not go any farther, and i did not wish to enter paris but at night; so i sat down behind a hedge to rest myself, and reflect on my plan of campaign. my reflections sent me to sleep, and when the sound of voices awoke me it was night. i listened. it was a man and woman, who were talking as they went along on the other side of the hedge. the man said to the woman, 'who do you think would come and rob us? haven't we left the house alone a hundred times?' 'yes,' replied the woman; 'but then we hadn't a hundred francs in the drawers.' 'who knows that, you fool?' says the husband. 'you are right,' replies the wife; and on they went. _ma foi!_ the occasion seemed to me too favourable to lose, and there was no danger. i waited until they got a little farther on, and then came from behind the hedge, and, looking twenty paces behind me, i saw a small cottage, which i was sure must be the house with the hundred francs, as it was the only habitation in sight. auteuil was about five hundred yards off. i said to myself,'courage, old boy,--there is no one. then it is night; if there is no watch-dog (you know i was always afraid of dogs), why, the job is as good as done.' luckily there was no dog. to make sure i knocked at the door. nothing. this encouraged me. the shutters were closed on the ground floor, but i put my stick between and forced them. i got into the window, and in the room the fire was still alight. so i saw the drawers, but no key. with the tongs i forced the lock, and under a heap of linen i found the prize, wrapped in an old woollen stocking. i did not think of taking anything else, but jumping out of the window, i alighted on the back of the garde-champêtre, who was returning home." "what a misfortune!" "the moon had risen. he saw me jump from the window and seized me. he was a fellow who could have eaten a dozen such as i was. too great a coward to resist, i surrendered quietly. i had the stocking still in my hand, and he heard the money chink, took it, put it in his game bag, and made me accompany him to auteuil. we reached the mayor's with a crowd of blackguards and _gens-d'armes_. the owners of the cottage were fetched, and they made their depositions. there was no means of denial; so i confessed everything and signed the depositions, and they put on me handcuffs, and i was brought here." "in prison again, and for a long time, perhaps?" "listen to me, jeanne, for i will not deceive you. i may as well tell you at once; for it is no longer an affair of prison." "why not?" "why, the relapse, the breaking in and entry into a dwelling-house at night, the lawyer told me, is a complete affair, and i shall have fifteen or twenty years at the galleys, and the public exposure into the bargain." "the galleys,--and you so weak? why, you'll die!" "and suppose i had been with the white-lead party?" "but the galleys,--the galleys!" "it is a prison in the open air, with a red shirt instead of a brown one; and then i have always had a curiosity to see the sea!" "but the public exposure! to be subject to the contempt of all the world! oh, my poor brother!" and the poor woman wept bitterly. "come, come, jeanne, be composed; it is an uncomfortable quarter of an hour to pass. but you know i am used to see crowds. when i played with my cups and balls, i always had a crowd around me; so i'll fancy i am thimble-rigging, and if it has too much effect on me i'll close my eyes, and that will seem as if no one was looking at me." speaking with this derision, the unhappy man affected this insensibility, in order to console his sister. for a man accustomed to the manners of prisons, and in whom all shame is utterly dead, the _bagne_ (galleys) is, in fact, only a change of shirt, as pique-vinaigre said, with frightful truth. many prisoners in the central prisons even prefer the _bagne_, because of the riotous life they lead, often committing attempts at murder in order to be sent to brest or toulon. "twenty years at the galleys!" repeated pique-vinaigre's poor sister. "take comfort, jeanne, they will only pay me as i deserve. i am too weak to be put to hard labour, and if there is no manufactory of wooden trumpets and swords as at melun, why, i shall be set to some easy work; they will employ me at the infirmary. i am not a troublesome fellow, but a good, easy chap; and i shall tell my stories as i do here, and shall be esteemed by my chiefs, and adored by my comrades, and i will send you carved cocoanuts and straw boxes for my nephews and nieces." "if you had only written to me that you were coming to paris, i would have tried to conceal you until you found work." "_pardieu!_ i meant to have gone to you, but i preferred arriving with my hands full,--for i see you do not ride in your carriage. well, and your children,--and your husband?" "has left me these three years, after having sold off every stick, not leaving me or the children one single thing but a straw palliasse." "poor jeanne! how have you managed alone with three children?" "why, i have suffered very much. i worked at my business as a trimming-maker as well as i could, the neighbours helping me a little, watching my children when i went out. and then i, who haven't much luck, had a bit of good fortune once in my life; but it was no avail, because of my husband." "how was that?" "my employer had spoken of my trouble to one of his customers, telling him how my husband had left me with nothing, after having sold all our furniture, and that, in spite of this, i was working as hard as i could to bring up my children. one day when i returned what did i find? why, my room fitted up again, a good bed, furniture, and linen; it was the kind customer of my employer." "poor sister! why didn't you write and tell me of your misfortune; and then, instead of spending my money, i would have sent you some." "what! i free to ask of you a prisoner?" "why not? i was fed, clothed, lodged, at the cost of government; all i gained was so much profit. but knowing my brother-in-law was a good workman, and you a good manager and worker, i was quite easy, and melted my 'tin' with my eyes shut, and my mouth open." "my husband was a good workman, that is true; but he became dissipated. however, thanks to this unexpected aid, i took courage again. my eldest girl began to earn a little, and we were happy, except when we remembered that you were at melun. work went well with us, and my children were well clad, and wanted for nothing hardly, and that gave me good heart; and i had actually saved thirty-three francs, when suddenly my husband returned. i had not seen him for a year; and when he found me so well off and tidily dressed, he stood for nothing, but took my money and lived with us without working, getting drunk every day, and beating me when i complained. and that is not all. he gave up a small room adjoining ours to a woman with whom he lived openly as his mistress; so i had that indignity to endure for the second time. he soon began to make away with the few poor things i had managed to get together; so, foreseeing what would be the end of such conduct, i went to a lawyer who lived in the same house, and begged him to advise me how to act to prevent my husband from taking the very bed from me and my children." "why, there needed no lawyer, i should think, to tell you that the only thing you had to do was to turn your husband out of your doors." "ah, but i could not,--the law gave me no power to do so. the lawyer told me that, as 'head of the family,' my husband could take up his abode wherever i dwelt, and was not compelled to labour unless he liked; that it was very hard for me to have to maintain him, and endure his ill-treatment into the bargain, but that he recommended me to submit to it, though certainly the circumstance of his having a mistress living under the same roof entitled me to demand separation from 'bed and board,' as he called it; and further, that as i would bring witnesses to prove his having repeatedly struck me, and otherwise ill-treated me, i could institute a suit against him, but that it would cost me, at the very least, from four to five hundred francs to obtain a perfect separation from him. only think what a sum,--as much as i should earn in a year! and who would lend me so much money, which would have to be repaid heaven knows how? for four or five hundred francs is a perfect fortune." "yet there is one very simple means of amassing the money," replied pique-vinaigre, bitterly; "that of living upon air during the twelve months it would take you to earn that sum, working all the same, but denying yourself even the necessaries of life; and i am only surprised the lawyer did not advise you to starve yourself and your children, or any other kind-hearted expediency." "you always make a jest of everything, brother!" "this time, however, i am not in a jesting humour. it is scandalous that the law should be so expensive to poor creatures such as we. now, just look at yourself,--a good and affectionate mother, striving by every means in your power to bring up your children honestly and creditably; your husband, a bad, lazy fellow, who, not content with stripping you of all you earn, that he may spend his time in drinking and all sorts of loose pleasures, beats and ill-uses you into the bargain. well, you apply to the justice of your country for protection for yourself and your children. 'ah,' say the lawyers, 'yours is a hard case, and your husband is a worthless vagabond, and you shall have justice. but then you must pay five hundred francs for that same justice,--five hundred francs, mind; precisely all your utmost labour can obtain to nourish yourself and family for a year. i tell you what, jeanne, all this proves the truth of the old saying, that 'there are but two sorts of people,--those who are hanged, and those who deserve to be!'" rigolette, alone and pensively inclined, had not lost a word of all that tale of woe breathed by the poor, suffering, and patient wife into her brother's ear; while her naturally kind heart deeply sympathised with all she heard, and she fully resolved upon relating the whole history to rodolph the very first time she saw him, feeling quite sure of his ready and benevolent aid in succouring them. deeply interested in the mournful fate of the sister of pique-vinaigre, she could not take her eyes from the poor woman's face, and was endeavouring to draw a little closer to her; but unluckily, just at that moment, a fresh visitant, entering the room, inquired for a prisoner, and while the person he wished to see was sent for, he very coolly seated himself on the bench between jeanne and the grisette, who, at the sight of the individual who so unceremoniously interrupted her making closer acquaintance with her neighbour, felt a degree of surprise almost amounting to fear, for in him she recognised one of the bailiffs sent by jacques ferrand to arrest poor morel, the lapidary. this circumstance, recalling as it did to the mind of rigolette the implacable enemy of germain, redoubled her sadness, which had been in some manner diverted while listening to the touching recital of the unfortunate sister of pique-vinaigre. retreating from the fresh arrival as far as she could, the grisette leaned her back against the wall, and once more relapsed into her mournful ruminations. "look here, jeanne!" cried pique-vinaigre, whose mirthful, pleasure-loving countenance was suddenly overcast by a deep gloom; "i am by nature neither very strong nor very courageous; but, certainly, if i had chanced to have been by when your husband so shamefully treated you, i don't think i should have let him slip through my fingers without leaving my mark. but you were too good for him, and you put up with more than you ought!" "why, what would you have had me do? i was obliged to endure what i could not avoid. so long as there remained an article that would fetch money did my husband sell it, even to the frock of my little girl, and then repair to the alehouse with his mistress." "but why did you give him your daily earnings?--you should have hid them from him." "so i did; but he beat me so dreadfully that i was obliged to give them to him. i cared less for the blows he gave me than because i dreaded his doing me some bodily injury, such as breaking my arm and dislocating my wrist, that would have hindered me from working; and then, what would have become of my poor children? suppose i had been compelled to go to a hospital, they must have perished with hunger. so, you see, brother, i thought it was better to give up my earnings to my husband than run the risk of being lamed by him." "poor woman! people talk of martyrs, but what martyrdom can exceed what you have endured?" "and yet i can truly say i never injured a living creature, and my only desire was to work hard and do my duty to my husband and children. but it is no use thinking about it; there are fortunate and unfortunate persons, just the same as there are good people and bad people in the world!" "true; and it is a beautiful sight to see how happy and prosperous the good always are,--aren't they, sister? and do you now believe yourself for ever freed from your scoundrel of a husband?" "i trust so. he staid till he had sold even my bedstead and the cradle in which my youngest child lay. but when i think that, even more than that, he wished--" "what did he wish?" "when i say he, i ought rather to tell you that it was rather that wicked woman who urged him on. one day he said to me, 'i tell you what, when folks have a pretty girl of fifteen belonging to them, they are cursed fools if they do not turn her to good account.'" "oh, to be sure! when he had sold the poor girl's clothes, he was willing to sell her also." "when i heard him say those dreadful words i lost all command over myself, and, i promise you, i did not spare him all the reproaches he merited. and when his vile paramour took upon herself to interfere, and say that my husband had a right to do what he liked with his own child, i could contain myself no longer; but i fell with all my fury on the wretched creature. this obtained for me a severe beating from my husband, who then left me; and i have never seen him since." "i tell you, jeanne, that there are men condemned to ten years' punishment and imprisonment who have not done so much to deserve it as your husband has done." "still he had not a bad heart. it was his frequenting alehouses, and the bad companions he met there who made him the lost creature he is." "true, he would not hurt a child; but a grown-up person he was not so very particular." [illustration: "_then left me_" original etching by adrian marcel] "alas, it is no use repining! we must take life as we find it. well, when my husband had left me i seemed to regain my courage, for i had no longer the constant dread of being crippled by him, and so prevented from earning bread for my children. for want of money to buy a mattress (for one must live and pay one's rent before thinking of other things), and poor catherine (my eldest girl) working with me fifteen hours a day, we could scarcely earn twenty pence a day both together, and my other two children were too young to be able to earn anything; so, as i was saying, for want of a mattress we slept upon straw we picked up from time to time before the door of a large furniture packer in the neighbourhood." "and to think that i have spent and squandered all my money as i have done!" "pray do not reproach yourself. how could you possibly imagine i was in want or difficulties when i never said a word to lead you to conclude so? so poor dear catherine and i set to work again with redoubled courage and determination. if you only knew what a dear, good child she is, so honest, industrious, and good, watching me with her eyes to try and find out what i wish her to do. never has a murmur escaped her lips; and yet she has seen much want and misery, though scarcely fifteen years of age! she has consoled me in the midst of my severest troubles. oh, brother," added jeanne, drying her eyes, "such a child is enough to repay one for the severest trials!" "you were just such another yourself at her age; and it is but fair you should have some consolation amidst your troubles!" "believe me, 'tis rather on her account than mine i grieve; for it really seems out of nature to see a young creature like her slaving herself to death. for months together she has never quitted her work, except once a week, when she goes to wash the trifle of linen we possess in the river, near the pont-au-charge, where they only charge three sous an hour for the use of the boats, beaters, etc. all the rest of her time she is working like a galley-slave. ah, she has known misfortune too early! i know well that troubles must come; but then a poor girl should be able to look back upon a happy childhood, at least! and another thing that grieves and vexes me almost as much as that, is not being able to render you any assistance. still i will endeavour." "nonsense; don't talk so! do you suppose i would accept of anything from you? on the contrary, i'll tell you what i'll do to help you. from this time forward i'll insist upon being paid for my amusing tales and wonderful recitals; and those who object to pay from one to two sous for hearing shall no more be treated to the entertaining histories of pique-vinaigre. i shall soon collect a pretty little sum for you, i know. but why don't you take furnished lodgings, so that your husband could not molest you by selling your little possessions?" "furnished lodgings! only consider, there are four, and for such a number we should have to pay at least twenty sous (ten pence) a day. what should we have to live upon if we paid all that for rent? and now we give but fifty francs a year for the rooms we occupy." "true, my girl," replied pique-vinaigre, with bitter irony. "that's right,--work, slave, begrudge yourself necessary rest or food, in order to refurnish your place. and directly you have once more got things comfortably about you, your husband will come and strip you of everything; and when he has deprived you almost of the garments you wear, he will take your dear catherine from you and sell her also." "no, no, brother; he should take my life ere i would suffer him to injure my good, my virtuous child." "oh, but he does not wish to do her any bodily harm; he only wants to sell her. and then, remember, as the lawyer said, he is master until you can find five hundred francs to be legally separated from him. so, as that is not the case, at present you must make up your mind to submit to what cannot be helped. it seems that, by law, your husband has a right to take his child from you and send her where he pleases. and if he and his mistress are bent upon the ruin of the poor girl, doubtless they will stop at nothing to achieve it." "merciful god!" exclaimed the almost frantic mother, "surely such wickedness can never be tolerated in a christian land! justice itself would interpose if a father could insist upon selling his daughter's honour." "justice!" repeated pique-vinaigre, with a sardonic laugh, "justice! no, no, that meat is too dear for poor folks like you and i. only, do you see, if it refers to sending a parcel of poor wretches to prison or the galleys, then it is quite a different affair; and they have justice without its costing them anything,--nay, it becomes a matter of life and death. an unhappy criminal gets his head shaved off by the guillotine for nothing; not a single farthing are they or their friends, whether rich or poor, tailed upon to pay for this act of impartial justice. the object of it only gives his head! all other expenses are defrayed by a liberal and justice-loving legislature. but the justice that would protect a worthy and ill-treated mother of a family from being beaten and pillaged to support the vices of a man who seeks even to sell the honour of his innocent child,--such justice as that costs five hundred francs! so, my dear jeanne, you must do without it." "brother, brother," exclaimed the poor woman, bursting into tears, "you break my heart by such words as these!" "well, and my own heart aches even to bursting as i think of your fate and that of your children, while i recollect that i am powerless to help you. i seem always gay and merry; but don't you be deceived by appearances, jeanne! i tell you what, i have two descriptions of gaiety, my gay gaiety, and my sad gaiety. i have neither the strength or the courage to indulge in envy, hatred, or malice, like the other prisoners; i never go beyond words, more or less droll as occasion requires. my cowardice and bodily weakness would never have allowed me to be worse than i am. and nothing but the opportunity presenting itself of robbing that poor little lone house, where there was neither a cat nor a dog to frighten one, would have drawn me into the scheme that brought me here. and then, again, by chance it was a brilliant moonlight night; for if ever there was a poor devil afraid of being alone in the dark it is me." "ah, dear brother, i have always told you you are better than you yourself think! well, i trust the judges will be of my opinion and deal mercifully with you." "mercy! what, for me, a liberated convict? don't reckon too much on that or you'll be disappointed. but, hang it, what care i? here or elsewhere is all the same to me! let my judges do as they will with me, i shall bear them no ill-will. for you are right; i am not a bad sort of fellow at heart; and those who are worse than myself i hate with all the hatred of a good man, and show my dislike by raillery of every sort. you can imagine, can you not, that, by dint of relating stories in which, to please my auditors, i always make those who wantonly torment others receive the reward of their wickedness in the end, i get into the habit of feeling all the indignation and virtuous desire for vengeance i relate?" "i should never have thought such persons as your prison companions would have been interested in such recitals!" "oh, but i'm awake to how to tickle their fancies. if i were to relate to them the story of a man who committed no end of crimes, robbery and murder being among the mildest, and got scragged at last, they would get into a downright passion and not allow me to go on; but if i make up a tale of a woman or child, or a poor, cowardly fellow like myself, that a breath of wind would knock over, being pursued by an atrocious persecutor,--a sort of blackbeard, who torments them to death, for the pure pleasure of the thing! oh, how they roar and stamp for joy when i make mr. blackbeard in the end served out as he deserves. i have got a story they have never yet heard, called 'gringalet and cut-in-half,' which used to delight all the folks at melun. i have promised to tell it to them here to-night. but, before i begin, i shall see that they come down pretty handsome when i send the box around collecting; and you may depend upon being all the better for its contents. and, besides that, i will write out the story itself to amuse your children. poor dears! how pleased they will be with it! 'gringalet and cut-in-half,'--there's a title for you! and, bless you, it is so virtuous and moral that an abbé might read it from his pulpit! so make yourself quite happy in every respect." "one thing gives me great pleasure, dear brother, and that is to see that your disposition keeps you from being as unhappy as the rest of your companions here." "why, i am quite sure if i were like a poor fellow who is a prisoner in our ward, i should be tempted to lay violent hands on myself. poor young man! i really am sorry for him,--he seems so very wretched; and i am seriously afraid that before the day is over he will have sustained some serious mischief at the hands of the other prisoners, whom he refuses to associate with, and they owe him a grudge for it; and i know that a plan is arranged to serve him out this very evening." "dear me, how shocking! but you, brother, do not mean to take any part in it, i hope?" "no, thank you, i am not such a fool; i should be sure to catch some of the good things intended for another. all i know about it i picked up while going to and fro. i heard them talking among themselves of gagging him to hinder him from crying out, and in order to prevent any one from seeing what is going on they mean to form a circle around him, making believe to be listening to one of their party, who should pretend to be reading a newspaper or anything they liked out loud." "but why should they thus ill-treat the poor man?" "because, as he is always alone, never speaks to any person, and seems to hold everybody in disgust, they have taken it into their heads he is a spy, which is immensely stupid on their parts, because a spy would naturally hook on with them the better to find out all they said and did; but i believe that the principal cause of their spite against him is that he has the air of a gentleman, which is a thing they hold in abhorrence. it is the captain of the dormitory, who is known by the name of the walking skeleton, who is at the head of this plot; and he is like a wild beast after this germain, for so the object of their dislike is called. but let them all do as they like; it is no affair of mine. i can be of no use, therefore let them go their own way. but then you see, jeanne, it is of no use being dull and mopish in prison, or the others are sure to suspect you of something or other. they never had to find fault with my want of sociability, and for that reason never suspected me or owed me a grudge. but come, my girl, you had better return home; we have gossiped long enough. i know very well how it takes up your time to come hither. i have nothing to do but to idle away my days; it is very different with you; so good night. come and see me again when you can; you know how happy it always makes me." "nay, but, brother, pray do not go yet; i wish you to stay." "nonsense, jeanne; your children are wanting you at home. i say--i hope you have not told the poor, dear, little innocent things that their 'nunky' is in prison?" "no, indeed, i have not; the children believe you are abroad, and as such i can always talk to them of you." "that's all right. now then, be off, and get back to your family and your employment as fast as you can." "but listen to me, brother,--my poor fortuné. i have not much to give, god knows! but still i cannot bear to see you in so deplorable a plight as you are at present. your feet must be half frozen without any stockings; and that wretched old waistcoat you have on makes my heart ache to see it. catherine and i together will manage to get a few things together for you. you know, fortuné, that at least we do not want for good will--to--" "to what--to give me better clothes? lord love you, i've got boxes full of everything you can mention, and directly they come i shall be able to dress like a prince! there, now; come, give me one little smile,--there's a good girl! you won't? well, then, you shall make me and bring me what you like; only remember, directly the tale of 'gringalet and cut-in-half' has replenished my money-box, i am to return all you expend upon me. and now once more, dear jeanne, fare you well! and the next time you come to see me, may i lose the name of pique-vinaigre if i don't make you laugh! but be off now; cut your stick, there's a good girl! i know i have kept you too long already." "no, no, dear brother, indeed you have not. pray hear what i have to say!" "hallo, here! i say, my fine fellow," cried pique-vinaigre to the turnkey, who was waiting in the lobby, "i have said my say, and i want to go in again. i've talked till i'm tired." "oh, fortuné," cried jeanne, "how cruel you are to send me thus from you!" "no, no; on the contrary, i am kinder than you give me credit for." "good-bye; keep up your spirits; and to-morrow morning tell the children you have been dreaming of their uncle who is abroad, and that he desired you to give his kind love to them. there--good-bye--good-bye!" "good-bye, fortuné!" replied the poor woman, bursting into tears, as her brother entered the interior of the prison. from the moment when the bailiff seated himself between her and jeanne, rigolette had been unable to overhear a word more of the conversation between pique-vinaigre and his sister; but she continued to gaze intently on the latter, her thoughts busied with devising some plausible pretext for obtaining the poor woman's address, for the purpose of recommending her as a fit object for rodolph's benevolence. as jeanne rose from her seat to quit the place, rigolette timidly approached her, and said, in a kind voice: "pray excuse my addressing you, but a little while ago i could not avoid overhearing your conversation, and by that i found that you were a maker of fringe and fancy trimmings." "you heard rightly," replied jeanne, somewhat surprised, but, at the same time, much prepossessed in favour of the open, frank expression of rigolette's charming countenance, as well as won to confidence by her kind and friendly manner. "and i," continued rigolette, "am a dressmaker. and just now that fringes and gimps are so much worn, i am frequently requested by my customers to get a particular sort for them; so it occurred to me that perhaps you who make at home could supply me with what i required cheaper than the shops, while, on the other hand, you might obtain a better price from me than you get from the warehouse you work for." "certainly, i should make a small profit by buying the silk myself, and then making it up to order. you are very kind to have made me the proposal; but i own i feel unable to account for your being so well acquainted with my manner of gaining a living." "oh, i will soon explain all that to you. you must know i am waiting to see the person i came here to visit. being quite alone, i could not help hearing all you said to your brother,--of your many trials, also of your dear children. so then, thinks i to myself, poor people should always be ready to assist each other. i hope you believe that i did not try to listen? and after that gentleman came and placed himself between us, i lost all that passed between your brother and yourself. so i tried to hit upon some way of being useful to you, and then it struck me that you being a fancy trimming-maker, i might be able to put work in your way more profitable than working for shops,--they pay so very little. so, if you are agreeable, we will take each other's address. this is where i live; now please to tell me where to send to you directly i have any work for you." with these words rigolette presented one of her businesslike cards to the sister of pique-vinaigre, who, deeply touched by the words and conduct of the grisette, exclaimed with much feeling: "your face does not belie your kind heart; and pray do not set it down for vanity if i say that there is something about you that reminds me so forcibly of my eldest daughter that when you first came in i could not help looking at you several times. i am very much obliged to you; and should you give me any work, you may rely on my doing it in my best possible manner. my name is jeanne duport, and i live at no. rue de la barillerie,--no. , that is not a difficult number to recollect." "thank you, madame." "nay, 'tis rather for me to express thanks for having had the goodness even to think of serving a stranger like myself. but still i cannot help saying it does surprise me to be taken notice of by a young person like you, who most likely has never known what trouble was." "but, my dear madame duport," cried rigolette, with a winning smile, "there is really nothing so astonishing in the affair. since you fancy i bear some resemblance to your daughter catherine, why should you be surprised at my wish to do a good action?" "what a dear, sweet creature it is!" cried madame duport, with unaffected warmth. "well, thanks to you, i shall return home less sad than i expected; and perhaps we may have the pleasure of meeting here again before long, for i believe you, like me, come to this dreadful place to visit a prisoner?" "yes, indeed, i do," replied rigolette, with a sigh, which seemed to proceed from the very bottom of her heart. "then farewell for the present; we shall very shortly meet again, i hope, mlle.--rigolette!" said jeanne duport, after having referred for the necessary information to the card she held in her hand. "oh, yes, i'm sure i trust so, too. good-bye, then, till we meet again, madame duport." "well," thought rigolette, as she returned and reseated herself on the bench, "at least i know this poor woman's address; and i feel quite sure m. rodolph will assist her directly he knows what trouble she is in, for he always told me whenever i heard of a case of real distress to let him know, and i am sure this is one if ever there was." and here rigolette suddenly changed the current of her ideas by wondering when it would be her turn to ask to see germain. a few words as to the preceding scene. unfortunately it must be confessed that the indignation of the unhappy brother of jeanne duport was quite legitimate. yes, when he said that the law was too dear for the poor he spoke the truth. to plead before the civil tribunals incurs enormous expenses, impossible for workpeople to meet when they can scarcely subsist on the wages they earn. ought not civil as well as criminal justice to be accessible to all? when persons are too poor to be able to invoke the benefits of any law which is eminently preservative and beneficial, ought not society at its own cost to enable them to attain it out of respect for the honour and repose of families? but let us speak no longer of the woman who must be, for all her life, the victim of a brutal and depraved husband, and speak of jeanne duport's brother. this freed prisoner leaves a den of corruption to reënter the world; he had submitted to his punishment, payed his debt by expiation. what precaution has society taken to prevent him from falling again into crime? none! if the freed convict has the courage to resist evil temptations, he will give himself up to one of those homicidal trades of which we have spoken. then the condition of the freed convict is much more terrible, painful, and difficult than it was before he committed his first fault. he is surrounded by perils and rocks,--he must have refusal, disdain, and often even the deepest misery. and if he relapses and commits a second crime, you are more severe towards him than for his first fault a thousand times. this is unjust, for it is always the necessity you impose on him that makes him commit the second crime. yes, for it is demonstrated that, instead of correcting, your penitentiary system depraves; instead of ameliorating, it renders worse; instead of curing slight moral defects, it renders them incurable. the severe punishment inflicted on offenders for the second time would be just and logical if your prisons, rendered moral, purified the prisoners, and if, at the termination of their punishment, good conduct was, if not easy, at least possible for them. if we are astonished at the contradictions of the law, what is it when we compare certain offences with certain crimes, either from the inevitable consequences, or from the immense disproportions which exist between the punishments, awarded to each? the conversation of the prisoner who came to see the bailiff will present one of these overwhelming contrasts. chapter vii. maÎtre boulard. the prisoner who entered the reception-room at the moment when pique-vinaigre left it was a man about thirty, with reddish brown hair, a jovial countenance, florid and full; and his short stature made his excessive fatness still more conspicuous. this prisoner, so rosy and plump, was attired in a long and warm dressing-gown of gray kersey, with pantaloons of the same down to his feet. a kind of cap of red velvet, called _perinet-leclerc_, completed this personage's costume, when we add that his feet were thrust into comfortable furred slippers. his gold chain supported a number of handsome seals with valuable stones, and several rings with real stones shone on the red fingers of the _détenu_, who was called maître boulard, a _huissier_ (a law-officer), and accused of breach of trust. the person who had come to see him was, as we have said, pierre bourdin, one of the _gardes de commerce_ (bailiffs) employed to arrest poor morel, the lapidary. this bailiff was usually employed by maître boulard, the _huissier_ of m. petit-jean, the man of straw of jacques ferrand. bourdin, shorter and quite as stout as the _huissier_, formed himself on the model of his employer, whose magnificence he greatly admired. very fond as he was of jewelry, he wore on this occasion a superb topaz pin, and a long gilt chain was visible through the buttonholes of his waistcoat. "good day, my faithful friend, bourdin, i was sure you would not fail to come at my summons!" said maître boulard, in a joyful tone, and in a small, shrill voice, which contrasted singularly with his large carcass and full-moon face. "fail at your summons!" replied the bailiff; "i am incapable of such behaviour, _mon général_." this was the appellation by which bourdin, with a joke at once familiar and respectful, called the _huissier_, under whose orders he acted; this military appellation being very frequently used amongst certain classes of clerks and civil practitioners. "i observe with pleasure that friendship remains faithful to misfortune!" said maître boulard, with gay cordiality. "however, i was getting a little uneasy, as three days had elapsed, and no bourdin." "only imagine, _mon général_!--it is really quite a history. you remember that dashing vicomte in the rue de chaillot?" "saint-remy?" "yes; you know how he laughed at all our attempts to 'nab' him?" "yes; he behaved very ill in that way." "well, this vicomte has got another title." "what, is he a comte?" "no, but from swindler he has become thief!" "ah, bah!" "they are after him for some diamonds he has stolen; and, by the way, they belonged to the jeweller who used to employ that vermin of a morel, the lapidary we were going to arrest in the rue du temple, when a tall, thin chap, with black moustaches, paid for this half-starved devil, and very nearly pitched me and malicorne headlong down-stairs." "ah, yes, yes, i remember; you told me all about it, bourdin,--it was really very droll! but as to this dashing vicomte?" "why, as i tell you, saint-remy was charged with robbery, after having made his worthy old father believe that he wished to blow out his brains. a police agent of my acquaintance, knowing that i had been long on the traces of the vicomte, asked me if i could not give him information so that he could 'grab' the dandy. i had learned (too late for myself) that he had 'run to earth' in a farm at arnouville, five leagues from paris; but when we got there the bird had flown!" "but next day he paid that acceptance,--thanks, as i have heard say, to some rich woman!" "yes, general; but still i knew the nest, and he might have gone there again, and so i told my friend in the police. he proposed to me to give him a friendly cast of my office and show him the farm, and as i had nothing to do and it was a rural trip, i agreed." "well, and the vicomte?" "not to be found. after having lurked about the farm for some time, we gained admittance, and returned as wise as we went; and this is why i could not come to your orders sooner, general." "i was sure it was something of this sort, my good fellow." "but, if i may be allowed to ask, how the devil did you get here?" "wretches, my dear fellow, a set of wretches who, for a miserable sixty thousand francs of which they declare i have wronged them, have charged me with a breach of trust and compelled me to resign my office." "really, general! well, that's unfortunate! and shall i then work for you no longer?" "i am on half pay now, bourdin,--on the retired list." "but who are these vindictive persons?" "why, only imagine, one of the most savage of all is a liberated convict, who employed me to recover the amount of a bill of seven hundred miserable francs, for which it was requisite to bring an action. well, i brought the action, and got the money and used it; and because, in consequence of some unsuccessful speculations, i swamped that money and several other sums, all these blackguards have assailed me with warrants; and so you find me here, my dear fellow, neither more nor less than a malefactor." "and does it not alarm you, general?" "yes; but the oddest thing of all is that this convict wrote me word some days ago that this money being his sole resource for bad times, and these bad times having arrived (i don't know what he means by that), i was responsible for the crimes he might commit in order to escape from starvation." "amusing, 'pon my soul!" "very; and the fellow is capable of saying this, but fortunately the law does not recognise any such accompliceships." "after all, you are only charged with breach of trust?" "that is all. do you take me for a thief, maître bourdin?" "oh, dear general! i meant to say there was nothing very serious in this." "why, i don't look very down, do i, my boy?" "by no means; never saw you looking better. indeed, if you are found guilty, you will only have two or three months, imprisonment and twenty-five francs fine. i know the law, you see!" "and these two or three months i shall contrive, i know, to pass quietly in some infirmary. i have a deputy at my elbow." "oh, then, you're all right." "yes, bourdin; and i can scarcely help laughing to think what little good the fools who put me here have done themselves,--they will not recover a sou of the money they claim. they compel me to sell my post,--what do i care?" "true, general; it is only so much the worse for them." "yes, my boy. and now for the subject on which i was anxious to see you, bourdin; it is a very delicate affair,--there is a lady in the case!" said maître boulard, with mysterious self-complacency. "oh, you gay deceiver! but, be it what it may, you may rely on me." "i am greatly interested in the welfare of a young actress at the theatre of the folies-dramatiques. i pay her rent; but, you know, the absent are always in the wrong! alexandrine has applied to me for money. now i have never been a very gay fellow, but yet i do not like to be made a fool of; so, before i comply, i should like to know if the lady is faithful. i know there is nothing more absurd and uncommon than fidelity, and so you will do me a friendly service if you could just watch her for a few days and let me know your opinion, either by a talk with the porter at her abode or--" "i understand, general," said bourdin; "this is no worse than watching a debtor. rely on me; i will have an eye to mlle. alexandrine,--although, i should say, you are too generous and too good-looking not to be adored!" "my good looks are no use, my friend, so long as i am absent; and so i rely on you to discover the truth." "rely on me." "how can i, my dear fellow, prove my gratitude?" "don't mention it, general." "pray understand, my dear bourdin, that your fees in this case will be the same as if you were after an arrest." "i can't allow it, general. as long as i act under your orders, have you not allowed me to shear the debtor to his very skin,--to double, treble, the costs of arrests? and have you not sued for those costs for me as eagerly as if they were due to yourself?" "but, my dear fellow, this is very different; and, in my turn, i declare i will not allow it." "_mon général_, you will really make me quite ashamed if you do not allow me to make these inquiries as to mlle. alexandrine as a poor proof of my gratitude." "well, well; be it so. i will no longer contend with your generosity; and your devotion will be a sweet reward to me for considerations i have always mixed up in our transactions." "very good, general; and now we understand each other. is there anything else i can do for you? you must be very uncomfortable here. i hope you are _à la pistole_ (in a private room)?" "yes; i came just in time to get the only empty room,--the others are being repaired. i have made myself as comfortable as possible in my cell, and am not so very miserable. i have a stove and a very nice easy chair; i make three long meals a day, and my digestion is good; then i walk and go to sleep. except my uneasiness about alexandrine i have not so much to complain of." "but for you who were such an epicure, general, the prison diet is very poor." "why, there is an excellent cookshop in my street, and i have a running account with him, and so every two days he sends me a very nice supply. and, by the way, i would get you to ask his wife--a nice little woman is madame michonneau--to put into the basket a bit of pickled thunny. it is in season now, and relishes one's wine." "capital idea!" "and tell madame michonneau to send me a basket of various wines,--burgundy, champagne, and bordeaux,--like the last; she'll know what i mean. and tell her to put in two bottles of old cognac of , and a pound of pure mocha, fresh roasted and ground." "i'll put down the date of the cognac, lest i should forget it," said bourdin, taking a memorandum-book from his pocket. "as you are writing, my good fellow, be so good as make a minute of my wish to have an eider-down quilt from my house." "all shall be done to the letter, general; make your mind easy. and now i shall be comfortable about your living. but your walks; you are compelled to take them along with those ruffians confined here?" "yes; and it's really very lively and animated. i go down after breakfast; sometimes i go into one yard, sometimes another, and i mix with the mob. really they appear very good sort of fellows! some of them are very amusing. the most ferocious are collected in what is called the fosse aux lions. ah, my good fellow, what hang-dog-looking fellows there are amongst them. there's one they call the skeleton,--i never saw such a creature." "what a singular name!" "he is so thin, or rather bare of flesh, that this is the nickname which has been given to him; he is really frightful. he is, besides, director of his ward, and, moreover, an infernal villain. he has just left the galleys, and went directly to murder and assassination. but his last murder was really horrible, as he knew he should be condemned to death without chance of remission; but he laughs at it." "what a scoundrel!" "all the prisoners admire and tremble before him. i got into his good graces at once by offering him some cigars, and so he made a friend of me at once, and offered to teach me slang; and i have made considerable progress." "oh, what an idea!--my general learning slang!" "i amuse myself as much as i can, and all these fellows adore me. i am not proud like a young fellow they call germain, who gives himself the airs of a lord." "but he must be delighted at meeting with such a gentleman as you, even if he is disgusted with the others." "why, really, he did not seem even to notice that i was there; but, if he had, i should have taken care how i took any notice of him. he is the _bête noire_ of the whole prison, and some day or other they'll play him a slippery trick; and, _pardieu!_ i have no wish to come in for my share of what may befall him." "you're right." "it would interfere with my pleasures, for my walk with the prisoners is really a pleasure to me; only these ruffians have no great opinion of me morally. you see, my accusation of a simple breach of trust is contemptible in the eyes of these out-and-outers; and they look on me as a nobody." "why, really, with such criminals you are--" "a mere chicken, my dear fellow. but do not forget my commissions." "make your mind easy, general. first, mlle. alexandrine; second, the fish-pie and basket of wine; third, the old cognac of , the ground coffee, and the eider-down quilt; you shall have it all. is there anything else?" "yes, i forgot. you know the address of m. badinot?" "the agent? yes." "well, be so kind as to call on him, and say that i rely on his friendship to find me a barrister such as my case requires, and that i shall not stand for forty or fifty pounds." "i'll see m. badinot, depend upon it, general; and all your commissions shall be attended to this evening, and to-morrow you shall receive all you wish for. so good day, and a happy meeting to us soon, _mon général_." "good-bye, my worthy friend!" and the prisoner quitted the parlour at one door, and the visitor by the other. * * * * * let us now compare the crime of pique-vinaigre with that of m. boulard, the _huissier_. compare the beginning of the two, and the reasons, the necessities, which impelled them to evil. compare, too, the punishment which awaited them respectively. the one, driven by his hunger and need, robs. he is apprehended, judged, and sentenced to fifteen or twenty years of hard labour and exposure. property is sacred, and he who, in the night, breaks for plunder should undergo sacred punishment. but ought not the well-informed, intelligent, rich man who robs--not to satisfy hunger, but his caprices or gambling in the stocks--to be punished? yet for the public spoliator there is two months' imprisonment; for the relapsed convict twenty years' hard labour and exposure. what can we add to these facts, which speak for themselves? * * * * * the old turnkey kept his word; and when boulard left the parlour, germain entered, and rigolette was only separated from him by a light wire grating. chapter viii. franÇois germain. although the features of germain could not be styled regular, it was scarcely possible to see a more interesting countenance. there was an air of ease and elegance about him, while his slight, graceful figure, plain but neatly arranged dress (consisting of a pair of gray trousers and black frock coat, buttoned up to the chin), formed a striking contrast to the slovenliness and neglect to which the occupants of the prison generally gave themselves up; his white hands and well-trimmed nails evinced an attention to his personal appearance which had still further excited the ill-will of the prisoners against him, for bodily neglect is almost invariably the accompaniment of moral perversion. he wore his long and naturally curling chestnut hair parted on one side of his forehead, according to the fashion of the day, a style that well became his pale and melancholy countenance, and large, clear blue eyes, beaming with truth and candour; his smile, at once sweet and mournful, expressed benevolence of heart, mingled with a habitual dejection, for, though young, the unfortunate youth had already deeply tasted affliction. nothing could be imagined more touching than the look of suffering impressed on his features, while the gentle and resigned cast of his whole physiognomy was but a fair transcript of the mind within, for a better, purer, or more upright heart could scarcely have beaten in human form. the very cause of his imprisonment (divested of the calumnious aggravations affixed to it by jacques ferrand) proved the goodness of his nature, and left him worthy of blame only for suffering himself to be led astray by his feelings to commit an action decidedly wrong, but still excusable if it be remembered that the son of madame georges felt perfectly sure of replacing on the following morning the sum temporarily taken from the notary's cash-box, for the purpose of saving morel the lapidary, from being dragged from his family and confined in a prison. germain coloured slightly as he perceived, through the grating of the visitor's room, the bright and charming countenance of rigolette, who strove, as usual, to appear gay, in hopes of encouraging and enlivening her protégé a little; but the poor girl was too bad a dissembler to conceal the sorrow and agitation she invariably experienced upon entering the prison. she was seated on a bench at the outside of the grating, holding her straw basket on her lap. instead of remaining in the adjoining passage, from whence every word could be heard, the old turnkey retired to the stove placed at the very extremity of the visiting-room, closed his eyes, and in a very few seconds was (as his breathing announced) fast asleep, leaving germain and rigolette at perfect liberty to converse at their ease. "now then, m. germain," cried the grisette, placing her pretty face as closely as she could to the grate, the better to examine the features of her friend, "let me see what sort of a countenance you have got to-day, and whether it is less sad than it was? humph, humph--only middling! now, do you know that i've a great mind to be very angry with you?" "oh, no, you are too good for that. but how very kind of you to come again so soon!" "so soon! does it seem to you so soon? you mean by those words to reproach me for coming so frequently. well--" "have i not good cause to find fault with you for taking so much pains and trouble for me, while i, alas! can merely thank you for all your goodness?" "that is a little mistake of yours, my fussy friend, because the little services in my power to render you afford me quite as much pleasure as they do you; so that, you see, i am as much bound to say 'thank you for all favours,' as you are. so, you see, i am not to be cheated that way. and now i think of it, the best way to punish you for such very improper ideas will be not to give you what i have brought for you." "what! another proof of your thoughtful care of me? oh, you spoil me--you do, indeed! i shall be fit for nothing but to be somebody's pet when (if ever, alas!) i get out of prison. a thousand thanks! nay, you must pardon my using that word, although it does displease you. but, indeed, you leave me nothing else to say." "ah, but don't be in such a hurry to thank me, before you even know what i have brought!" "why, what do i care what it is?" "well, i'm sure that's very civil, m. germain!" "nay, i only meant to say that, be it what it may, it must needs be dear and precious to me, since it comes from you. oh, mlle. rigolette, your unwearied kindness, your touching sympathy, fills me with the deepest gratitude, and--and--" but finding it impossible to conclude the sentence, germain cast down his eyes and remained silent. "well," said rigolette, "and what else?" "and--devotion!" stammered out germain. "why could you not have said 'respect,' as people write at the end of a letter?" asked rigolette, impatiently. "ah, but i know very well that was not what you were going to say, else why did you stop all of a sudden?" "i assure you--" "there, don't endeavour to assure me of anything; i can see you are blushing through this grating. now why can't you speak out, and tell me every thought and wish of your heart? am i not your true and faithful friend as well as old companion?" continued the grisette, timidly, for she but waited the confession of germain's love for her to tell him frankly and sincerely how truly she returned his affection with a passion as true and as generous as his own. "i assure you mlle. rigolette," said the poor prisoner with a sigh, "that i had nothing else to say, and that i am concealing nothing whatever from you." "for shame for shame," cried rigolette, stamping her foot; "don't tell such stories. now, look here," continued she, drawing a large, white, woollen neck wrapper from her basket; "do you see this beautiful thing? well, i brought it on purpose for you. but now--to punish you for being so deceitful and sly--i will not give it to you. i knitted it on purpose for you, too; for, said i, it must be so damp and cold in those yards in the prison. and this nice, soft, woollen handkerchief is just the thing to keep him warm; he is so delicate!" "and is it possible you--" "yes, sir, i said you were delicate--and so you are," cried rigolette, interrupting him. "i suppose i may recollect, if i please, how chilly you used to be of an evening, though all the time you tried to conceal it, that you might hinder me from putting more wood on my fire when you came to sit with me. i've got a good memory, i can tell you; so don't contradict me." "and so have i," replied germain, in a voice of deep feeling "far too good for my present position;" and, with these words, he passed his hand across his eyes. "now then, i declare, i believe you are falling into low spirits again, though i so strictly forbade it." "how is it possible for me to avoid being moved even to tears, when i recollect all you have done for me ever since i entered this prison? and is not your last kind attention another proof of your amiable care for me? and do i not know that you are obliged to work at night to make up for the time it occupies for you to visit me in my misfortunes, and that on my account you impose additional labour and fatigue on yourself?" "oh, if that be all you have to be miserable about i beg you will make very short work of it. truly, i deserve a great deal of pity for taking a nice refreshing walk two or three times a week just to see a friend--i who so dearly love walking--and having a good stare at all the pretty shops as i come along." "and see, to-day, too, what weather you have ventured out in! such wind and rain! oh, it is too selfish of me to permit you thus to sacrifice your health for me!" "oh, bless you, the wind and rain only make the walk more amusing. you have no idea what very droll sights one sees,--first comes a party of men holding on their hats with both hands, to prevent the storm from carrying them away; then you see an unfortunate individual with his umbrella blown inside out, making the most ludicrous grimaces, and shutting his eyes while the wind drives him about like a peg-top. i declare, all the way i came along this morning, it was more diverting than going to a play. i thought i should make you laugh by telling you of it; but there you are looking more dull, and solid, and serious than ever!" "pray forgive me if i cannot be as mirthful as your kind heart would have me; you know i never have what is styled high spirits, and just now i feel it impossible even to affect them." rigolette was very desirous of concealing that, spite of her lively prattle, she was to the full as sad and heavy-hearted as germain himself could be. she therefore hastened to change the conversation by saying: "you say it is impossible for you to conquer your low spirits, but there are other things you choose to style impossibilities i have begged and prayed of you to do, because i very well know you could, if you chose." "what do you mean?" "i mean your obstinate avoidance of all the other prisoners, and never speaking to one of them; the turnkey has just been talking to me about it, and he says that for your own sake you ought to associate with them a little. i am sure it would not do you any harm; you do not speak; it is always the way. i see very well you will never be satisfied till these dreadful men have played you some dangerous trick in revenge." "you know not the horror with which they inspire me, any more than you can guess the personal reasons i have for avoiding and execrating them, and all who resemble them." "indeed, but i do know your reasons! i read the accounts you wrote for me, and which i went to fetch away from your lodgings after your imprisonment; from them i learned all the dangers you had incurred upon your arrival in paris, because, when you were in the country, you refused to participate in the crimes of the bad man who had brought you up; and that it was in consequence of the last snare they laid to catch you that you quitted the rue du temple, without telling any one but me where you had gone to. and i read something else, too, in those papers," said rigolette, casting down her eyes, while a bright blush dyed her cheeks; "i read things that--that--" "you would never have known, i solemnly declare," exclaimed germain, eagerly, "had it not been for the misfortune which befell me. but let me ask you to be as generous as you are good; forget and pardon my past follies, my insane hopes. 'tis true, in times past i ventured to indulge such dreams, wild and unfounded as they were." rigolette had endeavoured a second time to draw a confession of his love from the lips of germain by alluding to those tender and passionate effusions written by him, and dedicated to the remembrance of the grisette, for whom, as we have before stated, he had always felt the sincerest affection; but, the better to preserve the confiding familiarity with which he was treated by his pretty neighbour, he concealed his regard under the semblance of friendship. rendered more timid and sensitive by imprisonment, he could not for an instant believe it possible for rigolette to reciprocate the attachment of a poor prisoner like himself, whose character was, moreover, tarnished by so foul an accusation as he laboured under, while previous to this calamity she had never manifested more than a sisterly interest in him. the grisette, finding herself so little understood, stifled a sigh, and awaited with hopeful eagerness a better opportunity of opening the eyes of germain to the real state of her heart. she contented herself, therefore, with merely replying: "to be sure, it is quite natural the sight of these wicked men should fill you with horror and disgust; but that is no reason for your exposing yourself to unnecessary dangers." "i assure you that, in order to follow your advice, i have endeavoured to force myself to converse with such as seemed the least depraved among them; but you can form no notion what dreadful men they are, or what shocking language they talk." "i dare say they do, poor unfortunate creatures! it must be horrid to hear them." "but there is something more terrible than that, the getting gradually used to the disgusting conversations which, in spite of yourself, you are compelled to hear all day long. yes, i am sorry to say, i now hear with gloomy indifference horrible remarks and speeches that would have excited my utmost indignation when i first came here. so, you see," continued germain, bitterly, "i begin to be more afraid of myself than i am of them." "oh, m. germain!" "i am sure of it," pursued the unfortunate young man. "after a residence within a prison in company with such as are always to be found assembled there, the mind becomes accustomed to guilty thoughts, in the same manner as the ear gets inured to the coarse and vulgar expressions continually in use. oh, god, i can well believe how possible it is to enter these walls innocent of the crimes ascribed to one, and to leave them with principles utterly and irretrievably perverted!" "but you never could be so changed! oh, no, not you!" "ay, me, and others twenty times better than myself! alas, alas! those who condemn men to this fearful association little think that they expose their fellow creatures to breathe an air laden with the direst moral contagion, and inevitably fatal to every right or honourable feeling!" "pray do not go on so! you know not how you grieve me!" "nay, i but wished to explain to you why i am daily more and more melancholy. i wished not to have said so much, but i have only one way of repaying the pity you have evinced for me." "pity? pity? indeed--" "pardon me for interrupting you, but the only way by which i can acquit myself towards you is to speak with perfect candour; and, with shuddering alarm, i confess that i am no longer the same person i was. in vain do i fly these unfortunate wretches, their very presence, their contact seems to take effect on me; in spite of myself, i seem to feel a fatal influence in breathing the same atmosphere, as though the moral pestilence entered at every pore, and rested not till it had mingled with the heart's blood. should i even be acquitted on my trial, the very sight of, and association with, good and virtuous men would cover me with shame and confusion; for, though i have not yet been able to find pleasure in the society of my companions, i have, at least, learned to dread the day when i shall again mix with persons of respectability, because now i am conscious of my weakness and cowardice; for is not he guilty of both who dares to make a compromise with his duties or his honesty? and have not i done so? when i first came here i did not deceive myself as to the extent of my fault, however excusable the circumstances under which it was committed might have seemed to make it; but now it appears to me an offence of a trifling description when compared with the crimes of which the robbers and murderers by whom i am surrounded make daily boast. and i sometimes surprise myself envying their audacious indifference, and blaming myself with my own weak regrets for so insignificant an action." "and so it was an insignificant action, far more generous than wrong. why, what did you do but borrow for a few hours a sum of money you knew you could replace on the following morning; and that, too, not for yourself, but to save a whole family from ruin, perhaps death." "that matters not, it was a theft in the eyes of the law and all honest men. doubtless it is better to rob with a good motive than a bad one, but it is a fearful thing to be obliged to seek an excuse for oneself by comparing one's own guilt with that of persons far beneath ourselves. i can no longer venture to compare my actions with those of upright persons, consequently, then, i am compelled to institute a comparison between myself and the degraded beings with whom i live; so that i plainly perceive in the end the conscience becomes hardened and is put to sleep. the next theft i commit, probably without the prospect of replacing the money, but from mere cupidity, i might still find an excuse for myself by comparing my conduct with that of a man who adds murder to theft; and yet at this moment there is as great a difference between me and a murderer as there is between a person of untainted character and myself. so, because there are beings a thousand times more degraded and debased than i am, by degrees my own degradation would become diminished in my estimation; instead of being able to say, as i once could, 'i am as honest a man as any i meet with,' i shall be obliged to content myself with saying i am the least guilty of the vile wretches among whom i am condemned for ever to live." "oh, do not say for ever! once released from this place--" "what should i gain even then? the lost creatures by whom i am surrounded are perfectly well acquainted with my person, and, were i even to be set free, i am exposed to the chance of meeting them again, and being hailed as a prison associate; and even though the fact of my imprisonment might be unknown, these unprincipled beings would be for ever threatening me to divulge it, thereby holding me completely in their power, by bands too firm for me to hope to break; while, on the other hand, had i been kept confined in my cell until my trial, they would have known nothing of me, or i of them; so that i should have escaped the fears which may paralyse my best resolutions. and, besides, had i been permitted to contemplate my fault in the solitude of my cell, instead of decreasing in my eyes, its enormity would have appeared still greater; and in the same proportion would the expiation i proposed to make have been augmented; and as my sin grew more and more apparent to my unbiassed view, so also would my earnest determination to atone for it by every means my humble sphere afforded have been strengthened; for well i know it takes a hundred good deeds to efface the recollection of one bad. "but how can i ever expect to turn my thoughts towards expiating a crime which scarcely awakens in me the smallest remorse? i tell you again--and i feel what i say--that i seem acting under some irresistible influence, against which i have long and fruitlessly struggled. i was brought up for evil, and, alone, friendless, and powerless to resist, i yield to my destiny. what matters it whether that destiny be accomplished by honest or dishonest means? yet heaven knows my thoughts and intentions were ever pure and upright; and i felt the greater satisfaction in the possession of an unsullied reputation, from recollection of all the attempts that had been made to lead me to a life of infamy; and mine has been a course of infinite difficulty while seeking to free myself from the odious wretches who wished to degrade me, and render me as vile as themselves. "but what avails my having been a person of unblemished honour and unspotted reputation? what am i now? oh, dreadful, dreadful contrast!" exclaimed the unhappy prisoner, in an agony of tears and sobs, which drew a plenteous shower of sympathising drops from the tender-hearted grisette, who, guided by her natural right-mindedness, her woman's wit, as well as warmed by her deep affection for germain, clearly perceived that, although as yet her protégé had lost none of the scrupulous notions of honour and probity he had ever entertained, yet that he spoke truly when he expressed his dread that the day might come when he would behold with guilty indifference those words and actions he now shuddered even to think of. drying her eyes, therefore, and addressing germain, who was still leaning his forehead against the grating, she said, in a voice and manner more touchingly serious than germain had ever before observed: "listen to me, germain! i shall not, perhaps, be able to express myself as i could wish, for i am not a good speaker like you, but what i do say is uttered in all sincerity and truth; but first i must tell you you have no right to call yourself alone and friendless." "oh, think not i can ever forget all your generous compassion has induced you to do to serve me!" "just now, when you used the word pity, i did not interrupt you; but now that you repeat the word, or at least one quite as bad, i must tell you quite plainly that i feel neither pity nor compassion for you, but quite a different--stay, i will try and explain myself as well as i can. while we were next-door neighbours, i felt for you all the regard due to one i esteemed as a friend and brother. we mutually aided each other; you shared with me all your sunday amusements, and i did my very best to look as well and be as gay and entertaining as i could, in order to show how much i was gratified; so there again we were quits." "quits? oh, no, no! i--" "now, do hold your tongue, and let me speak! i'm sure you have had all the talk to yourself this long while. when you were obliged to quit the house we lodged in, i felt more sorrow at your departure than i had ever done before." "is it possible?" "yes, indeed, for all the other persons who had lived in your apartments were careless creatures, whom i did not care a pin for; while you, from the very first of our acquaintance, seemed just the sort of person i wanted to be my neighbour, because you could understand that i wished us to be good friends, and nothing more. then you were so ready to pass all your spare time with me, teaching me to write, giving me good advice,--a little serious, to be sure, but all the better for that. you were ever kind and good, yet never presumed upon it in any way; and even when compelled to change your lodging, you confided to me a secret you would not have trusted to any one else,--the name of your new abode; and that made me so proud and happy, to think you should have so much reliance on the silence and friendship of a giddy girl like myself. i used to think of you so constantly that at last every other person seemed to be banished from my recollection, and you alone to occupy my memory. pray don't turn away as if you did not believe me. you know i always speak the truth." "indeed, indeed, i can scarcely believe that you were kind enough thus to remember me." "oh, but i did, though; and i should have been very ungrateful had i acted otherwise. sometimes i used to say to myself, 'm. germain is the very nicest young man i know, though he is rather too serious at times; but never mind that. if i had a friend whom i wished to be very, very happy when she was married, i certainly should recommend her marrying m. germain, who would make just such a husband as a good wife deserves to meet with.'" "you remembered me then, it seems, for the sake of bestowing me on another," murmured poor germain, almost involuntarily. "yes, and i should have been delighted to have helped you to obtain a good wife, because i felt a real and friendly interest in your happiness. you see i speak without any reserve; you know i never could disguise my thoughts." "well, i can but thank you for caring enough about me even to wish to dispose of me in marriage to one of your acquaintances." "this was the state of things when your troubles came upon you, and you sent me that poor, dear letter in which you acquainted me with what you styled your fault, but which, to an ignorant mind like my own, seemed a noble and generous action. that letter directed me to go and fetch away your papers, among which i found the confession of your love for me,--a love you had never ventured to reveal; and there, too," continued rigolette, unable longer to restrain her tears, "i learned that, kindly considering my future prospects (illness or want of employ might render so distressing), you wished, in the event of your dying a violent death (as your fears foretold might be the case), to secure to me the trifle you had accumulated by industry and care." "i did; and surely if, during my lifetime, you had been overtaken by sickness or any other misfortune, you would sooner have accepted assistance from me than from any other living creature, would you not? i flattered myself so, at least. tell me, tell--i was right, that to me you would have turned for succour and support as to any true and devoted friend?" "of course i should! who else should i have thought of in any hour of need or sorrow but you, m. germain?" "thanks, thanks! your words fall like healing drops upon my heart, and console me for all i have suffered." "but how shall i attempt to describe to you what i felt while reading that--oh, it is a dreadful word to utter!--that will, each word of which breathed only care and solicitude for my future welfare? and yet these tender, touching proofs of your sincere regard were to have been concealed from me till your death. surely it was not strange that conduct so generous and delicate should at once have converted my feelings towards you into those of an affection sincere and fervent as your own for me. that is easily understood, is it not, m. germain?" the large dark eyes of rigolette were fixed on germain with an expression so earnest and tender, her sweet voice pronounced the simple confession of her love in a tone so touchingly true to nature, that germain, who had never for one instant flattered himself with having awakened so warm an interest in the heart of the grisette, gazed on her for an instant in utter inability to believe the words he heard; then, as the bright beaming look he encountered conveyed the truth to his mind, his colour varied from deepest red to deadly pale, he cried out in a voice quivering with emotion: "can it be? do i hear aright? ah, repeat those dear words that i may feel convinced of their reality." "why should i hesitate to assure you again and again that when i learned your kind consideration for me, and remembered how miserable and wretched you were, i no longer felt for you the calm feelings of friendship? and certainly, m. germain," added rigolette, smilingly, while a rosy blush mantled her intelligent features, "if i had a friend now i wished to see well married, i should be very sorry indeed to recommend her choosing you, because, because--" "you would marry me yourself!" exclaimed the delighted young man. "you compel me to tell you so myself, since you will not ask it of me." "can this be possible?" "it is not from not having put you in the direct path more than once to make you understand. but you will not take a hint, and so, sir, i am compelled to confess the thing myself. it is wrong, perhaps; but, as there is no one but yourself to reprove my boldness, i have less fear; and then," added rigolette, in a more serious tone, and with tender emotion, "you just now appeared to me so greatly overcome, so despairing, that i could no longer repress my feelings; and i had vanity enough to believe that this avowal, frankly made and from my heart, would prevent you from being unhappy in future. i said to myself, 'until now i had been able to amuse or comfort him--' ah, _mon dieu!_ what is the matter?" exclaimed rigolette, seeing germain conceal his face in his hands. "is not this cruel?" she added; "whatever i do, whatever i say, you are still as wretched as ever, and that is being too unkind--too selfish; it is as if it were you only who suffered from sorrows!" "alas, what misery is mine!" exclaimed germain, with despair; "you love me when i am no longer worthy of you." "not worthy of me? why, how can you talk so absurdly? it is just as if i said that i was not formerly worthy of your friendship because i had been in prison; for, after all, i have been a prisoner also; but am i the less an honest girl?" "but you were in prison because you were a poor forsaken girl; whilst i--alas, what a difference!" "well, then, as to prison, we shall neither of us ever have anything to reproach each other with. it is i who am the more ambitious of the two; for, in my position, i have no right to think of any person but a workman for my husband. i was a foundling, and have nothing but my small apartment and my good spirits, and yet i come and boldly offer myself to you as a wife." "alas, formerly such a destiny would have been the dream--the happiness of my life! but now i am under the odium of an infamous accusation; and should i take advantage of your excessive generosity, your commiseration, which no doubt misleads you? no, no!" "but," exclaimed rigolette, with pained impatience, "i tell you that it is not pity i feel for you, it is love! i think of you only; i no longer sleep or eat. your sad and gentle countenance follows me everywhere. can that be pity only? now, when you speak to me, your voice, your look, go to my very heart. there are a thousand things in you now which please me, and which i had not before marked. i like your face, i like your eyes, your appearance, your disposition, your good heart. is that pity? why, after having loved you as a friend, do i love you as a lover? i cannot say. why was i light and gay when i liked you as a friend? why am i quite a different being now i love you as a lover? i do not know. why have i been so slow in finding you at once handsome and good,--in loving you at once with eyes and heart? i cannot say--or rather, yes--i can; it is because i have discovered how much you love me without having told me of it,--how generous and devoted you were. then love mounted from my heart to my eyes, as a tear does when the heart is softened." "really, i seem to be in a dream when i hear you speak thus!" "and i never could have believed that i could have told you all this, but your despair has forced me to it. well, sir, now you know i love you as my friend, my lover--as my husband! will you still call it pity?" the generous scruples of germain were overcome in an instant before this plain and devoted confession, a hopeful joy prevailed over his painful reflections. "you love me?" he cried; "i believe you; your accent, your look,--everything proclaims it! i will not ask how i have merited such happiness, but i abandon myself to it blindly; my life, my whole life, will not suffice to pay my debt to you! oh, i have greatly suffered already, but this moment effaces all!" "then you will be comforted at last? oh, i was sure i should contrive to do so!" cried rigolette, in a transport of joy. "and it is in the midst of the horrors of a prison, and when all conspires to overwhelm me, that such happiness--" germain could not conclude. this thought reminded him of the reality of his position. his scruples, for a moment lost sight of, returned more severe than ever, and he said, with despair: "but i am a prisoner--i am accused of robbery; i shall be sentenced--dishonoured, perhaps! and i cannot accept of your generous sacrifice--profit by your noble excitement. oh, no, no; i am not such a villain as that!" "what do you say?" "i may be sentenced to several years' imprisonment." "well," replied rigolette, with calmness and firmness, "they shall see that i am an honest girl, and they will not refuse to marry us in the prison chapel." "but i may be put in prison at a distance from paris." "once your wife, i will follow you and settle in the city where you may be. i shall find work there, and can see you every day." "but i shall be disgraced in the eyes of all." "you love me better than any one--don't you?" "can you ask me such a question?" "then of what consequence is it? so far from considering you as disgraced in my eyes, i shall consider you as the victim of your own kind heart." "but the world will accuse, condemn, calumniate your choice." "the world! are not you the world to me--i to you? so let it say as it may!" "well, quitting prison at length, my life will be precarious--miserable. repulsed on all sides, i may, perhaps, find no employment, and then it is appalling to think! but if this corruption which besets me should seize on me in spite of myself, what a future for you!" "you will never grow corrupted. no; for now you know that i love you, this thought will give you the power of resisting bad examples. you will reflect that if all repulse you when you quit your prison, your wife will receive you with love and gratitude, assured, as she will be, that you will still be an honest man. this language astonishes you, does it not? it astonishes even myself. i do not know whence i derive all i say to you; from the bottom of my soul, assuredly--and that must convince you! that is, if you do not reject an offer made you most unreservedly, if you do not desire to reject the love of a poor girl who has only--" germain interrupted rigolette with impassioned voice: "yes, indeed--i do accept--i do accept! yes, i feel it. i am assured it is sometimes cowardly to refuse certain sacrifices; it is to avow oneself unworthy of them. i accept them, noble, brave girl!" "really, really--are you really in earnest?" "i swear to you; and you have, too, said something which greatly struck me, and gives me the courage i want." "delightful! and what did i say?" "that, for your sake, i should in future continue an honest man. yes, in this thought i shall find strength to resist the detestable influences which surround me. i shall brave contagion, and know how to keep worthy of your love the heart which belongs to you." "oh, germain, how happy i am! if i have ever done anything for you, how you recompense me now!" "and then, observe, although you excuse my fault i shall never forget it. my future task will be double: to expiate the past and deserve the happiness i owe to you. for that i will do my best, and, as poor as i may be, the opportunity will not fail me, i am sure." "alas! that is true; for we always find persons more unfortunate than ourselves." "and if we have no money, why--" "we give our tears, as i did for the poor morels." "and that is holy alms. 'charity of the soul is quite equal to that which bestows bread.'" "you accept, then, and will never retract?" "never, never, my love--my wife! my courage returns to me, and i seem as though awaking from a dream, and no longer doubt myself. my heart would not beat as it does if it had lost its noblest energies." "oh, germain, how you delight me in speaking so! how you assure me, not for yourself but for myself. so you will promise me, now you have my love to urge you on, that you will no longer be afraid to speak to these wicked men, so that you may not excite their anger against you?" [illustration: "_touched with his lips through the grating_" original etching by mercier] "take courage! when they saw me sad and sorrowful, they accused me, no doubt, of being a prey to my remorse; but when they see me proud and joyous, they will believe their pernicious example has gained on me." "that's true; they will no longer suspect you, and my mind will be easy. so mind, no rashness, no imprudence, now you belong to me,--for i am your little wife." at this moment the turnkey awoke. "quick," said rigolette, in a low voice, and with a smile full of grace and modest tenderness, "quick, my dear husband, and give me a loving kiss on my forehead through the grating; that will be our betrothing." and the young girl, blushing, bowed her forehead against the iron trellis. germain, deeply affected, touched with his lips through the grating her pure and white forehead. * * * * * "oh, oh! what, three o'clock already?" said the turnkey; "and visitors ought to leave at two! come, my dear little girl," he added, addressing the grisette, "it's a pity, but you must go." "oh, thanks, thanks, sir, for having allowed us thus to converse alone! i have given germain courage, and now he will look livelier, and need not fear his wicked companions." "make yourself easy," said germain, with a smile; "i shall in future be the gayest in the prison." "that's all right, and then they will no longer pay any attention to you," said the guardian. "here is a cravat i have brought for germain, sir," said rigolette. "must i leave it at the entrance?" "why, perhaps you should; but still it is such a very small matter! so, to make the day complete, give him your present yourself." and the turnkey opened the door of the corridor. "this good man is right, and the day will be complete," said germain, receiving the cravat from rigolette's hands, which he pressed tenderly. "adieu; and to our speedy meeting! now i am no longer afraid to ask you to come and see me as soon as possible." "nor i to promise you. good-bye, dear germain!" "good-bye, my dear girl!" "wear the cravat, for fear you should catch cold; it is so damp!" "what a pretty cravat! and when i reflect that you knitted it for me! oh, i will never let it leave me!" said germain, pressing it to his lips. "now, then, your spirits will revive, i hope! and so good-bye, once more. thank you, sir. and now i go away, much happier and more assured. good-bye, germain!" "farewell, my dear little wife!" "adieu!" a few minutes afterwards, rigolette, having put on her goloshes and taken her umbrella, left the prison more joyfully than she had entered it. during the conversation of germain and the grisette, other scenes were passing in one of the prison yards, to which we will now conduct the reader. chapter ix. the lions' den. if the appearance of a house of confinement, constructed with every attention to salubrity and humanity, has nothing repulsive in its aspect, the sight of the prisoners causes a very different feeling. at the sight of the criminals who fill the gaols, we are at first seized with a shudder of fear and horror. it is only after some reflection that this is overcome, and feelings of pity mixed with bitterness overcome us. to understand the feeling of horror and fear, our reader must follow us to the fosse aux lions (the lions' den), one of the yards in la force so called. in this are usually placed the most dangerous criminals, whose ferocity, or the charges against whom, are most serious. at this time they had been compelled to place there, in consequence of the alterations making in the prison, many other prisoners. these, although equally under accusations and awaiting the assizes, were almost all respectable persons in comparison with the usual occupants of the lions' den. the sky, gloomy, gray, and rainy, cast a dull light over the scene we are about to depict, and which took place in the centre of the yard of considerable extent, square, and enclosed by high white walls, having here and there several grated windows. at one end of this yard was a narrow door with a wicket; at the other end, at the entrance to the day-room, a large apartment with a stove in the centre, surrounded by wooden benches, on which were sitting and lying several prisoners conversing together. others, preferring exercise, were walking up and down the walks, four or five in a row, arm in arm. it requires the pencil of salvator or goya, in order to sketch the different specimens of physical and moral ugliness, to render in its hideous fantasy the variety of costumes worn by these men, for the most part covered with squalid rags,--for being only accused, _i. e._ supposed innocent, they were not clad in the usual uniform of the central houses. some, however, wore it; for on their entrance into gaol, their rags appeared so filthy and infected that, after the usual washing and bath, they had the frock and trousers of coarse gray cloth, as worn by the criminals, assigned to them. a phrenologist would have observed attentively those embrowned and weather-beaten countenances, those flat or narrow foreheads, those cruel or crafty looks, the wicked or stupid mouth, the enormous neck,--they nearly all presented frightful resemblances to brutes. in the cunning looks of one was seen the perfidious subtlety of the fox, in another was the sanguinary rapacity of the bird of prey, in a third, the ferocity of a tiger; and, in all, the animal stupidity of the brute. we will sketch one or two of the most striking physiognomies in the fosse aux lions. whilst the turnkey was watching his charge, a sort of council was being held in the day-room. amongst the prisoners there assembled were barbillon and nicholas martial. the prisoner who appeared to preside and lead in this debate was a scoundrel called the skeleton, whose name has been often mentioned by the martial family in the isle du ravageur. the skeleton was _prévôt_, or captain, of the day-room. this fellow was tall and about forty years of age, fully justifying his sinister nickname by a meagreness impossible to describe, but which might almost be termed osteologic. if the countenance of the skeleton presented more or less analogy with that of the tiger, the vulture, or the fox, the shape of his forehead, receding as it did, his bony, flat, and lengthened jaws, supported by a neck of disproportioned length, instantly reminded you of the conformation of a serpent. complete baldness increased still more this hideous resemblance, for beneath the corded skin of his forehead, nearly as flat as a reptile's, might be distinguished the smallest protuberances, the smallest sutures of his skull. his beardless face was exactly like old parchment tightly distended over the bones of his face, and only somewhat stretched from the projection of the cheek-bone to the angle of the lower jaw, the working of which was distinctly visible. his eyes, small and lowering, were so deeply imbedded, and the rim of his brow so prominent, that under his yellow brow, when the light fell, were seen two orbits literally filled with shadows; and, a little further on, the eyes seemed to disappear in the depths of these two dark cavities, these two black holes, which gave so sinister an aspect to the skeleton head. his long teeth, whose alveolar projections were to be accurately traced beneath the tanned skin of his bony and flat jaws, were almost continually developed by a habitual sneer. although the stiffened muscles of this man were almost reduced to tendons, he possessed extraordinary strength, and the strongest resisted with difficulty the grasp of his long arms, his long and lean fingers. he had the formidable clutch of a skeleton of iron. he wore a blue smock-frock, very short, and which exposed (and he was vain of it) his knotted hands and half his forearm, or rather two bones, the radius and the ulna (this anatomy will be excused us), two bones enveloped in a coarse and black skin, separated by a deep groove, in which were some veins hard and dry as cords. when he placed his hands on a table he seemed, as pique-vinaigre justly remarked, as if he were spreading out a game of knuckle-bones. the skeleton, after having passed fifteen years of his life at the galleys for an attempt at robbery and murder, had broken his ban and been taken in the very act of theft and murder. the last assassination had been committed with circumstances of such ferocity that the ruffian made up his mind, and with reason, that he should be condemned to death. the influence which the skeleton exercised over the other prisoners, from his strength, energy, and wickedness, had caused him to be chosen by the director of the prison as _prévôt_ of the dormitory,--that is to say, the skeleton was charged with the police of the chamber as far as concerned its order, arrangement, and the cleanliness of the room and the beds, a duty which he discharged perfectly; and no prisoner dared to fail in the cares and duties which he superintended. the skeleton was discoursing with several prisoners, amongst whom were barbillon and nicholas martial. "are you sure of what you say?" inquired the skeleton of martial. "yes, yes,--a hundred times, yes! father micou heard it from the gros-boiteux, who has already tried to knock this hound on the head because he peached about some one." "then let's do for him,--brush him up!" said barbillon. the skeleton was already inclined to give that skulking germain a turn of his hand. the _prévôt_ took his pipe from his mouth for a moment, and then said, in a tone so low and husky as to be scarcely audible: "germain kept aloof from us, gave himself airs, watched us,--for the less one talks the more one listens. we meant to get rid of him out of the fosse aux lions, and if we had given him a quiet squeeze, they'd have taken him away." "well, then," inquired nicholas, "what alteration need there be now?" "this alteration," replied the skeleton; "that if he has turned informer, as the gros-boiteux declares, he mustn't get off with a quiet squeeze." "by no manner o' means!" said barbillon. "we must make an example of him," continued the skeleton, warming as he went on. "it is not now the nabs who look out for us, but the noses. jacques and gauthier, who were guillotined the other day, were informed against,--nosed; rousillon, sent to the galleys for life,--nosed." "and me, and my mother, and calabash, and my brother at toulon," cried nicholas; "have we not all been nosed by bras-rouge? to be sure we have; because, instead of shutting him up here with us, he has been sent to la roquette. they daren't put him with us; he knew he had done us wrong, the old--" "well," added barbillon, "and didn't bras-rouge nose upon me, too?" "and i, too," said a young prisoner, in a thin voice, and lisping affectedly. "i was split upon by jobert, who had proposed to me a little affair in the rue st. martin." the latter personage, with a fluty voice, pale, fat, and effeminate face, and with a sly and treacherous glance, was singularly attired. he wore as a head-dress a red pocket-handkerchief, which exposed two locks of light brown hair close to his temples; the two ends of his handkerchief formed a projecting rosette over his forehead; his cravat was a merino shawl, with a large pattern, which crossed over his chest; his mulberry-coloured waistcoat almost disappeared beneath the tight waistband of a very large pair of trousers of plaid, with very large and different-coloured checks. "and was not that shameful? such a man to turn against me!" he added, in his shrill voice. "yet, really, nothing in the world would have made me distrust jobert." "i know very well that he sold you, javatte," replied the skeleton, who seemed to protect the prisoner peculiarly; "and as a proof that they have done for thy nose the same as they have done for bras-rouge, they have not dared to leave jobert here, but sent him to the stone jug of the conciergerie. well, there must be an end put to this! there must be an example; for traitors are doing the work of the police, and believe themselves safe in their skins because they are put in a different prison from those on whom they have nosed." "that's true." "to prevent this, every prisoner should consider every nose as his deadly enemy. whether he informs against peter or james, here or there, that's nothing; fall on him tooth and nail. when we have made cold meat of four or five in the prisons, the others will think twice before they turn 'snitch.'" "you're right, skeleton," said nicholas; "and let germain be number one." "and no mistake," replied the _prévôt_; "but let us wait until the gros-boiteux arrives. when, for instance, he has proved to all the world that germain is a nose the thing shall be settled out of hand; the calf shall bleat no more, we'll stop his wind." "and what shall we do with the turnkeys who watch us?" inquired the prisoner whom the skeleton called javatte. "i have my plan, which pique-vinaigre will aid." "he! he's a coward." "and no stronger than a flea." "i'm awake. where is he?" "he had come out of the visiting-room, but went back again to see his lawyer." "and is germain still in the visiting-room?" "yes, with the little wench who comes to see him." "when he returns be on your guard. but we must wait for pique-vinaigre, without him we can do nothing." "no?" "no." "and germain shall be done for?" "i'll take care of that." "but with what? they have taken all our knives away." "what do you think of these nippers, would you like to have your neck in their clutch?" asked the skeleton, opening his long bony fingers, hard as iron. "you'll choke him?" "decidedly." "but if they find out that it is you?" "well, what if they do? am i a calf with two heads, such as they show at the fair?" "no, that's true; a man has but one throat, and yours--" "is sentenced; my lawyer told me so yesterday. i was taken with my hand in the bag, and my knife in the weasand of the stiff'un. i'm a 'return horse,' too; so nothing can be more certain. i'll drop my head into charlot's (the headsman's) basket, and i shall see if it's true that he does his customers, and puts sawdust into his basket instead of the bran which government allows us." "true, the guillotine has a right to its bran. now, i remember my father was robbed in the same way," said nicholas martial, with a ferocious grin. this horrid jest created immense laughter amongst the prisoners. this is fearful, but far from exaggeration; we give but a faint idea of these conversations, so common in prisons. the prisoners were all laughing joyously. "thousand thunders!" cried the skeleton. "i wish they who punish us would come and see how we bear it. if they will come to the barrière st. jacques the day of my benefit they will hear me address the audience in a neat and appropriate speech, and say to charlot, in a gentlemanly tone, 'père sampson, the cord if you please.'"[ ] [ ] to understand this horrid jest the english reader must know that the doors in france are usually opened by the porter, who sits in his room and pulls a cord to allow the person going out to have free egress; and the blade of the guillotine glides down the grooves of the machine, after a spring has been set in motion, by touching a cord that acts upon it. fresh bursts of laughter hailed this jest. "and then charlot opens the baker's (the devil's) door," continued the skeleton, still smoking his pipe. "ah, bah! is there a devil?" "you fool, i was only joking. there's a sharp blade, and they put a head under it, and that's all. and now that i know my road, and must stay at the abbey of _mont-à-regret_ (guillotine), i would rather go there to-day than to-morrow," said the skeleton, with savage excitement. "i wish i was there now,--my blood comes into my mouth when i think what a crowd there'll be to see me; there'll be, at least, i should say, from four to five thousand who will push and squeeze to get good places, and they'll hire seats and windows, as if for a grand procession. i hear 'em now crying, 'seats to let! seats to let!' and then there'll be troops of soldiers, cavalry and infantry, and all for me,--for the skeleton! that's enough to rouse a man if he was as big a coward as pique-vinaigre, that would make you walk like a hero. all eyes on you, and that makes a fellow pluck up; then--'tis but a moment--a fellow dies game, and that annoys the big-wigs and curs, and gives the knowing ones pluck to face the chopper." "that's true, on gospel!" added barbillon, trying to imitate the fearful audacity of the skeleton; "they think to make us funky when they set charlot to work to get his shop open at our expense." "ah, bah!" said nicholas, in his turn; "we laugh at charlot and his shop; it is like the prison or the galleys,--we laugh at them, too; and so, that we may be all friends together, let's be jolly as long as we can." "the thing that would do us," said the shrill-voiced prisoner, "would be to put us in solitary cells day and night. they do say they mean to do so at last." "in solitary cells!" exclaimed the skeleton, with repressed rage; "don't talk of it! solitary cell--alone! hold your tongue! i would rather have my arms and legs cut off! alone within four walls! quite alone--without having our pals to laugh with! oh, that will never be! i like the galleys a hundred times better than the central prison, because at the galleys, instead of being shut up, one is out-of-doors, sees the world, people going and coming, and has his jokes and fun. well, i'd rather be done for at once than be put in a solitary cell, if only for a year. yes, for at this moment i am sure to be guillotined--ain't i? well, if they said to me, 'would you rather have a year of solitary confinement?' i should hold out my neck. a year all alone! why, is it possible? what do they suppose a man thinks of when he is alone?" "suppose you were carried there by main force?" "well, i wouldn't stay; i would make such use of my hands and feet that i should escape," replied the skeleton. "but if you couldn't,--if you were unable to escape?" "then i'd kill the first person who came near me, in order to have my head chopped off." "but if, instead of sentencing such as us to death, they condemned us to be in solitary confinement for life?" the skeleton appeared struck at this remark, and, after a moment's silence, replied: "why, then, i'll tell you what i should do,--i should dash out my brains against the walls. i would starve rather than be in a solitary cell. what, all alone! all my life alone with myself,--and no chance of escape! i tell you it is impossible. well, you know, there's no man more reckless than i am--i'd kill a man for a dollar, and for nothing if my honour was concerned; they believe i have only killed two persons, but if the dead could tell tales there are five tongues could say what i have done." the ruffian was boasting. the sanguinary declarations are still another trait of the hardened criminals. a governor of a prison said to us, "if the assassinations boasted of by these scoundrels were really committed, the population would be decimated." "and i, too," said barbillon, desirous of bragging in his turn; "they think i only silenced the husband of the milk-woman in the cité, but i did many others with tall robert, who suffered last year." "i was going to say," continued the skeleton, "that i fear neither fire nor devil. well, if i were in a solitary cell, and certain i could not escape,--thunder! i believe i should be frightened!" "and so, if you had to begin your time over again as prig and throttler, and if, instead of central houses, galleys, and guillotine, there were only solitary cells, you would hesitate before such a chance?" "_ma foi!_ i believe i really should!" replied the skeleton. and he said truly. it is impossible to describe the vast terror which such ruffians experience at the very idea of being in solitary confinement. and is not this very terror an eloquent plea in favour of this punishment? * * * * * an uproarious noise made by the prisoners in the yard interrupted the skeleton's council. nicholas rose hastily, and went to the door of the room to discover the cause of this unusual tumult. "it is the gros-boiteux," said nicholas, returning. "the gros-boiteux!" exclaimed the _prévôt_. "and has germain come down from the visiting-room?" "not yet," replied barbillon. "then let him make haste," said the skeleton, "and i'll give him an order for a new coffin." the gros-boiteux, whose arrival was so warmly hailed by the prisoners in the lions' den, and whose information might be so fatal to germain, was a man of middle stature; but, in spite of being fat and crippled, he was nimble and vigorous. his countenance, brutal like that of most of his companions, was of the bulldog character; his low forehead, his small yellow eyes, his flaccid cheeks, his heavy jaws, the lower being very projecting, and armed with long teeth, or, rather, broken fangs, which in places projected beyond his lips, made his resemblance to that animal the more striking. he wore a felt cap, and over his clothes a blue cloak with a fur collar. the gros-boiteux was accompanied into the prison by a man about thirty years of age, whose tanned and freckled face appeared less dissolute than that of the other prisoners, although he affected to appear as dogged as his companion. from time to time his features became overcast, and he smiled bitterly. the gros-boiteux soon found himself amongst his boon companions and acquaintances, and he could scarcely reply to the congratulations and kind words which came to him from all sides. "what, is it you, old boy? all right! now we shall have some fun." "you haven't hurried yourself." "still i have done all i could to see my friends again as soon as possible, and it was no fault of mine if the stone jug didn't claim me sooner." "don't doubt you, old boy! and a man doesn't pick out a gaol as his favourite residence; but once trapped he does his best to be jolly." "and so we shall be, for pique-vinaigre is here." "is he? what, one of the old customers of melun? why, that's capital! for he'll help us to pass the time with his stories, and his customers will not fail him, for there are more recruits coming in." "who are they?" "why, just now at the entrance, whilst i came in, i saw two fresh chaps brought in; one i didn't know, but the other, who wore a blue cotton cap and a gray blouse, i have seen before somewhere. he is a powerful-looking man, and i think i have met him at the ogress's of the white rabbit." "i say, gros-boiteux, don't you remember at melun i bet you a wager that in less than a year you would be nabbed again?" "to be sure i do, and you've won. but what are you here for?" "oh, i was caught on the prigging lay--_à la americaine_." "ah, always in the same line." "yes, i continue in my usual small way. the rig is common, but there are always 'culls'; and but for the stupidity of a pal i should not be here. however, once caught twice warned; and when i begin again i will be more careful,--i have my plan." "ah, here's cardillac!" said the boiteux, going to a little man wretchedly dressed, with ill-looking aspect, full of craft and malignity, and with features partaking of the wolf and fox. "ah, old chap, how are you?" "ah, old limper," replied the prisoner nicknamed cardillac to the gros-boiteux; "they said every day, 'he's coming--he's not coming!' but you are like the pretty girls, you do as you like." "yes, to be sure." "well," replied cardillac, "is it for something spicy that you are here now?" "yes, my dear fellow, i had done one or two good things, but the last was a failure; it was an out-and-out-go, and may still be done. unfortunately, frank and i overshot the mark." and the gros-boiteux pointed to his companion, towards whom all eyes now turned. "ah, so it is--it's frank!" said cardillac; "i didn't know him again because of his beard. what, franky! why, i thought you'd turned honest, and was, at least, mayor of your village." "i was an ass, and i've suffered for it," said frank, quickly; "but every sin has its repentance. i was good once, and now i'm a prig for the rest of my days. let 'em look out when i get out." "what happened to you, frank?" "what happens to every free convict who is donkey enough to think he can turn honest. fate is just! when i left melun i'd saved nine hundred and odd francs." "yes, that's true," said the gros-boiteux, "all his misfortunes have come from his keeping his savings, instead of spending 'em jolly when he left the 'jug.' you see what repentance leads to!" "they sent me, _en surveillance_, to etampes," replied frank; "being a locksmith by trade, i went to a master in my line and said to him, 'i am a freed convict, i know no one likes to employ such, but here are nine hundred francs of my savings, give me work, my money will be your guarantee, for i want to work and be honest.'" "what a joke!" "well, you'll see how it answered. i offered my savings as a guarantee to the master locksmith that he might give me work. 'i'm not a banker to take money on interest,' says he to me, 'and i don't want any freed convicts in my shop. i go to work in houses to open doors where keys are lost, i have a confidential business, and if it were known that i employed a freed convict amongst my workmen i should lose my customers. good day, my man.'" "wasn't that just what he deserved, cardillac?" "exactly." "you simpleton!" said the gros-boiteux to frank, with a paternal air; "instead of breaking your ban at once, and coming to paris to melt your mopusses, so that you might not have a sou left, but be compelled to return to robbing. you see the end of your fine ideas." "that's what you are always saying," said frank, with impatience; "it is true i was wrong not to spend my 'tin,' for i have not even enjoyed it. well, as there were only four locksmiths in etampes, he whom i had first addressed had soon told all the others, and they said to me as had said their fellow tradesman, 'no, thank ye.' all sung the same song." "only see, now, what it all comes to! you must see that we are all marked for life." "well, then, i was on the idle of etampes, and my money melted and melted," continued frank, "but no work came. i left etampes, in spite of my surveillance, and came to paris, where i found work immediately, for my employer did not know who or what i was, and it's no boast to say i am a first-rate workman. well, i put my seven hundred francs which i had remaining into an agent's hands, who gave me a note for it; when that was due he did not pay me, so i took my note to a _huissier_, who brought an action against him, and recovered the money, which i left in his hands, saying to myself there's something for a rainy day. well, just then i met the gros-boiteux." "true. well, frank was a locksmith and made keys, i had a job in which he could be of service, and i proposed it to him. i had the prints, and he had only to go to work, when, only imagine, he refused,--he meant to turn honest. so, says i, i'll arrange about that, i'll make him work, for his own interest. so i wrote a letter, without any signature, to his master, and another to his fellow workmen, to inform them that frank was a liberated convict,--so the master turned him away. he went to another employer and worked there for a week,--same game again; and if he had gone to a dozen i'd have served him in the same way." "and if i had suspected that it was you who had informed against me," answered frank, "i'd have given you a pleasant quarter of an hour to pass. well, i was at length driven away from my last employer as a scamp only fit to be hanged. work, then,--be respectable,--so that people may say, not 'what are you doing?' but 'what have you done?' once on the _pavé_ i said, 'fortunately i have my savings to fall back upon.' so i went to the _huissier_, but he had cut his stick, and spent my 'tin'; and here was i without a feather to fly with, not even enough to pay for a week's lodging. what a precious rage i was in! well, at this moment comes the gros-boiteux, and he took advantage of my situation. i saw it was useless trying to be honest, and that once on the prig there's no leaving it. but, old gros, i owe you a turn." "come, frank, no malice!" replied the gros-boiteux. "well, he did his part like a man, and we entered upon the business, which promised royally; but, unfortunately, at the moment when we opened our mouths to swallow the dainty bit, the 'traps' were down upon us. couldn't be helped, you know, lad! if it wasn't for that, why, our profession would be too good." "yet if that vagabond of a _huissier_ had not robbed me i should not have been here," said frank, with concentrated rage. "well, well," continued the gros-boiteux, "do you mean to say that you were better off when you were breaking your back with work?" "i was free," retorted frank. "yes, on sundays and when you were out of work, but the rest of the week you were tied up like a dog, and never sure of employ. why, you don't know when you are well off." "will you teach me?" said frank, bitterly. "well, you've a right to be vexed, for it was shameful to miss such a good stroke; but it is still to be done in a month or two. the people will become reassured, and it is a rich, very rich house. i shall be sentenced for breaking my ban, and so cannot resume the job, but if i find an amateur i will hand it over to him a bargain. my woman has the prints, and there is nothing to do but make new keys, and with the information i can give it must succeed. why, there must be, at least, _l._ to lay hands on, and that ought to console you, frank." frank shook his head, crossed his hands over his chest, and made no reply. cardillac took the gros-boiteux by the arms, led him into a corner of the yard, and said to him, after a moment's silence: "is the affair you have failed in still good?" "in two months as good as new." "can you prove it?" "of course." "and what do you ask for it?" "a hundred francs as earnest; and i will give you the word arranged with my woman, on which she will hand you the prints, from which you can make the false keys. and, moreover, if the thing comes off, i shall expect a fifth share of the swag to be handed over to my woman." "that's not unreasonable." "as i shall know to whom she has given the prints, if i am done out of my share i shall know whom to inform against." "and very right, too, if you were choused; but amongst prigs and cracksmen there's honour,--we must rely on each other, or all business would be impossible." another anomaly in this horrid existence. this villain spoke the truth. it is very seldom that thieves fail in their faith in such arrangements as these, but they usually act with a kind of good faith,--or, rather, that we may not prostitute the word, we will say that necessity compels these ruffians to keep their words; for if they failed, as the companion of the gros-boiteux said, "all business would be impossible." a great number of robberies are arranged, bought, and plotted in this way in gaol,--another pernicious result of confinement in common. "if what you say is sure," continued cardillac, "i can agree for the job. there are no proofs against me, i am sure to be acquitted, and in a fortnight i shall be out; let us add three weeks in order to turn oneself about, to get the false keys, and lay our plans, and then in six weeks from this--" "you'll go to the job in the very nick of time." "well, then, it's a bargain." "but how about the earnest? i must have something down." "here is my last button, and when i have no more,--yet there are others left," said cardillac, tearing off a button covered with cloth from his ragged blue coat, and then tearing off the covering with his nails, he showed the gros-boiteux that, instead of a button-mould, it contained a piece of forty francs. "you see i can pay deposit," he added, "when the affair is arranged." "that's the ticket, old fellow!" said the gros-boiteux. "and as you are soon going out, and have got rhino to work with, i can put you up to another thing,--a real good go,--the cheese,--a regular affair which my woman and myself have been cooking up, and which only wants the finishing stroke. only imagine a lone street in a deserted quarter, a ground floor, looking on one side into an obscure alley, and on the other a garden, and here two old people, who go to roost with the cocks and hens since the riots, and, for fear of being robbed, they have concealed behind a panel, in a pot of preserves, a quantity of gold; my woman found it out by gossiping with the servant. but i tell you this will be a dearer job than t'other, for it is in hard cash, and all cooked ready to eat and drink." "we'll arrange it, be assured. but you haven't worked over well since you left the central." "yes, i have had a pretty fair chance. i got together some trifles which brought me nearly sixty pounds. one of my best bites was a pull at two women who lodged in the same house with me in the passage de la brasserie." "what, at daddy micou's?" "yes." "and your josephine?" "just the same; a real ferret as ever. she cooks with the old couple i have mentioned to you, and so smelt out the pot with the golden honey in it." "she's nothing but a trump!" "i flatter myself she is. but, talking of trumps, you know the chouette?" "yes; nicholas has told me the schoolmaster did for her, and he has gone mad." "perhaps from losing his sight through some accident. but i say, old fellow, it's quite understood that you will buy my two bargains, and so i shall not speak to any one else." "don't; and we will talk them over this evening." "well, and how are you getting on here?" "oh, we laugh and play the fool." "who's _prévôt_ of the chamber?" "the skeleton." "he's not to be joked with. i have seen him at martial's, in the isle du ravageur. we had a flare-up with josephine and la boulotte." "by the way, nicholas is here." "so micou told me when he made a lament that nicholas was putting the screw on--an old hunks! why, what else were receivers made for?" "here is the skeleton," said cardillac, as the _prévôt_ appeared at the door of the room. "young 'un, come forward," said the skeleton to the gros-boiteux. "here i am," he replied, going into the apartment, accompanied by frank, whose arm he held. during the conversation between the gros-boiteux, frank, and cardillac, barbillon had been, by order of the _prévôt_, to select twelve or fifteen of the choicest prisoners, who (in order to avoid the suspicions of the turnkey) had come separately into the day-room. the other _détenus_ had remained in the yard, and some of them, by barbillon's advice, had appeared to be disputing, in order to take off the attention of the turnkey from the room in which were now assembled the skeleton, barbillon, nicholas, frank, cardillac, the gros-boiteux, and some fifteen other prisoners, all awaiting with impatient curiosity until the _prévôt_ should open the business. barbillon, charged with the look-out, placed himself near the door. the skeleton, taking his pipe from his mouth, said to the gros-boiteux: "do you know a slim young man named germain, with blue eyes, brown hair, and the look of a noodle?" "what! is germain here?" inquired the gros-boiteux, with surprise, hate, and anger in his looks. "what, then, you know him?" said the skeleton. "know him?" replied the gros-boiteux. "why, my lads, i denounce him as a nose, and he must be punished!" "yes, yes!" replied the prisoners. "are you sure it was he who informed against you?" asked frank; "suppose it was a mistake,--we mustn't ill-use a man who's innocent." this remark was displeasing to the skeleton, who leaned over to the gros-boiteux, and said in his ear: "who is this man?" "one with whom i have worked." "are you sure?" "yes--but he hasn't gull enough--too much treacle in him." "good, i'll keep an eye on him." "tell us how germain turned nose," said a prisoner. "yes, let us know all about it, gros-boiteux," continued the skeleton, who did not take his eyes off frank. "well, then," said gros-boiteux, "a man of nantes, named velu, a freed convict, brought up the young fellow, whose birth no one is acquainted with. when he had reached the proper age they put him into a banking-house at nantes, thinking they had put a wolf to watch the money-box, and make use of germain to do a bold and great stroke which had been meditated for a very long time. there were to be two _coups_, a forgery and a dip into the strong chest at the bank, something like a hundred and fifty thousand francs. all was arranged, and velu relied on the young fellow as on himself, for the chap slept in the room in which the iron safe was. velu told him his plans; germain neither says yes or no, but reveals all to his employer, and the very same evening cuts his stick and mizzles to paris." the prisoners burst into various murmurs of indignation and threats. "he's a spy--nose--informer!--and we'll have the bones out of his body!" "if it's agreeable, i'll seek a quarrel with him, and settle his hash!" "silence in the stone jug!" exclaimed the skeleton, in a tone of command. the prisoners were silent. "go on," said the _prévôt_ to gros-boiteux, and he went on smoking. "believing that germain had consented, and relying on his assistance, velu and two of his friends attempted the job that same night. the banker was on the watch; one of velu's friends was taken as he was entering a window, he himself escaping with difficulty. he reached paris enraged at having been sold by germain, and foiled in a splendid affair. one fine day he met the young fellow; it was in the open daylight, and he didn't dare do anything, but he followed him, found out where he lived, and one night we two, velu and little ledru, fell on germain. unfortunately he escaped, and then changed his residence in the rue du temple, where he lived; we were unable to find him afterwards. but if he is here, i demand--" "you have nothing to demand," said the skeleton, in a tone of authority. the gros-boiteux was instantly silent. "i take the bargain off your hands; you will concede to me germain's skin, and i'll flay him alive. i am not called the skeleton for nothing. i am dead-alive, my grave is dug, and i run no risk in working for the stone jug. the informers destroy us faster than the police; they put noses of la force into la roquette, and the noses of la roquette in the conciergerie, and they think themselves safe. now, mind you, when each prison shall have killed its informer, no matter when he may have informed, that will take away the others' appetite. i will set the example, and let others follow it." all the prisoners, admiring the skeleton's resolution, closed around him. barbillon himself, instead of remaining near the door, joined the group, and did not perceive another prisoner, who had entered the room. this individual, clothed in a gray blouse, and wearing a blue cotton cap with a red worsted border, pulled down over his eyes, started as he heard the name of germain mentioned, and then, mingling with the skeleton's admirers, gave out loud tones of approbation at the deadly determination of the _prévôt_. "what an out-and-outer the skeleton is!" said one. "the devil himself is a fool to him!" "this here's what i call a man!" "if all were like him, wouldn't the flats be afeard?" "he'll do a real service to the stone jug, and when they see this, the noses will look blue." "and no mistake!" "and since the skeleton is safe to suffer, why, it'll cost him nothing to put a nose out of joint!" "well, i think it's too bad," said frank, "to kill the young chap." "why? why?" exclaimed the skeleton, in a savage tone; "no one has a right to protect a traitor." "yes, to be sure, he is a traitor,--so much the worse for him," said frank, after a moment's reflection. these latter words, and gros-boiteux's assurance, put the doubts which the other prisoners had entertained against frank to rest. the skeleton alone continued to mistrust him. "and what are we to do with the turnkey? tell us, dead-alive, for that is your name as well as the skeleton," said nicholas, with a grin. "we must draw off his attention somehow." "no; we'll hold him down by main force." "yes!" "no!" "silence in the stone jug!" said the skeleton. there was complete silence. "listen to me!" said the _prévôt_, in his hoarse voice. "there is no means of doing the thing so long as the turnkey remains in the day-room or the walking-yard. i have no knife, and there must be a few groans, for the sneak will struggle." "well, what then?" "why, this. pique-vinaigre has promised to tell us to-day after dinner his story of 'gringalet and cut-in-half.' it rains, and we shall all come here, and the sneak will come and sit down there in the corner, as he always does. we'll give pique-vinaigre some sous that he may begin his tale. it will be dinner-time in the gaol; the turnkey will see us quietly employed in listening to the miraculous mystery of 'gringalet and cut-in-half,' and will, suspecting no harm, make off to the tap. as soon as he has left the yard we shall have a quarter of an hour to ourselves, and the nose will be cold meat before the turnkey can return. i will undertake it,--i who have done for stouter fellows in my day; and mind, i'll have no assistance!" "mind your eye!" cried cardillac; "and what about the _huissier_ who will always come for a gossip amongst us at dinner-time? if he comes into the room to listen to pique-vinaigre, and sees germain done for, he will cry out for help. he's not one of us, the _huissier_,--he's in a private cell, and we should mistrust him." "is there a _huissier_ here?" said frank, the victim as we know of a breach of trust, by maître boulard. "is there a _huissier_ here?" he repeated, with astonishment, "and what is his name?" "boulard," replied cardillac. "the very man! the identical villain!" cried frank, clenching his fists. "it is he who has stolen my savings!" "the _huissier_?" inquired the _prévôt_. "yes, seven hundred francs of mine." "you know him? and has he seen you?" inquired the skeleton. "i have seen him, worse luck! but for him i should not be here." these regrets sounded ill in the skeleton's ears, and he fixed his malignant eyes steadfastly on frank, who replied to several of his comrade's questions. then stooping towards the gros-boiteux, he said, in a low voice: "this is a fresh 'un who might tell the turnkey." "no, i'll answer for his not informing against any one; yet still he has his scruples about going the whole hog, and he might aid germain in defending himself. it would be best to get him out of the yard." "i'll do it," said the skeleton; and then aloud he said, "i say, frank, won't you pitch into this thief of a lawyer?" "won't i, that's all!" "well, he's coming, and so look out." "i'm ready, and he shall bear my marks!" "we shall have a row, and they will send the _huissier_ to his room and frank to the black-hole," said the skeleton, in an undertone, to the gros-boiteux; "we shall thus get rid of both." "what a lucky pitch! why, this skeleton is a prime minister!" said the boiteux, admiringly; and then he added, in a loud tone, "i say, shall we tell pique-vinaigre that we shall avail ourselves of his history to come over the turnkey and throttle the sneak?" "by no means; pique-vinaigre is too soft and too cowardly. if he was up to the thing he wouldn't tell the story, but when the job is done and over he'll bear his share." the dinner-bell sounded at this moment. "to your puddings, dogs!" said the skeleton; "pique-vinaigre and germain will soon be in the yard. now mind your eyes, my boys! they call me dead-alive, but the sneak is also dead-alive!" chapter x. the story-teller. the new prisoner of whom we have spoken, and who was dressed in a gray blouse, with a cotton cap on his head, had attentively listened to and energetically applauded the scheme for punishing the reserve of germain, even at the expense of his life. this individual, whose form betokened strength and power of no ordinary description, quitted the day-room with the rest of the prisoners without being noticed, and soon mingled with the different groups assembled in the courtyard to receive their rations, crowding around the persons employed in the distribution like so many hungry cormorants. each prisoner received a piece of the meat employed in making the day's soup, with about half a loaf of tolerably good bread. such of the _détenus_ as possessed the means were allowed to purchase drink at the wineshop belonging to the prison, and even to go thither to regale themselves with their lush; while persons who, like nicholas, had received provisions from their friends, generally made a sort of feast, to which they invited their most intimate acquaintances. the guests selected by the son of the executed felon upon the present occasion were the skeleton, barbillon, and, at the suggestion of the latter, pique-vinaigre, in order that good eating and drinking might quicken his talent for "storytelling." the ham, hard boiled eggs, cheese, and delicate white bread, wrung from the forced generosity of micou the receiver, were arranged most temptingly on a bench in the day-room, and the skeleton prepared himself to do ample justice to the repast, without in the slightest degree disturbing his appetite by the thoughts of the cold-blooded murder that was to follow it. "just go and see whether pique-vinaigre is coming, will you, my fine fellow?" cried he, addressing an individual who stood near him. "i tell you what it is, while i'm waiting to choke that stuck-up young fool they call germain, i'm blowed if hunger and thirst won't choke me, if i have to dawdle about much longer. and here; don't forget to work old frank up to do for the bum-bailiff, so that we may kill two birds with one stone, as the saying is." "don't you be afraid, old dead-alive! if frank don't make a stiff'un of the bailey, it won't be our fault, that you may take your oath of!" and, while uttering these words, nicholas went forth from the day-room. at this moment maître boulard entered the yard, smoking a cigar, his hands buried in the pockets of his gray duffle dressing-gown, his peaked cap pulled down well over his ears, and a look of chuckling satisfaction upon his fat, full-blown countenance. he quickly espied nicholas, who was busily occupied gazing around in search of frank. that person was at that precise period of time busily occupied, in company with his friend gros-boiteux, in eating his dinner, and, from the position in which they sat on one of the benches, they perceived not the presence of the bailiff. acting in implicit obedience to the directions given him by the skeleton, directly nicholas, from the corner of his eye, descried the approach of maître boulard, he feigned entire ignorance of his vicinity, but made for the place where frank and his companions were seated. "how are you, my ticket?" inquired the bailiff of nicholas. "bless me!" answered he; "i declare i didn't see you. i suppose you're like me, come out to take a sniff of fresh air and have your daily walk?" "why, that's about it. but i happen to have more reasons than one to-day; and i tell you how it is. but, first of all, catch hold of one of these cigars; they're deuced good ones. come, don't be so missy and shy about it; take as many as you like. hang it all, when men are shut up together in a place like this, they oughtn't to be stingy." "you are very good, and so are your cigars. but you were saying you had several reasons for walking out to-day?" "well, and so i have. first and foremost, i don't feel as hungry as usual; so, thinks i, i'll go and look on while those chaps eat their dinner. who knows but the sight of their jaws all working away together may screw me up a bit, and give me a relish against feeding-time?" "a famous idea!" said nicholas. "but if you really do want to see a couple of feeders, just draw this way. there!" added he, pointing to the bench on which frank was sitting; "what do you think of a pair of grubbers like those? i should say we were better behind than before them, or they might even swallow us instead of those huge lumps of bread and cheese and onions so rapidly stowed away in their capacious jaws." "let's have a look at them!" said maître boulard. "well, to be sure!" cried nicholas, with feigned surprise; "i declare one of them is gros-boiteux!" gros-boiteux and frank both turned around at these words. stupefied and speechless, the bailiff continued to gaze in utter amazement at the man he had so wronged, while, starting up with a sudden spring, frank threw down the morsel he had been eating, and darting on maître boulard, he seized him by the throat, exclaiming, "my money--my money; give me my money!" "hallo! who are you? what do you mean? hands off, or you'll strangle me! i--" "my money, i say!" "my good man, only calm yourself and listen to reason!" "no, not till you give me back my money. what, aren't you satisfied with having brought me here? can you not restore me what you stole from me?" "but i--i--i--never--" "i tell you again, if i get sent to the galleys 'tis all along of you; for had you not taken my little all from me, i should not have been driven to the necessity of robbing others; i might have lived and died an honest man. you may be acquitted, you may escape the punishment you deserve, but, at least, you shall carry my marks away with you. ha, ha! you can come it grand, and swagger about here dressed up with your gold chains and trinkets, bought, no doubt, with the money of other poor devils who have been cheated by you as i have been. take that for your pains--and that--that--and that! now, have you had enough? no! then here's for you again!" "help, help!" screamed the bailiff, as he rolled on the ground at frank's feet, while his infuriated antagonist continued to belabour him with all his force. the rest of the prisoners took little or no interest in this affray, but contented themselves with forming a circle around the two combatants, or rather the assailant and the assailed; for maître boulard, frightened and out of breath, made not the slightest resistance, but contented himself with warding off his adversary's blows as well as he could. fortunately, the repeated cries of the poor maltreated bailiff reached the ears of one of the superintending officers, by whose intervention he was rescued from the rough hands of frank. pale, terrified, and almost speechless with terror, maître boulard arose. one eye was wholly closed by the severe beating he had received, and without giving himself time to pick up his cap, he wildly cried, as he rushed towards the officer: "open the door! let me out--let me out! i can't and i won't stay here another minute. help, here! help, help!" "as for you," exclaimed the officer, grasping frank by the collar, "do you come along with me before the governor. i know you'll catch it, too, for fighting; two days in the black-hole is the very least you'll get, i promise you." "i've paid him off, at any rate," returned frank; "and i don't care for the rest." "i say," whispered gros-boiteux, while affecting to be merely helping to arrange his dress, "i say, you won't breathe a word of what's going to happen to the sneak, of course?" "oh, don't be afraid; 'tis just likely, had i been by, i might have stood up in his defence, because to kill a man in that manner is--hard--at least--and for such a trifle! but as for telling of it, or betraying you all--oh, no!" "now, then," called out the officer, "i say, are you coming or are you not?" "that's all right!" said nicholas. "we've got well rid of frank and the bailiff, now let's go to work without further loss of time upon the sneak!" as frank was being led from the prison yard, germain and pique-vinaigre entered it. it was scarcely possible to recognise germain, for his hitherto melancholy and dejected countenance was radiant with joy and exulting happiness. he walked proudly erect, casting around him a look of certain and assured content; he knew himself to be beloved, and with that consciousness all the horrors of his prison seemed to disappear. pique-vinaigre followed him with a timid, confused air, and, after much hesitation, at length plucked up sufficient courage to venture to address germain, whose arm he gently touched, ere the intended victim had reached the group of prisoners, who, from a distance, were examining him with looks of deadly hatred. spite of himself, germain shuddered at thus being brought into contact with a person of pique-vinaigre's appearance, whose wretched person and ragged attire were ill-calculated to impress any one with a favourable opinion of him; but recollecting the earnest advice of rigolette, and feeling altogether too happy himself to act with any want of benevolence, germain stopped, and said to pique-vinaigre, in a gentle tone of voice: "what do you want with me, my friend?" "i want to thank you." "for what?" "for the kindness shown to my sister by the pretty young woman who visited you to-day." "i really do not understand you," said germain, much surprised. "well, then, i'll try and make you. just now, when i was in the lodge of the prison, i saw the man who was on duty in the visitors' room a little while ago." "ah, yes, a very good-hearted sort of man, too. i recollect him well." "it is not often you can apply that term to the gaolers of a prison, but the man i mean (rousel is his name) is really deserving of being styled a kind, good-hearted man. so, all of a sudden, he whispers in my ear, 'i say, pique-vinaigre, my lad,' he says, 'do you know m. germain?' 'yes,' says i, 'i do,' says i; 'he's the _bête noire_ of the prison yard.'" then suddenly interrupting himself, pique-vinaigre said to germain, "i beg your pardon for calling you a _bête noire_. don't, think anything of that, but listen to the end of my story." "oh, i'm listening; go on." "'yes,' says i, 'i know who you mean very well,' says i. 'you mean m. germain, the _bête noire_ of the prison yard.' 'and of you, too, i suppose?' said the officer, in a severe and serious manner. 'oh, bless you,' says i, 'i am too good-natured, as well as too much of a coward, to venture to call any one disagreeable; and less m. germain than any one else,' says i, 'for i don't see any harm in him, and other folks appear to me very cruel and unjust towards him.' 'that's all right, then,' answers the officer; 'and i can tell you that you are bound to side with m. germain, for he has been very kind to you,' he says. 'to me?' says i; 'how do you mean?' 'well,' he answers, 'i don't mean m. germain exactly, and it ain't to you altogether he's been kind; but still, for all that,' says rousel, 'you are bound to show him your gratitude.'" "try," said germain, smilingly, "and make me understand what it is you do mean." "that's precisely what i said to the officer. 'speak more clearly,' i says. so then he makes answer, 'why, it was not m. germain, but the very pretty young person that was here just now to see him, who loaded your sister with all sorts of kindnesses. she overheard the poor thing telling you all her troubles; and directly as the creature went out, the charming young woman as come visiting to m. germain went and offered to serve her in every way she could.'" "dear, good rigolette!" murmured germain, deeply affected by this little incident; "she said not one word to me of all this." "'well, to be sure!' i says to the officer; 'what a poor stupid goose i am!' 'you are quite right--you are!' m. germain--leastways, his friend--has been good to me,--that is to say to my sister jeanne, which is the same thing, only much more than if the favour had been done to myself." "poor, dear rigolette!" said germain; "ever the same tender, compassionate, generous-hearted creature!" "so then the officer goes on to say how he heard all that passed between your nice young woman and my poor sister jeanne. 'and now,' he says, 'pique-vinaigre, that you are aware of the fact, if you don't try to show kindness by every means in your power to m. germain, and more especially, if you should know of any plot got up against him and not warn him of it, why,' he says, 'pique-vinaigre, you would be a regular scamp and a blackguard.' 'i tell you what,' i makes answer and says, 'i'm an unfinished scamp as yet, but i'm no blackguard, and, what's more, i never will be worse than i am, for the sake of my poor dear jeanne and her children; and so because m. germain's friend has taken notice of my jeanne, who is one of the best and worthiest creatures that ever lived,--i may venture to boast of my sister, though i am ashamed of myself, but for that reason i will do all in my power to save or serve m. germain; unfortunately, i can do but little, after all!' 'never mind! do your best; that is all i ask of you. but i will give you the pleasure of being the pleasing bearer of news to m. germain, which, indeed, i have only just learned myself.'" "what is it?" inquired germain. "that to-morrow morning there will be a vacant chamber you can have for paying for, then you will be all to yourself. the officer desired me to tell you so." "indeed!" exclaimed germain; "how truly glad i am to hear it! that worthy man was right in saying you would be the bearer of pleasant news." "well, i do think so myself; for it is quite easy to perceive that you do not feel comfortable among such poor wretches as we are." then suddenly breaking off, pique-vinaigre hastily added, in a low whisper, while feigning to stoop, as though searching for something he had dropped, "hark ye, m. germain, the prisoners are all looking at us, wondering what we are talking about. i must go. but be on your guard; and if any one tries to quarrel with you, don't make any answer; they want a pretext for all attacking you at once. barbillon is the one chosen to provoke you, so take especial care of him. i will try and turn the attention of the others from being directed towards you in a spiteful manner." and, with these words, pique-vinaigre rose up from his stooping position, with the air of one who had found the object of his search. "thanks, my good fellow!" said germain, eagerly, as he separated from his companion; "rely on my prudence!" only that morning aware of the plot against germain, which, as far as he knew, consisted merely in an intention of involving him in some affray which should compel the governor of the prison to remove him to some other yard in the building, pique-vinaigre was not only ignorant of the murderous designs so recently projected by the skeleton, but equally so that the conspirators intended to avail themselves of his recital of "gringalet and cut-in-half" to deceive the vigilance of the officer on duty, as well as to beguile his attention from what was going on. "come on, old make-believe!" said nicholas to pique-vinaigre, as he advanced to meet him. "throw away that lump of dog's-meat you have got in your hand; we have got a regular feast among us, and you are invited to it!" "a feast? la, how nice! what, out of the panier fleuri, or the petit ramponneau?--tell us which it is! but they are both such nice places, there isn't a pin to choose." "oh, you fool! our feast is prepared in the day-room; all laid out so temptingly on a bench. there you'll see ham and eggs, and cheese, and--it's my treat, mind!" "well, i'm one of the right sort to walk into it. but it seems a pity to throw away this good ration i have just received! i only wish my poor sister and her children could have the benefit of it. ah, poor things! it's not often they see meat, unless, indeed, when they find a few scraps thrown out before the butcher's door." "oh, bother about your sister and her brats! let's go in, or barbillon and the skeleton will leave nothing but empty trenchers for us!" nicholas and pique-vinaigre entered together into the day-room, where they found the skeleton sitting astride on the bench on which the savoury viands were displayed, swearing and grumbling at the absence of the founder of the feast. "oh, there you are, you creeping animal!" exclaimed the ruffian, as he caught sight of the story-teller. "what the deuce hindered you from bringing your blessed carcass here a little sooner?" "he was spinning a yarn with germain when i found him," answered nicholas, helping himself to a large slice of the ham. "ho, ho!" cried the skeleton, gazing earnestly on pique-vinaigre, without, however, diminishing the ardour with which he devoured the provisions; "so you were gossiping with germain, were you?" "yes, i was," returned pique-vinaigre. "but what a fool that germain is! i used to think that he was a sort of spy in the yard; but, lord love you, he is too much of a simpleton for that!" "oh, you think so, do you?" said the skeleton, exchanging a rapid and significant glance with nicholas and barbillon. "i'm as sure of it as i am that i see a capital ham before me. besides, how the devil can he be a spy when he is always by himself? he speaks to no one, and nobody ever changes a word with him; and you all know that he runs from us as if we carried the plague in our pockets. now, how a man can tell many tales who acts as he does, is more than i can conceive. however, spy or not, he will not be able to do us much more harm, as to-morrow he will obtain a room for himself." "the deuce he will!" replied the skeleton. then taking advantage of a conversation which had commenced between barbillon and pique-vinaigre, he leaned towards nicholas, and said, whisperingly, "you see, we have not an instant to lose. after four o'clock to-day all chance of serving him out is over; it is now nearly three. you see, unfortunately, he does not sleep in my dormitory, or i would settle him in the night; and to-morrow he will be out of our reach." "well, i don't care!" answered nicholas, as though replying to some observation of his companions; "i say--and i'll stick to it--germain always seems to look down upon us as though we were not as good as he." "no, no!" interposed pique-vinaigre; "you are quite wrong as regards this young man--you are, indeed. you frighten him--you do; and i know that he considers himself not fit to hold a candle to you. why, if you only knew what he was saying to me just now--" "let's hear what it was!" "'why,' says he, 'you are a lucky fellow, pique-vinaigre, you are,' he says, 'to take the liberty of speaking to the celebrated skeleton (that was the very word he used), just for all the world as if you were his equal! but whenever i meet him,' he says, 'i feel myself overcome with so much awe and respect that, though i would give my eyes out of my head to know him and converse with him, i no more dare do it than i should make bold to accost the _préfet de police_ if he were in his chair of office, and me beholding him body and bones.'" "he said that, did he?" returned the skeleton, feigning to believe the well-meant fiction of pique-vinaigre, as well as to feel gratified by the deep admiration he was reported to have excited in the breast of germain. "as true as that you are the cleverest ruffian upon earth, he said those very words; and, more than that, he--" "oh, then, if that is the case," said the skeleton, "i shall make it up with him. barbillon wanted to pick a quarrel with him, but i shall advise him to be quiet." "that's right!" exclaimed pique-vinaigre, fully persuaded that he had effectually diverted from germain the danger that threatened him; "that would be much the best way! for this poor chicken-hearted fellow would never quarrel,--simply because, like me, he has not pluck enough to fight; therefore it is no use getting into a dispute." "still," cried the skeleton, "i am sorry, too, that we shall not have our fun; we had quite reckoned upon getting up a fight with germain to amuse us after dinner. i don't know now what we shall do to kill the time." "ah, to be sure!" chimed in nicholas. "what the deuce shall we do with ourselves? can anybody tell me?" "well, then, i'll settle it!" said barbillon. "since you seem to recommend my leaving germain alone, i'll agree to do so, on condition that pique-vinaigre tells us one of his best stories." "done!" exclaimed the story-teller. "but i must make one condition as well as you, and, without both are agreed to, i don't open my lips." "well, then, say what your other condition is. i dare say it is not more difficult than the former, and we soon agreed about that." "it is that this honourable company, which is overstocked with riches," said the pique-vinaigre, resuming his old tone when addressing his audiences preparatory to commencing his juggling tricks, "will have the trifling kindness to club together and present me with the small sum of twenty sous,--a mere trifle, gents, when you are about to listen to the celebrated pique-vinaigre, who has had the honour of appearing before the most celebrated prigs of the day--he who is now expected at brest or toulon, by the special command of his majesty's government." "well, then, we'll stand the twenty sous after you have finished your story." "after?--no--before!" said pique-vinaigre. "what! do you suppose us capable of doing you out of twenty sous?" asked the skeleton, with an air of disdain. "by no means!" replied pique-vinaigre. "i honour the stone jug with my confidence, and it is in order to economise its purse that i ask for twenty sous in advance." "on your word and honour?" "yes, gentlemen; for, after my story, you will be so satisfied, that it is not twenty sous but twenty francs--a hundred francs--you will force me to take! i know that i should be shabby enough to accept them; and thus, you see, it is from consideration, and you will do wisely to give me twenty sous in advance." "you don't want for the gift of the gab!" "i have nothing but my tongue, and i must make use of that. and then,--if it must be told,--my sister and her children are in terrible distress, and, in a small house, even twenty sous is a consideration." "then why doesn't your sister prig, and her kids, too, if they're old enough?" asked nicholas. "don't ask me; it distresses--dishonours me! i am too kind--" "what do you mean, you fool? why, you encourage her!" "true; i encourage her in the vice of being honest, and that is the only line in which she shines. but come, it is agreed that i shall tell you my famous story of 'gringalet and cut-in-half.' but you must hand out twenty sous, and barbillon shall not pick a quarrel with this simpleton of a germain!" "well, you shall have twenty sous, and barbillon shall not pick a quarrel with that simpleton of a germain," said the skeleton. "then open your ears, and you will hear what you will hear! but it is raining, which will make the customers tumble in, and there will be no occasion to go out and seek them." and the rain began to fall, and the prisoners, quitting the yard, took refuge in the day-room, the turnkey being still in attendance. we have said that this room was large and long, with a pavement, and lighted by three windows, which looked out into the yard. in the centre was the stove, near which were the skeleton, barbillon, nicholas, and pique-vinaigre. at a signal from the _prévôt_, the gros-boiteux joined this group. germain was one of the last to enter, absorbed in most delightful thoughts, and he went mechanically to seat himself on the ledge at the lowest window in the apartment, a place he usually occupied, and which no one disputed with him, for it was at a distance from the stove around which the prisoners were assembled. we have already said that some fifteen of the prisoners had been informed in the first instance of the treachery attributed to germain, and the murder which was to avenge it. but, soon whispered to one another, the plan comprised as many adherents as there were prisoners; these ruffians, in their blind cruelty, considering this fearful plot as legitimate revenge, and viewing therein a certain guarantee against the future disclosure of spies. germain, pique-vinaigre, and the turnkey were alone ignorant of what was about to take place. general attention was divided between the executioner, the victim, and the story-teller, who was about innocently to deprive germain of the only succour he could hope for; for it is nearly sure that the turnkey, when he saw the prisoners attentive to the story of pique-vinaigre, would think his surveillance useless, and take advantage of that moment of tranquillity to go and take his meal. and when the prisoners had entered, the skeleton said to the turnkey: "old fellow, pique-vinaigre has a capital idea; he is going to tell us his story of 'gringalet and cut-in-half.' it is weather in which one would not put a policeman out-of-doors, and we shall quietly wait in till it is time to go to roost." "why, you are always pretty quiet when he begins his talk, and have no need for me to be at your heels." "yes," said the skeleton; "but pique-vinaigre asks a high price,--he wants twenty sous for his story." "yes, the trifle of twenty sous,--a mere nothing!" cried pique-vinaigre. "yes, gents, nothing; for who that had a liard would not bestow it to hear the adventures of poor little gringalet, cut-in-half, and the wicked gargousse? it will rend your hearts, and make your hair stand on end! and, gents, who is there that would not dispose of the paltry sum of four liards--or, if you prefer counting my mites, of five centimes--to have their hearts rent and their hair standing on end?" "there are two sous," said the skeleton, throwing down the piece of money before pique-vinaigre. "come, is the stone-jug too niggardly to enjoy this pastime?" he added, looking at his accomplices with a significant air. several sous fell around him, to the great joy of pique-vinaigre, who thought of his sister as he collected the money. "eight--nine--ten--eleven--twelve--thirteen!" he said, as he picked up the money. "now, my rich friends, my capitalists, and others of the cash interest, try once more. you cannot stop at thirteen, for it is an unlucky number! only seven sous deficient, the trifle of seven sous! what, gents, shall it be said that the fosse aux lions could not produce seven sous--seven miserable sous? oh, gents, gents, you would make me believe that you have been brought here very unjustly or that you have all had a sad run of ill luck." the shrill voice and broad jests of pique-vinaigre had brought germain from his reverie, and, as much to follow rigolette's advice and make himself popular with the prisoners as to give a trifle to the poor devil who had testified some desire to be of service to him, he rose and threw a piece of ten sous at the tale-teller's feet, who exclaimed, as he pointed at his generous benefactor: "ten sous, gents! you see, i was speaking of capitalists! honour to that gentleman! he behaves like one of the monied interest, as an ambassador to be agreeable to the company! yes, gents; for it is to him that you will owe the greater portion of 'gringalet and cut-in-half,' and you will thank him for it. as to the three sous over, why, i shall earn them by imitating the voices of the personages, instead of speaking like you and me. that will be another obligation you will owe to this wealthy capitalist, whom you ought to adore." "come, no more blarney, but begin!" said the skeleton. "one moment, gents!" said pique-vinaigre. "it is but right that the capitalist who has given me ten sous should be the best situated, except our _prévôt_, who has first choice." this proposal squared so well with the skeleton's project that he exclaimed: "true; after me he ought to be best placed!" and again he looked significantly at the prisoners. "yes, yes; let him come nearer," said the prisoners. "let him sit on the front bench." "you see, young man, your liberality is recompensed; the honourable company sees that you have a right to the front seat," said pique-vinaigre to germain. believing that his liberality had really better disposed his hateful companions in his favour, and delighted thus to follow up rigolette's earnest desires, germain, in spite of considerable repugnance, left the place of his choice, and went towards the story-teller, who, having arranged four or five benches around the stove, by the aid of nicholas and barbillon, said, with emphasis: "here are the dress-boxes. all respect to the worthy--the capitalist first." "now, then, let those who have paid take their seats," added pique-vinaigre, gaily, firmly believing that, thanks to himself, germain had nothing now to fear. "and those who have not paid," he added, "will sit down or stand up, which they please." let us sum up the arrangement of his scene. pique-vinaigre was standing up near the stove ready to commence; near him was the skeleton, also standing up, and with his eyes intently fixed on germain, ready to rush upon him the moment the turnkey left the cell. at some distance from germain, nicholas, barbillon, cardillac, and other prisoners, amongst whom was the man with the blue cotton nightcap and gray blouse, occupying the remoter benches. the majority of prisoners, grouped here and there, some sitting on the ground, others standing and leaning against the wall, composed the secondary figures of this picture, lighted, à la rembrandt, by three lateral windows, which threw strong light and deep shadows on forms so variously characterised and so strongly marked. the turnkey, whose departure was to be, unknown to himself, the signal for germain's murder, kept close to the door, which was ajar. "are we all ready?" asked pique-vinaigre of the skeleton. "silence in the stone-jug!" said the latter, turning half around; and then addressing pique-vinaigre, "now, begin; we are all attention!" chapter xi. gringalet and cut-in-half. pique-vinaigre began his recital thus, in the midst of the profound silence of his auditory: "it is no inconsiderable time ago that the story occurred which i am about to relate to this honourable company. what was called la petite pologne was not then destroyed. the honourable society knows (or does not know) what was called la petite pologne?" "well enough!" said the prisoner in the blue cap; "they were some small houses near the rue du rocher and the rue de la pépinière?" "exactly so, my dear sir," replied pique-vinaigre; "and the quartier of the cité, which, at the same time, does not consist of palaces, would be in comparison to la petite pologne the rue de la paix or the rue de rivoli. what a rookery! but, at the same time, very convenient for gents in our line. there were no streets but narrow alleys, no houses but ruins, no pavement but a small carpet of mud and dungheaps, which would have destroyed all the noise of wheels,--that is, supposing any carriages passed by that way; but none did! from morn till night, and, particularly, from night till morn, there were only heard cries of 'watch! watch! help! murder!' but the watch took no notice. the more persons were knocked on the head in la petite pologne, the fewer persons there were to apprehend. you should have seen the respectable inhabitants who lived there! there were very few jewellers, goldsmiths, and bankers; but then, on the other hand, there were quantities of organ-grinders, puppet-showmen, punches, and showers of remarkable animals. amongst the latter was one well known as cut-in-half,--he was so cruel, and especially to children. he acquired this name because it was reported that he had cut a small savoyard in two with a blow of his hatchet." at this moment the prison clock struck a quarter past three o'clock. the prisoners being made to return to their cells at four o'clock, the skeleton's murderous design must be carried into execution before that hour. "_mille tonnerres!_ the turnkey won't go!" he said, in a low tone, to gros-boiteux. "be easy! he'll go when once the story is begun." pique-vinaigre continued: "no one knew where cut-in-half came from. some said he was an italian, others a bohemian, others a turk, others an african; the gossips called him a magician, although a magician in our times would be something to look at. what made them believe this was, that he always had with him a large red monkey called gargousse, and who was so cunning and savage that he seemed as if possessed by the devil. i shall mention this beauty again presently; as to cut-in-half, i shall soon describe him. his complexion was like the old tops of a pair of jockey-boots, his hair as red as the hair of his monkey, his eyes green, and (what made the women think he was a conjuror) he had a black tongue." "a black tongue!" exclaimed barbillon. "black as ink!" replied pique-vinaigre. "and how did that happen?" "because, no doubt, when his mother was in the family way she had, perhaps, talked of a negro," said pique-vinaigre, with modest assurance. "to these attractions cut-in-half joined the profession of having a multitude of tortoises, monkeys, guinea-pigs, white mice, foxes, and marmosettes, corresponding to an equivalent total of savoyards and forsaken children. every morning he distributed his animal to each, and a morsel of black bread, and then despatched them to beg for 'only one ha'penny!' or dance the catarina. those who only brought in at night fifteen sous were beaten, soundly beaten, so that their shrieks might be heard from one end of la petite pologne to the other. i should also say that there was in la petite pologne a man called le doyen (the dean), because he was the 'oldest inhabitant,' and, as it were, mayor, provost, magistrate, for it was in his room (he kept a tom and jerry shop) that all went when they could not otherwise decide their quarrels. although rather aged, yet le doyen was as strong as hercules, and very generally feared. they swore by him in la petite pologne; and when he said 'very good!' all the world said 'very good!' when he said 'that's bad!' all the world said 'that's bad!' he was a good fellow at bottom, but very fierce, particularly when the strong misused the weak,--then look out for squalls! as he was cut-in-half's nearest neighbour, he had heard the children cry very frequently from the blows which the shower of beasts gave them. he had said to him, 'if i hear the children cry, i will make you cry in your turn; and, as you have the stronger voice, i will give you the severer beating.'" "well done, le doyen! i like le doyen!" said the prisoner in the blue nightcap. "so do i!" added the turnkey, as he approached the group. the skeleton could not repress a movement of angry impatience. pique-vinaigre proceeded: "thanks to le doyen, who had threatened cut-in-half, the cries of the children were heard no more in the night-time in la petite pologne; but the poor, unhappy little fellows did not suffer the less, for if they cried no longer when their master beat them, it was because they were afraid of being more cruelly beaten. as to complaining to le doyen, they had no idea of that. for the fifteen sous which each little fellow was obliged to bring in, cut-in-half lodged, boarded, and clothed them. in the evening a bit of black bread, as at breakfast,--this was their food. he never gave them clothes,--that was the way he clothed them; and he shut them up at night with their animals, on the same straw in a garret, to which they mounted by a ladder and a trap,--this was the lodging. when once all had ascended, and the tale of children and animals was complete, he took away the ladder and locked the trap. "you may judge of the life and row which these monkeys, guinea-pigs, foxes, mice, tortoises, marmosettes, and children made all in the dark in this cock-loft, which was as big as a barn. cut-in-half slept in a room underneath, with his great ape, gargousse, fastened to the foot of his bed. when the brute growled, because there was too much noise in the loft, the beast-shower went up the ladder without any light, and, going into the loft, laid about him right and left with a heavy whip, without seeing or counting his blows. as there were always some fifteen children, and some of the poor dears brought him in twenty sous a day, cut-in-half having defrayed all his outlay, which was by no means excessive, had left for himself some four or five francs a day, with which he enjoyed himself, for it must be told that he was one of the greatest tipplers that ever lived, and was regularly blind drunk once a day. that was his rule; and he declared that, but for that, he should have the headache every day. we should add, that out of his gains he used to buy some sheeps' hearts for gargousse, who ate raw flesh like a cannibal. but i see the honourable society are anxious to be introduced to gringalet! here he is, gents!" "let's have gringalet, and i'll go and eat my soup," said the turnkey. the skeleton exchanged a look of savage satisfaction with the gros-boiteux. "amongst the children to whom cut-in-half distributed his animals," continued pique-vinaigre, "was a poor little devil named gringalet. without father or mother, brother or sister, without fire, food, or shelter, he was alone in the world,--quite alone in a world which he had not asked to enter, and which he might leave without attracting any one's attention. he was not called gringalet for any pleasure he had in the name, for he was meagre, lean, and pallid; he did not look above seven or eight years old, but was really thirteen. if he did not seem more than half his name, it was not because of his own will, but because he only fed perhaps every other day, and then so scantily, so poorly, that it was really an exertion to make him pass for seven years old." "poor little brat! i think i see him!" said the prisoner in the blue cotton nightcap; "there are so many children like him on the streets of paris dying of hunger!" "they must begin to learn that way of living very young in order to get accustomed to it," said pique-vinaigre, with a bitter smile. "come, get on!" said the skeleton, suddenly; "the turnkey is getting impatient--his soup is getting cold." "oh, never mind that!" said the _surveillant_. "i wish to know something more of gringalet; it is very amusing!" "yes, it is really very interesting!" added germain, who was very attentive to the story. "ah, thank ye for saying that, my capitalist," said pique-vinaigre; "that gives me more satisfaction than your ten-sous' piece." "_tonnerre!_" exclaimed the skeleton, "will you have done with your delays?" "well, then," replied pique-vinaigre, "one day cut-in-half had picked up gringalet in the streets, dying with cold and hunger; perhaps it would have been best if he had let him die. as gringalet was weak, he was a coward; as he was a coward, he became the jest and sport of the other lads, who beat him and used him so ill that he would have become wicked if he had not been deficient in strength and courage. but no; when he had been heartily thumped, he cried, and said, 'i have not done any harm to anybody, and everybody is unkind to me,--that's very cruel; oh, if i were strong and bold!' you will, perhaps, imagine that gringalet was about to add, 'i would return to others the ill they do to me?' by no means. he said,' oh, if i were strong and bold, i would defend the weak against the strong, for i am weak, and the strong have made me suffer!' in the meanwhile, as he was too small a boy to prevent the strong from ill-using the weak, beginning with himself, he prevented the larger brutes from eating the smaller ones." "what a strange idea!" said the prisoner in the blue cap. "and, what is stranger still," said the tale-teller, "it was this idea that consoled gringalet for being beaten; which proves that his heart was not bad at bottom." "_pardieu!_ quite the contrary," said the guardian. "what an amusing devil that pique-vinaigre is!" at this instant the chimes went half past three o'clock. the skeleton and gros-boiteux exchanged significant glances. the time was drawing on, and the _surveillant_ did not go; and some of the less hardened prisoners seemed almost to forget the sinister projects of the skeleton against germain, as they listened attentively to pique-vinaigre's recital. "when i say," he continued, "that gringalet prevented the larger brutes from eating the smaller, you must understand that gringalet did not mix himself up with tigers, and lions, and wolves, or even foxes and monkeys, in the menagerie of cut-in-half,--he was too much of a coward for that; but if he saw, for instance, a spider hidden in his web, in wait for a poor foolish fly flying gaily in the sunshine of the good god, without hurting any one, why, in a moment, gringalet smashed the web, freed the fly, and did for the spider like a regular cæsar,--a real cæsar; for he turned as white as a sheet in touching such nasty reptiles; and then it required resolution in him, who was afraid of a cockchafer, and had been a long while in forming an intimacy with the tortoise which cut-in-half handed to him every morning. thus gringalet, overcoming the fear which the spider caused him, in order to prevent flies from being eaten, proved himself--" "as plucky in his way as a man who attacks a wolf to take a lamb from his jaws," said the prisoner in the blue cap. "or a man who would have attacked cut-in-half to take gringalet from his clutches," added barbillon, who was deeply interested. "as you say," continued pique-vinaigre; "so that after one of these onslaughts gringalet did not feel himself so unhappy. he who never laughed, smiled, looked about him, cocked his cap on one side (when he had one), and hummed the 'marseillaise' with the air of a conqueror. at this moment, there was not a spider that dared to look him in the face. another time it was a grasshopper which was swimming and struggling in a brook; in a moment, gringalet put his two fingers boldly in the water and rescued the grasshopper, which he put on the grass. a first-class swimmer, who had fished up his tenth drowning man at fifty francs a head, could not have been prouder than gringalet when he saw his grasshopper bend his legs and jump away. and yet the grasshopper gave him neither money nor medal, nor uttered any more thanks than did the fly. but then, pique-vinaigre, worthy friend, the honourable company will say to me, what the devil pleasure could gringalet, whom all the world thumped and buffeted, find in freeing grasshoppers and destroying spiders? since people were unkind to him, why did he not take his revenge by doing all the evil in his power? for instance, in giving spiders flies to eat, leaving grasshoppers to drown, or even drowning them on purpose?" "yes, why not? why did he not revenge himself in that way?" asked nicholas. "what good would that have been?" inquired another. "why, to do ill, as ill was done to him." "no! well, then, i understand he liked to save the flies, poor little chap!" said the man in a blue cap. "he said, perhaps, 'who knows if some day they mayn't save me in the same way?'" "my right worthy friend is right," cried pique-vinaigre, "and has read in his heart what i was about to narrate to the honourable assembly. gringalet was not wicked; he did not see beyond the end of his nose; but he said,'cut-in-half is my spider, and perhaps some day some one will do for me what i do for the other poor little flies,--break his web and take me from his clutches;' for till then nothing could have induced him to run away from his master; he would as soon have thought of killing himself. however, one day, when neither he nor his tortoise had had a chance, and had not gained between either of them more than three sous, cut-in-half beat the poor child very severely, so severely that, _ma foi!_ gringalet could not stand it any longer; and, tired of being the butt and martyr of everybody, he watched a moment when the trap was open, and, whilst cut-in-half was feeding his animals, he slid down the ladder." "oh, so much the better," said a prisoner. "but why didn't he go and complain to the doyen?" inquired the blue cap; "he would have served cut-in-half out." "yes, but he dared not; he was too much afraid, and preferred trying to escape. unfortunately, cut-in-half had seen him, and, seizing him by the wrist, lugged him up again into the loft. poor gringalet, thinking of what must befall him, shuddered all over, although he was by no means at the end of his troubles. apropos of gringalet's troubles, i must now mention to you gargousse, the large and favourite ape of cut-in-half. this mischievous brute was, _ma foi!_ taller than gringalet; only imagine what a size for a monkey! i must tell you why he was never taken into the streets to be shown, like the other animals of the menagerie: it was because gargousse was so wicked and powerful that there was not one amongst all the show-boys, except an auvergnat of fourteen, a determined chap, who, after many skirmishes and contests with gargousse, had mastered him, and could lead him about with a chain; and even with him gargousse frequently got up some fights, which ended in bloodshed produced by gargousse's bites. enraged at this, the little auvergnat said, one fine day, 'very well, i will revenge myself on this infernal monkey;' and so, one morning, having gone out with the brute as usual, he, in order to appease its savageness, bought a sheep's heart. whilst gargousse was eating it, he put a rope through the end of his chain, tied it to a tree, and, when he had got the brute quite at his mercy, he gave it an outrageous walloping." "well done! bravo the auvergnat! go it, my lad! skin the beast alive!" said the prisoners. "he did whack him gloriously!" continued pique-vinaigre. "and you should have seen how gargousse cried, ground his teeth, leaped, danced, and skipped hither and thither; but the auvergnat used his stick famously! unfortunately, monkeys, like cats, are very tenacious of life. gargousse was as crafty as he was vicious; and when he saw, as they say, how the wood was on fire, at a heavy blow he made a final bound, and fell flat at the foot of a tree, shook for a moment, and then shammed dead, lying as motionless as a log. the auvergnat believed he had done for him, and, thinking the ape dead, he cut away, resolved never again to return to cut-in-half. but the beast gargousse watched him out of the corner of his eye, and, bruised and wounded as he was, as soon as he saw himself alone he rent the cord asunder with his teeth. the boulevard monceaux, where he had had this hiding, was close to la petite pologne, and the monkey knew his way as easy as his paternoster; and, making off in that direction, arrived at his master's, who roared and foamed when he saw how his monkey had been served. this is not all. from this moment gargousse entertained such a furious revenge against all children that cut-in-half, who was not the tenderest soul alive, dared not trust him to any one for fear of an accident; for gargousse was capable of strangling or devouring a child, and all the little brute-showers, knowing that, would rather be thrashed by cut-in-half than go near the monkey." "i must really go and eat my soup," said the turnkey, turning towards the door; "this devil of a pique-vinaigre would wheedle a bird down from a tree to hear him! i can't tell where the deuce he fishes up all he tells!" "now, then, the turnkey will go," said the skeleton, in a whisper to the gros-boiteux. "i'm in such a rage i shake all over! mind and form a wall all around the informer,--i will take care of the rest!" "mind, now, and be good boys!" said the turnkey, turning towards the door. "as good as images!" replied the skeleton, coming closer to germain, whilst the gros-boiteux and nicholas, after having agreed on a signal, made two steps in the same direction. "ah, worthy turnkey, you are going at the most interesting moment!" said pique-vinaigre, with an air of reproach. had it not been for the gros-boiteux, who anticipated his intention, and seized him suddenly by the arm, the skeleton would have rushed on pique-vinaigre. "what! the most interesting moment?" replied the turnkey, turning towards the story-teller. "decidedly," said pique-vinaigre; "you do not know all you will lose,--the most delightful portion of the history is now about to commence." "don't attend to him," exclaimed the skeleton, who with difficulty repressed his rage; "he is not in good trim to-day; for my part i think his story very stupid." "my story very stupid?" cried pique-vinaigre, wounded in his pride as a tale-teller. "well, turnkey, i beg of you,--i entreat you to remain till the conclusion, which, at most, will not be longer than a quarter of an hour, and as by this time your soup must be cold, why, you haven't much to lose by a little delay. i will go ahead with my narrative, so that you may still have time to eat your soup before we are locked up for the night." "well, then, i'll stay, but make haste," said the turnkey, coming closer towards him. "you are wise to stay, turnkey," continued pique-vinaigre; "without bragging, you never heard anything like it before, especially the finale, which is the triumph of the ape, and gringalet escorted in procession by all the little beast-showers and inhabitants of la petite pologne. on my word and honour, it is not for the sake of boasting, but it is really superb." "then tell it speedily, my boy," said the turnkey, returning towards the stove. the skeleton shook with rage. he almost despaired of accomplishing his crime. if bedtime arrived, germain must escape, for he was not in the same dormitory with his implacable enemy, and on the following day germain was to be in a separate cell. "so it's very stupid!" continued pique-vinaigre. "well, the honourable company shall be the judge of that. there could not exist a more vicious brute than the big ape gargousse, who was even more savage with children than his master. what does cut-in-half do to punish gringalet for trying to run away? you shall know by and by. well, in the meantime, he seizes on the unhappy child, and locks him into the cock-loft for the night, saying, 'to-morrow morning, when all your companions are gone out, i will let you see what i do with vagabonds who try to run away from me.' you may imagine what a wretched night gringalet passed. he did not close an eye, but kept asking himself what cut-in-half meant to do with him, and then he fell asleep. he had a dream,--such a horrid dream,--that is, the beginning of it was, as you shall see. he dreamed that he was one of the very poor flies that he had so often rescued from the spiders' webs, and that he had fallen into a large and strong web, where he was struggling,--struggling with all his might, without being able to escape. he then saw coming towards him, stealthily and treacherously, a kind of monster, which looked like cut-in-half turned into a spider. poor gringalet began to struggle again, as you may suppose, but the more he struggled the more he got entangled, like the poor flies. at last the spider came up to him, touched him, and he felt the cold and hairy paws of the horrid beast curl around him and enclose him, intending to devour him. he believed he was dead, when suddenly he heard a kind of clear, ringing, sharp sort of buzzing, and he saw a beautiful golden fly, with a kind of brilliant dart, like a diamond needle, which flew around the spider with a furious air, and a voice (when i say a voice you must imagine a fly's voice) which said, 'poor little fly! you have saved flies! the spider shall not--' unfortunately gringalet jumped up at this moment, and did not see the end of his dream; but yet he was at first somewhat assured, and said to himself, 'perhaps the golden fly with the diamond dart would have killed the spider if i had finished the dream.' but in vain did gringalet endeavour to make himself easy and take comfort; in proportion as the night ended, his fears renewed, so strongly, that at last he forgot his dream, or, rather, he only remembered the portion which affrighted him, the large web in which he had been caught and enfolded by the spider which resembled cut-in-half. you may imagine what a fright he was in; only think--only think--alone,--quite alone, and no one to defend him! in the morning, when he saw daybreak gradually appear through the skylight of the cock-loft, his fears redoubled, and the moment was at hand when he would be alone with cut-in-half. he then threw himself on his knees in the middle of the garret, and, weeping bitterly, entreated his comrades to ask cut-in-half to forgive him, or else to help him to escape if possible. but some from fear of their master, others from disregard, and some from ill nature, refused what poor gringalet requested so earnestly." "young scamps!" said the prisoner in the blue cap; "he is to be pitied, so helpless. if he could have defended himself, tooth and nail, it would have been very different, _ma foi!_ if you have fangs, show 'em, boy, and defend your tail!" "to be sure!" said several prisoners. "holloa, there!" exclaimed the skeleton, unable to conceal his rage, and addressing the blue cap; "won't you hold your jaw? didn't i say silence in the stone-jug? am i captain of the ward or not?" the blue cap's answer was to look the skeleton full in the face, and then make that low-lived gesture of the blackguards, which consists in applying the thumb of the right hand to the end of the nose, opening the fingers like a fan, and putting the little finger on the thumb of the left hand, similarly extended. he accompanied this mute reply with so odd a look that many of the prisoners laughed heartily, whilst others, on the contrary, were actually stupefied at the audacity of the new prisoner, so greatly was the skeleton feared. the latter shook his fist at the new prisoner, and said to him, grinding his teeth: "we'll settle this to-morrow!" "i'll make the calculation on your nob! i'll put down seventeen and carry nothing!" for fear the turnkey should have fresh motive for staying, in order to repress any row, the skeleton quietly replied: "that is not what i mean; i am the captain of this room, and ought to be attended to,--ought not i, turnkey?" "certainly," replied the superintendent; "no interruption; and go on, pique-vinaigre, and make haste, will you, my lad?" "then," resumed pique-vinaigre, "gringalet, seeing how all the world forsook him, resigned himself to his miserable fate. it was broad day, and all the boys were going out with their animals. cut-in-half opened the trap, and called each to give him his morsel of bread. they all descended the ladder, and gringalet, more dead than alive, squeezed up in a corner of the cock-loft with his tortoise, did not move, but watched his companions as they descended one after the other, and would have given everything he had to have done as they did. at length the last quitted the loft, and then his heart beat quick as he thought his master might forget him. but cut-in-half, who was standing at the foot of the ladder, exclaimed in a loud voice, 'gringalet! gringalet!' 'here i am, master.' 'come down directly, or i'll fetch you!' added cut-in-half; and gringalet believed his last hour was come. 'oh,' said he to himself as he trembled in all his limbs, and recollected his dream, 'you are in the web, little fly, the spider is going to eat you!' after having put his tortoise quietly down on the ground, he said farewell to it, for he had become fond of the creature, and went to the trap, and put his leg on the ladder to go down, when cut-in-half, taking hold of his miserable little leg, as thin as a stick, pulled him down so suddenly that gringalet lost his hold, and fell with his face all down the rounds of the ladder." "what a pity it was that the doyen of la petite pologne was not there at that moment! what a dance he could have played to cut-in-half!" said the blue nightcap; "it is at such moments as these that a man is always happy and contented to feel how useful it is sometimes to be strong." "that's all right, my lad, but, unfortunately, the doyen was not there, so cut-in-half seized hold of the child by the waistband of his little breeches, and carried him to his own hole of a chamber, where the huge monkey was kept fastened to the foot of his bed. directly the spiteful beast saw the boy, he began to jump and spring about, grinding his teeth like a mad thing, and darting towards gringalet as near as his chain permitted him, as though he meant to devour him." "poor gringalet! how ever will he be able to escape? if that beast of a monkey once gets hold of him he is safe to strangle him! i declare," exclaimed the man in the blue cap, "the very thoughts of a poor innocent child being in such a dangerous situation makes me shiver from head to foot, and i seem as though i couldn't hurt a worm. how do you feel, good friends?" "the very same!" replied a burst of voices. "no more could we!" at this moment the prison clock chimed forth the first quarter past three, and the skeleton, becoming momentarily more and more apprehensive that the time would slip away without their being able to accomplish their design, and furious at the continued interruptions, as well as irritated at the evident sympathy and compassion awakened in the breasts of the prisoners by pique-vinaigre's recital, called out in angry voice: "silence in the stone jug, i say! we shall never get to the end of this unlucky history if you persist in chiming in." the buzz of voices died away at these words, and pique-vinaigre thus continued: "when it is recollected how much poor little gringalet had had to endure before he could get used to his tortoise, and that even the boldest of his companions trembled and turned pale even at the mention of gargousse's name, it may very easily be imagined what deadly terror he experienced when he found himself placed by his master within the reach of the horrible monkey. 'oh, master, master!' he cried, as his teeth rattled and shook in his head, as though he were under the influence of an ague fit, 'pray--pray forgive me! pray have mercy on me! i will never do so any more. indeed, indeed, i never will! oh, i promise you, master; only let me off this time, and i will never do so again!' but all these prayers and supplications escaped almost unconsciously from the poor child, who had indeed committed no fault that called for such promises. cut-in-half, however, laughed at the boy's terrors, and, spite of the struggles and resistance of the unhappy child, he dragged him within the grasp of gargousse, who sprang upon him, and seized him with a savage grasp." a cry of execration passed throughout the assembly, which had been listening with the profoundest attention to the progress of the tale. "i should have been a rare fool had i gone away," said the officer on duty, as he drew nearer to the listening groups. "oh, but," said pique-vinaigre, "you've heard nothing as yet,--the best is still to come. directly poor gringalet felt the cold hairy paws of the ape seize him by the head and neck, he imagined it was with the intention of devouring him, and driven almost mad by his agony, he began shrieking and groaning in a manner that would have moved a stone to pity him, while he wildly exclaimed, 'oh, send help! send help from heaven, god of goodness and of little children! oh, little golden fly, come and preserve me! come, little fly, and save me from the horrible spider i dreamed about!' 'will you hold your noise?' exclaimed cut-in-half, as he gave him several hard kicks, for he was fearful lest his cries should be heard; but in a minute's time there was no further danger of that, for the poor boy neither cried or struggled further, but pale and cold as marble, he remained kneeling, while the devilish monkey clawed and scratched and buffeted the trembling victim, who, closing his eyes, resigned himself to his fate. after gargousse had tired himself with thus tormenting poor gringalet, he suddenly paused, and looked up to his master's countenance, as though asking what he should do next. and really it seemed as though the ape and his master understood each other's thoughts, for gargousse immediately renewed the attack by plucking out handfuls of the shuddering boy's hair, upon which cut-in-half burst into fits of laughter, so long and so loud that, had poor gringalet tried ever so hard, he could not have made himself heard amid these wicked and malicious rejoicings. they had, however, the effect of encouraging gargousse, who proceeded to attack the unfortunate child with redoubled fierceness." "ah, you beggar of a monkey!" exclaimed blue bonnet, "i only wish i had been near enough to catch hold of your tail! i'd have swung you round and round like a windmill, and finished by knocking out your dirty brains against the hardest stone i could find! that beastly ape was as cruel as if he had been a man!" "oh!" cried a simultaneous burst of voices, "no man ever was, or ever will be, so cruel as that, i'm sure!" "hallo!" interrupted pique-vinaigre, "you forget cut-in-half when you make that remark. however, just listen to what he did next. he unfastened the long chain of gargousse from the leg of his bed, around which it was generally secured, and tied it to the waist of the poor trembling child, who by this time was more dead than alive; so that the monkey and the boy were thus placed at the opposite ends of the chain." "there was a devil's own invention! ay, ay, it is quite certain that some human creatures are more cruel than the most savage wild beast!" "when cut-in-half had completed this arrangement, he said to the monkey, who appeared to understand every word he said,--and certainly these were such a precious pair it would have been a thousand pities they should have had any difficulty in the matter: 'now, then, gargousse, attention! you have been exhibited with all your clever tricks, but it is now your turn to be showman. you shall be master, and gringalet shall be monkey,--yes, your monkey. so up with you, gringalet, or i shall set gargousse on you, and let him tear you to pieces!' the unhappy child, unable to utter a word, had again fallen on his knees, holding up his clasped hands in mute supplication, while the only sound he could utter proceeded from the convulsive rattling of his teeth. 'make him stand upright, gargousse!' said cut-in-half to his ape, 'and if he is obstinate do as i am doing;' and with these words he belaboured the child with a switch he held in his hand. then passing the stick to the monkey, he added, 'make him stand up! hit harder!--harder!' you all know what close imitators all monkeys are, but gargousse was ever remarkable for his extreme quickness in copying the actions of others. he was not long, therefore, in bestowing so severe a flagellation on the shoulders of his terrified victim as soon compelled him to try at least to stand upon his feet, and once up, the unhappy child became as nearly as possible the same height as the ape. then cut-in-half went out of the room, and descended the staircase, calling out to gargousse to follow him, which he did, tugging violently at the end of the chain to which gringalet was fastened, and compelling him to follow like a slave, at the same time beating him as hard as he could with his cane; and thus they reached the small courtyard belonging to the miserable tenement occupied by cut-in-half and his live stock. "now, then, cut-in-half reckoned on having good sport, so, first securing the door that opened into the lane, he made signs to gargousse to play gringalet round and round the yard as fast as he could. the ape loved the fun as well as his master, and coursed the frightened boy round the yard, beating him with all the strength the switch admitted of, while cut-in-half laughed till his sides ached. perhaps you may think this malicious nature was now satisfied,--not a bit of it! this was a mere beginning! "so far gringalet had merely endured excessive fright, been torn and scratched by the sharp teeth and claws of gargousse, and severely beaten with the stick. this, however dreadful, was far from contenting cut-in-half's savage nature. he therefore devised another scheme, equally diabolical with his other proceedings. in order to enrage the monkey still more against the unhappy boy, who by this time was more dead than alive, he seized gringalet by the hair of his head, and, after feigning to overwhelm him with blows, he pushed him towards the monkey, saying, 'tear him! worry him!' showing gargousse at the same time a great lump of sheep's heart, as much as to say, do as i bid you, and here is your reward. "and then began a fearful sight! just imagine a huge red ape, with a black muzzle, grinding his teeth like a mad thing, and throwing himself, in a state of savage fury, on the poor helpless object of his cruelty, who, unable to defend himself, had no other means of preserving his face and eyes from being torn to pieces than by throwing himself down on the ground, flat on his face. seeing this, gargousse, wrought up by his master to a state of frenzied hatred against poor gringalet, bestrode him as he lay on the ground, seized him by the neck, and bit him on the back of his head till the blood came. 'oh, the spider! the spider i dreamed of!' cried poor gringalet, firmly believing now that he should be devoured. all at once a noise was heard at the gate that opened from the lane into the yard. knock! knock! knock!" "ha, ha!" exclaimed all the prisoners at once. "how delightful! 'tis le doyen come to set the boy free! oh, tell us if it was not!" "yes, my good friends, you have guessed right; it was le doyen, and he cried out, 'now then, cut-in-half, will you open the door or no? don't pretend to be deaf; i see you through the keyhole.' the exhibitor of beasts was obliged to answer, and went grumblingly along to open the gate for le doyen, who was a regular brick of a man, as strong and sturdy as a mountain for all his age, and, moreover, he was one of those persons with whose displeasure it was anything but safe to trifle. 'well, what do you want with me?' asked cut-in-half, half opening the yard door. 'i have something to say to you,' answered le doyen, entering almost forcibly into the little courtyard. then observing the savage conduct of the monkey, he ran towards him, seized him by the scruff of the neck, and sought to fling him to the other end of the yard; but perceiving that the boy and the animal were chained together, le doyen cast a stern and fearful glance on cut-in-half, as he called out in a severe tone, 'let this unfortunate child loose directly!' only conceive the joyful surprise experienced by gringalet, who, nearly dead with terror, found himself so unexpectedly preserved, and by means which seemed to him so miraculous that he could not help turning his eyes on his preserver, with a recollection of the golden-winged fly he had seen in his dream, though he saw merely a stout, square-built, elderly gentleman, looking more like a creature of earth than air." "well, now then," said the officer on duty, "now that gringalet is safe, i will go and take my soup." "safe!" exclaimed pique-vinaigre, "not a bit of it! bless you, poor little gringalet has not got to the worst of his troubles yet." "no?" cried several prisoners, with the deepest interest. "no; hasn't he, though?" "but what else happened to him then?" inquired the officer. "wait a bit and you'll hear," answered the story-teller. "what a fellow that pique-vinaigre is!" cried the officer; "he makes you do just as he pleases! well, i'll stay a little longer, at any rate!" the skeleton spoke not, but he actually foamed with rage, as pique-vinaigre thus continued his recital: "cut-in-half, who feared le doyen as the devil fears holy water, had, in a grumbling manner, unfastened the chain from gringalet's waist, which done, le doyen tossed gargousse up in the air, and when he fell to the ground he gave him so desperate a kick in his ribs that he sent him rolling ten feet off. the monkey screamed with passion, chattered, and ground his teeth with rage; then, fearing a repetition of the rough usage he had experienced, scampered away, and, climbing to the roof of a small shed, manifested his hatred of le doyen by a variety of threatening gestures. 'what do you mean by ill-using my monkey?' inquired cut-in-half of le doyen. 'you ought rather to ask me why i do not beat you instead of your spiteful beast there; for shame! thus to torture and ill-use a poor helpless boy! is it possible you can be drunk at this early hour of the morning?' 'i am no more drunk than you are! i was teaching my monkey a trick i wish him to learn. i want to get up a scene between gringalet and my monkey. i attend to my business, and i only wish other people would do the same, and not trouble themselves with what does not concern them.' 'and i tell you that i have a right to interfere in the present case, and that it is my duty so to do. this morning when i missed gringalet from among the other children who passed by my window, i inquired of them where he was. they did not make me any answer, but hung down their heads, and seemed confused. i know you, therefore suspected the boy was kept back for some bad purpose, and it seems i was not mistaken. "'now, just listen to me. every day that i do not see gringalet pass my door with the other lads, i will come here to know the reason, whether you like it or not; and what's more, you shall produce him alive and well, or--or--or--i'll--i'll knock you down!' 'i shall do precisely as i please with the boy, without asking your leave,' answered cut-in-half, excessively irritated by this threat of keeping him under surveillance; 'you'll just please to keep your hands to yourself; and if you do not take yourself off, and if ever you presume to show your face here again, i'll--i'll--' 'take that, then, as an earnest of the future!' cried le doyen, interrupting cut-in-half by a couple of blows heavy enough to knock down a rhinoceros; 'you deserve that and more, too, for presuming to answer le doyen of la petite pologne in so impertinent a manner.'" "o lord! lord!" groaned forth the man in the blue cap, "only two blows! i wish i had had the handling of him. he should have had a round dozen to begin with, and afterwards i would have knocked all his teeth down his throat!" "as far as strength went," continued pique-vinaigre, "le doyen could have killed and eaten a score of such fellows as the beast-master, so cut-in-half was compelled to pocket the affront. but he was not the less incensed at being struck in the presence of gringalet, and well did he promise himself to be richly avenged for the indignity he had sustained; and an idea suddenly suggested itself to him, which could only have originated in the mind of a fiend of malice like himself. while he was meditating on his diabolical scheme, le doyen said, 'bear in mind that if you torment this poor boy any more i will just make you and your menagerie turn out and quit la petite pologne, or i will bring the whole neighbourhood to pull your house about your ears. you know very well how universally you are hated already, and you may rest assured you will have such an escort to conduct you hence as shall leave you marks enough on your back to serve as a remembrancer of your parting, let you live as long as you may, that i promise you!' "like a treacherous, mean-spirited wretch as he was, cut-in-half, the better to effect his villainous design, instead of quarrelling further with le doyen, feigned to submit to his decision, and replied, in a false, wheedling tone, 'you were wrong to strike me, my worthy neighbour, or to imagine i had any intention of harming gringalet; on the contrary, i tell you again i was merely teaching my monkey a new trick; he is rather awkward when he is put out in any way, and, while trying to manage him, the boy got a few trifling bites, which i very much regret.' 'humph!' said le doyen, casting a scrutinising look on him; 'now is this all gospel you are telling me? and why, if you only wished to teach a thing to your monkey, did you fasten him to gringalet?' 'because the boy has to learn the trick as well as the animal. now this is what i want to do,--to dress up gargousse in a red coat and a hat with a feather in it, like a barber, and then gringalet is to sit in a little chair, with a cloth tucked under his chin, while the monkey affects to shave him with a large wooden razor.' the joke appeared so very droll to le doyen that he could not forbear laughing. 'isn't that a funny idea?' inquired cut-in-half, in a crafty and malicious manner. 'why, upon my word,' answered le doyen, 'it does strike me as a very amusing device, and one which, i doubt not, your monkey would carry into execution most admirably, that is, if he be as clever and skilful in imitation as he is represented.' 'oh, bless you!' continued cut-in-half, 'when he has seen me for five or six times make believe to shave gringalet, he will imitate me exactly with his large wooden razor; but for that purpose it is absolutely necessary he should become habituated to the boy, and that was my reason for fastening them both together.' 'but why did you select gringalet more than any other of your boys?' 'because he was the least among 'em, so that, you see, when he sat down the monkey was the taller of the two. "'to be sure i had another reason besides, m. le doyen, although i know a man oughtn't to own such a thing as making a difference with his boys, but, for all that, i'll own the truth, whatever comes of it, and that is, that i made choice of this here little chap because i meant to give half the profits from the performance to whoever it was acted the scene with the animal, because i knew, in course, it was disagreeable.' 'well,' said le doyen, completely gulled by this false and hypocritical manner of accounting for the conduct which had first attracted his displeasure,--'well, if such be the case, i can only say, i'm very sorry i gave you such a very hard thump; however, it does not matter, just consider it as "paid on account," so that--' while cut-in-half was talking with le doyen, poor little gringalet durst scarcely breathe,--he trembled like an aspen leaf, and, though dying with eagerness to throw himself at the feet of le doyen, and to supplicate of him to take him away from his cruel master, he had not courage to make the attempt, and in a low despairing voice he murmured to himself, 'i shall be like the poor fly i dreamed about, and the horrid spider will eat me up; it was folly of me to expect that any golden fly would come to save me!' "'come, my lad, since your master means to let you share his profits, you ought to try and get used to acting with the monkey; never mind being tied to him, he won't hurt you, i dare say, and then, you know, when you have earned a large sum of money by doing this trick with him, you will have nothing to complain of.' 'complain, indeed!' exclaimed his master, giving him at the same time a side-look that froze poor gringalet's blood, 'what should he know of complaining? now then, speak up, and tell this worthy gentleman whether you ever have had anything to complain of.' 'come, let's hear all about it,--have you any cause of complaint, you are asked?' 'no--no--master,' stammered out the unhappy child. 'you hear what he says?' said cut-in-half, turning to le doyen, 'he never has had anything to complain of. no; i should rather think not! why, bless you, i was only thinking of his good when i tied him to the monkey, and if he has got a bit of a scratch from gargousse, why, i'll take care it does not happen again. the monkey is just a little awkward at first, but i'll see to it for the future,--take my word for it, it won't happen again.' 'that's all right, then, and now everybody's satisfied, are they not?' 'gringalet is, most especially; are you not, my fine fellow?' asked cut-in-half, casting a savage glance on the poor child. 'yes--yes--master,' sobbed forth the wretched boy. 'and i'll tell you what i'll do further, to make up for the scratches you have got from the monkey, i'll let you share in a good breakfast i meant to order from our worthy doyen's excellent larder; i intend having a dish of mutton-chops and pickles, four bottles of wine, and a pint of brandy.' 'much obliged to you,' answered le doyen; 'all shall be sent as you desire. few men have a better cellar or more tempting larder, and the contents of both are at the service of all who can pay for them.' "le doyen was not a bad sort of a man, but it must be remembered that he had his living to get, and, therefore, so that he disposed of his eatables and drinkables at a sufficient profit, he cared but little who it was in that case,--friend or foe were quite alike to him. the beggar, cut-in-half, knew well enough where his weak side lay, so he hit upon this method of getting rid of him, in high good humour at having by his visit not only ascertained the safety of gringalet, but also obtained a good order. and now was the unfortunate child thrown into the hands of his master, past all hopes of safety; for no sooner had le doyen turned his back than cut-in-half, pointing to the staircase with a dreadful frown, bade the trembling lad betake himself to his garret without loss of time; and the frightened child, glad at any rate to be freed from the monkey and his master, did not require a second bidding, but made off as fast as his strength permitted him. when gringalet reached his own wretched chamber, he threw himself on the dirty straw allotted him for a bed beside his tortoise, and wept as though his heart were breaking. 'he will surely kill me!' cried the miserable boy, as he reflected on the cruelty of his master and his own inability to escape from him. 'what shall i do? oh, how i wish i were dead and in my grave!' thus he remained sobbing and lamenting for more than an hour, when he was roused by hearing the coarse voice of cut-in-half calling upon him to descend. and the terror of the boy was still further increased by discovering a considerable alteration in the rough tones of his master. 'now, then!' roared out the brutal man, with a torrent of oaths, 'are you coming down, or must i fetch you?' the unhappy child almost slid down the ladder in his haste to descend, but scarcely had he reached the bottom than cut-in-half seized hold of him, and dragged him to his own room, stumbling at every step he took; for the fellow had been drinking so hard that he could scarcely stand on his legs, while his body swung to and fro like the sails of a windmill. "almost bereft by extreme intoxication of the power of speech, he continued to gaze on the shrinking child with eyes full of dreadful meaning, though his tongue was unable to declare the murderous designs he meditated. never had the poor boy endured such horror at the sight of his master. gargousse was chained as usual to the foot of the bed, and in the middle of the room stood a chair, from the back of which hung a strong cord. 's--s--sit down--there!' cried the tyrant, as he pointed to the seat. gringalet obeyed in silence, and cut-in-half, without another word, twisted the rope around him, and finally secured him in the chair so firmly that, even if poor gringalet had dared to struggle, it would have been impossible for him to have extricated himself. 'great and good god!' murmured the wretched child, 'this time no one will come to deliver me from my danger!' and the poor little fellow was right, for, indeed, it was utterly impossible, and for this reason, that no sooner had le doyen gone away with the idea of all being comfortably arranged between the boy and his master than cut-in-half hastened to double-lock and bolt the entrance to his premises, so that no person could gain admission without his knowledge." "oh, poor little gringalet!" exclaimed all the prisoners, deeply excited by the recital, "it's all up with him, that's quite sure." "i'd give my last franc-piece to get him out of the hands of that blackguard--that i would!" cried a multitude of voices, as though one unanimous sympathy actuated each breast. "i wonder what that beggar of a cut-in-half is going to do with the poor little chap!" added they, in almost breathless interest; "come, push on, and let's hear." pique-vinaigre continued: "when gringalet was well secured in the chair, his master said to him" (and here the narrator imitated most naturally the thick speech and stammering tones of a drunken man): 'ah--you scoundrel!--you--you are the--cause of--my being thrashed by le doyen!--you shall--die--for it--you shall--you--young--devil!' then he took from his pocket a freshly sharpened razor, opened it, and seized gringalet by the hair of his head. at the sight of the razor the child began to weep. 'pardon, master! pardon! do not kill me!' 'cry away, you infernal brat! you shall not cry long!' replied cut-in-half. 'golden fly, golden fly, come to my help!' exclaimed poor gringalet, almost mad, and remembering the dream that had had such an effect upon him, 'for the spider is going to kill me!' 'what!--you call--call--me a spider--do you?' said cut-in-half; 'for this--and--other--many other things--you shall die--die, i tell you--but not by my hand--because that wouldn't do--and besides--they'd "scrag" me--and so i'll say and prove that it was the ape. i have managed it all--and so--never mind--for that's all about it!' he added, preserving his equilibrium with the greatest difficulty. then calling the monkey, which, at the end of his chain, was grinning and looking at his master and the boy, 'here, gargousse,' he said, pointing to the razor, and then to gringalet, whom he had seized by the hair of his head, 'do so to him;' and then drawing the back of the razor several times over gringalet's throat, he feigned to cut his throat. the devil of a monkey was such a close imitator--so wicked and so sly--that he understood what his master desired, and as if to prove to him that he did so, he took his chin in his left paw, put his head back, and, with his right paw, pretended to cut his throat. 'that's it, gargousse--that's it!' said cut-in-half, stammering, with his eyes half closed, and staggering so much that he almost fell with gringalet and the chair. 'yes, that's it! i'll unfas--unfasten you, and you'll slice his weasand--won't you, gargousse?' the ape shrieked as he ground his teeth, as much as to say yes, and put out his paw as if to take the razor that cut-in-half handed to him. 'golden fly, come to my rescue!' murmured gringalet, in a faint voice, and assured that his last hour was come. alas! he called the golden fly without any hopes of its coming to his rescue; he did so as a drowning man exclaims, '_mon dieu! mon dieu!_' yet at this very moment gringalet saw enter into the room one of those small gold and green flies, which look like a spangle of gold flying and flitting around and about; and at the very moment when cut-in-half was going to give the razor to gargousse, the gold fly went plump into the eye of this horrible ruffian. a fly in the eye is no great thing, but at the moment it hurts like the prick of a pin, and thus cut-in-half, who could scarcely support himself, raised his hand to his eye so suddenly that he staggered and fell at full length, rolling on the ground like a log to the foot of the bed, to which gargousse was fastened. 'golden fly, many thanks! you have saved me!' cried gringalet, who, seated and fastened to the chair, had observed all." "_ma foi!_ it really was true, then, and the golden fly prevented his having his throat cut," exclaimed the prisoners, overjoyed. "the golden fly for ever!" cried the blue cap. "listen now," continued the story-teller, "for this is the most beautiful and terrible of the history i had promised you. cut-in-half had fallen like a lump of lead, and was so drunk that he could move no more than a log,--he was dead drunk and perfectly senseless; but in his fall he very nearly crushed gargousse, and almost broke his hind paw. you know how savage and revengeful this infernal brute was, and he still held in his paw the razor which his master had given him to cut gringalet's throat. what do you suppose the animal did when he saw his master on his back and within his reach? why, he jumped upon him, squatted on his breast, and whilst with one paw he pushed up his chin to expose his neck, with the other he cut his throat as clean as a whistle, just as cut-in-half had taught him to do with poor gringalet a few minutes before." "bravo, bravo! well done!" "gargousse for ever!" "the little golden fly for ever!" "gringalet for ever! gargousse for ever!" "well, my friends, i assure you, as you shout now, so did the whole population of la petite pologne shout an hour afterwards," said pique-vinaigre, delighted at the success of his story and the enthusiasm of his hearers. "in what way?" "i told you that, in order to complete his wicked purpose at his ease, the vagabond cut-in-half had closed the door inside. towards the evening, the boys came in one after the other with their animals. the first rapped, but no answer; then, when they had all arrived, they knocked at the door, but no reply; so one went to find le doyen to tell him how they had knocked in vain, and that their master did not open to them. 'the fellow must be as drunk as an englishman,' said he; 'i sent him some wine just now. we must break open the door, for the children cannot pass the night out-of-doors.' so they burst in the door, and then they went up the stairs, and what should they see but gargousse chained and crouching on his master's body, playing with the razor! poor gringalet was fortunately out of gargousse's reach and still on the chair, not daring to look on cut-in-half's body, but gazing at,--guess what, the little golden fly, which, after having flitted round and round the child as if to congratulate him, had, at last, come and settled on his poor little hand. "gringalet related all to le doyen and the crowd that came in, and, as it really appeared like the interposition of providence, le doyen cried, 'a triumph for gringalet! a triumph to gargousse who killed the infamous cut-in-half! he cut others, it was his turn to be cut himself.' 'yes, yes,' cried the assembled mob, for the beast-shower was universally detested, 'a triumph to gargousse! a triumph for gringalet!' it was night, and they lighted straw torches, fastened gargousse to a bench, which four chaps carried on their shoulders; and the blackguard of an ape seemed as if he felt his consequence, and gave himself the airs of a conquering hero, by showing his teeth to the multitude. after the ape came le doyen, carrying gringalet in his arms; then all the little fellows, each carrying his beast, followed him, one with his fox, another his marmotte, another his guinea-pig; and those who played on the hurdy-gurdy played now; then there were the charcoal-sellers who had their bells, and there was such an uproar, such joy, such a fête as can be scarcely imagined. behind the musicians and animal-showers came all the dwellers in la petite pologne, men, women, and children, all holding straw torches, and halloaing like mad, 'vive gringalet! vive gargousse!' the procession advanced in this way around the place in which cut-in-half dwelt. it was a very singular sight to see the old buildings lighted up by the red light of the straw torches, which flared and flared. as to gringalet, the first thing he did when he was at liberty was to put the little golden fly in a paper bag, and he exclaimed during his triumph, 'little flies, i did very right in preventing the spiders from eating you, for--'" pique-vinaigre was interrupted by a voice from without, exclaiming: "père roussel, come to your soup; it only wants ten minutes to four!" "_ma foi!_ the story is nearly finished, and i must go. many thanks, my lad, you have amused me very much, and that you may tell everybody," said the superintendent to pique-vinaigre, going to the door; then pausing, "mind and be quiet," he said, turning towards the prisoners. "we shall hear the end of the story," said the skeleton, breathless with suppressed rage; then, adding in a whisper to gros-boiteux, "follow him to the door, and, when you see him leave the yard, cry gargousse, and the informer is a dead man." "all right," said le gros-boiteux, who accompanied the guardian, and remained at the door watching his steps as he went away. "i tell you, then," resumed pique-vinaigre, "that gringalet, during the whole time of his triumph, said, 'little flies, i have--'" "gargousse!" cried gros-boiteux, as the turnkey quitted the yard. "i'm here, gringalet, and i will be your spider!" cried the skeleton, instantly, and darting so suddenly on germain that he could not make a struggle or utter a cry. his voice expired under the tremendous gripe of the skeleton's iron fingers. "if you are the spider, i'm the golden fly, skeleton of evil," cried a voice, at the moment when germain, surprised at the violent and sudden attack of his implacable enemy, had fallen back on the bench entirely at the mercy of the ruffian, who, with his knee on his breast, held him by the neck. "yes, i will be the fly, and a fly of the right sort!" repeated the man in the blue cap, of whom we have already spoken, and then, with a fierce spring, he dashed upon the skeleton, and assailed him on the skull and between his eyes with a shower of blows from his fist, so tremendous that it sounded like the noise of a smith's hammer ringing on an anvil. [illustration: "_the skeleton staggered at first_" original etching by marcel] the man in the blue cap, who was no other than the chourineur, added, as he redoubled the quickness of his hammering on the skeleton's head: "it is the shower of blows which m. rodolph drummed on my sconce, and i have recollected them." at this unexpected assault the prisoners were all struck with surprise, and did not take part either for or against the chourineur. several of them, still under the influence of the salutary impression made on them by pique-vinaigre's story, were even glad of an event which saved germain. the skeleton staggered at first, and, reeling like an ox under the butcher's poleaxe, mechanically extended his hands to try and ward off his adversary's blows, and germain, thus freed from the deadly clutch of the skeleton, half raised himself. "what does this mean? who is this scoundrel?" exclaimed le gros-boiteux, and, rushing at the chourineur, he endeavoured to seize his arms from behind, whilst the latter was making violent efforts to keep the skeleton down on the bench. germain's defender replied to le gros-boiteux's attack by a kind of kick, so violent that it sent the cripple rolling on the ground to the farther end of the circle formed by the prisoners. germain, whose face was livid and purple, half suffocated, and on his knees by the bench, seemed unconscious of all that was passing around him. the strangulation had been so violent that he could scarcely breathe. after his first surprise was over, the skeleton, by a desperate effort, contrived to keep the chourineur off and regain his feet. breathless, drunk with rage and hatred, he was fearful to look upon. his cadaverous face streamed with blood, his upper lip curled like that of a furious wolf, exposed his teeth clenched against each other. at last he exclaimed, in a voice palpitating with anger and exertion, for his struggle had been very violent: "stab him,--the ruffian!--you cowards, who let me be traitorously attacked, or the informer will escape!" during this momentary truce, the chourineur, raising germain half fainting, had managed very cleverly to put him in an angle of the wall, and, availing himself of this advantageous position of defence, he was able, without fear of surprise from behind, to resist any attack of the prisoners, on whom the skill and herculean powers he had displayed had imposed considerable respect. pique-vinaigre, greatly alarmed, had disappeared without his absence being remarked. seeing hesitation amongst the majority of prisoners, the skeleton exclaimed: "aid me now, let us do for both, the big 'un as well as the little 'un!" "look out for squalls, then," replied the chourineur, preparing for a struggle, with his two hands squared, and standing well-balanced on his loins; "and mind your eye, skeleton! if you mean to play the cut-in-half, i'll serve you as gargousse did, and slit your weasand." "fall on him!" said le gros-boiteux, getting up. "why does this vagabond defend spies? death to the informer, and to him, too! if he defends germain he is a traitor!" "yes, yes, death to the spy! death!" "yes, and death to the traitor who defends him!" such were the cries uttered by the fiercest of the _détenus_. another party, more merciful, exclaimed: "no, let's hear him first!" "yes, let him explain; we mustn't kill a man without a hearing!" "and without means of defence, too! must we be cut-in-halfs?" "so much the better!" replied the skeleton's partisans. "nothing's too bad for a spy!" "let's fall on him! let us support the skeleton!" "yes, let's at the blue cap!" "no, let's support the blue cap, and let's at the skeleton!" retorted the chourineur's party. "no, down with the blue cap!" "down with the skeleton!" "well done, my boys!" cried the chourineur, addressing the prisoners who sided with him. "you're good fellows, and would not massacre a half dead man; none but cowards would do that. the skeleton does not care what evil he does; he is sentenced beforehand, and that is why he urges you on; but if you help to kill germain, you will be severely punished for it. besides, i have something to propose. the skeleton is desirous of doing for this young man; well, let him come and take him if he thinks he has the pluck to do it; let us two settle it; leave us to ourselves, and see what turns up. but he's afraid; he's like cut-in-half, only strong with the weak." the vigour, energy, and rough manner of the chourineur had powerful effect on the prisoners, and a considerable number of them had ranged themselves on his side, and surrounded germain, whilst the skeleton's party drew around that ruffian. a bloody fray would have ensued, when there was heard in the yard the sonorous and measured tread of a piquet of infantry, always on guard in the prison. pique-vinaigre, profiting by the general stir and noise, had gained the yard, and, having knocked at the wicket of the entrance, had told the turnkeys what was passing in the day-room. the arrival of the soldiers put an end to this scene. germain, the skeleton, and the chourineur were taken before the governor of la force; the first to make his complaint, the two others to answer for creating a disturbance inside the gaol. the fright and suffering of germain had been so great, his weakness so extreme, that he was obliged to lean on two of the turnkeys, in order to reach a chamber next to the governor's room. there he was very ill. his neck, excoriated as it was, bore the livid and bleeding imprint of the skeleton's iron grasp; a few minutes more, and rigolette's betrothed would have been strangled. the turnkey, who had taken an interest in germain, gave him first assistance. when he had recovered, his first thought was of his deliverer. "thanks for your kind cares, sir," he said to the turnkey. "but for that brave man, i must have been killed. where is he?" "in the governor's room, telling him how the disturbance arose. it appears that but for him--" "i must have been killed. oh, tell me his name! who is he?" "his name i do not know, but they call him the chourineur; he is an old offender." "and is his crime now very serious?" "very; burglary in the night in an inhabited house," replied the turnkey. "he will probably have a similar dose to pique-vinaigre, fifteen or twenty years of hard labour." germain shuddered; he would have preferred being bound by gratitude to a man less criminal. "how dreadful!" he said. "and yet this man without knowing me defended me; such courage, such generosity!" "ah, these men have sometimes a touch of good! the main point is that you are saved. to-morrow you will have your private cell, and to-night you will sleep in the infirmary. so, courage, sir. the bad time is over; and when your pretty little visitor comes to see you, you can comfort her, for once in a cell you have nothing to fear; only you will do wisely, i think, not to tell her of this affair." "certainly not; but i should like to thank my defender." "i have just been leaving the governor, who will now interrogate the skeleton, and i shall take them both, the skeleton to his dungeon directly, and the chourineur to the fosse aux lions; he will be, besides, somewhat rewarded for what he has done for you; as he is a determined and stout fellow, he will probably replace the skeleton as captain of the ward." the chourineur, having crossed a small passage from the governor's apartment, entered the room in which germain was. "wait for me here," said the turnkey to the chourineur. "i will go and ask the governor what he decides upon as to the skeleton, and i will return and let you know. our young man has quite recovered, and wishes to thank you, and so he should, for otherwise it would have been all over with him." and the turnkey went out. the chourineur's countenance was very joyous, and he advanced towards germain, saying, with a cheerful air: "thunder! how glad i am! how glad i saved you!" and he extended his hand to germain, who, by a feeling of involuntary repulsion, withdrew somewhat, instead of taking the hand which the chourineur offered to him; then, remembering that he owed his life to this man, he was desirous of repairing this display of repugnance. but the chourineur perceived it; his features became overcast, and, retreating in his turn, he said, with bitter sorrow, "oh, it is right; your pardon, sir!" "no, it is i who ought to ask your pardon; am i not a prisoner like yourself? ought i not to think of the service you have rendered me? you have saved my life. your hand, sir, i beg--i entreat--your hand!" "thanks; but it is useless now. the first feeling is everything. if you had directly given me a grasp of the hand, it would have afforded me pleasure, but, when i reflect, i would not desire it. not because i am a prisoner like you," he added, with a sombre and hesitating air, "because, before i came here, i have been--" "the turnkey told me all," said germain, interrupting him; "but yet you saved my life." "i have done no more than my duty and pleasure, for i know who you are--monsieur germain." "you know me!" "a little, my lad," said the chourineur, resuming his usual tone of habitual carelessness; "and, _pardieu!_ you would have been very wrong to have attributed my arrival at la force to chance. if i had not known you, i should not have been in prison." germain looked at the chourineur with amazement. "what! it was because you knew me?" "that i am here a prisoner in la force." "i, who owe you--" "a candle to the virgin, for having procured me the advantage of being in la force." "really," said germain, passing his hand over his brow. "i do not know whether the terrible shock i have just undergone has weakened my senses, but it is impossible for me to understand you. the turnkey told me you were here under a charge of--of--" said germain, with hesitation. "robbery, _pardieu_! and robbery with forcible entry, and moreover at night; nothing could be more complete!" cried the chourineur, with a hearty laugh. germain, painfully excited at the bold hardihood of the chourineur, could not forbear saying to him: "what, you, so brave, so generous, and speak in this way! are you not aware of the terrible punishment to which you are exposed?" "twenty years at the galleys; i know that. i am an out-and-out scoundrel, i know that, for taking it so easy. but what's the use when one has been and done it? and then, for me to say that it was you, m. germain," added the chourineur, heaving a tremendous sigh, and with an air of assumed contrition, "who are the cause of my misfortune." "when you explain yourself more clearly, i shall understand you. just as much as you please, but my gratitude for the service you have rendered me will never cease or diminish," added germain, sorrowfully. "oh, pardon me, m. germain!" replied the chourineur, becoming serious. "you do not like to see me laugh at this; do not let us add another word. i must let all out with you, and so, perhaps, force you to shake my hand." "i have no doubt of that; for, in spite of the crime of which you are accused, and of which you accuse yourself, all in you bespeaks so much courage and frankness that i am convinced you are charged unjustly; strong suspicions may exist, but i am sure that is all." "oh, as to that you are mistaken, m. germain!" said the chourineur, hastily; "on my word as a man, and as true as i have a protector,"--the chourineur took off his cap,--"who is more than all the world to me, i robbed at night by forcing the shutter, and was caught in the fact and deprived of all i was endeavouring to carry off." "but want--hunger--pushed you to such an extremity?" "hunger! i had one hundred and twenty francs when they apprehended me, the remains of a note of one thousand francs, without including the protector i have mentioned to you, who, by the way, does not know that i am here, but will not let me want for anything. since, however, i have mentioned him to you, you must suppose i am in earnest, for you must know that he is a man to go on your knees before. so i must tell you, too, that the shower of blows which i drummed on the skeleton's sconce was a sketch after his style, copied from nature. the idea of the robbery was on his account; and, in fact, if you were not strangled by the skeleton, it is through him." "but this protector?" "is yours also." "mine!" "yes, m. rodolph protects you. when i say monsieur, i should say monseigneur, for he is at least a prince; but i have a habit of calling him m. rodolph, which he permits me to do." "you are under some mistake," said germain, more and more surprised; "i do not know the prince." "yes, but he knows you. you don't believe it? well, that's possible, for that's his way. he knows that there is some worthy fellow in trouble, and then, in an instant, the good fellow is comforted, and, without being seen or known, he is at work, and kindness falls from the skies, like a tile from a house on your head. so patience, and one day or other you will have your tile." "really, what you say amazes me!" "ah, you'll have a great deal more to amaze you yet! to return to my protector: some time ago, after a service which he persisted i had done him, he procured me a splendid position, i need not say where, or any more about it, for it would be a long tale to tell. well, he sends me to marseilles to embark and go to a capital appointment in algeria. i left paris as happy as a child; but, all of a sudden, a change comes over me." "that was singular!" "why, you must know that once separated from m. rodolph i was uneasy, disturbed, as fidgety as a dog who has lost his master. it was very stupid; but so are dogs, sometimes, but that does not prevent them from being at least attached, and as well mindful of the nice bits given them as of the thumps and kicks they have had, and m. rodolph had given me many nice bits, and, in truth, m. rodolph is everything to me. from being a riotous, dare-devil, good-for-nothing blackguard, he made an honest man of me by only saying two words, just for all the world like magic." "what were the words he said?" "he said i had still heart and honour, although i have been at the galleys, not for having stolen, it is true,--ah, never that,--but what perhaps is worse, for having killed,--yes," said the chourineur, in a gloomy tone, "killed in a moment of passion, because formerly growing up like a brute beast, or, rather, as a vagabond, without father or mother, and left abandoned in the streets of paris, i knew neither god nor devil--neither good nor evil. sometimes the blood mounted to my eyes, and i saw red, and if i had a knife in my hands i slashed and hacked,--i was a real savage--a beast, and only lived amongst thieves and scoundrels. i was in the mud, and in the mud i lived as well as i could. but when m. rodolph said to me that since, in spite of the contempt of all the world and my misery, instead of plundering like others i had preferred working as long as i could, and for what i could, that showed i had still heart and honour--thunder!--you see these two words had the same effect on me as if i had been seized by the hair of my head and lifted a thousand feet into the air above the vermin with whom i dwelt, and showed me the filth in which my life was spent. so i said, 'thank ye, i've had enough of this!' then my heart beat with something else besides anger, and i took an oath to myself always to preserve that honour which m. rodolph spoke of. you see, m. germain, that when m. rodolph told me so kindly that i was not so bad as i believed myself to be, that encouraged me, and, thanks to him, i became better than i had been." when he heard this language, germain comprehended less and less how the chourineur had committed the robbery of which he accused himself. "no," he said to himself, "it is impossible; the man who was so exalted at the two words honour and heart cannot have committed the robbery of which he talks with so much self-complacency." the chourineur continued, without remarking the astonishment of germain: "to say the truth, what made me be like a dog to his master to m. rodolph was that he raised me in my own opinion. before i knew him i never felt but on my skin, but he moved me inwardly, and to the bottom of my heart. once away from him and the place he inhabited, i felt like a body without a soul. in proportion as i proceeded farther i said to myself, 'he leads such a strange life,--mixes with such scamps (i can answer for that), that he risks his body twenty times a day, and, under some such circumstances, i may be his dog and defend my master, for i am strong in the jaws;' but then he had said to me,'my good fellow, you must become useful to others, therefore go where you can be serviceable.' i was very nearly replying, 'i have no one to serve but you, m. rodolph,' but i daredn't. he said to me, 'go,' and i went, and have gone as far as i could; but, thunder! when i ought to have gone on board the ship, left france, and put the sea between m. rodolph and myself, i had not the courage. he had desired his correspondent to give me a great lump of money when i sailed, so i went to the gentleman, and said to him, 'sir, i can't do it--i'd rather do anything, so please to give me enough to pay my journey on foot; i have good legs, and i will return to paris, for i cannot leave france. m. rodolph will be angry, and, perhaps, refuse to see me,--that's possible; but i shall see him, know where he is, and if he goes on as usual, sooner or later i may, perhaps, arrive in time to come between him and a stab with a knife; and then i really cannot go so far away from him! something i cannot account for attracts me to his side.' well, they gave me sufficient to pay my way, and i reached paris. then i really was frightened. what could i say to m. rodolph to excuse myself? but, after all, he would not eat me up; so i went to find his friend, a tall, bald-headed man, but a right sort of fellow as ever broke bread. when i saw m. murphy, i said,'now my fate will be decided;' and my throat was dry, and my heart beat such a pace! i expected to catch it pretty handsomely, but, what d'ye think? why, the worthy gentleman received me just as if we had only parted the previous evening, and told me that m. rodolph, instead of being angry, wished to see me as soon as possible. well, so i went at once to my protector,--him with such a stout fist and good heart,--and when i was face to face with him he who is as terrible as a lion and as gentle as a child--he who is a prince, and yet puts on a blouse like me--and once on a time (i bless the day, or night, rather) laid on me such a shower of blows that i saw nothing but fire, why, m. germain, when i reflected on all the agreeable qualities he is master of, i felt completely overcome, and i snivelled like a woman. well, instead of laughing at me, for i must be a rum-looking lot when i pipe my eye, m. rodolph said to me, seriously, 'here you are back again, my good fellow, eh?' 'yes, m. rodolph, and pray excuse me if i have done wrong, but i could not help it. give me some corner in your courtyard, give me a crust and a glass, or let me earn it here,--that's all i ask, and pray don't be angry with me for coming back.' 'so far from it, my man, you have come back just in time to do me a service.' 'i, m. rodolph? is that possible? well, there must have been something above, for if not, how could i explain how it was i must come back here at the very moment when you wanted me? what can i do for you, m. rodolph?' 'an honest, worthy young man, in whom i take the interest i should do in a son, has been unjustly accused of robbery, and is a prisoner in la force. his name is germain; he is of a gentle, quiet disposition. the wretches with whom he is confined have conceived a great aversion for him, and he is in great danger. you unfortunately have known what a prison life is, and a great many prisoners; could not you, in case there may be any of your old companions in la force (we will find that out), go and see them, and, by promises of money, which shall be duly performed, induce them to protect this unfortunate young man?'" "but who can this generous and unknown man be, who takes so much interest in my fate?" asked germain, more and more surprised. "you will learn, perhaps, hereafter,--as for me, i do not know. to return to my conversation with m. rodolph. whilst he was speaking to me there came an idea into my head, so curious, so whimsical, that i could not forbear laughing outright before him. 'what is it, my lad?' said he. 'why, m. rodolph, i laugh because i am so happy, and i am happy because i have the means of putting your m. germain quite safe from any ill-will on the part of the prisoners, of giving him a protector who will defend him boldly, for when once the young fellow is under the care of the man i mean, not one will dare look at him impertinently.' 'very good--one of your old comrades, no doubt?' 'exactly so, m. rodolph; he has been in la force some days, that i know. but i must have some money.' 'how much shall you require,--a note for a thousand francs? here it is.' 'thank ye, m. rodolph; in two days you will have some news.'" "i begin to understand, or, rather, i'm afraid to understand," exclaimed germain. "to come and protect me in this prison you have, perhaps, committed a robbery? oh, what remorse will beset all my life!" "hold hard! m. rodolph had said i had heart and honour,---these words are my law, you must know; and he may still say it to me, for if i am no better than i was before, at least i am no worse." "but this robbery, if you have not committed it, why are you here?" "listen! there is a capital joke with my thousand francs, i bought myself a black wig, shaved my whiskers, put on blue spectacles, bent my head on one side, and made up my back as if it were humped, and then went in search of two apartments to let, on the ground floor, in a bustling part of the city. i found what i looked for in the rue de provence, and paid a month in advance, under the name of m. grégoire. next day i went to the temple to buy furniture for my two rooms, with my black wig, my hump, and blue glasses, so that i might be easily recognised. well, i sent the goods to the rue de provence, and, moreover, six silver spoons, which i bought in the boulevard st. denis, still disguised with my hump. i returned then to arrange all my affairs in my residence. i told the porter i should not sleep there until the following night, and took away my key. the windows of the two rooms were closed with strong shutters. before i went away i had purposely left one with the bolt undrawn. the night came, and i put off my wig, my spectacles, my hump, and the clothes in which i had made my purchases and hired my apartments, putting this suit in a portmanteau, which i forwarded to m. murphy, m. rodolph's friend, begging him to take care of it for me. i then bought this blouse, and the blue cotton cap, and a bar of iron two feet long; and at one o'clock in the morning i went into the rue de provence, where i lurked about before my lodging, awaiting the moment when the patrol would pass and prevent my robbing myself,--committing a burglary on my own premises, in order to be caught and apprehended." and the chourineur burst into a fit of hearty laughter. "i begin to understand," cried germain. "but i was nearly getting in a 'fix,' for no patrol passed. i might have robbed myself twenty times with the greatest ease and safety. at last, about two o'clock in the morning, i heard the tread of the soldier boys, and then i pushed open the window, jumped into the room, pocketed the silver spoons and some other trifles. fortunately the lively patrol had heard the smash of the windows, and just as i leaped out of the window they laid hands upon me. they knocked at the door, which the porter opened, they sent for the sergeant of police, who came. the porter told him that the two rooms had been hired that morning by a humpbacked gentleman, with black hair and blue spectacles, whose name was grégoire. i had the thick head of hair which you now see, and my eyes were as wide open as a hare's on the watch, was as upright as a russian sentinel, and could not be taken for a humpbacked gentleman, with blue glasses and black hair. i confessed all, and was conducted to the station, and from the station to this prison, where i arrived in the nick of time to snatch from the clutch of the skeleton the young man of whom m. rodolph had said to me, 'i am interested in him as much as if he were my own son.'" "what do i not owe you for such devotion?" "not to me,--you owe it to m. rodolph." "but whence arises his interest in me?" "that is for him to tell you, or, perhaps, he will not tell you, for he very often chooses to do good, and if you ask him why, he will not let you know." "m. rodolph, then, knows you are here?" "i'm not such a fool as to tell him my plans; perhaps he would not have consented to my whim, and, really, i must say it was capital." "but what risks you have run,--indeed, still run." "oh, what risk? i might not have been brought to la force,--that was the worst risk,--but i relied on m. rodolph's interest to have my prison changed, so that i might have got to you." "but at your trial?" "well, i shall beg m. murphy to send me the portmanteau. before the judge i shall appear in my black wig, blue spectacles, and hump, and shall be again m. grégoire for the porter who let me the chambers and the tradespeople who sold me the goods. so much for the robbery. if they wish to see the thief again, i'll put off my suit, and then it will be as clear as daylight that the robber and the robbed together only make a total of the chourineur and no more. and what the devil would you expect when it is proved that i robbed myself?" "why, indeed," said germain, more assured; "but since you take so much interest in me, why did you not speak to me when you came first into the prison?" "i knew instantly of the scheme against you by the prisoners, and i might have denounced them before pique-vinaigre began or ended his story; but to denounce such ruffians did not suit my ideas,--i preferred trusting only to my fist in order to snatch you from the clutch of the skeleton; and when i saw that scoundrel i said to myself, 'this is a fine opportunity for putting in practice that shower of blows to which i owe the honour of m. rodolph's acquaintance.'" "but if all the prisoners had taken part against you, alone, what could you have done?" "why, then, i should have shrieked like an eagle and called lustily for help. but i preferred having my little affair all to myself, that i might be able to say to m. rodolph, 'i was all alone in the matter. i have defended and will defend your friend,--be easy on that subject.'" at this moment the turnkey suddenly returned to the apartment. "monsieur germain, go to the governor; he wishes to speak to you immediately. and you, chourineur, go down into the fosse-aux-lions; you are to be _prévôt_, if you like, for you have all the qualifications for that duty, and the prisoners will not joke with a man of your sort." "it is all the same to me, i'd as soon be captain as private." "will you refuse my hand now?" said germain, cordially. "_ma foi!_ no, m. germain! i'll shake hands with all my heart." "we shall see one another again, for i am now under your protection. i shall have nothing more to fear, and shall, therefore, come down every day from my cell into the yard." "make yourself quite easy on that score. but now i think of it, write a line to m. rodolph, who will then no longer be uneasy about you, and will also learn that i am here for a good reason, for if he were to hear that i had committed a robbery, and did not know all the real facts,--thunder! that would not do by any means." "make your mind easy. i will write this very evening to my unknown protector. once more, good-bye, and thanks most heartily, my worthy friend." "good-bye, m. germain. i must return to those scoundrels, and i'll make them go right; if not, let them look out for squalls!" "when i reflect that it is on my account that you must remain some time longer with these wretches--" "what consequence is that? there is no fear of their turning on me;" and the chourineur followed the turnkey. germain went to the governor. what was his surprise to find rigolette there! pale, agitated, and her eyes bathed in tears; and yet smiling through her tears, her countenance expressing unutterable happiness. "i have good news for you, sir," said the governor to germain; "justice has declared that no prosecution can be instituted against you; and in consequence of the withdrawing of this, and explanations that have taken place, i have received an order to set you at liberty immediately." "sir! what do you say? can it be possible?" rigolette tried to speak, but her extreme emotion prevented her, and she could only make an affirmative sign to germain with her head, and clasp her hands. "mademoiselle arrived a few minutes after i had received the order to set you at liberty," added the governor. "a very powerful letter of recommendation which she brought to me informed me of the touching devotion she had shown to you in prison; and it is with extreme pleasure that i sent for you, certain that you will be very happy to offer your arm to mademoiselle, and lead her hence." "a dream! it must be a dream!" said germain. "ah, sir, how can i thank you? excuse my astonishment,--joy prevents me from thanking you as i ought." "and i, too, m. germain,--i cannot find a word to say," said rigolette; "only imagine my delight when i left you on finding the friend of m. rodolph, who was waiting for me." "again m. rodolph!" exclaimed germain, astonished. "yes, and m. murphy said to me, 'germain is free--here is a letter for the governor of the prison; when you arrive there he will have received the order for germain's release, and you may take him away with you.' i could not believe what i heard, and yet it was true. well, as quick as possible, i took a hackney-coach, and came here; it is waiting for us at the gate." we will not attempt to paint the delight of the two lovers when they quitted la force, and the evening they passed together in rigolette's small apartment, which germain quitted at eleven o'clock to go to a humble furnished room. end of volume v. * * * * * transcriber's notes: this e-text was prepared from numbered edition of the printed. minor punctuation and capitalization corrections have been made without comment. minor typographical errors of single words, otherwise spelled correctly throughout the text have been made without comment. word variations appearing in the original text which have been retained: "pocket-book" ( ) and "pocketbook" ( ) "protégé" ( ) and "protégée" ( ) words using the [oe] ligature, which have been herein represented as "oe": "croesus." throughout the text, illustrations and their captions were placed on facing pages. for the purpose of this e-text these pages have been combined into one entry. footnotes, originally at the bottom of a printed page, have been placed directly below the paragraph in which their anchor symbol appears. distributed proofreaders europe at http://dp.rastko.net +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ transcriber's note: there are inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation which have been left as they were originally printed. +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ how to enjoy paris in , intended to serve as a companion and monitor indicating all that is useful and interesting in the french metropolis, containing historical, political, commercial, artistical, theatrical and statistical information. as also a description of the manners and customs of the parisians of the present day; with instructions for the stranger. in respect to economy, and advice to his general proceedings with the french. _by f. hervé_ author of _a residence in turkey and greece_, etc, etc. illustrated by lithographic engravings. paris, published by amyot, , rue de la paix; and by g. briggs, , strand, london, successor to leigh & co. . preface. in offering the following pages to the public, the author has been principally influenced by a desire of uniting _useful_ information with that which he hopes may prove amusing to the reader, endeavouring as much as possible to keep in view the spirit of the title "_how to enjoy paris;_" and having been accustomed to hear such constant and bitter murmurings from the english, in consequence of their having been so frequently imposed upon by the paris shopkeepers, considerable pains and attention have been devoted to guard the reader against his being subjected to a similar evil; much development has therefore been afforded towards recommending those establishments where the author feels confident that the stranger will meet with fair dealing and due civility. it may, perhaps, be thought by many that he has been rather too prolix on the subject, but in order to know "_how to enjoy paris_" to its full extent, the first object, is to be informed of the best means of dispensing one's modicum of lucre to the greatest advantage, which will enable the visitor to stay the longer and see the more, just in proportion as he avoids useless expenditure in suffering himself to be victimised by over charges. as the present work includes the different subjects of history, antiquities, politics, manners, customs, army, navy, literature, painting, music, theatres, performers, etc., etc., the author flatters himself that readers of every taste will find a chapter which treats upon some subject that may interest them, hoping that in the endeavour to play the rôle of the miller and his ass, his efforts to please may be more happy than those of that unfortunate individual. chapter i. hints to the english visiting paris as to their demeanour towards the parisians, and advice as to the best mode of proceeding in various transactions with them. an appeal to candour and justice against national prejudice. happiness is the goal for which mankind is ever seeking, but of the many roads which the imagination traces as the surest and nearest to that _desideratum_, few, perhaps none, ever chance upon the right; too many pursue a shadow instead of a substance, influenced by a phantom of their own creation, engendered in most instances by pride, vanity, or ambition. although i do not presume to hope that i can pilot my readers to the wished-for haven, yet i flatter myself i can afford them such counsel as will greatly contribute towards their happiness during their sojourn at paris or in other parts of france. patriotism is certainly a most exalted virtue, but however praiseworthy it may be in englishmen to cherish within their own breasts the recollection that their fleets and armies have ever prevailed, that their wealth and commerce surpass those of every other nation, etc. etc. it is not absolutely necessary that they should in their outward demeanour towards foreigners, bear the semblance of constantly arrogating to themselves a superiority, of which however conscious and assured they may be, they never can teach others to feel, and least of any a frenchman, who possesses an equal degree of national predilection as the englishman, and the moment that sentiment is attacked, or that our gallic neighbours conceive that an attempt is made to insinuate that they are regarded in the light of inferiority, as compared with any other nation, hatred to the individual who seeks to humiliate them or their country is instantly engendered, and in all their transactions and communications with their _soi-disant_ superior, they will either take some advantage, behave with sullenness, or avail themselves of some opportunity of displaying the ascerbid feeling which has been created: not that i would wish an englishman to subdue that just and natural pride which he must ever feel when he reflects on the pinnacle of greatness which his country has attained, through the genius, industry, and valour of her sons; yet it is a _suaviter in modo_ which i wish him to preserve in his outward bearing towards the french, without ever compromising the _fortiter in re_. i shall now endeavour to illustrate the above theory by citing some instances wherein its axioms were brought into practice under my own observation, and which i trust will convince my readers that it is not from visionary ideas i have formed my conclusions, and that the conduct i recommend to the traveller in france must in a great degree tend to the promotion of his happiness, whilst traversing or residing in foreign climes; as although in other countries the same degree of sensitiveness will not be found as that which exists amongst the french, a mild and unassuming deportment is always appreciated on the continent, where tradespeople and even servants are not accustomed to be treated in that haughty dictatorial manner, too often adopted by my countrymen towards those to whom they are in the habit of giving their orders. it is now about twelve years since, whilst i was staying at the hôtel de bourbon, at calais, that i was much struck by the very opposite traits of countenance and difference of demeanour of two gentlemen at the table d'hôte, who appeared nevertheless to be most intimate friends; it was evident they were both english and proved to be brothers. ever accustomed to study the physiognomies of those around me, i contemplated theirs with peculiar attention, having discovered by their conversation that they were to be my companions on my journey to paris; and it required no great powers of penetration to perceive that the elder was decided upon viewing all with a jaundiced eye, whilst the younger was disposed to be pleased and in good humour, with all around him. the conducteur announcing that the diligence was ready and that we must speedily take our seats, abruptly interrupted all my physiognomical meditations, and we quickly repaired to the heavy lumbering vehicle in which we were destined to be dragged to the gay metropolis. our names being called over in rotation, i found that the brothers had engaged places in the coupé as well as myself, but having priority of claim, had wisely chosen the two corners, the vacant seat in the middle falling to my lot; and i believe, as it proved, it was not a bad arrangement, as i acted as a sort of sand-bag between two jars, which prevented their _jarring_; in fact i formed a sort of _juste milieu_ between two extremes, and no sooner were we installed in our respective places, than my mediating powers were called into operation, as the following dialogue will exemplify. "they gave us a very nice dinner, sir," said the good humoured brother who sat on my left. i replied that i was very well satisfied with it. "but you don't know what their messes are made of. for my part i like to know what, i eat," observed the discontented brother on my right, "and you don't mean surely, sir, to say that such as they gave us was anything to compare to a good english dinner." that, i remarked, was entirely an affair of taste; that i myself was most partial to the simpler mode of living of the english, but not so the high aristocracy of our country, with whom french cooks are in the greatest estimation. "i was very much pleased with the _vin ordinaire_, as they call it, and found it a pleasant light wine, particularly agreeable when one is thirsty," said good humour. "_light_ enough at any rate," returned discontent, "and well named _vin ordinaire_, for ordinary it is in every sense of the word, pretty much like themselves for that; but if you like to have any when we are in england, i'll make you some; take a little port wine, put some vinegar and a good deal of water with it and there you have it at once; is not that your opinion, sir?" i replied, that i considered it a beverage well adapted for a sort of draught wine, but that it certainly had not the body that foreign wines have that we are in the habit of drinking in england. good humour not appearing to relish his brother's receipt for making _vin ordinaire_, changed the subject, by observing that a woman who was standing at the door of an _auberge_ where we were stopping had a very fine expression of countenance, although rather thin and pale, but that there was a pensive cast which prevailed throughout her features and rendered the _tout ensemble_ interesting. "oh very _fine_, indeed," said discontent, with a sarcastic smile, "as complete a picture of skin and grief as one could wish to see. pray, sir, is she one of your beauties?" i admitted that her appearance was rather pleasing, but that beauty was out of the question, nor did i understand his brother to have made any remark conveying the idea that she possessed that charm so truly rare. "what a delightful house and garden," exclaimed. good humour, as we passed by a residence, that had rather an inviting appearance; "now, is it not an agreeable spot to live in," he continued, as he turned to me with a look, so assured of confirmation on my part, that i could not find it in my heart to disappoint him. but as i was about to answer, discontent grumbled out a few words, which i think were to the effect, that where the country was so hideously frightful, that any thing that was decent attracted notice, but that the same object in england would not have been regarded; asking me if i had ever travelled through a more ugly country in my life. however i felt inclined to check his tendency to condemn all he beheld, yet i could not in truth otherwise than acknowledge that it was as uninteresting as it was possible to be, of which every one must be aware who has travelled from calais to boulogne. good humour, however, was still undaunted, and a rather jolly, and very rosy, looking young female passing at the moment, elicited from him the exclamation of "oh, what a pretty girl, and good natured!" "the very type of fat contented ignorance," interrupted discontent, without allowing his brother to finish his sentence. soon after we entered boulogne, where the white houses, lively green shutters, and cleanly appearance of the grande rue attracted the admiration of good humour, who observed with his usual energetic manner, "what a cheerful pleasant looking town, and how very pretty the houses are!" "for outside show, well enough, which may be said of most things in france," murmured discontent; "but see the inside of those houses, and you will find there is not a single window or door that shuts or fits as it ought; and if they are inhabited by french people, you will find cobwebs and dirt in almost every corner. am i not right, sir," said he, turning to me with a triumphant air. but before i could answer, good humour took up the cause, observing, "really, brother, you cannot speak from what you have seen, as the hôtel bourbon is the only house we have yet entered, and it was impossible to exceed the cleanliness observed within it; therefore your remarks can only proceed from reports you have had from others, whose vision, perhaps, was as clouded as your own appears to be, by a pre-determination to view everything in france in the most unfavourable light." perceiving that discontent, by the angry look which he assumed, was about to reply in a bitter tone to his brother, i thought the best means of averting the storm would be to interpose a sort of middle course between them, and remarked that the gentleman's observation, as to the windows and doors not fitting well, was very correct, but with regard to the dirtiness of the french it had been greatly exaggerated. discontent declared that he had received his account of france from persons who had lived long in the country, and on whose judgment he could rely; "whereas," added he, "you perhaps have seen but little either of the nation or of the people." i replied that i had known france nearly fourteen years. "then," said he, "if you have known france so long as that, i suppose you have become frenchified yourself." i was about to make a sharp reply, but was prevented by the younger brother remarking, "after you have said so much against the french, your observation to the gentleman was anything but complimentary, and savoured much of rudeness." "i merely said i was sure that his brother did not _mean_ to be rude, and therefore i should not consider his observation in that light." "rough and rude i always was, but i did not mean to give offence," added discontent in a somewhat softened tone. a fine looking old man, with a profusion of white hair, who was standing at a cottage door, attracted the notice of good humour, who bid us observe how benevolent was his expression, and what a fine venerable head he presented. "as hoary headed an old sinner as ever existed, i'll be bound," said discontent, with a sarcastic smile, as he looked scornfully at his brother. in this manner we continued to the end of our journey, discontent viewing all he encountered with an air of disgust and contempt, appearing restless, miserable, unhappy and disagreeable, a burthen to himself and an annoyance to others, whilst good humour saw every thing en _couleur de rose_, was lively, amused, looking the picture of kindness, and although pleased with a trifle, 'tis true, yet how much wiser was his course, as it promoted his own happiness and was calculated to cheer his fellow travellers. at length we arrived at abbeville, and i soon perceived the effect that the knitted brow and curling lip of discontent had upon the girls that waited at the table, who seemed but half disposed to attend, to his demands; whereas the good natured confiding expression of his brother, with his pleasing address, won all hearts, and he was served with alacrity and scarcely needed to express his wants; it really is astonishing how much influence suavity of manners has in france, in procuring civility and attention, and how opposite is the case with a repulsive mien. before i quit the subject, i must relate one more instance, most powerfully attesting the veracity of the assertion, which occurred to myself; after having engaged apartments at the house belonging to a female, named fournier, at boulogne, i was informed by several english families who had preceded me in the same lodgings, that i had taken up my abode with the most disagreeable people, who would impose upon us and annoy us in every possible manner. one exception, however, to this general report i met with in the account that was given me of our hostess and family by a colonel barry, who with his lady and children had resided some time with madame fournier, and they assured me that we should find we had chanced upon most worthy people, who would do all in their power to make us comfortable; but it so happened that the colonel and his family were persons of most conciliating manners, devoid of hauteur in their demeanour, possessing in fact the very qualities calculated to propitiate a good feeling on the part of the french. after we had been in the house some time, we observed to those persons who assured us we should be so ill treated, that we found the case quite the reverse; and, the answer was, wait until the time comes when, you are about to depart, and then when you are called upon to produce the plates, crockery, glasses, knives, forks, etc., you will see who you have to deal with; if there be any thing in the slightest degree chipped, they will make you pay extravagantly for damages. but when at last the awful day of departure arrived, i had every thing collected of the description alluded to, and madame fournier would not even look at them, and observed if there were any thing injured she was sure it was to so trifling an amount that it was not worth noticing. but it was not so with an english lady who was our fellow lodger; towards her they certainly were neither obliging in their manner nor disposed to render her any kind of accommodation beyond the strict letter of their agreement; and the reason was, because she always addressed them as if she was speaking to her servants; in short, with an arrogance of manner that they could not brook. thus whilst they were continually practising little civilities and attentions towards us, which greatly contributed to our _comfort_, they were following a totally opposite system towards her, which rendered her very _uncomfortable_; therefore, had that lady properly studied her happiness, she would have conducted herself towards her hostess and family in a very different manner, and i hope my readers who visit france will take advantage of the hint; yet i must admit that the lady in question was a very amiable personage in every other respect, but she detested the french, and liked, as she observed, to pull down their pride, to make them feel their inferiority, and let them know that the english were their masters. madame fournier, however, was of a class superior to the generality of persons who let lodgings in england; she was possessed of an independent property, her eldest daughter was married to a colonel, and her son a lieutenant in the navy, but like many of the french, having a house considerably larger than she could occupy, she let a part of it. i should always however recommend the english when they are taking a house or apartment for any length of time, or in fact entering into any engagement of importance with the french, to have an agreement in writing, in case of misunderstanding, which may arise from the english not comprehending, or not expressing themselves in french so well as they imagine. it is always a document to refer to which settles all differences, and is a check upon all bad memories, either on the one side or the other; and as there are bad people in france as well as other countries, it prevents strangers becoming victims to those who are disposed to take advantage, when they are aware that there is no legal instrument to hold them to their contract. i have lodged in eighteen different houses in france, and never had any other than a verbal agreement, and certainly had not in any one instance cause to regret; but was fortunate enough, with one exception, always to have met with good people; but as i wish my readers during their sojourn in france to be secured from any unpleasant discussions or altercations, i recommend them to be on the safe side. i must now appeal to my two most powerful allies, candour and justice, against that invincible demon national prejudice. i am perfectly aware that it is a hopeless attempt even to imagine that there is the slightest chance of ameliorating its force. i consider it more immoveable than a rock, because by dint of time you may cut that away, or you may blast it with gunpowder; but i know of no means which can soften the adamantine strength of national prejudice. one might naturally suppose that a long communication between the two countries, a mutual interchange of kindnesses, the number of intermarriages by which the two nations have become so connected with each other, would have contributed in some degree to diminish the asperity of that bitter feeling against the french which we acquire in our school-boy days, but which reason and commerce with the world, it might be expected, would correct. as there is no argument so powerful as exemplification, i will here cite two instances amongst the hundreds that have come within my knowledge, of the extreme incorrigibility of the baneful sentiment to which i allude. i once travelled with a mr. lewis from paris to dieppe, and found him a man of considerable information, very gentlemanly in his address and manners, and possessing such colloquial powers as contributed to render the journey particularly agreeable; he was an enthusiastic admirer of the arts, and was very fond of drawing, and certainly excelled in that accomplishment, from the very beautiful sketches he showed me which he had made in different parts of france, and in fact was an amateur artist of considerable merit. he gave me a very interesting account of his tour through france and of the kindness he had met with from the inhabitants; that in many instances when he had been sketching the chateaux of the nobility and gentry, how often it had occurred that the proprietors had come out and invited him to breakfast or dinner, according to the hour, or at any rate to take some refreshment; and several sent for his portemanteau from the inn where he had put up (sometimes without his knowledge), compelling him to pass the night at their chateau. on my making some remark as to the urbanity of the french, "oh! don't think," he exclaimed, "that i am praising them as a nation, for i hate them; i only speak of facts as they happened." i then asked him how he was treated at the inns in the different provinces, and whether he was much imposed upon. "i cannot say i was," he replied, "or in any instance that i had reason to complain of my treatment." from this gentleman's account of the reception he had met with in france, would not any rational being have imagined that he would speak well of the french? instead of which, i soon had the most powerful proofs to the contrary. when we arrived at dieppe we found a party assembled at the _table d'hôte_, at the _hôtel_ at which we alighted, consisting of a few french but, more of english; the former left the room as soon as the cloth was withdrawn, and the latter remaining, the conversation became general and very patriotic; and as the merits of england and the english rose in the discussion, so did the demerits of france and the french sink, and at last bumpers were drank to old england for ever, in which we all joyously joined. this was all very natural and proper, but this ebullition of national and praiseworthy feeling had hardly subsided, when mr. lewis, the very man who had admitted that he had been received with kindness and hospitality wherever he had been in france, arose, and said, "now, gentlemen, i have another toast to propose to you, which i hope will be drank with the same enthusiasm as the last; so "here's a curse for france and the french." all immediately drank it but myself and an elderly gentleman, who declared he would not invoke a curse upon any land or any people. a silent pause intervened; every one appeared to look at the other, as to how they ought to act on their toast being refused, none caring to assume the initiative. at last, one rising from his chair, who perhaps began to view the affair temperately, observed, "well, i think we had better see about the packet-boat for brighton before it is too late," and they all quitted the room, except the elderly gentlemen and myself, and he did certainly animadvert most severely against what he termed their unchristianlike toast. although it was impossible for me, feeling as i did, otherwise than to agree with him on the principal points of his argument, yet i observed that we might hope that it was merely in words that the gentlemen would evince the violence of their prejudices, as i felt convinced, from the general amiability of character so apparent in the person who proposed the toast, that if he saw a frenchman in danger of his life, and that an exertion could save him, that mr. lewis would use every effort to preserve a human being from destruction, whatever might be his country. the other circumstance to which i am about to advert was less his surprising, though equally powerful, in illustrating the strong tendency towards prejudice against the french on the part of the english people, the hero of my tale being a regular country squire, extremely kind hearted, but whose fund of information did not extend much beyond his estate, his horses and his hounds; not any consideration would have induced him to quit england, but that of saving the life of an individual, for whom, however worthless and ungrateful, he still retained a sentiment of pity; a young man, whom he had brought up and educated, in return for his kindness forged his name, and the evidence of the squire was all that was requisite to hang him, therefore, as an effectual means of avoiding to be forced to appear against him, he quitted england; and, as france was the nearest, he there took up his abode. a friend of mine, a capt. w., who had resided long in france, received a letter of introduction to the squire; although living at a considerable distance from his residence, he took an opportunity of presenting it. having heard that the captain had been in france many years, the squire was not disposed to receive him very cordially, considering that so doing was disgraceful on the part of an englishman unless he was forced to do so by circumstances such as had compelled himself to quit his native country. the consequence was, that he eyed the captain in a manner that was far from flattering to his feelings; but when he had read the highly recommendatory panegyric contained within the letter, the squire softened, and soon greeted the stranger with a true hearty english welcome, and their respective families afterwards became most intimately acquainted: the squire, delighted to find a countryman to whom he could communicate his execrations against france and the french, whilst the captain did all in his power to defend them from all unjust attacks, having himself had favourable experience of their urbanity and kindness. some time after the squire's arrival the captain removed to boulogne, and as some grand ceremony was to be there celebrated with military and ecclesiastical pomp and parade, in the presence of the royal family, he invited the squire and his family to pass a few days with him, that they might witness so grand a spectacle; adding, that there would be twenty thousand troops assembled for the purpose. the squire immediately flew into a violent passion, and vowed he would accept the invitation on no other terms than that he could take with him thirty thousand englishman to cut their rascally french throats. at length he gave his consent that his daughter should pass a few days with the family of capt. w., and at the same time accompany them, to see the ceremony which was to take place. partaking of her father's feelings, all the way on the road she launched out abusing every thing that was french and in fact all that she encountered until the moment that she witnessed the imposing spectacle. she was then standing within the church with the captain amongst the crowd, but some officers perceiving an english lady of genteel appearance, invited her to join the circle composed of the duchesses of angoulême, of berri, and the ladies of the court, which she gladly accepted; and several fine looking young men in their brilliant uniforms paying her the greatest attentions, and taking the utmost pains that she should have the best possible view of the sight, her heart was completely won, and when she was re-conducted to capt. w., her first exclamation was, "well, as long as i live, i never will speak against frenchmen again; for i never was treated with so much politeness and attention in my own country as i have been here." but when she expressed the same feeling to her father, his rage knew no bounds, and at the first moment he swore he would take her off to england instanter, adding "i suppose i shall have my family disgraced by your running off with some french mustachioed scoundrel or another." the poor girl dared not say another word, and in a little time the father recovered his equanimity. however furious the squire was in expressions against the french, yet his actions towards them were of a contrary bearing, having a well stocked medicine chest, from which he liberally dispensed the contents amongst the neighbouring poor, according to their different maladies, until he received the cognomen of the english doctor who would never take a fee. the people at last became so grateful for his kindness, that when there was a report that war was likely to take place between the two countries, as he displayed some uneasiness as to his being able to return home, they assured him he should always be certain of cattle to convey him to calais, as, if he could not procure post horses, they would find some in the neighbourhood for him, and if none could be found, they would draw him themselves to the spot he desired. after residing a few years in france, the squire returned to his own country, little enlightened by his trip, cursing the french before he came amongst them, cursing them whilst he was living with them, and at the same time whilst he was doing them every possible good, and cursing them after his return to england; not that he could give any reason why, but because it had become a habit with him since his childhood, and he had been accustomed to hear his father and grandfather do so before him, and i suppose he liked to keep up that which no doubt he thought a good old custom. having now, i trust, given sufficient examples of how the deep roots of national prejudice defy every effort and circumstance to eradicate them, i shall hope that my readers will endeavour to banish from their minds any early impressions they may have received inimical to the french, and resolve only to judge them as they find them, as reason must suggest that all prepossessions cherished against any people must powerfully militate against the traveller's happiness during his sojourn amongst them. i fear that i may have been considered rather prolix upon the subject, but besides the motive to which i have already alluded, i always have cherished a most anxious desire to soften as much as possible all national animosities. chapter ii. different routes from london to paris.--aspect of the city as first presented to the english traveller, according to the road by which he may enter.--its extent, population, etc. the first measure to be adopted after any one has decided upon visiting paris, is to provide himself with a passport, which he will procure at the french ambassador's office in poland street, for which there is no charge, but it is requisite to state by which port you mean to proceed; but in order to leave some latitude for caprice, you may mention two places, as calais or boulogne, or dieppe or havre, etc. there are now many different means of travelling to paris; that which was once the most frequently adopted was by coach to dover, then embarking for calais, as those are the two ports which present the shortest distance between the two countries, being only about twenty-one miles apart; many however prefer embarking at dover at once for boulogne, thus avoiding about twenty-five miles by land from calais to boulogne, which certainly does not afford a single object of interest, and the distance by sea is only increased eight miles. another route is by railway to brighton, then crossing to dieppe, and which is certainly the straightest line of any of the routes from london to paris; but on account of there being more sea, the distance is not generally performed in so short a period as the other routes, from the uncertainty of the ocean. it is not therefore so much frequented by travellers as those on which they can reckon with more accuracy; the same may be said of the route by southampton, which is performed by railway to that town, and afterwards by steam-packet to havre, which includes above a hundred miles by sea, consequently but little resorted to as compared with the former routes. there was another means of reaching paris, and that was from london to st. vallery by sea; which being near abbeville and only leagues from paris, there was the least of land travelling, consequently it was the cheapest if all went smoothly, and this line was often adopted by strict economists, who however have frequently found themselves much disappointed, as sometimes it happened they could not make the port, and have either been obliged to put back and lie off ramsgate, or lay to, for some hours, and perhaps after having landed, have been detained at st. vallery, from not having been able to find places in the diligences for paris. this means, however, of proceeding to paris no longer exists, as the steamers have been sold, but it is thought that they will be replaced by others. the route which is by far the most frequented is that of embarking from london direct for boulogne, and is on the long run the most economical, and maybe comfortably performed, living included, for three pounds, at the present prices, which are _l._ in the best cabin from london to boulogne, then about _l._ _s._, in the inside from boulogne to paris; and the other expenses will amount to about fifteen or sixteen shillings; with respect to the charges on the other routes, they are so often varying that it might only deceive the reader by stating them as they at present exist, when in a few weeks they may be higher or lower as circumstances may arise. some persons choose, the route by southampton and havre as being the most picturesque, as from the latter town to rouen such exquisite scenery is presented by the banks of the seine, as you pass in the steamer between them, that the passenger is at a loss on which side to bestow his attention, whilst rapidly hurried through so delightful and fertile a country; in fact, he is tempted for once to regret the velocity of steam conveyance, in not permitting him to tarry awhile to contemplate the beautiful scenes by which he is environed. rouen, where the traveller should at least remain some days, is an object of great attraction. as my work is especially devoted to paris, i cannot afford much space to the description of towns on the road; but as the city of rouen is the largest, the most interesting, and the most connected with history and english associations of any upon the routes to paris, i cannot pass it over without some comment. its boulevards first strike the english, as being not only most picturesque and beautiful, but as presenting a scene to them wholly novel, the noble vistas formed by towering trees, mingling their branches, shading beneath their foliage many a cheerful group, the merchant's stone villas, seen amongst their bowers, the high shelving grassy banks, and the lively bustle that is ever going forward, has so animated an effect that the beholder cannot but catch the infection and feel his spirits elevated by the enlivening spectacle. but what a contrast on entering the city; the streets narrow, dark, and with no foot pavement, have a mean and gloomy appearance, but many of them being built mostly of wood, carved into fantastic forms, offer a rich harvest to the artist, and those of our own country have amply profited by the innumerable picturesque objects which rouen presents. the cathedral, built by william the conqueror, is one of the most interesting monuments of france; the church of st.-ouen is at least as beautiful, and there are several others which well repay the visiter for the time he may expend in visiting them. the statue of the maid of orleans stands in the _marché aux veaux_, on the spot where she was burnt as a sorceress under the sanction of the duke of bedford in . above all, the traveller must not fail to visit mount catherine, which rises just above the city, and commands a view equally beautiful and extensive. the delightful environs of rouen are displayed before him, comprising almost every scenic beauty that a country can afford; even the factories, which in most places rather deform the view than otherwise, are here so constructed as to contribute to its ornament, more resembling villas than buildings solely for utility. hills, wood, water, bridges, chateaux, cottages, corn fields and meadows are so picturesquely intermingled, that every object which can give charm to a landscape is here united. there are several hills round rouen which present prospects nearly equal to that which is witnessed from mount catherine, and in fact it is difficult to imagine any situation which affords so many pleasant walks and such enchanting scenery. indeed, all the way to paris by this route (that is by what is called the lower road) which for a considerable distance runs within sight of the seine, the country is most highly interesting, passing through louvier, gaillon, vernon, mantes and st. germains. calais, as being the nearest point to the english coast, and at which we so often obtain our first peep at france, merits some notice, and although it offers but few attractions, and is surrounded by a flat cheerless country, yet there are connected with it some associations which are replete with interest; as who that has ever read sterne's sentimental journey can forget the simple but impressive description he gives of the poor friar and other objects which he there met, and which he has engraven on the minds of his readers, in his own peculiar style, in characters never to be erased; for my part, as i first approached calais i thought but of sterne and his plain, unvarnished tale, of the trifles he encountered, around which he contrived to weave an interest which is felt even by the inhabitants of calais to this day; although they knew his works but through the spoiling medium of translation, still they never fail to exhibit to the englishman the alcove in which he is said to have written his adventures in calais. as i entered the town, instantly the works of hogarth appeared before me, for who is there that does not remember his excellent representation of the gates of calais, with the meagre sentinel and still more skinny cook bending under the weight of a dish crowned with an enormous sirloin of beef, no doubt intended to regale some newly-arrived john bull, whilst a fat monk scans it with a longing eye. next the bust of eustache de st. pierre awakes the attention, and the surrender of calais and his devoted patriotism rises in one's memory. another souvenir also must not be forgotten, namely, the print of the foot of louis the eighteenth, which is cut in the stone, and a piece of brass let in where he first stepped on shore, and undoubtedly represents a very pretty little foot; but when a frenchman who was no amateur of the bourbon dynasty was asked to admire its symmetry, he observed it was very well, but that it would look much better if it was turned t'other way, that is to say, going out of the kingdom instead of coming into it. if the traveller have time, it is worth while to mount a tower, at the top of which is a sort of lantern capable of containing about a dozen persons, and commanding a most extensive view over the sea, and on the opposite side the country is visible for a considerable distance, bearing a most uninviting appearance. there are a great number of hôtels at calais, and i have been at many of them, but have found that kept by m. derhorter, called the hôtel bourbon, the most comfortable and economical, and the civility of the master cannot anywhere be surpassed. dessin's, for the nobility and those who have equipages, is still the favourite and has been for time immemorial. nothing worthy of note presents itself between calais and boulogne, except the little village of wimille, which made some impression upon my mind, as being so much prettier and so much more village-like than any other through which we had passed, and near here perished the unfortunate æronauts pilatre and romain, falling from their balloon when at a prodigious height from the ground and in sight of many spectators. they were buried in the churchyard, in which a monument has been erected commemorative of the event. about two miles from this hamlet boulogne appears in sight, cheering the spectator by its gay and animated aspect, the numerous groups of genteel-looking persons constantly promenading the streets, pier and port, give it a most lively appearance, which is enhanced by the extreme cleanliness which is observed in all the principal streets, and the cheerful air afforded by the white stone houses with their green balconies and shutters. but the numerously well-dressed portion of the population, which so greatly contribute towards enlivening the scene, consists almost wholly of english, as the few french families which still reside in boulogne, above the rank of the tradespeople, keep themselves very close and retired as in all other provincial towns in france; and in boulogne they are very suspicious of the english, having had such numbers of bad characters who at first preserved a very respectable appearance but ultimately proved to be swindlers. the higher french families, therefore, decline any association with the english, unless with persons who have come highly-recommended, or have resided many years in the town with an unimpeachable character. it so happened that circumstances brought me in contact with two or three of these exclusive personages, and their remarks about the english afforded me much amusement, and may be taken as types of the general observations of the provincial french upon our country-people. the worthy matrons of families have often said to me, "how is it, sir, that the wives and mothers of your country can manage their domestic concerns, when they are seen almost continually walking about the streets at hours when we find it indispensable to attend to our household affairs." i replied, that after having given their orders they relied in a great degree upon their servants executing them with punctuality. "indeed!" was the exclamation; "how fortunate they must be to have such immaculate servants that they can so entirely depend upon them: we should be very happy if we could have such as did not require looking after, but unfortunately french servants partake too much of human nature for mistresses to be able to leave them wholly to themselves." i observed that perhaps english servants generally being more humble, obedient, and subservient to their superiors, greater reliance might be placed upon them, and undoubtedly more certainty as to their obeying the instructions they received. "then it is surprising," said the ladies, "that your country people do not always bring servants with them, and very unlucky that in so many instances when they have done so, that their domestics should so often be brought before the tribunals of correction for different irregularities." i replied, that many good and regular servants did not like to quit their native land, and of those who were brought over, certainly in many instances their employers had been disappointed; that in a foreign country all was new to them, and they forgot their former regular habits, and certainly in too many instances had misbehaved themselves. "consequently," returned my interlocutors, "requiring a more vigilant eye to superintend them. but there is another subject which affords us much surprise, and that is the manner in which english parents permit their daughters to go alone about the streets, or to walk with a gentleman who is neither their father nor brother." i assigned as a reason for our allowing them so much liberty, that we had such perfect confidence in them that we felt assured we could trust to their own firmness and discretion to prevent any improper consequences arising from the freedom they were permitted to enjoy. "unfortunately, that confidence is but too frequently abused," rejoined one of the ladies, "if we are to judge from several lamentable occurrences which have latterly taken place in this town amongst the english young ladies." i felt the rebuke, as i knew to what circumstances they alluded, and observed that the english society inhabiting boulogne were by no means what could, be termed the _élite_ of the nation, although there were many families of the highest respectability. the ladies, perceiving by my manner that i was somewhat nettled, endeavoured to soften what they had said, by observing that certainly it would not be just to estimate the english people by the samples which came to reside at boulogne, as they had generally understood that they were persons of indifferent reputation, who fled from their own country because they could no longer live there in credit, but that amongst the number there undoubtedly were some very quiet people. a stranger would not appreciate the degree of praise which is contained in the word quiet when used by the french, who appear to consider it as comprising all the cardinal virtues; when seeking a house or apartments, if you say any thing favourable or unfavourable of them, they never fail to remind you that they are so quiet. the same eulogy they will pronounce on their daughters with peculiar pride and energy, when they wish to extol them to the skies, and in good truth their _demoiselles_ are quiet enough in all conscience, for it requires often a considerable degree of ingenuity to extract from them more than monosyllables. we have been accustomed to consider the french as a restless, capricious, volatile people, and so i suppose they might have been formerly, but now they are undoubtedly the reverse, being a quiet routine plodding sort of people, particularly as regards the provincials; and even amongst the parisians there are thousands that reside in one quarter of the city, which they seldom quit, never approaching what they consider the gay portion of paris, but live amongst each other, visiting only within their own circle, consisting almost entirely of their relations and family connexions. this feeling is certainly exemplified still farther at boulogne, as i knew an old couple who lived in the upper town, which joins the lower town except by the separation of the wall of the fortifications, and had not been in the latter for five years, because they considered it was too bustling and too much a place of pleasure for such quiet, homely, and orderly folk as they professed to be and certainly were, in every sense of the word. at bordeaux i knew three old ladies who were born in that city, and never had been in any other town during their whole lives, nor ever desired to pass the walls of their native place. many persons who have been accustomed to spend their days in the provinces have a sort of horror of paris; i remember an old gentleman at rouen, who with his antiquated spouse lived a sort of darby and joan kind of life, their only daughter being married and living elsewhere; and on my once asking him if he had ever been to paris, he replied that he was once so situated as to be compelled to go upon urgent business that rendered his presence indispensable, but that he saw very little of the place, because he had always heard that it was a city replete with vice and dissipation, and that during the few days his affairs compelled him to stay he kept close to his apartment, only quitting it to proceed to the house wherein he had to transact business, and then he went in a _fiacre_, as, if he had walked perhaps he might have been jostled, run over, robbed, or something unpleasant might have occurred. "ah! that's very true, you did quite right, and acted very prudently, my dear," observed his wife, "and nobody knows the anxiety i felt till you came back again." although the rising generation of the french is not quite so dormant in their ideas as that which is passing, yet there is not even with them the same spirit of travel and enterprise which exist in the english. that france has had, a reputation for restlessness, love of change, and tumult, can only be explained by stating that until the present time for the last two centuries, with the exception of louis the eighteenth, she has been most unfortunate in her rulers, who have been supporting a state of extravagant splendour which could alone be sustained by being wrung from the middle and the lower classes; hence the revolution in , which might be considered as the ripened fruit which the preceding reigns had been nurturing. of the affair of the three days in , few i believe will deny the intensity of the provocation, but then it will be said how do you account for their having been so turbulent and discontented during the present reign? to which i should answer in the same manner as an officer, who, defending the character of his regiment, observed that it was composed of a thousand men, of which nine hundred and fifty were peaceable and quiet subjects, but the other fifty being very noisy they were constantly heard of, and his corps had obtained the appellation of the noisy regiment, as no one bestowed a thought upon the 'nine hundred and fifty men who were orderly' because no one ever heard of them: thus it may be said of france, the population may be estimated at about thirty-five millions, of which perhaps one million may be discontented, and amongst them are many persons connected with the press, who not only contrive by that means to extend their war-whoop to every corner of france, but as newspapers are conveyed to all the civilised parts of the world, and the only medium by which a country is judged by those who have not an opportunity of visiting it and making their own observations by a residence amongst the people, it naturally is inferred in england and in other nations that the french are a most dissatisfied and refractory people. but a case in point may be cited, which proves that the dissatisfaction is not general, nor has ever been during the present reign. from the time that louis-philippe accepted the throne in , until june the th, , a number of young men in the different colleges at paris occupied themselves constantly with the affairs of the state, each forming a sort of political utopia, and however different were their various theories, they all united in one object, and that was to overthrow the existing government, and secretly took measures for arming themselves, and mustering what strength they could collect in point of numbers, which was but very insignificant compared to the importance of the blow they intended to strike; but they counted on the rising of the people, and the event proved they counted without their host. june the th, , being the day appointed for the funeral of general lamarque, they chose it for the development of their project, and although the misguided youths fought with skill, constancy and courage, even with a fanatic devotion to their cause, yet the populace took no part with them, and the national guard were the first to fire upon them; and after two days hard fighting in the barricades they had raised, scarcely any remained who were not either killed or wounded. since that, no attempt of the slightest importance has been made to overthrow the government, and in fact i have ever found that ninety-nine parisians out of a hundred exclaim "_tranquillité à tout prix_," that is quiet at all prices, and all classes are interested in cherishing this wish, the nobles and gentry that they may tranquilly enjoy what they possess, the tradesman that he may obtain a sale for his goods, and the workman that he may procure work. it is only a set of political enthusiasts, to be found amongst the students, whose wild republican schemes have dazzled others and induced the different outbreaks which have occurred since the event of the three days, and having been treated with lenity in the first instance, unprecedented in the annals of every other government, they were emboldened to repeat their daring attempts. but let any one traverse the provinces of france, get acquainted with the people, make inquiries around him and penetrate into their habits and customs, and he will find that the predominant feeling is love of the spot on which they are born; the farmer will keep on the farm his ancestors tilled before him for ages, and if offered a better farm, if it be far removed from his home and that of his fathers he will reject it; with the same tenacity the labourer clings to his cottage and the little bit of land he has always delved. but it is with the landed proprietor that one finds the most powerful example of the durability of their adhesion to the cradle of their birth. there are many persons possessed of estates of no great extent, from eight to fifteen hundred a year, which have regularly descended to them from their ancestors, to whom they have been granted, at as remote a period as the time of charlemagne, and have descended to the present possessors from generation to generation, whilst there does not appear to have been in all that period any great elevation or depression in their circumstances. the habit of living up to their incomes as in england is very rare in france; if they have daughters, from the day they are born the parents begin to save for their dowry; even the peasant will follow that practice if he can only put by a sou a day. i have known many landed proprietors of from fifteen hundred to two thousand a year that did not support any thing like the style that a person with a similar fortune would in england; if a frenchman has more than two or three children, he seldom spends half his income if it be possible to live upon a quarter, his object is that he may leave all his children in an equal pecuniary position without dividing his land; as although the law of primogeniture does not exist, yet parents like that one son should keep up the estate intact, and the one fixed upon for that purpose is generally the eldest, the others receive their portions in money from the father's savings, and are usually brought up to one of the liberal professions, and in many instances are sufficiently fortunate as to realize by promotion or their talents, emoluments equal with what portion they inherit to place them in as favourable a position as the brother on whom devolves the estate. in other instances the son who holds the land is taxed to pay from it a certain amount to his brothers and sisters, in order to render their situation in life somewhat upon a par; but it so happens that very large families are not so frequent in france as in england. a system of frugality is prevalent amongst all classes of the french, and a habit of contenting themselves with but little as regards their daily expenses; nor have they that ambition to step out of their class so general throughout england. a farmer in france works much the same as his men, dresses in a plain decent manner, and considers himself very little superior to his men, whilst his wife goes to market with her butter and eggs upon one of the farm horses; and without any education herself she thinks she does wonders in having her daughters taught to read, write and cypher, but invariably economises to give them a marriage portion. this applies to most of the farmers throughout france, and will be found descriptive of those inhabiting the country from calais to paris; but in normandy they are frequently what is in french estimation considered very rich, and their habits and expenses are in proportion; and about melun and some few parts of france where the farms are very large, the occupiers would even in england be termed wealthy. the extreme of poverty or what may be designated misery is but little known; the traveller is deceived by the number of beggars which infest the high roads, and is induced to imagine that the lowest orders must be in a most wretched state, but the fact is otherwise, and begging is no other than a trade on the most frequented roads. turn into the by-lanes, penetrate the interior of the country and in the villages distant from the highways and but few beggars are to be found, nor could i ever hear of an instance of any one in the country parts of france perishing from want; yet there are no forced poor rates, the landed proprietors however regularly give so much a month voluntarily to those who are past labour and have no relations to provide for them, and houseless and pennyless wanderers are received and sheltered for a night by the higher farmers and people of property, the mendicant having soup and bread given him at night and the same when he starts in the morning. of these there are great numbers within the last few years, being refugees from spain, italy and even poland, driven to seek shelter where they can find it by the political convulsions of their countries. in this manner, the french have recently been severely taxed, but they appear never to have the heart to deny shelter and food, although they carry economy to such a height as would be styled by many of my affluent countrymen absolute parsimony; which is perceptible in all their transactions, and is in a great degree the cause of the miserable state of their agriculture, which is also in some measure owing to the utter ignorance of the farmers, who in all that tends towards improvement display the stupidity of asses with the obstinacy of mules. there can be no doubt that, generally speaking, the soil of france is capable of producing half as much more than it at present yields; they still persevere in the same system as existed in england in the year , when arthur young wrote his agricultural tour, describing the various practices in the different counties throughout the kingdom. two white crops and a summer fallow is the usual course in france, sometimes varied by a crop of clover, and very often they fallow for two years together; they have no idea of leguminous crops as winter provision for their cattle, and of the advantage to be derived from stall feeding they are quite ignorant, except in a few provinces, as a part of normandy and brittany. the same with regard to the drill system; they mostly plough very shallow, and do not keep their land very clean, with a few exceptions; the consequence is their crops are generally very light. thanks to the natural richness of their meadows in normandy, they do certainly produce some beasts of an immense weight for the exhibition annually held on shrove tuesday. there are generally about a dozen brought to paris, and the finest is the one selected to be led about the streets; the one chosen last year weighed , french pounds, and as there are two ounces more than in the english pound the immense size of the animal may be imagined. in the winter, they fatten their beasts with hay, clover and corn, but oilcake is not known except in a few instances, when beasts are fattened for prizes or exhibitions. their agricultural implements are in keeping with the rest of their system; i have seen them ploughing even in the lightest land, with the great old heavy turnwrest ploughs and four bulky horses, which might have been effected just as well with a light rotherham plough and one horse. recently, however, i have seen some slight ameliorations, and those parts of france which are nearest england one might expect would improve the soonest. the farming servants are generally a hard-working, quiet, sober people, contented with very little, their living costing them a mere trifle; in harvest-time an englishman will pour beer down his throat that will cost as much as would keep a whole french family; there is a natural economy in their habits that tends to making their wages more than equal to their demand. an englishman must have the best wheaten bread, and when he gets a pound of meat he is ready to eat it all himself; the frenchman is contented with a cheap brown bread, quite as wholesome as the finest, and to his portion of meat he adds some vegetables with which soup is made, and it gives comfort to the whole family; and it is quite a mistake to imagine that beer and animal food produce greater physical strength, as i have in several instances proved that the french porter will carry much more than the english. i remember when lodging in salisbury street, in the strand, having packed up my things for my departure for paris, when a porter came to carry them to the golden cross, he said it was impossible that any man could take them at once, and the people of the house joined in saying that it was far beyond one man's load, consisting of a moderate sized trunk, a large portmanteau, and a well-stuffed carpet bag; when i declared that the first porter i should meet with at paris would take them all the same distance without raising an objection, a sort of smile of incredulity passed from one to the other, expressive of how absurd they thought such an assertion. on arriving at paris, however, the very first porter i spoke to in the diligence-yard took them all, without a question as to their weight. in several cases, when persons have been quitting london for paris with me, i have proved to them how much heavier a burthen the french porters will carry than the english. i believe the cause arises in a great degree from the latter not being addicted to drinking ardent spirits, which is ruinous to the strength and constitutions of such numbers of the lower classes in london. but the greek and turkish porters will carry twice as much as the french, and their beverage is nothing but water and their food principally rice. in almost every description of labour the englishman has the advantage when what may be styled knack or method be required; the consequence is, that they make the most of what physical strength they possess; hence he will plough, mow, or reap more in a day than a frenchman. not only is the machinery which the englishman employs much better, but he is what may be termed more handy in making use of it; in every thing which relates to husbandry or mechanism the frenchman is generally awkward; a more powerful instance cannot be cited than that of their always employing two men to shoe a horse, one man being occupied to hold up the horse's leg, whilst the farrier performs his part of the work; is it not astonishing that after an uninterrupted communication with england for twenty-seven years, that they should never have observed, that an english farrier, by taking the animal's leg between his own, is able to effect his purpose just as well as if two men were employed; but the french must have remarked that custom in england; only, the besotted prejudice that exists in that class against every species of innovation causes them to persevere in their old habits. the agricultural population in france are more wealthy and generally better clothed than ours, particularly as regards the women; they pride themselves much upon their stocks of linen and their bedding; instead of the men expending their money in drink, what little they can save beyond their daily wants they lay out in contributing to their solid comforts, and as spinning and knitting are the constant occupation of the women in their leisure hours, when their children marry they are enabled to furnish them with a portion of the fruits of their industry; even the peasant girl has a trousseau, as it is called, that is, some stock of linen at her marriage, and a trifle of money wherewith to begin the world. thus take france throughout; it will be found, that, in consequence of temperance and a persevering industry, the peasantry are generally passively happy; there is a great difference in respect to their wages and comforts, according to the province to which they belong; but although the intention of this work is especially to treat upon paris and its population, yet as my readers must pass through a considerable portion of france before they can arrive at paris, i judged it right to give them some information of the manners and habits of the population, with which they must meet in the course of their journey; but without farther delay will now at once conduct them to the grand capital, and as i consider the first impressions are the most permanent, i will introduce them by that entrance which presents so grand an appearance, as to surpass that of any other country in europe. in coming from england, they may enter paris at this point by the rouen road. the first object that strikes the traveller, as he approaches paris, is the triumphal arch, erected with the view of commemorating the victories of napoleon, but as those victories were ultimately crowned by defeat, it is more consistent to consider the triumphal arch as a triumph of art than of arms; as certainly the magnificence and sublimity of the design is only to be equalled by the exquisite beauty of the execution. having passed this noble monument and splendid specimen of architectural talent, the champs elysées extend in all their beauty to the view of the beholder, presenting a fine broad road with rows of lofty trees on either side, whilst handsome buildings and superb fountains are occasionally visible from behind the foliage; and one of the latter, which rises exactly in the centre, has a most happy effect; from this circle several roads diverge in different directions, displaying various objects of interest, but none of so high an order as that of the hospital of invalids, for aged and wounded soldiers, the whole expanse of which is seen in the distance at the end of a long wide avenue of trees. from the triumphal arch on either side extends a row of ornamental lamps for nearly a mile, which when lighted have the most brilliant effect; and when it is considered how very small the distances are between each lamp, i believe the assertion to be correct, that there is not another such display of gas anywhere to be found. arrived at the place louis quinze, or place de la concorde, as it is now called, such a coup d'oeil is presented as remains unrivalled in europe, or indeed, in any part of the world. on one side, at the end of a handsome and regular street, called the rue royale, rises in majestic height the madeleine, with its noble columns crowned by its sculptured entablature in mezzo relievo, and adorned by its numerous statues, yet preserving a chaste simplicity throughout the whole. on the opposite side facing it, in a direct line at the end of a bridge, is the chamber of deputies, resembling a roman temple; its style is severe and its _tout ensemble_ has an air of heavy grandeur, which is consistent with an edifice in which are to be discussed the affairs of so great a nation. in the centre of the place is an egyptian column, which was with much difficulty brought from egypt, and raised with considerable ingenuity where it now stands, without any accident; gorgeous fountains of bronze and gold are constantly playing, whilst colossal statues, being allegorical representations of the principal towns of france, are placed at regular distances, and appear as it were in solemn contemplation of the splendid scene by which they are surrounded. two noble buildings, the garde meuble and the hôtel de la marine, which may be styled palaces, adorn each side of the rue royale, and form one side of the magnificent square, whilst another is occupied by the elysian fields, and that immediately opposite to the tuileries gardens; but so beautiful, so wonderful is the whole combined, that accustomed as i have been to frequent it for upwards of twenty years, i cannot now traverse it without remaining some time to admire the extraordinary combination of so many beautiful objects centering in one vast area. here no mean or unseemly building meets the eye, but all is made tributary to one grand effect; even the lamps with their supporters are of bronze and gold, whilst in the distance the gilded dome of the invalides peers above all, and gives a brilliant termination to the sublimity of the scene. [illustration: champin del. lith. rigo frères et cie triumphal arch. published by f. sinnett. , grande rue verle.] thus much for the only entrance of paris which has aught to boast, but having, in fact, so many charms that it must be considered by the visiter as compensating for the deficiencies of every other. in entering from boulogne or calais, nothing can be conceived more discouraging than the first appearance of paris as you are borne through the faubourg st. denis; the street, it is true, is wide and the houses large, but they have a dirty gloomy forlorn aspect, which gives them an uninhabited appearance, or as if the inmates did not belong to them; as no care appears to have been taken to give them some degree of neatness and comfort; in fact, to bestow upon them an air of home; the stranger continues rattling over the stones between these great lumbering-looking dwellings, until his eye is attracted by the porte st. denis, which is a triumphal arch built by louis the fourteenth, and certainly presents a most imposing mass of sculpture, which, although blackened by time, is an object well worthy the attention of the observing traveller; and here he crosses the boulevards, by which he gets a little peep at the inspiring gaiety of paris, but is soon hurried into noisy streets until his brain feels in a whirl; and on his arrival at the diligence-yard, when he hopes to obtain a little repose, he is annoyed by being asked for the keys of his trunks, for the custom house officers, to make believe to look into them to ascertain that you have not smuggled any liquors or other material within the walls of paris. those who are fortunate enough to travel in their own carriages, are exempted from such tiresome ceremony. some of the other entries to paris are somewhat better, but none of them sufficiently so, to be worthy notice; perhaps the best amongst the bad is by the faubourg st. antoine, the barrières du trône, at the commencement and summit of the street, presenting a most noble appearance; indeed, as far as the barriers are concerned, there are many which are well worthy of notice, being mostly handsome stone buildings with columns that give them an imposing effect, particularly when we recollect the little turnpike gates at the principal entrances of london, with the exception of the recent erections at knightsbridge, which sink into nothingness when compared to the triumphal arch at the entrance already described; and, except foreigners, particularly the english, enter by that quarter, the first aspect of paris mostly excites disappointment; the generality of the streets wanting that straight line of regularity so prevalent throughout london, the french capital has an incongruous patchy sort of effect, and its beauties and objects of interest have to be sought, but to the eye of an artist it is much more gratifying than that dull sameness which reigns throughout london, which canova very justly designated as consisting of walls with square holes in them; for what otherwise can be said of our houses in general, but that they are literally upright walls, with square holes for doors and windows. regent street and a few others, which have been recently erected, form an exception to the rule. but in almost every street in paris a draftsman finds subject for his pencil; their richly carved gateways, their elaborately wrought iron balconies, their ornamented windows, and even their protruding signs, all help to break the formal straight line and afford ample food for sketching; and in many of their old and least fashionable streets, an ancient church with its gothic doorway, adorned by rich and crumbling sculpture, invites the artist to pause and exercise his imitative art. paris at first strikes a stranger as still more bustling and noisy than london, as the streets being narrower and hack vehicles more used in proportion, the circulation gets sooner choked up, and the rattling over the stones of the carriages is still more deafening, being within so confined a space; hence also the confusion is greater; then there is always a sort of bewilderment when one first arrives in a large city, that makes it appear much more astounding than is found to be the case as soon as the visiter becomes accustomed to its apparent labyrinth. according to comparative calculations, and taking the medium, paris is about twenty-two miles round, and the population, foreigners included, one million; many estimate it at eleven hundred thousand, which i have no doubt it may be, if several villages be included which absolutely join paris; such as passy, belleville, etc. the extreme height of the houses would induce a belief, that a more, dense mass of people inhabited the same space of ground than could be the case in london; but to counterbalance that circumstance, it must be taken into consideration that there are such an immense number of large gardens and court-yards in paris, which occupy a great extent of ground. i have often been surprised to find, that in nasty dirty narrow streets, the back windows of the houses looked over extensive gardens, with lofty trees; these are oftener to be found in the old parts of paris than in the modern quarters. a much greater proportion of the population consists of foreigners, than is the case in london, consequently it is more moving and changeable. it is the great post town for almost all europeans who visit england, and hundreds of thousands come to paris, who never think of going to london, deterred by an exaggerated idea of the expense; hence it will be found that very few persons from the continent visit london who have not already been to paris, although, now that steam conveyance affords such facilities of accommodation between london and many of the large cities in europe, the case is somewhat altered. but paris has been long regarded as the museum of the continent, and few men possessing good fortunes from civilised countries, if gifted with enquiring minds, consider their education complete if they have not sojourned some time at paris, which has for time immemorial had the reputation of being the seat of the polite arts. nearly a third of the houses in paris are designated hôtels, many of which do not provide meals but merely furnished lodgings, and most of their inmates are foreigners, others, persons from the provinces, consequently at least one quarter of the population of paris is constantly changing. but perhaps no city is anywhere to be found where a stranger can sooner accommodate himself in every respect, as the customs are such that a person may live as he likes, go where he likes, and do as he likes, provided he do no harm. in london, if a lady and gentleman from the country arrive for the purpose of passing a day, and have no acquaintances, there are no houses as in paris where one can take a wife, sister, or daughter to breakfast or dine, without being subject to remark, unless indeed you can draw up to the door of a hôtel with an equipage; then certainly every attention and accommodation is to be found, but only such as will suit a very limited number of purses; whereas, at paris a family may find in most of the restaurateurs small apartments where they can dine by themselves if they object to the public room, but even in the latter they might take their meal very undisturbed and without exciting the slightest observation, at various prices that will either suit the economist or the wealthy individual. this is amongst many of the conveniences of paris; as also that of the libraries being open to the public, any one having the privilege to call for the book he wishes, where he may read as quietly as in his own house. this is extremely useful to studious and literary men, as there are so many works of reference too expensive to be within the compass of a small private library, which may be found in the liberal establishments in which paris abounds. museums, exhibitions, academies, gardens, public buildings, etc., are, with a very few exceptions, accessible to the foreigner merely on the exhibition of his passport. chapter iii. to an historian. a very brief account of the foundation of paris, its progress during the most remarkable epochs, and under the reigns of some of its most celebrated monarchs with its, gradual advance in civilisation to the present period. some allusions also to the customs which existed in the earlier ages, and a statement of the different dates as regards the erection and foundation of the various monuments and institutions still extant. [illustration: paris in the th century. view taken from the towers of notre dame.] france, under the ancient appellation of gaul, is cited in history as early as years before the christian era, when belloveaus, a celebrated leader from that country, defeated the hetrurians and made himself master of piedmont and lombardy, by crossing the rhone and the alps with his army, which at that period had never before been attempted. increasing in power, we find, years after, the gauls, headed by brennus, sacking and burning rome; and the same chief, after having been defeated and cut off by camillus, the roman general, with the loss of , men, again appears in the year before christ at the head of , foot and , horse, invading macedonia, and after ravaging the country and being ultimately defeated in greece, to have put an end to his existence. some idea may be formed of the ferocious and obdurate spirit of the gauls, from the circumstance of the women fighting as bravely as the men against marius, who successfully defended italy against them; and when these desperate amazons found that they were overpowered, they slew themselves and their children rather than surrender. this occurred years anterior to the birth of our saviour, and from that period scarcely a century has passed in which history does not record many instances of heroic devotion of frenchwomen, often wrong in its object, but ever displaying a determined courage, reckless of all selfish consideration. the names of joan of arc, jeanne hachette, charlotte corday, and the chevalier d'eon are known to all, and hundreds of others must live in the memory of those who are familiar with the history of france. after numerous encounters between the romans and the gauls, the latter were at length wholly subdued about years before christ, and although the records of this ancient people date nearly as far back as the foundation of rome, yet our first accounts of paris are derived from cæsar and strabo, who allude to it under the name of lutetia, the principal city of the parisii; and from the most probable statements which could be collected from aged persons at that period, it is presumed that its foundation must have occurred not more than half a century antecedent. it is supposed that the ground which paris now occupies formerly consisted of a number of small hills, which in the process of time, building, paving, etc., have been somewhat reduced, by the summits having been in a degree levelled; and the houses upon them being generally not so high as those in the lower parts, the eminences are not now so apparent. these hillocks were called by the french _buttes_, and some of them are still very perceptible, such as in the _rue des saints-pères_, by the _rue st-guillaume_, the _rue meslay_, the _rue de l'observance_, near the _École de médecine_, and several other places; indeed, on each side of the seine paris rises as you proceed to the _faubourgs_. some of these little hills still bear the name of _butte_, as _les buttes st-chaumont, la rue des buttes_, etc., but the most ancient part of paris is that which is now termed la cité and is confined to an island formed by the seine, and which is joined to the opposite banks by the _pont-neuf_ (or new-bridge), but certainly no longer meriting that title, having been built in the reign of henry the third about the year . there are many histories of paris which have been handed down by oral record to some of the earliest authors amongst the gauls, but so ill authenticated that they do not merit repetition, having being reputed as fabulous by most writers to whom credit can be attached. there is, however, one account of the foundation of paris which may be cited more for its comic ingenuity than for its veracity, beginning by tracing the trojans to samothès, the son of japhet and grandson of noah; then following in the same line, they endeavour to prove that at the destruction of troy, francus, the son of hector, fled to gaul, of which he became king and no doubt bestowed upon it the name of france, as the french have a most happy knack of cutting off the _us_ at the end of names as, titus livius and quintus curtius they have metamorphosed into tite-live and quinte-curce, and in fact with one or two exceptions they have abbreviated the terminations of the ancient greek and roman appellations entirely according to their own fashion. this fortunate youth, francus, at length fixed his abode in champagne, and built the town of troyes, calling it after his native place, which having accomplished, he repaired to the borders of the seine and ever partial to trojan associations, built a city which he called paris after his uncle. however agreeable it may prove to the feelings of the parisians to trace their origin to the remotest antiquity, yet common sense suggests that the account of the foundation of their city which is the most rational, is that which is deduced from the commentaries of julius cæsar, he having been at some pains to ascertain from whence the parisii sprung, and was informed by persons who remembered the epoch, that they were a people who had emigrated from their native country in consequence of the persecutions and massacres of their enemies, and that they were supposed to have belonged to some of the petty nations known under the common appellation of the belgæ, and arriving on the borders of the seine requested permission of the senones, a powerful people of the gauls, to establish themselves on the frontiers of their territory, and place themselves under their protection, agreeing at the same time to conform to the laws of those whose hospitality they sought. that they were but a very inconsiderable people on the arrival of cæsar is proved by the small contingent of warriors they were required to supply by the gauls, in their struggles against the romans. the territory accorded to the parisii could not have exceeded more than ten or twelve leagues, adjoining to the lands of a people termed silvanectes on the one side, and to those of the carnutes on the other. it is conjectured that the name of parisii received its etymology from their being a people who inhabited the borders, as par and bar are synonymous from the p and the b having had the same signification, and which are often confused together at the present time by the germans; and barisii or barrisenses, signifying a people inhabiting a space between other nations, hence it is inferred that the parisii received that appellation from their occupying a spot on the frontiers of the senones, separating them from the silvanectes and the carnutes. amongst the many suppositions which have been formed as to the origin of the name of the parisii, perhaps the above is the most rational. paris, or lutetia, soon after the conquest by cæsar became a place of importance, as he selected that city for a convocation of the different powers of gaul when he required of them supplies for his cavalry; and a short time after, when the gallic nation revolted from cæsar's dominion, one of the most decided battles which was fought was within sight of paris, under labienus, the roman general, whilst the chief of the gauls, camulogene, perished in the combat with a considerable portion of his men, but the greater number saved themselves by taking shelter in paris, which was not attacked, labienus himself retreating to agedineum. but although cæsar fixed upon paris as the most convenient locality for the meeting of the gallic chiefs, yet it was little more than a fort like all the other towns in gaul, into which the natives retreated in the time of war with their females, children, cattle and moveables; as they were accustomed in time of peace to live in detached habitation in the midst of their flocks, their pastures and their cornfields, only retreating within their forts or cities for security when attacked. after the fall of camulogene, gaul soon returned to the roman yoke and paris subsequently became the residence of their prefects, governors and even emperors. in , in digging deeply in the streets of monceau and martroi, near the church of saint gervais, an ancient cemetery was discovered. in one of the tombs was found a silver medal, in which a head was visible on one side, and a head crowned on the other, having this inscription, _antonius pius aug._, who reigned from the years to . it is inferred from this circumstance, that the burying-place was of coeval antiquity, but notwithstanding the many battles which occurred between the gauls and the romans, paris is not cited in history until the fourth century, when julian the apostate appears to have there fixed his residence, and in his misopogon, which he wrote during his residence at antioch, often alludes to it under the name of his dear lutetia, although complaining that the cold was such during one winter as to compel him to have a fire in his bed-room, expressing much dissatisfaction at the odour emitted by the burning charcoal, to the effects of which he was nearly falling a victim. his abode was what it is now and has been for many ages, the palace of thermes, of which there are still the remains, now converted into a museum for relics of the ancient gauls; the entrance is in the rue de la harpe. between the numbers and . julian there resided with his wife helen, sister of the emperor constantius, and in his address to the senate and people of athens speaks of the arrival of foreign auxiliary troops at paris, and of their tumultuously rising and surrounding his palace; and that it was in a chamber adjoining that of his wife wherein he meditated on the means of appeasing them. according to various historians, this circumstance occurred in the year . soon after this period, the same palace was inhabited by the emperors valentinian and valens. it is supposed to have been built in the year , the evidence of which is tolerably well authenticated. whatever errors might fall to the share of julian, it is certain he rendered great service to gaul, and particularly to paris: he cleared the adjacent country entirely of a set of ferocious barbarians, who were eternally overrunning the different states of gaul. but the parisians were not long doomed to enjoy the quiet and prosperity which had been obtained for them by the equitable laws instituted by julian. in , hordes of enemies suddenly appeared in all parts of gaul, swarming in from different barbarous nations, in such numbers that they swept all before them for ten successive years, and about the franks succeeded in permanently establishing themselves in gaul, and of course paris shared the fate of the surrounding country; by them at length the roman government was overthrown, and that which was substituted was far less equitable or calculated for the happiness of the people. the franks were a powerful maritime people, coming from the north-west of germany, obtaining possession of the different towns which they met with in their course, until they arrived at tournai, which was constituted their capital; and childeric their king is reported to have laid siege to paris, which resisted for several years; but dying in the year , he was succeeded by clovis his son, who, at the head of a numerous army defeated the roman governor seyagrius, gained possession of his capital, and was styled the first king of gaul. many authors assert that pharamond was the first monarch who reigned over the gallic states, but lidonius appolinarus, who wrote only fifty years after the death of pharamond persists that he and his three successors, who were all predecessors of clovis, were only kings reigning over a portion of gaul, and resigned their sovereignties at the retirement of the romans. clovis was celebrated as one of the greatest warriors of the period in which he lived; in the year he slew alaric king of the visigoths in single combat in the plain of vouillé, near poitou, and afterwards several other petty kings, thereby adding considerably to his dominions. in he fixed his residence in paris, and died there in , and was buried in a church called st. peter and st. paul, since styled st. genevieve. he was called the most christian king. the pope having no confidence in the professions of any other monarch at that time, clovis is synonymous with the name of louis, as the latter was formerly written llouis, the double l signifying in the celtic language cl, and pronounced in that manner at present in welsh, as llandovery, llandilo, etc., have the sound of clandovery, clandilo, etc., whilst the v in clovis has in more modern times been transformed into a u, as in all old writings the u and the v had the same signification; hence it will be found that clovis and llouis are the same word. his government being divided amongst his four sons, childebert received the portion in which paris was situated, and was styled king of paris, which was only retained by a few of his successors, who assumed that of king of gaul, or of france. the power of the monarch at that period was much restrained, by a class of men called leudes, anstrutions, or faithful, being companions in arms of the king, and sharing with him whatever lands or booty might be gained by conquest. as a proof of the tenacity of these gentry as to an equitable division of the spoil, when clovis had taken rheims, he demanded as an act of grace from his companions in arms, that they would grant him a precious vase for which he had conceived a peculiar predilection; his request was accorded by his associates, except one, who gave the vase a violent blow with his hatchet, saying, "no, thou shalt not have any thing beyond what thy lot awards thee." even under the dominion of the romans there were dukes who had a certain number of troops or armed men in the district where they governed, and their power was arbitrary and they had counts under them who also had a certain number of men subjected to their orders; sometimes these nobles carried rapine, pillage and slaughter into each other's territories, when the government had devolved upon the franks; and the king took no notice of their misdeeds, as long as they observed a certain fealty towards him, and in some instances they put aside the monarch if he acted in such a manner as to trench upon what they considered their privileges. a third power soon began to assume a high authority, which consisted of the bishops, who had greatly aided the francs in their invasion of gaul by their influence and intrigues, and obtained as reward considerable grants of lands and temporal power; and in their dioceses they exercised a sovereign will, and on account of their possessing some instruction they maintained a certain influence over the ignorant nobility who had in some degree a sort of superstitious awe of them, as they were regarded as the emissaries of saints. under the romans the gauls were considered a moral people, having become christians in consequence of the persevering endeavours of the missionary prelates, whilst churches were founded and a purity of faith disseminated; taught by the romans, a love of the arts and sciences was engendered amongst the gauls, and much talent was elicited from them, philosophy, physic, mathematics, jurisprudence, poetry, and above all eloquence, had their respective professors of no mean abilities from amongst the natives; one named julius florens is styled by quintilian the prince of eloquence. in fact a brilliant era appeared as if beginning to dawn throughout the greater portion of gaul, academies were establishing, learning was revered, when suddenly every spark of refinement and civilisation was banished, by the successful aggression and permanent occupation of the country by hordes of barbarians; the natives being obliged to have recourse to arms for their defence against the common enemy, and the constant excitement of continued hostility with their ferocious oppressors, afforded no time for study nor cultivation of the arts. clovis, however, during his reign improved paris, and was converted to christianity by st. vedast. clotilda, his wife, and niece to gondebaud, king of burgundy, was principally instrumental to the conversion of her husband. indeed, amidst their ferocity and barbarism some of the early frank kings showed much respect for religion and morality, as is proved by an ordonnance of childebert in the year ; commanding his subjects to destroy wherever they might be found all idols dedicated to the devil; also forbidding all disorderly conduct committed in the nights of the eves of _fêtes_, such as christmas and easter, when singing, drinking, and other excesses were committed; women were also ordered to discontinue going about the country dancing on a sunday, as it was a practice offensive to god. it appears certainly very singular that a comparatively barbarous king in the sixth century should prohibit dancing of a sunday as a desecration of the sabbath, and that in the nineteenth century there should be more dancing on a sunday than on any other day in the week, at a period which is arrived at the highest state of civilisation, and under the reign of a most enlightened monarch. but although clovis and childebert displayed much enthusiasm in the cause of christianity, their career was marked with every cruelty incidental to conquest, as wherever they bore their victorious arms, murder, rapine, and robbery stained their diabolical course; but they thought that they expiated their crimes by building churches. hence clovis in founded the first erected in paris dedicated to st. peter and st. paul, afterwards called st. genevieve, and on its site now stands the pantheon. childebert in built the church of st. germain des près, which is still standing and much frequented; it was at first called st. vincent and st. croix, and he endowed it so richly with the treasures he had stolen from other countries, that it was called the golden palace of st. germain. chilperic imitating his predecessors, hoping to absolve himself of his enormous crimes, in the year founded the very interesting and curious church of st. germain, opposite the louvre, and still an object of admiration to the lover of antiquity. his wife fredegonde, imagining no doubt by that act he had made his peace for the other world, thought that the sooner he went there the better, before he committed any farther sins, and had him assassinated that she might the more conveniently pursue her own course of iniquity; perhaps never was the page of history blackened by such a list of atrocities committed by woman as those perpetrated by her and her rival queen brunehault, who was ultimately tied to the tail of a wild horse and torn to pieces in . paris, however, notwithstanding the wickedness, injustice, and cruelty of its rulers, continued to increase, and would no doubt have become a prosperous city, had it not been for the incursions of the normands, who in the ninth century entered paris, burnt some of the churches, and meeting with scarcely any resistance, made themselves masters of all they could find, whilst the emperor charles the bald, at the head of an army, had the pusillanimity to treat with them, and finally to give them seven thousand pounds of silver to quit paris, which was only an encouragement for them to return, which they did in a few years after, carrying devastation wherever they appeared, the poor citizens of paris being obliged to save their lives by flight, leaving all their property to the mercy of the brigands. at length, the parisians finding that there was no security either for themselves or their possessions, prevailed on charles the bald to give the requisite orders for fortifying the city, which was so far accomplished that it resisted the attacks of the normans for thirteen months, who as constantly laid siege to the grand tower which was its principal defence, without being able to take it; when at last charles the fat in proved as weak as his predecessors, and although he was encamped with his army at montmartre, consented to give the barbarians fourteen thousand marks of silver to get rid of them, and they quitted paris to go and pillage other parts of france, but as by the treaty they were not allowed to pass the bridges, in order to ascend the seine they were obliged to carry their vessels over the land for about two thousand yards and again launch them for the purpose of committing farther depredations. from this period paris was freed from the attacks of the the normans, yet commerce made but slow progress having constant obstructions arising, to impede its prosperity. paris having for a long time ceased to be the royal residence, was no longer considered as the capital, charlemagne passed but a very short period of time there, residing mostly at aix-la-chapelle and ratisbon, and although he founded many noble institutions in different parts of france, paris derived but little benefit from his talents, and his immediate successors displayed such imbecility of purpose that they suffered their kingdom to become the prey to marauders. learning advanced but slowly, although there were some schools at paris which, elicited a few authors; amongst the rest one named abbon, who wrote a poem in latin upon the siege of paris by the normans, which was not otherwise other-worthy of remark than for its rarity at the epoch when it was written. whilst the kings of france continued to reside in other cities, paris was confided to the governments counts, who held not a very high rank amongst the nobility in the first instance, but gradually increased their power until eudes, count of paris, in ultimately became king of france, which also was the destiny of two other nobles who held the same title, robert the brother of eudes, and hugh capet. the progress of paris and indeed the whole of france was retarded continually by famine, fourteen seasons of scarcity happening in the course of twenty-three years; in fact, from to such was often the state of desolation, that hunger impelled human beings to murder each other to feed upon the flesh of their bodies, which in many instances were sold, and bought with eagerness by those who were famishing with want. unwholesome food caused thousands to be afflicted with a disease which was called the sacred fire, the ardent malady, and the infernal evil, the sufferers feeling as if they were devoured by an internal flame. to give some idea of the luxury of costume which existed in those days at paris, it is but requisite to quote an address of abbon the poet to the parisians, written about the year , wherein hen observes: "an _agraffe_ (a clasp) of gold fastens the upper part of your dress; to keep off the cold you cover yourselves with the purple of tyre, you will have no other cloak than a chlamyde embroidered with gold, your girdle must be ornamented with precious stones, and gold must sparkle even upon your shoes, and on the cane which you carry. o france! if you do not abandon such luxurious extravagance, you will lose your courage and your country." hugh capet, who became king of france in , fixed his residence at paris, thus again constituting it the capital of the kingdom, and his son and successor robert, being a strict devotee, built and repaired several churches which had been greatly injured by the normans, and paris began in his reign to assume an appearance of improvement, which continued until it received a check from an ill-timed joke of philippe the first, who made a satirical remark upon william the conqueror of england having become rather unwieldy, which so provoked that choleric monarch that he laid waste a great portion of philippe's dominions; when his progress was checked by his falling from his horse, which occasioned his death and thus delivered philippe from a most powerful enemy. in the following reign, that of lewis the fat, learning began to make considerable progress, and the colleges of paris to acquire a high celebrity, and amongst the professors whose reputation was of the highest, was abelard, no one before having succeeded in attracting so many pupils. in he established a school in paris, but from a variety of persecutions which he endured, he was frequently obliged to retire to different parts of france; his unfortunate attachment to heloise is but too well known, and she ultimately became the abbess of a convent which abelard founded at nogent-sur-seine, and which he called paraclet. the number of pupils at one time are stated to have been three thousand, and he instructed them in the open air; it is also asserted that of his followers fifty became either bishops or archbishops, twenty cardinals, and one pope, celestin ii. in fact the fame of abelard had arrived at such an altitude that he was the means of giving a new era to paris, which was designated the city of letters; other professors became highly celebrated, and some authors pretend that the immense concourse of students who ultimately flocked to paris, exceeded the number of the inhabitants, and there was much difficulty in finding the means of lodging them; how great must have been the anxiety for learning, as the masters were exceedingly brutal and imparted their knowledge to the pupil by the force of blows, which at length deterred many students from placing themselves under the charge of such preceptors. this extraordinary desire for obtaining education appears to have been almost a sudden impulse, as the immediate descendants of hugh capet could not read or write, but were obliged to make a mark as the signature to their edicts, whilst those who possessed that accomplishment were styled clerks. although much brilliance was shed over the reign of louis the sixth by the learning of abelard and the professors who followed him, yet soon after the barbarous custom was introduced of trial by combat; the idea might probably have been suggested by louis having challenged henry the first of england to decide their differences in a single encounter. although lewis the fat was so bulky as to have obtained the cognomen by which he was always designated, he was one of the most active kings of france; constantly harrassed by perpetual wars with his neighbours and nobles, which he carried on personally and generally successfully, he first undertook the fortifying of paris and is supposed to have constructed the greater and the lesser châtelet, two towers on the opposite sides of the seine, although many authors pretend that they were of a much more ancient date; he also built walls round a certain portion of the suburbs, which by that time had become part of paris. it was said of lewis vi, "he might have been a better king, a better man he could not." he died in . in the succeeding reign of louis vii, surnamed the younger, many privileges were granted to the parisians which greatly increased the prosperity of the city; several public buildings were erected, amongst the rest an hospital which was the first ever built in paris. but according to the descriptions of all authors who wrote at that period upon the subject, the streets were in a filthy condition in many parts of the city, and the names which have long since been changed were as dirty and indecent; some were absolutely ridiculous; as did you find me hard, bertrand sleeps, cut bread, john bread calf (alluding to the leg); the last still exists, as also bad advice, bad boys, etc. it was in this reign that the first crusade from france took place, and louis vii was followed by , persons, and after various encounters with the saracens, he owed his preservation to his own personal prowess; he was divorced from his queen eleanor, who afterwards married henry ii of england, and proved herself a detestable character in both kingdoms. louis vii abolished one law which had long disgraced france, allowing the officers of the king on his arrival in paris or other towns in his dominions, to enter any private house and take for the monarch's use such bedding or other articles of furniture as his majesty might require. louis also by force of arms compelled his nobles to desist from robbing the merchants, dealers, and the poor of their property. at this period the _fête des fous_, or feast of madmen was celebrated to its full extent, and anything more absurd, more farcical, or more irreverential cannot well be imagined. dulaure, in his voluminous history of paris, gives a most detailed account of this extraordinary mockery, of which i will give my readers a very brief abridgment. on the first of january the clergy went in procession to the bishop who had been elected as the grand master of the fête, conducting him solemnly to the church with all the ecclesiastical banners usually borne on important occasions, amidst the ringing of bells; when arrived at the choir, he was placed in the episcopal seat, and mass was performed with the most extravagant gesticulations. the priests figuring away in the most ridiculous dresses; some in the costume of buffoons, others in female attire with their faces daubed with soot, or covered with hideous masks, some dancing, others jumping, or playing different games, drinking, and eating puddings, sausages, etc., offering them to the high-priest whilst he was celebrating high mass; also burning old shoes in the chalice, instead of incense, to produce a disagreeable scent; at length, elevated by wine, their orgies began to have the appearance of those of demons, roaring, howling, singing, and laughing until the walls of the church echoed with their yells. this was often carried on until they worked themselves up to a pitch of madness, and then they began boxing each other until the floor of the church would be smeared with blood; upon which most severe expiations were exacted from them; as, however, much has been shed in the cause of the church, it was not to be permitted that the holy sanctuary should ever be stained with aught so impure. the ecclesiastics at last quitting the church, got into carts filled with mud and filth, amusing themselves with flinging it upon the crowds who followed them in such streets as were wide enough for a cart to pass. it is conjectured that these festivities, with their nonsensical ceremonies, were of pagan origin, and probably the celebration of the carnival is derived from the same source; many attempts were made to abolish so disgraceful a custom as the continuance of the fêtes des fous, with the absurdities incidental to its revelries, but it was not until the parisians became more enlightened that any monarch could succeed in its entire suppression. in philippe auguste succeeded his father, and did more for paris than all the works of his predecessors united; he reconstructed notre dame, and made it such as it now is with respect to the grand body of the building; but the variety of little chapels contained within it, and the elaborate workmanship, with the bas, mezzo and alto relievos with which it abounds, occupied two centuries. on the exterior of the building on the south side, about three feet and a half from the ground, is an inscription in raised letters nearly two inches long, and the date being perfectly distinct is written thus, mcclvii. the two last characters have dropped, but the impression of them is clearly visible; the inscription itself is difficult to decypher, it is in latin, and some of the letters are missing, others so curiously formed as to render them doubtful exactly as to their import. the greater part of the characters are roman, the others resemble more the saxon, yet are not quite so; at all events i recommend the inscription to the attention of the curious. a vast space, which is now covered with streets, commencing at the rue des saints pères, and extending to the invalids, consisted entirely of meadows, and was called the pré aux clercs, or the clerks' field, from the students and a number of young men who possessed some education, usually enjoying their recreations in this spot, but certainly not in the most innocent manner, in fact, the disorders committed in this privileged piece of ground, which the students considered as their own, were such as to be often named in history, and to have formed the subject of a favourite melo drama; it retained its character as being the scene of turbulence and disorder even to the time of louis xiv. amongst other useful undertakings effected by philippe auguste was that of establishing markets with covered stalls, and he it was that first conceived the idea of paving paris, which he partially effected, and surrounded the town with a wall, part of which is still standing in the rue clovis. paris increased and flourished under his reign; he in fact did all that was possible to augment its prosperity, and amongst other measures he granted the utmost protection in his power to the students, knowing that the more the population of the city increased, the more flourishing was its condition; by such means he induced scholars to come in numbers from the most distant parts to study in the colleges of paris, two of which he erected, as well as three hospitals; he also instituted many good laws, which protected the tradespeople and repressed the robberies and extortions of the nobles. but paris was still subject to calamities, a flood having occurred from the overflowing of the seine, which reached as high as the second floor windows of some houses. a great part of paris was occupied with monasteries and convents, which with their gardens covered an immense space; in the course of time, however, the monks found it advantageous to dispose of their lands for the purpose of building dwelling-houses, and in the revolution numbers were suppressed; and in some quarters of the city there are warehouses in the occupation of different tradesmen, which formerly formed part of the old monasteries. many of the streets by their names still indicate the order of the convents by which they were occupied, as the rue blanc manteaux (white cloaks), rue des saints pères (holy fathers), filles de dieu (daughters of god), which now is one of the narrowest and dirtiest streets in paris, and inhabited by daughters of a very different description. such are the extraordinary changes which time effects. philippe auguste dying in , was succeeded by his son louis viii, surnamed the lion, whose short reign of four years was occupied by war, leaving no leisure for effecting any great improvement in paris; but under his successor lewis ix, styled saint-louis, much was effected, although his efforts were principally directed towards the erection of religious institutions, being much under the dominion of the priests, and naturally possessing a fanatic zeal. churches at that period were too often but monuments of superstition for the celebration of mummery, for sheltering criminals, receptacles for pretended relics, and in fact instruments for maintaining the power of priestcraft. this same saint louis, so lauded by some authors, had some excellent notions of his own, and was very fond of practising summary justice, recommending to his nobles that whenever they met with any one who expressed any doubts regarding the christian religion, never to argue with the sceptist, but immediately plunge their swords into his body. rhetoric at this period was a study much followed and admired, but the logic of saint-louis, i suspect, was the most forcible and best calculated to remove all doubts, having a great objection to language that was what some persons would style far too energetic; where an oath was suffered to escape, he ordered the intemperate orator's tongue to be pierced with a hot iron and his lips burnt; hence many of his subjects were compelled to endure that operation; but this was considered in those days all very saint-like. they had strange ideas in some instances, in days of yore, according to our present notion of words and things. louis the first, surnamed the _débonnaire_ (the gentle), had his nephew bernard's eyes bored out; this act was certainly very like a _gentle_ man. hugh the great, so called on account of his splendid virtues, in the year thought it proper that he should be present at the burning of a few heretics, and his lady, with her ardent religious zeal, stepped forward and poked out the eye of her confessor, who was one of the victims, with her walking cane, before he was committed to the flames. louis however had some redeeming qualities; he founded the hospital of the quinze-vingts, which still exists; he also enlarged and improved the hôtel dieu, the principal hospital in those days, in which he even exceeded the munificence of his predecessor, philippe auguste, who published an ordonnance commanding that all the straw which had been used in his chamber should be given to the hôtel dieu, whenever he quitted paris and no longer wanted it; such overpowering kindness one would imagine must have had the effect of curing some of the invalids who were capable of appreciating the high honour conferred upon them, in being suffered to lie upon straw which had been trodden by royal feet. saint louis also founded the celebrated college of the sorbonne, which is still existing, and maintains a high character; he also built the curious and interesting chapel adjoining the palais de justice, which is well worth the amateur's attention; he founded the hospital of les filles de dieu, for the purpose of reclaiming women of improper conduct. the mendicant monks, the augustines, and the carmes were established in france during his reign, and he founded the convents of the beguines, mathurins, jacobins, carthusians, cordeliers, and several others of minor importance, in paris, with the chapels attached to them; besides different churches with which i shall not tire my reader with recapitulating, as there are none of them now standing, except the chapel belonging to the palais de justice; he also added several fountains, contributing to the comforts of the parisians, as well as embellishing their city. the number of churches which have been demolished in paris within the last fifty years, exceeds the number of those which are now standing, many of them during the revolution, which might have been expected; but an equal number under the restoration in the reigns of louis the eighteenth and charles the tenth, who being rather devotees, one would have imagined might have been induced to repair and preserve all religious monuments, also highly interesting as specimens of the architecture of the different ages in which they were founded. louis philippe has better kept up the spirit of the _restoration_ in having rescued from demolition the ancient and beautiful church of st germain l'auxerrois; which was to have been pulled down to make way for a new street, according to the plan projected by his predecessor; instead of which, it has been repaired with the greatest judgment, carefully preserving the original style of the building wherever ornaments or statues required to be renewed. thus this noble edifice has been preserved to the public, which would not have been the case had the revolution of the three days not occurred, as its doom was sealed prior to that period. in fact, since the accession to the throne of louis philippe, i do not believe that any church has been pulled down, though several others have been built, and others finished, which have greatly added to the embellishments of the city. the memory of louis ix has ever been cherished as that of a saint, and if a man be judged by the number of religious establishments he instituted, certainly he deserved to be canonised; but however grand may be the reputation of having founded and erected so many public monuments, yet when it is considered that numbers of the inmates of the different convents and monasteries erected by this saint were obliged to demand alms from house to house, and of persons passing along the streets, it will be proved that the grand result of saint louis' operations was to fill paris with beggars; although it certainly must be admitted that some of his other acts in a great degree compensated for those into which he was led by superstition and religious fanaticism: he was succeeded by his son philippe the bold in , who suffered himself to be governed by his favourite, la brosse, formerly a barber, in which it must be admitted that philippe displayed rather a _barbarous_ taste, which ended in his pet being hanged; his reign, however, was signalised by the establishment of a college of surgeons, who were designated by the appellation of surgeons of the long robe, whilst the barbers were styled surgeons of the short robe; he also recalled the jews, whom his father, after having persecuted in divers manners, banished and confiscated their property; amongst other indignities which were put upon them by saint louis, was that of forcing them to wear a patch of red cloth on their garment both before and behind, in the shape of a wheel, that they might be distinguished from christians, and marked as it were for insult. in philippe's reign, however, merit found its reward, no matter how low the origin from whence it sprang, and several authors, particularly poets, wrote boldly against the extreme hypocrisy which existed in the preceding reign, and literature made great progress. in philippe the fair, so named on account of his handsome person, succeeded to the throne of his father; in his ardent thirst for money he changed the value of the coinage three times, and caused a riot which ended by his hanging twenty-eight of the conspirators at the different entrances of paris, and had numbers of persons accused of crimes in order to have them executed that he might obtain possession of their property; thus hundreds were burned alive and tortured in various manners. one act, however, threw a degree of lustre on his reign, and that was the organisation of the parliament at paris, establishing it as a sovereign court, their sittings being held in the palais de justice, the residence at that period of the kings of france. for several succeeding reigns paris appeared to make but little progress; some churches were built as also other establishments, but none which are now standing, except some portions of them which may have escaped destruction and are now in the occupation of different tradespeople. the government became exceedingly poor, and several measures were adopted in order to repair the finances of the state; amongst others, that of suffering serfs to purchase their emancipation, of which many availed themselves, but not sufficient effectually to replenish the exhausted treasury. for the same reason the property of the lombards was confiscated, next recourse was had to the jews, and even the exactions imposed upon them were inadequate to the wants of the nation. the succession of several weak kings had brought affairs into this state, when philippe the sixth of valois crowned the misfortunes of the country by entering into a war with england, at a time when the funds of his kingdom were at the lowest ebb; constantly engaged in hostilities, he had not leisure or the means of attending to the welfare of the parisians, and the disasters he encountered caused his reign to be remembered as a series of misfortunes. several colleges, however, were founded in his reign; amongst others, that of the collége des ecossais (scotch college) then in the rue des amandiers, but now existing in the rue des fossés st. victor. it was first instituted by david, bishop of murray, in scotland, but the present building was erected by robert barclay in . the collége des lombards was founded by a number of italians, and was some years afterwards deserted, but in was given by the government to two irish priests, and has from that period become an irish seminary; and several other colleges, which have either been abandoned or their locality changed, and often united to other colleges, some of which are still existing. on the death of philippe, john, surnamed the good, ascended a throne of trouble in , and encountered a succession of misfortunes of which paris had its share; from the immense number of churches, monasteries, colleges, hospitals, and other public edifices, the wall which surrounded paris, built by philippe-auguste, enclosed too limited a space to contain the houses of the increased population, which continued to augment, notwithstanding all the impediments which bad government could create. a more extended wall therefore became necessary to protect those inhabitants who resided beyond the limits of the first, and whose position was likely to be compromised by the position in which france was placed by the battle of poitiers, by a band of ruffians called the companions, who carried desolation wherever they appeared, and by what was termed la jacquerie, hordes of peasants who were armed and levied contributions upon the peaceable inhabitants as they traversed the country, in groups too numerous to be withstood by the tranquil residents. the extension of the wall was erected under the superintendence of etienne marcel, called _prévôt des marchands_; what might be termed mayor or chief magistrate of the tradespeople, a man of extraordinary energy, which he exerted to the utmost for the benefit of his fellow citizens, and at this period first began the custom of putting chains at night across the streets as a measure of security, as notwithstanding that paris was menaced on all sides by enemies from without, insurrections of the most violent nature took place within its walls, commencing on account of the dauphin, who was governor of paris and regent of the kingdom (in consequence of the imprisonment of his father john in england), issuing a coinage consisting of base metal which he was compelled to recall; but the fire-brand was kindled, other grievances were mooted, thirty thousand armed parisians assembled headed by etienne marcel, who himself stabbed robert de clermont, marshal of normandy, and jean de conflans, marshal of champagne, in the presence of the dauphin; but to save the latter from the fury of the people, marcel changed hats with the prince, thus affording him a passport, by causing him to wear a hat that bore the colours of the people, blue and red. after a tremendous slaughter, marcel and his principal friends were themselves dispatched by the partisans of the dauphin. during all these convulsions in the interior of paris, it was surrounded on one side by the troops of the king of navarre, whilst the forces of the dauphin were hovering under the walls, the different parties skirmishing with each other, and all living upon the pillage and contributions levied on the inhabitants of the adjacent country. meantime famine thinned the population of paris, cut off from any means of receiving provisions from without; but on account of the wall constructed by marcel, edward iii of england found it impossible to make any progress in the siege, and having exhausted the country for some leagues of extent, was obliged to retreat for want of food to maintain his army. the scarcity of money was such in paris at that period, that they were compelled to have a circulation of leather coin, with a little nail of gold or silver stuck in the middle; yet when john returned from his captivity in england, the streets were hung with carpets wherever he had to pass, and a cloth of gold borne over his head, the fountains poured forth wine, and the city made him a present of a silver buffet weighing a thousand marcs. at this period schools existed in paris sanctioned by the government, when the pay for each scholar was so contemptible that they must have been for the use of the middle classes, whose means were very confined; they were called _petites Écoles_ (little schools), and paid a certain sum for having the privilege to teach; the number in the reign of john was sixty-three, of which forty-one were under masters, and twenty-two under mistresses. in some of the streets of paris it was the custom to have two large doors or gates, which were closed at night, and the names of several streets still bear evidence of that practice, as the _rue des deux portes_; the _rue des deux-portes-saint-jean_, _des deux-portes-saint-sauveur_, etc. during the reign of john, about , a poem appeared, which contained advice as to the conduct ladies ought to observe who wished to act with propriety, and as my fair countrywomen are generally willing to _listen_ to good counsel, no matter how remote the period from which it is derived, i cannot resist giving them the benefit of some of the recommendations of the sapient poet to the parisian belles, some of which are certainly highly commendable. the verses were written by a monk, whose name i have forgotten. "in walking to church never trot or run, salute those you meet upon the way, and even return the salutations of the poor; when at church it is not proper to look either to the right or the left, neither to speak nor to laugh out loud, but to rise to the gospel and courteously make the sign of the cross, to go to the offering without either laughing or joking, at the moment of the elevation also to rise; then kneel and pray for all christians; to recite by heart her prayers, and _if she can read_, to pray from her psalmody. "a courteous lady ought to salute all in going out of church, both great and small. "those whom nature have endowed with a good voice ought not to refuse to sing when they are asked. "cleanliness is so necessary for ladies, that it is an obligation for them to cut their nails. "it is not proper for a lady to stop in passing the house of a neighbour, to look into the interior, because people may be doing things that they do not wish others to know. "when you go and visit a person, never enter abruptly, nor take any one by surprise, but announce your coming by coughing. "at table, a lady should not speak nor laugh too much, and should always turn the biggest and the best pieces to her guests, and not choose them for herself. "every time a lady has drank wine she should wipe her mouth with the table-cloth, but not her eyes or her nose, and she should take care not to soil and grease her fingers in eating, more than she can possibly help." the reader must remember that forks were not used until the reign of henry iii. the author also cautions the ladies to be very careful not to drink to excess, observing that a lady loses talent, wit, beauty, and every charm, when she is elevated with wine; they are also recommended not to swear. he continues: "ladies should not veil their faces before nobles; they may do so when they are on horseback or when they go to church, but on entering they should show their countenances, and particularly before people of quality. "ladies should never receive presents from gentlemen of jewels or other things, except from a well intentioned near relation, otherwise it is very blameable. "it is not becoming for ladies to wrestle with men, and they are also cautioned not to lie or to steal." then follow certain instructions for ladies as to the answers they should make and the manner they should conduct themselves when they receive a declaration. i hope english ladies will be much edified by the above instructions. the cries of paris at this period were constant and absolutely stunning; guillaume de la villeneuve observes that the criers were braying in the streets of paris from morning to night. amongst the vegetables, garlick was the most prevalent, which was then eaten with almost every thing, people being in the habit of rubbing their bread with it: the flour of peas and beans made into a thick paste was sold all hot; onions, chervil, turnips, aniseed, leeks, etc., a variety of pears and apples of sorts that are now scarcely known, except calville, services, medlers, hips and other small fruits now no longer heard of; nuts, chesnuts of lombardy, malta grapes, etc.; for beverage, wine at about a farthing a quart; mustard vinegar, verjuice, and walnut oil; pastry, fresh and salted meat, eggs and honey. others went about offering their services to mend your clothes, some to repair your tubs, or polish your pewter; candles, cotton for lamps, foreign soup, and almost every article that can be imagined was sold in the streets, sometimes the price demanded was a bit of bread. the millers also went bawling about to know if you had any corn to grind, and amongst those that demanded alms were the scholars, the monks, the nuns, the prisoners and the blind. it was the custom in those days, when a person wished to be revenged upon another, to make an image of him in wax or mud, as much resembling as possible. they then took it to a priest and had it named after the person they wished to injure, with all the ceremonies of the church, and anointed it, and lastly had certain invocations pronounced over the unfortunate image. it was then supposed that the figure had some degree of identity with the prototype, and any injury inflicted upon it would be felt by the person they wished to harm; they therefore then set to work to torture it according to their fancy, and at last would plunge a sharp instrument into that part where the heart should be placed, feeling quite satisfied they had wreaked their revenge on their enemy. sometimes persons were severely punished for the performance of this farce, and when any individuals experienced some great misfortune, they often imagined that it had arisen in consequence of their image having been made by their enemy, and maltreated in the manner described. when charles v ascended the throne in , he soon began to display his taste for civilisation by collecting books to form a library in the louvre, and rewarding merit, however humble the station of the individual by whom it was possessed; and although he received the reins of government at a period when france was surrounded with enemies, and her finances in a ruined state, such was the prudence of his measures that he completely retrieved her losses, and well earned the appellation he received of charles the wise; he built several churches, colleges, and hotels, none of which if standing are now appropriated to the purposes originally intended; he also had several bridges constructed, and embellished paris with many edifices that were both useful and ornamental. but all his efforts were paralysed in the following reign of charles vi, justly called the simple, partly mad, partly imbecile, and coming to the throne at twelve years of age, every misfortune that might have been expected from a country surrounded by foreign enemies without, and torn by intestine broils within, happened in the fullest force. the english and the burgundians united together in besieging paris, which was ultimately entered by both their armies; what with riots amongst the parisians, the intrigues of the queen isabeau de baviere, the dissensions of the king's uncles, and the brigandage of the nobility who overran the country, never was a nation reduced to a more pitiable condition; yet some monuments were added to paris even during this turbulent reign, the church of st. gervais being entirely reconstructed in , and that of st. germain l'auxerrois so considerably repaired as to be almost rebuilt in , besides several colleges, hospitals and bridges; companies of archers, cross-bow men and armourers were also established. theatrical representations were first performed in this reign in the grand hall of the hospital of the trinity, _rue saint-denis_, corner of the _rue grenetat_. the theatrical company styled themselves "masters, governors and brethren of the passion and resurrection of our lord." under the reign of charles vii, surnamed the victorious, france regained all she had lost, and was much indebted for her success to the maid of orleans, and the gallant dunois, who entered paris and defeated the english who retreated to the bastille and ultimately were allowed to retire to rouen. but although more was effected in this reign for the prosperity and glory of france, paris received no additions or embellishments: the king being wholly occupied in vanquishing the enemies of his country; his son lewis xi, who is supposed to have conspired against the life of his father, ascended the throne in ; notwithstanding his reign was disturbed by a series of wars, he found time to occupy himself with useful institutions, and founded that of the first society of printers in paris; he also established the school of medicine, and the post office. superstitious and cruel, he first used iron cages as prisons, then instituted the prayer styled the angelus. although he increased the power of france, his tyranny, injustice, dissimulation, and avarice caused him to be hated by his subjects. his successor charles viii was but thirteen when called to the throne in , inheriting the few virtues without the many vices of his father, but showed much weakness in the administration of his affairs; in the early part of his reign anne his mother was the person who principally governed as regent, until he was of age, when he passed the rest of his life in war, but was so beloved that two of his servants died of grief for the loss of their master, who was surnamed the affable. he was succeeded by his cousin lewis xii in , who obtained the title of father of his people, certainly the most virtuous monarch that ever swayed the sceptre of france; he observed that he preferred seeing his courtiers laugh at his savings than to see his people weep for his expenses. the hôtel de cluny and _le pont_ (the bridge) _notre-dame_ were constructed in his reign and are still standing; being the most ancient bridge in paris. he died much regretted, in , and all france felt deeply the loss of a monarch, whose measures were such as must have ensured the happiness of his people could he have been spared to have accomplished the good work he had begun. francis i, his great nephew, succeeded him and was considered the _beau idéal_ of chivalry; he had been conspicuous for his accomplishments whilst duke de valois, although only twenty-one when he ascended the throne, upon which he was no sooner installed than compelled to quit his capital to oppose the enemies of france, leaving the management of the state to his mother louisa of savoy, who was not destitute of talent, but vain and intriguing, francis, after performing prodigies of valour, and killing many foes with his own hand at the battle of pavia, was taken prisoner and conveyed to madrid. on returning to france he was received with the utmost joy by his subjects; in this reign the principles of protestantism were first promulgated and several persons were burnt for subscribing to the tenets of luther. francis was occupied constantly with war, from the commencement of his reign until the year of his death. he had many virtues but they were sullied by infidelity to his engagements, and his persecution of the protestants whom he sacrificed as heretics. notwithstanding that his time was so much occupied by his enemies that a very short period of his reign was passed at paris, he found means to embellish that city; the church of st-merri in the _rue st-martin_ was built by his orders, precisely as it now stands, in the year . the style is sarrasenzic, much richness of sculpture is displayed, particularly over and around the middle door, well meriting the close attention of an amateur. at the same period were many of the churches now standing extensively repaired and nearly rebuilt, amongst which st. eustache, st. gervais, st. jacques-la-boucherie, of which the tower only remains, st. germain-l'auxerrois, etc., several colleges and hospitals were instituted, fountains and hotels erected, but scarcely any of them are now to be seen, or at any rate very few as constructed in their original form. he was succeeded by his son henry ii in , who like his predecessors was constantly occupied with war, but gained one point, that of taking the last place which the english retained in france, being calais, which surrendered to the duke de guise; after a reign of thirteen years henry was killed at a tournament held in the _rue st-antoine_, by montgomery, the captain of his guard. the cruelties of which he was guilty towards the protestants entirely eclipse whatever good qualities he possessed, which principally consisted in desperate courage with extraordinary prowess; he was also zealous in his friendships. according to dulaure, that part of the louvre which is the oldest, was built by henry ii from the design of pierre lescot. i have found other authors attribute the erection of a portion of the louvre to francis, but it appears that his son had all pulled down which was then standing, and had it built as it now remains, except the wing in which the pictures are exhibited, which is of a more recent date, and was not terminated until the time of louis xiv. the augmentation of some few colleges and hospitals were the only acts of this reign from which any advantages to paris were derived. in , at the age of sixteen, francis ii ascended the throne; his name is familiar to us as the first husband of the unfortunate mary, queen of scots; his mother, catherine de medici, of infamous memory, took the reigns of government in her hands and wreaked all her fury upon the protestants. francis, too young to have displayed any decided tone of character, expired in ; the persecution of the huguenots, as the followers of the reformed church were styled, seems to have exclusively occupied the whole time during this short reign, therefore no attention was devoted to the improving of paris, which was next brought under the dominion of the young monster, charles ix, or rather the continued reign of his sanguinary mother, catherine, he being but ten years of age. the massacre of the night of st. bartholomew is known to all. charles certainly had some revulsive feelings on the subject, and several times would have given orders to stop it, but catherine bade him assert the claims of heaven, and be the noble instrument of its vengeance, "go on, then," exclaimed the king, "and let none remain to reproach me with the deed," and after all, when daylight appeared, he placed himself at a window of the louvre, which overlooks the seine, and with a carbine he fired at the unfortunate fugitives who tried to save themselves by swimming across the river. in his reign was built the tuileries, he himself laying the first stone; it was intended for the queen mother, but catherine did not inhabit it long, her conscience not permitting her to enjoy repose anywhere. charles died a few months after the dreadful massacre of the protestants, a prey to all the pangs of remorse, and was succeeded in by his brother henry iii. brought up in the same pernicious school, under the same infamous mother as his predecessor, little could be hoped from such a being; he was inclined, however, to be somewhat more tolerant than his brother, but was frightened into persecuting the protestants; his mother died at the age of seventy, goaded by the consciousness of the crimes she had committed; civil war raged during the reign of henry, and he was obliged to quit his capital and join the protestants, whom he soon, however, betrayed; without energy to adopt any certain line of conduct, he balanced between the two parties of catholics and protestants, until both sects despised him, and at length he was stabbed by a fanatic friar, named jacques clement. several convents and religious establishments were founded in his reign, amongst the rest the feuillans, which was extensive and had a church attached, but in the whole was demolished, and on its site, and that of the monastery of the capucins, were built the rue rivoli, castiglione, and monthabor, and a terrace of the gardens of the tuileries is still called the feuillans. the pont neuf was also built in this reign. in , henry iv, surnamed the great, succeeded to the throne; he was of the house of bourbon, and descended from robert, the second son of louis the ninth. he was compelled to begin his reign by laying siege to his own capital, which was in the hands of his enemies, who defended it with , troops, and , armed priests, scholars and monks, and after three years' vain endeavours he was obliged to renounce the protestant religion, and conform to the catholic ceremonies, which produced a truce, and henry at last entered paris. by his mild and judicious conduct he regenerated the prosperity of france, and published the famous edict of nantes in favour of the protestants, and acted with considerable wisdom under the difficult circumstances in which he was placed, by the intemperate zeal of the catholics and huguenots. at last, after many unsuccessful attempts upon his life, he was stabbed in his own carriage by ravaillac, a religious fanatic, who conceived that the king was not sufficiently zealous in the cause of catholicism; he was regretted by every worthy character throughout his realms, for, although he had many of the faults common to men, yet he had such redeeming qualities that he well merited the title of _great_. during his reign paris was considerably embellished, the improvement of the city being with him a favourite object. the hospital of saint louis was built by his orders, himself laying the first stone; it is still standing, and is generally filled with patients, who receive the most humane treatment. it is situated in the rue carême prenant, near the barrière du combat. he established a manufactory of persian carpets, on the _quai de billy_, no. . the rue and place dauphine, the place royale, which still exhibits a square of houses unaltered in style since the day they were built, owed their construction to his mania for building and passion for augmenting and improving his capital. several other streets were extended and in part rebuilt under his reign, besides which he founded different institutions, had divers fountains and gates erected, as well as bridges, and some other public edifices, which having since disappeared or become the houses of individuals, workshops, warehouses, etc., it is not worthwhile to recapitulate them, as they cease to be objects of interest. several theatres were established at this period for the first time, the performers having merely given representations in large rooms belonging to public buildings where they could get accommodation, particularly in the hôtel de bourgoyne, in the rue mauconseil, which at last acquired the name of a theatre; but a company of italians received such encouragement from henry iv, that they were enabled, in a situation assigned them regularly, to establish a theatre in the hôtel d'argent, rue de la poterie, corner of the rue de la verrerie. he was equally the patron of literature, and of the arts and sciences; the tuileries and louvre, under his directions, received the material and superintendence which was requisite for their completion, as far as the design extended at that epoch. in louis xiii, but nine years of age, became heir to the throne, and marie de medici, his mother and widow of henry iv, was nominated regent; her first act was to call into power all her husband's enemies, which consisted of her own favourites, through whom she governed, and when her regency ceased, her son followed her example and became the instrument of others, until the power of governing was exclusively acquired by cardinal richelieu, who devoted his extraordinary talents in a degree to the interests of his country, but more especially to the gratification of his vanity, and the promotion of his ambitious projects; descending to the extremes of injustice, dissimulation, and cruelty, to accomplish his object, he became the persecutor of mary, who had raised him from comparative obscurity, and caused her exile, in which she died in poverty, which she certainly merited by her misconduct, but not by the instigation of her _protégé_ richelieu. but with all his sins, he effected much good; he founded the royal printing establishment, the french academy, also the garden of plants; he built the _palais-royal_ and rebuilt the church and college of the sorbonne. in this reign more religious establishments were founded than in any preceding, amongst which were the convent of the _carmes déchaussés_, no. , _rue de vaugirard_, the monks of which possessed a secret for making a particular kind of liquid which is called _eau des carmes_, and is still in demand; the church and building belonging to the establishment are now standing, and were recently occupied by nuns. the convent of _jacobins_ between the _rues du bac_ and _st-dominique_, with its church, which still remains and is called _st-thomas d'aquin_, is well worth notice, and the monastery is now occupied by the armoury which is one of the most interesting sights of paris. the _bénédictines anglaises_, no. , _rue st-jacques_, was formerly occupied by english monks, who fled their country on account of some persecution in the reign of henry viii. in , father joseph shirburne, the prior of monastery, pulled down the old building, and erected another in its place more commodious, also a church attached to it in which james the second of england was buried, as also his daughter mary stuart. it has now become the property of an individual, and is at present occupied as a factory of cotton. the oratoire in the _rue saint-honoré_, since devoted to protestant worship, was built in the year by m. de berulle, since cardinal, on the site of the _hôtel du bouchage_, once the residence of gabrielle d'estrées, the favourite mistress of henry iv. the convent of the capucins, situated in the _place des capucins_, at present an hospital. _séminaire des oratoriens_, _rue du faubourg saint-jacques_, , now occupied by the deaf and dumb. _collége des jésuites_, at present college of _louis-le-grand_. convent of _petits-pères_: the church of which still remains and is situated at the corner of the _rue notre-dame-des-victoires_. the monk fiacre, called a saint, was buried in this church; thinking that his sanctity was a preservative against evil, they stuck his portrait on all the hackney coaches, which was the cause of their ever after being called fiacre. a further recapitulation of these establishments would only be tedious to the reader, particularly as they are now for the most part become private houses; suffice it to say, that in the reign of louis xiii twenty monasteries were established at paris. the nunnery of _ursulines_; no. , _rue sainte-avoye_, now a jews' synagogue. the convent of the visitation of st. mary, _rue saint-antoine_, nos. and ; the church, still standing, was built in after the model of _notre-dame-de-la-rotonde_ at rome, and is called _notre-dame-des-anges_. another convent of the same order was built in in the _rue saint-jacques_, nos. and , and is i believe still occupied by nuns, as it was so very recently. the convent of _filles-de-la-madeleine_, _rue des fontaines_, between the nos. and , which has now become a house of seclusion for women who have been convicted of offences. the convent of the annonciades celestes or filles bleues, founded by the marchioness de verneuil, mistress of henry iv, is now in spite of all its pompous titles a waggon office in the _rue culture-sainte-catherine_, no. . the assumption, a convent for nuns, of which the church is still standing in the _rue saint-honoré_, between the nos. and , is remarkable for its large dome, but appears out of proportion with the rest of the building, which is otherwise not destitute of merit. the _val-de-grâce_, a benedictine abbey, _rue faubourg saint-jacques_, between the nos. and . the queen anne of austria founded the establishment in ; the church is still preserved in perfect order, and is of very rich architecture, too profuse in ornament. the rest of the building, once inhabited by benedictine nuns, is now an asylum for sick or wounded soldiers, being a military hospital. _port-royal_, a convent for nuns, established in in the _rue de la bourbe_, is now a lying-in hospital. the convent of the _filles de sainte-elisabeth_; the first stone was laid by marie de medici in , but was, like a multitude of others, suppressed in , the church only remaining; it is situated in the _rue du temple_, between nos. and . a convent for benedictine nuns founded in in the _rue de sèvres_, no. , being suppressed in , was converted into the more useful purpose of an hospital, and as such it still remains. the convent of the _filles de la ste-croix_, situated no. , _rue de charonne_, was occupied as recently as by nuns; it was founded in . the noble church of _st-roch, rue st-honoré_, was commenced as a chapel in , and in was converted into a parish church, but was not entirely finished until . it is now the church attended by the royal family, and is an object of interest to every one who visits paris. the church of _ste-marguerite_ was erected in in the _rue st-bernard_, nos. and , _faubourg st-antoine_, and is still attended by the inhabitants of that quarter. _maison de scipion_ was founded in a street of the same name in the year by an italian gentleman named scipio sardini, and is now the bakehouse for making bread for all the hospitals in paris. such were the principal edifices instituted in paris, during the reign of louis xiii, either as convents, monasteries, or nunneries, with churches attached to them; i have cited the most conspicuous of those of which any vestiges remain, indicating their different localities, besides a number of hospitals, most of which i have stated; that of the _incurables_ certainly merits attention, it was founded in in the _rue de sèvres_, and is now a refuge for those women of whom no hopes can be cherished of ultimate recovery. the palace of the _luxembourg_ was one of the most important edifices erected in this reign by mary de medici whilst she was regent in , in the _rue vaugirard_, at present the chamber of peers, after having served the purpose of a prison, for which a portion of it is still appropriated for criminals against the state; but with its large and beautiful gardens it merits a more detailed description, which will be given under the head of public monuments. the whole number of religious establishments of all descriptions built in the reign of louis xiii, amount to forty-nine, besides many bridges, fountains, hôtels, statues, etc., etc.; which altogether so augmented paris that it became requisite to have another wall, affording the capital more extended dimensions, which was accordingly constructed. notwithstanding all these improvements the streets of paris were in a most filthy condition, constantly emitting a disagreeable odour; they were very narrow and the greater portion of them very ill paved, besides which they were infested with thieves, and complaints were continually arising against the hosts of pages and lackeys who insulted people in the streets, and were continually committing some disorders, both during the day and the night, when persons were frequently killed in the skirmishes that were constantly taking place. ordinances and edicts were continually appearing, forbidding the pages and lackeys to wear arms, but all of no avail; when any one was arrested, he was rescued by his companions, and the officers of police sometimes killed. louis xiii, ever feeble in mind, and probably in constitution, died at the age of ; it was supposed from a premature decay. the history of the reign of louis the fourteenth and those which follow to the present day are so well known to the english, that whatever i might state respecting them would only be to my readers a repetition of that of which they are already informed, as the continual wars for the last two centuries between england and france have brought the nations in constant contact; but prior to that period, even the most prominent events of the french history are but little known to the english, and in order to enhance the enjoyment of examining the old buildings in paris, i conceived it necessary to give a slight sketch of the monarchs under whom they were erected, with the dates as accurately as could be ascertained, but consider that it would be useless to do so as regards those edifices constructed since the reign of louis xiii, as they can only afford pleasure as regards their utility or beauty; as if not two hundred years old, the age of their date ceases to excite interest, although i shall describe them in due course. i have often been surprised that in all schools, although they give the history of rome, of greece, and of course of england, yet of france, which is the country the nearest to us, we are suffered to remain ignorant as to its history. we have all heard of the battles of cressy, poitiers and agincourt, and remember that they were gained by the edwards and henry the fifth, but few persons know anything about who were the french kings under whom they were lost; the only instances where the history of the french is brought to our minds, is when any connexion by marriage has occurred between the families of the sovereigns of the two nations. chapter iv. paris as it is, being a general survey of the place itself, its attractions, its demerits, the inhabitants, their manners to strangers, towards each other, their customs, and occupations. [illustration: church of the madeleine. published by f. sinnett, , grande rue verte.] i know no better means of obtaining a first general view of paris and its inmates, than by taking a walk upon the boulevards, i therefore will invite the reader to imagine himself promenading with me, we will begin at the madeleine, and occupy a short time in surveying that noble and majestic building; it greatly reminds me of the temple of theseus, at athens; it is perhaps one of the most perfect monuments, as regards its exterior, in europe, the statues and sculpture are fine as to their general effect, but the lofty handsome pillars lose much of their beauty from the joins of the stones being too conspicuous, and having become black, the fine broad mass is cut up, and gives one an idea of so many cheeses placed one upon another, or rather they resemble the joints of a caterpillar: the interior is certainly most gorgeous, and at first strikes the beholder as a most splendid display of rich magnificence; but a moment's reflection, and instantly he feels how inconsistent is all that gilded mass and profusion of ornament with the beautiful and chaste simplicity of the exterior. i never can conceive that all that glitter of gold is in good keeping with the calm repose and dignity which ought to reign throughout a church. the madeleine was begun in the reign of louis the fifteenth, and was intended for different purposes as it slowly progressed through the different reigns which have since occurred. louis philippe at length decided upon completing it with the energy that had ever before been wanting. several public monuments had been suffered to remain dormant during the two preceding reigns, or their operations were carried on with so sparing a hand, that whilst a few workmen were employed at one end of a building, weeds and moss began to grow on the other. this pigmy style of proceeding was well-satirised during the reign of charles x in one of the papers, which announced in large letters, "the workmen at the madeleine have been doubled! where there was one, there are now two!" but soon after the present king came to the throne, capital was found, and the industrious employed. thus much for this splendid work of art; let us turn round and look about us: ah! see, there are the works of nature, how gay and cheerful those flowers appear so tastefully arranged in madame adde's shop, whilst she herself looks as fresh and healthy as her plants which are blooming around her; yet with that robust and country air she is a parisian, but, as she justly remarked to me, she was always brought up to work hard, and as her labours have been well rewarded, health and content have followed. she and her flowers have already been noticed in mrs. gore's season in paris, who used to pay her frequent visits, for who indeed would go anywhere else who had once dealt with her, for what more can one desire than civility, good nature, reasonable charges, and a constant variety of the choicest articles; i therefore can conscientiously recommend all my readers who come to paris, and are amateurs of flora, to call now and then on madame adde, no. , _place de la madeleine_. now having contemplated the beauties of art and of nature, let us observe some animated specimens of her works: what a moving mass is before us, 'tis a merry scene, the laughing children running after, and dodging each other, rolling on the ground with the plenitude of their mirth, the neat looking _bonnes_ (nursery maids) still smiling while they chide, the jovial coachmen wrestling on their stands and playing like boys together, but all in good humour, and content seems to sit on every brow, and even the aged as they meet, greet each other with a smile. how infectious is cheerfulness, when i have the blue devils i always go and take a walk on the _boulevards_; and what makes these people so happy? is the natural question; because they are content with a little, and pleased with a trifle; then they are a trifling people is the reply. what boots it i would ask? happiness is all that we desire, and i persist that those are the best philosophers who can obtain happiness with the least means. but how the green trees, the white stone houses, the gay looking shops, the broad road with the equipages rolling along all contribute to heighten the animation of the scene. we are now at the _rue de la paix_; it is certainly a noble street, and we will turn down it to look at the statue of napoleon on the column in the _place vendôme_; the pillar, which was cast from the cannon taken from the enemies of france, is decidedly a work of extraordinary merit and beauty, and requires a good deal of study to appreciate the exquisite workmanship displayed in its execution. but if it were not for the reminiscences associated with the character of napoleon, who could ever admire his statue on the top of the column, in a costume so contrary to all that is graceful and dignified; a little cocked hat with its horrid stiff angles, a great coat with another angle sticking out, the _tout ensemble_ presenting a deformity rather than an ornament: however there he stands on the pinnacle of what he and men in general would call the monument of his glory, a memento of blood, of tears of widows and orphans. could the names of those ruined and heart broken beings be inscribed upon it, whose misery was wrought by his triumphs, it would indeed tell a tale of woe. the _place vendôme_, in which the column stands, has a very noble appearance, being a fine specimen of the style of building of louis the fourteenth, in whose reign it was erected; and he too fed his ambition with wholesale flow of blood, and with treasure wreaked from the hard earned labour of his subjects, and the abridgments of their comforts, but both were ultimately destined to chew the bitter cud of mortification, and however bright the sun by which they rose to imaginary glory, they were doomed to set in a starless night. but let us turn from these lugubrious images of war, and regain the _boulevards_ and enjoy the pleasure of beholding a peaceful people. do not let us fail to observe that beautiful mansion at the corner of the _rue lafitte_; it is called the _cité italienne_, and can only be compared to a palace, the richness of the carve-work surpassing any thing of the description throughout the whole capital; although it has recently become so much the mode to adorn their houses with sculpture, yet none have arrived at the same degree of perfection displayed in the _maison d'or_: carved out on the solid stone is a boar hunt, which is really executed with considerable talent; to give an accurate description of all its beauties would much exceed the space i could afford it in justice to other objects; it is very extensive, and is i believe three houses united in one. i have understood that the sum total expended upon it was , , _francs_, or , _l._ but that my readers may form some idea of the interior, i recommend them to enter the _ancien café hardy_, which is established as a _restaurant_ within this beautiful building, and however interested my countrymen may feel in all that is intellectual, yet at the same time they possess that much of the sensual, as to have a very strong predilection for a good dinner, of the quality of which few are better judges; but with them it is not only as regards the excellence of the viands, but also they have their peculiar tastes as to how and where it is served; knowing so well their ideas in this respect, i can recommend them with confidence to _messieurs verdier and dauzier_, convinced that all their different fancies will be gratified. if they wish to be exclusive, to enjoy their meal tête-a-tête with their friend, they will find an elegant little apartment suited to their wishes; if they be three or four or more persons, they will still find they can be accommodated in such a manner that they may always imagine themselves at home; in fact there are about twenty apartments of different sizes, which are decorated in the most handsome style, yet all varying with regard to the pattern of the furniture, and all uniting an appearance of comfort and elegance, the sofa, chairs, and curtains of each little cabinet being of the richest silk, and the other decorations are consistently luxurious. the view from the windows presents all that can be imagined that is amusing and animating, overlooking the most agreeable part of the _boulevards_, being that which is designated the _boulevard italien_, and is the most fashionable resort in paris. by the aid of a _calorifère_, the whole establishment is heated to an agreeable degree of warmth, but for those who like to see a cheering blaze there are chimneys which afford them the means of having that indulgence. if they prefer dining in the public saloon, for the sake of seeing the variety of visiters by which it is frequented, they will find a most splendid apartment brilliantly fitted up, being entirely of white and gold, where every thing that is useful will be found, but always so arranged as to be rendered ornamental; in the elegant chandeliers by which the apartment is adorned, oil on a purified principle is burned; no attention in short has been omitted which could tend towards rendering the establishment an attraction for the english. i happened to be there when an apartment was arranged for a wedding party, and nothing could exceed the taste and elegance with which the table was disposed, presenting a perfect picture, where splendour and luxury abounded, but yet where a certain degree of consistency was preserved. with regard to the superior quality of the different delicacies which are provided, and the culinary talent displayed in their preparation, even vatel himself might be more than satisfied. i have visited all the most celebrated _restaurants_ in paris, and should certainly say, that for the good quality of the articles of the table, for the comfortable arrangements of the apartments, and attentive civility of the attendants, there is not any that can surpass the _café hardy_, although many there are which are infinitely more expensive. continuing our walk upon the _boulevards_, it is worthy of remark how richly some of the new houses in and about the _rue richelieu_ are sculptured, so as to present the appearance of a succession of palaces, we next arrive at the _boulevard montmartre_, where the influx of people is the greatest: we pass by the _passage des panoramas_ but do not enter it just now, although it contains some of the handsomest shops in paris, but it is too crowded, we prefer keeping our course on the _boulevards_ where we can look about us at our ease and contemplate the physiognomies of the varied groups before us; let us halt a while at the theatre _des variétés_ and remark with what eagerness numbers stop to scan the programme of the entertainments for the evening, amongst them are all ages, all classes, the common soldier, porter, and servant girl, all possessing a high idea of their judgment in theatrical affairs; passing on a little further the theatre _du gymnase_ arrests the observer's notice, where _bouffé_ has so long displayed his comic powers, which certainly in my recollection have never been surpassed, and i doubt if they ever have been equalled; there is ever a chasteness in his acting, from which he never departs, and keeps the audience in a roar of laughter without ever having recourse to grimace or buffoonery. the stupendous _porte_ (gate) _st denis_ next strikes the eye, and has a most imposing effect; it was built by louis xiv in commemoration of his victories, as i have before stated; the _bas-reliefs_ with which it is adorned represent pyramids, and colossal allegorical figures of holland and the rhine, the capture of maestricht, the passage of the rhine at tolhuys, which with two lions are its most conspicuous ornaments. whilst the mind is still occupied in reflecting upon this noble monument, another awakens attention at a short distance from the last; it is the _porte st-martin_, _boulevard st-martin_, which has been represented as a copy of that of st-severus at rome; it owes its erection to the same founder and was raised for the same purpose, that of publishing to posterity the fame of his victories; he is allegorically represented as hercules defeating the germans, the taking of limburg, besançon, etc. i shall not attempt to enter into a minute detail of these objects, it would only tire me to do so, and perhaps fatigue my reader still more; i shall therefore content myself by stating that, taken as a whole, it has an extremely fine effect. a few paces farther is the theatre of the _porte st-martin_, which was never a fashionable resort, but has often produced me much entertainment, particularly when the celebrated mademoiselle george afforded it the benefits of her talents; proceeding a few hundred yards distance, the theatre of the _ambigu-comique_ presents itself as worthy of remark; although of a minor rank, i remember being much amused at the long trains of persons waiting, according to the custom in france, at the doors of this theatre for admission when a popular piece was played, called nostradamus; as two persons can only pay at once no more are suffered to enter at a time; hence they form in pairs behind each other until they extend sometimes, the length of a furlong; they remain very quiet occasionally for hours, the first comers standing close to the doors, and as others arrive they regularly take their station behind the last persons of the _queue_, as it is styled. i remember an englishman coming up when the tail had attained rather an inconvenient length, and he did not relish placing himself at the end of it, and endeavoured to slip into one of the joints as it was much nearer the door; but a _gendarme_, perceiving his drift, very unceremoniously marched him to the end of the queue, as precedence is allotted to persons in proportion as they arrive earlier or later and the most perfect order is by that means preserved; how much better is such an arrangement than that which prevails in england at the entering of the theatres, where physical strength alone gives priority, and the bigger the brute the sooner he enters, whilst screams and murmurs attest the treading upon toes, squeezing of ribs, etc. the fountain of _st-martin_ in front of the _ambigu-comique_ is one of the most beautiful objects in paris; a handsome font rises in the middle from which the water falls in sheets of silvery profusion, whilst around, lions disgorge liquid streams which all unite in the _grand basin_; this sight is most beautiful to behold by the light of the moon. we next enter the _boulevard du temple_, where there is such a number of theatres and coffee-houses all joining each other, that there is really some difficulty of ascertaining which is the one or the other. the theatre _de la gaieté_, the resort principally of the middle or lower classes, is one of the most conspicuous, as also the _cirque olympique_, or franconi's theatre, where the performances resemble those at astley's. there is always an immense crowd on these _boulevards_ amusing themselves around a number of shows; or playing or looking at various games which are constantly going forward, singers, musicians, conjurors, merry andrews, fortune tellers, orators, dancers, tumblers, etc., are all exerting their powers, to gain a little coin from the easily pleased multitude; these _boulevards_ have in fact the appearance of a perpetual _fête_ or fair, but the curious ideas that appear to me to have entered the heads of these people in the nature of their performances, are such as i should imagine none would ever have thought of but the french; nor any lower orders but of that nation could have been found to appreciate such singular exhibitions. one of this description particularly excited my notice; a man came up with another man in his arms and popped him down just as if he was a block; he had no sooner deposited his burden than he began a long harangue upon the talents of the individual whom he had just deposited before us, in acting a machine or automaton, he then to prove his assertion gave him a knock on the back of the head, when it fell forward just as if it had belonged to a figure made with joints; he then gave it a chuck of the chin so violent that it sent the head back so as to lean on the coat collar; at last he put it in its proper position, he then operated upon the arms and legs of the image actor in the same manner, and so perfectly lifeless did he appear, that many new comers who had not heard the introductory speech of the showman, absolutely thought that it was on inanimate figure made to imitate a man that was before them, as the orator always designated his piece of still life his _mécanique_, which means _machine_; in order to afford every one the benefit of a close examination, he lifted up his automaton, then flumped him directly opposite and close to the persons who formed part of the circle and whom he judged were most likely to throw a sou, bidding us observe that even the eye never winked and that there was not the slightest breathing perceptible, and in justice i must say i never saw an actor better play his part, for watch him as closely as you would there never was the least symptom of life visible. i had often before seen images made to imitate men, but never had till then seen a man imitate an image: a few paces farther was a man acting a variety of parts with extraordinary humour, an old nurse out of place, then a young lover entreating his mistress to have pity on him, next a man in a violent passion, presently, an epicure eating _bonbons_ on the verge of the grave; the inexhaustible force of lungs, the incessant supply of words and ideas that many of them appeared to possess, to me was quite a matter of wonderment. at a short distance is a fort with cannon, whilst persons take a cross-bow and shoot at it; if they can hit one of the guns it naturally goes off; for the privilege of having a shot, a sou is paid if he do not hit the cannon, but if he succeed in so doing, he receives a sou; the reader may suppose that a miss takes place at the rate of about seven times to a hit; and after several young countrymen had been trying in vain, and had lost a good many pence, they began to grumble and declare that it was next to impossible to hit the cannon more than once in a hundred times, upon which the proprietor himself took the cross-bow and at the same distance as the others stood, hit the cannon five times running with the most perfect apparent ease, which certainly silenced the grumblers, but convinced them of their own awkwardness. my attention was next attracted by a pretty little building surrounded by moss and trees, at the top of a large glass globe which contained water with several gold and silver fish swimming in it, while some canary birds, who were sometimes perching on the house, the moss, or the trees, ever and anon flew to the bottom of the globe and were seen fluttering about amongst the fish, then ascend to their little building without having wetted a feather; the effect is very pretty and the deception is pleasing, inasmuch as the birds require no torturing tuition to perform their little parts; the secret consists in one globe being placed in another considerably larger, the outer being filled with water in which are the fish, whilst the inner wherein the birds are seen is dry and empty. a fortress where canary birds are again the performers is a sight which is extremely curious, as a proof of what these little creatures are capable of executing under the management of a master, where i fear gentleness has not only been exercised; a number of little cannon are placed to which the birds apply a substance at the end of a little stick which causes them to go off, when some fall and pretend to die and the victors advance with their muskets, and strutting about give you to understand that the fort is taken and that they are conquerors. to recapitulate all the curious manoeuvres which are constantly going forward on the _boulevards_ would swell a volume, we will therefore pass on to the more retired parts, where the fine vistas of high trees have been spared the havoc of the three days; these once extended throughout the whole course of the _boulevards_, but so many trees were cut down to form barricades, that those beautiful arches formed by rows of lofty elms, which were merely trained on the inner side, the outer being suffered to grow in the wild luxuriance of nature, are only now to be met with "few and far between." near the spot where formerly stood the much dreaded bastille, now rises to the view the column erected to commemorate the revolution of ; inclining to the right, the _boulevards_ then lead to the seine. in many parts of these delightful promenades, double rows of chairs are placed, and persons of the highest respectability come from different quarters and sit for hours in them, amused with observing the happy moving scene around them; the seats on the _boulevard italien_ are often occupied by persons of fashion, who arrive in their equipages, then take chairs for an hour or two, whilst their carriages wait for them; the charge for each chair is one sou, but every one takes two, one for the purpose of resting the feet, and generally takes ices which are served from tortoni's, long celebrated for the supply of that cooling refreshment. it is by night that the _boulevards_ are seen to the greatest advantage, the innumerable lights blazing from the different theatres, the lamps placed before the coffee-houses, the brilliant shops, the trees, the equipages, the sound of music and singing, the houses, which resemble palaces, the gilded cafés all united has the air of a fairy scene to any one brought suddenly upon them. some of the handsomest shops and coffee-houses are to be found on the _boulevards_, and dwellings where many of the most respectable persons reside. there is always an humble traffic going on from an immense number of stalls, in which various commodities are sold, and although the assortment consists of a hundred different descriptions of articles, yet all are at one price, consisting of everything that can well be imagined, from a comb to a pair of bellows, the vender singing out the price with stentorian lungs, perhaps twenty-five sous, more or less, and as there is a great deal of opposition with these itinerant merchants, they often try who can cry out the loudest, and succeed in raising a terrific din, which amuses the mob, who consider that all is life and spirit as long as there is noise and fun going forward; these _boulevards_, therefore, are just such as suit the parisian lower classes. those on the south side of the seine are an exact contrast, most of them being so deserted, that in viewing the long lines of tall arched elms, with scarcely an individual moving beneath them, one could imagine that they were a hundred miles from any capital; but there is something pleasing in retiring to these lone green shades, when fatigued with the bustle and rattling noises of the city. the only individuals usually to be met with in these quiet _boulevards_ are now and then a nursery-maid with a child, an old lady of the gone-by school, and her female servant of the same era, who jog on at a slow and solemn pace as they moan over the good old times that are passed, and sympathise in expressions of horror at the vices of the present day; a tall thin battered looking beau, whose youth was passed in the last century, meets the antiquated pair, mutual salutations take place, the gentleman doffs his hat, and with a graceful sort of turn and wave of the hand, at the same time bows his body full half way to the ground, which, although rather stiffened with age, still retains a shadow of the elegance of former times. madame makes a very pretty reverence, somewhat ceremonious, according to the flippant ideas of the present day, entreats monsieur would put on his hat, would be in despair if he should catch cold; he obeys, is enchanted to see her look so well, but desolated to hear she has a little cold, and after expressing the most fervent hopes for her getting better, he takes his leave, having too good a notion of propriety to join the lady in her walk lest a _liaison_ between them might be suspected. how different this worn-out remnant of the days of louis the sixteenth from _la jeune france_ of the present day, when the usual greeting between the young men would be a nod of the head, "_bon jour, ca va bien?_" adieu, and away, which is tantamount to "how do, quite well, good bye," and off; with a lady the abruptness would be a little softened, but any politeness that gives much trouble is quite at a discount with such young men of the present day in france. a solitary workman, a sentinel, and an old soldier, if near the hospital of the invalids, are probably the only persons you will usually meet on the southern _boulevards_, except now and then i have seen a ladies' boarding-school thread its course beneath the thick foliage, whose mistress perchance selects a retired spot for giving her pupils a little air and exercise, removed from the gaze of the city throng. whatever pleasing impressions these shady retreats may have made upon the mind, on re-entering paris they are soon dissipated; if by the public streets, the variety of noises which assail the ear, and the confusion of so many people bustling along upon a little bit of pavement not two feet wide, gives you plenty of occupation both to make your way, and get out of the way; when, compelled to give place to some lady, you descend from the narrow flags into the road, and whilst you are manoeuvring to escape a cart you see coming towards you, "_gare_" is bawled out with stunning roar; you look round and find the pole of a coach within an inch of your shoulder, you scramble out of the way as fast as you can through mud and puddle, and are glad to clap your back against a house to make room for some lumbering vehicle, where the naves of the wheels stick out with menacing effect, happy to congratulate yourself that there is just room enough for it to pass without jamming you quite flat, and that you are quit of the danger at the expense of being smeared with a little mud from the wheel; this is the case in many of the streets in that part of paris called the _cité_, and others which cross from the _rue saint-denis_ to the _rue saint-martin_ and _du temple_ etc. happily for my readers, it is not very probable that many of them will ever be called into those neighbourhoods, or if they be, it will probably be in a carriage, when they will not stand near the same chance of being crushed to death; but as i explore all parts and am thereby the better enabled to give a faithful picture of paris, i consider it incumbent on me to inform my country people that there are such streets that they may better know how to enjoy paris by keeping out of the way of them. to see paris to the best advantage it is requisite to get up early, that is about three o'clock in the morning in the months of june or july, before any one is stirring; this indeed is pretty much the case with all cities, but particularly the french capital, because the streets being very narrow and crowded, you have not room to look up and look about. paris in the old quarters at that hour, or in a bright moonlight when all are at rest, has the effect of a city composed of chateaux or castles joined together, the height of the houses, the great heavy _porte cochères_, the castellated style of the attic windows and often projecting turrets, with the profusion of iron work, combine in giving a degree of gloom that appears to tell a tale of olden time, and many of the houses date as far back as charles the fifth, sixth, and seventh, which is coeval with our henry the fourth, fifth, and sixth. there is one house of which the ancient staircase still remaining is as old as the year ; it is situated in the _rue du four_, near the _rue de la harpe_, and called the _maison blanche_, having been inhabited by the mother of _saint-louis_, but there is no doubt that the only part now standing that could have been built at that period is the staircase; in the same neighbourhood are many objects that would interest the antiquary, to which i shall hereafter allude. paris is encircled by a double row of _boulevards_, the north inner circle is that which is the most frequented; the outer circle runs all along the walls which encompass paris, where the barriers are situated, of which there are fifty-six, all rather handsome buildings than otherwise, and no two of them quite alike. many of the streets as you approach the farthest _boulevards_ of paris have a very dull appearance, consisting in many instances of high walls and habitations separated from each other, with market gardens behind, but which cannot be seen from the street as they are all enclosed, and grass growing here and there in patches give them more the appearance of roads which have been abandoned than of inhabited streets. some of the modern parts of paris are extremely handsome and indeed all which has been built within the last five-and-twenty years. the _chaussée-d'antin_ is the favourite quarter; there the streets are of a fair width and are well paved, and some very recently built are really beautiful, especially one just finished called the _rue tronchet_, just behind the _madeleine_. the quarter round the _place vendôme_ is certainly one of the finest in paris, and most decidedly the dearest. i know persons who pay fourteen thousand francs a year for unfurnished lodgings in the _place vendôme_, that is _l._ a year; a whole house in a fashionable quarter of london may be had for the same money; indeed on the _boulevards_, in some of the _passages_ and the most fashionable streets in paris, shops let for more money than in any part of london; there is an instance of a single shop letting for _l._ per annum, and not one of particularly extensive dimensions, but situated on the _boulevard montmartre_, which is perhaps the best position in paris. one of the greatest attractions is the _passages_, something in the style of the burlington arcade but mostly superior; of these there are from twenty to thirty, so that in wet weather you may walk a considerable distance under cover. the _palais-royal_, the favourite resort of foreigners and provincials, also affords that convenience. although paris on the whole is not so regularly built as london, yet there is a sombre grandeur about it which has a fine effect, owing in some degree to the large lofty houses of which it is composed; the straightness, width, and neatness of the streets of london form its beauty, but it is astonishing how foreigners when they first behold it, are struck with the small size of the houses. i remember entering london with an italian gentleman who had ever before been accustomed to the large massive palaces of genoa, florence, etc., and the first remark he made upon our grand metropolis was that it looked like a city of baby houses; another feature in our dwellings does not please the foreign eye, and that is the dingy colour of our bricks, which certainly has not so light an appearance as stone, of which the houses on the continent are generally built. the irremediable defect in paris is certainly the narrowness of the streets, although every opportunity is turned to advantage by the government when houses are taken down to compel the proprietors to rebuild them in such a manner as to afford a yard more width to the public, whilst those streets that are at present constructing are on a magnificent plan. the great beauty of paris consists in its public monuments, which certainly are not only very numerous, but some upon the grandest scale, independent of those which are generally conspicuous in a city; the barriers and fountains form a considerable feature in paris amongst its ornaments. the parisians generally are a remarkably persevering and industrious people, amongst the trading classes, particularly the women, who often take as ostensible a part in business as their husbands; except that it is an establishment upon a very large scale, the wife is usually the cashier, and you will find her as stationary at the counter almost as the counter itself. the idea that exists in england with respect to married women in france is quite erroneous, for more domestic and stay at home is impossible to be, that is amongst the middle classes; the same remark applies to the lower orders. as to the higher classes they never can be cited as forming a characteristic in any country; receiving a highly finished education, they are all brought to the same degree of polish, and the primitive features are entirely effaced. good nature is a very conspicuous trait in the french character, and that is continually displayed towards any foreigner; ask your way in the street in a polite manner, and generally the persons become interested in your finding the place you want, and if they do not know themselves, they will go into a shop and enquire for you, and not feel easy until they have ascertained it for you, but it depends much upon the manner in which you address them. a doctor smith related to me a circumstance which proves how different is the effect of a courteous and an uncourteous mode of speaking to a frenchman; the doctor had with him a friend who was a regular john bull, and they wishing to know their way to some place, the latter stepped up to a butcher who was standing at his door and asked him in a very rough manner, and received an evasive reply; the doctor then put the same question to the man but in a more polite form, the butcher replied, "if you will wait a minute, sir, i will put on my coat and show you the way," which he did in the most good humoured manner, but remarked to the doctor that every one in france liked to be treated as a fellow man, and not to be spoken to as if they were brutes. thus it appears that even butchers in france expect to be treated with some degree of politeness. the women are still more tenacious in that respect than the men; they consider, even down to a housemaid, that their sex demands a certain tone of deference, however humble their position, and if a nobleman did not touch his hat to them when they open or shut the door for them, with the usual salutation of good day or good morning, they would pronounce his manners brutal, and say, that although he was a man of title he was not a gentleman; hence the very unceremonious manner that an englishman has of addressing servants, whether male or female, has kept them very much out of favour with that class of the french community. a scullion, or what may be termed a girl of all work, that has not met with that degree of respect from some of our countrymen to which she considered herself entitled, will remark, that the english may be very rich, but they certainly are not enlightened as we are, with a little drawing up of the head, implying their consciousness of superiority over us semi-barbarians; your charwoman, your washerwoman's drudge, fishwoman, or girl that cries turf about the streets, are all madame and mademoiselle when they speak of each other, and with them there is no such word as woman; if a female, she must be a lady, even if her occupation be to pick up rags in the street. the french women certainly excel in the art of dress and everything which appertains to the decoration of the person, but the devotion which exists amongst them to that passion tends greatly towards frivolising the mind; hence i find their inferiority, generally speaking, to english women; in the latter you will often meet, even amongst the middle classes, with a girl who has received a good education; forming her pleasures from pursuits which are purely intellectual, she will not only find enjoyment in that light reading merely calculated to amuse, or that kind of music which consists of pretty quadrilles, a few trifling songs, and two or three lessons adapted for the display of execution, or that style of poetry and of painting which is something of the same nature, just fit to please the fancy without touching the heart; no, you will find that she enters into the very soul of those mental recreations, nor does that interfere with her domestic virtues; she is equally capable of performing every social duty, but she devotes not so considerable a portion of her time and thoughts to dress, nor is she so totally absorbed in the anticipation and retrospection of balls and soirées, to the exclusion of every other feeling, as long as the season for parties continues, which is but too much the case with females in paris, except with those whose business or occupations prevent them from participating otherwise than very sparingly in the gaieties of that description; but the class i allude to in france, is that which consists of persons of independent fortune, who have never been connected with anything in the shape of trade or even professions, except army or navy, yet whose property is too small to estimate them as belonging to the higher classes, whilst they would consider themselves as degraded by an association with even the richer tradespeople, generally coming under the denomination of middle classes. this grade, immediately below the highest classes and above the middle, is very numerous in paris, their incomes varying from four hundred to a thousand a-year; with the females in this class there is an exact resemblance to those of the class above, only the sphere is more confined; their education finished, they retain but little of what they have learned, except dancing, singing, and music, because they are calculated for display, and tell in society; drawing is laid aside, even after much proficiency had been acquired, reading confined to the reviews of the popular works of the day, the inexhaustible subjects of conversation are the toilet, which is pre-eminent, balls, soirées, and public places; if literature be introduced, you will find their knowledge of it sufficient to escape the charge of ignorance, particularly in history, as great pains are now taken with their education, and which certainly is of the best description, whilst there is a grace and sweetness of manner which is highly captivating; yet when you become well acquainted with these ladies, whose surface was enchanting, you find at last a want of soul. as a proof how seldom i have found french females express any delight in beholding all the phenomena of an extensive and beautiful country, and if the mind be dead to that charm, how must it be lost to the enjoyments of descriptive poetry and painting, as if the reality afford not pleasure how little can be derived from the representation; i have found in france many exceptions to this rule, women, in fact, whose society afforded a highly intellectual treat. but they are rare, and when one speaks of a people generally, the mass must be stated and not the exceptions. in england, even amongst the classes of the highest fashion, many women are to be met with, who, notwithstanding that they are whirled about in london for months together to parties every night, sometimes to three or four in an evening, to hear and say the nothings that pass current in assemblages of that description, both deteriorating to health and mind, yet on returning to their seats in the country, whilst the husband is following the sports of the field, the females will have recourse to intellectual occupations, and cultivate those seeds of knowledge which had been instilled into their minds during their early youth, thus conferring upon them those companionable powers, which are the great charm of life; the rural scenes around them call their pencils into practice, whilst the true spirit of poetry constantly appears to their feelings in the forms of those beauties of nature which in fact are its life and soul. embosomed in the calm retirement found in such retreats, the various objects in view engender the love of reading; hence the englishwoman recruits her mental powers after the frivolizing effects of a season in town. the frenchwoman goes into the country for the purpose of enjoying the fresh air, she reads a little to kill time, and occupies much of it with her embroidery and other fancy works, and after a short period passed amongst the vine-clad hills, sighs once more to return to her dear paris, complains of ennui, wonders what the fashions will be at the next longchamp, and whether they will be such as become her or not, but feeling herself bound to wear whatever may be pronounced the modes, and trusts to her taste to arrange it in such a manner as to set her off to the best advantage. my countrywomen are not so much slaves to fashion and do not care to put on every thing that comes out, if they think it does not suit them, but it must be admitted that they have not the same taste as the french in regard to costume; it is a quality that is peculiar to them, and acknowledged by all the civilised world; in england, russia, even greece, ladies of the high ton must send to paris for their hats and bonnets, and have them from madame de barennes, in the _place vendôme_, which is not merely an idea, but a fact that they really are replete with that exquisite taste for which they are so justly famed; even the manner in which her lofty and noble saloons are arranged display an elegance of conception, there is a chasteness which pervades the whole, the furniture as well as the decorations of the room are either of white or ebony and gold, preserving that degree of keeping which is inseparable from a truly classical taste. i must confess that the most refined, the most charming and fascinating women that i ever met with, were some english and irish ladies who had been some years in france, still retaining all those intellectual qualities which are the brightest gems of the british female character, united with that quiet grace which has so much of dignity and ease, and that pleasing affability appearing but as nature in a truly elegant frenchwoman; at the same time i think my fair countrywomen are also much improved when they have acquired the same degree of taste in the arrangement of their costume for which the parisian females have so well merited a reputation. of course in this comparison i am speaking of the most well-bred females of both countries. although i do not find the french ladies possessing those high intellectual qualities, which are in a great degree engendered and fostered by certain habits and early associations, i do not conceive that the germs of talent are in the least deficient, but on the contrary, we find them excelling in literature and the arts, in ingenuity, and where exertion is required in trying circumstances, that they are capable of heroism, but there is a natural life and vivacity in the french character that inclines not to study, nor strict application, unless the position in life renders it necessary. the english very frequently are by nature disposed to reflection and even like often to be alone, consequently are undoubtedly a more thinking nation, although not so brilliant, but experience has proved that patient and undeviating perseverance, ultimately, outsteps the more showy and sparkling quality of genius. for the sympathies of the heart i have found the french females most keenly alive, no mothers can be more devotedly attached to their children than they are, and it is repaid to them with interest by their offspring, as a devotional affection towards parents is carried to an extreme; in some instances i should say to a fault, as a daughter in general looks up entirely to them, in regard to the man that they may choose with whom she is to pass the rest of her life, without presuming that she ought to make a selection for herself, considering that her marriage is the affair of her parents, and that she has but to obey their wishes in that, as well as in all other cases; hence it is rarely found that a french young lady has aught of romance in her composition, but is on the contrary the mild, docile, obedient, and affectionate pupil, and often imitator of her mother. the english young lady is a little more rebellious; possessing a more independent spirit, she very soon takes the liberty of thinking for herself, particularly on that subject; and could she totally have her will would act for herself also. families are much more united in france than in england, and agree together in a most astonishing manner; thus when a daughter marries, instead of quitting her home, the husband arranges his affairs so as to go and live with her parents, and in many cases several families live together and form one little community, which spares the pain of separation of parent and child. the numerous offspring of the celebrated marquis de lafayette was a remarkable instance of how whole families can live and agree under the same roof; at his seat called la grange, his married children and their children and grandchildren were all residing together, whilst he, like one of the ancient patriarchs, was the revered head of his people. i know a case at boulogne, where in one house there are living together, two great grandfathers, one grandfather and grandmother, two fathers and two mothers and their four children, and what renders it more curious is that they are half english and half french, but all connected by their sons and daughters intermarrying; but strange to say that the english could not agree to live together in that manner, and it is a most extraordinary circumstance much remarked by the french, that wherever the english are settled in any town in france, they always contrive to quarrel with each other, and find employment for the french lawyers; at boulogne they have at least twice as much practice for the english as for the natives. with regard to the conduct of the french towards foreigners, speaking from the long experience which i have had, i should certainly state that it was kind and attentive when brought into contact in travelling or from any other circumstances, provided that a person does not attempt to support a haughty or supercilious air. i do not consider that, generally speaking, the french are so hospitable as the english, not only as regards foreigners but even amongst themselves; it is not so much their habit. in many houses you may pass an hour or two of an evening, and there will never be any question regarding refreshments; not having the custom of taking tea of an evening, that social bond which unites the family together at a certain hour in england not existing in france, little domestic evening parties seldom occur. i have been to a few amongst what i call the very quiet families of paris, which are styled the _demi fortunes_, and cakes, beer, wine, sugar and water, etc., were given; in the high fashionable parties tea now is always introduced at about twelve. to ask a friend to a family dinner is not so much the practice in france as in england, as the custom existing in the former of having so many dishes with such a trifle in each, the platters are often pretty well cleared by the usual inmates of the establishment, and they are not prepared for an additional person. with the english who are accustomed to large joints, if two or three additional guests suddenly enter, they are still prepared. the french have also an idea that if they ask you to dinner that they must provide so great a variety, which entails infinitely more trouble than the more simple and more wholesome repast, i should say, of the english. there is a great sympathy in france towards each other in their respective classes; if a quarrel take place in the street between one of the lower and one of the middle class, all that pass by of the former description will take the part of the individual of his own level; the same will be the case with the other classes, often without inquiring into the merits of the case. the impulse of feeling exists to a great degree amongst the french, which is instantly displayed if a person falls or is taken ill in the street, and much feeling is developed if any little accident or misfortune occurs to a poor person passing by. i remember an instance of a woman who was trudging away with a basket of crockery and some eggs at the top, a poor man who was carrying a load slipped, and in his fall upset the woman and broke the greater part of her brittle goods; in this case both being poor persons, it became a knotty point for the french to decide; very long and very warm were the arguments adduced on both sides by the mob which had assembled, the man declared he was too poor to have it in his power to pay for the damage which he had caused, that he had hurt himself very much in the fall and found that quite misfortune enough for him. the woman cried and vowed she could not afford to lose the value of the articles broken, and the eggs belonged to another person who had given her the money to buy them, and persisted that the man ought to pay for what he had broken, although she admitted it was a very hard case for him; what was to be done? a subscription it was decided was the only means of settling the affair, and one person giving half a franc by way of example, engaged to be collector, and from the different bystanders, each giving a few sous, the sum required was soon produced, and all parties departed with the conviction that the affair had been equitably arranged. the french are in the habit of rising extremely early, especially the lower classes, and even amongst the middle and higher ranks they are rarely so late in all their operations as the english. persons in easy circumstances amongst the french generally take coffee, with a piece of bread, as soon as they are up, and then breakfast _à la fourchette_ about twelve, which consists of soup, meat, vegetables, fruit, and wine; they dine about six or seven, which is a repetition of the breakfast, with greater variety and more abundance. wine is drank throughout the dinner, and never after; but light as their _vin ordinaire_ generally is, they always dilute it with water. immediately after dinner, coffee, without milk or cream, is taken, and lastly a glass of liqueur; no other repast is thought of until the following day, as they neither take tea nor supper, in their usual family habits. but in cases of invitation it is quite another affair, several different wines of superior quality are handed about at dinner, with which they do not mix water, and always champagne of course is drank without being diluted. when they give a _soirée_, a variety of refreshments are produced, as different descriptions of cakes, ices, orgeat and water, punch, warm wine, limonade, etc., according to the season of the year; and often a supper is given on a very liberal scale. dancing, music, singing, and cards form the amusements of the evening; the games which are played are generally écarté and whist. the passion for dancing pervades all classes, and even amongst the lowest orders they always find the means of gratifying themselves with that pleasure, but in all their enjoyments down to the public-houses in the worst quarters of paris, there is a degree of decorum which surprises an englishman accustomed to the extreme grossness of similar classes in our own country. determined to see as much of life as i could in all its stages during a carnival, accompanied by a countryman i visited many of the lowest order of wine houses where balls were going forward; the only payment required for entrance was the purchase of a bottle of wine, costing six sous. we expected to see a good deal of uproarious mirth and all kinds of pranks going forward, but were quite astonished to find the order that prevailed; the men appeared as if they were in such a hurry for a dance that they had not waited until they washed their hands and faces, but had just come directly from their work, although several of them had slipped on masquerade dresses; the women were cleaner (i suspect they were not of the most immaculate description), and were amusing themselves with quadrilles and waltzes alternately. being of course very differently attired from the rest of the assemblage, we were very conspicuous, but they took no notice of us whatever; if they happened to run against us whilst waltzing and whirling about, they always said "je vous 'mande pardon, monsieur," and nothing farther. we observed that the men paid for the musicians two sous each dance and the women one, and we came away rather disappointed at finding things so much more insipid than we expected; we visited several houses of the same description and found the same sort of scene going forward in them all. the working people in paris are extremely frugal in their mode of living; bread being full seven-eighths of their food, what they eat with it varies according to the season; if in summer, mostly such fruit as happens to be ripe, and perhaps once in the day they take a bit of soft white-looking cheese with their bread. in winter they often add instead, a little morsel of pork or bacon, but more frequently stewed pears or roasted apples. on sundays they always put the _pot-au-feu_, as they call it, which means that they make soup, or literally translated, that they put the pot on the fire. henry iv declared that he should not feel satisfied until he had so ameliorated the condition of the poor, that every peasant should be able to have a fowl in his pot every sunday; had he not suddenly been cut off by assassination, he might have lived to have seen his benevolent wish accomplished. many of the wives of the working people contrive to muster some soup for their husbands when they get home at night, and almost all manage to have a little wine in the course of the day. on the sunday in the summer time they contrive to have a degree of pleasure, and go to one of the houses round paris called _guinguettes_, something in the nature of the tea-gardens about london, but in paris and most parts of france the husband takes his wife and even his children with him if they are old enough; indeed, you generally see the whole train together. at these houses they mostly take beer which is not very strong, but they make it less so by mixing it with water, as they do almost every beverage; sometimes they have wine, lemonade, or currant juice, which is called _groseille_, and that from the black currant _cassis_; there they will sit looking at the dances, in which they sometimes join, and return home about ten o'clock. this is pretty much the routine of a _regularly conducted_ working-man in paris, and it must be admitted that they form by far the greater number, particularly those who are married. amongst the middle-classes, both husband and wife keep very steadily to business, particularly the latter, and as they live frugally, they generally calculate upon retiring from business in ten or twelve years, and mostly effect their object, as they are perfectly contented when they have amassed enough capital to produce three or four hundred a year, which is the case with the major part of them; many are not satisfied until four or five times that sum; but they are seldom ambitious, nor care to get out of their class, as the persons with whom they associate and are intimate, are mostly relations and connexions to whom they are attached, and do not seem to fancy any pleasure in extending their acquaintances. but before they retire from business they have their occasional recreations; in fine weather they are very fond of spending their sundays in the country; in the winter they frequently visit the theatres, but very rarely have company at home or pay visits, except on the new year, and in the carnival they give one ball, and go to several others given by their relations; this description alludes to what may be termed the respectable class of shopkeepers. they have one means of communication with each other, of which they avail themselves for the advantages of business or for the purpose of recreation, if they choose, which consists of what they term _cercles_, much the same as we should call clubs; they are establishments composed of perhaps members, more or less, who meet in a suite of apartments fitted up for the purpose, and certainly most elegantly, both as regards the decoration of the rooms and the furniture they contain. a clerk is employed, whose business it is to collect information as to the different merchants who arrive at paris from the various parts of france and other countries; they find out the particular branch in which he deals, and that member whose business it is to vend the commodity likely to be demanded, sends him a programme of his goods and his terms. if any one receive a commission from any country which is not in his department, he proclaims it to the cercle, and gives a fellow-member the benefit of the order; thus they play into each other's hands and greatly promote their mutual interests. billiard-tables are fitted up for the amusement of the members, who also occupy themselves with other games, whilst refreshments are to be had the same as in a coffee-house. there are many of these establishments in paris, which afford great facilities for the promotion of business. although the extraordinary increase of trade in paris is almost incredible, yet the bankrupts are more numerous than they were formerly; one reason is, on account of the number of persons in each business having so much increased, and the immense expenses which they incur in the embellishment of their shops to try and outvie each other. a person taking a place in the palais royal about three years since, first gave the occupier , francs ( , _l._) to quit, and then expended , francs ( , _l._) in fitting it up as a restaurateur's; the rent being high in proportion, the success was not commensurate with the expenditure and the speculation failed. this is one of the many instances which have recently occurred at paris, causing bankruptcy; yet some persons have laid out more than double the amount in the decorations for restaurateurs and coffee-houses, and yet have succeeded. the occupations of the higher classes in paris are much the same as they are in other capitals; both sexes are more fond of taking baths than they are in london, and even when they have that convenience in their own houses, the men often prefer lounging to the most fashionable public baths. the young sparks of fashion are very fond of sumptuous breakfasts at the most stylish coffee-houses in paris, and often begin by taking a few dozen of oysters by way of giving them an appetite; beefsteaks dressed in the english style, a few choice french dishes, two or three sorts of wine, desert, and coffee, generally compose the repast until the dinner hour. the time is filled up with walking, riding, driving, practising gymnastic exercises, pistol-shooting, fencing, etc. after dinner, which usually terminates about eight, and is in fact the same thing as the breakfast on a more extensive scale, they proceed to the theatres; those most in vogue with the beau monde are the italian opera, the french opera or académie de musique, the comic opera, and the théâtre français. after the performances are over, they generally lounge into some favourite coffee-house, and then close the day to recommence another, following much the same course, with some trifling variation. but now the favourite pursuit amongst young men of fashion, is that of riding and every thing which is connected with horses, such as racing, leaping, steeple chasing, and discussing their different qualities and the various modes of breaking them in, in england and in france. but there is no subject upon which there is so much difference of opinion between the two nations as upon that of equestrian exercises and the management and training of horses. our bold fox-hunters and daring steeple chasers, i am aware, will not for an instant imagine that there are any riders to be found equal to englishmen, whilst the french, although they give us credit for doing many things better than themselves, do not at all admire our horsemanship. they admit that our good riders are not easily thrown, and keep their seat under many difficult and dangerous circumstances, but they contend that the english generally have not sufficient command over their horses in making them obey every wish of the rider, whilst the accomplished french cavalier will make his horse go backwards, sideways, right, or left, in a direct line, will cause him to stop in an instant whilst at full speed, will make him bear on his near or off leg just as he chooses, or make him place either foot on a five franc piece, and in fact have the same command over his horse as if it were his child. there are many riding-masters now in paris of superior talent, but for rendering his pupils dauntless horsemen, capable of mounting any animal however restive, i do not think that any can be found to surpass m. de fitte. i have seen him place his best pupils upon a horse, which upon signals given, will rear upon his hind or his forelegs, changing from one to the other with such rapidity and in such constant succession that the rider cannot the least foresee what prank the horse is about to play, and therefore cannot be prepared for what he has to encounter, whilst he is seated on a saddle without stirrups or bridle, as with folded arms he defies every manoeuvre his steed essays to throw him. the riding-school of mr. fitte is at no. , rue montmartre, next to the great establishment of the messageries royales, from whence depart the diligences for all parts of france. he has always about forty horses of different countries and descriptions; amongst them are some especially trained for ladies, and such as will be found well adapted to the most bold and the most timid rider, which he lets out at very moderate terms. any person must feel gratified at being present when he gives his evening lessons to his pupils, as amongst other exercises he practises them in what is called the _jeu de bague_, which consists of rings loosely suspended from a post, whilst the rider carries a lance, and in passing by at full gallop endeavours to run it through the ring, which is about two inches in diameter, and is hung in such a manner that it yields to the lance and remains upon it whilst the rider, without stopping, proceeds at full speed and takes off the next. two persons are generally exercised together at this game, and he who takes off the most rings wins. it is a useful practice now adopted in almost all the riding-schools in paris, as it teaches the pupil to forget his seat, giving him another object to occupy his mind, till at last the young pupil feels as easy upon a horse at full gallop as seated in his chair, his whole attention being directed towards taking off more rings with his lance than his competitor. mr. fitte during the lesson also himself displays what can be done with different horses, in giving them that sort of motion which he thinks proper, which is principally produced by operating upon the animal with the muscles of the calves of the legs, of which the french avail themselves much more in the management of a horse than the english. it appears quite a new era in the annals of horsemanship that an approved english riding-master should come over to france to place himself for two years under a french riding-master, yet such i know to be the case. mr. f.w., the person to whom i allude, had long been accustomed to mount horses of all descriptions, with the full confidence of always being able to keep his seat; but when at paris he met with a master who could not only defy any horse to throw him, but under all circumstances could always preserve a graceful position, even while baffling every attempt of a horse to floor him. in order to try the capabilities of mr. w., the french master placed him on all kinds of horses, and amongst the rest those which had been taught all sorts of tricks to fling their riders, but w. resisted all their attempts, but it was by keeping his seat in his own way, which he knew had an awkward air, when compared to the graceful mien the frenchman preserved throughout the same evolutions. another art he strove also to acquire from his master, that of dominating the most vicious horse to a degree that shall render it so docile that any moderate horseman may mount it in safety. this was effected by the french riding-master (with whom w. placed himself), under the most extraordinary circumstances; a horse was offered him of extreme beauty, but so totally unmanageable that it had been given up by three rough riders of regiments in england, and was almost considered as worthless, as no one could be found to ride it; the frenchman undertook in one year so to tame its restive spirit as to render it a valuable horse for any rider. the owner quitted france, but agreed to return in a twelvemonth, when they were to divide the amount of what the horse might sell for; but it so happened that the owner did not return for eighteen months, and when the twelvemonth had expired the riding-master considered the horse his own and sold it to franconi for , francs ( _l._), having so completely taught the horse to obey its master, as to make it dance to music, to bear upon which leg he chose to dictate, and in fact to do more than i shall venture to state, as were i to give an accurate description it must appear an exaggeration, having met with several englishmen who with myself have declared they never could have believed, had they not had ocular demonstration, that a horse could have been taught to do that which the animal in question has nightly exhibited at franconi's. when the owner did return, he claimed the half of the value the horse had fetched, but the riding-master pleaded that the contract was annulled by his not making his claim at the time agreed upon between them; the other persisting in his demand, the affair was referred to a court of justice, and decided in favour of the riding-master, and it is said that franconi has since refused , francs for the horse. there is one peculiarity in the english style of riding which is remarked all over the continent, and that is, the rising in the saddle, or what is termed, adopting one's own motion, instead of that of the horse, which is certainly much rougher and not so agreeable, and for my own part i have found it a great relief when upon a long journey; of course it is never adopted by our cavalry, and the french contend that to sit as close as possible, partaking of the motion of the horse, as soon as the rider is accustomed to it he will travel farther, and with less fatigue than by what is termed the english method. m. de fitte however thinks differently from his countrymen in that respect. it is also considered that in both our riding and driving we rein in our horses far too much, the consequence being that the animal, accustomed to be held up by the rider or driver, depends upon it, as what is called his fifth leg, and if there be any negligence in thus sustaining him, he immediately trips and often comes to the ground; whereas the horse who is habituated to a looser rein goes more boldly, depending on the powers nature has given him, and carries his head lower, and of course sees his ground better, avoiding that which might occasion a false step; and certainly the horses in france very seldom fall, except in frost or snow, when strange to say the french have never had the wit to have them rough-shod. notwithstanding all that is said upon the subject i have found the advantage of keeping a tighter rein upon my horse than they are in the habit of practising in turkey, as although in a journey which i had of seven hundred miles on horseback in that country they found great fault with my riding, yet i kept my seat, and my horse upon his legs, without once coming to the ground, when the tatar, the surdjee, and my travelling companion were alternately prostrated from the falling of their horses, which i attribute to their not being able to check them in time when they tripped, to prevent their totally sprawling; it is true that some parts of the road could only be compared to a street having been unpaved and all the stones left loose upon the ground over which we had to ride, consequently i took the greatest care, never for an instant neglecting any precaution to keep my hack from stumbling. but where a horse is liable to come upon his knees, certainly the system of rising in the saddle is most unsafe, and i never met with any one who could better teach his pupils to sit close and firm even with the roughest trot than m. de fitte, who, not content with precept, himself furnishes the example. amongst his pupils, are many of the fair sex as the french ladies are now beginning to imitate the gentlemen in their passion for equestrian exercises, and frequently in the champs-Élysées and bois de boulogne display the progress they have made in the art. although their pursuits are not so numerous nor so various as those of the men, yet their opportunities of killing time are greater; as shopping alone employs often some hours of the day, the importance attached to a bonnet, a cap, a turban and above all to a dress, causes many and long dissertations. exhibitions and morning concerts frequently occupy also much of the ladies' leisure, a little walking in the tuileries gardens at a certain hour and in a certain part whilst their carriage waits for them, an airing in it, or a turn on horseback, fill up the rest of the day, and after dinner, if not at the theatre, they either receive or pay visits, as it is the fashion to do so of an evening in paris. i must not quit this sketch of the parisians and their occupations without giving my readers some idea of what is called _la jeune france_, which consists of a number of young men, who wear comical shaped hats, their hair very long hanging below their ears, and let the greater part of their beards grow; they also have their throats bare and their shirt collars turned down; they have rather a wild look, and their political theories are somewhat wilder than their looks; they are republican in principle, and in manner, adopting a sort of rough abrupt style, as far from courteous as can well be imagined. they amount to perhaps a few thousands in paris, comprising a number of the students in law and medicine, many of the painters, musical professors, and at least half the literary characters in paris; some of them are either the editors their subs or the communicators to two-thirds of the newspapers at paris. i must do them the justice to say that i believe they mean well, and that they are actuated by pure principles of patriotism, full of candour and of courage, but mistaken in their views, led away by false notions imbibed from an enthusiastic admiration of the deeds of heroes, recorded in the histories of rome and greece, until they imagine that they are bound in modern days to re-enact the glorious examples of their progenitors in their self devotion for their country; hence the wonderful resistance that they made in , which although in a bad cause, proved their contempt for life, and how ready they were to risk it in what they falsely thought their country's cause. but as they get older and reflect more, they become more temperate in their mode of reasoning, at present, and indeed for some time past, they have been more calm and one hears less of them. chapter v. anecdotes illustrative of the ideas, feelings, and characters of the parisians, also narrating some of their most striking national peculiarities. the french generally have been celebrated for possessing no inconsiderable share of conceit, but in regard to a most exalted respect for themselves, the parisians far surpass all their provincial brethren; the very circumstance of their happening to be born in paris, they imagine at once confers upon them a diploma of the very highest acme of civilisation, causing them to feel a sort of pity for a person who is born elsewhere; however, as one of these enlightened spirits once observed to me, that a person might by coming to live at paris in the course of time imbibe the same tone of refinement. now this was said in all the true spirit of human kindness; he knew that i was not born in paris, and conceiving that i might feel the bitterness of that misfortune, though it might afford me a degree of consolation to be assured, that there were some means of repairing the disadvantages under which i laboured, from not having made my entrance to the world in the grand metropolis of france. it matters not how low may be the calling of a parisian, he will still flatter himself that the manner in which he acquits himself in the department in which he is placed, evinces a degree of superiority over his fellow labourer, and gratifies his _amour propre_ with the thought. even a scavenger would endeavour to persuade you that he has a peculiar manner of sweeping the streets exclusively his own, and that his method of shovelling up the mud and pitching it into the cart is quite unique, and in fact that his innate talent is such that, it has eventually placed him at the summit of his profession. this may appear, perhaps, to some of my readers rather overdrawn, but the following instance which came under my own observation is not much less extravagant. a man who was in the habit of cleaning my boots, had a most incorrigible propensity for garrulity, and as i like in a foreign country to obtain some insight into the ideas and feelings of all classes, i did not care to check the poor fellow in the indulgence of his favourite _penchant_, particularly as his remarks were always proffered with a tone of the most profound respect for my august person. finding one morning that my boots had not been polished quite so well as usual, the next time i saw the shoeblack i mentioned the circumstance to him. "_ah! sir_," he exclaimed with a deep sigh, "that is one of the many instances of the ingratitude of human nature; i confided those boots to the boy whom you must have seen come with me to fetch yours and the other gentlemen's shoes or clothes for brushing, etc. well, sir, that young urchin is a protégé of mine; i took him, sir, from the lowest obscurity and made him what he is; i taught him my profession, i endowed him with all the benefit of my experience, and with respect to blacking shoes, i have initiated him into all the little mysteries of the art, and can declare that there is not one in the business throughout all paris that can surpass him, when he chooses to exert his talents; and therefore it renders it the more unpardonable that he should slight one of my best customers." judging, i suppose, from the expression of my countenance that i did not appear to be deeply infused with a very exalted idea of what he termed the mysteries of his art, he continued, "you may think as you please, sir, but there is much more ability required in blacking shoes than you may imagine, and that boy is well aware of it; he knows how i began by first instructing him in all the fundamental principles of the art; and gradually led him on until i accomplished him in giving the last polish, and can now proudly say he is a true artist in the profession." on entering a diligence once at lyons, i found two persons in it, of very decent aspect; the one a middle aged man, the other a youth of about eighteen or nineteen; the former soon found an opportunity of informing me that he was a parisian, but lest that should not adequately impress me with a sufficiently high idea of his importance, he added that he was _chef de cuisine_ to the duke of ----, and that monsieur, pointing to the youth opposite, was an _aspirant_, who had been placed under his auspices. the young man bowed assent, and appeared most sensibly to feel the vast magnitude of the honours to which he was aspiring; but the whole was announced with such an air of solemnity and consequence, that a minister of state with his secretary would never have attempted to assume. an englishman under the same circumstances would have merely said, "i am head cook to the duke of ---- and that young man is my 'prentice." however, my travelling companions were overpoweringly civil, and i of course was deeply awed by finding myself in company with such elevated personages, of which they no doubt were sensible, and where we stopped for dinner they gave us the benefit of their professional talent, by entering the kitchen, giving the inmates to understand who they were, and the advantage of advice gratis, as to the arrangement of such dishes for which they were still in time to superintend; and when we sat down at the table d'hôte, the _chef de cuisine_ did not fail to inform me that he had done as much as laid in his power to ensure our having a good dinner, as my being a foreigner he was particularly anxious that france should sustain her high reputation for the culinary art in my estimation; but regretted that in the first place he arrived too late to effect much good, and indeed, had he come before it would have been but of little avail; for the provincials were such complete barbarians, that it was difficult for an enlightened person to commune with them: that absolutely he and they appeared to be quite of another species. it is a happy circumstance for the french, that their pride does not consist in a desire to get out of their station, but an extreme anxiety to exaggerate the importance of the station in which they are placed; a cook, for example, has the most exalted idea of the art of cookery, and wishes to impress everyone with the same idea of its high importance, and all his ambition is to be considered a cook of the first-rate talent. in england it is different, one of the great objects with a tradesman is the hope, that by making his fortune he shall be enabled to get out of his class and take a higher walk in society. for this purpose they bring their sons up to the liberal professions, and often retire into the country at a distance from london, where they flatter themselves that the circumstance of their having been in business may not travel; their plan seldom succeeds, but has in several instances when they have come over to france, as being rich, appearing respectable, and their children highly educated, they have obtained the _entrée_ to french society, which has ultimately led to that of the english. i remember one instance of a hatter marrying his five daughters to persons of the higher classes, three to english and two to french, who now with their father have that position in society, into which at one period he never could have dreamed of entering; had they remained in england, they would have had but little chance of emerging from their original station, even with the aid of all their wealth. street scenes often afford amusing exhibitions of natural characteristics; i remember one which i witnessed, which developed a feeling truly french; two common-looking men had been disputing for some time, when one upbraided the other with want of delicacy and not having a nice sense of honour, but finding his reproaches made but little impression upon the accused, at last said, "as i see you are destitute of any mental susceptibility, i must try if you have any bodily feeling, and thrash you as i would a dog or any other brute." so saying, he advanced to put his threat into execution, but the assailed proving far the strongest, soon overcame the assailant and laid him prostrate; rising from the ground, he regarded the conqueror with a dignified air, and said, "yes! you have the physical force, but i have the force of reason," and with a flourish of the head he strutted off with as triumphant a demeanour as if he had vanquished a host of enemies. the french are exceedingly fond of moralizing; a few days before the revolution occurred, whilst a man was driving me through the place de la concorde, i observed a scaffolding in the middle, and asked what it was for, and having informed me that it was for the purpose of erecting a statue of louis the sixteenth, being the spot in which he was beheaded, he exclaimed, "what an absurdity! but those bourbons are incorrigible; would it not be much better to let such events as those sink as much as possible into oblivion, instead of endeavouring to perpetuate them. one would have thought," continued he, "that the adversity and exile which that besotted family had endured would have operated upon them as a lesson, but they will never benefit from any lessons; one, however, will be tried upon them very soon, if they do not mind what they are about, and we shall see what impression that will make." the man's words came to pass, they did indeed receive a severe lesson, which involved them in ruin and disgrace. having observed a number of persons assembled on the boulevards, i asked the cause, and was told that some cavalry was expected to pass in a few minutes, for which the people were waiting. i took my station amongst them, which happened to be next to two bakers' boys, who were in earnest conversation, when i was edified by the following observations. "do you know why alphonse left his place?" "yes," replied the other, "because his master gave him a cuff on the head." "that certainly was a very great indignity;" observed the younger; "to receive a blow is very humiliating." "that is true," replied the other, "but figure to yourself the folly of a lad, for the sake of a paltry thump, to sacrifice all his future prospects; in a few years, had he put up with the insult, he might have been head man in a bakehouse in the rue st. denis, which is one of the most populous quarters in paris." "true," said the younger, "it would have been wiser to have sayed; but when excited, reason does not always come to one's aid." i have translated the discourse as literally as i could, that i might preserve as nearly as possible the expressions which the boys used, as it has often struck me how much more refined they are, than those to which lads of the same age and class would have had recourse in england. some of the scenes at the tribunals are very amusing; i remember a very rough ferocious-looking man having been brought up for returning to paris, from which he had been sent away on account of some offences which he had committed, and was ordered to some small obscure town in the provinces, under _surveillance_. finding his banishment very irksome, an irresistible impulse brought him back to paris, and repairing to his old haunts, he sought the rue de la mortellerie, which had in part been pulled down, on account of some improvements which were going forward; whilst he was gaping about, looking in vain for his dear rue de la mortellerie, he was recognised by a serjeant of police and very unwillingly lodged in the _corps de garde_ (guard-house), and brought before the tribunal of correction; he was interrogated as to his having dared, in defiance of the law, to return to paris. he replied, "indeed, monsieur le president, i was so overcome with ennui, that i found it impossible to exist there any longer; now, only imagine for an instant, m. le president, the idea of a parisian, as i am, to be sent to a little bit of a place where there was no theatre, no promenade, not even a public monument." he was interrupted by the president telling him, that whatever the place might have been, there he should have staid to the end of his time, and must be punished for returning to paris. "but," continued the delinquent, "the vile little hole to which i was exiled contained no society whatever, the inhabitants were merely a set of illiterate beings, and how could any enlightened person vegetate amongst such a mic-mac of semi-barbarians; but tell me, m. le president, what has become of the rue de la mortellerie?" without deigning to answer, the president was proceeding to condemn the prisoner, when interrupted by his exclaiming, "now i intreat, m. le president, that you who are no doubt a very enlightened personage, would only place yourself in my position, and conceive how it was possible to exist buried alive as it were among such a set of goths, and above all do tell me what has become of my rue de la mortellerie?" the president, out of all patience, sentenced him to imprisonment in one of the goals of paris for three years. "well," said the garrulous and incorrigible offender, "i shall have one satisfaction, that of knowing that i am still in paris, that seat of the arts, that centre of civilisation, and terrestrial paradise; but pray tell me, m. le president, before we part, do tell me what have they done with my dear rue de la mortellerie?" without affording him time to occupy the court any longer with his irrelevant questions and explanations, they hurried him away, whilst he continued to murmur what could possibly have gone with his dear rue de la mortellerie which was no other than a little narrow filthy street which it would be difficult to match in the worst neighbourhoods in london. i also recollect an instance of the deliberate coolness of a man who was tried and found guilty of the robbery and murder of a farmer; being asked if he knew his accomplice, he observed "as to knowing him, m. le president, that is more than i can say; you must be aware that it is extremely difficult to _know_ a person, you may have seen a person often, and even conversed with him for years, and yet never _know_ him." "are you acquainted with him," was the next question. "as to that," continued the prisoner, "i am a man who has very few acquaintances, being naturally of a reserved character and rather diffident in my nature, i shrink from entering much into society; being of a reflecting habit, i like often to pass my hours alone, having rather an indifferent opinion of human nature." how long he would have gone on in the same strain, it is impossible to say, when he was imperatively demanded if he knew him by name, by sight, and had talked, or walked, or ate, or drank with him. "really you put so many questions to me at once that you tax my memory beyond its means; i never was celebrated for having a very retentive memory, my mother used to say." the court out of patience again interrupted him, but with all their efforts could never elicit from him a direct answer; but the circumstantial and testimonial evidence being perfectly convincing, he and his accomplice were condemned to death. when he heard the sentence he very coolly asked which would be guillotined first; he was answered that the other would, and that it was to be hoped that the sight of his companion's fate might bring him to some sense of his awful situation. when the time arrived for their execution, he displayed the same imperturbable audacity; as his accomplice was about to suffer, he elbowed the person who was standing next to him, and pointing to his fellow criminal, he smiled and said, "look, poor wretch, he is afraid, i declare he even trembles." when it came to his turn he mounted the ladder with as cheerful an air as if he was merely going to his breakfast, and to the last moment preserved the same sang-froid. a brutal sort of fellow, who was once condemned for an assault, in an instant snatched off his wooden shoes and threw them at the head of the president, who it appears had a good eye for avoiding a shot, and managed to escape the missiles. sometimes the avocats (barristers) avail themselves of causes in which they are engaged, so as to render them vehicles for displaying their wit or humour, and afford much amusement to the court; a case some time since occurred which excited much interest and some mirth and entertainment; the parties concerned were a madame dumoulin who had invented stays of a peculiar nature. another person who was english styling herself the inventor, and making them in the same manner, notwithstanding the former had been granted a patent, an action was the consequence. it was observed that the hostile parties in this instance, although french and english, were neither decked with helmets nor armed with pistols, swords, nor muskets, but entered the scene of combat in long shawls and velvet bonnets, announcing themselves without the aid of heralds, the one representing the french army the other the english host. the champion on the side of the former being a monsieur ch. ledru, against whom monsieur ducluseau entered the lists on the british side of the question; what made it more remarkable, was, that the belligerents resided in the same street, the residence of m. ducluseau, the advocate for the english defendant, merely separating the mansions of the two combatants. victory declared for madame dumoulin after many subtle and learned arguments were adduced on both sides, and an english lady, the mother of several daughters, tells me if i have any regard for my fair countrywomen i must recommend to their notice the stays of madame dumoulin, truly observing that as the object of my work was to render every possible service to all my readers, certainly the ladies must have a pre-eminent claim, and although there are certain articles of the toilet with which it might be observed man should never meddle, as he could not be any judge of such habiliments as ought only to be worn by the ladies, and a few dandies who are neither one thing nor the other, yet when three scientific societies condescend to award medals to the inventor and patentee of the articles alluded to, i trust i shall be pardoned if with an intention to serve the fair sex i trench upon their privilege in calling their attention to the useful and ornamental corsets, which have caused so much controversy. these stays are so contrived as to be totally without gussets, and adapt themselves to the form with such perfect facility, that there is not that restraint which, instead of bestowing grace to the female figure, is rather calculated to deform, that, which, if left in a degree to nature, would have displayed both elegance and ease. as an artist accustomed to contemplate the beauty of feature and of form, i have often regretted that common error into which such numbers of females fall, by torturing themselves in tightening the waist to such an unnatural degree, confining the person as it were in a vice, and totally preventing that movement in the person, which is indispensable in giving that elasticity in walking which alone can produce a graceful carriage, devoid of that stiffness which is ever occasioned by too great a restraint. the stays invented by madame dumoulin are universally admired as aiding nature, in affording the utmost freedom to the wearer, at the same time that they improve the figure. these stays, have not only received the approbation of the scientific world by the presentation of three medals, but have also been recommended by several distinguished members of the faculty, who consider they are calculated rather to improve than deteriorate the health of those who wear them. the action which madame dumoulin was obliged to bring against her competitor has been of the utmost service to her, not only by the triumph she has received and the confirmation of her patent, but in giving her that vogue that not only the influential parisian ladies, but russian, german and spanish princesses have patronised her ingenuity; her residence is rue du juillet, no . in the courts of justice in france and particularly in paris, i have found that both the prisoners and the witnesses have far more self possession than in the tribunals in england; they are not so soon embarrassed by the brow-beating and examination of the counsel, and sometimes give such replies as turn the sting upon their examiners; having like the irish a sort of tact for repartee, they are not often to be taken aback; the lower classes in paris are naturally extremely shrewd and penetrating, they recognise a foreigner instantly, before he speaks, as a friend of mine found to his cost, who although an englishman would anywhere in his own country be set down for a frenchman from his external appearance. on the saturday following the three glorious days, he was standing amongst one of the groups near the hôtel-de-ville, when a man of a very rough appearance with his arms bare and besmeared with proofs that he had been in the strife, turned to him and asked what he thought of the revolution. my friend, who was in feeling a thorough bred john bull, neither liking france, the french, nor any of their proceedings, did not think it was exactly the moment to give vent to all his feelings, answered that it was very fine. "oh!" said the frenchman, "you find it very fine, do you, you're a foreigner, what countryman are you?" "i am an englishman," was the reply. "an englishman! eh!" muttered the frenchman scanning him with a very scrutinising eye, "and you find our revolutionary fine, eh! well," added he! "will you come and take a glass of wine with me?" the invitation was declined on the plea of business. "business," repeated the frenchman, "there can be no business to-day, it is a day of fête;" upon which the englishman, not seeing any means by which he could well get off of it, said he would be happy to take wine with him and should also have great pleasure in paying for it. "pay for it," sternly said the frenchman, "what do you talk of paying for it, when you are invited, follow me;" the englishman obeyed, but wished himself well out of the scrape; his conductor took him to one of the lowest sort of wine-houses and they entered a large room where there were above twenty seated, drinking round a table. his new acquaintance introduced him in due form, saying, i have brought you an englishman who finds our revolution very fine; there was a degree of order amongst them and they had a president and vice president, but were very much such rough looking fellows as the one who announced him; as a stranger, he was awarded the seat of honour to the right of the president, but had no sooner been seated, than one man addressed him, saying, "i have been in england, i was a prisoner and very ill treated." "i am sorry for that," replied the englishman. "i was almost starved," added the other. "that was not the fault of the people or the intention of the government," observed my friend, "but was caused by a few rascally contractors who received a handsome sum for the supply of the prisoners, and to make the greater profit they provided bad articles." "well," said another, "i have seen extracts from the english papers and they speak very highly of our revolution, particularly the times." they next proceeded to give accounts of the share they had taken in the struggle which had just terminated, and some began to state the number that they killed, all of which was far from edifying to my friend, who sat upon thorns notwithstanding they all drank his health, hitting the glasses together according to the custom of olden time. at several periods he made an effort to go, but they assured him that they could not part with him so soon, called him a _bon anglais_, now and then giving him a smack on the shoulder as a proof of their friendly feeling towards him. the englishman began at last to wish himself anywhere but where he was, and in that manner they kept him for three hours in durance vile; at last he made a bold push for a retreat, declaring he could not stay a minute longer. "then," said his conductor, "i shall see you safe home to your door;" now that was the very thing that my friend did not want, as he was particularly desirous of dropping the acquaintance as soon as possible, therefore did not wish him to know where he lived; so at last he thought of a person with whom he dealt, and said he must go, and see a friend there with whom he had an appointment; and the frenchman accompanied him to the door, always carrying his drawn sword with him, and when taking leave asked the englishman when and where he should see him again; my friend answered he was going to england. "going to england," repeated the other, "what are you going to england for, if you find our revolution so very fine, what do you want to go away from it for, not to abuse it to your country people, i hope?" "oh no," replied the englishman, "i am only going to england for a little while, on business, and shall be back soon, and shall have it in my power to tell my countrymen all about the revolution, and what an heroic struggle it was." "ah!" said the frenchman; then holding out his great rough hand, bade the englishman "bon soir," and "bon voyage." my friend declared that it was impossible for him to describe to what a degree he was rejoiced at seeing his new acquaintance depart, although, however rough his appearance, the man might have been perfectly harmless, except when called upon to fight for what he considered his country's cause. i was myself living in paris during the struggle of the three days, and can bear witness to the humanity and moderation of the people during the contest, and of their forbearance after their victory; they came to the house at which i was living and asked for wine; but they brought with them pails of water into which they threw what was given them, thereby proving their extreme temperance and forbearance, but certainly a band of a more ruffianlike looking set of fellows, it would be difficult to imagine, and the manner in which they were at first armed, had something in it of the horrible, and at the same time of the ludicrous; iron bars, pokers, pitchforks, and in fact anything that could be converted into a weapon was taken possession of by the unwashed horde, who swarmed towards the centre of paris from the manufacturing suburbs; soon, however, the public armouries, and the gunsmiths' shops, the musquetry, and other arms taken from the soldiers during the battle, contributed to arm them more formidably. but in justice to the parisians i must cite two circumstances; the one is, that whatever they seized upon in the public institutions, as instruments of offence and defence, were restored when the contest was over; the librarian at the royal library told me that they took all the ancient and modern arms from their establishment, but with the exception of seven they were all brought back, and most likely the bearers of those which were missing had been killed. the other instance which does high credit to the parisian mob, is that they would not permit of any robbing or pillage in any house or building which they might enter, but, as might be expected, some of the regular thieves of paris mixed amongst the people; one at length being caught purloining an image in the palace of the tuileries, they formed a circle round the thief, tried him in an instant, and shot him; this was summary justice with a vengeance, and certainly not exactly what ought to have been done, but it showed the principle which existed. in fact honesty is undoubtedly a quality existing in france to a most extraordinary degree, a greater proof of it cannot be adduced than the fact that when any person quits a theatre with the idea of returning in a few minutes they leave their handkerchiefs on their seats by way of retaining their places, which custom is even practised at the lowest theatres, where the admittance is only half a franc. ingenuity and a tact for invention are certainly features peculiar to the french character, but they are far behind the english in their methods of transacting business; this remark is applicable even to most of the public offices; that france is extremely flourishing, and paris more particularly so, cannot be denied, but were it in the hands of the english there is no doubt their produce, manufactures, and commerce, both home and foreign, would be considerably greater than it now is. france has been most peculiarly favoured by nature, her soil produces everything that can be grown in england, and besides three commodities which are not genial to our climate, and are of immense value, oil, silk and wine; hence the products of the soil of france amount annually to the immense sum of , , _l._, or , , , francs; having such a basis, or one may even say such a capital to work upon, to what an incalculable extent might business be carried on, with the amazing industry that exists in france, as in the first place their population exceeds ours by nearly six millions; then their general temperance is such, there is not so much time nor labour lost as there is in england, consequently there are more hands available, and those generally for a longer period of time, as every one who is familiar with many manufacturing and even agricultural districts in england must be aware that there are numbers of workmen who never appear on the monday, vulgarly called st. monday, but spend it at the public houses. i myself have had farming men whom i hired by the day in kent, who did not appear until wednesday morning, but that, however, is some years since, and the evil is now correcting. the great deficiency in france is not only want of great capitalists, but men of enterprise, who are not afraid to enter upon colossal undertakings; and now, looking at the speculative works of the greatest magnitude which exist in france, it will be found that englishmen are concerned in them, either as partners in a firm, or the principal shareholders in any company or association. the promptness of the english for adventuring their funds in all sorts of schemes is the wonderment of all europe; whenever there is any discovery which may be rendered available for trade, an englishman is on the spot with his capital in his hand and his calculation in his head. recently a vein of coal was found near the coast of brittany, three englishmen were there as if they had dropped from the clouds, quite prepared to enter into all the arrangements requisite for working the mine and rendering it productive of profit. but although the french are deficient in those qualities requisite for commencing and conducting gigantic enterprises, yet they are rapidly improving in every point that is necessary for the management of business and augmenting their foreign commerce to a great extent, particularly with america; from the town of new orleans alone, last summer, there were eighty merchants in paris at one time, and the amount from all the united states was estimated at two thousand; in fact if france remain at peace, the increase of her prosperity in every branch of industry must be certain, as if she obtain english machinery, which she must ultimately, with those who know how to set it in motion also, as provisions are cheaper, and always will be than with us, because she needs not so much taxation, her debt being so much smaller than that of england, labour must be lower, therefore she will have an advantage over us which it will be impossible for england, with all her talents, to circumvent. already the americans purchase, not only silks and fancy articles in france, but also even cotton goods of the superior qualities; the only obstacle which prevents the french from making still more rapid advancement than is at present the case, is first timidity of capitalists, deficiency of knowledge of the higher order of business, and extreme slowness in proceeding with any grand national operation, as for instance, her railroads, in which she has not only seen england surpass her tenfold, but other neighbouring countries; but as there is a sort of system of centralization in favour of the metropolis, paris improves more rapidly in proportion than the rest of france. chapter vi. the monuments of paris, the gardens, promenades, markets, libraries, etc. in order to facilitate the progress of the reader in viewing the monuments and different objects of interest in paris, i shall classify them within certain limits, so that they may be viewed in the shortest possible time, stating those which are contiguous to each other, so that a greater number may be visited in a day, than if the traveller went from one distant quarter of paris to the other promiscuously, as he happened to hear of any building or monument he wished to see, and thus have to return perhaps two or three times to the same neighbourhood instead of finishing with one district first, then taking the others in rotation; as i shall suppose that some of my readers can only afford ten days or a fortnight to view paris, i shall be as chary of their time as possible; having been accustomed to show the lions to many different friends or acquaintances from england, i trust i am tolerably _au fait_ at that operation. i shall begin with that part of paris denominated la cité, because it is the most central and the most ancient; we will therefore proceed to it by the pont-neuf, which as i have already stated was built by henry iii about . there are several shops upon it contained within small stone buildings, which, when viewing the bridge at a short distance, have rather a picturesque effect; it is ornamented with a number of heads according to the taste of that day, and which now give it rather an antique appearance. when well upon the bridge which rises as it approaches the centre, i would advise the spectator to look around him, as the view well repays the trouble, the quays having a most noble appearance, adorned by the louvre, the tuileries, the institute, and other public buildings. now let us look about us at more immediate objects; what a noisy bustling scene it is at present, and has been for centuries past, as in the reign of henry iv it is described as absolutely stunning; now you are assailed by the hissing of fried potatoes, fish, and fritters, which are bought up as fast as they are supplied, women and men are seated with their little apparatus for shearing cats and dogs, and clipping their tails and ears if required, which is a calling that appears to be followed by numbers in paris who all seem to take their stations on the bridges; situated amongst them are several shoeblacks, who appear to take their posts in uniform array with the trimmers of cats and dogs; they operate upon your boots and shoes as you stand, therefore if you wish to patronise them you may take that opportunity of looking about and getting disburthened of some of the paris mud, quite certain if it be wet weather that you will soon get more. fruit in all its variety, books, prints, blacking, and nick-knacks of every description offer themselves to your notice. but let us direct our attention to a more interesting object; the fine bronze equestrian statue of henry iv: one could almost think the good and merry monarch was going to utter some of his witty sallies. now let us turn round and behold those antique looking houses which face us and were built in his reign, at a distance they have a sort of castellated appearance: before we quit the bridge let us look down on the baths vigier with their pretty garden; we will enter the place dauphine, and then take one look at the bust of desaix, the victim of the battle of marengo, and next we will turn on to the quai de l'horloge and view the north side of the palais de justice; it presents two round towers, which have the appearance of being very old, and i was assured by an architect who employed much of his time in poking about after such morsels of antiquity as he could find, that they were built by the romans, but i doubt it. we must not miss the tour de l'horloge, which is certainly of the middle ages, and the clock is i believe considered the oldest in paris; turning to the right we view the grand front of the palais de justice, a very handsome iron grating in part gilded, decorates the entrance to the front court, and you ascend a bold flight of steps to the principal door; four doric pillars with figures representing justice, fortitude, plenty, and prudence, adorn the grand façade of the building; an immense hall to the right, in which is a noble statue of the good and venerable malesherbes, well worth attention, and is the apartment where formerly ambassadors were received and the nuptial ceremonies of princes were celebrated, but now the rendez-vous of lawyers, barristers, and their clients. several other halls, chambers, galleries, corridors, etc, are worth notice, and that which is beneath them, has a shuddering kind of interest; it is called the conciergerie, and if its victims were there consigned by the harsh decree of rigid justice, surely mercy and charity were not allowed to enter, whilst it formed the prison of the hapless marie antoinette and the brave pichegru, but we will draw a veil over those scenes which are but fraught with sad reminiscences. many of these dark covered alleys, belonging to this extraordinary building, have been long occupied by venders of shoes, slippers and a variety of articles which remind one of the old exeter change. this singular edifice which almost resembles a town is considered to have been founded by eudes, count of paris, about the year , but the most ancient part now standing, was built by saint louis who founded the chapel, which is considered to be a complete type of the _pure_ gothic architecture, and which in that respect is not exceeded by any other in europe; it has the most decided air of antiquity, with a richness and elegance which certainly characterise it as the beau idéal of that period. it is termed the holy chapel and now appropriated to the conservation of ancient records. from this interesting monument we turn with regret, but a new scene bursts upon us; it is the flower market, which is held under trees and furnished with large bassins constantly supplied with water; the numerous display of flowers mostly in pots done up in such a manner with white paper so that it forms the background, gives much light and life to the colours, buds, and blossoms, which bloom on this enlivening spot. wednesdays and saturdays are the market days, and i recommend the reader not to miss so pleasing a spectacle. on the quai du marché-neuf, on the southern bank of the island, a very opposite sight may be seen, being the morgue, a little building for receiving all dead bodies found, and not owned. we now proceed to notre-dame, which is in the form of a cross; it was began about the year , in the reign of louis the seventh, but continued in that of philippe-auguste, and completed under saint-louis in , which date, as i have already stated, it now distinctly bears. its magnitude and extent surpasses every other church in paris, it is in the arabic style, and being now totally detached from any other building has a most grand effect; it is only in the present reign that this great improvement has been effected, as it was formerly joined on one side to the archiepiscopal palace. the immense number of grotesque figures which surround and surmount the doorway, give it a most rich appearance, although they are in the rudest style of barbarism; above is a large window called the rose, which is a most beautiful and curious object. the interior at the first view has a most striking effect; one hundred and twenty pillars supporting a range of arches afford a most splendid _coup d'oeil_, the middle aisle presenting an uninterrupted view of the whole church, which being very lofty has a most majestic appearance; the sumptuous altar, the fine gloom pervading the pictures, the curious gobelin tapestry which decorate the sides, combine in affording a rich effect which is still heightened by the chapels which are perceptible between the columns. although it might be urged that there is rather a profusion of decoration with the bas-reliefs, and other ornaments, yet the edifice is on so colossal a scale that it still presents so broad a mass, that a tone of simplicity pervades the whole. the beautiful choir is after a design by de goste, the altar and sanctuary are of marble and porphyry, whilst tesselated pavements and variegated shrines adorn the numerous chapels. the pictures are good in general; as to the tapestry, i think it had better be removed, which i dare say it will be as taste refines. it is to be regretted that the towers of notre-dame have so heavy and black appearance, which is increased by a parcel of dark unseemly shutters. on the outside towards the north, there are some pieces of sculpture well worth examination; they are beautifully executed although much deteriorated by time, and appear to be works of about the thirteenth century. there are some curious brasses which would be very interesting to persons capable of decyphering them, one in particular to the left on entering, but so much in the dark that it is difficult to make it out, especially as the characters at best are not easy to understand, but i recommend them to the inspection of those persons who have time and inclination to study such subjects. the view of the city from the towers affords an ample panorama, and displays the positions of the principal monuments. the hôtel dieu is one of the finest establishments of the kind in europe, it is an hospital for the sick, in which they can make up , beds, but there is nothing in its external appearance that is very striking. the archiepiscopal palace had not a very attractive exterior, but now, as they are partly demolishing and rebuilding it all, remarks must be suspended until it be finished. no other object presents itself particularly worth notice on this island, once the celebrated lutetia, but many of the houses have a very old appearance, and are some of them probably of three or four hundred years standing; the curious observer inspecting them will here and there find indications of the middle ages. if the reader like to pass over to the isle st. louis, it will but take him a few minutes, which is about as much as it is worth; the only object exciting attention is the hôtel chamisot, no. , rue st. louis, and the church of st. louis, built in . in this edifice there are some pictures worthy remark and a curious spire. the hôtel lambert, no. , rue st. louis, also merits attention, being most richly adorned with paintings, gilded mouldings, frescos, etc. voltaire lived in it, and napoleon had a long conversation in the gallery in with his minister, montalivet, when he found all was lost. i shall now conduct my reader from the little isle st. louis by the pont de tournelle to the quay de tournelle, from which we proceed to that of st. bernard, where every one must be struck with the halles aux vins, or wine halls; they are all arranged with extreme regularity, and forming altogether a whole, have a most singular effect; the neatness of the appearance is remarkable; and the extent is such that they might contain sufficient inhabitants to people a small town. as we proceed along the quay, we have a good view of the pont d'austerlitz, it is quite flat, built of iron, and is extremely light and handsome. upon our right is the great attraction, so interesting to all nations, the garden of plants; the first view of it through the iron railing is most striking, rows of sable looking trees, forming a fine contrast to the broad expansive beds of flowers, their gay colours blooming forth so thickly as to resemble at some distance the brightest and richest carpet; broad walks are between these brilliant masses; at the end of which is the building which contains the museum of natural history; to give the reader anything like an accurate idea of this establishment, it is necessary to exercise one's ability in condensing to the utmost degree, as to furnish a comprehensive analysis of the wonders of this institution would require a folio volume. i knew an english couple who took lodgings in the immediate neighbourhood for three months that they might go every day and study the numberless interesting objects this establishment contains. the long promenades are formed by picturesque trees and shrubs which have been collected from every clime; the immense number of labels, as one approaches more closely, rather disfigure the display of flowers, but as usefulness is the object, it is impossible otherwise than to approve the extreme order and regularity with which every plant, according to its genus, is classified, affording a most delectable treat to a regular botanist. this arrangement has been effected under the superintendence of monsieur du jussieu himself, no doubt one of the most scientific botanists thatever has appeared; his residence and that of his family was in the gardens, when i was in paris twenty years back, and i believe some of them still are concerned in the botanical arrangements of the institution. the tremendous vocabulary of long latin names inscribed on the labels is really enough to appal the most retentive memory that ever existed, and to a person who has never dipped at all into the mysteries of botany i can imagine the terms are rather alarming, words with nineteen letters in them are but trifles compared to others, and a regular john bull who was scanning them very justly remarked, pointing to the flowers, that it was certainly a favoured spot of flora, and then alluding to the fruits observed the same of pomona, but added, he should like very much to know who was the goddess of hard words as he would recommend her to descend upon the same beds, as she would there find a more numerous progeny than either of her rival goddesses. i believe that there are now nearly , plants arranged according to the system of de jussieu, in the most simple and perfect manner, so that the student is enabled at once to comprehend the plan, and numbers of both sexes attend even as early as six in the morning copying the names of plants and studying their classification. although this establishment is called the garden of plants, it has many other objects of the highest interest besides what its name indicates. it is at the same time a most extensive menagerie, which first gave the idea that has since been adopted of the zoological gardens in regent's park; formerly the arrangement exceedingly interested and delighted the english visiter, but now that he has the same thing at home, it has ceased to be a novelty. each animal having plenty of room to walk about in, was certainly a beautiful thought, and great improvement on confining them in cages, which is now only found necessary with ferocious animals. the bears form a great source of amusement to the people, they are in large square pits about ten or twelve feet below the level of the promenades, and each has a large pole in the middle, with several branches upon which they climb, whilst the visiters throwing bread to them are exceedingly diverted at their successful or unsuccessful attempts to catch it. it would be superfluous to enter upon a description of the great variety of animals assembled in this collection, suffice it to say that i believe there is no living animal who can exist in a parisian climate, that is not to be found in this garden; generally there are several of a kind, and in case one dies it is immediately replaced by another. the monkeys are the principal objects of attraction, and as soon as they are let out into their little paddock in front of their dwellings, which is only when the day is considered sufficiently warm, crowds of people assemble to witness their grimaces and gambols; they and the bears may be considered as the principal dramatis personæ of the menagerie, and who certainly perform their parts most admirably, never failing to afford the utmost entertainment to the audience: and it is indeed a sort of rivalry between jocko and bruin which should play their _rôle_ the best; for my own part i really think i give the preference to the latter, there is something at once so comic and so good natured-looking in the bears, that i feel almost inclined to descend into their pits and caress and pet them as i would a favourite dog, but am only deterred by fearing they would give me a reception rather too warm, and their friendly hug be too overpowering for me to sustain. there are several buildings in this garden which are applied to various purposes, amongst the rest an amphitheatre where lectures on all the branches of natural history are delivered. a cabinet of anatomy most richly stored occupies one mansion; dissections of the human form, as well as those of almost every animal are here found, besides numerous other curiosities. amongst other things the progress of a chicken in the egg is exemplified, from its first speck until it has life, which is imitated with the most extraordinary exactness in wax, as also are several fishes which cannot be preserved, besides a numerous collection of foeti and monsters. to see these things properly; would require to pass several days in these rooms; but a week would not suffice to do justice to the grand museum, every description of bird and beast that has been known to exist in our days may be found here stuffed, and preserved in glass cases with the nicest care; it appears strange to see an enormous elephant and a tall ostrich within a glass case. here also are to be found every species of fungus, chrysalis, sea-weed, eggs, and nests. but the shells, minerals, and fossils, form so extraordinary and numerous a collection that they are the subject of admiration of every beholder; the polish of the shells, the brilliance of the colours of the plumage of the birds, and the glossy smoothness of the skins of the beasts are as perfect as if they were living, but the same cannot exactly be said of the fishes. the marbles, porphyry, and granite, the lava, basaltes, barks of trees, bones of animals known and unknown, some within stones, are arranged by the celebrated cuvier, whilst the ores, crystals, jaspers, and extraordinary varieties of ornamental articles formed of these materials occupy several apartments. in addition to all these objects of high interest, there is a most excellent library, giving every possible information regarding the contents of this delightful establishment; a statue of the great illustrator of the wonders of nature, buffon, is here most appropriately placed, as also some paintings of plants and animals. hence it may be easily imagined that persons who have much leisure, and are fond of the study of natural history, may well choose to take up their abode in the neighbourhood, for the convenience of long poring over the beauties of this wonderful museum. from hence other schools of botany are supplied with seeds, cuttings, suckers, etc., whilst the hospitals of paris are gratuitously furnished with whatever is requisite for the purposes of medicine; nor must i omit to state that there is a most beautiful aviary, the birds of which are choice selections of the finest of their species, and for those of an aquatic nature, there is a basin of water from the seine. even specimens of soils, manures, ditches, ha-has, palisades, frames, and every thing necessary for forming fences are to be found here in every variety. even to persons who have no scientific information nor desire to obtain knowledge, to walk in the jardin-des-plantes (garden of plants) affords delight, the number of attractions are such, and of so varied a description that even the dullest mind must be awakened to a sense of pleasure, yet some persons i have seen who regarded all the phenomena collected here with the most stoical indifference; the fact is, that a number of people will not take the trouble to think, and lose the enjoyment they might receive from the wonders of nature; how different if they would but devote to them a little reflexion. with our minds still deeply impregnated with the impression of the objects we have just contemplated, we will leave the garden, and turning round to the right, we find ourselves upon the boulevard de l'hôpital, just facing the hôpital de la salpêtrière, which makes up beds for females, who are lunatics, idiots, otherwise diseased, or years of age; it is of immense extent, and conducted with so much order, and such cleanliness prevails both with regard to the inmates and the establishment itself, that it may be considered one of the most gratifying sights in paris; in fact i have heard many english ladies, much to their credit, declare that not any of the interesting objects which they had seen in the french capital, afforded them more pleasure and satisfaction. just near it is the terminus for the orleans railway, which is worthy of observation, and then we will cross over to the horse and dog market and observe the regular system with regard to the stalls and other arrangements which are adopted; it is principally for draught-horses, wednesdays and saturdays are the market days, and sundays for dogs. we must next glance at the hôpital de la pitié, founded in for paupers, it has been since annexed to the hôtel-dieu, and contains beds; it is situated no. , rue copeau. sainte-pélagie being just by in the rue de la clef, we ought to afford it a half hour; it was formerly a convent of nuns, political prisoners are now here confined when committed for trial, or if sentenced to but short terms of imprisonment; it is also appropriated for other offenders whose sentence of confinement is of brief duration, but the military surveillance within and around it is very strict. the fountain cuvier, at the corner of the street of that name, and the rue st. victor, must claim a few minutes' attention; it is certainly one amongst those of modern erection possessing great merit. in the rue scipion we will cast one look at the great bakehouse for all the hospitals in paris, to which i have before alluded. the amphitheatre of anatomy must occupy some attention, being a suite of anatomical schools only recently built, on a most commodious scale; it forms a corner of the rues du fer and fossés st. marcel. one thought in passing the ancient cimetière de ste. catherine, closed in , must be devoted to pichegru, who lies buried there; we then hurry on without loss of time to the manufacture of the gobelin tapestry. as the little river bièvre is considered to be peculiarly adapted for dyeing, that process has been carried on from a very remote period on the spot where the present establishment now stands, which owes its foundation to jean gobelin in , and under louis the fourteenth it was formed into a royal manufactory. to me this is indeed one of the greatest wonders of paris, how such beautiful specimens of art can be produced when the work is all done behind the frame, so that the artist cannot see the effect of what he is doing, is to me most miraculous; the material used is woollen and silken threads, so woven together, that a perfectly smooth surface is produced, having all the softness and gradation of tints to be found in the finest oil painting, without that glare which varnish produces; the execution of these works is attended by a most tedious application, requiring sometimes six years to complete one piece, which, at , francs, about seven hundred pounds, is not adequate to recompensing the workmen equal to their merit and perseverance; about men are constantly employed, principally for the government or the royal family. attached to this establishment is the royal carpet manufactory; such as are here produced are considered superior to those of persia, with regard to the evenness of the surface, the strength, durability, and fineness of the workmanship, the beauty of the designs, and the brilliance of the colours, which are such as can never be surpassed, but if they were ever allowed to be sold, the price would be so enormous that some would amount to , francs ( _l._) the accuracy with which the pictures of rubens have been copied is most extraordinary, as it may be said that the operative works in the dark. one carpet has been produced for the gallery of the louvre, consisting of seventy-two pieces, forming a total exceeding , feet which is supposed to be the largest carpet ever made. the same facility exists for foreigners seeing this exhibition, as with all others, the passport being presented, wednesdays and saturdays, from one to three in winter, and from two to four in the summer. a curious old house, termed the maison de st. louis or de la reine blanche, is worth notice, in the rue des marmouzets; it may have been inhabited by a queen of that name, but certainly not the mother of st. louis, as it is not sufficiently ancient, being of about the time of charles the seventh, when it was the rage to build houses in that style of architecture, about the period of from to . the church of st. medard, in the rue mouffetard, offers nothing remarkable, but a mixture of different styles of architecture, according to the epochs at which it was repaired and embellished; in a tremendous attack was made upon it by the calvinists, when several of the congregation were killed, and the abbé paris, having been buried in the cemetery attached in , his tomb, it is pretended, had certain convulsions in , and was the origin of the sect called convulsionists, and the scenes which occurred caused the cemetery to be closed in . a picture of st. genenieve, by watteau, in the chapel of that saint, must be admired, having much merit. in the rue de l'oursine, no. , is an hospital which is a refuge for sinning and afflicted females (something in the nature of the magdalen, in london), containing beds. to the fountain of bacchus, at the corner of the rue censier, we will give a look _en passant_, as also to the school of pharmacy, formerly a convent, in the garden of which was formed the first botanical garden, in ; there is here a cabinet of specimens of drugs and a collection of mineralogy worthy of examination; it is situated in the rue de l'arbalète, no. . the hôpital militaire and church of the val de grâce is in the rue st. jacques (vide page ) and is one which particularly merits attention of the visiter; the vault of the dome is painted upon the stone by mignard, and is justly celebrated as one of the most splendid frescos in france; the heart of anne of austria, the foundress of it, was sent here, as also those of many succeeding members of the royal family. the interior of the church is much admired for the richness of its architecture. at no. , rue de la bourbe, is the lying-in hospital, formerly the abbey of port royal, containing beds; any woman, eight months advanced in pregnancy, is admitted, if there be room to receive her, without an inquiry, if she be in distress; she enters into an engagement to support the child, and if she cannot fulfil it, she must make a declaration and it is sent to the foundling hospital, but if she retain it, clothing and a small sum of money is given her on quitting the hospital. a school for midwifery is established here, the practitioners being females, who, when considered competent, receive a diploma from the physicians who are appointed judges. just by this establishment is the observatory, erected in the reign of louis xv; it is a most curious piece of architecture, having in it neither wood nor iron; it is not a large building, but has a fine appearance, and perrault was the architect; it is vaulted throughout, and a geometrical staircase, having a vacuity of feet deep, merits particular notice. there is a circular universal chart upon the pavement of one of the apartments. by means of mechanical arrangements the roof and cupola open, and every night, the weather permitting, astronomical observations are taken. m. arago, the most celebrated astronomer of france, lectures here, where there is every facility, and every instrument to be found requisite for the promotion of the science of astronomy; there are two pluvia-meters, for ascertaining the quantity of rain that falls in paris during a year. there is a general map of france, called the carte de cassini, containing sheets, a marble statue of cassini (the author of the work) attests the high estimation in which he was held; he died in , aged eighty-seven. this institution is the just admiration of all scientific men from every civilized part of the world, but it is an astronomer alone who can thoroughly appreciate its merits. the little hospital, founded by m. cochin, in , being just by no. , rue du faubourg st. jacques, may claim our hasty look, it contains beds, and the patients receive the attendance of the soeurs de st. marthe. at no. , rue des capucins, faubourg st. jacques, is an hospital for men and youths above fifteen, whose excesses have brought on disease; it is styled hôpital des vénériens, and contains beds; the attendants are all males. near to the barrière d'enfer is the entrance to the catacombs, containing the bones of , , persons which are all systematically arranged so as to have the most extraordinary effect; they are formed into galleries of an immense length, and occupy a considerable space of ground under a great portion of paris, on the south side of the seine; but now they cease to be such objects of interest as they formerly were, as the public are not now permitted to visit them; they were formerly large quarries from which the stone was drawn for building most part of ancient paris, and when it was decided to clear many of the cemeteries within the capital, the bones were placed in these quarries in , and the operation of piling them as they now are was effected in . in the rue d'enfer, no. , is the infirmary of marie thérèse, founded by madame la vicomtesse de chateaubriand, in , named after the duchess d'angoulême, its protectress; it is destined for females who have moved in respectable society, the accommodations and food being far better than are found in the generality of hospitals; the establishment consists of fifty beds. at the barrière of st. jacques, the guillotine is erected when criminals are to be executed. beyond the barrière d'enfer, on the orleans road, no. , is the hôpital de la rochefoucauld; it is devoted to the reception of old servants of hospitals, and other aged persons, it also receives poor persons on their paying, according to circumstances, francs a-year, or upwards, or on paying a sum on entering varying from to francs. the number of beds is . as we descend the rue d'enfer, we find, at no. , the foundling hospital, founded by the good and celebrated st. vincent de paule, in . any child is received at this institution on the mother making a declaration that she has not the means of supporting it, when she receives a certificate signed by a commissary of police; the average number admitted in the last two or three years is rather over three thousand; they are attended by the soeurs de charité (sisters of charity) in the most praiseworthy manner; in the same building is the orphans' hospital, where the children are placed when two years of age, and of poor persons who fall ill and are obliged to go to an hospital, the children may be sent here until the parents are cured. the children are all taught reading, writing, and arithmetic, and are placed to various trades at the proper ages; they are treated with the greatest care and kindness, it is open to visiters, and the sight of it produces the most heartfelt gratification; many of the most respectable members of society have come from this institution. turning into the rue de faubourg st. jacques, at the corner of the rue des deux eglises, is the institution for the deaf and dumb, founded by the benevolent abbé de l'epée, who, with only _l._ a-year, took the charge of maintaining and educating forty deaf and dumb pupils, whom he taught to write and read, even on the most abstruse subjects. the abbé sicard followed up the plan to the highest perfection; pupils are now admitted gratis and are brought up to different trades, others pay according to their means; the chambers grant generally , _l._ a year to this institution. at no. , rue d'enfer, is the convent of the carmelites, where mademoiselle de la vallière, the beautiful favourite of louis xiv, took the veil. the church of st. jacques-du-haut-pas, which is at the opposite corner, offers nothing very remarkable, the first stone was laid in , by gaston of orleans, brother to louis xiii. four fine paintings of saints however are worthy of notice. the pantheon, formerly the church of sainte genevieve, stands to the left as we descend the rue st. jacques, and strikes upon the eye as a most noble and imposing building; it was louis xv who laid the first stone in , near the spot where stood the ancient but ruined church of st. genevieve. it is affirmed that he was persuaded by madame de pompadour to erect this monument as a thanksgiving after his having had a severe illness. the architect was soufflot, the style is purely grecian. twenty-two fluted corinthian columns, feet in height and in diameter, sustain the portico, and the great dome, above which is a lantern terminated by a figure in bronze feet high. there is a great deal of sculpture about the building, some allegorical, others portraiture; its total height is feet. the exterior is in the form of a grecian cross. the paintings are by the barons gros, and gerard; although a most noble structure, yet it is not consistently grand in all its bearings. monuments of the great men of france are now erected here; and amongst the rest the immortal lafayette. the stranger is recommended to ascend the dome, from which a most amusing view is afforded. the vaults beneath are extremely curious and interesting; whatever the faults of this edifice may be, there is a solemnity about it which takes great possession of the mind, particularly when there is a funeral and the light of the torches are seen glimmering amongst the priests in the "long drawn aisle," as they slowly and solemnly wend their way. in the rue des postes, no. , is the seminary for young men destined for missionaries to the colonies; a bas relief representing a missionary preaching, above the pediment of the church, is the only striking object. at no. , rue de fourcy, is the irish college, rather a handsome building, with some trees about it which add to the effect. many irish of distinction are buried here and it is still kept up, there being about students; the regulations are the same as in the english universities, about priests are sent out from here to their own country every year. in the rue des fossés st. victor is the scotch college (vide page ), it is now a sort of school, but the tablet over the door with collége des ecossais inscribed still remains, and there are many interesting monuments of scotch nobility. next door is the convent of english augustin nuns, the only religious house never molested during the revolution; it contains a small chapel with some english tombs, the inmates now occupy themselves with the education of their young countrywomen. at the back of the pantheon, rather to the south-east, is the very curious and interesting church of st. etienne-du-mont; it is an odd mixture of styles of architecture, a tower and circular turret which are detached from the church, are supposed to be of the date ; a staircase of most singular construction and of peculiar lightness is the first object which strikes the spectator on entering; there is a great deal of richness and scroll work, with some arabic, greek and gothic styles intermingled. some of the pictures in this church are exceedingly good, and are by lebrun and lesueur. the pulpit is supported by sampson, and there are other smaller figures, the whole having a beautiful effect; the design is by la hire, and executed by lestocard, it is altogether a church of high interest, often the subject of the modern artists' pencils. there is a tomb which was found in the vaults beneath, which is said to be that of st. genevieve, and bears the date of . the library of st. genevieve is close by, and besides containing , volumes, and , manuscripts, it possesses other objects of interest, being a series of portraits from philippe the bold to louis the xv, and one of mary queen of scots. this library belongs to the collége henry iv, which on the side towards the rue clovis is very modern, but the lower part of the curious old tower is supposed to have been built in the reign of clovis. the young princes of the reigning family in france were educated at this college, there are pupils, of whom are boarders. the École de droit which stands in front of the pantheon was also erected in the reign of louis xv, and souflot, the architect. at no. , is the collége de louis-le-grand, formerly the collége de clermont, founded in , but the present building was erected in ; it contains , pupils, of whom are boarders. it possesses a large library, and a good collection of philosophical instruments. behind this college, in the rue de rheims, at the corner of the rue des chollets, a gateway and building of the time of francis i. is worth attention, supposed to belong to the old collége des chollets. the royal college of france, situated no. , place cambrai, was founded in , by francis i, but the present edifice was erected in . it is a spacious building and very commodious, professors attend and give gratuitous lectures upon almost every subject, whether scientific or literary, and particularly upon languages, both ancient and modern, oriental and european. in a court opposite the college is a very curious square tower of the th century, called la tour bichat, or la tour de st. jean-de-latran; it is all that is remaining of the hall of knights hospitaliers, established in , afterwards called chevaliers de malte. the remains of a chapel of very ancient date will be found in the adjoining cour de la vacherie, in the far corner to the right, now occupied as a charcoal depot. we will next proceed to the rue de la montagne st. genevieve, and view the polytechnic school, formerly the collége de navarre, and where still remain a hall and chapel of the th century; a new façade much less interesting has been recently added, and the establishment is altogether badly situated. there are many emblematical bas-reliefs which possess no extraordinary merit. but the institution itself is one that deserves the highest encomiums, the young men are received at from to , after they have passed the ordeal of a very severe examination in paris or their respective departments. they are instructed in every branch of education connected with military science, and are afterwards admissible in the engineers, artillery, pontooners, miners, inspectors of highways, public works, etc; they pay , francs a year, find their own uniforms, and whatever may be requisite for their studies; they remain two or three years, as circumstances may demand. strangers wishing to view this establishment must have a permission from the minister of war. the rue des carmes has an interesting appearance as containing some of the old colleges, now otherwise appropriated. one was the college de lisieux; the buildings remain with a curious chapel, which fronts the marché des carmes, but its entrance is at no. , rue st. jean-de-beauvais. in the market there is a fountain in the middle built in ; this market is now designated la place maubert, and occupies the site of the convent des carmes. mounting a few steps in the rue st. victor, we arrive at the church of st. nicholas-du-chardonnet; the body of the building was completed in , but the lower is of the th century. the general effect of the interior is fine, but the paintings in different chapels, on either side, are highly interesting; some of them are extremely good, of the schools of lesueur, moise valentin, and mignard, the ceiling of the chapel of st. charles is painted by lebrun; there is also a monument of himself and his mother. at no. , rue st-victor is the royal institution for the juvenile blind, founded by m. haüy in . there are here maintained boys and girls, at the expense of the state, and as boarders, any blind children may be admitted, either french or foreign; they are taught reading, music, arithmetic, and writing, by means of characters raised in relief. admittance is freely accorded to strangers, but the establishment is about to be removed to the corner of the rue de sèvres, on the boulevard des invalides, where pupils will be accommodated. at no. , rue de pontoise, is the seminary of st. nicholas du chardonnet, and at no. , the ancient college of cardinal lemoine, founded in ; some parts of the original building exist, and on the doors are still seen a cardinal's hat and arms, and numerous iron spear-heads. close by, in the marché aux veaux, is still one of the dormitories of the convent of the bernardins, which must be of the th century, as also some remains of their chapel, in a house adjoining the market. on the quai de la tournelle, no. , is the hôtel de nesmond, of the reign of henry iv, and at no. , the pharmacie centrale, for keeping all the drugs and chemical preparations for the hospitals of paris. the rue de fouarre, by which we will pass, is one of the meanest and filthiest in paris, but has been cited by petrarch, dante and rabelais, as in it were several of the schools where public disputations were held; the rue galande, the rue des rats, and many other dirty streets of the same description is the quarter where existed the old university, and still known by the name of the quartier latin. thus having completed our survey, which i shall call the south-east division, we will proceed to the south-west, and begin by the church of st. severin at no. , in the street of the same name, called after a hermit who died in the year , but had on this spot an oratory and cells, where he conferred the monastic habit on st. cloud. the present building was erected in , in the reign of philippe auguste, has been repaired and enlarged at several different periods, which is perceptible by the different styles displayed in the architecture; there is a great deal of elaborate workmanship about this church that is exceedingly beautiful and interesting, the lower part of the tower is coeval with its first erection; a few good pictures of the old french school are amongst the attractive objects contained within this edifice. ascending the little unseemly streets des prétres and boutebrie, we find ourselves in the rue du foin, no. , being called the hôtel de la reine blanche; she was living about the year , when the church of st. severin close by was founded in the reign of her father-in-law, and very probably resided in the neighbourhood, perhaps on the very spot where the house stands which is now called after her, but evidently not in the same building which is now shown as such, although the staircase is of a very ancient appearance. in the same street, at the corner of the rue boutebrie, is the old collége de maître gervais, founded in , at present appropriated as a barrack for infantry. the visiter now must prepare for a grand treat, as we turn round into the rue de la harpe, and at no. , we find the venerable and crumbling remains of the palais des thermes (vide page ). julian, who was born in , inhabited it for some time, and many imagine it was built by his grandfather, but others state that it was alluded to at a still earlier period. of what now remains there is principally a large hall and a smaller, forming together one room; the architecture is simple but noble, the walls are adorned by three grand arcades, the middle being the loftiest. the vaulting of the roof rests upon supports, representing the sterns of ships; human figures may be distinguished in one of them. beneath the hall are vaulted apartments extending under most of the neighbouring houses. an aqueduct is traced as having been brought from some leagues, for the purpose it is supposed principally of supplying the baths. the masonry is alternately of stone and brick, in parts covered with a thick stucco. it seems almost incredible that a monument so ancient, and of such high interest should have been for so long a period totally disregarded by the government, and suffered to be occupied by a printer, a traiteur, and a cooper. the municipality of paris have now however purchased it, and intend to convert it into a museum for the reception of antiquities that can be collected of the ancient gauls. after the overthrow of the roman yoke, the palais des thermes was inhabited by the earliest kings of france. to view these ruins the stranger must apply to the concierge, no. , rue de la harpe, directly opposite, and a trifle should be given to the party showing them. the hôtel de cluny which is almost adjoining, is also an object highly meriting the attention of the observer. it is one of those edifices of the middle ages, of which there are so few remaining. in , in the reign of louis the twelfth, this curious building was erected by jacques d'amboise, abbot of cluny, on the site and with a part of the ruins of the palais des thermes. there is a richness about the architecture and the ornaments around the windows, that is particularly striking; the chapel is most highly interesting, and in it was married princess mary, the widow of louis the twelfth, and sister of henry viii, to the duke of suffolk, as also james v of scotland to magdalen, daughter of francis i. having at length become the property of m. sommérard, all the value of his acquisition is duly appreciated, and he has formed within this curious and beautiful edifice, a collection of specimens of the middle ages, which are arranged chronologically; he is the author of a most interesting work on the subject which may be procured upon the premises. the stranger will find a visit to the hôtel de cluny one of the most gratifying of any he can bestow, and on writing to m. sommérard, he may be certain of procuring admission. following the rue st. benoît, we arrive at the theatre du pantheon, rue st. jacques, opened in ; it is partly formed by the church st. benoît anciently that of st. benedict built in , much famed during the ligue, where the assassination of henri iii was applauded by jean boucher in his sermons. the performances are vaudevilles and melodramas. highest price two shillings, lowest six-pence. we now re-enter the rue de la harpe, and notice the royal college st. louis, originally founded by raoul harcourt in ; the present building was erected in , but part of the ancient edifice exists, the greater portion of the structure was built in ; and the college opened in . there is a chapel attached, and at the lower end a gateway, formerly the entrance to the collége de bayeux, founded in , which bears an inscription to that effect, and probably of the same date. a very few steps bring us to the collége de la sorbonne, built on the site of a school founded by robert sorbon in ; it is filled with historical associations, the church and all about it has a very gloomy appearance, it is cruciform and of the corinthian order, surmounted by a dome the interior of which is painted by philippe de champagne. the tomb of cardinal de richelieu, in the southern transept, is the chef-d'oeuvre of gérardon. the college is a plain building of sombre aspect, but the accommodation for the professors is on a handsome scale; the lectures delivered are all gratuitous. we will now proceed to the school of medicine in the street bearing the same name. the first stone was laid by louis xv, in , it is a truly elegant building, a peristyle of the ionic order with a quadruple range of columns unite the two wings and support the library, and a fine cabinet of anatomy. the grand court is feet in length by in breadth, the amphitheatre which is opposite the entrance is capable of containing , people; there are several allegorical and emblematical bas-reliefs, and on the whole it is a building which excites much admiration both in an ornamental and in a useful point of view, there not being a single object that can in any manner facilitate the study of medicine that is not to be found within this institution. at no. , in the same street, is a gratuitous school of drawing, established in the ancient amphitheatre of surgery, chiefly intended for artisans, to instruct them in the principles of drawings and architecture, and lectures are given on geometry, mensuration, etc. opposite to the École de médecine, is the hôpital clinique de la faculté de médecine, established in the cloister of the cordeliers, of which there are some remains still visible; it is rather a handsome building and contains beds. the body of the building is in the rue de l'observance. in the same street as the École de médecine; is the musée dupuytren, being the valuable pathological collection of that celebrated anatomist, bought by the university of his heirs, and placed in the refectory of the cordeliers which has been fitted up in the style of the th century, the date of its erection. adjoining to this museum is the school of practical anatomy, being a set of dissecting rooms for the use of the students. as we are so near i must conduct the visiter to the rue hautefeuille; on the west side is a house of the th century, which once belonged to a society of premonstratensian monks. in the same street, nos. , , and , and at the corner of the rue du paon and rue de l'École de médecine, the houses have ancient turrets, and are stated to have been built in the reign of charles vii. in the house, no. , of the latter street, in a dirty backroom, charlotte corday stabbed that beau idéal of monsters, marat. we will now make our way to the rue d'enfer, and at no. is the hôtel de vendôme, at present the royal school of mines; this noble mansion was erected in by the carthusian monks, but being purchased by the duchess of vendôme was called after her. every description of tool or instrument used in mining will here be found, and perhaps the extensive mineralogical collection is unrivalled anywhere in europe, and arranged in the most scientific manner by m. haüy, with a ticket attached to each explanatory of their quality and locality. the geological specimens have been collected by messrs. cuvier and bronguiart; weeks might be passed in this museum by those partial to studying mineralogy, geology, and conchology, and subjects for examination and meditation would still not be exhausted. we will now turn into the gardens of the luxembourg palace; they are in the true french stiff style, but look at them in a slanting direction and all the formality is lost; the statues are seen intermingled with the trees, shrubs, flowers, parterres, walks, vases, fountains, etc. and the coup-d'oeil has a most beautiful effect, and some of the retired walks amongst the high trees have a very inviting though solitary appearance. the palace (vide page ) was erected by marie de medicis, and is now with the recent additions a very extensive building, and taken in a general sense is decidedly a very fine monument, but i certainly think the pillars being in such bad taste with large square knobs sticking out all the way up the columns, in a degree spoil the effect of the whole edifice, still there is a heavy grandeur in the ensemble which has an imposing appearance. after having been occupied by various royal personages, it was given by louis the sixteenth to his brother afterwards louis xviii, who resided in it until he quitted france in ; it has since been appropriated to many different purposes, and is now used as the chamber of peers; for their discussions a new apartment has been constructed feet in diameter, the form is semi-circular. in the middle of the axis is a recess in which the president's and secretaries' seats are placed; above are a range of statues in recesses, the chairs of the peers are arranged in an amphitheatrical manner and occupy the space in front of the president; the peer who speaks takes his place below the president's desk. there are altogether in this palace so many statues, apartments, sculpture and galleries to describe, that it would monopolise far too much space in my little volume if i were to attempt to do it justice. i must therefore content myself with advising the reader to take the first opportunity of viewing it with its beautiful gallery of pictures, many of which are the chefs-d'oeuvre of the best living french artists. in the new divisions which have been lately constructed there are some fine specimens of painting from the pencils of messrs. delaroche, scheffer, boulanger, roqueplan, etc., and the chambers voted , fr. ( , _l._) for the artistical decorations of the recent erections added to the original building. le petit luxembourg is a large hotel contiguous and may be considered as a dependency of the great palace, it was built by cardinal richelieu who made it his residence whilst the palais royal was building, when he afterwards gave it to his niece the duchess d'aiguillon. it is now occupied by the chancellor of france, as president of the house of peers; it also contains a small prison for persons committed for political offences, and tried by the court of peers: the ministers of charles x were here confined in . in the same street, no. , is the convent of the carmelite sisters, already mentioned, a portion of the building is still devoted to sacred purposes, the chapel is dedicated to st. joseph, and of the tuscan order, it was founded by marie de medicis. here first began the massacres in paris of the nd of september, , when a number of priests here imprisoned were murdered. this is the convent which has long been famed for the _eau de mélisse_ and _blanc des carmes_, which are still sold here. at the southern gate of the garden of the luxembourg is the _jardin botanique de l'École de médecine_, where every medicinal plant agreeing with the climate is raised, and ticketed as classified by jussieu. the odéon theatre which is near the luxembourg has been twice burnt down, but was finally restored in ; it is situated fronting the street, and in the _place_ of the same name; it is certainly a very handsome building both as to the exterior and the interior, which is fitted up in a most superior style, but all exertions to render it successful seem in vain, although the present director has it rent free from the government; dramatic pieces in general are here represented, but its situation prevents its ever being much frequented; the principal front having a portico of eight doric columns ascended by nine steps has a fine effect; it is capable of containing , persons. a very few steps bring us to the magnificent church of st. sulpice. although the first stone was laid by anne of austria, in , it was not totally finished until . the portico, by servadoni, is splendid; the two towers not being similar, rather spoil the effect, but the interior baffles all description to do it justice; a simplicity and grandeur pervades the whole, which is heightened by a soft light thrown upon the virgin directly behind the altar, who appears to be descending midst the lightest clouds upon the earth, to which she presents her son. the corinthian order prevails throughout the interior, the statues are bold and finely conceived, some of the paintings are exquisite, that of the ceiling, particularly. two immense shells, placed within the entrance, for containing holy water, resting on rocks of marble, were presented to francis i, by the republic of venice. the pulpit is supported by two flights of steps, with the figures of faith, hope, and charity, producing a most splendid appearance. the organ is ornamented with no less than seventeen figures playing on musical instruments, or sustaining cornucopies carved in the most perfect manner. the pillars on the different sides of this edifice comprise the four orders of doric, ionic, corinthian, and composite. i cannot conceive a more sublime and delightful sensation than that which is caused when the first low notes of the organ begin to swell; the aisles being extremely lofty and vaulted, the sound appears gradually to peal through the building with a degree of softness which seems as if it came from a considerable distance, and has a most extraordinary and enchanting effect. we will now quit this noble edifice by the grand front, and looking to the left cast an instant's glance upon a large plain building, which is the seminary of st. sulpice, and has students. descending the rue mabillon a few paces, we come to the market st. germains, where formerly flourished the great fair under the same name. it was built in on a most commodious plan, and has every requisite that can be thought of for the convenience of a market, with an extremely handsome fountain in the middle, which the visiter should not omit to observe. quitting the market by the rue montfaucon brings us in front of the prison of the abbaye, in the rue st. marguerite, now only used for confining military offenders; here it was that some of the greatest horrors were committed during the revolution, it has a small turret at each corner, and seems to be a building of about two hundred years standing. not many yards off is the very ancient church of st. germain des près (vide page ), which has often been pillaged, burnt, and otherwise injured, but the lower part of the tower is coeval with the foundation, . the document relative to the establishment of the monastery and church is still preserved amongst the archives of the kingdom, and bears the date . the nave is simple and of the time of abbot modardus, in the year ; additions and repairs have been made at different periods, but in many instances the style of architecture displays its early date, the capitals of the pillars are remarkable for the grotesqueness of the devices. there are some pictures of merit, and many interesting tombs, one of casimir, the king of poland, who abdicated his throne in , and died abbot of the monastery attached to the church in , also of the duke and earls of douglas and angus. the abbot's palace still stands at the east of the church, in the rue de l'abbaye, directly facing the rue furstemberg; it was built in the year by cardinal bourbon. it is a large heavy-looking red brick building faced with stone, with a large garden behind; it is at present let out to different tenants. we shall now descend the rue furstemberg, and taking the rue jacob, to the right shall get into the rue de seine, and mounting the little passage du pont-neuf, one of the oldest in paris, we find ourselves opposite the rue guénégaud cited by sterne, as also the quai conti, on which stands the mint or hôtel des monnaies, a very extensive building and rather handsome; it was built in the reign of louis xv in , after designs furnished by m. antoine; an entablature supported by ionic columns forms the principal front, with six statues of peace, commerce, prudence, fortitude, plenty and law. on the right is a noble staircase ascending to apartments fitted up with the splendour of a palace. the collection of coins and medals here are extremely interesting, the first are two of childebert, the dates being - , and they are nearly complete of the respective kings up to the present day, amongst others are some of the gold pieces of louis, each of the reign of louis xiii, very large and beautiful. a medal of charlemagne of most exquisite execution, and others of almost every country or celebrated monarch or chief, with a collection of the ores in their mineral state, every instrument used for coining and in fact every object appertaining to such an establishment, which would demand much space and time to describe, and a work is written solely on the subject. this interesting museum is open to foreigners with their passports on mondays and thursdays, from twelve till three. contiguous and on the western side stands the palais of the institute, or as we should call it the royal academy. it was founded by cardinal mazarin in , from designs by levau. the segment of a circle describes the front, whilst pavillions upon open arcades terminate the extremities, a portico in the centre with corinthian colums surmounted by a pediment, whilst a dome crowns the summit, and vases upon the entablature combine to give it a fine effect. in the great hall of this building the members of the academy hold their sittings; the vestibules are adorned by marble statues of men whose intellectual powers have rendered their names renowned throughout the world, as montesquieu, molière, corneille, racine, sully, etc., etc. the mazarine library is attached to this institution and contains , printed volumes besides , manuscripts. there is also under the same establishment the library of the institute, which includes , volumes; in the gallery in which they are contained is a marble statue of voltaire, by pigale, highly celebrated for its execution. this building was for some time called the palais des quatre-nations, as the founder at first designed it for natives of roussillon, pignerol, alsace, and flanders. the subjects discussed within the halls of this institution are the belles-lettres, the fine arts, moral and political sciences, etc. persons desiring tickets for the meetings of the members must inscribe their names at the office of the secretary of the institute. directly opposite is a light elegant bridge, called the pont-des-arts, it is constructed of iron and is merely for foot passengers. passing to the quai voltaire we turn into the rue des petits-augustins, and stop before the front of the palais and École des beaux-arts, or school of fine arts; this is one of the many institutions which exist in paris requiring a volume to describe all its beauties and utility, there are a great number of professors belonging to the establishment which is divided into two sections, the one for sculpture and painting, the other for architecture, both of which the pupils are taught, and when they excel, receive annual prizes. the present building was erected upon the garden of the convent of the petits augustins, but there are still some remains of antiquity, which are rather strangely intermingled with the modern erection, as the front of a château at gaillon built in , and transported here by m. lenoir, who collected together on this spot relicks of the middle ages, which are now again dispersed to the great regret of every resident or visiter in paris. there is also the portal of the château-d'anet built by henri ii for diana of poitiers, with many other objects extremely curious; amongst the rest a large stone basin from the abbey of st. denis, feet in diameter, ornamented with grotesque heads, said to be a single piece of stone, some letters upon it prove that it must be of the th century, and many other fragments over which the antiquary likes to pore. here every aid is given to the young artist, that can facilitate his progress in his art, and he who is adjudged to have painted the best piece upon a subject given, is sent to rome to study three years, at the expense of the government. the visiter will here find paintings, sculpture, models, and in fact, every thing connected with the fine arts. he must also visit the ancient chapel of the convent, containing a most beautiful screen of stone and marble, and on the walls are some very good paintings: mr. ingres, perhaps the most celebrated draftsman now existing, made a present to this institution of fifty pictures, copies he had executed at his expense in the vatican, from raphael. foreigners must apply with their passports for admission at the office to the right on entering. we return on the quay and remark the pont du carousel, an iron bridge of three arches of an elegant construction, it was built by a company, who have laid a toll both on foot and carriage passengers. no. , rue de beaune, on the same quay, is the hôtel where voltaire resided, and died in . his nephew, m. de villette, and afterwards madame de montmorenci, kept his apartments closed for forty-seven years. we must now ascend the rue des saints pères, and in passing by, notice the hôpital de la charité, at the corner of the rue jacob, which has such a dismal appearance outside, that it almost makes one ill to look at it; indeed, to pass it often, one would soon be in a fit state to become one of its inmates; it was founded by marie de medicis, as a religious community, called brothers of charity, who were all surgeons and apothecaries, administering relief both for body and soul; it contains beds. besides those belonging to the medical and chemical school attached to it, there are several gardens in which the patients are allowed to walk; the same diseases are here treated as at the hôtel dieu, de la pitié, etc. turning to the right into the rue st. dominique, at the end of the second street on the north we shall see the church of st. thomas d'aquin; it was formerly a convent of jacobins, founded by cardinal richelieu. the present front was built in , by brother claude, one of the monks; it has two ranges of columns, doric and ionic, surmounted by a pediment with a bas-relief representing religion, terminating with a cross. the interior is decorated with corinthian pilasters, the effect is altogether fine, the high altar is of white marble, and some of the pictures are extremely good; the nobility attend much at this church, and it is rather famed for its preachers. the musée d'artillerie is adjoining, and contains the armour worn from the earliest ages, as also the weapons which have been used, and those of different countries. here will be found the armour of many heroes famed in the annals of chivalry, as bayard, dunois, duguesclin, etc., and an equestrian figure of francis i. there is also the helmet of attila, who was slain by clovis, in ; another, on which are some verses from the koran, of abderama, killed by charles martel. the dagger with which ravillac assassinated henri iv, having a black crape round it. there are, besides, models of all kinds of machines connected with war; the armour of joan of arc will be regarded with interest, as also of many others whose names have been celebrated in history; a catalogue descriptive of every object is to be had at the door for one franc. there is a military library attached to the establishment, with naval charts, etc. strangers are admitted on thursdays and saturdays, from twelve till four, with their passports. a few steps take us into the rue du bac, which we will ascend to the rue de grenelle, and observe one of the finest fountains in paris, erected after the designs of bouchardon, in the reign of louis xv, began and finished in ; it is most richly adorned by statues and allegorical subjects. at no. , rue du bac, is the church of st. francois xavier, or of foreign missionaries, it was built in , consisting of two parts, one on the ground floor, and the other above, the lower is perfectly plain, the upper is of the ionic order; there are some good paintings of the french school of the period. behind is the seminary for the instruction of young men intended as missionaries in the requisite sciences and languages. the worthy abbé edgeworth, the attendant of louis xvi in his last moments, was one of the members of this institution. just by in the rue de babylone is a barrack for infantry, famed for the attack and defence carried on in the revolution of the three days. in the rue vanneau is a recently built house, a complete type of the style of francis i. in the rue de varennes are several grand hôtels of the nobility of france, with their family names inscribed over the immense gateways; it is in fact one of the most interesting streets in paris; amongst others, at no. , is the hôtel of the late duchess de bourbon, now belonging to mme adélaïde d'orléans. no. , is the hôtel d'orsay, recently restored and embellished, and several others of the same description. at the north-west corner of the street stands the hôtel de biron, now converted into the celebrated convent and seminary of the sacré coeur (sacred heart), where so many daughters of the french, english and irish catholic nobility have been brought up. no. , the offices of the minister of commerce, and no. , rue hillerin-bertin, is the École royale des ponts-et-chaussées, established in . the pupils, who are all taken from the polytechnique, are instructed in every thing connected with the projection and construction of bridges, canals, ports and public works. their collection of plans, maps, and models relative to these operations is very rich. but a few paces southward bring us facing the ancient convent of panthémont, now used as a barrack for cavalry, forming the corner of the rue de belle-chasse and that of the rue de grenelle; the chapel, which has a dome, is an interesting architectural object. this is one of the aristocratic streets of paris, where the most ancient families of france have their town residences; the rue st. dominique is of the same description, and many others in this neighbourhood, but in too many cases immense gateways and high walls are all that are to be seen in the streets, as the hotels are situated behind them at the end of large court-yards, similar to several houses in piccadilly the most of which are now pulled down: on the west side of cavendish square one is still standing (i believe lord harcourt's), and several others in different parts of the west end of the town. the most conspicuous hotels in the rue st. dominique, are those of the duke de lynes, no. , the hotel of the late duchess dowager of orléans, no. , formerly inhabited by cambacérès. the hôtel de grammont, no. , and the hôtel de périgord, no. . at and , are the residence and offices of the minister of war, where there is a very valuable library, with a most interesting collection of plans, maps, and drawings. we will now return to the rue du bac, and at no. , we shall notice the hôtel châtillon, now occupied by the sisters of st. vincent de paule, better known as the sisters of charity. at the top of the street we find the rue de sèvres, and turning to the left we shall view, at the corner of the rue de la chaise, the old hospital entitled hospices des ménages; it was built in on the site of an old establishment for afflicted children, and is now appropriated to the reception of the aged, whether married couples or single; there are beds, and an extensive garden attached to the establishment. strangers may visit this hospital every day, and will find the detail of the regulations very interesting. a few yards eastward bring us to the abbaye-aux-bois, so called when it was founded in from being in the midst of the woods; this church possesses a few good pictures, amongst which are a virgin and dead christ, by lebrun, and a portrait of mlle de la vallière. opposite is the maison du noviciat des religieuses hospitalières de st. thomas de villeneuve. still continuing in the rue de sèvres, at no. , is the hospital for women who are incurable; it was founded in by cardinal de la rochefoucault, which is indicated by an inscription over the door; it contains beds. there is a large chapel attached, in which there are some pictures, and one bearing the date of with a handsome monument of the founder. the egyptian fountain in this street is well worth attention, it was built in , and is a very handsome monument. at no. , corner of the boulevards, is the convent of the dames de st. thomas de villeneuve, with a very pretty little gothic chapel. at no. is that of the lazarists, with a small chapel fronting the street. at the corner of the boulevard on the north side are new buildings, erected for the reception of the juvenile blind. no. is the hôpital des enfants malades; it is wholly appropriated to the reception of sick children, who are admitted from to years of age; it contains beds, which number is to be considerably increased. next door is an hospital founded by madame necker in a building which formerly was a convent of benedictine nuns; it is for the reception of the sick in general, and contains beds; the chapel attached has two fine statues of aaron and melchizedek, in marble, discovered in digging the foundations of a house; a short distance farther on, is an artesian well, which after many long, expensive, and most laborious attempts, at last emits water from the enormous depth of nearly feet; it rises to the height of feet, and falls into the respective conduits destined to receive it. it is situated at the entrance of the abattoir de grenelle which is one of the extensive slaughter-houses at the outskirts of paris, all of which are justly celebrated for the regularity of the buildings, the order with which every thing is conducted, and the great convenience of their being situated where they cannot be any source of annoyance to the inhabitants of the interior of the capital. the École militaire stands at the end of an avenue of trees, just before us; it was founded by louis xv, in , for educating gratuitously young gentlemen, the sons of poor nobility, but it is now converted into barracks for , men, either cavalry, artillery, or infantry. one front, looking to the champ de mars, is adorned with ten corinthian pillars, sustaining a pediment decorated with bas-reliefs, whilst a quadrangular dome, rises from behind, with figures of time and astronomy; there are besides in other parts of the edifice, rows of tuscan, doric, and ionic pillars, the buildings surround two spacious court-yards; on the first floor is the salle de conseil, embellished with pictures and military emblems. the chapel attached to the establishment is most splendid, the roof is supported by thirty fluted corinthian columns: the entrance to the École militaire is by the place de fontenoy. the champ-de-mars is a most extensive oblong piece of ground, in which has been celebrated many extraordinary epochs in the history of france; the sloping embankments on each side were formed by the people of paris; as many as , persons of both sexes kept working at them until they were finished, when the fête de la fédération took place on the th july, . it was also the scene of several other public demonstrations, and in , on the th of june, during the rejoicings for the celebration of the marriage of the duke of orléans, persons lost their lives by being either suffocated or trodden to death in passing through the gates. the paris races are held here in may and september, as also the military reviews, inspections, manoeuvres, etc. proceeding by an avenue from the north-cast corner of the champ-de-mars we arrive at the hôtel des invalides, which is certainly the grandest monument that exists of the reign of louis xiv. it is a most delightful asylum for crippled or worn-out old soldiers, it was built after the designs of bruant, begun in , and completed in . the façade towards the seine, though heavy, is grand and imposing, adorned by the statue of louis the xiv, and colossal figures of mars, minerva, justice and prudence, in bas-relief, and at the sides by emblematical representations of the four nations conquered by the founder. the first court has the most pleasing appearance, the arcades render it light and elegant, and although ornamented with figures, arms, horses, and trophies, they are not exuberant, and its simplicity is not deteriorated. the church is a most magnificent structure, presenting an extraordinary mixture of military and religious decorations. the dome, which has an effect truly noble, is adorned by paintings of the twelve apostles by jouvenet, surmounted by a glory from the pencil of lafosse, with a beautiful tesselated pavement beneath; there are some other good paintings, but many very bad. the gilding, although extremely gorgeous, harmonises well with the varied colouring which prevails throughout this beautiful edifice, and has not a gaudy appearance. there are monuments of several of the governors of the hospital; numbers of portraits, and banners taken from different countries, which amounted to as many as , , but on the evening prior to the allies entering paris, joseph bonaparte ordered them to be burnt. to give any thing like a comprehensive idea of this wonderful building, would require many pages, there is such an immense number of interesting objects, the description of which would compel the omission of other matter equally important; but, whether taken for its exterior or its interior, it certainly is one of the grandest monuments extant. the approaches to it are particularly fine, being by long vistas of high trees, with a most noble esplanade in front. a library belongs to the establishment which was founded by napoleon; it consists of , volumes, and his portrait by ingres is one of its valuable ornaments. it is gratifying to see so many of the invalids constantly in the library, amusing themselves with reading; it is a pleasing sight to be there at meal-time to witness the cleanliness and comfort which prevails. besides board and lodging, every soldier receives francs a month, and officers and non-commissioned officers in proportion; , is the number the establishment can contain. in quitting this extraordinary building, the visiter must notice the hôtel du châtelet at the corner of the rue de grenelle, now occupied by the austrian ambassador, being a fine specimen of the days of louis xiv. we then pass into the rue st. dominique, and at no. find the hospice leprince, so called after the founder, erected in ; it contains beds for men and for women; almost opposite is the church of st. pierre-du-gros-caillou, which was built in , and is much admired for its beautiful symmetry; the whole is consistently of the tuscan order. farther to the west is the military hospital founded by the duke de biron for the french guards, containing beds and erections for more are to be added shortly. directly opposite is the fountain of mars built in , a monument very well worth the visiter's attention. continuing a few yards farther to the west, we enter the avenue de la bourdonnaye, and turning to the right we come to the atteliers de sculpture, consisting of two handsome buildings where sculptors employed by government on public monuments may proceed with their operations; stone-yards, sheds, a house for the director, and the whole arrangement is most complete for the attainment of the object; visiters may obtain tickets from the director of public monuments, palais du quai d'orsay. the royal manufactory of tobacco, snuff, and cigars is at a short distance eastward, no. , quai d'orsay, an extensive establishment for the preparation of the articles, with a handsome modern house for the offices, and residence for the director. the profits of this establishment in to the government were , , francs, upwards of , , £. we will now proceed along the quai, and notice the bridges; first the pont de iena, terminated in , it is completely in a horizontal line, and is certainly a perfect structure, uniting elegance, beauty, and simplicity. the pont des invalides is a handsome suspension bridge for carriages as well as foot passengers; a toll is paid in passing over it. pursuing our course eastward we arrive at the palais bourbon, and chamber of deputies, which was erected by the dowager duchess of bourbon, in , begun by the italian architect girardini, and continued by mansard. it was afterwards much enlarged when possessed by the prince de condé, but not completed when the revolution of occurred. in it was appropriated as the chamber for the sittings of the council of five hundred, and next occupied by the corps legislatif. at the restoration in the prince de condé retook possession, but so arranged that the portion which had been converted into a locality for the sittings of the legislative assembly, and which had been partly rebuilt, should be appropriated to the use of the deputies, and finally was bought by government for , , francs. at the death of the duke de bourbon this palace devolved upon the duke d'aumale, and is leased to the chamber of deputies for the residence of the president, but will soon become the property of the country by a negociation at present pending. the entrance of the palais bourbon is by the rue de l'université, and being approached by a long avenue of trees has the air of a country seat; formerly the apartments were gorgeously furnished, now simple beauty and utility alone prevail; there are a few good pictures, and one room decorated with bucks' horns, and different emblems of the chase; there is a large garden laid out in the english style. the grand front of the portion styled the chamber of deputies is exactly opposite the handsome bridge called the pont de la concorde, and is from thence seen to the best advantage; it is a noble massive building with colossal statues of sully, colbert, l'hôpital, and d'aguesseau, there are besides several allegorical figures, and noble corinthian columns, supporting a fine bas-relief recently completed, approached by a flight of steps; for so much weight as there appears in this building, i should say there was not sufficient height, and the breadth is immense, still the effect is dignified and imposing. the chamber itself is a semi-circular hall with white marble ionic columns and bronze capitals gilt. the president's chair and the tribune form the centre of the axis of the semi-circle, from whence the seats rise of the deputies, in the shape of an amphitheatre. a spacious double gallery capable of containing persons surrounds the semi-circular part of the chamber, arranged with tribunes for the royal family, the corps diplomatique, officers of state and the public. there are a number of very fine statues, as well as some extremely clever pictures by the first french artists, and there, is a library of , volumes. anyone with a passport may visit the chamber, but for the debates a letter post-paid must be addressed to m. le questeur de la chambre des députés, who will send a ticket of admission. a short distance to the east is the palace of the legion of honour, erected in after designs by rousseau for the prince de salm, after whom it was called. the entrance is by a triumphal arch, and a colonnade of the ionic order with two pavillions. at the end of a court yard is the principal front consisting of a fine portico, adorned with large corinthian pillars. the side which fronts the seine is particularly light and graceful, having a circular projection adorned with columns supporting a balustrade with six statues. when the prince de salm was beheaded in , the hôtel was put up to lottery, and won by a journey man hairdresser, and in it was appropriated to its present object; strangers are admitted without any difficulty. the palais du quai d'orsay is almost adjoining, and although one of the most magnificent, yet one of the most chaste edifices in paris; it has never received any decided name. it was begun under napoleon, and then remained dormant until , and in the present reign has been finished in the most perfect style. the grand front which faces the river presents a long series of windows formed by arches beneath a tuscan colonnade on the ground-floor; the one above is similar, except being of the ionic order, surmounted by a sort of corinthian attic; the court is surrounded by a double series of italian arcades, there are four staircases, placed at each corner, one styled the escalier d'honneur, is absolutely splendid, both as regards the construction and the richness of its ornaments. the chief entrance is in the rue de lille, and there are side gateways into other streets. the ground-floor is appropriated to the council of state and the offices attached, the first floor to the cour des comptes, and the third to the conservation of the archives of these two public bodies. this noble structure has cost upwards of twelve million francs. we will now cast one glance at the hôtel praslin, which also has its entrance in the rue de lille, no. ; its terrace is perceptible from the quay, it is one of the most extensive and grandest mansions of the old nobility. the next building is a barrack for cavalry, which is totally devoid of any ornament or beauty. we now arrive at the pont royal, an old but substantial bridge, built by a dominican friar in . the river here was formerly crossed by a ferry (bac), which gave the name to the rue du bac. i shall now advise that we take a boat and see how paris looks from the water, affording us a good view of the quays as we pass between them; we also get an excellent sight of the point neuf already described, and which has a very fine effect as we approach it. we next come to the pont au change, formerly a wooden bridge; in louis vii fixed the residence of the money changers upon it, hence it derived its name; the present structure was built in . the pont notre dame soon after arrests the eye (vide page ), it was begun and finished in , after the designs of jean joconde; on the western side is an engine called pompe du pont notre dame, consisting of a square tower erected upon piles, having a reservoir into which water is elevated, by machinery impelled by the current of the water. we next pass under the pont d'arcole, built in ; it is a suspension bridge, and there is a toll upon it. the circumstances from which it derives its name are very singular. a young man, in , during the murderous conflict which here took place between the royal guard and the people, rushed on the bridge with a flag in his hand, heading the patriots, and was killed under the archway in the middle; his name was arcole, and the same trait of courage was displayed by napoleon on the bridge of arcola; hence its present designation. a little farther on we pass close to the house where it is pretended lived fulbert, uncle of heloise; the outward part of the building does not bear the impression of being as old as the period when abelard lived, as he was born in , and died in ; the cellars, however, have a very ancient appearance; visiters are admitted, on applying to the owner of the dwelling, which is situated no. , rue des chantres, on the north-eastern side of the isle de paris, not far from notre dame. [illustration: paris in the th century. published by f. sinnett, , grande rue verte.] resuming our course upon the water we come to the pont louis-philippe, a fine suspension bridge constructed in , of iron wire, with two bold arches of stone. the next bridge is called the pont marie, and was built in , but had two arches; and houses, out of , which stood upon it, were carried away by a flood in . we now arrive at the pont de damiette, another suspension bridge connecting the north and southern quays of the seine with the ile louviers, until very recently an immense dépôt for fire wood, but now many handsome residences are being erected, with which the whole of the little island will soon be covered. we shall now land on the quay des célestins, and explore the north-east quarter of paris, beginning with the arsenal which contains a library of , printed volumes, and , manuscripts, amongst which are some beautiful missals. henri iv having appointed sully grand-master of the artillery, he resided in the buildings constructed on this spot purposely for him, and they now show a bed-room and a cabinet in which he used to receive his royal visiter; they are richly gilt according to the style of that period, and may be seen with passport by applying to the director. close to the arsenal on the quai des célestins are the remains of the once celebrated convent of the célestins, and of their small church which after that of st. denis contained more tombs of illustrious individuals than any in paris. it was particularly remarked for the chapel d'orléans, which enclosed the remains of the brother of charles vi and his descendants. the architecture is interesting as being a specimen of the pointed style prevailing in paris in the th century, a part of the convent buildings are converted into cavalry barracks, and the rest are in a state of dilapidation. facing the arsenal is the grenier de reserve, on the boulevard bourdon, which is an immense storehouse for corn, grain and flour requisite for the consumption of paris for four months. it was began by napoleon in , it is , feet in length and in breath. every baker in paris is obliged to have constantly deposited here full sacks of flour, and as many more as he pleases by paying a trifle for warehouse room. just a few steps northward is the government dépôt of powder and saltpetre. at a short distance in the rue st. antoine, no. , is the small church of the visitation built by mansard in , for the sisters of the visitation. it has a dome supported by corinthian pillars, and the interior is richly ornamented with scroll work, wreaths of flowers, etc. it is now appropriated to the protestant worship, and there is service on sundays, and festivals at half past . on the southern side of the boulevard st. antoine is the theatre st. antoine, erected in ; the performances are vaudevilles, little melodrama, and farces. the admission is from _d._ to _s._ _d._ it contains , places. the place de la bastille is now before us, and still may be seen the desolate remains of the great plaster cast of the enormous elephant, intended by napoleon to have been placed on this spot, which is now decorated with what is called the column of july. the capital is said to be the largest piece of bronze ever cast, the height is feet, and it is surmounted by an orb on which is placed the figure of liberty; and is ornamented with lions, heads, cocks, children bearing garlands and other emblematical objects, but the effect of the whole is not happy, there is a sort of indescribable deficiency, although the cost was , , f., besides an immense outlay, years before, for the foundation. the ceremony of its inauguration took place on the th of july, , when fifty coffins, each containing twelve patriots, were placed in the vaults for them underneath. many persons descend to view the arrangements where the sarcophagi are stationed, which are feet in length, and the trouble is well repaid; as also for ascending to the summit of the monument, but the staircase is not considered to be as solid and secure as could be wished. at no. , rue de charenton, will be found the hôpital royal des quinze vingts, devoted to the reception of the blind. this establishment was originally founded by st. louis, at the corner of the rue st. nicaise, in the rue st. honoré, and ultimately removed to the present building. there are as many as families living in this hospital, as the blind are suffered to bring with them their wives and children, and encouraged to marry, if single; there are besides out-door pensioners. there is a chapel attached to the institution, which was built in , but possesses no particular interest. at no. , rue faubourg st. antoine, is a building founded in by m. aligre and his lady, for orphans, but the children having been sent to another establishment, it is intended to be formed into a hospice for old men. just by, is the marché beauveau, built in , and is a sort of rag fair, well appropriated to the neighbourhood in which it stands. at no , rue faubourg st. antoine, is the hôpital st. antoine, formerly the abbey of st. antoine; the present building was erected in , the number of beds is , it is appropriated for the reception of the sick in general, and may be visited by strangers upon any day. some little distance to the north, in the rue st. bernard, is the church of st. marguerite, erected in ; it has no other attractions than that of its pictures, which are numerous and some of them beautiful, and would well repay the visiter for turning out of his way to view them, they are principally of the old french school, but there are no records to state how they ever came there. a few streets to the south-west, lead to the rue de reuilly, where some barracks will be found in a large pile of buildings, established by colbert, for the royal glass manufactory of mirrors (removed to , rue st. denis); a little further on, at the south-eastern corner of the rue faubourg st. antoine and that of picpus, is a great market for forage, and at no. in the latter street, is the maison d'enghien, founded by the mother of the unfortunate duke of that name, the duchess of bourbon, in , and now supported by madame adélaïde d'orléans; it contains fifty beds, of which eighteen are for women, and the utmost cleanliness and order prevail. at no. is the hôpital militaire de picpus. somewhat farther on, at no. , was once a convent of the order of st. augustin, now a boarding-school, but the chapel still remains; attached to it is a cemetery, where rest the remains of some of the noblest families of france, as de grammont, de montaigu, de noailles, and that purest and most perfect of private and public characters, lafayette, in a spot hardly known, in a quiet corner, beneath a very simple tomb, beside his wife, and in the midst of his relations. we shall now return westward, and view the barrière du trône, which is still unfinished, but consisting of two noble lofty columns; very conspicuous from their height, with a fine open circular space, on which festivals are celebrated on public days, and plans are now pursuing for finishing and embellishing this spot. a pleasant walk along the boulevards will bring us to the celebrated cemetery of père-la-chaise, on which there has been so much written by tourists, poets, and even novelists; thus i fear all i can state upon the subject will appear but tame, after such choice spirits have favoured the public with their inspirations on so interesting a retreat, i shall, therefore, only attempt to give a few matter of fact indications. it consists of a large tract of ground on the slope of a hill, was celebrated for the beauty of its situation in the fourteenth century, and under louis the xiv as the abode of père-la-chaise, having for years been the favourite country house of the jesuits, and at present the favourite burying place of the parisians. in the th century a house was erected on the spot by a rich grocer, named regnault, and was by the people named la folie regnault; after belonging to different parties, it was purchased for , francs, for its present purpose. its extent is nearly acres; all that trees, shrubs, plants, and flowers can avail towards embellishing a spot, has been effected; the sculptor's hand has also been contributed in a most eminent degree, and fancy seems to have exhausted her caprices in conceptions of forms and fashions with regard to the monuments here assembled, and some are as highly picturesque as can be well imagined; others are grand and imposing, whilst a few there are, whose simplicity render them the most interesting, so much is there in association that perhaps none is more touching than that of abelard and heloïse; it is formed of stones gathered from the ruins of the abbey of paraclete, founded by abelard, of which heloïse was the first abbess. amongst the number of monuments here assembled, there will be found those whose names have lived and will live in history: marshals, admirals, generals, authors, travellers, senators, and celebrated characters of all nations, in fact what with the extreme beauty of the scene, the splendid view that expands before one, and the tone of reflexions that are engendered by the many affecting appeals there are to the heart, upon the different monuments, i know of no spot that one can visit, calculated to excite deeper impressions. we have imitated near london the same description of cemetery, but they will be long before they can arrive at the same beauty; it has been observed, that père-la-chaise is not kept in such nice order as those in england, and the remark is just, but i am not quite sure but that i prefer the degree of wildness which there is in the former, and although it may not be so neat and trim as the latter, yet on the whole there is infinitely more of the sublime, aided no doubt from the extreme beauty of the position, and the greater number of splendid monuments, than an infant establishment can be expected to possess. on quitting this delightful spot, we must pass by the prison de la roquette, destined for the reception of prisoners condemned to the galleys or to death; the excellent system that is here followed with regard to the airiness, cleanliness, and strict order, is such that it is styled the model prison; is the number of prisoners that it can contain. just opposite to it is the prison pour les jeunes détenus, or for juvenile offenders, and is a most extraordinary establishment; its exterior has the air of a baronial castle, and the interior is so arranged that it might answer the purpose of an hospital, as well as that of correction; it has circular turrets at the angles, and the central building is isolated from the others, and only approachable by iron bridges; the whole of the upper part of the building is a chapel, so contrived, that when the prisoners enter it from the different divisions, although they are all together, they can only see the individuals composing their own section, and the pulpit and altar; the prisoners are arranged in the different wings, according to their ages, and the degree of morality; there are about , and the different regulations are so meritorious, and the plan of the building so curious and ingenious, that the stranger will derive much pleasure from visiting this singular establishment. just by, is the abattoir de popincourt, or de ménilmontant, which is considered to be the largest and finest of all the five immense slaughter-houses round paris, and for those who are curious of regarding such buildings, this should be the one they ought to visit. at a few steps from the abattoir, in the rue popincourt, is the church of st. ambroise, which was built for a convent of nuns called the annonciades in ; some tolerable pictures are the only attractions it possesses for a stranger; a few doors from it is a large barrack, and an ornamented fountain. we must now descend the rue du chemin-vert, until we come to the canal st. martin, and just pause a minute and notice its neat quays, and the good order in which its locks are kept, and all arrangements connected with it, and then proceed to the boulevards: a short street, called rue de la mule, will take us into the place royale, which stands upon the site of the celebrated palais de tournelle, the court and offices of which extended to the rue st. antoine, and over several of the neighbouring streets, but was pulled down by order of catherine de medicis in , on account of her husband henry ii having been killed in one of the courts in a tournament. the place royale, as it now stands, was built in , under henri iv (vide page ), it is now inhabited by persons of small incomes who like to have spacious and lofty apartments without incurring the expence of such; in the more fashionable quarters, the arcades all round the square, the fountains, the trees, and the handsome railing, give it a very fine though curious appearance, and the houses have a most venerable aspect. we will now leave the place royale by the southern gateway, and enter the rue st. antoine, and nearly opposite to no. , is the hôtel de sully; being the work of the celebrated architect ducerceau, and the residence of the noble character whose name it bears. it is well preserved, and its court is richly adorned with sculpture. at no. , in the same street, is the collége de charlemagne, formerly a college of the jesuits, founded in , the buildings are only remarkable for their extent. the passage charlemagne, no. , leads through the court of the hôtel de jassau, or d'aguesseau, , rue des prêtres st. paul, said to be the site of a palace, and a turret of the time of francis i still remains at the corner of the court, as also some ornaments and figures. at the corner of the rue st. paul, and the rue des lions, is a small square turret of the time of henri iv, and a little eastward, part of the church of st. paul embodied in the house, no. , rue st. paul. by the side of the college of charlemagne is the church of st. paul and st. louis, it was began in , and finished in , and within it cardinal richelieu performed the first mass in the presence of louis xiii and his court. the noble front rising from a flight of steps, is adorned with three ranges of corinthian and composite columns, and the interior is decorated with ornaments even to profusion; a fine dome with figures of the evangelists and four kings of france give it altogether a very handsome appearance. opposite the college of charlemagne, is the fontaine de birague; consisting of a pentagonal tower, with a dome and lantern. above a pediment supported by doric pilasters is an attic with a naiad. at the corner of the rue culture ste. catherine, is the hôtel de carnavalet, where resided madame de sévigné and her daughter, a fine mansion of the th century, having been erected in ; most of the sculpture is from the chisel of the celebrated jean goujon, and is of a most interesting description; the cabinet in which the letters of that highly gifted woman were written is still shown, also a marble table upon which she and her daughter used to dine under the sycamores in the garden, two of which remain. m. viardot occupies this hôtel, and with pleasure shows it to strangers; he keeps an academy and has written a history of the edifice, which may be had of the porter. it was at the corner of this street that the constable de clisson was assailed and severely wounded by ruffians, headed by pierre de graon, chamberlain of the duke of orleans, who was murdered by the duke of burgundy. in the rue du roi de sicile is the prison of la force, containing prisoners, and excellent regulations, but another, in a more retired part of paris, is soon to be constructed. this building was formerly the hôtel of the duc de la force, hence the origin of its name. in the rue pavée, which is on one side of the prison, will be found, at no. , the hôtel de la houze, and in the same street stood the hôtels de gaucher, de châtillon, and d'herbouville, or de savoisi. we will now go a little out of our way to see the fine long and broad street of st. louis, which we shall soon reach by keeping straight on along the rue payenne, and then turning to the east by the rue parc royal, shall proceed to one of the ornaments of the rue st. louis, the church of st. denis du sacrement; it is quite modern, but is conceived according to good taste; the order is ionic, which is consistently preserved both throughout the exterior and the interior, much chasteness of design, in fact has been observed in the construction of this simple but elegant edifice. the fountain of st. louis is worthy of attention _en passant_. formerly this street was filled with nobility, as even so late as the beginning of the reign of louis xv it was rather a fashionable quarter, at present it is the cheapest in paris. we must now retrace our steps, which will bring us to the rue francs bourgeois; no. is an hôtel of the time of henri iv, no. , hôtel de jeanne d'abret, of louis xv's days, and no. , the former residence of the dukes de roquelaure, and at the corner will be observed a little turret belonging to a house, one side of which is in the vieille rue du temple; there is some curious work upon it, and it is supposed to have been standing at the time the duke of orleans was murdered by order of the duke of burgundy, which was just about this spot, in . at no. , rue franc bourgeois, is the hôtel de hollande, so called from its having belonged to the dutch ambassador, in the reign of louis xiv; amongst the sculpture is perceived the date of ; this handsome hôtel was once the residence of beaumarchais. at the corner of the rue pavée is the hôtel de lamoignon, one of the handsomest mansions of the ancient nobility. it is of the sixteenth century, some of the carved work is most curious, and merits attentive examination; a picturesque turret and balcony must excite the attention of every observer. a few steps further is the large central establishment of the mont de pieté, no. , rue des blancs manteaux, lending money on pledges, much the same as our pawnbrokers, only on more advantageous terms for the borrowers. in the same street is notre dame des blancs manteaux, once the chapel of a religious house, so called from their dress consisting of white garments; there was formerly a monastery here, of which there may be discovered some remains to the east, and evidently in the left wing of a house at no. ; the chapel remaining has a plain exterior, but the corinthian style of the interior is handsome, and worth attention; there is also a very admired picture of the burial of st. petronilla, which is eighteen feet by eight, it is of the school of guercini, but it is not known by what means it came to be placed in this church. facing this street is the market des blancs manteaux. at the corner of the rue vieille du temple, and that of the rue de quatre fils, is the palais cardinal, now the imprimerie royale; it was erected in , and is named after its owner, the cardinal de rohan, whose intriguing spirit so much involved marie antoinette; in this hôtel the scenes occurred concerning that extraordinary affair; the front of the building is quite plain, towards the garden it is ornamented by columns, and as a mansion, is one of the largest in paris. it is now occupied as the royal printing establishment, and it is impossible to surpass the order and regularity with which it is conducted; men, women, and children, are employed in it. it is considered to possess the richest collection in the world of matrices and fonts of types, having them in every written language, and when pope pius vii visited the establishment, he was presented the lord's prayer in languages. a library with specimens of typography, executed on the premises, is an object of the highest gratification to every visiter, even if they be not connaisseurs in the art. for admission to this establishment, application must be made a few days beforehand to m. le directeur de l'imprimerie royale, who appoints a fixed hour on thursdays. almost facing one part of the imprimerie royale, in the rue d'orléans, is the church of st. françois d'assise. neither the exterior nor the interior possess any striking beauty; it was founded and erected in . it contains some very good paintings, and the kneeling figure of the saint of the church in his monastic dress; the hands and head are of white marble, and it is supposed to be egyptian; one of st. denis is opposite to it. adjoining to the imprimerie royale, is the hôtel des archives du royaume, which is entered by the rue du chaume, no. . it was formerly a palace of the prince de soubise and the family of the rohans. the south and western part of the edifice is of the th century, the turret is probably what belonged to the gatehouse. the decorations of the apartments are extremely rich with gilt cornices and paintings, some of them possessing great merit. in the _petits appartements_ is a boudoir which belonged to the duchess de guise, with a window looking into the rue du chaume, from whence it is asserted that her lover precipitated himself at the approach of the duke. a new building has been added, the first stone having been laid in , which has cost a million of francs. under napoleon the whole edifice was appropriated to the preservation of the national archives. amongst them are documents of diplomas granted to different monastic institutions, by childebert, dagobert, clothaire and clovis ii. the collections of the different acts, deeds, charters, administrative, domanial, historical, judicial, legislative, etc., fill , portfolios. there is besides a library of , volumes, amongst which are the _records commission_ of england, presented by the british government. there are also in an iron chest, the golden bulls and papal decrees, most of the keys of the bastille, the wills of marie antoinette and louis xvi, with his journal, autograph letters of napoleon, one written by him to louis xviii, with a variety of other most interesting objects. for admission apply (post paid) to m. le garde general des archives du royaume, no. , rue du chaume. the fontaine de la naiade in the same street, has a clever bas-relief by mignot. by the rue des vieilles-haudriettes we pass into the rue ste-avoye; no. is worth notice, several of the houses here having been the hôtels of nobility. no. is the hôtel st. aignan, built by le muet; on its site stood the hôtel de montmorency, it is an extensive noble building, but has been spoiled by having had two stories added. henry ii often resided in it when it was called hôtel de montmorency. taking the rue ste. croix de la bretonnerie, we shall find that the first turning in it is the rue des billettes, where stand the lutheran church; it was built in , and belonged to the carmelite friars. in , it was bought by the city of paris, and given about four years after to the protestants of the augsburgh confession. it is a plain neat building. the duchess of orléans attends service here when in paris, which is in german at and in french at . from hence we cross the rue de la verrerie, and proceeding by the rue des mauvais garçons, we arrive at the church st. gervais; an inscription under the first arch of the northern aisle of the choir, states the church to have been dedicated in , although other parts of the building would indicate a more recent construction, but with all its incongruities, from its having been built at various periods, it excites a deep interest; the light gleaming through the painted glass gives a rich though rather sombre effect, the windows behind the altar have a most imposing appearance. the western front was began in , louis the xiii laying the first stone, and is not equal to other parts of the building; some of the chapels of this church are particularly fine. amongst the pictures, of which there are many very good, is one by albert durer, with the date upon it of . scarron, the husband of mme. de maintenon, lies buried here, as also the celebrated painter philippe de champagne, and one of his performances is amongst the pictures which decorate the church, being that of jesus with martha and mary in the chapel of ste. genevieve; there are several other objects in this noble edifice so interesting, that no person who visits paris should omit seeing it. we may now take the rue de la tixéranderie where at the corner of the rue du coq is a house and turret of the th and th century, most probably the former, according to the statements of m. dulaure. [illustration: the hôtel de ville. published by f. sinnett, . grande rue verte.] we now arrive at the hôtel-de-ville, place de grève; the first stone of this interesting and venerable pile was laid in , but was not completely finished until , in the reign of henry iv. the style of architecture is that which the french call la renaissance des arts, it is rich, rather heavy, and has an antique appearance; it is exactly according to the taste which prevailed in the th century, and was brought into vogue by italian architects. there is a great deal of ornament about the building, and a profusion of statues, still they appear consistent with the style of the building, and have not the effect of redundancy. over the doorway is a bronze equestrian statue of henry iv. along the principal front is a flight of steps, and an arcade and portico with ionic columns, between the arches facing the entrance is a fine bronze statue of louis xiv. the grande salle or salle du trône is a most splendid apartment, and has been the scene of many most important events, being the room where robespierre held his council and in which he attempted to destroy himself, and from which louis xvi addressed the people with the cap of liberty upon his head. most extensive additions and alterations have recently been effected, the original façade having been doubled in length and the whole body of the building nearly quadrupled, forming an immense quadrangle, preserving the same style of architecture as the original. the expense of these additions and improvements is estimated at four millions of francs, and they have been effected with a rapidity that is quite surprising, notwithstanding the number of public buildings in progress at the same time in paris. the multitude of apartments, the richness of their decorations, and tasteful manner with which they are arranged, are only to be equalled by the careful attention which has been devoted to their distribution with regard to convenience and comfort. as louis-philippe justly observed when he recently inspected the exterior of the whole building, that it should no longer be called the hôtel-de-ville, but for the future the city palace, as the splendour within it is not exceeded in any of the other palaces in paris. the library belonging to this establishment consists of , volumes, and is very rich in manuscripts. the place de grève has been the scene of more sanguinary tragedies than perhaps any spot of the same extent in europe, and could the stones but speak, each could tell a tale of blood. in the north-west corner is still to be seen a relic of the middle ages, in a curious turret attached to one of the houses. taking the rue poterie, we shall get into the rue de la verrerie, and proceeding westward will bring us to the church st. merri, but to view it properly must enter the rue st. martin, and stand facing it, and well examine its curious and beautiful sculpture (vide page ), presenting all the minute and singular characteristics of the period of its construction ( ); the carve-work is quite like lace, so minutely elaborate. the interior possesses several interesting objects in architecture, and some inconsistencies, the pulpit is extremely curious, and its effect is very striking. there are also some pictures above mediocrity, principally by french artists of the past school. the tower of this church is famed from the desperate resistance which was made from it by a few young men in against the king's troops. we must follow the course of the rue st. martin, and observe no. , a fine hôtel of the time of louis xiv, with a front adorned by ionic pilasters, and handsome entrance: a few paces farther on the opposite side, is the church of st. nicolas-des-champs, the west front was erected in , as it now stands, and in , the choir and chapels behind were constructed, and the tower probably at that period or since. a church has existed on the same spot ever since , then standing as the name indicates in the fields, but it is doubtful whether any part of the old fabric remains. there is something fine and imposing in the interior, with regard to its general effect, although there is not any thing particularly remarkable in its architecture; the pictures it contains form its most striking feature, some of which are very good; many celebrated persons lie buried here, and amongst the rest mademoiselle scuderi. a few steps to the north is the conservatoire des arts et métiers. this edifice was formerly the ancient abbey of st. martin-des-champs, the chapel and refectory of which were built about the year , and are still standing, the latter is in excellent preservation, and is one of the most curious and perfect specimens of the architecture of the period at which it was built; at the eastern end of the chapel are the remains of a building still more ancient, which is plain, and has not any thing striking in its appearance. in this establishment is to be found every description of machinery, and in fact all that ever can be imagined relative to the promotion of industry; scarcely any invention has been made public, of which there is not a model to be found in this curious museum, with specimens of all the various mechanical contrivances which europe possesses. the celebrated vaucanson, who was one of the greatest contributors to this institution, having quarrelled with the people of lyons, vowed he would teach an ass to do what they did, and he absolutely invented machinery of such a description that it could be worked by that humble animal, and a piece of drugget with flowers is shown, which was produced by the united ingenuity of m. vaucanson and the patient labour of the ass. models of potteries, breweries, smelting-houses, steam engines, railways, etc. are amongst the number of interesting objects, and the names of our countrymen appear prominent, as watt, maudsley, barker, atkins, etc., who have benefited the world by their inventions. on ascending a very handsome staircase, the visiter finds a range of apartments, with a wonderful collection of models of pulpits (which in france are generally most ornamental objects), mills, turning machines, engineering and surveying instruments, with an immense number of others far too many to recapitulate, and an assortment of coloured papers stamped, and some exquisitely cut out; fans of mother of pearl of most elaborate workmanship, with other objects equally ingenious and beautiful. this venerable abbey appears to advantage from the garden, as a plain substantial old fashioned building, part of which is used as the mairie of the th arrondissement, and lecture rooms for the professors of the institution. a short distance from it, is the fontaine st. martin, which is erected against a tower formerly belonging to the old abbey with which it was connected by a wall with a series of towers, but there is now no other remaining. close by, is the market st. martin, with stalls, formerly the abbey gardens; there is a handsome fountain in the middle, of bronze, with three allegorical figures of the genii of hunting, fishing, and agriculture, there are also smaller fountains, and at the back of the market a little promenade planted with trees. from hence we pass eastward by the rue royale, and turning to the left, we shall see the rue des fontaines, in which we shall find the maison d'arrêt des madelonnettes, formerly belonging to nuns called the filles de la madeleine, now appropriated to the temporary detention of men and boys. a few steps farther, and the temple appears before us in the rue du temple, now a nunnery occupied by the dames benedictines de l'adoration perpetuelle du st. sacrement. it formerly belonged to the society of knights templars, and afterwards to those of malta; the palace of the grand prior is all that now remains of the ancient building, which was erected by jacques de souvré in . the front has a portico formed of doric colums, and on each side a fountain with a colossal statue (by pujol), upon a pedestal. the front towards the court is adorned with eight coupled ionic columns, and above are figures of justice, prudence, hope and abundance. a new chapel was built in , which belongs to the convent, it is of the ionic order throughout, and though not particularly striking, is not inelegant, and remarkably neat; it may be seen on application at the porter's lodge, but from the nunnery strangers are most rigidly excluded. there was a tower belonging to this building, where the unfortunate louis xvi was confined, as also sir sydney smith and toussaint-louverture, but it was demolished in . behind the temple is an immense space of ground called the marché du vieux linge, containing shops or stalls, where old clothes, linen, shoes, tools, hats, old iron, and a variety of other articles are sold at low prices, and behind is an oval-formed arcaded building, with shops erected on the site of the ancient temple and its dependencies. the fontaine vendôme, named after the chevalier de vendôme, grand prior of france, was attached to the old wall of the temple, it has a cupola and a military trophy. at no. , rue du temple, is the church of ste. Élisabeth (vide page ), which has had so many modern repairs and additions, that there is not much left of the first construction, but except the front it has little in it to attract notice; there are a few pictures and some painted windows by an englishman named white. in proceeding northward to the boulevards, we will just take a look at the rue vendôme, as it is full of hôtels, amongst which are some of the finest in paris; on reaching the boulevard du temple, no. may be remarked, it is always pointed out to strangers as the house from whence fieschi discharged in his infernal machine (which is now to be seen at madame tussaud's exhibition in baker street, london). by the means of that diabolical affair, marshal mortier, colonel rieussec, and many others, were killed and wounded, but the king, at whom it was aimed, fortunately escaped. we shall now proceed by the rue du faubourg du temple; at no. is a large barrack which has been formed for infantry, but is a few steps out of the way, and hardly worth looking after, in an architectural point of view. i should therefore advise turning to the left, by the northern bank of the canal st. martin, and observing the grand entrepôt des sels, from whence annually , , lbs. of salt are distributed for the consumption of paris. opposite, on the southern bank, is the entrepôt de la compagnie des douanes, which was built in by a joint stock company, for receiving goods in bond, consisting of a spacious area in which stand two large warehouses feet in length, with a court covered in between for stowage, besides a number of sheds. they are constructed on a most solid plan, being built of stone with brick arches, and the wood-work of oak enclosing pillars of iron. it is altogether on a most extensive and commodious plan, with such regulations as have rendered it highly serviceable to the purposes of commerce. adjoining are the warehouses of the custom house, called the douanes de paris, the entrance is in the rue neuve sanson, the house of the director is attached, and particularly neat; the whole of the buildings, although constructed upon a solid principle, are light and handsome. the first turning to the right, brings us to the rue de l'hôpital, in which is the hospital of st. louis, a most noble establishment founded by henry iv, in . it contains beds, and is justly celebrated for its excellent medicated and mineral baths. there is a chapel attached to it, of which the first stone was laid by henry iv. it was called after st. louis, from having been originally devoted to persons infected with the plague, he having died of that disease at turin in . at present it is appropriated to such as are afflicted with cutaneous complaints. as we cross the canal, we must notice the charcoal market, close to which is the hospital of incurables, for men, no. , rue des récollets, established in in the ancient convent of the récollets. the number of men admitted is , male children . those boys who are capable, are encouraged to learn different trades, and at years of age are sent to the bicêtre. strangers are admitted every day except sundays and festivals. the church of st. laurent is facing, in the place de la fidélité and rue du faubourg st. martin; it was first built in , enlarged in , and in part rebuilt in , and the porch and perhaps the lady chapel, added in . a gridiron is the only object which attracts notice on the exterior, and the interior offers little more; the key stones of the vaulting ribs are deep pendent masses of stone, carved into groups of figures, fruit, etc., and in the vaulting there is some bold sculpture displayed in the northern aisle of the choir, which is the most ancient part of the church. the foire of st. laurent merits being visited, it is a market which has been built by a company for the supply of this part of the capital. the design is elegant, consisting of a parallelogram of two stories, with covered galleries and a fountain in the middle of the court. the whole is covered in by lateral windows, and a roof of glass. the street st. laurent conducts immediately to the maison royale de santé, no. , rue faubourg st. denis, an institution in which invalids are received; persons who cannot afford the means of sustaining an expensive illness are admitted on paying from to francs a day, advice, medicine, board, and if required, surgical operations included. it contains beds, the utmost attention is paid to the comforts of the patients. opposite, at no. , is st. lazare, formerly the ancient convent of the lazarists, or priests of the mission, now a prison for female offenders. it was once a place of much importance, the remains of the kings and queens of france were carried to the convent of st. lazare, prior to being conveyed to st. denis, the coffin being placed between the two gates of the building on a tomb of state, with all the prelates of the kingdom surrounding it, chanting the service of the dead, and sprinkling it with holy water. it is now appropriated to the imprisonment of misguided women, and every encouragement is afforded them to amend, for which purpose they are allowed two-thirds of their earnings, and a variety of occupations are constantly going on. children, under sixteen years of age, are kept by themselves; in all there are mostly from to persons confined in st. lazare, but the order, cleanliness and apparent comfort is such as to give an air of happiness to the whole establishment, and for the humane, it is one of the most gratifying sights in paris. attached to this institution is the general bakehouse, laundry, and linen dépôt for all the prisons. a chapel is in the midst of the building, and the women attend service every sunday. we will now return to the boulevards, and taking the rue de la lune, we shall there find the church of notre dame de bonne nouvelle: the old building was destroyed during the wars of the league, in , but was rebuilt in ; of this second construction the tower alone is still standing, the body of the present church having been erected in , it is a plain edifice of the doric order, a fresco by pujol merits attention, but is the only object throughout the edifice which can excite much interest. we must now retrace a few steps, and by the rue st. claude turn into the rue st. denis, and proceeding southwards observe the establishment of les bains st. sauveur, at the corner of the street of that name, from which a street communicates with the rue thevenot, and about here was the cour des miracles, cited by dulaure, and afterwards by victor hugo, as the resort of thieves and beggars, where five hundred families lived huddled together in the greatest state of filth that could be imagined; it was not until the year that they were partly dispersed. the stranger must not forget the manufactory of mirrors, no. , rue st. denis, he will there find an immense plate glass warehouse; the concern having been established since ; it is carried on to a great degree of perfection. a frenchman named thévart first discovered the art of casting glass, that of polishing it was invented by rivière, and now glasses may be had at this establishment inches by . the largest table of iron for polishing glass was made a few months since, weighing twenty-five tons. at no. is the cour batave, so called from being erected by a company of dutch merchants, in ; it is disfigured now by shops, but had the original design been carried out, instead of having been disturbed by the revolution, it would have been one of the handsomest monuments of the capital. a short distance northward, in the same street, is the church of st. leu and st. gilles; on the spot a chapel was erected in , and in a small tower to the west a date is inscribed of , but it has been repaired several times since that period, particularly in ; the nave, however, is supposed to be of the thirteenth century, and most likely of the date of the foundation, but other parts of the building are evidently of a more recent epoch, possibly of ; judging from the style of the architecture. amongst the pictures is one of st. margaret, queen of scotland, washing the feet of the poor; there are others which are well worthy attention, as also a representation of the creation, which is a very curious piece of carve-work. as st. leu had the credit of healing the sick, the kings of france, on their accession to the throne, for nine days successively used to visit this church to implore the saint to grant them health. we must now proceed to the southern extremity of the street, and take the last turning to the left, which is called the rue st. jacques de la boucherie, and in groping about amongst some dirty streets, we shall find the tower of the same name; it is a remarkably curious object, and it is much to be regretted that the church belonging to it no longer stands it was begun in ; and finished in , it is feet high, and had formerly a spire thirty feet high; the style of architecture is rich and very singular, the gargouilles, or gutter spouts, are of a tremendous size; as it has been recently purchased by the municipality of paris from an individual, there are hopes that this interesting monument will be fully repaired and restored. around its base a market is established for linen and old clothes. a little filthy street to the south will take us into the place du châtelet, where we can breathe a little fresh air; here stood the celebrated châtelet, at once a court of justice and prison of olden time. in the middle is a fountain, from which rises a column representing a palm-tree, and upon it are inscribed the victories of napoleon. amongst other allegorical decorations, the statues of justice, strength, prudence, and vigilance adorn the pedestal, and joining hands encircle the column, the whole surmounted by a statue of victory. at no. , upon the place, is the chamber of notaries, where landed property and houses are sold by auction. we must now return to the rue st. denis, and follow it until we come to the rue de la ferronnerie, which is to the left, into which we must proceed, and shall find that the second turning to the left is the rue des déchargeurs, and at no. is an edifice of the seventeenth century, which is now the dépôt général des bonneteries (hosiery) de france. returning a few steps northward, brings us to the corner of the rue st. honoré, and against no. is a bust of henry iv, and a stone with a latin inscription, indicating that it was exactly opposite that spot that he was stabbed by ravaillac. the street was very narrow at that period, and at the moment when the deed was perpetrated, the carriage of henri iv was stopped by a number of carts which choked up the passage. a little street nearly opposite, takes into the marché des innocents, which occupies an immense space formerly the cemetry of the innocents. in the middle of the area is a fountain built by pierre lescot, in , and is decidedly a most beautiful object, which is not sufficiently noticed by strangers, as it is surrounded by a crowded market and not at all hours easy of approach; the court-yard of a palace would be a more appropriate situation for this elegant edifice, and i particularly request my readers to pay it a visit. around this fountain is certainly the largest and most frequented market in paris, not only each description of vegetables, poultry, and almost all kind of eatables are sold here, but cloth, a large building being purposely constructed for that object feet in length; another division is for every description of herbs, the northern side is devoted to potatoes and onions; a triangular building a little farther, is on purpose for butter, eggs, and cheese, whilst another edifice is for fish. at a short distance, in the rue mauconseil is the great hall for the sale of leather, which was formerly the hôtel de bourgogne, where the players used to perform scriptural pieces in the th century. to the west of the marché des innocents is the curious street de la tonnellerie, an open passage running, through the ground floors of some of the houses, inhabited mostly by dealers in rags, cloth, and old furniture; in this street is the bread market, where it is sold cheaper than at the bakers in paris. at the south end of the street at no. , is the site of the house where molière was born, which was held by his father who was an upholsterer and valet de chambre to louis xii; against the house is a bust of the author, with an inscription specifying the event. following the rue de la tonnellerie brings us opposite st. eustache, which after notre-dame is the largest church in paris, built on the site of a chapel of st. agnes. the present edifice was begun in , but not supposed to have been finished until . the portico is more recent, being after a design by mansart de jouy, and erected in : combining altogether a most incongruous mixture of styles and orders of architecture, originally commenced with the design that it should be a sort of mixed gothic, of which the southern door and front bear evidence, whilst the western portico has doric and ionic columns, and at the northern end are corinthian pillars, notwithstanding it is a bold imposing structure, and the interior has the appearance of a fine abbey, and is a monument which every stranger ought to visit. it is a pity that a number of little square knobs have been suffered to remain sticking out from different parts of the shafts of the columns of this church; it is strange that the french could not be made to understand that the beauty of a pillar in a great degree consists in a bold broad mass, which should never be cut up into littlenesses, by rings or any obtruding projections. in this church lie buried several celebrated persons, amongst the rest the great colbert, which is indicated by a very handsome sarcophagus, sculptured by coysevose. the sacred music here is sometimes most exquisitely delightful, the organ being particularly fine. facing the southern front is the marché des prouvaires, a sort of appendage to the marché des innocents, and opposite the east side of the church, is the fontaine de tantale, at the point formed by the two streets, montmartre and montorgueil, which will repay the observer for a few minutes devoted to its examination. the west front of the church faces the rue oblin, which we will take, as it leads to the halle au blé, a fine extensive circular building, with a noble dome, it is built on the site of the hôtel de soissons, erected for catherine de médicis, in , which in was demolished, and the present halle constructed in ; the roof has a round skylight, feet in diameter, and from the system adopted in its formation, it is considered by connaiseurs a _chef d'oeuvre_ in the art of building. it is indeed altogether so curious, and so commodious a building for the purpose for which it is designed, that the visiter must be highly gratified in viewing it: there is besides another attraction, which is on the southern side, one of the immense doric columns which once composed the noble hôtel de soissons; it was erected for the purposes of astrology, and contains a winding staircase, and is ornamented with emblematic symbols, of the widowhood of catherine de médicis, as broken mirrors, c. and h. interlaced, etc. an ingenious sundial is placed on its shaft, and a fountain in its pedestal. by taking the rue sartine we shall arrive at the rue jean-jacques rousseau, and there find the hôtel des postes or general post office; it was formerly an hôtel belonging to the duke d'epernon, and was afterwards inhabited by different proprietors, until , when it was purchased by government, for its present purposes. it is an extensive building but badly situated amongst narrow streets, many additions have been made since it has become government property. taking the rue verdelet, the street which runs along the north side of the building, and proceeding westward, we come to the place des victoires, which was built in ; in the centre is a very fine equestrian statue of louis xiv, in bronze, which although weighing , lbs is entirely sustained by the hinder legs and the tail. it is the work of bosio, and was modelled in . proceeding to the south-west, by the rue de la petite-vrillière, the bank of france is before us. it was formerly the hôtel de toulouse, erected by mansard, in ; for the duke de la vrillière; it is well situated, and adapted to its present use, but it has no striking architectural beauty. the rue vide gousset, to the north-west of the place des victoires, leads to the Église des petits-pères, or de notre-dame des victoires, erected in . it was called petits-pères, or little fathers, on account of henry iv, on two of the community of small stature having been introduced into his antechamber, asking, "who are those little fathers?" the convent which was attached, is now used as barracks for infantry. the portal of the church was built in , and is composed of columns of the ionic and corinthian orders. the interior has some handsomely decorated chapels and altars; the pictures by vanloo also are fine. lulli, the musical composer, lies buried here. in the rue notre-dame des victoires is the immense establishment of the messageries royales, from whence start diligences to all parts of france; we will pass through the yard into the rue montmartre, at no. , is the marché st. joseph, at , the fontaine de la rue montmartre, and at no. , the hôtel d'uzès erected by le doux, considered one of the finest hôtels in paris. we will now enter the boulevard poissonnière, by turning to the right, and in passing along to the boulevard bonne-nouvelle must notice the very handsome bazaar called the galeries de commerce, and the noble building called maison du pont de fer with its curious iron bridge, uniting the back and front premises with the boulevard. taking, the rue de l'Échiquier, to the left, will conduct us to the rue du faubourg-poissonnière, and opposite, at no. , we find the garde meuble de la couronne, containing all the furniture of the crown not in use, the regalia, and other articles of immense value, but to obtain admission is extremely difficult. annexed to this building is the conservatoire de musique and the salle des menus plaisirs. in this street are several handsome mansions particularly at nos. and , the gateway of which, with its fine ionic columns, is one of the most imposing in paris; there also are large barracks for infantry with military trophies over the entrance. from thence a few steps lead into the rue lafayette, and will bring us to a new church which promises to be, when quite finished, one of the most elegant in the capital, it is situated at the summit of the rue hauteville. the order is ionic, which is solely and consistently preserved throughout the building, all the ornaments are in good taste, and the paintings promise to be in keeping with the rest, so that it augurs well towards being quite a chef-d'oeuvre of art. it is intended to replace the old church of st. vincent de paule, which stands about a furlong from it to the west in the rue montholon, to where we will proceed, and look at the altar-piece, being the apotheosis of the philanthropist to whom it is dedicated, and the only object in the church worth attention. keeping straight on westward, we come to the beautiful church of notre-dame-de-lorette, finished in , it is exactly fronting the rue lafitte, from which the noble portico of corinthian columns has a most beautiful effect. the interior is splendid, indeed gorgeous, all that painting, sculpture, and gilding can produce, is here combined, and the effect is dazzling, and excites almost universal admiration, and would mine also were it a theatre, but the chaste, still solemnity of a holy sanctuary exists not here, amongst the gay colours and lurid glare which every where meets the eye from the glitter, which blazes around in this too profusely decorated church. yet one must do justice as one examines it in detail, and admit that in point of execution all its different departments are most exquisitely wrought, and magnificent as a whole, only not consistent with our associations connected with a temple of worship. we will now descend by the rue faubourg montmartre to the boulevards, and bearing a little westward, shall come to the very handsome rue vivienne, through which we will proceed until we are opposite the bourse (exchange), and there we pause and contemplate what i consider the _beau idéal_ of fine architecture; its noble range of corinthian columns have no unseemly projections to break the broad mass of light, which sheds its full expanse upon their large rounded shafts, no profusion of frittering ornaments spoil the chaste harmony which pervades the whole character of this building, which to me appears faultless. if there were any improvement possible, i should say that if the bold flight of steps which leads to the front entrance had been carried all round the building the effect would have been still more grand than it now is. the interior is adorned with paintings in imitation of bas relief, which are executed in the most masterly style. the grand salle de la bourse in the centre of the building, where the stock-brokers and merchants meet, is feet in length by in breadth, entirely paved with marble. the whole arrangements are such as to render it in every respect the most commodious for all commercial purposes. from hence we proceed by the street opposite to the rue richelieu, and turning to the left, we arrive at the place richelieu, and must pass a few minutes in admiring the elegant bronze fountain in the centre with its noble basins and four allegorical figures representing the seine, the loire, the saône, and the garonne, round which the water falls from above, and flows beneath, producing a most beautiful effect. opposite is the bibliothéque du roi, or royal library, which certainly is the most extensive and most complete of any in the world, possessing nearly , , books and printed pamphlets, , mss, , medals, , , engravings, , maps and plans. this institution may be considered to owe its foundation to st. louis, who first made the attempt of forming a public library, and arranged some volumes in an apartment attached to the holy chapel; under successive reigns the number gradually increased, whilst the locality assigned for them was often changed, and it was not until the reign of louis xv that they were placed where they now are, in a most extensive building, formerly the residence of cardinal mazarin, which, seen from the rue richelieu, presents nothing but a great ugly dead wall, with a high roof to it, and here and there a few square holes for windows, but when you enter the court-yard, you find rather a fine building than otherwise, and the interior displays, by the vast size of the apartments, some idea of what its former grandeur must have been; the richness of the ornaments and decorations in most instances are destroyed, and replaced by books, with which the walls are covered. the engravings occupy the ground floor, and amongst them are to be found fifty thousand portraits, including every eminent character which europe has produced, and presenting all the varieties of costumes existing at the different epochs in which they flourished; in one of the rooms where the prints are kept is an oil portrait, in profile, of the unfortunate king john of france, which is curious as an antiquity, being an original, and executed at a time when the art of portrait painting was very little known, as john died in the year . on ascending the staircase to the right, a piece of framed tapestry must be remarked, as having formed part of the furniture of the chateau of bayard. those who are curious in typographical specimens must ask to see the most ancient printed book _with a date_, being , also the bible, called mazarin, printed in , with cut metal types. the oldest manuscript is one of josephus, and others are of the fifth and sixth centuries; the amateurs of autography will be gratified in seeing letters from henri iv to gabrielle d'estrée, and the writing of francis i, turenne, madame de maintenon, voltaire, rousseau, racine, corneille; boileau, bossuet, etc. amongst other interesting objects is the chair of dagobert, which is supposed to be much older even than his time, and of ancient roman fabric, the vase of the ptolemies, the famous cameo representing the apotheosis of augustus, the seal of michael angelo, and the armour of francis i, and the admirers of _vertu_ must be delighted with the collection of exquisitely beautiful intaglios and cameos. two globes, twelve feet in diameter, being the largest extant, cannot be overlooked. mount parnassus in bronze, which the french poets and musicians are ascending with louis xiv on the summit, is a fine piece of workmanship; there is also a model of the pyramids of egypt, with figures and trees to denote their height. there are a few very good paintings, and many objects calculated to excite the highest interest, which it would take years properly to examine and appreciate. the prayer-books of st. louis and anne of brittany, and one which belonged in succession to charles v charles ix, and henri iii, bearing their signatures are exceedingly curious. amongst the books and manuscripts may be found some of every known language which has characters. this noble institution is open daily for students; authors; etc., from ten till three, except sundays and festivals; and those who merely wish to view the establishment may be admitted from ten till three on tuesdays and fridays; except during the vacation, which is from the st september to the th october. in the same street, a little farther southward, at the corner of the rue traversière, the preparations will be observed for a statue to molière, on the spot where stood the house in which he died, and nearly opposite is a small passage which passes under a house; and takes one opposite another of a similar description, which leads into the palais royal: suddenly emerging from the little dark alleys into a beautiful area, has a most extraordinary and pleasing effect; you see before you a parallelogram of feet by , completely surrounded by a beautiful building with arcades, and having flower-gardens; statues, and a splendid fountain in the centre. to see this extraordinary scene to the greatest advantage, the first visit should be by night, and the impulsive coup-d'oeil tempts the beholder to imagine that he has around him the realization of some gay dream of a fairy palace, the immense glare of light glittering on the falling waters, the brilliance of the illuminated shops; the magnificence and richness of the articles therein displayed, with reflecting lamps so contrived as to throw a powerful light on their sparkling jewels and glittering ware, the vistas of trees, the borders of flowers, the well dressed company and animated groups, with the gilded coffee-houses beaming all round, form such a picture as it is more easy to imagine than describe. four galleries with shops encircle the garden of the palais royal, three of them are under piazzas opening to the grand area, the fourth, called the galerie d'orléans, is enclosed on both sides, and the roof is formed by one immense skylight, whilst the effect of the whole is superb. over the shops are mostly either coffee-houses or restaurateurs, some of them splendidly decorated and most brilliantly lighted; as may be imagined, this amusing locality forms the lounge of thousands, and no stranger ever comes to paris without making an early visit to the palais royal. it was originally intended by cardinal richelieu for his own residence, but the magnificence which he had already developed, with intentions of augmenting his design to so extravagant and luxurious a degree, began to excite the jealousy of louis xiii, and finally the cardinal made him a present of it shortly before his death. since then it has been inhabited by several royal visiters, and such changes have been made that the original plan is scarcely to be traced, it having formerly been so much more extensive as to occupy several of the surrounding streets. so numerous are the shops, and so various are the articles within them, that it has been observed that a person might live in the palais royal without ever stirring out of it, finding all within it required to supply the wants of a reasonable being. although under the comprehensive title of palais royal, the whole extent is included, not only garden but all the surrounding shops and the stories above, yet that part which specifically is the palais royal, or royal palace, is situated at the southern extremity, looking into two court-yards, and where the present king with his family resided until , when he removed to the tuileries. it is entered by the rue st. honoré, and may be considered rather a fine building; the doric, ionic, and corinthian orders are visible in different parts of the edifice, in the interior there are some extremely handsome apartments, beautifully furnished but not very large for a palace; there are many very interesting pictures, particularly those relative to the king's life, from the period, of his teaching geography in a school in switzerland, to his return to paris; also the subjects connected with the events of the palace are well worth attention, and many of them painted by the first rate artists. the apartments may usually be seen on sundays from till , on presentation of the passport. opposite the palais-royal is an open space called the place du palais royal, on the southern side is the château-d'eau, a reservoir of water for supplying the neighbouring fountains; it is decorated with statues, and two pavilions. just near it is the rue st. thomas-du-louvre, where formerly stood the famous hôtel de longueville, the residence of the duke de longueville, and elboeuf, where the intrigues of the fronde were carried on, during the minority of louis xiv, against mazarin; it is now in part occupied by the king's stables, containing horses, and may be visited any day by applying at the porter's lodge. we will now retrace a few steps eastward to the rue st. honoré, and passing by the large establishment of laffitte, caillard, et compagnie, for diligences to all parts of france, we shall come to the oratoire, built for the prêtres de l'oratoire in , but now devoted to the protestant worship; it is adorned with doric columns, with a range of corinthian pillars above, and in the interior, the roof of which is highly ornamented. service is performed in french every sunday at half past . within a hundred yards eastward is the fontaine de la croix-du-tiroir, at the corner of the rue de l'arbre-sec, rebuilt by soufflot (on the site of one erected under francis i). adorned by pilasters and a nymph, which would have been graceful but is spoiled by their painting over it. the first turning in the rue de l'arbre-sec, is the rue des fossés st. germain-l'auxerrois, and at no. is the house formerly called the hôtel ponthieu, in which admiral coligni was assassinated on st. bartholomew's day, in ; in the very room where the event took place the witty actress, sophie arnould, was born, in , then called the hôtel lisieux, and in , it was occupied by vanloo the celebrated painter. we return to the rue de l'arbre-sec, and a few steps southward bring us in front of the venerable and mouldering church of st. germain-l'auxerrois (vide page ); the oldest part still standing and supposed to be of the th century, is the western front; the porch was built by jean gausel in , several other parts have been built at later periods; altogether it is a most interesting building and is connected with many sad historical associations, it was the bell of this church that tolled the signal for the massacre of the protestants on the night of st. bartholomew; in a little street adjoining the south side of the church, is a house with a picturesque turret, supposed to have belonged to some building attached to the church; there is a very remarkable piece of carve-work in wood and some interesting pictures within the church; we will now leave its tranquil vaulted aisles, and quitting by the western porch, the most beautiful façade of the louvre rises before us, which was erected in the reign of louis xiv, after a design by claude perrault. [illustration: champin del. lith. rigo frères cie st. germain l'auxerrois.] the louvre has been so often described in works of so many different natures, descending the different grades from histories to pamphlets, that i shall not fatigue my readers with a too detailed review of its wonders, but endeavour to give them some impression of its grandeur, with as little prolixity as possible. i have already, in the historical sketch of paris, touched upon its foundation, and the various epochs at which the different parts of the building were erected, and certainly let any one place himself in the middle of the grand court, and behold the four sides, and see if he can call to mind any thing equal to it, take it, for its all in all; i am well aware that there is rather a redundancy of ornament to satisfy the purest taste, and in that respect there is undoubtedly a deviation from perfection, but the approach is sufficiently near to excite the warmest admiration. each side is feet, and although there is a degree of uniformity, taken _en masse_, preserved, with two of the façades particularly, yet on examination the ornaments are found to be different, each side requires much close study after a _coup-d'oeil_ has been taken of the whole, and the more it is inspected, the more beautiful will it be found; the statues and different devices are by five different sculptors, the most celebrated of their day, the order of the pillars is generally corinthian, but there are some, which are composite. the external façades are by no means burthened with ornament, the north and western sides being perfectly plain, the south side has a noble effect, and faces the quay, having plenty of room to admit of its being properly viewed and justice rendered to its noble range of forty corinthian pilasters; this is by perrault, as well as the eastern side, which is certainly one of the finest specimens of modern architecture that can be imagined. a grand colonnade composed of coupled corinthian columns has the most splendid effect, the basement story being perfectly simple, whilst the central mass of the building which forms the gateway is crowned by a pediment of stones, each feet in length and three in thickness; all is vast, all is grand about this noble front, which is justly the admiration of every architectural connoisseur, no matter from what part of the world he may come. of the interior volumes might be said, i must first, after conducting my reader to the great door on the southern side of the building, direct his attention to the grand staircase, which is of a most splendid character, as to design, and consistently beautiful as to execution. the visiter after passing by a small room filled with very old paintings enters a larger when the grand gallery extends before him, which is unrivalled in the world, being above a quarter of a mile in length, and feet in width, filled with paintings, principally from the old masters, but of them i will treat in a future chapter; it contains pictures some of them being of immense size. we will now pass on for the moment to the other apartments. the bed-room of henry iv must arrest our attention, and the eye naturally falls on the alcove where his bed was placed, the oak carving, and gilded mouldings have been preserved exactly in the same state that they were when he died. we next proceed to a suite of rooms containing paintings of the spanish, french, flemish, and italian schools; others devoted to drawings; of the latter there are . another range of apartments is on the ground floor and called the museum of antiquities, containing statues and various specimens of sculpture, in all , objects. other suites of rooms are appropriated to egyptian, greek, and roman antiquities, and in some of the apartments are objects of great value; that the amount of real worth of the contents of the louvre must be incalculable, one casket alone of mary de medicis is estimated at several thousand pounds, and there are many articles equally costly. one portion of the building is devoted to every thing that concerns naval architecture and an immense variety of marine objects, with a number of curious models. the louvre may be entered on presenting the passport, every day, and new wonders and beauties may be discovered at each visit, although they be repeated for months together. we now pass on westward, and enter the place du carrousel, so called from louis xiv having held a grand tournament there in , but it was not then so extensive as at present. the triumphal arch erected by napoleon in , first strikes the eye a beautiful monument composed of different coloured marbles, of works in bronze with figures, and devices relative to war, and commemorative of the campaigns of the french army in ; all the different parts are admirable from the exquisite manner of their execution. on our left is the grand picture-gallery of the louvre, communicating with the tuileries, on the right, the same description of building exists in part, but is not yet completed. before us spreads the extended dimensions of the palace of the tuileries; with all deficiences it must be admitted that it is a noble pile, and has a grand, though heavy imposing air, the height of the roof is certainly a deformity, but we will enter the grand court-yard, which is separated from the place du carrousel by a handsome railing with gilt spear-heads, and then pass under the palace, and view the façade on the garden side, where the sameness of the building is relieved by a handsome colonnade in the centre, adorned with statues, vases, etc.; the wings also have a fine effect, they are more massive than the body of the building, which although not a beauty as respects the edifice in general, yet the execution of all the different parts is admirable in the identical detail; having a fair share of ornament not injudiciously disposed, situated as the palace is seen, at the end of a splendid garden, it has a most striking and beautiful effect. the interior contains many apartments which are, as might be expected, exceedingly handsome, one termed the galerie de diane is feet long by broad, it is of the time of louis xiii, and rich in gilding and paintings, but generally the furniture is not so magnificent as might be imagined; those occupied by the duke of orléans are an exception; being very splendid. amongst the numerous objects of _vertu_ which here abound is the large solid silver statue of peace, presented to napoleon by the city of paris after the treaty of amiens. the pictures are generally by the most eminent french artists. the salle des maréchaux contains the portraits of the living marshals of france; soult, molitor, and grouchy are the only remaining, whose names figured in the campaigns of napoleon; on the whole it may be remarked that the apartments generally in the tuileries are not equal in point of extent and decoration, to the saloons of many of the nobility of paris. when the king is absent, the palace may be viewed by applying to m. le commandant du château des tuileries, and the same is the case with the apartments of the duke of orleans. the gardens present a most agreeable aspect, although too stiff and formal to be in good taste, yet the mélange of noble high trees, wide gravel walks, marble basins, beautiful fountains, the most classic statues, beds of flowers, ornamental vases, and the commanding view to the triumphal arch, certainly form an _ensemble_ which produces the most delightful sensation; in fact, i never enter them, such is the cheering effect upon me, without having but one unpleasant feeling, and that is, to think that i have not time to go there oftener, and pass hours amongst such charming scenes. to view the number of sweet merry looking children, with their clean and neat _bonnes_ (nursery maids), all playing so happily together, enlivens the heart, then the retired walks between the dense foliage in the heat of summer invites the mind to meditation. the exquisitely beautiful statues are also most interesting objects of study, and i recommend them particularly to the attention of the visiter. on the northern side of the gardens, extends the handsome rue rivoli, with its noble colonnade; at no. , is the hôtel des finances, a spacious building covering a large extent of ground, containing several courts, with offices, and splendid apartments for the minister. we shall now cross the rue rivoli, and take the rue des pyramides, also having an arcade all through the rue st. honoré, and facing us rises the noble church of st. roch (vide page ). the entrance is approached by a flight of steps, which have witnessed some sanguinary scenes, when napoleon poured forth the iron hail of his artillery upon the opposing force which was there posted; again, in , on the same spot, the people made a firm resistance against the gendarmerie of charles x. the portal has two ranges of columns of corinthian and doric orders, the interior, although plain, has a fine appearance, heightened by the effect produced by many handsome monuments to illustrious characters who have been buried here, amongst the rest, corneille; painting as well as sculpture has lent its aid in decorating this church, as it contains some fine pictures. the royal family attend here, and the music is very fine, but generally there are such crowds that it is difficult to enter. at no. in the rue d'argenteuil, behind st. roch, in , corneille died. a black slab in the court-yard bears an inscription and the bust of the poet. returning to the rue st. honoré, we proceed westward, and pass by the rue marché st. honoré on our right, in which is a most commodious market. pursuing our course we look down the rue castiglione, which communicates with the rue rivoli, and the place vendôme; it is remarkably handsome, and has a fine colonnade, at the corner is a fountain, which is plainer than they usually are, and a little farther to the west, at no. , is the assomption (vide page ). this church formerly belonged to a convent of nuns, styled les dames de l'assomption, the remains may be perceived in the rue neuve du luxembourg, and are now occupied as barracks. it was completed in . it contains some interesting pictures. a chapel is contiguous, dedicated to st. hyacinthe, which was erected in . continuing to follow the rue st. honoré, we cross the rue royale, displaying the fountains of the place de la concorde to our left, and the madeleine on our right, we enter the rue faubourg st. honoré, in which are many most superb hôtels, amongst the rest, the british ambassador's, formerly the hôtel borghèse, occupied by the princess pauline, sister of bonaparte; the next hôtel is that of the baroness pontalba, and is one of the most splendid in paris, which the visiter must not fail to remark. we next come to the palais de l'elysée bourbon, erected in , and afterwards purchased and occupied by madame de pompadour, since when it has had many masters, amongst the rest, murat, napoleon, the emperor of russia, the duke of wellington, and the duke de berri, but it now belongs to the crown, and combines an appearance of splendid desolation, with a variety of associations, that cause us to muse on the fall of the great. the library which is over the council chamber was fitted up by madame murat, in the most exquisite style, as a surprise for her husband after his return from one of his campaigns; it next became the bed-room of maria louisa, and the birthplace of the daughter of the duke and duchess de berri. here also is shown the bed-room, and bed in which napoleon last slept in paris, after the battle of waterloo. the building itself is handsome, and though not large, has an elegant appearance, some of the apartments are very splendid, but now having a solitary aspect. the garden, which is large, contains some noble trees, and is laid out in the italian style. to see this palace, apply for admission to m. l'intendant de la liste civile. facing the elysée bourbon, is the hôtel beauveau, in the place beauveau, occupied by the neapolitan ambassador. still proceeding westward we come to the church st. philippe du roule, which was completed in . it has but very little ornament, but is an exceedingly chaste production, the columns of the portico are doric, and those of the interior are ionic. it contains several good pictures. nearly opposite is a handsome building with tuscan columns, and is used as stables for the king, and also a receptacle for his carriages. a short distance farther on is the hôpital beaujon, founded by the banker of that name in , a handsome and well arranged building, having an air of health and cheerfulness; it contains beds, and the situation is particularly salubrious, and so well ordered that the inspection of it will afford much gratification to the visiter. the chapelle beaujon, opposite, is by the same founder as the hospital, and may be considered as belonging to it. we must now travel back as far as the british ambassador's, and facing is the rue d'aguesseau, in which is the episcopal chapel, entirely appropriated to the english protestant worship, a building well adapted in every respect to the purposes for which it was erected. a few steps farther we turn to the right, which will bring us to the rue de la madeleine, in which we shall find the chapelle expiatoire, built over the spot where louis xvi and marie antoinette were buried, immediately after their execution, and the interior is adorned by their statues; their remains were afterwards removed to st. denis. this chapel is one of the most elegant and interesting monuments in paris, it is in the form of a cross, with a dome in the centre. a short distance eastward, is the collége royal de bourbon, no. , rue st. croix, which was built for a convent of capuchins, in . it consists of a doorway in the centre, with columns, and two pavilions at the ends, one of which was the chapel of the convent, but is now the church st. louis, a plain building of the doric order, but decorated by some fine fresco paintings, and four large pictures of saints, painted in wax. from hence we may take the rue joubert, opposite, and proceed until we arrive at the rue de la victoire, formerly called the rue chantereine, where resided napoleon after his italian campaign, and from hence went forth to strike the _coup d'état_ which dissolved the government on the th brumaire. the house was built for the famous dancer guimard, then passed to madame talma, who sold it to madame beauharnais, afterwards the empress joséphine, who added the pavilion at the nearer end. bertrand inhabited this mansion a short time after his return from st. helena, at present it is untenanted, and undergoing repair; it belongs to the widow of general lefebvre desnouettes. in the garden is a bust of napoleon, which certainly possesses no great merit. if disposed to extend our walk, we may proceed northward to the rue de clichy and there find a prison for debtors, in an airy, healthy situation, which is satisfactory information for some of our prodigal countrymen, too many of whom, i regret to say, have been, and are still, inhabitants of this building, which contains from to persons. in returning we will amuse ourselves in wandering about many of the streets of the chaussée-d'antin, both right and left, which have in them some most beautiful houses decorated with statues and the most elaborate carve-work. on returning to the boulevards by the madeleine, as we pass along we notice the hôtel des affaires etrangères, or residence of the minister of foreign affairs, corner of the rue neuve-des-capucines, formerly belonging to marshal berthier, we then proceed to the eastward, and turn down the rue neuve st. augustin, which will bring us to the point where the streets la michodière and port mahon meet, at the beautiful fontaine de louis-le-grand, with the statue of a genius striking at a dolphin, with consistent ornaments extremely well executed. chapter vii. a matter of fact chapter, more useful than amusing; advice to englishmen visiting or sojourning at paris; several serviceable establishments recommended; hints as to management and economy. although i have already afforded my readers a transient glance at the champs-Élysées on entering paris, yet so charming a spot must not be passed over altogether in so hurried a manner; possessing as it does so many attractions for the happy portion of the parisians, which do not only consist of its fine vistas of high trees, its broad walks, flowing fountains, etc., but a wide open space is left, where the people recreate themselves with athletic games, whilst in other parts there are swings, merry-go-rounds, shows, music, dancing, and every variety of amusement that can afford pleasure to those who are merrily inclined. franconi has also a theatre here for the display of horsemanship during the summer, which is extremely well conducted, and constantly filled. the prices are from to francs. in the south-western portion of the champs-Élysées, is a quarter called chaillot, in which is situated, at no. bis, the chapelle marboeuf, where protestant service is regularly performed every sunday. at no. is sainte perine, a refuge for persons above with small incomes, who by paying francs a year, are comfortably provided for, or by depositing a certain sum at once, on entering. it was formerly a monastery, and can accommodate men and women. the church of st. pierre is a little farther on, in which there are a few pictures, and the choir is of the th century. there are a great number of very handsome houses about the champs-elysées; which is a favourite neighbourhood with the english, and it is an agreeable vicinity, on account of its airy position, its picturesque appearance, and affording pleasure in viewing the numbers who crowd there for the purpose of enjoyment, and with the determination to enjoy. it is also a fashionable resort for pedestrians, equestrians, and carriages, and whilst i am dilating on the attractions of the champs-elysées, i must not omit to direct the attention of my readers to the very delightful establishment which doctor achille hoffman has formed in the avenue fortuné, which is called the _villa beaujon_, uniting within its interior every object desirable for health, comfort, and pleasure. this establishment has been formed by the doctor on such a system, as to render it in every respect a cheerful and agreeable residence for boarders; hence every rational and intellectual amusement is provided within its walls, a piano, and instruments for forming a quartetto, a billiard room, newspapers, periodical works, baths, etc., alternately present the inmates with a fund of amusement: possessing also the greatest advantage in having madame hoffman at the head of the establishment, who from the good society she has been accustomed to frequent, and her mental qualifications, is enabled, by her conversation, ever to cause the hours to pass most pleasantly with the residents of the villa, to whose comforts, and wants, she pays the most unremitting attention, and unites the advantage of speaking english. doctor hoffman is willing to receive any patients except such as may be afflicted with either contagious complaints, or with mental alienation, and to attend them upon the homoepathic principles, in which he has attained considerable celebrity, having for many years practised upon that system with the greatest success. the apartments are fitted up in a style of elegance which at once convinces the spectator of the good taste of the director, and although they are numerous, each has its peculiar attraction, either in the view from the windows, or from the internal arrangement: but the quality which is most recommendable in this establishment, is the peculiar care which has been devoted to every minutia which can in any degree tend to comfort, and particularly for that season when it is most required, having by the means of two immense calorifères, so contrived that the whole house is warmed by a pure air, which is introduced from the garden, and conveyed not only into every apartment, but also to the staircases, corridors, and even into the closets, the degree of heat being regulated exactly to the grade desired; thus a person may pass a whole winter in this little elysium, without ever feeling any of its baneful effects, which is a great desideratum for persons of delicate health, or having the slightest tendency to consumption, to whom the most powerful enemies are _cold_ and _damp_, two intruders who are never permitted to enter under any pretext the villa beaujon. for the pedestrian the greatest treat is afforded, as the neighbourhood consists of a most numerous variety of delightful walks, and for those who desire to enjoy the beauties of nature, without fatigue, the most favourable opportunity is offered, a terrace having been formed at the summit of the premises which commands a panoramic view for fifteen leagues round, comprehending within its circle an immense variety of villages, châteaux, hills, wood, water, and every description of picturesque scenery. there is also a garden prettily arranged, and kept in the nicest order, with kiosques and a _jet d'eau_, in fact there is no attraction omitted which could possibly contribute towards rendering the villa a most desirable residence for every season; the charge is moderate, and the treatment in every respect the most liberal, the doctor being in such a position that emolument is not an important object. amongst other advantages which the establishment possesses, is that of always having one english servant. the situation which has been selected by the doctor for his residence, is not only the most agreeable but considered decidedly one of the most healthy round paris, as the few houses which are immediately around it are of the better order and environed by gardens, therefore the purity of the air is untainted by smoke or any effluvia arising from closely inhabited cities; indeed in that instance paris has a great advantage over london, on account of wood being the principal fuel burnt in the former, and coal in the latter, hence paris seen from a height, every object is visible from the clearness of the atmosphere, whilst london under the same circumstances is capped by a murky sort of cloud by which the greater part of the city is generally obscured. although the french capital is above three degrees south of the english, yet the former is colder in the winter, only that it is dryer, consequently more wholesome and the cold weather is of much shorter duration, as the springs are always finer and forwarder than in england, which is proved by the vegetables being much earlier in paris, peas being sold cheap about the streets on the th or th of may, and other leguminous crops in proportion. the autumns are often very fine, generally, indeed, i have known the month of november to be quite clear and sunny, but of latter years the summers have been wet. the english in most instances have their health better in france than in england, which is considered to arise from several different causes; the lower and even some of the middle classes in london and other large towns are much addicted to drinking quantities of porter and ale, which are not so accessible in paris or in any town in france; hence after a time they accustom themselves to the light wines of the country, and with the higher classes of english the case is nearly similar, as they renounce port, sherry, and madeira, for burgundy, bordeaux, etc., and as a draught wine _even_ good _ordinaire_, but a grand point is to obtain it of the best quality, proportioned to the price; perhaps there is not a town in the world where there are so many persons who sell wine as in paris, but as there is a great deal of quackery and compounding practised, i must caution my countrymen not to purchase at any house to which they are not particularly recommended. i shall therefore advise them to give the preference to the old established house of meunier, which has existed ever since , now conducted by messrs. debonnelle et guiard; i have myself long dealt there, as also my friends, and have ever found their prices the most reasonable, and the qualities unexceptionable; their tarif comprehends all descriptions of wine, and the charges in proportion, commencing on so moderate a scale that they are attainable to the most modest purse, and as there is no description of known wine which they do not possess, of course some there are at very high prices; the same case may be stated of their liqueurs, of which they have every variety. in this establishment persons may either be accommodated with a single bottle, or may purchase by the pipe, as they carry on an extensive wholesale business; their great warehouses are at bercy which is the grand dépôt for the wine merchants of paris. this is one of those houses to which i have before alluded as having, although nearly in the centre of the city, a delightful garden, and in the present instance quite a little aviary of canary and other birds, which is open to the street, situated no. , rue des saints-pères, faubourg st. germain. the present proprietors were clerks in the house as long back as , and have never since been absent from the business, which has been considerably augmented by their extreme attention and civility to their customers, and the reputation which they have acquired for keeping good articles, and vending them at fair prices. as a great object of my work is to render it as serviceable as possible to my readers, i must not omit some cautionary remarks upon the tradespeople of paris; an opinion has generally existed of their predisposition to overcharge the english, and in a great many instances it has been the case, when they first came over to france; an idea existed that they were extremely rich, and a bad feeling prevailed of making the wealthy pay: even amongst their own country people, they do the same, it is a common phrase with them, "il est riche, alors faites-lui payer," "he is rich, so make him pay," and that system of calculating the weight of a person's means and making the charge, accordingly, is still followed in a degree; even the government have in some measure encouraged the practice, no doubt from a good motive, which has prompted them at certain periods to enforce regulations, that some articles should be sold for less to the poor, such as bread, and other necessaries of life. another circumstance caused the french to continue their impositions upon the english, their having been duped by the latter, and in many instances to a considerable amount, as amongst the crowds who came over, were many persons who were not very scrupulous with respect to paying their debts, to whom the french willingly gave credit, the english name at that period having stood extremely high in the estimation of the french, but having sustained several losses on account of their too great facility in giving credit, they determined to make such of the english as they could attract, pay a portion towards what they had been mulcted by their runaway country-people. the french are not alone in that respect, as some of the fashionable tailors in london charge an immense price for their coats, because they say they only get paid for two out of three, therefore they make those pay dearly for such as do not pay at all. the system now is rather better in paris, so many shopkeepers having adopted the plan of selling at "prix fixe" as they call it, which means fixed prices, from which they seldom or ever depart; but then there is a great difference with regard to the value of the articles in which they deal, some shops being infinitely cheaper than others, i therefore have been at considerable pains to discover those who conduct their business in an honourable manner and shall give my readers the benefit of my researches. with respect to provisions there certainly is a difference with regard to the quarters, which are the more or the less fashionable, the former being somewhat dearer than the latter, but there is a proportionate difference with regard to the quality, and therefore in some instances the higher priced articles are the cheapest in the end; for instance, m. rolland, of no. , rue st. honoré, sells none but the very best meat; certainly in some of the obscurer parts of the town, and in the markets it is to be had cheaper; but the quality far inferior. i have heard the english complain of the meat not being so good in paris as it is in london, but if they dealt with m. rolland they could not in justice make the remark, he is always the possessor of the ox which is exhibited on shrove tuesday, and which weighed the last time nearly , lbs; he retains a well executed portrait of it, which he shows to his customers, but he has often beasts approaching that weight, as about a dozen every year are fatted by the norman graziers for the prize, and he is the principal purchaser; his other meat is proportionately fine, therefore i fancy that a good manager will find that economy is promoted by dealing with m. holland in preference to any one who may sell at a nominally lower price. now that economy is on the _tapis_, i must endeavour to enlighten my reader as much on that head as i can, by giving him all the advantage of my own experience in the art, and as i am an old practitioner, i have the vanity to flatter myself that my advice on that score may count for something. on quitting england i advise my readers to disburthen themselves of all their clothes, except such as are absolutely requisite for travelling, and then on arriving at paris to order those of which they may stand in need; indeed for myself, when i return to england i always provide a good stock of habiliments, convinced that the cloth procured in france is so much more durable than that obtained in england, and the workmen being paid much less, you have a superior article in france for a lower charge. as to the difference of fashion or cut, i leave that to be decided by a committee of dandies of the two countries, and to prevent my readers from getting into bad hands, i recommend them at once to m. courtois, aux montagnes russes, no. , rue neuve-des-petits-champs, facing the rue vivienne, there the stranger is sure of being fairly treated with regard to the worth of the commodity, the solidity and neatness of the execution, and punctuality in the fulfillment of his engagements. the difference of prices between a fashionable london and parisian tailor is immense, the former will make you pay _l._ _s._ for a coat of the best cloth, whilst m. courtois only charges francs ( _l._) for the same article, equal in every respect, and furnishes every other description of clothing on equally moderate terms. i shall now bid my reader to doff his hat, and obtain one that will sit so lightly on his brow, that he will scarcely be conscious that his head is covered, of which i had experience under circumstances rather ludicrous than otherwise. i entered a glover's shop with my mind i suppose occupied with divers meditations, and like a true uncourteous englishman forgot to take off my hat to the dame de comptoir, as she is styled, but having obtained what i sought, in the act of departing i took up a hat which was on the counter, not dreaming that i had already one upon my head, but as i was making my obeissance to the mistress of the shop, she observed, very archly, that she should have thought monsieur might be satisfied with having a hat on his head, without requiring to have one in his hand; surprised at finding myself absolutely committing a robbery, i made the best excuses the subject would admit, and retired after having furnished a subject of amusement for madame, for monsieur whose hat i had so illegally appropriated to myself, and to some pretty laughing-looking demoiselles who were ensconced behind a counter. these aerial hats are to be procured of m. servas, no. , rue richelieu, who is the inventor, and for which he has received a medal from a scientific society, they are of so light and elastic a nature, that they do not cause the slightest pressure upon the brow, nor leave that unsightly mark upon the forehead, that is often a great annoyance to those gentlemen who object to having a stain upon the _blanche_ purity of that feature, and as those who are tenacious in that respect must naturally be so with regard to the form and the material of which their hat is composed, they may rest assured on that point they will be suited in those of m. servas, which have long had an acknowledged superiority and celebrity on that account, his establishment having for upwards of years been famed under the firm of coquel and quesnoy, which by the ingenuity of his recent invention he has considerably augmented. as i am now on a chapter devoted to usefulness, i must recommend my readers to get well and _comfortably_ shod, particularly if they have any intention of visiting the monuments and antiquities i have described, for which purpose they must procure their shoes in paris, the leather being prepared in such a manner as to render it infinitely more soft and flexible than it is in england, consequently one can walk twice the distance, without tiring, in french shoes, than one can in english; hence with the former all the tortures of new shoes are never felt, being fully as easy as an old pair of the latter, and for this purpose no one can better supply the article desired, than m. deschamps, no. , galerie d'orléans, palais-royal, who stands so high in the estimation of my countrymen, that he is obliged to go to london twice a year to supply their demands. an attention to comfort in this respect is to me so essential, that in returning to england i always provide myself with a plentiful stock of boots and shoes, although not to the same degree that one of our celebrated tragedians practised this precaution, having furnished himself with thirty-six pair to the no small amusement of the dover custom-house officers when they overhauled his luggage. one of the great advantages of the french shoes is that the upper leather never cracks nor bursts, and indeed i have not only found the material better, but also the workmanship. m. deschamps has acquired much celebrity for the very elegant manner in which his shoes for balls and _soirées_ are executed, after a system of his own, which have now become the fashion in all the saloons in paris. perhaps my readers may think i have devoted too much space to this subject, but being a great pedestrian, it is one of peculiar importance, to me (and it is so natural to judge every one by one's self), and in order to see all the interesting little bits of architectural antiquity, which are so numerous in paris, the visit must be performed on foot, as it is sometimes requisite to go into little courts and alleys where no carriage can possibly enter; besides an antiquarian must peep and grope about in places where a vehicle would only be an incumbrance. whilst my memory is on, or, as some people would say, whilst my hand is in, i must not forget to recommend the stationer's shop, no. , rue st. honoré, next door to the oratoire, as it is presumable that my readers, who intend to sojourn a while at paris, must want to pay some visits, consequently will need visiting cards, with which they will provide themselves at the above establishment on terms so reasonable as quite to surprise a londoner; also the visiter must write, and will here find an assortment of sixty different descriptions of english metal pens of cuthbert's manufacture, and every variety of stationary that can be desired, and the manner in which they get up cards and addresses, with regard to the neatness of the engraving, printing, and quality of the card, is really surprising, for the price; whilst the mistress receives her customers with so much politeness, that having been once, is sure to prove the cause for other visits, when any of the articles in which she deals are required; and punctuality in the execution of the orders received is a quality to be met with in her, and in good truth, i cannot say much for the parisians in general on that score, and one great cause is that they have too much business, and far more than they can attend to in a proper manner. in the same street, at no. , is an establishment of which the english ought to be informed, being that of m. renault, wherein good cutlery is to be obtained at very moderate prices; there is every variety that can be desired, either for the table or other purposes, all of the finest description; his shop is situated in the quarter most convenient for the english, being that in which they so frequently reside. as health is a desideratum which is requisite for the pursuit of every occupation, and particularly for such as mean to enjoy paris to its full extent, which will require a considerable degree of exercise, i must recommend the visiter a chymist and druggist on whom he may rely, where he may find the means of re-establishing any relaxation of strength or other malady to which all human nature is ever prone. there are innumerable establishments of this nature in paris, and especially of those who announce english medicines, but the one which i have understood as possessing such as are truly genuine both in french and english pharmacy, is that of m. joseau, and as a testimony of confidence in the respectability of his establishment, it has been made the chief depository of a medicine entitled the copahine mége, so particularly recommended by the royal medicine academy of france, who have voted their thanks to the author, and granted him a patent for fifteen years, having proved so efficacious where patients have by their excesses deteriorated their health, and in fact, in all cases of blennorrhagies. m. joseau may be also useful to my countrymen, who are in the habit of riding much on horseback, in providing them with belts of his own invention, which are made of india rubber, and in general use with the french cavalry. the establishment of m. joseau is situated at no. , corner of the rue montmartre, and of the gallery montmartre, passage panorama, where my countrymen will be sure of meeting with the most assiduous attention, both from himself and his assistants, and that whatever they may require in his department will be of the best description, and at the most moderate prices; i know of no business whatever in which there is such an immense difference in the charges both in london and paris, that it appears to me that chemists and druggists make you pay _ad libitum_, without having any fixed system, therefore i never enter any of their shops without i have had them particularly recommended. before i quit this chapter of shreds and patches, although of solid utility, a very useful establishment must be introduced to my readers, belonging to messrs. danneville, no. , rue d'aguesseau, faubourg st. honoré, facing the protestant chapel, consisting of every description of earthenware and crockery, on a very extensive scale, with a very quiet exterior, the premises having more the appearance of warehouses than shops; the assortment is quite of a multitudinous description, including vessels of the cheapest and most useful nature, at the same time containing numbers of superior articles, wherein extreme taste is displayed. the concern has been a long time established, and is quite in the centre of the quarter which such numbers of english choose for their residence; the proprietors are civil, quiet, unassuming people, and their articles exceedingly reasonable. chapter viii. novel introductions of different branches of industry.--recent inventions.--extensions of commerce in various departments.--establishments of several new descriptions of business, now flourishing, and formerly unknown. the commerce of paris has now extended to so vast a scale, that it has become an immense entrepòt for all the productions and manufactures of france; the foreign merchant now feels that in visiting paris he shall there find the cheapest, the choicest, and the most extensive assortment of all that the nature of the country, aided by art, is able to produce; he is aware that he need not repair to lyons, to lille, rouen, or other manufacturing districts, for their respective articles, for which they are famed, as he knows that in the great emporium of the continent, all that the ingenuity of man can produce will there be found. independent of that advantage, there are many branches of industry confined to paris, first invented within its walls, improved, and wrought to a state of perfection, which is unrivalled in any other capital, and affording employ to an immense number of hands, from the multitude of ramifications into which these branches diverge; so that paris once principally celebrated as a city of pleasure and gaiety, still retaining that reputation, is now also renowned for its extraordinary manufactures, and the curious and splendid specimens of art and ingenuity emerging from its numerous _ateliers_, and which would require an extent far beyond the limits of this work, to give a just and accurate review of their merits; but some there are which being of a nature totally novel in the annals of commerce, and having merely been introduced within the last few years, we shall devote some space to their description in order to afford our readers an idea of their beauty and utility. amongst the various articles of the above description, none perhaps occupy a more prominent position for beauty, taste, and ingenuity, than the extraordinary variety displayed in what is termed fancy stationary, the fabrication of which is now extended to such a degree, as to have become an important branch of the commerce of paris. its introduction is but of recent date, as in the reign of charles x all the paper required for notes, letters, dispatches, etc., was procured from england, on account of its extreme superiority over that of france; the court never using any other, the example was followed not only by the major part of the french nobility, but by all foreigners of distinction who happened to be sojourning at paris, hence the importation of paper from england was to a considerable amount. but when louis philippe came to the throne, he with his usual policy observed, that paper of french manufacture was good enough for his purposes, it was therefore adopted at the court, and the noblesse and gentry, following in the same line, that encouragement was afforded to their countrymen, that engendered the idea of rendering their own paper so tasteful and elegant that now the affair is quite reversed, and england takes from france an immense quantity of this beautiful manufacture, which employs even artists of talent for designing the elegant and fanciful devices which ornament their envelopes, with their enclosures of various sizes and forms, in which the arts of drawing, painting, gilding, stamping, etc., combine to render them so pretty and so gay, that one feels loath to destroy any of these ornamental epistles, however trifling their import; the subjects of the devices are as various as those which they are intended to illustrate, history, the heathen mythology, religion, friendship, a more tender passion, etc., are all allegorically or emblematically represented, in the fancy stationary, offering the writer the means of choosing a subject consistent with the text of his letter, as an invitation to dinner is designated by paintings of pheasants, game, etc., to a _soirée dansante_, the note is adorned by couples waltzing, etc., to a whist party, the cards and players are introduced, and if to tea, the cups and saucers of gilded and glowing hue, bedeck the gay margin; so that before a word is written in the letter, it foretells its errand. there are very many who have gradually contributed their talents to this branch of industry, but it is m. marion who may be considered the inventor, he having availed himself with the most effect of their abilities, and concentrated their respective merits, in which he has displayed much perseverance, taste, and judgment, as also in the manner in which he has organised this branch of commerce, and promoted its extension. at his establishment at no. , cité-bergère, will be found a most extensive assortment of fancy stationary, comprehending every description of variety that the most fertile imagination could depict, the prices of ordinary paper commencing at the very humble price of six sheets for a sou, and according to the degree that it is ornamented, gradually rising to francs a sheet. m. marion has also an establishment in london, at no. , mortimer street, cavendish square, exactly on a similar plan as that in paris, containing an equal variety of specimens of this new branch of art. when the visiter has a half hour to spare, he would not find it thrown away in visiting the establishment of madame merckel, she having found the means of applying the phosphorus and chemical matches, which she has invented, to such a number of purposes, and of introducing them in so curious and ingenious a manner into divers articles, calculated both for utility and ornament, that her manufactory might be considered quite a little museum; amongst a variety of pretty things, i was first struck with a time-piece which acts as an alarum, and not only answers the purpose of awakening you at any hour which you may desire, but a little figure representing a magician, at the instant strikes a magic mirror, by which means the taper he holds is ignited, and with all possible grace, he presents you with a light just as you open your eyes. a night lamp next attracted me, which represented mount vesuvius, and the means by which it is lighted, proceeds from an enormous dragon emitting fire from his throat; this article is equally useful as a paper press. another night lamp i found particularly elegant, though perfectly simple, consisting merely of a gilded branch, gracefully carved into a sort of festoon, from which was suspended a little lamp of most classic form. the inkstands consist of an indescribable variety, displaying all kinds of contrivances, some so portable as easily to go into the pocket, and containing instantaneous light on touching a spring, with pens, ink, seal and wax. amongst the endless number of paper presses is one with a blacksmith, who, when light is required, strikes the anvil and fire appears; abundance of cigar stands with matches are arranged after a variety of whimsical methods, some of them very tasteful, and having quite an ornamental effect. fortunately, madame merckel has in a great degree met with the reward her ingenuity merits, receiving the greatest encouragement from the public, and not only having had a patent granted her to protect her inventions, but she has also been presented with medals from three scientific societies. as her prices are as various as the objects are numerous, every purse may be accommodated, as there are some as low as a sou, whilst there are others which rise as high as twenty pounds, the charge elevating according to the degree of ornament or utility. it appears surprising that a business which was not known until within the last few years should have risen to such importance, as madame merckel not only transmits her merchandise to every town in france, but also to the principal cities throughout europe. the manufactory is no. , rue du bouloi, in the cour des fermes; there is besides a similar establishment in london, at no. , edmund place, aldersgate street, which is entirely furnished by madame merckel, possessing the same varied assortment, and undertaking to execute the same extent of supply. how very simple are some descriptions of inventions, and how very simple one is apt to think one's self in not having before thought of that which appears so trifling and easy when once known. so it is with a sort of portable desk, invented by m. tachet, for which he has procured a patent; it needs no table nor any kind of support, as the student places it under him, and his own weight keeps it perfectly firm and steady; the plane (on which he writes or draws) being attached to the part on which he sits, rises before him, capable of accommodating itself to such elevation as may be desired; its principal utility is for sketching from nature, but as females could not make use of this desk in the same manner as men, m. tachet has also such as are adapted to their accommodation, the base lying on the lap, and fastened by a band round the waist, which keeps it perfectly firm. m. tachet has also devoted much time and attention in forming a collection of angular and carved pieces of wood, shaped and finished with extreme neatness, describing almost every form that can well be imagined, and composed of such wood as has been so well seasoned that it can never warp, either ebony, box, pear-tree, or indeed of every different country which produces the hardest woods; they are particularly used by engineers and architects, for drawing plans or elevations of buildings, as every curve or angle of any dimensions which can be required, may be traced by these curved and angular rulers. in french, on account of the form resembling that of a pistol, the curved pieces are called _pistolet_, which comprehends a complete set, and great demands for them come from england. at the establishment of m. tachet will also be found almost every article that is required by the artist, and it is in fact the only house in paris where there is any certainty of procuring _real english_ colours, as there are so many counterfeits of them exposed in almost all the colour-shops in paris, with the names and arms upon them of some of the most eminent english colour manufacturers. but i can assure my countrymen that those they obtain from m. tachet are genuine, and that they may deal with him in the same confidence as they would with what we call a true englishman; he has likewise a most complete collection of mathematical instruments; his shop is situated at no. , rue st. honoré, at the bottom of the court-yard, and although it has not so brilliant an appearance as many establishments of the same nature, it is not the worse for its quiet exterior, but on the contrary, the same articles will be found with him at a more moderate charge than they ever can be procured of his dashing rivals. another branch of industry which has risen into extreme importance latterly is that of producing such exquisitely beautiful objects in cut glass, for which the establishment of messrs. lahoche-boin and comp. has for many years been celebrated, and ever conspicuous on account of its glass staircase, but i should be afraid to trust myself with beginning to describe the multitude of tasteful and elegant articles assembled in this exhibition (for it is really much more worthy of being so called than many that bear the name), lest i should be inveigled into too much prolixity. into many of their richly wrought services of glass, gold is so happily introduced, that the two brilliant substances seem to sparkle in rivalry of each other, and the deeper tone of bronze sometimes lends its aid and heightens the effect of both. glass is now appropriated to a variety of purposes, formerly never thought of, as balustrades, the handles of locks and plates to doors, instead of brass, and a number of other objects; indeed from this establishment there is always emanating something new, and for the beauty of the works which they displayed at a national exhibition of specimens of art and industry, they were awarded the gold medal. amongst other articles which attract the attention in their splendid collection, are some of the most magnificent china vases, painted by talented artists in that department, also services of sèvres porcelain for the table, in the taste of times past; others of glass, gilded and elaborately carved, which style was also much in vogue with our ancestors; some likewise of a more simple description but always possessing a degree of elegance which excites admiration. the proprietors of this concern are merchants of respectability, and besides furnishing the royal family of france, and several of the courts of europe, they have transactions with most parts of the world, charging themselves with the execution of orders for any country, and requiring the remuneration of a very moderate commission. the establishment of messrs. lahoche-boin and comp. is at nos. , , palais-royal, and the carriage entrance, no. , rue de valois. this is one of those houses in paris (of which doubtless there are many) where the stranger may feel every confidence that he will meet with none but the most honourable treatment. for those of my countrymen who like to proceed to the fountain head, and obtain articles from the manufacturer himself, instead of purchasing them of the shopkeeper who vends them at a higher price, i would recommend a visit to the establishment of m. vincent, which is in fact like a little town, the number of warehouses, workshops, offices, etc., on the premises, amounting to no less than . in this manufactory an endless variety of articles are produced, consisting of every description of knick-knackery, if i may be allowed the term, as snuff-boxes, cigar-cases, memorandum books, souvenirs, bon-bon boxes, tablets, tooth-picks, card and needle-cases, pocket mirrors, housewives, paper presses, port-crayons, rulers, seals, musical snuff-boxes, etc., etc. the above articles being executed in every possible variety that can be imagined, of tortoise-shell, ivory, or mother of pearl, inlaid with gold and silver in the richest and most elaborate manner, miniature frames of every description, composed of fancy woods, with chased circles, metal gilt, stamped tortoise-shell, bronze and of every sort of material adapted for the purpose, albums and pocket-books in great variety, dressing-cases both for ladies and gentlemen, tea caddies, work-boxes, and an infinity of articles too numerous to recapitulate, for some of which patents have been obtained. it is from this establishment that most of the showy shops in paris, who deal in articles of the same nature, are provided, hence much economy is effected by purchasing of m. vincent, the profit of the shopkeeper being saved by procuring the object from the manufacturer. tradesmen who come to paris from london, would find their interest in applying to this establishment, where they could obtain the goods they require of the descriptions stated, at considerably more advantageous terms than from other quarters. i will cite one article which will prove how very low are the charges compared to what we are accustomed to in london; the musical mechanism of a snuff-box, francs (eight shillings) playing two airs, rising gradually in price to francs, or about _l._ _s._ playing six tunes, which of course can be afterwards set in any description of box which the purchaser chooses, of gold, silver, or tortoise-shell, as fancy directs. all other articles sold by m. vincent are equally reasonable. his residence is no. , rue de beauce, at the corner of the rue de bretagne, near the temple, certainly not in a very desirable neighbourhood, but manufactories are seldom carried on in the most agreeable vicinities. an art which has been recently brought to an astonishing degree of perfection in paris, is that of dyeing, cleaning, scouring, and restoring almost all descriptions of habiliments; this has been effected by m. bonneau, but not until he had visited the principal manufacturing towns, and had passed many years in studying the art scientifically, aided by persevering researches into the depths of chymistry, to which he is indebted for being able to perform that which has not until now been accomplished. i have seen instances of a soiled, faded, cashmere shawl, almost considered beyond redemption, committed to his charge, and reappear so resuscitated that the owners could scarcely believe it was the same dingy, deplorable-looking affair they had sent a fortnight before. the same power of restoring is effected upon all descriptions of satin, even that of the purest white, which, although so soiled as to be of a dirty yellow colour, is brought forth perfectly clean and with all its original lustre; with silks, merinos, gros de naples of the tenderest tints, the process adopted is equally successful; blonde, guipure, and all descriptions of lace, no matter how discoloured, are restored to their original whiteness. with the apparel of men, the same advantages are obtained, silk, cashmere, velvet, and other waistcoats that many would throw aside as totally spoiled, or too shabby to be worn any longer, by being sent to m. bonneau, are returned, having the appearance of being quite new. his establishment, at no. , rue lepelletier, just facing the french opera, is well known to many english families; but having heard so much of the wonders he performed in reviving the lost colours of the elaborate borders of ladies' cashmeres, and rendering them their pristine brilliance, i determined to visit his premises, upon which he carried on his operations, in the rue de bondy, no. . i there found everything conducted upon a most methodical system of regularity and order, each room was appropriated to its peculiar department, and heated and ventilated by a certain process, and that which does m. bonneau much honour, is, that all is so arranged, with the utmost consideration for the health of his work-people, by taking care that they shall be kept as dry as possible, and that a proper degree of warmth and air shall be admitted into every chamber. when required, m. bonneau sends his men to clean furniture at persons' houses, which would be rather incommodious to remove. when any article is sent to him, the bearer is informed what day it will be completed, and is sure not to be deceived, and he has an apartment so arranged for preserving whatever is confided to him, from any injury which might be caused by moths or other insects. amongst those articles for which france used to depend upon england, but wherein the case is reversed by england taking from france, is that of pencil-cases, in which small pieces of lead are inserted, and emitted or withdrawn at pleasure; numbers of these formerly were sent from london and birmingham to paris, but recently m. riottot has invented and obtained a patent for a pencil-case which has a little elastic tube of tempered steel placed at the end which is used, and into which the lead is inserted, and tightly held within it, so that there is no risk of breaking, either in the act of fixing in the lead, or from its afterwards shaking, the steel tube operating as a spring, retains it so firmly that it remains, even whilst writing with it, perfectly immoveable; these are arranged in gold or silver cases, more or less ornamental as may be required, and are found so infinitely more serviceable than those on the former principle, that as they are becoming more known in england, the demand for them continues to increase. the term by which they are designated, is porte crayon à pince élastique; their advantages are such as tend to economy, as they are neither liable to fall out nor break, besides the convenience of their never moving about whilst one is using them, to which the previous system was constantly liable. m. riottot has also an assortment of pens and pen-holders, either plated or of silver or gold, richly chased or simple, with a variety of seals and other articles; he likewise retains a stock of lead, properly prepared for inserting into the pencil-cases. his address is at no. , rue phélippeaux, passage de la marmite, escalier a, completely in the quarter of paris inhabited by the operatives, surrounded by workshops of different descriptions, not exactly calculated for very delicate ladies. for the benefit of a little purer air, we will quit the working mechanics' rendez-vous, and take a lounge in the palais-royal, and as soon as we breathe a little freely, we will examine the engraved seals of m. leteurtre-maurisset, no. , galerie d'orléans, which, from the extreme delicacy of the execution, are objects well worth attention; his talents in this department have obtained him the distinction of being engraver to the chamber of deputies and to the royal museums; some of his specimens of armorial bearings, his designs for stamping impressions, in relief and heraldric devices, are extremely clever; he engraves on stones of different descriptions, with equal accuracy and on any kind of metal, as plates for visiting cards, etc., and whatever he undertakes he executes in the most perfect manner, that the nature of the work will admit. as he is attached to his profession, however trifling the order he may receive, he enters into it with the same zest as if it were of the first importance, of course it is engraving subjects for seals in which he finds the most pleasure, as it is in those that he has the greatest scope for the display of his abilities, and seldom fails to excel. although the progress which france has made in almost every branch of industry is most extraordinary, yet none is so striking as the advance which has been effected in cutlery, as i well remember when i first came to france, it was a common joke amongst the english, when speaking of the rarity of an object, to observe that it was as scarce as a knife in france that would cut, its appearance also was as dull as its edge, soon however their cutlery, with their ideas, began to brighten, and to sharpen; but even as recently as , they were still so outshone by england, that if it was known that you were going from paris to london, with the intention of returning, every lady asked you to bring her a pair of scissors, every man a pair of razors, and by all medical friends you were assailed to bring them over lancets or other machines for cutting and maiming human flesh; thanks to the genius, talents, and perseverance of m. charrière, one is no longer troubled with such commissions, he having improved every description of surgical instruments to such a degree of perfection, that now many of our english surgeons provide themselves from his establishment on returning to england; not only has m. charrière produced every variety of instrument used by our faculty, but he has invented several others, which have merited and obtained the thanks of his country, with letters and medals from several scientific societies. even foreigners from all parts of europe, from america, and from the east, are now becoming acquainted with the utility of his inventions, which are already well known in london and edinburgh, and will soon be as much in demand in england as they are now in france. some idea may be formed of how far m. charrière has raised this branch of industry, when it is stated that but a few years since, the whole number of workmen occupied in this department was but and now he alone employs ! m. charrière in fact possesses one quality which generally ensures success, a passion for his art; he is not to be regarded simply as a vender of cutlery, but as one possessing a scientific knowledge of his profession, and as a mechanic of considerable talent. to recapitulate all his inventions, with their respective merits, and the approbatory letters that he has received from different academical institutions, would half fill my little volume; suffice it to say that he is the only person in his business, to whom has ever been awarded the gold medal; besides which, the royal academy of sciences have presented him with francs, for the improvement he has effected in surgical instruments. there is scarcely a disease and certainly not a single operation that can be performed on the human frame, for which m. charrière has not the requisite materials in the utmost perfection, even for the fabrication of artificial noses; and for one invention he merits the gratitude of all mothers, the _biberon_, a machine for the purpose of supplying an infant with milk, when circumstances prevent the mother from affording that nourishment. this instrument is so contrived that the part which meets the lips is in point of texture exactly the same as that which nature provides, uniting an equal degree of softness and elasticity, that the child takes to the substitute, with the same zest as if it were the reality. i have known instances where the lives of children have been saved by this machine, the parents declaring to me that such was the case, and that they considered that every mother ought to be provided with so useful an instrument. the address of m. charrière is no. , rue de l'ecole-de-médecine. a variety of cutlery is kept of as perfect a description as those articles for which he has attained so high a celebrity. it has generally in modern days been a reproach to france, that she has been rather lax in regard of religious matters; what there may be in the hearts of the inhabitants of that or other countries i shall not presume to give an opinion, but can only say that i find the churches in paris, both protestant and catholic, always during service time nearly full, and many to overflowing. not only that, but the french are much attached to holy associations, hence the prints of our saviour, the virgin, and the saints, have a most inexhaustible sale; i need give my readers no greater proof than recommending them to visit the establishment of m. dopter, no. , rue st. jacques, they will there find amongst his immense collection of engravings and lithographies, the portrait of every saint that ever was heard of, an innumerable variety of religious subjects for which there is a most extensive and incessant demand. some of these are stamped and illuminated in a most splendid manner, and i verily believe there is scarcely a subject connected with the christian religion, of which m. dopter has not a representation; his establishment is therefore known throughout all france, and many parts of europe, to which he transmits numbers of his publications. he likewise has a most useful assortment of maps and geographical illustrations, with portraits of celebrated characters, particularly those connected with the campaigns and adventures of napoleon, as also his battles, and remarkable events of his life, as well as a great diversity of historical subjects, landscapes, academical studies, etc., etc.; m. dopter is also the inventor of the new style of covers for binding, of which the present volume is a specimen, having them of an innumerable variety of patterns, and of every size likely to be demanded. it has often struck me that maps were very incomplete, in consequence of their not being capable of giving the degrees of elevation of hills or mountains except in a very inefficient manner; the same idea, i suppose, actuated m. bauerkeller, and induced him to invent those maps in relief, which are now becoming so generally demanded, as giving such an accurate illustration of the surface of a country, which is most beautifully exemplified in many of his specimens, but most particularly in that of switzerland; every object having a degree of elevation proportioned to the reality, and coloured in a great measure similar to the subject intended to be represented, thus the snow-capped mountains of switzerland have their white summits distinctly expressed, their blue lakes, their green meadows, grey rocks, etc., given with such fidelity, that a person obtains a most perfect notion of regions he may never have an opportunity to visit. this system of forming maps or plans upon embossed paper, is peculiarly applicable to cities, as the public buildings appear to such advantage, and m. bauerkeller has already executed those of london, paris, st. petersburg, vienna, new york, the city of mexico, hamburg, basle, a panorama of the rhine from coblentz to mayence, besides several other cities and countries, and there is no doubt that in a short time the whole of europe and many other distant districts will be illustrated in the same manner, as he is constantly adding to his collection which already excites the highest interest. m. bauerkeller's plan of executing charts, maps, or views in relief, can be equally produced either upon velvet, silk, or leather, for the illustration of a diversity of subjects which can be applied to an innumerable variety of purposes, as shades for lamps, men's caps, slippers, reticules, stands for decanters, screens, etc., etc.; already he has extended his connexions to such a degree that he receives applications from all parts of europe and america for different articles in which his invention is introduced. some of his works which were displayed at the national exhibition excited universal admiration, and obtained him a medal; he has also been granted a patent for fifteen years. this invention is not only valuable in having rendered maps more ornamental, but it assists the study of geography; by the objects being rendered so much more distinct, it increases the interest and consequently makes a deeper impression on the memory; in fact, the numerous advantages to be derived from this system of giving plans in relief may be easily imagined, but are too long to be described. a specimen of the art will be found at the beginning of this work: m. bauerkeller's address is no. , rue st. denis, passage lemoine. amongst the number of inventions which are constantly emanating from the brain of man, i know of few which unite more ingenuity, utility, and simplicity than that of m. martin (gun-maker at no. , rue phélippeaux), relative to the improvement of every description of gun that is impelled by percussion. according to the system he has introduced, and for which he has obtained a patent, all the inconvenience to which the sportsman is subjected in priming is entirely obviated, as instead of having to place the percussion cap with one's fingers, so disagreeable in very cold weather, it is at once effected by the act of cocking, and the gun may be fired from to times, always as it were priming itself, as the number of percussion caps required are introduced through the butt, and conducted to the point desired. the method of inserting the percussion caps is perfectly easy; pressing a little button or nut at the bottom of the butt causes a plate to open, when two spiral wire-springs must be taken out, as also a moveable tube, from the interior of the gun, and the latter filled with percussion caps, which must be poured into fixed tubes which communicate with the anvil; they may contain from to each; when this number is introduced replace the spiral wire-springs which press the percussion caps exactly, regularly and successively as they are needed to the point desired, then fasten in the springs with the little hook attached for that purpose, lastly replace the moveable tube and shut the plate at the bottom of the butt. this process is executed in a far shorter time than it can be described. the _immense_ advantage of this invention may not appear at the first view; but when it is considered how much more rapid may be the fire of an army in consequence of the time gained, which would be occupied in priming, the power it will give them over an enemy must be evident, and there is no doubt but that in a very short time they will be universally adopted. all such of my countrymen who come to paris i would recommend to call on m. martin; he will give them every possible explanation on the subject in the most obliging manner, and also give them practical evidence of the manner in which it operates. however deficient the french were until a very few years since in almost every thing which relates to mechanics, yet in some articles they have now made such rapid strides, that it becomes a question whether they will not surpass us, if we do not exert the same energy in the spirit of improvement with which they have been recently actuated. formerly the inferiority of french pianos to ours was most evident, and perhaps, generally speaking, i should still say it was the case, but there are a few manufacturers, the tone of whose instruments is superb; of such a description are those of m. soufleto. it is really surprising how he has been enabled, in a small upright piano, to produce the force and depth of tone which he has found the means of uniting in comparatively so small a volume, the bass having absolutely the power and roundness of an organ; but that part of an instrument which most frequently fails, is that which is composed of the additional keys or the highest notes, which are apt to be thin and wiry, but with mr. soufleto's pianos it is not the case, the tone being soft and full, with a proportionate degree of force with the rest of the instrument. his merit has been duly acknowledged, having not only received the king's patent, but having been twice presented with medals, and appointed manufacturer to the queen. as most english families who come to paris for the purpose of residing or sojourning for a certain time, are desirous of hiring or purchasing a _good_ piano, i can assure them that such they will find at m. soufleto's, no. , rue montmartre, and that his terms are extremely moderate in consideration of the excellence of his instruments. i am sure my readers will approve of my directing their attention to the establishment of m. richond, styled the phoenix, no. , boulevard montmartre, near the rue richelieu. they will there find such a splendid assortment of time-pieces, as constitutes a most beautiful sight, equally gratifying to the artist and the amateur, many of the subjects being perfectly classic, and exhibiting the tastes and costumes of different ages; some of these magnificent time-pieces are adorned with figures, either bronze or gilded, representing historical characters, after the designs of the first masters, which are most admirably executed, and indeed there is such a variety of subjects, that one might pass hours in the shop, deriving the greatest pleasure from the examination of so many interesting subjects. it is also a satisfaction to know that the works of m. richond's time-pieces are equal to their external beauty. in fact it is a house that has been long established and has ever supported a good name, having a considerable connexion, not only throughout france, but in foreign countries, particularly with england, and is by far the most recommendable of any in paris in that line of business. every object has the price marked upon it, which is always adhered to, and the charges are as moderate as could possibly be expected from the superiority of the articles over those which are sold in so many other shops in paris; some time-pieces there are which of course amount to a high price, consistent with their splendour. there is a stamp fixed by government upon the internal works of each time-piece, to prove that it is verified as being of the best quality. m. richond undertakes, at his own risk, the conveyance of time-pieces to london which have been purchased at his shop, and warrants them against any accident which may happen to the works in travelling, having a correspondent in london who is in the same business, and is commissioned to execute any repairs which may be requisite. amongst other branches of industry which now have risen into considerable importance, is one which at present constitutes an extensive business of itself, although formerly only considered as a minor department of different concerns; that to which i allude is what the french term _chemisier_, which i can translate no otherwise than shirt-maker. there are now many following this business in paris, but the largest establishment, and from which many others spring, is that of m. demarne, no. , rue croix-des-petits-champs, and he has so exerted his ingenuity in this peculiar line that he has obtained a patent for the perfection to which he has elevated it; he has been twice honourably mentioned in the reports published of two national exhibitions in which he had specimens of his works. his fame has already travelled throughout the continent, and he is patronised by the princes of several courts of europe, amongst others prince ernest of cobourg, and noticing the names of several of the english nobility, in a list which he showed me to prove the encouragement he received from my _compatriots_, i remarked that of a noble lord of sporting notoriety whose shirts were at the price of _only_ fr. ( _l._) each. however, it must not be supposed that m. demarne is dearer than other people, the price of all his articles are proportioned to the nature of the materials of which they are composed, and many are at the most moderate charges. at his extensive establishment will also be found an assortment of shirt collars, cravats, braces, silk handkerchiefs, etc., etc., arranged according to the prevailing fashions. one of the most curious, ingenious and incomprehensible inventions of any i have seen is that of m. paris, coiffeur to the princes and princesses, , passage choiseul, and , rue dalayrac, near the new italian theatre, relating to all descriptions of false hair, which he contrives to arrange in such a manner that the skin of the head is seen through where the hair is parted, and the roots represented as springing from the head in so natural a manner, that the deception cannot be discerned even on the closest inspection; the extreme delicacy of the work in these fronts and toupies is really inimitable, a person may put one on the back of their hand, and the division appears so transparent that the skin is seen under it as clear as if not a single hair crossed it, and yet by some invisible means the parts are held together, which can only be by light transparent hairs which are not discernible to the naked eye. he has obtained a patent for this invention, and although i know my countrywomen have generally very fine heads of hair, yet as from fevers or other causes they are sometimes deprived of it, also that grey hairs will intrude, i cannot too strongly recommend them to patronise the talents of m. paris, and which under similar circumstances will be found equally serviceable to gentlemen. whilst dilating upon different inventions which either contribute to comfort or convenience, i must not omit that of m. cazal, who has obtained two patents, and medals for the umbrellas and parasols he has invented, with which he furnishes the queen and princesses, and which are entirely superseding all those of any other construction. in such as m. cazal has brought into vogue, instead of the catches or springs which retain the umbrella when open or shut, being inserted in the stick, which always contributes towards weakening it, they are attached to the wire frame-work, and by merely touching a little button will slide up or down as required with the greatest facility, without those little annoyances which so frequently happen in the old method, of either pinching one's fingers, or the glove catching in the spring, or the latter breaking or losing its elasticity, etc., etc. the stick by this system, it must also be observed, is stronger, therefore can if desired be thinner, and consequently lighter. another description, called travelling umbrellas, is also invented by m. cazal and is particularly convenient, containing a cane inside the stick, by which it may be used as one or as the other, according as the weather or caprice may require; these are extremely desirable for lame persons who require a stick, as the umbrella when closed answers the purpose, and if required to be opened the cane drawing out equally affords support. m. cazal has an assortment of canes and whips the most varied that can be imagined; it would be difficult to fancy any pattern or form that is not to be found in his numerous collection. his establishment is no. , boulevard italien, where there is always some one in attendance who speaks english. whilst so near, i cannot resist mentioning so respectable a tradesman as m. frogé, tailor, with whom the fashionable englishmen sojourning at paris have dealt for above twenty years, and ever found him so honourable in his transactions that they still continue to afford him their patronage; his address is no. , boulevard des capucines. chapter ix. to the ladies. as i have set out with professing to render my work of as much utility as possible, i am desirous of giving my fair countrywomen the benefit of my own experience in paris, by indicating to them those establishments wherein they may abstract a portion of the contents of their purse, without having cause to think that it has been recklessly dissipated, as no one more than myself would regret to see their "glittering money fly like chaff before the wind," so am i extremely tenacious that they should only barter it for its full value, and as i know ladies must and will have perfumes, however superfluous in most instances, for it is but adding "sweets to the sweets," i shall conduct them to the emporium of delicious odours, appertaining to m. blanche, whose dealings i can assure them are as pure as his name; he has besides the merit of being an excellent chymist, and the still greater merit of having devoted his talents to the fair sex, and in that point which they appreciate most highly, the embellishment and preservation of their personal attractions; he has therefore invented a peculiar description of vegetable soap, called _savon végétal de guimauve_, which is so renowned amongst the paris belles, that i should not be surprised at their forming themselves into a committee, and voting an address of thanks to m. blanche for the signal services he has rendered to the cause of beauty, as not only are the medicinal powers attributed to this _savon_, of removing any impurities and softening the skin, but also that of giving it a smooth satiny lustre, which may be compared to adding the last _coup de grâce_ to the female charms. in addition to these advantages it possesses that of having the most agreeable scent; its merits have in fact obtained it a patent and it is only sold at the establishment of m. blanche, no. , passage choiseul, where also may be procured every description of perfumery and a variety of other articles, all good of their kind, as the proprietor would consider the vending of an inferior quality as a stain upon his character and upon his _fair_ name. formerly the english ladies were very _sharp_ and _pointed_ in their reflexions upon french needles, much more so indeed than the objects to which their sarcasms were directed, which in fact were but blunt and brittle ware, and the consequence was that they not only tried all their own little arts to smuggle over as many as they could when they came from england, but they exacted the same pecadillo from their unfortunate friends; now of all things i most hate smuggling, principally i admit from the fear of being caught; which i think excessively disagreeable. judge then how rejoiced i was when informed by some of my fair friends that there were as good needles to be had at the maison bierri, à la ville de lille, , faubourg st. honoré, as any that could be procured in london, and one respectable matron insisted that it was a moral duty incumbent upon me to mention an establishment so exceedingly useful to my countrywomen, not only because it contains so many articles which females are constantly requiring, but that every thing they have is of so superior a quality; in fact nothing would satisfy the good lady but my going myself to see how it was crowded with purchasers. i obeyed, and in good truth found the shop quite like a fair, but the most perfect order and arrangement prevailing, the proprietor constantly upon the watch to see that the young people were civil and attentive to the customers, who were purchasing a variety of articles and particularly ribbands; of which there appeared a most brilliant assortment, and i heard it observed that in that department the maison bierri had a celebrity _unique_. there were also as great diversity of fringe, net, blonde, muslin, mercery, lace, jaconas, linings, worsteds, all kinds of haberdashery, etc., etc. i also remarked that in every drawer, containing the different articles which were produced, the prices were marked, so that in case of the least demur regarding the charge, a reference to the label decides the affair. by the excellence of his goods, the regular system upon which the business is conducted, and the assiduity of all concerned in the maison bierri, he has attracted numbers of the english, and amongst the rest the ambassadress, and there is always some person attending who speaks their language. in the exterior there is no attempt at display; like many of the most respectable establishments, it depends so entirely on its extensive connexions, as not to need any efforts to promote publicity, and every one residing at paris must have heard of the reputation of the maison bierri; it is particularly convenient for the english, being in the quarter in which they mostly dwell. as there is no department of the toilet by which ladies either so disfigure or embellish themselves, as the hat, bonnet, or cap, i must beseech my fair countrywomen to procure those articles from such persons alone who have as it were obtained a diploma for good taste; as i am most anxious that when englishwomen are in france, that they should in every respect appear to the best advantage; now as i consider that which adorns the head as having so important a bearing upon the beauty of a female, deep and frequent were my cogitations upon the subject, before i could make up my mind what _modiste_ i should recommend to the patronage of my countrywomen, as i would not have the sin upon my head, for all the mines of golconda, of having been accessary to an englishwoman putting on a hat or bonnet that did not become her; therefore, after mature deliberation, i determined to call a council of all my female acquaintances, and beg of them to hold a debate upon this knotty point; the result was most satisfactory, the question being carried without a division, in fact there was not one dissentient voice, the name of madame de barenne being pronounced by one and all at the same moment; it being observed that there were several persons who had attained a certain degree of celebrity as _modistes_, but for uniting grace, elegance and simplicity with an artistical _gusto_, there were none in paris who surpassed madame de barenne ( place vendôme). i have before alluded to this lady, and certainly have observed that her manners, her apartments, and every thing around her has an air _distingué_, and although i would never have the presumption of giving an opinion upon articles so far above my judgment, yet i can record the opinion of those who are considered true connaisseurs, from whom i learn that at madame de barenne's, hats, bonnets, caps, and turbans, of every variety, are arranged with the utmost perfection, the materials being of the most superior description consistent with the season of the year, adorned with marabouts, bird of paradise feathers, aigrettes, flowers from the celebrated constantin, all selected from those houses which have the most renown for the respective articles in which they deal, but which are introduced with so much taste and judgment, that besides her ingenuity, having obtained a patent, she has been specially appointed modiste to the queen of belgium, the princess clémentine, and the duchess de nemours. not far from the english ambassador's, in the centre as it were of what may be termed the english quarter, is an establishment styled _la tentation_, which from the variety and excellence of its goods operates on the visiter consistently with its title. it is a _magasin de nouveautés_, containing almost every article appertaining to the toilet, as linen, drapery, hosiery, fancy goods, etc., and is on that extensive scale, that their assortment possesses every diversity that can be desired, whilst even the most fastidious cannot fail of meeting that which must suit their taste. this establishment is not like many in the same way of business, who spend a little fortune in advertising their goods, incurring tremendous expenses in obtruding themselves and their merchandise before the public, and then making that public pay the outlay they have made upon newspapers, pamphlets, etc., by either charging higher prices, or laying in stock of inferior quality, thereby even at an apparently moderate price they are enabled to obtain higher profits, whilst by continuing their puffing advertisements, they hope constantly to attract a new supply of dupes. _la tentation_, on the contrary, calculate only upon obtaining and retaining connexion, by keeping none but good articles, and selling them at a small profit; strict attention and civility to their customers, and having a stock ever consistent with the changes of the fashions and seasons, by a constant adherence to these objects a durable success has been effected. the progress of this establishment has been worthy of remark, commencing under a humble roof upon a modest scale, until with the process of time the proprietors were emboldened to enlarge their premises when at length it increased to its present magnitude, occupying a considerable portion of a noble mansion this has been achieved by a judicious selection of stock, with constant perseverance, and conducting their business on honourable principles, it is just such an establishment as is calculated to please the english, where great neatness and cleanliness is observed, and everything conducted in a quiet and unassuming manner. the charges on each article are fixed at a price that will admit of no diminution, and the english have the satisfaction of knowing that they pay no more than the french, which perhaps is not the case in all houses in paris; persons wishing to view the goods are not pressed to purchase unless they feel disposed to do so, and however trifling may be the amount, they are not tormented, as in too many shops, to buy more than they wish. whatever articles are selected are sent punctually to the residence of the parties at the time required, and orders, whether personally or by letter, meet with the strictest attention. there is always some person belonging to the establishment who speaks english. la tentation is situated no. , rue faubourg st. honoré, at the corner of the avenue de marigny. perhaps there is no branch of the arts which has been wrought to so high a perfection as that of making artificial flowers, and no place in the world where it is practised to such an extent as paris, or with so high a degree of talent; but although it has been long and justly celebrated for the exquisite taste developed in forming bouquets, wherein all the varieties of colour are so assembled as to display each other to the best advantage, yet so arranged that a certain harmony should pervade the whole; still m. constantin has discovered the means of availing himself of the abilities of the parisians in this department of the art, that he has elevated it to a degree of altitude it had never before attained, and in fact his flowers have become so exclusively the mode, that if a lady wear any whatever, it would be offending her to suppose that they were any other than those of m. constantin. indeed, it is impossible to enter his apartments without feeling a thorough conviction of the elegance of his taste, first passing through a long corridor between two rows of real flowers, proving that he fears not the rivality of nature, conscious that his own works unite the same beauties of tints and colours which her highest powers can produce, and one room into which his customers are introduced, unites a degree of taste in the richness and splendour of its ornamental objects, with that proper tone of keeping which is pleasing to the eye; but it is at his little boudoir that the beholder is astonished, such luxuriant magnificence as is therein displayed can only be imagined from a description presented in the arabian nights! in fact the dutch ambassador was so delighted with the exquisite arrangement of this superb specimen of sumptuous decoration, that he requested permission to bring an artist to take an exact copy of the elegant little chamber and its contents, to form a similar boudoir for the queen of holland. as m. constantin is now arrived at the summit of his profession, he is enabled to command prices commensurate with his talents, and has some bouquets as high as francs, but there are articles which may be purchased at the moderate charge of francs; his residence is no. , rue neuve st. augustin. m. constantin possesses the recommendation of being extremely particular as to the morality and propriety of conduct with his young persons, and that degree of decorum is constantly preserved, that any ladies visiting his apartments will find the same order and discipline maintained as in the strictest boarding-schools. i know not whether it is the case with all men, but i believe it is, that the first time i see a lady, i naturally look in her face, then my next impulse is to look at her foot; now as i have already done my utmost for my countrywomen for the ornamenting of the former, in recommending them to madame de barenne, i must now endeavour to serve them in respect to the latter, reminding them that in lord normandy's novel of "yes and no," he observes, speaking of the feet of parisian females, "how exquisitely they decorate that part of the person," and as i have already remarked that i do not wish english ladies in any one particular to yield to parisian or any other ladies, i must request that they will, as soon as possible after they arrive at paris, apply to m. hoffman, no. , rue de la paix, who will fit them in such a light and elegant manner, giving such a "_jolie tournure_" to the foot, that they will scarcely know their own feet again, after having been accustomed to be shod in the english fashion; for although i have a very exalted idea of the transcendant talents of my countrymen, i do not consider that the vein of their abilities at all runs in the shoemaking line. m. hoffman's residence is at the end of a court-yard, almost as quiet and as retired as if it were in a convent; his articles will be found of the best quality, both he and madame speak english, and rival each other in attention and civility to their customers; they have an assortment of the different specimens of their work, consisting of every variety which is worn, according with the fashion and season. i believe every lady before she quits england with the intention of visiting paris, has already made up her mind to make some purchase of lace pretty soon after her arrival; to prevent them therefore from falling into bad hands, i recommend them to go at once to one of the most extensive and respectable establishments in that department of any in paris, indeed i believe i may truly add the most so. it is one of those large wholesale houses of the french metropolis that transact business with all parts of the world in lace, ribbands, and silks; it is situated at no. ter, rue choiseul, the firm is messrs. bellart, louys and delcambre, where every description of blonde and lace, in all its multitudinous variety, from the most simple to the richest, rarest and most costly, will be found, and at extremely reasonable prices, as so many retail dealers furnish themselves from this establishment; besides which, they are themselves manufacturers of black chantilly lace and white blonde. this concern has the character of being solely wholesale, but they make an exception with regard to lace. their collection of ribbands is unrivalled both for the beauty and extent. they have also a most valuable assortment of silks, satins, velvets, stuffs, brocade, embroidery of gold and silver, etc., etc., selected with extreme taste and judgment, and indeed mme de barenne owes a great portion of her success to having supplied herself from this house with the material which she required, as being of so very superior a quality, it gave great vogue to whatever was produced by her ingenuity, to which certainly her own talents contributed in the taste displayed in the disposition and arrangement of the different articles, independent of their own excellence. whatever rivalry there may be between different countries, respecting their divers produce and manufactures, with regard to gloves none would have the audacity to cast the gauntlet at france, which has ever held the supremacy over other nations in that department, yet it has recently been elevated a step higher by an invention of m. mayer, of no. , rue de la paix, for which he has been granted a king's patent, consisting in what are termed ball gloves, which are so made as to button and lace about half way up the arm, which prevents them from slipping down upon the wrist, they are besides furnished with trimmings also invented by m. mayer, which may either be of the utmost simplicity, or of the richest description, and may be composed of either satin, velvet, lace, gold, or even pearls and diamonds may be and are frequently introduced; they may be also furnished with tassels which may be formed of materials equally costly, thus the trimmings of these gloves may either be had for four francs or may cost twenty guineas and upwards, according to the desires of the wearers. in fact m. mayer has introduced a degree of luxury and splendour in the decorations of gloves, which has given them an importance in the toilet which they never before possessed, and have become so much the vogue with ladies of the highest distinction, that they have obtained for m. mayer the privilege of furnishing the royal family of france, the empress of russia, the queens of naples, spain, belgium, etc. m. mayer also occupies himself with gentlemen's gloves, and has just invented a peculiar description, without gussets between the fingers, by which means they set closer to the hand, and are not so liable to be come unsewed as by the former method; he has them likewise so arranged as to button at the side instead of the middle, which always left an unsightly aperture. now i think of it, these last few lines had no business in the ladies' chapter, as they allude to that which are worn solely by gentlemen, but i dare say that my fair readers, if they find m. mayer's gloves merit my commendations, will be equally anxious that their husbands, brothers, or sons should furnish themselves at the same place and excuse the intrusion. m. mayer has a private apartment tastefully fitted up, appropriated for the ladies, where they can make their selections as uninterrupted and unobserved as at their own homes. next door to m. mayer's, at no. , is an establishment which has received very distinguished and extensive patronage, known by the appellation of la maison lucy hocquet, not only for hats, bonnets, capotes and turbans, but also for pelerines, fichus à la paysanne, _canzous_, chemisettes, collars, habit shirts, parures de spectacles, etc.; in these articles they have been so celebrated for the taste and elegance with which they are arranged, that the fame of their talents has attracted around them many of the most influential ladies in paris, as also several of the most celebrated _artistes_ whose good taste and jugement are proverbial; amongst others may be cited mlle rachel. la maison lucy hocquet likewise furnishes several crowned heads, as the empress of russia, queen of portugal, etc., and amongst the leading personages of paris, the princess demidoff, the duchesses d'eckmühl, de montebello, de valmy, marquise d'osmond, etc. to the above list might be added many names of the english nobility, who still continue to be supplied from this establishment, which independent of the merit which is displayed in the arrangement of every article which it produces, is also highly recommendable on account of the attentive civility which they extend to all who may have occasion to apply to them. chapter x. the present artists in france and their productions, improvements in paris, fortifications, humanity to animals, education of females, personal appearance of the french, army and navy, scientific societies, and commercial enterprises. never perhaps at any period was there so much encouragement given to the arts and sciences in general in france as at the present, nor ever was there a monarch who reigned over the french, who so much endeavoured to promote every object which tended to usefulness, or to the advancement of the fine arts. no country in the world has such advantages as france for nurturing talent, and giving it the opportunity of developing itself, so numerous are the societies and institutions where lectures and instruction are afforded gratuitously, hence the great assistance to young artists; without any expense or trouble, they are admitted into a drawing academy, where they may acquire the fundamental principles of the graphic art; afterwards there are other different establishments which they can enter as their studies progress, and when they attain any degree of proficiency, they have a chance of being sent at the expense of government to rome, to complete their studies, and if they excel to a moderate degree, are sure to be employed by the king, or some member of the royal family, or by the nation. with all these immense advantages, how much might be expected of the french artists, but the fact does not realise those hopes that might be justly formed from the solid rudimental education which they have the power of receiving. the exhibition this year at the louvre of the paintings of the living artists was a complete illustration of what i have stated, as every one allows that it was far inferior to that of last year, which was considered much worse than those of former years. at the same time it must be admitted that several of the best artists have not sent any pictures for the last few years, and particularly the present, when amongst the absentees might be cited ingres, horace vernet, ary scheffer, delaroche, etc., who it appears were all employed by the king or government; the consequence was, although there was an immense mass of large historical and scriptural subjects, it was what might have been called a most sorry display. amongst the number one alone evinced a superiority of talent, and that was the taking of mazagran by phillippoteaux, which really had considerable merit, and the artist it appears passed some time in algiers, and therefore was enabled to give a faithful representation of the inhabitants of the country. of miscellaneous subjects, or what the french call _tableau de genre_, there were many most exquisite pictures, amongst the rest, the miller, his son and his ass, by h. bellangé, which was so full of character and expression, that it needed not language to tell the tale; there were also several other pieces by the same artist, possessing equal merit. an assembly of protestants surprised by catholic troops, by karl girardet, was a most superior picture in wilkie's best style; reading the bible, by edward girardet, also exceedingly clever; but one of the most delightful pictures in the exhibition was by gué, of raymond of toulouse reconciling himself to the church; i never yet saw any performance of that artist but evinced some great merit, either the finest imagination, the most beautiful execution, or the utmost truth to nature, according to the subject he undertakes. i should certainly pronounce gué as one of the best artists who now send their pictures to the louvre; one he had two years since of the crucifixion, at the annual exhibition, which certainly was a most sublime composition, the approach of night, with a slight glare of parting light, was most admirably represented, and gave a sort of wild gloom which so beautifully harmonised with the nature of the subject; he had also introduced the dead rising from their tombs, which contributed to augment the solemn tone which pervaded the whole picture. however lightly or frivolously the mind might be engaged, one glance at this exquisite painting must at once strike awe into the beholder; it was true that there was a great similarity with one on the same subject, in the louvre, by karel dujardin, but not sufficiently so to say it was borrowed, or to detract from its merit. t. johanot had but one picture this year, which was very clever, as his always are; his subjects are mostly historical, and his illustrations of walter scott are universally known and admired. schopin is another of the french artists whose pictures will always live, his females are so truly graceful, such sweetness of expression in their countenances; this year he did not shine so much as he has before, having but one picture, which was from ruth and boaz, and the latter was made to appear too old. a paralyzed old man on an ass, which his son was leading, was a true picture of nature, by leleux; the vigour of the one and the feebleness of the other were admirably contrasted, although rather flat from wanting more shade. of this description there were far too many pictures possessing merit than i can afford room to cite, but amongst the portraits there were some such wretched daubs, that they would have been a disgrace to any country; in fact this is a branch in which the french are peculiarly deficient, and in which we far surpass them. the portrait painter who has now the greatest vogue is winterhatter, who certainly has a great degree of merit, but rather sacrifices the face to the drapery; his picture of the queen was very justly admired in many respects, but the laboured accuracy with which the lace was given, was rendered so conspicuous, that the eye fell upon the costume before it lighted upon the features; this pleases the ladies, i am aware, who like to have an exact map of their blonde and guipure, and it certainly is too much the case that an artist is obliged to be more or less the slave of his sitters and their friends; his miscellaneous pieces, where his pencil roves freely, are all that is delightful. his portrait of the comte de paris and the duchess de nemours, certainly display considerable talent. two favourite and fashionable portrait painters are dubuffe and court, the works of the former are well known in england, they are exceedingly attractive from their softness and brilliance, but they want the crispness and tone of nature, the drawing also is sometimes defective. these observations equally apply to both these artists. the younger dubuffe is rising rapidly in the estimation of artists. i have seen some portraits very true to life by coignet, roller, laure, rouilliard, and vinchon; one of sébastiani, by the latter, was quite nature itself. there are several very clever painters of marine subjects, amongst others gudin and isabey, and there is not any department which is more encouraged by the king and the government; for the last several years the former has had orders for at least a dozen each year, of naval combats between france and her enemies, but those subjects which he paints from his own spontaneous suggestions, are infinitely superior to such as he executes to order. fruits and flowers are branches of the art in which the french artists particularly excel, one piece of flowers by bergon i think was one of the most perfect i have met with. latterly they have much advanced in their representation of cattle, their sheep and cows are particularly good; some draught horses by casey were executed with infinite spirit, as also some wild horses by lepoitevin. some delightful domestic pieces must excite admiration, of fishermen, their wives and children, by colin, very much in the style of our own collins, but not quite so good, as also others by le camus duval. several interesting subjects attracted much of my attention, by henry scheffer, meissonnier, bouchot, dupré, steuben, rubio, signol, charlet, storelli, and a few others; in water colours the french are now advancing with rapid strides, this year there were some exquisite specimens in that department of painting, particularly by heroult: but the style in which the french now are most happy, is in what they call _pastel_, which consists in a great variety of coloured chalks, rather harder than what we understand by crayons; the manner in which they execute portraits about a quarter the size of life, with these materials, is surprising, it infinitely surpasses their oil portrait or their miniatures. there are several foreign artists within the last two years, who have sent their works to the louvre which must not be passed unnoticed, amongst the rest is a spanish artist named villa amil, whose interiors are far above mediocrity, and who has given us some rich specimens of spanish monuments, which are now admirably illustrated in a periodical lithographic work. our countrymen, messrs. callow and barker, have also sent several pieces, which do them and their country credit, the former, some beautiful subjects in water colours, and the latter of varied descriptions, in some of which the game has been particularly admired. miniature painting in france i should decidedly say was much inferior to that of england, they are very fond of thick muddy back-grounds, their colouring partakes of the same dirty hue, there is generally a stiffness in the position, and much high finish without effect; there are certainly some exceptions to this rule, at the head of which is madame lezinska de mirbel, whose miniatures are broad, bold, and natural, but always plainer than the originals; there are a few others who have come forward latterly, whose performances are above mediocrity. there were some landscapes which evinced much talent, both as to composition and execution; the selection of subjects being from some of the wild romantic provinces of france and switzerland, aided greatly in affording them a certain degree of interest. taking a comparative view of the artists of england and france, there is no doubt, generally speaking, that the latter are superior in drawing, and the former in colouring; many of the french artists have latterly adopted a leady tone in their flesh tints, which gives their figures a half dead appearance. with whatever faults he may possess, i doubt if there be any other man that can do so much as horace vernet; many may be found who may excel him in the separate objects which he must introduce in a general historical subject, as a landscape, an architectural building, a ship, a horse, etc., might be better executed by such artists as have exclusively studied any one of those subjects, but i do not think there is any painter now living who could produce the _ensemble_ so well, and manage to give the effect to the composition in the same masterly style as horace vernet. delaroche also has completed many pictures which with his name will be immortal; the same may be said of ary scheffer, whilst ingres is known and cited all over europe for the perfection of his drawing, supposed to be the only man who could correctly draw the naked human figure in any position without a model. in portrait and miniature painting, landscapes and water colours, the french are still decidedly inferior to the english artists. with respect to sculpture, it is so far more encouraged in france than in england, that of course the numbers who profess it are far more numerous in the former country, and there is a great deal of talent to be found amongst the present french sculptors, but perhaps not quite of the highest class. i never have seen anything which i considered so beautiful as bailey's eve, and i doubt whether there are any of them who could produce a work equal to gibson, or that could surpass cockerill in the representation of a horse, still most of their statues which have been executed for the government, are certainly better than many of those which have been placed in different parts of london. there is a great taste for sculptural subjects in general throughout paris, numbers of houses which have been recently built are adorned with statues, and an immense variety of devices and ornaments of different descriptions, all of which afford employment for the young sculptor; in fact there exists now quite a mania for decoration, and those mansions which still remain of the middle ages present the same predilection for rich carve-work and elaborate ornament which is now revived, and undoubtedly it gives a very picturesque richness to the aspect of a city. as a department of sculpture i certainly must not omit to state to what a high degree the french have wrought the art of casting in bronze, and i am sure i shall be procuring my readers a treat in directing them to the establishment of m. de braux d'anglure, no. , rue castiglione; they will there find an infinite variety of very splendid subjects, some executed with the most exquisite delicacy, others in fine broad masses, as animals the size of life, and some equestrian figures of the middle ages after the first masters displaying the full merit of the original designs. but that which is still more interesting is to visit m. de braux's foundry, and atelier, no. , rue d'astorg, where he takes a pleasure in explaining the whole process requisite in casting the different objects, and showing them throughout the various stages through which they pass before they are completed. the french have brought this art to a high perfection, which it appears is facilitated by their having a peculiar sort of sand near paris (which they cannot find elsewhere), particularly serviceable for the purpose of casting. the orders which come from england for works in bronze is immense; whilst i was at m. de braux's he was at work upon a bust of the duke of wellington, which was part of what was to be a figure the size of life, destined as a national monument (as m. de braux understood) for some part of london. the great art which he now practises, is that of casting whole masses at once, instead of small bits which were joined together according to the former method. every amateur of the arts will find the highest gratification in viewing the number of interesting objects which present themselves in various forms at m. de braux's atelier. the shopkeepers and proprietors of coffee-houses, restaurants, etc., also have afforded much occupation to artists of moderate talent, having reliefs and paintings introduced upon their walls, that are by no means contemptible, and it is quite an amusement, in walking the streets of paris, to observe to what an extent it is carried; many of the new houses in the most frequented thoroughfares, above the shops, are now so handsome that if they were appropriated for national purposes would be admired as public monuments, some of these may be remarked even in several of the narrow shabby streets, only (as already stated) they are compelled, by the municipality, to build them a few feet farther back, to give greater width to the street. one of the beauties and attractions of paris at the present period, is the passages, in which are to be found some of the most splendid assortments of every article which the most refined luxury can desire; of such a description are the passages des panoramas, saumon, choiseul, vero-dodat, vivienne, opera and colbert; in the latter is a magasin de nouveauté, styled the grand colbert, which peculiarly merits the attention, both of the amateur and the connaisseurs of such merchandise as will be found there displayed. in paris there are many establishments of this nature on the most colossal scales, even surpassing in extent the far famed waterloo house, but in none is the public more honourably served, or treated with a greater degree of courtesy and attention, than at the grand colbert; the taste and discernment with which their stock is selected, does the highest credit to the proprietors, and their premises being arranged and decorated so as to resemble a moresque temple, as the purchasers behold spread around them in gay profusion all the rich and glowing tints which cashmere can produce, they may almost fancy that they are in some oriental bazaar, where the costly manufactures of those climes are displayed for the admiring gaze of the delighted spectator. in the choice of silks is developed the beau idéal of all that the genius, art, and industry of lyons can effect, which has been selected as regards the tints and designs, with an artistical tact. a great advantage of this establishment is that one partner is french, possessing that degree of taste for which his countrymen are so justly celebrated in all that relates to fancy goods, whilst the other partner is english, partaking of that truly national character which pries deeply into the worth and solidity of every article, before it is presented to the public. thus far i can speak from experience, having for sixteen years been accustomed to purchase every thing i required at the grand colbert, either in linen, drapery, mercery, hosiery, lace, millinery, etc. the premises are entered from two different points, the rue vivienne, and the rue neuve-des-petits-champs, of which streets it forms the corner. the central position adds another recommendation to the stranger, being close to the palais royal, in a street communicating with the bourse, and the most fashionable part of the boulevards, but a few minutes' walk from all the principal theatres, at the back of the royal library, and in fact in the midst of the most attractive and frequented parts of paris. whilst a long range of immense squares of plate glass not only have an ornamental appearance but have the effect of throwing so powerful a light upon the premises that every possible advantage may be afforded for the examination of the goods. just near this spot they are about to open a new street, which will be on the spacious and handsome plan of those which have been recently constructed; many others are projected on the same system, and will have a most beneficial effect, in adding to the salubrity of the capital, by clearing away a number of little dirty lanes and alleys, hundreds of which have already been absorbed in the great improvements which have been effected in paris within my recollection. the extensive projects which are in contemplation for the embellishing of the city, would cost some hundreds of millions of francs to carry into effect, but could have been executed, had not so large a sum been required for the erection of the fortifications, which are proceeding, if not rapidly, at any rate steadily. concerning their utility or the policy of such a measure, opinion is much divided, but the majority conceive that such circumstances as could render them necessary are never likely to arrive, as they consider that by keeping the frontiers always in the best state of defense, there never could be any fear of an army reaching paris, as when it occurred under napoleon, it was after the resources of france had been exhausted by a war of upwards of twenty years, an event that in all probability never could happen again, and that the immense outlay of capital might be applied to purposes so much more calculated to promote the welfare of the country. others contend that supposing france to be assailed by three armies, and even that she be victorious over two of them, and it be not the case with the third, that force might march on paris, which might be immediately taken if it were open as at present, whereas if fortified, the resistance it would be enabled to make would give time for either of the victorious armies to come to its relief. whilst a third party pretend that the fortifications are intended more to operate against paris than in its defence; that in case of any formidable popular commotion the surrounding cannon can be pointed against the city and inhabitants, and any refractory bands that might be disposed to pour in from the province to join the factious could be effectually prevented entering paris. whatever may be the different opinions on the subject, every one must regret such a tremendous expense for almost a visionary object, whilst there is so much capital and labour required for increasing the facilities of communication by means of improved roads, canals, or railways from the opposite points of the kingdom. with respect to the ameliorations which have already been effected in paris, one may say that wonders have been accomplished, particularly in regard to cleansing and paving the streets, and in all possible cases opening and widening every available spot of ground, whereby a freer air could be admitted. i cannot conceive how people formerly could exist in such dirty holes emitting horrible odours, of which there still remain too many specimens, wherein even the physical appearance of persons one would imagine certainly must be affected, yet i have often remarked in the midst of the narrowest and most unsightly looking streets of paris, numbers of persons with fresh colours and having a most healthy appearance; it is true that there are now open spaces in all quarters, from which a person cannot live more than about two hundred yards, the boulevards encircling paris, and the seine running through it with its large wide quays, afford a free current of air all through the heart of the city, then there are such a number of spacious markets, of _places_, or, as we call them, squares, and of large gardens, which all afford ample breathing room; whereas in london that is not the case, in many parts, such as the city end of holborn, cheapside, cornhill, leadenhall street, whitechapel, etc., where you must go a long way to get any thing like fresh air. that part of paris termed la cité, was the worst in that respect, but such numbers of houses have been swept away round notre-dame, that they have now formed delightful promenades with trees and gravelled walks. the french are extremely fond of anything in the shape of a garden, and you come upon them sometimes where you would least expect to find them at the backs of houses, in the very narrow nasty little streets to which i have alluded, but if they have no space of ground in which they can raise a bit of something green, they will avail themselves of their balconies, their terraces, their roofs, parapets, and i have often seen a sort of frame-work projecting from their windows, containing flowers and plants. they evince the same partiality for animals, to whom they are extremely kind, and in several parts of paris there are hospitals for dogs and cats, where they are attended with the utmost care. i was much amused the first time i heard of such an establishment; i went with a lady to pay a visit to a friend, and after the usual enquiries, the question of how is bijou was added, in a most anxious manner: the answer was given with a sigh. "oh! my dear, he is at the hospital," and then continued the lady in a somewhat less doleful tone, "but fortunately he is going on very well, and in another week we hope he will be able to come out." i thought all the while that they must be alluding to a servant of the family, who had been sent to the hospital, when the lady i had accompanied exclaimed, "poor dear little creature." this somewhat puzzled me, and whilst i was pondering on what it could all mean, the other lady observed, "it is such a nice affectionate animal," and at last i found out it was a dog which excited so much sympathy. i have also observed the same kind consideration towards their horses, and remember once seeing the driver of a cabriolet take off his great coat to cover his horse with it, and certainly at present i do not perceive any practical proof of what used to be said of paris, that it was a "hell for horses, and a heaven for women," and as to the latter case it is very evident that the females work much more than they do in england, particularly amongst the middle-classes; accounts being strictly attended to in the course of their education, enables them to render most important aid in the establishments either of their husbands or brothers, to which they devote themselves with much cheerfulness and assiduity, arising from the manner in which they are brought up. indeed the general system observed in female boarding-schools in paris is very commendable, and as there are numbers of the english whose circumstances will not permit of their residing in france, yet are extremely desirous that their children should acquire a perfect knowledge of the french language, i know not any service that i can render such persons more important than that of recommending a seminary, in which i can confidently state that they will not only receive all the advantages of an accomplished education, but also be treated with maternal care; of such a description is the establishment of madame loiseau. having known several young ladies who had been there brought up, and hearing them always express themselves in the most affectionate manner of its mistress, whilst the parents added their encomiums to those of their children, i was tempted to pay madame loiseau a visit, that i might be empowered to recommend her establishment, by having the advantage of ocular demonstration added to that of oral testimony. i have known several boarding-schools in my own country, but never any one which was superior in regard to the extreme of neatness and cleanliness, or possessing a more perfect system of regularity, which appears to prevail in that of madame loiseau; although mine was rather an early morning call, yet all was in the nicest order. the house, which is in the rue neuve de berri, no. , just close to the champs elysées, the favourite quarter of the english, is most advantageously situated, facing a park, and at the back is a good sized garden, with shaded walks, well calculated for the recreation of the pupils, and there is besides a spacious gymnasium, where the young ladies can always practise those exercises so much recommended for the promotion of health, when the weather will not permit of taking the air. the premises are so extensive, that different rooms are appropriated for different studies, the one for drawing, another for writing, several for music, etc., etc.; there is a chapel attached to the establishment, which is adapted to those who are of the catholic persuasion, whilst the english protestant pupils are sent with a teacher of their own country, either to the ambassador's or to the marboeuf english chapel, both of which are near to the residence of madame loiseau. the masters for the different accomplishments are judiciously selected, and although much attention is devoted to enriching the minds of the pupils with the beauties of literature, and elegant acquirements, madame loiseau takes still more pains in instructing them in every social duty, towards rendering them exemplary, either as daughters, wives, or mothers. in case of any pupils proving unwell, apartments are appropriated to them, separated from the dormitories, where they receive the most assiduous attention; baths are amongst other conveniences contained within the establishment. the table is most liberally supplied, and on those days which are observed as fasts by the catholics, joints are prepared for the protestants, the same as upon other days. the terms are moderate, proportioned to the advantages which are offered. the physical appearance of the french strikes me as having undergone a considerable change; when i was a child, i can remember a host of emigrants who used to live mostly about somers town, and impressed me with the idea of their being tall and meagre, exactly as i was accustomed to see them represented in the caricatures; i remember particularly remarking that they had thin visages, hollow cheeks, long noses and chins, that i used to observe they were all features and no face, they had besides a sort of grouty snuffy appearance; of the females i have less recollection, except that i thought they looked rather yellow, and generally took snuff. when i came to france, therefore, i was very much struck with the change, particularly in the young men, whom i found with small features, and generally round faces, of the middle height, and well made, not so dark or so pale as i expected to find them. the same description applies to the females; there is not so much red and white as we are accustomed to see in england, nor the soft blue eye, nor flaxen nor golden hair, nor generally speaking such fine busts, and i know not why, but the french women have almost always shorter necks, but they have mostly very pretty little feet and ankles, and although their features may not be regular or handsome, taken separately, yet the ensemble is generally pleasing; their eyes are fine and expressive, and after all, in my opinion, expression is the soul of beauty. the female peasantry of france take no pains in guarding against the sun and wind, but merely wear caps, consequently get very much tanned, and look old very soon: whereas the englishwomen preserve their appearance much longer by wearing bonnets, and particularly pokes, which effectually shelter the face. the sun also has more power in most parts of france, and the women work harder than in england, therefore cannot wear so well. proportioned to the price of provisions, wages are higher in france than in england; you cannot have an able bodied man in paris, for the lowest description of work, for less than sous a day, those who are now working at the fortifications have , that being the minimum, and if a person understand any trade, , , and francs are the usual prices, and those who are considered clever at their business often get more. but many a young man's advancement in life is impeded by the conscription; it often occurs that an industrious shopman, or artisan, has with economy saved some hundred francs, when he is drawn for the army, and glad to appropriate his little savings towards procuring him some comforts more than the common soldier is allowed; the troops generally are very quiet and orderly behaved, in the different towns where they are quartered, but the infantry have not a very brilliant appearance, having found small men so very active and serviceable in climbing the rocks, enduring fatigue, and braving all kinds of impediments, men two inches shorter than would have before been received, were admitted into the ranks, the consequence is that the regiments of the line now make but a poor display, as regards the height of the men, and indeed in their manner of marching, and carrying their muskets, some nearly upright others more horizontally, they have not a regular orderly appearance, like many of the other troops on the continent; most of the largest sized men are taken up for the cavalry, and very well looking fellows they many of them are, particularly in the carabineers, which, in regard to the height of the men, is a remarkably fine regiment, but might be much more so, if the government paid that attention which is devoted by other powers to the selections for their choice regiments; in the carabineers there are men as much as six feet three, and four, and others as short as five feet ten, whilst in other regiments, such as the lancers and dragoons, they have here and there men above six feet, which if placed in the carabineers, and those who were the shortest in that corps removed into the others, all those regiments would be improved, as being rendered more even, whilst the carabineers would then be equal in appearance, with regard to the men, to any regiment in the world. with respect to the horses, it would be more difficult to render it as perfect as our life guards, and as to their bridles and equipments in general (except their regimentals) there is often an inequality and want of care and attention as to uniformity of appearance, but throughout all the french cavalry, the men have an excellent command over their horses. i have been at many grand reviews both in france and in england, and in the former i never saw a man thrown, whereas in the latter it has frequently occurred, either from the horse falling or other circumstances. with regard to the french army in general, the effect is that of the men having individually a degree of independent appearance, or as if each man acted for himself, instead of being as one solid machine set in motion as it were by a sort of spring, which moving the whole mass, all the parts must operate together. the french infantry, in point of marching, are an exact contrast to the most highly disciplined troops of russia and prussia, who pretend to assert that they have regiments who can march with such extreme steadiness and regularity, that every man may have a glass of wine upon his head and not a drop will be spilt; attempt the same thing with a french regiment, and wine and glass would soon be on the ground, and in all their military proceeding there is an apparent slovenliness and irregularity, a want of closeness and compactness in their movements; with regard to outward appearance, the national guard have the advantage on a field day, as there is a sort of _esprit du corps_ between the legions, which causes them to take great pains with regard to the _tenue_ of their respective battalions; but after all, the great force of the french army is _enthusiasm_, and that would be excited to a much greater degree in a war with england, than with any other power, because they have been so taunted by the english press, with the old absurd doctrine, viz., that one englishman can beat three frenchmen, and several papers lately raked up the battles of cressy, poitiers, agincourt, etc., but the reply of the french is indisputable, that those successes were most efficiently revenged, when it is remembered that england was in possession of the whole of the provinces of guienne, normandy, great part of picardy and french flanders, some portions of which were under england for nearly years, but that we were overcome in such a succession of battles, that ultimately we were beaten out of every acre we had left in france; calais, which surrendered to the duke de guise, in the reign of mary, being the last place which we retained. these of course, as historical facts, cannot be denied. but i certainly do consider that portion of the english press much to blame, in recurring to events so distant, for the purpose of wounding national feeling; the effect has been to provoke reply on the part of the french press, and in all the virulence of party spirit, in defending their country against the odium cast upon her, they have been led into some of the most illiberal statements which have had a very baneful effect upon many persons, in exciting an extreme irritation against england; but generally speaking, the french people, if left alone, do not desire war with the english; if it were only for the sake of their interests, it is natural for the french to wish for peace with england, as her subjects are amongst the most liberal purchasers of the produce of the soil and manufactures of france. the party the most anxious for war with england, is the navy, and they bitterly feel the sting which goads within them, of their having been so beaten by our fleets, and pant for an opportunity to efface the stain which they certainly do feel now tarnishes the honour of their flag. they consider, also, that the circumstances under which they were opposed to the forces of england, were so disadvantageous, that no other result could have been expected than such as occurred, as when the war broke out in , france had not one experienced admiral in the service; all possessing any practical knowledge of naval affairs, being staunch adherents to the royal cause, had either quitted france, or retired from the navy, de grasse, d'Éstaing, entrecasteux, d'orvilliers, suffren, bougainville and several others. the consequence was, that the command of the fleets were given to men who acquitted themselves very ably in the management of a single vessel, but were not at all competent to the office with which the necessity of circumstances invested them, and although there were several encounters between the frigates of the two nations, in which the reputation of both were well sustained, yet of the power of so doing, the french were soon deprived, by napoleon, who at one period in his ardour for military glory, sacrificed the navy, by taking from it the best gunners in order to supply his artillery; also the choicest and ablest men were selected wherever they could be found, to fill up the ranks of the army, which were being constantly thinned by the universal war which he was always waging with the greater part of europe. the ships were then manned with whatever refuse could be picked up, and a lieutenant diez told me, that the crew of the vessel to which he belonged was such, that they had not above twenty men who could go aloft, and had they met with an english vessel of the same size, they must have been taken without the least difficulty. but the officers in the present french navy know that the case is now very different, for the last twenty years the greatest attention has been devoted to that arm, which is candidly acknowledged on the part of our naval officers, of which i remember an instance at smyrna, whilst dining at the english consul's with eight or ten of them, being the commanders of the ships which composed the english fleet, then lying at vourla, when the conversation falling upon the french navy, it was observed that nothing could be more perfect than its state at that period, every man, down to a cabin boy, knowing well his duty, and all the regulations and manoeuvres being carried on with such perfect order and regularity. there are however some advantages which we still maintain, afforded by our foreign commerce being the most extensive, enabling us always to have a greater number of sailors, and generally speaking more experienced seamen, and a french naval captain who has seen a good deal of service, once observed that there was another point in which we had a superiority, and that was with respect to our ship's carpenters, which was particularly illustrated in the combat at navarin, as the morning after the action the english were far in advance of the french, with regard to the repairs which had been rendered necessary from the damages which had been sustained. the french now have several officers who are experienced practical men, in whom the navy has great confidence, as, admirals duperré, hugon, rosamel, lalande, beaudin, roussin, bergeret, mackau, casey, etc., all of whose names have been before the public in different affairs in which they have created their present reputation. during the present reign, every means has been adopted to infuse within the minds of the french an interest for naval affairs, hence apartments have been fitted up in the louvre, as before stated, with models, and representations of all connected with a ship, whilst the best artists have been employed to paint different naval actions, which have reflected honour on the french flag, and really i had no idea that they could have cited so many instances, in regard to encounters with our shipping, but on reference to james's naval history, they will be found mainly correct, giving some latitude for a little exaggeration in their own favour, a habit to which i believe every nation is more or less prone. the government have certainly succeeded beyond their wishes, in engendering an extreme anxiety in the people with regard to the navy, which has just been elicited, in the singular anomaly of the opposition voting on the motion of m. lacrosse a greater sum by three millions of francs for the navy than the minister demanded. with an eye also to the marine, louis-philippe has made some sacrifices to the promotion and extension of foreign commerce, and not without a considerable degree of success. there is not at present any branch of art, science, or industry, that the french are not making great exertions to encourage, for that object many societies and companies are formed, of which i will state a few of the most important. there are four societies styled athenæum, the royal, which is at the palais-royal, no. , devoted to literature, and three others at the hôtel de ville for music, for medicine, and for the arts. the geographical society, rue de l'université, . royal antiquarian society, rue des petits-augustins, no. . asiatic society, and for elementary instruction, agriculture, moral christianity, no. , rue taranne. society for universal french statistics, place vendôme, . the protestant bible society of paris, rue montorgueil. geological society, rue du vieux-colombier, no. . philotechnic society, no. , rue des petits-augustins. philomatic society, entomological, and for natural history, no. , rue d'anjou, faubourg st. germain. society for intellectual emancipation, no. , rue st. georges, as also a variety of other medical, surgical, phrenological, etc., etc., a number of schools besides those i have already alluded to, veterinary, for mosaic work, technography, and other purposes. although i have observed that in great commercial undertakings, the french are very slow and cautious, yet they are progressing visibly; there are now thirty-four coal mines at work in various parts of france, belonging to different public companies more or less flourishing, besides private enterprises, more in agitation where coal has been found, and societies formed but not yet in active operation, and now working in belgium, of which the sharers are principally french. there are twenty asphalte and bitumen companies. thirty-five assurance companies, between twenty and thirty railway ditto, about the same number for canals and nearly as many for steam boats, and for bridges projected about , for gas, , for the bringing into cultivation the marshes and waste lands, , for markets, bazaars, and dépôts, , and for manufactures of glass, earthenware, soap and a variety of other things, there are about forty more public companies. these are such as now still offer their shares for sale; there are many others which have been for a length of time established, which no longer issue either advertisement or prospectus, but when enterprises of this kind are undertaken in france they generally succeed. chapter xi. the literature of the time being, principal authors. music; its ancient date in france, performers, and singers. of the present state of literature in france, it is not possible to draw a very flattering picture; there is a good deal of moderate talent but certainly none that is transcendental, which remark may be applied to statesmen, orators, authors, artists, etc.; as to poetry there appears at present so little taste for it, and writers seem so thoroughly aware of its being the case, that they have too much good sense to attempt to obtrude it upon the public, and those who had obtained a certain reputation as poets seem to write no more. the works of de lamartine certainly have many admirers, displaying a pleasing style of versification fraught with beautiful imagery, a happy arrangement of ideas enwreathed within the flowers of language, but little or no originality. as if himself conscious of that circumstance, he brought forth his chute d'un ange (the fall of an angel), which caused his own _fall_ at the same time; if his sole desire was to attain originality, he gained his point, but at the price of common sense; the majority of the public appear to have been of this opinion, and m. de lamartine seems to have passed from poetry to politics, being now one of the best and most conspicuous speakers in the chamber of deputies. a certain tone runs through m. de lamartine's works, that leads one to infer he has deeply read and admired lord byron. m. casimir delavigne was a great favourite at one period; it might be my want of taste, or a deficiency in the knowledge of the french language sufficient to relish that class of poetry, but certainly i found his works laboured and tedious, and could not in spite of all my efforts derive any pleasure from their perusal. the productions of béranger are confined within a very small compass, but containing that which causes one to regret that his works are not more voluminous. the true nerve and genius of poetry, continually sparkling throughout his writings, as a patriotic feeling and a generous love of liberty formed the principal points in his character. the efforts to suppress that spirit which was attempted in the reign of charles x called forth the powers of his muse, but since the accession of the present monarch to the throne, as all has been conducted on a more liberal system, his pen has lain dormant, which has disappointed all who have read and admired those effusions of a free and exalted mind, which he has at present published, and led to the hope that they would be continued. of victor hugo's productions i need say but little, as they are so generally known in england, particularly his notre-dame de paris, which has been dramatised under the title of quasimodo and acted at covent garden, as well as at other theatres, and few i believe there are who have not felt some sympathy for esmeralda. when victor hugo wrote this, the works of sir walter scott i think were bearing upon his mind; his poems and dramatic pieces at one period created much sensation, and undoubtedly possess a certain tone of merit. the comte alfred de vigny is the author of one work which may be considered as a gem amongst the mass of publications which emanate from the french press of that nature; it is entitled, cinq-mars, an historical novel, which is decidedly one of the best and most interesting of any that have appeared either in england or in france for several years past; he has also written a tragedy on the subject of the unfortunate chatterton, which at the time it came out excited a deep interest, but m. de vigny, like many of the present literary characters in france, appears resting on his oars. not so with alexandre dumas, whose prolific pen appears like himself to be ever active; what with travelling to different countries, then publishing accounts of his wanderings, novels of divers descriptions, detached pieces, and dramatic productions, he must be constantly on the _qui vive_. there are very different opinions respecting his writings, they certainly possess a good deal of spirit, some of them considerable feeling, and are generally amusing. of novel writers there are many, but unfortunately the bad taste prevails of introducing subjects in them that prevent their being read by females, with a few exceptions; those of balzac are by no means devoid of merit and are exceedingly entertaining, and some there are which any one may peruse of eugène sue, who has lately been knighted by the king of the netherlands; the same may be said, although of the latter description there exist but few. those of paul de kock are well known in other countries as well as france; they are very clever and exceedingly amusing, but partake of the fault alluded to. as a female writer and translator, madame tastu may be cited as having produced works which do credit to her taste and judgment. madame emile de girardin, well known as delphine gay, is a talented writer, but would have been more esteemed had she steered clear of political subjects. monsieur and madame ancelot both write tales and dramatic pieces, which are justly admired; but the author to whom the stage is most indebted is scribe, who perhaps is one of the most multitudinous writers existing; his works completely made and sustained the theatre du gymnase, besides greatly contributing to the success of others. in consequence of their having been so much translated, and adapted to the english stage, they are almost as well known in one country as the other. m. scribe is a man who is highly esteemed on account of his liberality to literary characters, and his extreme generosity to all who are in need of his aid. of authors on more solid subjects there are not many who now continue to write, several of the most conspicuous having become completely absorbed in politics; of such a description is m. guizot, whose works are generally known and admired, particularly his commentaries on the english revolution; partly a continuation of the same subject, it is stated he has now in preparation, but placed at the helm of the nation, as he now is, his time is too much occupied to be devoted to any other object than affairs of state, and his position is such as requires the exertion of every power of thought and mind to sustain, against its numerous and indefatigable assailants. m. thiers owes his success in life to his literary productions, and his talents as an author are universally admitted; his history of the french revolution is as well known in england as in france, and generally allowed to be the best work upon the subject, but he is also so totally engaged in political affairs, that the public cannot derive much advantage from the effusions of his pen, as it is impossible that they can be very voluminous, when his time and abilities are so exclusively appropriated to a still more important object; but it is understood that it is his intention to afford the world the benefit of other works which are now in embryo. the same remarks may in a degree be applied to m. villemain, who has written upon literature, in which he has displayed considerable ability, but having become an active minister of instruction, of his publications there is at present a complete cessation. nearly a similar instance may be cited in m. cousin, who has written very ably upon philosophy and metaphysics, but as a peer of france, literature has been forced to succumb to politics, his talents also being directed into the latter channel. amidst this general languor which seems to have come over france, with regard to the exertions of her most eminent authors, there are a few who occupy themselves with history, which now appears to be the most favourite study with those who devote their minds to reading; the very delightful work on the norman conquest, by m. thierri, i trust is well known to many of my readers, or if not, i wish it may be so, as it cannot do otherwise than give them pleasure; he has written several other things, and amongst the rest récit des temps mérovingiens, which is highly interesting. a work of considerable merit, is l'histoire des ducs de bourgogne, by monsieur de barante. m. capefigue has published many historical productions, and amongst the rest a life of napoleon, which is perhaps one of the most impartial extant, and very interesting, as containing a sort of recapitulation of facts, without any endeavour to palliate such of his actions as stern justice must condemn. m. mignet has also chosen the path of history, and has not followed it unsuccessfully; the foundation of his present prosperity consisting entirely in his writings, there are several other authors of minor note who have adopted the same course, but not any who have created any great sensation, or effected any permanent impression on the public. the only living author whose name is likely to descend to posterity is that of chateaubriand, who, although he has never been a writer of poetry, may be considered the greatest poet in france, as there is so much of imagination and of soul in his prose, so much of sublimity in his ideas, that the works in verse of his contemporaries appear insipid when compared to the wild flights of genius which ever emerge from his pen, yet when they are closely studied, and deeply sounded for their solid worth, it will be found that they consist merely of beautiful imagery, elegantly turned phrases, a sort of flash of sentiment, which catches the ear, but appeals not to the understanding, a gorgeous superstructure, as it were, without a firm foundation for its basis. as for example, in his preface to attila, alluding to napoleon, he observes "qu'il était envoyé par la providence, comme une signe de réconciliation quand elle était lasse de punir." which may be rendered thus: that napoleon was sent upon earth by providence as a sign of reconciliation, when she was fatigued with punishing; this is certainly very pretty, but i will appeal to common sense, whether there was aught of fact to support such an assertion? even those who were the most enthusiastic admirers of the martial genius of bonaparte, could not participate in the fulsome compliment paid to their hero by m. chateaubriand; but when strictly scrutinized, all his works will generally be found of the same tissue; yet, as there is so often a wild grandeur in his conceptions and in his mode of expressing them, whilst they are arrayed in all the grace and beauty which language can bestow, his volumes will always find a place in every well-assorted library, when probably those of most of the other french authors of the present period will be consigned to oblivion, excepting such as have written upon history, which will always maintain their ground, as they are in a degree works of reference. there are several very clever men who write for the newspapers, or what may be styled pamphleteers, amongst whom are jules janin, and alphonse karr; the latter publishes a satirical work called the guêpe, which possesses the talent of being very severe and stinging wherever it fixes. m. barthélemy has written some poetry much in the same strain, which is rather pungent, but he latterly appears to have sunk into the same slumber which seems to have enveloped so many of the present literary men of france. m. deschamps now and then produces some poetic effusions which are pleasing, and prove the author to be possessed of that ability which would induce a wish that his works were less brief and more frequently before the public. but taking all into consideration, this is by no means a literary era in france; the nineteenth century has not yet produced any such names as montesquieu, voltaire, rousseau, and many others, who have shed a lustre on the french name; there are no doubt many clever men still living who have written scientific works upon medicine, surgery, natural history, physiology, botany, astronomy, etc., whilst the names of de jussieu and arago, as eminent in the latter sciences, are known all over europe, as well as many others who are celebrated in their different departments. although the present age is not fecund in the production of french genius as relates to the polite arts, yet there never was a period when there was more anxiety for their promotion, and now all classes read; but the reading of the lower orders consists principally of a political nature; the newspapers now however have what is called a _feuilleton_, which embraces many subjects, and appears to interest all; the criticisms on the theatrical performances are perused with much avidity, an extreme partiality for dramatic representations still forms a considerable portion of the french character, as also a general love of music, without being at all particular as to its quality; no matter how trifling it be, as long as there is any thing of an air distinguishable it will please. there are at present a host of composers in france whose fame will probably be not so long as their lives; paris is inundated every year with a number of insignificant ballads which just have their day, and if perchance there should be one or more that are really clever amongst the mass of dross which comes forth, after a twelvemonth no one would think of singing it because it has already been pronounced _ancienne_, and it is completely laid aside, and in a few years so totally cast in oblivion, that it cannot even be procured of any of the music-sellers, or anywhere else: this was the case with some delightful airs which appeared about ten years since, and which are now nowhere to be found, although once having excited quite a sensation. the french cannot certainly be considered as a musical nation, yet many of their airs are full of life, and quite exhilarating, whilst others have a degree of pathos which touches the heart; still none of their music has the nerve, the depth, the sterling solidity of the german, nor the elegance nor grace of the italian. yet some composers they have whose works will have more than an ephemeral fame, amongst whom may be cited aubert, whose music is not only admired in france but throughout all europe; another author of extreme merit is onslow, whose productions are not so voluminous or so extensively known as those of aubert, but possessing that intrinsic worth which will increase in estimation as it descends to posterity: the compositions of halévy and berlioz have also some degree of merit. but amongst the numerous productions which have emanated from the french composers for the last fifty years, one there is that for soul and grandeur stands unrivalled, and that is the marseilles hymn, or march, by rouget de lille; perhaps there exists no air so calculated to inspire martial ardour, and there is no doubt but that it had considerable effect upon the enthusiastic republicans in exciting them to rush into what they considered the struggle for liberty and honour; it appears to have been an inspiration which must have suddenly lighted upon the composer, as none of his works either before or since ever created any particular sensation. although of far distant date, the old air of henry iv must certainly be placed amongst the gems of french musical composition; there is a peculiar wildness in it, which gives it a tone of romance, and reminds one of very olden time, there is in it an originality, a something unlike anything else; the breton and welsh airs alone resemble it in some degree, and in both those countries they pretend that they are of celtic origin. music is of very ancient origin in france: in profane singing was forbidden on holy days; in , king pepin received a present of an organ, from constantin vi; a tremendous quarrel occurred between the roman and gallic musicians, in the time of charlemagne, and two professors are cited, named benedict and theodore, who were pupils of st. gregory; but the most ancient melodies extant, and which are perfectly well authenticated, are the songs of the troubadours of provence, who principally flourished from the year to the year . saint louis was a great patron of music, so much so that in he granted permission to the paris minstrels, who had formed themselves into a company, to pass free through the barriers of the city, provided they entertained the toll-keepers with a song and made their monkies dance. at that period they had as many as thirty instruments in use; the form of some of them are now totally lost. rameau is the only french composer whose name and compositions may be said to have had any permanent reputation, which does not now stand particularly high out of his own country; lulli, gluck, and gretry were not born in france, although it was their principal theatre of action. it remains to be proved whether the works of boïeldieu will stand the test of time, as also of those composers who are still living and are the most esteemed. much may be said of the french musical performers, who certainly may be considered to excel upon several different instruments, particularly on the harp, which all can testify who have ever heard liebart. there are also a number of ladies to be met with in private society who play extremely well; the same may be said with regard to the piano-forte, but although there are many professors who astonish by their execution, yet they have not produced any equal to a liszt or thalberg; i have even amongst amateurs known some young ladies develop a lightness and rapidity of finger quite surprising, and far surpassing what i have generally met with in england (except with the most accomplished professors), but i do not consider that they play with so much feeling and expression as i have often found even with female performers in my own country, and which affords me a much higher gratification, as fingering is after all but mechanical, which may astonish, but will never enchant. on the violin they have produced some very fine players, as also upon other instruments, and the bands at their operas can hardly be too highly praised. but their music which has afforded me the most delight has been the performances of their first masters on some of their magnificent organs; on those occasions i heard the most exquisite feeling and expression displayed, and have known the most powerful sensations excited; this most superlative enjoyment i have experienced at the churches of notre-dame, st. sulpice, st. eustache, and st. roch, but it happens only on particular and rare occasions, and it is difficult to find out when such performances will take place; sometimes it is announced in galignani's paper but not always, and their sacred music is often most exquisite particularly that which is vocal. in respect to singing, although the conservatory of music and the most talented masters give every advantage to the pupil of theory and science, yet they cannot confer a fine quality of voice where it has not been afforded by nature, and that deficiency i find generally existing with the french females; they will often attain an extreme height with apparent facility, and even will manage notes at the same time so low that no fault can be found with the compass of their voices, nor any lack of flexibility; their execution being perfectly clean and correct. i have frequently heard them run the chromatic scale with extreme distinctness and apparent ease, and acquit themselves admirably in the performance of the most intricate and difficult passages, all of which is the result of good teaching and attentive application of the pupil, but sweetness of tone exists not in their voices, which are generally thin and wiry; they want that depth and roundness which gives the swell of softness and beauty to the sound; hence there is generally a want of expression in their singing as well as their playing. of course there are exceptions, and madame dorus-gras may be cited as such, as well as many others, who have won the admiration of the public. the voices of the men are better, often very powerful, possessing extremely fine bass notes, but many of them have even still a horrid habit of singing their notes through the nose. i don't know whether it is that they regard their nasal promontory in the light of a trumpet, so considering it as a sort of instrumental accompaniment to their vocal performance, but although it is a practice which is wearing off, there is a great deal too much of it left. nourrit had none of it, his voice was firm and sweet, and few men have i ever heard sing with so much feeling. duprez is also a singer of no common stamp, and of whom any nation might be proud, and i have often met men in society sing together most delightfully, either duets, trios, or quartettos, and totally devoid of the nasal twang, or, as the reader will observe, delightful it could not be. chapter xii. instructions for strangers; remarks upon the feelings and behaviour of the lower classes of the parisians. political ideas prevailing in paris. observations upon the present statesmen. there are certain regulations to be observed at paris which we are not accustomed to in our own country; on a stranger's arrival he is conducted to an hôtel, either to that to which he is recommended, or he fixes upon one of which he hears the most extravagant praises from persons who attend with cards, and even throw them into the carriage before it stops; on whichever the traveller may make his selection the same plan is to be followed, make your arrangement as to price before you install yourself, either per day, per week, or per month; you may make your agreement to take your meals from the people of the hôtel, or to send for it from a restaurateur, or to go and dine at one, as you may think proper; the latter plan is found the most agreeable for a stranger, as he sees more of the people by so doing, and can try several different restaurants, which he will find very amusing, and some of them, from the beautiful manner of fitting up, are well worth seeing; the prices vary from a franc to six or seven francs, according to their celebrity. every hôtel has a porter, to whom you must give your key whenever you go out, and then the mistress of the house is answerable for anything which may be missing, but if you leave your key in the door whilst you are absent, you cannot make any claim for whatever may have been lost; at night, on the contrary, after the gates are shut, when you retire to bed, and you let it remain outside, should anything be stolen, the mistress is accountable, as it is supposed that when all is closed in, everything is then under the safeguard of the porter, for whose conduct the mistress is considered liable. according to the style of the hôtel in which you take up your abode, the porter will expect remuneration; at one that is moderate, and not in a first-rate situation, six sous a day is sufficient, but in most hôtels about the fashionable quarters half a franc is the usual sum expected; for this your bed is made, your boots and shoes cleaned, as also your room, and your clothes brushed; they likewise take in messages or letters, and answer all enquiries respecting you, direct the visiters to your apartment, etc., but if you send them out anywhere, no matter how short the distance, they always charge at least ten sous for it; it is one of the dearest things i know in france, that of charging for every little errand or commission. at some of the hôtels there are commissioners who make offers of their services, to conduct strangers to different shops or warehouses, for the purpose of making their purchases, but too much reliance must not be placed on those gentry, as they often exact contributions from the shopkeepers for bringing travellers to their shops, when they naturally must charge so much the more upon the goods in order to pay the commissioner. tradesmen from london particularly are often misled in that manner, but in proceeding to such establishments as those i have stated, which are respectable wholesale houses, such as messrs. bellart, louis, delcambre, for lace, ribband, and silk, ter rue choiseul, etc., they will never be deceived; i will also add another establishment which has existed for many years and always conducted their business on equitable terms, being that of m. langlais-quignolot, no. , rue chapon, where he executes orders for london on a most extensive scale for net gloves, purses and reticules. he lives in the neighbourhood where many of the wholesale houses are situated, and would willingly inform any stranger of the most respectable in the different branches required. the different articles to be seen at m. langlais' warehouse are got up in a most superior style and at prices so reasonable, that it is quite surprising when compared to the charges made for the same goods in london, where undoubtedly they have duty and carriage to pay. he has lately brought into vogue some most beautiful little purses called rebecca, being exactly in the form of the pitcher with which she is represented at the well; their appearance is most ornamental, and although very small they distend so as to hold as much as most ladies would like to lose in an evening at cards. m. langlais has already sent over numbers to london, which must now be making their appearance in regent street, but i recommend my countrywomen when at paris to pay him a visit themselves, as he does not refuse a retail customer although his is a wholesale house; he has a most extensive assortment of all varieties of purses and net gloves and reticules, from which numbers of shops in paris and london are supplied, and of course being the fountain head the articles may be procured on advantageous terms of m. langlais. there is one precaution i would recommend all travellers to adopt, and that is always to keep their passports, about them; in case they happen to pass any exhibition or building that is open to a stranger on producing his passport, it is well to be provided with it, or if he should meet with any accident, or that any casuality should occur, it will always be found useful. when you arrive at the port where you disembark in coming from england, your passport is taken from you and sent on to paris, and what is called a carte de sûreté is given you instead, for which you pay francs; this you must give to the mistress of the hôtel where you lodge at paris, and she will procure your original passport for you from the police, or if you choose you may go for it yourself, and save the charge of the commissioner who would be employed to fetch it. in returning to england, you take it to the english ambassador's to be signed, and from thence to the police for the same purpose, but only state that you are going to the port from whence you are to embark, as if you say that you are going to england they send you to the minister of foreign affairs for his signature, where there is a charge of ten francs, which there is not the slightest necessity of incurring. i have been very often from paris to london and never paid by following the plan i have stated, but for a permit to embark there is always sous to pay, at the port on quitting the country. in all the diligences throughout france the places are numbered, and he who comes first has the first choice, in which case most persons choose no. , but others who prefer sitting with their backs to the horses select no. ; this excellent regulation prevents any kind of dispute about seats. if you have much luggage you are required to send it an hour or so before the coach starts, and in travelling by the malle-poste (or mail) if your trunk be very large, and weighty, they will not take it, therefore you must ascertain that point when you take your place; it is always sent by a diligence which follows, but a delay is occasioned which sometimes proves inconvenient. the mails are dearer than the diligence, and some go eleven miles an hour. with regard to posting, the price is francs each horse for a miriametre or six miles and a quarter, and as many horses as there are persons in the carriage must be paid for; sous is what should be given to the postillion, but most people give a franc. the posting is entirely in the hands of government, and where the horses are kept is not always an inn; but wherever it may be, printed regulations are kept to which the traveller may demand a reference, if he imagine its rules are not fulfilled. for francs a book may be purchased which gives a most detailed account of every thing connected with posting; all the charges must be paid in advance. coaches may be hired in paris at from to francs a day, with which you may go into the country, but must be back before midnight. an excellent and most useful establishment will be found at no. , rue de miroménil, faubourg st. honoré, called etablissement d'amsterdam, where there are above carriages constantly kept, either for hire, for sale, or for exchange; it is also a locality where persons may sell or deposit their carriages for any period of time they think proper, and can likewise have it repaired if required; they will besides find every description of harness and sadlery. horses also are taken in to keep, or bought or sold. the establishment is most complete in all its appointments, is very extensive and kept in the most perfect state of order. there are some carriages amongst the immense variety that may thoroughly answer the purpose for travelling, which can be procured at extremely low prices, whilst others there are, very handsome and perfectly new, which are of course charged in proportion. the proprietors are extremely civil, and ever ready to show their premises to any visiter who may wish to see them. a fiacre, or hackney coach, is sous each course, for which you may go from barrier to barrier, which might be five miles; but if you only go a few yards the price is the same. if you hire it per hour the first is sous and afterwards sous; after midnight, francs each course and per hour; a few sous are always given to the coachman, which may be varied according to the length of the course. chariots are sous per course, first hour, afterwards . cabriolets sous the course and first hour , afterwards ; but as all these prices are subject to change with new regulations, it is not worth while to give any farther detail. the general post-office is in the rue jean-jacques rousseau, but there are other places where you may put in your letters for england, although not many if you wish to pay. in the exchange there is a box for receiving letters for all parts; and in the square to the left is an office where you can pay your letter, which is always sous to london if it be not over weight. whatever you bring over that is liable to pay duty at the custom-house, if you take it back with you on your return to england, on producing the articles and the receipt of what you have paid, you can reclaim whatever you have disbursed; this particularly applies to carriages and to plate, only you must not neglect to demand a receipt at the time you pay, and to take care of it, as i have known many instances of persons losing them, and then their reclamations are useless. i have never found them very severe in the custom-houses in france, but am convinced that the best plan on both sides of the water is to give your keys to the commissioner of the inn where you put up; by displaying no anxiety on the subject, the officers conclude that you have not any thing of importance, and will pass your things over more lightly than if you were present, as when witnesses are by they like to preserve the appearance of doing their duty strictly. i have seen some of the english bluster and go in a passion about having their things tumbled about, as they expressed it, but it only makes matters worse. i have known the searchers in those cases to turn a large chest completely topsy-turvy, so that not a single article has escaped examination, and the whole has had to be re-packed. it is at best an unpleasant tax upon travellers, but it is always better policy to submit to it with a good grace. the passport is a grievance which is much complained of by englishmen, and certainly it does appear an infraction on liberty, that it should not be possible to go from one part of the country to another, without having to obtain permission; but it has other advantages: a criminal in france can very seldom escape; by the regulations of the police it is almost impossible for them to evade detection, as wherever he sleeps his passport must be produced, and every master or mistress of every description of lodging-house is bound to give an account of whatever stranger sleeps under their roof, to the police, and their officers; or the gendarmes, are authorised to demand the sight of the passport of any person whom they may suspect. in england a passport is not so necessary, because being an island the means of escape are not so easy, as they must either embark at some port or they must hire a boat on their own account, or enter into some proceeding which leads to discovery; and notwithstanding those obstacles to leaving the country, and the extreme vigilance of our police, felons do very often escape, and murders remain undiscovered, as those of mr. westwood, eliza greenwood, and many others. but those who are invested with authority in france sustain it with a more courteous demeanour than is the case in england, consequently it is less offensive. if your passport be asked for, it is in a polite manner, whereas with the english, give the butcher or the blacksmith the staff of office as constable, and he exercises his brief authority very frequently in a manner which is not the most engaging. although a _politesse_ and refinement of expression united with a smutted face, tucked-up sleeves, an apron and rough coarse hands, has something in it of the ludicrous, yet it softens the brutality to which uncultivated human nature is ever prone, but instances of such inconsistencies sometimes occur which cannot otherwise than excite a smile; a few days since a working man dropped a knife, a dirty looking boy of about years of age picked it up, and presented it to the owner, with some degree of grace, saying, "render unto cæsar that which is cæsar's." passing through the rue des arcis, which is a mean narrow street, at one of the lowest descriptions of wine-houses where dancing was going forward, perhaps amongst fishwomen and scavengers, i noticed a large lantern hanging out over the door, upon which was inscribed, "bal séduisant, le paradis des dames," which may be translated, "seductive ball, the paradise of ladies." the traveller may remark on the road from boulogne to paris and within a few leagues of the latter, in a small village at a house little better than a hut, where the insignia of a barber is displayed, a board on which is written; "ici on embellit la nature," or "here we embellish nature." even in the lowest classes the french must have a little bit of sentiment, and amongst them marriages occur principally from affection, but almost always with the consent of the parents; it is lamentable to think how many young couples destroy each other because they cannot obtain the sanction of the father or mother to one of the parties, and these mistaken lovers really think it less crime to commit suicide than to marry against the consent of their parents, which they are by law empowered to do, provided that they have three times made what is called _les sommations respectueuses_, that is, having three times respectfully asked their permission, without having obtained which, they cannot marry if not of age under any circumstances; but when no longer minors, and that they have conformed to what the law prescribes, they may be united notwithstanding the opposition of their parents, but it is a case which scarcely ever occurs. there is much more of family attachments and bond of union between relations in france than there is with us, and at marriages, funerals, and baptisms, the most distant cousins are all brought together to be present at the ceremony, which amongst the higher and middle classes has rather a pleasing effect; the bride arrayed in a long white flowing veil decorated with orange flowers has a most interesting appearance. before being performed at the church, it must be registered at the mayoralty. when any one is deceased, black drapery is hung up outside the house, and the coffin is brought within sight and burning tapers fixed around it, and every one who passes takes off his hat, and if he chooses, sprinkles it with holy water; chaunting over the coffin at the church is sometimes continued for two hours, and the effect is very impressive. wherever the funeral procession proceeds along the streets every one who meets it takes off his hat; in fact in no country is there more respect paid to the dead. when a child has lost both its parents, it generally happens that some relation will take it, even sometimes a second or third cousin; this will happen often amongst the poorer people, they hold it as a sort of sacred duty for relations to assist each other, a feeling that i could wish to see more general in england, as i have known too many instances where even brothers exhibited instances of affluence and poverty. in my own neighbourhood, there was a case of a mr. n. living in good style, with livery servants, etc., and his own brother working for him at _s._ _d._ a day as a common labourer, although his fall in life had been entirely caused by misfortune and not by his prodigality or mismanagement; such a circumstance could not have existed in france; the peasants would have hooted the rich brother every time he showed his face. the french people are too apt to take those affairs in their own hands, and express their indignation in no unmeasured terms. they are very prone to act from the impulse of the moment, and are easily aroused in any cause where they consider injustice has been enacted, and many of the persons concerned in the press are well aware of this, and by most artfully turned arguments they work up their passions either for or against a party, as circumstances may render it fitting for their purpose. but although some of the newspapers have certainly had some fire-brand articles against england, yet it does not appear to me to have had any effect of exciting a hatred against the english. i have never seen in any one instance any manifestation of such a feeling; in fact the french are much in the habit of separating the government from the people, and even the most hostile portion of the press observe that there are amongst the population in england numbers of individuals of the most exalted characters; hence the french do not consider that the people are amenable for the faults of their government, and are inclined to imagine those of every country more or less corrupt. they never had a very exalted opinion of their own; perhaps the most popular ministry they have had for the last thirty years was that of m. martignac, which charles x so suddenly dismissed and thereby laid the first foundation for the glorious three days. with the present government i should say that the majority of the people appear disposed to be passively satisfied, not so much from a feeling of approbation of its proceedings, but fearing that were there a change it might be for the worse; with the present they have the assurance of peace, and tranquillity, and all manufacturing and agricultural france know how destructive war would be to their present prosperity; of this none are more sensible than the parisians, as it is really astonishing what sums of money the english nobility expend even whilst they are residing in england, with the tradesmen in paris, principally for articles of art and luxury but also for a great portion of that which is useful as well as ornamental; and imagining that many of my readers may have as great an aversion to copying letters as myself and at the same time be aware of the necessity under many circumstances of keeping a duplicate, i must not forget to mention an extremely useful invention which adds another evidence of the prolific ingenuity of france. it consists in a machine for copying letters, registers, deeds, or in fact any description of written document, or stamped, or in relief, by which they can be repeated even a thousand times if required and in a very short space of time; there have been many who have attempted to attain the same object and have had a partial success, but those of m. poirier, no. , rue du faubourg st. martin, appear to unite advantages which none of the preceding ever attained. they are called, presses auto-zinco-graphiques. for the merit of this invention he has been granted a patent, and awarded a medal by the central jury, appointed to examine the specimens of art and ingenuity sent to the national exhibition established for the purpose of bringing them before the public. for merchants, solicitors, and all persons keeping several clerks such a machine must be a great acquisition, as in addition to the copies being effected more rapidly than would be possible by hand, where there are numbers of letters of which duplicates are requisite, the labour of one clerk at least must be saved. m. poirier has them executed in so beautiful a manner that they really are quite a handsome piece of furniture, some of which are as high as fr. but the prices gradually descend to even as low as fr. which are so contrived for travelling that they contain pen, ink and paper and only weigh one pound. i here subjoin the opinion of the central jury addressed to m. poirier. "these presses are certainly the best executed of any which have been exhibited. their merit consisting in superior execution, cannot be too much encouraged, as the happiest ideas often fail in the realisation, therefore that the jury may not be deficient in recompensing m. poirier they award him the bronze medal." all parties regard m. guizot (minister of foreign affairs) as a talented man; and one of considerable firmness of character, who unflinchingly maintains his ground whilst a host are baying at him, appearing as unmoved as the rock that is pelted by the storm; he seems never taken by surprise, but is ever ready with such answers and explanations as generally baffle his accusers; still he cannot be called a popular minister, because he is known to possess what is called the anglo-mania, that is, to have a most decided predilection for everything that is english, and there is no doubt that he wishes to do all in his power to conciliate england, without sacrificing the interests and honour of his country; but in that respect his enemies think that he would not be too delicate, but is determined to have peace with england _à tout prix_ (at any price). m. guizot is a protestant and was a professor in the university. his immediate opponent, m. thiers, has risen to eminence entirely by his writings; he came to paris from aix in provence (in ), and lived in a room on the fourth floor in the rue st. honoré; here he wrote for the newspapers, but being taken by the hand by m. lafitte he and his works speedily rose into notice; it is possible that he may be as anxious for the welfare of his country as m. guizot, but would carry things with a higher hand, and although every one is aware of his extraordinary abilities, yet the moderate and thinking part of the community remember how near he was involving france in a war with her most powerful neighbours, and however they smarted for a time under what they conceived an affront offered to their country, yet there are very few now but feel fully sensible of the benefits they derive from the blessing of peace having been preserved. m. thiers may be cited as one of the most animated and effective speakers of any in the chambers, and his speeches often display a brilliance, energy, and ardour, which create a forcible impression, but sometimes betray the orator into hasty assertions, of which he may afterwards repent, but feeling too much pride to recant, he prefers standing by the position he had hastily assumed; consequently, he is then compelled to marshal all his powers of argument to sustain that which in his own mind he may feel convinced is erroneous. yet although many from prudential motives did not approve his policy, which had nearly involved france in hostility with england, they rather admired the spirit and susceptibility which he displayed in resenting the slight with which the french nation had been treated, and looked upon him as a sort of champion of their cause, so that he may be rather designated a popular statesman than otherwise, although he was considered in the wrong on that one point, and the reflexions which he flung upon england would have passed away as unmerited, and soon sunk into oblivion, had not a portion of the english press so indulged in abuse and ridicule of the french at that period, who often remark that they were subdued by the allies combined, but that it is only the _english press_ which is as it were triumphing over and insulting them, by pretending such a superiority in their troops and seamen as to place those of france in a most contemptible light, whilst all the other powers, although equally their conquerors, give them credit for being a brave military nation. i must confess that i have found more liberality in the french with regard to rendering the merit due to the english troops, than in any other country, and i remember a work which came out in berlin upon military movements, tactics, etc., and in a parenthesis was this sentence, "it is well known that the english, though excellent sailors, are inferior as troops to those of the other european powers." i should have thought that the prussians who have fought with us would have known better of what metal english soldiers were composed. but to return to m. thiers; i should still say notwithstanding all that has past, his talents are held in such estimation, that certain changes might occur which would again place him at the helm of the nation. having given a slight sketch of the two political chiefs who as it were head the most powerful contending parties, i must be still more brief in my notice of the other statesmen whose names, acts and speeches are before the public, amongst the most conspicuous of whom is odilon barrot, who is what may be termed decidedly liberal, or in plainer language radical, and has long sustained his cause with talent, energy, and consistence; he speaks well and boldly, and has hitherto acted in that manner which might be expected from the tenor of his speeches; sometimes however persons become calm, what others would call moderate, or a slight tint manifests itself in the colour of their politics, perhaps rendering them more harmonious with the reigning parties, but which accord not with the ideas of the most staunch advocates of a more _ultra_ liberal system; this appears to be somewhat the case with m. odilon barrot, whose adherents judge from the support he gave to thiers, that he is not so warm in the cause as themselves; however he still may be considered the chief of that division of the chamber which he has always led. m. mauguin was at one time the most violent of the same party, but during his visit to st. petersburg he appears to have had such an affectionate hug from the russian bear, that he has latterly espoused the cause of bruin, and would if he could induce france to throw england overboard altogether, and cast herself entirely into the arms of russia. m. arago, the celebrated astronomer, has ever proved himself an honest undeviating radical, both in his speeches and his actions. as an orator, many give the palm to m. berryer, but as his party is not numerous, being carlist, his talents do not receive the general appreciation that they would, had he attached himself to a more popular cause, but he deserves much credit for having faithfully and constantly adhered to his principles. m. lamartine, the poet, who professes to be independent of any party, is also a very admired speaker, and so was sébastiani, but now he is passing fast into the vale of years, and has lost that spirit and energy which formerly gave much force to his speeches. m. molé is another of those statesmen who has filled the most important political stations, but now is getting old and more quiet. as to dilating upon the merits and demerits of those persons who compose the present ministry, it would be but time lost, as they are so often changed in france that their brief authority is often _brief_ indeed, and with the exception of m. guizot, (who is certainly a host within himself), and marshal soult, there is not any character that is particularly prominent, or remarkable for any extraordinary talent. the career of the marshal is, i presume, well known to most of my readers, and the manner in which he was received in england proves the degree of estimation in which he was there held. he was the son of a notary at st. amand, where he was born in , being the same year which gave birth to napoleon, wellington, and mehemet ali. admiral duperré, the minister of marine, served with great credit to himself throughout the war, and commanded the force which defeated our attempt to take the isle of france, in , and the naval portion of the expedition employed in the capture of algiers, was placed under his orders. there are yet a good many men whose names have been long and well known in the political world, who still take a more or less active part in the affairs of the nation, amongst whom may be cited the baron pasquier, president of the chamber of peers; m. sauzet, president of the chamber of deputies, and the ministers duchatel for the interior, cunin gridaine for commerce, teste for public works, and lacave laplagne for finances; to whom may be added the duke de broglie, the comte montalivet, dufaure, joubert, salvandy, delessert, isambert, ganneron, etc., also the brothers dupin, the eldest highly celebrated as an avocat, and the younger (charles), for his writings upon the naval department, upon statistics in general, and a very clever work upon england. amongst the extreme radicals, ledru rollin may be cited, general thiard, marie, a barrister of rising talent, and a young man named billaud, who is coming forward, and considered to be rather a brilliant speaker. the foregoing names include several men who have had much experience, and possess moderate abilities, merely passable as orators, but having a fair practical knowledge of political business, but not men of exalted genius, or such whose names will be likely to figure in the page of history; perhaps it may be with truth said, that the best statesman france now possesses, or even ever has possessed, is the king, it being very doubtful whether any of his ministers, or indeed any member of either of the chambers, is blest with that deep discernment and profound knowledge of human nature which he has displayed, by the correctness of his calculations upon the pulses of his subjects, under the most trying difficulties, and which have enabled him to weather the storm. chapter xiii. the theatres, present state of the drama, and principal performers. collections of paintings. it is rather extraordinary that in this age of superlative refinement, the drama should rather be upon the decline than otherwise in regard to the talent of the performers, but it appears to me that such is really the case both in england and france. i can just remember when mrs. siddons, john kemble, charles kemble, young, mrs. jordan, irish johnson, munden, emery, etc. so well sustained the character of the english stage. alas! shall i ever see the like again? theatrical representations in france have had a similar decline, although _two_ stars there are who uphold her histrionic fame with superior _éclat_, mlle. rachel for tragedy, and bouffé for comedy; it would be useless for me to attempt any description of the powers of the former, as she is as well known in london as in paris, but with the latter my readers i believe are only partially acquainted; he has been in london, but i rather think only made but a short stay, certainly a more perfect representation of french nature it would be impossible to imagine; even although he undertake ever so opposite a description of character, the simple truth would be given in them all; he has not recourse to grimace or buffoonery, or any exaggerated action, but seems not to remember he is counterfeiting a part, but appears to make the case his own, and not to have another thought than that which must be supposed to occupy the mind of the individual he is personifying. pleased with bouffé to our heart's full content, we look around amongst all the range of actors to find some approach to his inimitable talent, not being so unreasonable as to hope to discover his equal, but our search ends in disappointment, we seek in vain for the representatives of perlet, odry, laporte, and potier, to whose comic powers we are indebted for many a laughing hour, but they are now replaced, as well as many other of our old acquaintances, by substitutes who are but sorry apologies for those we have lost; however, although the french theatre has certainly retrograded in respect to its dramatics personæ, it has gained surprisingly with regard to scenery, decorations, and costumes, which very considerably enhance the interest of a theatrical performance, particularly when it is historical, and it is a satisfaction to know that no pains are spared to render the drapery as exact as possible to that worn at the period the piece is intended to represent; thus you have the most accurate peep into olden times that can possibly be afforded, and paris offers such extreme facilities for ascertaining what description of dress was adopted at any particular age, by means of their immense collection of engravings, and written descriptions, contained in their old books, and manuscripts, which are freely produced to any individual on making the proper application. of these advantages the managers of the theatres avail themselves to the utmost extent, which enables them to be extremely correct, not only with regard to the habiliments, but also the scenery, and all the _accessoires_ are rendered strictly in keeping with the century in which the events recorded have occurred. the italian opera in paris is considered to be managed with great perfection, the company is much the same with regard to the principal singers as our own, consisting of grisi, persiani, albertazzi, lablache, tamburini, rubini, mario, etc., as they can be obtained, according to their engagements in london or elsewhere, and the operas performed are also similar, therefore any description of either would be superfluous; altogether, the enjoyment afforded is not so great as at our own, as no ballet is given, and the coup-d'oeil is not so splendid as in ours. the theatre de la renaissance is devoted to the performance of the italian opera, it is situated in the middle of a small square, opposite the rue méhul, which turns out of the rue neuve des petits champs, from which it is seen to the best advantage; the façade has a handsome appearance, with the statues of apollo and the nine muses, supported by doric and ionic columns. the prices of the places are from ten francs to two francs, which last is the amphitheatre; the intermediate charges are seven francs ten sous, six francs, five, four and three francs ten sous the pit, and it is capable of containing , persons. the performance begins at eight. the french opera, or académie royale de musique, in the rue pelletier, near the boulevard des italiens, has nothing very striking in its external appearance, but the arrangements and decorations of the interior are certainly extremely handsome, and everything is conducted on a most superior scale; the scenery and costumes are here in perfection, the arrangements and accommodations for seats are excellent. the great strength of the vocal performance consists in duprez and madame dorus gras, to whom i have before alluded, and whose reputation is too well established to need any comment. they are ably seconded by levasseur, madame stolz who is well known in london, and the fine deep voice of baroilhet, boucher, massol, and mademoiselle nau, possess a moderate share of talent, there are also others whose abilities are of minor force but sufficient to support the subordinate _rôles_. the orchestra and chorusses are extremely good and numerously composed, and on the whole it may be considered that they get up an opera in a very superior manner. the ballet at this theatre was formerly the greatest treat that could be imagined, derivable from performances of that nature, but at the present period the strength they possess in that department is by no means efficient. carlotta grisi stands alone as having with youth any degree of talent above mediocrity; the same can hardly be said of mademoiselle fitzjames, and madame dupont; noblet is past that age which is indispensable in exciting interest as a dancer, notwithstanding she has still considerable ability, and there are not any others who are worth mentioning amongst the females. of the men, when petitpa is cited as having a grade more of ability than the rest, nothing more in the shape of praise can be added with respect to their present _corps de ballet_. this theatre is also capable of containing , persons, and the prices are from francs sous to francs, the pit is francs sous, and there are as many as different parts of the house cited with their respective charges. they sometimes begin at , more often / past, but never later. the theatre of the comic opera is situated in the rue marivaux, boulevard des italiens, and the façade with its noble columns has a very fine effect, which is fully equalled by the decorations of the interior. chollet, still remains their principal singer; his voice is good, so is his knowledge of music, but he is now no longer young nor ever was handsome, but always a favourite with the public; he is supported by roger who takes the _rôles_ of young lovers, by grard who has a fine bass voice, and mocker with a good tenor; amongst the females is our countrywoman anna thillon, who is exceedingly admired, and at present the great attraction, she is pretty, lively, or sentimental, as her part may require, her voice is pleasing and it may be said that she is quite a pet with the parisians; she is an excellent actress, and appears at home in every part she undertakes. mademoiselle prevost has for many years sustained a certain reputation as one of the principal singers at this theatre, for my own part i always thought her rather heavy and a want of feeling and expression both in her acting and singing. madame rossi caccia, although only just returned from italy, belongs to the company, she has a most admirable voice and is a great acquisition to the theatre, at which, on the whole, the amusements are of the most delightful description. the prices are from sous to francs sous. they begin at . the théâtre-français in the rue richelieu holds the first rank, for the drama, of any theatre in france, where talma, duchesnois, mars and georges have so often enchanted not only the french public, but persons of all nations who were assembled in paris, and on these boards mlle rachel now displays her magic art; nor are the attractions of mlle plessis to be passed over unnoticed, but as she has lately been to london, my country people can form a better judgment of her than from any description i can give. mlle anaïs is an actress who has been and is still rather a favourite, although now not young. mlle mantes is a fine woman upon a large scale, plays well and has been many years on the stage, but never created any sensation; mlle maxime rather stands high in the public estimation; mlle noblet and mme guyon possess moderate talent acquit themselves well, and are much liked, generally speaking. at present ligier is considered their best tragedian, but principally owes what fame he has, to their actors in that department being of so mediocre a description, some people prefer beauvallet but not the majority, their abilities are very nearly of the same stamp. guyon is a fine young man, and plays the parts of young heroes very fairly. geffroy is another, possessing sufficient merit to escape condemnation. as comic actors they have regnier who may be placed upon the moderate list; samson is certainly much better, and in fact by no means destitute of talent, which may decidedly be also stated of firmin; provost is likewise a very passable actor. comedy is indeed their fort, it is far more pure than ours; i remember making that remark to the celebrated john kemble at the time he was residing at toulouse, and adding that i considered our comic actors gave way too much to grimace and buffoonery. kemble replied, "don't blame the actors for that, it is owing to the bad taste of the audience, by whom it is always applauded, and a thoroughly chaste performance, without some caricature, would not stand the same chance of success." the prices at the théâtre français are from fr. sous varying up to fr. sous, according to that part of the house in which you choose your seat; they begin sometimes / before . the theatre du gymnase, on the boulevart bonne-nouvelle, was once one of the most successful of any in paris, but it does not sustain the high reputation it formerly possessed. bouffé is now its principal support, and has indeed a most attractive power; there are also other actors of merit, as klein, numa, tisserant, and volnys, who sustain their respective parts extremely well; but when performing with such a star as bouffé, their minor talents are eclipsed, and little noticed. mad. volnys (formerly leontine fay) still retains that high reputation which she has so long and so justly merited, she ever was a most charming and natural actress. mesdames julienne, habeneck and nathalie are all rather above mediocrity, so that this theatre still affords the dramatic amateur much rational enjoyment. they commence at , and the prices range from fr. sous, to fr. the théâtre des variétés always has been and is still a great favourite, where they play vaudevilles, a sort of light comedy, which are generally highly amusing; they have always contrived to have actors at this theatre who were sure to draw full houses, and that is the case at present. lafont is an excellent actor and a very fine looking man, he has performed in london; lepeintre yields to few men for the very general estimation in which his talents are held; levassor is a man of very gentlemanly appearance, not at all wanting in assurance, and always at his ease in every _rôle_ he is destined to fill. for females they have mesdames flore, bressant, boisgontier, esther and eugenie sauvage, the first rather too much inclined to embonpoint, but playing her part none the worse for that, the last an actress of great merit, whilst the others act so well that one would wonder what they wanted with so many; besides which they have several others who are above mediocrity, and a few hours may be passed any evening most agreeably at this theatre. the performances commence at , the prices are the same as at the gymnase with regard to the minimum and maximum, but having altogether nineteen different intermediate specifications. the theatre du palais-royal, forming the corner of the rues montpensier and beaujolais, and having an entrance in the palais-royal, is one of the most successful in paris, and one of the very few which have proved good speculations, and they continue to have such excellent actors as cannot fail to attract. a. tousez has much ability and is very comic, m. and mad. lemesnil, m. and mad. ravel are very clever in their respective parts, sainville is not less so; then amongst their first rate actresses they have dejazet, who has been highly appreciated in london, mlle pernon, young, talented, and pretty, and mlle fargueil, handsome, and though youthful, already an excellent actress. the pit is only fr. sous, from which it rises to fr. for the best seats. they begin at half-past six. the vaudeville theatre is facing the exchange in the place de la bourse, and retains a very good share of the patronage of the public; their performances are, for the most part, very good, and the pieces which are mostly played, are such as the name of the theatre indicates. félix and lepeintre jeune are much liked, bardou is an excellent actor, arnal a famous low comedian, m. and mad. taigny possessing very fair talent, and are called the pretty couple. mesdames doche and thénard not without merit, and on the whole their corps dramatic is much above mediocrity. their light, comic, and amusing little pieces are well calculated to chase away a heavy hour. they commence at a quarter past seven, and the prices are much the same as at the variété. to the porte st. martin i have already alluded, situated on the boulevart of the same name, although they often give very interesting pieces as melodramas, light comedies, etc., and always had some very good actors, yet it has seldom had the success to which the exertions of the proprietors were entitled. after a total failure the theatre has been re-opened, and amongst the actors there are some of known talent; frederick lemaitre may be considered their brightest star, once so celebrated in the rôle of robert macaire, clarence, raucour, bocage, and melingue sustain their parts very fairly, and the same may be said of mesdames klotz and fitzjames, who are more than passable actresses. the pieces begin as low as twelve sous, and rise to six francs. the performances commence at seven. the ambigu comique is a theatre situated on the boulevart st. martin, and also for melodramas and vaudevilles; it has not been much more fortunate than its neighbour the theatre porte st. martin, and the representations are very similar at both. st. ernest, as an actor, and madame boutin, as an actress, appear to be the favourites amongst rather a numerous company, of which some are far from being indifferent performers. the prices are very modest, commencing at only ten sous, and elevating to four francs; it begins at seven. the gaieté, on the boulevart du temple, is another theatre of much the same description; at present, however, the company is considered to be very good: the strength consisting of neuville, the brothers francisque and deshays, and of the females, madame gautier, clarisse, leontine, abit, and melanie are considered the best. some pieces have come out at this theatre that have had a great run. the prices begin at eight sous and rise to five francs. they also commence at seven. the theatre des folies dramatiques is likewise on the boulevart du temple, and varies very slightly from the last, except being one grade inferior, and the prices in proportion, commencing at six sous, and not mounting higher than two francs five sous, and yet the performances are often not by any means contemptible. they begin at half-past six. m. comte has a theatre in the passage choiseul where children perform, which may be considered as a sort of nursery for the theatres in general; but what afford the most amusement are his extraordinary feats of legerdemain, which are certainly wonderfully clever. the prices are from about one franc to five francs. although i have left it to the last, i must not entirely omit to mention the odéon theatre, to which i have already adverted; little can be judged from it at present, having only just re-opened. mlle. george is endeavouring, in the eve of her days, to afford it the support of her now declining powers; she is however ably sustained by achard. vernet also is a good actor, and they have others who are by no means deficient. it begins at , and the prices are from franc to . in addition to those i have already stated, there are about a dozen more theatres, inducting such as are just outside the barriers, and although theatrical speculations have generally been very unfortunate recently, yet it does not appear to arise so much from the want of audiences, but from paying the great performers too highly, and having too many of all descriptions. there are besides several public concerts, of which the one styled muzard's, in the rue neuve-vivienne, is the best; the price of entrance to most of them is franc. several public balls are constantly going forward in gardens during the summer, and in large saloons in the winter; they are mostly attended by the lower order of tradespeople, or by females of indifferent character, except in the carnival, and then more respectable characters go to the masked balls at the theatres which are the most expensive; the ladies however only as spectators, generally speaking, but their attractions are too irresistible to many, for them to suffer the season to pass over without once joining the gay throng, particularly to some who have a great delight in mystifying a friend or acquaintance, and telling them a few home truths under the protecting shield of a mask, having opportunities of so doing at the public balls without fear of being recognised; whereas concealment at private masquerades can seldom be preserved to the last. it is most usual for ladies who visit the theatres to see the masked balls only to remain in a box with their party, and from thence to view the motley group; there are however some females even of rank who cannot resist the charm of going entirely incognito, to puzzle and perplex different persons whom they know will be there, only confiding to one or two dearest friends their little enterprise, to whom they recount the adventures of the evening. all strangers sojourning at paris are generally directed to devote their earliest attention to the gallery of pictures at the louvre, and i had intended to have bestowed much space to that object, but i find such excellent works published on that subject at only one or two francs, that i would recommend my readers to furnish themselves with one and take it with them to the louvre when they go there; they can procure them of m. amyot, no. , rue de la paix, where they will also find almost every publication they are likely to require, and will meet with the utmost civility and attention. there are continually changes taking place in the arrangements of the pictures, consequently it would be impossible to give any correct numerical indications. the works of rubens are particularly numerous, but i should not say they were the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of that great artist, the women are so fat and totally devoid of grace; i have seen several of his pictures in the great collection at vienna which i like much better. the louvre may be also considered rich in the works of titian, some fine subjects by guido, murillo, correggio, and paul veronese, of which the marriage in cana is supposed to be the largest detached picture in the world; and many of the figures are portraits, as of francis i, mary of england, etc., who were contemporaries with the artist; in fact there are some paintings of almost every celebrated italian and spanish master. the dutch and flemish school is extremely rich, particularly in vandycks, but as might be expected specimens of the french school are the most numerous, the principal gems of which are by claude lorraine, poussin, and le brun, infinitely superior to the productions of the present day. there are besides many pictures by french artists of the time of david, gérard, gros, etc., which i consider generally inferior to some of those of their best painters now living. there are several private collections that are well worth the attention of the visiter; amongst the number is that of marshal soult, consisting of some of the most exquisite murillos, i should decidedly say the happiest efforts of his pencil, but i believe since i saw them he has sold some of the best to an english nobleman. the gallery of m. aguado (marquis de las marismas), contains undoubtedly some very fine subjects of the spanish school, and others that have considerable merit, but out of the great number of paintings which are assembled together the portion of copies is by no means small; still there is sufficient of that which is very good to afford great pleasure to the amateur. the residence of the marquis was in the rue grange-batelière, and it is to be presumed that, notwithstanding his decease, the establishment will be kept up as before. the collection of the marquis de pastoret, in the place de la concorde, is well worth visiting if you have a good pair of legs and lungs, for i believe you have upwards of a hundred steps and stairs to mount; but an ample reward will be afforded in viewing some very clever small cabinet paintings by celebrated italian, french and flemish masters. the baron d'espagnac has at his hôtel in the rue d'aguesseau a selection of paintings which may be considered one of the most _recherchée_ in paris; a landscape by dominichino is quite a gem, and he has scarcely a painting in his numerous collection but must be admired; his copy of the last supper by leonardo da vinci is perhaps the best that has ever been executed, and affords a most exact idea of the original, which is now, alas! nearly if not entirely defaced. to see these, as well as many other very excellent private collections, it is merely necessary to write to the owner and the request is immediately granted. mr. rickets, an english gentleman living at no. , rue royale, has about pictures, amongst which are some of considerable merit and particularly interesting, either for the execution, the subjects, or certain associations connected with them; this selection presents a singular variety of styles, wherein may be recognised all the most celebrated schools; some of the smaller pictures are executed with the most exquisite delicacy and require long examination to form an adequate appreciation of their merit. this collection is only accessible through the medium of an introduction. as many purchasers of pictures often want them cleaned and restored, i would recommend them to a countryman for that purpose, m. penley, no. , rue romford, whose efforts i have seen effect a complete resuscitation upon a dingy and almost incomprehensible subject. chapter xiv. the concluding chapter; application of capital, information for travellers, prices of provisions. one of the first measures to be adopted on arriving in france, is to acquire the knowledge of the value of the coin, which is indeed rather intricate; first a sou, or what we should call a halfpenny, is four liards or five centimes; then there are two sou pieces, which resemble our penny pieces; there is likewise a little dingy looking copper coin, with an n upon one side and centimes on the other, that is also two sous; they once had a little silver wash upon them, but it has now disappeared. next there is a little piece which looks like a bad farthing, rather whitish from the silver not being quite worn away, which passes for a sou and a half or six liards. we then rise to a quarter franc, or sous, which is a very neat little silver coin; next the half franc, then a fifteen sous piece, which is copper washed over with silver, with a head of louis on one side and a figure on the other; double the size but exactly similar is the sous piece; the franc is sous, the two francs sous, both of which are neat silver coin, as also the francs piece. the gold circulation consists in ten, twenty, and forty franc pieces. there are no notes in paris for less than francs, which are of the bank of france; the visiter on arriving in paris will require to change his english money, and there are many money changers; i have had transactions with most of them, but have found madame emerique, of no. , palais-royal, galerie montpensier, (there is an entrance also rue montpensier, no. ,) the most liberal and just of any, and i am quite certain that any stranger might go there with a total ignorance of the value of the money he presented, and would receive the full amount according to the state of exchange at the time. much credit is due to madame emerique from our country-people with regard to her conduct respecting stolen bank of england notes; she takes great pains to obtain a list of such as are stolen, that she may not be unconsciously accessary in aiding the success of crime, by giving the value for that which had been obtained by theft, and adopts every means that the presenters should be detained; if all the money changers were as particular in that respect, thieves would derive no benefit in coming over to france with their stolen notes. the office of madame emerique has been the longest established of any, and the high respectability of her family and connexions are a certain guarantee for the foreigner against being imposed upon. the number of hôtels in paris is immense; as i always frequent the same which i have known for nearly years, of course i can recommend it, both as regards the extreme respectability of the persons by whom it is kept and the moderation of the charges; it is situated at no. , rue richelieu, and is called the hôtel de valois, baths abound in paris, but the bains chinois, boulevart des italiens, are of the oldest date, and have been visited by the most illustrious persons. amongst the rest, the proprietor declares that william the fourth attended them at the time he was sojourning incognito at paris. amongst the numerous list of bankers, those which are most frequented by the english are madame luc callaghan and son, no. , rue de la ferme-des-mathurins; monsieur le baron rothschild, rue laffitte, and messrs. laffitte, blount and comp., no. , rue basse-du-rempart. amongst the multitude of interesting spots which surround paris, versailles is pre-eminent, not only for the grandeur of the palace, the beauty of the gardens, etc., but it has now received so many objects of art, and its collection of pictures is so immense, that it may be considered the museum of france; but there are so many works written upon it, and its description must be so voluminous to render it any justice, that i must content myself with referring my readers to those publications which have already appeared on the subject. st. cloud, st. germains, st. denis and fontainebleau are too remarkable to be lightly touched, particularly the two latter, upon which there are publications giving the most ample details of all which they contain that is interesting; those works therefore i must also recommend for the visiter's perusal. before i bid adieu to my readers, i must not omit to mention an institution formed in paris, which does honour to the english character; it is entitled the british charitable fund, and was founded in , under the patronage of the british ambassador, and is entirely supported by voluntary contributions, for the purpose of relieving old and distressed british subjects, or of sending them to their native country; suffice it to say, that there have been within the last ten years , persons relieved, and , sent to great britain. there are quite a host of steam-boat establishments, having their agents and offices in paris, but that for which the agency has been confided to m. chauteauneuf, no. , boulevart montmartre, embraces so wide a field that i consider in recommending my readers to him, i afford them the opportunity of obtaining all the information they can require upon the subject; the company could not have selected any one more capable of fulfilling the duties of such an office, as besides his extreme civility and attention to all applicants, he speaks many different languages, as french, english, spanish, italian, etc. the boats for which he is agent proceed from dunkirk to st. petersburg, touching direct at copenhagen, and privileged by the emperor of russia; the passage is effected in or days. dunkirk to hamburg in or hours, corresponding with all the steamers on the baltic and the elbe. dunkirk to rotterdam in or hours, communicating with all the navigation upon the rhine. boulogne to london by the commercial steam company. antwerp to new york, touching at southampton; marseilles to nice, genoa, leghorn, civita vecchia, naples, sicily, malta and the levant, by the steamers of the neapolitan company. the above vessels are fitted up in the most efficient and solid manner, with english machinery. at lyons there is a corresponding office for the navigation of the interior, held by messrs. jackson, dufour, and comp., no. , quai st. clair. m. chateauneuf is very obliging in explaining all the details of the different tarifs of the custom duties of the various countries with which the steamers communicate. a very great convenience exists in paris, which i think much wanted in london, and that is what are termed cabinets de lecture, where you may read all the principal papers and periodical pamphlets for the small expense of sous; some are higher, where english newspapers are taken, when the price is five sous; they are mostly circulating libraries at the same time. but those who wish to see all or the greater part of the london and some provincial and foreign papers, will find them at galignani's, and at an english reading room established in the rue neuve st. augustin, no. , near the rue de la paix; at both these establishments the admittance is ten sous. the only english newspaper at present published in paris is by galignani, which contains extracts judiciously selected from the french and english papers, besides other useful information. the investment of capital in land in france will rarely produce more than / per cent and very frequently less; in the purchase of houses in paris or / , sometimes , is obtained; in the funds about / . numbers of persons in france place their money on _hypothèque_, or mortgage, by which they make per cent; the affair is arranged by means of a _notaire_, but often the most lucrative manner of placing money is what is called _en commandite_, that is, they invest a fixed sum in different descriptions of business, from which they receive a certain share, not appearing in the concern otherwise than having deposited a stated amount of money in it, for which alone, in case of bankruptcy, they are liable. a considerable portion of the french lend their money to different tradespeople, getting the best security they can, sometimes merely personal; per cent is the regular interest that is given, and it is a very rare case that the capital is lost, as the lender takes great precautions in ascertaining the exact state of the borrower's affairs. although rents are so immensely high in the centre of paris, one house, no. , rue richelieu, letting for , francs, ( , _l._) a year, yet as you diverge in any direction towards the walls of the city a house may be had for much less under the same circumstances than in london, and just outside a substantial dwelling of eight or ten rooms, with an acre of garden beautifully laid out, will only be _l._, a year. some of the villages round paris are very agreeably situated, but are dreadfully cut up by the fortifications, particularly the favourite spot of the parisians, the bois de boulogne, where many families amongst the tradespeople go and pass their whole sunday under the trees; and the innumerable rides and walks through the wood, and its very picturesque appearance tempt all ranks at all hours of the day; part of it remains unspoiled by the walls and forts constructing for the defence of paris, but it was much to be regretted that any portion should have been destroyed for an object, the utility of which still seems an enigma. as prices of provisions are so constantly varying that i determined to leave them entirely to the last, that i might be enabled to give the latest information respecting them; in most instances they are much dearer than they were a few years since, particularly meat, which now may be quoted on an average of _d._ a pound, and veal, if the choice parts be selected, _d._ or even _d._ more at some seasons, but joints where there is much proportion of bone may be had for _d._; best wheaten bread is at present / d., a pound; butter, best quality, _s._ _d._; cheese _d._ poultry is much higher than formerly; a fine fowl _s._ a duck, _s._; a goose _s._; a turkey _s._ and much dearer at some periods of the year; pigeons' eggs / _d._ each; a hare _s._; a rabbit _s._ _d._ vegetables are generally pretty cheap, potatoes hardly / _d._ a pound, cauliflowers, brocoli, and asparagus at a much less price than in london; the finer sorts of fruits, as peaches, nectarines, apricots, greengages, grapes, etc., are very reasonable, but on the whole paris is very little cheaper than london; the principal difference is in the wine, which is to be had at all prices from _d._ to _s._ a bottle, but by arranging with the maison meunier, , rue des saints-pères, the house i have recommended, by taking a certain quantity, very good bordeaux may be had, which will only come to about _s._ _d._ a bottle. fuel is the dearest article in paris; coals, of which there is not much consumption, are considerably higher than in london, but yet much cheaper than burning wood. in the best part of paris a well furnished sitting and bed room is _l._ a month; in other parts only half the price. brandy and liqueurs are much cheaper than in england; beer from _d._ to _d._ a bottle, but taking a cask it comes cheaper. best white sugar _d._ tea from _s._ upwards, coffee _s._ to _s._ it must be remembered that the pound weight in france has two ounces more than in england. there is one peculiarity the stranger should remark in paris which will much assist him in finding a house he may be seeking; the even numbers are always on one side of a street and the odd on the other and in all the streets running south and north the numbers commence from the seine, so that the farther you get from the river the higher the figure amounts; and, as you proceed from that source the even numbers will be found on the right side and the uneven on the left. those streets which run east and west commence their numbers from the hôtel-de-ville, or town-hall, the even numbers also being on the right hand side and uneven on the opposite. * * * * * aware that my countrymen are ever amateurs of engravings, lithographies, etc., i must repair the omission of having forgotten to mention mr. sinnett, the only english publisher of engravings living in paris, and as he has an enthusiastic passion for the arts, accompanied by the most correct judgment, the selection of his subjects are such as cannot fail to gratify every person of taste; he also acts as an agent both for the paris and london print-sellers, and by the arrangements into which he has entered, is enabled to furnish individuals with engravings of both countries on the most advantageous terms, foregoing those charges which it is customary to impose under similar circumstances. the english have it, therefore, in their power to procure from mr. sinnett any print, whether published in england or france, at a lower price than in any other house in paris. his address is no. , grande rue verte, faubourg saint-honoré. the end. index. pages. abattoir academic royale actors et actresses to agriculture arago , archives arches, triumphal , armour army arsenal artificial flowers artists athenæum auber authors balls bank bankers barriers barrot. odilon bears béranger berryer bièvre boarding house boarding-schools bonnets boots bouffé boulevart boulogne bourse breakfasts bronze cabriolets café hardy calais canes caps carnival carriages catacombs cavalry cercles chamber of deputies chamber of peers champs-Élysées , champ de mars chapelle beaujon -- episcopal -- expiatoire -- marboeuf -- sainte chateaubriand china churches, abbaye-aux-bois -- l'assomption , -- la madeleine -- notre-dame , -- des blancs-manteaux -- des victoires or des petits-pères -- de loretto -- saint-ambroise -- saint-denis -- sainte-elisabeth -- saint-etienne-du mont -- saint-eustache -- saint-françois-d'assises -- saint-françois-xavier -- st.-germ.-l'auxerrois , -- st-germain-des-prés , -- saint-gervais -- st-jacques-du-haut-pas -- saint-laurent -- saint-leo-et-saint-gilles -- saint-louis en i'lle -- ste. marguerite -- st. medard -- st. merry , -- st. nicholas-des-champs -- st. nicholas-du-chardonnet -- st. paul et st. louis -- st. philippe-du-roule -- st. pierre-de-chaillot -- st. pierre-du-gros-caillou -- st. roch , -- st. severin -- st. sulpice, -- st. thomas-d'aquin, -- st. vincent-de-paul, -- luthérien, -- oratoire, -- sorbonne, -- val-de-grâce, -- visitation, clothes, coiffeur, coffee-houses, collections of pictures, colleges, bourbon, -- charlemagne, -- henry iv, -- de france, -- louis-le-grand, -- st. louis, -- irish, -- scotch, -- sorbonne, colours, columns, , , conservatory of arts et trades, -- of music, convents of benedictines, -- carmelites, -- english augustines, -- dames de st. thomas, -- lazarists, -- noviciat religieuses hospitalières, -- sâcré-coeur, copying machine, crockery, custom-house, cutlery, diligences, dinners, dress, dressing-cases, dyeing et cleansing, earthen-ware, École militaire, economy, education, elysée-bourbon, engravings, fancy stationary, fashions, fiacres, flowers, _principal fountains._ fountain, boulevart-st. martin, -- des champs-elysées, , -- du châtelet, -- cuvier, -- de grenelle, -- du marché des innocents, -- de la place de la concorde, -- de la place richelieu, funerals, garde-meuble, , gardens, des plantes, -- luxembourg, -- tuileries, george-mademoiselle, glass, gloves, gobelin tapestry, guizot, , guns, haberdashery, hats, homeopathie, horsemanship, _principal hospitals._ d'accouchement, blind, ----- children, deaf and dumb, hôtel-dieu, incurables (men), ---------- (women), invalids, orphan, de la pitié, salpêtrière, st. louis, sick children, val-de-grâce, hôtels de cluny, -- de carnavalet, -- des invalides, -- de la monnaie, -- de soubise, -- de sully, -- de valois, -- de ville, institut, infantry, lamartine, lace, _principal public libraries._ arsenal, hôtel-de-ville, mazarine, royal, sainte-geneviève, linen drapery, liqueurs, literature, lithographies, lodgings, louis-philippe, , , louvre, , , luxembourg, , mails, maps et plans in relief, marriage, , _principal markets._ -- corn, or halle an blé, -- flowers, -- innocents, -- st. germain, -- st. honoré, -- st. laurent, -- st. martin, meat, medicines, middle classes, , ministers, mint, mirrors (manufacture of), money-changers, modes, mont-de-piété, morgue, music, musical snuff-boxes, national guards, navy, needles, newspapers, observatory, palais-royal, -- de-justice, -- de la legion-d'honneur, -- du quai d'orsay, -- des beaux-arts, pantheon, passports, pens, pencil-cases, père la chaise, perfumery, phosphorus matches et boxes, piano-fortes, plate-glass manufacture, polytechnic, post-office, press, english, press, french, , printing establishment, royal, prints, _principal prisons._ -- abbaye, -- conciergerie, -- debtors, -- la force, -- jeunes détenus, -- de la roquette, -- saint-lazare, -- sainte-pélagie, purses, rachel, reading-rooms, religion, restaurateurs, rents, riding-school, rouen, seal engraver, _principal seminaries._ -- foreign missionaries, -- st. nicolas chardonnet, -- st. sulpice, shirts, silk mercery and fancy goods, sisters of charity, , school of medicine, -- drawing, -- mines, -- pharmacy, -- ponts et chaussées, shoes, ladies, -- gentlemen, societies, scientific, soult, stays, steam, boats, surgical instruments, tailors, , temple, _principal theatres._ -- italian opera, -- french opera -- comique opera, -- theatre français, -- gymnase, -- variétés, -- vaudeville, -- palais royal, -- porte st. martin, -- ambigu comique, -- la gaîté, -- cirque olympique, -- fulies dramatiques, -- odéon, thiers, timepieces, tuileries, umbrellas et parasols, whips, wine, transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. on page , camelias is a possible typo for camellias. the index entry for the latin quarter refers to a non-existent index entry to the scholars' quarter. the stones of paris in history and letters [illustration: madame de sévigné. (from the portrait by mignard.)] the stones of paris in history and letters by benjamin ellis martin and charlotte m. martin in two volumes vol. ii _illustrated_ new york charles scribner's sons mdcccxcix copyright, , by charles scribner's sons trow directory printing and book binding company new york contents page the southern bank in the nineteenth century the paris of honoré de balzac the paris of alexandre dumas the paris of victor hugo the making of the marais the women of the marais list of illustrations _from drawings by john fulleylove, esq. the portraits from photographs by messrs. braun, clément et cie._ madame de sévigné (from the portrait by mignard). frontispiece page alphonse de lamartine (from a sketch by david d'angers, "_un soir chez hugo_") facing madame récamier (from the portrait by gros) facing the abbaye-aux-bois portal of châteaubriand's dwelling in rue du bac the court of the pension vauquer facing honoré de balzac (from the portrait by louis boulanger) facing les jardies the antiquary's shop, and in the background the house where voltaire died facing the pension vauquer the commemorative tablet to balzac the figure of d'artagnan (from the dumas monument by gustave doré) facing alexandre dumas facing the wall of the carmelites rue tiquetonne, with the hôtel de picardie facing the hôtel de toulouse alfred de musset (from the sketch by louis-eugène lami) facing the cemetery of picpus victor hugo (from the portrait by bonnat) facing the hôtel du prévôt anne de bretagne (from a portrait by an unknown artist in a private collection) facing louis xii (from a water-color portrait by an unknown artist, in a private collection) facing sully (from a portrait attributed to quesnel, in the musée condé at chantilly) facing the court of the hôtel de béthune. sully's residence the hôtel de mayenne. in the distance, the temple sainte-marie, called the church of the visitation facing the place des vosges facing the hôtel de beauvais facing the staircase of the dwelling of the marquise de brinvilliers facing the hôtel de sens facing marguerite de valois (from a portrait by an unknown artist, in the musée de montpellier) facing the hôtel lamoignon facing the tourelle of the hôtel barbette the gateway of the hôtel de clisson the southern bank in the nineteenth century the southern bank in the nineteenth century in preceding chapters we have come upon the small beginnings of the scholars' quarter; we have had glimpses of the growth of the great mother university and of her progeny of out-lying colleges; and we have trodden, with their scholars and students, the slope of "the whole latin mountain," as it was named by pantaléon, that nephew of pope urban iv., who extolled the learning he had acquired here. looking down from its crest, over the hill-side to the seine, we have had under our eyes the mediæval _pays latin_, filling up the space within its bounding wall, built by philippe-auguste and left untouched by charles v.; we have seen that wall gradually obliterated through the ages, its gate-ways with their flanking towers first cut away, its fabric picked to pieces, stone by stone; while, beyond its line, we have watched the building up, early in the seventeenth century, of the faubourg saint-germain, over the pré-aux-clercs, and in the fields beyond, and along the river-bank toward the west. in the centre of this new quarter the nobility of birth was soon intrenched behind its garden-walls, and in the centre of the old quarter the aristocracy of brains was secluded within its courts. the boundary-line of the two quarters, almost exactly defined by the straight course from the institute to the panthéon, speedily became blurred, and the debatable neutral ground between was settled by colonists from either region, servants of the state, of art, of letters. in our former strollings through long-gone centuries, we have visited many of these and many of the dwellers on the university hill; we are now to turn our attention to those brilliant lights on the left bank who have helped to make paris "_la ville lumière_" during the forenoon of the nineteenth century. through the heart of the _faubourg_ curved the narrow rue saint-dominique, from esplanade des invalides to rue des saints-pères. this eastern end, nearly as far west as rue de bellechasse, has been carried away by new boulevard saint-germain, and with it the _hôtel_ of the de tocqueville family, which stood at no. of the ancient aristocratic street. here in lived the comtesse de tocqueville, with her son, alexis-charles-henri clérel, a lad of fifteen. here he remained until the events of sent him to the united states, with a mission to study their prison systems; a study extended by him to all the institutions of the republic, which had a profound interest for the french republicans of that time. his report on those prisons appeared in , and in he put forth the first volume of "de la démocratie en amérique," its four volumes being completed in . that admirable survey of the progress of democracy--whose ascendancy he predicted, despite his own predilections--still carries authority, and at the time created a wide-spread sensation. it made its author famous, and promoted him to the place of first-assistant lion in the _salon_ of madame récamier, whose head lion was always châteaubriand. de tocqueville had settled, on his return to paris, in this same _faubourg_; residing until at rue de verneuil, and from that date to at rue de bourgogne. elected deputy in , he soon crossed the seine, and we cannot follow him to his various residences in the quarter of the madeleine. for a few months in he served as minister for foreign affairs in the cabinet of the prince-president, and was among the deputies put into cells in december, . his remaining years, until his death at cannes in , were spent in retirement from all public affairs. a notable inhabitant of the university quarter, in the early years of the nineteenth century, was françois-pierre-guillaume guizot, a young professor at the sorbonne. his classes were crowded by students and by men from outside, all intent on his strong and convincing presentation of his favorite historical themes. he lived, near his lecture-room, at no. rue de la planche, a street that now forms the eastern end of rue de varennes, between rues du bac and de la chaise. from to his home was at rue saint-dominique, where now is no. boulevard saint-germain, next to the hôtel de luynes, already visited with racine. this latter period saw guizot, after a temporary dismissal from his chair by the bourbon king, at the height of his powers and his prestige as a lecturer. he carried his oratory to the chamber of deputies in , and there compelled equal attention. in we find him, minister of public instruction, installed in the official residence at rue de grenelle, on the corner of rue de bellechasse. his work while there still lasts as the basis of the elementary education of france, and it is to him that she owes her primary schools. pushed out from this office in by the pushing thiers, he went to england as ambassador for a few months in , and in the autumn of that year he took up his abode in the ministry of foreign affairs, where he remained until he was driven out in . that ancient mansion, no longer in existence, stood on the triangle made by boulevard and rue des capucines. with his desertion of this southern bank, we lose sight of his dwellings, always thereafter in the faubourg saint-honoré. guizot and louis-philippe failed in their fight against a nation, and the men of february, , revolted against the prime minister as well as against the king of the french. that _opéra-bouffe_ monarch with the pear-shaped face, under the guise of mr. smith, with a fat umbrella, slipped out of the back door of the tuileries and away to england; guizot got away to the same safe shores in less ludicrous disguise. he returned to his own land in , and lived until , always poor, always courageous, and always at work. among his many volumes of these years, all marked by elevation of thought and serenity of style, as well as by absence of warmth and color, were his "mémoires," wherein he proves, to the satisfaction of his austere dogmatism, that he had always been in the right throughout his public career. the revolution of , that sent de tocqueville on his voyage, and that started guizot in political life, brought alphonse-marie-louis de lamartine to the public ear as an orator. he had filled the public eye as a poet since , when his "méditations poétiques" appeared. in , his "harmonies poétiques et religieuses" had made it sure that here was a soul filled with true harmony. and while he sang the consolations of religion, as châteaubriand had sung its splendors, he gave proof of his devotion to the church and throne. but he bore the revolution of , and the flight of the bourbons, with the same equanimity he always summoned for the reverses of others, as well as for his own. when a literary genius is out of work, says sainte-beuve, he takes to politics and becomes an illustrious citizen, for want of something better to do. lamartine was elected a deputy soon after the upset of , and sprang at once into the front rank of parliamentary orators. his speeches in the chamber, and his "history of the girondists"--enthralling and untrustworthy--helped to bring on the revolution of , quite without his knowing or wishing it. it was his superb outburst of rhetoric, as he stood alone on the steps of the hôtel de ville, on february th, backed by no colleague and clad in no authority, that saved to france her tricolor--"that has swept all around the world, carrying liberty and glory in its folds"--in place of the white flag of the bourbons that had gone, and the red rag of the mob that was near coming. between that month of february and june of that same year, lamartine had been on the crest of his highest wave, and had sunk to his lowest level in the regard of his parisians. their faith was justified in his genius and his rectitude, but a volcano is not to be squirted cold by rose-water, and the new republic could not be built on phrases. after his amazing minority in the election for president, lamartine sank out of sight, accepting without complaint his sudden obscurity, as he had accepted without intrigue his former lustre. the conspiracy of december, , sent him into retirement, and he lived alone with his pen, his only weapon against want--a pathetically heroic figure during these last years. george sand had seen a good deal of lamartine in the days of , and he struck her as "a sort of lafayette without his shrewdness. he shows respect for all men and all ideas, while believing in no ideas and loving no man." a more just and complete judgment is that of louis blanc: "he is incessantly laboring under a self-exalting hallucination. he dreams about himself marvellous dreams, and believes in them. he sees what is not visible, he opens his inward ear to impossible sounds, and takes delight in narrating to others any tale his imagination narrates to him. honest and sincere as he is, he would never deceive you, were he not himself deceived by the familiar demon who sweetly torments him." for twenty years he had been a resident of the faubourg saint-germain. indeed, when he came to paris for a while, in , to see to the publication of his first poems, he found rooms on quai d'orsay. from there he went to make that call on young hugo, to be narrated later. from to his apartment was in the grand mansion, "between court and garden," no. rue de l'université. his reception-room was decorated with portraits and busts of alphonse de lamartine, we are told by frederick locker-lampson, who visited him there. his host was a handsome and picturesque figure, he says, albeit with an over-refinement of manner. no keener criticism of the poet and his poetry, at this period, has been made than that by locker-lampson, in one curt sentence. his sane humor is revolted by that "prurient chastity, then running, nay, galloping, to seed in an atmosphere of twaddle and toadyism." the desolate fallen idol was rescued from oblivion and poverty by the second empire, whose few honorable acts may not be passed over. in , in its and his dying years, that government gave him money, and the municipality gave him a house. these gifts came to him in rue cambacérès, in a small hotel now rebuilt into no. of that street. where it meets with rue de penthièvre, just above, you will find the attractive old mansion, with its ancient number cut in the stone over the doorway, in which, during the years after leaving the faubourg saint-germain, he carried on his courageous struggle with his pen against debt and poverty. he had but few months' enjoyment of his last home, the gift of the people of paris, for he died there in . it was at passy, not far from the square in avenue henri-martin, named for him and holding his statue. the chair in which he is seated might be a theatrical property, perhaps humorously and fittingly so suggested by the sculptor; who has, however, done injustice to his subject, in robbing him of his natural grace and suavity, and in giving him a pedantic angularity that was never his. when lamartine writes to sainte-beuve, "i have wept, i who never weep," we are amused by the poet's naïve ignorance of his persistent lachrymose notes. the "smiling critic" accepted them simply as a pardonable overflow of the winning melancholy of that nature, in which he recognized all that was genuine and laudable. this wide-minded tolerance is perhaps the secret of sainte-beuve's strength as a critic. with his acute discernment of the soul of a book and of its author, his subtle appreciation of all diverse qualities, he was splendidly impartial. he could read anything and everything, with a keenness of appraisement that did not prejudice his enjoyment of that which was alive, amid much that might be dead. "a pilgrim of ideas, but lacking the first essential of a pilgrim--faith"--he gave all that he was to literature through all his life, and when near its end, he had the right to say: "devoted with all my heart to my profession of critic, i have tried to be, more and more, a good and--if possible--a skilful workman." [illustration: alphonse de lamartine. (from a sketch by david d'angers. "_un soir chez hugo._")] he devoted himself so entirely to his profession, that his life was like a mill, as he said, perpetually feeding and grinding. on the monday morning, he would shut himself in with the new volumes, which he was to feed into himself and assimilate, during the twelve hours of each of the five following days; on saturday he was ready to grind out the result. his sunday holiday was given to the proof-reading of his next day's "causerie du lundi." on that evening he took his only relaxation, in the theatre. his work-room was bare of all superfluities, and his daily life went in a round, with simple diet, no wine, nor coffee, nor tobacco. at the age of twenty-five, charles-augustin sainte-beuve was living, with his mother, in a small apartment on the fourth floor of no. --now --rue notre-dame-des-champs. he had given himself to letters instead of medicine, for which he had studied, and had become a regular contributor of critical papers to the press. his name was already spoken along with the names of victor cousin, villemain, guizot, mérimée. he had produced his "historical and critical pictures," his "french poetry and french theatre of the sixteenth century," and the "poems of joseph delorme"--his selected pen-name. the poet in him had abdicated to the critic, handing down many choice gifts. in this apartment he received for review a volume of poems, "by a young barbarian," his editor wrote. this was the "odes et ballades" of victor hugo, with whom the critic soon made acquaintance, and at whose house, a few doors away in the same street, he became a constant visitor. from here madame sainte-beuve removed, with her son, in , to rue du mont-parnasse, and in that street he had his home during his remaining years. his official residence, from to , as a keeper of the mazarin library, was in that building now occupied by the institute. he found installed there, among the other keepers, octave feuillet. the upheaval of february, , drove sainte-beuve into belgium. on his return in the following year, he settled in the house left him by his mother, and there he died in . this two-storied, plaster-fronted, plain little no. rue du mont-parnasse, saw his thirty years of colossal work. from here, he went to take his chair of latin poetry in the collège de france, where he was hissed by the students, who meant to hiss, not the critic and lecturer, but the man who had accepted the second empire in accepting that chair. he was no zealous recruit, however, and preserved his entire independence; and when he consented to go to the senate in , it was for the sake of its dignity and its salary. he was always poor in money. to his workroom in this house, came every french writer of those thirty years, anxious to plead with or to thank that supreme court of criticism. among those who bowed to its verdicts and who have owned to its influence, edmond de goncourt has given us the most vivid sketch of the critic in conversation: "when i hear him touch on a dead man, with his little phrases, i seem to see a swarm of ants invading a body; cleaning out all the glory, and in a few minutes leaving a very clean skull of the once illustrious one." and, in his written reviews, sainte-beuve had the supreme art of distilling a drop of venom in a phial of honey, so making the poison fragrant and the incense deadly. there is no more constant presence than his on this southern hill-side, where all his days and nights were spent. we seem to see there the short, stout figure, erect and active, the bald head covered with a skull-cap, the bushy red eyebrows, the smooth-shaven face, redeemed from ugliness by its alert intelligence. his walks were down this slope of mont-parnasse, which he thought of as the pleasure-ground of the mediæval students of the university, to the quays, where he hunted among the old-book stalls. and he loved to stroll in the alleys of the luxembourg gardens. in the poets' corner, now made there, you will find his bust along with those of henri murger, leconte de lisle, théodore de banville, and paul verlaine. crossing the street from sainte-beuve's last home to no. , we find a modest house set behind its garden-wall, in which is a tablet containing the name of edgar quinet. more than passing mention of his name is due to this fine intellect and this great soul. his mother thought that "an old gentleman named m. voltaire"--whom she might have seen in her childhood, as her village crowded about his carriage on its way to paris--was the cleverest man who ever lived. she brought up her boy to think for himself, after that philosopher's fashion, and the boy bettered her teachings. he spent his life in looking into the depths of beliefs and institutions, in getting at the essence of the real and the abiding, in letting slip that which was shallow and transitory; so that, towards the end, he could say: "i have passed my days in hearing men speak of their illusions, and i have never experienced a single one." he became, in professor dowden's apt phrase, "a part of the conscience of france," and as such, his influence was of higher value than that exerted by his busy pen in politics, history, poetry. indeed, his enthusiasms for the freedom and progress of his fellow-beings carried his pen beyond due restraint. of course he was honored by exile during the second empire, and when it tumbled to pieces, he returned to paris, and soon went to versailles as a deputy. at his grave, in , hugo spoke of him as living and dying with the serene light of truth on his brow, and he can have no happier epitaph. quinet had outlived, by only a few months, his life-long friend jules michelet, who died in . he, too, had his homes and did his work, private and public, on this same hill-side. his birth-place, far away on the northern bank, on the corner of rues de tracy and saint-denis, is now given over to business. it was a church, built about in the gardens of "_les dames de saint-chaumont_," and had been closed in , along with so many other churches. going fast to ruin, it was fit only for the poverty-stricken tenant, who came along in the person of the elder michelet, a printer from laon. he set up his presses in the nave and his household gods in the choir, where the boy jules was born on august , . the building is unchanged as to its outer aspect, with its squat columns supporting the heavy pediment of the façade, except that two stories have been placed above its main body. in these strange surroundings for a child, and in the shelters equally squalid, to and from which his father removed during many years, the boy grew up, haunted and nervous, cold, hungry and ill-clad, and always over his books when set free from type-setting. he got lessons and took prizes at the lycée charlemagne, but the pleasantest lesson and the dearest prize of his youth did not come in school. they were his first sight, from his father's windows in rue buffon, of the sun setting over beyond the trees, tuneful with birds, of the jardin du roi. grass and foliage, and a sky above an open space, had been unknown to his walled-in boyhood. when he became able to choose a home for himself, it had always its garden, or a sight of one. at an early age he went to tutoring; in he was appointed lecturer on history in the collège rollin, then in its old place on the university hill; soon after he succeeded to guizot's chair in the sorbonne, and in the collège de france made him its professor of history and moral science. in that institution, he and his colleague quinet caused immense commotion by their assaults on the church intrenched in the state, and from their halls the hootings of the clericals, and the plaudits of the liberals, re-echoed throughout france. the priesthood complained that "the lecturer on history and morals gave no history and no morals," and it began to be believed--rightly or wrongly--that he was using his professor's platform as a band-stand, and was beating a big drum for the gratification of the groundlings. he was speedily dismissed, he was reinstated soon after , and was finally thrown aside by the second empire. at this period only, he disappears from the scholars' quarter for a while. his earliest residence there was, soon after his marriage in , at rue de l'arbalète, a street named from the "_chevaliers de l'arbalète_," who had made it their archery grounds in mediæval days. the site of michelet's residence is fittingly covered by a large school, on the corner of that street and of the street named for claude bernard. after a short stay in rue des fossés-saint-victor--that street nearly all gone now--he returned to this neighborhood, and settled in rue des postes, which, in , received the name of the grammarian lhomond. otherwise, no change has come to this quiet street, lined with fifteenth and sixteenth century buildings, among which is the hôtel flavacourt, set in the midst of gardens. on its first floor michelet lived from to . at no. is the arched gateway through which he went, in its keystone the carved head of a strong man with thick beard and curling locks. above the long yellow-drab wall shows the new chapel of the priests, who, with unknowing irony, have taken his favorite dwelling for their schools. absent from this quarter during the early years of the second empire, and absent from paris during part of that time, it was in that michelet settled in his last abode. it was at rue de l'ouest, and his garden here was the great luxembourg garden. in , the street was renamed rue d'assas, and his house renumbered . after his death in the south of france in , his widow lived there until her own death in , and kept that modest home just as he had left it. she was his second wife, and had been of great help to him in his work, and had done her own work, aided by his hand, which sprinkled gold-dust over her manuscript, as she prettily said. that hand had not been idle for over fifty years. he gave forty years of labor, broken only by his other books, to his "history of france," which at his death was not yet done, as he had meant that it should be done. it is a series of pictures, glowing and colored by his sympathetic imagination, which let him see and touch the men of every period, and made him, for the moment, the contemporary of every epoch. and taine assures us, contrary to the general belief, that we may trust its accuracy. his style has a magic all its own. he had said: "augustin thierry calls history a narration, guizot calls it an analysis; i consider that history should be a resurrection." this idea is translated into durable marble on his striking tombstone in père-lachaise, done in high relief by the chisel of mercié. the life of maximilien-paul-Émile littré, a few years longer than that of michelet and equally full of strenuous labor, was passed on this same slope and ended in this same street of assas. born on february , , in the plain house of three stories and attic at no. rue des grands-augustins, he got his schooling at lycée louis-le-grand, where we have seen other famous scholars. he appears for a day and a night on the barricades of , and then settles quietly at no. rue du colombier, now rue jacob. on his marriage, in , he removed to no. rue des maçons, now rue champollion, once racine's street, in the heart of the university. in he made his home in rue de l'ouest, and in that home he remained until his death on june , . his apartment took up the entire second floor of present rue d'assas--the new name of rue de l'ouest--at the corner of rue de fleurus, and its windows on the curve opened on ample light and air. like sainte-beuve, littré gave up medicine, to which he had been trained, for journalistic work; some of which, in his early days, was done for the gazette médicale, and much of it all through life for the political press. he was an ardent liberal, and after the fall of the empire, was elected a deputy, and later a senator, of the third republic. nothing in the domain of literature seemed alien to this catholic mind, equally at ease in science and philosophy, philology and history. the enduring achievement of his life is his dictionary of the french language. it was begun in and completed in , and a supplement was added in . in his fortieth year, he was attracted by the teachings of comte, and became a leader of the positivists and a copious contributor to their review. his career is that of an earnest and a self-denying student; a teacher of unfettered thinking in science, religion, politics; a modest and disinterested fellow-worker in letters. his master in the cult that won him solely by its scientific fascinations, auguste comte, had lived for the last fifteen years of his life at no. rue monsieur-le-prince, and there he died in . we can but glance at the tablet in passing, and we cannot even glance at the altered residences, in this quarter, of the gifted amédée thierry and of his more gifted brother, augustin, the historian "with the patience of a monk and the pen of a poet." he died, in , in rue du mont-parnasse, in the house that had been quinet's, it is said. we look up, as we go, at the sunny windows, facing full south over the luxembourg gardens, of the home of jules janin, in his day "the prince of critics." they are on the first floor at the corner of rues rotrou and de vaugirard, alongside the odéon, the theatre in which he had his habitual seat. he died at passy in . this _faubourg_ has had no more striking figure than that of prosper mérimée, tight-buttoned in frock-coat, and of irreproachable starchedness; with a curiously round, cold eye behind glasses, a large nose with a square end, a forehead seamed with fine wrinkles. it was his pride to pass as an englishman in his walk. in his work, in romance equally with archæology, the gentleman prevails over the author, so that he seems to stand aloof, reserved, sceptical, correct; never showing emotion, never giving way to his really infinite wit and frisky mockery. he began his working-life in , as a painter with his father, alongside the École des beaux-arts, at no. rue des petits-augustins, now rue bonaparte. in he moved around the corner to no. rue des beaux-arts, half way between the school and his other place of work in the institute, as inspector of the historical and artistic monuments of france. from to he was to be found at rue jacob, and close at hand he found "_l'inconnue_," at of the same street. in he removed to his last residence at rue de lille, on the corner of rue du bac. the commune burned that house along with others adjacent, and until rebuilding began, long after, there stood in the ruins a marble bust on its pedestal, unharmed except for the stain of the flames. it was all that was left of mérimée's great art-collection, with which, and with his books and cats, he had lived alone since his mother's death. he had gone away to cannes to die in . so that he did not see the ruins of the empire, to which he had rallied, altogether from devotion to the empress, whom he had known in spain when she was a child. he accepted nothing from the emperor except the position of librarian at fontainebleau, and was as natural and sincere with the empress, as he had been with eugenie montijo playing about his knee. in his other office he was a loyal servant of the state, and to his alert, artistic conscience france owes the preservation of many historic structures. there are those who claim that the influence of taine on modern thought has been deeper and will be more durable than that of renan. they base their belief on the groundless notion that men are most profoundly impressed by pure reason, forgetful of that well-grounded experience, which proves that all men are touched and moved and persuaded rather by sentiment than by conviction. and the writer is irresistible, who, like renan, appeals to our emotional as well as to our thinking capacities. we are captivated by those feminine qualities in his strain that are disapproved of by his detractors; his refined fancy and his undulating grace seduce us. we are convinced by his zest in the search for truth, by his courage in speaking it as he found it; we recognize his sincerity and sobriety that do not demand applause; we respect the magnanimity that looked on curses as oratorical ornaments of his enemies, and that took no return in kind. and so we stand in the peaceful court of homelike no. rue cassette, on whose first floor hippolyte-adolphe taine died in , in respectful memory of the man who has helped us all by his dissections, his cataloguing, and his array of facts. the structure of the philosophy of history, that he raised, stands imposing and enduring on the bank of the stream of modern thought, and yet it may be that edmond de goncourt was not wholly wrong, in his characterization of taine as "the incarnation of modern criticism; most learned, most ingenious, and most frequently unsound." we turn away and follow eagerly the steps of sympathetic joseph-ernest renan. we have already seen the country boy coming to school, at saint-nicolas-du-chardonnet, in . after four years' tuition there, he passed on to higher courses in the seminary of saint-sulpice. that renowned school faces the _place_ of the same name, which it entirely covered, when built in the early years of the seventeenth century. when the revolution demolished the old structure, it destroyed the _parloir_ where the young student, the chevalier des grieux, gave way before the beguilements of his visitor, manon lescaut. the fountain in this open space flashes with that adorable creation of the abbé prévost; the original of two creations as immortal, says jules janin: "for who is the virginie of bernardin de saint-pierre but manon made pure; and who is châteaubriand's atala but manon made christian?" once a week, while at the seminary, young renan took an outing with the other pupils to its _succursale_ at issy. it is a dreary walk, along the wearisome length of rue de vaugirard, to the village to which isis gave her name, when that goddess, once worshipped in lutetia, was banished to this far-away hamlet. there "queen margot" had a hunting-lodge and vast grounds, and when these were taken by the brothers of saint-sulpice, they saved the grounds and transformed the cupids on the walls of the lodge into cherubs, and the venus into a madonna. now their new structures in caen stone face the street named for ernest renan. in the gardens is a chapel built around the grotto, roofed with shells, wherein bossuet and fénelon used to meet, toward the end of the eighteenth century. there they doubtless began that controversy over the mystical writings of madame guyon, which ended in fénelon's dismissal from the court through the influence of the imperious bossuet. under these trees that shaded them, walked renan in his long and cruel conflict between his conscience and his traditions, most dreading the pain he would give his mother by the step he felt impelled to take. he took that step in october, , when he laid aside the _soutane_--to be adorned and glorified by him, his teachers had hoped--and walked out from the seminary to a small _hôtel-garni_ on the opposite side of place saint-sulpice. supported at first only by the savings of his devoted sister, henriette, he started as a tutor, and began his life's pen-work, in a cheap _pension_, in one of the shabby houses just west of saint-jacques-du-haut-pas, in rue des deux-Églises, now renamed rue de l'abbé-de-l'Épée. his future dwellings, befitting his modest gains, were all in quiet streets of this scholarly quarter. the site of that one occupied from to , at rue madame, is covered by collége bossuet, where priests teach their dogmas. old passage sainte-marie, where he lodged for a while in , is now rue paul-louis-courier, and his lodging is gone. during the ten years from to , he lived in the plain house numbered of retired rue vaneau. then for three years, he had an apartment at no. rue guillaume; "a short street of provincial aspect," says alphonse daudet, "grass-grown, with never a wheel; of silent mansions and unopened gates, and of closed windows on the court; faded and wan after centuries of sleep." this mansion was built for denis talon, an advocate-general at the end of the seventeenth century, and described by germain brice, writing in , as having "most agreeable apartments, with outlook on neighboring gardens, and a large court, and great expense in building." he did not mention the entrance-door, which is monumental, nor the knocker, worth a pilgrimage to see. in renan removed to no. rue de tournon, so finding himself between no. , once occupied by laplace, and no. , once occupied by balzac. in he was made administrator of the collége de france, and there took up his official residence. his appointment to the chair of hebrew in that institution, on his return from the orient in , had so perturbed the church behind the state that he was dismissed after he had given but one lecture. the second empire gone, he came back, mainly through the action of jules simon, a wise and learned statesman and a most lovable man. renan the administrator remained the lecturer as well, and has left ineffaceable memories with those who saw and heard him in his declining years; when, his body disabled by maladies, he still went singing on his way, as he manfully put it. it was a gross and clumsy body; to use edmond de goncourt's words, an ungraceful, almost disgraceful body, full of the moral grace of this apostle of doubt, this priest of science. his lectures were rather readings of the scriptures, interspersed with his own exegesis. on chairs about a large table, and against the wall, in a small room of the college, were seated the few intent listeners. renan sat at one end of the table, his head--"an unchurched cathedral"--bent over a bulky copy of the scriptures as he read; then, as he talked, he would raise his head and throw back the long hair that had tumbled over his brow, the subtle humor of his mobile mouth and his dreamy eyes effacing the effect of his big nose and fat cheeks, his beardless face luminous with an exalted intellectual urbanity. his interpretations and illustrations were spoken with his perfect art of simple and limpid phrase, and in those tones that told of his dwelling with the saints and prophets of all the ages, and with the elusive spirits of mockery of our own day. he died, on october , , in his official residence in the collége de france, an apartment on the second floor of the main structure facing the front court. the austere simplicity of this breton interior was leavened by the books and the equipment of the scholar. the window of his death-chamber is just under the clock. the "touch of earth" demanded by tennyson's guinevere was a need of the nature of george sand. the three stages of her growth, shown in her work, reveal the three inspirations of her life, each most actual: the love of man, the love of humanity, the love of nature. the woman's heart in her made her, said renan, "the Æolian harp of our time"; and béranger's verse well fits her: "_son coeur est un luth suspendu; sitôt qu'on le touche il résonne._" it vibrated to the touch of outrages on woman and of injustice to man, and it pulsated with equal passion for her children and for the rural sights and scents of her birth-place. and we feel her heart in her phrases, that stir us, as thackeray puts it, like distant country-bells. this half-poet, half-mystic, came fairly by her fantastic inheritance; for she was, in the admirable phrase of mr. henry james, "more sensibly the result of a series of love affairs than most of us." on the other side, we may accurately apply to her voltaire's words concerning queen elizabeth: "and europe counts you among her greatest men." there were masculine breadth and elevation in her complex, ample nature, with divine instincts and ideal purities, that left no room for vulgar ambitions and mean avidities. balzac, of kindred qualities, wrote, after having learned to know her a little: "george sand would speedily be my friend. she has no pettiness whatever in her soul; none of the low jealousies that obscure so many contemporary talents. dumas resembles her in this." when madame amantine-lucile-aurore dudevant, a young woman of twenty-six, came, in , to paris to stay--she had already, while a girl, been a _pensionnaire_ in the convent of the "_augustines anglaises_," where, under its ancient name, we have met with mlle. phlipon--she found her only acquaintance in the capital, jules sandeau, living on quai saint-michel. he had known m. dudevant and his wife during his visit to nohant, a year or so earlier. she rented a garret in the same house, one of the old row on the quay, just east of place saint-michel. here she discovered that she could use a pen; at first with scant success and for small pay in the columns of the "figaro," and then, with not much greater power, in a romance, written conjointly with sandeau. they named it "rose et blanche," and its authors' pseudonyme was jules sand. here she assumed the male costume which enabled her to pass for a young student, unmolested in her walks in all weathers and with all sorts and conditions of men, whom she delighted to scrutinize. in a letter written in july, , she says that she is tired of climbing five long flights so many times a day, and is seeking new quarters. she found them, with the same superb outlook over the seine as that she had left, on a third floor of quai malaquais. it may have been, for she always dwelt on her royal ancestry, in the house now no. , which had been the home of maurice de saxe. that son of augustus the strong of poland and of the countess of königsmark was the father of a natural daughter, who became the grandmother and guardian of mlle. lucile-aurore. madame dudevant gave his name to her son, and this young maurice, and his sister solange, were now brought to their mother's new home. she devoted hours to their amusement and instruction, and hours to her pen-work; writing far into the night when daylight did not suffice. she improvised a study in the ground floor on the court, cool when the westering sun flooded her windows above, and quiet when too many visitors disturbed her. for she had sprung into fame with her "indiana"--its author styled george sand--and after only two months' interval with her "valentine." naturally inert, she had to push herself on to work, and then her "serene volubility" knew no pause. she had now to be reckoned with in the guild of letters, and its members met in the "poets' garret," as she termed her little _salon_. balzac came--he who discouraged her in the beginning, on quai saint-michel--and hugo and dumas and sainte-beuve and young de musset. with this last-named she went from here to italy, having persuaded his mother that his infatuation would reform the wayward youth. all the world knows, from the books on both sides, the story of the short-lived _liaison_. she returned to this home in august, , hungry for her children. then we lose sight of her for many years, in her visits to her beloved provincial scenes, and her journeys to other lands, and her temporary residences on the right bank of the seine. in the winter of and she had a _pied-à-terre_ in her son's studio, in the secluded square of cours d'orléans, its entrance now at rue taitbout. there she was visited by charles dickens, who describes her as "looking like what you'd suppose the queen's monthly nurse would be; chubby, matronly, swarthy, black-eyed; a singularly ordinary woman in appearance and manner." others describe her, at this period, when she had just passed her fortieth year, as having a wearied, listless bearing, her only notable feature being her dull, mild, tranquil eyes. in february, , she was found by mr. and mrs. browning in the small apartment attached to her son's studio, at no. rue racine. it is at the top of the house, and can be rented to-day. a curious picture of her and her surroundings is given by the brownings. she was a constant attendant at this time at the odéon--on whose stage her plays were produced--and at the restaurant in the _place_ in front of the theatre. there she used to sit among her male friends, smoking "those horrid big cigars" which so revolted rachel that she would never meet the smoker. george sand's last paris home was in rue gay-lussac, and she was one of the earliest tenants in that street, opened in . she had three or four small rooms in the _entresol_ of no. , the lease of which, after her death in , was sold by her son to a roumanian lady, along with some of his mother's furniture. this lady is delighted to chatter about her illustrious predecessor in this apartment, and allows the favored visitor to sit on the broad couch, covered in dingy and worn leather, whereon george sand was fond of reclining in her last tranquil days, at rest after stormy and laborious years. there is a hospitable little inn in the faubourg saint-germain endeared to many of us by memories, joyous or mournful. the hotel de france et de lorraine, in narrow rue de beaune, just south of the quay, was one of the earliest hotels in paris, and was an approved resort of the royalists, before emigration and after restoration. they seem still to haunt its court and halls, where there lingers that atmosphere of decayed bourbonism, which james russell lowell humorously hits off in a letter written when he was a guest here. the pervading presence is that of châteaubriand, and our amiable hosts have a pride in keeping his apartment--on the first floor, in plain wood panelling of time-worn gray--much as it was when he wrote, in its _salon_, his letter of resignation of his post in the diplomatic service, to the first consul, to be emperor within two months. châteaubriand was in paris on leave of absence at the time of the shooting of the duc d'enghien, in the ditch of vincennes on the night of march , , and he refused to serve any longer the man whom he regarded as an assassin. just seventeen years earlier these two men had arrived in paris, both sub-lieutenants, of nearly the same age, equally obscure and ambitious, equally without heart. napoleon bonaparte, coming from corsica, took a room in the hôtel de cherbourg, as we have seen; françois-auguste, vicomte de châteaubriand, coming from his natal town of saint-malo, found lodging in the hôtel de l'europe in rue du mail. this street, between porte saint-denis, by which the coaches entered, and place des victoires, where they put up, was full of _hôtels-garnis_ for travellers. installed there, châteaubriand hunted up the great malesherbes, a friendly counsellor who put him in the way of meeting men of note; among others bernardin de saint-pierre, at the top of them all, just then, with his "paul et virginie." these two, the one just fifty, the other not yet twenty, then in , strolled together in the jardin du roi, forgetting their old world and its worries, in their talks of the new world and its glories. during the next two or three years, châteaubriand came frequently to paris, an intent and disgusted onlooker at its doings. he stood, with his sisters, at their windows in rue de richelieu, open on that september day, when the mob surged by holding aloft on pikes the heads of foulon and berthier. his royalist stomach revolted, and he joined his regiment at rouen, to retire soon from the service, and to sail in for the new united states, with dreams of distinction as the discoverer of the northwest passage. he dined with george washington, to whom he carried a letter from a french officer, who had served in the colonial army. the president waved aside châteaubriand's florid compliments, and advised him to give up his futile quest. the young breton wandered far into the new country, and while resting in a clearing on the scioto, where now is chillicothe, ohio, he read in an old newspaper of the royal flight to varennes, and of the enforced return. at once he started for france, to offer his sword to his king, arriving in january, , and in the summer of that year he joined the growing train of _émigrés_ to england. for eight years he toiled and starved in london, and returned to paris in . his passport bore the name of "lassague," and he posted, in company, as far as porte de l'Étoile. thence he went on foot down the champs Élysées, finding none of the silence and desolation his fancy had pictured, but, on either hand, lights and music. on the spot where the guillotine had stood he stopped, provided with the proper emotions. he crossed pont royal, then the westernmost bridge, and betook himself to lodgings in rue de lille, in an _entresol_ of one of the dignified mansions, that seem still to stand aloof from their _bourgeois_ neighbors. from here, he stole out to his meals, hiding his face behind his journal, in which he had been reading impassioned praise of the new book, "atala," and listened to the other guests speculating as to the unknown genius who had written it. the picture is to be cherished, for it is the only known portrait of châteaubriand, modest and shrinking. he had brought the manuscript of "atala" to paris in his pocket, and had sought long before securing a publisher. the book found a public eager for novelty. it came in a period of sterility in letters, when all the virility of france had been spent in her colossal wars, and the new century was alert to greet the serene light of science and literature. that came from all points of the horizon, but the resplendent figures of these years were madame de staël and châteaubriand. these two had nothing in common, but they were not inimical, and châteaubriand was one of the minor lions at madame de staël's receptions. for this was a little earlier than , when a more beneficial air than that of paris was ordered for her by the first consul, whom she bored. this "cyclone of sentiment" must have bored mr. pitt, also, when she visited england during the terror; for he seemed to think that the lady did protest too much about the absence of an equivalent in english for the french word "_sentiment_," and he replied: "_mais, madame, nous l'avons; c'est 'my eye and betty martin.'_" and when she got to germany she bored goethe, not only with her sloppy sentimentality, but with her shapely arms, too lavishly displayed. there could be no sympathy between the woman, who, in sainte-beuve's words, "could not help being even more french than her compatriots," and the stuff of whose dreams was a union of the theories of the dead and of the newly born centuries; and châteaubriand, the hard-headed opponent of every revolutionary idea, who pompously labelled himself "a bourbon by honor, a royalist by reason, and still by taste and nature a republican"! a year after his "atala," in , his "génie du christianisme" had placed him, in the estimation of his country and of himself, on a literary throne level with the military throne of bonaparte. the rhetorical fireworks of this book, corruscating around the catholic church, lighted up the night of scepticism, when worship had been abolished and god had been outlawed. yet, as he poetized beyond recognition the north american savages in his "atala," so now he prettified the sanctuary and "gilded the host." the first consul, welcoming any aid in his scheme to use the church for his own ends, sent the author to the legation at rome. we have seen his return. after this, he moves about paris, lodging, for a while, he says, "in a garret" offered him by madame la marquise de coislin, a stanch friend and stanch royalist. "hotel de coislin" may still be read above the doorway of the stately mansion that faces place de la concorde, at the western corner of rue royale, and aggressive bourbonism speaks from its stone pillars and pediment. his garret there was no squalid lodging. on his return from the holy land in , châteaubriand planted the jerusalem pines and cedars of lebanon he had brought back, in the garden of "_vallée-aux-loups_," a little place he then purchased near aulnay, on the south of the city. here, while the empire lasted, he passed years of quiet content, with his wife, his plants, and his books, but writing no more romance after . in , having a town residence, and finding himself too poor to keep this country place, he sold it, and new buildings cover the site of his cottage and garden. recalled to active life by the restoration, châteaubriand posed as one who was more royalist than the king, with a mental reservation of his platonic fancy for a republic. he was a pretentious statesman, none too sincere. his pamphlet, "de buonaparte et des bourbons," had been worth an army to the cause, said louis xviii., who placed him in the chamber of peers, and in , after a short stay at the berlin embassy, in the ambassador's residence in london. lording it there, in all "the boast of heraldry, the pomp of power," he recalled his former years of obscurity and privation in london streets, and began his "mémoires d'outre tombe." in writing about himself he was at his ease, feeling that he had a subject worthy of his best powers, and these memoirs have little of the inflated and fantastic mannerisms of his romances about other people. as to the rest, they are a colossal monument to his conceit and selfishness. dismissed suddenly and indecently by louis xviii., from the ministry of foreign affairs, châteaubriand was made ambassador to rome on the accession of charles x., in . he refused to recognize the younger branch of the bourbons in , and when the crown was given to orleans, he strode out of the chamber of peers, and stripped himself of his peer's robe, with great theatric effect. appearing no more in public life, he was active in pamphlets and in the press as an opponent of the new royalty, which would lead to a republic, he predicted. "_châteaubrillant, vicomte de, rue de l'université _," is his address in the _bottin_ of ; a record of interest in its antiquated spelling of his name, and because this is the house, on the corner of rue du bac, which we shall visit later with alexandre dumas. this three years' lease expiring in , he removed to the fine old mansion, where he gave reception to young victor hugo, to be described later, at no. rue saint-dominique. its site is covered by the modern building numbered in boulevard saint-germain, whose southern side, just here, replaces the same side of rue saint-dominique, as has been already told. he kept other town addresses, to which we need not follow him, during his absences on diplomatic duty. from to we find him and madame de châteaubriand in their retired home, in the southern outskirts of the city. their rue d'enfer is now rue denfert-rochereau, the old street name thus punningly extended, in homage to the heroic defender of belfort. the dingy yellow front of the long wall and the low building is broken by a gate-way, and within is a small lodge on the left, wherein sits a woman in the costume of a sisterhood. she permits entrance into the cottage on the right, and you are in châteaubriand's small _salon_, the remaining portion of the cottage being now in possession of the institution des jeunes filles aveugles, alongside. his portrait in pencil, and a water-color sketch of his wife, hang on the wall. her face shows the boredom and patience that were put into it by her life with this man of irascible genius and of frequent infidelities. she is buried behind the altar of the chapel of the marie-thérèse infirmary, which she founded and carried on, in the devoutness that dwelt in her soul for the church, whose appeal to him was in its artistic endowments. a portion of the revenue that supports this institution comes from the sale of chocolate, made first to her liking by her _chef_, and made after his rule ever since. as soeur marie shows you out from the salesroom, alongside this little reception-room, you see the group of trees in the circular lawn, that was planted by husband and wife; on the farther side are the dilapidated buildings of their day, now used for the chocolate _fabrique_; behind the great court rise the walls of the infirmary for aged and invalid priests. châteaubriand had known, while in kensington during his exile, many of the impoverished _curés_ who were, like himself, refugees from the revolution; and some of them had followed him here, and had become domesticated pets of the household, together with the big gray cat given him by the pope. to them and their successors in poverty and illness, he bequeathed this comfortable retreat. there is an episode of these years that shows a kindly side of châteaubriand, that he seldom allows us to see. he was suggested for the presidency of the republic, adventured by the political clubs for a year or two after the unwelcome accession of louis-philippe. châteaubriand did not join the plotters, but he was arrested, along with many of them, and locked up for two weeks or so. now, when the bourbons had put béranger in prison, in , châteaubriand had been one of the many sympathizers who had flocked to the cell of the courageous singer. in the rôles were reversed, and béranger came in, from his cottage in rue de la tour-d'auvergne, to visit the imprisoned statesman. and after châteaubriand's release, he wrote a charming letter to béranger, thanking him for that token of fellow-feeling, and begging him not to "break his lyre," as the veteran _chansonnier_ had threatened to do, and urging him to go on "making france smile and weep; for, by a secret known only to you, the words of your _chansons_ are gay and the airs are plaintive." béranger's songs touch no chord now, their plaintiveness is commonplaceness, his philosophy has no loftiness, his sentimentality is of the earth earthy, and his lyre is, to us, a tinkling hurdy-gurdy. when the young breton officer walked through rue du mail first in , his gaze might have turned, as our gaze turns to-day, to two striking façades in that street: that of no. , built by colbert, whose emblematic serpents are carved high up in the capitals of the heavy columns; and that of no. , as stolid as the other is fantastic, its heaviness not lightened by the two balconies, and their massive supports, on the wide stone front. it was erected in by berthault, the architect whose work we see at malmaison and in the palais-royal. châteaubriand might well have been attracted by this house, for it was soon to shelter the woman who became later the lasting influence of his life. in , at the very top of the terror, jacques récamier brought to this house his bride not yet sixteen, who had been mlle. jeanne-françoise-julie-adélaïde bernard. here they lived for five years. their house is unaltered as to fabric, and the original heavy, circular, stone staircase still mounts to the upper floors. these are now divided by partitions into small rooms, and the lofty first story is cut across by an interposed floor; all for the needs of trade. the ceiling of the grand _salon_ retains its admirable cornice. like other mansions on the south side of rue du mail, this récamier house extended, behind a large court, now roofed over with glass, through to rue d'aboukir, where its rear entrance is at no. . on the first floor of this wing, in the oblong ceiling of a small room, is a deeply sunk oval panel, that holds a painting of that time, in good preservation. from here jacques récamier, just then wealthy, removed to the newest fashionable quarter of which the centre was rue du mont-blanc, now rue de la chaussée-d'antin, whose no. covers the site of his magnificent mansion. it was then a street of small and elegant _hôtels_, each in its own grounds, and m. récamier bought the one that had belonged to necker, and had been confiscated by the state. he bought also the adjoining house, and rebuilt the two into one. its furniture, fittings, bronzes, and marbles were all especially designed for this new palace of a prosperous financier. here was the scene of those balls that were the wonder of paris during the consulate and the early years of the empire. the costumes of the period, both for men and women, were picturesque in cut and coloring. among the guests shone caroline bonaparte, later to marry murat, the youngest of the sisters and most resembling her great brother in face and character. m. and mme. récamier spent their summers in a _château_ owned by him in the suburbs of clichy; and to it every man of note in the state and the army found his way. napoleon said he, too, would be glad to go to clichy, if the fair _châtelaine_ would not come to court, and sent fouché to arrange it, but with no success. she fought shy of napoleon, the man and the emperor, as madame de staël itched for his attention, personal and political. nor did madame récamier like his brother lucien, who languished about her, to the ridicule of his equally love-lorn rivals. his justification, and that of all her other adorers, speaks from david's unfinished canvas in the louvre. yet this shows only the outer shell of her loveliness; within was a lovely nature, simple and kindly, sympathetic and loyal, that made her generous in her friendships with men and women, and devoted to the welfare of her friends. the single passion of her life was her passion for goodness. her modesty kept her unconscious of her attractions of mind and body, and thus she held, almost unaware, the widest dominion of any woman of her day. the duchess of devonshire put it daintily: "first she's good, next she's _spirituelle_, and after that, she's beautiful." and so, as we come to know her, we learn infinite respect for the woman, who "with an unequalled influence over the hearts and wills of men, scorned to ask a favor, and endured poverty and ... exile, which fell with tenfold severity on one so beloved and admired, without sacrifice of dignity and independence." [illustration: madame récamier. (from the portrait by gros.)] comparative poverty, hurried by the emperor, came in , and the town house and the _château_ were sold, along with her plate and jewels. in she was exiled from paris on the pretext that her _salon_ was a centre of royalist conspiracy, and she passed the years until the restoration in the south of france, in italy, and in switzerland with her beloved madame de staël. just beyond the boulevards de la madeleine and des capucines, which show the line of the rampart levelled by louis xiv., and along the course of its outer moat, a new street had started up at the end of the eighteenth century, and was completed in the early years of the nineteenth century. it began at present rue de la chaussée-d'antin, and ended at the church of the madeleine, then in course of construction; it was built up in the best style of that period, and it was named rue basse-du-rempart. that untouched section, to the west of rue caumartin, shows us the admirable architecture of the early empire in the stately fronts, that shrink back behind the boulevard in stony-faced protest against its turmoil. eastwardly from rue caumartin, the northern side of boulevard des capucines has trampled out nearly the whole of the old street. the stones of place de l'opéra lie on the site of the modest house, at rue basse-du-rempart, taken by m. récamier after his first business reverses, and occupied by him during his wife's exile; and the florist's shop, under the grand hôtel, is on the spot of their stately residence at no. of the same street, after her return and until . in that year, his fortune regained, he moved farther west in the same street to a more sumptuous home at no. . this house has been happily saved for us, and is now numbered of boulevard des capucines; one of the three structures of the old street, which stand back from the line of modern frontage, and lower than the level of modern paving. the present no. is the récamier coach-entrance, and the huge stabling in the rear is built on the récamier gardens. their house preserves its wrought-iron balconies, and within is the circular staircase mentioned in her "mémoires." down these stairs, for the last time, she came in , leaving m. récamier to his disastrous speculations, which had at last swallowed up her own fortune, and drove to the abbaye-aux-bois. there was her home until her death in . the venerable mass of the convent is in sight behind the railed-in court at no. rue de sèvres. one portion that we see was built in for the "_annonciades_," and from them bought by anne of austria, in , for the sisterhood of the abbaye-aux-bois, who had been driven from their convent near compiègne by the civil wars of the fronde. that wing which was burned in was speedily rebuilt, and forms part of the structure before us. convents had then, and have still, rooms and apartments which are let or sold to lone spinsters and widows, and to "decayed gentlewomen who have seen better days." this abbaye-aux-bois, during the bourbon restoration, "when the sky had no horizon," was a favorite retreat for fashionable _dévotes_, mending their reputations by a temporary retirement. the life there is pleasantly described in the early letters of mary clarke--later madame julius mohl--who lived there with her mother. m. bernard, the father of madame récamier, had bought one of its grandest apartments for his daughter, after the first bankruptcy of her husband. when she came here it was occupied, and she rented a shabby upper floor for two or three years, and then went down to her own apartment on the first floor, to which she added another in the rear of the same floor. it is in the western wing, of modern construction, with windows on rue de sèvres, and on the terrace that overlooks the garden, now shorn of a goodly slice by boulevard raspail. we know all about this _salon_, famous for twenty years, the roll of whose frequenters holds every illustrious name in france during that period, as well as those of many charlatans and bores. [illustration: the abbaye-aux-bois.] it is reported that madame récamier and châteaubriand met first, in the earliest years of the century, at the receptions of madame de staël. whenever they met to become mutually attracted, this attraction grew in him until it became the dominant sentiment of his life. with all his elevation of soul and his breadth of mind, he had no depth of feeling. "i have a head, good, clear, cold," he wrote; "and a heart that goes jog-trot for three-and-one-half quarters of humanity." the other one-eighth was madame récamier, and she outcounted all the rest of the world in stirring such heart as he had. "you have transformed my nature," he tried to make her believe, and he may have believed it himself. sick with conceit as he was, spoiled by flattery, morbid from introspection, her companionship lifted him out of his melancholy and raised him into serenity. as for her, so long as madame de staël lived, she had no other affection to spare for anyone, and perhaps this incomparable creature never gave to châteaubriand more than homage to her hero, tenderness to the isolated man, and medicine to a mind diseased. he may well have written, toward the last: "i know nothing more beautiful nor more good than you." the "_chemin des vaches_" of the sixteenth century became a country road by the passage of the drays that carted stone, from the vaugirard quarries to the ferry on the southern shore, for the building of the tuileries. the pont royal of mansart has taken the place of the wooden bridge built above that ferry, and the ferry has given the name to that road, now rue du bac. along its line, on both sides, _seigneurs_ and priests took land and built thereon. there are yet, behind the huge stone blocks of houses, immense tracts of grounds and of woodland, unsuspected by the wayfarer through the narrow, noisy street. one of the most extensive of these open spaces is owned by the seminary of the missions Étrangères, whose church is near the corner of rue de babylone. for two bishops, who had charge here in the time of louis xiv., were erected two houses, exactly alike without and within, and these are now numbered and rue du bac. in the latter in the apartment on the ground floor, m. and mme. de châteaubriand installed themselves in ; having left their cottage and its domain in rue d'enfer, to the needy priests there. here, in an angle of the front court, are the low stone steps that mount to their apartment. [illustration: portal of châteaubriand's dwelling in rue du bac.] its dining-room and a chapel, arranged by them, gave on this court. the chapel has been thrown into, and made one with, the dining-room, but this is the only alteration since their time. his bedroom, and that of his wife--with her huge bird-cages behind--and the _salon_ between the two rooms, looked out on their garden, and beyond it on the vast grounds of the missions Étrangères. the enchanting seclusion was dear to him in these last years, during which his only work was the completion and touching-up of his "mémoires d'outre tombe." select extracts from the manuscript were sometimes read by him to the group that assembled in the drawing-room at the _abbaye_, between four and six o'clock of every afternoon. the hostess sat on one side of the fireplace, her form grown so fragile that it seemed transparent for the gentle spirit shining out, like a radiant light within a rich vase. châteaubriand "pontificated" in his arm-chair opposite, toying with the household cat, the while he tried to listen to the lesser men; "a giant bored by, and smiling pitifully down on, a dwarf world," is amiel's phrase. when châteaubriand spoke or read, it was with sonorous tones, and with attitude and gesture of a certain stateliness. he was always an artist in all details. his costume was simple and elegant. short of stature, he made himself shorter by his way of sinking his head--"an olympian head," says lamartine--between his shoulders. under his thick-clustering locks rose a noble forehead, power shone from his eyes, pride curled his lips--too often--and his expression gave assurance of a glacial reserve. the day came when he found himself too feeble for the short walk between his house and the _abbaye_. then his friend came to him. she and madame de châteaubriand had been sufficiently friendly, but that good lady gave her days to her prayer-books, and to reading her husband's books; which she never understood, albeit she had the finest mind of any woman he had known, he always asserted. she died in the winter of - , and her body was carried to the infirmary, the care of which had been the occupation and the happiness of her later years. jacques récamier, when in mortal illness in , had been brought to his wife's rooms in the _abbaye_, at her request and by special favor of the mother superior, and there he had died. and now, châteaubriand offered marriage to madame récamier, and she refused what she might have accepted, could it have come a few years earlier. "but, at our age," she asked, "who can question our intimacy, or prevent me taking care of you?" she was prevented only by the cataract that slowly blinded her, and she sat by his bedside, helpless, while madame mohl--who had remained mary clarke until the summer of --wrote his necessary letters. that sympathizing woman, one of the few congenial to him, had only to come down from the apartment she had taken on the third floor of this house, overlooking the gardens; the apartment which she and her learned husband, julius mohl, made the social successor of the récamier _salon_, through many years. châteaubriand's death took place on july , . he had lived to see the orleans throne, which he hated, overthrown as he had foretold by the republic, which he did not love. his faithful lady stood by his deathbed, with béranger, equally faithful to old friends, old customs, and old clothes, clad as we see him in his statue of square du temple. châteaubriand's funeral service, attended by all that was best in france, was solemnized in the church of the missions Étrangères, next door, and his body was laid in a rock of the harbor of saint-malo. madame récamier went back to her now desolate rooms. on may , , she drove over to the bibliothèque de l'arsenal, on a visit to her niece, whose husband, m. lenormant, was its librarian and had his apartment there. that night she died in that building, in a sudden seizure of cholera. the paris of honorÉ de balzac [illustration: the court of the pension vauquer.] the paris of honorÉ de balzac[ ] set in the front wall of a commonplace house, in the broad main street of sunny tours, a tablet records the birth of balzac in that house, on the _ floréal, an vii._ of the republic--may , --the day of saint-honoré, a saint whose name happened to hit the fancy of the parents, and they gave it to their son. many a secluded corner of the town, many a nook within and about its cathedral of saint-gatien, many a portrait of its priests, has been brought into his books. and he has portrayed, with his artist hand, the country round about of the broad loire and of bright touraine, always vivid in his boyish reminiscences. in his life and his work, however, he was, first and always, a parisian. to the great town, with all its mysteries and its possibilities, his favorite creations surely found their way, however far from it they started, drawn thither, as was drawn and held their creator, by its unconquerable authority. his father had been a lawyer, forced for safety during the revolution into army service, and when he was ordered from tours, in , to take charge of the commissariat of the first division of the army in paris, he brought his family with him. their abode was in rue de thorigny, one of the old marais streets, and the boy, nearly fifteen, was put to school in the same street, and later in rue saint-louis, hard by. transformed as is this quarter, there yet remain many of the magnificent mansions with which it was built up in the days of its grandeur, and their ample halls and rooms and gardens serve admirably now as schools for boys and for girls. the young honoré and his louis lambert are one in their pitiful memories of these schools and of their earlier schooling at the seminary of vendôme. to please his father, the boy, when almost eighteen, went through the law course of the sorbonne and the collége de france. to please himself he listened, for the sake of their literary charm, to the lectures of villemain and cousin and guizot, and would rehearse them with passion when he got home. but he had no love for the arid literature of the law, and was wont to linger, in his daily walks along the quays and across the bridges to and from his lecture-rooms, over the bookstalls, spending his modest allowance for old books, which he had learned already to select for their worth. these studies ended, he entered the law office of m. de merville, a friend of his father, with whom eugène scribe had just before finished his time, and to whom jules janin came for his training a little later. and these three, unknown to one another, were, as it happened, of the same mind in their revolt against the drudgery of the desk, and against the servitude of the attorney, coupled with certain competence as it might be; and in their preference for that career of letters, which might mean greater toil, but which brought immediate freedom and promised not far-off fame, and perhaps fortune, too. the elder balzac, severely practical, dreamed no dreams, and was horrified by his son's refusal to pursue the profession appointed for him. he foretold speedy starvation, and--perhaps to prepare honoré for it--allowed him to try his experiment, for two years, on a hundred francs or less a month. so, the family having to leave paris early in , a garret--literally--was rented for the young author, and poorly furnished by his mother; a painstaking, hard-working, fussy old lady, who looked on him as a little boy all her life long, who drudged for him to his last days, and who felt it to be her duty to discipline him to hardship in these early days! this attic-room was at the top of the old house no. rue lesdiguières, which was swept away by the cutting of broad boulevard henri iv. in - , its site being in the very middle of this new street. to wax sentimental--as has a recent writer--over the present no. as balzac's abode is touching, but hardly worth while, that house having no interest for us beyond that of being of the style and the period of balzac's house, and serving to show the shabbiness of his surroundings. these did not touch the young author, whose garret's rental was within his reach, as was the _librairie de monsieur_; for he gives it the old bourbon name, and how it got that name shall be told in our last chapter. it was the library of the arsenal, still open to students as in his days there, in the building begun by françois i. for the casting of cannon, which he made lighter and easier of carriage, and the casting of which exploded the arsenal within twenty years, and with it part of the adjacent marais. the valois kings rebuilt it, henri iv. enlarged it, and gave it for a residence to his grand master of artillery, sully, for whom he decorated the _salons_ as we see them to-day. you may climb the grand staircase, and stand in the rooms--their gildings fresh, their paintings bright--occupied by the great minister. in the cabinet that contains his furniture and fittings is an admirable bust of the king. and you seem to see the man himself, as he enters, his debonair swagger covering his secret shamefacedness for fear of a refusal of his stern treasurer to make the little loan for which he has again come to beg, to pay his last night's gambling or other debt of honor! in this library by day, and in his garret by night, balzac began that life of terrific toil from which he never ceased until death stopped his unresting hand. the novels he produced during these years were hardly noticed then, are quite unknown now; showing no art, giving no promise. he never owned them, and put them forth under grotesque pen-names, such as "horace de saint-aubin," "lord r'hoone"--an anagram of honoré--and others equally absurd, all telling of his fondness for titles. this garret, in which he lived for fifteen months, is vividly pictured in "la peau de chagrin," written in , as raphael's room in his early days, before he became rich and wretched. balzac's letters to his sister laure (madame laure de surville) detail, with delightful gayety, his exposure to wind and wet within these weather-worn walls; and his ingenious shifts in daily small expenditure of _sous_ to make his income serve. he relates how he shopped, how he brought home in his pockets his scant provender, how he fetched up from the court-pump his large allowance of water. for he used it lavishly in making his coffee, that stimulation supplying the place of insufficient food, and carrying him through his nights of pen-work. excessive excitation and excessive toil, begun thus early, went on through all his life, and he dug his too early grave with his implacable pen. his only outings, by day or by night, were the long walks that gave him his amazing acquaintance with every corner of paris, and his solitary strolls through the great graveyard of paris, near at hand. "_je vais m'égayer au père-lachaise_," he writes to his sister; and there he would climb to the upper slopes, from which he saw the vast city stretched out. for he was fond of height and space, and we shall see how he sought for them in his later dwelling-places. and in this storm-swept attic he had his first dreams of dwelling in marble halls. extreme in everything, he could imagine no half-way house between a garret and a palace; he began in the one, he ended in the other, unable to find pause or repose in either! dreaming the dreams of midas, he loved to plunge his favorite young heroes into floods of sudden soft opulence, and his longings for luxury found expression in those unceasing schemes for instant wealth which made him a kindly mock to his companions. his first practical project was started in , during a temporary sojourn for needed rest and proper food at his father's new home in villeparisis, eighteen miles from paris, on the edge of the forest of bondy. he speedily hurried back to paris and turned printer and publisher; bringing out, among other reprints, the complete works of molière and of la fontaine, each with his own introduction, each in one volume--compact and inconvenient--and, at the end of the year which saw twenty copies of either sold, the entire editions were got rid of, to save storage, at the price by weight of their paper. this and other failures left him in debt, and to pay this debt and to gain quick fortune, he set up a type-foundry in partnership with a foreman of his printing-office. the young firm took the establishment at no. rue des marais-saint-germain, now rue visconti; named for the famous archæologist who had lived, and in had died, in that venerable mansion hard by on the corner of rue de seine and quai malaquais. we have already found our way to this short and narrow rue visconti, to visit jean cousin and baptiste du cerceau, and, last of all, the rival houses of racine. balzac's establishment, now entirely rebuilt, was as typical a setting of the scene as any ever invented by that master of scene-setting in fiction. it may be seen, as it stood until very lately, in its neighbor no. , an exact copy of this vanished no. . its frowning front, receding as it rises, is pierced with infrequent windows, and hollowed out by a huge, wide doorway, within which you may see men casting plates for the press, albeit the successors of "_balzac et barbier_" no longer set type nor print. "_balzac h. et barbier a., imprimeurs, rue des marais-saint-germain, _;" so appears the firm in the paris directory for . the senior partner had not yet assumed the particle "_de_," so proudly worn in later years when, too, he is labelled in the directory "_homme-de-lettres_," the title of "_imprimeur_," on which he prided himself because it meant wealth, having lasted only until the end of or the beginning of . printing-office and type-foundry were sold at a ruinous sacrifice, and balzac was left with debts of about , francs; a burden that nearly broke his back and his heart for many years. he never went through that narrow street without groaning for its memories; and for a long time, he told his sister, he had been tempted to kill himself, as was tempted his hero of "la peau de chagrin." in his "illusions perdues" he has painted, in relentless detail, the cruel capacity of unpaid, or partially paid, debts for piling up interest. but the helpless despair of david séchard was, in balzac himself, redeemed by a buoyant confidence that never deserted him for long. to pay his debts, he toiled as did walter scott, whom balzac admired for this bondage to rectitude, as he admired his genius. all through the "comédie humaine" he dwells on the burden of debt, the ceaseless struggle to throw it off, by desperate, by dishonorable, expedients. on an upper floor of his establishment, balzac had fitted up a small but elegant apartment for his living-place, his first attempt to realize that ideal of a bachelor residence such as those in which he installed his heroes. this was furnished, of course, on credit, and when failure came, he removed his belongings to a room at no. rue de tournon, a house quite unchanged to-day. here his neighbor was the editor of the "figaro," henri de la touche--his intimate friend then, later his intimate enemy; a poor creature eaten by envy, whose specialty it was to turn against former friends and to sneer at old allies. here balzac finished the book begun in his former room over his works, "les chouans." it was published in , and was the first to bear his real name as author, the first to show to the reading world of what sterling stuff he was made. that stuff was not content with the book, good as it was, and he retouched and bettered it in after years. it brought him not only readers but editors and publishers; and before the end of , he had poured forth a flood of novels, tales, and studies; among them such works as "la maison du chat-qui-pelote," "physiologie du mariage," "gobseck," "Étude de femme," "une passion dans le désert," "un Épisode sous la terreur," "catherine de médicis," "lettres sur paris"--with "les chouans," seventy in all! werdet, one of balzac's publishers--his sole publisher from to --lived and had his shop near by, at no. rue de seine. to his house, just as it stands to-day, the always impecunious young author used to come, morning, noon, and night for funds, in payment of work unfinished, of work not yet begun, often of work never to be done. from rue de tournon he removed, early in , to rue cassini, no. , as we find it given in the paris _bottin_ of that year. it is a short street of one block, running from avenue de l'observatoire to rue du faubourg-saint-jacques, and takes its name appropriately from the italian astronomer, who was installed in the observatory, having been made a citizen of france by colbert, louis xiv.'s great finance minister. it is a secluded quarter still, with its own air of isolation and its own village atmosphere. in it was really a village, far from town, and these streets were only country lanes, bordered by infrequent cottages, dear to the weary parisian seeking distance and quiet. three of them, near together here, harbored famous men at about this period, and all three have remained intact until lately for the delight of the pilgrim--that of châteaubriand, no. rue denfert-rochereau, that of victor hugo, no. rue notre-dame-des-champs, and this one of balzac. his house, destroyed only in , was on the southwest corner of rue du faubourg-saint-jacques and rue cassini. it was a little cottage of two stories, with two wings and a small central body, giving on a tiny court. a misguided paris journal has claimed, with copious letterpress and illustrations, the large building at no. rue cassini for balzac's abode. this is a lamentable error, one of the many met with in topographical research, by which the traditions of a demolished house are transplanted to an existing neighbor. this characterless no. carries its own proof that balzac could never have chosen it, even were we without the decisive proof given by the _cadastre_ of the city, lately unearthed by m. g. lenôtre among the buried archives of the _bureau des contributions directes_. in the sunny apartment of the left wing dwelt balzac and his friend, auguste borget; in the other wing, jules sandeau lived alone and lonely in his recent separation from george sand. their separation was not so absolute as to prevent an occasional visit from her, and an occasional dinner to her by the three men. she has described one of these wonderful dinners with much humor; telling how balzac, when she started for her home--then on quai malaquais--arrayed himself in a fantastically gorgeous dressing-gown to accompany her; boasting, as they went, of the four arabian horses he was about to buy; which he never bought, but which he quite convinced himself, if not her, that he already owned! says madame dudevant: "he would, if we had permitted him, have thus escorted us from one end of paris to the other." he so far realized his vision as to set up a tilbury and horse at this period--about --and exulted in the sensation created by his magnificence as he drove, clad in his famous blue coat with shining buttons, and attended by his tiny groom, "_grain-de-mil_." this equipage and that gorgeous dressing-gown were but a portion of the bizarre splendor with which balzac loved to relieve the squalor of his debt-ridden days. here, his creditors forgetting, by them forgotten, as he fondly hoped, hiding from his friends the furniture he had salvaged from his wreck, he wantoned in silver toilet-appliances, in dainty porcelain and _bric-à-brac_; willing to go without soup and meat--never without his coffee--that he might fill, with egregious _bibelots_, his "nest of boudoirs _à la marquise_, hung with silk and edged with lace," to use george sand's words; boudoirs which he has described in minute detail, placing them in the preposterous apartment of "la fille aux yeux d'or." in his work-room, apart and markedly simple and severe, he began that series of volumes, amazing in number and vigor, with which he was resolute to pay his enormous debts. here, in this little wing, in the years between and , he produced, among over sixty others of less note, such masterpieces as "la peau de chagrin," "le chef d'oeuvre inconnu," "le curé de tours," "louis lambert," "eugénie grandet," "le médecin de campagne," "le père goriot," "la duchesse de langeais," "illusion perdues" (first part only), "le lys dans la vallée," "l'enfant maudit," "césar birotteau," "cent contes drôlatiques" (in three sections), "séraphita," "la femme de trente ans," and "jésus-christ en flandres." in addition to his books, he did journalistic writing, chiefly for weekly papers; and in he bought up and took charge of the "chronique de paris," aided by a gallant staff of the cleverest men of the day. it lived only a few months. in he started "la revue parisienne," written entirely by himself. it lived three months. when once at work, balzac shut himself in his room, often seeing no one but his faithful servant for many weeks. his work-room was darkened from all daylight, his table lit only by steady-flamed candles, shaded with green. a cloistered monk of fiction, he was clad in his favorite robe of white cashmere, lined with white silk, open at the throat, with a silken cord about the waist, as we see him on the canvas of louis boulanger. he would get to his table at two in the morning and leave it at six in the evening; the entire time spent in writing new manuscript, and in his endless correction of proofs, except for an hour at six in the morning, for his bath and coffee, an hour at noon for his frugal breakfast, with frequent coffee between-times. at six in the evening he dined most simply, and was in bed and asleep by eight o'clock. [illustration: honoré de balzac. (from the portrait by louis boulanger.)] with no inborn literary facility, with an inborn artistic conscience that drove him on in untiring pursuit of perfection, he filled the vast chasm between his thought and its expression with countless pen-strokes, and by methods of composition all his own: the exact reverse of those of dumas, writing at white heat, never rewriting; or of hugo, who said: "i know not the art of soldering an excellence in the place of a defect, and i correct myself in another work." balzac began with a short and sketchy and slip-shod skeleton, making no attempt toward sequence or style, and sent it, with all its errors, to the printer. proofs were returned to him in small sections pasted in the centre of huge sheets; around whose wide borders soon shot from the central text rockets and squibs of the author's additions and corrections, fired by his infuriated fist. the new proofs came back on similar sheets, to be returned to the printer, again like the web and tracks of a tipsy spider. this was repeated a dozen or, it is said, a score of times, always with amplifications, until his type-setters became palsied lunatics. he overheard one of them, as he entered the office one day, say: "i've done my hour of balzac; who takes him next?" type-setter, publisher, author were put out of misery only when the last proof came in, at its foot the magic "_bon à tirer_." this stupendous work had been preceded and was accompanied by as stupendous preparation of details. he dug deep to set the solid foundations for each structure he meant to build. "i have had to read _so many_ books," he says, referring to his preliminary toil on "louis lambert." so real were his creations to him--more alive to his vision than visible creatures about--that he must needs name them fittingly, and house them appropriately. invented nomenclature gave no vitality to them, in his view, and he hunted, on signs and shop-fronts wherever he went, for real names that meant life, and a special life. "a name," as he said, "which explains and pictures and proclaims him; a name that shall be his, that could not possibly belong to any other." he revelled in his discovery of "matifat," and "cardot," and like oddities. he dragged léon gozlan through miles of streets on such a search, refusing every name they found, until he quivered and colored before "marcas" on a tailor's sign; it was the name he had dreamed of, and he put "z" before it, "to add a flame, a plume, a star to the name of names!" his scenes, too, were set for his personages with appalling care, so that, as has been well said, he sometimes chokes one with brick and mortar. he knew his paris as dickens knew his london, and found in unknown streets or unfrequented quarters the scenes he searched long for, the surroundings demanded by his characters. if his story were placed in a provincial town, he would write to a friend living there for a map of the neighborhood, and for accurate details of certain houses. or, he would make hurried journeys to distant places: "i am off to grenoble," or, "to alençon"--he wrote to his sister--"where so-and-so lives:" one of his new personages, already a living acquaintance to him. in his artistic frenzy for fitting atmosphere he has, unconsciously, breathed his spirit of unrest into much of his narrative, and the reader plunges on, out-of-breath, through chapterless pages of fatiguing detail. these excursions were not his only outings in later years. he got away from his desk during the summer months, for welcome journeys to his own touraine, and to other lands, and for visits to old family friends. always and everywhere he carried his work with him. and he began to see the world of paris, and to be seen in that world, notably in the famous _salon_ of emile de girardin and his young wife, delphine gay de girardin, where the watchword was "admiration, more admiration, and still more admiration." he met well-bred women and illustrious men, whose familiar intercourse polished him, whose attentions gratified him. the pressure of his present toil removed for a while, he was fond of emerging from his solitude, and of flashing in the light of publicity. he was an interested and an interesting talker, earnest and vehement and often excited in his utterances; yet frank and merry, and vivid with a "herculean joviality." his thick fine black hair was tossed back like a mane from his noble, towering brow; his nose was square at the end, his lips full and curved, and hidden partly by a small mustache. his most notable features were his eyes, brown, spotted with gold, glowing with life and light--"the eyes of a sovereign, a seer, a subjugator." a great soul shone out of them, and they redeemed and triumphed over all that was heavy in face and vulgar in body; for, with a thickness of torso like mirabeau, and the neck of a bull, he had his own corpulence. lamartine says that the personal impression made by balzac was that of an element in nature; he gripped one's brain when speaking, and one's heart when silent. moreover, it was an element good as well as strong, unable to be other than good; and his expression, we know from all who saw it, told of courage, patience, gentleness, kindliness. he was commonly as careless of costume as a vagrant school-boy in outgrown clothes. he would rush from his desk to the printer's or race away in search of names, clad in his green hunting-jacket with its copper buttons of foxes' heads, black and gray checked trousers, pleated at the waist, and held down by straps passing under the huge high-quartered shoes, tied or untied as might happen, a red silk kerchief cord-like about his neck, his hat, shaggy and faded, crushed over his eyes--altogether a grotesque creature! in contrast, he was gorgeous in his gala toilet of the famous blue coat and massive gold buttons, and the historic walking-stick, always carried _en grande tenue_, its great knob aglow with jewels sent him by his countless feminine adorers. when balzac removed with sandeau, in , to new quarters, he kept this apartment in rue cassini for an occasional retreat, perhaps for a friendly refuge against the creditors, who became more and more clamorous in their attentions. the two comrades furnished the lower floor of their new home most handsomely; mainly with the view of dazzling urgent publishers, who, as said balzac, "would give me nothing for my books if they found me in a garret." coming to drive a bargain, these guileless gentry found themselves too timid to haggle with the owners of such luxury. they could not know that that luxury was merely hired under cover of a friend's name, and lit up only by night to blind and bewilder them, while the haughty authors lived by day in bare discomfort, on a half-furnished upper floor. of this mansion only the site remains. it was at no. rue des battailles, on the heights of chaillot--the suburb between paris and passy--and that street and the balzac house have been cut away by the modern avenue d'iéna. retired and high as it was, with its grand view over river and town, it was not high enough nor far enough away for this lover of distance and height. he soon tried again to realize his ideal of a country home by buying, in , three acres of land at ville d'avray, a quarter near sèvres, on the road to versailles. on the ground was a small cottage called, in louis xiv.'s time, "_les jardies_," still known by that name, and notable in our time as the country-home of léon gambetta, wherein he died. that home remains exactly as he left it, at no. rue gambetta, ville d'avray, and has been placed among the national monuments of france. it is a shrine for the former followers of the great tribune, who visit it on each anniversary of his death. the statue they have erected to their leader, alongside the house, may be most kindly passed by in silence. [illustration: les jardies.] the glorious view from this spot--embracing the valley of ville d'avray, the slopes opposite, the great city in the distance--was a delight to balzac. _les jardies_ was a tiny box, having but three rooms in its two stories, which communicated by a ladder-like staircase outside. he had tried to improve the place by a partial rebuilding, and the stairs were forgotten until it was too late to put them inside. a later tenant has enclosed that absurd outer staircase within a small addition. his garden walls gave him even more trouble, for they crumbled and slid down on the grounds of an irate neighbor. the greater part of that garden has been walled off. yet the poor little patch was a domain in his eyes; its one tree and scattered shrubs grew to a forest in his imagination, and his fancy pictured, in that confined area, a grand plantation of pineapples, from which he was to receive a yearly income of , francs! he had fixed on the very shop on the boulevards where they were to be sold, and only gautier's cold sense prevented the great planter, as he saw himself, from renting it before he had grown one pineapple! his rooms were almost bare of furniture, and this was suggested by his stage directions charcoaled on the plaster walls: "rosewood panels," "gobelins tapestries," "venetian mirror," "an inlaid cabinet stands here," "here hangs a raphael." thus he was content to camp for four or five years, hoping his house would yet be furnished, and perhaps believing it was already furnished. at this time, and for many years, balzac rented a room over the shop of his tailor buisson, at the present no. rue de richelieu. his letters came here always, and he used the place not only for convenience when in town, but, in connection with other shelters, for his unceasing evasion of pursuing creditors. a tailor still occupies that shop, and seems to be prosperous; probably able to collect his bills from prompter customers than was balzac. in , forced to sell _les jardies_, he came back into the suburbs, to a house then no. rue basse, at passy, now no. rue raynouard of that suburb. on the opposite side of the street, at no. , is a modest house, hiding behind its garden-wall. this was the unpretending home of "_béranger, poète à passy_," to quote the paris _bottin_. no. is a plain bourgeois dwelling of two stories and attic, wide and low, standing on the line of the street; in the rear is a court, and behind that court is the pavilion occupied by balzac. he had entrance from the front, and unseen egress by a small gate on the narrow lane sunk between walls, now named rue berton, and so by the quay into town. this was a need for his furtive goings and comings, at times. balzac's work-room here looked out over a superb panorama--across the winding seine, over the champ-de-mars, and the invalides' dome, and all southern paris, to the hills of meudon in the distance. this room he kept austerely furnished, as was his way; while the living apartments were crowded with the extraordinary collection of rare furniture, pictures, and costly trifles, which he had begun again to bring together. to it he gave all the money he could find or get credit for, and as much thought and labor and time as to his books, although with little of the knowledge that might have saved him from frequent swindlers. it was only his intimates who were allowed to enter these rooms, and they needed, in order to enter them, or the court or the house on the street, many contrivances and passwords, constantly changed. he himself posed as "_la veuve durand_," or as "_madame de bruguat_," and each visitor had to ask for one of these fictitious persons; stating, with cheerful irrelevancy: "the season of plums has arrived," or, "i bring laces from belgium." once in, they found free-hearted greeting and full-handed hospitality, and occasional little dinners. the good cheer was more toothsome to the favored _convives_, than were the cheap acrid wines, labelled with grand names, made drinkable only by the host's fantastic fables of their vintages and their voyages; believed by _him_, at least, who dwelt always in his own domain of dreams. these dinners were not extravagant, and there was no foolish expenditure in this household at passy. balzac wrote later to his niece, that his cooking there had been done only twice a week, and in the days between he was content with cold meat and salad, so that each inmate had cost him only one franc a day. for this man of lavish outlay for genuine and bogus antiques, this slave to strange extravagances and colossal debts--partly imaginary--was painfully economical in his treatment of himself. he thought of money, he wrote about money. before him, love had been the only passion allowed in novels; he put money in its place and found romance in the code. all through his life he worked for money to pay his debts, intent on that one duty. in october, , he wrote two letters, within one week, to the woman who was to be his wife; in one of them he says that his dream, almost realized, is to earn before december the paltry twenty thousand francs that would free him from all debt; in the other he gloats over recent purchases of _bric-à-brac_, amounting to hundreds of francs. he saw nothing comically inconsistent in the two letters. in all his letters, the saddest reading of all letters, there is this curious commingling of the comic and the sordid. those, especially, written to his devoted sister and to the devoted lady who became his wife at the last, give us most intimate acquaintance with the man; showing a _man_, indeed, strong and vehement, steadfast and patient; above all, magnanimous. self-assertive in his art, eager and insistent concerning it, he was quite without personal envy or self-seeking. said madame dudevant: "i saw him often under the shock of great injustices, literary and personal, and i never heard him say an evil word of anyone." nor was there any evil in his life--a life of sobriety and of chastity, as well as of toil. at the bottom of his complex nature lay a deep natural affection. this giant of letters, when nearly fifty years old, signed his letters to his mother, "_ton fils soumis_"; so expressing truly his feeling for her, from the day she had installed him in his mean garret, to that later day, when she fitted up his grand last mansion. in his letters to those dear to him, amid clamorous outcries about debts and discomforts, comes a deeper cry for sympathy and affection. early in life, he wrote to his sister: "my two only and immense desires--to be famous and to be loved--will they ever be satisfied?" to a friend he wrote: "all happiness depends on courage and work." so, out of his own mouth, we may judge this man in all fairness. from this passy home one night, balzac and théophile gautier went to the apartment of roger de beauvoir, in the hôtel de lauzun-pimodan, on the island of saint-louis; and thence the three friends took a short flight into a hashish heaven. their strange experiences have been told by their pens, but to us, balzac's night of drugged dreams is not so strange as his days of unforced dreams. that which attracts us in this incident is its scene--one of the grandest of the mansions that sprang up from the thickets of Île saint-louis, as _le menteur_ has put it. built in the middle years of the seventeenth century, it stands quite unchanged at no. quai d'anjou, bearing, simply and effectively, every mark of mansart's hand in his later years. its first owner followed his friend fouquet to the bastille and to pignerol; its next tenant came to it from a prison-cell, and went from it to the very steps of the throne. he was the superb adventurer, antonin nompar de caumont, duc de lauzun, and his family name clings still to the place, and is cut in gold letters on the black marble tablet above the door. on that prettiest balcony in paris, crowded the prettiest women of paris, on summer nights, to look at the river fêtes got up by their showy and braggart gascon host. through this portal have passed bossuet and père lachaise, going in to convert the plain old huguenot mother of de lauzun, who lived retired in her own isolated chamber through the years of her son's ups and downs. when her family had gone, came the marquis de richelieu, great-nephew of the great richelieu, with the bride he had stolen from her convent at chaillot--the daughter of hortense mancini, niece of mazarin, and of her husband, it is alleged. then came the pimodan, who was first of that name, and who gave it to his _hôtel_. it is an admirable relic; its rooms, with their frescoed ceilings and their panelled walls, are as remarkable as those of the _château_ of fontainebleau, and are not surpassed by any in paris. the mansion is well worth a visit for itself and for its memories. balzac's paris--the paris for which his pen did what callot and meryon did for it with their needles--has been almost entirely pickaxed out of sight and remembrance. the revolution, wild-eyed in its mad "carmagnole," gave itself time to raze a few houses only, after clearing the ground of the bastille, although it had meant much more destruction; the empire cut some new streets, and planned some new quarters; the bourbons came back and went away again, leaving things much as they had found them. it remained for louis-philippe to begin "works of public utility," an academic phrase, which being interpreted signified the tearing down of the old and the building up of the new, to gratify the grocers and tallow-chandlers whose chosen king he was, and to fill his own pocket. yet much of balzac's stage-setting remained until it was swept away by haussmann and his master of the second empire. such was the wretched rue du doyenné, that "narrow ravine" between the louvre and place du carrousel, where baron hulot first saw _la marneffe_, and where _la cousine bette_ kept guard over her polish artist in his squalid garret; doubtless the very garret known to balzac in his visits there, when it was tenanted by arsène houssaye, gautier, gavarni, and the rest of "young france, harmless in its furies." that house, one of a block of black old eighteenth-century structures, stood where now is the trim little garden behind the preposterous statue of gambetta. history and fiction meet on the steps of saint-roch. there césar birotteau, the ambitious and unlucky perfumer, was "wounded by napoleon," on the _ vendémiaire_, the day that put the young corsican's foot into the stirrup, and gave to the sham-heroic césar that sounding phrase, always thereafter doing duty on his tongue. he was carried to his shop in rue saint-honoré, on its northern side near rue de castiglione, and hid and bandaged and nursed in his _entresol_. this part of rue saint-honoré and its length eastward, with its narrow pavement and its tall, thin houses, is still a part of the picture balzac knew and painted; but the business district hereabout has greatly changed since his day. the avenue de l'opéra, and all that mercantile quarter dear to the american pocket, the bourse and the banking-houses about, date from this side of his paris. nucingen would be lost in his old haunts, and lucien de rubempré could not recognize the newspaper world of our day. the _hôtels_ of the faubourg saint-germain--the splendid mansions of the splendid eighteenth century, where his rastignac and his lesser pet swells lorded it--are now, in many cases, let out in apartments, their owners content with the one floor that is in keeping with their diminished fortunes. undiminished, however, are their traditions and their prejudices, albeit "_le faubourg_" exists no longer, except as an attitude of mind. yet, here on the left bank, are still to be found some of the scenes of the "comédie humaine." on quai voltaire, alongside the house in which voltaire died, is the very same shop of the antiquary, from whom raphael de valentin bought the _peau de chagrin_. balzac knew it well, doubtless was swindled there, and to-day you will find it as crowded with curiosities, as begrimed with dust, as suggestive of marvels hid in its dusky corners, as when he haunted it. raphael de valentin lived in the _hôtel-garni_ saint-quentin, rue des cordiers. long before his day, rousseau had been a tenant of a dirty room in the same dirty _hôtellerie_, going there because of the scholarly neighborhood of the place and of its memories, even at that time. leibnitz, in , had found it a village inn in a narrow lane, hardly yet a street. gustave planche lived there, and hégésippe moreau died there in --a true poet, starved to death. the old inn and all its memories and the very street are vanished; and the new buildings of the sorbonne cover their site. [illustration: the antiquary's shop, and in the background the house where voltaire died.] "one of the most portentous settings of the scene in all the literature of fiction. in this case there is nothing superfluous; there is a profound correspondence between the background and the action." such is the judgment of so competent a critic as mr. henry james, concerning the house in which is played the poignant tragedy of "père goriot." you will, if you love balzac, own to the truth of this statement, when you look upon this striking bit of salvage. it stands, absolutely unchanged as to externals, at no. rue tournefort; a street named in honor of the great botanist who cleared the track for linnæus. in balzac's day, this street was known by its original name of neuve-sainte-geneviève; one of the most ancient and most isolated streets on the southern bank. once only, through the centuries, has its immemorial quiet been broken by unseemly noise, when, in the days of françois i., a rowdy gambling-den there, the "_tripôt des , diables_," did its utmost to justify its name. the street seems to creep, in subdued self-effacement, over the brow of mont-sainte-geneviève, away from the paris of shops and cabs and electric light. the house stands narrow on the street, its gable window giving scanty light to poor old goriot's wretched garret; framed in it, one may fancy the patient face of the old man, looking out in mute bewilderment on his selfish, worldly daughters. the place no longer holds the "_pension bourgeoise de deux sexes et autres_" of the naïve description on the cards of madame vauquer, _née_ conflans; and is now let out to families and single tenants. its gate-way stands always open, and you may enter without let or hindrance into the court, and so through to the tiny garden behind, once the pride of madame vauquer, no longer so carefully kept up. you peep into the small, shabby _salle-à-manger_, on the entrance floor of the house, and you seem to see the convict vautrin, manacled, in the clutch of the _gens-d'armes_, and, cowering before him, the vicious old maid who has betrayed him. that colossal conception of the great romancer had found his ideal hiding-place here, as had the forlorn father his hiding-place, in his self-inflicted poverty. all told, there is no more convincing pile of brick and mortar in fiction; sought out and selected by balzac with as much care and as many journeys as dickens gave to his hunt for exactly the right house for sampson and sally brass. [illustration: the pension vauquer.] while balzac was still at passy, after long searching for a new home, he made purchase, as early as , in the new quarter near the present parc monceaux. that name came from an estate hereabout, once owned by philippe Égalité; and his son, the king of the french, and the shrewdest speculator among the french, was just at this time exploiting this estate, in company with lesser speculators. the whole suburb was known as the quartier beaujon, from a great banker of the eighteenth century, whose grand mansion, within its own grounds, had been partly demolished by the cutting of new streets, leaving only out-buildings and a pavilion in a small garden. this was the place bought by balzac; the house and grounds, dear as they were, costing much less, as he found, than his furniture, bronzes, porcelains, and pottery, paintings and their frames--all minutely described in the collection of _le cousin pons_. he made a museum, indeed, of this house, bringing out all his hidden treasures from their various concealments here and there about town. there was still a pretence of poverty regarding his new home; he would say to his friends, amazed by the display: "nothing of all this is mine. i have furnished this house for a friend, whom i expect. i am only the guardian and doorkeeper of this _hôtel_." the pretty mystery was resolved within a few months, and its solution explained balzac's frequent and long absences from paris after the winter of - . these months had been passed at the home of madame Ève de hanska, the polish widow who was to be his wife. her home was in the grand _château_ of wierzchownie, in the ukraine, whose present owner keeps unchanged the furniture of balzac's apartment, where is hung his portrait by boulanger, a gift to madame de hanska from her lover. and from there he brought his bride to paris in the summer of , their marriage dating from march of that year, after many years of waiting in patient affection. she had made over--with balzac's cordial consent--nearly the whole of her great fortune to her daughter, her only child, and to that daughter's husband, retaining but a small income for herself. it was--and the envious world owned that it was--truly a love-match. they came home to be welcomed, first of all, by balzac's aged mother; who had, during his absence, taken charge of all the preparations, with the same anxious, loving care she had given to the fitting-up of his garret thirty years before. she had carried out, in every detail, even to the arrangement of the flowers in the various rooms, the countless directions he had sent from every stage of the tedious journey from wierzchownie. "and so, the house being finished, death enters," goes the turkish proverb. this undaunted mariner, after his stormy voyage, gets into port and is ship-wrecked there. his premonition of early years, written to his confidant dablin in , was proven true: "i foresee the darkest of destinies for myself; that will be to die when all that i now wish for shall be about to come to me." as early as in the preceding summer of , he had ceased to conceal from himself any longer the malady that others had seen coming since . the long years of unbroken toil, of combat without pause, of stinted sleep, of insufficient food, of inadequate exercise, of the steady stimulation of coffee, had broken the body of this athlete doubled with the monk. years before, he had found that the inspiration for work given by coffee had lessened in length and strength. "it now excites my brain for only fifteen days consecutively," he had complained; protesting that rossini was able to work for the same period on the same stimulus! so he spurred himself on, listening to none of the warnings of worn nature nor of watchful friends. "well, we won't talk about that now," was always his answer. "in the olden days," says sainte-beuve, "men wrote with their brains; but balzac wrote, not only with his brains, but with his blood." and now, he went to pieces all at once; his heart and stomach could no longer do their work; his nerves, once of steel and manila hemp, were torn and jangled, and snapped at every strain; his very eyesight failed him. the most pitiful words ever penned by a man-of-letters were scrawled by him, at the end of a note written by his wife to gautier, a few weeks after their home-coming: "_je ne puis ni lire ni écrire._" "on the th august, "--writes hugo in "choses vues"--"my wife, who had been during the day to call on madame balzac, told me that balzac was dying. my uncle, general louis hugo, was dining with us, but as soon as we rose from table, i left him and took a cab to rue fortunée, quartier beaujon, where m. de balzac lived. he had bought what remained of the _hôtel_ of m. de beaujon, a few buildings of which had escaped the general demolition, and out of them he had made a charming little house, elegantly furnished, with a _porte-cochère_ on the street, and in place of a garden, a long, narrow, paved court-yard, with flower-beds about it here and there." [illustration: plaque marking place of death of balzac] it was to no. , allée fortunée, that hugo drove. that suburban lane is now widened into rue balzac, and where it meets rue du faubourg-saint-honoré there is a bit of garden-wall, and set in it is a tablet recording the site of this, balzac's last home. the house itself has quite vanished, but one can see, above that wall, the upper part of a stone pavilion with greek columns, built by him, it is believed. "i rang," continues hugo; "the moon was veiled by clouds; the street deserted. no one came. i rang again. the gate opened; a woman came forward, weeping. i gave my name, and was told to enter the _salon_, which was on the ground floor. on a pedestal opposite the fireplace was the colossal bust by david. a wax-candle was burning on a handsome oval table in the middle of the room.... we passed along a corridor, and up a staircase carpeted in red, and crowded with works of art of all kinds--vases, pictures, statues, paintings, brackets bearing porcelains.... i heard a loud and difficult breathing. i was in m. de balzac's bedroom. "the bed was in the middle of the room. m. de balzac lay in it, his head supported by a mound of pillows, to which had been added the red damask cushions of the sofa. his face was purple, almost black, inclining to the right. the hair was gray, and cut rather short. his eyes were open and fixed. i saw his side face only, and thus seen, he was like napoleon.... i raised the coverlet and took balzac's hand. it was moist with perspiration. i pressed it; he made no answer to the pressure...." the bust that hugo saw was done by david d'angers; a reduced copy surmounts balzac's tomb. his portrait, in water-color, painted, within an hour after his death, by eugène giraud, is a touching portrayal of the man, truer than any made during life, his widow thought. while long suffering had wasted, it had refined, his face, and into it had come youth, strength, majesty. it is the head of the titan, who carried a pitiable burden through a life of brave labor. balzac's death was known in a moment, it would seem, to his creditors, and they came clamoring to the door, and invaded the house--a ravening horde, ransacking rooms and hunting for valuables. they drove the widow away, and she found a temporary home with madame de surville, at rue des martyrs. this house and number are yet unchanged. cabinets and drawers were torn open, and about the grounds were scattered his letters and papers, sketches of new stories, drafts of contemplated work--all, that could be, collected by his friends, also hurrying to the spot. they found manuscripts in the shops around, ready to enwrap butter and groceries. one characteristic and most valuable letter was tracked to three places, in three pieces, by an enthusiast, who rescued the first piece just as it was twisted up and ready to light a cobbler's pipe. "he died in the night," continues hugo. "he was first taken to the chapel beaujon.... the funeral service took place at saint-philippe-du-roule. as i stood by the coffin, i remembered that there my second daughter had been baptized. i had not been in the church since.... the procession crossed paris, and went by way of the boulevards to père-lachaise. rain was falling as we left the church, and when we reached the cemetery. it was one of those days when the heavens seemed to weep. we walked the whole distance. i was at the head of the coffin on the right, holding one of the silver tassels of the pall. alexandre dumas was on the other side.... when we reached the grave, which was on the brow of the hill, the crowd was immense.... the coffin was lowered into the grave, which is near to those of charles nodier and casimir delavigne. the priest said a last prayer and i a few words. while i was speaking the sun went down. all paris lay before me, afar off, in the splendid mists of the sinking orb, the glow of which seemed to fall into the grave at my feet, as the dull sounds of the sods dropping on the coffin broke in upon my last words." yes, stretched before his grave, lies all paris, as his rastignac saw it, when he turned from the _fosses-communes_, into which they had just thrown the body of père goriot, and with his clinched fist flung out his grand defiance toward the great, beautiful, cruel city: "_À nous deux, maintenant!_" footnote: [ ] just as balzac was a victim of calumny during life, so, since death, has he suffered from carelessness. it is almost impossible to make sure of incidents and dates in his career. these errors begin with his birth, which is placed on the th may by many writers, and is so cut on the memorial tablet in paris. in this text, his birth-date is fixed on the th may, on the strength of his family records, and the statements of his life-long friends. of these, some say that he was born on the _ floréal_, and others on the day of saint-honoré. no figuring can make these dates fall on any other day than the th may. as for the many conflicting statements concerning him that have been handed down, in the absence of indisputable evidence, those alone are accepted here which are most nearly in keeping with the proven facts and dates in his life. the paris of alexandre dumas [illustration: the figure of d'artagnan. (from the dumas monument, by gustave doré.)] the paris of alexandre dumas it was in that alexandre dumas, in his twenty-first year, took coach for paris from his boyhood-home with his widowed mother, at villers-cotterets. he was set down at the principal landing-place of the provincial diligences in place des victoires, and found a room near by in an inn at no. rue du bouloi. its old walls are still there on the street and in the court, and the hôtel de blois still awaits the traveller. thence he started on foot, at once, for no. rue du mont-blanc, the home of the popular liberal spokesman in the chamber of deputies, general foy, an old comrade-in-arms of general dumas, to whom his son brought a letter of introduction. about that house, two years later, a few days after november , , all paris assembled, while all france mourned, for the burial of this honest man, whose earnest voice had been heard only in the cause of freedom and justice. marked by a tablet, his house still stands, and is now no. rue de la chaussée-d'antin--the renamed rue du mont-blanc--on the corner of rue de la victoire. besides this letter, young dumas carried only a meagre outfit of luggage, and such meagre education as may be picked up by a clever and yet an idle lad, in a notary's office in a provincial town. indeed, when he was made welcome by general foy, he was questioned, too; and, to his chagrin, he was found to be without equipment for any sort of service. on the strength, however, of his "_belle écriture_," he obtained, through the influence of the general, a petty clerkship in the household of the duc d'orléans, coming naturally enough to the boy from villers-cotterets, the country-seat of the orleans family. its stipend of , francs a year was doubtless munificent in the eyes of orleans thrift, and was certainly sufficient for the needs then of the future owner of monte-cristo's millions. he earned his wage and no more; for his official pen--at his desk in the palais-royal--while doing its strict duty on official documents, was more gladly busied on his own studies and his own paper-spoiling. for the author within him had come to life with his first tramping of the paris streets and his first taking-in of all that they meant then. the babies, begotten by french fathers and mothers during the napoleonic wars, and during those tremendous years at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, breathed, full-lunged, an air of instant and intense vitality. now, come to stalwart manhood, that mighty generation, eager to speed the coming of red-blooded romanticism and the going of cold and correct classicism, showed itself alert in many directions, notably prolific in literature and the arts, after the sterility of so many years. when dumas came to paris, lamartine had already, in , charmed the public by the freshness and grace of his "méditations." his admirers were content with the sonorous surface of his vague, spiritual exaltations, satisfied not to seek for any depth below. hugo, barely twenty, had thrilled men with the sounding phrases of his "odes et ballades." these two, coming behind chénier the herald and châteaubriand the van-courier, were imposing pioneers of the great movement. even more popular than these two royalist poets, as they were regarded, was casimir delavigne--already installed over dumas as librarian at the palais-royal--rather a classicist in form, yet hailed as the poet and playwright of the liberal opposition. soulié, not so well known now as he merits, won his first fame in by his poems and plays. de vigny had brought out his earliest poems in ; and now, "isolated in his ivory tower," he was turning the periods of his admirable "cinq-mars." de musset was getting ready to try his wings, and made his first open-air flight in ; a flight alone, for the poet of personal passion joined no flock, ever. gautier was serving his apprenticeship to that poetic art, to whose service he gave a life-long devotion and the most perfect craftsmanship in all france. "they all come from châteaubriand," said goethe, of these and of other rhymesters of that time. châteaubriand himself had closed his career as poet and as imaginative writer as far back as , and had by now taken his rank as a classic in literature, and in life as a peer of france and a minister of the bourbons. but of all the singers of that day it was to béranger that the public ear turned most quickly and most kindly; even though he, then forty-three years of age, might also seem to be of an earlier generation. those others touched, with various fingers, the lyre or the lute; he turned a most melodious hand-organ, with assured and showy art, and around it the captivated crowd loved to throng, with enraptured long ears. his cheaply sentimental airs were hummed and whistled all over france, and, known to everybody everywhere, there was really no need of his putting them in type on paper, and no need of his being sent to prison for that crime by charles x. yet he had his turn, soon again, and his _chansons_, as much as any utterance of man, upset the bourbon throne and placed louis-philippe on that shaky seat. that most prosaic of monarchs was sung up to the throne, and the misguided poet soon found him out for what he was. in prose, during these years, nodier, librarian at the arsenal, was plying his refined and facile pen. mérimée showed his hand in , not to clasp, with any show of sympathy, the hand of any fellow-worker, yet willing to take his share of the strain. guizot, out of active politics for a time, did his most notable pen-work between and . his untiring antagonist, thiers, not yet turned into the practical politician, produced, between and , his "history of the french revolution," voluminous and untrustworthy; its author energetically earning carlyle's epithet, "a brisk little man in his way." his life-long crony, mignet, was digging vigorously in dry, historic dust. sainte-beuve left, in , his medical studies for those critical studies in which he soon showed the master's hand; notably with his early paper on hugo's "odes et ballades." michelet was finding his _métier_ by writing histories for children. the two thierry brothers, augustin and amédée, proved the genuine historian's stuff in them as early as . balzac was working, alone and unknown, in his garret; and young sue was handling the naval surgeon's knife, before learning how to handle the pen. and nearly all of these, nearly all the fine young fellows who made the movement of , had got inspiration from villemain, who had spoken, constantly and steadfastly, from his platform in the sorbonne during the ten years from to , those sturdy and graphic words which gave cheer and courage to so many. there were a similar vitality and fecundity in painting and music and their sister arts, and the brilliant host stirring for their sake might be cited along with the unnumbered and unnamable pen-workers of this teeming decade. less aggressive was the theatre. scribe had possession, flooding the stage with his comedies, vaudeville, opera-librettos, peopling its boards with his pasteboard personages. there was call for revolt and need of life. talma, near his end, full of honors, devoted to his very death to his art, longed to fill the rôle of a _man_ on the boards, after so many years' impersonation of bloodless heroes. so he told dumas, who had come to see him only two weeks before his death, in , when the veteran thought he was recovering from illness--an illness acceptable to the great tragedian, for it gave him, he pointed out with pride, the lean frame and pendent cheeks, "beautiful for old tiberius"--the new part he was then studying. death came with his cue before that rôle could be played. this wish for a real human being on the boards came home to dumas, when he saw the true shakespeare rendered by macready and miss smithson at the salle favart in . it was shakespeare, in the reading before and now in the acting, that helped dumas more than any other influence. no frenchman has comprehended more completely than dumas the englishman's universality, and he used to say that, after god, shakespeare was the great creator. his first attempt to put live men and women on the stage, in "christine," was crowded out by a poorer play of the same name, pushed by the powers behind the comédie française. but on its boards, on the evening of february , , was produced his "henri iii. et sa cour," an instantaneous and unassailable success. he might have said, in the words of henri iv. at senlis, "my hour has struck"; for from that hour he went on in his triumphant dramatic career. the romantic drama had come at last, with its superb daring, its sounding but spurious sentiment, its engorgement of adjectives, and its plentiful lack of all sense of the ludicrous. perhaps if it had not taken itself so seriously, and had been blessed with a few grains of the saving salt of humor, it had not gone stale so soon. dumas had removed, soon after coming to town, from the inn in rue du bouloi to another of the same sort just around the corner, hôtel des vieux-augustins, in the street of the same name--now widened and renamed rue hérold. in the widening they have cut away his inn, at present no. , and that of "_la providence_," next door at no. , where charlotte corday had found a room on coming to paris, thirty years before, to visit monsieur marat. the sites of the two hotels are covered by the rear buildings of the caisse d'epargne, which fronts on rue du louvre. one ancient house, which saw the arrival of both these historic travellers, has been left at no. ; in it was born, on january , , the musician hérold, composer of "zampa" and "pré-aux-clercs." dumas lived for a while later at no. place des italiens, now place boïeldieu. in the summer of he brought his good mother to town, and took rooms on the second floor of no. rue du faubourg-saint-denis, next door to the old _cabaret_, "_au lion d'argent_." mother and son soon after moved across the river, where he found for her a home in rue madame, and found for himself an apartment at no. rue de l'université, on the southeastern corner of rue du bac. there had been an illustrious tenant of this house, in and , who was named châteaubriand. dumas, in his "mémoires," gives both the third and the fourth floors for his abode, as he happens to feel like fixing them. he had windows on both streets, and he fitted up the rooms "with a certain elegance." shoppers at the big establishment, "_au petit saint-thomas_," may explore its annex and mount to dumas's rooms in the house that now hides its stately façade and its entrance _perron_ in the court behind modern structures. here he remained from to , making a longer stay than in any of the many camping-places of his migratory career. and here he gave his name to his most memorable endowment to the french drama, in the person of his only son, born on july , , at the home of the mother, marie-catherine lebay, a dressmaker, living at no. place des italiens, where dumas had had his rooms. on march , , the father formally owned the son by _l'acte de reconnaissance_, signed and recorded at the office of the mayor of the second arrondissement, may , . so came into legal existence "alexandre dumas, _fils_." portions of the child's early life were passed with his father, but separations became more frequent and more prolonged, as the boy developed his own marked character--in striking contrast with that of the elder. their mutual attitude came, before many years, to be as queer and as tragi-comic as any attitudes invented by either of them for the stage. the son used to say, in later life, that he seemed to be the elderly guardian and counsellor of the father--a happy-go-lucky, improvident, chance child. for the son of the parisienne had inherited her hard shrewdness along with his father's dramatic range, and this happy commingling of the stronger qualities of the parents gave him his special powers. the doings of the elder dumas during the famous three days of july, , would make an amusing chapter. eager to play the part of his own boisterous heroes, he flung himself, with hot-headed and bombastic ardor, into throne-upsetting and throne-setting-up. of course he allied himself with the opponents of louis-philippe--possibly in keen memory of his monthly hundred francs worth of drudgery--and of course the success of the orleanists left him with no further chance for place or patronage. so his pen was his only ally, and it soon proved itself to be no broken reed, but a strong staff for support. strong as it was and unresting, no one pen could do even the manual labor required by the endless volumes he poured forth. in , having finished "monte-cristo," he followed it by "the three musketeers," and then he put out no less than forty volumes in that same year; each volume bearing his name as sole author. but this sturdy and undaunted toiler was no laborious recluse, like balzac, and he was surrounded by clerks for research, secretaries for writing, young and unknown authors for collaborating; reserving, for his own hand, those final telling touches that give warmth and color to the canvas signed by him. his "victims," as they are described in the "fabrique de romans, maison alexandre dumas et compagnie," a malicious exposure, are hardly subjects for sympathy; they earned money not otherwise within their power to earn, and not one of them produced, before or after, any work of individual distinction. in his historical romances, their work is evident in the study and research that give an accuracy not commonly credited to dumas and about which he never bothered. the _belle insouciance_ of his touch is to be seen in the dash of the narrative, and above all in the dialogues, not only in their dramatic force and fire, but in their growing long-windedness. for he was paid by the line at a royal rate, and he learned the trick of making his lines too short and his dialogues too long, his paymasters complained. and, as he went on, it must be owned that he used his name in unworthy ways, not only for books of no value and for journalistic paltriness, but for shameless signature to shopkeepers' puffs, composed for coin. as the volumes poured out, money poured in, and poured out again as freely. for he was a spendthrift of the old _régime_, spending not only for his own caprices, but for his friends and flatterers and hangers-on. he made many foolish ventures, too, such as building his own theatre and running it; and he squandered fabulous sums in his desire to make real, at saint-gratien, his dream of a palace fit for monte-cristo himself. the very dogs abused his big-hearted hospitality, quartering themselves on him there, until his favorite servant, under pretence of fear of the unlucky number thirteen, to which they had come, begged to be allowed to send some of them away. he gave up his attempt toward reformatory thrift when dumas ordered him to find a fourteenth dog! he would have drained dry a king's treasury, and have bankrupted monte-cristo's island of buried millions. yet with all his ostentatious swagger and his preposterous tomfoolery, he had a childlike rapture in spending, and a manly joy in giving, that disarm stingy censure. the lover of the romancer must mourn for the man, growing poorer as he grew older, and must regret the degrading shifts at which he snatched for money, by which he sank to be a mountebank in his declining years. toward the last his purse held fewer _sous_ than it held when he came to paris to hunt for them. from his eight years' home in rue de l'université, dumas crossed the seine, preferring always thereafter the flashily fashionable quarters of the northern side; and none of his numerous dwellings henceforward are worth visiting for their character or color. for nearly two years he lived in a great mansion, no. rue saint-lazare, in other rooms of which george sand lived a little later. his next home, from to , at rue bleue, has been cut away by rue lafayette. from to he had an apartment, occasionally shared by his son, at no. rue de rivoli, between place des pyramides and rue saint-roch. twenty-five years after the death of the father, when the son, as he says, was older and grayer than his father had ever grown to be, a letter to him was written by that son. it is an exquisite piece of literature. he brings back their life in this apartment, when, twenty-two years apart in their birth, they were really of the same age. he tells how he, a young man going early to his studies, left the elder at his desk, already at work at seven in the morning, clad only in trousers and shirt, the latter with open neck and rolled-up sleeves. at seven in the evening his son would find him planted there still at work, his mid-day breakfast often cold at his side, forgotten and untouched! then these two would dine, and dine well, for the father loved to play the cook, and he was a master of that craft. all the while he was preparing the _plats_ he would prattle of his heroes, what they'd done that day, and what he imagined they might do on the next day. and then the letter calls back to the father that evening, a little later, when he was found by his son sunk in an armchair, red-eyed and wretched, and mournfully explained: "porthos is dead! i've just killed him, and i couldn't help crying over him!" it must have been at this period that the romancer tried to secure his son as his permanent paid critic, offering him , francs a year, and "you'll have nothing to do but to make objections." the offer was declined, and rightly declined. it was in this and in his succeeding residences--rue de richelieu, , in , and rue de la chaussée-d'antin, , in --that he brought out in newspaper _feuilletons_ "the count of monte-cristo," and "the three musketeers," these amazing successes written from day to day to keep pace with the press. in , while his address was at no. rue joubert, he was in spain with the duc de montpensier, one of his many companions among princes. they, along with other cronies, male and female, more or less worthy, found dumas at saint-germain from to . then, suddenly, he disappeared into belgium, "for reasons not wholly unconnected with financial reverses," as he and his only peer in fiction, micawber, would have put it. he was in town again in , at no. rue d'amsterdam, and there remained until , when he rushed off to the head-quarters of the "dictator of sicily," garibaldi, to whom dumas appointed himself aide and messenger. between and his residence was at boulevard malesherbes. on the coming of the prussians, he was carried, ailing and feeble, to his country-place at puys, near dieppe, where he died december , . his public burial was delayed until the close of the war, and then, in , was solemnized in the presence of all that was notable in french art and literature, at his birthplace and his boyhood-home, villers-cotterets. when dumas was asked how a monument might be erected in memory of a dead pen-worker, who in life had been misunderstood and maligned, he replied: "use the stones thrown at him while he lived, and you'll have a tremendous monument." the lovers in all lands of the great romancer could well have brought together more telling stones than those that make doré's monument in place malesherbes, near his last paris home. and yet, curiously weak in its general impression, its details are effective. the group in front is well imagined: a girl is reading to a young student, and to an old, barefooted workman; on the other side is our hero d'artagnan. the seated statue of dumas, on too tall a pedestal, is an admirable portrait, with his own vigorous poise of head and gallant regard. in the american minister to france, mr. john bigelow, breakfasted with dumas at saint-gratien, near paris, where the romancer was temporarily sojourning. it was toward the close of our civil war, and he had a notion of going to the united states as war-correspondent for french papers, and to make another book, of course. mr. bigelow gives an accurate and admirable description of the host, as he greeted him at the entrance of his villa; over six feet in height, corpulent, but well proportioned; a brown skin, a head low and narrow in front, enlarging as it receded, covered with crisp, bushy hair growing gray, thick lips, a large mouth, and enormous neck. partly african and wholly stalwart, from his negress grandmother, he would have been a handsome creature but for his rapidly retreating forehead. but in his features and his expression nothing showed that was sordid or selfish, and his smile was very sweet. [illustration: alexandre dumas.] dumas lives and will never die as long as men love strength and daring, loyalty and generosity, good love-making and good fighting. he has put his own tenderness and frankness and vivacity into the real personages, whom he has reanimated and refined; and into the ideal personages, whom he has made as real as the actual historic men and women who throng his thrilling pages. his own virility and lust of life are there, too, without one prurient page in all his thousands. and he tells his delightful stories not only with charm and wit, but in clean-cut, straightforward words, with no making of phrases. very little of the valois paris is left to-day, and the searcher for the scenery familiar to margot and to chicot must be content with what is left of the old louvre, and of the then new renaissance louvre as it was known to the grandchildren of its builder, françois i. of the old, the outer walls and the great central tower are outlined by light stones in the darker pavement of the southwest corner of the present court. of the new structure, as we see it, the cold and cheerless salle des caryatides lights up unwillingly to us with the brilliancy of the marriage festival of marguerite de france and henri de navarre, as it is pictured by dumas. this festivity followed the religious ceremony, that had taken place under the grand portal of notre-dame, for henry's heresy forbade his marriage within. he and his _suite_ strolled about the cloisters while she went in to mass. in this hall of the caryatides his body, in customary effigy, lay in state after the assassination. there is no change in these walls since that day, except that a vaulted ceiling took the place, in , of the original oaken beams, which had served for rare hangings, not of tapestries, but of men. the long corridors and square rooms above, peopled peaceably by pictures now, echoed to the rushing of frightened feet on the night of saint bartholomew, when margot saved the life of her husband that was and of her lover that was to be. hidden within the massive walls of philippe-auguste's building is a spiral stairway of his time, connecting the salle des sept cheminées with the floor below, and beneath that with the cumbrous underground portions of his old louvre. as one gropes down the worn steps, around the sharp turns deep below the surface, visions appear of valois conspiracy and of the intrigues of the florentine queen-mother. here the wily creature had triumphed at last after waiting through weary years of humiliated wifehood; passed, such of them as henri ii. was willing to waste in paris far from his beloved touraine, in the old palais des tournelles. we shall visit, in another chapter, that residence of the early kings of france, when they had become kings of france in more than name. after the accidental killing of henry at the hand of montmorency in the lists of this palace, his widow urged its immediate destruction, and this was accomplished within a few years. one portion of the site became a favorite duelling-ground, and it was here--exactly in the southeastern corner of place des vosges, where now nursemaids play with their charges and romping schoolboys raise the dust--that was fought, on sunday, april , , the duel, as famous in history as in the pages of dumas, between the three followers of the duc de guise and the three _mignons_ of henri iii. those of the six who were not left dead on the ground were borne away desperately wounded. the instigator of the duel, quélus--"_un des grands mignons du roy_"--lay for over a month, slowly dying of his nineteen wounds, in the hôtel de boissy, hard by in rue saint-antoine, which the king had had closed to traffic with chains. by his bedside henri spent many hours every day, offering, with sobs, , francs to the surgeon who should save him. not far from this house of death, in rue saint-antoine too, was a little house, very much alive, for it belonged to marguerite--navarre only in name--to which none may follow her save the favored one to whom her latest caprice has given a nocturnal meeting. she is carried there, under cover of her closed litter, whenever her mother, never her husband, shows undue solicitude concerning her erratic career. in the same street, on the corner of rue sainte-catherine, now sévigné--where stand new stone and brick structures--was the town house of the comte de monsoreau. to this house, says brantôme, bussy d'amboise, done with margot, was lured by a note written by the countess, under her husband's orders and eyes, giving her lover, bussy, his usual _rendezvous_ during the count's absence. _this_ time the count was at home, with a gang of his armed men; and on this corner, on the night of august , , the gallant was duly and thoroughly done to death, not quite so dramatically as dumas narrates it in one of his magnificent fights. this rue saint-antoine was, in those days, hardly less of a bustling thoroughfare than in our days, albeit it was then a country road, unpaved, unlighted, bordered by great gardens with great mansions within them, or small dwellings between them. outside porte saint-antoine--that gate in the town wall alongside the bastille where now is the end of rue de la bastille--on the road to vincennes, was la roquette, a _maison-de-plaisance_ of the valois kings. hence the title of the modern prisons, on the same site. it was a favorite resort of the wretched third henry, that shameless compound of sensuality and superstition; and it was on his way there, at the end of rue de la roquette, that the vicious little lame duchesse de montpensier had plotted to waylay him, and to cut his hair down to a tonsure with the gold scissors she carried so long at her girdle for that very use. he had had two crowns, she said--of poland and of france--and she meant to give him a third, and make a monk of him, for the sake of her scheming brother, the duc de guise. the plot was betrayed, just as dumas details, by one nicolas poulain, a lieutenant of the prévôt of the Île de france, in the service of the league. gorenflot's priory--a vast jacobin priory--was on the same road, just beyond the bastille. to visit him out here came chicot, almost as vivid a creation in our affections as d'artagnan. once, when the fat and esurient monk was fasting, chicot tormented him with a description of their dinner awhile ago, near porte montmartre, when they had teal from the marshes of the grange batelière--where runs now the street of that name--washed down with the best of burgundy, _la romanée_. these two dined most frequently and most amply, at "_la corne d'abondance_"--a _cabaret_ on the east side of rue saint-jacques, opposite the cloisters and the gardens of saint-benoît, where the boy françois villon had lived more than a century before. either of the two shabby, aged hotels, still left at one corner of the old street may serve for chicot's pet eating-place. his dwelling was in rue des augustins, now rue des grands-augustins. where that street meets the quay of the same name, is a restaurant dear to legal and medical and lay _gourmets_, where those two noble diners would be enchanted to dine to-day. near chicot's later dwelling in rue de bussy--now spelt "buci"--was the inn, "the sword of the brave chevalier," which served as the meeting-place of the forty-five guardsmen, on their arrival in paris. you may find, in that same street, the lineal descendant of that inn, dirty and disreputable and modernized as to name, but still haunted for us by those forty-five gallant gascon gentlemen. the striking change of atmosphere, from the valois court to the regency of marie de' medici and the reign of the two great cardinals, is shown clearly in the pages of dumas, with his perhaps unconscious subtlety of intuition. we greet with delight the entrance into paris of a certain raw gascon youth mounted on his ludicrously colored steed, and we are eager to follow him to the _hôtel_ of the duc de tréville in rue du vieux-colombier. this street stretches now, as then, between place de saint-sulpice and place de la croix-rouge, but it has been widened and wholly rebuilt, and the courtyard that bustled with armed men, and every stone of de tréville's head-quarters, have vanished. the _hôtel_ of his temporary enemy, duc de la trémouille, always full of huguenots, the king complained, was in rue saint-dominique, at no. , in that eastern end cut away by boulevard saint-germain. this had been the trémouille mansion for only about a century, since the original family home had been given over to chancellor dubourg. built by the founder of the family, gui de la trémoille--as it was then spelt--the great fighter who died in , that superb specimen of fourteenth-century architecture, with additions late in the fifteenth and early in the sixteenth centuries, stood at the corner of rues des bourdonnais and de béthisy--two of the oldest streets on the north bank--until the piercing of rue de rivoli in compelled its destruction. fragments of its fine gothic carvings are set in the wall of the court of no. rue des bourdonnais, a building which occupies a portion of the original site. on the front of this house is an admirable iron balcony of later date. and just above, at no. of this street, over the entrance gate of the remaining wing of another mediæval mansion, is a superbly carved stone mask of an old man with a once gilded beard. it was the new hôtel la trémouille, on the south side of the river, not far from the luxembourg gardens, that was nearly wrecked by de tréville's guardsmen, running to the rescue of d'artagnan on that morning of his duel with bernajoux, and of his danger from the onslaught of de la trémouille's retainers. that duel ought to be good enough for us, but we have a hankering for the most dramatic and delightful of all duels in fiction. to get to its ground, we may follow either of the four friends, each coming his own way, each through streets changed but slightly even yet, all four coming out together at the corner of rues de vaugirard and cassette; where stands an ancient wall, its moss-covered coping overshadowed by straggling trees, through whose branches shows the roof of a chapel. it is the chapel, and about it are the grounds, of the carmes déchaussés. a pair of these gentry, sent by pope paul v., had appeared in paris in the year of the assassination of henri iv., and drew the devout to the little chapel they built here in the fields. the order grew rapidly in numbers and in wealth, acquiring a vast extent of ground; roughly outlined now by rues de vaugirard, du regard, du cherche-midi and cassette. the corner-stone of the new chapel, that which we see, was laid by the regent marie de' medici on july , . beyond its entrance, along the street, rise modern buildings; but behind the entrance in the western end of the wall, near rue d'assas, stands one of the original structures of the barefooted carmelites. this was used for a prison during the revolution, and no spot in all paris shows so graphic a scene of the september massacres. nothing of the prison has been taken away or altered. here are the iron bars put then in the windows of the ground floor on the garden side. at the top of that stone staircase the butchers crowded about that door; out through it came their victims, to be hurled down these same steps, clinging to this same railing; along these garden walks some of them ran, and were beaten down at the foot of yonder dark wall. this garden has not been changed since then, except that a large portion was shorn away by the cutting of rues d'assas and de rennes and the boulevard raspail. the narrow and untravelled lane, now become rue cassette, and the unfrequented thoroughfare, now rue de vaugirard, between the monastery and the luxembourg gardens--which then reached thus far--met at just such a secluded spot as was sought by duellists; and this wall, intact in its antique ruggedness, saw--so far as anybody or anything saw--the brilliant fight between five of richelieu's henchmen, led by the keen swordsman jussac, and athos, porthos, and aramis, aided by the volunteered sword of d'artagnan; the sword he had meant to match against each one of the three, at whose side he found himself fighting in the end. and so, cemented by much young blood, was framed that goodly fellowship, of such constancy and vitality as to control kings and outwit cardinals and confound all france, as the lover of dumas must needs believe! not only the duelling ground, but many of the scenes of "the three musketeers" are to be looked for in this quarter, near to de tréville's dwelling; where, too, the four friends, inseparable by day, were not far apart at night, for they lived "just around the corner," one from the other. [illustration: the wall of the carmelites.] athos had his rooms, "within two steps of the luxembourg," in rue ferou, still having that name, still much as he saw it. those few, whom the taciturn grimaud allowed to enter, found tasteful furnishing, with a few relics of past splendor; notably, a daintily damascened sword of the time of françois i., its jewelled hilt alone worth a fortune. the vainglorious porthos would have given ten years of his life for that sword, but it was never sold nor pledged by athos. porthos, himself, lived in rue du vieux-colombier, _he used to say_; and he gave grandiloquent descriptions of the superb furniture and rich decorations of his apartment. whenever he passed with a friend through this street, he would raise his head and point out the house--before which his valet, mousqueton, was always seen strutting in full fig--and proudly announce, "_that_ is my abode." but he never invited that friend to enter, and he was never to be found at home. so that one is led to suspect that his grand apartment is akin to his gorgeous corselet, having only a showy front and nothing behind! we know that his "fine lady," his "duchess," his "princess"--she was promoted with his swelling mood--was simply a madame coquenard, wife of a mean lawyer, living in rue aux ours. that dingy street, named from a corruption of the ancient "_rue où l'on cuit des oies_," between rues saint-denis and saint-martin, has been partly cut away by rue Étienne-marcel; but its tall, hide-bound, tight-fisted houses, that are left, make vivid to us those scrimped sunday dinners, at which porthos was famished even more than the already starved apprentices; and bring home to us his artful working on the lady's credulous infatuation, that he might get his outfit from her husband's strongbox. the wily aramis let his real duchess pass, with his friends, for the niece of his doctor, or for a waiting-maid. she was, indeed, a _grande dame_, beautiful and bold, devoted to political and personal intrigue, the finest flower of the court of that day. marie de rohan, duchesse de chevreuse, known as "_la frondeuse duchesse_," was the trusted friend of anne of austria, and the active adversary of richelieu and of mazarin, and exiled from paris by each in turn. she plays as busy a rôle in history as in dumas. the daughter of hercule de rohan, duc de montbazon, and the wife of charles d'albert, duc de luynes, and, after his death, of claude de lorraine, duc de chevreuse, this zealous recruit of the fronde naturally had her "fling" in private as well as in public life. her hôtel de chevreuse et de luynes was one of the grandest mansions of the faubourg saint-germain, as it originally stood at no. rue saint-dominique. the cutting of boulevard saint-germain, leaving it no. of that boulevard, has shorn off its two wings and its great front court. the main body, which remains, is impressive in the simple, stately dignity stamped on it by mansart, who gave to it his own roof. its first-floor _salons_ and chambers, lofty and spacious, glow with the ornate mouldings and decorations of that period, mellowed by the sombre splendors of its tapestries. much of the garden--once a rural park within city limits--has been cut away by boulevard raspail, but from that street one sees, over the new boundary wall, wide-spreading trees that strike a welcome note of green amid surrounding stone. the latest _bottin_, with no room for romance within its covers, gives the comtesse de chevreuse as tenant of the house, along with other tenants, to whom she lets her upper floors. aramis was not a guest at that mansion, his rôle being that of her host at his own apartment; daintily furnished and adorned, in harmony with his taste and that of his frequent visitor. his comrades in the troop had infrequent privilege of admission. his apartment, on the ground floor, easy of entrance, was in rue de vaugirard, just east of rue cassette, and his windows looked out on the luxembourg gardens opposite. there were three small rooms, communicating, and the bedroom behind gave on a tiny garden, all his own, green and shady and well shut in from prying eyes. the whole place forms a most fitting _entourage_ for the youthful priest who, after this episode of arms and of intrigue, was to rise so high in the church, and who has always been, to all readers, the least congenial of the four musketeers. to the most sympathetic of them, d'artagnan, dearer to us than all the others, we are eager to turn. the real d'artagnan of history, who succeeded de tréville in command of the guards, has left his memoirs, possibly written by another hand under his guidance. they are commonplace and coarse, broad as well as long, and leave us with no distinct portrait of the man. our d'artagnan, bodied forth from that ineffective sketch by the large brush that never niggled, might serve as an under-study for henri iv.; equally brave and resourceful, equally buoyant in peril and ready in disaster; with the same guileless and ingenuous candor that covered and carried off the craftiness beneath. the gascon, no less than the béarnais, was master of the jaunty artlessness of an astute and artful dodgery, a _fausse-bonhomie_ that is yet delicious and endears them both to us. stroll down rue servandoni, in its short length from rue de vaugirard to rue palatine against saint-sulpice church--the architect of whose western towers, servandoni, gave his name to this street--and you will not fail to find, among the old houses still left, one which might have sheltered d'artagnan during his early days in de tréville's troop. this street was then known as rue des fossoyeurs, and, still as narrow though not quite so dirty as in d'artagnan's day, has been mostly rebuilt. his apartment--"a sort of garret," made up of one bedroom and a tiny room in which planchet slept--was at the top of a house, given as no. and no. in different chapters, owned by the objectionable and intrusive husband of the beloved constance. for her sake, d'artagnan remains in these poor rooms, and there his three friends say good-by to paris and to him, now lieutenant of the famous troop. "twenty years after" we find our friend, but slightly sobered by those years, in search of a good lodging and of a good table. he fell on both at the inn, "_la chevrette_," kept by the pretty flemish madeleine, in rue tiquetonne. once a path on the outer side of the ditch, north of the town-wall, named for rogier tiquetonne, or quinquetonne, a rich baker of the fourteenth century, that narrow curved street is, still, as to most of its length, a village highway in the centre of paris. its tall-fronted houses rise on either hand almost as he saw them. among them is the hôtel de picardie, and it is out of reason to doubt that d'artagnan, in memory of planchet--for planchet came from picardy--was attracted by the name and made search therein for suitable rooms. or, it may please our fancy to believe that this inn bore then the sign of the kid, and that the kindly hostess changed its name, later, in memory of planchet, grown prosperous and rich. d'artagnan, mounting still higher in rank and income while here, went down lower in the inn; and one fine morning said to his landlady: "madeleine, give me your apartment on the first floor. now that i am captain of the royal musketeers, i must make an appearance; nevertheless, still keep my room on the fifth story for me, one never knows what may happen!" good master planchet, sometime valet, and lifelong friend of the great d'artagnan, turned grocer, and lived over his shop at the sign of "_le pilon d'or_," in rue des lombards. this had been a street of bankers and money-dealers in the outset, and it was named, to alter de quincey's ornate reference to another lombard street, after the lombards or milanese, who affiliated an infant commerce to the matron splendors of the adriatic and the mediterranean. when the financial centre went westward, this street was invaded by the grocers and spice-dealers, who hold it to this day. its narrow length is still fragrant with the descendants of the spices in which planchet traded, and of the raisins into which d'artagnan plunged his hands so greedily. [illustration: rue tiquetonne, with the hôtel de picardie.] to those of us who go through the short and stupid rue de la harpe of our paris, it is puzzling to read of its re-echoing with the ceaseless clatter of troopers riding through. but in those old days, and up to a comparatively recent date, it was one of the important arteries of circulation between the southern side of the town and the island; the most frequented road between the louvre and the luxembourg, when they were both royal residences. it started from the little open _place_, now enlarged and boasting its fountain, where rue monsieur-le-prince comes out opposite the luxembourg gardens, and curved down to the river-bank, and to the first pont saint-michel. it was the only long, unbroken thoroughfare to the west of rue saint-jacques, that street leading to petit-pont, and so across the island to notre-dame bridge. so rue de la harpe was a crowded highway, bordered by busy shops. its western side was done wholly away with by the cutting of boulevard saint-michel, and that broad boulevard has usurped the site of most of the old street; its eastern side saved only in that section along the cluny garden. d'artagnan, while living on the left bank in his early days, made his way by this street to visit his flame lady de winter. that dangerous adventuress is domiciled by dumas at no. place royale, now place des vosges, the number of the house still the same. it is a historic house, and its story is told in our hugo pages. dumas was one of the frequenters of hugo's apartment there, and made use of it and its approaches in "the three musketeers." when athos came to town, in later years, it was his custom to put up at the _auberge_, "_au grand roi charlemagne_," in rue guénégaud; a street bearing still its old name, but the inn has gone. so, too, has gone the sign of the fox, in rue du vieux-colombier, where he found quarters for himself and his son bragelonne, twenty years after. he brought the youth here, to the scenes of his own youth, hoping to launch him in a like career of arms. from there, the two went, one night, across the river to a house in the marais, known to all the footmen and sedan-chairmen of paris, says dumas; a house not of a great lord or of a great lady, and where was neither dancing, dining, nor card-playing; yet it was the favorite resort of the men best worth knowing in paris. it was the abode of "_le petit scarron_." about his chair, wherein he was held helpless by his paralysis, met especially the enemies of mazarin, the witty and lewd rhymesters of the fronde--not one of them as witty or as lewd as was the crippled host. yet some _soupçon_ of decency had been brought into his house by his young wife; the poor country girl of sixteen, françoise d'aubigné, who accepted the puny paralytic of forty and more, rather than go into a convent. after his death she became madame de maintenon, and later queen of france, by her secret marriage with louis xiv., as old and almost as decrepit as was her first husband. dumas has brought scarron to this house a few years later than history warrants, and he places the house in rue des tournelles, while it was really a short step from there, being at the corner of rues des douze-portes and de saint-louis, now rue turenne. we shall visit it in our final stroll. with the going of time came the loosening of the ties that held the great quartette together; yet, each passing on his own way, all were ready to reunite, at any moment, for a new deed of emprise and for the joy of countless readers. we spare ourselves the pain of seeing them at that cruel moment when they found themselves on opposing sides, blade crossing blade. we take leave of aramis, the bishop, deep in the intrigues dear to his plotting spirit; of porthos, complacent in his wealth, growing more corpulent at his well-spread table; of athos, sedate and dignified, content in the tranquil life of his beloved _château_, at blois. and d'artagnan? most fitting in _his_ eyes, mayhap, would it be to take our last look at him in the height of his glory, host of the hôtel de tréville, receiving the king at his own table. we prefer, rather, to hold him in memory just when athos introduces his old comrade to the assemblage at blois, as "monsieur le chevalier d'artagnan, lieutenant of his majesty's musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the most excellent and brave gentlemen i have ever known." the reading world echoes his words. in the whole range of fiction there exists no gentleman more excellent and more brave! the paris of victor hugo the paris of victor hugo when madame hugo brought her two younger boys, eugène and victor, to paris in , she took a temporary lodging in rue de clichy, until she found an apartment with a garden, on the southern side of the seine. in this part of the town, where gardens, such as she needed, are plentiful even yet, she sought all her future abodes. her first home in this quarter was near the old church of saint-jacques-du-haut-pas. victor, then six years old, could never recall its exact site, after he grew up, and could not say if the house were still standing. this ground-floor apartment proved to be too small for the small family; which was soon installed, a few steps farther south, in a roomy old house within its own garden. it was a portion of the ancient convent of the feuillantines, left untouched by the revolution, at impasse des feuillantines, no. --an isolated mansion in a deserted corner of southern paris. the great garden running wild, its fine old trees, and its ruined chapel, claimed the first place in the recollections of victor's boyhood; "a religious and beloved souvenir," he fondly regarded it. this homely paradise has disappeared; partly invaded by the aggressive builder, and partly cut away to make room for rue d'ulm, called by hugo a "big and useless street." the greater portion of the site of his house and garden is now covered by the huge buildings of one of the city schools. by a curious coincidence, at no. rue des feuillantines--which must not be confused, as it is often confused, with the impasse of the same name--there stands just such an old house, in the midst of just such gardens, shaded by just such old trees, as hugo describes in the pathetic reminiscences of his youth, and as those of us remember, who saw his old home, only a few years ago. his childish memories went back, also, to his days at school in rue saint-jacques, not far from home; and to a night lit up by the illumination of all paris, in celebration of the birth of the little king of rome, in . this was just before the sudden journey of the three to madrid to join general hugo. the delineation of the boy marius, swaying between his clashing relatives, is a vivid drawing of the attitude, during these and later years, of the young victor, leaning at times toward his bourbonist mother, at times toward his bonapartist father. of that gallant soldier, whose hunt for "fra diavolo"--the nickname of a real outlaw--seems to belong rather to the realm of fiction than of fact, one hears but little in his son's early history. except to send for them from madrid, and except for his brief appearance in paris, during the hundred days, general hugo seldom saw and scarcely influenced these two younger sons during their boyhood. once more in paris, and for awhile at the feuillantines, we find the devoted mother settling herself and her sons, on the last day of the year , in a roomy old building of the time of louis xv., in rue du cherche-midi. her rooms were on the ground floor, as usual, with easy access to the health-giving garden, and the boys slept above. there was a court in front, in which, during the occupation of paris by the allies, were quartered a prussian officer and forty of his men; to the disgust of the mother, and to the joy of her boys, captivated by soldierly gewgaws. the site of court and house and garden is covered by a grim military prison, in which history has been made in the closing years of the nineteenth century. on the other side of the street, at the corner of rue du regard, was and is the hôtel de toulouse, a seventeenth-century structure, named for its former occupant, the comte de toulouse, son of madame de montespan. it was used as a prison early in the nineteenth century, and since then it has been the seat of the conseil-de-guerre; famous, or infamous, in our day, as the head-quarters of the court-martial. the wide façade on the court has no distinction, nor has the "tribunal of military justice" on the first floor; to which we mount by the broad staircase at the left of the entrance-door. above are the living-rooms of the commandant, who was a monsieur foucher at that time, with whose family, the hugo family, already acquainted, formed now a lasting friendship. it was this intimacy that made their home here the brightest spot in hugo's boyish horizon. [illustration: the hôtel de toulouse.] when napoleon's return from elba brought his old officers back to their allegiance, general hugo hurried to paris, and, before hurrying away again, placed his boys in a boarding-school--the abbaye cordier, in rue sainte-marguerite. this was a gloomy little street, dingy with the smoke of the smiths' forges that filled it, elbowed in among equally narrow ways between the prison of the abbaye--then standing where now runs the roadway of modern boulevard saint-germain--and the cour du dragon. this superb relic of ancient paris has been left untouched, and the carved dragon above its great arched entrance looks down, out of the past, on modern rue de rennes. rue sainte-marguerite has been less lucky, for such small section of it, as remained after the cutting of boulevard saint-germain and rue de rennes, is mainly rebuilt, and renamed rue gozlin. a little later, victor was advanced to the lycée louis-le-grand, the college of many another frenchman who became famous in after life, notably of molière. these two youths saw the same buildings of the lycée and studied in the same rooms; for it was demolished and rebuilt only under the second empire. it stood--and the new structure stands--in rue saint-jacques, behind the collége de france. it was something of a stretch for youthful legs by the roundabout way between college and home, but he plodded sturdily along, that solemn lad, taking himself and all he did as seriously then as when he became a peer of france, and the self-elected leader of a cause. in madame hugo and her boys came to a new home on the third floor of no. rue des petits-augustins, in a wing of that old _abbaye_ of the augustin fathers, which had given its name to the street, now rue bonaparte. the entrance court, on that street, of the École des beaux-arts, covers the site of this wing, and the school has replaced the rest of the monastery, saving, within its modern walls, only the chapel built by queen marguerite. in the old court and the old buildings behind, at that time, were stored tombs of french kings and historic monuments and historic bones, removed from their original grounds, as has been told in our molière chapter, to save them from mutilation at the hands of the revolutionary patriots. on this queer assemblage the boys' room looked down; their mother, from her front windows, looked down on the remains of the vast gardens of the hôtel de la rochefoucauld, once a portion of the grounds of marguerite, that stretched to the north of rue visconti, between rues de seine and bonaparte. the view, so far below, could not compensate madame hugo for the loss of her own garden, which meant sun and air and health. she drooped and fell ill, and her only solace was the devotion of her son victor. whenever she was able to go out, they spent their evenings with the foucher family, at the hôtel de toulouse. while the boys sat silent, listening to the talk of their elders, victor's eyes were busy, and they taught him that adèle foucher was good to look upon. these two children walked, open-eyed, into love, as simply and as naturally as did cosette and marius; and after a brief period of storm and stress, their marriage came in due time, and they began their long and happy life together. this hugo home in rue des petits-augustins, rising right in front of all who came along rue des beaux-arts, was a familiar sight to a young englishman, about ten years after this time. his name was william makepeace thackeray, and he was lodging in this latter street among other students of the latin quarter, and trying to make a passable artist with the material given him by nature for the making of an unsurpassable author. his way lay in front of the old _abbaye_, each time he went to or from the schools, or his modest restaurant. thirion was the host of this cheap feeding-place, esteemed by art students, on the northern side of old rue des boucheries; of which this side and some of its buildings have been saved, while the street itself has been carried away in the wider stream of boulevard saint-germain. there, at no. , to-day, you will find the same restaurant, under the same name on the sign, and the same rooms, swarming with students as during thackeray's days in paris. in , at the end of her term of three years in the _abbaye_, madame hugo took her sons and her furniture directly up rue bonaparte and turned into rue des mézières, and in its no. they were soon settled in a ground floor with its garden. the great new building at no. stands on the site of house and court and garden. there is left, of their day there, only the two-storied cottage on the western end of no. rue des mézières--then no. --which preserves the image of the hugo cottage, and brings back the aspect of the street as they saw it, countrified with just such cottages. early in their residence here, victor was honored by a summons to visit châteaubriand, long the literary idol of the schoolboy, who had written in his diary, when only fourteen: "i will be châteaubriand or nothing!" for he had begun to rhyme already at the cordier school, and in his seventeenth year he had established, in collaboration with his eldest brother, abel, "le conservateur littéraire," a bi-monthly of poetry, criticism, politics, most of it written by victor. it lived from december, , to march, , and its scarce copies are prized by collectors. now the precocious boy's ode "on the death of the duke of berry"--assassinated by louvel in february, , in rue rameau, on the southern side of square louvois, then the site of the opera-house--had fallen under the eye of châteaubriand, who was reported to have dubbed him "the sublime child." châteaubriand denied this utterance, in later years, but agreed to let it stand, since the phrase had become "consecrated." it was at the door of no. rue saint-dominique, then the residence of the elder author, that the young poet knocked in those early days of his fame; and here, a little later, he was invited by the diplomat to join his embassy to berlin. madame hugo's health prevented the acceptance of this flattering offer. while still at this home in rue des mézières, victor received another honor in a call from lamartine, the lately and loudly acclaimed author of "les méditations," who was then about thirty-one years of age. in a letter, written many years after, lamartine described this first meeting: "youth is the time for forming friendships. i love hugo because i knew and loved him at a period of life when the heart is still expanding within the breast.... i found myself on the ground floor of an obscure house at the end of a court. there a grave, melancholy mother was industriously instructing some boys of various ages--her sons. she showed me into a low room a little apart, at the farther end of which, either reading or writing, sat a studious youth with a fine massive head, intelligent and thoughtful. this was victor hugo, the man whose pen can now charm or terrify the world." the grave, melancholy mother died in the early summer of , and her bereaved sons carried her body across the place, to the church, of saint-sulpice and then to the cemetery of mont-parnasse. on the evening of that day of the burial, victor returned to the cemetery, and there, overcome with grief and choked by sobs, the boy of only nineteen wandered alone for hours, recalling his mother's image and repeating her name. seeking blindly for some comforting presence, he found his way, that same night, to the hôtel de toulouse, for a glimpse of adèle foucher. unseen himself, he saw her dancing, all unconscious of his mother's death and his heart-breaking loss. after weeks of wretched loneliness, young hugo went to live, with a country cousin just come to town, on the top floor of no. rue du dragon. this street is connected with the court of the same name by a narrow passage under the houses at the western end of the court. no. is still standing, a high, shabby old building, that yet suggests its better days. in the belvedere high above the attic windows, hugo lived the life of his marius, keeping body and soul together on a slender income of francs a year. luckier than marius, who could only follow cosette and the old convict in the luxembourg gardens, hugo was allowed little walks there with his adored lady, her mother always accompanying them. this chaperonage did not prevent the secret slipping of letters between the lovers' hands, and many of these have been preserved for future publication. it was at this time that the post-office officials held up, in their _cabinet-noir_, a letter from hugo, offering the shelter of his one room, "_au cinquième_," to a young fellow implicated in the conspiracy of saumur, and hiding from the royal police. hugo makes this offer, his letter explains, in pure sympathy for a misguided young man in peril of arrest and death; his own allegiance to the throne being so established as to permit him to give this aid with no danger to himself and no discredit to his loyalty. the letter was copied, resealed, sent on its way; the copy was carried to louis xviii., and so moved him--_not_ in the direction meant by his officials--that he made inquiry about its writer, and presently gave him a pension. this incident was not known to hugo until many years after. among the men who visited him in this garret was alfred de vigny, then a captain in the royal guard, and dreaming only, as yet, of his "cinq-mars." hugo was dreaming many dreams, too, over his work, and his brightest dream became a reality in october, , when, in saint-sulpice's chapel of the virgin--the chapel from which his mother had been buried eighteen months earlier--was performed the church part of his marriage with adèle foucher. the wedding banquet was given at the hôtel de toulouse by her father, who had been won over to this immediate marriage, despite the delay he had urged because of the youth of the bride and the poverty of the bridegroom. the young couple, whose combined ages barely reached thirty-five, found modest quarters for awhile in rue du cherche-midi, near her and his former homes, and then removed to no. rue de vaugirard. their abode, cut away by the piercing of that end of rue saint-placide, is replaced by the new building still numbered rue de vaugirard, near the corner of rue de l'abbé-grégoire. in this first real home of his married life, hugo produced his "hans d'islande" and his "bug jargal"--the latter rewritten from a crude early work--by which, poor things though they were, he earned money, as well as by his poems, poured forth in ungrudging flood. in the ranks of the classicists at first, he soon fell into line with the romanticists, and by he was the acknowledged leader of "_la jeune france_." on his marriage, he had been allotted the pension, already alluded to, of , francs yearly, by louis xviii., in recognition of his royalist rhymings, and this sum was doubled in . with their growing fortune, the young couple allowed themselves more commodious quarters. these they found, early in , in a house behind no. rue notre-dame-des-champs, a street somewhat curtailed in its length by the cutting of rue de rennes, and the old no. is now no. . a long alley, once a rural lane between bordering trees, leads to the modest house hidden away from the street. quiet enough to-day, it was quieter then, when it was really in the fields of our lady, in that quarter of the town endeared to hugo by his several boyhood-homes. the long, low cottage, since divided and numbered and , still faces the street, just as when he first passed under its northern end into the lane, with his young wife. she writes, in her entrancing "life of victor hugo, by a witness": "the avenue was continued by a garden, whose laburnums touched the windows of his rooms. a lawn extended to a rustic bridge, the branches of which grew green in summer." the rustic bridge, the lawn, and the laburnums are no longer to be found, but the house is untouched, save by time and the elements. behind those windows of the second floor, where was their apartment, was written "marion delorme," his strongest dramatic work, in the short time between the st and the th of june, ; and there he read it to invited friends, among whom sat balzac, just then finishing, in his own painstaking way, "les chouans." in october of this year "hernani" was written and put on the boards of the comédie française, long before reluctant censors allowed "marion delorme" to be played. to these rooms came, of evenings, those brilliant young fellows and those who were bent on being brilliant, who made the vanguard of the romanticists. here was formed "_le cénacle_," of which curious circle we shall soon see more. here sainte-beuve dropped in, from his rooms a few doors off, at no. , now no. , rue notre-dame-des-champs; dropped in too frequently, for the "smiling critic" came rather to smile on young madame hugo than for other companionship. sometimes of an afternoon, such of the group as were walkers would start for a long stroll out to and over the low hills surrounding the southern suburbs, to see the sun set beyond the plains of vanves and montrouge. as they returned they would rest and quench their modest thirst in a suburban _guinguette_ and listen to the shrill fiddling of "_la mère saguet_." all this and much more is told in hugo's verse. the town has grown around and beyond the tavern, where it stands on the southwestern corner of rue de vanves and avenue du maine, its two stories and steep roof and dormer windows all like an old village inn going to decay. one day, late in , hugo started from his house for the prison of the grande-force, to visit béranger. the simple-seeming old singer, during his nine months' imprisonment, had an "at home" every day, receiving crowds of men eminent in politics and in letters. his conviction made one of the most potent counts in the indictment of the bourbons by the populace, two years later. it was in this way that hugo had opportunity to study the prison, in such quick and accurate detail, as enabled him to make that dramatic description of the escape of thénardier; an escape made possible, at the last, by little gavroche, fetched from his palatial lodging in the belly of the huge plaster elephant on place de la bastille, on the very night of his giving shelter to the two lost thénardier boys, whom he--the heroic, pathetic, grotesque creature--didn't know to be his brothers any more than he knew he was going to rescue his father! this prison had been the hôtel du roi-de-sicile, away back in the "middling ages," and had been enlarged and renamed many times, until it came, about , to caumont, duc de la force, whose name clung to it until its demolition early in the second empire. taken in by the government, necker made of it what was then considered a "model prison," to please the king, and to placate himself and the philosophers about him, righteously irate with the horrors of the grand-châtelet. the terror packed its many buildings, surrounding inner courts, with political prisoners, and killed most of them in the september massacres. its main entrance was on the northern side of rue du roi-de-sicile, near rue malher, recently cut. just at the southwestern junction of those two streets, stood--men yet living have seen it--the _borne_ (a large stone planted beside the roadway to keep wheels from contact with the bordering buildings), on which was hacked off the head of the princesse de lamballe, as she was led from that entrance to be "_élargie_," on the morning of september , . the landlady of the hugo household had retired from trade with enough money to buy this quiet place, set far back from this quiet street, intending to end her days in an ideal resting-place. from the first, her smug comfort had been violated by many queer visitors, and when "hernani" made its hit, there was a ceaseless procession of the author's noisy admirers, by night and by day, on her staircase and over her head--she had kept the ground floor for her tranquil retreat--until the maddened woman gave monsieur hugo "notice to quit." she liked her tenants, she hastened to say, she felt for the poor young wife in _her_ loss of sleep, and, above all, she pitied her for having a husband "who had taken to such a dreadful trade!" so they had to move, and late in , or early in , they went across the river to no. rue jean-goujon, where, in an isolated house surrounded by gardens, in the midst of the then deserted and desolate champs-Élysées, they could be as noisy as they and their friends chose. soon after coming here they took their new daughter and their last child, adèle, to saint-philippe-du-roule for her baptism, as hugo recalled, twenty years later, at balzac's burial service in the same church. but here, despite the fields that tempted to walks in all directions, hugo shut himself in and shut out his friends. for he was bound, by contract with his publisher, to produce "notre-dame de paris" within a few months. with his eye for effect, he put on a coarse, gray, woollen garment, reaching from neck to ankles, locked up his coats and hats, and went to work, stopping only to eat and sleep. he began his melodramatic book to the booming of the cannon of a parisian insurrection, and he ended it in exactly five and one-half months, just as he had got to the last drop of ink in the bottle he had bought at the beginning. he thought of calling this romance "what there is in a bottle of ink," but gave that title to alphonse karr, who used it later for a collection of stories. goethe's verdict on "notre-dame de paris" must stand; it is a dull and tiresome show of marionettes. this house has gone, that street has been rebuilt, the whole quarter has a new face and an altered aspect. after his book was finished, hugo hurried out to see the barricades of , which he has glorified in "les misérables." at this time, too--by way of contrast--he permits a glimpse of his undisturbed home life. it is seen by a friend, who, "ushered into a large room, furnished with simple but elegant taste, was struck with the womanly beauty of madame hugo, who had one of her children on her knee." when he saw the poet, sitting reading by the fireside close by, "he was vividly impressed with the resemblance of the entire scene to one of van dyck's finest pictures." during the rehearsals of "le roi s'amuse," in october, , hugo found time to settle himself and his family in the apartment on the second floor of no. place royale, now place des vosges. we shall prowl about this historic spot when we come to explore the marais; just now, only this apartment and this house come under our scrutiny. it was one of the earliest and grandest mansions of this grand square, and took its title of hôtel de guéménée when that family held possession in . ten years later one of its floors was tenanted by marion delorme, whose gorgeous coach with four horses drew a crowd to that south-eastern corner whenever she alighted, and whose dainty rooms drew a crowd of another sort on her evenings, so much the vogue. they were the gathering-place of the swells of her day, of dignitaries of the court and the church, of men famous in letters and science, all attracted by the charm and wit and polish of this young woman. in his "cinq-mars," de vigny brings together in her _salon_, among many nameless fine people, descartes, grotius, corneille--fresh from his latest success, "cinna"--and a youth of eighteen, poquelin, afterward molière. this is well enough, but he goes too far in his fancy for a telling picture, and drags in milton, shy and silent. john milton had long before passed through paris, on his way home from italy, and was then busy over controversial pamphlets in london. nor can the english reader take seriously the recitation, urged on "_le jeune anglais_," of passages from his "paradise lost"--written twenty years later--a recitation quite comprehended by this exclusively french audience. for the delorme is moved to tears, and georges scudéry to censure, so shocked are his religious scruples and his poetic taste! de vigny is surer of his stepping when on french ground, and plausibly makes marion a spy on the conspirators, in the pay of richelieu. at that time, during the construction of his palais-cardinal--now the palais-royal--his residence was diagonally opposite no. , in the northwestern corner of place royale. that corner has been cut through, and his house cut away, by the prolongation of rue des vosges along that side of the square. it has been said that the cardinal's hunting to death of cinq-mars was less a punishment for the conspiracy against king and state than a personal vengeance on the dandy, with a hundred pairs of boots, who had supplanted him with mlle. delorme. the marais streets knew them both well. cinq-mars lived with his father in the family hôtel d'effiat, in rue vieille-du-temple, demolished in . marion did not pine long after his execution, but went her way gayly, until she was driven by her debts to a pretended death and a sham funeral, at which she peeped from these windows. she sank out of sight of men, and died in earnest, before she had come to forty years, in her mother's apartment in rue de thorigny, leaving a fortune in fine lace and not a _sou_ in cash for her burial. de vigny proves his intimate acquaintance with this house, during hugo's residence, by his use of its back entrance for the confederates of cinq-mars, making their way to delorme's house, on the night of their betrayal. and dumas makes this entrance serve for d'artagnan in his visits to lady de winter and to her attractive maid. that entrance is still in existence from rue saint-antoine, by way of the impasse--then cul-de-sac--guéménée, and at its end through a small gate into the court, and so by a back door into the house. through that rear entrance crowded a squad of the national guard, from rue saint-antoine, during the street fighting of february, , intending by this route to enter the square unseen, and secure it against the regular troops of louis-philippe. some few among them amused themselves by mounting the stairs and invading hugo's deserted apartment. he had gone, that day, at the head of a detachment of the royal force, not leading it against the rioters, but lending his influence as peer of france to save, from its bayonets, the fellow-rioters of the men just then intruding on his home. they did no harm, happily, as they filed through the various rooms, and past a child's empty cradle by the side of the empty bed. it had been the cradle of the daughter, adèle, and perhaps of the other babies, and was always cherished by madame hugo. in a small room in the rear, that served as hugo's study, the leader of the band picked up some written sheets from the table, the ink hardly dry, and read them aloud. it was the manuscript of "les misérables," just then begun, but not finished and published until , when the exile was in guernsey. while plodding along with that great work, hugo put forth from this study much verse and his last plays. here, in , he wrote his final dramatic success, "ruy blas," and his final dramatic failure, "les burgraves," which ended his stage career. from here he went to his _fauteuil_ in the academy in , the step to the seat of peer of france, accorded him by the king within a few years. meanwhile, his larger rooms hardly held the swelling host of his friends, and, it must be said, his flatterers. not marion delorme had more, nor listened to them with a more open ear. their poison became his food. indeed, the men who formed "_le cénacle_," in these and other _salons_, seemed to find their breath only in an atmosphere of mutual admiration. each called the other "_cher maître_," and all would listen, in wistful reverence, to every utterance of the others and to the deliverance of his latest bringing-forth, vouchsafed by each in turn. while lamartine, standing before the fireplace, turned on the pensive tune of his latest little thing in verse, hugo gazed intent on him as on an oracle. then hugo would pour forth his sonorous rhymes, his voice most impressive in its grave monotone. the smaller singers next took up the song. no vulgar applause followed any recitation, but the elect, moved beyond speech, would clutch the reciter's hand, their eyes upturned to the cornice. those not entirely voiceless with ecstasy might be heard to murmur the freshest phrases of sacramental adoration: "_cathédrale_," or "_pyramide d'Égypte_!" there were certain minor chartered _poseurs_ in the circle. there was alfred de vigny, "before his transfiguration," to whom might be applied camille desmoulins's gibe at saint-just: "he carries his head as if it were a sacrament." to which saint-just replied by the promise, that he kept, to make camille carry _his_ head after the fashion of saint-denis. there was alfred de musset, who had been brought first to the cottage in rue notre-dame-des-champs by paul foucher, his schoolmate and hugo's brother-in-law. like his fantasio, de musset then "had the may upon his cheeks," and was young and gay and given to laughter; now, old at thirty, he posed as the bored and _blasé_ prey and poet of passion. [illustration: alfred de musset. (from the sketch by louis-eugène lami.)] yet there were others, by way of contrast: dumas, fresh from his romance-factory, full-blooded, stalwart, sane; gautier, dropping in from his rooms near by, at no. in the square, ship-shape inside his skull for all its mane of curling locks, and for all his eccentric costume; barye, coming from his simple old house at no. quai des célestins, sitting isolated and silent, dreaming of the superb curves of his bronze creatures; nodier, escaping from his librarian's desk in the arsenal, the _flâneur_ of genius, with no convictions about anything, and with generous friendships for everybody; delacroix, impetuous chief of the insurgents in painting, most mild-mannered of men, his personal suavity disarming those who were going gunning for him, because of his insurrectionary brush; mérimée, frock-coated, high-collared, buttoned-up, self-contained, cold and correct, of formal english cut. among the guests were occasional irreverent onlookers, not deemed worthy of admission to the inner circle, who sat outside, getting much fun out of its antics. such a one was madame ancelot, whose graphic pen is pointed with her jealousy as a rival lion-hunter, who had outlived her vogue of the early restoration. daudet's sketch of her blue-stockinged _salon_, a faded survival of its splendors under louis xviii., is as daintily malicious as is her sketch of hugo's evenings. through those evenings, madame ancelot says, madame hugo reclined on a couch, as if over-wearied by the load of glory she was helping to carry. that lady had one relief in this new home, its doors being shut against the ugly face of sainte-beuve, at the urging of the indignant young wife. this happened in , and within a few years sainte-beuve gave to the world his "book of love," a book of hatred toward hugo, with its base suggestion of the wife's complaisance for the writer. him it hurt more than it hurt hugo. _he_ had taken, and he still keeps, his unassailable place in the affection, as in the admiration, of his countrymen. there can be no need to summon them as witnesses, yet it may be well to quote the words of two foreign fellow-craftsmen. the englishman, swinburne, in his wild and untamed enthusiasm, acclaims hugo as a healer and a comforter, a redeemer and a prophet; burning with wrath and scorn unquenchable; deriving his light and his heat from love, while terror and pity and eternal fate are his keynotes. no great poet, adds swinburne, was ever so good, no good man was ever so great. heine, german by birth, scoffs at hugo, claiming that his greatest gift was a lack of good taste, a condition so rare in frenchmen that his compatriots mistook it for genius. he sees merely a studied passion and an artificial flame in hugo's specious divine fire; and the product is nothing but "fried ice." and heine sums him up: "hugo was more than an egoist, he was a hugoist." charles dickens describes madame hugo as "a little, sallow lady, with dark, flashing eyes." making the round of paris with john forster, in the winter of - , they came to this "noble corner house in the place royale." they were struck by its painted ceilings and wonderful carvings, the old-gold furniture and superb tapestries; and, more than all, by a canopy of state out of some palace of the middle ages. it is worthy of note here that hugo was almost the first man of his period--a deplorable period for taste in all lands--to value and collect antiques of all sorts. they were a fit setting for these rooms, and for the youth and loveliness that crowded them, up to the open windows on the old square. the young smokers among the men were driven forth to stroll under its arcades, recalling the strollers of corneille's and molière's time, albeit these were painfully ignorant of tobacco bliss, so loud were the papal thunders against its temptations then. dickens and forster found hugo the best thing in that house, and the latter records the sober grace and self-possessed, quiet gravity of the man, recently ennobled by louis-philippe, but whose nature was already written noble. "rather under the middle size, of compact, close buttoned-up figure, with ample dark hair falling loosely over his close-shaven face. i never saw upon any features, so keenly intellectual, such a soft and sweet gentility, and certainly never heard the french language spoken with the picturesque distinctness given it by victor hugo." within the portal of the church of saint-paul and saint-louis, in rue saint-antoine, on either side, is a lovely shell holding holy-water, given by hugo in commemoration of the first communion of his eldest child, léopoldine. in this church she and young charles vacquerie were married in february, . both were drowned in august of that year. and this is the church selected by monsieur gillenormand for the marriage of marius and cosette, because the old gentleman considered it "more coquettish" than the church of his parish. for he lived much farther north in the marais, at no. rue des filles-du-calvaire, where a new block of buildings has taken the place of his eighteenth-century dwelling. for this marriage, after playing the obdurate and irascible godfather so long, he was suddenly transformed into a fairy godmother. toward the end of , after the escape of louis-philippe, hugo moved to rue d'isly, no. , for a short period, and then to no. , now no. rue de la tour-d'auvergne, where he remained until . in the paris _bottin_ during these years he is entitled--considering it, strangely to us, his especial distinction--"_représentant du peuple_." the youthful royalist poet, the friend of charles x., the friend later of louis-philippe, had become an oracle of democracy. he added nothing to his honestly earned fame by his long-winded bombast in the _tribune_; and however genuine his attitude may have been, it appealed almost entirely to the groundlings. they came in crowds about this house, with flaming torches and blaring bands, howling their windy homage. they are remembered, with mute disapproval, by the old _concierge_ of the house, lagoutte armand. with real pleasure does he recall "monsieur hugo," and prattle memories of his friends like béranger, and of his family. there were two sons, charles and françois-victor, the former known as "toto," a "_très gentil garçon_." in his _loge_, pointed out with pride by the _concierge_, to whom it was given by hugo, is a rare engraving of the poet, which makes him serious, almost stern, of aspect, his mouth showing its strength in the beardless face, his hair plastered down about the superb brow. his head was carried always well bent forward, and he went gravely, the old man tells us. the house is unaltered, but the street has grown commonplace since the days when its half-countryfied cut attracted hugo and béranger and alphonse karr. this witty editor of "les guêpes," something of a _poseur_ with his pen, had a genuine love of flowers and of women, on whom he lavished his pet camelias and tulips. he cultivated them in the garden of the house, now numbered , which he occupied in this street from to . the sculptor carrier-belleuse is now in possession of karr's old rooms, and his studio covers the one-time garden. béranger came, in , to no. , then a small cottage behind a garden, where he lived for three years. the bare walls of the communal school, numbered , now cover the site of his home, and there are no more cottages nor gardens in the street. from , when the _coup-d'état_ of december drove him first into hiding and then into exile, through all the years of the empire, we find in each year's _bottin_: "_hugo, victor, vicomte de, de l'institut_, . . . . ." these dots represent a home unknown to the paris directory; no home indeed, for there can be none for a frenchman beyond his country's borders. of hugo's dwellings during these years nothing need be said here, save that his long residence in guernsey gave him his characters and colors for "les travailleurs de la mer," and such slight acquaintance with seafaring and ships as is shown in "quatre-vingt-treize." where he got the fantastic english details of "l'homme-qui-rit," no man shall ever know. here, too, he finished "les misérables," writing it, he said, with all paris lying before him in his mind's eye; or, as he puts it, with the exile's longing, "_on regarde la mer, et on voit paris_." his topographical memory was none too accurate, and errors of slight or of real importance may be detected in "les misérables." it is really in his poetry that he has done for his "maternal city" what balzac did for her in prose; singing in all tones the splendor and the squalor of "_la ville lumière_," to use his swelling phrase. despite some errors, and despite the pulling-about of paris since valjean's day, we may still trace his flight through nearly all that thrilling night, when javert and his men hunted him about the southern side of the town, and across the river from the gorbeau tenement. this tenement, so striking a set in many scenes of the drama, was an historic mansion run to seed, standing just where hugo places it--on the site of nos. and boulevard de l'hôpital, almost directly opposite rue de la barrière-des-gobelins. facing that street--renamed rue fagon in --on the northern side of boulevard de l'hôpital, the little market of the gobelins replaces the squalid old shanty which gave perilous shelter to valjean and cosette, and later to marius. from here, driven by a nameless terror after his recognition of javert in the beggar's disguise, the old convict started, leading cosette by the hand. he took a winding way to the seine, through the deserted region between the jardin des plantes and val-de-grâce, turning strategically on his track in streets through which we can follow him as easily as did javert. he was not certain that he was followed, until, turning in a dark corner, he caught full sight of the three men under the light before the police-station. hugo places this station in rue de pontoise, and this is a mistake; it was then and is still in the next parallel street, rue de poissy, at no. . now, valjean turns away from the river, carrying the tired child in his arms, and makes a long circuit around by the collége rollin--long since removed to the northern boulevards--and by the lower streets skirting the jardin des plantes--no longer the jardin du roi--and so along the quay. he is bent, as javert guessed, on putting the river between himself and his pursuers. he crosses pont d'austerlitz, and plunges into the maze of roads and lanes, lined with woodyards and walls, on the northern side of the river. there javert loses the trail; while for us, that trail is hidden under new streets laid out along those lanes, and under railway tracks laid down on those roads. we come in sight of the fugitive again, as he climbs the convent wall, drawing up cosette by the rope taken from the street lantern. here is that high gray wall, stretching along the eastern side of old rue de picpus, and the southern side of the new wide avenue saint-mandé. this wall--of stone, covered with crumbling plaster--is as old as the garden of "_les religieuses de picpus_," which it surrounds, and as the buildings within, which it hides from the street. we may enter the enclosure by the old gate at no. rue de picpus, the very gate through which cosette was carried out in a basket, and valjean borne alive in the nun's coffin to his mock burial. about the court within, the red-tiled low roofs of the ancient foundation peep out among more modern buildings. behind all these and beyond the court stretches the garden, a portion still set aside for vegetables, and we look about for fauchelevent's protecting glasses for his cherished melons. what we do find is the very outhouse, in an angle of the wall, on which valjean dropped; it is a shanty nearly gone to ruin, but serving still to store the garden tools of fauchelevent's successor. [illustration: the cemetery of picpus.] "near the old village of picpus, now a part of the faubourg saint-antoine, under the walls of the garden which belonged to the canoness of saint-augustin, in a bit of ground not more than thirty feet in length, repose thirteen hundred and six victims beheaded at barrière du trône, between _ prairial_ and _ thermidor_, in the second year of the republic." this extract, from the "mémorial européen" of april , , is a fitting introduction to the small cemetery, hid away at the very end of this convent garden. in this snug resting-spot sleep many illustrious dead. on the wall, alongside the iron-railed gate, under a laurel-wreath, is a tablet inscribed with the name of "andré de chénier, son of greece and of france," who "_servit les muses, aima la sagesse, mourut pour la verité_." he and his headless comrades were carted here and thrown into trenches, when the guillotine was busy at the barrière du trône, now place de la nation, only a step away, in the early summer of , up to the day of robespierre's arrest. their mothers, widows, children, dared not visit this great grave nor, indeed, ask where it was. in that time of terror, grief was a crime and tears were no longer innocent. it was only in after years that this bit of ground was bought, and walled in, and cared for, by unforgetting survivors. some few among them, of high descent or of ancient family, planned for their own graves and those of their line to come and to go, within touch of this great common grave that held the clay of those dear to them. they bought, in perpetuity, this bit of the convent garden on the hither side of the gate, through which we have been looking, and it is dotted with many a cross and many a slab. and this tiny burial-ground draws the american pilgrim as to a shrine, for in it lies the body of lafayette. the sisters of the séminaire de picpus, who inherited the duties, along with the domain of "_les religieuses_" of the eighteenth century, devote themselves to the instruction and the training of their young _pensionnaires_. the story of the establishment is told in "les misérables," in detail that allows no retelling. fauchelevent had planned to carry off his tippling crony of the vaugirard cemetery to the tap-room, "_au bon coing_," and so get valjean out of his coffin. to his horror, he found the drunkard replaced by a new grave-digger, who refused to drink, and valjean was nearly buried alive. we will, if it please you, visit the "good quince," no longer in its old quarters, for it quitted them when the historic cemetery of vaugirard was closed forever. on its ground, at the corner of rue de vaugirard and boulevard pasteur, has been built the lycée buffon. to be near the then newly opened burial-ground of mont-parnasse, "_au bon coing_" put up its sign on the front of a two-storied shanty, at the corner of boulevard edgar-quinet and rue de la gaieté, a street strangely misguided in title in this joyless neighborhood. about the bar on this corner crowd the grave-diggers and workmen from the near-at-hand graves, and at the tables sit mourners from poor funerals, all intent on washing the smell of fresh mould from out their nostrils. this den is the _assommoir_ of this quarter, swarming, noisy, noisome. on those summer days, when hugo used to stroll from his cottage in rue notre-dame-des-champs out to the southern slopes, he discovered the champ de l'alouette--a fair field bordering the limpid bièvre, just beyond the factory of the gobelins. it had borne that name from immemorial time, and was the field, as the man told marius, where ulbach had killed the shepherdess of ivry. marius came to this green spot that he might dream about "the lark," after he had heard, from his peep-hole in the wall of the gorbeau tenement, the thénardiers so name his unknown lady. we, too, may walk in the field of the lark, its ancient spaciousness somewhat shrunken, as with all those erstwhile fields hereabout, of which we get glimpses along boulevard saint-jacques and other distant southern boulevards. there is a wide gateway in the high wall that runs along stony rue du champ-de-l'alouette, and we pass through it and the court within to the bright little garden beyond, where children are playing, guileless as cosette. this is her field, now shut in by great tanneries, its air redolent of leather, its bièvre sullied by the stains and the scum of the dye-works above. yet, hid away in this dreary quarter--where the broad and cheerless streets are sultry in summer, bleak in winter, and gritty to the feet all the year round--it is still, as hugo aptly says, the only spot about here where ruysdael would have been tempted to stop, and sit, and sketch. among the countless american feet that tread rue du bac and rue de babylone, on their way to the shop that is a shrine at the junction of those two streets, there may be some few that turn into rue oudinot. it is well worth the turning, if only because it has contrived to keep that village aspect given by gardens behind walls, and cottages within those gardens. it still bore its old name, plumet, when general hugo came to live in it, that he might be near his son in rue notre-dame-des-champs, and here he died suddenly in january, . in this house, well known to hugo, he installed valjean and the girl cosette. from this house, by its back door and by the lane between high parallel walls, valjean slips out unseen into rue de babylone. in its front garden, under a stone on her bench, cosette finds her wonderful love-letter; and here is the scene of that exquisite love-making, when marius appears in the moonlight. the trumpery tumults of --in hopeless revolt against the orleans monarchy and in impotent adventure for the republic--give occasion for grandiose barricade-building and for melodramatic combats. hugo takes us, with marius and his fellow-students, to that labyrinth of narrowest lanes, twisting about high bluffs of houses, that was then to be found between the churches of saint-leu and saint-eustache. it was a most characteristic corner of mediæval paris, and it has, only recently and not yet entirely, been cut away by rue rambuteau, and built over by the business structures around the halles. the street of la grande-truanderie is for the most part respectabilized, that of la chanverie is reformed quite out of life, and la petite-truanderie alone remains narrow and malodorous. but "_corinthe_" has been carted clean away. this was the notorious tavern, of two-storied stone, in front of which enjolras defended his barricade, within which grantaire emptied his last bottle, and in whose upper room these two stood up against the wall to be shot. grantaire was doubtless sketched from his illustrious precursor and prototype, the poet, mathurin régnier, who tippled and slept at a table of this squalid drinking-den during many years, until the year , when debauchery killed him too young. his colossal and abused body carried the soul, original, virile, and fiery, which he has put into his verse, although he has over-polished it a bit. when this tavern--in the fields near the open markets--was his favorite resort, it bore the sign and name, "_pot-aux-roses_"; it was dedicated later "_au raisin de corinthe_"; and this was soon popularly shortened to "_corinthe_." forty years after his death, another true poet was born in the tall house that rose alongside this tavern, its windows looking out over the waste lands of the marais, as jean-françois regnard says in his verse. like young poquelin, thirty years before, this boy played about the halles; then he went away to strange adventures in foreign lands with pirates and with ladies; and came home here to write comedies, that have the gayety and sparkle, yet not the depth, of those of molière. indeed, voltaire asserts that he who is not pleased with regnard is not fit to admire molière. the seventeenth-century mansion, in which he was born, befitted the position of his father, a rich city merchant, and it has luckily escaped demolition, albeit brought down to base uses, as you shall see on looking at no. rue rambuteau. and if you hurry to this neighborhood, you may yet find some few reminders of the scenes of . in rue de la petite-truanderie is just such a tavern as was "_corinthe_," in its worst days. its huge square pillars will hardly hold up, much longer, the aged stone walls. just here is the dark corner where valjean set javert free; and in rue mondétour, at that end not yet shortened and straightened into a semblance of respectability, you may see a small sewer-mouth, direct descendant of the grated hole, down which valjean crawled, with marius on his back, to begin that almost incredible march through the tortuous sewers to their outlet on the seine, under cours-la-reine. he came out on a spit of sand, "not very far distant from the house brought to paris in ," says hugo, who should have said . his reference is to the house popularly named "_la maison de françois ier_." it was built by that monarch, at moret on the edge of the forest of fontainebleau, for his beloved sister, marguerite de navarre, it is believed. it was removed, stone by stone, and re-erected on its present site in cours-la-reine, where it is a delight to the lover of french renaissance. hugo was one of the earliest, among the exiles of the empire that ended worthily in the shame of sedan, to be welcomed by the new republic on his hastening to paris. there he remained through _l'année terrible_ of the prussian siege, with his friend paul meurice, a hale veteran of letters, still in the youth of age in . paris being once more opened, hugo went to and fro between brussels and guernsey and his own country for awhile. in he had quarters in the villa montmorenci at auteuil, we learn by a letter from him dated there. in he settled in an apartment at no. rue de la rochefoucauld, an airy spot at the summit of the slope upward toward montmartre. here he remained a year, and in removed a little farther along this same slope, to no. rue de clichy, on the corner of rue d'athènes. his apartment on the third floor was bright and sunny, having windows quite around the corner on both streets, and here he lived for four years. much of the last two years was taken up by his new duties as senator, so that scant leisure was left him for literary labor; and it was in this house that he sadly told a favorite comrade that the works he had dreamed of writing were infinitely more numerous than those he had found time to write. driven from here by the unremitting invasion of friends, admirers, strangers, men and women from all quarters of the globe, bent on a sight of or an autograph from the only hugo, he took refuge in avenue d'eylau, away off at the other end of the town, where only real friendship would take the trouble to follow him. he made this last removal in . this final home was as modest as any of his childhood homes, and had just such a garden as theirs. here he passed five happy years, with cherished companionship within, and all about him "honor, love, obedience, troops of friends." [illustration: victor hugo. (from the portrait by bonnat.)] as a tribute to him, avenue d'eylau has become avenue victor-hugo, and his two-story-and-attic house--not one bit grander than the cottage in rue notre-dame-des-champs, in which began his literary fame--remains unchanged under its new number , only its side garden having been built over, the garden in the rear being left unspoiled. at no. of the avenue, the residence of m. lockroy, is preserved the original death-mask of the poet, taken by the sculptor, m. dalou. it is a most striking portrait, and one wishes that copies might be permitted. here he died in , and from here his body was carried by france to the panthéon, there to be placed among all her other glories by a grateful country. despite the ostentation of the pauper's hearse decreed by this rich man, no more solemn and imposing spectacle has been seen by eyes that have looked on many pageants, civil and military, in many lands; even more impressive in the attitude of the closely packed concourse--hushed, motionless, with bared heads--that gazed all through that hot may day at the slow-moving _cortège_, than in that magnificent retinue, escorting to his grave "the sublime child," grown gray in the service of his country's letters. the making of the marais the making of the marais the prehistoric savages, who settled, for safety from onslaught, on the largest of the islands in the seine, known to us as Île de la cité; the rabble of gaulish fisherfolk, who came to camp here in after-years; the little tribe of parisii who later builded a fortified hamlet on this sure ground, and bridged it with the mainland: all these, looking, through the centuries, northwardly across the transparent and unsullied stream, saw the flat river-bank opposite, over beyond it a ring of low wooded hills, and between these, on either hand, broad expanses of marsh, morass, and forest. that which stretched to their right is our marais. in it the veteran camulogenus, captaining the parisii, hoped to mire down the roman soldiers, once already stuck in the mud along the bièvre on the southern bank of the seine. but it is labienus, that ablest of cæsar's lieutenants, who "marches with four legions to lutetia. (this is the fortress of the parisii, situated on an island in the river seine.)" and labienus knows the country as well as his trade, and skirts around the marais, and crosses the seine at auteuil to the solid ground he has chosen on the plains of grenelle. there he wins battle in the year b.c., and drives the gauls in disorder to the high ground on which the panthéon now stands, and the luxembourg gardens lie. the romans, in possession of the island, rebuild the bridges, cut away by the parisii, and restore the town partly burned by them; a palace for the resident governors arises on the extreme western end of the island; and new defences are constructed for the gallo-roman lutetia. four centuries later, it was called his "dear and well-beloved lutetia" by julian, and from that conviction he was never apostate. he loved it for its soft air, its fair river, its honest wines coming from its own vineyards. on the slope of its southern suburb stood out the massive walls of the baths that bear his name; and his gardens, planted with vines, reached to the river. where he swam, we go dry-shod, when we saunter through the cluny; and we may sit, a little farther south, in rue de navarre just off rue monge, in the stone seats of the roman arena, a perfect bit of loyal preservation of lutetia. the romans meant to make their new town an important centre, and those impassioned road-builders began to bring to it the highways, in the making of which, and by means of which, they were easily masters of their world. the gauls had trodden footpaths through the forests and over the marshes, and of these, the two most trodden on the northern bank started from near the end of their only bridge, now replaced by pont notre-dame. that which went northerly to the southeastern corner of the halles of our paris, there split into two branches; the one, named the voie des provinces maritimes, followed nearly the line of present rue montmartre, and went, by way of pontoise, to the northwestern coast of gaul; the other, named the voie des provinces du nord, ran from the halles on a line between rues saint-martin and saint-denis, about where now boulevard sebastopol stretches. it was the high road to saint-denis, senlis, soissons, and so away to the north. the other main pathway turned toward the east, just above the bridge-end, and went nearly parallel with the river-bank, along the line of present rue saint-antoine. this road, to sens and meaux and thence eastwardly, was known as the voie des provinces de l'est, and later in life as the voie royale. this pathway was diked by the romans, and when sufficiently raised, it was paved with stones. even then it was often submerged, and the marsh over which it went made more marshy, by frequent floods of the swollen seine, overwashing its slight banks; and by the ceaseless streams that carried down through this bowl the waters of the encircling slopes of montmartre, belleville, chaumont, ménilmontant. in our stroll through the marais, you will walk above one of these streams, serving as a sewer to-day, and along the bank of still another, turned into the gare de l'arsenal. on the two sides of this raised road, bit by bit the bog was planted; foot by foot the swamp was reclaimed; gardens were cultivated, farms were tilled, flocks were fed; herdsmen's huts dotted the plain; on the higher spots farmers' houses peeped from among the trees; and on the slopes above, all around from chaillot to charonne, shone the white walls of the villas--walls of marble from italy--of great officials and of wealthy traders. the church came along this road from its central seat at sens, and, keen of eye, picked out choice sites for chapels, convents, monasteries. little by little the entire marais was levelled up as the surrounding hills were levelled down; yet keeping so well its forests, that it gave good hiding for eight years to saint-denis dodging valerian's pursuit, until that day of the saint's long and winding walk down the street of his name, his head carried in his hands. this northern suburb grew more gradually, at first, than its southern sister, whose sunny breast had enticements for gardeners and for vine-growers. it was a strong man who woke the marais to unwonted life, and by his wall, encircling and securing it, philippe-auguste quickened its sluggish suburban pulse into urban animation. the northern settlements became _la ville_, the island being _la cité_, and the southern suburb _l'université_. there was a beach or strand--_la grève_--near the middle of this northern bank, at which were moored and unloaded the boats bringing to the town light merchandise, such as grain, meats, stuffs, and fabrics. all heavy goods--timber, stone, metals--came to the port saint-paul, in front of quai des célestins; still there under its old name, but its old business long since gone to the bustling port de grenelle. on the grève gathered men out of place, wandering about while waiting for work; whence comes the modern meaning of _grève_--a strike, when men get out of place and are not anxious for a job. here on the grève, as their common ground, met the men who carried goods by water from up and down stream, and the men who carried goods by land, to and from the provinces. they were strong and turbulent men, and they made two mighty guilds, and these two, combined with other guilds, formed an all-powerful confraternity. in the course of years, there came to its head, as _prévôt des marchands_, that demigod of democracy, the notable Étienne marcel. he had his home, while living, on place de grève, and in the river, when dead; to-day, in bronze he bestrides his bronze horse between those two dwelling-places, facing the strand he ruled and the city he tried to rule. it is he--none more worthy--who shall marshal us on our way to the marais. for, when jean ii., "_le bon_," was sent to his long captivity in england from the field of poictiers, won by the black prince in , it was the first dauphin france had had, known later as charles v., who acted as regent in his father's absence. he was a sickly and a studious youth, easily alarmed by the violence of these guilds, now making one more savage assault on royal prerogatives, in a desperate stroke to secure the right of the townsmen to rule their town. the dauphin was afraid of being trapped in the louvre, and he took refuge in the old palace of the city. to him forces his way, one day, the boisterous marcel at the head of three thousand armed and howling men, kills two of the royal marshals in the presence, and places his own cap of the town colors, red and blue--these were combined with the bourbon white to make the tricolor, centuries later--on the head of the terrified dauphin, either to protect him, or in insolent token of this new recruit to the faction. as soon as might be, the dauphin got away from his revolted citizens, and came back to his town only when strong enough to hold it against them. nor would he then trust himself to a permanent residence in the island-palace, and it was allowed to fall into disrepair through several successive reigns. louis xii. made partial restorations, and occasionally sojourned in his palace "in mid-stream," that made him think of his loire. parliament already owned the building then, by gift from charles vii., and since then it has always been known as the palais de justice. the returned dauphin took up his abode in the hôtel d'Étampes, in the quarter of saint-paul, outside philippe-auguste's wall; and, by successive purchases, secured other neighboring _hôtels_ and their grounds. this spacious _enceinte_, within its own walls, stretched from behind the gardens of the archbishop of sens, on the river front, and from the grounds of the célestins, just east of them, on port saint-paul--where the dauphin's new estate had a grand portal and entrance-way from the quay and the river--away back to rue saint-antoine on the north; and from just outside the old wall, eastwardly to the open country. this domain, and the suburbs that had grown beyond that old wall, toward the north, now came to be embraced within a new enclosure. on the southern side of the river there seemed no need for any enlargement of the old enclosure. this wall, known in history as the wall of charles v., was partly quite new, partly an extension or a strengthening of a wall begun by marcel in ; under the pretext of "works of defence of the kingdom against the english," and carried on in offence of his royal master. but before he had finished it, he came to his own end, opportunely for everyone but himself. it is midnight of july , , and he is hastening, in darkness and stealth, to open his own gate of saint-antoine for the entrance of the combined forces of the english and of charles the bad, of navarre. in froissart's words: "the same night that this should have been done, god inspired certain burgesses of the city ... who, by divine inspiration, as it ought to be supposed, were informed that paris should be that night destroyed." so they armed and made their way to porte saint-antoine, "and there they found the provost of merchants with the keys of the gates in his hands;" and their leader, john maillart, asked, "stephen, what do you here at this hour?" when stephen told john not to meddle, john told stephen: "by god, you're not here for any good, at this hour, and i'll prove it to you." and so, as his notion of proof, "he gave with an axe on stephen's head, that he fell down to the earth--and yet he was his gossip." thus died stephen marcel, the martyr of devotion to the liberties of his fellow-citizens, in the eyes of many. to others of us, he is the original of the modern patriot of another land, who thanked god that he had a country--to sell; and his ignoble death seems to be the just execution of a traitor. it is due to him to own that he was a strong man, genuine and pitiless in his convictions, and might have merited well of his town and his country, but that the good in him was poisoned by his rapacity for power, and polluted by personal hatred of the dauphin. his naked body, before being thrown into the seine, lay exposed for days in front of the convent of sainte-catherine du val-des-Écoliers, whose grounds stretched from without the old wall, eastwardly along the northern side of rue saint-antoine. through them was cut our present rue sévigné, and it was on the spot made now by the corner of that street and rue saint-antoine, half way between the old gate and the new gate just built by marcel, that the crowd gathered to gaze on his corpse. froissart rightly claims, referring to marcel's projected wall with his customary delightful enthusiasm, that it was "a great deed to furnish an arm, and to close with defence, such a city as paris. surely it was the best deed that ever any provost did there, for else it had been, after divers times, overrun and robbed by divers occasions." it was a greater deed that was now done by charles v., and his provost of paris, hugues aubriot; and their new wall is well worth a little journey along its line, easily traced on our paris map. we have already made a visit to quai des célestins, and have read the tablet that marks the place where played molière and his troupe, in ; and the other tablet that shows the site of philippe-auguste's barbeau tower, constructed toward , and taking its name from the great abbey of barbeau, whose extensive grounds bordered the river-bank here. from this huge tower and its gateway, kept intact as the starting-point at this end, the new wall turned at a right angle to the fast crumbling old wall, and went eastwardly along the shore; which they now banked up and planted with elms. that shore-line is now boulevard morland--named from that brave colonel of chasseurs who was killed at austerlitz--and the land in front, as far as quai henri iv., was anciently the little Île des javiaux, renamed Île louvier in the seventeenth century, when it served as a vast woodyard for the town. the slight arm of the river that cut it off has been filled in, and the island is now one with the mainland. at the corner of boulevard bourdon--which records the name of a colonel of dragoons, who fell at austerlitz--the new wall turned, and followed what is now the middle line of that boulevard to the present place de la bastille. here was the two-round-towered gateway built by marcel, and called, as were called all those gateways, _bastilia_--a word of mediæval latin, meaning a small fortress, such as was formed by each of these gates with its flanking towers. there were many of them opening into and guarding the town, that of saint-denis being the only other one of the size of this of saint-antoine; which was enlarged into the massive fortress known to us as the bastille. of all the wretched memories of the accursed old prison, we shall awaken only one; that of hugues aubriot, its builder and its first tenant. made provost of paris by charles v.--who, after his hapless experience with marcel, when dauphin, would have no more provost of merchants--aubriot had many enemies among the guilds and among the clerics. he was frank and outspoken of speech, humane to the priest-despoiled and mob-harried jews, for whom he had, like his royal master, toleration if not sympathy, and to whom he returned their children, caught and christened by force. so, on the very day of the burial of his royal master, in september, , aubriot was arrested for heresy, and soon sent to his own bastille of saint-antoine, "_pour faire pénitence perpétuelle, au pain de tristesse, et à l'eau de douleur_." the church sentence gives a poetic touch to prosaic bread and water. aubriot fed only a short time on these delicacies, for he was rescued by the mob that, for the moment, idolized him, and led in triumph to his home. that home, from which he speedily fled out of paris in terror of his rescuers, was given by charles v. to this good servant, and we may stop, just here, to look on what is left of it. [illustration: the hôtel du prévôt.] under an arch at no. rue saint-antoine, we enter passage charlemagne, and go through an outer into an inner court. in its northwestern corner is a tower containing an old-time spiral staircase. this is the only visible vestige of the palace of the provost of paris, its unseen portions being buried under, or incorporated with, the structures of the lycée charlemagne, just behind us toward the east. the boundary railing, between this college and the church of saint-paul-et-saint-louis, is exactly on the line of philippe-auguste's wall. from the inner or city side of that wall, the provost's palace, with its grounds, stretched to rue prévôt, then rue percée; that name still legible in the carved lettering on its corner with rue charlemagne. in that street, behind us as we stand here, is the southern entrance of his grounds, whose northern line was on rue saint-antoine. this tower before us has been sadly modernized and newly painted, but its fabric is intact, with its original, square, wide-silled openings at each of the three landing-places of the old staircase. these openings are within a tall, slender arch, a timid attempt at the ogival, whose bolder growth we shall see presently in the hôtel de sens. above this arch a superimposed story, its window cut in line with the others below, has taken the place of the battlements. on either side the tower joins a building obviously later than it in date, although it has been claimed that all three structures are fifteenth-century work. the high arch and the other decorations of the tower are undoubtedly of that time, but they are, as undoubtedly, applied over the small stones of a much more ancient fabric. this conviction is reinforced by the sentiment that makes us see charles the wise come into this court, with his good aubriot, enter that low door, and climb that staircase, looking out through those windows as he mounts. in the year of that king's death there was born a future owner of this tower and its palace. this was pierre de giac, a charming specimen of the gang that helped john of burgundy and louis of orleans in their ruin of france--the only job in which they were ever at one. pierre de giac, after betraying both sides, fell into the strong clutch of the duke of richmond, by whom, after torture, he was tied in a bag and flung into the seine. his crony, louis d'orléans, had possession of this property in the closing years of the fourteenth century, when he instituted the order of the _porc-Épic_ in honor of the baptism of his eldest son, charles the poet. the family emblem which gave its name to this order, gave it also to this _hôtel_, to which it still clings. going back to place de la bastille, on our map, we may follow the course of the new town wall along the curve of the inner boulevards, to porte saint-denis; whence it took a straight southwesterly course, parallel with present rue aboukir, through place des victoires and the bank of france, and diagonally across the gardens of the palais-royal, to the gate of saint-honoré, nearly in the centre of our place du théatre-français. it was this gate and its protecting works that were pounded by the "_canons et coulevrines_" of joan of arc, and it was this portion of the wall which was assaulted by her at the head of her men; an assault that would have succeeded, and so have given paris to the french, had she not been struck down by a crossbow bolt, so striking panic to her followers. when you post your letters in the outside southern box of the post-office on the corner of avenue de l'opéra and place du théâtre-français, or when you look in at the incubating chickens in the shop window alongside, you are standing, as near as may be, on the spot where she fell wounded on september , . her tent was pitched, and her head-quarters fixed, on the outer slope of the butte des moulins, a few feet north of where now stands the apse of the church of saint-roch. from porte saint-honoré, the wall went direct, across present place du carrousel, to the round tour de bois on the river-shore, and from that tower a chain was swung slantwise up-stream to the tour de nesle on the southern bank. this great wall, when quite finished, was an admirable example of mediæval mural masonry. besides its round gate-towers, it was strengthened by many square towers, and was crenellated, and had frequent strong sentry-boxes and watch-towers between the battlements. on the outside was a wide, deep ditch bank-full of water. all stood intact until partly levelled by louis xiii. in , and entirely so by louis xiv. in , during which thirty years the popular pun had run: "_le mur murant paris rend paris murmurant._" it was about that the boulevards were laid out over the foundations of the wall, its ditch filled in, and trees planted. two of the gates were kept, enlarged, and made into triumphal arches; and these portes saint-denis and saint-martin stand there to-day, dingy memorials of ludovican pride and pomposity. a century later, in , every trace of wall and moat was wiped away, the driveway was partly paved, and building began; but it was not until that sidewalks were made, and that grand mansions replaced the former shabby structures. we cannot put hand on any stone of the wall itself, to-day. within the _enceinte_ thus made, our marais was at length entirely enclosed; away from its river-front, bordered by abbeys and monasteries; through its streets, walled off by palaces and mansions; and its other streets, packed with modest dwellings and shops; far back to the gardens and the vineyards, and the waste fields not yet tilled, that spread all around the inner zone of the wall. within it, too, was brought the vast domain of the templars, covering the space from this outer wall away south to rue de la verrerie, and between rues du temple and vieille-du-temple. it was partly under cultivation, partly left wild to forest and bog, this portion being known as the marais du temple. farther north were the buildings--palaces, priories, chapels--all secure within their own crenellated wall, all commanded and defended by the moated and towered citadel known as the temple. the order had been founded early in crusading days, in the beginning of the twelfth century, by nine french gentlemen and knights, who, clad in white robes marked with a red cross, devoted themselves to the service and the safety of pilgrims to the holy land. louis vii. gave them this waste land late in the same century. the small godly body, vowed to poverty and humility, grew large in numbers and appetite, great in wealth and pride. its knights were equal with princes, its monks were bankers for kings, and all had become simply a gang of sanctimonious brigands. a capet saw the birth of the order, a capet thought it time to strangle it as it neared its two-hundredth birthday. philippe iv., "_le bel_," less solicitous for the genuine faith than for the good coin of the templars, laid hands on them and on it. he got rid of them by axe and stake and in other ways approved of in that day, and parcelled out their lands; through which streets were cut later, and building begun, when this new wall put them on its safe side. with the later history of the temple we cannot concern ourselves, save to say that it long served as a sanctuary, later as a prison, and that its last stone was plucked away, six and a half centuries after it was laid, early in the nineteenth century. the palace of the grand prior stood exactly on the rue du temple front of the present square du temple. that little garden was his garden, and on its other edge, just at the junction of rues des archives and perrée of to-day, rose the tower, so famous and so infamous in prison annals. safely settled in his hôtel saint-paul, within his own wall--marcel quiet in his grave at last, the nobles curbed, the jacquerie crushed--the young dauphin, who had been weak and dissembling, and who was now grown, by long apprenticeship to his trade of royalty, into the strong, prudent, politic charles v., known in history as charles the wise, made proclamation, on his accession in , that this--"_l'hôtel solennel des grands ébastements_"--should be henceforth the royal residence. in the old palace on the island was held the official court; the louvre, partly rebuilt and brightened by him, was kept for the occasional "_séjour, souper, et gîte_" of roving royalty. here in "saint-pol" was his home, from whose windows he looked out, with keen, patient, far-sighted vision, over the paris and the france he had quelled and tranquillized. the hôtel saint-paul was a town in itself, of many mansions, big and little, of _châteaux_ with their parks, of farms with gardens, of orchards, fish-ponds, fowl-houses, a menagerie. sauval goes with gusto into details of the buildings and their apartments, the decorations, furniture, and pavements; and the chronicle is appetizing of the dinners and banquets given to embassies and to honored visitors. withal, pigeons perched on the carved balustrades, and guards lay on straw in the halls. it was a simple patriarchal life led here by charles the wise, and here begun by his son, charles the silly. a pretty, light-minded child of eleven, on his father's death, he remained a child through his dissolute and diseased early manhood, and through his later years of spasmodic madness and of intermittent reason, to his old age of permanent childishness. while in paris, this was his abode, and here he was left, almost a prisoner to unconcerned servants, by his shameless wife, isabeau de bavière. when she saw him, once in a way, he looked on her with unknowing eyes, or with knowing eyes of horror. his only companion was the low-born odette de champdivers, and with her he played the cards that untrue tradition claims to have been invented for him. he prowled about these halls, in filthy rags, eaten by ulcers and vermin, gnawing his food with canine greed; he ranged through these grounds, finding fellowship with the animals that were not let loose, but kept in cages. you may hunt up the stone walls of those cages--originally on pointed arches with short romanesque pillars--and the stone foundations of the royal stables, in the yards on the southern side of rue des lions; a street whose name tells of these menageries, and that seems to echo with their roarings. the alleyway of cherry-trees now makes rue de la cerisaie, and rue beautreillis replaces the green tunnels of vines on trellises, where were gathered the grapes--good as are those of thomery to-day--which produced the esteemed _vin de l'hôtel saint-paul_. along the farther edge of its grounds, just under the old wall, ran the lane that is now rue des jardins; and rue charles v. keeps alive the memory of the founder of saint-paul. in all these streets, we are treading on the ground he loved. after the wretched mad king died here in , royalty came no more to the hôtel saint-paul, and the place ran to waste. it was no home for the new dauphin, come to his kingdom as charles vii., by the grace of joan of arc and of god. his boyish memories were of a dreary childhood, between a mad father, a devilish mother who had hated him from his birth, and princely relatives raging and wrestling over those two for the power to misgovern france. outside the royal madhouse, paris was a butcher-shop. burgundians and armagnacs were howling crazy war-cries in every street, ambuscading and assassinating at every corner, equally thirsty for blood, but both surpassed in that thirst by the butchers and horse-knackers, led by jean caboche and called cabochians. all these factions, while intent solely on bloodshed, were loud-mouthed with loyalty and patriotism. they were all alike, and we may transfer to them and to their times the apt phrase of joseph de maistre, concerning the massacre of saint bartholomew: "_quelques scélérats firent périr quelques scélérats._" almost every leader of men in those days came to his end by arms and in arms, and death by violence seemed the natural death. the town was a shambles; corpses, mangled by butchers and stripped by plunderers, lay thick in the streets; wolves sneaked from the suburbs to eat them; the black-death and other plagues crept in to keep them company, and the english came marching on; the while _la danse macabre_ whirled about the tombs in all the cemeteries. on the northern side of rue saint-antoine, opposite the hôtel saint-paul, stretched the grounds of the old _hôtel_ of pierre d'orgemont, bishop of paris. this property had come to the crown by purchase or by gift, and had been partly torn down, rebuilt, and its grounds greatly enlarged, to make a _maison-de-plaisance_ for charles vi. the principal building had so many and such various shaped towers and turrets that it was named the palais des tournelles. viewed from a distant height, as from the tower of notre-dame by quasimodo, it had the look of a set of giant chessmen. this was the place selected by the duke of bedford for his residence during the english occupation of paris; and from here, after the death of his brother henry v. of england--and heir of france, as was then claimed--he reigned as regent for the little henry vi. he enlarged the buildings and beautified the grounds, in which he kept many rare birds. he kept, too, the rare manuscripts brought together by charles v. in the louvre; and after his death in rouen--where he had helped burn the maid--this library was carried to england, when the english departed from france. it was ransomed with coin, and brought back to paris, by the two grandsons of its original owner--charles of orleans, and his brother of angoulême, and became the nucleus of the royal, now the national library. so, when the sentries in english uniforms had gone from the gates, and the archers in lincoln green were seen no more in the streets, charles vii. came back, made king of france by the maid who had found him king of bourges, and whom he let the english burn for her pains. he entered paris in november, , nearly twenty years after he had been carried out from the town in the arms of tanneguy duchâtel. that quick-witted provost, discovering that the burgundians had got into the town by the betrayed porte de buci, on the night of saturday, may , , had hastened to the hôtel saint-paul, had wrapped the sleeping boy in his bedclothes, and had carried him up rue saint-antoine to the bastille, and out into the country on the following day, and so to melun, where the king's son was safe. during this first short stay of three weeks, the listless and sluggish young king grew as fond as had been the duke of bedford of the walled-in grounds of the tournelles. they were very extensive, covering the space bounded by present rues saint-antoine, saint-gilles, turenne, and boulevard beaumarchais. within this vast enclosure were many buildings and outbuildings, and in the words of sauval: "_ce n'étoit que galeries et jardins de tous côtés, sans parler des chapelles._" and henceforth, for more than a hundred years, the tournelles, "_pour la beauté et commodité du dit lieu_," was the favored abode of royalty, when royalty favored paris with infrequent visits. the sombre shapes of louis xi. and his ignoble comrades darkened its precincts, at times. when he made his entry, already narrated, into the town after his coronation at rheims, he passed the night of august , , in the old island-palace, and on the following day he installed himself in "_son hôtel des tournelles, près la bastille de saint-antoine_." here he received, in september, , a visit from his second wife, charlotte de savoie, who came up the river from rouen. she was met, below the island, by a boatful of choristers, who "sang psalms and anthems after a most heavenly and melodious manner." she landed on the island, performed her devotions at notre-dame, and took boat to the water-gate of quai des célestins opposite, and thence made her way on a white palfrey to the tournelles. the king's physician, dr. coictier--most skilled in bleeding, in all possible ways, his royal patient--had an astrological tower in the grounds, and in the centre was a maze named "_le jardin dædalus_." about these grounds louis prowled, seldom going beyond them, and then only by night, and with one trusted gossip. indeed, he was less like the king of france here in his palace than anywhere else; camping rather than residing, with a small retinue of old brabant servitors, and a larder filled mostly with cold victuals, says michelet. it was loches occasionally, and plessis-les-tours habitually, that had the pleasure of harboring the "universal spider"; in them both he spun his webs, and waited gloating, and found "many cockroaches under the king's hearthstone," as the saying went. and at last he died, triumphant and wretched, at plessis-les-tours. "_le petit roi_," charles viii., hardly knew paris; and when he entered the town on february , , with his young wife, anne of brittany, who had been crowned at saint-denis the day before, the populace was not agreeably impressed by his short stature, his bad figure, his heavy head, his big nose, his thick lips always open, and his great, blank, staring eyes. he was in curious contrast with the bride--pretty, sprightly, vivacious, and "very knowing," wrote home the venetian ambassador, zaccaria contarini. the gentle, weakly king--so strange a scion of louis xi.--made his home in touraine. on the terrace of amboise, where he was born, we all know the little door, leading to the old haquelebac gallery, against which he struck his head as he started down to look on a game of tennis. there, on april , , in a sordid and filthy chamber, a remnant of the old _château_ he was just then rebuilding, he lay for hours until his death, so carrying out the curse of savonarola, who had threatened him with the anger of god, if he failed to return to italy with his army to cleanse the unclean church with the sword. [illustration: anne de bretagne. (from a portrait by an unknown artist in a private collection.)] "_le bon roi louis, père du peuple, est mort_," is the doleful pronouncement of the _crieurs du corps_, starting out from the tournelles before dawn of new year's day, . the kindly old fellow has died in the night, a martyr to a young wife and to her fashionable hours. all his life long, louis had been subject to the fancies of women, to his undoing. we meet him first, the young and ardent duc d'orléans, the best horseman and swordsman in the court, riding out from plessis with the brave dunois--both grandsons, with different bars, of the murdered louis d'orléans--to snatch the girl isabelle from the escort of quentin durward. the duke has already taken the eye of the capable anne, eldest daughter of louis xi., as brantôme is quick to note. getting no return for her passion, the fury of a woman scorned, backed by her father's malign humor, marries the handsome prince to her younger sister, jeanne--ugly and deformed and uncharming. freed by divorce from this childless union, on taking the throne, louis hastens to marry his former flame, anne of brittany, now the widow of charles viii. this lady, fair in person and fairer in her duchy, lively and not unlearned, a blameless yet imperious spouse, gave him many happy years. the personal court he allowed "_sa bretonne_" outshone his own court, and glorified the gloomy tournelles. for all his clinging to her, she was taken from him when only thirty-seven years of age; refusing to live, when she found, for the first time, that her self-will was not allowed its own way. she would have her daughter, claude, marry charles of austria, emperor-to-be, and the powers in france would not have it, because they were unwilling that brittany should go, with its heiress, into foreign hands. a marriage was arranged between claude and the young duc d'angoulême, who was to become françois i., so keeping the rich duchy for france. after anne's death, her widower made a third venture, and yet, the chronicler plaintively assures us, he had no need of a new wife. this was mary, sister of henry viii. of england, who was glad to get her out of his country; and she was as glad to return as soon as, on finding herself a widow, she could become the wife of her first love, charles brandon, duke of suffolk. and so these two were the grandparents of lady jane grey. now the customary hour for dining in those days was from five to ten in the morning, changing a little with the seasons. a french "poor richard" of the period says: "_lever à cinq, diner à neuf, souper à cinq, coucher à neuf; fait vivre d'ans nonnante et neuf._" montaigne owns that his dinner-hour of eleven in the morning was unduly late, but then his supper came correspondingly late, never before, and often after, six of the evening. henri iv. dined at the same belated hour, while françois i. could not wait later than nine o'clock. once installed in the tournelles, this young english bride of louis's must needs, among other innovations, introduce her own country's customs into her husband's mode of life, as we are told in "_la très joyeuse et plaisante histoire_" of the "loyal serviteur," of bayard: "his wife changed all his manner of living; he had been wont to dine at eight, and he now dined at mid-day; he had been wont to go to bed at six in the evening, and he now went to bed at midnight." moreover, she beguiled him into supping late and heavily. so these changes, and other changes in his habits, brought him to his grave, six weeks after his marriage. his parisians gathered in rue saint-antoine, about the entrance of the tournelles, in honest sorrow for the loss of the big and benevolent old boy, whom they looked on and loved as the father of his people; indeed "one of the people," says michelet, "without the soul of a king." the tournelles blazed out bravely for françois i., the while the hôtel saint-paul found itself cut up and sold off in lots by him; the two cases showing his way, all through life, of raising money by any means, squeezing his subjects, starting france's national debt as he did, all because of his puerile ambitions, his shallow levity, his selfish waste. he did his best to justify louis xii.'s shrewd prophecy for him: "_ce grand gars-là gâtera tout._" recalling, one needy day, that he owned saint-paul, "_un grand hôtel, fort vague et ruineux_," he soon got rid of the buildings and the land for coin, reserving one large tract, along the eastern side under the wall, for the erection of an arsenal. and so, with streets cut through the old domain, no trace was left of charles v.'s "_hôtel solennel des grands ébastements_." as for the tournelles, its new master's fondness for all showy gimcrackery adorned it with furniture and fittings, and notably with the tapestries turned out so sumptuously from the factory at tours, toward the middle of the sixteenth century, that they came into vogue for decoration, in place of wall-paintings. no need to say that the table at the tournelles was profuse and its court resplendent. there had been few women in the court before now, and it was a garden without pretty flowers, as brantôme puts it. anne of brittany had brightened it a bit for brantôme with some few _dames et demoiselles_, but françois crowded it with fair women, who brought music and dancing and flirting. this big and brutal dilettante--study his face in the countless portraits in the louvre and at azay-le-rideau--gave little of his time to the tournelles, however. setting pierre lescot at work on the lovely western wing of his new louvre, he rushed over the land, building and beautifying at saint-germain, compiègne, fontainebleau, blois, chambord, posing always as the patron and prodrome of the renaissance in france. at least, he could say truly of himself, "_on verra qu'il y a un roi en france_;" but besides the throne and his pet foolishnesses, he handed down nothing worth owning to his son--that henri ii. of heavy fist and light brain, slow of thought and of speech, cold, uncongenial, commonplace. yet the tournelles was a cheerful home for him and for his official family, when he could get away from the exclusive holding of diana of poictiers and her family. his youngest daughter, marguerite de france, has sketched, in her "mémoires," a most winning picture of the place and of herself, a lovely maid of seven, playing about the garden or sitting on her father's knee, helping him select a suitor for her, from among the young swells at the court. that scene took place only a few days before his death. [illustration: louis xii. (water color, from a portrait by an unknown artist in a private collection.)] to the tournelles comes françois rabelais, in the "contes drôlatiques" of balzac, and gives to king and court that delicious sermon, worthy of rabelais himself. he has come along rue saint-antoine from his home in rue des jardins-saint-paul, a rural lane then, just outside philippe-auguste's wall, on the extreme edge of the gardens of saint-paul. in that paved and built-up street of to-day none of us can fix on the site of his house, and the tablet on its corner, of quai des célestins, tells us only that rabelais died in a house in this street on april , . charles nodier, starting out from his librarian's rooms in the arsenal library, on his endless prowls about old paris, always stopped and took off his hat in front of no. of rue des jardins, in honor of the great french humorist. ignorant of his reason for the selection of this site, we may be content, in imitation of this charming _flâneur_, to stand uncovered there, before or near the last dwelling of "_le savant et ingénieux rieur_," whose birthplace and whose statue at chinon are worth a journey to see; where, too, the local wine will be found as delicate and as individual as when, sold by the elder rabelais in the fourteenth century, it made the money that sent his famous son to the great schools of the capital. that son closed his life of congenial vagabondage, and of many _métiers_, in this sedate country road, where he had passed three blameless years, two of them as _curé_ of meudon, resigning that position in . he was buried in the cemetery of old saint-paul, to which we shall find our way later. modern paris has doubtless built itself over the grave, as it certainly has over the last dwelling-place, of the narrator of the adventures of gargantua and pantagruel and the creator of panurge. the famous lists of the tournelles extended along the southern edge of its grounds, just beyond the present northern side of rue saint-antoine, rue de birague being cut through almost their middle line. for more than a hundred years they had been the scene of many a tournament, and not one of them had been so crowded or so brilliant as that which began on june , . the peace of cateau-cambrésis, made in the previous april with england and spain, was to be celebrated, and there were to be rejoicings over the recent marriage of henry's sister, marguerite, with the duc de savoie, and of his eldest daughter, isabelle, with philip ii. of spain. this girlish third wife of the spanish king was the heroine of the don carlos affair, which has made so many dramas. to rejoice in royal fashion in those days, men must needs fight and ladies must look on. so it came that the king, proud of having shown himself "a sturdy and skilful cavalier" during the two days' tilting, insisted on running a course with montgomery of the scottish guard, whose broken lance pierced henri's visor through the eye into the brain. he lay unconscious in the tournelles for eleven days, and there he died on july , . those lists were never again used, the palace was never again inhabited. all the bravery of the two last courts could not hide the dry-rot of the wooden structures, and all its perfumes could not sweeten the stenches from the open drains all about. even the hard-headed and strong-stomached louise de savoie, mother of françois i., had sickened in the place. so "_le misérable coup_," that freed catherine de' medici from years of slighted wifehood, gave her an excuse for leaving the malodorous and unhealthful tournelles, with her four sons and her unmarried daughter. a portion of the structures was kept by her second son, charles ix., for his birds and dogs, until his mother got him to order its destruction by an edict dated january, . on his pont-neuf sits henri iv. on his horse, and every frenchman looks up as he passes, with almost the same emotion felt by the frenchmen of voltaire's day, at the effigy of the most essentially french of all french kings. the statue faces "the symmetrical structures of stone and brick," planned by him for his place dauphine, in honor of the birth of his son. they are hardly altered since their construction by his good friend achille de harlay, president of parliament, whose name is retained in the street behind the _place_ and in front of the palace of justice. the king looks out, a genial grin between his big, ugly, gascon-bourbon nose and his pushing chin, over his beloved paris, well worth the mass he gave for it; for, from the day he got control, it grew in form and comeliness for him. his kindly, quizzical eyes seem to see, over the island and the river, his own old marais, the quarter which held the _hôtel_ of his _menus plaisirs_, and which it was his greater pleasure to rebuild and make beautiful. and "_la perle du marais_"--his place royale--deserves his unchanging regard, almost unchanged as it is, since he planned it and since its completion, which he never saw. it is the grand tangible monument he has left to paris, and speaks of him as does nothing else in the town. when he came into his capital on march , , he found the enclosure of the tournelles _en friche_. within a few days he gave a piece of it, holding an old house, that fronted on rue saint-antoine, to his good rosny, whom he made duc de sully a little later. this maximilien de béthune had been the most faithful helper of henri de navarre and he continued to be the most faithful servant of henri iv. he had many homely virtues, rare in those days, rare in any days. he was courageous, honest, laborious; he did long and loyal service to the state; he worked almost a miracle for the finances of the kingdom, carrying his economies into every detail, even to the ordering of costumes in black, to spare the expense of the richly colored robes in vogue. a vigilant watch-dog, he was surly and snappish withal, and he had a greedy grip on all stray bones that fell fairly in his way. his wealth and power grew with his chances. he seems to have put something of himself into his _hôtel_, which faces us at no. rue saint-antoine. it bears on its lordly front an honesty of intention that is almost haughty, with a certain self-sufficiency that shows a lack of humor; all most characteristic of the man. neither he nor his abode appeals to our affections, howsoever they may compel our respect. [illustration: sully. (from a portrait attributed to quesnel, in the musée condé at chantilly.)] having got this well-earned gift of land from the king, he cleared away the old buildings upon it, and erected this superb structure. his architect was doubtless jean du cerceau, for the heaviness of his early work is apparent in these walls, but their owner evidently enforced his personal tastes on them. the façade, on the shapely court, has its own touch of distinction, dashed by the touch of pomposity that dictated, to the four secretaries employed on his memoirs, his stock phrase, "such was sully!" this front is over-elaborate. the main body and the two wings--which are a trifle too long and too large, and so crowd and choke that main body--are all heavily sculptured. on every side, stone _genii_ bear arms, stone women pose as the seasons and the elements, stone masks and foliage, whose carving is finer than the sculpture, crowd about the richly chiselled windows. yet those windows look down on the court in a most commanding way; and the fabric, behind all its floridness, shows a power in the rectitude of its lines that must needs be acknowledged. [illustration: the court of the hôtel de béthune. sully's residence.] the garish windows of the restaurant on the ground floor glare intrusively out on the old-time court, and a discordant note is struck by the signs, all about its doorways, of the new-fangled industries within--a water-cure, a boxing-school, a gymnasium. school-boys play noisily in this court, and, in the garden behind, schoolgirls take the air demurely. to reach their garden, we pass through a spacious hall, along one side of which mounts a wide, substantial staircase, its ceiling overloaded with panels and mouldings. set in a niche in the garden-wall is a bust of the duke of sully. this garden façade is in severer taste than that of the front court, its wings are less obtrusive, and its whole effect is admirable. the little garden once made one with the garden of the hôtel de chaulnes behind, that faced the place royale, to which sully thus had entrance. that entrance may be found through the two small doors of no. , place des vosges, and behind that building is sully's _orangerie_, in perfect preservation. having handsomely requited his servant and comrade, the king began, in the very centre of the tournelles, a great square with surrounding structures. as soon as one of his pavilions was sufficiently finished, he installed in it a colony of two hundred italians, brought to france for that purpose, skilled weavers and workers of silks shot with silver and with gold, such as made milan famous. and to this man alone--who was, said a memorial of his chamber of commerce, pleading for the planting of the mulberry, "nearly divine, never promising without performing, never starting without finishing;" and who issued edicts for that planting, in spite of sully's opposition--does france owe her mulberry plantations and her silkworms, as voltaire truly points out. it is commonly asserted that his "mason," for these constructions of the place royale, was androuët du cerceau, whose name is claimed for many buildings that would make his working-life last for a century and more. this jacques androuët was so renowned in his day, that much of the architecture of his sons and his grandson was then, and is still, set down to him. that stern old huguenot, born in , went from paris along with the dwellers in "little geneva," and is last heard of, still in exile, as late as . perhaps his son baptiste joined him in , when his convictions drove him, too, from the court and the capital, as has been told in the chapter, "the scholars' quarter." baptiste came back to serve henri iv. and louis xiii., and trained his son jean in his trade. for much of the work of this busy jean his grandfather has the credit, as well as for other work done by jean's uncle jacques, second of that name. the pont-neuf is always ascribed to the great androuët, who never saw one of its stones in place. that bridge was begun by his son baptiste in , and finished by his grandson jean in . he it was, if it were any du cerceau, who planned and began the place royale. [illustration: the hôtel de mayenne. in the distance, the temple sainte-marie, called the church of the visitation.] we are fortunate in that we may see one example of the style of the founder of this notable family, in the massive structure at no. rue saint-antoine, its side walls extending along rue du petit-musc. this street took its title from one of the numerous small _hôtels_ that made up the grand hôtel saint-paul; and on its foundations--still buried beneath these stones--was erected the present structure by androuët du cerceau. it is the only entire specimen of his work in paris, and we may believe that he had done better work than this, albeit it carries the authority of the old huguenot. he began it for diane de poictiers, and it was finished for an owner as heavy and as stolid as its walls. this was charles de lorraine, duc de mayenne, the eldest, the least brilliant, the most honest, of the famous brothers of guise. as lieutenant-general of the league, he led its troops to the defeats of arques and ivry. when henri de navarre became henri iv. of france, the only punishment he inflicted on his fat opponent was to walk him, at a killing pace, about the grounds of monceaux, while listening to his protests of future submission: "i will be to you, all my life long, a loyal subject and faithful servant. i will never fail you nor desert you." so promised mayenne, and he kept his word. he lived here in this mansion, through sixteen years of honorable employment in the council of state, surviving henry only a few months, and dying in his bed, in pain and with patience. his house, once one of the noisy hatching-places of the holy league, is now a noisy school for boys. its well-set cornice has been mangled by the cutting through it of the dormer windows, its grand staircase has been degraded, its court, stern from du cerceau's hand, has grown sullen, and its great gardens are built over, all along rue du petit-musc. in accordance with the king's scheme for his place royale, its eastern side was first built up at the crown's expense. the other sides were divided into lots of similar size, and leased to men of the court, of family, and of finance, on condition that they should begin to build at once, each after the original plans. with this stipulation, and an agreement to occupy their dwellings when finished, and to pay a yearly rental of one crown of gold, they and their heirs forever were given possession of these lots, as stated in the royal patent registered on august , . thirty-six structures were planned for these private dwellings, the two central pavilions on the northern and southern sides being reserved for royalty; so that thirty-six crowns were to come in as the entire annual revenue from the place royale; not an exorbitant rental, since the _écu de la couronne_ of that day was worth from seven to ten francs. thus began that historic square, and thus vanished, from off the face of the earth, the last trace of the historic tournelles. henry was more eager to hurry on the constructions than were his tenants; only a few of whom, indeed, completed and occupied their houses. there were other delays in building, not to be overcome by his almost daily visits to the spot when in town, and by his appealing letters from fontainebleau to sully, urging him to "_go and see_" if the work were being pushed on. but it was still unfinished, when ravaillac's knife cut off all his plans. this plan, however, was carried out by marie de' medici, who had made herself queen-regent by lavish payments and promises. her memories of the style of northern italy influenced details of the new constructions, which were so far finished in as to serve for the scene of the festivities, planned by her as an expression of the joy that the parisians did not know they felt. the occasion was the marriage of her son, the fourteen-year-old louis xiii., with anne of austria, daughter of philip iii. of spain; and of her daughter, isabelle, with the spanish infante, afterward philip iv. that was a great day for the place royale. for this function its still uncompleted portions were hid by scaffoldings, and all its fronts were draped with hangings and festooned with flowers. one hundred thousand guests swarmed to see the childish mummery of bearded men pranking as nymphs, the circus antics of _ballets de chevaux_ by day, and the fireworks by night. this first public appearance of the _place_ was, also, the last public appearance of the queen-regent. there can be woven no romance about this woman; fat and foolish, copious of emotion, impulsive of speech. the pencil of rubens cannot give grace to her affluent curves, and her husband's strength could not stand against her "terribly robust" arms, working briskly when she raged. whatever may be our summing-up of this man's morality, we must set down, to the credit of his account, his hard case with the two women to whom fate had married him, each so trying after her own fashion. of sterner stuff than he, so far as that sex goes, was richelieu, the new ruler of the young king louis xiii. he would bear no more of marie's meddling and muddling, and sent her into exile in . these two died in the same year, , she in poverty and neglect at cologne, after having so long been "tossed to and fro by the various fortunes of her life," says english evelyn; who, travelling on the continent, notes the "universal discontent which accompanied that unlucky woman, wherever she went." we see her in our place royale only during this one day, but her son and his minister are with us there to-day, as we stand in front of that king's statue, in the centre of the square. this statue is a reproduction of the original--melted down in --erected by richelieu in , not less for his own glorification, than to immortalize the virtues of "louis the just, thirteenth of that name." he had a score of the virtues of a valet, indeed, and with them the soul of a lackey. this present statue, placed here in the closing year of the bourbon restoration, , prettifies and makes complacent that sombre and suspicious creature, the dismallest figure in his low-spirited court. on his hair, flowing to his shoulders, rests a laurel crown, and the weak lips, curved in an unwonted smile, not twisted by his habitual stutter, are half hid by a darling mustache. he sits his horse jauntily, clad in a long cloak and a skirt reaching to his naked knees, and tries to be ostentatiously roman with bare arms and legs, his right hand pointing out across the square, from which he tried in vain to drive the duellists. we have already come here, under the guidance of dumas, to witness one famous duel in the time of henri iii. this spot had retained its vogue for the aristocratic pastime, in spite of the repeated edicts and the relentless punishments of richelieu, under royal sanction and signature. fair women hung over the infrequent balconies, or peeped from the windows, to view these duels and to applaud the duellists. a keener interest was given to the probability of the death on the ground of one combatant, by the certainty of the axe or the rope of the public executioner for the survivor. windows and balconies are deserted now; there is no clash of steel in the square, whose silence is in striking contrast with the sordid strife of neighboring rue saint-antoine; and these stately mansions, dignified in their unimpaired old age, seem to await in patience the return of their noble occupants. there has been no change in them since, on their completion in , they were regarded as the grandest in all paris, and there is hardly any change in their surroundings. the commonplace iron railings of the square, put there at the same time with the fountains, by louis-philippe, were the cause of hot protest by hugo and other residents of the quarter, who mourned the loss of the artistic rails and gateway of seventeenth-century fabrication. and rue des vosges has been cut through into the northern side of the square, making a thoroughfare to boulevard beaumarchais, such as was not planned originally. that plan provided for approach to the _place_ only by the two streets under the two central pavilions, north and south, now named béarn and birague. those two pavilions, higher than the others, were set apart for the king and queen; and over the central window of the southern one, the king, in medallion, looks down. the stately fronts of red brick--new to paris then--edged with light freestone, and the steep roofs of leaded blue slate, broken by great dormers reminiscent of renaissance windows, are time-stained to a delicate tricolor; and it pleases us to fancy the first bourbon king unconsciously anticipating the flag of the french republic in the colors of his place royale. these tall windows, opening from floor to ceiling, were a novelty to the parisians of that day, the fashion having only just then been set in the new hôtel rambouillet. behind them, the spacious blue and yellow _salons_ were hung with italian velvets, or with flemish and french tapestries, interspaced with venetian mirrors. lebrun and his like decorated the ceilings later, and the cornices were heavily carved, and the furniture was in keeping with its surroundings. the arcades of brick, picked out with stone ribs--a trifle too low and heavy, it may be, for their symmetry with the otherwise perfect proportions of these façades--were imitated from those of italy, to serve for shelter from sun, and for refuge from rain, to the strollers who thronged them for over a century. to tell over their names, one has merely to look down the list of the men who made themselves talked about, through the whole of louis xiii.'s and almost to the close of louis xiv.'s reign. then there were the women, lovely or witty or wicked, and those others, "_entre deux âges_," for whom the marais was noted. the creations of comedy are here, too, and molière's mascarille and _le menteur_ of corneille are as alive as their creators, under these arcades. for this spot was not only the centre of the supreme social movement of the capital during this long period, but it was the cradle of that _bourgeois_ existence which grew absurd in its swelling resolve to grow as big as that above it. the hôtel rambouillet, for all its affectations, did some slight service to good literature and good morals; it rated brains and manners above rank and money; it gave at least an outside deference to decency. molière himself, rebelling, had to yield, and his early license became restraint, at least. in the wild days of the fronde, men and women were in earnest, and then came the days when they were in earnest only about trifles; when the "infinitely little" was of supremest importance, when shallow refinements concealed coarseness, stilted politeness covered mutual contempt, and the finest sentiments of a joseph surface in the _salon_ went along with unrestricted looseness outside. to seem clean was the epidemic of the time, and its chronic malady was cant, pretence, and pollution. and the _bourgeois_ imitated the noble; and, in the place royale and about, molière found his _précieuses ridicules_. just a little way from here, was a room full of them--that of mlle. de scudéry. go up rue de beauce, narrowest of marais streets between its old house- and garden-walls, and you come to the passage that leads to the marché des enfants-rouges, the market and its surrounding space taking the greater part of the site, and keeping alive the name, of the admirable charity for children originated by the good marguerite de navarre, sister of françois i., and by him endowed at her urging. the little orphans cared for in this institution were clad all in red, and their pet popular name of "_enfants rouges_" soon took the place of the official title of "_enfants de dieu_." on the corner of this passage, you must stop to choose the abode of mlle. de scudéry from one of the two ancient houses there, for it is certain that she lived in one of these two, with a side door in the passage; and local legend and topographic research have failed to fix on the true one. she has told us that it stood alongside the templars' grounds, in the midst of gardens and orchards tuneful with birds, so that the lower end of the street was called rue des oiseaux; and we find this narrow passage, since then close shut in with houses, still tuneful to-day, but the birds are kept in cages. in this house madeleine de scudéry wrote her long and weary romance, "artamène, ou le grand cyrus," the most widely read and the most successful book of the day, from the money point of view. with this money she paid the debts of her brother, georges, a dashing spendthrift with showy tastes; one of those chivalric souls, too fine to work, but not too fine to sponge on his sister and to take pay for, and put his name to, work done by her pen. here she carried on the old business of the hôtel rambouillet, where she had served her apprenticeship before starting out for herself, and where she had produced the poem by which she won her _nom de parnasse_, "sapho." here she was promoted to be the tenth muse, and sat enthroned amid her admirers, who trooped in from all about the marais, on every saturday for more than thirty years. as to the _causerie littéraire et galante_ of these reunions, we learn all about it, and laugh at it, in pellisson's "chronique du samedi." it is impossible to burlesque it; molière himself could not do it. he has taken entire sentences concerning the education of woman from the "grand cyrus," and put them into his "femmes savantes"; and it is simply a portrait that he drew of madelon, as she sat in this _salon_ a year or so before he put her on the stage, awaiting the gifted authors of "la carte du royaume des précieuses." and mascarille's fatuous swagger and strident voice--as he walks the boards in coquelin's skin--seem to come straight and uncaricatured from pellisson's pages. when the valet's voice, quavering with complacency, shakes our midriff with his pronouncement: "we attach ourselves only to madrigals," he is making a direct quotation from the "chronique." mlle. de scudéry, while a _précieuse_ herself, was too genuine and talented and good-hearted a woman to be ridiculous. she is really an admirable example of the writing-woman of the seventeenth century, a female mignard in her pen-portraits. dr. martin lister came to pay his respects to the tenth muse, in this little house in , and found her over ninety years old, toothless, and still talking! one might wish to have been present at this meeting, but may be content with looking on the walls that harbored a worthy woman and her queer crowd of adorers. they came from all about the marais, it has been said. at the time of her death, in the first year of the eighteenth century, this quarter had become the chosen abode of the real swells of paris, and so the only possible residence for all those who wished to be so considered. long before, a new member of the body politic had been born--the _bourgeois_--and a place had to be found for him. the leisure he had gained from bread-getting need no longer be given to head-breaking, and for his vision there was a horizon broader than that of his father, of dignity in man and comeliness in life. his first solicitude was for his habitation, which must be set free from the rude strength of the feudal fortresses in which the _noblesse_ had camped. he levelled battlements into cornices, and widened loop-holes into windows, open for sunlight and _à la belle étoile_. in this seemly home, his thoughts threw off the obstruction imposed by centuries of repression, and by the joyless dogmas of the church. and so began that multiform process that, at last, flamed up through the frozen earth, and has been named the renaissance. many of the new mansions of the _bourgeoisie_ were in marais streets that were still walled off by the shut-in grounds of the religious bodies, whose unproductive dwellers avoided all taxation. "you see, formerly, there were monasteries all about here," says light-hearted laigle in "les misérables"; "du breul and sauval give the list of them and the abbé lebeuf. they were all around here; they swarmed; the shod, the unshod, the shaven, the bearded, the blacks, the grays, the whites, the franciscans, the minimi, the capuchins, the carmelites, the lesser augustins, the greater augustins, the old augustins. they littered." these belated owls, blinking in the new sunlight and fresher air, had now to find other dark walls for their flapping. the zone of abbeys, stretching from the bastille to the louvre, began to be cut into, and the grounds of the great _hôtels_ of the noblemen came into the market as well. there had been hardly any opening-up of this quarter, from the day when charles v. ended his wall, to the day when henri iv. began his place royale. he had planned, also, a monumental square at the top of the templars' domain, to be called place de france, with a grandiose entrance, from which eight wide streets, bearing the names of the great provinces of france, were to radiate, to be crossed by smaller streets named from the lesser provinces. for this scheme sully had bought up, under cover of a broker, an immense tract in this region, just as the king's death put a sudden end to this project, along with all his other projects. one man did much to make real the plan that had been put on paper only. this was claude charlot, a languedoc peasant, who had come to the capital in wooden _sabots_, with no money, but with plenty of shrewdness and audacity. by he had managed to acquire almost the entire tract set aside by sully, and through it he cut streets, the principal one of which is called after him, while, of those called after the provinces, some still keep their names and some have been renamed. even during his mapmaking of the marais--summarily stopped by richelieu's spoliation--this was yet a solitary and unsafe quarter, through which its honest citizens went armed against footpads by day, and by night stretched chains across the _coupe-gorges_ of its narrow streets. it continued to grow slowly through the last years of the seventeenth century, and these streets, with the place royale as their centre, were in time lined by the _portes-cochères_ of rich financiers, farmers-generals, and receivers of taxes, all swollen with their pickings and stealings. they adorned their dwellings with carved panels and painted ceilings, with sculptured halls and spacious stone stairways; and many of them were rich in manuscripts and rare books, and in collections of various sorts. of these mansions, a surprising proportion is still standing, given up to business-houses, factories, and schools; for all of which uses their capacious rooms readily lend themselves. within these old walls, face to face with the bustling streets, shouldered by structures of yesterday, or in dignified withdrawal behind their courts, can be found actual treasures of decoration and of carving, along with invisible and intangible treasures of association. for the aspect of a street, or the atmosphere of a house, tells to the intelligent looker-on as much of its bygone inmates as of its bare masonry. and kindly fate has left such relics plentifully scattered about the marais. in oldest paris of the island, and in that almost as old suburb on the southern bank, one must prowl patiently to find suggestive brick and stone. in those regions a concealed tower, or an isolated _tourelle_ on the angle of a building, makes the whole joy of a day's journey. here, in the marais, at every step you stumble on history and tradition and romance. for "the little province of the marais" was far away from the capital, and was let alone; or, rather, it was an unmolested island, washed about and not washed over by the swift tide of traffic. the stormy waves of insurrection have broken against its shores, and its pavements have never been made into barricades in any of the recurring revolutions, which have all been but interludes and later acts of the great revolution, in the people's endeavor to carry on and complete the main motive of that drama. the vogue of the marais began to fade away with the middle years of the eighteenth century, when the old _noblesse de famille_ adopted the faubourg saint-germain, and the new _noblesse de finance_ migrated to the faubourg saint-honoré, and the gadding multitude sought the arcades of the palais-cardinal, renamed palais-royal. a few ancient families, poor and proud, remained to burrow in their ancestral homes, and retired pensioned officials and _petits rentiers_ found a boon in the small rentals of the big apartments. all these _locataires_, preserving the old forms and keeping untarnished the old etiquette, gave an air of dignified dulness to the marais. their dinner-hour was at five o'clock, and after that solemn function, held in the hall hung with family portraits or with dingy tapestry, their sedate prattle, before going to bed at nine o'clock, would touch on the unhallowed edict of nantes and on its righteous revocation; even as in a certain london club of to-day, musty old gentlemen still lament, with subdued dismay, "the murder of the martyr, charles stuart." the sole diversion of these ancient dames of the marais was a stroll in the place royale, arrayed in old-time costumes, their white hair dressed high above their patrician brows. nowadays, under the horse-chestnuts and baby elms of its ground, school-boys from the neighboring institutions romp on the grit, and babies are wheeled about by their nurses, and on the benches sit faded old men, blinking and inarticulate. they cling to the historic name of the place, while to us of the real world it is known as place des vosges; this title having been given it, in honor of the province of that name, by lucien bonaparte, while he was minister of the interior. the appellation was officially adopted by the republic of , and once more, perhaps finally and for all time, by the third republic. the women of the marais [illustration: the place des vosges.] the women of the marais "_dans cet hôtel est née, le fevrier, , marie de rabutin-chantal, marquise de sévigné_:" so reads the tablet set in that wall, which fronts on the square, of the house numbered place des vosges, having its entrance at no. rue de birague. there is no name more closely linked with the marais than that of this illustrious woman. born in this house, baptized in its parish church of saint-paul-et-saint-louis, she here grew up to girlhood; she was married in saint-gervais, her daughter was married in saint-nicolas-des-champs; and the greater portion of her life was passed within this quarter. her father was killed in a duel a few months after her birth, at the age of seven she lost her mother, and when only twenty-five years old, she found herself a widow. after a short sojourn in the provinces with her son and daughter, she came back, in , to paris and to the marais. she had casual and unsettled domiciles, for many years, in rues de thorigny, barbette, des francs-bourgeois, des lions-saint-paul, des tournelles--all within our chosen district--before she settled in her home of twenty years, the carnavalet. it is but a step away from this tablet above us, to the corner of rues des francs-bourgeois and sévigné; the latter street, at that time, bearing its original name of culture-sainte-catherine, having been opened through that portion under cultivation of the grounds of the great monastery of sainte-catherine du val-des-Écoliers. on the corner of this new street and that of francs-bourgeois--then rue neuve-sainte-catherine--a piece of the convent garden was bought by jacques de ligneris, and thereon a house for his residence was erected. its plans were drawn by pierre lescot, it was built by jean bullant, was decorated by androuët du cerceau, and its sculptures were carved by jean goujon. and thus these walls, on which we are looking, speak in mute laudation of four famous men. one more notable name may be added to this list--that of françois mansart. he was called in, a century or so after the completion of this mansion, for its renovation and enlargement; and, to his lasting honor, he contented himself with doing only what seemed to him to be imperatively demanded, and with attempting no "improvements" nor "restoration" of the work of his great predecessors. he knew what we have learned, that those words too often mean desecration and ruin to all historic monuments in all lands. during this interval, the building had come into the hands of françoise de la baume, dame de kernévalec, whose breton name, corrupted to carnavalet, has clung to it ever since. that name suggested the pun of the _carnaval_ masks, carved in stone over the arches of the wings in the court. they were done by a later hand than that of goujon, whose last work is to be seen about that window of the louvre, on which he was busy, when a bullet picked him off, a day or two after the night of saint bartholomew. the tranquil elegance of his chisel has adorned this almost perfect gateway with the graceful winged figure in its keystone. it lifts and lightens the severe dignity of the façade. and, in the court--its centre not unworthily held by the bronze statue of louis xiv., remarkable in its exquisite details, found in the old hôtel de ville--we linger in joy before the graceful flowing curves and the daylight directness of the seasons of this french phidias. the figures on the wings are from a feebler chisel than his. of all the crowding memories of this spot, those of the marquise de sévigné and of jean goujon are the most vivid and the most captivating. the busts of these two, one on either side, greet us at the head of the staircase leading to her apartments; she is alert and winsome, he is sedate and thoughtful and a trifle too stern for the most amiable of sculptors, as he shows himself here, rather than the staunch huguenot, killed for his convictions. she was fifty-one years of age by the records when she came to live here, in , and half that age at heart, which she kept always young. she had been so long camping about in the marais, that she was impatient to settle down in the ideal dwelling she had found, at last. she writes to her daughter: "_dieu merci, nous avons l'hôtel carnavalet. c'est une affaire admirable; nous y tiendrons tous, et nous aurons le bel air. comme on ne peut pas tout avoir, il faut se passer des parquets, et des petites cheminées a la mode.... pour moi, je vais vous ranger la carnavalette, car, enfin, nous l'avons, et j'en suis fort aise._" so she moved in, with her son and daughter, both dear to her. it was to the daughter, however, that the mother's affluence of affection flowed out, all through her life; and it may well be that this veritable passion saved her from all other passions, during the years of her long widowhood, when many a _grand parti_ fell at her feet. she looked on them all alike, with pity for their seizure, and each of them got up and walked away, unappeased. yet hers was a rich nature, wholesome and womanly withal, and there are potentialities of emotion in the pouting lips and inviting eyes of the pretty pagan of this bust. nor was she a prude, and her way of quoting rabelais and listening to la fontaine's verses would horrify us moderns of queasy stomachs. she had ready pardon for the infidelities of her husband, and later for the misdeeds of her scampish cousin, bussy-rabutin, "the most dangerous tongue in france." above all, this real woman showed a masculine strength and loyalty of friendship for men; showed it most markedly in her sympathy for those who had fallen in the world. there is no finer example in the annals of constancy than her devotion to the broken fouquet, howbeit he may have merited breaking. the spirit of her letters, at the time of his disgrace and imprisonment, cannot be twisted into anything ignoble, as napoleon tried to do, on reading them in the state archives. he sneeringly suggested that her sympathy with fouquet was "_bien chaud, bien vif, bien tendre, pour de la simple amitié_." so it was, indeed; for her friendships were attachments, and warmth and tenderness pulsate in all her letters; and these qualities will, along with their unpremeditated spontaneity, keep them alive as long as letters live. what else was in her letters has been told by nodier, when he says that they regulated and purified the language for ordinary use; and by jules janin, who rightly claims that, from this carnavalet, came the purest and most perfect french hitherto heard in france. in forming and housing the great collection of the history of paris, to which the musée carnavalet is devoted, new buildings about a trim garden in the rear have been added to the original mansion, whose own rooms have been subjected to as little change as possible. madame de sévigné's apartment, on the first floor, is hardly altered, and her bedroom and _salon_ have been especially kept inviolate. the admirable mouldings, the curious mirrors, the old-fashioned lustre, remain as she left them, when she went to her daughter at grignan to die. in this _salon_, and in the wide corridor leading to it, both now so silent and pensive, she received all the men of her day worth receiving; and it is here alone that we breathe the very atmosphere of this incomparable creature. we may join the early-goers among these men, who make their way to another house, not far distant. there are temptations to stop before, and explore within, the seventeenth-century mansions all along rues sévigné and du parc-royal, but we pass on into rue turenne--once rue saint-louis, the longest and widest and foremost in fashion of marais streets, now merely big and bustling, with little left of its ancient glory--until we come to its no. , on the corner of old rue des douze-portes, now named ville-hardouin, after the contemporary chronicler of the fifth crusade. this modest house at the corner has been luckily overlooked by the modern rebuilder of this quarter, who has not touched its two stories and low attic above a ground floor, its unobtrusive portal, its narrow hall, and its staircase; small and quaint, in keeping with the cripple who was carried up and down for many years. paul scarron lived here, in the apartment _au deuzième à droite_, dubbed the "_hôtel de l'impécuniosité_" by his young wife, who was the granddaughter of the calvinist leader, agrippa d'aubigné, and who was to be the second wife of louis xiv. sitting at her scantily supplied supper-table here, the maid would whisper that a course was lacking, and that an anecdote from the hostess must fill the bill of fare instead. goldsmith tells us, at the beginning of his "retaliation:" "of old when scarron his companions invited, each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united." and, just here, it is curious to recall the fact that goldsmith was busied, during the last months of his life, on a translation of scarron's "roman comique," and his bethumbed copy was found on his desk, after his death. scarron was always poor and always importunate, and yet he was "a pleasant prodigy never before seen," he says of himself; rightfully claiming that he was able "to sport with misery and jest in pain." paralyzed and still a prey to incurable torments, immovable in his armchair except for his nimble fingers, he drove his pen merrily to the making of comedies, tales, pamphlets, and the verse that, like him, was impishly awry with mockery, as if chattered by "a wilderness of monkeys." letters, too, he wrote in this house, that give us striking glimpses of the man and of his time. in them we discover that "most terribly" was the sanctified slang then for the modern abomination "awfully." appeals for money make up much of his correspondence, but there is never a hint of a loan in the charming letters to the "_belle ange en deuil_," madame de sévigné; in which he always assures her that she is a dangerous person, and that those who look on her without due care, grow sick upon it immediately, and are not long-lived. mlle. de lenclos was a favorite of his, too, and that "_charmant objet, belle ninon_," came to sit for hours beside his invalid-chair. she made friends with the young wife, too, but complained that she was "_trop gauche_" to learn gallantry, and was "_vertueuse par faiblesse_." the large-minded lady frankly owns: "_j'aurais voulu l'en guérir, mais elle craignait trop dieu._" for all that, the friendship then formed between the two women was never broken, and when the widow scarron came to position and power she offered a place at court to her elder friend; an offer that was refused, for the old lady never grew old enough to change her mode of life. and there is little doubt that the younger woman often looked back with longing to those wretched days that were so happy. she said once, seeing the carp dying of surfeit in the versailles pond: "_elles regrettent leur bourbe_," suggesting that, like them, she suffered from satiety. years before his marriage, scarron had lived with his sister in this same little street of "twelve doors," and had grown very fond of the "_beau quartier des marests_." he asks: "who can stay long from the place royale?" when he returned to paris in --having married in , and having made a long stay in touraine--he came back to his beloved marais, and took a three-years' lease of this apartment. at its termination the lease was probably renewed, for it is a time-honored tradition that makes this old house the place of his death, on october , . between fifty and one hundred years later--the exact date is not to be got at--the garret above was crowded with the pet dogs and cats and birds of prosper jolyot de crébillon, who lived in filth among them, seldom eating, never washing, always smoking. the big blond dramatist had fallen a victim to poverty and melancholy, after a short career of success on those boards which he stained with the blood of many violent deaths. he had said that, since corneille had taken heaven for his own and racine had seized upon earth, he could place his scenes only in hell. he was rescued, and taken from this garret, by the pension obtained through la pompadour. that great lady was not prompted by any comprehension of the sombre power of his tragedy, but by a desire to wreak her spite against voltaire by the exaltation of a rival. scarron's widow was left in poor case, with only her husband's small pension for support, and this was stopped by colbert on the death of anne of austria, in . that queen-mother had endowed an institution for poor girls and sick women, and with these "_hospitalières de la place royale_," madame scarron found shelter, having sold all that she owned. in she was put in charge of the first child of the king and madame de montespan, and we know all the rest, to the secret marriage in . such of the buildings of the "_hospitalières_" as are left now form part of the hôpital andral, and their old roofs and dormers and chimneys take our eye above the low wall as we turn into rue des tournelles. in this street is the hospital's main entrance, and through its gate we look across the garden, that stretches back to the former entrance in impasse de béarn; now opened only to carry out for burial the bodies of those dying in the hospital. the line of walls along rue des tournelles was broken by only a few isolated houses, when françois mansart selected a site here, and put thereon his own dwelling, unpretending as the man himself, in contrast with the grand mansions he had planned for his noble and wealthy clients. this is his modest entrance-court, at no. rue des tournelles, and behind it is the simple façade of his _hôtel_. this building probably formed his entire frontage, or it may have been the _corps-de-logis_ of a more extensive structure, whose two wings reached out toward the street at nos. and . this number , whether the central or the entire body of the building, remains in perfect preservation. at mansart's death, in , it came, along with most of his property, to his sister's son, whom he had adopted, and trained to be the architect known as jules hardouin mansart. he gained position and pay in the royal employ, more by this adoptive name than by his abilities. as superintendent of buildings under louis xiv. he is responsible for most of the horrors of the palace of versailles, yet the dome of the invalides proves him to have been capable of less meretricious work. on taking possession of his uncle's mansion, he had, as sole tenant of his spacious and inviting first floor, mlle. anne lenclos, popularly christened ninon de lenclos, then fifty years of age. her dwelling is the end and object of this short walk, and together with the house from which we started, and the one at which we stopped, it gives us a complete picture of the social doings of the marais at that period. we are allowed to enter among the men with whom we have come, and we will go in, let us say, with young de sévigné, who finds his way here frequently, from his _pied-à-terre_ in his mother's house, as his father and his grandfather had found their way to ninon's abode. under the stone balcony on the court-front we step up into a goodly hall, from which rises a stone staircase, its outer end finely carved, its steps well worn by many visitors through the years. an admirable medallion looks down from the wall as we mount, and in the rooms above we find carved panels and decorated ceilings, many of them done by lebrun and mignard, probably for the fair tenant. they are so carefully kept that canvas covers such of them as are feared to be "_trop lestes_" for modern eyes, in the modest words of the ancient _concierge_. mansart put an excellent façade on his garden-front, and its coupled ionic columns, and balconies of wrought-iron railings, are all there unmutilated. but the garden, then stretching to boulevard beaumarchais, is now hidden under the shops that front on that boulevard. to these rooms and this garden thronged the same men whom we have seen in the sévigné and scudéry _salons_, and these reunions were as decorous as those, and perhaps somewhat more cheerful and more natural in tone. for, while ninon had the honor of being enrolled in the "grand dictionnaire des précieuses," published in , and while she had been presented at the hôtel de rambouillet at the early age of seventeen, she had none of the pretensions nor the ridiculosities of "les femmes savantes." she was absolutely genuine, not ashamed to be natural, quite ready to laugh or to cry with her friends. these friends, drawn to her less by her beauty than by her charm, were held always by her sunny amiability, her quick sympathies, her frank _camaraderie_. she was the clarisse of mlle. de scudéry's "clélie;" an _enjouée aimable_, who never denied herself the indulgence of any caprice of head or of heart. yet, as she laughingly confessed, while she thanked god every night for the good wits given her, she prayed every morning for better protection against the follies of her heart. it is a faithful portrait that is given in the verse of her day: "_l'indulgente et sage nature a formé l'âme de ninon, de la volupté d'Épicure, et de la vertu de caton._" beyond most women of that time, she was really cultivated, in the best meaning of that word; far different from the meaningless culture with a capital, of our time. she was fond of philosophy, withal, and took turns with plato and with montaigne; and would speculate on the problems of life either with church dignitaries or with the epicurean saint-Évremond. and she captivated them all, men of all sorts, beginning with her girlish years--when she dutifully obeyed her father, who preached pleasure to her, rather than her mother, who pushed her toward a convent--through all her long life of incredibly youthful heart and body, to her amazing conquests when over sixty. a portrait of her at about this age hangs in knole house, sevenoaks; her hair, parted down the middle and plainly drawn back in modest fashion, her alluring eyes and her ingenuous direct smile, give her the look of a girl. richelieu was her first admirer, voltaire was the latest. when brought to this house, where he celebrated ninon's ninetieth birthday in verse, young arouet was only about twelve years old, as was told in a preceding chapter. she was charmed with the youthful genius, and, dying within a few weeks, in , she left him two thousand crowns for buying his beloved books. from five until nine in the evening, ninon was "at home" here, up to her eighty-fourth year, in . before her visitors went away, they sat down to a simple supper, served with no parade and at small expense. many of the guests, following the fashion of scarron's friends and of the persistent diners-out of that day, brought their own _plats_. we get a glimpse of the simplicity of these suppers "_à tous les despréaux et tous les racines_," and of the homely, social ways of the _bourgeoisie_, in voltaire's tiresome comedy "le dépositaire." we look about these rooms, in which we are standing, and wish we might have seen boileau and racine here; we seem to see molière, reading his unacted and still unnamed play, and consulting his hostess as to whether "tartufe" will do for a title; and old corneille, forgetting to be shy and clumsy at her side; and scarron, wheeled in his chair, quicker in his scoffing for her quick catching of the point; and la rochefoucauld, less of a surly and egotistic _poseur_ in her presence, content to sparkle as a boudoir machiavelli; and huyghens, fresh from his discovery of the moons of saturn, finding here a heavenly body of unwonted radiance, and setting to work to write erotic verse mixed with mathematics. the great condé himself, proud, vain, hardest-hearted of men, melts when he meets her; broken and decrepit, he climbs out from his sedan-chair--"that wonderful fortification against bad weather and the insults of the mud," says delicious mascarille--and approaches, hat in hand, the _calèche_ of that other aged warrior, ninon de lenclos. through no. of boulevard beaumarchais, which occupies the site of her garden, we come out on that broad thoroughfare, passing on our right the buildings covering the gardens that once countrified this east side of rue des tournelles. we cannot now search among the houses there for that one inhabited by the abbé prévost, some time between and , while he was writing his enthralling story of "manon lescaut." almost at the end of the boulevard, men are sitting about tin tables on the pavement, drinking good beer, on the very site of the gate of saint-antoine. just there, outside the gate, stood lady de winter, pointing out to her two hired assassins her pet enemy, d'artagnan, as he rode out on the vincennes road, on his way to the siege of rochelle. the gate abutted on the western side of the bastille, and its figures, carved by jean goujon for decorations of a later day, may be seen in the cluny gardens. traced in the pavement of place de la bastille and across rue saint-antoine, you may follow the outlines of such portions of the walls and towers of the great prison as are not hidden under the houses at the two corners. when you ask for your number in the omnibus office of the _place_, you are standing in the bastille's inner court. across its outer eastern ditch and connected with the wall of charles v., was thrown a projecting bastion, the tower of which stood exactly where now rises the column of july. at the corner of rues saint-antoine and jacques-coeur, a tablet shows the site of the gateway that gave entrance to the outer court, which led southwardly along the line of the latter small street. by this gateway the armed mob entered on july , . lazy louis xvi., hard at work on locks and other trifles at versailles--having as yet no news from paris--writes in his diary for that day: "_rien_"! that mob had found the fortress as little capable of resistance as the throne that it overturned a while later; both proved to be but baseless fabrics of an unduly dreaded terror. indeed, it was the power behind this prison that was stormed on that day. there were plenty of prisons in paris, as fast and as secret as was the bastille. this was more than a prison to these people; it gloomed over their lives as its towers gloomed over their street--a mysterious and menacing defiance, a dumb and docile doer of shady deeds, a symbol of an authority feared and hated. and so these people first tore away the tool, and then disabled the hand that had held it. it was a stirring act in the drama, though a trifle melodramatic. "_palloy le patriote_," as he styled himself, takes the centre of the stage just here, and, like all professional patriots, in all lands and all times, he makes a good thing of his patriotism. he was the contractor for demolishing the walls and for clearing the ground of the wreckage, at a handsome price; and he doubled his wage by the sale of the materials. some of the stones went, queerly enough, to the building of pont de la concorde; others of them may be seen in the walls of the house on the western corner of boulevard poissonière and rue saint-fiacre, and of other houses in the town. with the stones not fit for these uses, and with the mortar, he made numerous models of the bastille, which were purchased by the committees and sent as souvenirs to the chief towns of the then newly created departments. one of these models is in the musée carnavalet. so, too, the thrifty palloy turned the ironwork dug out into hat and shoe buckles, and the woodwork into canes and fans and tobacco-boxes; all, at last, into coin for his patriotic pocket. the gate of one of the cells was removed, and rebuilt in the prison of sainte-pélagie; where it may be seen by the inmates, who care nothing for a door more or less, but never by the outsider, who would like to get in for a glimpse! to "palloy the patriotic" and his gang of a thousand workingmen, rides up on his white horse, one day, the first commander of the just invented and organized national guard--lafayette, aptly named by mirabeau the "cromwell-grandison" of his nation. he looks over the busy ground, and gives orders that the men shall receive a pint of wine and a half-franc daily; but they got neither money nor wine, both doubtless "conveyed, the wise it called," on the way, by palloy or by other "patriots." lafayette carried away the great key of the bastille's great entrance-door, and sent it to george washington by thomas paine, when, a few years later, paine got out of the luxembourg prison and out of france. it is one of the cherished relics at mount vernon, and not one is more impressive and more appropriate in that place, since it was the success of the american revolutionists that inspirited those who opened the bastille. we pass along rue saint-antoine, so commonplace and sordid to-day, so crowded with history and tradition. it has seen, in its short length, pageants of royalty and nobility, the hide-and-seek of romance, the blood-letting of sharp blades, the carnage of the common people, such as no other street of any other town has known. its memories would fill a fat volume. the little temple of sainte-marie on our left, as we go--a reduced imitation of rome's pantheon--is a design by françois mansart, and while it has his grace of line and his other qualities, it is not a notable work. built on the site of the hôtel de boissy, wherein quélus died and his lover henry wept, it was intended for the chapel of the "_filles de la visitation_," and their name clings to it, although it has been made over to the protestant church. to this convent fled mlle. louise de la fayette from louis xiii.; who, ardent in the only love and the only chase known in his platonic career, visited her here until his confessor, vincent de paul, showed him the scandal of a king going to a nunnery. so he had to leave her, secure under the veil and the vows of the cloister. she became soeur, and later mère, angélique, of the convent of sainte-madeleine, founded in by henrietta maria, widow of charles i., which stood on the far-away heights of chaillot, where now is the museum of the trocadéro. there the sister and the sweetheart of louis xiii. lived together for many years. a few steps farther, and we come to rue beautreillis; its pavement and its houses on both sides, nearly as far as rue charles v., covering the cemetery of old saint-paul; which extended westerly toward passage saint-pierre, wherein we may find the stone walls, now roofed in with wood, of the _charniers_. there had been a suburban cemetery outside the old wall, which was brought within city limits by the new wall, and served as the burial-ground of the prisoners who died in the bastille. it did not so serve, as is commonly asserted, for the skeletons found in chains in the cells, when the prison was opened by righteous violence, because no such skeletons were found. "the man in the iron mask" was buried in this ground, close alongside the grave of rabelais, dug exactly one hundred and fifty years earlier. pass through the two courts that lie in the rear of no. rue beautreillis, and you will find yourself in a large waste garden, in one corner of which the persuasive _concierge_ points out the grave of the "_masque-de-fer_." it may well be that she is not misled by topographical pride, for this ground was certainly a portion of the old burial-ground, and not impossibly that portion where rabelais and "marchioly" were laid near together. this is the prisoner's name on the bastille's burial-register, and not far from his real name. for we know, as surely as we shall ever know, that this prisoner of state was the count ercolo antonio mattioli, secretary of state of charles iv., duke of mantua. the count had agreed to betray his trust and to sell his master's fortress of casali to the french representative; with this in their possession, pignerol belonging already to france, louis xiv. and louvois would dominate all upper italy. mattioli took his pay, and betrayed his paymaster; the scheme miscarried, and the schemer deserved another sort of reward. his open arrest, or execution, or any public punishment, meant exposure and scandal to the crown and the minister and the ambassador of france. so he was secretly kidnapped, and became "the man in the iron mask." at his death, in , his face was mutilated, lest there might be recognition, even then; the walls of his cell were scraped and painted, to obliterate any marks he might have put on them; his linen and clothing and furniture were burned. had voltaire suspected the results of modern research, he would not have put forth his theory, in the second edition of his "questions sur l'encyclopédie," that this prisoner was an elder brother of louis xiv. yet, but for voltaire's error, we should have lost those delightful pages of dumas, wherein aramis carries off from the bastille this elder brother and rightful heir to the crown, leaving louis xiv. in the cell, and at last replaces his puppets in their original positions. this cemetery of saint-paul, dating back to dagobert, when the burial-grounds on the island had become overpeopled, had its own small chapel of the same name, which had fallen out of use and into ruin. charles v., bringing it within his enclosure of the hôtel saint-paul, rebuilt and enlarged it and made it the church of the royal parish. all the daughters and the sons of france were thenceforth baptized here, and it became the favorite church of the nobility. after louis xi.'s time, and the desertion of this quarter by royalty, the little church lost its vogue. in it was appropriated and sold as national domain, and torn down soon after. its site is covered by the buildings on and behind the eastern side of rue saint-paul, opposite the space between passage saint-paul and rue eginhard. this is the small street selected by alphonse daudet for the shop of his _brocanteur_ leemans, to which comes the fascinating sephora, of "les rois en exil." daudet has overdone it in going so far for his local color; the street is a noisome alley, entered by an archway from rue saint-paul, holding only two or three obscene junk-shops. and now, passing the flamboyant italian façade--a meretricious imitation of the front of saint-gervais--of the church of saint-paul-et-saint-louis, which has absorbed the name of old saint-paul, we reach at last the ample space where the two streets of rivoli and of saint-antoine meet and so make one broad, unbroken thoroughfare through the length of the town, from the place where the bastille was to the place now named concorde. this grand highway has existed only since the middle of the nineteenth century. the consulate and the first empire had cut rue de rivoli along the upper edge of the tuileries gardens as far easterly as rue de rohan; from there it was prolonged, taking the line of some of the old, narrow streets and piercing through solid masses of ancient buildings, in the last years of louis-philippe; and was carried from the hôtel de ville to this point by the second empire. all through earlier days, the route, common and royal, from the louvre and the tuileries to the hôtel saint-paul, the tournelles, the bastille, and the arsenal, was by way of narrow rue saint-honoré and its narrower continuation, rue de la ferronerie, thence around by rue saint-denis into rue des lombards, and so along rues de la verrerie and roi-de-sicile to the old gate of saint-antoine, that stood just behind us here at the end of rue malher. outside that gate was the country road leading to vincennes, which was transformed into the city street, known to us as rue saint-antoine, through the protection given by charles v.'s new wall and by his bastille. there had been, long before, a rue saint-antoine, and it curves away here on our left, and is called rue françois-miron, so named in honor of that _prévôt des marchands_ in henri iv.'s time, who merits remembrance as an honest, high-minded, capable administrator of his weighty office. thus this street of old saint-antoine was the thoroughfare--at first from the entrance into the town by the old gate of saint-antoine, and afterward from the new street of saint-antoine and its entrance gate farther east--to the open space behind the hôtel de ville, alongside saint-gervais, and so to the bridges and the palace on the island. it was a street "marvellously rich" in shops, having no rival except in rue saint-denis. its shopkeepers shouted, from their doors or from the pavement in front, the merits of their wares to the throng swarming always along. their wares were worthy of the city that, with its fast-growing population, equalled venice herself in wealth, display, and splendor, if we may trust the word of an exultant scribbling citizen of the paris of charles v. so, too, it was the grand highway for royal entries, for troops, for ambassadors with their trains, for any parade that demanded display and attracted spectators. such an array came along here on august , , when young louis xiv. brought into his town his young bride, maria theresa of spain, each of them being just twenty-two years old. it was the showiest pageant and the longest procession yet seen in paris, taking ten or twelve hours to pass. the bride--a slight, pretty, girlish figure, in white satin and pearls, and a violet mantle of velvet--leaned back on the crimson velvet of her huge gilded chariot; at her right on horseback was the king, in cloth-of-gold and black lace, his collars and ruffles of white point. in the resplendent retinue nothing so blazed as the superb empty coach of the cardinal-minister mazarin, its panels painted by lebrun, drawn by the famous mules and escorted by the mousquetaires. less than a year later mazarin was carried through paris in his hearse, caring no more for mules or any tomfoolery. the procession had entered the town under claude perrault's triumphal arch at the end of the vincennes avenue, and through porte saint-antoine, cleaned up and sculptured afresh for this day, and so by new rue saint-antoine, along this present rue françois-miron. it was packed with spectators, among whom was la fontaine, who sent a long rhymed description of the show to his patron, fouquet, not omitting mention of the cardinal's mules. these, too, were spoken of with fitting praise in a letter written to a friend by young madame scarron--to be a widow, within a few weeks--who was also in the throng. years after, she confessed to the credulous king that on that day she had first seen him and first loved him, and that she had never ceased to love him since! we may not consider the duchess of orleans unduly prejudiced when she refers to madame de maintenon as "that hussy." at no. rue françois-miron you may see an excellent balcony of that period, solidly and richly wrought in iron, supported by captivating stone dragons of fantastic design. there were similar balconies on the front of the great mansion at no. --which was then no. --but of these only a small one is still left over the portal. they were all crowded with a most select mob of the elect on the day of this procession. there was anne of austria, in her black mantle, looking down on her son, her thoughts turning back to her own bridal procession over the same route, and her own youthful blond beauty of forty-five years before. by her side sat henrietta of france, widow of charles i., and her daughter, henrietta anne of england. the girl may have gazed with curiosity on the over-dressed fop riding at the bride's left wheel. this was philippe d'orléans, who was to be her husband, and was, through his complacent creatures, to poison her within ten years from this day. in another balcony sat mazarin, too ill to take part in the procession. the hostess of these great ladies was one catherine bellier, wife of pierre de beauvais; and this house is the hôtel de beauvais. the husband had been a pedlar or a shopkeeper, and had amassed sufficient wealth from ribbons to enable him to buy his title. the wife had served as first _femme-de-chambre_ to anne of austria, and had so learned many secrets of that queer court, of its queen-mother, and of her cardinal. in that court there was no more unscrupulous creature than this catherine bellier. the deliciously outspoken duchess of orleans--the second wife of that philippe we have just seen--describes this woman as one-eyed and hideous, of profligate life, and apt in all intrigue. to the day of her death she loved to appear in flamboyant costumes at the court, where she was treated with distinction because of what she knew. anne of austria gave her the stone for the construction of this _hôtel_, and she used to visit her waiting-woman and _confidente_ here. a popular verse of the day ran: "_mercredi notre auguste reine, cette charmante souveraine, fut chez madame de beauvais; pour de son admirable palais voir les merveilles étonnantes, et les raretés surprenantes._" [illustration: the hôtel de beauvais.] the design of the hôtel de beauvais, by antoine lepautre, is most daring and original in its great interior oval court, embellished with pilasters that are topped with finely carved stone masks. despite the unhallowed devotion to cleanliness which, with its whitewash, has robbed it of its former lovely bloom of age, this court remains one of the most impressive specimens of seventeenth-century domestic architecture in all paris. from the street we pass through an ample gateway, its curved top surmounted by a great shell. the vestibule is ornamented with escutcheons, alternating with the garlanded ox-skulls of roman-doric decoration--mistaken by many for rams' heads, so as to make a sculptor's pun on bellier--all admirably carved in stone. the noble staircase has corinthian columns, and a massive stone balustrade so perfectly pierced into fine lines of intertwisted tracery as to give delicacy to it, thick and broad as it is. cut in stone escutcheons in the ceiling of this stairway are the intertwined initials of the brand-new nobility that built it. the grand _salons_ of the first floor have been partitioned off into small rooms for trade purposes. no character of any sort has been left to the interior. the ground on which we tread here, while a portion of the marais of old paris, is not the marais of modern paris, as it is commonly designated. yet this region toward the river, built on during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, after the opening up of the grounds of the hôtel saint-paul and the cutting of streets through them, holds enticements in architecture and in story that tempt us to turn our backs for a while on our own marais. many of the streets here remain unmodernized and unspoiled, and here are _hôtels_ as perfectly preserved as this hôtel de beauvais. at no. rue geoffroy-lasnier we stop in delight before an entrance-door superbly carved and heavy with a glorious knocker--a lion's head holding a great ring in its mouth. above this door we read: "_hôtel de châlons, , et de luxembourg, ._" the small court within, diminished by modern stables on one side, retains on its other side an ancient iron fountain. the façade of the miniature _hôtel_ giving on this court is in well-balanced stone and brick; its shapely windows are surrounded by male and female masks, and by delicate foliage twining about the monograms of the aforetime exalted owners--all elaborately carved in stone. the roof rises gracefully to its ridge, and each gable end is surmounted by a well-wrought iron finial. there is a modest garden behind, shut in and hid by the buildings about, which hide, too, the simple and attractive stateliness of that rear face of the hôtel de châlons. the enchanting isolation and the singular charm of this concealed corner give us the feeling that here is a bit of bourges, gently dropped, tranquil and untroubled, into the midst of these turbulent streets. a little farther along, at no. in this street of geoffroy-lasnier, behind a commonplace house-front and a commonplace court, you shall find a staircase, with an iron rail below and a wooden rail above, that make a most uncommon and interesting picture. turning into rue de jouy, an altogether delightful old-time street, we pass through a monumental gateway at no. into a symmetrical court. facing us is the hôtel d'aumont, and it tells us more than is told by any structure hereabout of the merits of françois mansart. this front of two stories and of his own roof is faultless in proportion and dainty in adornment. he has given it the stamp of the stately days of the grand monarch by the four _oeils-de-boeuf_ above the perfect cornice of the second floor, two on either side of the central window. in the two corners of the court, at each angle of the building, are round-fronted stone _perrons_, broad and low and inviting. that on our left gives entrance to a small hall, the staircase in which carries an exquisite wrought-iron rail that lifts and lightens the stone steps. by them we mount to the chambers of the first floor, small as was the custom then, with one grand central reception-room, excellent in its proportions, its vaulted ceiling curiously carved in relief. all these rooms are, by the good taste and generous spirit of the owners of the property, kept in perfect condition, the furniture is of the period, and the painting--done by lebrun a century later than the ceiling on which it is placed--is fresh and untarnished. mansart's commission for this construction came from that duc d'aumont who was maréchal of france and governor of paris under louis xiii. a descendant of the early fighters of old france, he seems to have been one of those favorites of fortune who, in the phrase of beaumarchais, give themselves only the trouble to be born. at the age of ten he began his career as a colonel of cavalry, and continued it through a long line of lucky promotions in place and pay. dying in , he left this _hôtel_ packed with furniture, paintings, _bibelots_, and curios, and its stables filled with the carriages he had invented; an amazing collection, requiring months for its sale by his heirs. the _hôtel_ is now occupied by the pharmacie centrale of france, to whose officials is due our gratitude for their rare and scrupulous respect for this delightful relic. over its spacious gardens behind they have erected their immense laboratories and offices, which we may enter under the great vaulted porch at no. rue des nonnains-d'hyères. that once narrowest of the streets of old paris, as quaint as its name, given it by the branch of the hyères nunnery having its seat here, has become a broad and bustling thoroughfare. the plain rear elevation of the _hôtel_ can be seen here from the little corner of the garden that is still kept, and kept green by the choice plants of the company. in it is a capital bust of dorvault, physician, author, founder of the pharmacie centrale. this may be the very bit of garden noticed by dr. martin lister, an english traveller in france at the close of the seventeenth century. he dined with the duc d'aumont, and records that, opening from the dining-room, was a greenhouse through which his noble host led him into the garden. along through the rocky ravine that bears the name of charlemagne, and does him no honor, we pass, by way of rue saint-paul, into the short street that started in life as rue neuve-saint-paul, and has now taken the name of charles v. here, among the ancient fronts, we are attracted by that which is numbered , low and wide, with two floors and dormers above. through its entrance-door, capped by a well-carved mask that smiles stonily down on us, we may enter the court by the courtesy of the sister, who smiles sweetly. this building is occupied by the girls' school of a sisterhood, whose youthful _communiantes_ happen to be forming in procession for a function to-day. they flutter about in innocent white, in unconscious contrast with the great lady and great criminal whom we have come to see. for this was the hôtel d'aubray, and its most distinguished tenant was the marquise de brinvilliers. let us look about the court and the little garden behind, both embraced by the two wings of the structure. that wing on our right, with round arches and a round tower at its end, is evidently of the original fabric and intended for stabling. this wing on our left, now extended by a new chapel, was, when built, meant to contain only this staircase, whose wide and broad stone steps and well-wrought iron balustrade mount gradually about a spacious central well. here, resting on the bench at its foot, we may recall what is known about the strange and monstrous woman who once lived here. she was marie-madeleine dreux d'aubray, and her father was an officer of louis xiv., appointed civil lieutenant of the châtelet prison. he married her in , when she was twenty-one, to the wealthy and dissolute marquis de brinvilliers, who was not a model husband. she was nothing loath, with her inborn instincts, to follow the example set by him. among her lovers, a certain gaudin de sainte-croix was much talked of; so much so that the lady's father, more powerful than her husband, and doubtless more outraged by the shameless publicity of the _liaison_, had sainte-croix taken from his daughter's carriage, as they rode together, and put into the bastille. there his cell-mate was an italian known only as exili, a past-master in poisons, who boasted that he had brought to death at least one hundred and fifty men and women in rome alone. he taught his trade to sainte-croix, who proved to be an apt pupil, and who continued his studies after his release. he took rooms with an apothecary in the faubourg saint-germain, and fitted up a laboratory. there his marquise visited him, and was taught in her turn the use of his potions, among which the "manna of saint-nicholas" became her favorite. for she took pains and showed conscience in her experiments, mainly on the patients in the hospitals, wherein she was a constant charitable worker. thus she soon learned to dispense her poisoned wafers with scientific slowness and precision. but she was anxious that her charity should begin at home. her father failed gradually with some obscure and unaccountable malady, and died in torment; and she nursed him tenderly to the end. there were too many in her family for her comfort, and her relatives outside had been too solicitous about her; so some sickened and some died off, she caring for all and lamenting each death. she had a sister, a carmelite nun, who was never blinded by the round, girlish face, appealing blue eyes, and beguiling ways that bewitched so many. this woman guarded her own life and watched over others of the family. the attempts made by the marchioness on her husband's life were caused to fail, it is believed, by the attenuation of the poisons mixed for her by sainte-croix, who doubtless feared that he must marry the widow if he allowed her to become a widow. he himself was found dead, in , in his laboratory, poisoned by the fumes of his devilish brews, through the breaking of the glass mask worn at his work. the official search among his effects discovered a casket, addressed to the marchioness at this dwelling; being opened, its contents were found to be her own ardent love-letters to him, a document detailing the doses and periods for the proper administration of the poisons, and a choice assortment of preparations of opium, antimony, sulphur. there was also a water-like liquid, unknown to chemists, which was found to kill animals instantaneously, leaving no lesions of any organ that could be traced by science. sainte-croix's servant made a disclosure, and the marchioness, hearing of his arrest and the finding of her package, made "confession by avoidance" by a flight to england. she slipped down these stairs, out through that doorway, and took coach around the corner for a northern port. colbert's brother was then ambassador at the court of saint james, and between them her capture was planned; she got wind of it, and fled to liège, where she felt sure of safety in a convent. to her appears, after a while, a handsome and susceptible young _abbé_, who allows himself to be corrupted, and arranges for an elopement to a more congenial refuge for lovers. she climbs gayly into his carriage, his men surround it, and she is driven across the frontier into france and to the bastille. the _abbé_ was desgrais, an eager police officer detailed for this duty. he returned to her room in the convent, and found scattered sheets of paper containing notes that began a confession. this confession she was forced to complete and confirm by the torture by water--repugnant to her coquetry, because it would spoil her figure; "_toute mignonne et toute gracieuse_," had said an adorer of her early days. she showed courage at the last, madame de sévigné states, in the letters that were full of the trial and execution. she was burned, having first been beheaded. "her poor little body was thrown, after her execution, into a good large fire, and her ashes blown about by the wind; so that we may be breathing her," sévigné writes. this took place late in the afternoon of july , --she was just over forty-five years of age--on place de grève, to which she was carted in a tumbril, having stopped on the way in front of notre-dame, and there, on her knees on the stones--her feet bare, a rope around her neck, a consecrated lighted taper in her uplifted hand--made to confess afresh. [illustration: the staircase of the dwelling of the marquise de brinvilliers.] the painter lebrun was one of the great crowd that gathered to see her go by, and he made a drawing, which you may see in the gallery of old french designs in the louvre. she half sits, half reclines, in her tumbril, clad in a gown, its cowl drawn forward; her head is thrown back; her thick chestnut hair brushed away from her face; her eyes are wide and her mouth drawn with terror; her face is round, her lips are thick; in her folded hands she holds a cross, and she stares straight before her without seeing. at one side is the profile of a woman, very lean and ugly, her expression full of horror as she bends forward to gaze. turning from this street down through rue beautreillis, we pass the end of rue des lions, on whose southern side we have already found remains of the hôtel des lions du roi. on its northern side is a row of plaster-fronted houses, commonplace and shabby. in one of those garrets there was living, shortly after , a poor family of jews named félix, lately arrived from the canton aarau in switzerland. their two little girls went about the streets, singing and picking up coppers. one day in the place royale, among those who stopped to listen was a kindly eyed gentleman, who handed to the younger and thinner of the two pinched children a piece of silver. "that is victor hugo," said a woman in the crowd, as he went his way to his home in the corner. that small singer was Élisa rachel félix, known to us as the great rachel. years after, when the world had given all that it could give to rachel, she returned, from a voyage to egypt in search of health, to the place royale to die. "it is on the way to père-lachaise," she said, when, in , she moved into the immense and superbly furnished apartment on the first floor of no. , where her friends, she thought, would have ample room for her burial service. it is only a step in space from this garret to that palace. there, within a few months--although her death came at the country-seat of victorien sardou's father, whom she was visiting--that service was held, and from there her body was borne to père-lachaise. going down rue du petit-musc, we reach the quai des célestins, and here on our left is the beginning of broad boulevard henri iv., cutting away, in its diagonal course through the grounds of the hôtel saint-paul, much history and romance. nothing is left of the gardens of the hôtel de lesdiguières, whose site is marked by a tablet on the corner of the street of that name, at no. rue de la cerisaie. this tablet tells us that the _hôtel_ was the residence of the czar peter the great in ; the guest, during his short sojourn in paris, of the maréchal de villeroy, its owner then. we prefer to go back from that visit over a hundred years to a more attractive presence in this house. this was gabrielle d'estrées, beloved of henry, who--for his fondness for her and their two fine boys--would have made her his wife, and have made them his legitimate successors, if he could have had his way. it was sébastien zamet who was their host in this "_palais d'amour du roi_." the son of a shoe-maker of lucca, he had found his fortune in paris, like so many of his countrymen in those days, and he built here "a true fairy palace, such as romances describe," says saint-simon. and here, walking in the garden after supper on the evening of april , , the lovely gabrielle was taken ill very suddenly. they carried her to the hôtel de sourdis and put her in the care of her aunt, with whom she had passed a portion of her girlhood in that mansion. it stood within the precincts of saint-germain-l'auxerrois, its entrance on rue de l'arbre-sec, where now is the end of rue perrault. here gabrielle died, in agony, at six o'clock of the next morning; poisoned, say sismondi, michelet, and the rest, but by whose hand we shall never know. the hôtel des mousquetaires, that you will find at no. of rue de l'arbre-sec, was then in existence, and so, too, were many of these tall façades, with ancient, iron balconies that look down on the narrow winding street, then a crowded thoroughfare of old paris. after zamet's death his house was bought by the duc de lesdiguières, marshal and later constable of france, from whom it took its permanent name. we have already come here with boileau to see the veteran _frondeur_, paul de gondi, cardinal de retz, whose last years were passed in this mansion, under the care of one niece, madame de lesdiguières, and comforted by another niece, madame de sévigné. on the quay, off on our left, the célestins _caserne_ occupies a small portion of the immense grounds of the célestins monastery. it was a rich community, made so by the many gifts of kings, from charles v. down, to "_leurs bien aimés chapelains et serviteurs en dieu_." these pious beggars were not too proud to accept anything, and time fails to tell of the splendors of their church, which became a museum of monuments, tombs, statues, and was demolished in , many of its treasures having been destroyed during the revolution. the godly brethren are remembered in the name of the barracks and of the quay, and to some of us, it must be owned, by the delectable dish of their invention, _omelette à la célestins_. that long façade beyond, on rue de sully, belongs to the arsenal, the building alone left, its spacious gardens now under streets and houses. we have come to its library with young balzac, when he escaped from his grinding drudgery and his dreary garret in rue lesdiguières. we have driven here with madame récamier on the day before her death. the most winning memory of the place is that of charles nodier, an adorable man of genius, whose very defects were lovable, we are told by the elder dumas, who loved him. nodier and charles lamb were hissing, almost in the same year, each his own damned play. many others besides dumas loved nodier--royalists and republicans, classicists and romanticists; and they crowded his _salon_ here of an evening. for this was his official residence as librarian, occupied by him from his appointment in until his death in . his historic green drawing-room, where men were friendly who fought outside, and the smaller rooms of his apartment on the first floor overlooking boulevard morland, have been thrown into the library, and are now its reading-rooms. they have kept their old-time panelling, carvings, mouldings, but their walls, once decorated _en grisaille_, have been toned to a uniform delicate gray-white. this library was begun in by the comte d'artois, who purchased the valuable books and manuscripts of voyer de paulmy, marquis d'argenson, and of the duc de la vallière. rooms in the arsenal were arranged for this collection, and it was named the "_librairie de monsieur_;" the comte d'artois, brother of louis xvi. and of louis xviii., having been the last "_monsieur_" in france. his library has grown to be the grandest in paris after the bibliothèque nationale. it contains the original archives of the bastille--such as were saved, when so many were scattered and destroyed at its taking--and it is especially rich in dramatic literature and in manuscripts. here, above our heads as we stand in rue du petit-musc, is the tasteful, unspoiled side wall of the hôtel de lavallette, formerly the hôtel fieubet. it was built by the younger mansart, on the corner of saint-paul's grounds, for the chancellor of maria theresa, gaspard de fieubet, and it became a gathering-place of the writers of those days. they were courted by its owner, whose name is frequent in the letters of madame de sévigné, and he himself turned his hand to rhyming, at odd hours. nearly two hundred years after he had gone, his mansion was rescued from the sugar-refiners, who had degraded it to their uses, by the lavallette who has given it his name, and who "restored" it beyond the recognition of its great architect, could he see it now. its façade behind the little court is overloaded with carvings, buttressed by caryatides, surmounted by campaniles; it is a debauch of sculpture, an orgy of ornamentation, under which the stately lines of the original fabric are almost lost. they are quite hidden, on one side, by a modern wing that has been thrust in on the court. all this dishonor to architecture does not trouble the boys, whose big school fills the building now, and who troop about the court in their black jackets and trousers, their wide, white collars, their big, white ties, pulling on reluctant gloves, as they line up on their unwilling way to some church function. we pass along the quay, glancing at the homelike and homely house numbered , whose quiet dignity behind its court is in pleasing contrast with the place just left. here were the home and the studio of antoine-louis barye, and here he died on june , . on the quay at the corner of rue saint-paul there stood until very lately the entire and unspoiled _hôtel_ built for young charles, duc de la vieuville, in the last days of the valois men. it was an admirable specimen of the architecture of their time, as we may still assure ourselves by a glance at the wing that is left within the court entered from rue saint-paul; a stone side wall toned to the glorified grayness of age, pierced by tall, slender windows of graceful proportions, and, above, the picturesque brick dormers of that period. the last of the valois women, marguerite, had her home hard by here, and its story begins just on this spot. when charles v., to round out and make entire his saint-paul estate, was taking in neighboring _hôtels_ and outlying bits of land, he found, here where we find the hôtel de la vieuville, the paris seat of the archbishops of sens. their palace on this corner, and its grounds extending along the river-front and back along the east side of rue saint-paul, up beyond present rue des lions, cut out a goodly slice from this angle of the royal domain. the king took this property, giving in exchange, to the archbishop, the feudal fortress, the hôtel d'Éstoménil, a little farther west on the river-bank, at the meeting-place of several country roads. those roads are now the streets named hôtel-de-ville, figuier, fauconnier, de l'ave-maria; and where they meet stands the hôtel de sens, in almost the same state, as to its walls, as when they were finished by the archbishop tristan de salazar. this soldier-priest had rebuilt the old structure in the last years of the fifteenth and the earliest years of the sixteenth century, and it remains an authentic and authoritative document of the domestic architecture of that period. the delicate ornamentation of its façade has suffered, some few mutilations have despoiled the fabric, its gardens are built upon, their great trees are gone, yet it stands, time-stained and weather-worn, a most impressive example of that gothic strength and beauty whose frozen lines were just beginning to melt under the fire of the upspringing renaissance. the noble arch of the ogival portal is, by a touch of genius, pinched forward at its topmost point, and is there sliced away, so as to make a snub-nosed protuberance that seems to lift up the whole front. its two high-peaked bartizan turrets are a trifle heavy, as we see them hemmed in by other buildings, but their panelling and moulding plead for pardon for any slight disproportion; and the one on the corner is perfect in situation and in effect. the few windows of the front have lost their stone-crossed mullions, some broken, some bricked up. the great dormer window above, possibly of later construction, is a prediction of the loveliness that was to come to dormers, such as we see in the roofs of rouen's hôtel de ville and of the _château_ of blois. the fine effect of the chimneys, once entirely of stone, has been marred by cheap patching. as to the rest, the oddities and irregularities of this façade are yet all in good taste and all captivating. within the groined porch we see, across the small court, the main building meant for the archbishop's dwelling, and the solid square tower meant for defence and for watching. its entrance-door tells, in its size and shape, the entire tale of feudal days. away up on one angle of this tower is an imitation sentry-box, battlemented and supported by corbelled brackets. the interior of the buildings has been defaced and degraded by the base usages to which it has been subjected, yet traces are left of its past grandeur in some of the rooms and halls. [illustration: the hôtel de sens.] these awaited in orderly and decorous silence, in their early days, the coming of their owner from the mother-church at sens. he came along the banks of the yonne and the seine on his richly caparisoned mule, his foot-servants in advance, his clerkly servitors and ecclesiastics riding behind, and so he entered into this tranquil court. years later the place was noisy enough, when the religious wars made it one of the meeting-places of the leaders of the holy league. on the very day when henri iv. entered paris, the archbishop of sens, cardinal de pellevé, lay dying in this his palace, almost within hearing of the triumphant te deum in notre-dame. the king had been allowed his divorce by his childless wife, marguerite, and he in turn allowed her to return to paris from her long exile in auvergne; ordering that this _hôtel_ should be fittingly arranged for her residence, in . we saw her last, a charming child, in the gardens of the tournelles. and now she comes here, a worn wanton of nearly fifty-five, her wonted fires still smouldering under the ashes. it is between these two appearances that we like to look on her in the pages of brantôme and on the canvas of clouet. pierre de bourdeilles, seigneur de brantôme, has been aptly dubbed the _valet-de-place_ of history; and yet a valet has the merit of looking out of his own eyes from his own point of view. it was for him that marguerite wrote her "mémoires," and to him she left them. in after days, when exiled from the court he loved, able only to lick the chops of memory, he wrote her _éloge_ in these glowing words: "if there has ever been anyone in the world perfect in beauty, it is the queen of navarre. all who have been, or shall be, near her, are ugly beside her. if there is a miscreant who believes not in the miracles of god, let him look upon her. many believe that she is rather a goddess of heaven than a princess of earth, and yet perhaps no goddess was ever so lovely." it is indeed a lovely creature, yet all of earth, whom we see in clouet's half life-size portrait in the _château_ of azay-le-rideau. her plentiful blond hair curves back above her fine brow, and her bluish-gray eyes smile out with inviting mischievousness. yet brantôme has to own that his goddess was easily first in the _escadron volant_ that sailed under her mother's flag, and we may guess what that meant in the court "whose vices it would be repulsive to suggest, and whose virtues were homicide and adultery." in this hôtel de sens, madame marguerite held receptions, twice a week, of men of letters and of the arts, with whom her learning allowed her to converse on equal terms; and her kindliness allowed them to feel at ease. for "from her behavior it could never be discovered that she had once been the wife of the king." but the wayward margot made trouble for herself that ended her stay here after a year or less. she came home from mass at the célestins on the morning of wednesday, april , , and as she was helped from her coach by her newest favorite page of eighteen, he was killed by her latest discarded favorite, already twenty. she sat in one of these front windows the next day, having neither eaten nor drunk nor slept meanwhile; she looked out on the beheading of the jaunty assassin; that evening she left the hôtel de sens forever. for a while she stayed at her hunting-lodge at issy, already visited by us in former pages, and then went to her last dwelling, on the southern bank in the pré-aux-clercs, which looked out across the river at the louvre, where henry was unhappy with her successor. the two women remained always friendly, and were seen together in festivities and processions, and the reigning queen paid many a debt of the deposed queen. to the last she rouged to the eyes, and wore a flowing wig and low frocks, albeit she had turned _dévote_, and had found a new idol in her confessor. this was young vincent de paul, not yet canonized, whose chaste ministrations made him adored by sinners elderly enough to repent. there she died in the spring of , at the age of sixty-three, the last of the valois name, leaving everything, mostly debts, to young louis xiii. later along in the seventeenth century, when the court end of the town went to the west, and the church dignitaries found this region too far afield, this hôtel de sens was sold. its new owners and tenants were the merchants and financiers who crowded then to this quarter. they, too, soon moved farther west, and the place had many strange employments forced upon it. as early as , the _messageries_ for dijon and lyons rented it for their town head-quarters. by the middle of the eighteenth century, the palace of the archbishops was degraded to a livery stable and a horsedealer's lair, and the ancient arms of sens on its front and the escutcheons of lorraine and bourbon, prelates of the church, were covered by a great sign, "_maison de roulage et de commission_." from this court, in the words of the advertisement of that date, "_le courrier de la malle de paris à lyons partit à cinq heures et demi du soir, floréal, an iv._"--which was april , . [illustration: marguerite de valois. (from a portrait by an unknown artist, in the musée de montpellier.)] that mail-coach was stopped near lieussart, its driver killed, and a large sum in assignats and gold carried off. for this crime one joseph lesurques was arrested, and was recognized by several witnesses as the robber. he had been an official in douai, had saved money, and had gone to paris for the education of his children. neither his record nor his alibi sufficed to acquit him, the strongest of circumstantial evidence convicted him, and he was executed on october , . two years later the murderer and robber was captured in one dubosc, who, after a daring escape and recapture, went to the guillotine. by dubosc's conviction lesurques was posthumously morally acquitted, but his judicial rehabilitation has never been made, albeit his broken and crazed children petitioned, courts debated, and deputies chattered through many long years. this true story, our last reminiscence of the hôtel de sens, has been put on the french stage as "le courrier de lyons," and on the english stage as "the lyons mail." we go on to the upper end of rue fauconnier, and across rue saint-antoine, to where begins rue pavée-au-marais, a most ancient and aristocratic street, filled with grand mansions in its best days and in days not so long gone. it had taken its name as early as the middle of the fifteenth century, when, first of all the marais streets, it was paved. it was known, unofficially and popularly, as _le petit marais_, so closely did it crowd, within its short and select limits, the essential characteristics in architecture and atmosphere of the great marais. now, wofully modernized, it holds one relic only, a magnificent relic, that suggests to us, in its solitary dignity, something of the lost glories of this street. we cross rue du roi-de-sicile, a main thoroughfare of old paris, whose odd name came from charles, brother of saint louis, count of anjou and provence, and king of naples and sicily in . his fortified abode stood on the northern side of this street, at its eastern end just within the old walls. it became, in after times, the _hôtel_ and then the prison of la force. its entrance was over yonder, at the corner of modern rue malher; and opposite, on the southern corner, was the stone that served as the axeman's block for the princess of lamballe. along this pavement the small gavroche led the two smaller thénardier boys, on his way to _his hôtel_--the plaster elephant in place de la bastille. a wide avenue, bordered by modern constructions, is fast taking the place of the old street and robbing it of all its character. where rue pavée meets rue des francs-bourgeois, stands the hôtel lamoignon, formerly the hôtel d'angoulême. at that corner a square turret juts out from above the ground floor, overhanging the pavement, its supporting bracket cut under in shell-like curves. about the stately court, entered from rue pavée, rise the imposing walls, those of the wings of a little later date and a little more ornate than that of the façade. this front is pre-eminently impressive in its height, in the unusual loftiness of its floors and their windows, in the single corinthian pilasters, tall and slender and graceful, rising from ground to cornice. they may serve us as a souvenir of jean bullant's work in the _château_ of ecouen and in his portion of chantilly. above that cornice the dormer windows spring high under their gabled ends. beneath them, and over the entrance porch, and on the side wall of rue des francs-bourgeois--profusely decorating, but not overloading, the spacious surfaces that carry them easily--we trace without effort the unworn hunting-horns, the stags' heads, the dogs in chase, the crescent and the initial h so interlaced as to form an h and a d--all the carved emblems of diane de france, for whom this remarkable structure was planned and built, a little after , by a now unknown architect. she was born of an italian mother, during a stay in her country of the son of françois i., who was later henri ii. on coming to the throne, in , he legitimatized this daughter, then ten years of age, and gave her education and position in france. she grew up to be a good woman and a good wife to horace farnese, duc de castro, and to her second husband, françois, the eldest son of the constable montmorenci. she spent her long life--which saw seven monarchs sitting on the french throne--doing kindly acts, not one of which meant so much for the france she loved as the reconciliation between henri iii. and henri de navarre; possible through her, because the sceptic béarnais took her word for or against any written word of anyone. dying in , she left this mansion to charles, duc d'angoulême, son of charles ix. and marie touchet, the last of her many benefactions to him. he added these wings, and placed in that on the northern side this stately stone staircase, filling the width between the stone walls, with no hand-rail to break its sweep. nothing is left of the former grandeur of the interior, which is given up to large industries and petty handicrafts; even the vast and lofty chambers are cut up for trade purposes by partitions and by interposed floorings. in the hôtel d'angoulême became the hôtel lamoignon by purchase of guillaume de lamoignon, a wealthy president of parliament, and in it went to his son, chrétien-françois de lamoignon. it was a dwelling worthy of him and of his illustrious name, which it still bears. in it he received the best society of that day--represented to us by racine, boileau, bourdaloue, regnard, and others of their kidney, all honored in finding a friend in this magistrate of ability, probity, kindliness. it was to him that boileau addressed his "sixth epistle," and to him, when, as master of requests, it was his official duty to forbid further performances of "tartufe" after the first night, molière submitted without rancor. perhaps his highest honor, during a life of honors, was his refusal of an election to a _fauteuil_ in the académie française. on april , , in this building was opened the first public library of the hôtel de ville of paris. one antoine moriau had been for many years collecting, in his apartment on this second floor, some , volumes and manuscripts, all left to the town at his death in . the municipality kept his rooms, and rented additional rooms on this first floor, opening them to the public on wednesdays and saturdays. [illustration: the hôtel lamoignon.] the _concierge_ or his wife, honored by the interest shown in their splendid show-place, will conduct such curious strangers as may wish around the corner into rue des francs-bourgeois, and through a little gate on that street into a small back court. this is the shabby remnant of diane's and of lamoignon's extensive gardens, which once stretched to those of the hôtel de la force on the south, and eastwardly to rue sévigné. from this spot you may see four or five windows away up in the rear wall of the mansion, and you will be told that these are the windows of alphonse daudet's former apartment, wherein he wrote "fromont jeune et risler aîné." his large study on the top floor had two high, wide windows, from which he saw the roofs of all paris on that side. against the wall at one end of the room was his shelf for standing at his work, and his wife's desk was at the other end; while, between them, carrying the freshly written sheets, trotted the little boy léon, who is now a man, wielding his own good pen. to him, in those days, the tall flaubert and tourgueneff were "giants" by the side of his father, and of the other friends who used to climb these many stairs to this _salon_ in the sky. daudet has left affectionate records of the old house. his "rois-en-exil" was written in a pavilion in the garden of richelieu's old mansion, which stood in the northwestern corner of the then place royale, now place des vosges, where has been cut, through house and garden, the prolongation of rue des francs-bourgeois in rue des vosges. the gentle artist, "handsome as a hindoo god" in those days, says m. claretie, brought from his beloved _midi_ a longing for space and air and quiet, and all his abodes in the city were high above the street, with ample breathing-space and unbroken horizon. his earliest paris home was at the very top of the furnished hôtel du senat, still at no. rue de tournon. this was the wretched room to which he came back, early one morning, from his first swell reception, his only dress-suit drenched with the wet snow through which he had waded, owning no overcoat. then, for a while, he occupied an _entresol_ in no. place de l'odéon, in "_la maison a. laissus_," one of the unaltered houses of that historic place. his last home was on the third floor of no. rue bellechasse, in the heart of the faubourg saint-germain, and one of its delightful old gardens lay beneath his windows, giving him the greenness and the tranquillity so dear to him. the name of madame daudet may not be omitted from this record of the illustrious women of the marais, although now, in the maturity of her distinction and elegance, she adorns another quarter of paris. she has made for herself an honored place among french women of letters, and she helped her husband to his own place by her critical powers and her sympathetic appreciation. she both tranquillized and stimulated him through his earlier years of robust strength, and the later invalidism that was yet filled with labor. her son, who carried the father's sheets across the room to her for approval or correction, has dedicated his "alphonse daudet" to his mother, "who aided and encouraged her husband alike in the hours of discouragement and of hopefulness." there are bits and fragments of vanished antiquity--portals, windows, balconies, brackets, pitifully sundered from the grandeur they stand for and suggest--scattered all about this portion of the marais. much of this bygone grandeur was to be found in rue des francs-bourgeois, a street that had been a country road just outside the wall of philippe-auguste, and, with the crumbling of the wall, had been speedily built up with stately mansions. one of these, with a fund for its support, was willed, in , to the grand prior of france, in trust for such burghers as were freed from all taxation by reason of their extreme poverty. so it came that these _francs bourgeois_ gave their name to the street. here at no. is a quaint low front, mostly taken up by a spacious entrance-porch, decorated with finely cut dragons; here at no. is the superb portal of the hôtel jeanne d'albret; all that is left of the noble residence of that niece of françois i. who married the duc de clèves in . it is more than a century from that date before this _hôtel_ holds any history for us, when it became tenanted by césar phébus d'albret, marshal of france; a rich and frolicsome gascon, a friend of scarron, an especial friend of young madame scarron. it was he who killed the marquis de sévigné in a duel. the duchesse d'albret was an eminently proper person, a bit of a _précieuse_, and her _salon_ here was a flimsy copy of that of the hôtel rambouillet. scarron's widow, poor and by no means unfriended, found a temporary home in this house, after a short stay with her life-long friend, mlle. de lenclos, before taking rooms in the convent, where we have seen her. when _la veuve_ scarron, reincarnated in madame de maintenon, was living in the grand establishment at vaugirard, provided by the king for his two children, she is said, by local tradition, to have had her private apartment in the marais, near where we stand. it was on the first floor of the small and shabby house at no. bis rue du perche, and you are shown a ceiling in an upper room, that is claimed to have been painted for the great lady. it is in four sunken squares, wherein pose the four seasons, in conventional attitudes and unconventional raiment. let us stop here on the southern side of rue des francs-bourgeois, where it meets the end of a little street with the big name of des hospitalières-saint-gervais, given to it by the great hospital and monastery that occupied these grounds, through which this street was afterward cut, when philippe-auguste gathered them just within the safe-keeping of his wall. just without that wall lay the hôtel barbette, in the midst of its own wide lands. on this corner, we stand just on the line of the wall, and look across rue des francs-bourgeois into a court, once the alleé aux arbalétriers, over whose entrance is a tablet, recording the murder of louis d'orléans, near that spot--a scene sketched in our first chapter. that maze of courts, crowded close with ancient wooden structures, tempts us to search within it for vestiges of the outbuildings of the hôtel barbette. and it is worth while exploring the interior of the corner house, if only for its mediæval staircase. coming out by the courts opening into rue vieille-du-temple, we take a few steps to where it meets the southern side of rue des francs-bourgeois, and we stand on the exact site of the porte barbette of the old wall. there, on the northeastern corner of the two streets, stands a most ancient building well worth our regard. on the angle, reaching from just above its ground floor to the cornice, is hung a five-sided _tourelle_ of singular beauty. its heavy supporting bracket is deeply and handsomely corbelled out, and at each angle is a slim colonette, delicately carved. the division line between its two stories is defined by a fine moulding. in the first story is cut a small ogival window, under a prettily crocketed head and a flat finial. this window is iron grated, and its grim visage is softened by a flowering plant set within. the panels of the lower story are plain, and those above are decorated with a lace-like pattern, graceful and elegant, whose lines and curves carry one's eye to the cornice. the plain façade of the house in rue vieille-du-temple has been degraded by modern windows, while that in the other street remains most impressive, with its gabled end. all in all, no such delightful specimen of fifteenth-century gothic as this barbette turret can be found in our marais. [illustration: the tourelle of the hôtel barbette.] yet turret and structure are not, as is often stated, any portion of the original hôtel barbette. that was built, at the end of the thirteenth century, by Étienne barbette, a man of wealth and importance, the provost of paris under philippe "_le bel_," and his master of the mint. the vast enclosure of his grandiose _hôtel_ covered all the ground, from the old wall northward to the line of the present rues de la perle and du parc-royal; and eastwardly from this rue vieille-du-temple to the gardens of saint-catherine du val-des-Écoliers, near where now runs rue sévigné. this ample domain sufficed for the _menus plaisirs_ of this lucky man, and was merely his _petit séjour_. under that blameless guise it served as the abode, a little more than a century later, when rebuilt after the mob had wrecked it, of isabeau de bavière, official wife of mad charles vi. leaving him to the neglect of servants and to the companionship of odette, the queen escaped boredom here, by her dinners and suppers, balls and fêtes; here she invented, or first introduced, the masquerades that were soon the rage of polite society. she amused herself with other games, too; such as statecraft, in partnership with her husband's younger brother, louis d'orléans. it was from the barbette that she mismanaged the kingdom, ground down the people with intolerable taxes, pushed the marriage of her daughter catherine with henry v. of england, plotted the shameful treaty of troyes, which made france an appanage of the english crown, and gave paris to english troops. after her husband's death, cast aside by burgundy and england, she found a drearier refuge in the hôtel saint-paul than that to which she had condemned him there. in its corners she hid while joan the maid was undoing the evil work done by this shameless woman, and was bringing back to paris the son hated by this shameless mother. all through those years she wept and moaned, witnesses have reported; left alone, as she was, with the memories of her lusts and her treasons, with the wreckage of the animal beauty, for which, and for no other quality, she had been selected as the royal consort. seven days after she learned of the signing of the treaty of arras she died, "_et son corps fut tant méprisé_," says brantôme, that it was thrown into a boat at the water-gate of saint-paul, and, after an unseemly service in notre-dame, was sent by night down the seine to saint-denis, "_ainsi ni plus ni moins qu'une simple demoiselle!_" partly destroyed by fire and partly rebuilt, we find the hôtel barbette, after another hundred years and more, in the hands of the comte de brézé, seneschal of normandy. aged, ugly, crippled, as we see him in hugo's verse, he is pleasantly remembered for the lovely widow he left for henri ii., and for his lovely tomb left, for our joy, in the cathedral of rouen. when his widow, diane de saint-vallier, became diane de poictiers, duchesse de valentinois--an elderly siren of thirty-seven, who was yet "_fort aymée et servie d'un des grands rois et valeureux du monde_"--she wore always her widow's white and black, and kept to the last that whiteness of skin and purity of complexion that came, she claimed, from her only cosmetic, soap and water. her coldness of heart had much to do with it, to our thinking. brantôme saw her when she had come to sixty-two, and was struck by her freshness, "_sans se farder_," as of thirty. he adds, with his ever-green susceptibility: "_c'est dommage que la terre couvre ce beau corps._" this property had gone, on her husband's death, in , to his and her two daughters; who profited by its vast extent and by the example set by françois i. in similar jobs, to open streets through it, and divide it into parcels for selling. those streets were named barbette and trois-pavilions, the latter now renamed elzévir. and if any remnant exists of the second hôtel barbette of diane de poictiers, it is this corner house and its lovely turret. by way of this corner, the body of louis d'orléans was carried to the church of the blancs-manteaux, in the street of that name just behind us. it lay till morning in the nave, and about the bier gathered royalty and nobility, all through the long november night. the church is gone, and so, too, is his chapel in the church of the célestins; and the monument, erected there by louis xii. to his murdered grandfather and his martyred grandmother, has been placed in the cathedral of saint-denis. the site of the church of the blancs-manteaux is covered by the great central establishment of the mont de piété; its grounds are entirely built over; the street that took the name of the monastery, once a perilous _coupe-gorge_, has grown to be, not respectable, but characterless. we must be content with the phantoms of saint louis's white-mantled monks, strolling in their cloisters; later, grown fat and scampish, haunting the low _cabarets_ of this mal-famed street, and rehearsing, within their own precincts, those frenzied mysteries of the mediæval stage, that led to the disbandment and the driving-out of the debauched order. a step to the south from this street, along rue vieille-du-temple, brings us to the massive entrance-doors of no. . their outer surfaces are richly carved with masks and with figures; on their inner side is an excellent bas-relief representing romulus and remus found by the shepherd, when the wolf is giving them suck. about the court, diminutive and dainty, the walls of the small _hôtel_ are adorned with tasteful sculptures, and laden with dials, two of the sun and two of the moon. these anomalous adornments came here through the caprice of a director of the royal observatory, who once occupied the house and who wreaked his scientific humor in this odd fashion. this is the hôtel de hollande, a rebuilt remnant of the large mediæval mansion of maréchal de rieux. the street just in front of his _hôtel_, some authorities insist, was the scene of the assassination of the duc d'orléans. reconstructed early in the seventeenth century, the carvings, sculptures, and decorations of this elegant little _hôtel_ are excellent examples of late renaissance. unluckily, the bas-reliefs and paintings of the interior may no longer be seen. beyond this outer court is a smaller court, containing an attractive structure of a later date. this hôtel de hollande has borne that name since, in the reign of louis xiv., it was the seat of the embassy representing holland at his court. this being officially dutch soil, at that time, we may see racine coming through this entrance-doorway, in full wig and court costume; coming to present his son for introductions at the hague, where the young man is to be a member of the french embassy. we have seen the letters sent to him there by his thrifty father. there is another bit of history for us here. it was in this house that the firm "roderigue hortalez et compagnie" started in business in , with a capital of , , francs. the firm was composed of caron de beaumarchais, with the governments of france and spain for his silent partners; the former putting in , , francs, and the latter the other million. the business of this house--and it did a lively business while it lasted--was to supply, secretly and unknown to the english officials in paris, arms and equipments to the american colonies. anne de montmorenci, the great constable of france, in alliance, against the huguenots, with the guises, his near neighbors in the marais, outfought condé and coligny at saint-denis in , and died, of the wounds he got in that battle, "in his own _hôtel_ in rue saint-avoie." so says the chronicle, and it tells us further that his was the grandest mansion in the town, with most extensive grounds; far surpassing in size and magnificence the hôtels lamoignon and carnavalet. it was sufficiently spacious for the large-minded john law, who established his bank in the building two centuries later. when the crash came, and he sought more modest quarters, the state took the building for its _bureaux_. now, no stone of the structure can be found, the street from which it had entrance--saint-avoie--is merged in that portion of rue du temple which crosses rue rambuteau, and this broad thoroughfare sweeps over the site of montmorenci's palace and his gardens. turning from rue rambuteau into rue du temple, we are face to face, at no. , with a monumental gateway, richly carved, giving entrance to an ample court. the stately walls surrounding this court have suffered much from time, and more from man. the old façade of this wing on our left is hidden behind a paltry new frontage for shops, and on the roof of the central body before us a contemptible top story has been put. the face of the original lofty attic, above the cornice, carried pilasters in continuation of those below, and these have been brutally mutilated by a line of low windows just over the cornice. for all that, there is a majesty in the stately arcades of these lower stories, and in the unspoiled lower walls, up which climb graceful corinthian pilasters from ground to cornice. they are similar to those of the hôtel lamoignon, built before this hôtel de saint-aignan was transformed from a former structure by de muet, who doubtless admired, perhaps unconsciously imitated, the best features of the earlier architecture. he has put, in this almost intact right wing, just such a stone staircase, of easy grade and no hand-rail, as that we have seen in the residence built for diane de france. there is hardly any history to detain us here, and the great names that once resounded in this court make only far-away echoes now. claude de mesme, comte d'avaux, a diplomat of the seventeenth century, built this _hôtel_. at his death, it came to the duc de saint-aignan, a royal purveyor at the head of louis xiv.'s council of finance. he was a relative of madame de scudéry, wife of the georges whom we have met in his sister's _salon_. through his wife's influence with saint-aignan, georges was presented to the king, and succeeded in obtaining a pension--useful to supplement such of his sister's earnings as came in his way. his merits, for which the royal bounty was granted, seem to have been of so momentous a literary character as to be pronounced equal to those of corneille! when olivier de clisson--constable of france after the death of his comrade-in-arms, the mighty duguesclin--brought back charles vi. victorious to paris, after crushing the revolt in ghent under philip van artavelde, he found the marais du temple fast being reclaimed and built upon. at one corner of the templars' former wood-yard, on a street to be named du chaume, now merged in the southern end of rue des archives, opposite the end of rue de braque, was the fortress-home of his wife, marguerite de rohan, within the family enclosure. here de clisson made his head-quarters, giving his name to the _hôtel_. its entrance, an ogival portal sunk beneath two impressive round turrets, built of different sizes through some vagary, still remains; a most impressive relic, imbedded in more recent walls. [illustration: the gateway of the hôtel de clisson.] it was de clisson, who, quite without his consent, gave the king one of the several shocks which culminated in his madness. king and constable had supped together in the royal apartment of the hôtel saint-paul, and the constable went on his way home. lighted by the main facts of the affair, we may easily track him. after crossing rue saint-antoine and passing through one of the narrow lanes to rue neuve-sainte-catherine--now the eastern end of rue des francs-bourgeois --he should have kept along this street to this new home of his. perhaps the old soldier was not quite sure of his way, so soon after supper and the plentiful _petit vin de l'hôtel saint-paul_, for he found himself beyond his corner, up in rue sainte-catherine, now rue sévigné; and there, in front of a baker's shop opposite the spot where now is the carnavalet, he was set upon by a band of men led by pierre de craon, a crony of louis d'orléans. they left the tough old warrior in the baker's doorway, bleeding from many wounds, but not quite killed. the king was summoned, came hastily in scanty clothing, and it was long before he recovered from his affright. when he had rallied, he started out to punish the assailant of his favorite captain, and it was on his way to brittany, with whose duke de craon had taken refuge, that the king received the final blow to his reason. the history of the hôtel de clisson would weary us, were it told in detail. we may jump to the year , when it came to anne d'est, wife of françois de lorraine, duc de guise. he and his family were beginning to feel and to show their growing power, and he found these walls not wide enough for his swelling consequence. he bought the hôtels de laval and de la roche-guyon, whose grounds adjoined his own; so adding to his estate, while others, following the example of françois i., were cutting up and selling their paris lands. soon the hôtel de guise was made up of several mansions, rebuilt and run together, within one enclosure, bounded by rues de paradis (now the western end of rue des francs-bourgeois), du chaume (now des archives), des quatre-fils, and vieille-du-temple. the heirs of the last guise, who died in , sold this property at the end of the seventeenth century, and it came into the grasping hands of madame de soubise; bought with the savings of the french peasants, squeezed from them by louis xiv.'s farmers of taxes, and by him poured into the lap of this lady, one of the many ladies so turning an honest penny. her complaisant husband, françois de rohan, prince de soubise, began to tear down much of the old work, and to replace it by new work, in . for thirty years he kept the most skilful artists and artisans of that day employed on the place within and without; and he left the hotel de soubise much as we find it now. to him we owe this striking _cour d'honneur_, square with curved ends, and framed in a colonnade of coupled columns, that leads a covered gallery from the grand entrance around to the portal of the main building. this is his façade of three stories, with pediment, its columns both composite and corinthian. for general effect this court has no parallel in paris. a light elegant staircase, its ceiling delicately painted, leads to the first floor, whose rooms retain some of their mouldings, their wood-carvings, their decorated doorways and ceilings. gone, however, are the tapestries, "the most beautiful in the world and most esteemed in christendom, after those of the vatican," sauval assures us. vast and magnificent as was this palace, it did not suffice for the son of this prince, the cardinal armand gaston de rohan, bishop of strasburg, who, says sauval, "was, in his prosperity, very insolent and blinded." on the site of the demolished hôtel de la roche-guyon he built for himself the palais cardinal, now commonly known as the hôtel de strasbourg. the library, great and precious, which he there collected, together with his _hôtel_ and his blind insolence, came to his grand-nephew, the cardinal de rohan of the diamond necklace, the last cardinal of a family of cardinals. at his death, in , desertion and emptiness came to the hôtel de strasbourg, as they had already come to the hôtel de soubise. the huge size of the buildings rendered them unfit for private residences. at length they were taken for the state by the emperor, at the urging of daunou, director of the archives of france. by the decree of march , , those archives took for their own the hôtel de soubise, and the hôtel de strasbourg was given to the imprimerie impériale. no after-revolution nor any change of rulers has troubled them. as their contents grew, new structures have been added, over the gardens and on the street behind, all done in good taste, all suggesting the uses for which they are meant. the imprimerie, entered from rue vieille-du-temple, through a court containing a statue of gutenberg, does the work for the senate and the chamber of deputies, for the ministers and for the institute. its _bulletin des lois_, issued to all the communes of france, carries to completion the mission meant for it when it was begun by louis xiii., hugo asserts. the archives of france must be studied and may not be described. this amazing collection of manuscripts, charters, diplomas, letters, and autographs begins with the earliest day of writing and of records in france, and comes down through all the centuries. it is a spot for unhurried and unhindered browsing during long summer days. just in this region is to be seen, better than anywhere, an aspect of the marais not yet seen in our historic strolling. it is the marais of to-day and of every day, the work-a-day marais, whose heart is here in this street of the temple and the old street of the temple. in them, and in the streets that cross them, are numerous mansions of a bygone time, with little to say to us in architecture, nothing at all to say to us in history or letters. side by side with them are tall buildings and huge blocks of modern construction; new and old held and possessed by factories, warehouses, show-rooms; their upper portions given over to strange handicrafts, strangely met together. the making of syphon-tops is next door on the same floor to the wiring of feathers, as daudet discovered. these narrow streets between the buildings, and these walled-in courts within them, are hushed all through the working-hours, save for the ceaseless muffled rumble of the machinery, and the unbroken low murmur of the human toilers, both intent on their tasks. suddenly at noon, these streets are all astir with an industrial, unarmed mob, and the whole quarter is given over to an insurrection, peaceful and unoffending. these workers are making their way to restaurant or _rôtisserie_ or _cabaret_; some of them saunter along, taking their breakfast "_sur le pouce_." the men, in stained blouses, are alert, earnest, and self-respecting; the girls, direct of gaze, frank of manner, shrill of voice, wear enwrapping aprons, that fall from neck to ankle, and their hair, the glory of the french working-woman who goes hatless, is dressed with an artless art that would not dishonor a drawing-room. we can carry away with us, from these last scenes, no more captivating memory than this of the most modern woman of our marais. index abelard, pierre, i., _et seq._ amboise, bussy d', ii., site of his murder, anne of brittany, i., ; built the still existing refectory of the cordelier convent, ; ii., wife and widow of charles viii., ; marries louis xii., arsenal, the library of the, ii., _et seq._ artois, robert, comte d', i., , aubriot, hugues, provost of paris, builder of the bastille, ii., ; tower and staircase of, _et seq._ balzac, honoré de, ii., birthplace, ; homes in paris, , , , ; site of type foundry, ; mode of writing, - ; scenes and characters of, - ; marriage and death, _et seq._ barras, paul-françois-jean-nicolas, comte de, i., barye, antoine-louis, ii., home and studio of, beaumarchais, de pierre-augustin caron, i., birthplace and homes of, - béjart, armande, i., wife and widow of molière, ; sketched, _et seq._ ---- madeleine, sister or mother of armande, friend of molière, i., ; opposes his marriage, béranger, pierre-jean de, ii., house at passy, ; in prison, bernardins, monastery of the, i., modern use of its refectory, béthune, maximilien de (see sully) bièvre, the river, i., , , ; ii. - birch, george h., i., blanche of castile, i., house and stairway of, _et seq._; widow of louis viii., boccaccio, i., records dante's visit to paris, boffrand, germain, i, architect of charles lebrun's _hôtel_, boileau-despréaux, nicolas, i., in the cloisters of notre-dame, - ; offers to surrender his pension to corneille, ; sketch of, _et seq._; studied in the sorbonne, ; site of his house at auteuil, ; lodgings in paris, ; final resting-place, bonaparte, napoleon, i., house visited by, when a lad, ; early homes in paris, - bossuet, bishop of meaux, i., ; "the strong and splendid," - _boulangerie générale des hôpitaux et hospices, la_, i., in its courtyard a wing of sardini's villa, boulevard saint-germain, i., , boulevard saint-michel, i., bourgogne, charles "le téméraire," duc de, i., ---- jean "sans-peur," duc de, i., _et seq._ ---- marguerite, duchesse de, i., _et seq._ ---- philippe "le bon," duc de, i., _et seq._ ---- philippe, "le hardi," duc de, i., _et seq._ brinvilliers, marie-madeleine dreux d'aubray, duchesse de, ii., residence of, in the marais, ; sketch of, _et seq._; lebrun's portrait of, in the louvre, calvin, john, i., studied in seminary of saint-nicolas-du-chardonnet, ; his only residence in paris, _candide_, i., referred to, carlyle, thomas, i., quoted, ; on diderot, ; sees talma in the théâtre français, catherine de' medici, i., referred to, , ; ii., cerceau, androuët du, ii., huguenot architect, existing specimens of his work, - ---- baptiste, du, i., house of, in the huguenot quarter, ---- jean du, ii., architect of sully's _hôtel_, champeaux, guillaume de, i., master of abelard, chapelle, saint-benoît-le-bétourné, i., site of, ---- sainte, la, i., referred to, charles of orleans, i., ---- ii. (of france), i., wooden tower of, charles v., "the wise," i., , ; ii., in the marais, ; wall of, - ; his hôtel saint-paul, - ---- vi., i., drives the first pile of pont notre-dame, ; ii., _et seq._ ---- vii., ii., presents the island palace, _palais de justice_, to parliament, ; residence in the tournelles, ---- viii., ii., enters paris with anne of brittany, charlot, claude, ii., opens streets through the marais, - châteaubriand, françois-auguste, vicomte de, i., describes talma, ; ii., homes in paris, - , châtelet, le grand, i., its site, ; molière imprisoned in, for debt, ---- le petit, i., ---- place du, i., chaucer, geoffrey, i., translated part of _le roman de la rose_, chénier, andré-marie de, i., house in paris, ; ii., memorial tablet and grave, ---- joseph-marie de, i., - chevreuse, marie de rohan, duchesse de, i., her hôtel de luynes constructed under racine's supervision, ; ii., her rôle in history and in dumas, - chimæra, i., statue of the, in cluny museum, church, saint-eustache, i., lebrun's tomb of colbert in, ; molière's second son baptized in, , ---- sainte-geneviève, i., one of the resting-places of the body of rené descartes, ---- saint-germain-l'auxerrois, i., scene of molière's marriage, ---- saint-gervais, i., window of jean cousin, ---- saint-julien-le-pauvre, still unchanged, - ---- saint-roch, i., molière stands sponsor for a child in, ; corneille buried in, ; bust of charles michel, abbé de l'Épée, ---- saint-philippe-du-roule, ii., scene of adèle hugo's baptism and of balzac's funeral service, ---- saint-séverin, i., destroyed in , rebuilt in the th century, - . _cité, la_, i., , ---- _Île de la_, i., , , city, the (see _la cité_) city, island of the (see _Île de la_) clagny, abbé de, i., designer of the fountain of the innocents, clairon, hippolyte, i., dwellings of, , "clopinel," i., nickname of jean de meung, completer of _le roman de la rose_, cluny museum, i., , coictier, dr., i., physician of louis xi., well of, ; ii., astrological tower of, college of the four nations, i., founded by cardinal mazarin, , _confrérie de la passion_, i., _et seq._ conti, prince de, i., friend and protector of molière, racine, boileau, cook, theodore andrea, quoted, i., coppée, françois, i., quoted, ; remembers the halles as they were in molière's time, corneille, pierre, i., quoted, ; statue of, at rouen, and sketch of life, _et seq._; apartment in rue de cléry, ; personality, ; guizot's estimate of, ---- thomas, i., , , , cour du commerce, i., ; sainte-beuve's apartment in, ; trial of the first guillotine, ---- de rohan, i., stairway and ancient well, cousin, jean, i., worker in stained glass, his window in saint-gervais, crusade, the sixth, i., crusaders, the, i., cuvier, georges, i., homes of, dablin, ii., friend of balzac, dagobert, i., stairway and tower of, _et seq._ dante, i., _et seq._ danton, georges-jacques, i., statue and site of house, daudet, alphonse, ii., homes in the marais, _et seq._ delorme, philibert, i., dies in the cloister of notre-dame, ---- marion, ii., house in the marais, _et seq._ descartes, rené, i., site of his house, ; portrait by franz hals, ; body rests in saint-germain-des-prés, deschamps, eustace, i., ballad to chaucer, desmoulins, lucie-simplice-camille-benoist, i., homes in paris, - dickens, charles, ii., description of george sand, ; description of hugo and of his home, diderot, denis, i., in the café procope, _et seq._; sketch of, _et seq._; where he died, dolet, Étienne, i., statue of, in place maubert, dudevant, mme. (see george sand) dumas, alexandre, ii., arrival in paris, ; contemporaries of, _et seq._; homes in paris, - , - ; birth of dumas _fils_, ; statue and description of, ; scenes and characters of his novels, _et seq._ dunois, bastard of louis d'orléans, i., , dupanloup, bishop, i., renan's master in the seminary of st. nicolas-du-chardonnet, École des beaux-arts, ii., "encore un tableau de paris," henrion's, i., erasmus, i., residence of, in the collège montaigu, estrées, gabrielle d', ii., scene of her sudden death, fontenelle, i., describes corneille, force, la, i., prison of, , ii., fouquet, i., protector of lebrun, françois i., i., , , , ii., _maison de_, ; ii., franklin, benjamin, i., residences in paris and passy, - frémiet, i., bronze statue of louis d'orléans, fulbert, canon, i., uncle of héloise, , gambetta, léon, i., at the café procope, gautier, théophile, i., verses for corneille's birthday fête, gobelins, i., factory of the, founded by a dyer named gobelin, - goujon, jean, i., decorator of ancient fountain, ; ii., bust of, and specimens of his carving, - gringoire, i., alluded to, "guillotine, la," i., its inventor, ; sites of, , guizot, françois-pierre-guillaume, ii., residence in the scholars' quarter, , halles, les, i., heine, heinrich, ii., his estimate of hugo, héloise, i., , henley, w. e., i., quoted, henri ii., i., ; ii., fatally wounded in the lists of the tournelles, henri iv., i., . , , ; ii., statue of, ; introduced mulberries and silkworms into france, ; built up eastern side of the place royale at the crown's expense, hôtel de ville, i., the new, ; ii., first public library of, hôtel-dieu, i., hôtel, d'artois (see hôtel de bourgogne) ---- barbette, i., ; ii. _et seq._ ---- de beauvais, i., ; ii., impressive specimen of seventeenth century architecture, _et seq._ ---- de bourgogne, i., last remaining fragment, ; in the reign of louis xi., ; use made of its donjon by saint vincent de paul, ; part of it used as a theatre by the confraternity of the passion, ---- de bretagne, i., memories of, ---- de choiseul-praslin, i., now a dominican school for girls, ---- de clermont-tonnerre, i., ---- de clisson, ii., history of, _et seq._ ---- de flandres, i., now the site of the general post office in rue jean-jacques-rousseau, ---- de hollande, ii., ---- de lauzun-pimodan, ii., - ---- de luynes, i., constructed under racine's supervision, ---- de navarre, i., existing remains of, - ---- de la reine blanche, i., _et seq._ ---- saint-paul, i., ; ii., _et seq._ ---- de strasbourg (_palais cardinal_), ii., now the imprimerie, ---- des tournelles, i., occupied by louis xi., ; ii., by the duke of bedford during the english occupation of paris, ; by charles vii. after the burning of joan the maid, ; afterward the abode of royalty for more than a century, ; françois i. in the, - hôtel des tournelles, lists of, ii., henri ii. fatally wounded in, ---- des ursins, i., _hôtels-garnis_, i., do not antedate the revolution, huguenots, the, i., befriended by marguerite of navarre, - ; in the scholars' quarter, , hugo, general, ii., father of victor, , , ---- victor, i., "painful detail and inaccurate erudition" in his portraiture of mediæval paris, ; sarcasm on cuvier, ; ii., describes balzac's death and burial, - ; first paris lodging, ; later homes and schools, _et seq._; visits châteaubriand, ; death of his mother, ; marriage, ; homes of married life, _et seq._; friends, _et seq._; visits béranger in prison, ; scenes and characters of, _et seq._; final home, Île de la cité, i., , , , ; ii., ---- des javiaux, later Île louvier, i., ---- notre-dame, i., ---- saint-louis, i., formed by the junction of Île notre-dame and Île aux vaches, , _et seq._ innocents, cemetery of the, i., some of its vaults in perfect preservation, their present use, ---- church of, i., built by louis "le gros," ---- fountain and square of the, institute, the, i., site of the tour de nesle shown by a tablet on its eastern wall, isabelle of bavaria, i., wife of charles vi., held her "unclean court" in hôtel barbette, ; ii., her abode in the marais, james, henry, i., quoted, , ; ii., jean "le bon," i., ---- "sans-peur," i., procures the assassination of louis d'orléans, ; himself assassinated, joan the maid, ii., , la fontaine, jean de, i., friendship with mme. de la sablière, - ; death and burial, ; friends of, _et seq._ lamartine, alphonse de, ii., residence of, in the scholars' quarter, ; statue of, ; his first visit to hugo, - lang, andrew, i., quoted, laplace, pierre-simon, i., residences of, - latin quarter (see scholars' quarter) lavoisier, antoine-laurent, i., lebrun, charles, i., court painter and decorator, - lecouvreur, adrienne, i., residence of, ; where buried, lemoine, cardinal, i., college of, lenclos, ninon de, ii., house of, in the marais, _et seq._ lenôtre, m. g., i., ; his "paris révolutionnaire," lescot, pierre, i., the fountain _des innocents_ wrongly ascribed to, ; dies in the cloisters of notre-dame, "_librairie de monsieur_" (see library of the arsenal) library of the arsenal, the, ii., , _et seq._ littré, maximilien-paul-Émile, ii., homes of, longfellow, henry wadsworth, i., quoted, lorris, guillaume de, i., began the roman of the rose, louis vi., i., wall and towers of, - louis vii., ii., gives site in the marais to the templars, louis ix. (saint-louis), i., louis xi., i., entry into paris on accession, ; ii., residence in the tournelles, _et seq._ louis xii., i., ancient well once his property, ; patron of pierre gringoire, ; ii., in the marais, ; marries anne of brittany, ; marries mary, sister of henry viii. of england, louis xiii., "the just," i., opens building sites on Île saint-louis, ; vincent de paul his confessor, ; permits "les comédiens du marais" to style themselves "la troupe royale," - ; ii., marries anne of austria, ; statue of, louis xiv., ii., enters paris with his bride, - ; witness of his marriage procession, louis xvi., i., institutes the "model prison" of la force, louis xviii., ii., why he pensioned victor hugo, - louis of orleans, i., statue of, ; assassinated, ; his widow, ; ii., at the hôtel barbette with isabelle of bavaria, lulli, musician, i., house of, still in perfect condition, lutetia, i., gallic and roman, ; gallo-roman wall of, ; wall built by louis vi., ; ii., - macaulay, thomas babington, i., "criticises" french names, maison de la reine blanche, i., _et seq._ maistre, joseph de, ii., quoted on the massacre of saint-bartholomew's night, mancini, anne, duchesse de bouillon, niece of mazarin, i., - mansart, françois, ii., house in the marais, mansart, jules hardouin, nephew of françois, ii., superintendent of buildings under louis xiv., ; specimens of his work, , marais, the, ii., scarron's house in, ; wall of philippe-auguste, ; wall of charles v., - ; wall of the temple, ; monasteries in, ; relics of old houses in, - , _et seq._; mme. de maintenon's apartment in, marat, jean-paul, i., paris apartment of, marcel, Étienne, i., statue of, ; ii., "prévôt des marchands," ; froissart's description of his death, ; estimate of, - marcus aurelius, i., compared with saint louis, marguerite of navarre. i., befriends the huguenots, , marguerite of valois, divorced wife of henri iv., ii., home in the marais, _et seq._; clouet's portrait of, mattioli, count ercolo antonio, ii., probably the "man in the iron mask," mazarin, cardinal, i., his college, now the palais de l'institut, medicine, school of, i., ; present site of that of the fifteenth century, mérimée, prosper, ii., homes of, meung, jean de, i., completes the roman of the rose; site of his house, michel, charles, abbé de l'Épée, i., bust of, ; statue of, by deaf-mute artist, - mirabeau, i., house where he died, molière (jean poquelin), i., birthplace, ; baptized at saint-eustache, ; site of college, ; imprisoned in the grand châtelet, ; site of paris theatres, ; married in saint-germain-l'auxerrois, ; site of his widow's theatre, ; fountain erected to his memory, ; residence at auteuil, _et seq._; his arm-chair in the theâtre français, - monval, m., i., morley, john, i., on voltaire, ; on diderot, ; on the encyclopædia, palais des thermes, i., frigidarium of, in the cluny museum, palissy, bernard, i., homes in paris, - palloy "le patriote," ii., contracts to demolish the bastille walls, et seq. pascal, blaise, i., commemorative tablet to, ; site of experiments, ; where buried, philippe-auguste, i., wall of, _et seq._; ii., ; round towers of, ; paves main streets of paris, place dauphine, i., mme. roland's girlhood's home in, ---- de grève, i., , ---- du parvis-notre-dame, i., ---- royale, ii., _et seq._ ---- saint-andré-des-arts, i., site of ancient church of that name, pompadour, la, i., house of, unchanged, portes, i., de buci, , ---- dauphine, ---- de nesle, ---- saint-antoine, ---- saint-bernard, ---- saint-denis, ---- saint-jacques, , ---- saint-marcel, ---- saint-martin, ---- saint-victor, ponts, i., d'arcole, ---- des arts, ---- au change, ---- au double, ---- louis-philippe, ---- aux meuniers, ---- neuf, , ---- notre-dame, ---- petit-, - , ---- rouge, ---- royal, ---- de la tournelle, pôternes, i., barbette, ---- des barrés, ---- baudoyer, ---- beaubourg, quais, i., d'anjou, ---- de bourbon, ---- des célestins, ---- henri iv., ---- des lunettes, ---- malaquais, la fontaine lived on, ; house of the elder visconti still intact, ; humboldt lived on, ; cardinal mazarin the largest builder on, ---- d'orléans, ---- ii., de la tournelle, , , quinet, edgar, ii., house of, rachel (Élisa-rachel félix), ii., homes in the marais, - racine, jean, i., student in collége d'harcourt, ; homes in paris, _et seq._; relations with molière and corneille, - ; his house in rue visconti, ; family life, - ; death and burial, racine, louis, i., récamier, mme., ii., homes of, - renan, ernest, i., pupil of dupanloup, in saint-nicolas-du-chardonnet, ; ii., homes of, _et seq._ richelieu, cardinal, i., widened paris streets, , ; his theatre, - robespierre, maximilien, i., homes in paris, - rollin, charles, historian, i., his residence unchanged, rousseau, jean-jacques, i., traces of, in paris, - rue, d'arras, i., ---- du bac, i., ---- boutebrie, i., mediæval staircase, ---- de braque, i., ---- de la bucherie, i., ---- du cardinal-lemoine, i., , , ---- cassini, ii., site of balzac's house in, ---- chanoinesse, i., ---- du cimetière-saint-benoît, i., retains some ancient houses, ---- clovis, i., contains fragment of wall of philippe-auguste, , ---- dauphine, i., tablet at no. , ---- descartes, i., cottages on the wall of philippe-auguste, ---- du dragon, ii., hugo's house in, ---- des Écoles, i., bronze statue of dante, ---- Étienne-marcel, i., contains last fragment of the hôtel de bourgogne, ---- de fer-à-moulin, i., contains fragment of scipio sardini's villa, - ---- de la ferronerie, i., scene of henri iv.'s assassination, , , ---- françois-miron, ii., balcony of the louis xiv. period, ---- des francs-bourgeois, i., - ; ii., relics of antiquity in, _et seq._ ---- galande, ii., houses of the time of charles ix., ---- des gobelins, i., country house of blanche of castile, - ---- guénégaud, contains a tower of philippe-auguste, i., ; ii., ---- des innocents, i., vaults of cemetery des innocents in good preservation, ---- des marais-saint-germain (now visconti), house where louis racine was born, ---- de la parcheminerie, i., superb façade, ---- de poissy, i., refectory of the bernardin convent, ---- saint-andré-des-arts, site of the original porte de buci, saint-benoît-le-bétourné, i., chapel of the martyrs, ---- nicolas-du-chardonnet, i., where calvin and renan made their studies, ---- paul, cemetery of, ii., - saint-pierre, henri-bernardin de, i., , sainte-beuve, charles-augustin, i., room in the cour du commerce, ; ii., his homes in paris, , sainte-pélagie, i., prison of, salle-des-gardes, i., relic of the old palace, salpêtrière, the, i., , sand, george (mme. dudevant), ii., homes in paris, - sapeurs-pompiers, i., its _caserne_ a specimen of thirteenth century architecture, sardini, scipio, i., villa of, - sardou, victorien, i., collections of, , ; relic of corneille, ; of danton, saxe, maurice de, i., residences of, - scarron, paul, ii., house in the marais, - scribe, eugène, i., commemorative tablet of, sellier, m. charles, i., sévigné, mme. de, ii., born in the marais, ; her fondness for the carnavalet, - staël, mme. de, ii., stairway, i., of la reine blanche, _et seq._ ---- i., of dagobert, _et seq._ ---- i., of jean "sans-peur," , sully, duc de, i., ; ii., residence of, , - surville, mme. laure de, ii., balzac's letters to, ; shelters balzac's widow, taine, hippolyte-adolphe, ii., house where he died, talma, joseph-françois, i., homes in paris, - taylor, mlle. blanche, i., temple, the, ii., rise and fall of, - terror, the, i., three famous victims of, - ; ii., , thackeray, william makepeace, ii., in paris, - tocqueville, alexis-charles-henri clérel, comte de, ii., residences in the scholars' quarter, , tour barbeau, i., ---- de l'horloge, i., ---- jean "sans-peur," i., , , _et seq._ ---- de nesle, i., , ---- "qui-fait-le-coin," i., tournelles, the, ii., dwelt in by bedford, ; by charles vii. and louis xi., - ; by françois i., - ; lists of, - turlupin, i., comedian of the théâtre du marais, _ville, la_, i., ville d'avray, ii., balzac's house in, - villeparisis, ii., home of balzac's father, villon, françois, i., ; sketch of, - visconti, valentine, duchesse d'orléans, i., ; incites dunois to avenge his father's murder, voie du midi, the, i., now rue saint-jacques, voltaire, françois-marie arouet, i., baptized at saint-andré-des-arts, , ; sketch of, _et seq._; at the café procope, [illustration: the real latin quarter book cover] transcriber's note: variations in hyphenation, capitalization, and spelling have been retained as in the original. minor printer errors have been amended without note. obvious typos have been amended and are listed at the end of the text. some illustrations have been relocated for better flow. brief descriptions of illustrations without captions have been added in parentheses where appropriate. [illustration: the real latin quarter] [illustration: in the gardens of the luxembourg _water color drawing by_ f. hopkinson smith paris, ] the real latin quarter by f. berkeley smith [illustration: (portrait of woman)] with illustrations by the author introduction and frontispiece by f. hopkinson smith funk & wagnalls company new york · nineteen hundred and one copyright, by funk & wagnalls company registered at stationers' hall london, england printed in the united states of america published in november, [illustration: (teapot with cup)] contents page introduction chapter i. in the rue vaugirard ii. the boulevard st. michel iii. the "bal bullier" iv. bal des quat'z' arts v. "a déjeuner at lavenue's" vi. "at marcel legay's" vii. "pochard" viii. the luxembourg gardens ix. "the ragged edge of the quarter" x. exiled [illustration: (wine bottles with glass)] introduction "cocher, drive to the rue falguière"--this in my best restaurant french. the man with the varnished hat shrugged his shoulders, and raised his eyebrows in doubt. he evidently had never heard of the rue falguière. "yes, rue falguière, the old rue des fourneaux," i continued. cabby's face broke out into a smile. "ah, oui, oui, le quartier latin." and it was at the end of this crooked street, through a lane that led into a half court flanked by a row of studio buildings, and up one pair of dingy waxed steps, that i found a door bearing the name of the author of the following pages--his visiting card impaled on a tack. he was in his shirt-sleeves--the thermometer stood at ° outside--working at his desk, surrounded by half-finished sketches and manuscript. the man himself i had met before--i had known him for years, in fact--but the surroundings were new to me. so too were his methods of work. nowadays when a man would write of the siege of peking or the relief of some south african town with the unpronounceable name, his habit is to rent a room on an up-town avenue, move in an inkstand and pad, and a collection of illustrated papers and encyclopedias. this writer on the rue falguière chose a different plan. he would come back year after year, and study his subject and compile his impressions of the quarter in the very atmosphere of the place itself; within a stone's throw of the luxembourg gardens and the panthéon; near the cafés and the bullier; next door, if you please, to the public laundry where his washerwoman pays a few sous for the privilege of pounding his clothes into holes. it all seemed very real to me, as i sat beside him and watched him at work. the method delighted me. i have similar ideas myself about the value of his kind of study in out-door sketching, compared with the labored work of the studio, and i have most positive opinions regarding the quality which comes of it. if then the pages which here follow have in them any of the true inwardness of the life they are meant to portray, it is due, i feel sure, as much to the attitude of the author toward his subject, as much to his ability to seize, retain, and express these instantaneous impressions, these flash pictures caught on the spot, as to any other merit which they may possess. nothing can be made really _real_ without it. f. hopkinson smith. paris, august, . [illustration: (city rooftop scene)] chapter i in the rue vaugirard like a dry brook, its cobblestone bed zigzagging past quaint shops and cafés, the rue vaugirard finds its way through the heart of the latin quarter. it is only one in a score of other busy little streets that intersect the quartier latin; but as i live on the rue vaugirard, or rather just beside it, up an alley and in the corner of a picturesque old courtyard leading to the "lavoir gabriel," a somewhat angelic name for a huge, barn-like structure reeking in suds and steam, and noisy with gossiping washerwomen who pay a few sous a day there for the privilege of doing their washing--and as my studio windows (the big one with the north light, and the other one a narrow slit reaching from the floor to the high ceiling for the taking in of the big canvases one sees at the salon--which are never sold) overlook both alley and court, i can see the life and bustle below. [illustration: lavoir gabriel] this is not the paris of boulevards, ablaze with light and thronged with travelers of the world, nor of big hotels and chic restaurants without prices on the ménus. in the latter the maître d'hôtel makes a mental inventory of you when you arrive; and before you have reached your coffee and cigar, or before madame has buttoned her gloves, this well-shaved, dignified personage has passed sentence on you, and you pay according to whatever he thinks you cannot afford. i knew a fellow once who ordered a peach in winter at one of these smart taverns, and was obliged to wire home for money the next day. in the quartier latin the price is always such an important factor that it is marked plainly, and often the garçon will remind you of the cost of the dish you select in case you have not read aright, for in this true bohemia one's daily fortune is the one necessity so often lacking that any error in regard to its expenditure is a serious matter. in one of the well-known restaurants--here celebrated as a rendezvous for artists--a waiter, as he took a certain millionaire's order for asparagus, said: "does monsieur know that asparagus costs five francs?" at all times of the day and most of the night the rue vaugirard is busy. during the morning, push-carts loaded with red gooseberries, green peas, fresh sardines, and mackerel, their sides shining like silver, line the curb in front of the small shops. diminutive donkeys, harnessed to picturesque two-wheeled carts piled high with vegetables, twitch their long ears and doze in the shady corners of the street. the gutters, flushed with clear water, flash in the sunlight. baskets full of red roses and white carnations, at a few sous the armful, brighten the cool shade of the alleys leading to courtyards of wild gardens, many of which are filled with odd collections of sculpture discarded from the ateliers. [illustration: (donkey cart in front of market)] old women in linen caps and girls in felt slippers and leather-covered sabots, market baskets on arm, gossip in groups or hurry along the narrow sidewalk, stopping at the butcher's or the baker's to buy the déjeuner. should you breakfast in your studio and do your own marketing, you will meet with enough politeness in the buying of a paté, an artichoke, and a bottle of vin ordinaire, to supply a court welcoming a distinguished guest. politeness is second nature to the parisian--it is the key to one's daily life here, the oil that makes this finesse of civilization run smoothly. "bonjour, madame!" says the well-to-do proprietor of the tobacco-shop and café to an old woman buying a sou's worth of snuff. "bonjour, monsieur," replies the woman with a nod. "merci, madame," continues the fat patron as he drops the sou into his till. "merci, monsieur--merci!" and she secretes the package in her netted reticule, and hobbles out into the sunny street, while the patron attends to the wants of three draymen who have clambered down from their heavy carts for a friendly chat and a little vermouth. a polished zinc bar runs the length of the low-ceilinged room; a narrow, winding stairway in one corner leads to the living apartments above. behind the bar shine three well-polished square mirrors, and ranged in front of these, each in its zinc rack, are the favorite beverages of the quarter--anisette, absinthe, menthe, grenadine--each in zinc-stoppered bottles, like the ones in the barber-shops. at the end of the little bar a cocher is having his morning tipple, the black brim of his yellow glazed hat resting on his coarse red ears. he is in his shirt-sleeves; coat slung over his shoulder, and whip in hand, he is on the way to get his horse and voiture for the day. to be even a cocher in paris is considered a profession. if he dines at six-thirty and you hail him to take you as he rattles past, he will make his brief apologies to you without slackening his pace, and go on to his plat du jour and bottle of wine at his favorite rendezvous, dedicated to "the faithful cocher." an hour later he emerges, well fed, revives his knee-sprung horse, lights a fresh cigarette, cracks his whip like a package of torpedoes, and goes clattering off in search of a customer. [illustration: (rooftop)] the shops along the rue vaugirard are marvels of neatness. the butcher-shop, with its red front, is iron-barred like the lion's cage in the circus. inside the cage are some choice specimens of filets, rounds of beef, death-masks of departed calves, cutlets, and chops in paper pantalettes. on each article is placed a brass sign with the current price thereon. in paris nothing is wasted. a placard outside the butcher's announces an "occasion" consisting of a mule and a donkey, both of guaranteed "première qualité." and the butcher! a thick-set, powerfully built fellow, with blue-black hair, curly like a bull's and shining in pomade, with fierce mustache of the same dye, waxed to two formidable points like skewers. dangling over his white apron, and suspended by a heavy chain about his waist, he carries the long steel spike which sharpens his knives. all this paraphernalia gives him a very fierce appearance, like the executioner in the play; but you will find him a mild, kindly man after all, who takes his absinthe slowly, with a fund of good humor after his day's work, and his family to vincennes on sundays. the windows, too, of these little shops are studies in decoration. if it happens to be a problem in eggs, cheese, butter, and milk, all these are arranged artistically with fresh grape-leaves between the white rows of milk bottles and under the cheese; often the leaves form a nest for the white eggs (the fresh ones)--the hard-boiled ones are dyed a bright crimson. there are china hearts, too, filled with "double cream," and cream in little brown pots; roquefort cheese and camembert, isijny, and pont levéque, and chopped spinach. [illustration: (overloaded cart of baskets)] delicatessen shops display galantines of chicken, the windows banked with shining cans of sardines and herrings from dieppe; liver patés and creations in jelly; tiny sausages of doubtful stuffing, and occasional yellow ones like the odd fire-cracker of the pack. [illustration: (women at news stand)] grocery shops, their interiors resembling the toy ones of our childhood, are brightened with cones of snowy sugar in blue paper jackets. the wooden drawers filled with spices. here, too, one can get an excellent light wine for eight sous the bottle. as the day begins, the early morning cries drift up from the street. at six the fishwomen with their push-carts go their rounds, each singing the beauties of her wares. "voilà les beaux maquereaux!" chants the sturdy vendor, her sabots clacking over the cobbles as she pushes the cart or stops and weighs a few sous' worth of fish to a passing purchaser. the goat-boy, piping his oboe-like air, passes, the goats scrambling ahead alert to steal a carrot or a bite of cabbage from the nearest cart. and when these have passed, the little orgue de barbarie plays its repertoire of quadrilles and waltzes under your window. it is a very sweet-toned organ, this little orgue de barbarie, with a plaintive, apologetic tone, and a flute obbligato that would do credit to many a small orchestra. i know this small organ well--an old friend on dreary mornings, putting the laziest riser in a good humor for the day. the tunes are never changed, but they are all inoffensive and many of them pretty, and to the shrunken old man who grinds them out daily they are no doubt by this time all alike. [illustration: (cat on counter)] it is growing late and time for one's coffee. the little tobacco-shop and café around the corner i find an excellent place for café au lait. the coffee is delicious and made when one chooses to arrive, not stewed like soup, iridescent in color, and bitter with chicory, as one finds it in many of the small french hotels. two crescents, flaky and hot from the bakery next door, and three generous pats of unsalted butter, complete this morning repast, and all for the modest sum of twelve sous, with three sous to the garçon who serves you, with which he is well pleased. i have forgotten a companionable cat who each morning takes her seat on the long leather settee beside me and shares my crescents. the cats are considered important members of nearly every family in the quarter. big yellow and gray angoras, small, alert tortoise-shell ones, tiger-like and of plainer breed and more intelligence, bask in the doorways or sleep on the marble-topped tables of the cafés. [illustration: (woman carrying shopping box)] "qu'est-ce que tu veux, ma pauvre mimi?" condoles céleste, as she approaches the family feline. "mimi" stretches her full length, extending and retracting her claws, rolls on her back, turns her big yellow eyes to céleste and mews. the next moment she is picked up and carried back into the house like a stray child. at noon the streets seem deserted, except for the sound of occasional laughter and the rattle of dishes coming from the smaller restaurants as one passes. at this hour these places are full of workmen in white and blue blouses, and young girls from the neighboring factories. they are all laughing and talking together. a big fellow in a blue gingham blouse attempts to kiss the little milliner opposite him at table; she evades him, and, screaming with laughter, picks up her skirts and darts out of the restaurant and down the street, the big fellow close on her dainty heels. a second later he has overtaken her, and picking her up bodily in his strong arms carries her back to her seat, where he places her in her chair, the little milliner by this time quite out of breath with laughter and quite happy. this little episode affords plenty of amusement to the rest of the crowd; they wildly applaud the good-humored captor, who orders another litre of red wine for those present, and every one is merry. [illustration: (city house)] the parisian takes his hour for déjeuner, no matter what awaits him. it is the hour when lovers meet, too. edmond, working in the atelier for the reproduction of louis xvi furniture, meets louise coming from her work on babies' caps in the rue des saints-pères at precisely twelve-ten on the corner of the rue vaugirard and the boulevard montparnasse. louise comes without her hat, her hair in an adorable coiffure, as neatly arranged as a geisha's, her skirt held tightly to her hips, disclosing her small feet in low slippers. there is a golden rule, i believe, in the french catechism which says: "it is better, child, that thy hair be neatly dressed than that thou shouldst have a whole frock." and so louise is content. the two breakfast on a ragoût and a bottle of wine while they talk of going on sunday to st. cloud for the day--and so they must be economical this week. yes, they will surely go to st. cloud and spend all day in the woods. it is the second sunday in the month, and the fountains will be playing. they will take their déjeuner with them. louise will, of course, see to this, and edmond will bring cigarettes enough for two, and the wine. then, when the stars are out, they will take one of the "bateaux mouches" back to paris. dear paris--the paris of youth, of love, and of romance! * * * * * the pulse of the quarter begins really to beat at p.m. at this hour the streets are alive with throngs of workmen--after their day's work, seeking their favorite cafés to enjoy their apéritifs with their comrades--and women hurrying back from their work, many to their homes and children, buying the dinner en route. henriette, who sews all day at one of the fashionable dressmakers' in the rue de la paix, trips along over the pont neuf to her small room in the quarter to put on her best dress and white kid slippers, for it is bullier night and she is going to the ball with two friends of her cousin. in the twilight, and from my studio window the swallows, like black cinders against the yellow sky, dart and swoop above the forest of chimney-pots and tiled and gabled roofs. it is the hour to dine, and with this thought uppermost in every one's mind studio doors are slammed and night-keys tucked in pockets. and arm in arm the poet and the artist swing along to that evening mecca of good bohemians--the boulevard st. michel. [illustration: (basket of flowers)] chapter ii the boulevard st. michel from the place st. michel, this ever gay and crowded boulevard ascends a long incline, up which the tired horses tug at the traces of the fiacres, and the big double-decked steam trams crawl, until they reach the luxembourg gardens,--and so on a level road as far as the place de l'observatoire. within this length lies the life of the "boul' miche." nearly every highway has its popular side, and on the "boul' miche" it is the left one, coming up from the seine. here are the cafés, and from p.m. until long past midnight, the life of the quartier pours by them--students, soldiers, families, poets, artists, sculptors, wives, and sweethearts; bicycle girls, the modern grisette, the shop girl, and the model; fakirs, beggars, and vagrants. yet the word vagrant is a misnomer in this city, where economy has reached a finesse that is marvelous. that fellow, in filth and rags, shuffling along, his eyes scrutinizing, like a hungry rat, every nook and corner under the café tables on the terrace, carries a stick spiked with a pin. the next instant, he has raked the butt of your discarded cigarette from beneath your feet with the dexterity of a croupier. the butt he adds to the collection in his filthy pocket, and shuffles on to the next café. it will go so far at least toward paying for his absinthe. he is hungry, but it is the absinthe for which he is working. he is a "marchand de mégots"; it is his profession. [illustration: terrace taverne du panthÉon] one finds every type of restaurant, tavern, and café along the "boul' miche." there are small restaurants whose plat du jour might be traced to some faithful steed finding a final oblivion in a brown sauce and onions--an important item in a course dinner, to be had with wine included for one franc fifty. there are brasseries too, gloomy by day and brilliant by night (dispensing good munich beer in two shades, and german and french food), whose rich interiors in carved black oak, imitation gobelin, and stained glass are never half illumined until the lights are lit. [illustration: a "type"] all day, when the sun blazes, and the awnings are down, sheltering those chatting on the terrace, the interiors of these brasseries appear dark and cavernous. the clientèle is somber too, and in keeping with the place; silent poets, long haired, pale, and always writing; serious-minded lawyers, lunching alone, and fat merchants who eat and drink methodically. then there are bizarre cafés, like the d'harcourt, crowded at night with noisy women tawdry in ostrich plumes, cheap feather boas, and much rouge. the d'harcourt at midnight is ablaze with light, but the crowd is common and you move on up the boulevard under the trees, past the shops full of quartier fashions--velvet coats, with standing collars buttoning close under the chin; flamboyant black silk scarfs tied in a huge bow; queer broad-brimmed, black hats without which no "types" wardrobe is complete. on the corner facing the square, and opposite the luxembourg gate, is the taverne du panthéon. this is the most brilliant café and restaurant of the quarter, forming a v with its long terrace, at the corner of the boulevard and the rue soufflot, at the head of which towers the superb dome of the panthéon. [illustration: (view of panthéon from luxembourg gate)] it is p.m. and the terrace, four rows deep with little round tables, is rapidly filling. the white-aproned garçons are hurrying about or squeezing past your table, as they take the various orders. "un demi! un!" shouts the garçon. "deux pernod nature, deux!" cries another, and presently the "omnibus" in his black apron hurries to your table, holding between his knuckles, by their necks, half a dozen bottles of different apéritifs, for it is he who fills your glass. [illustration: along the "boul' miche"] it is the custom to do most of one's correspondence in these cafés. the garçon brings you a portfolio containing note-paper, a bottle of violet ink, an impossible pen that spatters, and a sheet of pink blotting-paper that does not absorb. with these and your apéritif, the place is yours as long as you choose to remain. no one will ask you to "move on" or pay the slightest attention to you. should you happen to be a cannibal chief from the south seas, and dine in a green silk high hat and a necklace of your latest captive's teeth, you would occasion a passing glance perhaps, but you would not be a sensation. [illustration: (hotel sign)] céleste would say to henriette: "regarde ça, henriette! est-il drôle, ce sauvage?" and henriette would reply quite assuringly: "eh bien quoi! c'est pas si extraordinaire, il est peut-être de madagascar; il y en a beaucoup à paris maintenant." there is no phase of character, or eccentricity of dress, that paris has not seen. nor will your waiter polish off the marble top of your table, with the hope that your ordinary sensibility will suggest another drink. it would be beneath his professional dignity as a good garçon de café. the two sous you have given him as a pourboire, he is well satisfied with, and expresses his contentment in a "merci, monsieur, merci," the final syllable ending in a little hiss, prolonged in proportion to his satisfaction. after this just formality, you will find him ready to see the point of a joke or discuss the current topics of the day. he is intelligent, independent, very polite, but never servile. [illustration: (woman walking near fountain)] it is difficult now to find a vacant chair on the long terrace. a group of students are having a "pernod," after a long day's work at the atelier. they finish their absinthe and then, arm in arm, start off to madame poivret's for dinner. it is cheap there; besides, the little "boîte," with its dingy room and sawdust floor, is a favorite haunt of theirs, and the good old lady, with her credit slate, a friendly refuge in time of need. at your left sits a girl in bicycle bloomers, yellow-tanned shoes, and short black socks pulled up snug to her sunburned calves. she has just ridden in from the bois de boulogne, and has scorched half the way back to meet her "officier" in pale blue. the two are deep in conversation. farther on are four older men, accompanied by a pale, sweet-faced woman of thirty, her blue-black hair brought in a bandeau over her dainty ears. she is the model of the gray-haired man on the left, a man of perhaps fifty, with kindly intelligent eyes and strong, nervous, expressive hands--hands that know how to model a colossal greek war-horse, plunging in battle, or create a nymph scarcely a foot high out of a lump of clay, so charmingly that the french government has not only bought the nymph, but given him a little red ribbon for his pains. [illustration: (omnibus)] he is telling the others of a spot he knows in normandy, where one can paint--full of quaint farm-houses, with thatched roofs; picturesque roadsides, rich in foliage; bright waving fields, and cool green woods, and purling streams; quaint gardens, choked with lavender and roses and hollyhocks--and all this fair land running to the white sand of the beach, with the blue sea beyond. he will write to old père jaqueline that they are all coming--it is just the place in which to pose a model "en plein air,"--and suzanne, his model, being a normande herself, grows enthusiastic at the thought of going down again to the sea. long before she became a parisienne, and when her beautiful hair was a tangled shock of curls, she used to go out in the big boats, with the fisherwomen--barefooted, brown, and happy. she tells them of those good days, and then they all go into the taverne to dine, filled with the idea of the new trip, and dreaming of dinners under the trees, of "tripes à la mode de caen," normandy cider, and a lot of new sketches besides. [illustration: (shop front)] already the tables within are well filled. the long room, with its newer annex, is as brilliant as a jewel box--the walls rich in tiled panels suggesting the life of the quarter, the woodwork in gold and light oak, the big panels of the rich gold ceiling exquisitely painted. at one of the tables two very chic young women are dining with a young frenchman, his hair and dress in close imitation of the duc d'orleans. these poses in dress are not uncommon. a strikingly pretty woman, in a scarlet-spangled gown as red as her lips, is dining with a well-built, soldierly-looking man in black; they sit side by side as is the custom here. the woman reminds one of a red lizard--a salamander--her "svelte" body seemingly boneless in its gown of clinging scales. her hair is purple-black and freshly onduléd; her skin as white as ivory. she has the habit of throwing back her small, well-posed head, while under their delicately penciled lids her gray eyes take in the room at a glance. she is not of the quarter, but the taverne du panthéon is a refuge for her at times, when she grows tired of paillard's and maxim's and her quarreling retinue. "let them howl on the other bank of the seine," says this empress of the half-world to herself, "i dine with raoul where i please." and now one glittering, red arm with its small, heavily-jeweled hand glides toward raoul's open cigarette case, and in withdrawing a cigarette she presses for a moment his big, strong hand as he holds near her polished nails the flaming match. [illustration: along the seine] her companion watches her as she smokes and talks--now and then he leans closer to her, squaring his broad shoulders and bending lower his strong, determined face, as he listens to her,--half-amused, replying to her questions leisurely, in short, crisp sentences. suddenly she stamps one little foot savagely under the table, and, clenching her jeweled hands, breathes heavily. she is trembling with rage; the man at her side hunches his great shoulders, flicks the ashes from his cigarette, looks at her keenly for a moment, and then smiles. in a moment she is herself again, almost penitent; this little savage, half roumanian, half russian, has never known what it was to be ruled! she has seen men grow white when she has stamped her little foot, but this big raoul, whom she loves--who once held a garrison with a handful of men--he does not tremble! she loves him for his devil-me-care indifference--and he enjoys her temper. but the salamander remembers there are some whom she dominated, until they groveled like slaves at her feet; even the great russian nobleman turned pale when she dictated to him archly and with the voice of an angel the price of his freedom. "poor fool! he shot himself the next day," mused the salamander. yes, and even the adamant old banker in paris, crabbed, stern, unrelenting to his debtors--shivered in his boots and ended in signing away half his fortune to her, and moved his family into a permanent chateau in the country, where he keeps himself busy with his shooting and his books. * * * * * as it grows late, the taverne becomes more and more animated. every one is talking and having a good time. the room is bewildering in gay color, the hum of conversation is everywhere, and as there is a corresponding row of tables across the low, narrow room, friendly greetings and often conversations are kept up from one side to the other. the dinner, as it progresses, assumes the air of a big family party of good bohemians. the french do not bring their misery with them to the table. to dine is to enjoy oneself to the utmost; in fact the french people cover their disappointment, sadness, annoyances, great or petty troubles, under a masque of "blague," and have such an innate dislike of sympathy or ridicule that they avoid it by turning everything into "blague." this veneer is misleading, for at heart the french are sad. not to speak of their inmost feelings does not, on the other hand, prevent them at times from being most confidential. often, the merest exchange of courtesies between those sharing the same compartment in a train, or a seat on a "bus," seems to be a sufficient introduction for your neighbor to tell you where he comes from, where he is going, whether he is married or single, whom his daughter married, and what regiment his son is in. these little confidences often end in his offering you half his bottle of wine and extending to you his cigarettes. [illustration: les beaux maquereaux] if you have finished dinner, you go out on the terrace for your coffee. the fakirs are passing up and down in front, selling their wares--little rabbits, wonderfully lifelike, that can jump along your table and sit on their hind legs, and wag their ears; toy snakes; small leaden pigs for good luck; and novelties of every description. here one sees women with baskets of écrivisse boiled scarlet; an acrobat tumbles on the pavement, and two men and a girl, as a marine, a soldier, and a vivandière, in silvered faces and suits, pose in melodramatic attitudes. the vivandière is rescued alternately from a speedy death by the marine and the soldier. presently a little old woman approaches, shriveled and smiling, in her faded furbelows now in rags. she sings in a piping voice and executes between the verses a tottering pas seul, her eyes ever smiling, as if she still saw over the glare of the footlights, in the haze beyond, the vast audience of by-gone days; smiling as if she still heard the big orchestra and saw the leader with his vibrant baton, watching her every movement. she is over seventy now, and was once a premier danseuse at the opera. but you have not seen all of the taverne du panthéon yet. there is an "american bar" downstairs; at least, so the sign reads at the top of a narrow stairway leading to a small, tavern-like room, with a sawdust floor, heavy deal tables, and wooden stools. in front of the bar are high stools that one climbs up on and has a lukewarm whisky soda, next to yvonne and marcelle, who are both singing the latest catch of the day at the top of their lungs, until they are howled at to keep still or are lifted bodily off their high stools by the big fellow in the "type" hat, who has just come in. [illustration: mother and daughter] before a long table at one end of the room is the crowd of american students singing in a chorus. the table is full now, for many have come from dinners at other cafés to join them. at one end, and acting as interlocutor for this impromptu minstrel show, presides one of the best fellows in the world. he rises solemnly, his genial round face wreathed in a subtle smile, and announces that he will sing, by earnest request, that popular ballad, "'twas summer and the little birds were singing in the trees." there are some especially fine "barber chords" in this popular ditty, and the words are so touching that it is repeated over and over again. then it is sung softly like the farmhand quartettes do in the rural melodrama outside the old homestead in harvest time. oh! i tell you it's a truly rural octette. listen to that exhibition bass voice of jimmy sands and that wandering tenor of tommy whiteing, and as the last chord dies away (over the fields presumably) a shout goes up: "how's that?" "out of sight," comes the general verdict from the crowd, and bang go a dozen beer glasses in unison on the heavy table. "oh, que c'est beau!" cries mimi, leading the successful chorus in a new vocal number with edmond's walking-stick; but this time it is a french song and the whole room is singing it, including our old friend, monsieur frank, the barkeeper, who is mixing one of his famous concoctions which are never twice quite alike, but are better than if they were. the harmonic beauties of "'twas summer and the little birds were singing in the trees" are still inexhausted, but it sadly needs a piano accompaniment--with this it would be perfect; and so the whole crowd, including yvonne, and céleste, and marcelle, and the two frenchmen, and the girl in the bicycle clothes, start for jack thompson's studio in the rue des fourneaux, where there is a piano that, even if the candles in the little louis xvi brackets do burn low and spill down the keys, and the punch rusts the strings, it will still retain that beautiful, rich tone that every french upright, at seven francs a month, possesses. [illustration: (bullier)] chapter iii the "bal bullier" there are all types of "bals" in paris. over in montmartre, on the place blanche, is the well-known "moulin rouge," a place suggestive, to those who have never seen it, of the quintessence of parisian devil-me-care gaiety. you expect it to be like those clever pen-and-ink drawings of grevin's, of the old jardin mabille in its palmiest days, brilliant with lights and beautiful women extravagantly gowned and bejeweled. you expect to see frenchmen, too, in pot-hats, crowding in a circle about fifine, who is dancing some mad can-can, half hidden in a swirl of point lace, her small, polished boots alternately poised above her dainty head. and when she has finished, you expect her to be carried off to supper at the maison dorée by the big, fierce-looking russian who has been watching her, and whose victoria, with its spanking team--black and glossy as satin--champing their silver bits outside, awaiting her pleasure. but in all these anticipations you will be disappointed, for the famous jardin mabille is no more, and the ground where it once stood in the champs elysées is now built up with private residences. fifine is gone, too--years ago--and most of the old gentlemen in pot-hats who used to watch her are buried or about to be. few frenchmen ever go to the "moulin rouge," but every american does on his first night in paris, and emerges with enough cab fare to return him to his hotel, where he arrives with the positive conviction that the red mill, with its slowly revolving sails, lurid in crimson lights, was constructed especially for him. he remembers, too, his first impressions of paris that very morning as his train rolled into the gare st. lazare. his aunt could wait until to-morrow to see the tomb of napoleon, but he would see the "moulin rouge" first, and to be in ample time ordered dinner early in his expensive, morgue-like hotel. i remember once, a few hours after my arrival in paris, walking up the long hill to the place blanche at p.m., under a blazing july sun, to see if they did not give a matinée at the "moulin rouge." the place was closed, it is needless to say, and the policeman i found pacing his beat outside, when i asked him what day they gave a matinée, put his thumbs in his sword belt, looked at me quizzically for a moment, and then roared. the "moulin rouge" is in full blast every night; in the day-time it is being aired. farther up in montmartre, up a steep, cobbly hill, past quaint little shops and cafés, the hill becoming so steep that your cab horse finally refuses to climb further, and you get out and walk up to the "moulin de la galette." you find it a far different type of ball from the "moulin rouge," for it is not made for the stranger, and its clientèle is composed of the rougher element of that quarter. [illustration: (street scene)] a few years ago the "galette" was not the safest of places for a stranger to go to alone. since then, however, this ancient granary and mill, that has served as a ball-room for so many years, has undergone a radical change in management; but it is still a cliquey place, full of a lot of habitués who regard a stranger as an intruder. should you by accident step on marcelle's dress or jostle her villainous-looking escort, you will be apt to get into a row, beginning with a mode of attack you are possibly ignorant of, for these "maquereaux" fight with their feet, having developed this "manly art" of self-defense to a point of dexterity more to be evaded than admired. and while marcelle's escort, with a swinging kick, smashes your nose with his heel, his pals will take the opportunity to kick you in the back. so, if you go to the "galette," go with a parisian or some of the students of the quarter; but if you must go alone--keep your eyes on the band. it is a good band, too, and its chef d'orchestre, besides being a clever musical director, is a popular composer as well. go out from the ball-room into the tiny garden and up the ladder-like stairs to the rock above, crowned with the old windmill, and look over the iron railing. far below you, swimming in a faint mist under the summer stars, all paris lies glittering at your feet. * * * * * you will find the "bal bullier" of the latin quarter far different from the "bals" of montmartre. it forms, with its "grand fête" on thursday nights, a sort of social event of the week in this quarter of bohemians, just as the friday afternoon promenade does in the luxembourg garden. if you dine at the taverne du panthéon on a thursday night you will find that the taverne is half deserted by o'clock, and that every one is leaving and walking up the "boul' miche" toward the "bullier." follow them, and as you reach the place l'observatoire, and turn a sharp corner to the left, you will see the façade of this famous ball, illumined by a sizzling blue electric light over the entrance. the façade, with its colored bas-reliefs of students and grisettes, reminds one of the proscenium of a toy theater. back of this shallow wall bristle the tops of the trees in the garden adjoining the big ball-room, both of which are below the level of the street and are reached by a broad wooden stairway. the "bal bullier" was founded in ; previous to this there existed the "closerie des lilas" on the boulevard montparnasse. you pass along with the line of waiting poets and artists, buy a green ticket for two francs at the little cubby-hole of a box-office, are divested of your stick by one of half a dozen white-capped matrons at the vestiaire, hand your ticket to an elderly gentleman in a silk hat and funereal clothes, at the top of the stairway sentineled by a guard of two soldiers, and the next instant you see the ball in full swing below you. [illustration: (portrait of man)] there is nothing disappointing about the "bal bullier." it is all you expected it to be, and more, too. below you is a veritable whirlpool of girls and students--a vast sea of heads, and a dazzling display of colors and lights and animation. little shrieks and screams fill your ears, as the orchestra crashes into the last page of a galop, quickening the pace until yvonne's little feet slip and her cheeks glow, and her eyes grow bright, and half her pretty golden hair gets smashed over her impudent little nose. then the galop is brought up with a quick finish. "bis! bis! bis! encore!" comes from every quarter of the big room, and the conductor, with his traditional good-nature, begins again. he knows it is wiser to humor them, and off they go again, still faster, until all are out of breath and rush into the garden for a breath of cool air and a "citron glacé." and what a pretty garden it is!--full of beautiful trees and dotted with round iron tables, and laid out in white gravel walks, the garden sloping gently back to a fountain, and a grotto and an artificial cascade all in one, with a figure of venus in the center, over which the water splashes and trickles. there is a green lattice proscenium, too, surrounding the fountain, illuminated with colored lights and outlined in tiny flames of gas, and grotto-like alcoves circling the garden, each with a table and room for two. the ball-room from the garden presents a brilliant contrast, as one looks down upon it from under the trees. [illustration: (portrait of woman)] but the orchestra has given its signal--a short bugle call announcing a quadrille; and those in the garden are running down into the ball-room to hunt up their partners. the "bullier" orchestra will interest you; they play with a snap and fire and a tempo that is irresistible. they have played together so long that they have become known as the best of all the bal orchestras. the leader, too, is interesting--tall and gaunt, with wild, deep-sunken eyes resembling those of an old eagle. now and then he turns his head slowly as he leads, and rests these keen, penetrating orbs on the sea of dancers below him. then, with baton raised above his head, he brings his orchestra into the wild finale of the quadrille--piccolos and clarinets, cymbals, bass viols, and violins--all in one mad race to the end, but so well trained that not a note is lost in the scramble--and they finish under the wire to a man, amid cheers from mimi and céleste and "encores" and "bis's" from every one else who has breath enough left to shout with. [illustration: a type of the quarter by helleu.--estampe moderne] often after an annual dinner of one of the ateliers, the entire body of students will march into the "bullier," three hundred strong, and take a good-natured possession of the place. there have been some serious demonstrations in the quarter by the students, who can form a small army when combined. but as a rule you will find them a good-natured lot of fellows, who are out for all the humor and fun they can create at the least expense. but in june, , a serious demonstration by the students occurred, for these students can fight as well as dance. senator beranger, having read one morning in the "courrier français" an account of the revelry and nudity of several of the best-known models of the quarter at the "quat'z' arts" ball, brought a charge against the organizers of the ball, and several of the models, whose beauty unadorned had made them conspicuous on this most festive occasion. at the ensuing trial, several celebrated beauties and idols of the latin quarter were convicted and sentenced to a short term of imprisonment, and fined a hundred francs each. these sentences were, however, remitted, but the majority of the students would not have it thus, and wanted further satisfaction. a mass meeting was held by them in the place de la sorbonne. the police were in force there to stop any disturbance, and up to o'clock at night the crowd was held in control. [illustration: (portrait of woman)] it was a warm june night, and every student in the quarter was keyed to a high state of excitement. finally a great crowd of students formed in front of the café d'harcourt, opposite the sorbonne; things were at fever heat; the police became rough; and in the row that ensued, somebody hurled one of the heavy stone match-safes from a café table at one of the policemen, who in his excitement picked it up and hurled it back into the crowd. it struck and injured fatally an innocent outsider, who was taken to the charity hospital, in the rue jacob, and died there. on the following monday another mass meeting of students was held in the place de la sorbonne, who, after the meeting, formed in a body and marched to the chamber of deputies, crying: "conspuez dupuy," who was then president of the chamber. a number of deputies came out on the portico and the terrace, and smilingly reviewed the demonstration, while the students hurled their anathemas at them, the leaders and men in the front rank of this howling mob trying to climb over the high railing in front of the terrace, and shouting that the police were responsible for the death of one of their comrades. the government, fearing further trouble and wishing to avoid any disturbance on the day of the funeral of the victim of the riot in the place sorbonne, deceived the public as to the hour when it would occur. this exasperated the students so that they began one of those demonstrations for which paris is famous. by p.m. the next day the quartier latin was in a state of siege--these poets and painters and sculptors and musicians tore up the rue jacob and constructed barricades near the hospital where their comrade had died. they tore up the rue bonaparte, too, at the place st. germain des prés, and built barricades, composed of overturned omnibuses and tramcars and newspaper booths. they smashed windows and everything else in sight, to get even with the government and the smiling deputies and the murderous police--and then the troops came, and the affair took a different turn. in three days thirty thousand troops were in paris--principally cavalry, many of the regiments coming from as far away as the center of france. [illustration: École des beaux arts] with these and the police and the garde républicaine against them, the students melted away like a handful of snow in the sun; but the demonstrations continued spasmodically for two or three days longer, and the little crooked streets, like the rue du four, were kept clear by the cavalry trotting abreast--in and out and dodging around corners--their black horse-tail plumes waving and helmets shining. it is sufficient to say that the vast army of artists and poets were routed to a man and driven back into the more peaceful atmosphere of their studios. but the "bullier" is closing and the crowd is pouring out into the cool air. i catch a glimpse of yvonne with six students all in one fiacre, but yvonne has been given the most comfortable place. they have put her in the hood, and the next instant they are rattling away to the panthéon for supper. if you walk down with the rest, you will pass dozens of jolly groups singing and romping and dancing along down the "boul' miche" to the taverne, for a bock and some écrivisse. with youth, good humor, and a "louis," all the world seems gay! chapter iv bal des quat'z' arts of all the balls in paris, the annual "bal des quat'z' arts" stands unique. this costume ball is given every year, in the spring, by the students of the different ateliers, each atelier vying with the others in creation of the various floats and cortéges, and in the artistic effect and historical correctness of the costumes. the first "quat'z' arts" ball was given in . it was a primitive affair, compared with the later ones, but it was a success, and immediately the "quat'z' arts" ball was put into the hands of clever organizers, and became a studied event in all its artistic sense. months are spent in the creation of spectacles and in the costuming of students and models. prizes are given for the most successful organizations, and a jury composed of painters and sculptors passes upon your costume as you enter the ball, and if you do not come up to their artistic standard you are unceremoniously turned away. students who have been successful in getting into the "quat'z' arts" for years often fail to pass into this bewildering display of beauty and brains, owing to their costume not possessing enough artistic originality or merit to pass the jury. [illustration: (coiffeur sign)] it is, of course, a difficult matter for one who is not an enrolled member of one of the great ateliers of painting, architecture, or sculpture to get into the "quat'z' arts," and even after one's ticket is assured, you may fail to pass the jury. imagine this ball, with its procession of moving tableaux. a huge float comes along, depicting the stone age and the primitive man, every detail carefully studied from the museums. another represents the last day of babylon. one sees a nude captive, her golden hair and white flesh in contrast with the black velvet litter on which she is bound, being carried by a dozen stalwart blackamoors, followed by camels bearing nude slaves and the spoils of a captured city. [illustration: (photograph of woman)] as the ball continues until daylight, it resembles a bacchanalian fête in the days of the romans. but all through it, one is impressed by its artistic completeness, its studied splendor, and permissible license, so long as a costume (or the lack of it) produces an artistic result. one sees the mise en scène of a barbaric court produced by the architects of an atelier, all the various details constructed from carefully studied sketches, with maybe a triumphal throne of some barbaric king, with his slaves, the whole costumed and done in a studied magnificence that takes one's breath away. again an atelier of painters may reproduce the frieze of the parthenon in color; another a float or a decoration, suggesting the works of their master. the room becomes a thing of splendor, for it is as gorgeous a spectacle as the cleverest of the painters, sculptors, and architects can make it, and is the result of careful study--and all for the love of it!--for the great "quat'z' arts" ball is an event looked forward to for months. special instructions are issued to the different ateliers while the ball is in preparation, and the following one is a translation in part from the notice issued before the great ball of ' . as this is a special and private notice to the atelier, its contents may be interesting: bal des quat'z' arts, moulin rouge, april, . doors open at p.m. and closed at midnight. the card of admission is absolutely personal, to be taken by the committee before the opening of the ball. [illustration: (admission card)] the committee will be masked, and comrades without their personal card will be refused at the door. the cards must carry the name and quality of the artist, and bear the stamp of his atelier. costumes are absolutely necessary. the soldier--the dress suit, black or in color--the monk--the blouse--the domino--kitchen boy--loafer--bicyclist, and other nauseous types, are absolutely prohibited. should the weather be bad, comrades are asked to wait in their carriages, as the committee in control cannot, under any pretext, neglect guarding the artistic effect of the ball during any confusion that might ensue. a great "feed" will take place in the grand hall; the buffet will serve as usual individual suppers and baskets for two persons. the committee wish especially to bring the attention of their comrades to the question of women, whose cards of admission must be delivered as soon as possible, so as to enlarge their attendance--always insufficient. prizes (champagne) will be distributed to the ateliers who may distinguish themselves by the artistic merit and beauty of their female display. [illustration: (photograph of woman)] all the women who compete for these prizes will be assembled on the grand staircase before the orchestra. the nude, as always, is prohibited!?! the question of music at the head of the procession is of the greatest importance, and those comrades who are musical will please give their names to the delegates of the ateliers. your good-will in this line is asked for--any great worthless capacity in this line will do, as they always play the same tune, "les pompiers!" the committee-- . for days before the "quat'z' arts" ball, all is excitement among the students, who do as little work as possible and rest themselves for the great event. the favorite wit of the different ateliers is given the task of painting the banner of the atelier, which is carried at the head of the several cortéges. one of these, in bouguereau's atelier, depicted their master caricatured as a cupid. the boys once constructed an elephant with oriental trappings--an elephant that could wag his ears and lift his trunk and snort--and after the two fellows who formed respectfully the front and hind legs of this knowing beast had practised sufficiently to proceed with him safely, at the head of a cortége of slave girls, nautch dancers, and manacled captives, the big beast created a success in the procession at the "quat'z' arts" ball. [illustration: (portrait of man)] after the ball, in the gray morning light, they marched it back to the atelier, where it remained for some weeks, finally becoming such a nuisance, kicking around the atelier and getting in everybody's way, that the boys agreed to give it to the first junk-man that came around. but as no junk-man came, and as no one could be found to care for its now sadly battered hulk, its good riddance became a problem. what to do with the elephant! that was the question. at last the two, who had sweltered in its dusty frame that eventful night of the "quat'z' arts," hit upon an idea. they marched it one day up the boulevard st. germain to the café des deux magots, followed by a crowd of people, who, when it reached the café, assembled around it, every one asking what it was for--or rather what it was?--for the beast had by now lost much of the resemblance of its former self. when half the street became blocked with the crowd, the two wise gentlemen crawled out of its fore and aft, and quickly mingled, unnoticed, with the bystanders. then they disappeared in the crowd, leaving the elephant standing in the middle of the street. those who had been expecting something to happen--a circus or the rest of the parade to come along--stood around for a while, and then the police, realizing that they had an elephant on their hands, carted the thing away, swearing meanwhile at the atelier and every one connected with it. the cafés near the odéon, just before the beginning of the ball, are filled with students in costume; gladiators hobnob at the tables with savages in scanty attire--roman soldiers and students, in the garb of the ancients, strut about or chat in groups, while the uninvited grisettes and models, who have not received invitations from the committee, implore them for tickets. tickets are not transferable, and should one present himself at the entrance of the ball with another fellow's ticket, he would run small chance of entering. "what atelier?" commands the jury "cormon." the student answers, while the jury glance at his makeup. "to the left!" cries the jury, and you pass in to the ball. but if you are unknown they will say simply, "connais-pas! to the right!" and you pass down a long covered alley--confident, if you are a "nouveau," that it leads into the ball-room--until you suddenly find yourself in the street, where your ticket is torn up and all hope of entering is gone. it is hopeless to attempt to describe the hours until morning of this annual artistic orgy. as the morning light comes in through the windows, it is strange to see the effect of diffused daylight, electricity, and gas--the bluish light of early morning reflected on the flesh tones--upon nearly three thousand girls and students in costumes one might expect to see in a bacchanalian feast, just before the fall of rome. now they form a huge circle, the front row sitting on the floor, the second row squatting, the third seated in chairs, the fourth standing, so that all can see the dancing that begins in the morning hours--the wild impromptu dancing of the moment. a famous beauty, her black hair bound in a golden fillet with a circle wrought in silver and studded with oriental turquoises clasping her superb torso, throws her sandals to the crowd and begins an oriental dance--a thing of grace and beauty--fired with the intensity of the innate nature of this beautifully modeled daughter of bohemia. as the dance ends, there is a cry of delight from the great circle of barbarians. "long live the quat'z' arts!" they cry, amid cheers for the dancer. the ball closes about seven in the morning, when the long procession forms to return to the latin quarter, some marching, other students and girls in cabs and on top of them, many of the girls riding the horses. down they come from the "moulin rouge," shouting, singing, and yelling. heads are thrust out of windows, and a volley of badinage passes between the fantastic procession and those who have heard them coming. finally the great open court of the louvre is reached--here a halt is made and a general romp occurs. a girl and a type climb one of the tall lamp-posts and prepare to do a mid-air balancing act, when rescued by the others. at last, at the end of all this horse-play, the march is resumed over the pont du carrousel and so on, cheered now by those going to work, until the odéon is reached. here the odd procession disbands; some go to their favorite cafés where the festivities are continued--some to sleep in their costumes or what remains of them, wherever fortune lands them--others to studios, where the gaiety is often kept up for days. ah! but life is not all "couleur de rose" in this true bohemia. "one day," says little marguerite (she who lives in the rue monge), "one eats and the next day one doesn't. it is always like that, is it not, monsieur?--and it costs so much to live, and so you see, monsieur, life is always a fight." and marguerite's brown eyes swim a little and her pretty mouth closes firmly. "but where is paul?" i ask. "i do not know, monsieur," she replies quietly; "i have not seen him in ten days--the atelier is closed--i have been there every day, expecting to find him--he left no word with his concierge. i have been to his café too, but no one has seen him--you see, monsieur, paul does not love me!" i recall an incident that i chanced to see in passing the little shop where marguerite works, that only confirms the truth of her realization. paul had taken marguerite back to the little shop, after their déjeuner together, and, as i passed, he stopped at the door with her, kissed her on both cheeks, and left her; but before they had gone a dozen paces, they ran back to embrace again. this occurred four times, until paul and marguerite finally parted. and, as he watched her little heels disappear up the wooden stairs to her work-room above, paul blew a kiss to the pretty milliner at the window next door, and, taking a long whiff of his cigarette, sauntered off in the direction of his atelier whistling. [illustration: a morning's work] it is ideal, this student life with its student loves of four years, but is it right to many an honest little comrade, who seldom knows an hour when she is away from her ami? who has suffered and starved and slaved with him through years of days of good and bad luck--who has encouraged him in his work, nursed him when ill, and made a thousand golden hours in this poet's or painter's life so completely happy, that he looks back on them in later life as never-to-be-forgotten? he remembers the good dinners at the little restaurant near his studio, where they dined among the old crowd. there were lavaud the sculptor and francine, with the figure of a goddess; moreau, who played the cello at the opera; little louise dumont, who posed at julian's, and old jacquemart, the very soul of good fellowship, who would set them roaring with his inimitable humor. what good dinners they were!--and how long they sat over their coffee and cigarettes under the trees in front of this little restaurant--often ten and twelve at a time, until more tables had to be pushed together for others of their good friends, who in passing would be hailed to join them. and how marguerite used to sing all through dinner and how they would all sing, until it grew so late and so dark that they had to puff their cigarettes aglow over their plates, and yell to madame giraud for a light! and how the old lady would bustle out with the little oil lamp, placing it in the center of the long table amid the forest of vin ordinaires, with a "voilà, mes enfants!" and a cheery word for all these good boys and girls, whom she regarded quite as her own children. it seemed to them then that there would never be anything else but dinners at madame giraud's for as many years as they pleased, for no one ever thought of living out one's days, except in this good bohemia of paris. they could not imagine that old jacquemart would ever die, or that la belle louise would grow old, and go back to marseilles, to live with her dried-up old aunt, who sold garlic and bad cheese in a little box of a shop, up a crooked street! or that francine would marry martin, the painter, and that the two would bury themselves in an adorable little spot in brittany, where they now live in a thatched farm-house, full of martin's pictures, and have a vegetable garden of their own--and a cow--and some children! but they did! [illustration: a studio dÉjeuner] and those memorable dinners in the old studio back of the gare montparnasse! when paints and easels were pushed aside, and the table spread, and the piano rolled up beside it. there was the buying of the chicken, and the salad that francine would smother in a dressing into which she would put a dozen different things--herbs and spices and tiny white onions! and what a jolly crowd came to these impromptu feasts! how much noise they used to make! how they danced and sang until the gray morning light would creep in through the big skylight, when all these good bohemians would tiptoe down the waxed stairs, and slip past the different ateliers for fear of waking those painters who might be asleep--a thought that never occurred to them until broad daylight, and the door had been opened, after hours of pandemonium and music and noise! in a little hotel near the odéon, there lived a family of just such bohemians--six struggling poets, each with an imagination and a love of good wine and good dinners and good times that left them continually in a state of bankruptcy! as they really never had any money--none that ever lasted for more than two days and two nights at the utmost, their good landlord seldom saw a sou in return for his hospitable roof, which had sheltered these six great minds who wrote of the moon, and of fate, and fortune, and love. for days they would dream and starve and write. then followed an auction sale of the total collection of verses, hawked about anywhere and everywhere among the editeurs, like a crop of patiently grown fruit. having sold it, literally by the yard, they would all saunter up the "boul' miche," and forget their past misery, in feasting, to their hearts' content, on the good things of life. on days like these, you would see them passing, their black-brimmed hats adjusted jauntily over their poetic locks--their eyes beaming with that exquisite sense of feeling suddenly rich, that those who live for art's sake know! the keenest of pleasures lie in sudden contrasts, and to these six poetic, impractical bohemians, thus suddenly raised from the slough of despond to a state where they no longer trod with mortals--their cup of happiness was full and spilling over. they must not only have a good time, but so must every one around them. with their great riches, they would make the world gay as long as it lasted, for when it was over they knew how sad life would be. for a while--then they would scratch away--and have another auction! [illustration: daylight] unlike another good fellow, a painter whom i once knew, who periodically found himself without a sou, and who would take himself, in despair, to his lodgings, make his will, leaving most of his immortal works to his english aunt, go to bed, and calmly await death! in a fortunate space of time his friends, who had been hunting for him all over the quarter, would find him at last and rescue him from his chosen tomb; or his good aunt, fearing he was ill, would send a draft! then life would, to this impractical philosopher, again become worth living. he would dispatch a "petit bleu" to marcelle; and the two would meet at the café cluny, and dine at la perruse on filet de sole au vin blanc, and a bottle of haut barsac--the bottle all cobwebs and cradled in its basket--the garçon, as he poured its golden contents, holding his breath meanwhile lest he disturb its long slumber. there are wines that stir the soul, and this was one of them--clear as a topaz and warming as the noonday sun--the same warmth that had given it birth on its hillside in bordeaux, as far back as ' . it warmed the heart of marcelle, too, and made her cheeks glow and her eyes sparkle--and added a rosier color to her lips. it made her talk--clearly and frankly, with a full and a happy heart, so that she confessed her love for this "bon garçon" of a painter, and her supreme admiration for his work and the financial success he had made with his art. all of which this genial son of bohemia drank in with a feeling of pride, and he would swell out his chest and curl the ends of his long mustache upwards, and sigh like a man burdened with money, and secure in his ability and success, and with a peaceful outlook into the future--and the fact that marcelle loved him of all men! they would linger long over their coffee and cigarettes, and then the two would stroll out under the stars and along the quai, and watch the little seine boats crossing and recrossing, like fireflies, and the lights along the pont neuf reflected deep down like parti-colored ribbons in the black water. [illustration: (pair of high heeled shoes)] chapter v "a dÉjeuner at lavenue's" if you should chance to breakfast at "lavenue's," or, as it is called, the "hôtel de france et bretagne," for years famous as a rendezvous of men celebrated in art and letters, you will be impressed first with the simplicity of the three little rooms forming the popular side of this restaurant, and secondly with the distinguished appearance of its clientèle. [illustration: mademoiselle fanny and her staff] as you enter the front room, you pass good mademoiselle fanny at the desk, a cheery, white-capped, genial old lady, who has sat behind that desk for forty years, and has seen many a "bon garçon" struggle up the ladder of fame--from the days when he was a student at the beaux-arts, until his name became known the world over. it has long been a favorite restaurant with men like rodin, the sculptor--and colin, the painter--and the late falguière--and jean paul laurens and bonnat, and dozens of others equally celebrated--and with our own men, like whistler and sargent and harrison, and st. gaudens and macmonnies. these three plain little rooms are totally different from the "other side," as it is called, of the maison lavenue. here one finds quite a gorgeous café, with a pretty garden in the rear, and another room--opening into the garden--done in delicate green lattice and mirrors. this side is far more expensive to dine in than the side with the three plain little rooms, and the gentlemen with little red ribbons in their buttonholes; but as the same good cook dispenses from the single big kitchen, which serves for the dear and the cheap side the same good things to eat at just half the price, the reason for the popularity of the "cheap side" among the crowd who come here daily is evident. [illustration: rodin] it is a quiet, restful place, this maison lavenue, and the best place i know in which to dine or breakfast from day to day. there is an air of intime and cosiness about lavenue's that makes one always wish to return. [illustration: (group of men dining)] you will see a family of rich bourgeois enter, just in from the country, for the montparnasse station is opposite. the fat, sunburned mama, and the equally rotund and genial farmer-papa, and the pretty daughter, and the newly married son and his demure wife, and the two younger children--and all talking and laughing over a good dinner with champagne, and many toasts to the young couple--and to mama and papa, and little josephine--with ices, and fruit, and coffee, and liqueur to follow. all these you will see at lavenue's on the "cheap side"--and the beautiful model, too, who poses for courbel, who is breakfasting with one of the jeunesse of paris. the waiters after p.m. dine in the front room with the rest, and jump up now and then to wait on madame and monsieur. it is a very democratic little place, this popular side of the house of m. lavenue, founded in . and there is a jolly old painter who dines there, who is also an excellent musician, with an ear for rhythm so sensitive that he could never go to sleep unless the clock in his studio ticked in regular time, and at last was obliged to give up his favorite atelier, with its picturesque garden---- "for two reasons, monsieur," he explained to me excitedly; "a little girl on the floor below me played a polka--the same polka half the day--always forgetting to put in the top note; and the fellow over me whistled it the rest of the day and put in the top note false; and so i moved to the rue st. pères, where one only hears, within the cool court-yard, the distant hum of the busy city. the roar of paris, so full of chords and melody! listen to it sometimes, monsieur, and you will hear a symphony!" [illustration: "la fille de la blanchisseuse" by bellanger.--estampe moderne] and mademoiselle fanny will tell you of the famous men she has known for years, and how she has found the most celebrated of them simple in their tastes, and free from ostentation--"in fact it is always so, is it not, with les hommes célèbres? c'est toujours comme ça, monsieur, toujours!" and mentions one who has grown gray in the service of art and can count his decorations from half a dozen governments. madame will wax enthusiastic--her face wreathed in smiles. "ah! he is a bon garçon; he always eats with the rest, for three or four francs, never more! he is so amiable, and, you know, he is very celebrated and very rich"; and madame will not only tell you his entire history, but about his work--the beauty of his wife and how "aimables" his children are. mademoiselle fanny knows them all. but the men who come here to lunch are not idlers; they come in, many of them, fresh from a hard morning's work in the studio. the tall sculptor opposite you has been at work, since his morning coffee, on a group for the government; another, bare-armed and in his flannel shirt, has been building up masses of clay, punching and modeling, and scraping away, all the morning, until he produces, in the rough, the body of a giantess, a huge caryatide that is destined, for the rest of her existence, to hold upon her broad shoulders part of the façade of an american building. the "giantess" in the flesh is lunching with him--a juno-like woman of perhaps twenty-five, with a superb head well poised, her figure firm and erect. you will find her exceedingly interesting, quiet, and refined, and with a knowledge of things in general that will surprise you, until you discover she has, in her life as a model, been thrown daily in conversation with men of genius, and has acquired a smattering of the knowledge of many things--of art and literature--of the theater and its playwrights--plunging now and then into medicine and law and poetry--all these things she has picked up in the studios, in the cafés, in the course of her bohemian life. this "vernis," as the french call it, one finds constantly among the women here, for their days are passed among men of intelligence and ability, whose lives and energy are surrounded and encouraged by an atmosphere of art. in an hour, the sculptor and his juno-like model will stroll back to the studio, where work will be resumed as long as the light lasts. [illustration: a true type] the painter breakfasting at the next table is hard at work on a decorative panel for a ceiling. it is already laid out and squared up, from careful pencil drawings. two young architects are working for him, laying out the architectural balustrade, through which one, a month later, looks up at the allegorical figures painted against the dome of the blue heavens, as a background. and so the painter swallows his eggs, mayonnaise, and demi of beer, at a gulp, for he has a model coming at two, and he must finish this ceiling on time, and ship it, by a fast liner, to a millionaire, who has built a vault-like structure on the hudson, with iron dogs on the lawn. here this beautiful panel will be unrolled and installed in the dome of the hard-wood billiard-room, where its rich, mellow scheme of color will count as naught; and the cupids and the flesh-tones of the chic little model, who came at two, will appear jaundiced; and aunt maria and uncle john, and the twins from ithaca, will come in after the family sunday dinner of roast beef and potatoes and rice pudding and ice-water, and look up into the dome and agree "it's grand." but the painter does not care, for he has locked up his studio, and taken his twenty thousand francs and the model--who came at two--with him to trouville. at night you will find a typical crowd of bohemians at the closerie des lilas, where they sit under a little clump of trees on the sloping dirt terrace in front. here you will see the true type of the quarter. it is the farthest up the boulevard st. michel of any of the cafés, and just opposite the "bal bullier," on the place de l'observatoire. the terrace is crowded with its habitués, for it is out of the way of the stream of people along the "boul' miche." the terrace is quite dark, its only light coming from the café, back of a green hedge, and it is cool there, too, in summer, with the fresh night air coming from the luxembourg gardens. below it is the café and restaurant de la rotonde, a very well-built looking place, with its rounding façade on the corner. [illustration: (studio)] at the entrance of every studio court and apartment, there lives the concierge in a box of a room generally, containing a huge feather-bed and furnished with a variety of things left by departing tenants to this faithful guardian of the gate. many of these small rooms resemble the den of an antiquary with their odds and ends from the studios--old swords, plaster casts, sketches and discarded furniture--until the place is quite full. yet it is kept neat and clean by madame, who sews all day and talks to her cat and to every one who passes into the court-yard. here your letters are kept, too, in one of a row of boxes, with the number of your atelier marked thereon. at night, after ten, your concierge opens the heavy iron gate of your court by pulling a cord within reach of the family bed. he or she is waked up at intervals through the night to let into and out of a court full of studios those to whom the night is ever young. or perhaps your concierge will be like old père valois, who has three pretty daughters who do the housework of the studios, as well as assist in the guardianship of the gate. they are very busy, these three daughters of père valois--all the morning you will see these little "femmes de ménage" as busy as bees; the artists and poets must be waked up, and beds made and studios cleaned. there are many that are never cleaned at all, but then there are many, too, who are not so fortunate as to be taken care of by the three daughters of père valois. [illustration: voilÀ la belle rose, madame!] there is no gossip within the quarter that your "femme de ménage" does not know, and over your morning coffee, which she brings you, she will regale you with the latest news about most of your best friends, including your favorite model, and madame from whom you buy your wine, always concluding with: "that is what i heard, monsieur,--i think it is quite true, because the little marie, who is the femme de ménage of monsieur valentin, got it from céleste dauphine yesterday in the café in the rue du cherche midi." in the morning, this demure maid-of-all-work will be in her calico dress with her sleeves rolled up over her strong white arms, but in the evening you may see her in a chic little dress, at the "bal bullier," or dining at the panthéon, with the fellow whose studio is opposite yours. [illustration: a busy morning] alice lemaître, however, was a far different type of femme de ménage than any of the gossiping daughters of old père valois, and her lot was harder, for one night she left her home in one of the provincial towns, when barely sixteen, and found herself in paris with three francs to her name and not a friend in this big pleasure-loving city to turn to. after many days of privation, she became bonne to a woman known as yvette de marcie, a lady with a bad temper and many jewels, to whom little alice, with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes and willing disposition to work in order to live, became a person upon whom this fashionable virago of a demi-mondaine vented the worst that was in her--and there was much of this--until alice went out into the world again. she next found employment at a baker's, where she was obliged to get up at four in the morning, winter and summer, and deliver the long loaves of bread at the different houses; but the work was too hard and she left. the baker paid her a trifle a week for her labor, while the attractive yvette de marcie turned her into the street without her wages. it was while delivering bread one morning to an atelier in the rue des dames, that she chanced to meet a young painter who was looking for a good femme de ménage to relieve his artistic mind from the worries of housekeeping. little alice fairly cried when the good painter told her she might come at twenty francs a month, which was more money than this very grateful and brave little brittany girl had ever known before. [illustration: (brocanteur shop front)] "you see, monsieur, one must do one's best whatever one undertakes," said alice to me; "i have tried every profession, and now i am a good femme de ménage, and i am 'bien contente.' no," she continued, "i shall never marry, for one's independence is worth more than anything else. when one marries," she said earnestly, her little brow in a frown, "one's life is lost; i am young and strong, and i have courage, and so i can work hard. one should be content when one is not cold and hungry, and i have been many times that, monsieur. once i worked in a fabrique, where, all day, we painted the combs of china roosters a bright red for bon-bon boxes--hundreds and hundreds of them until i used to see them in my dreams; but the fabrique failed, for the patron ran away with the wife of a russian. he was a very stupid man to have done that, monsieur, for he had a very nice wife of his own--a pretty brunette, with a charming figure; but you see, monsieur, in paris it is always that way. c'est toujours comme ça." chapter vi "at marcel legay's" just off the boulevard st. michel and up the narrow little rue cujas, you will see at night the name "marcel legay" illumined in tiny gas-jets. this is a cabaret of chansonniers known as "le grillon," where a dozen celebrated singing satirists entertain an appreciative audience in the stuffy little hall serving as an auditorium. here, nightly, as the pièce de résistance--and late on the programme (there is no printed one)--you will hear the bard of montmartre, marcel legay, raconteur, poet, musician, and singer; the author of many of the most popular songs of montmartre, and a veteran singer in the cabarets. [illustration: marcel legay] from these cabarets of the student quarters come many of the cleverest and most beautiful songs. here men sing their own creations, and they have absolute license to sing or say what they please; there is no mincing of words, and many times these rare bohemians do not take the trouble to hide their clever songs and satires under a double entente. no celebrated man or woman, known in art or letters, or connected with the government--from the soldier to the good president of the république française--is spared. the eccentricity of each celebrity is caught by them, and used in song or recitation. besides these personal caricatures, the latest political questions of the day--religion and the haut monde--come in for a large share of good-natured satire. to be cleverly caricatured is an honor, and should evince no ill-feeling, especially from these clever singing comedians, who are the best of fellows at heart; whose songs are clever but never vulgar; who sing because they love to sing; and whose versatility enables them to create the broadest of satires, and, again, a little song with words so pure, so human, and so pathetic, that the applause that follows from the silent room of listeners comes spontaneously from the heart. it is not to be wondered at that "the grillon" of marcel legay's is a popular haunt of the habitués of the quarter, who crowd the dingy little room nightly. you enter the "grillon" by way of the bar, and at the further end of the bar-room is a small anteroom, its walls hung in clever posters and original drawings. this anteroom serves as a sort of green-room for the singers and their friends; here they chat at the little tables between their songs--since there is no stage--and through this anteroom both audience and singers pass into the little hall. there is the informality of one of our own "smokers" about the whole affair. furthermore, no women sing in "le grillon"--a cabaret in this respect is different from a café concert, which resembles very much our smaller variety shows. a small upright piano, and in front of it a low platform, scarcely its length, complete the necessary stage paraphernalia of the cabaret, and the admission is generally a franc and a half, which includes your drink. in the anteroom, four of the singers are smoking and chatting at the little tables. one of them is a tall, serious-looking fellow, in a black frock coat. he peers out through his black-rimmed eyeglasses with the solemnity of an owl--but you should hear his songs!--they treat of the lighter side of life, i assure you. another singer has just finished his turn, and comes out of the smoky hall, wiping the perspiration from his short, fat neck. the audience is still applauding his last song, and he rushes back through the faded green velvet portières to bow his thanks. [illustration: a poet-singer] a broad-shouldered, jolly-looking fellow, in white duck trousers, is talking earnestly with the owl-like looking bard in eyeglasses. suddenly his turn is called, and you follow him in, where, as soon as he is seen, he is welcomed by cheers from the students and girls, and an elaborate fanfare of chords on the piano. when this popular poet-singer has finished, there follows a round of applause and a pounding of canes, and then the ruddy-faced, gray-haired manager starts a three-times-three handclapping in unison to a pounding of chords on the piano. this is the proper ending to every demand for an encore in "le grillon," and it never fails to bring one. it is nearly eleven when the curtain parts and marcel legay rushes hurriedly up the aisle and greets the audience, slamming his straw hat upon the lid of the piano. he passes his hand over his bald pate--gives an extra polish to his eyeglasses--beams with an irresistibly funny expression upon his audience--coughs--whistles--passes a few remarks, and then, adjusting his glasses on his stubby red nose, looks serio-comically over his roll of music. he is dressed in a long, black frock-coat reaching nearly to his heels. this coat, with its velvet collar, discloses a frilled white shirt and a white flowing bow scarf; these, with a pair of black-and-white check trousers, complete this every-day attire. but the man inside these voluminous clothes is even still more eccentric. short, indefinitely past fifty years of age, with a round face and merry eyes, and a bald head whose lower portion is framed in a fringe of long hair, reminding one of the coiffure of some pre-raphaelite saint--indeed, so striking is this resemblance that the good bard is often caricatured with a halo surrounding this medieval fringe. in the meantime, while this famous singer is selecting a song, he is overwhelmed with demands for his most popular ones. a dozen students and girls at one end of the little hall, now swimming in a haze of pipe and cigarette smoke, are hammering with sticks and parasols for "le matador avec les pieds du vent"; another crowd is yelling for "la goularde." marcel legay smiles at them all through his eyeglasses, then roars at them to keep quiet--and finally the clamor in the room gradually subsides--here and there a word--a giggle--and finally silence. "now, my children, i will sing to you the story of clarette," says the bard; "it is a very sad histoire. i have read it," and he smiles and cocks one eye. his baritone voice still possesses considerable fire, and in his heroic songs he is dramatic. in "the miller who grinds for love," the feeling and intensity and dramatic quality he puts into its rendition are stirring. as he finishes his last encore, amidst a round of applause, he grasps his hat from the piano, jams it over his bald pate with its celestial fringe, and rushes for the door. here he stops, and, turning for a second, cheers back at the crowd, waving the straw hat above his head. the next moment he is having a cooling drink among his confrères in the anteroom. such "poet-singers" as paul delmet and dominique bonnaud have made the "grillon" a success; and others like numa blés, gabriel montoya, d'herval, fargy, tourtal, and edmond teulet--all of them well-known over in montmartre, where they are welcomed with the same popularity that they meet with at "le grillon." genius, alas, is but poorly paid in this bohemia! there are so many who can draw, so many who can sing, so many poets and writers and sculptors. to many of the cleverest, half a loaf is too often better than no bread. you will find often in these cabarets and in the cafés and along the boulevard, a man who, for a few sous, will render a portrait or a caricature on the spot. you learn that this journeyman artist once was a well-known painter of the quarter, who had drawn for years in the academies. the man at present is a wreck, as he sits in a café with portfolio on his knees, his black slouch hat drawn over his scraggly gray hair. but his hand, thin and drawn from too much stimulant and too little food, has lost none of its knowledge of form and line; the sketch is strong, true, and with a chic about it and a simplicity of expression that delight you. you ask why he has not done better. [illustration: the satirist] "ah!" he replies, "it is a long story, monsieur." so long and so much of it that he can not remember it all! perhaps it was the woman with the velvety black eyes--tall and straight--the best dancer in all paris. yes, he remembers some of it--long, miserable years--years of struggles and jealousy, and finally lies and fights and drunkenness; after it was all over, he was too gray and old and tired to care! one sees many such derelicts in paris among these people who have worn themselves out with amusement, for here the world lives for pleasure, for "la grande vie!" to the man, every serious effort he is obliged to make trends toward one idea--that of the bon vivant--to gain success and fame, but to gain it with the idea of how much personal daily pleasure it will bring him. ennui is a word one hears constantly; if it rains toute le monde est triste. to have one's gaiety interrupted is regarded as a calamity, and "tout le monde" will sympathize with you. to live a day without the pleasures of life in proportion to one's purse is considered a day lost. if you speak of anything that has pleased you one will, with a gay rising inflection of the voice and a smile, say: "ah! c'est gai là-bas--and monsieur was well amused while in that beautiful country?" "ah!--tiens! c'est gentil ça!" they will exclaim, as you enthusiastically continue to explain. they never dull your enthusiasm by short phlegmatic or pessimistic replies. and when you are sad they will condone so genuinely with you that you forget your disappointments in the charming pleasantry of their sympathy. but all this continual race for pleasure is destined in the course of time to end in ennui! the parisian goes into the latest sport because it affords him a new sensation. being blasé of all else in life, he plunges into automobiling, buys a white and red racer--a ponderous flying juggernaut that growls and snorts and smells of the lower regions whenever it stands still, trembling in its anger and impatience to be off, while its owner, with some automobiling marie, sits chatting on the café terrace over a cooling drink. the two are covered with dust and very thirsty; marie wears a long dust-colored ulster, and he a wind-proof coat and high boots. meanwhile, the locomotive-like affair at the curbstone is working itself into a boiling rage, until finally the brave chauffeur and his chic companion prepare to depart. marie adjusts her white lace veil, with its goggles, and the chauffeur puts on his own mask as he climbs in; a roar--a snort, a cloud of blue gas, and they are gone! there are other enthusiasts--those who go up in balloons! "ah, you should go ballooning!" one cries enthusiastically, "to be 'en ballon'--so poetic--so fin de siècle! it is a fantaisie charmante!" in a balloon one forgets the world--one is no longer a part of it--no longer mortal. what romance there is in going up above everything with the woman one loves--comrades in danger--the ropes--the wicker cage--the ceiling of stars above one and paris below no bigger than a gridiron! paris! lost for the time from one's memory. how chic to shoot straight up among the drifting clouds and forget the sordid little world, even the memory of one's intrigues! "enfin seuls," they say to each other, as the big frenchman and the chic parisienne countess peer down over the edge of the basket, sipping a little chartreuse from the same traveling cup; she, with the black hair and white skin, and gowned "en ballon" in a costume by paillard; he in his peajacket buttoned close under his heavy beard. they seem to brush through and against the clouds! a gentle breath from heaven makes the basket decline a little and the ropes creak against the hardwood clinch blocks. it grows colder, and he wraps her closer in his own coat. "courage, my child," he says; "see, we have gone a great distance; to-morrow before sundown we shall descend in belgium." "horrible!" cries the countess; "i do not like those belgians." "ah! but you shall see, thérèse, one shall go where one pleases soon; we are patient, we aeronauts; we shall bring credit to la belle france; we have courage and perseverance; we shall give many dinners and weep over the failures of our brave comrades, to make the dirigible balloon 'pratique.' we shall succeed! then voilà! our déjeuner in paris and our dinner where we will." thérèse taps her polished nails against the edge of the wicker cage and hums a little chansonette. "je t'aime"--she murmurs. * * * * * i did not see this myself, and i do not know the fair thérèse or the gentleman who buttons his coat under his whiskers; but you should have heard one of these ballooning enthusiasts tell it to me in the taverne du panthéon the other night. his only regret seemed to be that he, too, could not have a dirigible balloon and a countess--on ten francs a week! [illustration: (woman)] chapter vii "pochard" drunkards are not frequent sights in the quarter; and yet when these people do get drunk, they become as irresponsible as maniacs. excitable to a degree even when sober, these most wretched among the poor when drunk often appear in front of a café--gaunt, wild-eyed, haggard, and filthy--singing in boisterous tones or reciting to you with tense voices a jumble of meaningless thoughts. the man with the matted hair, and toes out of his boots, will fold his arms melodramatically, and regard you for some moments as you sit in front of him on the terrace. then he will vent upon you a torrent of abuse, ending in some jumble of socialistic ideas of his own concoction. when he has finished, he will fold his arms again and move on to the next table. he is crazy with absinthe, and no one pays any attention to him. on he strides up the "boul' miche," past the cafés, continuing his ravings. as long as he is moderately peaceful and confines his wandering brain to gesticulations and speech, he is let alone by the police. [illustration: (portrait of woman)] you will see sometimes a man and a woman--a teamster out of work or with his wages for the day, and with him a creature--a blear-eyed, slatternly looking woman, in a filthy calico gown. the man clutches her arm, as they sing and stagger up past the cafés. the woman holds in her claw-like hand a half-empty bottle of cheap red wine. now and then they stop and share it; the man staggers on; the woman leers and dances and sings; a crowd forms about them. some years ago this poor girl sat on friday afternoons in the luxembourg gardens--her white parasol on her knees, her dainty, white kid-slippered feet resting on the little stool which the old lady, who rents the chairs, used to bring her. she was regarded as a bonne camarade in those days among the students--one of the idols of the quarter! but she became impossible, and then an outcast! that women should become outcasts through the hopelessness of their position or the breaking down of their brains can be understood, but that men of ability should sink into the dregs and stay there seems incredible. but it is often so. [illustration: (portrait of woman)] near the rue monge there is a small café and restaurant, a place celebrated for its onion soup and its chicken. from the tables outside, one can see into the small kitchen, with its polished copper sauce-pans hanging about the grill. lachaume, the painter, and i were chatting at one of its little tables, he over an absinthe and i over a coffee and cognac. i had dined early this fresh october evening, enjoying to the full the bracing coolness of the air, pungent with the odor of dry leaves and the faint smell of burning brush. the world was hurrying by--in twos and threes--hurrying to warm cafés, to friends, to lovers. the breeze at twilight set the dry leaves shivering. the sky was turquoise. the yellow glow from the shop windows--the blue-white sparkle of electricity like pendant diamonds--made the quarter seem fuller of life than ever. these fall days make the little ouvrières trip along from their work with rosy cheeks, and put happiness and ambition into one's very soul. [illustration: a group of new studios] soon the winter will come, with all the boys back from their country haunts, and céleste and mimi from ostende. how gay it will be--this quartier latin then! how gay it always is in winter--and then the rainy season. ah! but one can not have everything. thus it was that lachaume and i sat talking, when suddenly a spectre passed--a spectre of a man, his face silent, white, and pinched--drawn like a mummy's. [illustration: a sculptor's model] he stopped and supported his shrunken frame wearily on his crutches, and leaned against a neighboring wall. he made no sound--simply gazed vacantly, with the timidity of some animal, at the door of the small kitchen aglow with the light from the grill. he made no effort to approach the door; only leaned against the gray wall and peered at it patiently. "a beggar," i said to lachaume; "poor devil!" "ah! old pochard--yes, poor devil, and once one of the handsomest men in paris." "what wrecked him?" i asked. "what i'm drinking now, mon ami." "absinthe?" "yes--absinthe! he looks older than i do, does he not?" continued lachaume, lighting a fresh cigarette, "and yet i'm twenty years his senior. you see, i sip mine--he drank his by the goblet," and my friend leaned forward and poured the contents of the carafe in a tiny trickling stream over the sugar lying in its perforated spoon. [illustration: boy model] "ah! those were great days when pochard was the life of the bullier," he went on; "i remember the night he won ten thousand francs from the russian. it didn't last long; camille leroux had her share of it--nothing ever lasted long with camille. he was once courrier to an austrian baron, i remember. the old fellow used to frequent the quarter in summer, years ago--it was his hobby. pochard was a great favorite in those days, and the baron liked to go about in the quarter with him, and of course pochard was in his glory. he would persuade the old nobleman to prolong his vacation here. once the baron stayed through the winter and fell ill, and a little couturière in the rue de rennes, whom the old fellow fell in love with, nursed him. he died the summer following, at vienna, and left her quite a little property near amiens. he was a good old baron, a charitable old fellow among the needy, and a good bohemian besides; and he did much for pochard, but he could not keep him sober!" [illustration: bouguereau at work] "after the old man's death," my friend continued, "pochard drifted from bad to worse, and finally out of the quarter, somewhere into misery on the other side of the seine. no one heard of him for a few years, until he was again recognized as being the same pochard returned again to the quarter. he was hobbling about on crutches just as you see him there. and now, do you know what he does? get up from where you are sitting," said lachaume, "and look into the back kitchen. is he not standing there by the door--they are handing him a small bundle?" "yes," said i, "something wrapped in newspaper." "do you know what is in it?--the carcass of the chicken you have just finished, and which the garçon carried away. pochard saw you eating it half an hour ago as he passed. it was for that he was waiting." "to eat?" i asked. "no, to sell," lachaume replied, "together with the other bones he is able to collect--for soup in some poorest resort down by the river, where the boatmen and the gamins go. the few sous he gets will buy pochard a big glass, a lump of sugar, and a spoon; into the goblet, in some equally dirty 'boîte,' they will pour him out his green treasure of absinthe. then pochard will forget the day--perhaps he will dream of the austrian baron--and try and forget camille leroux. poor devil!" [illustration: gerome] marguerite girardet, the model, also told me between poses in the studio the other day of just such a "pauvre homme" she once knew. "when he was young," she said, "he won a second prize at the conservatoire, and afterward played first violin at the comique. now he plays in front of the cafés, like the rest, and sometimes poses for the head of an old man! [illustration: a. michelena] "many grow old so young," she continued; "i knew a little model once with a beautiful figure, absolutely comme un bijou--pretty, too, and had she been a sensible girl, as i often told her, she could still have earned her ten francs a day posing; but she wanted to dine all the time with this and that one, and pose too, and in three months all her fine 'svelte' lines that made her a valuable model among the sculptors were gone. you see, i have posed all my life in the studios, and i am over thirty now, and you know i work hard, but i have kept my fine lines--because i go to bed early and eat and drink little. then i have much to do at home; my husband and i for years have had a comfortable home; we take a great deal of pride in it, and it keeps me very busy to keep everything in order, for i pose very early some mornings and then go back and get déjeuner, and then back to pose again. [illustration: a sculptor's studio] "in the summer," she went on, "we take a little place outside of paris for a month, down the seine, where my husband brings his work with him; he is a repairer of fans and objets d'art. you should come in and see us some time; it is quite near where you painted last summer. ah yes," she exclaimed, as she drew her pink toes under her, "i love the country! last year i posed nearly two months for monsieur z., the painter--en plein air; my skin was not as white as it is now, i can tell you--i was absolutely like an indian! [illustration: frÉmiet] "once"--and marguerite smiled at the memory of it--"i went to england to pose for a painter well known there. it was an important tableau, and i stayed there six months. it was a horrible place to me--i was always cold--the fog was so thick one could hardly see in winter mornings going to the studio. besides, i could get nothing good to eat! he was a celebrated painter, a 'sir,' and lived with his family in a big stone house with a garden. we had tea and cakes at five in the studio--always tea, tea, tea!--i can tell you i used to long for a good bottle of madame giraud's vin ordinaire, and a poulet. so i left and came back to paris. ah! quelle place! that angleterre! j'étais toujours, toujours triste là! in paris i make a good living; ten francs a day--that's not bad, is it? and my time is taken often a year ahead. i like to pose for the painters--the studios are cleaner than those of the sculptor's. some of the sculptors' studios are so dirty--clay and dust over everything! did you see fabien's studio the other day when i posed for him? you thought it dirty? tiens!--you should have seen it last year when he was working on the big group for the exposition! it is clean now compared with what it was. you see, i go to my work in the plainest of clothes--a cheap print dress and everything of the simplest i can make, for in half an hour, left in those studios, they would be fit only for the blanchisseuse--the wax and dust are in and over everything! there is no time to change when one has not the time to go home at mid-day." [illustration: jean paul laurens] and so i learned much of the good sense and many of the economies in the life of this most celebrated model. you can see her superb figure wrought in marble and bronze by some of the most famous of modern french sculptors all over paris. there is another type of model you will see, too--one who rang my bell one sunny morning in response to a note written by my good friend, the sculptor, for whom this little parisienne posed. she came without her hat--this "vrai type"--about seventeen years of age--with exquisite features, her blue eyes shining under a wealth of delicate blonde hair arranged in the prettiest of fashions--a little white bow tied jauntily at her throat, and her exquisitely delicate, strong young figure clothed in a simple black dress. she had about her such a frank, childlike air! yes, she posed for so and so, and so and so, but not many; she liked it better than being in a shop; and it was far more independent, for one could go about and see one's friends--and there were many of her girl friends living on the same street where this chic demoiselle lived. at noon my drawing was finished. as she sat buttoning her boots, she looked up at me innocently, slipped her five francs for the morning's work in her reticule, and said: "i live with mama, and mama never gives me any money to spend on myself. this is sunday and a holiday, so i shall go with henriette and her brother to vincennes. it is delicious there under the trees." [illustration: old man model] it would have been quite impossible for me to have gone with them--i was not even invited; but this very serious and good little parisienne, who posed for the figure with quite the same unconsciousness as she would have handed you your change over the counter of some stuffy little shop, went to vincennes with henriette and her brother, where they had a beautiful day--scrambling up the paths and listening to the band--all at the enormous expense of the artist; and this was how this good little parisienne managed to save five francs in a single day! there are old-men models who knock at your studio too, and who are celebrated for their tangled gray locks, which they immediately uncover as you open your door. these unkempt-looking father times and methuselahs prowl about the staircases of the different ateliers daily. so do little children--mostly italians and all filthily dirty; swarthy, black-eyed, gypsy-looking girls and boys of from twelve to fifteen years of age, and italian mothers holding small children--itinerant madonnas. these are the poorer class of models--the riff-raff of the quarter--who get anywhere from a few sous to a few francs for a séance. and there are four-footed models, too, for i know a kindly old horse who has served in many a studio and who has carried a score of the famous generals of the world and jeanne d'arcs to battle--in many a modern public square. chacun son métier! chapter viii the luxembourg gardens in this busy quarter, where so many people are confined throughout the day in work-shops and studios, a breathing-space becomes a necessity. the gardens of the luxembourg, brilliant in flowers and laid out in the renaissance, with shady groves and long avenues of chestnut-trees stretching up to the place de l'observatoire, afford the great breathing-ground for the latin quarter. if one had but an hour to spend in the quartier latin, one could not find a more interesting and representative sight of student life than between the hours of four and five on friday afternoon, when the military band plays in the luxembourg gardens. this is the afternoon when bohemia is on parade. then every one flocks here to see one's friends--and a sort of weekly reception for the quarter is held. the walks about the band-stand are thronged with students and girls, and hundreds of chairs are filled with an audience of the older people--shopkeepers and their families, old women in white lace caps, and gray-haired old men, many in straight-brimmed high hats of a mode of twenty years past. here they sit and listen to the music under the cool shadow of the trees, whose rich foliage forms an arbor overhead--a roof of green leaves, through which the sunbeams stream and in which the fat, gray pigeons find a paradise. [illustration: the children's shop--luxembourg gardens] there is a booth near-by where waffles, cooked on a small oven in the rear, are sold. in front are a dozen or more tables for ices and drinkables. every table and chair is taken within hearing distance of the band. when these musicians of the army of france arrive, marching in twos from their barracks to the stand, it is always the signal for that genuine enthusiasm among the waiting crowd which one sees between the french and their soldiers. if you chance to sit among the groups at the little tables, and watch the passing throng in front of you, you will see some queer "types," many of them seldom en evidence except on these friday afternoons in the luxembourg. buried, no doubt, in some garret hermitage or studio, they emerge thus weekly to greet silently the passing world. a tall poet stalks slowly by, reading intently, as he walks, a well-worn volume of verses--his faded straw hat shading the tip of his long nose. following him, a boy of twenty, delicately featured, with that purity of expression one sees in the faces of the good--the result of a life, perhaps, given to his ideal in art. he wears his hair long and curling over his ears, with a long stray wisp over one eye, the whole cropped evenly at the back as it reaches his black velvet collar. he wears, too, a dove-gray vest of fine corduroy, buttoned behind like those of the clergy, and a velvet tam-o'-shanter-like cap, and carries between his teeth a small pipe with a long goose-quill stem. you can readily see that to this young man with high ideals there is only one corner of the world worth living in, and that lies between the place de l'observatoire and the seine. three students pass, in wide broadcloth trousers, gathered in tight at the ankles, and wearing wide-brimmed black hats. hanging on the arm of one of the trio is a short snub-nosed girl, whose cleo-merodic hair, flattened in a bandeau over her ears, not only completely conceals them, but all the rest of her face, except her two merry black eyes and her saucy and neatly rouged lips. she is in black bicycle bloomers and a white, short duck jacket--a straw hat with a wide blue ribbon band, and a fluffy piece of white tulle tied at the side of her neck. the throng moves slowly by you. it is impossible, in such a close crowd, to be in a hurry; besides, one never is here. near-by sit two old ladies, evidently concierges from some atelier court. one holds the printed program of the music, cut carefully from her weekly newspaper; it is cheaper than buying one for two sous, and these old concierges are economical. in this friday gathering you will recognize dozens of faces which you have seen at the "bal bullier" and the cafés. the girl in the blue tailor-made dress, with the little dog, who you remember dined the night before at the panthéon, is walking now arm in arm with a tall man in black, a mourning band about his hat. the girl is dressed in black, too--a mark of respect to her ami by her side. the dog, who is so small that he slides along the walk every time his chain is pulled, is now tucked under her arm. one of the tables near the waffle stand is taken by a group of six students and four girls. all of them have arrived at the table in the last fifteen minutes--some alone, some in twos. the girl in the scarlet gown and white kid slippers, who came with the queer-looking "type" with the pointed beard, is yvonne gallois--a bonne camarade. she keeps the rest in the best of spirits, for she is witty, this yvonne, and a great favorite with the crowd she is with. she is pretty, too, and has a whole-souled good-humor about her that makes her ever welcome. the fellow she came with is delmet the architect--a great wag--lazy, but full of fun--and genius. the little girl sitting opposite yvonne is claire dumont. she is explaining a very sad "histoire" to the "type" next to her, intense in the recital of her woes. her alert, nervous little face is a study; when words and expression fail, she shrugs her delicate shoulders, accenting every sentence with her hands, until it seems as if her small, nervous frame could express no more--and all about her little dog "loisette!" [illustration: at the head of the luxembourg gardens] "yes, the villain of a concierge at edmond's studio swore at him twice, and sunday, when edmond and i were breakfasting late, the old beast saw 'loisette' on the stairs and threw water over her; she is a sale bête, that grosse femme! she shall see what it will cost her, the old miser; and you know i have always been most amiable with her. she is jealous of me--that is it--oh! i am certain of it. because i am young and happy. jealous of me! that's funny, is it not? the old pig! poor 'loisette'--she shivered all night with fright and from being wet. edmond and i are going to find another place. yes, she shall see what it will be there without us--with no one to depend upon for her snuff and her wine. if she were concierge at edmond's old atelier she would be treated like that horrid old madame fouquet." the boys in the atelier over her window hated this old madame fouquet, i remember. she was always prying about and complaining, so they fished up her pet gold-fish out of the aquarium on her window-sill, and fried them on the atelier stove, and put them back in the window on a little plate all garnished with carrots. she swore vengeance and called in the police, but to no avail. one day they fished up the parrot in its cage, and the green bird that screamed and squawked continually met a speedy and painless death and went off to the taxidermist. then the cage was lowered in its place with the door left ajar, and the old woman felt sure that her pet had escaped and would some day find his way back to her--a thing this garrulous bird would never have thought of doing had he had any say in the matter. so the old lady left the door of the cage open for days in the event of his return, and strange to tell, one morning madame fouquet got up to quarrel with her next-door neighbor, and, to her amazement, there was her green pet on his perch in his cage. she called to him, but he did not answer; he simply stood on his wired legs and fixed his glassy eyes on her, and said not a word--while the gang of indians in the windows above yelled themselves hoarse. it was just such a crowd as this that initiated a "nouveau" once in one of the ateliers. they stripped the new-comer, and, as is often the custom on similar festive occasions, painted him all over with sketches, done in the powdered water-colors that come in glass jars. they are cheap and cover a lot of surface, so that the gentleman in question looked like a human picture-gallery. after the ceremony, he was put in a hamper and deposited, in the morning, in the middle of the pont des arts, where he was subsequently found by the police, who carted him off in a cab. [illustration: the fontaine de medicis] but you must see more of this vast garden of the luxembourg to appreciate truly its beauty and its charm. filled with beautiful sculpture in bronze and marble, with its musée of famous modern pictures bought by the government, with flower-beds brilliant in geraniums and fragrant in roses, with the big basin spouting a jet of water in its center, where the children sail their boats, and with that superb "fontaine de medicis" at the end of a long, rectangular basin of water--dark as some pool in a forest brook, the green vines trailing about its sides, shaded by the rich foliage of the trees overhead. on the other side of the luxembourg you will find a garden of roses, with a rich bronze group of greek runners in the center, and near it, back of the long marble balustrade, a croquet ground--a favorite spot for several veteran enthusiasts who play here regularly, surrounded for hours by an interested crowd who applaud and cheer the participants in this passé sport. this is another way of spending an afternoon at the sole cost of one's leisure. it takes but little to amuse these people! often at the punch and judy show near-by, you will see two old gentlemen,--who may have watched this same punch and judy show when they were youngsters,--and who have been sitting for half an hour, waiting for the curtain of the miniature theater to rise. it is popular--this small "théâtre guignol," and the benches in front are filled with the children of rich and poor, who scream with delight and kick their little, fat bare legs at the first shrill squeak of mr. punch. the three who compose the staff of this tiny attraction have been long in its service--the old harpist, and the good wife of the showman who knows every child in the neighborhood, and her husband who is mr. punch, the hangman, and the gendarme, and half a dozen other equally historical personages. a thin, sad-looking man, this husband, gray-haired, with a careworn look in his deep-sunken eyes, who works harder hourly, daily, yearly, to amuse the heart of a child than almost any one i know. the little box of a theater is stifling hot in summer, and yet he must laugh and scream and sing within it, while his good wife collects the sous, talking all the while to this and to that child whom she has known since its babyhood; chatting with the nurses decked out in their gay-colored, alsatian bows, the ribbons reaching nearly to the ground. a french nurse is a gorgeous spectacle of neatness and cleanliness, and many of the younger ones, fresh from country homes in normandy and brittany, with their rosy cheeks, are pictures of health. wherever you see a nurse, you will see a "piou-piou" not far away, which is a very belittling word for the red-trousered infantryman of the république française. surrounding the palais du luxembourg, these "piou-pious," less fortunate for the hour, stand guard in the small striped sentry-boxes, musket at side, or pace stolidly up and down the flagged walk. marie, at the moment, is no doubt with the children of the rich count, in a shady spot near the music. how cruel is the fate of many a gallant "piou-piou"! farther down the gravel-walk strolls a young frenchman and his fiancée--the mother of his betrothed inevitably at her side! it is under this system of rigid chaperonage that the young girl of france is given in marriage. it is not to be wondered at that many of them marry to be free, and that many of the happier marriages have begun with an elopement! [illustration: the palace of the luxembourg] the music is over, and the band is filing out, followed by the crowd. a few linger about the walks around the band-stand to chat. the old lady who rents the chairs is stacking them up about the tree-trunks, and long shadows across the walks tell of the approaching twilight. overhead, among the leaves, the pigeons coo. for a few moments the sun bathes the great garden in a pinkish glow, then drops slowly, a blood-red disk, behind the trees. the air grows chilly; it is again the hour to dine--the hour when paris wakes. in the smaller restaurants of the quarter one often sees some strange contrasts among these true bohemians, for the latin quarter draws its habitués from every part of the globe. they are not all french--these happy-go-lucky fellows, who live for the day and let the morrow slide. you will see many japanese--some of them painters--many of them taking courses in political economy, or in law; many of them titled men of high rank in their own country, studying in the schools, and learning, too, with that thoroughness and rapidity which are ever characteristic of their race. you will find, too, brazilians; gentlemen from haiti of darker hue; russians, poles, and spaniards--men and women from every clime and every station in life. they adapt themselves to the quarter and become a part of this big family of bohemia easily and naturally. in this daily atmosphere only the girl-student from our own shores seems out of place. she will hunt for some small restaurant, sacred in its exclusiveness and known only to a dozen bon camarades of the quarter. perhaps this girl-student, it may be, from the west and her cousin from the east will discover some such cosy little boîte on their way back from their atelier. to two other equally adventurous female minds they will impart this newest find; after that you will see the four dining there nightly together, as safe, i assure you, within these walls of bohemia as they would be at home rocking on their aunt mary's porch. there is, of course, considerable awkwardness between these bon camarades, to whom the place really belongs, and these very innocent new-comers, who seek a table by themselves in a corner under the few trees in front of the small restaurant. and yet every one is exceedingly polite to them. madame the patronne hustles about to see that the dinner is warm and nicely served; and henriette, who is waiting on them, none the less attentive, although she is late for her own dinner, which she will sit down to presently with madame the patronne, the good cook, and the other girls who serve the small tables. [illustration: what is going on at the theaters] this later feast will be augmented perhaps by half the good boys and girls who have been dining at the long table. perhaps they will all come in and help shell the peas for to-morrow's dinner. and yet this is a public place, where the painters come, and where one pays only for what one orders. it is all very interesting to the four american girls, who are dining at the small table. "it is so thoroughly bohemian!" they exclaim. but what must mimi think of these silent and exclusive strangers, and what, too, must the tall girl in the bicycle bloomers think, and the little girl who has been ill and who at the moment is dining with renould, the artist, and whom every one--even to the cook, is so glad to welcome back after her long illness? there is an unsurmountable barrier between the americans at the little table in the corner and that jolly crowd of good and kindly people at the long one, for mimi and henriette and the little girl who has been so ill, and the french painters and sculptors with them, cannot understand either the language of these strangers or their views of life. "florence!" exclaims one of the strangers in a whisper, "do look at that queer little 'type' at the long table--the tall girl in black actually kissed him!" "you don't mean it!" "yes, i do--just now. why, my dear, i saw it plainly!" poor culprits! there is no law against kissing in the open air in paris, and besides, the tall girl in black has known the little "type" for a parisienne age--thirty days or less. the four innocents, who have coughed through their soup and whispered through the rest of the dinner, have now finished and are leaving, but if those at the long table notice their departure, they do not show it. in the quarter it is considered the height of rudeness to stare. you will find these suzannes and marcelles exceedingly well-bred in the little refinements of life, and you will note a certain innate dignity and kindliness in their bearing toward others, which often makes one wish to uncover his head in their presence. chapter ix "the ragged edge of the quarter" there are many streets of the quarter as quiet as those of a country village. some of them, like the rue vaugirard, lead out past gloomy slaughter-houses and stables, through desolate sections of vacant lots, littered with the ruins of factory and foundry whose tall, smoke-begrimed chimneys in the dark stand like giant sentries, as if pointing a warning finger to the approaching pedestrian, for these ragged edges of the quarter often afford at night a lurking-ground for footpads. in just such desolation there lived a dozen students, in a small nest of studios that i need not say were rented to them at a price within their ever-scanty means. it was marveled at among the boys in the quarter that any of these exiles lived to see the light of another day, after wandering back at all hours of the night to their stronghold. possibly their sole possessions consisted of the clothes they had on, a few bad pictures, and their several immortal geniuses. that the gentlemen with the sand-bags knew of this i am convinced, for the students were never molested. verily, providence lends a strong and ready arm to the drunken man and the fool! the farther out one goes on the rue vaugirard, the more desolate and forbidding becomes this long highway, until it terminates at the fortifications, near which is a huge, open field, kept clear of such permanent buildings as might shelter an enemy in time of war. scattered over this space are the hovels of squatters and gipsies--fortune-telling, horse-trading vagabonds, whose living-vans at certain times of the year form part of the smaller fairs within the quarter. [illustration: (factory chimneys along empty street)] and very small and unattractive little fairs they are, consisting of half a dozen or more wagons, serving as a yearly abode for these shiftless people; illumined at night by the glare of smoking oil torches. there is, moreover, a dingy tent with a half-drawn red curtain that hides the fortune-telling beauty; and a traveling shooting-gallery, so short that the muzzle of one's rifle nearly rests upon the painted lady with the sheet-iron breastbone, centered by a pinhead of a bull's-eye which never rings. there is often a small carousel, too, which is not only patronized by the children, but often by a crowd of students--boys and girls, who literally turn the merry-go-round into a circus, and who for the time are cheered to feats of bareback riding by the enthusiastic bystanders. these little quarter fêtes are far different from the great fête de neuilly across the seine, which begins at the porte maillot, and continues in a long, glittering avenue of side-shows, with mammoth carousels, bizarre in looking-glass panels and golden figures. within the circle of all this throne-like gorgeousness, a horse-power organ shakes the very ground with its clarion blasts, while pink and white wooden pigs, their tails tied up in bows of colored ribbons, heave and swoop round and round, their backs loaded with screaming girls and shouting men. it was near this very same port maillot, in a colossal theater, built originally for the representation of one of the kiralfy ballets, that a fellow student and myself went over from the quarter one night to "supe" in a spectacular and melodramatic pantomime, entitled "afrique à paris." we were invited by the sole proprietor and manager of the show--an old circus-man, and one of the shrewdest, most companionable, and intelligent of men, who had traveled the world over. he spoke no language but his own unadulterated american. this, with his dominant personality, served him wherever fortune carried him! so, accepting his invitation to play alternately the dying soldier and the pursuing cannibal under the scorching rays of a tropical limelight, and with an old pair of trousers and a flannel shirt wrapped in a newspaper, we presented ourselves at the appointed hour, at the edge of the hostile country. [illustration: (street scene)] here we found ourselves surrounded by a horde of savages who needed no greasepaint to stain their ebony bodies, and many of whose grinning countenances i had often recognized along our own tenderloin. besides, there were cowboys and "greasers" and diving elks, and a company of french zouaves; the latter, in fact, seemed to be the only thing foreign about the show. our friend, the manager, informed us that he had thrown the entire spectacle together in about ten days, and that he had gathered with ease, in two, a hundred of those dusky warriors, who had left their coat-room and barber-shop jobs in new york to find themselves stranded in paris. he was a hustler, this circus-man, and preceding the spectacle of the african war, he had entertained the audience with a short variety-show, to brace the spectacle. he insisted on bringing us around in front and giving us a box, so we could see for ourselves how good it really was. during this forepart, and after some clever high trapeze work, the sensation of the evening was announced--a signore, with an unpronounceable name, would train a den of ten forest-bred lions! when the orchestra had finished playing "the awakening of the lion," the curtain rose, disclosing the nerveless signore in purple tights and high-topped boots. a long, portable cage had been put together on the stage during the intermission, and within it the ten pacing beasts. there is something terrifying about the roar of a lion as it begins with its high-keyed moan, and descends in scale to a hoarse roar that seems to penetrate one's whole nervous system. but the signore did not seem to mind it; he placed one foot on the sill of the safety-door, tucked his short riding-whip under his arm, pulled the latch with one hand, forced one knee in the slightly opened door, and sprang into the cage. click! went the iron door as it found its lock. bang! went the signore's revolver, as he drove the snarling, roaring lot into the corner of the cage. the smoke from his revolver drifted out through the bars; the house was silent. the trainer walked slowly up to the fiercest lion, who reared against the bars as he approached him, striking at the trainer with his heavy paws, while the others slunk into the opposite corner. the man's head was but half a foot now from the lion's; he menaced the beast with the little riding-whip; he almost, but did not quite strike him on the tip of his black nose that worked convulsively in rage. then the lion dropped awkwardly, with a short growl, to his forelegs, and slunk, with the rest, into the corner. the signore turned and bowed. it was the little riding-whip they feared, for they had never gauged its sting. not the heavy iron bar within reach of his hand, whose force they knew. the vast audience breathed easier. "an ugly lot," i said, turning to our friend the manager, who had taken his seat beside me. "yes," he mused, peering at the stage with his keen gray eyes; "green stock, but a swell act, eh? wait for the grand finale. i've got a girl here who comes on and does art poses among the lions; she's a dream--french, too!" a girl of perhaps twenty, enveloped in a bath gown, now appeared at the wings. the next instant the huge theater became dark, and she stood in full fleshings, in the center of the cage, brilliant in the rays of a powerful limelight, while the lions circled about her at the command of the trainer. "ain't she a peach?" said the manager, enthusiastically. "yes," said i, "she is. has she been in the cages long?" i asked. [illustration: (portrait of woman)] "no, she never worked with the cats before," he said; "she's new to the show business; she said her folks live in nantes. she worked here in a chocolate factory until she saw my 'ad' last week and joined my show. we gave her a rehearsal monday and we put her on the bill next night. she's a good looker with plenty of grit, and is a winner with the bunch in front." "how did you get her to take the job?" i said. "well," he replied, "she balked at the act at first, but i showed her two violet notes from a couple of swell fairies who wanted the job, and after that she signed for six weeks." "who wrote the notes?" i said, queryingly. "i wrote 'em!" he exclaimed dryly, and he bit the corner of his stubby mustache and smiled. "this is the last act in the olio, so you will have to excuse me. so long!" and he disappeared in the gloom. * * * * * there are streets and boulevards in the quarter, sections of which are alive with the passing throng and the traffic of carts and omnibuses. then one will come to a long stretch of massive buildings, public institutions, silent as convents--their interminable walls flanking garden or court. the boulevard st. germain is just such a highway until it crosses the boulevard st. michel--the liveliest roadway of the quarter. then it seems to become suddenly inoculated with its bustle and life, and from there on is crowded with bourgeoise and animated with the commerce of market and shop. an englishman once was so fired with a desire to see the gay life of the latin quarter that he rented a suite of rooms on this same boulevard st. germain at about the middle of this long, quiet stretch. here he stayed a fortnight, expecting daily to see from his "chambers" the gaiety of a bohemia of which he had so often heard. at the end of his disappointing sojourn, he returned to london, firmly convinced that the gay life of the latin quarter was a myth. it was to him. [illustration: (crowded street market)] but the man from denver, the "steel king," and the two thinner gentlemen with the louis-lined waistcoats who accompanied him and whom fortune had awakened in the far west one morning and had led them to "the great red star copper mine"--a find which had ever since been a source of endless amusement to them--discovered the quarter before they had been in paris a day, and found it, too, "the best ever," as they expressed it. they did not remain long in paris, this rare crowd of seasoned genials, for it was their first trip abroad and they had to see switzerland and vienna, and the rhine; but while they stayed they had a good time every minute. the man from denver and the steel king sat at one of the small tables, leaning over the railing at the "bal bullier," gazing at the sea of dancers. "billy," said the man from denver to the steel king, "if they had this in chicago they'd tear out the posts inside of fifteen minutes"--he wiped the perspiration from his broad forehead and pushed his twenty-dollar panama on the back of his head. "ain't it a sight!" he mused, clinching the butt of his perfecto between his teeth. "say!--say! it beats all i ever see," and he chuckled to himself, his round, genial face, with its double chin, wreathed in smiles. "say, george!" he called to one of the 'copper twins,' "did you get on to that little one in black that just went by--well! well!! well!!! in a minute!!" already the pile of saucers on their table reached a foot high--a record of refreshments for every yvonne and marcelle that had stopped in passing. two girls approach. "certainly, sit right down," cried the steel king. "here, jack,"--this to the aged garçon, "smoke up! and ask the ladies what they'll have"--all of which was unintelligible to the two little parisiennes and the garçon, but quite clear in meaning to all three. "dis donc, garçon!" interrupted the taller of the two girls, "un café glacé pour moi." "et moi," answered her companion gayly, "je prends une limonade!" "here! hold on!" thundered good-humoredly the man from denver; "git 'em a good drink. rye, garsong! yes, that's it--whiskey--i see you're on, and two. deux!" he explains, holding up two fat fingers, "all straight, friend--two whiskeys with seltzer on the side--see? now go roll your hoop and git back with 'em." "oh, non, monsieur!" cried the two parisiennes in one breath; "whiskey! jamais! ça pique et c'est trop fort." at this juncture the flower woman arrived with a basketful of red roses. "voulez-vous des fleurs, messieurs et mesdames?" she asked politely. "certainly," cried the steel king; "here, maud and mamie, take the lot," and he handed the two girls the entire contents of the basket. the taller buried her face for a moment in the red jaqueminots and drank in their fragrance. when she looked up, two big tears trickled down to the corners of her pretty mouth. in a moment more she was smiling! the smaller girl gave a little cry of delight and shook her roses above her head as three other girls passed. ten minutes later the two possessed but a single rose apiece--they had generously given all the rest away. [illustration: (portrait of woman)] the "copper twins" had been oblivious of all this. they had been hanging over the low balustrade, engaged in a heart-to-heart talk with two pretty quartier brunettes. it seemed to be really a case of love at first sight, carried on somewhat under difficulties, for the "copper twins" could not speak a word of french, and the english of the two chic brunettes was limited to "oh, yes!" "vary well!" "good morning," "good evening," and "i love you." the four held hands over the low railing, until the "copper twins" fairly steamed in talk; warmed by the sun of gaiety and wet by several rounds of highland dew, they grew sad and earnest, and got up and stepped all over the steel king and the man from denver, and the two parisiennes' daintily slippered feet, in squeezing out past the group of round tables back of the balustrade, and down on to the polished floor--where they are speedily lost to view in the maze of dancers, gliding into the whirl with the two brunettes. when the waltz is over they stroll out with them into the garden, and order wine, and talk of changing their steamer date. the good american, with his spotless collar and his well-cut clothes, with his frankness and whole-souled generosity, is a study to the modern grisette. he seems strangely attractive to her, in contrast with a certain type of frenchman, that is selfish, unfaithful, and mean--that jealousy makes uncompanionable and sometimes cruel. she will tell you that these pale, black-eyed, and black-bearded boulevardiers are all alike--lazy and selfish; so unlike many of the sterling, good fellows of the quarter--frenchmen of a different stamp, and there are many of these--rare, good bohemians, with hearts and natures as big as all out-doors--"bons garçons," which is only another way of saying "gentlemen." as you tramp along back to your quarters some rainy night you find many of the streets leading from the boulevards silent and badly lighted, except for some flickering lantern on the corner of a long block which sends the shadows scurrying across your path. you pass a student perhaps and a girl, hurrying home--a fiacre for a short distance is a luxury in the quarter. now you hear the click-clock of an approaching cab, the cocher half asleep on his box. the hood of the fiacre is up, sheltering the two inside from the rain. as the voiture rumbles by near a street-light, you catch a glimpse of a pink silk petticoat within and a pair of dainty, white kid shoes--and the glint of an officer's sword. farther on, you pass a silent gendarme muffled in his night cloak; a few doors farther on in a small café, a bourgeois couple, who have arrived on a late train no doubt to spend a month with relatives in paris, are having a warming tipple before proceeding farther in the drizzling rain. they have, of course, invited the cocher to drink with them. they have brought all their pets and nearly all their household goods--two dogs, three bird-cages, their tiny occupants protected from the damp air by several folds of newspaper; a cat in a stout paper box with air holes, and two trunks, well tied with rope. [illustration: (street market)] "ah, yes, it has been a long journey!" sighs the wife. her husband corroborates her, as they explain to the patronne of the café and to the cocher that they left their village at midday. anything over two hours on the chemin-de-fer is considered a journey by these good french people! as you continue on to your studio, you catch a glimpse of the lights of the boulevard montparnasse. next a cab with a green light rattles by; then a ponderous two-wheeled cart lumbers along, piled high with red carrots as neatly arranged as cigars in a box--the driver asleep on his seat near his swinging lantern--and the big normandy horses taking the way. it is late, for these carts are on their route to the early morning market--one of the great halles. the tired waiters are putting up the shutters of the smaller cafés and stacking up the chairs. now a cock crows lustily in some neighboring yard; the majority at least of the latin quarter has turned in for the night. a moment later you reach your gate, feel instinctively for your matches. in the darkness of the court a friendly cat rubs her head contentedly against your leg. it is the yellow one that sleeps in the furniture factory, and you pick her up and carry her to your studio, where, a moment later, she is crunching gratefully the remnant of the beau maquereau left from your déjeuner--for charity begins at home. chapter x exiled scores of men, celebrated in art and in literature, have, for a longer or shorter period of their lives, been bohemians of the latin quarter. and yet these years spent in cafés and in studios have not turned them out into the world a devil-me-care lot of dreamers. they have all marched and sung along the "boul' miche"; danced at the "bullier"; starved, struggled, and lived in the romance of its life. it has all been a part of their education, and a very important part too, in the development of their several geniuses, a development which in later life has placed them at the head of their professions. these years of camaraderie--of a life free from all conventionalities, in daily touch with everything about them, and untrammeled by public censure or the petty views of prudish or narrow minds, have left them free to cut a straight swath merrily toward the goal of their ideals, surrounded all the while by an atmosphere of art and good-fellowship that permeates the very air they breathe. if a man can work at all, he can work here, for between the working-hours he finds a life so charming, that once having lived it he returns to it again and again, as to an old love. how many are the romances of this student quarter! how many hearts have been broken or made glad! how many brave spirits have suffered and worked on and suffered again, and at last won fame! how many have failed! we who come with a fresh eye know nothing of all that has passed within these quaint streets--only those who have lived in and through it know its full story. [illustration: the musÉe cluny] pochard has seen it; so has the little old woman who once danced at the opera; so have old bibi la purée, and alphonse, the gray-haired garçon, and mère gaillard, the flower-woman. they have seen the gay boulevards and the cafés and generations of grisettes, from the true grisette of years gone by, in her dainty white cap and simple dress turned low at the throat, to the tailor-made grisette of to-day. yet the eyes of the little old woman still dance; they have not grown tired of this ever-changing kaleidoscope of human nature, this paradise of the free, where many would rather struggle on half starved than live a life of luxury elsewhere. and the students are equally quixotic. i knew one once who lived in an air-castle of his own building--a tall, serious fellow, a sculptor, who always went tramping about in a robe resembling a monk's cowl, with his bare feet incased in coarse sandals; only his art redeemed these eccentricities, for he produced in steel and ivory the most exquisite statuettes. one at the salon was the sensation of the day--a knight in full armor, scarcely half a foot in height, holding in his arms a nymph in flesh-tinted ivory, whose gentle face, upturned, gazed sweetly into the stern features behind the uplifted vizor; and all so exquisitely carved, so alive, so human, that one could almost feel the tender heart of this fair lady beating against the cold steel breastplate. another "bon garçon"--a painter whose enthusiasm for his art knew no bounds--craved to produce a masterpiece. this dreamer could be seen daily ferreting around the quarter for a studio always bigger than the one he had. at last he found one that exactly fitted the requirements of his vivid imagination--a studio with a ceiling thirty feet high, with windows like the scenic ones next to the stage entrances of the theaters. here at last he could give full play to his brush--no subject seemed too big for him to tackle; he would move in a canvas as big as a back flat to a third act, and commence on a "fall of babylon" or a "carnage of rome" with a nerve that was sublime! the choking dust of the arena--the insatiable fury of the tigers--the cowering of hundreds of unfortunate captives--and the cruel multitude above, seated in the vast circle of the hippodrome--all these did not daunt his zeal. once he persuaded a venerable old abbé to pose for his portrait. the old gentleman came patiently to his studio and posed for ten days, at the end of which time the abbé gazed at the result and said things which i dare not repeat--for our enthusiast had so far only painted his clothes; the face was still in its primary drawing. "the face i shall do in time," the enthusiast assured the reverend man excitedly; "it is the effect of the rich color of your robe i wished to get. and may i ask your holiness to be patient a day longer while i put in your boots?" "no, sir!" thundered the irate abbé. "does monsieur think i am not a very busy man?" then softening a little, he said, with a smile: "i won't come any more, my friend. i'll send my boots around to-morrow by my boy." but the longest red-letter day has its ending, and time and tide beckon one with the brutality of an impatient jailer. on my studio table is a well-stuffed envelope containing the documents relative to my impending exile--a stamped card of my identification, bearing the number of my cell, a plan of the slave-ship, and six red tags for my baggage. the three pretty daughters of old père valois know of my approaching departure, and say cheering things to me as i pass the concierge's window. père valois stands at the gate and stops me with: "is it true, monsieur, you are going saturday?" "yes," i answer; "unfortunately, it is quite true." the old man sighs and replies: "i once had to leave paris myself"; looking at me as if he were speaking to an old resident. "my regiment was ordered to the colonies. it was hard, monsieur, but i did my duty." the morning of my sailing has arrived. the patron of the tobacco-shop, and madame his good wife, and the wine merchant, and the baker along the little street with its cobblestone-bed, have all wished me "bon voyage," accompanied with many handshakings. it is getting late and père valois has gone to hunt for a cab--a "galerie," as it is called, with a place for trunks on top. twenty minutes go by, but no "galerie" is in sight. the three daughters of père valois run in different directions to find one, while i throw the remaining odds and ends in the studio into my valise. at last there is a sound of grating wheels below on the gravel court. the "galerie" has arrived--with the smallest of the three daughters inside, all out of breath from her run and terribly excited. there are the trunks and the valises and the bicycle in its crate to get down. two soldiers, who have been calling on two of the daughters, come up to the studio and kindly offer their assistance. there is no time to lose, and in single file the procession starts down the atelier stairs, headed by père valois, who has just returned from his fruitless search considerably winded, and the three girls, the two red-trousered soldiers and myself tugging away at the rest of the baggage. it is not often one departs with the assistance of three pretty femmes de ménage, a jolly old concierge, and a portion of the army of the french republic. with many suggestions from my good friends and an assuring wave of the hand from the aged cocher, my luggage is roped and chained to the top of the rickety, little old cab, which sways and squeaks with the sudden weight, while the poor, small horse, upon whom has been devolved the task of making the . train, gare st. lazare, changes his position wearily from one leg to the other. he is evidently thinking out the distance, and has decided upon his gait. "bon voyage!" cry the three girls and père valois and the two soldiers, as the last trunk is chained on. the dingy vehicle groans its way slowly out of the court. just as it reaches the last gate it stops. "what's the matter?" i ask, poking my head out of the window. "monsieur," says the aged cocher, "it is an impossibility! i regret very much to say that your bicycle will not pass through the gate." a dozen heads in the windows above offer suggestions. i climb out and take a look; there are at least four inches to spare on either side in passing through the iron posts. "ah!" cries my cocher enthusiastically, "monsieur is right, happily for us!" he cracks his whip, the little horse gathers itself together--a moment of careful driving and we are through and into the street and rumbling away, amid cheers from the windows above. as i glance over my traps, i see a small bunch of roses tucked in the corner of my roll of rugs with an engraved card attached. "from mademoiselle ernestine valois," it reads, and on the other side is written, in a small, fine hand, "bon voyage." i look back to bow my acknowledgment, but it is too late; we have turned the corner and the rue vaugirard is but a memory! * * * * * but why go on telling you of what the little shops contain--how narrow and picturesque are the small streets--how gay the boulevards--what they do at the "bullier"--or where they dine? it is love that moves paris--it is the motive power of this big, beautiful, polished city--the love of adventure, the love of intrigue, the love of being a bohemian if you will--but it is love all the same! "i work for love," hums the little couturière. "i work for love," cries the miller of marcel legay. "i live for love," sings the poet. "for the love of art i am a painter," sighs edmond, in his atelier--"and for her!" "for the love of it i mold and model and create," chants the sculptor--"and for her!" it is the woman who dominates paris--"les petites femmes!" who have inspired its art through the skill of these artisans. "monsieur! monsieur! please buy this fisherman doll!" cries a poor old woman outside of your train compartment, as you are leaving havre for paris. "monsieur!" screams a girl, running near the open window with a little fishergirl doll uplifted. "what, you don't want it? you have bought one? ah! i see," cries the pretty vendor; "but it is a boy doll--he will be sad if he goes to paris without a companion!" take all the little fishergirls away from paris--from the quartier latin--and you would find chaos and a morgue! l'amour! that is it--l'amour!--l'amour!--l'amour! [illustration: (burning candle)] transcriber's amendments: page : déjeûner amended to déjeuner. page : saints-péres amended to saints-pères. page : apératif amended to apéritif. page : boite amended to boîte. page & : celeste amended to céleste. page : gayety amended to gaiety. page : a a amended to a. page : glaçé amended to glacé. page : quatz amended to quat'z'. page : près amended to prés. page : sufficently amended to sufficiently. page : artz amended to arts. page : musee amended to musÉe. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. on page , "corrival" should possibly be "co-rival". on page , "que ne fut rien" should possibly be "qui ne fut rien" on page , the phrase "with a strange, most ponderous, yet delicate expression in the big, dull-glowing black eyes and it" possibly contains a typo. the stones of paris in history and letters [illustration: molière] the stones of paris in history and letters by benjamin ellis martin and charlotte m. martin in two volumes vol. i _illustrated_ new york charles scribner's sons mdcccxcix copyright, , by charles scribner's sons trow directory printing and bookbinding company new york to w. c. brownell in cordial tribute to his "french traits" contents page three time-worn staircases the scholars' quarter of the middle ages molière and his friends from voltaire to beaumarchais the paris of the revolution list of illustrations _from drawings by john fulleylove, esq. the portraits from photographs by messrs. braun, clément et cie._ molière (from the portrait by mignard in the musée condé, at chantilly) frontispiece page the so-called hôtel de la reine blanche (from a photograph of the commission du vieux paris) facing balcony of the hôtel de lauzun-pimodan, on Île saint-louis "jean-sans-peur," duc de bourgogne (from a painting by an unknown artist, at chantilly) facing the tower of "jean-sans-peur" the church of saint-séverin facing rue hautefeuille, a survivor of the scholars' quarter the interior of saint-julien-le-pauvre facing pierre de ronsard (from a drawing by an unknown artist, in a private collection) facing balcony over the entrance of the cour du dragon clément marot (from the portrait by porbus le jeune, in a private collection) facing rené descartes (from the portrait by franz hals, in the musée du louvre) facing the stage door of molière's second theatre in paris the stamp of the comédie française the molière fountain facing the door of corneille's last dwelling (from a drawing by robert delafontaine, by permission of m. victorien sardou) facing pierre corneille (from the portrait by charles lebrun) facing rue visconti. on the right is the hôtel de ranes, and in the distance is no. facing la fontaine (from the portrait by rigaud-y-ros) facing boileau-despréaux (from the portrait by largillière) facing voltaire (from the statue by houdon in the foyer of the comédie française) facing the hôtel lambert the seventeenth-century buildings on quai malaquais, with the institute and the statue of voltaire facing charlotte corday (from the copy by baudry of the only authentic portrait, painted in her prison) facing the refectory of the cordeliers facing the carré d'atalante in the tuileries gardens the girlhood home of madame roland facing no. quai conti monogram from the former entrance of the cour du commerce, believed to be the initials of the owner, one girardot (from a drawing by robert delafontaine, by permission of m. victorien sardou) introductory this book has been written for those who seek in paris something more than a city of shows or a huge bazaar, something better than the _cabaret_ wherein françois i. found entertainment, and yet not quite--still in hugo's phrase--the library that charles v. esteemed it. there are many lovers of this beautiful capital of a great people, who, knowing well her unconcealed attractions, would search out her records and traditions in stone, hidden and hard to find. this legitimate curiosity grows more eager with the increasing difficulties of gratifying it in that ancient paris that is vanishing day by day; and, in its bewilderment, it may be glad to find congenial guidance in these pages. in them, no attempt is made to destroy that which is new in order to reconstruct what was old. in telling the stories of those monuments of past ages that are visible and tangible, reference is made only to so much of their perished approaches and neighbors as shall suffice for full realization of the significance of all that we are to see. this significance is given mainly by the former dwellers within these walls. we shall concern ourselves with the human document, illustrated by its surroundings. the student of history can find no more suggestive relics of mediæval paris than the still existing towers and fragments of the wall of philippe-auguste, which shall be shown to him; for us, these stones must be made to speak, not so essentially of their mighty builder as of the common people, who moved about within that enclosure and gave it character. in like manner, the walls, which have sheltered soldiers, statesmen, preachers, teachers, workers in art and letters, illustrious men and women of all sorts and conditions, will take on the personality of these impressive presences. when we stand beneath the roof of that favorite personage in history, that spoiled child of romance, who happens to be dear to each one of us, we are brought into touch with him as with a living fellow-creature. the streets of paris are alive with these sympathetic companions, who become abiding friends, as we stroll with them; and allow none of the ache, confessed to be felt in such scenes, despite her reasoning, by madame de sévigné. nor do they invite, here, any critical review of their work in life, but consent to scrutiny of their lineaments alone, and to an appreciation of their personal impress on their contemporaries and on us. so that essays on themes, historic, literary, artistic, can find no place in this record. indeed, labor and time have been expended "in hindering it from being ... swollen out of shape by superfluous details, defaced with dilettanti antiquarianisms, nugatory tag-rags, and, in short, turned away from its real uses, instead of furthered toward them." in this sense, at least, the authors can say in montaigne's words, "_ceci est un livre de bonne foy_." in this presentation of people and places it has been difficult, sometimes impossible, to keep due sequence both of chronology and topography. just as mr. theodore andrea cook found in the various _châteaux_ of his admirable "old touraine," so each spot we shall visit in paris "has some particular event, some especial visitor, whose importance overshadows every other memory connected with the place." with that event or that visitor we must needs busy ourselves, without immediate regard to other dates or other personages. again, to keep in sight some conspicuous figure, as he goes, we must leave on one side certain memorable scenes, to which we shall come back. each plan has been pursued in turn, as has seemed desirable, for the sake of the clearness and accuracy, which have been considered above all else. the whole value of such records as are here presented depends on the preliminary researches. in the doing of this, thousands of books and pamphlets and articles have been read, hundreds of people have been questioned, scores of miles have been tramped. oldest archives and maps have been consulted, newest newspaper clippings have not been disregarded. nothing has been thought too heavy or too light that would help to give a characteristic line or a touch of native color. a third volume would be needed to enumerate the authorities called on and compared. nor has any statement of any one of these authorities been accepted without ample investigation; and every assertion has been subjected to all the proof that it was possible to procure. those countless errors have been run to earth which have been started so often by the carelessness of an early writer, and ever since kept alive by lazy copiers and random compilers. these processes of sifting are necessarily omitted for lack of space, and the wrought-out results alone are shown. if the authors dare not hope that they have avoided errors on their own part, they may hope for indulgent correction of such as may have crept in, for all their vigilance. it is easier, to-day, to put one's hand on the paris of the sixteenth century than on that of the eighteenth century. in those remoter days changes were slow to come, and those older stones have been left often untouched. a curious instance of that aforetime leisureliness is seen in the working of the _ordonnance_ issued on may , , by henri ii. for the clearing away of certain encroachments made on the streets by buildings and by business, notably on rue de la ferronerie; that street being one of those used "for our way from our royal _château_ of the louvre to our _château_ of the tournelles." it was fifty-six years later, to the very day, that the stabbing of henri iv. was made easy to ravaillac, by the stoppage of the king's carriage in the blockade of that narrow street, its obstructions not yet swept out, in absolute disregard of the edict. from the death of the royal mason, charles v., who gave a new face and a new figure to his paris, to the coming of henri iv., who had in him the makings of a kingly constructor, but who was hindered by the necessary destruction of his wars, there were two centuries of steady growth of the town outward, on all sides, with only slight alterations of its interior quarters. many of these were transformed, many new quarters were created, by louis xiii., thus realizing his father's frustrated plans. richelieu was able to widen some streets, and colbert tried to carry on the work, but louis xiv. had no liking for his capital, and no money to waste for its bettering. his stage-subject's civic pride was unduly swollen, when he said: "_À cette époque, la grande ville du roi henri n'était pas ce qu'elle est aujourd'hui._" at the beginning of the eighteenth century we find paris divided into twenty quarters, in none of which was there any numbering of the houses. the streets then got their names from their mansions of the nobility, from their vast monasteries and convents, from their special industries and shops. these latter names survive in our paris as they survive in modern london. the high-swinging street lanterns, that came into use in , served for directions to the neighboring houses, as did the private lanterns hung outside the better dwellings. toward the middle of that century the city almanacs began a casual numbering of the houses in their lists, and soon this was found to be such a convenience that the householders painted numbers on or beside their doors. not before was there any organized or official numbering, and this was speedily brought to naught during the revolution, either because it was too simple or because it was already established. to this day, the first symptom of a local or national upheaval, and the latest sign of its ending, are the ladder and paint-pot in the streets of paris. names that recall to the popular eye recently discredited celebrities or humiliating events, are brushed out, and the newest favorites of the populace are painted in. the forty-eight sections into which the revolution divided the city changed many street names, of section, and renumbered all the houses. each lunatic section, quite sure of its sanity, made this new numbering of its own dwellings with a cheerful and aggressive disregard of the adjoining sections; beginning arbitrarily at a point within its boundary, going straight along through its streets, and ending at the farthest house on the edge of its limits. so, a house might be no. of its section, and its next-door neighbor might be no. of the section alongside. in a street that ran through several sections there would be more than one house of the same number, each belonging to a different section. "encore un tableau de paris" was published in by one henrion, who complains that he passed three numbers in rue saint-denis before he came to the that he wanted. the decree of february , , gave back to the streets many of their former names, and ordered the numbering, admirably uniform and intelligible, still in use--even numbers on one side of the street, odd numbers on the other side, both beginning at the eastern end of the streets that run parallel with the seine, and at the river end of the streets going north and south. for the topographer all these changes have brought incoherence to the records, have paralyzed research, and crippled accuracy. in addition, during the latter half of the nineteenth century, many old streets have been curtailed or lengthened, carried along into new streets, or entirely suppressed and built over. indeed, it is substantially the nineteenth century that has given us the paris that we best know; begun by the great emperor, it was continued by the crown on top of the cotton night-cap of louis-philippe, and admirably elaborated, albeit to the tune of the cynical fiddling of the second empire. the republic of our day still wields the pick-axe, and demolition and reconstruction have been going on ruthlessly. such of these changes as are useful and guiltless are now intelligently watched; such of them as are needlessly destructive may be stopped in part by the admirable _commission du vieux paris_. the members of this significant body, which was organized in december, , are picked men from the municipal council, from the official committees of parisian inscriptions, and of historic works, from private associations and private citizens, all earnest and enthusiastic for the preservation of their city's monuments that are memorable for architectural worth or historic suggestion. where they are unable to save to the sight what is ancient and picturesque, they save to the memory by records, drawings, and photographs. the "procès verbal" of this commission, issued monthly, contains its illustrated reports, discussions, and correspondence, and promises to become an historic document of inestimable value. the words _rue_ and _place_, as well as their attendant names, have been retained in the french, as the only escape from the confusion of a double translation, first here, and then back to the original by the sight-seer. the definite article, that usually precedes these words, has been suppressed, in all cases, because it seems an awkward and needless reiteration. nor are french men and french women disguised under translated titles. if macaulay had been consistent in his misguided briticism that turned louis into lewis, and had carried out that scheme to its logical end in every case, he would have given us a ludicrous nomenclature. "bottin" is used in these pages as it is used in paris, to designate the city directory: which was issued, first, in a tiny volume, in , by the publisher bottin, and has kept his name with its enormous growth through the century. the word _hôtel_ has here solely its original significance of a town house of the noble or the wealthy. in the sense of our modern usage of the word it had no place in old paris. already in the seventeenth century there were _auberges_ for common wayfarers, and here and there an _hôtellerie_ for the traveller of better class. during the absences of the owners of grand city mansions, their _maîtres-d'hôtel_ were allowed to let them to accredited visitors to the capital, who brought their own retinue and demanded only shelter. when they came with no train, so that service had to be supplied, it was "charged in the bill," and that objectionable item, thus instituted, has been handed down to shock us in the _hôtel-garni_ of our time. with the emigration of the nobility, their stewards and _chefs_ lost place and pay, and found both once more in the public hotels they then started. no _hôtels-garnis_ can be found in paris of earlier date than the revolution. in their explorations into the libraries, bureaus, museums, and streets of paris, the authors have met with countless kindnesses. the unlettered _concierge_ who guards an historic house is proud of its traditions, or, if ignorant of them, as may chance, will listen to the tale with a courtesy that simulates sympathy. the exceptions to this general amenity have been few and ludicrous, and mostly the outcome of exasperation caused by the ceaseless questioning of foreigners. the _concierge_ of châteaubriand's last home, in rue du bac, considers a flourish of the wet broom, with which he is washing his court, a fitting rejoinder to the inquiring visitor. that visitor will find balzac's passy residence as impossible of entrance now as it was to his creditors. the unique inner court of the hôtel de beauvais must be seen from the outer vestibule, admission being refused by a surly _concierge_ under orders from an ungenerous owner. the urbanity of the noble tenant of the mansion built over the grave of adrienne lecouvreur is unequal to the task of answering civil inquiries sent in stamped envelopes. all these are but shadows in the pervading sunshine of parisian good-breeding. in making this acknowledgment to the many who must necessarily remain unnamed, the authors wish to record their recognition of the sympathetic counsel of mlle. blanche taylor, of paris, and of george h. birch, esq., curator of the soane museum, london. cordial thanks are especially given to the officials of the hôtel de ville, in the bureau of the conservation du plan de paris, to m. charles sellier of the musée carnavalet, to m. monval, librarian of the comédie française, to m. g. lenôtre, and to m. victorien sardou, for unmeasured aid of all sorts, prompted by a disinterestedness that welcomes the importunate fellow-worker, and makes him forget that he is a stranger and a foreigner. three time-worn staircases three time-worn staircases we are to see a paris unknown to the every-day dweller there, who is content to tread, in wearied idleness, his swarming yet empty boulevards; a paris unseen by the hurried visitor, anxious to go his round of dutiful sight-seeing. this paris is far away from the crowd, bustling in pursuit of pleasure, and hustling in pursuit of leisure; out of sound of the teasing clatter of cab-wheels, and the tormenting toot of tram-horns, and the petulant snapping of whips; out of sight of to-day's pretentious structures and pompous monuments. to find this paris we must explore remote quarters, lose ourselves in untrodden streets, coast along the alluring curves of the quays, cruise for sequestered islands behind the multitudinous streams of traffic. we shall not push ahead just to get somewhere, nor restlessly "rush in to peer and praise." we shall learn to _flâner_, not without object, but with art and conscience; to saunter, in the sense of that word, humorously derived by thoreau from _sainte-terre_, and so transform ourselves into pilgrims to the spots sacred in history and legend, in art and literature. in a word, if you go with us, you are to become sentimental prowlers. in this guise, we shall not know the taste of parisine, a delectable poison, more subtle than nicotine or strychnine, in the belief of nestor roqueplan, that modern voltaire of the boulevards. and we shall not share "the unwholesome passion" for his paris, to which françois coppée owns himself a victim. nor, on the other hand, shall we find "an insipid pleasure" in this adventure, as did voltaire. yet even he confesses, elsewhere, that one would "rather have details about racine and despréaux, bossuet and descartes, than about the battle of steinkerk. there is nothing left but the names of the men who led battalions and squadrons. there is no return to the human race for one hundred engagements, but the great men i have spoken of prepared pure and lasting pleasures for mortals still unborn." it is in this spirit that we start, sure of seeking an unworn sentiment, and of finding an undraggled delight, in the scenes which have inspired, and have been inspired by, famous men and women. their days, their ways, they themselves as they moved and worked, are made alive for us once more by their surroundings. where these have been disturbed by improvements, "more fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea," we get curious suggestions from some forgotten name cut in the stone of a street corner, from a chance-saved sign, a neglected _tourelle_, or a bit of battered carving. and where the modern despoiler has wreaked himself at his worst--as with the paris of marot, rabelais, palissy--we may rub the magic ring of the archæologist, which brings instant reconstruction. so that we shall seem to be walking in a vast gallery, where, in the words of cicero, at each step we tread on a memory. "for, indeed," as it is well put by john ruskin, "the greatest glory of a building is not in its stones, or in its gold. its glory is in its _age_, and in that deep sense of voicefulness, of stern watching, of mysterious sympathy, nay, even of approval or condemnation, which we feel in walls that have long been washed by the passing waves of humanity." these stone and brick vestiges of the people of old paris are to be sought in its byways, narrow and winding; or hidden behind those broad boulevards, that have newly opened up its distant quarters, on the north or on the south. sometimes these monuments have been brought into full view across the grassed or gravelled spaces of recent creation, so showing their complete and unmarred glory for the first time in all the ages. thus we may now look on notre-dame and the sainte-chapelle, in dreamy surrender to their bedimmed beauty, that persuades us that paris can hold nothing in reserve more reverend in comely old age. yet, almost within touch of these two, stands a gray tower, another sturdy survivor of the centuries. between the northern side of notre-dame and the river-bank, a happy chance has spared some few of the streets, though fewer of the structures, of this earliest paris of Île de la cité. this region recalls to us, by its street-names in part, and partly by its buildings, its former connection with the cathedral. in rue des chantres it lodged its choristers, and rue du cloître-notre-dame records the site of the clerical settlement, beloved by boileau, wherein dwelt its higher officials. rue chanoinesse has its significance, too, and we will stop before the wide frontage of differing ages, whose two entrances, nos. and , open into the large courts of two mansions, now thrown into one. this interior court was a garden until of late years, and while grass and flowers are gone forever, it keeps its ancient well in the centre and its stone steps that mounted to the _salons_. those _salons_, and the large court, and the smaller courts beyond--all these courts now roofed over with glass--are piled high with every known shape of household furniture and utensil in metal; notably with the iron garden-chairs and tables, dear to the french. for this vast enclosure is the storage _dépôt_ of a famous house-furnishing firm, and is one more instance of the many in paris of a grand old mansion and its dependencies given over to trade. by the courtesy of those in charge, we may pass within the spacious stone entrance arch of no. , and pick our way through the ordered confusion, past the admirable inner façade of the main fabric, with its stately steps and portal and its windows above, topped by tiny hoods, to a distant corner; where, in the gloom, we make out the base of a square tower and the foot of a corkscrew staircase. we mount it, spirally and slowly. the well-worn stone steps are narrow, and the turn of the spiral is sharp, for this tower was built when homes were fortresses, when space was precious, and when hundreds huddled within walls that will hardly hold one thriving establishment of our day. in this steep ascent, we get scant assistance from our hold on the rude hand-rail, roughly grooved in the great central column--one solid tree-trunk, embedded in the ground, stretching to the top of the stairs. experts assure us that this tree was fully five hundred years old, when it was cut down to be made the shaft of this stairway, nearly five hundred years ago. for this stone tower is evidently of late fifteenth-century construction. the mediæval towers were round, whether built upon their own foundations or rebuilt from roman towers; and they gave way to square towers when battering-rams gave way to guns, in the fifteenth century. yet this pile of masonry is known as "_la tour de dagobert_," and with no wish to discredit this legend, cherished by the dwellers in this quarter, we may quote brantôme concerning certain local traditions of the tour de nesle: "_je ne puis dire si çela soit vrai, mais le vulgaire de paris l'affirme._" we can say, with certainty, that this tower was never seen by dagobert, for, long before this tree had sprouted from the ground, he lived in the old palace, the home of the early kings, at the other end of the island. there he flourished, for the ten years between and , in coarse splendor and coarser conviviality, his palace packed with barbaric gold and silver, with crude wall paintings and curious hangings. for this monarch made much of the arts of his day, whenever he found leisure from his fighting and his drinking. because of his love of luxury, a century of cyclopædias has "curved a contumelious lip" at his "corrupt court." on the other hand, he has been styled "saint dagobert" by writers unduly moved to emotion by his gifts to the churches at saint-denis, rheims, tours; and by his friendship for certain bishops. but rome, mindful of sundry other churches plundered and destroyed by him, has not assented to this saintship. we may accept his apt popular epithet, "_le bon_," which meant, in those bellicose days, only merry or jovial; an easy virtue not to be denied by priggish biographers to this genial ruffian. by turns, he devoted himself to the flowing bowl in his palace there, and to building religious edifices all over the face of france. and he has accentuated the supremacy of the church over all the warriors and the rulers of his day, in the soaring majesty of the two towers that dominate the buried outlines of his favorite church of saint-martin at tours, solid and lasting in their isolation. there the man is brought almost into touch with us, while here only his name is recalled by this tower, which he never saw. the shadow-land of ancient french history, into which we have made this little journey, is not darker than this narrow staircase, as we creep dizzily upward, losing count of steps, stopping to take breath at the infrequent windows, round-topped at first, then square and small. it is with surprise that we realize, stepping out on the tower-roof, that our standing-place is only five floors from the ground; and yet from this modest height, overtopped by the ordinary apartment house of paris, we find an outlook that is unequalled even by that from notre-dame's towers. for, as we come out from the sheltering hood of our stair-way top, the great cathedral itself lies before us, like some beautiful living creature outstretched at rest. words are impertinent in face of the tranquil strength of its bulk and the exquisite delicacy of its lines, and we find refuge in the affectionate phrase of mr. henry james, "the dear old thing!" beyond the cathedral square, over the bronze charlemagne on his bronze horse, glints the untravelled narrower arm of the seine; we turn our heads and look at its broader surface, all astir with little fidgetty _bateaux-mouches_ and big, sedate barges. at both banks are anchored huge wash-houses and bathing establishments. from this island-centre all paris spreads away to its low encircling slopes, to the brim of the shallow bowl in which it lies. in sharp contrast with all that newness, our old tower stands hemmed about by a medley of roofs of all shapes and all ages; their red tiles of past style, here and there, agreeably mellowing the dull dominant blue of the paris slate. on these roofs below jut out dormers, armed with odd wheels and chains for lifting odd burdens; here on one side is an outer staircase that starts in vague shadow, and ends nowhere, it would seem; far down glimmers the opaque gray of the glass-covered courts at our feet. a little toward the north--where was an entrance to this court, in old days, from a gateway on the river-bank--is the roof that sheltered racine, along with the legal gentry of the hôtel des ursins. and all about us, below, lies the little that is left of _la cité_, the swept and set-in-order leavings of that ancient network of narrow streets, winding passages, blind alleys, all walled about by tall, scowling houses, leaning unwillingly against one another to save themselves from falling. this was the whole of gallic lutetia, the centre of roman lutetia, the heart of mediæval paris, the "alsatia" of modern paris; surviving almost to our time, when the second empire let light and air into its pestilent corners. every foot of this ground has its history. down there, villon, sneaking from the university precincts, stole and starved and sang; there quasimodo, climbing down from his tower, foraged for his scant supplies; there sue's impossibly dark villany and equally impossible virtue found fitting stage-setting; there, françois, honest and engaging thief, slipped narrowly through the snares that encompassed even vagabonds, in the suspicious days and nights of the terror. the nineteenth century, cutting its clean way through this sinister quarter, cutting away with impartial spade the round dozen churches and the hundreds of houses that made their parishes, all clustered close about the cathedral and the palace, has happily left untouched this gray tower, built when or for what no one knows. it is a part of all that it has seen, in its sightless way, through the changing centuries of steady growth and of transient mutilation of its town. it has seen its own island and the lesser islands up-stream gradually alter their shapes; this island of the city lengthening itself, by reaching out for the two low-shored grassy eyots down-stream, where now is place dauphine and where sits henri iv. on his horse. the narrow channel between, that gave access to the water-gate of the old palace, has been filled in, so making one island of the three, and rue de harlay-au-palais covers the joining line. so the two islands on the east--Île notre-dame and Île aux vaches--have united their shores to make Île saint-louis. the third island, most easterly of all--Île des javiaux of earliest times, known later as Île louvier--has been glued to the northern bank of the mainland, by the earthing-in of the thin arm of the river, along the line of present boulevard morland, and quai henri iv. and the two great islands as we know them--the permanent outcome of all these topographical transformations--have been chained to each other and to both banks, by numerous beautiful bridges. our tower raised its head in time to see the gradual wearing away of the mighty roman aqueduct, that brought water to the palais des thermes of the roman rulers--whose immense _frigidarium_ is safe and sound within the enclosure of the cluny museum--from the bièvre, away off on the southern outskirts. this aqueduct started at the point where later was built the village of arceuil--named from the mediæval, or late, latin _arculi_--where was quarried the best stone that builded old paris; and curved with the valley of the bièvre like a huge railway viaduct, leaving that stream when it bent in its course to the seine near the salpêtrière, and entering the town along the easterly line of rue saint-jacques, and so straight away to the baths. this tower well remembers the new aqueduct, constructed massively on the ruins of the roman, between and , from rungis, still farther south, to the luxembourg palace. imperial and royal baths must have pure water, while wells and rivers must perforce content the townspeople. they had their aqueduct at last, however, laid, still along the top of these others, during the second empire. it is worth the little trip by rail to arceuil to see the huge arches that climb along the valley carrying these piled-up conduits. our old tower has seen the baby town creep, from its cradle on the shore, up that southern slope to where on its summit it found the tomb of its patron, sainte geneviève--one tower of her abbey still shows gray above the garden-walls of lycée henri iv.--and thence, its strength so grown as to burst its girdle of restraining wall, it strode far afield. roman and christian settlements, with all their greenery--palace, abbey, and school, each set within its spacious gardens--gradually gave place to these serried shining roofs we see, here and there pierced by church spires and punctuated by domes. and on the northern bank, our tower has seen the rising tide of the centuries swallow up the broad marshes along the shore and the wide woodlands behind; bearing down roman villa and temple, christian nunnery and monastery, washing away each successive breakwater of wall, until it surged over the crest of the encircling hills, now crowned by the imposing basilica of the sacred heart on montmartre. it may have been here in time to look down on the stately procession escorting the little ten-year-old henry iv., the new king of england, from the palace to the cathedral; wherein was celebrated the service by which one english cardinal and two french bishops tried to consecrate him king of france. it saw, when the ceremony was ended, the turbulent mob of common french folk crowding about the boy-king and his english escort as they returned, and ignominiously hustling them into the palace. not many years later, on april , , it possibly saw the french soldiery march into place de grève, over the bridge and through the streets behind, from their captured gate of saint-jacques; and not many days thereafter, the english soldiery hurrying along behind the northern wall from the bastille to the louvre, and there taking boat for their sail to rouen; the while the parisian populace, mad with joy on that wall, welcomed the incoming friend and cursed the outgoing foe. our tower has watched, from its own excellent point of view, the three successive fires in and about the palace, in , , and . between them, these fires carried away the constructions of louis xii., the vast salle des pas-perdus, the ancient donjon, the spires and turrets and steep roofs that swarmed about the sainte-chapelle, whose slender height seems to spring more airily from earth to sky by that clearance. only that chapel, the salle-des-gardes, the corner tower on the quay, the kitchens of saint-louis behind it, and the round-capped towers of the conciergerie, are left of the original palace. the present outer casing of this tour de l'horloge is a restoration of that existing in , but the thirteenth-century fabric remains, and the foundations are far earlier, in the view of the late viollet-le-duc. its clock dates from , having been twice restored, and its bell has sounded, as far as our tower, the passing of many historic hours. it rang menacingly an hour later than that of saint-germain-l'auxerrois, which had been advanced by the queen-mother's eagerness, on saint bartholomew's night. it was _en carillon_ all of friday, june , , for the peace procured by henri iv. between spain and savoy; and the birth of his son was saluted by its joyous chimes, at two o'clock of the afternoon of friday, september , . nearly two years later--on friday, june , --our tower stared in consternation, out over the end of the island, at the gallant henry treading jauntily and safely across the uncompleted arches of the pont-neuf, from shore to shore. the new bridge was a wonder, and in attempts to climb along its skeleton, many over-curious citizens had tumbled into the river; "but not one of them a king," laughed their king, after his successful stepping over. the bridge was built slowly, and was at last ready for traffic on february , , and has stood so strong and stable ever since, that it has passed into a proverb as the common comparison for a frenchman's robust health. it is the only bridge between the islands and either bank that has so stood, and this tower has seen each of the others wrecked by fire or flood. the tall wooden piles, on which the mediæval bridgeways were built, slowly rotted, until they were carried away by the fierce current. and fire found its frequent quarry in the tall houses that lined either side of the roadway, shops on the lower floor, and tenants above. thus our tower doubtless heard, on friday, october , , the wrenching and groaning of the huge wooden piles of pont notre-dame--its first pile driven down by temporarily sane charles vi.--as they bent and broke and tumbled into the seine, with their burden of roadway and of buildings; whereby so thick a cloud of dust rose up from the water, that rescue of the inmates was almost impossible. among the few saved, on that calamitous holiday of saint-crespin and saint-crespinien, was a baby found floating down-stream in its cradle, unwet and unharmed. so, too, pont aux meuniers and all its houses and mills fell in fragments into the stream on december , . it was a wooden bridge, connecting the island end of pont au change diagonally with the shore of the mainland. it is reported that the dwellers on the bridge were rich men, many of them slayers and plunderers of the huguenots on the festival of saint bartholomew. so it was said that the weak hand of city supervision, neglecting the bridge, was aided by the finger of god, pushing it down! the petit-pont dropped into the seine no less than six times between the years and . the earliest roman bridge, it had carried more traffic than any later bridge, and had been ruined and reconstructed time and again, until stone took the place of wood for its arches and road-way and houses. but the wooden scaffoldings used for the new construction were left below, and were the means of sacrificing it to an old woman's superstition. on april , , she launched a _sébile_--a wooden bowl--carrying a bit of blessed bread and a lighted taper, in the belief that this holy raft would stop over, and point out, the spot where lay the body of her drowned son. the taper failed in its sacred mission, and set fire to a barge loaded with hay, and this drifted against the timbers under the arches, and soon the entire bridge went up in flames. when again rebuilt, no houses were allowed upon it. with the falling of all those bridges and all that they held, the river-bed grew thick with every sort of object, common and costly. coins from many mints found their way there, not only through fire and flood, but because the money-changers, warily established on the bridges, dropped many an illicit piece from their convenient windows into the river, rather than let themselves be caught in passing counterfeits. this water museum has been dragged from time to time, and the treasures have gone to enrich various collections, notably that of m. victorien sardou. with all helpless paris, our tower watched the old hôtel-dieu--on the island's southern bank, where now is the green open space between petit-pont and pont au double--burning away for eleven days in , and caught glimpses of the rescued patients, carried across place du parvis to hastily improvised wards in the nave of notre-dame. unscathed by fire, unmutilated by man, unwearied by watching, "dagobert's tower" stands, penned in by the high old buildings that shoulder it all around. hidden behind them, it is unseen and forgotten. the only glimpses to be got of its gray bulk are, one from the neighboring tower of the cathedral, and another from the deck of a river-boat as it glides under pont d'arcole; a glimpse to be caught quickly, amid the quick-changing views of the ever-varied perspective of the island's towers and buttresses, pinnacles and domes. far away from the island and its river, over the edge of the southern slope, behind the distant, dreary, outer boulevards, we find another ancient staircase. it is within the vast structure known as "_la maison dîte de saint louis_," commonly called the "_hôtel de la reine blanche_." the modern boulevard, which gets its name from the astronomer, philosopher, and politician, arago, has made a clean sweep through this historic quarter, but it has spared this mansion and the legend, which makes it the suburban dwelling of blanche of castile. hereabout was all country then, and a favorite summer resort of the wealthy citizens, whose modest cottages and showy villas clustered along the banks of the bièvre; a free and wilful stream in the early years of the thirteenth century, often in revolt and sometimes misleading the sedate seine into escapades, to the disquiet of these _faubourgs_. from its gardens, portly meadows smiled townward to mont-sainte-geneviève, crowded with its schools, and to the convent gardens, snuggling close under the shelter of the southern wall of philippe-auguste. to-day, all this quarter is made malodorous by its many tanneries and dye-works; they have enslaved the tiny bièvre and stained it to a dirty reddish brown; so that it crawls, slimy and sluggish and ashamed, between their surly walls and beneath bedraggled bridges, glad to sink into the seine, under the orleans railway station. its gardens and meadows are covered by square miles of stone, and the line of the old wall is hidden behind and under modern streets. and this so-called country home of queen blanche, become plain no. rue des gobelins, yet refuses, in its mediæval dignity, to regard itself as a mere number in a street, and withdraws behind its wall, its shoulder aslant, to express its royal unconcern for the straight lines of city surveyors. these have not yet stolen all its old-time character from the remaining section of the street, nor spoiled such of its old-time façades as are left. this one at no. demands our especial scrutiny, by its significant portal and windows, and by the belief that it was originally joined in its rear to no. , the two forming one immense structure of the same style of architecture. when was its date, who was its builder, what was its use, are undisclosed, so far, and we may follow our own fancies, as we enter through the narrow gateway into the front court of "queen blanche's house." its main fabric on the ground floor, with its low arched window, insists that it is contemporary with the clever woman and capable queen, to whom legend, wider than merely local, brings home this building. yet its upper windows, and the dormers of the wing, and the slope of the roof, suggest a late fifteenth or an early sixteenth century origin; and the cornice-moulding is so well worked out that it speaks plainly of a much later date than the mediæval fortress-home. in a _tourelle_ at either end is a grand spiral staircase, as in dagobert's tower, and, like that, these turn on huge central oak trunks. here, however, the steps are less abrupt; the grooving of the hand-rail, while it testifies to the stroke of the axe, is less rude; and daylight is welcomed by wider windows. each of the three floors, that lie between the two staircase turrets, is made up of one vast hall, with no traces of division walls. whether or no a gobelin once made usage of this building, as has been claimed, it has now come into a tanner's service, and his workmen tread its stairs and halls, giving a living touch of our workaday world to these walls of dead feudalism. [illustration: the so-called hôtel de la reine blanche. (from a photograph of the commission du vieux paris.)] it was in that blanche of castile was brought to france, a girl of twelve, for her marriage with little louis, of the same ripe age. his father, philippe-auguste, was a mighty builder, and paris flourished under him, her "second founder." in the intervals between crusades against infidels and wars with christians, he founded colleges and gave other aid to the university on this bank; he pushed on with his strong hand the building of notre-dame and of the old hôtel-dieu on the island; he removed his residence from the ancient palace, there, to the louvre on the northern bank, constructed by him to that end--his huge foundation-walls, with some few capitals and mouldings, may be seen deep down in the substructures of the present louvre--he shut in the unfenced cemetery of the innocents from the merry-makers who profaned it; he roofed and walled-in the open markets in the fields hard by that burial-ground; and he paved the streets of the _cité_. to meet this last outlay, he was lavish with the money of the citizens, notably of gérard de poissy, who was moved to donate one-half of his entire fortune by the sight of the king, "sparing neither pains nor expense in beautifying the town." sparing himself no pains for the bettering of his beloved capital, philippe-auguste spared no expense to its worthy burghers, and in their purses he found the funds for his great wall. this he planned and began, toward the close of the twelfth century, when at home for awhile from the warfaring, during which he had captured the "saucy château-gaillard" of his former fellow-crusader, richard the lion-hearted. around the early lutetia on the island, with the river for its moat, there had been a gallo-roman wall, well known to us all; and there was a later wall, concerning which none of us know much. we may learn no more than that it was a work of louis vi., "_le gros_," early in the twelfth century, and that it enclosed the city's small suburbs on both banks of the mainland. where this wall abutted on the two bridge-heads that gave access to the island, louis vi. converted the wooden towers--already placed there for the protection of these approaches by charles ii., "_le chauve_," in the ninth century--into great gateways and small citadels, all of stone. they were massive, grim, sinister structures, and when their service as fortresses was finished, they were used for prisons; both equally infamous in cruelty and horror. the petit châtelet was a donjon tower, and guarded the southern approach to the island by way of the ancient main-road of the gaul and the roman, known later as the voie du midi, and later again as the route d'orléans, and now as rue saint-jacques. this _châtelet_ stood at the head of petit-pont, on the ground where quais saint-michel and montebello meet now, and was not demolished until late in the eighteenth century. the grand châtelet ended the northern wall where it met pont au change, and its gloomy walls, and conical towers flanking a frowning portal, were pick-axed away only in . it had held no prisoners since necker induced louis xvi. to institute, in la force and other jails, what were grotesquely entitled "model prisons." on the building that faces the northern side of place du châtelet you will find an elaborate tablet holding the plan of the dreary fortress and the appalling prison. when we stroll about the open space that its destruction has left, and that bears the bad old name, we need not lament its loss. then came the wall of philippe-auguste, grandly planned to enclose the closely knit island _cité_ and its straggling suburbs on either bank, with all their gardens, vineyards, and fields far out; and solidly constructed, with nearly thirty feet of squared-stone height, and nearly ten feet of cemented rubble between the strong side faces. its heavy parapet was battlemented, numerous round towers bulged from its outer side, the frequent gates had stern flanking towers, and the four ends on both river-banks were guarded by enormous towers, really small fortresses. the westernmost tower on this southern shore--with which section of the wall, built slowly from to , we are now concerned--was the tour de nesle, and its site is shown by a tablet on the quay-front of the eastern wing of the institute. alongside was the important porte de nesle. thence the wall went southwesterly, behind the line made by the present rues mazarine and monsieur-le-prince; then, by its great curve just north of rue des fossés-saint-jacques, it safeguarded the tomb and the abbey of sainte geneviève, and so bent sharply around toward the northeast, within the line of present rues thouin, du cardinal-lemoine, and des fossés-saint-bernard, to the easternmost tower on quai de la tournelle, and its river-gate, porte saint-bernard. that gate, standing until the end of the eighteenth century, had been titillated into a triumphal arch for louis xiv., in whose time this quay was a swell promenade and drive. it still retains one of its grand mansions, the hôtel clermont-tonnerre, at no. on the quay, with a well-preserved portal. of the stately sweep of this wall we may get suggestive glimpses by the various tablets, that show the sites of the tennis courts made later on its outer side, and that mark the places of the gates; such as the tablet at no. rue dauphine. the street and gate of that name date from , when henri iv. constructed them as the southern outlet from his pont-neuf, and named them in honor of the first _dauphin_ born to france since catherine de' medici's puny sons. this porte dauphine took the place, and very nearly the site, of the original porte de buci, which stood over the western end of our rue saint-andré-des-arts, and was done away with in the cutting of rue dauphine. there was a gate, cut a few years after the completion of the wall, opening into the present triangular space made by the meeting of rue de l'École-de-médecine and boulevard saint-germain, and this gate bore this latter name. of the original gates, that next beyond porte de buci was porte saint-michel, a small postern that stood almost in the centre of the meeting-place of boulevard saint-michel and rues monsieur-le-prince and soufflot. next came the important porte saint-jacques, mounting guard over the street now of that name, nearly where it crosses the southern side of new rue soufflot, named in honor of the architect of the panthéon. on that southwest corner is a tablet with a plan of the gate. it was a gate well watched by friends within, and foes without, coming up by this easy road. dunois gained it, more by seduction than force, and entered with his french troops, driving the english before him, on the morning of friday, april , ; and henry of navarre failed to gain it by force from the league, on the night of september , . stand in front of nos. and of widened rue saint-jacques, and you are on the spot where he tried to scale that gate, again and again. more than suggestions of the wall itself may be got by actual sight of sections that survive, despite the assertions of authorities that no stone is left. at the end of impasse de nevers, within a locked gate, you may see a presumable bit. in the court that lies behind nos. and rue guénégaud is a stable, and deep in the shadow of that stable lurks a round tower of philippe-auguste, massive and unmarred. at no. cour du commerce a locksmith has his shop, and he hangs his keys and iron scraps on nails driven with difficulty between the tightly fitted blocks of another round tower. turn the corner into cour de rohan--a corruption of rouen, whose archbishop had his town-house here--and you shall find a narrow iron stairway, that mounts the end of the sliced-off wall, and that carries you to a tiny garden, wherein small schoolgirls play on the very top of that wall. down at the end of cour de rohan is an ancient well, dating from the day when this court lay within the grounds of the hôtel de navarre, the property of louis of orleans before he became louis xii. in style it was closely akin to the hôtel de cluny, and it is a sorrow that it is lost to us. its entrance was at the present nos. and of rue saint-andré-des-arts, and the very ancient walls in the rear court of the latter house may have belonged to the hôtel de navarre. when louis sold this property, one portion was bought by dr. coictier, who had amassed wealth as the physician of louis xi., and this well was long known by his name. it has lost its metal-work, which was as fine as that of the well once owned by tristan l'hermite, coictier's crony, and now placed in the court of the cluny museum. continuing along the course of the great wall, we find a longer section, whereon houses have been built, and another garden. at the end of the hallway of no. rue descartes is a narrow stairway, by which we mount to the row of cottages on top of the wall, and beyond them is a small domain containing trees and bushes and flower-beds, and all alive with fowls. still farther, in a vacant lot in rue clovis, which has cut deep through the hill, a broken end of the wall hangs high above us on the crest, showing both solid faces and the rubble between. its outer face forms the rear of the court at no. rue du cardinal-lemoine. still another section can be seen in the inner court of no. rue d'arras, its great square stones serving as foundation for high houses. and this is the last we shall see of this southern half of the wall of philippe-auguste. when that monarch lay dying at mantes, he found comfort in the thought that he was leaving his paris safe in the competent hands of his daughter-in-law--whose beauty, sense, and spirit had won him early--rather than in the gentle hold of his son, misnamed "_le_ _lion_." he lived, as louis viii., only three years, and "_la reine blanche_" (the widowed queens of france wore white for mourning, until anne of brittany put on black for her first husband, charles viii.) became the sole protector of her twelve-year-old son, on whom she so doted as to be jealous of the wife she had herself found for him. she ruled him and his hitherto unruly nobles, and cemented his kingdom, fractured by local jealousies. he is known to history as saint louis, fit to sit alongside marcus aurelius, in the equal conscience they put into their kingly duties. voltaire himself ceases to sneer in the presence of this monarch's unselfish devotion to his people, and gives him praise as unstinted as any on record. his paris, the paris of his mother and his grandfather, was made up of _la cité_ on the island, under the jurisdiction of the bishop; the northern suburb, _outre-grand-pont_ or _la ville_, governed by the _prévôt des marchands_; the southern suburb, _outre-petit-pont_ or _l'université_, appertaining to the "_recteur_"; all ruled by the _prévôt_ of paris, appointed by and accountable to the king alone. hugo's "little old lady between her two promising daughters" holds good to-day, when the daughters are strapping wenches, and have not yet got their growth. in all three sections, the priest and the soldier--twin foes of light and life in all times and in all lands--had their own way. they cumbered the ground with their fortresses and their monasteries, all bestowed within spacious enclosures; so walling-in for their favored dwellers, and walling-out from the common herd outside, the air and sun, green sights, and pleasant scents. there were no open spaces for the people of mediæval days. indeed, there were no "people," in our meaning of that word. the stage direction, "enter populace," expresses their state. there were peasants in the fields, toilers in the towns, vassals, all of them--villains, legally--allowed to live by the soldier, that they might pay for his fighting, and serve as food for his steel; sheep let graze by the priest, to be sheared for the church and to be burned at the stake. this populace looked on at these burnings, at the cutting out of tongues and slicing off of ears and hacking away of hands by their lords, in dumb terror and docile submission. more than death or mutilation, did they dread the ban of the church and the lash of its menacing bell. their only diversion was made by royal processions, by church festivals, by public executions. so went on the dreary round of centuries, in a dull colorless terror, until it was time for the coming of the short, sharp terror dyed red. then the white terror, that came with the restoration, benumbed the land for awhile, and the tricolored effrontery of the second empire held it in grip. against all royalist and imperial reaction, the lesser revolutions of the nineteenth century have kept alive the essential spirit of the great revolution of , inherited by them, and handed down to the present republic, that the assured ultimate issue may be fought out under its tricolor. france, the splendid creature, once more almost throttled by priest and soldier, has saved herself by the courage of a national conscience, such as has not been matched by any land in any crisis. they who by the grace of god and the stupidity of man owned and ordered these human cattle of the darkest ages, had their homes within this new, strong town-wall; in fat monasteries, secluded behind garden and vineyard; in grim citadels, whose central keep and lesser towers and staircase turrets, stables and outer structures, were grouped about a great court, that swarmed with men-at-arms, grooms, and hangers-on. and so, endless walls scowled on the wayfarer through the town's lanes, narrow, winding, unpaved, filthy. on a hot summer day, philippe-auguste stood at his open window in the old palace, and the odor of mud came offensively to the royal nostrils; soon the main city streets were paved. when a king's son happened to be unhorsed by a peripatetic pig nosing for garbage, a royal edict forbade the presence of swine in the streets; the only exceptions being the precious dozen of the abbey of petit-saint-antoine. there were no side-paths, and they who went afoot were pushed to the wall and splashed with mud, by the mules and palfreys of those who could ride. they rode, the man in front, his lady behind, _en croupe_. open trenches, in the middle of the roadway, served for drainage, naked and shameless; the graveyards were unfenced amid huddled hovels; and the constant disease and frequent epidemics that came from all this foulness were fathered on a convenient providence! this solution of the illiterate and imbecile could not be accepted by the shining lights of science, who showed that the plague of the middle of the sixteenth century came from maleficent comets, their tails toward the orient, or from malign conjunctions of mars, saturn, and jupiter. ambroise paré, the most enlightened man of his day, had the courage to suggest that there were human and natural causes at work, in addition to the divine will. and the common-sense faculty of medicine, toward the close of the sixteenth century, indicted the drains and cesspools as the principal origin of all maladies then prevalent. the only street-lighting was that given fitfully by the forlorn lanterns of the patrol, or by the torches of varlets escorting their masters, on foot or on horse. now and then, a hole was burned in the mediæval night by a cresset on a church tower or porch, or shot out from a _cabaret's_ fire through an opened door. when tallow candles got cheaper, they were put into horn lanterns, and swung, at wide intervals, high above the traffic. there, wind or rain put an untimely end to their infrequent flicker, or a "thief in the candle" guttered and killed it, or a thief in the street stoned it dead, for the snug plying of his trade. the town, none too safe in daylight, was not at all safe by night, and the darkness was long and dreary, and every honest man and woman went to bed early after the sunset angelus. country roads were risky, too, and those who were unable to travel in force, or in the train of a noble, travelled not at all; so that the common citizen passed his entire existence within the confines of his compact parish. nor could he see much of his paris or of his seine; he looked along the streets on stone walls on either side, and along the quays at timbered buildings on the banks. these rose sheer from the river-brink, and from both sides of every bridge, barring all outlook from the roadway between; their gables gave on the river, and from their windows could be seen only a little square of water, enclosed between the buildings on both banks and on the neighboring bridge. so that the wistful burgher could get glimpses of his river only from the beach by the hôtel de ville, or from the occasional ports crowded with boats discharging cargo. these cargoes were sold in shops on ground floors, and the tenants were thick on the upper floors, of dwellings mostly made of timber and plaster, their high-fronted gables looking on the street. this was the custom in all towns in the middle ages, and it is a striking change that has, in our day, turned all buildings so that their former side has come to the front. the old paris streets, in which shops and houses shouldered together compactly, already dark and narrow enough, were further narrowed and darkened by projecting upper floors, and by encroaching shop-signs, swinging, in all shapes and sizes, from over the doorways. each shop sold its specialty, and the wares of all of them slopped over on the roadway. their owners bawled the merits and prices of these wares in a way to shock a certain irritable guillaume de villeneuve, who complains in querulous verse, "they do not cease to bray from morning until night." with all its growth in coming years, the city's squalor grew apace with its splendor, and when voltaire's candide came in, by way of porte saint-marcel here on the southern side, in the time of louis xv., he imagined himself in the dirtiest and ugliest of westphalian villages. for all its filth and all its discomfort, this mediæval paris--portrayed, as it appeared three hundred years later, in the painful detail and inaccurate erudition of hugo's "notre-dame de paris"--was a picturesque town, its buildings giving those varied and unexpected groupings that make an architectural picture; their roofs were tiled in many colors, their sky-lines were wanton in their irregularity, and were punctuated by pointed turrets and by cone-shaped tower-tops; and over beyond the tall town walls, broken by battlements and sentry-boxes, whirled a grotesque coronet of windmill sails. turning from this attractive "_maison de la reine blanche_," from this quarter where her son louis learned to ride and to tilt, and glancing behind at the famous tapestry works, the gobelins, of whose founder and director we shall have a word to say later, we follow the avenue of that name to rue du fer-à-moulin. this little street, named for a sign that swung there in the twelfth century, is most commonplace until it opens out into a small, shabby square, that holds a few discouraged trees, and is faced by a stolid building whose wide, low-browed archway gives access to the court of the _boulangerie générale des hôpitaux et hospices_. this was the courtyard of the villa of scipio sardini, whose name alone is kept alive by this place scipion--all that is left of his gardens and vineyards. yet his was a notable name, in the days when this wily tuscan was "_écuyer du roi henri ii._," and in those roaring days of swift fortunes for sharp italian financiers, under the queen-mother, catherine de' medici. this man amassed scandalous riches, and built his villa, mentioned by sauval as one of the richest of that time, here amid the country mansions that dotted this southern declivity. of this villa only one wing still stands, and it is with unlooked-for delight that we find this admirable specimen of sixteenth-century architecture, of a style distinct from that of any other specimen in paris. the façade, that is left in the court of the _boulangerie_, is made up of an arcade of six semi-circular arches on heavy stone pillars, a story above of plum-colored brick cut into panels by gray stone, its square-headed windows encased with the same squared stone, and an attic holding two dormers with pointed hoods. set in the broad band between the two lower floors, were six medallions, one over the centre of each arch; of these six, only four remain. these contain the heads of warriors and of women, boldly or delicately carved, and wonderfully preserved; yet time has eaten away the terra-cotta, wind and wet have dulled the enamel that brightened them. the buildings about this court and behind this unique façade are commonplace and need not detain us. it was in that the general hospital took the villa and enlarged it; in , to escape the plague, the prisoners of the conciergerie were installed here; and it has served as the bakery for the civil hospitals of paris for many years. we go our way toward our third staircase, not by the stupidly straight line of rue monge, but by vagrant curves that bring us to the prison of sainte-pélagie, soon to disappear, and to the roman amphitheatre just below, happily rescued forever. here, in rue cardinal-lemoine, we slip under the stupid frontage of no. to the court within, where we are faced by the _hôtel_ of charles lebrun. we mount the stone steps that lead up to a wide hall, and so go through to a farther court, now unfortunately roofed over. this court was his garden, and this is the stately garden-front that was the true façade, rather than that toward the street; for this noble mansion--the work of the architect germain boffrand, pupil and friend of hardouin mansart--was built after the fashion of that time, which shut out, by high walls, all that was within from sight of the man in the street, and kept the best for those who had entry to the stiff, formal gardens of that day. pupil of poussin, _protégé_ of fouquet, friend of colbert, lebrun was the favorite court painter and decorator, and the most characteristic exponent of the art of his day; his sumptuous style suiting equally françois i.'s fontainebleau, and louis xiv.'s versailles. he aided colbert in the founding of the royal academy of painting and sculpture, and in the purchase by the state of the gobelins. this factory took its name from the famous dyer who came from rheims, and tinted the clear bièvre with his splendid scarlet, says rabelais; so that it took the name of _la rivière des gobelins_, of which ronsard sings. the statesman and the artist in concert built up the great factory of tapestries and of furniture, such as were suitable for royal use. made director of the gobelins and chancellor of the academy, and making himself the approved painter of the time to his fellow-painters and to the buying public, lebrun's fortune grew to the possession of this costly estate, which extended far away beyond modern rue monge. the death of colbert--whose superb tomb in saint-eustache is the work of his surviving friend--left him to the hatred of louvois, who pushed mignard, molière's friend, into preferment. and lebrun, genuine and honest artist, died of sheer despondency, in his official apartment on the first floor of the factory, facing the chapel. his rooms have been cut up and given over to various usages, and no trace can be found in the gobelins of its first director. his body rests in his parish church, a few steps farther on, through ancient rue saint-victor, now curtailed and mutilated. along its line, before we come to the square tower of saint-nicolas-du-chardonnet, we skirt the dirty yellow and drab wall of the famous seminary alongside the church, and bearing its name. its entrance is at no. rue de pontoise, and among the many famous pupils who have gone in and out since calvin was a student here, we may mention only ernest renan. in , the director of the school being the accomplished dupanloup, this boy of fifteen came fresh from brittany to his studies here. we shall follow him to his later and larger schools, in other pages. when jean "le moine," the son of a picardy peasant, came to sit in a cardinal's chair, and was sent to paris as legate by pope boniface viii., he established a great college in the year . for it he bought the chapel, the dwellings, and the cemetery of the augustins that were all in fields of thistles. so came the name "_du chardonnet_" to the church now built on the ruins of lemoine's chapel, in the later years of the seventeenth century. lebrun decorated one of its chapels for the burial of his mother, and his own tomb is there near hers. some of his work still shows on the ceiling; and in an adjacent chapel, in odd proximity, once hung a canvas from the brush of mignard. in striking contrast, the busts of the two men face each other in the louvre; that of mignard is alert with intelligence in face and poise of head, while lebrun's suggests a somewhat slow-witted earnestness. from this short stay in the realm of louis the unreal, we go to the island that bears the name of the louis who was called a saint, but who was a very real man. all the streets along here that take us to the river, as far easterly as the one that bears the name of cardinal lemoine, were cut through the grounds of his college and of the bernadins, an ancient foundation alongside. of the buildings of this vast monastery, the refectory remains, behind the wall on the western side of rue de poissy. this characteristic specimen of thirteenth-century architecture, but little spoiled by modern additions, is used for the _caserne_ of the sapeurs-pompiers. here, at the foot of the street on the river-bank on our right, is the great space where boulevard saint-germain comes down to the quay, and where the old wall came down to its great tower on the shore. on our left, as we cross broad pont de la tournelle, we get an impressive view of notre-dame. and now we find ourselves in a provincial town, seemingly far removed from our paris in miles and in years, by its isolation and tranquillity and old-world atmosphere. its long, lazy main street is named after the royal saint, and its quays keep the titles of royal princes, bourbon, orléans, anjou. a great royal minister, maximilien de béthune, gives his name to another quay, and his great master gives his to the new boulevard crossing it. henry often crossed his faithful sully, but they were at one in the orders issued, in the year before the king's murder, for the sweeping away of the woodyards, that made this island the storehouse of the town's timber, and for the construction of these streets and buildings. the works planned by henri iv. were carried out by marie de' medici and louis xiii. a concession was given for the laying out of streets and for the buildings on this island, and for the construction of a new stone bridge to the marais, to the three associates, marie, le regrettier, poultier, who gave their names to the bridge and to two of the streets. there was already a small chapel in the centre, the scene of the first preaching of the first crusade, and this chapel has been enlarged to the present old-time parish church. just within its entrance is the _bénitier_, filled with water from the mouth of a marble cherub who wears a pretty marble "bang." it came from the carmelites of chaillot, in souvenir of "sister louise." the sites on the island's banks, newly opened in the early years of louis xiii.'s reign, were in demand at once for the mansions of the wealthy, and a precocious city started up. corneille's _menteur_, new to paris and the island, rhapsodizes in one of his captivating flights, this time without lying: "_j'y croyais ce matin voir une île enchantée, je la laissai déserte et la trouve habitée; quelque amphion nouveau, sans l'aide des maçons, en superbes palais à changé ses buissons._" we shall come hither again, in company with voltaire to one of these palaces, with balzac to another. in these high old houses in these old streets dwelt old families, served by old retainers devoted to their mistresses, who hugged their firesides like contented tabby-cats. they had no welcome for intruders into their "ville-saint-louis" from the swell quarters on the other side of the river, and it used to be said that "_l'habitant du marais est étranger dans l'Île_." [illustration: balcony of hôtel de lauzan-pimodan on Île de saint-louis.] pont louis-philippe--an absurdly modern issue from this ancient quarter--carries us to the quay of the hôtel de ville, and we may turn to look in at saint-gervais, its precious window as brilliant as on the day it was finished by jean cousin. passing in front of the imperious statue of Étienne marcel, staring at the river that was his grave, we cross place de l'hôtel-de-ville, once place de grève, when it had in the centre its stone cross reached by high steps, and its busy gallows close at hand. we forget its horrid memories in the sight of the new hôtel de ville, of no memories, good or bad, to dash our delight in this most nearly perfect of modern structures; perfect in design, execution, and material, a consummate scheme carried out to the last exquisite detail by architects, sculptors, and decorators, all masters of their crafts. our direct road takes us through the halles, their huge iron and glass structures the lineal descendants of those heavy stone halles, started in the twelfth century here in the fields, when the small market on the island no longer sufficed. their square, dumpy pillars, and those on which the houses all about were once supported, survive only in the few left from the seventeenth-century rebuilding, now on the north side of rue de la ferronerie. standing in that arcade, we look out on the spot where ravaillac waited for the coming of henri iv. the wretched fanatic, worked on by whom we shall never know, had found paris crowded for the queen's coronation, and had hunted up a room in the "three pigeons," an inn of rue saint-honoré, opposite the church of saint-roch. here or in another tavern, while prowling, he stole the knife. the narrow street was widened a little by richelieu, and few of its ancient buildings are left. returning through this arcade, once the entrance to the cemetery of the innocents, to rue des innocents just behind, you will find many of the old _charniers_ absolutely unchanged. they form the low-ceilinged ground floor of nearly all these buildings between rue saint-denis and rue de la lingerie. perhaps the most characteristic specimen is that one used for a _remise de voitures à bras_, a phrase of the finest french for a push-cart shed! and under no. of this street of the innocents, you may explore two of the cemetery vaults in perfect preservation. they are come to less lugubrious usage now, and serve as a club-room for the teamsters who bring supplies to the markets over-night, and for the market attendants who wait for them. their wagons unloaded, here they pass the night until daylight shall bring customers, drinking and singing after their harmless fashion, happily ignorant or careless of the once grisly service of these caves. the attendants in the _cabaret_ on the entrance floor, tired as they are by day, will courteously show the cellars, one beneath the other. one must stoop to pass under the heavily vaulted low arches, and the small chambers are overcrowded with a cottage piano and with rough benches and tables; these latter cut, beyond even the unhallowed industry of schoolboys, with initials and names of the frequenters of the club, who have scarred the walls in the same vigorous style. the demure _dame du comptoir_ above assures you that you will be welcomed between midnight and dawn, but bids you bring no prejudices along, for the guests are not apt, in their song and chatter, to "_chercher la délicatesse_"! the church of the innocents, built by louis "_le gros_" early in the twelfth century, had on its corner at rues saint-denis and aux fers--this latter now widened into rue berger--a most ancient fountain, dating from . this fountain was built anew in , from a design of the abbé de clagny, not of pierre lescot as is claimed, and was decorated by jean goujon. just before the revolution ( - ), when church and charnel-houses and cemetery were swept away, this fountain was removed to the centre of the markets--the centre, too, of the old cemetery--and has been placed, since then, in the middle of this dainty little square which greets us as we emerge from our _cabaret_. to the three arches it owned, when backed by the church corner, a fourth has been added to make a square, and the original naiads of goujon have been increased in number. their fine flowing lines lift up and lend distinction to this best bit of renaissance remaining in paris. and here we are struck by the ingenuity shown by making the water in motion a signal feature of the decoration--another instance of this engaging characteristic of french fountains. a few steps farther north take us to rue Étienne marcel, cutting its ruthless course through all that should be sacred, in a fashion that would gladden the sturdy provost. for all its destructive instincts, it yet has spared to us this memorable bit of petrified history, the tower of "_jean-sans-peur_." at no. , on the northern side of this broad and noisy street, amid modern structures, its base below the level of the pavement, stands the last remaining fragment of the hôtel de bourgogne; which, under its earlier name in older annals as the hôtel d'artois, carries us back again to the thirteenth century, for this was the palace-fortress built by the younger brother of saint louis, robert, count of artois. he it was who fell, in his "senseless ardor," on the disastrous field of massouah, in ; when the pious king and his devoted captains were made captive by the sultan of egypt, and released with heavy fines, so ending that sixth crusade. the hôtel d'artois was a princely domain, reaching southward from the wall of philippe-auguste to rue mauconseil, a road much longer then, and extending from present rue saint-denis to rue montorgueil, the two streets that bounded the property east and west. some of its structures backed against the wall, some of them rested upon its broken top. for the grounds and gardens enclosed within this northern _enceinte_--completed between and --stretched to its base, leaving no room for a road on its inner side. because of this plan, and because this wall crumbled gradually, its broken sections being surrounded and surmounted by crowding houses, no broad boulevards were laid out over its line--as was done with its immediate successor, the wall of charles v.--and it is not easy to trace it through modern streets and under modern structures. the only fragment left is the tower in the court of the mont-de-piété, entered from rue des francs-bourgeois, and it is of build less solid than those we have seen on the southern bank. in the pavement of the first court is traced the line of the wall up to this tower. with this exception, we can indicate only the sites of the towers and the course of the wall. the huge tour barbeau was at the easternmost river end, on quai des célestins, nearly at the foot of our rue des jardins-saint-paul. it commanded port saint-paul, chief landing-place of river boatmen, and guarded the pôterne des barrés. that name was also given to the small street--now rue de l'ave maria--that led from this postern-gate. they owe that name indirectly to saint louis. returning from the holy land, he had brought six monks from mount carmel, and housed them on the quay, called now after their successors, the célestins. the black robes, striped white, of these six monks, made them known popularly as "_les barrés_." our wall ran straight away from this waterside gate, parallel with and a little to the west of present rue des jardins, then a country road on its outer edge, to porte baudoyer, afterward porte saint-antoine, standing across the space where meet rues saint-antoine and de rivoli. this was the strongest for defence of all the gates, holding the entrance to the town, by way of the roman and later the royal road from the eastern provinces. from this point the wall took a great curve beyond the bounds of the built-up portions of the town. the pôterne barbette, its next gate, in rue vieille-du-temple, just south of its crossing by rue des francs-bourgeois, lost its old name in this name taken from the hôtel barbette, built a century later, outside the wall here. next came the gate in rue du temple, nearly half way between our rues de braque and rambuteau. through this gate passed the knights templar to and from their great fortified domain beyond. the pôterne beaubourg, in the street of that name, was a minor gateway, having no especial history beyond that contained in the derivation of its name, "_beaubourg_," from a particularly rich settlement, just hereabout. next we come to two most important gates, saint-martin and saint-denis, across those two streets, that guarded the approaches by the great roads from senlis and soissons, and the heart of the land, old Île de france, and from all the northern provinces. between the saint-denis gate and that at rue montorgueil, lay the property of the comte d'artois, and he cut, for his royal convenience, a postern in the wall that formed his northern boundary. from this point our wall went in another wide curve to the river-bank, within the lines of old rues plâtrière and grenelle, the two now widened into modern rue jean-jacques-rousseau. the country road that is now rue montmartre was guarded by a gate, opened a few years after the completion of the wall, and its site shown by a tablet in the wall of no. of that street. a small gate was cut at the meeting of present rues coquillière and jean-jacques-rousseau. nearly opposite the end of this latter street, where rue saint-honoré passes in front of the oratoire, was the last public gate on the mainland. thence the course was straight away to the river shore, as you may see by the diagram set in lighter stone in the pavement of the court of the louvre. these stones mark also the huge round of the donjon of the old louvre, on whose eastern or town side the wall passed to the river-side tour-qui-fait-le-coin. this tower was of the shape and size of the opposite tour de nesle, which we have already seen at the point where the southern wall came down to the shore; and between the two towers, a great chain was slung across the seine to prevent approach by river pirates. pont des arts is almost directly over the dip of that chain. so, too, the river was protected at the eastern ends of the wall; the barbeau tower was linked to the solitary tower on Île notre-dame, and that again across the other arm of the seine, to the immense tower on quai de la tournelle. this island tour loriaux rose from the banks of a natural moat made by the river's narrow channel between Île notre-dame and Île aux vaches, and this bank was afterward further protected by a slight curtain of wall across the island, with a tower at either end. four centuries later, when this island wall and its towers had long since crumbled away, that moat was filled up--rue poulletier, the modernized poultier, lies over its course--and the two small islands became large Île saint-louis. and now, we have seen _la cité_, _la ville_, _l'université_, all girdled about by philippe-auguste's great wall. the city could spread no farther than its river-banks; the university was content to abide within its bounds, even as late as the wars of the league; the town began speedily to outgrow its limits, and within two centuries it had so developed that the capacious range of a new wall, that of charles v., was needed to enclose its bustling quarters. that story shall come in a later chapter. one hundred years after the death of robert of artois, his estate passed, by marriage, to the first house of burgundy, whose name it took, and when that house became extinct, in the days of jean "_le bon_," second valois king of france, it came, along with the broad acres and opulent towns of that duchy, into his hands, by way of some distant kinship. this generous and not over-shrewd monarch did not care to retain these much-needed revenues, and gave them, with the resuscitated title of burgundy, to his younger son, "recalling again to memory the excellent and praiseworthy services of our right dearly beloved son philip, the fourth of our sons, who freely exposed himself to death with us, and, all wounded as he was, remained unwavering and fearless at the battle of poictiers." from that field philip carried away his future title, "_le hardi_." by this act of grateful recognition, rare in kings, were laid the foundations of a house that was to grow as great as the throne itself, to perplex france within, and to bring trouble from without, throughout long calamitous years. this first duke philip seems to have had the hardihood to do right in those wrong-doing days, for he remained a sufficiently loyal subject of his brother charles v., and later a faithful guardian, as one of the "_sires de la fleur-de-lis_," of his nephew, the eleven-year-old charles vi. he married margaret, heiress of the count of flanders, and widow of philippe de rouvre, last of the old line of burgundy, and she brought, to this new house of burgundy, the fat, flat meadows and the turbulent towns of the lowlands, and also the hôtel de flandres in the capital, where now stands the general post-office in rue jean-jacques-rousseau. duke philip, dying in , bequeathed to his eldest son, john, nick-named "_jean-sans-peur_," not only a goodly share of his immense possessions, but also the pickings of a "very pretty quarrel" with louis de valois, duc d'orléans. this quarrel was tenderly nursed by john, who, as the head of a powerful independent house, and the leader of a redoubtable faction, felt himself to be more important than the royal younger brother. ambitious and unscrupulous, calculating and impetuous, he created the rôle on his stage, played with transient success by philippe-Égalité, four hundred years later. he rode at the head of a brilliant train and posed for the applause of the populace. he walked arm in arm with the public executioner, capeluche, and when done with him, handed him over to the gallows. finding himself grown so great, he schemed for sole control of the state. the one man in his way was louis of orleans, the mad king's only brother, the lover of the queen, and her accomplice in plundering and wasting the country's revenues. he was handsome and elegant, open in speech and open of hand, bewitching all men and women whom he cared to win. "_qui veult, peut_," was his braggart device, loud on the walls of the rooms of viollet-le-duc's reconstructed pierrefonds, whose original was built by louis. in its court you may see the man himself in frémiet's superb bronze, erect and alert on his horse. the horse's hoofs trample the flowers, as his rider trod down all sweet decencies in his stride through life. he was an insolent profligate, quick to tell when he had kissed. in his long gallery of portraits of the women who, his swagger suggested, had yielded to his allurements, he hung, with unseemly taste, those of his lovely italian wife, valentine visconti, and of the duchess of burgundy, his cousin's wife; both of them honest women. for this boast, john hated him; he hated him, as did his other unlettered compeers, for his learning and eloquence and patronage of poetry and the arts; he hated him as did the common people, who prayed "jesus christ in heaven, send thou someone to deliver us from orleans." [illustration: "jean-sans-peur," duc de bourgogne. (from a painting by an unknown artist, at chantilly.)] at last "_jean-sans-peur_" mustered his courage and his assassins to deliver himself and france. isabelle of bavaria had left her crazed husband in desolate hôtel saint-paul, and carried her unclean court to hôtel barbette--we shall see more of these residences in another chapter--where she sat at supper, with her husband's brother, on the night of november , . it was eight in the evening, dark for the short days of that "black winter," the bitterest known in france for centuries. an urgent messenger, shown in to orleans at table, begged him to hasten to the king at saint-paul. the duke sauntered out, humming an air, mounted his mule and started on his way, still musical; four varlets with torches ahead, two 'squires behind. only a few steps on, as he passed the shadowed entrance of a court, armed men--many more than his escort--sprang upon him and cut him down with axes. he called out that he was the duke of orleans. "so much the better!" they shouted, and battered him to death on the ground; then they rode off through the night, unmolested by the terrified attendants. the master and paymaster of the gang, who was watching, from a doorway hard by, to see that his money was honestly earned, went off on his way. a devious way it turned out to be, for, having admitted his complicity to the council, in his high and mighty fashion, he found himself safer in flight than in his guarded topmost room of this tower before us. he galloped away to his frontier of flanders, cutting each bridge that he crossed. it was ten years before he could return, and then he came at the head of his burgundian forces, and bought the keys of porte de buci, stolen by its keeper's son from under his father's pillow. entering paris on the night of saturday, may , , on the following day, the burgundians began those massacres which lasted as long as there were armagnacs to kill, and which polluted paris streets with corpses. within a year, john, lured to a meeting with the dauphin, afterward charles vii., went to the bridge at montereau, with the infinite precautions always taken by this fearless man, and there he was murdered with no less treachery, if with less butchery, than he gave to his killing of louis of orleans. valentine visconti, widow of orleans, had not lived to see this retribution. her appeal to the king for the punishment of the assassin was answered by pleasant phrases, and soon after, in one of his sane intervals, was further answered by the royal pardon to burgundy, for that "out of faith and loyalty to us, he has caused to be put out of the world our brother of orleans." she had counted on the king's remembering that, in the early years of his madness, hers had been the only face he knew and the only voice that soothed him. she crept away to blois with her children, and with dunois, her husband's son but not her own. the others were not of the age nor of the stuff to harbor revenge, and to him she said: "you were stolen from me, and it is _you_ who are fit to avenge your father." these are fiery words from a rarely gentle yet courageous woman, grown vindictive out of her constancy to a worthless man. she is the one pure creature, pathetic and undefiled, in all this welter of perfidy and brutality. "she shines in the black wreck of things," in carlyle's words concerning another "noble white vision, with its high queenly face, its soft proud eyes," of a later day. there, at blois, she died within the year. it would carry us too far from this tower to follow the course of the feud between the heirs of these two houses. "philip the good, duke of burgundy, luxembourg, and brabant, earl of holland and zealand, lord of friesland, count of flanders, artois, and hainault, lord of salins and macklyn," was a high and puissant prince, and versatile withal. "he could fight as well as any king going, and he could lie as well as any, except the king of france. he was a mighty hunter, and could read and write. his tastes were wide and ardent. he loved jewels like a woman, and gorgeous apparel. he dearly loved maids-of-honor, and, indeed, paintings generally, in proof of which he ennobled jan van eyck.... in short, he relished all rarities, except the humdrum virtues." charles of orleans, son of louis, was of another kidney. spirited at the start, this prince was spoiled by his training, "like such other lords as i have seen educated in this country," says comines; "for these were taught nothing but to play the jackanapes with finery and fine words." young charles d'orléans took his earliest lessons in rhyme, and he rhymed through life, through his twenty-five years of captivity in england, until he was old charles, the pallid figure-head of a petty, babbling, versifying court. and the quarrel between the two houses came to nothing beyond the trifle of general misery for france. it was only when burgundy came into collision with the crafty dauphin of france, the rebellious son of charles vii., who had fled from his father's court and taken refuge with duke philip the good, that this great house began to fail in power. when that dauphin, become louis xi., made royal entry into paris, this hôtel de bourgogne showed all its old bravery. from its great court, through its great gate on rue saint-denis, into the space behind the town gate of that name, duke philip rode forth on the last day of august, , at his side his son--then comte de charolais, known later as charles "_le téméraire_"--to head the glittering array of nobles, aglow with silken draperies and jewels, their horses' housings sweeping the ground, who await the new king. few of them are quite sure "how they stand" with him, and they hardly know how to greet him as he enters, but they take the customary oaths when they get to notre-dame, and thence escort him to the old palace on the island. there they feasted and their royal master pretended to be jolly, all the while speculating on the speedy snuffing-out of these flashing satellites. on the morrow he took up his residence in the hôtel des tournelles, almost deserted within, and altogether without. for the populace crowded about this hôtel de bourgogne, all eyes and ears for the sight and the story of its splendors. its tapestries were the richest ever seen by parisians, its silver such as few princes owned, its table lavish and ungrudging. the duke's robes and jewels were so wonderful that the cheering mob ran after him, as he passed along the streets, with his attendant train of nobles and his body-guard of archers. with his death died all the pomp and show of this palace. his son, charles the bold, wasted no time in paris from the fighting, for which he had an incurable itch, but no genius. he kept this deserted house in charge of a _concierge_ for his daughter mary, "the richest heiress in christendom," who was promised to five suitors at once, and who married maximilian of austria at last. their grandson, the emperor charles v., in one of the many bargains made and unmade between him and françois i.--the one the direct descendant of louis of orleans and the other the direct descendant of john of burgundy--gave up to the french crown all that burgundy owned in france, one portion of it in paris being this hôtel de bourgogne. by now this once most strongly fortified and best defended fortress-home in all the town was fallen into sad decay, its spacious courts the playground of stray children, its great halls and roomy chambers a refuge for tramps and rascals. so françois, casting about for any scheme to bring in money, and greedy to keep alive the tradition, handed down from hugh capet, that gave to his crown all the ground on which paris was built, sold at auction this old rookery, along with other royal buildings and land in the city, in the year . this _hôtel_ was put up in thirteen lots, this tower and its dependencies, burgundian additions of the first years of the fifteenth century, being numbered , , , , , , and while all the other structures were demolished, these were kept entire by the purchaser, whose name has not come down to us. they may have been "bid in" by the state, for they reappear as crown property of louis xiii.; and he gave "what was left of the donjon of the hôtel d'artois" to the monks of sainte-catherine du val-des-Écoliers, in exchange for a tract of their land on the northern side of rue saint-antoine, just west of place royale. by this barter it would seem that he intended to carry out one of his father's cherished schemes, to be spoken of in a later chapter. in this donjon the good monks established "storehouses" for the poor, a phrase that may be modernized into "soup-kitchens." these were under the control of a certain "père vincent," who has been canonized since as saint vincent de paul. this peasant's son had grown up into a tender-hearted priest, bountiful to the poor with the crowns he adroitly wheedled from the rich. for he had guile as well as loving-kindness, he was a wily and a jocular shepherd to his aristocratic flock, he became the pet confessor of princesses and the spiritual monitor of louis xiii. so zealous was he in his schemes for the relief of suffering men and women, and signally of children, that parliament expostulated, in fear that his asylums and refuges would fill paris with worthless vagrants and illegitimate children. his is an exemplary and honored figure in the roman church, and his name still clings to this tower; local legend, by a curious twisting of tradition, making him its builder! while its buyer, at the auction, is unknown to us, we do know to whom was knocked down one lot, that holds records of deeper concern to us than all the ground hereabout, thick as it is with historic footprints. the plot on the southeasterly corner of the property, fronting on rue mauconseil, was purchased by a band of players for a rental in perpetuity. the parliament of paris had not recognized the king's claim to all these ownerships, and would not give assent to some of the sales; and this perpetual lease was not confirmed by that body without long delay. we may let the players wait for this official warranty while we see who they are, whence they come, and what they play. it was a religious fraternity, calling itself "_la confrérie de la passion de notre seigneur, jésus-christ_," and it had been formed, during the closing years of the fourteenth century, mainly from out of more ancient companies. the most ancient and reputable of these was "_la basoche_," recruited from the law clerks of the palais de justice, players and playwrights both. this troupe had enjoyed a long, popular existence before it received legal existence from philippe "_le bel_," early in that same fourteenth century. from its ranks, reinforced by outsiders--among them, soon after , a bachelor of the university, françois villon--were enlisted the members of "_les enfants sans souci_." other ribald mummers called themselves "_les sots_." men from all these bands brought their farcical grossness to mitigate the pietistic grossness of our _confrérie_, and this fraternity soon grew so strong as to get letters-patent from charles vi., granting it permission for publicly performing passion-plays and mysteries, and for promenading the streets in costume. then the privileged troupe hired the hall of trinity hospital and turned it into a rude theatre, the first in paris, the mediæval stage having been of bare boards on trestles, under the sky or under canvas. on the site of this earliest of french theatres are the queen's fountain, placed in on the northeast corner of rues saint-denis and grenéta, and the buildings numbered in the latter and in the former street. there, in , the _confrères_ began the work that is called play, and there they remained until . then, during the construction of the new house, they took temporary quarters in the hôtel de flandres, not yet cut up by its purchaser at the royal sale, and settled finally, in , in the théâtre de l'hôtel de bourgogne. by then an edict of françois i. had banished from the stage all personations of jesus christ and of all holy characters; such other plays being permitted as were "profane and honest, offensive and injurious to no one." the name "mystery" does not suggest something occult and recondite, even although the greek word, from which it is wrongly derived, sometimes refers to religious services; it carries back, rather, to the latin word signifying a service or an office. the plays called "mysteries" and "moralities" were given at first in mediæval latin, or, as time went on, in the vernacular, with interludes in the same latin, which may be labelled christian or late latin. they were rudimentary essays in dramatic art, uncouth and grotesque, in tone with that "twilight of the mind, peopled with childish phantoms." hugo's description of the "_très belle moralité, le bon jugement de madame la vierge_," by pierre gringoire, played in the great hall of the palais de justice, is too long and labored to quote here; well worth quoting is the short and vivid sketch, by charles reade, of the "morality" witnessed in puerile delight by the audience, among whom sat gérard, the father of erasmus, at rotterdam, in the same brave days of louis xi. of france and philip the good of burgundy. he shows us the clumsy machinery bringing divine personages, too sacred to name, direct from heaven down on the boards, that they might talk sophistry at their ease with the cardinal virtues, the nine muses, and the seven deadly sins; all present in human shape, and all much alike. this dreary stuff was then enlivened by the entrance of the prince of the powers of air, an imp following him and buffeting him with a bladder, and at each thwack the crowd roared in ecstasy. so, to-day, the equally intelligent london populace finds joy in the wooden staff of the british punch. when the vices had vented obscenity and the virtues twaddle, the celestials with the nine muses went gingerly back to heaven on the one cloud allowed by the property-man, and worked up and down by two "supes" at a winch, in full sight of everybody. then the bottomless pit opened and flamed in the centre of the stage, and into it the vices were pushed by the virtues and the stage-carpenters, who all, with beelzebub, danced about it merrily to sound of fife and tabor. and the curtain falls on the first act. "this entertainment was writ by the bishop of ghent for the diffusion of religious sentiments by the aid of the senses, and was an average specimen of theatrical exhibitions, so long as they were in the hands of the clergy; but, in course of time, the laity conducted plays, and so the theatre, we learn from the pulpit, has become profane." the dulness of moralities and mysteries was relieved by the farces, spiced and not nice, of the "_sots_" and the "basoche" on their boards. they made fun of earthly dignitaries, ridiculing even kings. thus they represented louis xii., in his orleans thirst for money--never yet quenched in that family--drinking liquid gold from a vase. their easy-going monarch took no offence, avowing that he preferred that his court should laugh at his parsimony, rather than that his subjects should weep for his prodigalities. to win applause, in his rôle of "_le père du peuple_," he encouraged the "powerful, disorderly, but popular theatre," and he patronized pierre gringoire, whose plays drew the populace to the booths about the halles. the poet and playwright, widower of hugo's happily short-lived esmeralda, had been again married and put in good case by the whimsical toleration of louis xi., if we may accept the dates of théodore de banville's charming little play. that monarch, easily the first comedian of his time, allowed no rivals on the mimic stage, and it languished during his reign. nor did it flourish under françois i., whose brutal vices must not be made fun of. henri iv., fearless even of mirth, which may be deadly, not only gave smiling countenance to this theatre, but gave his presence at times; thus we read that, with queen and court, he sat through "_une plaisante farce_" on the evening of january , . the renaissance enriched the french stage, along with all forms of art, bringing translations through the italian of the classic drama. the theatre of the hôtel de bourgogne became la comédie italienne, and its records recall famous names, on the boards and in the audience, throughout long and honorable years. the troupe was not free from jealousies, and did not escape secessions, notably that of , when the heavy old men of the historic house cut adrift the light comedians and the young tragedians, who had been recruited within a few years, mainly from the country. those who remained devoted themselves to the "legitimate drama," yet found place for approved modern work, such as that of young racine. the seceders betook themselves to buildings on the east side of rue de renard, just north of rue de la verrerie, convenient to the crowded quarter of la grève; but removed shortly to the theatre constructed for them from a tennis-court in rue vieille-du-temple, in the heart of the populous marais. you shall go there, a little later, to see the classic dramas of a young man from rouen, named corneille. these players called themselves "_les comédiens du marais_," and by had permission from louis xiii. to take the title of "_la troupe royale_." a few years later, perhaps as early as , all the paris of players and playgoers began to talk about a strolling troupe in the southern provinces and about their manager, one poquelin de molière. how he brought his comedies and his company to the capital; how he put them both up in rivalry with the two old stock houses; how he won his way against all their opposition, and much other antagonism--this is told in our chapter on molière. in the cutting up of the ancient domain of robert of artois, after the royal sale, a short street was run north and south through the grounds, and named françois, since feminized into rue française. it lay between the tower, whose lower wall may be seen in the rear of the court of no. , and the theatre buildings, which covered the sites of present nos. and of this street and extended over the ground that now makes rue Étienne marcel. the main entrance of the theatre was about where now hangs the big gilt key on the northern side of that fragment of rue mauconseil, still left after its curtailment by many recent cuttings. gone now is every vestige of the theatre and every stone of the hôtel de bourgogne, except this tower of "_jean-sans-peur_." [illustration: the tower of "jean-sans-peur."] by happy chance, or through pious care, this precious fragment has survived the centuries that looked with unconcern on things of the past, and has come into the safe keeping of our relic-loving age. it is an authentic document from the archives of the earliest architecture of the fifteenth century, convincing in its proof of the strength for defence of ducal homes in that day. its massive stones are scrupulously shaped and fitted, the grim faces of its quadrangular walls are softened by wide ogival windows, its top is crowned all around by a deep cornice. above, the former corbelled machiolations, heavy yet elegant, are debased into water-spouts, and a new roof has been added. only the southern and eastern sides of the oblong are wholly disengaged, the other faces being mostly shut in by crowding buildings. on the angle behind is a _tourelle_ supported by corbels, and in the ogival door is a tympanum, in whose carvings we make out a plane and a plumb-line. this was the device of john of burgundy, worn on his liveries, painted and carved everywhere. louis of orleans had chosen a bunch of knotted fagots as his emblem, with the motto "_je l'ennuie_;" and burgundy's arrogant retort was the plane that cut through all that was not in plumb-line with his measurements, and the motto in flemish "_ik houd_," meaning "_je le tiens_." the great hall within has been partitioned off into small rooms, fit for the workingmen and their families formerly installed here; so that its ancient aspect of amplitude and dignity is somewhat marred. we "must make believe very much," to see either the sinner john mustering here his assassins, who file out through that door to their rendezvous with orléans, or the saint vincent gathering here his herd of hungry children. happily, the grand stairway, on one side, is unmutilated, and it serves to bring home to us the ample magnificence of these burgundian dukes. dagobert's stair crawls, through twisting darkness, within its tower; blanche's stair modestly suggests a venture toward ease and elegance in life; here we mount the stairway of a feudal _château_, broad and easy and stately, fitting frame for bejewelled courtiers and iron-clad men-at-arms. its one hundred and thirty-eight steps, each a single stone, turn spaciously about the central column, which does not reach to the tower top. its upper section is carved into a stone pot, from which springs a stone oak-tree to the centre of the vaulted ceiling of the broad platform that ends the stairway, the ribs of the vaulting outlined by carved branches and foliage. on each floor below, a large chamber, deserted and dreary, opens on the landing-place; from this upper stage a narrow staircase leads, through the thickness of the wall and up through the _tourelle_ on the angle, to the tiny chamber occupied by john of burgundy, tradition tells us. here in his bedroom, that was an arsenal, at the top of his impregnable tower, the fearless one found safety and sleep. we peep out from his one small window, and far down we see the swarming length of rue Étienne marcel, and hear the low pervasive murmur of paris all astir, accented by the shrill cries of the boys from the adjoining school, at play in the courtyard of our tower. their voices chase back to their shadowy haunts all these companions of our stroll through the ages, and call us down to our own time and to our paris of to-day. the scholars' quarter of the middle ages [illustration: the church of saint-séverin.] the scholars' quarter of the middle ages on that river-bank of the city-island which is called quai aux fleurs, you will find a modern house numbered ; and you will read, in the gold letters of the weather-stained stone slab set in the front wall, that here, in , dwelt héloise and abelard. their ideal heads are carved over the two entrance doors. this is the site of the pleasant residence occupied by canon fulbert, looking across its own garden and the beach to the river--one of the dwellings in the cloisters that were set apart for the clergy and clerks of the cathedral, and of the many parish churches clustering about it. the chapter of notre-dame owned nearly all this end of the island eastwardly from the boundaries of the old palace, and had built up this clerical village of about three dozen small houses, each within its garden and clump of acacias, all sequestered and quiet. you may see one of these houses, still owned by the cathedral, and happily left unchanged, at no. rue massillon. its low two stories and tiled roof on the court keep their old-time look, and within is a good staircase, with a wooden railing of the days before wrought iron came into use. boileau-despréaux has mounted this staircase, for he certainly visited this abode of the abbé ménage, who had literary and scientific _salons_ here, on wednesday evenings. boileau himself lived in these cloisters for many years, and here he died; and here had died philibert delorme and pierre lescot. these and many another, not connected with the church, sought this quarter for its quiet. it was quiet enough, shut in as it was by its own walls, that made of it a _cité_ inside the city of the island. the two gates at the western ends of present rues du cloître-notre-dame and chanoinesse, with two others on the shore, were safely closed and barred at nightfall, against all intrusion of the profane and noisy world without. so greedy for quiet had the dwellers grown, that they would not permit the bridge--the pont-rouge, the seventeenth-century predecessor of pont saint-louis--to step straight out from saint louis's island to their own, lest the speed of traffic should perturb them; they made it turn at an angle, until it set its twisted foot on the retired spot where now rues des ursins and des chantres meet in a small open space. the southern shore by the side of the cathedral was given up to the archbishop's palace and garden; and the piece of waste land, behind the cathedral and outside the wall, known as le terrain, was in banked up into the quay at the end of the present pretty garden. all around the northern and eastern sides of the original notre-dame, stretched the gothic arched cloisters, and in them the church taught what little it thought fit its scholars should learn. here, toward the end of the eleventh century, pierre abelard was an eager pupil of guillaume de champeaux; and early in the next century, here and in the gardens of saint-geneviève, he was a honey-tongued teacher. he lodged in the house of canon fulbert, in whose niece of seventeen--less than half his own age--he found an ardent learner, not alone in theology. here, on this spot, she taught herself that devotion to the poor-spirited lover who was so bold-spirited a thinker; a devotion, that, outlasting his life by the twenty years of her longer life, found expression in her dying wish, put into verse by alexander pope: "may one kind grave unite each hapless name, and graft my love immortal on thy fame." he died at the priory of saint-marcel near châlons, whose prior sent the body, at her request, to héloise, then abbess of the convent at nogent-sur-seine, and famed as a miracle of erudition and piety. she was buried in the grave she there dug for him, and in , when her convent was destroyed, leaving no stone, the tomb and its contents were removed to the museum of french monuments in paris, and in they were placed in père-lachaise. we willingly lose sight of abelard's sorry story in face of his splendid powers. these came into play at a period of mental and spiritual awakening, brought about by unwonted light from all quarters of the sky. theological questions filled the air; asked, not only by priests and clerks, but by the silly crowd and by wistful children, and by gray-headed men sitting on school benches. the crusades, failing in material conquest, had won the holy land of eastern learning; and constantinople, lost later to the christian world, gave to it fleeing greek scholars, carrying precious manuscripts, byzantine logic and physics, all through europe. pious soldiers, coming home with wealth; stay-at-home churchmen, who had amassed riches; royalty, anxious to placate rome--all these built colleges, founded scholarships, endowed chairs, subsidized teachers. from the cloisters on the island--the cradle of the university, as the palace at the other end of the island was the cradle of the town--from the new cathedral that abelard had not seen, the schools stepped over to the mainland on the south. there, on the shore, were built the college of the four nations, and the school of medicine, alongside that annex of the old hôtel-dieu, which was reached by the little bridge, that went only the other day, and that led from the central structure on the island. from this shore the scholars' quarter spread up the slope to the summit of mont-sainte-geneviève. there teachers and scholars met in the cloisters of the great abbey, that had grown up around the tomb of the patron saint of paris, where now stands the panthéon. of the huge basilica, its foundations laid by clovis--who had paid for a victory by his baptism into christianity--there is left the tower, rising, aged and estranged, above the younger structures of the lycée henri iv. its foundations under ground are of clovis, its lower portion is of eleventh-century rebuilding, its upper portion of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. the plan of his cloisters, and some of its stones, are kept in the arches of the college court, to which one enters from no. rue clovis. and, in the street named for his wife, clotilde, you may see the massive side wall of the abbey refectory, now the college chapel. around about the southern side of the abbey, and around the schools on the slope below, that were the beginning of the university, philippe-auguste threw the protecting arm of his great wall. within its clasp lay the _pays latin_, wherein that tongue was used exclusively in those schools. this language, sacred to so-called learning and unknown to the vulgar, seemed a fit vehicle for the lame science of the doctor, and the crippled dialectics of the theologian, both always in arms against the "new learning." it was not until the close of henri iv.'s reign, that it was thought worth while to use the french language in the classes. all through the middle ages, this university was a world-centre for its teaching, and through all the ages it has been "that prolific soil in which no seeds, which have once been committed to it, are ever permitted to perish." while _la cité_ was the seat of a militant church, and _la ville_ the gathering-place of thronging merchants, this hill-side swarmed with students, and their officials were put to it to house them properly and keep them orderly. they got on as best they might, ill-lodged, ill-fed, ill-clad, often begging, always roistering, in the streets. by day the sedate burghers of the other quarters trembled for their ducats and their daughters, and found peace only when night brought the locking of the gate of the petit-châtelet, and the shutting up in their own district of the turbulent students. turbulent still, the students of our day, of every land and all tongues--except latin--stream through the streets of the latin quarter, intent on study, or on pleasure bent. only the revolution has ever thinned their ranks, what time the legislative assembly nearly wrecked the parent university, with all its offspring throughout france. napoleon rescued them all, and by his legislation of and , the university has been builded solidly on the foundations of the state. the ancient scholars' quarter, unlighted and undrained and unhealthful, is almost all gone; its narrow, tortuous streets are nearly all widened or wiped out; open spaces and gardens give it larger lungs; its dark, damp, mouldy colleges have made way for grandiose structures of the latest sanitation. yet the gray walls of the annex of the hôtel-dieu still gloom down on the narrow street; the fifteenth-century school of medicine, its vast hall perverted to base uses, is hidden behind the entrance of no. rue de la bucherie; and above the buildings on the west side of rue de l'hôtel-colbert rises the rotunda of its later amphitheatre. rue galande retains many of its houses of the time of charles ix., when these gables on the street were erected. except for the superb façade at no. rue de la parcheminerie--a municipal residence dating from about the middle of the eighteenth century--that venerable street remains absolutely unaltered since its very first days, when the parchment-makers took it for their own. some of their parchment seems to be still on sale in its shop windows. in the ancient house no. rue boutebrie you will find as perfect a specimen of a mediæval staircase, its wooden rail admirably carved, as is left in paris. and the street of the mountain of sainte-geneviève still winds, stonily steep, up the slope. [illustration: rue hautefeuille, a survivor of the scholars' quarter.] nothing of rue du fouarre, as it was known to rabelais and dante, is left but its name in the broadened curtailment of this most ancient street. that name comes from the old french word meaning "forage," and was given to it at the time when the wealthier students bought near there and brought into it the trusses of hay and straw, which they spread on the floor for seats during the lectures, the reader himself being seated on a rude dais at the end of the hall. the forage market is still held, not far away, in place maubert. and the churches of saint-julien-le-pauvre and of saint-séverin are unchanged, except by age, since those days when their bells were the only timekeepers for lecturers and lectured; giving signal, throughout the day, for the divisions of the classes, until vespers told that the working-day was done. the schools opened with the early mass at saint-julien-le-pauvre, then the chapel adjoining the hôtel-dieu, now an exquisite relic of simple twelfth-century gothic. still older had been saint-séverin, a chapel of the earliest years of the monarchy, destroyed by the normans when they camped just here in , besieging the island city and making their onslaught on the wooden tower that guarded the abutment of the petit-pont on the mainland. the twelve heroes, who held that tower against the norman horde, are commemorated by the tablet in the wall of place du petit-pont. saint-séverin was rebuilt in the thirteenth century, and its vast burial-ground on the south covered by the buildings and the street of la parcheminerie. so that of the university seen by dante, we can be sure only of the body of saint-séverin--its tower was built in --and of saint-julien-le-pauvre, and the buildings that are glued to it. [illustration: the interior of saint-julien-le-pauvre.] dante's bronze figure looks pensively down from the terrace of the collége de france on all the noise and the newness of modern rue des Écoles. the date of his short stay in paris cannot be fixed, but it was certainly after his exile from florence, therefore not earlier than , and probably not later than , his own years being a little less, or a little more, than forty. there can be no doubt as to his having visited paris, for boccaccio, his admirer and biographer, records the fact; told him perhaps by the elder boccaccio, who lived in the capital--where his famous son was born--and who probably met the expatriated poet there. and in the tenth canto of "_paradiso_," we find these words in longfellow's translation: "it is the light eternal of sigieri, who, reading lectures in the street of straw, did syllogize individious verities." this closing line, meaning that sigier of brabant had the courage to speak truths that were unpopular, explains why he was dante's favorite lecturer. in balzac's pretty fragment of romance, in which the great frenchman makes so vivid the presence of the great italian, the home of the latter is in one of the small houses on the extreme eastern end of the city island--such as the modest dwelling in which died boileau-despréaux, four centuries later. from there, balzac has dante ferried over to quai de la tournelle, and so stroll to his lectures. but dante's home was really in that same street of straw, to which he had come from his quarters away south on the banks of the bièvre, too far away from the schools. he had taken up his abode in that rural suburb, on first coming to paris, as did many men of letters, of that time and of later times, who were drawn to the pleasant, quiet country without the walls. there was one among these men to whose home, tradition tells us, dante was fond of finding his way, after he had come to live in the narrow town street. the grave figure goes sedately up rue saint-jacques, always the great southern thoroughfare, passing the ancient chapel of the martyrs, saint-benoît-le-bétourné, and the home and shelter for poor students in theology, started by the earnest confessor of saint louis, robert de sorbon. the foundations of his little chapel, built in , were unearthed in during the digging for the new sorbonne; and its walls are outlined in white stone in the gray pavement of the new court. not a stone remains of the old sorbonne, not a stone of the rebuilt sorbonne of richelieu, except his chapel and his tomb; well worth a visit for the exquisite beauty of its detail. but the soul of the historic foundation lives on, younger than ever to-day, in its seventh century of youth. through porte saint-jacques, dante passes to the dwelling, just beyond, of jean de meung, its site now marked by a tablet in the wall of the house no. rue saint-jacques. no doubt it was a sufficiently grand mansion in its own grounds, for it was the home of the well-to-do parents of the poet, whose lameness gave him the popular nickname of "_clopinel_," preferred by him to the name by which he is best known, which came from his natal town. in this home, a few years earlier, he had finished his completion of "le roman de la rose," one of the earliest of french poems, a biting satire on women and priests, begun by guillaume de lorris. "_clopinel_" carried on the unfinished work to such perfection, that he is commonly looked on as the sole author. dante admired the work as fully as did chaucer, who has left a translation into english of a portion:--so admirable a version that it moved eustace deschamps to enthusiasm in his ballad to "_le grand translateur, noble geoffroi chaucer_." and dante liked the workman as well, his equal in genius, many of their contemporaries believed; and we shall not aggrieve history, if we insist on seeing the grim-visaged florentine and the light-hearted gaul over a bottle of _petit vin de vouvray or de chinon_--for the vineyards of this southern slope of paris had been rooted up by the builder early in the twelfth century--in the low-browed living-room, discussing poetry and politics, the schism in the church, the quarrel between the french king and his spiritual father of rome. behind us in rue saint-jacques, beneath the new sorbonne, we have left the site of the chapel of saint-benoît-le-bétourné. the entrance to its cloisters and gardens was opposite rue du cimetière-saint-benoît, a short street, now widened, that retains a few of its ancient houses, the cemetery at its farther end being entirely builded over. this entrance-gate is standing in the gardens of the cluny museum, and we see it as it was first seen by the boy françois villon, and last seen when he fled under it, after killing a priest in the cloisters. he got his name from the worthy canon of saint-benoît, guillaume de villon, who took in the waif and gave him a roof and food, and tried to give him morals; and it is by his name that the poet is known in history rather than by the other names, real or assumed, that he bore during his shifty life. he lived here with his "more than father," as the young scamp came to own that the canon had been; whose house in the cloister gardens, named "_la porte rouge_," was not far from the house of the canon pierre de vaucel, with whose niece françois got into his first scrape. loving her then, he libelled her later in his verse. full of scrapes of all sorts were his thirty short years of life--he was born in the year of the burning of joan the maid, and he slips out of sight and of record in --and it needed all his nimble wits to keep his toes from dangling above ground and his neck from swinging in a noose. they did not keep him from poverty and hunger and prison. parliament, nearly hanging him, banished him instead from paris, and the footsore cockney figure is seen tramping through poitou, berri, bourbonnais. louis xi. finds him in a cell at meung and, sympathizing with rascality that was not political, sets him free and on foot again; so playing providence to this starveling poet as he did to gringoire. and from meung, françois villon steals out of history, leaving to us his "small" and "large testament," a few odes and sonnets, with bits of wholly exquisite song. no french poet before him had put _himself_ into his verse, and it is this flavor of personality that gives its chiefest charm to his work. we are won by the graceless vagabond, who casts up and tells off his entire existence of merriment and misery, in the words of mr. henley's superb translation: "booze and the blowens cop the lot." he seems to be owning to it, this slight, alert figure of bronze in square monge, as he faces the meeting-place of wide modern streets. the spaciousness of it all puzzles him, who prowled about the darkest purlieus, and haunted the uncleanest _cabarets_, of the old university quarter. he is struck suddenly quiescent in his swagger; his face, slightly bent down, shows the poet dashed with the reprobate; his expression and attitude speak of struggling shame and shamelessness. his right hand holds a manuscript to his breast, his left hand clasps the dagger in his belt. behind, on the ground, lie the mandolin of the poet-singer and the shackles of the convict. it is a delightfully expressive statue of françois villon, by his own election one of the "_enfants sans souci_," and by predestination a child of grievous cares. from square monge it is but a step to the tablet that marks the place of porte saint-victor, on the northern side of the remnant left of the street of that name. it is but a step in the other direction to the tablet on the wall of no. rue descartes, which shows the site of porte saint-marcel, sometimes called the porte bordée. through either of these gates of the great wall one might pass to the home of a poet, a hundred years after villon had gone from sight; like him, born to true poetry, but unlike him who was born to rags, pierre de ronsard was born to the purple. he was a gentleman of noble lineage, he had been educated at the famous collége de navarre, the college at that period of henri iii. and of the duke of guise, _le balafré_--its site and its prestige since taken by the École polytechnique--he had entered the court of the duke of orleans as a page, he had gone to scotland as one of the escort of madeleine of france, on her marriage with james v. he was counted among the personal friends of mary stuart and of charles ix., and by him was selected always as a partner in tennis. that king visited ronsard here, and so, too, did his brother henri iii. tasso found his way here, while in paris in , in the train of cardinal louis d'este. it seems that nothing in all france was to tasso's taste, except the windmills on montmartre; easily in view, at that day, from the louvre, at whose windows he watched the ceaseless whirling of their sails, which mitigated his boredom. twenty years earlier, rabelais was fond of ferrying across the river, from his home in rue des jardins-saint-paul, to prowl about his once familiar haunts in this quarter, and to drop in on ronsard and baïf, the leaders of the school of "learned poets." they lived in rue des fossés-saint-victor, the street formed over the outer ditch of the wall, now named rue du cardinal-lemoine. their house and grounds, just at the corner of present rue des boulangers, have been cut through and away by the piercing of rue monge. here, ronsard looked across the meadows to the seine, while he strolled in the gardens, book in hand, eager "to gather roses while it is called to-day," in the words of mr. andrew lang's version of the "prince of poets." for ronsard's deafness, which had cut short his adroit diplomatic career, had given him quicker vision for all beauty; and his verse, greek and latin and french, trips to the music made in him by the sights and scents of summer, by roses and by women, by the memories of "shadow-loves and shadow-lips." and, still rhyming, this most splendid of that constellation--those singers, attuned to stately measure, called the pleiades--died in the year , soon after his sixtieth birthday. [illustration: pierre de ronsard. (from a drawing by an unknown artist, in a private collection.)] from here we go straight away over the hill of sainte-geneviève and through porte saint-michel--nearly at the meeting-place of rues soufflot and monsieur-le-prince and boulevard saint-germain--to the house, also in the fields outside the wall, where dwelt clément marot, a poet who sang pleasantly of the graces of life, too, but who had a more serious strain deep down. the "_cheval d'airan_"--so was the house named--was a gift to the poet from françois i. "for his good, continuous, and faithful services." these services consisted chiefly in the writing of roundelays and verses, in which "he had a turn of his own," says sainte-beuve; a turn of grace and of good breeding, and no passion that should startle the king's sister, good marguerite of navarre, who had made him her groom of the chamber. he had been a prisoner at pavia with the king, and his life had been spent in the camp and the court. at ferrara, in , he had met his fellow-countryman calvin, and returned to paris to prove his strengthened convictions in the new heresies by those translations of the psalms, which carried comfort to calvin and to luther, and which have given to their writer his permanent place in french literature. during this period he lived in this grand mansion, the site of which is exactly covered by the houses no. rue de tournon and no. rue de condé. and from here marot went into exile, along with the well-to-do huguenots, who clung together in this quarter outside the wall. "_nous autres l'appelons la petite genève_," said d'aubigné, and that appellation held for a long time. its centre was the short, narrow lane in the marshes, named later rue des marais-saint-germain, and now rue visconti, wherein the persecuted sect had their hidden place of worship. on its corner with the present rue de seine was the home of jean cousin, that gentleman-worker in stained glass--the sole handicraft allowed to men of birth--who has left for our joy that exquisite window in the church of saint-gervais. at the western end of the lane was the residence built for himself by baptiste du cerceau, son of the illustrious jacques androuët, and as stanch as was his father for the faith. his great mansion took up the whole end of the block, on the ground covered now by the equally large building that makes rue jacob, rue bonaparte, and and rue visconti. a portion of this latter structure may be of the sixteenth century. baptiste du cerceau, a huguenot by birth and bringing-up, had yet joined henri iii.'s famous "forty-five," in , when he was only twenty years old. for ten years he served that king as soldier and architect, and then, rather than attend mass or conform against his convictions, he left king and court and home in . he came back with henri iv. as royal architect, to find that his elegant residence had fallen into ruin. [illustration: balcony over the entrance of the cour du dragon.] when bernard palissy, released from his dungeon in bordeaux, came to paris, he was made "worker in earth and inventor of rustic figulines," for the new abode in the tile fields, beyond the louvre, that was planned for the queen-mother, catherine de' medici. "bernard of the tuileries," as he was known, in order to be near his work, lodged on the northern side of rue saint-honoré, just east of present rue de castiglione. later he removed to rue du dragon, nearly opposite the little street now named in his honor, and so became one of the colony of "_la petite genève_." here he worked as he worked always in his passion for perfection in ornamental pottery, giving to it all "my affection for pursuing in the track of enamels," in his own quaint words. for his single-mindedness in praising his creator, and in making worthy images of his creations, he was looked on as a "_huguenot opiniâtre_," and hated by the powers of the church and state, who, failing to burn him, because of the mercy of the duke of mayenne, cast him into the bastille. with all paris hungry, during the siege of the league by henry of navarre, the prisoners took their turn, and this old man renewed the experience of his youth, when he had starved himself for his beloved enamels. and so, at the age of eighty, in the year of the stabbing by jacques clément of the most christian king, henri iii., bernard palissy died in his cell "naturally," the report said. a medallion of the great potter may be seen over the entrance of a house in rue du dragon, and his statue stands in the little garden of saint-germain-des-prés, not far away. he is in his workman's garb, gazing down at a platter on which he has stamped his genius in clay. we have seen john calvin, fresh from picardy, a student at the collége du cardinal-lemoine, in rue saint-victor, and this is his only residence in paris known to us. appointed curé of pont l'evêque, at the age of sixteen, he was induced by a daring relative to read the bible, and the ultimate result was calvinism, as it has been interpreted by his bigoted disciples. the immediate result was his persecution by the sorbonne, and his flight to ferrara, about the year . there he met with welcome and protection, as did many a political fugitive of the time, from renée, the reigning duchess, as kindly a creature as was her father, louis xii. of france. but her goodwill could not prevail against the ill-will of the church, and calvin was forced to find his way finally to switzerland, to live there for thirty useful years. marot, who was with calvin in ferrara, went back to paris, still countenanced at court; but no favor of king or king's sister could save a sinner who would eat meat during lent; and in marot was forced to flee to italy, and died in turin in . he lives less in his special verse than in his general influence, along with rabelais and montaigne, in the formation of french letters. these three cleansed that language into literature, by purging it of the old gallic chaos and clumsiness of form. so the church made a desert, and called it peace, and "little geneva" was at last laid waste, and those leaders, who escaped the cell and the stake, were made refugees, because they had been insurgents against enslaved thought. but they left behind them him who has been styled the "martyr of the renaissance," Étienne dolet. here, in place maubert, this bronze figure on the high pedestal, which he somehow makes serve as a protestant pulpit, looks all the martyr, with his long, stubborn neck, his stiff spine of unbending conviction, his entire attitude of aggressive devotion to principle. in life he was so strong and so genuine that he made friends almost as many as enemies. that glorious woman, marguerite of navarre--whose absurd devotion to her brother francis is only a lovable flaw in her otherwise faultless nature--stood by dolet as she stood by so many men who had the courage to study and think and speak. she saved him from execution, when he had killed a man in self-defence at lyons, and she should have been allowed to sit at table with the friends who gave him a little dinner in the _pays latin_ to celebrate his escape. among those about the board were marot, rabelais, erasmus, melancthon, tradition says, and says no more. we are told nothing about the speechmakers, and we can only guess that they were terribly in earnest. dolet was soon again in arrest for printing books forbidden by the church; his trial resulted in an acquittal. soon again he was arrested for importing the forbidden literature, and escaped from prison. rearrested, he was speedily convicted, and on august , , he was burned in place maubert, on the spot where they have put his statue. [illustration: clément marot. (from the portrait by porbus le jeune, in a private collection.)] it was during one of his visits in later life to paris that erasmus came to be among these _convives_; perhaps at the time he was considering, before declining, the offer of françois i. to make him the head of the great collége royal, planned--and no more than planned--by the king on the site of the hôtel de nesle, where mazarin afterward placed his college of the four nations, now the seat of the institute. many years before this visit, some time between and , erasmus had lived in paris, a poor and unhappy student in the collége montaigu. it had earned the nickname of "_collége des haricots_," because of the lenten fare lavished on its inmates--beans, stale eggs, spoiled fish, and that monotony broken by frequent fasts. erasmus had a catholic conscience, as he owns, but a lutheran stomach withal, and this semi-starvation, with the filth and fleas in the rooms, sickened him and drove him home to cleanly and well-fed flanders. from this college, he says in his "colloquia," "i carried nothing but a body infected with disease, and a plentiful supply of vermin." a few years later young rabelais suffered similar horrors at the same college, and has cursed its memories through grangousier's capable lips. this "galley for slaves" was indeed used as a prison during the revolution, and was torn down in , to give place to the bibliothèque sainte-geneviève. from place maubert we walk up rue monge--named from the great _savant_ of the first empire--and down to the seventeenth century, to where, on the corner of rue rollin, we find the tablet that records the scene of blaise pascal's death in . he lived and died in the house of his sister, in the fields just beyond porte saint-marcel. thirty-one years before, he had left auvergne for paris, a precocious lad of eight, already so skilled in mathematics and geometry that he produced his famous treatises while still in his teens, and at the age of twenty-three was known for his abilities throughout europe. no man dying, as he did, not yet forty years of age, has left so distinct and permanent an impress on contemporary, and on later, thought. he gained the honor of being hated by the church, and the jesuits named him "_porte d'enfer_." his only answer was the philosophic question, "how can i _prove_ that i am not the gate of hell?" this many-sided genius invented the first calculating machine and the first omnibus. the line was started on march , , and ran from the palace of the luxembourg to the bastille. its route was probably by rue de la harpe--almost all gone under boulevard saint-michel--across petit-pont and the island and pont notre-dame, to place de grève, and thence by rues françois-miron and saint-antoine, to the gate and the prison at the end. it was long a matter of dispute between the towers of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie and saint-jacques-du-haut-pas--this latter much nearer his home--as to which one had been selected by pascal for the experiments he made, to prove his theory of atmospheric pressure, and to refute the theory of his opponents. within a few years this question has been answered by an old painting, found in a curiosity shop, which represents pascal, barometer in hand, standing on the top of saint-jacques-de-la-boucherie, beside the statue of the chimæra, that has been carried to the cluny museum. this figure alone would fix the spot, but, in addition, the picture gives a view of old paris that could be seen only from this point of view. this elegant isolated tower--all that is left of a church dating from the beginnings of christian construction, and destroyed during the revolution--was itself erected late in the fifteenth and early in the sixteenth century, and shows the last effort of mediæval gothic in paris. it is now used as a weather observatory. pascal's statue, by cavelier, has been placed under the great vaulted arch that forms its base, and all about, in the little park, are instruments for taking and recording all sorts of atmospheric changes. it may have been while driving between this tower and his sister's house, that pascal's carriage was overturned on pont-neuf, and he narrowly escaped death by falling or by drowning. from that day he gave up his service to science, and gave himself up solely to the service of god. into his "thoughts" he put all his depth of reflection and his intensity of feeling, all his force and finish of phrase. yet, always behind this christian philosopher, we are conscious of the man of feeling, who owns that he could be drawn down from his high meditations, and could be drawn up from his profound melancholy, by "_un peu de bon temps, un bon mot, une louange, une caresse_." his body was laid in the abbey church of sainte-geneviève, and was removed, on the destruction of that edifice in , to its successor in tradition and sentiment, saint-Étienne-du-mont. it rests at the base of one of the outer pillars of the lady chapel, opposite the spot of racine's final sepulture. the two tablets from their original tombs have been set in the pillars of the first chapel on the southern side of the choir, just behind the exquisite rood-screen. when aged rue rollin was quite young it was christened rue neuve-saint-Étienne, and it was bordered by cottages standing in their own gardens, looking down the slope across the town to the river, this being the highest street on the hill-side. its length has been lessened by rue monge, and that portion left to the east of the new street is now rue de navarre. rue monge was cut through the crest of the hill, so that one must mount by stone steps to the old level of the western end of rue neuve-saint-Étienne, named anew in honor of the scholar and historian, who has given his name also to the great college, since removed from this quarter to boulevard rochechouart, away off on the northern heights. charles rollin was an earnest student, an unusually youthful rector of the university, and principal of the college of beauvais in , and a writer of history and _belles-lettres_ of great charm but little weight. he was, withal, an honest soul, somewhat naïve, of simple tastes and of quiet life. so he came to this secluded quarter, when a little over seventy, and here he died in . his cottage is numbered in the street, and is occupied by the school of sainte-geneviève, whose demure maidens do no violence to his tranquil garden in which they stroll. for their use a small pavilion has been built in the rear of the garden, but there is no other change. the two latin lines, inscribed by him in praise of his rural home within the town, remain on an inner wall of his cottage at your left as you enter. fifty years later another writer found a quiet home in this same street. hidden behind the heavy outer door of no. , a roomy mansion built in by a country-loving subject of louis xiii., is a tablet that tells of the residence here, from to , of jacques-henri bernardin de saint-pierre. a man of finer qualities and subtler charm than rollin, his work is of no greater weight in our modern eyes, for with all the refinement of imagination and the charm of description that made his pen "a magic wand" to sainte-beuve, his emotional optimism grows monotonous, and his exuberant sensibility flows over into sentimentality. in the court of his house is an ancient well, and behind lies a lovable little garden, with a rare iron rail and gateway. this traveller in many lands, this adorer of nature, took keen delight in his outlook, from his third-story windows, over this garden and the gardens beyond, to the seine. here in he wrote "studies from nature," an instantaneous success, surpassed only by the success of "paul and virginia," published in . possibly no book has ever had such a vogue. it was after reading this work, in italy, that the young bonaparte wrote to bernardin: "your pen is a painter's brush." yet his reading of the manuscript, before its publication, in the _salon_ of madame necker, had merely bored his hearers, and the humiliated author had fled from their yawns to this congenial solitude. the narrow street has suffered slight change since those days, or since those earlier days, when rené descartes found a temporary home, probably on the site of present no. , a house built since his day here. that was between , when he first came from brittany, and , when he went to the netherlands. but there can be found no trace of the stay in this street, nor of the secluded home in the faubourg saint-germain, of the founder of cartesian philosophy--the first movement in the direction of modern philosophy--the father of modern physiology, as huxley claims, and of modern psychology, as its students allow. his wandering life, in search always of truth, ended in , at the court of christina of sweden. his body was brought back to france by the ambassador of louis xiv., and placed in the old church of sainte-geneviève. in , the convention decreed its removal to the recently completed and secularized panthéon, and from there it was carried for safe keeping, along with so many others, to the museum of french monuments. in it found final resting-place in saint-germain-des-prés, in the third chapel on the southern side of the choir. the man himself lives for us on the wonderful canvas of franz hals in the gallery of the louvre. [illustration: rené descartes. (from the portrait by franz hals, in the musée du louvre.)] the paris of the north bank has its slope, that looks across the seine to this southern slope, and that has come to be its scholarly quarter. the high land away behind the lowlands stretching along the northern bank was taken early by the romans for their villas, and then by nobles for their _châteaux_, and then by the _bourgeoisie_ for their cottages. as _la ville_ grew, its citizens gave all their thought to honest industry and to the honest struggle for personal and municipal rights, so that none was left for literature. when its time came, the town had spread up and over these northern heights, and men of letters and of the arts were attracted by their open spaces and ample outlook. so large a colony of these workers had settled there, early in the nineteenth century, that some among them gave to their hill-side the name of "_la nouvelle athènes_." its vogue has gone on growing, and it is crowded with the memories of dead pen-workers, and with the presence of living pen-workers. so, too, are the suburbs toward the west, and this scholars' quarter on the southern bank, which is barely touched on in this book, given so greatly as it is to history, archæology, architecture, and other arts. all this wide-spread district awaits the diligent pen that has given us "the literary landmarks of london," to give us, as completely and accurately, "the literary landmarks of paris." moliÈre and his friends moliÈre and his friends in the early years of the seventeenth century there stood a low, wide, timbered house on the eastern corner of rues saint-honoré and des vieilles-Étuves. to the dwellers in that crowded quarter of the halles it was known as "_la maison des singes_," because of the carved wooden tree on its angle, in the branches of which wooden monkeys shook down wooden fruit to an old wooden monkey at its foot. this house, that dated from the thirteenth century surely, and that may have been a part of queen blanche's paris, was torn down only in , and a slice of its site has been cut off by rue sauval, the widened and renamed rue des vieilles-Étuves. the modern building on that corner, numbered rue saint-honoré, is so narrow as to have only one window on each of its three floors facing that street. around the first story, above the butcher's shop on the entrance floor, runs a balcony with great gilt letters on its rail, that read "_maison de molière_." high up on its front wall is a small tablet, whose legend, deciphered with difficulty from the street, claims this spot for the birthplace of molière. this is a veracious record. the exact date of the birth of the eldest son of jacques poquelin and marie cressé, his wife, is unknown, but it was presumably very early in january, , for, on the fifteenth of that month, the baby was baptized "jean poquelin," in his father's parish church of saint-eustache--a new church not quite completed then. the name "baptiste" was, seemingly, added a little later by his parents. on this corner the boy lived for eleven years; here his mother died, ten years after his birth, and here his father soon married again; he removed, in , to a house he had inherited, the ground floor of which he made his shop of upholstery and of similar stuffs, the family residing above. it was no. rue de la tonnellerie, under the pillars of the halles, possibly, but not certainly, on the site of the present no. rue du pont-neuf. in a niche, cut in the front wall of this modern building, has been placed a bust of molière and an inscription asserting that this was his birthspot, a local legend that harms no one, and comforts at least the _locataire_. hereabout, certainly, the boy played, running forward and back across the market. on its northern side, near the public pillory, was another house owned by his father, on the old corner of rue de la réale, and its site is now covered by the pavement of modern rue rambuteau. it is pleasant to picture the lad in this ancient quarter, as we walk through those few of its streets unchanged to this day, notably that bit of rue de la ferronerie, so narrow that it blocked the carriage of henri iv., a few years before, and brought him within easy reach of the knife of ravaillac as he sprang on the wheel. françois coppée, not yet an old man, readily recalls the square squat columns of the old halles, and, all about, the solid houses supported by pillars like the arcades of place des vosges; all just as when young poquelin played about them. plays, as well as play, already attracted him; he loved to look at the marionettes and the queer side-shows of the outdoor fairs held about the halles; and his grandfather, louis cressé, an ardent playgoer, often took him to laugh at the funny fellows who frolicked on the trestles of the pont-neuf, and at the rollicking farces in the théâtre du marais. no doubt he saw, too, the tragedies of the theatre of the hôtel de bourgogne, and this observant boy may well have anticipated the younger crébillon's opinion, that french tragedy of that day was the most absolute farce yet invented by the human mind. for this was a little while before the coming of corneille with true tragedy. this son of the king's upholsterer cared nothing for his father's trade, and not much for books. he learned, early, that his eyes were meant for seeing, and he not only saw everything, but he remembered and reflected; showing signs already of that bent which gave warrant, in later life, for boileau's epithet, "molière the contemplator." he was sent, in , being then fourteen years old, to the collége de clermont, named a little later, and still named, lycée louis-le-grand. rebuilt during the second empire, it stands on its old site behind the collége de france, in widened rue saint-jacques. here, during his course of five years, he was sufficiently diligent in such studies as happened to please him; and was prominent in the plays, acted by the scholars at each prize-giving. he made many friendships with boys who became famous men; with one, just leaving school as he came, who especially stood his friend in after life--the youthful prince de conti, younger brother of the great condé. and this elder brother became, years after, the friend and protector of the young actor-playwright, just as he was of some others of that famous group, racine, la fontaine, boileau. all these, along with all men eminent in any way, were welcomed to his grand seat at chantilly, and were frequent guests at his great town-house, whose _salon_ was a rival to that of the hôtel de rambouillet. his mansion, with its grounds, occupied the whole of that triangular space bounded now by rues de vaugirard, de condé, and monsieur-le-prince. at the northern point of that triangle, nearly on the ground now covered by the second théâtre français, the odéon, stood the prince's private theatre; wherein molière, by invitation, played the rôles of author, actor, manager. molière's customary rôle in this great house was that of friend of the host, who wrote to him: "come to me at any hour you please; you have but to announce your name; you visit can never be ill-timed." jean-baptiste poquelin betook himself early to the boards for which he was born, from which he could not be kept by his course at college or at law. he studied law fitfully for a while; sufficiently, withal, to lay up a stock of legal technicalities and procedure, which he employed with precision in many of his plays. so, too, he took in, no doubt unconsciously, details of his father's business; and his references, in his stage-talk, to hangings, furniture, and costumes, are frequent and exact. the father, unable to journey with the king to narbonne in the spring of , as his official duties demanded, had his son appointed to the place, and the young man, accompanying the court and playing _tapissier_ on this journey, saw, it is said, the execution of cinq-mars and de thou. in the provinces at this time, or it may have been in paris earlier, he met, became intimate with, and soon after joined, a troupe of strolling players, made up of joseph béjart, his two sisters madeleine and geneviève, and other young parisians. this troupe was touring in languedoc early in , and was rather strong in its talent and fortunate in its takings; in no way akin to that shabby set of barnstormers satirized by scarron in his "roman comique." we cannot fix the date of poquelin's _début_ in the company, but we know that--with the unhallowed ambition of the born and predestined comedian--he began in tragedy, and that he was greeted by his rural audiences with hootings, punctuated by the pelting of fried potatoes, then sold at the theatre door. and we know that the troupe came north to rouen in the autumn of , playing a night or two in the natal town of corneille. it is a plausible and a pleasing fancy that sees the glory of french dramatic art of that day, at home on a visit to his mother, receiving free tickets for the show, with the respects of the young recruit to the stage, the glory of french dramatic art at no distant day. the troupe had gone to rouen and to other provincial towns only while awaiting the construction of their theatre in the capital, contracted for during the summer. at last, on the evening of december , , it raised its first curtain to the parisian public, under the brave, or the bumptious, title of "l'illustre théâtre." to trace, from his first step on paris boards, the successive sites of molière's theatres is a delightful task, in natural continuation of that begun in an earlier chapter, where those theatres in existence before his time were pointed out. in england, we know, stage-players were "strollers and vagabonds" by statute; not allowed to play within london's walls. all their early theatres were outside the city limits. the globe, the summer theatre of shakespeare and his "fellows"--"whereon was prepared scaffolds for beholders to stand upon"--was across the thames, on bankside, southwark. so, too, were the hope, the rose, the swan. the curtain was in shoreditch, davenant's theatre in lincoln's inn fields, and the blackfriars theatre on ludgate hill, just without the old wall. the early playhouses of paris were built--but for another reason--on the outer side of the town wall of philippe-auguste, and their seemingly unaccountable situations are easily accounted for by following on either bank the course of that wall, already plainly mapped out in preceding pages. this magnificent wall of a magnificent monarch had lost much of its old significance for defence with the coming of gunpowder, and a new use was found for it, in gentler games than war, as the town outgrew its encircling limits. in the middle ages, tennis--the oldest ball-game known--was a favorite sport of kings and of those about them. it was called _le jeu de paume_, being played with the hand until the invention of the racket; the players standing in the ditch outside the wall, against which the ball was thrown. beyond the ditch was built the court for onlookers, the common folk standing on its floor, their betters seated in the gallery. when the game lost its vogue, these courts were easily and cheaply turned into the rude theatres of that day, with abundant space for actors and spectators; those of low degree crowding on foot in the body of the building, those who paid a little more seated in the galleries, those of high degree on stools and benches at the side of the stage, and even on the stage itself. this encroachment on the stage, within sight of the audience, grew to such an abuse that it was done away with in , and the scene was left solely to the players. where a tablet is let into the wall of the present nos. and rue mazarine, then named the fossé-de-nesle--the ancient outer ditch of the old wall--a roomy playhouse had been contrived from a former tennis-court owned by arnold mestayer, a solid citizen of the town, captain of the hundred musketeers of henri iv.'s day. this was the theatre taken by the béjart troupe and named "l'illustre théâtre." here young poquelin made his first bow to paris. the building stood on the sites of the present nos. , , and rue mazarine, its only entrance for spectators reached by an alley that ran along the line between nos. and , and so through to rue de seine, to where the buildings extended over the ground now covered by nos. and . these latter houses are claimed by local legend for molière's residence, and it may well be that the rear part of the theatre served as sleeping-quarters for the troupe. the interior of no. is of very ancient construction, its front being of later date. in the wall between it and no. --a low wooden structure, possibly a portion of the original fabric--is hidden the well that served first the tennis-players and then the stage-players. there is no longer any communication between these houses in rue de seine and those in rue mazarine. these latter were built in , when the street was widened, that portion of the old theatre having been demolished a few years earlier. it was in june, , that the name molière first appears, signed--it is his earliest signature in existence--among the rest of the company, to a contract with a dancing man for the theatre. how he came to select this name is not known, nor was it known to any of his young comrades; for he always refused to give his reasons. what is known, is that it was a name of weight even then, proving that, within the first six months of the theatre's existence, his business ability had made him its controlling spirit. but his abilities as manager and as actor could not bring success to the theatre. foreign and civil wars made the state poor; wide-spread financial troubles made the people poor; that cruelly cold winter froze out the public. "_nul animal vivant n'entra dans notre salle_," are the bitterly true words, put into the mouth of the young actor-manager, by an unknown writer of a scurrilous verse. he and the troupe were liberated from their lease within the year, and, early in , they migrated over the river to the _jeu de paume de la croix-noire_. on either end of the long, low building at no. quai des célestins is a tablet; the western one showing where stood the tour barbeau that ended the wall on this river-bank; that at the eastern end marking the site of this theatre, just without the wall. it had an entrance on the quay-front for the boatmen and other water-side patrons, another in rue des barrés for its patrons coming by coach. molière lodged in the house--probably a portion of the theatre--at the corner of the quay and of rue des jardins-saint-paul--that country lane wherein had died rabelais, nearly a century earlier. little rue des barrés, already seen taking its name from the barred or striped gowns of the monks who settled there, is now rue de l'ave-maria, and at its number you will find the stage entrance of this theatre, hardly changed since it was first trodden by the players from over the river. there is the low and narrow door, one of its jambs bent with the weight of the more modern structure above, and beyond is the short alleyway, equally narrow, by which they passed to the stage. at its inner end, where it opens into a small court, is the stone rim of a well, half hidden in the wall. it is the well provided in each tennis-court for the players, and handed on, with the court itself, for the use of the actors. molière has leaned over this well-curb to wash away his rouge and wrinkles. it is an indisputable and attractive witness of his early days. in saint-germain-l'auxerrois, where he knelt at the altar for his marriage and stood at the font with his son; in saint-eustache, where he carried his second son for baptism; in saint-roch, where he wrote his name as godfather of a friend's daughter--within these vast and dim aisles, his bodily presence is vaguely shadowed forth; _here_ we can touch the man. [illustration: stage door of molière's second theatre in paris.] what sort of plays were presented at this house we do not know, the only record that remains referring to the production of "artaxerxes" by one mignon. whatever they played, neither the rough men of the quay and of port saint-paul, nor the _bourgeoisie_ of the marais, nor the fine folk of place royale, crowded into the new theatre. during this disastrous season, the troupe received royal commands to play at fontainebleau before the king and court, and later, by invitation of the duc de l'Éperon, at his splendid mansion in rue de la plâtrière--that mansion in which lived and died la fontaine, half a century later. neither these fashionable flights, nor the royal and noble patronage accorded to the troupe, could save it from failure and final bankruptcy. molière, the responsible manager, was arrested for the theatre's poor little debt for candles and lights. he was locked up for a night or two in the dismal prison of the grand châtelet, once the fortress of louis "le gros," torn down only in , on whose site now sparkles the fountain of place du châtelet. from this lock-up, having petitioned for release to m. d'aubray, civil lieutenant of the town and father of the marquise de brinvilliers, molière was released by the quickly tendered purse of léonard aubry, "royal paver and street sweeper," who, when filling in the fossé-de-nesle and laying out over it the present rue mazarine a year before, had made fast friends with the young actor. "for his good service in ransoming the said poquelin," the entire troupe bound itself to make aubry whole for his debt. now they cross the river again to their former faubourg saint-germain, taking for their house the _jeu de paume de la croix-blanche_, outside the wall on the south side of the present rue de buci, between the _carrefour_ at its eastern end and rue grégoire-de-tours. here they played, still playing against disaster, from the end of to the end of , and then they fled from paris, fairly beaten, and betook themselves to the southern provinces. we cannot follow their wanderings, nor record their ups and downs, during the twelve years of their absence. in the old play-bills we find the names of béjart _aîné_ and of his brother louis, of their sisters madeleine and geneviève. toward the end of their touring they added to the family, though not to the boards, armande, who had been brought up in languedoc, and who was claimed by them to be their very young sister, and by others to be the unacknowledged daughter of madeleine. molière, the leader and manager of the troupe from the day they started, was then only twenty-five years of age, not yet owning or knowing his full powers. these he gained during that twelve years' hard schooling and rude apprenticeship, so that he came back to the capital, in , master of his craft, with a load of literary luggage such as no french tourist has carried, before or since. under princely patronage, won in the provinces, his troupe appeared before louis xiv., the queen-mother, and the entire court, on october , , in a theatre improvised in the salle des gardes of the old louvre, now known as the salle des caryatides. the pieces on that opening night were corneille's "nicomède" and the manager's "le docteur amoureux." in november, the "_troupe de monsieur_"--that title permitted by the king's brother--was given possession of the theatre in the palace of the petit-bourbon. it stood between the old louvre, with which it was connected by a long gallery, and the church of saint-germain-l'auxerrois, and was torn down in to make place for the new colonnade that forms the present eastern face of the louvre. the dainty jardin de l'infante covers the site of the stage, just at the corner of the egyptian gallery. in this hall molière's company played for two years, on alternate nights with the italian comedians, presenting, along with old standard french pieces--for authors in vogue held aloof--his provincial successes, as well as new plays and ballets invented by him for the delectation of the _grand monarque_. from this time his remaining fifteen years of life were filled with work; his brain and his pen were relentlessly employed; honors and wealth came plentifully to him, happiness hardly at all. while at this theatre molière lived just around the corner on quai de l'École, now quai du louvre, in a house that was torn away in for the widening of present rue du louvre. many of the buildings left on the quay are of the date and appearance of this, his last bachelor home. driven from the petit-bourbon by its hurried demolition in , molière was granted the use and the privileges of the _salle_ of the former palais-cardinal, partly gone to ruin and needing large expenditure to make it good. it had been arranged by richelieu, just before his death, for the presentation of his "mirame." for the great cardinal and great minister thought that he was a great dramatist too, and in his vanity saw himself the centre of the mimic stage, as he really was of the world-stage he managed. he is made by bulwer to say, with historic truth: "of my ministry i am not vain; but of my muse, i own it." his theatre in his residence--willed at his death to the king, and thenceforward known as the palais-royal--was therefore the only structure in paris designed especially and solely for playhouse purposes. it stood on the western corner of rues saint-honoré and de valois, as a tablet there tells us. during the repairs molière took his troupe to various _châteaux_ about paris, returning to open this theatre on january , . this removal was the last he made, and this house was the scene of his most striking successes. it is not out of place here to follow his troupe for a while after his death, and so complete our record of those early theatres. his widow, succeeding to the control of the company, was, within three months, compelled to give up the cardinal's house to lulli, the most popular musician of that day, and a scheming fellow withal. the unscrupulous florentine induced the king to grant him this salle des spectacles for the production of his music. the opera held the house until fire destroyed it in , when a new "academy of music" was constructed on the eastern corner of the same streets; this, also, was burned in . above the tablet recording these dates on this eastern-corner wall is a fine old sun-dial, such as is rarely seen in paris, and seldom noticed now. the widow molière, being dispossessed, found a theatre in rue mazarine, just beyond her husband's first theatre, "in the tennis-court where hangs a bottle for a sign." for it had been the _jeu de paume de la bouteille_, and now became the théâtre guénégaud, being exactly opposite the end of that street. within the structure at no. rue mazarine may be seen the heavy beams of the front portion of its fabric, where was the entrance for the public. the space behind, now used for a workshop, with huge pillars around its four sides, served for the audience, and the stage was built farther beyond. on the court of this house, and on the contiguous court of no. rue de seine, stood a large building, whose first floor was taken by madame molière, and in its rear wall she cut a door to give access to her stage. the entrance for the performers was in the little passage du pont-neuf, and under it there are remains of the foundations of the theatre. here, in may, , the widow took the name of madame guérin on her marriage with a comedian of her company. and we feel as little regret as she seems to have felt for her loss of an illustrious name. in the words of a derisive verse of the time: "_elle avoit un mari d'esprit, qu'elle aimoit peu; elle prend un de chair, qu'elle aime davantage._" [illustration: comÉdie franÇaise ] this was the first theatre to present to the general public "lyric dramas set to music," brought first to france by mazarin for his private stage in the small hall of the palais-royal, where they were presented as "_comédies en musique, avec machines à la mode d'italie_." they bored everybody, the fashion for opera not yet being set. on october , , by letters-patent from royalty, the troupe of the théâtre guénégaud was united to that of the hôtel de bourgogne, and to the combined companies was granted the name of comédie française, the first assumption of that now time-honored title. the theatre became so successful that the jansenists in the collége mazarin--the present institute--made an uproar because they were annoyed by the traffic and the turmoil in the narrow street, and succeeded in driving away the playhouse in . after a long search, the comédie française found new quarters in the _jeu de paume de l'Étoile_, built along the outer edge of the street made over the ditch of the wall, named rue des fossés-saint-germain, now rue de l'ancienne-comédie. at its present no. , set in the original front wall of the theatre, between the second and third stories, a tablet marks the site; above it is a bas-relief, showing a minerva reclining on a slab. she traces on paper, with her right hand, that which is reflected in the mirror of truth, held in her left hand. at the rear of the court stands the old fabric that held the stage. since those boards were removed to other walls--the story shall be told in a later chapter--the building has had various usages. it now serves as a storehouse for wall-paper. during the empire it was taken for his studio by the artist antoine-jean gros, the successor of david and the forerunner of géricault; so standing for the transition from the classic to the romantic school. it is not true that he killed himself in this studio. he went out from it, when maddened by the art critics, and drowned himself in the seine in the summer of . it was a great bill with which the comédie française opened this house on the night of april , , for it was made up of two masterpieces, racine's "phèdre" and molière's "le médecin malgré lui." a vast and enthusiastic audience thronged, with joyous clatter, through narrow rues mazarine and dauphine, coming from the river. the café procope, recently opened just opposite the theatre, was crowded after the performance, the drinkers of coffee not quite sure that they liked the new beverage. and so, at the top of their triumphs, we leave the players with whom we have vagabondized so long and so sympathetically. molière, at the height of his career, had married armande béjart, he being forty years of age, she "aged twenty years or thereabout," in the words of the marriage contract, signed january , . no one knows now, very few knew then, whether the bride was the sister or the daughter of madeleine béjart, molière's friend and comrade for many years, who doubled her rôle of versatile actress with that of provident cashier of the company. she was devoted to armande, whom she had taken to her home from the girl's early schooling in languedoc, and over whom she watched in the _coulisses_. she fought against the marriage, which she saw was a mistake, finally accepted it, and at her own death in left all her handsome savings to the wife of molière. in the cast of the "École des maris," first produced in , appears the name of armande béjart, and, three months after the marriage, "mlle. molière"--so were known the wives of the _bourgeoisie_, "madame" being reserved for _grandes-dames_--played the small part of Élise put for her by the author into his "critique de l'École des femmes." henceforward she was registered as one of the troupe, the manager receiving two portions of the receipts for his and her united shares. she was a pleasing actress, never more than mediocre, except in those parts, in his own plays, fitted to her and drilled into her by her husband. she had an attractive presence on the boards, without much beauty, without any brains. her voice was exquisite, opulent in tones that seemed to suggest the heart she did not own. for she was born with an endowment of adroit coquetry, and she developed her gift. she was flighty and frivolous, evasive and obstinate, fond of pleasures not always innocent. her spendthrift ways hurt molière's thrifty spirit, her coquetry hurt his love, her caprices hurt his honor. his infatuation, a madness closely allied to his genius, brought to him a fleeting happiness, followed by almost unbroken torments of love, jealousy, forgiveness. in his home he found none of the rest nor comfort nor sympathy so much needed, after his prodigious work in composing, drill-work in rehearsing, and public work in performing at his theatre, and at versailles and fontainebleau. he got no consolation from his wife for the sneers of venomous rivals, enraged by his supremacy, and for the stabs of the great world, eager to avenge his keen puncturing of its pretence and its priggishness. and while he writhed in private, he made fun in public of his immitigable grief, and portrayed on the stage the betrayed and bamboozled husband--at once tragic and absurd--that he believed himself to be. these eleven years of home-sorrows shortened his life. on the very day of his fatal attack, he said to the flippant minx, armande: "i could believe myself happy when pleasure and pain equally filled my life; but, to-day, broken with grief, unable to count on one moment of brightness or of ease, i must give up the game. i can hold out no longer against the distress and despair that leave me not one instant of respite." the church ceremony of their marriage had taken place on february , , at saint-germain-l'auxerrois, as its register testifies. he had already left his bachelor quarters on quai de l'École, and had taken an apartment in a large house situated on the small open space opposite the entrance of the palais-royal, the germ of the present _place_ of that name. his windows looked out toward his theatre, and on the two streets at whose junction the house stood--saint-thomas-du-louvre and saint-honoré. the first-named street, near its end on quai du louvre, held the hôtel de rambouillet, which was a reconstruction of the old hôtel de pisani, made in , after the plan and under the eye of the marquise de rambouillet. she is known in history, as she was known in the _salons_ of her day, by her sobriquet of "arthénice"--an anagram coined by malherbe from her name catherine. hither came all that was brilliant in paris, and much that pretended to be brilliant; and from here went out the grotesque affectations of the _précieuses ridicules_. the mansion--one of the grandest of that period--having passed into other hands, was used as a vauxhall d'hiver in , as a theatre in , and was partly burned in . the remaining portion, which served as stables for louis-philippe, was wiped away, along with all that end of the old street, by the second empire, to make space for the alignment of the wings of the louvre. the buildings of the ministry of finance cover a portion of the street, and the site of molière's residence, in the middle of the present place du palais-royal, is trodden, almost every day of the year, by the feet of american women, hurrying to and from the museum of the louvre or the great shop of the same name. after a short stay in their first home, molière and his wife set up housekeeping in rue de richelieu. it is not known if it was in the house of his later domicile and death. their cook here was the famous la forêt, to whom, it is said, molière read his new plays, trying their effect on the ordinary auditor, such as made up the bulk of the audiences of that time. servants were commonly called la forêt then, and the real name of this cook was renée vannier. within a year, domestic dissensions came to abide in the household, and it was moved back to its first home, where madeleine had remained, and now made one of the _ménage_. to it came a new inmate in february, , a boy, baptized at saint-germain-l'auxerrois, having the great monarch for a godfather, and for a godmother henrietta of england, wife of the king's brother, philippe d'orléans, and poisoned by him or his creatures a few years later, it is believed. these royal sponsors were represented at the christening by distinguished state servants, the whole affair giving ample proof of this player's position at the time. a little later, we have hints that the small family was living farther east in rue saint-honoré, at the corner of rue d'orléans, still near his theatre, in a house swept away when that street was widened into rue du louvre. from this house was buried, in november, , the child louis, the burial-service being held at saint-eustache, their parish church, molière's baptismal church, his mother's burial church. here, too, in the following year, august, , he brought to the font his newly born daughter, esprit-madeleine. in october of this same year he took a long lease of an apartment in their former house on the corner of rue saint-thomas-du-louvre, and there they stayed for seven years, removing once more, and for the last time, in october, , to rue de richelieu. where now stands no. of that street, rené baudelet, tailor to the queen by title, had taken a house only recently builded, and from him molière rented nearly every floor. his lease was for a term of six years, and he lived only four and a half months after coming here. the first floor was set apart for his wife, whose ostentatious furnishing, including a bed fit for a queen, is itemized in the inventory made after her husband's death. he took for his apartment the whole second floor, spaciously planned and sumptuously furnished; for he, too, was lavish in his expenditure and loved costly surroundings. his plate was superb, his wardrobe rich, his collection of dramatic books and manuscripts complete and precious. his bedroom, wherein he died, was on the rear of the house, and its windows looked over the garden of the palais-royal, to which he had access from his terrace below, and thence by steps down to a gate in the garden wall. thus he could get to his theatre by way of those trim paths of richelieu's planning, as well as by going along the street and around the corner. you must bear in mind that the galleries of the palais-royal, with their shops, were not constructed until , and that rues de valois and montpensier were not yet cut; so that the garden reached, on either side, to the backs of the houses that fronted on rues de richelieu and des bons-enfants. many of the occupants had, like molière, their private doors in the garden wall, with access by stone steps. one of these staircases is still left, and may be seen in rue de valois, descending from the rear of the hôtel de la chancellerie d'orléans, whose doric entrance-court is at no. rue des bons-enfants. the house now numbered rue de richelieu and rue montpensier was erected soon after , when the walls that had harbored molière were torn down to prevent them from tumbling down. the present building has an admirable circular staircase climbing to an open lantern in the roof. the houses on either side, numbered _bis_ and rue montpensier, retain their original features of a central body with projecting wings, and so serve to show us a likeness of molière's dwelling. their front windows look out now on the grand fountain of the younger visconti's design, erected to molière's memory in , at the junction of rue de richelieu and old rue traversière, now named rue molière. this fountain, flowing full and free always, as flowed the inspiration of his muse, is surmounted by an admirable seated statue of the player-poet by seurre, the figures of serious and of light comedy, standing at his feet on either side, being of pradier's design. and in rue de richelieu, a little farther south, at the present nos. and _bis_--once one grand mansion, still intact, though divided--lived his friend mignard, and here he died in . the painter and the player had met at avignon in - , and grew to be life-long friends, with equal admiration of the other's art. indeed, molière considered that he honored raphael and michael angelo, when he named them "_ces mignards de leur âge_." certainly no such vivid portrait of molière has come down to us as that on the canvas of this artist, now in the gallery at chantilly. it shows us not the comedian, but the man in the maturity of his strength and beauty. his blond _perruque_, such as was worn then by all gallants, such as made his alceste sneer, softens the features marked strongly even so early in life, but having none of the hard lines cut deeper by worry and weariness. the mouth is large and frank, the eyes glow with a humorous melancholy, the expression is eloquent of his wistful tenderness. [illustration: the molière fountain.] early in we find molière leasing a little cottage, or part of a cottage, at auteuil, for a retreat at times. he needed its pure air for his failing health, its quiet for his work, and its distance from the disquiet of his home with armande and madeleine. he had laid by money; and his earnings, with his pension from the king--who had permitted to the troupe the title of "his majesty's comedians"--gave him a handsome income. he was not without shrewdness as a man of affairs, and not without tact as a courtier. success, in its worst worldly sense, could come only through royal favor in that day, and no man, whatever his manliness, seemed ashamed to stoop to flatter. racine, la fontaine, the sterling boileau, the antiquely upright corneille, were tarred, thickly or thinly, with the same brush. auteuil was then a tranquil village, far away from the town's turmoil, and brought near enough for its dwellers by the silent and swift river. now it is a bustling suburb of the city, and the site of molière's cottage and grounds is covered by a block of commonplace modern dwellings on the corner of rue théophile gautier and rue d'auteuil, and is marked by a tablet in the front wall of no. of the latter street. it has been claimed that this is a mistaken localization, and that it is nearly opposite this spot that we must look for his garden and a fragment of his villa, still saved. the conscientious pilgrim may not fail to take that look, and will ring at the iron gate of no. rue théophile gautier. it is the gate of the ancient _hôtel_ of choiseul-praslin, a name of unhappy memory in the annals of swell assassins. the ducal wearer of the title, during the reign of louis-philippe, stabbed his wife to death in their town-house in the champs Élysées, and poisoned himself in his cell to save his condemnation by his fellow-peers of france. the ancient family mansion has been taken by "_les dominicaines_," who have devoted themselves for centuries to the education of young girls, and have placed here the institution of saint thomas of aquinas. a white-robed sister graciously gives permission to enter, and leads the visitor across the spacious court, through the stately rooms and halls--all intact in their old-fashioned harmony of proportion and decoration--into the garden that stretches far along rue de rémusat, and that once spread away down the slope to the seine. here, amid the magnificent cedar trees, centuries old, stands a mutilated pavilion of red brick and white stone or stucco, showing only its unbroken porch with pillars and a fragment of the fabric, cut raggedly away a few feet behind, to make room for a new structure. over the central door are small figures in bas-relief, and in the pediment above one reads, "_ici fut la maison de molière._" it would be a comfort to be able to accept this legend; the fact that prevents is that the pavilion was erected only in by the owner of the garden, to keep alive the associations of molière with this quarter! it is in his garden, behind the wall that holds the tablet, that we may see the player-poet as he rests in the frequent free hours, and days withal, that came in the actor's busy life then. here he walks, alone or with his chosen cronies: rohault, his sympathetic physician; boileau, a frequent visitor; chapelle, who had a room in the cottage, the quondam schoolfellow and the man of rare gifts; a pleasing minor-poet, fond of fun, fonder of wine, friendly even to rudeness, but beloved by all the others, whom he teased and ridiculed, and yet counselled shrewdly. he sympathized with, albeit his sceptic spirit could not quite fraternize with, the sensitive vibrating nature of molière, that brought, along with acutest enjoyment, the keenest suffering. in this day-and-night companionship, craving consolation for his betossed soul, molière gave voice to his sorrows, bewailing his wife's frailties and the torments they brought to him--to him, "born to tenderness," as he truly put it, but unable to plant any root of tenderness in her shallow nature--loving her in spite of reason, living with her, but not as her husband, suffering ceaselessly. this garden often saw gayer scenes of good-fellowship and feasting, and once a historic frolic, when the _convives_, flushed with wine, ran down the slope to the river, bent on plunging in to cool their blood, and were kept dry and undrowned by molière's steadier head and hand. his _ménage_ was modest, and his wife seldom came out from their town apartment, but his daughter was brought often for a visit from her boarding-school near by in auteuil. he was beloved by all his neighbors, to whom he was known less by his public repute than by his constant kindly acts among them. it was not the actor-manager, but the "_tapissier valet-de-chambre du roi_," then residing in auteuil, who signed the register of the parish church, as god-father of a village boy on march , ; just as he had signed, in the same capacity, the register of saint-roch on september , , at the christening of a friend's daughter, jeanne catherine toutbel. these signatures were destroyed when all the ancient church registers, then stored in the hôtel de ville, were burned by the commune. on the night of friday, february , , while personating his _malade imaginaire_--its fourth performance--molière was struck down by a genuine malady. he pulled through the play, and, as the curtain went down at last, he was nearly strangled by a spasm of coughing that broke a blood-vessel. careful hands carried him around to his bedroom on the second floor of no. , where in a few days--too few, his years being a little more than fifty--death set him free from suffering. this fatal crisis was the culmination of a long series of recurrent paroxysms, coming from his fevered life and his fiery soul, that "o'er informed the tenement of clay," in dryden's phrase. and his heart had been crushed by the death of his second boy, pierre-jean-baptiste-armand, in october of the previous year. then, on the physical side, he had been subjected throughout long years to constant exposure to draughts on the stage, and to sudden changes within and without the theatre, most trying to so delicate a frame. his watchful friend, boileau, had often urged him to leave the stage before he should break down. moreover, it distressed boileau that the greatest genius of his time, as he considered molière, should have to paint his face, put on a false mustache, get into a bag and be beaten with sticks, in his ludicrous rôle of comic valet. but all pleading was thrown away. the invalid maintained that nothing but his own management, his own plays, and his own playing, kept his theatre alive and his company from starvation; and so he held on to the end, dying literally in harness. his wife appeared too late on the last scene, the priest who was summoned could not come in time, and the dying eyes were closed by two stranger nuns, lodging for the time in the house. the arm-chair, in which sat the _malade imaginaire_ on the last night of his professional life, is treasured among the relics of the théâtre français. it is a massive piece of oak furniture, with solid square arms and legs; the roomy back lets down, and is held at any required angle by an iron ratchet; there are iron pegs in front for the little shelf, used by the sick man for his bottles and books. the brown leather covering is time-worn and stitched in spots. it is a most attractive relic, this simple piece of stage property. its exact copy as to shape, size, and color is used on the boards of the théâtre français in the performances of "le malade imaginaire." and, with equal reverence, they kept for many years in the ancient village of pézénas, in languedoc--where the strolling troupe wintered in - , playing in the adjacent hamlets and in the _châteaux_ of the _seigneurie_ about--the big wooden arm-chair belonging to the barber gély, and almost daily through that winter occupied by molière. upon it he was wont to sit, in a corner, contemplating all who came and went, making secret notes on the tablets he carried always for constant records of the human document. it has descended to a gentleman in paris, by whom it is cherished. the _curé_ of saint-eustache, the parish church, refused its sacrament for the burial of the author of "tartufe." "to get by prayer a little earth," in boileau's words, the widow had to plead with the king; and it was only his order that wrung permission from the archbishop of paris for those "maimed rites" that we all know. they were accorded, not to the player, but, as the burial register reads, to the "_tapissier valet-de-chambre du roi_." carried to his grave by night, he was followed by a great concourse of unhired mourners, of every rank and condition; and to the poor among them, money was distributed by the widow. the grave--in which was placed the french terence and plautus in one, to use la fontaine's happy phrase--was dug in that portion of the cemetery of the chapel of saint-joseph, belonging to saint-eustache, that was styled consecrated by the priesthood. this cemetery going out of use, the ground, which lay on the right of the old road to montmartre, was given to a market. this, in its turn, was cleared away between and , and on the site of the cemetery are the buildings numbered and rue montmartre, and rue saint-joseph. over the grave, as she thought, the widow erected a great tombstone, under which, tradition says, molière did not lie. tradition lies, doubtless, and armande's belated grief and posthumous devotion probably displayed themselves on the right spot. the stone was cracked--going to bits soon after--by a fire built on it during the terrible winter a few years later, when the poor of paris were warmed by great out-of-door fires. the exact spot of sepulture could not be fixed in , when the more sober revolutionary sections were anxious to save the remains of their really great men from the desecrations of the patriots, to whom no ground was consecrate, nor any memories sacred. then, in the words of the official document, "the bones which seemed to be those of molière" were exhumed, and carried for safe keeping to the museum of french monuments begun by alexandre lenoir in , in the convent of the petits-augustins. its site is now mostly covered by the court of the beaux-arts in rue bonaparte. those same supposed bones of molière were transferred, early in the present century, to the cemetery of père-lachaise, where they now lie in a stone sarcophagus. by their side rest the supposed bones of la fontaine, removed from the same ground to the same museum at the same time; la fontaine having really been buried, twenty-two years after molière's burial, in the cemetery of the innocents, a half-mile from that of saint-joseph! our ignorance as to whether these be molière's bones, under the monument in père-lachaise, is matched by our unacquaintance with the facts of his life. and we know almost as little of molière the man, as we know of the man called shakespeare--the only names in the modern drama which can be coupled. we have no specimens of the actual manuscript, and few specimens of the handwriting, of either. the comédie française has a priceless signature of molière given by dumas _fils_, and there are others, it is believed, on legal documents in notaries' offices, but no one knows how to get at them. his portraiture by pen, too, would have been lost to us, but for an old lady who has left a detailed and vivid description of "monsieur molière." this madame poisson was the daughter of du croissy, whose name appears in the troupe's early play-bills; and the wife of paul poisson, also an actor with molière, and with his widow. madame poisson died in , aged ninety-eight, so that she was an observant and intelligent girl of fifteen at the time of molière's death. in her recollections, written in , she says that he was neither stout nor thin; in stature he was rather tall than short, his carriage noble, his leg very fine, his walk measured, his air most serious; the nose large, the mouth wide, the lips full, his complexion dark, his eyebrows black and heavy, "and the varied movements he gave them"--and, she might have added, his whole facial flexibility--"made him master of immense comic expression." "his air most serious," she says; it was more than that, as is proven by hints of his companions, and shown by strokes in the surviving portraits. all these go to assure us of his essential melancholy. not only did he carry about with him the traditional dejection of the comic actor, but he was by character and by habit contemplative--observant of human nature--as well as introspective--peering into his own nature. the man who does this necessarily grows sad. molière's sadness was mitigated by a humor of equal depth, a conjunction rare in the latin races, and found at its best only in him and in cervantes. this set him to writing and acting farces; and into them he put sentiment for the first time on the french stage. there is a gravity behind his buffoonery, and a secret sympathy with his butts. so, when he came to write comedy--that hard and merciless exposure of our common human nature, turned inside out for scorn--he left place for pity in his ridicule, and there is no cruelty in his laughter. his wholly sweet spirit could not be soured by the injustices and insolences that came into his life. if there was a bitter taste in his mouth, his lips were all honey. "_ce rire amer_," marked by boileau in the actor's alceste, was only his stage assumption for that character. the inborn good-heartedness that made his comedy gracious and unhostile, made his relations with men and women always kindly and generous. you see that sympathy with humanity in mignard's portrait, and in the bust in the foyer of the comédie française, made by houdon from other portraits and from descriptions. under the projecting brow of the observer are the eyes of the contemplator, shrewd and speculative, and withal infinitely sorrowful, with the sadness of the man who knew how to suffer acutely, mostly in silence and in patience; and this is the face of the man who made all france laugh! * * * * * pierre corneille stands in bronze on the bridge of his natal town, rouen, where he stood in the flesh of his twenty-eight years, among other citizens who went to welcome louis xiii. and his ruler, richelieu, on their visit in . the young advocate by profession and poet by predilection presented his verses in greeting and in honor of the king, and was soon after enrolled one of the small and select band of the cardinal's poets. with the cardinal's commission and a play or two, already written when only twenty-three, he made his way to paris. for nearly thirty years, the years of his dramatic triumphs, corneille lived alternately in paris and in rouen, until his mother's death, in , left him free to make his home in the capital. in that year he settled in rooms in the hôtel de guise, now the musée des archives, whose ducal owner was a patron of the théâtre du marais, close at hand. at his death, in or about , corneille sent in a rhymed petition for rooms in the louvre, where lodging was granted to men of letters not too well-to-do. his claim was refused, and he took an apartment in rue de cléry during that same year. it was a workman's quarter, and none of its houses were very grand, but that of corneille is spoken of as one of the better sort, with its own _porte-cochère_. pierre's younger brother, thomas, came to live in the same house. and from this time on, the two brothers were never parted in their lives. they had married sisters, and the two families dwelt in quiet happiness under the common roof. this house in rue de cléry cannot be fixed. it may be one of the poor dwellings still standing in that old street, or it may no longer exist. it is the house famous in anecdotal history for owning the trap-door in the floor between the working-rooms of the brothers, which pierre--at loss for an adequate rhyme--would lift up, and call to thomas, writing in his room below, to give him the wished-for word. this dull street formed the background of a touching picture, when, in , corneille's son was brought home, wounded, from the siege of douai. the straw from the litter was scattered about the street as the father helped them lift his boy to carry him into the house, and corneille was summoned to the châtelet, for breaking police regulations with regard to the care of thoroughfares; he appeared, pleaded his own cause, and was cast in damages! here in , corneille and molière, in collaboration, wrote the "tragedy-ballet 'psyche'"; this work in common cementing a friendship already begun between the two men, and now made firmer for the two years of molière's life on from this date. the play was begun and finished in a fortnight, to meet the usual urgency of the king in his amusements. molière planned the piece and its spectacular effects, and wrote the prologue, the first act, and the first scenes of the second and third acts; corneille's share being the rest of the rhymed dialogue and the songs. it was set to music by lulli--"the incomparable monsieur lulli," as he was called by molière--whose generous laudation of the musician was not lessened by his estimate of the man. for lulli was not an honest man, and he prospered at the expense of his fellows. his magnificent home was built by money borrowed from molière, whose widow was repaid as we have seen. lulli's _hôtel_ is still in perfect condition as to its exterior, at the corner of rues des petits-champs and sainte-anne. this latter front is the finer, with its pilasters and composite capitals, its masks carved in the keystones of the low _entresol_ windows, and the musical instruments placed above the middle window of the first grand floor. they make a pretty picture, not without a touch of the pathetic--and m. gèrôme has put it on canvas--as they sit side by side, planning and plotting their play: molière at the top of his career, busy, prosperous, applauded; corneille past his prime and his popularity, beginning to bend with age and to break in spirit. he had, by now, fallen on evil days, which saw him "satiated with glory, and famished for money," in his words to boileau. richelieu may not have done much for him, but he had been at least a power in his patronage, and his death, in , had left the old poet with no friend at court, albeit the new minister, mazarin, had put him on the pension list. his triumphs with "le cid" and "les horaces" had not saved him from--nor helped him bear--the dire failures of "attila" and of "agésilas." poetry had proved a poor trade, royalty had forgotten him, colbert's economies had left his pension in arrears along with many others, and finally, after colbert's death, the new minister, louvois, had suppressed it entirely. against the earlier default he had made patient and whimsical protest in verse; each official year of delay had been officially lengthened to fifteen months; and corneille's muse was made to hope that each of the king's remaining years of reign might be lengthened to an equal limit! the contrast between the two figures--the king of french tragedy shabby in paris streets, the king of french people resplendent at versailles--is sharply drawn by théophile gautier in his superb verses, read at corneille's birthday fête at the comédie française, on june , . gautier had not been able to find any motive for the lines, which he had promised to prepare for arsène houssaye, the director, until hugo gave him this cue. the faithful, generous boileau--the man called "stingy," because of his exactness, which yet enabled him always to aid others--offered to surrender his own well-secured and promptly-paid pension in favor of his old friend; a transfer not allowed by the authorities, and the king sent a sum of money, at length, to corneille. it came two days before the poet's death, when he might have quoted, "i have no time to spend it!" there is extant a letter from an old rouen friend of his who, visiting paris in , describes a walk he took with corneille, then aged seventy-three. in rue de la parcheminerie--that ancient street on the left bank of the seine, which we have already found to be less spoiled by modern improvements than are its neighbors--corneille sat down on a plank by a cobbler's stall, to have one of his worn shoes patched. that cobbler's stall, or its direct descendant, may be seen in that street, to-day. corneille counted his coppers and found just enough to pay the cobbler's paltry charge; refusing to accept any coin from the proffered purse of his friend, who, then and there, wept in pity for such a plight for such a man. [illustration: the door of corneille's last dwelling. (from a drawing by robert delafontaine, by permission of m. victorien sardou.)] age and poverty took up their abode with him--as well as his more welcome comrade, the constant thomas--in his next dwelling. we cannot be sure when they left rue de cléry, and we find them first in rue d'argenteuil in november, , the year of colbert's death. that old road from the village of argenteuil had become, and still remains, a city street absolutely without character or temperament of its own; it has not the merit even of being ignoble. and the corneille house at no. , as it was seen just before its destruction, was a gloomy and forbidding building. it had two entrances--as has the grandiose structure now standing on its site--one in rue d'argenteuil, on which front is a tablet marking this historic scene of the poet's death, and the other in rue de l'Évêque. that street was wiped out of existence by the cutting of avenue de l'opéra in - , which necessitated the demolition of this dreary old house. its most attractive relic is now in the possession of m. victorien sardou, at his country house, at marly-le-roi, in the _porte-cochère_, with its knocker. every guest there is proud to put his hand on the veritable knocker lifted so often by corneille's hand. that hand had lost its fire and force by this time, and the poet's last months were wretched enough in these vast and desolate rooms on the second floor, so vast and desolate that he was unable to keep his poor septuagenarian bones warm within them. here came death to him on sunday, october , . they buried him in his parish church, saint-roch, a short step from his home; and on the western pillar within the entrance a tablet to his memory was placed in . the church was so short a step, that, feeble and forlorn as he was, he had found his way there early of mornings during these last years. and in his earlier years, when living in rue de cléry, he had often hurried there, drawn by the strong and splendid bossuet, whose abode was either in rue sainte-anne hard by, or in the then new mansion still standing in place des victoires. here in the church, as we stand between corneille's tablet and bossuet's pulpit, the contrast is brought home to us of the two forms of eloquence that most touch men: that of this preacher burning with ancient hebraic fire, and that of this dramatist glowing with the white-heat of classicism. after the burial, the bereft thomas removed to rooms in cul-de-sac des jacobins, only a little way from his last home with pierre. this blind alley has now been cut through to the market of saint-honoré, and become a short commonplace street, named saint-hyacinthe. twenty years the younger of the two, thomas was, during his life, and has been in his after-renown, unduly overshadowed by his imperishable brother. he had a rare gift of versification, and a certain skill in the putting together of plays. of them he constructed a goodly lot, some few of them in collaboration. his "timocrate," played for eighty consecutive nights at the théâtre du marais, was the most popular success on the boards of the seventeenth century. his knack in pleasing the public taste was as much his own as was his mastery of managers, by which he got larger royalties than any playwright of his day. he was a competent craftsman, too, in more weighty fabrications, and turned out, from his factory, translations and dictionaries, which have joined his plays in everlasting limbo. all the early theatrical productions of pierre corneille were originally put on the stage of the théâtre du marais, which had been started by seceders from the theatre of the hôtel de bourgogne, as has been told in our first chapter. after a temporary lodgment in the quarter of the hôtel de ville, it was soon permanently housed in the recast tennis-court of the "_hôtel salé_." there it remained until , when le camus bought the place and turned the theatre into stables. where stands modern no. in the widened rue vieille-du-temple was the public entrance of the theatre. the "_hôtel salé_," the work of lepautre, is still in perfect condition behind the houses of rue vieille-du-temple. its principal portal is at rue thorigny, , with a side entrance in rue saint-gervais-des-coutures. known at first as the hôtel juigné, it was popularly renamed, in the seventeenth century, the "_hôtel salé_," because its rapacious owner, aubray de fontenay, had amassed his wealth by farming out the salt tax--that most exacting and irritating of the many taxes of that time. through a lordly arch in rue thorigny, we pass into the grand court, and find facing us the dignified façade, its imposing pediment carved with figures and flowers. within is a stately hall, made the more stately by the placing at one end of a noble chimney-piece, a copy of one at versailles. in the centre a superb staircase rises, wide and easy, through a sculptured cage, to the first floor; its old wrought-iron railing is of an exquisite pattern; nothing in all paris is nearer perfection than this staircase, its railing, and its balustrade. in the rooms above, kept with reverence by the bronze-maker who occupies them, admirable panelling and carvings are found. the façade on the gardens--now shrunk from their former spaciousness to a small court--is most impressive, with ancient wrought-iron balconies; in its pediment, two vigilant dogs watch the hands that move no more on the great clock-face between them. the théâtre du marais had been established here by the famous turlupin, made immortal in boileau's verse, who, with his two comic _confrères_--baker's boys, like the brothers coquelin of our day--kept his audiences in a roar with his modern french farces _farcied_ with old gaulish grossness. it was he who invented the comic valet--badgered and beaten, always lying and always funny--who was subsequently elaborated into the immortal sganerelle by molière. he, while a boy, had sat in this theatre, watching turlupin; and when he had grown into a manager, he is said to have bought some of the stage copies of these farces, when turlupin's death disbanded his troupe. these "_comédiens du marais_" were regarded with a certain condescension not unmingled with disdain by their stately _confrères_ left at the hôtel de bourgogne, who were shocked when richelieu, becoming bored by their dreary traditional proprieties, sent for turlupin and his troupe to give a specimen of their acting in his palace. and the great cardinal actually laughed, a rare indulgence he allowed himself, and told the king's comedians that he wished they might play to as good effect! still, the théâtre du marais was not entirely given over to farce, for it alternated with the tragedy of the then famous hardy; and mondory, the best tragedian of the day, was at one time the head of the troupe. mondory had brought back from a provincial tour, in , the manuscript of "mélite," by a young lawyer of rouen, named corneille. this piece was weak, but it was not a failure. and so, when the author came to town, his tragedies were played at this theatre and drew crowds to the house. there they first saw the true tragic muse herself on the french boards. those rough, coarse boards of that early theatre he planed and polished, with conscience and with craft, and made them fit for her queenly feet; and through her lips he breathed, in sublime tirades, his own elevation of soul, to the inspiration of that shabby scene. for the first time in the french drama, he put skill into the plot, art into the intrigue, taste into the wit; in a word, he gave to dramatic verse "good sense"--"the only aim of poetry," boileau claimed--and showed the meaning and the value of "reason" on the stage; and for the doing of this racine revered him. as to corneille's personality, we are told by fontenelle--his nephew, a man of slight value, a better talker than writer, an unmoved man, who prided himself on never laughing and never crying--that his uncle had rather an agreeable countenance, with very marked features, a large nose, a handsome mouth, eyes full of fire, and an animated expression. others who saw corneille say that he looked like a shopkeeper; and that as to his manner, he seemed simple and timid, and as to his talk, he _was_ dull and tiresome. his enunciation was not distinct, so that in reading his own verses--he could not recite them--he was forcible but not graceful. guizot puts it curtly and cruelly, when he writes that corneille was destitute of all that distinguishes a man from his equals; that his appearance was common, his conversation dull, his language incorrect, his timidity ungainly, his judgment untrustworthy. it was well said, in his day, that to know the greatness of corneille, he must be read, or be seen in his work on the stage. he has said so in the verse that confesses his own defects: "_j'ai la plume féconde et la bouche stérile, et l'on peut rarement m'écouter sans ennui, que quand je me produis par la bouche d'autrui._" in truth, we must agree with guizot, that the grand old roman was irrevocably doomed to pass unnoticed in a crowd. and he was content that this should be. for he had his own pride, expressed in his words: "_je sais ce que je vaux._" he made no clamor when georges de scudéry was proclaimed his superior by the popular voice, which is always the voice of the foolish. and when that shallow charlatan sneered at him in print, he left to boileau the castigation that was so thoroughly given. his friends had to drive him to the defence of his "cid" in the academy, to which he had been elected in . his position with regard to the "cid" was peculiar and embarrassing; it was richelieu, the jealous playwright, who attacked the successful tragedy, and it was richelieu, the all-potent patron, who was to be answered and put in the wrong. the skirmish being ended, with honor to corneille, he retired into his congenial obscurity and his beloved solitude. and there the world left him, alone with his good little brother thomas, both contented in their comradeship. for in private life he was easy to get on with, always full of friendliness, always ready of access to those he loved, and, for all his brusque humor and his external rudeness, he was a good husband, father, brother. he shrank from the worldly and successful racine, who reverenced him; and he was shy of the society of other pen-workers who would have made a companion of him. his independent soul was not softened by any adroitness or tact; he was clumsy in his candor, and not at home in courtier-land; there was not one fibre of the flunky in his simple, sincere, self-respecting frame; and when forced to play that unwonted rôle, he found his back not limber enough for bowing, his knees not sufficiently supple to cringe. [illustration: pierre corneille. (from the portrait by charles lebrun.)] and in what light he was looked upon by the lazy pensioned lackeys of the court, who hardly knew his face, and not at all his worth, is shown by this extract from one of their manuscript chronicles: "_jeudi, le octobre, . on apprit à chambord la mort du bonhomme corneille._" * * * * * jean racine came to paris, from his native la ferté-milon in the old duchy of valois--by way of a school at beauvais, and another near port-royal--in , a youth of nineteen, to study in the collége d'harcourt. that famous school was in the midst of the scholars' quarter, in that part of narrow, winding rue de la harpe which is now widened into boulevard saint-michel. on the site of the ancient college, direct heir of its functions and its fame, stands the lycée saint-louis. the buildings that give on the playground behind, seem to belong to the original college, and to have been refaced. like boileau-despréaux, three years his senior here, the new student preferred poetry to the studies commonly styled serious, and his course in theology led neither to preaching nor to practising. he was a wide and eager reader in all directions, and developed an early and ardent enthusiasm for the greeks and the latins. as early as he had made himself known by his ode in celebration of the marriage of louis xiv.; while he remained unknown as the author of an unaccepted and unplayed drama in verse, sent to the théâtre du marais. racine's paris homes were all in or near the "_pays latin_," for he preserves its ancient appellation in his letters. on leaving college, in - , he took up quarters with his uncle nicolas vitart, steward and intendant of the duchesse de chevreuse, and secretary of her son the duc de luynes. vitart lived in the hôtel de luynes, a grand mansion that faced quai des grands-augustins, and stretched far back along rue gît-le-coeur. it was torn down in . la fontaine had lodgings, during his frequent visits to paris at this period, a little farther west on quai des grands-augustins, and he and racine, despite the eighteen years' difference of age, became close companions. la fontaine made his young friend acquainted with the _cabarets_ of the quarter, and racine studied them not unwillingly. just then, too, racine doubtless met molière, recently come into the management of the theatre of the palais-royal. an original edition of "les précieuses ridicules," played a while before this time at the hôtel du petit-bourbon, bears on its title-page "_privilège au sr. de luyne_." this was guillaume de luyne, bookseller and publisher in the salle des merciers of the palais de justice; and at his place, a resort for book-loving loungers, we may well believe that the actor-manager made acquaintance with the young poet, coming from his home with the duc de luynes, within sight across the narrow arm of the river. not as a poet was he known in this ducal house, but as assistant to his uncle, and the probable successor of that uncle, who tried to train him to his future duties. among these duties, just then, was the construction of the new hôtel de luynes for the duchesse de chevreuse. this is the lady who plays so prominent a rôle in dumas's authentic history of "the three musketeers." the _hôtel_ that was then built for her stands, somewhat shorn of its original grandeur, at no. boulevard saint-germain, and you may look to-day on the walls constructed under the eye of jean racine, acting as his uncle's overseer. this uncle was none too rigid of rule, nor was the household, from the duchess down, unduly ascetic of habit; and young racine, "nothing loath," spent his days and eke his nights in somewhat festive fashion. his anxious country relatives at length induced him to leave the wicked town, and in november, , he went to live at uzés, near nîmes, in languedoc. here he was housed with another uncle, of another kidney; a canon of the local cathedral, able to offer church work and to promise church preferment to the coy young cleric. racine was bored by it all, and mitigated his boredom, during the two years he remained, only by flirting and by stringing rhymes. the ladies were left behind, and the verses were carried to the capital, on his return in november, . he showed some of them, first to colbert and then to molière, who received the verse with scant praise, but accepted, paid for, and played "la thébaïde"--a work of promise, but of no more than promise, of the future master hand. it was at this period, about , that racine, of his own wish, first met boileau, who had criticised in a kindly fashion some of the younger poet's verses. thus was begun that friendship which was to last unmarred so many years, and to be broken only by racine's death. with corneille, too, racine made acquaintance, in , and submitted to him his "alexandre." he was greatly pleased by the praise of the author of the "cid"; praise freely given to the poetry of the play, but along with it came the set-off that no talent for tragedy was shown in the piece. it was not long before the elder poet had to own his error, and it is a sorrow to record his growing discontent with the younger man's triumphs. racine believed then and always, that corneille was easily his master as a tragic dramatist; a belief shared with him by us of to-day, who find corneille's tragedies as impressive, his comedies as spirited, as ever, on the boards of the comédie française; while racine's tragic muse seems to have outlived her day on those boards, and to have grown aged and out of date, along with the social surroundings amid which she queened it. racine's reverence for his elder and his better never wore away, and on corneille's death--when, to his place in the academy, his lesser brother thomas was admitted--it fell to racine, elected in , to give the customary welcome to the new academician, and to pay the customary tribute to his great forerunner. he paid it in words and in spirit of loyal admiration, and no nobler eulogy of a corrival has been spoken by any man. on his return to town, in , racine had found his uncle-crony vitart living in the new hôtel de luynes, and in order to be near him he took lodging in rue de grenelle. it was doubtless at the eastern end of that street, not far from the croix-rouge--a step from boileau in rue du vieux-colombier, and not far from la fontaine on quai malaquais. here he stayed for four years, and in he removed to the hôtel des ursins. this name had belonged to a grand old mansion on the north bank of Île de la cité, presented by the city of paris to jean juvénal des ursins, _prévôt des marchands_ under charles vi. in the old prints, we see its two towers rising sheer from the river, and behind them its vast buildings and spacious grounds extending far away south on the island. according to edouard fournier, a painstaking topographer, all this structure was demolished toward the end of the eighteenth century, and over its site and through its grounds were cut the three streets bearing its name of des ursins--haute, milieu, basse. other authorities claim that portions of the hotel still stand there, among them that portion in which racine lived; his rooms having remained unaltered up to . the street is narrow and dark, all its buildings are of ancient aspect, and on its south side is a row of antiquated houses that plainly date back to racine's day and even earlier. it is in one of these that we may establish his lodgings. the house at no. , commonly and erroneously pointed out as his residence, is of huge bulk, extending through to rue chanoinesse on the south. no. would seem to be still more ancient. no. is simply one wing of the dark stone structure, of which no. forms the other wing and the central body, massive and gloomy, set back from the street behind a shallow court, between these wings. in the low wall of this court, under a great arch, a small forbidding door shuts on the pavement, and behind, in a recess, is an open stairway leading to the floor above. no. was undoubtedly once a portion of the same fabric. all these street windows are heavily barred and sightless. these three houses evidently formed one entire structure at first, and this was either an outlying portion of the hôtel des ursins, or a separate building, erected after the demolition of that _hôtel_, and taking the old name. in either case, there can be no doubt that these are the walls that harbored racine. the tenants of his day were mostly men of the law who had their offices and residential chambers here, by reason of their proximity to the palais de justice. with these inmates racine was certainly acquainted--the magistrates, the advocates, the clerks, of whom he makes knowing sport in his delightful little comedy, "les plaideurs." it was played at versailles, "by royal command," before king and court in . this was not its original production, however; it had had its first night for the paris public a month earlier, and had failed; possibly because it had not yet received royal approval. molière, one of the audience on that first night, was a more competent critic of its quality, and his finding was that "those who mocked merited to be mocked in turn, for they did not know good comedy when they saw it." this verdict gives striking proof of his innate loyalty to a comrade in trade, for he and the author were estranged just then, not by any fault of molière, and he had the right to feel wronged, and by this unasked praise he proved himself to be the more manly of the two. the piece was an immediate success at versailles. the _roi soleil_ beamed, the courtiers smiled, the crowd laughed. the players, unexpectedly exultant, climbed into their coaches as soon as they were free, and drove into town and to racine, with their good news. this whole quiet street was awakened by their shouts of congratulation, windows were thrown open by the alarmed burghers, and when they learned what it meant, they all joined in the jubilation. racine lived here from to , and these ten years were years of unceasing output and of unbroken success. beginning with his production of "andromaque" in the first-named year, he went, through successive stage triumphs, to "phèdre," his greatest and his last play for the public stage, produced on new year's day of , at the hôtel de bourgogne. it was on these boards that almost all his plays were first given. then, at the age of thirty-seven, at the top of his fame, in the plenitude of his powers, he suddenly ceased to write for the stage. this dis-service to dramatic literature was brought about by his forthcoming marriage, by his disgust with the malice of his rivals, by his weariness of the assaults of his enemies, by his somewhat sudden and showy submission to the church--that sleepless assailant of player and playwright. he hints at the attitude of the godly in his preface to "phèdre," assuring them that they will have to own--however, in other respects, they may or may not esteem this tragedy--that it castigates vice and punishes badness as had no previous play of his. doubtless he was hardened in this decision, already made, by the hurt he had from the reception of this play in contrast with the reception of a poorer play for which his own title was stolen, which was produced within three nights of his piece, and was acclaimed by the cabal that damned the original. nor was it only his rivals and enemies who decried him. "_racine et le café passeront_," was la harpe's contemptuous coupling of the playwright with the new and dubious drink, just then on its trial in paris. his _mot_ has been mothered on madame de sévigné, for she, too, took neither to racine nor to coffee. and a century later it pleased madame de staël to prove, to her own gratification, that his tragedies had already gone into the limbo of out-worn things. racine's whole life--never notably sedate hitherto, with its frequent escapades and its one grand passion--was turned into a new current by his love match with catherine de romenet. on his marriage in june, --among the _témoins_ present were boileau-despréaux and uncle vitart, this latter then living in the same house with his nephew--racine ranged himself on the side of order and of domestic days and nights. he gave proof of a genuine devotedness to his wife; a good wife, if you will, yet hardly a companion for him in his work at home and in the world outside. it is told of her, that she never saw one of his pieces played, nor heard one read; and louis, their youngest son, says that his mother did not know what a verse was. the earliest home of the new couple was on Île saint-louis. neither the house nor its street is to be identified to-day, but both may surely be seen, so slight are the changes even now since that provincial village, in the heart of paris, was built up from an island wash-house and wood-yard under the impulse of the plans prepared for henri iv., by his right hand, sully. and in this parish church, saint-louis-en-l'Île--a provincial church quite at home here--we find racine holding at the font his first child, jean-baptiste, in . two years later he moved again, and from early in to the end of we find him at no. rue de l'eperon, on the corner of rue saint-andré-des-arts. here his family grew in number, and the names of three of his daughters, marie-catherine, anne, and Élisabeth--all born in this house--appeared on the baptismal register of his parish church, saint-andré-des-arts. this was the church of the christening of françois-marie arouet, a few years later. the place saint-andré-des-arts, laid out in , now covers the site of that very ancient church, sold as national domain in , and demolished soon after. this residence of racine was left intact until within a few years, when it was replaced by the lycée fénelon, a government school for girls. there they read their "racine," or such portions as are permitted to the young person, not knowing nor caring that on that spot the author once lived. from here he removed, at the beginning of the year , to no. rue des maçons. that street is now named champollion, and the present number of his house cannot be fixed. it still stands on the western side of the street, about half way up between rue des Écoles and place de la sorbonne; for none of these houses have been rebuilt, and the street itself is as secluded and as quiet as when racine walked through it. here were born his daughters jeanne and madeleine, both baptized in the parish church of saint-séverin--a venerable sanctuary, still in use and quite unaltered, except that it has lost its cloisters. and in this home in rue des maçons he brought to life two plays finer than any of their forerunners, yet, unlike them, not intended for public performance. "esther" was written in to please madame de maintenon, and was performed several times by the girls at her school of saint-cyr; first before king and court, later before friends of the court and those who had sufficient influence to obtain the eagerly sought invitation. "athalie," written for similar semi-public production, two years later, failed to make any impression, when played at versailles by the same girls of saint-cyr. after two performances, without scenery or costumes, it was staged no more, and had no sale when published by the author. yet boileau told him that it was his best work, and voltaire said that it was nearer perfection than any work of man. indeed, "athalie," in its grandeur and its simplicity, may easily outrank any production of the french pen during the seventeenth century. and, as literature, these two plays are almost perfect specimens of racine's almost perfect art and diction; of that art, wherein he was so exquisite a craftsman; of that diction, so rich, so daring, so pliable, so passionate, yet restrained, refined, judicious. in may, , we learn by a letter to boileau, racine was still in rue des maçons, but he must have left it shortly after, for in november of this year he brought to be christened, in saint-sulpice, his youngest child, louis. this is the son who has left us an admirable biography of his father, and some mediocre poems--"la religion" and "la grâce" being those by which he is best known. so that saint-sulpice was, already in november, , the church of his new parish; and the house to which he had removed in that parish, wherein the boy was born, stands, quite unchanged to-day, in rue visconti. that street was then named rue des marais-saint-germain, having begun life as a country lane cut through the low marshy lands along the southern shore. it extends only from rue de seine to rue bonaparte, then named rue des petits-augustins. near its western end, at the present number , the marquis de ranes had erected a grand mansion; and this, on his death in , was let out in apartments. it is asserted that it is the house of whose second floor racine became a tenant. within the great concave archway that frames the wide entrance door is set a tablet, containing the names of racine, of la champmeslé, of lecouvreur, and of clairon, all of whom are claimed to have been inhabitants of this house. that tablet has carried conviction during the half-century since it was cut and set, about , but its word is to be doubted, and many of us believe that the more ancient mansion at no. of the street was racine's home. local tradition makes the only proof at present, and the matter cannot be absolutely decided until the lease shall be found in that parisian notary's office where it is now filed away and forgotten. we know that mlle. lecouvreur lived in the house formerly tenanted by racine, and that she speaks of it as being nearly at the middle of the street, and this fact points rather to no. than to no. . and we know that mlle. clairon had tried for a long time to secure an apartment in the house honored by memories of the great dramatist and the great actress; for whose sake she was willing to pay the then enormous rental of francs. but the tablet's claim to la champmeslé as a tenant is an undue and unpardonable excess of zeal. whatever racine may have done years before in his infatuation for that bewitching woman, he did not bring her into his own dwelling! [illustration: rue visconti. on the right is the hôtel de ranes, and in the distance is no. .] she had come from rouen, a young actress looking for work, along with her husband, a petty actor and patcher-up of plays; for whose sake she was admitted to the théâtre du marais. how she made use of this chance is told by a line in a letter of madame de sévigné, who had seen her play atalide in "bajazet," and pronounced "_ma belle fille_"--so she brevets her son's lady-love--as "the most miraculously good _comédienne_ that i have ever seen." it was on the boards of the hôtel de bourgogne that she showed herself to be also the finest _tragédienne_ of her time. she shone most in "bajazet," and in others of racine's plays, creating her rôles under his admiring eye and under his devoted training. he himself declaimed verse marvellously well, and had in him the making of a consummate comedian, or a preacher, as you please. la champmeslé was not beautiful or clever, but her stature was noble, her carriage glorious, her voice bewitching, her charm irresistible. and la fontaine sang praises of her _esprit_, and this was indeed fitting at his age then. she lived somewhere in this quarter, when playing in the troupe of the widow molière at the théâtre guénégaud. when she retired from those boards, she found a home with her self-effacing husband in auteuil, and there died in . the first floor in the right wing of the court of both and is said to be the residence of adrienne lecouvreur. she had appeared in at the comédie française, in rue de l'ancienne-comédie, and had won her place at once. the choice spirits of the court, of the great world, of the greater world of literature, were glad to meet in fellowship around her generous and joyous table. among them she found excuse for an occasional caprice, but her deepest and most lasting passion was given to the superb adventurer, maurice de saxe. his quarters, when home from the wars--for which her pawned jewels furnished him forth--were only a step down rue bonaparte from her house, on quai malaquais. they were at no. , the most ancient mansion left on the quay, with the exception of no. , hid behind the wing of the institute. he died at chambord on november , , and at this house, may , , there was an auction of his effects. there came a time when the meetings of these two needed greater secrecy, and he removed to rue de colombier, now named rue jacob. the houses on the north side of this ancient street had--and some of them still have--gardens running back to the gardens of the houses on the south side of rue visconti. these little gardens had, in the dividing fence, gates easily opened by night, for others besides adrienne and maurice, as local legend whispers. scribe has put their story on the stage, where it is a tradition that the actress was actually poisoned by a great lady, for the sake of the fascinating lover. he stood by her bedside, with voltaire and the physician, when she was dying in , at the early age of thirty-eight, in one of the rooms on this first floor over the court. voltaire had had no sneers, but only praise for the actress, and smiles for the woman whose kind heart had brought her to his bedside, when he was ill, where she read to him the last book out, the translation of the "arabian nights." he was stirred to stinging invective of the churlish priest of saint-sulpice, who denied her church-burial. in the same verse he commends that good man, monsieur de laubinière, who gave her body hasty and unhallowed interment. he came, by night, with two coaches and three men, and drove with the poor body along the river-bank, turning up rue de bourgogne to a spot behind the vast wood-yards that then lined the river-front. there, in a hole they dug, they hid her. the fine old mansion at no. rue de grenelle, next to the southeast corner of rue de bourgogne, covers her grave. in its garret, thrown into one corner and almost forgotten, is a marble tablet, long and narrow, once set in a wall on this site, to mark the spot so long ignored--as its inscription says--where lies an actress of admirable _esprit_, of good heart, and of a talent sublime in its simplicity. and it recites the efforts of a true friendship, which got at last only this little bit of earth for her grave. yet a few years further on, the same wing on the court of this dingy old house sparkled with the splendid personality of hippolyte clairon, who outshines all other stars of the french stage, unless it be rachel. here she lived the life of one of those prodigal princesses, in whose rôles she loved to dazzle on the boards of the comédie française, where she first appeared in . it was her public and not her private performances that shocked the sensitive church into a threat of future terrors for her. when, in the course of a theatrical quarrel, she refused to play, she was sent to prison, being one of "his majesty's servants," disobedient and punishable. she preferred possible purgatory to present imprisonment, and went back to her duty. to this house again came voltaire, as her visitor this time, along with diderot and marmontel and many such men. garrick came, too, when in paris--came quietly, less eager to proclaim his ardent admiration for the woman than his public and professional acclamation of the actress in the theatre. her parts all played, she left the stage when a little past forty, and, sinking slowly into age and poverty and misery, she died at the age of eighty in . all these flashing fireworks are dimmed and put to shame by the gentle glow and the steadfast flame of the wood-fire on racine's home hearthstone. it lights up the gloomy, mean street, even as we stand here. he was, in truth, an admirable husband and father, and it is this side of the man that we prefer to regard, rather than that side turned toward other men. of them he was, through his over-much ambition, easily jealous, and, being sensitive and suspicious as well, and given to a biting raillery, he alienated his friends. boileau alone was too big of soul to allow any estrangement. these two were friends for almost forty years, in which not one clouded day is known. the letters between them--those from to are still preserved--show the depth of racine's manly and delicate feeling for his friend, then "in his great solitude at auteuil." they had been appointed royal historiographers soon after racine's marriage in , and, in that office, travelled together a good deal, in the ghent campaign of and again with the army in other fields. they worked together on their notes later, and gathered great store of material; but the result amounted to nothing, and they were posthumously lucky in that their unfinished manuscript was finally burned by accident in . whether with boileau in camp, or alone in the luxembourg campaign of --boileau being too ill to go--or at namur in , or with the king and court at fontainebleau, marly, versailles, in these royal residences where he had his own rooms, wherever he was, racine never seemed to cease thinking of his home, that home in rue des maçons when he first went away, and for the last seven years of his life in rue visconti. when absent from home he wrote to his children frequently, and when here he corresponded constantly with his son, who was with the french embassy at the hague. to him he gave domestic details and "trivial fond records" of what his mother was doing, of the colds of the younger ones, and of the doings of the daughter in a convent at melun. he sends to this son two new hats and eleven and a half _louis d'or_, and begs him to be careful of the hats and to spend the money slowly. yet he was fond of court life, and, an adroit courtier, he knew how to sing royal prowess in the field and royal splendor in the palace. he had a way of carrying himself that gave seeming height to his slight stature. his noble and open expression, his fine wit, his dexterous address, his notable gifts as a reader to the king at his bedside, made him a favorite in that resplendent circle. and he was all the more unduly dejected when the _roi soleil_ cooled and no longer smiled on him; he was killed when madame de maintenon--"goody scarron," "old piety," "the hag," "the hussy," "that old woman," are the usual pet epithets for her of delicious duchesse d'orléans--who had liked and had befriended him, saw the policy of showing him her cold shoulder, as she had shown it to fénelon. from this shock, racine, being already broken physically by age and illness, seemed unable to rally. as he sank gradually to the grave he made sedulous provision for his family, dictating, toward the last, a letter begging for a continuance of his pension to his widow, which, it is gladly noted, was afterward done. he urged, also, the claim of boileau to royal favor: "we must not be separated," he said to his amanuensis; "begin your letter again, and let boileau know that i have been his friend to my death." his death came on april , . his body lay one night in the choir of saint-sulpice, his parish church, and then it was carried for burial to the abbey of port-royal. on the destruction of that institution, his remains were brought back to paris, in , and placed near those of pascal, at the entrance of the lady-chapel of saint-Étienne-du-mont. racine's epitaph, in latin, by boileau, the friend of so many men who were not always friendly with one another, is cut in a stone set in the first pillar of the southern aisle of the choir. * * * * * jean de la fontaine began to come to paris, making occasional excursions from his native château-thierry, in champagne, toward , he being then over thirty years of age. a little later, when under the protection and in the pay of the great fouquet, his visits to the capital were more frequent and more prolonged. he commonly found lodgings on quai des grands-augustins, just around the corner from young racine, and the two men were much together during the years and . la fontaine made his home permanently in the capital after , when he arrived there in the train of the duchesse de bouillon, born anne mancini, youngest and liveliest of mazarin's many dashing nieces. her marriage with the duc de bouillon had made her the feudal lady of château-thierry, and if she were not compelled to claim, in this case, her privilege as _châtelaine_ over her appanage, it was because there was ampler mandate for the impressionable poet in the caprice of a wilful woman. incidentally, in this flitting, he left behind his provincial wife. he had taken her to wife in , mainly to please his father, and soon, to please her and himself, they had agreed on a separation. they met scarcely any more after his definite departure. there is a tradition that he chatted, once in a _salon_ somewhere, with a bright young man by whom he found himself attracted, and concerning whom he made inquiry of the bystanders, who informed him that it was his son. tradition does not record any attempt on his part to improve his acquaintance with the young stranger, or to show further interest in his welfare. he did not entirely desert his country home, for the duchess carried him along on her autumnal visits to château-thierry. he took advantage of each chance thus given him to realize something upon his patrimony, that he might meet the always pressing claims on his always overspent income. he writes to racine during one of these visits, in : "my affairs occupy me as much as they're worth it, and that's not at all; and the leisure i thus get is given to laziness." he almost anticipated in regard to himself the racy saying of the oxford don of our day of another professor: "such time as he can save from the adornment of his person he devotes to the neglect of his duties." but la fontaine neglected not only his duties all through life, but, more than all else, did he neglect the care of his dress. a portion of the income he was always anticipating came from his salary at one time, as gentleman in the _suite_ of the dowager duchesse d'orléans, that post giving him quarters in the luxembourg. these quarters and his salary went from him with her death. for several years after coming to town with the duchesse de bouillon he had a home in the duke's town-house on quai malaquais. this quay had been built upon the river-front soon after the death, in , of marguerite de valois, henri iv.'s divorced wife. the streets leading from quais malaquais and voltaire, and those behind, parallel with the quays, were cut through her grounds and through the fields farther west. this was the beginning of the faubourg saint-germain. to save the long detour, to and from the new suburb, around by way of pont-neuf, a wooden bridge was built in along the line of the ferry, that had hitherto served for traffic between the shore in front of the louvre and the southern shore, at the end of the road that is now rue du bac. the pont royal has replaced that wooden bridge. one of the buildings that began this river-front remains unmutilated at the corner of quai malaquais and rue de seine, and is characteristic of the architecture of that period in its walls and roofs and windows clustering about the court. it was the many years' dwelling of the elder visconti, and his death-place in . the house at no. was erected early in the nineteenth century, on the site of buzot's residence, as shall be told in a later chapter. in it humboldt lived from to . the associations of no. have already been suggested. the largest builder on the quay was cardinal mazarin, whose college, to which he gave his own name, and to which the public gave the name collége des quatre-nations, is now the palais de l'institut. he paid for it with money wrung from wretched france, as he so paid for the grand _hôtel_ he erected for another niece, anne marie martinozzi, widow of that prince de conti who was molière's school friend. on the ground that it covered was built, in - , the wing of the beaux-arts at nos. and quai malaquais. that school has also taken possession of the hôtel de bouillon of the cardinal's other niece, almost alongside. it had been the property of the rich and vulgar money-king bazinière, whom we shall meet again, and he had sold it to the duc de bouillon. the pretty wife of this very near-sighted husband had the house re-decorated, and filled it with a marvellous collection of furniture, paintings, _bric-à-brac_. she filled it, also, by her open table twice a day, with thick-coming guests, some of whom were worth knowing. the _hôtel_ came by inheritance in to m. de chimay, who stipulated, in making it over to the beaux-arts, in , that its seventeenth-century façade should be preserved, and by this agreement we have here, at no. quai malaquais, an admirable specimen of the competence of the elder, the great mansart. it is higher than he left it, by reason of the wide, sloping roof, with many skylights toward the north, placed there for the studios within, but its two well-proportioned wings remain unchanged, and between them the court, where la fontaine was wont to sit or stroll, has been laid out as a garden. while living here he brought out the first collection of his "contes" in , and of his "fables" in . his "les amours de psyché," written in , begins with a charming description of the meetings in boileau's rooms of the famous group of comrades. from this home he went to the home of madame de la sablière, with whom, about , he had formed a friendship which lasted unbroken until her death. this tender and steadfast companionship made the truest happiness of la fontaine's life. for twenty years an inmate of her household, a member of her family, he was petted and cared for as he craved. in her declining years she had to be away from home attending to her charitable work--for she followed the fashion of turning _dévote_ as age advanced--and then he suffered in unaccustomed loneliness. his tongue spoke of her with the same constant admiration and gratitude that is left on record by his pen, and at her death he was completely crushed. when he was invited by madame de la sablière and her poet-husband to share their home, they were living at their country-place, "_la folie rambouillet_," not to be mistaken for the hôtel de rambouillet. sablière's _hôtel_, built by his father, a wealthy banker, was in the suburb of reuilly, on the bercy road, north of the seine, not far from picpus. the reuilly station and the freight-houses of the vincennes railway now cover the site of this splendid mansion and its extensive grounds. here monsieur de la sablière died in , and his widow, taking la fontaine along, removed to her town-house. this stood on the ground now occupied by the buildings in rue saint-honoré, nearly opposite rue de la sourdière. in the court of no. are bits of carving that may have come down from the original mansion. here they dwelt untroubled until death took her away in . it is related that la fontaine, leaving this house after the funeral, benumbed and bewildered by the blow, met monsieur d'hervart. "i was going," said that gentleman, "to offer you a home with me." "i was going to ask it," was the reply. and in this new abode he dwelt until his death, two years later. berthélemy d'hervart, a man of great wealth, had purchased, in , the hôtel de l'Éperon, a mansion erected on the site of burgundy's hôtel de flandre. m. d'hervart had enlarged and decorated his new abode, employing for the interior frescoes the painter mignard, molière's friend. the actor and his troupe had played here, by invitation, nearly fifty years before la fontaine's coming. it stood in old rue plâtrière, now widened out, entirely rebuilt, and renamed rue jean-jacques-rousseau; and on the wall of the central post-office that faces that street, you will find a tablet stating that on this site died jean de la fontaine on april , . madame d'hervart was a young and lovely woman, and as devoted to the old poet as had been madame de la sablière. she went so far as to try to regulate his dress, his expenditure, and his morals. congratulated one day on the splendor of his coat, la fontaine found to his surprise and delight that his hostess had substituted it--when, he had not noticed--for the shabby old garment that he had been wearing for years. she and her husband held sacred, always, the room in which la fontaine died, showing it to their friends as a place worthy of reverence. he was buried in the cemetery of saints-innocents, now all built over except its very centre, which is kept as a small park about the attractive fountain of saints-innocents. the patriots of the revolution, slaying so briskly their men of birth, paused awhile to bring from their graves what was left of their men of brains. misled by inaccurate rumor, they left la fontaine's remains in their own burial-ground, and removed what they believed to be his bones from the graveyard of saint-joseph, where he had not been buried, along with the bones they believed to be those of molière, who _had_ been buried there. these casual and dubious remains were kept in safety in the convent of petits-augustins in present rue bonaparte, until, in the early years of the nineteenth century, they were removed for final sepulture to père-lachaise. no literary man of his time--perhaps of any time--was so widely known and so well beloved as la fontaine. he attracted men, not only the best in his own guild, but the highest in the state and in affairs. men various in character, pursuits, station, were equally attached to him; the great condé was glad to receive him as a frequent guest at chantilly; the superfine sensualist, saint-Évremond, in exile in england, urged him to come to visit him and to meet waller. he nearly undertook the journey, less to see saint-Évremond and to know waller, than to follow his duchesse de bouillon, visiting her sister, the duchess of mazarin, in her chelsea home. it was at this time that ninon de lenclos wrote to saint-Évremond: "you wish la fontaine in england. we have little of his company in paris. his understanding is much impaired." racine, eighteen years his junior, looked up to la fontaine as a critic, a counsellor, and a friend, from their early days together in , through long years of intimacy, until he stood beside la fontaine's bed in his last illness. he even took an odd pleasure in finding that he and la fontaine's deserted country wife had sprung from the same provincial stock. molière first met la fontaine at vaux, the more than royal residence of fouquet, at the time of the royal visit in . la fontaine wrote a graceful bit of verse in praise of the author of "les fâcheux," played for the first time before king and court during these festivities, and the two men, absolutely opposed in essential qualities, were fast friends from that time on. "they make fun of the _bonhomme_," said the ungrudging player once, "and our clever fellows think they can efface him; but he'll efface us all yet." it is needless to say that la fontaine was beloved by boileau, the all-loving. that kindly ascetic was moved to attempt the amendment of his friend's laxity of life, and to this blameless end dragged him to prayers sometimes, where la fontaine was bored and would take up any book at hand to beguile the time. in this way he made acquaintance with the apocrypha, and became intensely interested in baruch, and asked boileau if he knew baruch, and urged him to read baruch, as a hitherto undiscovered genius. during his last illness, he told the attendant priest that he had been reading the new testament, and that he regarded it as a good, a very good book. in truth, his soul was the soul of a child, and, childlike, he lived in a world of his own--a world peopled with the animals and the plants and the inanimate objects, made alive by him and almost human. he loved them all, and painted them with swift, telling strokes of his facile pen. the acute taine points out that the brute creations of this poet are prototypes of every class and every profession of his country and his time. his dumb favorites attracted him especially by their unspoiled simplicity, for he loathed the artificial existence of his fellow-creatures. with "a sullen irony and a desperate resignation" he let himself be led into society, and he was bored beyond bearing by its high-heeled decorum. it is said that he cherished, all his life long, a speechless exasperation with the king, that incarnation of pomposity and pretence to his untamed gallic spirit. yet this malcontent had to put on the livery of his fellow-flunkies, and his dedication, to the dauphin, of his "fables," is as fulsome and servile as any specimen of sycophancy of that toad-eating age. yet, able to make trees and stones talk, he himself could not talk, la bruyère tells us; coloring his portraiture strongly, as was his way, and rendering la fontaine much too heavy and dull, with none of the skill in description with his tongue that he had with his pen. he may be likened to goldsmith, who "wrote like an angel and talked like poor poll." madame de sablière said to him: "_mon bon ami, que vous seriez bête, si vous n'aviez pas tant d'esprit!_" louis racine, owning to the lovable nature of the man, has to own, too, that he gave poor account of himself in society, and adds that his sisters, who in their youth had seen the poet frequently at their father's table in rue visconti, recalled him only as a man untidy in dress and stupid in talk. he gave this impression mainly because he was forever dreaming, even in company, and so seemed distant and dull; but, when drawn out of his dreams, no man could be more animated and more delightful. [illustration: la fontaine. (from the portrait by rigaud-y-ros.)] so he was found by congenial men, and so especially by approving women. these took to him on the spot, women of beauty and of wit, and women commonplace enough. to them all his prattle was captivating, devoid as it was of the grossness so conspicuous in his poems. he depended on women in every way all through his life; they catered to his daily needs, and they provided for his higher wants; they helped him in his money troubles, they helped him in all his troubles. and he requited each one's care with a genuine affection, not only at the time, but for all time, in the record he has left of his gratitude and his devotion to these ministering women. his verse is an unconscious chronicle of his loves, his caprices, his inconstancies, and his loyalties. nor did a woman need to be clever and cultivated to be bewitched by his inborn, simple sweetness. a matter-of-fact nurse, hired to attend him during an illness which came near being fatal, said to the attending priest: "surely, god could not have the courage to damn a man like that." this memory he has left is brought pleasantly home to the passer-by in rue de grenelle by the sign of a hotel, a quiet clerical house, frequented by churchmen and church-loving provincials visiting paris. the sign bears the name "_au bon la fontaine_," in striking proof of the permanent place in the common heart won by this lovable man. he was content to drift through life, his days spent, as he put it in his epitaph on "jean," one-half in doing nothing, the other half in sleeping. he had no library or study or workroom, like other pen-workers; he lived out of doors in the open air, and wandered vaguely, tasting blameless epicurean delights. some of us seem to see, always in going along cours la reine, that quaint figure, comical and pathetic, as he was seen by the duchesse de bouillon on a rainy morning, when she drove to versailles. he was standing under a tree on this wooded water-side, and on her return on that rainy evening he was standing under the same tree. he had dreamed away the long day there, not knowing or not caring that he was wet. he explained, once when he came late--inexcusably late--to a dinner, that he had been watching a procession of ants in a field, and had found that it was a funeral; he had accompanied the _cortége_ to the grave in the garden, and had then escorted the bereaved family back to its home, as bound by courtesy. this genuine poet, of dry, sly humor and of unequalled suppleness of phrase, was by nature a gentle, wild creature, and by habit a docile, domesticated pet, attaching himself to any amiable woman who was willing to give him a warm corner in her heart and her house. and how such women looked on him was prettily and wittily put by one of them: "he isn't a man, he is a _fablier_"--a natural product of her own sudden inspiration--"who blossoms out into fables as a tree blossoms out with leaves." * * * * * nicolas boileau began his acquaintance with molière by his tribute of four dainty verses to the author of "l'École des femmes," and the friendship thus formed was broken only by the death of molière, to whose memory boileau inserted his magnificent lines in the "epître à monsieur racine." it was boileau who criticised the early verse of young racine, so justly and so gently, that the two men were drawn together in an amity that was never marred. it was boileau who, after nearly forty years of finding him out by the distrustful racine, was acknowledged to be "noble and full of friendship." it was boileau who sang without cessation praises of racine to louis xiv., and who startled the nimble mediocrity of his majesty's mind by the assertion that molière was the rarest genius of the grand monarch's reign and realm. it was boileau who made, in his fondness for la fontaine, the unhappy and hopeless attempt to reform his friend's loose living, and in so doing nearly led to the undoing of la fontaine's goodwill for him. it was boileau, prompted by compassion for corneille's impoverished old age, who offered to surrender his own pension in favor of the distressed veteran of letters. it was boileau who found patru forced to sell his cherished books that he might get food, and it was boileau who bought them, on condition that patru should keep them and look after them for their new owner. it was boileau who tried to work a miracle in his comrade chapelle by weaning him from his wine-bibbing; and when chapelle found the lecture dry, and would listen to it only over a bottle or two, it was boileau who came out of the _cabaret_ the tipsier of the pair. it was boileau who was known to every man who knew him at all--and he was known to many men of merit and demerit--as a loyal, sincere, helpful, unselfish friend. it was of boileau that a perplexed woman in the great throng at his burial said, in the hearing of young louis racine: "he seems to have lots of friends, and yet somebody told me that he wrote bad things about everybody." those friends could have explained the puzzle. they mourned the indulgent comrade who was doubled with the stern satirist. the man, so rigid in morals and austere of life, was tolerant to the foibles of his friends, tender in their troubles, open-handed for their needs. the writer, so exacting in his standard and severe in his judgment, was cruel only with his pen. trained critic in verse, rather than inspired poet, boileau had an enthusiasm for good work in others equal to his intolerance of bad. he loathed the powdered and perfumed _minauderies_ of the drawing-room poetasters, and he loved the swift and sure stroke of molière's "_rare et fameux esprit_." it was in frank admiration that he demanded of his friend: "_enseigne-moi où tu trouves la rime!_" for this impeccable artist in words, who has left his profession of faith in the power of a word in its right place, had to reset and recast, file and polish, to get the perfection he craved. and so this bountiful admirer was easily an unsparing censor. sincere in letters as in life, he insisted on equal sincerity from his fellow-workers, and would not let them spare their toil or scamp their stint. he watched and warned them; his reproof and his approval brought out better work from them; and he may well be entitled the police president of parnassus of his country and his day. boileau's sturdy uprightness of spine stood him in good stead in that great court where all men grew sleek and servile, and where no pen-worker seemed able to escape becoming a courtier. his caustic audacity salted his sycophancy and made him a man apart from the herd of flatterers. his thrust was so suave, as well as sharp, that the spoiled monarch himself accepted admonition from that courageous cleverness. "i am having search made in every direction for monsieur arnauld," said louis, when eager in his pursuit of the jansenists. "your majesty is always fortunate; you will not find him," was boileau's quick retort, received with a smile by the king. when money was needed for dr. perrault's new eastern façade of the louvre and for its other alterations, the king naturally economized in the incomes of other men. the pensions of literary men--in many instances the sole source of their livelihood--were allowed to lapse; that of boileau was continued by an order that his name should be entered on the louvre pay-roll as "an architect paid for mason's work." his mordant reply to the questioning pay-clerk was: "yes, i am a mason." his masonry in the stately fabric of french literature stands unmarred to-day; coldly correct, it may be, yet elegant, faultless, consummate. nicolas boileau-despréaux was long believed to have been born in the country and to have played in the fields as a child, and so to have got his added name _des préaux_; but it is now made certain that the house of his birth, in , was in rue de jérusalem, a street that led to the sainte-chapelle, from about the middle of the present quai des orfèvres. the only field he knew lay at the foot of his father's garden at crosne, where the lad was sometimes taken. fields and gardens had never anything to say to this born cockney, and there is not a sniff of real country air in all his verse. the street of his birth was one of the narrow, dark streets of oldest paris, on Île de la cité; and the house, tall and thin, had its gable end on the court of the old palais de justice. the earliest air breathed by this baby was charged with satire, it would seem. for the room of his birth had been occupied, nearly half a century earlier, by jacques gillot, the brilliant canon of sainte-chapelle. in this room assembled in secret that clever band of talkers and writers, who planned and wrote "la ménippée"; the first really telling piece of french political satire, so telling, in its unbridled buffoonery, that it gave spirit to the arms that shattered the league, and helped to put henry of navarre on the throne of france. after his father's death, young nicolas kept his home with his elder brother jérôme, who had succeeded to the paternal mansion, and who gave the boy a sort of watch-tower, built above the garrets, in which he could hardly stand upright. the house, the court, the old palace, were long since swept away, and with them went all the melodramatic stage-setting of hugo's "notre-dame de paris" and sue's "mystères de paris." only the sainte-chapelle is left of the scenes of boileau's early years. he was sent for a while to collége d'harcourt, where young racine came a little later, and was then put to the study of law, the family trade; passing by way of beauvais college to the sorbonne. he is known to have pleaded in but one case, and then with credit to himself. still the law did not please him, any more than did the dry theology and the pedantic philosophy that he listened to on the benches of the sorbonne. he was enamoured early of poetry and romance, and soon affianced himself to the muse. this was his only betrothal, and he made no other marriage. he was born an old bachelor, and he soon sought bachelor quarters, driven by the children's racket from his nephew's house--also in the cour du palais--where he had found a home. this nephew and this house were well known to voltaire when a boy, as he tells us in his "Épître à boileau": "_chez ton neveu dongois je passai mon enfance, bon bourgeois, qui se crut un homme d'importance._" it is first in the year that we can place with certainty boileau's residence in rue du vieux-colombier, in that small apartment which fills a larger place in the annals of literary life than any domicile of that day, perhaps of any day. it was the gathering-place of that illustrious quartette-- "the goodliest fellowship of famous knights whereof this world holds record." molière comes from his rooms in rue saint-honoré, or from his theatre; crossing the seine by the pont-neuf, and passing along rues dauphine and de bucy, and through the marché saint-germain; moody from domestic dissensions, heavy-hearted with the recent loss of his first-born. once among his friends, he listens, as he always listened, talking but little. la fontaine saunters from the hôtel de bouillon, by way of rue des petits-augustins--now rue bonaparte--and of tortuous courts now straightened into streets. sitting at table, he is yet in his own land of dreams, until, stirred from his musing, his fine eyes brighten, and he chatters with a curious blending of simplicity and _finesse_. racine steps in from his lodging in rue de grenelle, hard by; the youngest of the four, he, unlike those other two, is seldom silent, and gives full play to his ironical raillery. next above him in age is the host; shrewd, brusque, incisive of speech and manner. so he shows in girardon's admirable bust in the louvre. the enormous wig then worn cannot becloud the bright alertness of his expression, or over-weigh the full lips that could sneer and the square chin, so resolute. these comrades talked of all sorts of things, and read to one another what each had written since they last met; read it for the sake of honest criticism from the rest, and with no other thought. for never were four men so absolutely without pose, without any pretence of earnestness, while immensely in earnest all the time. in "les amours de psyché," la fontaine assures us that they did not absolutely banish all serious discourse, but that they took care not to have too much of it, and preferred the darts of fun and nonsense that were feathered with friendly counsel. best of all, his fable makes plain that there were no cliques nor cabals, no envy nor malice, among the men that made this worshipful band. [illustration: boileau-despréaux. (from the portrait by largillière.)] their table served rather to sit around than to eat from, for their suppers were simple, and the flowing bowl was passed only when boisterous chapelle or other _bon-vivant_ dropped in. for others were invited at times, men of the world, the court, and the camp. and boileau was the common centre of these excentric stars, and when each, in his own special atmosphere of coolness, swayed from the others' vicinage, boileau alone let no alienation come between him and any one of them. for each, he was what racine had found him, "the best friend and the best man in the world." the house was near a noted _cabaret_, to which they sometimes resorted, at the saint-sulpice end of the street. the _cabaretier_ was the illustrious cresnet, made immortal in boileau's verse. for the poet was no prude, and enjoyed the pleasures of the table so far as his health permitted; and, a trained gastronomic artist, he knew how to order a choicely harmonized repast. his street is widened, his house is gone, and no one can fix the spot. yet the turmoil of that crowded thoroughfare of to-day is deadened for us by the mute voices of these men. we have noted boileau's camp-following with racine, in their rôles of royal historiographers--in and later--but he was not strong enough for these excursions, even though they were made a picnic for the court. he was never at home on a horse, and yet out of place in the mud, and he could not enjoy the laughter he caused in either attitude, before or after he was thrown; laughter that is recorded in the letters of madame de sévigné. it was probably because of molière's taking a country place at auteuil that boileau began to make frequent excursions to that quiet suburb about , and went to live in his tiny cottage there in . "he had acquired it," to use his biographer's words, "partly by his majesty's munificence, and partly by his own careful economy," so that he was opulent, for a poet. his purchase papers were made out by the notary arouet--voltaire's father--who drew up boileau's pension papers in , and who did much notarial work for the boileau family. the cottage stood exactly on the ground now covered by the rear wing of the hydropathic establishment, at no. rue boileau, auteuil. here he spent the spring and summer months of many a year, always alone, but with a hand-shake and a smile for his many visitors, men of birth as well as men of brains. hither voltaire certainly came, when a lad living with dongois, for he says, in his pleasant rhymed epistle to boileau: "_je vis le jardinier de ta maison d'auteuil._" to this same "_laborieux valet_," to this same "_antoine, gouverneur de mon jardin d'auteuil_," boileau wrote his letter in verse in . the widow racine came, too, for frequent outings with her children, who loved the garden and adored boileau, for the peaches he picked for them and the ninepins he played with them. louis racine, a sort of pupil of his, says that the old poet was nearly as skilful at this game as in versifying, and usually knocked over the entire nine with one ball. and when he went to town, no warmer welcome met the crusty old bachelor than in rue des marais-saint-germain, still the dwelling-place of racine's family. in great mansions, too, he had long been cordially received. he was a visitor at that of madame de guénégaud, which has given its site to the hôtel de la monnaie, and its name to the street alongside. he was fond of meeting kindred spirits and kindly hosts in the _hôtel_ of the great condé and his younger brother conti. he was one of the select set that sat about the table of lamoignon, every monday, at his home in the marais, to be visited by us later. and whenever old cardinal retz came to town, boileau hastened to the hôtel de lesdiguières, of which no stone stands in the street of its name. here the white-headed, worn-out old fighter, compelled to live in retirement, after the storms and scandals of his active life, was made at home by his admirable niece, madame de lesdiguières, and here he was encircled by admiring men and women. here, writes madame de sévigné, his other niece, who came often to sit with him, boileau presented to retz early copies of "le lutrin," and of "l'ars poétique." boileau could not live in the country in winter, and even in summer he had to go often into town to get the care of his trusted physician. for he was an invalid from boyhood, and all his life an uncomplaining sufferer. but he hurried back, whenever permitted, to the pure air and the congenial solitude of his small cottage, where three faithful servants cared for him; not as would have cared the wife, whom he ought to have had, all his friends said, and so, too, he thought sometimes. he grew lonely as life lengthened, and as he saw his cronies passing away, fast and faster, old corneille being the last of them to go. his winters in the great city were spent in lodgings on the island, in the cloisters of notre-dame. their quiet had always attracted him, as he avows in the verse that quivers with his nervous irritability, caused by the noises of the noisiest of towns. he cries, "does one go to bed to be kept awake?" indeed, he had rooms in the cloisters as early as , keeping them for town quarters, in the official residence of l'abbé de dreux, his old friend, a canon of notre-dame. to this address racine sent him a letter as late as . the ecclesiastical settlement within the cathedral cloisters, and its only remaining cottage, have been spoken of in an earlier chapter. the cloisters themselves survive only in the name of the street that has been cut through their former site. in we find boileau living with his confessor, the abbé lenoir, also a canon of the cathedral, who had the privilege of residing within the cloisters. this house stood exactly where now is the southern edge of the fountain behind notre-dame, above le terrain and the seine. his rooms were on the first floor, his bed in an alcove, and his windows looked out on the terrace over the river, as we learn by the amiable accuracy of the lawyer who drew up his will. here boileau lived through painful years of breaking bodily health, but with unbroken faculties. he yearned for his old home at auteuil, and yet he was too feeble to go so far. he had sold his cottage to a friend, under the condition that a room should be reserved always for his use. that use never came. one day toward the end, he summoned up strength to drive to the beloved place; but all was changed, he changed most of all, and he hurried home to his lonely quarters, where death found him at ten o'clock in the morning of march , . his devoted servants were requited for years of faithful service by handsome legacies, then the relatives were provided for, and no friend was forgotten. the remainder of his fortune went to the "_pauvres honteux_" of six small parishes in the city. a vast and reverent concourse of mourners of every rank followed his coffin to its first resting-place. this was in the lower chapel of the sainte-chapelle, as he had ordered; the church of his baptism, and of the burial of his mother and father. by a strange chance, his grave had been dug under that very reading-desk which had suggested to him the subject of his most striking production, the heroic-comic poem "le lutrin." early in the revolution his remains were removed, to save them from fortuitous profanation by the "patriots," to the museum of french monuments established in the convent of the petits-augustins, in the street of that name, now rue bonaparte. in his bones were finally placed in saint-germain-des-prés, where, in the chapel of saint-peter and saint-paul, they are at rest behind a black marble tablet carved with a ponderous latin inscription. from voltaire to beaumarchais [illustration: voltaire. (from the statue by houdon in the foyer of the comédie française.)] from voltaire to beaumarchais "_dans la cour du palais, je naquis ton voisin_," wrote voltaire to boileau, in one of those familiar rhymed letters that soften the austere rhetoric of the french verse of that day. the place of voltaire's birth, nearly sixty years after that of boileau, was in the same street of jerusalem, at its corner with the street of nazareth, and it was only thus as a baby that he came ever in touch with the holy land. on november , , the day after his birth, he was carried across the river to saint-andré-des-arts--no one knows why his baptism was not in the island church of the parish--and there christened françois-marie arouet. his earlier years were passed in the house of boileau's nephew dongois, whose airs of importance did not escape the keen infant eyes, as we have seen in the same letter in verse in our preceding chapter. then he was sent to lycée louis-le-grand, whither we have gone with young poquelin, seventy years earlier. the college stands in its new stone on its old site in widened rue saint-jacques. we hear of no break in the tranquil course of young arouet's studies, beyond the historic scene of his presentation to mlle. ninon de lenclos at her home in the marais, to which we shall go in a later chapter. this was in , when she owned to ninety years of age at least, and she was flattered by the visit of the youth of twelve, and by the verse he wrote for her birthday. dying in that year, she left a handsome sum to her juvenile admirer, to be spent for books. so, "_secondé de ninon, dont je fus légataire_," the lad was strengthened in his inclination for the career of literature he had already planned for himself, and in his disinclination for the legal career planned for him by his father. the elder arouet was a flourishing notary--among his clients was the boileau family--who considered his own the only profession really respectable. he placed his boy, the college days being done, with one maître alain, whose office was near place maubert, between rues de la bucherie and galande, a quarter crowded then with notaries and advocates, now all swept into limbo. but young arouet spent too many of his days and nights with the congenial comrades that met in the temple; "an advanced and dangerous" troop of swells and wits and pen-workers, light-heartedly bent on fun, amid the general gloom brought by marlborough's victories, and by madame de maintenon's persistence in making paris pious. father arouet sent his son away to the hague; the first of his many journeys, enforced and voluntary. when allowed to return in , he lost no time in hunting up his old associates; and soon, stronger hands than those of his father settled him in the bastille, in punishment for verse, not written by him, satirizing the regent and his daughter, duchesse de berri. there he spent his twenty-third year, utilizing his leisure to plan his "henriade," and to finish his "oedipe." when set free, he came out as voltaire. whether he took this new name from a small estate of his mother, or whether it was an anagram of _arouet fils_, is not worth the search; enough for us that it is the name of him, who was to become, as john morley rightly says, "the very eye of eighteenth-century illumination," and to whom we may apply his own words, used magnanimously of his famous contemporary, montesquieu; that humanity had lost its title-deeds, and he had recovered them. once again in the world, he produced his "oedipe" in , with an immediate and resounding success, which was not won by his succeeding plays between and . it was during this period that he spasmodically disappeared from paris, reappearing at brussels, utrecht, the hague; "_jouant à l'envoyé secret_," as was his mania then and in later years. during one of these flittings as an ambassador's ghost, he met rousseau, and they were close friends until the day when rousseau, showing to voltaire his "letter to posterity," was told that it would never reach its address! that gibe made them sworn enemies. in paris, during these years, voltaire had no settled home. we have seen him in the _salon_ of mlle. lecouvreur, in rue visconti, and we have seen him there, a sincere mourner at her death-bed. it has been told in an earlier chapter, how that fine creature had sat by voltaire's sick-bed, careless of her own danger from the small-pox, with which he was stricken in november, . he frequented many haunts of the witty and the wicked during these years, and a historic scene in one of these has been put on canvas by mr. orchardson. one evening in the year , voltaire was a saucy guest at the table of the duc de sully, descendant of henri iv.'s great minister, in the noble mansion in rue saint-antoine, to be visited by us later. on going out, he was waylaid and beaten by the lackeys of the chevalier de rohan-chabot, who desired to impress by cudgels the warning that, while princes are willing to be amused at the table where sit "only princes and poets," the poets must not presume on the privilege. in the painting, voltaire reappears in the room to the remaining guests, dishevelled and outraged. later he challenged rohan, whose reply came in an order of committal to the bastille. after two weeks in a cell, voltaire's request to go to england in exile was gladly accorded by the government. we all know well the voltaire of an older day, in his statues beside the institute and within that building, beside the panthéon, in square monge, and in the _foyer_ of the théâtre français. to see him at this younger day, we must turn into the court-yard of the mairie of the ninth arrondissement at no. rue drouot--an ancient and attractive family mansion. in the centre of the court is a modern bronze, showing "the ape of genius" at the age of twenty-five, a dapper creature with head perked up and that complacent smile so marked in all his portraits. this smirk may be due less to self-satisfaction than to that physical peculiarity, claimed by dr. oliver wendell holmes in his own case, which is caused by the congenital shortening of the levator muscles of the mouth. the statue's right hand rests jauntily on the hip, in the left hand is a book, and the left skirt of the long coat is blown back, showing the sword that was worn by young philosophers who would be young bloods. the pedestal holds two bas-reliefs; the youth in ninon's _salon_, the patriarch at ferney, and cut in it are his words: "if god did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him." during his years in england, voltaire made acquaintance with all the notable men of letters then living, and with william shakespeare in his works. in them he tolerantly found much merit, but always styled their author a barbarian. those barbarisms and savageries he civilized and smoothed to his pattern, for his "brutus" is an unconscious echo of "julius cæsar," his "zaïre" a shadow of "othello." he refused to call on wycherly "the gentleman," as wycherly insisted, but was glad to meet wycherly the playwright. nor did voltaire turn his back on men and women of fashion, but used them so cleverly as to enable him to carry home to france a small fortune, from the subscriptions to his english edition of the "henriade." he was shrewd in money matters, and a successful speculator for many years. we first hear of him again in paris in , getting army contracts and making money in queer ways. yet all through life his pen was always busy, and in this same year it is at work in a grand apartment of the hôtel lambert. this was the mansion of m. du châtelet, husband--officially only--of "_la sublime Émilie_," with whom voltaire had taken up his abode. the hôtel lambert remains unchanged at the eastern end of Île saint-louis, looking, from behind its high wall and its well-shaded garden, at its incomparable prospect. its entrance at no. rue saint-louis-en-l'Île opens on a grand court and an imposing façade. "this is a house made for a king, who would be a philosopher," wrote voltaire to his august correspondent frederick the great. he himself was neither king of this realm nor proved himself a philosopher in its grotesque squabbles. madame du châtelet was as frankly unfaithful to him as to her husband, who was frequently called in to reconcile the infuriated lovers. she was a woman of unusual abilities as well as of unusual indelicacies, with an itch for reading, research, and writing, her specialties being newton and mathematics. [illustration: the hôtel lambert.] in this queer couple found it to their comfort to quit paris, where voltaire was ceaselessly beset by the suspicions of the powers that regulated thought in france. they moved about much, to voltaire's discomfort, living sometimes at cirey, on the borders of champagne and lorraine, with or without the complaisant du châtelet; sometimes in a mansion taken by voltaire in paris. this stood on the corner of two streets no longer existing, rues du clos-georgeau and traversière-saint- honoré, at no. of the latter; and its site now lies under the roadway of new avenue de l'opéra. the cutting of this avenue has left unchanged only the northern end of rue traversière, and this has been renamed in honor of molière. to place voltaire's residence in the old mansion at the new number in this street, as a recent topographer has done, is an ingenuous flight of fancy. here voltaire went back to live after death had taken "_la sublime Émilie_" from him, from her other lover, and from her husband. this legal husband was less inconsolable than voltaire, whose almost incredible reproach to the third man in the case makes morality hold her hand before her face--peeping between the fingers, naturally--while immorality shakes with frank laughter. on the second floor of this house, voltaire remained, "_de moitié avec le marquis du châtelet_;" the first floor, which had been her own, being thenceforward closed to them both. here he tried to find companionship with his selfish and stolid niece, madame denis, and with his _protégé_ lekain. he transformed the garret into a private theatre, for the production of his plays, free from the royal or the popular censor; and for the training of lekain in the part of titus, in "brutus." that promising, and soon accepted, actor made his _début_ at the théâtre français in september, , and his patron was not among the audience. from this house, voltaire went frequently across the river to visit mlle. clairon in her apartment in rue visconti, so well known to him when tenanted by mlle. lecouvreur, twenty years earlier. and from this house, wherein he came to be too desolate and lonely, voltaire went forth from france in , to find a still more uncongenial home at potsdam. with his queer life there, and his absurd quarrels with frederick the great, this chronicle cannot concern itself. "_café à la voltaire_" is the legend you may read to-day on a pillar of the café procope, in rue de l'ancienne-comédie, directly opposite the old comédie française. we have seen the mixed delight and doubt with which coffee was first sipped by the parisians of the end of the seventeenth century, but it won its way, and in the sicilian procope opened this second paris _café_. it soon became the favorite resort by night of the playwrights and play-actors, and the swells among the audience, of the playhouse across the street. gradually the men of letters, living in and visiting the capital, made this _café_ their gathering-place of an afternoon; so that, on any day in the middle years of the eighteenth century, all the men best worth knowing might be found here. their names are lettered and their atrocious portraits painted on its inner walls. in the little room on the left, as you walk in on the ground floor, they treasure still, while these lines are written, voltaire's table. he sat here, near the stage that produced his plays, sipping his own special and abominable blend of coffee and chocolate. with him sat, among the many not so notable, diderot, d'alembert, marmontel, rousseau, with his young friend grimm--hardly yet at home in paris, not at all at home with its language--and piron, voltaire's pet enemy, who wrote his own epitaph: "_ci-gît piron, que ne fut rien, pas même académicien._" here, on an evening in , sat alain-rené le sage, awaiting in suspense the verdict on his "turcaret," brought out in the theatre opposite, after many heart-breaking delays; for the misguided author had convinced himself that his title to fame would be founded on this now-forgotten play, rather than on his never-to-be-neglected "gil blas"! during the revolution, while the café de la régence, which faces the present comédie française, was the pet resort of the royalist writers, this café procope was the gathering-place of the republican penmen; and they draped its walls in black, and wore mourning for three days, when word came across the water in of the death of benjamin franklin, the complete incarnation to them of true republicanism. toward the unlamented end of the second empire, a small group of young american students was to be found, of an evening, in the café procope, harmlessly mirthful over their beer. after a while, they were content to sit night after night in silence, all ears for the monologue at a neighboring table; a copious and resistless outburst of argument and invective, sprinkled with gallic anecdote and with _gros mots_, and broken by rabelaisian laughter, from a magnificent voice and an ample virility. they were told that the speaker was one léon gambetta, an obscure barrister, already under the suspicion of the police of the "lurking jail-bird," whom he helped drive from france, within a few years. the old house is to-day only a pallid spectre of its aforetime red-blooded self, and is nourished by nothing more solid than these uncompact memories. loving them and all his paris, its kindly proprietor tries to revitalize its inanimate atmosphere by his "_soirées littéraires et musicales_." in a room upstairs "ancient poems, ancient music, old-time song," are listened to by unprinted poets, unplayed dramatists, unhung painters. some of them read their still unpublished works. the _patron_ enjoys it all, and the waiters are the most depressed in all paris. denis diderot gives the effect in his work, as gambetta did in the flesh, of a living force of nature. when, at that same table, diderot opened the long-locked gate, the full and impetuous outflow swept all before it, submerged and breathless. in his personality, as vivid as that of mirabeau, we see a fiery soul, a stormy nature, a daring thinker, a prodigious worker. his head seemed encyclopædic to grimm, his life-long friend; and rousseau, first friend and later enemy, asserted that in centuries to come that head would be regarded with the reverence given to the heads of plato and of aristotle. voltaire could imagine no one subject beyond the reach of diderot's activity. arsène houssaye names him "the last man of the day of dreaming in religion and royalty, the first man of the day of the revolution." and john morley, looking at him from a greater distance than any of these, and with keener eyes, ranks him higher as a thinker than either rousseau or voltaire. as thinker, essayist, critic, cyclopædist, diderot is indeed the most striking figure of the eighteenth century. rugged, uncouth, headlong, we see him, "_en redingote de peluche grise éreintée_," in the philosophers' alley of the luxembourg garden, strolling with more energy than others give to striding. striking and strong he is in the exquisite bust by houdon in the louvre, yet with a refinement of expression and a delicacy of poise of the head that are very winning. this effect might have been gained by a fragonard working in the solid. here, under the trees where meet boulevard saint-germain and rues de rennes and bonaparte, it is the student whom we see in bronze, leaning forward in his chair, a quill pen in hand, his worn face bent and intent. this spot was selected for the statue because just there diderot resided for many years. his house was at no. rue taranne, on the corner of rue saint-benoît, and it was torn down when the former street was widened into the new boulevard. here, young diderot, refusing to return to the paternal home at lancres, when he left the collége d'harcourt--the school of boileau and racine--lived in a squalid room, during his early days of uncongenial toil in a lawyer's office and of all sorts of penwork that paid poorly--translations, sermons, catalogues, advertisements. here he was hungry and cold and unhappy; here, in , he married the pretty sewing-girl who lived in this same house with her mother, and who became a devoted and faithful wife to a trying husband. for her he had the only clean love of his not-too-clean life. from this garret he poured forth prose, his chosen form of expression, when poetry was the only vogue, and it is by his persistence, perhaps, that prose has come to the throne in france. and it was while living here that he originated the art-criticism of his country; clear and thorough, discriminating and enthusiastic. earlier notices of pictures had been as casual as the shows themselves; begun in , under colbert's protection and the younger mansart's direction, in a small pavilion on the site of the present théâtre français, having one entrance in rue de richelieu, another in the garden, into which the pictures often overflowed. when diderot wrote his notices for grimm, the exhibitions had permanent shelter in the halls of the louvre. in , still in this house, he published his "philosophic thoughts" and other essays that were at first attributed to voltaire, and that at last sent the real author to vincennes. there he was kept for three maddening months by an outraged "strumpetocracy" and a spiteful sorbonne, on its last legs of persecution for opinion. you may go to this prison by the same road his escort took, now named boulevard diderot, with unconscious topographic humor. to visit "great diderot in durance," grimm and rousseau came by this road; stopping, before taking the avenue de vincennes, at a farm-house on the edge of place du trône--now, place de la nation--where the sentimentalist quenched his thirst with milk. that was the day when rousseau picked up the paradox, from diderot, which he elaborated into his famous essay, showing the superiority of the savage man over the civilized man. there is as slight trace to be found of jean-jacques rousseau in the paris of to-day as in the minds of the men of to-day. we see him first, in , at the hôtel saint-quentin of our balzac chapter, carrying from there the uncomely servant, thérèse le vasseur. after this he appears fitfully in paris through many years. in he is in rue plâtrière--a street now widened and named for him--on the fourth floor of a wretched house opposite the present post-office. there he was found by bernardin de saint-pierre--as thin-skinned and touchy as rousseau, yet somehow the two kept friendly--with his repulsive thérèse, whom he had made his wife in . this preacher of the holiness of the domestic affections had sent their five children to the foundling hospital, according to his own statement, which is our only reason for doubting that he did it. bernardin found him, clad in an overcoat and a white _bonnet_, copying music; of which rousseau knew nothing, except by the intuition of genius. for those who wish, there are the pilgrimages to the hermitage at montmorenci, occupied by him in , and nearly forty years later by a man equally attractive, maximilien robespierre; and to ermenonville, the spot of rousseau's death in . it is easier to stroll to the panthéon, where, on one side, is a statue of the author of "le contrat social" and "Émile," which gives him a dignity that was not his in life. this tribute from the french nation was decreed by the national convention of _ brumaire, an ii_, and erected by the national assembly in . durable as its bronze this tribute was meant to be, at the time when he was deified by the nation; since then, his body and his memory have been "cast to the dogs; a deep-minded, even noble, yet wofully misarranged mortal." while acknowledging his impress on his generation as an interpreter of moral and religious sentiment, and without denying the claim of his admirers, that he is the father of modern democracy, we may own, too, to a plentiful lack of liking for the man. released and returned to his wife in rue taranne, diderot lost no time in beginning again that toil which was his life. with all his other work--"letters on the blind, for the use of those who can see," dramas now forgotten, an obscene novel that paid the debts of his mistress--he began and carried out his encyclopædia. "no sinecure is it!" says carlyle: "penetrating into all subjects and sciences, waiting and rummaging in all libraries, laboratories; nay, for many years fearlessly diving into all manner of workshops, unscrewing stocking-looms, and even working thereon (that the department of 'arts and trades' might be perfect); then seeking out contributors, and flattering them, quickening their laziness, getting payment for them, quarrelling with bookseller and printer, bearing all miscalculations, misfortunes, misdoings of so many fallible men on his single back." on top of all, he had to bear the spasmodic persecution of the government instigated by the church. the patient, gentle d'alembert, with his serenity, his clearness, and his method, helped diderot more than all the others. and so grew, in john morley's words, "that mountain of volumes, reared by the endeavor of stout hands and faithful," which, having done its work for truth and humanity, is now a deserted ruin. as he brought it to an end after thirty years of labor, diderot found himself grown old and worn, and the busiest brain and hand in france began to flag. by now, he stood next in succession to the king, voltaire. yet, for all the countless good pages he has written, it has been truly said that he did not write one great book. other urgent creditors, besides old age, harassed him, and he had to sell his collection of books. they were bought by the empress catharine of russia, at a handsome value, and she handsomely allowed him to retain them for her, and furthermore paid him a salary for their care. grimm urged on her, in one of his gossiping _feuilles_, that have given material for so much personal history, the propriety of housing her library and its librarian properly, and this was done in the grand mansion now no. rue de richelieu. we have come to this street with molière and with mignard, and there are other memories along this lower length, to which a chapter could be given. we can awaken only those that now belong to no. . here lived a couple named poisson, and on march , , they gave in marriage to charles guillaume le normand their daughter jeanne-antoinette, a girl of fifteen. that blossom ripened and rottened into la pompadour. the house is quite unchanged since that day. in a large rear room on its first floor, in the year , future chroniclers will be glad to note that moncure d. conway made an abbreviation of his noble life of thomas paine for its french translation. his working-room was in the midst of the scenes of paine's paris stay, but not one of them can be fixed with certainty. the house numbered of this street is occupied by the "_maison sterlin_," a factory of artistic metal-work in locks and bolts and fastenings for doors and windows. it is an attractive museum of fine iron and steel workmanship, ancient and modern. there, in a case, is preserved the superbly elaborate key of corneille's birth-house in rouen. the brothers bricard have had the reverent good taste to retain the late seventeenth-century interior of their establishment, and you may mount by the easy stairs, with their fine wrought-iron rail, to diderot's dining-room on the first floor, its panelling unaltered since his death there, on july , . he had enjoyed, for only twelve days, the grandest residence and the greatest ease his life had known. they had been made busy days, of course, spent in arranging his books and pictures. sitting here, eating hastily, he died suddenly and quietly, his elbows on the table. on august st his body was buried in the parish church of saint-roch, and the tablet marking the spot is near that commemorating corneille, who had been brought there exactly one hundred years before. this church is eloquent with the presence of these two, with the voice of bossuet--"the bible transfused into a man," in lamartine's phrase--and with the ping of bonaparte's bullets on its porch; yet there is a presence within, less clamorous but not less impressive than any of these. in the fourth chapel, on your left as you enter, is a bronze bust of a man, up to which a boy and a girl look from the two corners of the pedestal. this is the monument of charles michel, abbé de l'Épée, placed above his grave in the chapel where he held services at times, and the boy and girl stand for the countless deaf-and-dumb children to whom he gave speech and hearing. the son of a royal architect, with every prospect of preferment in the church, with some success as a winning preacher, his liberal views turned him from this career. his interest in two deaf-mute sisters led him to his life-work. there were others in england, and there was the good pereira in spain, who had studied and invented before him, but it is to this gentle-hearted frenchman that the world of the deaf and dumb owes most for its rescue from its inborn bondage. he gave to them all he had, and all he was; for their sake he went ill-clad always, cold in winter, hungry often. he had but little private aid, and no official aid at all. he alone, with his modest income, and with the little house left him by his father, started his school of instruction for deaf-mutes in . the house was at no. rue des moulins, a retired street leading north from rue saint-honoré, and so named because near its line were the mills of the butte de saint-roch--where we are to find the head-quarters of joan the maid. one of these mills may be seen to-day, re-erected and in perfect preservation, at crony-sur-ourcq, near meaux, and above its doorway is the image of the patron-saint, to whom the mill was dedicated in the fifteenth century. this quarter of the town had become, during the reign of louis xiv., the centre of a select suburb of small, elegant mansions, tenanted by many illustrious men. on the rear of his lot the good _abbé_ built a small chapel, and in it and in the house he passed nearly thirty years of self-sacrifice, ended only by his death on december , . when the avenue de l'opéra was cut in - , his street was shortened and his establishment was razed. at the nearest available spot, on the wall of no. rue thérèse, two tablets have been placed, the one that fixes the site, the other recording the decree of the constituent assembly of july, , by which the abbé de l'Épée was placed on the roll of those french citizens who merit well the recognition of humanity and of his country. and, in , amid all its troubled labors, the assembly founded the institution national des sourds-muets of paris, on the base of his humble school. the big and beneficent institution is in rue saint-jacques, at its intersection with the street named in his honor. and it is an honor to the parisians that they thus keep alive the memory of their great men, so that, in a walk through their streets, we run down a catalogue of all who are memorable in french history. in the vast court-yard, at that corner, under a glorious elm-tree, is a colossal statue of the _abbé_, standing with a youth to whom he talks with his fingers. it is the work of a deaf-mute, félix martin, well named, for he is most happy in this work. like the abbé de l'Épée, and for as many years--almost thirty of his half-voluntary, half-enforced exile--voltaire had devoted himself in his own way to the bettering of humanity, crippled mentally and spiritually. he had given vision to the blind, hearing to the deaf, voice to the speechless. he took in the outcast, and cherished the orphan. with his inherent pity for the oppressed, and his deep-rooted indignation with all cruelty, he had made himself the advocate of the unjustly condemned; and none among his brilliant pages will live longer than his impassioned pleadings for the rehabilitation of the illegally executed jean calas. and now he comes back from ferney, through all the length of france, in a triumphal progress without parallel, welcomed everywhere by exultant worshippers. at four in the afternoon of february , , his coach appears just where his statue now stands at the end of quai malaquais, then quai des théatins. he wears a large, loose cloak of crimson velvet, edged with a small gold cord, and a cap of sable and velvet, and he is "smothered in roses." his driver makes his way slowly along the quay, through the acclaiming crowd, to the home of "_la bonne et belle_," the girl he had rescued from a convent and adopted, now the happy wife of the marquis de villette. their eighteenth-century mansion stands on the corner of rue de beaune and present quai voltaire, unaltered in its simple stateliness. here voltaire is visited by all paris that was allowed to get to him. mlle. clairon is one of the first, on her knees at the bedside of her old friend, exhausted by his triumph. she is no longer young, and shows that she owns to fifty-five years, by her retired life at the present numbers and rue du bac. there she has her books and her sewing and her spendthrift comte valbelle d'oraison, who lives on her. [illustration: the seventeenth-century buildings on quai malaquais, with the institute and the statue of voltaire.] d'alembert and benjamin franklin are among his visitors, and the dethroned du barry, and thirty _chefs_, each set on the appointment of cook for the master. he goes to the academy, then installed in the louvre, and to the comédie française, temporarily housed in the tuileries, the odéon not being ready. there his "irène," finished just before leaving switzerland, is produced, and at the performance on the evening of march th he is crowned in his box, his bust is crowned on the beflowered stage, and the palms and laurels and plaudits leave him breath only to murmur: "my friends, do you really want to kill me with joy?" that was the last seen of him by the public. he had come to paris, he said, "to drink seine water"; and either that beverage poisoned him, or the cup of flattery he emptied so often. one month after that supreme night, on may , , at a little after eleven at night, he died in that corner apartment on the first floor. for thirty years after it was unoccupied and its windows were kept closed. almost his last words, as he remembered what the church had meant to him, and what it might mean for him, were: "i don't want to be thrown into the roadway like that poor lecouvreur." that fate was spared his wasted frame by the quickness of his nephew, the abbé mignot. here, at the entrance-gate in rue de beaune, this honest man placed his uncle's body, hardly cold, in his travelling carriage, and with it drove hastily, and with no needless stops, to scellières in champagne. there he gave out the laudable lie of a death on the journey, and procured immediate interment in the nave of his church, under all due rites. the grave was hardly covered before orders from the bishop of troyes arrived, forbidding the burial. the trick would have tickled the adroit old man. his body was allowed to rest for thirteen years, and then it was brought back in honor to paris. a great concourse had assembled, only two weeks earlier, at the place where the bastille had been, hoping to hoot at the royal family haled back from varennes. now, on july , , a greater concourse was stationed here, to look with silent reverence on this _cortége_, headed by beaumarchais, all the famous men of france carrying the pall or joining in the procession. they entered by the vincennes road, passed along the boulevards, crossed pont royal to stop before this mansion, and went thence to the panthéon. there his remains lay once more in peace, until the bourbons "de-panthéonized" both voltaire and rousseau. benjamin franklin had come to visit voltaire here on the quay, by way of the seine from passy, in which retired suburb he was then living. the traces he has left in the capital are to be found in two inscriptions and a tradition. we know that he had rooms, during a part of the year , in rue de penthièvre, and his name, carved in the pediment of the stately façade of the house numbered in that street, is a record of his residence in it or on its site. there is another claimant to his tenancy for a portion of this same year. the american who happens to go to or through passy, on a fourth of july, will have opportune greeting from the stars and stripes, draped over the doorway of the old-fashioned building, more a cottage than a mansion, now numbered rue franklin. its owners do this each year, they tell you, in honor of the great american who occupied the cottage in . their claim is the more credible, inasmuch as the street has been given his name since his day there, when it was rue basse. in the following year he went farther afield, and for nine years he remained in a villa in the large garden, now covered by the ugly École des frères de la doctrine chrétienne, at the corner of rues raynouard and singer. the historical society of passy and auteuil has placed a tablet in this corner wall, recording franklin's residence at this spot from to . his friend, m. ray de chaumont, occupied only a portion of his hôtel de valentinois, and gave up the remaining portion to franklin for his residence and his office, eager to show his sympathy for the colonies and his fondness for their envoy. only john adams, when he came, was shocked in all his scrupulosity to find an american agent living rent-free! in this garden he put up the first lightning-conductor in france, and in this house he negotiated the treaty that gave the crown's aid to the colonies and made possible their independence. to this spot came the crowd to catch a glimpse of the homely-clad figure, and men of science and letters to learn from him, and ladies from the court to caress him. and it may have been here that he made answer to the enamoured _marquise_, in words that have never been topped for the ready wit of a gallant old gentleman. the _cortége_ that accompanied voltaire's remains to the panthéon was headed, it has been said, by beaumarchais; fittingly so, for beaumarchais was then heir-presumptive to the dramatic crown, and his "figaro" had already begun to laugh the nobility from out of france. louis xvi. saw clearly, for once, when he said: "if i consent to the production of the 'marriage of figaro,' the bastille will go." he did consent, and it was played to an immense house on april , , in the comédie française, now the odéon. that night the old order had its last laugh, and it rang strangely and sadly. yet in this comedy, that killed by ridicule--the most potent weapon in france--once played a queen that was, and once a queen that was to be. on august , , on the stage of the little trianon at versailles, the comte d'artois--brother to louis xiv., later to be charles x.--appeared as the barber, to the rosina of marie antoinette. and, in the summer of , during the consulate, when malmaison was the scene of gayeties, a theatre was constructed in the garden, and on its boards, hortense (soon after queen of holland) made a success as rosina. playwriting was merely a digression in the diversified career of this man of various aptitudes, whose ups and downs we have no excuse for dwelling on, as we trace him through paris streets. there is no tablet to mark his birth, on january , , in the house of his father, caron, the watchmaker of rue saint-denis, opposite the old cemetery of the innocents, nearly at rue de la ferronerie. pierre-augustin caron he was christened, and it was in his soaring years that he added "de beaumarchais." this quarter is notable in that it was the scene of the birth and boyhood of four famous dramatists--of molière, as we have seen, and of regnard, as we shall see; of beaumarchais and of eugène scribe. to record this latest birth, on december , , a tablet is set in the wall of no. rue saint-denis, at the corner of rue de la reynie, only a few steps south of the caron house. it is a plain, old-style house of four stories and a garret, and has become a shop for chocolates and sweets. it has on its sign, "_au chat noir_"; black cats are carved wherever they will cling on its front and side, and a huge, wooden, black cat rides on the cart that carries the chocolate. beaumarchais had a residence at no. rue de condé in , and at the hôtel de hollande, rue vielle-du-temple , in . we shall go there later. on the wall of the house, no. boulevard beaumarchais, a tablet marks the site of his great mansion and its spacious gardens. these covered the entire triangle enclosed by rues amelot, daval, and roquette. he had found the money for this colossal outlay, not in his plays, but in all sorts of mercantile transactions, some of them seemingly shabby. it is claimed that he lost large sums in supplying, as the unavowed agent of the crown, war equipment to the struggling american colonies. his palace went up in sight of the bastille, then going down. the parisians came in crowds to see his grounds, with their grottoes, statues, and lake; and he entertained all the swelldom of france. there, one day in , the mob from the too-near faubourg saint-antoine came uninvited, and raided house and grounds for hidden arms and ammunition, not to be found. the owner went to the abbaye prison and thence into exile and poverty. returning in , he spent his last years in a hopeless attempt to gather up remnants of his broken fortunes, a big remnant being the debt neglected and rejected by the american congress. the romance of this "lost million" cannot be told here. beaumarchais died in this house in , and was buried in the garden. when the ground was taken for the saint-martin canal in , his remains were removed to père-lachaise. the grave is as near that of scribe as were their birthplaces. his name was given to the old boulevard saint-antoine in , and in his statue was placed in that wide space in rue saint-antoine that faces rue des tournelles. the pedestal is good, and worthy of a more convincing statue of this man of strong character and of contrasting qualities. and at the washington head-quarters at newburgh-on-hudson, and at the various collections of revolutionary relics in the united states, you will find cannon that came from french arsenals, and that, it was hinted, left commissions in the hands of caron de beaumarchais. the paris of the revolution [illustration: charlotte corday. (from the copy by baudry of the only authentic portrait, painted in her prison.)] the paris of the revolution it is no part of the province of this book to reconstruct the paris of the revolution, nor is there room for such reconstruction, now that m. g. lenôtre has given us his exhaustive and admirable "paris révolutionnaire." despite the destruction of so much that was worth saving of that period, there yet remain many spots for our seeing. the cyclone of those years had two centres, and one of them is fairly well preserved. it is the cour du commerce, to which we have already come in search of the tower and wall of philippe-auguste. outside that wall, close to the porte de buci, there had been a tennis-court, which was extended, in , into a narrow passage, with small dwellings on each side. the old entrance of the tennis-court was kept for the northern entrance of the new passage, and it still remains under the large house, no. rue saint-andré-des-arts. the southern entrance of the passage was in the western end of rue des cordeliers, now rue de l'École-de-médecine. in , exactly one hundred years after the construction of this cour du commerce, its southern half and its southern entrance were cut away by modern boulevard saint-germain, on the northern side of which a new entrance to the court was made. at the same time the houses on the northern side of rue de l'École-de-médecine were demolished, and replaced by the triangular space that holds the statues of danton and paul broca among its trees. those houses faced, across the street, whose narrowness is marked by the two curbstones, the houses, of the same age and the same style, that are left on the southern side of this section of the modern boulevard. one of the houses then destroyed had been inhabited by georges-jacques danton. it stood over the entrance of the court, and his statue--a bronze of his own vigor and audacity--has been placed exactly on the spot of that entrance, exactly under his dwelling-place. the pediment of this entrance-door is now in the grounds of m. victorien sardou, at marly-le-roi. danton's apartment, on the first floor above the _entresol_, had two _salons_ and a bedroom looking out on rue des cordeliers, while the dining-room and working-room had windows on the cour du commerce. here in he had his wholesome, peaceful home, with his wife and their son; and to them there sometimes came his mother, or one of his sisters, for a visit. in the _entresol_ below lived camille desmoulins and his wife in . the two young women were close friends, and m. jules claretie has given us a pretty picture of them together, in terrified suspense on that raging august th. lucile desmoulins knew, on the next day, that the mob had at least broken the windows of the tuileries, for someone had brought her the sponges and brushes of the queen! and on the th, danton carried his wife from here to the grand _hôtel_ in place vendôme, the official residence of the new minister of justice. his short life in office being ended by his election to the convention in the autumn of that year, he returned to this apartment; to which, three months after the death of his first wife in that same year, he brought a youthful bride. and here, on march , , he was arrested. before his own terrible tribunal his reply, to the customary formal questions as to his abode, was: "my dwelling-place will soon be in annihilation, and my name will live in the panthéon of history." he spoke prophetically. the clouds of a century of calumny have only lately been blown away, and we can, at last, see clearly the heroic figure of this truest son of france; a "mirabeau of the _sans-culottes_," a primitive man, unspoiled and strong, joyous in his strength, ardent yet steadfast, keen-eyed for shams, doing when others were talking, scornful of phrasemongers, and so genuine beside the petty schemers about him that they could not afford to let him live. lucie-simplice-camille-benoist desmoulins had, in his queer and not unlovable composition, a craving for a hero and a clinging to a strong nature. his first idol was mirabeau. that colossus had died on april , , and desmoulins had been one of the leaders in the historic funeral procession that filled the street and filed out from it four miles in length. mont-blanc was then the street's name, and for a few days it was called rue mirabeau, but soon took its present name, chaussée-d'antin, from the gardens of the hôtel d'antin, through which it was cut. the present no. , with a new front, but otherwise unchanged, is the house of mirabeau's death, in the front room of its second floor. mirabeau's worthy successor in camille's worship was danton, near whom he lived, as we have seen, and with whom he went as secretary to the ministry of justice. after leaving office, camille and his wife are found in his former bachelor home in place du théâtre-français, now place de l'odéon. the corner house there, that proclaims itself by a tablet to have been his residence, is in the wrong; and that tablet belongs by right to the house on the opposite corner, no. place de l'odéon and no. rue crébillon. from his end windows in this latter street, when he had lived there as a bachelor, camille could look slantwise to the windows of an apartment at no. rue de condé, and he looked often, attracted by a young girl at home there with her parents. there is still the balcony on the front, on which lucile duplessis ventured forth, a little later, to blow kisses across the street. at the religious portion of their marriage, in saint-sulpice on december , , the _témoins_ of the groom were brisson, pétion, robespierre. the last-named had been camille's schoolfellow and crony at lycée louis-le-grand, and remained his friend as long as it seemed worth while. the wedding party went back to this apartment--on the second floor above the _entresol_--for the _dîner de noces_. everything on and about the table--it is still shown at vervins, a village just beyond laon--was in good taste, we may be sure, for desmoulins was a dainty person, for all his tears over marat; his desk, at which he wrote the fiery denunciations of "le vieux cordelier," had room always for flowers. it was here that he was arrested, to go--not so bravely as he might--to prison, and then to execution with danton, on april , . his lucile went to the scaffold on the th of the same month, convicted of having conspired against the republic by wandering about the gardens of the luxembourg, trying to get a glimpse of her husband's face behind his prison window. to us he is not more visible in this garden than he was to her, but in the garden of the palais-royal he leaps up, "a flame of fire," on july , , showing the parisians the way they went to the bastille on the th. in the same section with danton and desmoulins, and equally vivid with them in his individuality, we find jean-paul marat. his apartment, where lived with him and his mistress, simonne evrard, his two sisters, albertine and catherine--all three at one in their devotion to his loathsome body--was in a house a little easterly from danton's, on the same northern side of rue de l'École-de-médecine. it was at this house that marie-anne-charlotte corday d'armans, on july , , presented herself as "_l'ange de l'assassination_," in lamartine's swelling phrase. she had driven across the river, from the hôtel de la providence. in our dumas chapter we shall try to find her unpretending inn, and shall find only its site. in the musée grévin, in paris, you may see the _baignoire_ in which marat sat when he received charlotte corday and her knife--a common kitchen-knife, bought by her on the day before at a shop in the palais-royal. the bath is shaped like a great copper shoe, and on its narrow top, through which his head came, was a shelf for his papers. the printing-office of marat's "l'ami du peuple," succeeded in by his "journal de la république française," was in that noisiest corner of paris, the cour du commerce. it was in that end of the long building of two low stories and attic, numbered and , now occupied by a lithographer. after marat's death, and that of his journal, the widow brissot opened a modest stationer's shop and reading-room in the former printing-office, we are told by m. sardou. it is an error that places the printing-office at the present no. of the court, in the building which extended then through to no. rue de l'ancienne-comédie. these two lots do, indeed, join in their rear, but marat has no association with either. in rue de l'ancienne-comédie, certainly, the "friend of the people" had storage room in the cellar and an office on an upper floor, but it was in one of the tall houses on the western side of the street, just north of the old theatre. the only claim to our attention of no. cour du commerce--a squalid tavern which aspires to the title of "_la maison boileau_"--comes from the presence of sainte-beuve. the great critic is said to have rented a room, under his pen-name of "joseph delorme," for a long time in this then cleanly _hôtel-garni_, for the ostensible purpose of working in quiet, free from the importunate solicitors of all sorts who intruded on his home in rue du mont-parnasse, no. . marat's death was frantically lamented by the rabble, that was quite unable to recognize the man's undeniable abilities and attainments, and that had made him its idolized leader because of his atrocious taste in saying in print exactly what he meant. they carried his body to the nave of the church, and later to its temporary tomb in the garden, of the cordeliers, a step from his house. in the intervals of smiling hours spent in watching heads fall into the basket, in new place de la révolution, they crowded here to weep about his bedraped and beflowered bier. the remains were then placed, with due honors, in the panthéon. then, within two years, the same voices that had glorified him shrieked that his body and his memory should be swept into the sewer. it was the voice of the people--the voice of deity, in all ages and in all lands, it is noisily asserted. when the franciscan monks, who were called cordeliers because of their knotted cord about the waist, came to paris early in the thirteenth century, they were given a goodly tract of ground just within the saint-germain gate, stretching, in rough outlines, from rues antoine-dubois and monsieur-le-prince nearly to boulevards saint-germain and saint-michel. the church they built there was consecrated by the sainted louis ix. in , and when burned, in , was rebuilt mainly by the accursed henri iii. new chapels and cloisters were added in , and there were many other structures pertaining to the order within these boundaries. of all these, only the refectory remains to our day. the site of the church, once the largest in paris, is covered by place de l'École-de-médecine and by a portion of the school; something of the shape and some of the stones of the old cloisters are preserved in the arched court of the clinique; bits of the old walls separate the new laboratories, and another bit, with its strong, bull-nosed moulding, may be seen in the grounds of the water-works behind no. rue racine, this street having been cut through the monks' precincts, so separating the infirmary, to which this wall belonged, and that stretched nearly to the rear walls of lycée saint-louis, from the greater portion of "_le grand couvent de l'observance de saint françois_." turn in at the gateway in the corner of place de l'École-de-médecine, and the refectory stands before you, a venerable fabric of anne of brittany's building, with sixteenth and seventeenth century adornments, all in admirable preservation. the great hall, filled with the valuable collection of the musée dupuytren, attracts us as a relic of ancient architecture, and as the last existing witness of the revolutionary nights of the cordeliers club. that club had its hall just across the garden alongside the refectory, in one of the buildings of the cloisters, which, with the church, had been given over to various uses and industries. hence the name of the club, enrolled under the leadership of danton, on whom the men of his section looked as the incarnation of the revolution. to him robespierre and his republic were shams, and to his club the club of the jacobins was at first distinctly reactionary. it took but little time, in those fast-moving days, for the cordeliers, in their turn, to be suspected for their unpatriotic moderation! [illustration: the refectory of the cordeliers.] we must not leave our cour du commerce, without a glance at the small building on the northern corner of its entrance from rue de l'ancienne-comédie. it was here that the first guillotine was set up for experiments on sheep, by dr. antoine louis, secretary of the academy of surgeons, and the head of a committee appointed by the national assembly on october , . on that day a clause in the new penal code made death by decapitation the only method of execution, and the committee had powers to construct the apparatus, which was to supersede sanson's sword. it was not a new invention, for the mediæval executioners of germany and scotland had toyed with "the maiden," but for centuries she had lost her vogue. on december , , dr. joseph-ignace guillotin had tried to impress on the assembly the need of humane modes of execution, and had dwelt on the comfort of decapitation by his apparatus until he was laughed down. that grim body could find mirth only in a really funny subject like the cutting off of heads! after two years and more, the machine, perfected by dr. louis, and popularly known as "_la louisette_," was tried on a malefactor in the place de grève on april , . three days later the little lady received her official title, "_la guillotine_." dr. guillotin had made his model and his experiments at his residence, still standing, with no external changes, at no. rue croix-des-petits-champs. it was already a most ancient mansion when he came here to live, and perhaps to remain until his death--in bed--in . it had been known as the hôtel de bretagne, and it is rich in personal history. to its shelter came catherine de lorraine, the young widow of the duc de montpensier, the "lame little devil" whom henri iii. longed to burn alive, for her abuse of him after the murder of her brother guise. within its walls, anne of austria's treasurer, the rich and vulgar bertrand de la bazinière--whom we have met on quai malaquais--hoarded the plunder which he would not, or dared not, spend. louis xiv. gave him, later, lodgings in the bastille, in that tower named bazinière always after. in this same hôtel de bretagne, henrietta of france, widowed queen of england, made her temporary home in the winter of , near her daughter, lately installed as "madame," wife of the king's brother, in the palais-royal. returning from england in , this unhappy queen went to the last refuge of her troubled life in the convent she had founded on the heights of chaillot. from that farther window of the first story on the right of the court, the comte de maulevrier, colbert's nephew, threw himself down to his death on the pavement on good friday, . in time the stately mansion became a _hôtel-garni_, was appropriated as national domain in the revolution, and sold in a lottery. "_la guillotine_," having proved the sharpness of her tooth, was speedily promoted from place de grève to a larger stage in place de la réunion, now place du carrousel, and thence in may, --that she might not be under the windows of the convention--to place de la révolution, formerly place de louis xv., at present place de la concorde. this wide space, just beyond the moat of the tuileries gardens, had in its centre, where now is the obelisk of luxor, a statue of the late "well-beloved," then altogether-detested, king for whom the place had been named; and a little to the east of that point the scaffold was set up. lamartine puts it on the site of the southern fountain, for the effect he gets of the flowing of water and of blood; this is one of his magniloquent phrases, which scorn exactness. on january , , for the execution of louis xvi., the guillotine was removed to a spot just westward of the centre, that it might be well protected by the troops deploying about the western side of the _place_, and into the champs Élysées and cours la reine. for a while in , the guillotine was transferred to the present place de la nation--where we shall find it in a later chapter--to come back to place de la révolution in time to greet robespierre and his friends. standing here, we are near the other centre of revolutionary paris, made so by the club of the jacobins, that met first in the refectory, later in the church of the monastery from which it took its name. the site of these buildings is covered by the little marché saint-honoré and by the space about. the club of the more moderate men, headed by bailly and lafayette, had its quarters in the monastery of the feuillants, which gave its name to the club, and which extended along the south side of rue saint-honoré, eastwardly from rue de castiglione; this street being then the narrow passage des feuillants, leading from rue saint-honoré to the royal gardens, and to the much-trodden terrasse on the northern side of those gardens facing the manège. this building had been erected for the equestrian education of the youth who afterward became louis xv., and was converted into a hall for the sitting of the assembly, after that body had been crowded for about three weeks, on coming to paris from versailles, into the inadequate hall of the archbishop's palace, on the southern shore of the city island, alongside notre-dame. the convention took over the manège from the assembly, and there remained until may, , when it removed to the more commodious quarters, and more befitting surroundings, of the tuileries. the old riding-school, whose site is marked by a tablet on the railing of the garden opposite no. rue de rivoli, was swept away by the cutting of the western end of that street, under the consulate in . when maximilien robespierre came up from arras--where he had resigned his functions in the criminal court, because of his conscientious objections to capital punishment--he found squalid quarters, suiting his purse--which remained empty all through life--in rue saintonge. that street, named for a province of old france, remains almost as he saw it, one of the few paris streets that retain their original buildings and ancient atmosphere. the high and sombre house, wherein he lodged from october, , to july, , is quite unaltered, save for its number, which was then and is now . from here, robespierre was snatched away, suddenly and without premeditation on his part, and planted in the bosom of the duplay family. they had worshipped him from afar, and when, from their windows, they saw him surrounded by the acclaiming crowd, on the day after the so-called massacres of the champ-de-mars of july , , the peaceful carpenter ran out and dragged the shrinking great man into his court-yard for temporary shelter. the house was then no. rue saint-honoré. if any reader wishes to decide for himself whether the modern no. is built on the site of the duplay house, of which no stone is left, as m. ernest hamel asserts; or whether the present tall structure there is an elevation on the walls of the old house, every stone of which is left, as m. sardou insists; he must study the pamphlets issued by these earnest and erudite controversialists. there is nothing more delightful in topographical sparring. the authors of this book can give no aid to the solicitous student; for they have read all that has been written concerning the subject, they have explored the house, and they have settled in silence in the opposing camps! in the duplay household, to which he brought misery then and afterward, robespierre was worshipped during life and deified after death. to that misguided family, "this cat's head, with the prominent cheekbones, seamed by small-pox; his bilious complexion; his green eyes rimmed with red, behind blue spectacles; his harsh voice; his dry, pedantic, snappish, imperious language; his disdainful carriage; his convulsive gestures--all this was effaced, recast, and transformed into the gentle figure of an apostle and a martyr to his faith for the salvation of men." from their house, it was but a step to the sittings of the assembly. it was but a few steps farther to the garden of the tuileries and to the "_fête de l'Être suprême_," planned by him, when he had induced the convention to decree the existence of god and of an immortal soul in man. he cast himself for the rôle of high priest of heaven, and headed the procession on june , , clad in a blue velvet coat, a white waistcoat, yellow breeches and top-boots; carrying in his hand flowers and wheat-ears. he addressed the crowd, in "the scraggiest prophetic discourse ever uttered by man," and they had games, and burned in effigy atheism and selfishness and vice! such of the stage-setting of this farce as was constructed in stone remains intact to-day, for our wonder at such childishness, and our admiration of the architectural perfection of the out-of-door arena. from this duplay house, robespierre used to go on his solitary strolls, accompanied only by his dogs, in the woods of monceaux and montmorenci, where he picked wild-flowers. from this house he went to his last appearance in the convention on the _ thermidor_, and past it he was carted to the scaffold, on the following day, july , . he had followed danton within a few months, as danton had predicted. they were of the same age at the time of their death, each having thirty-five years; the younger robespierre was thirty-two, saint-just was twenty-six, desmoulins thirty-four, when their heads fell. mirabeau died at the age of forty-two, marat was forty-nine when stabbed. not one of the conspicuous leaders of the revolution and of the terror had come to fifty years! [illustration: the carré d'atalante in the tuileries gardens.] when the tumbrils and their burdens did not go along the quays to place de la révolution, they went through rue saint-honoré, that being the only thoroughfare on that side of the river. from the conciergerie they crossed pont au change, and made their way by narrow and devious turnings to the eastern end of rue saint-honoré, and through its length to rue du chemin-du-rempart--now rue royale--and so to the scaffold. short rue saint-florentin was then rue de l'orangerie, and was crowded by sightseers hurrying to the _place_. those of the victims not already confined in the conciergerie were sent to the condemned cells there, for the night between sentence and execution. the trustworthy history of the prisons of paris during the revolution remains to be written, and there is wealth of material for it. there were many smaller prisons not commonly known, and of the larger ones that we do know, there are several, quite unchanged to-day, well worth unofficial inspection. the salpêtrière, filling a vast space south of the jardin des plantes, was built for the manufacture of saltpetre, by louis xiii.; and, by his son, was converted into a branch, for women, of the general hospital. a portion of its buildings was set apart for young women of bad character, and here manon lescaut was imprisoned. the great establishment is now known as the hôpital de la salpêtrière, and is famous for its treatment of women afflicted with nervous maladies, and with insanity. the present hospice de la maternité was also perverted to prison usages during the revolution. its formal cloisters and steep tiled roofs cluster about its old-time square, but its ancient gardens, and their great trees, are almost all buried beneath new masonry. the façade of the chapel, the work of lepautre, is no longer used as the entrance, and may be seen over the wall on boulevard de port-royal. another prison was that of saint-lazare, first a lazar-house and then a convent, whose weather-worn roofs and dormers show above the wall on rue du faubourg-saint-denis. on the dingy yellow plaster of the arched entrance-gate one may read, in thick black letters: "_maison d'arrêt et de correction._" unaltered, too, is the prison in the grounds of the carmelites, to be visited later in company with dumas; and the luxembourg, that was reserved for choice captives. the prison of the abbey of saint-germain was swept away by the boulevard of that name. its main entrance for wheeled vehicles was through rue sainte-marguerite, the short section left of that street being now named gozlin. of the other buildings of the abbey, there remain only the church itself, the bishop's palace behind in rue de l'abbaye, and the presbytery glued to the southern side of the church-porch. its windows saw the massacres of the priests and the prisoners, which took place on the steps of the church and in its front court. when you walk from those steps across the open _place_, to take the tram for fontenay-aux-roses, you step above soil that was soaked with blood in the early days of september, . some few of the abbey prisoners were slaughtered in the garden, of which a portion remains on the south side of the church, where the statue of bernard palissy, by barrias, stands now. in other chapters, the destruction of the grand-and the petit-châtelet has been noted. la force has gone, and sainte-pélagie is soon to go. and the conciergerie has been altered, almost beyond recognition, as to its entrances and its courts and its cells. only the cour des femmes remains at all as it was in those days. there are three victims of the terror who have had the unstinted pity of later generations, and who have happily left traces of their presence on paris brick and mortar. the last of these three to die was andré-marie de chénier, and we will go first to his dwelling. it is an oddly shaped house, no. rue de cléry--corneille's street for many years--at its junction with rue beauregard; and a tablet in its wall tells of de chénier's residence there. born in constantinople in , of a french father--a man of genius in mercantile affairs--and a greek mother, the boy was brought to paris with his younger brother, joseph-marie, in . they lived with their mother in various streets in the marais, before settling in this final home. here madame de chénier, a poet and artist in spirit, filled the rooms with the poets and artists and _savants_ of the time, the friends of her gifted sons. hither came david, gross of body, his active mind busied with schemes for his annual exhibitions of paintings, the continuation of those begun by colbert, and the progenitor of the present _salons_; alfieri, the poet and splendid adventurer; lavoisier, absorbed in chemical discovery. here in his earlier years, and later, when he hurried home from the french embassy in london on the outbreak of the revolution, andré de chénier produced the verse that revived the love of nature, dead in france since ronsard, and brought a lyric freshness to poetry that shamed the dry artificialities so long in vogue. that poetry was the forerunner of the romantic movement. in his tranquil soul, he hoped for the pacific triumph of liberty and equality, and his delicate spirit abhorred the excesses of the party with whose principles he sympathized. he was taken into custody at passy, early in , while visiting a lady, against whose arrest he had struggled, locked up in saint-lazare for months, convicted, and sent to the conciergerie. he was guillotined in place de la nation on july , , only the day before robespierre's fall, and was one of the last and noblest sacrifices to the terror. we shall look on his burial-place in our later rambles. müller has made andré de chénier the central figure of his "roll-call," now in the louvre. he sits looking toward us with eyes that see visions, and his expression seems full of the thought to which he gave utterance when led out to execution: "i have done nothing for posterity, and yet," tapping his forehead, "i had something here!" in this little house was surrounded by a great crowd of citizens come to bury louis de chénier, the father. the section of brutus guarded the bier, draped with blue set with silver stars, to suggest the immortality of the soul! and they gave every honor they could invent to the "_pompe funèbre d'un citoyen vertueux_," whose worthy son they had beheaded. joseph-marie de chénier lived for many years under suspicion of having given his assent if not his aid to his brother's death, albeit the mother always asserted that he had tried to save andré. joseph was a fiery patriot, and a man of genius withal. he wrote the words of the "chant du départ" which, set to music by méhul, proved almost as stirring as the "marseillaise" to the pulses of the patriots. music was one of the potent intoxicants of the time, and the revolution was played and sung along to the strains of these two airs, and of "Ça ira" and the "carmagnole." the classic style, which had hitherto prevailed, gave way before the paltry sentimentality and the tinkling bombast of the music adored by the mob. david planned processions marching to patriotic airs, and shallow operas were performed in the streets. yet rouget-de-l'isle, the captain of engineers who had given them the "marseillaise," was cashiered and put into a cell; being freed, he was left to starve, and no aid came to him from the empire or the bourbons, naturally enough. louis-philippe's government found him in sad straits, in that poor house no. of the poor passage saulnier, and ordered a small pension to be paid to him during his life. his death came in . joseph-marie de chénier was a playwright, also, and in he had created a sensation by his "charles ix.," produced at the comédie française, now the odéon. in the part of the king, wonderfully made up and costumed, talma won his first notable triumph. "this play," cried danton from the pit, "will kill royalty as 'figaro' killed the nobility." joseph-marie lived, not too reputably, but very busily, until january , ; a fussy politician, a member of the convention, of the council of five hundred, and of the institute, section of the french tongue and literature, always detested by his associates, by the emperor, and by the common people. when the place dauphine of henri iv. was finished, the new industry of the spectacle-makers established itself in the same buildings we see to-day, and gave to the place the name of quai des lunettes. later came the engravers, who found all the light they needed in these rooms, open on three sides. among them was a master-engraver, one phlipon, bringing his daughter, marie-jeanne--her pet name being manon--from the house of her birth, in , in rue de la lanterne, now widened into rue de la cité. it is not known whether the site of that house is under the hôtel-dieu or the marché-aux-fleurs. their new home stood, and still stands, on the corner of the northern quay, and is now numbered place dauphine and quai de l'horloge. the small window of the second floor lights the child's alcove bedroom, where this "daughter of the seine"--so madame roland dubs herself in her "memoirs"--looked out on the river, and up at the sky, from over pont au change to beyond the heights of chaillot, when she could lift her eyes from her plutarch, and her thoughts from the altar she was planning to raise to rousseau. it must be owned that this all too-serious girl was a prig; a creature over-fed for its size, the word has been happily defined. at the age of eleven, she was sent to the school of the "_dames de la congrégation_," in the augustinian convent in rue neuve-saint-etienne. it has been told how that ancient street was cut in half by rue monge. in its eastern section, now named rue de navarre, was manon's school, directly above the roman amphitheatre, discovered only of late years in the course of excavations in this quarter. the portion that is left of this impressive relic is in good preservation and in good keeping. her school-days done, the girl spent several years in this house before us, until her mother's death, and her father's tipsiness, sent her back to her convent for a few months. then, having refused the many suitors who had thronged about her in her own home, she found the philosopher she wanted for a husband in jean-marie roland de la platrière, a man much older than she; lank, angular, yellow, bald, "rather respectable than seductive," in the words of the girl-friend who had introduced him. but manon phlipon doubtless idealized this wooden formalist who adored her, as she idealized herself and all her surroundings, including the people, who turned and rent her at the last. she gave to her husband duty and loyalty, and it was not until she counted herself dead to earth and its temptations, in her cell at sainte-pélagie, that she addressed her last farewell to him, whom "i dare not name, one whom the most terrible of passions has not kept from respecting the barriers of virtue." this farewell was meant for françois-léonard-nicolas buzot, girondist member of the assembly and later of the convention. he remained unnamed and unknown, until his name and their secret were told by a bundle of old letters, found on a book-stall on quai voltaire in . she had met him first when her husband came from lyons, with petitions to the assembly, in february, , and took rooms at the hôtel britannique, in rue guénégaud. her _salon_ soon became the gathering-place of the girondists, where those austere men, who considered themselves the sole salvation of france, were austerely regaled with a bowl of sugar and a _carafe_ of water. their hostess could not bother with frivolities, she, who in her deadly earnestness, renounced the theatre and pictures, and all the foolish graces of life! the hôtel britannique was the house now numbered rue guénégaud, a wide-fronted, many-windowed mansion of the eighteenth century. its stone steps within are well worn, its iron rail is good, its second floor--the roland apartment--still shows traces of the ancient decorations. [illustration: the girlhood home of madame roland.] buzot lived at no. quai malaquais, an ancient mansion now replaced by the modern structure between the seventeenth-century houses numbered and . for when the convention outlawed the girondists, and buzot fled, it was decreed that his dwelling should be levelled to the ground, and on its site should be placed a notice: "_là fut la maison du roi buzot._" so that it would seem that his colleagues of the convention had found him an insufferably superior person. leaving this apartment on his appointment to office in , roland took his wife to the gorgeous _salons_ of the ministry of the interior, in the _hôtel_ built by leveau for the comte de lionne, and beautified later by calonne. it occupied the site of the present annex of the bank of france just off rue des petits-champs, between rues marsollier and dalayrac. here, during his two terms of office in and , roland had the aid of his wife's pen, as well as the allurements of her personal influence, in the cause to which she had devoted herself. the masculine strength of her pen was weakened, it is true, by too sharp a feminine point, and she embittered the court, the cordeliers, the jacobins, all equally against her and her party. for "this woman who was a great man," in louis blanc's true words, was as essentially womanly as was marie antoinette; and these two most gracious and pathetic figures of their time were yet unconscious workers for evil to france. the queen made impassable the breach between the throne and the people; madame roland hastened on the terror. and each of them was doing exactly what she thought it right to do! on january , , two days after the king's death, roland left office forever and removed to a house in rue de la harpe, opposite the church of saint-cosme. that church stood on the triangle made by the meeting of rues de l'École-de-médecine and racine with boulevard saint-germain. on the eastern side of that boulevard, once the eastern side of rue de la harpe, where it meets modern rue des Écoles, stood the roland house. the students and studentesses, who sip their coffee and beer on the pavement of vachette's, are on the scene of madame roland's arrest, on the night between may st and june st. on the former day, seeing the end so near, roland had fled. his wife was taken to the prison of the abbaye, and given the cell which was to be tenanted, six weeks later, by charlotte corday. released on june d and returned to her home in rue de la harpe, she was re-arrested on the th and locked up in sainte-pélagie. it was an old prison, long kept for the detention of "_femmes et filles, dont la conduite est onéreuse_," and its character had not been bettered by the character of the female prisoners sent there by the terror. this high-minded woman, subjected to infamous sights and sounds, preserved her serenity and fortitude in a way to extort the "stupefied admiration" of her fellow-prisoners, as one of these has testified. it was only in her cell that the great heart gave way. there she found solace, during her four months' confinement, with thomson's "seasons," "done into choice french," with shaftesbury and an english dictionary, with tacitus, and her girlhood companion, plutarch. and here she busied herself with her "memoirs," "writing under the axe," in her own phrase. in the solitude of her cell, indeed, she was sometimes disturbed by the unseemly laughter of the ladies of the comédie française, at supper with the prison-governor in an adjacent cell. we shall see, later, how these ladies came to be here. more acceptable sounds might have come almost to her ears; that of the hymn-singing or of the maiden laughter of the girls in her old convent, only a few steps away. the prison-register contains her description, probably as accurate as matter-of-fact: "height, five feet; hair and eyebrows, dark chestnut; brown eyes; medium nose; ordinary mouth; oval face, round chin, high forehead." from sainte-pélagie she went to the conciergerie on november st, the day after the guillotining of the girondists, and thence in eight days to her own death. it has been told, by every writer, that she could look over at her girlhood home, as her tumbril crossed pont au change. it has not been told, so plainly as it deserves, that her famous utterance on the platform was made fine for historic purposes, as was done with cambronne's magnificent monosyllable at waterloo. she really said: "_o liberté, comme on t'a jouée!_" with these words, natural and spontaneous and without pose, she is, indeed, "beautiful, amazonian, graceful to the eye, more so to the mind." within a few days of her death died her husband and her lover. roland, on hearing of her execution, in his hiding-place near rouen, thrust his cane-sword into his breast; buzot, wandering and starving in the fields, was found half-eaten by wolves. she had confided her daughter eudora and her "memoirs" to the loyal friend bosc, who hid the manuscript in the forest of montmorenci, and in published it for the daughter's benefit. the original is said to be in existence, on coarse gray paper, stained with her tears. sainte-beuve speaks of them as "delicious and indispensable memories," deserving a place "beside the most sublime and eloquent effusions of a brave yet tender philosophy." when he praises that style, clearer and more concise than that of madame de staël, "that other daughter of rousseau," he does not say all; he might have added that, like rousseau, she occasionally speaks of matters not quite convenient to hear. it is difficult to refrain from undue admiration and pity, to remain temperate and modest, when one dwells on the character and qualities, the blameless life and the ignominious death, of marie-jean-antoine- nicolas caritat, marquis de condorcet. we may look up at his thoughtful face in bronze on quai conti, alongside the mint, where he lived in the _entresol_ of the just completed building, when appointed director of the hôtel de la monnaie by his old friend turgot, in . we may look upon the house in rue servandoni where he hid, and from which he escaped to his death. his other paris homes have no existence now. his college of navarre--oldest of all those in the university--has been made over into the École polytechnique; and the house he built for himself in rue chantereine, which was afterward owned by josephine beauharnais, has long since disappeared. when only twenty-two years of age he wrote his famous essay on the integral calculus, when twenty-six he was elected to the academy of sciences. made perpetual secretary of that body in , it came in the course of his duties to deliver eulogies on pascal, d'alembert, buffon, and franklin, and others of the great guild of science. these are more than perfunctory official utterances, they are of an eloquence that shows his lovable character as well as his scientific authority. he contributed largely to diderot's encyclopædia, and put forth many astronomical, mathematical, and theological treatises during his busy life. he wrote earnestly in favor of the independence of the american colonies, and was one of the earliest advocates of the people's cause in france. but he was much more than a man of science and of letters; he was a man with a great soul, "the seneca of the modern school," says lamartine; the most kindly and tolerant friend of humanity, and protector of its rights, since socrates. he believed in the indefinite perfectibility of the human race, and he wrote his last essay, proving its progress upward, while hiding in a garret from those not yet quite perfect fellow-beings, who were howling for his head! he was beloved by benjamin franklin and by thomas paine. members of the convention together, he and paine prepared the new constitution of , in which political document they found no place for theological dogma. robespierre prevented the adoption of this constitution, having taken god under his own protection. condorcet made uncompromising criticism, and was put on the list of those to be suspected and got rid of. too broad to ally himself with the girondists, he was yet proscribed with them, on june , . his friends had forced him to go into hiding, until he might escape. they had asked madame vernet--widow of the painter claude-joseph, mother of carle, grandmother of horace--to give shelter to one of the proscribed, and she had asked only if he were an honest man. this loyal woman concealed him in her garret for nearly one year, and would have kept him longer, but that he feared for her safety, and for that of his wife and daughter, who might be tracked in their visits to him by night. he had finished his "esquisse d'un tableau historique des progrès de l'esprit humain," full of hope for humanity, with no word of reproach or repining, and then he wrote his last words: "advice of one proscribed, to his daughter." this is to be read to-day for its lofty spirit. he gives her the names of certain good men who will befriend her, and among them is benjamin franklin bache, the son of our franklin's daughter sally, who had been in paris with his grandfather. then, this letter finished, early on the morning of april , , he left it on his table and slipped out, unseen by the good widow vernet, from the three-storied plaster-fronted house now no. of rue servandoni, and still unaltered, as is almost the entire street. through it he hurried to rue de vaugirard, where he stood undecided for a moment, the prison of the luxembourg on his left, and the prison of the carmelites on his right, both full of his friends. and on the walls, all about, were placards with big-lettered warning that death was the penalty for harboring the proscribed. here at the corner, he ran against one sarret, cousin of madame vernet, who went with him, showing the way through narrow streets to the barrière du maine, which was behind the present station of mont-parnasse. safely out of the town, the two men took the road to fontenay-aux-roses, and at night sarret turned back. condorcet lost his way, and wandered about the fields for two days, sleeping in the quarries of clamart, until driven by hunger into a wretched inn. demanding an omelet, he was asked how many eggs he would have; the ignorant-learned man ordered a dozen, too many for the working-man he was personating, and suspicions were aroused. the villagers bound and dragged him to the nearest guardhouse at bourg-la-reine. he died in his cell that night, april , , by poison, it is believed. for he wore a ring containing poison; the same sort of poison, it is said, that was carried by napoleon, with which he tried--or pretended to try--to kill himself at fontainebleau. in the modern village of bourg-la-reine, five and a half miles from paris, the principal square bears the name of condorcet, and holds his bust in marble. "_la veuve condorcet_" appears in the paris _bottin_ every year until , when she died. she had been imprisoned on the identification of her husband's body, but was released after robespierre's death. she passed the duplay house every day during those years, going to her little shop at rue saint-honoré. there she had set up a linen business on the ground floor, and above, she painted portraits in a small way. she was a woman of rare beauty and of fine mind, with all womanly graces and all womanly courage. married in , and much younger than her husband, timorous before his real age and his seeming austerity, she had grown up to him, and had learned to love that "volcano covered with snow," as his friend d'alembert had said he was. she had a pretty gift with her pen, and her translation into french of adam smith's "theory of moral sentiments" is still extant. her little _salon_ came to be greatly frequented in her beautiful old age. condorcet's famous fellow-worker in science, antoine-laurent lavoisier, was guillotined in may, , the two men having the same number of years, fifty-one. he was condemned, not for being a chemist, albeit his enlightened judges were of the opinion that "the republic has no need of chemists," but because he had filled, with justice and honesty, his office of farmer-general under royalty. their contemporaries of nearly equal age, gaspard monge and claude-louis berthollet, escaped the guillotine, and were among the _savants_ in the train of general bonaparte in his italian and egyptian campaigns. after many years of useful labors, they died peacefully under the restoration. pierre-simon laplace, of almost equal years with these four, lived to a greater age, and received higher honors from the emperor and the bourbons. coming from his birth-place in calvados in , his first paris home to be found is in rue des noyers; one side of which ancient street now forms that southern section of boulevard saint-germain opposite rue des anglais, its battered houses seeming to shrink back from the publicity thrust upon them. in that one now numbered in the boulevard, formerly no. rue des noyers, alfred de musset was born in ; and in the same row lived laplace in . in we find him in rue mazarine, and in in rue louis-le-grand, and this latter residence represents his only desertion of the university side of the seine. he returned to that bank when placed by the consuls in the senate, and made his home in at no. rue des grands-augustins, and in the following year at no. rue christine. these stately mansions of that period, only a step apart, remain as he left them. when laplace was made chancellor of the senate, in , his official residence was in the luxembourg, and there it continued until , the year of the restoration. his private residence, from to , was at no. rue de tournon, a house still standing in all its senatorial respectability. he gave this up, and again took up his quarters in the luxembourg, when made a count of the empire and vice-president of the senate. from the medician palace, which appears in the _bottin_ of those years as simple no. rue de vaugirard, laplace removed to no. of that street, when the returned bourbons made him a peer of france. this house, near rue d'assas--named for the chevalier nicolas d'assas, the heroic captain of the regiment of auvergne during the seven years' war--is unaltered since his time. his last change of abode was made in , to rue du bac, , where he died in . it is a mansion of old-fashioned dignity, with a large court in front and a larger garden behind, and is now numbered . the growing importance of his successive dwellings, every one of which may be visited to-day, mark his growth in importance as a man of state. the growth of the man of science is represented by his colossal "la mécanique céleste," which first appeared in , and was continued by successive volumes until its completion in . its title, rather than his titles, should be inscribed on his monument. a little later than these famous _confrères_, georges cuvier appears in paris--in hugo's half-truth--"with one eye on the book of genesis and the other on nature, endeavoring to please bigoted reaction by reconciling fossils with texts, and making the mastodons support moses." his first home, at the present rue de seine, is a fine old-fashioned mansion. he removed to the opposite side of that street in , and there remained until , his house being now replaced by the new and characterless structure at no. . full of character, however, is his official residence as professor in the jardin des plantes, which took again its ancient title of jardin du roi during the restoration. "_la maison de cuvier_" is a charming old building near the garden-entrance in rue cuvier, and within is the bust of this most gifted teacher of his time. his genuine devotion to science and his tolerance for all policies carried him through the several changes of government during his life. he completed the napoleonic conquest of italy and holland by his introduction of the french methods of education, perfected by him. the bourbons made him baron and chancellor of the university, and the orleans king elevated him to the peerage of france. he died in . paul-françois-jean-nicolas, comte de barras--soldier, adventurer, a power in the convention, the power of the directory, practically dictator for a while--has added to the hilarity of the sceptical student of history by his "memoirs," kept concealed since his death, in , until their publication within a few years. splendidly mendacious in these pages as he was in life, barras posed always as the man on horseback of _his " vendémiaire_." on that day, unwittingly yet actually, he put into the saddle--where he stayed--his young friend buonaparte, whose qualities he had discovered at the siege of toulon. this artillery officer, while planting his batteries to cover every approach to the tuileries, where cowered the frightened convention, took personal command of the guns that faced saint-roch. the front of that church still shows the scars of the bullets that stopped the rush of the sections in that direction. this battery was placed at the rue saint-honoré end of the narrow lane leading from that street to the gardens of the tuileries--there being then no rue de rivoli, you will bear in mind. this lane was known as rue du dauphin, because of the royal son who had used it, going between the tuileries and the church; after that day, it was popularly called rue du -vendémiaire, until it received its official appellation of rue saint-roch, when widened and aligned in . at this time there were only two houses in the street, near its southern end, and one of them was a _hôtel-garni_, in which young buonaparte caught a short sleep on that night of october , . the oldest structure in rue saint-roch to-day is that with the two numbers and , and it is known to have been already a _hôtel-garni_ in the first years of the nineteenth century, when it was refaced. so that it is well within belief that we have found here buonaparte's head-quarters for that one night. let us now, crossing the river, get on the ground of positive proof, safe from doubts or conjectures. the duchesse d'abrantès, wife of that adorable ruffian, andoche junot, made a duke in by the emperor, writes in her "memoirs": "to this day, whenever i pass along quai conti, i cannot help looking up at the garret windows at the left angle of the house, on the third floor. that was napoleon's chamber, when he paid us a visit; and a neat little room it was. my brother used to occupy the one next it." madame junot had been mlle. laure permon, whose father, an army contractor, had brought his family to paris early in , and leased for his residence the hôtel sillery, formerly the petit hôtel guénégaud. madame permon, a corsican lady, had been an early friend of madame buonaparte, and had rocked young buonaparte in his cradle; so that he was called by his first name in her family, as her daughter shows in this quotation. finding him at the École royale militaire in paris, she invited him to her house for frequent visits, once for a week's stay, whenever permission could be got from the school authorities. he was a lank, cadaverous, dishevelled lad, solitary, taciturn, and morose; brooding over the poverty that had forced him to seek an unpaid-for scholarship, and not readily making friends with the more fortunate albert permon. yet he came often, and was nowhere so content as in this house before us. it stands far back from the front of the quay, half-hidden between the institute and the mint, and is numbered quai conti, and its entrance is on the side at no. impasse conti. its upper portion is now occupied by a club of american art students. constructed by mansart, its rooms are of admirable loftiness and proportion, and retain much of their sixteenth-century decoration. here in this _salon_ after dinner, young buonaparte would storm about the "indecent luxury" of his schoolmates, or sit listening to madame permon, soothed by her reminiscent prattle about corsica and his mother, to whom he always referred as madame letitia. here he first showed himself to the daughters in his new sub-lieutenant's uniform, before joining his regiment on october , , and they laughed at his thin legs in their big boots. [illustration: no. quai conti.] the École supérieure de guerre, commonly called the "École militaire," remains nearly as when constructed under louis xv., but it is impossible to fix on the room allotted to this student during his year there--a small, bare room, with an iron cot, one wooden chair, and a wash-stand with drawers. the chapel, now unused, remains just as it was when he received his confirmation in it. he arrived at this school, from his preparatory school at brienne, on the evening of october , , one of a troop of five lads in the charge of a priest. they had disembarked, late that afternoon, at port saint-paul, from the huge, clumsy boat that brought freight and passengers, twice a week, from burgundy and the aube down the seine. the priest gave the lads a simple dinner near their landing-place, and led them across the river and along the southern quays--where the penniless young buonaparte bought a "gil-blas" from a stall, and a comrade in funds paid for it--and, stopping for prayers at saint-germain-des-prés, he handed them over to the school authorities. from that moment every hour of young buonaparte's year in paris can be accounted for. and no foundation can be discovered or invented for the fable, mendaciously upheld by the tablet, placed by the second empire in the hallway of no. quai conti, which claims a garret in that tall, up-climbing, old house as his lodging at that time or at any later time. this flimsy legend need no longer be listened to. not far away, however, is a garret that did harbor the sub-lieutenant in the autumn of . it is to m. lenôtre that we owe this delightful find. arriving in paris from corsica, after exactly two years of absence, buonaparte took room no. , on the third floor of the hôtel de cherbourg, rue du four-saint-honoré. that street is now rue vauvilliers, its eastern side taken up by the halles, and its present no. , on the western side, is the former _hôtel-garni_, quite unchanged as to its fabric. here he was always writing in his room, going out only for the frugal meals that cost him a few _sous_, and here he had his first amorous adventure, recited by him in cynical detail under the date: "_jeudi novembre , à paris, hôtel de cherbourg, rue du four-saint-honoré._" on august , , buonaparte saw the mob carry and sack the tuileries. he was in disgrace with the army authorities, having practically deserted to corsica, and he had come back for reinstatement and a job. in his saint-helena "memorial," he says that he was then lodging at the hôtel de metz in rue du mail. this is evidently the same lodging placed by many writers in rue d'aboukir, for many of the large houses that fronted on the first-named street extended through to the latter, as shall be shown later. the hotel is gone, and the great mercantile establishment at no. rue du mail covers its site. gone, too, is the shabbily furnished little villa in rue chantereine, where he first called on josephine de beauharnais, where he married that faded coquette--dropping the _u_ from his name then, in march, --and whence he went to his _ brumaire_. the court-yard, filled with resplendent officers on that morning, is now divided between the two courts numbered and rue de la victoire; that name having been officially granted to the street, on his return from his italian campaign in . the villa, kept by the emperor, and lent at times to some favorite general, was not entirely torn down until . its site is now covered by the houses nos. and . rue chantereine was, in those days, almost a country road, bordered by small villas; two of them were associated with napoleon bonaparte. in one of them, mlle. eléonora dennelle gave birth, on december , , to a boy, who grew up into a startling likeness of the emperor, as to face and figure, but who inherited from him only the half-madness of genius. he lived through the empire, the restoration, the second republic, the second empire, and into the republic that has come to stay, dying on april , . to another modest dwelling in this same street, there came the loving and devoted polish lady, madame walewski, who had thrown herself into the emperor's arms, when she was full of faith in his intent to liberate her native land. their son, alexandre walewski, born in , was a brilliant figure in paris, where he came to reside after the fall of warsaw. a gifted soldier, diplomat, and writer, he died in . so, of the roofs that sheltered the boyhood of napoleon, three still remain. of those loftier roofs that sheltered his manhood, there are also three still to be seen. in the paris _bottin_ of the first year of the nineteenth century, the name of napoleon bonaparte appears as a member of the institute, section of mechanism, living in the palace of the luxembourg. in his address is changed to the palace of the tuileries, and he is qualified "emperor of the french;" enlarging that title in to "emperor of the french and king." the tuileries are swept away, and saint-cloud has left only a scar. the luxembourg remains, and so, too, the palais de l'Élysée, where he resided for a while, and the _château_ of malmaison has been restored and refurnished in the style of josephine, as near as may be, and filled with souvenirs of her and of her husband. her body lies, with that of her daughter hortense, in the church of the nearest village, reuil, and his remains rest under the dome of the invalides--his last roof. there is a curious letter, said to be still in existence, written by young buonaparte to talma, asking for the loan of a few francs, to be repaid "out of the first kingdom i conquer." he goes on to say that he has found nothing to do, that barras promises much and does little, and that the writer is at the end of his resources and his patience. this letter was evidently written at that poverty-stricken period between and , when he was idly tramping paris streets with junot, the lovable and generous comrade from toulon; or with bourrienne, now met first since their school-days at brienne, who was to become the emperor's patient confidential secretary. at that period talma had fought his way to his own throne. intimate as he had been with mirabeau, danton, desmoulins, joseph-marie de chénier and david, he had, also, made friends with the corsican officer, either during these years of the letter or probably earlier. he made him free of the stage of the théâtre français, and lent him books. his friendship passed on to the general, the consul, and the emperor, and it was gossipped that he had taught bonaparte to dress and walk and play napoleon. talma always denied this, avowing that the other man was, by nature and training, the greater actor! joseph-françois talma used to say that he first heard of a theatre, from seeing and asking about the old théâtre de l'hôtel de bourgogne, whose entrance was in rue mauconseil, opposite the place of his birth, on january , . as he grew up he learned a good deal more about the theatre, for he went early and often. he was only fifteen when he was one of the audience in the théâtre français, on that night of the crowning of voltaire, and one of the crowd that tried to unharness the horses, and drag the old man from the tuileries to his house on the quay. by day the lad was learning dentistry, his father's profession--it was then a trade--and the two went to london to practice. for a while young talma got experience in that specialty from the jaws of the sailor-men at greenwich, and got gayer and more congenial experience in amateur theatricals in town. they returned to paris, and the father's sign, "_m. talma, dentiste_," was hung by the doorway of no. rue jean-jacques-rousseau, next to the corner of rue saint-honoré. from the house that was there before the present modern structure, young talma went across the river to the comédie française, on the night of november , , and made his _début_ as seide in "mahomet." in our chapter on molière, we left the comédie française, on its opening night in , at the house in rue de l'ancienne-comédie. there it remained for nearly a century, until forced, by overflowing houses, to find a larger hall. while this was in course of construction the company removed, in , to the salle des machines in the tuileries, already transformed into a theatre by the regent for his ballets. here the troupe played until the completion of the new theatre in . that new comédie française is now the second théâtre français, the odéon, the second largest hall in paris. it was burned in and again in . in it took the title of théâtre national; in , théâtre de l'Égalité was the newest name forced upon the unwilling comedians, who were, as always with that profession, fond of swelldom and favorites of princes. the house being in the very centre of the cordeliers quarter, in _la section marat_, there was always constant friction between players and audience, and by this had so exasperated the ruling powers--the _sans-culottes_--that nearly the whole troupe was sent to prison, charged with having insulted the patriots on the boards, and with having given "proofs of marked incivism." the ladies of the company, aristocrats by strength of their sex, occupied cells in sainte-pélagie, where we have already listened to their merriment. they escaped trial through the destruction of their _dossiers_ by a humane member of the committee of safety, and the _ thermidor_ set them free. talma had already left the troupe in april, , driven away, with two or three friends, by dissensions and jealousies. they went over to the new house which had been constructed, in , at a corner of the palais-royal, by enterprising contractors with influential politicians between them. it was called at first théâtre français de la rue de richelieu, and, in , théâtre de la république. on talma's desertion of the old house, there began a legal process against him, exactly like that instituted by the same comédie française against m. coquelin, a century later, when the theatre had for its lawyer the grandson of its advocate of ; and the decision of the two tribunals was the same in effect. talma stayed at the theatre in the palais-royal, to which he drew the discerning public, and, after ten years of rivalry, the two troupes joined hands on those boards, and so the comédie française came to the present "house of molière." it would seem that talma was a shrewd man of business, and drew money in his private rôle of landlord. he owned the house in which mirabeau died, in rue de la chaussée-d'antin, and always referred to the great tribune as "_mon ancien locataire, mirabeau_." just beyond, in rue chantereine, talma was attracted by the small villa built by the architect ledoux, for condorcet, it is said. perhaps the actor had seen, in that street, an even more plausible actor, giuseppe balsamo by name, calling himself the count cagliostro. he had established himself in one of the villas in this street, on coming to paris to ply his trade, toward . and in the wonder-working mesmer had set up his machinery and masqueraded as a magician in a house in the same street. benjamin franklin went there, one of a government commission sent to investigate the miracles. in his new residence in rue chantereine, talma welcomed his friends among the revolutionary leaders, and gave them _bouillon_ in the kitchen, when he came home from the theatre at night. in he sold the villa to josephine de beauharnais, and he always said that her first payment was made to him from moneys sent to her, by her husband, from italy. it is not known whether talma owned, or leased, an apartment in no. quai voltaire, where he lived from until . the house, now no. , one of the ancient stately structures facing the quay, is somewhat narrower than its neighbors. during the ten years between and he had an apartment at no. rue de seine; possibly in that pavilion in the court which was built by marguerite de valois for her residence, and which has been heightened by having two new floors slipped between the lower and top stories, leaving these latter and the façade much as she built them. his home, from to , at no. rue de rivoli, is replaced by the new structures at the western end of that street, which is entirely renumbered. after two more changes on the northern bank, he finally settled at no. rue de la tour-des-dames. until there was still to be seen the tower of the windmill owned by the "_dames de montmartre_," which gave its name to this street. at its number , a small _hôtel_, circular-fronted and most coquettish, lived mlle. mars, it is believed, and here she was the victim of the earliest recorded theft of an actress's jewels. the simple and stately house, of a low curtain between two wings, with two stories and a mansard roof, bearing the number , is the scene of talma's last years and of his death, on october , . his final appearance had been on june th of that year, in his marvellous personation of charles vi. at this house we shall see dumas visit the old actor, who had seen voltaire! dumas says that talma spared nothing in his aim at accuracy, historic and archæologic, when creating a new rôle or mounting a new play. indeed, we know that talma was the first great realist in costume and scenery, as we know that he first brought the statues of tragedy down to human proportions and gave them life-blood. dumas dwells especially on the voice of the great tragedian--a voice that was glorious and sincere, and in anguish was a sob. there is a glowing portrait of talma from the pen of chateaubriand, in which he makes plain that the tragedian, while he was, himself, his century and ancient centuries in one, had been profoundly affected by the terrible scenes of the terror which he had witnessed; and it was that baleful inspiration that sent the concentrated passion of patriotism leaping in torrents from his heart. "his grace--not an ordinary grace--seized one like fate. black ambition, remorse, jealousy, sadness of soul, bodily agony, human grief, the madness sent by the gods and by adversity--_that_ was what he knew. just his coming on the scene, just the sound of his voice, were overpoweringly tragic. suffering and contemplation mingled on his brow, breathed in his postures, his gestures, his walk, his motionlessness." thomas carlyle seems strangely placed in the stalls of the théâtre français, yet he sat there, at the end of his twelve-days' visit to paris in . "on the night before leaving," he writes, "i found that i ought to visit one theatre, and by happy accident came upon talma playing there. a heavy, shortish, numb-footed man, face like a warming-pan for size, and with a strange, most ponderous, yet delicate expression in the big, dull-glowing black eyes and it. incomparably the best actor i ever saw. play was 'oedipe'; place the théâtre français." [illustration: monogram from former entrance of the cour du commerce, believed to be the initials of the owner, one girardot.] paris a sketch book by eug. bejot. london adam and charles black drawings l'arbre du quai des orfèvres. l'oranger aux tuileries. nôtre dame. rue de rivoli. la sainte chapelle. la place vendôme. l'arc de triomphe du carrousel. la tour st. jacques. l'institute. l'automobile club. le pont marie. la tour eiffel. le bassin des tuileries. le quai de bethune le quai d'orsay. le pont des saints pères. la tour eiffel vue du trocadero. le petit bras de la seine au pont marie. la rue des grands augustins. le pont royal. le quai d'anjou. st. paul et st. louis. la colonnade du louvre le quai des grands augustins. [illustration: l'arbre du quai des orfèvres.] [illustration: l'oranger aux tuileries.] [illustration: nôtre dame.] [illustration: rue de rivoli.] [illustration: la sainte chapelle.] [illustration: la place vendôme.] [illustration: l'arc de triomphe du carrousel.] [illustration: la tour st. jacques.] [illustration: l'institute.] [illustration: l'automobile club.] [illustration: le pont marie.] [illustration: la tour eiffel.] [illustration: le bassin des tuileries.] [illustration: le quai de bethune] [illustration: le quai d'orsay.] [illustration: le pont des saints pères.] [illustration: la tour eiffel vue du trocadero.] [illustration: le petit bras de la seine au pont marie.] [illustration: la rue des grands augustins.] [illustration: le pont royal.] [illustration: le quai d'anjou.] [illustration: st. paul et st. louis.] [illustration: la colonnade du louvre] [illustration: le quai des grands augustins.] distributed proofreaders europe at http://dp.rastko.net paris: with pen and pencil its people and literature, its life and business by david w. bartlett author of "what i saw in london;" "life of lady jane gray;" "life of joan of arc," etc. etc. illustrated. new york: hurst & co., publishers, nassau street. preface. the contents of this volume are the result of two visits to paris. the first when louis napoleon was president of the republic; and the second when napoleon iii. was emperor of france. i have sketched people and places as i saw them at both periods, and the reader should bear this in mind. i have not endeavored to make a hand-book to paris, but have described those places and objects which came more particularly under my notice. i have also thought it best, instead of devoting my whole space to the description of places, or the manners of the people--a subject which has been pretty well exhausted by other writers--to give a few sketches of the great men of paris and of france; and among them, a few of the representative literary men of the past. there is not a general knowledge of french literature and authors, either past or present, among the mass of readers; and paris and france can only be truly known through french authors and literature. my object has been to add somewhat to the general reader's knowledge of paris and the parisians,--of the people and the places, whose social laws are the general guide of the civilized world. [illustration: church of st. sulspice.] contents. chapter i. london to paris, history of paris, chapter ii. restaurants, a walk and gossip, the bourse, chapter iii. lafayette's tomb, the radical, a country walk, chapter iv. the churches, notre dame, l'auxerrois, saint chapelle, expiatoire, madeleine, st. ferdinand, vincent de paul, &c. chapter v. lamartine, vernet, girardin, hugo, janin, chapter vi. places of blood, place de la concorde, chapter vii. the louvre, public gardens, the luxembourg palace and gardens, the gobelins, chapter viii. the people, climate, public institutions, hotel de invalides, jardin d'hiver, chapter ix. m. guizot, alexander dumas, eugene sue, m. thiers, george sand, chapter x. pere la chase, the prisons, foundling hospitals, charitable institutions, la morgue, napoleon and eugenia, the baptism of the prince, chapter xi. men of the past, the father of french tragedy, the great jester, the dramatist, chapter xii. the fabulist, the infidel, the great comic writer, what i saw in paris. chapter i. london to paris--history of paris. london to paris. few people now-a-days go direct to paris from america. they land in liverpool, get at least a birds-eye view of the country parts of england, stay in london a week or two, or longer, and then cross the channel for paris. the traveler who intends to wander over the continent, here takes his initiatory lesson in the system of passports. i first called upon the american minister, and my passport--made out in washington--was _vise_ for paris. my next step was to hunt up the french consul, and pay him a dollar for affixing his signature to the precious document. at the first sea-port this passport was taken from me, and a provisional one put into my keeping. at paris the original one was returned! and this is a history of my passport between london and paris, a distance traversed in a few hours. if such are the practices between two of the greatest and most civilized towns on the face of the earth, how unendurable must they be on the more despotic continent? the summer was in its first month, and paris was in its glory, and it was at such a time that i visited it. we took a steamer at the london bridge wharf for boulogne. the day promised well to be a boisterous one, but i had a very faint idea of the gale blowing in the channel. if i could have known, i should have waited, or gone by the express route, _via_ dover, the sea transit of which occupies only two hours. the fare by steamer from london to boulogne was three dollars. the accommodations were meager, but the boat itself was a strong, lusty little fellow, and well fitted for the life it leads. i can easily dispense with the luxurious appointments which characterize the american steamboats, if safety is assured to me in severe weather. the voyage down the thames, was in many respects very delightful. greenwich, woolwich, margate, and ramsgate lie pleasantly upon this route. but the wind blew so fiercely in our teeth that we experienced little pleasure in looking at them. when we reached the channel we found it white with foam, and soon our little boat was tossed upon the waves like a gull. in my experience crossing the atlantic, i had seen nothing so disagreeable as this. the motion was so quick and so continual, the boat so small, that i very soon found myself growing sick. the rain was disagreeable, and the sea was constantly breaking over the bulwarks. i could not stay below--the atmosphere was too stifling and hot. so i bribed a sailor to wrap about me his oil-cloth garments, and lay down near the engines with my face upturned to the black sky, and the sea-spray washing me from time to time. such sea-sickness i never endured, though before i had sailed thousands of miles at sea, and have done the same since. from sundown till two o'clock the next morning i lay on the deck of the sloppy little boat, and when at last the boulogne lights were to be seen, i was as heartily glad as ever in my life. thoroughly worn out, as soon as i landed upon the quay i handed my keys to a _commissaire_, gave up my passport, and sought a bed, and was soon in my dreams tossing again upon the channel-waves. i was waked by the _commissaire_, who entered my room with the keys. he had passed my baggage, got a provisional passport for me, and now very politely advised me to get up and take the first train to paris, for i had told him i wished to be in paris as soon as possible. giving him a good fee for his trouble, and hastily quitting the apartment and paying for it, i was very soon in the railway station. my trunks were weighed, and i bought baggage tickets to paris--price one sou. the first class fare was twenty-seven francs, or about five dollars, the distance one hundred and seventy miles. this was cheaper than first class railway traveling in england, though somewhat dearer than american railway prices. the first class cars were the finest i have seen in any country--very far superior to american cars, and in many respects superior to the english. they were fitted up for four persons in each compartment, and a door opened into each from the side. the seat and back were beautifully cushioned, and the arms were stuffed in like manner, so that at night the weary traveler could sleep in them with great comfort. the price of a third class ticket from boulogne to paris was only three dollars, and the cars were much better than the second class in america, and i noticed that many very respectably dressed ladies and gentlemen were in them--probably for short distances. it is quite common, both in england and france, in the summer, for people of wealth to travel by rail for a short distance by the cheapest class of cars. i entered the car an utter stranger--no one knew me, and i knew no one. the language was unintelligible, for i found that to _read_ french in america, is not to _talk_ french in france. i could understand no one, or at least but a word here and there. but the journey was a very delightful one. the country we passed through was beautiful, and the little farms were in an excellent state of cultivation. flowers bloomed everywhere. there was not quite that degree of cultivation which the traveler observes in the best parts of england, but the scenery was none the less beautiful for that. then, too, i saw everything with a romantic enthusiasm. it was the france i had read of, dreamed of, since i was a school-boy. a gentleman was in the apartment who could talk english, having resided long in boulogne, which the english frequent as a watering place, and he pointed out the interesting places on our journey. at amiens we changed cars and stopped five minutes for refreshments. i was hungry enough to draw double rations, but i felt a little fear that i should get cheated, or could not make myself understood; but as the old saw has it, "necessity is the mother of invention," and i satisfied my hunger with a moderate outlay of money. a few miles before we reached paris, we stopped at the little village of enghein, and it seemed to me that i never in my life had dreamed of so fairy-like a place. beautiful lakes, rivers, fountains, flowers, and trees were scattered over the village with exquisite taste. to this place, on sundays and holidays, the people of paris repair, and dance in its cheap gardens and drink cheap wines. when we reached paris my trunks were again searched and underwent a short examination, to see that no wines or provisions were concealed in them. a tax is laid upon all such articles when they enter the city, and this is the reason why on sunday the people flock out of town to enjoy their _fetes_. in the country there are no taxes on wine and edibles, and as a matter of economy they go outside of the walls for their pleasure. when my baggage was examined, i took an omnibus to the hotel bedford, rue de l'arcade, where i proposed to stay but a few days, until i could hunt up permanent apartments. my room was a delightful one and fitted up in elegant style. i was in the best part of paris. two minutes walk away were the _champs elysees_--the madeleine church, the tuileries, etc., etc. but i was too tired to go out, and after a french dinner and a lounge in the reading-room, i went to sleep, and the next morning's sun found me at last entirely recovered from my wretched passage across the channel. my second trip to paris was in many respects different from the first--which i have just described. the route was a new one, and pleasanter than that _via_ boulogne. our party took an express train from the london bridge terminus for newhaven, a small sea-port. the cars were fitted up with every comfort, and we made the passage in quick time. at three p.m. we went on board a little steamer for dieppe, where we arrived at nine o'clock. after a delay of an hour we entered a railway carriage fitted up in a very beautiful and luxurious style. at dieppe we had no trouble with our passports, keeping the originals, and simply showing them to the custom-house officials. our ride to paris was in the night, yet was very comfortable. in coming back to london, we made the trip to dieppe in the daytime, and found it to be very beautiful. from paris to rouen the railway runs a great share of the way in sight of the river seine, and often upon its banks. many of the views from the train were romantic, and some of them wildly grand. upon the whole, this route is the pleasantest between paris and london, as it is one of the cheapest. there is one objection, however, and that is the length of the sea voyage--six hours. those who dislike the water will prefer the dover route. * * * * * history of paris. the origin of paris is not known. according to certain writers, a wandering tribe built their huts upon the island now called _la cite_. this was their home, and being surrounded by water, it was easily defended against the approach of hostile tribes. the name of the place was lutetia, and to themselves they gave the name of _parisii_, from the celtic word _par_, a frontier or extremity. this tribe was one of sixty-four which were confederated, and when the conquest of gaul took place under julius caesar, the _parisii_ occupied the island. the ground now covered by paris was either a marsh or forest, and two bridges communicated from the island to it. the islanders were slow to give up their druidical sacrifices, and it is doubtful whether the roman gods ever were worshiped by them, though fragments of an altar of jupiter have been found under the choir of the cathedral of notre dame. nearly four hundred years after christ, the emperor julian remodeled the government and laws of gaul and lutetia, and changed its name to _parisii_. it then, too, became a city, and had considerable trade. for five hundred years paris was under roman domination. a palace was erected for municipal purposes in the city, and another on the south bank of the seine, the remains of which can still be seen. the roman emperors frequently resided in this palace while waging war with the northern barbarians. constantine and constantius visited it; julian spent three winters in it; valentian and gratian also made it a temporary residence. the monks have a tradition that the gospel was first preached in paris about the year , by st. denis, and that he suffered martyrdom at montmartre. a chapel was early erected on the spot now occupied by notre dame. in the northern barbarians made a descent upon the roman provinces, and in paris was stormed by them. before the year paris was independent of the roman domination. clovis was its master, and marrying clotilde, he embraced christianity and erected a church. the island was now surrounded by walls and had gates. the famous church of st. german l'auxerrois was built at this time. for two hundred and fifty years, paris retrograded rather than advanced in civilization, and the refinements introduced by the romans were nearly forgotten. in the normans sacked and burnt paris. still again it was besieged, but such was the valor of its inhabitants that the enemy were glad to raise the siege. hugues capet was elected king in , and the crown became hereditary. in his reign the palace of justice was commenced. buildings were erected on all sides, and new streets were opened. under louis le gros the louvre was rebuilt, it having existed since the time of dagobert. bishop sully began the foundations of notre dame in , and about that time the knights templars erected a palace. under the reign of philip augustus many of the public edifices were embellished and new churches and towers were built. in robert serbon founded schools--a hospital and school of surgery were also about this time commenced. under charles v. the city flourished finely, and the bastille and the palace de tourvelles were erected. the louvre also was repaired. next came the unhappy reign of charles vi., who was struck with insanity. in the english occupied paris, but under charles vii. they were driven from it and the greek language was taught for the first time in the university of paris. it had then twenty-five thousand students. under the reign of successive monarchs paris was, from famine and plague, so depopulated that its gates were thrown open to the malefactors of all countries. in the art of printing was introduced into the city and a post-office was established. in the reign of francis i. the arts and literature sprang into a new life. the heavy buildings called the louvre were demolished, and a new palace commenced upon the old site. in the hotel de ville was begun, and many fine buildings were erected. the wars of the sects, or rather religions, followed, and among them occurred the terrible st. bartholomew massacre. henry iv. brought peace to the kingdom and added greatly to the beauty and attractiveness of paris. under louis xiii. several new streets were opened, and the palais royal and the palace of the luxembourg begun. under the succeeding king the wars of the fronde occurred, but the projects of the preceding king were carried out, and more than eighty new streets were opened. the planting of trees in the champs elysees, also took place under the reign of louis xiv. the palace of the tuileries was enlarged, the hotel des invalides, a foundling hospital, and several bridges were built. louis xv. established the manufactory of porcelain at sevres, and also added much to the beauty of paris. he commenced the erection of the madeleine. theaters and comic opera-houses were speedily built, and water was distributed over the city by the use of steam-engines. then broke out the revolution, and many fine monuments were destroyed. but it was under the directory that the museum of the louvre was opened, and under napoleon the capital assumed a splendor it had never known before. under the succeeding kings it continued to increase in wealth and magnificence, until it is unquestionably the finest city in the world. i have now in a short space given the reader a preliminary sketch of paris, and will proceed at once to describe what i saw in it, and the impressions i received, while a resident in that city. chapter ii. restaurants--a walk and gossip. [illustration: boulevard du temple.] restaurants, cafes, etc. the first thing the stranger does in paris, is of course to find temporary lodging, and the next is to select a good _restaurant_. paris without its _restaurants, cafes, estaminets_, and _cercles_, would be shorn of half its glory. they are one of its most distinguished and peculiar features. between the hours of five and eight, in the evening of course, all paris is in those _restaurants_. the scene at such times is enlivening in the highest degree. the boulevards contain the finest in the city, for there nearly all the first-class saloons are kept. there are retired streets in which are kept houses on the same plan, but with prices moderate in the extreme. you can go on the boulevards and pay for a breakfast, if you choose, fifty or even sixty francs, or you can retire to some quiet spot and pay one franc for your frugal meal. it is of course not common for any one to pay the largest sum named, but there are persons in paris who do it, young men who with us are vulgarly denominated "swells," and who like to astonish their friends by their extravagance. [illustration: paris & arch of triumph.] out of curiosity i went one day with a friend to one of the most gorgeous of the _restaurants_ on the boulevards. notwithstanding the descriptions i had read and listened to from the lips of friends, i was surprised at the splendor and style of the place. we sat down before a fine window which was raised, looking into the street. indeed, so close sat we to it that the fashionable promenaders could each, if he liked, have peeped into our dishes. but parisians never trouble strangers with their inquisitiveness. we sat down before a table of exquisite marble, and a waiter dressed as neatly, and indeed gracefully, as a gentleman, handed us a bill of fare. it was long enough in itself to make a man a dinner, if the material were only palatable. including dessert and wines, there were one hundred specifications! there were ten kinds of meat, and fourteen varieties of poultry. of course there were many varieties of game, and there were eight kinds of pastry. of fish there were fourteen kinds, there were ten side dishes, a dozen sweet dishes, and a dozen kinds of wine. the elegance of the apartment can scarcely be imagined, and the savory smell which arose from neighboring tables occupied by fashionable men and women, invited us to a repast. we called, however, but for a dish or two, and after we had eaten them, we had coffee, and over our cups gazed out upon the gay scene before us. it was novel, indeed, to the american eye, and we sat long and discussed it. in this _restaurant_ there were private rooms, called _cabinets de societe_, and into them go men and women at all hours, by day and night. it is also a common sight to see the public apartments of the _restaurants_ filled with people of both sexes. ladies sit down even in the street with gentlemen, to sup chocolate or lemonade. there is not much eaves-dropping in paris, and you can do as you please, nor fear curious eyes nor scandal-loving tongues. this is very different from london. there, if you do any thing out of the common way, you will be stared at and talked about. _there_, if you take a lady into a public eating-house, _her_ position, at least, will not be a very pleasant one. there are many places in the palais royal, the basement floor of which, fronting upon the court of the palace, is given up to shops, where for two or three francs a dinner can be purchased which will consist of soup, two dishes from a large list at choice, a dessert, and bread and wine. there are places, indeed, where for twenty-five sous a dinner sufficient to satisfy one's hunger can be purchased, but i must confess that while in paris i could never yet make up my mind to patronize a cheap _restaurant_. i knew too well, by the tales of more experienced parisians, the shifts to which the cook of one of these cheap establishments is sometimes reduced to produce an attractive dish. the material sometimes would not bear a close examination--much less the _cuisine_. [illustration: jardin du palais royal.] i was astonished to see the quantities of bread devoured by the frequenters of the eating-houses, but i soon equaled my neighbors. paris bread is the best in the world, or at least, it is the most palatable i ever tasted. it is made in rolls six feet long, and sometimes i have seen it eight feet long. before now, i have seen a couple dining near the corner of a room, with their roll of bread thrown like a cane against the wall, and as often as they wanted a fresh slice, the roll was very coolly brought over and decapitated. the frenchman eats little meat, but enormously of the staff of life. the chocolate and coffee which are to be had in the french _cafes_, are very delicious, and though after a fair and long trial i never could like french cookery as well as the english, yet i would not for a moment pretend that any cooks in the world equal those of paris in the art of imparting exquisite flavor to a dish. it is quite common for the french to use brandy in their coffee. people who take apartments in paris often prefer to have their meals sent to their private rooms, and by a special bargain this is done by any of the restaurants, but more especially by a class of houses called _traiteurs_, whose chief business is to furnish cooked dishes to families in their own homes. in going to a hotel in paris, the stranger never feels in the slightest degree bound to get his meals there. he hires his room and that is all, and goes where he pleases. the _cafes_ are in the best portions of the town, magnificent places, often exceeding in splendor the restaurants. they furnish coffee, chocolate, all manner of ices and fruits, and cigars. at these places one meets well-dressed ladies, and more than once in them i have seen well-dressed women smoking cigarettes. love intrigues are carried on at these places, for a paris lady can easily steal from her home to such a place under cover of the night. a majority, however, of the women to be seen at such places, are those who have no position in society, the wandering nymphs of the night, or the poor grisettes. it is not strange that the poor shop-girl is easily attracted to such gorgeous places by men far above her in station. outside of all the cafes little tables are placed on the pavement, with chairs around them. these places are delightful in the summer evenings, and are always crowded. a promenade through some of the best streets of a summer night is a brilliant spectacle, and more like a promenade through a drawing-room than through an american street. the proprietors of those places do not intend to keep restaurants, but quite a variety of food, hot or cold, is always on hand, and wines of all kinds are sold. i well remember my first visit to a french _cafe_. it was when louis napoleon was president, not emperor of france, and when there was more liberty in paris than there is now. i dropped into one near the boulevards, which, while it contained everything which could add to one's comfort, still was not one of the first class. several officers were dining in it, and in some way i came in contact with one of them in such a manner that he discovered i was an american. at once his conduct toward me was of the most cordial kind, and his fellows rose and bade me welcome to france. the simple fact that i was a republican from america aroused the enthusiasm of all. i found, afterward, that the regiment to which these officers belonged was suspected by the president of being democratic in its sympathies. the reading-rooms of paris are one of its best institutions. they are scattered all over the city, but the best is galignani's, which contains over twenty thousand volumes in all languages. the subscription price for a month is eight francs, for a fortnight five francs, and for a day ten sous. there are reading-rooms furnished only with newspapers, where for a small sum of money one can read the papers. these places are few in comparison with their numbers in the days of the republic, however. under the despotic rule of louis napoleon, the newspaper business has drooped. an anonymous writer in one of chambers' publications, tells a good story, and it is a true one, of pere fabrice, who amassed a fortune in paris. the story is told as follows: "he had always a turn for speculation, and being a private soldier he made money by selling small articles to his fellow soldiers. when his term of service had expired, he entered the employ of a rag-merchant, and in a little while proposed a partnership with his master, who laughed at his impudence. he then set up an opposition shop, and lost all he had saved in a month. he then became a porter at the _halles_ where turkeys were sold. he noticed that those which remained unsold, in a day or two lost half their value. he asked the old women how the customers knew the turkeys were not fresh. they replied that the legs changed from a bright black to a dingy brown. fabrice went home, was absent the next day from the _halles_, and on the third day returned with a bottle of liquid. seizing hold of the first brown-legged turkey he met with, he forthwith painted its legs out of the contents of his bottle, and placing the thus decorated bird by the side of one just killed, he asked who now was able to see the difference between the fresh bird and the stale one? the old women were seized with admiration. they are a curious set of beings, those _dames de la halle_; their admiration is unbounded for successful adventurers--witness their enthusiasm for louis napoleon. they adopted our friend's idea without hesitation, made an agreement with him on the principle of the division of profits; and it immediately became a statistical puzzle with the curious inquirers on these subjects, how it came to pass that stale turkeys should have all at once disappeared from the paris market? it was set down to the increase of prosperity consequent on the constitutional _regime_ and the wisdom of the citizen-king. the old women profited largely; but unfortunately, like the rest of the world, they in time forgot both their enthusiasm and their benefactor, and pere fabrice found himself involved in a daily succession of squabbles about his half-profits. tired out at last, he made an arrangement with the old dames, and, in military phrase, sold out. possessed now of about double the capital with which he entered, he recollected his old friend, the rag-merchant, and went a second time to propose a partnership. 'i am a man of capital now,' he said; 'you need not laugh so loud this time.' the rag-merchant asked the amount of his capital; and when he heard it, whistled _ninon dormait_, and turned upon his heel. 'no wonder,' said fabrice afterward; 'i little knew then what a rag-merchant was worth. that man could have bought up two of louis philippe's ministers of finance.' at the time, however, he did not take the matter so philosophically, and resolved, after the fashion of his class, not to drown himself, but to make a night of it. he found a friend, and went with him to dine at a small eating-house. while there, they noticed the quantity of broken bread thrown under the tables by the reckless and quarrelsome set that frequented the place; and his friend remarked, that if all the bread so thrown about were collected, it would feed half the _quartier_. fabrice said nothing; but he was in search of an idea, and he took up his friend's. the next day, he called on the restaurateur, and asked him for what he would sell the broken bread he was accustomed to sweep in the dustpan. the bread he wanted, it should be observed, was a very different thing from the fragments left upon the table; these had been consecrated to the marrow's soup from time immemorial. he wanted the dirty bread actually thrown under the table, which even a parisian restaurateur of the quartier latin, whose business it was to collect dirt and crumbs, had hitherto thrown away. our restaurateur caught eagerly at the offer, made a bargain for a small sum; and master fabrice forthwith proceeded to about a hundred eating-houses of the same kind, with all of whom he made similar bargains. upon this he established a bakery, extending his operations till there was scarcely a restaurant in paris of which the sweepings did not find their way to the oven of pere fabrice. hence it is that the fourpenny restaurants are supplied; hence it is that the itinerant venders of gingerbread find their first material. let any man who eats bread at any very cheap place in the capital take warning, if his stomach goes against the idea of a _rechauffe_ of bread from the dust-hole. fabrice, notwithstanding some extravagances with the fair sex, became a millionaire; and the greatest glory of his life was--that he lived to eclipse his old master, the rag-merchant." the same writer also gives a graphic description of one class of restaurants in paris--the pot-luck shops: "pot-luck, or the _fortune de pot_, is on the whole the most curious feeding spectacle in europe. there are more than a dozen shops in paris where this mode of procuring a dinner is practiced, chiefly in the back streets abutting on the pantheon. about two o'clock, a parcel of men in dirty blouses, with sallow faces, and an indescribable mixture of recklessness, jollity, and misery--strange as the juxtaposition of terms may seem--lurking about their eyes and the corners of their mouths, take their seats in a room where there is not the slightest appearance of any preparation for food, nothing but half-a-dozen old deal-tables, with forms beside them, on the side of the room, and one large table in the middle. they pass away the time in vehement gesticulation, and talking in a loud tone; so much of what they say is in _argot_, that the stranger will not find it easy to comprehend them. he would think they were talking crime or politics--not a bit of it; their talk is altogether about their mistresses. love and feeding make up the existence of these beings; and we may judge of the quality of the former by what we are about to see of the latter. a huge bowl is at last introduced, and placed on the table in the middle of the room. at the same time a set of basins, corresponding to the number of the guests, are placed on the side-tables. a woman, with her nose on one side, good eyes, and the thinnest of all possible lips, opening every now and then to disclose the white teeth which garnish an enormous mouth, takes her place before it. she is the presiding deity of the temple; and there is not a man present to whom it would not be the crowning felicity of the moment to obtain a smile from features so little used to the business of smiling, that one wonders how they would set about it if the necessity should ever arise. every cap is doffed with a grim politeness peculiar to that class of humanity, and a series of compliments fly into the face of madame michel, part leveled at her eyes, and part at the laced cap, in perfect taste, by which those eyes are shrouded. mere michel, however, says nothing in return, but proceeds to stir with a thick ladle, looking much larger than it really is, the contents of the bowl before her. these contents are an enormous quantity of thick brown liquid, in the midst of which swim numerous islands of vegetable matter and a few pieces of meat. meanwhile, a damsel, hideously ugly--but whose ugliness is in part concealed by a neat, trim cap--makes the tour of the room with a box of tickets, grown black by use, and numbered from one to whatever number may be that of the company. each of them gives four sous to this hebe of the place, accompanying the action with an amorous look, which is both the habit and the duty of every frenchman when he has anything to do with the opposite sex, and which is not always a matter of course, for marie has her admirers, and has been the cause of more than one _rixe_ in the rue des anglais. the tickets distributed, up rises number one--with a joke got ready for the occasion, and a look of earnest anxiety, as if he were going to throw for a kingdom--takes the ladle, plunges it into the bowl, and transfers whatever it brings up to his basin. it is contrary to the rules for any man to hesitate when he has once made his plunge, though he has a perfect right to take his time in a previous survey of the _ocean_--a privilege of which he always avails himself. if he brings up one of the pieces of meat, the glisten of his eye and the applauding murmur which goes round the assembly give him a momentary exultation, which it is difficult to conceive by those who have not witnessed it. in this the spirit of successful gambling is, beyond all doubt, the uppermost feeling; it mixes itself up with everything done by that class of society, and is the main reason of the popularity of these places with their _habitues_; for when the customers have once acquired the habit, they rarely go anywhere else." [illustration: omnibus.] a walk and gossip. one of my first days in paris i sauntered out to find some american newspapers, that i might know something of what had transpired in america for weeks previous. i directed my steps to the office of messrs. livingston, wells & co., where i had been informed a reading-room was always kept open for the use of american strangers in paris. the morning was a delightful one, and i could but contrast it with the usual weather of london. during months of residence in the english metropolis i had seen no atmosphere like this, and my spirits, like the sky, were clear and bright. on my way i saw a novel sight, and to me the first intimation that the people of paris, so widely famed for their politeness, refinement, and civilization, are yet addicted to certain practices for which the wildest barbarian in the far west would blush. i saw men in open day, in the open walk, which was crowded with women as well as men, commit nuisances of a kind i need not particularize but which seemed to excite neither wonder nor disgust in the by-passers. indeed i saw they were quite accustomed to such sights, and their nonchalance was only equaled by that of the well-dressed gentlemen who were the guilty parties. i very soon learned more of paris, and found that not in this matter alone were its citizens deficient in refinement, but in still weightier matters. i soon reached the american reading-room, and walked in. my first act was to look at the register where all persons who call inscribe their names, and i was surprised to notice the number of americans present in paris. it only proved what i long had heard, that americans take more naturally to the french than to the sturdy, self-sufficient englishman. as it is in the matter of fashions, so it is regarding almost everything else, save morals, and i doubt if the tone of fashionable society in new york is any better than in paris. i was heartily rejoiced to take an american newspaper in my hand again. there were the clear open face of the plain-spoken _tribune_, the sprightly columns of the _times_, and the more dignified columns of the washington journals. there were also many other familiar papers on the table, and they were all touched before i left. it was like a cool spring in the wide desert. for i confess that i love the newspaper, if it only be of the right sort. from early habit, i cannot live without it. let any man pursue the vocation of an editor for a few years, and he will find it difficult, after, to live without a good supply of newspapers, and they must be of the old-fashioned home kind. i did not easily accustom myself to the paris journals. cheap enough some of them were, but still the strange language was an obstacle. they are worse printed than ours, and are by no means equal to such journals as the _times_ and _tribune_. they publish continued stories, or novels, and racy criticisms of music, art, and literature. the political department of the french newspaper at the present day is the weakest part of the sheet. it is lifeless. a few meager facts are recorded, and there is a little tame comment, and that is all. there was a time when the political department of a french newspaper was its most brilliant feature. during the exciting times which presaged the downfall of louis philippe, and also during the early days of the republic, the paris press was in the full tide of success, and was exceedingly brilliant. the daily journals abounded, and their subscription lists were enormous. where there is freedom, men and women _will_ read--and where there is unmitigated despotism, the people care little to read the sickly journals which are permitted to drag out an existence. there is one journal published in paris in the english language, "_galignani's messenger_." it is old, and in its way is very useful, but it is principally made up of extracts from the english journals. it has no editorial ability or originality, and of course never advances any opinion upon a political question. on my return home i passed through a street often mentioned by eugene sue in his mysteries of paris--a street formerly noted for the vile character of its inhabitants. it was formerly filled with robbers and cut-throats, and even now i should not care to risk my life in this street after midnight, with no policemen near. it is exceedingly narrow, for i stood in the center and touched with the tips of my fingers the walls of both sides of the street. it is very dark and gloomy, and queer-looking passages run up on either side from the street. some of them were frightful enough in their appearance. to be lost in such a place in the dead of night, even now, would be no pleasant fate, for desperate characters still haunt the spot. possibly the next morning, or a few mornings after, the stranger's body might be seen at _la morgue._ that is the place where all dead bodies found in the river or streets are exhibited--suicides and murdered men and women. talking of this street and its reputation in eugene sue's novels, reminds me of the man. when i first saw it he had just been elected to the chamber of deputies by an overwhelming majority. it was not because sue was the favorite candidate of the republicans, but he stood in such a position that his defeat would have been considered a government victory, and consequently he was elected. i was glad to find the man unpopular among democrats of paris, for his life, like his books, has many pages in it that were better not read. at that time he was living very quietly in a village just out of paris, and though surrounded with voluptuous luxuries, he was in his life strictly virtuous. he was the same afterward, and being very wealthy, gave a great deal to the poor. his novels are everywhere read in france. i was not a little surprised during my first days in paris to see the popularity of cooper as a novelist. his stories are for sale at every book-stall, and are in all the libraries. they are sold with illustrations at a cheap rate, and i think i may say with safety that he is as widely read in france as any foreign novelist. this is a little singular when it is remembered how difficult it is to convey the broken indian language to a french reader. this is one of the best features of cooper's novels--the striking manner in which he portrays the language of the north american indian and his idiomatic expressions. yet such is the charm of his stories that they have found their way over europe. the translations into the french language must be good. another author read widely in paris, as she is all over europe, is mrs. stowe. _uncle tom_ is a familiar name in the brilliant capital of france, and even yet his ideal portraits hang in many shop windows, and the face of mrs. stowe peeps forth beside it. _uncle tom's cabin_ was wonderfully popular among all classes, and to very many--what a fact!--it brought their first idea of jesus christ as he is delineated in the new testament. but mrs. stowe's _sunny memories_ was very severely criticised and generally laughed at--especially her criticisms upon art. walking one evening in the champs elysees, i found a little family of singers from the alps, underneath one of the large trees. you should have heard them sing their native songs, so plaintive and yet so mild. father and mother, two little sisters and a brother, were begging their bread in that way. they were dressed very neatly, although evidently extremely poor. the father had a violin which he played very sweetly, the mother sang, the two little girls danced, and the boy put in a soft and melancholy tenor. i hardly ever listened to sadder music. it seemed as if their hearts were in it, saddened at the thought of exile from their native mountains. after singing for a long time, they stopped and looked up appealingly to the crowd--but not a sou fell to the ground. once more they essayed to sing, with a heavier sorrow upon their faces, for they were hungry and had no bread. they stopped again--not a solitary sou was given to them. a large tear rolled down the cheek of the father--you should have seen the answering impulse of the crowd--how the sous rattled upon the ground. they saw instantly that it was no common beggar before them, but one who deserved their alms. at once, as if a heaven full of clouds had divided and the sunshine flashed full upon their faces, the band of singers grew radiant and happy. such is life--a compound of sorrow and gayety. the parisian omnibus system is the best in the world, and i found it very useful and agreeable always while wandering over the city. the vehicles are large and clean, and each passenger has a chair fastened firmly to the sides of the carriage. six sous will carry a person anywhere in paris, and if two lines are necessary to reach the desired place, a ticket is given by the conductor of the first omnibus, which entitles the holder to another ride in the new line. the omnibus system is worked to perfection only in paris, and is there a great blessing to people who cannot afford to drive their own carriages. the bourse--galignani's, etc., etc. the paris exchange is on the rue vivienne, and is approached from the tuileries from that street or _via_ the palais national, and a succession of the most beautiful arcade-shops in paris or the world. if the day be rainy, the stranger can thread his way to it under the long arcades as dry as if in his own room at the hotel. i confess to a fondness for wandering though such places as these arcades, where the riches of the shops are displayed in their large windows. in america it is not usual to fill the windows of stores full of articles with the price of each attached, but it is always so in london and paris. a jewelry store will exhibit a hundred kinds of watches with their different prices attached, and the different shops will display what they contain in like manner. there are, too, in paris and london places called "curiosity shop". the first time i ever saw one of these shops with its green windows and name over the door, memory instantly recalled a man never to be forgotten. will any one who has read charles dickens ever forget his "curiosity shop," the old grandfather and little nell? when i entered the shop--the windows filled with old swords, pistols, and stilettos--it seemed to me that i must meet the old gray-haired man, or gentle nell, or the ugly quilp and dick swiveller. but they were not there. [illustration: palais de la bourse] but i have been stopping in a curiosity shop when i should be on my way to the bourse. the paris bourse, or exchange, is perhaps the finest building of its kind on the continent. its magnificence is very properly of the most solid and substantial kind. for should not the exchange for the greatest merchants of paris be built in a stable rather than in a slight and beautiful manner? the form of the structure is that of a parallelogram, and it is two hundred and twelve by one hundred and twenty-six feet. it is surrounded by sixty-six corinthian columns, which support an entablature and a worked attic. it is approached by a flight of steps which extend across the whole western front. over the western entrance is the following inscription--bourse et tribunal de commerce. the roof is made of copper and iron. the hall in the center of the building where the merchants meet is very large--one hundred and sixteen feet long and seventy-six feet broad. just below the cornice are inscribed the names of the principal cities in the world, and over the middle arch there is a clock, which on an opposite dial-plate marks the direction of the wind out of doors. the hall is lighted from the roof--the ceiling is covered with fine paintings, or as they are styled "monochrane drawings." europe, asia, africa, and america are represented in groups. in one, the city of paris is represented as delivering her keys to the god of commerce, and inviting commercial justice to enter the walls prepared for her. the hall is paved with a fine marble, and two thousand persons can be accommodated upon the central floor. there is a smaller inclosure at the east end, where the merchants and stockholders transact their daily business. the hours are from one o'clock to three for the public stocks, and till half past five for all others. the public is allowed to visit the bourse from nine in the morning till five at night. a very singular regulation exists in reference to the ladies. no woman is admitted into the bourse without a special order from the proper authorities. the cause for this is the fact that years ago, when ladies were admitted to the bourse, they became very much addicted to gambling there, and also enticed the gentlemen into similar practices. it is not likely that the old stockholders were tempted into any vicious practices, but the presence of women was enough to attract another class of men--idlers and fashionable gamblers--until the exchange was turned into a gambling-saloon. the matter was soon set to rights when women were shut out. paris was formerly without an exchange, and the merchants held their meetings in an old building which john law, the celebrated financier, once occupied. they afterward met in the palais royal, and still later, in a comparatively obscure street. the first stone of the bourse was laid on the th of march, , and the works proceeded with dispatch till , when they were suspended. it was completed in . the architect who designed it died when it was half completed, but the plan was carried out, though by a new architect. it is now a model building of its kind, and cost nearly nine millions of francs. in comprehensive magnificence it has no rival in paris--perhaps not in the world. the royal exchange of london, though a fine building, is a pigmy beside this massive and colossal structure. the best view can be obtained from the rue vivienne. from this street one has a fine view of the fine marble steps ascending to it, and which stretch completely across the western part. the history of all the great panics which have been experienced on the paris exchange would be an excellent history of the fortunes of france. the slightest premonition of change is felt at once at the bourse, and as each successive revolution has swept over the country, it has written its history in ineffaceable characters on change. panic has followed panic, and the stocks fly up or down according to the views outside. the breath of war sets all its interests into a trembling condition, and an election, before now, has sent the thrill to the very center of that grand old money-palace. on my way home from the bourse, i stopped to go over galignani's reading room. it is a capital collection of the best books of all countries, some of them in french, some in english, and others in german. i found on the shelves many american republications, but cooper was always first among these. for a small sum the stranger can subscribe to this library, either for a month or a year, and supply himself with reading and the newspapers of the world. the messrs. galignani publish an english journal in paris. it is a daily, and has no opinions of its own. of course, an original and independent journal could not be allowed to exist in paris. for this reason _galignani's messenger_ is a vapid concern. it presents no thoughts to the reader. it is interesting to the englishman in paris, because it gathers english news, and presents it in the original language. as there are always a great many englishmen in paris, the journal is tolerably well supported. then, again, the paris shop-keepers and hotel-owners know very well that the english are among their best customers, and they advertise largely in it. so far as my experience has gone, i have found the _messenger_ quite unfair to america. it quotes from the worst of american journals, and is sure to parade anything that may be for the disadvantage of american reputation. it also is generally sure of showing by its quotations its sympathy with "the powers that be." this may all be natural enough, for it is for their interest to stand well with the despot who rules france, but to an american, and a republican, it excites only disgust. at present the _messenger_ is as good, or nearly so, as any of the french journals, but when the latter had liberty to write as they pleased, the contrast between the french and english press in paris was ludicrous. in one you had fearless political writing, wit, and spice. in the other, nothing but selections. once, while in paris, during the days of the republic, i called upon the editor of one of the prominent french journals. it was a journal which had again and again paid government fines for the utterance of its honest sentiments, both under louis philippe and the presidency of louis napoleon. before the revolution it had a very great influence over the people, and in the days of the so-called republic. the struggle between it and the government, at that time was continued. its editor's great aim was to express as much truth as was possible and escape the government line, which in the end would suppress the journal. as i entered the building in which this journal was printed and published, i felt a kind of awe creeping over me, as if coming into the presence of a great mind. we entered the editor's office; a little green baize-covered table by a window, pen and ink, and scissors, indicated the room. one might indeed tremble in such a place. what greater place is there in this world than an editor's office, if his journal be one which sells by tens of thousands and sways a vast number of intelligent men? a throne-room is nothing in comparison to it. thrones are demolished by the journals. especially in paris has such been the case. the liberal press has in past years controlled the french people to a wonderful extent. kings and queens have physical power, but here in this little room was the throne-room of intellect. a door opened out of it into the printing-room, where the thoughts were stamped upon paper, afterward to be impressed upon a hundred thousand minds. the editor sat over his little desk, an earnest, care-worn, yet hopeful man. his fingers trembled with nervousness, yet his eye was like an eagle's. he did not stir when we first entered, did not even see us, he was so deeply absorbed in what lay before him upon his table. i was glad to watch him for a moment, unobserved. he was no fashionable editor, made no play of his work. he felt the responsibility of his position, and endeavored honestly to do his duty. his forehead was high, his eye black, and his face was very pale. suddenly he looked up and saw us, and recognized my friend. it was enough that i was a republican, from america, and unlike some americans, abated not a jot of my radicalism when in foreign countries. i looked around the room when the first words were spoken, and saw everywhere files of newspapers, old copy and that which was about to be given to the printers. it was very much like an editorial apartment in an american printing office, though in some respects it was different. it was a gloomy apartment, and it seemed to me that the writings of the editor must partake somewhat of the character of the room. we went into the printing-office, where a hundred hands were setting the "thought-tracks." it seemed as if everyone in the building, from editor-in-chief down to the devil, was solemn with the thought of his high and noble avocation. there was a half sadness on every countenance, for the future was full of gloom. i was struck with the fact that the office did not seem to me to be a _french_ office. there was a gravity, a solemnity, not often seen in paris. the usual politeness of a parisian was there, but no gayety, no recklessness. anxiety trouble, or fixedness of purpose were written upon almost every countenance. in one corner lay piled up to the ceilings copies of the journal, and i half expected to see a band of the police walk in and seize them. it seemed as if _they_ half expected some such thing, but they worked on without saying a word. i became at that moment convinced that a portion of the french people had been wronged by foreigners. there is a large class who are not only intellectual, but they are earnest and grave. they do not wish change for the sake of it. they love liberty and would die for it. many of this class were murdered in cold blood by louis napoleon. others were sent to cayenne, to fall a prey to a climate cruel as the guillotine, or were sent into strange lands to beg their bread. these men were the real glory of france, and yet they were forced to leave it. chapter iii. lafayette's tomb--the radical--a country walk. lafayette's tomb. i am fond of being at perfect liberty to ramble where my fancy may lead. if the sun shine pleasantly this morning, and i would like to hear the birds sing and smell the flowers, i go to some pleasant garden and indulge my mood. or, if i am sad, i go to the grave of genius, and lean over the tomb of abelard and heloise. when i lived in paris, i had no regularity in my wanderings, no method in my sight-seeing, following a perhaps wayward fancy, and enjoying myself the better for it. one beautiful morning i sauntered out from my hotel, with a friend, who was also a stranger in paris. "where shall we go?" he asked. "to a little cemetery called picpus, far away from here." "will it be worth our while to go so far to see a small cemetery?" "you shall see when we get there." we went part of the way by an omnibus, and walked the rest, and when the morning was nearly spent, we stood before no. , rue de picpus. the place was once a convent of the order of st. augustine, but is now occupied by the "women of the sacred heart." within the convent, which we entered, there is a pretty doric chapel with an ionic portal. there was an air of privacy about, the little chapel which pleased me, and a chasteness in its architecture which could not fail to please any one who loves simple beauty. within the walls of the court, there is a very small private cemetery, but though private, the porter, if you ask him politely, will let you enter, especially if you tell him you are from america. "here is the cemetery which we have come to see," i said to my friend. "certainly, it is a very pretty one," he replied; "still i see nothing to justify our coming so far to behold it." "wait a little while and you will not say so." the first group of graves before which we stopped, was that of some victims of the reign of terror--poor slaughtered men and women. the grass was growing pleasantly above them, and all was calm, and sunny, and beautiful around. perhaps the sun shone as pleasantly when, on the "_place de la concorde_," they walked up the steps of the scaffold to die--for _liberty_! oh shame! one--two--three--four--there were eight graves we counted, all victims of the reign of terror. for a moment i forgot where i was; the graves were now at my feet, but i saw the poor victims go slowly up to their horrible death. the faces of grinning, scowling devils, male and female, were before me, all clamoring for blood. i could see the tiger-thirst for human flesh in every countenance--the fierce eye--the flushed face--and yet, how still were the winds, how cheerful the sky. yet, though every pure-hearted man or woman must detest the horrible cruelties of the great revolution must shudder at the bare mention of the names of the leaders in it, is it not an eternal law of god, that oppression at last produces madness? have not tyrants this fact always to dream over--_though you_ may escape the vengeance of outraged humanity, yet your children, your children's children shall pay the terrible penalty. louis xvi. was a gentle king; unwise, but never at heart tyrannical; but alas! he answered not merely for his own misdeeds, but for the misdeeds, the tyrannical conduct of centuries of kingcraft. it was an inevitable consequence--and it will ever be so. but i am moralizing. "you came to see these graves?" remarked my friend. "they are interesting places to ponder and dream over." "not to see these, though, did i come," i replied. we soon came to the graves of nobility. there was the tomb of a noailles, a grammont, a montagu. plain, all of them, and yet with an air at once chaste and artistic. there was the tomb of rosambo and lemoignon amid the tangled grass. all of these names were once noble and great in france, and as i bent over them, i could but call up france in the days of the _ancien regime_, when all these names called forth bows and fawnings from the people. dead and buried nobility--what is it? the nobility goes--names die with the body. "you came out to see buried nobility," said my companion. "me! did i ever go out of my way to see even buried _royalty_? never, unless the ashes had been something more than a mere king. to see the grave of genius or goodness, but not empty, buried names!" we went on a little farther--to a quiet spot, where the sun shone in warmly, where the grass was mown away short, but where it was green and bright. the song of a plaintive bird just touched our ears--where it was we could not tell, only we heard it. it was a still, beautiful spot, and there was a grave before us--yet how very plain! a pure, white marble, a simple tomb. now my companion asked no questions, but i saw that his lips quivered. the name on the simple tomb was that of "lafayette." here, away from the noise of the city, amid silence chaste and sweet, without a monument, lie the remains of one of the greatest men of france. not in pere la chaise, amid grandeur and fashion, but in a little private cemetery, with a cluster of extinguished nobles on one side, and a band of victims of the reign of terror on the other! we sat down beside his tomb, grateful to the dust beneath our feet for the noble assistance which it gave to the sinking "old thirteen," when the soul of lafayette animated it. how vividly were the days of our long struggle before us. we saw bunker hill alive with battalions, and charlestown lay in flames. step by step we ran over the bitter struggle, with so much power on one side, and on the other such an amount of determination, but after all so many dark and adverse circumstances, so little physical power in comparison with the hosts arrayed against us. it was when the heart of the nation drooped with an accumulation of misfortune, that lafayette came and turned the balance in the scales. and we were grateful to him; not so much for what he really accomplished, as for what he attempted--for the daring spirit, the noble generosity! then, too, i thought how lafayette stood between the king and the people, before and after the reign of terror--thought of his devotion to france--of his stern patriotism, which would neither tremble before a king nor an infuriated rabble. yet he was obliged to fly for life from paris--from france. he lay in a felon's dungeon in a foreign land, for lack of devotion to kingcraft, and could not return to france because he loved humanity too well. was it not hard? france has never been just to her great men. she welcomes to her bosom her most dangerous citizens, and casts out the true and the noble. she did so when she sent lafayette away. she did so in refusing lamartine and accepting louis napoleon. * * * * * the radical. when i first visited paris, while louis napoleon was president of the republic instead of emperor, i became acquainted with a young man from america who had lived seventeen years in paris. he was thoroughly acquainted with every phase of parisian life, from the highest to the lowest, and knew the principal political characters of the country. he was a thorough radical, and an enthusiast. he came to paris for an education, and when he had finished it, he had imbibed the most radical opinions respecting human liberty, and as his native town was new orleans, and his father a wealthy slaveholder, he concluded to remain in paris. when i found him, he was living in the latin quarter, among the students, at a cheap, though very neat hotel. he was refined, modest, and highly educated, and was busy in political writing and speculations. at that time he showed me a complete constitution for a "model republic" in france, and a code of laws fit for paradise rather than france. the documents exhibited great skill and learning, but the impress of an enthusiast was upon them all. by his conduct or manner, the stranger would never have supposed that my friend was enthusiastic. he never indulged in any flights of indignation at the existing state of things, never was thrown off his guard so as to show by his speech or his manner that he was passionately attached to liberal principles. it was only after i had come to know him well, that i discovered this fact--that he was a great enthusiast, and so deeply attached to the purest principles respecting human freedom and happiness, that he would willingly have died for them. living in paris, one of the most dissolute cities of the world, he was pure in his morals, and as rigidly honest as any puritan in cromwell's day. but with all his own purity he possessed unbounded charity for others. his friends were among all classes, and were good and bad. one day i saw him walking with one of the most distinguished men of france. a few days after, while he was taking a morning walk, he met a university student with a grisette upon his arm--his mistress. the student wished to leave paris for the day on business, and asked my friend to accompany his mistress back to their rooms. with the utmost composure and politeness the radical offered his arm, and escorted the frail woman to her apartments. of course, this man was carefully watched by the police. he was well known, and the eye of the secret police was constantly upon him. he still clung to his old american passport, for it had repeatedly caused him to be respected when other reasons were insufficient. i one day wrote a note to a friend in a distant part of the city, and was going to drop it into the post-office when my friend, who was with me, remonstrated. "you can walk to the spot and deliver it yourself," said he, "and you will have saved the two sous postage. i am going that way; let _me_ have the postage and i will deliver it." "i will go with you," i said, at the same time giving him the two sous. he took them without any remonstrance. on the way we met a poor old family, singing and begging in the streets. "they must live," said my friend, "and we will give them our mite in partnership." so he added two sous to those i had given him, and tossed them to the beggars. this was genuine charity, given not for ostentation, but to relieve suffering and administer comfort. i found him at all times entirely true to his principles, and became very much interested in him. we took a walk together one evening, to hear music in the luxembourg gardens. as we approached them, the clock on the old building of the chamber of peers struck eight, and at once the band commenced playing some operatic airs of exquisite beauty. now a gay and enlivening passage was performed, and then a mournful air, or something martial and soul-stirring. the music ceased at nine, and a company of soldiers marched to the drum around the frontiers of the gardens, to notify all who were in it that the gates must soon close. "what very fine drumming," i said to my companion. "yes," he replied, "but you should hear a night _rappel_. i heard it often in the days of the june fight. one morning i heard it at three o'clock, calling the soldiers together for battle. you cannot know what a thrill of horror it sent through every avenue of this great city. i got up hastily, and dressed myself and ran into the streets. it was not for me to shrink from the conflict. but the alarm was a false one. soldiers were in every street, but there was no fighting that day." a few months before, my friend ventured to publish a pamphlet on the subject of french interference in italy. he condemned in unequivocal terms the expedition to italy, and showed how it violated the feelings of the french nation. a few days afterward, he received the following laconic note: "m. blank is invited to call on the prefect of the police, at his office, to-morrow, friday, at eleven o'clock." m. blank sat down, first, and wrote an able letter to the minister for the interior, for he well knew that the note signified the suppression of the pamphlet, and very likely his ejection from france. he sent the same letter to the american minister, and the next day answered the summons of the prefect. this is the account of the interview which he gave me from a journal he was in the habit of keeping at that time: "i read the word '_refugies_' over the door, and it reminded me of the inscription on the gates of hell--'leave all hope far behind.' everyone knows that the very reason that ghosts are dreaded, is that ghosts were _never seen_. it is the same for policemen--those 'finders out of occasions,' as othello styles them--those 'rough and ready' to choke ideas, as the bud is bit by the venomous worm 'ere it can spread its sweet leaves to the air.' i was about to encounter the assailing eyes of knavery. a gentleman of the administration welcomed me in. 'sir,' i said, coldly, 'i was invited to meet the _prefect of the police_. i wish to know what is deemed an outrage to the established government of france?' "the reply, was, 'the procureur-general noticed several portions of your book; sit down and we will read them!' "i listened to several extracts, where there were allusions to _princes_, (louis napoleon had been formerly a prince, and this was objected to,) and remarked to them that france recognized _no princes_--that what i had written about the expedition to italy, i had the right, as a publicist, to write. the world had universally repudiated that expedition, and the president had tacitly done the same in his letter to colonel ney, and in dismissing the ministers who planned the expedition. the president being quoted as authority, the agent of the executive thought it useless to hold the argument any longer, and backed out. the gentlemen of the police knew nothing of bush-fighting, and might have exclaimed with the muse in romeo, 'is this poultice for my aching bones?'" the upshot of the examination was, that the pamphlet was untouched, and m. blank remained in paris. but he was watched closer than ever. when i left him, he was waiting in daily expectation of a _coup de etat_ on the part of louis napoleon. i asked him what hopes there were for france. he shook his head sadly--he despaired of success. it might be that napoleon would be beaten down by the populace, if he attempted to erect a throne, but he had faint hopes of it, for he had got the army almost completely under his influence. or it was possible that napoleon might not violate his solemn oaths to support the republic--not for lack of disposition, but fearing the people. i could see, however, that my friend had little faith in the immediate future of "poor france," as he called her, as if she were his mother. he thought the reason why the republic would be overthrown, was from the conduct of those who had been at its head in the early part of its history. the republicans, soon after louis philippe's flight, acted, he thought, with great weakness. if strong men had been at the helm, then no such man as louis napoleon would have been allowed afterward to take the presidential chair. i think he was more right than wrong. a vigorous and not too radical administration, might have preserved the republic for years--possibly for all time. louis napoleon should not have been allowed to enter france, nor any like him, who had proved themselves disturbers of the peace. about a year after the time i have been describing, while walking down nassau street, in new york, i very suddenly and unexpectedly met my friend, the radical! "aha!" said i, "you have left paris. well, you have shown good taste." "no! no!" he replied, "i did not leave it till louis napoleon forced me to choose exile or imprisonment. i had no choice in the matter." he seemed to feel lost amid the bustle of new york. his dream was over, and at thirty-five he found himself amid the realities of a money-seeking nation. the look upon his face was sad, almost despairing. i certainly never pitied a man more than i did him. pure, guileless generous--and poor, what could he do in new york? a walk into the country. the summer and autumn are the seasons one should spend in paris, to see it in its full glory. the people of paris live out of doors, and to see them in the winter, is not to know them thoroughly. the summer weather is unlike that of london. the air is pure, the sky serene, and the whole city is full of gardens and promenades. the little out-of-door theaters reap harvests of money--the tricksters, the conjurors, the street fiddlers, and all sorts of men who get their subsistence by furnishing the people with cheap amusements, are in high spirits, for in these seasons they can drive a fine business. not so in the winter. then they are obliged either to wander over the half-deserted _places_, gathering here and there a sou, or shut themselves up in their garret or cellar apartments, and live upon their summer gains. to the stranger who must be economical, paris in the winter is not to be desired, for fuel is enormously high in that city. a bit of wood is worth so much cash, and a log which in america would be thrown away, would there be worth a little fortune to a poor wood-dealer. the country around paris is scarcely worth a visit in the winter or early spring months, but in the summer it is far different. i remember a little walk i took one day past the fortifications. when i came to the walls of the city, i was obliged to pass through a narrow gate. all who enter the city are inspected, for there is a heavy duty upon provisions of nearly all kinds which are brought from the provinces into paris. the duty upon wines is very heavy. upon a bottle of cheap wine, which costs in the country but fifteen sous, there is a gate-duty of five sous. this is one reason why the poor people of paris on _fete_ days, crowd to the country villages near paris. there they can eat and drink at a much cheaper rate than in town, besides having the advantage of pure air and beautiful scenery. i witnessed an amusing sight at this gate. a man was just entering from the country. he was very large in the abdominal regions, so much so that the gate-keeper's suspicions were aroused, and he asked the large traveler a few leading questions. he protested that he was innocent of any attempt to defraud the revenues of paris. the gate-keeper reached out his hand as if to examine the unoffending man, and he grew very angry. his face assumed a scarlet hue, and his voice was hoarse with passion, probably from the fact that he was sensitive about his obesity. but the gate-keeper saw in his conduct only increased proof of his guilt, and finally insisted upon laying his hand upon the suspicious part, when with a poorly-concealed smile, but a polite "beg your pardon," he let the man pass on his way. it is probable the gate-keeper was more rigid in his examinations, from the fact that not long before a curious case of deception had occurred at one of the other gates, or rather a case of long-continued deception was exposed. a man who lived in a little village just outside of the walls, became afflicted with the dropsy in the abdominal regions. he then commenced the business of furnishing a certain hotel in paris with fresh provisions, and for this purpose he visited it twice a day with a large basket on his head or arm. the basket, of course, was always duly examined, and the man passed through. he became well-known to the gate-keeper, and thus weeks and months passed away, until one day the keeper was sure he smelt brandy, and searched the basket more carefully than usual. nothing was discovered, but the fragrance of the brandy grew stronger, and his suspicions were directed to the man. he was examined, and it was found that his dropsy could easily be cured, for it consisted in wearing something around his body which would contain several gallons, for the man was really small in size, though tall, and he had made it his business to carry in liquors to the city, and evade the taxes. but at last, unfortunately, the portable canteen sprung a leak, and this was the cause which led to the discovery. at another gate, a woman was detected in carrying quantities of brandy under her petticoats, and only passing for a large woman. i knew of a woman who, in passing the liverpool custom house, sewed cigars to a great number into her skirt, but was, to her great chagrin, detected, and also to the dismay of her husband, whom she intended to benefit. such taxes would not be endured in any american city, but the old world is used to taxation. in the very out-skirts of london there are toll-gates in the busiest of streets, but that is not so bad as the local tariff system. i soon came, in my walk, to the fortifications of paris. they were constructed by louis phillippe, and are magnificent works of defense. there is one peculiar feature of this chain of defense which has excited a great deal of remark. it is quite evident that a part of the fortifications were constructed with a view to defend one's self from enemies _within_, as well as without. louis phillippe evidently remembered the past history of paris, and felt the possibility of a future in which he might like to have the command of paris with his guns, as well as an enemy outside the wall. but the fortifications and the cannon were of no manner of use to him. so, very possibly, the grand army which louis napoleon has raised may be of no use to him, and the little prince, the young king of algeria, may end his days a wanderer in the united states, as his father was before him. it is to be hoped, if he does, that he will pay his bills. the fortifications of paris extend entirely around the city, and are seventeen miles in length. i went to the top of them, but i had not stood there five minutes before the soldiers warned me off. the approach to the city side of the wall is very gradual, by means of a grass-covered bank. while standing upon the summit, a train of cars--came whizzing along at a fine rate. i saw for the first time people riding on the tops of cars as on a coach. the train was bound to versailles, and as the distance is short, and probably the speed attained not great, seats are attached to the tops of the cars, and for a very small sum the poorer classes can ride in them. in fine weather it is said that this kind of riding is very pleasant. i passed out through the gates beyond the fortifications, and was in the open country--among the trees, the birds and flowers, and the cultivated fields. the contrast between what i saw and the city, was great. here, all was beautiful nature. there, all that is grand and exquisite in art. the fields around me were green with leaves and plants; the branches of the trees swayed to and fro in the restless breeze; the little peasant huts had a picturesque appearance in the distance, and the laborers at work seemed more healthy than the artisans of paris. i approached a peasant who was following the plow. i was surprised to find the plow he used to be altogether too heavy for the use to which it was put. yet i was in sight of paris, the city of the arts and sciences. such a plow could not have been found in all new england. i looked at the man, too, and compared him with an american farmer or native workman. he was miserably dressed, and wore shoes which might have been made in the twelfth century. he had no look of intelligence upon his face, but stared at me with a dull and idiotic eye. this was the peasant under the walls of paris--what must he be in the provincial forests? leaving the plowman, i walked on, following a pretty little road, until i came to a large flock of sheep in the care of a shepherd-boy and a dog. while i stood looking at them, the boy started them off across the fields and through the lawns to some other place. all that he did was to follow the sheep, but i certainly never saw a dog so capable and intelligent as that one. he seemed to catch from his master the idea of their destination at once, and kept continually running around the flock, now stirring them into a faster gait, then heading off some wayward fellow who manifested a strong disposition to sheer off to the right or left, and again turning the whole body just where the master wished. it was an amusing sight, and well worth the walk from the city. to be sure, the dog was rather egotistical and ostentatious. he knew his smartness, and was quite willing that bystanders should know it too, for he pawed, and fawned, and barked at a tremendous rate. the flock seemed to know his ways, and while they obeyed his voice, they were not particularly frightened at it. leaving the flock and their master, i soon came to a little inn, and sat down to dine. it was not much like the restaurants on the boulevard, or even like those within the city on retired streets, but i got a very comfortable meal, and for a very small sum of money. i found that the mere mention that i was an american, in all such places as this, insured me polite attention, and i could often notice, instantly, the change of manners after i had informed my entertainers of my country. it is but a slight fact from which to draw an inference, but yet i could not help inferring that the more intelligent of the common people of paris are yet, notwithstanding the despotism which hovers over france, in their secret hearts longing for the freedom of a just republic. a young american was a few months since visiting paris with a much younger brother. the latter went out one day into the country, alone, and seeing that a party of people from paris were enjoying themselves in the gardens connected with a small public house, he drew near to witness their gayety. they were artisans, but of the most intelligent class. they were neatly dressed, and their faces were bright and intelligent. whole families were there, down to the little children, and they were enjoying a holiday. seeing a young man (he was but sixteen years' old) gazing upon them, and judging him to be a stranger, one of the party approached him, and with great politeness asked if he would not come into the garden and drink a glass of wine. the act was a spontaneous one, and arose from good-nature and high spirits. the young american entered, and in the course of a conversation told the company that he was an american. instantly the scene changed. he was loudly cheered, and one man remarked, with very significant gestures and looks, that "_he came from a republic_!" nothing would do but that the guest must sit down and accept of food and wine to an alarming extent. he was, in fact, made so much of, that he became somewhat alarmed, for he was young and inexperienced. i may as well finish the story by saying what was the truth, that so many of the party begged the privilege of drinking with him, that he became somewhat giddy and unfit to retrace his steps. he was unused to wine, and the moment the parisians saw it, they urged him to drink no more, and asking his hotel, they took him carefully and kindly to it in a carriage, after an hour or two had passed away and he had pretty much recovered from his dissipation. now there can be no doubt that the enthusiastic politeness of the artisans, arose from the fact that he was a republican, and from a great republican country, and such facts which i have repeatedly witnessed, or heard of, assure me that the old republican fire is not extinguished in the hearts of the common people of paris. after a frugal dinner at the inn, i sauntered still further into the country, so as, if possible, to get a glimpse of the farm-houses. but one cannot get any fair idea of french agriculture so near paris. a great deal of the land is used in cultivating vegetables for the paris markets, and this land is scarcely a specimen of the farms of france, it is more like gardens. i found a few buildings which were occupied by these gardeners, and one or two genuine farmers, and while there was evidently scientific culture bestowed upon the land, the tools were generally clumsy, and altogether too heavy for convenience and dispatch. it struck me as very singular. paris excels in the manufacturing of light and graceful articles of almost every kind. certainly, in jewelry, cutlery, and all manner of ornamental articles, it is the first city in the world. how comes it, then, that so near paris, agricultural implements are so far behind the age? i would by no means have the reader infer that the best of agricultural tools are not manufactured in france. such is not the fact, as the paris exhibition proved, but _who buys them_? now is it not a significant fact, that within a bow-shot of paris i found tools in use, which would be laughed at in the free states of america? the true reason for this, is to be found in the condition of the french agricultural laborer. he is ignorant and unambitious. where the laborer is intelligent, he will have light and excellent tools to work with. this is a universal fact. the slaves of the southern states are in a state of brutal ignorance, and their agricultural implements are heavy and large. such is the fact with all those men and women who are in a condition somewhat similar. after looking upon the plowman i have before alluded to, i could easily believe what reliable frenchmen told me--that in the famous (shall i call it _in_famous?) election, very many of the farmers of the interior supposed they were voting for napoleon the great, instead of louis napoleon! i passed, in returning to my hotel, one of the finest buildings in paris--the _palace d' orsay_. it was begun in the time of napoleon, and is a public building. [illustration: palais de quai d'orsay.] [illustration: church of notre dame.] chapter iv. churches--notre dame--l'auxerrois--saint chapelle--st. ferdinand--expiatoire--madeleine, etc. notre dame. the churches of paris are full of gorgeous splendor--how much vital religion they contain, it is not, perhaps, my province to decide. but in beauty of architecture, in the solemnity and grandeur of interior, no city in the world, except rome, can excel them. the church of the madeleine is the most imposing of all; indeed, it seemed to me that in all paris there was no other building so pretentious. but notre dame has that mellow quality which beautifies all architecture--hoary age. i started out one morning to see it, crossing on my way one of the bridges to _isle la cite_, and was soon in sight of the two majestic towers of the old cathedral. you can see them, in fact, from all parts of paris, rising magnificently from the little island city, like beacons for the weary sailor. the morning was just such an one as paris delights to furnish in the month of june--fair, clear, and exhilarating--no london fog, mud, or rain, but as soft a sky as ever i saw in america. we stopped a moment before the church, to gaze at the high-reaching columns, and admire the general architecture of the church. workmen were scattered over different portions of the building and towers, (this was on my first visit to paris,) engaged in renewing their ancient beauty. my first emotion upon entering, was one of disappointment, for although externally notre dame is the finest church in paris, internally it is gloomy, exceedingly simple, and has an air of faded beauty. still, the "long-drawn aisles" were very fine. gazing aloft, the eye ached to watch the beautiful arches meet far above. then to look away horizontally on either hand through the graceful aisles, filled one with pleasure. i scarcely know how, but as i was passing a little altar where a priest was saying mass, i unaccountably put my cap upon my head. i was instantly required to take it off. i was reminded of the fact that but a few days before, when entering a jewish synagogue, upon taking off my hat, i was instantly required to replace it. such is the difference between the etiquette of a catholic church and a jewish synagogue. i noticed that the threshold of notre dame, like that of st. germain l'auxerrois, was very much worn away by the feet of the crowds who have crossed it during many centuries. the organ is an excellent one. it is forty-five feet high, thirty-six broad, and has three thousand four hundred and eighty-four pipes. its power is great, and as the organist touched some of the lower notes, the cathedral walls reverberated with the sound. the _porte rouge_ is a splendidly sculptured door-way. under the arch-way there is a sculpture of jesus christ and the virgin crowned by an angel. behind it there are bas-reliefs representing the death of the virgin--christ surrounded by angels, the virgin at the feet of christ in agony, and a woman selling herself to the devil. the interior of the church abounds with sculpture of every description, and some of it was executed in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. there now remains only one of the old peal of bells which used to exist in notre dame--but one has escaped the fury of french revolutions. it was hung in the year , and was baptized in the presence of louis xiv. and queen theresa. its weight is thirty-two thousand pounds--the clapper alone weighing a thousand pounds. a clock in one of the towers is world-renowned for the intricacy and curiosity of its mechanism. the feats it performs every time it strikes the hour and quarter-hour, can hardly be credited by one who has not seen them. it is supposed that the first foundations of a church on this spot were laid in the year , in the reign of valentian i. it was subsequently several times rebuilt, a portion of the work which was executed in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries still remaining. the other portions were built in , by the duke of burgundy, and are of a deep red color. the _porte rouge_ was built under his special superintendence. he assassinated the duke of orleans, and built this red portal as an expiation for his crime. in , when the church of st. germain l'auxerrois was sacked, the mob crowded into notre dame and completely destroyed everything within its reach, including, among other things, the coronation robes of napoleon. the archbishop's palace was next attacked, and in one short hour all its rich stores of ancient and modern literature were thrown into the seine. the palace itself was so completely ruined, that the government afterward removed every vestige of it. nothing is more terrible in this world than a mob of maddened people. and though such vandal acts as these cannot be defended, still it be hooves us to remember, that the conduct of the inhabitants of these palaces was such as to bring down on their heads the just indignation and censure of the people. slowly passing through the aisles of the cathedral, i passed again the threshold into the street. the majestic towers and turrets were bright beneath the gaze of the sun, and it seemed to me that i could stand for hours to look at them. it is not so with the madeleine. its architectural beauty is great, but it is new--it has no age. notre dame has seen centuries, and is full of historical associations, and i could have lingered about it and dreamed over them till the sunlight faded into night. * * * * * st. germain l'auxerrois. the oldest church in paris, is called the st. germain l'auxerrois. it is one of the quaintest specimens of architecture i ever saw. a church was founded on the spot, many centuries ago, by childebert. it was of a circular form, and was destroyed by the normans, in . a monastery was established here in , and the church at that time was dedicated to st. germain l'auxerrois. the ecclesiastics were formed into a college, to which were attached upwards of forty clergymen. it was for many years one of the most celebrated schools in france. in the college was united to that of notre dame, and it was considered to be the college of the royal parish. this church passed through the terrible scenes of the revolution unscathed, and it would have been perfectly preserved until now, but for a foolish attempt of the royalists to celebrate in it the death of the duke de berry. this occurred on the th of february, . a great tumult arose, and the interior of the church was entirely destroyed. it was with the greatest difficulty that the furious mob was prevented from tearing it down. on the same day, the palace of the archbishop was also completely devastated. st. germain l'auxerrois was now closed, and remained so until . it was then restored, and reopened for public worship. at one time it was one of the finest interiors in paris, the royal painters and artists vying with each other in its adornment. it is now, however, only as a third-rate church in its decoration. it is cruciform in shape, with an octagonal termination. at one corner there is a tower which was built in , and some portions of the building were erected in . the western front has a finely sculptured portico, with five low, but rich gothic arches. the three central ones are higher than the others, and crowned with a parapet the porch was built in , by jean gossel. the other parts of the church were built before the regency of the duke of bedford. the door-ways are splendidly sculptured, and the church has a rich and ancient appearance. we entered at one of the little side doors, the friend who was with me remarking, "see how the feet of centuries have worn away these solid stones." it was true. a path two feet deep had been worn into the stepping-stone at the entrance. it was a striking exhibition of the power of time. the interior of this church afforded me one of the most impressive sights i ever witnessed. it had recently been painted in the byzantine style, and the fresco paintings were as varied and beautiful as the traceries of the frost upon our autumnal woods. you can scarcely conceive the effect it had upon me, just emerged from the ever busy street. the beauty overwhelmed me. there was a large fresco painting of christ upon the cross, which particularly arrested my attention. you saw in it every feature of the man, united with the holiness and majesty of the divine. the face expressed every shade of sweetness and agony; yet it was only a fresco painting. another represents christ preaching on the mount of olives, with his disciples and the people gathered about him. i was struck with a series of frescoes which were executed to illustrate the most important precepts of christ. one is that of a warrior, sheathing his sword in the presence of his deadly enemy. it would well grace the walls of a non-resistant, but not those of a french church, which ever reverberate to the music of the drum. the church has generally illustrated that precept of christ by pictures, not by works. another of the frescoes represents two brothers embracing each other. still another, a beautiful young woman giving alms in secret to a poor old blind man. a painting to the right represents christ issuing the command, "go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature." the magdalen kneels below, in devout admiration, and still lower is the virgin surrounded by a group of pious women. on the keystone of one of the vaults, "the last supper" is sculptured in solid stone; on another, "the ordination of the shepherd." within the church there are several chapels. the first in the southern aisle contains a magnificent fresco by m. duval, representing christ crowning the virgin. not far from it there is a fine fresco by guichard, representing the descent from the cross. the windows upon this side are magnificently decorated with figures of saints and stained glass. in the center of one transept there is a marble basin for holy water, surmounted by a finely sculptured group of three children supporting a cross. the design is by the donor--the wife of alphonso de lamartine, the poet. i noticed in one compartment some admirable traceries in solid oak, and before the high altar an elaborate gilt-bronze lamp--the gift of the wife of louis phillippe; but the most brilliant portion of the ulterior is the fresco painting. as we walked slowly from chapel to chapel, and transept to transept, i could see men and women--principally the latter--with great apparent devotion kneeling before the altar, or at the confessional. it was not sunday, yet many people were constantly passing in and out. i might perhaps infer from this fact, that the french possess much religious feeling--but i cannot believe it. art and literature swallow up religion. the war-spirit soon eats out vital religion--and revolution and blood sap the morals of any people. the reader will remember that even our revolution rapidly dissipated the good morals of the nation. never was there a time in the history of new england when vice of every sort made such progress as in the time of the revolution. this is not strange, for war necessarily blunts the religious sensibilities, and opens the door of almost every vice. we left the interior of the church and stood upon its steps. the louvre in all its magnificence stood before me. i looked up at the tower of the church, and listened to the very bell which, more than three hundred years ago, gave the signal for the commencement of the massacre of st. bartholomew. while i stood there it seemed to me that i could go back to the past--to that night of horror when the protestants were gathered at the fete of st. bartholomew. when twelve had struck, in the dead of night, the bell in st. germain l'auxerrois gave out the solemn signal, and there ensued a scene of horrible atrocity, such as the world has rarely witnessed, and which will make the names of its perpetrators infamous so long as the world lives. it was in the house of the dean of st. germain l'auxerrois that the beautiful gabriel d'estrees lived for awhile and died. * * * * * sainte chapelle. the sainte chapelle is one of the finest specimens of florid gothic architecture in the world, and i went with a frenchman one day to see it. it is impossible to give the reader any adequate idea of its peculiar beauty, but i can briefly sketch it, and at least point out some of its most striking features. it was erected by st. louis in , and set apart for the reception of relics bought of the emperor of constantinople. the chapelle consists of an upper and a lower chapel--the upper communicating with the old palace of the ancient kings of france. it was formerly appropriated to the king and court. the lower chapel opens into the lower courts of the palace, and was appropriated to the use of the common people in and around the palace. the interior has of late undergone extensive repairs, and it is now thoroughly restored. the entrance is unpleasant, for it is very narrow--so much so that a good view of the front cannot be had. it has a portico of three gothic arches with intersecting buttresses, and in connection with lateral buttresses there are two spiral towers with spiral stair-cases. between the towers there is a splendid circular window, which was constructed by charles viii. the spires of the church are octagonal, and are adorned with mouldings and traceries, and also at about half-height with a crown of thorns. the different sides of the chapelle are in the same style--with buttresses between the windows, gables surmounting these, and a fine open parapet crowning all. the roof is sloping, and the height is over a hundred feet. the spire measures, from the vaulting, seventy feet. we entered by a stair-case the upper chapel, and an exquisite view presented itself. a single apartment, a half-circular chair, with fine, large windows, detached columns with bases and capitals, and fine groining--these all strike the eye of the visitor as he crosses the threshold. the whole is gorgeously painted and interspersed with _fleur de lis_. in the nave there is a carved wooden stair-case of the thirteenth century. the windows are filled with stained glass of , which has escaped destruction during two great revolutions. near the altar there is a side chapel, to which access is had from below. here louis xi. used to come, amid the choicest relics, and say his prayers. some of the relics are still preserved, and consist of a crown of thorns, a piece of the cross upon which christ was crucified, and many antique gems. the chapelle and the relics cost louis two millions eight hundred thousand francs--the relics alone costing an enormous amount. there was a richly endowed chapter in connection with the chapelle and what is a little singular, the head of it became renowned for his litigous disposition. the poet boileau, in _lutrin_, satirized this character--and was, after death, buried in the lower chapel. at the time of the great revolution, this ancient and beautiful building escaped destruction by its conversion by the government into courts of justice. the internal decorations were, however, many of them destroyed. the church, as it exists now, in a state of complete restoration, is one of the finest church interiors in paris, and the best specimen of its peculiar kind of architecture in the world. my friend was a little surprised at the enthusiasm i manifested. _he_ seemed to look as coolly upon the exquisite architectural beauty, and to contemplate the age of the building as quietly, as a farmer would survey his promising wheat-field. i reminded him that i came from a land where such things do not abound, and where one cannot gratify the desire to look upon that which is not only ancient, but around which cluster the choicest historical associations. * * * * * chapelle expiatoire. while wandering one day though the rue d'anjou st. honore, i came unexpectedly upon one of the most beautiful chapels my eyes ever beheld--the _chapelle expiatore_. it was originally a burial-ground in connection with the madeleine church, but was afterward set apart to commemorate the sad fate of the elder bourbons. when louis xvi. and his queen were executed, in , they were obscurely buried on this spot. a friend, m. descloseaux, at once cared for their remains, else they would have been lost amid other victims of the bloody revolution. it is a singular fact, that danton, herbert, and robespierre were also buried in this same place, together with the swiss guard. an early entry in the parish records of the madeleine, still shows to any one who has the curiosity to see, the plainness with which the queen was buried. it is as follows: "_paid seven francs for a coffin for the widow capet_." m. descloseaux watched carefully over the graves of the king and queen, purchased the place containing their bodies, and converted it into an orchard, with the view of shielding them from the fury of the populace. his plan was successful, and it is said that he sent every year a beautiful bouquet of flowers to the duchess d'angouleme, which were gathered from the ground beneath which her royal parents were sleeping. the restoration came, and the orchard was purchased from m. descloseaux. the bodies were transferred to st. denis, with great pomp. the earth which had surrounded the coffins was preserved, as also were all remains of the swiss guards, and buried on the spot. over it an expiatory chapel was built, with buildings adjoining, the whole forming a very beautiful structure. an inscription on the front informs the gazer of the principal facts i have enumerated. the adjoining garden is filled with cypresses. the interior of the chapel is simple, but gives a pleasant impression. it contains two statues, one of louis xvi., and the other of marie antoinette. each is supported by an angel, and on the pedestal of the king his will is inscribed in letters of gold, upon a black marble slab. on the pedestal of the queen's statue are extracts, executed in a like manner, from her last letter to mme. elizabeth. there are several niches in the chapel which contain very fine candelebra, and on a bas-relief the funeral procession to st. denis is represented. i was struck while here (as indeed i was in many other places) with the fact, that the whole past history of paris and france is written in her chapels and churches. the stranger cannot, if he would, shut out the fact from his sight. it glares in upon him from every street. the revolutions of france have imprinted themselves upon paris in ineffaceable characters. as i stood in this chapel, the sad history of marie antoinette came into my thoughts, and she stood before me as she stood before the crowd on the day of her execution. her downfall, the wretched neglect with which her poor body was treated, and the obscure burial, were all before me. only "seven francs," for the coffin of "widow capet!" what a contrast to the pomp and ceremony of her second burial, aye what a contrast to her life! i had seen enough for that day, and set out sadly on my way back to my apartments. the gayety in the streets, the bright and balmy air, could not take the hue of melancholy from my thoughts. for always to me the history of marie antoinette has been one of the most sorrowful i ever read. i have few sympathies for kings, and much less for kingly tyrants, but i could never withhold them from her, queen though she was. and i never wish to become so fierce a democrat that i can contemplate such sorrows as were hers, such a terrible downfall as she experienced, with a heartless composure. the madeleine. [illustration: eglise de la madeleine.] the madeleine looks little like a church to the stranger, but more like a magnificent grecian temple. its impression upon me was by no means a pleasant one, for the style of its architecture is not sufficiently solemn to suit my ideas of a place where god is publicly worshiped. it is, however, one of the finest specimens of modern architecture in the world, and is so widely known that i can hardly pass it over without a slight sketch of it. an edifice was erected on the spot where the madeleine stands, in , by mademoiselle d'orleans. that building was soon found to be too small for the accommodation of the people in its neighborhood, and in , the present building was commenced by the architect of the duke of orleans. the revolution put an end for a time to the work upon the church, but napoleon, after his prussian campaign, determined to dedicate the madeleine as a temple of glory, "to commemorate the achievements of the french arms, and to have on its columns engraved the names of all those who had died fighting their country's battles." the necessary funds were given and architects were set at work immediately upon it. but napoleon's plans were frustrated, and in louis xviii. restored the building to its original destination, and ordered that monuments should be erected in it to louis xvi., marie antoinette, louis xvii., and mme. elizabeth. the revolution of , however, interrupted this work, and it was not till the reign of louis phillippe, that it was completed. the entire cost of the madeleine was two millions six hundred and fifteen thousand and eight hundred dollars. it stands on a raised platform, three hundred and twenty-eight feet long and one hundred and thirty-eight broad, and has at each end an approach consisting of twenty-eight steps, the entire length of the facade. the architecture is grecian, a colonnade of fifty-two corinthian columns entirely surrounding the building, giving to it a grandeur of appearance to which few structures in europe attain. between the columns there are niches, and a row of colossal statues stand in them. they represent st. bernard, st. raphael, and a score of others. the colonnade is surmounted by a beautiful piazza, and a cornice adorned with lion's heads and palm leaves. the pediment of the southern end contains a large altorelievo by lemaire. it is one hundred and twenty-six feet long and twenty-four feet high. in the center is a figure of christ; the magdalene is beneath in a suppliant attitude; while he is pardoning her sins. on the right hand the angel of pity gazes down upon the poor woman, with a look of deep satisfaction. on the other hand is the figure of innocence, surrounded by the angels, faith, hope, and charity. in the angle of the pediment is the figure of an angel greeting the new-born spirit, and raising his hand, points to the place prepared for him in heaven. on the left of the pediment the angel of vengeance is repelling the vices. hatred is there with swollen features; unchastity, with disheveled hair and negligent dress, clings to her guilty paramour; hypocrisy, with the face of a young woman, a mask raised to her forehead, looks down upon the spectator; and avarice is represented as an old man clinging to his treasures. the pediment is filled completely by the figure of a demon, which is forcing a damned soul into the abyss of woe. this is the largest sculptured pediment in the world, and occupied more than two years in its execution. the figure of christ is eighteen feet in length, which will give the reader an idea of the size of the sculpture. the doors of the madeleine are worthy of particular notice. they are of bronze, measuring more than thirty feet by sixteen. they are divided into compartments each of which illustrates one of the ten commandments. in the first, moses commands the tables to be obeyed; in the second, the blasphemer is struck; in the third, god reposes after the creation; in the fourth, joshua punishes the theft of acham, after the taking of jericho, etc. etc. the doors were cast in france, and are only surpassed in size by the doors of st. peter's. on entering the madeleine, the magnificent organ meets the eye of the visitor. on the right, there is a chapel for marriages, with a sculptural group upon it, representing the marriage of the virgin. on the left, there is a baptismal font, with a sculptured group, representing christ and st. john at the waters of the jordan. there are twelve confessionals along the chapels, which, together with the pulpit, are carved out of oak. the walls of the church are lined with the finest marbles, and each chapel contains a statue of the patron saints. the architecture of the interior it is useless for me to attempt to sketch, it is in such a profusely ornamented style. fine paintings adorn the different chapels. one represents christ preaching, and the conversion of mary magdalene; another the crucifixion; still another, the supper at bethany, with the magdalene at the feet of her lord. over the altar there is a very fine painting by ziegler, which intends to illustrate, by the representation of persons, the events which, in the world's history, have added most to propagate the christian religion, and to exhibit its power over men. the magdalene, in a penitent attitude, stands near christ, while three angels support the cloud upon which she kneels, and a scroll, upon which is written, "_she loved much_." the savior holds in his right hand the symbol of redemption, and is surrounded by the apostles. on his left, the history of the early church is illustrated. st. augustine, the emperor constantine, and other personages, are painted. then follow the crusades, with st. bernard and peter the hermit, with a group of noblemen following, filled with holy enthusiasm. near the magdalene there is a group of men who figured in early french history--the constable montmorenci, godefroy de bouillon, and robert of normandy. the struggles of the greeks to throw off mussulman rule, are represented by a young grecian warrior, with his companions in arms. on the left of the savior, some of the early martyrs are painted--st. catherine and st. cecelia. the wandering jew's ghostly form is upon the canvas, and, to come down to a later day, joan of arc, raphael, michael angelo, and dante each occupies a place in the mammoth picture. the choir of the madeleine forms a half-circle, and is very richly ornamented. the great altar is splendidly sculptured. the principal group represents the magdalene in a rapturous posture, borne to heaven on the wings of angels. a tunic is wrapped around her body, and the long hair with which she wiped her savior's feet. this group of sculpture alone cost one hundred and fifty thousand francs. i have thus given the reader a sketch of the most gorgeous church in paris, that he may get an idea of the style of religion which obtains at present there. it is like this church. it is pretentious, imposing, in bad taste, without simplicity and a real sanctity. i was disgusted with the madeleine from the moment i knew it to be a church. at first i saw it only as a fine building--an imitation of the parthenon--and i was struck with admiration. but when i was told that it was a temple for the warship of god, i was shocked, and still more so when i entered it. the interior, as a collection of fine paintings and statues, as a specimen of gorgeous gothic architecture, is one of the best in the world; but i would as soon think of attending public worship amid the nakedness of the louvre, as in the madeleine. had napoleon's idea been carried out, and this modern parthenon been dedicated to mars, it would adorn paris, and add much to the pleasure of the stranger; but as it is now, it only serves to illustrate one of the weak points in the french character. the genuine parisian is so fond of appearance, that he cares little for the substance. the churches of paris, therefore, abound with all that can impress the eye, however repugnant to a refined taste. for i dare to hold, that the french love not the true refinement in matters of religion. having little vital piety, it is impossible for them to judge of church architecture. solemn old st. paul's in london, will always linger in my memory as a fit temple of the living god. its impressive grandeur contrasts strongly with the rich magnificence of the madeleine. the latter inspires only admiration, as the figure of a greek warrior, but st. paul's inspires awe; and that is just the difference between them. * * * * * chapel of st. ferdinand. the interior of this chapel is one of the most beautiful in paris. it was the scene of the death of the duke of orleans in . he left paris in the forenoon of the th of july, in an open carriage, with but one postillion, intending to call upon the royal family at neuilly, and proceed to the camp at st. omer. as he approached porte maillot, the horses became frightened. the driver began to lose his control of the horses. "are you master of your horses?" asked the duke. "sir, i guide them," was the reply. "i am afraid you cannot hold them," again cried the duke. "i cannot, sir," was the reply. the duke then endeavored to get out of the carriage, but his feet became entangled in his cloak, and he was thrown with great force to the ground, his head striking first. it was dreadfully fractured, and he was carried into the house of a grocer near at hand, where he expired at four o'clock the same day, entirely unconscious. the royal family were with him when he died. the house with the adjacent property was bought, and two distinguished architects were commanded to erect a commemorative chapel on the place. in july, , it was consecrated by the archbishop, in the presence of the royal family. the building is fifty feet long, twenty in height, is built in the lombard-gothic style, and resembles an ancient mausoleum. opposite the entrance there stands an altar to the virgin, on the very spot where the duke breathed his last, and over it there is a strikingly beautiful statue of the virgin and child. beyond, there is a descent from, the cross in marble. on the left, is another altar dedicated to st. ferdinand, and on the right a marble group, which represents the duke on his death-bed. an angel kneels at his head, as if imploring the divine mercy upon the sufferer. it is a fine figure, and is doubly interesting from the fact that the princess marie, sister of the duke, with her own hands wrought it, long before he was still in death. beneath this marble group there is a bas-relief, representing france leaning over, and near, the french flag drooping at her feet. there are four circular windows of stained glass, with st. raphael, hope, faith, and charity, upon them. there are fourteen pointed windows, stained with the patron saints of the royal family. behind the altar the very room is preserved in which the duke died--the sacristy of the chapel now. the oaken presses, chairs, and prayer-desk are all clothed in black, giving an air of gloom to the whole apartment. opposite the entrance there is a large painting by jacquard, representing the death of the duke. he is lying upon a couch with his head supported by physicians; his father is opposite, apparently stupefied by his deep emotions. on the left is a group, consisting of the queen and princess clementine, the dukes aumale, and montpensier, marshals soult, gerard, and the cure of mery. the picture is a touching one. there is a small apartment detached from the chapel, which was fitted up for the accommodation of the royal family--the family now exiled from the land. in another room there is a clock with a black marble case, on which france is represented as mourning for the death of the duke. the hands of the clock mark ten minutes to twelve, the exact moment when the prince fell; and in another apartment there is a clock with the pointers at ten minutes past four, the moment when he died. the interior of this chapel impressed me as the saddest i ever was in. everything in it was in perfect keeping with the sentiment of complete melancholy, though it was rather too luxurious to express deep grief. sorrow which is poignant, is not expressed in so sensuous a manner. but the chapel is unique; there is nothing else like it in the world, and that is quite a recommendation. st. vincent de paul. in my enumeration of the splendid churches of paris, it would never do to omit that of st. vincent de paul. it is in the rue lafayette, and is now a protestant church. the approaches to the building are fine, and the structure forms a parallelogram of two hundred and forty-three feet by one hundred and eighty. at the southern end, there are two large towers with corinthian pilasters. the church stands upon the brow of a hill, and presents a striking appearance from the streets lafayette or hauteville. the interior of this church is profusely decorated, and is, in fact, so richly ornamented as to detract from its beauty. over the portal, there is a stained window representing st. paul surrounded by the sisters of charity. the choir is semi-circular, and has a fine skylight. a richly sculptured arch, over sixty feet in height, gives access to it. the altar-piece is a crucifix on wood. behind it is a stained window, representing the virgin and the savior. the chapels have also beautifully stained windows. there are no oil-paintings in st. vincent de paul, but in other respects it is as faulty as the madeleine. it may be the result of early education, but i sickened of this excess of ornament. it was too forced--too unnatural. if i had never entered the church i should have received a good impression, for its exterior is everything of which the ionic order is capable, and its situation is the finest of any church in paris. i will simply allude to a few of the other churches in paris. the _notre dame de lorette_, is a very beautiful church in the street _fountain st. george_. it is built in the renaissance style, and the sculptures of the interior are of the highest order. the gorgeous decorations of the church are unsurpassed. the interior is one blaze of splendor, and the feelings inspired by a contemplation of it, are not the ones appropriate for a place of worship. the choir of the church is fitted up with stalls, a gilt balustrade separating it from the rest of the nave. the walls are adorned with rich marbles. the altar is executed in the highest style of magnificence. behind it is a piece entitled "the crowning of the virgin," wrought on a background of pure gold. the parisians boast a great deal of this church, as a gem of the renaissance style, and with reason, when it is regarded simply as a work of art, but the less they boast of it as _a church_, the better. the cost was one million eight hundred thousand francs. _st. roch_, in the _rue st. honore_, was built under the patronage of louis xiv. and anne of austria, in . the renowned financier, law, gave one hundred thousand livres toward its completion. the steps are high, and from them crowds of people during the revolution saw the executions which took place but a short distance away. a mob once filled the steps, and were cleared away by napoleon's cannon. the duke of orleans, and corneille, the poet, lie buried in it, together with other distinguished persons. st. roch is not beautiful in its architectural decorations, but is, nevertheless, the richest church in paris. _st. eustache_ is the largest church, except notre dame, in paris, and is very old. the style is a mixed gothic. the _st. paul et st. louis_, is a church built in the italian style, and is a fine edifice. all the churches of paris are open every day of the week, from early in the morning till five or six o'clock. they have bare pews or slips, and no seats. there are a plenty of chairs which may be had on sundays and festival days, for two cents each, of an old woman who attends them. this custom is a singular one to the american, accustomed as he is to well-cushioned, and even luxurious pews. the pulpits, too, are nothing but upright boxes, with a spiral stair-case leading to them--not like our broad platforms, with rich sofas and tables in front. [illustration: church of st. eustache.] chapter v. lamartine--horace vernet--girardin--hugo--janin lamartine [illustration: lamartine.] lamartine is a poet, a historian, and a statesman. he has not been successful in the last-mentioned capacity, but take his qualities together, he is, perhaps, the most distinguished of living french authors. alphonse de lamartine was born on the st of october, , at mecon. his father was captain in a regiment of cavalry. refusing to join with the terrorists in , he fled from paris into the country with his wife and two children. but he did not escape the spies of his enemies, who arrested and put him at once into a dungeon. some months after, the terrorists having lost power, he was released. resolving to provide for the future peace of his family, he purchased the chateau of milly, a spot in the open, and nearly wild country. lamartine gives us sketches of his life here. his mother was a good, pious soul, and taught him out of the old family bible lessons from the sacred scriptures. she often made visits to the poor, and alphonse accompanied her on these benevolent errands, and thus very early in life learned to be gentle and good. he left the grounds of milly at eight years of age, to enter the school of belley, under the care of the jesuits. he took the prizes with ease, and his teachers discovering that he had a talent for poetry, encouraged it. his parents took counsel as to what should be done with their son. the father wished to make a soldier of him, but the mother was opposed to this plan--she did not care to make a human butcher of her boy. he paused some time at lyons, on his return from school, and afterward he traveled over italy. he here met a young man who was an excellent singer, and became quite intimate with him, so much so, that he often slept upon his shoulder. when the two friends had arrived at rome, lamartine was called down to the breakfast-room one morning, to behold--_not_ his male companion, but a young woman of beauty, who greeted him familiarly. it was his friend who had been traveling in male costume, and who now said blushingly, "dress does not change the heart." lamartine went to naples and his purse ran low, when he chanced to meet an old classmate who had plenty of money, and together the young men enjoyed their good fortune. at naples, graziella, the daughter of a poor fisherman, fell in love with the poet. the story of this girl he tells very touchingly. when he returned home he was welcomed very warmly. the family had removed to macon. his mother grew pale and trembling, to see how long absence and agony of heart had changed her son. she told him that their fortune had been considerably affected by his travels and imprudences, and she spoke not by way of reproach, for said she, "you know that if i could change my tears into gold, i would gladly give them all into your hands." he wished to go to paris, and his father gave him, for his maintenance, the moderate sum of twelve hundred francs a year. the mother pitied her son, and going to her room, she took her last jewel and put it into his hands, saying, "go and seek glory!" he took a plenty of recommendations with him, but was resolved to accept nothing from the emperor. when a young man he had dreamed of a republic, but now, after coming to paris, he became a bonapartist. he entered the most aristocratic circles, and changed again to a legitimist. he now made a second voyage to italy, following the inclinations of his dreamy nature. during his stay there, he composed the first volume of his _meditations_, which afterward won him so much fame. he was on the borders of the gulf of naples, when he heard of the establishment of the bourbon dynasty, and he hastened home and solicited a place in the army, to the great joy of his father. during the hundred days he threw aside the sword, and would not take it again when louis xviii. regained the throne. lamartine now loved a young woman devotedly, but she died, to his excessive grief. he was severely ill from this cause, and it wrought a great change in his character. when recovered from his illness, he destroyed his profane poetry, and kept only that which bore the impress of faith and religion. he published his first volume of _meditations_ in . he sought in vain two years for a publisher, until at last a man by the name of nicoll, as a personal favor, issued the volume. it made his fortune. france welcomed the new poet as a redeemer, who had dispelled the materialism of voltaire. he became an _attache_ of the ambassador in tuscany, and there met a young english woman, who was in love with him before she saw him, from reading his _meditations_. this woman he shortly married. she brought him beauty, goodness, and a large fortune. in the second volume of _meditations_ appeared, and had the same success as the first. an uncle died at this time, leaving him a fortune, and he was now independent of the world. he lived alternately in london and in paris, occasionally accepting the post of secretary to a foreign ambassador, and finally becoming charge d'affaires at an italian court. like almost all the distinguished authors of france, lamartine fought his duel. he had written something disparaging to modern italy, and one colonel pepe, an italian, challenged him to fight a duel. he accepted the challenge and was wounded. for six months he hung between life and death. all florence condemned with severity the brutal colonel, who had taken offense at one of the poet's verses, and they came to inquire for his health every hour of the day, as if he had been a monarch. when he left florence, great was their sorrow. in the midst of his diplomatic labors he continued to write poetry, and on his return to paris in the month of may, , he published "_harmonies poetiques et reliegieuses_," and this book created for him such a reputation, and gave him so much honor, that in he was elected a member of the academy. the government about this time was resolved upon sending a minister plenipotentiary to greece, and lamartine was chosen as the man; but at the juncture the revolution broke out, and the project fell to the ground. the poet was discouraged, and went to live in the country, on an estate bequeathed to him by one of his uncles. he soon became tired of his quiet life, and took ship at marseilles, with his wife and his daughter julia, for the orient. the vessel was his own, and he sailed at pleasure. france lost for a time her brilliant son, but gained there-for a beautiful book--_le voyage en orient_. it achieved a great success, and if he would have been content with literary renown, he now could have wished for nothing more to add to his happiness. while he was absent in the east, he kept an eye upon the politics of home. his daughter julia was taken very ill at beyrout, and died. she was brought back to marseilles in her coffin. this was a terrible blow to the poet, who possessed as soft a heart as ever throbbed in the breast of woman. during his absence, the electors of dunkirk decided to offer lamartine a seat in the chamber of deputies, and he was elected. well had it been for the poet if he had rested satisfied with his literature, but he entered the field of politics to become distinguished, but to win no laurels. he was unsuccessful, at first, in the chamber. he became a radical, and that party flattered him. they were poor--he was rich and generous. he gave freely for his party, and found himself almost penniless. he gave to all who needed, so long as he had anything to give. at this time a man wrote to him--"i die of hunger." the poet sent five hundred francs, and begged pardon for not sending more, adding--" you have all my heart." at this time the _history of the girondins_ appeared, and had a remarkable success. lamartine was severely blamed by many for writing it, but none disputed the wonderful literary merit of the work. the next revolution came--and louis phillippe fled from france. the people flocked around lamartine. they had been charmed by his grand words for humanity; they were now fascinated by his commanding mien and noble countenance. they thought because he sang sweetly, wrote nobly, that he was a statesman. they mistook. the author had no talents for statesmanship, and he fell. he was too ideal--not sufficiently practical; and he could not hold the position which the populace had given him. for a short time his ambition--never an impure one--was gratified, for he saw france turn toward him as a deliverer; but he has ever since had the bitter reflection that he was unequal to the occasion, and that he had acted wisely never to have invaded the domain of politics. the history of lamartine during the revolution of is everywhere known, and we need not repeat it. he soon gave up politics forever. since that time he has attended only to literature. recently, he ventured into speculations, and lost his fortune. i had the good luck to meet him last june, in the office of the editor of _l'illustration_, in the rue richelieu. he was in good health, and i was much struck with his general appearance. he looks to be what he has always been--one of nature's noblemen. his hair is almost white, but his figure is erect and noble. he is tall and dignified, and his manners are pleasing. lamartine has struggled hard to save from the hands of his creditors his estate of saint point, where the bones of his ancestors lie. every autumn he repairs thither with madame lamartine, and spends a few months in the golden quiet of the country. his wife is the angel of his household, and has proved a treasure far above earthly riches. both husband and wife are exceedingly generous. a friend of theirs, who was very intimate with the family, was so angered at their liberality, that he one morning entered the house, demanding all the keys, and declaring that he would for a time take charge of their expenses. they willingly acceded to his demand. he locked up everything valuable, and left the house. soon a sister of charity came, and sought alms for the poor. madame lamartine tried the desk for money--it was locked. she called the valet and had it broken open, and gave the sister eight hundred francs. lamartine smiled, and kissed her for the generous act. the friend returned and found that there was not money enough left for dinner! lamartine possesses a noble heart, a conscience, and is a christian. he is a bright example, but alas! a rare one, among the authors of france. horace vernet [illustration: horace vernet.] horace vernet, the great modern painter of france, was born in the louvre on the th of june, . the kings of france were in the habit of giving to distinguished artists a domicile in the louvre, and the father of horace vernet, at the time of his birth, had apartments in the palace. he is descended from a dynasty of artists. antoine vernet, the great-grandfather of horace, lived in the time of mademoiselle de l'enclos, a very celebrated courtesan, and it is said by some that he was the author of the portrait of her which exists at this day, but it is proved that he never left argnon, where he lived as an artist. the grandfather of the subject of this sketch--claude-joseph vernet--studied in rome, and became a distinguished marine painter under the reign of louis xv., who commissioned him to paint a series of pictures. carle vernet, the father of horace vernet, was also an artist. when quite young, he fell violently in love with the daughter of an opulent furnisher. the marriage was impossible, and his friends, to wean him from his love, sent him to italy, where he studied the art of painting, and took a high prize--but he could not forget the woman he had loved. in his grief he resolved to give himself up to a monastic life, and his letters from italy apprised his friends of that fact. his father hastened to italy and brought him back to france, where he at once acquired distinction as a painter, and was elected a member of the academy of painting. he painted several grand battle-scenes under the empire, and in became the father of the horace vernet, so justly distinguished in modern times. horace was taught the art of his father, and he learned to draw at the same time that he learned to read. in the family of artists experienced many dangers, and on the th of august, while his father and horace were crossing the court of the tuileries palace, horace was shot through the hat, while a ball pierced the clothes of the father. carle vernet was about to hasten from france when new terrors detained him. his sister had married m. chalgrin, an architect, who adhered to the fortunes of the court of provence. for this, the mob had revenge upon his beautiful wife, who was thrown into the abbaye prison. carle vernet hastened to his brother artist, david, who was in favor with the revolutionists, and who could easily save his sister's life. he besought david to save his sister, but he coolly replied: "she is an aristocrat, and i will not trouble myself about her." she perished, and the reason was, that in early life she had refused the matrimonial offers of the painter. the youthful horace was reckoned very beautiful by all his friends, and especially by his father. he was a model, in fact, and as he grew up, he showed that he had inherited the artist-genius of his father, and added to it a wit peculiarly his own. his sallies were often exceedingly amusing to the people in whose company he chiefly spent his time. he entered college, and as soon as he had quitted it he was already distinguished as an artist. instead of going back to ancient times, he painted his own age. he was enthusiastic in all his efforts, and catching the spirit of the times, grew rapidly popular. he did not live in the past, but in the living present, and endeavored to glorify the men, deeds, and places of to-day. the figure of vernet was small, his face was fine-looking, his hand white, and his foot very small. he went to masked balls and arrayed himself as a woman, and was constantly importuned by suitors. on one occasion a marshal of france was so pressing in his suit, that he put himself under the care of his wife, who took the supposed lady home with her in the family carriage! from to vernet appeared at court and was quite popular. he painted portraits of the different members of the royal family. he was so celebrated for his drawings, that the editors disputed for them, and paid him the highest prices. in he was decorated with the cross of the legion of honor. at the restoration, he for a time was under a cloud. he was not idle, but such were his subjects that he was shut out of the louvre. he, however, executed many paintings, which subsequently became celebrated. disgusted with the treatment he received, he journeyed with his father into italy. the louvre continued shut against vernet's pictures, but the peers took up his cause with great unanimity and enthusiasm. a list of his best pictures was published and warmly eulogized, and as they could be seen at his studio, the crowd of artists and critics, and others, wended their way thither. the painter was recompensed. in the midst of this crowd, and the confusion necessarily consequent upon their visit, horace vernet went on quietly in his work, in their presence, and executed that series of grand paintings, which in after years brought him so wide a renown. the duke of orleans was his warm friend. he bought many pictures of him, and ordered himself painted in every style. charles x. grew jealous, and concluded it wise to withdraw his persecution of the artist. he ordered a portrait of himself, and the louvre was open to him. he now wrought a revolution in the art of painting in paris, and established a new school. it was his desire to triumph over david, and he boasted that he would do so. the public pronounced him the first painter of the age. some of his best pictures at this time were painted at rome. upon his return he found his old friend king, under the title of louis philippe. he was, of course, a favorite at court. the king gave him the use of a studio at versailles, of a magnificent description, in which he wrought at great national pictures. he was an indefatigable worker. he never hesitated to make the longest journey to study the scene of his pictures. he traveled up and down the mediterranean, visited arabia, africa, and other distant spots, lived in tents, put up with privation and suffering, that he might paint from nature. his memory was so excellent that having once looked upon a spot, nothing was afterward forgotten; every characteristic of the place was sure to reappear upon the canvas. the least detail of position or gesture, he remembered for years with ease. indeed, his faculty for daguerreotyping such things upon his mind, was wonderful. he met his friend, the marquis de pastorel, one day, who said: "how are you, horace; where have you kept yourself for these two years? i have not met you for years." "you are mistaken," replied the artist; "i met you six months since in the garden of the tuileries." "you are dreaming," said the marquis. "no," said vernet, "a lady was with you--wait a moment and i will sketch her face." he drew a few hasty lines upon a bit of paper, and lo! the marquis beheld the face of an intimate lady friend of his, and at the same instant remembered that he had escorted her across the tuileries gardens six months before. "it is well for you that you live _now_" said the marquis, "for two centuries earlier they would have burned you for a sorcerer." horace vernet has been a great student of the scriptures, and he maintains that in painting historical scenes from the bible, the costumes should be such as the arabians use at this time, and in his scripture paintings he has followed out this plan. in and he was principally on the coast of africa, engaged in painting. but he returned to his studio at versailles, and in produced several grand battle-pictures. the king desired that he should fill an entire gallery with his pictures at versailles, and vernet went at his giant work. he occupied six years, and the gallery was called _la galerie de constentine_. the king came into his studio one day, and offered to make vernet a peer. the painter declined the honor, saying "the _bourgeois_ rise--the nobles fall--leave me with the arts." he was one day painting _the siege of valenciennes_ for the king, when the latter requested that the painter would represent louis xiv. as prominent in the siege. vernet consulted history, and found that during the siege the king was three leagues away with one of his mistresses. he therefore utterly refused to lie upon canvas. the king was very angry, and several persons were sent to persuade vernet to consent, _for pay_, to make the concession. he however remained firm, and picking up his effects and selling his pictures, started for st. petersburgh, where he was received with open arms by nicholas. while at the russian court, vernet spoke freely his sentiments, and condemned the taking of poland. "bah!" said the czar, "you look from a french point of view--i from the russian. i dare say, now, you would refuse to paint me _the taking of warsaw_." "no, sire," replied the painter, sublimely; "every day we represent christ upon the cross!" louis philippe sent by his ambassador for vernet to return to paris. "you may paint the siege of valenciennes without any louis xiv. in it, if you please," he said. the painter was received warmly, and the old quarrel was forgotten. he at once commenced a picture of immense size--the taking of smala, which in eight months he finished. the repose of horace vernet is in his travels, and he is one of the greatest of modern travelers. it is said that the arabian tribes love and respect him, and that he returns gladly to their society whenever duty requires it. horace vernet has been blessed with but one child, a daughter, who married paul delaroche, a distinguished artist. this only child died in . in the later revolutions which have passed over france, vernet has not participated. he has lived only in his profession and among his personal friends. he resided for years at versailles, where he had a splendid mansion, but he removed to paris a few years since. he is one of the greatest of modern artists, and is revered as an honor to the nation. emile de girardin. [illustration: emile de girardin.] girardin has been for so many years one of the leading minds of paris, has been so distinguished as a journalist, that i have thought a slight sketch of his life and character would be acceptable to my readers. it is said that he never knew the day of his birth, but it occurred in the year . he does not appear to be as old as he in reality is, for his forehead is unwrinkled, his eye sparkles with a fascinating fire, and his hair is not gray. he carries almost always an eye-glass, which gives him the reputation--undeserved--of impertinence. his manners are those of a gentleman of the most refined cast, and, as editor of _la presse_, he has long wielded a powerful influence over a class of minds. girardin was the illegitimate child of a count of the empire; his mother, taking advantage of the absence of her husband from france, conducted herself in a shameful manner with her lovers, and before her husband had returned, she had presented one of them with the subject of this sketch. many scandalous stories have been coined by the enemies of girardin respecting his birth, but the facts we have stated are undeniable. he was placed out at nurse with a woman named choiseul, who took illegitimate children to the number of ten, from the wealthy and high-born, to care for and nurse. had it not been for the shrewdness of this old nurse, girardin would never have known his parents. for a time they came to see their child, in stolen visits, but gradually their visits died away, and were finally given up altogether. but the nurse in her walks about the streets met and recognized the familiar faces of the parents, and ascertained their condition in life. the father was at this time unmarried, but at the instigation of his master, napoleon, he wedded a young wife, and soon neglected his illegitimate child. fearing that his wife would discover his secret, and take revenge upon him, he had the boy secretly removed to the care of an old servant of his, who was furnished with the means to take care of him and teach him all he knew himself, which was but little. he was strictly enjoined to call the child _emile delamothe_. this occurred in . the father now thought that he had acquitted himself of his duty to the boy, and cared no more for him. but he was not blessed in his union--he had no legitimate children. the man into whose care emile was given, was a harsh man, and gave the youth no rest from his severe discipline. he allowed him none of the pastimes of other children, and under this regime he suffered. at fourteen he had bad health, and a bilious color overspread his face, which never left it. seeing that his health was suffering, the master sent him, under the care of his brother, into normandy. this brother was a kind old soul, and gave the boy pleasant words, and a healthy, homely fare. in the country emile enjoyed himself heartily. he wandered among the fields, played among the animals, and slept at night upon a litter of straw, and grew well again. in his ramblings he was oftenest alone, and pondered over his wretched fortunes. at eighteen he left the country for paris. his first care was to visit his old nurse, and try to discover the condition of his parents. she could only give him a clew, but there had been such great changes since he left paris, that she had no idea where his father dwelt, if he was alive. emile then went to see the old man who first had care of him--his guardian--and plied him with questions. but he was impenetrable, and would reveal nothing. more than this--he read the law respecting illegitimate children, to emile. it was a heavy blow upon his hopes. his guardian showed him proof of his birth, and a paper which gave to him, at twenty-one, the command of a small sum of money, the interest of which had heretofore supported him. in his anger he tore up the proof of his birth. perhaps naturally, he at once took up against the laws of marriage, and became a bitter reformer. he frequented a reading-room, where he met several literary men who were in the habit of speaking of their books with pride. emile was excited to try his own capabilities, and soon presented to his friends the manuscript of _emile_, a story, the principal parts of which were true records of his own life. the literary friends were at variance in their criticisms upon the manuscript. some declared it worthless, and advised him to get a style, while others praised the effort. finding no publisher, our hero learned from a court directory the secret he had struggled after so long--the address of his father--and sent to him his story, written in a manner calculated to move the paternal heart. he received no direct reply, but eight days after, he was presented with an excellent situation with the secretary of louis xviii. undoubtedly he was indebted to his father's recommendation for the place. so his story--afterward published--though it did not appear as he had intended when he wrote it, was not without its effect. his time not being wholly occupied in the bureau, girardin employed his spare moments in writing one or two novels, which appeared some time afterward. he has not been a voluminous author, _emile_ being his principal book. but his career has been that of a journalist, and though he has been everything by turns, yet he has had fame and influence. by a turn in the wheel of fortune girardin lost his place with the secretary, and went upon the exchange and solicited an humble office for the purpose of studying the chances there. as soon as he considered himself fit to decide, he ventured in buying very heavily certain stocks, and lost nearly all his little property. he was in despair and wrote to his father, who sent back an unfeeling letter. it is told of him that he presented himself before his father with a loaded pistol in either hand, and threatened to shoot him, and then himself, if he would not give him his name. this tale was undoubtedly invented by his enemies. he tried to enter the army but was rejected on account of his sickly appearance. he was go discouraged at this, that he attempted to commit suicide, and was saved from death as it were by a miracle. he resolved never again to give way to a similar rashness, and tried once more to succeed in life. he boldly took the name of girardin, and though it was against law, yet his father feared scandal too much to institute legal measures against him. he now offered his book--_emile_--to the publishers. it was eagerly caught up and sold rapidly. in the midst of his success he went to the minister and demanded employment, naming his father as reference! this bold application was successful, and he had a sinecure given him, as a kind of inspector of the fine arts. he started a weekly journal with a friend, which was made up of selections. it was called _the voleur_, and at the end of a month had a circulation of ten thousand. it was a dishonest mode of getting money, as no original writing was given. the name, _voleur_, means thief. one of the authors whose writings were often quoted from in the _voleur_, loudly remonstrated against the injustice of the procedure, and gaining no satisfaction, he fought a duel with girardin, who was wounded in the shoulder, but the wound was not dangerous. it was not his first duel--he had fought with pistols in . he withdrew from the conductorship of the _voleur_, and under the patronage of the duchess de berri, started a new journal, called _la mode_. it had a great success, but as it waxed more and more liberal, the duchess repented her patronage, and finally withdrew it. the act gave the journal three thousand new subscribers. he foresaw the revolution of , and sold out both his journals, thus taking excellent care of his property. under the new _regime_ he started a weekly paper, which acquired a circulation of one hundred and twenty thousand copies. he soon fell in love with madamoiselle delphine gay, a talented and beautiful young woman, and married her. after his marriage girardin for several years turned his attention more particularly to philanthropic projects, which should benefit the people. he advocated savings banks, and gave much of his time to their establishment. he also founded an agricultural school. his wife turned him somewhat from his political and speculative plans, to more practical ones of this kind. in he started _le musee des familles_, and to get subscribers, he placarded the walls of paris with monstrous bills, initiating a nuisance which has ever since been used by all kinds of impostors. in he was elected to the chamber of deputies, and a year later he fought his third duel. in _la presse_ was established, the journal with which his greatest fame is connected. in starting this new paper girardin intended to ruin all the other paris journals. his plan was to furnish more matter for one-half the ordinary price of a journal than the usual dailies gave to their readers. he made, as he might have expected, bitter enemies out of his contemporaries. they attacked him, and with such unfairness, and in such a personal manner, that he flew to the courts for relief, or revenge. the journalists then accused him of cowardice--of fearing to trust his reputation to public discussion. it was at this time that he had his sad and fatal quarrel with armand carrel--a brother editor. girardin shot carrel in the groin. he died the next day. girardin was wounded in the thigh. the loss of carrel was deeply felt, and his funeral was attended by multitudes of the parisians. for a time girardin was exceedingly unpopular in paris, and his enemies knew well how to make use of his unpopularity. they attacked him with redoubled severity and criticised all his questionable acts. he, however, replied to their fire with so much spirit, and with such terrible bitterness, that they were in the end if not conquered, willing to let him alone. in his journal girardin defended the throne, and was generally the friend of good morals. he is accused of signing his own name to all the most brilliant articles which appeared in his journal, whether he was in reality the author or not, for the sake of his reputation. he made enemies in all quarters, but his paper gained an immense circulation. his wife became his disciple, and rendered him great assistance in his literary labors. she has rendered her own name illustrious in france by her writings. she was entirely devoted to her husband, and not only loved the man but espoused his cause and principles. whenever her husband was attacked she resented it, and often used a bitter and witty pen in his defense. her verses upon cavaignac are yet remembered in paris. when that general arrested her husband, she flew to his house and demanded if she were living in the reign of terror. "no," replied cavaignac, "but under the reign of the sword." "attach a cord to your sword and you will be a guillotine!" replied the intrepid woman. the drawing-rooms of madame girardin were among the most celebrated of the french capital. there might be seen the most distinguished authors, political celebrities, and soldiers of the time, and she was the leading spirit among them. her husband rarely condescended to attend their _reunions_, as he had no taste for society and conversation. in the late revolutions which have swept over france, girardin continued to save himself from exile or imprisonment. the truth is, he always loved money and power too well to make a sacrifice of himself for the cause of the people, and his course has been too much that of a demagogue from the first. his great object, during the latter part of his life, seems to have been to gain the portfolio of a minister--and without success, for from the days of the revolution, his influence rapidly declined. victor hugo [illustration: victor hugo.] france has given birth to few men, in modern times, who exceed victor hugo in all that is noble and great. he is not simply a man of genius, a poet, and an orator, he is in its full sense _a man_. too many of the brilliant men of france have lacked principle, have been ready to sell themselves to the highest bidder. it has not been so with victor hugo, and for that reason he is now an exile from the shores of his native land. his passionately eloquent orations, delivered on various sad occasions since he was exiled, have awakened the interest of the world, and people who cared little for him as the successful author, feel a deep sympathy for the noble exile. victor hugo was born at besancon in , and of a rich family. his father was a general in the service of joseph bonaparte, who was then king of naples. he followed him into spain, where he distinguished himself by his valor. he returned in , and journeyed through italy. victor was then very young, but accompanied his father on his italian tour. when but fourteen years old, victor wrote a poem, to compete with many older persons for a prize, and though his poem was undoubtedly deserving of the reward, yet from his extreme youth, only honorable mention was made of his effort. this early poetical ambition, however, was an indication of his future career. when he was twenty-two years of age, charles x. gave him an audience, and victor hugo presented his majesty with some of his poetry. the king handed it to chateaubriand, who was near, and demanded his opinion. "sire," said he, "the youth has a sublime genius!" hugo was displeased with the judgment of the academy, which had not given him the prize for his first verses, and he wrote for an academy at toulouse, won several prizes, and was honored with a degree in the presence of chateaubriand. he lived during this time in paris, with his mother, who loved him to idolatry, and the affection was as warmly returned on the part of her son. she was a royalist and suggested his first poems. when she died he was overwhelmed with grief, and wrote a sad romance entitled _han d' glande_, which was severely attacked by the critics, many of whom knew his youth. but he triumphed over them all, as genuine genius is always sure to do. he now fell in love with a beautiful young girl, named mademoiselle foucher, and they married. he was twenty, and she was but fifteen years of age. they loved each other fondly, and if they were poor in gold, they were "very rich in virtues." the publisher who brought out hugo's romance, says that he visited the young family to purchase the second edition, and found them living in a pleasant little dwelling with two children to grace their fireside. here came troops of friends, for hugo had already made them among the wise and great. the politicians of the day, thiers and others, were his companions. he often took his wife and children and went out to saunter in the public gardens or on the boulevards, and wherever they went they carried happiness with them. hugo was still a royalist. it was more a sentiment than a principle with him, for he had not yet regarded politics with conscientious study. in a publisher made a collection of his poems, and issued them in one volume. it brought him wealth and renown. but though all this while hugo was very happy in his family, yet the critics were bitter in their attacks upon him. he was accused of plagiarism, and especially when a new romance of his came out, he was accused of stealing it from walter scott. the poet lost his first-born, and madame hugo took it so much to heart that he thought it wise to close their residence. besides, changes had been made in the street so as to render it less pleasant as a residence. after one or two changes he finally settled down in the place royale, where he spent many years of his life. this dwelling was furnished to suit the taste of a poet, and was beautiful in every respect. it was filled with statues, paintings, and exquisite furniture, and his study, especially, was a charming apartment. here his friends came--and they were numerous as the leaves upon a tree. young authors flocked to his rooms and received counsel, and old men came to enjoy his conversation. he next published _the last days of the condemned, and notre dame de paris_, which had a fine success, and covered his name with glory in france. he now wrote _marion delorme_ for the theater, but the censor would not allow it to be played. the king himself was appealed to, and confirmed the decision of his officer, and it appeared after his fall. this was the play which dumas stole. when this play was rejected by the censor, hugo wrote another for the theatrical manager who had engaged it, entitled _hernani_, which had a splendid success. the opposition which he met from the actors and actresses was at first great, but he conquered all obstacles. the king, as if to appease him for the conduct of his censor, gave him a pension of six thousand francs a year, but he nobly refused to take a franc of it. the success of _delorme_ was very great, and the parisian public wept over it in dense crowds. one peculiarity of hugo has been, that having once written a book or play he never recalls a sentence. not to please managers, censors, or friends even, has he ever recalled a line, though it were to save himself from severe penalties. he has always been too proud and too conscientious to stoop in this way to either the populace or the government. in the meantime his house was besieged with publishers and theatrical managers, who besought him to use his pen for them. he wrote, when once at a piece of work, with rapidity, and applied himself very closely. in writing _notre dame_, he was occupied for six months, and during that time he did not leave his house for a day, such were the urgent demands of his publisher upon him. he wrote for his publishers and for the managers and constantly increased his reputation. _lucretia borgia_ appeared on the stage and had an almost unheard of success. it eclipsed all of his plays which had preceded it. he also published two or three volumes of songs at this time, which were enthusiastically received by the french people. he was always the warm friend of the poor. in he petitioned the duke of orleans in favor of a poor family he chanced to know, and the duke gave a hundred louis to relieve them. in return the poet addressed the duke in song. the manager who had brought out _lucretia borgia_ offered him ten thousand francs for another, and very soon _marie tudor_ made its appearance. there seems to have been trouble in its representation, from quarrels between rival actors. the manager acted dishonorably toward the poet. he announced his new play in an objectionable manner. hugo complained, and he promised amendment the next day. but when the next day's announcement came hugo saw no change, and what was worse still, the manager tried to deceive him by asserting that the bills were altered according to his wish. hugo upbraided him for his falsehood, and demanded the play back. the manager would not give it up, for he had announced it. said he: "to-morrow your play will appear, and i will cause it to prove a failure." "instead of that," replied hugo, "i will make your theater bankrupt." the representation came on, and it proved eminently successful. but hugo would not forgive such deception and insolence. he wrote a new play--_angelo_--for a rival theater. in vain the old manager offered a high price for it. in a few months he and his theater were bankrupt, and he found, too late, that it was unwise to attempt to deceive and insult a man like victor hugo. it is said that m. hugo has a talent of high order for music, and also for drawing. during the cholera of , he filled an album with caricatures to amuse his wife and children, and draw their attention from the dreadful ravages of the epidemic. in victor hugo was elected a member of the academy. two years later he was raised to the dignity of peer of the realm. the duke of orleans congratulated him upon the event. a short time previous to this, barbes was condemned to death. an application for a reprieve had been made to the king without being granted. a sister of barbes came to hugo, and besought him to use his influence with the king. marie wirtemburg had just died and the count de paris was but a few weeks old. hugo addressed a few touching lines of poetry to the king, and with allusions to the dead and the newly born, besought a pardon. it was instantly granted. the history of hugo from this time forward the whole world knows. he was an honest and hearty reformer. he was not content with glory as a man of letters--he wished to be of service to his suffering fellow-men. he was to a certain extent a communist, and a thorough republican. he hated the man louis napoleon, and was exiled. belgium would not hold him, nor london--the latter was too full of smoke and fog to be endured. he said, after trying london, "the good lord will not take the sunshine, too, from us." he lives now in the island of jersey, in a simple english mansion, but very comfortable. behind it there is a beautiful garden terminated by a terrace, upon which the sea lashes its foam when the wind is high. from the window the sad exile beholds the distant shores of his native france. in his retreat he has occupied himself with literary labors. he has been writing a volume of poetry to appear in the epic form. he has also been busy upon a volume of philosophy, a drama of five acts in which mazarin is to figure as the principal character, two volumes of lyrical poetry, and a romance upon a modern subject, for which he has been offered one hundred and twenty thousand francs. madame hugo and the children partake of exile with victor hugo, together with ten grandchildren. charles hugo, his son, who is with him, is distinguished as an author, but busies himself principally on the island in taking daguerreotype views. he has already made a hundred different pictures of his illustrious father, and sent them to his admirers in france. victor hugo is a little over fifty years of age, and is full of life and animation. let us hope that by political changes, or the clemency of the tyrant who sits upon the french throne, that he may soon return to the land he loves so well. jules janin [illustration: jules janin.] "oh! what a year in which to be born!" exclaims janin of the year --the year in which napoleon, conqueror at the pyramids and marengo, placed upon his head the imperial crown--and the year which gave birth to the prince of french critics--jules janin. his parents were poor and humble, but honest and intelligent, and resided in saint etienne, near lyons. at lyons he entered school and became distinguished. at fifteen he imagined himself well versed in greek and latin, and in short, was a young egotist. his family fostered this self love. an uncle said, "let me send the prodigy to college in paris!" an aunt paid the expenses of the first year--for he entered the college of louis-le-grand. this aunt loved the boy dearly, and for a week before he left, could not see him, such was her tenderness. the whole family expected great things of him, and thought that his talents would be immediately recognized. but they were doomed to disappointment. he gained no prize in college, and no honors. his aunt had expected that after one year, such were his talents, that the college would gladly give him the rest of his education, but she was obliged to support him for two years more. he made himself unpopular with his teachers in college from fighting the jesuits. when he left college he would not return to saint etienne, where his companions would mock him. he resolved to stay in paris, even if he starved. he wrote to his kind old aunt, who at once came to paris and made a quiet home for him. but this would not do--the rent of the house was half her income. he first took a class of pupils and taught them latin, greek, and history. this was a slight addition to their income. summer came and his pupils left. he now was forced to engage with a professor of a boarding-school, at the rate of ten dollars a month, to teach. the professor was unfortunate and his furniture was attached, he, at the time, owing jules for three months' work. he was an honest and good man, and jules offered to give him the sum due, though he had not money enough left to get him a dinner. but he contrived a plan by which he cheated the law officers of a part of their goods, and got his pay. he was noted at this time more for his appetite than anything else, and would sacrifice more for a good dinner, probably, than for aught else. but in the absence of good living he took to solitary reading, and acquired a taste for literature. he one day chanced to meet a college-friend who was a journalist. "i am miserable," said janin. "become a journalist, then," the friend replied, "if you have not an income" that very night he was invited to dine with his friend, and made his resolution to live by his pen. he commenced his articles in the journals, writing at first criticisms upon theatrical performances. he at once commenced his system of flattering those who paid him well either in praise or gold, and denouncing authors and actors who were independent of him. his kind aunt now died, after having expended her last franc, and janin took up a new residence. he soon acquired such fame in his critical writings, that he was at ease. he engaged with the _figaro_ journal, and contributed powerfully to its success. he was, of course, well paid for his services. he fell in love with a young girl in humble life. an artist did the same. the two men quarreled about her, and janin wrote a book in which the woman was the heroine. but he was unsuccessful--the young woman married the painter and was happy. janin rose to the highest position as a fashionable critic in paris, and still he has never acquired beyond france the reputation of a profound critic and scholar. in october, , he was married, and instead of spending a pleasant evening, he celebrated his marriage by going to his room and writing a newspaper article, greatly to his prejudice amongst his friends. of late it has been remarked, that jules janin is less imperious in his criticisms than he was formerly. he has been very severely reviewed by dumas and roqueplan, and has behaved more wisely since. we have not sketched jules janin as a great man, but as a man who makes great pretensions, and who has long been acknowledged, in paris and france, as the prince of critics. chapter vi. places of blood--place de la concorde. almost every fine square in paris has a high-sounding name, for instance, that spot which has been the theater of so much tragedy, upon which so much human blood has been poured, is called the _place de la concorde_. it much more appropriately might be called the place of blood. so there are other, many other spots in paris, which deserve a scarlet title, and when wandering a stranger through its streets, whenever i came to one of these, i was strongly inclined to stop and indulge in reverie. the past history of france and paris arose before my mind, and i could not, if i would, away with it. the characters who acted parts in paris and perished in those places were before me, and their histories lent a powerful interest to the spot upon which they suffered and died. the reader can have no adequate idea of the feelings with which a stranger visits these places of sad memories, unless he recalls them to mind, nor will it be out place for me to do so. a prison was often pointed out to me in which the celebrated madame roland was confined, and the spot upon which she suffered death. i gazed long at the grim walls which shut out the sunlight from that noble woman--long upon the stones which drank her blood in the place de la concorde. her whole history was as vividly before me as if i were living in the terrible days of blood. her maiden name was manon philipon, and her father was an engraver. they lived in paris, where she grew up with the sweetest of dispositions, and one of the finest of intellects. her mother was a woman of refinement and culture. she was excessively fond of books and flowers, so much so that many years later she wrote, "i can forget the injustice of men and my sufferings, among books and flowers." her parents gave her good masters, and she applied herself to her studies with ardor and delight. they were never harsh in their treatment of her, but always gentle and kind. she acted nearly as she pleased, but seems not to have been spoiled by such a discipline as we might have expected. when she was only nine years old, plutarch fell into her hands, and she was intensely interested in it--more so than with all the fairy tales she had ever read. from him she drank in republicanism at that early age. she also read fenelon and tasso. she spent nearly the whole of her time in reading, though she assisted her mother somewhat in her household duties. the family belonged to the middle-classes, and despised the debaucheries of the higher and lower orders of the people. the mother was pious, and manon was placed for a year in a convent. she then spent a year with her grandparents, and returned to her father's house. her course of reading was very much enlarged, and her attention was now specially directed to philosophical works. she was thus a great deal alone, and gave little of her time to gossip and promenade. she went, however, once to versailles, and saw the routine of court, but returned with a great delight to her old books and the heroes in them. she was dissatisfied with france and frenchmen. she says: "i sighed as i thought of athens, where i could have equally admired the fine arts without being wounded by the spectacle of despotism. i transported myself in thought to greece--i was present at the olympic games, and i grew angry at finding myself french. thus struck by all of grand which is offered by the republics of antiquity, i forgot the death of socrates, the exile of aristides, the sentence of phocion." she began, at last, to repine at her situation. she felt conscious of her abilities, and that her thoughts were high and noble, and she longed for a higher position, in which she might use her talents. her father grew more and more poor and unable to care for his family, and her mother was anxious that she should be married. she did not lack offers. she was beautiful and accomplished, and many suitors presented themselves, but not one whom she could love. her mother now died, to her great sorrow. she now persuaded her father to retire from the business which he was ruining, and save the little property he had left, and she retired to a little convent. she prepared her own food, lived very simply, and saw only her own relations. it was about this time that manon became acquainted, through a school-friend, with m. roland, who was the younger son of a poor, but noble family, and whose lot in life was not an easy one. he was now considerably advanced in years, and was superintendent of the manufactories at rouen and amiens. he had written several works upon these subjects, and was somewhat celebrated. she took great pleasure in his society, and after five years of friendship, respected, and perhaps loved him. he offered himself and was finally accepted. she says: "in short, if marriage was as i thought, an austere union, an association in which the woman usually burdens herself with the happiness of two individuals, it were better that i should exert my abilities and my courage in so honorable a task, than in the solitude in which i lived." the married couple visited switzerland and england, and then settled down near lyons, with her husband's relations. she had one child--a daughter--and her life and happiness consisted in taking care of her and her husband. she thus gives a beautiful picture of her life: "seated in my chimney corner at eleven, before noon, after a peaceful night and my morning tasks--my husband at his desk, and his little girl knitting--i am conversing with the former, and overlooking the work of the latter; enjoying the happiness of being warmly sheltered in the bosom of my dear little family, and writing to a friend, while the snow is falling on so many poor wretches overwhelmed by sorrow and penury. i grieve over their fate, i repose on my own, and make no account of those family annoyances which appeared formerly to tarnish my felicity." the revolution came amid all their sweet and quiet pleasure, but found her ready for it. m. roland was elected to the national assembly, to represent lyons. the family at once repaired to paris, and the house of roland was at once the rendezvous for the talented, the men of genius, but more especially the girondists, as the more conservative of the republicans were called. the genius and beauty of madame roland soon became known, and made her house the fashionable resort of the _elite_ of paris. the arrest of the king filled her with alarm. she was not willing to push matters to such extremes. she was one of the noblest of republicans, out she was merciful and moderate in some of her views. her husband again retired to the country--to-lyons. amid the solitude of their own home she grew discontented. she could not, having tasted the sweets of life in paris, abandon it without a pang of sorrow. the following winter a new ministry was formed of the girondists, and her husband was named minister for the interior. they again returned to paris, and now in greater state. roland was one of the most honest men of the revolution, but was so precise and methodical in his papers which were prepared for the public, that without the assistance of his wife, his success would have been far less than it was. m. roland wishing to save the king, if possible, determined upon remonstrating with him upon his course. madame roland wrote the letter of remonstrance, though, of course, it appeared in his name. it was bold and severe, and accomplished no good. the result of it was, that roland was dismissed from the office, and retired to private life. soon after, however, he was recalled under the republic, and endeavored to do his duty. madame roland writes in september of this year: "we are under the knife of marat and robespierre. these men agitate the people and endeavor to turn them against the national assembly." she and her husband were heartily and zealously for the republic, but they were moderate, and entirely opposed to those brutal men who were in favor of filling paris and france with blood. madame roland writes, later: "danton leads all; robespierre is his puppet; marat holds his torch and dagger: this ferocious tribune reigns, and we are his slaves until the moment when we shall become his victims. you are aware of my enthusiasm for the revolution: well, i am ashamed of it; it is deformed by monsters and become hideous." madame roland now struggled to overthrow the jacobins--but was only overthrown herself. she was at this time celebrated for her wit and beauty. a writer of that time says of her: "i met madame roland several times in former days: her eyes, her figure, and hair, were of remarkable beauty; her delicate complexion had a freshness and color which, joined to her reserved yet ingenuous appearance, imparted a singular air of youth. wit, good sense, propriety of expression, keen reasoning, _naive_ grace, all flowed without effort from her roseate lips." during the horrible massacres of september roland acted with great heroism. while the streets of paris ran with human blood, he wrote to the mayor, demanding him to interfere in behalf of the sufferers. marat denounced him as a traitor, and from that moment his life was in danger. madame roland was charged with instigating the unpopular acts of her husband by the radicals, and she was in equal danger with her husband. after the execution of the king, roland became discouraged, and convinced that he could do no more for france, and he retired with his wife to the country. here they lived in constant danger of arrest. roland finding the danger so great, made good his escape, but she was arrested a short time after. she had retired to rest at night, when suddenly her doors were burst open and the house filled with a hundred armed men. she was instantly parted from her child and sent off to paris. one of the men who had her in charge, cried out, "do you wish the window of the carriage to be closed?" "no, gentlemen," she replied, "innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance of guilt. i fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself." she was shut up in prison at once. she asked for books--for plutarch, and thompson's seasons. on the th of june she was liberated, and then suddenly rearrested. this deception was more than cruel, it was infamous. she was placed in the prison of st. pelaige--a filthy and miserable place. the wife of the jailor pitied her and gave her a neat, upper apartment, and brought her books and flowers, and she was comparatively happy again. it was in this prison that she wrote her own memoirs. she usually kept a stout heart, but at times when thoughts of her husband and child came over her, she was overwhelmed with grief. the chief girondists now began to fall under the stroke of the guillotine, and her turn was quickly coming. the day that her friend brissot perished, she was transferred to the _conciergerie_ the prison which suggested this sketch of her to my mind. i went over this prison, and the very apartment was pointed out to me in which madame roland was confined. here she spent her last days, and wretched days they were, indeed. but she conducted herself nobly and courageously through all. the mockery of a trial was held, and she wrote her own defense, a most eloquent production. she was sentenced to death in twenty-four hours. twenty-two victims had just poured out their blood, and she was to follow their example. a french writer speaks of her at that time as "full of attractions, tall, of an elegant figure, her physiognomy animated, but sorrow and long imprisonment had left traces of melancholy on her face that tempered her natural vivacity. something more than is usually found in the eyes of woman, beamed in her large, dark eyes, full of sweetness and expression. she often spoke to me at the grate, with the freedom and courage of a great man. this republican language falling from the lips of a pretty french woman, for whom the scaffold was prepared, was a miracle of the revolution. we gathered attentively around her in a species of admiration and stupor. her conversation was serious, without being cold. she spoke with a purity, a melody, and a measure which rendered her language a soul of music of which the ear never tired. she spoke of the deputies who had just perished with respect, but without effeminate pity; reproaching them even for not having taken sufficiently strong measures. sometimes her sex had mastery, and we perceived that she had wept over the recollection of her daughter and husband." she was led out to execution on the th of november, on that place of blood--_la concorde_. she was dressed in white, and inspired the multitudes who saw her with admiration. another victim accompanied her. she exhorted him to ascend first, that his courage might not be shaken by witnessing her death. she turned to the statue of liberty, exclaiming, "oh, liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name." she was thirty-nine years of age, and though she ended her life thus young, she had achieved immortality. m. roland was at this time in safety in rouen, but when he heard of the death of his noble wife, he resolved to give himself up at once to the authorities. the interests of his child, however, tempted him to another course. should he give himself up he would certainly perish, and by the law of france his possessions would be confiscated, and would not, therefore, descend to his child. were he to die, even by his own hand, the case would be different--he would save the property for his child. five days after his wife perished upon the scaffold, he fell upon his sword on a high road near rouen. the following lines were found upon his person: "the blood that flows in torrents in my country dictates my resolve: indignation caused me to quit my retreat. as soon as i heard of the murder of my wife, i determined no longer to remain on an earth tainted by crime." i had occasion often while in paris to cross the street of the _ecole de medicine_. it is a rather pleasant street, and leads into the street of _ancienne comedie_, named so after the _theater francaise_, which was formerly located upon it. just opposite it is a _cafe_ which voltaire used to frequent, and i have stopped to take a cup of chocolate in it. but one day i hunted up number eighteen of the street of _ecole de medicine_. the house was one which marat used to occupy in the time of the great revolution. we paused a moment upon the threshold, and then passed up a flight of stairs and entered the room where marat used to write so many of his blood-thirsty articles. a little room at that time opened out of it, and in the apartment was a bath-room. he often wrote in his bath in this room. the last day marat lived, was the th of july, , and it was spent in this little room. he was the monster of the revolution, loved the sight of blood as a tiger does, and his influence over the multitude gave him power to sacrifice whoever he pleased. if he but pointed his long finger at a man or woman, it was death to the victim. no one was safe. under his devilish prompting, already some of the truest republicans in france had been beheaded, and every hour some unfortunate man or woman fell beneath his hellish ferocity. should a fiend be allowed to personate liberty longer? should a wretch whose very touch scorched and blistered, whose breath was that of the lake of fire, any longer be allowed to pollute france with his presence? these were the questions which presented themselves to the mind of a young country-girl. who would have thought that the young and beautiful charlotte corday would have taken it upon herself to answer these questions and avenge the murdered innocents? she had learned to love, to adore liberty, among the forests and hills of her native country. she saw marat perpetrating murders of the blackest die in the name of liberty. he went further still, he sacrificed her friends--the friends of liberty. she resolved that _the wretch should die_. no one could suspect the dark-haired girl. enthusiastic to madness, she flew to paris with but one thought filling her breast--that she was amid the terrors of that time, in the absence of all just law, commanded by god to finish the course of marat. everything bent to this idea. she cared nothing for her own life--nothing for her own happiness. she came to the threshold of the house many a time and was turned away--she could not gain admittance. marat's mistress was jealous of him, and charlotte corday had heard of this and feared that it would be impossible to see him alone. she therefore wrote to the monster, and with great eloquence demanded a private interview. the request was granted. on the morning of the th of july she came in person, and marat ordered that she be shown into his room. he lay in his bath, with his arms out of water, writing. he looked up at her as she entered, and asked her business. she used deception with him, declaring that some of his bitterest enemies were concealed in the neighborhood of her country home. she named, with truth, some of her dearest friends as these enemies. "they shall die within forty-eight hours," said marat. this was enough--in an instant she plunged a dagger, which she had concealed about her person, to the center of his heart. she was executed for this deed upon the _place de la concorde_. they tell the story in france, to show how modest she was, that after her head had fallen from the body a rough man pushed it one side with his foot, _and her cheeks blushed scarlet_. marat was interred with great pomp in the pantheon, but a succeeding generation did better justice to his remains, for they were afterward, by order of government, disinterred and thrown into a common sewer. i scarcely ever stopped on the _place de la concorde_ without thinking of charlotte corday, and bringing up the dreadful scene in marat's house, and her own execution. i fancied her as she appeared that day--a smile upon her face, a wild enthusiastic joy in her eyes, as if she had executed her task, and was willing, glad, to leave such a horror-stricken land. no man can doubt the purity of charlotte corday's character. she was no ordinary murderer. she did not act from the promptings of anger, or to avenge private wrongs. she felt it to be her duty to rid france of such an unnatural monster, and undoubtedly thought herself god's minister of vengeance. another spot which may justly be denominated a place of blood, is the conciergerie. it is yet as grim and awful as ever, in its appearance. the spot is still shown in the stones where the blood ran from the swords of the human butchers. if the history of this prison were written, it would make a dozen books, and some of the most heart-rending tragedies would be unfolded to the world. the great and good, and the wretchedly vile, have together lived within its walls and lost their hopes of life, or their desire for it. i could never pass it without a shudder, for though it was not so much a place of execution as a prison, yet so terrible a place was it that many a prisoner has joyfully emerged from its dark walls to the scaffold. it has witnessed the death of many a poor man and woman, stifled with its foul air, its horrid associations, and the future with which it terrified its inmates. many a noble heart has been broken in its damp and dimly-lighted cells, for it has existed for many centuries. as early as it was the scene of wholesale butchery, and on st. bartholomew's night, its bells rang out upon the shuddering air, to add their voice with the others, which filled every heart with fear. paris is one of the most singular cities in the civilized world for one thing--for the atrocities which it has witnessed. certainly, in modern times no city in the world has been the scene of such hideous acts as the city of the fine arts. deeds have been done within a century, which would put a savage to the blush. the place is still pointed out where a poor girl was burned by a slow fire. she had wounded a soldier, and as a punishment, she was stripped naked, her breasts cut off, her skin slashed by red hot sabres, while she was being burned. her yells could be heard over half paris. think, too, of later times--when louis napoleon aimed his cannon at the houses of inoffensive people, and shot down, in cold blood, some of the best inhabitants of paris. a more hellish act was never perpetrated in this world of ours than that--yet he is the patron of modern civilization, and is on excellent terms with the amiable queen victoria. i do not wonder that rousseau argued that the primitive and savage condition of man is to be preferred to french civilization. this is one phase of paris life as it is to-day, and as it always has been, and it is right that the stranger should not pass it by. paris is crowded with such places as these i have been describing--spots to which bloody histories cling. the paving-stones are, as it were, red to this day with the blood they drank in the times of the revolution. * * * * * place de la concorde. there is no public square or place in the world, which in broad magnificence surpasses the _place de la concorde_. the stranger can form little idea of it, except by personal inspection. stand in the center and look which way you will, something grand or beautiful greets the eye. look toward the south, and see the fine building which contains the senate chamber, the bridge over the seine, and the _quai de orsay_. to the north, and see the row of buildings named place de la concorde, with their grand colonnades and the pretentious madeleine. to the east, and there the green forest of the tuileries gardens, with its rich array of flowers and statuary--and the palace--greets you, and farther away the grand towers of notre dame. or look where the sun sets--the elysian fields are all before you with their music and dancing and shows; their two long promenades, and in the distance napoleon's grand triumphal arch. to look at the place de la concorde itself, you should stand upon the bridge across the seine--from its center look down upon the great open _plaza_, see the wonderful fountains, gaze up at the obelisk of luxor in the center, and you will be struck with admiration of the grand scene before you. but i confess that i was attracted to the place de la concorde more by the historical associations connected with it, than by its present magnificence. leaning upon the parapet of the bridge and looking down upon the seine, a pleasant july morning was present to my imagination, and a crowd was gathered upon the place to witness an execution. the slight form of a beautiful woman passes up yonder winding steps to the block. her hair is dark--not so dark, though, as her genius-lighted eyes -and her forehead is white and nobly pure. she kneels, bows down her head to the block, and is forever dead. it was charlotte corday, the enthusiast, who assassinated marat in his bath. i have seen the place where she killed him--have looked at the very threshold where she waited so long before she gained admittance. the house is standing yet, and the room where marat lay in his bath writing--where he looked up from his manuscript at charlotte corday and promised death to some of her dearest friends in a provincial town--where she plunged her dagger to the center of his black heart! it was on the place de la concorde that louis xvi expiated the crimes of his ancestors upon the scaffold. one still october day the sweet though proud marie antoinette came here, also, to die. the agony that she suffered during her trial, and the day that she perished upon the scaffold, no human thought can reckon. the french revolution taught a fearful lesson to kings and queens; that if they would rule safely, it must be through the hearts of their subjects, otherwise the vengeance of an insulted and oppressed people will be sure to overtake them. one april day, amid sunshine and rain, that man of dark eyes, lofty brow, and proud stature, the magnificent danton, walked up the fatal steps and knelt down to death. how strange! the man before whose nod all paris had trembled as if he had been a god--the man whose eloquence could thrill the heart of france, was now a weak creature beneath the iron arm of robespierre. he had sentenced hundreds to death upon this spot, and was now condemned himself, by his old associate, to taste the same bitter cup which he had so often held to the lips of others. this act alone will fix the stain of ferocious cruelty upon the character of robespierre, however conscientious he may have been. and here, too, on that same day, camille desmoulins, the mad author and revolutionist-editor, ended his young life. many a time with his comic--yet sometimes awfully tragic--pen, had he pointed with laughter to the place de la concorde, and its streams of human blood. and now the strange creature who one day laughed wildly in his glee and another was all tears and rage, followed danton, the man he had worshiped, to the block. robespierre was his old friend, he had written his praises upon many a page, yet now he stood aloof, and raised not a hand to save the poor editor, though he besought his aid with passionate eloquence. three months later, and the place de la concorde witnessed the closing scene of the revolution. on the th of the following july, robespierre and st. just perished together on the scaffold. he whose very name, articulated in whispers, had made households tremble as with a death-ague, had lost his power, and was a feeble, helpless being. cruel, stern, without a feeling of mercy in his heart, awful to contemplate in his steel severity, he was, after all, almost the only man of the revolution who was strictly, sternly, rigidly honest. no one can doubt his integrity. he might have been dictator if he would, and saved his life, but the principles which were a part of his very nature, would not allow him to accept such power, even from the people. his friends plead with streaming eyes; it was a case of life or death; but he said, "death, rather than belie my principles!" and he perished. as i looked down upon the very spot where stood the scaffold, and saw that all around was so peaceful, i could hardly realize that within half a century such a terrible drama had been enacted there--a drama whose closing acts illustrate the truth of that scripture which saith, "whoso taketh the sword shall perish by the sword." louis xvi. first ascends the scaffold, looking mournfully at danton, but saying never a word; and then vergniaud, the pure of heart, executed by his friend danton; then danton, thinking remorsefully of vergniaud and cursing robepierre; and last, robespierre! the place de la concorde was originally an open spot, where were collected heaps of rubbish, but in the authorities of the city of paris determined to clear it up and erect upon it a statue in honor of louis xv. the statue was destroyed by the populace in , and the place named _place de la revolution_. in it took the name it at present retains. in louis xviii. caused the statue of louis xv. to be replaced, though still later that of louis xvi. was erected here, and the former placed in the champs elysees. the obelisk of luxor is perhaps the most prominent feature of the place. it is a magnificent relic of egypt, and is one of two obelisks which stood in front of the temple of thebes. it was erected fifteen hundred and fifty years before christ, by sesostris, in the eighteenth egyptian dynasty. mehemet ali made a present of the obelisk to the french government. on account of its enormous size, great difficulty was experienced in removing it to paris. a road was constructed from the obelisk to the nile, and eight hundred men were occupied three months in removing it to the banks of the river, where was a flat-bottomed vessel built expressly for it. a part of the vessel had to be sawed off to receive it, so great was its size. it descended the nile, passed the rosetta bar, and with great care was towed to cherbourg. it must be remembered that the obelisk is a single stone, seventy-two feet high, and weighs five hundred thousand pounds. on the th of august, , it was drawn up an inclined plane to the top of the pedestal where it now stands. in the following october, the public ceremony of placing it occurred, in the presence of the royal family, and more than a hundred and fifty thousand other persons. [illustration: place de la concorde.] the cost of removal from thebes to paris was two millions francs, but not a life was lost from the beginning to the end of the transaction. it stands upon a single block of gray granite, the total height of obelisk and pedestal being about a hundred feet. there are two fountains upon the place, dedicated, one to maritime, the other to fluvial navigation. the basin of each is fifty feet in diameter, out of which rise two smaller ones, the latter inverted. six tall figures are seated around the larger basins, their feet resting on the prows of vessels, separated from each other by large dolphins which spout water into the higher basins. but the beauty of the place de la concorde is not so much the result of any one feature as the combination of the whole, and as such it is unequaled in europe. from the place de la concorde one has a fine view of the arch of triumph, which was erected by napoleon in honor of his great victories. chapter vii. the louvre--public gardens--luxembourg palace and gardens--the gobelins. the louvre. the subject is hackneyed and old--what can _i_ say about the louvre which will be new to the reader? however, to write a book on paris, and make no mention of the louvre, would be like acting the play of hamlet, with hamlet omitted. i make no pretensions to critical skill in reference to paintings or architecture, i only give the impressions of a man who loves both when they seem beautiful to him. i am no such art enthusiast that i love to wander through galleries of naked and sensual pictures, though they do show great genius. nor can the glitter and grandeur of a thousand public buildings hide from my eyes the squalor and wretchedness of the common people. i will not give a precise description of the louvre, but record the things which struck me most forcibly. the foreigner by showing his passport is admitted any day into the louvre, though certain days are specified for the public to enter, and upon others the artists of paris are busy in studying and copying the works of the masters. [illustration: the louvre.] it was one of those days, when the louvre was occupied by the artists, that i presented my american passport at one of the entrances, and was politely invited to pass in. my companion was a french artist, who had kindly offered to guide me over the renowned collection of paintings. the visit was much pleasanter to me from the fact that no crowd of visitors was present, and it was a novel sight to behold the young artists of paris engaged in their work. i have mentioned in another part of this book that no pictures of living artists are allowed a place in the louvre. the luxembourg gallery is the place for all such, and the louvre collection is therefore made up of paintings from the hands of all the old masters. it is for this reason that the parisian artists fill the rooms of the louvre so constantly--either to copy some gem in the vast collection, or by practice, to catch some of the genius of the master-hand. the first picture-room we entered is represented to be the finest for the exhibition of pictures in the world. its splendor was really very great. the pictures in it are of immense size, and they require a strong and clear light. it is called the grand saloon, and is divided by projecting arcades which are supported by fine marble columns. the length is one thousand three hundred and twenty-two feet, and the breadth forty-two feet. the ceilings and the walls are completely covered by pictures, the number of them being one thousand four hundred. those by french masters number three hundred and eighty, by the flemish and german five hundred and forty, and by the italian four hundred and eighty. the greater part of the collection was made by napoleon, and though many of the finest pictures were taken away by the allies in , yet it is still one of the largest collections in the world. to stand in this room and gaze at leisure upon some of the finest paintings in the world, was a delight i had never before felt. it is indescribable, yet it was none the less real. i could not, as my friend the artist did, point out the peculiar excellences of each, and the faults, nor compare one with another critically, but i could feel the same thrill of pleasure which he did, and i found that the picture which he declared to be the finest, was that before which i delayed longest. it certainly is no more necessary for a man to be an art-critic to love pictures, than it is to be a botanist to love flowers. i admit that one must be a critic, to a degree, to _thoroughly_ appreciate the art of painting, but that is another thing. the common people in france are universally fond of pictures, much more so than the english. the americans are next to the french in ideality, notwithstanding their great practicality. the common people of england are far behind those of america in their fondness for the beautiful--at least i judge so from a pretty fair experience. america as yet, to be sure, can show few works of art, but the vast number of enlightened americans who continually visit europe, and many for the purpose of seeing the grand and beautiful in art, tells the story. the english upper-classes are undoubtedly well-educated in art, but not the other classes. but i must not digress. the second room we visited was the _salle des bijoux_, and was entirely occupied by vases, jewels, and rare and costly cups. i was much pleased with an arabian basin of splendid workmanship. there were also articles of toilette given by the ancient republic of venice to marie de medicis, one casket alone being worth many thousands of dollars. the next apartment we entered contains copies of raphael's frescoes in the vatican at rome; but the next room interested me more, for it contains grecian statuary and antiquities. the southern part of italy and etruria, herculaneum and pompeii, are all represented in the collection. one striking feature of this hall is, that the ceilings are covered with paintings of the best artists. one represents vesuvius receiving fire from jupiter to consume herculaneum and pompeii; another, cybele protecting the two cities from the fires of vesuvius. the _hall du trone_, which we next visited, contained a great variety of beautiful pictures. one is a representation of the genius of glory supported by virtue, with a scroll on which are written the names of the heroes of france--the warriors, statesmen, and great writers. there are in this apartment many exquisite vases, and among them four of sevres porcelain, and one of berlin porcelain, a present from the king of prussia. there are, also, two very fine chinese side-boards and specimens of chinese sculpture. we next looked into the _musee egyptian_, which contains egyptian curiosities, and the ceilings are painted, but, of course, by modern authors, as they are executed not upon canvas, but upon the hard ceiling. one of the paintings represents egypt as being saved by joseph--another, and one of the finest of the ceiling decorations in the louvre, is by horace vernet. it represents julian ii. giving orders to michael angelo, raphael, and bramante to construct st. peters. the _galerie francaise_ is filled with paintings of the french school, but none of them are by living painters. many of them are unquestionably fine specimens of art, but as they were principally portraits of men more distinguished by their position than by any genius, i was not interested in the collection. very near the french gallery, there is an alcove in which henry iv. used often to sleep, and where he at last died. his portrait is now exhibited in it. in another little recess the suit of armor which henry ii. wore on the day of his death, is shown to the stranger. it was in the year . the day was very hot and the king let down his helmet for fresh air. the royal party were engaged in a tournament, when the tilting-spear of the count de montgomerie pierced the king's eye, and through it his brain, and he died. the spanish gallery contains many fine specimens of the works of the spanish masters, velasquez, murillo, and others. the standish collection is so called, because it was given to louis phillippe in , by an englishman by the name of standish. it includes many first-class paintings, and a bible once owned by cardinal ximenes, now valued at twenty-five thousand francs. before louis phillippe died, he claimed this collection as his private property. he had no intention of taking it away, but wished to test his claim to it. it was acknowledged, and he then bequeathed it to the louvre. it is impossible for me in a brief sketch to even mention _all_ the apartments in the louvre, and i must pass by many. the upper floor is devoted to a marine museum. it contains fourteen rooms, all well-filled with curiosities. among them i noticed some excellent models of brigs, ships, men-of-war, chinese junks, etc. there is in this suite of rooms a fine display of american curiosities. it first struck me that colton's collection must be before me, but i soon discovered my mistake. the louvre contains a spacious museum of antiquities beneath the painting-galleries. there is also a museum of modern sculpture on the ground-floor. it contains the finest specimens of french sculpture, as well as the master-pieces of foreign sculptors. in the first room there is one of michael angelo's best pieces--the master and his slave. it is, indeed, a master-piece. one of canova's pieces--a cupid and a psyche--thrilled me with its exceeding beauty. but i must say a few words respecting the building of the louvre. the eastern facade is one of the finest specimens of architecture that any age can boast. the colonnade is composed of twenty-eight corinthian columns. there is a gallery behind them in which you may promenade, looking out upon the streets below. the southern front of the louvre, seen from one of the bridges of the river, with its forty corinthian pilasters and sculptures, is a magnificent sight. the building of the louvre forms a perfect square, and after visiting the different galleries, the stranger will find that he has completed the circuit. the gateways are fine and richly ornamented with sculptures, and the court is a pleasant one. each side of the building measures four hundred and eight feet. in the year , phillip augustus used a castle which existed on the present site of the louvre, for a state prison. charles v. made additions to the building and placed the royal library in it. the present building was begun by francis i., in , and the southern side of the louvre as it now exists was his work. henry ii., henry iv., and louis xiii., successively added to it, and in still later time, louis xiv., louis xv., charles x., louis phillippe, and napoleon iii., have done the same. charles x. stood in one of the windows of the louvre overlooking the seine, and fired upon the poor victims of the massacre of st. bartholomew. in july, , the people made a terrible attack upon it, and it was courageously defended by the swiss guards, until everyone of them perished. the louvre is one of the noblest piles in europe, and as a painting-gallery, it reflects great credit upon france. i used to frequent it, yet i must, to be honest, confess that many of its pictures are too sensual and licentious to suit my taste. are such pictures as can be found in the french gallery, pictures which express sensuality and debauchery, productive of good? is it well to look at so much nakedness, even if it be executed with the highest art? in portions of the louvre there is altogether too much nakedness, and i humbly hope that american ladies will never get so accustomed to such sights that they can stare at them in the presence of gentlemen without a blush. i now allude to the most licentious pictures in the collection. i saw french women stop and criticise pictures which i could not look at, in their presence, at least--pictures which exhibited the human form in a state of nudity, and at the same time expressed the most shameful sensuality and portrayed the most licentious attitudes. i cannot believe a woman of perfectly pure mind can delight to look at such pictures in a public gallery. but this nakedness is all of a piece with many other things which characterize french society, and but shows the corrupt state of the morals of the french people. [illustration: jardin des tuilleries.] public gardens. the gardens of paris are almost numberless. some of them are free, and others are open only to those who pay an entrance fee. the latter class is great in numbers, from the aristocratic _jardin d' hiver_ down to la chaumiere. in the first you meet the fashionable and rich, and in the last, the students with their grisettes, and the still poorer classes. but i will not describe this class of gardens in this article. the tuileries gardens are perhaps as aristocratic as any in paris, if that term can be appropriately applied to a _free_ garden, and they are certainly among the finest in the world. they are filled with statues and fountains, trees and flowers. the western part is entirely devoted to trees, almost as thickly planted as our american forests. the care which is taken of this grove of trees surprised me, and i think would any new-world visitor. the trees grow closely to the southern wall of the gardens, yet do not protrude their branches over the line of the wall. the sight is a singular one from the banks of the seine, outside the walls of the garden, for the whole grove looks exactly as if it had been _sheared_ like a hedge. the branches have been so cared for and trimmed, that the side presented is perfectly even and a mass of green. still this, though curious, is not beautiful. trees need to grow naturally for that. art cannot surpass nature in this way. the grove is full of beauty. walks run every way over it, and the trees are so trimmed and cultivated that beautiful arches are formed over nearly all the paths. this constitutes the forest, one of the most singular in paris, and it is a novel sight to the stranger. on the north side of the groves there is a collection of orange trees, and in among them are set a large quantity of chairs, which are rented by a person in attendance for two sous an hour. so for two cents, a man can sit and rest himself in one of the most delicious spots in paris. this is a peculiar feature of all the gardens of paris. no free seats are furnished, but an old woman is sure to select some shady and enchanting spot whereon to arrange her chairs, which are for rent. indeed, there are many places on the boulevard where this practice obtains, to the great joy of numberless tired pedestrians. in front of the _tuileries palace_ there is a choice garden of flowers and plants enclosed by an iron railing. the flowers were in bloom when last i saw it, and were exceedingly beautiful. directly in front of this garden a fine fountain is always playing, and scattered in every direction is a profusion of statuary. there are some magnificent groups, but again others are disgusting in their sensuality. there are several pieces of statuary scattered among the trees of the grove. one of them, a statue of venus, is an exquisite conception, and so very pure that i wondered it should have found a place in a french garden. but not far from it there were two nude figures which were so shockingly sensual, and so clearly were intended by the sculptor to be so, that i turned away half indignant. yet while i walked in the grove more than one french lady stopped leisurely to look at them through her glass. when the weather is warm, the fashionable pedestrians flock to the trees of the tuileries gardens, and among its cool recesses sit and talk the hours away. when the weather is colder and sunshine is desirable, the grounds immediately in front of the palace are more pleasant, as there the cold winds come not. the luxembourg gardens i have spoken of with some particularity in another place. the _jardin d' hiver_ is a winter garden, and contains many roofed hot-houses. the public are admitted by the payment of one franc. there are occasional displays of flowers and plants. the _champs elysees_ form one of the most delightful promenades in paris. they contain no plants or flowers, but are so thickly planted with trees, that they may be called gardens. it was originally a promenade for marie de medici. it runs along the banks of the seine, from the place de la concorde to the triumphal arch. the length is a mile and a quarter, the breadth three hundred and seventy-three yards. all the public fetes take place on these fields. on the right is the promenade, and on the left under the trees and in open spaces are fairs, instrumental performances, shows, etc. etc. it is one of the most dazzling scenes in the night that ever eye beheld. i well remember that on my first visit to paris, i wandered out of my hotel and saw the champs elysees in the evening. the sight was almost overpowering. the whole place was a scene of splendor. the trees and grounds were one blaze of lamps. scattered over it were little theaters, concerts in the open air, every kind of show, coffee-houses, restaurants, and every kind of amusement. the concerts charge nothing. but if you enter within the ring you pay for a seat a trifle, and also for your refreshments. almost everyone who entered, (it was all in the open air,) bought a glass of something to drink, and sat down to enjoy it with the music. fiddlers and mountebanks abounded in every direction, and beggars were more numerous if possible than the spectators. but not one _solicited_ alms. it would jar too coarsely upon the parisian refinement. a beggar sings, looks piteously, plays his flageolet or harp, but never _asks_ for money! the whole scene presented to me was one of the most brilliant i ever witnessed, and it probably impressed me more from the fact that i was unprepared for it. i have often since frequented it in the evening, but never wearied of it. the _jardin des plantes_ is the most beautiful free garden in the world. it was founded in by louis xiii. buffon was its most celebrated superintendent. he devoted himself enthusiastically to its cultivation and development. it was at periods, during the revolutionary times, much neglected, but it continued to prosper through everything, unlike many of the other gardens. it consists of a botanical garden with several large hot-houses and green-houses attached; several galleries with scientific natural collections; a gallery of anatomy; a menagerie of living animals; a library of natural history; and lastly, a theater for public lectures. everything is open to the people--lectures and all--and take it altogether, it is the finest and noblest garden in the world. the _jardin des plantes_ in the summer is one of the favorite resorts of parisians, and although i frequented the spot, i never left it without a wonder that so much is thrown open free to the public. this is a remarkable feature of paris and french institutions and public buildings. if possible, that which the people wish to see they can see for nothing. painting-galleries, gardens, churches, and lectures are open to the crowd. this is in striking contrast with london. there nothing is free. the stranger pays to go over westminster abbey and st. paul's. he cannot see anything without paying half a crown for the sight. to _look_ at a virgin or butler is worth at least a shilling. [illustration: jardin des plantes.] the stranger usually enters the _jardin des plantes_ by the eastern gate. the gallery of zoology is seen at the other end of the garden, while on either hand are beautiful avenues of lime trees. beyond, on the right, is the menagerie, and on the left is a large collection of forest trees. scattered all around in the open space, are beds containing all manner of medicinal and other plants from all parts of the earth. this part of the garden is to the botanist a very interesting spot. the flowering-shrubs are surrounded by a rail fence, and the level of the ground is sunk beneath that of other parts of the garden. there is a special "botanical garden," which is much frequented by students. on another avenue there are plantations of forest shrubs, and near them a cafe to accommodate visitors. then stretching still further on, are new geological, mineralogical, and botanical galleries, all warmed in winter and summer, if necessary, by hot water, and capable of receiving the tallest tropical plants. between the conservatories there are two beautiful mounds--one a labyrinth, and the other a collection of fir-trees. the labyrinth is one of the best and most beautiful i ever saw, far surpassing the celebrated one at hampton court. the mound is of a conical shape, and is completely covered by winding and intricate paths. the whole is surmounted by a splendid cedar of lebanon. on the summit there are also seats covered with a bronze pavilion, and taking one of them the visitor can look over all the garden portions of paris, and several of the villages near paris. it is an exquisite view, and i know of no greater pleasure in the hot months than after walking over the garden to ascend the labyrinth and sit down in the cool shade of the pavilion, and watch the people wandering over the gardens, paris, and the country. the western mound is a nursery of fir-trees, every known kind being collected there. there is another inclosure entered by a door at the foot of this mound, which in warm weather contains some of the most beautiful trees of new holland, the cape of good hope, asia minor, and the coast of barbary. the amphitheater is here, also, where all the lectures are delivered. it will hold twelve hundred students but more than that number contrive to hear the lectures. in the enclosure there are twelve thousand different kinds of plants, and at the door stand two very beautiful sicilian palms more than twenty-five feet in height. the menagerie of the garden is one of the finest in the world, and is in some respects like the menagerie in london, though arranged with more taste. the cages are scattered over a large inclosure, and it seems like wandering over a forest and meeting the animals in their native wilds. after passing beneath the boughs of dark trees, it is startling to look up and see a bengal tiger within a few feet of you, though he is caged, or to walk on further still, and confront a leopard. this part of the garden is a continual source of amusement to the younger portions of the community of paris, to say nothing of the children of larger growth. the cabinet of comparative anatomy is one of the finest parts of the garden, and we owe its excellence mainly to the great exertions of cuvier. every department is scientifically arranged, and the whole form, perhaps, the best collection of anatomical specimens in the world. in the first room are skeletons of the whale tribe, and many marine animals; in the next, are skeletons of the human species from every part of the globe. a suite of eleven rooms is taken up for the anatomy of birds, fishes, and reptiles. several rooms are taken up with the exhibition of the muscles of all animals, including man. others exhibit arms and legs; others still, brains and eyes, and the different organs of the body all arranged together, distinct from the remaining parts of the frame. in one room there is a singular collection of skulls of men from all countries, of all ages, and conditions. celebrated murderers here are side by side with men of ancient renown. the gallery of zoology is three hundred and ninety feet in length, and fronts the east end of the garden. the other galleries are all equally spacious and well arranged. the library is composed of works on natural history, and it is an unrivaled collection. it contains six thousand drawings, thirty thousand volumes, and fifteen thousand plants. this fine library is free on certain days to the world. the good which results from such _free_ exhibitions as that of the _jardin des plantes_ is incalculable. the _people_ become educated, enlightened to a degree they can never attain, upon the subjects illustrated, without them. this is one reason why parisians are universally intelligent, even to the artisans. the poorer classes can scarcely help understanding botany, anatomy, zoology, and geology, with such a garden free of access. this is but a specimen of many like places in paris. lectures upon the sciences and arts are free to all who will hear, and whoever will may learn. the luxembourg palace and gardens. when france was governed by louis phillippe, the palace luxembourg was occupied by the chamber of peers, and it is now occupied by the senate. it is a fine old building, and the impression it makes upon the stranger is an agreeable one. there is nothing in its history of particular interest, though its architecture is ancient. i was better pleased with the luxembourg gardens than with the palace. they are more beautiful than the tuileries gardens and are much more democratic. trees, plants, and flowers seemed to me to abound in them to a greater extent than in any other garden in paris. on beautiful days they are full of women and children. troops of the latter, beautiful as the sky which covers them, come to this place and play the long hours of a summer afternoon away, with their mothers and nurses following them about or sitting quietly under the shade of the trees, engaged in the double employment of knitting and watching the frolicsome humors of their children. i was very fond of going to these gardens in the afternoon, just to look at the array of mothers and children, and it was as pretty a sight as can be seen in all paris. it is a sight which new york--be it spoken to her shame--does not furnish. [illustration: jardin et palais du luxembourg.] in the summer evenings a band of music plays for an hour to a vast multitude. four of the finest bands in paris take turns in playing at seven o'clock, four evenings in the week, and their music is of the highest order. perhaps fifty thousand people are gathered at once, men, women, and children, to listen to the delicious music and the gathering in itself is a sight worth seeing. the great majority promenade slowly around the band, some stand still, and a very few rent chairs and sit. nearly all the men smoke, and occasionally a woman does the same. but the flavor of the tobacco is execrable. what substitute the french use i know not, but the villainous smells which come from the cigars smoked by the majority of frenchmen indicate something very bad. cabbage leaves--so extensively used to make cigars with in england--do not give forth so vile a stench. i always noticed in the luxembourg gardens many fine looking men, and some elegantly dressed and lady-like women, but the majority of the latter were grisettes, or mistresses. many students were promenading with their little temporary wives, not in the least ashamed to make such a public display of their vices. the women present might be divided into four classes; the gay but not vicious, students' mistresses, ordinary strumpets, and the poor but virtuous, by far the majority belonging to those classes which have a poor reputation. yet the conduct of those women was in every respect proper. there were no indecent gestures, and not a loud word spoken which would have been out of place in a drawing-room. not a woman addressed one of the opposite sex. directly in front of the luxembourg palace there is a bower of orange trees and statues railed off from other portions of the garden. it presents an extremely beautiful appearance. in front of it there is a fine basin of water and a fountain. four nude marble boys support a central basin, from which the water pours. the ground directly in front of the palace is lower than it is on either side, and a row of fine orange trees extends out on either hand from the palace, and flowers of every description mingle their fragrance with that of the orange blossoms. groves of trees extend far to the right and left, and to the south, there are fine gardens devoted to the cultivation of rare plants and every variety of fruit trees. the best thing i know about the luxembourg palace is, that it has a gallery of paintings. it formerly was used to exhibit paintings by the old masters, but now nothing is allowed a place in the luxembourg gallery but pictures of living artists. as soon as the artist dies, his pictures which hang in the luxembourg, and which have been purchased by the government, are at once removed to the louvre, where only paintings of men now dead are on exhibition. the collection in the luxembourg is in many respects a very fine one, but it has the fault of all the modern french and continental pictures--there is too much sensuality exhibited upon the canvas. the school is too voluptuous--too licentious. i can put up with anything not positively indecent for the sake of art, but i cannot put up with french pictures. their nakedness is too disgusting, for it is not relieved by sentiment, unless of the basest kind. this remark of course does not apply to all the pictures i saw. some of them are very fine, especially those of delaroche and the war pictures of horace vernet. near the entrance there is a beautiful group by delaistre, representing cupid and psyche. one of the pictures in this gallery haunts me still. it is an illustration of one of dante's immortal verses--his visit to the lake of brimstone. the poet with a wreath of laurel round his brow stands in the center of a little boat, while his conductor in the stream propels the craft with one oar over the boiling and surging sea of hell. his countenance is filled with mingled astonishment and horror, yet he preserves his wits and observes very critically all that is about him. one poor wretch lifts his head from the liquid fire, and fastens his jaws upon the rim of the boat in his terrible agony, while one of the attendants of the boat with an oar endeavors to beat him back. on the other side a ghostly wretch has fastened his long teeth into a fellow-sufferer. the shades of light and darkness are so mingled that the effect is very striking. it is the most horrible picture i ever looked at, and i would much rather sleep in madame tassaud's chamber of horrors, than look at it again. in the next apartment there is a picture of christ, which struck me as the best i ever looked at. the divine sweetness of the human and the grandeur of the god were united with wonderful skill. the face was half-sorrowful, as if the heart were filled with thoughts of a sinful, suffering world, and still upon the brow the very sunshine of heaven rested. the impression which that face made upon me will never be entirely obliterated, and its effect was far different from the illustration of dante. the two pictures, it seemed to me, teach a useful lesson. it is that men are to be saved through love, and not through fear. let men see god's beauty and loveliness, and you will more surely win them from error than by showing them the horrors of hell. the origin of the luxembourg palace was as follows: about the middle of the sixteenth century, one robert de harley erected a large house in the middle of the gardens. in the house was bought and enlarged by the duke of luxembourg, and in marie de medicis bought it for ninety thousand francs, and then commenced the present palace. during the first year of the revolution it was used for a prison; then for an assembly-room for the consuls; still later as the chamber for the peers, and now the french senate meet in it. it contains a large library, but the people cannot have access to its well-stored shelves. students can, however, by making proper application, consult the library. one evening while walking in the luxembourg gardens, the band playing exquisite music, and the crowd promenading to it, i met a friend, an american, who has resided in paris for seventeen years. taking his arm we fell into the current of people, and soon met a couple of quite pretty looking ladies arm-in-arm. they were dressed exactly alike and their looks were very much of the same pattern, and as to their figures, i certainly could not tell one from the other with their faces turned away. "they are sisters," said my friend, "and you will scarcely believe me when i tell you that i saw them in this very garden ten years ago." i replied that i could hardly credit his story, for the couple still looked young, and i could hardly think that so many years ago they would have been allowed by their anxious mamma to promenade in such a place. i told my friend so, and a smile overspread his countenance. he then told me their history. ten years ago and they were both shop-girls, very pretty and very fond of the attentions of young men. as shop-girls, they occasionally found time to come and hear the music in the gardens of an evening, and cast glances at the young students. soon they were student's mistresses. their paramours were generous and wealthy young men, and they fared well. for four years they were as faithful, affectionate, and devoted to the young men as any wives in all france. they indulged in no gallantries or light conduct with other men, and among the students were reckoned as fine specimens of the class. four happy years passed away, when one morning the poor girls awoke to a sad change. the collegiate course was through, and the young collegians were going back to their fathers' mansions in the provinces. of course the grisettes could not be taken with them, and the ties of years were suddenly and rudely to be snapped asunder. at first they were frantic in their grief. when they entered upon their peculiar relations with the students, they well knew that this must be the final consummation, but then it looked a great way off. that they really loved the young men, no one can doubt. it would not be strange for a little shop-girl to even adore a talented university student, however insignificant he might be to other people. to her he is everything that is great and noble. these girls knew well that they were not wives, but mistresses, yet when the day of separation came, it was like parting husband and wife. but there was no use in struggling with fate, and they consoled themselves by transferring their affections to two more students. again after a term of years they were forsaken, until the flower of their youth was gone, and no one desired to support them as mistresses. then a downward step was taken. nothing but promiscuous prostitution was before them--except starvation. and still they could not forget their old life, and came nightly to this public promenade to see the old sights, and possibly with the hope of drawing some unsophisticated youth into their net. while my friend repeated their story, the couple frequently passed us, and i could hardly believe that persons whose deportment was so modest and correct, could be what he had designated them; but as the twilight deepened, and we were walking away, i noticed that they were no longer together, and one had the arm of a man, and was walking, like us, away from the gardens. i do not know as i could give the reader a better idea of a great class of women in paris, than by relating the brief history of these girls, and certainly i could not sketch a sadder picture. to the stranger the social system of france may seem very pleasant and gay, but it is in reality a sorrowful one. while the mistress is young, she has a kind of happiness, but when she loses her beauty, then her wretchedness begins. but i will dwell upon this whole subject more fully in another place. the gobelins. one of the interesting places which i visited in paris, is the famous tapestry and carpet manufactory in the rue mouffetard. the walk is quite a long one from the garden of plants, but the wonders of art and industry which are shown to the visitor, amply repay for the trouble and toil in getting to the manufactory. i first passed through several rooms, upon the walls of which were hung some of the finest of the tapestries which are finished. i was astonished to see the perfection to which the art is carried. some of the tapestries, were quite as beautiful as some of the paintings in the louvre. each piece was a picture of some spot, scene, or character, and the workmanship is of such an exquisite kind, that it is extremely difficult to believe that real paintings of the highest order are not before you. yet all the shades and expressions are wrought into the web, by the hands of the skillful workmen. i visited six of the work-rooms, where the men were manufacturing the tapestries. it was a wonderful sight. the workman stands immediately behind the web, and a basket containing woolen yarn, or a thread of every variety or color, is at his feet. the design, usually an exquisite picture, stands behind him in a good light. a drawing of the part of the landscape or figure first to be made is sketched by pencil upon the web, and with the picture to be copied constantly in sight, the workman or artist, as he should be called, works slowly upon his task, glad if in a day he can work into the tapestry a branch, a hand, or an eye. in some of the work-rooms, the finest tapestries were being manufactured, and in others only very fine rugs and carpets. in a man by the name of jean gobelin acquired considerable property in the region of rue mouffetard by dyeing and making carpets. his sons carried on the business in his name, and the manufactory was celebrated; hence the name, gobelins. louis xiv. erected it into a royal manufactory, and it has continued such ever since. between one and two hundred men are constantly in the employ of the government, in the manufactory, and as men of great skill and refined tastes are required, a good rate of wages is paid. the workmen seemed to be very intelligent, and were dressed, many of them, at least, like gentlemen. the tapestries, carpets, &c. &c., which are manufactured at this place, are intended for the emperor, the palaces, and for other monarchs to whom they may be presented in the name of the french emperors. they are the finest specimens of their kind in the world. there is another manufactory connected with the gobelins, for dyeing wools, and they are dyed better than in any other place, or at least none can be purchased elsewhere so fitted for the wants of the tapestry workers. there is also a school of design connected with it, and a course of lectures is delivered by able and accomplished men. the carpet manufactory is one of the best, and perhaps _the_ best, in the world. the parisian carpets are not equal to those manufactured here. it often takes five and ten years to make a carpet, and the cost is as high sometimes as thirty thousand dollars. none are ever sold. one was one made for the louvre gallery, consisting of seventy-two pieces, and being over thirteen hundred feet in length. i have never been more astonished with any exhibition of the fruits of industry and art, than with the carpets and tapestries in the rue mouffetard. some of the latter excel in beauty the best pictures in europe, and when one reflects that each tint is of wool, worked into the web by the careful fingers of the workman, that every line, every muscle, is wrought as distinctly and beautifully as upon canvas, it excites admiration and wonder. the rooms are open for four hours two days in the week, and they were crowded when i was there, and principally by foreigners. on my way back, i stopped in the garden of plants, and seated myself upon the benches beneath the shade of the trees. after resting awhile, i entered a restaurant and ordered dinner, as i could scarcely wait to return to the hotel, and in paris, where a bargain is made at so much per day for hotel charges, including meals, if one is absent at dinner the proper sum is deducted from the daily charges. i did not succeed in getting a good dinner for a fair price, which i always could do at the hotel. it was so poor that a little while after, i tried a cup of coffee and a roll upon the _champs elysees_, which were delicious enough to make up for the poor dinner. in front of me there was an orchestra, and some singers, who discoursed very good music for the benefit of all persons who patronized the restaurant. a multitude of ladies and gentlemen were ranged under the trees before them, sipping coffee, wine, or brandy. the sight was a very gay one, but not uncommon in paris. i went one day outside the walls of paris, and took dinner in a beautiful spot where the sun was almost entirely excluded by the trees and shrubs, in gardens attached to a restaurant. i had a capital dinner, too, for a small price, better than i could have had for double the money at a london hotel. chapter viii. the people--climate--public institutions--hotel des invalides. the people. the french people, so far as one may judge from paris, are very difficult to study and understand. they are easy of access, but it is difficult to account for the many and strange anomalies in their character. the intense love of gayety and the amount of elegant trifling which shows itself everywhere as a national characteristic, does not prepare one to believe that some of the greatest of mathematicians, philosophers, and scientific men are frenchmen and parisians; but such is the fact. the french are fickle, love pleasure, and one would think that these qualities would unfit men for coolness, perseverance, and prolonged research; and i am sometimes inclined to think that the proficiency of the french in philosophy, the arts, and sciences, is not so much the result of patient investigation and laborious and continued study, as a kind of intuition which amounts to genius. the french mind is quick, and does not plod slowly toward eminence; it leaps to it. certainly, in brilliancy of talents the french surpass every other nation. i will not do them the injustice to speak of them as they are at this moment--crushed under the despotism of louis napoleon--but as they have been in the last few years, and indeed for centuries. paris is a city of brilliant men and women. a french orator is one of the most eloquent speakers, one of the most impressive men, any country can furnish. the intelligence of the paris artisans would surprise many people in america. we have only to examine the journals which before the advent of the empire were almost exclusively taken by the working-classes of paris, to see the proof of this. their leaders were written in the best essay-style, and were the result of careful thought and application. such journals could never have gained a fair support from the artisans of new york. they were not mere news journals, nor filled up with love-stories. they contained articles of great worth, which required on the part of the reader a love of abstract truth and the consideration of it. such journals sold by thousands in paris before napoleon iii. throttled the newspapers. these very men were fond of pleasure and pursued it, and i have been told by residents, that often persons of a foppish exterior and fashionable conduct, are also celebrated for the extent of their learning. at home we rarely look for talent or learning among the devotees of fashion, or at least, among those who exalt fashion above all moral attributes. it seems to me that the french are more gifted by nature than the english. the english mind is more sluggish, but in all that is practical, it gains the goal of success, while the french mind often fails of it. in theory, the french have always had the most delightful of republics--in fact, a wretched despotism. so, too, they have had an idea of liberty, such as is seldom understood even in america, but real liberty has existed rarely in france. the laboring men of paris perhaps never saw the inside of a school-room, but they are educated. they know how to read, and through the newspapers, the library, the popular lecture and exhibition, they have gained what many who spend most of their earlier years in school never gain. from an experience which justifies it, i believe the soberest part of paris is its class of artisans. they may possess many wrong and foolish opinions, but they are a noble class of men. they are a majority of them republicans, and though they consent to the inevitable necessity--obedience to the monarch and endurance of a monarchy--yet they indulge in hopes of a brilliant future for france. they know very well how their rights are trampled upon, and feel keenly what a disgraceful condition paris and all france occupies at the present time, but are by no means satisfied with it. they well know that there is no real liberty in paris to-day; that no journal dares to speak the whole truth for fear of losing its existence; and that the noblest men of the republic are in exile. the trouble is, that the lower classes of the provinces are grossly ignorant, and do not desire a republic, nor care for liberty. thus, those who are intelligent and have aspirations after freedom, are borne down by the ignorant. one of the characteristics of the people of paris, for which they are known the world over, is their politeness. i noticed this in all circles and in all places. in england john bull stares at your dress if it differs from his own, and hunts you to the wall. or if anything in your speech or manners pleases him, he laughs in your face. but in paris, the frenchman never is guilty of so ill-bred an action as to laugh at anybody in his presence, however provoking the occasion. if you are lost and inquire the way, he will run half a mile to show you, and will not even hear of thanks, i remember once in liverpool asking in a barber's-shop the way to the waterloo hotel. a person present, who was so well-dressed that i supposed him a gentleman, said that he was going that way and would show me. i replied that i could find the spot, the street having been pointed out by the barber. the "gentleman" persisted in accompanying me. when we reached the hotel i thanked him, but he was not to be shaken off. he raised his hat and said, "i hope i may have the happiness of drinking wine with you!" i was angry at such meanness, and i gave him a decided negative. "but," he persisted, "you will drink ale with me?" i replied, "i never drink ale." "but," said he, "you will give _me_ a glass?" this persistence was so disgusting that i told the man i would give him in charge of the police as an impostor if he did not leave, which he did at this hint, instantly. the only time that i ever experienced anything but politeness in paris, was when in a great hurry i chanced to hit a workman with a basket upon his head. the concussion was so great that the basket was dashed to the pavement. he turned round very slowly, and with a grin upon his countenance said, "thank you, sir!" this was politeness with a little too much sarcasm. it was spoken so finely that i burst into a laugh, and the frenchman joined me in it. the shop-keepers of paris are a very polite class, and are as avaricious as they are polite. the habit which they have of asking a higher price than they expect to get is a bad one. it is a notorious fact that foreigners in paris can rarely buy an article so cheaply as a native. there are always quantities of verdant englishmen visiting paris, and the temptation to cheat them is too great to be resisted by the wide-awake shop-keepers. besides, it satisfies a grudge they all have against englishmen. i always found it an excellent way not to buy until the shop keeper had lowered his price considerably. sometimes i state my country, and the saleswoman would roguishly pretend that for that reason she reduced the price. i remember stopping once in the palais royal to gaze at some pretty chains in the window. a black-eyed little woman came to the door, and i asked the price of a ring which struck my fancy. she gave it, and i shook my head, telling her that in the country which i came from i could get such a ring for less money. she wanted to know the name of my country, and when i told her it was america, she said in a charming manner, "oh! you come from the grand republic! you shall have the ring for so many francs," naming a sum far less than she had at first asked. of course, i did not suppose she sacrificed a _sou_ for the sake of my country, but it showed how apt are the paris shop-keepers at making excuses. an englishman or american would have solemnly declared he would not take a penny less--and then very coolly give the lie to his assertion; at any rate, i have seen english and american tradesman do so. a majority of the shop-keepers of paris are women, and many of them young and pretty. i certainly have seen more beauty of face in the shops than on the boulevards of paris. young girls from the ages of fifteen to twenty-five, are usually the clerks in all the shops, which are often presided over by a grown-up woman who is mistress of the establishment, her husband being by no means the first man in the establishment, but rather a silent partner. the grisettes are often girls of industry and great good-nature, but the morals of the class are lamentably low. they are easily seduced from the path of right, and are led to form temporary alliances with men, very often the students of the latin quarter. they rarely degrade themselves for money or for such considerations, but it is for love or pleasure that they fall. they are given to adventures and intrigues, until they become the steady paramours of men, and then they are true and constant. often they are kept and regarded more like wives than mistresses. i should not do entire justice to this class if i were to convey the idea that all of them are thus debauched. many marry poor young men, but such is not usually the case; a poor young man seeks a wife with a small dowry. they have little hope of wedded life--it will never offer itself to them. their shop-life is dreary, monotonous, and sometimes exacting. if they will desert it, pleasure presents an enticing picture; a life of idleness, dancing, and a round of amusements. i was very much struck by a remark made to me by one of the purest men in france--that a frenchman is more apt to be jealous of his mistress than his wife, and that as a general rule, a mistress is more true to her lover than a wife is to her husband. this is horrible, yet to a certain extent i am convinced it is true. and it may be so, and women be no more to blame in the matter than the other sex. to-day, in the fashionable society of our great cities, how much does it injure a wealthy young man's prospects for matrimony, if it is a well-known fact that he is a libertine? and how long can such a state of things continue without dragging down the women who marry such men? if a lady cares not if her lover is a libertine, she cannot possess much of genuine virtue. the fashionable men of paris keep mistresses--so do those of all classes, the students, perhaps, according to their numbers, being worse in this respect than all others. it is not strange, such being the case, that the women are frail. one thing is specially noticeable among the ladies of paris--the care with which they are guarded before marriage, and the freedom of their conduct after. in countries where there is almost universal virtue among women, the faith in them is strong, and a freedom of intercourse between the sexes is allowed previous to marriage, which is never tolerated in such a place as paris. in new england it is not thought improper for a young gentleman and lady to enjoy a walk together in the country, and alone, but in france it would ruin the reputation of a woman. a friend of mine in london warmly invited a young friend of his in paris to come over and make his family a visit on some special occasion. the parisian wrote back that he should like nothing better than such a trip, but that business would not allow of it. "then," wrote back my friend, "let your sister come." the reply was decided: "oh, no! it would never do for the young lady to make such a trip alone, for the sake of her reputation." it would have struck this frenchman as a very singular fact, if he had known that in america a young lady will travel thousands of miles alone, without the slightest harm to her reputation. but when the french woman _marries_, the tables are turned. then she possesses a freedom such as no american lady, thank heaven, wishes to enjoy. she may have half a dozen open lovers, and society holds its tongue. her husband probably has as many mistresses. it is not considered improper in paris either for a husband and father to love his mistress, or a wife and mother to love her acknowledged lover, and that man not her husband. the intrigues which are carried on by married people in paris, would shock sober people in america, or at least, outside our largest and wickedest cities. the social state of france is exceedingly bad, and when american religious writers profess to be shocked at the theories of the french socialists, i am inclined to ask them what they think of the _actual condition_ of the french people. some of the socialists have been driven to extremes, because paris has no conception of the home and the family. the enemies of socialism in france are, in practice, worse than their enemies in theory. who is the man now ruling france? does the world not know him to have long been an open and thoroughly debauched libertine? the same is true of other distinguished friends of "law and order." the outward condition of the streets of paris often deceives the stranger as to the morality of the city. said one gentleman to me, who had spent several weeks at a fashionable paris hotel, "paris is one of the quietest, pleasantest towns in the world, and as for its morals, i can see nothing which justifies its bad reputation abroad." after a week's stay in it, such was my own opinion. things which are tolerated in london and new york streets, are not permitted in the streets of paris. a street-walker ventured to accost an englishman in paris at night, and was taken in charge by the police. but this outward fairness only indicates that in paris, even the vices are regulated by the state. bad women cannot make a display and accost men in the street, but they abound, and what is far worse, in all the circles and gradations of society. it is society which is corrupt there. one need but to look at the morals of its great men, to see this at once. what is the moral character of the first men in the empire? bad, as no frenchman will deny. some of the very men who have won in america golden opinions for their noble and eloquent advocacy of liberty, have been in their private lives devoid of all virtue. it only shows the social condition of the country. some writers deny these allegations against paris, but no man will who has lived in it, and is honest and candid. paris abounds with illegitimate children. the statistics tell the story. ten thousand illegitimate children are born every year in that city! what can be the morality of any town, while such facts exist in reference to its condition? i hate all cant, but am satisfied that the chief reason why france does not succeed better in her revolutions is, because she lacks the steadiness which a sincere devotion to religion gives to a nation. the country needs less man-worship and more god-worship. it needs less adulation of beautiful women, and more real appreciation of true womanhood. there is a great deal of art-worship in paris, but it does not seem to really elevate the condition of the people. the pictures and the statues are generally of the most sensuous kind. do these things improve the morals of a city or nation? if so, why is it that wherever naked pictures and sensual statuary abound, the people are licentious and depraved? in america such things are not tolerated by the mass of the people, and there prevails a higher style of virtue than in any other land. but in france and in italy, the beauty of the human form upon canvas or in marble, in however offensive a manner, is adored--and in those countries the people have little morality. the french _home_ is not the home of england or america. the genuine parisian lives on the street, or in the theater or ball-room. he never lives at home. hence, the mothers and daughters of england and america are not there to be found. "comparisons are odious" but i cannot express my meaning so plainly without making them, and i state but the simple truth. young men and women are not taught to seek their pleasure at the family fireside, but beyond it, and a man marries not to make a home, but to make money or a position in society. women, too, often marry simply to attain liberty of action. another characteristic of the french, and especially of parisians, is that they educate their sons to no such independence as is everywhere common in america. the young parisian is dependent upon his father--he cannot support himself; and men of thirty and forty, who are helpless, are to be seen in all classes throughout the great cities of france. whether there is just ground for expecting that france will very soon throw off the despotism which now weighs her down, i am incompetent, perhaps, to judge; but i fear not. there is a very noble class of men in paris--i know this by experience--who hate all despotism and love freedom, but i fear they will for centuries be overcome by ignorance and the love of pleasure, on the part of the people, and knavery and brute force on the part of rulers. climate--population--police, etc. the weather of paris during the summer months is warm and usually delightful, but in winter it is very cold--much colder than it is in london. but paris escapes the horrible fogs which envelop london in november and december. the weather, too, though cold, is wholesome and often conducive to health. the two months of fog in london are often termed the suicidal months, because of the number of persons who destroy their own lives in those months. the people of paris with their mercurial temperaments would never endure it for a long time, at least. fuel is exceedingly dear in paris, and the buildings are not made for in-door comfort. if they were as warmly made as the houses of new york, they would be comfortable in winter, but such not being the case, and fuel being costly, comfort in private apartments is rarely to be had by any but the rich. coal is not used to any great extent, though charcoal is burned in small quantities, but wood is the fuel principally used. it is sold in small packages, and is principally brought up from the distant provinces by the canals. the amount of wood required to make what a frenchman would call a glowing fire, would astonish an american. a half a dozen sticks, not much larger or longer than his fingers, laid crosswise in a little hearth, is sufficient for a man's chamber. a log which one of our western farmers would think nothing of consuming in a winter's evening, would bring quite a handsome sum in paris on any winter day. the truth is, the economical traveler had better not spend his winter in paris, for comfort at that time costs money. the houses admit such volumes of cold air, the windows are so loose and the doors such wretched contrivances, and that, too, in the best of french cities, that the stranger sighs for the comforts of home. nowhere in the world is so much taste displayed as in paris, in the furnishing of apartments. this is known as far as paris is, but it is always the _outside appearance_ which is attended to, and nothing more. it is like the parisian dandy who wears a fine coat, hat, and false bosom, but has no shirt. the homes of paris are got up, many of them at least, upon this principle. the rooms are elegantly furnished, and in pleasant weather are indeed very pleasant to abide in, but let a cold day come, and they are as uncomfortable as can be, and the ten thousand conveniences which a new york or london household would think it impossible to be without, are wanting. the longest day in paris is sixteen hours, the shortest eight. the cities of europe are distant from it as follows: brussels, one hundred and eighty-nine miles; berlin, five hundred and ninety-three; frankfort, three hundred and thirty-nine; lisbon, one thousand one hundred and four; rome, nine hundred and twenty-five; madrid, seven hundred and seventy-five; constantinople, one thousand five hundred and seventy-four; st. petersburgh, one thousand four hundred and five. these places are all easily reached from paris in these modern days of railways and steamers. the situation of paris is much more favorable to health than that of london. london is a low plain--paris is upon higher ground; yet london is the healthiest city. the reason is, that the latter is so thoroughly drained, and the tide of the thames sweeping through it twice a day, carries away all the impurities of the sewers. paris might surpass london in its sewerage easily, but as it is, some of its narrow streets in warm weather are fairly insupportable, from the intolerable stench arising in them. the population of paris is considerably more than a million. the number of births in a year is a little more than thirty thousand, and of these, ten thousand are illegitimate. this fact speaks volumes in reference to the morals of paris. the deaths usually fall short of the births by about four thousand. the increase of population in france is great, though it is now a very populous country. the increase in forty years is more than nine millions. the births in france in one year are about eight hundred and ninety-seven thousand, and the deaths eight hundred and sixty-five thousand. of the births, more than seventy thousand are illegitimate. this fact shows that the morals of paris, in one respect, are worse than those of the provinces. it is calculated that one-half of the inhabitants of paris are _working_ men; the rest are men who live by some trade or profession, or have property and live upon it. paris has more than eighty thousand servants, and at least seventy thousand paupers. the latter class, as a matter of course, varies with the character of the times; sometimes, a bad season enlarging the number by many thousands. there is an average population of fifteen thousand in the hospitals; five thousand in the jails; and at least, twenty thousand foundlings are constantly supported in the city. the annual number of suicides in france is nearly six thousand. yet the french are a very gay people! the police regulations of paris are very good, but not so good as those of london, though new york might learn from her many useful lessons. rogues thrive better in paris than in london. the paris policeman wears no distinctive dress, and there are streets in which if you are attacked by night, your cries will call no officer to the rescue. the police have been proved often to be in league with bad men and bad women, and these cases are occurring from day to day. i should not like to walk alone on a winter's night, after midnight, anywhere for half a mile on the southern side of the seine. some of the streets are exceedingly narrow, and are tenanted by strange people. still, one might have many curious adventures in them, and escape safely--but _la morgue_ tells a mysterious tale every day of some dark deed--a suicide or a murder, perhaps. getting lost after midnight in one of the narrow streets of paris, is not particularly pleasant, especially if every person you meet looks like a thief. the police system of paris is in one respect far more strict than that of london--in political matters. every stranger, or native, suspected in the least of tendencies to republicanism, is continually watched and dogged wherever he moves. while in paris, my whereabouts was constantly known to the police, and though i made several changes in my abode, i was followed each time, and my address taken; yet i was but an in offensive republican from america. a man must be careful to whom he talks of french despots, or despotism. for speaking against louis napoleon in an omnibus, a frenchman was sentenced to two years imprisonment, and men have been exiled for a less offense. the police are everywhere to detect conspiracy or radicalism, but are more slack in reference to the safety of people in the streets. one pleasant feature of paris is its great number of baths, public and private. the artisan who has little money to spare can go to the seine any day, and for six cents take a bath under a large net roofing. a gentleman, to be sure, would hardly like to try such a place, but the working people are not particular. it is cheap, and in the hot weather it is a great luxury to bathe, to say nothing of the necessity of the thing. to take a bath in a first-rate french hotel is quite another matter. every luxury will be afforded, and the price will be quite as high as the bath is luxurious. pleasure trips are getting to be quite common in france, in imitation of the english, on a majority of the railways. the fares for these pleasure trips are very much reduced. i noticed the walls one day covered with advertisements of a pleasure trip to havre and back for only seven francs. the second and third class carriages on the french railroads are quite comfortable, but the first are very luxurious. trains run from paris to all parts of the country, at almost all hours of the day and night. public institutions. there is no city in the world so blessed with educational institutions of the first class as paris, and no government fosters the arts and sciences to such an extent as the french government, whether under the administration of king, president, or emperor. the government constantly rewards discoveries, holds out prizes to students and men of genius. the educational colleges are without number, and the lectures are free. there is one compliment which the stranger is forced to pay the french government--it encourages a republicanism among men of genius in learning, the arts and sciences, if it does put its heel upon the slightest tendency toward political republicanism. and not paris, or france alone, reaps the advantage of this liberality--the whole civilized world does the same. go into the university region, and you will always see great numbers of foreigners who have come to take advantage of the public institutions of paris. the english go there to study certain branches of medicine, which are more skillfully treated in the french medical schools than anywhere else in the world. many young americans are in paris, at the present time, studying physic or law. the difference between the cost of education in england and france is great. three hundred dollars a year would carry a french student in good style through the best french universities. to go through an english college five times that sum would be necessary. [illustration: palais de l'institut.] the _institut de france_ lies upon the southern branch of the seine, just opposite the louvre, which is north of the river. the _institute_ is divided into five academies, and the funds which support the institution are managed by a committee of ten members, two from an academy, and the minister of public instruction, who presides over the committee. the academies are--first the _academie francaise_; second, the _academie royale des inscriptions et belle-lettres_; third, the _academie royale des sciences_; fourth, the _academie royale des beaux arts_; and fifth, the _academie royale des sciences morales et politiques_. members of one academy are eligible to the other four, and each receives a salary of three hundred dollars. the institute has a library common to the five academies, the whole number of members amounting to two hundred and seventeen. if a member does not attend the proceedings and discussions, and cannot give a good reason for his absence, he is liable to expulsion. the _academie francaise_ consists of forty members, who are devoted to the composition of the dictionary and the purification of the french language. an annual prize is awarded of two thousand francs for poetry, a prize of ten thousand francs for the best work of french history and fifteen hundred francs is given every other year to some deserving but poor student, for his attainments. the belle-lettres academy is composed of forty members, and ten free academicians--the latter receive no salary. it has many foreign associates or honorary members. its members pursue the study of the learned languages, antiquities, etc. etc. a yearly prize of ten thousand francs is awarded by it for memoirs, and another for medals. the academy of sciences has sixty-five members, beside ten free academicians. it is divided into eleven sections, as follows: six members are devoted to geometry, six to mechanics, six to astronomy, six to geography and navigation, three to general philosophy, six to chemistry, six to minerology, six to botany, six to rural economy and the veterinary art, six to anatomy and geology, six to medicine and surgery. prizes are awarded by this academy, yearly, for physical sciences, statistics, physiology, mechanics, improvements in surgery and medicine; for improvements in the art of treating patients, for rendering any art or trade less insalubrious, for discoveries, for mathematical studies, and also a prize to the best scholar in the polytechnic school. the academy of fine arts has forty members, who are divided into five sections--painting, sculpture, architecture, engraving, and musical composition. it awards prizes to the best students in the arts, and sends to the french academy at rome, free of all expense, the successful students, who are educated at the expense of the state. the academy of _sciences morales et politiques_ has thirty members, divided into the following sections: philosophy, moral philosophy, legislation, jurisprudence, political economy, history, and the philosophy of history. the building of the institute is surmounted by a splendid dome, and it presents a striking appearance to the stranger. it immediately fronts the foot-bridge which crosses the seine to the louvre. the university of france it is supposed was founded by charlemagne. it is a magnificent and truly liberal institution, and is under the authority of the minister of public instruction. it has five departments, an immense library and funds for aged or infirm teachers. the academy of paris consists of five faculties--science letters, theology, law, and medicine. in the department of sciences, which includes that of mathematical astronomy, leverrier occupies a professor's chair--the man who demonstrated the existence of another planet by mathematical calculations, and pointed out the place where it must be found. the faculty of law has seventeen professors. four years of study are necessary to gain the highest honors, or the title of _docteur en droit_. the faculty of medicine has twenty-six professorships, with salaries varying from two thousand to ten thousand francs a year. every student before taking his degree must serve the government one year, at least, in a hospital. this is an admirable regulation. the lectures are all gratuitous, and what is better still, they are open to the people and the world. any foreigner can attend the course of lectures of the most celebrated men in france, and indeed in the world, for nothing. the law students number about three thousand; those studying medicine about three thousand; and those studying the sciences about fifteen hundred. foreign students are admitted upon the same terms as french, and a diploma given by an american college, if it be of high repute, will put the student upon the same footing as a french _bachelier et lettres_ when the object is to study law or medicine. the college royal has twenty-eight professors, who give gratuitous lectures on astronomy, mathematics, philosophy, medicine, chemistry, natural history, law, ethics, etc. etc. there is a college of natural history, connected with the _jardin des plantes_, with fifteen professors. the _ecole normale_ is an institution for the education of students who intend to become candidates for professorships. there are in paris besides these, five royal colleges where a student is boarded as well as educated. the charge for board is two hundred dollars a year; the additional charges, educational and otherwise, are only twenty dollars, which the published terms state, "_does not include music or dancing!_" among the literary and scientific societies is the _institut historique_, where public and gratuitous lectures are given. a journal is published, and all that members pay for it, and the advantages of the institution, is about four dollars a year. there is a flourishing agricultural society, a society for the encouragement of national industry, one for the improvement of national horticulture, one for the civilization and colonization of africa, one for the promotion of commercial knowledge, etc. etc. besides the many colleges to which i have barely alluded, and the societies, there are twenty or thirty literary and scientific societies of note in paris. it will not be necessary to be more particular to convince the reader that no other city in the world has the educational advantages of paris. what a privilege it must be to a poor parisian to live near such schools and colleges, we can at once perceive. if a young man has talents or genius, his poverty need be no bar to his advancement. he is taken up at once. he is not the charity student of america, for the very fact that without money and friends he has by sheer force of native genius made his way into the places given only to students poor and talented, adds to his fame, and he is quite as well if not better liked for it. what an advantage the many kinds of lectures, which are given to all who please to attend gratuitously, must be to all inquiring minds in paris, we can feel at once. the artisan if he can spare an hour can listen to one of the most brilliant lectures upon history, either of the sciences, or medicine, side by side with the young aristocrat. nothing higher in character is to be had in paris or out of it than that which he listens to without cost. the effect of this vast system of public instruction is very great, and the influence of the colleges and learned societies upon society is wonderful. there is no spirit of exclusiveness, such as characterizes the english and some of the american colleges, and the people are not prejudiced against them. this system of instruction is almost perfect, _of its kind_ but france lacks one thing which america has--a system of common schools, which shall educate _the children_. far better have this system and lack the one she has now, but if she only had our common school system together with her colleges and academies, she would surpass, by far, any other nation. america very much needs such a system. it is free, broad, and liberal, and with ordinary care will make any country glorious in the sciences and arts. certainly until america cares less for mere cash and more for the arts and sciences, until she is generous enough to foster them and appropriate money to help young men of genius, and offer prizes to men of talent, the fine arts will not prosper with us. only the arts which in a pecuniary sense _pay_, will thrive, and the rest will live a starveling life. can we rest content with such a prospect? no country is better able to be generous in such matters than america. while in paris i made the acquaintance of several students of law and medicine from america, and from them i learned that the professors in all the different institutions are exceedingly polite and kind to foreign students, and especially to americans. foreign diplomas are granted by the different colleges, and no difference is made between a native and a foreign scholar. the students of paris are an intellectual class, and as a body are inclined at all times to be democratic. in england and in america learning seems always to incline to conservatism. the great schools and colleges are opposed to radicalism. this is generally true in america, in the old institutions of learning, and it is emphatically true of england. cambridge and oxford are the strong-holds of the blindest toryism. they are two hundred years behind the age. but in paris this is not the case. the colleges are reformatory and radical. the academies have the same disposition, only it is modified. many of the members of the french academy are sincere republicans. i cannot account for this singular fact, unless it be that the french mind is so active and so brilliant that it easily arrives at the truth. a frenchman, if he considers the matter of government and politics, very soon arrives at his conclusion--that man has rights, and that a form of government which comes least in collision with them is the best. it is entirely a matter of theory with him. everything tends to theory. the practical is ignored. hence, while paris abounds with theoretical democrats and republicans, there are few men in it capable of administering the affairs of a democratic republic. [illustration: hotel des invalides] the hotel des invalides is visited by a vast crowd of people, parisians, provincials, and foreigners, for it is the final resting place of napoleon the great. it is an imposing structure, and aside from the interest felt in it as the receptacle of the remains of napoleon, it is well worth a visit. it is situated on the south side of the seine, not far from the chamber of deputies, its front facing the south. it presents a magnificent appearance from the street, perhaps the finest of any like building in europe. it has long been a celebrated military hospital for the reception of disabled and superannuated soldiers. under louis xiv. the present hospital was instituted, and building after building was added, together with a fine church, until the vast pile covers sixteen acres of ground, and encloses fifteen courts. at the time of the revolution, the hospital was called the temple of humanity, under napoleon the temple of mars, and now the hotel des invalides. it is under the control of the minister of war, has a governor and a multiplicity of inferior officers. it is divided into fourteen sections, over each of which an officer is appointed. all soldiers who are disabled, or who have served thirty years in the army, are entitled to the privileges of the institution, and are boarded, clothed, and lodged. for breakfast they have soup, beef, and vegetables, for dinner, meat, vegetables, and cheese. they have but two meals a day. they also receive pay at the rate of two francs a day, and the officers higher in proportion to their rank. before the northern face of the building there is a large open space, in which many trophies of war are placed, and there are beds of flowers interspersed among them. on the southern front there is a fine statue of napoleon. the library of the hospital contains fourteen thousand volumes, and is of course open to all the inmates. the church is a very important part of the great pile of buildings, and is filled with statues of great military men, trophies of different campaigns, etc. etc. the dome of this church is one of the finest in paris, and is decorated in the interior in a gorgeous style. beneath the dome lies the tomb of napoleon, the great attraction of the place. it is, for a wonder, simple and massive in its style, and upon it are laid napoleon's hat, sword, imperial crown, etc. etc. to this tomb thousands of admirers have come and will come to the latest generations, for whatever were the faults of the great military hero, he had the faculty of making passionate admirers. the old soldiers in the institution seem to regard the tomb as an object of adoration, and guard it as carefully as they would the living body of the hero. across the seine from the hotel des invalides, on the avenue des champs elysees, is the fashionable jardin d'hiver, a roofed garden of hot-houses, and which is open in winter as a flower-garden. the admittance is not free, but costs a franc. it often contains very fine collections of the costliest and rarest of plants and flowers. the french exquisites in the cold and chilly weather are fond of frequenting its exhibitions, and to the stranger who would like to see the higher classes of paris, in a public garden, it is an interesting place. [illustration: jardin d'hiver.] chapter ix. guizot--dumas--sue--thiers--sand. [illustration: m. guizot.] m. guizot pierre francois guillaume guizot, was born at nismes in . at the age of seven years he saw his own father guillotined during the reign of terror, and without doubt this fact made a deep impression upon his heart, and led him ever after instinctively to dislike the people and a popular government. his mother took refuge in switzerland. she was a strong calvinist, and from her the son imbibed his rigid calvinistic sentiments. he had no youth, properly speaking, for he was apparently devoid of youthful feeling and passions. he was educated in the strict and formal school of geneva, and his education, together with his nature, made him a stoic, a man with no sympathies for the people, lacking heart, possessing a great intellect, and rigidly honest. at the age of nineteen he left geneva for paris, to study law, and his poverty was such that he was obliged to seek employment. m. stopper, an old minister of the helvetic confederation, took him as a tutor for his children. his pride rebelled against his situation, for the children of the minister were spoiled, and whenever he went into the street they made him stop before every confectioner's shop to satisfy their depraved appetites. this he refused to do, and the children made loud complaints, the result of which was, that guizot left his place, declaring that it was not his mission to buy candies for the minister's children! in endeavoring to teach these children the grammar of their language, m. guizot made a _dictionary of synonymes_, which he sold to a bookseller for a reasonable price. this was his first attempt at authorship. he made the acquaintance of m. luard, who was the chief censor of new books, before whom his little dictionary came. m. luard discovering in the young guizot great talents and capacity, prevailed upon him to give up writing of synonymes, and devote himself to more honorable and lucrative labors. recommended by his friend, he wrote for nearly all the public journals in turn, giving them specimens of his cold, unimpassioned style, which was never after changed. he wrote _himself_ upon his paper, and like himself was his style--cold and dignified. but his style had admirers, though not many readers. he was accorded genius and an exalted intellect, but he was not loved. his first books were the _annals of education_, _lives of the french poets of the age of louis xiv._, and a translation of _gibbon's fall of the roman empire_. these volumes were noticed in a flattering manner by all scholars and critics, and the young author very soon occupied a high position in paris. after this he did not seem to succeed, and he wrote a couple of pamphlets upon the condition of french literature and fine arts. he failed as a critic, and was appointed to the chair of modern history in the university. his political fortunes now commenced. his manners, his dress, which was severe in style, and his pale face, all combined to make him for the time a lion, and he drew crowds to his lectures. this was in . m. guizot was one of the first to foresee and prepare for the restoration. m. guizot met in society a mademoiselle meulan, a literary woman of note, and fancied her. she was utterly poor, and during a severe fit of illness he wrote articles which she signed, and thus earned enough for her support. when she had recovered, she gave him her heart and hand in marriage, though she had not a _sou_ of dowry. she was older than he, but was a woman of many virtues. madame guizot was an intimate friend of the abbe montesquieu, who was the principal secret agent of louis xviii. as soon as guizot was married, he was let into these secrets, and became private secretary to the abbe. he was in the habit of meeting the friends of the restoration every evening at a club, and he did not hesitate to take a bold part in its proceedings. royer-collard said to him after one of these meetings, "guizot, you will rise high." guizot demanded an explanation he replied, "you have ambition; you have much head but no heart; you will rise high. when the restoration comes the abbe will be minister, and he will make you secretary-general." such was the fact eighteen months after. the calvinistic religion of guizot was no bar to his promotion, so long as his conscience permitted him to serve with unquestioned zeal his master, and he was never troubled on that score. the return of napoleon from elba was a sudden blow to the fortunes of guizot, and he became the friend of the new minister, who kept him provisionally in office. he was suddenly dismissed, however, because, he declares, he would not sign an additional act to the constitution, but the minister denied this. he returned to ghent, where in the _moniteur_ he published bitter articles against napoleon and his government. the columns were filled with criticisms of this nature. he endeavored afterward to disown some of these articles, but the authorship clung to him. napoleon was vanquished, but guizot continued to write books. some of them were as follows: _"some ideas upon the liberty of the press;" "of the representative government;" "essay upon the state of public instruction."_ he was a _busy_ man--he was never idle. this is in his favor, and undoubtedly he honestly sought the good of the nation, though mixed with this desire there was a strong love of fame, and great ambition. he wrote a book upon the elections, and the king created a new department for him--that of director-general of the communes and departments. he made use of his position to extend his influence. he became chief of the doctrinaire school, which included many eminent men of that time, and acquired great political power. it occupied a kind of middle ground between the _ancien regime_ and pure liberalism. there came a reaction, and guizot again took to his pen, leaving office and emolument. the king did not like his writings, and even his office of professor of history in the university was taken from him. he was a man who was not dejected through misfortune, and grew stronger as he was persecuted. his wife was taken very ill, and finally died. the catholic priests endeavored to gain access to her bed-side, but were not permitted. she died a convert to protestantism. guizot was to her a good husband, but she always felt keenly the fact that she was older than her husband. he married a young and beautiful english woman, of whom he was passionately fond, if so cold a man ever possessed passions. his first wife, it is said, knew who was to succeed her. he now wrote a _history of representative government_, in which he gave the administration repeated blows. he issued new books often enough to keep his name constantly before the public, and these volumes were loudly praised by the opposition journals. the administration modified its conduct toward him, and he again participated in public affairs. but he foresaw the great change which was coming, and this time made sure to make no blunders. perhaps, indeed, it is probable that he was honest in desiring a government like that of louis phillippe--at any rate, he saw with great shrewdness the revolution, and profited by his foresight. guizot became the minister of louis phillippe. he commenced a system of corruption which long after ruined his fortunes and those of his master. it is, perhaps, difficult to say who was the soul of this system--the king or the minister; but both were heartily in it and approved it, and m. guizot, of course, is responsible for it. he did not forget his friends during his good fortune, but imitating louis phillippe, he gave place to all his old companions. his _valet de chambre_, even, was made _sous-prefet_, but this appointment raised such a storm that the king made a change in the ministry. but during his short retirement from office he never for a moment lost the ear of his royal master, who well knew the capabilities of the man--and too well to spare his services for any great length of time. the two men were suited to each other, and united their fortunes. the queen was conscious of guizot's ambition, and it is said spoke of it to the king. but louis phillippe could not have expected pure devotion without hope of reward. he ruled through bribery, and could not blame a minister for being animated in his service by personal considerations. the plan of guizot seemed to be to buy up all malcontents who could not be awed into subjection, or in fact, all who were _worth_ buying. this corrupt system he carried as far as it was possible, and avoid too much scandal. he bought up constituencies for the king, and with his fellows he successfully silenced the opposition. one of his enemies was m. thiers, who constantly persecuted him through a long course of years. the bearing of guizot while minister, was dignified, calm, and indeed grand. he could never, by passionate attacks or bitter persecutions, be tempted into any undignified displays of temper. he was a stoic everywhere--in politics as well as in his religion, and at home. it is a singular fact that m. guizot, who was a great minister of corruption, who bought votes by the wholesale, never allowed himself to profit pecuniarily, in the slightest degree, by his position. he did not amass a franc save by his honest earnings, and so well was his character known in this respect, that he was above all suspicion. he did not love money--but power. he was economical in his habits, caring nothing for idle pomp or extravagant show. while ambassador in london he walked the streets with a plain umbrella, instead of riding in his carriage, and such were his general habits of economy that he amassed a fine property. his second wife now died, and it is said that after the event, he carried on intrigues with women; it is certain that he was very susceptible to female beauty and accomplishments. he was thought fine-looking by the ladies, and did not lack admirers among them. it is said by his enemies that he greatly admires himself, and that his home abounds with portraits of himself from chamber to kitchen. it is also told of him, to illustrate his hatred of m. thiers, that when he was ambassador in london, he would not receive his instructions from his enemy, who was the minister in power, but received secret notes from louis phillippe, and in the king's own hand. but the system adopted by the king and m. guizot, ended in ruin. the latter saved himself by ignominious flight. he clothed himself as a peasant, and in this manner crossed the frontier. he afterward gave an eloquent description of his escape. so hurried was his departure from paris, that he could not even bid his mother good-bye. he loved her fondly; indeed his affection for her was the strongest sentiment of his heart. it was the link which connected him with humanity. his mother set out to rejoin him in london, and died on the way. it was unquestionably the hardest trial, the most dreadful shock of his life, but he was true to his stoical nature, and manifested not the sign of an emotion when the news came to him. the king and the minister were together in england, in exile, but they did not visit each other. they had had both learned a lesson--that a system of corruption will in the end defeat itself. since his flight to london, m. guizot has written two or three works, but they have not had a marked success, and only prove that he clings tenaciously to his old conservative opinions. alexander dumas. [illustration: alexander dumas.] alexander dumas, one of the most celebrated authors of france, was born on the th of july, , in the village of villars-coterets. his grandfather, the marquis de la pailletrie, was governor of the island of st. domingo, and married a negress called tiennette dumas. some declare that this woman was his mistress, and not his wife, but we will not pronounce upon this point. the marquis returned to france, bringing with him a young mulatto--the father of the subject of this sketch. the youth took the name of his mother, and entered the army as a private soldier. he soon achieved renown and rose step by step to the rank of general of a division. under the empire, he died without fortune, leaving his son--alexander dumas--to the care of his widow, who was quite poor. alexander commenced his studies under the abbe gregoire, who found it impossible to teach him arithmetic, and with great difficulty beat a little latin into him. this arose, not from the boy's stupidity, but because he did not apply himself. he was exceedingly fond of out-door sports and exercise, and to such an extent did he follow his inclinations in this particular, that he laid the foundation for a vigorous health, that years of labor have never impaired. he was very handsome when a boy, with long, curling hair, blue eyes, and a skin a little tinged with the tropical hue, to denote his african descent. at the age of eighteen, he entered a notary's office in his native village, with the purpose of studying law. leuven, exiled from paris until the return of the bourbons, resided in the village, and forming the acquaintance of young dumas and noticing that he was ambitious, he counseled him to write dramas, and he would make money. dumas followed his advice--wrote three, which were offered to the directors of the paris theaters, and were each rejected by all. but dumas was made of stuff of the better sort, and was not thus to be discouraged. leuven soon returned to paris, and dumas longed to follow him there. but he was too poor. he formed a plan, however, of gaining his point, for he was anxious to see and know the actors of paris, and with a fellow-clerk he set out on foot for the great city. the two young men were without money, but each carried a gun. they shot hares and partridges as they journeyed toward paris, and sold them to dealers in game, and thus paid their expenses from day to day. leuven received him with open arms, and gave the delighted youth a ticket to hear talma. he was privileged to go behind the scenes between the acts, and converse with the actors. he was filled with delight. talma saw him, and at once pronounced him a genius. in his memoirs, he declares that he said, "alexander dumas, i baptize you a poet, in the name of shakspeare, corneille, and schiller. return to your native village, enter your study, and the angel of poesy will find you there, and will raise you by the hair, like the prophet habakkuk, and transport you to the spot where duty lies before you." alexander soon came to paris again, not this time supporting himself by his gun, but with money which his mother gave him. he had letters of recommendation to some of the old generals of the empire, and installed himself comfortably in the _place des italiens_. some of the men to whom he had letters received him coldly, but in general foy he found a warm friend and protector. he introduced him to the notice of the duke of orleans, who finding that the young man possessed a good hand-writing, which, by the way, he preserves to this day, he made him one of his secretaries, and gave him a salary of twelve hundred francs. alexander now considered himself on the high road to fortune. he was in paris--and with a salary! it was small, to be sure, but he was where he could frequent the theaters, and his patron was a man of eminence. he had little to do, and read shakspeare, scott, goethe, and schiller. he said to general foy, "i live now by my hand-writing, but i assure you that one day i will live by my pen." this shows that he looked forward to a literary life--that he foresaw, in a measure, his after success in literature. he soon began to write, and some of his plays were so well liked by the managers of different theaters, that they bought them and brought them out. he had already, while a secretary, begun to receive money for his writings. he wrote for his mother who came up to paris, and the couple took up their residence in a humble apartment in the faubourg st. denis. for a time after this, his efforts were attended with poor success, but he had the good fortune to please the director-general of the theaters by a tragedy, and he promised him that it should be brought out. before this was done the director left for the east, and in his absence the man who took his place refused to bring out the play. dumas made loud complaint. the censor asked him if he had money, and he replied that he had not a _sou_. he demanded of him what he depended upon for his support, dumas referred to his salary of twelve hundred francs, as secretary to the duke of orleans. the censor advised him to stick to his writing-desk. this was not only cruel, but very unjust treatment of an author of great promise. in this play, it is but right to state, dumas exhibited the weakness which has almost uniformly characterized his career--that of plagiarism. his situations, and sometimes his language, were stolen from goethe, scott, etc., etc. his next play was entitled _henry iii._, and was brought out under the protection of the duke of orleans. it was very successful, and he received for it the sum of fifty thousand francs. it was, like the play which preceded it, filled with stolen passages and scenes, but this did not detract from its success. he now left his humble lodgings and took up his residence in the rue de l'university, where he lived in splendid style. he was not a man to hoard his money, but to enjoy it as it was earned. his life at this time was almost a ludicrous one. he lived in the most luxurious manner, dressed fantastically, and loved a great number of women. after the great success of _henry iii._, the play--_christine_--which had previously been rejected, was brought forward with success. in the revolution of july dumas acted bravely, and has himself told the story of his conduct with not a little boasting. he brought out the drama of _napoleon bonaparte_, and that of _charles vii._, after louis phillippe was upon the throne. these dramas he had the fame of writing, but other persons wrote largely in them. he adopted the plan of employing good writers upon the different parts of a drama, and while himself superintending the whole and writing prominent parts, yet entrusting to his assistants a great portion of the composition. it was his genius which arranged the plot and guided the selection of characters, but the glory should have often been divided with his humbler co-laborers. victor hugo wrote a play which the censors would not allow to be brought out. he read it to dumas. the latter soon issued a play which was so very like that of hugo, that when sometime after the interdict was taken off from the play of hugo, he was accused of stealing from dumas. but the truth was easily to be proved--that hugo's play was _first_ written--and dumas declared in the public newspapers that if there was any plagiarism in anybody, himself was the guilty party! a new play now appeared which was principally written by assistants, and which was also defaced by plagiarisms. like some of those which preceded it, it made light, indeed glorified, vices of the darkest dye. a person by the name of gillardet wrote a play, and presented it to the manager of a theater, who not liking it, asked jules janin, the critic, to revise it. not liking it any better after the work of janin upon it, he handed it over to dumas for a similar revision. he rearranged it and brought it out as his own play! m. gillardet went to law upon the matter and recovered his rights. a duel was the result of the quarrel. many plays after this were written, until at last janin, the critic, wrote a severe article upon one of dumas' plays. the author was wroth, and replied. janin made a second attack, and paris laughed at the author. dumas swore that he would have blood, and author and critic went on to the field for combat. dumas demanded to fight with the sword--janin with the pistol--and finally not coming to agreement upon this point, the parties made up their quarrel and became friends. the reader will have seen by this time where dumas' genius lies--it is in the arrangements for a drama--in working a subject up for the stage. it is not so much in the matter, as the manner. give him incidents, and he will group them so as to produce a great effect. this is his power. dumas' income grew large, and he took a new and more princely residence. he associated himself with the great, and even went so far as to take an actress to a ball given by his patron, the duke of orleans. the woman acted in his plays, and his relations with her were too intimate, but he soon afterward married her. they lived so extravagantly that a separation soon followed, and though dumas' income was two hundred thousand francs a year, yet he was constantly in debt from his astonishing extravagance. he built at st. germain his villa of monte christo, which required enormous sums of money. he imported two architects from algiers, to decorate at a great expense one room after the fashion of the east, and pledged them not to execute any similar work in europe. he has twelve reception-rooms in his house, and it is magnificently furnished throughout. he keeps birds, parrots, and monkeys, and a collection of fine horses. from to he issued sixty volumes, the majority, of course, written _for_, not by him. as a matter of course, if these volumes sold successfully, his income was enormous, and his name upon the cover of a book seemed to insure its success. a theater was erected for the express purpose of representing his plays alone, called the theater of history. he now visited spain, and was present at the marriage of the duke of montpensier. coming home, he made a short tour in africa, where he engaged in rare sports. he was accompanied by his son alexander, who is a distinguished author. after the revolution of dumas appeared among the people, who welcomed him as a pure democrat. he started a journal which soon died. a good story is told of him about this time. a great admirer said to him that there was a gross historical error in one of his romances. "ah!" said dumas, "in what book?" the volume and error were pointed out, when he exclaimed, "ah! i have not read the book. let me see--the little augustus wrote it. i will cut his head off!" he got so rapidly in debt soon after' this, that he left france for brussels. monte christo was seized to pay his debts. he broke off with one of the most eminent of his assistants, and since then, his romances and plays have lacked much of the interest and ability which they formerly possessed, and he is not regarded to-day as he once was in paris. this may be owing in part to the sickly condition of literature under the despotism of louis napoleon. in his personal appearance he is burly; he has large, red cheeks, his hair is crisped and piled high upon his forehead. his eyes are dark, his mouth a sensuous one; his throat is generally laid bare, and in short, he is a good looking man. it is said that he has thought of visiting the united states, and would do so, were it not for the prejudice against color in america. eugene sue. [illustration: eugene sue.] marie-joseph sue, was born on the first day of january, , in paris. his family was from provence. his great-grandfather, pierre sue, was a professor of medicine in the faculty of paris, and was the author of several excellent works, but died poor. his grandfather was not a learned man, but was exceedingly wealthy. he was physician to the family of louis xvi. his father was professor of anatomy, and was appointed by napoleon surgeon of the imperial guard, and was, later, physician to the family of louis xviii. he was married three times, and his wives each bore him children. the second wife was the mother of the great novelist, and she died soon after giving birth to her child. the prince eugene and the empress josephine stood sponsors at the baptism of the child, and in after life he relinquished his two given names for that of eugene--after the prince--by which he is now universally known. while at school, eugene and an intimate companion were noted for the mischief they wrought. one of their mischievous acts was, to raise guinea pigs and then turn them loose in the botanical garden of the elder sue, where, of course, they destroyed many of the plants. a tutor was engaged to school the refractory boys--one that was very poor, and who dreaded above all things else, to lose his situation. whenever the tutor required that the boys should study their latin, they threatened him with a dismissal from his place, and so intimidated him by this and other means, that he was content to let them alone. the elder sue asked him how the boys progressed in their latin. he was compelled to reply that they were excellent scholars, whereupon the old gentleman demanded a specimen of the latin they had acquired. they at once manufactured a torrent of atrocious sentences, and palmed them off upon him as genuine latin, he not knowing enough to detect the imposition, but the remorseful tutor had to listen to it in silence! the father was delighted. the elder sue was a very easy, good-natured man, but had no learning, though he was reckoned a _savan_ of the first water. eugene knew this, and wickedly took advantage of it. his father--the doctor--was in the habit of delivering a course of botanical lectures to a circle of very select ladies, and eugene suspected that his father, notwithing his voluble discourse, had little knowledge of botany. he, therefore, with one or two of his companions, took occasion (as it was their task to prepare plants and flowers in vases, with their names written upon the vases for examination) to insert new and unheard of names to puzzle the old man. he entered the hall one day, smiling to the ladies on either hand, and stood before them. he took up a vase, and for an instant was staggered by the name, but it would not do to let his ignorance be known, so he very coolly said, "this, ladies, is the _concrysionisoides_." he hemmed a little, and then for more than an hour descanted upon the character and nature of the fabulous plant, it is needless to add, fabricating all the way through. eugene was unkind enough not only to enjoy the scene, but to go and tell the ladies of the joke. about this time, the since celebrated dr. veron became a fellow-pupil of sue's, and made the fourth of this band of youthful jokers. they were now assistant surgeons in one of the paris hospitals. eugene one day made the discovery that in his father's cabinet there was an apartment in which he kept a very choice collection of wines, which were presents from the allied sovereigns, when they were in paris. there were among others, sixty bottles of delicate johannisberg, a present from prince metternich. the students soon found the way, led by eugene, to this wine, and drank time after time. the question came up as to what should be done with the bottles. eugene proposed that the empty ones be concealed, but dr. veron remarked that their absence would bring detection. so a plan was hit upon which was far better--the bottles were half-filled with wine and then water was added. the doctor was fond on great occasions of bringing out this old wine and telling the story connected with it, and drinking a few bottles. he thus ordered it on the table one day, and prepared his guests to expect a remarkable wine. they drank in silence, while the doctor exclaimed, "delicious!--but _it is time it was drunk_." eugene was present and drank his wine and water without any emotion. but not long after, while the students were drinking the pure wine, the old doctor entered the cabinet and caught them at their wicked work. it was an act never to be forgotten by him, and he was astounded beyond measure. about this time he also discovered that eugene had been borrowing money at usurious interest to pay debts he had contracted, and he was so indignant that he ordered him to leave his house. eugene joined the army and went to spain. his father became anxious for his safety, and had him attached to the staff of the duke of augouleme. but young sue took good care not to expose himself to much danger. he passed through the siege of cadiz, the taking of trocadero, and returned to paris in safety. his father was delighted to see him, and received him kindly. but the doctor did not open his purse. young sue found his old companion faring sumptuously, being attached to a liberal man named de forges, who also supplied sue occasionally with money. dr. veron drove a fine horse and tilbury, and sue was not content until he could do the same. he applied to the jewish money-lenders, who replied that if he would sell a lot of wines for them, they would allow him a handsome commission. as a last resort he sold the wine, and procured a fine horse and phaeton. driving out one day very rapidly in the streets, he ran down a pedestrian, and looking at the unfortunate man he discovered that it was his own father! the old man was exceedingly angry and caned him on the spot. he demanded an explanation of his son for this apparent wealth, and commanded him at once to go to toulon and enter the military hospital there, in the practice of his profession. in toulon his personal appearance was so fascinating that the women fell in love with him, and he carried on many shameful intrigues. in he returned to paris, and found an old friend of his the director of a little journal. he commenced writing articles for this little journal, some of them light and others of a _spirituel_ character, which were highly admired. in paris he was also given to intrigues with women. in he made many aristocratic conquests, and frequented the home of a celebrated female novelist. in his first romances, his high-born mistresses figure as his principal characters. the elder sue now formally declared that he would pay no more debts of his son, and he was again reduced to poverty. he had recourse to the jews, who lent him money upon his expectations from his grandfather. he plunged again into extravagance, and this time his father placed him as surgeon in the navy, and in this capacity he made voyages round the world. soon after his return, his maternal grandfather died, and his father a little later left him a large fortune, and he commenced a life of gorgeous extravagance and sensuality, which has often been described. from to , he published a series of sea-romances, which had a great success, and the french critics called him the french cooper. he was very proud, frequented the most gay and fashionable circles, and assumed airs above his station. he was, however, one day excessively mortified by the sarcastic allusion of one of his noble friends to the business or profession of his father. he once more tried the pen to achieve a name for himself, and this time in history. for the naval history of france which he wrote, he received eighty thousand francs, an enormous price for a poor book. the more renown he acquired, the less pains he took with his books, but he always made good any losses incurred by publishers in publishing his works. finding himself in years, he bethought himself of marriage, and turned his attention to a relative of madam de maintenon, who refused him upon the pretext of the disparity in their ages. he had his revenge in writing against marriage, and against all aristocracies in his romances. his _mysteries of paris_ appeared in the _debats_, and the _wandering jew_ in the _constitutionel_. he endeavored through his fiction to teach socialistic doctrines, and so far carried them into practice that he appeared in the streets in a blouse. there can be no question that his later novels were written with a far higher aim than the early ones, which were reeking with a refined, yet none the less loathsome sensuality. an enormous price was paid for the _wandering jew_ by the editor of the _constitutionel_, who was none other than his old companion of the wine-closet--dr. veron. the latter made a bargain with the author to write ten small volumes a year for fourteen consecutive years, for which he agreed to pay one hundred thousand francs a year, or nearly a million and a half for the whole engagement. he presented dr. veron with the manuscript of the _seven capital sins_, when the worthy editor found himself drawn to the life, under the title of the gourmand. he protested against it, but sue pleading the bargain, would not abate one sentence. dr. veron would not, of course, publish it, and finally the contract was annulled. the gourmand--dr. veron--was published in the _seicle_, and the others of the _capital sins_, were published in the _presse_. sue had at this time a splendid chateau in the environs of orleans--the chateau des bordes. here he lived in great luxury and splendor. in the days of the republic he was elected a member of the legislative assembly, which office at first he was backward in assuming. in sue sold his orleans property, and removed to a beautiful place in savoy, where his life was described as follows: "he rises in the morning and receives from a servant a long bamboo cane, and walks in the region of his house until breakfast. a pretty house-keeper waits upon him while he partakes of a sumptuous meal, and when it is finished, he enters his study to write. the servant presents him with a spotless pair of kid gloves in which he always writes. at each chapter a new and perfumed pair is presented him. he writes five or six hours steadily, without correcting or reading. his income is from sixty to eighty thousand francs a year from these writings. after laborious writing, sue makes his toilet in the best style, and prepares for dinner, which is everything that an epicure might desire. after dinner he mounts a fine horse and rides among the hills which surround his home, until his digestion is completed. he returns, smokes tobacco from an amber pipe, and enjoys himself at his leisure." of eugene sue's character it is, perhaps, needless for me to make any criticisms. he has many admirers in all parts of the world--and also many enemies. that he is a romancer of astonishing powers nobody will deny, but we well may question the use he has made of those powers. nearly all of his earlier romances are unfit for the eyes of pure men and women, and now that he is dead, let us hope that they too will perish. in later years, m. sue has endeavored to advocate the cause of the poor, and with great eloquence, in his fictions. but he has probably caused as much harm by the licentiousness of his style, as he has accomplished good by his pleas for the poor. it is stated that he has given very liberally to the poor, and in practice exemplified his doctrine. his books give an indication of the present fashionable morality of paris and france, and though they have sold largely in america, their influence cannot be good. m. thiers [illustration: m. thiers.] m. thiers has figured prominently in french politics, was a minister of louis phillippe, and is a historian. he is a man of a singular nature, witty and eccentric, rather than profound and dignified, and it will not do to pas him by without a notice. he was born in marseilles, in the year . his father was a common workman, but his mother was of a commercial family which had been plunged into poverty by a reverse of fortune. the young thiers was educated through the bounty of the state, at the school of marseilles, and was, when a boy, known principally for his rogueries. he sold his books to get apples and barley-sugar. punishments seemed never to have any terror for him. at one time he concealed a tom-cat in his desk in the school, with its claws confined in walnut shells, and suddenly in school hours let him loose, to the great astonishment and anger of his teachers. he was condemned to a dungeon for eight days, and received a terrible reprimand. the effect of either the lecture or the imprisonment was decided. he became docile and obedient, and paid attention to his studies. for seven years he studied with unremitting attention, and during all that time took the first prizes of his class. he now went to aix to study law, where his old habits returned to him, and he became wild and mischievous in his ways. at eighteen adolphe thiers was a favorite with the liberals and a terror to the royalists, and was the leader of a party at aix. he already showed fine powers of oratory and composition, which later conducted him to power. he spoke and wrote in the interest of the enemies of the restoration. he wrote for the newspapers whose columns were open to him, and increased the vigor and eloquence of his style by this constant practice. there was at aix an academy which awarded prizes to the best writers upon given subjects. thiers wrote for the prize, but was foolish enough to reserve a copy of his treatise and read it to his companions, who loudly proclaimed that he must win. the persons who were to award the prizes were royalists, and hated thiers for his liberalism, and when they heard the vauntings of thiers' friends, they were prepared to decide against him, which they did when the day of examination came. the prize was reserved, and another trial was instituted. thiers put in his old treatise, and this time the judges awarded to it the second prize, and gave _the first_ for a treatise which came to them from paris. judge of their chagrin when they found that this treatise was written by thiers! the little student had fairly taken them in his net. great were the rejoicings of the liberals in aix. among the friends of thiers was mignet, since a historian, and the young men full of hope came together to paris, where, poor as they were hopeful, they took lodgings in a miserable street. mignet determined to follow literature and by it gain a living and fame, but thiers resolved upon intrigue. he made himself known to the liberal leaders, and with great tact exhibited his abilities. he was instantly offered employment of various kinds, and chose that of editor. he took charge of the _constitutionel_, and plunged into the heat and strife of party politics. his witty, hornet-like nature fitted him well for the position. he attained great influence and power, and the great men of the time, even talleyrand, came to him, while he exclaimed bombastically and blasphemously, "suffer little children to come unto me." he went into society, made the acquaintance of the old men of the revolution, and gathered the materials for the _history of the revolution_, which afterward carried him to the height of his popularity. he fought two duels about this time--one with the father of a young lady whom he had seduced. he started a new journal called the _national_, which should be more fully under his control than the _constitutionel_ had been, and which should entirely meet his views of what a journal should be. but the new journal seriously offended the government, the officers of which attempted to put it down, for on the morning of the th of july, they nearly destroyed the presses of the establishment. the opposition journalists had a meeting to express their opinions upon this outrage upon the rights of the press. during the three troublous days of fighting, thiers left paris for the suburbs, and came back in time to make his fortune, for he was soon named secretary-general to the government. he had the principal management of the finances, which at that time were in a state of great disorder. thiers delivered a public speech upon the law of mortgages, and royer-collard approached him with open arms, exclaiming, "your fortune is made!" in the meantime, m. thiers, as the holidays were approaching, thought it wise to run down to aix, which he represented in the chamber of deputies. since he was last there he had changed his course upon many of the important questions of the day. formerly he was extremely liberal, but for the sake of power he had deserted the cause of poland and italy. he let the inhabitants of aix know that he was coming, that no excuse might be wanting for a grand reception. surely the people of aix would feel proud of their fellow-citizen who had been so highly honored by the government! he arrived before the gates of the town and was surprised at the silence everywhere. no crowd came out to greet him--the people were about their business. a few officials alone met and welcomed him back to the scene of his early triumphs. he went to his hotel, and when night came, it was told him that crowds of people were gathered in the street below. he went to the window--ah! now the people were come to do him honor! what was his chagrin to hear the multitudes commence a serenade of the vilest description. tin horns were blown, tin pans were pounded, and every species of execrable noise was made, and m. thiers came to the conclusion that the people of aix did not admire his late political conduct. to satisfy him, the leaders cried aloud, "traitor to poland, to italy, and france!" he was satisfied, and hurried back to paris, where louis phillippe met him, and as if to console him for his reception in aix, gave him a portfolio--and he was the king's minister. one of his first acts was to destroy the character of the duchess of berri, who pretended that the french throne belonged to her son. louis phillippe gave him almost unlimited power to accomplish this object, and he set to work coolly and with deliberate calculation. it is said he bribed an intimate friend of the duchess, who knew where she was, with a million of francs to betray her, and she was thrown into prison. once there, he found means to ruin her fame and destroy her influence, though the measures he took excited the indignation of france. he extorted from her a secret confession, under the promise that it should always remain strictly secret, and then coolly published it in the government organ. under m. thiers the finances of the country improved, and many of the public works were completed. the splendid quai d'orsay and the place vendome were finished, and the madeleine begun. at the ceremonies which attended the inauguration of the column upon the place vendome, a good thing was said in the ears of the minister by a parisian wit. thiers was at the foot of the column--the statue of napoleon at the top. the height of the column is one hundred and thirty-two feet. said the wit aloud, "there are just one hundred and thirty-two feet from the ridiculous to the sublime!" but m. thiers was not in reality a ridiculous man. under his management france saw prosperity. he developed its resources and exhibited great abilities. he was constantly subjected to attacks from his old radical associates and he deserved them. the great quarrel of his life, however, was with guizot. these two men were constantly by the ears with each other, and the king gave one a certain office and the other another. he changed these officers from time to time, until at last both saw that one alone must triumph. guizot was the triumphant man, and thiers fell. he became more radical as he lost office, and published (in ) two volumes of his _history of the consulate_. they had a splendid success; he sold the whole work for five hundred thousand francs--an enormous price. but the concluding volumes were not forthcoming, and the publisher demanded them--but in vain. for the last thirty years m. thiers has lived in a beautiful house in the place saint georges. he is wealthy, and has always lived in good style. it is currently reported that m. thiers has been guilty of treating certain members of his family with great meanness, and in society many scandalous stories have been repeated illustrating his miserly economy. when the revolution of broke out, m. thiers ran away from paris, but afterward returned, and has since lived a very quiet life. george sand [illustration: george sand.] one of the most distinguished of the living writers of france is madam dudevant, or george sand, which is her _nom de plume_. she is by no means a woman either after my ideal or the american ideal, but is a woman of great genius. her masculinity, and, indeed, her licentious style, are great faults: but in sketching some of the most brilliant of french writers, it would not do to omit her name. the maiden name of george sand was amantine aurore dupin, and she is descended from augustus the second, king of poland. her ancestors were of king's blood, and the more immediate of them were distinguished for their valor and high birth. she was born in the year . she was brought up by her grandmother, at the chateau nahant, situated in one of the most beautiful valleys of france. the old countess of horn, her grandmother, was a woman of brilliant qualities, but not a very safe guide for a young child. her ideas were anti-religious, and she was a follower of rousseau rather than of christ. when aurore was fifteen years old, she knew well how to handle a gun, to dance, to ride on horseback, and to use a sword. she was a young amazon, charming, witty, and yet coarse. she was fond of field sports, yet knew not how to make the sign of the cross. when she was twenty years old she was sent to a convent in paris, to receive a religious education. she loved her grandmother to adoration, and the separation cost her a great deal of suffering. she often alludes in her volumes to this grandparent, in terms of warm love and veneration. in her "_letters of a traveller_" she gives us some details of her life with her grandmother at the chateau de nahant. she says: "oh, who of us does not recall with delight the first, books he devoured! the cover of a ponderous old volume that you found upon the shelf of a forgotten closet--does it not bring back to you gracious pictures of your young years? have you not thought to see the wide meadow rise before you, bathed in the rosy light of the evening when you saw it for the first time? oh! that the night should fall so quickly upon those divine pages, that the cruel twilight should make the words float upon the dim page! "it is all over; the lambs bleat, the sheep are shut up in their fold, the cricket chirps in the cottage and field it is time to go home. "the path is stony, the bridge narrow and slippery, and the way is difficult. "you are covered with sweat, but you have a long walk, you will arrive too late, supper will have commenced. "it is in vain that the old domestic whom you love will retard the ringing of the bell as long as possible; you will have the humiliation of entering the last one, and the grandmother, inexorable upon etiquette, will reprove you in a voice sweet but sad--a reproach very light, very tender, which you will feel more deeply than a severe chastisement. but when, at night, she demands that you account for your absence, and you acknowledge, blushing, that in reading in the meadow you forgot yourself, and when you are asked to give the book, you draw with a trembling hand from your pocket--what? _estelle et nemorin_. "oh then the grandmother smiles! "you regain your courage, your book will be restored to you, but another time you must not forget the hour of supper. "oh happy days! o my valley noire! o corinne! o bernardin de saint pierre! o the iliad! o milleroye! o atala! o the willows by the river! o my departed youth! o my old dog who could not forget the hour of supper, and who replied to the distant ringing of the bell by a dismal howl of regret and hunger!" in other portions of her books george sand refers to her early life, and always in this enthusiastic manner. her grandmother exercised no surveillance upon her reading--she perused the pages of corinne, atala, and lavater, and the two former would raise strange dreams in the head of a girl only fourteen years old. she read everything which fell in her way. in reading lavater's essays upon physiogomy, she noticed the array of ridiculous, hideous, and grotesque pictures, and wished to know what they were for. she saw underneath them the words--drunkard--idler--glutton, etc. etc. she very soon remarked that the drunkard resembled the coachman, the cross and meddling person the cook, the pedant her own teacher, and thus she proved the infallibility of lavater! once, when in the convent at paris, she was misled by the poetry of catholicism, and abandoned herself to the highest transports of religious fervor. she passed whole hours in ecstasy at the foot of the altar. this shows the susceptibility of her imagination. about this time her grandmother died, and she left the convent to close the eyes of her much-loved grandparent. she returned, with the full determination of becoming religious. all the authority of her family was required to break this resolution, and, six months after, to prevail upon her to marry m. le baron dudevant, the man they had sought out to be her husband. he was a retired soldier and a gentleman farmer. the union was a very unhappy one. she was sensitive, proud, and passionate, while he was cold, and entirely swallowed up in his agricultural pursuits. the dowry of aurore amounted to one hundred thousand dollars, and this money m. dudevant spent with a lavish hand upon his farm, but bestowed little attention upon his wife. at first she endured this life, for two children were given to her to alleviate her sorrows. but finding her lot grow more sad, and her health failing, she was ordered to taste the waters of the pyrenees, whither she went, but without her husband. she rested at bordeaux, and there made her entrance into society, through some kind friends residing in that city. she was received with praises. a wealthy shipping merchant fell deeply in love with her; she did not give way to it, however, but returned to her family, where she found no affection to welcome her. jules sandeau, a student of law, spent one of his vacations at the chateau nahant, and was the first person who turned madame dudevant's attention to literary pursuits. he returned to paris profoundly in love with the lady, though he had not dared to mention it. m. nerard, a botanist, came also to the chateau, to give lessons to m. dudevant, and his wife was charmed with him, and they spent happy hours together. but in time love grew out of the intimacy--a love which of course was wicked, but which according to french ideas, was innocent. the husband was justly suspicious, and a voluntary separation took place, he retaining all her property in exchange for her liberty, which he gave her, and she set out for bordeaux. she recounts a part of her subsequent history in "_indiana_." she found her lover in bordeaux, but he had changed, and was on the eve of marriage, and she went to paris. she returned to the same convent where she had spent a part of her youth, to weep over her lot. she soon left the convent for an attic in the quai st. michel, where jules sandeau, the law-student, soon discovered her. she was in very destitute circumstances, and sandeau was also very poor. she knew a little of painting, and obtained orders of a toyman to paint the upper part of stands for candlesticks, and the covers of snuff-boxes. this was fatiguing but not remunerative, and they wrote to the editor of the _figaro_ newspaper. he replied, and invited them to visit him at his home, where he received them with kindness. when aurore spoke of her snuff-boxes, he laughed heartily; "but," said he to sandeau, "why do not you become a journalist? it is less difficult than you think." sandeau replied, "i am too slow for a journalist." "good!" replied aurore; "but i will help you!" "very good!" replied the editor; "but work, and bring me your articles as soon as you can." madame dudevant laid aside her pencil and took up the pen--not to lay it down again. she commenced a series of articles which puzzled the parisian press. the editor liked them, but desired that she should try her hand at romance. in about six weeks madame dudevant and jules sandeau had completed a volume entitled "_rose and blanche, or the comedian and the nun_;" but they could find no publisher. the editor came to their aid, and persuaded an old bookseller to give them four hundred francs for the manuscript. when the book was to be published, they deliberated upon the name of the author. _she_ disliked the scandal of authorship--_he_ feared his father's curse; and the editor advised that the name of the law-student should be divided, and no friend would recognize the name. so the story came out as written by jules sand. the young people thought their fortunes made--that the four hundred francs were inexhaustible. madame dudevant now adopted a man's costume for the first time, that she might go to the theater with advantage--at least this was her excuse. the young couple visited the theater at night, and sandeau slept the days away. the money soon was gone, and madame dudevant in her new extremity was advised to return to the chateau nahant, and endeavor to get a legal separation from her husband, and an annual allowance. when she set out, she left with sandeau the plan of "_indiana_." they were to divide the chapters of the new story; but when she came back he had not written a line of his task. to his great surprise aurore put into his hands the whole of the manuscript of the book. "read," said she, "and correct!" he read the first chapter, and was full of praise. "it needs no revision," he said; "it is a master-piece!" he then declared that as he had not written any of the book, he would not allow the common name to be used. she was greatly troubled, and had recourse to the editor. he proposed that she still keep the name of sand, but select another first name. "look in the calendar," said he; "to-morrow is the day of st. george; take the name of george--call yourself george sand!" and this is the origin of that distinguished name. "_indiana_" was purchased for six hundred francs, but it sold so well that the publisher afterwards gave her a thousand francs more. the editor of _figaro_ put two of his critics upon the book to review it. they both condemned it as mediocre and without much interest. but the book had a wonderful success, and paris was thrown into a state of excitement about the author. the journals added fuel to the fire by their remarks and criticisms, and at once madame dudevant was a great authoress. she took elegant apartments, where she received the artists and authors of the gay city, herself arrayed in a man's costume, and she astonished her male friends by smoking and joking with them like a man. she was known only by the name of george sand, and preferred to be called simply george. she walked the boulevards in a close fitting riding coat, over the collar of which fell her dark, luxuriant curls. she carried in one hand her riding whip and in the other her cigar, which from time to time she would raise to her mouth. jules sandeau was forgotten, and fled to italy. in after years george sand bitterly repented her neglect of this friend, and she has written very touchingly in one of her books her repentance. she now wrote two or three other stories which were caught up eagerly by the publishers. she wrote against the institution of marriage and the critics at once attacked her, and with justice. story followed story from to --each filled with passionate, magnificent writing, and selling with great rapidity. her style was brilliant and elegant, and appealed to the french taste with great success. in george sand assumed her old name, that she might demand from her husband her fortune and children. it was proved upon trial that he had treated her with brutality in the presence of her children, and in her absence had lived shamefully, and the judge gave back to madame dudevant her children and her fortune. the children accompanied their mother to paris, where she superintended their education. she now became intimate with m. lamnenais and went so far as to repudiate the bad sentiments of many of her books. an end however soon came to her friendship for lamnenais, and they separated in anger, and hating each other heartily. she now wrote and published several socialistic novels, which met with a poor sale in comparison with that of some of her previous works. in fact, for the last ten years, her works have been decreasing in sale. in the revolution of , george sand took side with the republicans. at present she resides almost entirely at the chateau nahant, where she has erected a little theater in which her pieces (for she wrote for the stage) are acted previous to their being brought out in paris. her income is from ten to twelve thousand francs a year, and her life is pleasant and patriarchal. she gathers the villagers round her, invites them to her table, and instructs them. she once took into her house a woman covered with leprosy, who was cast off by all others, and with her own hand ministered to her wants, dressed her sores, and nursed her until she was cured. george sand lives in a plain style, clinging to everything which recalls her early life and her love of early friends. she sleeps but five or six hours. at eleven the breakfast bell rings. her son maurice presides at the table in her absence. she eats little, taking coffee morning and evening. the most of her time she devotes to literary labors. after breakfast she walks in the park; a little wood bordering upon a meadow is her favorite promenade. after half an hour's walk she returns to her room, leaving everyone to act as he pleases. dinner takes place at six, which is a scene of more careful etiquette than the breakfast table. she walks again after dinner, and returns to the piano, for she is fond of music. the evening is spent in pleasant intercourse with her guests. sunday is given up to a public theatrical representation for the people. such is a specimen of the life of this woman. chapter x. pure la chaise--prisons--foundlings--charitable institutions--la morgue--napoleon and eugenia--the baptism. pere la chaise. pere la chaise is not a cemetery which suits my taste, but it is unquestionably the grandest in all france, and i ought not to pass it by without a few remarks upon it. i visited it but once, and then came away displeased with its magnificence. it seems to me that a cemetery should not be so much a repository of art, as a place of great natural beauty and quiet, where one would long to rest after "life's fitful fever." the cemetery is beyond the eastern limits of the city, upon the side of a hill which commands a very fine view of the country, and is surrounded by beautiful hills and valleys. it was much celebrated in the fourteenth century, and during the reign of louis xiv. pere la chaise resided upon the spot, and for a century and a half it was the country-seat of the jesuits. hence its name. it was purchased by the prefect of the seine for one hundred and sixty thousand francs, for a cemetery, it then containing forty-two acres of ground. it was put into competent hands, and was very much improved by the planting of trees, laying out of roads, etc. etc. in it was consecrated, and in may of that year the first grave was made in it. it is now filled with the graves of some of the most distinguished men of paris and france, and is by far the most fashionable cemetery in france. it is distinguished for the size, costliness, and grandeur of its monuments. there are temples, sepulchral chapels, mausoleums, pyramids, altars, and urns. within the railings which surround many of the graves, are the choicest of flowers, which are kept flourishing in dry seasons by artificial supplies of water. a canal conducts water from a distance to the cemetery. the day was fine, the sky cloudless when i visited the spot, and though i could not but contrast it with mount auburn near boston, or greenwood near new york, yet i was much impressed with the natural beauty of the situation. art is, however, too profusely displayed upon the spot, and the original beauty is covered up to a certain extent. the gateway struck me as being rather pretentious. passing through it and by the guardian's lodge, which is at its side, one of the first spots i sought was the grave of abelard and heloise. the stranger always asks first for it, and visits it last when returning from the cemetery. it is the most beautiful monument in the cemetery. it consists of a chapel formed out of the ruins of the abbey of paraclete, which was founded by abelard, and of which heloise was the first abbess. it is fourteen feet in length, by eleven in breadth, and is twenty-four feet in height. a pinnacle rises out of the roof in a cruciform shape, and four smaller ones exquisitely sculptured stand between the gables. fourteen columns, six feet high, support beautiful arches, and the cornices are wrought in flowers. the gables of the four fronts have trifoliate windows, and are exquisitely decorated with figures, roses, and medalions of abelard and heloise. in the chapel is the tomb built for abelard by peter the venerable, at the priory of st. marcel. he is represented as in a reclining posture, the head a little inclined and the hands joined. heloise is by his side. on one side of the tomb, at the foot, are inscriptions, and in other unoccupied places. i lingered long at this tomb, and thought of the singular lives of that couple whose history will descend to the latest generations. it seemed strange that two lovers who lived in the middle of the twelfth century, should, simply by the astonishing force of their passions, have made themselves famous "for all time." it seemed wonderful that the story of their love and shame should have so burned itself into the forehead of time, that he carries it still in plain letters upon his brow, that the world may read. it shows how much the heart still controls the world. love is the master-passion, and so omnipotent is it, that yet in all hearts the story of a man or woman who simply _loved each other_ hundreds of years ago, calls forth our tears to-day, as if it occurred but yesterday. bad as abelard's character must seem to be to the careful reader--cruel as was his treatment of heloise--he must have had depths of love and goodness of which the world knew not. such a woman as heloise could not have so adored any common man, nor a wonderful man who had a hard heart. she saw and knew the recesses of his heart, and pardoned his occasional acts of cruelty. having known what there was of good and nobleness in his nature, she was willing to die, nay, to live in torture for his sake. the tomb is constantly visited, and flowers and immortalities are heaped always over it. had it no history to render the spot sacred, the beauty of the monument alone would attract visitors, and i should have been repaid for my visit. the french, who magnify the passion of love, or pretend to do so, at all times above all others keep the history of abelard and heloise fresh in their hearts. one of the best monuments in pere la chaise, is that erected in memory of casimir perier, prime minister in . it consists of an excellent statue of the statesman, placed upon a high and noble pedestal. there is a path which winds round the foot of the slope, which is by far the most beautiful in the cemetery. it is full of exquisite views, and is lined with fine monuments. ascending the hill west of the avenue, i soon was among the tombs of the great. one of the first which struck my eye was the column erected to the memory of viscount de martignac, who is celebrated for the defense of his old enemy, the prince polignac, at the bar of the chamber of peers, after the revolution. next to it, or but a short distance from it, i saw the tomb of volney, the duke decres, and the abbe sicard, the celebrated director of the deaf and dumb school of paris, and whose fame is wide as the world. many others follow, each commemorating some great personage, but the majority of the names were unfamiliar to me. among those which were known, were those of the russian countess demidoff. it is a beautiful temple of white marble, the entablature supported by ten columns, under which is a sarcophagus with the arms of the princes engraved upon it. manuel, a distinguished orator in the chamber of deputies, and general foy, have splendid monuments. benjamin constant has a plain, small tomb, as well as marshal ney. west of these tombs lie the remains of marchioness de beauharnais, sister-in-law of the empress josephine. moliere has also near to it a fine monument; la fontaine a cenotaph with two bas-reliefs in bronze, illustrating two of his fables. madame de genlis has a tomb in this quarter. her remains were transported here by louis phillippe. laplace, the great astronomer, has a beautiful tomb of white marble. an obelisk is surmounted by an urn, which is ornamented with a star encircled by palm-branches. the marquis de clermont has a fine monument--he who gallantly threw himself between louis xvi. and the mob, to save his sovereign. in one part of the cemetery i noticed many english tombs, of persons, i suppose, who were residents of paris, or who visiting it were stricken by death. one of the most superb monuments in the cemetery is that of m. aguado, a great financier, but it smacks too strongly of money to suit my taste. he was a man of enormous wealth, therefore he has a magnificent monument. according to this method, the rich men of the world shall have monuments which pierce the skies, while the men of genius and of great and noble character, shall go without a slab to indicate their final resting-place. this plan of turning a cemetery into a field for the display of splendid marbles, is certainly not consonant with good taste. it is calculated that in forty years not less than one hundred millions of francs have been spent in the erection of monuments in pere la chaise, the number of tombs already amounting to over fifteen thousand. in , when the allied forces were approaching paris, heavy batteries were planted in pere la chaise, commanding the plain which extends to vincennes. the walls had loop-holes, and the scholars of alfort occupied it and defended it against three russian attacks. the last was successful, and the russians were masters of the field. the city of paris capitulated that very evening, and the russian troops encamped among the tombs. [illustration: paris from montmartre.] [illustration: column of july --place juillet.] in coming back from pere la chaise, i saw the column of july, erected in memory of the victims of the july of the great revolution. upon this spot the old bastille stood, and the column indicates it. the prisons. the public prisons of paris are nine in number: for persons upon whom a verdict has not been pronounced, and against whom an indictment lies; for debt; for political offenses; for persons sentenced to death or the hulks; for criminals of a young age; for females; and for offenders in the army. in the penal prisons, the inmates are allowed books and the privilege of writing, but are all obliged to labor, each, if he wishes, choosing the trade in which he is fitted best to succeed. the men receive a pound and a half of bread per day, and the women a fraction less. the prison la force is in the rue du roi de sicile. the buildings of which it is composed were once the hotel of the duke de la force--hence the name. it was converted into a prison in . a new prison for prostitutes was erected about the same time, and was called la petite force. in the two prisons were united, and put under one management, and the whole prison is given up to males committed for trial. the prisoners are divided into separate classes; the old offenders into one ward, the young and comparatively innocent into another; the old men into one apartment, and the boys into another. the prisoners sleep in large and well ventilated chambers, and the boys have each a small apartment which contains a single bed. the prisoners have the privilege of working if they wish, but they are not obliged to do so, inasmuch as they are not yet _convicted_ of crime. there is a department for the sick, a bathing-room, a parlor, and an advocate's room, where the prisoners can hold conversations with their legal defenders. the number of prisoners is very great--ten thousand being under the annual average confined in the prisons. st. lazare is a prison for women under indictment and those who have been sentenced to a term less than one year. one department of the prison, which is entirely separated from the rest, is devoted to prostitutes, and another distinct department is devoted to girls under sixteen years of age. each department has its own infirmary, and a new plan has been adopted to stimulate the inmates to industry. they are allowed two-thirds pay for all the work they will perform in the prison. every kind of manufacture is carried on in the prison--the preparation of cashmere yarn, hooks and eyes, etc. etc. the number confined in this prison in a year, is over ten thousand. the service of the prison is carried on by the sisters of charity. la nouvelle force is a new prison in a healthier quarter than la force, and is used for the same purposes. it contains twelve hundred and sixty separate cells. depot de condemnes is in the rue de la roquette, and is a prison for the confinement of persons condemned to forced labor and to death. it is a very healthy prison and one of the strongest in the world. a double court surrounds the prison, in which sentinels are constantly kept on guard; the walls are very thick and solid, and each prisoner has a separate cell. a fountain in the center dispenses water to all parts of the prison. the number of the inmates is at least four hundred on the average. the prison of correction, situated also in rue de la roquette, is for the confinement and correction of offenders under the age of sixteen, who have been pronounced by the judge incapable of judgment. they are subjected to a strict, but not cruel discipline, in this prison. it is very healthy, and all its appointments are such as to facilitate the education of the morals and intellect of the inmates. it is well supplied with water and wholesome diet, and books and religious teachers. it is divided into separate departments, and one grade of boys is never allowed intercourse with another. this is a very wise regulation, as under it a fresh, ignorant, and wicked inmate cannot have influence over those who have long been under the discipline of the place. the conciergerie is used to confine persons before trial, and it is one of the most famous (or infamous) prisons in the world. its historical associations are full of interest. its entrance is on the quai de l'horloge. in visiting this prison, the stranger from the new world is struck with the terrible outlines of some of the apartments. the salle des gardes of st. louis, has a roof which strikes terror into the heart, it is so old and grim. in one part of the building there is a low prison-room, where those persons condemned to death spend their last hours, fastened down to a straight waistcot. the little room in which marie antoinette was confined, is still shown to the visitor. there are now three paintings in it which represent scenes in the last days of her life. the prison-room which confined lourel, who stabbed the duke de barry, and the dungeons in which elizabeth, the sister of louis xvi., was imprisoned, are shut up and cannot be seen. there are many histories connected with this old prison, which to repeat, would fill this volume. the prison de l'abbaye is a military prison, and is situated close to st. germain des pres. it was formerly one of the most famous in paris, and the horrors which it witnessed during the bloody revolution were never surpassed in any city of the world. many of the atrocities which were committed in it are now widely known through the histories of those times of blood. many of its dungeons are still under ground, and wear an aspect of gloom sufficient to terrify a man who spends but a few moments in them. the discipline of this prison is very rigid, as it contains only military offenders. the prison for debtors is in rue de clichy, and is in an airy situation, is well constructed, and holds three or four hundred persons. the officers of this prison still remember the modest-faced american editor, who spent a few memorable days in it--i mean horace greeley of the _tribune_. france is not sufficiently enlightened yet to abolish imprisonment for debt, but the time will soon come. such a barbarity cannot for any great length of time disgrace the history of any civilized nation. the prison of st. pelagie, in rue de la chef, was formerly a prison for debtors, but is now used for the imprisonment of persons committed for trial, or those persons sentenced for short terms. nearly six hundred persons are confined in it. connected with the prisons of paris are two benevolent institutions, the object of which is to watch over and educate the young prisoners of both sexes during their terms of imprisonment, and after they have left prison. as soon as they have left prison they are cared for, and if they conduct themselves well, they are generally furnished with good places. prisoners are also taken from the correctional house before their terms have expired, in cases of excellent conduct, and the government pays the society a sum toward the expenses of such persons until the time of their sentence shall have expired. lamartine, the poet, was at one time president of one of these truly benevolent societies. the prisons of paris, take them as a whole, compare favorably with those of any city in the world. their administration is characterized by an enlightened liberality and philanthropy, and though it may seem strange, yet it is true, that paris abounds with the most self-sacrificing philanthropists. the prisoner, the deaf and dumb, the blind and the idiotic, are cared for with a generosity and skill not surpassed in any other land. * * * * * foundling hospitals. there are at least one hundred and fifty foundling hospitals in france, and paris has a celebrated one in the rue d'enfer. it was established by st. vincent de paul, in , but has been very much improved since. the buildings are not remarkable for their architectural beauty, for they are very plain. the chapel contains a statue of the founder. it is now necessary for a mother who desires to abandon her child, to make a certificate to that effect before the magistrate. the latter is obliged to grant the desire of the woman, though it is a part of his duty to remonstrate with her upon her unnatural conduct, and if she consents to keep the child, he is empowered to help her to support it from a public fund. the infants received at the hospital are, if healthy, put out at once to nurse in the country, and the parentage of the child is recorded. unhealthy children are kept under hospital treatment. nurses from the country constantly present themselves for employment, and do not usually receive more than one or two dollars a month for their trouble. after two years of nursing, the child is returned and transferred to the department for orphans. there are a little short of three hundred children in the hospital, and as many as thirteen thousand constantly out at nurse in the country. the internal arrangements of the hospital are very ingenious and good. every convenience which can add to the comfort of the infants is at hand, and the deserted little beings are rendered much more comfortable than one would naturally suppose to be within the range of possibility. the hospital for orphans is in the same building, and is well arranged. the orphan department and the foundling hospital, are under the special care of the sisters of charity. there is, perhaps, no more strange sight in all paris, than the assemblage of babies in the apartments of the foundling hospital. to see them ranged around the walls of the rooms in cradles, attended by the nurses, will excite a smile, and yet, when we reflect how sad is the lot of these innocents, the smile will vanish. they are deprived of that to which, by virtue of existence, every human being is entitled--a home, and the affectionate care of father and mother. to be entirely shut out from all these blessings, really makes existence a curse, and it were better if these thousands had never been born. on visiting the hospital, i rang a bell and was admitted by a polite porter, and a female attendant conducted us through the various apartments. i was at once struck with the exceeding tidiness of everything. the floors were of polished oak, and the walls of plaster polished like glass. one of the first rooms we were shown into contained forty or fifty babies, ranged in rows along the wall. the cradles were covered with white drapery, and their appearance was very neat. four long rows stretched across the apartment, and in the center there was a fire, round which the nurses were gathered, attending to the wants of the hungry and complaining babies. but if the sight of the cradles was pleasant, the noise which greeted my ear was far otherwise. at least twenty-five of the children were crying all at once, and _one_ is as much as i can usually endure, and not that for any length of time. among the children round the fire, there was one which was very beautiful. it had black hair and eyes, and when we stopped before it, it laughed and crowed at a great rate. i could not help wondering that any human mother could have abandoned so beautiful a babe--one that would have been "a well-spring of pleasure" in many a home. i was next shown into the apartment for children afflicted with diseases of the eye. the room was carefully shaded, and the cradles were covered with blue or green cloth. there was quite a number of children in this department, and all of them seemed to be well cared for. i was shown into another apartment devoted entirely to the sick children, and its appointments were excellent. it was wholesome and clean, the air was pure as that of the country, and the rooms were high and commodious. other apartments are shown to the visitor which contain the linen used in the hospital, and where all kinds of work are performed, and finally, the pretty little chapel which i have alluded to before. in former times the government made it easy for any mother to resign her infant to the care of the state. this was done properly and with a good object in view, which was to prevent infanticide. it was intended that mothers should not only find it easy to cast off their children in this manner, but that it might be done with secrecy. a box was placed outside of the hospital and a bell-handle was near it, and all that the mother had to do was, to place her babe in the box and pull the bell. no one saw her, no questions could be asked, and the box sliding upon grooves was drawn inside the wall. the mother could leave some mark upon the dress of the child, or if this was not done, an exact inventory of the effects of the little stranger was always recorded in the hospital, that in after years the child might be identified by its parents if they wished. the numbers that were deposited in the paris hospital were very great under those pleasant regulations. it is not strange, and one cannot escape the conviction, that such a system afforded a temptation to the women, and indeed men of the good classes to sin. a woman might escape to a great extent the penalty of a wicked deed. it held out a premium to immorality. but on the other hand it prevented infanticide to a great extent. the reasons why the government revoked the regulations were, first, that they encouraged the increase of illegitimate children, and second, the great expense to the state, and the last consideration was the one which had most weight. it was found upon trying the new system, that infanticide increased with considerable rapidity, as the morning exhibitions at la morgue greatly indicated. when we consider, too, that the majority of the infanticides are unquestionably not detected, the body of the child being hid from the sight, and the vast amount of injury which results to the mothers from the attempt to destroy unborn children, we cannot wonder that french philanthropists have been inclined to return to the old system. infanticide is one of the most horrible of crimes, and its growth among a people is accompanied by as rapid a growth of vice of every other kind. in england where a foundling hospital could not be endured for a moment, the crime of infanticide is increasing every year, and the number of murdered children is already an army of martyrs. the safest way is, perhaps, for the government to leave the whole matter with the people, and not either encourage illegitimacy or attempt to prevent infanticide, except by punishment. upon the heads of the guilty ones be their own blood. but there certainly should be asylums for those children who cannot be supported by their poverty-stricken parents. * * * * * charitable institutions. paris abounds with charitable societies and institutions. until the latter part of the last century, the city was full of objects of compassion, the blind, the deaf and dumb, the sick and suffering. the prisons too, and the madhouses, were scenes of cruelty and violence. but a controversy arose upon the whole matter, and under louis xvi. four new hospitals were ordered to be erected, but in the excitement which preceded the great revolution, they were not completed. after the revolution the subject came up from time to time to the consideration of the governing powers, and new hospitals were erected, and great improvements made in the old ones. at the beginning of this century, they were placed under the direction of a general administration. all the civil hospitals and the different institutions connected with them, are under the control of an administrative committee. the regulations of the hospitals are nearly the same as they are in london and new york. in cases of severe wounds, persons are admitted into the hospitals without any order, by simply presenting themselves at the doors. medical advice is given at some of the hospitals on certain days to poor persons. the hospitals of paris are of three kinds; the general, open to all complaints for which a special hospital is not provided; the special hospitals, for the treatment of special diseases; and the alms-houses. the hospitals support more than twelve thousand aged men and women, receive more than eighty thousand patients, and have constantly under treatment six thousand persons. among the hospitals i may mention bricetre, situated on the road to fontainbleau. it is upon very high ground, and is the healthiest of all the hospitals from its position and arrangements. it is used as an asylum for poor old men, and for male lunatics. the old men have every encouragement to work, for they receive pay for their labor, slight, of course, and the money is devoted to giving them better food and clothes than the usual hospital allowance, which is some soup, one pound and a quarter of bread, four ounces of meat, vegetables, cheese, and a pint of wine each day. when seventy years old, the quantity of wine is doubled, and when a person has been thirty years an inmate of the house, the quantity of everything is doubled. three thousand beds are made up for the indigent, and eight hundred for lunatics. the latter, of course, occupies a distinct part of the building. there are two hospitals appropriated entirely to the use of men who have no hope of immediate cure, and are troubled with chronic ailments. the buildings are large and airy, and will accommodate four or five hundred. the hospital of st. louis, in rue des recollets, is very large, containing eight hundred beds. it is used for the special treatment of scrofula and cutaneous diseases. persons able to pay, do so, but the poor are received without. it has very spacious bath accommodations, and it is estimated that as many as one hundred and forty thousand baths have been served in the establishment in the course of a year. the baths are in two large rooms, each containing fifty baths. the water is conducted to them in pipes, and every variety of mineral and sulphurous bath is given, as well as vapor and all kinds of water baths. the institution is very well managed, its work being all done within its walls, and so far is this principle carried, that the leeches needed for the diseased are cultivated in an artificial pond upon the premises. in the rue de sevres is a hospital for incurable women it will accommodate six hundred women and seventy children. there are a few pictures in this establishment which are worth noticing. the annunciation, the flight into egypt, and a guardian angel, possess great beauty. the louecine hospital is for the reception of all females suffering with syphilitic diseases. it makes up three hundred beds, fifty of which are for children. the number of persons treated in paris is more than two thousand every year, and the mortality is very slight. medical men dislike this hospital, for the diseases are such as to render their duties very unpleasant, but to insure proper attendance, a regulation exists that every physician before making an application for a place in any of the hospitals, shall serve in the louecine. the rouchefoucald hospital is principally for the reception of old and worn-out servants, and is of course not kept up by state funds, though it is overseen by the government. persons who enter the institution pay a sum of money, and are entitled to a room, fire, and food, so long as they live, and some enter even as young as the age of twenty. there is another establishment in paris where only the middling classes are received, and who pay for the attention they receive. single men who have no homes of their own, when attacked by violent diseases, can by paying a moderate sum enter this institution and be well cared for. i cannot even mention a tenth part of the hospitals or charitable institutions of paris, and will only allude to one or two more which are a little peculiar. there are, for example, _nurseries_, where poor women who must leave home for work in factories or similar places, can in the morning leave their babies, return occasionally to nurse them, and take them away at night. if a child is weaned, it has a little basket of his own. a very small sum of money is paid for this care, and as the nurseries have the best of medical attention, some mothers bring them for that purpose alone. there are public soup establishments to which any person with a soup-ticket can go and demand food. the tickets are dispensed with some care to persons in needy circumstances. in each of the twelve arrondissements of paris there is a bureau for the relief of poor women having large families. when proper representations are made by such females struggling to keep from the alms-house, an allowance is made of bread, firing, meat, and clothing, and sometimes money is given. there are sometimes as many as thirty thousand dependent in this manner for a part of their income upon the state. hence, bureaus are excellent institutions, inasmuch as prevention is always easier than cure. to save struggling families from the humiliation of a complete downfall to the poor-house, small weekly allowances are made, and in such a way that their pride need not be touched, for it is often done with such secrecy that even the intimate friends of the recipients are unaware of the relation existing between them and the state. such an arrangement as this is needed in all the great cities of the world. london suffers from the want of it. in some places the parish authorities are at liberty to make grants to poor families, but it is nowhere done with such a system and with such a delicacy as in paris. another of the charitable institutions of paris lends money upon movable effects, the interest charged being very low. this is an excellent provision for emergencies in the lives of poor persons. there are at least a million and a half of articles pledged at this institution yearly, and its receipts are from twenty-six to twenty-eight millions a year. in winters of famine the public are sometimes allowed to pledge property without paying any interest upon it when redeemed. the mont de pietie, is the name of this institution, and it has branches all over paris, and has in its employ, as clerks and otherwise, three hundred persons. there are savings' banks in paris specially adapted to the wants of the poor, and to encourage in them the habit of accumulating property, though in very small sums. a deposit of one franc is received, and one person cannot hold but two thousand francs at one time in one bank of the kind. this institution, however, is not superior to those of its kind in many other countries. * * * * * la morgue. on the southern side of isle la cite, there is a small stone building which is certainly one of the "sights" of paris. i saw it one day when i had been to look at notre dame, and was on my way home. i was filled with admiration of the magnificence of the great city, for with notre dame and the louvre in sight, i could not easily entertain other sentiments. a little building arrested my attention, and i saw quite a crowd of persons standing in front of it. it was _la morgue_. i entered it, not that i have a penchant for horrors, but to see a sight strangely contrasting with all i had heretofore seen in paris. it was a long, low interior, and one end of the room was fenced off from the rest, and in it a row of dead bodies was arranged against the wall. jets of water were playing constantly upon them, and upon hooks the garments of the deceased were hung. the use of _la morgue_ is to exhibit, for twenty-four hours, the dead bodies which are found in the streets and the river. if no friend in this time recognizes and claims the body, it is buried. there were five bodies when i was there--four men and one woman. the men were evidently suicides and the woman was probably murdered, as there were marks of violence upon her body, which could not have been self-inflicted. there are several hundred persons exhibited in la morgue in the course of a year, and they tell strange stories of the misery and crime which abound in the finest city in the world. the majority of the bodies which are found, are suicides, but many are those of persons who have been murdered. the french commit suicide for reasons which appear frivolous to the american or englishman. the loss of a favorite mistress, an unsuccessful love-intrigue, the bursting of a bubble of speculation, and sometimes a mere trifle is enough to induce self-destruction. sometimes a man and his mistress, or a whole family shut themselves up in a room with burning charcoal, which is a favorite method of committing suicide. a great many bodies are fished out of the seine, for it is very easy for a poor and wretched man or woman to leap into it in the darkness of night. the next day the body lies for recognition in la morgue, and if no good friend claims it it is borne by careless hands to a pauper burial. [illustration: le pont-neuf] i crossed the seine by the pont neuf--a fine bridge, completed in by henry iv. near the center of it, standing upon a platform and pedestal of white marble, is a splendid bronze statue of henry iv. upon horseback. the height of the statue is fourteen feet, and its cost, somewhat above sixty thousand dollars, was defrayed by public subscription in . the place vendome, too, lay in my path, so called from having been the site of a hotel belonging to the duke de vendome, illegitimate son of henry iv. and gabrielle d'estrees. the place is now ornamented by a magnificent pillar, erected by napoleon in honor of his german campaign. i passed also the beautiful fountain des innocents, whose sculptor, the celebrated jean goujon was shot during the massacre of st. bartholomew, while working at one of the figures. [illustration: fontaine des innocents.] * * * * * napoleon and eugenia. on my second visit to paris, i found that many changes had taken place, and some of them striking ones. it was especially true of the architectural condition of paris. in the years which elapsed between my visits, the louvre had assumed a new appearance, and was now connected with the tuilleries palace. other changes of a similar character had occurred. [illustration: column de place vendome.] when i was first in paris, louis napoleon was president, but he was preparing for the empire, and there was in reality no more liberty in france than now, and in many respects a residence in paris was then more uncomfortable than at present. everybody was expecting a change, and louis napoleon, as president, was actually more despotic in little things than he is as emperor. he was then ready to hunt down any man against whom a suspicion could lie, while now his rule is, after a manner, established. he has as fair prospects to remain emperor of france till he dies, for aught that i can see, as any european monarch has of retaining his throne. when i entered paris, under the presidency, i was more closely watched than under the empire. as an american, from a republic, i was, perhaps, naturally an object of suspicion to the spies of a man who was planning a _coup d'etat_; at any rate i was tracked everywhere i stirred, by the police, while on my last visit i experienced nothing of the sort. the people of paris are divided into many classes in politics--some are the friends of louis napoleon, while others are his enemies. but he has few distinguished friends in paris. the shop-keepers are pleased with the pomp and magnificence of his court, for it gives them custom and money. many of the wealthy business men desire him to live and rule because they want a stable government, and they deprecate above all things else, change. they are more for money, as we may expect, than for freedom. then there are the partisans of the orleans and bourbon families, who fear the republicans and accept napoleon as a temporary ruler, and who much prefer him to anarchy. so that there is a strong body of men in paris and in france--a majority of the people--who upon the whole prefer that the rule of a man they all dislike should be perpetuated for years to come. and there is something in the character of louis napoleon which excites admiration. he is intensely selfish, but he is a very capable man. he understands the french people thoroughly, and rules them shrewdly. he is one of the ablest statesmen in europe, and the world knows that he lead england in the late war with russia. yet he possesses some ridiculous qualities, as his conduct previous to his last entrance into france shows. he relies upon his destiny in the blindest manner, and is not possessed of genuine courage of the highest character. he is so reckless that he will never flinch from the prosecution of any of his schemes, either from personal danger or the dread of shedding human blood. he seems to have no heart, and his countenance is like adamant, for it gives no clue to the thoughts which fill his brain. he is certainly a very remarkable character and one worth studying. his early history is laughable. his various descents upon france were too ridiculous for laughter, and they only excited the pity of the world. his private conduct, too, was such as to disgust moral people. there seems to have come over the man a great change about the time of the louis phillippe revolution. i well remember that in the spring of i saw him parading one of the streets of london, arm-in-arm with a son of sir robert peel, both sworn in as special constables to put down the chartists should they attempt a riot. it was, on that memorable first of april, quite fashionable for members of the best families to be sworn in as special constables to preserve order, and louis napoleon who was living with his mistress and children in london, had so far put away the democratic opinions which he once held, that he was ready and eager to show where his sympathies were in the chartist agitation. that louis napoleon was very shrewd in entering france, and seating himself in the presidential chair, no one will deny, but it is equally true that in violating his oath and shooting down the people of paris as he did, that he might gain a throne, he also proved himself to be a great villain. the mere fact that he was successful will not atone for perjury and murder with people of common morality. but aside from these atrocities, his shameful censorship of the press, and conduct toward some of the noblest men of france, he has acted for the best interests of the country. he has understood the wants of the people, and his decrees and provisions have met the wishes of the nation. france has not had the material prosperity for many years that she has at this time. but the press is dumb. literature is in a sickly condition. many of the first men of france are either in exile or are silent at home. it is astonishing to see how few of the really eminent men of france are the friends of louis napoleon. lamartine does not like him; eugene sue was his enemy; the same is true in a modified sense of alexander dumas; george sand dislikes him; arago while living did the same; and jules janin the brilliant critic is no friend of the administration. victor hugo, ledru rollin, louis blanc, and a score of other brilliant men are in exile, and of course hate the man who exiled them. it is certainly one of the most singular facts of modern history that louis napoleon has few friends, yet is firmly seated upon his throne. his enemies are so divided, and so hate anarchy, that they all unite in keeping him where he is. but paris laughs in its sleeve at all the baptismal splendors over the prince and the sober provisions for the regency made by the emperor. no one that i could find has the faintest expectation that the baby-boy will rule france, or sit upon a throne. when the emperor is shot or dies a violent death, then chaos will come, or something better, but not napoleon iv. i am confident that this is the universal sentiment, at least throughout paris, if not over france. i have asked many a frenchman his opinion, and the same reply has been given by republican and monarchist. this is one secret of napoleon's strength. it is thought that with his death great changes must come, and very likely confusion and bloodshed. no one believes in a napoleon succession, and therefore all bear his despotism with equanimity. those who hate him say his rule will not last forever, while those who wish to advance their own political interests through other royal families, bide their time. it is possible that louis napoleon will live many years yet, or at least die a natural death, but there are those who have a reputation for shrewdness who do not believe it. they think that as he has taken the sword so he will perish by the sword, or in other words that a bullet will one day end his life. it would not be strange, for he has many bitter enemies, and there would be poetic justice in such a fate, to say the least. the empress is quite popular in france, but not so much so as the journalists and letter-writers would make out. she is exceedingly handsome, and this fact goes a great way with the parisians. her conduct since her marriage has been irreproachable, which should always be mentioned to her credit. but that she is naturally a very lovely woman, gentle, and filled with all the virtues, few who know her early history will believe. she is, like the emperor, shrewd, and acts her part well. she is certainly equal to her position, and in goodness is satisfactory to the french people. it has been thought by many that if louis napoleon had married a french woman it would have better satisfied the people, but this is by no means certain. the emperor and empress seem to live together happily, or at least rumor hath nothing to the contrary; and he would be a brute not to be satisfied with the woman who has presented him with what he desired above everything else--a male heir. portraits of the empress abound in all the shops and in private houses. her great beauty is the passport to the french heart. it is not of the dashing, bold style, but is delicate and refined. louis napoleon has in his provisions for the prince calculated largely upon the popularity of the empress, in case of his own death. he confides the boy-prince to the empress eugenia, and thinks her popularity is such, and the gallantry of the people so great, that they will gather round her in the day of trouble. but though the french are a gallant people they estimate some things higher than politeness or gallantry. there is no loyalty in france. the only feeling which approaches to it is the veneration which is felt in some of the provinces for the elder napoleon. but that sentiment of loyalty which is felt in all ranks and circles in england is unknown to france. who carries in his bosom that sentiment towards the man who procured his throne by perjury? not a single frenchman. many admire his intellect, his daring, and many others accept his rule with pleasure, but nobody has the feeling of loyalty toward him. it has died out in france, and i must confess that this is a good sign. while it is true, france cannot really _like_ a monarchical despotism, though she may for a long time endure it. the baptism of the prince. the th of june was a great day in paris, for it witnessed the baptism of the prince and heir to the french throne. it was not because paris was or is devoted to the present napoleonic dynasty, not because the birth of an heir to louis napoleon was or is regarded with any remarkable enthusiasm, but simply for this reason: paris loves gayety, and above all things is fond of a public _fete_. louis napoleon well knew how to make the day memorable. all that was wanting was money--a prodigious pile of napoleons. with this he could easily make a pageant. the young baby-prince was baptized in the ancient church of notre dame, which was fitted up in a magnificent style expressly for the occasion. on each side of the grand nave, between the main columns hung with gold and crimson drapery, a series of seats were erected, also covered with crimson velvet and gold decorations. around the altar seats were erected for the legislative body, the senate, the diplomatic corps, and officers of state. above these, galleries were formed, hung with drapery, for the occupation of ladies. the appearance of the interior was grand in the extreme, but it needed the splendid concourse soon to be present, to add a wonderful beauty to it. a few minutes past six o'clock a burst of drums announced the arrival of the grand cortege in the ancient city, and the archbishop of paris, with his assistants, went to the door or grand entrance of notre dame, to receive napoleon and eugenia. the princes and princesses had already alighted, and were ready with the clergy to receive the emperor and empress. the procession was in something like the following order: first came the cross, followed by the archbishop and his vicar-generals. next came the military officers of the imperial household. then what are called the honors of the imperial infant, as follows--the wax taper of the countess montebello; the crimson cloth of baroness malaret; and the salt-cellar of the marquess tourmanbourg. then came the sponsorial honors. these ladies all walked in couples, and were dressed in blue, veiled in white transparent drapery. the grand duchess of baden and prince oscar of sweden immediately preceded the prince. the royal babe wore a long ermine mantile, and was carried by a gouvernante with two assistants, one on each side of her. the nurse followed, clad in her native costume--that of burgundy. marshals canrobert and bosquet followed the infant, and their majesties next appeared under a moving canopy. the cardinal-legate had appeared and been welcomed before, and took his seat upon a throne erected expressly for him. immediately in front of the altar there was erected a crimson platform, on which two crimson chairs were placed for the accommodation of napoleon and eugenia. far above there was a crimson canopy lined with white, and spotted with golden bees. napoleon advanced up the aisle on the right of eugenia, and a pace in advance. he did not offer her his arm, as that is considered improper in a church, according to parisian notions of propriety. eugenia was dressed in a light blue, covered with an exquisite lace, and she was covered with dazzling diamonds. the jewels she wore were worth nearly five millions of dollars. the blue color worn by nearly all the ladies present, was considered the appropriate color for the ruder sex of the baby. napoleon wore the uniform of a general officer, but with white knee pants and silk stockings. he wore several orders. everything being ready, the cardinal-legate left his throne, went to the foot of the altar, and commenced the _veni creator_, which was taken up and executed by the fine orchestra. the music was inexpressibly grand. when it was concluded the masters of ceremonies saluted the altar and their majesties, and then waited upon the legate, who at once catechised the sponsors. he then conducted the royal babe to the font, holding the baptismal robe. napoleon and eugenia ascended the throne. the duchess of baden, representing the god-mother, advanced to the font. the god-father was the pope, represented by the legate. the baptism was then proceeded with. when the rite was performed, the gouvernante presented the babe to its mother, who at once handed it over to its royal papa, who held it up to the crowd of gazers, and then the cries of "_vive le prince imperial!_" came near destroying the solid masonry of notre dame. after this the royal pair soon took their departure, though there were many ceremonies after they had left. a magnificent banquet was at once given to their majesties by the city of paris, in the _hotel de ville_, and it was probably one of the most luxurious the world ever witnessed. all the male guests were in official costume, and the ladies were dressed with great richness. the next day--sunday--was the great day for out-door _fetes_, though this was widely celebrated. the day was given up to all kinds of enjoyment, and the emperor gave immense sums to make the people good-humored and enthusiastic. there was a display of fire-works in the evening rarely equaled, and probably never surpassed. the theaters were all open, free to all who came, and could gain entrance. in the course of the day more than three hundred balloons were sent up, laden with confectionary and things to tickle the palate, and showered down upon the multitude. the whole of paris was gay, and the stranger had a fine sample of a grand parisian _fete_, and sabbath--both in one! chapter xi. the father of french tragedy--the jester--the dramatist. men of the past. during my residence in paris i became very much interested in the history of the great men of france, not only in the present day, but in past years. i was not so well acquainted with the great french masters in literature, especially of the past, as with the great men of english history. i believe this to be the fact with most americans. i soon found that to know france, to know paris to-day, i needed to have by heart the history of her heroes of to-day and yesterday, and especially of those great men who made paris their home and final resting-place. the influence of these men over the minds, manners, and even the morals of the people of paris, is still very great. nowhere is genius more praised, or adored with a greater devotion, than in paris. rank must there doff its hat to genius, which is the case in no other country but the american republic. it will then not be out of place for me to sketch a very few of the most brilliant men who in the years which have fled away lighted with their smiles the saloons of paris. i will commence with the father of french tragedy. in the rue d'argenteuil, number , there is a small quiet house, in which corneille, the father of french tragedy, breathed his last. it has a black marble slab in front, and a bust in the yard with the following inscription: "_je ne dois qu'a moi seul toute ma renommee_." the great man lies buried in the beautiful church of st. roch, where a tablet is erected to his memory. corneille was the son of pierre corneille, master of forests and waters in the viscounty of rouen. his mother was of noble descent, but the couple were somewhat poor. the dramatist was born in , and early became a pupil of the jesuits of rouen. he was educated for the law, but had no taste for that profession, and although he attempted to practice it he was unsuccessful. it was well for france that such was the fact, for had it been otherwise, she would have lost one of her most brilliant names. when corneille entered upon life, there was no theater in france, though there were exhibitions of various kinds. at last a few wretched plays were written by inferior men, and they were acted upon the stage by inferior actors. corneille, while vainly endeavoring to win success at the bar, was incited to write a comedy, and produced one under the title of "_melite_." the plot was suggested by an incident in his own life. a friend of his was very much in love with a lady, and introduced him to her, that he might, after beholding her charms, indite a sonnet to her in the name of his friend. the poet found great favor in the eyes of the lady, and the original lover was cast into the shade. this incident was the reason why corneille wrote "_melite_." the success of the piece was very great, a new company of players was established in paris, and at that time it was fully equal to any comedy which had been written in the french language, though it reads dull enough at the present day. the poet traveled up to paris to witness his play upon the stage, and was so well pleased with its reception, that he went on writing plays. they were without merit, however. he had not yet struck the key-note of his after greatness. with four other authors, corneille was appointed to correct the plays of richelieu. parties quickly sprung into existence in the _salons_ of paris. some of them espoused the cause of corneille--others openly traduced his plays and were his enemies. he had the independence to correct one of richelieu's plays without the consent of his comrades, and richelieu reprimanded him for it. he became disgusted and left paris for rouen. he was quite willing, too, to return to the lady who had inspired his sonnet. she was very beautiful, and he continued to love her until his death, and this may be said to be the only lasting passion of his life. the poet was not much of a scholar, though well informed. he next wrote a tragedy entitled "_media_," and then another comedy called "_the illusion_." but he had not yet hit upon the note of success. soon after, when about thirty years of age, he commenced the study of the spanish language. an italian secretary of the queen counseled him to this course, and advised him to read the "_cid_" of de castro, with an idea of making it a subject for a drama. corneille followed his advice, and produced a tragedy which roused all france to enthusiasm. paris was one prolonged storm of applause, and when one praised an object, he said "it is fine as the _cid!_" the play was translated into the different languages of all the civilized nations. fontenelle says: "i knew two men, a soldier and a mathematician, who had never heard of any other play that had ever been written, but the name of cid had penetrated even the barbarous state in which they lived." the dramatist had enemies--no man can quickly achieve renown without making them--and some of them were exceedingly bitter in their attacks upon him. richelieu, the cardinal, was excessively annoyed that the man he had reprimanded should have achieved success, and the french academy of criticism, which was deeply under his influence, after discussions decided somewhat against "the cid." this suited the cardinal, but the poet kept a wise silence, making no reply. the next effort of corneille was that resulting in the tragedy of "_horace_," which was a master-piece, and was received with unbounded applause. he surpassed this effort, however, in his next piece, called "_cinna_." after this--which many consider his best drama--came "_polyeceute"_, a beautiful piece. in it the christian virtues are illustrated, and when read before a conclave of learned men, they deputied voiture to the poet, to induce him, if possible, to withdraw it, for the christianity in it the people would not endure. but the play went to the people without amendment, and so beautiful was its character, and so delightful the acting, that it carried away the hearts of the listeners. corneille now tried again to write comedy, but did not succeed so well as in tragedy. he triumphed, however, over a rival, and that to him was something, though the play is an inferior one. from this time the poet wrote no better, but in truth worse and worse. he did not fail to write beautiful scenes, but failed in selecting good subjects. he established himself in paris, and could do so with comfort, for the king bestowed a pension upon him. before this he had resided at rouen, running up to paris quite often. in he was elected a member of the french academy. he was never a courtier, and was not fitted to shine in gay parisian circles. his tastes were very simple, and he was in his manners like a rustic. to see him in a drawing-room you would not think the man a genius, nor even a bright specimen of his kind. some of his friends remonstrated with him, and tried to rouse him from his sluggishness in society. he always replied, "i am not the less pierre corneille." la bruyere says of him, "he is simple and timid; tiresome in conversation--using one word for another--he knows not how to recite his own verses." it is strange that he came to paris, for he loved the country better, and many attribute the remove to his brother, who was also winning success as a dramatist. it had been well if after this corneille had been content to write no more plays, for everyone he now produced only proved that his genius had decayed. the old cunning was gone. a young rival sprung up, the graceful racine, and for awhile the old favorite was forgotten, or laughed at. racine took a line from one of his pieces and used it in such a manner as to excite laughter. corneille said: "it ill becomes a young man to make game of other people's verses." unfortunately he was tempted into a duel with racine. the latter triumphed as a writer for the time, and corneille stopped his pen, as he should have done a long time before. but often he had the pleasure of seeing some of his best pieces enacted upon the stage, and they always excited great enthusiasm. he also knew that the refined and critical loved his best plays--the better the more they read them. the conduct of the poet through his whole life was, in the main, such as to excite great admiration in after generations. he was no sycophant in that age of fawning courtiers. he was simple and manly. he was always melancholy and cared little for the vanities of life. though poor in early life, he cared but little about money. the king gave him a pension of two thousand francs, which at that time was a good income. he was generous and died utterly poor. one evening when age had bowed his form he entered a paris theater. the great _conde_ was present, and prince and people as one man rose in honor of the great dramatist. he died in his seventy-ninth year, and racine pronounced a high eulogy upon him, before the academy. such was its beauty that the king caused it to be recited before him. in it he extolled the genius of the man who had at one time been his rival, and he taught his children to revere his memory. in france, much more in paris, the name of corneille is to-day half sacred. the house he lived and died in has many visitors, and to his tomb many a pilgrim comes. and it is not strange that parisians adore him, for he was the father of comedy as well as tragedy. it was his plays that caused the erection of commodious theaters. his plays have continued to hold their place in the affections of the nation, and he is reverenced more to-day than he was while living. the foreigner cannot understand fully the character of modern french dramatists, and that of their works, without knowing something of corneille, nor can he wander long among the streets of paris, without becoming aware of the estimation in which he is held at the present time by the intelligent classes. the great jester rabelais was born in . he was a learned scholar, a physician, and a philosopher. he was called "the great jester of france," by lord bacon. many buffooneries are ascribed to him unjustly, and he was a greater man than certain modern writers make him out to be. his place of birth was chinon, a little town of touraine. his father was a man of humble means. he received his early education in a convent near his home. his progress was very slow and he was removed to another. he promised poorly for future distinction, but at the second convent he was fortunate in making the acquaintance of du ballay who afterward became a bishop and cardinal, and whose friendship he retained to the day of his death. he was again removed to another convent, where he applied himself to the cultivation of his talents. there was, however, no library in the place. rabelais soon took to preaching, and with the money he was paid for it, he purchased books. his brother monks hated him for his eloquence in preaching, and for his evident learning. he was persecuted by these men and suffered a great deal, principally because he knew greek. for some alleged slight offered against the rules of the convent, they wreaked their vengeance upon him by condemning him to the prison cell, and to a diet of bread and water. they also applied their hempen cords thoroughly, and this course of treatment soon reduced rabelais to a very weak condition. his friends were by this time powerful and they obtained his release, and a license from the pope for him to pass from this convent to another. but he was thoroughly disgusted with convent life, and fled from it, wandering over the provinces as a secular priest. he next gave up this employment altogether, and took to the study of medicine. he went through the different steps of promotion and was made a professor. he delivered medical lectures, and a volume of his--an edition of hippocrates--was long held in high estimation by the medical faculty of france. a medical college of montpellier had been deprived for some reason of its privileges, and rabelais was deputed to chancellor duprat to solicit a restoration of them. the story is told--to illustrate his learning--that when he knocked at the chancellor's house he addressed the person who came to the door in latin, who could not understand that language; a man shortly presented himself who could, and rabelais addressed him in greek. another map was sent for, and he was addressed in hebrew, and so on. the singularity of the circumstance arrested the attention of the chancellor, and rabelais was at once invited to his presence. he succeeded in restoring the lost honors to the college, and such was the enthusiasm of the students that ever after, when taking degrees, they wore rabelais scarlet gowns. this usage continued till the revolution. rabelais now went to lyons, and still later to rome as the physician to du ballay, who was ambassador at that court. some writers claim that he went as buffoon instead of physician, but this is unsupported by evidence. many stories are told of his buffooneries at the court of rome, but unquestionably the majority were entirely untrue. one story told, however, is good enough to be true. the pope expressed his willingness to grant rabelais a favor. the wit replied that if such was the fact, he begged his holiness to excommunicate him. the pope wished to know the reason. the wit replied that some very honest gentlemen of his acquaintance in touraine had been burned, and finding it a common saying in italy when a fagot would not burn "that it had been excommunicated by the pope's own mouth," he wished to be rendered incombustible by the same process. it is asserted that rabelais offended the pope by his buffooneries, but the assertion can scarcely be believed. when he had resided for a time in rome, rabelais went to lyons, then returned to the holy city, and after a second visit went to paris, where he entered the family of cardinal du bellay, who had also returned from rome. he confided to rabelais the government of his household, and persuaded the pope to secularize the abbey of st. maurdes-fosses, and conferred it upon the wit. he next bestowed upon him the cure of meudon, which he retained while he lived. one of the first of rabelais' books was entitled "_lives of the great giant garagantua and his son pantagruel"_. to it he owes a great deal of his reputation and popularity. it created a vast deal of talk, and was both highly praised and bitterly attacked. the champions of the church criticised his book with great severity. calvin the reformer also wrote against it with much earnestness. the sorbonne attacked it for teaching heresy and atheism, and it was condemned by the court of parliament. the subjects held up for ridicule were the vices of the popes, the avarice of the prelates, and the universal debaucheries of the monastic orders. it was a wonderful book for the times, and it required great courage in rabelais to venture upon its publication. he would have lost position, and perhaps his liberty, had it not been for the monarch francis i., who sent for the volume, read it, and declared it to be innocent and good reading, and protected the author. the sentence against the book amounted to nothing after this, and it was everywhere read and admired. rabelais was set down as the first wit and scholar of his age. the character of the book we have noticed cannot be defended. its irreverent use of scripture quotations, and loose wit, are not to be overlooked, but there was no advocacy of atheism in it. indeed we must look upon rabelais as acting the part of a reformer. if he had sought simply popularity and the favor of the court and church, he would certainly not have written a book which is a scathing attack upon pope, prelate, and monk. the book is full of dirty expressions--but the age was a very impure one, and we should not judge him too severely. he was a frenchman, and french wit in all ages has taken great liberties with decency. among the other books which rabelais wrote, we may mention "_several almanacs_," "_the powers of chevalier de longery_," "_letters from italy_," "_the philosophical cream_," etc. etc. his greatest book, which we have mentioned, went through a great number of editions and had a tremendous sale. it was republished in several foreign states. rabelais was a scholar, for he knew well fourteen languages, and wrote with facility greek, latin, and italian. he was a good physician, an accomplished naturalist, a correct mathematician, an astronomer, an architect, a painter, a musician, and last of all, a wit and philosopher. he was a good pastor over the parishioners of meudon, and acted as physician to their bodies as well as souls. there are idle tales to the effect that he made his will as follows: "i have nothing--i owe much--i leave the rest to the poor." and also that he sent a message as follows, to cardinal du ballay. "tell the cardinal i am going to try the great 'perhaps'--you are a fool--draw the curtain--the farce is done." these were fictions invented by the very pious catholics, who hated him for his satires upon the church. rabelais must have been a great man. even his learning alone would have made him the most distinguished man in france at the time he lived. those who hated him have tried to cover his memory with shame, and have represented him as merely a buffoon, but such was not the truth. he did often descend to buffooneries and to almost obscene sayings, and these things have had their influence upon france, and have contributed to make the french people what they are to-day--a nation of professed catholics, but really a nation of infidels and atheists. but rabelais was more than a wit. he was a public benefactor. he improved medical science, and was as much a reformer in his laughable attacks upon the fat and lazy monks, as was calvin himself. rabelais died at the age of seventy, and was buried in the churchyard of st. paul, rue des jardins, at the foot of a beautiful tree which was preserved in his memory. no monument was ever placed over his grave, but he did not need one to perpetuate his memory. the dramatist. one of the men of the past who exerted and still exerts a wide influence over french literature, is racine. he was born in , in the small town ferte-milon, in valois. the parents died while he was in infancy, and he and a sister, their only children, were left orphans in the care of their maternal grandfather. this sister remained in ferte-milon during her life, which was not long. racine was not happy while young, and being neglected by his grandparents felt it keenly. he was a scholar at beauvais, and attached himself to one of the political parties which at that time always sprang up in schools and colleges. he was in one of their contests wounded upon his forehead, and bore the scar through life. racine was transferred from beauvais to the school of the convent of port royal, and the jesuits noticing his natural quickness, bestowed careful attention upon his education. he was so wretchedly poor that he could not buy copies of the classics, and he was obliged to use those owned by others, and which were much inferior to copies he could have purchased had he possessed money. he was early struck with the beauty of the greek writers--and more especially the greek tragedians. he wandered in the woods with sophocles and euripides in his hands, and many years after could recite their chief plays from memory. he got hold of the greek romance of theogines and chariclea, but the priests would not tolerate such reading and committed the volume to the flames. he got another copy and it shared the same fate. he concluded to purchase another, kept it till he learned it by heart, and then took it to the priests and told them they might have that also. at port royal racine was happy. he was a gentle-hearted boy and his masters loved him. he early began to compose verses and showed an intense love of poetry. at nineteen he left port royal for the college of harcour, at paris. when he was twenty-one louis xiv. was married, and invited every versifier in the kingdom to write in honor of the occasion. racine was an obscure student and was unknown as a poet. he wrote a poem on the marriage, and it was shown to m. chapelain, who was the poetical critic of paris at that time. he thought it showed a good deal of promise and suggested a few alterations. it was carried to the patron of the critic, who sent him a hundred louis from the king, and a pension of six hundred livres. the poet's friends were anxious that he should choose a profession, and that of the bar was strongly urged upon him. he objected. an uncle who had a benefice at uzes, wished to resign it to his nephew. racine concluded to visit his uncle in the provinces. he remained for some time there, but he found there was little hope of advancement and grew restless. the scenery around him was magnificent, yet, though he was a poet, he had no eye for the grand and impressive in scenery. he was too much of a parisian for that. a parisian is all art--and cares nothing for nature. he prefers fine buildings and paintings to fields, mountains, and majestic rivers. racine wrote a poem entitled "_the bath of venus_," and began a play upon the greek one of theogines and chariclea, which had delighted him so much when he was young. he returned to paris somewhat discouraged, after an absence of only three months. here, through the rivalry of two play-writers, he was persuaded to write very hastily a new play. he consented, and produced one which was well received by the parisians. it did not do justice to his powers, however, and he soon after wrote "_alexandre_," which was an advance upon the previous performance. he was unacquainted with the english or spanish drama, and had studied only the french of corneille, and the greek. he attempted the greek drama, and of course found it very difficult to render dramas founded upon grecian national subjects, and with grecian manners, interesting to a parisian audience. "_alexandre_" was not successful upon the stage, but the best critics did not hesitate to award the premium of great dramatic genius to racine, and he was encouraged to go on. while the dramatist was writing "_andromaque_" he was bitterly attacked by the leader of a sect of religionists for the wretched morality of his play. he felt the attack keenly, and that it was just, no american will deny, though frenchmen will. the poet replied to the attack in a witty and satirical letter. the "_andromaque_" of racine had a fine success, and one character was so full of passion and was so well represented upon the stage, that it cost the life of the actor who fell dead from excitement. then followed in quick succession "_brittonicus_" and "_berenice_," which were also successful. his plays were full of intense passion and eloquence, and it would not give the reader a fair idea of their influence over the french, did we not admit that their representations of human life were such as to undermine the morality of those who listened to them. the plays of racine have exerted a prodigious influence over the intelligent classes of paris, and their wretched morality poisoned the nation. for my part, when i consider the literature of france--and no one can judge of a people without knowing its literature--i do not wonder that a very low morality exists throughout the country, but more especially in paris. the great plays of past and modern times are saturated with licentiousness--the great romances of past and present years, are foul with impurities. racine, living in an age of licentiousness, reflects it in his plays, and his plays are admired to-day in paris, as of yore; hence it follows that those who go and see them acted must be somewhat affected by their immorality. madame rachel has made the characters of racine familiar to all france, and has revived all his blemishes as well as beauties. the poet met with much severe criticism after the representation of the last mentioned of his plays. madame sevigne was one of corneille's warmest admirers, and did not join the company of racine worshipers. a benefice was now given the poet, but soon after it was disputed by a priest; lawsuits began, and finally he relinquished it in disgust. racine, moliere, boileau, and others were in the habit of meeting and having convivial suppers together, and on such occasions racine projected new plays, and characters were often suggested to him by his fellow authors. in one of his after plays, which was not successful, he showed a talent for comedy far above mediocrity. it was once represented before the king, who laughed so hard that his courtiers were astonished. racine was elected member of the academy in , and made a very modest speech when the honor was conferred upon him. he brought out one after another, "_bajazet_," "_mithridates_," "_phoedra_," and "_iphigenia_," all of which had an excellent reception. the day "_phoedra_" was brought out, another dramatist brought out a drama with the same title. he had powerful friends who went so far as to pack his theater, and buy boxes at the theater upon the stage of which racine's play was to be enacted, and leave them empty. this incident shows us the fierceness of rivalry between authors at that time. to such an extent was the quarrel carried by the friends of the respective authors, that racine, who was a very sensitive man, resolved to renounce the drama. his early religious education tended to strengthen his resolution. he soon became a severe and stern religionist, undergoing penances to expiate the guilt incurred for his life of sin. his confessor advised him to marry some woman of piety, to help him on in his good work, and he therefore married. the woman was catherine de romenet. she was of a higher position, and was wealthy. she knew nothing of the drama, was not fond of poetry, and was a very strict religious woman. she was sincere and affectionate, and wrought a wonderful change in racine. under her quiet tuition he became very narrow in his religious convictions, but quite happy in his mind. he brought up his children with the same views, and they all took monastic vows. his daughters were, one after another, given to the convent. he had seven children in all, and found it difficult to meet all his family expenses. at this time he was made historiographer to the king, and witnessed many important battles. his life at court was very pleasant to him, and though he was a little too much inclined to be servile, yet he was generally an upright man. the story is told of him, that once when in the bosom of his little family, an attendant of the great duke came to invite him to dinner at the hotel de conde. he sent back the reply, "i cannot go; i have returned to my family after an absence of eight days; they have got a fine carp for me, and would be much disappointed if i did not share it with them." boileau and racine were very intimate friends, and many anecdotes are related of them. boileau had wit--racine humor, and a natural turn for raillery. the contests of the two were often amusing. the king was much pleased with the dramatist, and gave him a suit of apartments in the palace, and the privilege of attending his parties. madame de maintenon made a great favorite of him. he could recite poetry freely, and was asked to declaim before a young princess. he found that she had been learning some of his own plays. one of the best of his plays was performed in the presence of madame de maintenon, who liked it so well that she beseeched him to write a play which should contain no offensive sentiments. racine was in agony, for he feared to injure his reputation. his vow prevented his return to his old employment, yet he feared to refuse the request. he compromised the matter by dramatising the touching bible history of esther. at court the play had a wonderful success, and the poet tried again upon the story of atheliah of the house of judah; and in "_athalie_" we have the best of all his dramas. singular as it may seem, this play was not well received at court, and racine felt mortified. boileau told him, however, that posterity would declare it the best of all his plays, and he was right. it was about this time that the dramatist received the keenest blow which he had experienced hi his lifetime, and which broke his heart. madame de maintenon was his warm friend, and was extremely fond of his society. the country was at that time in great distress, and she conversed with the poet upon the subject. she was much pleased with his observations, and asked him to commit them to paper, promising that what he should write should be seen by no eye but her own. he complied with her request, and while she was one day reading his essay, the king suddenly entered, and casting his eye upon the paper, demanded the name of the author. madame de maintenon broke her promise, and gave the name of the writer. the king was very angry, and asked, "does he think that he knows everything because he writes verses?" madame de maintenon saw at once that the king was much displeased, and felt it to be her duty to inform the poet, that he might stay away from court for a while, until the monarch's anger died away. racine was plunged into the deepest distress, and grew daily weak and ill. he wandered over the park of versailles, hoping to accidentally meet madame de maintenon, for she did not dare to receive him publicly. he at length met her, and she promised that she would yet bring pleasanter days to the poet--that the cloud would soon pass away. he replied with great melancholy that no fair weather would return for him. one day, while in his study, he was seized with a sudden illness, and was obliged to take at once to his bed. an abscess in his liver had closed, though this was not known at the time. his disease grew very painful, and he became more patient and resigned. as death drew near, his original sweetness of disposition came back to him, and his deep melancholy fled away. the nobles of the court gathered around his bed-side, and the king sent to make inquiries as to his condition. he arranged all his pecuniary affairs. boileau was with him, and when he bade him farewell, he said, "i look on it as a happiness that i die before you." when the physicians had discovered the abscess in his liver, they resolved upon an operation, and he consented, though with no hope of saving his life. he said, "the physicians try to give me hope, and god could restore me; but the work of death is done." in three more days he expired, in his sixtieth year. thus lived and died one of the most brilliant men in the history of france. chapter xii the fabulist--the infidel--the comic writer the fabulist. la fontaine, the fabulist, was buried by the side of moliere, who died long before him. he was born july th, , at chateau thierry. his father was keeper of the royal domains. while young, la fontaine gave no promise of his after distinction. his teachers declared him to be a dunce. his father, who seems to have been an admirer of poetry, persuaded him to attempt to write verses, but he could not make a rhyme. seeing at nineteen that he could not make a poet of his son, the old man resolved to make a priest of him. after eighteen months of trial the young man returned to society. his father then proposed that he should take the keepership of the royal domains, and marry marie d'hericart, the daughter of his friend. la fontaine made no objection, though we have no evidence that he loved the girl. she was both beautiful and talented, however. the father still clung to the idea that his son could write poetry, and with a kind of prophetic instinct. when la fontaine was twenty-two, a french officer visited him, who was a great admirer of poetry, and who brought the poems of malherbe. la fontaine became excited by the poetry, or the passionate recitation, and for days did nothing but read and recite poetry. he commenced writing odes in imitation of malherbe, and when his father beheld his first attempt, he cried for joy. the character of the poetry was certainly different from that which afterward gave him his fame. he soon discovered the secret of success. by studying the old authors, he improved his taste, and acquired a disrelish for french literature. he was very fond of the italian authors, but not knowing greek, he only read the greek authors through translations made by others. he was exceedingly fond of plato, and his favorite copy was entirely filled with annotations. la fontaine remained for several years at thierry, indolent, except in his reading, and neglecting his business and his family. his "_adonis_" was written at this time. his good nature and simplicity are well illustrated by an anecdote which is told of him. an officer was in the constant habit of visiting his house, and his friends told him that the reputation of madame la fontaine was compromised, and that nothing was left but for him to challenge the officer to a duel. now the fabulist cared little for madame, and less for his own reputation in connection with hers; but he believed his friends, and so after a great effort shook off his indolence, and early one morning went to the officer, who was in bed, and demanded that he should rise at once and go out to mortal combat. the officer rose and followed him, and easily disarmed him. an explanation followed. the friends of la fontaine had been joking him, and when the officer declared that he would never cross the threshold of thierry again, la fontaine told him that thenceforth he should come more frequently than ever. but though madame la fontaine was guiltless in this affair, her character was by no means above reproach. she was giddy and thoughtless, and fond of the society of gentlemen, and made a poor wife for the poet. but she had an excuse. la fontaine bestowed upon her no attention, deserted her for weeks together, and was guilty of amours with other women. he possessed a wretched memory, and was given to astonishing absences of mind. the duchess of bouillon left him one morning walking in the open air, with a favorite book in his hand. at night he was still there, though it had been raining hard for some time. his acquaintance with the duchess of bouillon was of great service to him. had it not been for her he would probably never have left thierry. she was at that time in the country, being disgraced and exiled from court. she was gay, witty, and fond of poetry. chancing to read some lines of la fontaine, she sent for him, and at once saw his genius, and suggested that he should write tales and fables. when the duchess was allowed to return to paris she took la fontaine with her, and he was at once introduced into the most brilliant society. the duchess of mazarin, sister to the duchess of bouillon, was also his warm friend; and with the friendship of the two sisters he had no lack of attention. he became acquainted with moliere, boileau, and racine, and was warmly attached to them until death invaded the circle. the circles which la fontaine frequented were amused by his great eccentricities. he was often seized with his absences of mind, and great sport was made of him. but moliere was in the habit of saying at such times, "the good man will take a flight beyond them,"--a prediction which proved perfectly true, for the name of la fontaine will live longer than that of any of his companions. boileau and racine remonstrated with la fontaine for having separated from his wife. simple as he was, he believed what they told him--that it was his duty to return to her. he very soon came back, and when he was asked why he came back so soon, he replied, "i did not see her!" "how," they asked, "was she from home?" "yes," he replied; "she was gone to prayers, and the servant not knowing me, would not let me stay in the house until she returned." the fabulist and his wife were so extravagant and careless in their habits, that in a very short time the property of la fontaine was wasted away. foquet, the minister, pensioned him, and he remembered him always after. when foquet was banished, la fontaine solicited his pardon, but the king was incapable of forgiving an enemy, and changed the sentence to solitary confinement for life. the succeeding minister took away la fontaine's pension, as might have been expected. in la fontaine published his first collection of fables, and it gave him immediately the very highest rank as a fabulist. shortly after, he published a tale entitled "_psyche and cupid_." he was now without money and a home. the duchess of orleans added him to her suite, and gave him a pension. she soon died, however, and he was again left homeless. a woman by the name of de la sabliere now invited him to her house, and with her he lived the next twenty years. she was a woman of great refinement and taste, but was singularly situated. she lived apart from her husband, and had her lover. she gave parties which the most distinguished men in france attended, and la fontaine was very happy while in her house. he was oppressed by no care or anxiety, and had nothing to do but to read and write when it suited him. he wrote several operas, and actually fell asleep during the first performance of one of them at the theater! in he was elected a member of the french academy. he had forgotten his old friends at thierry, and indeed did not know his own son. he attended the funeral of a friend, one day, and ten days after it had so completely escaped his memory, that he called to visit the man. he was lionized, greatly to his displeasure. attending one day at a dinner given by somebody who cared nothing for his genius, but wished the _eclat_ that would result from entertaining a great man, la fontaine talked little, eat very heartily, and when dinner was over, got his hat to go. the host remonstrated: "the distance is short--you will be too early," he said. "i'll take the longest road," replied la fontaine. after twenty years of easy existence, la fontaine was suddenly deprived of his home. madame de la sabliere had been living all this time with her lover. he now deserted her. at the same time her husband was deserted by his mistress, which so affected him that he took poison and died. these events had so great an effect upon madame de la sabliere that she also died. the duchess of bouillon was now in england, and she invited la fontaine to join her there; but he was now too old, and could not undertake such a journey. madame d'hevvart, the wife of a rich man, gave him an apartment in her house, where he remained during the rest of his days. he was now getting infirm, and the jesuits turned their eyes toward him. he had thus far lived without a profession of religion, and a life of loose morality. the jesuits cared little for his want of good morals, but in many of his books he had ridiculed the church and the clergy. it was important, therefore, to make him confess his sins. father poujet, a shrewd and subtle jesuit, was sent to converse with him. in a very short time he contrived to insinuate himself into the confidence of the simple poet. he acknowledged, one after another, the truths of religion, and he was called on to make expiations and a public confession. he was easily persuaded to burn his operas, and to give up all the profits resulting from the sale of a volume of his worst tales; but he rebelled against public confession. three doctors of the sorbonne were sent to him, and they argued long and well, but to no purpose. an old man who was angered by their bull-dog pertinancy, said, "don't torment him, my reverend fathers; it is not ill will in him, but stupidity, poor soul; and god almighty will not have the heart to damn him for it." that la fontaine finally made some kind of a confession, there is little doubt; but that he made the shameful confession which catholic writers declare he did, no one now believes. he was probably worn out with their entreaties, and came to a compromise with them. he added nothing to his reputation after this, but rather detracted from it. he lived very quietly and devotedly, and died in , in the seventy-fourth year of his age. it was found after his death that he was in the habit of mortifying himself with a shirt of sackcloth. la fontaine was unquestionably the greatest fabulist of his or any other time, and he has been exceedingly popular throughout france. his tales and fables and light poems are full of beauty and grace. but we cannot speak highly of their morality. they are, like almost all french literature, corrupt. they took their character from the times, and have had a bad influence upon later generations of france. the infidel. perhaps no man has existed in the past history of france, who has had such a wonderful influence over succeeding generations, as voltaire. i name him the _infidel_, not because his infidelity was the most prominent characteristic, but because he is known more widely in america for his scoffing skepticism. the effect of voltaire's skeptical writings is more perceptible in paris than in the provinces, but in the capital an amount of infidelity obtains which is perfectly frightful; and even among those who frequent the church, and sometimes ostentatiously parade an affection for it, this skepticism fills the intellects. no one writer of past years unsettled the already shallow-rooted faith of the people to such an extent as voltaire. yet he was by no means the man many of his enemies suppose him to have been. no mere scoffer or reviler of the bible could have obtained such an influence in france as voltaire did. he was really a great man, and gained the affections of the people by his advocacy of liberty. it is more than probable that under a system of religion as pure as now exists in america, voltaire would never have been an infidel. the condition of the catholic church in france, in his time, was sufficiently shocking to have startled every intelligent mind into skepticism. it was filled with hypocrites and knaves, who professed to be filled with the spirit of god, but who in reality were very sensual and wicked men. the slightest independence in religious opinions was punished by exile or imprisonment. how could a man with an independent intellect succumb to such a church? and was it not very natural for it to jump from belief to infidelity? this should be borne in mind when we estimate the character of voltaire. voltaire's real name was francois-marie arouet, and he was born at chatenay, on the th of february, . his father was a notary, and had a lucrative situation. his mother was of noble extraction. when a babe, he was so feeble that it was not expected he would live. an abbe in the family educated him, and it is a singular fact, that when he was a boy, a deistical ode was put into his hands. he entered the college of louis-le-grand, and his, talents rendered him a general favorite with the teachers. one of his tutors, however, in a religious argument found himself so incompetent to defend the catholic church, that in his anger he exclaimed, "you will become the coryphaeus of deism." on leaving college the young man entered into paris society. louis xiv. was in his dotage, and at this time paid little attention to men of genius. arouet soon became popular in the highest circles for his wit and genius. he resolved, much against his father's will, to devote himself to a literary life. one of the first acts of the young man was to fall in love with a rich but desperate woman's daughter, and amid much opposition he by stealth kept up an intercourse with her; but he was at last obliged to give way before so much ill will. his father was very angry with him--so much so, that he consented at last to study the law. he entered a law-office in paris, and pursued his studies with industry. he frequented society, but he could not content himself with the prospect of an attorney's life. he beseeched his father to release him from his course of study, and he consented that he should return to the country-seat of a friend, and consider the matter. here arouet found a large library, and fed upon it. he staid there until the death of the king, when he went up to paris to witness the joy of the people. some verses were printed which were attributed to him, and he was instantly thrown into the bastille. he passed a year in prison, without society, books, or pen and ink. while imprisoned, the idea occurred to him of writing a great french epic, and he actually composed in his dungeon two cantos of it, which afterwards were not altered. the poem was called "_henriade_," and was regarded with admiration by his contemporaries. arouet was finally set free, his innocence being satisfactorily proved. he now issued the tragedy of "_oedipus_," which had a great success. this success was only deserved in part. he still later wrote several letters upon the tragedies of sophocles, which gave him at once a high position as a man of learning, and as a critic. his life alternated between work and pleasure. he quarreled with rosseau about this time, and a little later visited england. he remained away from france three years. upon his return to paris he again brought out plays, and was everywhere admired and worshiped. but the priesthood hated him. he now bought the small estate of voltaire, and took the name for his own, as was customary at that time. his writings occasionally made light of religion and the priests, and scoffed at their practices. an actress in paris was refused the rites of burial by the priests, because of her life and profession. voltaire thereupon wrote her apotheosis, and in consequence was obliged to conceal himself for several months in a little village in normandy. when it was safe for him to emerge from his retirement, he wrote a book on england, which raised another storm about his head. he spoke too highly of english liberty in religious matters, and took occasion to speak sarcastically of all religion. the volume was burned in public, and voltaire concealed himself in the country. he now retired to the house of madam du chatelet in the country, where he remained for several years. she was a woman of fine intellect, but a harsh nature, and worshipped voltaire. he here wrote several plays; labored at his essay "_on the manners and spirit of nations_;" collected materials for his "_history of the age of louis xiv_;" and wrote the famous "_pucelle d'orleans_." it was while at this house that voltaire commenced the celebrated correspondence with frederick the great. each had the highest admiration for the other. the great king wrote to him as follows: "see in me only, i entreat you, a zealous citizen, a somewhat skeptical philosopher, but a truly faithful friend. for god's sake write to me simply as a man; join with me in despising titles, names, and all exterior splendor." voltaire replied; "this is a command after my own heart. _i know not how to treat a king_; but i am quite at my ease with a man whose head and heart are full of love for the human race." the two men met at cleave. the king had been very anxious for voltaire to visit the court of prussia, but he would not without madame du chatelet; and frederic cared not for the acquaintance of a french court lady. some time after this, voltaire was sent on a secret mission to prussia, and startled frederic by his sudden appearance. he tried to persuade him to take up his abode with him, but the philosopher would not consent. he sighed for his home, and the applause of a parisian audience. he brought out other plays, which were well received. a minister dying at this time, who had been a bitter enemy of his, he ventured more boldly before the world. he sought to be elected a member of the academy. a violent opposition arose. he had fought his enemies to the death, never sparing sarcasm or ridicule, and these things could not be forgotten. he lost his election, but was compensated by the success of a new tragedy, which set all paris into transports of delight. he was chosen by the duke de richelieu to negotiate with the king of prussia in reference to a treaty. he was honored in the highest degree by frederic--was feted, praised, and made as much of as if he had been a king. he succeeded in his negotiations, manifesting great subtlety and tact. he returned to the house of madame du chatelet. for a time he lived either here or at paris--until madame du chatelet died, when he went to paris to spend all his time. he was deeply affected by the death of the only woman he ever loved with sincerity. he propitiated the mistress of louis xv.--madame pompadour--and was appointed to a place in the court; and was also made historiographer of france. soon after, he was elected a member of the academy, thus triumphing over his old enemies at last. for a time he sacrificed his manly independence, and was not unlike any other court flatterer. he had a rival in crebillon; and disgusted with the state of things, he accepted the invitation of frederic, and made him a visit. he was received with the greatest joy by the monarch--who even kissed the poet's hand in a transport of admiration. the king's cook awaited his orders when he wished to eat in his own rooms, and the king's coach was ready for him when he would ride. he spent two hours each day in studying with the king, correcting his works, etc. etc. he was tempted by so much attention to accept of the king a pension and the office of chamberlain; and was obliged to resign his places at the french court. he wrote to a friend in france: "how can i forget the barbarous manner with which i have been treated in my own country? you know what i have gone through. i enter port after a storm that has lasted thirty years." he had a salary of twenty thousand francs for himself, and four thousand for his niece, who bitterly opposed the acceptance of frederick's offer. she prophesied that in the end it would be his death. he went at work correcting his tragedies and writing new plays. he soon thought he discovered deceit in the king, and learned that he was despotic. the keen remarks of each were treasured up. voltaire heard from a friend that the king had said of him: "i shall not want him more than a year longer--one squeezes the orange and throws away the peel." the remark caused him much sorrow. the king also treasured up a remark sarcastically made by voltaire, which was as follows: "when i correct the royal poems i am washing the king's dirty linen." they soon lost their attachment for each other. voltaire watched in vain for a way to escape from prussia. at last it came, and he was once more a free man in switzerland. he went into a protestant region, where there were no catholics, and bought him a pretty estate, and determined to live in complete independence. persecution however followed him here, and he took up his abode in a retired part of france. he wrote his "_encyclopedia_" which was severely condemned. in , in his eighty-fourth year, he returned to paris, bringing with him a newly-written tragedy. his new life in paris was not good for him, and he died at the end of may. this was the man who, in the years that followed him, ruled, as it were, the intellect of paris and france. he was a mighty man, and the fact that he was bitterly persecuted, gave him a hold upon the sympathies of succeeding generations. the conduct of the church toward him was shameful, and he made the sad mistake of rejecting all religion, the true as well as the false. his plays and writings abound with shocking sentiments, and some of his writings are exceedingly coarse. these scoffs, coming from an ordinary man, would have wrought little harm; but from the great voltaire, who was worshiped by the french people, they possessed an astonishing power to work iniquity. a new englander can scarcely credit his senses in paris when he finds the estimation in which voltaire and his writings are held by a vast class of the most intelligent parisians. in religious america he is regarded as a monster of iniquity; in france as a great poet, philosopher, and advocate of human liberty. * * * * * the great comic writer. the place where moliere, the great comic writer of france, lived in paris, was pointed out to me one day while near the rue st. honore; and i have often noticed on one of the prominent streets a very neat monument to the memory of the great man. it is a niche, with two corinthian columns, surmounted by a half-circular pediment, which is richly ornamented. a statue of moliere is placed in the niche in a sitting posture, and in a meditative mood. in front of the columns on each side, there are allegorical figures--one representing his serious, the other his comic plays. each bears a scroll which contains--one, his comic plays, arranged in chronological order; and the other, his serious plays, arranged in like manner. the basement is beautifully sculptured. the inscriptions are as follows: "_a. moliere. ne a paris, le jauvier, , et mort a paris, le fevrier, _." the monument is over fifty feet in height, and cost one hundred and sixty-eight thousand francs. it was erected in , with a great deal of attendant ceremony when it was finished. moliere is one of the names of which france is justly proud, and in paris his memory is half-worshiped. not to know him well, would be in the eyes of a parisian the sure sign of intolerable stupidity. he was the greatest comic writer of france, and perhaps of the world. it will not be out of place, therefore, to give a slight sketch of his life. the real name of moliere was jean baptiste poguelin, and he was born in a little house in the rue st. honore, in the year . his father was a carpet-furnisher to the king, and he was brought up to the same business by his father. his mother died when he was only ten years old, and his father was left with a large family of children to educate. the boy passed his early days in his father's warehouse, but his grandfather was accustomed to take him often to the play-house, where he listened to some of the great corneille's plays, to his thorough delight. thus in his youth, even while a mere boy, the taste for the drama was created. his father at one time remonstrated with the old man for taking the boy thus early to the theater, and asked, "do you mean to make an actor of him?" nothing daunted by this question, the grandfather replied, "yes, if it please god to make him as good a one as bellerose"--who was the best tragic actor of that time. the boy was discontented as he grew older, and panted for knowledge. as he contemplated a life given up to trade, he grew melancholy. he was finally sent as an out-student to the college of clermont, and afterward to the college of louis-le-grand, which was under the direction of the jesuits. the young prince of conti was at school at that time. gassendi, the private tutor to the natural son of a man of fortune, named chapelle--the son at that time at school with poguelin--discovered the boy's talents, and taught him the philosophy of epicurus, and gave him lessons in morals. another of his fellow-students was one de bergerac, of fine talents but wild disposition. chapelle and de bergerac became afterward distinguished. as soon as he was through college, poguelin entered into the king's service as _valet de chambre_, and made the journey with his majesty to narbonne. after this he studied law in orleans, and commenced practice in paris as an advocate. he here became associated with a few friends in getting up a series of plays. the age was one full of enthusiasm for the stage, and plays were enacted upon the stage and off of it, in private circles. the club of young men who acted together for the amusement of their friends, were so successful that they resolved to take to the public stage; and as was the custom, each took an assumed name. poguelin assumed the name of moliere, a name which he immortalized, and by which he was ever afterward known. his father was very much displeased with his course, and sent a friend to persuade him to relinquish it, but the deputy was so fascinated by poguelin's acting, that he became a convert to him, and was not fitted to urge the arguments of the father. the family for a time refused in a manner to acknowledge their son, being ashamed of his new profession; but they are now known only through him. the masters under whom moliere principally studied were italians, and he imbibed a love for the italian comic art. he also read the spanish comedies, and learned to admire them. moliere and his little band left paris for the provinces. the times were unpropitious, for the wars of the fronde at that time made the whole country a scene of confusion and danger. they had visited bordeaux, and were protected by the governor of guienne. while here, moliere wrote and brought out a tragedy, which had so poor a success that he gave up tragedy. after a short provincial tour he returned to paris, and renewed the acquaintance of the prince of conti. the latter caused moliere and his fellows to bring out plays at his palace. but paris was too full of strife, and moliere went to lyons, where he wrote and brought out his first comedy, "_l'etouedi_." it met with a great success. there is an english translation, entitled "sir martin marplot." the next piece was entitled "_depit amourex_," and its genuine humor gave it a fine reputation. the moral character of moliere at this time was exceedingly bad. the times were such that a band of players found every temptation before them. the french biographers give an account of some of his "gallantries," but they only lead the reader to feel disgust rather than admiration. that plays written by such a man, and during times which corrupted the whole people, should be pure, one could not expect. moliere's plays, therefore, bear the same character, in this respect, as all the great performances of authors of france in those and succeeding times. they were altogether loose in their morals. the company of players were invited to paynas by the prince of conti, who was staying there at the time. they acted before him, and moliere wrote several little interludes for the special amusement of the prince, which were afterward the ground-work of some of his best comedies. the prince was so pleased with the comedian, that he invited him to become his secretary. he declined, but whether from love of comedy, or fear of the prince, we do not know. the prince possessed an awful temper, and actually killed his former secretary by throwing the tongs at him. paris at length became more quiet, and moliere turned his steps toward it. he obtained the protection of the king's brother, was introduced to the king, and obtained permission to establish himself in the capital. there was a rival theater at the hotel de bourgogue, at which corneille's tragedies were played. moliere and his company acted before louis xiv. and his mother, in the louvre. the play was that of "nicomede," and the success was very great. the play was a tragedy, but moliere knew very well that they could not rival the other tragedy-theater, in that line; and he therefore introduced the custom that night of concluding a tragedy with a farce. the farce acted was one of his own, and was so well received that the custom was ever after kept up. the company finally settled down in the palais royal, which the king had granted them. the next poem which moliere wrote and brought out, was aimed at a society of men, including many of the most talented in paris, called the "_society of the hotel de rambouillet_." the peculiarities of this society were too ridiculous to describe at this day, and moliere's comedy, which was aimed at them, was wonderfully successful. paris at once was in an uproar of laughter, and in the midst of the piece an old man rose in the theater, crying out, "courage, moliere; this is a true comedy!" the next piece was entitled "_sganarelle_," and although it was quite successful, it was inferior to those which preceded it. moliere now tried tragedy, but with no success. it was not his _forte_. he returned to comedy, and brought out a piece entitled "_l'ecoledes maris_," which achieved a brilliant success. at this time foquet was the minister of finance, and gave a fete in honor of the king; indeed he entertained the king at his villa. he was in some respects another cardinal wolsey, in his magnificence and recklessness of display. foquet loved a beautiful girl, who rejected him. he discovered that the girl loved the king, and that the passion was reciprocated. in his anger he charged it upon the girl, who ran with the secret to the king. louis was resolved on the downfall of his minister. the fete took place upon a scale of almost unparalleled splendor. le brun painted the scenes, la fontaine wrote verses for it, and moliere prepared a ballet for the occasion. the king concealed his wrath at this display of wealth, and very much enjoyed moliere's amusements; and suggested a new comedy to the comedian, while talking with him at the minister's. foquet soon fell. moliere was by this time so distinguished that he had troops of friends among the wise, learned, and great. among the warmest of them was the great conde, who was always pleased with his society. he told the comedian that he feared to trespass by sending for him on peculiar occasions, and therefore requested him to come to him whenever he had a leisure hour; and at such times he would dismiss all other matters, and give himself up to pleasant conversation. the king invariably defended moliere. a duke once attacked him, and the king reproved the noble. he still attended to his duties as _valet de chambre_ to the king, and was constantly subjected to annoyance on account of his profession. the other officers of the king's chamber would not eat with him, such was their petty meanness and pride. the king determined to give them a lesson, so one morning he addressed moliere as follows: "i am told you have short commons here, moliere, and that the officers of my chamber think you unworthy of sharing their meals. you are probably hungry; i got up with a good appetite. sit down at that table where they have placed my refreshments." the king sat down with him, and the two went heartily at a fowl. the doors were opened, and the most prominent members of the court entered. "you see me," said louis, "employed in giving moliere his breakfast, as my people do not find him good enough company for themselves." from this time moliere had no trouble on the score of treatment from his fellow _valets_. everywhere except at court, before this, moliere was treated with the greatest consideration on account of his brilliant genius. he was intimate with racine and with boileau. the story for a time was believed that moliere married his natural daughter, but it has been proved a falsehood. he became attached to the sister of madeleine bejaet, a very witty and graceful woman, and married her; but he soon found that she was too fond of admiration to make him happy. she was coquettish, and without principle, and though moliere bore with her long, they at length separated. he said: "there is but one sort of love, and those who are more easily satisfied, do not know what true love is." moliere went on with the management of his theater, and writing and bringing out new plays. one of them--"_l'ecole des femmes_"--was translated and amended into the english by wycherly, and was altogether more licentious in plot than in the original language. it was very popular in england, but not so much so in france. the next piece of moliere's was entitled "_impromptu de versailles_," and was written at the command of the king. the king and his courtiers were accustomed to take parts in the ballets in those days, and louis and his court took parts in the ballets of moliere's construction. the soldiers who guarded the king were accustomed to go into the theater free. they took up a large space, and moliere represented his loss to the king, who abolished the privilege. the soldiers were very angry, and the next night they cut the door-keeper to pieces with their swords, and forced their way into the house. moliere made them a speech, and peace was restored. the king offered to punish with severity the lawless soldiery, but moliere requested him not to do so, and the new order was ever after obeyed without trouble. one of his next acts was to hold up to ridicule, in a comedy, the medical faculty. the condition of the medical art at that time was such that it richly deserved ridicule. but no man can thus attack great bodies of men without making enemies, and moliere had them without number. the comedian was now at the height of his prosperity, and still he was unhappy. separated from his wife, whose conduct was now shameful, he had no domestic happiness. he spent much of his time at his country-house at antenil, where an apartment was always kept for his old school-fellow, chapelle, for whom he always retained a warm affection. he was often alone, and preferred solitude, shutting himself away from society. a supper was once given by him to all his brother wits. he alone was indisposed, and as he took no wine or animal food, he went early to bed, leaving his friends merry over their wine. at last they grew so affected by the wine they had drank, that they were ready to follow a leader into any absurdity. chapelle was, when tipsy, always melancholy, and on this occasion he addressed his companions in a strain of bathos which, had they been free from the effects of wine, would only have excited their laughter. but now they were in the same condition as himself. chapelle finally wound up by proposing that they all proceed to a neighboring river, and end life together by plunging into it. he expiated upon the heroism of the act, and the immortality it would give them, and they all agreed to it. moliere overheard them quitting the house, and suspecting something wrong, followed them. he came up with them upon the bank of the river, when they besought him also to die with them. he professed to be struck with the heroism of their plan, but demanded that it should be executed in the broad day. they fell in with his suggestion, and returned to the house. of course, the next morning they were ashamed to look upon each other's faces. moliere wrote many new plays and farces, but his days were fast drawing to a close. he was overworked, and took little care of his health. the king asked him one day what he did with his doctor. "we converse together," he replied--"he writes prescriptions, which i do not take, and i recover." he had a weak chest, and a constant cough. about this time his friends persuaded him to invite his wife again to his house, and she urged him to a more generous diet, but he grew the worse for it. he now brought out a new play, and could not be prevented from taking a prominent part in it. on the fourth night he was much worse, and friends gathered around him, beseeching him not to go on the stage longer. he replied, "there are fifty poor workmen whose bread depends on the daily receipts. i should reproach myself if i deprived them of it." but while making others laugh, he was actually dying. he was, while in the ballet, seized with a fit of coughing, and burst a blood-vessel. a priest was sent for, but such was their antipathy to the comedian, that it was long before one could be found willing to attend him. he expired with but few friends around him. two sisters of charity whom he had been in the habit of receiving in his house while they were collecting alms during lent, remembered his generosity, and attended his death-bed. the archbishop of paris refused the rites of burial to the body. his wife was much moved by this act, and exclaimed, "what! refuse burial to one who deserves that altars should be erected to him!" she ran to the king, who being offended by some indiscretion of hers, refused to interfere in the matter, though he privately ordered the archbishop to take off the interdiction. when the funeral took place, a mob of low people, excited by their priestly advisers, attended, intending to offer insult to the body, but the comedian's widow propitiated them by throwing a thousand francs among them. we see by this shameful treatment of a man whom france honored, and who, though not irreproachable in character, was as pure as those who persecuted him. moliere was almost universally honored--always excepting those bodies which he had ridiculed. he was very generous, and would, long before his death, have given up acting on the stage, were it not for his companions whose subsistence depended upon his appearance with them. very many years after, the eulogy of moliere was made the subject of a prize; and when it was delivered, two persons by the name of poguelin were honored by a seat on the stage. at his death the band of comedians was broken up. his widow received a pension, in after years, of one thousand livres. but one of his children survived, and that one had no issue--so the race soon became extinct. the end. provided by the internet archive seets i' paris. sammywell grimes's trip with his old chum billy baccus; his opinion o'th' french, and th' french opinion o'th' exhibition he made ov hissen. by john hartley author of "clock almanack," yorkshire ditties," "seets i' lundun," "grimes's trip to america," "many a slip," "a rolling stone." "yorkshek puddin." &c. london: w. nicholson & sons, , paternoster square, e. c., and albion works, wakefield. preface. [illustration: ] o them'at read this book an are disappointed becoss aw've described noa 'seets' but what they knew all abaat befoar, awd simply beg on em to bear i' mind 'at they didn't mak a new payris o' purpose for me to visit;--an to them 'at's inclined to daat trewth o' some o'th' descriptions aw do give, becoss when they wor thear things lukt different to them, awd beg em to remember at we dooant all see wi th' same een, an if it had been intended 'at we should, one pair o' een wod ha done for th' lot, an then what wod ha becoom o'th' spectacle makkers. nah, if hawf o'th' book is fact, that's worth sixpence, an if t'other hawf is fancy, that's worth sixpence; soa bless mi life i what wod yo have? yors i' hard eearnest, sammywell grimes. ```dedicated as token of respect, to ```john stansfield, esq., halifax. ````with the best wishes of `````the author. `````november, . seets i' paris. chapter i. [illustration: ] w nivver intended to let yo know what had happened when aw went to payris, but as aw wor foolish enough to tak' another chap wi me, an as awm feeard if aw did'nt tell he wod, why awm foorced to tell misen. nah, awm quite willin' to admit'at ther may'nt be mich'at yo'll consider reight abaat it but for mi' own karacter's sake aw shall try to prove at ther wor nowt varry far wrang. aw could like to tell yo all aw saw an' all aw heeard, but aw've lived long enuff to know at trewth isnt allus pleasant, an' i' this case awm sewer it wod'nt be, for if aw may judge other fowk bi' misen awm foorced to say at th' inklin aw gate o' some types o' society made a bad impression'at has'nt left me yet. awd been advised whativver else aw did, to leeav mally at hooam, for they sed noa chap could enjoy hissen i' payris if he tuk a woman wi' him, an' especially if shoo considered hersen to be his guardian angel, which is another word for maister. but aw did'nt feel inclined to goa bi' misen like a wanderin' jew, soa aw went to ax billy baccus if he'd join me an' then we could goa like th' cussican brothers. nah, it soa happened at billy had been ailin' for a long time, ha long nubdy knew but hissen, for he's a famous memory an' booasts'at he can recollect his father an' mother havin' a fratch as to whether th' next child should be a lad or a lass befoor he wor born; but then awm nooan foorced to believe all he says, an' yo can please yorsen. hasomivver, his ailments began somewhear abaat that time, an' he's nivver had ony gradely health sin. when billy's at hooam he keeps a beershop at th' moorside an' does a varry tidy trade ov a sundy, but durin' th' wick its seldom or ivver at onybody darkens th' door an' that's a varry gooid job, for he's sich a martyr to his trade, an' soa anxious to suit his customers, at he'll nivver sarve onybody wi a pint until he's supt a gill to sample it, an' when it comes shuttin' up time, he's soa full up at he has to sit ith' arm cheer as straight as a pikestaff for fear if he should lig daan it mud run aght an' be wasted. during th' rest o' th' wick he suffers tarribly, an' monny a time he's hard warkto get on wi his brewin. he's nivver been wed, tho' he's a gooid lukkin' chap enuff, but his old mother lives wi him an' nurses him up as weel as shoo can. shoo's tell'd him monny a time at shoo thinks he'd be better if he'd a wife, but he allus says he's feeard if he wor wed an' should have ony childer'at they might have his complaint an' he doesnt want to be th' means o' onybody else havin' to suffer as he's done. but altho' his mother has a deal to do for him, shoo's varry praad on him, for he's her only lad an' shoo says he's th' best brewer at ivver smell'd o' malt, an' for a duzzen year he's nivver had a brewin at womt fit to sup, though nah and then ther's one'at isnt fit to sell, but he's ov a careful turn an' nivver wastes it, an' wol he's suppin that he's savin' summat better, an' if it maks noa profit yet it isnt mich ov a loss. aw've tell'd yo soa mich abaat billy to introduce him like, an' yo'll get to know him better as we goa on. aw tuk th' first chonce aw had to goa see him an it happened to be sundy mornin' an' he wor varry bad, an' when aw tell'd him what aw wanted he grooaned like a sick caah, an' puttin' his hand onto his wayscoit he shuk his heead an' stared at me as if aw wor a bum bailey come for th' rent. "payris!" he sed, after waitin' for a minit or two, "payris! what have aw to do wi payris? a'a! lad, if tha nobbut knew what aw suffer! it's weel to be like thee at nivver ails owt, but if tha'd sich a miserable carryin' on as aw have tha'd have summat else to think on! awm bilious tha knows, an' aw wor born soa, an' awm feeard awst nivver be better. what wi ta have to sup? awve some ov as grand four-penny as tha ivver tasted. mother, just draw a pint for sammy, he'll do wi' it after trailin' up here, an' yo can draw me a pint too for that matter for it cannot mak' me ony war nor aw am." "aw think sometimes'at tha'd be better if tha did'nt sup quite as much as tha does billy," sed his mother. he nivver answered her, but after hauf emptyin' th' pint he sed, "payris! whativver's put payris into thi heead? why, they're all feightin' aw reckon i' that quarter arn't they? aw remember some chaps tawkin' abaat it ith' kitchen one sundy'at neet." "feightin'! net they marry! that's aboon hauf a duzzen year sin." "it is a bit sin aw believe, but aw nivver heeard at they'd dropt it, but if its all ovver what does ta want to goa for? does ta think they're baan to fuffen agean?" "billy, tha caars up here wol tha knows nowt abaat what's gooin on ith' world." "a chap at's troubled wi bile has plenty to do withaat botherin' wi th' world--but aw mud happen ha gooan if they'd been gooin to have another set too. payris! whativver is ther to goa to payris for when they've done fuffenin?" "if ther'd been onny feightin' aw should'nt ha wanted to goa, tha can be sewer o' that, but ther's th' exhibition, an' they say ther wor nivver owt as grand befoor an' its th' grandest city ith' world, an' its full o' moniments an' fine buildins, an' ivverything ats worth lukkin' at." "why, what does ta want wi fine buildins,--are ta thinkin' abaat flittin? aw should think at yond haase tha's lived in soa long wod fit thee thy bit o' time aght, an' then varry likely, if tha leaves yor mally owt tha'll get a moniment o' thi own, an' as for th' exhibition;--aw generally try to goa to keighley cattle show once ith' year, though aw've missed for three or four year aw believe, but that's gooid enuff for me. payris! nay, awst goa nooan to payris if ther's noa fuffenin." "well, tha mun be like to suit thisen,--aw nobbut thowt tha'd happen like to get shut o' that bile at troubles thi soa, an' they say at ther's monny a scoor goa for nowt else." "nah tha begins to tawk sense. if aw thowt gooin to payris ud cure me an' mak' me like other fowk awd goa befoor aw went to bed! what sooart ov a place is it for gettin summat to sup?" "th' best ith' world an' th' cheapest, an if tha'll goa aw believe tha'll be a man new made ovver agean, an' they say ther's th' bonniest women thear at's to be fun onny whear, an' who knows but what tha mud leet o' one." "bonny wimmen, says ta? aw care nowt abaat em bein bonny, have they onny brass? that's what's wanted isnt it mother?" "aw think tha's brass enough, an' if settin' off for a day or two'll mak' thi better, if aw wor thee awd goa." "well, fill theas two pints agean an' awl think abaat it." "awst ha noa moor ale this fornooin," aw sed, "an' if tha thinks o' gooin' tha'll ha to mak up thi mind sharp for aw mun be off hooam." "tha'rt allus in a hurry when tha comes here, but ha mich will it cost?" "ten paand'll see thi throo it nicely aw think." "tha thinks does ta? but aw mun be sewer afoor aw start! awm nooan gooin to slave my sow! aght for th' best pairt ov a lifetime o' purpose to tak it to keep a lot o' lazzy french fowk! but when does ta think o' gooin?" "next wedensdy mornin--tha's lots o' time to get ready.". "well, awl goa if it settles me. but can ta tawk french?" "nay, but aw've getten a book an awm leearin a word or two." "does ta know th' french for a pint o' ale?" "nay but aw can sooin leearn it." "well, be sewer tha does,--or tha'd happen better mak it a quairt wol thar't abaat it for ther'll be two on us to it." "awl mak' that all reight. soa awl expect thi to meet me at bradforth station bi nine o'clock." "awst be thear. then tha will'nt have another pint?" "noa moor aw mun be off nah--gooid day!" "gooid day! nah dooant forget to leeam th' french for a quairt an' we can manage for owt else." aw wor glad to get away for fear he should change his mind, an' aw knew awd some bits ov arrangements to mak' o' mi own, an' th' leeast on em wornt makkin it all reight wi mally. when aw gate hooam an' tell'd her at aw wor thinkin' o' gooin, shoo set too an' blagarded me as nubdy else has a reight to do, an' shoo finished up wi sayin', "an' soa tha'rt gooin to payris are ta?" "aw am," aw sed, "an' its a pity tha cannot goa wi' me, but tha knows as well as me'at a haase left to itsen gooas to rack an' ruination. tha knows what trouble it is for me to goa away an' leave thee at hooam." "sammywell, if tha tawks as tha does aw shall begin to think'at tha's forgettin ha to spaik trewth. aw dunnot know what awve done, nor what tha'rt short on at hooam, nor what it is tha meets wi when tha'rt away, but for this last two-o'-three year if tha's stopt at hooam for a day or two tha's been war nor a worm on a whut backstun an' tha nivver seems happy unless tha'rt galivantin abaat; but its noa use me wastin' mi' wind tawkin' to thi, for tha's made up thi mind to goa thi own gate an' it'll be varry weel if it doesnt land thi somewhear at last whear tha'll find a deal moor brimstun nor tha will traitle, mark that. if aw could see ony gooid tha gate aght on it, it mud be different, but ther's noa improvement in thi. tha wor nivver nowt to luk at an' varry little to feel at, an' tha seems to pride thisen i' thi awkardness. tha seems to forget at tha'rt a gron-father; but tha can goa awther to payris or to payredise for owt aw care, but aw believe tha'll just come back th' same as tha went, or else war." "well, but if aw goa to payris awst happen come back french-polished an' then tha'll hardly know me. "aw pity them at'll have th' french-polishin o' thee, for they'll ha ther wark set! all th' bees wax an' turpitine ith' country ud be wasted o' thee. but awl tell thi what aw think, sammywell, an' aw've been considerin it for th' last forty year--" "spaik aght lass, an' let's know th' warst." "ther's nowt nawther nice nor new in it, aw weant say whether tha wor born soa or tha's made thisen soa, but th' conclusion awve come to is'at tha'rt a fooil." "well, tha mud be farther off th' mark nor that, an' tha's tell'd me th' same tale soa oft wol tha's ommost made me believe it misenj; but what says ta, will ta goa wi me?" "sammywell! aw've been wed to thi all theas years an' aw should ha thowt, simpleton as tha art, at tha'd ha geen me credit for moor sense. what have aw to goa to payris for? who's to wesh theas clooas aw should like to know if aw goa scaarin a country same as thee? ther's awr hepsaba wi yond youngest child hardly a twelvemonth old, an' awm expectin to be sent for ivvery day an' neet, but tha wod'nt care if shoo'd to goa abaat wi a child i' awther arm an' a couple teed to her back, tha'd goa to payris an' leeav em to muck amang it; but awm different to thee, aw want to be whear aw can be o' some use to them at belangs to me an net ramlin' abaat makkin misen a laffinstock for fowk! but awst be suited when thart gooan for awst ha one less to luk after, an' if tha stops wol aw send for thi back tha'll net show thi face i' this fold agean yet a bit!" aw set varry quiet an' sed nowt for aw knew if aw spaik aw should mak' it war, an' after shoo'd scaled fire an' clattered th' pooaker agean th' ribs, banged th' ovven door to, upset th' tangs, punced th' fender aght ov its place an' dragged it back agean, shoo turned raand an' sed as quiet as could be, "then what wi ta want to tak' wi thi, coss tha'd better let's be knowin soas aw can get it ready an' net drive ivverything to th' last minit?" "varry few things'll suit me, for we're nobbut gooin for a day or two." "we! who does ta mean bi a 'we'?" "aw've been to ax billy baccus if he'll goa wi' me, aw thowt he'd be a bit o' cumpny tha knows." "oh! billy baccus is it? well an' awm fain tha has axd him! yo do reight to goa together, billy an' thee! they'd ha built another, exhibition if they'd known you'd been gooin, billy baccus! raillee, sammywell! an' what does his mother say? is he baan to tak' a brewery wi him or will he rent one wol he's thear?" someha this seemed to put mally in a gooid temper an' aw wor nooan inclined to spoil it, soa aw laft when shoo laft an' ther wor nowt onnymoor sed. th' momin sooin coom, an' when aw wor biddin' mally gooid bye, aw slipt a bit o' paper into her hand at awd scribbled on,= ```awm gooin to leeav thi mally lass, ````but tho' aw love to rooam; ```awst nivver let an' haar pass, ````withaat a thowt for hooam. ```an' tho' aw feeast mi'een o' seets ````all strange, an' wondrous grand; ```awst turn mi heart i'th' silent neets, ````to this mi' native land. ```awst think o' thee, at's shared mi woe, ````'at's proved mi' joy as well; ```an' far an' wide wheare'er aw goa, ````awst prize nooan like thisel.= shoo read it--"a'a, sammywell!" shoo sed, "tha thinks tha can get ovver me onnytime wi' a bit ' nonsense like that, but tha mun mind tha doesnt try it on once too oft. try an' tak' care o' thisen, but whativver else be careful ' thi umberel!" aw wor sooin at th' station an' billy wor waitin. if ivver aw saw th' pictur o' misery it wor his face that mornin'. "ha does ta feel?" aw says. "war an' war, aw think awst ha to give it up, awm nooan fit to goa." "it's a pity tha set off," aw sed, "has ta getten wai sin tha left hooam?" "nay aw've been soa ivver sin aw saw thi; aw should like to goa, but a'a dear a me!" "why then," aw says, "aw need'nt get two tickets?" "noa, get one for thisen, aw've getten mine." "an' whear's thi luggage?" "its ith' van yonder all reight." aw sed noa moor but gate mi ticket--th' time wor up, we jumpt into th' carriage an' wor sooin off to london. [illustration: ] chapter ii. mercredi. [illustration: ] ext to bein' th' eleventh chap to get into a carriage'at's suppooased to be weel packed wi' ten, aw hate to travel wi' one chap'at's made up his mind to be miserable--an' aw could see in a twinklin' 'at bill meant it. but aw wor off for a spree, (aw owtn't to ha sed that, for awd left word at hooam'at aw wor gooin to collect information for th' benefit o' mi fellow men,) but whativver wor th' principle reason for me gooin aw know'at th' interest had summat to do wi' a jollification. "a'a, aw wish awd stopt at hooam," he sed, as sooin as th' train gate aght o'th' station. "awm sooary but tha had," aw sed, low daan. "what says ta?" "awm sooary tha'rt soa bad," aw shaated. "tha doesn't know what aw suffer, lad. has ta owt to sup?" "eeah, aw've a drop'at mally wod mak mi bring; see what it's like." "that stirs it," he sed, when he'd had a gooid swig, "what does ta call it?" "nay, aw dooant know for aw've nivver tasted it. happen it's gin?" "is it?" an' he held th' bottle to luk at it. "maybe it is," he sed, an' he tuk another swig to find aght. "nay it's nooan gin aw think, aw fancy it's whisky." "varry likely it is whisky," aw sed, "it doesn't luk unlike." "aw dooant pretend to say'at it is, for awm noa judge, but it happen is gin," an' he supt agean to mak reight sewer, an' then he handed me th' bottle an' sed, "tha can call it what tha likes but aw call it whisky--taste for thisen." he did reight to say "taste," for he hadn't left enough in for a sup, but aw didn't care for that for it seemed to liven him up a bit, an' bi th' time we stopt at peterborough he jumpt aght to stretch his legs a bit an' try what sooart o' ale they kept at th' station, an' he lukt leetsomer nor awd seen him for a twelvemonth, an' when he coom back he'd a cigar in his maath an' another for me. "what mak o' ale do they keep?" aw ax'd. "muck! aw wodn't sell sich stuff, an' th' glasses are nobbut like thimmels an' they dooan't aboon hauf fill'em. it's a scandlous shame ha they impooas o' fowk, if awd to do sich things aw couldn't sleep for thinkin' on it," an as if to prove'at he nivver did owt o'th' sooart he lained back his heead an' in a varry little time wor snoorin' away like a bacon makker. when th' train stopt at th' far end aw had to wak-ken him an' it wor noa easy job. "come on!" aw sed, "ger up! doesn't ta know'at we're at th' far end?" "aw care nowt abaat it whear we are, awm nooan baan to get up!" "but tha mun care, for tha'll be foorced to get aght here; an' whear's thi luggage? if tha doesn't stir thi somdy'll run away wi' it!" he oppened one e'e abaat hauf way just to squint at me, "an' who's baan to run away wi' it? let me catch him an' awl bet ther'll be one frenchman less to feight th' next battle o' waterloo! awl poise his frog-aitin heead off his shoolders if he touches owt o' mine!" "ther's noa frenchmen here; tha's nobbut getten to lundun, an' tha munnot tawk abaat poisin' when tha gets to france, tha'll ha' to leearn to parleyvoo!" "aw dooant care whether it's poisin' or parleyvoo-in', awl bet his heead comes off schews ha!" just then th' guard coom "all out here! hi there! what's to do?" aw knew th' guard an' he knew me. "o, it's nobbut a friend o' mine'at's been asleep a bit an' didn't know we'd landed," aw sed. "and where is he off to? not to paris surely? he'll be lost." "nay, he'll nooan be lost for awm'baan wi' him to luk after him." aw didn't see owt funny abaat that but he laft wol aw thowt he'd getten a spasm. "and who's going to look after thee, sammywell?" "well, when aw want a bigger fooil nor misen to keep me company awl ax thy maister if he can spare thee for a day or two." my temper isn't as long as it used to be an' aw didn't relish a strackle brain like him takkin' liberties wi' me, just as if he'd paid his fare an' we'd been paid for commin', an' aw wor i' hauf a mind to goa to th' firerup an' ligg a complaint, but billy had his hand on his wayscoit agean an' began grooanin. "well, what says ta," he sed, "are we to goa onny farther or stop whear we are? aw wor nivver fit to set off i' this state an' aw should nivver ha' come but for thee. an' what are we to do wi' this luggage? an' what time does train start? an' whear does it start throo? an' what are we to do wi' ussen wol it does start? an' what's to come o' yond malt'at's masht? an' ha does ta expect an old woman like mi mother to be able to tun? it wor a wrang-heeaded affair ivver to set off an' if we nivver get back it'll be thy fault." "bless mi life!" aw sed, "tha needn't goa! tiler'll be a train back to bradforth directly! aw dooan't want thi to goa if it's agean thi mind!" "it's nooan mi mind it's mi stummack! if aw worn't sufferin' like this aw should be fain to goa; but say what it's to be; are we to goa forrad or turn back?" "aw shall goa forrad an' tha can pleas thisen." "then aw shall goa forrad if tha does. goa an' find aght all particlars an' see after this luggage an' mak all as reight an' square as tha can an' then if ther's time, tak me somewhear to get summat to stir this pain. awm a deeal fitter for bed nor to be knockin' abaat like this." aw left him wol aw made enquiries, but aw couldn't help wonderin' if smith had as mich bother wi' me when he tuk me raand to see th' seets i' lundun as aw seemed likely to have wi' billy. "the best plan for you to do is to take a cab and get your luggage to victoria station, the train starts from there and they'll give you all information," sed th' pooarter aw ax'd. ther wor plenty on'em an' we gate one an' wor sooin rollin' away. "couldn't we ha' walked it, sammy? tha knows walkin' is far better for me nor bein' shook to bits in a ditherin' con-sarn like this." "it's too far to walk an' we'st be thear directly." "has ta emptied that bottle?" "eeah, does ta want summat? awl stop th' cab in a minit." "does fa want summat?'coss if tha doesn't tha's noa need to stop th' cab for th' sake o' me. aw've been used to sufferin all mi life, an' happenfif aw did get summat aw should be noa better." but just then th' cab did stop an' when aw shoved mi heead aght to see th' reason on it, thear wor th' same railway guard sittin' on th' dicky ov another cab wi' my umberel ovver his shoolder, an' he wor grin-nin' like a cheshire cat. "is this thy parryshute, sammywell?" "awl shute thee if tha doesn't hand it ovver here!" aw says. a'a, but aw wor fain to see him, for if awd lost that umberel aw nivver dar ha' faced hooam! ov coorse that wor a nice excuse to get aght an' have a leek on. billy called for a pot o' hauf an' hafe, an' when he gate it up to his lips he held it thear soa long wol aw thowt he'd getten his teeth fast i'th pewter an' couldn't leeav lawse, but when he did put it daan th' bartender whipt it aght o'th' rooad ready for another customer an' billy wiped his lips and gave a sigh o' satisfaction'at wor like music to me. "nah, what does ta think o: that?" aw sed. "middlin', but it's rayther short o' malt." aw wor soa thankful to get mi'nelly back wol aw stood treat twice raand. "aw'st ha' to be more carefui for th' futer," aw sed, "for aw wodn't pairt wi' it for its weight o' new ens." "if tha did tha'd be able to start a shop," sed billy. "why not have your name put on it?" sed th' guard. "bith' mass! aw nivver thowt o' that!" "there's a shop next door but one, a regular umbrella hospital, i dare say they would do it for you in a few minutes, and you've got plenty of time; i'll stay with your friend till you come back." aw went, an' gate inside aw tell'd what aw wanted to a nice modest lukkin' young woman, an' as sooin as shoo saw it, it seem'd to remind her ov her early days, maybe shoo'd an old mother somewhear'at had one like it, or a fayther moulderin' away i'th' churchyard'at had once been praad o' sich a one. aw ommost felt sooary aw'd spokken, for whativver it wor, it made her bury her face in her white kertchy an' hurry away in a state o' agitation'at touched me to th' quick. in abaat a minit, a young bit ov a whipper-snapper ov a chap, wi' his hair pairted daan th' middle, comes, an' aw tell'd him what aw wanted. he seized hold ov it an' began handlin' it as if he'd noa more respect for it nor he had for hissen, (an' a chap'at pairts his hair daan th' middle is nivver troubled wi' mich,) an' then he started laffin' an' began axin' me all sooarts o' questions abaat it." "young man," aw sed, "aw didn't come here to give th' history o' my umbrella, aw coom to ax if yo could put mi name on it, an' if tha doesn't stop off messin' it up an' daan awl come raand an' see if my shoe tooa can stir thi brains a bit." he saw aw meant it so he sobered daan a bit an' handed it back to me, an' he sed 'he wor varry sorry but it wom't i' their line, but if aw tuk it across to a ironmonger's opposite aw should happen be able to get a door-plate to fit it.' "an' if aw do," aw says, "awl come for thy heead for th' door nop an' when aw come aght o' that shop yo couldn't tell whear th' pairtin' o' that chap's hair had been, but awl bet it wom't i'th' middle for a wick or two at after. aw didn't goa to th' ironmongers, but aw went back to whear aw'd left billy, but he wor soa taen up wi' th' guard wol aw sat mi daan, quietly to wait an' as aw'd been put abaat a bit aw eased misen wi' havin' a tawk to mi umberel.--= ```what matters if some fowk deride, ````an' point wi' a finger o' scorn? ```th' time wor tha wor lukt on wi' pride, ````befoor mooast o' th' scoffers wor bom. ```but awl ne'er turn mi back on a friend, ````tho' old fashioned an' grey like thisel; ```but awl try to cling to thi to th' end, ````tho' tha'rt nobbut an old umberel.= ```whear wod th' young ens'at laff be to-day, ````but for th' old ens they turn into fun? ```who wor wearin' thersen bent an' grey, ````when theirdays had hardly begun? ```ther own youth will quickly glide past; ````if they live they'll all grow old thersel; ```an' they'll long for a true friend at last, ````though it's nobbut an old umberel.= ```tha's grown budgey, an' faded, an' worn, ````yet thi inside is honest an' strong, ```but thi coverin's tattered an' torn, ````an' awm feeard'at tha cannot last long. ```but when th' few years 'at's left us have run, ````an' to th' world we have whispered farewells; ```may they say'at my duty wor done, ````as weel as mi old umberel's.'= awd getten soa far when they called me to'em, an' after another sup we bid gooid day to th' guard, gate into th' cab an' wor sooin at victoria station. when we gate thear, we fan th' train didn't start till past eight o'clock. "nah, tha's getten us into a bonny mullock, tha has! aw thowt tha reckoned to know summat abaat travellin'. we've hauf a day to goa wanderin' abaat an' me i' this state--net fit to walk a yard. what does ta mean to do? we'd happen better caar here? an' ther's three quarters o' malt i'th' mash at hooam an' here aw am hallockin' abaat fast what to do wi' mi time." "aw care nowt abaat thy three quarters o' malt, billy; if tha'rt soa anxious abaat it tha should ha' stopt wi' it or else browt it wi' thi! awm baan to have summat to ait an' tha can pleas thisen." "nay, aw nooan want to pleeas misen, net aw marry! aw've come here o' purpose to pleas thee. do whativver tha likes it'll be reight to me; tha's getten me here nah soa aw mun mak th' best on't." we set off an' had a long walk an' aw could see'at he wor a bit capt as we passed some o' th' big buildins an' monuments soa aw ax'd his opinion on'em. "varry fair, considerin'," he sed, "but aw expected findin' 'em bigger, an' thes nooan on'em ovver cleean." "why," aw sed, "tha'll have to goa a long way to find bigger nor theas." "they're noa bigger, accordinglye to th' place nor yond little haase o' mine up at th' moor end." aw tuk him into a place whear aw knew we could get a gooid meal at a reasonable rate an' axt him what he'd have. "aw dunnot know what to say--ther's nowt aw dar touch wi' mi stummack i' this state--thee order what tha likes." "awm gooin' in for a mutton chop an' some fried puttates." "well, aw'll ha' th' same; one thing's as gooid as another to me, for aw'st ait nooan on it. do they sell ale here? but if they do aw expect it willn't be fit to sup." aw called for two bottles, an' whether it wor fit to sup or net his didn't last long. th' mutton chops an' fried puttates wor browt, an for a matter o' five minits nawther on us spake. "well, doesn't ta think theas is varry nice?" "aw can tell nowt abaat it for ther's nowt but booan o' this o' mine, but if they've forgetten to put th' mait on it, they'll nooan forget to put th' price on it awl warrant." aw wor satisfied wi' mine, but aw ordered two moor for him, an' he polished'em. "nah, has ta enjoyed'em?" aw sed as he sopped th' gravy up wi' a chunk o' cake. "aw've had war; but, bless mi life! yo can get as gooid chops as theas at hooam if yo'll pay th' price for'em, an' aw dooan't expect they'll agree wi' mi nah aw've getten'em." aw worn't gooin' to argy that point wi' him, soa aw settled th' bill an' we lit a cigar a-piece an' walked quietly to th' station. it wanted abaat fifteen minits to th' train time soa aw went to see after tickets, an' aw must say when th' chap sed four paand fifteen shillin' a-piece it knocked th' steam aght on me. aw felt sewer ther must be some mistak an' aw went to th' station maister, but he sed it wor all reight, ther wor nowt nobbut furst class that neet. aw tell'd billy, an' ax'd what we should do.--"do just as tha likes," he says, "tha has it all i' thi own hands; awl ha' nowt to do wi' it; tha can awther goa or stop just as it suits thisen. aw know nowt abaat sich things, it's nobbut thee'at has all th' knowledge;--but _aw know what aw wish._" as weel be hung for a sheep as a lamb, aw thowt, soa aw gate two tickets an' we wor sooin in a furst class carriage speedin' on to dover. billy slept om-most all th' time an' when we landed it wor dark an' drizzlin' "aw expect this is th' sooart o' weather we shall have all th' time," he sed, "aw allus consider this th' warst month i' th' year for onybody to set off in, an' nubdy i' ther reight wit ivver wod." ther wor noa time to tawk for we'd to get on th' booat as sooin as we could. this wor th' furst thing'at seemed to set billy's bile reight agate o' workin'. "if aw'd a known'at we couldn't ha' gooan bi land aw'd ha' seen thee blowed befoor tha'd ha' getten me here! but it's just on a par wi' all tha does!--but if ivver aw live to get hooam awl remember thee for this! if mi mother knew shoo'd goa off'n her heead!" aw tuk hold ov his arm an' led him daan th' steps an' when he saw a table full o' bottled ale he seemed a little moor reconciled. we wor sooin off, but as sooin as th' booat began to roll billy sed he'd goa up stairs, so we went on deck. when aw saw th' stewards an' stewardesses all grinnin' an' gettin' aght piles o' tin bowls an' buckets aw'd a guess what it meant. a nastier neet it could hardly ha' been, for it wor rainin' an' blowin' an' th' watter wor rougher nor aw'd ivver saw th' atlantic ocean. aw thowt aw wor a pratty gooid sailor misen, but aw wor fain to let mi cigar goa aght. billy had folded his arms raand a wire rooap an' ther wor noa mistak he intended to stick. aw crept up to him in a bit, "tha'rt varry quiet," aw sed, "what are ta thinkin' abaat?" "aw wor just thinkin' abaat that three quarters o' malt," he sed, "an' he lained his heead ovver th' side soa as he could study undisturbed. just abaat that time it struck me'at aw'd heeard tell what a beautiful seet it wor to watch th' waves all glittering wi phosphorus, soa aw lained ovver to luk for it. aw didn't see onny but that wom't my fault for aw nivver lifted mi heead up except once or twice to see if billy wor thear an' aw saw he wor still studyin' abaat th' malt." after abaat two haars o' scientific investigation o' that sooart, land, whether foreign or native, wor varry acceptable. we had to pass ovver a little bridge when we landed an' one chap took tickets an' another stood to ax what yo wor. "are you english?" he axed billy. "what's ta think, muleface!" he sed, an' as he let him pass aw suppooas he wor satisfied'at he wor. we'd hauf an haar to wait for th' train to payris, an' billy made straight for th' refreshment raam. "ha does ta feel?" aw sed. "aw all nowt, an' nivver should ha' done but for them mutton chops, an' aw tell'd thi mi stummack wodn't stand sich muck. aw wish aw wor back hooam." "awm pratty weel sick on it misen," aw says, "an' if tha's a mind we'll goa straight back hooam." "nay, by-gow! aw've had enuff o' that booat-ridin' for to neet!" after a dry biscuit an' a drop o' lemonade we gate into a comfortable carriage, worn aght an' weary, we booath fell asleep. when we wakkened th' sun wor shinin' an' we could see men an' wimmen at wark getherin' in th' harvest, ivverything lukt cheerful an' bonny. th' whistle saanded an' th' train slackened speed an' we crept slowly into payris at hauf-past six o' one o' th' grandest mornins aw ivver remember. when we gate aght o'th' station we lukt raan', wonderin' which way to goa to seek lodgins. "nah, billy," aw says, "this is payris at last." he lukt at th' graand, then at th' buildins all raand, then up at th' sky, an' finished off wi' starin' at me. "well?" aw says. "why, it's nowt!" chapter iii. jendi. [illustration: ] s we saw at ivverybody else'at had come bi th' same train wor runnin fit to braik ther necks for fear they should'nt be able to find lodgins, an' as awd heeard at th' city wor full we made a bit ov a rush. billy walked as briskly as if he'd been four stooan leeter, an' for owt aw know he wor. "aw pitie'd some o' th' fowk at wor on that booat," aw sed. "well, aw dooant pity them mich, for they need'nt ha been on unless they liked, but aw did pity th' fish, for they'll be a sickly lot this mornin aw should fancy," an' he fairly chuckled at th' nooation. "nah then, what sooart ov a spot mun we steer for? had we better try some quiet respectable shop or mun we goa in for a place right up to dick an' run th' risk o' what it costs?" "its noa use axin me; do whativver tha's a mind it'll be reight to me." just as we turned a corner aw saw a sign up 'cafe' du nord,' an' on th' winder wor painted i' big yollo letters, english spoken, this is th' shop for us, aw says, if thers raam, soa aw went in an' billy follered an' a young woman at seemed as if shoo'd been dipped i' bacca-watter an' dried in a hurry, coom to meet us--"gooid mornin, mistress," aw sed. "commyvoo portyvoo," shoo sed. "aw dooant parleyvoo, awm throo yorksher; cannot yo spaik plain english?" "jenny compronpa." "aw can mak' nowt o' this lot, billy, if that's th' sooart o' english they tawk here awst nivver be able to understand it." "come on an' lets leeav her, shoo's nooan reight in her heead! aw dooant believe shoo knows what shoo's sayin. "shoo'll happen understand better if awm moor perlite--have, you,--a--bedroom?" "betroooom! ha! wee! chamberacostrah? wee, wee!" "nay awm nooan one o' that sooart aw want one to misen." "jenny compronpa." "jenny's noa need to come for if shoo's noa hansomer nor thee aw wod'nt touch her wi' th' tangs!" we wor just gooin aght when up comes a tallo faced chap at lukt as if th' smell ov a cookshop wod'nt hurt him, so aw thowt awd have another try--french this time,--"parleyvoo english mouse ear." "hi," he sed, "what is it tha wants?" "e'e! gow! lad! but awm fain to see thi. are ta th' maister?" "hi, aw wish aw wornt; yo could'nt mak' my wife understand yo aw reckon?" "is that her? well, ther's noa accaantin for taste--for aw should'nt care for livin' i' this country at all if aw wor yo," aw sed, for awd ommost made a mess on it, "can we have two beds for a few neets an' a bit o' summat to ait if we want it?" "can we get summat to sup?" sed billy, "awm ommost dried up." "caffy-o-lay? bordoo? bass's bottled ale, or owt yo like." "caffyolaybordoo be hanged! let's ha some ale," sed billy, an' he sooin browt two bottles, an' when he'd filled a glass billy tuk it but he nobbut just tasted on it an' put it daan agean. "is ther summat matter wi it?" sed th' maister. "nay, aw dooant know at ther is,--it nobbut wants a bit o' ginger an' sewgar an' a pinch o' nutmug an' it'll mak' varry nice spiced drink. do yo allussell it warm like that?" "yo connat help it gettin warm in a country like this unless yo keep it i' ice an' aw neer bother for ther's nubdy grummels, for they dooant know th' difference--its a hot shop is this aw can tell yo, an' yo'll be luckier nor th' mooast if yo dooant find summat a deeal warmer nor that befoor yo've been long." "well, but tha'rt an' englishman an' owt to ha moor sense--why, when awm brewin aw let it keel below that befoor aw set on." "tha says reight when tha says awm an' englishman, at onnyrate awm a brummagem when awm at hooam, an' aw hooap it weant be long befoor awm back. but what are we to get for yor braikfast?" we ordered some coffee an' eggs an' a beefsteak an' wol we wor gettin it, aw ax'd him ha it wor he seem'd soa dissatisfied wi th' place? "th' place ud do weel enuff if ther wor owt to be made at it, but ther isnt hauf as monny fowk as what ther's accomodation for, aw've lost a gooid bit o' brass sin aw coom an' if yo ax other fowk they'll tell yo th' same tale." when we'd finished he tuk us up a corkscrew staircase an' showed us two raams--they wor cleean, thers noa denyin' that, an' they wor furnished, after a fashion--part parisian an' pairt brummagem--aw should think what wor in em booath had'nt been bowt for a penny less nor thirty shillin', but ther wor white lace curtains up to th' winders an' they lukt varry weel throo th' aghtside an' that wor all at mattered. we booath on us wanted a wesh, an' on a little table we'd each on us a cream jug an' sugar basin, an' we had to mak th' best on em; thear wor noa feear on us sloppin' ony watter abaat, for if we had ther'd ha been nooan left. after dippin' us finger ends in we rubbed us faces ovver an' tryin' to believe at we wor a deeal better for th' trouble we started for a luk raand aghtside. aw thowt billy lukt varry glum agean an' as he did'nt offer to tell me th' reason aw axd him if ther wor owt'at had'nt suited him? "ther's nowt'at has suited me soa far, an' what's moor nor that ther's net likely to be--an' to mend matters when aw come to luk i' mi box, awm blessed if aw hav'nt come withaat a cleean shirt." "why," aw says, "ther's a shop across th' rooad at sells em soa tha can easily mak that reight," soa we went inside an' aw tell'd him as plain as iwer aw could spaik'at we wanted a shirt, an' aw pointed to his mucky dicky. "wee, wee," he sed, an' jabbered away, an' billy tawked back to him like a man, an' gave him sich a karacter i' broad yorsher as awm sewer he wod'nt want i' writin' if he wor lukkin aght for a fresh shop. th' ticket wor easy to read soa billy paid him six francs an' walked away wi it in a breet green paper box, an' we turned back to us lodgins for him to put it on. he had'nt been up stairs long befoor aw thowt one ov his bilious attacks had come on agean--"sammy!" he bawled aght, "come here!" soa aw went to see what wor to do. "luk thear! what does yond chap tak us for? awm in a gooid mind to tak this back an' shove it daan his throit! is ther owt like a woman abaat me, thinks ta?" thear it wor reight enuff, printed on th' box i' big letters, "chemise." "well, he's varry likely made a mistak, here mistress!" aw sed as shoo wor just passin th' door, "shirt--he wants a shirt an' they've seld him a shift." shoo lifted her e'e broos ommost to th' top ov her heead an' lukt at th' box an' then shoo pointed to his dicky an' sed, "chemise! wee, wee." "shoo's war nor a guinea pig, wi her ivverlastin' 'wee wee,'" sed billy, an' he wor shuttin' th' box up agean but shoo coom up an' tuk it aght an' awm blowed if it wornt a shirt after all. after that we decided to goa to th' exhibition an' spend th' furst day thear--but as billy wor detarmined net to walk an' wod call at ivvery shop'at had one o' bass's or alsop's cards ith' winder it tuk us wol after dinnertime to get thear, but it wornt after th' time'at we could do wi a dinner for all that, but ther wor soa mich to see wol aitin seem'd ommost aght o' th' question--even billy, although he wor walkin up an daan oppen maath seemed to ha forgetten to grow dry. they manage theas things better i' france; (aw fancy aw've heeard that befoor) but although aw know awst nivver be able to do justice to it, yet aw think aw owt to give yo as gooid an' accaant as aw can. well then to begin wi; we'll goa back a little bit an' mak a fair start. in a strange country mooast things luk strange an' ith' walk we'd had we saw a deeal at capt us, but nowt moor surprisin' nor th' amaant o' ugly wimmen. we'd come prepared to be dazzled wi female luvliness an' grand dresses but ther wor nowt at sooart to see. th' mooast on em wor dark skinned--sharp een'd, podgy-bodied, dowdy-donned crayturs'at lukt varry mich like wesherwimmen aght o' wark. th' chaps wor better lukkin' bi th' hauf, but billy sed he thowt they'd luk better if they'd stop off suppin' red ink an' get some gooid ale an' beef onto ther booans. but ther's one thing'at aw dooant believe ony frenchman can do, an' that is, slouch along th' street wi his hands in his pockets like a thorough-bred yorksherman! even them at's huggin looads o' boxes an' hampers o' ther rig, (sich looads as a yorksher chap ud stand an' luk at wol somdy went an' fotched a horse an' cart,) trip away as if they'd somewhear to goa, an' as if ther feet had been created to carry ther body an' net as if it wor th' body at had been intended to trail th' feet after it. an' yet someha or other, nubdy seemed to be in a hurry--th' street cars are run thear to save th' trouble o' walkin', but ther seems to be noa idea o' savin time. if a chap wants to ride he nivver thinks to wait wol a car comes up to him, he walks on till he ovvertaks one. th' cabs are a little bit better as regards speed but aw could'nt help thinkin' at if they'd give th' horses moor oats an' less whip it ud be better for all sides. aw nivver i' mi life heeard owt like th' whipcrackin' at wor to be heeard ith' busy streets, it reminded me o' nowt soa mich as th' fourth o' july in america; ivvery driver wor alike an' ther whips went wi as mich regilarity as a wayver's pickin' stick. to us it wor a newsance an' for th' chaps it must ha been hard wark but th' horses did'nt seem to tak ony nooatice--but if they give'em plenty o' whip aw dooant think they oft kill'em wi wark, for we passed monny a team o' six or eight mucky lukkin' grays, big booaned an' ill tended an' wi heeads on'em like soa monny churns turned th' wrang end up, at wor walkin' i' single file an' suppooased to be draggin' a waggon wi a looad ov abaat hauf a tun. ther wor noa shops or buildins'at had owt abaat'em to admire an' aw must confess aw felt a trifle disappointed, but aw wor detarmined net to show it, for billy had curled up his nooas when he started aght an' if he did spaik at all it wor allusth' same strain o' regret for what he'd left, an' contempt for all he'd fun. this wornt varry mich to be wondered at, as we discovered next day'at we'd been trailin abaat throo all th' back slums an' had nivver once getten onto th' reight track, an' it wor moor bi gooid luck nor gooid management at we ivver fan th' exhibition buildin' at all, but when we did, even billy could'nt grummel. it wor a queer feelin at coom ovver me when aw went in. aw seemed to sink into insignificance all at once, an' aw could'nt help thinkin' at ther wor happen moor trewth i' what awr mally had tell'd me nor awd felt inclined to admit,--aw could see at billy wor as mich capt as me for he walked a yard or two an' then stopt to turn raand, an' his een lukt fairly to be startin' aght ov his heead, an' his lower jaw hung onto his shirt as if th' back hinge ov his face had brokken. "nah," aw says, "what does ta think abaat this? will this do for thi?" but he nobbut gave me a luk an' withaat spaikin' went a yard or two farther an' turned raand agean. after a while we gained th' oppen air agean an' then we sat daan whear we could have a view o' th' watter fall an faantens. "this is grand," aw sed. "tha says reight for once, an'to tell th' plain trewth nah, awm nooan sooary aw've come, for it'll fit me to tawk abaat for monny a year." "well, awm glad tha's fun summat to suit thi an' aw think tha will be suited befoor we've done; for th' buildin' we've come throo is varry little moor nor th' gateway to a show at occupies acres. aw dooant think we've owt i' england to equal that!" "now!--bith' heart! sammy; if a chap could nobbut get that buildin' at a easy rent, an' start it as a brewery it ud lick owt o' th' sooart we have! tha sees ther's plenty o' gooid watter--yo could pile yor barrels up ith' centre thear--therms plenty o' raam for th' waggons to goa in an' aght--th' brewin plant could be fixed at this end--th' malt an' hops could be kept i' one o' them steeples, an' th' grains could be shot aght o' that winder. it mud ha been built for it. it nobbut wants them moniments an' gim-cracks clearin aght, an' it could be made to do i' noa time ommost. "well, sammy aw must say awm fain aw've come, an if tha's a mind, we'll get aght o' th' sun an' see if we can get summat to sup, but we will'nt have ale this time; aw dooant feel to care soa mich abaat it just nah. if tha's nowt agean it we'll join at one o' them bottles o' red ink; it can nobbut pooisen us'schews ha." aw felt soa mad wol aw could'nt help wishin' at it wod pooisen him for aw thowt he desarved it. we went to a bonny little place whear aw saw some bottles an' glasses, aw dooant know what to call it, but it wor a sooart ov a goa between a public haase an' a summer haase, an' aw managed to mak' a bonny young lass understand what we wanted, an' shoo sarved us wi a smilin' face an' as mich curtseyin' as if we'd gooan to ax abaat th' vallyation, an' when aw held aght a handful o' silver for her to tak pay aght on, shoo nobbut tuk one french shillin, an' yo can buy em at tuppence apiece less nor awrs. we thowt that wor bein' gentlemen at a varry cheap rate. yo may hardly believe it, but aw've paid three times as mich for stuff'at has'nt been hauf as gooid,--"aw call this reasonable," aw says. "cheap as muck," sed billy, "its worth that mich to see a bonny lass like that--tha sees shoo's like a lady an' shoo knows manners too. its a thaasand pities at shoo connot tawk gradely english." "it is; shoo's to be pitied for that. english fowk have a deeal to be thankful for, but happen shoo's satisfied, for shoo'll be able to understand other fowk." "tha munnat tell me at a lass like yond can ivver be satisfied wi a lot o' gabberin' fowk at cant tawk soas to be understood, shoo's like yond buildin' we've just come throo, shoo owt to be put to a better purpose. a'a! what a brewus yond wod mak'!" "well, tha knows we've all noations ov us own, an' aw connot agree wi thee thear. tha seems to care nowt abaat art, all tha thinks on is ale." "well, did ta ivver know onnybody at filled ther belly o' art? nah aw've known monny a one do it wi ale. that's th' way to luk at it." "it's thy way but it is'nt mine, but as time's gooin on lets goa into th' place whear all theas wonderful things are to be seen." "goa thi ways, for thar't th' mooast restless chap aw ivver knew, tha'rt like a worm on a whut backstun, an' if tha gets into a comfortable corner tha will'nt stop. it's nice an' cooil here, but awst be sweltered i' th' sunshine. if th' weather's owt like this at hooam it'll play the hangment wi yond galcar." awm net gooin to say mich abaat th' exhibition for one or two reasons--furst is aw think it's been a deeal better done bi somdy else, an' second, it'll tak up soa mich time, an' ther's net monny fowk at has'nt seen one, an' they're all mackley--its enuff to say at this licks all at's gooan befoor it, an' 'at noa englishman had ony need to shame for his country, an' nubdy had moor cause for pride nor yorksher fowk. we roamed abaat for an' haar or two but feastin' one's een does'nt satisfy th' stummack, an' soa aw hinted at we should goa to th' english buffet whear my guide book sed we could get owt we wanted to ait an' find fowk at could tawk english. as sooin as aw mentioned it billy sed he cared nowt for a buffet, he'd a deeal rayther have a arm cheer, but when aw explained what it wor he wor ready enuff to goa. awd been warned befoor aw coom abaat extortion an' roagery an' tell'd what awful charges they made for simple things, but aw meant havin summat daycent to ait whativver it cost--soa we sat daan an' ordered soop, an' a plate o' rost beef an' puttates, an' some roily polly puddin for a start, an' we thowt if that wornt enuff, we'd ax if they could give us a plate o' pie. we sooin gate throo th' soop, but we sat a long time waitin' for th' rost beef to follow. next to billy wor a frenchman an' his wife,--(aw sup-pooas frenchmen have wives sometimes,)--an' one o' th' waiters browt him a nice plate o' boiled chicken, soa we thowt, but he didnt seem to tak onny noatice on it but went on wi his tawkin--billy kept lukkin first at him an' then at th' plate an' at last he turned to me an' says, "this chap doesnt seem hungry an' its a pity to see this gooin cold," soa he shifted th' plate an' began to wire in. it did'nt tak him aboon three minutes to finish th' lot an' he passed back th' empty plate,--an' just then th' waiter coom wi awr rost beef. we'd just getten fairly started when th' frenchman turned raand to begin, an' when he saw th' plate wi nowt on it he lukt as if he could ha swallered them at had swallered his dinner, an' he called for th' waiter an' be th' way he shaated an' shrugged his shoolders it wor plain to be seen'at he wor lettin somdy have it hot, but that did'nt affect billy for he wor cooil enough an' stuck to his mark like a brick, but this frenchman wor detarmined net to let it drop soa easily, an' he stormed an' raved as if he'd been robbed ov a pop-ticket, "whats to do wi this cranky fooil," sed billy? th' waiter could spaik english an' he says, "this gentleman says that he has had nothing to eat and he wont pay, and i am certain i brought him a dish of stewed frogs, and now he wants to declare he's never seen them!" billy's face went as white as mi hat, an' he dropt his knife an' fork, "nah, aw've done it!" he sed, spaikin' to me, "awst be pooisened, aw know aw shall! it's all thy fault an' tha'll ha to answer for it." "awd nowt to do wi it, tha should let stuff alooan at doesnt belang to thi; but ha did they taste?" "aw thowt awd nivver had owt as grand i' mi life an' aw wor meeanin to have another plate but nah at aw know what it wor awd rayther ha gien a fiver nor ha touched sich-like powse. tha mun promise me nivver to tell when we get back, or else they'll plague me abaat it as long as they've a day to live." he seemed to ha lost his appetite after this, but aw stuck to mi corner an' made a rattlin dinner an' when awd to pay, an' it wor nobbut two franks an' a hauf (that's little moor nor two bob,) aw felt varry mich inclined to ax em if they could let us have a bed for th' neet, an then awd send for awr mally an' live thear for six months, for awm sewer aw could'nt live as cheap at hooam. then we went to have a luk at th' picturs, an' aw felt praader nor ivver as aw went throo th' english gallery--it wor grand! but ther wor others at wor ommost as gooid. ther wor a lot o' gooid paintins i' th' french gallery, an' it towt me th' meanin o' what fowk call 'poor art,' for th' french art is too poor to find clooas for th' men an' wimmen they paint, for throo one end o' th' raam to t'other it lukt like nowt as mich as a empty swimmin bath whear a craad o' wimmin, three rows deep, wor waitin' for th' watter to come in. billy pooled a handful o' copper aght ov his pocket an' reckoned to be thrang caantin it, wol he gat aghtside, for he could'nt fashion to luk up, an' aw felt thankful at mally wor at hooam. awve noa daat ther wor a deeal o' beauty at we missed, an' a deeal o' things'at wor varry trew to natur but its possible for trewth to be too bare-faced at times. it had getten farish on ith' day when we coom aght, dazed and maddled wi th' wonders'at we'd seen, (an' we had'nt seen a quarter o' what wor thear) an' we felt at a cup o' teah, wod'nt do us ony harm soa we started off for us lodgins. billy sed he'd had enough o' walkin' an' he wod'nt stir another peg till we gat a cab, soa aw put up mi finger an' one coom. aw tried all th' french aw knew an' a gooid deeal o' th' english but he could'nt understand a word, soa aw wrate th' name o' th' place an' th' name o' th' street on a card an' gave it him an' he grinned like a cheshire cat an' started off. it wor then we began to find aght what payris wor like. we went throo one big archway at they call arc de triomphe de'etoile, an' it fairly made us tremmel. aw lukt at mi guide book, (an' yo can do th' same if yo have one,) an' gat to know all abaat it, an' what it had cost; aw cant say'at it seems varry useful but its varry ornamental. we rattled on throo bustlin streets whear th' shops wor palaces, an' ther wor soa mich to tak us fancy at we tuk noa noatice o' th' cab chap wol he pooled up suddenly ith' front ov a arched passage an' coom an' oppened th' door an' pointin to th' haase he mooationed us to get aght. but it wom't th' reight shop! 'café du nord,' wor printed up an 'manchester house,' wor on a big sign an' 'english spoken,' wor i' big gold letters on th' winders but it wor nawther th' same place nor th' same street at we'd left ith' mornin. aw gat aght to mak enquiries but billy wod'nt stir. "arnt ta baan to get aght?" aw sed. "awst stir nooan wol yo find th' reight shop, awm varry comfortable here." aw did'nt feel varry comfortable, but aw went inside to mak a few enquiries, but they mud as weel ha been objibberaway indians for ony sense aw could mak on em, they did plenty o' bowin an' scrapin an' hutchin up o' ther shoolders but that did'nt help me ony, soa aw gate hold o' one chap bi th' collar an' tuk him an' planted him opposite th' words 'english spoken,' an' aw says, "nah then, can ta read that?" "wee, wee," he sed an' off he set, an' aw lukt for th' cab an' billy but awd hard wark to find 'it for ther wor a craad o' fowk gethered raand an' th' driver wor stampin an' ravin away at billy wol he fair fooamed at th' maath, an' aw felt thankful just then'at aw did'nt understand french, for my belief is at he wornt prayin for him to get aght but swearin at him for stoppin in, but billy wor lainin back smookin a cigar an' seemed to be enjoyin it. "sacrey mon dew!" he shaated at him. "sacrey thisen, if tha wants," sed billy, "awst nooan stir aght o' this wol tha finds th' reight shop; if tha connot find it awm sewer aw connot an' aw've trailed abaat wol awm stall'd." but, for a blessin, th' chap at awd had hold on, coom back an' browt a lass wi him, one at aw sup-pooas wor kept o' purpose for th' job, an' as shoo happened to know as mich english as aw did french we gate on famously. at last aw bethowt me o' th' railway station an' that shoo seemed to understand, an' shoo tell'd th' driver summat, but he seemed to think he'd had enuff on us, but aw shoved him o' one side an' set daan along-side billy, an' as he could see noa way else aght on it, he jumpt on th' dicky an' tuk his revenge aght o' th' horse. be-foor he gat us to th' station aw saw th' haase we wor seekin soa aw stopt him, an' we gat aght, an' as we gave him double his fare he gave us a flourishin' salute an drave off. as aw wor gooin in at th' door billy pooled me back an' pointed to two little childer abaat eight year old an' he laft wol he could'nt spaik for ivver so long, "he, he, he, ho! did ta ivver come across owt like that? tha mun tell mally abaat that when tha gets hooam for it licks all! why even th' bits o' childer can tawk french!" an' it wor true too, tho' when aw coom to consider abaat it aw did'nt see owt soa varry wonderful in it after all. a cup o' teah an' a walk to th' railway station whear we gat a gooid wesh for a penny, freshened us up a bit an' we prepared to spend th' furst neet i' payris th' same as mooast fowk do; that is, we started aght i' hoaps at we should see summat at we should condemn after we'd seen it, an' deplore th' existence ov th' varry things at form th' principal attraction for nine aght o' ivvery ten at pay a visit to th' finest city ith' world, whear gaiety flooats ovver th' surface o' ivverything an' th' cankerin sorrow is busy deep ith' heart.= ```a sorrowing heart ne'er seems as sad ````as when'midst gaiety; ```you see beneath the flimsy veil, ````its writhing misery.= ```the apple with the golden rind, ````the greedy eye gloats o'er, ```but then, alas,'tis sad to find ````dry ashes at its core.= ```the smiling face, the beaming eye. ````the soft and snowy skin; ```turns pleasure into horror when ````we find all black within.= ```better the humblest face and form. ````if virtue dwells therein; ```than all the beauties that adorn ````the inward heart of sin.= [illustration: ] [illustration: ] chapter iv. jendi soir. [illustration: ] oulevard des italiens;--aw copied that off a gas-lamp. it's a grand saandin name but it is'nt hauf as grand as th' street, (for it is nobbut a street after all.) when billy an' me turned aght we lukt as spruce as two new scraped carrots, an' we walked along th' street like as if we'd just come into one fortun an' wor expectin another. it wor a lively lukkin seet, varry nearly ivvery other door wor a cafe or a resterant or a saloon, an' ith' front on'em all wor little tables an' cheers an' chaps wor sittin an' chattin an' laffin just as if they'd been i' ther own hooams, an' ther wor one thing at aw could'nt but admire an' that wor,'at they had ther wives an' ther sisters an' ther dowters wi'em, an' altho' we could'nt tell owt they sed, it wor easy to tell at they wor all enjoyin thersen. we walked along, starin at all abaat us, for ther wor a deeal at wor strange to us. th' gas-lamps all seemed to grow aght o' sentry boxes, an' they wor leeted up like lanterns an' wor turned into newspaper or cigar shops, an' th' leets throo th' winders made all seem as breet as day ommost. even billy seemed satisfied wi it. but we sooin gat to whear it wor breeter still, an' lukkin up at th' corner ov a buildin' aw saw we'd getten to th' champs elysees, an' what th' elysees is, is unknown to me, but thaasands o' gas jets wor blazing away an' thaasands o' fowk wor sittin enjoyin ther drink an' ther smook or strollin on, chattin an' laffin, as if th' world an' them wor varry gooid friends. we went wi th' stream an' sooin fan ussen i' th' tuileries gardens, whear bands o' music wor playin an' th' faantens wor workin, an' th' lamps wor moor plentiful nor ivver. aw wor enjoyin misen furst rate, an' aw knew billy must be for he'd nivver grummeld once an' he wor soa takken up wi things abaat him wol he'd forgetten to get dry, an' it wornt until aw wanted a leek on misen'at he bethowt him he'd a maath. it wor strange to me to see him suppin his caffy-o-'lay, (yo see awm leearnin french) asteead ov his pint o' ale, an' aw tell'd him soa, "when yo're i' rum yo mun do as th' rummens do," he sed, "an' aw dooant think at th' ale is quite as gooid here as it wor at hooam!" we strolled on until we saw summat breeter an' moor glitterin nor all else an' we made for that. aw thowt it wor a triumphal arch'at had been put up for some famous chap to goa throo, an' aw straitened mi shirt collar an' shooldered mi umberel an' walked wi as mich dignity as aw could, but it wor noa use jfor we had to pay to goa in. a'a! but it wor a grand spot! it wor unlike owt awd ivver seen befoor! aw've heeard fowk tawk abaat fairy land, but fairy land wor a fooil to it--faantens an' flaars an' coloured lamps ivverywhear an' ith' middle on it all wor a stage for doncin, an' a band o' mewsic. as we wor lukkin at it a chap comes up an' says, "billy, billy," an aw nivver saw billy luk as capt i' mi life. "tha knows mi name," he sed, "but awm blessed if aw can tell whear aw've met thi befoor," an' he held aght his hand to shake hands wi him an' as sooin as he did this, th' chap shoved him a ticket into it an' stood waitin' aw saw ther wor a mistak somewhear, soa aw tuk one an' gave th' chap a franc an' he left us, an' then aw saw at they wer nobbut programmes for th' jardin mabille. th' music struck up, th' doncin stage wor sooin full o' fowk, (an' some o' th' grandest young wimmen aw ivver saw i' mi life; nay, they lukt ommost too grand for owt but angels,) an' ther wor hundreds standin raand to watch'em, an' billy an' me wor ith' front row. it wor a dazzlin seet, one aw shall nivver forget, but one such as aw hooap nivver to see agean. aw dooant believe th' pen's been made yet at i' th' cliverest hand could tell what that wor like. it wor indescribable! an' aw may as well let it pass withaat makkin an' attempt at it; but if all th' fiends i' hell had stown heavenly shapes an' played such shameless pranks, satan wod ha turned away an' blushed for em. an' yet, this wor done ith' front o' weel dressed men an' wimmen, some on'em wi ther sons an' dowters standin by,--young, an' innocent;--will ther innocence aghtlive ther youth? awm feeard net. an' soa that's what all theas blazin leets an' flaars an' faantens an' temples is for. a glitterin frame to a filthy picter! a string o' jewels to hide a festerin sooar! hide! did aw say? nay, net soa! but to deck; an' bi that means to thrust th' looathsum cancer in yer face an' seek for admiration, an' applause for that which makes ivvery drop o' virtuous blooid i' yor body stop in its coarse an' hurry back to th' inmost chamber o' yor heart to mourn ovver th' deeath o' ther sister, modesty. we stopt wol we thowt we'd seen enuff (aw thowt we'd seen too mich,) an' then we turned to-ward's 'hooam, sweet hooam,' (tho' yo can cut th' middle word aght an' net loise mich o' th' trewth,) an' when we gat thear we pyked off to us beds, rare an' fain'at we'd beds to goa to, for we wor just abaat done up. aw slept varry weel considerin', tho' aw dreamt a gooid bit, an' mi dreams worn't as pleasant as aw could ha liked em, for all th' neet long aw fancied at aw wor runnin' as hard as aw could to get aght o' th' gate o' awr mally, an' shoo wor after me wi th' pooaker i' one hand to knock me daan, an' th' bellus ith' tother to blow me up, an' fowk a booath sides wor scageift me wi ladies heigh heeld booits, silk stockin's an' stuff, an' when aw wakkened aw wor thankful to find at aw wor at a safe distance throo em all, an' especially mally. but ther wor a fearful row gooin on i' th' next raam to mine, an' aw wor a bit befoor aw could reight reckon it up, but when aw bethowt me at that wor whear billy slept, aw jumpt aght o' bed as if ther'd been a whut cinder under me an' flew to see what wor to do. it wor a rare gooid job aw went, for if aw had'nt, one o' them two wod ha been tried for manslufter, an' it wod'nt ha been billy. nah, awve monny a time nooaticed what an' amaant o' courage ther is in a pair o' booits an' a pair o' britches, for aw nivver yet met a brave man when in his shirt an nowt else--let a chap have his booits an' his britches on, an' he'll run th' risk o' havin' a bullet sent throo his heead or his heart, but ther's net monny at'll goa bare fooit an' run th' risk o' havin' ther corns trodden on. well, when aw jumpt aght o' th' arms o' morpheus, aw did'nt stop to put owt on, an' when aw gate into th' next hoil an' went daan onto mi knees to seperate billy an' another chap, aw lukt varry mich like what th' infant sammywell wod ha lukt like at my age if they'd dressed him ith' same fashion as aw've allusseen him pictured in as a child. nah, ther's an' owd sayin' at one englishman is equal to two frenchmen at ony time--but like a lot moor o' th' old sayins it isnt true, for there are times when one frenchman can bother a couple o' yorkshermen, (an' they're english if onybody is,) an' this happened to be a case in point; an' ther's noa daat he'd ha lickt us booath if he'd takken us booath at once, but when aw started o' him he left billy an' stuck to me, an' as we wor rollin' on th' floor billy lukt aght for a chonce, an' sat him daan fair on his shirt front, an' that settled him. if he'd been seized wi th' neet-mare he wod'nt ha been hauf as helpless, as he wor under billy's horse weight. my ovver coit (aw call it ovver coit for it wor all aw had ovver me, an' nah it wor all ovver wi it,) hung raand me like strings o' tape, an' aw borrowed a sheet off billy's bed to wind raand me, tho' aw did'nt like th' idea ov a windin' sheet; but mally's allusdrilled noations o' daycency into me, an' aw knew shoo'd forgie me a deeal sooiner for gooin to th' exhibition nor for makkin one. when billy had getten his puff, (an' bi that time th' chap he wor sittin on had lost his,) he began to explain matters. "what does ta think?" he sed, "when aw wor asleep i' bed this mornin', this black muzzled, kay-legged payris chap coom into my raam, an' when aw wakkened up he wor marchin away wi mi britches, an' all mi brass is ith' pockets, an' when aw lawped aght o' bed to stop him he grinned an' gabbered away as mich as to say at awd promised to give em him th' neet coom on drest to represent liberty--republican liberty aw mean,--an' shoo shaated an' yell'd an' threw hersen into shapes, an' waved a flag abaat, an' altogether kickt up sich a row,'at th' fowk all began to shaat an' yell an' wave ther caps abaat as if they wor goin wrang i' ther heeads, (if sich heeads can,) an' when shoo'd done they kept up sich a hullaballoo wol shoo coom back agean for a oncoor, but we'd had enough soa we pyked aght as quietly as we could an' wended us way hooam. we bid one another 'gooid neet,' an' wor sooin i' bed, net sooary to know at it ud be sundy ith' mornin." [illustration: ] dimanche. [illustration: ] ven i' payris day seems to braik moor softly o' th' sabbath nor ony other day i' th' wick, an' th' burds tune ther throats to a mellower nooat, an' th' sun seems to kiss old mother eearth moor lovingly, an' th' trees wave ther branches wi' a slower, statelier nod, as they whisper to each other an' to ivverything araand, "it s sunday." it may nobbut be a fancy, but it's one o' them fancies aw favor, an' i' th' time o' bits o' upsets an' bother, (an' aw get mi' share same as th' rest o' fowk,) aw fall back o' that inner chaymer whear aw've stoored up pleasant memories an fond con-caits an' find a comfort i' livin for a while amang mi fancies an' mi follies. when aw gat daan to mi braikfast billy wor waitin', an' aw could see'at sundy made a difference even to him. his shirt neck lukt stiffer, an' he'd put a extra dooas o' tutty on his top-pin', an' he'd treated hissen to a shave for th furst time sin he'd left hooam, an' when he bid me gooid clothes early in the morning an' brush them and bring them back, he's the valet de chambre. "aw want nawther hills nor vallies i' my chaymer an' if awd been i' mi own haase awst ha gien him his mornin's fisick aglri ov a blunderbus, an' he'd nivver come for a second dooas. but aw should feel varry mich obleeged to yo if yo'd order theas fowk aght o' this hoil, th' wimmen espescially, an' then if ther's owt wrang, as sooin as awm weshed an' donned awst be ready to answer for it." "oh, that's no matter," he sed, "the women here think nothing about it." "happen net,--but that's noa reason aw should'nt." soa th' maister turned raand an' tell'd em all ha ther'd been a mistak an' after laffin a bit, they pitied us an' coom to stroke us daan as if we'd been a couple o' cannibals at had swollered a missionary in a mistak', an' wor to be sympathised wi, becoss we knew noa better. an' if billy had been a cannibal he could'nt ha been moor savage nor he wor when one old woman wi a face like a dried caah blether, went an' shoved her maath under his nooas an' gave him sich a dooas o' onions'at that an' a bit o' liver wod ha done for his braik-fast. th' maister made us understand at it ud be better to give em a trifle just to save ony bother, soa billy gate his britches an' pooled aght a handful o' silver an' held it for him to help hissen, but he nobbut tuk aght one france an' gave it to one o' th' police'at awd fancied wor a sodger, an' he held it up for em all to see, an' they went aght smilin an' makkin bows an' droppin curtsey's as if we wor kings.--thinks aw, a little brass gooas a long way here, for if yod to give a shillin to two chaps at hooam, one on em ud be sewer to turn raand an ax if yo intended that for em booath. we made a hearty braikfast after all wor squared up an' then we began to plan ha to spend th' day, just then th' pooastman coom in an' after starin at me for a minit, he gave me a letter--when aw saw th' envelop aw did'nt wonder at him lukkin a bit hard at me, for it wor throo mally an' shoo's a way ov her own wi mooast things, an' as shoo knew at sammywell grimes' wor english, an' varry likely could'nt be understood bi forriners, shoo'd cut mi pictur off th' back o' one o' th' "seets i' lundun," an' pasted it on, an' had written undernaith "public haase, payris." [illustration: ] chapter v. vendredi. mally's letter. deer sammywell. if tha doesnt get this letter be sewer an' rite to let me know as awm nooan fond o' wastin mi time penkin ower a piece a papper all for nowt an' if tha does get it tha need'nt bother to let me know for awm ommost at mi wits end an' fowks cryin shame on thi for leeavin me as tha does an' aw've had nowt to ait nobbut a cup o' teah sin tha left except a beefsteak an' a box o' pills an' ha they'll do for me aw connot tell yet but awl let thi know next letter an' tha mun tell me iwerything tha does an' says for awve had a nasty dream abaat thi an' aw fancied tha wor an' angel an' aw dooant want thi to fly away an' leeav me befoor tha's settled thi club'at should o' been paid last wick an' awr hepsaba says at they'll happen present thi wi a legion o' horror an' if they do aw want thi to leeav it behind for we've lots o' flaysom stuff here already an' black clocks creeps abaat wi as mich cheek as if it wor them at paid th' rent an' we're swarmin wi flees noa moor at present soa tak care o' thi umberel an' be careful for tha knows what aw meean for tha'rt a gronfather an aw believe awr hepsaba's child is gooin to have th' meeasles wi kind love noa moor at present billy's mother is ommost ranty abaat him for th' last brewin is soa waik wol it will'nt run aght o' th' barrel an soa noa moor at present--= ```a'a sammywell ha can ta fashun ```to leav thi wife i' this here fashion ```when tha owt to be at hooam mindin thi wark. ```but aw believe tha wor nivver fond o' wark.= nah tha sees aw can rite as weel as thee an' if ther isnt as mich poetry in it thers a deeal moor sense in it nor ther is ith' mooast o' thine soa noa moor at present an' aw remane thi lawful wife an' dooant forget it mally grimes. a'a! shoos th' same old lass as ivver shoo wor an' wi all her faults aw love her still. "nah billy, whear are we to steer to to-day? what says ta if we goa an' have a luk at th' tuileries for they tell me at its a grand spot?" "aw care nowt abaat it! aw wish we wor gooin back hooam for aw call this a waste o' booath time an' brass." "oh, tha'll begin to enjoy thisen nah an' awm sewer tha luks better an' aw hav'nt heeard thi say owt abaat bein bilious sin yesterdy mornin." "bilious! who th' duce does ta think can be bilious in a country like this? ther's nowt to get bilious on!" "awm sewar tha's seemd to enjoy thisen as far as aitin an' drinkin's consarned, happen tha'd like a bottle o' ale befoor we start off?" "nay aw want noa ale. aw dooant fancy it here th' same as when awm at hooam. aw wonder ha mi poor mother's gettin on. ther's that three quarters o' malt, an' here am aw payin soa mich a day for hallockin mi time away dooin nowt; but let's start off for if ther's owt to see we may as weel be lukkin." it wor a grand mornin, th' sky wor a breeter blue nor awd ivver seen it an' as we walked on th' river side all wor gay an' bustlin, an' th' air wor soa pure an' sweet wol it made us booath feel leeter, an' altho' it wor varry whut it did'nt seem to weary us. th' tooileries, (yo can buy a pictur on em for a penny,) aw shall'nt forget em in a hurry, we walked raand em but it ud ha killed th' best pairt ov a day to ha done em justice, pairt on em wor still standin up, blackened ruins, a monument grim an' ghastly to testify to th' blind fury ov a lot o' misguided fanatics at had escaped aght o' th' harness ov law's authority, an' to gratify ther unreasonin desires for destruction, wrecked beauties, at nawther ther brains nor ther purses had ever helpt to raise, an' left as a legacy to others, th' cost an' th' labor to patch up, an' as far as can be, replace what their senseless rage had destroyed, an' to try to blot aght th' black stain,'at an' insane mob had left on the blooid red page ov th' darkest day throo which fair france has passed. we went throo th' louvre next, an' if payris could booast nowt else it could still hold up its heead an' be praad;--even billy wor varry quiet as we went throo one gallery after another, an' aw must confess'at aw wornt sooary when we gate aght for ther wor soa mich to dazzle one wol th' pleasur wor painful. just as we turned th' corner, billy clapt his hand o' mi shoolder an' browt us booath to a deead stand--"sithee! by gum! did ta ivver see sich a oonion as that i' thi life?" aw lukt, an' reight enuff it wor a queer object at wor anent us, an' it did'nt luk mich unlike a monster oonion th' wrang end up, an' as it sway'd throo side to side it lukt like th' dome o' st. paul's on th' rant, "why," aw says, "that's th' baloon! what says ta if we have a ride?" "whear too?" "up ith' air an' daan agean." "but what better shall we be when we get daan agean?" "when we goa up we shall be able to see all ovver payris at once, an' it'll be a grand seet." "will it!--well if tha thinks awve come here to mak as big a fooil o' misen as tha art, thart mistakken if tha wants to goa sky-larkin tha can goa, but if awve ony larks awl have em o' th' graand." "well, billy, aw nivver thowt tha'd be flaid ov a bit ov a thing like that, aw gave thi credit for moor pluck." "pluck! does ta think at aw've kept a aleus at th' moorend all theas years withaat pluck? ther's moor pluck i' my little finger nor ther is ith' whooal carcase ov a played-aght-old-poverty-knocker like thee, an' if aw tak a fancy to goa up to th' mooin, aw shall goa!" we'd to pay a franc to get into th' square whear it wor, an' then it wor francs to have a ride, "ray-ther a heigh price," aw sed to billy. "well its happen a heigh journey," he sed, "but awst want to have a gooid luk at it befoor aw ventur, net at aw care owt abaat it whether its safe or net, but just to see ha its contrived for commin daan. well, aw do wonder what they'll do next! ther's engines here big enuff to work a factory, an' a rooap thick enuff to tug th' great eastern an' as mich clooath used to mak that gurt bag as ud ha supplied ivvery poor body i' payris wi a new suit, an' as mich gas to fill it as ud sarve my aleus for aw dooant know ha long; an' ther's as monny sailors to attend to it, as john de morgan can find sixpences ith' collectin' box, an' its all for what? nowt i' this world but to suit a lot o' strackle-brained fooils at'll be just as wise, or less, after they've come daan as they wor befoor they went up." but i' spite o' all he had to say he meant gooin up, aw could see; net at he wanted, an' net becoss he'd noa fear abaat it, but just on accaant o' me havin spokken as aw did, an' rayther nor be thowt to be short o' pluck, he'd ha gooan up if he'd felt sewer he'd nivver ha come, daan. aw cant say'at aw felt varry mich up on it, but aw wornt gooin to give billy th' chonce to crow ovver me, soa we went to th' little office an bowt a ticket apiece an' wor sooin stood up amang a scoor moor in a big raand mahogny tub'at they called a car. th' time coom for us to be off an' after as mich bustle an' shaatin as if we wor gooin to th' north powl, th' captain,--(aw suppooas he'd be a captain;)--sed, "now we're off!" in as plain english as aw ivver heeard. but aw did'nt see'at we wor gooin up at all, for we did'nt seem to stir, but when billy lukt ovver th' edge he turned to me an' says, "e'e'gow! lad, th' world's tummelin!" an' that wor just like what it seemed like, for asteead o' us seemin to be leeavin th' world, th' world seemed to be leeavin us. well, it wor a wonderful seet reight enuff; but when we'd getten to th' end ov th' journey, an had mustered courage enuff to have a gooid stare raand, payris nobbut lukt a littlish spot compared wi all we could see beyond it. a chap'at acted as guide gave a lectur, an' pointed aght ivverything worth noatice, but as it wor all i' french it wor dutch to billy an' me. we coom daan as gently as we'd gooan up, an' aw fancied at we all seemed in a bigger hurry to get aght nor we'd been to get in--when we stud once agean o' solid graand billy stamped on it to mak sewer at it did'nt shake an' findin it as firm as usual he turned to me, "well, what does ta think on it?" "why, awm glad we've been up," aw sed, "for it 'll be summat for us to tawk abaat." "eeah, but awm glad we've come daan, for if we had'nt ther'd ha been summat moor to tawk abaat, an' ony chap at'll goa up i' that consarn aboon once, unless he's weel paid for it, owt to stop up. sup-pooas th' rooaps had brokken whear should we ha stopt thinks ta? happen ha gooan up an' up wol we'd struck bang agean th' top an' had to stick thear! it's what aw call flyin ith' face o' providence an' its a thing'at owt to be stopt." "whear shall we goa next; suppooas we try notter dame." "try who tha likes if they sell a daycent article." "aw wornt meeanin owt to ait an' drink, aw meant a famous church'at ther is." "suit thisen, but awst nooan caar long to hear th' new testyment made a fooil on." we walked daan th' river side an' grand it wor--th' watter is a deeal cleaner nor th' thames, but th' river's varry narrow an' ther's bridges ivvery few yards. th' steeam booats wor full o' gaily dressed men an' women, an' music wor playin, an scoars ' little booats wor skimmin along; all lukt lively an' fowk seemed happy. at ivvery convenient spot ther wor men fishing wi ther long rods, an' lollin ith' sun watchin th' bit o' cork bob up an' daan ith' watter; an' aw may as weel mention it here; aw saw th' same chaps ivvery day ith' same spots, sometimes early ith' mornin, sometimes when it wor ommost to dark to see, noa matter whativver time aw passed they wor at ther old pooasts. judgin bi ther dress they wornt fishin for a livin, an' after lukkin at ther baskets an' nivver bein able to see at one on em had getten owt, aw made it aght at they must be fishin for enjoyment, an' aw hooap they catched it. wol aw wor takken up wi watchin'em billy wor tryin to mak aght what wor gooin on o' th' other side. "sithee, sammy! what's all yond; wimmen reckonin to be dooin? are they weshin'?" he'd guessed reight, an' thear they wor in a long shed at seemed to be fit up wi ivverything they wanted, soa far as we could see at that distance, an' they wor splashin an' brayin an' stampin an' tawkin as if ther lives depended o' which could mak th' mooast ov a slop an' th' biggest din. as we went walkin on, one o' th' seets at lukt to us mooast strange, wor th' number o' men walkin abaat i' black petticoits an' brooad brimmed hats. if a chaps face is an index to his karracter, as some fowk say it is, th' fewer o' th' priests, sich as we met, an' th'better for th' country aw should think. aw dooant want to say owt to offend onybody, but to be truthful awm foorced to say 'at aw pivver saw sich a lot o' ill favvord fowk i' mi life, an' if madam tooswords wants to add another chamber o' horrors to her show shoo could'nt do better nor get th' casts o' some o' their mugs. ther's noa likelihood o' ony wolves destroyin ony o' their flocks, soa long as they've sich scarecrows for shepherds. still they seemed a jolly lot, but just as we gate to th' cathedral a oppen cab drives up, wi a priest in it i' full cannonicals, white lawn sleeves an' all to booit; but th' seet on it knocked th' wind aght ' booath billy an' me.--aw dooant say'at what we saw wor wrang--aw say at it did'nt luk reight to us--for he wor lollin' back ith' cab, dressed as awve tell'd yo, withaat hat, an' smokin a short public haase clay pipe--it saands strange to yo awve noa daat, but its true, an' when he jumpt aght, he lifted up his petticoit an' pooled some paper aght ov his pocket, an' stuffed some into th' pipe heead, put it in his pocket, spit onto th' porch ov a temple erected for th' holiest o' purposes, an' makkin some mooation at aw did'nt understand, he walked in, aw hooap wi motives purer nor his clooas or his breeath wor likely to be. at ivvery corner at yo'd to pass, wor a woman kneelin on a cheer, an' dressed to luk as solemn as a mute at a funeral, an' to render as ugly as possible, faces an' forms'at god had made beautiful; an' they'd each on 'em a bag i' ther hand wi a few coppers in it, an' they shook'em as yo went past. aw did drop a copper into one but billy wod'nt, for he sed if they wanted to cadge let'em goa aght into th' street an' cadge reight. he'd hardly getten th' words aght ov his maath when he sprang back an' planted his heavy booit fair at top ov a corn at awve been nursin for th' thick end o' thirty year, an' made me exhibit a one-legged performance at wor somewhat aght o' place just then, but billy wor too mad to tak ony noatice, an' wor havin a row wi a long lank wizzened carcase an' face at belanged to a woman at stood behind a little table, an' had a little besom in her hand, but when billy axed her what shoo'd done that for? shoo held up a bag wi some moor coppers in an' shook it at him grinnin at him like a monkey. "what's to do?" aw ax'd for it wornt a place to kick up a disturbance in--"shoo's slarted me all ovver mi face wi watter aght o' that besom." "tak noa noatice," aw sed, "it's a practice they have i' this country to sprinkle fowk wi what they call holy watter;--ha mich did ta pay her for it?" "pay her! does ta think aw've gooan cleean of th' side?" "well, if tha hasnt paid her owt tha's lost nowt an' tha sees shoo has lost her watter, an' her trouble." th' watter will'nt matter much for shoo'll be able to mak some moor as sooin as that's done, an' as for th' trouble,--if awd had her aghtside awd ha gein her trouble. but sammy, is this a church or is it some sooart ov a bazaar? sithee, thers a woman thear sellin candles, an' another little picturs an' gimcracks, aw did'nt know they allaad fowk to sell stuff in a church. "what's yond chap dooin." we went to see, an' he wor tawkin away at a gate an' as fowk went in he handed em a ticket for which they paid. we follered an' he gave us each a ticket for c. an' we went to see th' wonders o' th' treasury, as it wor called. aw quite agree wi billy'at it wor a sell, for ther wor little to see, an' that little not near as well worth seein as ony silversmiths shop winder. we did'nt stop long thear, but we had a long stroll throw th' buildin, an' it is a wonder--its a whoal mass o' beauties--an' someha it has'nt soa mich ov a luk ov a gravestooan makkers show raam, as awr st. paul's an' westminster abbey--but one thing spoilt it all to me, for it seemed to sarve noa purpose nobbut money makkin, an' aw wonderd if th' time ud ivver come when another man should mak a scourge an' drive aght th' desecraters ov his father's temple--it's ommost time! when we left that grand old pile, we crossed a street an' entered a buildin whear daily can be seen th' mooast sorrowful an' sickenin seet i' paris. aw meean th' morgue. when th' remembrance ov ivvery other seet has faded, that'll still be fresh. it will'nt be rubbed aght an' yo connot blot it aght, aw wish aw could. billy gave one glance raand--"aw'll wait for thi aghtside," he sed, an' he wod'nt ha had long to wait if it had'nt been'at aw felt it a sooart ov a duty to see all at wor to be seen. it wor a scorchin hot day aghtside, but as sooin as yo entered this bare comfortless lukkin place, yo felt a chill creep all ovver yo. why it is'at places intended to contain objects soa repulsive should be contrived i' sich a way as to add to th' painfulness o' th' exhibition aw could nivver tell; but soa it is. even i' payris, whear glass an' glitter meets yo at ivvery turn, an' ornamentation runs wild ovver ivverything, recent or ruined, they could'nt spare one solitary touch to soften an' subdue soa agonizin a show--but th' place wor full o' fowk an' 'at ther wor summat moor nor common aw could guess. inside a big glass screen, like th' winder ov a fish shop, wor a big braan stooan slab wi watter tricklin ovver it, an' on it wor laid three bodies'at had been pickt aght o' th' river; one a man, but aw will'nt say owt abaat it--it wor too fearful for me to try to paint it--one wor a bonny little lad abaat four years old, weel nourished, an' ivvery thing it had on throo its shoes to its hat showed ha praad sombody had been on it--my heart ached as aw thowt o' that poor mother at wor somwhear lamentin' her loss, an' yet buildin up hooaps at one glance at that little face wod settle for ivver--but it wor th' third, raand which th' craad wor clusterin;--it wor that ov a young woman, beautiful i' booath face an' form--soa beautiful'at it wor hard to believe her deead. what could have caused her put an end to a life'at had hardly fully blossomed into womanhood? it could'nt be poverty, for th' jewels still on her small white hands, wod ha beep enough to ha warded off want for a long time; 'er whole dress showed signs ov wealth an' extravagance. aw could nobbut wonder an' feel sad an' repeat= ````"has she a father? ````has she a mother? ````has she a sister? ````has she a brother? ````or is there a nearer one ````still, and a dearer one?"= it lukt hard to see one soa young an' fair laid o' that weet stooan, past all help--one could but sigh an' walk away= ````"admitting her weakness, `````her evil behaviour; ````but leaving with meekness, `````her sins to her saviour."= when aw joined billy agean aw wor startin to tell him all abaat it--"shut up!" he sed, "aw saw quite enuff, an' aw want to hear nowt noa moor abaat it. if it suits thee to goa maunderin abaat seekin' foi sorrow, it doesnt me. aw want summat to ait, an' it'll have to be summat substantial, soa leead th' way into th' furst place tha comes to at tha thinks gradely." we kept walkin on, an' havin soa mich to luk at, we went a long way withaat callin, but at last aw sed, "wod ta like a plain sooart ov a shop or mun we goa to a showy spot?" "aw care nowt abaat it whether its plain or net if ther's summat fit to feed a true born englishman throo yorksher, but tha'll ha thi wark set to find a place here'at isnt showy--in fact as far as aw can judge, it's moor show nor owt else i' this blessed country; th' exhibition is a big show--th' baloon's another show--yond doncin demons wor a show--th' churches are turned into shows--ther deead haase is a show--ther buildins are stuck up an' bedizened wi gingerbreead an' gilt, all for show--th' men an' wimmen are all shuffle an' show--an' sithee here! awm blowed if ther isnt a church steeple stuck up for a show! well, that's a rum en! aw've monny a time seen a church baat steeple but this is th' furst time aw ivver saw a steeple baat church!" "its true what tha says, an' a grand monument it maks ith' middle o' this square. it luks weel doesnt it?" "luks! aw care nowt abaat ha it luks! what is it for? that's what aw want to know! what's th' use o' fillin up a place wi stuff at's o' noa use nobbut to be lukt at?" "they'll nivver stick thee up to be lukt at, for tha am't hansom enuff, soa tha need'nt freeat!" aw says, for aw felt a bit nettled. "noa, aw dooant hardly think they will, an' aw should fancy they havnt been to ax thee yet, have they? aw think my turn'll be abaat th' next after thine." aw did'nt answer him back, for a varry gooid reason; as long as a chap tawks sense awl tawk to him, but as sooin as he maks a fooil ov hissen aw've done. "nah then, will this shop suit thi?" aw sed, as aw stopt anent a resteraunt door. "if its fit for a littleary chap like tha reckons to be, it should be gooid enuff for a chap at keeps a aleus at th' moor end." "if tha thinks tha can get my monkey up wi mak-kin a desplay o' thi own stupid ignorance tha'rt varry much mistakken! for awl nawther be put aght o' temper wi thee nor a man twice as gooid! an' if tha'rt anxious to be shut o' mi cumpny, aw think awst be able to spare thine!" an' aw walked on leavin him to suit hissen whether he follerd me or net. aw went to th' end o' th' street an' wor just enterin another square wi another big monument ith' middle, when aw turned raand to see if he wor comin, an' just as aw did soa aw felt as if a cannon ball had landed o' mi stummack. a potbellyed frenchman, donned i' red britches, an' a black coit an' a white appron teed raand him baanced abaat a yard off on me an' began tawkin an' shruggin his shoolders an' poolin his face into all sooarts o' shaps--nah it ud ha been better for him if he wor anxious to mak mi acquaintance, to ha chosen another time--aw did'nt loise mi temper, coss awd made up mi mind'at aw wod'nt, but aw just gave him one for his nob'at sent him spinnin like a castle top, an' his hat flew monny a yard, an' aw stood ready to give him another o' th' same sooart if he thowt it worth his while to fotch it, but he did'nt, an' varry sooin two or three gethered raand us an' lukt as if they meant mischief to me, but aw kept cooil--aw wor detarmined aw wod'nt be put aght o' temper; an' aw seized hold o' mi umberel an' aw just felt as if aw could fettle abaat a duzzen on em--or two duzzen for th' matter o' that,--its cappin what a chap fancies he can do if he nobbut keeps cooil.--just then billy coom up an' th' frenchman went up to him an' aw suppooas bi th' way he kept pointin to me, he wor tryin to explain matters, an' although billy could'nt tell a word he sed he seemed to understand what he meant, an' he sed to me, "come on sammy, awve ordered steaks an' puttates for two, an' another bottle o' red ink. tha's nowt to be feeard on, it'll be all reight." "feeard on! ther's nowt aw am feeard on! aw shuddent be feeard o' thee if tha wor twice as big as tha art, aw can tell thi that mich! tha's been tryin all tha knows this mornin to mak me loise mi temper, but tha'rt suckt, for it'll tak a better man nor thee!" "well, aw dooant think tha has lost it, sammy, it'd be a gooid job if tha had, an aw should pity th' chap at fun it, but ther's a treat for thi; tha could'nt ha pickt aght a better shop nor this if tha'd gooan all throo payris, for ther's a stooan mason throo manchester gettin his dinner, an' he can tawk awther french or english, an' he's knockt off wark for th' day, an' he's willing to show us raand." this wor gooid news an' it made me feel--(not better tempered, becoss awd nivver been aght o' temper, tho' billy swears to this day at aw wor as mad as a wasp, but then he's a poor judge o' human natur is billy;) but it made me feel moor,--well, moor,--aw hardly know what to say, but yo'll know what aw meean, for awve noa daat yo've felt that way yorsen. when we gate in, he wor as pleeased to see us as we wor to see him, an' he sooin made th' frenchman, (who turned aght to be th' maister) understand ha things stood, an' then he shuk hands wi me an' bowed, an' sed summat; an' th' mason tell'd me at he wor sayin 'he wor varry sooary if he'd hurt me, an' hooaped aw should forgie him;' "ov coorse," aw sed, "tell him awm one'at nivver bears malice, an' at he mun thank his stars he met me when he did, for if aw had'nt happened to be i' th' best humour ith' world, aw should ha fettled his nop for him." "eeah, friend, be sewer an' tell him that for it'll happen saand moor like trewth i' french nor it does i' english--" th' steaks happenin to come in just at that time put an' end to th' tawk, an' it wornt long befoor we put an end to th' steak. then they browt us a big dish o' fruits--grapes an' plums an' apples an' peaches, an' we had a reight tuck in. "aw dooant think aw've etten as mich crash sin aw wor a lad," aw sed, an' billy sed he wor sewer he had'nt, an' he'd noa idea it wor as gooid as it wor! "well," th' mason sed, "that is owing to the climate, you would'nt enjoy the same things as well at home--i get fruit for breakfast. i dont think you drank much claret when you was at home." "awm sewer we did'nt," sed billy, "for aw supt nowt but ale, an' nah aw hardly feel to care for it. but aw dooant think ale's as gooid here as it is at hooam." "it ought to be for it comes from the best english breweries, but look at these workmen gettin their dinners, they look a fine set of men." an' they did, an' billy an' me did watch em, as aw began wonderin whether or net it wor true, at english fowk had all th' sense ith' world. its worth while givin an' accaant o' their dinner, for this book will noa daat fall into th' hands o' monny a workin' chap at's apt to grummel even if he has to put up wi a beefsteak at hasnt come off th' steak booan, an' it may do him noa harm to know ha other fowk live. one bottle o' claret, for which they paid a franc--a looaf, abaat a yard long, an' abaat as thick as mi arm, for which they paid half a franc--a jug o' cold watter an' three tumbler glasses. aw wonder what three stooan masons at hooam wod ha made aght o' that for ther dinner--fifteen pence wor all it cost for three on em. they each hawf filled ther glass wi wine, then filled it up wi watter, an' then divided th' looaf into three, an' each takkin a fooit on it, they pooled pieces off an dipped it into ther wine an' watter an ate it wi a relish. "sewerly," aw sed, "tha doesnt mean to say at that's all they'll ha to ther dinner." "but it is, and what may surprise you to know is that breakfast and supper only differ by the addition of fruit or some simple vegetable, and yet they can work for twelve hours a day, and they dont look bad." "they're three o' th' finest chaps aw've seen sin aw coom into payris," aw sed, "but aw should think they'll hardly be able to do as mich wark as englishmen?" "well, its generally thought so, but my experience is that they do--they never break any time--i have been here nearly two years and have over two hundred men under me--and there has never one lost a day through drink since i came." "well, its cappin isn't it billy? one could hardly ha believed it if they had'nt seen it. what wod english masons think if they'd to be stopt off ther beef an ale?" "nay, its flaysome to think on, it maks me low spirited,--let's sup off an' be gooin--its as ill as th' deead haase is this." [illustration: ] [illustration: ] chapter vi. les brasseries. [illustration: ] eter,--that wor th' name'at this stooan mason had been kursened,--agreed to spend th' rest o' th' afternooin an' neet wi us, an' show us what he could. aw had'nt forgetten seein th' monument at th' time awd had a dust wi th' frenchman, an' soa aw propooased we should goa thear furst, an' we did--at th' furst seet it reminded me o' th' monument o' london, but it proved to be summat far hansomer, for it wor th' vendome column. awd read abaat it befoor an' knew all abaat th' silly lumpheeads'at spent days o' labor to pool it daan, as if bi destroyin that they could blot aght th' memory o' th' man it wor raised to honor; whearas if it wor possible to sweep ivvery stick an stooan'at forms ther splendid city, off th' face o' th' eearth, an' leeav nowt but a barran tract o' land in its place, noa pilgrim wanderin ovver it but what wod find his thowts circlin raand th' memory ov napoleon. all honour to them, who while strivin to wrest an empire from his successor's grasp, raised once agean this monument to his fame. it ud be wearisome if awd to attempt to describe all th' grand buildings, statys, faantens an' churches'at we passed--peter wor ivvedently at hooam, an' could show us moor i' hauf a day nor we should ha seen in a wick--just a passing word abaat one an' then awl leeav writin abaat what yo can read abaat i' scoors o' books beside this, an' give an idea or two abaat things'at other writers awther havnt seen or darnt tell. la madaleine,--that's th' name ov a church--but it does'nt luk a bit like a church, its far moor like st. george's hall at liverpool, but ther's summat far grander abaat it. it wor oppen free, an' we went in. inside it lukt as billy sed, 'far moor like a gurt cungerin show nor a church,' but ther wor noa mistak abaat its beauty. ther wor a gooid lot o' fowk in, mooastly strangers like ussen, but here an' thear wor one'at seemed to have moor serious business on hand. unless ther's moor virtue in a candle nor aw think ther is, ther's a fearful waste o' wax gooas on i' that spot, for ther wor scoors burnin, net to give leet, that awm certain.--peter sed it wor a custom wi em to burn a lot o' candles after th' deeath o' onybody, soa as to leet ther soul into th' next world,--aw dooant think it does ony harm, an' if it satisfies em, its as weel to say nowt abaat it, but when my time comes aw hooap ther'll be a breeter way to show me th' rooad nor what them candles seemed to give. although they let yo in for nowt, yo'd hard wark to get aght withaat payin summat, but we did manage it, an' felt better suited wi ussen,--net'at we wor too meean to pairt wi a copper or two for th' seet wor worth it, but becoss we did'nt agree wi th' principle on it. another wonder worth mentionin, is th' new grand opera house, but altho' it did cost a million paands sterlin it ud be as mich as mi heead wor worth, if awd to say at it wor owt fit to be compared wi th' new grand opera house they've built i' leeds, becoss ther nivver wor sich a place as that, accordin to all accaants, an' if th' architect should ivver 'shuffle off this mortal coil,' aw hooap they'll put him in a bottle, an' set him up ith' philosophical museum as a new curiosity, for ther's nivver been owt fresh put in sin aw wor a lad, an' that's a year or two sin--th' last time aw wor thear aw thowt th' mumny lukt fair looansome. it's a pity at th' grand opera haase i' payris doesnt pay, but what it falls short, th' government maks up, an' its to be hooaped'at if th' leeds "grand" does'nt pay'at th' corporation'll suppooart it aght o' th' rates--for awm gien to understand at it wor nivver built wi th' idea o' makkin a profit aght on it, but nobbut to elevate th' public taste, tho' they tak gooid care'at yo get noa taste ' th' elevation unless yo pay to go in. when aw read th' leeds mercury, (aw allusread all th' theatrical news i' their paper,) an' saw all they had to say abaat it, it reminded me ov a chap aw knew'at lived at halifax, an' when ivver ony friend called to see him, he used to delight i' marchin em abaat th' taan to show em th' wonders, (an' ther is some wonders i' halifax, ther's noa denyin that;--an' to me th' biggest wonder ov all is at th' taan's thear at all,) but he allusfinished off wi takkin em daan bi th' old church to have a luk at beacon hill--"nah then," he'd say, "what does ta think abaat that for a hill? th' sun has his wark to get ovver that i' daycent time in a mornin tha can bet!" an' if th' chap he's showin it too should happen to say'at 'he'd seen hills ten times as big,' he'd shak his heead an' say--"awve heeard fowk tawk like that befoor; but it's th' biggest hill awve ivver seen, an' it'll be time enuff for me to believe ther's a bigger when aw find one; but inasmich as he's nivver been monny yards away throo hooam he believes'at beacon hill is th' biggest hill yet." peter propooased nah at we should have a carriage as it ud help us to see a varry deeal moor nor we should be able to do, if we depended o' shanks gallowy, soa we agreed, an' wor sooin seeated be-hund a pair o' spankin greys--"cannot yo drive us to some brewery?" sed billy, "aw mak nowt o' com-min here unless aw can leearn summat." "there are breweries here, plenty of them, but not the class you want to see, they call them brasseries, but they are in reality places for drinking beer, and not for making it." "well, neer heed, lets goa, for aw should feel shamed o' misen if awd to goa back hooam withaat leearnin summat abaat th' trade, an' when awm called on at th' next annywel vitlers dinner, to mak a speech, it'll nooan mak a bad start to say 'th' last time'at aw wor i' payris &c.,' an' it'll mak some on em oppen ther een'at fancies coss a chap lives at th' moor end'at he's foorced to be a fooil. aw wor allusov an enquirin turn o' mind mr. peter, an' ther's sammy thear, he luks as big a cauf heead as yo'll meet wi in a day's march, but them at taks him for a fooil mak a mistak, aw should nooan ha browt him wi me on a journey like this if aw had'nt thowt summat abaat him." "aw did'nt know'at tha had browt me," aw sed, "it wor me'at axd thee to coom if aw ammot mich mistakken.", "awm nooan baan to fratch abaat it mun, if tha says a thing tha'll stick to it aw know that, an' if ther's ony credit tha'll awther have it or swelt--but aw wonder whear tha'd ha been if it had'nt been for me--tha'd ha been lockt up for riteous conduct ith' street mr. peter knows that; by th' heart! but this is a queer lukkin neighborhooid yo're takken us into--aw dooant like th' luk o' some o' theas fowk--aw nivver saw sich a cutthroit lukkin lot i' mi life! awm nooan soa varry particular abaat gooin to see th' breweries; if yo think ther's ony danger, let's goa back;--net at it matters for me for awm a single chap, but sammy's left a wife at hooam an' its her awm thinkin on." "thee think o' thisen an' thi mother, an' leeav mally to me--but if tha'rt beginnin to duff tha'd better get aght an leeav it to peter an' sammywell! if it worn't for thi age and respect aw have for thi family awd pitch thi cleean aght o' th' cab! duffin! nah mr. peter awl put it to yo do yo think its likely,'at a chap what's kept a beer-haase at th' moorend all th' years'at awve done, whear thers been as monny as three or four rows in a wick, some wicks;--tho' aw alluskept a orderly haase, perleece'll tell yo soa if yo ax em,--an aw've seen chaps brayin one another to bits ommost, an awve nivver stirred aght o' mi cheer,--nah, do yo think aw should be likely to duff?" "your courage will not be called into requisition, so you need not be at all alarmed. this leads us to the quartier latin, let us get down here and try this." it wor commin dusk an th' lamps wor bein leeted ith' streets, but inside all wor a blaze wi leet. it wor a big, rayther low raam, gay wi gold an colours an lukken glasses, an supported with a lot o' thin pillars covered up hawfway wi crimson velvet--seeats covered wi th' same stuff went all raand th' sides an' th' floor wor covered wi little marble tables, an stooils wi velvet tops, an altogether, th' place lukt varry grand an hardly seemed suitable for th' company at wor thear, for altho' they didn't luk like workin men, ther wor an untidy, unweshed, unkempt look abaat em'at aw hadn't noaticed in ony other lot. peter gave th' order an in a minit a young woman, donned up like a playacter coom wi three bottles o' beer, an six glasses. shoo put em all daan an peter paid, an in a twinklin th' six glasses were filled, two moor lasses at didn't wear sleeves i' ther gaaons, but hung em on wi two narrow shoulder straps, an wi skirts made that length wol yo didn't need to wonder whether they wore garters or not,--coom an smiled an each takkin a glass, popt it off at one swig, (an they held a gill,) an filled em up agean, (for all bottles thear hold three gills) an withaat waitin to tak ther breeath, sent th' second to see after th' first, wiped ther lips an lukt as dry as if they hadn't tasted for a month. th' empty bottles an glasses wor takken away, an wi a smile an a wave o' ther hand they went to attend to somdy else, leeavin us to sit as long ovver awr glass as we'd amind. peter said we were too sooin to see th' place at its. best,--which meeans at its warst,--but he tell'd us at th' customers wor mooastly artists an students, an theas wimmen wor dressed up i' sich fantastic style to draw fowk thear, an it wor ther principal duty to get off as mich drink as they could, an at from at nooin to next mornin they oft took more nor glasses o' beer, to say nowt abaat th' glasses o' liquors an wines they had in between. it wor hard to believe it, but after watching em for abaat an haar, aw could ha believed it if he'd sed , for we wornt moor nor an haar ith place, an aw saw one lass, net moor nor year old, drink glasses o' beer, one o' coffee and brandy, an one wine, an when we left shoo seemed as reight as if shoo hadn't had aboon twopenoth. after each glass shoo ate a couple o' shrimps aw suppooas to mak her thirsty for th' next. peter sed they seldom lasted moor nor four years, for if it didn't kill em it awther made em bloated an ugly or browt on some disease, but wol they lasted they could mak throo to pounds a year, an during that time they wor generally living wi some student or artist as his mistress, an givin him all shoo could get, i' return for which, as sooin as shoo could hold her situation noa longer, he turned her into th' street, to add one moor to that swarm, estimated at , women, at live i' that fair, gay and fashionable city called payris, by prostitution ov th' worse sooart, an this , doesn't include some thaasands moor, who carry on th' same trade, under th' sanction an protection ov ther government. yo'll feel inclined to say, "well, sammy, we've heeard enuff o' that,--tell us summat else." "aw wish aw could tell yo summat else, an paint yo a true pictur, withaat havin to drag in that spectre,'at i ivvery guise o' revoltin ugliness, an heavenly beauty, haunts church, street, cafe, garden, river, and even holds its revel alike in th' perfumed chaymer, surrounded wi youth an innocence, an' in th' pestiferous stinkin den whear vice is life, and virtue all unknown. noa wonder'at ther's a free exhibition at th' morgue ivvery day, an "one more unfortunate" sleepin her long last sleep on that drippin stooan, all unconscious ov th' curious crowd at see in her limp limbs, an distorted face nowt moor nor a spectacle provided bi a thowtful government for their entertainment, but fail to leearn th' lesson'at it owt to taich." france has her warriors,--her statesmen, an' her poets! has'nt shoo one man, with a voice at can ring throo her fair cities--her vineyards, an' her lovely hamlets; at will raise it to rid her o' th' biggest curse under which a nation can grooan. shoo's safer wi a thaasand invadin armies hemmin her raand, nor wi that enemy gnawin away at th' vitals ov her heart. when we left th' brewery we had a drive up an' daan th' principal boulevards, an' it wor a treeat an' noa mistak. th' mooin wor as breet varry near as a sun, an' th' gas lamps lukt to burn wi a yallo blaze at shed noa leet. th' trees sparkled as they shook ther leaves an' th' buildins stood aght agean th' breet blue sky as if they'd been cut aght o' cleean card-booard. men sauntered along puffin ther cigerettes, or set ith' front o' one o' th' cafes, en-joyin th' luxary o' havin nowt to do, an' knowin ha to do it. it wodn't interest yo to tell yo whear we went; for yo'at nivver wor thear ud be noa wiser an' yo at have been can tell for yorsen. it wor a long drive, an' we stopt at last at th' arc de triomphe de l'etoile an' aw should think ther isnt sich another seet ith' world. payris appears to lay at yor feet, an' strings o' gas leets mark aght ivvery principal street. billy could'nt find words to express hissen, all he could get off wor, "e'e, gow! sammy! e'e gow! by gum mun! a'a mun!" it wor one o' them things whear yo could'nt help onybody: aw did think'at billy wor a bigger fooil nor me, but awm foorced to own'at he could describe it just as weel as me, for aw kept tryin to remember what awd leearnd aght o' th' bookshunary soas aw could say summat, but it wor noa use, aw could nobbut stare an' ax misen, in a whisper, whether aw wor i' this world or th' next. payris wor asleep. that rattle an' clang'at had caused a hum to flooat ovver th' city wor silent.--aw lost misen i' thowt:--aw didnt see a city;--aw saw a wood, an' mi fancy tuk me throo it; all th' singin birds had dropt ther songs an' wor nestlin' i' ther cosy hooams, but ther still wor some lukkin aght for what they could catch--owls,--human owls,--wor nobbut makkin a start. aw've oft seen th' owl stuck up as a symbol o' wisdom, but aw could nivver understand it: an' aw should be thankful if one o' them cliver chaps'at know soa mich wod kindly point aght to me whear th' sense is, i' sittin an' blinkin all th' day, when th' sun is makkin ivverything lovely, an' turnin aght at neet when all is dark an' solemn, to drop onto some timid little maase at wod ha been aght i' th' daytime if it dar. noa,--aw nawther see wisdom nor principle ith' owl. gie me a lark'at shaks his wings as sooin as th' sun sends aght his furst pale ray as an agent i' advance to tell th' world he's gooin to show agean, an' starts towards heaven whear he hings, a dot agean a dull blue dome, an' pours his melody on an awakenin eearth, cheerin the sad an' addin' joy to them whose cup wor full exceptin for those drops ov harmony. ther's summat at feels heavy o' yor heart when a gurt, bustlin city is asleep,--when th' solitary cab rattles wi a peevish din along a silent street--an' th' quiet steady traid o' th' watchman saands like th' pulse-beeat ov a district lapt i' sleep. we made it up'at we wod have a nod neet aght an' see th' dark side as weel as th' breet. if awd been a praiche'r aw could ha fun plenty o' subjects for a sarmon as we wandered raand. ommost all th' places wor shut up and nubdy seemed to be abaat. as we slowly trampt along, nah an' then a--(what-do-yo-call-em, we call em bobbies i' england,) passed us, or we passed him, but peter sed a word or two an' we wornt interfered wi. we coom anent one grand place whear th' winders wor blazin wi leet an' we went in. it wor another o' them grand shops sich as we'd seen soa monny on, but all along one side wor little raams screened off, an' they called em _cabinet particulier_ an' we went into one;--ther's noa mistak abaat th' luxury an' beauty o' theas little places, but it doesnt tak th' e'e ov a hawk to see even moor in one nor they'd wish aghtsiders to believe. we had'nt been long an' th' waiter wor nobbut bringin us th' furst cup o' coffee when in coom two wimmen, (aw call em wimmen becoss they wor ith' shape on em,) but peter gave em to understand'at we did'nt want to add to th' number o' th' compny. we had a rest an' a smook an' then we started aght agean, we had'nt walked monny yards befoor we coom to another spot'oth' same sooart, an' we sat daan o' th' opposite side o' th' rooad to luk at what wor gooin on. th' winders wor oppen an' th' leets wor up at full, an' th' saand o' what aw suppooas they meant for mewsic, coom aght o' th' oppen shutters--ther wor a rustlin ov a silk dress an' a grand lukkin lass fit for a duchess coom up to th' door, but th' chap at wor standin thear shoved her away as if shoo'd been a beggar--shoo stood for a minit or two lukkin up at whear th' saand coom throo an' then shoo walked away wipin her een wi her pocket hankerchy an' vanished. aw felt as if aw could ha liked to goa an' try to comfort her a bit, an aw ommost felt sooary at mally wornt thear, for aw know shoo can set onybody reight if onybody can, but peter sed it wod be noa use for shoo wor varry likely lukkin for him who had promised to meet her an' had disappointed her--just then a lad coom past sellin papers an' peter bowt one; (billy wod ha bowt one, but after lukkin at it he declared at th' fowk'at had printed it did'nt know ha to spell) an' after a bit he sed, (aw meean peter,) "this is a sad case but only one of many such." "what is it? aw says. "only an account of the finding of a body in the river to-day. a young and beautiful girl who ran away from home leaving parents, sisters, brothers and a lover and came to paris, was admired, feted, courted and betrayed, and in the midst of her gaiety and dissipation was confronted by the honest-hearted suiter for her hand who had followed her, and remorse having mastered her infatuation, and despair overwhelmed her hopes she put an end to herself. her body has been claimed by her friends;--it was at the morgue to-day. it is almost an everyday story, but it is only an individual case of reaping the whirlwind when the seed has been so plentifully sown. "nature! impartial goddess!--never forgets her duties," sed peter, braikin off throo what he'd been sayin, an' aw could'nt help thinkin ha mich beauty a chap loises, and what joys he misses wi liggin i' bed ov a neet--reight enuff a chap cannot be up booath day an' neet, but its worth while for ony body to sacrifice a bit o' sleep nah an' then for th' sake o' seein what th' world luks like when its wakkenin. th' sun wornt fairly up but yet it wor growin leet, an' we made another move; billy an' me booath lukkin a bit solid owin to th' accaant he'd gien us aght o' th' paper, an' billy says, "lets goa back hooam; awm sick o' seein an' hearin soa mich abaat what owt'nt to be." "remember, billy," aw says, "we munnot judge too hastily, becoss it's just likely'at luck may ha led us to see th! warst pairt an' th' better pairt is to come--nivver let us condemn ony country or ony city--for what we may see in an' haar or two, for th' best fruit tree ith' world may have a rotten en on sometimes. but what's that row o' fowk abaat? they luk a queer lot! what does ta mak on em, peter?" "they are waiting for the superintendant who will be here shortly, but with their advent subsides another class that belong particularly to paris; the rag pickers; we have not met them to-night for the streets we have been in are not those likely to yield them a harvest, but whilst we wait here i may as well tell you a few facts which i have gleaned since my arrival in the country. there is one wending his way homewards with a basket weighty with his gatherings of the night--let us speak to him, a few sous will amply repay him for his trouble and any time he may loose." soa he stopt him an' he emptied his hamper, an' sich a lot o' stuff aw nivver saw befoor--aw dooant believe'at thers a beggar i' yorksher'at ud bend his back to pick sich rubbish up.--bits o' rooap, paper, cabbage leeavs, cigarettes, cigar stumps, booans, rags, crusts o' breead, an' some things'at aw should fancy ther wornt onybody but him'at had gethered em could give em a name. billy's heart wor inclined to oppen--nay, it did oppen, an' he gave him a franc, an' when he gate it, th' tears rushed into his een an' altho' he wor a frenchman his tongue wor useless for his heart wor soa heigh up in his throit'at he could'nt spaik, an' billy lifted his fist an' sed, (but in a voice at wor varry shaky to say it belanged to billy,) "tak thi hook! if tha doesnt awl punce thi!" an' for th' next three minits he did nowt but blow his nooas an' complain abaat havin getten some dust in his e'e--a'a! he's nooan all guts isnt billy! aw believe after all'at he could'nt hold that heart o' his unless it wor in a big carcass. we went then to see all this lot o' fowk at wor waitin for th' superintendant. they wor th' street sweepers, an' they wor just same as solgers, an' as th' word o' command wor gien they went off i' pairties o' four, an' started o' sweepin th' streets an' makkin all cleean an' tidy for them at had nobbut just gooan to bed, soas they could get up ith' mornin an' find th' city as trim an' tidy as they'd ivver seen it, an' nowt left for th' day-leet to show ov what had been done under th' gas-leet. did yo ivver see a woman on a stage, donned up i' muslin, silver lace an' spangles, wi a painted face, her e'en made breet wi brandy,--her e'e-broos black wi charcoil or indyink,--her hands covered wi white kid gloves, an' her feet pinched into tiny slippers,--wol her legs wor padded to luk like what its just possible they may ha been once, an' covered wi silk stockins, an' nawther moor nor less nor an' angel withaat wings?--an' did yo ivver see th' same woman next mornin, when shoo's getten up aght o' bed an' left all her false ringlets o' th' dresser (if shoo has one,) when her paint is rubb'd off her cheeks, her red hands, hoofed an' scarred uncovered,--her ee'n heavy an' bleared,--her feet shoved into th' wrecks of a pair o' men's booits,--an' wi a thyble in her hand, an' a bit o' mail in a paper bag, as shoo gooas to wark to male a bit o' porrige for two or three squallin childer'at nivver knew ther father? if soa yo must ha been struck wi th' difference. well, thers just that much difference between what payris is on th' surface an' what it is when yo goa below. we went along an' peter sed he'd like to show us ha fowk i' payris lived an' give us an inseet into things at if they did us noa other gooid mud happen taich us economy, an' prove at it wornt allusthem fowk'at had th' mooast brass an' made th' mooast ov a spreead' at lived best. "there's nothing thrown away in paris," sed peter, "excepting human life. the rag-picker with his basket and his crook is one of the most important personages in the city. the stumps of cigars and cigarettes are what form the snuff of the most fastidious men who indulge in the habit--the scraps of old paper are all utilised and every bit of rag is converted to good use--the garbage, consisting of outside leaves of cabbages, turnip tops and even rotten fruit serve as ingredients for soups sold in the inferior restaurants; but the bread perhaps is most remarkable,--private families and boarding houses throw out crusts which are merely stale; cafes have plenty of broken crusts and soiled bits, but although it is cast into the street it is all carefully collected and preserved and the very refuse which is cast into the street from the sumptuously furnished tables of aristocratic salons on the rue de rivoli will not unlikely reappear in another form on the same tables and be appreciated. crusts of stale bread are collected by inferior bakers and are soaked and rebaked and served again as new bread in cheap restaurants, the small broken pieces are carefully collected and cut up into small dice and after undergoing some secret process are converted into those appetizing toasted chips which give such a relish to soup--but there is another class, much more objectionable, at least to our ideas,--the soiled and dirty scraps such as were to be found amongst the rubbish of the rag-picker's basket, are seldom or ever given to poultry or pigs as you would imagine, but undergo a process of cleaning and are then dried, pounded into crumbs and burnt upon greased tins until they become a rich brown, and of this bread dust, every restaurant, from the one where the members of the senate meet, to the one whose customers regard a dish of meat as an exceptional treat, keep a stock; your cutlet is made to look beautiful with it--ham, fowls, or baked meats all owe more or less of their attractiveness to the same source. this is no secret here, and just so long as the dish set before them is pleasing to the eye, and pleasant to the taste, they ask no questions nor trouble themselves to wonder of what it is composed. there is scarcely any part of any animal--ox, horse, dog, cat, sheep, goat, sparrow or frog that is not utilized and made to furnish savoury morsels for one class or other--the better portions of a beast naturally find their way to that portion of the city where money is most plentiful, but i do not think it is too much to say that had the english people the same knowledge that the french possess in culinary matters, that the quantity of meat and vegetable that is daily wasted at home would furnish food, both toothsome and wholesome, enough for every starving creature within its shores. "well, it may seem all reight to thee tha knows, to mak thi belly into a muck-middin, but for mi own pairt awd rayther have a rasher o' gooid hooam fed bacon an' a couple o' boiled eggs to mi braik-fast nor th' grandest lukkin dish o' chopt up offal tha could set befoor me, an' aw fancy sammy's o' th' same opinion." "aw must say, billy,'at aw had rayther sit daan to a bit o' summat gradely, an' as a rule aw like to know what it is awm aitin, yet it's happen nobbut th' result o' ignorance, an' we turn up us nooas at things simply becoss we've been towt noa better; but aw could do wi a bit ov a snack if aw had it,--what says ta billy?" "a bit ov a snack ud be noa use to me--aw could just do a quairt o' porrige an' milk to start wi, but awst be ommost tarrified aght o' mi wit o' touchin' owt nah. if we'd had ony sense we should ha browt summat wi us, an' aw should ha done but aw thowt aw wor commin wi a cliver chap'at knew summat, but aw find awve been mistaen." "eeah an' ther's somdy else been mistaen as weel as thee, for if awd known what a chuffin heead tha'd ha turned aght aw wod'nt ha been paid to come." "why dooant freeat sammy, for it isnt variy likely 'at tha'll ivver be troubled wi onybody offerin to pay thee for owt unless it wor for keepin thi maath shut, an' if they'd start a subscription for that awd gie th' price ov a pint towards it misen." th' shops wor all oppenin nah, an' peter tuk us into a place an' ordered braikfast, but altho' we wor ommost clammd, we booath felt a bit suspicious abaat what we should have set befoor us to ait; but when it coom in an' we saw a dish full o' ham steaks wi' fried eggs laid all raand em an' a looaf a breead abaat a yard long, an' cups o' coffee'at sent a smell like a garden o' pooaseys all throo th' place, all fear o' bein awther impooased on or pooisened left us, an' ther wornt a word spokken bi ony on us until billy threw daan his knife an' fork an' sed, "thear!" we finished ommost as sooin as him an' peter settled th' bill, an' as we walked aght we felt like men new made ovver agean, but we wor varry glad to get into a cab an' leet a cigar an' enjoy th' beautiful drive to us own lodgins. we went a long raand abaat way but it wor ommost all throo gardens or under trees, here an' thear we went throo a square an' stopt a minit to luk at a faantain, a moniment, or a wonderful buildin, or went a short distance along th' river's bank or made a cut throo a street, an' we'd noa time to do owt but admire all we saw, whether it wor natural or artificial an' th' impressions o' th' neet befoor seemed like ugly fancies at th' mornins flood o' beauty an' gaiety wor quickly sweepin away--aw could'nt help but repeat,= ```"one little favour, o, 'imperial france! ```still teach the world to cook, to dress, to dance, ```let, if thou wilt, thy boots and barbers roam, ```but keep thy morals and thy creeds at home."= to say we'd been up all th' neet we did'nt feel varry weary nor sleepy an' after a gooid wesh an' a brush up we felt noa desire to goa to bed soa we sat daan at one o' th' little tables aghtside an called for a bottle o' bordeaux, (we'd getten reight to like it) an' we tipt us cheers back, yankee fashion, an' amused ussen wi watchin fowk goa past. we sooin discovered at a cheap trip had just come in, an' as they went past wi ther boxes an' carpet bags billy lained ovver to me an' he says, "what gawky chaps english fowk luk when they land here at furst; why, aw feel soa different sin aw coom to live i' payris wol awm feeard they'll tak me for a born frenchman when aw get back hooam." "tha's noa need," aw says, "they may tak thi to be a born summat at begins wi a f, but it will'nt be frenchman!" peter had to leeav us nah, we wor varry sooary to pairt wi him, but he sed his business wod'nt allaa him to stop ony longer, soa we shook hands wi him an' thanked him for all his kindness, an' as he turned away he sed, "and be sure you remember me kindly to mally." this rayther knockt th' wind aght on me, an' billy says, "nah lad thart in for't, an' sarve thi reight! yond chap'll write off to yor mally, an' tell her o' thi gooins on an' then tha'll get thi heead cooamd wi summat tha weeant like when tha gets hooam! aw wod'nt be i' thy shoes for a trifle!" "well, if thers been owt wrang tha's been as deep ith' muck as aw've been ith' mire, soa tha can shut up!" "has ta ivver answered that letter shoo sent thi?" "noa, aw've nivver had a chonce but aw will do reight away an' then that'll happen ease her mind a bit, an' aw wod'nt cause a minit o' bother, if aw could help it for all aw can see." "it's a pity tha doesnt try to mak her believe it." "aw do try, an' aw allusdid!" "eeah, aw meean its a pity tha art'nt moor successful." "thee mind thi own business, an' leeav me to mind mine!" aw felt it wor a waste o' time to tawk ony moor to him, soa aw left him to sit bi hissen wol aw went to write a letter to mally. aw did'nt goa wi a varry leet heart, net at aw cared owt abaat th' trubble, but aw wor fast what to say. to write th' plain trewth aw knew wod'nt do, an' to write what worn't true wor a thing aw wod'nt do, an' aw sat some time studdyin befoor aw made a start. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] chapter vii. sho actin'. [illustration: ] wve discovered it to be a varry gooid plan nivver to write a letter withaat rhyme or reason--if yo've gooid reason for it, fowk 'll nivver care abaat th' rhyme, but if yo've noa reason, give'em some rhyme.= ```dear mally lass, awm fain to say ```aw gate thy letter yesterday; ```it fun me weel as when aw started, ```except for freeatin' 'coss we're parted. ```ther's lots i' this strange place to see, ```but nowt at's hauf as dear to me, ```wheariwer its mi fate to rooam; ```as that old lass'at's set at hooam. ```awd come back bi th' next booat, but then ```billy'd be looansome bi hissen; ```aw want to keep him free thros bother, ```an' hand him safe back to his mother.= ```aw think he's gettin cured at last, ```his stummack's mendin varry fast; ```an' ale!--its true lass what aw say, ```he doesnt sup a pint ith' day. ```he nivver has a bilious baat, ```tho' aitin' moor withaat a daat, ```awm savin all th' news till aw come, ```an' then tha'll see awst bring thi some; ```we meean to leeav here varry sooin, ```aw think abaat next mondy nooin; ```to find thi weel will mak me fain; ```till then, believe me to remain, ```as oft befoor tha's heeard me tell, ```thy faithful husband sammywell.= bith' time shoo's managed to get throo that an' had a chonce to study it ovver we shall be abaat at hooam, soa aw need'nt bother ony moor wi letter writin. aw went to th' pooast office an' paid cents for a stamp an' sent it off, an when aw gate back to whear awd left billy, aw fan him hard asleep an' th' sun shinin straight daan his throit. a claat o' th' side o' th' heead wakkened him, an' he jumpt up to show feight but th' seet o' mi umbrella nop quietened him an' as he saw whear he wor an' who wor anent him he smiled an' sed, "a'a! is it thee sammy? aw wor ommost droppin off!" "aw think tha had dropt off, but what are we to do wi ussen nah, for aw mak nowt o' caarin here, let's have a walk." "ov coorse, awm sewer if tha thowt onnybody wor comfortable tha'd want to disturb em, but tha may do as tha likes for it will'nt last long. if awm spared to see yond bed o' mine agean awl have sich a sleep as aw havnt had lately--start off wi thi an' get us booath lost an' then tha'll be happy." i' spite o' what billy sed, aw knew he wor better pleeased to be walkin abaat nor sittin still, soa we went up one street an' daan another until we gate into one'at wor like what bradford market wol twenty year sin, nobbut aw nivver saw onny english market wi sich a show o' fruit. ommost ivvery-thing wor ticketed, an' that wor a gooid thing for us, an' we booath on us enjoyed ussen to us heart's content. ther wor nowt moor cappin to billy an' me nor th' amaant o' plums, an' peaches, an' sich like stuff'at we put aght o' th' seet. if we'd etten quarter as mich at hooam we should ha been ligged up for a wick at leeast, an' should ha thowt we wor lucky if we wornt ligg'd under th' sod. we heeard a band o' music strike up soa we went to see what wor to do, an' it wor a circus,--an' they had ther bills printed i' booath french an' english soa we thowt it ud be a nice way to spend th' afternooin an' we should be able to see th' difference between an' english show an' a french en. we wor just gooin in when a chap touched me o' th' shoolder an' sed summat, but aw shook mi heead--"anglish?" he sed. "english throo yorksher," aw sed. "o, well, i can speek anglish--the anglish peeples have been var goot to me, i vill be goot to dem. you going to de cirque? yaas; i have some ticket; my vife is sick an cannot come and i vill sell dem to you for hafe--only two franc de one, four franc de two." "what are we to do billy?" "buy em ov coorse if tha thinks it'll save owt." soa aw tuk em an' gave him four franc's an' then he shovd us each a bill in us hand an' grinned an' lifted off his hat, "one franc each if you plees gentlemons." "oh, be blowed!" aw sed, "tak em back we want nooan on em!" but he began quaverin abaat an' gabberin away an' whewin his arms abaat wol we wor sooin ith' middle ov a craad, soa billy gave him th' two francs an' he bowed an' smiled as perlite as if we'd been his long lost uncles come to leeav him a fortun. we went up th' steps an' gave th' chap th' tickets but he wornt for lettin us goa in. it wor noa use tawkin to him for he could'nt understand a word we sed. aw just began to smell a rat an' aw whispers to billy, "aw believe we've been done." "done or net done," he sed, "awm baan in!" an' i' hauf a second th' chap flew wi his heead agean tother side o' th' passage an' billy an' me walked in. th' show wor gooin on, just th' same as ony other circus for owt aw could see, an' billy stawped forrad an' made straight for th' best seeat he could find empty an' aw stuck to him for aw thowt two together in a row wor better nor one, an' aw unlawsed th' tape at wor teed raand th' middle o' mi umberel so as to give it fair play an' aw set waitin for th' rumpus. in a bit a dapper little chap comes an' touches billy o' th' shoolder an' mooationed him to follow, but he mud as well ha tried to coax one o' th' pyramids o' egypt; billy nivver stirred but sat starin at two chaps ith' ring at wor playin antics wi a long powl. after a while th' same chap comes back wi other two, one on em dressed up like a malishyman ith' awkard squad, an' he touched billy, but net just as gently as tother had done, but billy nivver stirred, soa this chap shoves past me an' seizes him bi th' collar, (which to say th' leeast on it wor a fooilish thing to do until he'd calkilated th' weight o' th' chap,) an' th' next minit he wor dooin a flyin lowp an' turned a summerset into th' middle o' th' ring. this wor a performance'at they'd nivver seen befoor an' th' audience all jumpt up an' th' chaps wi th' powl threw it on th' sawdust an' lukt as capt as ony o' tothers. billy stood thear like a baited bull, waitin for th' next. aw dooant know who th' next wor but he did'nt show up. aw could'nt help feelin a bit praad o' billy, an' altho' awm gettin into years aw grun mi teeth an' felt detarmined at awd feight as long as a bit o' th' umberel ud hing together. but it seemed at gooid luck had'nt forsaken us for one o' th' actors coom up to us an as sooin as awd a gooid luk at his face aw knew him in a minit, for awd seen th' same chap wi pinder's circus i' bradforth, an' he knew me an' laffed wol aw wor feeard he'd braik his middle garment, (aw dooant know what they call it, but its that'at they sew spangles on an' devides ther legs from ther carcase,) an' aw tell'd him what had takken place, an' he tell'd tother chaps an' then he sed 'he'd made it all right for us and we must wait for him when all was over,' we promised we wod, an' aw felt a bit easier i' mi mind to know'at we'd getten another o' awr side. th' performance went on then, but ther wor nowt in it different to what awd seen befoor an' we wor booath pleeased when it wor ovver. herr l------t wor as gooid as his word an' wor sooin wi us, an' we walked aght withaat onybody mislestin us. it seems'at we'd been duped, for th' tickets we'd bowt wor old ens'at had been done away wi sin th' year befoor, an' when we showed th' programes he laft harder nor ivver, an' he sed, one on em wor for a theatre an' tother wor a bill o' fare for a cafe. we gat some refreshments an' then herr l----l left us an' we set off agean i' search o' adventurs. ther wor a craad raand a shop winder soa we went to see what it wor. it wor a pictur'at filled th' whole o' th' winder, an' if yo daat, as some fowk may, th' trewth o' what aw say, ax some o' yor friends'at's been, an' if that will'nt satisfy, read what th' "graphic" correspondent says. it wor th' figure ov a woman, dressed ith' same fashion'at adam an' eve wore befoor they sewed fig leeavs together. it wor moor nor life size an' shoo wor shown standin on her heead, an' th' artist had taen gooid care'at yo should'nt mistak it for a man. it wor surraanded wi dumb-bells, indian clubs, an' different gymnastic implements, an' aw wor informed after'at it wor an advertisement for a taicher o' gymnastics an wor intended to show ha a woman's form could be developed wi folloin his advice an' takkin lessons off him--"but," aw sed, "dooant yo think its scandalous to have sich a thing exhibited in a public street whear men, wimmen an' childer have to pass?" "oh, you see we have none of that false modesty here, that you english people have. the very thing you object to has become one of the sights of paris and your own countrymen are as anxious to pay it a visit as any others." "awm net gooin to say'at my countrymen are better nor yors, but this aw will say,'at if yo consider what yo style their false modesty to be their hypocrisy, aw hooap an' trust they'll continue to be hypocrites an' to breed em as long as th' world lasts: for awd rayther have a chap at tried to appear gooid, even if he isnt, nor one at'll flaunt his brazen sin an wickedness i' yor face!" it wor a grand relief to sit daan agean ith' cooil o' th' day an' sip a drop o' coffee; (an' ther's noa mistak, they can mak coffee up to th' mark,) ther wor just a gentle breeze an' fowk wor all awther lollin an' takkin ther ease or else hurryin on to th' theatres. it ommost seems as if pleasure wor ther livin, an' to a gurt extent aw suppooas it is. as we'd been up all th' neet befoor we agreed to goa to bed i' gooid time so as to be prepared for th' next day. we strolled along a rayther dark an' narrow street till we coom to a door wi a row o' lamps ovver th' top--fowk wor rollin in, an' bi th' bills we could manage to mak it aght to be a sooart o' variety theatre. havin a bit o' time to spare we went in, an' it reminded me varry mich o' th' same sooart o' places at hooam. it wor pretty well filled an' th' fowk seemed varry weel behaved, tho' some o' th' men's faces wor ugly enough to freeten a child into a fit. th' band played some grand music, an' it wor a treat to hear "god save the queen," as a pairt on it. it seemed to have moor meanin nor awd ivver known it to have befoor--th' singers aw did'nt mak mich on,'ith' furst place ther wor nobbut one on em'at had a voice ony moor musical nor a penny trumpet, an' they shrugged ther shoolders an' twisted ther faces an' stuck ther hands into sich shapes'at they lukt varry mich like tryin to play th' fooil an' had'nt lent ha--one woman,--a strapper shoo wor too--wi a voice as strong as a steam organ, an as sweet--coom on drest to represent liberty--republican liberty aw mean,--an' shoo shaated an' yell'd an' threw hersen into shapes, an' waved a flag abaat, an' altogether kickt up sich a row,'at th' fowk all began to shaat an' yell an' wave ther caps abaat as if they wor goin wrang i' ther heeads, (if sich heeads can,) an' when shoo'd done they kept up sich a hullaballoo wol shoo coom back agean for a oncoor, but we'd had enough soa we pyked aght as quietly as we could an' wended us way hooam. we bid one another 'gooid neet,' an' wor sooin i' bed, net sooary to know at it ud be sundy ith' mornin. [illustration: ] [illustration: ] chapter viii. dimanche. [illustration: ] ven i' payris day seems to braik moor softly lo' th' sabbath nor ony other day i' th' wick, an' th' burds tune ther throats to a mellower nooat, an' th' sun seems to kiss old mother eearth moor lovingly, an' th' trees wave ther branches wi' a slower, statelier nod, as they whisper to each other an' to ivverything araand, "it's sunday." it may nobbut be a fancy, but it's one o' them fancies aw favor, an' i' th' time o' bits o' upsets an' bother, (an' aw get mi' share same as th' rest o' fowk,) aw fall back o' that inner chaymer whear aw've stoored up pleasant memories an' fond con-caits an' find a comfort i' livin for a while amang mi fancies an' mi follies. when aw gat daan to mi braikfast billy wor waitin', an' aw could see'at sundy made a difference even to him. his shirt neck lukt stiffer, an' he'd put a extra dooas o' tutty on his top-pin', an' he'd treated hissen to a shave for th' furst time sin he'd left hooam, an' when he bid me gooid mornin', he called me sammywell asteead o' sammy, an' if it hadn't been for him sayin' ("aw wonder ha they'll be gooin on at hooam? if it's a day like this mi mother'll be run off her feet;--shoo should tak between four an' five paand to day for ale, to say nowt abaat cheese an' breead an' cold beef; but happen if it runs owt short to day we'st be able to mak it up next wick, for shoo'll nooan forget to let fowk know whear aw am, an' they'll be sewer to call after aw get back to hear ha aw've getten on. what are we to do wi' ussen, sammywell?") aw should ha thowt'at he'd th' same sooart o' feelins as me; but use is second natur they say, soa aw made noa moor remark abaat it. "well, aw thowt aw should like to goa to one o' th' cemetaries for they tell me they are beautiful places." "awm reight for onywhear if there isn't mich trailin' abaat, but mi legs feel rayther stiff this mornin' what a racket all them bells keep up! they've been at it ivver sin aw wakkened this mornin'. they must goa to church i' gooid time i' theas pairts." "they do, an' aw should ha gooan misen but aw couldn't ha understood owt they'd sed, but if tha's a mind we'll start aght nah for it's a pity to loise this grand mornin'." when we went into th' street, ivverything lukt breeter an' cleaner nor usual--th' fowk wor hurryin' along i' opposite ways, all weel-dressed an' cleean, an' throo ivvery pairt o' th' city th' bells wor ringin' an' nubdy could mistak'at it wor th' time for payris to be at church. th' lanlord wor stood at th' door lazily smookin' his pipe, an' aw ax'd him which cemetary he considered best worth a visit, but he sed he didn't know for he'd nivver been to one but he'd heeard a gooid deeal said abaat pere la chaise, an' th' best way wor to get a carriage an' ride thear for we should have plent o' walkin' abaat at after. "what time do yo expect to land back?" he sed, "we shut up at eleven on sundays soa yo'll know." "why," aw says, "aw hardly know but couldn't yo let us have a latch-kay soas if we should be lat we can get in?" "we've noa latch kays, but as yor two chaps aw can trust, awl let yo have th' kay for th' back door an' then yo can come in what time yo like, an' awl leeav th' gas burnin' an' a bit o' supper ready for yo." we tell'd him we wor varry much obleeged to him, an' aw put th' kay i' mi pocket an' we wor sooin comfortably seated in a carriage drivin' along. it's cappin ha different streets luk when th' shops are shut up! we'd gooan ovver a lot o' th' same graand befoor but us een had seldom or ivver been lifted higher nor th' furst stoory, but nah we wor surprised to see what a lot o' things ther wor aboon'at wor worth nooatice. awd nivver enjoyed a ride better an' aw felt ommost sooary when we gate to th' entrance. we paid th' cabby an' walked in, an' when aw tell yo'at we wor content to spend th' mooast pairt o' th' day thear yo may be sewer ther wor summat worth stoppin' for. to me th' graves an' th' monuments wor th' leeast interestin' o' owt we saw, but th' walks under th' trees an' between beds o' th' richest coloured flaars, set like brilliant gems ith' midst o' emerald green velvet, carried mi thowts back to what awd seen at th' crystal palace, but it worn't to compare one wi' t'other but to contrast'em, for this wor as mich superior to that as that had been to owt awd seen befoor. "what does ta think it luks like, billy?" "aw dooan't know what it's like, but it's as unlike a cemetary as owt aw ivver saw; let's sit daan an' have a rest." they seem to think a deeal moor o' ther deead nor we do, for ther wor hardly a stooan or a grass covered grave but what had wreaths o' flaars strewn over'em, yet amang all th' craads'at passed us aw could find no trace o' sorrow or sadness, an' them'at had flaars i' ther hands to lay ovver th' remains o' one'at had been dear to'em when livin', wor laffin an' chattin' away as if they wor gooin' to a gala, but yet they all wor dressed in the "habiliments of woe"--fashion an' show,--nowt else!= ``"what impious mockery, when, with soulless art, ``fashion, intrusive, seeks to rule the heart; ``directs how grief may tastefully be borne; ``instructs bereavement just how long to mourn; ``shows sorrow how by nice degrees to fade, ``and marks its measure in a ribbon's shade! ``more impious still, when, through her wanton laws, ``she desecrates religion's sacred cause; ``shows how the narrow road is easiest trod, ``and how, genteelest, worms may worship god."= th' place had getten soa full o' fowk wol we thowfc it wor time to be movin', an' nivver had aw seen sich a change as had takken place wol we'd been in. we gate into a ricketty cab an' telled him to drive to champs elysees, net'at we'd owt particular to goa for but aw knew if we wor set daan thear'at aw should be able to find mi way hooam an' have a chonce to see ha one pairt o' th? city spent sundy. th' streets wor fairly filled wi' fowk, the cawseys wor ommost blocked an' moor cabs an' carriages wor ith' streets nor we'd ivver seen. it wor hardly to be wondered at on sich a afternoon'at fowk should be tempted aght for a ride or walk; an' it made up a seet moor gay nor owt we'd witnessed befoor. th' cafes an' shops wor oppen, (net all th' shops but mooast on'em,) an' it seemed to bi far th' busiest day ith' wick. ther wor noa church bells ringin' nah, th' fowk had getten throo ther religious nomony for th' day, an' them'at hadn't had time to: goa back hooam an' leeave ther prayer-books had'em stickin' aght o' ther pockets as they sat ith' front o' th' drinkin' shops playin' cards an' laffin' an' smok'in' awm net able to argefy as to whether it's reight or wrang, but it isn't my noation o' "remember the sabbath day to keep it holy." old england has a lot to answer for i' that respect, maybe a deeal moor nor we're apt to admit, still payris licks all places aw ivver did see for th' amaant o' religion it can booast an' for th' want o' christianity'at characterizes it. we'd had noa dinner soa we went into a place an' ordered cafe au lait, bifteck, champignons, pain an' beurre, an' if yo cannot tell what that is awd advise yo to get to know befoor yo goa, for yol find it's nooan a bad pooltice for a empty stummack. aw noaticed'at other fowk sittin' raand rayther stared when th' chap browt it, but they stared far moor when he tuk th' empty plates away in abaat ten minutes at after. when we'd squared up we went aghtside agean, an' pickin' aght a little table'at wor as far removed as onny throo th' craad'at wor sittin' ith' front, an' one'at wor grandly shaded wi' a young sycamore tree, we ordered brandy an' watter an' cigars, an' sat daan intendin to enjoy th' richness an' th' beauties ov an evenin' sich as it mud be a long time befoor we should have th' chonce ov enjoyin' agean. sittin' under a tree has it's advantages, but ther's allusa drawback to all pleasures i' this life. th' french fowk as a nation are varry perlite, but they dooant seem to have eddi-cated th' burds up to th' same pitch, an' aw suppooas burds will be burds whether they're i' payris or i' pudsey; at onyrate, when aw pickt up mi brandy an' watter aw saw ther'd been an addition to it sin th' waiter put it daan,'at caused me to teem it daan th' gutter asteead o' daan mi throit. billy tuk warnin' bi my mishap an' he made sewer o' his. it wor noa serious loss for aw railly didn't want it, but yo cannot sit at sich places withaat havin' to spend summat. th' sun wor settin' an' th' sky lukt all aflame for a while, an' then it faded away an' a soft purplish ieet crept ovver th' heavens, an' th' day went to sleep an' neet drew th' curtain ov his bed. th' lamps wor sooin aleet but their glories wor sooin at an end, for th' mooin coom smilin' up, an' flingin' her silvery rays, turned ivverything into fairyland. "we nivver see moonleet as breet as this at hooam, billy." "noa, aw wor just thinkin' it ud be grand to have a bit o' poachin' ov a neet like this; awl bet ther's two-o-three chaps sittin' i' yond haase o' mine to neet'at ud give a wick's wage for a mooin like that i' november." "billy!" aw sed, disgusted, "aw believe tha's noa poetry i' thi soul!" "varry likely net, but aw've getten a pain i' mi back wi' caarin' o' this peggifoggin' stooil, th' top on it's nobbut abaat big enuff to mak a sealin' wax stamp on." we made a move towards hooam then, but we didn't hurry for it wor soa cooil an' pleasant, an' for fear o' landin too sooin we tuk a bit ov a raand abaat way'at we felt sewer ud land us at th' same spot. it's just as fooilish a thing for a chap to tak a raand abaat rooad to a place i' payris if he doesn't know it, as it is for a stranger to try to tak a short cut i' lundun, for he's sewer to get wrang. billy an' me kept walkin' on an' tawkin' abaat what arrangements we'd to mak abaat gettin' hooam, an' aw heeard a clock strike eleven. "it's a gooid job aw browt this kay wi' mi," aw sed, "for we'st be lockt aght. this rooad's takken us farther nor awd ony idea on, an' awm blest if aw can tell whear we are." "it's just like thi! an' nah when tha's trailed me abaat wol mi feet's soa sooar aw can hardly bide to put'em daan aw expect tha'll find aght'at we're two or three mile off hooam." "we cannot be far away nah," aw sed, tho awm blessed if aw knew ony better nor a fooil whear we wor or whear we wor gooin; "an' if th' warst comes to th' warst tha knows billy we can do as we've done befoor--get a cab." "if tha'd to wark for thy brass same as aw've to do for mine tha'd nooan be soa varry fond o' payin' it for cabs." aw wor a bit put aght an' aw knew he wor, soa we nawther on us sed another word but kept marchin' on an' aw wor i' hooaps o' meetin' a poleeceman to see if he could tell us whear we wor, but th' poleece are th' same all th' world ovver, for they're nivver thear when they're wanted. aw felt sewer we should meet with a cab or summat, but th' streets seemed as if ivverybody'd gooan to bed all at once. it'll be a long time befoor aw forget that walk, aw lukt all raand an' up an' daan but aw couldn't see a thing awd ivver seen befoor except th' mooin an that couldn't help me ony; th' clock struck twelve--billy gave a sigh but sed nowt--all at once aw heeard th' clink ov a metal heel on th' causey an aw stopt. it wor a gaily dressed young woman hurryin' off somewhear. aw stopt anent her an' shoo stopt, an' aw tried to mak her understand what we wanted but shoo could mak nowt on it, an' as sooin as shoo saw it wor noa use tryin' to coax us to goa her way unless we'd been sewer her way wor awrs shoo sailed away an' left us. it wor a fit o' desperation'at caused me to seize hold o' billy's arm an' march daan a narrow street, but it wor a stroke o' gooid luck as it happened, for at th' bottom o' th' street wor th' river. aw lukt to see which way th' watter wor runnin' an' then cheered up wi' hooaps we set off agean. we didn't need to mak ony enquiries nah, soa we met plenty o' poleece, but noa cabs, but it wor a long walk befoor we coom to owt we knew, but at last we did, an' th' clock struck one. we'd abaat two miles to walk then, for it wor evident we'd been altogether astray--but aw mun gie billy credit for patience that time for he nivver grummeled a bit, although he limped a gooid deeal. we gat hooam at last an' as we expected all wor shut up an' i' darkness. nah we'd nawther on us ivver been awther in or aght o' th' back door but we went to seek it an' as ther wor nobbut one ther worn't mich fear on us makkin a mistak, an' we could see th' leet'at wor inside shinin' throo th' winder shutters. aw put th' kay i'th' hoil an' th' door wor oppened in a sniff an' a welcome seet it wor at met us. a bit o' fire wor burnin' i'th' range, an' at that time o' th' mornin' a bit o' fire's alluswelcome, an' aw turned th' leet up, an' thear on th' table wor a grand set aght for two. ther wor fish an' a joint o' cold beef, a big dish o' sallit an' some nice butter an' breead, an' two bottles o' bass' ale an' a bottle o' claret; an' th' raam wor a deeal nicer fitted up nor th' big shop we'd alius been used to havin' us meals in. "this is a change for th' better," aw sed, "aw wish we'd known abaat this be-foor." "it's all ov a piece is thy wark,--tha allusfinds ivverything aght when it's too lat! here we've been all this time, as uncomfortable as ivver we could be caarin i' that big raam, when we mud ha been enjoyin' ussen in here if tha'd nobbut ha oppened thi maath! but aw can just do justice to it to neet, soa let's start." he drew all th' three bottles an' he supt th' ale aght o' one befoor he touched owt to ait, but it didn't interfere wi' his appetite, an' aw can't say'at aw could find ony fault wi' mi own. th' fish sooin disappeared, an' th' beef grew smaller hi degrees, an' we didn't leeav a drop o' ale nor claret, an' when we'd finished billy propoased a smook befoor we went to bed, but when he pooled his watch aght to see what time it wor, he saw it wor standin', an' as aw hadn't one aw gate up to oppen th' door'at led into th' big raam whear we'd been used to sit, for aw knew ther wor a clock thear; but by-gow! aw lawpt aght o' that shop sharper nor aw went in. "billy!" aw says, "bi th' heart, lad! we'st be put i'th' hoil for this! we've getten into th' wrang haase!" "then awm one'at's baan to get aght," he sed, an' seizin' his booits off th' harthstun he aght o' th' door like a shot--he didn't limp then, awl awarrant yo! aw sammed up my booits an' seizin' th' kay aw after him in a twinklin' when we gat into th' street ther worn't a soul stirrin' aw lukt up at th' winders to mak sewer we wor anent us own lodgins an' then aw went to th' end o' th' buildin', an' aw saw a door'at we'd missed befoor. "here we are, billy!" aw shaated in a whisper. aw oppened th' door an' we went in pratly, an' we sooin saw'at we wor ith' reight shop this time. a supper wor thear but we wanted nooan on it, we lockt th' door an' turned aght th leet an' crept up stairs o' tippy-tooa, an' befoor yo could ha caanted ten we wor booath i' bed. yo may be sewer we wor booath wide enough awake, an' when in abaat fifteen minits we heeard two wimmin skrikin an' some men shaatin', an' fowk runnin' up an' daan th' street, an' somdy brayin' at th' door at th' place we lodged at, we'd a varry gooid noation o' what wor up, an' as we didn't think'at we should ha gained ony moor information nor what we knew already, we thowt'at it wor awr best plan to stop whear we wor, an' if we couldn't sleep we could snoor, an' we at it i' hard eearnest, an' when th' maister coom an' knockt gently at furst one door an' then t'other an' heeard th' music'at we wor makkin' aw think he thowt th' same as we did, an' couldn't find in his heart to disturb us. ha th' fowk went on at wor aghtside we could nobbut guess, but th' sun wor shinin' breetly befoor all wor quietened daan; then we did fall asleep an' it wor nine o'clock when billy coom to my door to wakken me. he shoved his heead in an' says, "sammy! sammywell!" "what's up?". "has ta heeard owt abaat thieves braikin' into th' haase next door?" "thieves? what thieves? aw've nobbut just wak-kened! aw know nowt abaat it!" "no moor do aw," he sed. "awm baan daan to mi braikfast an' tha can coom as sooin as tha'rt ready." th' events o th' neet befoor flashed across mi mind in a minit--aw saw his meanin', an' when aw'd getten donned aw went daan to join him prepared to act gawmless abaat all it wouldn't be wise to know. [illustration: ] chapter ix. lundi. [illustration: ] her wor plenty to tawk abaat at th' braikfast table, an' all sooarts o' guesses wor made as trick, but ov coorse we could'nt tell owt at wor sed, nobbut what th' lanlord repeated to us, an' aw thowt he lukt varry hard at us ivvery nah an' then as if he thowt it wor just possible we knew moor abaat it nor we felt inclined to tell, but that mud happen be all fancy, for we know'at a guilty conscience is sooin accused. in a while we wor left to ussen an' had time to think abaat ha to mak th' best use o' th' few haars at wor left us, for we'd made up us minds to goa hooam that neet. it wor a weet mornin but yet it wor a varry welcome change, for it made all feel nice an' fresh an' cooil. billy wor quite lively an' he says, "nah sammy, whear are we to steer for to-day?" "awve just been readin this book," aw sed, "an' it tells me'at one o' th' mooast wonderful seets i' payris is th' sewers." "sewers! what sewers?" "th' drains;--yo can travel varry near all under th' city ith' drains, an' aw think that's a thing'at we owt'nt to miss. aw've travelled on th' undergraand railway but this'll be th' undergraand watterway.--what says ta?" "why as far as drains is consarned, awd rayther swallow hauf a duzzen nor be swallow'd bi one misen, an' as thas had me on th' watter an' sent me up to th' sky, an' trailed me ovver th' surface o' th' eearth in a foreign land, aw think awst do varry weel for one trip withaat gooin into th' bowels o' th' eearth." "well, aw hardly think its a thing likely to suit thi, but its just one o' them seets at aw dooant meean to miss, for aw wor allus ov a scientific turn o' mind, an' studyin th' results o' man's inginuity suits me; an' if tha likes to wait here wol aw get back or say whear aw can find thi at a sarten time, awl awther come back here or meet thi whear tha likes." "tha'rt varry kind sammy, an' varry scientific too, noa daat; but all thy science is like thi beauty, for its all aght o' th' seet. aw dooant like to run onny man daan, an' tha knows aw wod'nt hurt thi feelins, but aw must say'at aw nivver knew at it tuk onny science to mak a poverty-knocker; but aw defy yo to mak a brewer aght ov a chap at's born withaat it. science is to brewin what a horse is to a cart, its what maks it goa, an' aw defy thee, or yor mally awther, for that matter, to say at aw cannot mak a brewin goa as weel as onny man! soa shut up abaat science as long as tha lives!" "aw believe thi when tha says tha can mak a brewin goa, an' unless it wor a varry big en tha'd be able to do it withaat onnybody's help; but if tha thinks becoss a chap's a wayver'at he's nowt in his heead but weft an' warp, thar't varry mich mis-takken, for some o' th' cliverest chaps aw ivver met wor wayvers." "varry likely,--becoss tha's spent th' mooast o' thi time amang em, but if tha'd kept a beershop like yond o' mine at th' moor-end, tha'd ha met wi all sooarts o' fowk throo wayvers up to caah-jobbers, to say nowt abaat excisemen an' magistrates. thy mind's like a three quarter loom, it can produce things up to a three quarter width an' noa moor, but mine's different, it'll wratch to ony width, an' when tha begins tawkin abaat science tha shows thi fooilishness;--net at aw meean to say tha'rt a fooil,--nowt o' th' sooart,--but aw think tha owt to be thankful to know'at tha arn'nt one, seein what a varry narrow escape tha's had." "billy,--if tha's getten thi praichin suit on an' fancies tha can tawk to me like tha tawks to yond swillguts'at tha meets at th' moor-end, thas made a mistak. awm off to see th' sewers an' tha can awther come or stop as thas a mind." "come! ov coorse aw shall come! for if aw did'nt aw dooant think they'd ivver let thi come aght, for they'd varry likely think that wor th' fittest place for thi--mun they're far seein fowk abaat here." "well, aw think th' risk o' bein kept daan'll be doubled if tha gooas, but awm willin' to risk it." "does ta think thers onny risk on us gettin draanded?" "they'll nivver be able to draand thee until tha gets some moor weight i' thi heead, soa tha'rt safe enuff." "if that's soa, tha's noa need for a life belt, soa come on!" we gat th' lanlord to write it on a piece a paper whear we wanted to goa, for we could'nt affoord to loise ony time, an' jumpin into a cab we wor driven off. nah, it'll saand strange to some fowk to hear tell abaat ridin throo a main sewer in a railway carriage, but its just as true as it is strange--th' carriages are nobbut little ens reight enuff, an' ther's noa engins, but ther's men to pool an' men to shov an' yo goa along varrv nicely--its like travellin throo a big railway tunnel nobbut ther's a river runnin along side on yo or under yo all th' way, an' net a varry nice en--but awm sewer awve seen th' bradford beck as mucky an' as black. it wor leeted i' some pairts wi' gas, an' i' some pairts wi lamps an' th' names o' th' streets at yo wor passin under wor put up, an' nah an' then yo passed a boat wi men in it, an' ivverything luked wonderful but flaysome. billy sed he thowt they made a mistak to charge fowk for gooin in, it ud be better to charge em for comin aght, an' aw wor foorced to agree wi him for once, for i' spite o' all ther ventilation, ther wor a sickenin sensation at aw should'nt care to have aboon once. dayleet an' fresh air wor varry welcome when we gate into em agean, an' for all mi love o' science aw could'nt but admit'at ther wor seets at we'd missed'at awd rayther ha seen. if we'd been booath gooid templars it wod ha proved an' economical trip for we wanted noa dinner, but as we wornt, awm feeard it proved rayther expensive. brandy at hauf a franc a glass caants up when yo get a duzzen or two, but ther wor nowt else for it at we could see, an' as we went hooam to pack up us bits o' duds aw discovered at things had getten a varry awkard way o' doublin thersen, an' billy wanted to stand at ivvery street corner to sing 'rule brittania,' but we landed safely an' gate a cup o' teah an' that set us all straight agean. th' train left for calais at o'clock, an' it tuk us all us time to settle up an' get us luggage to th' station. th' landlord went part way wi us for he had to call to get a new lock an kay for his back door, for he'd a nooation'at his next door naybor's kay wod fit his lock, an it wod be varry awkward if they'd to mak a mistak some neet and get into th' wrang shop. billy said he thowt soa too, an it wor varry wise to guard agean sich things i' time. altho' we wor booath on us glad to turn us faces toward hooam yet we felt a regret to leave a place wi soa monny beauties, an' sich a lot'at we'd nivver had a chonce to see; for ther's noa denyin it--natur an' art have done all they could to mak it th' finest city ith' world--it hasnt th' quiet classic beauty o' edinbro', nor th' moil an' bustle o' lundun, nor th' quiet sedate luk o' dublin--nor can it compare wi some o' th' startlin featurs o' th' american cities, but its fresher an' leetsomer an' altogether moor perfect nor ony one on em. it seemed a long wearisom ride throo payris to calais an' it wor a miserable drizzlin neet when we gate thear an' we lost noa time i' gettin onto th' booat at wor waitin. what wor th' difference between furst class passengers an' third class we could'nt tell for all seemed to mix in amang. after a grunt or two we wor off, an' th' mooin peept aght o' th' claads as if to say 'gooid bye' an' wish us gooid luk--th' waves coom wi a swish an' a swash agean th' vessel's side, an' th' two electric lamps glared after us from th' shore like two big een, an' marked a path o' leet on th' watter for us to goa by. th' neet cleared up, but it wor varry chill, an' billy an' me stopt on th' deck all th' time. we had'nt a bit o' sickly feelin soa we could enjoy a smook an' luk abaat us. mooast o' th' fowk wor asleep an' all wor quiet, an' nowt happened worth mentionin until dayleet showed us th' white cliffs o' old england. it wor like as if it gave mi heart a bit ov a fillip an' aw felt aw mud awther aght wi' summat or aw should brust, for nivver did a child run to meet its mother wi' moor joyous heart nor aw had when drawn near mi native land--billy wor capt when aw struck up--= ``they may say what they will, but no englishman's ````heart, ```whate'er his condition may be; ``but feels a keen pang when he's forced to depart, ```and a thrill when he comes back to thee. ``for whatever thy faults, thou art dear to us all, ```no matter what strange countries boast; ``no blessings are there, that can ever compare; ```with our home in thy sea-girdled coast. ```then here's to thyself, thou wee bonny land, ````here's a bumper, old england, to thee, ```brave sons and fair daughters shall join heart and `````hand, ````and sing "ho, for the land of the free!"= ``if we grumble sometimes as all englishmen will, ```and in politics fight tooth and nail; ``when hard times are pinching and trade standing still, ```if at government's tactics we rail; ``there's no rash outsider who dares interfere, ```or he'll find to his cost if he tries; ``that our flag's independence to each one is dear, ```for there's freedom where ever it flies. ````then here's to thyself, thou dearly loved land, `````here's a bumper, old england, to thee; ````dizzy, gladstone and bright in one theme can `````unite ````and sing, "ho, for the land of the free!"= ``if the world's all upset, and war's terrors abound, ```and tott'ring thrones threaten to fall; ``thy lion on guard, keeps his watch all around, ```and his growl gives a warning to all. ``they have seen his mane bristle, and heard his deep `````roar, ```and his grip, once felt, none will forget; ``and although he's grown older he's strong as of yore, ```and he's king of the world even yet! ````then here's to thyself thou wee bonny land, `````here's a bumper, old england, to thee; ```thou hast nothing to fear, whilst our hearts hold `````thee dear ````then "hurrah! for the land of the free!"= we stept ashore an' th' train wor waitin. dover wor a strange place to me but still it felt like hooam--aw gat into a comfortable carriage, lained mi heead back o' th' cushin an' when aw wakkened we wor at lundun. [illustration: ] chapter x. mardi [illustration: ] t wor seven o'clock ith' mornin when we arrived at victoria station--an' as we wanted to get ooam withaat loisin ony time we tuk a cab to king's cross. it wor a breet clear mornin' an' as we rattled along th' streets, ivvery buildin lukt like an' old friend, an' th' same feelin' coom ovver me at awve soa oft felt befoor--what had passed seemed mich moor like a dreeam nor a reality. aw noaticed at billy put on some airs at awd nivver seen him spooart befoor, an' if aw had'nt known him aw mud ha mistakken him for beaconsfield commin back after signin th' berlin treaty, but then he's a deal bigger man nor beaconsfield is billy, an' if his influence isnt as big ith' city, he's weightier ith' corporation. but awm sewer he lukt better bi monny a paand nor when we started. when we gat to th' station we fan at we'd a bit o' time to spend befoor ther wor a train soa we went an' gate a cup o' coffee an' summat to ait. "nah, billy," aw sed, "aw should like to know if tha's enjoyed thi trip?" "ov coprse aw've enjoyed it! did ta think aw went to be miserable? it isnt oft aw set off throo hooam, but when aw do aw mak up mi mind to enjoy mysen. but aw dooant care ha sooin aw get back hooam nah, for awst ha to start brewin to-morn." "well, tha luks a deeal better onyway,--an' awm sewer thi mother'll be fain to see thi soa mich improved." "thee think abaat yor mally an' leeav me an' mi mother to manage us own affairs--if aw've getten a bit better awve paid for it aw reckon! tha tell'd me'at it wod'nt cost aboon ten paand an' it's cost aboon eleven,--aw've enjoyed misen furst rate an' aw do feel a trifle better, an' awve enjoyed thy compny varry weel too, but if aw wor gooin agean awd goa be misen." "tha cant get me mad this mornin soa its noa use to try, an' tha'd better save thi wind to blow thi porridge when tha gets hooam." "well, that's reight enuff; tha knows what aw mean,--but aw say--wi' ta promise me at tha'll keep thi maath shut abaat them frogs?--nah fair dealins amang mates, sammy." "awl promise thi one thing," aw says, "awl tell now't at isnt true, an' if what aw tell isnt pleasant it's becoss trewth isnt pleasant at all times." "do as tha likes an' gooid luck to thi lad! th' time's ommost up lets be off." we wor just i' time an' after a partin glass to start wi for fear ther might'nt be a chonce to get one at th' finish, we jumpt into th' train an' wor sooin lessenin th' distance between lundun an' bradford. th' journey wor pleasant enuff but it seemed rayther long as it does when yor anxious to get to th' far end, but we landed at last, an' wod yo believe it? ther wor mally an' hepsaba waitin at th' station for me--it wor a little attention at they'd nivver shown me befoor, an' aw felt touched,--for awm varry soft hearted. "whativver made thi come to meet me mally?" aw sed. "aw coom becoss aw wor feeard tha'd happen ha started a growin a mushtash an' thart freet big enuff as it is, an' aw thowt awd tak thi to th' barbers to get made daycent befoor tha coom hooam, for tha's been a laffin stock for th' naybors long enuff; an aw wanted to set mi mind at ease abaat that umberel, for thart nooan to be trusted, an awve hardly been able to sleep for dreamin at tha'd lost it, but if tha had tha'd ha been wise nivver to show thi face here agean!" "well, but tha sees aw havnt, an if awd had aw suppooas its mi own?" "what's thine's mine aw reckon?" "an' what made thee come to meet me hepsaba?" "aw coom to see what yo'd browt for us, soas aw could ha mi pick afoor yo'd pairted wi' th' best." "why lass, awve browt misen an' that's all, aw should think that owt to satisfy thi." "if that's all yo need'nt ha gooan for we had yo befoor." mally an' her walked off arm i' arm, takkin th' umberel wi em an nivver spaiking a word, but just givin a nod to billy--"awl tell thi what we'll do," sed billy--"we'll just goa into th' taan an' ware abaat a paand a piece o' some sooart o' gimcracks an' we'll mak'em believe we have browt summat after all!" aw thowt it wor a gooid nooation soa we went an' bowt a cap for mally an' a pair a gloves for hepsaba, an' a imitation meersham pipe for ike, an' one or two moor nonsensical things, an' then we put em i' my box at th' station. billy bowt a new dress piece, real french merino for his mother, an' then we shook hands an' pairted. my reception wornt all at aw could wish when aw went in hooam, but when th' box wor oppened an' mally saw her cap, shoo pawsed th' cat off th' fender becoss it wor sittin anent me, an' as sooin as hepsaba gate her gloves, shoo fun me a long pipe, an' filled it wi bacca an' gat me a leet, an' ike sed 'he'd hardly been able to bide at his wark, he wor soa anxious at aw should land back safe;' an' he walked abaat wi' th' pipe in his maath as if awd browt him th' grandest thing aght o' th' exhibition--ther wor nowt to gooid for me just then, an' aw thowt at after all, billy wornt happen sich a fooil as aw tewk him to be. [illustration: ] online distributed proofreaders europe at http://dp.rastko.net [illustration: mi lord anglais at mabille. _he is smiling, he is splendid, he is full of graceful enjoyment; on the table are a few of the beverages he admires; but above all he adores the ease of the french ladies in the dance._] the cockaynes in paris or "gone abroad." by blanchard jerrold. [illustration] with sketches by gustave dorÉ, and other illustrations of the english abroad from a french point of view. london: john camden hotten, & , piccadilly. [_all rights reserved._] preface. the story of the cockaynes was written some years ago,--in the days when paris was at her best and brightest; and the english quarter was crowded; and the emperor was at st. cloud; and france appeared destined to become the wealthiest and strongest country in the world. where the cockaynes carried their guide-books and opera-glasses, and fell into raptures at every footstep, there are dismal ruins now. the vendôme column is a stump, wreathed with a gigantic _immortelle_, and capped with the tri-color. the hall of the marshals is a black hole. those noble rooms in which the first magistrate of the city of boulevards gave welcome to crowds of english guests, are destroyed. in the name of liberty some of the most precious art-work of modern days has been fired. the communists' defiling fingers have passed over the canvas of ingrès. auber and dumas have gone from the scene in the saddest hour of their country's history. the anglo-french alliance--that surest rock of enduring peace--has been rent asunder, through the timorous hesitation of english ministers, and the hardly disguised bourbon sympathies of english society. we are not welcome now in paris, as we were when i followed in the wake of the prying cockaynes. my old concierge is very cold in his greeting, and carries my valise to my rooms sulkily. jerome, my particular waiter at the grand café, no longer deigns to discuss the news of the day with me. good monsieur giraudet, who could suggest the happiest little _menus_, when i went to his admirable restaurant, and who kept the _rappel_ for me, now bows silently and sends an underling to see what the englishman requires. it is a sad, and a woful change; and one of ominous import for our children. most woful to those of my countrymen who, like the reader's humble servant, have passed a happy half-score of years in the delightful society and the incomparable capital of the french people. blanchard jerrold. rue de rome, paris, _july_, . [illustration] contents. chap. page i. mrs. rowe's ii. he's here again! iii. mrs. rowe's company iv. the cockaynes in paris v. the cockayne family vi. a "grande occasion" vii. our foolish countrywomen viii. "oh, yes!" and "all right!" ix. miss carrie cockayne to miss sharp x. "the people of the house" xi. mysterious travellers xii. mrs. daker xiii. at boulogne-sur-mer xiv. the castaway xv. the first to be married xvi. gathering a few threads [illustration: mamma anglaise. (_a french design._)] illustrations. page my lord anglais at mabille frontispiece crossing the channel--a smooth passage crossing the channel--rather squally robinson crusoe and friday papa and the dear boys the dowager and tall footman on the boulevards a group of marble "insulaires" beauty and the b---- palais du louvre.--the road to the bois musee du luxembourg the inflexible "meesses anglaises" english visitors to the closerie de lilas--shocking!! smith brings his alpenstock jones on the place de la concorde french recollection of meess taking her bath the brave meess among the billows holding on by the tail of her newfoundland varieties of the english stock.--compatriots meeting in the french exhibition a pic-nic at enghien excursionists and emigrants bois de boulogne [illustration: crossing the channel--a smooth passage] the cockaynes in paris. chapter i. mrs. rowe's. the story i have to tell is disjointed. i throw it out as i picked it up. my duties, the nature of which is neither here nor there, have borne me to various parts of europe. i am a man, not with an establishment--but with two portmanteaus. i have two hats in paris and two in london always. i have seen everything in both cities, and like paris, on the whole, best. there are many reasons, it seems to me, why an englishman who has the tastes of a duke and the means of a half-pay major, should prefer the banks of the seine to those of the thames--even with the new embankment. everybody affects a distinct and deep knowledge of paris in these times; and most people do know how to get the dearest dinner bignon can supply for their money; and to secure the apartments which are let by the people of the west whom nature has provided with an infinitesimal quantity of conscience. but there are now crowds of english men and women who know their paris well; men who never dine in the restaurant of the stranger, and women who are equal to a controversy with a french cook. these sons and daughters of albion who have transplanted themselves to french soil, can show good and true reasons why they prefer the french to the english life. the wearying comparative estimates of household expenses in westbournia, and household expenses in the faubourg st. honoré! one of the disadvantages of living in paris is the constant contact with the odious atmosphere of comparisons. "pray, sir--you have been in london lately--what did you pay for veal cutlet?" [illustration: crossing the channel--rather squally.] the new arrivals are the keenest torments. "in london, where i have kept house for over twenty years, and have had to endure every conceivable development of servants' extortion, no cook ever demanded a supply of white aprons yet." you explain for the hundredth time that it is the custom in paris. there are people who believe kensington is the domestic model of the civilized world, and travel only to prove at every stage how far the rest of the universe is behind that favoured spot. he who desires to see how narrow his countrymen and countrywomen can be abroad, and how completely the mass of british travellers lay themselves open to the charge of insularity, and an overweening estimate of themselves and their native customs, should spend a few weeks in a paris boarding-house, somewhere in the faubourg st. honoré--if he would have the full aroma of british conceit. the most surprising feature of the english quarter of the french capital is the eccentricity of the english visitors, as it strikes their own countrymen. i cannot find it in me to blame gallican caricaturists. the statuettes which enliven the bronze shops; the gaunt figures which are in the chocolate establishments; the prints in the windows under the rivoli colonnade; the monsters with fangs, red hair, and glengarry caps, of cham, and doré, and bertall, and the female sticks with ringlets who pass in the terra-cotta show of the palais royal for our countrywomen, have long ago ceased to warm my indignation. all i can say now is, that the artists and modellers have not travelled. they have studied the strange british apparitions which disfigure the boulevard des italiens in the autumn, their knowledge of our race is limited to the unfortunate selection of specimens who strut about their streets, and--according to their light--they are not guilty of outrageous exaggeration. i venture to assert that an englishman will meet more unpleasant samples of his countrymen and countrywomen in an august day's walk in paris, than he will come across during a month in london. to begin with, we english treat paris as though it were a back garden, in which a person may lounge in his old clothes, or indulge his fancy for the ugly and slovenly. why, on broiling days, men and women should sally forth from their hotel with a travelling-bag and an opera-glass slung about their shoulders, passes my comprehension. conceive the condition of mind of that man who imagines that he is an impressive presence when he is patrolling the rue de la paix with an alpenstock in his hand! at home we are a plain, well-dressed, well-behaved people, fully up in art and letters--that is, among our educated classes, to any other nation--in most elegant studies before all; but our travellers in france and switzerland slander us, and the "paris in hours" system has lowered frenchmen's estimate of the national character. the exhibition of , far from promoting the brotherhood of the peoples, and hinting to the soldier that his vocation was coming to an end, spread a dislike of englishmen through paris. it attracted rough men from the north, and ill-bred men from the south, whose swagger, and noise, and unceremonious manners in cafés and restaurants chafed the polite frenchman. they could not bring themselves to salute the _dame de comptoir_, they were loud at the table d'hôte and commanding in their airs to the waiter. in brief, the english mass jarred upon their neighbours; and frenchmen went the length of saying that the two peoples--like relatives--would remain better friends apart. the disadvantage is, beyond doubt, with us; since the _froissement_ was produced by the british lack of that suavity which the french cultivate--and which may be hollow, but is pleasant, and oils the wheels of life. [illustration: robinson crusoe and friday. _from french designs._] mrs. rowe's was in the rue--say the rue millevoye, so that we may not interfere with possible vested interests. was it respectable? was it genteel? did good country families frequent it? were all the comforts of an english home to be had? had mrs. grundy cast an approving eye into every nook and corner? of course there were bibles in the bedrooms; and you were not made to pay a franc for every cake of soap. mrs. rowe had her tea direct from twinings'. twinings' tea she had drunk through her better time, when rowe had one of the finest houses in all shepherd's bush, and come what might, twinings' tea she would drink while she was permitted to drink tea at all. brown windsor--no other soap for mrs. rowe, if you please. people who wanted any of the fanciful soaps of rimmel or piver must buy them. brown windsor was all she kept. yes, she was obliged to have gruyère--and people did ask occasionally for roquefort; but her opinion was that the person who did not prefer a good cheshire to any other cheese, deserved to go without any. she had been twenty-one years in paris, and seven times only had she missed morning service on sundays. hereupon, a particular history of each occasion, and the superhuman difficulty which had bound mrs. rowe hand and foot to the rue millevoye from eleven till one. she had a faithful note of a beautiful sermon preached in the year by the rev. john bobbin, in which he compared life to a boarding-house. he was staying with mrs. howe at the time. he was an earnest worker in the true way; and she distinctly saw her _salle-à-manger_ in his eye, when he enlarged on the bounteous table spread by nature, and the little that was needed from man to secure all its blessings. [illustration: papa & the dear boys.] mrs. rowe took a maternal interest in me. i had made an economical arrangement by which i secured a little room to myself throughout the year, under the slates. i had many friends. i constantly arrived, bringing new lodgers in my wake. for the house was quiet, well-ordered, cheap, and tremendously respectable. i say, mrs. rowe took a maternal interest in me--that is, she said so. there were ill-natured people who had another description for her solicitude; but she had brought herself to believe that she had an unselfish regard for your humble servant, and that she was necessary to my comfort in the world, and i was pleased at the innocent humbug. it afforded me excellent creature comforts; and i was indebted to it for a constant welcome when i got to paris--which is something to the traveller. we cling to an old hotel, after we have found the service bad, the cooking execrable, and the rooms dirty. it is an ancient house, and the people know us, and have a cheery word and a home look. [illustration: the dowager and tall footman.] many years were passed in the rue millevoye by mrs. rowe and her niece, without more incident than the packing and unpacking of luggage, and genteel disputes over items in the bills conducted with icy politeness on both sides, and concluded by mrs. rowe invariably with the withering observation, that it was the first remark of the kind which had ever been made on one of her little notes. people usually came to a settlement with complimentary expressions of surprise at the extreme--almost reckless--moderation of her charges; and expressed themselves as at a loss to understand how she could make it worth her while to do so very much for so very little. the people who came and went were alike in the mass. the reader is requested to bear in mind that mrs. rowe had a connexion of her own. she was seldom angry; but when an advertising agent made his way to her business parlour, and took the liberty of submitting the value of a western states paper as a medium for making her establishment known, she confessed that the impertinence was too much for her temper. mrs. rowe advertise! mrs. rowe would just as soon throw herself off the pont neuf, or--miss church next sunday. "they don't come a second time!" mrs. rowe would say to me, with a fierce compression of the lip, that might lead a nervous person to imagine she made away with them in the cellars. when mrs. rowe took you into her confidence--a slow and tedious admission--she was pleased, usually, to fortify your stock of knowledge with a comprehensive view of her family connexions; intended to set the whytes of battersea (from whom she derived, before the vulgar park was there) upon an eminence of glory, with a circle of cringing and designing rowes at the base. how she--whyte on both sides, for her father married his first cousin--ever came to marry joshua rowe, was something her mother never understood to her dying day. she was graciously open to consolation in the reflection that nobles and princes had made humble matches before her; and particularly in this, that the prince regent married mrs. fitzherbert. lucy rowe was favoured with these observations, heightened by occasional hits at her own misfortune in that she was a rowe, and could not boast one thimbleful of whyte blood in her veins. it was the almost daily care of mrs. rowe to impress the people with whom her business brought her in contact, with the gulf that lay between her and her niece; although, through the early and inexplicable condescension of a miss harriet whyte, of battersea, they bore the same name, miss rowe was no blood relation _whatever_. it was surprising to see how lucy bore up under the misfortune. she was not a whyte, but she had lived beside one. youth is so elastic! lucy, albeit she had the rowe lip and nose, and, worse than all, the rowe hair (a warm auburn, which mrs. rowe described in one syllable, with a picturesque and popular comparison comprehended in two), was daring enough to meet the daylight, without showing the smallest signs of giving way to melancholy. when new comers, as a common effort of politeness, saw a strong likeness between mrs. rowe and her niece, the representative of the whytes of battersea drew herself to her full height, which was a trifle above her niece's shoulders, and answered--"oh dear, no, madam! it would be very strange if there were, as there is not the slightest blood relationship between us." lucy rowe was about fifteen when i first saw her. a slender, golden-haired, shy and quiet girl, much in bashful and sensitive demeanour like her romantic namesake of "the untrodden ways." it is quite true that she had no whyte blood in her veins, and mrs. rowe could most conscientiously declare that there was not the least resemblance between them. the whyte features were of a type which none would envy the possessor, save as the stamp of the illustrious house of battersea. the house of savoy is not attractive by reason of its faultless profile; but there are persons of almost matchless grace who would exchange their beauty for its blood. in her very early days, i have no doubt. lucy rowe would have given her sweet blue eyes, her pouting lips, and pretty head (just enough to fold lovingly between the palms of a man's hand), for the square jaw and high cheek-bone of the whytes. she felt very humble when she contemplated the grandeur of her aunt's family, and very grateful to her aunt who had stooped so far as to give her shelter when she was left alone in the world. she kept the accounts, ran errands, looked after the house linen, and made herself agreeable to the boarders' children; but all this was the very least she could do to express her humble thankfulness to the great lady-relative who had befriended her, after having been good enough to commit the sacrifice of marrying her uncle joshua. lucy sat many hours alone in the business parlour--an apartment not decorated with the distinct view of imparting cheerfulness to the human temperament. the mantelpiece was covered with files of bills. there were rows of numbered keys against the wall. mrs. rowe's old desk--_style empire_ she said, when any visitor noticed the handsome ruin--stood in a corner by the window, covered with account books, prospectuses and cards of the establishment, and heaps of old newspapers. another corner showed heaps of folded linen, parcels left for boarders, umbrellas and sticks, which had been forgotten by old customers (mrs. rowe called them clients), and aunt's walking-boots. one corner was lucy's, which she occupied in conjunction with a little table, at which, from seven in the morning until bedtime, she worked with pen or needle (it was provoking she could not learn to ply both at one time), when she was not running about the house, or nursing a boarder's baby. on the rare evenings when her aunt could not find work of any description for her, lucy was requested to take the bible from the shelf, and read a chapter aloud. when her aunt went to sleep during the reading lucy continued steadily, knowing that the scion of the illustrious house of whyte would wake directly her voice ceased. occasionally the clergyman would drop in; whereupon lucy would hear much improving discourse between her aunt and the reverend gentleman. mrs. rowe poured all her griefs into the ear of the reverend horace mohun--griefs which she kept from the world. before lucy she spoke freely--being accustomed to regard the timid girl as a child still, whose mind could not gather the threads of her narrative. lucy sate--not listening, but hearing snatches of the mournful circumstances with which mrs. rowe troubled mr. mohun. the reverend gentleman was a patient and an attentive listener; and drank his tea and ate his toast (it was only at mrs. rowe's he said he could ever get a good english round of toast), shaking his head, or offering a consoling "dear, dear me!" as the droning proceeded. lucy was at work. if mrs. rowe caught her pausing she would break her story to say--"if you have finished account, put down two candles to , and a foot-bath to ." and lucy--who seldom paused because she had finished her task, as her aunt knew well--bent over the table again, and was as content as she was weary. when she went up to her bedroom (which the cook had peremptorily refused to occupy) she prayed for good aunt rowe every night of her dull life, before she lay upon her truckle bed to rest for the morrow's cheerful round of hard duties. was it likely that a child put thus into the harness of life, would pass the talk of her aunt with mr. mohun as the idle wind? the mysteries which lay in the talk, and perplexed her, were cleared up in due time. chapter ii. he's here again! "he has but stumbled in the path thou hast in weakness trod."--a. a. procter. "he's here again, mum." he was there at the servant's entrance to the highly respectable boarding-house in the rue millevoye. it was five in the morning--a winter's morning. mrs. rowe hastened from her room, behind the business parlour, in her dressing-gown, her teeth chattering, and her eyes flashing the fire of hate. the boarders sleeping upstairs would not have known the godly landlady, who glided about the house by day, rubbing her hands and hoping every soul under her roof was comfortable--or would at once complain to her, who lived only to make people comfortable--bills being but mere accidental accessories, fortuitously concurrent with the arrival of a cab and the descent of luggage. "at the back door, mum, with his coat tucked over his ears, and such a cold in his head. shall i show him in?" "my life is a long misery, jane," mrs. rowe said, under her voice. "la! mum, it's quite safe. i'm sure i shouldn't trouble much about it--'specially in this country, as----" "silence!" mrs. rowe hissed. the thorns in her cross consisted chiefly of jane's awkward attempts at consolation. "the villain is bent on my ruin. a bad boy he was; a bad man he is. show him in; and see that françois doesn't come here. get some coffee yourself, jane, and bring it. let the brute in." "you're hard upon him, mum, indeed you are. i'm sure he'd be a credit to----" "go, and hold your tongue. you presume, jane, on the privileges of an old servant." "indeed i hope not, mum; but----" "go!" jane went to summon the early visitor; and was heard talking amiably to him, as she led him to the bureau. "now, you must be good, mr. charles, to-day, and not stay more than a quarter of an hour. don't talk loud, like the last time; promise me. missus means well--you know she does." with an impatient "all right" the stranger pushed into the business parlour, and sharply closed the door. mrs. rowe stood, her knuckles firmly planted upon the closed desk, her face rigidly set, to receive her visitor--keeping the table between him and herself. he was advancing to take her hand. "stand there," she said, with an authority he had not the courage to defy. he stood there--abashed, or hesitating as to the way in which he should enter upon his business. "well!" mrs. rowe said, firmly and impatiently. mr. charles, stung by the manner, turned upon his victim. "well!" he jeered, "yes, and well again, mrs. rowe. is it necessary for me to explain myself? do you think i have come to see _you_!" "i have no money at present; i wrote you so." "and i didn't believe you, and have come to fetch what you wouldn't send. if you think i'm going into a corner to starve for your personal satisfaction, you are very much mistaken. i'm surprised you don't understand me better by this time." "you were a rascal, charles, before you left school." "school! pretty school! d--n it, don't blame me--woman!" mrs. rowe was alarmed by the outburst, lest it should wake some of the boarders. "the dean and his lady are sleeping overhead. if you don't respect me, think----" "i'm not here to respect, or think about anybody. i'm cast alone into the world--tossed into it; left to shift for myself, and to be ashamed of myself; and i want a little help through it, and it's for you to give it me, and give it me you shall." mr. charles held out his left hand, and slapped its open palm vehemently with his right--pantomime to indicate the exact whereabouts he had selected for the reception of mrs. rowe's money. "i told you i had no money. you'll drive me from this house by bringing disgrace upon it." "that's very good," mr. charles said, with a cruel laugh. "that's a capital joke." jane entered with coffee. "that's right," she whispered, encouragingly to mr. charles; "laugh and be cheerful, mr. charles, and make haste with your coffee." the face of mr. charles blackened to night. he turned like a tiger upon the servant. "laugh and be cheerful?" he roared; and then he raised a hoarse mock laugh, that moved mrs. rowe, in her agony of fear, to turn the key in the lock of her desk. shaking her hands wildly in the air, jane left the room, and shut the door. "you are an arrant coward, charles," mrs. rowe hissed, leaning across the table and shaking her head violently. mr. charles imitated her gesture, answering--"i am what heartless people have made me. i have been dragged up under a cloud; made the scape-goat. how often in the course of your hypocritical days have you wished me dead? you hear i've a cough; but i cannot promise you it's a churchyard one. i'm a nuisance; but i suppose i'm not responsible for my existence, mrs. rowe. _i_ was not consulted." "viper!" "and devil too, when needful: remember that." mr. charles moved round the table in the direction of the desk. "stand where you are. i would rather give you the clothes from my back than touch you." mrs. rowe, as she stood still turning the lock of the bureau, and keeping her angry eyes fixed upon the man, was the picture of all the hate she expressed. she never took her eyes off him, nor did he quail, while she fumbled in the drawer in which she kept money. the musical rattle of the gold smote upon the ear of mr. charles. "pretty sound," he said, with a smile of hate in his face; "but there is crisp paper sounds sweeter. mrs. rowe, i'm not here for a couple of yellow-boys. do you hear that?" he banged the table, and advanced a step. "you can't bleed a stone, miscreant." "nay, but you can break it, mrs. rowe. i mean business to-day. the rarer i make my visits the better for both of us." "i am quite of that opinion." "then make it as long as you like; you know how." "is this ever to end? have you no shame? charles, you will end with some tragedy. a man who can play the part you are playing, must be ready for crime!" mr. charles shook his head in impatient rage, and made another step towards mrs. rowe. "move nearer, and i wake the house, come what may." mrs. rowe's face looked like one cut in grey stone. "what! and wake the dean and his lady! what! affright the reverend horace mohun who counts mrs. rowe among the milk-white sheep of his flock! no; mrs. rowe is too prudent a woman--now." as he ended, she drew forth a roll of notes. he made a clutch at them--and she started back. "charles, it has come to that! robber! it will be murder some day." "this day--by----" mr. charles looked the man to make his word good. mrs. rowe was amazed and terrified by the fiend she had conjured up in the man. he seized the table, and looked a giant in the mighty expression of his iron will. "lay that roll upon the table--or i'll shiver it into a thousand pieces--and then--and then----am i to say more?" mrs. rowe fell into a chair. mr. charles was at her in an instant, and had possession of the notes. the poor woman had swooned. he rang the bell--jane appeared. "look after her," said mr. charles, his eyes flaming, as they fell on the unconscious figure of mrs. rowe. "but let me out, first." "you'll kill me with fright, that you will. what have you done to your own----" "mind your own business. a smell of salts'll put her right enough." mr. charles was gone. "and what a sweet gentleman he can be, when he likes," said jane. chapter iii. mrs. rowe's company. i must be permitted to tell the rambling stories that ran parallel during my experiences of mrs. rowe's establishment in my own manner--filling up with what i guessed, all i heard from lucy, or saw for myself. mr. charles was a visitor at intervals who always arrived when the house was quiet; and after whose visits mrs. rowe regularly took to her room for the day, leaving the accounts and the keys wholly to lucy, and the kitchen to jane--with strict injunctions to look after the reverend horace mohun's tea and his round of toast if he called--and let him see the _times_ before it went up to the general sitting-room. on these days lucy looked pale; and jane called her "poor child" to me, and begged me to say a few words of comfort to her, for she would listen to me. what a fool jane was! visitors came and went. the serious, who inspected paris as mr. redgrave inspects a factory, or as the late mr. braidwood inspected a fire on the morrow; who did the louvre and called for bread-and-butter and tea on the boulevards at five. the new-rich, who would not have breakfasted with the general company to save their vulgar little souls, threw their money to the fleecing shopkeepers (who knew their _monde_), and misbehaved themselves in all the most expensive ways possible. the jolly ignorant, who were loud and unabashed in the sincerity and heartiness of their enjoyment, and had more litres of brandy in their bedrooms than the rest of the house, as jane had it, "put together." the frugal, who counted the lumps of sugar, found fault with the dinners, lived with the fixed and savage determination to eat well up to the rate at which they were paying for their board, and stole in, in the evening, with their brandy hidden about them. somehow, although there never was a house in which more differences of opinion were held on nearly every question of human interest, there was a surprising harmony of ideas as to french brandy. a boulogne excursion boat on its homeward journey hardly contains more uncorked bottles of cognac, than were thrust in all kinds of secret places in the bedrooms under mrs. rowe's roof. the hypocrisy and scandal which brandy produced in the general room were occasionally very fierce, especially when whispers had travelled quietly as the flies all over the house that one of the ladies had certainly, on one occasion, revoked at cards--for one reason, and one only. free speculations would be cheerfully indulged in at other times on the exact quantity the visitor who left yesterday had taken during his stay, and the number of months which the charitable might give him to live. [illustration: on the boulevards.] after the general brandy, in degree of interest, stood dress. the shopping was prodigious. the carts of the louvre, the ville de paris, the coin de rue, and other famous houses of nouveautés were for ever rattling to mrs. rowe's door. with a toss of the head a parcel from the _bon marché_ was handed to its owner. mrs. jones must have come to paris with just one change--and such a change! mrs. tottenham had nothing fit to wear. mrs. court must still be wearing out her trousseau--and her youngest was three! mrs. rhode had no more taste, my dear, than our cook. the men were not far behind--had looked out for captain tottenham in the army list; went to galignani's expressly: not in it, by jove, sir! court paid four shillings in the pound hardly two years ago, and met him swelling it with his wife (deuced pretty creature!) yesterday at bignon's. is quite up to marennes oysters: wonder where he could have heard of 'em. rhode is a bore; plenty of money, very good-natured; read a good deal--but can't the fellow come to table in something better than those eternal plaid trousers? bad enough in lord brougham. eccentricity _with_ the genius, galling enough; but without, not to be borne, sir. last night jones was simply drunk, and got a wigging, no doubt, when he found his room. he looks it all. we are an amiable people! happily, i have forgotten the joneses and the tottenhams, and the courts and the rhodes! the two "sets" who dwell in my memory--who are, i may say, somewhat linked with my own life, and of whom i have something to tell--were, as a visitor said of the fowls of boulogne hotels--birds apart. they crossed and re-crossed under mrs. rowe's roof until they hooked together; and i was mixed up with them, until a tragedy and a happy event made us part company. now, so complicated are our treaties--offensive and defensive--that i have to refer to my note-book, where i am likely to meet any one of them, to see whether i am on speaking terms with the coming man or woman as the case may be. i shall first introduce the cockaynes as holding the greater "lengths" on my stage. chapter iv. the cockaynes in paris. the morning after a bevy of "the blonde daughters of albion" have arrived in paris, pater--over the coffee (why is it impossible to get such coffee in england?), the delicious bread, and the exquisite butter--proceeds to expound his views of the manner in which the time of the party should be spent. so was it with the cockaynes, an intensely british party. "my dears," said mr. cockayne, "we must husband our time. to-day i propose we go, at eleven o'clock, to see the parade of the guard in the rue de rivoli; from there (we shall be close at hand) we can see the louvre; by two o'clock we will lunch in the palais royal. i think it's at five the band plays in the tuileries gardens; after the band----" "but, dear papa, we want to look at the shops!" interposes the gentle sophonisba. "the what, my dear? here you are in the capital of the most polished nation on the face of the earth, surrounded by beautiful monuments that recall--that are, in fact----" "well!" firmly observes sophonisba's determined mamma; "you, mr. cockayne, go, with your murray's handbook, see all the antiquities, your raphaels and rubens, and amuse yourself among the cobwebs of the hôtel cluny; _we_ are not so clever--we poor women; and while you're rubbing your nose against the marbles in the louvre, we'll go and see the shops." "we don't mind the parade and the band, but we might have a peep at just a few of the shops near the hotel, before eleven," observes sophonisba. cockayne throws up his eyes, and laments the frivolity of women. he is left with one daughter (who is a blue) to admire the proportions of the madeleine, to pass a rapturous hour in the square room of the louvre, and to examine st. germain l'auxerrois, while the frivolous part of his household goes stoutly away, light-hearted and gay as humming-birds, to have their first look at the shops. [illustration: a group of marble "insulaires." _so cold and natural they might be mistaken for life_.] i happen to have seen the shops of many cities. i have peered into the quaint, small-windowed shops of copenhagen; i have passed under the pendant tobacco leaves into the primitive cigar-shops of st. sebastian; i have hobbled, in furs, into the shops of stockholm; i have been compelled to take a look at the shops of london, dublin, edinburgh, liverpool, and a host of other places; but perfect shopping is to be enjoyed in paris only; and in the days gone by, the palais royal was the centre of this paradise. alas! the days of its glory are gone. the lines of splendid boulevards, flanked with gorgeous shops and _cafés_; the long arcades of the rue de rivoli; and, in fine, the leaning of all that is fashionable, and lofty, and rich to the west, are the causes which have brought the destruction of the palais royal. time was when that quaint old square--the place-royale in the marais--was mighty fashionable. it now lies in the neglected, industrious, factory-crowded east--a kind of parisian bloomsbury square, only infinitely more picturesque, with its quaint, low colonnades. you see the fine parisians have travelled steadily westward, sloping slowly, like "the great orion." they are making their way along the champs-elysées to the avenue de l'impératrice; and are constructing white stone aristocratic suburbs. so the foreigners no longer make their way direct to the palais royal now, on the morrow of their arrival in paris. if they be at the louvre, they bend westward along the rue de rivoli, and by the rue de la paix, to the brilliant boulevards. if they be in the grand hôtel, they issue at once upon these famous boulevards, and the ladies are in a feminine paradise at once. why, exactly opposite to the grand hôtel is rudolphi's remarkable shop, packed artistically with his works of art--ay, and of the most finished and cunning art--in oxidized silver. his shop is most admirably adapted to the articles the effect of which he desires to heighten. it is painted black and pointed with delicate gold threads. the rich array of jewellery and the rare ecclesiastical ornaments stand brightly out from the sombre case, and light the window. the precious stones, the lapis lazuli, the malachite, obtain a new brilliance from the rich neutral tints and shades of the chased dulled silver in which they are held. sophonisba, her mamma and sisters, are not at much trouble to decide the period to which the bracelet, or the brooch, or the earring belongs. "_cinque cento_, my dear! i know nothing about that. i think it would suit my complexion." "i confess to a more modern taste, sophonisba. that is just the sort of thing your father would like. now, do look at those--sphinxes, don't you call them--for a brooch. i think they're hideous. did you ever see such ears? i own, that diamond dew-drop lying in an enamel rose leaf, which i saw, i think, in the rue de la paix, is more to my taste." and so the ladies stroll westward to the famous giroux (where you can buy, an it please you, toys at forty guineas each--babies that cry, and call "mamma," and automata to whom the advancement of science and art has given all the obnoxious faculties of an unruly child), or east to the boulevards, which are known the wide world over, at least by name, the boulevards de la madeleine, des capucines, des italiens, montmartre. these make up the heart and soul of paris. within the limits of these gorgeous lines of shops and _cafés_ luxury has concentrated all her blandishments and wiles. this is the earthly heaven of the parisians. here all the celebrities air themselves. here are the opera stars, the lights of literature, the chiefs of art, the dandies of the jockey club, the prominent spendthrifts and eccentrics of the day. about four o'clock in the afternoon all the known paris figures are lounging upon the asphaltum within this charmed space. within this limit--where the frenchman deploys all his seductive, and vain, and frivolous airs; where he wears his best clothes and his best manners; where he loves to be seen, and observed, and saluted--the tradesmen of the capital have installed establishments the costliness and elaborateness of which it is hardly possible to exaggerate. the gilding and the mirrors, the marbles and the bronze, the myriad lamps of every fantastic form, the quaint and daring designs for shop fronts, the infinite arts employed to "set off" goods, and the surprising, never-ceasing varieties of art-manufacture--whether in chocolate or the popular algerian onyx--bewilder strangers. does successful mr. brown, who, having doffed the apron of trade, considers it due to himself to become--so far as money can operate the strange transformation--a _fine fleur_; does he desire also to make of plain, homely mrs. brown a leader of fashion and a model of expensive elegance?--here are all the appliances and means in abundance. within these enchanted lines madame b. may be made "beautiful for ever!" every appetite, every variety of whim, the cravings of the gourmet and the dreams of the sybarite, may be gratified to the utmost. a spendthrift might spend a handsome patrimony within these limits, nor, at the end of his time, would he call to mind a taste he had not been able to gratify. sophonisba enters this charmed region of perfect shopping from the west. tahan's bronze shop, at the corner of the rue de la paix, marks (or did mark) its western boundary. there are costly trifles in that window--as, book cutters worth a library of books, and cigar-stands, ash-trays, pen-trays, toothpick-holders (our neighbours are great in these), and match, and glove, and lace, and jewel-boxes--of wicked price. ladies are not, however, very fond of bronze, as a rule. the great maison de blanc--or white house--opposite, is more attractive, with its gigantic architectural front, and its acres of the most expensive linens, cambrics, &c. ay, but close by tahan is boissier. not to know boissier is to argue yourself unknown in paris. he is the shining light of the confectioner's art. siraudin, of the rue de la paix, has set up a dangerous opposition to him, under the patronage of a great duke, whose duchess was one day treated like an ordinary mortal in boissier's establishment, but boissier's clients (nobody has customers in paris) are, in the main, true to him; and his sweets pass the lips still of nearly all the élégantes of the "centre of civilization." peep into his shop. miss sophonisba is within--_la belle insulaire!_--buying a bag of _marrons glacés_, for which boissier is renowned throughout civilization. the shop is a miracle of taste. the white and gold are worthy of marie antoinette's bedroom at st. cloud--occupied, by the way, by our english queen, when she was the guest of the french emperor in . the front of the shop is ornamented with rich and rare caskets. a white kitten lies upon a rosy satin cushion; lift the kitten, and you shall find that her bed is a _bon-bon_ box! "how very absurd!" exclaims sophonisba's mamma, _bon-bon_ boxes not being the particular direction which the extravagance of english ladies takes. close by the succulent establishment of m. boissier, to whom every dentist should lift his hat, is the doorway of madame laure. sophonisba sees a man in livery opening the door of what appears to be the entrance to some quiet learned institution. she touches her mamma upon the arm, and bids her pause. they had reached the threshold of a temple. madame laure makes for the empress. "ah! to be sure, my child, so she does," sophonisba's mamma replies. "i remember. very quiet-looking kind of place, isn't it?" it is impossible to say what description of "loud" place had dwelt in the mind of sophonisba's mamma as the locale where the empress eugénie's milliner "_made_" for her majesty. perhaps she hoped to see two _cent gardes_ doing duty at the door of an or-molu paradise. at every step the ladies find new excitement. by the quiet door of madame laure is the renowned neapolitan ice establishment, well known to most ladies who have been in paris. why should there not be a neapolitan ice _café_ like this in london? ices we have, and we have granger's; but here is ice in every variety, from the solid "bombe"--which we strongly recommend ladies to bear in mind next time--to the appetizing _ponch à la romaine_! again, sitting here on summer evenings, the lounger will perceive dapper _bonnes_, or men-servants, going in and out with little shapely white paper parcels which they hold daintily by the end. madame has rung for an ice, and this little parcel, which you might blow away, contains it. now, why should not a lady be able to ring for an ice--and an exquisitely-flavoured neapolitan ice--on the shores of "perfidious albion?" "i wish papa were here," cries sophonisba; "we should have ices." sophonisba's mamma merely remarks that they are very unwholesome things. hard by is christofle's dazzling window, christofle being the elkington of france. "tut! it quite blinds one!" says the mamma of sophonisba. christofle's window is startling. it is heaped to the top with a mound of plated spoons and forks. they glitter in the light so fiercely that the eye cannot bear to rest upon them. impossible to pass m. christofle without paying a moment's attention to him. and now we pass the asphaltum of the boulevard of boulevards--that known as "the italiens." this is the apple of the eye of paris. "now, my dears," says sophonisba's mamma, "now we can really say that we are in paris." the shops claimed the ladies' attention one by one. they passed with disdain the _cafés_ radiant with mirror and gold, where the selfish men were drinking absinthe and playing at dominoes. it had always been the creed of sophonisba's mamma that men were selfish creatures, and she had come to paris only to see that she was right. they passed on to potel's. potel's window is a sight that is of paris parisian. it is more imposing than that of chevet in the palais royal. in the first place potel is on "the italiens." it is a daily store of all the rarest and richest articles of food money can command for the discontented palate of man. the truffled turkeys are the commonest of the articles. everybody eats truffled turkeys, must be the belief of potel. if salmon could peer into the future, and if they had any ambition, they would desire, after death, to be artistically arrayed in fennel in the shop-window of potel. would not the accommodating bird who builds an edible nest work with redoubled ardour, if he could be assured that his house would be some day removed to the great window on "the italiens?" happy the ortolans whom destiny puts into potel's plate of honour! most fortunate of geese, whose liver is fattened by a slow fire to figure presently here with the daintiest and noblest of viands! the pig who hunts the truffle would have his reward could he know that presently the fragrant vegetable would give flavour to his trotter! and is it not a good quarter of an hour's amusement every afternoon to watch the gourmets feasting their eyes on the day's fare? and the _gamins_ from the poor quarters stare in also, and wonder what those black lumps are. opposite potel's is a shop, the like of which we have not, nor, we verily believe, has any other city. it is the show-store of the far-famed algerian onyx company. the onyx is here in great superb blocks, wedded with bronze of exquisite finish, or serving as background to enamels of the most elaborate design. within, the shop is crammed with lamps, jardinières, and monumental marbles, all relieved by bronzes, gold, and exotics. the smallest object would frighten a man of moderate means, if he inquired its price. there is a flower shop not far off, but it isn't a shop, it's a bower. it is close by a dram-shop, where the cab-men of the stand opposite refresh the inner man. it represents the british public-house. but what a quiet orderly place it is! the kettle of punch--a silver one--is suspended over the counter. the bottles are trim in rows; there are no vats of liquid; there is no brawling; there are no beggars by the door--no drunkards within. it is so quiet, albeit on the boulevard, not one in a hundred of the passers-by notice it. the lordly café du cardinal opposite is not more orderly. past chocolate shops, where splendidly-attired ladies preside; wood-carving shops, printsellers, pastrycooks--where the savarins are tricked out, and where _petit fours_ lie in a hundred varieties--music-shops, bazaars, immense booksellers' windows; they who are bent on a look at the shops reach a corner of the grand opera street, where the emperor's tailor dwells. the attractions here are, as a rule, a few gorgeous official costumes, or the laurel-embellished tail coat of the academician. still proceeding eastward, the shops are various, and are all remarkable for their decoration and contents. there is a shop where cots and flower-stands are the main articles for sale; but such cots and such flower-stands! the cots are for princes and the flower-stands for empresses. i saw the empress eugénie quietly issuing from this very shop, one winter afternoon. sophonisba's mother lingered a long time over the cots, and delighted her mother-eye with the models of babies that were lying in them. one, she remarked, was the very image of young harry at home. and so on to "barbédienne's," close by the well-known vachette. sophonisba, however, will not wait for our description of the renowned felix's establishment, where are the lightest hands for pastry, it is said, in all france. when last we caught sight of the young lady, she was _chez_ felix, demolishing her second _baba!_ may it lie lightly on her--! i humbly beg the pardon of mademoiselle sophonisba! chapter v. the cockayne family. the cockaynes deserve a few words of formal introduction to the reader, since he is destined to make their better acquaintance. we have ventured hitherto only to take a few discreet and distant glimpses at them, as we found them loitering about the boulevards on the morrow of their appearance in paris. mr. cockayne--having been very successful for many years in the soap-boiling business, to the great discomfort and vexation of the noses of his neighbours, and having amassed fortune enough to keep himself and wife and his three blooming daughters among the _crême de la crême_ of clapham, and in the list of the elect of society, known as carriage-people--he had given up the soap-boiling to his two sons, and had made up his mind to enjoy his money, or rather so much of it as mrs. cockayne might not require. it is true that every shilling of the money had been made by cockayne, that every penny-piece represented a bit of soap which he had manufactured for the better cleansing of his generation. but this highly honourable fact, to the credit of poor cockayne, albeit it was unpleasant to the nostrils of mrs. c. when she had skimmed some of the richest of the clapham _crême_ into her drawing-room, did not abate her resolve to put at least three farthings of the penny into her pocket, for her uses and those of her simple and innocent daughters. mrs. cockayne, being an economical woman, spent more money on herself, her house, and her children than any lady within a mile of cockayne house. it is certain that she was an excellent mother to her three daughters, for she reminded cockayne every night regularly--as regularly, he said, as he took his socks off--that if it were not for her, she did not know what would become of the children. she was quite sure their father wouldn't trouble his head about them. perhaps mrs. cockayne was right. cockayne had slaved in business only thirty-five years out of the fifty-two he had passed in this vale of tears, and had only lodged her at last in a brougham and pair. he might have kept in harness another ten years, and set her up in a carriage and four. she was sure he didn't know what to do with himself, now he had retired. he was much better tempered when he went off to business by the nine o'clock omnibus every morning; and before he had given himself such ridiculous airs, and put himself on all kinds of committees he didn't understand anything about, and taken to make himself disagreeable to his neighbours in the vestry-hall, and moving what he called amendments and riders, for the mere pleasure, she verily believed, of opposing somebody, as he did everybody in his own house, and of hearing himself talk. does the reader perceive by this time the kind of lady mrs. cockayne was, and what a comfort she must have been to her husband in the autumn of his life? how he must have listened for what the novelists call "her every footstep," and treasured her every syllable! it was mercifully ordained that mr. cockayne should be a good-tempered, non-resisting man. when mrs. cockayne was, as her sons pleasantly and respectfully phrased it, "down upon the governor," the good man, like the flowers in the poem, "dipped and rose, and turned to look at her." he sparkled while she stormed. he smiled when the shafts of her sarcasm were thrown point-blank at him. he was good-tempered before the storm began, while it lasted, and when it was over. mrs. cockayne had the ingenuity to pretend that cockayne was the veriest tyrant behind people's backs; he who, as a neighbour of his very expressively put the case, dared not help himself to the fresh butter without having previously asked the permission of his wife. fate, in order to try the good-nature of timothy cockayne to the utmost, had given him two daughters closely resembling, in patient endurance and self-abnegation, their irreproachable mamma. sophonisba--at whom the reader has already had a glimpse, and whom we last saw demolishing her second _baba_ at felix's, was the eldest daughter--and the second was theodosia. there was a third, carrie; she was the blue, and was gentle and contented with everything, like her father. the reader may now be prepared to learn that it was not mr. timothy cockayne, late of lambeth, who had planned the family's journey to paris. mrs. cockayne had projected the expedition. everybody went to paris now-a-days, and you looked so very stupid if you had to confess in a drawing-room that you had never been. she was sure there was not another family on clapham common, of their station, who had not been. besides, it would exercise the girls' french. if mr. cockayne could only consent to tear himself away from board-meetings, and devote a little time to his own flesh and blood. they would go alone, and not trouble him, only what would their neighbours say to see them start off alone, as though they'd nobody in the world to care a fig about them. at any rate, they didn't want people to know they were neglected. now mr. cockayne had never had the most distant idea of leaving the ladies of his family to go alone to paris. but it pleased his wife to put the case in this pleasant way, and he never interfered with her pleasures. he wanted very much to see paris again, for he had never been on the banks of the seine since , when he made a flying visit to examine some new patent soap-boiling apparatus. he was ordered about by both mother and daughters, by boat and railway. he was reproached fifty times for his manners in insisting on going the dieppe route. he was loaded with parcels and baskets and rugs, and was soundly rated all the way from the railway station to the grand hôtel, on the boulevard des capucines, for having permitted the custom house officers to turn over mrs. cockayne's boxes, as she said, "in the most impudent manner; but they saw she was without protection." i have always been at a loss to discover why certain classes of english travellers, who make their appearance in paris during the excursion season, persist in regarding the capital of france, or, as the parisian has it, "the centre of civilization," as a margate without the sea. i wonder what was floating in the head of mr. cockayne, when he bought a flat cloth grey cap, and ordered a plaid sporting-suit from his tailor's, and in this disguise proceeded to "do" paris. in london mr. cockayne was in the habit of dressing like any other respectable elderly gentleman. he was going to the capital of a great nation, where people's thoughts are not unfrequently given to the cares of the _toilette;_ where, in short, gentlemen are every bit as severe in their dress as they are in pall mall, or in a banking-house in lombard street. now mr. cockayne would as soon have thought of wearing that plaid shooting-suit and that grey flat cap down cheapside or cornhill, as he would have attempted to play at leap-frog in the underwriters' room at lloyd's. he had a notion, however, that he had done the "correct thing" for foreign parts, and that he had made himself look as much a traveller as livingstone or burton. some strange dreams in the matter of dress had possessed the mind of mrs. cockayne, and her daughters also. they were in varieties of drab coloured dresses and cloaks; and the mother and the three daughters, deeming bonnets, we suppose, to be eccentric head-gears in paris, wore dark brown hats all of one pattern, all ornamented with voluminous blue veils, and all ready to dantan's hand. the young ladies had, moreover, velvet strings, that hung down from under their hats behind, almost to their heels. it was thus arrayed that the party took up their quarters at the grand hôtel, and opened their continental experiences. i have already accompanied mrs. cockayne, sophonisba, and theodosia, on their first stroll along the boulevards, and peeped into a few shops with them. mr. cockayne was in the noble courtyard of the hôtel, waiting to receive them on their return, with carrie sitting close by him, intently reading a voluminous catalogue of the louvre, on which, according to mrs. cockayne, her liege lord had "wasted five francs." mr. cockayne was all smiles. mrs. cockayne and her two elder daughters were exhausted, and threw themselves into seats, and vowed that paris was the most tiring place on the face of the earth. [illustration: beauty & the b----. _normally a severe excursionist_.] "my dear," said mr. cockayne, addressing his wife, "people find paris fatiguing because they walk about the streets all day, and give themselves no rest. if we did the same thing at clapham----" "there, that will do, cockayne," the lady sharply answered. "i'm sure i'm a great deal too tired to hear speeches. order me some iced water. you talk about french politeness, cockayne. i think i never saw people stare so much in the whole coarse of my life. and some boys in blue pinafores actually laughed in our very faces. i know what _i_ should have done to them, had _i_ been their mother. what was it they said, sophy, my dear?" "i didn't quite catch, mamma; these people talk so fast." "they seem to me," mrs. cockayne continued, "to jumble all their words one into another." "that is because----" mr. cockayne was about to explain. "now, pray, mr. cockayne, do leave your mutual improvement society behind, and give us a little relief while we are away. i say the people jumble one word into another in the most ridiculous manner, and i suppose i have ears, and sophy has ears, and we are not quite lunatics because we have not been staring our eyes out all the morning at things we don't understand." here carrie, lifting her eyes from her book, said to her father-- "papa dear, you remember that first sculpture hall, where the colossal figures were; that was the salle des caryatides, and those gigantic figures you admired so much were by jean goujon. just think! it was in this hall that henry iv. celebrated his wedding with marguerite de valois. yes, and in this very room molière used to act before the court." "yes," mrs. cockayne interjected, pointing to carrie's hands, "and in that very room, i suppose, miss caroline cockayne appeared with her fingers out of her glove." "and where have you been all day, my dear?" mr. cockayne said, in his blandest manner, to his wife. "we poor benighted creatures," responded mrs. cockayne, "have been--pray don't laugh. mr. cockayne--looking at the shops, and very much amused we have been, i can assure you, and we are going to look at them to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after that." "with all my heart, my dear," said mr. cockayne, who was determined to remain in the very best of tempers. "i hope you have been amused, that is all." [illustration: palais du louvre.] [illustration: the road to the bois] "we have had a delightful day," said sophonisba. "i am sure we have been into twenty shops," said theodosia. "and i am sure," mrs. cockayne continued, "it is quite refreshing, after the boorish manners of your london shopkeepers, to be waited upon by these polite frenchmen. they behave like noblemen." "mamma has had fifty compliments paid to her in the course of the day, i am certain," said sophonisba. "i am very glad to hear it," said sophonisba's papa. "glad to hear it, and surprised also, i suppose, mr. cockayne! in london twenty compliments have to last a lady her lifetime." "i don't know how it is," theodosia observed, "but the tradespeople here have a way of doing things that is enchanting. we went into an imition jeweller's in the rue vivienne--and such imitations! i'll defy mrs. sandhurst--and you know how ill-natured she is--to tell some earrings and brooches we saw from real gold and jewels. well, what do you think was the sign of the shop, which was arranged more like a drawing-room than a tradesman's place of business; why, it was called l'ombre du vrai (the shadow of truth). isn't it quite poetical?" mr. cockayne thought he saw his opportunity for an oratorical flourish. "it has been observed, my dear theo," said he, dipping the fingers of his right hand into the palm of his left, "by more than one acute observer, that the mind of the race whose country we are now----" here mrs. cockayne rapped sharply the marble table before her with the end of her parasol, and said-- "mr. cockayne, have you ordered any dinner for us?" mr. cockayne meekly gave it up, and replied that he had secured places for the party at the _table d'hôte_. satisfied on this score, the matron proceeded to inform that person whom in pleasant irony she called her lord and master, that she had set her heart on a brooch of the loveliest design it had ever been her good fortune to behold. "at the _l'ombre_--what do you call it, my dear?" said the husband, blandly. mrs. cockayne went through that stiffening process which ladies of dignity call drawing themselves up. "you really surprise me, mr. cockayne. if you mean it as a joke, i would have you know that people don't joke with their wives; and i should think you ought to know by this time that i am not in the habit of wearing imitation jewellery." "i ought," briefly responded cockayne; and then he rapidly continued, in order to ward off the fire he knew his smart rejoinder would provoke-- "tell me where it was, my dear. suppose we go and look at it together. i saw myself some exquisite greek compositions in the rue de la paix, which both myself and carrie admired immensely." "greek fiddlesticks! i want no greek, nor any other old-fashioned ornaments, mr. cockayne. one would think you were married to the oldest female inhabitant, by the way you talk; or that i had stepped out of the middle ages; or that i and sphinx were twins. but you must be so very clever, with your elevation of the working-classes, and those prize robinson crusoes you gave to the ragged-school children--which you know you got trade price." "well, well," poor cockayne feebly expostulated, "if it's not far, let us go and see the brooch." "there, mamma!" cried both sophonisba and theodosia in one breath. "mind, the one with the three diamonds." [illustration: musee du luxembourg.] mrs. cockayne being of an exceedingly yielding temperament, allowed herself to be mollified, and sailed out of the hotel, with the blue veil hanging from her hat down her back, observing by the way that she should like to box those impudent frenchmen's ears who were lounging about the doorway, and who, she was sure, were looking at her. mr. cockayne was unfortunate enough to opine that his wife was mistaken, and that the frenchmen in question were not even looking in her direction. "of course not, mr. cockayne," said the lady; "who would look at me, at my time of life?" "nonsense! i didn't mean that," said mr. cockayne, now a little gruffly, for there was a limit even to _his_ patience. "it is difficult to tell what you mean. i don't think you know yourself, half your time." thus agreeably beguiling the way, the pair walked to the shop in the rue de la paix, where the lady had seen a brooch entirely to her mind. it was the large enamel rose-leaf, with three charming dew-drops in the shape of brilliants. "they speak english, i hope," said mr. cockayne. "we ought to have brought sophonisba with us." "sophonisba! much use _her_ french is in this place. she says their french and the french she learnt at school are two perfectly different things. so you may make up your mind that all those extras for languages you paid for the children were so much money thrown away." "that's a consoling reflection, now the money's gone," quoth mr. cockayne. they then entered the shop. a very dignified gentleman, with exquisitely arranged beard and moustache, and dressed unexceptionably, made a diplomatic bow to mr. cockayne and his wife. cockayne, without ceremony, plunged _in medias res_. he wanted to look at the rose-leaf with the diamonds on it. the gentleman in black observed that it became english ladies' complexion "à ravir." it occurred to mr. cockayne, as it has occurred to many englishmen in paris, that he might make up for his ignorance of french by speaking in a voice of thunder. he seemed to have come to the conclusion that the french were a deaf nation, and that they talked a language which he did not understand in order that he might bear their deafness in mind. for once in her life mrs. cockayne held the same opinion as her husband. she accordingly, on her side, made what observations she chose to address to the dignified jeweller in her loudest voice. the jeweller smiled good naturedly, and pattered his broken english in a subdued and deferential tone. as mr. cockayne found that he did not get on very well, or make his meaning as clear as crystal by bawling, and as he found that the polite jeweller could jerk out a few broken phrases of english, the bright idea struck him that he, mr. cockayne, late of lambeth, would make his meaning plainer than a pike-staff by speaking broken english also. the jeweller was puzzled, but he was very patient; and as he kept passing one bracelet after another over the arm of mrs. cockayne, quite captivated that lady. "he seems to think we're going to buy all the shop," growled cockayne. "how vulgar you are! lambeth manners don't do in paris. mr. cockayne." "but they seem to like lambeth sovereigns, anyhow," was the aggravating rejoinder. "if you're going to talk like that, i'll leave the shop, and not have anything." this was a threat the lady did not carry out. she bore the enamel rose-leaf--the leaf with the three diamonds, as her daughters had affectionately reminded her--off in triumph, having promised that delightful man, the jeweller, to return and have a look at the bracelets another day. she was quite enchanted with the low bow the jeweller gave her as he closed his handsome plate-glass door. he might have been a duke or a prince, she said. "or a footman," mr. cockayne added. "i don't call all that bowing and scraping business." when mr. and mrs. cockayne returned to the grand hôtel, they found their daughters sophonisba and theodosia in a state of rapture. "mamma, mamma!" cried sophonisba, holding up a copy of _la france,_ an evening paper, "you know that splendid shop we passed to-day, under the colonnades by the louvre hôtel, where there was that deep blue _moire_ you said you should so much like if you could afford it. well, look here, there is a '_grande occasion_' there!" and the enraptured girl pointed to letters at least two inches high, printed across the sheet of the newspaper. "look! a 'grande occasion!'" "and pray what's that, sophy?" mrs. cockayne asked. "what grand occasion, i should like to know." "dear me, mamma," theodosia murmured, "it means an excellent opportunity." "my dear," mrs. cockayne retorted severely to her child, "i didn't have the advantage of lessons in french, at i don't know how many guineas a quarter; nor, i believe, did your father; nor did we have occasion to teach ourselves, like miss sharp." "well, look here, mamma," miss sophonisba said, her eyes sparkling and her fingers trembling as they ran down line after line of the advertisement that covered the whole back sheet of the newspaper. "you never saw such bargains. the prices are positively ridiculous. there are silks, and laces, and muslins, and grenadines, and alpacas, and shawls, and cloaks, and plain _sultanes_, and i don't know what, all at such absurdly low prices that i think there must be some mistake about it." "tut," mr. cockayne said; "one of those 'awful sacrifices' and bankrupt stock sales, like those we see in london, and the bills of which are thrown into the letter-box day after day." "you are quite mistaken, papa dear, indeed you are," theodosia said; "we have asked the person in the _bureau_ down stairs, and she has told us that these '_grandes occasions_' take place twice regularly every year, and that people wait for them to make good bargains for their summer things and for their winter things." the lady in the _bureau_ was right. the prudent housewives of paris take advantage of these "_grandes occasions_" to make their summer and winter purchases for the family. in the spring-time, when the great violet trade of paris brightens the corners of the streets, immense advertisements appear in all the daily and weekly papers of paris, headed by gigantic letters that the fleetest runner may read, announcing extraordinary exhibitions, great exhibitions, and unprecedented spring shows. "poor jacques" offers cashmere shawls at twenty-seven francs each, silk dresses at twenty-nine francs, and at thirty-nine francs. "little saint thomas," of the rue du bac, has , french linos, "jacquettes gentleman," zouaves, and dozen cravats--all at extraordinary low prices. poor jacques draws public attention to the "incomparable cheapness" of his immense operations: while little st. thomas declares that his assortment of goods is of "exceptional importance," and that he is selling his goods at a cheapness _hors ligne_. for a nation that has twitted the english with being a race of shop-keepers, our friends the parisians who keep shops are not wanting in devotion to their own commercial interests. indeed, there is a strong commercial sense in thousands of parisians who have no shutters to take down. take for instance the poetical m. alphonse karr, whose name has passed all over europe as the charming author of a journey round my garden. nothing can be more engaging than the manner in which m. karr leads his readers about with him among his flowers and the parasites of his garden. he falls into raptures over the petals of the rose, and his eye brightens tenderly over the june fly. one would think that this garden-traveller was a very ethereal personage, and that milk and honey and a few sweet roots would satisfy his simple wants, and that he had no more idea of trafficking in a market than a hard man of business has in spending hours watching a beetle upon a leaf. but let not the reader continue to labour under this grievous mistake. m. karr is quite up to the market value of every bud that breaks within the charmed circle of his garden at nice. he cultivates the poetry for his books, but he does not neglect his ledger. in the spring, when, according to mr. tennyson, "a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast," and "young men's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," m. alphonse karr, poet and florist, opens his flower-shop. carrie had taken up the newspaper which had moved the enthusiasm of her elder sisters. her eyes fell on the following advertisement:-- "by an arrangement agreed upon, m. alphonse karr, of nice, sends direct, gratuitously, and post free, either a box containing herbes aux turguoises, or a magnificent bouquet of parma violets, to every person who, before the end of march, shall become a subscriber to the monthly review entitled life in the country. a specimen number will be sent on receipt of fifteen sous in postage stamps." this is alphonse karr's magnificent spring assortment--his grand occasion. "so you see, mr. cockayne," said his wife, "this mr. karr, whose book about the garden--twaddle, _i_ call it--you used to think so very fine and poetic, is just a market-gardener and nothing more. he is positively an advertising tradesman." "nothing more, mamma, i assure you," said sophonisba. "i remember at school that one of the french young ladies, mademoiselle de la rosière, told me that when her sister was married, the bride and all the bridesmaids had alphonse karr's _bouquets_. it seems that the mercenary creature advertises to sell ball or wedding _bouquets_, which he manages to send to paris quite fresh in little boxes, for a pound apiece." "do you hear that?" said mrs. cockayne, addressing her husband. "this is your pet, sir, who was so fond of his beetles! why, the man would sell the nightingales out of his trees, if he could catch them, i've no doubt." "the story is a little jarring, i confess," pater said. "but after all, why shouldn't he sell the flowers also, when he sells the pretty things he writes about them?" "upon my word, you're wonderful. you try to creep out of everything. but what is that you were reading, my dear sophonisba, about the _grande occasion_ near the louvre hôtel? i dare say it's a great deal more interesting than mr. karr and his violets. i haven't patience with your papa's affectation. what was it we saw, my dear, in the rue saint honoré? the 'butterfly's chocolate'?" "yes, mamma," theodosia answered. "_chocolat du papillon_. yes; and you know, mamma, there was the linen-draper's with the sign _a la pensée_. i never heard such ridiculous nonsense." "yes; and there was another, my dear," said mrs. cockayne, "'to the fine englishwoman,' or something of that sort." "oh, those two or three shops, mamma," said sophonisba, "dedicated _a la belle anglaise!_ just think what people would say, walking along oxford street, if they were to see over a hosier's shop, written in big, flaring letters, 'to the beautiful frenchwoman!" mr. cockayne laughed. mrs. cockayne saw nothing to laugh at. she maintained that it was a fair way of putting the case. mr. cockayne said that he was not laughing at his wife, but at some much more ridiculous signs which had come under his notice. "what do you say," he asked, "to a linen-draper's called the 'siege of corinth?' or the 'great condé?' or the 'good devil'?" "what on earth has la belle jardinière got to do with cheap trowsers, mr. cockayne?" his wife interrupted. "you forget your daughters are in the room." "well, my dear, the moses of paris call their establishment the belle jardinière." "that's not half so absurd, papa dear," sophonisba observed, "as another cheap tailor's i have seen under the sign of the 'docks de la violette.'" "i don't know, my dear; i thought when my friend rhodes came back from paris, and told me he had worn a pair of the belle jardinières----" "mr. cockayne!" screamed his wife. "well, unmentionables, my dear--i thought i should have died with laughter." "sophonisba, my dear, tell us what the paper says about that magnificent shop under the louvre colonnade; your father is forgetting himself." "dear mamma," said sophonisba, "it would take me an hour to read all;" but she read the tit-bits. "my dears," said mrs. cockayne to her daughters, "it would be positively a sin to miss such an opportunity." mr. cockayne took up the paper which sophonisba had finished reading, and running his eye over it, said, with a wicked curling of his lip-- "my dear sophy, my dear child, here are a number of things you've not read." sophonisba tittered, and ejaculated--"papa dear!" "we have heard quite enough," mrs. cockayne said, sternly; "and we'll go to-morrow, directly after breakfast, and spend a nice morning looking over the things." "but there are really two or three items, my dear, sophy has forgotten. there are a lot of articles with lace and pen work; and think of it, my love, ten thousand ladies' chem----" mrs. cockayne started to her feet, and shrieked-- "girls, leave the room!" "what a pity, my dear," the incorrigible mr. cockayne continued, in spite of the unappeasable anger of mrs. cockayne--"what a pity the _magasins de louvre_ were not established at the time of the celebrated emigration of the ten thousand virgins; you see there would have been just one apiece." chapter vi. a "grande occasion." "well, these paris tradespeople are the most extraordinary persons in the world," cried sophonisba's mamma, and the absolute ruler of mr. cockayne. "i confess i can't make them out. they beat me. my dear, they are the most independent set i ever came across. they don't seem to care whether you buy or you don't; and they ask double what they intend to take." "what is the matter now, my dear?" mr. cockayne ventured, in an unguarded moment, to ask, putting aside for a moment mr. bayle st. john's scholarly book on the louvre. "at any rate, mr. cockayne, we do humbly venture to hope that you will be able to spare us an hour this morning to accompany us to the _magasins du louvre_. we would not ask you, but we have been told the crowd is so great that ladies alone would be torn to pieces." "i forget how many thousands a day, papa dear," sophonisba mercifully interposed, "but a good many, visit these wonderful shops. i confess i never saw anything like even the outside of them. the inside must be lovely." "i have no doubt they are, my dear," mr. cockayne observed. "they were built about ten years ago. the foundations were----" "there," cried mrs. cockayne, rising, "there, your papa is off with his lecture. i shall put on my bonnet." and mrs. cockayne swept grandly from the room. mrs. cockayne re-entered the room with her bonnet on; determination was painted on the lady's countenance. cockayne should not escape this time. he should be led off like a lamb to the slaughter. were not the silks marked at ridiculously low prices? was not the shawl-room a sight more than equal to anything to be seen in any other part of paris? was not the folding department just as much a sight of paris as that wretched collection of lumber in the hôtel cluny? some wives had only to hint to have; but that was not the case with the hapless mrs. cockayne. she was sure nobody could be more economical than she was, both for herself and the children, and that was her reward. she had to undergo the most humiliating process of asking point-blank; even when twenty or thirty thousand pairs of gloves were to be sold at prices that were unheard of! men were so stupid in their meanness! "buy the shop," mr. cockayne angrily observed. perhaps mr. cockayne would be pleased to inform his lawful wife and the unfortunate children who were subjected by fate to his cruel tyranny--perhaps he would inform them when it would be convenient for him to take them home. his insults were more than his wife could bear. "what's the matter now?" asked the despairing cockayne, rubbing his hat with his coat-sleeve. "mamma dear, papa is coming with us," sophonisba expostulated. "well, i suppose he is. it has not quite come to that yet, my dear. i am prepared for anything, i believe; but your father will, i trust, not make us the laughing-stock of the hotel." "i am ready," said cockayne, grimly, between his teeth. "i am obliged, you see, children, to speak," icily responded the lady he had sworn to love and cherish. "hints are thrown away. i must suffer the indignity for your sakes, of saying to your father, i shall want some money for the purchases your mother wants to make for you. it is not the least use going to this grande occasion, or whatever they call it, empty-handed." "will you allow me time to get change?" and mr. cockayne headed the procession through the hotel court-yard to the boulevards. "walk with your father," the outraged lady said to sophonisba. "it's positively disgraceful, straggling out in this way. but i might have known what it was likely to be before i left home." mr. cockayne, as was his wont, speedily re-assumed his equanimity, and chatted pleasantly with sophonisba as they walked along the rue de la paix, across the place vendôme, into the rue castiglione. mrs. cockayne followed with theodosia; carrie had begged to be left behind, to write a long letter to her intellectual friend, miss sharp. mr. cockayne stopped before the door of mr. john arthur. "what on earth can your father want here?" said mrs. cockayne, pausing at the door, while her husband had an interview with mr. john arthur within. theodosia, peering through the window, answered, "he is getting change, mamma dear." "at last!" mr. cockayne issued radiant from mr. john arthur's establishment. "there," said he to his wife, in his heartiest voice; "there, my dear, buy what you and the girls want." "i will do the best i can with it. perhaps we can manage our shopping without troubling you." "it's not the least trouble in the world," gaily said cockayne, putting that bright face of his on matters. "i thought you had some idea of going to the museum of artillery this afternoon, to see whether or not you approved of the french guns." mr. cockayne laughed at the sarcasm, and again gave sophonisba his arm, and went under the colonnades of the rue de rivoli, wondering, by the way, why people stared at him in his plaid suit, and at his daughter in her brown hat and blue veil. mrs. cockayne wondered likewise. the french were the rudest people on the face of the earth, and not the politest, as they had the impudence to assert. when the party reached the colonnades of the grand hôtel du louvre, they found themselves in the midst of a busy scene. the _magasins du louvre_ stretch far under the hôtel, from the rue de rivoli to the rue saint-honoré. year after year has the stretching process continued; but now the great company of linen drapers and hosiers have all the space that can be spared them. the endless lines of customers' carriages in the rue saint-honoré and on the _place_ opposite prince napoleon's palace betoken the marvellous trade going on within. the father of the english family here turned his back upon the great shop, and glancing towards the louvre and the church of saint germain l'auxerrois, exclaimed--"marvellous scene! a sight not to be equalled in the world. yonder is the old church, the bell of which tolled the----" "you're making a laughing-stock of yourself," mrs. cockayne exclaims, taking her husband firmly by the arm. "one would think you were an hotel guide, or a walking handbook, or--or a beadle or showman. what do you want to know about the massacre of st. bartholomew now? there'll not be a mantle or a pair of gloves left. come in--do! you can go gesticulating about the streets with carrie to-morrow, if you choose; but do contrive to behave like an ordinary mortal to-day." mr. cockayne resigned himself. he plunged into the magnificent shop. he was dragged into the crowd that was defiling past the fifteen-sous counter, where the goods lay in great tumbled masses on the floor and upon the counter. he was surprised to see the shopmen standing upon the counter, and, with marvellous rapidity, telling off the yards of the cheap fabrics to the ladies and gentlemen who were pressing before them in an unbroken line. beyond were the packers. beyond again, was the office where payment was made, each person having a note or ticket, with the article bought, showing the sum due. a grave official marshalled the customer to the pay-place. there was wonderful order in the seeming confusion. the admirable system of the establishment was equal to the emergency. an idea of the continuous flow of the crowd past the silk and mixed fabric counters may be got from the fact that many ladies waited three and four hours for their turn to be served. one parisian lady told mrs. cockayne that, after waiting four hours in the crowd, she had gone home to lunch, and had returned to try her fortune a second time. poor cockayne! he was absolutely bewildered. his endeavours to steer the "three daughters of albion" who were under his charge, in the right direction, were painful to witness. first he threaded corridors, then he was in the carpet gallery, and now he was in the splendid, the palatial shawl-hall, where elegant ladies were trying on shawls of costly fabric, with that grace and quiet for which parisians are unmatched. "this is superb! oh, this is very, very fine!" cried the ladies. "how on earth shall we find our way out?" now they sailed among immensities of silk and satin waves. now they were encompassed with shawls; and now they were amid colonnades of rolls of carpet. mrs. cockayne stayed here and there to make a purchase, by the help of sophonisba's french, which was a source of considerable embarrassment to the shopmen. they smiled, but were very polite. "this is not a shop, it is a palace dedicated to trade," cried cockayne. "stuff and nonsense," was his answer; "take care of the parcels. yon know better, of course, than the people to whom it belongs." the cockaynes found themselves borne by the endless stream of customers into a vast and lofty gallery. pater paused. "this is superb! it would have been impossible to realize----" "don't be a fool, cockayne," said his wife; "this is the lace department. we must not go away without buying something." "let us try," was saucily answered. mrs. cockayne immediately settled upon some chantilly, and made her lord, as she expressed it in her pretty way, "pay for his impudence." the silk gallery was as grand and bewildering as the lace department; and here again were made some extraordinary bargains. obliging officials directed the party to the first staircase on the right, or to turn to the left, by the furnishing department. they made a mistake, and found themselves in the _salons_ devoted to made linen, where mrs. cockayne hoped her husband would not make his daughters blush with what he considered to be (and he was much mistaken) witty observations. he was to be serious and silent amid mountains of feminine under linen. he was to ask no questions. in the saint honoré gallery--which is the furnishing department--mr. cockayne was permitted to indulge in a few passing expressions of wonder. he was hushed in the splendour of the shawl gallery--where all is solid oak and glass and rich gold, and where the wearied traveller through the exciting scene of a _grande occasion_ at the marvellous shops of the louvre, can get a little rest and quiet. "a wonderful place!" said pater, as he emerged in the rue de rivoli, exhausted. "and much more sensible than the place opposite," his wife replied, pointing to the palace where the art treasures of imperial france are imperially housed. "_grande occasion!_" muttered mr. cockayne, when he reached the hotel--"a grand opportunity for emptying one's pocket. the cheapness is positively ruinous. i wonder whether there are any cheap white elephants in paris?" "white elephants, cockayne! white fiddlesticks! i do really think, girls, your father is gradually--mind, i say, _gradually--gradually_ taking leave of his senses." "la! mamma," unfortunate carrie interposed, raising her eyes from a volume on paris in the middle ages--"la! mamma, you know that in india----" "hold your tongue, miss--of course i know--and if i didn't, it is not for _you_ to teach me." mr. timothy cockayne heaved a deep sigh and rang for his bill. he was to leave for london on the morrow--and his wife and daughters were to find lodgings. chapter vii. our foolish countrywomen. i introduce at this point--its proper date--miss carrie cockayne's letter to miss sharp:-- "grand hôtel, paris. "dearest emmy--they are all out shopping, so here's a long letter. i haven't patience with the men. i am sure we have had enough abuse in our own country, without travelling all the way to paris for it; and yet the first paper i take up in the reading saloon of the hotel, contains a paragraph headed _le beau sexe en angleterre_. the paragraph is violent. the writer wants to know what demon possesses the englishwomen at this moment. i might have been sure it was translated from an english paper. the creature wants to know whether the furies are let loose, and is very clever about lucretia borgia, and mary manning, and mary newell! one would think english mothers were all going to boil their children. this is just what has happened about everything else. in certain english circles slang is talked: therefore women have become coarse and vulgar. the divorce court has been a busy one of late; and scandals have been 'going round' as the american ladies in this hotel say; therefore there are to be no more virtuous mothers and sisters presently. upon my word, the audacity of this makes my blood boil. here the ladies paint, my dear, one and all. why, the children in the tuileries gardens whisk their skirts, and ogle their boy playmates. vanity fair at its height is here--i am not going to dispute it. nor will i say papa is quite in the wrong when he cries shame on some of the costumes one meets on the boulevards. my dear, short skirts and grey hair do _not_ go well together. i cannot even bear to think of grand-mamma showing her ankles and hessian boots! but what vexes and enrages me is the injustice of the sudden outcry. where has the slang come from? pray who brought it into the drawing-room? how is it that girls delight in stable-talk, and imitate men in their dress and manners? we cannot deny that the domestic virtues have suffered in these fast days, nor that wife and husband go different ways too much: but are we to bear all the blame? did _we_ build the clubs, i wonder? did you or i invent racing, and betting, and gambling? do _you_ like being lonely, as you are, my dear? when women go wrong, who leads the way? the pace is very fast now, and we _do_ give more time to dress, and that sort of thing than our mothers did. i own i'm a heavy hand at pastry, and mamma is a light one. i couldn't tell you how many shirts papa has. i should be puzzled to make my own dresses. i hate needlework. but are we monsters for all this? papa doesn't grumble _very_ much. he has his pleasures, i'm sure. he dined out four times the week we came away. he was at the casino in the rue st. honoré last night, and came home with such an account of it that i am quite posted up in the manners and costumes of _ces dames_, yes, and the _lower_ class of them. the mean creature who has been writing in the _saturday review_ gives us no benefit of clergy. we have driven our brothers out into the night; we have sent our lovers to newmarket; we have implored our husbands (that is, _we_ who have got husbands,) not to come home to dinner, because we have more agreeable company which we have provided for ourselves. girls talk slang, i know--perhaps they taught their brothers! i suppose mamma taught papa to describe a woman in the _bois_ as 'no end of a swell,' and when he is in the least put out to swear at her. [illustration: the inflexible "meesses anglaises." _they are not impressionable, but they will stoop to "field sports."_] "now, my dear, shall i give you _my_ idea of the mischief? papa thinks i go about with my eyes shut; that i observe nothing--except the bonnet shops. i say the paint, the chignons, the hoops, and the morals--whatever they may be--start from here. my ears absolutely tingled the first evening i spent here _en soirée_. lovers! why the married ladies hardly take the trouble to disguise their preferences. "i was at an embassy reception the other night. papa said it was like a green-room, only not half so amusing. they talked in one corner as openly as you might speak of the prince imperial, about mademoiselle schneider's child. there were women of the company whose _liaisons_ are as well known as their faces, and yet they were _parfaitement bien reçues_! theresa is to be heard--or was to be heard till she went out of fashion--in private salons, screaming her vulgar songs among the young ladies. when i turn the corner just outside the hotel, what do i see in one of the most fashionable print-shops? why, three great mabille prints of the shockingly indecent description--with ladies and their daughters looking at them. those disagreeable pictures in the burlington arcade are, my dearest emmy, moral prints when compared with them. we have imported all this. paris is within ten hours and a half of london, so we get french ways, as papa says, 'hot and hot.'" [illustration: english visitors to the closerie de lilas.--shocking!] "who admires domestic women now? tell an english _crévé_ that miss maria is clever at a custard, and he will sneer at her. no. she must be witty, pert; able to give him as good as he sends, as people say. young dumas has done a very great deal of this harm; and he has made a fortune by it. he has brought the casino into the drawing-room, given _ces dames_ a position in society, and made hundreds of young men ruin themselves for the glory of being seen talking to a cora pearl. _now_ what do you think he has done. he has actually brought out a complete edition of his pieces, with a preface, in which, papa tells me, he plays the moralist. he has unfolded all the vice--crowded the theatres to see a bad woman in a consumption--painted the _demi-monde--with a purpose_! all the world has laboured under the idea that the purpose was piles of gold. but now, the locker being full, and the key turned, and in the young gentleman's pocket, he dares to put himself in the robe of a professor, to say it was not the money he cared about--it was the lesson. he is a reformer--a worshipper of virtue! we shall have the author of _jack sheppard_ start as a penologist soon. my dear, the cowardice of men when dealing with poor women is bad enough; but it is not by half so repulsive as their hypocrisy. ugh! "any news of the handsome mr. daker? it strikes me, dear emmy, 'uncle sharp' didn't send him up from maidstone with a letter of introduction to his niece for nothing. "your affectionate friend, "carrie c." chapter viii. "oh, yes!" and "all right!" lucy was privileged to read the following:-- _miss carrie cockayne to miss emily sharp._ "rue millevoye, paris. "my dearest emmy,--i should certainly not venture to offer any remarks on taste to you, my love, under ordinary circumstances. but i am provoked. i have passed a severe round of _soirées_ of every description. jaded with the fantastic activities of a fancy-dress genteel riot, i have been compelled to respond to the intimation of the vicomtesse de bois de rose, that "_on sautera_". i have jumped with the rest. i have half killed myself with _sirops, petit-fours_, those microscopic caricatures of detestable british preparation--sandwiches (pronounced _sonveetch_), _bouillon_, and chocolate, in the small hours; ices in tropical heats; _foie-gras_ and champagne about two hours after healthy bedtime, and tea like that which provoked old lady gargoyle to kick over the tea-table in her boudoir--in her eightieth year, too. the gargoyles (i shall have much to tell you about them when we meet) were always an energetic race; and i feel the blood tingling in me while my eye wanders over the impertinences of the french chroniqueurs, when they are pleased to be merry at the expense of _la vieille angleterre_. i hold i am right; am i not?--that when even a chroniqueur--that smallest of literary minnows--undertakes to criticize a foreign nation, at least the equal of his own, he should start with some knowledge of its language, history, manners, and customs. but what do we find? the profoundest ignorance of the rudiments of english. the special correspondent sent to london by the _figaro_ to be amusing on our darker side, cannot spell the word theatre; but he is trenchant when dealing with what he saw at the adelphi _theater_. how completely he must have understood the dialogue, he who describes webster as a _comique de premier ordre!_ in the same paper the dramatic critic, after explaining that at the rehearsals of _l'abime_, the actors, who continually are complaining that they are ordered off on the wrong side, are quieted with the information that matters dramatic are managed in this way in bizzare england--prints in a line apart, and by way of most humorous comment, these words, 'english spoken here.' conceive, my dear, an english humorous writer interlarding his picture of a french incident with the occasional interjection of _parlez-vous français?_ yet the comic writers of paris imagine that they show wit when they pepper their comments with disjointed, irrelevant, and misspelt ejaculations in our vernacular. we have a friend here (we have made dozens) who has a cat she calls to-be--the godfather being 'to-be or not to be! 'all right' appears daily as a witticism; 'oh, yes!' serves for the thousandth time as a touch of humour. the reason is obvious. french critics are wholly ignorant of our language. very few of them have crossed the channel, even to obtain a leicester square idea of our dear england. but they are not diffident on this account. they have never seen samples of the britisher--except on the boulevards, or whistling in the cafés--where our countrymen, i beg leave to say, do not shine; and these to them are representations of our english society. suppose we took our estimate of french manners and culture from the small shopkeepers of the quartier st. antoine! my protest is against those who judge us by our vulgar and coarse types. the manchester bully who lounges into the café anglais with his hat on the back of his head; the woman who wears a hat and a long blue veil, and shuffles in in the wake of the _malhonnête_ to whom she is married; again, the boor who can speak only such french as 'moa besoin' and 'j'avais faim,' represent english men and women just as fairly as the rude, hoggish, french egg-and-poultry speculators represent the great seigneurs of france. [illustration: smith brings his alpenstock.] "i say i have, by this time, more than a tolerable experience, not only of french _salons_, but also of those over which foreign residents in paris preside. i have watched the american successes in paris of this season, which is now closing its gilded gates, dismissing the slaves of pleasure to the bitter waters of the german springs and gaming-tables. i have seen our people put aside for madame de lhuile de petrole and the great m. caligula shoddy. the beauties of the season have been 'calculating' and 'going round' in the best _salons_, and they have themselves given some of the most successful entertainments we have had. dixie's land has been fairyland. strange and gorgeous princesses from the east have entered mighty appearances. one has captivated the prince, said to be the handsomest man in paris. russian and polish great ladies have done the honours--according to the newspapers--with their 'habitual charm.' the misses bickers have had their beauties sung by a chorus of chroniqueurs. here the shoulders of ladies at a party are as open to criticism as the ankles of a stage dancer. the beauties of our blonde misses have made whole bundles of goose-quills tremble. paris society is made up not even chiefly of parisians; the rich of all nations flock to us, and are content to pay a few hundred pounds per month for a floor of glass and gilding. the emperor has made a show capital as a speculation. all europe contributes to the grandeur of the fashionable world of paris. and suddenly what do we hear? "that we, whose blood is good enough for england; who _can_ speak a few foreign languages in addition to our own; who know our neighbours by having lived among them; who have travelled enough to learn that good breeding is not confined to england or to france, are accused of having destroyed the high tone of the opera audiences in this city. we are good enough, as to manners, for her majesty's theatre, but not for the italiens. tell mrs. sandhurst of this: she will be _so_ mad! "a few nights before la patti left us, to degrade herself by warbling her wood-notes in the ignorant ears of the opera public whom mr. gye is about to assemble, and on whom the leadership of costa is thrown away, an unfortunate incident happened at the italiens. patti had been announced, and mdlle. harris appeared instead. whereupon there was an uproar that could not be stilled. la patti wept; la harris wept also. finally, the spoilt child appeared, like niobe, all tears. who created the uproar? the french chroniqueur answers: a cosmopolitan audience--an audience from the grand hôtel. he is good enough not to pick us out, but we are included with the rest. the foreign residents have degraded the opera. the audience which greets patti is a rabble compared with that which listened to sontag. 'the exquisite urbanity which is proverbially french,' and which was apparent at the italiens fifteen or twenty years ago, has disappeared since paris has become the world's railway terminus. m. emile villars, who is so obliging as to make the observation, proceeds to be very clever. scratch the russian, and you know what you will find. i answer, a gentleman uninfluenced by a stale proverb; we have a delightful specimen in this very house. m. villars is great at scratching, since his readers are recommended to grate peruvians and javanese. under the three articles, we are told, lies the one barbarous material! the ladies of these are charming, seductive, irresistible, but they want _ton_, and lack the delicacy of the _monde_. we foreigners are too proud of our beauty and our dollars, have an unquenchable thirst for pleasure, and we are socially daring. m. villars is funny in the fashion of his class. he says that we english-speaking class of foreigners bear aloft a banner with the strange device 'all right.' m. villars proceeds to remark, 'we take from foreigners what we should leave to them, their feet upon chairs, and their hats upon their heads, as at the italiens the other night.' he finds that a cosmopolitan invasion has made french society less delicate, less gallant, less polite. [illustration: jones on the place de la concorde.] "we are to blame! belgravia is not refined enough for the avenue de l'impératrice. clapham, i infer, would not be tolerated at batignolles. i repeat, i have gone through some arduous times here, in the midst of the foreign invasion of polite society. i have scratched neither russ, nor german, nor servian, nor wallachian. but i must be permitted to observe, that i have found their manners quite equal to any that were native. shall i go further, emmy, and speak all my mind? there is a race of the new-rich--of the recently honoured, here, who are french from their shoe-rosettes to their chignons. they come direct from the bourse, and from the pereire fortune-manufactory of the place vendôme. they bring noise and extravagance, but not manners. i have seen many of my countrymen in parisian drawing-rooms, in the midst of frenchmen, russians, princes of various lands; and, do you know, i have not seen anything _much_ better in the way of bearing, manners, and mental culture and natural refinement than the english gentleman. i feel quite positive that it is not he who has lowered the manners or morals of napoleon the third's subjects. i am bold enough to think that a probationary tour through some of our london drawing-rooms would do good to the saucy young seigneurs i see leaning on the balcony of the jockey club when we are driving past. "i will remind m. villars that his proverb has been parodied, and that it has been said, 'scratch a frenchman, and you find a dancing-master.' but i know this proverb to be foolish; and i am candid and liberal enough to say so. "i hope you are not too lonely, and don't keep too much to your room. now i know by experience what life in a boarding-house means. how must you feel, dearest emmy, alone! je t'embrasse. how gets on the german? "we have such a specimen of the gandin here--the vicomte de gars. i think john catt had better make haste over. "yours affectionately, "carrie." chapter ix. _miss carrie cockayne to miss sharp._ "rue millevoye. "my dearest emmy,--no answer from you? how unkind! but still i continue to give you my ideas of the moment from this. what do we want? a writer in one of the frivolous sheets which are called newspapers on this side of the channel, has been giving himself great airs; looking out of his window, with two or three touches of his pen he dismisses the poor women who pass under his balcony, and closes the casement with the conviction that woman's rights and wrongs are put away for another generation. foolish women! they are plentiful enough, and they muster in fair numbers at the wauxhall meetings which have been going on here, to the infinite amusement of the superior creatures who drink absinthe, smoke cigars, and gamble, hours after we silly things have gone to bed. i am not writing to deny woman's weakness, nor her vanity, nor the ridiculous exhibition she makes of herself when she takes to "orating"--as the yankees say--and lecturing, and dressing herself up in her brother's clothes. do you think, my dear emmy, there are many women foolish enough to applaud dr. mary walker because she dresses like an overgrown school-girl, and shows her trousers? what is she like in society? neither man nor woman. but how many have imitated her? how many women in england, france, and america have taken to the platform? one would think that all womankind was in a state of revolution, and about to make a general descent upon the tailors and tobacconists, turning over the lords of the creation to the milliners and the baby-linen warehouses. this is just the way men argue, and push themselves out of a difficulty. this french philosophical pretender, who has been observing us from his window (i can't imagine where he lives), describes one or two social monstrosities--with false complexions, hair, figure,--and morals; brazen in manner, defiant in walk--female intellectual all-in-alls. his model drives, hunts, orates, passes resolutions, dissects--in short does everything except attend to baby. this she leaves to the husband. he takes the pap-bowl, and she shoulders the gun. he looks out the linen while she sharpens her razors. the foolish public laugh all along the boulevards, and say what a charming creature a woman will be when she drives a locomotive, commands a frigate, and storms a citadel! "every time a meeting is convened at the wauxhall to consider how the amount of female starvation or misery may be reduced, the philosopher throws his window open again, and grins while he caricatures, or rather distorts and exaggerates to positive untruth. m. gill gets fresh food. the _chroniqueurs_ invent a series of absurdities, which didn't happen yesterday, as they allege. i am out of patience when i see all this mischievous misrepresentation, because i see that it is doing harm to a very just and proper cause. we are arguing for more work for our poor sisters who have neither father, husband, brother, nor fortune to depend upon; and these french comic scribblers describe us as unsexed brawlers, who want top-boots. i want no manly rights for women. i am content with the old position, that her head should just reach the height of a man's heart; but i do see where she is not well used--where she is left to genteel dependence, and a life in the darkest corner of the drawing-room, upon the chair with the unsafe leg, over the plate that is cracked, in the bedroom where the visitor died of scarlet fever. [illustration: french recollection of meess taking her bath. _the faithful bouledogue gazes with admiration at the performance of his mistress._] [illustration: the brave meess among the billows holding on by the tail of her newfoundland.] "she is not unsexed wearing her poor heart out against these bars; but she would be a free, bright, instructed creature, helping her rich sister, or a trusty counsellor when the children are ill. she would be unsexed issuing railway tickets or managing a light business; but she is truly womanly while she is helpless and a burden to others. "foolish women! yes, very stupid very often, but hardly in hoping that the defenceless among us may be permitted to become, by fair womanly exertion, independent. i am directed to observe how amusing the _figaro_ has been recently at our expense, hoping to obtain the suffrages of the really thoughtless of our sex thereby. we are our own worst enemies and well do you men know it. the frivolous are an immense host, and these have reason to laugh at serious women who want to get a little justice and teaching for their dependent sisters--not manly avocations, nor masculine amusements. i go to the wauxhall, my dear emmy, not to help my sex to unsex itself, but, i must repeat, to aid my poor sisters who want to work, that, if left without the support of male kindred, they may lead honourable, independent lives; to this end they must have certain rights, and these, and no more, i advocate. [illustration: varieties of the english stock. _the parent flower and two lovely buds._] [illustration: compatriots meeting in the french exhibition. _bar-maids in the english department recognising a fellow-countryman._] "you see, the old story is told over again. we beg a little independence; and we are answered with ancient jests. you are quite as unjust, and not so amusing or clever in your injustice in england. they have not imitated the medical students in st. james's hall at this wauxhall. we have seen no such monstrous spectacle as a host of young men hooting and yelling at one poor, weak, foolish little woman in black pantalettes. truly, you must be as tired of the comic view of the question as you are ashamed of your medical students. i know what the highly-educated english ladies think on the subject. they detest the orating, blustering, strangely-costumed advocates of woman's rights; but don't fall into the common error of believing that they are not earnest about many of the points we have been discussing here, in the midst of this mocking race. depend upon it, we are not foolish enough--fond as you men are of crying 'foolish women!'--to unsex ourselves. "the woman who wants to get into parliament is, to my thinking, a monster; and i would sentence her to stocking-mending for life. the creature who appears before men in black pantalettes, and other imitations of his dress, should be rigorously held clear of decent houses, until she had learned how to dress herself modestly and becomingly. the missy who talked about eating her way to the bar, i would doom to the perpetual duty of cooking chops for hungry lawyers' clerks. "but you will have had enough of this. "not a word? and you promised so many. somebody has whispered a name to me. it is charles. is that true? i will never forgive you. "ever yours, "carrie." emmy never answered, poor girl! chapter x. "the people of the house." lucy rowe would have been fast friends with carrie cockayne during their stay in her aunt's house, had mrs. cockayne, on the one hand, permitted her daughter to become intimate with anything so low as "the people of the house," and had mrs. rowe, on the other, suffered her niece to "forget her place." but they did approach each other, by an irresistible affinity, and by the easy companionship of common tastes. while sophonisba engaged ardently in all the doings of the house, and was a patient retailer of its scandals; and while mrs. cockayne was busy with her evening whist, and morning "looks at the shops"--quiet and retiring theodosia managed to become seriously enamoured of the vicomte de gars, who visited mrs. rowe's establishment, as the unexceptionable friend of the reverend horace mohun. the young vicomte was a protestant; of ancient family and limited means. where the living scions of the noble stock held their land, and went forth over their acres from under the ancestral portcullis, was more than even mrs. rowe had been able, with all her penetrating power in scandal, to ascertain. but the young nobleman was mr. mohun's friend--and that was enough. there had been reverses in the family. losses fall upon the noblest lines; and supposing the count de gars in the wine trade--to speak broadly, in the gironde--this was to his honour. the great man struggling with the storms of fate, is a glad picture always to noble minds. some day he would issue from his cellars, and don his knightly plume once more, and summon the vulgar intruders to begone from the château. as for mrs. cockayne, to deny that she was highly contented at the family's intimacy with a viscount, would be to falsify my little fragmentary chain of histories. she wrote to her husband that she met the very best society at mrs. rowe's, extolled the elegant manners and enclosed the photograph of the vicomte de gars, and said she really began to hope that she had persuaded "his lordship" to pay them a visit in london. "tell mrs. sandhurst, my dear cockayne, that i am sure she will like the vicomte de gars." the vicomte de gars was a little man, with long wristbands. miss tayleure described him as all eye-glass and shirt-front. comic artists have often drawn the moon capering on spider-legs; a little filling out would make the vicomte very like the caricature. he was profound--in his salutations, learned--in lace, witty--thanks to the _figaro_. his attentions to miss theodosia cockayne, and to madame her mother, were of the most splendid and elaborate description. he left flowers for the young lady early in the morning. it was very provoking that theodosia had consented to be betrothed to john catt of peckham. "carrie, my dear," mrs. cockayne observed, having called her daughter to her bedroom for a good lecture, "once for all, i will not have you on such intimate terms with the people of the house. what on earth can you be thinking about? i should have thought you would show more pride. i am quite sure the vicomte saw you yesterday when you were sitting quite familiarly with miss rowe in the bureau. i will not have it." "mamma dear, lucy rowe is one of the most sensible and, at the same time, best informed girls i ever knew; and her sentiments are everything that could be desired." "i will not be answered, carrie; mind that. i wonder you haven't more pride. a chit like that, who keeps the hotel books, and gives out the sugar." "her father was----" "never mind what her father was. what is she? i wonder you don't propose to ask her home on a visit." "she would not disgrace----" this was too much for mrs. cockayne. she stamped her foot, and bore down upon carrie with a torrent of reasons why miss rowe should be held at a distance. "you wouldn't find theodosia behaving in such a manner. she understands what's becoming. i dare say she's not so clever as you are----" "dear mamma, this is cruel----" "don't interrupt me. no, no; i see through most things. this miss howe is always reading. i saw her just now with some novel, i've no doubt, which she shouldn't read----" "it was kingsley's----" "hold your tongue, child. yes, reading, and with a pen stuck behind her ear." "she's so very lonely: and mrs. howe is so very severe with her." "i have no doubt it's quite necessary; there, go and dress for the table d'hôte, and mind what i say." poor lucy wondered what on earth could have happened that carrie cockayne avoided her: and what those furtive nods of the head and stolen smiles at her could mean? on the other hand, how had she offended mrs. cockayne? happily, mrs. rowe was on lucy's side; for it had pleased mrs. cockayne to show her social superiority by extravagant coldness and formality whenever she had occasion to address "the landlady." one thing mrs. cockayne admitted she could not understand--viz., why jane the servant took so much upon herself with her mistress; and what all the mystery was about a mr. charles, who seemed to be a dark shadow, kept somewhere as far as possible in the background of the house. mrs. rowe, on her side, was amply revenged for mrs. cockayne's airs of superiority, when mr. cockayne arrived in the company of mr. john catt, the betrothed love of theodosia. "you must be mad, mr. cockayne," was his wife's greeting directly they were alone--"raving mad to bring that vulgar fellow john catt with you. didn't you get my letters?" "i did, my dear; and they brought me over, and john catt with me. i, at least, intend to act an honourable part." "perhaps you will explain yourself, mr. cockayne." "i have travelled from clapham for that purpose. who the devil is this viscount de gars, to begin with?" mrs. cockayne drew herself up to her full height, and looked through her husband--or meant to look through him--but just then he was not to be cowed even by mrs. cockayne. with provoking coolness and deliberation over the exact relative quantities, mr. cockayne mixed himself a glass of grog from his brandy flask; while he proceeded to inform his wife that mr. john catt, who had been engaged, with their full consent, to their daughter, had, at his instigation, travelled to paris to understand what all this ridiculous twaddle about viscount de gars meant. "you will spoil everything," mrs. cockayne gasped, "as usual." "i don't know, madam, that i am in the habit of spoiling anything; but be very certain of this, that i shall not stand by and see my daughter make a fool of a young man of undoubted integrity and of excellent prospects, for the sake of one of these foreign adventurers who swarm wherever foolish englishwomen wake their appearance. i beg you will say nothing, but let me observe for myself, and leave the young people to come to an understanding by themselves." in common with many englishmen of timothy cockayne's and john catt's class, theodosia's father at once concluded that the poor polite little vicomte de gars was an adventurer, and that his coronet was pasteboard, and his shirt studs stolen. mr. john catt distinguished himself on his arrival by loud calls for bottled beer, the wearing of his hat in the sitting-room, and by the tobacco-fumes which he liberally diffused in his wake. when the little vicomte made his accustomed appearance in the drawing-room, after the table d'hôte, he offered the cockayne ladies his profoundest bows, and was most reverential in his attitude to mr. cockayne, who on his side was red and brusque. as neither mr. nor mrs. cockayne could speak a french word, and mr. john catt was not in a position to help them, and was, moreover, inclined to the most unfavourable conclusions on the french nobleman, the presentations were on the english side of the most awkward description. the demoiselles cockayne "fell a giggling" to cover their confusion; and the party would have made a ridiculous figure before all the boarders, had not the reverend horace mohun covered them with his blandness. mr. john catt was not well-mannered, but he was good-hearted and stout-hearted. he was one of those rough young gentlemen who pride themselves upon "having no nonsense about them." he was downright in all things, even in love-making. he took, therefore, a very early opportunity of asking his betrothed "what this all meant about monsieur de gars?" and of observing, "she had only to say the word, and he was ready to go." this was very brutal, and it is not in the least to be wondered at that the young lady resented it. i am, as the reader will have perceived, only touching now and then upon the histories of the people who passed through mrs. rowe's highly respectable establishment while i was in the habit of putting up there. this john catt was told he was very cruel, and that he might go; mrs. cockayne resolutely refused to give up the delights and advantages of the society of the vicomte de gars; the foolish girl was--well, just as foolish as her mamma; and finally, in a storm that shook the boarding-house almost to its respectable foundations, the cockayne party broke up--not before the vicomte and miss theodosia cockayne had had an explanation in the conservatory, and mrs. cockayne had invited "his lordship" to london. i shall pick up the threads of all this presently. chapter xi. mysterious travellers. poor girl! she was timid, frightened. i saw at once that the man with whom she was, and who packed her feet up so carefully in the travelling rug in her state cabin, was not of her class. she could not have been daintier in mien and shape than she appeared. hands round and white as pearls, feet as pretty as ever stole from a man's hand to the stirrup; a sweet wee face, that had innocence and heart in it. country bred, i thought: nested in some kentish village: a childhood amid the hops: familiar with buttermilk and home-baked bread. who has not been blessed by looking upon such an english face: ruddy on the cheek, and white and pink upon the brow and neck: the head poised upon the shoulders with a wondrous delicacy? such girls issue from honest englishmen's homes to gladden honeymoon cottages, and perpetuate that which is virtuous and courageous in our saxon race. she lay muffled in shawls, pillowed upon a carpet-bag, softened with his fur coat, frightened about the sea, and asking every few minutes whether we were near the port. he fell into conversation with me before we were clear of folkestone harbour. he was a travelled man, accustomed to do his journeying socially, and not in the surly, self-contained, and selfish manner of our countrymen generally. i confess--and it is a boldness, knowing all i do know now--that i was drawn towards daker at the outset. he had a winning manner--just that manner which puts you on a friendly footing with a stranger before you have passed an hour in his company. he began, as though it was quite natural that we should become acquainted, in the tone your neighbour at dinner assumes, although you are unacquainted with his name. we were on an exact level: gentlemen, beyond fear or reproach. i repeat emphatically, i liked daker's manner, for it was easy and polished, and it had--which you don't often get with much polish--warmth. i was attracted by his many attentions to his young wife. who could be near her, and not feel the chivalry in his soul warm to such a woman? but daker's attentions were idiosyncrasies. while he was talking to me at the cabin-door, he saw the fur coat slip, and readjusted it. he divined when she wanted to move. he fanned her; and she sought his eyes incessantly with the deep pure blue of hers, and slaked her ever-thirsty love with long, passionate gazing. she took no notice of me: he was all her world. daker was in an airy humour--a man i thought without guile or care, passing away from england to happy connubial times along the enchanting shores which the mediterranean bathes. we fell, as fellow-travellers generally do, upon old stories of the ways of the world we had seen. he had taken wider ranges than my duties had ever entailed on me. autumn was cooling to winter; it was early november when we met. "i have been," he said, "killing time and birds pleasantly enough in sussex." mrs. daker overheard him, and smiled. then we shifted carelessly, as far as i was concerned, away. he continued-- "and now we're off on the usual tramp. my wife wants a warm winter, and so do i, for the matter of that." "nice?" i asked. a very decided "no" was the answer. "i shall find some little sleepy italian country-place, where we shall lay up like dormice, and just give king frost the go-by for once. are you bound south?" "only to paris--as prosaic a journey as any cotton-spinner could desire." "always plenty to be done in paris," daker said; "at least i have never felt at a loss. but it's a bachelor's paradise." "and a wife's," i interposed. "not a husband's, you think?" daker asked, turning the end of his moustache very tight. "i agree with you." "i have no experience; but i have an opinion, which i have been at some pains to gather--french society spoils our simple english women." "most decidedly," said daker. "they are too simple and too affectionate for the artificial, diplomatic--shall i say heartless?--society of the salons. their ears burn at first at the conversation. they are presented to people who would barely be tolerated in the upper circles of south bank, st. john's wood." "you are right; i know it well," said daker, very earnestly, but resuming his normal air of liveliness in an instant. "it's a bad atmosphere, but decidedly amusing. the _esprit_ of a good salon is delicious--nothing short of it. i like to bathe in it: it just suits me, though i can't contribute much to it. we englishmen are not alert enough in mind to hold our own against our nimble neighbours. we shall never fence, nor dance, nor rally one another as they can. we are men who don't know how to be children. it's a great pity!" "i am not so sure of that," was the opinion i uttered. "we should lose something deeper and better. we don't enjoy life--that is, the art of living--as they do; but we reach deeper joys." daker smiled, and protested playfully-- "we are running into a subject that would carry us far, if we would let it. i only know i wish i were a frenchman with all my heart, and i'm not the first englishman who has said so. proud of one's country, and all that sort of thing: plucky, strong, master race of the world. i know it. but i have seen bitter life on that side"--pointing to the faint white line of dover--"and i have enjoyed myself immensely on that"--pointing to the growing height of cape grisnez. i thought, as he spoke, that he must be an ungrateful fellow to say one word against the country where he had found the sweet little lady whose head was then pillowed upon his rough coat. i understood him afterwards. he started a fresh conversation, after having made a tender survey of the wraps and conveniences of mrs. daker, who followed him with the deep eyes as he returned to my side with his open cigar-case, to offer me a cheroot. "do you know anything of amiens?" he said. "is it a large place--busy, thriving?" i gave him my impression--a ten-year old one. "not a place a man could lose himself in, evidently," he joked; "and they've been mowed down rather smartly by the cholera since you were there." i could not quite like the tone of this; and yet what tenderness was in the man when he turned to his young wife! "st. omer, abbeville, montreuil, and the rest of the places on the line, are dreary holes, i happen to know. you have been to chantilly, of course?" [illustration: a pic-nic at enghien] i had lost a round sum of money in that delightful place, where our ambassador was wont to refresh himself after his diplomatic labours and ceremonials. "i know the place," daker went on; "i know chantilly well. it wakes up a curious dream of the long ago in my mind." "and enghien?" "_comme ma poche._" daker knew his enghien well--and enghien was profoundly acquainted with daker. daker appeared to be a man not yet over his thirtieth year. he was fair, full-blooded, with a bright grey eye, a lithe shapely build, and distinguished in air and movement withal. there were no marks upon his face; his eyes were frank and direct; his speech was firm and of a cheery ring; and emotions seemed to come and go in him as in an unused nature. yet his conversation, free as it was, and wholly unembarrassed, cast out frequent hints at a copious history and an eventful one, in which he had acted a part. i concluded he was no common man, and that, until now, the world had not treated him over well; albeit he had just received ample compensation for the past in the girlish wife who had crept to his side, and who, the swiftest runner might have read, loved him with all her soul. we all pride ourselves on our skill in reading the characters of our fellow-creatures. a man will admit any dulness except that which closes the hearts of others to him. i was convinced that i had read the character of daker before we touched the quay at boulogne: he was a man of fine and delicate nature, whom the world had hit; who had been cheery under punishment; and who had at length got his rich reward in mrs. daker. i repeat this confession, and to my cost; for it is necessary as part explanation of what follows. my conversation with daker was broken by the call of a sweet voice--"herbert!" we were crossing the bar at the entrance of boulogne harbour. the good ship rolled heavily, and herbert was wanted! when the passengers crowded to the side, pressing and jostling to effect an early landing, and the fishwives were scrambling from the paddles to the deck, i came upon daker and his wife once more. she glanced shyly and not very good-humouredly at me, and seemed to say, "it was you who diverted the attention of my herbert from me so long." "good morning," daker said, meaning that there was an end of our fortuitous intercourse, and that he should be just as chatty and familiar with any man who might happen to be in the same carriage with him between boulogne and paris. i watched him hand his wife into a basket phaeton, smooth her dress, arrange her little parcels, satisfy her as to her dressing-case, and then seat himself triumphantly at her side, and call gaily to the saturnine boulounais upon the box, "allez!" i confess that a pang of jealousy shot through me. it has been observed by la rochefoucauld that it is astonishing how cheerfully we bear the ills of others; he might well have added that, on the other hand, it is remarkable how we fret over the happiness of our neighbours. i envied daker when i saw him drive away to the station with the gentle girl at his side; i knew that she was nestling against him, and half her illness was only an excuse to get nearer to his heart. why should i envy him? could i have seen through his face into his heart at that moment i should have thanked god, who made me of simpler mould--a lonely, but an honourable man. we were on our way to paris in due time. at amiens, where we enjoyed the usual twenty minutes' rest, daker offered me a light. i saw him making his way to the carriage in which his wife sat, with a basket of pears and some _caramels_. the bell rang, and we all hurried to our seats. i remarked that, at the point of starting, there was an unusual stir and noise on the platform. _messieurs les voyageurs_ were not complete; somebody was missing from one of the carriages. the station-master and the guard kept up a brisk and angry conversation, which ended in an imperious wave of the hand to the engine-driver. the guard and the commissioner (who travels in the interest of the general vagrant public from london to paris, making himself generally useful by the way) shrugged their shoulders and got to their places, and we went forward to creil. here the carriages were all searched carefully. a lady was inquiring for the gentleman. my french companions laughed, and answered in their native light manner; and again we were _en route_ for paris. past chantilly and enghien and st. denis we flew, to where the low line of the fortifications warned us to dust ourselves, fold our newspapers, roll up our rugs, and tell one another that which was obvious to all--that we were in the centre of civilization once more. it was dark; and i was hungry, and out of humour, and impatient. i had fallen in with unsympathetic companions. that half-hour in the waiting-room, while the porters are arranging the luggage for examination, is trying to most tempers. i am usually free from it; but on this occasion i had some luggage belonging to a friend to look after. i was waiting sulkily. presently the guard, the travelling commissioner, and half-a-dozen more in official costume, appeared, surrounding a lady, who was in deep distress. had i seen a gentleman--fair, &c., &c.? i turned and beheld mrs. daker. she darted at me, and i can never forget the look which accompanied the question-- "you were with my husband on the boat. where is he?" he was not among the passengers who reached paris. we telegraphed back to creil, and to amiens. no english traveller, who had missed his train, made answer. we questioned all the passengers in the waiting-room; one had seen the _blonde_ englishman buying pears at amiens; this was all we could hear. i say "we," because mrs. [illustration: excursionists & emigrants. _sketches in paris_] daker at once fastened upon me: she implored my advice; she narrated all that had passed between her husband and herself while the train was waiting at amiens. he had begged her not to stir--kind fellow that he was--he had insisted upon fetching fruit and sweetmeats for her. i calmed her fears, for they were exaggerated beyond all reason. he would follow in the next train; i knew what frenchmen were, and they would not remark a single traveller, unless he had some strong peculiarity in his appearance, and her husband had a travelled air which was cosmopolitan. he spoke french like a frenchman, she told me; and he had proved, on the boat, that he was familiar with its idioms. i begged her to get her luggage, go to her hotel, and leave me to watch and search. what hotel were they to use? she knew nothing about it. her husband hadn't told her, for she was an utter stranger to paris. i recommended the windsor (i thought it prudent not to say mrs. rowe's); and she was a child in my hands. she looked even prettier in her distress than when her happy eyes were beaming, as i first caught sight of them, upon herbert daker. the tears trickled down her cheek; the little white hands shook like flower bells in the wind. while the luggage was being searched (fortunately she had the ticket in her reticule), i stood by and helped her. "but surely, madam, this is not all!" i remarked, when her two boxes had been lightly searched. she caught my meaning. where was her husband's portmanteau? "mr. baker's portmanteau was left behind at boulogne--there was some mistake; i don't know what exactly. i----" at this moment she marked an expression of anxiety in my face. she gave a sharp scream, that vibrated through the gloomy hall and startled the bystanders. "was madame ill? would she have some _eau sucrée?_" she had fainted! and her head lay upon my arm! unhappy little head, why stir again? chapter xii. mrs. daker. "you must come, my dear fellow. you know, when i promise you a pleasant evening i don't disappoint you. you'll meet everybody. you dine with me. _sole joinville_, at philippe's--best to be had, i think--and a bird. in the cool, the madrid for our coffee, and so gently back. i'll drop you at your door--leave you for an hour to paint the lily, and then fetch and take you. you shall not say me nay." i protested a little, but i was won. i had a couple of days to spend in paris, and, like a man on the wing, had no particular engagements. we met, my host and i, at the _napolitain_. he knew everybody, and was everybody's favourite. cosmo bertram, once guardsman, then fashionable saunterer wherever society was gayest, quietly extravagant and sentimentally dissipated, had, after much flitting about the sunny centres of the continent, settled down to paris and a happy place in the english society that has agglomerated in the west of napoleon's capital. fortunately for his "little peace of mind"--as he described a shrewd, worldly head--he was put down by the dowagers, after some sharp discussions of his antecedents, as "no match." there was the orphan daughter of a baronet who had some hundred and twenty a year, and tastes which she hoped one day to satisfy by annexing a creature wearing a hat, and a pocket with ten times that sum. she had thought for a moment of cosmo bertram when she had enjoyed her first half-hour of his amusing rattle; but she had been quickly undeceived--bertram could not have added a chicken to her broth, a pair of gloves to her toilette; so she shut up the thing she called a heart, for lack of some fitter name, and cruised again through the ominous gold rings of her glasses round the _salons_, and hoped the growing taste for travel might send her some one for annexation at last. "we're jigging on pretty much as usual," bertram said at philippe's. "plenty of scandal and plenty of reason for it. the demand creates the supply--is that sound political economy?" "i am surprised that political economy, together with an intimate acquaintance with hydrostatics, are not exacted in these mad examination days from a queen's messenger; but i am not bound not to be a fool in political economy, so i elect to be one." "chablis?" "ay; and about ice?" "my dear q. m., when you have had a headache, has it ever fallen to your lot to be in the company of a pretty woman?" "else had i been one of the most neglected of men." "well, she has fetched the eau-de-cologne, bathed your manly brow, and then blown her balmy breath over your temples. that sweet coolness, my dear fellow, is my idea of the proper temperature for chablis." "it's a great bit of luck to pounce upon you, bertram, when a man has only a few hours to spend in paris, after a year or two's absence. nearly upon two years have passed since i was here. yes, november, ' --now august, ' ." "in that time, my dear q. m., reputations have been made and lost by the hundred. i have had a score of eternal friendships. you can run through the matrimonial gauntlet, from courtship to the divorce court, in that time. we used to grieve for years: now we weep as we travel; shed tears, as we cast grain, by machinery. two years! why, i have passed through half-a-dozen worlds. my bosom friend of ' wouldn't remember me if i met him to-morrow. i met old baron desordres, who has made such a brilliant _fiasco_ for everybody except himself, yesterday; i knew him in ' with poor little bartle, who lent him a couple of thousands. bartle died last month. in ' desordres and bartle were inseparable. i said to the baron yesterday, 'you know poor little bartle is dead.' the baron, picking his teeth, murmured, turning over the leaves of his memory, '_bartel! bartel!_ i remember--_un petit gros, vrai?_' and the leaves of the baron's memory were turned back, and bartle was as much forgotten in five minutes as the burnt end of a cigarette. i daresay his sisters are gone as governesses for want of the thousands the baron ate. two years! two epochs!" "i suppose so. while the light burns, and the summer is on, the moths come out. tragedy, comedy, and farce elbow each other through the rooms. i have seen very much myself, for bird of passage. i took part in a strange incident when i passed through last time." "tell your story, and drink your roederer, my dear q. m." "story! i want to get at the story. i travelled with a man and his wife from folkestone to paris. on the boat he was the most attentive of husbands; at the terminus he had disappeared. poor woman in tears; fell into my arms, sir, by jove!" "no story!" cried bertram, winking at the floating air-beads in his glass. "no story! my good, simple q.m. egad! what would you have? pray go on." "go on! i've finished. i was off in the afternoon by the marseilles mail. of course, i did my utmost to find the husband. she went to the windsor; i thought it would be quiet for her. i went to the police, paid to have inquiries kept up in all the hotels; and lastly, put her in communication with a good business man--moffum, you know; and left her, a wreck of one of the prettiest creatures i have ever seen." "what kind of fellow was the husband? you got his name, of course?" "daker--herbert daker. man of good family. a most agreeable, taking, travelled companion; light and bright as----" "the light-hearted janus of lamb," bertram interrupted, his words dancing lightly as the beads in his glass. the association of daker with wainwright struck me sharply. for how genial and accomplished a man was the criminal! a stranger conglomeration of graces and sins never dwelt within one human breast. i was started on wild speculations. "i've set you dreaming. you found no clue to a history?" "none. she had been married three months to daker. she was a poor girl left alone, with a few hundreds, i apprehend. she would not say much. a runaway match, i concluded. not a word about her family. when i left paris, after dinner, he had made no sign. she promised to write to me to constantinople. i gave her my address in town. i told her arthur's here would reach me. but not a word, my dear boy. that woman had the soul of truth in voice and look, or i never read eve's face yet." "ha! ha!" bertram laughed. "i wish i had not got beyond the risk of being snared by the un-gloving of a hand. you only pass through, i live in paris." "paris or london, a heart may be read, if you will only take the trouble. i shall never hear, in all human probability, what has become of mrs. daker, or her husband; she may be an intrigante, and he a card-sharper now; all i know, and will swear, is that she loved that man to distraction then, and it was a girl in love." "and he?" bertram's suspicions seemed to be fixed on daker, whom he had never seen; although i had described his eminently prepossessing qualities. "i can't understand why you should suspect daker of villany, as i see you do, bertram." "i tell you he was a most accomplished, prepossessing villain, my dear q.m. your upper class villains are always prepossessing. manners are as necessary to them as a small hand to a pickpocket." "sharp, but unfair--only partly true, like all sweeping generalizations. i think, as i hope, that the wife found the husband, and that they are nestling in some italian retreat." "and never had the grace to write you a word! no, no, you say they had manners. that, at any rate, then, is not the solution of the mystery." bertram was right here. then what had become of mrs. daker? daker, if alive, was a scoundrel, and one who had contrived to take care of himself. but that sweet country face! here was a heart that might break, but would never harden. "mystery it must and will remain, i suppose." "one of many," was bertram's gay reply. "how they overload these matches with sulphur!" he was lighting his cigar. his phaeton was at the door. a globule of chartreuse; a compliment for the _chef_, a bow to the _dame de comptoir_, and we were on our way to the bois, at a brisk trot, for the great world had cleared off to act tragedy and comedy by the ocean shore, or the invalid's well, or the gambler's green baize. bertram--one of that great and flourishing class of whom scandal says "she doesn't know how they do it, or who pays for it"--albeit a bad match, even for miss tayleure, was, as i have said, in good english and french society, and drove his phaeton. he was saluted on his way along the champs elysées and by the lake, by many, and by some ladies who were still unaccountably lingering in paris. a superb little victoria passed. bertram raised his hat. "an irish girl," he said, "of superb beauty." at the madrid we met a few people we knew; and, driving home, bertram saluted miss tayleure, who was crawling round the lake with her twin sister, and was provoked to be recognised by a man of fashion in a hack vehicle in the month of august. [illustration: bois de boulogne.] "charming evening they're having," said bertram: "taking out their watches every two minutes to be quite sure they shall get back within the hour and a half which they have made up their minds to afford. beastly position!" "what! living for appearances?" "just so; with women especially. their dodges are extraordinary. tayleure would cheapen a penny loaf, and run down the price of a box of lucifer matches. there's a chance for you! she would be an economical wife; but then, my dear fellow, she would spend all the savings on herself. her virtue is like gibraltar!" "and would be safe as unintrenched tableland, i should think." "hang it!" bertram handsomely interposed, "let us drop poor tayleure. she believes that her hour of happiness has to be rung in yet; and she is always craning out of the window to catch the first silver echoes of the bells. the old gentlewoman is happy." "suppose you tell me something about your irish beauty," i suggested. "quite a different story, my good q.m. wait till i get clear of this clumsy fellow ahead. so, so, gently. now, miss trefoil; the trefoil is a girl whose success i can understand perfectly. to begin with--the girl is educated. in the second place, she is, beyond all dispute, a beautiful woman. there is not another pair of violet eyes in all paris--i mean in the season--to be matched with hers. milk and roses--nothing more--for complexion: and _no_ paint; which makes her light sisters--accomplished professors of the art of _maquillage_--hate her. a foot!" bertram kissed the tip of his glove, by way of description. "a voice that seems to make the air rich about her." "gently, bertram. we must be careful how we approach your queen, i see." "not a bit of it. i am telling you just what you would hear in any of the clubs. she has a liberal nature, my boy, and loves nobody, that i can find, in particular. what bewitches me in talking to her is a sort of serious background. i hate a woman all surface as i hate a flat house. the trefoil--queer name, isn't it?--can put a tremor in her voice suddenly. the trefoil has memories--a fact: something which she doesn't give to the world, generous as she is. it is the shade to her abounding and sparkling passages of light. only her deep art, i dare say; but devilish pleasant and refreshing when you get tired of laughing--gives a little repose to facial muscles. the trefoil has decidedly made a sensation. at the races she was as popular as the winner. she must have got home with a chariot full of money. of course, when she bet, she won--or she didn't pay. a pot of money is to be made on that system: and the women, bless 'em, how kindly they've taken to it!" this kind of improving discourse employed us to my gate. bertram dropped me to return for "the painted lily" in an hour. i am no squeamish man, or i should have passed a wretched life. the man who is perpetually travelling must bear with him a pliant nature that will adapt itself to any society, to various codes of morals, habits of thought, rules of conduct, and varieties of temperament. i can make myself at home in most places, but least in those regions which the progress of civilization, or the progress of something, has established in every capital of europe, and to the description of which the younger dumas has devoted his genius. the atmosphere of the _demi-monde_ never delighted me. i see why it charms; i guess why it has become the potent rival of good society; the reason why men of genius, scholars, statesmen, princes, and all the great of the earth take pleasure in it, is not far to seek; silly women at home are to blame in great part. this new state of the body social is very much to be regretted; but i am not yet of those who think that good, decent society--the converse of honourable men with honourable women--is come or coming to an end. i am of the old-fashioned, who have always been better pleased and more diverted with the society of ladies than with that of the free graces who allow smoke and indulge in it, and who have wit but lack wisdom. i was not in high glee at the prospect of accompanying cosmo bertram to his free dancing party. they are all very much alike. the fifteen sous basket, to use dumas' fine illustration, in paris, is very like the vienna, the berlin, or the london basket. the ladies are beautiful, exquisitely dressed, vivacious, and, early in the evening, well-mannered. at the outset you might think yourself at your embassy; at the close you catch yourself hoping you will get away safely. shrill voices pipe in corners of the room. "_on sautera!_" people are jumping with a vengeance. the paint is disturbed upon your partner's face. pretty lips speak ugly words. _honi soit qui mal y pense;_ but then the gentleman is between two and three wines, and the lady is rallying him because he has sense enough left to be a little modest. a couple sprawl in a waltz. a gentleman roars a toast. the hostess prays for less noise. an altercation breaks out in the antechamber. two ladies exchange slaps on the face, and you thank madame for a charming evening. the next morning you are besieged, at your club, for news about aspasia's reception. she did the honours _en souveraine_; but it is really a pity she will not be less attentive to the champagne. everything would have gone off splendidly if that little _diablesse_ titi had not revived her feud with fanchette. you are not surprised to hear that aspasia's goods were seized this morning. the duke must have had more than enough of it by this time, and has, of course, discovered that he has been the laughing-stock of his friends for a long time past. over the absinthe tripping commentary aspasia sinks from the chasusée d'antin to the porter's lodge. a little _crévé_ taps his teeth with the end of his cane, blinks his tired, wicked eyes, like a monkey in the sun, through his _pince-nez_, and opines, with a sharp relish, that aspasia is destined to sweep her five stories--well. pah! what kind of discourse is all this for born and bred gentlemen to hold in these days, when the portals of noble knowledge lie wide open, and every man may grace his humanity with some special wisdom of his own! bertram, a ribbon in his buttonhole, and arrayed to justify his fame as one of the best-dressed men in paris, came in haste for me. "we are late, my dear q.m. this is not carnival time, remember. we jump early." the rooms were--but i cannot be at the pains of describing them. the reader knows what sévres and aubusson, st. gobain, barbédienne, fourdinois, jeanseline, tahan, and the rest, can do for a first floor within a stone's throw of the boulevard des italiens. the fashion in all its most striking aspects is here. the presents lie thick as autumn leaves. the bonne says you might fill a portmanteau with madame's fans. bertram is recognised by a dozen ladies at once. the lady of the house receives me with the lowest curtsey. no ambassadress could be more _gracieuse_. the toilettes are amazing. it is early, after all bertram's impatience. the state is that of a duchesse for the present. bertram leaves me and is lost in the crowd. the conversation is measured and orderly. the dancing begins, and i figure in the quadrille of honour. i am giving my partner--a dark-eyed, vivacious lady--an ice, when i am tapped upon the shoulder by cosmo bertram. bertram has a lady on his arm. he turns to her, saying-- "permit me to present my friend to you, madame trefoil----" "what! mrs. daker!" i cried. mrs. daker's still sweet eyes fell upon me; and she shook my hand; and by her commanding calmness smothered my astonishment, so that the bystanders should not see it. later in the evening she said--passing me in the crowd--"come and see me." i did not--i could not--next morning, tell lucy nor mrs. rowe. chapter xiii. at boulogne-sur-mer. i had an unfortunate friend at boulogne in the year --then and many years before. he lived on the ramparts in the upper town; had put on that shabby military air, capped with a naval _couvre-chef_ (to use a paris street word that is expressive, as street words often are), which distinguishes the british inhabitant of boulogne-sur-mer; and was the companion of a group of majors and skippers, sprinkled with commercial men of erratic book-keeping tendencies. he had lost tone. he took me to his club; nothing more than a taproom, reserved to himself and men with whom he would not have exchanged a cigar light in london. the jokes were bad and flat. a laid-up captain of an old london boat--sad old rascal was he!--led the conversation. who was drunk last night? how did the major get the key into the lock? who paid for todger's last go? "my word," said i, to my friend, who had liquored himself out of one of the snuggest civil berths i know, "how you can spend your time with those blackguards, surpasses my comprehension." they amused him, he said. he must drink with them, or play whist with another set, whose cards--he emphatically added, giving me to understand much thereby--he did not like. it was only for a short time, and he would be quit of them. this was his day dream. my friend was always on the point of getting rid of boulogne; everything was just settled; and so, buoyed with a hope that never staled, death caught him one summer's afternoon, in the rue siblequin, and it was the bibulous sea captain and the very shady major who shambled after him, when he was borne through those pretty _petits arbres_ to the english section of the cemetery. wrecks of many happy families lie around him in that narrow field of rest; and passing through on my state errands, i have thought once or twice, what sermons indeed are there not in the headstones of boulogne cemetery. i was with my poor friend in the december of . i was on way home to pass a cheery christmas with my own people--a luxury which was not often reserved for me--and he had persuaded me to give him a couple of days. it would have been hard to refuse hanger, who had been gazing across channel so many weary months, seeing friends off whither he might not follow; and wondering when he should trip down the ladder, and bustle with the steward in the cabin, and ask the sailors whether we shall have a fine passage. to see men and women and children crowding home to their english christmas from every corner of europe, and to be left behind to eat plum-pudding in a back parlour of an imitation british tavern, with an obsolete skipper, and a ruined military man, whose family blushed whenever his name was mentioned, was trying. hanger protested he had no sentiment about christmas, but he nearly wrung my hand off when he took leave of me. it was while we were sauntering along the port, pushing hard against a blustering northerly wind, and i was trying to get at the truth about hanger's affairs, advising him at every turn to grasp the bull by the horns, adopt strong measures, look his creditors full in the face--the common counsel people give their friends, but so seldom apply in their own instance--that we were accosted by a man who had just landed from the folkestone boat. he wanted a place--yes, a cheap place--where they spoke english and gave english fare. hanger hastened to refer him to his own british tavern, and, turning to me, said, "must give cross a good turn--a useful fellow in an emergency." i returned with hanger to the tavern, much against my will; but he insisted i should not give myself airs, but consent to be his guest to the extent of some bitter ale. cross's new client was before a joint of cold beef, on the merits of which, combined with pickled onions, pickled by the identical hands of mrs. cross, cross could not be prevailed upon to be quiet. "not a bad bit of beef," said the stranger, helping himself to a prodigious slice. "another pint of beer." cross carried off the tankard, and returned, still muttering--"not bad beef, i should think not--nor bad ale neither. had the beef over from the old country." the stranger brought his fist with tremendous force upon the table, and roared--"that's right, landlord; that's it; stick to that." cross, thus encouraged, would have treated the company to a copious dissertation on the merits of british fare, had not the company chorused him down with--"now cross is off! cross on beef! cross on beer!" in a furious passion cross left the room, rowing that he would be even with "the captain" before the day was over. hanger considered himself bound to ask the stranger whether he was satisfied with his recommendation. "couldn't be better, thankee," the stranger answered; "but the landlord doesn't seem to know much about the place. new comer, i suppose?" "was forty years ago," the old captain said, looking round for a laugh; "but he doesn't go out of the street once a month." "i asked him where marquise was, and be hanged if he could tell me. i want to know particularly." the major glanced at the captain, and the captain at a third companion. was somebody wanted? who was hiding at marquise? "thought every fool knew that," the captain said, in the belief that he had made a palpable hit. "every fool who lives in these parts, leastwise," the stranger retorted. "perhaps you'll direct me?' "now, look you here, sir," the captain was proceeding, leisurely emphasizing each word with a puff of tobacco smoke. but the stranger would not be patient. he changed his tone, and answered, fiercely-- "i'm in no mind for fun or chaff. i've got d----d serious business on hand; and if you can tell me how to get to marquise, tell me straight off, and ha' done with it--and i shall be obliged to you." with this he finished his second tankard of ale. hanger, feeling some responsibility about the man he had introduced, approached him with marked urbanity, and offered his services-- "i know marquise and wimille." "wimille! that's it!" the stranger cried. "right you are. that's my direction. this is business. yes, between marquise and wimille." "precisely," hanger continued, as we proceeded towards the door. i heard the major growl between his teeth in our rear--"hanger's got him well in tow." i should have been glad to show the man his way, and leave him to follow it; but hanger, who could not resist an adventure, drew me aside and said--"we may as well drive to marquise as anywhere else. we shall be back easily for the _table d'hôte_." the expedition was not to my taste; but i yielded. the stranger was glad of our company, for the reason, which he bluntly explained, that we might be of some use to him; for the place was not exactly at marquise nor at wimille. we hired a carriage, and were soon clattering along the calais road, muffled to our noses to face the icy wind. the stranger soon communicated his name, saying, "my name is reuben sharp, and i don't care who knows it. ask who reuben sharp is at maidstone: they'll tell you." reuben sharp was a respectable farmer--it was not necessary for him to tell us that. he was a man something over fifty: sharp eyes, round head, ruddy face, short hair flaked with white, which he matted over his forehead at intervals with a flaming bandanna; a voice built to call across a field or two; limbs equal to any country work or sport. in short, an individual as peculiar to england as her chalk cliffs. when he found that we knew something--and more than something--of the hunting-field, and that i knew his country, including squire lufton, to say nothing of the lion at farningham (one of the sweetest and most charming hostelries in all england), he took me to his heart, and told me his mission and his grief. "i don't know how i shall meet him," reuben sharp said; "i'm not quite certain about myself. the man i'm going to see--this matthew glendore--has done me and mine a bitter wrong. the villain brought dishonour on my family. i knew he was in difficulties when he came into our parts, and took two rooms in mother gaselee's cottage. but he was a gentleman, every inch of it, in appearance. a d--d good shot; rode well; and--you know what fools girls are!" i could only listen: any question might prove a most indiscreet one. hanger was not quite so sensitive. "fools!" he cried--"they are answerable for more mischief in the world than all the men and children, and the rest of the animal creation put together." "and yet no man's worth a woman's little finger, if you know what i mean," reuben sharp went on, struggling manfully to get clear expression for the tumult of painful feeling that was in him. "they don't know what the world is; you cannot make 'em understand. the best fall into the hands of the worst men. she was the best, and he was the worst: the best, that she was. and i sent him to her, where she was living like an honest woman, and learning to be a lady, in london." "and who is this matthew glendore, whom you are going to see?" "the worst of men--the basest; and he's on his death-bed! and i'm to forgive him! i! "where is she? where is she, glendore? for i know you through your disguise." we stared at the farmer while he raved, lit his cigar, and then, in the torrent of his passion, let it out again. as we dipped to the hollow in which wimille lay, passing carts laden with iron ore, sharp became more excited. "we cannot be far off now. he's lying at one of the iron-masters' houses, half a mile beyond this wimille. let's stop: i must have some brandy-and-water." hanger joyfully fell in with this proposition, vowing that he was frozen, and really could not stand the cold without, unless he had something warm within, any longer. we alighted at the village cabaret, and drew near the sweet-smelling wood fire, from which the buxom landlady drove two old men for our convenience. i protested they should not be disturbed; but they went off shivering, as they begged us to do them the honour of taking up their post in the chimney-corner. we threw our coats off, and the grog was brought. the woman produced a little carafon of brandy. "tell her to bring the bottle," sharp shouted, impatiently. "does she take us to be school girls? let the water be boiling. ask her--does she know anything of this matthew glendore?" the farmer mixed himself a stiff glass of brandy-and-water, while he watched hanger questioning the landlady with many bows and smiles. "plenty of palavering," sharp muttered; then shouted--"does she know the scoundrel?" "one minute, my friend," hanger mildly observed, meaning to convey to sharp that he was asking a favour of gentlemen, not roaring his order to slaves. "permit me to get the good woman's answers. yes; she knows monsieur glendore." "mounseer glendore! she knows no good of him." "on the contrary," mildly pursued hanger, sipping his grog, and nicely balancing it with sugar to his taste--"on the contrary, my good sir, she says he is a brave fellow--what she calls a _brave garçon_." "doesn't know him then, mounseer glendore! i wonder how many disguises he has worn in his life--how many women he has trapped and ruined! ask her how long he has been here?" the landlady answered--"two years about the middle of next month." "and he has never left this since?" sharp went on, mixing himself by this time a second glass of brandy-and-water. the landlady had never been a day without seeing him. he came to play his game of dominoes in the evening frequently. the dominoes exasperated the farmer. he would as soon see a man with crochet needles. "d--n him!" sharp shouted; "just like him." i now ventured to interfere. reuben sharp was becoming violent with passion inflamed by brandy. the landlady was certain poor monsieur glendore would never rise from his bed again. i said to sharp--"whatever the wrong may be this man has done you, mr. sharp, pray remember he is dying. he is passing beyond your judgment." "is he? passing from my grip, is he? no--no--herbert daker." sharp had sprung from his chair, and was shaking his fist in the air. "daker! herbert daker!" i seized reuben sharp by the shoulder, and shook him violently. "what do you know about herbert daker?" sharp turned upon me a face shattered with rage, and hissed at me. "what do i know about him? what do _you_ about him? are you his friend?" "i am not: never will, nor can be," was my reply. sharp wrung my hand till it felt bloodless. "herbert daker is matthew glendore--mounseer glendore. when did you meet him?" "on the boulogne steamer, about three years ago, when he was crossing with his wife." "then!" sharp exclaimed, and again he took a draught of brandy-and-water. at this moment hanger, who had been talking with the landlady, joined us, and whispered--"be calm, gentlemen; this is a time for calmness. glendore is at hand--in a little cottage on monsieur guibert's works. madame says if we wish to see him alive, we had better lose no time. the clergyman from boulogne arrived about an hour ago, and is with him now. his wife!----" "his wife!" sharp was now a pitiable spectacle. he finished his glass, and caught hanger by the collar of his coat--staring into his face to get at all the truth. "glendore's wife!" hanger was as cool as man could be. he disengaged himself deliberately from the farmer's grip, put the table between them, and went smoothly on with the further observation he had to make! "i repeat, according to the landlady, whose word we have no reason to doubt, his wife is with him--and his mother!" sharp struck the table and roared that it was impossible. i stood in hopeless bewilderment. "would it be decent to intrude at such a moment?" "decent!" sharp was frantically endeavouring to button up his coat. "d--n it, decent! which is the way? my girl--my poor girl!" "show him," i contrived to say to hanger, and he took the landlady's directions, while i passed my arm through reuben sharp's. we stumbled and blundered along in hanger's footsteps, round muddy corners, past heaps of yellow ore, sharp muttering and cursing and gesticulating by the way. we came suddenly to a halt at the little green door of a four-roomed cottage. "knock! knock!" sharp shouted, pressing with his whole weight against the door. "let me see her!--the villain!--mounseer glendore!--no, no, herbert daker!" the power of observation is at its quickest in moments of intense excitement. i remember looking with the utmost calmness at sharp's face and figure, as he stood gasping before the door of herbert daker's lodging. it was the head of a satyr in anger. "daker--herbert daker!" sharp cried. the door was suddenly thrown open, and an english clergyman, unruffled and full of dignity, stood in the entrance. sharp was a bold, untutored man; but he dared not force his way past the priest. "quiet, gentlemen--be quiet. step in--but quiet--quiet." we were in the chamber of matthew glendore in a moment. a lady rose from the bedside. humble, and yet stately, a white face with red and swollen eyelids, eyes with command in them. we were uncovered, and in an instant wholly subdued. "my child--my girl!" reuben sharp moaned. the clergyman approached him, and laid his hand upon him. "whom do you want?" "mrs. daker--my--" the pale lady, full of grief, advanced a step, and looking full in the face of reuben sharp, said, "i, sir, am mrs. daker." i had never seen that lady before. "you!" sharp shouted, shaking with rage. but the minister firmly laid his hand upon him now, saying, "hush! in the chamber of death! his mother is at his bedside; spare her." at this, a little figure with a ghastly face rose from the farther side of the bed. "mrs. rowe!" i cried. she had not the power left to scream; and her head fell heavily upon the pillow of the dying man. "enough, enough!" the clergyman said with authority--closing the door of the chamber wherein herbert daker, the "mr. charles" of the rue millevoye, lay dead! chapter xiv. the castaway. cosmo bertram was at a very low ebb. no horse. had moved off to batignolles. had not been asked to the embassy for a twelvemonth. when he ventured into the tuileries gardens in the afternoon, it somehow happened that the backs of the ladies' chairs were mostly turned towards him. he was still dapper in appearance; but a close observer could see a difference. management was perceptible in his dress. he had no watch; but the diamond remained on his finger--for the present; and yet society had nothing seriously compromising to say against him. it was rumoured that he had seen the interior of clichy twice. so had sir ronald, who was now the darling of the faubourg; but then, note the difference. sir ronald had re-issued with plenty of money--or credit, which to society is the same thing; while poor bertram had stolen down the hill by back streets to batignolles, where he had found a cheap nest, and whence he trudged to his old haunts with a foolish notion that people would believe his story about a flying visit to england, and accept his translation to batignolles as a sanitary precaution strongly recommended by his physician. if society be not yet civilized enough to imitate the savages, who kill the old members of the community, it has studied the philosophy of the storks in jutland, who get rid of their ailing, feeble brother storks, at the fall of the year. bertram was a bird to be pecked to pieces, and driven away from the prosperous community, being no longer prosperous. first among the sharp peckers was miss tayleure, who always had her suspicions of captain bertram, although she was too good-natured to say anything. the seasons had circled three or four times since she had had the honour of being introduced to the gentleman, and yet the lady was waiting to see what the improved facilities for travel might bring her in the matrimonial line. she had, her dearest friends said, almost made up her mind to marry into commerce. "poor tayleure!" one of the attachés said, at the café anglais, over his marennes oysters, after the opera; "doomed to pig-iron, i'm afraid. must do it. can't carry on much longer. another skein of false hair this season, by jove." in a society so charmingly constituted, the blows are dealt with an impartial hand; and it is so mercifully arranged, that he who is doubling his fist seldom feels the blow that is falling upon his own back. it was a belief which consoled the poor baronet's orphan through her dreary time at the boarding-house--that, at least, she was free from damaging comment. her noble head was many inches out of water; the conviction gave her superb confidence when she had to pass an opinion on her neighbour. two old friends of cosmo bertram are lounging in the garden of the imperial club. "hasn't old tayleure got her knife into bertram! poor dear boy. it's all up with him. great pity. was a capital fellow." "don't you know the secret? the old girl had designs on bertram when he first turned up; and the daker affair cast her plot to the winds. mrs. daker, you remember, was at old tayleure's place--rue d'angoulême!" "a pretty business that was. but who the deuce was daker?" "bad egg." the threads of this story lay in a tangle--in paris, in boulogne, and in kent! i never laboured hard to unravel them; but time took up the work, and i was patient. also, i was far away from its scenes, and only passed through them at intervals--generally at express speed. it so happened, however, that i was at hand when the crisis and the close came. mrs. daker was living in a handsome apartment when i called upon her on the morrow of the ball. she wept passionately when she saw me. she said--"i could have sunk to the earth when i saw you with bertram--of all men in the world." i could get no answers to my questions save that she had heard no tidings of her husband, and that she had never had the courage to write to her father. plentiful tears and prayers that i would forget her; and never, under any temptation, let her people, should i come across them, know her assumed name, or her whereabouts. i pressed as far as i could, but she shut her heart upon me, and hurried me away, imploring me never to return, nor to speak about her to cosmo bertram. "he will never talk about me," she added, with something like scorn, and something very like disgust. i left paris an hour or two after this interview; and when i next met bertram--at baden, i think, in the following autumn--great as my curiosity was, i respected mrs. baker's wish. he never touched upon the subject; and, since i could not speak, and my suspicions affected him in a most painful manner, i did not throw myself in his way, nor give him an opportunity of following me up. besides, he was in a very noisy, reckless set, and was, i could perceive before i had talked to him ten minutes, on the way to the utter bad. when i remembered our conversation about daker, his light, airy, unconcerned manner, and the consummate deceit which effectually conveyed to me the idea that he had never heard the name of daker, i was inclined to turn upon him, and let him know i was not altogether in the dark. again, at the ball, he had carried off the introduction to mrs. trefoil with masterly coolness, making me a second time his dupe. had we met much we should have quarrelled desperately; for i recollected the innocent english face i had first seen on the boulogne boat, and the unhappy woman who had implored me not to speak her name to him. the days follow one another and have no resemblance, says the proverb. i passed away from baden, and bertram passed out of my mind. i had not seen him again when i spent those eventful few days at boulogne with hanger. another year had gone, and i had often thought over the death scene of daker, and sharp's trudges about paris in search of his niece. i could not help him, for i was homeward bound at the time, and shortly afterwards was despatched to st. petersburg. but i gave him letters. there was one hope that lingered in the gloom of this miserable story; perhaps mrs. daker had won the love of some honest man, and, emancipated by daker's deceit and death, might yet spend some happy days. and then the figure of cosmo bertram would rise before me--and i knew he was not the man to atone a fault or sin by a sacrifice. i was in paris again at the end of . i heard nothing, save that sharp had returned home, having tried in vain to find the child to whom he had been a father since the death of his brother. he had identified her as mrs. trefoil; he had discovered that shame had come upon her and him; and he had made out the nature of the relations between his niece and captain cosmo bertram. but captain bertram was not in paris; mrs. trefoil had disappeared and left no sign. so many exciting stories float about paris in the course of a season, that such an event as the appearance of a kentish farmer in search of mrs. daker, afterwards mrs. trefoil, and the connexion of captain bertram with her name, is food for a few days only. this is a very quiet humdrum story, when it is compared with the dramas of society, provincial and parisian, which the _gazette des tribunaux_ is constantly presenting to its readers. when i reached paris it was forgotten. miss tayleure had moved off to tours--for economy some said; to break new ground, according to others. there had been diplomatic changes. the english society had received many accessions, and suffered many secessions. i went to my old haunts and found new faces. i was met with a burst of passionate tears by lucy rowe, end honest jane, the servant. mrs. rowe was lying, with all her secrets and plots, in père lachaise--to the grief, among others, of the reverend horace mohun, who would hardly be comforted by lucy's handsome continuance of the buttered toast and first look at the _times_. lucy, bright and good lucy, had become queen and mistress of the boarding-house--albeit she had not a thimbleful of the blood of the whytes of battersea in her veins. but of the rue millevoye presently. i came upon bertram by accident by the montmartre cemetery, whither i had been with a friend to look at a new-made grave. as i have observed, bertram had reached a very low ebb. he avoided his old thoroughfares. he had discovered that all the backs of the tuileries chairs were towards him. miss tayleure had had her revenge before she left. he had heard that "the fellows were sorry for him," and that they were not anxious to see him. the very waiters in his café knew that evil had befallen him, and were less respectful than of old. no very damaging tales, as i have said, were told against him; but it was made evident to him that paris society had had enough of him for the present, and that his comfortable plan would be to move off. cosmo bertram had moved off accordingly; and when i met him at montmartre he had not been heard of for many months. i should have pushed on, but he would not let me. a man in misfortune disarms your resentment. when the friend who has been always bright and manly with you, approaches with a humble manner, and his eyes say to you, while he speaks, "now is not the time to be hard," you give in. i parted with my fellow-mourner, and joined bertram, saying coldly--"we have not met, bertram, for many months--it seems years. what has happened?" the man's manner was completely changed. he talked to me with the cowed manner of a conscious inferior. he was abashed; as changed in voice and expression as in general effect. "ruin--nothing more," he answered me. "baden--homburg, i suppose?" "no; tomfoolery of every kind. i'm quite broken. that friend of yours didn't recognise me, did he?" "had never seen you before, i'm quite sure." i took him into a quiet café and ordered breakfast. his face and voice recalled to me all the daker story; and i felt that i was touching another link in it. he avoided my eye. he grasped the bottle greedily, and took a deep draught. the wine warmed him, and loosed "the jesses of his tongue." he had a long tale to tell about himself! he disburdened his breast about clichy; of all the phases of his decline from the fashionable man in the bois to the shabby skulker in the _banlieue_, he had something to say. he had been everybody's victim. the world had been against him. friends had proved themselves ungrateful, and foes had acted meanly. nobody could imagine half his sufferings. while he dwelt on himself with all the volubility and wearying detail of a wholly selfish man, i was eager to catch the least clue to a history that interested me much more deeply than his; and in which i had good reason to suspect he had not borne an honourable part. the gossips had confirmed the fears which mrs. daker had created. i had picked up scraps here and there which i had put together. "i am obliged to keep very dark, my dear q.m.," bertram said at last, still dwelling on the inconvenience to himself. "hardly dare to move out of the quarter. disgusting bore." "a debt?" i asked. "worse." "what then, an entanglement; the old story, petticoats?" "precisely. to-day i ought to be anywhere but here; the old boy is over, or will be, in a few hours." the whole story was breaking upon me; bertram saw it, and my manner, become icy to him, was closing the sources upon me. i resolved to get the mystery cleared up. i resumed my former manner with him, ordered some burgundy, and entreated him to proceed. "you remember," he said, "your story about the girl you met travelling with her husband on the boulogne boat--mrs. daker." his voice fell as he pronounced the name. "i deceived you, my dear q. m., when i affected unconcern and ignorance." "i know it, bertram," was my answer. "but that is unimportant: go on." "i met mrs. daker at her hotel, very soon after she arrived in paris. she talked about you; and i happened to say that i knew you. we were friends at once." "more than friends." "i see," bertram continued, much relieved at finding his revelation forestalled in its chief episodes; "i see there is not much to tell you. you are pretty well posted up. i cannot see why you should look so savage; mrs. daker is no relation of yours." "no!" i shouted, for i could not hold my passion--"had she been----" "you would have the right to call me to account. as it is," bertram added, rising, "i decline to tell you more, and i shall wish you good-day." after all bertram was right; i had no claim to urge, no wrong to redress. besides, by my hastiness, i was letting the thread slip through my fingers. "sit down, bertram; you are the touchiest man alive. it is no concern of mine, but i have seen more than you imagine--i have seen daker; i have been with sharp." bertram grasped my arm. "tell me all, then; i must know all. you don't know how i have suffered, my dear q. m. tell me everything." "first let me ask you, bertram, have you been an honourable man to mrs. daker?" "explain yourself." "where is she? her uncle has broken his heart!" "all i need say is, that she is with me, and that it is i who have sacrificed almost my honour in keeping her with me, after----" i understood the case completely now. "you found the prey at the right moment, bertram. poor forsaken woman! you took it; you lost it; it falls into your hands again--broken unto death." "unto death!" bertram echoed. i related to him my adventure in boulogne; and when i came to baker's end, and his bigamy, bertram exclaimed-- "the villain! my dear q. m., i loved--i do love her; she might have been my wife. the villain!" "you say she is with you, bertram. where? can i see her?" "you cannot, she's very ill so ill, i doubt----" "and you are here, bertram?" "her uncle--sharp--is with her by this time. she implored me not to be in the way. there would be a row, you know, and i hate rows." it was bertram to the last. _he_ hated rows! i suddenly turned upon him with an idea that flashed through my mind. "bertram, you owe this poor woman some reparation. you love her, you say--or have loved her." "do love her now." "she is a free woman; indeed, poor soul, she has always been. marry her--take her away--and get to some quiet place where you will be unknown. you will be happy with her, or i have strangely misread her." "can't," bertram dolefully answered. "not a farthing." "i'll help you." bertram grasped my hand. his difficulty was removed. i continued rapidly, "give me your address. i'll see sharp, and, if they permit me, mrs. daker. let us make an effort to end this miserable business well. you had better remain behind till i have settled with sharp." bertram remained inert, without power of thinking or speaking, in his seat. i pushed him, to rouse him. "bertram, the address--quick." "too late, my dear q. m.--much too late. she's dying--i am sure of it." the address was in the next street to that in which we had been breakfasting. i hurried off, tearing myself, at last, by force from bertram. i ran down the street, round the corner, looking right and left at the numbers as i ran. i was within a few doors of the number when i came with a great shock against a man, who was walking like myself without looking ahead. i growled and was pushing past, when an iron grip fell upon my shoulder. it was reuben sharp. he was so altered i had difficulty in recognising him. at that moment he looked a madman; his eyes were wild and savage; his lips were blue; his face was masked by convulsive twitches. "i was running to see you. come back," i said. "it's no use--no use. they can ill-treat her no more. my darling emmy! it's all over--all over--and you have been very kind to me." the poor man clapped his heavy hands upon me like the paws of a lion, and wept, as weak women and children weep. yea, it was all over. it was on new year's day, , i supported reuben sharp, following a hearse to the cemetery hard by. lucy rowe accompanied us--at my urgent request--and her presence served to soften and support old reuben's honest kentish heart in his desolate agony. as they lowered the coffin a haggard face stretched over a tomb behind us. sharp was blinded with tears, and did not see it. chapter xv. the first to be married. it will happen so--and here is our moral--the bonnets of sophonisba and theodosia, bewitching as they were, and archly as these young ladies wore them, paling every toilette of the common, were not put aside for bridal veils. carrie, who was content with silver-grey, it was who returned to paris first, sitting at the side of the writer of the following letters, sent, it is presumed, to his bachelor friend:-- "paris, 'the leafy month of june.' "my dear mac,--i will be true to my promise. i will give you the best advice my experience may enable me to afford you. friendship is a sacred thing, and i will write as your friend. only ten days ago caroline murmured those delicious sounds at the altar, which announce a heaven upon earth to man. i see you smile, you rogue, as you read this, but i repeat it--that announce a heaven upon earth to man. "some men take a wife carelessly, as they select a dinner at their club, as though they were catering only to satisfy the whim of the hour. others adopt all the homely philosophy of dr. primrose, and reflect how the wife will wear, and whether she have the qualities that will keep the house in order. others, again, are lured into matrimony by the tinkling of the pianoforte, or the elaboration of a bunch of flowers upon a bristol board. remember calfsfoot. his wife actually fiddled him into the church. was there ever an uglier woman? two of her front teeth were gone, and she was bald. fortunately for her, beauty draws us with a single hair, or she had not netted calfsfoot. now what a miserable time he has of it. she is a vixen. you know what fiddle-strings are made of; well, i'm told she supplies her own. but why should i dwell on infelicitous unions of this kind? it was obvious to every rational creature from the first--and to him most concerned--that mrs. calfsfoot would fiddle poor c. into a lunatic asylum. and if he be not there yet, depend upon it he's on the high road. "between mrs. calfsfoot and my caroline (you should have seen her hanging upon my shoulder, her auburn ringlets tickling my happy cheek, begging me to call her carrie!)--between mrs. calfsfoot and my carrie, then, what a contrast! as i sat last evening in one of the shady nooks of the bois de boulogne, watching the boats, with their coloured lights, floating about the lake, my carrie's hand trembling like a caught bird in mine, i thought, can this sweet, amiable, innocent creature have anything in common with that assured, loud-voiced, pretentious mrs. calfsfoot. calfsfoot told me that he was very happy during the honeymoon. but, then, people's notions of happiness vary, and i cannot for the life of me conceive how a man of calfsfoot's sense--for he has sound common sense on most points--could have looked twice at the creature he took to his bosom. i have heard of people who like to nurse vipers; can friend c. be of this strange band? now, i am happy--supremely happy, i may say, because i honestly believe my carrie to be the most adorable creature on the face of god's earth. a man who could not be happy with her would not deserve felicity. you should see her at the breakfast-table, in a snow-white dress, with just a purple band about her dainty waist, handling the cups and saucers! the first time she asked me whether i would take two lumps of sugar (i could have taken both of them from her pretty lips, and i'll not say whether i did or did not), was one of those delicious moments that happen seldom, alas, in the chequered life of man. and then, when she comes tripping into the room after breakfast, in her little round hat, and, putting her hand upon my shoulder, asks me in the most musical of voices whether i have finished with my paper, and am ready for a walk, i feel ashamed that i have allowed myself to distract my attention even for ten minutes from her charming self, to read stupid leading articles and wretched police cases. but men are utterly without sentiment. reading the _times_ in the honeymoon! i wonder how the delightful creatures can give us two minutes' thought. carrie, however, seems to live only for your unworthy humble servant. shall i ever be worthy of her? shall i ever be worthy of the glorious sky overhead, or of the flowers at my feet? my dear mac, i feel the veriest worm as i contemplate this perfect creature, who, with that infinite generosity which belongs to goodness and beauty, has sworn to love, honour, and obey me. that she loves me i know full well; that she obeys my lightest wish, i allow, on my knees. but how shall she honour me? to all this you will answer, puffing your filthy pipe the while, 'tut! he has been married only ten short days!" "my dear mac, life is not to be measured by the hour-glass. there are minutes that are hours, there are hours that are years, there are years that are centuries. again, some men are observant, and some pay no better compliment to the light of day than moles. you did me the honour of saying one evening, when we were having a late cigar at the trafalgar (we should have been in bed hours before), that you never knew a more quick-sighted man, nor a readier reader of the human heart than the individual who now addresses you. it would ill become me to say that you only did me justice; but permit me to remark, that having closely watched myself and compared myself with others, for years, i have come to the conclusion that i am blessed with a rapid discernment. before mrs. flowerdew (i have written the delightful name on every corner of my blotting-paper) honoured me with her hand, i brought this power to bear on her incessantly. under all kinds of vexatious circumstances i have been witness of her unassailable good temper. i have seen her wear a new bonnet in a shower of rain. these clumsy hands of mine have spilled lobster-salad upon her dress. that little wretch of a brother of hers has pulled her back hair down. her sister sophonisba has abused her. still has she been mild as the dove! "then, her common sense is astonishing. she says any woman can manage with three bonnets and half-a-dozen good dresses. i wanted to buy her a bracelet the other day, price ten guineas. 'no,' she answered; 'here is one at only six guineas, quite good enough for me in our station of life;' and the dear creature was content with it. "as for accomplishments, she may vie with any fine lady in the land. last night she played me a piece from mendelssohn, and her little hands danced like lightning about the keys. it was rather long, to be sure; but i could not help stealing from behind her and kissing the dear fingers when it was over. "she has written some exquisite verses, much in the style of byron--a poet not easily imitated, you will remember. she has read every line of thackeray; and during one of our morning walks, she proved to me, who am not easily moved from my point, that carlyle has only one idea. let me recommend you to peruse this writer's 'french revolution' again, and you will be satisfied that my carrie is right. "i trouble you, my dear fellow, with all these details, that you may not run away with the notion that flowerdew is blindly in love. my faculties were never more completely about me than they are at this moment. i am at a loss to imagine why a man should throw his head away when he yields his heart. i can look dispassionately at my wife, and if she had a fault, i am confident that i should be the first to see it. but, _que voulez-vous?_ she has not yet given me the opportunity. "marriage is a lottery. in a lottery, somebody must draw the prize; if i have drawn it, am i to be ashamed of my luck? no; let me manfully confess my good fortune, and thank my star. "i have snatched the time to write you these hurried lines, while the worshipped subject of them has been trying on some new--but i forgot; i am writing to a bachelor. i have still a few minutes; let me make use of them. "my dear mac, when i return to foggy london--(i hear you have had terrible weather there)--you will see little or nothing of me. my carrie allows me to smoke (she permits me everything), but i should be a mean brute if i took advantage of her boundless generosity. i smoke one cigar _per diem_, and no more. and as for wine--the honey of the loved one's lips is the true grape of the honeymoon. i must tell you that carrie and i have made a solemn compact. her head was nestled against my waistcoat as we made it. we are not going to live for the world, like foolish people whom we know. for society my little wife needs me; and i, happy man, shall be more than content for ever while the partner of my bosom deigns to solace me with her gentle voice. she has friends without number who will mourn her loss to society. her dear friends the barcaroles will be inconsolable; her sister theodosia will break her heart. life has its trials, however, which must be bravely borne; and carrie's friends must be consoled when they learn that she is happy with the man of her choice. in the same way, be comforted, my dear mac (for i know how warmly you regard me), when i tell you that henceforth we shall meet only at rare intervals. my life is bound up in that of the celestial being who is knitting in the window, not an arm's length from me. "my dear mac, we have drank our last gin-sling together. recal me affectionately to the memory of joe parkes, and young square, and all friends of her majesty's pugilistic department; and may they all speedily be as happy as i am. how the wretches will laugh when you tell them that flowerdew has reformed his ways, and has blackened his last milo; but i think, my dear fellow, i have convinced you that i write after cool reflection. we have taken a cottage four miles south of my office. a sixpenny omnibus will take me back at four o'clock daily, to my little haven. my carrie is fond of a garden; and i shall find her, on summer afternoons, waiting at the gate for me, in her garden hat, and leaning upon the smartest little rake in the world. you, and joe, and the pugilistic department fellows may laugh; but this is the happy life i have chalked out for myself. as i have told you, some men marry with their eyes shut; but i live only to congratulate myself on my sagacity. to think that i, of all men, should have won caroline cockayne! "we shall remain here for another week, when we go to fontainebleau, and thence we return to london. i may write to you from our next stage; but if not, expect to hear from me on my return, when, if i can persuade my love to brave the presence of a stranger, for friendship's sake, you shall have a peep at our felicity. "your old friend, "happy tom flowerdew." mr. mac's observations on the foregoing were, no doubt, to this effect: "he'll come to his senses by-and-by. i shouldn't like to be compelled to buy all the cigars he'll smoke before he turns his toes up." _flowerdew, from fontainebleau._ "fontainebleau, july . "my dear mac,--i am tempted to send you a few lines from this wonderful place. you have heard of fontainebleau grapes--you have tasted them; but you have not seen fontainebleau. my dear mac, when you marry (and, as your friend, i say, lose no time about it)--yes, when you marry, take the _cara sposa_ to fontainebleau. let her see the weeping rock, in that wonderful battle between granite and trees, they call the forest. let her feed the fat carp with _galette_ behind the palace in the company of those normandy nurses (brown and flat as normandy pippins), and their squalling basked-capped charges. give her some of that delicious iced currant-water, which the dragoons who are quartered here appear to drink with all the relish the children show for it. never fear that she will look twice at these soldiers, in their sky-blue coats and broad red pantaloons, and their hair cut so close that their eyes must have watered under the operation. imagine dragoons drinking currant-water; and playing dominoes for shapeless sous, which they rattle incessantly in their preposterous trousers! i am meditating a book on the french army, in which i shall lay great stress on the above, i flatter myself, rather acute bit of observation. carrie (she grows prettier daily) rather inclines to the idea that the moderation of these french dragoons is in their favour; and this is the first time i have found her judgment at fault. but then it would be unreasonable indeed to hope that on military subjects she could have that clear insight which she displays with such charming grace, whether we are contemplating the marriage of cana, in the louvre, or thinking over the scenes some of those orange-trees in the tuileries gardens have shed leaves upon. for, let me tell you, my dear mac, there are trees there, the flowers of which have trembled at the silver laugh of unhappy antoinette. sallow robespierre has rubbed against them. they were in their glory on that july day when the mob of blouses tasted of the cellars of a king. "but you can get in murray all i can tell you of the wonderful place in which it has been my fortune to find myself with my little wife. when, on the morning after our arrival, i threw my bedroom window open, the air was, i thought, the sweetest that had ever refreshed my nostrils. the scene would have been perfect, had it not been for swarms of wasps that dashed their great bodies, barred, as carrie said, like grooms' waistcoats (wasn't it clever of her?) into the room. if everything were not flavoured with garlic (peaches included), i should say without hesitation, that our _hôte_ is the _cordon bleu_ of the country. omelettes, my dear mac, as light as syllabub; wild strawberries frosted with the finest white sugar i ever put to my lips; coffee that would make a turk dance with delight; only, in each and all of these dainties, there is just a pinch of garlic. but love makes light of these little drawbacks. carrie has made a wry face once or twice, it is true, but only in the best of humours, and when the garlic was very strong indeed. "we had a rainy day yesterday: but we enjoyed it. we sat all the morning at our window, gossiping and flirting, and watching the peasants sauntering home from market, apparently unconscious that they were being drenched. i had bought carrie a huge sugar stick (_sucre de pomme_, i think they call it), and she looked bewitchingly as she nibbled it, and then coaxingly held it to my lips. you remember my old antipathy to sweets; well, strange to say, i thought i had never tasted anything more delicious than this sugar stick; but remember, it came direct from carrie's lips. then we speculated on what our friends were doing at that very moment, peeped into clapham, and we made bad guesses enough, i have no doubt. it ended by our agreeing that none of you were half so happy as we were. "in the evening the weather cleared a little, and we went out for a stroll. a stroll through the streets of fontainebleau is not one of the pleasantest exploits in the world. i thought every moment that my wife (delightful word, that thrills me to the finger tips as i write it) would sprain an ankle, for the paving is simply a heap of round stones thrown out of a cart; but she stepped so nimbly and lightly, that no harm came to her. i wish, my dear mac, you could hear her conversation. from morning till night she prattles away, hopping, skipping, and jumping from one subject to another, and saying something sensible or droll on each. you must know that carrie has an immense fund of humour. her imitations of people make me almost die with laughter. you remember mrs. calfsfoot's habit of twitching her nose and twirling her thumbs when she is beginning an anecdote about somebody one never saw, and never cared to see. well, carrie stopped in the middle of our rambles in the forest, and imitated her squeaky voice and absurd gestures to the life. the anecdote, concocted impromptu, was a wonderfully sustained bit of pure invention. on my honour, when she had finished her little performance, i could not help giving her a kiss for it. "you will smile, my dear mac, at this: remembering the horror we mutually expressed one night at ardbye's chambers, of female mimics. but there is a difference, which we do not appear to have recognised on that occasion, between good-natured and ill-natured mimicry. now nothing can be more harmless fun than my carrie's imitations. she never has the bad taste to mimic a deformity, or to burlesque a misfortune. she certainly said of mrs. blomonge (who is known to be the stoutest person in the parish of st. bride's) that her head floated on her shoulders like a waterlily on a pond; but then the joke was irresistible, and there was not a touch of malice in the way the thing was said. how much there is in manner! "carrie is beginning to yearn for the repose of arcady cottage. she wants to see herself mistress of a house. she longs to have to order dinner, inspect the dusting of the drawing-room, pour out tea from our own tea-pot, and work antimacassars for our chairs. i can see already that she will make the most perfect little housewife in the world. "there are dolts and dullards who declare that women who are witty and accomplished, generally make bad housewives. they are said to lie on sofas all day through, reading hooks they cannot understand; playing all kinds of tortuous music; and painting moss roses upon velvet. i am not an old married man (twenty days old only), but i am ready to wager, from what i have already seen of my carrie, that there is not the slightest ground for those charges against clever women; on the contrary, it seems to me that your clever woman will see the duty, as well as the pleasure, of ordering her husband's house in a becoming manner. why should empty-headed girls, who haven't a word to say for themselves, nor an accomplishment to their back--why should they be the superlative concocters of custards, and menders of shirts and stockings? do you mean to tell me that a woman must be a fool to have a light hand at pastry? i believe these libels on clever women have been propagated by designing mothers who had stupid daughters on their hands. whenever you see a heavy-eyed, lumpish girl, who hides herself in corners, and reddens to the very roots of the hair when you say a civil thing to her, you are sure to be told that she is the very best house-keeper in the world, and will make a better wife than her pretty sister. in future i shall treat all such excuses for ugliness and dulness as they deserve. for i say it boldly beforehand, ere carrie has tried her first undercrust, she will be a pattern housewife--although she reads john stuart mill. "'tom, darling!' sounds from the next room, and the music goes to my soul. good-bye. the next from aready cottage. thine, "tom flowerdew. "p.s.--we met yesterday a most charming travelling companion; and although, as i think i hinted in my last, i and carrie intend to suffice for each other, he had so vast a fund of happy anecdote, we could not find it in our hearts to snub him. besides, he began by lending me the day's _galignani_." "that travelling companion," remarked shrewd mr. mac, "marks the beginning of the end of the honeymoon. i shall keep him dark when i dine with papa cockayne on sunday." chapter xvi. gathering a few threads. is there a more melancholy place than the street in which you have lived; than the house, now curtainless and weather-stained, you knew prim, and full of happy human creatures; than the "banquet-hall deserted:" than the empty chair; than the bed where death found the friend you loved? the rue millevoye is all this to me. i avoid it. if any cabman wants to make a short cut that way i stop him. mrs. rowe rests at last, in the same churchyard with the whytes of battersea: her faults forgiven; that dark story which troubled all her afterlife and made her son the terror of every hour, ended and forgotten. if hers was a sad life, even cheered by the consolations of mr. mohun given over refreshing rounds of buttered toast; what was the gloom upon the head of emily sharp, whom the child of shame (was it in revenge) brought to shame? i never tread the deck of a boulogne steamer without thinking of her sweet, loving face; i never wait for my luggage in the chilly morning at the chemin de fer du nord terminus, without seeing her agony as the deserted one. the cockayne girls are prospering in all the comfort of maternal dignity in the genteel suburbs; and yet were they a patch upon forlorn emmy sharp? miss sophonisba, with her grand airs, in her critical letters from paris--what kind of a heart had she? miss theodosia was a flirt of the vulgarest type who would have thrown up john catt as she would throw away a two-button glove for a three-button pair, had not the vicomte de gars given her father to understand that he must have a very substantial _dot_ with her. mademoiselle cockayne without money was not a thing to be desired, according to "his lordship." john catt was a rough diamond, as the reader has perceived, given to copious draughts of beer, black pipes, short sticks, prodigious shirt-collars, and music-halls. but he was a brave, honest, chivalrous lad in his coarse way. he loved miss theodosia cockayne, and was seriously stricken when he left paris, although he had tried to throw off the affair with a careless word or two. he hid his grief behind his bluntness; but she had no tears to hide. it was only when the vicomte, after a visit to clapham (paid much against mr. cockayne's will) had come to business in the plumpest manner, that the young lady had been brought to her senses by the father's observation that he was not prepared to buy a foreign viscount into the family on his own terms, and that "his lordship" would not take the young lady on her own merits, aroused miss theodosia's pride;--and with it the chances of john catt revived. he took her renewed warmth for repentance after a folly. he said to himself, "she loved me all the time; and even the vicomte was not, in the long run, proof against her affection for me." miss theodosia, having lost the new love, was fortunate enough to get on with the old again, and she is, i hear, reasonably happy--certainly happier than she deserves to be, as mrs. john catt. i am told she is very severe upon emma sharp, and wonders how her sister carrie can have the creature's portrait hung up in her morning room. but there are a few things she no longer wonders at. carrie speaks to lucy rowe; kisses lucy rowe; puts her arm round lucy rowe's neck; and tumbles her baby upon lucy rowe's knees; and mrs. john catt wonders no longer. not, i suspect, because she is fonder of lucy now than she was in the rue millevoye, but because--well, _i_ married her, as the reader, who is not a goose, has suspected long ago. and a little lucy writes for me, in big round hand, her mother guiding the pen-- the end. london: savill, edwards and co., printers, chandos street, covent garden. proofreading team. the magician a novel by somerset maugham together with a fragment of autobiography a fragment of autobiography in , after spending five years at st thomas's hospital i passed the examinations which enabled me to practise medicine. while still a medical student i had published a novel called _liza of lambeth_ which caused a mild sensation, and on the strength of that i rashly decided to abandon doctoring and earn my living as a writer; so, as soon as i was 'qualified', i set out for spain and spent the best part of a year in seville. i amused myself hugely and wrote a bad novel. then i returned to london and, with a friend of my own age, took and furnished a small flat near victoria station. a maid of all work cooked for us and kept the flat neat and tidy. my friend was at the bar, and so i had the day (and the flat) to myself and my work. during the next six years i wrote several novels and a number of plays. only one of these novels had any success, but even that failed to make the stir that my first one had made. i could get no manager to take my plays. at last, in desperation, i sent one, which i called _a man of honour_, to the stage society, which gave two performances, one on sunday night, another on monday afternoon, of plays which, unsuitable for the commercial theatre, were considered of sufficient merit to please an intellectual audience. as every one knows, it was the stage society that produced the early plays of bernard shaw. the committee accepted _a man of honour_, and w.l. courtney, who was a member of it, thought well enough of my crude play to publish it in _the fortnightly review_, of which he was then editor. it was a feather in my cap. though these efforts of mine brought me very little money, they attracted not a little attention, and i made friends. i was looked upon as a promising young writer and, i think i may say it without vanity, was accepted as a member of the intelligentsia, an honourable condition which, some years later, when i became a popular writer of light comedies, i lost; and have never since regained. i was invited to literary parties and to parties given by women of rank and fashion who thought it behoved them to patronise the arts. an unattached and fairly presentable young man is always in demand. i lunched out and dined out. since i could not afford to take cabs, when i dined out, in tails and a white tie, as was then the custom, i went and came back by bus. i was asked to spend week-ends in the country. they were something of a trial on account of the tips you had to give to the butler and to the footman who brought you your morning tea. he unpacked your gladstone bag, and you were uneasily aware that your well-worn pyjamas and modest toilet articles had made an unfavourable impression upon him. for all that, i found life pleasant and i enjoyed myself. there seemed no reason why i should not go on indefinitely in the same way, bringing out a novel once a year (which seldom earned more than the small advance the publisher had given me but which was on the whole respectably reviewed), going to more and more parties, making more and more friends. it was all very nice, but i couldn't see that it was leading me anywhere. i was thirty. i was in a rut. i felt i must get out of it. it did not take me long to make up my mind. i told the friend with whom i shared the flat that i wanted to be rid of it and go abroad. he could not keep it by himself, but we luckily found a middle-aged gentleman who wished to install his mistress in it, and was prepared to take it off our hands. we sold the furniture for what it could fetch, and within a month i was on my way to paris. i took a room in a cheap hotel on the left bank. a few months before this, i had been fortunate enough to make friends with a young painter who had a studio in the rue campagne première. his name was gerald kelly. he had had an upbringing unusual for a painter, for he had been to eton and to cambridge. he was highly talented, abundantly loquacious, and immensely enthusiastic. it was he who first made me acquainted with the impressionists, whose pictures had recently been accepted by the luxembourg. to my shame, i must admit that i could not make head or tail of them. without much searching, i found an apartment on the fifth floor of a house near the lion de belfort. it had two rooms and a kitchen, and cost seven hundred francs a year, which was then twenty-eight pounds. i bought, second-hand, such furniture and household utensils as were essential, and the _concierge_ told me of a woman who would come in for half a day and make my _café au lait_ in the morning and my luncheon at noon. i settled down and set to work on still another novel. soon after my arrival, gerald kelly took me to a restaurant called le chat blanc in the rue d'odessa, near the gare montparnasse, where a number of artists were in the habit of dining; and from then on i dined there every night. i have described the place elsewhere, and in some detail in the novel to which these pages are meant to serve as a preface, so that i need not here say more about it. as a rule, the same people came in every night, but now and then others came, perhaps only once, perhaps two or three times. we were apt to look upon them as interlopers, and i don't think we made them particularly welcome. it was thus that i first met arnold bennett and clive bell. one of these casual visitors was aleister crowley. he was spending the winter in paris. i took an immediate dislike to him, but he interested and amused me. he was a great talker and he talked uncommonly well. in early youth, i was told, he was extremely handsome, but when i knew him he had put on weight, and his hair was thinning. he had fine eyes and a way, whether natural or acquired i do not know, of so focusing them that, when he looked at you, he seemed to look behind you. he was a fake, but not entirely a fake. at cambridge he had won his chess blue and was esteemed the best whist player of his time. he was a liar and unbecomingly boastful, but the odd thing was that he had actually done some of the things he boasted of. as a mountaineer, he had made an ascent of k in the hindu kush, the second highest mountain in india, and he made it without the elaborate equipment, the cylinders of oxygen and so forth, which render the endeavours of the mountaineers of the present day more likely to succeed. he did not reach the top, but got nearer to it than anyone had done before. crowley was a voluminous writer of verse, which he published sumptuously at his own expense. he had a gift for rhyming, and his verse is not entirely without merit. he had been greatly influenced by swinburne and robert browning. he was grossly, but not unintelligently, imitative. as you flip through the pages you may well read a stanza which, if you came across it in a volume of swinburne's, you would accept without question as the work of the master. '_it's rather hard, isn't it, sir, to make sense of it?_' if you were shown this line and asked what poet had written it, i think you would be inclined to say, robert browning. you would be wrong. it was written by aleister crowley. at the time i knew him he was dabbling in satanism, magic and the occult. there was just then something of a vogue in paris for that sort of thing, occasioned, i surmise, by the interest that was still taken in a book of huysmans's, _là bas_. crowley told fantastic stories of his experiences, but it was hard to say whether he was telling the truth or merely pulling your leg. during that winter i saw him several times, but never after i left paris to return to london. once, long afterwards, i received a telegram from him which ran as follows: 'please send twenty-five pounds at once. mother of god and i starving. aleister crowley.' i did not do so, and he lived on for many disgraceful years. i was glad to get back to london. my old friend had by then rooms in pall mall, and i was able to take a bedroom in the same building and use his sitting-room to work in. _the magician_ was published in , so i suppose it was written during the first six months of . i do not remember how i came to think that aleister crowley might serve as the model for the character whom i called oliver haddo; nor, indeed, how i came to think of writing that particular novel at all. when, a little while ago, my publisher expressed a wish to reissue it, i felt that, before consenting to this, i really should read it again. nearly fifty years had passed since i had done so, and i had completely forgotten it. some authors enjoy reading their old works; some cannot bear to. of these i am. when i have corrected the proofs of a book, i have finished with it for good and all. i am impatient when people insist on talking to me about it; i am glad if they like it, but do not much care if they don't. i am no more interested in it than in a worn-out suit of clothes that i have given away. it was thus with disinclination that i began to read _the magician_. it held my interest, as two of my early novels, which for the same reason i have been obliged to read, did not. one, indeed, i simply could not get through. another had to my mind some good dramatic scenes, but the humour filled me with mortification, and i should have been ashamed to see it republished. as i read _the magician_, i wondered how on earth i could have come by all the material concerning the black arts which i wrote of. i must have spent days and days reading in the library of the british museum. the style is lush and turgid, not at all the sort of style i approve of now, but perhaps not unsuited to the subject; and there are a great many more adverbs and adjectives than i should use today. i fancy i must have been impressed by the _écriture artiste_ which the french writers of the time had not yet entirely abandoned, and unwisely sought to imitate them. though aleister crowley served, as i have said, as the model for oliver haddo, it is by no means a portrait of him. i made my character more striking in appearance, more sinister and more ruthless than crowley ever was. i gave him magical powers that crowley, though he claimed them, certainly never possessed. crowley, however, recognized himself in the creature of my invention, for such it was, and wrote a full-page review of the novel in _vanity fair_, which he signed 'oliver haddo'. i did not read it, and wish now that i had. i daresay it was a pretty piece of vituperation, but probably, like his poems, intolerably verbose. i do not remember what success, if any, my novel had when it was published, and i did not bother about it much, for by then a great change had come into my life. the manager of the court theatre, one otho stuart, had brought out a play which failed to please, and he could not immediately get the cast he wanted for the next play he had in mind to produce. he had read one of mine, and formed a very poor opinion of it; but he was in a quandary, and it occurred to him that it might just serve to keep his theatre open for a few weeks, by the end of which the actors he wanted for the play he had been obliged to postpone would be at liberty. he put mine on. it was an immediate success. the result of this was that in a very little while other managers accepted the plays they had consistently refused, and i had four running in london at the same time. i, who for ten years had earned an average of one hundred pounds a year, found myself earning several hundred pounds a week. i made up my mind to abandon the writing of novels for the rest of my life. i did not know that this was something out of my control and that when the urge to write a novel seized me, i should be able to do nothing but submit. five years later, the urge came and, refusing to write any more plays for the time, i started upon the longest of all my novels. i called it _of human bondage_. the magician i arthur burdon and dr porhoët walked in silence. they had lunched at a restaurant in the boulevard saint michel, and were sauntering now in the gardens of the luxembourg. dr porhoët walked with stooping shoulders, his hands behind him. he beheld the scene with the eyes of the many painters who have sought by means of the most charming garden in paris to express their sense of beauty. the grass was scattered with the fallen leaves, but their wan decay little served to give a touch of nature to the artifice of all besides. the trees were neatly surrounded by bushes, and the bushes by trim beds of flowers. but the trees grew without abandonment, as though conscious of the decorative scheme they helped to form. it was autumn, and some were leafless already. many of the flowers were withered. the formal garden reminded one of a light woman, no longer young, who sought, with faded finery, with powder and paint, to make a brave show of despair. it had those false, difficult smiles of uneasy gaiety, and the pitiful graces which attempt a fascination that the hurrying years have rendered vain. dr porhoët drew more closely round his fragile body the heavy cloak which even in summer he could not persuade himself to discard. the best part of his life had been spent in egypt, in the practice of medicine, and the frigid summers of europe scarcely warmed his blood. his memory flashed for an instant upon those multi-coloured streets of alexandria; and then, like a homing bird, it flew to the green woods and the storm-beaten coasts of his native brittany. his brown eyes were veiled with sudden melancholy. 'let us wait here for a moment,' he said. they took two straw-bottomed chairs and sat near the octagonal water which completes with its fountain of cupids the enchanting artificiality of the luxembourg. the sun shone more kindly now, and the trees which framed the scene were golden and lovely. a balustrade of stone gracefully enclosed the space, and the flowers, freshly bedded, were very gay. in one corner they could see the squat, quaint towers of saint sulpice, and on the other side the uneven roofs of the boulevard saint michel. the palace was grey and solid. nurses, some in the white caps of their native province, others with the satin streamers of the _nounou_, marched sedately two by two, wheeling perambulators and talking. brightly dressed children trundled hoops or whipped a stubborn top. as he watched them, dr porhoët's lips broke into a smile, and it was so tender that his thin face, sallow from long exposure to subtropical suns, was transfigured. he no longer struck you merely as an insignificant little man with hollow cheeks and a thin grey beard; for the weariness of expression which was habitual to him vanished before the charming sympathy of his smile. his sunken eyes glittered with a kindly but ironic good-humour. now passed a guard in the romantic cloak of a brigand in comic opera and a peaked cap like that of an _alguacil_. a group of telegraph boys in blue stood round a painter, who was making a sketch--notwithstanding half-frozen fingers. here and there, in baggy corduroys, tight jackets, and wide-brimmed hats, strolled students who might have stepped from the page of murger's immortal romance. but the students now are uneasy with the fear of ridicule, and more often they walk in bowler hats and the neat coats of the _boulevardier_. dr porhoët spoke english fluently, with scarcely a trace of foreign accent, but with an elaboration which suggested that he had learned the language as much from study of the english classics as from conversation. 'and how is miss dauncey?' he asked, turning to his friend. arthur burdon smiled. 'oh, i expect she's all right. i've not seen her today, but i'm going to tea at the studio this afternoon, and we want you to dine with us at the chien noir.' 'i shall be much pleased. but do you not wish to be by yourselves?' 'she met me at the station yesterday, and we dined together. we talked steadily from half past six till midnight.' 'or, rather, she talked and you listened with the delighted attention of a happy lover.' arthur burdon had just arrived in paris. he was a surgeon on the staff of st luke's, and had come ostensibly to study the methods of the french operators; but his real object was certainly to see margaret dauncey. he was furnished with introductions from london surgeons of repute, and had already spent a morning at the hôtel dieu, where the operator, warned that his visitor was a bold and skilful surgeon, whose reputation in england was already considerable, had sought to dazzle him by feats that savoured almost of legerdemain. though the hint of charlatanry in the frenchman's methods had not escaped arthur burdon's shrewd eyes, the audacious sureness of his hand had excited his enthusiasm. during luncheon he talked of nothing else, and dr porhoët, drawing upon his memory, recounted the more extraordinary operations that he had witnessed in egypt. he had known arthur burdon ever since he was born, and indeed had missed being present at his birth only because the khedive ismaïl had summoned him unexpectedly to cairo. but the levantine merchant who was arthur's father had been his most intimate friend, and it was with singular pleasure that dr porhoët saw the young man, on his advice, enter his own profession and achieve a distinction which himself had never won. though too much interested in the characters of the persons whom chance threw in his path to have much ambition on his own behalf, it pleased him to see it in others. he observed with satisfaction the pride which arthur took in his calling and the determination, backed by his confidence and talent, to become a master of his art. dr porhoët knew that a diversity of interests, though it adds charm to a man's personality, tends to weaken him. to excel one's fellows it is needful to be circumscribed. he did not regret, therefore, that arthur in many ways was narrow. letters and the arts meant little to him. nor would he trouble himself with the graceful trivialities which make a man a good talker. in mixed company he was content to listen silently to others, and only something very definite to say could tempt him to join in the general conversation. he worked very hard, operating, dissecting, or lecturing at his hospital, and took pains to read every word, not only in english, but in french and german, which was published concerning his profession. whenever he could snatch a free day he spent it on the golf-links of sunningdale, for he was an eager and a fine player. but at the operating-table arthur was different. he was no longer the awkward man of social intercourse, who was sufficiently conscious of his limitations not to talk of what he did not understand, and sincere enough not to express admiration for what he did not like. then, on the other hand, a singular exhilaration filled him; he was conscious of his power, and he rejoiced in it. no unforeseen accident was able to confuse him. he seemed to have a positive instinct for operating, and his hand and his brain worked in a manner that appeared almost automatic. he never hesitated, and he had no fear of failure. his success had been no less than his courage, and it was plain that soon his reputation with the public would equal that which he had already won with the profession. dr porhoët had been making listless patterns with his stick upon the gravel, and now, with that charming smile of his, turned to arthur. 'i never cease to be astonished at the unexpectedness of human nature,' he remarked. 'it is really very surprising that a man like you should fall so deeply in love with a girl like margaret dauncey.' arthur made no reply, and dr porhoët, fearing that his words might offend, hastened to explain. 'you know as well as i do that i think her a very charming young person. she has beauty and grace and sympathy. but your characters are more different than chalk and cheese. notwithstanding your birth in the east and your boyhood spent amid the very scenes of the thousand and one nights, you are the most matter-of-fact creature i have ever come across.' 'i see no harm in your saying insular,' smiled arthur. 'i confess that i have no imagination and no sense of humour. i am a plain, practical man, but i can see to the end of my nose with extreme clearness. fortunately it is rather a long one.' 'one of my cherished ideas is that it is impossible to love without imagination.' again arthur burdon made no reply, but a curious look came into his eyes as he gazed in front of him. it was the look which might fill the passionate eyes of a mystic when he saw in ecstasy the divine lady of his constant prayers. 'but miss dauncey has none of that narrowness of outlook which, if you forgive my saying so, is perhaps the secret of your strength. she has a delightful enthusiasm for every form of art. beauty really means as much to her as bread and butter to the more soberly-minded. and she takes a passionate interest in the variety of life.' 'it is right that margaret should care for beauty, since there is beauty in every inch of her,' answered arthur. he was too reticent to proceed to any analysis of his feelings; but he knew that he had cared for her first on account of the physical perfection which contrasted so astonishingly with the countless deformities in the study of which his life was spent. but one phrase escaped him almost against his will. 'the first time i saw her i felt as though a new world had opened to my ken.' the divine music of keats's lines rang through arthur's remark, and to the frenchman's mind gave his passion a romantic note that foreboded future tragedy. he sought to dispel the cloud which his fancy had cast upon the most satisfactory of love affairs. 'you are very lucky, my friend. miss margaret admires you as much as you adore her. she is never tired of listening to my prosy stories of your childhood in alexandria, and i'm quite sure that she will make you the most admirable of wives.' 'you can't be more sure than i am,' laughed arthur. he looked upon himself as a happy man. he loved margaret with all his heart, and he was confident in her great affection for him. it was impossible that anything should arise to disturb the pleasant life which they had planned together. his love cast a glamour upon his work, and his work, by contrast, made love the more entrancing. 'we're going to fix the date of our marriage now,' he said. 'i'm buying furniture already.' 'i think only english people could have behaved so oddly as you, in postponing your marriage without reason for two mortal years.' 'you see, margaret was ten when i first saw her, and only seventeen when i asked her to marry me. she thought she had reason to be grateful to me and would have married me there and then. but i knew she hankered after these two years in paris, and i didn't feel it was fair to bind her to me till she had seen at least something of the world. and she seemed hardly ready for marriage, she was growing still.' 'did i not say that you were a matter-of-fact young man?' smiled dr porhoët. 'and it's not as if there had been any doubt about our knowing our minds. we both cared, and we had a long time before us. we could afford to wait.' at that moment a man strolled past them, a big stout fellow, showily dressed in a check suit; and he gravely took off his hat to dr porhoët. the doctor smiled and returned the salute. 'who is your fat friend?' asked arthur. 'that is a compatriot of yours. his name is oliver haddo.' 'art-student?' inquired arthur, with the scornful tone he used when referring to those whose walk in life was not so practical as his own. 'not exactly. i met him a little while ago by chance. when i was getting together the material for my little book on the old alchemists i read a great deal at the library of the arsenal, which, you may have heard, is singularly rich in all works dealing with the occult sciences.' burden's face assumed an expression of amused disdain. he could not understand why dr porhoët occupied his leisure with studies so profitless. he had read his book, recently published, on the more famous of the alchemists; and, though forced to admire the profound knowledge upon which it was based, he could not forgive the waste of time which his friend might have expended more usefully on topics of pressing moment. 'not many people study in that library,' pursued the doctor, 'and i soon knew by sight those who were frequently there. i saw this gentleman every day. he was immersed in strange old books when i arrived early in the morning, and he was reading them still when i left, exhausted. sometimes it happened that he had the volumes i asked for, and i discovered that he was studying the same subjects as myself. his appearance was extraordinary, but scarcely sympathetic; so, though i fancied that he gave me opportunities to address him, i did not avail myself of them. one day, however, curiously enough, i was looking up some point upon which it seemed impossible to find authorities. the librarian could not help me, and i had given up the search, when this person brought me the very book i needed. i surmised that the librarian had told him of my difficulty. i was very grateful to the stranger. we left together that afternoon, and our kindred studies gave us a common topic of conversation. i found that his reading was extraordinarily wide, and he was able to give me information about works which i had never even heard of. he had the advantage over me that he could apparently read, hebrew as well as arabic, and he had studied the kabbalah in the original.' 'and much good it did him, i have no doubt,' said arthur. 'and what is he by profession?' dr porhoët gave a deprecating smile. 'my dear fellow, i hardly like to tell you. i tremble in every limb at the thought of your unmitigated scorn.' 'well?' 'you know, paris is full of queer people. it is the chosen home of every kind of eccentricity. it sounds incredible in this year of grace, but my friend oliver haddo claims to be a magician. i think he is quite serious.' 'silly ass!' answered arthur with emphasis. margaret dauncey shared a flat near the boulevard du montparnasse with susie boyd; and it was to meet her that arthur had arranged to come to tea that afternoon. the young women waited for him in the studio. the kettle was boiling on the stove; cups and _petits fours_ stood in readiness on a model stand. susie looked forward to the meeting with interest. she had heard a good deal of the young man, and knew that the connexion between him and margaret was not lacking in romance. for years susie had led the monotonous life of a mistress in a school for young ladies, and had resigned herself to its dreariness for the rest of her life, when a legacy from a distant relation gave her sufficient income to live modestly upon her means. when margaret, who had been her pupil, came, soon after this, to announce her intention of spending a couple of years in paris to study art, susie willingly agreed to accompany her. since then she had worked industriously at colarossi's academy, by no means under the delusion that she had talent, but merely to amuse herself. she refused to surrender the pleasing notion that her environment was slightly wicked. after the toil of many years it relieved her to be earnest in nothing; and she found infinite satisfaction in watching the lives of those around her. she had a great affection for margaret, and though her own stock of enthusiasms was run low, she could enjoy thoroughly margaret's young enchantment in all that was exquisite. she was a plain woman; but there was no envy in her, and she took the keenest pleasure in margaret's comeliness. it was almost with maternal pride that she watched each year add a new grace to that exceeding beauty. but her common sense was sound, and she took care by good-natured banter to temper the praises which extravagant admirers at the drawing-class lavished upon the handsome girl both for her looks and for her talent. she was proud to think that she would hand over to arthur burdon a woman whose character she had helped to form, and whose loveliness she had cultivated with a delicate care. susie knew, partly from fragments of letters which margaret read to her, partly from her conversation, how passionately he adored his bride; and it pleased her to see that margaret loved him in return with a grateful devotion. the story of this visit to paris touched her imagination. margaret was the daughter of a country barrister, with whom arthur had been in the habit of staying; and when he died, many years after his wife, arthur found himself the girl's guardian and executor. he sent her to school; saw that she had everything she could possibly want; and when, at seventeen, she told him of her wish to go to paris and learn drawing, he at once consented. but though he never sought to assume authority over her, he suggested that she should not live alone, and it was on this account that she went to susie. the preparations for the journey were scarcely made when margaret discovered by chance that her father had died penniless and she had lived ever since at arthur's entire expense. when she went to see him with tears in her eyes, and told him what she knew, arthur was so embarrassed that it was quite absurd. 'but why did you do it?' she asked him. 'why didn't you tell me?' 'i didn't think it fair to put you under any obligation to me, and i wanted you to feel quite free.' she cried. she couldn't help it. 'don't be so silly,' he laughed. 'you owe me nothing at all. i've done very little for you, and what i have done has given me a great deal of pleasure.' 'i don't know how i can ever repay you.' 'oh, don't say that,' he cried. 'it makes it so much harder for me to say what i want to.' she looked at him quickly and reddened. her deep blue eyes were veiled with tears. 'don't you know that i'd do anything in the world for you?' she cried. 'i don't want you to be grateful to me, because i was hoping--i might ask you to marry me some day.' margaret laughed charmingly as she held out her hands. 'you must know that i've been wanting you to do that ever since i was ten.' she was quite willing to give up her idea of paris and be married without delay, but arthur pressed her not to change her plans. at first margaret vowed it was impossible to go, for she knew now that she had no money, and she could not let her lover pay. 'but what does it matter?' he said. 'it'll give me such pleasure to go on with the small allowance i've been making you. after all, i'm pretty well-to-do. my father left me a moderate income, and i'm making a good deal already by operating.' 'yes, but it's different now. i didn't know before. i thought i was spending my own money.' 'if i died tomorrow, every penny i have would be yours. we shall be married in two years, and we've known one another much too long to change our minds. i think that our lives are quite irrevocably united.' margaret wished very much to spend this time in paris, and arthur had made up his mind that in fairness to her they could not marry till she was nineteen. she consulted susie boyd, whose common sense prevented her from paying much heed to romantic notions of false delicacy. 'my dear, you'd take his money without scruple if you'd signed your names in a church vestry, and as there's not the least doubt that you'll marry, i don't see why you shouldn't now. besides, you've got nothing whatever to live on, and you're equally unfitted to be a governess or a typewriter. so it's hobson's choice, and you'd better put your exquisite sentiments in your pocket.' miss boyd, by one accident after another, had never seen arthur, but she had heard so much that she looked upon him already as an old friend. she admired him for his talent and strength of character as much as for his loving tenderness to margaret. she had seen portraits of him, but margaret said he did not photograph well. she had asked if he was good-looking. 'no, i don't think he is,' answered margaret, 'but he's very paintable.' 'that is an answer which has the advantage of sounding well and meaning nothing,' smiled susie. she believed privately that margaret's passion for the arts was a not unamiable pose which would disappear when she was happily married. to have half a dozen children was in her mind much more important than to paint pictures. margaret's gift was by no means despicable, but susie was not convinced that callous masters would have been so enthusiastic if margaret had been as plain and old as herself. miss boyd was thirty. her busy life had not caused the years to pass easily, and she looked older. but she was one of those plain women whose plainness does not matter. a gallant frenchman had to her face called her a _belle laide_, and, far from denying the justness of his observation, she had been almost flattered. her mouth was large, and she had little round bright eyes. her skin was colourless and much disfigured by freckles. her nose was long and thin. but her face was so kindly, her vivacity so attractive, that no one after ten minutes thought of her ugliness. you noticed then that her hair, though sprinkled with white, was pretty, and that her figure was exceedingly neat. she had good hands, very white and admirably formed, which she waved continually in the fervour of her gesticulation. now that her means were adequate she took great pains with her dress, and her clothes, though they cost much more than she could afford, were always beautiful. her taste was so great, her tact so sure, that she was able to make the most of herself. she was determined that if people called her ugly they should be forced in the same breath to confess that she was perfectly gowned. susie's talent for dress was remarkable, and it was due to her influence that margaret was arrayed always in the latest mode. the girl's taste inclined to be artistic, and her sense of colour was apt to run away with her discretion. except for the display of susie's firmness, she would scarcely have resisted her desire to wear nondescript garments of violent hue. but the older woman expressed herself with decision. 'my dear, you won't draw any the worse for wearing a well-made corset, and to surround your body with bands of grey flannel will certainly not increase your talent.' 'but the fashion is so hideous,' smiled margaret. 'fiddlesticks! the fashion is always beautiful. last year it was beautiful to wear a hat like a pork-pie tipped over your nose; and next year, for all i know, it will be beautiful to wear a bonnet like a sitz-bath at the back of your head. art has nothing to do with a smart frock, and whether a high-heeled pointed shoe commends itself or not to the painters in the quarter, it's the only thing in which a woman's foot looks really nice.' susie boyd vowed that she would not live with margaret at all unless she let her see to the buying of her things. 'and when you're married, for heaven's sake ask me to stay with you four times a year, so that i can see after your clothes. you'll never keep your husband's affection if you trust to your own judgment.' miss boyd's reward had come the night before, when margaret, coming home from dinner with arthur, had repeated an observation of his. 'how beautifully you're dressed!' he had said. 'i was rather afraid you'd be wearing art-serges.' 'of course you didn't tell him that i insisted on buying every stitch you'd got on,' cried susie. 'yes, i did,' answered margaret simply. 'i told him i had no taste at all, but that you were responsible for everything.' 'that was the least you could do,' answered miss boyd. but her heart went out to margaret, for the trivial incident showed once more how frank the girl was. she knew quite well that few of her friends, though many took advantage of her matchless taste, would have made such an admission to the lover who congratulated them on the success of their costume. there was a knock at the door, and arthur came in. 'this is the fairy prince,' said margaret, bringing him to her friend. 'i'm glad to see you in order to thank you for all you've done for margaret,' he smiled, taking the proffered hand. susie remarked that he looked upon her with friendliness, but with a certain vacancy, as though too much engrossed in his beloved really to notice anyone else; and she wondered how to make conversation with a man who was so manifestly absorbed. while margaret busied herself with the preparations for tea, his eyes followed her movements with a doglike, touching devotion. they travelled from her smiling mouth to her deft hands. it seemed that he had never seen anything so ravishing as the way in which she bent over the kettle. margaret felt that he was looking at her, and turned round. their eyes met, and they stood for an appreciable time gazing at one another silently. 'don't be a pair of perfect idiots,' cried susie gaily. 'i'm dying for my tea.' the lovers laughed and reddened. it struck arthur that he should say something polite. 'i hope you'll show me your sketches afterwards, miss boyd. margaret says they're awfully good.' 'you really needn't think it in the least necessary to show any interest in me,' she replied bluntly. 'she draws the most delightful caricatures,' said margaret. 'i'll bring you a horror of yourself, which she'll do the moment you leave us.' 'don't be so spiteful, margaret.' miss boyd could not help thinking all the same that arthur burdon would caricature very well. margaret was right when she said that he was not handsome, but his clean-shaven face was full of interest to so passionate an observer of her kind. the lovers were silent, and susie had the conversation to herself. she chattered without pause and had the satisfaction presently of capturing their attention. arthur seemed to become aware of her presence, and laughed heartily at her burlesque account of their fellow-students at colarossi's. meanwhile susie examined him. he was very tall and very thin. his frame had a yorkshireman's solidity, and his bones were massive. he missed being ungainly only through the serenity of his self-reliance. he had high cheek-bones and a long, lean face. his nose and mouth were large, and his skin was sallow. but there were two characteristics which fascinated her, an imposing strength of purpose and a singular capacity for suffering. this was a man who knew his mind and was determined to achieve his desire; it refreshed her vastly after the extreme weakness of the young painters with whom of late she had mostly consorted. but those quick dark eyes were able to express an anguish that was hardly tolerable, and the mobile mouth had a nervous intensity which suggested that he might easily suffer the very agonies of woe. tea was ready, and arthur stood up to receive his cup. 'sit down,' said margaret. 'i'll bring you everything you want, and i know exactly how much sugar to put in. it pleases me to wait on you.' with the grace that marked all her movements she walked cross the studio, the filled cup in one hand and the plate of cakes in the other. to susie it seemed that he was overwhelmed with gratitude by margaret's condescension. his eyes were soft with indescribable tenderness as he took the sweetmeats she gave him. margaret smiled with happy pride. for all her good-nature, susie could not prevent the pang that wrung her heart; for she too was capable of love. there was in her a wealth of passionate affection that none had sought to find. none had ever whispered in her ears the charming nonsense that she read in books. she recognised that she had no beauty to help her, but once she had at least the charm of vivacious youth. that was gone now, and the freedom to go into the world had come too late; yet her instinct told her that she was made to be a decent man's wife and the mother of children. she stopped in the middle of her bright chatter, fearing to trust her voice, but margaret and arthur were too much occupied to notice that she had ceased to speak. they sat side by side and enjoyed the happiness of one another's company. 'what a fool i am!' thought susie. she had learnt long ago that common sense, intelligence, good-nature, and strength of character were unimportant in comparison with a pretty face. she shrugged her shoulders. 'i don't know if you young things realise that it's growing late. if you want us to dine at the chien noir, you must leave us now, so that we can make ourselves tidy.' 'very well,' said arthur, getting up. 'i'll go back to my hotel and have a wash. we'll meet at half-past seven.' when margaret had closed the door on him, she turned to her friend. 'well, what do you think?' she asked, smiling. 'you can't expect me to form a definite opinion of a man whom i've seen for so short a time.' 'nonsense!' said margaret. susie hesitated for a moment. 'i think he has an extraordinarily good face,' she said at last gravely. 'i've never seen a man whose honesty of purpose was so transparent.' susie boyd was so lazy that she could never be induced to occupy herself with household matters and, while margaret put the tea things away, she began to draw the caricature which every new face suggested to her. she made a little sketch of arthur, abnormally lanky, with a colossal nose, with the wings and the bow and arrow of the god of love, but it was not half done before she thought it silly. she tore it up with impatience. when margaret came back, she turned round and looked at her steadily. 'well?' said the girl, smiling under the scrutiny. she stood in the middle of the lofty studio. half-finished canvases leaned with their faces against the wall; pieces of stuff were hung here and there, and photographs of well-known pictures. she had fallen unconsciously into a wonderful pose, and her beauty gave her, notwithstanding her youth, a rare dignity. susie smiled mockingly. 'you look like a greek goddess in a paris frock,' she said. 'what have you to say to me?' asked margaret, divining from the searching look that something was in her friend's mind. susie stood up and went to her. 'you know, before i'd seen him i hoped with all my heart that he'd make you happy. notwithstanding all you'd told me of him, i was afraid. i knew he was much older than you. he was the first man you'd ever known. i could scarcely bear to entrust you to him in case you were miserable.' 'i don't think you need have any fear.' 'but now i hope with all my heart that you'll make him happy. it's not you i'm frightened for now, but him.' margaret did not answer; she could not understand what susie meant. 'i've never seen anyone with such a capacity for wretchedness as that man has. i don't think you can conceive how desperately he might suffer. be very careful, margaret, and be very good to him, for you have the power to make him more unhappy than any human being should be.' 'oh, but i want him to be happy,' cried margaret vehemently. 'you know that i owe everything to him. i'd do all i could to make him happy, even if i had to sacrifice myself. but i can't sacrifice myself, because i love him so much that all i do is pure delight.' her eyes filled with tears and her voice broke. susie, with a little laugh that was half hysterical, kissed her. 'my dear, for heaven's sake don't cry! you know i can't bear people who weep, and if he sees your eyes red, he'll never forgive me.' the chien noir, where susie boyd and margaret generally dined, was the most charming restaurant in the quarter. downstairs was a public room, where all and sundry devoured their food, for the little place had a reputation for good cooking combined with cheapness; and the _patron_, a retired horse-dealer who had taken to victualling in order to build up a business for his son, was a cheery soul whose loud-voiced friendliness attracted custom. but on the first floor was a narrow room, with three tables arranged in a horse-shoe, which was reserved for a small party of english or american painters and a few frenchmen with their wives. at least, they were so nearly wives, and their manner had such a matrimonial respectability, that susie, when first she and margaret were introduced into this society, judged it would be vulgar to turn up her nose. she held that it was prudish to insist upon the conventions of notting hill in the boulevard de montparnasse. the young women who had thrown in their lives with these painters were modest in demeanour and quiet in dress. they were model housewives, who had preserved their self-respect notwithstanding a difficult position, and did not look upon their relation with less seriousness because they had not muttered a few words before _monsieur le maire_. the room was full when arthur burdon entered, but margaret had kept him an empty seat between herself and miss boyd. everyone was speaking at once, in french, at the top of his voice, and a furious argument was proceeding on the merit of the later impressionists. arthur sat down, and was hurriedly introduced to a lanky youth, who sat on the other side of margaret. he was very tall, very thin, very fair. he wore a very high collar and very long hair, and held himself like an exhausted lily. 'he always reminds me of an aubrey beardsley that's been dreadfully smudged,' said susie in an undertone. 'he's a nice, kind creature, but his name is jagson. he has virtue and industry. i haven't seen any of his work, but he has absolutely _no_ talent.' 'how do you know, if you've not seen his pictures?' asked arthur. 'oh, it's one of our conventions here that nobody has talent,' laughed susie. 'we suffer one another personally, but we have no illusions about the value of our neighbour's work.' 'tell me who everyone is.' 'well, look at that little bald man in the corner. that is warren.' arthur looked at the man she pointed out. he was a small person, with a pate as shining as a billiard-ball, and a pointed beard. he had protruding, brilliant eyes. 'hasn't he had too much to drink?' asked arthur frigidly. 'much,' answered susie promptly, 'but he's always in that condition, and the further he gets from sobriety the more charming he is. he's the only man in this room of whom you'll never hear a word of evil. the strange thing is that he's very nearly a great painter. he has the most fascinating sense of colour in the world, and the more intoxicated he is, the more delicate and beautiful is his painting. sometimes, after more than the usual number of _apéritifs_, he will sit down in a café to do a sketch, with his hand so shaky that he can hardly hold a brush; he has to wait for a favourable moment, and then he makes a jab at the panel. and the immoral thing is that each of these little jabs is lovely. he's the most delightful interpreter of paris i know, and when you've seen his sketches--he's done hundreds, of unimaginable grace and feeling and distinction--you can never see paris in the same way again.' the little maid who looked busily after the varied wants of the customers stood in front of them to receive arthur's order. she was a hard-visaged creature of mature age, but she looked neat in her black dress and white cap; and she had a motherly way of attending to these people, with a capacious smile of her large mouth which was full of charm. 'i don't mind what i eat,' said arthur. 'let margaret order my dinner for me.' 'it would have been just as good if i had ordered it,' laughed susie. they began a lively discussion with marie as to the merits of the various dishes, and it was only interrupted by warren's hilarious expostulations. 'marie, i precipitate myself at your feet, and beg you to bring me a _poule au riz_.' 'oh, but give me one moment, _monsieur_,' said the maid. 'do not pay any attention to that gentleman. his morals are detestable, and he only seeks to lead you from the narrow path of virtue.' arthur protested that on the contrary the passion of hunger occupied at that moment his heart to the exclusion of all others. 'marie, you no longer love me,' cried warren. 'there was a time when you did not look so coldly upon me when i ordered a bottle of white wine.' the rest of the party took up his complaint, and all besought her not to show too hard a heart to the bald and rubicund painter. '_mais si, je vous aime, monsieur warren,_' she cried, laughing, '_je vous aime tous, tous._' she ran downstairs, amid the shouts of men and women, to give her orders. 'the other day the chien noir was the scene of a tragedy,' said susie. 'marie broke off relations with her lover, who is a waiter at lavenue's, and would have no reconciliation. he waited till he had a free evening, and then came to the room downstairs and ordered dinner. of course, she was obliged to wait on him, and as she brought him each dish he expostulated with her, and they mingled their tears.' 'she wept in floods,' interrupted a youth with neatly brushed hair and fat nose. 'she wept all over our food, and we ate it salt with tears. we besought her not to yield; except for our encouragement she would have gone back to him; and he beats her.' marie appeared again, with no signs now that so short a while ago romance had played a game with her, and brought the dishes that had been ordered. susie seized once more upon arthur burdon's attention. 'now please look at the man who is sitting next to mr warren.' arthur saw a tall, dark fellow with strongly-marked features, untidy hair, and a ragged black moustache. 'that is mr o'brien, who is an example of the fact that strength of will and an earnest purpose cannot make a painter. he's a failure, and he knows it, and the bitterness has warped his soul. if you listen to him, you'll hear every painter of eminence come under his lash. he can forgive nobody who's successful, and he never acknowledges merit in anyone till he's safely dead and buried.' 'he must be a cheerful companion,' answered arthur. 'and who is the stout old lady by his side, with the flaunting hat?' 'that is the mother of madame rouge, the little palefaced woman sitting next to her. she is the mistress of rouge, who does all the illustrations for _la semaine_. at first it rather tickled me that the old lady should call him _mon gendre_, my son-in-law, and take the irregular union of her daughter with such a noble unconcern for propriety; but now it seems quite natural.' the mother of madame rouge had the remains of beauty, and she sat bolt upright, picking the leg of a chicken with a dignified gesture. arthur looked away quickly, for, catching his eye, she gave him an amorous glance. rouge had more the appearance of a prosperous tradesman than of an artist; but he carried on with o'brien, whose french was perfect, an argument on the merits of cézanne. to one he was a great master and to the other an impudent charlatan. each hotly repeated his opinion, as though the mere fact of saying the same thing several times made it more convincing. 'next to me is madame meyer,' proceeded susie. 'she was a governess in poland, but she was much too pretty to remain one, and now she lives with the landscape painter who is by her side.' arthur's eyes followed her words and rested on a cleanshaven man with a large quantity of grey, curling hair. he had a handsome face of a deliberately aesthetic type and was very elegantly dressed. his manner and his conversation had the flamboyance of the romantic thirties. he talked in flowing periods with an air of finality, and what he said was no less just than obvious. the gay little lady who shared his fortunes listened to his wisdom with an admiration that plainly flattered him. miss boyd had described everyone to arthur except young raggles, who painted still life with a certain amount of skill, and clayson, the american sculptor. raggles stood for rank and fashion at the chien noir. he was very smartly dressed in a horsey way, and he walked with bowlegs, as though he spent most of his time in the saddle. he alone used scented pomade upon his neat smooth hair. his chief distinction was a greatcoat he wore, with a scarlet lining; and warren, whose memory for names was defective, could only recall him by that peculiarity. but it was understood that he knew duchesses in fashionable streets, and occasionally dined with them in solemn splendour. clayson had a vinous nose and a tedious habit of saying brilliant things. with his twinkling eyes, red cheeks, and fair, pointed beard, he looked exactly like a franz hals; but he was dressed like the caricature of a frenchman in a comic paper. he spoke english with a parisian accent. miss boyd was beginning to tear him gaily limb from limb, when the door was flung open, and a large person entered. he threw off his cloak with a dramatic gesture. 'marie, disembarrass me of this coat of frieze. hang my sombrero upon a convenient peg.' he spoke execrable french, but there was a grandiloquence about his vocabulary which set everyone laughing. 'here is somebody i don't know,' said susie. 'but i do, at least, by sight,' answered burdon. he leaned over to dr porhoët who was sitting opposite, quietly eating his dinner and enjoying the nonsense which everyone talked. 'is not that your magician?' 'oliver haddo,' said dr porhoët, with a little nod of amusement. the new arrival stood at the end of the room with all eyes upon him. he threw himself into an attitude of command and remained for a moment perfectly still. 'you look as if you were posing, haddo,' said warren huskily. 'he couldn't help doing that if he tried,' laughed clayson. oliver haddo slowly turned his glance to the painter. 'i grieve to see, o most excellent warren, that the ripe juice of the _aperitif_ has glazed your sparkling eye.' 'do you mean to say i'm drunk, sir?' 'in one gross, but expressive, word, drunk.' the painter grotesquely flung himself back in his chair as though he had been struck a blow, and haddo looked steadily at clayson. 'how often have i explained to you, o clayson, that your deplorable lack of education precludes you from the brilliancy to which you aspire?' for an instant oliver haddo resumed his effective pose; and susie, smiling, looked at him. he was a man of great size, two or three inches more than six feet high; but the most noticeable thing about him was a vast obesity. his paunch was of imposing dimensions. his face was large and fleshy. he had thrown himself into the arrogant attitude of velasquez's portrait of del borro in the museum of berlin; and his countenance bore of set purpose the same contemptuous smile. he advanced and shook hands with dr porhoët. 'hail, brother wizard! i greet in you, if not a master, at least a student not unworthy my esteem.' susie was convulsed with laughter at his pompousness, and he turned to her with the utmost gravity. 'madam, your laughter is more soft in mine ears than the singing of bulbul in a persian garden.' dr porhoët interposed with introductions. the magician bowed solemnly as he was in turn made known to susie boyd, and margaret, and arthur burdon. he held out his hand to the grim irish painter. 'well, my o'brien, have you been mixing as usual the waters of bitterness with the thin claret of bordeaux?' 'why don't you sit down and eat your dinner?' returned the other, gruffly. 'ah, my dear fellow, i wish i could drive the fact into this head of yours that rudeness is not synonymous with wit. i shall not have lived in vain if i teach you in time to realize that the rapier of irony is more effective an instrument than the bludgeon of insolence.' o'brien reddened with anger, but could not at once find a retort, and haddo passed on to that faded, harmless youth who sat next to margaret. 'do my eyes deceive me, or is this the jagson whose name in its inanity is so appropriate to the bearer? i am eager to know if you still devote upon the ungrateful arts talents which were more profitably employed upon haberdashery.' the unlucky creature, thus brutally attacked, blushed feebly without answering, and haddo went on to the frenchman, meyer as more worthy of his mocking. 'i'm afraid my entrance interrupted you in a discourse. was it the celebrated harangue on the greatness of michelangelo, or was it the searching analysis of the art of wagner?' 'we were just going,' said meyer, getting up with a frown. 'i am desolated to lose the pearls of wisdom that habitually fall from your cultivated lips,' returned haddo, as he politely withdrew madame meyer's chair. he sat down with a smile. 'i saw the place was crowded, and with napoleonic instinct decided that i could only make room by insulting somebody. it is cause for congratulation that my gibes, which raggles, a foolish youth, mistakes for wit, have caused the disappearance of a person who lives in open sin; thereby vacating two seats, and allowing me to eat a humble meal with ample room for my elbows.' marie brought him the bill of fare, and he looked at it gravely. 'i will have a vanilla ice, o well-beloved, and a wing of a tender chicken, a fried sole, and some excellent pea-soup.' '_bien, un potage, une sole,_ one chicken, and an ice.' 'but why should you serve them in that order rather than in the order i gave you?' marie and the two frenchwomen who were still in the room broke into exclamations at this extravagance, but oliver haddo waved his fat hand. 'i shall start with the ice, o marie, to cool the passion with which your eyes inflame me, and then without hesitation i will devour the wing of a chicken in order to sustain myself against your smile. i shall then proceed to a fresh sole, and with the pea-soup i will finish a not unsustaining meal.' having succeeded in capturing the attention of everyone in the room, oliver haddo proceeded to eat these dishes in the order he had named. margaret and burdon watched him with scornful eyes, but susie, who was not revolted by the vanity which sought to attract notice, looked at him curiously. he was clearly not old, though his corpulence added to his apparent age. his features were good, his ears small, and his nose delicately shaped. he had big teeth, but they were white and even. his mouth was large, with heavy moist lips. he had the neck of a bullock. his dark, curling hair had retreated from the forehead and temples in such a way as to give his clean-shaven face a disconcerting nudity. the baldness of his crown was vaguely like a tonsure. he had the look of a very wicked, sensual priest. margaret, stealing a glance at him as he ate, on a sudden violently shuddered; he affected her with an uncontrollable dislike. he lifted his eyes slowly, and she looked away, blushing as though she had been taken in some indiscretion. these eyes were the most curious thing about him. they were not large, but an exceedingly pale blue, and they looked at you in a way that was singularly embarrassing. at first susie could not discover in what precisely their peculiarity lay, but in a moment she found out: the eyes of most persons converge when they look at you, but oliver haddo's, naturally or by a habit he had acquired for effect, remained parallel. it gave the impression that he looked straight through you and saw the wall beyond. it was uncanny. but another strange thing about him was the impossibility of telling whether he was serious. there was a mockery in that queer glance, a sardonic smile upon the mouth, which made you hesitate how to take his outrageous utterances. it was irritating to be uncertain whether, while you were laughing at him, he was not really enjoying an elaborate joke at your expense. his presence cast an unusual chill upon the party. the french members got up and left. warren reeled out with o'brien, whose uncouth sarcasms were no match for haddo's bitter gibes. raggles put on his coat with the scarlet lining and went out with the tall jagson, who smarted still under haddo's insolence. the american sculptor paid his bill silently. when he was at the door, haddo stopped him. 'you have modelled lions at the jardin des plantes, my dear clayson. have you ever hunted them on their native plains?' 'no, i haven't.' clayson did not know why haddo asked the question, but he bristled with incipient wrath. 'then you have not seen the jackal, gnawing at a dead antelope, scamper away in terror when the king of beasts stalked down to make his meal.' clayson slammed the door behind him. haddo was left with margaret, and arthur burdon, dr porhoët, and susie. he smiled quietly. 'by the way, are _you_ a lion-hunter?' asked susie flippantly. he turned on her his straight uncanny glance. 'i have no equal with big game. i have shot more lions than any man alive. i think jules gérard, whom the french of the nineteenth century called _le tueur de lions_, may have been fit to compare with me, but i can call to mind no other.' this statement, made with the greatest calm, caused a moment of silence. margaret stared at him with amazement. 'you suffer from no false modesty,' said arthur burdon. 'false modesty is a sign of ill-breeding, from which my birth amply protects me.' dr porhoët looked up with a smile of irony. 'i wish mr haddo would take this opportunity to disclose to us the mystery of his birth and family. i have a suspicion that, like the immortal cagliostro, he was born of unknown but noble parents, and educated secretly in eastern palaces.' 'in my origin i am more to be compared with denis zachaire or with raymond lully. my ancestor, george haddo, came to scotland in the suite of anne of denmark, and when james i, her consort, ascended the english throne, he was granted the estates in staffordshire which i still possess. my family has formed alliances with the most noble blood of england, and the merestons, the parnabys, the hollingtons, have been proud to give their daughters to my house.' 'those are facts which can be verified in works of reference,' said arthur dryly. 'they can,' said oliver. 'and the eastern palaces in which your youth was spent, and the black slaves who waited on you, and the bearded sheikhs who imparted to you secret knowledge?' cried dr porhoët. 'i was educated at eton, and i left oxford in .' 'would you mind telling me at what college you were?' said arthur. 'i was at the house.' 'then you must have been there with frank hurrell.' 'now assistant physician at st luke's hospital. he was one of my most intimate friends.' 'i'll write and ask him about you.' 'i'm dying to know what you did with all the lions you slaughtered,' said susie boyd. the man's effrontery did not exasperate her as it obviously exasperated margaret and arthur. he amused her, and she was anxious to make him talk. 'they decorate the floors of skene, which is the name of my place in staffordshire.' he paused for a moment to light a cigar. 'i am the only man alive who has killed three lions with three successive shots.' 'i should have thought you could have demolished them by the effects of your oratory,' said arthur. oliver leaned back and placed his two large hands on the table. 'burkhardt, a german with whom i was shooting, was down with fever and could not stir from his bed. i was awakened one night by the uneasiness of my oxen, and i heard the roaring of lions close at hand. i took my carbine and came out of my tent. there was only the meagre light of the moon. i walked alone, for i knew natives could be of no use to me. presently i came upon the carcass of an antelope, half-consumed, and i made up my mind to wait for the return of the lions. i hid myself among the boulders twenty paces from the prey. all about me was the immensity of africa and the silence. i waited, motionless, hour after hour, till the dawn was nearly at hand. at last three lions appeared over a rock. i had noticed, the day before, spoor of a lion and two females.' 'may i ask how you could distinguish the sex?' asked arthur, incredulously. 'the prints of a lion's fore feet are disproportionately larger than those of the hind feet. the fore feet and hind feet of the lioness are nearly the same size.' 'pray go on,' said susie. 'they came into full view, and in the dim light, as they stood chest on, they appeared as huge as the strange beasts of the arabian tales. i aimed at the lioness which stood nearest to me and fired. without a sound, like a bullock felled at one blow, she dropped. the lion gave vent to a sonorous roar. hastily i slipped another cartridge in my rifle. then i became conscious that he had seen me. he lowered his head, and his crest was erect. his lifted tail was twitching, his lips were drawn back from the red gums, and i saw his great white fangs. living fire flashed from his eyes, and he growled incessantly. then he advanced a few steps, his head held low; and his eyes were fixed on mine with a look of rage. suddenly he jerked up his tail, and when a lion does this he charges. i got a quick sight on his chest and fired. he reared up on his hind legs, roaring loudly and clawing at the air, and fell back dead. one lioness remained, and through the smoke i saw her spring to her feet and rush towards me. escape was impossible, for behind me were high boulders that i could not climb. she came on with hoarse, coughing grunts, and with desperate courage i fired my remaining barrel. i missed her clean. i took one step backwards in the hope of getting a cartridge into my rifle, and fell, scarcely two lengths in front of the furious beast. she missed me. i owed my safety to that fall. and then suddenly i found that she had collapsed. i had hit her after all. my bullet went clean through her heart, but the spring had carried her forwards. when i scrambled to my feet i found that she was dying. i walked back to my camp and ate a capital breakfast.' oliver haddo's story was received with astonished silence. no one could assert that it was untrue, but he told it with a grandiloquence that carried no conviction. arthur would have wagered a considerable sum that there was no word of truth in it. he had never met a person of this kind before, and could not understand what pleasure there might be in the elaborate invention of improbable adventures. 'you are evidently very brave,' he said. 'to follow a wounded lion into thick cover is probably the most dangerous proceeding in the world,' said haddo calmly. 'it calls for the utmost coolness and for iron nerve.' the answer had an odd effect on arthur. he gave haddo a rapid glance, and was seized suddenly with uncontrollable laughter. he leaned back in his chair and roared. his hilarity affected the others, and they broke into peal upon peal of laughter. oliver watched them gravely. he seemed neither disconcerted nor surprised. when arthur recovered himself, he found haddo's singular eyes fixed on him. 'your laughter reminds me of the crackling of thorns under a pot,' he said. haddo looked round at the others. though his gaze preserved its fixity, his lips broke into a queer, sardonic smile. 'it must be plain even to the feeblest intelligence that a man can only command the elementary spirits if he is without fear. a capricious mind can never rule the sylphs, nor a fickle disposition the undines.' arthur stared at him with amazement. he did not know what on earth the man was talking about. haddo paid no heed. 'but if the adept is active, pliant, and strong, the whole world will be at his command. he will pass through the storm and no rain shall fall upon his head. the wind will not displace a single fold of his garment. he will go through fire and not be burned.' dr porhoët ventured upon an explanation of these cryptic utterances. 'these ladies are unacquainted with the mysterious beings of whom you speak, _cher ami_. they should know that during the middle ages imagination peopled the four elements with intelligences, normally unseen, some of which were friendly to man and others hostile. they were thought to be powerful and conscious of their power, though at the same time they were profoundly aware that they possessed no soul. their life depended upon the continuance of some natural object, and hence for them there could be no immortality. they must return eventually to the abyss of unending night, and the darkness of death afflicted them always. but it was thought that in the same manner as man by his union with god had won a spark of divinity, so might the sylphs, gnomes, undines, and salamanders by an alliance with man partake of his immortality. and many of their women, whose beauty was more than human, gained a human soul by loving one of the race of men. but the reverse occurred also, and often a love-sick youth lost his immortality because he left the haunts of his kind to dwell with the fair, soulless denizens of the running streams or of the forest airs.' 'i didn't know that you spoke figuratively,' said arthur to oliver haddo. the other shrugged his shoulders. 'what else is the world than a figure? life itself is but a symbol. you must be a wise man if you can tell us what is reality.' 'when you begin to talk of magic and mysticism i confess that i am out of my depth.' 'yet magic is no more than the art of employing consciously invisible means to produce visible effects. will, love, and imagination are magic powers that everyone possesses; and whoever knows how to develop them to their fullest extent is a magician. magic has but one dogma, namely, that the seen is the measure of the unseen.' 'will you tell us what the powers are that the adept possesses?' 'they are enumerated in a hebrew manuscript of the sixteenth century, which is in my possession. the privileges of him who holds in his right hand the keys of solomon and in his left the branch of the blossoming almond are twenty-one. he beholds god face to face without dying, and converses intimately with the seven genii who command the celestial army. he is superior to every affliction and to every fear. he reigns with all heaven and is served by all hell. he holds the secret of the resurrection of the dead, and the key of immortality.' 'if you possess even these you have evidently the most varied attainments,' said arthur ironically. 'everyone can make game of the unknown,' retorted haddo, with a shrug of his massive shoulders. arthur did not answer. he looked at haddo curiously. he asked himself whether he believed seriously these preposterous things, or whether he was amusing himself in an elephantine way at their expense. his mariner was earnest, but there was an odd expression about the mouth, a hard twinkle of the eyes, which seemed to belie it. susie was vastly entertained. it diverted her enormously to hear occult matters discussed with apparent gravity in this prosaic tavern. dr porhoët broke the silence. 'arago, after whom has been named a neighbouring boulevard, declared that doubt was a proof of modesty, which has rarely interfered with the progress of science. but one cannot say the same of incredulity, and he that uses the word impossible outside of pure mathematics is lacking in prudence. it should be remembered that lactantius proclaimed belief in the existence of antipodes inane, and saint augustine of hippo added that in any case there could be no question of inhabited lands.' 'that sounds as if you were not quite sceptical, dear doctor,' said miss boyd. 'in my youth i believed nothing, for science had taught me to distrust even the evidence of my five senses,' he replied, with a shrug of the shoulders. 'but i have seen many things in the east which are inexplicable by the known processes of science. mr haddo has given you one definition of magic, and i will give you another. it may be described merely as the intelligent utilization of forces which are unknown, contemned, or misunderstood of the vulgar. the young man who settles in the east sneers at the ideas of magic which surround him, but i know not what there is in the atmosphere that saps his unbelief. when he has sojourned for some years among orientals, he comes insensibly to share the opinion of many sensible men that perhaps there is something in it after all.' arthur burdon made a gesture of impatience. 'i cannot imagine that, however much i lived in eastern countries, i could believe anything that had the whole weight of science against it. if there were a word of truth in anything haddo says, we should be unable to form any reasonable theory of the universe.' 'for a scientific man you argue with singular fatuity,' said haddo icily, and his manner had an offensiveness which was intensely irritating. 'you should be aware that science, dealing only with the general, leaves out of consideration the individual cases that contradict the enormous majority. occasionally the heart is on the right side of the body, but you would not on that account ever put your stethoscope in any other than the usual spot. it is possible that under certain conditions the law of gravity does not apply, yet you will conduct your life under the conviction that it does so invariably. now, there are some of us who choose to deal only with these exceptions to the common run. the dull man who plays at monte carlo puts his money on the colours, and generally black or red turns up; but now and then zero appears, and he loses. but we, who have backed zero all the time, win many times our stake. here and there you will find men whose imagination raises them above the humdrum of mankind. they are willing to lose their all if only they have chance of a great prize. is it nothing not only to know the future, as did the prophets of old, but by making it to force the very gates of the unknown?' suddenly the bantering gravity with which he spoke fell away from him. a singular light came into his eyes, and his voice was hoarse. now at last they saw that he was serious. 'what should you know of that lust for great secrets which consumes me to the bottom of my soul!' 'anyhow, i'm perfectly delighted to meet a magician,' cried susie gaily. 'ah, call me not that,' he said, with a flourish of his fat hands, regaining immediately his portentous flippancy. 'i would be known rather as the brother of the shadow.' 'i should have thought you could be only a very distant relation of anything so unsubstantial,' said arthur, with a laugh. oliver's face turned red with furious anger. his strange blue eyes grew cold with hatred, and he thrust out his scarlet lips till he had the ruthless expression of a nero. the gibe at his obesity had caught him on the raw. susie feared that he would make so insulting a reply that a quarrel must ensure. 'well, really, if we want to go to the fair we must start,' she said quickly. 'and marie is dying to be rid of us.' they got up, and clattered down the stairs into the street. they came down to the busy, narrow street which led into the boulevard du montparnasse. electric trams passed through it with harsh ringing of bells, and people surged along the pavements. the fair to which they were going was held at the lion de belfort, not more than a mile away, and arthur hailed a cab. susie told the driver where they wanted to be set down. she noticed that haddo, who was waiting for them to start, put his hand on the horse's neck. on a sudden, for no apparent reason, it began to tremble. the trembling passed through the body and down its limbs till it shook from head to foot as though it had the staggers. the coachman jumped off his box and held the wretched creature's head. margaret and susie got out. it was a horribly painful sight. the horse seemed not to suffer from actual pain, but from an extraordinary fear. though she knew not why, an idea came to susie. 'take your hand away, mr haddo,' she said sharply. he smiled, and did as she bade him. at the same moment the trembling began to decrease, and in a moment the poor old cab-horse was in its usual state. it seemed a little frightened still, but otherwise recovered. 'i wonder what the deuce was the matter with it,' said arthur. oliver haddo looked at him with the blue eyes that seemed to see right through people, and then, lifting his hat, walked away. susie turned suddenly to dr porhoët. 'do you think he could have made the horse do that? it came immediately he put his hand on its neck, and it stopped as soon as he took it away.' 'nonsense!' said arthur. 'it occurred to me that he was playing some trick,' said dr porhoët gravely. 'an odd thing happened once when he came to see me. i have two persian cats, which are the most properly conducted of all their tribe. they spend their days in front of my fire, meditating on the problems of metaphysics. but as soon as he came in they started up, and their fur stood right on end. then they began to run madly round and round the room, as though the victims of uncontrollable terror. i opened the door, and they bolted out. i have never been able to understand exactly what took place.' margaret shuddered. 'i've never met a man who filled me with such loathing,' she said. 'i don't know what there is about him that frightens me. even now i feel his eyes fixed strangely upon me. i hope i shall never see him again.' arthur gave a little laugh and pressed her hand. she would not let his go, and he felt that she was trembling. personally, he had no doubt about the matter. he would have no trifling with credibility. either haddo believed things that none but a lunatic could, or else he was a charlatan who sought to attract attention by his extravagances. in any case he was contemptible. it was certain, at all events, that neither he nor anyone else could work miracles. 'i'll tell you what i'll do,' said arthur. 'if he really knows frank hurrell i'll find out all about him. i'll drop a note to hurrell tonight and ask him to tell me anything he can.' 'i wish you would,' answered susie, 'because he interests me enormously. there's no place like paris for meeting queer folk. sooner or later you run across persons who believe in everything. there's no form of religion, there's no eccentricity or enormity, that hasn't its votaries. just think what a privilege it is to come upon a man in the twentieth century who honestly believes in the occult.' 'since i have been occupied with these matters, i have come across strange people,' said dr porhoët quietly, 'but i agree with miss boyd that oliver haddo is the most extraordinary. for one thing, it is impossible to know how much he really believes what he says. is he an impostor or a madman? does he deceive himself, or is he laughing up his sleeve at the folly of those who take him seriously? i cannot tell. all i know is that he has travelled widely and is acquainted with many tongues. he has a minute knowledge of alchemical literature, and there is no book i have heard of, dealing with the black arts, which he does not seem to know.' dr porhoët shook his head slowly. 'i should not care to dogmatize about this man. i know i shall outrage the feelings of my friend arthur, but i am bound to confess it would not surprise me to learn that he possessed powers by which he was able to do things seemingly miraculous.' arthur was prevented from answering by their arrival at the lion de belfort. the fair was in full swing. the noise was deafening. steam bands thundered out the popular tunes of the moment, and to their din merry-go-rounds were turning. at the door of booths men vociferously importuned the passers-by to enter. from the shooting saloons came a continual spatter of toy rifles. linking up these sounds, were the voices of the serried crowd that surged along the central avenue, and the shuffle of their myriad feet. the night was lurid with acetylene torches, which flamed with a dull unceasing roar. it was a curious sight, half gay, half sordid. the throng seemed bent with a kind of savagery upon amusement, as though, resentful of the weary round of daily labour, it sought by a desperate effort to be merry. the english party with dr porhoët, mildly ironic, had scarcely entered before they were joined by oliver haddo. he was indifferent to the plain fact that they did not want his company. he attracted attention, for his appearance and his manner were remarkable, and susie noticed that he was pleased to see people point him out to one another. he wore a spanish cloak, the _capa_, and he flung the red and green velvet of its lining gaudily over his shoulder. he had a large soft hat. his height was great, though less noticeable on account of his obesity, and he towered over the puny multitude. they looked idly at the various shows, resisting the melodramas, the circuses, the exhibitions of eccentricity, which loudly clamoured for their custom. presently they came to a man who was cutting silhouettes in black paper, and haddo insisted on posing for him. a little crowd collected and did not spare their jokes at his singular appearance. he threw himself into his favourite attitude of proud command. margaret wished to take the opportunity of leaving him, but miss boyd insisted on staying. 'he's the most ridiculous creature i've ever seen in my life,' she whispered. 'i wouldn't let him out of my sight for worlds.' when the silhouette was done, he presented it with a low bow to margaret. 'i implore your acceptance of the only portrait now in existence of oliver haddo,' he said. 'thank you,' she answered frigidly. she was unwilling to take it, but had not the presence of mind to put him off by a jest, and would not be frankly rude. as though certain she set much store on it, he placed it carefully in an envelope. they walked on and suddenly came to a canvas booth on which was an eastern name. roughly painted on sail-cloth was a picture of an arab charming snakes, and above were certain words in arabic. at the entrance, a native sat cross-legged, listlessly beating a drum. when he saw them stop, he addressed them in bad french. 'does not this remind you of the turbid nile, dr porhoët?' said haddo. 'let us go in and see what the fellow has to show.' dr porhoët stepped forward and addressed the charmer, who brightened on hearing the language of his own country. 'he is an egyptian from assiut,' said the doctor. 'i will buy tickets for you all,' said haddo. he held up the flap that gave access to the booth, and susie went in. margaret and arthur burdon, somewhat against their will, were obliged to follow. the native closed the opening behind them. they found themselves in a dirty little tent, ill-lit by two smoking lamps; a dozen stools were placed in a circle on the bare ground. in one corner sat a fellah woman, motionless, in ample robes of dingy black. her face was hidden by a long veil, which was held in place by a queer ornament of brass in the middle of the forehead, between the eyes. these alone were visible, large and sombre, and the lashes were darkened with kohl: her fingers were brightly stained with henna. she moved slightly as the visitors entered, and the man gave her his drum. she began to rub it with her hands, curiously, and made a droning sound, which was odd and mysterious. there was a peculiar odour in the place, so that dr porhoët was for a moment transported to the evil-smelling streets of cairo. it was an acrid mixture of incense, of attar of roses, with every imaginable putrescence. it choked the two women, and susie asked for a cigarette. the native grinned when he heard the english tongue. he showed a row of sparkling and beautiful teeth. 'my name mohammed,' he said. 'me show serpents to sirdar lord kitchener. wait and see. serpents very poisonous.' he was dressed in a long blue gabardine, more suited to the sunny banks of the nile than to a fair in paris, and its colour could hardly be seen for dirt. on his head was the national tarboosh. a rug lay at one side of the tent, and from under it he took a goatskin sack. he placed it on the ground in the middle of the circle formed by the seats and crouched down on his haunches. margaret shuddered, for the uneven surface of the sack moved strangely. he opened the mouth of it. the woman in the corner listlessly droned away on the drum, and occasionally uttered a barbaric cry. with a leer and a flash of his bright teeth, the arab thrust his hand into the sack and rummaged as a man would rummage in a sack of corn. he drew out a long, writhing snake. he placed it on the ground and for a moment waited, then he passed his hand over it: it became immediately as rigid as a bar of iron. except that the eyes, the cruel eyes, were open still, there might have been no life in it. 'look,' said haddo. 'that is the miracle which moses did before pharaoh.' then the arab took a reed instrument, not unlike the pipe which pan in the hills of greece played to the dryads, and he piped a weird, monotonous tune. the stiffness broke away from the snake suddenly, and it lifted its head and raised its long body till it stood almost on the tip of its tail, and it swayed slowly to and fro. oliver haddo seemed extraordinarily fascinated. he leaned forward with eager face, and his unnatural eyes were fixed on the charmer with an indescribable expression. margaret drew back in terror. 'you need not be frightened,' said arthur. 'these people only work with animals whose fangs have been extracted.' oliver haddo looked at him before answering. he seemed to consider each time what sort of man this was to whom he spoke. 'a man is only a snake-charmer because, without recourse to medicine, he is proof against the fangs of the most venomous serpents.' 'do you think so?' said arthur. 'i saw the most noted charmer of madras die two hours after he had been bitten by a cobra,' said haddo. i had heard many tales of his prowess, and one evening asked a friend to take me to him. he was out when we arrived, but we waited, and presently, accompanied by some friends, he came. we told him what we wanted. he had been at a marriage-feast and was drunk. but he sent for his snakes, and forthwith showed us marvels which this man has never heard of. at last he took a great cobra from his sack and began to handle it. suddenly it darted at his chin and bit him. it made two marks like pin-points. the juggler started back. '"i am a dead man," he said. 'those about him would have killed the cobra, but he prevented them. '"let the creature live," he said. "it may be of service to others of my trade. to me it can be of no other use. nothing can save me." 'his friends and the jugglers, his fellows, gathered round him and placed him in a chair. in two hours he was dead. in his drunkenness he had forgotten a portion of the spell which protected him, and so he died.' 'you have a marvellous collection of tall stories,' said arthur. 'i'm afraid i should want better proof that these particular snakes are poisonous.' oliver turned to the charmer and spoke to him in arabic. then he answered arthur. 'the man has a horned viper, _cerastes_ is the name under which you gentlemen of science know it, and it is the most deadly of all egyptian snakes. it is commonly known as cleopatra's asp, for that is the serpent which was brought in a basket of figs to the paramour of caesar in order that she might not endure the triumph of augustus.' 'what are you going to do?' asked susie. he smiled but did not answer. he stepped forward to the centre of the tent and fell on his knees. he uttered arabic words, which dr. porhoët translated to the others. 'o viper, i adjure you, by the great god who is all-powerful, to come forth. you are but a snake, and god is greater than all snakes. obey my call and come.' a tremor went through the goatskin bag, and in a moment a head was protruded. a lithe body wriggled out. it was a snake of light grey colour, and over each eye was a horn. it lay slightly curled. 'do you recognize it?' said oliver in a low voice to the doctor. 'i do.' the charmer sat motionless, and the woman in the dim background ceased her weird rubbing of the drum. haddo seized the snake and opened its mouth. immediately it fastened on his hand, and the reptile teeth went deep into his flesh. arthur watched him for signs of pain, but he did not wince. the writhing snake dangled from his hand. he repeated a sentence in arabic, and, with the peculiar suddenness of a drop of water falling from a roof, the snake fell to the ground. the blood flowed freely. haddo spat upon the bleeding place three times, muttering words they could not hear, and three times he rubbed the wound with his fingers. the bleeding stopped. he stretched out his hand for arthur to look at. 'that surely is what a surgeon would call healing by first intention,' he said. burdon was astonished, but he was irritated, too, and would not allow that there was anything strange in the cessation of the flowing blood. 'you haven't yet shown that the snake was poisonous.' 'i have not finished yet,' smiled haddo. he spoke again to the egyptian, who gave an order to his wife. without a word she rose to her feet and from a box took a white rabbit. she lifted it up by the ears, and it struggled with its four quaint legs. haddo put it in front of the horned viper. before anyone could have moved, the snake darted forward, and like a flash of lightning struck the rabbit. the wretched little beast gave a slight scream, a shudder went through it, and it fell dead. margaret sprang up with a cry. 'oh, how cruel! how hatefully cruel!' 'are you convinced now?' asked haddo coolly. the two women hurried to the doorway. they were frightened and disgusted. oliver haddo was left alone with the snake-charmer. dr porhoët had asked arthur to bring margaret and miss boyd to see him on sunday at his apartment in the Île saint louis; and the lovers arranged to spend an hour on their way at the louvre. susie, invited to accompany them, preferred independence and her own reflections. to avoid the crowd which throngs the picture galleries on holidays, they went to that part of the museum where ancient sculpture is kept. it was comparatively empty, and the long halls had the singular restfulness of places where works of art are gathered together. margaret was filled with a genuine emotion; and though she could not analyse it, as susie, who loved to dissect her state of mind, would have done, it strangely exhilarated her. her heart was uplifted from the sordidness of earth, and she had a sensation of freedom which was as delightful as it was indescribable. arthur had never troubled himself with art till margaret's enthusiasm taught him that there was a side of life he did not realize. though beauty meant little to his practical nature, he sought, in his great love for margaret, to appreciate the works which excited her to such charming ecstasy. he walked by her side with docility and listened, not without deference, to her outbursts. he admired the correctness of greek anatomy, and there was one statue of an athlete which attracted his prolonged attention, because the muscles were indicated with the precision of a plate in a surgical textbook. when margaret talked of the greeks' divine repose and of their blitheness, he thought it very clever because she said it; but in a man it would have aroused his impatience. yet there was one piece, the charming statue known as _la diane de gabies_, which moved him differently, and to this presently he insisted on going. with a laugh margaret remonstrated, but secretly she was not displeased. she was aware that his passion for this figure was due, not to its intrinsic beauty, but to a likeness he had discovered in it to herself. it stood in that fair wide gallery where is the mocking faun, with his inhuman savour of fellowship with the earth which is divine, and the sightless homer. the goddess had not the arrogance of the huntress who loved endymion, nor the majesty of the cold mistress of the skies. she was in the likeness of a young girl, and with collected gesture fastened her cloak. there was nothing divine in her save a sweet strange spirit of virginity. a lover in ancient greece, who offered sacrifice before this fair image, might forget easily that it was a goddess to whom he knelt, and see only an earthly maid fresh with youth and chastity and loveliness. in arthur's eyes margaret had all the exquisite grace of the statue, and the same unconscious composure; and in her also breathed the spring odours of ineffable purity. her features were chiselled with the clear and divine perfection of this greek girl's; her ears were as delicate and as finely wrought. the colour of her skin was so tender that it reminded you vaguely of all beautiful soft things, the radiance of sunset and the darkness of the night, the heart of roses and the depth of running water. the goddess's hand was raised to her right shoulder, and margaret's hand was as small, as dainty, and as white. 'don't be so foolish,' said she, as arthur looked silently at the statue. he turned his eyes slowly, and they rested upon her. she saw that they were veiled with tears. 'what on earth's the matter?' 'i wish you weren't so beautiful,' he answered, awkwardly, as though he could scarcely bring himself to say such foolish things. 'i'm so afraid that something will happen to prevent us from being happy. it seems too much to expect that i should enjoy such extraordinarily good luck.' she had the imagination to see that it meant much for the practical man so to express himself. love of her drew him out of his character, and, though he could not resist, he resented the effect it had on him. she found nothing to reply, but she took his hand. 'everything has gone pretty well with me so far,' he said, speaking almost to himself. 'whenever i've really wanted anything, i've managed to get it. i don't see why things should go against me now.' he was trying to reassure himself against an instinctive suspicion of the malice of circumstances. but he shook himself and straightened his back. 'it's stupid to be so morbid as that,' he muttered. margaret laughed. they walked out of the gallery and turned to the quay. by crossing the bridge and following the river, they must come eventually to dr. porhoët's house. * * * * * meanwhile susie wandered down the boulevard saint michel, alert with the sunday crowd, to that part of paris which was dearest to her heart. l'Île saint louis to her mind offered a synthesis of the french spirit, and it pleased her far more than the garish boulevards in which the english as a rule seek for the country's fascination. its position on an island in the seine gave it a compact charm. the narrow streets, with their array of dainty comestibles, had the look of streets in a provincial town. they had a quaintness which appealed to the fancy, and they were very restful. the names of the streets recalled the monarchy that passed away in bloodshed, and in _poudre de riz_. the very plane trees had a greater sobriety than elsewhere, as though conscious they stood in a paris where progress was not. in front was the turbid seine, and below, the twin towers of notre dame. susie could have kissed the hard paving stones of the quay. her good-natured, plain face lit up as she realized the delight of the scene upon which her eyes rested; and it was with a little pang, her mind aglow with characters and events from history and from fiction, that she turned away to enter dr porhoët's house. she was pleased that the approach did not clash with her fantasies. she mounted a broad staircase, dark but roomy, and, at the command of the _concierge_, rang a tinkling bell at one of the doorways that faced her. dr porhoët opened in person.. 'arthur and mademoiselle are already here,' he said, as he led her in. they went through a prim french dining-room, with much woodwork and heavy scarlet hangings, to the library. this was a large room, but the bookcases that lined the walls, and a large writing-table heaped up with books, much diminished its size. there were books everywhere. they were stacked on the floor and piled on every chair. there was hardly space to move. susie gave a cry of delight. 'now you mustn't talk to me. i want to look at all your books.' 'you could not please me more,' said dr porhoët, 'but i am afraid they will disappoint you. they are of many sorts, but i fear there are few that will interest an english young lady.' he looked about his writing-table till he found a packet of cigarettes. he gravely offered one to each of his guests. susie was enchanted with the strange musty smell of the old books, and she took a first glance at them in general. for the most part they were in paper bindings, some of them neat enough, but more with broken backs and dingy edges; they were set along the shelves in serried rows, untidily, without method or plan. there were many older ones also in bindings of calf and pigskin, treasure from half the bookshops in europe; and there were huge folios like prussian grenadiers; and tiny elzevirs, which had been read by patrician ladies in venice. just as arthur was a different man in the operating theatre, dr porhoët was changed among his books. though he preserved the amiable serenity which made him always so attractive, he had there a diverting brusqueness of demeanour which contrasted quaintly with his usual calm. 'i was telling these young people, when you came in, of an ancient korân which i was given in alexandria by a learned man whom i operated upon for cataract.' he showed her a beautifully-written arabic work, with wonderful capitals and headlines in gold. 'you know that it is almost impossible for an infidel to acquire the holy book, and this is a particularly rare copy, for it was written by kaït bey, the greatest of the mameluke sultans.' he handled the delicate pages as a lover of flowers would handle rose-leaves. 'and have you much literature on the occult sciences?' asked susie. dr porhoët smiled. 'i venture to think that no private library contains so complete a collection, but i dare not show it to you in the presence of our friend arthur. he is too polite to accuse me of foolishness, but his sarcastic smile would betray him.' susie went to the shelves to which he vaguely waved, and looked with a peculiar excitement at the mysterious array. she ran her eyes along the names. it seemed to her that she was entering upon an unknown region of romance. she felt like an adventurous princess who rode on her palfrey into a forest of great bare trees and mystic silences, where wan, unearthly shapes pressed upon her way. 'i thought once of writing a life of that fantastic and grandiloquent creature, philippus aureolus theophrastus paracelsus bombast von hohenheim,' said dr porhoët, 'and i have collected many of his books.' he took down a slim volume in duodecimo, printed in the seventeenth century, with queer plates, on which were all manner of cabbalistic signs. the pages had a peculiar, musty odour. they were stained with iron-mould. 'here is one of the most interesting works concerning the black art. it is the _grimoire of honorius_, and is the principal text-book of all those who deal in the darkest ways of the science.' then he pointed out the _hexameron_ of torquemada and the _tableau de l'inconstance des démons_, by delancre; he drew his finger down the leather back of delrio's _disquisitiones magicae_ and set upright the _pseudomonarchia daemonorum_ of wierus; his eyes rested for an instant on hauber's _acta et scripta magica_, and he blew the dust carefully off the most famous, the most infamous, of them all, sprenger's _malleus malefikorum_. 'here is one of my greatest treasures. it is the _clavicula salomonis_; and i have much reason to believe that it is the identical copy which belonged to the greatest adventurer of the eighteenth century, jacques casanova. you will see that the owner's name had been cut out, but enough remains to indicate the bottom of the letters; and these correspond exactly with the signature of casanova which i have found at the bibliothéque nationale. he relates in his memoirs that a copy of this book was seized among his effects when he was arrested in venice for traffic in the black arts; and it was there, on one of my journeys from alexandria, that i picked it up.' he replaced the precious work, and his eye fell on a stout volume bound in vellum. 'i had almost forgotten the most wonderful, the most mysterious, of all the books that treat of occult science. you have heard of the kabbalah, but i doubt if it is more than a name to you.' 'i know nothing about it at all,' laughed susie, 'except that it's all very romantic and extraordinary and ridiculous.' 'this, then, is its history. moses, who was learned in all the wisdom of egypt, was first initiated into the kabbalah in the land of his birth; but became most proficient in it during his wanderings in the wilderness. here he not only devoted the leisure hours of forty years to this mysterious science, but received lessons in it from an obliging angel. by aid of it he was able to solve the difficulties which arose during his management of the israelites, notwithstanding the pilgrimages, wars, and miseries of that most unruly nation. he covertly laid down the principles of the doctrine in the first four books of the pentateuch, but withheld them from deuteronomy. moses also initiated the seventy elders into these secrets, and they in turn transmitted them from hand to hand. of all who formed the unbroken line of tradition, david and solomon were the most deeply learned in the kabbalah. no one, however, dared to write it down till schimeon ben jochai, who lived in the time of the destruction of jerusalem; and after his death the rabbi eleazar, his son, and the rabbi abba, his secretary, collected his manuscripts and from them composed the celebrated treatise called _zohar_.' 'and how much do you believe of this marvellous story?' asked arthur burdon. 'not a word,' answered dr porhoët, with a smile. 'criticism has shown that _zohar_ is of modern origin. with singular effrontery, it cites an author who is known to have lived during the eleventh century, mentions the crusades, and records events which occurred in the year of our lord . it was some time before that copies of _zohar_ began to be circulated by a spanish jew named moses de leon, who claimed to possess an autograph manuscript by the reputed author schimeon ben jochai. but when moses de leon was gathered to the bosom of his father abraham, a wealthy hebrew, joseph de avila, promised the scribe's widow, who had been left destitute, that his son should marry her daughter, to whom he would pay a handsome dowry, if she would give him the original manuscript from which these copies were made. but the widow (one can imagine with what gnashing of teeth) was obliged to confess that she had no such manuscript, for moses de leon had composed _zohar_ out of his own head, and written it with his own right hand.' arthur got up to stretch his legs. he gave a laugh. 'i never know how much you really believe of all these things you tell us. you speak with such gravity that we are all taken in, and then it turns out that you've been laughing at us.' 'my dear friend, i never know myself how much i believe,' returned dr porhoët. 'i wonder if it is for the same reason that mr haddo puzzles us so much,' said susie. 'ah, there you have a case that is really interesting,' replied the doctor. 'i assure you that, though i know him fairly intimately, i have never been able to make up my mind whether he is an elaborate practical joker, or whether he is really convinced he has the wonderful powers to which he lays claim.' 'we certainly saw things last night that were not quite normal,' said susie. 'why had that serpent no effect on him though it was able to kill the rabbit instantaneously? and how are you going to explain the violent trembling of that horse, mr. burdon?' 'i can't explain it,' answered arthur, irritably, 'but i'm not inclined to attribute to the supernatural everything that i can't immediately understand.' 'i don't know what there is about him that excites in me a sort of horror,' said margaret. 'i've never taken such a sudden dislike to anyone.' she was too reticent to say all she felt, but she had been strangely affected last night by the recollection of haddo's words and of his acts. she had awakened more than once from a nightmare in which he assumed fantastic and ghastly shapes. his mocking voice rang in her ears, and she seemed still to see that vast bulk and the savage, sensual face. it was like a spirit of evil in her path, and she was curiously alarmed. only her reliance on arthur's common sense prevented her from giving way to ridiculous terrors. 'i've written to frank hurrell and asked him to tell me all he knows about him,' said arthur. 'i should get an answer very soon.' 'i wish we'd never come across him,' cried margaret vehemently. 'i feel that he will bring us misfortune.' 'you're all of you absurdly prejudiced,' answered susie gaily. 'he interests me enormously, and i mean to ask him to tea at the studio.' 'i'm sure i shall be delighted to come.' margaret cried out, for she recognized oliver haddo's deep bantering tones; and she turned round quickly. they were all so taken aback that for a moment no one spoke. they were gathered round the window and had not heard him come in. they wondered guiltily how long he had been there and how much he had heard. 'how on earth did you get here?' cried susie lightly, recovering herself first. 'no well-bred sorcerer is so dead to the finer feelings as to enter a room by the door,' he answered, with his puzzling smile. 'you were standing round the window, and i thought it would startle you if i chose that mode of ingress, so i descended with incredible skill down the chimney.' 'i see a little soot on your left elbow,' returned susie. 'i hope you weren't at all burned.' 'not at all, thanks,' he answered, gravely brushing his coat. 'in whatever way you came, you are very welcome,' said dr porhoët, genially holding out his hand. but arthur impatiently turned to his host. 'i wish i knew what made you engage upon these studies,' he said. 'i should have thought your medical profession protected you from any tenderness towards superstition.' dr porhoët shrugged his shoulders. 'i have always been interested in the oddities of mankind. at one time i read a good deal of philosophy and a good deal of science, and i learned in that way that nothing was certain. some people, by the pursuit of science, are impressed with the dignity of man, but i was only made conscious of his insignificance. the greatest questions of all have been threshed out since he acquired the beginnings of civilization and he is as far from a solution as ever. man can know nothing, for his senses are his only means of knowledge, and they can give no certainty. there is only one subject upon which the individual can speak with authority, and that is his own mind, but even here he is surrounded with darkness. i believe that we shall always be ignorant of the matters which it most behoves us to know, and therefore i cannot occupy myself with them. i prefer to set them all aside, and, since knowledge is unattainable, to occupy myself only with folly.' 'it is a point of view i do not sympathize with,' said arthur. 'yet i cannot be sure that it is all folly,' pursued the frenchman reflectively. he looked at arthur with a certain ironic gravity. 'do you believe that i should lie to you when i promised to speak the truth?' 'certainly not.' 'i should like to tell you of an experience that i once had in alexandria. so far as i can see, it can be explained by none of the principles known to science. i ask you only to believe that i am not consciously deceiving you.' he spoke with a seriousness which gave authority to his words. it was plain, even to arthur, that he narrated the event exactly as it occurred. 'i had heard frequently of a certain shiekh who was able by means of a magic mirror to show the inquirer persons who were absent or dead, and a native friend of mine had often begged me to see him. i had never thought it worth while, but at last a time came when i was greatly troubled in my mind. my poor mother was an old woman, a widow, and i had received no news of her for many weeks. though i wrote repeatedly, no answer reached me. i was very anxious and very unhappy. i thought no harm could come if i sent for the sorcerer, and perhaps after all he had the power which was attributed to him. my friend, who was interpreter to the french consulate, brought him to me one evening. he was a fine man, tall and stout, of a fair complexion, but with a dark brown beard. he was shabbily dressed, and, being a descendant of the prophet, wore a green turban. in his conversation he was affable and unaffected. i asked him what persons could see in the magic mirror, and he said they were a boy not arrived at puberty, a virgin, a black female slave, and a pregnant woman. in order to make sure that there was no collusion, i despatched my servant to an intimate friend and asked him to send me his son. while we waited, i prepared by the magician's direction frankincense and coriander-seed, and a chafing-dish with live charcoal. meanwhile, he wrote forms of invocation on six strips of paper. when the boy arrived, the sorcerer threw incense and one of the paper strips into the chafing-dish, then took the boy's right hand and drew a square and certain mystical marks on the palm. in the centre of the square he poured a little ink. this formed the magic mirror. he desired the boy to look steadily into it without raising his head. the fumes of the incense filled the room with smoke. the sorcerer muttered arabic words, indistinctly, and this he continued to do all the time except when he asked the boy a question. '"do you see anything in the ink?" he said. '"no," the boy answered. 'but a minute later, he began to tremble and seemed very much frightened. '"i see a man sweeping the ground," he said. '"when he has done sweeping, tell me," said the sheikh. '"he has done," said the boy. 'the sorcerer turned to me and asked who it was that i wished the boy should see. '"i desire to see the widow jeanne-marie porhoët." 'the magician put the second and third of the small strips of paper into the chafing-dish, and fresh frankincense was added. the fumes were painful to my eyes. the boy began to speak. '"i see an old woman lying on a bed. she has a black dress, and on her head is a little white cap. she has a wrinkled face and her eyes are closed. there is a band tied round her chin. the bed is in a sort of hole, in the wall, and there are shutters to it." the boy was describing a breton bed, and the white cap was the _coiffe_ that my mother wore. and if she lay there in her black dress, with a band about her chin, i knew that it could mean but one thing. '"what else does he see?" i asked the sorcerer. 'he repeated my question, and presently the boy spoke again. '"i see four men come in with a long box. and there are women crying. they all wear little white caps and black dresses. and i see a man in a white surplice, with a large cross in his hands, and a little boy in a long red gown. and the men take off their hats. and now everyone is kneeling down." '"i will hear no more," i said. "it is enough." 'i knew that my mother was dead. 'in a little while, i received a letter from the priest of the village in which she lived. they had buried her on the very day upon which the boy had seen this sight in the mirror of ink.' dr porhoët passed his hand across his eyes, and for a little while there was silence. 'what have you to say to that?' asked oliver haddo, at last. 'nothing,' answered arthur. haddo looked at him for a minute with those queer eyes of his which seemed to stare at the wall behind. 'have you ever heard of eliphas levi?' he inquired. 'he is the most celebrated occultist of recent years. he is thought to have known more of the mysteries than any adept since the divine paracelsus.' 'i met him once,' interrupted dr porhoët. 'you never saw a man who looked less like a magician. his face beamed with good-nature, and he wore a long grey beard, which covered nearly the whole of his breast. he was of a short and very corpulent figure.' 'the practice of black arts evidently disposes to obesity,' said arthur, icily. susie noticed that this time oliver haddo made no sign that the taunt moved him. his unwinking, straight eyes remained upon arthur without expression. 'levi's real name was alphonse-louis constant, but he adopted that under which he is generally known for reasons that are plain to the romantic mind. his father was a bootmaker. he was destined for the priesthood, but fell in love with a damsel fair and married her. the union was unhappy. a fate befell him which has been the lot of greater men than he, and his wife presently abandoned the marital roof with her lover. to console himself he began to make serious researches in the occult, and in due course published a vast number of mystical works dealing with magic in all its branches.' 'i'm sure mr haddo was going to tell us something very interesting about him,' said susie. 'i wished merely to give you his account of how he raised the spirit of apollonius of tyana in london.' susie settled herself more comfortably in her chair and lit a cigarette. 'he went there in the spring of to escape from internal disquietude and to devote himself without distraction to his studies. he had letters of introduction to various persons of distinction who concerned themselves with the supernatural, but, finding them trivial and indifferent, he immersed himself in the study of the supreme kabbalah. one day, on returning to his hotel, he found a note in his room. it contained half a card, transversely divided, on which he at once recognized the character of solomon's seal, and a tiny slip of paper on which was written in pencil: _the other half of this card will be given you at three o'clock tomorrow in front of westminster abbey_. next day, going to the appointed spot, with his portion of the card in his hand, he found a baronial equipage waiting for him. a footman approached, and, making a sign to him, opened the carriage door. within was a lady in black satin, whose face was concealed by a thick veil. she motioned him to a seat beside her, and at the same time displayed the other part of the card he had received. the door was shut, and the carriage rolled away. when the lady raised her veil, eliphas levi saw that she was of mature age; and beneath her grey eyebrows were bright black eyes of preternatural fixity.' susie boyd clapped her hands with delight. 'i think it's delicious, and i'm sure every word of it is true,' she cried. 'i'm enchanted with the mysterious meeting at westminster abbey in the mid-victorian era. can't you see the elderly lady in a huge crinoline and a black poke bonnet, and the wizard in a ridiculous hat, a bottle-green frock-coat, and a flowing tie of black silk?' 'eliphas remarks that the lady spoke french with a marked english accent,' pursued haddo imperturbably. 'she addressed him as follows: "sir, i am aware that the law of secrecy is rigorous among adepts; and i know that you have been asked for phenomena, but have declined to gratify a frivolous curiosity. it is possible that you do not possess the necessary materials. i can show you a complete magical cabinet, but i must require of you first the most inviolable silence. if you do not guarantee this on your honour, i will give the order for you to be driven home."' oliver haddo told his story not ineffectively, but with a comic gravity that prevented one from knowing exactly how to take it. 'having given the required promise eliphas levi was shown a collection of vestments and of magical instruments. the lady lent him certain books of which he was in need; and at last, as a result of many conversations, determined him to attempt at her house the experience of a complete evocation. he prepared himself for twenty-one days, scrupulously observing the rules laid down by the ritual. at length everything was ready. it was proposed to call forth the phantom of the divine apollonius, and to question it upon two matters, one of which concerned eliphas levi and the other, the lady of the crinoline. she had at first counted on assisting at the evocation with a trustworthy person, but at the last moment her friend drew back; and as the triad or unity is rigorously prescribed in magical rites, eliphas was left alone. the cabinet prepared for the experiment was situated in a turret. four concave mirrors were hung within it, and there was an altar of white marble, surrounded by a chain of magnetic iron. on it was engraved the sign of the pentagram, and this symbol was drawn on the new, white sheepskin which was stretched beneath. a copper brazier stood on the altar, with charcoal of alder and of laurel wood, and in front a second brazier was placed upon a tripod. eliphas levi was clothed in a white robe, longer and more ample than the surplice of a priest, and he wore upon his head a chaplet of vervain leaves entwined about a golden chain. in one hand he held a new sword and in the other the ritual.' susie's passion for caricature at once asserted itself, and she laughed as she saw in fancy the portly little frenchman, with his round, red face, thus wonderfully attired. 'he set alight the two fires with the prepared materials, and began, at first in a low voice, but rising by degrees, the invocations of the ritual. the flames invested every object with a wavering light. presently they went out. he set more twigs and perfumes on the brazier, and when the flame started up once more, he saw distinctly before the altar a human figure larger than life, which dissolved and disappeared. he began the invocations again and placed himself in a circle, which he had already traced between the altar and the tripod. then the depth of the mirror which was in front of him grew brighter by degrees, and a pale form arose, and it seemed gradually to approach. he closed his eyes, and called three times upon apollonius. when he opened them, a man stood before him, wholly enveloped in a winding sheet, which seemed more grey than black. his form was lean, melancholy, and beardless. eliphas felt an intense cold, and when he sought to ask his questions found it impossible to speak. thereupon, he placed his hand on the pentagram, and directed the point of his sword toward the figure, adjuring it mentally by that sign not to terrify, but to obey him. the form suddenly grew indistinct and soon it strangely vanished. he commanded it to return, and then felt, as it were, an air pass by him; and, something having touched the hand which held the sword, his arm was immediately benumbed as far as the shoulder. he supposed that the weapon displeased the spirit, and set it down within the circle. the human figure at once reappeared, but eliphas experienced such a sudden exhaustion in all his limbs that he was obliged to sit down. he fell into a deep coma, and dreamed strange dreams. but of these, when he recovered, only a vague memory remained to him. his arm continued for several days to be numb and painful. the figure had not spoken, but it seemed to eliphas levi that the questions were answered in his own mind. for to each an inner voice replied with one grim word: dead.' 'your friend seems to have had as little fear of spooks as you have of lions,' said burdon. 'to my thinking it is plain that all these preparations, and the perfumes, the mirrors, the pentagrams, must have the greatest effect on the imagination. my only surprise is that your magician saw no more.' 'eliphas levi talked to me himself of this evocation,' said dr porhoët. 'he told me that its influence on him was very great. he was no longer the same man, for it seemed to him that something from the world beyond had passed into his soul.' 'i am astonished that you should never have tried such an interesting experiment yourself,' said arthur to oliver haddo. 'i have,' answered the other calmly. 'my father lost his power of speech shortly before he died, and it was plain that he sought with all his might to tell me something. a year after his death, i called up his phantom from the grave so that i might learn what i took to be a dying wish. the circumstances of the apparition are so similar to those i have just told you that it would only bore you if i repeated them. the only difference was that my father actually spoke.' 'what did he say?' asked susie. 'he said solemnly: "_buy ashantis, they are bound to go up._" 'i did as he told me; but my father was always unlucky in speculation, and they went down steadily. i sold out at considerable loss, and concluded that in the world beyond they are as ignorant of the tendency of the stock exchange as we are in this vale of sorrow.' susie could not help laughing. but arthur shrugged his shoulders impatiently. it disturbed his practical mind never to be certain if haddo was serious, or if, as now, he was plainly making game of them. two days later, arthur received frank hurrell's answer to his letter. it was characteristic of frank that he should take such pains to reply at length to the inquiry, and it was clear that he had lost none of his old interest in odd personalities. he analysed oliver haddo's character with the patience of a scientific man studying a new species in which he is passionately concerned. my dear burdon: it is singular that you should write just now to ask what i know of oliver haddo, since by chance i met the other night at dinner at queen anne's gate a man who had much to tell me of him. i am curious to know why he excites your interest, for i am sure his peculiarities make him repugnant to a person of your robust common sense. i can with difficulty imagine two men less capable of getting on together. though i have not seen haddo now for years, i can tell you, in one way and another, a good deal about him. he erred when he described me as his intimate friend. it is true that at one time i saw much of him, but i never ceased cordially to dislike him. he came up to oxford from eton with a reputation for athletics and eccentricity. but you know that there is nothing that arouses the ill-will of boys more than the latter, and he achieved an unpopularity which was remarkable. it turned out that he played football admirably, and except for his rather scornful indolence he might easily have got his blue. he sneered at the popular enthusiasm for games, and was used to say that cricket was all very well for boys but not fit for the pastime of men. (he was then eighteen!) he talked grandiloquently of big-game shooting and of mountain climbing as sports which demanded courage and self-reliance. he seemed, indeed, to like football, but he played it with a brutal savagery which the other persons concerned naturally resented. it became current opinion in other pursuits that he did not play the game. he did nothing that was manifestly unfair, but was capable of taking advantages which most people would have thought mean; and he made defeat more hard to bear because he exulted over the vanquished with the coarse banter that youths find so difficult to endure. what you would hardly believe is that, when he first came up, he was a person of great physical attractions. he is now grown fat, but in those days was extremely handsome. he reminded one of those colossal statues of apollo in which the god is represented with a feminine roundness and delicacy. he was very tall and had a magnificent figure. it was so well-formed for his age that one might have foretold his precious corpulence. he held himself with a dashing erectness. many called it an insolent swagger. his features were regular and fine. he had a great quantity of curling hair, which was worn long, with a sort of poetic grace: i am told that now he is very bald; and i can imagine that this must be a great blow to him, for he was always exceedingly vain. i remember a peculiarity of his eyes, which could scarcely have been natural, but how it was acquired i do not know. the eyes of most people converge upon the object at which they look, but his remained parallel. it gave them a singular expression, as though he were scrutinising the inmost thought of the person with whom he talked. he was notorious also for the extravagance of his costume, but, unlike the aesthetes of that day, who clothed themselves with artistic carelessness, he had a taste for outrageous colours. sometimes, by a queer freak, he dressed himself at unseasonable moments with excessive formality. he is the only undergraduate i have ever seen walk down the high in a tall hat and a closely-buttoned frock-coat. i have told you he was very unpopular, but it was not an unpopularity of the sort which ignores a man and leaves him chiefly to his own society. haddo knew everybody and was to be found in the most unlikely places. though people disliked him, they showed a curious pleasure in his company, and he was probably entertained more than any man in oxford. i never saw him but he was surrounded by a little crowd, who abused him behind his back, but could not resist his fascination. i often tried to analyse this, for i felt it as much as anyone, and though i honestly could not bear him, i could never resist going to see him whenever opportunity arose. i suppose he offered the charm of the unexpected to that mass of undergraduates who, for all their matter-of-fact breeziness, are curiously alive to the romantic. it was impossible to tell what he would do or say next, and you were kept perpetually on the alert. he was certainly not witty, but he had a coarse humour which excited the rather gross sense of the ludicrous possessed by the young. he had a gift for caricature which was really diverting, and an imperturbable assurance. he had also an ingenious talent for profanity, and his inventiveness in this particular was a power among youths whose imaginations stopped at the commoner sorts of bad language. i have heard him preach a sermon of the most blasphemous sort in the very accents of the late dean of christ church, which outraged and at the same time irresistibly amused everyone who heard it. he had a more varied knowledge than the greater part of undergraduates, and, having at the same time a retentive memory and considerable quickness, he was able to assume an attitude of omniscience which was as impressive as it was irritating. i have never heard him confess that he had not read a book. often, when i tried to catch him, he confounded me by quoting the identical words of a passage in some work which i could have sworn he had never set eyes on. i daresay it was due only to some juggling, like the conjuror's sleight of hand that apparently lets you choose a card, but in fact forces one on you; and he brought the conversation round cleverly to a point when it was obvious i should mention a definite book. he talked very well, with an entertaining flow of rather pompous language which made the amusing things he said particularly funny. his passion for euphuism contrasted strikingly with the simple speech of those with whom he consorted. it certainly added authority to what he said. he was proud of his family and never hesitated to tell the curious of his distinguished descent. unless he has much altered, you will already have heard of his relationship with various noble houses. he is, in fact, nearly connected with persons of importance, and his ancestry is no less distinguished than he asserts. his father is dead, and he owns a place in staffordshire which is almost historic. i have seen photographs of it, and it is certainly very fine. his forebears have been noted in the history of england since the days of the courtier who accompanied anne of denmark to scotland, and, if he is proud of his stock, it is not without cause. so he passed his time at oxford, cordially disliked, at the same time respected and mistrusted; he had the reputation of a liar and a rogue, but it could not be denied that he had considerable influence over others. he amused, angered, irritated, and interested everyone with whom he came in contact. there was always something mysterious about him, and he loved to wrap himself in a romantic impenetrability. though he knew so many people, no one knew him, and to the end he remained a stranger in our midst. a legend grew up around him, which he fostered sedulously, and it was reported that he had secret vices which could only be whispered with bated breath. he was said to intoxicate himself with oriental drugs, and to haunt the vilest opium-dens in the east of london. he kept the greatest surprise for the last, since, though he was never seen to work, he managed, to the universal surprise, to get a first. he went down, and to the best of my belief was never seen in oxford again. i have heard vaguely that he was travelling over the world, and, when i met in town now and then some of the fellows who had known him at the 'varsity, weird rumours reached me. one told me that he was tramping across america, earning his living as he went; another asserted that he had been seen in a monastry in india; a third assured me that he had married a ballet-girl in milan; and someone else was positive that he had taken to drink. one opinion, however, was common to all my informants, and this was that he did something out of the common. it was clear that he was not the man to settle down to the tame life of a country gentleman which his position and fortune indicated. at last i met him one day in piccadilly, and we dined together at the savoy. i hardly recognized him, for he was become enormously stout, and his hair had already grown thin. though he could not have been more than twenty-five, he looked considerably older. i tried to find out what he had been up to, but, with the air of mystery he affects, he would go into no details. he gave me to understand that he had sojourned in lands where the white man had never been before, and had learnt esoteric secrets which overthrew the foundations of modern science. it seemed to me that he had coarsened in mind as well as in appearance. i do not know if it was due to my own development since the old days at oxford, and to my greater knowledge of the world, but he did not seem to me so brilliant as i remembered. his facile banter was rather stupid. in fact he bored me. the pose which had seemed amusing in a lad fresh from eton now was intolerable, and i was glad to leave him. it was characteristic that, after asking me to dinner, he left me in a lordly way to pay the bill. then i heard nothing of him till the other day, when our friend miss ley asked me to meet at dinner the german explorer burkhardt. i dare say you remember that burkhardt brought out a book a little while ago on his adventures in central asia. i knew that oliver haddo was his companion in that journey and had meant to read it on this account, but, having been excessively busy, had omitted to do so. i took the opportunity to ask the german about our common acquaintance, and we had a long talk. burkhardt had met him by chance at mombasa in east africa, where he was arranging an expedition after big game, and they agreed to go together. he told me that haddo was a marvellous shot and a hunter of exceptional ability. burkhardt had been rather suspicious of a man who boasted so much of his attainments, but was obliged soon to confess that he boasted of nothing unjustly. haddo has had an extraordinary experience, the truth of which burkhardt can vouch for. he went out alone one night on the trail of three lions and killed them all before morning with one shot each. i know nothing of these things, but from the way in which burkhardt spoke, i judge it must be a unique occurrence. but, characteristically enough, no one was more conscious than haddo of the singularity of his feat, and he made life almost insufferable for his fellow-traveller in consequence. burkhardt assures me that haddo is really remarkable in pursuit of big game. he has a sort of instinct which leads him to the most unlikely places, and a wonderful feeling for country, whereby he can cut across, and head off animals whose spoor he has noticed. his courage is very great. to follow a wounded lion into thick cover is the most dangerous proceeding in the world, and demands the utmost coolness. the animal invariably sees the sportsman before he sees it, and in most cases charges. but haddo never hesitated on these occasions, and burkhardt could only express entire admiration for his pluck. it appears that he is not what is called a good sportsman. he kills wantonly, when there can be no possible excuse, for the mere pleasure of it; and to burkhardt's indignation frequently shot beasts whose skins and horns they did not even trouble to take. when antelope were so far off that it was impossible to kill them, and the approach of night made it useless to follow, he would often shoot, and leave a wretched wounded beast to die by inches. his selfishness was extreme, and he never shared any information with his friend that might rob him of an uninterrupted pursuit of game. but notwithstanding all this, burkhardt had so high an opinion of haddo's general capacity and of his resourcefulness that, when he was arranging his journey in asia, he asked him to come also. haddo consented, and it appears that burkhardt's book gives further proof, if it is needed, of the man's extraordinary qualities. the german confessed that on more than one occasion he owed his life to haddo's rare power of seizing opportunities. but they quarrelled at last through haddo's over-bearing treatment of the natives. burkhardt had vaguely suspected him of cruelty, but at length it was clear that he used them in a manner which could not be defended. finally he had a desperate quarrel with one of the camp servants, as a result of which the man was shot dead. haddo swore that he fired in self-defence, but his action caused a general desertion, and the travellers found themselves in a very dangerous predicament. burkhardt thought that haddo was clearly to blame and refused to have anything more to do with him. they separated. burkhardt returned to england; and haddo, pursued by the friends of the murdered man, had great difficulty in escaping with his life. nothing has been heard of him since till i got your letter. altogether, an extraordinary man. i confess that i can make nothing of him. i shall never be surprised to hear anything in connexion with him. i recommend you to avoid him like the plague. he can be no one's friend. as an acquaintance he is treacherous and insincere; as an enemy, i can well imagine that he would be as merciless as he is unscrupulous. an immensely long letter! goodbye, my son. i hope that your studies in french methods of surgery will have added to your wisdom. your industry edifies me, and i am sure that you will eventually be a baronet and the president of the royal college of surgeons; and you shall relieve royal persons of their, vermiform appendix. yours ever, frank hurrell arthur, having read this letter twice, put it in an envelope and left it without comment for miss boyd. her answer came within a couple of hours: 'i've asked him to tea on wednesday, and i can't put him off. you must come and help us; but please be as polite to him as if, like most of us, he had only taken mental liberties with the ten commandments.' on the morning of the day upon which they had asked him to tea, oliver haddo left at margaret's door vast masses of chrysanthemums. there were so many that the austere studio was changed in aspect. it gained an ephemeral brightness that margaret, notwithstanding pieces of silk hung here and there on the walls, had never been able to give it. when arthur arrived, he was dismayed that the thought had not occurred to him. 'i'm so sorry,' he said. 'you must think me very inconsiderate.' margaret smiled and held his hand. 'i think i like you because you don't trouble about the common little attentions of lovers.' 'margaret's a wise girl,' smiled susie. 'she knows that when a man sends flowers it is a sign that he has admired more women than one.' 'i don't suppose that these were sent particularly to me.' arthur burdon sat down and observed with pleasure the cheerful fire. the drawn curtains and the lamps gave the place a nice cosiness, and there was the peculiar air of romance which is always in a studio. there is a sense of freedom about it that disposes the mind to diverting speculations. in such an atmosphere it is possible to be serious without pompousness and flippant without inanity. in the few days of their acquaintance arthur and susie had arrived at terms of pleasant familiarity. susie, from her superior standpoint of an unmarried woman no longer young, used him with the good-natured banter which she affected. to her, he was a foolish young thing in love, and she marvelled that even the cleverest man in that condition could behave like a perfect idiot. but margaret knew that, if her friend chaffed him, it was because she completely approved of him. as their intimacy increased, susie learnt to appreciate his solid character. she admired his capacity in dealing with matters that were in his province, and the simplicity with which he left alone those of which he was ignorant. there was no pose in him. she was touched also by an ingenuous candour which gave a persuasive charm to his abruptness. and, though she set a plain woman's value on good looks, his appearance, rough hewn like a statue in porphyry, pleased her singularly. it was an index of his character. the look of him gave you the whole man, strong yet gentle, honest and simple, neither very imaginative nor very brilliant, but immensely reliable and trustworthy to the bottom of his soul. he was seated now with margaret's terrier on his knees, stroking its ears, and susie, looking at him, wondered with a little pang why no man like that had even cared for her. it was evident that he would make a perfect companion, and his love, once won, was of the sort that did not alter. dr porhoët came in and sat down with the modest quietness which was one of his charms. he was not a great talker and loved most to listen in silence to the chatter of young people. the dog jumped down from arthur's knee, went up to the doctor, and rubbed itself in friendly fashion against his legs. they began to talk in the soft light and had forgotten almost that another guest was expected. margaret hoped fervently that he would not come. she had never looked more lovely than on this afternoon, and she busied herself with the preparations for tea with a housewifely grace that added a peculiar delicacy to her comeliness. the dignity which encompassed the perfection of her beauty was delightfully softened, so that you were reminded of those sweet domestic saints who lighten here and there the passionate records of the golden book. '_c'est tellement intime ici_,' smiled dr porhoët, breaking into french in the impossibility of expressing in english the exact feeling which that scene gave him. it might have been a picture by some master of _genre_. it seemed hardly by chance that the colours arranged themselves in such agreeable tones, or that the lines of the wall and the seated persons achieved such a graceful decoration. the atmosphere was extraordinarily peaceful. there was a knock at the door, and arthur got up to open. the terrier followed at his heels. oliver haddo entered. susie watched to see what the dog would do and was by this time not surprised to see a change come over it. with its tail between its legs, the friendly little beast slunk along the wall to the furthermost corner. it turned a suspicious, frightened eye upon haddo and then hid its head. the visitor, intent upon his greetings, had not noticed even that there was an animal in the room. he accepted with a simple courtesy they hardly expected from him the young woman's thanks for his flowers. his behaviour surprised them. he put aside his poses. he seemed genuinely to admire the cosy little studio. he asked margaret to show him her sketches and looked at them with unassumed interest. his observations were pointed and showed a certain knowledge of what he spoke about. he described himself as an amateur, that object of a painter's derision: the man 'who knows what he likes'; but his criticism, though generous, showed that he was no fool. the two women were impressed. putting the sketches aside, he began to talk, of the many places he had seen. it was evident that he sought to please. susie began to understand how it was that, notwithstanding his affectations, he had acquired so great an influence over the undergraduates of oxford. there was romance and laughter in his conversation; and though, as frank hurrell had said, lacking in wit, he made up for it with a diverting pleasantry that might very well have passed for humour. but susie, though amused, felt that this was not the purpose for which she had asked him to come. dr porhoët had lent her his entertaining work on the old alchemists, and this gave her a chance to bring their conversation to matters on which haddo was expert. she had read the book with delight and, her mind all aflame with those strange histories wherein fact and fancy were so wonderfully mingled, she was eager to know more. the long toil in which so many had engaged, always to lose their fortunes, often to suffer persecution and torture, interested her no less than the accounts, almost authenticated, of those who had succeeded in their extraordinary quest. she turned to dr porhoët. 'you are a bold man to assert that now and then the old alchemists actually did make gold,' she said. 'i have not gone quite so far as that,' he smiled. 'i assert merely that, if evidence as conclusive were offered of any other historical event, it would be credited beyond doubt. we can disbelieve these circumstantial details only by coming to the conclusion beforehand that it is impossible they should be true.' 'i wish you would write that life of paracelsus which you suggest in your preface.' dr porhoët, smiling shook his head. 'i don't think i shall ever do that now,' he said. 'yet he is the most interesting of all the alchemists, for he offers the fascinating problem of an immensely complex character. it is impossible to know to what extent he was a charlatan and to what a man of serious science.' susie glanced at oliver haddo, who sat in silence, his heavy face in shadow, his eyes fixed steadily on the speaker. the immobility of that vast bulk was peculiar. 'his name is not so ridiculous as later associations have made it seem,' proceeded the doctor, 'for he belonged to the celebrated family of bombast, and they were called hohenheim after their ancient residence, which was a castle near stuttgart in würtemberg. the most interesting part of his life is that which the absence of documents makes it impossible accurately to describe. he travelled in germany, italy, france, the netherlands, in denmark, sweden, and russia. he went even to india. he was taken prisoner by the tartars, and brought to the great khan, whose son he afterwards accompanied to constantinople. the mind must be dull indeed that is not thrilled by the thought of this wandering genius traversing the lands of the earth at the most eventful date of the world's history. it was at constantinople that, according to a certain _aureum vellus_ printed at rorschach in the sixteenth century, he received the philosopher's stone from solomon trismosinus. this person possessed also the _universal panacea_, and it is asserted that he was seen still alive by a french traveller at the end of the seventeenth century. paracelsus then passed through the countries that border the danube, and so reached italy, where he served as a surgeon in the imperial army. i see no reason why he should not have been present at the battle of pavia. he collected information from physicians, surgeons and alchemists; from executioners, barbers, shepherds, jews, gipsies, midwives, and fortune-tellers; from high and low, from learned and vulgar. in the sketch i have given of his career in that volume you hold, i have copied out a few words of his upon the acquirement of knowledge which affect me with a singular emotion.' dr porhoët took his book from miss boyd and opened it thoughtfully. he read out the fine passage from the preface of the _paragranum_: 'i went in search of my art, often incurring danger of life. i have not been ashamed to learn that which seemed useful to me even from vagabonds, hangmen, and barbers. we know that a lover will go far to meet the woman he adores; how much more will the lover of wisdom be tempted to go in search of his divine mistress.' he turned the page to find a few more lines further on: 'we should look for knowledge where we may expect to find it, and why should a man be despised who goes in search of it? those who remain at home may grow richer and live more comfortably than those who wander; but i desire neither to live comfortably nor to grow rich.' 'by jove, those are fine words,' said arthur, rising to his feet. their brave simplicity moved him as no rhetoric could have done, and they made him more eager still to devote his own life to the difficult acquisition of knowledge. dr porhoët gave him his ironic smile. 'yet the man who could write that was in many ways a mere buffoon, who praised his wares with the vulgar glibness of a quack. he was vain and ostentatious, intemperate and boastful. listen: 'after me, o avicenna, galen, rhases and montagnana! after me, not i after you, ye men of paris, montpellier, meissen, and cologne; all you that come from the countries along the danube and the rhine, and you that come from the islands of the sea. it is not for me to follow you, because mine is the lordship. the time will come when none of you shall remain in his dark corner who will not be an object of contempt to the world, because i shall be the king, and the monarchy will be mine.' dr porhoët closed the book. 'did you ever hear such gibberish in your life? yet he did a bold thing. he wrote in german instead of in latin, and so, by weakening the old belief in authority, brought about the beginning of free thought in science. he continued to travel from place to place, followed by a crowd of disciples, some times attracted to a wealthy city by hope of gain, sometimes journeying to a petty court at the invitation of a prince. his folly and the malice of his rivals prevented him from remaining anywhere for long. he wrought many wonderful cures. the physicians of nuremberg denounced him as a quack, a charlatan, and an impostor. to refute them he asked the city council to put under his care patients that had been pronounced incurable. they sent him several cases of elephantiasis, and he cured them: testimonials to that effect may still be found in the archives of nuremberg. he died as the result of a tavern brawl and was buried at salzburg. tradition says that, his astral body having already during physical existence become self-conscious, he is now a living adept, residing with others of his sort in a certain place in asia. from there he still influences the minds of his followers and at times even appears to them in visible and tangible substance.' 'but look here,' said arthur, 'didn't paracelsus, like most of these old fellows, in the course of his researches make any practical discoveries?' 'i prefer those which were not practical,' confessed the doctor, with a smile. 'consider for example the _tinctura physicorum_, which neither pope nor emperor could buy with all his wealth. it was one of the greatest alchemical mysteries, and, though mentioned under the name of _the red lion_ in many occult works, was actually known to few before paracelsus, except hermes trismegistus and albertus magnus. its preparation was extremely difficult, for the presence was needed of two perfectly harmonious persons whose skill was equal. it was said to be a red ethereal fluid. the least wonderful of its many properties was its power to transmute all inferior metals into gold. there is an old church in the south of bavaria where the tincture is said to be still buried in the ground. in the year some of it penetrated through the soil, and the phenomenon was witnessed by many people, who believed it to be a miracle. the church which was thereupon erected is still a well-known place for pilgrimage. paracelsus concludes his directions for its manufacture with the words: _but if this be incomprehensible to you, remember that only he who desires with his whole heart will find, and to him only who knocks vehemently shall the door be opened_.' 'i shall never try to make it,' smiled arthur. 'then there was the _electrum magicum_, of which the wise made mirrors wherein they were able to see not only the events of the past and of the present, but the doings of men in daytime and at night. they might see anything that had been written or spoken, and the person who said it, and the causes that made him say it. but i like best the _primum ens melissae_. an elaborate prescription is given for its manufacture. it was a remedy to prolong life, and not only paracelsus, but his predecessors galen, arnold of villanova, and raymond lulli, had laboured studiously to discover it.' 'will it make me eighteen again?' cried susie. 'it is guaranteed to do so,' answered dr porhoët gravely. 'lesebren, a physician to louis xiv, gives an account of certain experiments witnessed by himself. it appears that one of his friends prepared the remedy, and his curiosity would not let him rest until he had seen with his own eyes the effect of it.' 'that is the true scientific attitude,' laughed arthur. 'he took every morning at sunrise a glass of white wine tinctured with this preparation; and after using it for fourteen days his nails began to fall out, without, however, causing him any pain. his courage failed him at this point, and he gave the same dose to an old female servant. she regained at least one of the characteristics of youth, much to her astonishment, for she did not know that she had been taking a medicine, and, becoming frightened, refused to continue. the experimenter then took some grain, soaked it in the tincture, and gave it to an aged hen. on the sixth day the bird began to lose its feathers, and kept on losing them till it was naked as a newborn babe; but before two weeks had passed other feathers grew, and these were more beautifully coloured than any that fortunate hen had possessed in her youth. her comb stood up, and she began again to lay eggs.' arthur laughed heartily. 'i confess i like that story much better than the others. the _primum ens melissae_ at least offers a less puerile benefit than most magical secrets.' 'do you call the search for gold puerile?' asked haddo, who had been sitting for a long time in complete silence. 'i venture to call it sordid.' 'you are very superior.' 'because i think the aims of mystical persons invariably gross or trivial? to my plain mind, it is inane to raise the dead in order to hear from their phantom lips nothing but commonplaces. and i really cannot see that the alchemist who spent his life in the attempted manufacture of gold was a more respectable object than the outside jobber of modern civilization.' 'but if he sought for gold it was for the power it gave him, and it was power he aimed at when he brooded night and day over dim secrets. power was the subject of all his dreams, but not a paltry, limited dominion over this or that; power over the whole world, power over all created things, power over the very elements, power over god himself. his lust was so vast that he could not rest till the stars in their courses were obedient to his will.' for once haddo lost his enigmatic manner. it was plain now that his words intoxicated him, and his face assumed a new, a strange, expression. a peculiar arrogance flashed in his shining eyes. 'and what else is it that men seek in life but power? if they want money, it is but for the power that attends it, and it is power again that they strive for in all the knowledge they acquire. fools and sots aim at happiness, but men aim only at power. the magus, the sorcerer, the alchemist, are seized with fascination of the unknown; and they desire a greatness that is inaccessible to mankind. they think by the science they study so patiently, but endurance and strength, by force of will and by imagination, for these are the great weapons of the magician, they may achieve at last a power with which they can face the god of heaven himself.' oliver haddo lifted his huge bulk from the low chair in which he had been sitting. he began to walk up and down the studio. it was curious to see this heavy man, whose seriousness was always problematical, caught up by a curious excitement. 'you've been talking of paracelsus,' he said. 'there is one of his experiments which the doctor has withheld from you. you will find it neither mean nor mercenary, but it is very terrible. i do not know whether the account of it is true, but it would be of extraordinary interest to test it for oneself.' he looked round at the four persons who watched him intently. there was a singular agitation in his manner, as though the thing of which he spoke was very near his heart. 'the old alchemists believed in the possibility of spontaneous generation. by the combination of psychical powers and of strange essences, they claim to have created forms in which life became manifest. of these, the most marvellous were those strange beings, male and female, which were called _homunculi_. the old philosophers doubted the possibility of this operation, but paracelsus asserts positively that it can be done. i picked up once for a song on a barrow at london bridge a little book in german. it was dirty and thumbed, many of the pages were torn, and the binding scarcely held the leaves together. it was called _die sphinx_ and was edited by a certain dr emil besetzny. it contained the most extraordinary account i have ever read of certain spirits generated by johann-ferdinand, count von küffstein, in the tyrol, in . the sources from which this account is taken consist of masonic manuscripts, but more especially of a diary kept by a certain james kammerer, who acted in the capacity of butler and famulus to the count. the evidence is ten times stronger than any upon which men believe the articles of their religion. if it related to less wonderful subjects, you would not hesitate to believe implicitly every word you read. there were ten _homunculi_--james kammerer calls them prophesying spirits--kept in strong bottles, such as are used to preserve fruit, and these were filled with water. they were made in five weeks, by the count von küffstein and an italian mystic and rosicrucian, the abbé geloni. the bottles were closed with a magic seal. the spirits were about a span long, and the count was anxious that they should grow. they were therefore buried under two cartloads of manure, and the pile daily sprinkled with a certain liquor prepared with great trouble by the adepts. the pile after such sprinklings began to ferment and steam, as if heated by a subterranean fire. when the bottles were removed, it was found that the spirits had grown to about a span and a half each; the male _homunculi_ were come into possession of heavy beards, and the nails of the fingers had grown. in two of the bottles there was nothing to be seen save clear water, but when the abbé knocked thrice at the seal upon the mouth, uttering at the same time certain hebrew words, the water turned a mysterious colour, and the spirits showed their faces, very small at first, but growing in size till they attained that of a human countenance. and this countenance was horrible and fiendish.' haddo spoke in a low voice that was hardly steady, and it was plain that he was much moved. it appeared as if his story affected him so that he could scarcely preserve his composure. he went on. 'these beings were fed every three days by the count with a rose-coloured substance which was kept in a silver box. once a week the bottles were emptied and filled again with pure rain-water. the change had to be made rapidly, because while the _homunculi_ were exposed to the air they closed their eyes and seemed to grow weak and unconscious, as though they were about to die. but with the spirits that were invisible, at certain intervals blood was poured into the water; and it disappeared at once, inexplicably, without colouring or troubling it. by some accident one of the bottles fell one day and was broken. the _homunculus_ within died after a few painful respirations in spite of all efforts to save him, and the body was buried in the garden. an attempt to generate another, made by the count without the assistance of the abbé, who had left, failed; it produced only a small thing like a leech, which had little vitality and soon died.' haddo ceased speaking, and arthur looked at him with amazement. 'but taking for granted that the thing is possible, what on earth is the use of manufacturing these strange beasts?' he exclaimed. 'use!' cried haddo passionately. 'what do you think would be man's sensations when he had solved the great mystery of existence, when he saw living before him the substance which was dead? these _homunculi_ were seen by historical persons, by count max lemberg, by count franz-josef von thun, and by many others. i have no doubt that they were actually generated. but with our modern appliances, with our greater skill, what might it not be possible to do now if we had the courage? there are chemists toiling away in their laboratories to create the primitive protoplasm from matter which is dead, the organic from the inorganic. i have studied their experiments. i know all that they know. why shouldn't one work on a larger scale, joining to the knowledge of the old adepts the scientific discovery of the moderns? i don't know what would be the result. it might be very strange and very wonderful. sometimes my mind is verily haunted by the desire to see a lifeless substance move under my spells, by the desire to be as god.' he gave a low weird laugh, half cruel, half voluptuous. it made margaret shudder with sudden fright. he had thrown himself down in the chair, and he sat in complete shadow. by a singular effect his eyes appeared blood-red, and they stared into space, strangely parallel, with an intensity that was terrifying. arthur started a little and gave him a searching glance. the laugh and that uncanny glance, the unaccountable emotion, were extraordinarily significant. the whole thing was explained if oliver haddo was mad. there was an uncomfortable silence. haddo's words were out of tune with the rest of the conversation. dr porhoët had spoken of magical things with a sceptical irony that gave a certain humour to the subject, and susie was resolutely flippant. but haddo's vehemence put these incredulous people out of countenance. dr porhoët got up to go. he shook hands with susie and with margaret. arthur opened the door for him. the kindly scholar looked round for margaret's terrier... 'i must bid my farewells to your little dog.' he had been so quiet that they had forgotten his presence. 'come here, copper,' said margaret. the dog slowly slunk up to them, and with a terrified expression crouched at margaret's feet. 'what on earth's the matter with you?' she asked. 'he's frightened of me,' said haddo, with that harsh laugh of his, which gave such an unpleasant impression. 'nonsense!' dr porhoët bent down, stroked the dog's back, and shook its paw. margaret lifted it up and set it on a table. 'now, be good,' she said, with lifted finger. dr porhoët with a smile went out, and arthur shut the door behind him. suddenly, as though evil had entered into it, the terrier sprang at oliver haddo and fixed its teeth in his hand. haddo uttered a cry, and, shaking it off, gave it a savage kick. the dog rolled over with a loud bark that was almost a scream of pain, and lay still for a moment as if it were desperately hurt. margaret cried out with horror and indignation. a fierce rage on a sudden seized arthur so that he scarcely knew what he was about. the wretched brute's suffering, margaret's terror, his own instinctive hatred of the man, were joined together in frenzied passion. 'you brute,' he muttered. he hit haddo in the face with his clenched fist. the man collapsed bulkily to the floor, and arthur, furiously seizing his collar, began to kick him with all his might. he shook him as a dog would shake a rat and then violently flung him down. for some reason haddo made no resistance. he remained where he fell in utter helplessness. arthur turned to margaret. she was holding the poor hurt dog in her hands, crying over it, and trying to comfort it in its pain. very gently he examined it to see if haddo's brutal kick had broken a bone. they sat down beside the fire. susie, to steady her nerves, lit a cigarette. she was horribly, acutely conscious of that man who lay in a mass on the floor behind them. she wondered what he would do. she wondered why he did not go. and she was ashamed of his humiliation. then her heart stood still; for she realized that he was raising himself to his feet, slowly, with the difficulty of a very fat person. he leaned against the wall and stared at them. he remained there quite motionless. his stillness got on her nerves, and she could have screamed as she felt him look at them, look with those unnatural eyes, whose expression now she dared not even imagine. at last she could no longer resist the temptation to turn round just enough to see him. haddo's eyes were fixed upon margaret so intently that he did not see he was himself observed. his face, distorted by passion, was horrible to look upon. that vast mass of flesh had a malignancy that was inhuman, and it was terrible to see the satanic hatred which hideously deformed it. but it changed. the redness gave way to a ghastly pallor. the revengeful scowl disappeared; and a torpid smile spread over the features, a smile that was even more terrifying than the frown of malice. what did it mean? susie could have cried out, but her tongue cleaved to her throat. the smile passed away, and the face became once more impassive. it seemed that margaret and arthur realized at last the power of those inhuman eyes, and they became quite still. the dog ceased its sobbing. the silence was so great that each one heard the beating of his heart. it was intolerable. then oliver haddo moved. he came forward slowly. 'i want to ask you to forgive me for what i did,' he said. 'the pain of the dog's bite was so keen that i lost my temper. i deeply regret that i kicked it. mr burdon was very right to thrash me. i feel that i deserved no less.' he spoke in a low voice, but with great distinctness. susie was astounded. an abject apology was the last thing she expected. he paused for margaret's answer. but she could not bear to look at him. when she spoke, her words were scarcely audible. she did not know why his request to be forgiven made him seem more detestable. 'i think, if you don't mind, you had better go away.' haddo bowed slightly. he looked at burdon. 'i wish to tell you that i bear no malice for what you did. i recognize the justice of your anger.' arthur did not answer at all. haddo hesitated a moment, while his eyes rested on them quietly. to susie it seemed that they flickered with the shadow of a smile. she watched him with bewildered astonishment. he reached for his hat, bowed again, and went. susie could not persuade herself that haddo's regret was sincere. the humility of it aroused her suspicion. she could not get out of her mind the ugly slyness of that smile which succeeded on his face the first passionate look of deadly hatred. her fancy suggested various dark means whereby oliver haddo might take vengeance on his enemy, and she was at pains to warn arthur. but he only laughed. 'the man's a funk,' he said. 'do you think if he'd had anything in him at all he would have let me kick him without trying to defend himself?' haddo's cowardice increased the disgust with which arthur regarded him. he was amused by susie's trepidation. 'what on earth do you suppose he can do? he can't drop a brickbat on my head. if he shoots me he'll get his head cut off, and he won't be such an ass as to risk that!' margaret was glad that the incident had relieved them of oliver's society. she met him in the street a couple of days later, and since he took off his hat in the french fashion without waiting for her to acknowledge him, she was able to make her cut more pointed. she began to discuss with arthur the date of their marriage. it seemed to her that she had got out of paris all it could give her, and she wished to begin a new life. her love for arthur appeared on a sudden more urgent, and she was filled with delight at the thought of the happiness she would give him. a day or two later susie received a telegram. it ran as follows: please meet me at the gare du nord, : . nancy clerk it was an old friend, who was apparently arriving in paris that afternoon. a photograph of her, with a bold signature, stood on the chimney-piece, and susie gave it an inquisitive glance. she had not seen nancy for so long that it surprised her to receive this urgent message. 'what a bore it is!' she said. 'i suppose i must go.' they meant to have tea on the other side of the river, but the journey to the station was so long that it would not be worth susie's while to come back in the interval; and they arranged therefore to meet at the house to which they were invited. susie started a little before two. margaret had a class that afternoon and set out two or three minutes later. as she walked through the courtyard she started nervously, for oliver haddo passed slowly by. he did not seem to see her. suddenly he stopped, put his hand to his heart, and fell heavily to the ground. the _concierge_, the only person at hand, ran forward with a cry. she knelt down and, looking round with terror, caught sight of margaret. '_oh, mademoiselle, venez vite!_' she cried. margaret was obliged to go. her heart beat horribly. she looked down at oliver, and he seemed to be dead. she forgot that she loathed him. instinctively she knelt down by his side and loosened his collar. he opened his eyes. an expression of terrible anguish came into his face. 'for the love of god, take me in for one moment,' he sobbed. 'i shall die in the street.' her heart was moved towards him. he could not go into the poky den, evil-smelling and airless, of the _concierge_. but with her help margaret raised him to his feet, and together they brought him to the studio. he sank painfully into a chair. 'shall i fetch you some water?' asked margaret. 'can you get a pastille out of my pocket?' he swallowed a white tabloid, which she took out of a case attached to his watch-chain. 'i'm very sorry to cause you this trouble,' he gasped. 'i suffer from a disease of the heart, and sometimes i am very near death.' 'i'm glad that i was able to help you,' she said. he seemed able to breathe more easily. she left him to himself for a while, so that he might regain his strength. she took up a book and began to read. presently, without moving from his chair, he spoke. 'you must hate me for intruding on you.' his voice was stronger, and her pity waned as he seemed to recover. she answered with freezing indifference. 'i couldn't do any less for you than i did. i would have brought a dog into my room if it seemed hurt.' 'i see that you wish me to go.' he got up and moved towards the door, but he staggered and with a groan tumbled to his knees. margaret sprang forward to help him. she reproached herself bitterly for those scornful words. the man had barely escaped death, and she was merciless. 'oh, please stay as long as you like,' she cried. 'i'm sorry, i didn't mean to hurt you.' he dragged himself with difficulty back to the chair, and she, conscience-stricken, stood over him helplessly. she poured out a glass of water, but he motioned it away as though he would not be beholden to her even for that. 'is there nothing i can do for you at all?' she exclaimed, painfully. 'nothing, except allow me to sit in this chair,' he gasped. 'i hope you'll remain as long as you choose.' he did not reply. she sat down again and pretended to read. in a little while he began to speak. his voice reached her as if from a long way off. 'will you never forgive me for what i did the other day?' she answered without looking at him, her back still turned. 'can it matter to you if i forgive or not?' 'you have not pity. i told you then how sorry i was that a sudden uncontrollable pain drove me to do a thing which immediately i bitterly regretted. don't you think it must have been hard for me, under the actual circumstances, to confess my fault?' 'i wish you not to speak of it. i don't want to think of that horrible scene.' 'if you knew how lonely i was and how unhappy, you would have a little mercy.' his voice was strangely moved. she could not doubt now that he was sincere. 'you think me a charlatan because i aim at things that are unknown to you. you won't try to understand. you won't give me any credit for striving with all my soul to a very great end.' she made no reply, and for a time there was silence. his voice was different now and curiously seductive. 'you look upon me with disgust and scorn. you almost persuaded yourself to let me die in the street rather than stretch out to me a helping hand. and if you hadn't been merciful then, almost against your will, i should have died.' 'it can make no difference to you how i regard you,' she whispered. she did not know why his soft, low tones mysteriously wrung her heartstrings. her pulse began to beat more quickly. 'it makes all the difference in the world. it is horrible to think of your contempt. i feel your goodness and your purity. i can hardly bear my own unworthiness. you turn your eyes away from me as though i were unclean.' she turned her chair a little and looked at him. she was astonished at the change in his appearance. his hideous obesity seemed no longer repellent, for his eyes wore a new expression; they were incredibly tender now, and they were moist with tears. his mouth was tortured by a passionate distress. margaret had never seen so much unhappiness on a man's face, and an overwhelming remorse seized her. 'i don't want to be unkind to you,' she said. 'i will go. that is how i can best repay you for what you have done.' the words were so bitter, so humiliated, that the colour rose to her cheeks. 'i ask you to stay. but let us talk of other things.' for a moment he kept silence. he seemed no longer to see margaret, and she watched him thoughtfully. his eyes rested on a print of _la gioconda_ which hung on the wall. suddenly he began to speak. he recited the honeyed words with which walter pater expressed his admiration for that consummate picture. 'hers is the head upon which all the ends of the world are come, and the eyelids are a little weary. it is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. set it for a moment beside one of those white greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed. all the thoughts and experience of the world have etched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of greece, the lust of rome, the mysticism of the middle ages, with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the pagan world, the sins of the borgias.' his voice, poignant and musical, blended with the suave music of the words so that margaret felt she had never before known their divine significance. she was intoxicated with their beauty. she wished him to continue, but had not the strength to speak. as if he guessed her thought, he went on, and now his voice had a richness in it as of an organ heard afar off. it was like an overwhelming fragrance and she could hardly bear it. 'she is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange evils with eastern merchants; and, as leda, was the mother of helen of troy, and, as saint anne, the mother of mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands.' oliver haddo began then to speak of leonardo da vinci, mingling with his own fantasies the perfect words of that essay which, so wonderful was his memory, he seemed to know by heart. he found exotic fancies in the likeness between saint john the baptist, with his soft flesh and waving hair, and bacchus, with his ambiguous smile. seen through his eyes, the seashore in the saint anne had the airless lethargy of some damasked chapel in a spanish nunnery, and over the landscapes brooded a wan spirit of evil that was very troubling. he loved the mysterious pictures in which the painter had sought to express something beyond the limits of painting, something of unsatisfied desire and of longing for unhuman passions. oliver haddo found this quality in unlikely places, and his words gave a new meaning to paintings that margaret had passed thoughtlessly by. there was the portrait of a statuary by bronzino in the long gallery of the louvre. the features were rather large, the face rather broad. the expression was sombre, almost surly in the repose of the painted canvas, and the eyes were brown, almond-shaped like those of an oriental; the red lips were exquisitely modelled, and the sensuality was curiously disturbing; the dark, chestnut hair, cut short, curled over the head with an infinite grace. the skin was like ivory softened with a delicate carmine. there was in that beautiful countenance more than beauty, for what most fascinated the observer was a supreme and disdainful indifference to the passion of others. it was a vicious face, except that beauty could never be quite vicious; it was a cruel face, except that indolence could never be quite cruel. it was a face that haunted you, and yet your admiration was alloyed with an unreasoning terror. the hands were nervous and adroit, with long fashioning fingers; and you felt that at their touch the clay almost moulded itself into gracious forms. with haddo's subtle words the character of that man rose before her, cruel yet indifferent, indolent and passionate, cold yet sensual; unnatural secrets dwelt in his mind, and mysterious crimes, and a lust for the knowledge that was arcane. oliver haddo was attracted by all that was unusual, deformed, and monstrous, by the pictures that represented the hideousness of man or that reminded you of his mortality. he summoned before margaret the whole array of ribera's ghoulish dwarfs, with their cunning smile, the insane light of their eyes, and their malice: he dwelt with a horrible fascination upon their malformations, the humped backs, the club feet, the hydrocephalic heads. he described the picture by valdes leal, in a certain place at seville, which represents a priest at the altar; and the altar is sumptuous with gilt and florid carving. he wears a magnificent cope and a surplice of exquisite lace, but he wears them as though their weight was more than he could bear; and in the meagre trembling hands, and in the white, ashen face, in the dark hollowness of the eyes, there is a bodily corruption that is terrifying. he seems to hold together with difficulty the bonds of the flesh, but with no eager yearning of the soul to burst its prison, only with despair; it is as if the lord almighty had forsaken him and the high heavens were empty of their solace. all the beauty of life appears forgotten, and there is nothing in the world but decay. a ghastly putrefaction has attacked already the living man; the worms of the grave, the piteous horror of mortality, and the darkness before him offer naught but fear. beyond, dark night is seen and a turbulent sea, the dark night of the soul of which the mystics write, and the troublous sea of life whereon there is no refuge for the weary and the sick at heart. then, as if in pursuance of a definite plan, he analysed with a searching, vehement intensity the curious talent of the modern frenchman, gustave moreau. margaret had lately visited the luxembourg, and his pictures were fresh in her memory. she had found in them little save a decorative arrangement marred by faulty drawing; but oliver haddo gave them at once a new, esoteric import. those effects as of a florentine jewel, the clustered colours, emerald and ruby, the deep blue of sapphires, the atmosphere of scented chambers, the mystic persons who seem ever about secret, religious rites, combined in his cunning phrases to create, as it were, a pattern on her soul of morbid and mysterious intricacy. those pictures were filled with a strange sense of sin, and the mind that contemplated them was burdened with the decadence of rome and with the passionate vice of the renaissance; and it was tortured, too, by all the introspection of this later day. margaret listened, rather breathlessly, with the excitement of an explorer before whom is spread the plain of an undiscovered continent. the painters she knew spoke of their art technically, and this imaginative appreciation was new to her. she was horribly fascinated by the personality that imbued these elaborate sentences. haddo's eyes were fixed upon hers, and she responded to his words like a delicate instrument made for recording the beatings of the heart. she felt an extraordinary languor. at last he stopped. margaret neither moved nor spoke. she might have been under a spell. it seemed to her that she had no power in her limbs. 'i want to do something for you in return for what you have done for me,' he said. he stood up and went to the piano. 'sit in this chair,' he said. she did not dream of disobeying. he began to play. margaret was hardly surprised that he played marvellously. yet it was almost incredible that those fat, large hands should have such a tenderness of touch. his fingers caressed the notes with a peculiar suavity, and he drew out of the piano effects which she had scarcely thought possible. he seemed to put into the notes a troubling, ambiguous passion, and the instrument had the tremulous emotion of a human being. it was strange and terrifying. she was vaguely familiar with the music to which she listened; but there was in it, under his fingers, an exotic savour that made it harmonious with all that he had said that afternoon. his memory was indeed astonishing. he had an infinite tact to know the feeling that occupied margaret's heart, and what he chose seemed to be exactly that which at the moment she imperatively needed. then he began to play things she did not know. it was music the like of which she had never heard, barbaric, with a plaintive weirdness that brought to her fancy the moonlit nights of desert places, with palm trees mute in the windless air, and tawny distances. she seemed to know tortuous narrow streets, white houses of silence with strange moon-shadows, and the glow of yellow light within, and the tinkling of uncouth instruments, and the acrid scents of eastern perfumes. it was like a procession passing through her mind of persons who were not human, yet existed mysteriously, with a life of vampires. mona lisa and saint john the baptist, bacchus and the mother of mary, went with enigmatic motions. but the daughter of herodias raised her hands as though, engaged for ever in a mystic rite, to invoke outlandish gods. her face was very pale, and her dark eyes were sleepless; the jewels of her girdle gleamed with sombre fires; and her dress was of colours that have long been lost. the smile, in which was all the sorrow of the world and all its wickedness, beheld the wan head of the saint, and with a voice that was cold with the coldness of death she murmured the words of the poet: 'i am amorous of thy body, iokanaan! thy body is white like the lilies of a field that the mower hath never mowed. thy body is white like the snows that lie on the mountains of judea, and come down into the valleys. the roses in the garden of the queen of arabia are not so white as thy body. neither the roses in the garden of the queen of arabia, the garden of spices of the queen of arabia, nor the feet of the dawn when they light on the leaves, nor the breast of the moon when she lies on the breast of the sea... there is nothing in the world so white as thy body. suffer me to touch thy body.' oliver haddo ceased to play. neither of them stirred. at last margaret sought by an effort to regain her self-control. 'i shall begin to think that you really are a magician,' she said, lightly. 'i could show you strange things if you cared to see them,' he answered, again raising his eyes to hers. 'i don't think you will ever get me to believe in occult philosophy,' she laughed. 'yet it reigned in persia with the magi, it endowed india with wonderful traditions, it civilised greece to the sounds of orpheus's lyre.' he stood before margaret, towering over her in his huge bulk; and there was a singular fascination in his gaze. it seemed that he spoke only to conceal from her that he was putting forth now all the power that was in him. 'it concealed the first principles of science in the calculations of pythagoras. it established empires by its oracles, and at its voice tyrants grew pale upon their thrones. it governed the minds of some by curiosity, and others it ruled by fear.' his voice grew very low, and it was so seductive that margaret's brain reeled. the sound of it was overpowering like too sweet a fragrance. i tell you that for this art nothing is impossible. it commands the elements, and knows the language of the stars, and directs the planets in their courses. the moon at its bidding falls blood-red from the sky. the dead rise up and form into ominous words the night wind that moans through their skulls. heaven and hell are in its province; and all forms, lovely and hideous; and love and hate. with circe's wand it can change men into beasts of the field, and to them it can give a monstrous humanity. life and death are in the right hand and in the left of him who knows its secrets. it confers wealth by the transmutation of metals and immortality by its quintessence.' margaret could not hear what he said. a gradual lethargy seized her under his baleful glance, and she had not even the strength to wish to free herself. she seemed bound to him already by hidden chains. 'if you have powers, show them,' she whispered, hardly conscious that she spoke. suddenly he released the enormous tension with which he held her. like a man who has exerted all his strength to some end, the victory won, he loosened his muscles, with a faint sigh of exhaustion. margaret did not speak, but she knew that something horrible was about to happen. her heart beat like a prisoned bird, with helpless flutterings, but it seemed too late now to draw back. her words by a mystic influence had settled something beyond possibility of recall. on the stove was a small bowl of polished brass in which water was kept in order to give a certain moisture to the air. oliver haddo put his hand in his pocket and drew out a little silver box. he tapped it, with a smile, as a man taps a snuff-box, and it opened. he took an infinitesimal quantity of a blue powder that it contained and threw it on the water in the brass bowl. immediately a bright flame sprang up, and margaret gave a cry of alarm. oliver looked at her quickly and motioned her to remain still. she saw that the water was on fire. it was burning as brilliantly, as hotly, as if it were common gas; and it burned with the same dry, hoarse roar. suddenly it was extinguished. she leaned forward and saw that the bowl was empty. the water had been consumed, as though it were straw, and not a drop remained. she passed her hand absently across her forehead. 'but water cannot burn,' she muttered to herself. it seemed that haddo knew what she thought, for he smiled strangely. 'do you know that nothing more destructive can be invented than this blue powder, and i have enough to burn up all the water in paris? who dreamt that water might burn like chaff?' he paused, seeming to forget her presence. he looked thoughtfully at the little silver box. 'but it can be made only in trivial quantities, at enormous expense and with exceeding labour; it is so volatile that you cannot keep it for three days. i have sometimes thought that with a little ingenuity i might make it more stable, i might so modify it that, like radium, it lost no strength as it burned; and then i should possess the greatest secret that has ever been in the mind of man. for there would be no end of it. it would continue to burn while there was a drop of water on the earth, and the whole world would be consumed. but it would be a frightful thing to have in one's hands; for once it were cast upon the waters, the doom of all that existed would be sealed beyond repeal.' he took a long breath, and his eyes glittered with a devilish ardour. his voice was hoarse with overwhelming emotion. 'sometimes i am haunted by the wild desire to have seen the great and final scene when the irrevocable flames poured down the river, hurrying along the streams of the earth, searching out the moisture in all growing things, tearing it even from the eternal rocks; when the flames poured down like the rushing of the wind, and all that lived fled from before them till they came to the sea; and the sea itself was consumed in vehement fire.' margaret shuddered, but she did not think the man was mad. she had ceased to judge him. he took one more particle of that atrocious powder and put it in the bowl. again he thrust his hand in his pocket and brought out a handful of some crumbling substance that might have been dried leaves, leaves of different sorts, broken and powdery. there was a trace of moisture in them still, for a low flame sprang up immediately at the bottom of the dish, and a thick vapour filled the room. it had a singular and pungent odour that margaret did not know. it was difficult to breathe, and she coughed. she wanted to beg oliver to stop, but could not. he took the bowl in his hands and brought it to her. 'look,' he commanded. she bent forward, and at the bottom saw a blue fire, of a peculiar solidity, as though it consisted of molten metal. it was not still, but writhed strangely, like serpents of fire tortured by their own unearthly ardour. 'breathe very deeply.' she did as he told her. a sudden trembling came over her, and darkness fell across her eyes. she tried to cry out, but could utter no sound. her brain reeled. it seemed to her that haddo bade her cover her face. she gasped for breath, and it was as if the earth spun under her feet. she appeared to travel at an immeasurable speed. she made a slight movement, and haddo told her not to look round. an immense terror seized her. she did not know whither she was borne, and still they went quickly, quickly; and the hurricane itself would have lagged behind them. at last their motion ceased; and oliver was holding her arm. 'don't be afraid,' he said. 'open your eyes and stand up.' the night had fallen; but it was not the comfortable night that soothes the troubled minds of mortal men; it was a night that agitated the soul mysteriously so that each nerve in the body tingled. there was a lurid darkness which displayed and yet distorted the objects that surrounded them. no moon shone in the sky, but small stars appeared to dance on the heather, vague night-fires like spirits of the damned. they stood in a vast and troubled waste, with huge stony boulders and leafless trees, rugged and gnarled like tortured souls in pain. it was as if there had been a devastating storm, and the country reposed after the flood of rain and the tempestuous wind and the lightning. all things about them appeared dumbly to suffer, like a man racked by torments who has not the strength even to realize that his agony has ceased. margaret heard the flight of monstrous birds, and they seemed to whisper strange things on their passage. oliver took her hand. he led her steadily to a cross-road, and she did not know if they walked amid rocks or tombs. she heard the sound of a trumpet, and from all parts, strangely appearing where before was nothing, a turbulent assembly surged about her. that vast empty space was suddenly filled by shadowy forms, and they swept along like the waves of the sea, crowding upon one another's heels. and it seemed that all the mighty dead appeared before her; and she saw grim tyrants, and painted courtesans, and roman emperors in their purple, and sultans of the east. all those fierce evil women of olden time passed by her side, and now it was mona lisa and now the subtle daughter of herodias. and jezebel looked out upon her from beneath her painted brows, and cleopatra turned away a wan, lewd face; and she saw the insatiable mouth and the wanton eyes of messalina, and fustine was haggard with the eternal fires of lust. she saw cardinals in their scarlet, and warriors in their steel, gay gentlemen in periwigs, and ladies in powder and patch. and on a sudden, like leaves by the wind, all these were driven before the silent throngs of the oppressed; and they were innumerable as the sands of the sea. their thin faces were earthy with want and cavernous from disease, and their eyes were dull with despair. they passed in their tattered motley, some in the fantastic rags of the beggars of albrecht dürer and some in the grey cerecloths of le nain; many wore the blouses and the caps of the rabble in france, and many the dingy, smoke-grimed weeds of english poor. and they surged onward like a riotous crowd in narrow streets flying in terror before the mounted troops. it seemed as though all the world were gathered there in strange confusion. then all again was void; and margaret's gaze was riveted upon a great, ruined tree that stood in that waste place, alone, in ghastly desolation; and though a dead thing, it seemed to suffer a more than human pain. the lightning had torn it asunder, but the wind of centuries had sought in vain to drag up its roots. the tortured branches, bare of any twig, were like a titan's arms, convulsed with intolerable anguish. and in a moment she grew sick with fear, for a change came into the tree, and the tremulousness of life was in it; the rough bark was changed into brutish flesh and the twisted branches into human arms. it became a monstrous, goat-legged thing, more vast than the creatures of nightmare. she saw the horns and the long beard, the great hairy legs with their hoofs, and the man's rapacious hands. the face was horrible with lust and cruelty, and yet it was divine. it was pan, playing on his pipes, and the lecherous eyes caressed her with a hideous tenderness. but even while she looked, as the mist of early day, rising, discloses a fair country, the animal part of that ghoulish creature seemed to fall away, and she saw a lovely youth, titanic but sublime, leaning against a massive rock. he was more beautiful than the adam of michelangelo who wakes into life at the call of the almighty; and, like him freshly created, he had the adorable languor of one who feels still in his limbs the soft rain on the loose brown earth. naked and full of majesty he lay, the outcast son of the morning; and she dared not look upon his face, for she knew it was impossible to bear the undying pain that darkened it with ruthless shadows. impelled by a great curiosity, she sought to come nearer, but the vast figure seemed strangely to dissolve into a cloud; and immediately she felt herself again surrounded by a hurrying throng. then came all legendary monsters and foul beasts of a madman's fancy; in the darkness she saw enormous toads, with paws pressed to their flanks, and huge limping scarabs, shelled creatures the like of which she had never seen, and noisome brutes with horny scales and round crabs' eyes, uncouth primeval things, and winged serpents, and creeping animals begotten of the slime. she heard shrill cries and peals of laughter and the terrifying rattle of men at the point of death. haggard women, dishevelled and lewd, carried wine; and when they spilt it there were stains like the stains of blood. and it seemed to margaret that a fire burned in her veins, and her soul fled from her body; but a new soul came in its place, and suddenly she knew all that was obscene. she took part in some festival of hideous lust, and the wickedness of the world was patent to her eyes. she saw things so vile that she screamed in terror, and she heard oliver laugh in derision by her side. it was a scene of indescribable horror, and she put her hands to her eyes so that she might not see. she felt oliver haddo take her hands. she would not let him drag them away. then she heard him speak. 'you need not be afraid.' his voice was quite natural once more, and she realized with a start that she was sitting quietly in the studio. she looked around her with frightened eyes. everything was exactly as it had been. the early night of autumn was fallen, and the only light in the room came from the fire. there was still that vague, acrid scent of the substance which haddo had burned. 'shall i light the candles?' he said. he struck a match and lit those which were on the piano. they threw a strange light. then margaret suddenly remembered all that she had seen, and she remembered that haddo had stood by her side. shame seized her, intolerable shame, so that the colour, rising to her cheeks, seemed actually to burn them. she hid her face in her hands and burst into tears. 'go away,' she said. 'for god's sake, go.' he looked at her for a moment; and the smile came to his lips which susie had seen after his tussle with arthur, when last he was in the studio. 'when you want me you will find me in the rue de vaugiraud, number ,' he said. 'knock at the second door on the left, on the third floor.' she did not answer. she could only think of her appalling shame. 'i'll write it down for you in case you forget.' he scribbled the address on a sheet of paper that he found on the table. margaret took no notice, but sobbed as though her heart would break. suddenly, looking up with a start, she saw that he was gone. she had not heard him open the door or close it. she sank down on her knees and prayed desperately, as though some terrible danger threatened her. but when she heard susie's key in the door, margaret sprang to her feet. she stood with her back to the fireplace, her hands behind her, in the attitude of a prisoner protesting his innocence. susie was too much annoyed to observe this agitation. 'why on earth didn't you come to tea?' she asked. 'i couldn't make out what had become of you.' 'i had a dreadful headache,' answered margaret, trying to control herself. susie flung herself down wearily in a chair. margaret forced herself to speak. 'had nancy anything particular to say to you?' she asked. 'she never turned up,' answered susie irritably. 'i can't understand it. i waited till the train came in, but there was no sign of her. then i thought she might have hit upon that time by chance and was not coming from england, so i walked about the station for half an hour.' she went to the chimneypiece, on which had been left the telegram that summoned her to the gare du nord, and read it again. she gave a little cry of surprise. 'how stupid of me! i never noticed the postmark. it was sent from the rue littré.' this was less than ten minutes' walk from the studio. susie looked at the message with perplexity. 'i wonder if someone has been playing a silly practical joke on me.' she shrugged her shoulders. 'but it's too foolish. if i were a suspicious woman,' she smiled, 'i should think you had sent it yourself to get me out of the way.' the idea flashed through margaret that oliver haddo was the author of it. he might easily have seen nancy's name on the photograph during his first visit to the studio. she had no time to think before she answered lightly. 'if i wanted to get rid of you, i should have no hesitation in saying so.' 'i suppose no one has been here?' asked susie. 'no one.' the lie slipped from margaret's lips before she had made up her mind to tell it. her heart gave a great beat against her chest. she felt herself redden. susie got up to light a cigarette. she wished to rest her nerves. the box was on the table and, as she helped herself, her eyes fell carelessly on the address that haddo had left. she picked it up and read it aloud. 'who on earth lives there?' she asked. 'i don't know at all,' answered margaret. she braced herself for further questions, but susie, without interest, put down the sheet of paper and struck a match. margaret was ashamed. her nature was singularly truthful, and it troubled her extraordinarily that she had lied to her greatest friend. something stronger than herself seemed to impel her. she would have given much to confess her two falsehoods, but had not the courage. she could not bear that susie's implicit trust in her straightforwardness should be destroyed; and the admission that oliver haddo had been there would entail a further acknowledgment of the nameless horrors she had witnessed. susie would think her mad. there was a knock at the door; and margaret, her nerves shattered by all that she had endured, could hardly restrain a cry of terror. she feared that haddo had returned. but it was arthur burdon. she greeted him with a passionate relief that was unusual, for she was by nature a woman of great self-possession. she felt excessively weak, physically exhausted as though she had gone a long journey, and her mind was highly wrought. margaret remembered that her state had been the same on her first arrival in paris, when, in her eagerness to get a preliminary glimpse of its marvels, she had hurried till her bones ached from one celebrated monument to another. they began to speak of trivial things. margaret tried to join calmly in the conversation, but her voice sounded unnatural, and she fancied that more than once arthur gave her a curious look. at length she could control herself no longer and burst into a sudden flood of tears. in a moment, uncomprehending but affectionate, he caught her in his arms. he asked tenderly what was the matter. he sought to comfort her. she wept ungovernably, clinging to him for protection. 'oh, it's nothing,' she gasped. 'i don't know what is the matter with me. i'm only nervous and frightened.' arthur had an idea that women were often afflicted with what he described by the old-fashioned name of vapours, and was not disposed to pay much attention to this vehement distress. he soothed her as he would have done a child. 'oh, take care of me, arthur. i'm so afraid that some dreadful thing will happen to me. i want all your strength. promise that you'll never forsake me.' he laughed, as he kissed away her tears, and she tried to smile. 'why can't we be married at once?' she asked. 'i don't want to wait any longer. i shan't feel safe till i'm actually your wife.' he reasoned with her very gently. after all, they were to be married in a few weeks. they could not easily hasten matters, for their house was not yet ready, and she needed time to get her clothes. the date had been fixed by her. she listened sullenly to his words. their wisdom was plain, and she did not see how she could possibly insist. even if she told him all that had passed he would not believe her; he would think she was suffering from some trick of her morbid fancy. 'if anything happens to me,' she answered, with the dark, anguished eyes of a hunted beast, 'you will be to blame.' 'i promise you that nothing will happen.' margaret's night was disturbed, and next day she was unable to go about her work with her usual tranquillity. she tried to reason herself into a natural explanation of the events that had happened. the telegram that susie had received pointed to a definite scheme on haddo's part, and suggested that his sudden illness was but a device to get into the studio. once there, he had used her natural sympathy as a means whereby to exercise his hypnotic power, and all she had seen was merely the creation of his own libidinous fancy. but though she sought to persuade herself that, in playing a vile trick on her, he had taken a shameful advantage of her pity, she could not look upon him with anger. her contempt for him, her utter loathing, were alloyed with a feeling that aroused in her horror and dismay. she could not get the man out of her thoughts. all that he had said, all that she had seen, seemed, as though it possessed a power of material growth, unaccountably to absorb her. it was as if a rank weed were planted in her heart and slid long poisonous tentacles down every artery, so that each part of her body was enmeshed. work could not distract her, conversation, exercise, art, left her listless; and between her and all the actions of life stood the flamboyant, bulky form of oliver haddo. she was terrified of him now as never before, but curiously had no longer the physical repulsion which hitherto had mastered all other feelings. although she repeated to herself that she wanted never to see him again, margaret could scarcely resist an overwhelming desire to go to him. her will had been taken from her, and she was an automaton. she struggled, like a bird in the fowler's net with useless beating of the wings; but at the bottom of her heart she was dimly conscious that she did not want to resist. if he had given her that address, it was because he knew she would use it. she did not know why she wanted to go to him; she had nothing to say to him; she knew only that it was necessary to go. but a few days before she had seen the _phèdre_ of racine, and she felt on a sudden all the torments that wrung the heart of that unhappy queen; she, too, struggled aimlessly to escape from the poison that the immortal gods poured in her veins. she asked herself frantically whether a spell had been cast over her, for now she was willing to believe that haddo's power was all-embracing. margaret knew that if she yielded to the horrible temptation nothing could save her from destruction. she would have cried for help to arthur or to susie, but something, she knew not what, prevented her. at length, driven almost to distraction, she thought that dr porhoët might do something for her. he, at least, would understand her misery. there seemed not a moment to lose, and she hastened to his house. they told her he was out. her heart sank, for it seemed that her last hope was gone. she was like a person drowning, who clings to a rock; and the waves dash against him, and beat upon his bleeding hands with a malice all too human, as if to tear them from their refuge. instead of going to the sketch-class, which was held at six in the evening, she hurried to the address that oliver haddo had given her. she went along the crowded street stealthily, as though afraid that someone would see her, and her heart was in a turmoil. she desired with all her might not to go, and sought vehemently to prevent herself, and yet withal she went. she ran up the stairs and knocked at the door. she remembered his directions distinctly. in a moment oliver haddo stood before her. he did not seem astonished that she was there. as she stood on the landing, it occurred to her suddenly that she had no reason to offer for her visit, but his words saved her from any need for explanation. 'i've been waiting for you,' he said. haddo led her into a sitting-room. he had an apartment in a _maison meublée_, and heavy hangings, the solid furniture of that sort of house in paris, was unexpected in connexion with him. the surroundings were so commonplace that they seemed to emphasise his singularity. there was a peculiar lack of comfort, which suggested that he was indifferent to material things. the room was large, but so cumbered that it gave a cramped impression. haddo dwelt there as if he were apart from any habitation that might be his. he moved cautiously among the heavy furniture, and his great obesity was somehow more remarkable. there was the acrid perfume which margaret remembered a few days before in her vision of an eastern city. asking her to sit down, he began to talk as if they were old acquaintances between whom nothing of moment had occurred. at last she took her courage in both hands. 'why did you make me come here?' she asked suddenly, 'you give me credit now for very marvellous powers,' he smiled. 'you knew i should come.' 'i knew.' 'what have i done to you that you should make me so unhappy? i want you to leave me alone.' 'i shall not prevent you from going out if you choose to go. no harm has come to you. the door is open.' her heart beat quickly, painfully almost, and she remained silent. she knew that she did not want to go. there was something that drew her strangely to him, and she was ceasing to resist. a strange feeling began to take hold of her, creeping stealthily through her limbs; and she was terrified, but unaccountably elated. he began to talk with that low voice of his that thrilled her with a curious magic. he spoke not of pictures now, nor of books, but of life. he told her of strange eastern places where no infidel had been, and her sensitive fancy was aflame with the honeyed fervour of his phrase. he spoke of the dawn upon sleeping desolate cities, and the moonlit nights of the desert, of the sunsets with their splendour, and of the crowded streets at noon. the beauty of the east rose before her. he told her of many-coloured webs and of silken carpets, the glittering steel of armour damascened, and of barbaric, priceless gems. the splendour of the east blinded her eyes. he spoke of frankincense and myrrh and aloes, of heavy perfumes of the scent-merchants, and drowsy odours of the syrian gardens. the fragrance of the east filled her nostrils. and all these things were transformed by the power of his words till life itself seemed offered to her, a life of infinite vivacity, a life of freedom, a life of supernatural knowledge. it seemed to her that a comparison was drawn for her attention between the narrow round which awaited her as arthur's wife and this fair, full existence. she shuddered to think of the dull house in harley street and the insignificance of its humdrum duties. but it was possible for her also to enjoy the wonder of the world. her soul yearned for a beauty that the commonalty of men did not know. and what devil suggested, a warp as it were in the woof of oliver's speech, that her exquisite loveliness gave her the right to devote herself to the great art of living? she felt a sudden desire for perilous adventures. as though fire passed through her, she sprang to her feet and stood with panting bosom, her flashing eyes bright with the multi-coloured pictures that his magic presented. oliver haddo stood too, and they faced one another. then, on a sudden, she knew what the passion was that consumed her. with a quick movement, his eyes more than ever strangely staring, he took her in his arms, and he kissed her lips. she surrendered herself to him voluptuously. her whole body burned with the ecstasy of his embrace. 'i think i love you,' she said, hoarsely. she looked at him. she did not feel ashamed. 'now you must go,' he said. he opened the door, and, without another word, she went. she walked through the streets as if nothing at all had happened. she felt neither remorse nor revulsion. then margaret felt every day that uncontrollable desire to go to him; and, though she tried to persuade herself not to yield, she knew that her effort was only a pretence: she did not want anything to prevent her. when it seemed that some accident would do so, she could scarcely control her irritation. there was always that violent hunger of the soul which called her to him, and the only happy hours she had were those spent in his company. day after day she felt that complete ecstasy when he took her in his huge arms, and kissed her with his heavy, sensual lips. but the ecstasy was extraordinarily mingled with loathing, and her physical attraction was allied with physical abhorrence. yet when he looked at her with those pale blue eyes, and threw into his voice those troubling accents, she forgot everything. he spoke of unhallowed things. sometimes, as it were, he lifted a corner of the veil, and she caught a glimpse of terrible secrets. she understood how men had bartered their souls for infinite knowledge. she seemed to stand upon a pinnacle of the temple, and spiritual kingdoms of darkness, principalities of the unknown, were spread before her eyes to lure her to destruction. but of haddo himself she learned nothing. she did not know if he loved her. she did not know if he had ever loved. he appeared to stand apart from human kind. margaret discovered by chance that his mother lived, but he would not speak of her. 'some day you shall see her,' he said. 'when?' 'very soon.' meanwhile her life proceeded with all outward regularity. she found it easy to deceive her friends, because it occurred to neither that her frequent absence was not due to the plausible reasons she gave. the lies which at first seemed intolerable now tripped glibly off her tongue. but though they were so natural, she was seized often with a panic of fear lest they should be discovered; and sometimes, suffering agonies of remorse, she would lie in bed at night and think with utter shame of the way she was using arthur. but things had gone too far now, and she must let them take their course. she scarcely knew why her feelings towards him had so completely changed. oliver haddo had scarcely mentioned his name and yet had poisoned her mind. the comparison between the two was to arthur's disadvantage. she thought him a little dull now, and his commonplace way of looking at life contrasted with haddo's fascinating boldness. she reproached arthur in her heart because he had never understood what was in her. he narrowed her mind. and gradually she began to hate him because her debt of gratitude was so great. it seemed unfair that he should have done so much for her. he forced her to marry him by his beneficence. yet margaret continued to discuss with him the arrangement of their house in harley street. it had been her wish to furnish the drawing-room in the style of louis xv; and together they made long excursions to buy chairs or old pieces of silk with which to cover them. everything should be perfect in its kind. the date of their marriage was fixed, and all the details were settled. arthur was ridiculously happy. margaret made no sign. she did not think of the future, and she spoke of it only to ward off suspicion. she was inwardly convinced now that the marriage would never take place, but what was to prevent it she did not know. she watched susie and arthur cunningly. but though she watched in order to conceal her own secret, it was another's that she discovered. suddenly margaret became aware that susie was deeply in love with arthur burdon. the discovery was so astounding that at first it seemed absurd. 'you've never done that caricature of arthur for me that you promised,' she said, suddenly. 'i've tried, but he doesn't lend himself to it,' laughed susie. 'with that long nose and the gaunt figure i should have thought you could make something screamingly funny.' 'how oddly you talk of him! somehow i can only see his beautiful, kind eyes and his tender mouth. i would as soon do a caricature of him as write a parody on a poem i loved.' margaret took the portfolio in which susie kept her sketches. she caught the look of alarm that crossed her friend's face, but susie had not the courage to prevent her from looking. she turned the drawings carelessly and presently came to a sheet upon which, in a more or less finished state, were half a dozen heads of arthur. pretending not to see it, she went on to the end. when she closed the portfolio susie gave a sigh of relief. 'i wish you worked harder,' said margaret, as she put the sketches down. 'i wonder you don't do a head of arthur as you can't do a caricature.' 'my dear, you mustn't expect everyone to take such an overpowering interest in that young man as you do.' the answer added a last certainty to margaret's suspicion. she told herself bitterly that susie was no less a liar than she. next day, when the other was out, margaret looked through the portfolio once more, but the sketches of arthur had disappeared. she was seized on a sudden with anger because susie dared to love the man who loved her. the web in which oliver haddo enmeshed her was woven with skilful intricacy. he took each part of her character separately and fortified with consummate art his influence over her. there was something satanic in his deliberation, yet in actual time it was almost incredible that he could have changed the old abhorrence with which she regarded him into that hungry passion. margaret could not now realize her life apart from his. at length he thought the time was ripe for the final step. 'it may interest you to know that i'm leaving paris on thursday,' he said casually, one afternoon. she started to her feet and stared at him with bewildered eyes. 'but what is to become of me?' 'you will marry the excellent mr burdon.' 'you know i cannot live without you. how can you be so cruel?' 'then the only alternative is that you should accompany me.' her blood ran cold, and her heart seemed pressed in an iron vice. 'what do you mean?' 'there is no need to be agitated. i am making you an eminently desirable offer of marriage.' she sank helplessly into her chair. because she had refused to think of the future, it had never struck her that the time must come when it would be necessary to leave haddo or to throw in her lot with his definitely. she was seized with revulsion. margaret realized that, though an odious attraction bound her to the man, she loathed and feared him. the scales fell from her eyes. she remembered on a sudden arthur's great love and all that he had done for her sake. she hated herself. like a bird at its last gasp beating frantically against the bars of a cage, margaret made a desperate effort to regain her freedom. she sprang up. 'let me go from here. i wish i'd never seen you. i don't know what you've done with me.' 'go by all means if you choose,' he answered. he opened the door, so that she might see he used no compulsion, and stood lazily at the threshold, with a hateful smile on his face. there was something terrible in his excessive bulk. rolls of fat descended from his chin and concealed his neck. his cheeks were huge, and the lack of beard added to the hideous nakedness of his face. margaret stopped as she passed him, horribly repelled yet horribly fascinated. she had an immense desire that he should take her again in his arms and press her lips with that red voluptuous mouth. it was as though fiends of hell were taking revenge upon her loveliness by inspiring in her a passion for this monstrous creature. she trembled with the intensity of her desire. his eyes were hard and cruel. 'go,' he said. she bent her head and fled from before him. to get home she passed through the gardens of the luxembourg, but her legs failed her, and in exhaustion she sank upon a bench. the day was sultry. she tried to collect herself. margaret knew well the part in which she sat, for in the enthusiastic days that seemed so long gone by she was accustomed to come there for the sake of a certain tree upon which her eyes now rested. it had all the slim delicacy of a japanese print. the leaves were slender and fragile, half gold with autumn, half green, but so tenuous that the dark branches made a pattern of subtle beauty against the sky. the hand of a draughtsman could not have fashioned it with a more excellent skill. but now margaret could take no pleasure in its grace. she felt a heartrending pang to think that thenceforward the consummate things of art would have no meaning for her. she had seen arthur the evening before, and remembered with an agony of shame the lies to which she had been forced in order to explain why she could not see him till late that day. he had proposed that they should go to versailles, and was bitterly disappointed when she told him they could not, as usual on sundays, spend the whole day together. he accepted her excuse that she had to visit a sick friend. it would not have been so intolerable if he had suspected her of deceit, and his reproaches would have hardened her heart. it was his entire confidence which was so difficult to bear. 'oh, if i could only make a clean breast of it all,' she cried. the bell of saint sulpice was ringing for vespers. margaret walked slowly to the church, and sat down in the seats reserved in the transept for the needy. she hoped that the music she must hear there would rest her soul, and perhaps she might be able to pray. of late she had not dared. there was a pleasant darkness in the place, and its large simplicity was soothing. in her exhaustion, she watched listlessly the people go to and fro. behind her was a priest in the confessional. a little peasant girl, in a breton _coiffe_, perhaps a maid-servant lately come from her native village to the great capital, passed in and knelt down. margaret could hear her muttered words, and at intervals the deep voice of the priest. in three minutes she tripped neatly away. she looked so fresh in her plain black dress, so healthy and innocent, that margaret could not restrain a sob of envy. the child had so little to confess, a few puny errors which must excite a smile on the lips of the gentle priest, and her candid spirit was like snow. margaret would have given anything to kneel down and whisper in those passionless ears all that she suffered, but the priest's faith and hers were not the same. they spoke a different tongue, not of the lips only but of the soul, and he would not listen to the words of an heretic. a long procession of seminarists came in from the college which is under the shadow of that great church, two by two, in black cassocks and short white surplices. many were tonsured already. some were quite young. margaret watched their faces, wondering if they were tormented by such agony as she. but they had a living faith to sustain them, and if some, as was plain, were narrow and obtuse, they had at least a fixed rule which prevented them from swerving into treacherous byways. one of two had a wan ascetic look, such as the saints may have had when the terror of life was known to them only in the imaginings of the cloister. the canons of the church followed in their more gorgeous vestments, and finally the officiating clergy. the music was beautiful. there was about it a staid, sad dignity; and it seemed to margaret fit thus to adore god. but it did not move her. she could not understand the words that the priests chanted; their gestures, their movements to and fro, were strange to her. for her that stately service had no meaning. and with a great cry in her heart she said that god had forsaken her. she was alone in an alien land. evil was all about her, and in those ceremonies she could find no comfort. what could she expect when the god of her fathers left her to her fate? so that she might not weep in front of all those people, margaret with down-turned face walked to the door. she felt utterly lost. as she walked along the interminable street that led to her own house, she was shaken with sobs. 'god has forsaken me,' she repeated. 'god has foresaken me.' next day, her eyes red with weeping, she dragged herself to haddo's door. when he opened it, she went in without a word. she sat down, and he watched her in silence. 'i am willing to marry you whenever you choose,' she said at last. 'i have made all the necessary arrangements.' 'you have spoken to me of your mother. will you take me to her at once.' the shadow of a smile crossed his lips. 'if you wish it.' haddo told her that they could be married before the consul early enough on the thursday morning to catch a train for england. she left everything in his hands. 'i'm desperately unhappy,' she said dully. oliver laid his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her eyes. 'go home, and you will forget your tears. i command you to be happy.' then it seemed that the bitter struggle between the good and the evil in her was done, and the evil had conquered. she felt on a sudden curiously elated. it seemed no longer to matter that she deceived her faithful friends. she gave a bitter laugh, as she thought how easy it was to hoodwink them. * * * * * wednesday happened to be arthur's birthday, and he asked her to dine with him alone. 'we'll do ourselves proud, and hang the expense,' he said. they had arranged to eat at a fashionable restaurant on the other side of the river, and soon after seven he fetched her. margaret was dressed with exceeding care. she stood in the middle of the room, waiting for arthur's arrival, and surveyed herself in the glass. susie thought she had never been more beautiful. 'i think you've grown more pleasing to look upon than you ever were,' she said. 'i don't know what it is that has come over you of late, but there's a depth in your eyes that is quite new. it gives you an odd mysteriousness which is very attractive.' knowing susie's love for arthur, she wondered whether her friend was not heartbroken as she compared her own plainness with the radiant beauty that was before her. arthur came in, and margaret did not move. he stopped at the door to look at her. their eyes met. his heart beat quickly, and yet he was seized with awe. his good fortune was too great to bear, when he thought that this priceless treasure was his. he could have knelt down and worshipped as though a goddess of old greece stood before him. and to him also her eyes had changed. they had acquired a burning passion which disturbed and yet enchanted him. it seemed that the lovely girl was changed already into a lovely woman. an enigmatic smile came to her lips. 'are you pleased?' she asked. arthur came forward and margaret put her hands on his shoulders. 'you have scent on,' he said. he was surprised, for she had never used it before. it was a faint, almost acrid perfume that he did not know. it reminded him vaguely of those odours which he remembered in his childhood in the east. it was remote and strange. it gave margaret a new and troubling charm. there had ever been something cold in her statuesque beauty, but this touch somehow curiously emphasized her sex. arthur's lips twitched, and his gaunt face grew pale with passion. his emotion was so great that it was nearly pain. he was puzzled, for her eyes expressed things that he had never seen in them before. 'why don't you kiss me?' she said. she did not see susie, but knew that a quick look of anguish crossed her face. margaret drew arthur towards her. his hands began to tremble. he had never ventured to express the passion that consumed him, and when he kissed her it was with a restraint that was almost brotherly. now their lips met. forgetting that anyone else was in the room, he flung his arms around margaret. she had never kissed him in that way before, and the rapture was intolerable. her lips were like living fire. he could not take his own away. he forgot everything. all his strength, all his self-control, deserted him. it crossed his mind that at this moment he would willingly die. but the delight of it was so great that he could scarcely withhold a cry of agony. at length susie's voice reminded him of the world. 'you'd far better go out to dinner instead of behaving like a pair of complete idiots.' she tried to make her tone as flippant as the words, but her voice was cut by a pang of agony. with a little laugh, margaret withdrew from arthur's embrace and lightly looked at her friend. susie's brave smile died away as she caught this glance, for there was in it a malicious hatred that startled her. it was so unexpected that she was terrified. what had she done? she was afraid, dreadfully afraid, that margaret had guessed her secret. arthur stood as if his senses had left him, quivering still with the extremity of passion. 'susie says we must go,' smiled margaret. he could not speak. he could not regain the conventional manner of polite society. very pale, like a man suddenly awaked from deep sleep, he went out at margaret's side. they walked along the passage. though the door was closed behind them and they were out of earshot, margaret seemed not withstanding to hear susie's passionate sobbing. it gave her a horrible delight. the tavern to which they went was on the boulevard des italiens, and at this date the most frequented in paris. it was crowded, but arthur had reserved a table in the middle of the room. her radiant loveliness made people stare at margaret as she passed, and her consciousness of the admiration she excited increased her beauty. she was satisfied that amid that throng of the best-dressed women in the world she had cause to envy no one. the gaiety was charming. shaded lights gave an opulent cosiness to the scene, and there were flowers everywhere. innumerable mirrors reflected women of the world, admirably gowned, actresses of renown, and fashionable courtesans. the noise was very great. a hungarian band played in a distant corner, but the music was drowned by the loud talking of excited men and the boisterous laughter of women. it was plain that people had come to spend their money with a lavish hand. the vivacious crowd was given over with all its heart to the pleasure of the fleeting moment. everyone had put aside grave thoughts and sorrow. margaret had never been in better spirits. the champagne went quickly to her head, and she talked all manner of charming nonsense. arthur was enchanted. he was very proud, very pleased, and very happy. they talked of all the things they would do when they were married. they talked of the places they must go to, of their home and of the beautiful things with which they would fill it. margaret's animation was extraordinary. arthur was amused at her delight with the brightness of the place, with the good things they ate, and with the wine. her laughter was like a rippling brook. everything tended to take him out of his usual reserve. life was very pleasing, at that moment, and he felt singularly joyful. 'let us drink to the happiness of our life,' he said. they touched glasses. he could not take his eyes away from her. 'you're simply wonderful tonight,' he said. 'i'm almost afraid of my good fortune.' 'what is there to be afraid of?' she cried. 'i should like to lose something i valued in order to propitiate the fates. i am too happy now. everything goes too well with me.' she gave a soft, low laugh and stretched out her hand on the table. no sculptor could have modelled its exquisite delicacy. she wore only one ring, a large emerald which arthur had given her on their engagement. he could not resist taking her hand. 'would you like to go on anywhere?' he said, when they had finished dinner and were drinking their coffee. 'no, let us stay here. i must go to bed early, as i have a tiring day before me tomorrow.' 'what are you going to do?' he asked. 'nothing of any importance,' she laughed. presently the diners began to go in little groups, and margaret suggested that they should saunter towards the madeleine. the night was fine, but rather cold, and the broad avenue was crowded. margaret watched the people. it was no less amusing than a play. in a little while, they took a cab and drove through the streets, silent already, that led to the quarter of the montparnasse. they sat in silence, and margaret nestled close to arthur. he put his arm around her waist. in the shut cab that faint, oriental odour rose again to his nostrils, and his head reeled as it had before dinner. 'you've made me very happy, margaret,' he whispered. 'i feel that, however long i live, i shall never have a happier day than this.' 'do you love me very much?' she asked, lightly. he did not answer, but took her face in his hands and kissed her passionately. they arrived at margaret's house, and she tripped up to the door. she held out her hand to him, smiling. 'goodnight.' 'it's dreadful to think that i must spend a dozen hours without seeing you. when may i come?' 'not in the morning, because i shall be too busy. come at twelve.' she remembered that her train started exactly at that hour. the door was opened, and with a little wave of the hand she disappeared. susie stared without comprehension at the note that announced margaret's marriage. it was a _petit bleu_ sent off from the gare du nord, and ran as follows: when you receive this i shall be on my way to london. i was married to oliver haddo this morning. i love him as i never loved arthur. i have acted in this manner because i thought i had gone too far with arthur to make an explanation possible. please tell him. margaret susie was filled with dismay. she did not know what to do nor what to think. there was a knock at the door, and she knew it must be arthur, for he was expected at midday. she decided quickly that it was impossible to break the news to him then and there. it was needful first to find out all manner of things, and besides, it was incredible. making up her mind, she opened the door. 'oh, i'm so sorry margaret isn't here,' she said. 'a friend of hers is ill and sent for her suddenly.' 'what a bore!' answered arthur. 'mrs bloomfield as usual, i suppose?' 'oh, you know she's been ill?' 'margaret has spent nearly every afternoon with her for some days.' susie did not answer. this was the first she had heard of mrs bloomfield's illness, and it was news that margaret was in the habit of visiting her. but her chief object at this moment was to get rid of arthur. 'won't you come back at five o'clock?' she said. 'but, look here, why shouldn't we lunch together, you and i?' 'i'm very sorry, but i'm expecting somebody in.' 'oh, all right. then i'll come back at five.' he nodded and went out. susie read the brief note once more, and asked herself if it could possibly be true. the callousness of it was appalling. she went to margaret's room and saw that everything was in its place. it did not look as if the owner had gone on a journey. but then she noticed that a number of letters had been destroyed. she opened a drawer and found that margaret's trinkets were gone. an idea struck her. margaret had bought lately a number of clothes, and these she had insisted should be sent to her dressmaker, saying that it was needless to cumber their little apartment with them. they could stay there till she returned to england a few weeks later for her marriage, and it would be simpler to despatch them all from one place. susie went out. at the door it occurred to her to ask the _concierge_ if she knew where margaret had gone that morning. '_parfaitement, mademoiselle_,' answered the old woman. 'i heard her tell the coachman to go to the british consulate.' the last doubt was leaving susie. she went to the dressmaker and there discovered that by margaret's order the boxes containing her things had gone on the previous day to the luggage office of the gare du nord. 'i hope you didn't let them go till your bill was paid,' said susie lightly, as though in jest. the dressmaker laughed. 'mademoiselle paid for everything two or three days ago.' with indignation, susie realised that margaret had not only taken away the trousseau bought for her marriage with arthur; but, since she was herself penniless, had paid for it with the money which he had generously given her. susie drove then to mrs bloomfield, who at once reproached her for not coming to see her. 'i'm sorry, but i've been exceedingly busy, and i knew that margaret was looking after you.' 'i've not seen margaret for three weeks,' said the invalid. 'haven't you? i thought she dropped in quite often.' susie spoke as though the matter were of no importance. she asked herself now where margaret could have spent those afternoons. by a great effort she forced herself to speak of casual things with the garrulous old lady long enough to make her visit seem natural. on leaving her, she went to the consulate, and her last doubt was dissipated. then nothing remained but to go home and wait for arthur. her first impulse had been to see dr porhoët and ask for his advice; but, even if he offered to come back with her to the studio, his presence would be useless. she must see arthur by himself. her heart was wrung as she thought of the man's agony when he knew the truth. she had confessed to herself long before that she loved him passionately, and it seemed intolerable that she of all persons must bear him this great blow. she sat in the studio, counting the minutes, and thought with a bitter smile that his eagerness to see margaret would make him punctual. she had eaten nothing since the _petit déjeuner_ of the morning, and she was faint with hunger. but she had not the heart to make herself tea. at last he came. he entered joyfully and looked around. 'is margaret not here yet?' he asked, with surprise. 'won't you sit down?' he did not notice that her voice was strange, nor that she kept her eyes averted. 'how lazy you are,' he cried. 'you haven't got the tea.' 'mr burdon, i have something to say to you. it will cause you very great pain.' he observed now the hoarseness of her tone. he sprang to his feet, and a thousand fancies flashed across his brain. something horrible had happened to margaret. she was ill. his terror was so great that he could not speak. he put out his hands as does a blind man. susie had to make an effort to go on. but she could not. her voice was choked, and she began to cry. arthur trembled as though he were seized with ague. she gave him the letter. 'what does it mean?' he looked at her vacantly. then she told him all that she had done that day and the places to which she had been. 'when you thought she was spending every afternoon with mrs bloomfield, she was with that man. she made all the arrangements with the utmost care. it was quite premeditated.' arthur sat down and leaned his head on his hand. he turned his back to her, so that she should not see his face. they remained in perfect silence. and it was so terrible that susie began to cry quietly. she knew that the man she loved was suffering an agony greater than the agony of death, and she could not help him. rage flared up in her heart, and hatred for margaret. 'oh, it's infamous!' she cried suddenly. 'she's lied to you, she's been odiously deceitful. she must be vile and heartless. she must be rotten to the very soul.' he turned round sharply, and his voice was hard. 'i forbid you to say anything against her.' susie gave a little gasp. he had never spoken to her before in anger. she flashed out bitterly. 'can you love her still, when she's shown herself capable of such vile treachery? for nearly a month this man must have been making love to her, and she's listened to all we said of him. she's pretended to hate the sight of him, i've seen her cut him in the street. she's gone on with all the preparations for your marriage. she must have lived in a world of lies, and you never suspected anything because you had an unalterable belief in her love and truthfulness. she owes everything to you. for four years she's lived on your charity. she was only able to be here because you gave her money to carry out a foolish whim, and the very clothes on her back were paid for by you.' 'i can't help it if she didn't love me,' he cried desperately. 'you know just as well as i do that she pretended to love you. oh, she's behaved shamefully. there can be no excuse for her.' he looked at susie with haggard, miserable eyes. 'how can you be so cruel? for god's sake don't make it harder.' there was an indescribable agony in his voice. and as if his own words of pain overcame the last barrier of his self-control, he broke down. he hid his face in his hands and sobbed. susie was horribly conscience-stricken. 'oh, i'm so sorry,' she said. 'i didn't mean to say such hateful things. i didn't mean to be unkind. i ought to have remembered how passionately you love her.' it was very painful to see the effort he made to regain his self-command. susie suffered as much as he did. her impulse was to throw herself on her knees, and kiss his hands, and comfort him; but she knew that he was interested in her only because she was margaret's friend. at last he got up and, taking his pipe from his pocket, filled it silently. she was terrified at the look on his face. the first time she had ever seen him, susie wondered at the possibility of self-torture which was in that rough-hewn countenance; but she had never dreamed that it could express such unutterable suffering. its lines were suddenly changed, and it was terrible to look upon. 'i can't believe it's true,' he muttered. 'i can't believe it.' there was a knock at the door, and arthur gave a startled cry. 'perhaps she's come back.' he opened it hurriedly, his face suddenly lit up by expectation; but it was dr porhoët. 'how do you do?' said the frenchman. 'what is happening?' he looked round and caught the dismay that was on the faces of arthur and susie. 'where is miss margaret? i thought you must be giving a party.' there was something in his manner that made susie ask why. 'i received a telegram from mr haddo this morning.' he took it from his pocket and handed it to susie. she read it and passed it to arthur. it said: come to the studio at five. high jinks. oliver haddo 'margaret was married to mr haddo this morning,' said arthur, quietly. 'i understand they have gone to england.' susie quickly told the doctor the few facts they knew. he was as surprised, as distressed, as they. 'but what is the explanation of it all?' he asked. arthur shrugged his shoulders wearily. 'she cared for haddo more than she cared for me, i suppose. it is natural enough that she should go away in this fashion rather than offer explanations. i suppose she wanted to save herself a scene she thought might be rather painful.' 'when did you see her last?' 'we spent yesterday evening together.' 'and did she not show in any way that she contemplated such a step?' arthur shook his head. 'you had no quarrel?' 'we've never quarrelled. she was in the best of spirits. i've never seen her more gay. she talked the whole time of our house in london, and of the places we must visit when we were married.' another contraction of pain passed over his face as he remembered that she had been more affectionate than she had ever been before. the fire of her kisses still burnt upon his lips. he had spent a night of almost sleepless ecstasy because he had been certain for the first time that the passion which consumed him burnt in her heart too. words were dragged out of him against his will. 'oh, i'm sure she loved me.' meanwhile susie's eyes were fixed on haddo's cruel telegram. she seemed to hear his mocking laughter. 'margaret loathed oliver haddo with a hatred that was almost unnatural. it was a physical repulsion like that which people sometimes have for certain animals. what can have happened to change it into so great a love that it has made her capable of such villainous acts?' 'we mustn't be unfair to him,' said arthur. 'he put our backs up, and we were probably unjust. he has done some very remarkable things in his day, and he's no fool. it's possible that some people wouldn't mind the eccentricities which irritated us. he's certainly of very good family and he's rich. in many ways it's an excellent match for margaret.' he was trying with all his might to find excuses for her. it would not make her treachery so intolerable if he could persuade himself that haddo had qualities which might explain her infatuation. but as his enemy stood before his fancy, monstrously obese, vulgar, and overbearing, a shudder passed through him. the thought of margaret in that man's arms tortured him as though his flesh were torn with iron hooks. 'perhaps it's not true. perhaps she'll return,' he cried. 'would you take her back if she came to you?' asked susie. 'do you think anything she can do has the power to make me love her less? there must be reasons of which we know nothing that caused her to do all she has done. i daresay it was inevitable from the beginning.' dr porhoët got up and walked across the room. 'if a woman had done me such an injury that i wanted to take some horrible vengeance, i think i could devise nothing more subtly cruel than to let her be married to oliver haddo.' 'ah, poor thing, poor thing!' said arthur. 'if i could only suppose she would be happy! the future terrifies me.' 'i wonder if she knew that haddo had sent that telegram,' said susie. 'what can it matter?' she turned to arthur gravely. 'do you remember that day, in this studio, when he kicked margaret's dog, and you thrashed him? well, afterwards, when he thought no one saw him, i happened to catch sight of his face. i never saw in my life such malignant hatred. it was the face of a fiend of wickedness. and when he tried to excuse himself, there was a cruel gleam in his eyes which terrified me. i warned you; i told you that he had made up his mind to revenge himself, but you laughed at me. and then he seemed to go out of our lives and i thought no more about it. i wonder why he sent dr porhoët here today. he must have known that the doctor would hear of his humiliation, and he may have wished that he should be present at his triumph. i think that very moment he made up his mind to be even with you, and he devised this odious scheme.' 'how could he know that it was possible to carry out such a horrible thing?' said arthur. 'i wonder if miss boyd is right,' murmured the doctor. 'after all, if you come to think of it, he must have thought that he couldn't hurt you more. the whole thing is fiendish. he took away from you all your happiness. he must have known that you wanted nothing in the world more than to make margaret your wife, and he has not only prevented that, but he has married her himself. and he can only have done it by poisoning her mind, by warping her very character. her soul must be horribly besmirched; he must have entirely changed her personality.' 'ah, i feel that,' cried arthur. 'if margaret has broken her word to me, if she's gone to him so callously, it's because it's not the margaret i know. some devil must have taken possession of her body.' 'you use a figure of speech. i wonder if it can possibly be a reality.' arthur and dr porhoët looked at susie with astonishment. 'i can't believe that margaret could have done such a thing,' she went on. 'the more i think of it, the more incredible it seems. i've known margaret for years, and she was incapable of deceit. she was very kind-hearted. she was honest and truthful. in the first moment of horror, i was only indignant, but i don't want to think too badly of her. there is only one way to excuse her, and that is by supposing she acted under some strange compulsion.' arthur clenched his hands. 'i'm not sure if that doesn't make it more awful than before. if he's married her, not because he cares, but in order to hurt me, what life will she lead with him? we know how heartless he is, how vindictive, how horribly cruel.' 'dr porhoët knows more about these things than we do,' said susie. 'is it possible that haddo can have cast some spell upon her that would make her unable to resist his will? is it possible that he can have got such an influence over her that her whole character was changed?' 'how can i tell?' cried the doctor helplessly. 'i have heard that such things may happen. i have read of them, but i have no proof. in these matters all is obscurity. the adepts in magic make strange claims. arthur is a man of science, and he knows what the limits of hypnotism are.' 'we know that haddo had powers that other men have not,' answered susie. 'perhaps there was enough truth in his extravagant pretensions to enable him to do something that we can hardly imagine.' arthur passed his hands wearily over his face. 'i'm so broken, so confused, that i cannot think sanely. at this moment everything seems possible. my faith in all the truths that have supported me is tottering.' for a while they remained silent. arthur's eyes rested on the chair in which margaret had so often sat. an unfinished canvas still stood upon the easel. it was dr porhoët who spoke at last. 'but even if there were some truth in miss boyd's suppositions, i don't see how it can help you. you cannot do anything. you have no remedy, legal or otherwise. margaret is apparently a free agent, and she has married this man. it is plain that many people will think she has done much better in marrying a country gentleman than in marrying a young surgeon. her letter is perfectly lucid. there is no trace of compulsion. to all intents and purposes she has married him of her own free-will, and there is nothing to show that she desires to be released from him or from the passion which we may suppose enslaves her.' what he said was obviously true, and no reply was possible. 'the only thing is to grin and bear it,' said arthur, rising. 'where are you going?' said susie. 'i think i want to get away from paris. here everything will remind me of what i have lost. i must get back to my work.' he had regained command over himself, and except for the hopeless woe of his face, which he could not prevent from being visible, he was as calm as ever. he held out his hand to susie. 'i can only hope that you'll forget,' she said. 'i don't wish to forget,' he answered, shaking his head. 'it's possible that you will hear from margaret. she'll want the things that she has left here, and i daresay will write to you. i should like you to tell her that i bear her no ill-will for anything she has done, and i will never venture to reproach her. i don't know if i shall be able to do anything for her, but i wish her to know that in any case and always i will do everything that she wants.' 'if she writes to me, i will see that she is told,' answered susie gravely. 'and now goodbye.' 'you can't go to london till tomorrow. shan't i see you in the morning?' 'i think if you don't mind, i won't come here again. the sight of all this rather disturbs me.' again a contraction of pain passed across his eyes, and susie saw that he was using a superhuman effort to preserve the appearance of composure. she hesitated a moment. 'shall i never see you again?' she said. 'i should be sorry to lose sight of you entirely.' 'i should be sorry, too,' he answered. 'i have learned how good and kind you are, and i shall never forget that you are margaret's friend. when you come to london, i hope that you will let me know.' he went out. dr porhoët, his hands behind his back, began to walk up and down the room. at last he turned to susie. 'there is one thing that puzzles me,' he said. 'why did he marry her?' 'you heard what arthur said,' answered susie bitterly. 'whatever happened, he would have taken her back. the other man knew that he could only bind her to him securely by going through the ceremonies of marriage.' dr porhoët shrugged his shoulders, and presently he left her. when susie was alone she began to weep broken-heartedly, not for herself, but because arthur suffered an agony that was hardly endurable. arthur went back to london next day. susie felt it impossible any longer to stay in the deserted studio, and accepted a friend's invitation to spend the winter in italy. the good dr porhoët remained in paris with his books and his occult studies. susie travelled slowly through tuscany and umbria. margaret had not written to her, and susie, on leaving paris, had sent her friend's belongings to an address from which she knew they would eventually be forwarded. she could not bring herself to write. in answer to a note announcing her change of plans, arthur wrote briefly that he had much work to do and was delivering a new course of lectures at st. luke's; he had lately been appointed visiting surgeon to another hospital, and his private practice was increasing. he did not mention margaret. his letter was abrupt, formal, and constrained. susie, reading it for the tenth time, could make little of it. she saw that he wrote only from civility, without interest; and there was nothing to indicate his state of mind. susie and her companion had made up their minds to pass some weeks in rome; and here, to her astonishment, susie had news of haddo and his wife. it appeared that they had spent some time there, and the little english circle was talking still of their eccentricities. they travelled in some state, with a courier and a suite of servants; they had taken a carriage and were in the habit of driving every afternoon on the pincio. haddo had excited attention by the extravagance of his costume, and margaret by her beauty; she was to be seen in her box at the opera every night, and her diamonds were the envy of all beholders. though people had laughed a good deal at haddo's pretentiousness, and been exasperated by his arrogance, they could not fail to be impressed by his obvious wealth. but finally the pair had disappeared suddenly without saying a word to anybody. a good many bills remained unpaid, but these, susie learnt, had been settled later. it was reported that they were now in monte carlo. 'did they seem happy?' susie asked the gossiping friend who gave her this scanty information. 'i think so. after all, mrs haddo has almost everything that a woman can want, riches, beauty, nice clothes, jewels. she would be very unreasonable not to be happy.' susie had meant to pass the later spring on the riviera, but when she heard that the haddos were there, she hesitated. she did not want to run the risk of seeing them, and yet she had a keen desire to find out exactly how things were going. curiosity and distaste struggled in her mind, but curiosity won; and she persuaded her friend to go to monte carlo instead of to beaulieu. at first susie did not see the haddos; but rumour was already much occupied with them, and she had only to keep her ears open. in that strange place, where all that is extravagant and evil, all that is morbid, insane, and fantastic, is gathered together, the haddos were in fit company. they were notorious for their assiduity at the tables and for their luck, for the dinners and suppers they gave at places frequented by the very opulent, and for their eccentric appearance. it was a complex picture that susie put together from the scraps of information she collected. after two or three days she saw them at the tables, but they were so absorbed in their game that she felt quite safe from discovery. margaret was playing, but haddo stood behind her and directed her movements. their faces were extraordinarily intent. susie fixed her attention on margaret, for in what she had heard of her she had been quite unable to recognize the girl who had been her friend. and what struck her most now was that there was in margaret's expression a singular likeness to haddo's. notwithstanding her exquisite beauty, she had a curiously vicious look, which suggested that somehow she saw literally with oliver's eyes. they had won great sums that evening, and many persons watched them. it appeared that they played always in this fashion, margaret putting on the stakes and haddo telling her what to do and when to stop. susie heard two frenchmen talking of them. she listened with all her ears. she flushed as she heard one of them make an observation about margaret which was more than coarse. the other laughed. 'it is incredible,' he said. 'i assure you it's true. they have been married six months, and she is still only his wife in name. the superstitious through all the ages have believed in the power of virginity, and the church has made use of the idea for its own ends. the man uses her simply as a mascot.' the men laughed, and their conversation proceeded so grossly that susie's cheeks burned. but what she had heard made her look at margaret more closely still. she was radiant. susie could not deny that something had come to her that gave a new, enigmatic savour to her beauty. she was dressed more gorgeously than susie's fastidious taste would have permitted; and her diamonds, splendid in themselves, were too magnificent for the occasion. at last, sweeping up the money, haddo touched her on the shoulder, and she rose. behind her was standing a painted woman of notorious disreputability. susie was astonished to see margaret smile and nod as she passed her. susie learnt that the haddos had a suite of rooms at the most expensive of the hotels. they lived in a whirl of gaiety. they knew few english except those whose reputations were damaged, but seemed to prefer the society of those foreigners whose wealth and eccentricities made them the cynosure of that little world. afterwards, she often saw them, in company of russian grand-dukes and their mistresses, of south american women with prodigious diamonds, of noble gamblers and great ladies of doubtful fame, of strange men overdressed and scented. rumour was increasingly busy with them. margaret moved among all those queer people with a cold mysteriousness that excited the curiosity of the sated idlers. the suggestion which susie overheard was repeated more circumstantially. but to this was joined presently the report of orgies that were enacted in the darkened sitting-room of the hotel, when all that was noble and vicious in monte carlo was present. oliver's eccentric imagination invented whimsical festivities. he had a passion for disguise, and he gave a fancy-dress party of which fabulous stories were told. he sought to revive the mystical ceremonies of old religions, and it was reported that horrible rites had been performed in the garden of the villa, under the shining moon, in imitation of those he had seen in eastern places. it was said that haddo had magical powers of extraordinary character, and the tired imagination of those pleasure-seekers was tickled by his talk of black art. some even asserted that the blasphemous ceremonies of the black mass had been celebrated in the house of a polish prince. people babbled of satanism and of necromancy. haddo was thought to be immersed in occult studies for the performance of a magical operation; and some said that he was occupied with the magnum opus, the greatest and most fantastic of alchemical experiments. gradually these stories were narrowed down to the monstrous assertion that he was attempting to create living beings. he had explained at length to somebody that magical receipts existed for the manufacture of _homunculi_. haddo was known generally by the name he was pleased to give himself. the brother of the shadow; but most people used it in derision, for it contrasted absurdly with his astonishing bulk. they were amused or outraged by his vanity, but they could not help talking about him, and susie knew well enough by now that nothing pleased him more. his exploits as a lion-hunter were well known, and it was reported that human blood was on his hands. it was soon discovered that he had a queer power over animals, so that in his presence they were seized with unaccountable terror. he succeeded in surrounding himself with an atmosphere of the fabulous, and nothing that was told of him was too extravagant for belief. but unpleasant stories were circulated also, and someone related that he had been turned out of a club in vienna for cheating at cards. he played many games, but here, as at oxford, it was found that he was an unscrupulous opponent. and those old rumours followed him that he took strange drugs. he was supposed to have odious vices, and people whispered to one another of scandals that had been with difficulty suppressed. no one quite understood on what terms he was with his wife, and it was vaguely asserted that he was at times brutally cruel to her. susie's heart sank when she heard this; but on the few occasions upon which she caught sight of margaret, she seemed in the highest spirits. one story inexpressibly shocked her. after lunching at some restaurant, haddo gave a bad louis among the money with which he paid the bill, and there was a disgraceful altercation with the waiter. he refused to change the coin till a policeman was brought in. his guests were furious, and several took the first opportunity to cut him dead. one of those present narrated the scene to susie, and she was told that margaret laughed unconcernedly with her neighbour while the sordid quarrel was proceeding. the man's blood was as good as his fortune was substantial, but it seemed to please him to behave like an adventurer. the incident was soon common property, and gradually the haddos found themselves cold-shouldered. the persons with whom they mostly consorted had reputations too delicate to stand the glare of publicity which shone upon all who were connected with him, and the suggestion of police had thrown a shudder down many a spine. what had happened in rome happened here again: they suddenly disappeared. susie had not been in london for some time, and as the spring advanced she remembered that her friends would be glad to see her. it would be charming to spend a few weeks there with an adequate income; for its pleasures had hitherto been closed to her, and she looked forward to her visit as if it were to a foreign city. but though she would not confess it to herself, her desire to see arthur was the strongest of her motives. time and absence had deadened a little the intensity of her feelings, and she could afford to acknowledge that she regarded him with very great affection. she knew that he would never care for her, but she was content to be his friend. she could think of him without pain. susie stayed in paris for three weeks to buy some of the clothes which she asserted were now her only pleasure in life, and then went to london. she wrote to arthur, and he invited her at once to lunch with him at a restaurant. she was vexed, for she felt they could have spoken more freely in his own house; but as soon as she saw him, she realized that he had chosen their meeting-place deliberately. the crowd of people that surrounded them, the gaiety, the playing of the band, prevented any intimacy of conversation. they were forced to talk of commonplaces. susie was positively terrified at the change that had taken place in him. he looked ten years older; he had lost flesh, and his hair was sprinkled with white. his face was extraordinarily drawn, and his eyes were weary from lack of sleep. but what most struck her was the change in his expression. the look of pain which she had seen on his face that last evening in the studio was now become settled, so that it altered the lines of his countenance. it was harrowing to look at him. he was more silent than ever, and when he spoke it was in a strange low voice that seemed to come from a long way off. to be with him made susie curiously uneasy, for there was a strenuousness in him which deprived his manner of all repose. one of the things that had pleased her in him formerly was the tranquillity which gave one the impression that here was a man who could be relied on in difficulties. at first she could not understand exactly what had happened, but in a moment saw that he was making an unceasing effort at self-control. he was never free from suffering and he was constantly on the alert to prevent anyone from seeing it. the strain gave him a peculiar restlessness. but he was gentler than he had ever been before. he seemed genuinely glad to see her and asked about her travels with interest. susie led him to talk of himself, and he spoke willingly enough of his daily round. he was earning a good deal of money, and his professional reputation was making steady progress. he worked hard. besides his duties at the two hospitals with which he was now connected, his teaching, and his private practice, he had read of late one or two papers before scientific bodies, and was editing a large work on surgery. 'how on earth can you find time to do so much?' asked susie. 'i can do with less sleep than i used,' he answered. 'it almost doubles my working-day.' he stopped abruptly and looked down. his remark had given accidentally some hint at the inner life which he was striving to conceal. susie knew that her suspicion was well-founded. she thought of the long hours he lay awake, trying in vain to drive from his mind the agony that tortured him, and the short intervals of troubled sleep. she knew that he delayed as long as possible the fatal moment of going to bed, and welcomed the first light of day, which gave him an excuse for getting up. and because he knew that he had divulged the truth he was embarrassed. they sat in awkward silence. to susie, the tragic figure in front of her was singularly impressive amid that lighthearted throng: all about them happy persons were enjoying the good things of life, talking, laughing, and making merry. she wondered what refinement of self-torture had driven him to choose that place to come to. he must hate it. when they finished luncheon, susie took her courage in both hands. 'won't you come back to my rooms for half an hour? we can't talk here.' he made an instinctive motion of withdrawal, as though he sought to escape. he did not answer immediately, and she insisted. 'you have nothing to do for an hour, and there are many things i want to speak to you about' 'the only way to be strong is never to surrender to one's weakness,' he said, almost in a whisper, as though ashamed to talk so intimately. 'then you won't come?' 'no.' it was not necessary to specify the matter which it was proposed to discuss. arthur knew perfectly that susie wished to talk of margaret, and he was too straightforward to pretend otherwise. susie paused for one moment. 'i was never able to give margaret your message. she did not write to me.' a certain wildness came into his eyes, as if the effort he made was almost too much for him. 'i saw her in monte carlo,' said susie. 'i thought you might like to hear about her.' 'i don't see that it can do any good,' he answered. susie made a little hopeless gesture. she was beaten. 'shall we go?' she said. 'you are not angry with me?' he asked. 'i know you mean to be kind. i'm very grateful to you.' 'i shall never be angry with you,' she smiled. arthur paid the bill, and they threaded their way among the tables. at the door she held out her hand. 'i think you do wrong in shutting yourself away from all human comradeship,' she said, with that good-humoured smile of hers. 'you must know that you will only grow absurdly morbid.' 'i go out a great deal,' he answered patiently, as though he reasoned with a child. 'i make a point of offering myself distractions from my work. i go to the opera two or three times a week.' 'i thought you didn't care for music.' 'i don't think i did,' he answered. 'but i find it rests me.' he spoke with a weariness that was appalling. susie had never beheld so plainly the torment of a soul in pain. 'won't you let me come to the opera with you one night?' she asked. 'or does it bore you to see me?' 'i should like it above all things,' he smiled, quite brightly. 'you're like a wonderful tonic. they're giving tristan on thursday. shall we go together?' 'i should enjoy it enormously.' she shook hands with him and jumped into a cab. 'oh, poor thing!' she murmured. 'poor thing! what can i do for him?' she clenched, her hands when she thought of margaret. it was monstrous that she should have caused such havoc in that good, strong man. 'oh, i hope she'll suffer for it,' she whispered vindictively. 'i hope she'll suffer all the agony that he has suffered.' susie dressed herself for covent garden as only she could do. her gown pleased her exceedingly, not only because it was admirably made, but because it had cost far more than she could afford. to dress well was her only extravagance. it was of taffeta silk, in that exquisite green which the learned in such matters call _eau de nil_; and its beauty was enhanced by the old lace which had formed not the least treasured part of her inheritance. in her hair she wore an ornament of spanish paste, of exquisite workmanship, and round her neck a chain which had once adorned that of a madonna in an andalusian church. her individuality made even her plainness attractive. she smiled at herself in the glass ruefully, because arthur would never notice that she was perfectly dressed. when she tripped down the stairs and across the pavement to the cab with which he fetched her, susie held up her skirt with a grace she flattered herself was quite parisian. as they drove along, she flirted a little with her spanish fan and stole a glance at herself in the glass. her gloves were so long and so new and so expensive that she was really indifferent to arthur's inattention. her joyous temperament expanded like a spring flower when she found herself in the opera house. she put up her glasses and examined the women as they came into the boxes of the grand tier. arthur pointed out a number of persons whose names were familiar to her, but she felt the effort he was making to be amiable. the weariness of his mouth that evening was more noticeable because of the careless throng. but when the music began he seemed to forget that any eye was upon him; he relaxed the constant tension in which he held himself; and susie, watching him surreptitiously, saw the emotions chase one another across his face. it was now very mobile. the passionate sounds ate into his soul, mingling with his own love and his own sorrow, till he was taken out of himself; and sometimes he panted strangely. through the interval he remained absorbed in his emotion. he sat as quietly as before and did not speak a word. susie understood why arthur, notwithstanding his old indifference, now showed such eager appreciation of music; it eased the pain he suffered by transferring it to an ideal world, and his own grievous sorrow made the music so real that it gave him an enjoyment of extraordinary vehemence. when it was all over and isolde had given her last wail of sorrow, arthur was so exhausted that he could hardly stir. but they went out with the crowd, and while they were waiting in the vestibule for space to move in, a common friend came up to them. this was arbuthnot, an eye-specialist, whom susie had met on the riviera and who, she presently discovered, was a colleague of arthur's at st luke's. he was a prosperous bachelor with grey hair and a red, contented face, well-to-do, for his practice was large, and lavish with his money. he had taken susie out to luncheon once or twice in monte carlo; for he liked women, pretty or plain, and she attracted him by her good-humour. he rushed up to them now and wrung their hands. he spoke in a jovial voice. 'the very people i wanted to see! why haven't you been to see me, you wicked woman? i'm sure your eyes are in a deplorable condition.' 'do you think i would let a bold, bad man like you stare into them with an ophthalmoscope?' laughed susie. 'now look here, i want you both to do me a great favour. i'm giving a supper party at the savoy, and two of my people have suddenly failed me. the table is ordered for eight, and you must come and take their places.' 'i'm afraid i must get home,' said arthur. 'i have a deuce of a lot of work to do.' 'nonsense,' answered arbuthnot. 'you work much too hard, and a little relaxation will do you good.' he turned to susie: 'i know you like curiosities in human nature; i'm having a man and his wife who will positively thrill you, they're so queer, and a lovely actress, and an awfully jolly american girl.' 'i should love to come,' said susie, with an appealing look at arthur, 'if only to show you how much more amusing i am than lovely actresses.' arthur, forcing himself to smile, accepted the invitation. the specialist patted him cheerily on the back, and they agreed to meet at the savoy. 'it's awfully good of you to come,' said susie, as they drove along. 'do you know, i've never been there in my life, and i'm palpitating with excitement.' 'what a selfish brute i was to refuse!' he answered. when susie came out of the dressing-room, she found arthur waiting for her. she was in the best of spirits. 'now you must say you like my frock. i've seen six women turn green with envy at the sight of it. they think i must be french, and they're sure i'm not respectable.' 'that is evidently a great compliment,' he smiled. at that moment arbuthnot came up to them in his eager way and seized their arms. 'come along. we're waiting for you. i'll just introduce you all round, and then we'll go in to supper.' they walked down the steps into the foyer, and he led them to a group of people. they found themselves face to face with oliver haddo and margaret. 'mr arthur burdon--mrs haddo. mr burdon is a colleague of mine at st luke's; and he will cut out your appendix in a shorter time than any man alive.' arbuthnot rattled on. he did not notice that arthur had grown ghastly pale and that margaret was blank with consternation. haddo, his heavy face wreathed with smiles, stepped forward heartily. he seemed thoroughly to enjoy the situation. 'mr burdon is an old friend of ours,' he said. 'in fact, it was he who introduced me to my wife. and miss boyd and i have discussed art and the immortality of the soul with the gravity due to such topics.' he held out his hand, and susie took it. she had a horror of scenes, and, though this encounter was as unexpected as it was disagreeable, she felt it needful to behave naturally. she shook hands with margaret. 'how disappointing!' cried their host. 'i was hoping to give miss boyd something quite new in the way of magicians, and behold! she knows all about him.' 'if she did, i'm quite sure she wouldn't speak to me,' said oliver, with a bantering smile. they went into the supper-room. 'now, how shall we sit?' said arbuthnot, glancing round the table. oliver looked at arthur, and his eyes twinkled. 'you must really let my wife and mr burdon be together. they haven't seen one another for so long that i'm sure they have no end of things to talk about.' he chuckled to himself. 'and pray give me miss boyd, so that she can abuse me to her heart's content.' this arrangement thoroughly suited the gay specialist, for he was able to put the beautiful actress on one side of him and the charming american on the other. he rubbed his hands. 'i feel that we're going to have a delightful supper.' oliver laughed boisterously. he took, as was his habit, the whole conversation upon himself, and susie was obliged to confess that he was at his best. there was a grotesque drollery about him that was very diverting, and it was almost impossible to resist him. he ate and drank with tremendous appetite. susie thanked her stars at that moment that she was a woman who knew by long practice how to conceal her feelings, for arthur, overcome with dismay at the meeting, sat in stony silence. but she talked gaily. she chaffed oliver as though he were an old friend, and laughed vivaciously. she noticed meanwhile that haddo, more extravagantly dressed than usual, had managed to get an odd fantasy into his evening clothes: he wore knee-breeches, which in itself was enough to excite attention; but his frilled shirt, his velvet collar, and oddly-cut satin waistcoat gave him the appearance of a comic frenchman. now that she was able to examine him more closely, she saw that in the last six months he was grown much balder; and the shiny whiteness of his naked crown contrasted oddly with the redness of his face. he was stouter, too, and the fat hung in heavy folds under his chin; his paunch was preposterous. the vivacity of his movements made his huge corpulence subtly alarming. he was growing indeed strangely terrible in appearance. his eyes had still that fixed, parallel look, but there was in them now at times a ferocious gleam. margaret was as beautiful as ever, but susie noticed that his influence was apparent in her dress; for there could be no doubt that it had crossed the line of individuality and had degenerated into the eccentric. her gown was much too gorgeous. it told against the classical character of her beauty. susie shuddered a little, for it reminded her of a courtesan's. margaret talked and laughed as much as her husband, but susie could not tell whether this animation was affected or due to an utter callousness. her voice seemed natural enough, yet it was inconceivable that she should be so lighthearted. perhaps she was trying to show that she was happy. the supper proceeded, and the lights, the surrounding gaiety, the champagne, made everyone more lively. their host was in uproarious spirits. he told a story or two at which everyone laughed. oliver haddo had an amusing anecdote handy. it was a little risky, but it was so funnily narrated that everyone roared but arthur, who remained in perfect silence. margaret had been drinking glass after glass of wine, and no sooner had her husband finished than she capped his story with another. but whereas his was wittily immoral, hers was simply gross. at first the other women could not understand to what she was tending, but when they saw, they looked down awkwardly at their plates. arbuthnot, haddo, and the other man who was there laughed very heartily; but arthur flushed to the roots of his hair. he felt horribly uncomfortable. he was ashamed. he dared not look at margaret. it was inconceivable that from her exquisite mouth such indecency should issue. margaret, apparently quite unconscious of the effect she had produced, went on talking and laughing. soon the lights were put out, and arthur's agony was ended. he wanted to rush away, to hide his face, to forget the sight of her and her gaiety, above all to forget that story. it was horrible, horrible. she shook hands with him quite lightly. 'you must come and see us one day. we've got rooms at the carlton.' he bowed and did not answer. susie had gone to the dressing-room to get her cloak. she stood at the door when margaret came out. 'can we drop you anywhere?' said margaret. 'you must come and see us when you have nothing better to do.' susie threw back her head. arthur was standing just in front of them looking down at the ground in complete abstraction. 'do you see him?' she said, in a low voice quivering with indignation. 'that is what you have made him.' he looked up at that moment and turned upon them his sunken, tormented eyes. they saw his wan, pallid face with its look of hopeless woe. 'do you know that he's killing himself on your account? he can't sleep at night. he's suffered the tortures of the damned. oh, i hope you'll suffer as he's suffered!' 'i wonder that you blame me,' said margaret. 'you ought to be rather grateful.' 'why?' 'you're not going to deny that you've loved him passionately from the first day you saw him? do you think i didn't see that you cared for him in paris? you care for him now more than ever.' susie felt suddenly sick at heart. she had never dreamt that her secret was discovered. margaret gave a bitter little laugh and walked past her. arthur burdon spent two or three days in a state of utter uncertainty, but at last the idea he had in mind grew so compelling as to overcome all objections. he went to the carlton and asked for margaret. he had learnt from the porter that haddo was gone out and so counted on finding her alone. a simple device enabled him to avoid sending up his name. when he was shown into her private room margaret was sitting down. she neither read nor worked. 'you told me i might call upon you,' said arthur. she stood up without answering, and turned deathly pale. 'may i sit down?' he asked. she bowed her head. for a moment they looked at one another in silence. arthur suddenly forgot all he had prepared to say. his intrusion seemed intolerable. 'why have you come?' she said hoarsely. they both felt that it was useless to attempt the conventionality of society. it was impossible to deal with the polite commonplaces that ease an awkward situation. 'i thought that i might be able to help you,' he answered gravely. 'i want no help. i'm perfectly happy. i have nothing to say to you.' she spoke hurriedly, with a certain nervousness, and her eyes were fixed anxiously on the door as though she feared that someone would come in. 'i feel that we have much to say to one another,' he insisted. 'if it is inconvenient for us to talk here, will you not come and see me?' 'he'd know,' she cried suddenly, as if the words were dragged out of her. 'd'you think anything can be hidden from him?' arthur glanced at her. he was horrified by the terror that was in her eyes. in the full light of day a change was plain in her expression. her face was strangely drawn, and pinched, and there was in it a constant look as of a person cowed. arthur turned away. 'i want you to know that i do not blame you in the least for anything you did. no action of yours can ever lessen my affection for you.' 'oh, why did you come here? why do you torture me by saying such things?' she burst on a sudden into a flood of tears, and walked excitedly up and down the room. 'oh, if you wanted me to be punished for the pain i've caused you, you can triumph now. susie said she hoped i'd suffer all the agony that i've made you suffer. if she only knew!' margaret gave a hysterical laugh. she flung herself on her knees by arthur's side and seized his hands. 'did you think i didn't see? my heart bled when i looked at your poor wan face and your tortured eyes. oh, you've changed. i could never have believed that a man could change so much in so few months, and it's i who've caused it all. oh, arthur, arthur, you must forgive me. and you must pity me.' 'but there's nothing to forgive, darling,' he cried. she looked at him steadily. her eyes now were shining with a hard brightness. 'you say that, but you don't really think it. and yet if you only knew, all that i have endured is on your account.' she made a great effort to be calm. 'what do you mean?' said arthur. 'he never loved me, he would never have thought of me if he hadn't wanted to wound you in what you treasured most. he hated you, and he's made me what i am so that you might suffer. it isn't i who did all this, but a devil within me; it isn't i who lied to you and left you and caused you all this unhappiness.' she rose to her feet and sighed deeply. 'once, i thought he was dying, and i helped him. i took him into the studio and gave him water. and he gained some dreadful power over me so that i've been like wax in his hands. all my will has disappeared, and i have to do his bidding. and if i try to resist ...' her face twitched with pain and fear. 'i've found out everything since. i know that on that day when he seemed to be at the point of death, he was merely playing a trick on me, and he got susie out of the way by sending a telegram from a girl whose name he had seen on a photograph. i've heard him roar with laughter at his cleverness.' she stopped suddenly, and a look of frightful agony crossed her face. 'and at this very minute, for all i know, it may be by his influence that i say this to you, so that he may cause you still greater suffering by allowing me to tell you that he never cared for me. you know now that my life is hell, and his vengeance is complete.' 'vengeance for what?' 'don't you remember that you hit him once, and kicked him unmercifully? i know him well now. he could have killed you, but he hated you too much. it pleased him a thousand times more to devise this torture for you and me.' margaret's agitation was terrible to behold. this was the first time that she had ever spoken to a soul of all these things, and now the long restraint had burst as burst the waters of a dam. arthur sought to calm her. 'you're ill and overwrought. you must try to compose yourself. after all, haddo is a human being like the rest of us.' 'yes, you always laughed at his claims. you wouldn't listen to the things he said. but i know. oh, i can't explain it; i daresay common sense and probability are all against it, but i've seen things with my own eyes that pass all comprehension. i tell you, he has powers of the most awful kind. that first day when i was alone with him, he seemed to take me to some kind of sabbath. i don't know what it was, but i saw horrors, vile horrors, that rankled for ever after like poison in my mind; and when we went up to his house in staffordshire, i recognized the scene; i recognized the arid rocks, and the trees, and the lie of the land. i knew i'd been there before on that fatal afternoon. oh, you must believe me! sometimes i think i shall go mad with the terror of it all.' arthur did not speak. her words caused a ghastly suspicion to flash through his mind, and he could hardly contain himself. he thought that some dreadful shock had turned her brain. she buried her face in her hands. 'look here,' he said, 'you must come away at once. you can't continue to live with him. you must never go back to skene.' 'i can't leave him. we're bound together inseparably.' 'but it's monstrous. there can be nothing to keep you to him. come back to susie. she'll be very kind to you; she'll help you to forget all you've endured.' 'it's no use. you can do nothing for me.' 'why not?' 'because, notwithstanding, i love him with all my soul.' 'margaret!' 'i hate him. he fills me with repulsion. and yet i do not know what there is in my blood that draws me to him against my will. my flesh cries out for him.' arthur looked away in embarrassment. he could not help a slight, instinctive movement of withdrawal. 'do i disgust you?' she said. he flushed slightly, but scarcely knew how to answer. he made a vague gesture of denial. 'if you only knew,' she said. there was something so extraordinary in her tone that he gave her a quick glance of surprise. he saw that her cheeks were flaming. her bosom was panting as though she were again on the point of breaking into a passion of tears. 'for god's sake, don't look at me!' she cried. she turned away and hid her face. the words she uttered were in a shamed, unnatural voice. 'if you'd been at monte carlo, you'd have heard them say, god knows how they knew it, that it was only through me he had his luck at the tables. he's contented himself with filling my soul with vice. i have no purity in me. i'm sullied through and through. he has made me into a sink of iniquity, and i loathe myself. i cannot look at myself without a shudder of disgust.' a cold sweat came over arthur, and he grew more pale than ever. he realized now he was in the presence of a mystery that he could not unravel. she went on feverishly. 'the other night, at supper, i told a story, and i saw you wince with shame. it wasn't i that told it. the impulse came from him, and i knew it was vile, and yet i told it with gusto. i enjoyed the telling of it; i enjoyed the pain i gave you, and the dismay of those women. there seem to be two persons in me, and my real self, the old one that you knew and loved, is growing weaker day by day, and soon she will be dead entirely. and there will remain only the wanton soul in the virgin body.' arthur tried to gather his wits together. he felt it an occasion on which it was essential to hold on to the normal view of things. 'but for god's sake leave him. what you've told me gives you every ground for divorce. it's all monstrous. the man must be so mad that he ought to be put in a lunatic asylum.' 'you can do nothing for me,' she said. 'but if he doesn't love you, what does he want you for?' 'i don't know, but i'm beginning to suspect.' she looked at arthur steadily. she was now quite calm. 'i think he wishes to use me for a magical operation. i don't know if he's mad or not. but i think he means to try some horrible experiment, and i am needful for its success. that is my safeguard.' 'your safeguard?' 'he won't kill me because he needs me for that. perhaps in the process i shall regain my freedom.' arthur was shocked at the callousness with which she spoke. he went up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. 'look here, you must pull yourself together, margaret. this isn't sane. if you don't take care, your mind will give way altogether. you must come with me now. when you're out of his hands, you'll soon regain your calmness of mind. you need never see him again. if you're afraid, you shall be hidden from him, and lawyers shall arrange everything between you.' 'i daren't.' 'but i promise you that you can come to no harm. be reasonable. we're in london now, surrounded by people on every side. how do you think he can touch you while we drive through the crowded streets? i'll take you straight to susie. in a week you'll laugh at the idle fears you had.' 'how do you know that he is not in the room at this moment, listening to all you say?' the question was so sudden, so unexpected, that arthur was startled. he looked round quickly. 'you must be mad. you see that the room is empty.' 'i tell you that you don't know what powers he has. have you ever heard those old legends with which nurses used to frighten our childhood, of men who could turn themselves into wolves, and who scoured the country at night?' she looked at him with staring eyes. 'sometimes, when he's come in at skene in the morning, with bloodshot eyes, exhausted with fatigue and strangely discomposed, i've imagined that he too ...' she stopped and threw back her head. 'you're right, arthur, i think i shall go mad.' he watched her helplessly. he did not know what to do. margaret went on, her voice quivering with anguish. 'when we were married, i reminded him that he'd promised to take me to his mother. he would never speak of her, but i felt i must see her. and one day, suddenly, he told me to get ready for a journey, and we went a long way, to a place i did not know, and we drove into the country. we seemed to go miles and miles, and we reached at last a large house, surrounded by a high wall, and the windows were heavily barred. we were shown into a great empty room. it was dismal and cold like the waiting-room at a station. a man came in to us, a tall man, in a frock-coat and gold spectacles. he was introduced to me as dr taylor, and then, suddenly, i understood.' margaret spoke in hurried gasps, and her eyes were staring wide, as though she saw still the scene which at the time had seemed the crowning horror of her experience. 'i knew it was an asylum, and oliver hadn't told me a word. he took us up a broad flight of stairs, through a large dormitory--oh, if you only knew what i saw there! i was so horribly frightened, i'd never been in such a place before--to a cell. and the walls and the floor were padded.' margaret passed her hand across her forehead to chase away the recollection of that awful sight. 'oh, i see it still. i can never get it out of my mind.' she remembered with a morbid vividness the vast misshapen mass which she had seen heaped strangely in one corner. there was a slight movement in it as they entered, and she perceived that it was a human being. it was a woman, dressed in shapeless brown flannel; a woman of great stature and of a revolting, excessive corpulence. she turned upon them a huge, impassive face; and its unwrinkled smoothness gave it an appearance of aborted childishness. the hair was dishevelled, grey, and scanty. but what most terrified margaret was that she saw in this creature an appalling likeness to oliver. 'he told me it was his mother, and she'd been there for five-and-twenty years.' arthur could hardly bear the terror that was in margaret's eyes. he did not know what to say to her. in a little while she began to speak again, in a low voice and rapidly, as though to herself, and she wrung her hands. 'oh, you don't know what i've endured! he used to spend long periods away from me, and i remained alone at skene from morning till night, alone with my abject fear. sometimes, it seemed that he was seized with a devouring lust for the gutter, and he would go to liverpool or manchester and throw himself among the very dregs of the people. he used to pass long days, drinking in filthy pot-houses. while the bout lasted, nothing was too depraved for him. he loved the company of all that was criminal and low. he used to smoke opium in foetid dens--oh, you have no conception of his passion to degrade himself--and at last he would come back, dirty, with torn clothes, begrimed, sodden still with his long debauch; and his mouth was hot with the kisses of the vile women of the docks. oh, he's so cruel when the fit takes him that i think he has a fiendish pleasure in the sight of suffering!' it was more than arthur could stand. his mind was made up to try a bold course. he saw on the table a whisky bottle and glasses. he poured some neat spirit into a tumbler and gave it to margaret. 'drink this,' he said. 'what is it?' 'never mind! drink it at once.' obediently she put it to her lips. he stood over her as she emptied the glass. a sudden glow filled her. 'now come with me.' he took her arm and led her down the stairs. he passed through the hall quickly. there was a cab just drawn up at the door, and he told her to get in. one or two persons stared at seeing a woman come out of that hotel in a teagown and without a hat. he directed the driver to the house in which susie lived and looked round at margaret. she had fainted immediately she got into the cab. when they arrived, he carried margaret upstairs and laid her on a sofa. he told susie what had happened and what he wanted of her. the dear woman forgot everything except that margaret was very ill, and promised willingly to do all he wished. * * * * * for a week margaret could not be moved. arthur hired a little cottage in hampshire, opposite the isle of wight, hoping that amid the most charming, restful scenery in england she would quickly regain her strength; and as soon as it was possible susie took her down. but she was much altered. her gaiety had disappeared and with it her determination. although her illness had been neither long nor serious, she seemed as exhausted, physically and mentally, as if she had been for months at the point of death. she took no interest in her surroundings, and was indifferent to the shady lanes through which they drove and to the gracious trees and the meadows. her old passion for beauty was gone, and she cared neither for the flowers which filled their little garden nor for the birds that sang continually. but at last it seemed necessary to discuss the future. margaret acquiesced in all that was suggested to her, and agreed willingly that the needful steps should be taken to procure her release from oliver haddo. he made apparently no effort to trace her, and nothing had been heard of him. he did not know where margaret was, but he might have guessed that arthur was responsible for her flight, and arthur was easily to be found. it made susie vaguely uneasy that there was no sign of his existence. she wished that arthur were not kept by his work in london. at last a suit for divorce was instituted. two days after this, when arthur was in his consultingroom, haddo's card was brought to him. arthur's jaw set more firmly. 'show the gentleman in,' he ordered. when haddo entered, arthur, standing with his back to the fireplace, motioned him to sit down. 'what can i do for you?' he asked coldly. 'i have not come to avail myself of your surgical skill, my dear burdon,' smiled haddo, as he fell ponderously into an armchair. 'so i imagined.' 'you perspicacity amazes me. i surmise that it is to you i owe this amusing citation which was served on me yesterday.' 'i allowed you to come in so that i might tell you i will have no communication with you except through my solicitors.' 'my dear fellow, why do you treat me with such discourtesy? it is true that you have deprived me of the wife of my bosom, but you might at least so far respect my marital rights as to use me civilly.' 'my patience is not as good as it was,' answered arthur, 'i venture to remind you that once before i lost my temper with you, and the result you must have found unpleasant.' 'i should have thought you regretted that incident by now, o burdon,' answered haddo, entirely unabashed. 'my time is very short,' said arthur. 'then i will get to my business without delay. i thought it might interest you to know that i propose to bring a counter-petition against my wife, and i shall make you co-respondent.' 'you infamous blackguard!' cried arthur furiously. 'you know as well as i do that your wife is above suspicion.' 'i know that she left my hotel in your company, and has been living since under your protection.' arthur grew livid with rage. he could hardly restrain himself from knocking the man down. he gave a short laugh. 'you can do what you like. i'm really not frightened.' 'the innocent are so very incautious. i assure you that i can make a good enough story to ruin your career and force you to resign your appointments at the various hospitals you honour with your attention.' 'you forget that the case will not be tried in open court,' said arthur. haddo looked at him steadily. he did not answer for a moment. 'you're quite right,' he said at last, with a little smile. 'i had forgotten that.' 'then i need not detain you longer.' oliver haddo got up. he passed his hand reflectively over his huge face. arthur watched him with scornful eyes. he touched a bell, and the servant at once appeared. 'show this gentleman out.' not in the least disconcerted, haddo strolled calmly to the door. arthur gave a sigh of relief, for he concluded that haddo would not show fight. his solicitor indeed had already assured him that oliver would not venture to defend the case. margaret seemed gradually to take more interest in the proceedings, and she was full of eagerness to be set free. she did not shrink from the unpleasant ordeal of a trial. she could talk of haddo with composure. her friends were able to persuade themselves that in a little while she would be her old self again, for she was growing stronger and more cheerful; her charming laughter rang through the little house as it had been used to do in the paris studio. the case was to come on at the end of july, before the long vacation, and susie had agreed to take margaret abroad as soon as it was done. but presently a change came over her. as the day of the trial drew nearer, margaret became excited and disturbed; her gaiety deserted her, and she fell into long, moody silences. to some extent this was comprehensible, for she would have to disclose to callous ears the most intimate details of her married life; but at last her nervousness grew so marked that susie could no longer ascribe it to natural causes. she thought it necessary to write to arthur about it. my dear arthur: i don't know what to make of margaret, and i wish you would come down and see her. the good-humour which i have noticed in her of late has given way to a curious irritability. she is so restless that she cannot keep still for a moment. even when she is sitting down her body moves in a manner that is almost convulsive. i am beginning to think that the strain from which she suffered is bringing on some nervous disease, and i am really alarmed. she walks about the house in a peculiarly aimless manner, up and down the stairs, in and out of the garden. she has grown suddenly much more silent, and the look has come back to her eyes which they had when first we brought her down here. when i beg her to tell me what is troubling her, she says: 'i'm afraid that something is going to happen.' she will not or cannot explain what she means. the last few weeks have set my own nerves on edge, so that i do not know how much of what i observe is real, and how much is due to my fancy; but i wish you would come and put a little courage into me. the oddness of it all is making me uneasy, and i am seized with preposterous terrors. i don't know what there is in haddo that inspires me with this unaccountable dread. he is always present to my thoughts. i seem to see his dreadful eyes and his cold, sensual smile. i wake up at night, my heart beating furiously, with the consciousness that something quite awful has happened. oh, i wish the trial were over, and that we were happy in germany. yours ever susan boyd susie took a certain pride in her common sense, and it was humiliating to find that her nerves could be so distraught. she was worried and unhappy. it had not been easy to take margaret back to her bosom as if nothing had happened. susie was human; and, though she did ten times more than could be expected of her, she could not resist a feeling of irritation that arthur sacrificed her so calmly. he had no room for other thoughts, and it seemed quite natural to him that she should devote herself entirely to margaret's welfare. susie walked some way along the road to post this letter and then went to her room. it was a wonderful night, starry and calm, and the silence was like balm to her troubles. she sat at the window for a long time, and at last, feeling more tranquil, went to bed. she slept more soundly than she had done for many days. when she awoke the sun was streaming into her room, and she gave a deep sigh of delight. she could see trees from her bed, and blue sky. all her troubles seemed easy to bear when the world was so beautiful, and she was ready to laugh at the fears that had so affected her. she got up, put on a dressing-gown, and went to margaret's room. it was empty. the bed had not been slept in. on the pillow was a note. it's no good; i can't help myself. i've gone back to him. don't trouble about me any more. it's quite hopeless and useless. m susie gave a little gasp. her first thought was for arthur, and she uttered a wail of sorrow because he must be cast again into the agony of desolation. once more she had to break the dreadful news. she dressed hurriedly and ate some breakfast. there was no train till nearly eleven, and she had to bear her impatience as best she could. at last it was time to start, and she put on her gloves. at that moment the door was opened, and arthur came in. she gave a cry of terror and turned pale. 'i was just coming to london to see you,' she faltered. 'how did you find out?' 'haddo sent me a box of chocolates early this morning with a card on which was written: _i think the odd trick is mine_.' this cruel vindictiveness, joined with a schoolboy love of taunting the vanquished foe, was very characteristic. susie gave arthur burdon the note which she had found in margaret's room. he read it and then thought for a long time. 'i'm afraid she's right,' he said at length. 'it seems quite hopeless. the man has some power over her which we can't counteract.' susie wondered whether his strong scepticism was failing at last. she could not withstand her own feeling that there was something preternatural about the hold that oliver had over margaret. she had no shadow of a doubt that he was able to affect his wife even at a distance, and was convinced now that the restlessness of the last few days was due to this mysterious power. he had been at work in some strange way, and margaret had been aware of it. at length she could not resist and had gone to him instinctively: her will was as little concerned as when a chip of steel flies to a magnet. 'i cannot find it in my heart now to blame her for anything she has done,' said susie. 'i think she is the victim of a most lamentable fate. i can't help it. i must believe that he was able to cast a spell on her; and to that is due all that has happened. i have only pity for her great misfortunes.' 'has it occurred to you what will happen when she is back in haddo's hands?' cried arthur. 'you know as well as i do how revengeful he is and how hatefully cruel. my heart bleeds when i think of the tortures, sheer physical tortures, which she may suffer.' he walked up and down in desperation. 'and yet there's nothing whatever that one can do. one can't go to the police and say that a man has cast a magic spell on his wife.' 'then you believe it too?' said susie. 'i don't know what i believe now,' he cried. 'after all, we can't do anything if she chooses to go back to her husband. she's apparently her own mistress.' he wrung his hands. 'and i'm imprisoned in london! i can't leave it for a day. i ought not to be here now, and i must get back in a couple of hours. i can do nothing, and yet i'm convinced that margaret is utterly wretched.' susie paused for a minute or two. she wondered how he would accept the suggestion that was in her mind. 'do you know, it seems to me that common methods are useless. the only chance is to fight him with his own weapons. would you mind if i went over to paris to consult dr porhoët? you know that he is learned in every branch of the occult, and perhaps he might help us.' but arthur pulled himself together. 'it's absurd. we mustn't give way to superstition. haddo is merely a scoundrel and a charlatan. he's worked on our nerves as he's worked on poor margaret's. it's impossible to suppose that he has any powers greater than the common run of mankind.' 'even after all you've seen with your own eyes?' 'if my eyes show me what all my training assures me is impossible, i can only conclude that my eyes deceive me.' 'well, i shall run over to paris.' some weeks later dr porhoët was sitting among his books in the quiet, low room that overlooked the seine. he had given himself over to a pleasing melancholy. the heat beat down upon the noisy streets of paris, and the din of the great city penetrated even to his fastness in the Île saint louis. he remembered the cloud-laden sky of the country where he was born, and the south-west wind that blew with a salt freshness. the long streets of brest, present to his fancy always in a drizzle of rain, with the lights of cafés reflected on the wet pavements, had a familiar charm. even in foul weather the sailor-men who trudged along them gave one a curious sense of comfort. there was delight in the smell of the sea and in the freedom of the great atlantic. and then he thought of the green lanes and of the waste places with their scented heather, the fair broad roads that led from one old sweet town to another, of the _pardons_ and their gentle, sad crowds. dr porhoët gave a sigh. 'it is good to be born in the land of brittany,' he smiled. but his _bonne_ showed susie in, and he rose with a smile to greet her. she had been in paris for some time, and they had seen much of one another. he basked in the gentle sympathy with which she interested herself in all the abstruse, quaint matters on which he spent his time; and, divining her love for arthur, he admired the courage with which she effaced herself. they had got into the habit of eating many of their meals together in a quiet house opposite the cluny called la reine blanche, and here they had talked of so many things that their acquaintance was grown into a charming friendship. 'i'm ashamed to come here so often,' said susie, as she entered. 'matilde is beginning to look at me with a suspicious eye.' 'it is very good of you to entertain a tiresome old man,' he smiled, as he held her hand. 'but i should have been disappointed if you had forgotten your promise to come this afternoon, for i have much to tell you.' 'tell me at once,' she said, sitting down. 'i have discovered an ms. at the library of the arsenal this morning that no one knew anything about.' he said this with an air of triumph, as though the achievement were of national importance. susie had a tenderness for his innocent mania; and, though she knew the work in question was occult and incomprehensible, congratulated him heartily. 'it is the original version of a book by paracelsus. i have not read it yet, for the writing is most difficult to decipher, but one point caught my eye on turning over the pages. that is the gruesome fact that paracelsus fed the _homunculi_ he manufactured on human blood. one wonders how he came by it.' susie gave a little start, which dr porhoët noticed. 'what is the matter with you?' 'nothing,' she said quickly. he looked at her for a moment, then proceeded with the subject that strangely fascinated him. 'you must let me take you one day to the library of the arsenal. there is no richer collection in the world of books dealing with the occult sciences. and of course you know that it was at the arsenal that the tribunal sat, under the suggestive name of _chambre ardente_, to deal with cases of sorcery and magic?' 'i didn't,' smiled susie. 'i always think that these manuscripts and queer old books, which are the pride of our library, served in many an old trial. there are volumes there of innocent appearance that have hanged wretched men and sent others to the stake. you would not believe how many persons of fortune, rank, and intelligence, during the great reign of louis xiv, immersed themselves in these satanic undertakings.' susie did not answer. she could not now deal with these matters in an indifferent spirit. everything she heard might have some bearing on the circumstances which she had discussed with dr porhoët times out of number. she had never been able to pin him down to an affirmation of faith. certain strange things had manifestly happened, but what the explanation of them was, no man could say. he offered analogies from his well-stored memory. he gave her books to read till she was saturated with occult science. at one moment, she was inclined to throw them all aside impatiently, and, at another, was ready to believe that everything was possible. dr porhoët stood up and stretched out a meditative finger. he spoke in that agreeably academic manner which, at the beginning of their acquaintance, had always entertained susie, because it contrasted so absurdly with his fantastic utterances. 'it was a strange dream that these wizards cherished. they sought to make themselves beloved of those they cared for and to revenge themselves on those they hated; but, above all, they sought to become greater than the common run of men and to wield the power of the gods. they hesitated at nothing to gain their ends. but nature with difficulty allows her secrets to be wrested from her. in vain they lit their furnaces, and in vain they studied their crabbed books, called up the dead, and conjured ghastly spirits. their reward was disappointment and wretchedness, poverty, the scorn of men, torture, imprisonment, and shameful death. and yet, perhaps after all, there may be some particle of truth hidden away in these dark places.' 'you never go further than the cautious perhaps,' said susie. 'you never give me any definite opinion.' 'in these matters it is discreet to have no definite opinion,' he smiled, with a shrug of the shoulders. 'if a wise man studies the science of the occult, his duty is not to laugh at everything, but to seek patiently, slowly, perseveringly, the truth that may be concealed in the night of these illusions.' the words were hardly spoken when matilde, the ancient _bonne_, opened the door to let a visitor come in. it was arthur burdon. susie gave a cry of surprise, for she had received a brief note from him two days before, and he had said nothing of crossing the channel. 'i'm glad to find you both here,' said arthur, as he shook hands with them. 'has anything happened?' cried susie. his manner was curiously distressing, and there was a nervousness about his movements that was very unexpected in so restrained a person. 'i've seen margaret again,' he said. 'well?' he seemed unable to go on, and yet both knew that he had something important to tell them. he looked at them vacantly, as though all he had to say was suddenly gone out of his mind. 'i've come straight here,' he said, in a dull, bewildered fashion. 'i went to your hotel, susie, in the hope of finding you; but when they told me you were out, i felt certain you would be here.' 'you seem worn out, _cher ami_,' said dr porhoët, looking at him. 'will you let matilde make you a cup of coffee?' 'i should like something,' he answered, with a look of utter weariness. 'sit still for a minute or two, and you shall tell us what you want to when you are a little rested.' dr porhoët had not seen arthur since that afternoon in the previous year when, in answer to haddo's telegram, he had gone to the studio in the rue campagne première. he watched him anxiously while arthur drank his coffee. the change in him was extraordinary; there was a cadaverous exhaustion about his face, and his eyes were sunken in their sockets. but what alarmed the good doctor most was that arthur's personality seemed thoroughly thrown out of gear. all that he had endured during these nine months had robbed him of the strength of purpose, the matter-of-fact sureness, which had distinguished him. he was now unbalanced and neurotic. arthur did not speak. with his eyes fixed moodily on the ground, he wondered how much he could bring himself to tell them. it revolted him to disclose his inmost thoughts, yet he was come to the end of his tether and needed the doctor's advice. he found himself obliged to deal with circumstances that might have existed in a world of nightmare, and he was driven at last to take advantage of his friend's peculiar knowledge. returning to london after margaret's flight, arthur burdon had thrown himself again into the work which for so long had been his only solace. it had lost its savour; but he would not take this into account, and he slaved away mechanically, by perpetual toil seeking to deaden his anguish. but as the time passed he was seized on a sudden with a curious feeling of foreboding, which he could in no way resist; it grew in strength till it had all the power of an obsession, and he could not reason himself out of it. he was sure that a great danger threatened margaret. he could not tell what it was, nor why the fear of it was so persistent, but the idea was there always, night and day; it haunted him like a shadow and pursued him like remorse. his anxiety increased continually, and the vagueness of his terror made it more tormenting. he felt quite certain that margaret was in imminent peril, but he did not know how to help her. arthur supposed that haddo had taken her back to skene; but, even if he went there, he had no chance of seeing her. what made it more difficult still, was that his chief at st luke's was away, and he was obliged to be in london in case he should be suddenly called upon to do some operation. but he could think of nothing else. he felt it urgently needful to see margaret. night after night he dreamed that she was at the point of death, and heavy fetters prevented him from stretching out a hand to help her. at last he could stand it no more. he told a brother surgeon that private business forced him to leave london, and put the work into his hands. with no plan in his head, merely urged by an obscure impulse, he set out for the village of venning, which was about three miles from skene. it was a tiny place, with one public-house serving as a hotel to the rare travellers who found it needful to stop there, and arthur felt that some explanation of his presence was necessary. having seen at the station an advertisement of a large farm to let, he told the inquisitive landlady that he had come to see it. he arrived late at night. nothing could be done then, so he occupied the time by trying to find out something about the haddos. oliver was the local magnate, and his wealth would have made him an easy topic of conversation even without his eccentricity. the landlady roundly called him insane, and as an instance of his queerness told arthur, to his great dismay, that haddo would have no servants to sleep in the house: after dinner everyone was sent away to the various cottages in the park, and he remained alone with his wife. it was an awful thought that margaret might be in the hands of a raving madman, with not a soul to protect her. but if he learnt no more than this of solid fact, arthur heard much that was significant. to his amazement the old fear of the wizard had grown up again in that lonely place, and the garrulous woman gravely told him of haddo's evil influence on the crops and cattle of farmers who had aroused his anger. he had had an altercation with his bailiff, and the man had died within a year. a small freeholder in the neighbourhood had refused to sell the land which would have rounded off the estate of skene, and a disease had attacked every animal on his farm so that he was ruined. arthur was impressed because, though she reported these rumours with mock scepticism as the stories of ignorant yokels and old women, the innkeeper had evidently a terrified belief in their truth. no one could deny that haddo had got possession of the land he wanted; for, when it was put up to auction, no one would bid against him, and he bought it for a song. as soon as he could do so naturally, arthur asked after margaret. the woman shrugged her shoulders. no one knew anything about her. she never came out of the park gates, but sometimes you could see her wandering about inside by herself. she saw no one. haddo had long since quarrelled with the surrounding gentry; and though one old lady, the mother of a neighbouring landowner, had called when margaret first came, she had not been admitted, and the visit was never returned. 'she'll come to no good, poor lady,' said the hostess of the inn. 'and they do say she's a perfect picture to look at.' arthur went to his room. he longed for the day to come. there was no certain means of seeing margaret. it was useless to go to the park gates, since even the tradesmen were obliged to leave their goods at the lodge; but it appeared that she walked alone, morning and afternoon, and it might be possible to see her then. he decided to climb into the park and wait till he came upon her in some spot where they were not likely to be observed. next day the great heat of the last week was gone, and the melancholy sky was dark with lowering clouds. arthur inquired for the road which led to skene, and set out to walk the three miles which separated him from it. the country was grey and barren. there was a broad waste of heath, with gigantic boulders strewn as though in pre-historic times titans had waged there a mighty battle. here and there were trees, but they seemed hardly to withstand the fierce winds of winter; they were old and bowed before the storm. one of them attracted his attention. it had been struck by lightning and was riven asunder, leafless; but the maimed branches were curiously set on the trunk so that they gave it the appearance of a human being writhing in the torture of infernal agony. the wind whistled strangely. arthur's heart sank as he walked on. he had never seen a country so desolate. he came to the park gates at last and stood for some time in front of them. at the end of a long avenue, among the trees, he could see part of a splendid house. he walked along the wooden palisade that surrounded the park. suddenly he came to a spot where a board had been broken down. he looked up and down the road. no one was in sight. he climbed up the low, steep bank, wrenched down a piece more of the fence, and slipped in. he found himself in a dense wood. there was no sign of a path, and he advanced cautiously. the bracken was so thick and high that it easily concealed him. dead owners had plainly spent much care upon the place, for here alone in the neighbourhood were trees in abundance; but of late it had been utterly neglected. it had run so wild that there were no traces now of its early formal arrangement; and it was so hard to make one's way, the vegetation was so thick, that it might almost have been some remnant of primeval forest. but at last he came to a grassy path and walked along it slowly. he stopped on a sudden, for he heard a sound. but it was only a pheasant that flew heavily through the low trees. he wondered what he should do if he came face to face with oliver. the innkeeper had assured him that the squire seldom came out, but spent his days locked in the great attics at the top of the house. smoke came from the chimneys of them, even in the hottest days of summer, and weird tales were told of the devilries there committed. arthur went on, hoping in the end to catch sight of margaret, but he saw no one. in that grey, chilly day the woods, notwithstanding their greenery, were desolate and sad. a sombre mystery seemed to hang over them. at last he came to a stone bench at a cross-way among the trees, and, since it was the only resting-place he had seen, it struck him that margaret might come there to sit down. he hid himself in the bracken. he had forgotten his watch and did not know how the time passed; he seemed to be there for hours. but at length his heart gave a great beat against his ribs, for all at once, so silently that he had not heard her approach, margaret came into view. she sat on the stone bench. for a moment he dared not move in case the sound frightened her. he could not tell how to make his presence known. but it was necessary to do something to attract her attention, and he could only hope that she would not cry out. 'margaret,' he called softly. she did not move, and he repeated her name more loudly. but still she made no sign that she had heard. he came forward and stood in front of her. 'margaret.' she looked at him quietly. he might have been someone she had never set eyes on, and yet from her composure she might have expected him to be standing there. 'margaret, don't you know me?' 'what do you want?' she answered placidly. he was so taken aback that he did not know what to say. she kept gazing at him steadfastly. on a sudden her calmness vanished, and she sprang to her feet. 'is it you really?' she cried, terribly agitated. 'i thought it was only a shape that mimicked you.' 'margaret, what do you mean? what has come over you?' she stretched out her hand and touched him. 'i'm flesh and blood all right,' he said, trying to smile. she shut her eyes for a moment, as though in an effort to collect herself. 'i've had hallucinations lately,' she muttered. 'i thought it was some trick played upon me.' suddenly she shook herself. 'but what are you doing here? you must go. how did you come? oh, why won't you leave me alone?' 'i've been haunted by a feeling that something horrible was going to happen to you. i was obliged to come.' 'for god's sake, go. you can do me no good. if he finds out you've been here--' she stopped, and her eyes were dilated with terror. arthur seized her hands. 'margaret, i can't go--i can't leave you like this. for heaven's sake, tell me what is the matter. i'm so dreadfully frightened.' he was aghast at the difference wrought in her during the two months since he had seen her last. her colour was gone, and her face had the greyness of the dead. there were strange lines on her forehead, and her eyes had an unnatural glitter. her youth had suddenly left her. she looked as if she were struck down by mortal illness. 'what is that matter with you?' he asked. 'nothing.' she looked about her anxiously. 'oh, why don't you go? how can you be so cruel?' 'i must do something for you,' he insisted. she shook her head. 'it's too late. nothing can help me now.' she paused; and when she spoke again it was with a voice so ghastly that it might have come from the lips of a corpse. 'i've found out at last what he's going to do with me he wants me for his great experiment, and the time is growing shorter.' 'what do you mean by saying he wants you?' 'he wants--my life.' arthur gave a cry of dismay, but she put up her hand. 'it's no use resisting. it can't do any good--i think i shall be glad when the moment comes. i shall at least cease to suffer.' 'but you must be mad.' 'i don't know. i know that he is.' 'but if your life is in danger, come away for god's sake. after all, you're free. he can't stop you.' 'i should have to go back to him, as i did last time,' she answered, shaking her head. 'i thought i was free then, but gradually i knew that he was calling me. i tried to resist, but i couldn't. i simply had to go to him.' 'but it's awful to think that you are alone with a man who's practically raving mad.' 'i'm safe for today,' she said quietly. 'it can only be done in the very hot weather. if there's no more this year, i shall live till next summer.' 'oh, margaret, for god's sake don't talk like that. i love you--i want to have you with me always. won't you come away with me and let me take care of you? i promise you that no harm shall come to you.' 'you don't love me any more; you're only sorry for me now.' 'it's not true.' 'oh yes it is. i saw it when we were in the country. oh, i don't blame you. i'm a different woman from the one you loved. i'm not the margaret you knew.' 'i can never care for anyone but you.' she put her hand on his arm. 'if you loved me, i implore you to go. you don't know what you expose me to. and when i'm dead you must marry susie. she loves you with all her heart, and she deserves your love.' 'margaret, don't go. come with me.' 'and take care. he will never forgive you for what you did. if he can, he will kill you.' she started violently, as though she heard a sound. her face was convulsed with sudden fear. 'for god's sake go, go!' she turned from him quickly, and, before he could prevent her, had vanished. with heavy heart he plunged again into the bracken. when arthur had given his friends some account of this meeting, he stopped and looked at dr porhoët. the doctor went thoughtfully to his bookcase. 'what is it you want me to tell you?' he asked. 'i think the man is mad,' said arthur. 'i found out at what asylum his mother was, and by good luck was able to see the superintendent on my way through london. he told me that he had grave doubts about haddo's sanity, but it was impossible at present to take any steps. i came straight here because i wanted your advice. granting that the man is out of his mind, is it possible that he may be trying some experiment that entails a sacrifice of human life?' 'nothing is more probable,' said dr porhoët gravely. susie shuddered. she remembered the rumour that had reached her ears in monte carlo. 'they said there that he was attempting to make living creatures by a magical operation.' she glanced at the doctor, but spoke to arthur. 'just before you came in, our friend was talking of that book of paracelsus in which he speaks of feeding the monsters he has made on human blood.' arthur gave a horrified cry. 'the most significant thing to my mind is that fact about margaret which we are certain of,' said dr porhoët. 'all works that deal with the black arts are unanimous upon the supreme efficacy of the virginal condition.' 'but what is to be done?' asked arthur is desperation. 'we can't leave her in the hands of a raving madman.' he turned on a sudden deathly white. 'for all we know she may be dead now.' 'have you ever heard of gilles de rais?' said dr porhoët, continuing his reflections. 'that is the classic instance of human sacrifice. i know the country in which he lived; and the peasants to this day dare not pass at night in the neighbourhood of the ruined castle which was the scene of his horrible crimes.' 'it's awful to know that this dreadful danger hangs over her, and to be able to do nothing.' 'we can only wait,' said dr porhoët. 'and if we wait too long, we may be faced by a terrible catastrophe.' 'fortunately we live in a civilized age. haddo has a great care of his neck. i hope we are frightened unduly.' it seemed to susie that the chief thing was to distract arthur, and she turned over in her mind some means of directing his attention to other matters. 'i was thinking of going down to chartres for two days with mrs bloomfield,' she said. 'won't you come with me? it is the most lovely cathedral in the world, and i think you will find it restful to wander about it for a little while. you can do no good, here or in london. perhaps when you are calm, you will be able to think of something practical.' dr porhoët saw what her plan was, and joined his entreaties to hers that arthur should spend a day or two in a place that had no associations for him. arthur was too exhausted to argue, and from sheer weariness consented. next day susie took him to chartres. mrs bloomfield was no trouble to them, and susie induced him to linger for a week in that pleasant, quiet town. they passed many hours in the stately cathedral, and they wandered about the surrounding country. arthur was obliged to confess that the change had done him good, and a certain apathy succeeded the agitation from which he had suffered so long. finally susie persuaded him to spend three or four weeks in brittany with dr porhoët, who was proposing to revisit the scenes of his childhood. they returned to paris. when arthur left her at the station, promising to meet her again in an hour at the restaurant where they were going to dine with dr porhoët, he thanked her for all she had done. 'i was in an absurdly hysterical condition,' he said, holding her hand. 'you've been quite angelic. i knew that nothing could be done, and yet i was tormented with the desire to do something. now i've got myself in hand once more. i think my common sense was deserting me, and i was on the point of believing in the farrago of nonsense which they call magic. after all, it's absurd to think that haddo is going to do any harm to margaret. as soon at i get back to london, i'll see my lawyers, and i daresay something can be done. if he's really mad, we'll have to put him under restraint, and margaret will be free. i shall never forget your kindness.' susie smiled and shrugged her shoulders. she was convinced that he would forget everything if margaret came back to him. but she chid herself for the bitterness of the thought. she loved him, and she was glad to be able to do anything for him. she returned to the hotel, changed her frock, and walked slowly to the chien noir. it always exhilarated her to come back to paris; and she looked with happy, affectionate eyes at the plane trees, the yellow trams that rumbled along incessantly, and the lounging people. when she arrived, dr porhoët was waiting, and his delight at seeing her again was flattering and pleasant. they talked of arthur. they wondered why he was late. in a moment he came in. they saw at once that something quite extraordinary had taken place. 'thank god, i've found you at last!' he cried. his face was moving strangely. they had never seen him so discomposed. 'i've been round to your hotel, but i just missed you. oh, why did you insist on my going away?' 'what on earth's the matter?' cried susie. 'something awful has happened to margaret.' susie started to her feet with a sudden cry of dismay. 'how do you know?' she asked quickly. he looked at them for a moment and flushed. he kept his eyes upon them, as though actually to force his listeners into believing what he was about to say. 'i feel it,' he answered hoarsely. 'what do you mean?' 'it came upon me quite suddenly, i can't explain why or how. i only know that something has happened.' he began again to walk up and down, prey to an agitation that was frightful to behold. susie and dr porhoët stared at him helplessly. they tried to think of something to say that would calm him. 'surely if anything had occurred, we should have been informed.' he turned to susie angrily. 'how do you suppose we could know anything? she was quite helpless. she was imprisoned like a rat in a trap.' 'but, my dear friend, you mustn't give way in this fashion,' said the doctor. 'what would you say of a patient who came to you with such a story?' arthur answered the question with a shrug of the shoulders. 'i should say he was absurdly hysterical.' 'well?' 'i can't help it, the feeling's there. if you try all night you'll never be able to argue me out of it. i feel it in every bone of my body. i couldn't be more certain if i saw margaret lying dead in front of me.' susie saw that it was indeed useless to reason with him. the only course was to accept his conviction and make the best of it. 'what do you want us to do?' she asked. 'i want you both to come to england with me at once. if we start now we can catch the evening train.' susie did not answer, but she got up. she touched the doctor on the arm. 'please come,' she whispered. he nodded and untucked the napkin he had already arranged over his waistcoat. 'i've got a cab at the door,' said arthur. 'and what about clothes for miss susie?' said the doctor. 'oh, we can't wait for that,' cried arthur. 'for god's sake, come quickly.' susie knew that there was plenty of time to fetch a few necessary things before the train started, but arthur's impatience was too great to be withstood. 'it doesn't matter,' she said. 'i can get all i want in england.' he hurried them to the door and told the cabman to drive to the station as quickly as ever he could. 'for heaven's sake, calm down a little,' said susie. 'you'll be no good to anyone in that state.' 'i feel certain we're too late.' 'nonsense! i'm convinced that you'll find margaret safe and sound.' he did not answer. he gave a sigh of relief as they drove into the courtyard of the station. susie never forgot the horror of that journey to england. they arrived in london early in the morning and, without stopping, drove to euston. for three or four days there had been unusual heat, and even at that hour the streets were sultry and airless. the train north was crowded, and it seemed impossible to get a breath of air. her head ached, but she was obliged to keep a cheerful demeanour in the effort to allay arthur's increasing anxiety. dr porhoët sat in front of her. after the sleepless night his eyes were heavy and his face deeply lined. he was exhausted. at length, after much tiresome changing, they reached venning. she had expected a greater coolness in that northern country; but there was a hot blight over the place, and, as they walked to the inn from the little station, they could hardly drag their limbs along. arthur had telegraphed from london that they must have rooms ready, and the landlady expected them. she recognized arthur. he passionately desired to ask her whether anything had happened since he went away, but forced himself to be silent for a while. he greeted her with cheerfulness. 'well, mrs smithers, what has been going on since i left you?' he cried. 'of course you wouldn't have heard, sir,' she answered gravely. he began to tremble, but with an almost superhuman effort controlled his voice. 'has the squire hanged himself?' he asked lightly. 'no sir--but the poor lady's dead.' he did not answer. he seemed turned to stone. he stared with ghastly eyes. 'poor thing!' said susie, forcing herself to speak. 'was it--very sudden?' the woman turned to susie, glad to have someone with whom to discuss the event. she took no notice of arthur's agony. 'yes, mum; no one expected it. she died quite sudden like. she was only buried this morning.' 'what did she die of?' asked susie, her eyes on arthur. she feared that he would faint. she wanted enormously to get him away, but did not know how to manage it. 'they say it was heart disease,' answered the landlady. 'poor thing! it's a happy release for her.' 'won't you get us some tea, mrs smithers? we're very tired, and we should like something immediately.' 'yes, miss. i'll get it at once.' the good woman bustled away. susie quickly locked the door. she seized arthur's arm. 'arthur, arthur.' she expected him to break down. she looked with agony at dr porhoët, who stood helplessly by. 'you couldn't have done anything if you'd been here. you heard what the woman said. if margaret died of heart disease, your suspicions were quite without ground.' he shook her away, almost violently. 'for god's sake, speak to us,' cried susie. his silence terrified her more than would have done any outburst of grief. dr porhoët went up to him gently. 'don't try to be brave, my friend. you will not suffer as much if you allow yourself a little weakness.' 'for heaven's sake leave me alone!' said arthur, hoarsely. they drew back and watched him silently. susie heard their hostess come along to the sitting-room with tea, and she unlocked the door. the landlady brought in the things. she was on the point of leaving them when arthur stopped her. 'how do you know that mrs haddo died of heart disease?' he asked suddenly. his voice was hard and stern. he spoke with a peculiar abruptness that made the poor woman look at him in amazement. 'dr richardson told me so.' 'had he been attending her?' 'yes, sir. mr haddo had called him in several times to see his lady.' 'where does dr richardson live?' 'why, sir, he lives at the white house near the station.' she could not make out why arthur asked these questions. 'did mr haddo go to the funeral?' 'oh yes, sir. i've never seen anyone so upset.' 'that'll do. you can go.' susie poured out the tea and handed a cup to arthur. to her surprise, he drank the tea and ate some bread and butter. she could not understand him. the expression of strain, and the restlessness which had been so painful, were both gone from his face, and it was set now to a look of grim determination. at last he spoke to them. 'i'm going to see this doctor. margaret's heart was as sound as mine.' 'what are you going to do?' 'do?' he turned on her with a peculiar fierceness. 'i'm going to put a rope round that man's neck, and if the law won't help me, by god, i'll kill him myself.' '_mais, mon ami, vous êtes fou_,' cried dr porhoët, springing up. arthur put out his hand angrily, as though to keep him back. the frown on his face grew darker. 'you _must_ leave me alone. good heavens, the time has gone by for tears and lamentation. after all i've gone through for months, i can't weep because margaret is dead. my heart is dried up. but i know that she didn't die naturally, and i'll never rest so long as that fellow lives.' he stretched out his hands and with clenched jaws prayed that one day he might hold the man's neck between them, and see his face turn livid and purple as he died. 'i am going to this fool of a doctor, and then i shall go to skene.' 'you must let us come with you,' said susie. 'you need not be frightened,' he answered. 'i shall not take any steps of my own till i find the law is powerless.' 'i want to come with you all the same.' 'as you like.' susie went out and ordered a trap to be got ready. but since arthur would not wait, she arranged that it should be sent for them to the doctor's door. they went there at once, on foot. dr richardson was a little man of five-and-fifty, with a fair beard that was now nearly white, and prominent blue eyes. he spoke with a broad staffordshire accent. there was in him something of the farmer, something of the well-to-do tradesman, and at the first glance his intelligence did not impress one. arthur was shewn with his two friends into the consulting-room, and after a short interval the doctor came in. he was dressed in flannels and had an old-fashioned racket in his hand. 'i'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but mrs richardson has got a few lady-friends to tea, and i was just in the middle of a set.' his effusiveness jarred upon arthur, whose manner by contrast became more than usually abrupt. 'i have just learnt of the death of mrs haddo. i was her guardian and her oldest friend. i came to you in the hope that you would be able to tell me something about it.' dr richardson gave him at once, the suspicious glance of a stupid man. 'i don't know why you come to me instead of to her husband. he will be able to tell you all that you wish to know.' 'i came to you as a fellow-practitioner,' answered arthur. 'i am at st luke's hospital.' he pointed to his card, which dr richardson still held. 'and my friend is dr porhoët, whose name will be familiar to you with respect to his studies in malta fever.' 'i think i read an article of yours in the _b.m.j._' said the country doctor. his manner assumed a singular hostility. he had no sympathy with london specialists, whose attitude towards the general practitioner he resented. he was pleased to sneer at their pretensions to omniscience, and quite willing to pit himself against them. 'what can i do for you, mr burdon?' 'i should be very much obliged if you would tell me as exactly as possible how mrs haddo died.' 'it was a very simple case of endocarditis.' 'may i ask how long before death you were called in?' the doctor hesitated. he reddened a little. 'i'm not inclined to be cross-examined,' he burst out, suddenly making up his mind to be angry. 'as a surgeon i daresay your knowledge of cardiac diseases is neither extensive nor peculiar. but this was a very simple case, and everything was done that was possible. i don't think there's anything i can tell you.' arthur took no notice of the outburst. 'how many times did you see her?' 'really, sir, i don't understand your attitude. i can't see that you have any right to question me.' 'did you have a post-mortem?' 'certainly not. in the first place there was no need, as the cause of death was perfectly clear, and secondly you must know as well as i do that the relatives are very averse to anything of the sort. you gentlemen in harley street don't understand the conditions of private practice. we haven't the time to do post-mortems to gratify a needless curiosity.' arthur was silent for a moment. the little man was evidently convinced that there was nothing odd about margaret's death, but his foolishness was as great as his obstinacy. it was clear that several motives would induce him to put every obstacle in arthur's way, and chief of these was the harm it would do him if it were discovered that he had given a certificate of death carelessly. he would naturally do anything to avoid social scandal. still arthur was obliged to speak. 'i think i'd better tell you frankly that i'm not satisfied, dr richardson. i can't persuade myself that this lady's death was due to natural causes.' 'stuff and nonsense!' cried the other angrily. 'i've been in practice for hard upon thirty-five years, and i'm willing to stake my professional reputation on it.' 'i have reason to think you are mistaken.' 'and to what do you ascribe death, pray?' asked the doctor. 'i don't know yet.' 'upon my soul, i think you must be out of your senses. really, sir, your behaviour is childish. you tell me that you are a surgeon of some eminence ...' 'i surely told you nothing of the sort.' 'anyhow, you read papers before learned bodies and have them printed. and you come with as silly a story as a staffordshire peasant who thinks someone has been trying to poison him because he's got a stomach-ache. you may be a very admirable surgeon, but i venture to think i am more capable than you of judging in a case which i attended and you know nothing about.' 'i mean to take the steps necessary to get an order for exhumation, dr richardson, and i cannot help thinking it will be worth your while to assist me in every possible way.' 'i shall do nothing of the kind. i think you very impertinent, sir. there is no need for exhumation, and i shall do everything in my power to prevent it. and i tell you as chairman of the board of magistrates, my opinion will have as great value as any specialist's in harley street.' he flounced to the door and held it open. susie and dr porhoët walked out; and arthur, looking down thoughtfully, followed on their heels. dr richardson slammed the street-door angrily. dr porhoët slipped his arm in arthur's. 'you must be reasonable, my friend,' he said. 'from his own point of view this doctor has all the rights on his side. you have nothing to justify your demands. it is monstrous to expect that for a vague suspicion you will be able to get an order for exhumation.' arthur did not answer. the trap was waiting for them. 'why do you want to see haddo?' insisted the doctor. 'you will do no more good than you have with dr richardson.' 'i have made up my mind to see him,' answered arthur shortly. 'but there is no need that either of you should accompany me.' 'if you go, we will come with you,' said susie. without a word arthur jumped into the dog-cart, and susie took a seat by his side. dr porhoët, with a shrug of the shoulders, mounted behind. arthur whipped up the pony, and at a smart trot they traversed the three miles across the barren heath that lay between venning and skene. when they reached the park gates, the lodgekeeper, as luck would have it, was standing just inside, and she held one of them open for her little boy to come in. he was playing in the road and showed no inclination to do so. arthur jumped down. 'i want to see mr haddo,' he said. 'mr haddo's not in,' she answered roughly. she tried to close the gate, but arthur quickly put his foot inside. 'nonsense! i have to see him on a matter of great importance.' 'mr haddo's orders are that no one is to be admitted.' 'i can't help that, i'm proposing to come in, all the same.' susie and dr porhoët came forward. they promised the small boy a shilling to hold their horse. 'now then, get out of here,' cried the woman. 'you're not coming in, whatever you say.' she tried to push the gate to, but arthur's foot prevented her. paying no heed to her angry expostulations, he forced his way in. he walked quickly up the drive. the lodge-keeper accompanied him, with shrill abuse. the gate was left unguarded, and the others were able to follow without difficulty. 'you can go to the door, but you won't see mr haddo,' the woman cried angrily. 'you'll get me sacked for letting you come.' susie saw the house. it was a fine old building in the elizabethan style, but much in need of repair; and it had the desolate look of a place that has been uninhabited. the garden that surrounded it had been allowed to run wild, and the avenue up which they walked was green with rank weeds. here and there a fallen tree, which none had troubled to remove, marked the owner's negligence. arthur went to the door and rang a bell. they heard it clang through the house as though not a soul lived there. a man came to the door, and as soon as he opened it, arthur, expecting to be refused admission, pushed in. the fellow was as angry as the virago, his wife, who explained noisily how the three strangers had got into the park. 'you can't see the squire, so you'd better be off. he's up in the attics, and no one's allowed to go to him.' the man tried to push arthur away. 'be off with you, or i'll send for the police.' 'don't be a fool,' said arthur. 'i mean to find mr haddo.' the housekeeper and his wife broke out with abuse, to which arthur listened in silence. susie and dr porhoët stood by anxiously. they did not know what to do. suddenly a voice at their elbows made them start, and the two servants were immediately silent. 'what can i do for you?' oliver haddo was standing motionless behind them. it startled susie that he should have come upon them so suddenly, without a sound. dr porhoët, who had not seen him for some time, was astounded at the change which had taken place in him. the corpulence which had been his before was become now a positive disease. he was enormous. his chin was a mass of heavy folds distended with fat, and his cheeks were puffed up so that his eyes were preternaturally small. he peered at you from between the swollen lids. all his features had sunk into that hideous obesity. his ears were horribly bloated, and the lobes were large and swelled. he had apparently a difficulty in breathing, for his large mouth, with its scarlet, shining lips, was constantly open. he had grown much balder and now there was only a crescent of long hair stretching across the back of his head from ear to ear. there was something terrible about that great shining scalp. his paunch was huge; he was a very tall man and held himself erect, so that it protruded like a vast barrel. his hands were infinitely repulsive; they were red and soft and moist. he was sweating freely, and beads of perspiration stood on his forehead and on his shaven lip. for a moment they all looked at one another in silence. then haddo turned to his servants. 'go,' he said. as though frightened out of their wits, they made for the door and with a bustling hurry flung themselves out. a torpid smile crossed his face as he watched them go. then he moved a step nearer his visitors. his manner had still the insolent urbanity which was customary to him. 'and now, my friends, will you tell me how i can be of service to you?' 'i have come about margaret's death,' said arthur. haddo, as was his habit, did not immediately answer. he looked slowly from arthur to dr porhoët, and from dr porhoët to susie. his eyes rested on her hat, and she felt uncomfortably that he was inventing some gibe about it. 'i should have thought this hardly the moment to intrude upon my sorrow,' he said at last. 'if you have condolences to offer, i venture to suggest that you might conveniently send them by means of the penny post.' arthur frowned. 'why did you not let me know that she was ill?' he asked. 'strange as it may seem to you, my worthy friend, it never occurred to me that my wife's health could be any business of yours.' a faint smile flickered once more on haddo's lips, but his eyes had still the peculiar hardness which was so uncanny. arthur looked at him steadily. 'i have every reason to believe that you killed her,' he said. haddo's face did not for an instant change its expression. 'and have you communicated your suspicions to the police?' 'i propose to.' 'and, if i am not indiscreet, may i inquire upon what you base them?' 'i saw margaret three weeks ago, and she told me that she went in terror of her life.' 'poor margaret! she had always the romantic temperament. i think it was that which first brought us together.' 'you damned scoundrel!' cried arthur. 'my dear fellow, pray moderate your language. this is surely not an occasion when you should give way to your lamentable taste for abuse. you outrage all miss boyd's susceptibilities.' he turned to her with an airy wave of his fat hand. 'you must forgive me if i do not offer you the hospitality of skene, but the loss i have so lately sustained does not permit me to indulge in the levity of entertaining.' he gave her an ironical, low bow; then looked once more at arthur. 'if i can be of no further use to you, perhaps you would leave me to my own reflections. the lodgekeeper will give you the exact address of the village constable.' arthur did not answer. he stared into vacancy, as if he were turning over things in his mind. then he turned sharply on his heel and walked towards the gate. susie and dr porhoët, taken completely aback, did not know what to do; and haddo's little eyes twinkled as he watched their discomfiture. 'i always thought that your friend had deplorable manners,' he murmured. susie, feeling very ridiculous, flushed, and dr porhoët awkwardly took off his hat. as they walked away, they felt haddo's mocking gaze fixed upon them, and they were heartily thankful to reach the gate. they found arthur waiting for them. 'i beg your pardon,' he said, 'i forgot that i was not alone.' the three of them drove slowly back to the inn. 'what are you going to do now?' asked susie. for a long time arthur made no reply, and susie thought he could not have heard her. at last he broke the silence. 'i see that i can do nothing by ordinary methods. i realize that it is useless to make a public outcry. there is only my own conviction that margaret came to a violent end, and i cannot expect anyone to pay heed to that.' 'after all, it's just possible that she really died of heart disease.' arthur gave susie a long look. he seemed to consider her words deliberately. 'perhaps there are means to decide that conclusively,' he replied at length, thoughtfully, as though he were talking to himself. 'what are they?' arthur did not answer. when they came to the door of the inn, he stopped. 'will you go in? i wish to take a walk by myself,' he said. susie looked at him anxiously. 'you're not going to do anything rash?' 'i will do nothing till i have made quite sure that margaret was foully murdered.' he turned on his heel and walked quickly away. it was late now, and they found a frugal meal waiting for them in the little sitting-room. it seemed no use to delay it till arthur came back, and silently, sorrowfully, they ate. afterwards, the doctor smoked cigarettes, while susie sat at the open window and looked at the stars. she thought of margaret, of her beauty and her charming frankness, of her fall and of her miserable end; and she began to cry quietly. she knew enough of the facts now to be aware that the wretched girl was not to blame for anything that had happened. a cruel fate had fallen upon her, and she had been as powerless as in the old tales phaedra, the daughter of minos, or myrrha of the beautiful hair. the hours passed, and still arthur did not return. susie thought now only of him, and she was frightfully anxious. but at last he came in. the night was far advanced. he put down his hat and sat down. for a long while he looked silently at dr. porhoët. 'what is it, my friend?' asked the good doctor at length. 'do you remember that you told us once of an experiment you made in alexandria?' he said, after some hesitation. he spoke in a curious voice. 'you told us that you took a boy, and when he looked in a magic mirror, he saw things which he could not possibly have known.' 'i remember very well,' said the doctor. 'i was much inclined to laugh at you at the time. i was convinced that the boy was a knave who deceived you.' 'yes?' 'of late i've thought of that story often. some hidden recess of my memory has been opened, and i seem to remember strange things. was i the boy who looked in the ink?' 'yes,' said the doctor quietly. arthur did not say anything. a profound silence fell upon them, while susie and the doctor watched him intently. they wondered what was in his mind. 'there is a side of my character which i did not know till lately,' arthur said at last. 'when first it dawned upon me, i fought against it. i said to myself that deep down in all of us, a relic from the long past, is the remains of the superstition that blinded our fathers; and it is needful for the man of science to fight against it with all his might. and yet it was stronger than i. perhaps my birth, my early years, in those eastern lands where everyone believes in the supernatural, affected me although i did not know it. i began to remember vague, mysterious things, which i never knew had been part of my knowledge. and at last one day it seemed that a new window was opened on to my soul, and i saw with extraordinary clearness the incident which you had described. i knew suddenly it was part of my own experience. i saw you take me by the hand and pour the ink on my palm and bid me look at it. i felt again the strange glow that thrilled me, and with an indescribable bitterness i saw things in the mirror which were not there before. i saw people whom i had never seen. i saw them perform certain actions. and some force i knew not, obliged me to speak. and at length everything grew dim, and i was as exhausted as if i had not eaten all day.' he went over to the open window and looked out. neither of the others spoke. the look on arthur's face, curiously outlined by the light of the lamp, was very stern. he seemed to undergo some mental struggle of extraordinary violence. he breath came quickly. at last he turned and faced them. he spoke hoarsely, quickly. 'i must see margaret again.' 'arthur, you're mad!' cried susie. he went up to dr porhoët and, putting his hands on his shoulders, looked fixedly into his eyes. 'you have studied this science. you know all that can be known of it. i want you to show her to me.' the doctor gave an exclamation of alarm. 'my dear fellow, how can i? i have read many books, but i have never practised anything. i have only studied these matters for my amusement.' 'do you believe it can be done?' 'i don't understand what you want.' 'i want you to bring her to me so that i may speak with her, so that i may find out the truth.' 'do you think i am god that i can raise men from the dead?' arthur's hands pressed him down in the chair from which he sought to rise. his fingers were clenched on the old man's shoulders so that he could hardly bear the pain. 'you told us how once eliphas levi raised a spirit. do you believe that was true?' 'i don't know. i have always kept an open mind. there was much to be said on both sides.' 'well, now you must believe. you must do what he did.' 'you must be mad, arthur.' 'i want you to come to that spot where i saw her last. if her spirit can be brought back anywhere, it must be in that place where she sat and wept. you know all the ceremonies and all the words that are necessary.' but susie came forward and laid her hand on his arm. he looked at her with a frown. 'arthur, you know in your heart that nothing can come of it. you're only increasing your unhappiness. and even if you could bring her from the grave for a moment, why can you not let her troubled soul rest in peace?' 'if she died a natural death we shall have no power over her, but if her death was violent perhaps her spirit is earthbound still. i tell you i must be certain. i want to see her once more, and afterwards i shall know what to do.' 'i cannot, i cannot,' said the doctor. 'give me the books and i will do it alone.' 'you know that i have nothing here.' 'then you must help me,' said arthur. 'after all, why should you mind? we perform a certain operation, and if nothing happens we are no worse off then before. on the other hand, if we succeed.... oh, for god's sake, help me! if you have any care for my happiness do this one thing for me.' he stepped back and looked at the doctor. the frenchman's eyes were fixed upon the ground. 'it's madness,' he muttered. he was intensely moved by arthur's appeal. at last he shrugged his shoulders. 'after all, if it is but a foolish mummery it can do no harm.' 'you will help me?' cried arthur. 'if it can give you any peace or any satisfaction, i am willing to do what i can. but i warn you to be prepared for a great disappointment.' arthur wished to set about the invocation then and there, but dr porhoët said it was impossible. they were all exhausted after the long journey, and it was necessary to get certain things together without which nothing could be done. in his heart he thought that a night's rest would bring arthur to a more reasonable mind. when the light of day shone upon the earth he would be ashamed of the desire which ran counter to all his prepossessions. but arthur remembered that on the next day it would be exactly a week since margaret's death, and it seemed to him that then their spells might have a greater efficacy. when they came down in the morning and greeted one another, it was plain that none of them had slept. 'are you still of the same purpose as last night?' asked dr porhoët gravely. 'i am.' the doctor hesitated nervously. 'it will be necessary, if you wish to follow out the rules of the old necromancers, to fast through the whole day.' 'i am ready to do anything.' 'it will be no hardship to me,' said susie, with a little hysterical laugh. 'i feel i couldn't eat a thing if i tried.' 'i think the whole affair is sheer folly,' said dr porhoët. 'you promised me you would try.' the day, the long summer day, passed slowly. there was a hard brilliancy in the sky that reminded the frenchman of those egyptian heavens when the earth seemed crushed beneath a bowl of molten fire. arthur was too restless to remain indoors and left the others to their own devices. he walked without aim, as fast as he could go; he felt no weariness. the burning sun beat down upon him, but he did not know it. the hours passed with lagging feet. susie lay on her bed and tried to read. her nerves were so taut that, when there was a sound in the courtyard of a pail falling on the cobbles, she cried out in terror. the sun rose, and presently her window was flooded with quivering rays of gold. it was midday. the day passed, and it was afternoon. the evening came, but it brought no freshness. meanwhile dr porhoët sat in the little parlour, with his head between his hands, trying by a great mental effort to bring back to his memory all that he had read. his heart began to beat more quickly. then the night fell, and one by one the stars shone out. there was no wind. the air was heavy. susie came downstairs and began to talk with dr porhoët. but they spoke in a low tone, as if they were afraid that someone would overhear. they were faint now with want of food. the hours went one by one, and the striking of a clock filled them each time with a mysterious apprehension. the lights in the village were put out little by little, and everybody slept. susie had lighted the lamp, and they watched beside it. a cold shiver passed through her. 'i feel as though someone were lying dead in the room,' she said. 'why does not arthur come?' they spoke inconsequently, and neither heeded what the other said. the window was wide open, but the air was difficult to breathe. and now the silence was so unusual that susie grew strangely nervous. she tried to think of the noisy streets in paris, the constant roar of traffic, and the shuffling of the crowds toward evening as the work people returned to their homes. she stood up. 'there's no air tonight. look at the trees. not a leaf is moving.' 'why does not arthur come?' repeated the doctor. 'there's no moon tonight. it will be very dark at skene.' 'he's walked all day. he should be here by now.' susie felt an extraordinary oppression, and she panted for breath. at last they heard a step on the road outside, and arthur stood at the window. 'are you ready to come?' he said. 'we've been waiting for you.' they joined him, bringing the few things that dr porhoët had said were necessary, and they walked along the solitary road that led to skene. on each side the heather stretched into the dark night, and there was a blackness about it that was ominous. there was no sound save that of their own steps. dimly, under the stars, they saw the desolation with which they were surrounded. the way seemed very long. they were utterly exhausted, and they could hardly drag one foot after the other. 'you must let me rest for a minute,' said susie. they did not answer, but stopped, and she sat on a boulder by the wayside. they stood motionless in front of her, waiting patiently till she was ready. after a little while she forced herself to get up. 'now i can go,' she said. still they did not speak, but walked on. they moved like figures in a dream, with a stealthy directness, as though they acted under the influence of another's will. suddenly the road stopped, and they found themselves at the gates of skene. 'follow me very closely,' said arthur. he turned on one side, and they followed a paling. susie could feel that they walked along a narrow path. she could see hardly two steps in front of her. at last he stood still. 'i came here earlier in the night and made the opening easier to get through.' he turned back a broken piece of railing and slipped in. susie followed, and dr porhoët entered after her. 'i can see nothing,' said susie. 'give my your hand, and i will lead you.' they walked with difficulty through the tangled bracken, among closely planted trees. they stumbled, and once dr porhoët fell. it seemed that they went a long way. susie's heart beat fast with anxiety. all her weariness was forgotten. then arthur stopped them, and he pointed in front of him. through an opening in the trees, they saw the house. all the windows were dark except those just under the roof, and from them came bright lights. 'those are the attics which he uses as a laboratory. you see, he is working now. there is no one else in the house.' susie was curiously fascinated by the flaming lights. there was an awful mystery in those unknown labours which absorbed oliver haddo night after night till the sun rose. what horrible things were done there, hidden from the eyes of men? by himself in that vast house the madman performed ghastly experiments; and who could tell what dark secrets he trafficked in? 'there is no danger that he will come out,' said arthur. 'he remains there till the break of day.' he took her hand again and led her on. back they went among the trees, and presently they were on a pathway. they walked along with greater safety. 'are you all right, porhoët?' asked arthur. 'yes.' but the trees grew thicker and the night more sombre. now the stars were shut out, and they could hardly see in front of them. 'here we are,' said arthur. they stopped, and found that there was in front of them a green space formed by four cross-ways. in the middle a stone bench gleamed vaguely against the darkness. 'this is where margaret sat when last i saw her.' 'i can see to do nothing here,' said the doctor. they had brought two flat bowls of brass to serve as censers, and these arthur gave to dr porhoët. he stood by susie's side while the doctor busied himself with his preparations. they saw him move to and fro. they saw him bend to the ground. presently there was a crackling of wood, and from the brazen bowls red flames shot up. they did not know what he burnt, but there were heavy clouds of smoke, and a strong, aromatic odour filled the air. now and again the doctor was sharply silhouetted against the light. his slight, bowed figure was singularly mysterious. when susie caught sight of his face, she saw that it was touched with a strong emotion. the work he was at affected him so that his doubts, his fears, had vanished. he looked like some old alchemist busied with unnatural things. susie's heart began to beat painfully. she was growing desperately frightened and stretched out her hand so that she might touch arthur. silently he put his arm through hers. and now the doctor was tracing strange signs upon the ground. the flames died down and only a glow remained, but he seemed to have no difficulty in seeing what he was about. susie could not discern what figures he drew. then he put more twigs upon the braziers, and the flames sprang up once more, cutting the darkness sharply as with a sword. 'now come,' he said. but, inexplicably, a sudden terror seized susie. she felt that the hairs of her head stood up, and a cold sweat broke out on her body. her limbs had grown on an instant inconceivably heavy so that she could not move. a panic such as she had never known came upon her, and, except that her legs would not carry her, she would have fled blindly. she began to tremble. she tried to speak, but her tongue clave to her throat. 'i can't, i'm afraid,' she muttered hoarsely. 'you must. without you we can do nothing,' said arthur. she could not reason with herself. she had forgotten everything except that she was frightened to death. her heart was beating so quickly that she almost fainted. and now arthur held her, so firmly that she winced. 'let me go,' she whispered. 'i won't help you. i'm afraid.' 'you must,' he said. 'you must.' 'no.' 'i tell you, you must come.' 'why?' her deadly fear expressed itself in a passion of sudden anger. 'because you love me, and it's the only way to give me peace.' she uttered a low wail of pain, and her terror gave way to shame. she blushed to the roots of her hair because he too knew her secret. and then she was seized again with anger because he had the cruelty to taunt her with it. she had recovered her courage now, and she stepped forward. dr. porhoët told her where to stand. arthur took his place in front of her. 'you must not move till i give you leave. if you go outside the figure i have drawn, i cannot protect you.' for a moment dr porhoët stood in perfect silence. then he began to recite strange words in latin. susie heard him but vaguely. she did not know the sense, and his voice was so low that she could not have distinguished the words. but his intonation had lost that gentle irony which was habitual to him, and he spoke with a trembling gravity that was extraordinarily impressive. arthur stood immobile as a rock. the flames died away, and they saw one another only by the glow of the ashes, dimly, like persons in a vision of death. there was silence. then the necromancer spoke again, and now his voice was louder. he seemed to utter weird invocations, but they were in a tongue that the others knew not. and while he spoke the light from the burning cinders on a sudden went out. it did not die, but was sharply extinguished, as though by invisible hands. and now the darkness was more sombre than that of the blackest night. the trees that surrounded them were hidden from their eyes, and the whiteness of the stone bench was seen no longer. they stood but a little way one from the other, but each might have stood alone. susie strained her eyes, but she could see nothing. she looked up quickly; the stars were gone out, and she could see no further over her head than round about. the darkness was terrifying. and from it, dr porhoët's voice had a ghastly effect. it seemed to come, wonderfully changed, from the void of bottomless chaos. susie clenched her hands so that she might not faint. all at once she started, for the old man's voice was cut by a sudden gust of wind. a moment before, the utter silence had been almost intolerable, and now a storm seemed to have fallen upon them. the trees all around them rocked in the wind; they heard the branches creak; and they heard the hissing of the leaves. they were in the midst of a hurricane. and they felt the earth sway as it resisted the straining roots of great trees, which seemed to be dragged up by the force of the furious gale. whistling and roaring, the wind stormed all about them, and the doctor, raising his voice, tried in vain to command it. but the strangest thing of all was that, where they stood, there was no sign of the raging blast. the air immediately about them was as still as it had been before, and not a hair on susie's head was moved. and it was terrible to hear the tumult, and yet to be in a calm that was almost unnatural. on a sudden, dr porhoët raised his voice, and with a sternness they had never heard in it before, cried out in that unknown language. then he called upon margaret. he called her name three times. in the uproar susie could scarcely hear. terror had seized her again, but in her confusion she remembered his command, and she dared not move. 'margaret, margaret, margaret.' without a pause between, as quickly as a stone falls to the ground, the din which was all about them ceased. there was no gradual diminution. but at one moment there was a roaring hurricane and at the next a silence so complete that it might have been the silence of death. and then, seeming to come out of nothingness, extraordinarily, they heard with a curious distinctness the sound of a woman weeping. susie's heart stood still. they heard the sound of a woman weeping, and they recognized the voice of margaret. a groan of anguish burst from arthur's lips, and he was on the point of starting forward. but quickly dr porhoët put out his hand to prevent him. the sound was heartrending, the sobbing of a woman who had lost all hope, the sobbing of a woman terrified. if susie had been able to stir, she would have put her hands to her ears to shut out the ghastly agony of it. and in a moment, notwithstanding the heavy darkness of the starless night, arthur saw her. she was seated on the stone bench as when last he had spoken with her. in her anguish she sought not to hide her face. she looked at the ground, and the tears fell down her cheeks. her bosom heaved with the pain of her weeping. then arthur knew that all his suspicions were justified. arthur would not leave the little village of venning. neither susie nor the doctor could get him to make any decision. none of them spoke of the night which they had spent in the woods of skene; but it coloured all their thoughts, and they were not free for a single moment from the ghastly memory of it. they seemed still to hear the sound of that passionate weeping. arthur was moody. when he was with them, he spoke little; he opposed a stubborn resistance to their efforts at diverting his mind. he spent long hours by himself, in the country, and they had no idea what he did. susie was terribly anxious. he had lost his balance so completely that she was prepared for any rashness. she divined that his hatred of haddo was no longer within the bounds of reason. the desire for vengeance filled him entirely, so that he was capable of any violence. several days went by. at last, in concert with dr porhoët, she determined to make one more attempt. it was late at night, and they sat with open windows in the sitting-room of the inn. there was a singular oppressiveness in the air which suggested that a thunderstorm was at hand. susie prayed for it; for she ascribed to the peculiar heat of the last few days much of arthur's sullen irritability. 'arthur, you _must_ tell us what you are going to do,' she said. 'it is useless to stay here. we are all so ill and nervous that we cannot consider anything rationally. we want you to come away with us tomorrow.' 'you can go if you choose,' he said. 'i shall remain till that man is dead.' 'it is madness to talk like that. you can do nothing. you are only making yourself worse by staying here.' 'i have quite made up my mind.' 'the law can offer you no help, and what else can you do?' she asked the question, meaning if possible to get from him some hint of his intentions; but the grimness of his answer, though it only confirmed her vague suspicions, startled her. 'if i can do nothing else, i shall shoot him like a dog.' she could think of nothing to say, and for a while they remained in silence. then he got up. 'i think i should prefer it if you went,' he said. 'you can only hamper me.' 'i shall stay here as long as you do.' 'why?' 'because if you do anything, i shall be compromised. i may be arrested. i think the fear of that may restrain you.' he looked at her steadily. she met his eyes with a calmness which showed that she meant exactly what she said, and he turned uneasily away. a silence even greater than before fell upon them. they did not move. it was so still in the room that it might have been empty. the breathlessness of the air increased, so that it was horribly oppressive. suddenly there was a loud rattle of thunder, and a flash of lightning tore across the heavy clouds. susie thanked heaven for the storm which would give presently a welcome freshness. she felt excessively ill at ease, and it was a relief to ascribe her sensation to a state of the atmosphere. again the thunder rolled. it was so loud that it seemed to be immediately above their heads. and the wind rose suddenly and swept with a long moan through the trees that surrounded the house. it was a sound so human that it might have come from the souls of dead men suffering hopeless torments of regret. the lamp went out, so suddenly that susie was vaguely frightened. it gave one flicker, and they were in total darkness. it seemed as though someone had leaned over the chimney and blown it out. the night was very black, and they could not see the window which opened on to the country. the darkness was so peculiar that for a moment no one stirred. then susie heard dr porhoët slip his hand across the table to find matches, but it seemed that they were not there. again a loud peal of thunder startled them, but the rain would not fall. they panted for fresh air. on a sudden susie's heart gave a bound, and she sprang up. 'there's someone in the room.' the words were no sooner out of her mouth than she heard arthur fling himself upon the intruder. she knew at once, with the certainty of an intuition, that it was haddo. but how had he come in? what did he want? she tried to cry out, but no sound came from her throat. dr porhoët seemed bound to his chair. he did not move. he made no sound. she knew that an awful struggle was proceeding. it was a struggle to the death between two men who hated one another, but the most terrible part of it was that nothing was heard. they were perfectly noiseless. she tried to do something, but she could not stir. and arthur's heart exulted, for his enemy was in his grasp, under his hands, and he would not let him go while life was in him. he clenched his teeth and tightened his straining muscles. susie heard his laboured breathing, but she only heard the breathing of one man. she wondered in abject terror what that could mean. they struggled silently, hand to hand, and arthur knew that his strength was greater. he had made up his mind what to do and directed all his energy to a definite end. his enemy was extraordinarily powerful, but arthur appeared to create some strength from the sheer force of his will. it seemed for hours that they struggled. he could not bear him down. suddenly, he knew that the other was frightened and sought to escape from him. arthur tightened his grasp; for nothing in the world now would he ever loosen his hold. he took a deep, quick breath, and then put out all his strength in a tremendous effort. they swayed from side to side. arthur felt as if his muscles were being torn from the bones, he could not continue for more than a moment longer; but the agony that flashed across his mind at the thought of failure braced him to a sudden angry jerk. all at once haddo collapsed, and they fell heavily to the ground. arthur was breathing more quickly now. he thought that if he could keep on for one instant longer, he would be safe. he threw all his weight on the form that rolled beneath him, and bore down furiously on the man's arm. he twisted it sharply, with all his might, and felt it give way. he gave a low cry of triumph; the arm was broken. and now his enemy was seized with panic; he struggled madly, he wanted only to get away from those long hands that were killing him. they seemed to be of iron. arthur seized the huge bullock throat and dug his fingers into it, and they sunk into the heavy rolls of fat; and he flung the whole weight of his body into them. he exulted, for he knew that his enemy was in his power at last; he was strangling him, strangling the life out of him. he wanted light so that he might see the horror of that vast face, and the deadly fear, and the staring eyes. and still he pressed with those iron hands. and now the movements were strangely convulsive. his victim writhed in the agony of death. his struggles were desperate, but the avenging hands held him as in a vice. and then the movements grew spasmodic, and then they grew weaker. still the hands pressed upon the gigantic throat, and arthur forgot everything. he was mad with rage and fury and hate and sorrow. he thought of margaret's anguish and of her fiendish torture, and he wished the man had ten lives so that he might take them one by one. and at last all was still, and that vast mass of flesh was motionless, and he knew that his enemy was dead. he loosened his grasp and slipped one hand over the heart. it would never beat again. the man was stone dead. arthur got up and straightened himself. the darkness was intense still, and he could see nothing. susie heard him, and at length she was able to speak. 'arthur what have you done?' 'i've killed him,' he said hoarsely. 'o god, what shall we do?' arthur began to laugh aloud, hysterically, and in the darkness his hilarity was terrifying. 'for god's sake let us have some light.' 'i've found the matches,' said dr porhoët. he seemed to awake suddenly from his long stupor. he struck one, and it would not light. he struck another, and susie took off the globe and the chimney as he kindled the wick. then he held up the lamp, and they saw arthur looking at them. his face was ghastly. the sweat ran off his forehead in great beads, and his eyes were bloodshot. he trembled in every limb. then dr porhoët advanced with the lamp and held it forward. they looked down on the floor for the man who lay there dead. susie gave a sudden cry of horror. there was no one there. arthur stepped back in terrified surprise. there was no one in the room, living or dead, but the three friends. the ground sank under susie's feet, she felt horribly ill, and she fainted. when she awoke, seeming difficultly to emerge from an eternal night, arthur was holding down her head. 'bend down,' he said. 'bend down.' all that had happened came back to her, and she burst into tears. her self-control deserted her, and, clinging to him for protection, she sobbed as though her heart would break. she was shaking from head to foot. the strangeness of this last horror had overcome her, and she could have shrieked with fright. 'it's all right,' he said. 'you need not be afraid.' 'oh, what does it mean?' 'you must pluck up courage. we're going now to skene.' she sprang to her feet, as though to get away from him; her heart beat wildly. 'no, i can't; i'm frightened.' 'we must see what it means. we have no time to lose, or the morning will be upon us before we get back.' then she sought to prevent him. 'oh, for god's sake, don't go, arthur. something awful may await you there. don't risk your life.' 'there is no danger. i tell you the man is dead.' 'if anything happened to you ...' she stopped, trying to restrain her sobs; she dared not go on. but he seemed to know what was in her mind. 'i will take no risks, because of you. i know that whether i live or die is not a--matter of indifference to you.' she looked up and saw that his eyes were fixed upon her gravely. she reddened. a curious feeling came into her heart. 'i will go with you wherever you choose,' she said humbly. 'come, then.' they stepped out into the night. and now, without rain, the storm had passed away, and the stars were shining. they walked quickly. arthur went in front of them. dr porhoët and susie followed him, side by side, and they had to hasten their steps in order not to be left behind. it seemed to them that the horror of the night was passed, and there was a fragrancy in the air which was wonderfully refreshing. the sky was beautiful. and at last they came to skene. arthur led them again to the opening in the palisade, and he took susie's hand. presently they stood in the place from which a few days before they had seen the house. as then, it stood in massive blackness against the night and, as then, the attic windows shone out with brilliant lights. susie started, for she had expected that the whole place would be in darkness. 'there is no danger, i promise you,' said arthur gently. 'we are going to find out the meaning of all this mystery.' he began to walk towards the house. 'have you a weapon of some sort?' asked the doctor. arthur handed him a revolver. 'take this. it will reassure you, but you will have no need of it. i bought it the other day when--i had other plans.' susie gave a little shudder. they reached the drive and walked to the great portico which adorned the facade of the house. arthur tried the handle, but it would not open. 'will you wait here?' he said. 'i can get through one of the windows, and i will let you in.' he left them. they stood quietly there, with anxious hearts; they could not guess what they would see. they were afraid that something would happen to arthur, and susie regretted that she had not insisted on going with him. suddenly she remembered that awful moment when the light of the lamp had been thrown where all expected to see a body, and there was nothing. 'what do you think it meant?' she cried suddenly. 'what is the explanation?' 'perhaps we shall see now,' answered the doctor. arthur still lingered, and she could not imagine what had become of him. all sorts of horrible fancies passed through her mind, and she dreaded she knew not what. at last they heard a footstep inside the house, and the door was opened. 'i was convinced that nobody slept here, but i was obliged to make sure. i had some difficulty in getting in.' susie hesitated to enter. she did not know what horrors awaited her, and the darkness was terrifying. 'i cannot see,' she said. 'i've brought a torch,' said arthur. he pressed a button, and a narrow ray of bright light was cast upon the floor. dr porhoët and susie went in. arthur carefully closed the door, and flashed the light of his torch all round them. they stood in a large hall, the floor of which was scattered with the skins of lions that haddo on his celebrated expedition had killed in africa. there were perhaps a dozen, and their number gave a wild, barbaric note. a great oak staircase led to the upper floors. 'we must go through all the rooms,' said arthur. he did not expect to find haddo till they came to the lighted attics, but it seemed needful nevertheless to pass right through the house on their way. a flash of his torch had shown him that the walls of the hall were decorated with all manner of armour, ancient swords of eastern handiwork, barbaric weapons from central africa, savage implements of medieval warfare; and an idea came to him. he took down a huge battle-axe and swung it in his hand. 'now come.' silently, holding their breath as though they feared to wake the dead, they went into the first room. they saw it difficultly with their scant light, since the thin shaft of brilliancy, emphasising acutely the surrounding darkness, revealed it only piece by piece. it was a large room, evidently unused, for the furniture was covered with holland, and there was a mustiness about it which suggested that the windows were seldom opened. as in many old houses, the rooms led not from a passage but into one another, and they walked through many till they came back into the hall. they had all a desolate, uninhabited air. their sombreness was increased by the oak with which they were panelled. there was panelling in the hall too, and on the stairs that led broadly to the top of the house. as they ascended, arthur stopped for one moment and passed his hand over the polished wood. 'it would burn like tinder,' he said. they went through the rooms on the first floor, and they were as empty and as cheerless. presently they came to that which had been margaret's. in a bowl were dead flowers. her brushes were still on the toilet table. but it was a gloomy chamber, with its dark oak, and, so comfortless that susie shuddered. arthur stood for a time and looked at it, but he said nothing. they found themselves again on the stairs and they went to the second storey. but here they seemed to be at the top of the house. 'how does one get up to the attics?' said arthur, looking about him with surprise. he paused for a while to think. then he nodded his head. 'there must be some steps leading out of one of the rooms.' they went on. and now the ceilings were much lower, with heavy beams, and there was no furniture at all. the emptiness seemed to make everything more terrifying. they felt that they were on the threshold of a great mystery, and susie's heart began to beat fast. arthur conducted his examination with the greatest method; he walked round each room carefully, looking for a door that might lead to a staircase; but there was no sign of one. 'what will you do if you can't find the way up?' asked susie. 'i shall find the way up,' he answered. they came to the staircase once more and had discovered nothing. they looked at one another helplessly. 'it's quite clear there is a way,' said arthur, with impatience. 'there must be something in the nature of a hidden door somewhere or other.' he leaned against the balustrade and meditated. the light of his lantern threw a narrow ray upon the opposite wall. 'i feel certain it must be in one of the rooms at the end of the house. that seems the most natural place to put a means of ascent to the attics.' they went back, and again he examined the panelling of a small room that had outside walls on three sides of it. it was the only room that did not lead into another. 'it must be here,' he said. presently he gave a little laugh, for he saw that a small door was concealed by the woodwork. he pressed it where he thought there might be a spring, and it flew open. their torch showed them a narrow wooden staircase. they walked up and found themselves in front of a door. arthur tried it, but it was locked. he smiled grimly. 'will you get back a little,' he said. he lifted his axe and swung it down upon the latch. the handle was shattered, but the lock did not yield. he shook his head. as he paused for a moment, an there was a complete silence, susie distinctly heard a slight noise. she put her hand on arthur's arm to call his attention to it, and with strained ears they listened. there was something alive on the other side of the door. they heard its curious sound: it was not that of a human voice, it was not the crying of an animal, it was extraordinary. it was the sort of gibber, hoarse and rapid, and it filled them with an icy terror because it was so weird and so unnatural. 'come away, arthur,' said susie. 'come away.' 'there's some living thing in there,' he answered. he did not know why the sound horrified him. the sweat broke out on his forehead. 'something awful will happen to us,' whispered susie, shaking with uncontrollable fear. 'the only thing is to break the door down.' the horrid gibbering was drowned by the noise he made. quickly, without pausing, he began to hack at the oak door with all his might. in rapid succession his heavy blows rained down, and the sound echoed through the empty house. there was a crash, and the door swung back. they had been so long in almost total darkness that they were blinded for an instant by the dazzling light. and then instinctively they started back, for, as the door opened, a wave of heat came out upon them so that they could hardly breathe. the place was like an oven. they entered. it was lit by enormous lamps, the light of which was increased by reflectors, and warmed by a great furnace. they could not understand why so intense a heat was necessary. the narrow windows were closed. dr porhoët caught sight of a thermometer and was astounded at the temperature it indicated. the room was used evidently as a laboratory. on broad tables were test-tubes, basins and baths of white porcelain, measuring-glasses, and utensils of all sorts; but the surprising thing was the great scale upon which everything was. neither arthur nor dr porhoët had ever seen such gigantic measures nor such large test-tubes. there were rows of bottles, like those in the dispensary of a hospital, each containing great quantities of a different chemical. the three friends stood in silence. the emptiness of the room contrasted so oddly with its appearance of being in immediate use that it was uncanny. susie felt that he who worked there was in the midst of his labours, and might return at any moment; he could have only gone for an instant into another chamber in order to see the progress of some experiment. it was quite silent. whatever had made those vague, unearthly noises was hushed by their approach. the door was closed between this room and the next. arthur opened it, and they found themselves in a long, low attic, ceiled with great rafters, as brilliantly lit and as hot as the first. here too were broad tables laden with retorts, instruments for heating, huge test-tubes, and all manner of vessels. the furnace that warmed it gave a steady heat. arthur's gaze travelled slowly from table to table, and he wondered what haddo's experiments had really been. the air was heavy with an extraordinary odour: it was not musty, like that of the closed rooms through which they had passed, but singularly pungent, disagreeable and sickly. he asked himself what it could spring from. then his eyes fell upon a huge receptacle that stood on the table nearest to the furnace. it was covered with a white cloth. he took it off. the vessel was about four feet high, round, and shaped somewhat like a washing tub, but it was made of glass more than an inch thick. in it a spherical mass, a little larger than a football, of a peculiar, livid colour. the surface was smooth, but rather coarsely grained, and over it ran a dense system of blood-vessels. it reminded the two medical men of those huge tumours which are preserved in spirit in hospital museums. susie looked at it with an incomprehensible disgust. suddenly she gave a cry. 'good god, it's moving!' arthur put his hand on her arm quickly to quieten her and bent down with irresistible curiosity. they saw that it was a mass of flesh unlike that of any human being; and it pulsated regularly. the movement was quite distinct, up and down, like the delicate heaving of a woman's breast when she is asleep. arthur touched the thing with one finger and it shrank slightly. 'its quite warm,' he said. he turned it over, and it remained in the position in which he had placed it, as if there were neither top nor bottom to it. but they could see now, irregularly placed on one side, a few short hairs. they were just like human hairs. 'is it alive?' whispered susie, struck with horror and amazement. 'yes!' arthur seemed fascinated. he could not take his eyes off the loathsome thing. he watched it slowly heave with even motion. 'what can it mean?' he asked. he looked at dr porhoët with pale startled face. a thought was coming to him, but a thought so unnatural, extravagant, and terrible that he pushed it from him with a movement of both hands, as though it were a material thing. then all three turned around abruptly with a start, for they heard again the wild gibbering which had first shocked their ears. in the wonder of this revolting object they had forgotten all the rest. the sound seemed extraordinarily near, and susie drew back instinctively, for it appeared to come from her very side. 'there's nothing here,' said arthur. 'it must be in the next room.' 'oh, arthur, let us go,' cried susie. 'i'm afraid to see what may be in store for us. it is nothing to us; and what we see may poison our sleep for ever.' she looked appealingly at dr porhoët. he was white and anxious. the heat of that place had made the sweat break out on his forehead. 'i have seen enough. i want to see no more,' he said. 'then you may go, both of you,' answered arthur. 'i do not wish to force you to see anything. but i shall go on. whatever it is, i wish to find out.' 'but haddo? supposing he is there, waiting? perhaps you are only walking into a trap that he has set for you.' 'i am convinced that haddo is dead.' again that unintelligible jargon, unhuman and shrill, fell upon their ears, and arthur stepped forward. susie did not hesitate. she was prepared to follow him anywhere. he opened the door, and there was a sudden quiet. whatever made those sounds was there. it was a larger room than any on the others and much higher, for it ran along the whole front of the house. the powerful lamps showed every corner of it at once, but, above, the beams of the open ceiling were dark with shadow. and here the nauseous odour, which had struck them before, was so overpowering that for a while they could not go in. it was indescribably foul. even arthur thought it would make him sick, and he looked at the windows to see if it was possible to open them; but it seemed they were hermetically closed. the extreme warmth made the air more overpowering. there were four furnaces here, and they were all alight. in order to give out more heat and to burn slowly, the fronts of them were open, and one could see that they were filled with glowing coke. the room was furnished no differently from the others, but to the various instruments for chemical operations on a large scale were added all manner of electrical appliances. several books were lying about, and one had been left open face downwards on the edge of a table. but what immediately attracted their attention was a row of those large glass vessels like that which they had seen in the adjoining room. each was covered with a white cloth. they hesitated a moment, for they knew that here they were face to face with the great enigma. at last arthur pulled away the cloth from one. none of them spoke. they stared with astonished eyes. for here, too, was a strange mass of flesh, almost as large as a new-born child, but there was in it the beginnings of something ghastly human. it was shaped vaguely like an infant, but the legs were joined together so that it looked like a mummy rolled up in its coverings. there were neither feet nor knees. the trunk was formless, but there was a curious thickening on each side; it was as if a modeller had meant to make a figure with the arms loosely bent, but had left the work unfinished so that they were still one with the body. there was something that resembled a human head, covered with long golden hair, but it was horrible; it was an uncouth mass, without eyes or nose or mouth. the colour was a kind of sickly pink, and it was almost transparent. there was a very slight movement in it, rhythmical and slow. it was living too. then quickly arthur removed the covering from all the other jars but one; and in a flash of the eyes they saw abominations so awful that susie had to clench her fists in order not to scream. there was one monstrous thing in which the limbs approached nearly to the human. it was extraordinarily heaped up, with fat tiny arms, little bloated legs, and an absurd squat body, so that it looked like a chinese mandarin in porcelain. in another the trunk was almost like that of a human child, except that it was patched strangely with red and grey. but the terror of it was that at the neck it branched hideously, and there were two distinct heads, monstrously large, but duly provided with all their features. the features were a caricature of humanity so shameful that one could hardly bear to look. and as the light fell on it, the eyes of each head opened slowly. they had no pigment in them, but were pink, like the eyes of white rabbits; and they stared for a moment with an odd, unseeing glance. then they were shut again, and what was curiously terrifying was that the movements were not quite simultaneous; the eyelids of one head fell slowly just before those of the other. and in another place was a ghastly monster in which it seemed that two bodies had been dreadfully entangled with one another. it was a creature of nightmare, with four arms and four legs, and this one actually moved. with a peculiar motion it crawled along the bottom of the great receptacle in which it was kept, towards the three persons who looked at it. it seemed to wonder what they did. susie started back with fright, as it raised itself on its four legs and tried to reach up to them. susie turned away and hid her face. she could not look at those ghastly counterfeits of humanity. she was terrified and ashamed. 'do you understand what this means?' said dr porhoët to arthur, in an awed voice. 'it means that he has discovered the secret of life.' 'was it for these vile monstrosities that margaret was sacrificed in all her loveliness?' the two men looked at one another with sad, wondering eyes. 'don't you remember that he talked of the manufacture of human beings? it's these misshapen things that he's succeeding in producing,' said the doctor. 'there is one more that we haven't seen,' said arthur. he pointed to the covering which still hid the largest of the vases. he had a feeling that it contained the most fearful of all these monsters; and it was not without an effort that he drew the cloth away. but no sooner had he done this than something sprang up, so that instinctively he started back, and it began to gibber in piercing tones. these were the unearthly sounds that they had heard. it was not a voice, it was a kind of raucous crying, hoarse yet shrill, uneven like the barking of a dog, and appalling. the sounds came forth in rapid succession, angrily, as though the being that uttered them sought to express itself in furious words. it was mad with passion and beat against the glass walls of its prison with clenched fists. for the hands were human hands, and the body, though much larger, was of the shape of a new-born child. the creature must have stood about four feet high. the head was horribly misshapen. the skull was enormous, smooth and distended like that of a hydrocephalic, and the forehead protruded over the face hideously. the features were almost unformed, preternaturally small under the great, overhanging brow; and they had an expression of fiendish malignity. the tiny, misshapen countenance writhed with convulsive fury, and from the mouth poured out a foaming spume. it raised its voice higher and higher, shrieking senseless gibberish in its rage. then it began to hurl its whole body madly against the glass walls and to beat its head. it appeared to have a sudden incomprehensible hatred for the three strangers. it was trying to fly at them. the toothless gums moved spasmodically, and it threw its face into horrible grimaces. that nameless, loathsome abortion was the nearest that oliver haddo had come to the human form. 'come away,' said arthur. 'we must not look at this.' he quickly flung the covering over the jar. 'yes, for god's sake let us go,' said susie. 'we haven't done yet,' answered arthur. 'we haven't found the author of all this.' he looked at the room in which they were, but there was no door except that by which they had entered. then he uttered a startled cry, and stepping forward fell on his knee. on the other side of the long tables heaped up with instruments, hidden so that at first they had not seen him, oliver haddo lay on the floor, dead. his blue eyes were staring wide, and they seemed larger than they had ever been. they kept still the expression of terror which they had worn in the moment of his agony, and his heavy face was distorted with deadly fear. it was purple and dark, and the eyes were injected with blood. 'he died of suffocation,' whispered dr porhoët. arthur pointed to the neck. there could be seen on it distinctly the marks of the avenging fingers that had strangled the life out of him. it was impossible to hesitate. 'i told you that i had killed him,' said arthur. then he remembered something more. he took hold of the right arm. he was convinced that it had been broken during that desperate struggle in the darkness. he felt it carefully and listened. he heard plainly the two parts of the bone rub against one another. the dead man's arm was broken just in the place where he had broken it. arthur stood up. he took one last look at his enemy. that vast mass of flesh lay heaped up on the floor in horrible disorder. 'now that you have seen, will you come away?' said susie, interrupting him. the words seemed to bring him suddenly to himself. 'yes, we must go quickly.' they turned away and with hurried steps walked through those bright attics till they came to the stairs. 'now go down and wait for me at the door,' said arthur. 'i will follow you immediately.' 'what are you going to do?' asked susie. 'never mind. do as i tell you. i have not finished here yet.' they went down the great oak staircase and waited in the hall. they wondered what arthur was about. presently he came running down. 'be quick!' he cried. 'we have no time to lose.' 'what have you done, arthur?' there's no time to tell you now.' he hurried them out and slammed the door behind him. he took susie's hand. 'now we must run. come.' she did not know what his haste signified, but her heart beat furiously. he dragged her along. dr porhoët hurried on behind them. arthur plunged into the wood. he would not leave them time to breathe. 'you must be quick,' he said. at last they came to the opening in the fence, and he helped them to get through. then he carefully replaced the wooden paling and, taking susie's arm began to walk rapidly towards their inn. 'i'm frightfully tired,' she said. 'i simply can't go so fast.' 'you must. presently you can rest as long as you like.' they walked very quickly for a while. now and then arthur looked back. the night was still quite dark, and the stars shone out in their myriads. at last he slackened their pace. 'now you can go more slowly,' he said. susie saw the smiling glance that he gave her. his eyes were full of tenderness. he put his arm affectionately round her shoulders to support her. 'i'm afraid you're quite exhausted, poor thing,' he said. 'i'm sorry to have had to hustle you so much.' 'it doesn't matter at all.' she leaned against him comfortably. with that protecting arm about her, she felt capable of any fatigue. dr porhoët stopped. 'you must really let me roll myself a cigarette,' he said. 'you may do whatever you like,' answered arthur. there was a different ring in his voice now, and it was soft with a good-humour that they had not heard in it for many months. he appeared singularly relieved. susie was ready to forget the terrible past and give herself over to the happiness that seemed at last in store for her. they began to saunter slowly on. and now they could take pleasure in the exquisite night. the air was very suave, odorous with the heather that was all about them, and there was an enchanting peace in that scene which wonderfully soothed their weariness. it was dark still, but they knew the dawn was at hand, and susie rejoiced in the approaching day. in the east the azure of the night began to thin away into pale amethyst, and the trees seemed gradually to stand out from the darkness in a ghostly beauty. suddenly birds began to sing all around them in a splendid chorus. from their feet a lark sprang up with a rustle of wings and, mounting proudly upon the air, chanted blithe canticles to greet the morning. they stood upon a little hill. 'let us wait here and see the sun rise,' said susie. 'as you will.' they stood all three of them, and susie took in deep, joyful breaths of the sweet air of dawn. the whole land, spread at her feet, was clothed in the purple dimness that heralds day, and she exulted in its beauty. but she noticed that arthur, unlike herself and dr porhoët, did not look toward the east. his eyes were fixed steadily upon the place from which they had come. what did he look for in the darkness of the west? she turned round, and a cry broke from her lips, for the shadows there were lurid with a deep red glow. 'it looks like a fire,' she said. 'it is. skene is burning like tinder.' and as he spoke it seemed that the roof fell in, for suddenly vast flames sprang up, rising high into the still night air; and they saw that the house they had just left was blazing furiously. it was a magnificent sight from the distant hill on which they stood to watch the fire as it soared and sank, as it shot scarlet tongues along like strange titanic monsters, as it raged from room to room. skene was burning. it was beyond the reach of human help. in a little while there would be no trace of all those crimes and all those horrors. now it was one mass of flame. it looked like some primeval furnace, where the gods might work unheard-of miracles. 'arthur, what have you done?' asked susie, in a tone that was hardly audible. he did not answer directly. he put his arm about her shoulder again, so that she was obliged to turn round. 'look, the sun is rising.' in the east, a long ray of light climbed up the sky, and the sun, yellow and round, appeared upon the face of the earth. (http://dp.rastko.net) the insurrection in paris related by an englishman _an eye-witness of that frightful war and of the terrible evils which accompanied it_ price: fr. c. paris a. lemoigne, editor , place vendÔme imprimerie de f. le blanc-hardel, rue froide, et , à caen. _paris, june the th ._ dear edward, to you who have been pleased to take some interest in what i wrote about paris, i inscribe this small volume which, according to your suggestion, i publish under the form of a nearly day per day correspondence. _yours truly_, davy. recollections of the parisian insurrection. the desire of appreciating _de visu_ the results of a five month's siege in a town of two million inhabitants, unexampled in the annals of humanity, made me leave london on the twentieth of march. hardly landed in the capital of france which i thought of finding tranquil and occupied in exercising its genius in repairing the disasters caused by the enemy, i heard with stupefaction that paris, a prey to civil war, was under the blow of a fresh siege. sad change! the german helmets had given place to the french kepys; citizens of the same nation were going to cut one another's throats. my first thought was to withdraw from this mournful and dangerous spectacle. of what importance to me, a simple citizen of great britain, were the disorders and furies of that people, in turn our most cruel enemy or our friend according to circumstances, as european politics or the interests of sovereigns make of them our adversary or our ally?--why expose myself voluntarily to the heart-rending and often dangerous trials of a war that had none of my sympathies either on the one side or on the other of the enclosure? was i going to see a great people breaking its irons and fighting to death in order to recover its rights and liberty?--no--the french people had at last the government of their choice,--the republic. there was, then, question of an impious war, undertaken by a blind multitude for the profit of a few hidden ambitions: that is to say, a war without grandeur and without interest for a simple spectator. however, after due reflection, i overcame my repugnance. i had, in my excursions, remarked, among the armed bands, so many heterogeneous elements; that is to say, thousands of individuals of all social positions and of so many nationalities, that i began to think it would perhaps be useful to my compatriots to hear by and by a sincere recital, written by a disinterested pen, of the events about to take place. i did not conceal from myself the dangers to which my curiosity would expose me; but had i not, and that too without any advantage, incurred as great dangers in escalading mont-blanc and in going up along the borders of the nile? besides, as is generally the case, the certainty of an imminent peril only served to strengthen my resolution. moreover, not wishing to run any useless risk, i thought good to take a few precautions: i went to see monsieur ***, an old french refugee that i had known at london, by the interposition of m. causidiere. i asked him if he could not procure me a permission, a pass, some paper or other. «are you quite decided on staying?» asked that gentleman, whom i do not name for a reason that will be appreciated by the reader. «perfectly decided.» «could nothing, not even good advice, make you renounce your intention?» «nothing.» «then come with me to the town-hall.» i followed him; and, half an hour afterwards, i was in possession of a pass signed by two members of the commune. this precaution was not to be useless. a few days afterwards, going to see the fort of vanves, strongly menaced, i was arrested and taken before the commander of the fort. this officer examined my pass; and, hesitating without doubt as to my identity, he put several questions to me in english. my answers certainly satisfied him, for he took me by the hand and said to me in a tone not without emotion: «go, sir, i will give you some one to accompany you; i like the english; i have seen them under fire; i was at inkermann.» the next day, having advanced too near courbevoie, i was arrested by a patrol, and taken before a commander of the army of versailles. there i exhibited a letter from the ambassador's. «ah!» said the commander, «i knew in the crimea two brave officers of your name.» «john and lewis--captains--they were cousins of mine.» «that is it exactly--what has become of them?» «lewis is in the indies--john is dead.» «he is very happy», said the commander sorrowfully, in bowing to me.» i went back, not without thinking of those two men--of those two brothers-in-arms, who perhaps were going to fire upon each other, after having mingled their blood before the enemy for the defence of their country. alas! i was destined to see greater crimes. certain, henceforth, of being able to get safely out of all scrapes, thanks to my pass of the commune and my papers from the ambassador's, i persevered in following step by step the events i am about to relate. not having the pretention to write the history of the french revolution, with an appreciation of its consequences, as was done by our illustrious compatriot carlisle for the revolution of , i will content myself with a simple and daily account of what i have seen and heard, and nothing more. the events offer of themselves sufficient interest and need not be augmented. in default of merit to which this book, so rapidly got up, cannot pretend, i dare hope that its sincerity will gain for it the reader's sympathy and esteem. paris. a certain calm reigned in the city in consequence of the hope that was entertained of seeing the commune come to an understanding with the government of versailles. several battalions even marched only because they were forced to do so. this hesitation was caused by the convocation of all the freemasons for bringing about a reconciliation between the two parties. it was, in fact, on this very day, that all the freemasons of paris went to the town-hall to hear pronounced, by several members of the commune, speeches of a fiery character and leading to civil war. all efforts of reconciliation have failed. dombrowski, then, has ordered the inhabitants of neuilly to leave in hours, having the intention to reduce the village to ashes. the day ended by the arrest of general cluseret. may rst. this day is signalized by the capture of the railway-station of clamart, where the insurgents lost, in addition to prisoners, about killed by the bayonet. the soldiers of versailles gave no quarter, excited as they were at the sight of the deserters of the line who served in the ranks of the commune. it was also on this day that general mariouze retook the castle of issy, having captured insurgents. this number was increased by others, made prisoners during the day, and they arrived at versailles in number. may nd. the scaffolding for the destruction of the vendôme column is arranged, and the eighth of this month is the day fixed for its fall. the fighting around paris continues violent and the troops of versailles press steadily forward. the railway-companies are taxed to the amount of , , fr. let us terminate this day by the recital of the pillage of notre-dame. * * * * * notre-dame plundered. people were astonished that the commune should have restored the treasure of notre-dame after having had it taken away. to day the astonishment will cease: the furniture and vases had been brought back only to be re-taken. on monday, april th., in the afternoon, a certain number of national guards, accompanied by the self-styled delegates of the commune, loaded, for the second time, in two carriages, the treasure of notre-dame. then, having doubtless met with some difficulties, they had the horses taken away and left the two carriages loaded. the next day, at o'clock, a pompous bill was stuck up at the town-hall and at the mayory of the th. arrondissement, announcing that the treasure of notre-dame had all just been restored. but, at about o'clock, fifty national guards arrived at notre-dame, the horses were again put to, and the two vehicles were taken no body knows where. these gentlemen are to return, for they have only done half their work; time has not permitted them to take all. such then is the end of the promises and protestations of gentlemen, members of the commune, who declare aloud that probity is their ruling virtue. these gentlemen propose, moreover, it is said, to rake up, so to speak, the very ground; that is to say, to upset every thing in the church, cellars and calorifères. they insist on finding there arms and ammunition. it is true that, during the siege, the gunners of the national guard, who occupied the park of artillery established round the basilic, demanded of the chapter's steward the authorisation to put in the cellars and calorifères their ammunition which was exposed to the shells of the prussians, and that this authorisation was granted them without the least difficulty. after the armistice, they took away all these arms; but could they have had the indelicacy to leave some behind in order to be able to justify the impious and sacrilegious robbery they were meditating. this would be odious but not impossible in such times as these. a few days before two men employed in guarding the church were arrested. they were kept or days, and, before being set at liberty, the keys of the church were taken from them. what took place is however unknown, for the poor fellows are afraid to utter a word. a commissary came, in the name of the commune, to sequester the objects belonging to the church sainte-marguerite, in the little borough of st. antoine. a picket of national guards is in permanence in the church to keep sight of the clergy. the church saint-merry has also been ransacked by the sicaires of the commune. the vicar, fortunately, had stolen away from their _fraternal_ visit. the church saint-nicolas-des-champs is transformed into a club-house. the parishioners are robbed, plundered, driven from their temples, and the preaching of the gospel is replaced in the pulpit by the declamations of epileptic tribunes. at plaisance they have sequestered a chalice and a sum of franks, the personal property of m. l'abbé orse, first vicar. the curate, m. blondeau, is in the prisons of the commune. may d. a manifestation, provoked by the freemasons, took place in the afternoon. a body of several thousands of people crossed the champs-Élysées, carrying green branches and white flags. arrived at the gate maillot, the firing ceased, but the manifestation was warned not to approach and that only two parliamentarians would be received. they accordingly presented themselves and will be this evening at versailles. it is reported that yesterday soldiers, wearing the uniform of troops of the line, went down the champs-Élysées. it was said they were deserters from versailles. we can positively state as a certain fact, that from the first week of april no deserter has been counted in the army of versailles. may th. two brigades carried off last night the park, the castle and cemetery of issy, taking guns, ammunition and a hundred prisoners. they had a few dead and wounded. the cemetery is about yards from the fort. the capture of this fort appears imminent. yesterday, mr. thiers received two parliamentarians, freemasons, who declared, however, they had no mandate. mr. thiers gave them an answer similar to those already known; that he desired more than any body the end of the civil war, but that france could not capitulate before a few insurgents; that they must apply for peace to the commune who had troubled it. yesterday evening, a parliamentarian summoned the fort of issy to capitulate. the insurgents answered that they were going to deliberate about it, that they would give a reply in half an hour; then they asked for a prolongation of the delay.--the parliamentarian returned. the negociations for the capitulation, resumed in the morning, will probably succeed. the coup de main on the farm of bonamy, in front of châtillon, was executed by a company of the th. and by that of the scouts of st. two officers of the insurgents were killed, and insurgents killed or wounded. they made prisoners and among them officers. the last military facts of the day took place in the quarries and park of issy which were vigorously carried by the battalions of the brigades derocha, paturel and berthe, with the assistance of the marine musketeers. the insurgents, in very large numbers, retired precipitately, leaving numerous dead and wounded, as well as a hundred prisoners, pieces of artillery, much ammunition and horses. nothing particular this afternoon. the insurgents are busy about mining paris, and the versailles troops have silenced the firing of the fort of issy which is now completely invested. the fort of issy is summoned to surrender, but rossel, previously colonel, who has replaced general cluseret, gives the parliamentarian a most arrogant answer of refusal threatening to have shot any other messenger of the army of versailles, the bearer of such a demand. may , th. such was the remark i heard made yesterday by a poor and very old peasant woman as she stopped work for a moment in a field above montretout to look at the fort firing. she followed up this admirable summary of recent military operations by asking me whether it was not amazing that somebody could not "invent" a means to put a stop to this civil war. i think the whole world must concur with this poor old woman. it is always the same repetition that is certain, and it is so to even a greater degree than she was aware of. not only is the cannonading the same repetition, but the game of taking positions, giving them up and retaking them, to lose or abandon them once more, has been the night work of the last week. except it may be by treason, or by the commune falling to pieces, they are not nearer a march on paris than they were three weeks ago. i won't say a month ago, because then the work could have been done by a few thousand good troops. a non-official organ of the government now tells us to be confident, because "unless in the case of such accidents as one cannot suppose, or of unforeseen surprises, _some weeks_ will be sufficient to bring to an end the necessary but sad entreprise of the attack on paris!" the same paper is of opinion that only "some months" will have elapsed before order is restored in the capital. it thinks the _journal officiel_ ridiculously sanguine, because the latter says, "our works of approach advance with a rapidity which elicits the admiration of all men of art, and which promises to france a speedy end of its trials, and to paris a deliverance from the horrible tyrants who oppress it." perhaps it is because the artillerists and other military men whom i meet are not "men of art," but certainly i cannot find that any of them take so bright a view of the position. i have just spoken with a very distinguished foreign officer who has seen the position here and who has been every where to look at the insurgent side. he tells me that at the batteries outside the city he saw some very good men, but that, taken as a whole, the national guards within the city are the most miserable lot he ever saw under arms. all the barricades are admirably made as to workmanship, but there is not one of them that could not be taken by troops approaching from streets at angles with the points at which those obstructions are placed. the place vendôme is "a rat-trap," and the insurgent chiefs take good care not to make it their own head-quarters. the gallant gentleman to whom i refer believes that if the troops once got inside the _enceinte_, the insurrection would utterly collapse; but if the military confine themselves to the operations in which they are now engaged it will be a considerable time before paris gives in. such is the report of a competent and impartial authority. rumours of the most contradictory character are rife from morning till night in the open air lobby of the assembly--the rue des réservoirs. deputies who "ought to know better" circulate very absurd _canards_; but, as remarks a local print, "_que voulez-vous? on s'ennuie, il faut bien passer le temps!_" in my last letter of thursday night i stated that the affair at moulin saquet was a repetition of that at the clamart station. i find to-day a contradiction of the statement that insurgents were butchered at moulin saquet. it is true, nevertheless. the commune, wishing, no doubt, to keep the whole truth from their followers fearing its disheartening effect, state enough for their purpose, which is to represent the versailles government as assassins. it says that of the national guards were killed with knives. the fact is as i stated it. the redoubt was taken by surprise, and the soldiers gave no quarter. the number i gave as that of the wretched men killed by the bayonet was . i was under the mark. in his report of the affair general cissey says,--"two hundred insurgents were left dead on the spot. we have taken many insurgent officers and prisoners and cannon." the commune alleges that the redoubt fell into the hands of the versailles troops by means of treason. in this instance i dare say the cry of "_nous sommes trahis!_" is not far from the truth. the unfortunate garrison were asleep when the troops entered, the sentinels having, as is alleged, fled, when they found the enemy was upon them. there were men in the redoubt, and before they could prepare any effective resistance the massacre was effected. now, after all this slaughter and capture of prisoners and guns, moulin saquet is again in the hands of the insurgents. the commune boasts that the national guards attacked it with much dash, and re-took it from the troops of versailles. the fact is these troops found the place too hot for them, and were obliged to abandon it. it is exposed to the fire of bicêtre, ivry, and hautes bruyères. was it worth while for the sake of eight cannon to commit such a terrific slaughter? most of the prisoners taken on the occasion declare that they had been forced to serve, and that they had been sent to moulin saquet as a punishment for their having refused to march on neuilly. among the captives is an interesting looking young woman, in the uniform of a _cantinière_. poor thing, she is wounded and in hospital. her story is that some months ago she became the wife of a young man, who after the breaking out of the civil war was forced to serve in the ranks of the insurgents. for eight days she was without any tidings of him, and in her despair she adopted the uniform in which she was wounded and captured, in order that she might visit all the outposts in search of her husband. she had not succeeded in finding him, and she does not know whether he is living. had she been successful she would have died by his side rather than have been separated from him again. i am happy to say that the wound of this heroine is only slight, and that everything is being done to promote her recovery. if the insurgents have not actually re-taken the clamart station, the scene of the other slaughter, they have established themselves very close to it, in a cutting which forms a communication between the station and a barricade on the line of railway. as the station is under fire from fort vanves i have no doubt that the military found it impossible to hold it, and that if not now in it the insurgents may re-occupy it whenever they like. again, there was much boasting about the taking of the château of issy. we were told that it was an admirable position, completely screened from the insurgent fire, and affording an excellent vantage ground for riflemen. i saw it on fire yesterday. the insurgents succeeded in making their shells reach it and making it very much too hot for the chasseurs. the truth is the insurgents have been doing the versaillais quite as much damage as the latter have been inflicting on them. the fire from the batteries at and about the point du jour has been excellent. there must be artillerists there quite as good as any on this side. the manner in which the ruins of fort issy have been defended is surprising. there is not a roof or a window frame in one of its barracks, but from the embrasures in the earthworks the fire is still kept up from one or two points. to take it by assault would be a matter of no difficulty, but general faron believes that it is mined, and even in its crippled position he won't venture to attack it at close quarters. with the exception of bayoneting some poor wretches who could not defend themselves, taking a few hundred prisoners who are rather an embarrassment to them, and capturing a few cannon which they don't themselves want and which the insurgents can easily replace, the government has done nothing this week. in the words of the old peasant woman, _c'est toujours la même répétition_. may th. in consequence of a large placard posted over the walls of paris this morning i passed through the gate of the private garden of the tuileries, and made my way, in company with a crowd of citizens of all classes, through the apartments occupied but a few months ago by the ex-emperor and empress. the printed invitation announced that we might see the rooms in which the "tyrant" had lived, for the modest sum of c., but that, should we think proper to take tickets for the concert, "whereby these saloons might be at length rendered useful to the people," we should be permitted to enjoy the extra show gratis. i took a ticket, and joined myself to a thick stream of people who belonged to every nationality and rank of life, and whose remarks and criticisms were most edifying. there were shopkeepers and their wives, only too delighted to take advantage of the mildest dissipation; gentlemen whose national guard trousers were rendered respectable by the gray jacket or blouse of a citizen; humdrum housewives who approved everything, and gaped their admiration of so much gorgeous wall-colouring; there were flaunting ladies in bonnets of the latest fashion and marvellous petticoats, who criticized the curtains and pointed the parasol of scorn at faded draperies; people who felt the heavy hand of the spectre of departed glory, and people who exulted at beholding the hidden recesses of an imperial mansion laid bare to the jokes and ribaldry of belleville and la villette. every class of parisian society was represented in the throng that swayed and hustled through the rooms, but the saddest sight of all was a knot or two of decrepit veterans from the invalides who leant against the balustrade of the grand staircase, and gazed with pinched-up lips and dry eyes at the national guards on duty, lounging and carousing down below. the stairs were littered with bedding and cooking utensils, shirts and stockings hanging to dry over the gilt railings, while in the square at the stairs' foot were ranged benches and boards on trestles, and there the soldiers of the guard sat in picturesque groups enough, contrasting in the carelessness and dirt of their general appearance with the lavish ornaments of marble and gilt work which served as a background to their figures. marching orders, more or less thumbed and torn, hung in fragments from the panelled walls; names in pencil and names in ink, and names scrawled with a finger-nail, defaced the doors and staircase wall. a sentry stood at every door to see that the citizens behaved themselves--a precaution by no means unnecessary, the outward aspect of certain members of the crowd being taken into consideration. in the salle de la paix a number of women were busy uncovering a number of chairs for the promised concert, and in the salle des maréchaux beyond, where the concert was to be given, velvet benches were already occupied by old ladies in white caps with baskets in their hands, who presented a stern aspect of endurance, as though they were determined to sit there through the preparations as well as the promised entertainment, and still to continue sitting until turned out by sword and bayonet. the "salle des maréchaux" exists no more except in name, for men on ladders were employed covering up the portraits which decorate the hall with screens of red silk--i suppose lest the past glory of french heroes should pale the brilliancy of the national guard, just as the bas-reliefs of the vendôme column act as an outrage upon the susceptibilities of the commune. white cloths were being tied over the busts of napoleon's generals, and everything relating to the past carefully obliterated--a rather foolish proceeding, considering that the bee-spangled imperial curtains still hang over the doors, and festoons of the same drapery decorate the gallery above. the brocaded panels of the salle du trône were objects of much remark among the ladies, as were the tapestries of the salle des gobelins; but the bareness and total absence of furniture were commented on freely on all sides. not a chair or a window blind, or even a door-plate or handle, is to be seen in any of the rooms, except in those used for the concerts, and the question arose, naturally enough. "where is it all gone to?" the same demand was made so often of an elderly bourgeois on duty at the end of the salle de diane that he was fairly bewildered, and looked round for help, and hailing the gold stripes on my cap as a haven of relief, he forthwith seized upon me as a superior officer, and insisted on an explanation. "you know there were quantities of cases carried off during the time before sedan," he said, "but, with all their cunning, they can't have dismantled a whole palace of this size, can they?" and the crowd stood round endeavouring to account for the nakedness of the land, until a remark that the commune had been feathering their nests with the chairs and tables dispersed them laughing. the empress's bedroom was a great attraction, chaplin's charming decorations being subjects of sufficient interest, independent of the absent furniture. the looking-glasses which spring from the walls called down ejaculations of delight from a party of dressmakers, who carefully took notes of the mechanism, "in order to imitate it, my dear, when paris becomes itself again." there was a large placard upon the wall of a kind of library, inviting the attention of the public to the secret arrangements in a recess whereby the empress obtained her dresses and linen from some manufactory of garments above, and an old lady, after having carefully examined the elaborate details, turned away with a sigh and a shake of the head. "how foolish of them, after all, not to have done a little for us in order that they might have continued to abide in this paradise!" how different was the empress's apartment this morning, bare and crowded with the dregs of the paris population, from the night when i last saw it, the night of her flight, when bed-clothes still littered the floor, and gloves and little odds and ends of female finery told of recent occupation! all was silent then with the stillness of a coming storm; now the walls re-echo with a stir of unhallowed feet, and the spring sunshine streams in at the open window accompanied by whiffs from the garden below, while a distant cry reaches us from the street beyond of "_le vengeur_," "_le cri du peuple_," "_le dernier ordre du comité du salut public_," and we detect curls of smoke about the arch of triumph, which remind us that the bombardment still goes on. a reflective sentry at the door of the _cabinet de travail_ begged me to remark the portraits set round above the doors. "those are the empress's favourite ladies," he informed me; "are they not _salopines_, one would say, of the period of montespan? and those were the ladies who were models for the women of our land--no wonder that paris should have become the gomorrah that it is!" in the evening the concert was given, and a wonderful bear-garden the imperial palace presented. members of the commune flitted about in red draperies and tried to find room on the already crowded benches for the struggling mob, who rubbed their hot faces with their unaccustomed white gloves, and used such language to each other as, it is to be hoped, those august walls have seldom heard. meanwhile, the crowd increased in numbers, and by o'clock the reception rooms were full, and some , people still stood in a long string in the garden outside. they behaved with the wondrous good nature which characterizes a french crowd, laughing over the absurdity of their predicament and waving the tickets, which they would never be enabled to present, jestingly at one another. in course of time the whole of the _jardin privé_ was full of people, who looked up at the lights streaming from the windows, and sat about on chairs quietly smoking their cigars and enjoying the lovely evening, listening to the occasional boom at the other end of the long alley, where a bright flash which bore death upon its wings appeared in the sky from time to time, in mockery of the gas-lit chandeliers and feeble attempts at revelry that were going on above our heads. the reigning scandal of the day is the affair of the convent of picpus. so highly roused has public indignation been by the supposed discovery of atrocities committed within those jealous walls that the people have been peremptorily excluded until the investigations of justice shall be complete. i managed, however, to penetrate within the precincts by attaching myself to the _cortège_ of an english friend, who was journeying thither under special official orders, to investigate the case of an english sister named garret. in the rue de picpus, near mazas prison, stand two large buildings, each surrounded by high walls, above which may be seen green trees at intervals. the one is an establishment of the jesuites; the other the convent of the white nuns. the jesuites brothers escaped at the first sign of approaching danger, but the sisters held their own until forced into cabs and conveyed to the cells of st. lazare, there to await the results of a judicial inquiry into certain matters that are deemed suspicious. arrived at the gate of the convent, we were obliged to force our way through a crowd of angry people who demanded instant permission to enter, and who were as persistently swept back by a group of national guards--we, however, being admitted inside the door under cover of the official pass and signatures. in the court-yard, under the shade of some fine trees, a few guards were playing bowls in the jesuit's alley, and making up to one of them, whose cap displayed tokens of authority, we mentioned our business, and begged permission to see what was to be seen. our friend was very civil, accepted a cigar, and marched us off to go the rounds. he pointed out to us the fact, of which there certainly could exist no kind of doubt, that the two buildings communicated one with the other, by means of an old door which still exists at the back of a stable, as well as by other apertures in the garden wall, which show signs of having been recently closed up. the jesuit's garden is a most beautiful one, occupying a space of some acres, laid out with care and furnished with fruit trees of every description, pruned and trained after the latest horticultural designs. there are wondrously ingenious plans, too, for irrigating the beds, forcing pits and hothouses, and long alleys with vines trained over them. through the old door above mentioned we passed into the sister's garden, equally large and beautiful, though not kept with the same care. in the centre stands a gymnasium, i suppose for the use of the children brought up under the sisters' care, and further is their cemetery, a lovely spot, where, under the heavy shade of ancient cypresses, lie bearers of some of the most ancient names in france--"prince of salm-kyrbourg, immolated under the terror, aged ;" "rochefoucauld," "de noailles," "montmorency," "the great lafayette," the whole family of the talleyrand-périgords, and legions of princes and princesses. some of the vaults have been opened, and many lead coffins, half-covered with rotting velvet and gold lace, lie exposed to the light of day, awaiting an examination at the hands of the minister of justice. at the extreme end of the garden, however, are the three little conical huts, side by side, resembling white ants' nests, which have been the prime cause of so much excitement and judicial inquiry. when the convent was occupied by the national guards these little huts were tenanted each by an old woman, enclosed in a wooden cage, like a chickens' pen, the three buildings being similar in size and construction, six feet square by seven in height, with a slate roof, through which daylight was visible, while the three old women were all of them hopeless idiots. the lady superior has kept her lips resolutely closed up to the present time, but admitted, when first questioned, that the three sufferers had lived in their hideous prison for nine years, in an atmosphere of stifling heat throughout the summer and half frozen with cold throughout the winter; "but," she added, "they were idiots when they came." the conductor of the inquiry replied that, if such were the case, it was illegal to have admitted them to the convent at all, and that even supposing them to have been admitted, the place where they were found was not a fit dwelling-place for a dog. a key was discovered among her papers, labelled "key of the great vault;" but where this great vault may be has not yet been found out. the superior and her nuns keep a uniform and persistent silence upon the point; excavations have been made at different points in the garden, and under the high altar of the chapel, but hitherto without effect. at one end of the nuns' garden stands an isolated building, in which were found mattresses furnished with straps and buckles, also two iron corsets, an iron skull-cap, and a species of rack turned by a cog-wheel, evidently intended for bending back the body with force. the superior explained that these were orthopædic instruments--a superficial falsehood. the mattresses and straps struck me as being easily accounted for; i have seen such things used in french midwifery, and in cases of violent delirium; but the rack and its adjuncts are justly objects of grave suspicion, for they imply a use of brutal force which no disease at present known would justify. on our way back through the gardens our guide made a _détour_ in order to show us a great subterranean warehouse, where an enormous quantity of potatoes was stored, as well as barrels full of salt pork, while in a yard hard by lay grunting a fat pig. "look at this!" cried our national guard indignantly. "look at these stores, which might have helped to feed the starving poor of the arrondissement during our six months' siege, and think that these people were begging from door to door the whole time for money to buy broken victuals for their pensioners!" arrived at the entrance gate our guide nudged me, telling me in whispers to look at the old woman who was wandering about, followed by a younger one, stooping from time to time to pick up a leaf or rub her hands with sand and gravel. "that is soeur bernadine," he said, "one of the three prisoners of the wooden cages. she is the most sane in mind of the three, and we keep her here under the care of one of our wives to cheer her up. she is only , though she looks past . the other two have been removed, as they were rendered violent by the crowd and change of scene." i passed close to her and she looked up--a soft, pale face, with sunken eyes shaded by the frills of a great cap. she looked at me dazedly, without taking any notice, and stooping again, filled her hands with refuse coffee grounds, which she put into her mouth until prevented by her companion. without showing the least prejudice in the matter, i think i can safely say that the ladies now shut up at st. lazare will find it no easy matter to clear themselves of blame; for, though there are doubtless many suspicious circumstances that maybe explained away, there are also hard facts which will remain hard facts in spite of the most elaborate attempts at refutation. may th. in consequence of the bombardment daily expected from the montretout batteries people have been hurriedly leaving paris in great numbers. fort vanves took fire last night, and had to be evacuated. it was found impossible to extinguish the fire. it is still burning. the explosion at issy arose from a torpedo, not a powder magazine. the fort is evacuated. there has been a general heavy firing to-day, and the point du jour has suffered severely. father hogan, the _curé_ of st. sulpice, a british subject, was again arrested yesterday. mr. malet has with difficulty procured his release on condition that he leaves paris. the government troops were compelled to evacuate the railway station at clamart in consequence of the effluvia arising from the great number of unburied corpses in and about the station, which was then occupied by the federalists, subsequently again evacuated by them upon the approach of the versailles troops. the government have sent away to the departments all the young soldiers who have parents or relations domiciled in paris. the statement that m. schneider intented to remove his iron foundries from creuzot to stockton-on-tees is incorrect. a large number of models and designs have been sent from creuzot to foundries at stockton-on-tees, where it is intended to instruct a staff of workmen in the production of steel before commencing that branch of manufacture at the french establishment. fort issy was captured and occupied by the government troops this morning. may th.--and th. forts montrouge and vanves have been reduced to silence by a battery of mitrailleuses established on a parapet of issy, which picks off federal artillerymen when they show themselves. seven guns on bastions , , and have been dismounted by the new battery of montretout and the bastions silenced. many prisoners are said to have been taken at issy yesterday. the national guards of vaugirard and the panthéon decline to march, barely a third of their numbers having answered the call. the vendôme column is definitively to fall on friday. the lycée, on the high ground behind issy, is being hurriedly formed into a fortress mounted with guns, earthworks connecting it with vanves. three shells per second are said to have fallen on auteuil this morning. nineteen battalions were reviewed yesterday by colonel rossel in the place de la concorde. rossel continues to command in spite of his resignation yesterday, which is attributed to a quarrel with the central committee. the committee of public safety is still sitting. it is rumoured that should he decline to withdraw his resignation, the functions of the ministry of war would be absorbed by the committee of public safety, who would attach to themselves an assistant military commission, headed by dombrowski. may th. the committee of public safety, in consequence of the proclamation of m. thiers, which was placarded in paris, has issued a decree ordering the furniture and property of m. thiers to be seized, and his house in the place st. georges to be immediately demolished. the commune, in its sitting of yesterday, decided to bring colonel rossel before a court-martial. delescluze has been appointed delegate of war. colonel rossel was arrested yesterday and handed over to the custody of citizen gerardin. at p.m. an announcement was made to the commune that rossel had left with gerardin. the commune accepted the offer of general bergeret to re-arrest rossel. nevertheless, at o'clock this morning this had not been effected. félix pyat, in the _vengeur_, accuses rossel of treason. may th. there is increasing discouragement among the national guards, in spite of the retaking of vanves. the _vengeur_ hints at a plot headed by gerardin, and states that national guards, who exhibited no numbers of their battalions, were assembled for an unknown purpose at the luxembourg; that at the same time officers who were making a domiciliary visit at gerardin's house were attacked, and that in another quarter an attempt was made to assassinate dombrowski. a considerable portion of masonry from the auteuil viaduct has fallen into the water. a search has been made at the bank of france under the excuse of looking for arms. it is said that the _employés_ of the bank are armed and victualled, and will stand a siege rather than surrender the gold under their care. in consequence of pressure from delescluze the central committee abandon the direction of the war administration, and moreau resigns his office of civil delegate. the furniture and pictures are being carted from m. thiers' house, and sounds of hammering within suggest the commencement of its demolition. six newspapers have been suppressed--viz., the _univers_, _spectateur_, _moniteur_, _Étoile_, _anonyme_, and _observateur_. the batteries at montretout continue a vigorous firing. throughout last night they received only six shells from the insurgents. the shells thrown from the floating battery bridge at the point du jour and from the land batteries near that point generally drop short of the mark and fall either into the seine or on the slopes of the railway by the right bank. this afternoon i saw many projectiles from montretout and meudon explode among the houses at the point du jour and the _enceinte_ near it. the wall screening the ceinture railway between auteuil and vaugirard has been dreadfully battered in various places. the bois de boulogne, in a semicircle from about the villa rothschild to bagatelle, following the race course at longchamps, is one vast camp, and from this camp to the village of boulogne the work of constructing trenches parallel with the _enceinte_ is being pushed rapidly forward. i saw hundreds of men working at them to-day. the fort of vanves is still occupied by the insurgents, but moulin de pierres and châtillon cover it with shells. by means of cannon shots the troops of versailles have demolished the houses in the village of vanves, as they concealed and covered the postern of the fort. the military had succeeded in occupying the village, but were obliged to abandon it because the houses were exposed to the fire of the insurgents. there has been a sharp musketry fire to-day in the plantations to the north-east of issy, and just over the vaugirard road. there has been fighting of the same kind in the direction of the st. ouen station at the other end of the lines. the sphere of attack is again being extended, and in consequence of this the insurgents are obliged to defend themselves at, perhaps, three or four points simultaneously. may th.-- th. there was a considerable movement in the city yesterday consequent on desperate attempts to enlist refractory citizens in marching battalions. pressgangs paraded the streets all day, and many men within the ages of and were, it is said, temporarily incarcerated in the church of notre dame de lorette. an extraordinary meeting was held at the hôtel de ville in consequence of a supposed discovery of a reactionary plot. forty-seven gendarmes, says the _mot d'ordre_, were found in the marine barracks disguised as national guards, besides a great quantity of tricoloured _brassards_. m. beslay, surnamed the father of the commune, has retired, because he disapproves the confiscation of m. thiers' goods. the new batteries on montmartre opened fire last night, but ceased this morning. the th battalion montrouge were relieved from duty two hours before their time last night because they talked of opening the gates. this battalion consists for the most part of shopkeepers. the new battalion called the "vengeurs du père duchesne" were shut up in the luxembourg gardens, all points of egress being guarded, because they declined to march outside the city. difficulties have arisen in the quartier val de grace, consequent upon the heavy tax recently levied on meat. the versaillais gunboats at the asnières bridge forced the federal troops to recoil several hundred yards towards the city walls. félix pyat announces his opinion publicly that the fall of the commune is imminent. mortars are being placed on the top of the arc de triomphe. the demolition of the house of m. thiers has commenced. the central committee have ordered that all the quarters of paris shall be searched for arms and refractory national guards. all the young men in paris are to be armed. may th. a large crowd has been waiting in the rue de la paix since o'clock to see the fall of the vendôme column. its fall had been officially promised at that hour, but up to half-past it was still standing. it will probably fall to-day. the tricolour flag has just been attached to the statue, amid faint cheers from the crowd. an armistice has been arranged for next wednesday, to enable the inhabitants of vanves and the neighbourhood to remove. cluseret, megy, and schoelcher have been released. the th and th battalions have been disarmed on suspicion of being reactionary. paschal grousset has sent a circular to the principal towns of france, inviting them to join the communal movement. the approaches are now within metres of the _enceinte_, and a breaching battery is being constructed. the montretout batteries have already made a considerable breach in the _enceinte_ by the side of the auteuil gate, which has been demolished. there was a very lively fusillade this afternoon between troops in the bois de boulogne and the insurgents, who fired from houses and other shelter behind the _enceinte_ between passy and auteuil. mortars were also used by the military. the insurgents have shot a captain of engineers who imprudently advanced beyond the versailles lines. in the fort of vanves a soldier of the line has been found; his feet were tied together, and there are numbers of bayonet wounds in different parts of his body. the insurgents had made him prisoner. of the pieces of cannon left in the fort, the greater number had been rendered useless by the fire of the troops. it is believed that the garrison escaped by a subterranean passage communicating between forts vanves and montrouge. every commander of an army corps will henceforward have the command of an arrondissement, and will be answerable for the defensive measures undertaken in his zone. all persons in the possession of sulphur and phosphorus must declare to the commune the amount of each within three days. la cecilia has again undertaken the command at petit vanves. torpedoes are to be laid down at exposed parts. the night has passed off quietly, and nothing of any importance has transpired. the versailles troops are under the walls of paris, and are exchanging shots with the insurgents on the ramparts from the muette gate to the issy gate. the federalists have been driven out of their entrenchments between forts vanves and issy. a battery is being erected in the garden of the tuileries, from which the communists will be able to keep up a flank fire upon the champs elysées. there is no doubt of the existence of a serious conspiracy, possessing wide ramifications, in paris to effect the overthrow of the commune. the garden of the luxembourg has been closed, and is occupied by four battalions of national guards, as a precaution against the rising which is apprehended. may th. the _journal officiel_ announced that the column would positively fall to-day at . a great concourse assembled. bands played. the commune and their staff, amounting to , attended on horseback. at . p.m. an attempt was made, which failed owing to the breaking of a snatchblock. the ropes slackened suddenly, injuring two men. another attempt was made, fresh ropes having been added, and the column fell at about minutes to . it broke up in the air as it fell. the concussion was nothing like what had been expected. no glass was broken or injury done to the square, excepting that the column forced itself into the ground. the excitement was intense. the crowd rushed with loud cheers to scramble for fragments, while speeches were made by members of the commune, mounted on fallen masses, and red flags were hoisted on the pedestal. immense crowds assembled in the streets outside, making it almost impossible to leave the place vendôme. it was forbidden to take away any fragments, and people were searched before leaving the square. may the th. two hundred national guards entered the grand hotel last night. after having searched every room, under the pretence of looking for arms, they retired with a good deal of plunder. this is on that subject a letter forwarded by mister van henbeck to the _figaro journal_. it has been spoken in different ways of the frequent searches made in the grand hotel, since the occupation by the admiral saisset and his staff, which had rendered the hotel suspected by the "commune" and the "comité central." the last visit of these _gentlemen_, has been marked by many strange proceedings: in the night of may th a band of about armed men, pseudo-sailors of the "commune" and belgian volunteers of both sex, rushed into the hotel. during five hours these mad men, several of them being intoxicated, had to make in every part of the hotel fantastic searches, they went breaking the doors and menacing the administrator, the clerks and servants. they had no mandamus to do that, but the pretext was the arrestation of a battalion of "gendarmes" and the discovery of a subterranean vault leading to versailles. the search for "gendarmes" was not long to make, but the one for the vault was stopped only when they had found the wine cellar. the door was knocked out: the great attention they paid to those investigations can be evaluated by a consummation of francs of wine. that operation began at a.m. and was out at . the whistles of those supposed sailors and the trumpets of the "fédérés" ordered the end of that small festival. the cellar was left a-side, and the servants of the hotel were obliged to bring up in the court-yard those of the band who could not walk any more; at last, the troop went out carrying away a good supply of provisions as wine, cigars, watches, jewels and purses stolen in the servants' rooms, and also clocks and about a hundred table-plates belonging to the hotel. they went with empty hands, but the pockets were full. two of the servants were obliged to go with them, and they said they would come back the next day to arrest many others. these wicked orgies having no political character, i will address myself to the "code pénal" for a repression, and i deliver into the hands of the "procureur de la république" a complaint justified by the deposings of all my servants, and indicating the names of the chiefs of that curious performance. be good enough, sir, to believe me yours most respectfully: v..... _administrator of the grand hotel_. the insurgents have evacuated all their positions between fort vanves and the _enceinte_. the only gunboats now beneath the viaduct at the point du jour are mere wrecks, and their guns have completely disappeared. the insurgents' battery on a bastion between vaugirard and montrouge has been firing frequently to-day. one of its shells came as far as bas meudon. fort issy has been directing its fire upon the point du jour. about noon there were two conflagrations at the point du jour and one at auteuil. the soldiers working at the parallels and the breaching batteries are suffering from the musketry of insurgents behind the _enceinte_. as many as of them have been killed during one night, but the sap has been carried to within less than metres of the ramparts. the insurgents are raising additional barricades in the rue de vaugirard, and also at passy and auteuil. pontoon bridges and fascines in great numbers are being sent forward to the military foreposts. the committee of public safety has appointed a military commission to replace the existing commission; it is composed of arnold, avrial, johannard, tridon, and varein. henri has been appointed chief of the staff of the war ministry, and mathieu commander of the troops posted between the point du jour and the wagram gate. all mechanics over years of age have been called out to work at the city defences. they will receive f. c. as daily pay. important resolutions are expected to be taken at the sitting of the commune to-day, and the serious division will be terminated by the dissolution of the central committee, or by the absorption of the committee of public safety in the central committee. the commune announces that the versailles troops were repulsed in several attacks made by them last night upon the barricades at châtillon, moulin de pierre, and moulin saquet. there was a vigorous engagement yesterday evening at the dauphine and maillot gates, and the versailles troops were driven back with considerable loss. it is rumoured that fort montrouge has been evacuated. the commune declares that it has a reserve force of , men. of m. thiers' house little more, it is feared, than the outer walls remain standing. may th the "majority of the commune"--as the commune is now spoken of in consequence of the secession of of its members--has resolved to form a central club like that of the jacobins, composed of delegates from various clubs of paris, in order to keep itself _en rapport_ with public opinion. the th legion has formed a battalion of women, who in addition to their other military duties are to disarm publicly all runaways. the communal delegation of the d arrondissement, considering that slavery was considered immoral even before the american war, and that a standing army has been suppressed by the commune, decrees that all houses of ill fame in their quarter shall be immediately closed, as involving traffic in human beings. peter's restaurant was searched last night, and several arrests were made, among them officers of the national guard suspected of complicity in the tricolour brassard plot. the restaurant is closed. the heaviest firing to-day has been against the point du jour. large pieces of marine artillery have been placed on the ramparts behind montrouge. a terrific explosion has just ( o'clock) created general alarm. enormous volumes of smoke are visible from a great distance. the cartridge manufactory near the École militaire has exploded. six hundred _employés_, chiefly women, are said to have been killed. bullets were launched in all directions, killing and wounding many passers by. the insurgents have constructed a battery of marine pieces, which much embarrasses the troops and retards the breaching works. breaches will be opened at three points--namely, at mortemart, opposite auteuil, at bastion , opposite the parc-aux-princes in the bois and in the neighbourhood of vaugirard. this afternoon the insurgents fired from three batteries between the left bank ending the viaduct at the point du jour and montrouge. one of these batteries was placed close to the vaugirard gate, and its fire was directed to a point at which the engineers were supposed to be constructing a trench. there were conflagrations this evening in auteuil, the point du jour, and between the latter place and vaugirard. the flame and smoke were distinctly visible. we hear it was the blowing up of a powder factory in the rue de wagram, paris, or at the trocadéro. the committee of public safety, in order to save the country from a military dictatorship, has associated civil commissioners with the various generals of the commune. with dombrowski are joined burger and dereuve, with la cecilia, johannard, and with wrobleski, leo meillet. all passenger and goods trains leaving paris have to stop outside the walls for examination. trains contravening this order will not be permitted to proceed. possessors of petroleum are to declare the amount they hold to the authorities within hours. fort montrouge is still held, and is strongly supported by the hautes bruyères. the government troops have not yet occupied vanves; they are pressing upon billancourt and la marette. a letter of general cluseret in the _mot d'ordre_ advises that every exertion should be made for the erection of barricades at the barrière de l'etoile, the place roi de rome, and the place eylau, with a second line between the passy gate and the grenelle bridge, and a third line from the pont de la concorde to the ouen gate. the versailles and auteuil gates of paris have been demolished by the cannonade. the neighbouring bastions are subjected to a tremendous fire, but do not reply. fort issy, which is now in the hands of the versailles troops, is vigorously bombarding petit vanves, grenelle, and point du jour. the last is utterly untenable by the insurgent gunners. a belief obtains that the versailles engineers are laying a mine under the walls of paris in the direction of the muette gate. the disagreement between the commune and the central committee continues. the versailles troops have made good their communications from montrouge to issy, and have established batteries on the glacis before fort vanves. they are vigorously attacking bicêtre and hautes bruyères. a terrible bombardment of the maillot gate and the arc de triomphe is going on. the federalists in the village of malakoff are in danger of being cut off from paris, while those stationed in the villages of petit vanves and montrouge have been compelled to retire into the city. ladders for scaling the ramparts have reached the versaillist outposts in the bois de boulogne. the versailles troops are endeavouring to cut a way through the wood to the avenue of neuilly. the cannonade in the direction of the arc de triomphe is increasing in intensity. may th. to-day was a day of feasting, and national guards surrounded the churches of st. augustin and la trinité, and forced the priests to stop divine service, and turned out the congregations. the establishment of the sisters of mercy of st. vincent de paul was also surrounded. an inventory was made of the goods, the sisters being themselves placed under lock and key until to-morrow, when they will be turned out. bodies are being removed from the crypt of the church of les petits pères, near the bank of france, for examination. rumours are afloat that people have been recently buried there under false names, and bones strew the pavement on both sides of the church door. the versaillais are at a distance of metres from the ramparts from the point du jour to vanves. the national guards in great numbers are assembled under the cover of the ramparts, and an attack is hourly expected. shells have fallen on the bridge of grenelle, killing several persons. an attack was made yesterday on the zoological gardens of the bois de boulogne, which turned out disastrously for the federals. the fire from the insurgents' batteries on the _enceinte_ has been stronger to-day than at any time previously since the opening of the new redoubt at montretout. they have been throwing shells from la muette against the troops in the bois de boulogne, but mortars placed in the bois near the large lake have been responding vigorously, and a field battery at mortemart, the south-eastern extremity of the bois, has been protecting, by its fire, the engineers working at the breaching battery, and also doing some damage to the artillery on the bastion. between passy and auteuil the insurgents are in considerable force behind the _enceinte_. their three batteries on the _enceinte_, between the point du jour and montrouge, have been firing on the military position at bas meudon and issy. there has been a return shelling from these positions between the rival artillery. engineers are engaged in sapping from issy in the direction of vaugirard. they are much exposed to the batteries of the insurgents, but neither yesterday nor to-day did i see a single shell fall into the french lines where they are at work. the committee of public safety has issued an appeal to the national guards calling upon them to secure the triumph of paris, and describing the fearful results which would ensue from the victory of the versailles troops. a later attack which was made on neuilly yesterday was repulsed. this morning the federal batteries at montmartre are bombarding the château bécon. the _journal officiel_ of the commune of to-day accuses the agents of versailles of having caused the explosion of the cartridge manufactory, and says that a hundred persons have fallen victims to it. four arrests have been made in connexion with this affair. the _vérité_ demonstrates that the explosion could not have been the result of intention, but was solely attributable to accident. the same paper states that no shell fell in the champ de mars at the time of the explosion. the versailles troops are constructing trenches within yards of the auteuil gate, but the breach is not yet assailable. fort montrouge still holds out, but offers only a feeble resistance. the communists claim to-day to have repulsed all attacks. the bombardment is incessant. the german troops are taking up imposing positions. the tribunals of the commune have decided to-day as to who among the prisoners in the hands of the commune are to be regarded as hostages. it is asserted that three hostages will be executed to-morrow. may th. the firing was heavier last night than it has ever been. there were both a cannonade and a fusillade. everybody thought that the versaillais had at last made their assault. it appears that the communists attempted a sortie, and were repulsed with great loss. numerous waggons filled with wounded were taken to versailles. various battalions returned to paris, apparently much dispirited. numerous reinforcements, however, were brought up. the bullets are falling so thickly about the ramparts that the communists with difficulty maintain their position there. the versailles shell-practice has improved. the shells burst about the bastions instead of in the town. the conscription is carried on with increased rigour, death being threatened to those who refuse to serve. a lieutenant-colonel and a commandant have been sentenced, the one to years' and the other to years' imprisonment for cowardice, and their battalion has been dissolved. the chief and staff of the th legion have been dismissed for not disarming the refractory battalions. it is said the prisoners accused of firing the cartridge manufactory are to be shot in hours. much fear is entertained for the fate of the hostages, whose execution has been so strongly advocated in the commune, in reprisal for the alleged violation and murder of an _infirmière_ by the versaillais. some iron cupola-shaped cases, capable of holding each , lb. of powder, were to-day taken to the barricades near the ramparts for the purpose of blowing them up if necessary. it has been proposed in the commune to abolish all titles of rank, with the emoluments and advantages appertaining to them; also that all children now illegitimate shall be for the future legitimate; and that, instead of the present form of marriage, any man over and woman over may be allowed to go before a municipal magistrate and declare their wish to marry. the only breaching battery that has as yet opened fire is that established in the parc aux princes, at metres distance from the ramparts. it directs its fire against the _enceinte_ at auteuil, where the gates and the drawbridge have been destroyed. the fort of montrouge is almost surrounded by the troops, who advance also by means of trenches towards the redoubt of hautes bruyères. towards the south a series of attacks have been made, with the view of driving all the insurgents on that side from their positions outside the _enceinte_. last night, in an affair at lagrange, the military put insurgents _hors de combat_ and made prisoners. all the breaching works are not yet completed. to-day the insurgents have been firing from la muette, which is on the _enceinte_ between passy and auteuil, and i observed that they had added to the number of their guns between the point du jour and montrouge. yesterday they had three batteries between those points; to-day they have been firing from five. mont valérien has done very little to-day, and montretout has not been so violent as usual, but the military batteries at bas meudon, les moulineanx, and issy have been very active, as have likewise been the mortars and field guns in the bois de boulogne. twenty-one members of the commune no longer attend the sittings of that body, but remain in their arrondissements. four hundred versailles chasseurs are said to have deserted from their own side into paris yesterday. batteries of guns have been established at the dauphine gate. the _cri du peuple_ says the committee have determined rather to blow up paris than capitulate. a requisition has been made of the silver candlesticks at the church of notre dame des victoires. no one without a special pass is allowed to leave the city at night by the eastern or northern gates. the commune has ordered that all prostitutes and drunkards shall be arrested. a decree of the committee of public safety, published to-day, orders the suppression of the _revue des deux mondes_, _avenir national_, _patrie_, _commune_, _justice_, and five other newspapers. no new journals will be allowed to appear until the end of the war. all articles must be signed by the writer. attacks on the government will be dealt with according to martial law. officers who hesitate to obey the orders of the committee of public safety will be tried for high treason by court-martial. the _salut public_ alleges that one of the chief persons implicated in the explosion of the cartridge manufactory is count ladislas zamoyski, and that papers have been found upon him proving him to be in communication with the government of versailles. the same paper announces that the germans demand that an armistice should be entered into between the commune and the versailles government, in order that a _plebiscite_ of all france may be held to decide upon the future form of government. the commune has seized the silver ornaments and other valuables of the church of the trinity. all the other churches of paris will shortly be treated in a similar manner, and will then be closed. all arrests and requisitions are being carried out by flourens's corps of avengers. the demolition of the expiatory chapel was commenced to-day. the gate at point du jour is destroyed. yesterday evening two battalions of troops carried the ory farm and plichon house, near fort montrouge, at the point of the bayonet. the federalists had about killed and wounded, and lost prisoners, including a chief of battalion. the troops also captured a flag, but subsequently evacuated the conquered positions, as they were too much exposed to the fire of the enemy. the loss of the versailles troops was small. * * * * * the vendÔme column. foul is the bird that soils her own nest! as though they had not suffered enough of mortification and defeat at the hands of the enemy, the parisians have succeeded in emptying the cup of disgrace to the dregs by dragging down the monument of their military glory, amid hoots and hisses, and toppling over the effigy of their greatest soldier-hero on to a bed of mire, at the same time publicly tearing the tricoloured national flag which has for so many years led their armies to victory. upon the official announcement some days back that the vendôme column was to be sacrificed as an insult to the principles of fraternity, everybody laughed and thought it a good joke, never believing that the plan would be carried out, even in spite of the ominous scaffoldings and curtains which rose around its base. a few days later we were told that it had been sawn through, and that a solemn festival would be held to commemorate this new display of liberty. we thought the party of order would protest; that the veterans of the invalides would make a movement; that the mass of the population would insist upon the abandonment of such a piece of folly. but we forgot the state of coma into which respectable paris has fallen, and that those who had allowed themselves to be ground down by a tyrannical few would scarcely bestir themselves in defence of their public monuments. it became apparent that the column was really doomed, and the rue de la paix was crowded by an expectant multitude at about o'clock on monday afternoon; the balconies were filled with ladies; all the windows were pasted with paper to neutralize the expected concussion, while cake and newspaper vendors and _marchands de coco_ plied a busy trade, and elbowed their way about among the people down below. three ropes had been fastened round the top of the column beneath the statue, communicating with a crazy-looking windlass and anchor placed in the centre of the road at the entrance of the rue neuve des capucines, and a long narrow dung heap filled with sand and branches had been spread in the square to deaden the shock of the falling mass. public excitement was at its height, and the strangest surmises went from mouth to mouth as to how far the statue would be thrown, whether balconies would fall and slates be shuffled down, and whether the great weight would or would not crash through the vaulted arch into the sewers under the road. still the crowd increased in numbers, when at about o'clock a cordon of national guards was formed, who pushed back the people as far as the rue des augustins, leaving an empty space along the rue de la paix, which was duly watered in true parisian style, and became the arena for a display of equestrian prowess on the part of sundry officers and members of the commune. they rattled backwards and forwards at full gallop, and made figures of eight, and turned and twisted in a marvellous manner, suggestive rather of a circus than a barrack-yard; but their evolutions served to amuse the crowd, who waited patiently until sunset, when it became evident that the affair would be put off until the morrow. it turned out that the members of the artistic federation who, with courbet at their head, had decided on this piece of vandalism, had been playing off a little practical joke upon the crowd, for their preparations were not complete, and workmen were still hacking at the stonework from behind their curtain screen until evening had settled into night. with the easy good nature of a paris crowd, everybody quietly went home, a few disappointed at the failure of a promised excitement, but by far the greater number rejoicing in their hearts at the reprieve of the bronze pillar which they had been accustomed from childhood to regard with pride. tuesday's _officiel_ positively announced the ceremony for that day at , and the concourse was greater than ever. the rue de la paix and the space behind, up to the steps of the new opera, was a sea of heads, and the _élite_ of communal aristocracy who held passes to the square itself were forced to elbow their way and struggle through relays of guards long before the prescribed hour in order to be certain of getting there at all. so far all their arrangements were so bad as to suggest misgivings as to the result of the attempt. three meagre ropes were to do the deed, while two beams, applied one on either side the column, were to give it the proper inclination as it fell. now, every one knows that, from some fault in its construction, the column has always leant a little towards the ministère des cultes, and people moved restlessly about, uncertain where to station themselves, lest the tottering mass, once set in motion, should fall in an entirely different direction from the one intended. the bed, too, which was to receive it seemed strangely small and narrow, and it appeared a matter of doubt whether the bronze emperor might not force his way into one of the adjoining houses, and pay a visit as little desired as it was expected. meanwhile, a party of workmen continued to drive wedges into the space which had been sawn, while others gave a finishing touch to the dung heaps and cleared away the curtains and scaffolding that had obscured their operations. at half-past the commune arrived on horseback, attended by their staff, and placed themselves in front of the crowd in the rue de la paix--a mounted squadron of some persons; while at a given signal a number of bands stationed at different points began to play a medley of patriotic airs, regardless of general effect. trumpets brayed forth signals, and all strained their eyes into the dazzling sky, not without having first assured themselves of a safe retreat through some friendly doorway in case of a disaster, as the ropes were seen to tighten--"see! it moves!" "no, 'tis the effect of a passing cloud;" and, after a second's pause of intense anxiety one of the ropes snapped, knocking down in its whirl several men at the windlass. and now began a murmur and a shaking of heads, "ah, i knew it could not succeed; they will be obliged to blow it up with gunpowder; shame on them for the attempt!" "why cannot they leave it alone?" said one man to his neighbour, "it has cost so much." "yes, it has," replied the other; "it has cost us millions of human lives on the plains of germany and in the russian snows." the attempt had failed, and people were preparing to move away, when news arrived that the commune were not going to be thus baffled, but had sent for more ropes and apparatus, and were determined to have their way at any price. meanwhile, the great figure looked calmly down upon his persecutors, seemingly as secure as ever, while the bands continued to play, and the horsemen galloped about the square. it was half-past before the two new ropes arrived, and fully o'clock before they had been hoisted to their places, not being attached to the capstan like the others, but held, one on either side the road, by sailors each. brute force had failed, and so they had determined to try the effect of a series of swings. people laughed at these renewed preparations; and could scarcely be kept close under the houses out of immediate danger. the ropes slackened and tightened again for a final effort, and a cry burst from the assembled multitude in the horror of a coming danger which might be incalculable as the great giant swayed for a few seconds and finally tottered down with an awful crash, separating into rings in the air, upon the foul bed which had been prepared for him: a shapeless mass of shattered metal and stone lying in uneven coils like some mighty serpent. the wooden sentry-boxes in the square reeled round and fell, while a cloud of filth and dust obscured the fallen monster, and men looked awe-struck at one another like naughty children who had broken something which they ought not to have dared to touch. the moment of compunction was a short one, and a howling throng rushed with one accord into the noisome cloud, fighting and quarrelling for bits of bronze and stone, and a man near me drew back, half stifled for an instant, saying, with disgust, "see what a stench the empire has!" the statue had fallen beyond the heap, and, having smashed the pavement into splinters, lay a wreck, with one arm broken and the head severed from the body, while women kicked and spat upon it, waving their arms wildly, and shouting, "_vive la république!_" "_vive la commune!_" all the bands struck on the _marseillaise_ in different keys, a few people crowded on the remnants of the pedestal waving red flags and shrieking in their excitement, and a sergeant who endeavoured to unburden himself of an oration was speedily gagged and hustled down to make way for the great "bergeret _lui-même_," who, in all the glory of a red scarf and tassels, waved his hat and struggled to be heard above the general hubbud of music, voices, and battering of bronze. "citizens," he said, "the th of floréal will be memorable in our history. thus we triumph over military despotism, that bloody negation of the rights of man. the first empire placed the collar of servitude about our necks--it began and ended in carnage--and left us a legacy of a second empire, which was finally to end in the disgrace of sedan." much more he said, but his voice was drowned in the continued hammering of metal, while our attention was distracted by peremptory orders to "move on." such an order at such a moment was particularly exasperating, and led to many little tussles with citizens, who refused to consider this a pleasant opening to the era of liberty, an exasperation very considerably increased at the different exits from the square by an uncompromising search into the contents of pockets, and a consequent disgorging of trophies and remembrances. a fight was going on meantime in the rue de la paix between a company of marines and the multitude of people gathered in the street, who struggled and fought with an energy worthy of a better cause in hopes of gaining a share in the spoils. as i emerged from the conflict into the comparative peace and coolness of the boulevard, i was stopped by a procession--two battalions of national guards returning much shorn of numbers, from the bois de boulogne, bringing with them in a furniture waggon a portion of their dead, among whom was their colonel, whose feet projected from under the flapping awning of the cart. an order of the day of marshal mac-mahon has been published in which he announces the demolition of the vendôme column. he says:-- "the foreigner respected it; the commune of paris has overthrown it. men calling themselves frenchmen have dared to destroy, under the eyes of the germans, who saw the deed, this witness of the victories of our fathers against europe in coalition. the commune hopes thus to efface the memory of the military virtues of which the column was the glorious symbol. soldiers! if the recollections which the column commemorated are no longer graven upon brass, they will remain in our hearts. inspired by them, we know how to give france another proof of bravery, devotion, and patriotism." may th. m. rochefort. never have i witnessed a scene of greater excitement than the entry of rochefort into versailles as a prisoner to-day. he was brought in by the st. germain road, and was seated in a family omnibus drawn by two horses. first came a squadron of gendarmes, then the omnibus, surrounded by chasseurs d'afrique, and lastly a squadron of the same corps. in the vehicle with rochefort were his secretary, mouriot, and four police agents dressed in plain clothes. outside the omnibus were an officer of the gendarmerie in uniform and two or three _sergents-de-ville_ not in uniform. rochefort's moustache had disappeared. he had himself shaved closely before setting out from paris in order to disguise himself, but there was no mistaking him. it was half-past o'clock in the afternoon when the _cortège_, arriving at the end of the boulevard du roi, entered the rue des réservoirs. every one ran into the street, and shouts of execration were raised on all sides. it was no mere demonstration of a mob. the citizens of all classes joined in it. one man ventured to cry "vive rochefort!" he was kicked by several persons who happened to be near him, and was saved from further violence only by arrest at the hands of the _sergents-de-ville_. along the rue des réservoirs, the rue de la pompe, the place hoche, the rue de hoche, and the avenue st. cloud rochefort was greeted with incessant shouts of "_À bas l'assassin; à pied le brigand; à mort_!" the people wanted to have him out of the omnibus, and it was with difficulty the cavalry prevented them from dragging him out and inflicting summary execution. the cavalcade was obliged to go at a slow pace, but finally he was safely lodged in gaol. i believe that but for the precautions taken by the government he would have been killed before he had got near it. the demand to have an example made of him, and the dissatisfaction at seeing him brought to prison in a carriage, were loud and general. there was a tremendous fire against the bastions this morning at o'clock, and a strong fire has been maintained all day. the fire of the insurgents is much weaker than it was yesterday and the day before, except at vaugirard, and from there to montrouge, where mitrailleuses and musketry were brought into requisition. up to o'clock this afternoon auteuil still shelled. from o'clock i have observed a very large number of the versailles troops under arms at a short distance from the point du jour, and a considerable body of the insurgents watching them from near the vaugirard gate. at o'clock the white flag was displayed at the porte d'auteuil. orders have been given for the troops to march onward and occupy it. m. thiers has issued a circular, dated noon to-day, in which he says:-- "several prefects having demanded that news should be published, the following answer has been sent to them:--those persons who are uneasy are greatly mistaken. our troops are working at the approaches, and at the moment of writing the breaching batteries continue their fire upon the walls. never have we been so near the end. the members of the commune are busy making their escape." the breaching batteries are still keeping up a very heavy fire against the _enceinte_. m. thiers has sent a despatch to the prefects announcing that the gate of st. cloud was forced down by the fire of the versailles guns, and general douai then rushed with his men into the interior. the troops under generals ladmirault and glinchamps were at once set in motion to follow them. the versailles troops entered paris at o'clock this afternoon at two different points--namely, by the st. cloud gate at point du jour, and by the gate of montrouge. the ramparts were abandonned by the insurgents. * * * * * the capture of paris. may st.--and d. the great event of yesterday came upon every one by surprise. it had been expected, but not for yesterday. even the marshal commanding-in-chief looked onward to at least six more days of sapping and mounting of batteries and actual breaching before his army would be able to make the final movement. a certain number of the troops were inside the _enceinte_ before any one but themselves knew of it, and auteuil and the point du jour were shelled for nearly two hours after they had fallen into possession of the forces of versailles. one man, m. clément, an officer of engineers, played a prominent part in this historical affair. soon after midday, proceeding cautiously in advance of a party of his men, who were lying in concealment between the nearest parallel and the porte de st. cloud, he crept up to the bastion and found it and the ramparts adjoining without a single sentinel. keeping near the ground, he waved a white handkerchief; it was seen by the small party of engineers who were lying outside the last parallel, and also by lieutenant trèves, of the french navy. at first the signal was not understood; but m. clément continued to wave the handkerchief violently, and beckon to those who saw him to come on immediately. it was with difficulty men could be collected in the trenches, but about that number advanced and occupied the deserted position. in the meantime the word was passed from post to post in their rear, and a batallion was soon on its way after them. by half-past o'clock dispositions had been effected for occupying both auteuil and the point du jour with a sufficient force, and proceeding to the other gates both right and left. the gates and drawbridge of auteuil had been demolished several days previously, but the insurgents had substituted an enormous barricade, which shut off the iron bridge uniting the railway station with the viaduct. the division of general vergeé marched direct upon auteuil. scarcely had the first column arrived there, when volleys of musketry were opened by the insurgents concealed in houses. a few of the troops were put _hors de combat_ by this fire, but the artillery of the division turned their pieces on the ramparts against the enemy, mitrailleuses were also brought into requisition by the troops, and within an hour the insurgents had fled to a distance. the division of general douai entered by the gate of st. cloud, which is at the point du jour, and occupied the salient between the ramparts and the viaduct. here there was a second bastion of considerable solidity. the soldiers entered the half-ruined barracks and casemates, and made prisoners of a number of insurgents whom they found concealed there. immediate preparations were then made for the advance right and left, but as the enemy was still keeping up a fire from -pounders and mitrailleuses, along the bastions between vaugirard and montrouge, a regular assault of these positions by the division under general cissey was determined upon. i have already announced that it has been successful. the division began to march in by the gates of vaugirard and montrouge. at o'clock this morning la muette was occupied without serious resistance. a division subsequently advanced to passy to join that which had taken la muette. such was the suddenness with which the occupation of the point du jour had been effected that, as i have stated, the firing from the military batteries continued for a considerable time after the first of the troops were in it. it was not till o'clock that the order to cease firing in that direction left the head-quarters. in the meantime, hundreds of people stood on the avenue and terrace of meudon watching the cannonade, and believing that all the posts of the insurgents were still occupied by the enemy. even the officers and men in the batteries did not know why the order to cease firing had been sent round. i have just returned, after having followed in the rear of general vinoy's last column, going to take up positions in the neighbourhood of the trocadéro. i have wandered all over the point du jour, visited auteuil, and have walked along by the bastions between the gate of st. cloud at the point du jour and the gate of auteuil. having watched the other side of the sèvres bridge, i was surprised on passing along the sèvres road to observe that, very little damage had been done to the houses at the end of it near the _enceinte_. one or two bore the marks of shells, but the fact is that nearly all had escaped, and what i saw at the _enceinte_ and within it, shows that the artillery practice of the versailles side had been exceedingly good throughout the bombardment. the people on the sèvres road had kept their shops open amid all the terrible firing. only some two or three houses had been closed. they stood at a dangerous angle to the batteries at meudon. on one of them was chalked "_fermée pour cause du bombardement._" between the last of the houses and the ramparts, and at a distance of not more than yards from the latter, were the newly-cut trenches which the troops had constructed. good gabions protected them in front, and there was a plentiful supply of fascines lying all about. the doors of the porte were no longer to be seen, except in little bits on the roadway. the drawbridge had succumbed bodily, and its place was supplied with some planks. the posthouse was in ruins, and the stone walls on either side between the gates and the parapet of the fortifications had been crumbled into rubbish; the glacis from the point du jour to auteuil had been ploughed up in such a manner that not a yard of it was to be seen without a shell hole. to say that the parapet had been riddled would not be correct. it is smashed here and there, and at intervals everywhere, but in no place between the two gates i am referring to is the earthwork inside the parapet laid bare, nor has a breach, properly so called, been anywhere made. the doors and gate walls of both gates are smashed through, but all along, despite serious disfigurement, the parapet is strong still. to come back to the point du jour--that is as much a ruin as the town of st. cloud. from the gate to the railway station there is not a single habitable house; not three have roofs, and not one has its windows and walls intact. every lamppost has been scattered about the road in small pieces, and a stranger who had not heard of the bombardment might be pardoned for supposing that the streets had been macadamized with the fragments of shells. strange to say, the staircase leading from the booking office of the railway station to the line over head is uninjured, or nearly so, and by its means i was enabled to ascend and walk through that viaduct which i have been looking at from a distance as shells have been battering it for the last six weeks. it is much knocked about, and so is the bridge underneath it, which in a series of arches spans the river, but both will be serviceable still after some repair. huge stones, displaced from their settings and broken into small pieces, lie scattered on the bridge and its approaches. from the viaduct i could see an immense conflagration in the neighbourhood of the champ de mars, and a combat between the troops and the insurgents was going on. in the place de la concorde and the rue de rivoli, all down to the trocadéro, reserves were in waiting with their chassepots stacked on each side of the road, but there was no fighting along the quays. general vinoy had established himself in his new head-quarters, and the , or , men already in the heart of the city are believed to be quite sufficient to dispose of the last desperadoes of the commune. the sounds of battle we heard from more than one point, and yet every one spoke of the insurrection as in its last agonies. men and women once more held up their heads and snapped their fingers at delescluze, dombrowski, and the commune, but there was sad evidence all around us of what this rebellion had done. there in the little cemetery behind the ramparts lay the unburied and mangled remains of national guards who had been killed at the batteries just above. the whole place was a picture of ruin and desolation. passing out of the point du jour by the opining where the porte de st. cloud had stood, whole and entire, even after the prussian bombardment, but where there is not a vestige of it bigger than a splinter now, i walked along the glacis in the direction of auteuil. i was surprised to find that, at a distance of less than an eighth of a mile from the latter place, the military had fixed their gabions, sapped right up the glacis, and to within four or five yards of the fosse. the trenches had been cut across the bois de boulogne. nothing, however, like enough of the parapet and the earthwork above had been thrown down to fill up the fosse. indeed, no effort whatever had been made in the way of filling up, except at either side of the two portes, so that an assault at any other than these points would have been a very difficult undertaking. on the glacis i saw the dead and decomposed body of a man not in uniform. he lay on his side, with one hand under his head and the other raised in the air. a gentleman who lives close by stated that the deceased, with two or three other men, had come out to fire stray shots at the soldiers in the trenches. as he lay there to-day i perceived that he had been pierced by several rifle balls. the gates at auteuil have disappeared as completely as those at point du jour, and at the railway station behind the iron railway bridge over the road all the habitations are, so to speak, in a heap. the french term "_débris_" best describes what is left of auteuil and its surroundings. stone, mortar, iron bridge metal, lamp posts, trees, are smashed, pounded, and scattered. no one who visited auteuil in happier times would recognize even the spot on which it stood. as specimens of successful bombardment the point du jour and the three barracks behind the _enceinte_ that lie between them may be cited among the most complete that even modern artillery has succeeded in producing. a great explosion, followed by a conflagration, occurred at half-past at the staff quarters near the esplanade of the invalides. paris is now completely surrounded. it is asserted that dombrowski is hemmed in at ouen. the insurgents have established a battery upon the terrace of the garden of the tuileries, the fire of which sweeps over the champs elysées; but this position has been turned by general clinchamp, and there is reason to hope that the resistance will not be of long duration. the versailles troops have already captured from , to , prisoners. fighting has been going on all this morning, the cannonade and musketry fire being incessant. there is a large fire in the neighbourhood of the st. lazare railway station, and a dense cloud of smoke hangs over the heights of montmartre. not only have the germans completely isolated paris, but all communication between versailles and st. denis is also cut off. trains arriving from the north no longer enter paris, but stop at st. denis. it is rumoured that the prussians occupy fort vincennes. the strictest orders have been given to the german outposts to drive back all insurgents, and the advanced corps have been doubled tonight to prevent any from breaking through the circle of investment north of paris. a wounded insurgent general attempted to pass the prussian outposts, but was forced to retrace his steps. may the d. it may be desirable that i should add some particulars to the account i have already given of the way in which the troops moved from the _enceinte_ to the different positions they occupied in paris last night. the first column, proceeding between the railway and the fortifications, made its way from auteuil to la muette; the second, starting from auteuil, threw down a barricade which had been erected behind the railway arch, and, taking the rue raynouard and the rue franklin, proceeded by the high ground to the trocadéro. this march was not a rapid one, because at every step precautions had to be taken against snares that might have been laid by the insurgents. the artillerymen and the engineers entered the houses on the terraces and examined the powder stores in the rue beethoven in order to ensure the column against an explosion. the third column, setting out from the point du jour, marched along the quays to the bridge of jéna. at this point there was a junction of the three columns, and a line of occupation from passy to the river side at that bridge was established. the fourth column crossed the river at the point du jour, and marched along the quay of grenelle. upon entering the champs de mars they found that the insurgents were encamped in considerable force there. skirmishers were thrown out, and, opening fire, they drove out the enemy without any serious difficulty, although the latter had a park of artillery. the insurgents showed fight for some time, and a struggle was maintained on the right of the champs de mars, where the temporary wooden barracks have been erected. the insurgents formed in a sort of hollow square at the four sides of the portion of the ground which for some time has been covered with artillery _caissons_, and responded to the attack upon them by a vigorous fire, but being opposed on two sides by an overwhelming force, they gave way, without any very great loss on either side. the tricolour was planted on the pavilion d'École. from the arc de triomphe there was no fighting down the champs Élysées, but there was a struggle at the palais de l'industrie before the troops obtained possession of that building. under the orders of certain members of the commune, the insurgents resisted with a musketry fire. montmartre kept firing in the direction of the trocadéro throughout the day. its fire did not kill or wound many men, but it retarded the advance of the troops towards the heart of the city. the fire which i mentioned yesterday as having been seen by me from the viaduct of the point du jour was caused by the blowing up of the riding school of the École d'etat major, which was filled with cartridges. dombrowski has not been taken. he escaped from la muette when the troops entered, leaving behind him the silver service which was in the room where he had been about to sit down to dinner. assy, was taken on the quai de billy. montmartre has been carried after a rather sharp struggle. the tricolour now waves over the buttes. for some hours i witnessed the fighting to day. i found that early this morning all the important positions of montmartre had been taken by the two corps d'armée of generals douai and ladmirault. the latter general had occupied the station of st. ouen and the place of clichy, and he had advanced to montmartre by an external movement, keeping for some distance outside the ramparts. at the same time general douai made a direct movement from inside the city by the parc de monceaux. in this manner montmartre had been almost entirely surrounded. there was a hard contest, but the troops succeeded in entering the buttes. a large number of the insurgents were killed in the action, and about , were made prisoners. the number of cannon and mitrailleuses taken was very considerable, amounting to some hundreds. belleville is still in the hands of the insurgents, as are also the hôtel de ville and the tuileries. the red flag was floating on them at half-past o'clock. severe fighting was going on across the place de la concorde between the insurgents occupying the mansion of the ministry of marine, at the corner of the rue royale, and the troops on the other side of the river in the palace of the corps législatif. a gunboat which the insurgents had under the pont royal, close to the tuileries, was firing constantly. the insurgents in the rue de rivoli and the garden of the tuileries were using mitrailleuses and rifles, and the troops along the boulevard at the edge of the place des invalides, close to the river, were attacking them with four-pounder guns. fort vanves was firing on the insurgent positions in the neighbourhood of montrouge and the faubourg st. germain, and the federalists were shelling vanves from forts montrouge and bicêtre. there was musketry skirmishing at various points in the faubourg st. germain. the insurgents occupy houses, from which they keep up a rapid fire to impede the march of general cissey's troops. among the prisoners taken to-day many have been recognized as old reds who were actively engaged in the insurrection of june, . a movement has been ordered which will result in completely shutting in the insurgents within a circle formed by the whole army of paris. the madeleine is in the hands of the military. several fires have broken out in the city. colonel piquemalle, chief of the staff of general vergé, was killed to-day. the following circular despatch was yesterday forwarded to the prefects of the several departments. "the tricolour flag waves over the buttes-montmartre and the northern railway station. these decisive points were carried by the troops of generals ladmirault and clinchant, who captured between , and , prisoners. general douai has taken the church of the trinity, and is marching upon the mairie in the rue drouot. "generals cissey and vinoy are advancing towards the hôtel-de-ville and the tuileries. may th. "the generals, desiring to treat the city with lenity, withheld any attack upon public monuments in which the insurgents had taken up positions. this morning they carried the place de la concorde. the ministry of finances, the hôtel of the conseil d'etat, the palace of the légion of honour, and the palace of the tuileries were burnt by the insurgents. when the troops gained possession of the tuileries, it was but a mass of smouldering ashes. the louvre will be saved. the hôtel de ville is in flames. i am convinced that the insurrection will be completely conquered by this evening at the latest. no one could have prevented the crime of these wicked wretches. they have made use of petroleum for their incendiary purposes, and have sent petroleum bombs against the soldiers. what remedy can be applied? the best of the generals of the army have shown an amount of talent and valour which has excited the admiration of foreigners. i have just returned from witnessing one of the saddest sights that has occurred in the world's history. i announced that the insurgents had set fire to several of the public buildings of paris, the royal and historical tuileries included. flames and bombshells are fast reducing the magnificent city to a huge and shapeless ruin. its architectural glories are rapidly passing away in smoke and flame, such as have never been witnessed since the burning of moscow, and amid a roar of cannon, a screaming of mitrailleuses, a bursting of projectiles, and a horrid rattle of musketry from different quarters which are appalling. a more lovely day it would be impossible to imagine, a sky of unusual brightness, blue as the clearest ever seen, a sun of surpassing brilliancy even for paris, scarcely a breath of wind to ruffle the seine. such of the great buildings as the spreading conflagration has not reached stand in the clearest relief as they are seen for probably the last time; but in a dozen spots, at both sides of the bridges, sheets of flame and awful volumes of smoke rise to the sky and positively obscure the light of the sun. i am making these notes on the trocadéro. close and immediately opposite to me is the invalides, with its gilded dome shining brightly as ever. the wide esplanade of the École militaire, almost immediately underneath it, is nearly covered with armed men, cannon, and horses. shells from the positions of general cissey, at montrouge, are every minute falling close to the lofty dome of the panthéon. it and the fine building of val de grace, near it, seem certain to be destroyed by missiles before the incendiary fire reaches them. there is a dense smoke close to st. sulpice, and now flame rises amid the smoke, and the two towers of the church are illuminated as no electric light could illuminate them. some large building is on fire there. every one asks which it is; but no one can approach that quarter to put the matter beyond doubt. burnt leaves of books are flying towards us, and the prevailing opinion is that the sorbonne and its library are being consumed. there are a dozen other fires between that and the river. no one doubts that the palais de justice is sharing the fate of the tuileries and the louvres. the château of the tuileries has all but disappeared. the centre cupola has fallen in, and so has the roof along the entire length of the building. some of the lower stories yet burn, for fire and smoke are rushing fiercely from the openings where up to this morning there were window-frames and windows. the louvre is not yet wholly gone, and perhaps the fire will not reach all its courts. as well as we can make out through the flame and smoke rushing across the gardens of the tuileries, the fire has reached the palais royal. every one is now crying out, "the palais royal burns!" and we ascertain that it does. we cannot see notre dame or the hôtel dieu. it is probable that both are fast becoming ashes. not an instant passes without an explosion. stones and timber and iron are flying high into the air, and falling to the earth with horrible crashes. the very trees are on fire. they are crackling, and their leaves and branches are like tinder. the buildings in the place de la concorde reflect the flames, and every stone in them is like bright gold. montmartre is still outside the circle of the flames; but the little wind that is blowing carries the smoke up to it, and in the clear heavens it rises black as milton's pandemonium. the new opera house is as yet uninjured; but the smoke encircles it, and it will be next to a miracle if it escapes. we see clearly now that the palais de justice, the ste. chapelle, the prefecture of police, and the hôtel de ville are all blazing without a possibility existing of any portion of any one of them being saved from the general wreck and ruin. the military are as far as the pont neuf on the left bank of the river, and just beyond the hôtel de ville on the right. now, at o'clock, it is all but certain that when this fire is extinguished scarcely one of the great monuments of paris will have escaped entire destruction. the barricade of the insurgents at the end of the rue royale was taken last night by a movement in which the troops made their way from house to house, starting from the rue boissy d'anglas, to the rue faubourg st. honoré. the fighting in the rue faubourg st. honoré and the avenue marigny was very severe. six shells fell and exploded in the grounds of the british embassy. the two houses which formed the angles at the corners of the rue royale and the rue faubourg st. honoré were burnt to the ground. the place vendôme was taken by the troops. in the faubourg st. germain during the whole night an energetic combat was raging between the insurgents and the men of general cissey's division. the versailles batteries are firing furiously against the quarters which still hold out. by the aid of the telescope the horrible fact is disclosed of numerous dead and wounded left lying about the streets without any succour whatever. may th. i have been over a large portion of the city to-day and i am happy to say that, though large fires are still raging, the conflagration is not spreading to the extent that had been apprehended. the destruction done by the street fighting and the desolation which prevails in the principal boulevards and other leading thoroughfares exceed all i could have imagined from a more distant view. i went to the porte de la muette, and, getting round to the left, approached the arc de triomphe from the avenue de l'impératrice. all along i found trees, lamp-posts, and the façades of houses smashed by shells. turning off by the rue de morny, i worked my way round to the boulevard haussmann. it was impossible to proceed along by the pavement, as on either side at intervals of a few feet felled trees and thick branches had been laid down by the insurgents to obstruct the passage of the troops. on monday last the federals had occupied the houses, and fired from the corridors. all the fronts of the houses were disfigured by rifle balls, the corridors were broken, and the handsome stone cornices very much battered. the beautiful columns of the madeleine are sadly injured, the fluted edges having been in many places shot away. the two houses in the rue royale, at the corner of the rue faubourg st. honoré, were blazing still, and the smoke and ashes that flew from them were stifling the pompiers, who were working energetically there and at other points; some of their corps were shot. it had been discovered that they, instead of throwing water on the fires they were called upon to extinguish, were actually pumping petroleum into the flames, and so adding to their fury. when this was detected the guilty firemen were surrounded by a body of cavalry, conducted into the parc de monceaux, and there shot. i could count the number of people i met along the boulevards, so few were those who ventured to walk about. the fears of petroleum and explosions are universal. the inhabitants had either stopped up, or were engaged in stopping up, every chink through which petroleum might be thrown into their houses. their cellar lights, their ventilators, and their gratings were being made impervious by sand, mortar, and other materials. this precaution was taken because women and children partisans of the commune, have in numerous instances been detected throwing petroleum into houses. not a shop was entirely open, and those that opened only doors were inferior restaurants and wine houses. around the railing in the place vendôme troopers' horses were tied. the bronze figure of the emperor was on its back, the shattered and prostrate column lay about in fragments. on visiting the neighbourhood of montmartre, and ascending an observatory there i found there was a cannon and musketry fire going on in the district of belleville and the buttes de chaumont. the insurgents had not been dislodged, and as the troops have undergone much fatigue since monday a regular attack on belleville will not be made till to-morrow morning. general clinchant will bring his forces against it in the rear, and general vinoy's soldiers will advance upon it from the boulevards. on coming round by the quay to the place de la concorde i found that all the statues of the french cities are injured, and some very considerably. of several the arms and heads are off. the splendid fountains in the centre of the place are dreadfully smashed. the stone balustrade is badly broken in a hundred places. the lamp posts are all down, and this once charming spot presents a most melancholy appearance. i found a crowd looking over the wall of the wharf beside the bridge. i looked over and found a number of labourers digging a huge square grave in which to bury some insurgents, who lay mangled and dead along the wall. the hôtel de ville is still smoking. so are the ashes of the tuileries. happily not very much of the louvre is destroyed, and at the palais royal the fire was extinguished when only a portion of that building had been consumed. the prefecture of police is consumed, but the palais de justice is not, and the sainte chapelle has suffered but little injury. the greatest conflagration of to-day was that at the grenier d'abondance. the flames and smoke from it rose high over the city. there were other fires, but, happily, not in the centre of the city. i could not learn in what particular buildings they were rising, but i believe that a frightful fire is raging at the entrepot des vins, on the quai st. bernard. m. thiers has addressed the following circular to the departements:-- "we are masters of paris, with the exception of a very small portion, which will be occupied this morning. the tuileries are in ashes, the louvre is saved. a portion of the ministry of finance along the rue de rivoli, the palais d'orsay, where the council of state holds its sittings, and the court of accounts have been burnt. such is the condition in which paris is delivered to us by the wretches who oppressed it. we have already in our hands , prisoners, and shall certainly have from , to , . the soil of paris is strewn with corpses of the insurgents. the frightful spectacle will, it is hoped, serve as a lesson to those insensate men who dared to declare themselves partisans of the commune. justice will soon be satisfied. the human conscience is indignant at the monstrous acts which france and the world have now witnessed. the army has behaved admirably. we are happy in the midst of our misfortune to be able to announce that, thanks to the wisdom of our generals, it has suffered very small losses." the troops have captured the hôtel de ville, and have occupied fort montrouge. the military operations are being actively and energetically carried on by the three corps which are now in paris. it is hoped that they will be in possession of the whole of the capital by this evening. it is asserted that general vinoy has been appointed governor of paris. the newspapers state that delescluze, cluseret, félix pyat, and ranvier have been made prisoners, but the news is not officially confirmed. firemen have been summoned by telegraph from all the districts around paris. fort bicêtre has been occupied by the troops. it is stated that raoul rigault was shot this morning. a dense cloud of smoke still hangs over paris, which gives rise to fears of fresh conflagrations. since noon to-day a south-easterly wind has arisen, causing the conflagration to extend in the direction of the bastille, and threatening the city with destruction. the versailles batteries are firing vigorously upon belleville. the fires are apparently slackening. the wind fortunately veered round to the west at o'clock this evening, and this change was followed by a calm, which has since continued. the sky is still lurid from the reflection of the flames, and the _débris_ from the burning buildings fall at distances of kilomètres. it is said that the mazas prison is burnt to ashes, and fears are entertained for the safety of the archbishop, who was incarcerated there. it is reported that considerable bodies of insurgents attempted to escape from paris in the direction of aubervilliers and romainville, but they were driven back. the cannonading from the versailles batteries at montmartre against belleville and chaumont continues. may th. the attack on belleville was made this morning soon after daybreak. general clinchant approached it from the ramparts, and general bruat's division marched on it in front from the direction of the rue de paris. the troops had to attack seven barricades successively. when they had made a partial progress the insurgents, seeing defeat inevitable, offered to surrender on condition that their lives should be spared. this was refused, and the struggle continued till the military succeeded. a large number of the insurgents were shot. many cannon and red flags were captured. last night a large group of the insurgents imprisoned in the docks of satory, attempted a rising. the battalion in charge fired, and a number of the prisoners were shot dead. the portion of the palais royal consumed by the fire on wednesday is the block of buildings in which prince napoleon resided. the library of the louvre has been destroyed. the fire was arrested at the portion of the building occupied by the gendarmerie. between the louvre and the hôtel de ville several shops and private houses have been reduced to ashes. the théâtre lyrique is burnt down. of the hôtel de ville nothing remains but some walls. the hotel of the ministry of finance and that of the cour des comptes are both destroyed. one of the towers of the conciergerie, the prefecture of police, and a portion of the palais de justice are burnt. the grenier d'abonbance has disappeared, after being in flames for many hours yesterday. a shell charged with petroleum struck and set on fire the turret of the church of st. eustache. this part of the building crumbled away; but the church itself was saved. in the rue royale eight houses have been entirely, and two partially, consumed by the fire which broke out at the corners of the rue faubourg st. honoré. in the latter street four houses have been consumed. the upper story of the british embassy has been much injured by shells. several women have been arrested while in the act of firing on the troops, and it is said that one _cantinière_ caused the death of ten soldiers by putting poison in their wine. some of the women whom i have seen marched from paris as prisoners are dressed in the uniform of national guards. not a few of the female prisoners are very furious-looking. several attempts at escape and assassination have been made by prisoners. they are marched between a double line of cavalry, each of the latter holding a revolver in his hand, with his finger on the trigger. women found throwing petroleum into houses have been shot on the spot. since monday there has been a very large number of summary executions in the streets of paris. at no. , rue oudinot, where les ambulances de la presse have their head-quarters, the bodies of persons thus despatched are now deposited. on one, which is dressed in the uniform of a national guard, bank notes to the amount of , f. were found. viard, a member of the commune, was arrested in the rue de l'université yesterday. gustave courbet, an artist of celebrity, and also a member of the commune, has died at satory of poison, supposed to have been administered by himself. he expired in great agony. he it was who promoted the idea of destroying the column in the place vendôme. raoul rigault, procureur de la commune, has been shot. napoléon gaillard, director of the barricades, was insubordinate at satory, and was shot by the side of the fosse there. it is reported that cluseret, amouroux, and clément, all members of the commune, have been arrested. fort d'ivry has been evacuated by the insurgents. they blew it up on leaving, and the troops have taken possession of it. six thousand insurgents surrendered at discretion this morning at the barrière d'italie. the affair of belleville is not yet concluded. there is fighting still. a great fire is raging in the direction buttes de chaumont. may th. if it is difficult to realize the present condition of paris, it is still more difficult to describe it. we creep timidly about the streets, haunted by the constant dread, either of being arrested as belonging to the commune, pressed into a _chaîne_, or struck by the fragment of some chance shell, and oppressed ever by the scenes of destruction and desolation that surround us; the whole forming a combination which produces a sensation more nearly allied to nightmare than to any psychological experience with which i am familiar, but yet requiring some new word to define it. the angry ring of the volleys of execution; the strings of men and women hurried off to their doom; the curses of an infuriated populace; the brutal violence of an exasperated soldiery, are sights and sounds calculated to produce a strange and powerful effect on the mind. yesterday afternoon i drove over as much of the city already in the occupation of the versaillists as was consistent with safety. following the boulevard clichy in order to avoid the _chaînes_ in the neighbourhood of the madeleine, i passed the scenes of terrible fighting. the place clichy was a mass of barricades and shattered houses, the _façades_ marked with bullets as if pitted with the smallpox, the windows smashed, and the evidences of a fearful struggle visible everywhere. it seemed as if the ground had been disputed here house by house; but from all i can learn of the resistance, the actual defenders of the barricades, though resolute men, were few in number. one of the most marked characteristics of this fighting has been the cowardice of the many as compared with the courage and resolution of the few; some of the barricades were abandoned by their defenders by hundreds, only ten or a dozen remaining to the last, and holding their ground until they were all killed or wounded. passing up the rue lafayette, i reached the head quarters of the fifth corps, where, happening to know an officer, i was present at the examination of some prisoners who were brought in, as every soldier who thinks he has good ground for suspicion can arrest men or women, and drag them to the divisional tribunal. they are captured in shoals. one lame man with a villanous countenance, who was brought in while i was there, was accused of being a _chef de barricade_, and having been taken in the act. he was put through a short sharp fire of cross-examination, his pockets emptied and his clothes felt, and he was then hurried off to take his place in the ranks of the condemned ones that are forwarded to versailles. instant execution is only ordered in the more extreme cases, excepting where the fighting is actually going on, and then the troops give very little quarter. the bitterness of the belligerents against each other is of a far more intense and sanguinary kind than that which ordinarily exists between combatants. the soldiery, looking at the pedestal on the place vendôme and at the numerous public buildings which in some form or other are associated with their military history, now all smoking ruins, can scarcely contain their rage, and not unnaturally vent it with ferocity on an enemy which deliberately planned the destruction of paris as the price of victory to the conquerors, and who are even yet endeavouring to carry out their diabolical design of destroying the houses still uninjured by secretly introducing petroleum balls and fusées into the cellars. i saw a soldier suddenly seize a man as he was apparently harmlessly walking along the street; his pockets were emptied and found to contain cartridges and combustible balls of various sizes. another soldier and a sailor rushed to the spot; the latter drew his revolver, and i expected would have shot the man then and there, but he was satisfied on seeing his comrade prick him sharply with his bayonet. the two soldiers then hurried the culprit off in front of them cuffing him occasionally on the head, and accelerating his progress with the points of their bayonets while they cursed him heartily. a small crowd eagerly followed to see his fate, which they loudly hoped would be instant execution; and, looking at the detestable nature of the contents of his pockets and of his intentions, one could scarcely blame either his captors or their sympathizers if they called for vengeance, and long ere this, he has probably ceased to exist. one woman was caught with these fire balls on two occasions, having succeeded once in escaping. as a general rule, the hand-dog look of the prisoners is their most striking characteristic. i passed one gang of about yesterday, and tried in vain, as i walked by their side, to catch a man's eye, or even to see a face turned fairly up to the light of day. with heads bare, and eyes steadily fixed on the ground, they passed between rows of people, who howled and hooted at them, and it was not till i reached the head of the short column that i observed a slender figure walking alone in the costume of the national guard, with long, fair hair floating over the shoulders, a bright blue eye, and a handsome, bold, young face that seemed to know neither shame nor fear. when the female spectators detected at a glance that this seeming young national guardsman was a woman, their indignation found vent in strong language, for the torrent of execration seems to flow more freely from feminine lips when the object is a woman than if it be one of the opposite sex; but the only response of the victim was to glare right and left with heightened colour and flashing eyes, in marked contrast to the cowardly crew that followed her. if the french nation were composed only of french women what a terrible nation it would be! the aspect of the boulevards is the strangest sight imaginable. i followed them from the porte st. martin to the rue de la paix. there was fighting at the château d'eau, and without either a pass or an ambulance _brassard_ a nearer approach to the scene of action was undesirable; indeed, until recently, the shells had been bursting here in every direction, and their holes might be seen in the centre of those pavements heretofore sacred to the _flâneurs_ of paris. strewn over the streets were branches of trees; and fragments of masonry that had been knocked from the houses, bricks and mortar, torn proclamations, shreds of clothings half concealing bloodstains, were now the interesting and leading features of that fashionable resort; foot passengers were few and far between, the shops and _cafés_ hermetically sealed, excepting where bullets had made air holes, and during my whole afternoon's promenade i only met three other carriages besides my own. the place de l'opéra was a camping ground of artillery, the place vendôme a confusion of barricades, guarded by sentries and the rue royale a mass of _débris_. looked at from the madeleine the desolation and ruin of that handsome street were lamentable to behold. the place de la concorde was a desert, and in the midst of it lay the statue of lille with the head off. the last time i had looked on that face it was covered with crape, in mourning for the entry of the prussians. near the bridge were corpses of insurgents, laid out in a row, waiting to be buried under the neighbouring paving stones. to the right the skeleton of the tuileries reared its gaunt shell, the framework of the lofty wing next the seine still standing; but the whole of the roof of the central building was gone, and daylight visible through all the windows right into the place de carrousel. general mac-mahon's head-quarters were at the affaires etrangères, which were intact. after a visit there, i passed the corps législatif, also uninjured by fire, but much marked by shot and shell, and so along the quais the whole way to the mint, at which point general vinoy had established his head-quarters. at the corner of the rue du bac the destruction was something appalling. the rue du bac is an impassable mound of ruins, or feet high, completely across the street as far as i could see. the légion d'honneur, the cour des comptes, and conseil d'etat were still smoking, but there was nothing left of them but the blackened shells of their noble _façades_ to show how handsome they had once been. at this point, in whichever direction one looked, the same awful devastation met the eye--to the left the smouldering tuileries, to the right, the long line of ruin where the fire had swept through the magnificent palaces on the quai, and overhead again to-day a cloud of smoke, more black and abundant even than yesterday, incessantly rolling its dense volumes from behind notre-dame, whose two towers were happily standing uninjured. this fire issued from the grenier d'abondance and other buildings in the neighbourhood of the jardin des plantes. in another direction the arsenal was also burning. one marked result of a high state of civilization is, that it has furnished improved facilities for incendiarism, which seem to have been developed even more completely than the means of counteracting them. along the quais under the trees, cavalry horses were picketed, and a force was about to leave general vinoy's head-quarters just as i reached it, to support an attack which was even then being made upon the place de la bastille, where the insurgents were still holding out. on the opposite side of the river were the smoking ruins of the théâtre châtelet and the hôtel de ville. passing through the place du carrousel into the rue de rivoli, i had a more complete view of the entire destruction which has overtaken the tuileries and some of the adjoining buildings. the lower end of the rue de rivoli towards the faubourg st. antoine was densely crowded with troops, and passage in that direction was interdicted, while at the other end, near the place de la concorde, there was a _chaîne_; so i struck once more across to the boulevards, past the palais royal, a large part of which is burnt, wearied and sickened with the waste of ruins through which i had passed, and meeting with only one incident, when i found myself in the midst of a panic-stricken throng all running away from a series of cracker-like explosions, which turned out to be cartridges that from some unexplained cause had begun to go off spontaneously under our feet. to-day the firing is more distant and less audible. the insurgents are still holding the heights of belleville and père-lachaise. in the jardin des plantes the loss of the troops was heavy, but up to this time they have won their ground with a less loss than could have been anticipated, and the fearful mortality of generals which characterized the last "_campagne parisienne_" has happily not been repeated upon this occasion. so far, no general has been either killed or wounded. the affair of belleville is not yet concluded. there is fighting still. a great fire is raging in the direction of the buttes de chaumont. loud reports have been heard within the walls of mazas, and it is supposed that the hostages have been massacred. courbet, amouroux, gambon, and valles have been executed. the night is quiet. shells have fallen on the boulevard ménilmontant. great hopes are entertained that the rains will check the conflagration. a few shells have fallen in the rue de la paix. constant arrests or executions are being made of women who throw incendiary matter down the cellar gratings. many bodies have been exhumed from under shattered houses, some with large sums of money on them. news reaches us that troops of the line have occupied ménilmontant and the cemetery of père-lachaise. the federals had declared père-lachaise to be their last stronghold, and that they were prepared to defend it tomb by tomb. the national guard will be dissolved to-morrow. upwards of , prisoners were marched up the boulevard this morning, escorted by mounted hussars. delescluze has been taken at villiers le bel. general eudes and ranvier have also been taken. the public buildings destroyed up to the present time are the tuileries, the palais royal, the ministry of finance, the cour des comptes, the prefecture of police, the palace of the légion of honour, the caisse des dépôts, graineterie, and the garde meuble. the panthéon was saved by a rush of marines, who cut a slow match before it reached the powder barrels in the crypt. the châtelet, lyrique, and porte st. martin théâtres have been burnt, also the great barracks of the rue des célestins. part of the roof of st. eustache has fallen in. the fighting still continues round the château d'eau. there will be no difficulty, however, in disarming the national guard. valles fought for his life, and received a sabre cut across the face and several bullets before he finally fell close to the tour st. jacques. rows of bodies line the quays awaiting burial where they fell. the individuals arrested will be tried by court-martial at versailles. the court-martial will commence its sittings on monday. many women and children have been executed around the luxembourg, having been convicted of firing on soldiers. fort bicêtre is still in federal hands, but the garrison is said to have exhausted its ammunition. bergeret gave the order for burning the tuileries. general douai, by promptness of action, prevented the fire spreading to the louvre. humour has it that delescluze and pyat, disguised as beggars, were recognized in the rue du petit carreau, and shot. thirteen women have just been executed after being publicly disgraced in the place vendôme. they were caught in the act of spreading petroleum. such papers as have appeared announce the execution of the archbishop of paris and the curé of the madeleine. the column vendôme is to be rebuilt. with an english friend i this morning made my way along the line of boulevards running east of the madeleine. a marvellous change had come over them since yesterday; they were crowded with troops of the line and civilians fraternizing with them, and wandering about to look for the traces of the recent conflict without danger of being shot from windows or being pressed into the service of the communists to build or fight behind a barricade. it was our plan to make for the hôtel de ville, and we took the bourse in our way. everything was so quiet that we half hoped the fighting in that part of paris at any rate was over, and we were in consequence greatly astonished to hear near us the furious beating of the _rappel_, as regulars were all about. we thought for a moment a hot conflict was at hand, but we had forgotten, not unnaturally, considering how long it is since we had seen or heard of them, the party of order. it was they who were rallying valiantly at the bourse round the new tricolour banner and a few gentlemen who wore tricolour _brassards_ or pretty bunches of tricolour riband, and whose general tidiness and freshness contrasted strikingly with the grimy, business-like look of the real soldiers close by. these were streaming into the place des victoires, close by, receiving cheers and congratulations from the people about in the square or at the windows, who seemed delighted to see them. the men were in capital spirits, and told us they were carrying everything before them, that the insurgents fought often well enough so far as mere pluck went, but were everywhere outmanoeuvred, and at nearly every barricade found themselves taken at once in front, flank, and rear. this exactly tallied with what we had already heard and seen. an officer told his men to keep a sharp look out on the windows of the houses about, lest they should be surprised by a fusillade. "no fear of that," said a _bourgeois_; "not a gun will be fired at you in this quarter." this looked peaceful enough, and we were considerably astonished therefore as we went up a street a little further on, the rue d'aboukir, i think, to find ourselves facing a barricade about yards off, manned, and with a flag floating over it that looked very red. we stared hard and long, but the flag was unmistakably red, and therefore, supposing any regulars to advance, we were directly between two fires. we accordingly turned into a side street and waited patiently, as it seemed impossible that regulars and reds so near each other should escape collision. the regulars were sure to come on; the only question was whether the reds would run. as i looked up another parallel street, the rue de cléry, i think, i found the question answered in an odd way. there, within thirty yards, were two officers of reds lounging leisurely about and stopping now and then to talk to people at doors. i suppose they were told of the near approach of the regulars, for they turned back in the direction of their barricade. but meantime the regulars had advanced, and, therefore, the enemies were at one moment within paces of each other, though, being in different streets, they were unconscious of each other's near vicinity. both parties seemed, as they well might, thoroughly at home, the people, whatever might be their secret sympathies, showing a decent appearance, at least, of impartiality to all men with arms in their hands, and yet in a few minutes or seconds--for there was now no doubt that they were about to fight--everybody was on the _qui vive_, getting ready to escape if necessary. the extraordinary feature of these paris street fights is that many of them go on with a crowd of non-combatants, men, women, and children, as close to them on both sides as if the whole affair were a theatrical representation of a sensational melodramatic kind, where a good deal of powder and blue lights would be burnt, but no bullets or lives would be spent. in streets in which fighting actually occurs no one of course shows except combatants, and these show as little as possible, lying down or sheltering behind extempore barricades and windows. the people indoors, as may be supposed, do not keep near them, as the bullets fired down the sides of the streets under cover of doorways or corner houses glance and ricochet about in the wildest way. scarcely a window escapes if the fight lasts long, but adjoining streets running at right angles to the fighting ground are for the moment comparatively safe, and the people crowd about the doorways in these, the more venturesome getting close to street corners, and every now and then cautiously craning their necks round to see, if possible, whether shots tell. perhaps the strangest thing about a paris street fight is that up to the very last moment one sees people running quietly along, utterly unconscious of danger, right between two lines of fire, with loaded mitrailleuses within a hundred yards of them. one minute before the fight i am describing began this morning, an old lady, with a large market basket on her arm, was leisurely walking down the rue d'aboukir between the barricades and soldiers mustering quietly at the corner of the rue montmartre. she was probably making way to the halles centrales close by to get something for breakfast, in happy ignorance of the fact that at that very moment soldiers were firing, as far as we could see, right into it. i found afterwards that the reds were then in occupation of it, and had loop-holed the church of st. eustache, which they held in great force. shouts of warning from the crowd standing near me at the corner of the rue montmartre made her at last quicken her pace, though i doubt whether she quite understood them or knew her danger. i scarcely know whether paris combatants at this period are considerate enough to wait till the ground is clear of non-combatants, or whether out of politeness each side was waiting for the other to fire first. in any case the regulars did not wait long. a colonel of the staff, with cane in one hand and in the other a map of paris, studying, stood at the corner of a side street, gave his men the order to commence instantly. a soldier on each side took a step forward, and exposing himself as little as possible fired up at the barricade. after he had fired he fell back to reload, and another all ready took his place, so that, though there were at first very few men--not more than perhaps--firing was pretty hot. quick came back the response of the reds, and whizzing went their bullets down the street, or crashing against projecting corners of the houses, so near one's ears that it was at first hard to keep from dodging, despite one's convictions that only irish guns shoot round corners. ricochet balls were not only not more dangerous, but probably were less dangerous, at the corner than farther off. some stood as near as they could to the soldiers. it would be impossible to do this with the reds, as they would insist one's taking up a rifle and shooting or being shot; but the regulars, so far from forcing, would not even allow an amateur to indulge in fancy shooting. but taking hurried shots round a corner at men crouched hundreds of yards off behind well-built barricades is too slow work to be satisfactory, and the officials came and began to show signs of impatience. the leader, from a safe post of observation, was able to take a cool searching view of the situation, and ordered some of his men, whose numbers were gradually increasing as they hurried up the street below, ducking heads and hugging walls, to mount some of the corner houses, while others extemporized a barricade in the street. to mount the houses was easy enough, though the door of one had to be broken in, and presently we heard glass tumbling down as muzzles of rifles were poked through the upper panes, and soon sharp cracks and thick puffs of smoke leaping out showed that the men had settled down to their work. the barricade was a more difficult matter, as it had to be made full in front of the enemy's fire; but it was contrived with wonderful coolness and rapidity, the civilians about eagerly bringing stones. two or three barrels appeared as if by magic. by pushing the barricade cautiously across the street, by lying down under cover of one bit as they built another, the regulars soon had cover enough to fire comparatively at ease straight up at the barricade, while their comrades at the windows took it from above in flank. i was sometimes within a few feet of them, and was much struck by their coolness and military common sense, if i may use the expression. they did the work before them in a quiet, business-like way, in what, during the late war, was considered by some the best feature of prussian fighting, not shirking risk when it was necessary, but, on the other hand, not needlessly exposing themselves for the sake of swagger, especially of the officers. this morning, the officers not being wanted, had the sense to keep quietly out of harm's way and smoke their cigarettes like unconcerned civilians when not giving orders to their men. the reds, on the other hand, fought capitally, keeping up a brisk and well-directed fire. yet, strange to say, nobody was wounded; i mean on our side. may th. a week has elapsed to-day since the versailles troops established themselves inside the _enceinte_, and the fighting has been incessant ever since; this is hard work enough for the assailants, who number nearly , men; but for the soldiers--if soldiers they can be called--of the commune, the effort has already been almost superhuman. gradually diminishing in numbers, constantly finding themselves forced upon a smaller area, and, therefore, the target of a more concentrated fire, hemmed in upon all sides, with ammunition and provisions falling short, exposed to a heavy rain, which has been falling incessantly for hours, unable to seek repose in any spot sheltered from the shells of the enemy, which are pouring in unremitting showers upon every corner of their position, the situation of the insurgents is desperate in the extreme, and it cannot be denied that they are fighting with an energy and a heroism worthy of a better cause. reports are so varied and contradictory as to the fate of their leaders that even the generals of the french army do not know positively who is commanding them; but if the prisoners are to be believed, the irrepressible cluseret has again risen to the surface, and is the heart and soul of the defence. as the position of the insurgents becomes desperate, it seems to produce a greater ferocity on both sides. the rebels neither ask nor give quarter; they have made up their minds that death, whether as combatants or as prisoners, is their only alternative, and men and women seem to be lashed up to a frenzy which has converted them into a set of wild beasts caught in a trap, and rendering their extermination a necessity. i went yesterday to the jardin des plantes, as the entire left bank of the seine is now in the hands of the government troops, and found m. decaisne, the celebrated botanical professor, still safe and sound, after having passed through three days of unparalleled suspense. on wednesday the _rappel_ had been beaten by the insurgents, and notice was publicly given that the panthéon was to be blown up at o'clock. the result was a general "stampede" of the inhabitants in an agony of terror and dismay. for two or three hours women and children came pouring out of the doomed quarter, unable to save any of their property, and not even yet assured that they had escaped the limits of the explosion. at o'clock no explosion had occurred, and the rumour spread that the attempt had failed for want of a sufficient quantity of powder. i told you how the panthéon was saved; the people went back to their houses, only to witness severe street fighting, the result of which was to drive the insurgents slowly across the river, where they made a fierce stand at a _tête du pont_ erected at the end of the bridge of austerlitz. this had only been carried the evening before my visit to it, and bore all the marks of an actual battlefield. here were eight or ten bodies strewn behind the barricade, with groups of women and young children gathered round inspecting them, and lifting, with a morbid curiosity, the cloths which had been thrown over them to conceal their distorted countenances. these men had been killed in hard fighting, men and accoutrements were strewn thickly around, the houses were smashed and riddled with shot. the barricade, a formidable earthwork and battery, was pounded into a mere heap--everything betokened a bitter struggle; and, indeed, i had already heard from a staff officer that the line had lost more heavily at this point than elsewhere. passing along the side of the canal, we endeavoured to reach the bastille, but were stopped by a battery which was firing at père-lachaise, and which was receiving shells in reply from the cemetery. we therefore retraced our steps past the long gaunt skeleton of the prefecture of the police, which was still smoking, and which had contained a body of political prisoners incarcerated by the insurgents, but released by them in order to work at barricades. this proved their salvation, as they were enabled to effect their escape on the approach of the troops. it is reported, nevertheless, that some still lie buried beneath these smouldering ruins. to the right of the bastille we could see a heavy volume of smoke rising apparently from a point corresponding to the position of the prison of mazas. we are still in utter darkness as to the fate of the archbishop and the clergy in confinement with him, but the tragedy of the dominicans leaves us little hope. about of these priests were imprisoned on friday, the th, at fort bicêtre. on thursday, when this had to be abandoned, they were hurried away to the gobelins on the promise of being set at liberty. instead of this they were driven to work on the barricades, then dragged to a prison in the avenue d'italie. at half-past in the afternoon they were visited by a certain m. cerisier with a company of the st battalion of the national guards, who deliberately loaded in their presence. the outside door of the prison was then thrown open, and they were ordered to leave it one by one. as they marched out singly they were shot successively by order of cerisier, with the exception of the narrator of the occurrence, and one or two others who were either missed or slightly wounded and escaped. twelve bodies of these unhappy men have already been recovered. there is also no doubt that m. gustave chaudey, one of the principal editors of the _siècle_, and a literary man of some eminence and high character, who had incurred the displeasure of the communists, has been shot by them. on the other side the executions are wholesale. it is estimated that upwards of , persons have been shot already on the left bank of the seine alone, evidently a small proportion of the total number. wherever women and children are to be observed leaning over the parapet of the seine intently regarding some object below, one may be sure that the attraction is a group of hideously mutilated corpses of men who have been brought down to the river side, and then with their backs to the wall have met their doom. on the sloping roads leading down from the _quai_ to the river may also be seen inequalities where the road has been recently disturbed and where the freshly-turned earth indicates burial-places. not far from these bodies were lying several dead horses, from which the people were cutting steaks. the inside of the hôtel de ville presents a curious scene, the solid masses of stone and lime of which the rubbish is composed having fallen in in the form of a crater, which fills up the whole central place. under this mound are said to be buried from to insurgents who were unable to escape at the last moment, and thus fell the victims of the conflagration they had themselves originated. the mutilation of the ornamental work of this magnificent specimen of architecture is simply hideous; there is scarcely a square inch of the _façade_ untouched by shot or shell. anxious, if possible, to judge of the progress of the attack which was being made on the insurgent position at père-lachaise, i reached the place château d'eau, which had been taken the day before from the insurgents. i found it, however, impossible to go beyond the angle of the wall near the ambigu. here a small crowd was collected which was dispersed by a shot just as i approached, and the place itself was a solitary desert, for it was swept from the heights of belleville down the faubourg du temple. passing along the boulevard magenta, we obtained from the point where the rue du faubourg st. denis traverses the rue lafayette, a view of an insurgent barricade, on which a red flag was still flying, and which was turned by the troops while we were there. we were looking down the long, straight line of street totally deserted, and in the far distance watching the barricade, beyond which rose the occasional puffs of smoke from a musketry fire, when we suddenly saw the red trousers scampering across in twos and threes, and then in larger numbers, and knew that the barricade had been taken, and that it was safe to come out of our cover and walk on the opposite side of the street. all this time the whistling and bursting of the shell overhead was as incessant and loud as i have ever heard on the field of battle. we were directly in the line of fire between montmartre and père la chaise, although completely protected from it, as everything passed overhead. but the terrific rushing through the air of the projectiles, and the cracking and bursting at each end when they reached their destination, made a music which it requires a parisian education thoroughly to appreciate. heavy volumes of smoke rose from the besieged quarter, and the destruction of life and property upon the doomed area which the insurgents have chosen as their final stronghold must be something appalling. near the angle of the street at which we stood lay the dead body of a man, covered with a cloth, who had been shot not many hours before in an adjoining court. it was evident from the looks and tone of the inhabitants of this neighbourhood that their sympathies were strongly with the communists. they muttered gloomily and savagely to each other, scarcely daring to raise their suspicious glances from the ground, for they knew not which of their neighbours might not have denounced them, and that the day of danger was by no means past. probably two-thirds of the men now gathered at their shopdoors had fought actively for the commune. at the prévôté of the th corps i had an interesting instance of the effect of denunciations. while there some men who had been intrusted with the arrest of general henry returned from their expedition. general henry, it will be remembered, was one of the earliest leaders of the movement, and i went down to see where he had openly established himself as commander-in-chief of the national guard in the vaugirard quarter. about the th of march, or two days before the revolution several attempts were made to arrest him but the task was so dangerous that they all failed. throughout the movement this man has exhibited daring and intelligence, and his capture is much desired. in consequence of the information received his haunt was visited, and the result i saw in the shape of a blue prussian overcoat stained with blood and perforated with a bullet-hole, a tunic still more bloody and torn, a very jaunty braided jacket quite clean and new, a prussian undress cap, and a very handsome sword. the proprietor had evidently been wounded, and had succeeded in evading his captors, if still alive, by some secret contrivance, which, however, the honour of the denouncer was pledged to discover; it was evident that he had provided himself with a prussian uniform, in the hope of passing through the german lines, and the blood on his coat would seem to indicate that he had made the attempt and failed. from this barrack, just prior to my visit, had been removed several wounded children, most of them under eight years old. one of the most horrible features of the war in a thickly-peopled city is to be found in the sufferings which it entails upon the innocent who are thus early familiarized with scenes of blood and violence, and who too often, unfortunately, are themselves the victims of them. the _gamins_ of paris love to dabble in petroleum and play with lucifer matches, and revel in destruction and conflagration. more daring than their elders, they stick with their mothers to barricades after the father of the family has deemed it prudent to retire, and numerous are the stories of their heroism and courage. unfortunately, their propensities for arson render them liable to be shot, and it is sad to see how many children are often comprised in a band of prisoners. i went underground to the cells in which the prisoners were confined at the prévôté, and wandered along narrow, subterranean passages, where the noisome exhalations were almost stifling, into dark cells, where the eye got at last sufficiently accustomed to the light to distinguish the relics left by the prisoners: here a pair of stays of which some female prisoner had divested herself, there a red cockade, all kinds of articles of clothing steeped in slime of indescribable foulness; and cowering at one end of the corridor a dozen prisoners waiting to know their fate. they were more respectable than usual, and not apparently of a very sanguinary type. they were all men. to-day no less than a hundred women were marched down the streets in one gang. the papers are so full of false reports that it is scarcely safe to give news which has not been verified. thus, unless i had seen the genius of liberty on the top of the column in the place de la bastille, and visited the jardin des plantes, i might have reported the accounts, of which the papers are full, of the destruction of the figure on the column and of the animals and rare plants in the gardens, which you will be happy to hear are all in a state of perfect health and preservation. i am afraid, however, it is only too true that half the gobelins are destroyed, and that of the "frères de la doctrine chrétienne" have been shot by their fellow-christians of the commune. a friend of mine saw madame millière in a prisoners' gang, and we have authentic intelligence to-day that her husband, one of the most pestilent of the apostles of fraternity and wholesale slaughter, has been executed. the streets are full of the national guards of order, carrying their rifles to the different dépôts to be given up, for the disarmament of the entire national guard has been determined on, and it is to be hoped that this most useless body in time of foreign invasion and most dangerous one in moments of internal trouble will be extinguished and abolished for ever throughout all the towns of france. meantime the boulevards and streets from which the fighting has receded are slowly waking into life, the tricolor waves from the windows in token of loyalty and sympathy with the government, and at least two cafés are open on the boulevards, but as yet only here and there the shutters of a shop are lowered. the roar of the batteries from montmartre is still continuous, but it is hardly possible that the insurgents can continue the struggle for hours longer. fighting was going on at belleville about an hour ago, but still there is every reason the believe that the insurrection is virtually over. a great number of prisoners, escorted by cavalry, have just been marched down the boulevards. they were said to be , , but this is probably an exaggeration. they came from the buttes chaumont, where many of them have been kept two days and a half without food. a more villainous collection of faces i never beheld. there were many women, among them some in men's clothes, some as _cantinières_ or _ambulancières_, and very young boys and old men. nearly , were regular soldiers, or at least wore their uniform. their coats were turned inside out, as a mark of disgrace. as they passed through the crowd lining each side of the boulevards they were met with cries of "_a mort, crapule, fusillez-les!_" four women in the amazon uniform and the regulars excited special indignation. one prisoner, near the new opera, refused to march, and was twice stabbed with bayonets. he was then tied to a horse's tail, and afterwards placed on the horse, but he threw himself off, and again refused to march. he was put into a cart and carried off to the nearest place of execution to be shot. another prisoner, who also refused to march, was dragged by the hands and hair of the head along the road. the crowd called out to the soldiers to shoot him, and declared that but for the presence of the soldiers they would themselves execute summary justice on him. the troops, headed by the marquis de galifet, were loudly cheered as they passed. i went early this morning to père-lachaise. shells were still falling so thickly near the boulevard du temple that no one was allowed to pass. i had to go a very roundabout way to get to the place bastille, as at numerous barricades everybody who passed was compelled to assist in pulling them down. the barricades were of astonishing strength. behind the barricade on the boulevard mazas lay three bodies of national guards--apparently shot in its defence. a little lower down on the boulevard voltaire lay seven men dead, as if they had there made their last desperate stand. there were some old gray-headed men among them. we were told that their bodies were left there for recognition, and women occasionally came up and claimed them. the regulars had also suffered severely there, but their dead had been immediately removed. further on, the stone barricades had been protected by a second line of large sacks stuffed with rags and papers, and piled upon each other. at the corner of rue roquette lay over corpses of men, executed for being found with arms in their hands. they lay piled over each other, and the pavement and gutters streamed with blood. the crowd were not allowed to approach them. we entered père-lachaise and found it full of troops, chiefly of the marine brigade. there is no truth in the stories that the cemetery was defended tomb by tomb. there had been no bayonet or even fusillade fighting there, but the shells had shattered many of the tombs, here and there laying bare the coffins below. the position was so strong that the marines could account for its abandonment only by the fact that the insurgents were utterly disorganized for want of leaders. the shelling, however, had been sufficiently vigorous to compel the troops to retire after they took it last night, and to return for reinforcements. they retook the position early this morning. the insurgents had abandoned a battery of seven guns which commanded the whole position. we could see from it that sharp fighting was still going on at belleville, probably the last stronghold. as we passed the prison of la roquette, we heard about ninety rifle-shots and then a mitrailleuse, and were told by the troops that prisoners were being executed. we had great difficulty in passing through the faubourg st. antoine, and were stopped by at least five _cordons_ of sentries. they told us that the insurgents were _en fuite_, that the quartier was _suspect_, and that, therefore, nobody was allowed to pass. when we got through, many people asked us to put their letters into the post for them, as they were close prisoners. the streets were filled with arms and equipments. only a few houses in belleville still hold out. the insurgents are surrendering by thousands. the insurrection is considered over. most of those who founded the comité du salut public have been taken. the insurgents are being shot by hundreds. in the faubourg st. antoine great numbers of men and women were found carrying petroleum, and at once shot. the _moniteur_ says that félix pyat and paschal grousset left paris yesterday in a balloon, which passed over niort towards the sea. may th. by saturday evening the various corps of the versailles troops, steadily converging on the insurgents from the north, south, and west, had forced them into their last strongholds of père-lachaise, and at the buttes chaumont, in belleville; and m. thiers on saturday announced that the final attack would be made on sunday morning. but the troops waited no longer to finish their terrible work. on saturday père-lachaise was taken by general vinoy; in the evening the buttes chaumont were carried by general ladmirault. the two corps united, and the remaining insurgents were forced into narrow space at the edge of the _enceinte_, where they are hemmed in between the versailles troops and the prussians, and must surrender or be killed. they have also been driven out of all the forts except vincennes, and those who hold that fort have asked the bavarian troops outside to permit their escape. at five o'clock yesterday all fighting had ceased. "the revolution is crushed;" but at what a cost, and amid what horrors! "peace," says m. thiers, "is about to be restored, but it will not succeed in relieving all honest and patriotic hearts of the profound sorrow with which they are afflicted." we know not, indeed, how or when such relief is to come; for ruin has been wrought and crimes have been perpetrated which will leave on paris and on frenchmen an ineffaceable brand. after the first appalling news of the great conflagrations, a faint hope had arisen that the ultimate result might prove less disastrous than had been apprehended, and it is true that a few of the noble buildings which were thought doomed have escaped. but the almost universal wreck would of itself almost obliterate for the moment the sense of relief, and the material ruin now constitutes the least horror in the scene. it is sufficiently distressing to picture every quarter of the great capital, which but the other day was the beauty of the world, scarred by conflagrations, torn by shells, pitted with musketry, and stained with blood. it is terrible to think that in a city "like paris" fire and sword, and instruments of destruction still more hellish, have swept from west to east, and from south to north; that most of its noble palaces are but gaunt and blackened walls, and its finest streets laid in heaps of as utter ruin as the mounds of nineveh. the mind is overwhelmed by the mere physical spectacle of this whirlwind of blazing destruction suddenly bursting over a noble city so near us, which we knew so well, and the inhabitants of which were but yesterday our neighbours and our friends. but even this is overpowered by the awful human ruin which it expresses and reflects. on both sides alike we hear of incredible acts of assassination and slaughter. the insurgents have fulfilled, so far as they were able, their threats against the lives of their hostages as mercilessly as their other menaces. the archbishop of paris, the curé of the madeleine, president bonjean, with priests, gendarmes, soldiers, and other victims to the number of , have been shot, and others were only saved by the arrival of the troops. this massacre of distinguished and inoffensive men is one of those crimes which never die, and which blacken for ever the memory of their authors. but in the spirit of murder and hatred it displays the communists seem not very much worse than their antagonists. it sounds like trifling for m. thiers to be denouncing the insurgents for having shot a captive officer "without respect for the laws of war." the laws of war! they are mild and christian compared with the inhuman laws of revenge under which the versailles troops have been shooting, bayoneting, ripping up prisoners, women and children, during the last six days. we have not a word to say for the black ruffians who, it is clear, deliberately planned the utter destruction of paris, the burning of its inhabitants, and the obliteration of its treasures; but if soldiers will convert themselves into fiends in attacking fiends, is it any wonder if they redouble the fiendishness of the struggle? fury has inflamed fury, and hate has embittered hate, until all the wild passions of the human heart have been fused into one vast and indistinguishable conflagration. so far as we can recollect there has been nothing like it in history. the siege of jerusalem may afford some parallel, but roman soldiers never so utterly lost their self-control as the versailles troops appear to have done. we are beggared for words to describe the scene, and exclaim that it is hell upon earth. it is nothing less. there are all the physical and all the moral accessories. fire and brimstone, storm and tempest, torture, insult, hatred, despair, all forms of malice, murder, and destruction, have been raging in paris during the last few days. women forgetting their sex and their gentleness to commit assassination, to poison soldiers, to burn and to slay; little children converted into demons of destruction, and dropping petroleum into the areas of houses; soldiers in turn forgetting all distinctions of sex and age, and shooting down prisoners like vermin, now by scores and now by hundreds,--all combine to enact on civilized ground, and within the sight and hearing of their fellow-men, scenes which find a parallel only in the infernal regions imagined by prophets and poets. this is what human nature is capable of; for frenchmen are men, and we shudder for our race. but, at all events, what hope is to be seen for france in this seething abyss? this tragedy is the end of eighty years of revolutions, of an eighty years' struggle after liberty and fraternity, eighty years of attempts again and again renewed to rebuild french society on a new and harmonious basis. the end is a fiercer hatred, deeper divisions, wilder passions, and more eternal distrust. will these six days of savage devastation tend to heal the existing breach between the lower and the middle classes of france? will the mutual slaughter of soldiers and citizens tend towards that essential condition of a happy state; mutual confidence between the army and the people? will the blood of another butchered archbishop sow the seeds of peace between the priests and their socialist foes? that which we seem at present to see in this outbreak of hell is the permanent creation of yawning abysses between classes, institutions, memories, and men. paris may, perhaps, be rebuilt; but what is to wipe out the blood with which every street of paris is now stained, and when will women cease to hand down to their children the envenomed hatreds of may, ? where, above all, are the signs of that combined generosity, firmness and foresight in statesmen or soldiers which alone could lay the first stone of reconciliation? the prospect is too black for france and for europe for us to dare look forward. we have no heart at present to balance the faults and crimes of the two sides, or to assign the relative blame. we only see the worst outburst ever yet displayed of human passions; we see it at the close of fifteen centuries of christian civilization; we see it in one of the most gifted races of the world, and we know not where to look for hope or consolation. may th. paris is perfectly tranquil. shops are opening. the streets are crowded with people examining the amount of damage done. prisoners in groups of a hundred are being marched under escort down the boulevards. fighting ceased about yesterday afternoon. a few shots were fired from the windows at belleville, where frightful scenes are said to have been enacted. the more desperate characters, felons and escaped _forçats_ of the worst description, turned at the last moment on their own comrades because they refused to continue the fight. some women murdered with knives two young men for the same reason. in consequence of the firing from the windows, an immense number of executions occurred. the park of the buttes chaumont was strewn with corpses. the soldiers were so furious that the officers found it necessary to warn strangers of the danger of incurring suspicion. a few of the inhabitants of belleville were declaring openly to passers by that the affair was not yet over, and that terrible reprisals would be wreaked upon the soldiers. these boasts have not yet been fulfilled, but general apprehensions are, nevertheless, entertained that those of the insurgents who have escaped justice will try to inaugurate a secret system of arson and assassination. constant discoveries of petroleum are still being made. the danger is increased by the fact that women, who, on account of their sex, are more likely lo escape notice, are really the most desperate. great precautions are taken at night. the streets are full of sentries and all circulation is strictly forbidden. any one who ventures out without the password runs the risk of being locked up all night. there are diversities of opinion relative to the archbishop's fate even now. some people affirm that he has escaped; but the evidence is in favour of his having been murdered at la roquette. fears are entertained of an epidemic consequent upon the hurried burial of so many dead under the pavement of the streets. may st and june st. the search for insurgents from house to house is still going on vigorously. it is still very hard either to leave or even to enter paris, gourde, the communist minister of finance, has been found. it is said by insurgents that cluseret ought to be among the last batch of prisoners taken at fort vincennes. this being their last place of refuge it is expected that many other ringleaders will be discovered. the communist commander of that fort sent to the bavarian general a list of his officers and men, requesting for the former passes into switzerland, for the latter passes into france. after various negotiations, the affair was left in the hands of general vinoy, and it was agreed that all the garrison of vincennes, having never fired a shot, should be detained prisoners only temporarily; but that all fugitives who had taken refuge there should be surrendered unconditionally. the garrison eagerly consented to the terms, and at once put their chiefs in prison. orders were found on many of them, signed ulysse parent, for the burning of the hôtel de ville, the bourse, and other places. the luxembourg is to replace temporarily the hôtel de ville, and the staff has already moved there. everything is going on quietly enough in most parts of paris, but in the belleville quarter life is still unsafe. not only shots are fired from windows, but occasionally insurgents fire off revolvers upon officers at a few yards' distance. many fear that, notwithstanding the large numbers of the insurgents caught, and the terrible example made, enough have escaped to give further trouble, if not by open resistance, at least by arson and secret assassination. the severities, moreover, exercised by the military authorities have produced a pretty strong feeling of reaction against them, and in some of even the least revolutionary quarters the troops are scarcely popular, certainly not so popular as when they entered paris. the insurgents find many sympathizers to hide them, and assist their escape from paris. the policy of england with reference to those who have escaped is watched with great anxiety. active measures are being taken to cleanse the streets and rid them of the dead bodies, some of which had been buried where they fell under the barricades, with a foot or two of soil over them. passers-by are pressed into the service as burying parties, and the english embassy has received complaints from englishmen of having been seized for this purpose. the smell of corpses in some places is offensively strong, and it is feared this hot weather following upon the heavy rain may breed a pestilence. traffic in the streets at night is getting easier, though the _cafés_ have to be closed at . the unpopularity of the troops is no doubt, in part due to the deeply-rooted parisian dislike of military rule and the abolition of the national guard--a measure which, however necessary, under no circumstances is likely to be welcome. the firemen of havre who came to paris to aid in extinguishing the recent conflagrations have returned home to-day. one of the most important of the "hostages" who suffered death at the hands of the commune--the most important person of their lay victims--m. bonjean, was president of the court of cassation, and it was only the fact of his holding a high position, and being respected by all persons whose respect was worth having, that can have rendered him odious. he was a very old man, as old at least as the abbé deguerry. it was chiefly as a judge and not as a politician that his name was known to the world, yet, all that was known of him as a politician was in his favour. indeed, he enjoyed the rare distinction of being, perhaps, the one liberal member of an assembly so bigoted and so subservient as was the senate under the empire. notwithstanding his advanced age, he remained firm at his post during the siege and during the far more perilous period of the conflict between m. thiers and the comité central. his arrest was, so to speak, an accident, as he happened to be paying, or expected to pay, a visit, by appointment, to the house of his friend, the procureur-général, when the police of the communists were taking possession of the house of the latter officer. he bore his imprisonment, old as he was, with patience and resignation, remarking that for the last years he had been self-condemned to upwards of hours' hard labour a day over his books and papers, and that he could work as well at these in a prison cell as in a palace. june d, and rd. two days ago i was so fortunate as to meet mons. petit, the secretary of the late archbishop, who had only escaped from the prison in which he had been confined with the unfortunate prelate the day before. m. petit did not himself see m. darboy executed, though he saw the procession pass and heard the firing. out of priests and gendarmes confined in the prison, were shot, and the fate of the remainder had been decided upon when an attempt to escape made by the criminal prisoners, who were the original occupants of the gaol, succeeded, and with the help of one of the gaolers the whole body made an attack upon the insurgent guard, who, in fact, did not wait for it, but abandoned their post as soon as they perceived that all their prisoners were at liberty. the priests succeeded in changing their clerical costume, but not in sufficiently disguising themselves, for m. petit saw four of his companions shot at the first barricade they reached; he therefore fled back to his prison, and, finding a common prison shirt, he reduced his costume to that garments and took refuge in a bed in the hospital ward. the prison was not again guarded, but those who casually passed through it supposed him to be a sick prisoner not worth notice; and here he remained until sunday evening, when his suspense was put an end to by the arrival of the soldiery. in the chapelle ardente of the madeleine lies the body of the _curé_ of that church, who was shot by the side of the archbishop, and a stream of persons, mostly women, with saddened, awe-struck faces passed through it all yesterday afternoon. the body of the archbishop has been recovered, and is at the palace. i have now explored paris in every direction to judge with some degree of accuracy of the extent of the damage done, but i will spare you any detailed account of those scenes of havoc and ruin, that i have partly described already which differ in their character according to the agent of destruction, and which consist of ruins caused by shells and ruins caused by fire. houses which have been destroyed by shells present a far more ghastly appearance than those which have been burnt, and the aspect of the street at point du jour is calculated to strike the imagination of those who are now entering paris for the first time from versailles by that gate. the same may be said of the houses on both sides of the avenue de la grande armée, and in the neighbourhood of the porte maillot; but nothing that i have seen equals the auteuil railway station, where the building, the line, and the railway bridge have all been crumpled up together, as if some giant hand had squeezed them into a shapeless mass. the iron bridge still spans the road, but with rails and girders so contorted and covered with _débris_ that we were afraid to drive under it for fear the slight concussion caused by a carriage passing beneath might bring the tottering mass down on our heads. a little beyond, a sentry is placed to prevent people passing beneath a house which is on the verge of crumbling to the ground. it is a lofty, handsome building, elegantly furnished, and quite new, which has been completely cut in two, and the furniture of each successive story is thus exposed. one room on the fourth floor was apparently a boudoir, for the rich crimson-covered furniture stands trembling at the edge of the "_parquet_," and a heavy armchair threatens with the least jar to come down with a crash into the middle of the road. it was reserved for french artillery to complete the work which the german artillery began. i drove round this same road some days after the first siege, and, compared to their present condition, these suburbs might then have been considered well preserved and habitable. looking at the long _enceinte_ of fortifications with its battered breaches and crumbling embrasures, one is puzzled whether m. thiers deserves more credit for the skill with which he put it up or for that with which he has knocked it down. anxious to see to what condition the conquerors have reduced the insurgent stronghold at belleville, i have returned from penetrating its disagreeable recesses. as usual, even in peaceful times, the lower part of the faubourg du temple was densely crowded with an agitated, restless throng, composed principally of women. most of the shops were shut, probably because their owners were either shot or in prison. those who lounged in their doorways looked surly and suspicious; nor is this much to be wondered at, for during the last two days every domicile has been searched in this quarter from attic to cellar, and every street swarms with denouncers and soldiers. as we approached ménilmontant the crowd became thinner, and the soldiers more numerous, until they almost lined the street on either side. here and there were piles of broken arms and heaps of national guard coats and trousers. the road was literary strewn with caps, which had been torn from the heads of prisoners and flung in the mud. old women were rummaging in the heaps for something worth taking away which was not of a military character, as their operations were closely watched by the soldiery, who were by no means of an amiable type. here were no signs of fraternization or amicable intercourse. at one place at least a dozen omnibuses were collected and crammed with arms and military stores, a magazine of which i saw in the process of being emptied. three thousand orsini bombs were also found. i have specimens of two kinds in my possession; one is circular, flat, and hollow, about six inches in diameter and an inch and a half thick, and fitted all round its edge with little hammers, which play upon a glass case inside filled with nitro-glycerine. whichever way the bomb falls it is sure to strike one of these hammers, which explodes the nitro-glycerine. the other is a zinc ball, rather smaller than a cricket ball, filled with powder and covered with nipples, upon which are percussion caps. it cannot fall without striking a cap and exploding. it is natural that the discovery of such objects should exasperate the soldiery, for whom they were intended, and who cannot yet walk with any feeling of security along streets filled with a population who employ such diabolical engines of destruction. hitherto, in most of the instances in which they have been used, the culprit has been a woman; more reckless and vindictive than the men, they have, in many instances, literally courted death, forcing their fate by acts of violence when escape was evidently impossible. near the top of the steep hill which leads to the mairie of ménilmontant were several _cordons_ of sentries, through which we had some difficulty in passing, owing to a commotion which had scarcely yet subsided, and which showed how combustible were the materials of which the population here is composed. there had been an altercation between a sergeant of the line and a citizen, in which the latter had offered some violence and had been shot on the spot; his body was still palpitating on the pavement as i came suddenly and unexpectedly upon it, and we were warned, by an angry cry of "_au large_" from a sentry, that it would be a very simple matter in the then temper of the soldiery to meet the same fate. it is easy to imagine the scowling looks and stifled curses of the men and women glaring from doorways and windows at the execution of a friend before their eyes, and we began to feel that we were objects of equal suspicion and dislike on either side. at every step we were challenged, and the fact that we had a military pass made it clear to the bellevilleites that we were their enemies. we had now reached the crown of the hill--the very heart of belleville, and the last stronghold of the insurgents. it was crowded with soldiery: an hour in belleville under existing circumstances is enough to satisfy the morbid appetite for excitement which may tempt people to go there. notwithstanding the crowds on the boulevards, many of the shops are still shut, in consequence of the absence of their owners from paris. the difficulties of entering and leaving the city are still so great that many days must elapse before the ordinary population can return. meantime, the want of gas makes the streets as they were in the darkest moments of the siege, and the gloom after dark, combined with the dangers of arrest, does not tempt people to remain abroad much later than o'clock. yesterday, out of one of the houses from which a shot had been fired, an innocent englishman, who, being elderly and deaf, knew nothing of what had happened, came downstairs unsuspectingly on to the pavement into the middle of the crowd, and had a very narrow escape for his life. some ingenious self-constituted detective called out "that's the man," and the crowd, having long waited in vain for somebody, were only too glad to have a victim thus extemporized to their hands, and if a few of the cooler and more humane bystanders had not interfered, the englishman might have been murdered in cold blood and in broad daylight. as it was, he got off with no more serious injury than torn clothes and a mauling which may keep him to his bed for a fortnight. what, to those who have witnessed the recent transformation scenes in the great parisian melodrama, is newest and strangest is the crowd of well-dressed holyday-making loungers streaming so thickly over the broad pavement that it is no easy matter to get through them, and occupying every available chair outside the adjoining _café_. where in the world do they all come from? many of them have stories of their recent experiences to tell which, well arranged, might make the fortune of a theatrical manager--stories so sensational that one would feel bound to refuse them credence if they were not in perfect harmony with the sensational scenes of which every third man's personal experience has supplied him with a specimen. one man has been close prisoner in a cellar two days and nights while fighting has been going on all around him and over his head. another has had to fly amid bullets from the suffocating smoke of burning buildings, his ears still ringing with the cries of poor wretches who could not muster up their courage for the rush, and who risked a lingering death under the fallen ruins. numerous corpses have been dug out of cellars over which had fallen masses of burning houses, and many probably still remain, at which it is impossible to get. in the rue royale and its immediate neighbourhood last night the air was tainted with the unmistakable smell of putrefying bodies, which, it was supposed, were lying under the huge masses of smouldering woodwork and masonry still heaped upon them. the fire, though the engines have been at work at it six days and nights, has not yet been completely extinguished, and last night i and a friend, although he had his wife to protect him, were compelled to take our turn at the pumps. we in vain pleaded that we would not leave the lady alone. the head of the pressgang who had kidnapped us would be delighted to take care of her while we worked, and as soon as it appeared that we were only to work a short time--not to be kept on indefinitely into the small hours of the night--we were not sorry to lend a helping hand. a fresh batch of captives, condemned to hard labour, shortly came up and replaced us. one of our objections to being kept long at work was that it was getting late, and that after dark it is no very easy or safe matter to go about the streets. june th and th. large crowds took advantage of the free permission accorded yesterday to pass through the gates of paris, and to-day the streets are filled to overflowing with sightseers examining the ruins and other traces of the siege. many foreigners have already arrived, some for pleasure, some to recommence business operations. arrests are still numerous of men and women, many of the arrested apparently belonging to the respectable classes. it has been proposed to set on foot throughout europe a subscription to restore the public buildings destroyed in paris. it is hoped that in two days the telegraphs will again be open to the public. the post is already working well, thanks to the exertions of m. rampont. all impediments in the way of entering and leaving paris have been removed, as i said; persons are only required to show their passports when demanded by the police. the military authorities have entertained favourably the requests of theatrical managers for permission to re-open the theatres, but the re-opening of the _cafés chantants_ has not yet been authorized. aubry, agent of the international society and treasurer of the commune, was arrested yesterday. it is said that, until further orders, no one is to be allowed to pass the gates of paris after p.m. patrols of cavalry traverse paris and the environs all night. the _figaro_ calculates the number of insurgents still at large in paris who have escaped military justice at , men. these persons will, it thinks, always constitute a source of danger, and will only await a favourable opportunity for exciting disturbances. june th. a gang of prisoners passing down the boulevard is a never ending source of interest, and with some reason, for the prisoners now are not the scum of belleville and la villette, swept at haphazard out of their lanes and alleys, but the more prominent men, who have been lying hid ever since, and are being discovered or denounced singly, so that there are seldom more than two or three in a batch, and these are generally persons of note. i saw two parties yesterday, one containing three men and two women, all of quite a different type from the ragged hangdog squads that used to be driven past between lines of cavalry. these were well-dressed, gentlemanlike men and modest, respectable-looking women who seemed by no means either afraid or ashamed of the position in which they found themselves. on another occasion i observed two men, also of the _bourgeoisie_ class, both of them very superior to usual prisoners. one of them had his hands tied firmly behind his back. they both boldly looked the crowd that followed them in the face; but the arrest which caused the greatest interest was that of m. paschal grousset, who was caught hidden and disguised as a woman at rue condorcet, and who was honoured with a conveyance and a cavalry escort to protect him from the crowd. m. pyat still succeeds in evading the authorities, and there is even some doubt whether the numerous persons who went to see the body of m. deslescluze when it was exposed in the church of st. elizabeth, and who declared that they recognized it, were not the victims of a delusion, and whether that gentleman may not still turn up like sir roger tichborne to discomfit the minds of his old friends, who now seem uncertain whether they know him or not. monday being the first day when the gates of paris, as well as the railway stations, were open to the public, there was an influx and efflux on a large scale, the people who swarmed in were people from a distance who had taken refuge in the country, and were returning with their baggage to their homes. those who swarmed out were for the most part sightseers whom events have kept close prisoners in paris for the last two months, and who are now flocking to the outside of the _enceinte_ to visit their former haunts of pleasure in the immediate vicinity, which are now desolate wastes, and to compare the condition of the suburbs as damaged by the germans with their present condition as destroyed by themselves. an examination for arms and weapons to be extended to every room in paris is now being made, and the military authorities continue their active _perquisitions_ for men and documents with tolerable success. upon two successive occasions, however, shots have been fired within the last few days from a window in a house in the place beauveau upon officers, fortunately without injury, but the would-be murderer has not been found. june th. ten thousand incendiary bombs have been discovered in the catacombs. as , were manufactured by the commune according to documents found on prisoners, and of these not many were used, a large number are believed to be still somewhere concealed. nearly all the missing pieces of the colonne vendôme have been recovered. it is thought the column can be exactly restored. a strange proposal is made to preserve untouched the ruins of the hôtel de ville. it is seriously discussed, and finds many advocates. on the extradition question the more moderate journals suggest that government should content itself with demanding the surrender of those insurgents against whom it can make out some case of ordinary non-political crime. crowds still flock from all parts into paris. perfect tranquility prevails, though numerous arrests continue to be made. it is believed that the prisoners will be classified in three categories, the first consisting of persons against whom only minor charges are preferred, the second of those charged with offences which entail transportation, the third of criminals of the worst class, some of them being accused of offences which may be punished by death. the funeral of the archbishop of paris and the other distinguished hostages assassinated by the commune is expected to be a very imposing ceremony. a commission of deputies will officially represent the assembly on the occasion, but a very much larger number of deputies will attend. the chief of the executive power and the other members of the government will be present at notre-dame, where the funeral service will be celebrated to morrow morning at o'clock. the body of the archbishop will be removed from the archiepiscopal palace, in the rue de grenelle, at o'clock. it will be carried on a bed of state by seven deacons. the seven suffragan bishops of the archdiocese of paris will act as pall bearers. monseigneur darboy will be interred in the tomb of the archbishops of paris in the vaults of the cathedral see. the abbé duguerry will be burried in the vaults of the madeleine, and the other hostages in the cemetery of père-lachaise. the cause of the delay in opening the courts-martial at versailles to try the communist prisoners is that a supplementary act of indictment has been rendered necessary by the discovery of important documents on several of the recently-arrested members of the commune. june th and th. the inhabitants of the second arrondissement have been warned that everybody who does not give up his firearms may be tried before a court martial. an anglo-indian ex-officer is said to be gravely compromised in the insurrection, but the number of british subjects engaged in it appears to have been ludicrously exaggerated:--not have had cases made out against them. the number of communists belonging to the international and similar societies is estimated at , . arrests are still numerous. one of the men who shot the archbishop, and for whom the police had long looked in vain, was yesterday arrested at his funeral. the _journal officiel_ publishes a circular note of m. jules favre, dated the th inst., in reference to the causes of the parisian insurrection. the principal of these is the collecting together of , workmen who were brought to paris by the works executed under the empire, and who were led away by jacobin agitators, and who were vanquished on the st of october. after that came the action of the international society composed of working men, the doctrines and dangers of which are explained in the circular. june th. it is calculated that , travellers entered paris between saturday and tuesday by the northern line alone. many had to travel in luggage vans. paris, notwithstanding, does not appear full. most of the visitors make a very short stay. the dull condition of trade is loudly complained of. the idea of burning the corpses which have not been properly buried has been abandoned; it is proposed to exhume all those buried in the parc des monceaux, the jardin du luxembourg, and other temporary burial places, and to transfer them to a new cemetery beyond fort vanves. one hundred and fifty pretended firemen were executed yesterday at versailles. the commander of the th army corps of paris has issued a notice, stating that the surrender of arms has been slow, and the last delay has expired. the military authorities will, therefore, treat the offenders with severity. active searches have been made in the rue st. honoré to-day. the courts-martial at versailles will try the prisoners exclusively for offences against the common law, and will not consider them as political offenders. june th. the close inspection which has been made of the sewers in paris has already led to the discovery of large quantities of weapons and ammunition, and also of many ex-federalist combatants, who, despairing of escape from the regular troops, sought refuge in the subterranean passages with whatever provisions they could secure. the greater part of these miserable creatures are in a most deplorable condition from hunger and the poisonous atmosphere of their hiding places. on friday, at the angle of the rue vavin and the outer boulevard, the scavengers found five bodies in the sewer, one that of an officer, and all mutilated by rats. the bodies were brought out by means of ropes, and after search for papers and documents, were interred in the mont parnasse cemetery. june th. on wednesday the commissary of police for the quartier saint victor received information that the ex-general of the commune, rossel, was in concealment at the hôtel montebello, upon the boulevard st. germain. the commissary proceeded to the hotel, and upon searching the place found in a room on the third floor a person dressed in the uniform of the eastern railway service. upon being questioned this person stated that his name was tirobois, that he was an engineer living at metz, but had been summoned to paris by the railway managers on account of the pressure of traffic on the line. 'are you sure of that?' asked the commissary. 'parbleu.' 'well, in the name of the law i arrest you. you are rossel.' 'i? not at all.' the prisoner was taken to the prefecture de police established at the barracks of the cité, and thence in a boat to the ministry of foreign affairs, where the head-quarters of the municipal police are established. during the whole of the journey thither, being closely pressed with questions by the commissary, the pretended tirobois continued his denials. upon being further interrogated at the ministry of foreign affairs, he replied, 'i have told you all i know about myself. do not ask me any more.' tirobois was then conveyed to the ministry of war, where he was confronted with a number of persons who were detained in custody. some of these declared that he was rossel, but others, the majority, denied that he was the communist ex-general. about o'clock at night the prisoner was formally questioned as to his history. when the customary question, 'what is the name of your mother?' was put, he became confused, turned red, and, suddenly springing up, exclaimed, 'why carry on this pretence any longer. of what good is this acting and these lies. yes, i am colonel rossel.' after this avowal the prisoner was removed under escort to the dépôt of the prefecture. upon being searched there was found f. in notes, a political article, and a longitudinal section of the different public monuments in paris. the next day he was taken to versailles and lodged at the grandes Écuries. his real description is louis nathaniel rossel, born at st. brieuc (côtes du nord), september , , of louis and of sarah campbell. the _figaro_ states that the artist courbet was captured at the house of one of his friends, a pianoforte maker in the rue st. gilles. he was concealed behind a bedstead, and, upon being threatened with a revolver, gave himself up without attempting resistance. the destruction at the gobelins has not been so extensive as had been apprehended. only a small portion of the buildings has been burnt, and work has already been resumed in the parts which have been spared. even in those rooms which have been destroyed not all the works of art have been lost, and especially the "dead christ" after philippes de champagne, and the portrait of louis xiv, after rigault, have been saved. the collection of ancient patterns has also been preserved. june th some disquieting rumours about the condition of la villette have caused the troops quartered there to be strongly reinforced; nevertheless, perfect tranquility so far prevails. business is greatly improving, orders for _articles de paris_ coming in pretty freely, and the fine weather bringing increasing crowds of visitors. some further important arrests have been made, including urbain, alleged to have been the principal instigator of the massacre of the hostages. june th. paris is rapidly resuming its old appearance. the cafés and concerts in the champs Élysées recommence to-morrow, and various theatres are re-opening. june th. people, in france, are discussing the causes of the late insurrection, and measuring the consideration to which the insurgents, whether as rebels or refugees, are justly entitled. that the tendency of opinion should be strongly against the communists is natural, for the justification of their revolt appears difficult, while their last acts have excited universal abhorrence. it is, indeed, perfectly true that they had no grievance against the government which they defied, for though, perhaps, the national assembly might not have voted for a republic, no republic which could have been voted by any assembly of frenchmen would have satisfied the insurgents of paris. the political leanings of the assembly may be put out of the question in searching for the origin of the civil war. that war was hatched in the brooding minds of parisian workmen, intent on one single object, and it became practicable when the revolution of september last put arms in their hands and the capitulation of february left them there still. the one fixed idea of the workmen of paris was that work entitled them to something more than wages. they had so long and so intently contemplated the relations between labour and capital that they knew nothing of any other elements of human society, or of any other classes beyond employers and employed. they saw that a hundred workmen got their five francs a day each, and that the single person who hired them got his thousands a year. we are not aware that, as a rule, they were ill-paid or overworked, or in any way oppressed. we should infer rather that they were in the receipt of good wages, that they possessed education as well as skill, and that they had leisure enough and to spare for discussion and thought. the misfortune was that they thought of one subject only, until at last their conceptions grew actually monstrous. it was not all at once that they reached the doctrines recently declared. there is a wide difference between the ideas of and those of . at the latter period the labourer was held simply to be worthy of his hire, and nothing was proposed beyond such an organization of labour as would insure a constant supply of work for all who wanted it, at wages determined rather by considerate adjustment than unrestricted competition. but the men of the commune had advanced far ahead of such old tories of socialism and democracy as ledru rollin and louis blanc. still occupied with the one single prospect of their daily life, and regarding the relations between capital and labour as the be-all and end-all of existence, they had reached the conclusion that all capital should be transferred bodily to themselves; that they alone ought to constitute society, that all other classes should be dispossessed as worthless, and all established institutions abolished as effete. they began their demolition with the nation itself. they would have no nation, no france, no french government. they renounced not only all kings and emperors, but all presidents, all conventions, and all parliaments, the latter especially. in the place of such authorities they proposed to substitute committees of working men, and to cut up the country into such areas as trade unions might conveniently govern. for their own particular union they thought paris might serve well enough, and so they stipulated for their own sovereignty within these limits under the title of the commune. on those terms--every other species of authority and power being excluded--they believed they could put into practice their one idea of turning their own little world upside down and making the working class everything and other classes nothing. as they never looked beyond their own workshops, they considered that none but working people had ever done any duties or suffered any wrongs, and that no others, therefore, were entitled to any rights. the one object of their hatred, envy, and antagonism was capital, and they resolved to take capital into their own hands. for the future they would lead easy lives, and be the lords instead of the slaves of their old and detested enemy. in those pretensions and those desires originated the revolution just suppressed. the war thus undertaken was a civil war, conducted without the least respect to any laws of war at all. the flight of the government left the entire capital not only with all its resources, but with all its treasures and all its inhabitants, in the hands of the insurgents. with these advantages they preferred their demands. they asked for the capital of france to be delivered over to them as an estate or province within which they might proscribe the worship of god, appropriate every form of capital, and depose all authority and all ranks in favour of their own. failing this, and in the event of their being defeated in the actual war, they asked for amnesty and liberty to depart. at first they reckoned on victory, for the assembly appeared disorganized and its armies wavering; the support of other great towns was anticipated, and the outlaws of every country in europe--the veterans of the universal revolution--had carried their swords to the service of its latest and ripest expression--the parisian commune. moreover, they had tremendous means of extortion in their hands. they held possession of all that was precious and admirable in the capital of france, and they declared that, if they were neither allowed to prevail nor permitted to escape, they would spare nothing in their vengeance. in preparation for the worst they stored combustibles in the noblest edifices of the city, and then, laying their hands on some of the most eminent and venerated of its inhabitants, they penned them in a body for the contingency of prospective slaughter. they had no more personal animosity against monseigneur darboy than against any statue in the tuileries or the louvre. animate and inanimate objects were marked for destruction on precisely the same grounds--the necessity of putting stress upon the enemy; and the threat was actually executed because its execution might improve the effect of terrorism another day. of laws or of rules of war these men took not the slightest account. the military leaders of the insurrection had been trained in combats where every imaginable expedient had been held lawful, and the committee of the international thought no price too high for the realization of their fixed idea. soldiers and workmen alike were prepared for any extremity of outrage either in pursuit of victory or prosecution of revenge. such was the cause and such the conduct of this two months' war; but a war, nevertheless, it was, waged by a political insurrection on behalf of a political object. it is very true that the insurgents aimed at no form of polity known to the world, and that it would have been impossible to content them by any measure of civil freedom or political rights. their chief and most peremptory demand was, not for any rights of their own, but for the suppression of the rights of others. they denounced the extension of the suffrage to the rural population, and, as they were in a very small minority themselves, they protested against the right of any majority to outvote them, though they were preparing all the while to impose their own will on a constituency of ten times their number. such are my summary reflections concerning that gigantic insurrection. now, my dear, that i have brought my daily correspondence to an end, happy shall i be, if such as may happen to read my small volume can find the perusal of it as interesting as you told it was to you. i don't expect to stay much longer abroad: i shall soon return to england but quite heart-rent at what my eyes have witnessed, and notwithstanding my admiration for the noble qualities of the french nation, more than once, i fear, i shall not be able to refrain exclaiming: _poor france!_ the end. historical informations about the principal buildings burnt the palais royal, built on the site of cardinal richelieu's palace, faces the louvre, and adjoins the place des victoires. given by louis xiv, to his brother the duke of orleans, it passed from him to the regent duke. here, but not in the existing edifice, the regent and his daughter held their incredible orgies; here lived his grandson egalité, who rebuilt the palace after a fire, and relieved his embarrassments by erecting the ranges of shops. the palais royal gardens were the nursery of the first revolution; they were the favourite resort of camille desmoulins and the other mob orators not yet sitting in convention; and in them was unfurled, on the th of july, , that tricolour flag which was to prove even a deadlier symbol than the red and white roses plucked once for england's woe in our own temple-gardens. at the palais royal egalité hatched the plots which ended in his execution, when it was disposed of by lottery, to be bought back, repaired, and beautified by the orleans family after the restoration, and inhabited by them till the second death of the monarchy, in , removed them to the tuileries. in the palace was plundered and the interior destroyed by the mob, who at the same time burnt louis philippe's fine library. the palais was turned into a barrack, but when the new republic developed into an empire, it naturally changed back again into a palace. the emperor made it over to his uncle jerome, who left it to prince napoleon, by whom it was fitted up in sumptuous style. the great staircase and its balustrades and the galerie des fêtes were fine in art and in general effect, but nothing that may have been destroyed can be half so great a loss as the library which went in , or as the hôtel de ville, a magnificent structure, dating in part from . the additions of to this municipal palace cost , _l_., and some of the saloons were the most gorgeous in paris, perhaps in the world. here in the days gone by, the prefect of the seine was wont to entertain his , guests in the great gallery, with its gilt corinthian columns and , wax lights, the whole suite of rooms measuring more than , yards in length. in and about the building were some statues of french celebrities, from charlemagne to louis xiv, in a full-bottomed wig. painting, gilding, carving, glass, and velvet here had done their utmost, and as a specimen of magnificence in the modern french taste the furniture and decorations of the hôtel de ville were unrivalled. the building, however, was far from depending altogether on its sumptuous upholstery. not only was the architecture worthy of all praise and the art of much of the decoration as intrinsic as its gold, but here had been enacted many famous and infamous scenes in the history of paris. here the first commune held its bloody sittings; here robespierre took refuge with his partisans, and was found by the soldiers with his broken jaw; the "citizen king" was presented here to the people by lafayette from a central window; here the soldiers were quartered in ; and here in was the stronghold of the last commune, less bloody in its life but more desperate in its death than the first. the palais de justice is a vast pile, which includes the sainte chapelle, numerous courts of law, and the prison of the conciergerie. anciently the site of palaces inhabited by the kings down to francis i., afterwards the meeting place of the parliaments of paris, it has been repaired and rebuilt since at a cost of nearly , , _l_. the courts of law open from the vast but inelegant salle des pas perdus, which answers to our westminster-hall. one of these courts was the chamber of the tribunal revolutionnaire, and communicated by a small door with the conciergerie prison. in the precincts of the palais stands, or stood, the sainte chapelle, an exquisite specimen on a small scale of the best style of gothic architecture. the chapelle was finished in , having been built by pierre de montereau to enshrine the thorns of our lord's crown and the wood of the cross, relics bought for an immense sum from the emperor baldwin by st. louis, and carried through the streets of paris by the king barefoot. in the sainte chapelle became a club, then a corn store, then a record office; louis philippe commenced its restoration, and up to the fall of the empire about , , f. had been spent upon it. it is in two stories, corresponding with the floors of the ancient palace; the lower chapel, or crypt, was intended for the servants, the upper, on a level with the royal apartments, for the royal family. the glass is exquisite, and the statues of the twelve apostles date from the th century, and are admirable specimens of the art of their age. a small square hole to the south of the nave communicates with a room in which louis xi was wont to sit and hear mass without fear of assassination. grand-hotel _ , boulevard des capucines, ._ * * * * * reopening =after entire restoration.= * * * * * the new direction of the grand-hotel has greatly reduced the prices. the price for service will be no more charged to travellers. = rooms and drawing-rooms= very comfortably furnished, from francs a day, service included. * * * * * =table d'hote= breakfasts--at francs, wine included, every day from a.m. till p.m. dinners--at francs, wine included, every day at p.m. precisely. * * * * * meals by the card. * * * * * special service at med price. including the lodging, fuel, light, service and food, with choice to take the meals in the apartments, in the restaurant, or at the table d'hôte: st class-- frs. sh. d. d d° -- » » » d d° -- » » » opposite the new opera grande brasserie.--grand brewery english ales,--dutch beer coffee-house.--eating-house _breakfasts at fr. ( shil.).--dinners at fr. and à la carte (bill of fare)_ , boulevard haussman =the most comfortable in paris= * * * * * cabourg-dives grand hotel de la plage establishment for bathing situated in the most luxuriant and salubrious country in normandy splendid casino.--rooms for theatrical performances * * * * * =dieppe= hotel royal on the plage the most comfortable kept by mme lafosse * * * * * =caen= hotel de la victoire near the cathedral _kept by mr beuzelin_ * * * * * wine and spirits j. chaigneau and co _ and , rue doidy_ =bordeaux= appointed to supply h.m. the king of sweden and norway * * * * * caen. typ. f. le blac-hardel. rollo in paris, by jacob abbott. boston: w. j. reynolds and company, no. cornhill, . entered, according to act of congress, in the year , by jacob abbott, in the clerk's office of the district court of the district of massachusetts. stereotyped at the boston stereotype foundry. g. c. rand book and wood cut printer. [illustration: restaurant (café) on the boulevards. page .] [illustration: rollo's tour in europe.] rollo's tour in europe. order of the volumes. rollo on the atlantic. rollo in paris. rollo in switzerland. rollo in london. rollo on the rhine. rollo in scotland. principal persons of the story. rollo; twelve years of age. mr. and mrs. holiday; rollo's father and mother, travelling in europe. thanny; rollo's younger brother. jane; rollo's cousin, adopted by mr. and mrs. holiday. mr. george; a young gentleman, rollo's uncle. contents. chapter page i.--the arrangements, ii.--crossing the channel, iii.--journey to paris, iv.--the garden of the tuileries, v.--the elysian fields, vi.--a great mistake, vii.--carlos, viii.--the garden of plants, ix.--an excursion, x.--rollo's narrative, xi.--conclusion, engravings. frontispiece. page the dinner at new haven, entering dieppe, the arrival, the obelisk, the hippodrome, the restaurant, singing in the open air, performance on the boulevards, rollo in paris. chapter i. the arrangements. gentlemen and ladies at the hotels, in london, generally dine about six or seven o'clock, each party or family by themselves, in their own private parlor. one evening, about eight o'clock, just after the waiter had removed the cloth from the table where rollo's father and mother, with rollo himself and his cousin jennie, had been dining, and left the table clear, mr. holiday rose, and walked slowly and feebly--for he was quite out of health, though much better than he had been--towards a secretary which stood at the side of the room. "now," said he, "we will get out the map and the railway guide, and see about the ways of getting to france." rollo and jennie were at this time at the window, looking at the vehicles which were passing by along the strand. the strand is a street of london, and one of the most lively and crowded of them all. as soon as rollo heard his father say that he was going to get the map and the railway guide, he said to jane,-- "let's go and see." so they both went to the table, and there, kneeling up upon two cushioned chairs which they brought forward for the purpose, they leaned over upon the table where their father was spreading out the map, and thus established themselves very comfortably as spectators of the proceedings. "children," said mr. holiday, "do you come here to listen, or to talk?" "to listen," said rollo. "o, very well," said mr. holiday; "then i am glad that you have come." in obedience to this intimation, rollo and jane took care not to interrupt mr. holiday even to ask a question, but looked on and listened very patiently and attentively for nearly half an hour, while he pointed out to mrs. holiday the various routes, and ascertained from the guide books the times at which the trains set out, and the steamers sailed, for each of them, and also the cost of getting to paris by the several lines. if the readers of this book were themselves actually in london, and were going to paris, as rollo and jennie were, they would be interested, perhaps, in having all this information laid before them in full detail. as it is, however, all that will be necessary, probably, is to give such a general statement of the case as will enable them to understand the story. by looking at any map of europe, it will be seen that england is separated from france by the english channel, a passage which, though it looks quite narrow on the map, is really very wide, especially toward the west. the narrowest place is between dover and calais, where the distance across is only about twenty-two miles. this narrow passage is called the straits of dover. it would have been very convenient for travellers that have to pass between london and paris if this strait had happened to lie in the line, or nearly in the line, between these two cities; but it does not. it lies considerably to the eastward of it; so that, to cross the channel at the narrowest part, requires that the traveller should take quite a circuit round. to go by the shortest distance, it is necessary to cross the channel at a place where dieppe is the harbor, on the french side, and new haven on the english. there are other places of crossing, some of which are attended with one advantage, and others with another. in some, the harbors are not good, and the passengers have to go off in small boats, at certain times of tide, to get to the steamers. in others, the steamers leave only when the tide serves, which may happen to come at a very inconvenient hour. in a word, it is always quite a study with tourists, when they are ready to leave london for paris, to determine by which of the various lines it will be best for their particular party, under the particular circumstances in which they are placed, to go. after ascertaining all the facts very carefully, and all the advantages and disadvantages of each particular line, mr. holiday asked his wife what she thought they had better do. "the cheapest line is by the way of new haven," said mrs. holiday. "that's of no consequence, i think, now," said mr. holiday. "the difference is not very great." "for our whole party, it will make four or five pounds," said mrs. holiday. "well," said mr. holiday, "i am travelling to recover my health, and every thing must give way to that. if i can only get well, i can earn money fast enough, when i go home, to replace what we expend. the only question is, which way will be the pleasantest and the most comfortable?" "then," said mrs. holiday, "i think we had better go by the way of dover and calais, where we have the shortest passage by sea." "i think so too," said mr. holiday; "so that point is settled." "father," said rollo, "i wish you would let jennie and me go to paris by ourselves alone, some other way." the reader who has perused the narrative of rollo's voyage across the atlantic will remember that, through a very peculiar combination of circumstances, he was left to make that voyage under his own charge, without having any one to take care of him. he was so much pleased with the result of that experiment, and was so proud of his success in acting as jennie's protector, that he was quite desirous of trying such an experiment again. "o, no!" said his father. "why, father, i got along well enough in coming over," replied rollo. "true," said his father; "and if any accident, or any imperious necessity, should lead to your setting out for paris without any escort, i have no doubt that you would get through safely. but it is one thing for a boy to be put into such a situation by some unforeseen and unexpected contingency, and quite another thing for his father deliberately to form such a plan for him." rollo looked a little disappointed, but he did not reply. in fact, he felt that his father was right. "but i'll tell you," added mr. holiday. "if your uncle george is willing to go by some different route from ours, you may go with him." "and jennie?" inquired rollo. "why! jennie?" repeated mr. holiday, hesitating. "let me think. yes, jennie may go with you, if she pleases, if her mother is willing." jennie always called mrs. holiday her mother, although she was really her aunt. "are you willing, mother," asked rollo, very eagerly. mrs. holiday was at a loss what to say. she was very desirous to please rollo, and at the same time she wished very much to have jennie go with her. however, she finally decided the question by saying that jennie might go with whichever party she pleased. rollo's uncle george had not been long in england. he had come out from america some time after rollo himself did, so that rollo had not travelled with him a great deal. mr. george was quite young, though he was a great deal older than rollo--too old to be much of a companion for his nephew. rollo liked him very much, because he was always kind to him; but there was no very great sympathy between them, for mr. george was never much interested in such things as would please a boy. besides, he was always very peremptory and decisive, though always just, in his treatment of rollo, whenever he had him under his charge. rollo was, however, very glad when his father consented that he and his uncle george might go to paris together. mr. george was out that day, and he did not come home until rollo had gone to bed. rollo, however, saw him early the next morning, and told him what his father had said. "well," said mr. george, after hearing his story, "and what do you propose that we should do?" "i propose that you, and jennie, and i should go by the way of new haven and dieppe," replied rollo. "why?" said mr. george. "you see it is cheaper that way," said rollo. "we can go that way for twenty-four shillings. it costs two and three pounds by the other ways." "that's a consideration," said mr. george. "for the pound you would save," said rollo, "you could buy a very handsome book in paris." rollo suggested these considerations because he had often heard his uncle argue in this way before. he had himself another and a secret reason why he wished to go by the new haven route; but we are all very apt, when giving reasons to others, to present such as we think will influence them, and not those which really influence us. mr. george looked into the guide book at the pages which rollo pointed out, and found that it was really as rollo had said. "well," said he, "i'll go that way with you." so that was settled, too. a short time after this conversation, rollo's father and mother, and also jennie, came in. mr. holiday rang the bell for the waiter to bring up breakfast. jennie, when she found that it was really decided that her father and mother were to go one way, and her uncle george and rollo another, was quite at a loss to determine which party she herself should join. she thought very justly that there would probably be more incident and adventure to be met with in going with rollo; but then, on the other hand, she was extremely unwilling to be separated from her mother. she stood by her mother's side, leaning toward her in an attitude of confiding and affectionate attachment, while the others were talking about the details of the plan. "i rather think there is one thing that you have forgotten," said mr. holiday, "and which, it strikes me, is a decided objection to your plan; and that is, that the steamer for to-morrow, from new haven, leaves at midnight." "that's the very reason why i wanted to go that way," said rollo. "why, rollo!" exclaimed his mother. "yes, mother," said rollo. "there would be so much fun in setting out at midnight. think, jennie!" added rollo, addressing his cousin, "we should sit up till midnight! and then to see all the people going on board by the light of lanterns and torches. i wonder if there'll be a moon. let's look in the almanac, and see if there'll be a moon." "but, george," said mrs. holiday, "you will not wish to set off at midnight. i think you had better change your plan, after all." but mr. george did not seem to think that the midnight departure of the boat was any objection to the new haven plan. he had noticed that that was the time set for leaving new haven the next night, and he thought that, on the whole, the arrangement would suit his plans very well. he would have a good long evening to write up his journal, which he said was getting rather behindhand. the water, too, would be more likely to be smooth in the night, so that there would be less danger of seasickness. besides, he thought that both rollo and himself would become very sleepy by sitting up so late, and so would fall directly to sleep as soon as they got into their berths on board the steamer, and sleep quietly till they began to draw near to the coast of france. the distance across the channel, at that point, was such, that the steamer, in leaving at midnight, would not reach dieppe till five or six o'clock the next morning. accordingly, the arrangements were all made for rollo's departure the next day, with his uncle george, for new haven. jennie finally decided to go with her father and mother. the idea of sailing at midnight determined her; for such an adventure, attractive as it was in rollo's eyes, seemed quite formidable in hers. rollo had a very pleasant ride to new haven, amusing himself all the way with the beauties of english scenery and the continual novelties that every where met his eye. when they at last arrived at new haven, they found that the harbor consisted merely of a straight, artificial canal, cut in from the sea, where probably some small stream had originally issued. the sides of this harbor were lined with piers, and on one of the piers was a great hotel, forming a part, as it were, of the railway station. there were a few houses and other buildings near, but there was no town to be seen. the railway was on one side of the hotel, and the water was on the other. when the train stopped, one of the railway servants opened the door for mr. george and rollo to get out, and mr. george went directly into the hotel to make arrangements for rooms and for dinner, while rollo, eager to see the ships and the water, went through the house to the pier on the other side. he found that there was a pretty broad space on the pier, between the hotel and the water, with a shed upon it for merchandise, and extra tracks for freight trains. the water was quite low in the harbor, and the few vessels that were lying at the pier walls were mostly grounded in the mud. there was one steamboat lying opposite the hotel, but it was down so low that, at first, rollo could only see the top of the smoke-pipe. rollo went to the brink of the pier and looked down. the steamer appeared very small. it was painted black. there were very few people on board. rollo had a great mind to go on board himself, as there was a plank leading down from the pier to the top of the paddle box. but it looked rather steep, and so rollo concluded to postpone going on board till mr. george should come out with him after dinner. rollo looked about upon the pier a few minutes, and then went into the hotel. he passed through a spacious hall, and then through a passage way, from which he could look into a large room, the sides of which were formed of glass, so that the people who were in the room could see out all around them. the front of the room looked out upon the pier, the back side upon the passage way. a third side was toward the vestibule, and the fourth toward the coffee room. there were shelves around this room, within, and tables, and desks, and people going to and fro there. in fact, it seemed to be the office of the hotel. rollo advanced to one of the openings that was toward the passage way, and asked which was the way to the coffee room. the girl pointed to the door which led to it, and rollo went in. he found a large and beautiful room, with several tables set for dinner in different parts of it, and sideboards covered with silver, and glasses against the walls. on one side there were several large and beautiful windows, which looked out upon the pier, and opposite to each of these windows was a small dinner table, large enough, however, for two persons. mr. george had taken one of these tables, and when rollo came in he was sitting near it, reading a newspaper. "come, rollo," said he, "i have ordered dinner, and we shall just have time to arrange our accounts while they are getting it ready." so saying, mr. george took out his pocket book, and also a small pocket inkstand, and a pen, and put them all upon the table. "your father's plan," he continued, "is this: he is to pay all expenses of transportation, at the same rate that he pays for himself; so that, whatever you save by travelling in cheap ways, is your own." "yes," said rollo, smiling, "i mean to walk sometimes, and save it all." "he is also to pay the expense of your lodgings." "yes," said rollo. "generally, of course, you will have lodgings with him, but sometimes you will be away from him; as, for instance, to-night. in such cases, i pay for your lodgings, on your father's account." "yes," said rollo, "i understand that." "he also pays the expense of all casualties." "so he said," replied rollo; "but i don't understand what he means by that, very well." "why, you may meet with accidents that will cost money to repair, or get into difficulties which will require money to get out of. for instance, you may lose your ticket, and so have to pay twice over; or you may get lost yourself, in paris, and so have to hire a man with a carriage to bring you home. for all such things, the money is not to come from your purse. your father will pay." "suppose it is altogether my fault," said rollo. "then i think i ought to pay." "but your father said that he was sure you would not be to blame for such accidents; though i think he is mistaken there. i have no doubt, myself, that nearly all the accidents that will happen to you will come from boyish heedlessness and blundering on your part." "we'll see," said rollo. "yes," said mr. george, "we'll see." "then, as to your board," continued mr. george, "your father said that you might do as you pleased about that. he would pay it, or you might, and be allowed five francs a day for it." "five francs is about a dollar, is it not?" asked rollo. "yes," replied mr. george, "very nearly. but you had better not reckon by dollars, now, at all, but by francs altogether. that's a franc." so saying, mr. george took a silver coin out of his pocket, and showed it to rollo. it was nearly as large as a quarter of a dollar, or an english shilling, but not quite. a quarter of a dollar is worth twenty-five cents, an english shilling twenty-four, and a franc about twenty cents. "you can have five of those a day to pay your own board with." "and how much would it cost me at a boarding house, in paris, to pay my board?" asked rollo. "why, we don't board at boarding houses in paris," said mr. george. "we have rooms at a hotel, and then we get breakfast and dinner wherever we please, at coffee rooms and dining rooms all over the city, wherever we happen to be, or wherever we take a fancy to go. you can get a very excellent breakfast for a franc and a half. a beefsteak, or an omelet, and bread and butter and coffee." "that's enough for breakfast," said rollo. "and then, dinner?" "you can get a first-rate dinner for two francs, or even less. that makes three francs and a half." "and tea?" "they never take tea in paris," said mr. george. "the french don't take tea." "why not?" asked rollo. "i don't know," replied mr. george, "unless it is because the english _do_. whatever is done in london, you generally find that just the contrary is done in paris." "don't we have any thing, then, after dinner?" asked rollo. "yes," said mr. george. "the french generally go and take a seat at a little round table on the sidewalk, and have a little glass of brandy and a cigar." here rollo threw his head back, and laughed loud and long. he was greatly amused at the idea of his making an allowance, in calculating how far his five francs would go, for a glass of brandy and a cigar. mr. george himself, sedate as he was, could not but smile. "the fact is," said he, at length, "there are only two meals to calculate for, and they will not cost, upon an average, more than three francs and a half, if we are prudent and economical, and go to plain and not expensive places. but then there is the immense amount that you will be always wishing to spend for cakes, and candy, and oranges, and nuts, and bonbons of all sorts and kinds. there is an endless variety of such things in paris. you will find half a dozen cake shops in every street, with fifty different kinds of gingerbread and cake in them, all of the richest and most delicious description." "yes," said rollo, "i shall want some of those things." "no doubt," said mr. george, "you will make yourself sick eating them, i'll venture to say, before you have been in paris twenty-four hours." "no," said rollo, shaking his head resolutely; "and i think i had better take the five francs and pay my own board." "very well," said mr. george, "and that provides for every thing except incidentals. your father said that i might pay you five francs a day for incidentals and pocket money. that is to include all your personal expenses of every kind, except what we have already provided for. there will be excursions, and tickets to concerts and shows, and carriage hire, and toys that you will want to buy, and all such things. the amount of it is, that your father pays all your expenses for transportation, for lodging, and for casualties. you pay every thing else, and are allowed ten francs a day for it. i am to be treasurer, and to have the whole charge of your funds, except so far as i find it prudent and safe to intrust them to you, and you are to buy nothing at all against my consent." "nothing at all?" asked rollo. "no," said mr. george, "nothing at all. you are not to expend a single centime in any way that i object to." "what is a centime?" asked rollo. "it is of the value of less than one fourth of a cent," replied mr. george. "but i should think i might buy such little things as that would come to, of myself," said rollo. "suppose i should wish to buy a small piece of gingerbread for a cent." "say for a sou,"[a] replied mr. george. "there are no cents in paris." [a] pronounced _soo_. "well," rejoined rollo, "suppose i should wish to spend a _sou_ for gingerbread, and eat it, and you should object to it." "very well," replied mr. george; "and suppose you were to wish to spend a sou for poison, and drink it." "but i should not be likely to buy poison," said rollo, laughing. "nor should i be likely to object to your buying gingerbread," rejoined mr. george. "a boy, however, may, it is clear, do mischief with a little money as well as with a great deal; and, therefore, the power in his guardian should be absolute and entire. at any rate, so it is in this case. if i see fit to forbid your expending a single sou for any thing whatever, i can, and you will have no remedy till we see your father again; and then you can ask him to put you under some other person's care. until he does this, however, the control is absolute and entire in my hands. i would not take charge of a boy on any other terms." "well," said rollo, "i agree to it." "and now," said mr. george, "i am ready to begin your account." mr. george then took a small account book from his pocket book as he said this, and, opening it at the beginning, he wrote across the top of the two pages which came together the words, _rollo holiday, in account with his father._ on the corner of the left-hand page he wrote dr., which stands for debtor; and on that of the right-hand page, cr., which stands for creditor. "there," said he, "now i shall enter, from time to time, on the creditor side, all the money that becomes due to you; and on the debtor side, all that i pay to you. then, by striking a balance, we can always tell how much of your money there is in my hands. "let me see," continued mr. george. "your father and mother concluded finally to go by the way of folkstone. the fare that way is two pound eleven. this way, it is one pound four. i am to pay you the difference. the difference is one pound seven; and one pound seven, in francs, is--let me see how much." mr. george made a calculation with a pencil and paper, and found that it amounted to thirty-three francs seventy-five centimes. "i don't understand reckoning by francs and centimes very well," said rollo. "no," replied mr. george, "that is your misfortune; and you'll have to bear it as well as you can till you get out of it." so mr. george entered the francs--thirty-three seventy-five--in rollo's book. "you have got thirty-three francs to begin with," said he; "that's a pretty good stock. "now, there is your allowance of ten francs per day. i will enter that weekly. there are three days in this week, including to-day and sunday. that makes thirty francs." so mr. george entered the thirty francs. "there," said he, "the whole amount due you up to monday morning is sixty-three francs seventy-five centimes. that is sixty-three francs and three fourths. a hundred centimes make a franc. "and now," continued mr. george, "i will make you a payment, so as to put you in funds, and that must be put down on the other side. how much would you like?" "i don't know," said rollo; "a few francs, i suppose." "have you got a purse?" asked mr. george. "let me see it." so rollo took out a small leather bag which he had bought in london. "that's it," said mr. george. "i'll give you ten francs. when you want more, you can have it--that is, provided it is due to you." here mr. george rang a bell, and a waiter came in immediately. mr. george handed the waiter a sovereign, and asked him to get change for it in french money. the waiter took the money, and presently came in with five five-franc pieces. these he presented very respectfully to mr. george. mr. george took two of them and gave them to rollo. the others he put into his own pocket. the five-franc pieces were very bright and new, and they were of about the size of silver dollars. rollo was very much pleased with his portion, and put them in his purse, quite proud of having so much spending money. "and you say that i must not spend any of it without first asking you," said rollo. "o, no," replied mr. george, "i have not said any such thing. that would be a great deal of trouble, both for you and for me." "but i thought you said that i was not to spend any thing without your consent." [illustration: the dinner at new haven.] "no," said mr. george, "i said _against_ my consent. i may forbid your spending whenever i think proper; but i shall not do so, so long as i find you always ask me in doubtful cases. spend for yourself freely, whenever you are sure it is right. when you are not sure, ask me. if i find you abuse the privilege, i shall have to restrict you. otherwise, not." rollo was well satisfied with this understanding of the case; and just then the waiter came in, bearing a handsome silver tureen containing soup, which he put down upon the table, between mr. george and rollo. so the writing materials and the purses were put away, and the two travellers were soon occupied very busily in eating their dinner. chapter ii. crossing the channel. mr. holiday had two reasons for making the arrangements described in the last chapter, in respect to rollo's expenses. in the first place, it would gratify rollo himself, who would feel more independent, and more like a man, he thought, in being allowed thus, in some measure, to have the charge and control of his own expenditures. but his second and principal reason was, that he might accustom his son, in early life, to bear pecuniary responsibilities, and to exercise judgment and discretion in the use of money. many young men never have any training of this sort till they become of age. before that time, whenever they wish for money, they go to their father and ask for it. they take all they can get; and when that is gone, they go and ask for more. they have no direct personal motive for exercising prudence and economy, and they have no experience of the evils that result from thriftlessness and prodigality. it is much better for all children that they should have pecuniary responsibilities, such as are suited to their years, thrown upon them in their youth, when the mistakes they make in acquiring their experience are of little moment. the same mistakes made after they become of age might be their ruin. in carrying the system into effect in rollo's case, there seemed to be something very abrupt, at least, if not positively harsh, in mr. george's mode of dealing with him. and yet rollo did not dislike it. he felt that his uncle was treating him more like a man, on this account, or rather more like a large boy, and not like a child. in fact, a part of the rough handling which rollo got from his uncle was due to this very circumstance--mr. george having observed that he did not mind being knocked about a little. after dinner, rollo proposed to his uncle that they should go out and take a walk. "i will go with you a few minutes," said mr. george, "and then i must return to my room, and write up my journal." "say half an hour," rejoined rollo. "well," replied mr. george, "we will say half an hour." so they sallied forth upon the pier behind the hotel. mr. george took a general survey of the harbor, and of the vessels that were lying in it, and also of the peaks and headlands which were seen at the mouth of it, toward the sea. "i should like to be on that hill," said mr. george, "to look off over the channel, and see if i could discern the coast of france from it." "let's go there," said rollo. "that would take more than half an hour," replied mr. george. "well, at any rate, let's go on board the steamer," said rollo. so, taking mr. george by the hand, he led him along to the brink of the pier. mr. george looked over, and saw the steamer lying at rest in its muddy bed below. "is it possible?" said mr. george, in a tone of great astonishment. "can it be possible?" repeated mr. george. "what?" inquired rollo. "what is it that surprises you so much?" "why, to find such a steamer as this for the travel on one of the great thoroughfares between england and france. let's go down on board." so mr. george led the way, and rollo followed down the plank. the plank landed them on the top of the paddle box. from that place, a few steps led to the deck. they walked along the deck a short distance toward the stern, and there they found a door, and a small winding staircase leading down into the cabin. they descended these stairs, one before the other, for the space was not wide enough to allow of their going together; and when they reached the foot of them they found themselves in a small cabin, with one tier of berths around the sides. the cabin was not high enough for two. there were berths for about twenty or thirty passengers. the cabin was very neatly finished; and there was a row of cushioned seats around it, in front of the berths. in one corner, by the side of the door where mr. george and rollo had come in, was a small desk, with writing materials upon it. this rollo supposed must be the "captain's office." while mr. george sat surveying the scene, and mentally comparing this insignificant boat to the magnificent steamers on the hudson river, in america, with their splendid and capacious cabins on three different decks, their promenade saloons, sometimes one hundred and fifty feet long, with ranges of elegant state rooms on either hand, and sofas, and couches, and _tête-à-têtes_ without number, in the middle, his perplexity increased. "i do not understand it at all," said he to rollo. "i thought that there would at least be as much travelling between london and paris, the two greatest cities in the world, as between new york and albany. and yet there are half a dozen steamers every day on the north river, carrying from five hundred to one thousand passengers; while here, on the most direct and cheapest route between london and paris, is one single steamer, that could not possibly carry one hundred passengers, and she only goes once in two days." just then a young man, who seemed to be the clerk of the boat, came down the cabin stairs, and, seeing mr. george and rollo there, he asked them if they had taken their berths. they said that they had not; but they immediately proceeded to choose their berths, or rather their _places_, for there were no divisions separating the sleeping-places from each other except what was formed by the cushions. there was a long cushion for each sleeper, covered with crimson velvet or plush; and a round cushion, shaped like a bolster, and covered in the same way, for his head. on these cushions the passengers were expected to lie down without undressing, placing themselves in a row, head to head, and feet to feet. mr. george chose two of these sleeping-places, one for himself, and the other for rollo, and the clerk marked them with a ticket. our two travellers then went up on deck again, and from the deck they ascended the plank to the pier. it was now nearly sunset, and it was a very pleasant evening. they sauntered slowly along the pier, until they came to a place where some steps led down to the water. there were several small boats at the foot of the steps, and in one of them was a man doing something to the rudder. rollo saw that on the other side of the water was another long staircase leading down from the bank there, so as to form a landing-place for small boats at all times of tide. he also looked up and down the harbor, but he could see no bridge, and so he supposed that this must be a sort of ferry for the people who wished to cross from one side to the other. as soon as the man who was in the boat saw mr. george and rollo standing upon the pier, he rose up in his boat, and touching his hat at the same time, or rather making a sort of jerk with his hand, which was meant to represent a touch of the hat, he asked him if he would like to be rowed across to the other side. "why, i don't know," said mr. george. "what's the ferriage?" "that's just as the gentleman pleases," said the man, with another jerk at his hat. "and how much do they generally please?" said mr. george. "what's the common custom?" "o, gentlemen gives us what they likes," said the man. "we always leaves it to them entirely." mr. george was silent. after a moment's pause, the boatman said again,-- "would you like to go, sir? very nice boat." "not on those terms," said mr. george. "if you will tell me what the usual ferriage is, i can then tell you whether we wish to go or not." "well, sir," replied the man, "gentlemen usually gives us about twopence apiece." "twopence apiece. very well, we will go." mr. george did not wait to ask rollo whether he would like to go before he decided the question. he would have considered this a mere waste of time, for rollo was always ready to go, no matter where. so they got into the boat, and were rowed across the water. they ascended the stairs on the other side, and walked a little way in a smooth road which led along the bank. rollo wished to go farther; but mr. george said that his time had expired, and that he must go back. "but you may stay," said he to rollo, "as long as you please, provided that you come back before dark." rollo was much pleased with this permission, as he wished to go to the top of the hill, at the outlet of the harbor, and look at the prospect. he promised to return before dark. "have you any change," said mr. george, "to pay your ferriage back?" "no," said rollo, "i have nothing but my five-franc pieces." "then i will lend you twopence," said mr. george. "you can pay me the first change you get in france." "but i cannot get any pennies in france," said rollo. "true," said mr. george; "you will get sous there. you must pay me four sous. a penny is equal to two sous. "i will pay your bill at the hotel, too," continued mr. george, "as i suppose they will make out yours and mine together, and you can pay me your share to-morrow, when we land. here is your ticket, however. you must take charge of that." "but suppose i lose it?" asked rollo. "then you will have to pay over again," said mr. george; "that is all. you will lose about twenty francs; unless, indeed," he continued, "your father should call it a casualty." so mr. george went back to the boat, and rollo continued his walk, thinking on the way of the question which his uncle had suggested, whether his father would consider the loss of his ticket a casualty or not. he determined, however, very resolutely, that he would not lose it; and so he put it away safely in his wallet, and then went on. the road was very smooth and pleasant to walk in, being bordered by green fields on the one hand, and the water of the harbor on the other. rollo came at length to the hill. there were successive terraces, with houses built upon them, on the sides of the hill, and paths leading to the summit. rollo had a fine view of the sea, and of the vessels and steamers which were passing slowly in the offing, on their way up and down the channel; but though he looked long and eagerly for the coast of france, it was not to be seen. rollo rambled about the hill for a considerable time; for at that season of the year the twilight continued very long, and it did not become dark till quite late. when, at length, the shadows of the evening began to shut in upon the landscape, he returned to the ferry, and the ferryman rowed him back again to the hotel. it was now nearly nine o'clock, and, of course, three hours remained before the time of embarkation would arrive. rollo was not sorry for this, as he thought that there would be enough to amuse and occupy him all this time on and around the pier. his first duty, however, was to go and report himself to mr. george as having returned from his walk. this he did. he found his uncle very busy in his room, writing his journal. "now, rollo," said mr. george, "it is three hours before we are to leave. what are you going to do all that time?" "o, i shall find plenty to amuse myself with," said rollo. "very well," said mr. george. "you may play about wherever you are sure it is safe. don't go near the edge of the pier, unless there is somebody at hand to pull you out of the water with a boathook, if you fall in. amuse yourself as long as you can; and when you are tired of taking care of yourself, come to me, and i will tell you what to do." rollo, having received these instructions, left his uncle to his work, and went away. he descended the stairs, and went out upon the pier again, and after amusing himself, by examining every thing there, he concluded to go on board the steamer. a train of cars had arrived from london while he and his uncle had been on the other side of the water, and there were now several new passengers in the cabin, who were choosing and marking their berths, or talking together about the voyage. rollo thought that, in order to make sure that his ticket was all right, he would climb up into his berth and see; and then, when he was there, it seemed to him a very funny place to sleep in; so he laid down his head upon the round cushion to try it. while he was in this position, his attention was attracted by the sound of children's voices on the stairs, talking french. presently these children came into the cabin. their mother was with them. there were two of them, and they were not more than five or six years old. rollo was exceedingly astonished to hear such little children talk french so well. rollo listened to see if he could understand what they said. he had studied french himself for a year or two, and could say a great many things. in fact, he had been accustomed to consider himself quite a good french scholar. but he now found that all his acquisitions dwindled into utter insignificance, when compared with the power over the language possessed by those little girls. the french party did not remain very long in the cabin where rollo was, but passed at once through a door which led to a small ladies' cabin near. there were other persons, however, continually coming and going, and rollo was interested in watching their movements, and in listening to the fragments of conversation which he heard. he found his position very comfortable, too, and the sounds around him produced so lulling an effect, that, before long, he insensibly closed his eyes. in a word, in less than fifteen minutes after he climbed up into his berth to see what sort of a place it was, he had put it fully to the test of experiment, by going fast asleep in it. in about half an hour after this, mr. george, coming to the end of a paragraph in his journal, laid down his pen, drew a long breath, looked out the window, and then rang the bell. in a few minutes the chambermaid came. "mary," said he, "i wish to ask the porter to go out and look about on the pier, and in the packet, and see if he can see any thing of that boy that came with me." "very well, sir," said mary, with a quick courtesy; and she immediately disappeared. in about five minutes she came back, and said that the young master was in his berth in the packet, sound asleep. "very well," said mr. george, in his turn. "much obliged to you." he then went on with his writing. the first thing that rollo himself was conscious of, after falling asleep in his berth, was a feeling of some one pulling him gently by the shoulder. he opened his eyes, and saw before him a face that he did not exactly know, and yet it was not entirely strange. the man had his hand upon rollo's shoulder, and was endeavoring to wake him. "your ticket, if you please, sir." rollo stared wildly a minute, first at the man, and then about the cabin. it was night. lamps were burning, and the cabin was full of people. some were in their berths, some in groups on the seats, and one or two were just preparing to lie down. the engine was in motion, and the ship was evidently going fast through the water. in fact, the steamer was rocking and rolling as she went on, indicating that she was already far out at sea. "your ticket, if you please, sir," repeated the clerk. rollo glanced around to his uncle's berth, and there he saw his uncle lying quietly in his place, his head being on a cushion close to the one on which rollo's head had been lying. "uncle george," said rollo, "he wants my ticket." "well," said mr. george, without moving, "give him your ticket." rollo then recollected that he had his ticket in his wallet. so, after fumbling for a time in his pocket, he brought out his wallet, and produced the ticket, and handed it to the clerk. "thank you, sir," said the clerk, taking the ticket. at the same time he put two other tickets in rollo's wallet, in the place of the one which he had taken out. as he did this, he pointed to one of the small ones, saying,-- "that's for the landing." rollo shut up his wallet, and put it in his pocket. "a shilling, if you please," said the clerk. rollo had no shilling, and was still not much more than half awake. so he turned to his uncle again. "uncle george," said he, "he wants a shilling." "well, pay him a shilling, then," said mr. george. rollo now felt for his purse, and taking out one of his five-franc pieces, he gave it to the clerk, who, in return, gave him back a quantity of change. rollo attempted to count the change, but he soon perceived that his ideas of francs and shillings were all in confusion. so he turned the change all together into his purse, put the purse back into his pocket, lay his head down upon his cushion again, shut his eyes, and in one minute was once more fast asleep. some hours afterward he woke again, of his own accord. he opened his eyes and looked about him, and perceiving that it was morning, he climbed down from his berth, and then went up upon the deck. the coast of france was all before him, in full view, and the steamer was rapidly drawing near to it. he went to the bow of the vessel to get a nearer view. he saw directly before him a place where there were piers, and batteries, and other constructions indicating a town, while on either hand there extended long ranges of cliffs, with smooth, green slopes of land above, and broad, sandy shores below. in half an hour more the steamer arrived at the entrance of the harbor, which was formed of two long piers, built at a little distance from each other, and projecting quite into the sea. the steamer glided rapidly along between these high walls of stone, until, at length, it entered a broad basin, which was bordered by a continuation of these walls, and hemmed in on every side beyond the walls of the pier with ranges of the most quaint, and queer, and picturesque-looking buildings that rollo ever saw. [illustration: entering dieppe.] these buildings were not close to the pier, but were back far enough to leave room for a street between them and the water. such a street is called a _quay_.[b] quays are built in almost all the cities of europe where there are rivers or basins of water for shipping; and they are very pleasant streets to walk in, having usually large and elegant buildings on one side, and vessels and steamers on the other. [b] pronounced _kee_. by the time that the steamer had entered the port, almost all the passengers had come up from below, and mr. george among the rest. mr. george came, expecting to find that, as they were now about to land, the baggage would be brought out, and that the several passengers would be called upon to select their own. but there was no movement of this kind. the baggage had all been put down into the hold the night before, and now the hatches were still closed, and there seemed to be no signs of any preparation to open them. in the mean time, the steamer gradually drew near to the pier. the engine was stopped. ropes were thrown out. people in queer dresses, some of them soldiers, who were standing on the pier, caught the ropes and fastened them. the steamer was thus brought to her place and secured there. there was now, however, no rush to get on shore,--such as rollo had always been accustomed to witness on board an american steamer on her arrival,--but every thing was quiet and still. by and by a plank was laid. then the passengers were called upon to get out their tickets. then they began to walk over the plank, each one giving up his landing ticket as he passed. when mr. george and rollo reached the pier, they found, on looking around them, that they were not yet at liberty. on the opposite side of the quay was a building, with a sign over it, in french, meaning custom-house office for packet boats; and there were two long ropes stretched, one from the stem and the other from the stern of the steamer, to the opposite sides of the door of this building, so as to enclose a space on the quay, in front of the building, in such a manner as to hem the passengers in, and make it necessary for them to pass through the custom house. the ropes were guarded by soldiers, dressed in what seemed to rollo the queerest possible uniforms. they all talked french--even those who had talked english when they came on board the packet boat on the other side. "i can't understand a word they say," said rollo. "nor i," said mr. george; "but we can watch and see what they will do." it did not require long watching, for no sooner had mr. george said these words than he observed that the passengers were all going toward the door of the custom-house, and that, as they went, they were taking their passports out. nobody can enter france without a passport. a passport is a paper given to the traveller by his own government. this paper tells the traveller's name, describes his person, and requests that the french government will allow him to pass through their country. frenchmen themselves must have a passport too, though this is of a little different kind. all must have a passport of some kind or other, and all this machinery of ropes and soldiers was to make it sure that every one of the passengers had the proper document. the passengers accordingly took out their passports as they went into the custom-house door, and there passed, in single file, before an officer seated at a desk, who took them in turn, opened them, copied the names in his book, and then gave them back to the owners. mr. george and rollo followed on in the line. when their passports had been given back to them, they went on with the rest until they came out from the custom-house at another door, which brought them upon the quay outside of the ropes. "what's to be done next?" said rollo. "i am sure i don't know," said mr. george, "i suppose we shall see." there was an omnibus standing near, marked, "for the iron road,"--that being the french name for railroad,--but nobody seemed to be getting into it. in fact, the passengers, as fast as they came out from the custom-house, seemed all very quiet, as if waiting for something. a great many of them seemed to be french people, and they fell into little groups, and began to talk very volubly together, some finding friends who had come down to the quay to meet them, and others making friends, apparently, for the occasion, of the soldiers and idlers that were standing around. "could not you ask some of them," said rollo, "what we are to do next?" "i don't believe they would understand my french," said mr. george. "i am sure i don't understand theirs." in a moment, however, he turned to a young man who was standing near, who seemed to be a waiter or servant man belonging to the place. "do you speak english?" "yes, sir," said the man, in a very foreign accent, but yet in a very pleasant tone. "what are we waiting for?" asked mr. george. "you will wait, sir, for the baggages, and then for the visit of the baggages." "how long?" said mr. george. "twenty minutes," said the man. he also gave mr. george to understand that he and rollo might go and have some breakfast, if they chose. but mr. george thought it was not safe for them to go away from the spot. so they waited where they were. in a few minutes the hatches were opened on board the vessel, and the sailors began to hoist out the trunks. as fast as they were brought up to the decks men took them on shore, and carried them into the custom-house by the same door where the passengers had entered. when all the baggage was carried in, the ropes were taken down, and the passengers went to the custom-house door again, to attend to the examination of the baggage. a soldier stood at the door to prevent too many going in at a time. mr. george and rollo followed the rest, and at length it came their turn to have their trunks examined. this was done very quick--the officers appearing to think, from the appearance of the travellers, that they would not be likely to have any smuggled goods in their possession. the officer, accordingly, just looked into the trunks, and then shut down the lids, and marked them passed. a porter then took them out at the side door. there, on mr. george's telling them in french that they were going to paris by the railroad, the trunks were put upon a cart, while mr. george and rollo got into the omnibus, and then they were very soon driving along the quay, in the direction, as they supposed, of the paris railway station. chapter iii. journey to paris. the omnibus which mr. george and rollo had entered contained several other passengers, some of whom had carpet bags and valises with them, as if they, too, were going to paris. besides the driver, there was a conductor, whose place was upon the step of the omnibus, behind. the conductor opened and shut the doors for the passengers when they wished to get in or out, and took the fare. "how much is the fare?" said rollo to mr. george. "i don't know," said mr. george, shaking his head. he spoke, however, in a very unconcerned tone, as if it were of very little consequence whether he knew or not. "what are you going to do about it, then?" said rollo. "i shall say, 'how much?' to him, when we get out; and then, if i do not understand his answer, i shall give him a large piece of money, and let him give me back as much change as he likes." rollo resolved that he would do so too. next to mr. george and rollo in the omnibus there sat a gentleman and lady, who seemed to be, as they really were, a new-married pair. they were making their bridal tour. the lady was dressed plainly, but well, in travelling costume, and she had a handsome morocco carriage bag hanging upon her arm. the gentleman was quite loaded with shawls, and boxes, and umbrellas, and small bags, which he had upon his lap or at his feet. besides this, the lady had a trunk, which, together with that of her husband, had been left behind, to come on the cart. she was very anxious about this trunk, for it contained all her fine dresses. her husband was interested in the novel sights and scenes that presented themselves to view in passing along the street; but she thought only of the trunk. "what strange costumes, estelle!" said he. "look! see that woman! what a funny cap!" "yes," said estelle; "but, charley, don't you think it would have been better for us to have brought our trunks with us on the omnibus?" "i don't know," said her husband. "it is too late to think of that now. i've no doubt that they are safe enough where they are. look! there's a girl with wooden shoes on. those are the wooden shoes we have read about so often in books. look!" estelle glanced her eyes, for an instant, toward the wooden shoes, and then began to look back along the street again, watching anxiously for the trunks. at length the omnibus approached the station. it entered through a magnificent portal, under an arch. there was a soldier walking back and forth, with his musket in his hand, bayonet fixed, to guard the entrance. none but actual travellers were allowed to enter. the omnibus, having entered the court, stopped before a splendid portico, where there was a door leading into the building. the passengers paid their fares, and got out. on entering the building, they found themselves in a spacious apartment, with a great variety of partitions, offices, enclosures, and railings, presenting themselves on every hand, the meaning of all which it was very difficult to understand. there were also signs marked first class, and second class, and third class, and placards of notices to travellers, and time tables, and various similar things. on the back side of the room were doors and windows, looking out to a platform, where the train of cars was seen, apparently all ready to set off. but the partitions and railings which were in the way prevented the company from going out there. there were a number of travellers in this room, several parties having arrived there before the omnibus came. many of these persons were waiting quietly, talking in little groups, or resting themselves by sitting upon their carpet bags. others were looking about eagerly and anxiously, wondering what they were to do, or trying to find somebody who could tell them about the baggage. estelle was the most restless and uneasy of all. she went continually to the door to look down the road, to see if the cart was coming. "charles," said she, "what a shame it is that they don't come with the trunks! the train is all ready, and will go off before they come." "o, no," said her husband; "i think not. don't be anxious about them. i've no doubt they will be here in time. come with me, and let us look about the station, and see how it differs from ours." but estelle would not allow her thoughts to be diverted from her trunk. she remained on the steps, looking anxiously down the road. some of the other passengers who were unused to travelling, seeing her look so anxious, and not understanding what she said, supposed that some accident had happened, or that some unusual delay had occurred, and they began to be anxious too. just then a bell began to ring out upon the platform. "there!" exclaimed estelle. "the train is going! what shall we do? why _can't_ you ask somebody, charles?" "why, i can't speak french," said charles; "and they would not understand me if i ask in english." "yes they would," said estelle; "i'm sure they would. there are so many english travellers going on these roads now, that it must be that they have men here that speak english. there's a man," said she, pointing to a person in livery who was standing within a sort of enclosure. mr. charles, thus urged, walked across the hall to the railing, though very reluctantly, and asked the man if he could tell him why the trunks did not come. "sir?" said the man, in french, and looking as if he did not understand. "do you speak english?" asked mr. charles. "there," said the man, pointing across the room. mr. charles looked, and saw another man, who, by the livery or uniform which he wore, seemed to be a porter belonging to the station, standing by a window. he accordingly went across to ask the question of him. "do you speak english, sir?" said he. "yes, sare," replied the man, speaking with great formality, and in a very foreign accent, making, at the same time, a very polite bow. "what is the reason that our baggage does not come?" asked mr. charles. "_yes_, sare," replied the porter, speaking in the same manner. "why does not it come?" asked mr. charles again. "we put it upon a cart at the custom-house, and why does not it come?" "yes, sare," replied the porter, with another very polite bow. mr. charles, perceiving that the porter's knowledge of english consisted, apparently, in being able to say, "yes, sir," and mortified at the absurd figure which he made in attempting to make useless inquiries in such a way, bowed in his turn, and went back to estelle in a state of greater alienation of heart from her than he had ever experienced before. and as this book may, perhaps, be read sometimes by girls as well as boys, i will here, for their benefit, add the remark, that there is no possible way by which a lady can more effectually destroy any kind feeling which a gentleman may entertain for her than by forcing him to exhibit himself thus in an awkward and ridiculous light, by her unreasonable exactions on journeys, or rides, or walks, or excursions of any kind that they may be taking together. rollo and his uncle george had witnessed this scene, and had both been much interested in watching the progress of it. rollo did not know but that there was some real cause for solicitude about the baggage, especially as several of the lady passengers who were standing with estelle at the door seemed to be anxiously looking down the road. "do you feel any anxiety about our trunks coming?" asked rollo. "not the least," said mr. george, quietly. "why not?" asked rollo. "are you sure that they will come?" "no," said mr. george; "but there are a good many excellent reasons why i should not feel any anxiety about them. in the first place, i have some little confidence in the railway arrangements made in this country. the french are famous all the world over for their skill in systematizing and regulating all operations of this kind, so that they shall work in the most sure and perfect manner. it does not seem at all probable to me, therefore, that they can manage so clumsily here, on one of the great lines between england and france, as to get all the trunks of a whole steamer load of passengers upon a cart, and then loiter with it on the way to the station, and let the train go off without it." "well," said rollo, "that's a good reason; but you said there were several." "another is, that, if they are capable of managing so clumsily as to have such a thing happen, we cannot help it, and have nothing to do but to bear it quietly. we put our trunks in the proper place to have them brought here. we could not have done otherwise, with propriety, for that was the regular mode provided for conveying the baggage; and if there is a failure to get it here, we are not to fret about it, but to take it as we would a storm, or a break down, or any other casualty--that is, take it quietly." "yes," said rollo; "that's a good reason. are there any more?" "there is one more," said mr. george; "and that is, i am not anxious about the trunks coming in season, for i don't care a fig whether they come or not." "o, uncle george!" exclaimed rollo. "i do not," said mr. george; "for if they do not come, the only consequence will be, that we shall have to wait two or three hours for the next train, which will give us just time to ramble about a little in this queer-looking town of dieppe, and get some breakfast, and perhaps have some curious adventures in trying to talk french. in fact, i rather hope the baggage won't come." mr. george was destined to be disappointed in this rising desire, for, while he and rollo were talking, estelle came running in to her husband with a countenance full of joy, saying that the cart had come, and urging him to come and get their trunks off as quick as possible. her eagerness was increased by hearing the bell again, which now began to toll, leading her to think that the train was going off immediately. the porters, however, whose business it was to carry the trunks in, did not seem to be at all disturbed by the sound, but began to take off the trunks, one by one, and convey them up into the station. here they were placed upon a sort of counter, from whence they were taken off on the other side, and weighed in a curiously contrived pair of scales placed there for the purpose. if any trunk weighed over a certain number of pounds,--the amount which, according to the regulations of the road, each passenger was allowed to carry,--then the surplus had to be paid for. there was a little office close to the weighing machine; and as fast as the trunks were weighed, the result was reported to the clerk, who made out a bill for the surplus, whatever it was, and the passenger paid it through an opening. if there was no surplus weight, then they gave the passenger a similar bill, which was to be his check for his trunk at the end of the journey. every thing was, however, so admirably arranged, that all this was done very rapidly. mr. charles, when he found that the trunks were all to be weighed, proposed to go with estelle to the cars, so as to get a good seat for her; but estelle chose to remain and make sure that her trunk was attended to. it happened that mr. george's trunk and rollo's were weighed among the first; and as soon as they got their checks, mr. george said,-- "now for our seats in the cars." "but which way are we to go?" said rollo. "i don't know," said mr. george. "go and show that man your ticket, and ask him where we are to go." "in french?" said rollo. "yes," said mr. george. so rollo went to the man who was standing by a sort of gateway which led through a partition railing, as if he were there to guard the passage; and holding up his little pasteboard ticket, he said, in french,-- "where to go?" the man looked at the ticket, and, seeing that first class was printed upon it, he pointed in a certain direction, and said something in french, speaking, however, in so rapid and voluble a manner, that rollo could not understand a single word. he, however, understood the sign. "this way, uncle george," said rollo. "he says we must go this way." following the indication which the man had given, mr. george and rollo passed out upon the platform, where they found the train ready for them. there were various attendants upon the platform, dressed in a quaint sort of uniform, the livery, as it were, of the railroad company. one of them looked at rollo's ticket, and then opened the door of a first-class car. the cars were made like those in england, in separate compartments, each compartment being like a large coach, with one front seat, and one back, facing each other. there were four places; that is, room for four passengers on each seat. of course, only those at the ends were near the window. rollo and mr. george took the two seats nearest the window on the side where they got in, as one of the seats at the opposite side was already occupied by a gentleman. the gentleman seemed to be an englishman, for he was reading the london times. rollo and mr. george had been seated only two or three minutes before estelle and her husband came along, estelle leading the way. the attendant opened the door of the car, and estelle, followed by her husband, got in. they passed between mr. george and rollo, and stood there for a moment, looking about for a good seat. a freight train was slowly trundling by at this time on an adjoining track, so that what they said was not very audible; but still, mr. george and rollo could hear it. "i want a seat by the window," said estelle, "where i can look out and see the country. ask that gentleman if he would not be willing to take a middle seat, and let us sit together by the window." "we had better go to some other car," said her husband, in an undertone. "_he_ wishes to see the country, probably, himself, and has come early, perhaps, so as to get a good seat." "o, no," said estelle; "this is a very nice car; and he would just as soon change as not, i have no doubt. ask him, charley; do." so estelle moved to one side for her husband to pass. mr. charles, thus urged, approached the gentleman, and said, in a very bland and respectful manner,-- "should you have any objection, sir, to move your seat, so as to let this lady sit by the window?" the gentleman raised his eyes from his paper, and looked at mr. charles an instant, and then answered quietly,-- "i prefer this seat, sir." he then went on with his reading as before. estelle pouted her lip, and said, though in a tone too low, perhaps, for the gentleman to hear, "what a rude man!" "we will give you _these_ seats, sir," said mr. george, "if you would like them." "yes, they'll do just as well," said estelle, speaking to her husband. mr. george rose, and saying, "come, rollo," he left the car. mr. george had some trouble in looking for other seats; but at length he succeeded in finding two that were as good as those which they had left. "i think she might at least have thanked you for giving up your seat to accommodate her," said rollo. "i did not do it to accommodate her," said mr. george; "i did it to get out of the sight and hearing of her. i would not ride from here to paris in the same car with such a fussmaker for all the prospects in france. i had rather be shut up in a freight car." "how much trouble she makes her husband!" said rollo. "it is not the trouble," said mr. george, "it is the mortification and annoyance. she is a perpetual torment. if that's the way that young wives treat their husbands on the bridal tour, i'm thankful that i am not a bridegroom." the train soon set out, and mr. george and rollo, forgetting estelle, soon began to enjoy the ride. they were both extremely interested in the views which they obtained from their windows as they passed along, and with the antique and quaint appearance of the country--the ancient stone cottages, with thatched roofs; the peasants, in their picturesque dresses; the immense tracts of cultivated country, divided in green and brown patches, like the beds of a garden, but with no fences or enclosures of any kind to be seen; the great forests, with trees planted closely in rows, like the corn in an american cornfield; and the roadways which they occasionally passed--immense avenues, bordered on either hand with double rows of majestic trees, and extending across the country, as straight as the street of a city, till lost in the horizon. these and a thousand other things, which were all the time presenting themselves to view, kept the travellers continually full of wonder and delight. after going on thus for several hours, the train stopped in a very spacious depot, where there was a large refreshment room; and as one of the attendants called out that there would be ten minutes of rest, both mr. george and rollo got out, and went into the refreshment room. they found a great multitude of cakes and meats spread out upon an immense counter, and dishes of every kind, all totally unknown to them. they, of course, could not call for any thing; but, after taking a survey, they helped themselves to what they thought looked as if it might be good, and then paid in the same way, by letting the girls that attended the tables help themselves to money which the travellers held out to them in their hands. they then took their seats again in the car, and soon afterward the train moved on. the place where they had stopped was rouen, which, as well as dieppe and paris, the reader will find, on examining any map of france. in the course of the ride from rouen to paris, mr. george and rollo fell into quite a conversation, in which rollo received a great deal of very good advice from mr. george in respect to the care of himself when he should get to paris. "i suppose that i should be sure to get lost," said rollo, "if i should attempt to go out in such a great city alone." "no," said mr. george, "not at all. a person can walk about a great way, sometimes, in a strange city, without getting lost. all he has to do is to take care, at first, to go only in such directions as that he can keep the way home in his mind." "i don't know what you mean, exactly, by that," said rollo. "why, suppose you were in a great city, and you come out at the door of your hotel, and there you find a long, straight street. you walk along that street half a mile. then don't you think you could find your way home?" "yes," said rollo. "certainly," said mr. george, "because you have it in your mind that the way home is directly back by that same street, till you come to the hotel. now, suppose that, after going along in that street for half a mile, you should come to a great church, upon a corner, and should turn there to the right, and go for some distance in another street leading off from the first one; don't you think you could _then_ find your way home?" "yes," said rollo, "i should go back to the church, and then turn to the left, and so go home." "very well," said mr. george; "by proceeding cautiously in that way, carrying your way home in your mind with you all the time, you can ramble a great deal about a strange city without getting lost, and go farther and farther every day. "then, besides, if you do get lost, it is of no consequence. you can always ask the way back; or, if worst comes to worst, you can take a cab, and tell the man to drive you home." "yes," said rollo, "i suppose i could always do that." "only you must be sure," said mr. george, "not to forget the name of your hotel. once i was walking about in paris, and i saw a colored girl on the sidewalk, before me, who seemed to be inquiring something of the people that she met, without appearing to get any satisfactory answer. i thought she was an american girl; and so i went to her, and asked her in french what she wanted to know--for i observed that she was speaking french. she said she wished to know what was the name of the hotel where most of the americans lodged. i could not speak french very well myself, and so i could not ask her for any explanations; but i supposed that she belonged to some american party, and had lost her way in going somewhere of an errand, and had forgotten the name of the hotel. so i told her the names of two or three hotels where americans were accustomed to lodge, and she went away." "did she find her own hotel?" asked rollo. "i don't know," said mr. george. "i never knew what became of her." "how did she learn french, do you suppose?" asked rollo. "i presume she came from new orleans," replied mr. george, "where nearly all the people speak french." thus our two travellers beguiled their journey, by talking sometimes about the novel and curious objects which presented themselves to view, in the landscape, as the train rolled rapidly along on its way, and sometimes about what they expected to see and to do on their arrival in paris. at length, the indications that they were approaching the great capital began to multiply on every hand. the villages were more frequent. villas, parks, and palaces came into view; and here and there an ancient castle reposed on the slope of a distant hill, or frowned from its summit. at length, rollo, turning his head to the window opposite to the one where he had been looking out, exclaimed suddenly,-- "look there! uncle george, what's that?" mr. george said that that was napoleon's famous triumphal arch, that forms the grand entrance to paris, on the way to the royal palaces. it was a large, square building, splendidly adorned with sculptures and architectural ornaments, and towering high into the air out of the midst of a perfect sea of houses, streets, avenues, trees, gardens, and palaces, which covered the whole country around. it stood upon a commanding elevation, which made its magnitude and its height seem all the more impressive. through the centre of it was a magnificent archway, wide enough for four carriages to pass abreast. "it is the triumphal arch," said mr. george, "by which all grand processions enter paris on great public days of rejoicing. we will go out and see it some day. it is called the triumphal arch of neuilly, because it is on the road that leads to neuilly."[c] [c] it is also called the arc de l'etoile. etoile means _star_, and the french give that name to a place where several roads diverge from one point. roads so diverging form a sort of star. the reader will find this arch on any map of paris, with the roads diverging from it. by this time the triumphal arch had passed out of view, and presently the train of cars began to be shut in by buildings, and the usual indications appeared of the approach to a great station. queer-looking signals, of mysterious meaning,--some red, some blue, some round, some square,--glided by, and men in strange and fantastic costumes stood on the right hand and on the left, with little flags in their hands, and one arm extended, as if to show the locomotive the way. at length the convoy (as the french call a railway train) came to a stand, and an attendant, in uniform, opened the door of the car. mr. george and rollo got out and looked about, quite bewildered with the magnificence of the scene around them. the station was very extensive, and was very splendid in its construction, and there were immense numbers of people going and coming in it in all directions. still, every thing was so well regulated that there was no disorder or confusion. there was a line of carriages drawn up in a certain place near the platform; but the coachmen remained quietly by them, awaiting calls from the passengers, instead of vociferously and clamorously offering their services, as is customary at the stations in america. nor was there any pushing or crowding for trunks and baggage. in fact, the trunks were all to be examined before they could go into the city; for there are separate duties for the city of paris, in addition to those for france. the baggage was, therefore, all taken from the baggage car, and arranged in an immense apartment, on counters, which extended all around the sides, and up and down the middle; and then, when all was ready, the passengers were admitted, and each one claimed his own. mr. george and rollo easily found their trunks, and, on presenting their tickets, an officer required them to open the trunks, that he might see if there was any thing contraband inside. as soon, however, as he perceived that mr. george and rollo were foreigners, and that their trunks had come from beyond sea, he shut down the lids again, saying, "it is well." a porter then took the trunks and carried them out to a carriage. "hotel of the rhine, place vendome," said mr. george, in french, to the coachman, by way of directing him where to go. [illustration: the arrival.] "yes--yes--yes--yes," said the coachman. it is so natural and easy for the french to talk, that they generally use all the words they can to express their meaning, besides an infinity of gestures. thus, when they wish to say yes, they often repeat the yes four or five times, in a very rapid manner, thus:-- yes--yes--yes--yes. mr. george got into the coach, and rollo followed him. as they drove along the streets, rollo tried to look out the window and see; but the window was so small, and the streets were so narrow, and the coachman, moreover, drove so fast, that he had very little opportunity to make observations. at length he caught a momentary glimpse of a monstrous column standing in the middle of an open square; and immediately afterward the carriage drove in under an archway, and came to a stand, in a small, open court, surrounded with lofty buildings. this was the hotel. there was a small room, which served as a porter's lodge, in this court, near where the coach stopped. a girl came to the door of this lodge to receive the guests. she bowed to mr. george and rollo with great politeness, and seemed glad to see them. mr. george spoke to her in french, to say what rooms he wished to engage. what he said, literally translated, was this:-- "we want two chambers for ourselves, at the third, and an apartment of three pieces, at the second, for a gentleman, lady, and their young girl, whom we attend to-morrow." the girl, who was very neatly and prettily dressed, and was very agreeable in her manners, immediately said, "very well," and rang a bell. a servant man came at the summons, and, taking the trunks, showed mr. george and rollo up to their rooms. chapter iv. the garden of the tuileries. the first sunday that rollo spent in paris he met with quite a singular adventure. his father and mother had arrived the evening before, and had established themselves quite comfortably in the "apartment of three pieces," which mr. george had engaged for them. an apartment, according to the french use of the term, is not a single room, but a group of rooms, suitable to be occupied by one family. the number of _pieces_ is the number of rooms. mr. holiday's three rooms were a small but beautifully furnished parlor, where they had breakfast, and two bed rooms. one bed room was for himself and mrs. holiday, and the other was for jennie. there were a great many splendid mirrors in these rooms, and other elegant furniture. the floors were not carpeted, but were formed of dark and polished wood, curiously inlaid, with rugs here and there at the doors and before the sofas and chairs. there was a small, square rug before every chair, and a large one before the sofa. there were a great many other curious things to be observed in the arrangements of the room. the fireplace, for example, was closed by plates of sheet iron, which could be shoved up and down like the sashes of a window; while the windows themselves opened like doors, each having a great brass fastening, like a latch, in the middle, and hinges at the sides. rollo had gone with his father and mother to church in the morning, and at about one o'clock they returned. rollo and jennie remained at home, after one, for an hour or two, waiting for their uncle george to come. he had gone away somewhere, and had not yet returned. while thus waiting, the children sat at the window of their parlor, which they opened by swinging the two sides of the sash entirely back, so that they could see out to great advantage. the window opened down quite low; but there was a strong iron bar passing across from side to side, to keep them from falling out. the children sat at this window, amusing themselves with what they could see in the square. the name of the square was the place vendome. there was a very large and lofty column in the centre of it. this column is very greatly celebrated for its magnitude and its beauty. it is twelve feet in diameter, and nearly a hundred and forty feet high. but what is most remarkable is, that the whole exterior of it, enormous as the mass is, is formed of brass. the brass was obtained by melting up the cannons which napoleon took from his enemies. at the end of one of his campaigns he found that he had twelve hundred cannons which he had taken from the russians and austrians, with whom he had been at war; and after reflecting for some time on the question, what he should do with them, he concluded to send them to paris, and there to have them made into this enormous column, to ornament the centre of the place vendome. the column, though made of brass, is not bright upon the outside, but dark, like bronze, and the surface is ornamented with figures in what are called bas relief, representing the battles and victories in which the cannon out of which the column was composed were taken from the enemy. rollo and jennie, in looking at this column from the window of their hotel, observed that around the foot of it there was a square space enclosed by an iron railing, forming a sort of yard. there was a gate in the front side of this railing. this gate was open; but there were two soldiers standing by it, with guns in their hands, as if to prevent any body from going in. the column itself, as is usual with such columns, did not stand directly upon the ground, but upon a square pedestal, which was built of massive blocks of granite, resting on a deep and strong foundation; and as the column itself was twelve feet in diameter, the pedestal, being necessarily somewhat larger, was quite a considerable structure. in the front of it, opposite the gate in the iron railing, was a door. the door was open, but nothing was to be seen but darkness within. "i wonder what they do in there?" said rollo. "the gate is open, and the door is open; but i suppose the soldiers would not let any body go in to see. do you suppose, jennie, that it can be possible that there is any way to get up to the top of the column by going in at that door?" "yes," replied jennie; and so saying, she pointed eagerly to the top of the column, and added, "for there are some boys up there now." rollo looked up to the top of the column. there was a statue of napoleon upon the summit, which appeared to be of about the ordinary size of a man, though it is really about eight times as large as life, being twice as large in every dimension. it looks small, on account of its being so high in the air. beneath this statue and around the top of the column the children saw that there was a small gallery, with a railing on the outside of it. several persons were standing on this gallery, leaning on the railing. at first rollo thought that they were sculptured figures placed there, like the statue of napoleon on the top, for ornament; but presently he saw some of them move about, which convinced him that they were real men. two of them were soldiers, as was evident from the red uniform which they wore. but they all looked exceedingly small. "there must be a staircase inside," said rollo, "or else some ladders. if not, how could those men get up?" "yes," said jennie. "i should like to go up there very much," said rollo, "if i could only get by the soldiers." "i should not dare to go up to such a high place," said jennie, shaking her head solemnly. at the foot of the column and outside of the railing which formed the enclosure around the pedestal was a very broad and smooth place, as smooth as a floor, and raised like a sidewalk above the street. it was very broad, and people walked over it in passing through the square. there was only one way of passing through the square, and that was from north to south. from east to west there was no street, but the ranges of houses and palaces continued on those sides unbroken. these edifices presented a very fine architectural frontage toward the square, and gave to the whole space which they enclosed a very rich and grand appearance. over the doors of two or three of the houses there were small tricolored flags flying; and wherever these flags were, there were soldiers on the sidewalk below guarding the doors. but neither rollo nor jennie was able to imagine what this could mean. about three o'clock, when rollo and jennie had began to be tired of looking at the column, their mother came into the room. she said that mr. holiday was fatigued and was going to lie down, and that neither he nor herself would go out again. rollo then asked if he and jennie might go out and take a walk. his mother seemed to hesitate about it, but presently said that she would go and ask mr. holiday if he thought it would be safe. she accordingly went into the bed room, and very soon returned, saying that mr. holiday thought it would be safe for them to go if he gave them some directions. "he says," added mrs. holiday, "that you may get ready, and then go into his room, and he will give you the directions. only you must not talk much with him, for it hurts him to talk. hear what he has to say, and then come out immediately." so the children made themselves ready, and then went into their father's room. they found him sitting in a great arm chair by a window where the sun was shining. he looked pale and tired. when the children came in, however, he turned to them with a smile, and said,-- "children, i am glad you are going out to take a walk. you can go very safely, if you follow my directions. "this is the place vendome. there are only two ways of going out of it. one leads to the north, and the other to the south. "if you take the road which goes to the north, that is, that way," said mr. holiday, pointing, "you will go out by the street which is called the street of peace.[d] the street of peace is straight, and pretty broad; and if you follow it to the end of it, you will come to the boulevards." [d] mr. holiday called this street, of course, by its french name; but we give its name here in english, for the convenience of the reader, who may, perhaps, not be able to pronounce french. "what are the boulevards?" asked rollo. "hush!" said jennie, gently touching rollo at the same time with her hand. "boulevards," said mr. holiday, "means bulwarks. a great many years ago there was a line of bulwarks or fortifications all around paris; but at length, when the city grew too large for them, they levelled them down and made a very broad and handsome street where they had been, and then afterward made a new line of fortifications farther out. this broad and handsome street, or rather, series of streets, is called the boulevards. it extends almost entirely around the city. of course, when you get into the boulevards, you are in no danger of losing yourselves; for you can go on as far as you please, either way, and then come back to the street of peace again, and then come home." "yes," said rollo, "i understand." here jennie gently touched rollo again, to remind him that he was not to talk. "you will know the boulevards at once when you come to them," continued mr. holiday, "they are so much broader and more beautiful than any of the other streets of paris. even the sidewalks are as wide as many ordinary streets; and there are rows of young trees along the edges of the sidewalks. now, if you choose, you can go out from the place vendome on the northern side, by the street of peace, and so walk on till you come to the boulevards. then you can walk along the boulevards as far as you please. "or," continued mr. holiday, "you can take the opposite course. you can go out of the place vendome on the southern side. that will bring you directly in the garden of the tuileries." "i should like to go into a garden," said jennie, "and see the flowers." "you will see," continued mr. holiday, "as soon as you begin to go out of the place vendome, at a little distance before you, perhaps as far as two or three blocks in new york, a wall of green trees." "a wall of green trees!" exclaimed rollo. "yes," said his father. "it is a thick row of trees growing in the garden, and having the side toward the street trimmed smooth and straight like a wall. the entrance through this range of trees, opposite the gateway where you go into the garden, looks like an archway in a green wall. you will see it before you as soon as you turn the corner of this hotel into the street that leads that way. you can walk straight on till you come to the place. there you will find the entrance to the garden. there is a very high iron palisade along the side of the garden toward the street, with the rows of trees which i have spoken of inside of it. there is a gateway through this palisade where you can go in. there are two soldiers there to guard the gateway." "then how can we get in?" asked jennie. "o, go right in," replied mr. holiday. "pay no attention to the soldiers. they will not say any thing to you. they are only sentinels. "after you pass through the gateway, you keep on in the same direction, without turning to the right hand or to the left, just as if you were going across the garden. you go on in this way till you get to the middle alley, which is a very wide alley, that runs up and down the middle of the garden. this alley is called the grand alley, and it is a very grand alley indeed. it is as broad as a very wide street, and it is nearly two miles long.[a] it begins at the palace of the tuileries, in the middle of the city, and extends through the whole length of the gardens of the tuileries; and then, passing out through great gates at the foot of the garden, it extends through the elysian fields, away out to the great triumphal arch of the star, which you saw from the cars when you were coming into the city. "now, when you get into the grand alley, which you will know by its being the broadest, and smoothest, and most splendid grand walk that you ever saw, you must stop for a minute, and look both ways. i'll tell you what you will see. first, if you turn to the left, that is, toward the east, you will see at the end of the alley, in that direction, a long range of splendid buildings, extending across from side to side. in the opposite direction, at the top of a long, gentle slope, a mile and a half away, you will see the grand triumphal arch. that is at the barrier of the city. the view is not entirely open, however, out to the arch. about midway, in the centre of the grand alley, is a tall obelisk, standing on a high pedestal, and farther along there are one or two fountains. still you can see the triumphal arch very plainly, it is so large, and it stands so high. "now, the grand alley is nearly two miles long, and, wherever you may be in it, you can always see the palace at one end, the arch at the other, and the egyptian obelisk in the middle. so that, as long as you walk back and forth in this alley, keeping these things in sight, you cannot lose your way. "only i ought to say," continued mr. holiday, "that the garden does not extend all the way to the barrier. the garden extends, perhaps, half a mile. near the bottom of it is a great basin or pond of water, with a stone margin to it all around. you will have to go round this basin, for the centre of it is exactly in the middle of the grand alley. then you come very soon to the end of the garden, and you will go out through great iron gates, but still you will keep on in the same direction. here you will come to a very large, open square, with the obelisk in the centre of it, and fountains and statues in it all around. still you will keep straight on across this square, only you will have to turn aside to go round the obelisk. after you pass through the square, the grand alley still continues on, though now it becomes a grand avenue, leading through pleasure grounds, with ranges of trees and of buildings on either side. it becomes very wide here, being as wide as two or three ordinary streets, and will be filled with carriages and horsemen. but there will be good broad sidewalks for you on either hand, under the shade of the trees; and you will know where you are all the time, for you can always see the palace at one end of the view, and the great triumphal arch at the other, with the obelisk in the middle between them. "the amount of it is," added mr. holiday, speaking in a tone as if he were about finishing his instructions, "you can go out of the place vendome to the north, and keep straight on till you come to the boulevards, and walk there either way as far as you like. or you can go south, and keep straight on till you come to the middle of the grand alley of the garden of the tuileries, and then walk in the grand alley and the grand avenue which forms the continuation of it as long as you like. which way will you go?" "i would rather go to the garden," said rollo, looking toward jennie. "yes," said jennie, "and so would i." thus it was settled that they were to take the street which led toward the south from the place vendome; and so, bidding their father good by, they went away. before leaving the house, however, rollo went to a secretary which stood in the parlor, and took down a map, in order to show jennie the places which his father had mentioned, and to make it sure that they understood the directions which they had received. rollo found the place vendome very readily upon the map, and the street leading to the gardens. he also found the grand alley running through the garden; and following this alley between the rows of trees, he showed jennie a small circle which he thought must be the basin of water, and the place where the obelisk stood; and finally he pointed out the place where the grand alley widened out into the grand avenue and led on toward the barrier. jennie did not understand the map very well; but she seemed satisfied with rollo's assurances that he himself could find all the places. "it is all right, you may depend," said rollo. "i can find the way, you may be sure." so he put up the map, bade his mother good by, and then he and jennie sallied forth. the hotel was situated on the corner of the place vendome and the street which led toward the garden; and as soon as the children had turned this corner, after coming out from under the archway of the hotel, they saw at some distance before them, at the end of the street, the iron palisade, and the green wall of trees above it, which formed the boundary of the garden. "there it is!" exclaimed rollo. "there is the garden and the gateway! and it is not very far!" the children walked along upon the sidewalk hand in hand, looking sometimes at the elegant carriages which rolled by them from time to time in the street, and sometimes at the groups of ladies and children that passed them on the sidewalk. at the first corner that they came to, rollo's attention was attracted by the sight of a man who had a box on the edge of the sidewalk, with a little projection on the top of it shaped like a man's foot. rollo wondered what it was for. just before he reached the place, however, he saw a gentleman, who then happened to come along, stop before the box and put his foot on the projection. immediately the man took out some brushes and some blacking from the inside of the box, which was open on the side where the man was standing, and began to brush the gentleman's boot. "now, how convenient that is!" said rollo. "if you get your shoes or your boots muddy or dusty, you can stop and have them brushed." so saying, he looked down at his own boots, almost in hopes that he should find that they needed brushing, in order that he might try the experiment; but they looked very clean and bright, and there seemed to be no excuse for having them brushed again. besides, jennie was pulling him by the hand, to hasten him along. she said at the same time, in an undertone,-- "look, rollo, look! see! there is a blind lady walking along before us!" "blind?" repeated rollo. "yes," said jennie; "don't you see the little dog leading her?" there was a little dog walking along at a little distance before the lady, with a beautiful collar round his neck, and a cord attached to it. the lady had the other end of the cord in her hand. "i don't believe she is blind," said rollo. as the children passed by the lady she turned and looked at them, or seemed to look, and manifested no indications of being blind. afterward jennie saw a great many other ladies walking with little dogs, which they led, or which led them, by means of a cord which the owner of the dog held in her hand. there were so many of these cases that jennie was compelled to give up the idea of their being blind; but she said that she never knew any body but blind people led about by dogs before. at length the children arrived at the entrance to the garden. it was on the farther side of a broad and beautiful street which ran along there, just outside of the enclosure. the palisades were of iron, though the tops were tipped with gilding, and they were very high. they were more than twice as high as a man's head. the lower ends of them were set firmly in a wall of very substantial masonry. the gateway was very wide, and it had sentry boxes on each side of it. a soldier, with his bayonet fixed, was standing in front of each sentry box. when jennie saw these soldiers she shrank back, and seemed afraid to go in. in fact, rollo himself appeared somewhat disposed to hesitate. in a moment, however, a number of persons who came along upon the sidewalk turned in at the gates, and went into the yard. the soldiers paid no attention to them. rollo and jane, seeing this, took courage, and went in, too. on passing through the gates, the children found themselves on a very broad terrace, which ran along on that side of the garden. the surface of the terrace was gravelled for a walk, and it was very smooth and beautiful. while standing on, or walking upon it, you could look on one side, through the palisade, and see the carriages in the street, and on the other side you could look over a low wall down into the garden, which was several feet below. the descent into the garden was by a flight of stone steps. the children, after staying a little time upon the terrace, went down the steps. they came out upon a very broad avenue, or alley, which formed the side of the garden. this alley was very broad indeed, so broad that it was divided into three by orange trees, which extended up and down in long rows parallel to the street, almost as far as you could see, and forming beautiful vistas in each direction. these orange trees, though very large, were not set in the ground, but were planted in monstrous boxes, painted green and set on rollers. the reason of this was, so that they could be moved away in the winter, and put in a building where they could be kept warm. this broad alley, the great side alley of the garden on the side toward the city, was called the alley of the oranges. there is another similar alley on the opposite side of the garden, which is toward the river, and that is called the alley of the riverside. passing across the three portions of the alley of the oranges, the children went on toward the centre of the garden. instead, however, of such a garden as they had expected to see, with fruits and flowers in borders and beds, and serpentine walks winding among them, as jennie had imagined, the children found themselves in a sort of forest, the trees of which were planted regularly in rows, with straight walks here and there under them. "what a strange garden!" said jennie. "yes," said rollo. "but we must not stop here. we must go straight on through the trees until we come to the grand alley." in fact, rollo could see the grand alley, as he thought, at some distance before him, with people walking up and down in it. there were several people, too, in the same walk with rollo and jane, some going with them toward the grand alley, and others coming back from it. among these were two children, just big enough to go alone, who were prattling in french together very fluently as they walked along before their father and mother. jennie said she wondered how such little children could learn to speak french so well. another child, somewhat older than these, was trundling a hoop, and at length unfortunately she fell down and hurt herself. so, leaving her hoop upon the ground, she came toward the maid who had care of her, crying, and sobbing, and uttering broken exclamations, all in french, which seemed to rollo and jane very surprising. at length the children came out into the grand alley. they knew it immediately when they reached it, by its being so broad and magnificent, and by the splendid views which were presented on every hand. "yes," said rollo, "this is it, i am sure. there is the obelisk; and there, beyond it, on the top of that long hill, is the triumphal arch; and there, the other way, is the palace of the tuileries. here is a seat, jennie. let's go and sit down." so saying, rollo led jennie to a stone seat which was placed on one side of the alley, at the margin of the grove; and there they sat for some time, greatly admiring the splendid panorama which was spread out before them. what happened to them for the remainder of their walk will be described in the next chapter. chapter v. the elysian fields. after sitting a little time upon the stone bench, rollo and jennie rose and resumed their walk. the alley was extremely broad, and it was almost filled with parties of ladies and gentlemen, and with groups of children, who were walking to and fro, some going out toward the triumphal arch, and some returning. rollo and jennie, as they walked along, said very little to each other, their attention being almost wholly absorbed by the gay and gorgeous scene which surrounded them. at length they perceived that, at a little distance before them, the people were separating to the right hand and to the left, and going round in a sort of circuit; and, on coming to the place, they found that the great basin, or pond of water, which mr. holiday had described to them, was there. this pond was very large, much larger than rollo had expected from his father's account of it. it was octagonal in form, and was bordered all around with stone. there were a number of children standing in groups on the brink, at different places; some were watching the motions of the gold fish that were swimming in the water, and others were looking at a little ship which a boy was sailing on the pond. the boy had a long thread tied to the bow of his ship; and when the wind had blown it out upon the pond to the length of the string, he would pull it back to the shore again, and then proceed to send it forth on another voyage. rollo thought it strange that they should be thus employed on the sabbath; for he had been brought up to believe, that, although it was very right and proper to take a quiet walk in a garden or in the fields toward the close of the day, it was not right, but would, on the other hand, be displeasing to god, for any one, old or young, to spend any part of the day which god had consecrated to his own service and to the spiritual improvement of the soul in ordinary sports and amusements. jennie, too, had the same feeling; and accordingly, after standing with rollo for a moment near the margin of the water, looking at the fishes and the vessels, and at the group of children that were there, she began to pull rollo by the hand, saying,-- "come, rollo, i think we had better go along." rollo at once acceded to this proposal, and they both walked on. they soon found themselves passing out of the garden, though the space on each side of the broad alley in which they were walking was bordered with so many walls, palisades, terraces, statues, and columns, and the gateway which led out from the garden into the square was so broad, and was so filled up, moreover, with the people who were going and coming, that it was difficult to tell where the garden ended and the great square began. at length, however, it began to be plain that they were out of the garden; for the view, instead of being shut in by trees, became very widely extended on either hand. it was terminated on one side by ranges of magnificent buildings, and on the other by bridges leading across the river, with various grand and imposing edifices beyond. in the centre of the square the tall form of the obelisk towered high into the air, gently tapering as it ascended, and terminating suddenly at its apex in a point. the square, though open, was not empty. besides the obelisk, which stood in the centre of it, on its lofty pedestal, there were two great fountains and colossal statues of marble; and lofty columns of bronze and gilt, for the gaslights; and raised sidewalks, smooth as a floor, formed of a sort of artificial stone, which was continuous over the whole surface, which was covered by it, without fissure or seam. there were roadways, also, crossing the place in various directions, with carriages and horsemen upon them continually coming and going. the great fountains were very curiously contrived. the constructions were thirty or forty feet high. they consisted of three great basins, one above the other. the smallest was at the top, and was, of course, high in the air. a column of water was spouting out from the middle of it, and, after rising a little way into the air, the water fell back into the basin, and, filling it full, it ran over the edge of it into the basin below. this was the middle basin, and, besides the water which fell into it from the basin above, it received also a great supply from streams that came from the great basin below, like the jets from the hose of a fire engine when a house is on fire. there was a row of bronze figures, shaped like men, in the water of the lowest basin of all, each holding a fish in his arms; and the jets of water which were thrown up to the middle basin from the lower one came out of the mouths of these fishes. the fishes were very large, and they were shaped precisely like real fishes, although they were made of bronze. the children looked at the fountains as they walked along, and at length came to the foot of the obelisk. they stopped a minute or two there, and looked up to the top of it. it was as tall as a steeple. rollo was wondering whether it would be possible in any way to get to the top of it; and he told jennie that he did not think that there was any way, for he did not see any place where any body could stand if they should succeed in getting there. while they both stood thus gazing upward, they suddenly heard a well-known voice behind them, saying,-- "well, children, what do you think of the obelisk of luxor?" they turned round and beheld their uncle george. they were, of course, very much astonished to see him. he was walking with another young gentleman, a friend of his from america, whom he had accidentally met with in paris. when the children had recovered from the surprise of thus unexpectedly meeting him, he repeated his question. "what do you think of the obelisk?" "i don't believe it is so high," replied rollo, "as the column in the place vendome." "no," replied mr. george, "it is not." "nor so large," added rollo. "no," said mr. george. "and i don't believe that there is any way to get to the top of it," added rollo. "no," said mr. george, "there is not. the column in the place vendome is hollow, and has a staircase inside; but this obelisk is solid from top to bottom, and is formed of one single stone. that is the great wonder of it." [illustration: the obelisk.] "look up," said mr. george, "to the top of it. it is as high as a steeple. see how large it is, too, at the base. think how enormously heavy such an immense stone must be. what a work it must have been to lift it up and stand it on its end! besides, it does not rest upon the ground, but upon another monstrous stone, the pedestal of which is nearly thirty feet high; so that, in setting it up in its place, the engineers had not only to lift it up on end, but they had to raise the whole mass, bodily, twenty or thirty feet into the air. i suppose it was one of the greatest lifts that ever was made. "there is another thing that is very curious about the obelisk," continued mr. george, "and that is its history. it was not made originally for this place. it was made in egypt, thousands and thousands of years ago, nobody knows how long. there are several others of the same kind still standing. some years ago, this one and another were given to the french by the government of egypt, and the french king sent a large company of men to take this one down and bring it to paris. they built an immense vessel on purpose for transporting it. this vessel they sent to egypt. it went up the nile as near to the place where the obelisk stood as it could go. the place was called luxor. the obelisk stood back at some distance from the river; and there were several arab huts near it, which it was necessary to pull down. there were also several other houses in the way by the course which the obelisk must take in going to the river. the french engineers bought all these houses, and pulled them down. then they made a road leading from the place where the obelisk stood to the river. then they cased the whole stone in wood, to prevent its getting broken or injured on the way. then they lowered it down by means of immense machines which they constructed for the purpose, and so proceeded to draw it to the river. but with all their machines, it was a prodigiously difficult work to get it along. it took eight hundred men to move it, and so slowly did it go that these eight hundred men worked three months in getting it to the landing. there they made a great platform, and so rolled it on board the float. there was a steamer at hand to take it in tow, and it was brought to france. it then took five or six months to bring it across the country from the sea shore to paris. "when, at last, they got it here, it took them nearly a year to construct the machines for raising it. they built the pedestal for it to stand upon, which you see is as high as a two-story house, and then appointed a day for the raising. all the world, almost, came to see. this whole square was full. there were more than a hundred thousand persons here. the king came, and his family, and all his generals and great officers. it was the greatest raising that ever was seen." "why, there must have been just as great a raising," said rollo, "when they first put it up in egypt." "no," said mr. george; "because there it stood nearly upon the ground, but here it is on the top of a lofty pedestal. look there! those are pictures of the machines which they raised it by." so saying, mr. george pointed to beautifully gilded diagrams which were sculptured upon one side of the pedestal. there were beams, and ropes, and pulleys without number, with the obelisk among them; but rollo could not understand the operation of the machinery very well. the obelisk itself was covered on all sides with ancient egyptian hieroglyphics, deeply cut into the stone; but the children could not understand the hieroglyphics any better than they could the machinery. after looking some time longer at the obelisk and the various objects of interest that were around it, the whole party walked on together. mr. george said that he and his friend were going up the avenue of the elysian fields, and that, if rollo and jennie would walk along behind them, they would not get lost. jennie was very glad of this; for the crowd of people that were coming and going was getting to be very great, and she was a little afraid. rollo, on the other hand, was rather sorry. the triumphal arch at the farther end of the avenue was in full view, and thus he felt sure of his way; and he was ambitious of the honor of being the sole guide in the excursion which he and jane were taking. he, however, could not well decline his uncle's invitation; so, when the two gentlemen moved on, rollo and jennie followed them. the grand avenue was a very broad and beautiful roadway, gently ascending toward the barrier, and now perfectly thronged with carriages and horsemen. there were also two side avenues, one on each side of the central one. these were for foot passengers. there were rows of trees between. beyond the side avenues there extended on either hand a wood, formed of large and tall trees, planted in rows, and standing close enough together to shade the whole ground. they were, however, far enough apart to allow of open and unobstructed motion among them. under these trees, and in open spaces which were left here and there among them, there were booths, and stalls, and tables, and tents, and all sorts of contrivances for entertainment and pleasure, with crowds of people gathered around them in groups, or moving slowly from one to the other. there were men, some dressed like gentlemen, and others wearing blue, cartmen's frocks; and women, some with bonnets and some with caps; and children of all ages and sizes; and soldiers without number, with blue coats, and dark-red trousers, and funny caps, without any brim, except the visor. in the midst of all these multitudes mr. george and the gentleman who was with him slowly led the way up the side avenue, rollo and jennie following them, quite bewildered with the extraordinary spectacles which were continually presenting themselves to view on every hand. the attention of the children was drawn from one object or incident to another, with so much suddenness, and so rapidly, that they had no time to understand one thing before it passed away and something else came forward into view and diverted their thoughts; and before they had recovered from the surprise which this second thing awakened, they had come to a third, more strange and wonderful, perhaps, than either of the preceding. a boy, very young, and very fantastically dressed, came riding along through the crowd, mounted on the smallest and prettiest black pony that rollo had ever seen, and distributing as he passed along some sort of small printed papers to all who came near enough to get them. rollo tried to get one of the papers to see what it was, but he did not succeed. "how i wish i had such a pony as that!" said rollo. "so do i," said jennie. "but what are the people doing in that ring?" rollo saw a close ring of people all crowding around something on the ground. there was a man inside the ring, calling out something very loud and very incessantly. rollo put his head between two of the spectators to see. there was a man seated in the centre, on the ground, with a cloth spread out before him, on which was a monstrous heap of stockings, of all kinds and colors, which he was selling as fast as possible to the men and women that had gathered around him. he sold them very cheap, and the people bought them very fast. he put the money, as fast as he received it, in his cap, which lay on the ground before him, and served him for a cash box. "come, rollo," said jane, pulling rollo by the hand, "we must go along. uncle george is almost out of sight." rollo turned back into the avenue again, and began to walk along. in a moment more he saw a large boy standing behind a curious-looking stove in an open space near, and baking griddle cakes. there was a very nice table by his side, covered with a white cloth, and a plate, on which the boy turned out the griddle cakes as fast as they were baked. there were several children about him, buying the cakes and eating them. "ah, jennie," said rollo, "look at these cakes! how i should like some of them! if it were not that it is sunday, i would go and buy some." "o rollo!" exclaimed jennie, "look here! see what's coming!" rollo looked, and saw that the ladies and gentlemen on the broad walk before them were moving to one side and the other, to make room for a most elegant little omnibus, drawn by six goats, that were harnessed before it like horses. the omnibus was made precisely like a large omnibus, such as are used in the streets of paris for grown persons; only this one was small, just large enough for the goats to draw. it was very beautifully painted, and had elegant silken curtains. it was full of children, who were looking out the windows with very smiling faces, as if they were enjoying their ride very much. a very pretty little boy, about seven years of age, was holding the reins of the goats, and appearing to drive; but there was a large boy walking along by the side of the goats all the time, to take care that they did not go wrong. the omnibus belonged to his father, who kept it to let children ride in it on their paying him a small sum for each ride. jennie was very much pleased with the omnibus; but what followed it pleased her still more. this was a carriage, made in all respects like a real carriage, and large enough to contain several children. it was open, like a barouche, so that the children who were riding in it could see all around them perfectly well. it had two seats inside, besides a high seat in front for the coachman, and one behind for the footman. there were children upon all these seats. there was one on the coachman's box to drive. the carriage, like the omnibus, was drawn by goats, only there were four instead of six. the coachman drove them by means of long, silken reins. as soon as the omnibus and the carriage had passed by, and the crowd had closed again behind them so as to conceal them from view, rollo and jennie looked about for mr. george and the other gentleman; but they were nowhere to be seen. jane was quite frightened; but rollo said he did not care. "look there!" said rollo, pointing back. "what is it?" said jennie. "the obelisk," said rollo. jane saw the tall, needle-like form of the obelisk towering into the air from the middle of the great square behind them, and a part of the long front of the tuileries, at the end of a vista of trees, far beyond. "as long as we have the obelisk in sight," said rollo, "we cannot get lost." just then rollo's attention was called to a broad sheet of paper fastened up upon a tree that he was passing by. he stopped to see what it was. a little girl, about as old as jennie, came up at the same time, leading the maid who had the care of her by the hand. this child began to read what was printed on the card. she read aloud, enunciating the words very slowly, syllable by syllable, and in a voice so clear, and rich, and silvery, that it was delightful to hear her. she seemed pleased to observe that rollo and jane were listening to her; and when she got through she turned to them, as if to apologize for not reading better, and said, in french, and with a pleasant smile upon her countenance,-- "i am learning to read; but i cannot read too much yet, you see." by too much she meant very well, that being the way that the french express themselves in such a case. rollo understood what she said, but he did not think it prudent to attempt to reply in the same language; so he said simply, in english,-- "and yet i think my father would give five hundred dollars if i could read french like that. he'd be _glad_ to do it." as rollo spoke these words the child looked earnestly in his face, the smile gradually disappearing from her features and being replaced by a look of perplexity and wonder. she then turned and led the maid away. there were a great many booths and stands about, some in open spaces and some under the trees. at one they had all sorts of cakes for sale; at another toys of every kind, such as hoops, balls, kites, balloons, rocking horses, and all such things; and at a third pictures, some large, some small, some plain, and some beautifully colored. at one place, by the side of the avenue where most of the people were walking, there stood a man, with a tall and gayly-painted can on his back. it was covered with common drapery below; but the top was bright, and towered like a spire above the man's head. there was a round bar, like the leg of a chair, which went from the bottom of the can to the ground, to support it, and take the weight off the man's shoulders when he was standing still. the man was standing still now, and was all the time tinkling a little bell, to call the attention of the people to what he had to sell. it was something to drink. there were two kinds of drink in the can, separated from each other by a division in the interior. there were two small pipes, one for each kind of drink, leading from the bottom of the can round by the side of the man to the front, with stopcocks at the end, where he could draw out the drink conveniently. there was also a little rack to hold the glasses. there were three glasses; for the man sometimes had three customers at a time. while rollo and jane were looking at this man, a boy came up for a drink. the man took one of the glasses from the little rack, and filled it by turning one of the stopcocks. when the boy had taken his drink and paid the money, the man wiped the glass with a towel which he kept for the purpose; and then, putting it back in its place on the rack, he went on tinkling his little bell. in the mean time, the crowd of people seemed to increase, and it appeared to rollo and jennie, when they came to observe particularly, that they were nearly all walking one way, and that was up the avenue, as if there were some place in that direction where they were all going. rollo supposed that, of course, it was a church. he had been told by his father, when they were travelling in england, that when he was in any strange place on sunday, and wished to find the way to church, one good method was to observe in the streets whenever he saw any considerable number of people moving in the same direction, and to join and follow them. he would, in such cases, his father said, be very sure to be conducted to a church, and after going in he would generally find some one who would show him a seat. rollo and jennie had often practised on this plan. in fact, they took a particular interest and pleasure in going to church in this way, as there was something a little of the nature of adventure in it. when, accordingly, the children observed that the great mass of the people that filled the two side avenues, as well as the carriages that were in the central one, were all moving steadily onward together, paying little attention to the booths, and stalls, and other places and means of amusement which were to be seen under the trees on either hand, he concluded that, while some of the people of paris were willing to amuse themselves with sports and exhibitions on sunday, the more respectable portion would not stop to look at them, but went straight forward to church; and he and jennie resolved to follow their example. "i should like to see all these things very much," said rollo, "some other day; but now we will go on, jennie, to the church, where the rest of the people are going." jennie very cordially approved of this plan, and so they walked on together. it happened that, at the time when they came to this determination, there was walking just before them a party, consisting apparently of a father and mother and their two children. the father and mother walked together first, and the two children, hand in hand, followed. the oldest child was a girl, of about jennie's age. the other was a very small boy, just beginning to learn to talk. rollo and jennie came immediately behind these children, and were very much interested in hearing them talk together, especially to hear the little one prattling in french. he called his sister adrienne, and she called him antoine. thus rollo and jennie knew the names of the children, but they had no way of finding out what were the names of the father and mother. "now, jennie," said rollo, in a low tone, "i think we had better follow this party, and keep close to them all the time, and then, when we get to the church, perhaps they will give us a seat." jennie liked this proposal very much, and so she and rollo walked along after adrienne and antoine, not too near them, but so near as to keep them always in sight. sometimes the party turned aside from the avenue to walk under the trees, and sometimes they stopped a few minutes to look at some curious exhibition or spectacle which was to be seen. at one place a man had a square marked off, and enclosed with a line to keep the crowd back; and in the middle he had an electrical machine, with which he gave shocks to any of the bystanders who were willing to take them. a boy kept turning the machine all the time. at another place was a little theatre, mounted on a high box, so that all could see, with little images about as large as dolls dancing on the stage, or holding dialogues with each other. the words were really spoken by a man who was concealed in the box below; but as the little images moved about continually, and made all sorts of gesticulations, corresponding with what was said, it seemed to the bystanders precisely as if they were speaking themselves. besides this, the images would walk about, scold each other, quarrel and fight each other, run out at little doors, and then come in again, and do a great many other things which it was very wonderful to see such little figures do. there were places, too, where there were great whirling machines, under splendid tents and canopies, with horses, and boats, and ships, and cradles at the circumference of them, all of which were made to sail round and round through the air, carrying the children that were mounted on the horses or sitting in the ships and boats. there were also several places for shooting at a mark with little spring guns, which were loaded with peas instead of bullets. there were figures of bears, lions, tigers, ducks, deer, and other animals at a little distance, which were kept moving along all the time by machinery, for the children to shoot at with the peas. if they hit any of them they drew a prize, consisting of cake or gingerbread, or of some sort of plaything or toy, of which great numbers were hanging up about the shooting place. all these, and a great many other similar contrivances for amusing people, rollo and jane saw, as they passed along; but they did not stop to look at them, excepting when the gentleman and lady stopped whom they were following. this was seldom, however; and so they went, on the whole, very steadily forward, up the long and gentle ascent, until, at length, they reached the great triumphal arch at the neuilly barrier. chapter vi. a great mistake. as they approached the arch, the children gazed upon it with astonishment, being greatly impressed with its magnitude and height. there were a great many men on the top of it. their heads and shoulders were visible from below, as they stood leaning over the parapet. they, however, looked exceedingly small. rollo and jennie would have liked to stop and look longer at the arch; but they did not wish to separate from adrienne and antoine, who kept walking steadily on all the time with their father and mother. rollo supposed, as has been said before, that this party were going to some church; but they were not. they were going to a place called the hippodrome. the hippodrome, far from being a church, is a place of amusement. it is used for equestrian performances, and feats of strength and agility, and balloon ascension, and all similar entertainments. the hippodrome is a long, oval enclosure, with eight or ten ranges of seats extending all around it, and rising one above another, like the seats of the coliseum at rome. there is a roof extending all around over the seats; but the area within is so large that it could not well be covered with a roof. besides, if there were a roof over it, how could the balloons go up? then, moreover, the spectacles which are exhibited in the hippodrome appear to much better advantage when seen in the open light of day than if they were under the cover of a roof, so long as the spectators themselves are protected from the sun and from any sudden showers. the area in the middle of the hippodrome is about one hundred yards long and fifty yards wide. it is so large that there is room for a good wide road all around it, and also for another road up and down the middle, with little gardens of grass and flowers between. at the very centre is a round area, where there is a concealed canal of water to represent a stream. this water is ordinarily covered with planks, and the planks are covered with a very thick canvas carpet, and this with sand; so that the water is entirely concealed, and the horsemen ride over it just as they do over any other part of the area. when they wish to use it, to show how the horses could leap over streams, they take off the sand, roll up the carpet, and carry away the planks; and there they have a very good representation of a stream. the performances at the hippodrome are very various. sometimes whole troops of horse come in from between two great curtains at one end, all elegantly caparisoned and mounted, some by men and some by girls, but all, whether men or girls, dressed in splendid uniforms. these troops ride round and round the area, and up and down in the middle of it, performing a great variety of evolutions in the most rapid and surprising manner. then there are races of various kinds. some are run by beautiful girls, who come out mounted on elegant gray horses that are mottled like leopards, each of the riders having a scarf over her shoulders of a different color from the rest, so that they may be all readily distinguished from each other in the race. then there are races of chariots, three running at a time, round and round the area; and of small ponies, with monkeys on them for riders. there are various contrivances, too, for athletic and gymnastic feats, such as masts and poles for climbers to ascend, and other similar apparatus. all these things give the interior of the hippodrome quite a gay and lively appearance, and the area necessary for them is so large that the ranges of seats surrounding it are sufficient to accommodate ten thousand spectators. it was to this place that adrienne and antoine, with their father and mother, were going, while rollo and jennie supposed that they were going to a church. there was nothing to lead rollo to suspect his mistake in the aspect of the building as he approached the entrance to it; for the sides of it were hidden by trees and other buildings, and the portal, though very large and very gayly decorated, seemed still, so far as rollo could get a glimpse of it through the crowds of people, only to denote that it was the entrance to some very splendid public edifice, without at all indicating the nature of the purposes to which it was devoted. the immense concourse of people which were pouring into the hippodrome divided themselves at the gates into two portions, and passed up an ascent to enter at side doors. rollo and jane, following their guides, went toward the right. they observed that the father of adrienne and antoine stopped at a little window near the entrance, to pay the price of admission for himself and wife and his two children and to get the tickets. he paid full price for his two children, and so took four full tickets. rollo and jane did not see him pay the money. they only observed that there was a crowd at the little window, and they saw antoine's father take the tickets. they did not know what this meant, however; but they followed on. when they all came to the doorway which led up to the ranges of seats, the man whose duty it was to take the tickets supposed that the four children all belonged to the same family, and that they had been admitted at half price, and that, accordingly, two of the tickets were for the father and mother, and the other two for the four children. so he let them all pass on together, especially as there was, at that time, such a throng of people crowding in that there was no time to stop and make any inquiries. rollo and jane were carried along by the current up a flight of stairs, which came out among the ranges of seats; and after moving along for some distance till they came to a vacancy they sat down, and began to look around and survey the spacious and splendid interior into which they had entered. they were at once overwhelmed with the magnificence of the spectacle which was presented to view. instead of a church, they found a vast open area extended before them, surrounded with long ranges of seats, and laid out in the interior in the most graceful and beautiful manner. "jennie," said rollo, after gazing about for some moments, almost bewildered, "if this is any kind of meeting at all, i think it must be a camp meeting." jennie was completely bewildered, and had no opinion on the subject whatever; so she said nothing. "that's the place for the choir, i suppose," said rollo, pointing to a sort of raised platform with a balustrade in front, which was built among the seats in the middle of one of the sides of the hippodrome. "but then," he added, after a moment's pause, "i don't see any pulpit, unless that is it." as he said this, rollo pointed to a balcony with a rich canopy over it, which was built up among the seats, directly opposite to the musician's gallery, on the other side of the arena. this balcony was for the use of the emperor, and his family and friends, when they chose to come and witness the spectacles in the hippodrome. these speculations of rollo's were suddenly interrupted by the striking up of martial music, by a full band of trumpets, drums, clarinets, hautboys, and horns, from the musician's gallery. soon afterwards the curtains opened at the farther end of the arena, and a magnificent troop of horse, mounted by male and female riders, all dressed in the gayest and most splendid costumes, came prancing in. as soon as rollo had recovered from his astonishment at this spectacle, he turned to jennie, and said,-- "jennie, it is not any church or meeting at all; and i think we had better go home." "i think so too," said jennie. "i should like to come here some other day," added rollo; "and i mean to ask my father to let us come. uncle george will come with us. but _now_ we had better go home." so the children rose from their seats and began to move toward the door. it was some time before they could get out, so great was the number of people still coming in. they, however, finally succeeded, and were quite relieved when they found themselves once more in the open air. they turned their steps immediately toward home. jane, however, soon began to feel very tired; and so rollo said he would stop the first omnibus that came along. the avenue was full of carriages of every kind; and pretty soon an omnibus, headed down the obelisk, appeared among them. rollo made a signal for the conductor to stop, and he and jennie got in. they had a very pleasant ride back through the elysian fields, and around the great square where the obelisk stands. they then entered the street which runs along by the side of the gardens of the tuileries, and advanced in it toward the heart of the city. rollo made a sign for the conductor to stop when the omnibus reached that part of the street which was opposite to the entrance into the garden where he and jennie had gone in. this was, of course, also opposite to the street leading into the place vendome. it was but a short walk from this place to the hotel. about six o'clock the children arrived at the hotel, and the table was already set for dinner. mr. holiday was reclining on a couch in the room, and mrs. holiday had been reading to him. rollo's uncle george was also in the room. mrs. holiday laid down her book when the children came in. rollo and jennie sat down upon a sofa, not far from their father's couch. they were glad to rest. "well, children," said mrs. holiday, "have you had a pleasant walk?" "yes," said rollo, "a very pleasant walk indeed. we have seen a great many very curious things. but i believe we made a mistake." "what mistake?" asked mrs. holiday. "why, we followed a great many people that we thought were going to church; but, instead of that, they led us into a great place that i think was some sort of circus." here mr. george looked up very eagerly and began to laugh. "i declare!" said he. "i shouldn't wonder if you got into the hippodrome." "i don't know what it was," said rollo. "when we first went in we saw that it was not a church; but we did not know but that it might be some sort of camp meeting. but pretty soon they began to bring horses in and ride them around, and so we came out." here mr. george fell into a long and uncontrollable paroxysm of laughter, during the intervals of which he said, in broken language, as he walked about the room endeavoring to get breath and recover his self-control, that it was the best thing he had heard since he landed at liverpool. the idea of following the crowd of parisians in the champs elysées on sunday afternoon, with the expectation of being conducted to church, and then finally taking the hippodrome for a camp meeting! rollo himself, though somewhat piqued at having his adventure put in so ridiculous a light, could not help laughing too; and even his father and mother smiled. "never mind, rollo," said his mother, at length. "i don't think you were at all to blame; though i am glad that you came out when you found what sort of a place it was." "o, no," said mr. george, as he gradually recovered his self-control, "you were not to blame in the least. the rule you followed is a very good one for england and america; but it does not apply to france. going with the multitude sunday afternoons, in paris, will take you any where but to church." notwithstanding the concurrence of opinion between rollo's mother and his uncle that he had done nothing wrong, neither he nor jennie could help feeling some degree of uneasiness and some little dissatisfaction with themselves in respect to the manner in which they had spent the afternoon. they had both been accustomed to consider the sabbath as a day solemnly consecrated to the worship of god and to the work of preparation for heaven. it is true that the day sometimes seemed very long to them, as it does to all children; and though they had always been allowed to take quiet walks in the gardens and grounds around the house, still they usually got tired, before night came, of being so quiet and still. notwithstanding this, however, they had no disposition to break over the rule which, as they supposed, the law of god enjoined upon them. they fully believed that god himself had ordained that there should be one day in seven from which all the usual occupations and amusements of life should be excluded, and which should be consecrated wholly to rest, to religious contemplation, and to prayer; and they were very willing to submit to the ordinance, though it brought with it upon them, as children, burdens and restrictions which it was sometimes quite onerous for them to bear. when night came, rollo found that he always felt much happier if he had kept the sabbath strictly, than when he attempted, either secretly or openly, to evade the duty. there was a sort of freshness and vigor, too, with which he engaged in the employments of the week on monday morning, which, though he had never stopped to account for it philosophically, he enjoyed very highly, and which made monday morning the brightest and most animated morning of the week. so rollo was accustomed to acquiesce very willingly in the setting apart of the sacred day to religious observances and to rest, thinking that the restraints and restrictions which it imposed were amply compensated for by the peace and comfort which it brought to his mind when he observed it aright, and by the novelty and freshness of the charm with which it invested the ordinary pursuits and enjoyments of life when it was over. accordingly, on this occasion, feeling a little dissatisfied with himself and uneasy in mind, in consequence of the manner in which he had spent the afternoon, rollo determined to make all the atonement for his fault, if fault it was, that was now in his power. accordingly, when the family rose from the table after dinner, which was about seven o'clock, and his father and mother went and sat upon the sofa together, which stood in the recess of a window looking out upon the place vendome, rollo said to jane, in an undertone,-- "jennie, come with me." he said this in the tone of an invitation, not of command; and jennie understood at once, from her experience on former occasions, that rollo had some plan for her entertainment or gratification. so she got down from her chair and went off with him very readily. they went out at a door which led into their mother's bed room. "jennie," said rollo, as he walked along with her across the room, "i am going to get the bible and sit down here by the window and read in it. would not you like to read with me?" "yes," said jennie, "if you will find a pretty story to read about. there are a great many toward the first part of the bible." "yes," said rollo, "i will." "and let us go into my room to read," said jennie. "i like my room the best." "well," said rollo, "i like your room best, too." so rollo took the bible off from the table of his father's room, and then he and jennie went on together into jennie's room. this room was a little boudoir, which opened from mr. and mrs. holiday's room; it was a charming little place, and it was no wonder that jennie liked it. it was hung with drapery all around, except where the window was, on one side, and a large looking glass and a picture on two other sides. there was even a curtain over the door, so that when you were in, and the door was shut, and the curtain over it was let down, you seemed to be entirely secluded from all the world. this drapery was green, and the room, being entirely enclosed in it, might have seemed sombre had it not been for the brilliancy and beauty of the furniture, and the variegated colors and high polish of the floor. there was an elegant bedstead and bed in the back part of the room, with a carved canopy over it. there was a bureau also, with drawers, where jennie kept her clothes; and a little fireplace, with a pretty brass fender before it; and a marble mantel piece above, with a clock and two vases of flowers upon it. there were a great many other curious and beautiful articles of furniture in the room, which gave it a very attractive appearance, and made it, in fact, as pretty a place of seclusion as a lady could desire to have. jennie enjoyed this room very much indeed; but still, after all, notwithstanding the expensiveness and beauty of the decorations which adorned it, i do not know that jennie enjoyed it any more than she did a little seat that she had under some lilac bushes, near the brook at the bottom of her father's garden, at home. there was a small couch in the recess of the window in jennie's boudoir; and here she and rollo established themselves, with the bible lying open before them upon a small table which they had placed before the couch to hold it. they raised their own seats by means of large, square cushions which were there, so as to bring themselves to the right height for reading from the book while it lay upon the table; and they put their feet upon a tabouret which belonged to the room. the tabouret was made for a seat, but it answered an admirable purpose for a foot-stool. as soon as the two children were thus comfortably established, they opened the bible, and rollo began to turn over the leaves in the books of samuel and of kings, in order to find something which he thought would interest jennie. at length he found a chapter which seemed, so far as he could judge by running his eye along the verses, to consist principally of narration and dialogue; and so he determined to begin the reading at once. "now," said he, "jennie, i will read one verse, and then you shall read one, and i will tell you the meaning of all the words that you don't know." jennie was much pleased with this arrangement, and she read the verses which came to her with great propriety. it is true that there were a great many words at which she was obliged to hesitate some little time before she could pronounce them; and there were others which she could not pronounce at all. rollo had the tact to wait just long enough in these cases. by telling children too quick when they are endeavoring to spell out a word, we deprive them of the pleasure of surmounting the difficulty themselves; and, by waiting too long, we perplex and discourage them. there are very few children who, when they are hearing their younger brothers and sisters read, have the proper discretion on this point. in fact, a great many full-grown teachers fail in this respect most seriously, and make the business of reading on the part of their pupils a constant source of disappointment and vexation to them, when it might have been a pleasure. rollo, too, besides the patient and kind encouragement which he afforded to jane in her attempts to read her verses herself, read those which fell to his share in a very distinct and deliberate manner, keeping the place all the while with his finger, so that jennie might easily follow him. he stopped also from time to time to explain the story to jennie, and to talk about the several incidents that were described in it, in order to make it sure that jennie understood them all. it would have been much easier for him to have taken the book himself, and to have read the whole chapter off at once, fluently. but this would have defeated his whole object; which was, not to do what he could do most easily, but to do good and help jennie. if a boy were going up a high hill, with his sister in his company, it would be easier for him to go directly on and leave his sister behind. a selfish boy would be likely to do this; but a generous-minded boy would prefer to go slowly, and help his sister along over the rocks and up the steep places. rollo and jane both became so much interested in their reading that they continued it almost an hour. it then began to be dark, and so they put the book away. their mother came in about that time, and was very much pleased when she found how rollo and jennie had been employed; and rollo and jennie themselves experienced a substantial and deeply-seated feeling of satisfaction and comfort that all the merry-making of the elysian fields could never give. if any of the readers of this book have any doubt of this, let them try the experiment themselves. at some time, after they have been spending a portion of the sabbath in such a way as to give them an inward feeling of uneasiness and self-condemnation, let them engage for a time in the voluntary performance of some serious duty, as rollo did, and in the spirit and temper which he manifested, and see how strongly it will tend to bring back their peace of mind and restore them to happiness. to try the experiment more effectually still, spend the whole sabbath in this manner, and then see with what a feeling of quiet and peaceful satisfaction you will go to bed at night, and with what a joyous and buoyant spirit you will awake on monday morning. before rollo left paris, he went, one tuesday afternoon, with his mother and jennie and his uncle george, to see the performances at the hippodrome, and he enjoyed the spectacle very much indeed. besides the performances which have already been described, there were two others which astonished him exceedingly. in one of these a man came into the middle of the area, and there the assistants lifted up a large and heavy pole, which they poised in the air, and then set the lower end of it in a sort of socket which was made in an apron which the man wore, which socket was fastened securely to the man's hips and shoulders by strong straps, so that he could sustain the weight of the pole by means of them. the pole was about thirty feet high, and the top was branched like a pitchfork. it was shaped, in fact, exactly like a pitchfork, except that there was a bar across from the top of one branch to the top of the other, and a rope hanging down from the middle of the bar half way down to the place of bifurcation--that is, to the place where the straight part of the pole ended and the branches began. things being thus arranged, a boy, who was about twelve years old, apparently, came out, and, leaping up upon the man's shoulders, began to climb up the pole. when he reached the top of it he took hold of the rope, and by means of the rope climbed up to the bar. here he began to perform a great variety of the most astonishing evolutions, the man all the time poising the pole in the air. the boy would climb about the bar in every way, drawing himself up sometimes backwards and sometimes forward, and swinging to and fro, and turning over and over in every conceivable position. he would hang to the bar sometimes by his hands and sometimes by his legs--sometimes with his head downward, sometimes with his feet downward. he would whirl round and round over the bar a great many times, till rollo and jane were tired of seeing him, and then he would rest by hanging to the pole by the back_ of his head_, without touching the bar with any other part of his body. all this time the man who held the pole kept it carefully poised, moving to and fro about the area continually in following the oscillations. [illustration: the hippodrome.] the other performance was in some respects more extraordinary still. there was a mast set up in the ground, thirty or forty feet high. at the ground, ten feet from the foot of the mast, there commenced an inclined plane, formed of a plank about a foot or eighteen inches wide, which ascended in a spiral direction round and round the mast till it reached the top. a man ascended this plane by means of a large ball, about two feet in diameter, which he rolled up standing upon it, and rolling it by stepping continually on the ascending side. there was no ledge or guard whatever to keep the ball from rolling off the plane--nothing but a narrow plank ascending continually, and winding in a spiral manner around the mast. this experiment it was quite frightful to see. several of the children who were sitting near mr. george's party began to cry, saying, "o, he will fall--he will fall!" in fact, jennie could not bear to look at him, and so she shut her eyes; and even mrs. holiday looked another way. but rollo watched it through, and saw the man go on up to the very top of the mast, and stand there on his ball on the top, forty feet above the ground, with his hands extended in triumph. after remaining there a short time, he came down as he had gone up; and when he reached the ground, he rolled his ball along, keeping on it all the time, till he came to a chariot which was waiting to receive him. he stepped from the ball off to the chariot, and was then driven all around the ring, being received every where, as he passed, with the acclamations of the spectators. chapter vii. carlos. one morning, just after breakfast, when rollo and jennie were sitting at the window of their hotel, looking at a band of about forty drummers that were arranging themselves on the asphaltum, in the place vendome, in front of the column, preparatory to an exercise of practice on their instrument, mr. george came into the room. mr. george took up a newspaper which was lying upon the table, and, seating himself in a large arm chair which was near, he read from it for a few minutes, and then, laying down the paper, said,-- "rollo, how do you pronounce l-o-u-v-o-i-s?" mr. george did not speak the word, but spelled it letter by letter. "i don't know," said rollo. "because," said mr. george, "that is the name of the hotel where i have gone." "what made you go away from this hotel, uncle george?" asked jennie. "didn't you like it?" "yes," replied mr. george, "i liked it very much. but i wanted to change the scene. i had become very familiar with every thing in this part of the city, and with the modes of life in this hotel. so i thought i would change, and go to some other quarter of the city, where i could see paris, and paris life, in new aspects." "i wish i had gone with you," said rollo. "i wonder if my father would not let me go now. is there a room for me at your hotel?" he added, looking up eagerly. "i don't know," said mr. george. "you can ask when you go there. but to day i am going to see the garden of plants; and you may go with me, if you like." "well," said rollo, "i should like to go very much." "and may i go, too?" said jennie. "yes," said mr. george, "if your mother is willing." "well," said jennie, joyfully, "i'll go and ask her. only i wish it was a garden of flowers instead of a garden of plants." so jennie went to ask her mother if she might go with her uncle george. she soon returned with her shawl and bonnet on, and then, mr. george leading the way, they all went together down stairs, and got into a carriage which was waiting for them at the door. the carriage was an open one, with the top turned back, so that they all had a fine opportunity to see the streets and the persons passing as they rode along. mr. george directed the coachman to drive first to his hotel; and the carriage, leaving the place vendome on the northern side, entered into a perfect maze of narrow streets, through which it advanced toward the heart of the city. after a time, they came to a long, straight street, which led across the city, through the centre of it, from the river to the boulevards; and when they were about in the middle of this street, the attention of the children was attracted by a very long and gloomy-looking building, which formed one side of the street for a considerable distance before them. it had no windows toward the street, but only a range of square recesses in the walls, of the form of windows, but without any glass. jennie asked mr. george if it was the prison. "not exactly," said mr. george; "and yet there is one room in it where there are more than a hundred men, and they are not permitted to speak a loud word." "let's go and see them," said rollo. "very well," said mr. george; "we will." so saying, he called upon the coachman to stop opposite to a great archway which opened through the building near the middle of it. mr. george and the children descended from the carriage and went in under the archway. looking through, they saw a large court yard, with grass, and trees, and a fountain. they did not, however, go on into this court yard, but turned to the right to a very broad flight of steps which seemed to lead into the building. there was a man in uniform, with a cocked hat upon his head, who stood in the passage way to guard the entrance. he made no objection, however, to the party's going in; and so they all went on up the stairway. after passing through a series of magnificent passages and vestibules, with very broad staircases, and massive stone balustrades, and other marks of a very ancient and venerable style of architecture, mr. george led the way through an open door, where the children saw extended before them, as far as the eye could reach, a long range of rooms, opening into one another, and all filled with bookshelves and books. the rooms had windows only on one side; that is, on the side next the courtyard; and the doors which led from one room to the other were all near that side of the room. thus three sides of each room were almost wholly unbroken, and they were all filled with bookshelves and books. the doors which led from one room to another were all in a range; so that standing at one end, opposite to one of these doors, the spectator could look through the whole range of rooms to the other end. the distance was, moreover, so great, that, though there was a group of several persons standing at the farther end of the range of rooms at the time that rollo entered, they looked so small and so indistinct that rollo could not count them to tell how many there were. "it is a library," said rollo. "yes," said mr. george, "it is the national library of paris, one of the largest libraries in the world. the books have been accumulating here for ages." "i don't see what can be the use of such a large library," said rollo; "nobody can possibly read all the books." "no," said mr. george, "they cannot read them all; but they may wish to consult them. there are often particular reasons for seeing some particular book, which was published so long ago that it is not now to be found in common bookstores; in such cases, people come here, and they are pretty sure to find the book in this collection." there were several parties of ladies and gentlemen to be seen, at different distances, walking along the range of rooms, all of whom seemed to be visitors. mr. george, himself, walked on, and the children followed him. they passed from one apartment to another, amazed at the number of books. they were all neatly arranged on bookshelves, which extended from the floor to the ceiling, and were protected by a wire netting in front; so that, although the visitors could see the books, they could not take them down. mr. george and the children walked on, until, at length, they came to the end of the range of rooms, and there they found another range, running at right angles to the first, back from the street. they turned and walked along through these rooms, too. the floors of all the rooms were very smooth and glossy, being formed of narrow boards, of dark-colored wood, curiously inlaid, and highly polished. rollo told jennie that he believed he could slide on such floors as well as he could on ice, if he thought they would let him try. he knew very well, however, that it would not be proper to try. besides, he observed that there were standing at different distances along the range of rooms certain men, in uniform, who seemed to be officers stationed in the library to guard against any thing like irregularity or disorder on the part of the visitors. besides the books, there were a great many other things to interest visitors in the rooms of the library, such as models of buildings, statues, collections of coins, medals, and precious gems, and other similar curiosities. these things were arranged on tables and in cases made expressly for them, and placed in the various rooms. the tables and cases occupy, generally, the central parts of the rooms that they were placed in, so as not to interfere with the use of the sides of the rooms for books. in one place was a collection of some of the oldest books that ever were printed, showing the style of typography that prevailed when the art of printing was first discovered. mr. george took great interest in looking at these. rollo and jennie, however, did not think much of them; and so, while their uncle was examining these ancient specimens, they went to the windows and looked out into the court yard. this court formed a green and beautiful garden, shaded with trees and adorned with fountains and walks. the visitors could see that the buildings of the library extended in long ranges all around it. at length, at the end of the second range of rooms, the party came to a third range, which was parallel to the first, and which extended along the back side of the court yard. the children could not go into these apartments, for the entrance to them was closed by a glass partition. they could, however, look through the partition and see what there was within. they beheld a very long hall, which was several hundred feet in length, apparently, and quite wide, and it was lined on both sides with bookshelves and books. long tables were extended up and down this hall, with a great number of gentlemen sitting at them, all engaged in silent study. some were reading; some were writing; some were looking at books of maps or engravings. there were desks at various places up and down the room, with officers belonging to the library sitting at them, and several messengers, dressed in uniform, going to and fro bringing books. mr. george explained to the children that there was another entrance to this room, leading from the court yard by a separate staircase, and that any person who wished to read or study might go in there and sit at those tables, only he must be still, and not disturb the studies of the rest. if he wished for any book, he could not go and get it from the shelves, but must write the title of it in full on a slip of paper, and carry it to one of the desks. the officer would take the slip and give it to one of the messengers, who would then go and get the book. after looking through the glass partition at this great company of readers and students until their curiosity was satisfied, the children turned away, and mr. george conducted them back through the long ranges of rooms by the same way that they came. when, at length, they got back to the staircase where they had come up, mr. george, instead of going out where he had come in, descended by another way, through new corridors and passages, until he came to a room where a considerable number of people were sitting at tables, looking at books of engravings. the sides of this room, and of several others opening into it, were filled with bound volumes of prints and engravings, some plain and some colored, but very beautiful. many of the volumes were very large; but however large they might be, it was very easy to turn over the leaves and see the pictures, for the tables, or rather, desks, in the middle of the room, were so contrived that a book, placed upon them, was held at precisely the right slope to be seen to advantage by persons sitting before it. mr. george told the children, in a whisper, that any one might ask for any book there was there, and the attendants would place it on one of the tables for him, where he might sit and look at the prints in it as long as he pleased. "some day," continued mr. george, "we will come here and look over some of these books; but to-day we must go to the garden of plants." mr. george then led the children back to the carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive to his hotel. the hotel was situated on the site of an open square, which, though by no means so grand and magnificent as the place vendome, was still a very pleasant place. there was a fountain in the centre, with a large basin of water around it. outside of this basin the square was paved with asphaltum, and was as hard and smooth as a floor. the pavement was shaded with trees, which were planted at equal distances all over it; and under the trees there were seats, where various persons were sitting. there were many children, too, playing about under the trees, some trundling hoop, some jumping rope, and some playing horses. the carriage stopped at the door of the hotel, and mr. george took the children up to his room. it was a front room, and it looked out upon the square. the children went to the window, and, while mr. george was getting ready to go, they amused themselves by looking at the children that were playing on the square. among the other children, there was a boy, apparently about eight years of age, who was sitting apart from the rest of the children, on a bench by himself. his complexion was dark, and his hair very black and glossy. he was very neatly and prettily dressed, though in a very peculiar style, his costume being quite different from any thing that rollo had ever before seen. he had a ball in his hand, which now and then he tossed into the air. "he has not any body to play with," said rollo to jennie. "i have a great mind to go down and play with him while uncle george is getting ready." "very well," said mr. george; "you can go. i shall not be ready for nearly half an hour. we do not wish to get to the garden of plants before twelve o'clock." rollo hesitated a little about going down, and while he was hesitating the boy rose from his seat and came toward the hotel. he entered under the archway, and presently rollo heard him coming up the staircase. he then determined to hesitate no longer; so he went out into the passage way to see him. the boy had reached the top of the staircase when rollo went out, and was just then coming along the hall. he looked at rollo with a smile as he came toward him, and this encouraged rollo to speak to him. "can't you find any one to play with you?" said rollo. the boy shook his head, but did not speak. he meant by this that he did not understand what rollo said; but rollo thought he meant that he could not find any one to play with him. "i will play with you," said rollo; and as he spoke he held out his hands, with the wrists together and the palms open between them, in a manner customary with boys for catching a ball. the boy understood the sign, though he did not understand the words. he tossed the ball to rollo, and rollo caught it. rollo then tossed it back again. presently rollo made signs to the boy to sit down upon the floor at one end of the hall, while he sat down at the other, explaining his wishes also at the same time in words. the boy talked too, in reply to rollo, accompanying what he said with signs and gestures. they got along thus together in their play very well, each one imagining that he helped to convey his meaning to the other by what he said, while, in fact, neither understood a word that was spoken by the other, and so took notice of nothing but the signs. rollo listened attentively once or twice to short replies that his new friend made to him, in order to see if he could not distinguish some words in it that he could understand; but he could not; and he finally concluded that it must be some other language than french that the boy was speaking. he was sorry for this; for he could understand short sentences in french pretty well, and could speak short sentences himself in reply. when, however, he tried to speak to the boy in french, he observed that he did not appear to understand him any better than when he spoke in english. this confirmed him in the opinion that the boy must belong to some other nation. after playing together for some time with the ball, the two boys began to feel quite acquainted with each other. rollo wished very much to find out his new companion's name; so he asked him, in english,-- "what is your name?" the boy smiled, and throwing the ball across again to rollo as he spoke, said something in reply; but it was a great deal too much to be his name. what he said was, when interpreted into english, "my father bought this ball for me, and gave two francs for it." then rollo thought he would try french; so he translated his question, and asked it in french. "and i am going to carry it with me to switzerland and italy," said the boy, speaking still in the unknown tongue. "that can't be your name, either," said rollo, "i am very sure." then, after a moment's pause, he added, in an eager voice and manner, as if a new idea had suddenly struck him,-- "we are going to the garden of plants--uncle george, and jennie, and i; wouldn't you like to go, too?" the boy smiled, and held out his hands for rollo to roll the ball to him, saying something at the same time which to rollo seemed totally unmeaning. "he does not understand me, i suppose; but i know how i can explain it to him." so he rose from the floor, and, by means of a great deal of earnest gesticulation and beckoning, he induced the boy to get up too, and follow him. rollo led the way into his uncle's chamber. the boy seemed pleased, though a little timid, in going in. "uncle george," said rollo, "here is a boy that cannot talk. are you willing that i should invite him to go with us to the garden of plants?" "yes," said mr. george; "though i don't see how you are going to do it." rollo led the boy to the window, and pointed to the carriage, which stood down before the door below. then he opened a map of paris which lay upon the table, and found the garden of plants laid down upon it, and showed it to the boy. then he pointed to his uncle george, to jennie, and to himself, and then to the carriage. then he made a motion with his hand to denote going. by these gesticulations he conveyed the idea quite distinctly to his new acquaintance that they were all going to the garden of plants. he then finally pointed to the boy himself, and also to the carriage, and looked at him with an inquiring look, which he meant as an invitation to the boy to accompany them. the boy paid close attention to all these signs; and when rollo had finished, instead of either nodding or shaking his head, in token of his accepting or declining the invitation, as rollo expected he would have done, he took up the map, and, making certain mysterious gestures, which rollo could not comprehend, he walked off rapidly out of the room. rollo looked at his uncle george with an expression of great astonishment on his countenance. "what does that mean?" said he. "perhaps he has gone to ask his father or his mother," suggested mr. george. "he has," exclaimed rollo, "he has; that's it, i'm sure." so rollo went out immediately into the hall to wait till the boy came back. in a few minutes a door opened, which led into a suite of apartments in the rear of the hotel, and the boy, with the map in his hand, came into the hall, nodding his head, and looking very much pleased; talking all the time, moreover, in a very voluble but perfectly unintelligible manner. a moment after he came the door opened again, and a very respectably dressed man, of middle age, came into the hall. the boy pointed to rollo, and said something to this man. "are you going to the garden of plants?" said the man to rollo, speaking in english, though with a very decidedly foreign accent. "yes, sir," said rollo. "and did you invite carlos to go with you?" "yes, sir," said rollo; "only i did not know that his name was carlos. he told me something very different from that. what language is it that he talks? is it french?" "no," replied the man, "it is spanish. he is a spanish boy. he cannot understand a word of french or english. but he may go with you to the garden of plants." "are you his father, sir?" asked rollo. "no," replied the man, "i am his father's courier."[e] [e] a courier is a traveling servant. a good courier understands all the principal languages of europe, and is acquainted with all the routes and modes of travelling. he takes all the care of the party that employs him; makes bargains for them; finds out good hotels for them to go to; pays the bills; obtains all necessary information; and does every thing for them, in fact, which is required in making the tour of europe. so saying, the man passed on, leaving rollo and carlos together. "come, carlos," said rollo, "let us go into uncle george's room, and see if he is not ready to go." rollo beckoned as he spoke, and carlos, understanding his action, though not his words, immediately followed him. in fact, during all his subsequent intercourse with carlos, rollo continued to talk to him just as if he could understand, and carlos talked also in reply. it is true, that, if rollo had been asked whether he supposed that carlos understood what he said, he would have answered no; and yet he continually forgot to act upon this belief, but talked on, under the influence of a sort of instinctive feeling that good plain english, such as he took care to speak, could not fail to convey ideas to any boy that heard it. under the influence of a similar feeling, carlos talked spanish to rollo, each imagining that the other understood him, at least in some degree, while, in fact, neither understood any thing but the signs and gestures which accompanied the language. just as they were about to set out, one of mr. george's friends called to see him; and when he found that the party were going to the garden of plants, he wished to go too. there was scarcely room for so many in the carriage, and so rollo proposed that he and carlos should go in an omnibus. "there is an omnibus," said he, "that goes there through the boulevards, close by here; and carlos and i will go in that, and then we can find you in the garden." "very well," said mr. george. "come, carlos, come with me," said rollo; "we are going to find an omnibus." carlos perceived that rollo was proposing that they should go somewhere together, but he did not know where, or for what; nor did he care. he was ready to assent to any thing. so he and rollo, leaving the rest of the party in the act of getting into the carriage, walked along up the street which led to the boulevards. chapter viii. the garden of plants. rollo and carlos had not gone far before they came to a place where two children had set up what they called a _chapel_, under the archway which led to the interior of the house where they lived. a real chapel, in catholic countries, is any consecrated place, large or small, containing an altar, and a crucifix, and other sacred emblems, where masses are said and other religious services are performed. real chapels are made in the alcoves of churches, in monuments over tombs, and in other similar places, and children have toy chapels to play with. there are little crucifixes, and candlesticks, and communion cups, and other similar things for sale at the toy shops. sometimes the children buy these things and arrange them on a small table, in a corner of the room, for play, just as in protestant countries they arrange a pulpit and chairs for a congregation, and so make believe have a meeting. sometimes the children bring out their chapel and set it near the sidewalk, by the street, and then hold out a little plate to ask the passers by for contributions. there are almost always some people more good matured than wise, who will give them a sou or two; and thus they often made up quite a little purse of money. in this case, as rollo and carlos were passing along, the little girl, who was very nicely dressed in holiday costume, held out a small plate, saying,-- "one sou, gentlemen, if you please, for the little chapel." rollo and carlos stopped to look at the chapel. "what pretty little candles!" said rollo, talking half to himself and half to carlos, "and how tall! i wish i had some of them for jennie." "i have got a chapel at home," said carlos. "she wants us to give her a sou," continued rollo. "would you?" "and i will show it to you if you ever come to barcelona," said carlos. "i don't know whether to give her a sou or not," said rollo. "would you, carlos?" "my candlesticks are of real silver," said carlos, "but these are not." rollo finally concluded to give the girl a sou, thinking that he was in some measure bound to do it, after having stopped so long to look at her chapel; and then he and carlos walked on as before. as they went on they continued to talk together, from time to time, rollo in english and carlos in spanish, neither of them, however, paying any attention to what the other said. this was a very good plan, for there was a sense of companionship in this sort of conversation, though it communicated no ideas. they took the same kind of pleasure in it, probably, that birds do in the singing of their mates. in fact, it often happens, when a group of children are talking together in a language which they all understand, that each one talks for the pleasure of talking, and none of them pay any attention to what the others say. presently the two boys reached the boulevard. it was a very broad and magnificent street, and the sidewalks were very wide. the sidewalks, wide as they were, were thronged with foot passengers, and the street itself was full of carriages. very soon an omnibus came along; but it was full. there are a great many curious contrivances about a french omnibus; one of which is, that there is a sign, with the word _complete_, in french, painted upon it in large letters. the sign is placed directly over the door of the omnibus behind, and is attached to the top of the coach by a hinge at the lower edge. when the omnibus is full, the conductor who rides on the step behind pulls up this sign, by means of a cord attached to it, and then all the people on the sidewalks can see that there is no room for them. when any passengers get out so as to make room for others, then the conductor lets this sign down, and it lies flat upon the top of the coach, out of sight, until the omnibus gets full again, when it is drawn up as before. "complete," said rollo, pointing to the sign, which was up and in full view. "that omnibus is full." "yes," said carlos, "i see him. his cap is so high that he can't wear it in the omnibus, and so he has to take it off." "but there will be another one pretty soon," said rollo. "if i were a soldier," said carlos, "i would never get into an omnibus at all. i would have an elegant black horse with a long tail, and i would go galloping through the streets on my horse." at length an omnibus came along which was not full, and rollo and carlos got into it. after meeting with various adventures on the way, and changing from one omnibus to another, according to the system which prevails in paris, they finally reached the gates of the garden. there was a sentry box on each side of the gates, and soldiers, with bayonets fixed, guarding the entrance. there were, however, a great many people going in. the soldiers did not prevent them. they had orders to allow all persons who were quiet and orderly, and had no dogs with them, to enter freely. so rollo and carlos passed directly in. rollo's first feeling was that of astonishment at the extent and variety of the scenes and prospects which opened before him. instead of a small garden, laid out in gravel walks, and beds of flowers, as he had imagined, he found himself entering a perfect maze of winding walks, which were bordered on all sides by an endless variety of enclosures, groups of shrubbery, groves, huts, cabins, yards, ponds of water, and every other element of rural scenery. the whole, as it first burst upon rollo's eye, formed a most enchanting landscape, and extended farther than he could see. the walks meandered about in the most winding and devious ways. the spaces between them were enclosed by neat little fences of lattice work, and were divided into little parks, or fields, in each of which some strange and unknown animals were feeding. there were ponds, with a quantity of birds of the gayest plumage sailing upon them; and green slopes, with goats, or deer, or sheep, of the most extraordinary forms and colors, grazing in them. at one place rollo stopped to look at a small basin of water, with a broad stone margin all around it, which was completely covered with turtles and tortoises of all colors and sizes. the animals were lying there asleep, basking in the sun. a little farther on was a beautiful little yard, almost surrounded with trees and shrubbery, where three or four ostriches, with long necks, and heads higher than rollo's, were walking about with a very majestic air. and farther still there was a little field, the occupants of which excited the astonishment of the boys to a still higher degree. they were three giraffes. one of them, with his head twenty feet in the air, was cropping the leaves from the top of a tall tree. the second was standing still, quietly looking at the groups of visitors that were gazing upon him from without the paling; while the third was amusing himself by galloping about the yard, with a sort of rolling motion that it was most astonishing to see. rollo and carlos advanced among these scenes, drawn from one to the other by the new objects which every where presented themselves to view, and uttering to each other continual exclamations of astonishment. in fact, they talked incessantly to one another as they walked on, pointing out, each to the other, whatever attracted their attention, and making all sorts of comments upon what they saw. presently a low, bellowing sound was heard among the trees at a little distance. "hark!" said rollo, in english, putting his hand upon carlos's shoulder. "what's that? i hear a roaring." "hark!" said carlos, in spanish. "what's that? i hear a roaring." neither of the boys understood the words which the other spoke; but they knew very well that they were both listening to and talking about the roaring. "let's go and see what it is," said rollo. "we'll go and see," said carlos. so off they started together in the direction of the sound. they walked along a short distance, passing several beautiful little enclosures, where quiet and gentle-looking animals, of various forms, were grazing in their mimic pastures, or lying at rest before the doors of the thatched-roofed cabins that had been built for them instead of barns, until at length they came to a place where a long range of buildings opened to view before them, the fronts of which, instead of showing doors and windows, were formed of gratings of iron. the interior of this range was divided into compartments, each one of which formed an immense cage. these cages were all filled with lions, tigers, panthers, leopards, hyenas, and other ferocious beasts of prey. some were walking to and fro restlessly in their narrow prisons; others were lying down; and others still were crouched in a corner of their cage, where they remained motionless, gazing with a sullen air upon the visitors who stood looking at them from without the grating. rollo and carlos walked back and forth in front of these cages several times, looking at the animals. they admired the beauty and grace of the tigers and leopards, and the majestic dignity of the lions. there were a lion and a lioness together in one cage. the lioness was walking restlessly to and fro; while the lion sat crouched in the back part of the cage, with an expression upon his countenance in which the lofty pride and majesty of his character, and the patience and submissiveness which pertained to his situation, were combined. "poor fellow!" said rollo; "if i had you and your cage in africa, where you belong, i would open the door and let you go." just at this moment the attention of both rollo and carlos was suddenly arrested by a most unearthly sound at a little distance from them, which seemed to be intermediate between a scream and a roar. it was so loud, too, as to be truly terrific. "what's that?" said rollo, suddenly, in english. "ah, what a dreadful bray that is!" said carlos, in spanish. "would you go out there and see what it is?" said rollo. "hark! let's go there and see what it is," said carlos. so the boys started together to go in the direction of the sound. it is impossible, however, for a stranger in the garden of plants to be sure of going any considerable distance in any one direction, for the walks are meandering and circuitous beyond description. they wind about perpetually in endless mazes; and the little fields, and parks, and gardens that are enclosed between them are so enveloped in shrubbery, and the view, moreover, is so intercepted with the huts and cabins built for the animals, and with the palings and networks made to confine them, that it is impossible to see far in any direction. besides, there is so much to attract the attention, and to excite curiosity and wonder, at every step, that one is continually drawn away from one alley to another, till he gets hopelessly bewildered. the huts and cabins which were made for the animals were very curious, and many of them were so pretty, with their rustic walls and thatched roof, that rollo was extremely pleased with them. he stopped before one of them, which was the residence of a pair of beautiful lamas, and told carlos that he meant to ask his uncle george to take particular notice how it was made, and so make one for him for a play-house when he got home. "and i wonder," said he, "where my uncle george and jennie are. i don't see how we are ever to find them. i did not know that this garden was so large and so full of trees and bushes." "look there!" said carlos, pointing through an opening in the shrubbery along the winding walk. "what are they doing there?" rollo, understanding the gesture, though not the words, turned in the direction that carlos indicated, and saw that there was quite a crowd of men, women, and children at the place, all engaged, evidently, in looking at something or other very intently. "let's go and see," said rollo. so the boys went along that way together. they soon came in view of a very high and strong palisade, which, though it was half concealed by trees and shrubbery, evidently enclosed quite a considerable area, in the centre of which was a large stone building, like a castle, with projecting wings and towers, and immense gateways opening into it on various sides. this building was the residence of all the _monsters_--the elephants, the giraffes, the rhinoceros, and the hippopotamus. each of these species had its own separate apartment in the castle; and the ground surrounding it, within the great palisade, was divided into as many yards as there were doors; so that each kind of animal had its own proper enclosure. in one of these enclosures the rhinoceros was walking about, clothed in his plated and invulnerable hide; and in the next there were two elephants. the crowd of people were chiefly occupied in looking at the elephants. the palisade was very heavy and strong, being formed of timbers pointed at the top, and nearly as high as the elephants could reach. these palisades were, however, not close together. they were far enough apart to allow of the elephants putting their trunks through to the people outside, and also to give the people a good opportunity to look. though these timbers were thus set at some distance apart from each other, they wore still connected together, and all held firmly in their places, by two iron rails which passed through them all, one near the top, and the other near the bottom, of the palisade, all along the range. they thus formed a fencing so heavy and strong that even the elephants could not break it down. the visitors could not come quite up to the elephants; for outside of this great palisade, at a distance of about three feet from it, there was a high paling, made expressly to keep the spectators back. at the time when rollo and carlos came to the place the elephants were putting their trunks through to the people, in order to be fed with nuts, cake, gingerbread, and other such things which the people had ready to give them. sometimes they would order the elephants to hold up their trunks and open their mouths, and then the men would try to toss pieces of gingerbread in. the elephants were always ready to do this when ordered, though their mouths, when they opened them, were so small that the people very seldom succeeded in aiming the missile so that it would go in. rollo and carlos looked about among the crowd that were assembled at this place to see if mr. george was among them; but he was not; and so, after amusing themselves for some time with the elephants, they walked along to see what else there was in the garden. there were a great many people in the garden besides those who seemed to have come to see the animals. there were groups of children, that seemed to belong in the vicinity, playing in the _walks, some jumping ropes, and others_ building little houses of gravel stones. there were women seated on benches in various little shady nooks and corners, some sewing, others taking care of babies; while others, at little stands and stalls, sold gingerbread and cakes. at one place rollo stopped to look at two little children that were playing in the gravel and throwing the little pebble stones about. their grandmother, who was sitting near, said something to them in french. "what does she say?" asked carlos. "she says," replied rollo, "you must not throw gravel in your little sister's face." the question in this case and the answer fitted each other very well; but it was a mere matter of accident, for neither of the boys understood what the other had said. pretty soon the boys came to a place where a great number of people were standing on a sort of parapet, and leaning upon an iron railing, where they seemed to be looking down into some cavity. they hurried to the place, and, stepping up upon the parapet, they looked down too, and found there a range of dens below the surface of the ground, all full of bears. these dens were sunken yards, six or eight feet deep, and enclosed with perpendicular walls all around, so that the bears could not possibly get out. there were iron railings around the top, and a great many people were standing there looking down to the bears. there were four or five of these yards, all in a row; and as there were many great trees overshadowing them, the place was cool and pleasant. some of the bears were walking about on the stone pavement which formed the bottom of the dens; others were sitting on their hind legs, and holding up their fore paws to catch the pieces of gingerbread which were thrown down to them by the people above. there were a number of little birds hopping about there, picking up the crums that were left, though they took care to keep out of the way of the bears. rollo and carlos bought some cakes of gingerbread of a woman who kept a stall near by, and, breaking them into pieces, they threw them down to the bears. they threw the most to a great white bear that was in one of the dens, and who particularly attracted their attention. rollo told carlos that he supposed this bear must have come from the north pole. the boys were both by this time rather hungry; but they were so much interested in seeing the bears try to catch the pieces of gingerbread that they did not think to eat any of it themselves, but threw it all down to them, all except one piece which rollo gave to a little girl who stood beside him, to let her throw it, because she had none of her own. for this kindness the girl thanked rollo, in french, in a very polite and proper manner. after being satisfied with seeing the bears, the boys wandered on wherever they saw the most to attract them, until at length they came to what is called the palace of the monkeys, which pleased them more than any thing they had seen. this palace is an enormous round cage, as high as a house, and nearly a hundred feet in diameter, with a range of stone buildings all around it on the back side. these buildings have little rooms in them, where the monkeys live in the winter, and where they always sleep at night. they go out into the cage to play. the cage is formed of slender iron posts and railing, so that the people standing outside can see the monkeys at their sports and gambols. they play with each other in every possible way, and frolic just as if they were in their native woods. they climb up the smooth iron posts, pursuing one another; and then, leaping across through the air, they catch upon a rope, from which they swing themselves across to the branch of a tree. some of these branches have bells attached to them; and the monkey, when he gets upon such a one, will spring it up and down till he sets the bell to ringing, and then, assisted by the return of the branch, he bounds away through the air to some rope, or pole, or railing that he sees within his reach. the agility which these animals display in these feats is truly astonishing. rollo and carlos watched their evolutions with great interest. there was an excellent place to see, for the land opposite the cage ascended in such a manner that those more remote could look over the heads of those that were nearer. besides this, there were quite a number of chairs under the trees, at the upper part of this ascent; and rollo, perceiving that several of them were vacant, sat down in one, and made a sign to carlos to sit down in another. they could now look at the monkeys, and rest at the same time. presently a woman came along and said to rollo, in french,-- "please pay the chairs, sir." rollo recollected immediately that at all such places in paris chairs were kept to be let, those who used them paying two sous apiece for the privilege. so he took out four sous and gave the woman. "i did not think of there being any thing to pay for these chairs," said he to carlos. "but then, i don't care. it is worth four sous to get a good rest, as tired as i am. i'm pretty hungry, too. i wish i had not given all my gingerbread to the bears." carlos made no reply to this suggestion; though there is no doubt that he would have readily assented to what rollo said, if he had understood it. the boys remained some time looking at the monkeys, and then strolled away into other parts of the garden. very soon they came to a place where rollo spied at some distance before him, under some immense old trees in a sort of a valley, what he thought was a restaurant. "see these monstrous big trees!" said carlos; "and there are tables under them." the boys made all haste to the spot, and found to their great joy that it was a restaurant. there was a plain but very picturesque-looking house, antique and venerable; and before it, on a green, under the spreading branches of some enormous old trees, a number of small tables, with seats around them. "now, carlos," said rollo, "we will have some bread and butter and a good cup of coffee." [illustration: the restaurant.] so they sat down at one of the pleasantest tables, and very soon a waiter came to see what they would have. rollo called for coffee and bread and butter for two. in a short time the waiter came, bringing two great cups, which he filled half with coffee and half with boiled milk. he brought also a supply of very nice butter, and a loaf of bread shaped like a stick of wood. it was about as large round as rollo's arm, and twice as long. the waiter laid this bread across the table for rollo and carlos to cut off as much from it as they might want. this is what they call having "bread at discretion." the boys enjoyed this banquet very much indeed. besides the coffee, they had water, which they sweetened in the tumblers with large lumps of white sugar. they talked all the time while they were eating, each in his own language, and laughed very merrily. "after all," said rollo, "this is the very best place in the whole garden. feeding the bears is very good fun; but this is infinitely better." after remaining for half an hour at the table, and eating till their appetites were completely satisfied, they concluded to go back and see the monkeys again. in the mean time, mr. george and his friend, with jennie, had been engaged in an entirely different part of the garden; for the whole enclosure is so large that it takes many days to see the whole. on one side, bordering on a street, there is a long row of houses and gardens, occupied by professors, who give courses of lectures on the plants and animals which the garden contains. on another is a magnificent range of buildings, occupied as a museum, containing endless collections of dried plants, of minerals and shells, of skeletons, and the stuffed skins of birds and beasts. then there is a very large tract of level land, between two splendid avenues, all laid out in beds of plants and flowers, forming a series of parterres, extending as far as the eye can reach, and presenting the gayest and most beautiful combination of colors that can be conceived. jennie was very much delighted with all these things, as she walked about in these parts of the garden with her uncle, though she was somewhat uneasy all the time because she could not see any thing of rollo. "i don't believe," said she at last to her uncle, as they were standing on the margin of a beautiful little artificial pond, full of lilies and other aquatic plants, "i don't believe that we can find him at all in such a large garden." "yes," said mr. george; "there'll be no difficulty. there is one universal rule for finding boys in the garden of plants." "what is that?" asked jennie. "go to the places where they keep the monkeys and the elephants," said mr. george; "and if you don't find them there at once, wait a few minutes, and they'll be pretty sure to come." it was as mr. george had predicted; for, on going to the palace of the monkeys, there they found rollo and carlos laughing very heartily to see a big monkey holding a little one in its arms as a human mother would a baby. the party, when thus united, went together once more over the principal places where the two divisions of it had gone separately before, so that all might have a general idea of the whole domain; and then, going out at a different gate from the one by which they had entered, they went home, all resolving to come again, if possible, at some future day. chapter ix. an excursion. one day, about one o'clock, after rollo had been in paris about a fortnight, he came into the hotel from a walk which he had been taking, and there found his mother and jennie putting on their bonnets. he asked them where they were going. they said they were going to take a ride with mr. george. "may i go, too?" asked rollo. "why--yes," said his mother, hesitatingly. "i suppose there will be room. or you may stay at home here with your father. he is asleep in his room." it is generally the case with children, both boys and girls, when they are young, that if they can get any sort of consent, however reluctant, from their parents, to any of their requests, they are satisfied, and take the boon thus hesitatingly accorded to them as readily as if it had been granted to them in the freest and most cordial manner. with gentlemen and ladies, however, it is different. they generally have more delicacy, and are seldom willing to accept of any favor unless circumstances are such that it can be granted in a very free and cordial manner. they will scarcely ever, in any case, ask to be permitted to join any party that others have formed; and when they do ask, if they perceive the slightest doubt or hesitation on the part of their friends in acceding to their proposal, they infer that it would be, for some reason or other, inconvenient for them to go; and they accordingly, at once, give up all intention of going. rollo, though still a boy, was beginning to have some of the honorable sentiments and feelings of a man; and when he perceived that his mother hesitated a little about granting his request, he decided immediately not to go and ride. besides, he liked the idea of staying with his father. "well," said he, "i will stay here. my father may wish for something when he wakes up." "i don't suppose, however, after all," added his mother, "that it is really necessary for you to stay on his account. his bell is within reach; and alfred will come immediately when he rings." "but i should _like_ to stay," said rollo; "and besides, i can get ahead one more day in my french." rollo was writing a course of french exercises, and his task was one lesson for every day. the rule was, that he was to write this exercise immediately after breakfast, unless he had written it before; that is, either on the same day before breakfast, or on a previous day. now, rollo desired to be free after breakfast, for that was a very pleasant time to go out. besides, there were often plans and excursions formed for that time, which he was invited to join; and he could not join them unless his lesson for the day had been written. so he took pains to write his exercises, as much as possible, in advance. whenever there came a rainy day he would write two or three lessons, and sometimes he would write early in the morning. he was now nearly a week in advance. instead of being satisfied with this, however, he began to be quite interested in seeing how far ahead he could get. this feeling was what led him to think that he would take this opportunity to write a french lesson. accordingly, when his mother and jennie had gone, he seated himself at his table and began his work. the writing of the exercise took about an hour. when the work was finished, and while rollo was preparing to put his books away, he heard a movement in his father's room. he got up from his seat and opened the door, gently, saying,-- "father, are you awake?" "yes," said his father. "are you there, rollo?" rollo found his father sitting up in a great arm chair, by the side of his bed. he had a dressing gown on. "how do you feel, father?" said rollo. "i think i feel better," said mr. holiday. as he said this he put on his slippers, and then stood up upon the rug that lay in front of his bed. "yes," said he, "i certainly feel better--a great deal better." "i am very glad," said rollo. "where is your mother?" asked mr. holiday, as he walked across the room to the glass. "she has gone out to take a ride," said rollo, "with uncle george and jennie." "that's right," said mr. holiday. "i am very glad that she has gone. and have you been staying here to take care of me?" he asked. "yes, sir," said rollo. "i have been writing another french lesson. i have got them all written now to next friday." "ah," said mr. holiday, "that's excellent. that's what the farmers call being forehanded." "now, rollo," said mr. holiday, after a little pause, "i feel so much better that i should like to go somewhere and take a ride myself. i don't care much where. if there is any where that you wish to go, i will go with you. come, i will put myself entirely at your disposal. let us see what you can do to give me a ride and entertain me." rollo was very much pleased indeed with this proposal. he decided instantly what he would do. he had seen that morning an _affix_, as the french call it, that is, a placard posted on a wall among a hundred others, setting forth that there was to be a balloon ascension that afternoon at the hippodrome, at three o'clock, to be followed by various equestrian performances. rollo immediately mentioned this to his father, and asked him if he should be willing to go there. his father said that he should; adding, that he would like to see the balloon go up very much. "then when we come home," said rollo, "you must ride slowly along through the elysian fields, and let me see the booths, and the games that they are playing there." "very well," said his father; "i will take some newspapers with me, and i will sit still in the carriage while you go and see the booths and the games." this plan being thus resolved upon, and all arranged, alfred was summoned and ordered to get the carriage ready, and to put the top down. when alfred reported that the carriage was at the door, mr. holiday and rollo went down and got in, and were soon in the midst of the stream of equipages that were going up the grand avenue of the elysian fields. they arrived at the hippodrome in time to get an excellent seat, and they remained there two hours. they saw the balloon, with a man and young girl in the car below it, rise majestically into the air, and soar away until it was out of sight. the fearless aeronauts seemed entirely at their ease while they were ascending to the dizzy height. they sat in the car waving banners and throwing down bouquets of flowers as long as they could be seen. after this there was a series of performances with horses, which delighted rollo very much. troops of men came out upon the arena, mounted on beautiful chargers, and armed with lances and coats of mail, as in ancient times. after riding their elegantly caparisoned horses round and round the ring several times, they formed into squadrons and attacked each other with their lances in sham battles. after this, fences of hurdles were put up across the course, in various places, and girls, mounted on beautiful white horses and elegantly dressed, rode around, leaping over the fences in a surprising manner. these and similar performances continued until near five o'clock, and then the immense assembly broke up, and the people, some in carriages and some on foot, moved away over the various roads and avenues which diverge from the star. rollo and his father got into their carriage, which had been waiting for them all this time, and passing the triumphal arch, they entered the grand avenue of the elysian fields, on their return to the city. they descended the slope which led down to the round point at a rapid rate. here, after passing the round point, the road became level, and the region of groves and booths, and of games and frolicking, began. "now," said rollo, "i should like to drive slowly, so that, if i come to any thing that i wish to get out and see, i can see it." "very well," said his father; "give alfred your orders." "alfred," said rollo, "draw up as near as you can to the sidewalk on the right hand, and walk the horses, so that i can see what there is." "and in the mean time," said mr. holiday, "i will read my papers." so mr. holiday took his newspapers out of his pocket and began to read them, while rollo, standing up in the carriage, began to survey the crowd that filled the walks and groves that bordered the avenue, in order to select some object of attraction to be examined more closely. "only i wish, father," said rollo, "that i had somebody here with me to go and see the things--jennie or carlos. i wish carlos was here." "it is very easy to go and get him," said his father, with his eyes still on his newspaper. "may i?" said rollo. "any thing you please," said mr. holiday. "you are in command this afternoon. you may give alfred any orders you please." "then, alfred," said rollo, "drive to the hotel louvois as fast as you can." as he said this, mr. holiday folded up his paper and rollo took his seat, while alfred, turning the horses away from the sidewalk, set them to trotting briskly along the avenue. "only, father," said rollo, "i shall prevent your reading your papers." "no matter for that," said mr. holiday. "i shall like a good brisk ride along the boulevards quite as well." the horses, kept always by alfred in the very best condition, trotted forward at a rapid rate, leaving scores of omnibuses, cabs, and citadines behind, and keeping pace with the splendid chariots of the french and english aristocracy that thronged the avenue. presently rollo observed a peculiar movement among the carriages before them, as if they were making way for something that was coming; and at the same time he saw hundreds of people running forward from the groves and booths, across the side avenues, to the margin of the carriage way. "the emperor!" said alfred, drawing in his horses at the same time. an instant afterward, rollo, who, on hearing alfred's words, started from his seat and stood up in the carriage to look, saw two elegantly dressed officers, in splendid uniforms, galloping along toward them in the middle of the avenue. they were followed at a little distance by two others; and then came a very beautiful barouche, drawn by four glossy black horses, magnificently caparisoned. two gentlemen were seated in this carriage, one of whom bowed repeatedly to the crowd that were gazing at the spectacle from the sides of the avenue as he rode rapidly along. behind this carriage came another, with a gentleman and a lady in it, and afterward two more troopers. the whole cavalcade moved on so rapidly, that, before rollo had had scarcely time to look at it, it had passed entirely by. "the emperor!" said alfred to rollo. "he is going out to take a ride." "is that the emperor?" exclaimed rollo. "he looks like any common man. but if i had four such beautiful black horses as he has got, i should be glad. i would drive them myself, instead of having a coachman." the movement and the sensation produced by the passing of the emperor and his train along the avenue immediately subsided, and the other carriages resumed their ordinary course. alfred's horses trotted on faster than ever. a thousand picturesque and striking objects glided rapidly by--the trees and the booths of the elysian fields; the tall, gilded lampposts, and the spouting fountains of the place de la concorde; omnibuses, cabs, wagons, chariots, and foot passengers without number; and, finally, the tall column of the place vendome. winding round in a graceful curve through this magnificent square, the carriage rolled on in the direction of the boulevards, and, after going rapidly on for nearly half a mile in that spacious avenue, it turned into the street which led to the hotel. it stopped, at length, before the door, and rollo got out, while mr. holiday remained in the carriage. rollo went up stairs, and after about five minutes he came down again, bringing not only carlos with him, but also his uncle george. mr. holiday invited mr. george to go with them for the remainder of the ride. this invitation mr. george accepted; and so the two gentlemen taking the back seat, and rollo and carlos the front, alfred took them all back to the elysian fields together. they remained nearly an hour in the elysian fields. during this time rollo's father and his uncle george staid in the carriage by the roadside, talking together, while rollo and carlos went in among the walks and groves to see the various spectacles which were exhibited there. they would come back from time to time to the carriage, in order that rollo might describe to his father what they found, or ask permission to take part in some amusement. for instance, at one time he came and said, very eagerly,-- "father, here is a great whirling machine, with ships and horses going round and round. carlos and i want to ride on it. the horses are in pairs, two together. carlos can get on one of them, in one of the pairs, and i on the other. we can go round twenty times for two sous." "very well," said his father. so rollo and carlos went back to the whirling machine. it was very large, and was very gayly painted, and ornamented with flags and banners. the vessels and the horses were attached to the ends of long arms, which were supported by iron rods that came down from the top of the central post, so that they were very strong. the horses were as large as small ponies, and the vessels were as big as little boats--each one having seats for four children. when rollo and carlos went back, the machine had just taken up its complement of passengers for one turn, and was then commencing its rotation. there were a great many persons standing by it, pleased to see how happy the children were in going round so merrily. there was an iron paling all around the machine, to keep the spectators at a safe distance, otherwise they might come too near, and so be struck, and perhaps seriously hurt, by the horses or the boats, when they were put in motion. as soon as the twenty turns had been taken the machine stopped, and the children who had had their ride were taken off the horses and out of the boats, all except a few who were going to pay again and have a second ride. rollo and carlos then went inside the enclosure, and, going up some steps placed there for the purpose, they mounted their horses. very soon the machine began to revolve, and they were whirled round and round twenty times with the greatest rapidity. the arms of the machine, too, were long, so that the circle which the horses and the vessels described was quite large, and the whole twenty revolutions made quite a considerable ride. after finishing their circuit and dismounting from their horses, the boys next came to a whirling machine, which revolved vertically instead of horizontally; that is, instead of whirling the rider round and round near the level of the ground, it carried them up, over, and down. there was a great wheel, which revolved on an axis, like a vertical mill wheel. this wheel was double, and between the two circumferences the seats of the passengers were hung in such a manner that in revolving they swung freely, so as to keep the heads of the people always uppermost. these seats had high backs and sides, and a sort of bar in front for the people to take hold of, otherwise there would have been great danger of their falling out. as it was, they were carried so swiftly, and so high, and the seats swung to and fro so violently when the machine was in rapid motion, that the men and girls who were in the seats filled the ear with their screams and shouts of laughter. rollo and carlos, after seeing this machine revolve, went to the carriage to ask if they might go in it the next time. "no," said mr. holiday. "i am not sure that it is safe." so the boys went away from the carriage back under the trees again, and walked along to see what the next exhibition might be. the carriage moved on in the avenue a little way to keep up with them. the boys strolled along through the crowd a little while longer, looking for a moment, as they passed, now at the stalls for selling gingerbread and cakes, now at a display of pictures on a long line,--the sheets being fastened to the line by pins, like clothes upon a clothes line,--now at a company of singers, singing upon a stage under a canopy, and now again at a little boy, about seven or eight years old, who was tumbling head over heels on a little carpet which he had spread on the ground, and then carrying round his cap to the bystanders, in hopes that some of them would give him a sou. at length their attention was attracted by some large boys, who were engaged at a stand at a little distance in shooting at a mark with what seemed to be small guns. these guns, however, discharged themselves by means of a spring coiled up within the barrel, instead of gunpowder; and the bullets which they shot were peas. rollo had seen these shooting-places before, when he went through the fields on the first sunday after he came; so he did not stop long here, but called carlos's attention to something that he had never seen before, which was going on at a place a little under a tree, a little farther along. a large boy seemed to be pitching quoits. there were a number of persons around him looking on. there was a sort of box placed near the tree, the bottom of which was about two feet square. it had a back next the tree, and two sides, but it had no front or top. in fact, it was almost precisely like a wheelbarrow without any wheel, legs, or handles. [illustration: singing in the open air.] the bottom or floor of this box had a great many round and flat plates of brass upon it, about four inches in diameter, and about four inches apart from each other. the player had ten other plates in his hand, of the same size with those which were upon the bottom of the plate. he took these, one by one, and standing back at a certain distance, perhaps about as far as one good long pace, pitched them, as boys do quoits, in upon the floor of the box. what he tried to do was, to cover up one of the disks in the box so that no part of it could be seen. if he did so he was to have a prize; and he paid two sous for the privilege of playing. the prizes consisted of little articles of porcelain, bronzes, cheap jewelry, images, and other similar things, which were all placed conspicuously on shelves against the tree, above the box, in view of the player. it seemed to the bystanders as if it would be not at all difficult to toss the disks so as with ten to cover one; but those who tried seemed to find it very difficult to accomplish the object. even if the disks which they tossed fell in the right place, they would rebound or slide away, and sometimes knock away those which were already well placed. still, after trying once, the players wore usually unwilling to give up without trying a second, and even a third and fourth time, so that they generally lost six or eight sous before they were willing to stop; especially as the man himself would now and then play the disks, and he, having made himself skilful by great practice, found no difficulty in piling up his ten disks wherever he wished them to go. "i could do it, i verily believe," said rollo. "i should like to try. i mean to go and ask my father if i may." so rollo went to the carriage to state the case to his father, and ask his permission to see if he could not pitch the disks so as to cover one of the plates on the board. his father hesitated. "so far as trying the experiment is concerned," said mr. holiday, "as a matter of dexterity and skill, there is no harm; but so far as the hope of getting a prize by it is concerned, it is of the nature of gaming." "i should think it was more of the nature of a reward for merit and excellence," said mr. george. "no," said mr. holiday; "for in one or two trials made by chance passengers coming along to such a place, the result must depend much more on chance than on adroitness or skill. "i will tell you what you may do, rollo," continued mr. holiday. "you may pay the man the two sous and try the experiment, provided you determine beforehand not to take any prize if you succeed. then you will pay your money simply for the use of his apparatus, to amuse yourself with a gymnastic performance, and not stake it in hope of a prize." "well," said rollo, "that is all i want." and off he ran. "it seems to me that that is a very nice distinction that you made," said mr. george, as soon as rollo had gone, "and that those two things are very near the line." "yes," replied mr. holiday, "it is a nice distinction, but it is a very true one. the two things are very near the line; but then, one of them is clearly on one side, and the other on the other. for a boy to pay for the use of such an apparatus for the purpose of trying his eye and his hand is clearly right; but to stake his money in hopes of winning a prize is wrong, for it is gaming. it is gaming, it is true, in this case, on an exceedingly small scale. still it is gaming, and so is the beginning of a road which has a very dreadful end. is not it so?" "yes," said mr. george, "i think it is." as might have been expected, rollo did not succeed in covering one of the disks. the disks that he threw spread all over the board. the money that he paid was, however, well spent, for he had much more than two sous' worth of satisfaction in making the experiment. rollo found a great many other things to interest him in the various stalls and stands that he visited; but at length he got tired of them all, and, coming back to the carriage, told his father that he was ready to go home. "very well," said his father. "i don't know but that your uncle george and i are ready, too, though we have not quite got through with our papers. but we can finish them at home." so rollo and carlos got into the carriage, and all the party went home to dinner. chapter x. rollo's narrative. one evening, when rollo had been making a long excursion during the day with his uncle george, and had dined with him, at the close of it, at a restaurant's in the boulevards, he went home about eight o'clock to the hotel to see his father and mother and jennie, and tell them where he had been. he found his mother in her room putting on her bonnet. she said she was going to take a ride along the boulevards with a gentleman and lady who were going to call for her. "and where is father?" said rollo. "he has gone to bed, and is asleep by this time. you must be careful not to disturb him." "and jennie?" asked rollo. "she has gone to bed, too," said his mother; "but she is not asleep, and i presume she will be very glad to see you. you can go in her room." "well, i will," said rollo. "but, mother, i should like to go and ride with you. will there be room for me?" "yes," said his mother. "there will be room, i suppose, in the carriage; but it would not be proper for me to take you, for i am going on an invitation from others. the invitation was to me alone, and i have no right to extend it to any body else. "but this you can do, if you please," continued his mother. "you can take our carriage, and let alfred drive you, and so follow along after our party. only in that case you would not have any company. you would be in a carriage alone." "never mind that," said rollo. "i should like that. i would put the top back, and then i could see all around. i should have a grand ride. i'll go. i wish jennie had not gone to bed; she could have gone with me." "no," replied his mother; "jennie is not well to-night. she has got cold, and she went to bed early on that account. but she will be very glad to have you go and see her." so rollo went into jennie's room. as soon as he opened the door, jennie pushed aside the curtains, and said,-- "ah, rollo, is that you? i am very glad that you have come." "i can't stay but a little while," said rollo. "i am going to take a ride with mother." "are you going with mother?" asked jennie. "not in the carriage with her," replied rollo; "but i am going in the same party. i am going to have a carriage all to myself." "o, no, rollo," said jennie, in a beseeching tone. "don't go away. stay here with me, please. i am all alone, and have not any body to amuse me." "but you will go to sleep pretty soon," said rollo. "no," replied jennie; "i am not sleepy the least in the world. see." here jennie opened her eyes very wide, and looked rollo full in the face, by way of demonstrating that she was not sleepy. rollo felt very much perplexed. when he pictured to himself, in imagination, the idea of being whirled rapidly through the boulevards, on such a pleasant summer evening, in a carriage which he should have all to himself, with the top down so that he could see every thing all around him, and of the brilliant windows of the shops, the multitudes of ladies and gentlemen taking their coffee at the little round tables on the sidewalk in front of the coffee saloons, the crowds of people coming and going, and the horsemen and carriages thronging the streets, the view was so enchanting that it was very hard for him to give up the promised pleasure. he, however, determined to do it; so he said,-- "well, jennie, i'll stay. i will go out and tell mother that i am not going to ride, and then i will come back." for the first half hour after mrs. holiday went away, rollo was occupied with jennie in looking over some very pretty french picture books which mrs. holiday had bought for her that day, to amuse her because she was sick. jennie had looked them all over before; but now that rollo had come, it gave her pleasure to look them over again, and talk about them with him. jennie sat up in the bed, leaning back against the pillows and bolsters, and rollo sat in a large and very comfortable arm chair, which he had brought up for this purpose to the bedside. the books lay on a monstrous square pillow of down, half as large as the bed itself, which, according to the french fashion, is always placed on the top of the bed. rollo and jennie would take the books, one at a time, and look them over, talking about the pictures, and showing the prettiest ones to each other. thus the time passed very pleasantly. at length, however, jennie, having looked over all the books, drew herself down into the bed, and began to ask rollo where he had been that day. "i have been with uncle george," said rollo. "he said that he was going about to see a great many different places, and that i might go with him if i chose, though he supposed that most of them were places that i should not care to see. but i did. i liked to see them all." "what places did you go to?" asked jennie. "why, first we went to see the workshops. i did not know before that there were so many. uncle george says that paris is one of the greatest manufacturing places in the world; only they make things by hand, in private shops, and not in great manufactories, by machinery. uncle george says there must be as much as eight or ten square miles of these shops in paris. they are piled up to six or eight stories high. some of the streets look like ranges of chalky cliffs facing each other, such as we see at some places on the sea shore." "what do they make in the shops?" asked jennie. "o, all sorts of curious and beautiful things. they have specimens of the things that they make up, put up, like pictures in a frame, in little glass cases, on the wall next the street. we walked along through several streets and looked at these specimens. there were purses, and fringes, and watches, and gold and silver chains, and beautiful portemonnaies, and clocks, and jewelry of all kinds, and ribbons, and opera glasses, and dressing cases, and every thing you can think of." "yes," said jennie, "i have seen all such things in the shop windows in the palais royal and in the boulevards." "ah, those are the shops where they sell the things," said rollo; "but these shops that uncle george and i went to see are where they make them. we went to one place where they were making artificial flowers, and such beautiful things you never saw. the rooms were full of girls, all making artificial flowers." "why did not you bring me home some of them?" asked jennie. "why--i don't know," replied rollo. "i did not think to ask if i could buy any of them. "then, after we had gone about in the workshops till we had seen enough, we went to the louvre to see the paintings; though on the way we stopped to see a _crèche_." rollo pronounced the word very much as if it had been spelled crash. "a crash!" exclaimed jennie. "did a building tumble down?" "o, no," said rollo, "it was not that. it was a place where they keep a great many babies. the poor women who have to go out to work all day carry their babies to this place in the morning, and leave them there to be taken care of, and then come and get them at night. there are some nuns there, dressed all in white, to take care of the babies. they put them in high cradles that stand all around the room." "were they all crying?" asked jennie. "o, no," said rollo, "they were all still. when we went in they were all just waking up. the nuns put them to sleep all at the same time. every cradle had a baby in it. some were stretching their arms, and some were opening their eyes, and some were trying to get up. as fast as they got wide awake, the nuns would take them up and put them on the floor, at a place where there was a carpet for them to creep upon and play." "i wish i could go and see them," said jennie. "you can," replied rollo. "any body can go and see them. the nuns like to have people come. they keep every thing very white and nice. the cradles were very pretty." "did they rock?" asked jennie. "no," replied rollo; "they were made to swing, and not to rock. they were up so high from the floor that they could not be made to rock very well. we stayed some time in this place, and then we went away." "and where did you go next?" asked jennie. "we went to the louvre to see the famous gallery of paintings. it is a quarter of a mile long, and the walls are covered with paintings on both sides, the whole distance." "except where the windows are, i suppose," said jennie. "no," replied rollo, "there are no interruptions for windows. the windows are up high in the ceiling, for the room is very lofty. there is room for two or three rows of paintings below the windows. it is a splendid long room." "were the pictures very pretty?" asked jennie. "not very," said rollo. "at least, i did not think so; but uncle george told me it was a very famous gallery. there were a great many other rooms besides, all carved and gilded most magnificently, and an immense staircase of marble, wide enough for an army to go up and down. there were several large rooms, too, full of ancient marble statues; but i did not like them very much. they looked very dark and dingy. the paintings were prettier than they. "there were a great many persons in the painting gallery at work copying the paintings," continued rollo. "some were girls, and some were young men. there was one boy there not much bigger than i." "i don't see how so small a boy could learn to paint so well," said jennie. "why, he was not so very small," said rollo. "he was bigger than i am, and i am growing to be pretty large. besides, they have excellent schools here where they learn to draw and to paint. we went to see one of them." "did it look like one of our schools?" asked jennie. "o, no," replied rollo; "it seemed to me more like a splendid palace than a school. we went through an iron gate into a court, and across the court to a great door, where a man came to show us the rooms. there were a great many elegant staircases, and passage ways, and halls, with pictures, and statues, and models of cities, and temples, and ruins, and every thing else necessary for the students." "were the students there?" asked jennie. "no," replied rollo; "but we saw the room where they worked, and we saw the last lesson that they had." "what was it?" asked jennie. "it was a subject which the professor gave them for a picture; and all of them were to paint a picture on that subject, each one according to his own ideas. we saw the paintings that they had made. there were twenty or thirty of them. the subject was written on a sheet of paper, and put up in the room where they could all see it." "what was the subject?" asked jennie. "it was something like this," replied rollo: "an old chestnut tree in a secluded situation, the roots partly denuded by an inundation from a stream. cattle in the foreground, on the right. time, sunset." "and did all the pictures have an old chestnut tree in them?" asked jennie. "yes," said rollo; "and the roots were all out of the ground on one side, and there were cows in the foreground of them all. but the forms of the trees, and the position of the cattle, and the landscape in the back ground were different in every one." "i should like to see them," said jennie. "then," said rollo, "when we came away from this place we walked along on the quay by the side of the river, looking over the parapet down to the bank below." "was it a pretty place?" asked jennie. "yes," said rollo, "a very pretty place indeed. there were great floating houses in the water, for the baths, with wheels turning in the current to pump up water, and little flower gardens along the brink of the stream. at least, in some places there were flower gardens; and in others there was a wall along the water, with boys sitting on the edge of it, fishing. presently we came to a place where there was an opening in the parapet and stairs to go down to the water. you go down two or three steps first, and then the stairs turn each way. at the turning there was a man who had fishing poles, and nets, and fishing lines to sell or let. he had some to let for three sous an hour. i proposed to uncle george that we should hire two of them and go down and fish a little while." "and what did he say?" asked jennie. "he laughed, and said that for him to spend his time while he was in paris in fishing in the seine would be perfectly preposterous. he said that his time in europe cost him not less than a dollar for every hour." "a dollar for every hour?" exclaimed jennie. "yes," replied rollo. "he says that his two passages across the atlantic will have cost three hundred dollars, and the other expenses of his tour as much as five hundred more, which makes eight hundred dollars, and that he will not have more than one hundred days, probably, from the time of his landing in england to the time of his sailing again. that makes it about eight dollars a day. now, there are not more than eight hours in a day suitable for going about and seeing what is to be seen; so that his time in the middle of the day costs him a dollar an hour; and he could not afford, he said, to spend it in fishing. "however," continued rollo, "he said that i might look at the man's fishing apparatus; and if i found that it was different from that which the boys used in america, i might buy some of it to carry home." "and did you?" asked jennie. "yes," replied rollo. and so saying, he put his hand in his pocket and took out a small parcel put up in a piece of french newspaper. he unrolled this parcel and showed jennie what it contained. jennie sat up in bed very eagerly in order to see it. first there came out a small net. "this net, you see," said rollo, "is to be put upon a hoop or a ring of wire when i get to america. i did not buy a hoop, because it would fill up my trunk too much. but i can make one when i get home. "then here are the fishing lines," continued rollo. "i bought two of them. they were very cheap." the fishing lines were very pretty. each had a small round cork upon the end of a quill. the corks were red, touched with blue. there was a sinker for each, made of large shot. "the man put in several spare sinkers for me," resumed rollo, "in case these should come off." so saying, he opened a small paper and showed jennie several large-sized shot, each of which had a cleft in the side of it for putting in the line. the intention was that the lead should be closed over the line, after the line had been inserted in it, by means of a light blow with a hammer, and thus the sinker would be secured to its place. "i like a net best to catch fishes with," said jennie, "because that does not hurt them." "true," said rollo, "a net is a great deal better on that account. you see i put a hoop around to keep the mouth of the net open, and then fasten it to the end of a long handle. then you stand on the bank of the brook and put the net down into the water, and when a fish comes along you dip him up." "yes," said jennie, "that is an excellent way." "then you could put him in a small pail of water," said rollo, "and carry him home, and then you could put him in a bowl and see him swim about." "yes," said jennie, "i wish you would give me this net." "well," said rollo, "i will. i shall go down by the river again some day, and then i can buy another for myself." "so you can," said jennie: "or, if you don't get another, i can lend you mine when you wish to fish with it." so rollo put up his fishing tackle again, and then jennie asked him where else he went. "why, we walked along the quay," said rollo, "a long way, past several bridges, until at last we came to a bridge leading over to an island in the river, where there was a great cathedral church, which uncle george said he wished to see. it was the church of notre dame. it was an immense great church, with two towers very high; but it was very old. the outside of it seemed to be all crumbling to pieces." "did you go in?" asked jennie. "yes," replied rollo. "it is open all the time, and people are all the time going and coming. we went in. there was an old woman sitting just inside the door, with a string of beads in her hands, counting them. there were two or three other old women there, knitting. i could not see much of the inside of the church when we first went in, there were so many columns; but i could hear the birds flying about and singing away up high among the vaults and arches." "the birds inside the church!" said jennie. "i should think they would drive them out." "i don't know how they could drive them out," said rollo, "it was so high up to where they were flying. the arch of the ceiling seemed like a stone sky. there were so many pillars to keep up this roof, that, when we first went in, we could not see any end to the church at all. however, we walked along, and after a while we came to the end. "there were a great many curious things to see in the church," continued rollo. "there were a great many little chapels along the sides of it, and curious images sculptured in stone, and people doing curious things all about in different places. we walked about there for half an hour. at last we found a congregation." "a congregation!" "yes," said rollo, "we came to a place, at last, which was divided off by a kind of railing; and there was a congregation there, sitting in chairs. some were kneeling in chairs, and some were kneeling on the stone floor. they were reading in little prayer books and looking about." "was any body preaching to them?" asked jennie. "no," said rollo, "but there were some priests at the altar doing something there; but i could not understand what they were doing. we stopped there a little while, and then we came away. we walked along to another part of the church, and at length we came to another enclosure, where a great many people were collected. mr. george went up to see what it was, and he said he believed it was a baptism; but i could not get near enough to see." "and what did you do next?" asked jennie. "why, we came out of the church, and crossed over by a bridge to this side of the river, and then walked down along the quay till we came to a place where there was a tall bronze column, somewhat like this column in the place vendome. uncle george said that he wished to see it, because it stood on the place where a famous old castle and prison used to stand in former times, called the bastile. he said that the people made an insurrection and battered the old prison down, because the government was so cruel in shutting up innocent prisoners in it. they built fires against the doors, and battered against them with heavy timbers until they broke them in, and then they let the prisoners out and set the prison on fire. uncle george said that i should take great interest in reading about it one of these days; but i think i should like to read about it now." "i should, too," said jennie. "they afterward took away all the stones of the bastile," continued rollo, "and made this tall bronze column in its place. there is a figure of a man on it, standing on tiptoe." "i should think he would blow down in a high wind," said jennie. "i don't know why he does not, i am sure," rejoined rollo. "i wanted to go up to the top of the column and see how he was fastened there; but uncle george said he was too tired. so we came away. in fact, i was very willing to come away, for i saw a great crowd at a certain broad place on the sidewalk, not far from there, and i wished to go and see what it was." "and did you go?" asked jennie. "yes," replied rollo, "and i found it was a man who had made a great ring of people all about him, and was trying to get them to give fifteen sous to see him shut himself up in a small box. the box was on the pavement, all ready. it was quite small. it did not seem possible that a man could be shut up in it." "how big was it?" asked jennie. "o, i don't know, exactly," said rollo. "it was quite small." "was it no bigger than that," said jennie, holding her two hands a few inches apart, so as to indicate what she would consider quite a small box. "o, yes," said rollo, "it was a great deal bigger than that. it was only a little smaller than you would think a man could get into. the box was square, and was made of tin, but painted black. [illustration: performance on the boulevards.] "there was an organ at one end of the ring, with a man playing upon it, to draw the crowd together. in front of the organ was a woman, with a baby in her arms, and another little child playing about her. the man said that this was his family, and that he had to support them by his experiments. in front of the woman was the box. in front of the box was the man, who stood there, generally, telling what he was going to do, and calling upon the people to throw in their sous. in front of the man was a carpet, on the pavement, and in the middle of the carpet a tin plate. from time to time the people would throw sous over into the circle. the man would then pick them up and put them into the plate, and tell the people how many there lacked. there must be fifteen, he said, or he could not perform the experiment. he kept talking all the time to the people, and saying funny things to make them laugh. "at last all the fifteen sous were in, and then the man went to the box. he brought out a soldier who was standing among the people, and placed him near the box, so that he might shut the cover down when the man was in. the man then stepped into the box. the upper edge of it was not higher than his knees. he then began to kneel down in the box, crossing his legs under him; and then he crouched his body down into it, and curled in his head, and then---- "jennie!" said rollo, interrupting himself. he observed that jennie was very still, and he was not sure that she was listening. jennie did not answer. she was fast asleep. "she's gone to sleep," said rollo, "without hearing the end of the story. however, the soldier put the lid down, and shut the man entirely in." rollo thought that, as he was so near the end, he might as well finish the story, even if his auditor was asleep. chapter xi. conclusion. rollo's adventures in paris were brought, at length, for the time being, to a somewhat abrupt termination, by an invitation which he received suddenly at breakfast one morning, from his uncle george, to set off with him the next day for switzerland. rollo was very eager to accept this invitation from the moment that it was offered him. it is true that he was not at all tired of paris; and there were a great many places, both in the city and in the environs, that he was still desirous to see. rollo had only one day's notice of the proposed journey to switzerland, and that day was spent almost entirely in getting the passports ready. this business devolved on rollo himself, as his uncle was engaged in some other way that day; and he proposed, therefore, that rollo should undertake the work of getting the passports stamped. rollo accordingly did so. he took a carriage and went round to the various offices, and attended to the business very well, though he encountered some difficulties in doing it. his uncle george was very much pleased when he came home that night and found that rollo had got the passports all ready. carlos went with rollo to the passport offices, for company, though he could not, of course, render him any assistance.[f] [f] a full account of rollo's adventures in getting the passports stamped will be given in the first chapter of rollo in switzerland. rollo dined that evening with his uncle george and carlos at a restaurant. there are hundreds of these restaurants scattered all over the city of paris, and many of them are furnished and decorated in a style of splendor that is magnificent beyond description. mr. george took rollo and carlos to one of the finest of them. it was in the boulevards. the aspect of the room, when rollo entered it, was very imposing. it was lined on all sides with mirrors, with carved and gilded pilasters between them, and a richly ornamented cornice above. the ceiling, overhead, was panelled, and was painted in fresco with the most graceful and elegant devices. the floor was laid in a beautiful mosaic of wood, brilliantly polished. the room was filled with tables, all set out for dinner in the nicest manner, with silver plate, elegant porcelain, and glasses that reflected the light in the most resplendent manner. a great many gay groups of ladies and gentlemen were seated at these tables, taking dinner; while the waiters, with snow-white napkins on their arms, were walking about in a rapid, but in a very gentle and noiseless manner, to wait upon them. at the back side of the room there sat two beautiful young women, behind a sort of counter, which was raised a little above the rest of the floor, so that they could survey the whole scene. it was the duty of these young women to keep the accounts of what was ordered at the several tables, and to receive the money which was paid by the guests, the waiters carrying it to them from the different parties at the tables when they paid. these ladies were the presiding officers, as it were, in the saloon; and the guests all bowed to them very respectfully, both when they came in and when they went away. mr. george selected a table for himself and the two boys, and they had an excellent dinner there. there was a printed book, large though thin, on every table, giving a list of the different articles--more than five hundred in all. from these mr. george and the boys selected what they liked, and the waiters brought it to them. the party remained at this restaurant, eating their dinner and taking their coffee after it, for more than an hour; and then they went away. that evening rollo went into his father's room to bid his father good by, for he expected to set off for switzerland the next morning very early. he found his father sitting in an arm chair by a window, reading a book. mr. holiday laid his book down and talked for some time with rollo about his proposed tour in switzerland, and gave him a great deal of preparatory information about the mountains, the glaciers, the torrents, the avalanches, and other wonderful things that rollo expected to see. rollo was very much interested in these accounts. "i am very glad that uncle george invited me to go with him," said he. "so am i," said his father. "because," added rollo, "i expect to have a very pleasant time." "true," replied his father; "but that is not the reason precisely why _i_ am glad that he invited you." "what is your reason, then?" asked rollo. "i am glad," replied mr. holiday, "because his asking you to go with him into switzerland is a sign that you have been a good boy while under his care here in france. boys that are selfish, troublesome, and disobedient, in one ride or journey, find usually that their company is not desired a second time. it is now two or three weeks since your uncle george invited you to come with him from london to paris, and during all this time you have been mainly under his care; and now he invites you to go with him on a still more extended tour. i think you must have conducted yourself in a very considerate or gentlemanly manner, and proved yourself a pleasant travelling companion, or you would not have received this new invitation." rollo was very much gratified at hearing his father speak in this manner. so he shook hands with him, and bade him good by. none none none none none none in the quarter by robert w. chambers in the quarter was first published in and the text is in the public domain. the transcription was done by william mcclain, . a printed version of this book is available from sattre press http://itq.sattre-press.com/ one one evening in may, , the café des Écoles was even more crowded and more noisy than usual. the marble-topped tables were wet with beer and the din was appalling. someone shouted to make himself heard. "any more news from the salon?" "yes," said elliott, "thaxton's in with a number three. rhodes is out and takes it hard. clifford's out too, and takes it -- " a voice began to chant: je n'sais comment faire, comment concillier ma maitresse et mon père, le code et bullier. "drop it! oh, drop it!" growled rhodes, and sent a handful of billiard chalk at the singer. mr clifford returned a volley of the café spoons, and continued: mais c'que je trouve de plus bête, c'est qu' i' faut financer avec ma belle galette, j'aimerai mieux m'amuser. several other voices took up the refrain, lamenting the difficulty of reconciling their filial duties with balls at bullier's, and protesting that they would rather amuse themselves than consider financial questions. rhodes sipped his curaçoa sulkily. "the longer i live in the latin quarter," he said to his neighbor, "the less certain i feel about a place of future punishment. it would be so tame after this." then, reverting to his grievance, he added, "the slaughter this year at the salon is awful." reginald gethryn stirred nervously but did not speak. "have a game, rex?" called clifford, waving a cue. gethryn shook his head, and reaching for a soiled copy of the figaro, glanced listlessly over its contents. he sighed and turned his paper impatiently. rhodes echoed the sigh. "what's at the theaters?" "same as last week, excepting at the gaieté. they've put on `la belle hélène' there." "oh! belle hélène!" cried clifford. tzing! la! la! tzing! la! la! c'est avec ces dames qu' oreste fait danser l'argent de papa! rhodes began to growl again. "i shouldn't think you'd feel like gibbering that rot tonight." clifford smiled sweetly and patted him on the head. "tzing! la! la! my shot, elliott?" "tzing! la! la!" laughed thaxton, "that's clifford's biography in three words." clifford repeated the refrain and winked impudently at the pretty bookkeeper behind her railing. she, alas! returned it with a blush. gethryn rose restlessly and went over to another table where a man, young, but older than himself, sat, looking comfortable. "braith," he began, trying to speak indifferently, "any news of my fate?" the other man finished his beer and then answered carelessly, "no." but catching sight of gethryn's face he added, with a laugh: "look here, rex, you've got to stop this moping." "i'm not moping," said rex, coloring up. "what do you call it, then?" braith spoke with some sharpness, but continued kindly, "you know i've been through it all. ten years ago, when i sent in my first picture, i confess to you i suffered the torments of the damned until -- " "until?" "until they sent me my card. the color was green." "but i thought a green card meant `not admitted."' "it does. i received three in three years." "do you mean you were thrown out three years in succession?" braith knocked the ashes out of his pipe. "i gave up smoking for those three years." "you?" braith filled his pipe tenderly. "i was very poor," he said. "if i had half your sand!" sighed rex. "you have, and something more that the rest of us have not. but you are very young yet." this time gethryn colored with surprise and pleasure. in all their long and close friendship braith had never before given him any other encouragement than a cool, "go ahead!" he continued: "your curse thus far has been want of steady application, and moreover you're too easily scared. no matter what happens this time, no knocking under!" "oh, i'm not going to knock under. no more is clifford, it seems," rex added with a laugh, as clifford threw down his cue and took a step of the devil's quadrille. "oh! elliott!" he crowed, "what's the matter with you?" elliott turned and punched a sleepy waiter in the ribs. "emile -- two bocks!" the waiter jumped up and rubbed his eyes. "what is it, monsieur?" he snapped. elliott repeated the order and they strolled off toward a table. as clifford came lounging by, carleton said, "i hear you lead with a number one at the salon." "right, i'm the first to be fired." "he's calm now," said elliott, "but you should have seen him yesterday when the green card came." "well, yes. i discoursed a little in several languages." "after he had used up his english profanity, he called the jury names in french, german and spanish. the german stuck, but came out at last like a cork out of a bottle -- " "or a bung out of a barrel." "these comparisons are as offensive as they are unjust," said clifford. "quite so," said braith. "here's the waiter with your beer." "what number did you get, braith?" asked rhodes, who couldn't keep his mind off the subject and made no pretense of trying. "three," answered braith. there was a howl, and all began to talk at once. "there's justice for you!" "no justice for americans!" "serves us right for our tariff!" "are frenchmen going to give us all the advantages of their schools and honors besides while we do all we can to keep their pictures out of our markets?" "no, we don't, either! tariff only keeps out the sweepings of the studios -- " "if there were no duty on pictures the states would be flooded with trash." "take it off!" cried one. "make it higher!" shouted another. "idiots!" growled rhodes. "let 'em flood the country with bad work as well as good. it will educate the people, and the day will come when all good work will stand an equal chance -- be it french or be it american." "true," said clifford, "let's all have a bock. where's rex?" but gethryn had slipped out in the confusion. quitting the café des Écoles, he sauntered across the street, and turning through the rue de vaugirard, entered the rue monsieur le prince. he crossed the dim courtyard of his hôtel, and taking a key and a candle from the lodge of the concierge, started to mount the six flights to his bedroom and studio. he felt irritable and fagged, and it did not make matters better when he found, on reaching his own door, that he had taken the wrong key. nor did it ease his mind to fling the key over the banisters into the silent stone hallway below. he leaned sulkily over the railing and listened to it ring and clink down into the darkness, and then, with a brief but vigorous word, he turned and forced in his door with a crash. two bull pups which had flown at him with portentous growls and yelps of menace now gamboled idiotically about him, writhing with anticipation of caresses, and a gray and scarlet parrot, rudely awakened, launched forth upon a musical effort resembling the song of a rusty cart-wheel. "oh, you infernal bird!" murmured the master, lighting his candle with one hand and fondling the pups with the other. "there, there, puppies, run away!" he added, rolling the ecstatic pups into a sort of dog divan, where they curled themselves down at last and subsided with squirms and wriggles, gurgling affection. gethryn lighted a lamp and then a cigarette. then, blowing out the candle, he sat down with a sigh. his eyes fell on the parrot. it annoyed him that the parrot should immediately turn over and look at him upside down. it also annoyed him that "satan," an evil-looking raven, was evidently preparing to descend from his perch and worry "mrs gummidge." "mrs gummidge" was the name clifford had given to a large sad-eyed white tabby who now lay dozing upon a panther skin. "satan!" said gethryn. the bird checked his sinister preparations and eyed his master. "don't," said the young man. satan weighed his chances and came to the conclusion that he could swoop down, nip mrs gummidge, and get back to his bust of pallas without being caught. he tried it, but his master was too quick for him, and foiled, he lay sullenly in gethryn's hands, his two long claws projecting helplessly between the brown fists of his master. "oh, you fiend!" muttered rex, taking him toward a wicker basket, which he hated. "solitary confinement for you, my boy." "double, double, toil and trouble," croaked the parrot. gethryn started nervously and shut him inside the cage, a regal gilt structure with "shakespeare" printed over the door. then, replacing the agitated gummidge on her panther skin, he sat down once more and lighted another cigarette. his picture. he could think of nothing else. it was a serious matter with gethryn. admitted to the salon meant three more years' study in paris. failure, and back he must go to new york. the personal income of reginald gethryn amounted to the magnificent sum of two hundred and fifty dollars. to this, his aunt, miss celestia gethryn, added nine hundred and fifty dollars more. this gave him a sum of twelve hundred dollars a year to live on and study in paris. it was not a large sum, but it was princely when compared to the amount on which many a talented fellow subsists, spending his best years in a foul atmosphere of paint and tobacco, ill fed, ill clothed, scarcely warmed at all, often sick in mind and body, attaining his first scant measure of success just as his overtaxed powers give way. gethryn's aunt, his only surviving relative, had recently written him one of her ponderous letters. he took it from his pocket and began to read it again, for the fourth time. you have now been in paris three years, and as yet i have seen no results. you should be earning your own living, but instead you are still dependent upon me. you are welcome to all the assistance i can give you, in reason, but i expect that you will have something to show for all the money i expend upon you. why are you not making a handsome income and a splendid reputation, like mr spinder? the artist named was thirty-five and had been in paris fifteen years. gethryn was twenty-two and had been studying three years. why are you not doing beautiful things, like mr mousely? i'm told he gets a thousand dollars for a little sketch. rex groaned. mr mousely could neither draw nor paint, but he made stories of babies' deathbeds on squares of canvas with china angels solidly suspended from the ceiling of the nursery, pointing upward, and he gave them titles out of the hymnbook, which caused them to be bought with eagerness by all the members of the congregation to which his family belonged. the letter proceeded: i am told by many reliable persons that three years abroad is more than enough for a thorough art education. if no results are attained at the end of that time, there is only one of two conclusions to be drawn. either you have no talent, or you are wasting your time. i shall wait until the next salon before i come to a decision. if then you have a picture accepted and if it shows no trace of the immorality which is rife in paris, i will continue your allowance for three years more; this, however, on condition that you have a picture in the salon each year. if you fail again this year, i shall insist upon your coming home at once. why gethryn should want to read this letter four times, when one perusal of it had been more than enough, no one, least of all himself, could have told. he sat now crushing it in is hand, tasting all the bitterness that is stored up for a sensitive artist tied by fate to an omniscient philistine who feeds his body with bread and his soul with instruction about art and behavior. presently he mastered the black mood which came near being too much for him, his face cleared and he leaned back, quietly smoking. from the rug rose a muffled rumbling where mrs gummidge dozed in peace. the clock ticked sharply. a mouse dropped silently from the window curtain and scuttled away unmarked. the pups lay in a soft heap. the parrot no longer hung head downward, but rested in his cage in a normal position, one eye fixed steadily on gethryn, the other sheathed in a bluish-white eyelid, every wrinkle of which spoke scorn of men and things. for some time gethryn had been half-conscious of a piano sounding on the floor below. it suddenly struck him now that the apartment under his, which had been long vacant, must have found an occupant. "idiots!" he grumbled. "playing at midnight! that will have to stop. singing too! we'll see about that!" the singing continued, a girl's voice, only passably trained, but certainly fresh and sweet. gethryn began to listen, reluctantly and ungraciously. there was a pause. "now she's going to stop. it's time," he muttered. but the piano began again -- a short prelude which he knew, and the voice was soon in the midst of the dream song from "la belle hélène." gethryn rose and walked to his window, threw it open and leaned out. an april night, soft and delicious. the air was heavy with perfume from the pink and white chestnut blossoms. the roof dripped with moisture. far down in the dark court the gas-jets flickered and flared. from the distance came the softened rumble of a midnight cab, which, drawing nearer and nearer and passing the hôtel with a rollicking rattle of wheels and laughing voices, died away on the smooth pavement by the luxembourg gardens. the voice had stopped capriciously in the middle of the song. gethryn turned back into the room whistling the air. his eye fell on satan sitting behind his bars in crumpled malice. "poor old chap," laughed the master, "want to come out and hop around a bit? here, gummidge, we'll remove temptation out of his way," and he lifted the docile tabby, who increased the timbre of her song to an ecstatic squeal at his touch, and opening his bedroom door, gently deposited her on his softest blankets. he then reinstated the raven on his bust of pallas, and satan watched him from thence warily as he fussed about the studio, sorting brushes, scraping a neglected palette, taking down a dressing gown, drawing on a pair of easy slippers, opening his door and depositing his boots outside. when he returned the music had begun again. "what on earth does she mean by singing at a quarter to one o'clock?" he thought, and went once more to the window. "why -- that is really beautiful." oui! c'est un rêve, oui! c'est un rêve doux d'amour. la nuit lui prête son mystère, il doit finir -- il doit finir avec le jour. the song of hélène ceased. gethryn leaned out and gazed down at the lighted windows under his. suddenly the light went out. he heard someone open the window, and straining his eyes, could just discern the dim outline of a head and shoulders, unmistakably those of a girl. she had perched herself on the windowsill. presently she began to hum the air, then to sing it softly. gethryn waited until the words came again: oui, c'est un rêve -- and then struck in with a very sweet baritone: oui, c'est un rêve -- she never moved, but her voice swelled out fresh and clear in answer to his, and a really charming duet came to a delightful finish. then she looked up. gethryn was reckless now. "shall it be, then, only a dream?" he laughed. was it his fate that made him lean out and whisper, "is it, then, only a dream, hélène?" there was nothing but the rustling of the chestnut branches to answer his folly. not another sound. he was half inclined to shut his window and go in, well satisfied with the silence and beginning to feel sleepy. all at once from below came a faint laugh, and as he leaned out he caught the words: "paris, hélène bids you good night!" "ah, belle hélène!" -- he began, but was cut short by the violent opening of a window opposite. "bon dieu de bon dieu!" howled an injured gentleman. "to sleep is impossible, tas d'imbeciles! -- " and hélène's window closed with a snap. two the day broke hot and stifling. the first sunbeams which chased the fog from bridge and street also drove the mists from the cool thickets of the luxembourg garden, and revealed groups of dragoons picketed in the shrubbery. "dragoons in the luxembourg!" cried the gamins to each other. "what for?" but even the gamins did not know -- yet. at the great ateliers of messieurs bouguereau and lefebvre the first day of the week is the busiest -- and so, this being monday, the studios were crowded. the heat was suffocating. the walls, smeared with the refuse of a hundred palettes, fairly sizzled as they gave off a sickly odor of paint and turpentine. only two poses had been completed, but the tired models stood or sat, glistening with perspiration. the men drew and painted, many of them stripped to the waist. the air was heavy with tobacco smoke and the respiration of some two hundred students of half as many nationalities. "dieu! quel chaleur!" gasped a fat little frenchman, mopping his clipped head and breathing hard. "clifford," he inquired in english, "ees eet zat you haf a so great -- a -- heat chez vous?" clifford glanced up from his easel. "heat in new york? my dear deschamps, this is nothing." the other eyed him suspiciously. "you know new york is the capital of galveston?" said clifford, slapping on a brush full of color and leaning back to look at it. the frenchman didn't know, but he nodded. "well, that's very far south. we suffer -- yes, we suffer, but our poor poultry suffer more." "ze -- ze pooltree? wat eez zat?" clifford explained. "in summer the fire engines are detailed to throw water on the hens to keep their feathers from singeing. singeing spoils the flavor." the frenchman growled. "one of our national institutions is the `hen's mutual fire insurance company,' supported by the government," added clifford. deschamps snorted. "that is why," put in rhodes, lazily dabbing at his canvas, "why we seldom have omelets -- the eggs are so apt to be laid fried." "how, zen, does eet make ze chicken?" spluttered the frenchman, his wrath rising. "our chickens are also -- " a torrent of bad language from monsieur deschamps, and a howl of execration from all the rest, silenced clifford. "it's too hot for that sort of thing," pleaded elliott. "idiot!" muttered the frenchman, shooting ominous glances at the bland youth, who saw nothing. "c'est l'heure," cried a dozen voices, and the tired model stretched his cramped limbs. clifford rose, dropped a piece of charcoal down on his neighbor's neck, and stepping across thaxton's easel, walked over to gethryn. "rex, have you heard the latest?" "no." "the ministry has fallen again, and the place de la concorde is filled with people yelling, a bas la republique! vive le general boulanger!" gethryn looked serious. clifford went on, speaking low. "i saw a troop of cavalry going over this morning, and old forain told me just now that the regiments at versailles were ready to move at a minute's notice." "i suppose things are lively across the river," said gethryn. "exactly, and we're all going over to see the fun. you'll come?" "oh, i'll come. hello! here's rhodes; tell him." rhodes knew. ministry fallen. mob at it some more. been fired on by the soldiers once. pont neuf and the arc guarded by cannon. carleton came hurrying up. "the french students are loose and raising cain. we're going to assist at the show. come along." "no," growled braith, and looked hard at rex. "oh, come along! we're all going," said carleton, "elliott, gethryn, the colossus, thaxton, clifford." braith turned sharply to rex. "yes, going to get your heads smashed by a bullet or carved by a saber. what for? what business is it of yours?" "braith thinks he looks like a prussian and is afraid," mused clifford. "come on, won't you, braith?" said gethryn. "are you going?" "why not?" said the other, uneasily, "and why won't you?" "no french mob for me," answered braith, quietly. "you fellows had better keep away. you don't know what you may get into. i saw the siege, and the man who was in paris in ' has seen enough." "oh, this is nothing serious," urged clifford. "if they fire i shall leg it; so will the lordly reginald; so will we all." braith dug his hands into the pockets of his velveteens, and shook his head. "no," he said, "i've got some work to do. so have you, rex." "come on, we're off," shouted thaxton from the stairway. clifford seized gethryn's arm, elliott and rhodes crowded on behind. a small earthquake shock followed as the crowd of students launched itself down the stairs. "braith doesn't approve of my cutting the atelier so often," said gethryn, "and he's right. i ought to have stayed." "reggy going to back out?" cooed clifford. "no," said rex. "here's rhodes with a cab." "it's too hot to walk," gasped rhodes. "i secured this. it was all i could get. pile in." rex sprang up beside the driver. "allons!" he cried, "to the obelisk!" "but, monsieur -- " expostulated the cabby, "it is today the revolution. i dare not." "go on, i tell you," roared rhodes. "clifford, take his reins away if he refuses." clifford made a snatch at them, but was repulsed by the indignant cabby. "go on, do you hear?" shouted the colossus. the cabman looked at gethryn. "go on!" laughed rex, "there is no danger." jehu lifted his shoulders to the level of his shiny hat, and giving the reins a jerk, muttered, "crazy english! -- heu -- heu -- cocotte!" in twenty minutes they had arrived at the bridge opposite the palais bourbon. "by jove!" said gethryn, "look at that crowd! the place de la concorde is black with them!" the cab stopped with a jolt. half a dozen policemen stepped into the street. two seized the horses' heads. "the bridge is forbidden to vehicles, gentlemen," they said, courteously. "to cross, one must descend." clifford began to argue, but elliott stopped him. "it's only a step," said he, paying the relieved cabby. "come ahead!" in a moment they were across the bridge and pushing into the crowd, single file. "what a lot of troops and police!" said elliott, panting as he elbowed his way through the dense masses. "i tell you, the mob are bent on mischief." the place de la concorde was packed and jammed with struggling, surging humanity. pushed and crowded up to the second fountain, clinging in bunches to the obelisk, overrunning the first fountain, and covering the pedestals of the "cities of france," it heaved, shifted, undulated like clusters of swarming ants. in the open space about the second fountain was the prefect of the seine, surrounded by a staff of officers. he looked worn and anxious as he stood mopping the perspiration from his neck and glancing nervously at his men, who were slowly and gently rolling back the mob. on the bridge a battalion of red-legged soldiers lounged, leaning on their rifles. to the right were long lines of cavalry in shining helmets and cuirasses. the men sat motionless in their saddles, their armor striking white fire in the fierce glow of the midday sun. ever and anon the faint flutter of a distant bugle announced the approach of more regiments. among the shrubbery of the gardens, a glimmer of orange and blue betrayed the lurking presence of the guards. down the endless vistas of the double and quadruple rows of trees stretching out to the arc, and up the cour la reine, long lines of scarlet were moving toward the central point, the place de la concorde. the horses of a squadron of hussars pawed and champed across the avenue, the men, in their pale blue jackets, presenting a cool relief to the universal glare. the champs elysees was deserted, excepting by troops. not a civilian was to be seen on the bridge. in front of the madeleine three points of fire blazed and winked in the sun. they were three cannon. suddenly, over by the obelisk, began a hoarse murmur, confused and dull at first, but growing louder, until it swelled into a deafening roar. "long live boulanger!" "down with ferry!" "long live the republic!" as the great wave of sound rose over the crowd and broke sullenly against the somber masses of the palace of the bourbons, a thin, shrill cry from the extreme right answered, "vive la commune!" elliott laughed nervously. "they'll charge those howling belleville anarchists!" clifford began, in pure deviltry, to whistle the carmagnole. "do you want to get us all into hot water?" whispered thaxton. "monsieur is of the commune?" inquired a little man, suavely. and, the devil still prompting clifford, he answered: "because i whistled the carmagnole? bah!" the man scowled. "look here, my friend," said clifford, "my political principles are yours, and i will be happy to drink at your expense." the other americans exchanged looks, and elliott tried to check clifford's folly before it was too late. "espion!" muttered the frenchman, adding, a little louder, "sale allemand!" gethryn looked up startled. "keep cool," whispered thaxton; "if they think we're germans we're done for." carleton glanced nervously about. "how they stare," he whispered. "their eyes pop out of their heads as if they saw bismarck." there was an ominous movement among the throng. "vive l'anarchie! a bas les prussiens!" yelled a beetle-browed italian. "a bas les etrangers!" "my friend," said clifford, pleasantly, "you've got a very vile accent yourself." "you're a prussian!" screamed the man. every one was now looking at them. gethryn began to fume. "i'll thrash that cur if he says prussian again," said he. "you'll keep quiet, that's what you'll do," growled thaxton, looking anxiously at rhodes. "yes, you will!" said the colossus, very pale. "pig of a prussian!" shouted a fearful-looking hag, planting herself in front of clifford with arms akimbo and head thrust forward. "pig of a prussian spy!" she glanced at her supporters, who promptly applauded. "ah--h--h!" she screamed, her little green eyes shining like a tiger's -- "spy! german spy!" "madam," said clifford, politely, "go and wash yourself." "hold your cursed tongue, clifford!" whispered thaxton. "do you want to be torn to pieces?" suddenly a man behind gethryn sprang at his back, and then, amazed and terrified at his own daring, yelled lustily for help. gethryn shook him off as he would a fly, but the last remnant of self-control went at the same time, and, wheeling, he planted a blow square in the fellow's neck. the man fell like an ox. in an instant the mob was upon them. thaxton received a heavy kick in the ribs, which sent him reeling against carleton. clifford knocked two men down in as many blows, and, springing back, stood guard over thaxton until he could struggle to his feet again. elliott got a sounding thwack on the nose, which he neatly returned, adding one on the eye for interest. gethryn and carleton fought back to back. rhodes began by half strangling a son of the commune and then flung him bodily among his howling compatriots. "good heavens," gasped rhodes, "we can't keep this up!" and raising his voice, he cried with all the force of his lungs, "help! this way, police!" a shot answered him, and a man, clapping his hands to his face, tilted heavily forward, the blood spurting between his fingers. then a terrible cry arose, a din in which the americans caught the clanging of steel and the neighing of horses. a man was hurled violently against gethryn, who, losing in turn his balance, staggered and fell. rising to his knees, he saw a great foam-covered horse rearing almost over him, and a red-faced rider in steel helmet and tossing plume slashing furiously among the crowd. next moment he was dragged to his feet and back into the flying mob. "look out," panted thaxton, "the cavalry -- they've charged -- run!" gethryn glanced over his shoulder. all along the edge of the frantic, panic-stricken crowd the gleaming crests of the cavalry surged and dashed like a huge wave of steel. cries, groans, and curses rose and were drowned in the thunder of the charging horses and the clashing of weapons. "spy!" screamed a voice in his ear. gethryn turned, but the fellow was legging it for safety. suddenly he saw a woman who, pushed and crowded by the mob, stumbled and fell. in a moment he was by her side, bent over to raise her, was hurled upon his face, rose blinded by dust and half-stunned, but dragging her to her feet with him. swept onward by the rush, knocked this way and that, he still managed to support the dazed woman, and by degrees succeeded in controlling his own course, which he bent toward the obelisk. as he neared the goal of comparative safety, exhausted, he suffered himself and the woman to be carried on by the rush. then a blinding flash split the air in front, and the crash of musketry almost in his face hurled him back. men threw up their hands and sank in a heap or spun round and pitched headlong. for a moment he swayed in the drifting smoke. a blast of hot, sickening air enveloped him. then a dull red cloud seemed to settle slowly, crushing, grinding him into the earth. three when gethryn unclosed his eyes the dazzling sunlight almost blinded him. a thousand grotesque figures danced before him, a hot red vapor seemed to envelop him. he felt a dull pain in his ears and a numb sensation about the legs. gradually he recalled the scene that had just passed; the flying crowd lashed by that pitiless iron scourge; the cruel panic; the mad, suffocating rush; and then that crash of thunder which had crushed him. he lay quite still, not offering to move. a strange languor seemed to weigh down his very heart. the air reeked with powder smoke. not a breath was stirring. presently the numbness in his knees changed to a hot, pricking throb. he tried to move his legs, but found he could not. then a sudden thought sent the blood with a rush to his heart. perhaps he no longer had any legs! he remembered to have heard of legless men whose phantom members caused them many uncomfortable sensations. he certainly had a dull pain where his legs belonged, but the question was, had he legs also? the doubt was too much, and with a faint cry he struggled to rise. "the devil!" exclaimed a voice close to his head, and a pair of startled eyes met his own. " the devil!" repeated the owner of the eyes, as if to a apostrophize some particular one. he was a bird-like little fellow, with thin canary-colored hair and eyebrows and colorless eyes, and he was seated upon a campstool about two feet from gethryn's head. he blinked at gethryn. "these frenchmen," said he, "have as many lives as a cat." "thanks!" said gethryn, smiling faintly. "an englishman! the devil!" shouted the pale-eyed man, hopping in haste from his campstool and dropping a well-thumbed sketching-block as he did so. "don't be an ass," suggested gethryn; "you'd much better help me to get up." "look here," cried the other, "how was i to know you were not done for?" "what's the matter with me?" said gethryn. "are my -- my legs gone?" the little man glanced at gethryn's shoes. no, they're all there, unless you originally had more than the normal number -- in fact i'm afraid -- i think you're all right. gethryn stared at him. "and what the devil am i to do with this sketch?" he continued, kicking the fallen block. "i've been at it for an hour. it isn't half bad, you know. i was going to call it `love in death.' it was for the london illustrated mirror." gethryn lay quite still. he had decided the little fellow was mad. "dead in each other's arms!" continued the stranger, sentimentally. "she so fair -- he so brave -- " gethryn sprang up impatiently, but only a little way. something held him down and he fell back. "do you want to get up?" asked the stranger. "i should rather think so." the other bent down and placed his hands under gethryn's arms, and -- half helped, half by his own impatient efforts -- rex sat up, leaning against the other man. a sharp twinge shot through the numbness of his legs, and his eyes, seeking the cause, fell upon the body of a woman. she lay across his knees, apparently dead. rex remembered her now for the first time. "lift her," he said weakly. the little man with some difficulty succeeded in moving the body; then gethryn, putting one arm around the other's neck, struggled up. he was stiff, and toppled about a little, but before long he was pretty steady on his feet. "the woman," he said, "perhaps she is not dead." "dead she is," said the artist of the mirror cheerfully, gathering up his pencils, which lay scattered on the steps of the pedestal. he leaned over the little heap of crumpled clothing. "shot, i fancy," he muttered. gethryn, feeling his strength returning and the circulation restored to his limbs, went over to the place where she lay. "have you a flask?" he asked. the little artist eyed him suspiciously. "are you a newspaperman?" "no, an art student." "nothing to do with newspapers?" "no." "i don't drink," said the queer little person. "i never said you did," said gethryn. "have you a flask, or haven't you?" the stranger slowly produced one, and poured a few drops into his pink palm. "we may as well try," he said, and began to chafe her forehead. "here, take the whiskey -- let it trickle, so, between her teeth. don't spill any more than you can help," he added. "has she been shot?" asked gethryn. "crushed, maybe." "poor little thing, look at her roll of music!" said gethryn, wiping a few drops of blood from her pallid face, and glancing compassionately at the helpless, dust-covered figure. "i'm afraid it's no use -- " "give her some more whiskey, quick!" interrupted the stranger. gethryn tremblingly poured a few more drops between the parted lips. a faint color came into her temples. she moved, shivered from head to foot, and then, with a half-choked sob, opened her eyes. "mon dieu, comme je souffre!" "where do you suffer?" said gethryn gently. "the arm; i think it is broken." gethryn stood up and looked about for help. the place was nearly deserted. the blue-jacketed hussars were still standing over by the avenue, and an occasional heavy, red-faced cuirassier walked his sweating horse slowly up and down the square. a few policemen lounged against the river wall, chatting with the sentries, and far down the dusty rue royale, the cannon winked and blinked before the church of the madeleine. the rumble of wheels caused him to turn. a clumsy, blue-covered wagon drew up at the second fountain. it was a military ambulance. a red-capped trooper sprang down jingling from one of the horses, and was joined by two others who had followed the ambulance and who also dismounted. then the three approached a group of policemen who were lifting something from the pavement. at the same moment he heard voices beside him, and turning, found that the girl had risen and was sitting on the campstool, her head leaning against the little stranger's shoulder. an officer stood looking down at her. his boots were spotless. the band of purple on his red and gold cap showed that he was a surgeon. "can we be of any assistance to madame?" he inquired. "i was looking for a cab," said gethryn, "but perhaps she is not strong enough to be taken to her home." a frightened look came into the girl's face and she glanced anxiously at the ambulance. the surgeon knelt quietly beside her. "madame is not seriously hurt," he said, after a rapid examination. "the right arm is a little strained, but it will be nothing, i assure you, madame; a matter of a few days, that is all." he rose and stood brushing the knees of his trousers with his handkerchief. "monsieur is a foreigner?" gethryn smiled. "the accent?" "on the contrary, i assure you, monsieur," cried the officer with more politeness than truth. he eyed the ambulance. "the people of paris have learned a lesson today," he said. a trooper clattered up, leading an officer's horse, and dismounted, saluting. the young surgeon glanced at his watch. "picard," he said, "stop a closed cab and send it here." the trooper wheeled his horse and galloped away across the square, and the officer turned to the others. "madame, i trust, will soon recover," he said courteously. "madame, messieurs, i have the honor to salute you." and with many a clink and jingle, he sprang into the saddle and clattered away in the wake of the slowly moving ambulance. at the corner of the rue royale, gethryn saw the trooper stop a cab and point to the obelisk. he went over and asked the canary-colored stranger, "will you take her home, or shall i?" "why, you, of course; you brought her here." "no, i didn't. i never saw her until i noticed her being pushed about by the crowd." he caught the girl's eye and colored furiously, hoping she did not suspect the nature of their discussion. before her helplessness it seemed so brutal. the cab drew up before the obelisk and a gruff voice cried, "v'la! m'ssieurs! -- 'dames!" "put your arm on my shoulder -- so," said gethryn, and the two men raised her gently. once in the cab, she sank back, looking limp and white. gethryn turned sharply to the other man. "shall i go?" "rather," replied the little stranger, pleasantly. opening his coat in haste, he produced a square of pasteboard. "my card," he said, offering one to gethryn, who bowed and fumbled in his pockets. as usual, his card-case was in another coat. "i'm sorry i have none," he said at length, "but my name is reginald gethryn, and i shall give myself the pleasure of calling to thank you for -- " "for nothing," laughed the other, "excepting for the sketch, which you may have when you come to see me." "thanks, and au revoir," glancing at the card. "au revoir, mr bulfinch." he was giving the signal to the cabby when his new acquaintance stopped him. "you're quite sure -- you -- er -- don't know any newspapermen?" "quite." "all right -- all right -- and -- er -- just don't mention about my having a flask, if you do meet any of them. i -- er -- keep it for others. i don't drink." "certainly not," began gethryn, but mr t. hoppley bulfinch had seized his campstool and trotted away across the square. gethryn leaned into the cab. "will you give me your address?" he asked gently. "rue monsieur le prince -- -- " she whispered. "do you know where it is?" "yes," said gethryn. it was his own number. "rue monsieur le prince ", he repeated to the driver, and stepping in, softly shut the door. four rain was falling steadily. the sparrows huddled under the eaves, or hopped disconsolately along the windowsills, uttering short, ill-tempered chirps. the wind was rising, blowing in quick, sharp gusts and sweeping the forest of rain spears, rank upon rank, in mad dashes against the glass-roofed studio. gethryn, curled up in a corner of his sofa, listlessly watched the showers of pink and white blossoms which whirled and eddied down from the rocking chestnuts, falling into the windy court in little heaps. one or two stiff-legged flies crawled rheumatically along the window glass, only to fall on their backs and lie there buzzing. the two bull pups had silently watched the antics of these maudlin creatures, but their interest changed to indignation when one sodden insect attempted a final ascent and fell noisily upon the floor under their very noses. then they rose as one dog and leaped madly upon the intruder, or meant to; but being pups, and uncertain in their estimation of distances, they brought up with startled yelps against the wall. gethryn took them in his arms, where they found consolation in chewing the buttons off his coat. the parrot had driven the raven nearly crazy by turning upside down and staring at him for fifteen minutes of insulting silence. mrs gummidge was engaged in a matronly and sedate toilet, interrupting herself now and then to bestow a critical glance upon the parrot. she heartily approved of his attitude toward the raven, and although the old cynic cared nothing for mrs gummidge's opinion, he found a sour satisfaction in warning her of her enemy's hostile intentions. this he always did with a croak, causing mrs gummidge to look up just in time, and the raven to hop back disconcerted. the rain beat a constant tattoo on the roof, and this, mingling with the drowsy purr of the cat, who was now marching to and fro with tail erect in front of gethryn, exercised a soothing influence, and presently a snore so shocked the parrot that he felt obliged to relieve his mind by a series of intricate gymnastics upon his perch. gethryn was roused by a violent hammering on his door. the room had grown dark, and night had come on while he slept. "all right -- coming," he shouted, groping his way across the room. slipping the bolt, he opened the door and looked out, but could see nothing in the dark hallway. then he felt himself seized and hugged and dragged back into his studio, where he was treated to a heavy slap on the shoulder. then someone struck a match and presently, by the light of a candle, he saw clifford and elliott, and farther back in the shade another form which he thought he knew. clifford began, "here you are! we thought you were dead -- killed through my infernal fooling." he turned very red, and stammered, "tell him, elliott." "why, you see," said elliott, "we've been hunting for you high and low since the fight yesterday afternoon. clifford was nearly crazy. he said it was his fault. we went to the morgue and then to the hospitals, and finally to the police -- " a knock interrupted him, and a policeman appeared at the door. clifford looked sheepish. "the young gentleman who is missing -- this is his room?" inquired the policeman. "oh, he's found -- he's all right," said clifford, hurriedly. the officer stared. "here he is," said elliott, pointing to rex. the man transferred his stare to gethryn, but did not offer to move. "i am the supposed deceased," laughed rex, with a little bow. "but how am i to know?" said the officer. "why, here i am." "but," said the man, suspiciously, "i want to know how i am to know?" "nonsense," said elliott, laughing. "but, monsieur," expostulated the officer, politely. "this is reginald gethryn, artist, i tell you!" the policeman shrugged his shoulders. he was noncommittal and very polite. "messieurs," he said, "my orders are to lock up this room." "but it's my room, i can't spare my room," laughed gethryn. "from whom did you take your orders?" "from monsieur the prefect of the seine." "oh, it is all right, then," said gethryn. "take a seat." he went to his desk, wrote a hasty note, and then called the man. "read that, if you please, monsieur sergeant de ville." the man's eyes grew round. "certainly, monsieur, i will take the note to the prefect," he said; "monsieur will pardon the intrusion." "don't mention it," said rex, smiling, and slipped a franc into his big red fist. the officer pocketed it with a demure "merci, monsieur," and presently the clank of his bayonet died away on the stairs. "well," said elliott, "you're found." clifford was beginning again with self-reproaches and self-abasement, but rex broke in: "you fellows are awfully good -- i do assure you i appreciate it. but i wasn't in any more danger than the rest of you. what about thaxton and the colossus and carleton?" he grew anxious as he named them. "we all got off with no trouble at all, only we missed you -- and then the troops fired, and they chased us over the bridge and scattered us in the quarter, and we all drifted one by one into the café des Écoles. and then you didn't come, and we waited till after dinner, and finally came here to find your door locked -- " "oh!" burst out clifford, "i tell you, rex -- damn it! i will express my feelings!" "no, you won't," said rex; "drop 'em, old boy, don't express 'em. here we are -- that's enough, isn't it, shakespeare?" the bird had climbed to gethryn's shoulder and was cocking his eye fondly at clifford. they were dear friends. once he had walked up clifford's arm and had grabbed him by the ear, for which clifford, more in sorrow than in anger, soaked him in cold water. since that, their mutual understanding had been perfect. "where are you going to, you old fiend?" said clifford, tickling the parrot's throat. "hell!" shrieked the bird. "good heavens! i never taught him that," said gethryn. clifford smiled, without committing himself. "but where were you, rex?" asked elliott. rex flushed. "hullo," cried clifford, "here's reginald blushing. if i didn't know him better i'd swear there's a woman in it." the dark figure at the end of the room rose and walked swiftly over, and rex saw that it was braith, as he had supposed. "i swear i forgot him," laughed elliott. "what a queer bird you are, braith, squatting over there as silent as a stuffed owl!" "he has been walking his legs off after you," began clifford, but braith cut him short with a brusque -- "where were you, rex?" gethryn winced. "i'd rather -- i think" -- he began, slowly -- "excuse me -- it's not my business," growled braith, throwing himself into a seat and beginning to rub mrs gummidge the wrong way. "confound the cat!" he added, examining some red parallel lines which suddenly decorated the back of his hand. "she won't stand rubbing the wrong way," said rex, smiling uneasily. "like the rest of us," said elliott. "more fool he who tries it," said braith, and looked at gethryn with an affectionate smile that made him turn redder than before. "rex," began clifford again, with that fine tact for which he was celebrated, "own up! you spent last night warbling under the windows of lisette." "or frisette," said elliott, "or cosette." "or babette, lisette, frisette, cosette, babette!" chanted the two young men in a sort of catch. braith so seldom swore, that the round oath with which he broke into their vocal exercises stopped them through sheer astonishment. but clifford, determined on self-assertion and loving an argument, especially out of season, turned on braith and began: "why should not youth love?" "love! bah!" said braith. "why bah?" he persisted, stimulated by the disgust of braith. "now if a man -- take elliott, for example -- " "take yourself," cried the other. "well -- myself, for example. suppose when my hours of weary toil are over -- returning to my lonely cell, i encounter the blue eyes of ninette on the way, or the brown eyes of cosette, or perhaps the black eyes of -- " braith stamped impatiently. "lisette," said clifford, sweetly. "why should i not refresh my drooping spirits by adoring lisette -- cos--- " "oh, come, you said that before," said gethryn. "you're getting to be a bore, clifford." "you at least can no longer reproach me," said the other, with a quick look that increased gethryn's embarrassment. "let him talk his talk of bewitching grisettes, and gay students," said braith, more angry than rex had ever seen him. "he's never content except when he's dangling after some fool worse than himself. damn this `bohemian love' rot! i've been here longer than you have, clifford," he said, suddenly softening and turning half apologetically to the latter, who nodded to intimate that he hadn't taken offense. "i've seen all that shabby romance turn into such reality as you wouldn't like to face. i've seen promising lives go out in ruin and disgrace -- here in this very street -- in this very house -- lives that started exactly on the lines that you are finding so mighty pleasant just now." clifford was in danger of being silenced. that would never do. "papa braith," he smiled, "is it that you too have been through the mill? shall i present your compliments to the miller? i'm going. come, elliott." elliott took up his hat and followed. "braith," he said, "we'll drink your health as we go through the mill." "remember that the mill grinds slowly but surely," said braith. "he speaks in parables," laughed clifford, halfway downstairs, and the two took up the catch they had improvised, singing, "lisette -- cosette -- ninette -- " in thirds more or less out of tune, until gethryn shut the door on the last echoes that came up from the hall below. gethryn came back and sat down, and braith took a seat beside him, but neither spoke. braith had his pipe and rex his cigarette. when the former was ready, he began to speak. he could not conceal the effort it cost him, but that wore away after he had been talking a while. "rex," he began, "when i say that we are friends, i mean, for my own part, that you are more to me than any man alive; and now i am going to tell you my story. don't interrupt me. i have only just courage enough; if any of it oozes out, i may not be able to go on. well, i have been through the mill. clifford was right. they say it is a phase through which all men must pass. i say, must or not, if you pass through it you don't come out without a stain. you're never the same man after. don't imagine i mean that i was brutally dissolute. i don't want you to think worse of me than i deserve. i kept a clean tongue in my head -- always. so do you. i never got drunk -- neither do you. i kept a distance between myself and the women whom those fellows were celebrating in song just now -- so do you. how much is due in both of us to principle, and how much to fastidiousness, rex? i found out for myself at last, and perhaps your turn will not be long in coming. after avoiding entanglements for just three years -- " he looked at rex, who dropped his head -- "i gave in to a temptation as coarse, vulgar and silly as any i had ever despised. why? heaven knows. she was as vulgar a leech as ever fastened on a calf like myself. but i didn't think so then. i was wildly in love with her. she said she was madly in love with me." braith made a grimace of such disgust that rex would have laughed, only he saw in time that it was self-disgust which made braith's mouth look so set and hard. "i wanted to marry her. she wouldn't marry me. i was not rich, but what she said was: `one hates one's husband.' when i say vulgar, i don't mean she had vulgar manners. she was as pretty and trim and clever -- as the rest of them. an artist, if he sees all that really exists, sometimes also sees things which have no existence at all. of these were the qualities with which i invested her -- the moral and mental correspondencies to her blonde skin and supple figure. she justified my perspicacity one day by leaving me for a loathsome little jew. the last time i heard of her she had been turned out of a gambling hell in his company. his name is emanuel pick. is not this a shabby romance? is it not enough to make a self-respecting man hang his head -- to know that he has once found pleasure in the society of the mistress of mr emanuel pick?" a long silence followed, during which the two men smoked, looking in opposite directions. at last braith reached over and shook the ashes out of his pipe. rex lighted a fresh cigarette at the same time, and their eyes met with a look of mutual confidence and goodwill. braith spoke again, firmly this time. "god keep you out of the mire, rex; you're all right thus far. but it is my solemn belief that an affair of that kind would be your ruin as an artist; as a man." "the quarter doesn't regard things in that light," said gethryn, trying hard to laugh off the weight that oppressed him. "the quarter is a law unto itself. be a law unto yourself, rex -- good night, old chap." "good night, braith," said gethryn slowly. five thirion's at six pm. madame thirion, neat and demure, sat behind her desk; her husband, in white linen apron and cap, scuttled back and forth shouting, "bon! bon!" to the orders that came down the call trumpet. the waiters flew crazily about, and cries went up for "pierre" and "jean" and "green peas and fillet." the noise, smoke, laughter, shouting, rattle of dishes, the penetrating odor of burnt paper and french tobacco, all proclaimed the place a latin quarter restaurant. the english and americans ate like civilized beings and howled like barbarians. the germans, when they had napkins, tucked them under their chins. the frenchmen -- well! they often agreed with the hated teuton in at least one thing; that knives were made to eat with. but which of the four nationalities exceeded the others in turbulence and bad language would be hard to say. clifford was eating his chop and staring at the blonde adjunct of a dapper little frenchman. "clifford," said carleton, "stop that." "i'm mesmerizing her," said clifford. "it's a case of hypnotism." the girl, who had been staring back at clifford, suddenly shrugged her shoulders, and turning to her companion, said aloud: "how like a monkey, that foreigner!" clifford withdrew his eyes in a hurry, amid a roar of laughter from the others. he was glad when braith's entrance caused a diversion. "hullo, don juan! i see you, lothario! drinking again?" braith took it all as a matter of course, but this time failed to return as good as they gave. he took a seat beside gethryn and said in a low tone: "i've just come from your house. there's a letter from the salon in your box." gethryn set down his wine untasted and reached for his hat. "what's the matter, reggy? has lisette gone back on you?" asked clifford, tenderly. "it's the salon," said braith, as gethryn went out with a hasty "good night." "poor reggy, how hard he takes it!" sighed clifford. gethryn hurried along the familiar streets with his heart in his boots sometimes, and sometimes in his mouth. in his box was a letter and a note addressed in pencil. he snatched them both, and lighting a candle, mounted the stairs, unlocked his door and sank breathless upon the lounge. he tore open the first envelope. a bit of paper fell out. it was from braith and said: i congratulate you either way. if you are successful i shall be as glad as you are. if not, i still congratulate you on the manly courage which you are going to show in turning defeat into victory. "he's one in a million," thought gethryn, and opened the other letter. it contained a folded paper and a card. the card was white. the paper read: you are admitted to the salon with a no. . my compliments. j. lefebvre he ought to have been pleased, but instead he felt weak and giddy, and the pleasure was more like pain. he leaned against the table quite unstrung, his mind in a whirl. he got up and went to the window. then he shook himself and walked over to his cabinet. taking out a bunch of keys, he selected one and opened what clifford called his "cellar." clifford knew and deplored the fact that gethryn's "cellar" was no longer open to the public. since the day when rex returned from julien's, tired and cross, to find a row of empty bottles on the floor and clifford on the sofa conversing incoherently with himself, and had his questions interrupted by a maudlin squawk from the parrot -- also tipsy -- since that day gethryn had carried the key. he now produced a wine glass and a dusty bottle, filled the one from the other and emptied it three times in rapid succession. then he took the glass to the washbasin and rinsed it with great slowness and precision. then he sat down and tried to think. number one meant a mention, perhaps a medal. he would telegraph his aunt tomorrow. suddenly he felt a strong desire to tell someone. he would go and see braith. no, braith was in the evening class at the beaux arts; so were the others, excepting clifford and elliott, and they were at a ball across the river. whom could he see? he thought of the garçon. he would ring him up and give him a glass of wine. alcide was a good fellow and stole very little. the clock struck eleven. "no, he's gone to bed. alcide, you've missed a glass of wine and a cigar, you early bird." his head was clear enough now. he realized his good fortune. he had never been so happy in his life. he called the pups and romped with them until an unlucky misstep sent mrs gummidge, with a shriek, to the top of the wardrobe, whence she glared at gethryn and spit at the delighted raven. the young man sat down fairly out of breath, but the pups still kept making charges at his legs and tumbled over themselves with barking. he gathered them up and carried them into his bedroom to their sleeping box. as he stooped to drop them in, there came a knock at his studio door. but when he hastened to open it, glad of company, there was no one there. surprised, he turned back and saw on the floor before him a note. picking it up, he took it to the lamp and read it. it was signed, "yvonne descartes." when he had read it twice, he sat down to think. presently he took something out of his waistcoat pocket and held it close to the light. it was a gold brooch in the shape of a fleur-de-lis. on the back was engraved "yvonne." he held it in his hand a while, and then, getting up, went slowly towards the door. he opened the door, closed it behind him and moved toward the stairs. suddenly he started. "braith! is that you?" there was no answer. his voice sounded hollow in the tiled hallway. "braith," he said again. "i thought i heard him say `rex."' but he kept on to the next floor and stopped before the door of the room which was directly under his own. he paused, hesitated, looking up at a ray of light which came out from a crack in the transom. "it's too late," he muttered, and turned away irresolutely. a clear voice called from within, "entrez donc, monsieur." he opened the door and went in. on a piano stood a shaded lamp, which threw a soft yellow light over everything. the first glance gave him a hasty impression of a white lace-covered bed and a dainty toilet table on which stood a pair of tall silver candlesticks; and then, as the soft voice spoke again, "will monsieur be seated?" he turned and confronted the girl whom he had helped in the place de la concorde. she lay in a cloud of fleecy wrappings on a lounge that was covered with a great white bearskin. her blue eyes met gethryn's, and he smiled faintly. she spoke again: "will monsieur sit a little nearer? it is difficult to speak loudly -- i have so little strength." gethryn walked over to the sofa and half unconsciously sank down on the rug which fell on the floor by the invalid's side. he spoke as he would to a sick child. "i am so very glad you are better. i inquired of the concierge and she told me." a slight color crept into the girl's face. "you are so good. ah! what should i have done -- what can i say?" she stopped; there were tears in her eyes. "please say nothing -- please forget it." "forget!" presently she continued, almost in a whisper, "i had so much to say to you, and now you are really here, i can think of nothing, only that you saved me." "mademoiselle -- i beg!" she lay silent a moment more; then she raised herself from the sofa and held out her hand. his hand and eyes met hers. "i thank you," she said, "i can never forget." then she sank back among the white fluff of lace and fur. "i only learned this morning," she went on, after a minute, " who sat beside me all that night and bathed my arm, and gave me cooling drinks." gethryn colored. "there was no one else to take care of you. i sent for my friend, doctor ducrot, but he was out of town. then dr bouvier promised to come, and didn't. the concierge was ill herself -- i could not leave you alone. you know, you were a little out of your head with fright and fever. i really couldn't leave you to get on by yourself." "no," cried the girl, excitedly, "you could not leave me after carrying me out of that terrible crowd; yourself hurt, exhausted, you sat by my side all night long." gethryn laid his hand on her. "hélène," he said, half jesting, "i did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances -- and forgotten." she looked at him shyly. "don't forget," she said. "i couldn't forget your face," he rashly answered, moved by the emotion she showed. she brightened. "did you know me when you first saw me in the crowd?" she expected him to say "yes." "no," he replied, "i only saw you were a woman and in danger of your life." the brightness fell from her face. "then it was all the same to you who i was." he nodded. "yes -- any woman, you know." "old and dirty and ugly?" his hand slipped from hers. "and a woman -- yes." she shrugged her pretty shoulders. "then i wish it had been someone else." "so do i, for your sake," he answered gravely. she glanced at him, half frightened; then leaning swiftly toward him: "forgive me; i would not change places with a queen." "nor i with any man!" he cried gayly. "am i not paris?" "and i?" "you are hélène," he said, laughing. "let me see -- paris and hélène would not have changed -- " she interrupted him impatiently. "words! you do not mean them. nor do i, either," she added, hastily. after that neither spoke for a while. gethryn, half stretched on the big rug, idly twisting bits of it into curls, felt very comfortable, without troubling to ask himself what would come next. presently she glanced up. "paris, do you want to smoke?" "you don't think i would smoke in this dainty nest?" "please do, i like it. we are -- we will be such very good friends. there are matches on that table in the silver box." he shook his head, laughing. "you are too indulgent." "i am never indulgent, excepting to myself. but i have caprices and i generally die when they are not indulged. this is one. please smoke." "oh, in that case, with hélène's permission." she laughed delightedly as he blew the rings of fragrant smoke far up to the ceiling. there was another long pause, then she began again: "paris, you speak french very well." he came from where he had been standing by the table and seated himself once more among the furs at her feet. "do i, hélène?" "yes -- but you sing it divinely." gethryn began to hum the air of the dream song, smiling, "yes 'tis a dream -- a dream of love," he repeated, but stopped. yvonne's temples and throat were crimson. "please open the window," she cried, "it's so warm here." "hélène, i think you are blushing," said he, mischievously. she turned her head away from him. he rose and opened the window, leaning out a moment; his heart was beating violently. presently he returned. "it's one o'clock." no answer. "hélène, it's one o'clock in the morning." "are you tired?" she murmured. "no." "nor i -- don't go." "but it's one o'clock." "don't go yet." he sank down irresolutely on the rug again. "i ought to go," he murmured. "are we to remain friends?" "that is for hélène to say." "and hélène will leave it to homer!" "to whom?" said gethryn. "monsieur homer," said the girl, faintly. "but that was a tragedy." "but they were friends." "in a way. yes, in a way." gethryn tried to return to a light tone. "they fell in love, i believe." no answer. "very well," said gethryn, still trying to joke, "i will carry you off in a boat, then." "to troy -- when?" "no, to meudon, when you are well. do you like the country?" "i love it," she said. "well, i'll take my easel and my paints along too." she looked at him seriously. "you are an artist -- i heard that from the concierge." "yes," said gethryn, "i think i may claim the title tonight." and then he told her about the salon. she listened and brightened with sympathy. then she grew silent. "do you paint landscapes?" "figures," said the young man, shortly. "from models?" "of course," he answered, still more drily. "draped," she persisted. "no." "i hate models!" she cried out, almost fiercely. "they are not a pleasing set, as a rule," he admitted. "but i know some decent ones." she shivered and shook her curly head. "some are very pretty, i suppose." "some." "do you know sarah brown?" "yes, i know sarah." "men go wild about her." "i never did." yvonne was out of humor. "oh," she cried, petulantly, "you are very cold -- you americans -- like ice." "because we don't run after sarah?" "because you are a nation of business, and -- " "and brains," said gethryn, drily. there was an uncomfortable pause. gethryn looked at the girl. she lay with her face turned from him. "hélène!" no answer. "yvonne -- mademoiselle!" no answer. "it's two o'clock." a slight impatient movement of the head. "good night." gethryn rose. "good night," he repeated. he waited for a moment. "good night, yvonne," he said, for the third time. she turned slowly toward him, and as he looked down at her he felt a tenderness as for a sick child. "good night," he said once more, and, bending over her, gently laid the little gold clasp in her open hand. she looked at it in surprise; then suddenly she leaned swiftly toward him, rested a brief second against him, and then sank back again. the golden fleur-de-lis glittered over his heart. "you will wear it?" she whispered. "yes." "then -- good night." half unconsciously he stooped and kissed her forehead; then went his way. and all that night one slept until the morning broke, and one saw morning break, then fell asleep. six it was the first day of june. in the luxembourg gardens a soft breeze stirred the tender chestnut leaves, and blew sparkling ripples across the water in the fountain of marie de medicis. the modest little hothouse flowers had quite recovered from the shock of recent transplanting and were ambitiously pushing out long spikes and clusters of crimson, purple and gold, filling the air with spicy perfume, and drawing an occasional battered butterfly, gaunt and seedy, from his long winter's sleep, but still remembering the flowery days of last season's brilliant debut. through the fresh young leaves the sunshine fell, dappling the glades and thickets, bathing the gray walls of the palais du sénat, and almost warming into life the queer old statues of long departed royalty, which for so many years have looked down from the great terrace to the palace of the king. through every gate the people drifted into the gardens, and the winding paths were dotted and crowded with brightly-colored, slowly-moving groups. here a half dozen meager, black-robed priests strolled silently amid the tender verdure; here a noisy crowd of children, gamboling awkwardly in the wake of a painted rubber ball, made day hideous with their yells. now a slovenly company of dragoons shuffled by, their big shapeless boots covered with dust, and their whalebone plumes hanging in straight points to the middle of their backs; now a group of strutting students and cocottes passed noisily, the girls in spotless spring plumage, the students vying with each other in the display of blinking eyeglasses, huge bunchy neckties, and sleek checked trousers. policemen, trim little grisettes (for whatever is said to the contrary, the grisette is still extant in paris), nurse girls with turbaned heads and ugly red streamers, wheeling ugly red babies; an occasional stray zouave or turco in curt turkish jacket and white leggings; grave old gentlemen with white mustache and military step; gay, baggy gentlemen from st cyr, looking like newly-painted wooden soldiers; students from the ecole polytechnique; students from the lycée st louis in blue and red; students from julien's and the beaux arts with a plentiful sprinkling of berets and corduroy jackets; and group after group of jingling artillery officers in scarlet and black, or hussars and chasseurs in pale turquoise, strolled and idled up and down the terrace, or watched the toy yachts braving the furies of the great fountain. over by the playgrounds, the polichinel nuisance drummed and squeaked to an appreciative audience of tender years. the "jeu de paume" was also in full swing, a truly exasperating spectacle for a modern tennis player. the old man who feeds the sparrows in the afternoon, and beats his wife at night, was intent on the former cheerful occupation, and smiled benevolently upon the little children who watched him, open mouthed. the numerous waterfowl -- mallard, teal, red-head, and dusky -- waddled and dived and fought the big mouse-colored pigeons for a share of the sparrow's crumbs. a depraved and mongrel pointer, who had tugged at his chain in a wild endeavor to point the whole heterogeneous mass of feathered creatures from sparrow to swan, lost his head and howled dismally until dragged off by the lean-legged student who was attached to the other end of the chain. gethryn, sprawling on a bench in the sunshine, turned up his nose. braith grunted scornfully. a man passed in the crowd, stopped, stared, and then hastily advanced toward gethryn. "you?" said rex, smiling and shaking hands. "mr clifford, this is mr bulfinch; mr braith," -- but mr bulfinch was already bowing to braith and offering his hand, though with a curious diminution of his first beaming cordiality. braith's constraint was even more marked. he had turned quite white. bulfinch and gethryn, who had risen to receive him, remained standing side by side, stranded on the shoals of an awkward situation. the little mirror man made a grab at a topic which he thought would float them off, and laid hold instead on one which upset them altogether. "i hope mrs braith is well. she met you all right at vienna?" braith bowed stiffly, without answering. rex gave him a quick look, and turning on his heel, said carelessly: "i see you and mr braith are old acquaintances, so i won't scruple to leave you with him for a moment. bring mr bulfinch over to the music stand, braith." and smiling, as if he were assisting at a charming reunion, he led clifford away. the latter turned, as he departed, an eye of delighted intelligence upon braith. to renew his acquaintance with mr bulfinch was the last thing braith desired, but since the meeting had been thrust upon him he thanked gethryn's tact for removing such a witness of it as clifford would have been. he had no intention, however, of talking with the little mirror man, and maintained a profound silence, smoking steadily. this conduct so irritated the other that he determined to force an explanation of the matter which seemed so distasteful to his ungracious companion. he certainly thought he had his own reasons for resenting the sight of braith upon a high horse, and he resumed the conversation with all the jaunty ease which the calling of newspaper correspondent is said to cultivate. "i hope mrs braith found no difficulty in meeting you in vienna?" "madame was not my wife, and we did not meet in vienna," said braith shortly. bulfinch began to stare, and to feel a little less at ease. "she told me -- that is, her courier came to me and -- " "her courier? mr bulfinch, will you please explain what you are talking about?" braith turned square around and looked at him in a way that caused a still further diminution of his jauntiness and a proportionate increase of respect. "oh -- i'll explain, if i know what you want explained. we were at brindisi, were we not?" "yes." "on our way to cairo?" "yes." "in the same hotel?" "yes." "but i had no acquaintance with madame, and had only exchanged a word or two with you, when you were suddenly summoned to paris by a telegram." braith bowed. he remembered well the false dispatch that had drawn him out of the way. "well, and when you left you told her you would be obliged to give up going to cairo, and asked her to meet you in vienna, whither you would have to go from paris?" "oh, did i?" "and you recommended a courier to her whom you knew very well, and in whom you had great confidence." "ah! and what was that courier's name?" "emanuel pick. i wasn't fond of emanuel myself," with a sharp glance at braith's eyes, "but i supposed you knew something in his favor, or you would not have left -- er -- the lady in his charge." braith was silent. "i understood him to be your agent," said the little man, cautiously. "he was not." "oh!" a long silence followed, during which mr bulfinch sought and found an explanation of several things. after a while he said musingly: "i should like to meet mr pick again." "why should you want to meet him?" "i wish to wring his nose two hundred times, one for each franc i lent him." "how was that?" said braith, absently. "it was this way. he came to me and told me what i have repeated to you, and that you desired madame to go on at once and wait for you in vienna, which you expected to reach in a few days after her arrival. that you had bought tickets -- one first class for madame, two second class for him and for her maid -- before you left, and had told her you had placed plenty of money for the other expenses in her dressing case. but this morning, on looking for the money, none could be found. madame was sure it had not been stolen. she thought you must have meant to put it there, and forgotten afterwards. if she only had a few francs, just to last as far as naples! madame was well known to the bankers on the santa lucia there! etc. well, i'm not such an ass that i didn't first see madame and get her to confirm his statement. but when she did confirm it, with such a charming laugh -- she was very pretty -- i thought she was a lady and your wife -- " in the midst of his bitterness, braith could not help smiling at the thought of nina with a maid and a courier. he remembered the tiny apartment in the latin quarter which she had been glad to occupy with him until conducted by her courier into finer ones. he made a gesture of disgust, and his face burned with the shame of a proud man who has received an affront from an inferior -- and who knows it to be his own fault. "i can at least have the satisfaction of setting that right," he said, holding two notes toward the little mirror man, "and i can't thank you enough for giving me the opportunity." bulfinch drew back and stammered, "you don't think i spoke for that! you don't think i'd have spoken at all if i had known -- " "i do not. and i'm very glad you did not know, for it gives me a chance to clear myself. you must have thought me strangely forgetful, mr bulfinch, when the money was not repaid in due time." "i -- i didn't relish the manner in which you met me just now, i confess, but i'm very much ashamed of myself. i am indeed." "shake hands," said braith, with one of his rare smiles. the notes were left in mr bulfinch's fingers, and as he thrust them hastily out of sight, as if he truly was ashamed, he said, blinking up at braith, "do you -- er -- would you -- may i offer you a glass of whiskey?" adding hastily, "i don't drink myself." "why, yes," said braith, "i don't mind, but i won't drink all alone." "coffee is my tipple," said the other, in a faint voice. "all right; suit yourself. but i should think that rather hot for such a day." "oh, i'll take it iced." "then let us walk over to the café by the bandstand. we shall find the others somewhere about." they strolled through the grove, past the music-stand, and sat down at one of the little iron tables under the trees. the band of the garde republicaine was playing. bulfinch ordered sugar and eau de selz for braith, and iced coffee for himself. braith looked at the program: no. , faust; no. , la belle hélène. "rex ought to be here, he's so fond of that." mr bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man who didn't drink himself, something which the french call a "coquetelle"; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and some canadian club whiskey. braith eyed the well-worn flask. "i see you don't trust to the café's supplies." "i only keep this for medicinal purposes," said the other, blinking nervously, "and -- and i don't usually produce it when there are any newspapermen around." "but you," said braith, sipping the mixture with relish, "do you take none yourself?" "i don't drink," said the other, and swallowed his coffee in such a hurry as to bring on a fit of coughing. beads of perspiration clustered above his canary-colored eyebrows as he set down the glass with a gasp. braith was watching the crowd. presently he exclaimed: "there's rex now," and rising, waved his glass and his cane and called gethryn's name. the people sitting at adjacent tables glanced at one another resignedly. "more crazy english!" "rex! clifford!" braith shouted, until at last they heard him. in a few moments they had made their way through the crowd and sat down, mopping their faces and protesting plaintively against the heat. gethryn's glance questioned braith, who said, "mr bulfinch and i have had the deuce of a time to make you fellows hear. you'd have been easier to call if you knew what sort of drink he can brew." clifford was already sniffing knowingly at the glass and turning looks of deep intelligence on bulfinch, who responded gayly, "hope you'll have some too," and with a sidelong blink at gethryn, he produced the bottle, saying, "i don't drink myself, as mr gethryn knows." rex said, "certainly not," not knowing what else to say. but the fondness of clifford's gaze was ineffable. braith, who always hated to see clifford look like that, turned to gethryn. "favorite of yours on the program." rex looked. "oh," he cried, "belle hélène." next moment he flushed, and feeling as if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. this escaped clifford, however, who was otherwise occupied. but he joined in the conversation, hoping for an argument. "braith and rex go in for the meistersinger, walküre, and all that rot -- but i like some tune to my music." "well, you're going to get it now," said braith; "the band are taking their places. now for la belle hélène." he glanced at gethryn, who had turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with his program. the leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while he turned the leaves of his score with the other. the musicians came in laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission. they hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton. a slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand, and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord of the dream song and set it drifting away among the trees till it lost itself in the rattle and clatter of the boulevard st michel. braith and bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. clifford silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead. gethryn leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes. oui c'est un rêve; un rêve doux d'amour -- the music died away in one last throb. bulfinch sighed and blinked sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions. suddenly the little mirror man's eyes bulged out, he stiffened and grasped braith's arm; his fingers were like iron. "what the deuce!" began braith, but, following the other's eyes, he became silent and stern. "talk of the devil -- do you see him -- pick?" "i see," growled braith. "and -- and excuse me, but can that be madame? so like, and yet -- " braith leaned forward and looked steadily at a couple who were slowly moving toward them in deep conversation. "no," he said at last; and leaning back in his seat he refused to speak again. bulfinch chattered on excitedly, and at last he brought his fist down on the table at his right, where clifford sat drawing a caricature on the marble top. "i'd like," cried bulfinch, "to take it out of his hide!" "hello!" said clifford, disturbed in his peaceful occupation, "whose hide are you going to tan?" "nobody's," said braith, sternly, still watching the couple who had now almost reached their group. clifford's start had roused gethryn, who stirred and slowly looked up; at the same moment, the girl, now very near, raised her head and rex gazed full into the eyes of yvonne. her glance fell and the color flew to her temples. gethryn's face lost all its color. "pretty girl," drawled clifford, "but what a dirty little beggar she lugs about with her." pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on gethryn, who met his look with one that was worse than a kick. he glanced next at braith, and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. braith's eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set. the jew's eyes shifted, only to fall on the pale, revengeful glare of t. hoppley bulfinch, who was half rising from his chair with all sorts of possibilities written on every feature. "let him go," whispered braith, and turned his back. bulfinch sat down, his eyes like saucers. "i'd like -- but not now!" he sputtered in a weird whisper. clifford had missed the whole thing. he had only eyes for the girl. gethryn sat staring after the couple, who were at that moment passing the gate into the boulevard st michel. he saw yvonne stop and hastily thrust something into the jew's hand, then, ignoring his obsequious salute, leave him and hurry down the rue de medicis. the next gethryn knew, braith was standing beside him. "rex, will you join us at the golden pheasant for dinner?" was what he said, but his eyes added, "don't let people see you look like that." "i -- i -- don't know," said gethryn. "yes, i think so," with an effort. "come along, then!" said braith to the others, and hurried them away. rex sat still till they were out of sight, then he got up and turned into the avenue de l'observatoire. he stopped and drank some cognac at a little café, and then started on, but he had no idea where he was going. presently he found himself crossing a bridge, and looked up. the great pile of notre dame de paris loomed on his right. he crossed the seine and wandered on without any aim -- but passing the tour st jacques, and wishing to avoid the boulevard, he made a sharp detour to the right, and after long wandering through byways and lanes, he crossed the foul, smoky canal st martin, and bore again to the right -- always aimlessly. twilight was falling when his steps were arrested by fatigue. looking up, he found himself opposite the gloomy mass of la roquette prison. sentinels slouched and dawdled up and down before the little painted sentry boxes under the great gate. over the archway was some lettering, and gethryn stopped to read it: la roquette prison of the condemned he looked up and down the cheerless street. it was deserted save by the lounging sentinels and one wretched child, who crouched against the gateway. "fiche moi le camp! allons! en route!" growled one of the sentinels, stamping his foot and shaking his fist at the bundle of rags. gethryn walked toward him. "what's the matter with the little one?" he asked. the soldier dropped the butt of his rifle with a ring, and said deferentially: "pardon, monsieur, but the gamin has been here every day and all day for two weeks. it's disgusting." "is he hungry?" "ma foi? i can't tell you," laughed the sentry, shifting his weight to his right foot and leaning on the cross of his bayonet. "are you hungry, little one?" called gethryn, pleasantly. the child raised his head, with a wolfish stare, then sank it again and murmured: "i have seen him and touched him." gethryn turned to the soldier. "what does he mean by that?" he demanded. the sentry shrugged his shoulders. "he means he saw a hunchback. they say when one sees a hunchback and touches him, it brings good luck, if the hunchback is neither too old nor too young. dame! i don't say there's nothing in it, but it can't save henri rigaud." "and who is henri rigaud?" "what! monsieur has not heard of the affair rigaud? rigaud who did the double murder!" "oh, yes! in the faubourg du temple." the sentry nodded. "he dies this week." "and the child?" "is his." gethryn looked at the dirty little bundle of tatters. "no one knows the exact day set for the affair, but," the sentry sank his voice to a whisper, "between you and me, i saw the widow going into the yard just before dinner, and monsieur de paris is here. that means tomorrow morning -- click!" "the -- the widow?" repeated gethryn. "the guillotine. it will be over before this time tomorrow and the gamin there, who thinks the bossu will give him back his father -- he'll find out his mistake, all in good time -- all in good time!" and shouldering his rifle, the sentry laughed and resumed his slouching walk before the gateway. gethryn nodded to the soldier's salute and went up to the child, who stood leaning sullenly against the wall. "do you know what a franc is?" he asked. the gamin eyed him doggedly. "but i saw him," he said. "saw what?" said gethryn, gently. "the bossu," repeated the wretched infant vacantly. "see here," said gethryn, "listen to me. what would you do with twenty francs?" "eat, all day long, forever!" rex slipped two twenty-franc pieces into the filthy little fist. "eat," he murmured, and turned away. seven next morning, when clifford arrived at the atelier of mm. boulanger and lefebvre, he found the students more excited than usual over the advent of a "nouveau." hazing at julien's has assumed, of late, a comparatively mild form. of course there are traditions of serious trouble in former years and a few fights have taken place, consequent upon the indignant resistance of new men to the ridiculous demands forced upon them by their ingenious tormentors. still, the hazing of today is comparatively inoffensive, and there is not much of it. in the winter the students are too busy to notice a newcomer, except to make him feel strange and humble by their lofty scorn. but in the autumn, when the men have returned from their long out-of-door rest, with brush and palette, a certain amount of friskiness is developed, which sometimes expends itself upon the luckless "nouveau." a harmless search for the time-honored "grand reflecteur," an enforced song and dance, a stern command to tread the mazes of the shameless quadrille with an equally shameless model, is usually the extent of the infliction. occasionally the stranger is invited to sit on a high stool and read aloud to the others while they work, as he would like to do himself. but sometimes, if a man resists these reasonable demands in a contumacious manner, he is "crucified." this occurs so seldom, however, that clifford, on entering the barn-like studios that morning, was surprised to see that a "crucifixion" was in progress. a stranger was securely strapped to the top rungs of a twenty-foot ladder which a crowd of frenchmen were preparing to raise and place in a slanting position against the wall. "who is it that those fellows are fooling with?" he asked. "an englishman, and it's about time we put a stop to it," answered elliott. when americans or englishmen are hazed by the french students, they make common cause in keeping watch that the matter does not go too far. "how many of us are here this morning?" said clifford. "fourteen who can fight," said elliott; "they only want someone to give the word." clifford buttoned his jacket and shouldered his way into the middle of the crowd. "that's enough. he's been put through enough for today," he said coolly. a frenchman, who had himself only entered the atelier the week previous, laughed and replied, "we'll put you on, if you say anything." there was an ominous pause. every old student there knew clifford to be one of the most skillful and dangerous boxers in the school. they looked with admiration upon their countryman. it didn't cost anything to admire him. they urged him on, and he didn't need much urging, for he remembered his own recent experience as a new man, and he didn't know clifford. "go ahead," cried this misguided student, "he's a nouveau, and he's going up!" clifford laughed in his face. "come along," he called, as some dozen english and american students pushed into the circle and gathered round the prostrate englishman. "see here, clifford, what's the use of interrupting?" urged a big frenchman. clifford began loosening the straps. "you know, bonin, that we always do interfere when it goes as far as this against an englishman or an american." he laughed good naturedly. "there's always been a fight over it before, but i hope there won't be any today." bonin grinned and shrugged his shoulders. after vainly fussing with the ropes, clifford and the others finally cut them and the "nouveau" scrambled to his feet and took an attitude which may be seen engraved in any volume of instruction in the noble art of self-defense. he was an englishman of the sandy variety. orange-colored whiskers decorated a carefully scrubbed face, terminating in a red-brown mustache. he had blue eyes, now lighted to a pale green by the fire of battle, reddish-brown hair, and white hands spattered with orange-colored freckles. all this, together with a well made suit of green and yellow checks, and the seesaw accent of the british empire, answered, when politely addressed, to the name of cholmondeley rowden, esq. "i say," he began, "i'm awfully obliged, you know, and all that; but i'd jolly well like to give some of these cads a jolly good licking, you know." "go in, my friend, go in!" laughed clifford; "but next time we'll leave you to hang in the air for an hour or two, that's all." "damn their cheek!" began the englishman. "see here," cried elliott sharply, "you're only a nouveau, and you'd better shut up till you've been here long enough to talk." "in other words," said clifford, "don't buck against custom." "but i cahn't see it," said the nouveau, brushing his dusty trousers. "i don't see it at all, you know. damn their cheek!" at this moment the week-weaned frenchman shoved up to clifford. "what did you mean by interfering? eh! you english pig." clifford looked at him with contempt. "what do you want, my little nouveau?" "nouveau!" spluttered the gaul, "nouveau, eh!" and he made a terrific lunge at the american, who was sent stumbling backward, and slipping, fell heavily. the frenchman gazed around in triumph, but his grin was not reflected on the faces of his compatriots. none of them would have changed places with him. clifford picked himself up deliberately. his face was calm and mild as he walked up to his opponent, who hurriedly put himself into an attitude of self-defense. "monsieur nouveau, you are not wise. but some day you will learn better, when you are no longer a nouveau," said clifford, kindly. the man looked puzzled, but kept his fists up. "now i am going to punish you a little," proceeded clifford, in even tones, "not harshly, but with firmness, for your good," he added, walking straight up to the frenchman. the latter struck heavily at clifford's head, but he ducked like a flash, and catching his antagonist around the waist, carried him, kicking, to the water-basin, where he turned on the water and shoved the squirming frenchman under. the scene was painful, but brief; when one of the actors in it emerged from under the water-spout, he no longer asked for anybody's blood. "go and dry yourself," said clifford, cheerfully; and walking over to his easel, sat down and began to work. in ten minutes, all trace of the row had disappeared, excepting that one gentleman's collar looked rather limp and his hair was uncommonly sleek. the men worked steadily. snatches of song and bits of whistling rose continuously from easel and taboret, all blending in a drowsy hum. gethryn and elliott caught now and then, from behind them, words of wisdom which clifford was administering to the now subdued rowden. "yes," he was saying, "many a man has been injured for life by these frenchmen for a mere nothing. i had two brothers," he paused, "and my golden-haired boy -- " he ceased again, apparently choking with emotion. "but -- i say -- you're not married, you know," said the englishman. "hush," sighed clifford, "i -- i -- married the daughter of an african duke. she was brought to the states by a slave trader in infancy." "black?" gasped mr rowden. "very black, but beautiful. i could not keep her. she left me, and is singing with haverley's minstrels now." like the majority of his countrymen, mr rowden was ready to believe anything he heard of social conditions in the states, but one point required explanation. "you said the child had golden hair." "yes, his mother's hair was red," sighed clifford. gethryn, glancing round, saw the englishman's jaw drop, as he said, "how extraordinary!" then he began to smile as if suspecting a joke. but clifford's eye met his in gentle rebuke. "c'est l'heure! rest!" down jumped the model. the men leaned back noisily. clifford rose, bowed gravely to the englishman, and stepped across the taborets to join his friends. gethryn was cleaning his brushes with turpentine and black soap. "going home, rex?" inquired clifford, picking up a brush and sending a fine spray of turpentine over elliott, who promptly returned the attention. "quit that," growled gethryn, "don't ruin those brushes." "what's the nouveau like, clifford?" asked elliott. "we heard you instructing him a little. he seems to have the true englishman's sense of humor." "oh, he's not a bad sort," said clifford. "come and be introduced. i'm half ashamed of myself for guying him, for he's really a very decent, plucky fellow, a bit stiff and pig-headed, as many of 'em are at first, and as for humor, i suppose they know their own kind, but they do get a little confused between fact and fancy when they converse with us." the two strolled off with friendly intent, to seek out and ameliorate the loneliness of cholmondeley rowden, esq. gethryn tied up his brushes, closed his color box and, flinging on his hat, hurried down the stairs and into the court, nodding to several students who passed with canvas and paint-boxes tucked under their arms. he reached the street, and, going through the passage brady, emerged upon the boulevard sebastopol. a car was passing and he boarded it, climbing up to the imperiale. the only vacant seat was between a great, red-faced butcher, and a market woman from the halles, and although the odors of raw beef and fish were unpleasantly perceptible, he settled himself back and soon became lost in his own thoughts. the butcher had a copy of the petit journal and every now and then he imparted bits of it across gethryn, to the market woman, lingering with relish over the criminal items. "dites donc," he cried, "here is the affair rigaud!" gethryn roused up and listened. "this morning, i knew it," cackled the woman, folding her fat hands across her apron. "i said to sophie, `voyons sophie,' i said -- " "shut up," interrupted the butcher, "i'm going to read." "i was sure of it," said the woman, addressing gethryn, "`voyons, sophie,' said -- " but the butcher interrupted her, again reading aloud: "the condemned struggled fearfully, and it required the united efforts of six gendarmes -- " "cochon!" said the woman. "listen, will you!" cried the man. "some disturbance was caused by a gamin who broke from the crowd and attacked a soldier. but the miserable was seized and carried off, screaming. two gold pieces of francs each fell from some hiding-place in his ragged clothes and were taken charge of by the police." the man paused and gloated over the column. "here," he cried, "listen -- `even under the knife the condemned -- "' gethryn rose roughly and, crowding past the man, descended the steps and, entering the car below, sat down there. "butor!" roared the butcher. "cochon! he trod on my foot!" "he is an english pig!" sneered the woman, reaching for the newspaper. "let me read it now," she whined. "hands off," growled the man, "i'll read you what i think good." "but it's my paper." "it's mine now -- shut up." the first thing gethryn did on reaching home was to write a note to his friend, the prefect of the seine, telling him how the child of rigaud came by the gold pieces. then he had a quiet smoke, and then he went out and lunched at the café des Écoles, frugally, on a sandwich and a glass of beer. after that he returned to his studio and sat down to his desk again. he opened a small memorandum book and examined some columns of figures. they were rather straggling, not very well kept, but they served to convince him that his accounts were forty francs behind, and he would have to economize a little for the next week or two. after this, he sat and thought steadily. finally he took a sheet of his best cream laid note paper, dipped his pen in the ink, and began to write. the note was short, but it took him a long while to compose it, and when it was sealed and directed to "miss ruth deane, lung' arno guicciardini, florence, italy," he sat holding it in his hand as if he did not know what to do with it. two o'clock struck. he started up, and quickly rolling up the shades from the glass roof and pulling out his easel, began to squeeze tube after tube of color upon his palette. the parrot came down and tiptoed about the floor, peering into color boxes, pastel cases, and pots of black soap, with all the curiosity of a regulation studio bore. steps echoed on the tiles outside. gethryn opened the door quickly. "ah, elise! bon jour!" he said, pleasantly. "entrez donc!" "merci, monsieur gethryn," smiled his visitor, a tall, well-shaped girl with dark eyes and red cheeks. "ten minutes late," elise, said gethryn, laughing, "my time's worth a franc a minute; so prepare to pay up." "very well," retorted the girl, also laughing and showing her pretty teeth, "but i have decided to charge twenty francs an hour from today. now, what do you owe me, monsieur?" gethryn shook his brushes at her. "you are spoiled, elise -- you used to pose very well and were never late." "and i pose well now!" she cried, her professional pride piqued. "monsieur bonnat and monsieur constant have praised me all this week. voila," she finished, throwing off her waist and letting her skirts fall in a circle to her feet. "oh, you can pose if you will," answered gethryn, pleasantly. "come, we begin?" the girl stepped daintily out of the pile of discarded clothes, and picking her way across the room with her bare feet, sprang lightly upon the model stand. "the same as last week?" she asked, smiling frankly. "yes, that's it," he replied, shifting his easel and glancing up at the light; "only drop the left elbow a bit -- there, that's it; now a little to the left -- the knee -- that will do." the girl settled herself into the pose, glanced at the clock, and then turning to gethryn said, "and i am to look at you, am i not?" "where could you find a more charming object?" murmured he, sorting his brushes. "thank you," she pouted, stealing a glance at him; "than you?" "except mademoiselle elise. there, now we begin!" the rest of the hour was disturbed only by the sharp rattle of brushes and the scraping of the palette knife. "are you tired?" asked gethryn, looking at the clock; "you have ten minutes more." "no," said the girl, "continue." finally gethryn rose and stepped back. "time," he said, still regarding his work. "come and give me a criticism, elise." the girl stretched her limbs, and then, stepping down, trotted over to gethryn. "what do you say?" he demanded, anxiously. artists often pay more serious attention to the criticisms of their models than to those of a brother artist. for, although models may be ignorant of method -- which, however, is not always the case -- from seeing so much good work they acquire a critical acumen which often goes straight to the mark. it was for one of these keen criticisms that the young man was listening now. "i like it very much -- very much," answered the girl, slowly; "but, you see -- i am not so cold in the face -- am i?" "hit it, as usual," muttered the artist, biting his lip; "i've got more greens and blues in there than there are in a peacock's tail. you're right," he added, aloud, "i must warm that up a bit -- there in the shadows, and keep the high lights pure and cold." elise nodded seriously. "monsieur chaplain and i have finished our picture," she announced, after a pause. it is a naïve way models have of appropriating work in which, truly enough, they have no small share. they often speak of "our pictures" and "our success." "how do you like it?" asked the artist, absently. "good," -- she shrugged her shoulders -- "but not truth." "right again," murmured gethryn. "i prefer dagnan," added the pretty critic. "so do i -- rather!" laughed gethryn. "or you," said the girl. "come, come," cried the young man, coloring with pleasure, "you don't mean it, elise!" "i say what i mean -- always," she replied, marching over to the pups and gathering them into her arms. "i'm going to take a cigarette," she announced, presently. "all right," said gethryn, squeezing more paint on his palette, "you'll find some mild ones on the bookcase." elise gave the pups a little hug and kiss, and stepped lightly over to the bookcase. then she lighted a cigarette and turned and surveyed herself in the mirror. "i'm thinner than i was last year. what do you think?" she demanded, studying her pretty figure in the glass. "perhaps a bit, but it's all the better. those corsets simply ruined you as a model last year." elise looked serious and shook her head. "i do feel so much better without them. i won't wear them again." "no, you have a pretty, slender figure, and you don't want them. that's why i always get you when i can. i hate to draw or paint from a girl whose hips are all discolored with ugly red creases from her confounded corset." the girl glanced contentedly at her supple, clean-limbed figure, and then, with a laugh, jumped upon the model stand. "it's not time," said gethryn, "you have five minutes yet." "go on, all the same." and soon the rattle of the brushes alone broke the silence. at last gethryn rose and backed off with a sigh. "how's that, elise?" he called. she sprang down and stood looking over his shoulder. "now i'm like myself!" she cried, frankly; "it's delicious! but hurry and block in the legs, why don't you?" "next pose," said the young man, squeezing out more color. and so the afternoon wore away, and at six o'clock gethryn threw down his brushes with a long-drawn breath. "that's all for today. now, elise, when can you give me the next pose? i don't want a week at a time on this; i only want a day now and then." the model went over to her dress and rummaged about in the pockets. "here," she said, handing him a notebook and diary. he selected a date, and wrote his name and the hour. "good," said the girl, reading it; and replacing the book, picked up her stockings and slowly began to dress. gethryn lay back on the lounge, thoroughly tired out. elise was humming a normandy fishing song. when, at last, she stood up and drew on her gloves, he had fallen into a light sleep. she stepped softly over to the lounge and listened to the quiet breathing of the young man. "how handsome -- and how good he is!" she murmured, wistfully. she opened the door very gently. "so different, so different from the rest!" she sighed, and noiselessly went her way. eight although the sound of the closing door was hardly perceptible, it was enough to wake gethryn. "elise!" he called, starting up, "elise!" but the girl was beyond earshot. "and she went away without her money, too; i'll drop around tomorrow and leave it; she may need it," he muttered, rubbing his eyes and staring at the door. it was dinner time, and past, but he had little appetite. "i'll just have something here," he said to himself, and catching up his hat ran down stairs. in twenty minutes he was back with eggs, butter, bread, a paté, a bottle of wine and a can of sardines. the spirit lamp was lighted and the table deftly spread. "i'll have a cup of tea, too," he thought, shaking the blue tea canister, and then, touching a match to the well-filled grate, soon had the kettle fizzling and spluttering merrily. the wind had blown up cold from the east and the young man shivered as he closed and fastened the windows. then he sat down, his chin on his hands, and gazed into the glowing grate. mrs gummidge, who had smelled the sardines, came rubbing up against his legs, uttering a soft mew from sheer force of habit. she was not hungry -- in fact, gethryn knew that the concierge, whose duty it was to feed all the creatures, overdid it from pure kindness of heart -- at gethryn's expense. "gummidge, you're stuffed up to your eyes, aren't you?" he said. at the sound of his voice the cat hoisted her tail, and began to march in narrowing circles about her master's chair, making gentle observations in the cat language. gethryn placed a bit of sardine on a fork and held it out, but the little humbug merely sniffed at it daintily, and then rubbed against her master's hand. he laughed and tossed the bit of fish into the fire, where it spluttered and blazed until the parrot woke up with a croak of annoyance. gethryn watched the kettle in silence. faces he could never see among the coals, but many a time he had constructed animals and reptiles from the embers, and just now he fancied he could see a resemblance to a shark among the bits of blazing coal. he watched the kettle dreamily. the fire glowed and flashed and sank, and glowed again. now he could distinctly see a serpent twisting among the embers. the clock ticked in measured unison with the slow oscillation of the flame serpent. the wind blew hard against the panes and sent a sudden chill creeping to his feet. bang! bang! went the blinds. the hallway was full of strange noises. he thought he heard a step on the threshold; he imagined that his door creaked, but he did not turn around from his study of the fire; it was the wind, of course. the sudden hiss of the kettle, boiling over, made him jump and seize it. as he turned to set it down, there was a figure standing beside the table. neither spoke. the kettle burnt his hand and he set it back on the hearth; then he remained standing, his eyes fixed on the fire. after a while yvonne broke the silence -- speaking very low: "are you angry?" "why?" "i don't know," said the girl, with a sigh. the silence was too strained to last, and finally gethryn said, "won't you sit down?" she did so silently. "you see i'm -- i'm about to do a little cooking," he said, looking at the eggs. the girl spoke again, still very low. "won't you tell me why you are angry?" "i'm not," began gethryn, but he sat down and glanced moodily at the girl. "for two weeks you have not been to see me." "you are mistaken, i have been -- " he began, but stopped. "when?" "saturday." "and i was not at home?" "and you were at home," he said grimly. "you had a caller -- it was easy to hear his voice, so i did not knock." she winced, but said quietly, "don't you think that is rude?" "yes," said gethryn, "i beg pardon." presently she continued: "you and -- and he -- are the only two men who have been in my room." "i'm honored, i'm sure," he answered, drily. the girl threw back her mackintosh and raised her veil. "i ask your pardon again," he said; "allow me to relieve you of your waterproof." she rose, suffering him to aid her with her cloak, and then sat down and looked into the fire in her turn. "it has been so long -- i -- i -- hoped you would come." "whom were you with in the luxembourg gardens?" he suddenly broke out. she did not misunderstand or evade the question, and gethryn, watching her face, thought perhaps she had expected it. but she resented his tone. "i was with a friend," she said, simply. he came and sat down opposite her. "it is not my business," he said, sulkily; "excuse me." she looked at him for some moments in silence. "it was mr pick," she said at length. gethryn could not repress a gesture of disgust. "and that -- jew was in your rooms? that jew!" "yes." she sat nervously rolling and unrolling her gloves. "why do you care?" she asked, looking into the fire. "i don't." "you do." there was a pause. "rex," she said, very low, "will you listen?" "yes, i'll listen." "he is a -- a friend of my sister's. he came from her to -- to -- " "to what!" "to -- borrow a little money. i distrusted him the first time he came -- the time you heard him in my room -- and i refused him. saturday he stopped me in the street, and, hoping to avoid a chance of meeting -- you, i walked through the park." "and you gave him the money -- i saw you!" "i did -- all i could spare." "is he -- is your sister married?" "no," she whispered. "and why -- " began gethryn, angrily, "why does that scoundrel come to beg money -- " he stopped, for the girl was in evident distress. "ah! you know why," she said in a scarce audible voice. the young man was silent. "and you will come again?" she asked timidly. no answer. she moved toward the door. "we were such very good friends." still he was silent. "is it au revoir?" she whispered, and waited for a moment on the threshold. "then it is adieu." "yes," he said, huskily, "that is better." she trembled a little and leaned against the doorway. "adieu, mon ami -- " she tried to speak, but her voice broke and ended in a sob. then, all at once, and neither knew just how it was, she was lying in his arms, sobbing passionately. * "rex," said yvonne, half an hour later, as she stood before the mirror arranging her disordered curls, "are you not the least little bit ashamed of yourself?" the answer appeared to be satisfactory, but the curly head was in a more hopeless state of disorder than before, and at last the girl gave a little sigh and exclaimed, "there! i'm all rumpled, but its your fault. will you oblige me by regarding my hair?" "better let it alone; i'll only rumple it some more!" he cried, ominously. "you mustn't! i forbid you!" "but i want to!" "not now, then -- " "yes -- immediately!" "rex -- you mustn't. o, rex -- i -- i -- " "what?" he laughed, holding her by her slender wrists. she flushed scarlet and struggled to break away. "only one." "no." "one." "none." "shall i let you go?" "yes," she said, but catching sight of his face, stopped short. he dropped her hands with a laugh and looked at her. then she came slowly up to him, and flushing crimson, pulled his head down to hers. "yvonne, do you love me? truthfully?" "rex, can you ask?" her warm little head lay against his throat, her heart beat against his, her breath fell upon his cheek, and her curls clustered among his own. "yvonne -- yvonne," he murmured, "i love you -- once and forever." "once and forever," she repeated, in a half whisper. "forever," he said. * an hour later they were seated tete-à-tete at gethryn's little table. she had not permitted him to poach the eggs, and perhaps they were better on that account. "bachelor habits must cease," she cried, with a little laugh, and gethryn smiled in doubtful acquiescence. "do you like grilled sardines on toast?" she asked. "i seem to," he smiled, finishing his fourth; "they are delicious -- yours," he added. "oh, that tea!" she cried, "and not one bit of sugar. what a hopelessly careless man!" but gethryn jumped up, crying, "wait a moment!" and returned triumphantly with a huge mass of rock-candy -- the remains of one of clifford's abortive attempts at "rye-and-rock." they each broke off enough for their cups, and gethryn, tasting his, declared the tea "delicious." yvonne sat, chipping an egg and casting sidelong glances at gethryn, which were always met and returned with interest. "yvonne, i want to tell you a secret." "what, rex?" "i love you." "oh!" "and you?" "no -- not at all!" cried the girl, shaking her pretty head. presently she gave him a swift glance from beneath her drooping lashes. "rex?" "what, yvonne?" "i want to tell you a secret." "what, yvonne?" "if you eat so many sardines -- " "oh!" cried gethryn, half angrily, but laughing, "you must pay for that!" "what?" she said, innocently, but jumped up and kept the table between him and herself. "you know!" he cried, chasing her into a corner. "we are two babies," she said, very red, following him back to the table. the paté was eaten in comparative quiet. "now," she said, with great dignity, setting down her glass, "behave and get me some hot water." gethryn meekly brought it. "if you touch me while i am washing these dishes!" "but let me help?" "no, go and sit down instantly." he fled in affected terror and ensconced himself upon the sofa. presently he inquired, in a plaintive voice: "have you nearly finished?" "no," said the girl, carefully drying and arranging the quaint egyptian tea-set, "and i won't for ages." "but you're not going to wash all those things? the concierge does that." "no, only the wine-glasses and the tea-set. the idea of trusting such fragile cups to a concierge! what a boy!" but she was soon ready to dry her slender hands, and caught up a towel with a demure glance at gethryn. "which do you think most of -- your dogs, or me?" "pups." "that parrot, or me?" "poll." "the raven, or me? the cat, or me?" "bird and puss." she stole over to his side and knelt down. "rex, if you ever tire of me -- if you ever are unkind -- if you ever leave me -- i think i shall die." he drew her to him. "yvonne," he whispered, "we can't always be together." "i know it -- i'm foolish," she faltered. "i shall not always be a student. i shall not always be in paris, dear yvonne." she leaned closer to him. "i must go back to america someday." "and -- and marry?" she whispered, chokingly. "no -- not to marry," he said, "but it is my home." "i -- i know it, rex, but don't let us think of it. rex," she said, some moments after, "are you like all students?" "how do you mean?" "have you ever loved -- before -- a girl, here in paris -- like me?" "there are none -- like you." "answer me, rex." "no, i never have," he said, truthfully. presently he added, "and you, yvonne?" she put her warm little hand across his mouth. "don't ask," she murmured. "but i do!" he cried, struggling to see her eyes, "won't you tell me?" she hid her face tight against his breast. "you know i have; that is why i am alone here, in paris." "you loved him?" "yes -- not as i love you." presently she raised her eyes to his. "shall i tell you all? i am like so many -- so many others. when you know their story, you know mine." he leaned down and kissed her. "don't tell me," he said. but she went on. "i was only seventeen -- i am nineteen now. he was an officer at -- at chartres, where we lived. he took me to paris." "and left you." "he died of the fever in tonquin." "when?" "three weeks ago." "and you heard?" "tonight." "then he did leave you." "don't, rex -- he never loved me, and i -- i never really loved him. i found that out." "when did you find it out?" "one day -- you know when -- in a -- a cab." "dear yvonne," he whispered, "can't you go back to -- to your family?" "no, rex." "never?" "i don't wish to, now. no, don't ask me why! i can't tell you. i am like all the rest -- all the rest. the paris fever is only cured by death. don't ask me, rex; i am content -- indeed i am." suddenly a heavy rapping at the door caused gethryn to spring hurriedly to his feet. "rex!" it was braith's voice. "what!" cried gethryn, hoarsely. there was a pause. "aren't you going to let me in?" "i can't, old man; i -- i'm not just up for company tonight," stammered gethryn. "company be damned -- are you ill?" "no." there was a silence. "i'm sorry," began gethryn, but was cut short by a gruff: "all right; good night!" and braith went away. yvonne looked inquiringly at him. "it was nothing," he murmured, very pale, and then threw himself at her feet, crying, "oh, yvonne -- yvonne!" outside the storm raged furiously. presently she whispered, "rex, shall i light the candle? it is midnight." "yes," he said. she slipped away, and after searching for some time, cried, "the matches are all gone, but here is a piece of paper -- a letter; do you want it? i can light it over the lamp." she held up an envelope to him. "i can light it over the lamp," she repeated. "what is the address?" "it is very long; i can't read it all, only `florence, italy."' "burn it," he said, in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him. presently she came over and knelt down by his side. neither spoke or moved. "the candle is lighted," she whispered, at last. "and the lamp?" "is out." nine cholmondeley rowden had invited a select circle of friends to join him in a "petit diner a la stag," as he expressed it. eight months of paris and the cold, cold world had worked a wonderful change in mr rowden. for one thing, he had shaved his whiskers and now wore only a mustache. for another, he had learned to like and respect a fair portion of the french students, and in consequence was respected and liked in return. he had had two fights, in both of which he had contributed to the glory of the british empire and prize ring. he was a better sparrer than clifford and was his equal in the use of the foils. like clifford, he was a capital banjoist, but he insisted that cricket was far superior to baseball, and this was the only bone of contention that ever fell between the two. clifford played his shameless jokes as usual, accompanied by the enthusiastic applause of rowden. clifford also played "the widow nolan's goat" upon his banjo, accompanied by the intricate pizzicatos of rowden. clifford drank numerous bottles of double x with rowden, and rowden consumed uncounted egg-flips with clifford. they were inseparable; in fact, the triumvirate, clifford, elliott and rowden, even went so far as to dress alike, and mean-natured people hinted that they had but one common style in painting. but they did not make the remark to any of the triumvirate. they were very fond of each other, these precious triumvirs, but they did not address each other by nicknames, and perhaps it was because they respected each other enough to refrain from familiarities that this alliance lasted as long as they lived. it was a beautiful sight, that of the three youths, when they sallied forth in company, hatted, clothed, and gloved alike, and each followed by a murderous-looking bulldog. the animals were of the brindled variety, and each was garnished with a steel spiked collar. timid people often crossed to the other side of the street on meeting this procession. braith laughed at the whole performance, but secretly thought that a little of their spare energy and imagination might have been spent to advantage upon their artistic productions. braith was doing splendidly. his last year's picture had been hung on the line and, in spite of his number three, he had received a third class medal and had been praised -- even generously -- by artists and critics, including albert wolff. he was hard at work on a large canvas for the coming international exhibition at paris; he had sold a number of smaller studies, and besides had pictures well hung in munich and in more than one gallery at home. at last, after ten years of hard work, struggles, and disappointments, he began to enjoy a measure of success. he and gethryn saw little of each other this winter, excepting at julien's. that last visit to the rue monsieur le prince was never mentioned between them. they were as cordial when they met as ever, but braith did not visit his young friend any more, and gethryn never spoke to him of yvonne. "good-bye, old chap!" braith would say when they parted, gripping rex's hand and smiling at him. but rex did not see braith's face as he walked away. braith felt helpless. the thing he most dreaded for rex had happened; he believed he could see the end of it all, and yet he could prevent nothing. if he should tell rex that he was being ruined, rex would not listen, and -- who was he that he should preach to another man for the same fault by which he had wasted his own life? no, rex would never listen to him, and he dreaded a rupture of their friendship. gethryn had made his debut in the salon with a certain amount of éclat. true, he had been disappointed in his expectations of a medal, but a first mention had soothed him a little, and, what was more important, it proved to be the needed sop to his discontented aunt. but somehow or other his new picture did not progress rapidly, or in a thoroughly satisfactory manner. in bits and spots it showed a certain amount of feverish brilliancy, yes, even mature solidity; in fact, it was nowhere bad, but still it was not gethryn and he knew that. "confound it!" he would mutter, standing back from his canvas; but even at such times he could hardly help wondering at his own marvelous technique. "technique be damned! give me stupidity in a pupil every time, rather than cleverness," harrington had said to one of his pupils, and the remark often rang in gethryn's ears even when his eyes were most blinded by his own wonderful facility. "some fools would medal this," he thought; "but what pleasure could a medal bring me when i know how little i deserve it?" perhaps he was his own hardest critic, but it was certain that the old, simple honesty, the subtle purity, the almost pathetic effort to tell the truth with paint and brush, had nearly disappeared from gethryn's canvases during the last eight months, and had given place to a fierce and almost startling brilliancy, never, perhaps, hitting, but always threatening some brutal note of discord. even elise looked vaguely troubled, though she always smiled brightly at gethryn's criticism of his own work. "it is so very wonderful and dazzling, but -- but the color seems to me -- unkind." and he would groan and answer, "yes, yes, elise, you're right; oh, i can never paint another like the one of last june!" "ah, that!" she would cry, "that was delicious -- " but checking herself, she would add, "courage, let us try again; i am not tired, indeed i am not." yvonne never came into the studio when gethryn had models, but often, after the light was dim and the models had taken their leave, she would slip in, and, hanging lightly over his shoulder, her cheek against his, would stand watching the touches and retouches with which the young artist always eked out the last rays of daylight. and when his hand drooped and she could hardly distinguish his face in the gathering gloom, he would sigh and turn to her, smoothing the soft hair from her forehead, saying: "are you happy, yvonne?" and yvonne always answered, "yes, rex, when you are." then he would laugh, and kiss her and tell her he was always happy with la belle hélène, and they would stand in the gathering twilight until a gurgle from the now well-grown pups would warn them that the hour of hunger had arrived. the triumvirate, with thaxton, rhodes, carleton, and the rest, had been frequent visitors all winter at the "ménagerie," as clifford's bad pun had named gethryn's apartment; but, of late, other social engagements and, possibly, a small amount of work, had kept them away. clifford was a great favorite with yvonne. thaxton and elliott she liked. rowden she tormented, and carleton she endured. she captured clifford by suffering him to play his banjo to her piano. rowden liked her because she was pretty and witty, though he never got used to her quiet little digs at his own respected and dignified person. clifford openly avowed his attachment and spent many golden hours away from work, listening to her singing. she had been taught by a good master and her voice was pure and pliant, although as yet only half developed. the little concerts they gave their friends were really charming -- with clifford's banjo, gethryn's guitar, thaxton's violin, yvonne's voice and piano. clifford made the programs. they were profusely illustrated, and he spent a great deal of time rehearsing, writing verses, and rehashing familiar airs (he called it "composing") which would have been as well devoted to his easel. in rowden, yvonne was delighted to find a cultivated musician. clifford listened to their talk of chords and keys, went and bought a "musical primer" on the quai d'orsay, spent a wretched hour groping over it, swore softly, and closed the book forever. but neither the triumvirate nor the others had been to the "ménagerie" for over a fortnight, when rowden, feeling it incumbent upon him to return some of gethryn's hospitality, issued very proper cards -- indeed they were very swell cards for the latin quarter -- for a "dinner," to be followed by a "quiet evening" at the bal masqué at the opera. the triumvirate had accordingly tied up their brindled bulldogs, "spit," "snap" and "tug"; had donned their white ties and collars of awful altitude, and were fully prepared to please and to be pleased. although it was nominally a "stag" party, the triumvirate would as soon have cut off their tender mustaches as have failed to invite yvonne. but she had replied to rowden's invitation by a dainty little note, ending: and i am sure that you will understand when i say that this time i will leave you gentlemen in undisturbed possession of the evening, for i know how dearly men love to meet and behave like bears all by themselves. but i shall see you all afterward at the opera. au revoir then -- at the bal masqué. y.d. the first sensation to the young men was one of disappointment. but the second was that mademoiselle descartes' tact had not failed her. the triumvirate were seated upon the sideboard swinging their legs. rowden cast a satisfied glance at the table laid for fifteen and flicked an imaginary speck from his immaculate shirt front. "i think it's all right," said elliott, noticing his look, "eh, clifford?" "is there enough champagne?" asked that youth, calculating four quart bottles to each person. rowden groaned. "of course there is. what are you made of?" "human flesh," acknowledged the other meekly. at eleven the guests began to arrive, welcomed by the triumvirs with great state and dignity. rowden, looking about, missed only one -- gethryn, and he entered at the same moment. "just in time," said rowden, and made the move to the table. as gethryn sat down, he noticed that the place on rowden's right was vacant, and before it stood a huge bouquet of white violets. "too bad she isn't here," said rowden, glancing at gethryn and then at the vacant place. "that's awfully nice of you, rowden," cried gethryn, with a happy smile; "she will have a chance to thank you tonight." he leaned over and touched his face to the flowers. as he raised his head again, his eyes met braith's. "hello!" cried braith, cordially. rex did not notice how pale he was, and called back, "hello!" with a feeling of relief at braith's tone. it was always so. when they were apart for days, there weighed a cloud of constraint on rex's mind, which braith's first greeting always dispelled. but it gathered again in the next interval. it rose from a sullen deposit of self-reproach down deep in gethryn's own heart. he kept it covered over; but he could not prevent the ghost-like exhalations that gathered there and showed where it was hidden. speeches began rather late. elliott made one -- and offered a toast to "la plus jolie demoiselle de paris," which was drunk amid great enthusiasm and responded to by gethryn, ending with a toast to rowden. rowden's response was stiff, but most correct. the same could not be said of clifford's answer to the toast, "the struggling artist -- heaven help him!" towards am mr clifford's conversation had become incoherent. but he continued to drink toasts. he drank yvonne's health five times, he pledged rowden and gethryn and everybody else he could think of, down to mrs gummidge and each separate kitten, and finally pledged himself. by that time he had reached the lachrymose state. tears, it seemed, did him good. a heart-rending sob was usually the sign of reviving intelligence. "well," said gethryn, buttoning his greatcoat, "i'll see you all in an hour -- at the opera." braith was not coming with them to the ball, so rex shook hands and said "good night," and calling "au revoir" to rowden and the rest, ran down stairs three at a time. he hurried into the court and after spending five minutes shouting "cordon!" succeeded in getting out of the door and into the rue michelet. from there he turned into the avenue de l'observatoire, and cutting through into the boulevard, came to his hôtel. yvonne was standing before the mirror, tying the hood of a white silk domino under her chin. hearing gethryn's key in the door, she hurriedly slipped on her little white mask and confronted him. "why, who is this?" cried gethryn. "yvonne, come and tell me who this charming stranger is!" "you see before you the princess hélène, monsieur, she said, gravely bending the little masked head." "oh, in that case, you needn't come, yvonne, as i have an engagement with the princess hélène of troy." "but you mustn't kiss me!" she cried, hastily placing the table between herself and gethryn; "you have not yet been presented. oh, rex! don't be so -- so idiotic; you spoil my dress -- there -- yes, only one, but don't you dare to try -- oh rex! now i am all in wrinkles -- you -- you bear!" "bears hug -- that's a fact," he laughed. "come, are you ready -- or i'll just -- " "don't you dare!" she cried, whipping off her mask and attempting an indignant frown. she saw the big bunch of white violets in his hand and made a diversion by asking what those were. he told her, and she declared, delightedly, that she should carry them with rex's roses to the ball. "they shall have the preference, monsieur," she said, teasingly. "oh, rex! don't -- please -- " she entreated. "all right, i won't," he said, drawing her wrap around her; and yvonne, replacing the mask and gathering up her fluffy skirts, slipped one small gloved hand through his arm and danced down the stairs. on the corner of the vaugirard and the rue de medicis one always finds a line of cabs, and presently they were bumping and bouncing away down the rue de seine to the river. je fais ce que sa fantaisie veut m'ordonner, et je puis, s'il lui faut ma vie la lui donner sang yvonne, deftly thrusting tierce and quarte with her fan to make gethryn keep his distance. "do you know it is snowing?" he said presently, peering out of the window as the cab rattled across the pont neuf. "tant mieux!" cried the girl; "i shall make a snowball -- a -- " she opened her blue eyes impressively, "a very, very large one, and -- " "and?" "drop it on the head of mr rowden," she announced, with cheerful decision. "i'll warn poor rowden of your intention," he laughed, as the cab rolled smoothly up the avenue de l'opera, across the boulevard des italiens, and stopped before the glittering pile of the great opera. she sprang lightly to the curbstone and stood tapping her little feet against the pavement while gethryn fumbled about for his fare. the steps of the opera and the plaza were covered with figures in dominoes, blue, red or black, many grotesque and bizarre costumes, and not a few sober claw hammers. the great flare of yellow light which bathed and flooded the shifting, many-colored throng, also lent a strangely weird effect to the now heavily falling snowflakes. carriages and cabs kept arriving in countless numbers. it was half past two, and nobody who wanted to be considered anybody thought of arriving before that hour. the people poured in a steady stream through the portals. groups of english and american students in their irreproachable evening attire, groups of french students in someone else's doubtful evening attire, crowds of rustling silken dominoes, herds of crackling muslin dominoes, countless sad-faced pierrots, fewer sad-faced capuchins, now and then a slim mephistopheles, now and then a fat, stolid turk, 'arry, tom, and billy, redolent of plum pudding and seven dials, gontran, gaston and achille, savoring of brasseries and the sorbonne. and then, from the carriages and fiacres: mademoiselle patchouli and good old monsieur bonvin, mademoiselle nitouche and bad young monsieur de sacrebleu, mademoiselle moineau and don cæsar imberbe; and the pink silk domino of "la pataude" -- mais n'importe! allons, messieurs, mesdames, to the cloak room -- to the foyer! to the escalier! or you, madame la comtesse, to your box, and smooth out your crumpled domino; as for "la pataude," she is going to dance tonight. gethryn, with yvonne clinging tightly to his arm, entered the great vestibule and passed through the railed lanes to the broad inclined aisle which led to the floor. "do you want to take a peep before we go to our box?" he asked, leading her to the doorway. yvonne's little heart beat faster as she leaned over and glanced at the dazzling spectacle. "come, hurry -- let us go to the box!" she whispered, dragging gethryn after her up the stairway. he followed, laughing at her excitement, and in a few minutes they found the door of their lodge and slipped in. gethryn lighted a cigarette and began to unstrap his field glasses. "take these, yvonne," he said, handing them to her while he adjusted her own tiny gold ones. yvonne's cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled under the little mask, as she leaned over the velvet railing and gazed at the bewildering spectacle below. great puffs of hot, perfumed air bore the crash of two orchestras to their ears, mixed with the distant clatter and whirl of the dancers, and the shouts and cries of the maskers. at the end of the floor, screened by banks of palms, sat the musicians, and round about, rising tier upon tier, the glittering boxes were filled with the elite of the demimonde, who ogled and gossiped and sighed, entirely content with the material and social barriers which separate those who dance for ten francs from those who look on for a hundred. but there were others there who should not by any means be confounded with their sisters of the "half-world." the faubourg st germain, the champs elysées, and the parc monceau were possibly represented among those muffled and disguised beauties, who began the evening with their fans so handy in case of need. ah, well -- now they lay their fans down quite out of reach in case of emergency, and who shall say if disappointment lurks under these dainty dominoes, that there is so little to bring a blush to modest cheeks -- alas! few emergencies. and you over there -- you of the "american colony," who are tossed like shuttlecocks in the social whirl, you, in your well-appointed masks and silks, it is all very new and exciting -- yes, but why should you come? american women, brought up to think clean thoughts and see with innocent eyes, to exact a respectful homage from men and enjoy a personal dignity and independence unknown to women anywhere else -- why do you want to come here? do you not know that the foundations of that liberty which makes you envied in the old world are laid in the respect and confidence of men? undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of europe. yvonne leaned back in her box with a little gasp. "but i can't make out anyone at all," she said; "it's all a great, sparkling sea of color." "try the field glasses," replied gethryn, giving them to her again, at the same time opening her big plumy fan and waving it to and fro beside the flushed cheek. presently she cried out, "oh, look! there is mr elliott and mr rowden, and i think mr clifford -- but i hope not." he leaned forward and swept the floor with the field glass. "it's clifford, sure enough," he muttered; "what on earth induces him to dance in that set?" it was clifford. at that moment he was addressing elliott in pleading, though hazy, phrases. "come 'long, elliott, don't be so -- so uncomf't'ble 'n' p'tic'lar! w't's use of be'ng shnobbish?" he urged, clinging hilariously to his partner, a pigeon-toed ballet girl. but elliott only laughed and said: "no; waltzes are all i care for. no quadrille for me -- " the crash of the orchestra drowned his voice, and clifford, turning and bowing gravely to his partner, and then to his vis-à-vis, began to perform such antics and cut such pigeonwings that his pigeon-toed partner glared at him through the slits of her mask in envious astonishment. the door was dotted with numerous circles of maskers, ten or fifteen deep, all watching and applauding the capers of the hilarious couples in the middle. but clifford's set soon attracted a large and enthusiastic audience, who were connoisseurs enough to distinguish a voluntary dancer from a hired one; and when the last thundering chords of offenbach's "march into hell" scattered the throng into a delirious waltz, clifford reeled heavily into the side scenes and sat down, rather unexpectedly, in the lap of mademoiselle nitouche, who had crept in there with the baron silberstein for a nice, quiet view of a genuine cancan. mademoiselle did not think it funny, but the baron did, and when she boxed clifford's ears he thought it funnier still. rowden and elliot, who were laboriously waltzing with a twin pair of flat-footed watteau shepherdesses, immediately ran to his assistance; and later, with a plentiful application of cold water and still colder air, restored mr clifford to his usual spirits. "you're not a beauty, you know," said rowden, looking at clifford's hair, which was soaked into little points and curls; "you're certainly no beauty, but i think you're all right now -- don't you, elliott? " "certainly," laughed the triumvir, producing a little silver pocket-comb and presenting it to the woebegone clifford, who immediately brought out a hand glass and proceeded to construct a "bang" of wonderful seductiveness. in ten minutes they sallied forth from the dressing room and wended their way through the throngs of masks to the center of the floor. they passed thaxton and rhodes, who, each with a pretty nun upon his arm, were trying to persuade bulfinch into taking the third nun, who might have been the mother superior or possibly a resuscitated th century abbess. "no," he was saying, while he blinked painfully at the ci-devant abbess, "i can't go that; upon my word, don't ask me, fellows -- i -- i can't." "oh, come," urged rhodes, "what's the odds?" "you can take her and i'll take yours," began the wily little man, but neither rhodes nor thaxton waited to argue longer. "no catacombs for me," growled bulfinch, eyeing the retreating nuns, but catching sight of the triumvirate, his face regained its bird-like felicity of expression. "glad to see you -- indeed i am! that colossus is too disinterested in securing partners for his friends; he is, i assure you. if you're looking for a louis quatorze partner, warranted genuine, go to rhodes." "rex ought to be here by this time," said rowden; "look in the boxes on that side and clifford and i will do the same on this." "no need," cried elliott, "i see him with a white domino there in the second tier. look! he's waving his hand to us and so is the domino." "come along," said clifford, pushing his way toward the foyer, "i'll find them in a moment. let me see," -- a few minutes later, pausing outside a row of white and gilt doors -- "let me see, seventh box, second tier -- here we are," he added, rapping loudly. yvonne ran and opened the door. "bon soir, messieurs," she said, with a demure curtsy. clifford gallantly kissed the little glove and then shook hands with gethryn. "how is it on the floor?" asked the latter, as elliott and rowden came forward to the edge of the box. "i want to take yvonne out for a turn and perhaps a waltz, if it isn't too crowded." "oh, it's pretty rough just now, but it will be better in half an hour," replied rowden, barricading the champagne from clifford. "we saw you dancing, mr clifford," observed yvonne, with a wicked glance at him from under her mask. clifford blushed. "i -- i don't make an ass of myself but once a year, you know," he said, with a deprecatory look at elliott. "oh," murmured the latter, doubtfully, "glad to hear it." clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by rowden. yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the long-stemmed goblets. "only one, mr clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!" clifford promised with great promptness, and taking the glass from her hand with a low bow, sprang recklessly upon the edge of the box and raised the goblet. "a la plus belle demoiselle de paris!" he cried, with all the strength of his lungs, and drained the goblet. a shout from the crowd below answered his toast. a thousand faces were turned upward, and people leaned over their boxes, and looked at the party from all parts of the house. mademoiselle nitouche turned to monsieur de sacrebleu. "what audacity!" she murmured. mademoiselle goujon smiled at the baron silberstein. "tiens!" she cried, "the gayety has begun, i hope." little miss ducely whispered to lieutenant faucon: "those are american students," she sighed; "how jolly they seem to be, especially mr clifford! i wonder if she is so pretty!" half a dozen riotous frenchmen in the box opposite jumped to their feet and waved their goblets at clifford. "a la plus jolie femme du monde!" they roared. clifford seized another glass and filled it. "she is here!" he shouted, and sprang to the edge again. but gethryn pulled him down. "that's too dangerous," he laughed; "you could easily fall." "oh, pshaw!" cried clifford, draining the glass, and shaking it at the opposite box. yvonne put her hand on gethryn's arm. "don't let him have any more," she whispered. "give us the goblet!" yelled the frenchmen. "le voila!" shouted clifford, and stepping back, hurled the glass with all his strength across the glittering gulf. it fell with a crash in the box it was aimed at, and a howl of applause went up from the floor. yvonne laughed nervously, but coming to the edge of the box buried her mask in her bouquet and looked down. "a rose! a rose!" cried the maskers below; "a rose from the most charming demoiselle in paris!" she half turned to gethryn, but suddenly stepping forward, seized a handful of flowers from the middle of the bouquet and flung them into the crowd. there was a shout and a scramble, and then she tore the bouquet end from end, sending a shower of white buds into the throng. "none for me?" sighed clifford, watching the fast-dwindling bouquet. she laughed brightly as she tossed the last handful below, and then turned and leaned over gethryn's chair. "you destructive little wretch!" he laughed, "this is not the season for the battle of flowers. but white roses mean nothing, so i'm not jealous." "ah, mon ami, i saved the red rose for you," she whispered; and fastened it upon his breast. and at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white mask. but she sprang up laughing. "i would so like to go onto the floor," she cried, pulling him to his feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; "don't you think we might -- just for a minute, mr rowden?" she pleaded. "i don't mind a crowd -- indeed i don't, and i am masked so perfectly." "what's the harm, rex?" said rowden; "she is well masked." "and when we return it will be time for supper, won't it?" "yes, i should think so!" murmured clifford. "where do we go then?" "maison dorée." "come along, then, mademoiselle destructiveness!" cried gethryn, tossing his mask and field glass onto a chair, where they were appropriated by clifford, who spent the next half hour in staring across at good old colonel toddlum and his frisky companion -- an attention which drove the poor old gentleman almost frantic with suspicion, for he was a married man, bless his soul! -- and a pew-holder in the american church. "my love," said the frisky one, "who is the gentleman in the black mask who stares?" "i don't know," muttered the dear old man, in a cold sweat, "i don't know, but i wish i did." and the frisky one shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the mask. "what are they looking at?" whispered yvonne, as she tripped along, holding very tightly to gethryn's arm. "only a quadrille -- `la pataude' is dancing. do you want to see it?" she nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which `la pataude' and `grille d'egout' were holding high carnival. at every ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared. "brava! bis!" cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; "vive la pataude!" for answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the point of her satin slipper. the crowd roared again. "brava! brava, la pataude!" yvonne turned away. "i don't like it. i don't find it amusing," she said, faintly. gethryn's hand closed on hers. "nor i," he said. "but you and your friends used to go to the students' ball at `bullier's,"' she began, a little reproachfully. "only as nouveaux, and then, as a rule, the high-jinks are pretty genuine there -- at least, with the students. we used to go to keep cool in spring and hear the music; to keep warm in winter; and amuse ourselves at carnival time." "but -- mr clifford knows all the girls at `bullier's.' do -- do you?" "some." "how many?" she said, pettishly. "none -- now." a pause. yvonne was looking down. "see here, little goose, i never cared about any of that crowd, and i haven't been to the bullier since -- since last may." she turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her mask. "why, yvonne!" he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the orchestra broke into a waltz. "don't speak to me, rex -- but dance! dance!" they danced until the last bar of music ceased with a thundering crash. "tired?" he asked, still holding her. she smiled breathlessly and stepped back, but stopped short, with a little cry. "oh! i'm caught -- there, on your coat!" he leaned over her to detach the shred of silk. "where is it? oh! here!" and they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis. "you see," he said, "it will always draw me to you." but a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took his arm. when they entered their box, clifford was still tormenting the poor colonel. "old dog thinks i know him," he grinned, as yvonne and rex came in. yvonne flung off her mask and began to fan herself. "time for supper, you know," suggested clifford. yvonne lay back in her chair, smiling and slowly waving the great plumes to and fro. "who are those people in the next box?" she asked him. "they do make such a noise." "there are only two, both masked." "but they have unmasked now. there are their velvets on the edge of the box. i'm going to take a peep," she whispered, rising and leaning across the railing. "don't; i wouldn't -- " began gethryn, but he was too late. yvonne leaned across the gilded cornice and instantly fell back in her chair, deathly pale. "my god! are you ill, yvonne?" "oh, rex, rex, take me away -- home -- " then came a loud hammering on the box door. a harsh, strident voice called, "yvonne! yvonne!" clifford thoughtlessly threw it open, and a woman in evening dress, very decolletée, swept by him into the box, with a waft of sickly scented air. yvonne leaned heavily on gethryn's shoulder; the woman stopped in front of them. "ah! here you are, then!" yvonne's face was ghastly. "nina," she whispered, "why did you come?" "because i wanted to make you a little surprise," sneered the woman; "a pleasant little surprise. we love each other enough, i hope." she stamped her foot. "go," said yvonne, looking half dead. "go!" mimicked the other. "but certainly! only first you must introduce me to these gentlemen who are so kind to you." "you will leave the box," said gethryn, in a low voice, holding open the door. the woman turned on him. she was evidently in a prostitute's tantrum of malicious deviltry. presently she would begin to lash herself into a wild rage. "ah! this is the one!" she sneered, and raising her voice, she called, "mannie, mannie, come in here, quick!" a sidling step approached from the next box, and the face of mr emanuel pick appeared at the door. "this is the one," cried the woman, shrilly. "isn't he pretty?" mr pick looked insolently at gethryn and opened his mouth, but he did not say anything, for rex took him by the throat and kicked him headlong into his own box. then he locked the door, and taking out the key, returned and presented it to the woman. "follow him!" he said, and quietly, but forcibly, urged her toward the lobby. "mannie! mannie!" she shrieked, in a voice choked by rage and dissipation, "come and kill him! he's insulting me!" getting no response, she began to pour forth shriek upon shriek, mingled with oaths and ravings. "i shall speak to my sister! who dares prevent me from speaking to my sister! you -- " she glared at yvonne and ground her teeth. "you, the good one. you! the mother's pet! ran away from home! took up with an english hog!" yvonne sprang to her feet again. "leave the box," she gasped. "ha! ha! mais oui! leave the box! and let her dance while her mother lies dying!" yvonne gave a cry. "ah! ah!" said her sister, suddenly speaking very slowly, nodding at every word. "ah! ah! go back to your room and see what is there -- in the room of your lover -- the little letter from vernon. she wants you. she wants you. that is because you are so good. she does not want me. no, it is you who must come to see her die. i -- i dance at the carnival!" then, suddenly turning on gethryn with a devilish grin, "you! tell your mistress her mother is dying!" she laughed hatefully, but preserved her pretense of calm, walked to the door, and as she reached it swung round and made an insulting gesture to gethryn. "you! i will remember you!" the door slammed and a key rattled in the next box. clinging to gethryn, yvonne passed down the long corridor to the vestibule, while elliott and rowden silently gathered up the masks and opera glasses. clifford stood holding her crushed and splintered fan. he looked at elliott, who looked gloomily back at him, as braith entered hurriedly. "what's the matter? i saw something was wrong from the floor. rex ill?" "ill at ease," said clifford, grimly. "there's a sister turned up. a devil of a sister." braith spoke very low. "yvonne's sister?" "yes, a she-devil." "did you hear her name?" "name's nina." braith went quietly out again. passing blindly down the lobby, he ran against mr bulfinch. mr bulfinch was in charge of a policeman. "hello, braith!" he called, hilariously. braith was going on with a curt nod when the other man added: "i've taken it out of pick," and he stopped short. "i got my two hundred francs worth," the artist of the london mirror proceeded, "and now i shall feel bound to return you yours -- the first time i have it," he ended, vaguely. braith made an impatient gesture. "are you under arrest?" "yes, i am. he couldn't help it," smiling agreeably at the sergeant de ville. "he saw me hit him." the policeman looked stolid. "but what excuse?" began braith. "oh! none! pick just passed me, and i felt as if i couldn't stand it any longer, so i pitched in." "well, and now you're in for fine and imprisonment." "i suppose so," said bulfinch, beaming. "have you any money with you?" "no, unless i have some in your pocket?" said the little man, with a mixture of embarrassment and bravado that touched braith, who saw what the confession cost him. "lots!" said he, cordially. "but first let us try what we can do with bobby. do you ever drink a petit verre, monsieur le sergeant de ville?" with a winning smile to the wooden policeman. the latter looked at the floor. "no," said he. "never?" "never!" "well, i was only thinking that over on the corner of the rue taitbout one finds excellent wine at twenty francs." the officer now gazed dreamily at the ceiling. "mine costs forty," he said. and a few minutes later the faithful fellow stood in front of the opera house quite alone. ten the cab rolled slowly over the pont au change, and the wretched horse fell into a walk as he painfully toiled up the hill of st michel. yvonne lay back in the corner; covered with all her own wraps and gethryn's overcoat, she shivered. "poor little yvonne!" was all he said as he leaned over now and then to draw the cloak more closely around her. not a sound but the rumble of the wheels and the wheezing of the old horse broke the silence. the streets were white and deserted. a few ragged flakes fell from the black vault above, or were shaken down from the crusted branches. the cab stopped with a jolt. yvonne was trembling as rex lifted her to the ground, and he hurried her into the house, up the black stairway and into their cold room. when he had a fire blazing in the grate, he looked around. she was kneeling on the floor beside a candle she had lighted, and her tears were pouring down upon the page of an open letter. rex stepped over and touched her. "come to the fire." he raised her gently, but she could not stand, and he carried her in his arms to the great soft chair before the grate. then he knelt down and warmed her icy hands in his own. after a while he moved her chair back, and drawing off her dainty white slippers, wrapped her feet in the fur that lay heaped on the hearth. then he unfastened the cloak and the domino, and rolling her gloves from elbow to wrist, slipped them over the helpless little hands. the firelight glanced and glowed on her throat and bosom, tingeing their marble with opalescent lights, and searching the deep shadows under her long lashes. it reached her hair, touching here and there a soft, dark wave, and falling aslant the knots of ribbon on her bare shoulders, tipped them with points of white fire. "is it so bad, dearest yvonne?" "yes." "then you must go?" "oh, yes!" "when?" "at daylight." gethryn rose and went toward the door; he hesitated, came back and kissed her once on the forehead. when the door closed on him she wept as if her heart would break, hiding her head in her arms. he found her lying so when he returned, and, throwing down her traveling bag and rugs, he knelt and took her to his breast, kissing her again and again on the forehead. at last he had to speak. "i have packed the things you will need most and will send the rest. it is getting light, dearest; you have to change your dress, you know." she roused herself and sat up, looking desolately about her. "forever!" she whispered. "no! no!" cried gethryn. "ah! oui, mon ami!" gethryn went and stood by the window. the bedroom door was closed. day was breaking. he opened the window and looked into the white street. lamps burned down there with a sickly yellow; a faint light showed behind the barred windows of the old gray barracks. one or two stiff sparrows hopped silently about the gutters, flying up hurriedly when the frost-covered sentinel stamped his boots before the barracks gate. now and then a half-starved workman limped past, his sabots echoing on the frozen pavement. a hooded and caped policeman, a red-faced cabman stamping beside his sleepy horse -- the street was empty but for them. it grew lighter. the top of st sulpice burned crimson. far off a bugle fluttered, and then came the tramp of the morning guard mount. they came stumbling across the stony court and leaned on their rifles while one of them presented arms and received the word from the sentry. little by little people began to creep up and down the sidewalks, and the noise of wooden shutters announced another day of toil begun. the point of the luxembourg palace struck fire as the ghastly gas-lamps faded and went out. suddenly the great bell of st sulpice clashed the hour -- eight o'clock! again a bugle blew sharply from the barracks, and a troop of cavalry danced and pawed through the gate, clattering away down the rue de seine. gethryn shut the window and turned into the room. yvonne stood before the dying embers. he went to her, almost timidly. neither spoke. at last she took up her satchel and wrap. "it is time," she whispered. "let us go." he clasped her once in his arms; she laid her cheek against his. * the train left montparnasse station at nine. there was hardly anyone in the waiting room. the guard flung back the grating. "vernon, par chartres?" asked gethryn. "vernon -- moulins -- chartres -- direct!" shouted the guard, and stamped off down the platform. gethryn showed his ticket which admitted him to the platform, and they walked slowly down the line of dismal-looking cars. "this one?" and he opened a door. she stood watching the hissing and panting engine, while gethryn climbed in and placed her bags and rugs in a window corner. the car smelt damp and musty, and he stepped out with a choking sensation in his chest. a train man came along, closing doors with a slam. "all aboard -- ladies -- gentlemen -- voyageurs?" he growled, as if to himself or some familiar spirit, and jerked a sullen clang from the station bell. the engine panted impatiently. rex struggled against the constraint that seemed to be dividing them. "yvonne, you will write?" "i don't know!" "you don't know! yvonne!" "i know nothing except that i am wicked, and my mother is dying!" she said it in low, even tones, looking away from him. the gong struck again, with a startling clash. the engine shrieked; a cloud of steam rose from under the wheels. rex hurried her into the carriage; there was no one else there. suddenly she threw herself into his arms. "oh! i love you! i love you! one kiss, no; no; on the lips. good-bye, my own rex!" "you will come again?" he said, crushing her to him. her eyes looked into his. "i will come. i love you! be true to me, rex. i will come back." her lover could not speak. doors slamming, and an impatient voice -- "descendez donc, m'sieu!" -- roused him; he sprang from the carriage, and the train rolled slowly out of the smoke-filled station. how heavy the smoke was! gethryn could hardly breathe -- hardly see. he walked away and out into the street. the city was only half awake even yet. after, as it seemed, a long time, he found himself looking at a clock which said a quarter past ten. the winter sunshine slanted now on roof and pane, flooding the western side of the shabby boulevard, dappling the snow with yellow patches. he had stopped in the chilly shadow of a gateway and was looking vacantly about. he saw the sunshine across the street and shivered where he was, and yet he did not leave the shadow. he stood and watched the sparrows taking bold little baths in the puddles of melted snow water. they seemed to enjoy the sunshine, but it was cold in the shade, cold and damp -- and the air was hard to breathe. a policeman sauntered by and eyed him curiously. rex's face was haggard and pinched. why had he stood there in the cold for half an hour, without ever changing his weight from one foot to the other? the policeman spoke at last, civilly: "monsieur!" gethryn turned his head. "is it that monsieur seeks the train?" he asked, saluting. rex looked up. he had wandered back to the station. he lifted his hat and answered with the politeness dear to french officials. "merci, monsieur!" it made him cough to speak, and he moved on slowly. gethryn would not go home yet. he wanted to be where there was plenty of cool air, and yet he shivered. he drew a deep breath which ended in a pain. how cold the air must be -- to pain the chest like that! and yet, there were women wheeling handcarts full of yellow crocus buds about. he stopped and bought some for yvonne. "she will like them," he thought. "ah!" -- he turned away, leaving flowers and money. the old flower-woman crossed herself. no -- he would not go home just yet. the sun shone brightly; men passed, carrying their overcoats on their arms; a steam was rising from the pavements in the square. there was a crowd on the pont au change. he did not see any face distinctly, but there seemed to be a great many people, leaning over the parapets, looking down the river. he stopped and looked over too. the sun glared on the foul water eddying in and out among the piles and barges. some men were rowing in a boat, furiously. another boat followed close. a voice close by gethryn cried, angrily: "dieu! who are you shoving?" rex moved aside; as he did so a gamin crowded quickly forward and craned over the edge, shouting, "vive le cadavre!" "chut!" said another voice. "vive la mort! vive la morgue!" screamed the wretched little creature. a policeman boxed his ears and pulled him back. the crowd laughed. the voice that had cried, "chut!" said lower, "what a little devil, that rigaud!" rex moved slowly on. in the court of the louvre were people enough and to spare. some of them bowed to him; several called him to turn and join them. he lifted his hat to them all, as if he knew them, but passed on without recognizing a soul. the broad pavements were warm and wet, but the air must have been sharp to hurt his chest so. the great pigeons of the louvre brushed by him. it seemed as if he felt the beat of their wings on his brains. a shabby-looking fellow asked him for a sou -- and, taking the coin rex gave him, shuffled off in a hurry; a dog followed him, he stooped and patted it; a horse fell, he went into the street and helped to raise it. he said to a man standing by that the harness was too heavy -- and the man, looking after him as he walked away, told a friend that there was another crazy foreigner. soon after this he found himself on the quai again, and the sun was sinking behind the dome of the invalides. he decided to go home. he wanted to get warm, and yet it seemed as if the air of a room would stifle him. however, once more he crossed the seine, and as he turned in at his own gate he met clifford, who said something, but rex pushed past without trying to understand what it was. he climbed the dreary old stairs and came to his silent studio. he sat down by the fireless hearth and gazed at a long, slender glove among the ashes. at his feet her little white satin slippers lay half hidden in the long white fur of the rug. he felt giddy and weak, and that hard pain in his chest left him no peace. he rose and went into the bedroom. her ball dress lay where she had thrown it. he flung himself on the bed and buried his face in the rustling silk. a faint odor of violets pervaded it. he thought of the bouquet that had been placed for her at the dinner. then the flowers reminded him of last summer. he lived over again their gay life -- their excursions to meudon, sceaux, versailles with its warm meadows, and cool, dark forests; fontainebleau, where they lunched under the trees; st cloud -- oh! he remembered their little quarrel there, and how they made it up on the boat at suresnes afterward. he rose excitedly and went back into the studio; his cheeks were aflame and his breath came sharp and hard. in a corner, with its face to the wall, stood an old, unfinished portrait of yvonne, begun after one of those idyllic summer days. when braith walked in, after three times knocking, he found gethryn painting feverishly by the last glimmer of daylight on this portrait. the room was full of shadows, and while they spoke it grew quite dark. that night braith sat by his side and listened to his incoherent talk, and dr white came and said "pleuro-pneumonia" was what ailed him. braith had his traps fetched from his own place and settled down to nurse him. eleven c arnival was over. february had passed, like january, for most of the fellows, in a bad dream of unpaid bills. march was going in much the same way. this is the best account clifford, elliott and rowden could have given of it. thaxton and rhodes were working. carleton was engaged to a new pretty girl -- the sixth or seventh. satan found the time passing delightfully. there was no one at present to restrain him when he worried mrs gummidge. the tabby daily grew thinner and sadder-eyed. the parrot grew daily more blasé. he sneered more and more bitterly, and his eyelid, when closed, struck a chill to the soul of the raven. at first the pups were unhappy. they missed their master. but they were young, and flies were getting plentiful in the studio. for braith the nights and the days seemed to wind themselves in an endless chain about rex's sickbed. but when march had come and gone rex was out of danger, and braith began to paint again on his belated picture. it was too late, now, for the salon; but he wanted to finish it all the same. one day, early in april, he came back to gethryn after an unusually long absence at his own studio. rex was up and trying to dress. he turned a peaked face toward his friend. his eyes were two great hollows, and when he smiled and spoke, in answer to braith's angry exclamation, his jaws worked visibly. "keep cool, old chap!" he said, in the ghost of a voice. "what are you getting up for, all alone?" "had to -- tired of the bed. try it yourself -- six weeks!" "you want to go back there and never quit it alive -- that's what you want," said braith, nervously. "don't, either. come and button this collar and stop swearing." "i suppose you're going back to julien's the day after tomorrow," said braith, sarcastically, after rex was dressed and had been helped to the lounge in the studio. "no," said he, "i'm going to arcachon tomorrow." "arca--- twenty thousand thunders!" "not at all," smiled rex -- a feeble, willful smile. braith sat down and drew his chair beside gethryn. "wait a while, rex." "i can't get well here, you know." "but you can get a bit stronger before you start on such a journey." "i thought the doctor told you the sooner i went south the better." that was true; braith was silent a while. at last he said, "i have all the money you will want till your own comes, you know, and i can get you ready by the end of this week, if you will go." rex was no baby, but his voice shook when he answered. "dear old, kind, unselfish friend! i'd almost rather remain poor, and let you keep on taking care of me, but -- see here -- " and he handed him a letter. "that came this morning, after you left." braith read it eagerly, and looked up with a brighter face than he had worn for many a day. "by jove!" he said. "by jupiter!" rex smiled sadly at his enthusiasm. "this means health, and a future, and -- everything to you, rex!" "health and wealth, and happiness," said gethryn bitterly. "yes, you ungrateful young reprobate -- that's exactly what it means. go to your arcachon, by all means, since you've got a fortune to go on -- i say -- you -- you didn't know your aunt very well, did you? you're not cut up much?" "i never saw her half a dozen times in my whole life. but she's been generous to me, poor old lady!" "i should think so. two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a nice sum for a young fellow to find in his pocket all on a sudden. and now -- you want to go away and get well, and come back presently and begin where you left off -- a year ago. is that it?" "that is it. i shall never get well here, and i mean to get well if i can," -- he paused, and hesitated. "that was the only letter in my box this morning." braith did not answer. "it is nearly two months now," continued rex, in a low voice. "what are your plans?" interrupted braith, brusquely. rex flushed. "i'm going first" -- he answered rather drily, "to arcachon. you see by the letter my aunt died in florence. of course i've got to go and measure out a lot of italian red tape before i can get the money. it seems to me the sooner i can get into the pine air and the sea breezes at arcachon, the better chance i have of being fit to push on to florence, via the riviera, before the summer heat." "and then?" "i don't know." "you will come back?" "when i am cured." there was a long silence. at last gethryn put a thin hand on braith's shoulder and looked him lovingly in the face. "you know, and i know, how little i have ever done to deserve your goodness, to show my gratitude and -- and love for you. but if i ever come back i will prove to you -- " braith could not answer, and did not try to. he sat and looked at the floor, the sad lines about his mouth deeply marked, his throat moving once or twice as he swallowed the lump of grief that kept rising. after a while he muttered something about its being time for rex's supper and got up and fussed about with a spirit lamp and broths and jellies, more like rex's mother than a rough young bachelor. in the midst of his work there came a shower of blows on the studio door and clifford, rowden and elliott trooped in without more ado. they set up a chorus of delighted yells at seeing rex dressed and on the studio lounge. but braith suppressed them promptly. "don't you know any better than that?" he growled. "what did you come for, anyway? it's rex's supper time." "we came, papa," said clifford, "to tell rex that i have reformed. we wanted him to know it as soon as we did ourselves." "ah! he's a changed man! he's worked all day at julien's for a week past," cried elliott and rowden together. "and my evenings?" prompted clifford sweetly. "are devoted to writing letters home!" chanted the chorus. "get out!" was all rex answered, but his face brightened at the three bad boys standing in a row with their hats all held politely against their stomachs. he had not meant to tell them, dreading the fatigue of explanations, but by an impulse he held out his hand to them. "i say, you fellows, shake hands! i'm going off tomorrow." their surprise having been more or less noisily and profusely expressed, braith stepped decidedly in between them and his patient, satisfied their curiosity, and gently signified that it was time to go. he only permitted one shake apiece, foiling all clifford's rebellious attempts to dodge around him and embrace gethryn. but rex was lying back by this time, tired out, and he was glad when braith closed the studio door. it flew open the next minute and an envelope came spinning across to rex. "letter in your box, reggy -- good-bye, old chap!" said clifford's voice. the door did not quite close again and the voices and steps of his departing friends came echoing back as braith raised a black-edged letter from the floor. it bore the postmark: vernon. twelve r ound about the narrow valley which is cut by the rapid trauerbach, bavarian mountains tower, their well timbered flanks scattered here and there with rough slides, or opening out in long green alms, and here at evening one may sometimes see a spot of yellow moving along the bed of a half dry mountain torrent. miss ruth dene stood in front of the forester's lodge at trauerbach one evening at sunset, and watched such a spot on the almost perpendicular slope that rose opposite, high above her head. some jaegers and the forester were looking, too. "my glass, federl! ja! 's ist'n gams!" "gems?" inquired miss dene, excited by her first view of a chamois. "ja! 'n gams," said the forester, sticking to his dialect. the sun was setting behind the red peak, his last rays pouring into the valley. they fell on rock and alm, on pine and beech, and turned the silver trauerbach to molten gold. mr isidor blumenthal, sitting at a table under one of the windows, drinking beer, beheld this phenomenon, and putting down his quart measure, he glared at the waste of precious metal. then he lighted the stump of a cigar; then he looked at his watch, and it being almost supper time, he went in to secure the best place. he liked being early at table; he liked the first cut of the meats, hot and fat; he loved plenty of gravy. while waiting to be served he could count the antlers on the walls and estimate "how much they would fetch by an antiquar," as he said to himself. there was nothing else marketable in the large bare room, full of deal tables and furnished with benches built against the wall. but he could pick his teeth demonstratively -- toothpicks were not charged in the bill -- and he could lean back on two legs of his chair, with his hands in his pockets, and stare through the windows at miss dene. the herr förster and the two jaegers had gone away. miss dene stood now with her slender hands clasped easily behind her, a tam o'shanter shading her sweet face. she was tall, and so far as mr blumenthal had ever seen, extremely grave for her years. but mr blumenthal's opportunities of observing miss dene had been limited. the "gams" had disappeared. miss dene was looking down the road that leads to schicksalsee. there was not much visible there except a whirl of dust raised by the sudden evening wind. sometimes it was swept away for a moment; then she saw a weather-beaten bridge and a bend in the road where it disappeared among the noble firs of a bavarian forest. the sun sank and left the trauerbach a stream of molten lead. the shadows crept up to the jaeger's hut and then to the little chapel above that. gusts of whistling martins swept by. a silk-lined, paris-made wool dress rustled close beside her, and she put out one of the slender hands without turning her head. "mother, dear," said she, as a little silver-haired old lady took it and came and leaned against her tall girl's shoulder, "haven't we had enough of the `först-haus zu trauerbach?"' "not until a certain girl, who danced away her color at cannes, begins to bloom again." ruth shrugged, and then laughed. "at least it isn't so -- so indigestible as munich." "oh! absurd! speaking of digestion, come to your schmarn und reh-braten. supper is ready." mother and daughter walked into the dingy "stube" and took their seats at the forester's table. mr blumenthal's efforts had not secured him a place there after all; anna, the capable niece of the frau förster, having set down a large foot, clad in a thick white stocking and a carpet slipper, to the effect that there was only room for the herr förster's family and the americans. "i also am an american!" cried mr blumenthal in hebrew-german. nevertheless, when ruth and her mother came in he bowed affably to them from the nearest end of the next table. "mamma," said ruth, very low, "i hope i'm not going to begin being difficult, but do you know, that is really an odious man?" "yes, i do know," laughed her easy-tempered mother, "but what is that to us?" mr blumenthal was reveling in hot fat. after he had bowed and smiled greasily, he tucked his napkin tighter under his chin and fell once more upon the gravy. he sopped his bread in it and scooped it up with his knife. but after there was no more gravy he wished to converse. he scrubbed his lips with one end of the napkin and called across to ruth, who shrank behind her mother: "vell, miss dene, you have today a shammy seen, not?" ruth kept out of sight, but mrs dene nodded, good-naturedly. "ja! soh! and haf you auch dose leetle deer mit der mamma seen? i haf myself such leetle deer myself many times shoot, me and my neffe. but not here. it is not permitted." no one answered. ruth asked anna for the salt. "my neffe, he eats such lots of salt -- " began mr blumenthal. "herr förster," interrupted mrs dene -- "is the room ready for our friend who is coming this evening?" "your vriendt, he is from new york?" "ja, ja, gnädige frau!" said the forester, hastily. "i haf a broader in new york. blumenthal and cohen, you know dem, yes?" mrs dene and her daughter rose and went quietly out into the porch, while the frau förster, with cold, round gray eyes and a tight mouth, was whispering to her frowning spouse that it was none of his business, and why get himself into trouble? besides, mrs dene's herr gemahl, meaning the absent colonel, would come back in a day or two; let him attend to mr blumenthal. outside, under the windows, were long benches set against the house with tables before them. one was crowded with students who had come from everywhere on the foot-tours dear to germans. their long sticks, great bundles, tin botanizing boxes, and sketching tools lay in untidy heaps; their stone krugs were foaming with beer, and their mouths were full of black bread and cheese. underneath the other window was the jaeger's table. there they sat, gossiping as usual with the forester's helpers, a herdsman or two, some woodcutters on their way into or out from the forest, and a pair of smart revenue officers from the tyrol border, close by. ruth said to the nearest jaeger in passing: "herr loisl, will you play for us?" "but certainly, gracious fraulein! shall i bring my zither to the table under the beech tree?" "please do!" miss dene was a great favorite with the big blond jaegers. "ja freili! will i play for the gracious fraulein!" said loisl, and cut slices with his hunting knife from a large white radish and ate them with black bread, shining good-humor from the tip of the black-cock feather on his old green felt hat to his bare, bronzed knees and his hobnailed shoes. at the table under the beech trees were two more great fellows in gray and green. they rose promptly and were moving away; mrs dene begged them to remain, and they sat down again, diffidently, but with dignity. "herr sepp," said ruth, smiling a little mischievously, "how is this? herr federl shot a stag of eight this morning, and i hear that yesterday you missed a reh-bock!" sepp reddened, and laughed. "only wait, gracious fraulein, next week it is my turn on the red peak." "ach, ja! sepp knows the springs where the deer drink," said federl. "and you never took us there!" cried ruth, reproachfully. "i would give anything to see the deer come and drink at sundown." sepp felt his good breeding under challenge. "if the gracious frau permits," with a gentlemanly bow to mrs dene, "and the ladies care to come -- but the way is hard -- " "you couldn't go, dearest," murmured ruth to her mother, "but when papa comes back -- " "your father will be delighted to take you wherever there is a probability of breaking both your necks, my dear," said mrs dene. "griffin!" said ruth, giving her hand a loving little squeeze under the table. loisl came up with his zither and they all made way before him. anna placed a small lantern on the table and the light fell on the handsome bearded jaeger's face as he leaned lovingly above his instrument. the incurable "sehnsucht" of humanity found not its only expression in that great symphony where "all the mightier strings assembling, fell a trembling." ruth heard it as she leaned back in the deep shade and listened to those silvery melodies and chords of wonderful purity, coaxed from the little zither by loisl's strong, rough hand, with its tender touch. to all the airs he played her memory supplied the words. sometimes a sennerin was watching from the alm for her lover's visit in the evening. sometimes the hunter said farewell as he sprang down the mountainside. once tears came into ruth's eyes as the simple tune recalled how a maiden who died and went to heaven told her lover at parting: "when you come after me i shall know you by my ring which you will wear, and me you will know by your rose that rests on my heart." loisl had stopped playing and was tuning a little, idly sounding chords of penetrating sweetness. there came a noise of jolting and jingling from the road below. mrs dene spoke softly to ruth. "that is the mail; it is time he was here." ruth assented absently. she cared at that moment more for hearing a new folk-song than for the coming of her old playmate. rapid wheels approaching from the same direction overtook and passed the "post" and stopped below. mrs dene rose, drawing ruth with her. the three tall jaegers rose too, touching their hats. thanking them all, with a special compliment to loisl, the ladies went and stood by some stone steps which lead from the road to the först-haus, just as a young fellow, proceeding up them two at a time, arrived at the top, and taking mrs dene's hand began to kiss it affectionately. "at last!" she cried, "and the very same boy! after four years! ruth!" ruth gave one hand and reginald gethryn took two, releasing one the next moment to put his arm around the little old lady, and so he led them both into the house, more at home already than they were. "shall we begin to talk about how we are not one bit changed, only a little older, first, or about your supper?" said mrs dene. "oh! supper, please!" said rex, of the sun-browned face and laughing eyes. smiling anna, standing by, understood, aided by a hint from ruth of "schmarn und reh-braten" -- and clattered away to fetch the never-changing venison and fried batter, with which, and schicksalsee beer, the frau förster sustained her guests the year round, from "georgi" to "michaeli" and from "michaeli" to "georgi," reasoning that what she liked was good enough for them. the shapeless cook was ladling out dumplings, which she called "nudel," into some soup for a munich opera singer, who had just arrived by the stage. anna confided to her that this was a "feiner herr," and must be served accordingly. the kind herr förster came up to greet his guest. mrs dene introduced him as mr gethryn, of new york. at this mr blumenthal bounced forward from a corner where he had been spying and shook hands hilariously. "vell! and how it goes!" he cried. rex saw ruth's face as she turned away, and stepping to her side, he whispered, "friend of yours?" the teasing tone woke a thousand memories of their boy and girl days, and ruth's young lady reserve had changed to the frank camaraderie of former times when she shook her head at him, laughing, as he looked back at them from the stairs, up which he was following grethi and his portmanteau to the room prepared for him. half an hour later mrs dene and her daughter were looking with approval at rex and his hearty enjoyment of the frau förster's fare. the cook, on learning that this was a "feiner herr," had added trout to the regulation dishes; and although she was convinced that the only proper way to cook them was "blau gesotten" -- meaning boiled to a livid bluish white -- she had learned american tastes from the denes and sent them in to gethryn beautifully brown and crisp. rex turned one over critically. "good little fish. who is the angler?" "oh! angler! they were caught with bait," said ruth, wrinkling her nose. rex gave her a quick look. "i suppose you have forgotten how to cast a fly." "no, i think not," she answered quietly. mrs dene opened her mouth to speak, and then discreetly closed it again in silence, reflecting that whatever there was to come on that point would get itself said without any assistance from her. "i had a look at the water as i came along," continued rex. "it seemed good casting." "i never see it but i think how nice it would be to whip," said ruth. "no! really? not outgrown the rod and fly since you grew into ball dresses?" "try me and see." "now, my dearest child! -- " "yes, my dearest mother! -- " "yes, dearest mrs dene! -- " "oh! nonsense! listen to me, you children. ruth danced herself ill at cannes; and she lost her color, and she had a little cough, and she has it still, and she is very easily tired -- " "only of not fishing and hunting, dearest, most perfect of mothers! you won't put up papa to forbid my going with him and rex!" "your mother is incapable of such an action. how little you know her worth! she is only waiting to be assured that you are to have my greenheart, with a reel that spins fifty yards of silk. she shall have it, mrs dene." "is it as good as the hornbeam?" asked ruth, smiling. "the old hornbeam! do you remember that? i say, ruth, you spoke of shooting. really, can you still shoot?" "could i ever forget after such teaching?" "well, now, i call that a girl!" cried rex, enthusiastically. "let us hope some people won't call it a hoyden!" said mrs dene, with the tender pride that made her faultfinding like a caress. "the idea of a girl carrying an absurd little breech-loading rifle all over europe!" "what! the one i had built for her?" "i suppose so," said mrs dene, with a shade more of reserve. "miss dene, you shall kill the first chamois that i see!" "i fear, mr gethryn, the duke alfons adalbert maximilian in baiern will have something to say about that!" "oh--h--h! preserved?" "yes, indeed, preserved!" "but they told me i might shoot on the sonnewendjoch." "ah! but that's in tyrol, just across the line. you can see it from here. austrian game laws aren't bavarian game laws, sir!" "how much of this country does your duke own?" "just half a dozen mountains, and half a dozen lakes, and half a hundred trout streams, with all the splendid forests belonging to them." "lucky duke! and is the game preserved in the whole region? can't one get a shot?" "one cannot even carry a gun without a permit." rex groaned. "and the trout -- i suppose they are preserved, too?" "yes, but the herr förster has the right to fish and so have his guests. there are, however, conditions. the fish you take are not yours. you must buy as many of them as you want to keep, afterward. and they must be brought home alive -- or as nearly alive as is consistent with being shut up in a close, round, green tin box, full of water which becomes tepid as it is carried along by a peasant boy in the heat. they usually die of suffocation. but to the german mind that is all right. it is only not right when one kills them instantly and lays them in a cool creel, on fresh wet ferns and moss." "nevertheless, i think we will dispense with the boy and the green box, in favor of the ferns and moss, assisted by a five franc piece or two." "it isn't francs any more; you're not in france. it's marks here, you know." "well, i have the same faith in the corrupting power of marks as of francs, or lire, or shillings, or dollars." "and i think you will find your confidence justified," said mrs dene, smiling. "mamma trying to be cynical!" said ruth, teasingly. "isn't she funny, rex!" a thoughtful look stole over her mother's face. "i can be terrible, too, sometimes -- " she said in her little, clear, high soprano voice; and she gazed musingly at the edge of a letter, which just appeared above the table, and then sank out of sight in her lap. "a letter from papa! it came with the stage! what does he say?" "he says -- several things; for one, he is coming back tomorrow instead of the next day." "delightful! but there is more?" mrs dene's face became a cheerful blank. "yes, there is more," she said. a pause. "mamma," began ruth, "do you think griffins desirable as mothers?" "very, for bad children!" mrs dene relapsed into a pleasant reverie. ruth looked at her mother as a kitten does in a game of tag when the old cat has retired somewhere out of reach and sits up smiling through the barrier. "you find her sadly changed!" she said to gethryn, in that silvery, mocking tone which she had inherited from her mother. "on the contrary, i find her the same adorable gossip she always was. whatever is in that letter, she is simply dying to tell us all about it." "suppose we try not speaking, and see how long she can stand that?" rex laid his repeater on the table. two pairs of laughing eyes watched the dear little old lady. at the end of three minutes she raised her own; blue, sweet, running over with fun and kindness. "the colonel has a polite invitation from the duke for himself, and his party, to shoot on the red peak." thirteen in july the sun is still an early riser, but long before he was up next day a succession of raps on the door woke gethryn, and a voice outside inquired, "are you going fishing with me today, you lazy beggar?" "colonel!" cried rex, and springing up and throwing open the door, he threatened to mingle his pajamas with the natty tweeds waiting there in a loving embrace. the colonel backed away, twisting his white mustache. "how do, reggy! same boy, eh? yes. i drove from schicksalsee this morning." "this morning? wasn't it last night?" said rex, looking at the shadows on the opposite mountain. "and i am going to get some trout," continued the colonel, ignoring the interruption. "so's daisy. see my new waterproof rig?" "beautiful! but -- is it quite the thing to wear a flower in one's fishing coat?" "i'm not aware -- " began the other stiffly, but broke down, shook his seal ring at rex, and walking over to the glass, rearranged the bit of wild hyacinth in his buttonhole with care. "and now," he said, "daisy and i will give you just three quarters of an hour." rex sent a shower from the water basin across the room. "look out for those new waterproof clothes, colonel." "i'll take them out of harm's way," said the colonel, and disappeared. before the time had expired rex stood under the beech tree with his rod case and his creel. the colonel sat reading a novel. mrs dene was pouring out coffee. ruth was coming down a path which led from a low shed, the door of which stood wide open, suffering the early sunshine to fall on something that lay stretched along the floor. it was a stag, whose noble head and branching antlers would never toss in the sunshine again. "only think!" cried ruth breathlessly, "federl shot a stag of ten this morning at daybreak on the red peak, and he's frightened out of his wits, for only the duke has a right to do that. federl mistook it for a stag of eight. and they're in the velvet, besides!" she added rather incoherently. " what luck! poor federl! i asked him if that meant strafen, and he said he guessed not, only zanken." "what's `strafen' and what's `zanken,' daisy?" asked the colonel, pronouncing the latter like "z" in buzz. ruth went up to her father and took his face between her hands, dropping a light kiss on his eyebrow. " strafen is when one whips bad boys and t--s-- zanken is when one only scolds them. which shall we do to you, dear? both?" "we'll take coffee first, and then we'll see which there's time for before we leave you hemming a pocket handkerchief while rex and i go trout fishing." "such parents!" sighed ruth, nestling down beside her father and looking over her cup at rex, who gravely nodded sympathy. after breakfast, as ruth stood waiting by the table where the fishing tackle lay, perfectly composed in manner, but unable to keep the color from her cheek and the sparkle of impatience from her eye, gethryn thought he had seldom seen anything more charming. a soft gray tam crowned her pretty hair. a caped coat, fastened to the throat, hung over the short kilt skirt, and rough gaiters buttoned down over a wonderful little pair of hobnailed boots. "i say! ruth! what a stunner you are!" cried he with enthusiasm. she turned to the rod case and began lifting and arranging the rods. "rex," she said, looking up brightly, "i feel about sixteen today." "or less, judging from your costume," said her mother. "schicksalsee isn't rangely, you know. i only hope the good people in the little ducal court won't call you theatrical." "a theatrical stunner!" mused ruth, in her clearest tones. "it is good to know how one strikes one's friends." "the disciplining of this young person is to be left to me," said the colonel. "daisy, everything else about you is all wrong, but your frock is all right." "that is simple and comprehensive and reassuring," murmured ruth absently, as she bent over the fly-book with gethryn. after much consultation and many thoughtful glances at the bit of water which glittered and dashed through the narrow meadow in front of the house, they arranged the various colored lures and leaders, and standing up, looked at colonel dene, reading his novel. "what? oh! come along, then!" said he, on being made aware that he was waited for, and standing up also, he dropped the volume into his creel and lighted a cigar. "are you going to take that trash along, dear?" asked his daughter. "what trash? the work of fiction? that's literature, as the gentleman said about dante." "rex," said mrs dene, buttoning the colonel's coat over his snowy collar, "i put this expedition into your hands. take care of these two children." she stood and watched them until they passed the turn beyond the bridge. mr blumenthal watched them too, from behind the curtains in his room. his leer went from one to the other, but always returned and rested on rex. then, as there was a mountain chill in the morning air, he crawled back into bed, hauling his night cap over his generous ears and rolling himself in a cocoon of featherbeds, until he should emerge about noon, like some sleek, fat moth. the anglers walked briskly up the wooded road, chatting and laughing, with now and then a sage and critical glance at the water, of which they caught many glimpses through the trees. gethryn and ruth were soon far ahead. the colonel sauntered along, switching leaves with his rod and indulging in bursts of parisian melody. "papa," called ruth, looking back, "does your hip trouble you today, or are you only lazy?" "trot along, little girl; i'll be there before you are," said the colonel airily, and stopped to replace the wild hyacinth in his coat by a prim little pink and white daisy. then he lighted a fresh cigar and started on, but their voices were already growing faint in the distance. observing this, he stopped and looked up and down the road. no one was in sight. he sat down on the bank with his hand on his hip. his face changed from a frown to an expression of sharp pain. in five minutes he had grown from a fresh elderly man into an old man, his face drawn and gray, but he only muttered "the devil!" and sat still. a big bronze-winged beetle whizzed past him, z--z--ip! "like a bullet," he thought, and pressed both hands now on his hip. "twenty-five years ago -- pshaw! i'm not so old as that!" but it was twenty-five years ago when the blue-capped troopers, bursting in to the rescue, found the dandy "---th," scorched and rent and blackened, still reeling beneath a rag crowned with a gilt eagle. the exquisite befeathered and gold laced "---th." but the shells have rained for hours among the "dandies" -- and some are dead, and some are wishing for death, like that youngster lying there with the shattered hip. colonel dene rose up presently and relighted his cigar; then he flicked some dust from the new tweeds, picked a stem of wild hyacinth, and began to whistle. "pshaw! i'm not so old as all that!" he murmured, sauntering along the pleasant wood-road. before long he came in sight of ruth and gethryn, who were waiting. but he only waved them on, laughing. "papa always says that old wound of his does not hurt him, but it does. i know it does," said ruth. rex noted what tones of tenderness there were in her cool, clear voice. he did not answer, for he could only agree with her, and what could be the use of that? they strolled on in silence, up the fragrant forest road. great glittering dragonflies drifted along the river bank, or hung quivering above pools. clouds of lazy sulphur butterflies swarmed and floated, eddying up from the road in front of them and settling down again in their wake like golden dust. a fox stole across the path, but gethryn did not see him. the mesh of his landing net was caught just then in a little gold clasp that he wore on his breast. "how quaint!" cried ruth; "let me help you; there! one would think you were a french legitimist, with your fleur-de-lis." "thank you" -- was all he answered, and turned away, as he felt the blood burn his face. but ruth was walking lightly on and had not noticed. the fleur-de-lis, however, reminded her of something she had to say, and she began again, presently -- "you left paris rather suddenly, did you not, rex?" this time he colored furiously, and ruth, turning to him, saw it. she flushed too, fearing to have made she knew not what blunder, but she went on seriously, not pausing for his answer: "the year before, that is three years ago now, we waited in italy, as we had promised to do, for you to join us. but you never even wrote to say why you did not come. and you haven't explained it yet, rex." gethryn grew pale. this was what he had been expecting. he knew it would have to come; in fact he had wished for nothing more than an opportunity for making all the amends that were possible under the circumstances. but the possible amends were very, very inadequate at best, and now that the opportunity was here, his courage failed, and he would have shirked it if he could. besides, for the last five minutes, ruth had been innocently stirring memories that made his heart beat heavily. and now she was waiting for her answer. he glanced at the clear profile as she walked beside him. her eyes were raised a little; they seemed to be idly following the windings of a path that went up the opposite mountainside; her lips rested one upon the other in quiet curves. he thought he had never seen such a pure, proud looking girl. all the chivalry of a generous and imaginative man brought him to her feet. "i cannot explain. but i ask your forgiveness. will you grant it? i won't forgive myself!" she turned instantly and gave him her hand, not smiling, but her eyes were very gentle. they walked on a while in silence, then rex said: "ever since i came, i have been trying to find courage to ask pardon for that unpardonable conduct, but when i looked in your dear mother's face, i felt myself such a brute that i was only fit to hold my tongue. and i believed," he added, after a pause, "that she would forgive me too. she was always better to me than i deserved." "yes," said ruth. "and you also are too good to me," he continued, "in giving me this chance to ask your pardon." his voice took on the old caressing tone in which he used to make peace after their boy and girl tiffs. "i knew very well that with you i should have a stricter account to settle than with your mother," he said, smiling. "yes," said ruth again. and then with a little effort and a slight flush she added: "i don't think it is good for men when too many excuses are made for them. do you?" "no, i do not," answered rex, and thought, if all women were like this one, how much easier it would be for men to lead a good life! his heart stopped its heavy beating. the memories which he had been fighting for two years faded away once more; his spirits rose, and he felt like a boy as he kept step with ruth along the path which had now turned and ran close beside the stream. "now tell me something of your travels," said ruth. "you have been in the east." "yes, in japan. but first i stopped a while in india with some british officers, nice fellows. there was some pheasant shooting." "pheasants! no tigers?" "one tiger." "you shot him! oh! tell me about it!" "no, i only saw him." "where?" "in a jungle." "did you fire?" "no, for he was already dead, and the odor which pervaded his resting place made me hurry away as fast as if he had been alive." "you are a provoking boy!" rex laughed. "i did shoot a cheetah in china." "a dead one?" "no, he was snarling over a dead buck." "then you do deserve some respect." "if you like. but it was very easy. one bullet settled him. i was fined afterward." "fined! for what?" "for shooting the emperor's trained cheetah. after that i always looked to see if the game wore a silver collar before i fired." ruth would not look as if she heard. rex went on teasingly: "i assure you it was embarrassing, when the pheasants were bursting cover, to be under the necessity of inquiring at the nearest house if those were really pheasants or only chinese hens." "rex," exclaimed ruth, indignantly, "i hope you don't think i believe a word you are saying." they had stopped to rest beside the stream, and now the colonel sauntered into view, his hands full of wild flowers, his single eyeglass gleaming beside his delicate straight nose. "do you know," he asked, strolling up to ruth and tucking a cluster of bluebells under her chin, "do you know what old hugh montgomery would say if he were here?" "he'd say," she replied promptly, "that `we couldn't take no traout with the pesky sun a shinin' and a brilin' the hull crick."' "yes," said rex. "rise at four, east wind, cloudy morning, that was hugh. but he could cast a fly." "couldn't he!" said the colonel. "`i cal'late ter chuck a bug ez fur ez enny o' them city fellers, 'n i kin,' says hugh. going to begin here, rex?" "what does ruth think?" "she thinks she isn't in command of this party," ruth replied. "it will take us until late in the afternoon to whip the stream from here to the lowest bridge." rex smiled down at her and pushed back his cap with a boyish gesture. she had forgotten it until that moment. now it brought a perfect flood of pleasant associations. she had seen him look that way a hundred times when, in their teens, they two had lingered by the northern lakes. her whole face changed and softened, but she turned away, nodding assent, and went and stood by her father, looking down at him with the bantering air which was a family trait. the lively colonel had found a sunny log on the bank, where he was sitting, leisurely joining his rod. "hello!" he cried, glancing up, "what are you two amateurs about? as usual, i'm ready to begin before rex is awake!" and stepping to the edge he landed his flies with a flourish in a young birch tree. rex came and disengaged them, and he received the assistance with perfect self-possession. "now see the new waterproof rig wade!" said ruth, saucily. "go and wade yourself and don't bully your old father!" cried the colonel. "old! this child old!" "oh! come along, ruth!" called rex, waiting on the shore and falling unconsciously into the tone of sixteen speaking to twelve. for answer she slipped the cover from her slender rod and dexterously fitted the delicate tip to the second joint. "hasn't forgotten how to put a rod together! wonderful girl!" "oh, i knew you were waiting to see me place the second joint in the butt first!" she deftly ran the silk through the guides, and then scientifically knotting the leader, slipped on a cast of three flies and picked her way daintily to the river bank. as she waded in the sudden cold made her gasp a little to herself, but she kept straight on without turning her head, and presently stepped on a broad, flat rock over which the water was slipping smoothly. gethryn waited near the bank and watched her as she sent the silk hissing thirty feet across the stream. the line swished and whistled, and the whole cast, hand fly, dropper and stretcher settled down lightly on the water. he noticed the easy motion of the wrist, the boyish pose of the slender figure, the serious sweet face, half shaded by the soft woolen tam. swish--h--h! swish--h--h! she slowly spun out forty feet, glancing back at gethryn with a little laugh. suddenly there was a tremendous splash, just beyond the dropper, answered by a turn of the white wrist, and then the reel fairly shrieked as the line melted away like a thread of smoke. gethryn's eyes glittered with excitement, and the colonel took his cigar out of his mouth. but they didn't shout, "you have him! go easy on him! want any help!" they kept quiet. cautiously, and by degrees, ruth laced her little gloved fingers over the flying line, and presently a quiver of the rod showed that the fish was checked. she reeled in, slowly and steadily for a moment, and then, whiz--z--z! off he dashed again. at seventy feet the rod trembled and the trout was still. again and again she urged him toward the shore, meeting his furious dashes with perfect coolness and leading him dexterously away from rocks and roots. when he sulked she gave him the butt, and soon the full pressure sent him flying, only to end in a furious full length leap out of water, and another sulk. the colonel's cigar went out. at last she spoke, very quietly, without looking back. "rex, there is no good place to beach him here; will you net him, please?" rex was only waiting for this; he had his landing net already unslung and he waded to her side. "now!" she whispered. the fiery side of a fish glittered just beneath the surface. with a skillful dip, a splash, and a spatter the trout lay quivering on the bank. gethryn quickly ended his life and held him up to view. "beautiful!" cried the colonel. "good girl, daisy! but don't spoil your frock!" and picking up his own rod he relighted his cigar and essayed some conscientious casting on his own account. but he soon wearied of the paths of virtue and presently went in search of a grasshopper, with evil intent. meanwhile ruth was blushing to the tips of her ears at gethryn's praises. "i never saw a prettier sight!" he cried. "you're -- you're splendid, ruth! nerve, judgment, skill -- my dear girl, you have everything!" ruth's eyes shone like stars as she watched him in her turn while he sent his own flies spinning across a pool. and now there was nothing to be heard but the sharp whistle of the silk and the rush of the water. it seemed a long time that they had stood there, when suddenly the colonel created a commotion by hooking and hauling forth a trout of meagre proportions. unheeding rex's brutal remarks, he silently inspected his prize dangling at the end of the line. it fell back into the water and darted away gayly upstream, but the colonel was not in the least disconcerted and strolled off after another grasshopper. "papa! are you a bait fisherman!" cried his daughter severely. the colonel dropped his hat guiltily over a lively young cricket, and standing up said "no!" very loud. it was no use -- ruth had to laugh, and shortly afterward he was seated comfortably on the log again, his line floating with the stream, in his hands a volume with yellow paper covers, the worse for wear, bearing on its back the legend "calman levy, editeur." rex soon struck a good trout and ruth another, but the first one remained the largest, and finally gethryn called to the colonel, "if you don't mind, we're going on." "all right! take care of daisy. we will meet and lunch at the first bridge." then, examining his line and finding the cricket still there, he turned up his coat collar to keep off sunburn, opened his book, and knocked the ashes from his cigar. "here," said gethryn two hours later, "is the bridge, but no colonel. are you tired, ruth? and hungry?" "yes, both, but happier than either!" "well, that was a big trout, the largest we shall take today, i think." they reeled in their dripping lines, and sat down under a tree beside the lunch basket, which a boy from the lodge was guarding. "i wish papa would come," said ruth, with an anxious look up the road. "he ought to be hungry too, by this time." rex poured her a cup of red tyroler wine and handed her a sandwich. then, calling the boy, he gave him such a generous "viertel" for himself as caused him to retire precipitately and consume it with grins, modified by boiled sausage. ruth looked after him and smiled in sympathy. "i wonder how papa got rid of the other one with the green tin water-box." "i know; i was present at the interview," laughed rex. "your father handed him a ten mark piece and said, `go away, you superfluous bavarian!"' "in english?" "yes, and he must have understood, for he grinned and went." it was good to hear the ring of ruth's laugh. she was so happy that she found the smallest joke delightful, and her voice was very sweet. rex lighted a cigarette and leaned back against a tree, in great comfort. ruth, perched on a log, watched the smoke drift and curl. gethryn watched her. they each cared as much for the hours they had spent in the brook, and for their wet clothing, as vigorous, happy, and imprudent youth ever cares about such things. "so you are happy, ruth?" "perfectly. and you? -- but it takes more to make a spoiled young man happy than -- " "than a spoiled young woman? i don't know about that. yes, i -- am -- happy." was the long puff of smoke ascending slowly responsible for the pauses between his words? a slight shadow was in his eyes for one moment. it passed, and he turned on her his most charming smile, as he repeated, "perfectly happy!" "still no colonel!" he went on; "when he comes he will be tired. we don't want any more trout, do we? we have eighteen, all good ones. suppose we rest and go back all together by the road?" ruth nodded, smiling to see him fondle the creel full of shining fish, bedded on fragrant leaves. rex's cap lay beside him, his head leaned back against the tree, his face was turned up to the bending branches. presently he closed his eyes. it might have been one minute, or ten. ruth sat and watched him. he had grown very handsome. he had that pleasant air of good breeding which some men retain under any and all circumstances. it has nothing to do with character, and yet it is difficult to think ill of a man who possesses it. when she had seen him last, his nose was too near a snub to inspire much respect, and his mustache was still in the state of colorless scarcity. now his hair and mustache were thick and tawny, and his features were clear and firm. she noticed the pleasant line of the cheek, the clean curve of the chin, the light on the crisp edges of his close-cut hair -- the two freckles on his nose, and she decided that that short, straight nose, with its generous and humorous nostrils, was wholly fascinating. as girls always will, she began to wonder about his life -- idly at first, but these speculations lead one sometimes farther than one was prepared to go at the start. how much of his delightful manner to them all was due to affection, and how much to kindliness and good spirits? how much did he care for those other friends, for that other life in paris? who were the friends? what was the life? she looked at him, it seemed to her, a long time. had he ever loved a woman? was he still in love, perhaps, with someone? ruth was no child. but she was a lady, and a proud one. there were things she did not choose to think about, although she knew of their existence well enough. she brought herself up at this point with a sharp pull, and just then gethryn, opening his eyes, smiled at her. she turned quickly away; to her perfect consternation her cheeks grew hot. bewildered by her own confusion, she rose as she turned, and saying how lovely the water looked, went and stood on the bridge, leaning over. rex was on his feet in an instant, so covered with confusion too, that he never saw hers. "i say, ruth, i haven't been such a brute as to fall asleep! indeed i haven't! i was thinking of braith." "and if you had fallen asleep you wouldn't be a brute, you tired boy! and who is braith?" ruth turned smiling to meet him, restored to herself and thankful for the diversion. "braith," said rex earnestly. "braith is the best man in this wicked world, and my dearest friend. to whom," he added, "i have not written one word since i left him two ears ago." ruth's face fell. "is that the way you treat your dearest friends?" -- and she thought: "no wonder one is neglected when one is only an old playmate!" -- but she was instantly ashamed of the little bitterness, and put it aside. "ah! you don't know of what we are capable," said gethryn; and once more a shadow fell on his face. a familiar form came jauntily down the road. ruth hastened to meet it. "at last, father! you want your luncheon, poor dear!" "i do indeed, daisy!" the colonel came as gallantly up as if he had thirty pounds of trout to show instead of a creel that contained nothing but a novel by the newest and wickedest master of french fiction. he made a mild attempt to perjure himself about a large fish that had somehow got away from him, but desisted and merely added that a caning would be good for rex. tired he certainly was, and when he was seated on the log and ruth was bringing him his wine, he looked sharply at her and said, "you too, daisy; you've done enough for the first day. we'll go home by the road." "it is what i was just proposing to her," said rex. "yes, you are both right," said ruth. "i am tired." "and happy?" laughed rex. but perhaps ruth did not hear, for she spoke at the same time to her father. "dear, you haven't told rex yet how you got the invitation to shoot." "oh, yes! it was at an officers' dinner in munich. the duke was there and i was introduced to him. he spoke of it as soon as they told him we were stopping here." "he's a brick," said rex, rising. "shall we start for home, colonel? ruth must be tired." when they turned in at the forester's door, the colonel ordered daisy to her room, where mrs dene and their maid were waiting to make her luxuriously comfortable with dry things, and rugs, and couches, and cups of tea that were certainly not drawn from the frau förster's stores. tea in germany being more awful than tobacco, or tobacco more awful than tea, according as one cares most for tea or tobacco. the colonel and rex sat after supper under the big beech tree. ruth, from her window, could see their cigars alight, and, now and then, hear their voices. rex was telling the colonel about braith, of whom he had not ceased thinking since the afternoon. he went to his room early and wrote a long letter to him. it began: "you did not expect to hear from me until i was cured. well, you are hearing from me now, are you not?" and it ended: "only a few more weeks, and then i shall return to you and paris, and the dear old life. this is the middle of july. in september i shall come back." fourteen after the colonel's return, mr blumenthal found many difficulties in the way of that social ease which was his ideal. the ladies were never to be met with unaccompanied by the colonel or gethryn; usually both were in attendance. if he spoke to mrs dene, or ruth, it was always the colonel who answered, and there was a gleam in that trim warrior's single eyeglass which did not harmonize with the grave politeness of his voice and manner. rex had never taken mr blumenthal so seriously. he called him "our bowery brother," and "the gentleman from west brighton," and he passed some delightful moments in observing his gruesome familiarity with the maids, his patronage of the grave jaegers, and his fraternal attitude toward the head of the house. it was great to see him hook a heavy arm in an arm of the tall, military herr förster, and to see the latter drop it. but there came an end to rex's patience. one morning, when they were sitting over their coffee out of doors, mr blumenthal walked into their midst. he wore an old flannel shirt, and trousers too tight for him, inadequately held up by a strap. he displayed a tin bait box and a red and green float, and said he had come to inquire of rex "vere to dig a leetle vorms," and also to borrow of him "dot feeshpole mitn seelbern ringes." the request, and the grossness of his appearance before the ladies, were too much for a gentleman and an angler. rex felt his gorge rise, and standing up brusquely, he walked away. ruth thoughtlessly slipped after him and murmured over his shoulder: "friend of yours?" gethryn's fists unclenched and came out of his pockets and he and ruth went away together, laughing under the trees. mr blumenthal stood where rex had left him, holding out the bait-box and gazing after them. then he turned and looked at the colonel and his wife. perspiration glistened on his pasty, pale face and the rolls of fat that crowded over his flannel collar. his little, dead, white-rimmed, pale gray eyes had the ferocity of a hog's which has found something to rend and devour. he looked into their shocked faces and made a bow. "goot ma--a--rnin, mister and missess dene!" he said, and turned his back. the elderly couple exchanged glances as he disappeared. "we won't mention this to the children," said the gentle old lady. that was the last they saw of him. nobody knew where he kept himself in the interval, but about a week later he came running down with a valise in his hand and jumped into a carriage from the "green bear" at schicksalsee, which had just brought some people out and was returning empty. he forgot to give the usual "trinkgeld" to the servants, and a lively search in his room discovered nothing but a broken collar button and a crumpled telegram in french. but grethi had her compensation that evening, when she led the conversation in the kitchen and mr blumenthal was discussed in several south german dialects. by this time august was well advanced, but there had been as yet no "jagd-partie," as sepp called the hunting excursion planned with such enthusiasm weeks before. after that first day in the trout stream, ruth not only suffered more from fatigue than she had expected, but the little cough came back, causing her parents to draw the lines of discipline very tight indeed. ruth, whose character seemed made of equal parts of good taste and reasonableness, sweet temper and humor, did not offer the least opposition to discipline, and when her mother remarked that, after all, there was a difference between a schoolgirl and a young lady, she did not deny it. the colonel and rex went off once or twice with the jaegers, but in a halfhearted way, bringing back more experience than game. then rex went on a sketching tour. then the colonel was suddenly called again to munich to meet some old army men just arrived from home, and so it was not until about a week after mr blumenthal's departure that, one evening when the sennerins were calling the cows on the upper alm, a party of climbers came up the side of the red peak and stopped at "nani's hütterl." sepp threw down the green sack from his shoulders to the bench before the door and shouted: "nani! du! nani!" no answer. "mari und josef!" he muttered; then raising his voice, again he called for nani with all his lungs. a muffled answer came from somewhere around the other side of the house. "ja! komm glei!" and then there was nothing to do but sit on the bench and watch the sunset fade from peak to peak while they waited. nani did not come "glei" -- but she came pretty soon, bringing with her two brimming milk-pails as an excuse for the delay. she and sepp engaged at once in a conversation, to which the colonel listened with feelings that finally had to seek expression. "i believe," he said in a low voice, "that german is the language of the devil." "i fancy he's master of more than one. and besides, this isn't german, any more than our mountain dialects are english. and really," ruth went on, "if it comes to comparing dialects, it seems to me ours can't stand the test. these are harsh enough. but where in the world is human speech so ugly, so poverty-stricken, so barren of meaning and feeling, and shade and color and suggestiveness, as the awful talk of our rustics? a bavarian, a tyroler, often speaks a whole poem in a single word, like -- " "do you think one of those poems is being spoken about our supper now, daisy?" "sybarite!" cried ruth, with that tinkle of fun in her voice which was always sounding between her and her parents; "i won't tell you." the truth was she did not dare to tell her hungry companions that, so far as she had been able to understand sepp and nani, their conversation had turned entirely on a platform dance -- which they called a "schuh-plattl" -- and which they proposed to attend together on the following sunday. but sepp, having had his gossip like a true south german hunter-man, finally did ask the important question: "ach! supper! du lieber himmel!" there was little enough of that for the herrschaften. there was black bread and milk, and there were some semmel, but those were very old and hard. "no cheese?" "nein!" "no butter?" "nein!" "coffee?" "yes, but no sugar." "herr je!" when sepp delivered this news to his party they all laughed and said black bread and milk would do. so nani invited them into her only room -- the rest of the "hütterl" was kitchen and cow-shed -- and brought the feast. a second sennerin came with her this time, in a costume which might have startled them, if they had not already seen others like it. it consisted of a pair of high blue cotton trousers drawn over her skirts, the latter bulging all round inside the jeans. she had no teeth and there was a large goiter on her neck. "good heavens!" muttered the colonel, setting down his bowl of milk and twisting around to stare out of the window behind him. "poor thing! she can't help it!" murmured ruth. "no more she can, you dear, good girl!" said rex, and his eyes shone very kindly. ruth caught her breath at the sudden beating of her heart. what was left of daylight came through the little window and fell upon her face; it was as white as a flower, and very quiet. dusk was setting in when sepp made his appearance. he stood about in some hesitation, and finally addressed himself to ruth as the one who could best understand his dialect. she listened and then turned to her father. "sepp doesn't exactly know where to lodge me. he had thought i could stay here with nani -- " "not if i can help it!" cried the colonel. "while," ruth went on -- "while you and rex went up to the jaeger's hut above there on the rocks. he says it's very rough at the jagd-hütte." "is anyone else there? what does sepp mean by telling us now for the first time? " demanded the colonel sharply. "he says he was afraid i wouldn't come if i knew how rough it was -- and that -- " added ruth, laughing -- "he says would have been such a pity! besides, he thought nani was alone -- and i could have had her room while she slept on the hay in the loft. i'm sure this is as neat as a mountain shelter could be," said ruth -- looking about her at the high piled feather beds, covered in clean blue and white check, and the spotless floor and the snow white pine table. "i'd like to stay here, only the -- the other lady has just arrived too!" "the lady in the blue overalls?" "yes -- and -- " ruth stopped, unwilling to say how little relish she felt for the society of the second sennerin. but rex and her father were on their feet and speaking together. "we will go and see about the jagd-hütte. you don't mind being left for five minutes?" "the idea! go along, you silly boys!" the colonel came back very soon, and in the best of spirits. "it's all right, daisy! it's a dream of luxury!" and carried her off, hardly giving her time to thank nani and to say a winningly kind word to the hideous one, who gazed back at her, pitchfork in hand, without reply. no one will ever know whether or not she felt any more cheered by ruth's pleasant ways than the cows did who were putting their heads out from the stalls where she was working. the dream of luxury was a low hut of two rooms. the outer one had a pile of fresh hay in one corner and a few blankets. some of the dogs were already curled up there. the inner room contained two large bunks with hay and rugs and blankets; a bench ran where the bunks were not, around the sides; a shelf was above the bunks; there was a cupboard and a chest and a table. "why, this is luxury!" cried ruth. "well -- i think so, too. i'm immensely relieved. sepp says artists bring their wives up here to stay over for the sunrise. you'll do? eh?" "i should think so!" "good! then rex and i and sepp and the dachl" -- he always would say "dockles" -- "will keep guard outside against any wild cows that may happen to break loose from nani. good night, little girl! sure you're not too tired?" rex stood hesitating in the open door. ruth went and gave him her hand. he kissed it, and she, meaning to please him with the language she knew he liked best, said, smiling, "bonne nuit, mon ami!" at the same moment her father passed her, and the two men closed the door and went away together. the last glimmer of dusk was in the room. ruth had not seen gethryn's face. "bonne nuit, mon ami!" those tender, half forgotten -- no! never, never forgotten words! rex threw himself on the hay and lay still, his hands clenched over his breast. the kindly colonel was sound asleep when sepp came in with a tired but wagging hound, from heaven knows what scramble among the higher cliffs by starlight. the night air was chilly. rex called the dog to his side and took him in his arms. "we will keep each other warm," he said, thinking of the pups. and zimbach, assenting with sentimental whines, was soon asleep. but gethryn had not closed his eyes when the jaeger sprang up as the day broke. a faint gray light came in at the little window. all the dogs were leaping about the room. sepp gave himself a shake, and his toilet was made. "colonel," said rex, standing over a bundle of rugs and hay in which no head was visible, "colonel! sepp says we must hurry if we want to see a `gams."' the colonel turned over. what he said was: "damn the gomps!" but he thought better of that and stood up, looking cynical. "come and have a dip in the spring," laughed rex. when they took their dripping heads out of the wooden trough into which a mountain spring was pouring and running out again, leaving it always full, and gazed at life -- between rubs of the hard crash towel -- it had assumed a kinder aspect. half an hour later, when they all were starting for the top, ruth let the others pass her, and pausing for a moment with her hand on the lintel, she looked back into the little smoke-blackened hut. the door of the inner room was open. she had dreamed the sweetest dream of her life there. before the others could miss her she was beside them, and soon was springing along in advance, swinging her alpenstock. it seemed as if she had the wings as well as the voice of a bird. der jaeger zieht in grünem wald mit frölichem halloh! she sang. sepp laughed from the tip of his feather to the tip of his beard. "wie's gnädige fraulein hat g'müth!" he said to rex. "what's that?" asked the colonel. "he says," translated rex freely, "what a lot of every delightful quality ruth possesses!" but ruth heard, and turned about and was very severe with him. "such shirking! translate me gemüth at once, sir, if you please!" "old wiseboy at yarvard confessed he couldn't, short of a treatise, and who am i to tackle what beats wiseboy?" "can you, daisy?" asked her father. "not in the least, but that's no reason for letting rex off." her voice took on a little of the pretty bantering tone she used to her parents. she was beginning to feel such a happy confidence in rex's presence. they were in the forest now, moving lightly over the wet, springy leaves, probing cautiously for dangerous, loose boulders and treacherous slides. when they emerged, it was upon a narrow plateau; the rugged limestone rocks rose on one side, the precipice plunged down on the other. against the rocks lay patches of snow, grimy with dirt and pebbles; from a cleft the long greenish white threads of "peter's beard" waved at them; in a hollow bloomed a thicket of pink alpen-rosen. they had just reached a clump of low firs, around the corner of a huge rock, when a rush of loose stones and a dull sound of galloping made them stop. sepp dropped on his face; the others followed his example. the hound whined and pulled at the leash. on the opposite slope some twenty hirsch-cows, with their fawns, were galloping down into the valley, carrying with them a torrent of earth and gravel. presently they slackened and stopped, huddling all together into a thicket. the jaeger lifted his head and whispered "stück"; that being the complimentary name by which one designates female deer in german. "all?" said rex, under his breath. at the same moment ruth touched his shoulder. on the crest of the second ridge, only a hundred yards distant, stood a stag, towering in black outline, the sun just coming up behind him. then two other pairs of antlers rose from behind the ridge, two more stags lifted their heads and shoulders and all three stood silhouetted against the sky. they tossed and stamped and stared straight at the spot where their enemies lay hidden. a moment, and the old stag disappeared; the others followed him. "if they come again, shoot," said sepp. rex passed his rifle to ruth. they waited a few minutes; then the colonel jumped up. "i thought we were after chamois!" he grumbled. "so we are," said rex, getting on his feet. a shot rang out, followed by another. they turned, sharply. ruth, looking half frightened, was lowering the smoking rifle from her shoulder. across the ravine a large stag was swaying on the edge; then he fell and rolled to the bottom. the hound, loosed, was off like an arrow, scrambling and tumbling down the side. the four hunters followed, somehow. sepp got down first and sent back a wild jodel. the stag lay there, dead, and his splendid antlers bore eight prongs. when ruth came up she had her hand on her father's arm. she stood and leaned on him, looking down at the stag. pity mingled with a wild intoxicating sense of achievement confused her. a rich color flushed her cheek, but the curve of her lips was almost grave. sepp solemnly drew forth his flask of schnapps and, taking off his hat to her, drank "waidmann's heil!" -- a toast only drunk by hunters to hunters. gethryn shook hands with her twenty times and praised her until she could bear no more. she took her hand from her father's arm and drew herself up, determined to preserve her composure. the wind blew the little bright rings of hair across her crimson cheek and wrapped her kilts about her slender figure as she stood, her rifle poised across her shoulder, one hand on the stock and one clasped below the muzzle. "are you laughing at me, rex?" "you know i am not!" never had she been so happy in her whole life. the game drawn and hung, to be fetched later, they resumed their climb and hastened upward toward the peak. ruth led. she hardly felt the ground beneath her, but sprang from rock to moss and from boulder to boulder, till a gasp from gethryn made her stop and turn about. "good heavens, ruth! what a climber you are!" and now the colonel sat down on the nearest stone and flatly refused to stir. "oh! is it the hip, father?" cried ruth, hurrying back and kneeling beside him. "no, of course it isn't! it's indignation!" said her father, calmly regarding her anxious face. "if you can't go up mountains like a human girl, you're not going up any more mountains with me." "oh! i'll go like a human snail if you want, dear! i've been too selfish! it's a shame to tire you so!" "indeed, it is a perfect shame!" cried the colonel. ruth had to laugh. "as i remarked to rex, early this morning," her father continued, adjusting his eyeglass, "hang the gomps!" rex discreetly offered no comment. "moreover," the colonel went on, bringing all the severity his eyeglass permitted to bear on them both, "i decline to go walking any longer with a pair of lunatics. i shall confide you both to sepp and will wait for you at the upper shelter." "but it's only indignation; it isn't the hip, father?" said ruth, still hanging about him, but trying to laugh, since he would have her laugh. he saw her trouble, and changing his tone said seriously, "my little girl, i'm only tired of this scramble, that's all." she had to be contented with this, and they separated, her father taking a path which led to the right, up a steep but well cleared ascent to a plateau, from which they could see the gable of a roof rising, and beyond that the tip-top rock with its white cross marking the highest point. the others passed to the left, around and among huge rocks, where all the hollows were full of grimy snow. the ground was destitute of trees and all shrubs taller than the hardy alpen-rosen. masses of rock lay piled about the limestone crags that formed the summit. the sun had not yet tipped their peak with purple and orange, but some of the others were lighting up. no insects darted about them; there was not a living thing among the near rocks except the bluish black salamanders, which lay here and there, cold and motionless. they walked on in silence; the trail grew muddy, the ground was beaten and hatched up with small, sharp hoof prints. sepp kneeled down and examined them. "hirsch, reh, and fawn, and ja! ja! sehen sie? gams!" after this they went on cautiously. all at once a peculiar shrill hiss, half whistle, half cry, sounded very near. a chamois, followed by two kids, flashed across a heap of rocks above their heads and disappeared. the jaeger muttered something, deep in his beard. "you wouldn't have shot her?" said ruth, timidly. "no, but she will clear this place of chamois. it's useless to stay here now." it was an hour's hard pull to the next peak. when at last they lay sheltered under a ledge, grimy snow all about them, the jaeger handed his glass to ruth. "hirsch on the kaiser alm, three reh by nani's hütterl, and one in the ravine," he said, looking at gethryn, who was searching eagerly with his own glass. ruth balanced the one she held against her alpenstock. "yes, i see them all -- and -- why, there's a chamois!" sepp seized the glass which she held toward him. "the gracious fraülein has a hunter's eyesight; a chamois is feeding just above the hirsch." "we are right for the wind, but is this the best place?" said rex. "we must make the best of it," said sepp. the speck of yellow was almost imperceptibly approaching their knoll, but so slowly that ruth almost doubted if it moved at all. sepp had the glass, and declining the one rex offered her, she turned for a moment to the superb panorama at their feet. east, west, north and south the mountain world extended. by this time the snow mountains of tyrol were all lighted to gold and purple, rose and faintest violet. sunshine lay warm now on all the near peaks. but great billowy oceans of mist rolled below along the courses of the alp-fed streams, and, deep under a pall of heavy, pale gray cloud, the trauerbach was rushing through its hidden valley down to schicksalsee and todtstein. there was perfect silence, only now and then made audible by the tinkle of a distant cowbell and the jodel of a sennerin. ruth turned again toward the chamois. she could see it now without a glass. but sepp placed his in her hand. the chamois was feeding on the edge of a cliff, moving here and there, leaping lightly across some gully, tossing its head up for a precautionary sniff. suddenly it gave a bound and stood still, alert. two great clumsy "hirsch-kühe" had taken fright at some imaginary danger, and, uttering their peculiar half grunt, half roar, were galloping across the alm in half real, half assumed panic with their calves at their heels. the elderly female hirsch is like a timorous granny who loves to scare herself with ghost stories, and adores the sensation of jumping into bed before the robber under it can catch her by the ankle. it was such an alarm as this which now sent the two fussy old deer, with their awkward long legged calves, clattering away with terror-stricken roars which startled the delicate chamois, and for one moment petrified him. the next, with a bound, he fairly flew along the crest, seeming to sail across the ravine like a hawk, and to cover distances in the flash of an eye. sepp uttered a sudden exclamation and forgot everything but what he saw. he threw his rifle forward, there was a sharp click! -- the cartridge had not exploded. next moment he remembered himself and turned ashamed and deprecating to gethryn. the latter laid his hand on the jaeger's arm and pointed. the chamois' sharp ear had caught the click! -- he swerved aside and bounded to a point of rock to look for this new danger. rex tried to put his rifle in ruth's hands. she pressed it back, resolutely. "it is your turn," she motioned with her lips, and drew away out of his reach. that was no time for argument. the jaeger nodded, "quick!" a shot echoed among the rocks and the chamois disappeared. "is he hit? oh, rex! did you hit him?" "ei! zimbach!" sepp slipped the leash, the hound sprang away, and in a moment his bell-like voice announced rex's good fortune. ruth flew like the wind, not heeding their anxious calls to be careful, to wait for help. it was not far to go, and her light, sure foot brought her to the spot first. when rex and sepp arrived she was kneeling beside the dead chamois, stroking the "beard" that waved along its bushy spine. she sprang up and held out her hand to gethryn. "look at that beard -- nimrod!" she said. her voice rang with an excitement she had not shown at her own success. "it is a fine beard," said rex, bending over it. his voice was not quite steady. "herrlich!" cried sepp, and drank the "waidmann's heil!" toast to him in deep and serious draughts. then he took out a thong, tied the four slender hoofs together and opened his game sack; rex helped him to hoist the chamois in and onto his broad shoulders. now for the upper shelter. they started in great spirits, a happy trio. rex was touched by ruth's deep delight in his success, and by the pride in him which she showed more than she knew. he looked at her with eyes full of affection. sepp was assuring himself, by all the saints in the bavarian calendar, that here was a "herrschaft" which a man might be proud of guiding, and so he meant to tell the duke. ruth's generous heart beat high. their way back to the path where they had separated from colonel dene was long and toilsome. sepp did his best to beguile it with hunter's yarns, more or less true, at any rate just as acceptable as if they had been proved and sworn to. like a good south german he hated prussia and all its works, and his tales were mostly of berliners who had wandered thither and been abused; of the gentleman who had been told, and believed, that the "gams" slept by hooking its horns into crevices of the rock, swinging thus at ease, over precipices; of another whom federl once deterred from going on the mountains by telling how a chamois, if enraged, charged and butted; of a third who went home glad to have learned that the chamois produced their peculiar call by bringing up a hind leg and whistling through the hoof. it was about half past two in the afternoon and ruth began to be very, very tired, when a jodel from sepp greeted the "hütte" and the white cross rising behind it. as they toiled up the steep path to the little alm, ruth said, "i don't see papa, but there are people there." a man in a summer helmet, wound with a green veil, came to the edge of the wooden platform and looked down at them; he was presently joined by two ladies, of whom one disappeared almost immediately, but they could see the other still looking down until a turn in the path brought them to the bottom of some wooden steps, close under the platform. on climbing these they were met at the top by the gentleman, hat in hand, who spoke in french to gethryn, while the stout, friendly lady held out both hands to ruth and cried, in pretty broken english: "ah! dear mademoiselle! ees eet possible zat we meet a--h--gain!" "madame bordier!" exclaimed ruth, and kissed her cordially on both cheeks. then she greeted the husband of madame, and presented rex. "but we know heem!" smiled madame; and her quiet, gentlemanly husband added in french that monsieur the colonel had done them the honor to leave messages with them for miss dene and mr gethryn. "papa is not here?" said ruth, quickly. monsieur the colonel, finding himself a little fatigued, had gone on to the jaeger-hütte, where were better accommodations. ruth's face fell, and she lost her bright color. "but no! my dear!" said madame. "zere ees nossing ze mattaire. your fazzer ees quite vell," and she hurried her indoors. rex and monsieur bordier were left together on the platform. the amiable frenchman did the honors as if it were a private salon. monsieur the colonel was perfectly well. but perfectly! it was really for mademoiselle that he had gone on. he had decided that it would be quite too fatiguing for his daughter to return that day to trauerbach, as they had planned, and he had gone on to secure the jagd-hütte for the night before any other party should arrive. "he watched for you until you turned into the path that leads up here, and we all saw that you were quite safe. it is only half an hour since he left. he did us the honor to say that mademoiselle dene could need no better chaperon than my wife -- monsieur the colonel was a little fatigued, but badly, no." monsieur bordier led the way to the usual spring and wooden trough behind the house, and, while rex was enjoying a refreshing dip, he continued to chat. yes, as he had already had the honor to inform rex, mademoiselle had been his wife's pupil in singing, the last two winters, in paris. monsieur gethryn, perhaps, was not wholly unacquainted with the name of madame bordier? "madame's reputation as an artist, and a professor of singing, is worldwide," said rex in his best parisian, adding: "and you, then, monsieur, are the celebrated manager of `la fauvette'?" the manager replied with a politely gratified bow. "the most charming theater in paris," added rex. "ah! murmured the other, monsieur is himself an artist, though not of our sort, and artists know." "colonel dene has told you that i am studying in paris," said rex modestly. "he has told me that monsieur exhibited in the salon with a number one." rex scrubbed his brown and rosy cheeks with the big towel. monsieur bordier went on: "but the talent of mademoiselle! mon dieu! what a talent! what a voice of silver and crystal! and today she will meet another pupil of madame -- of ours -- a genius. my word!" "today?" "yes, she is with us here. she makes her debut at the fauvette next autumn." rex concealed a frown in the ample folds of the towel. it crossed his mind that the colonel might better have stayed and taken care of his own daughter. if he, rex, had had a sister, would he have liked her to be on a bavarian mountaintop in a company composed of a gamekeeper, the manager of a paris theater and his wife, and a young person who was about to make her debut in opera-bouffe, and to have no better guardian than a roving young art student? rex felt his unfitness for the post with a pang of compunction. meantime he rubbed his head, and monsieur bordier talked tranquilly on. but between vexation and friction gethryn lost the thread of monsieur's remarks for a while. the first word which recalled his wandering attention was "chamois?" and he saw that monsieur bordier was pointing to the game bag and looking amiably at sepp, who, divided between sulkiness at monsieur's native language and goodwill toward anyone who seemed to be accepted by his "herrschaften," was in two minds whether to open the bag and show the game to this smiling frenchman, or "to say him a grobheit" and go away. sepp's "grobheit" could be very insulting indeed when he cared to make it so. rex hastened to turn the scale. "yes, herr director, this is sepp, one of the duke's best gamekeepers -- monsieur speaks german?" he interrupted himself to ask in french. "parfaitement! well," he went on in sepp's native tongue, "herr director, in sepp you see one of the best woodsmen in bavaria, one of the best shots in germany. sepp, we must show the herr director our gems." and there was nothing for sepp but to open the bag, sheepish, beaten, laughing in spite of himself, and before he knew it they all three had their heads together over the game in perfect amity. a step sounded along the front platform, and madame looked round the corner of the house, saying that lunch was ready. her husband and rex joined her immediately. "ze young ladees are wizin," she said, and led the way. the sun-glare on the limestone rocks outside made the little room seem almost black at first, and all rex could distinguish as he followed the others was ruth's bright smile as she stood near the door and a jumble of dark figures farther back. "permit me," said monsieur, "to introduce you to our belle hélène." rex had already bowed low, seeing nothing. "mademoiselle descartes -- monsieur gethryn -- " rex raised his head and looked into the white face of yvonne. "ah, yes! as i was saying," gossiped monsieur while they were taking their places at table, "i shoot when i can, but merely the partridge and rabbit of the turnip. bah! a man may not boast of that!" rex kept his eyes fixed on the speaker and forced himself to understand what was being said. "but the sanglier?" his voice sounded in his ears like noises one hears with the head under water. "mon dieu! the sanglier! yes, that is also noble game. i do not deny it." monsieur talked on evenly and quietly in his self-possessed, reasonable voice, about the habits and the hunt of the wild boar. ruth, sitting opposite, forcing herself to swallow the food, to answer madame gaily and look at her ease, felt her heart settle down like lead in her breast. what was this? oh! what was it? she looked at mademoiselle descartes. this young, gentle stranger with the dark hair and the face like marble, this girl whom she had never heard of until an hour ago, was hiding from rex behind the broad shoulders of madame bordier. the pupils of her blue eyes were so dilated that the sad, frightened eyes themselves looked black. ruth turned to gethryn. he was listening and answering. about his nostrils and temples the hollows showed; the flush of sunburn was gone, leaving only a pallid brown over the ashen grey of his face; his expression varied between a strained smile and a fixed stare. the cold weight at her heart melted and swelled in a passion of pity. "someone must keep up! someone must keep up!" she said to herself; and turned to assure madame in tones which deserved the name of "crystal and silver," that, yes, for her part she had not been able to see any reason why hearing parsifal at bayreuth should make one forget that bizet was also a great master. but the strain became too great, and at the first possible moment she said brightly to rex, "i'm going to feed zimbach. sepp said i might." she collected some scraps on a plate and went out. the hound rose wagging as she approached. ruth stood a moment looking down at him. then she knelt and took his brown head in her arms. her eyes were full of tears. zimbach licked her face, and then wrenching his head away began to dance about her, barking and running at the platter. she took a bone and gave it to him; it went with a snap; so bit by bit she fed him with her own hands, and the tears dried without one falling. she heard rex come out and stood up to meet him with clear grey eyes that seemed to see nothing but a jest. "look at this dog, rex! he hasn't a word to say about the bones he's eaten already; he merely remarks that there don't seem to be any more at present!" rex was taking down his gun. "monsieur wants to see this," he said in a dull, heavy voice. "and ruth -- when you are ready -- your father, perhaps -- " "yes, i really would like to join him as soon as possible -- " they went in together. an hour later they were taking leave. all the usual explanations had been made; everyone knew where the others were stopping, and why they were there, and how long they meant to stay, and where they intended to go afterward. the bordiers, with yvonne, were at a lake on the opposite side of the mountain, but a visit to the forester's house at trauerbach was one of the excursions they had already planned. it only remained now, as ruth said, to fix upon an early day for coming. the hour just past had been ruth's hour. without effort, or apparent intention, she had taken and kept the lead from the moment when she returned with rex. she it was who had given the key, who had set and kept the pitch, and it was due to her that not one discordant note had been struck. vaguely yet vividly she felt the emergency. refusing to ask herself the cause, she recognized a crisis. something was dreadfully wrong. she made no attempt to go beyond that. of all the deep emotions which she was learning now so suddenly, for the first time, the dominant one with her at present was a desire to help and to protect. all her social experience, all her tact, were needed to shield rex and this white-faced, silent stranger, who, without her, must have betrayed themselves, so stunned, so dazed they were. and the courage of her father's daughter kept her fair head erect above the dead weight at her heart. and now, having said "au revoir" to monsieur and madame, and fixed upon a day for their visit to the försthaus, she turned to yvonne and took her hand. "mademoiselle, i regret so much to hear that you are not quite strong. but when you come to trauerbach, mama and i will take such good care of you that you will not mind the fatigue." the sad blue eyes looked into the clear grey ones, and once more ruth responded with a passion of grief and pity. how rex made his adieux ruth never knew. when he overtook her, she and sepp were well started down the path to the jagd-hütte. they seemed to be having a duet of silence, which rex turned into a trio when he joined them. for such walkers as they all were the distance they had to go was nothing. soft afternoon lights were still lying peacefully beside the long afternoon shadows as they approached the little hut, and sepp answered the colonel's abortive attempt at a jodel with one so long and complicated that it seemed as if he were taking that means to express all he should have liked to say in words. the spell broken, he turned about and asked: "also! what did the french people," -- he wouldn't call them herrschaft -- "say to the gracious fraulein's splendid shot?" ruth stopped and looked absently at him, then flushed and recovered herself quickly. it was the first time she had remembered her stag. "i fear," said she, "that french people would disapprove a young lady's shooting. i did not tell them." sepp went on again with long strides. the four little black hoofs of the chamois stuck pitifully up out of the bag on his broad back. when he was well out of hearing he growled aloud: "hab' 's schon g' wusst! jesses, marie and josef! was is denn dös!" that evening, when rex and the jaeger were fussing over the chamois' beard and dainty horns inside the hütte, ruth and her father stood without, before the closed door. the skies were almost black, and full of stars. through the wide fragrant stillness came up now and then a jodel from some bursch going to visit his sennerin. a stamp, and a comfortable sigh, came at times from nani's cows in their stall below. ruth put both arms around her father's neck and laid her head down on his shoulder. "tired, daisy?" "yes, dear." fifteen supper was over, evening had fallen; but there would be no music tonight under the beech tree; the sky was obscured by clouds and a wet wind was blowing. mrs dene and ruth were crossing the hall; gethryn came in at the front door and they met. "well?" said rex, forcing a smile. "well," said ruth. "mademoiselle descartes is better. madame will bring her down stairs by and by. it appears that wretched peasant who drove them has been carrying them about for hours from one inn to another, stopping to drink at all of them. no wonder they were tired out with the worry and his insolence!" "it appears miss descartes has had attacks of fainting like this more than once before. the doctor in paris thinks there is some weakness of the heart, but forbids her being told," said mrs dene. ruth interposed quickly, not looking at gethryn: "papa and monsieur bordier, where are they?" "i left them visiting federl and sepp in their quarters." "well, you will find us in that dreadful little room yonder. it's the only alternative to sitting in the bauernstube with all the woodchoppers and their bad tobacco, since out of doors fails us. we must go now and make it as pleasant as we can." ruth made a motion to go, but mrs dene lingered. her kind eyes, her fair little faded face, were troubled. "madame bordier says the young lady tells her she has met you before, rex." "yes, in paris"; for his life he could not have kept down the crimson flush that darkened his cheeks and made his temples throb. mrs dene's manner grew a little colder. "she seems very nice. you knew her people, of course." "no, i never met any of her people," answered rex, feeling like a kicked coward. ruth interposed once more. "people!" said ruth, impatiently. "of course rex only knows nice people. come, mother!" putting her arm around the old lady, she moved across the hall with decision. as they passed into the cheerless little room, rex held open the door. ruth, entering after her mother, looked in his face. it had grown thinner; shadows were deep in the temples; from the dark circles under the eyes to the chin ran a line of pain. she held out her hand to him. he bent and kissed it. he went and stood in the porch, trying to collect his thoughts. the idea of this meeting between ruth and yvonne was insupportable. why had he not taken means -- any, every means to prevent it? he cursed himself. he called himself a coward. he wondered how much ruth divined. the thought shamed him until his cheeks burned again. and all the while a deep undercurrent of feeling was setting toward that drooping little figure in black, as he had seen it for a moment when she alighted from the carriage and was supported to a room upstairs. heavens! how it reminded him of that first day in the place de la concorde! why was she in mourning? what did the doctor mean by "weakness of the heart"? what was she doing on mountaintops, and on the stage of a theater if she had heart disease? he started with a feeling that he must go and put a stop to all this folly. then he remembered the letter. she had told him another man had the right to care for her. then she was at this moment deserted for the second time, as well as faithless to still another lover! -- to how many more? and it was through him that a woman of such a life was brought into contact with ruth! and ruth's parents had trusted him; they thought him a gentleman. his brain reeled. the surging waves of shame and self-contempt subsided, were forgotten. he heard the wind sough in the luxembourg trees, he smelled the pink flowering chestnuts, a soft voice was in his ear, a soft touch on his arm, her breath on his cheek, the old, old faces came crowding up. clifford's laugh rang faintly, braith's grave voice; odd bits and ends of song floated out from the shadows of that past and through the troubled dream of face and laugh and music, so long, so long passed away, he heard the gentle voice of yvonne: "rex, rex, be true to me; i will come back!" "i loved her!" he muttered. there was a stir, a door opened and shut, voices and steps sounded in the room on his left. he leaned forward a little and looked through the uncurtained window. it was a bare and dingy room containing only a table, some hard chairs, and an old "flügel" piano with a long inlaid case. they sat together at the table. ruth's back was toward him; she was speaking. yvonne was in the full light. her eyes were cast down, and she was nervously plaiting the edge of her little black-bordered handkerchief. all at once she raised her eyes and looked straight at the window. how blue her eyes were! rex dropped his face in his hands. "oh god! i love her!" he groaned. "gute nacht, gnädige herrn!" sepp and federl stood in their door with a light. two figures were coming down from the jaeger's cottage. gethryn recognized the colonel and monsieur bordier. at the risk of scrutiny from those cool, elderly, masculine eyes, rex's manhood pulled itself together. he went back to meet them, and presently they all joined the ladies in the apology for a parlor, where coffee was being served. coming in after the older men, rex found no place left in the little, crowded room, excepting one at the table close beside yvonne. ruth was on the other side. he went and took the place, self-possessed and smiling. yvonne made a slight motion as if to rise and escape. only rex saw it. yes, one more: ruth saw it. "mademoiselle has studied seriously since i had the honor -- " "oui, monsieur." her faint voice and timid look were more than ruth could bear. she leaned forward so as to shield the girl as much as possible, and entered into the lively talk at the other end of the table. rex spoke again: "mademoiselle is quite strong, i trust -- the stage -- sugar? allow me! -- as i was saying, the stage is a calling which requires a good constitution." no answer. "but pardon. if you are not strong, how can you expect to succeed in your career?" persisted rex. his eyes rested on one frail wrist in its black sleeve. the sight filled him with anger. "i would make my debut if i knew it would kill me." she spoke at last, low but clearly. "but why? mon dieu!" "madame has set her heart on it. she thinks i shall do her credit. she has been good to me, so good!" the sad voice fainted and sank away. "one is good to one's pupils when they are going to bring one fame," said rex bitterly. "madame took me when she did not know i had a voice -- when she thought i was dying -- when i was homeless -- two years ago." "what do you mean?" said rex sternly, sinking his voice below the pitch of the general conversation. "what did you tell me in your letter? homeless!" "i never wrote you any letter." yvonne raised her blue eyes, startled, despairing, and looked into his for the first time. "you did not write that you had found a -- a home which you preferred to -- to -- any you had ever had? and that it would be useless to -- to offer you any other?" "i never wrote. i was very ill and could not. afterward i went to -- you. you were gone." her low voice was heartbreaking to hear. "when?" rex could hardly utter a word. "in june, as soon as i left the hospital." "the hospital? and your mother?" "she was dead. i did not see her. then i was very ill, a long time. as soon as i could, i went to paris." "to me?" "yes." "and the letter?" "ah!" cried yvonne with a shudder. "it must have been my sister who did that!" the room was turning round. a hundred lights were swaying about in a crowd of heads. rex laid his hand heavily on the table to steady himself. with a strong effort at self-control he had reduced the number of lights to two and got the people back in their places when, with a little burst of french exclamations and laughter, everyone turned to yvonne, and ruth, bending over her, took both her hands. the next moment monsieur bordier was leading her to the piano. a soft chord, other chords, deep and sweet, and then the dear voice: oui c'est un rêve, un rêve doux d'amour, la nuit lui prête son mystére the chain is forged again. the mists of passion rise thickly, heavily, and blot out all else forever. hélène's song ceased. he heard them praise her, and heard "good nights" and "au revoirs" exchanged. he rose and stood near the door. ruth passed him like a shadow. they all remained at the foot of the stairs for a moment, repeating their "adieus" and "remerciements." he was utterly reckless, but cool enough still to watch for his chance in this confusion of civilities. it came; for one instant he could whisper to her, "i must see you tonight." then the voices were gone and he stood alone on the porch, the wet wind blowing in his face, his face turned up to a heavy sky covered with black, driving clouds. he could hear the river and the moaning of the trees. it seemed as if he had stood there for hours, never moving. then there was a step in the dark hall, on the threshold, and yvonne lay trembling in his arms. * the sky was beginning to show a tint of early dawn when they stepped once more upon the silent porch. the wind had gone down. clouds were piled up in the west, but the east was clear. perfect stillness was over everything. not a living creature was in sight, excepting that far up, across the stream, sepp and zimbach were climbing toward the schinder. "i must go in now. i must you -- child!" said yvonne in her old voice, smoothing her hair with both hands. rex held her back. "my wife?" he said. "yes!" she raised her face and kissed him on the lips, then clung to him weeping. "hush! hush! it is i who should do that," he murmured, pressing her cheek against his breast. once more she turned to leave him, but he detained her. "yvonne, come with me and be married today!" "you know it is impossible. today! what a boy you are! as if we could!" "well then, in a few days -- in a week, as soon as possible." "oh! my dearest! do not make it so hard for me! how could i desert madame so? after all she has done for me? when i know all her hopes are set on me; that if i fail her she has no one ready to take my place! because she was so sure of me, she did not try to bring on any other pupil for next autumn. and last season was a bad one for her and monsieur. their debutante failed; they lost money. behold this child!" she exclaimed, with a rapid return to her old gay manner, "to whom i have explained all this at least a hundred times already, and he asks me why we cannot be married today!" then with another quick change, she laid her cheek tenderly against his and murmured: "i might have died but for her. you would not have me desert her so cruelly, rex?" "my love! no!" a new respect mingled with his passion. yes, she was faithful! "and now i will go in! rex, rex, you are quite as bad as ever! look at my hair!" she leaned lightly on his shoulder, her old laughing self. he smiled back sadly. "again! after all! you silly, silly boy! and it is such a little while to wait!" "belle hélène is very popular in paris. the piece may run a long time." "rex, i must. don't make it so hard for me!" tears filled her eyes. he kissed her for answer, without speaking. "think! think of all she did for me; saved me; fed me, clothed me, taught me when she believed i had only voice and talent enough to support myself by teaching. it was half a year before she and monsieur began to think i could ever make them any return for their care of me. and all that time she was like a mother to me. and now she has told everyone her hopes of me. if i fail she will be ridiculed. you know paris. she and monsieur have enemies who will say there never was any pupil, nor any debut expected. perhaps she will lose her prestige. the fashion may turn to some other teacher. you know what malice can do with ridicule in paris. let me sing for her this once, make her one great success, win her one triumph, and then never, never sing again for any soul but you -- my husband!" her voice sank at the last words, from its eager pleading, to an exquisite modest sweetness. "but -- if you fail?" "i shall not fail. i have never doubted that i should have a success. perhaps it is because for myself i do not care, that i have no fear. when i had lost you -- i only thought of that. and now that i have found you again -- !" she clung to him in passionate silence. "and i may not see your debut?" "if you come i shall surely fail! i must forget you. i must think only of my part. what do i care for the house full of strange faces? i will make them all rise up and shout my name. but if you were there -- ah! i should have no longer any courage! promise me to come only on the second night." "but if you do fail, i may come and take you immediately before monsieur the maire?" "if you please!" she whispered demurely. and they both laughed, the old happy-children laugh of the atelier. "i suppose you are bad enough to hope that i will fail," added she presently, with a little moue. "yvonne," said rex earnestly, "i hope that you will succeed. i know you will, and i can wait for you a few weeks more." "we have waited for our happiness two years. we will make the happiness of others now first, n'est ce pas?" she whispered. the sky began to glow and the house was astir. rex knew how it would soon be talking, but he cared for nothing that the world could do or say. "ah! we will be happy! think of it! a little house near the parc monceau, my studio there, clifford, elliott, rowden -- bra--- all of them coming again! and it will be my wife who will receive them!" she placed a little soft palm across his lips. "taisez-vous, mon ami! it is too soon! see the morning! i must go. there! yes -- one more! -- my love, adieu!" sixteen fewer tourists and more hunters had been coming to the lodge of late; the crack of the rifle sounded all day. there was great talk of a hunt which the duke would hold in september, and the colonel and rex were invited. but though september was now only a few days off, the colonel was growing too restless to wait. after yvonne's visit, he and ruth were much together. it seemed to happen so. they took long walks into the woods, but ruth seemed to share now her father's aversion to climbing, and gethryn stalked the deer with only the jaegers for company. ruth and her father used to come home with their arms full of wild flowers -- the fair, lovely wild blossoms of bavaria which sprang up everywhere in their path. the colonel was great company on these expeditions, singing airs from obsolete operas of his youth, and telling stories of la grange, brignoli and amodio, of the strakosches and maretzeks, with much liveliness. sometimes there would be a silence, however, and then if ruth looked up she often met his eyes. then he would smile and say: "well, daisy!" and she would smile and say: "well, dear!" but this could not last. about a week after yvonne's visit, the colonel, after one of these walks, instead of joining rex for a smoke, left him sitting with ruth under the beech tree and mounted the stairs to mrs dene's room. it was an hour later when he rose and kissed his wife, who had been sitting at her window all the time of their quiet talk, with eyes fixed on the young people below. "i never dreamed of it!" said he. "i did, i wished it," was her answer. "i thought he was -- but they are all alike!" she ended sadly and bitterly. "to think of a boy as wellborn as rex -- " but the colonel, who possibly knew more about wellborn boys than his wife did, interrupted her: "hang the boys! it's ruth i'm grieved for!" "my daughter needs no one's solicitude, not even ours!" said the old lady haughtily. "right! thank god!" said the veteran, in a tone of relief. "good night, my dear!" two days later they left for paris. rex accompanied them as far as schicksalsee, promising to follow them in a few days. the handsome, soldierly-looking herr förster stood by their carriage and gave them a "glück-liche reise!" and a warm "auf wiedersehen!" as they drove away. returning up the steps slowly and seriously, he caught the eye of sepp and federl, who had been looking after the carriage as it turned out of sight beyond the bridge: "schade!" said the herr förster, and went into the house. "schade!" said federl. "jammer-schade!" growled sepp. on the platform at schicksalsee, rex and ruth were walking while they waited for the train. "ruth," said rex, "i hope you never will need a friend's life to save yours from harm; but if you do, take mine." "yes, rex." she raised her eyes and looked into the distance. far on the horizon loomed the red peak. the clumsy mail drew up beside the platform. it was the year when all the world was running after a very commonplace operetta with one lovely stolen song: a volks-song. one heard it everywhere, on both continents; and now as the postillion, in his shiny hat with the cockade, his light blue jacket and white small clothes, and his curly brass horn, came rattling down the street, he was playing the same melody: es ist im leben häßlich eingerichtet -- the train drew into the station. when it panted forth again, gethryn stood waving his hand, and watched it out of sight. turning at last to leave the platform, he found that the crowd had melted away; only a residue of crimson-capped officials remained. he inquired of one where he could find an expressman and was referred to a mild man absorbing a bad cigar. with him gethryn arranged for having his traps brought from trauerbach and consigned to the brothers schnurr at the "gasthof zur post," schicksalsee, that inn being close to the station. this settled, he lighted a cigarette and strolled across to his hotel, sitting down on a stone bench before the door, and looking off at the lake. it was mid-afternoon. the little place was asleep. nothing was stirring about the inn excepting a bandy dachshund, which came wheezing up and thrust a cold nose into the young man's hand. high in the air a hawk was wheeling; his faint, querulous cry struck gethryn with an unwonted sense of loneliness. he noticed how yellow some of the trees were on the slopes across the lake. autumn had come before summer was ended. he leaned over and patted the hound. a door opened, a voice cried, "ei dachl! du! dachl!" and the dog made off at the top of his hobbyhorse gait. the silence was unbroken except for the harsh cries of the hawk, sailing low now in great circles over the lake. the sun flashed on his broad, burnished wings as he stooped; gethryn fancied he could see his evil little eyes; finally the bird rose and dwindled away, lost against the mountainside. he was roused from his reverie by angry voices. "cochon! kerl! menteur!" cried someone. the other voice remonstrated with a snarl. "bah!" cried the first, "you lie!" "alsatians," thought rex; "what horrible french!" the snarling began again, but gradually lapsed into whining. rex looked about him. the quarreling seemed to come from a small room which opened out of the hotel restaurant. windows gave from it over the front, but the blinds were down. "no! no! i tell you! not one sou! starve? i hope you will!" cried the first voice, and a stamp set some bottles and glasses jingling. "alsatians and jews!" thought rex. one voice was unpleasantly familiar to him, and he wondered if mr blumenthal spoke french as he did english. deciding with a careless smile that of course he did, rex ceased to think of him, not feeling any curiosity to go and see with whom his late fellow-lodger might be quarreling. he sat and watched instead, as he lounged in the sunshine, some smart carriages whirling past, their horses stepping high, the lackeys muffled from the mountain air in winter furs, crests on the panels. an adjutant in green, with a great flutter of white cock's feathers from his chapeau, sitting up on the box of an equipage, accompanied by flunkies in the royal blue and white of bavaria, was a more agreeable object to contemplate than mr blumenthal, and gethryn felt as much personal connection with the prince regent hurrying home to munich, from his little hunting visit to the emperor of austria, as with the wrangling jews behind the close-drawn blinds of the coffee-room at his back. the sun was slowly declining. rex rose and idled into the smoking-room. it was deserted but for the clerk at his desk, a railed enclosure, one side of which opened into the smoking-room, the other side into the hall. across the hall was a door with "café -- restaurant," in gilt letters above it. rex did not enter the café; he sat and dreamed in the empty smoking-room over his cigarette. but it was lively in the café, in spite of the waning season. a good many of the tables were occupied. at one of them sat the three unchaperoned miss dashleighs, in company with three solemn, high-shouldered young officers, enjoying something in tall, slender tumblers which looked hot and smelled spicy. at another table mr everett tweeler and mrs tweeler were alternately scolding and stuffing master irving tweeler, who expressed in impassioned tones a desire for tarts. "ur--r--ving!" remonstrated mr tweeler. "dahling!" argued mrs tweeler. "if oo eats too many 'ittle cakies then oo tant go home to salem on the puffy, puffy choo-choo boat." old sir griffin damby overheard and snorted. when master tweeler secured his tarts, sir griffin blessed the meal with a hearty "damn!" he did not care for master tweeler's nightly stomach aches, but their rooms adjoined. when "ur--r--ving" reached unmolested for his fourth, sir griffin rose violently, and muttering, "change me room, begad!" waddled down to the door, glaring aggressively at the occupants of the various tables. near the exit a half suppressed squeal caused him to swing round. he had stepped squarely on the toe of a meager individual, who now sat nursing his foot in bitter dejection. "pardon -- " began sir griffin, then stopped and glared at the sallow-faced person. sir griffin stared hard at the man he had stepped on, and at his female companion. "damn it!" he cried. "keep your feet out of the way, do you hear?" puffed his cheeks, squared his shoulders and snorted himself out of the café. the yellow-faced man was livid with rage. "don't be a fool, mannie," whispered the woman; "don't make a row -- do you know who that is?" "he's an english hog," spluttered the man with an oath; "he's a cursed hog of an englishman!" "yes, and he knows us. he was at monaco a few summers ago. don't forget who turned us out of the casino." emanuel pick turned a shade more sallow and sank back in his seat. neither spoke again for some moments. presently the woman began to stir the bits of lemon and ice in her empty tumbler. pick watched her sulkily. "you always take the most expensive drinks. why can't you order coffee, as others do?" he snarled. she glanced at him. "jew," she sneered. "all right; only wait! i've come to the end of my rope. i've got just money enough left to get back to paris -- " "you lie, mannie!" he paid no attention to this compliment, but lighted a cigar and dropped the match on the floor, grinding it under his heel. "you have ten thousand francs today! you lie if you say you have not." mr pick softly dropped his eyelids. "that is for me, in case of need. i will need it too, very soon!" his companion glared at him and bit her lip. "if you and i are to remain dear friends," continued mr pick, "we must manage to raise money, somehow. you know that as well as i do." still she said nothing, but kept her eyes on his face. he glanced up and looked away uneasily. "i have seen my uncle again. he knows all about your sister and the american. he says it is only because of him that she refuses the handsome offer." the woman's face grew tigerish, and she nodded rapidly, muttering, "ah! yes! mais oui! the american. i do not forget him!" "my dear uncle thinks it is our fault that your sister refuses to forget him, which is more to the purpose," sneered pick. "he says you did not press that offer he made yvonne with any skill, else she would never have refused it again -- that makes four times," he added. "four times she has refused an establishment and -- " "pst! what are you raising your voice for?" hissed the woman. "and how is it my fault?" she went on. "i don't say it is. i know better -- who could wish more than we that your sister should become the mistress of my dear rich uncle? but when i tried to tell him just now that we had done our best, he raved at me. he has guessed somehow that they mean to marry. i did not tell him that we too had guessed it. but he said i knew it and was concealing it from him. i asked him for a little money to go on with. curse him, he would not lend me a sou! said he never would again -- curse him!" there was a silence while pick smoked on. the woman did not smoke too because she had no cigarette, and pick did not offer her any. presently he spoke again. "yes, you certainly are an expensive luxury, under the circumstances. and since you have so mismanaged your fool of a sister's affair, i don't see how the circumstances can improve." she watched him. "and the ten thousand francs? you will throw me off and enjoy them at your ease?" he cringed at her tone. "not enjoy -- without you -- " "no," she said coolly, "for i shall kill you." mr pick smiled uncomfortably. "that would please the american," he said, trying to jest, but his hand trembled as he touched the stem of his cigar-holder to shake off the ashes. a sudden thought leaped into her face. "why not please -- me -- instead?" she whispered. their eyes met. her face was hard and bold -- his, cowardly and ghastly. she clenched her hands and leaned forward; her voice was scarcely audible. mr pick dropped his oily black head and listened. "he turned me out of his box at the opera; he struck you -- do you hear? he kicked you!" the jew's face grew chalky. "today he stands between you and your uncle, you and wealth, you and me! do you understand? cowards are stupid. you claim spanish blood. but spanish blood does not forget insults. is yours only the blood of a spanish jew? bah! must i talk? you saw him? he is here. alive. and he kicked you. and he stands between you and riches, you and me, you and -- life!" they sat silent, she holding him fascinated with her little black eyes. his jaw fallen, the expression of his loose mouth was horrible. suddenly she thrust her face close to his. her eyes burned and the blood surged through the distended veins under the cracking rouge. her lips formed the word, "tonight!" without a word he crept from his seat and followed her out of the room by a side door. gethryn, lounging in the smoking-room meanwhile, was listening with delight to the bellowing of sir griffin damby, who stood at the clerk's desk in the hall. "don't contradict me!" he roared -- the weak-eyed clerk had not dreamed of doing so -- "don't you contradict me! i tell you it's the same man!" "but excellence," entreated the clerk, "we do not know -- " "what! don't know! don't i tell you?" "we will telegraph to paris -- " "telegraph to hell! where's my man? here! dawson! do you remember that infernal jew at monaco? he's here. he's in there!" jerking an angry thumb at the café door. "keep him in sight till the police come for him. if he says anything, kick him into the lake." dawson bowed. the clerk tried to say that he would telegraph instantly, but sir griffin barked in his face and snorted his way down the hall, followed by the valet. rex, laughing, threw down his cigarette and sauntered over to the clerk. "whom does the englishman want kicked out?" the clerk made a polite gesture, asking rex to wait until he had finished telegraphing. at that moment the postillion's horn heralded the coming of the mail coach, and that meant the speedy arrival of the last western train. rex forgot sir griffin and strolled over to the post office to watch the distribution of the letters and to get his own. a great deal of flopping and pounding seemed to be required as a preliminary to postal distribution. first the mail bags seemed to be dragged all over the floor, then came a long series of thumps while the letters were stamped, finally the slide was raised and a face the color of underdone pie crust, with little angry eyes, appeared. the owner had a new and ingenious insult for each person who presented himself. the tweelers were utterly routed and went away not knowing whether there were any letters for them or not. several valets and ladies' maids exchanged lively but ineffectual compliments with the face in the post office window. then came sir griffin. rex looked on with interest. what the ill-natured brute behind the grating said, rex couldn't hear, but sir griffin burst out with a roar, "damnation!" that made everybody jump. then he stuck his head as far as he could get it in at the little window and shouted -- in fluent german, awfully pronounced -- "here! you! it's enough that you're so stupid you don't know what you're about. don't you try to be impudent too! hand me those letters!" the official bully handed them over without a word. rex took advantage of the lull and stepped to the window. "any letters for mr gethryn?" "how you spell him?" rex spelled him. "yet once again!" demanded the intelligent person. rex wrote it in english and in german script. "from trauerbach -- yes?" "yes." the man went away, looked through two ledgers, sent for another, made out several sets of blanks, and finally came back to the window, but said nothing. "well?" said rex, pleasantly. "well," said the man. "anything for me?" "nothing for you." "kindly look again," said rex. "i know there are letters for me." in about ten minutes the man appeared again. "well?" said gethryn. "well," said the man. "nothing for me?" "something." and with ostentatious delay he produced three letters and a newspaper, which rex took, restraining an impulse to knock him down. after all, the temptation was not very great, presenting itself more as an act of justice than as a personal satisfaction. the truth was, all day long a great gentleness tinged with melancholy had rested on gethryn's spirit. nothing seemed to matter very much. and whatever engaged his attention for a moment, it was only for a moment, and then his thoughts returned where they had been all day. yvonne, yvonne! she had not been out of his thoughts since he rose that morning. in a few steps he reached his room and read his letters by the waning daylight. the first began: my darling -- in three more days i shall stand before a paris audience. i am not one bit nervous. i am perfectly happy. yesterday at rehearsal the orchestra applauded and madame bordier kissed me. some very droll things happened. achilles was intoxicated and chased ajax the less with a stick. ajax fled into my dressing room, and although i was not there i told achilles afterward that i would never forgive him. then he wept. the letter ran on for a page more of lively gossip and then, with a sudden change, ended: but why do i write these foolish things to you? ah! you know it is because i am too happy! too happy! and i cannot say what is in my heart. i dare not. it is too soon. i dare not! if it is that i am happy, who but you knows the reason? and now listen to my little secret. i pray for you, yes, every morning and every evening. and for myself too -- now. god forgives. it is in my faith. oh! my husband, we will be good! thy yvonne gethryn's eyes blurred on the page and he sat a long time, very still, not offering to open his remaining letters. presently he raised his head and looked into the street. it was dusk, and the lamps along the lake side were lighted. he had to light his candles to read by. the next was from braith -- a short note. everything is ready, rex, your old studio cleaned and dusted until you would not know it. i have kept the key always by me, and no one but myself has ever entered it since you left. i will meet you at the station -- and when you are really here i shall begin to live again. au revoir, braith it seemed as if gethryn would never get on with his correspondence. he sat and held this letter as he had done the other. a deep melancholy possessed him. he did not care to move. at last, impatiently, he tore the third envelope. it contained a long letter from clifford. "my blessed boy," it said. we learn from papa braith that you will be here before long, but the old chump won't tell when. he intends to meet you all alone at the station, and wishes to dispense with a gang and a brass band. we think that's deuced selfish. you are our prodigal as well as his, and we are considering several plans for getting even with pa. one is to tell you all the news before he has a chance. and i will begin at once. thaxton has gone home, and opened a studio in new york. the colossus has grown two more inches and hates to hear me mention the freak museums in the bowery. carleton is a hubby, and wifey is english and captivating. rowden told me one day he was going to get married too. when i asked her name he said he didn't know. someone with red hair. when i remarked that he was a little in that way himself, he said yes, he knew it, and he intended to found a race of that kind, to be known as the red rowdens. elliott's brindle died, and we sold ours. we now keep two russian bloodhounds. when you come to my room, knock first, for "baby" doesn't like to be startled. braith has kept your family together, in your old studio. the parrot and the raven are two old fiends and will live forever. mrs gummidge periodically sheds litters of kittens, to braith's indignation. he gives them to the concierge who sells them at a high price, i don't know for what purpose; i have two of the gummidge children. the bull pups are pups no longer, but they are beauties and no mistake. all the same, wait until you see "baby." i met yvonne in the louvre last week. i'm glad you are all over that affair, for she's going to be married, she told me. she looked prettier than ever, and as happy as she was pretty. she was with old bordier of the fauvette, and his wife, and -- think of this! she's coming out in belle hélène! well! i'm glad she's all right, for she was too nice to go the usual way. poor little bulfinch shot himself in the bois last june. he had delirium tremens. poor little chap! there's a miss dene here, who knows you. braith has met her. she's a beauty, he says, and she's also a stunning girl, possessing manners, and morals, and dignity, and character, and religion and all that you and i have not, my son. braith says she isn't too good for you when you are at your best; but we know better, reggy; any good girl is too good for the likes of us. hasten to my arms, reginald! you will find them at no. rue notre dame des champs, chez, foxhall clifford, esq. leaving clifford's letter and the newspapers on the table, rex took his hat, put out the light, and went down to the street. as he stood in the door, looking off at the dark lake, he folded yvonne's letter and placed it in his breast. he held braith's a moment more and then laid it beside hers. the air was brisk; he buttoned his coat about him. here and there a moonbeam touched the lapping edge of the water, or flashed out in the open stretch beyond the point of pines. high over the pines hung a cliff, blackening the water all around with fathomless shadow. a waiter came lounging by, his hands tucked beneath his coattails. "what point is that? the one which overhangs the pines there?" asked rex. "gracious sir!" said the waiter, "that is the schicksalfels." "why `schicksal-fels'?" "has the gracious gentleman never heard the legend of the `rock of fate'?" "no, and on second thoughts, i don't care to hear it now. another time. good night!" "ah! the gentleman is too good! thousand thanks! gute nacht, gnädiger herr!" gethryn remained looking at the crags. "they cannot be half a mile from here," he thought. "i suppose the path is good enough; if not, i can turn back. the lake will look well from there by moonlight." and he found himself moving up a little footpath which branched below the hotel. it was pleasant, brisk walking. the air had a touch of early frost in it. gethryn swung along at a good pace, pulling his cap down and fastening the last button of his coat. the trees threw long shadows across the path, hiding it from view, except where the moonlight fell white on the moist gravel. the moon herself was past the full and not very bright; a film of mist was drawing over the sky. gethryn, looking up, thought of that gentle moon which once sailed ghostlike at high noon through the blue zenith among silver clouds while a boy lay beside the stream with rod and creel; and then he remembered the dear old yellow moon that used to flood the nursery with pools of light and pile strange moving shades about his bed. and then he saw, still looking up, the great white globe that hung above the frozen river, striking blue sparks from the ringing skates. he felt lonely and a trifle homesick. for the first time in his life -- he was still so young -- he thought of his childhood and his boyhood as something gone beyond recall. he had nearly reached his destination; just before him the path entered a patch of pine woods and emerged from it, shortly, upon the flat-topped rock which he was seeking. under the first arching branches he stopped and looked back at the marred moon in the mist-covered sky. "i am sick of this wandering," he thought. "wane quickly! your successor shall shine on my home: yvonne's and mine." and, thinking of yvonne, he passed into the shadows which the pines cast upon the schicksalfels. seventeen paris lay sparkling under a cold, clear sky. the brilliant streets lay coiled along the seine and stretched glittering from bank to bank, from boulevard to boulevard; cafés, brasseries, concert halls and theaters in the yellow blaze of gas and the white and violet of electricity. it was not late, but people who entered the lobby of the theater fauvette turned away before the placard "standing room only." somewhere in the city a bell sounded the hour, and with the last stroke the drop curtain fell on the first act of "la belle hélène." it fell amidst a whirlwind of applause, in which the orchestra led. the old leader of the violins shook his head, however. he had been there twenty years, and he had never before heard of such singing in comic opera. "no, no," he said, "she can't stay here. dame! she sings!" madame bordier was pale and happy; her good husband was weak with joy. the members of the troupe had not yet had time to be jealous and they, too, applauded. as for the house, it was not only conquered, it was wild with enthusiasm. the lobbies were thronged. braith ran up against rowden and elliott. "by jove!" they cried, with one voice, "who'd have thought the little girl had all that in her? i say, braith, does rex know about her? when is he coming?" "rex doesn't know and doesn't care. rex is cured," said braith. "and he's coming next week. where's clifford?" he added, to make a diversion. "clifford promised to meet us here. he'll be along soon." the pair went out for refreshments and braith returned to his seat. the wait between the acts proved longer than was agreeable, and people grumbled. the machinery would not work, and two heavy scenes had to be shifted by hand. good monsieur bordier flew about the stage in a delirium of excitement. no one would have recognized him for the eminently reasonable being he appeared in private life. he called the stage hands "prussian pigs!" and "spanish cattle!" and expressed his intention to dismiss the whole force tomorrow. yvonne, already dressed, stood at the door of her room, looking along the alley of dusty scenery to where a warm glow revealed the close proximity of the footlights. there was considerable unprofessional confusion, and not a little skylarking going on among the company, who took advantage of the temporary interruption. yvonne stood in the door of her dressing room and dreamed, seeing nothing. her pretty figure was draped in a grecian tunic of creamy white, bordered with gold; her soft, dark hair was gathered in a simple knot. presently she turned and entered her dressing room, closing the door. then she sat down before the mirror, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes fixed on her reflected eyes, a faint smile curving her lips. "oh! you happy girl!" she thought. "you happy, happy girl! and just a little frightened, for tomorrow he will come. and when he says -- for he will say it -- `yvonne must we wait?' i shall tell him, no! take me now if you will!" without a knock the door burst open. a rush of music from the orchestra came in. yvonne thought "so they have begun at last!" the same moment she rose with a faint, heartsick cry. her sister closed the door and fastened it, shutting out all sound but that of her terrible voice. yvonne blanched as she looked on that malignant face. with a sudden faintness she leaned back, pressing one hand to her heart. "you received my letter?" said the woman. yvonne did not answer. her sister stamped and came nearer. "speak!" she cried. yvonne shrank and trembled, but kept her resolute eyes on the cruel eyes approaching hers. "shall i tear an answer from you?" said the woman, always coming nearer. "do you think i will wait your pleasure, now?" no answer. "he is here -- mr blumenthal; he is waiting for you. you dare not refuse him again! you will come with us now, after the opera. do you hear? you will come. there is no more time. it must be now. i told you there would be time, but there is none -- none!" yvonne's maid knocked at the door and called: "mademoiselle, c'est l'heuer!" "answer!" hissed the woman. yvonne, speechless, holding both hands to her heart, kept her eyes on her sister's face. that face grew ashen; the eyes had the blank glare of a tiger's; she sprang up to yvonne and grasped her by the wrists. "mademoiselle! mademoiselle! c'est l'heure!" called the maid, shaking the door. "fool!" hissed her sister, "you think you will marry the american!" "mademoiselle descartes! mais mademoiselle descartes!" cried monsieur's voice without. "let me go!" panted yvonne, struggling wildly. "go!" screamed the woman, "go, and sing! you cannot marry him! he is dead!" and she struck the girl with her clenched fist. the door, torn open, crashed behind her and immediately swung back again to admit madame. "my child! my child! what is it? what ails you? quick, or it will be too late! ah! try, try, my child!" she was in tears of despair. taking her beseeching hand, yvonne moved toward the stage. "oui, chère madame!" she said. the chorus swelled around her. oh! reine en ce jour! rose, fell, ebbed away, and left her standing alone. she heard a voice -- "tell me, venus -- " but she hardly knew it for her own. it was all dark before her eyes -- while the mad chorus of kings went on, "for us, what joy!" -- thundering away along the wings. "fear calchas!" "seize him!" "let calchas fear!" and then she began to sing -- to sing as she had never sung before. sweet, thrilling, her voice poured forth into the crowded auditorium. the people sat spellbound. there was a moment of silence; no one offered to applaud. and then she began again. oui c'est un réve, un réve doux d'amour -- she faltered -- la nuit lui préte son mystère, il doit finir avec le jour -- the voice broke. men were standing up in the audience. one cried out: "il -- doit -- finir -- " the music clashed in one great discord. why did the stage reel under her? what was the shouting? her heavy, dark hair fell down about her little white face as she sank on her knees, and covered her as she lay her slender length along the stage. the orchestra and the audience sprang to their feet. the great blank curtain rattled to the ground. a whirlwind swept over the house. monsieur bordier stepped before the curtain. "my friends!" he began, but his voice failed, and he only added, "c'est fini!" with hardly a word the audience moved to the exits. but braith, turning to the right, made his way through a long, low passage and strode toward a little stage door. it was flung open and a man hurried past him. "monsieur!" called braith. "monsieur!" but monsieur bordier was crying like a child, and kept on his way, without answering. the narrow corridor was now filled with hurrying, excited figures in gauze and tinsel, sham armor, and painted faces. they pressed braith back, but he struggled and fought his way to the door. a sergeant de ville shouldered through the crowd. he was dragging a woman along by the arm. another policeman came behind, urging her forward. somehow she slipped from them and sank, cowering against the wall. braith's eyes met hers. she cowered still lower. a slender, sallow man had been quietly slipping through the throng. a red-faced fellow touched him on the shoulder. "pardon! i think this is mr emanuel pick." "no!" stammered the man, and started to run. braith blocked his way. the red-faced detective was at his side. "so, you are mr emanuel pick!" "no!" gasped the other. "he lies! he lies!" yelled the woman, from the floor. the jew reeled back and, with a piercing scream, tore at his handcuffed wrists. braith whispered to the detective: "what has the woman done? what is the charge?" "charge? there are a dozen. the last is murder." the woman had fainted and they carried her away. the light fell a moment on the jew's livid face, the next braith stood under the dark porch of the empty theater. the confusion was all at the stage entrance. here, in front, the deserted street was white and black and silent under the electric lamps. all the lonelier for two wretched gamins, counting their dirty sous and draggled newspapers. when they saw braith they started for him; one was ahead in the race, but the other gained on him, reached him, dealt him a merciless blow, and panted up to braith. the defeated one, crying bitterly, gathered up his scattered papers from the gutter. "curse you, rigaud! you hound!" he cried, in a passion of tears. "curse you, son of a murderer!" the first gamin whipped out a paper and thrust it toward braith. "buy it, monsieur!" he whined, "the last edition, full account of the boulangist riot this morning; burning of the prussian flags; explosion on a warship; murder in germany, discovered by an english milord -- " braith was walking fast; the gamin ran by his side for a moment, but soon gave it up. braith walked faster and faster; he was almost running when he reached his own door. there was a light in his window. he rushed up the stairs and into his room. clifford was sitting there, his head in his hands. braith touched him, trying to speak lightly. "are you asleep, old man?" clifford raised a colorless face to his. "what is it? can't you speak?" but clifford only pointed to a crumpled telegram lying on the table, and hid his face again as braith raised the paper to the light. * the end _________________________________________________________________ in the quarter was first published in and the text is in the public domain. the transcription was done by william mcclain, . a printed version of this book is available from [ ]sattre press http://itq.sattre-press.com/ none paris as it was and as it is; or a sketch of the french capital, illustrative of the effects of the revolution, with respect to sciences, literature, arts, religion, education, manners, and amusements; comprising also a correct account of the most remarkable national establishments and public buildings. in a series of letters, written by an english traveller, during the years - , to a friend in london. * * * * * _ipsâ varietate tentamus efficere, ut alia aliis, quædem fortasse omnibus placeant. plin. epist._ * * * * * vol. i london advertisement. in the course of the following production, the reader will meet with several references to a plan of paris, which it had been intended to prefix to the work; but that intention having been frustrated by the rupture between the two countries, in consequence of which the copies for the whole of the edition have been detained at calais, it is hoped that this apology will be accepted for the omission. contents. volume first. new organization of the national institute introduction letter i. on the ratification of the preliminary treaty of peace, the author leaves london for paris--he arrives at calais on the th of october, --apparent effect of the peace--after having obtained a passport, he proceeds to paris, in company with a french naval officer. letter ii. journey from calais to paris--improved state of agriculture--none of the french gun-boats off boulogne moored with chains at the time of the attack--st. denis--general sweep made, in , among the sepultures in that abbey--arrival at paris--turnpikes now established throughout prance--custom-house scrutiny. letter iii. objects which first strike the observer on arriving at paris after an absence of ten or twelve years--tumult in the streets considerably diminished since the revolution--no liveries seen--streets less dangerous than formerly to pedestrians--visits paid to different persons by the author--price of lodgings nearly doubled since --the author takes apartments in a private house. letter iv. climate of paris--_thermolampes_ or stoves which afford light and heat on an economical plan--sword whose hilt was adorned with the _pitt_ diamond, and others of considerable value, presented to the chief consul. letter v. plan on which these letters are written. letter vi. the _louvre_ or _national palace of arts and sciences_ described --_old louvre_--horrors of st. bartholomew's day--from this palace charles ix fired on his own subjects--additions successively made to it by different kings--_bernini_, sent for by lewis xiv, forwarded the foundation of the _new louvre_, and returned to italy--_perrault_ produced the beautiful colonnade of the _louvre_, the master-piece of french architecture--anecdote of the queen of england, relict of charles i--public exhibition of the productions of french industry. letter vii. _central museum of the arts_--_gallery of antiques_--description of the different halls and of the most remarkable statues contained in them, with original observations by the learned connoisseur, _visconti_. letter viii. description of the _gallery of antiques_, and of its _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of sculpture continued and terminated--noble example set by the french in throwing open their museums and national establishments to public inspection--liberal indulgence shewn to foreigners. letter ix. general a----y's breakfast--montmartre--prospect thence enjoyed --theatres. letter x. regulations of the police to be observed by a stranger on his arrival in the french capital--pieces represented at the _théâtre louvois_ --_palais du gouvernement_ or palace of the tuileries described--it was constructed, by catherine de medicis, enlarged by henry iv and lewis xiii, and finished by lewis xiv--the tenth of august, , as pourtrayed by an actor in that memorable scene--number of lives lost on the occasion--sale of the furniture, the king's wardrobe, and other effects found in the palace--_place du carrousel_--famous horses of gilt bronze brought from venice and placed here--the fate of france suspended by a thread--fall of _robespiere_ and his adherents. letter xi. massacre of the prisoners at paris in september, --private ball --the french much improved in dancing--the waltz described--dress of the women. letter xii. _bonaparte_--grand monthly parade--agility of the first consul in mounting his charger--consular guards, a remarkably fine body of men --horses of the french cavalry, sorry in appearance, but capable of enduring fatigue and privations. letter xiii. _jardin des tuileries_--this garden now kept in better order than under the monarchy--the newly-built house of _véry_, the _restaurateur_--this quarter calls to mind the most remarkable events in the history of the revolution--_place de la concorde_--its name is a strong contrast to the great number of victims here sacrificed --execution of the king and queen, _philippe Égalité_, _charlotte corday_, madame _roland_, _robespiere_, _cum multus aliis_ --unexampled dispatch introduced in putting persons to death by means of the guillotine--_guillotin_, the inventor or improver of this instrument, dies of grief--little impression left on the mind of the spectators of these sanguinary scenes--lord _cornwallis_ arrives in paris. letter xiv. national fête, in honour of peace, celebrated in paris on the th of brumaire, year x ( th of november, )--_garnerin_ and his wife ascend in a balloon--brilliancy of the illuminations--laughable accident. letter xv. description of the fête continued--apparent apathy of the people --songs composed in commemoration of this joyful event--imitation of one of them. letter xvi. _gallery of the louvre_--_saloon of the louvre_--italian school--the most remarkable pictures in the collection mentioned, with original remarks on the masters by _visconti_--lord _cornwallis's_ reception in paris. letter xvii. _gallery of the louvre_ in continuation--french school--flemish school--the pictures in the _saloon_ are seen to much greater advantage than those in the _gallery_--_gallery of apollo_--these superb repositories of the finest works of art are indiscriminately open to the public. letter xviii. _palais royal_, now called _palais du tribunat_--its construction begun, in , by cardinal _richelieu_, who makes a present of it to _lewis_ xiii--it becomes the property of the orleans family--anecdote of the regent--considerable alterations made in this palace--_jardin du palais du tribunat_--this garden is surrounded by a range of handsome buildings, erected in by the duke of orleans, then duke of chartres--the _cirque_ burnt down in --contrast between the company seen here in and in --the _palais royal_, the theatre of political commotions--mutual enmity of the queen and the duke of orleans, which, in the sequel, brought these great personages to the scaffold--their improper example imitated by the nobility of both sexes--the projects of each defeated--the duke's pusillanimity was a bar to his ambition--he exhausted his immense fortune to gain partisans, and secure the attachment of the people--his imprisonment, trial, and death. letter xix. the _palais du tribunat_, an epitome of all the trades in paris --prohibited publications--mock auctions--_magazins de confiance à prix fixe_--two speculations, of a somewhat curious nature, established there with success--_the palais royal_, a vortex of dissipation --scheme of _merlin_ of douay for cleansing this augæan stable. letter xx. _thé_, a sort of route--contrast in the mode of life of the parisians before and since the revolution--_petits soupers_ described--an englishman improves on all the french _bons vivans_ under the old _régime_. letter xxi. public places of various descriptions--their title and number --contrast between the interior police now established in the theatres in paris, and that which existed before the revolution--admirable regulations at present adopted for the preservation of order at the door of the theatres--comparatively small number of carriages now seen in waiting at the grand french opera. letter xxii. _palais du corps législatif_--description of the hall of the sittings of that body--opening of the session--speech of the president--lord _cornwallis_ and suite present at this sitting--_petits appartemens_ of the _ci-devant palais bourbon_ described. letter xxiii. _halle au blé_--lightness of the roof of the dome--annual consumption of bread-corn in _paris_--astrologers--in former times, their number in _paris_ exceeded _ , _--fortune-tellers of the present day --church of _st. eustache_--_tourville_, the brave opponent of admiral _russel_, had no epitaph--festivals of reason described. letter xxiv. _museum of french monuments_--steps taken by the constituent assembly to arrest the progress of vandalism--many master-pieces of painting, sculpture, and architecture, destroyed in various parts of france --_grégoire_, ex-bishop of blois, publishes three reports, to expose the madness of irreligious barbarism, which claim particular distinction.--they saved from destruction many articles of value in the provinces--antique monuments found in , in digging among the foundation of the ancient church of paris--indefatigable exertions of _lenoir_, the conservator of this museum--the halls of this museum fitted up according to the precise character peculiar to each century, and the monuments arranged in them in historical and chronological order--tombs of _clovis_, _childebert_, and _chilperic_--statues of _charlemagne_, _lewis ix_, and of _charles_, his brother, together with those of the kings that successively appeared in this age down to king _john_--tombs of _charles v_, _du gueselin_, and _sancerre_--mausolea of _louis d'orléans_ and of _valentine de milan_--statues of _charles vi_, _rénée d'orléans_, _philippe de commines_, _lewis xi_, _charles vii_, _joan_ of _arc_, _isabeau de bavière_--tomb of _lewis xii_--tragical death of _charles_ the _bad_. letter xxv. _museum of french monuments_ continued--tombs of _francis i_, of the _valois_, and of _diane de poitiers_--character of that celebrated woman--statues of _turenne_, _condé_, _colbert_, _la fontaine_, _racine_, and _lewis xiv_--mausolea of cardinals _richelieu_ and _mazarin_--statues of _montesquieu_, _fontenelle_, _voltaire_, _rousseau_, _helvetius_, _crébillon_, and _piron_--tombs of _maupertuis_, _caylus_, and marshal _d'harcourt_--this museum contains a chronology of monuments, both antique and modern, from years before our era down to the present time, beginning with those of ancient greece, and following all the gradations of the art from its cradle to its decrepitude--sepulchre of _héloïse_ and _abélard_. letter xxvi. dinner at general _a----y's_--difference in the duration of such a repast now and before the revolution--the general's ancestor, _françois a----y_, planned and completed the famous canal of languedoc--_dépôt de la guerre_--such an establishment much wanted in england--its acknowledged utility has induced austria, spain, and portugal, to form others of a similar nature--geographical and topographical riches of this _dépôt_. letter xxvii. _boulevards_--their extent--amusements they present--_porte st. denis_--anecdote of charles vi--_porte st. martin_--_la magdeleine_ --ambulating conjurers--means they employ to captivate curiosity. letter xxviii. french funds and national debt--supposed liquidation of an annuity held by a foreigner before the war, and yet unliquidated--value of a franc. letter xxix. grand monthly parade--etiquette observed on this occasion, in the apartments of the palace of the _tuileries_--_bonaparte_--his person --his public character in paris--obstruction which the first consul met with in returning from the parade--_champs elysées_--sports and diversions there practised--horses, brought from marly to this spot, the master-pieces of the two celebrated sculptors, _costou_ --comparison they afford to politicians. letter xxx. _madonna de foligno_--description of the method employed by the french artists to transfer from pannel to canvass this celebrated master-piece of _raphael_. letter xxxi. _pont neuf_--henry iv--his popularity--historical fact concerning the cause of his assassination brought to light--the seine swollen by the rains--it presents a dull scene in comparison to the thames--great number of washerwomen--_la samaritaine_--shoe-blacks on the _pont neuf_--their trade decreased--recruiting officers--the allurements they formerly employed are now become unnecessary in consequence of the conscription--anecdote of a british officer on whom a french recruiter had cast his eye--disappointment that ensued. letter xxxii. balls now very numerous every evening in paris--_bal du salon des Étrangers_--description of the women--comparison between the french and english ladies--character of madame _tallien_--generosity, fortitude, and greatness of soul displayed by women during the most calamitous periods of the revolution--anecdote of a young frenchman smitten by a widow--an attachment, founded on somewhat similar circumstances, recorded by historians of henry iii of france --sympathy, and its effects. letter xxxiii. _pont national_, formerly called the _pont royal_--anecdote of henry iv and a waterman--_coup d'oeil_ from this bridge--quays of paris --galiot of st. cloud--_pont de la concorde_--paris besieged by the swedes, danes, and normans, in --the seine covered with their vessels for the space of two leagues--a vessel ascends the seine from rouen to paris in four days--engineers have ever judged it practicable to render the seine navigable, from its mouth to the capital, for vessels of a certain burden--riches accruing from commerce pave the way to the ruin of states, as well as the extension of their conquests. letter xxxiv. french literature--effects produced on it by the revolution--the sciences preferred to literature, and for what reason--the french government has flattered the literati and artists; but the solid distinctions have been reserved for men of science--epic poetry --tragedy--comedy--novels--moral fable--madrigal and epigram--romance --lyric poetry--song--journals. letter xxxv. _pont au change_--_palais de justice_--once a royal residence --banquet given there, in , by philip the fair, at which were present edward ii and his queen isabella--alterations which this palace has undergone, in consequence of having, at different times, been partly reduced to ashes--madame _la motte_ publicly whipped--in , _lewis xvi_ here held a famous bed of justice, in which _d'espresmenil_ struck the first blow at royalty--he was exiled to the _ile de st. marguerite_--after having stirred up all the parliaments against the royal authority, he again became the humble servant of the crown--after the revolution, the _palais de justice_ was the seat of the revolutionary tribunal--_dumas_, its president, proposed to assemble there five or six hundred victims at a time--he was the next day condemned to death by the same tribunal--the _palais de justice_, now the seat of different tribunals--the _grande chambre_ newly embellished in the antique style--_la conciergerie_, the place of confinement of _lavoisier_, _malsherbes_, _cordorcet_, _&c._--fortitude displayed by the hapless _marie-antoinette_ after her condemnation--_pont st. michel_--_pont notre-dame_--cathedral of _notre-dame_--anecdote of _pepin_ the short--devastations committed in this cathedral--medallions of _abélard_ and _héloïse_ to be seen near _notre-dame_ in front of the house where _fulbert_, her supposed uncle, resided--_petit pont_--_pont au double_--_pont marie_--workmen now employed in the construction of three new bridges--_pont de la tournelle_. letter xxxvi. paris a charming abode for a man of fortune--summary of its advantages--_idalium_--_tivoli_--_frascati_--_paphos_--_la phantasmagorie_ of _robertson_--_fitzjames_, the famous ventriloquist--method of converting a galantee-show into an exhibition somewhat similar to that of the phantasmagorists. letter xxxvii. paris the most melancholy abode in the world for a man without money --_restaurateurs_--in , _boulanger_ first conceived the idea of _restoring_ the exhausted animal functions of the delibitated parisians--he found many imitators--the _restaurateurs_, in order to make their business answer, constitute themselves _traiteurs_--_la barrière_--_beauvilliers_, _robert_, _naudet_, and _véry_ dispute the palm in the art of appicius--description of _beauvilliers'_ establishment--his bill of fare--expense of dining at a fashionable _restaurateur's_ in paris--contrast between establishments of this kind existing before the revolution, and those in vogue at the present day--cheap eating-houses--the company now met with at the fashionable rendezvous of good cheer compared with that seen here in former times--_cabinets particuliers_--uses to which they are applied--advantages of a _restaurateur's_--_beauvilliers_ pays great attention to his guests--cleanly and alert waiters--this establishment is admirably well managed. volume second. letter xxxviii. national institution of the deaf and dumb--france indebted to the philanthropic _abbé de l'Épée_ for the discovery of the mode of instructing them--it has been greatly improved by _sicard_, the present institutor--explanation of his system of instruction--the deaf and dumb are taught grammar, metaphysics, logic, religion, the use of the globes, geography, arithmetic, history, natural history, arts and trades--almost every thing used by them is made by themselves--lessons of analysis which astonish the spectators. letter xxxix. public women--charlemagne endeavours to banish them from paris--his daughters, though addicted to illicit enjoyments, die universally regretted--_les filles dieu_--_les filles pénitentes ou repenties_ --courtesans--luxury displayed in their equipages and houses--kept women--opera-dancers--secret police maintained by lewis xvi, in --grisettes--demireps--a french woman, at thirty, makes an excellent friend--_rousseau's_ opinion of this particular class of women in paris. letter xl. national institution of the industrious blind--circumstance which gave rise to this establishment--_valentin haüy_, its founder, found his project seconded by the philanthropic society--his plan of instruction detailed--museum of the blind--after two or three lessons, a blind child here teaches himself to read without the further help of any master. letter xli. _théâtre des arts et de la république_, or grand french opera--old opera-house burnt down, and a new one built and opened in days --description of the present house--operas of _gluck_; also those of _piccini_ and _sacchini_--gluckists and piccinists--the singing is the weakest department at the french opera--merits of the singers of both sexes--choruses very full--orchestra famous--the chief consul, being very partial to italian music, sends to that land of harmony to procure the finest musical compositions. letter xlii. dancing improved in france--effect of some of the ballets--_noverre_ and _gardel_ first introduce them on the french stage--rapid change of scenery--merits of the dancers of both sexes--the rector of st. roch refuses to admit into that church the corpse of mademoiselle _chameroi_--the dancers in private society now emulate those who make dancing their profession--receipts of the opera. letter xliii. new year's day still celebrated in paris on the st of january --customs which prevail there on that occasion--_denon's_ account of the french expedition to egypt--that country was the cradle of the arts and sciences--_fourrier_ confirms the theory of _dupuis_, respecting the origin, &c. of the figures of the zodiac. letter xliv. _hôtel des invalides_--it was projected by henry iv and erected by lewis xiv--temple of mars--to its arches are suspended the standards and colours taken from the enemy--two british flags only are among the number--monument of _turenne_--circumstances of his death--dome of the _invalides_--its refectories and kitchens--anecdote of peter the great--reflections on establishments of this description--_champ de mars_--_École militaire_--various scenes of which the _champ de mars_ has been the theatre--death of _bailly_--modern national fêtes in france, a humble imitation of the olympic games. letter xlv. object of the different learned and scientific institutions, which, before the revolution, held their sittings in the _louvre_--anecdote of cardinal richelieu--national institute of arts and sciences --organization of that learned body--description of the apartments of the institute--account of its public quarterly meeting of the th nivose, year x, ( th of january, )--marriage of mademoiselle _beauharnois_ to _louis bonaparte_. letter xlvi. _opéra buffa_--the italian comedians who came to paris in , had a rapid influence on the musical taste of the french public--performers of the new italian company--productions of _cimarosa_, _paësiello_, &c.--madame _bolla_. letter xlvii. present state of public worship--summary of the proceedings of the constitutional clergy--national councils of the gallican church held at paris--conduct of the pope, _pius vii_--the cardinal legate, _caprara_, arrives in paris--the concordat is signed--subsequent transactions. letter xlviii. _pantheon_--description of this edifice--_marat_ and _mirabeau_ pantheonized and dispantheonized--the remains of _voltaire_ and _rousseau_ removed hither--the pantheon in danger of falling--this apprehension no longer exists--_bonaparte_ leaves paris for lyons. letter xlix. scientific societies of paris--_société philotechnique_--_société libre des sciences, lettres, et arts_--_athénée des arts_--_société philomatique_--_société académique des sciences_--_société galvanique_--_société des belles-lettres_--_académie de législation_ --_observateurs de l'homme_--_athénée de paris_. letter l. coffee-houses--character of the company who frequent them--contrast between the coffee-houses of the present and former times--coffee first introduced at paris, in , by the turkish ambassador--_café méchanique_--subterraneous coffee-houses of the _palais du tribunat_. letter li. public instruction--the ancient colleges and universities are replaced by primary schools, secondary schools, lyceums, and special schools--national pupils--annual cost of these establishments --contrast between the old system of education and the new plan, recently organized. letter lii. milliners--_montesquieu's_ observation on the commands of the fair sex--millinery a very extensive branch of trade in paris--_bal de l'opéra_--dress of the men and women--adventures are the chief object of those who frequent these masquerades. letter liii. _théâtre français de la république_--the house described--list of the stock-pieces--names of their authors--_fabre d'eglantine_--his _philinte de molière_ a _chef-d'oeuvre_--some account of its author --_la chaussée_ the father of the _drame_, a tragi-comic species of dramatic composition. letter liv. principal performers in tragedy at the _théâtre français_--_vanhove_, _monvel_, _st. prix_, and _naudet_--_talma_, and _lafond_--_st. fal_, _damas_, and _dupont_--mesdames _raucourt_ and _vestris_--mesdames _fleury_, _talma_, _bourgoin_, and _volnais_--mesdames _suin_ and _thénard_--_début_ of mademoiselle _duchesnois_; madame _xavier_, and mademoiselle _georges_--disorderly conduct of the _duchesnistes_, who are routed by the _georgistes_. letter lv. principal performers in comedy at the _théâtre français_--_vanhove_, and _naudet_--_molé_, _fleury_, and _baptiste_ the elder--_st. fal_, _dupont_, _damas_, and _armand_--_grandménil_, and _caumont_ --_dugazon_, _dazincourt_, and _larochelle_--mesdemoiselles _contat_, and _mézeray_--madame _talma_--mesdemoiselles _mars, bourgoin_, and _gros_--mesdemoiselles _lachassaigne_ and _thénard_--mesdemoiselles _devienne_ and _desbrosses_--contrast between the state of the french stage before and since the revolution. letter lvi. french women fond of appearing in male attire--costume of the french ladies--contrast it now presents to that formerly worn--the change in their dress has tended to strengthen their constitution--the women in paris extremely cleanly in their persons--are now very healthy. letter lvii. the studies in the colleges and universities interrupted by bands of insurgents--_collège de france_--it is in this country the only establishment where every branch of human knowledge is taught in its fullest extent--was founded by francis i--disputes between this new college and the university--its increasing progress--the improvements in the sciences spread by the instruction of this college--its present state. letter lviii. _théâtre de l'opéra comique_--authors who have furnished it with stock-pieces, and composers who have set them to music--principal performers at this theatre--_elleviou_, _gavaudan_, _philippe_, and _gaveaux_--_chenard_, _martin_, _rézicourt_, _juliet_, and _moreau_ --_solié_, and _st. aubin_--_dozainville_, and _lesage_--mesdames _st. aubin_, _scio_, _lesage_, _crétu_, _philis_ the elder, _gavaudan_, and _pingenet_--mesdames _dugazon_, _philippe_, and _gonthier_. letter lix. france owes her salvation to the _savans_ or men of science --polytechnic school--its object--its formation and subsequent progress--changes recently introduced into this interesting establishment. letter lx. pickpockets and sharpers--anecdote of a female swindler--anecdote of a sharper--housebreakers--_chauffeurs_--a new species of assassins --_place de grève_--punishment for thieves re-established--on the continent, ladies flock to the execution of criminals. letter lxi. schools for public services--the polytechnic school, the grand nursery whence the pupils are transplanted into the schools of artillery, military engineers, bridges and highways, mines, naval engineers, and navigation--account of these schools--_prytanée français_--special schools--special school of painting and sculpture --competitions--national school of architecture--conservatory of music--present state of music in france--music has done wonders in reviving the courage of the french soldiers--the french are no less indebted to _rouget de lille_, author of the _marseillois_, than the spartans were to _tyrtæus_--gratuitous school for drawing--veterinary school--new special schools to le established in france. letter lxii. funerals--no medium in them under the old _régime_--ceremonies formerly observed--those practised at the present day--marriages --contrast they present. letter lxiii. public libraries--_bibliothèque nationale_--its acquisitions since the revolution--school for oriental living languages. letter lxiv. _bibliothèque mazarine_--_bibliothèque du panthéon_--_bibliothèque de l'arsenal_--the arsenal--other libraries and literary _dépôts_ in paris. letter lxv. dancing--nomenclature of caperers in paris, from the wealthiest classes down to the poorest--beggars form the last link of the chain. letter lxvi. _bureau des longitudes_--is on a more extensive scale than the board of longitude in england--national observatory--subterraneous quarries that have furnished the stone with which most of the houses in paris are constructed--measures taken to prevent the buildings in paris from being swallowed up in these extensive labyrinths--present state of the observatory--_lalande_, _méchain_, and _bouvard_--_carroché_, and _lenoir_--_lavoisier_, and _borda_--_delambre_, _laplace_, _burckhardt_, _vidal_, _biot_, and _puisson_--new french weights and measures--concise account of the operations employed in measuring an arc of the terrestrial meridian--table of the new french measures and weights--their correspondence with the old, and also with those of england. letter lxvii. _dépôt de la marine_--an establishment much wanted in england. letter lxviii. _théâtre louvois_--_picard_, the manager of this theatre, is the _molière_ of his company--_la grande ville, ou les provinciaux à paris_--principal performers at this theatre--_picard_, _devigny_, _dorsan_, and _clozel_--mesdemoiselles _adeline_, _molière_, _lescot_, and madame _molé_--_théâtre du vaudeville_--authors who write for this theatre--principal performers--public malignity, the main support of this theatre. letter lxix. _hôtel de la monnaie_--description of this building--_musée des mines_--formed by m. _sage_--the arrangement of this cabinet is excellent--_cabinet du conseil des mines_--principal mineral substances discovered in france since the revolution. letter lxx. _théâtre montansier_--principal performers--_ambigu comique_--the curiosity of a stranger may be satisfied in a single visit to each of the minor theatres in paris. letter lxxi. police of paris--historical sketch of it--its perfections and imperfections--anecdote of a minister of police--_mouchards_ --anecdote which shews the detestation in which they are held--the parisian police extends to foreign countries--this truth exemplified by two remarkable facts--no _habeas corpus_ in france. letter lxxii. the _savans_ saved france, when their country was invaded --astonishing exertions made by the french on that occasion--anecdote relating to _robespierre_--extraordinary resources created by the men of science--means employed for increasing the manufacture of powder, cannon, and muskets--the produce of these new manufactories contrasted with that of the old ones--territorial acquisitions of the french--the carnival revived in paris. letter lxxiii. public gaming-houses--_académies de jeu_, which existed in paris before the revolution--gaming-houses licensed by the police--the privilege of granting those licences is farmed by a private individual--description of the _maisons de jeu_--anecdote of an old professed gambler--gaming prevails in all the principal towns of france--the excuse of the old government for promoting gaming, is reproduced at the present day. letter lxxiv. museum of natural history, or _jardin des plantes_--is much enlarged since the revolution--one of the first establishments of instruction in europe--contrast between its former state and that in which it now is--_fourcroy_, the present director--his eloquence--collections in this establishment--curious articles which claim particular notice. letter lxxv. the carnival--that of described--the carnival of modern times, an imitation of the saturnalia of the ancients--was for some years prohibited, since the revolution--contrast between the carnival under the monarchy and under the republican government. letter lxxvi. _palais du sénat conservateur_, or _luxembourg_ palace--mary of medicis, by whom it was erected, died in a garret--it belonged to _monsieur_, before the revolution--improvements in the garden of the senate--national nursery formed in an adjoining piece of ground --_bastille_--_le temple_--its origin--lewis xvi and his family confined in this modern state-prison. letter lxxvii. present slate of the french press--the liberty of the press, the measure of civil liberty--comparison, between the state of the press in france and in england. letter lxxviii. hospitals and other charitable institutions--_hôtel-dieu_--extract from the report of the _academy of sciences_ on this abode of pestilence--reforms introduced into it since the revolution--the present method of purifying french hospitals deserves to be adopted in england--other hospitals in paris--_hospice de la maternité_--_la salpêtrière_--_bicêtre_--faculties and colleges of physicians, as will as colleges and commonalties of surgeons, replaced in france by schools of health--school of medicine of paris--france overrun by quacks--new law for checking the serious mischief they occasion --society of medicine--gratuitous school of pharmacy--free society of apothecaries--changes in the teaching and practice of medicine in france. letter lxxix. private seminaries for youth of both sexes--female education --contrast between that formerly received in convents, and that now practised in the modern french boarding-schools. letter lxxx. progressive aggrandisement of paris--its origin--under the name of lutetia, it was the capital of gaul--julian's account of it--the sieges it has sustained--successively embellished by different kings --progressive amelioration of the manners of its inhabitants--rapid view of the causes which improved them, from the reign of philip augustus to that of lewis xiv--contrast between the number of public buildings before and since the revolution--population of paris, from official documents--ancient division of paris--is now divided into twelve mayoralties--_barrières_ and high wall by which it is surrounded--anecdote of the _commis des barrières_ seizing an egyptian mummy. letter lxxxi. french furniture--the events of the revolution have contributed to improve the taste of persons connected with the furnishing line --contrast between the style of the furniture in the parisian houses in - and - --_les gobelins_, the celebrated national manufactory for tapestry--_la savonnerie_, a national manufactory for carpeting--national manufactory of plate-glass. letter lxxxii. academy of fine arts at the _ci-devant collège de navarre_ --description of the establishment of the _piranesi_--three hundred artists of different nations distributed in the seven classes of this academy--different works executed here in painting, sculpture, architecture, mosaic, and engraving. letter lxxxiii. conservatory of arts and trades--it contains a numerous collection of machines of every description employed in the mechanical arts --_belier hydraulique_, newly invented by _montgolfier_--models of curious buildings--the mechanical arts in france have experienced more or less the impulse given to the sciences--the introduction of the spanish merinos has greatly improved the french wools--new inventions and discoveries adopted in the french manufactories --characteristic difference of the present state of french industry, and that in which it was before the revolution. letter lxxxiv. society for the encouragement of national industry--its origin--its objects detailed--free society of agriculture--amidst the storms of the revolution, agriculture has teen improved in france--causes of that improvement--the present state of agriculture briefly contrasted with that which existed before the revolution--_didot's_ stereotypic editions of the classics--advantages attending the use of stereotype --this invention claimed by france, but proved to belong to britain --printing-office of the republic, the most complete typographical establishment in being. letter lxxxv. present state of society in paris--in that city are three very distinct kinds of society--description of each of these--other societies are no more than a diminutive of the preceding--philosophy of the french in forgeting their misfortunes and losses--the signature of the definitive treaty announced by the sound of cannon --in the evening a grand illumination is displayed. letter lxxxvi. urbanity of the parisians towards strangers--the shopkeepers in paris overcharge their articles--furnished lodgings--their price--the _milords anglais_ now eclipsed by the russian counts--expense of board in paris--job and hackney carriages--are much improved since the revolution--fare of the latter--expense of the former --cabriolets--regulations of the police concerning these carriages --the negligence of drivers now meets with due chastisement--french women astonish bespattered foreigners by walking the streets with spotless stockings--valets-de-place--their wages augmented--general observations--an english traveller, on visiting paris, should provide himself with letters of recommendation--unless an englishman acquires a competent knowledge of the manners of the country, he fails in what ought to be the grand object of foreign travel--situation of one who brings no letters to paris--the french now make a distinction between individuals only, not between nations--are still indulgent to the english--animadversion on the improper conduct of irrational british youths. letter lxxxvii. divorce--the indissolubility of marriage in france, before the revolution, was supposed to promote adultery--no such excuse can now be pleaded--origin of the present laws on divorce--comparison on that subject between the french and the romans--the effect of these laws illustrated by examples--the stage ought to be made to conduce to the amelioration of morals--in france, the men blame the women, with a view of extenuating their own irregularities--to reform women, men ought to begin by reforming themselves. letter lxxxviii. the author is recalled to england--mendicants--the streets of paris less infested by them now than before the revolution--pawnbrokers --their numbers much increased in paris, and why--_mont de piété_ --lotteries now established in the principal towns in france--the fatal consequences of this incentive to gaming--newspapers--their numbers considerably augmented--journals the most in request--baths --_bains vigier_ described--school of natation--telegraphs--those in paris differ from those in use in england--telegraphic language may be abridged--private collections most deserving of notice in paris --_dépôt d'armes_ of _m. boutet_--_m. régnier_, an ingenious mechanic --the author's reason for confining his observations to the capital --metamorphoses in paris--the site of the famous jacobin convent is intended for a market-place--arts and sciences are become popular in france, since the revolution--the author makes _amende honorable_, or confesses his inability to accomplish the task imposed on him by his friend--he leaves paris. new organization of the national institute.[ ] on the d of pluviôse, year xi ( d of january, ), the french government passed the following decree on this subject. _art_. i. the national institute, at present divided into three classes, shall henceforth consist of four; namely: _first class_--class of physical and mathematical sciences. _second class_--class of the french language and literature. _third class_--class of history and ancient literature. _fourth class_--class of fine arts. the present members of the institute and associated foreigners shall be divided into these four classes. a commission of five members of the institute, appointed by the first consul, shall present to him the plan of this division, which shall be submitted to the approbation of the government. ii. the first class, shall be formed of the ten sections, which at present compose the first class of the institute, of a new section of geography and navigation, and of eight foreign associates. these sections shall be composed and distinguished as follows: mathematical sciences. geometry six members. mechanics six ditto. astronomy six ditto. geography and navigation three ditto. general physics six ditto. physical sciences. chemistry six ditto. mineralogy six ditto. botany six ditto. rural economy and the veterinary art six ditto. anatomy and zoology six ditto. medicine and surgery six ditto. the first class shall name, with the approbation of the chief consul, two perpetual secretaries; the one for the mathematical sciences; the other, for the physical. the perpetual secretaries shall be members of the class, but shall make no part of any section. the first class may elect six of its members from among the other classes of the institute. it may name a hundred correspondents, taken from among the learned men of the nation, and those of foreign countries. iii. the second class shall be composed of forty members. it is particularly charged with the compilation and improvement of the dictionary of the french tongue. with respect to language, it shall examine important works of literature, history, and sciences. the collection of its critical observations shall be published at least four times a year. it shall appoint from its own members, and with the approbation of the first consul, a perpetual secretary, who shall continue to make one of the sixty members of whom the class is composed. it may elect twelve of its members from among those of the other classes of the institute. iv. the third class shall be composed of forty members and eight foreign associates. the learned languages, antiquities and ornaments, history, and all the moral and political sciences in as far as they relate to history, shall be the objects of its researches and labours. it shall particularly endeavour to enrich french literature with the works of greek, latin, and oriental authors, which have not yet been translated. it shall employ itself in the continuation of diplomatic collections. with the approbation of the first consul, it shall name from its own members a perpetual secretary, who shall make one of the forty members of whom the class is composed. it may elect nine of its members from among those of the classes of the institute. it may name sixty national or foreign correspondents. v. the fourth class shall be composed of twenty-eight members and eight foreign associates. they shall be divided into sections, named and composed as follows: painting ten members. sculpture six ditto. architecture six ditto. engraving three ditto. music (composition) three ditto. with the approbation of the first consul, it shall appoint a perpetual secretary, who shall be a member of the class, but shall not make part of the sections. it may elect six of its members from among the other classes of the institute. it may name thirty-six national or foreign correspondents. vi. the associated foreign members shall have a deliberative vote only for objects relating to sciences, literature, and arts. they shall not make part of any section, and shall receive no salary. vii. the present associates of the institute, scattered throughout the republic, shall make part of the one hundred and ninety-six correspondents, attached to the classes of the sciences, belles-lettres, and fine arts. the correspondents cannot assume the title of members of the institute. they shall drop that of correspondents, when they take up their constant residence in paris. viii. the nominations to the vacancies shall be made by each of the classes in which those vacancies shall happen to occur. the persons elected shall be approved by the first consul. ix. the members of the four classes shall have a right to attend reciprocally the private sittings of each of them, and to read papers there when they have made the request. they shall assemble four times a year as the body of the institute, in order to give to each other an account of their transactions. they shall elect in common the librarian and under-librarian, as well as all the agents who belong in common to the institute. each class shall present for the approbation of the government the particular statutes and regulations of its interior police. x. each class shall hold every year a public sitting, at which the other three shall assist. xi. the institute shall receive annually, from the public treasury, francs for each of its members, not associates; francs for each of its perpetual secretaries; and, for its expenses, a sum which shall be determined on, every year, at the request of the institute, and comprised in the budget of the minister of the interior. xii. the institute shall have an administrative commission, composed of five members, two of the first class, and one of each of the other three, appointed by their respective classes. this commission shall cause to be regulated in the general sittings, prescribed in art. ix, every thing relative to the administration, to the general purposes of the institute, and to the division of the funds between the four classes. each class shall afterwards regulate the employment of the funds which shall have been assigned for its expenses, as well as every thing that concerns the printing and publication of its memoirs. xiii. every year, each class shall distribute prizes, the number and value of which shall be regulated as follows: the first class, a prize of francs. the second and third classes, each a prize of francs. and the fourth class, great prizes of painting, sculpture, architecture, and musical composition. those who shall have gained one of these four great prizes, shall be sent to rome, and maintained at the expense of the government. xiv. the minister of the interior is charged with the execution of the present decree, which shall be inserted in the bulletin of the laws. [footnote : referred to in letter xlv, vol. ii of this work.] introduction. on ushering into the world a literary production, custom has established that its parent should give some account of his offspring. indeed, this becomes the more necessary at the present moment, as the short-lived peace, which gave birth to the following sheets, had already ceased before they were entirely printed; and the war in which england and france are now engaged, is of a nature calculated not only to rouse all the energy and ancient spirit of my countrymen, but also to revive their prejudices, and inflame their passions, in a degree proportionate to the enemy's boastful and provoking menace. i therefore premise that those who may be tempted to take up this publication, merely with a view of seeking aliment for their enmity, will, in more respects than one, probably find themselves disappointed. the two nations were not rivals in arms, but in the arts and sciences, at the time these letters were written, and committed to the press; consequently, they have no relation whatever to the present contest. nevertheless, as they refer to subjects which manifest the indefatigable activity of the french in the accomplishment of any grand object, such parts may, perhaps, furnish hints that may not be altogether unimportant at this momentous crisis. the plan most generally adhered to throughout this work, being detailed in letter v, a repetition of it here would be superfluous; and the principal matters to which the work itself relates, are specified in the title. i now come to the point. a long residence in france, and particularly in the capital, having afforded me an opportunity of becoming tolerably well acquainted with its state before the revolution, my curiosity was strongly excited to ascertain the changes which that political phenomenon might have effected. i accordingly availed myself of the earliest dawn of peace to cross the water, and visit paris. since i had left that city in - , a powerful monarchy, established on a possession of fourteen centuries, and on that sort of national prosperity which seemed to challenge the approbation of future ages, had been destroyed by the force of opinion which, like, a subterraneous fire, consumed its very foundations, and plunged the nation into a sea of troubles, in which it was, for several years, tossed about, amid the wreck of its greatness. this is a phenomenon of which antiquity affords no parallel; and it has produced a rapid succession of events so extraordinary as almost to exceed belief. it is not the crimes to which it has given birth that will be thought improbable: the history of revolutions, as well ancient as modern, furnishes but too many examples of them; and few have been committed, the traces of which are not to be found in the countries where the imagination of the multitude has been exalted by strong and new ideas, respecting liberty and equality. but what posterity will find difficult to believe, is the agitation of men's minds, and the effervescence of the passions, carried to such a pitch, as to stamp the french revolution with a character bordering on the marvellous --yes; posterity will have reason to be astonished at the facility with which the human mind can be modified and made to pass from one extreme to another; at the suddenness, in short, with which the ideas and manners of the french were changed; so powerful, on the one hand, is the ascendency of certain imaginations; and, on the other, so great is the weakness of the vulgar! it is in the recollection of most persons, that the agitation of the public mind in france was such, for a while, that, after having overthrown the monarchy and its supports; rendered private property insecure; and destroyed individual freedom; it threatened to invade foreign countries, at the same time pushing before it liberty, that first blessing of man, when it is founded on laws, and the most dangerous of chimeras, when it is without rule or restraint. the greater part of the causes which excited this general commotion, existed before the assembly of the states-general in . it is therefore important to take a mental view of the moral and political situation of france at that period, and to follow, in imagination at least, the chain of ideas, passions, and errors, which, having dissolved the ties of society, and worn out the springs of government, led the nation by gigantic strides into the most complete anarchy. without enumerating the different authorities which successively ruled in france after the fall of the throne, it appears no less essential to remind the reader that, in this general disorganization, the inhabitants themselves, though breathing the same air, scarcely knew that they belonged to the same nation. the altars overthrown; all the ancient institutions annihilated; new festivals and ceremonies introduced; factious demagogues honoured with an apotheosis; their busts exposed to public veneration; men and cities changing names; a portion of the people infected with atheism, and disguised in the livery of guilt and folly; all this, and more, exercised the reflection of the well-disposed in a manner the most painful. in a word, though france was peopled with the same individuals, it seemed inhabited by a new nation, entirely different from the old one in its government, its creed, its principles, its manners, and even its customs. war itself assumed a new face. every thing relating to it became extraordinary: the number of the combatants, the manner of recruiting the armies, and the means of providing supplies for them; the manufacture of powder, cannon, and muskets; the ardour, impetuosity, and forced marches of the troops; their extortions, their successes, and their reverses; the choice of the generals, and the superior talents of some of them, together with the springs, by which these enormous bodies of armed men were moved and directed, were equally new and astonishing. history tells us that in poor countries, where nothing inflames cupidity and ambition, the love alone of the public good causes changes to be tried in the government; and that those changes derange not the ordinary course of society; whereas, among rich nations, corrupted by luxury, revolutions are always effected through secret motives of jealousy and interest; because there are great places to be usurped, and great fortunes to be invaded. in france, the revolution covered the country with ruins, tears, and blood, because means were not to be found to moderate in the people that _revolutionary spirit_ which parches, in the bud, the promised fruits of liberty, when its violence is not repressed. few persons were capable of keeping pace with the rapid progress of the revolution. those who remained behind were considered as guilty of desertion. the authors of the first constitution were accused of being _royalists_; the old partisans of republicanism were punished as _moderates_; the land-owners, as _aristocrates_; the monied men, as _corrupters_; the bankers and financiers, as _blood-suckers_; the shop-keepers, as _promoters of famine_; and the newsmongers, as _alarmists_. the factious themselves, in short, were alternately proscribed, as soon as they ceased to belong to the ruling faction. in this state of things, society became a prey to the most baneful passions. mistrust entered every heart; friendship had no attraction; relationship, no tie; and men's minds, hardened by the habit of misfortune, or overwhelmed by fear, no longer opened to pity. terror compressed every imagination; and the revolutionary government, exercising it to its fullest extent, struck off a prodigious number of heads, filled the prisons with victims, and continued to corrupt the morals of the nation by staining it with crimes. but all things have an end. the tyrants fell; the dungeons were thrown open; numberless victims emerged from them; and france seemed to recover new life; but still bewildered by the _revolutionary spirit_, wasted by the concealed poison of anarchy, exhausted by her innumerable sacrifices, and almost paralyzed by her own convulsions, she made but impotent efforts for the enjoyment of liberty and justice. taxes became more burdensome; commerce was annihilated; industry, without aliment; paper-money, without value; and specie, without circulation. however, while the french nation was degraded at home by this series of evils, it was respected abroad through the rare merit of some of its generals, the splendour of its victories, and the bravery of its soldiers. during these transactions, there was formed in the public mind that moral resistance which destroys not governments by violence, but undermines them. the intestine commotions were increasing; the conquests of the french were invaded; their enemies were already on their frontiers; and the division which had broken out between the directory and the legislative body, again threatened france with a total dissolution, when a man of extraordinary character and talents had the boldness to seize the reins of authority, and stop the further progress of the revolution.[ ] taking at the full the tide which leads on to fortune, he at once changed the face of affairs, not only within the limits of the republic, but throughout europe. yet, after all their triumphs, the french have the mortification to have failed in gaining that for which they first took up arms, and for which they have maintained so long and so obstinate a struggle. when a strong mound has been broken down, the waters whose amassed volume it opposed, rush forward, and, in their impetuous course, spread afar terror and devastation. on visiting the scene where this has occurred, we naturally cast our eyes in every direction, to discover the mischief which they have occasioned by their irruption; so, then, on reaching the grand theatre of the french revolution, did i look about for the traces of the havock it had left behind; but, like a river which had regained its level, and flowed again in its natural bed, this political torrent had subsided, and its ravages were repaired in a manner the most surprising. however, at the particular request of an estimable friend, i have endeavoured to draw the contrast which, in - and - , paris presented to the eye of an impartial observer. in this arduous attempt i have not the vanity to flatter myself that i have been successful, though i have not hesitated to lay under contribution every authority likely to promote my object. the state of the french capital, before the revolution, i have delineated from the notes i had myself collected on the spot, and for which purpose i was, at that time, under the necessity of consulting almost as many books as don quixote read on knight-errantry; but the authors from whom i have chiefly borrowed, are st. foix, mercier, dulaure, pujoulx, and biot. my invariable aim has been to relate, _sine ira nec studio_, such facts and circumstances as have come to my knowledge, and to render to every one that justice which i should claim for myself. after a revolution which has trenched on so many opposite interests, the reader cannot be surprised, if information, derived from such a variety of sources, should sometimes seem to bear the character of party-spirit. should this appear _on the face of the record_, i can only say that i have avoided entering into politics, in order that no bias of that sort might lead me to discolour or distort the truths i have had occasion to state; and i have totally rejected those communications which, from their tone of bitterness, personality, and virulence, might be incompatible with the general tenour of an impartial production. till the joint approbation of some competent judges, who visited the french capital after having perused, in manuscript, several of these letters, had stamped on them a comparative degree of value, no one could think more lightly of them than the author. urged repeatedly to produce them to the public, i have yielded with reluctance, and in the fullest confidence that, notwithstanding the recent change of circumstances, a liberal construction will be put on my sentiments and motives. i have taken care that my account of the national establishments in france should be perfectly correct; and, in fact, i have been favoured with the principal information it contains by their respective directors. in regard to the other topics on which i have touched, i have not failed to consult the best authorities, even in matters, which, however trifling in themselves, acquire a relative importance, from being illustrative of some of the many-coloured effects of a revolution, which has humbled the pride of many, deranged the calculations of all, disappointed the hopes of not a few, and deceived those even by whom it had been engendered and conducted. yet, whatever pains i have taken to be strictly impartial, it cannot be denied that, in publishing a work of this description at a time when the self-love of most men is mortified, and their resentment awakened, i run no small risk of displeasing all parties, because i attach myself to none, but find them all more or less deserving of censure. without descending either to flattery or calumny, i speak both well and ill of the french, because i copy nature, and neither draw an imaginary portrait, nor write a systematic narrative. if i have occasionally given vent to my indignation in glancing at the excesses of the revolution, i have not withheld my tribute of applause from those institutions, which, being calculated to benefit mankind by the gratuitous diffusion of knowledge, would reflect honour on any nation. in other respects, i have not been unmindful of that excellent precept of tacitus, in which he observes that "the principal duty of the historian is to rescue from oblivion virtuous actions, and to make bad men dread infamy and posterity for what they have said and done."[ ] in stating facts, it is frequently necessary to support them by a relation of particular circumstances, which may corroborate them in an unquestionable manner. feeling this truth, i have some times introduced myself on my canvass, merely to shew that i am not an ideal traveller. i mean one of those pleasant fellows who travel post in their elbow-chair, sail round the world on a map suspended to one side of their room, cross the seas with a pocket-compass lying on their table, experience a shipwreck by their fireside, make their escape when it scorches their shins, and land on a desert island in their _robe de chambre_ and slippers. i have, therefore, here and there mentioned names, time, and place, to prove that, _bonâ fide_, i went to paris immediately after the ratification of the preliminary treaty. to banish uniformity in my description of that metropolis, i have, as much as possible, varied my subjects. fashions, sciences, absurdities, anecdotes, education, fêtes, useful arts, places of amusement, music, learned and scientific institutions, inventions, public buildings, industry, agriculture, &c. &c. &c. being all jumbled together in my brain, i have thence drawn them, like tickets from a lottery; and it will not, i trust, be deemed presumptuous in me to indulge a hope that, in proportion to the blanks, there will be found no inadequate number of prizes. i have pointed out the immense advantages which france is likely to derive from her schools for public services, and other establishments of striking utility, such as the _dépôt de la guerre_ and the _dépôt de la marine_, in order that the british government may be prompted to form institutions, which, if not exactly similar, may at least answer the same purpose. instead of copying the french in objects of fickleness and frivolity, why not borrow from them what is really deserving of imitation? it remains for me to observe, by way of stimulating the ambition of british genius, that, in france, the arts and sciences are now making a rapid and simultaneous progress; first, because the revolution has made them popular in that country; and, secondly, because they are daily connected by new ties, which, in a great measure, render them inseparable. facts are there recurred to, less with a view to draw from them immediate applications than to develop the truths resulting from them. the first step is from these facts to their most simple consequences, which are little more than bare assertions. from these the _savans_ proceed to others more minute, till, at length, by imperceptible degrees, they arrive at the most abstracted generalities. with them, method is an induction incessantly verified by experiment. whence, it gives to human intelligence, not wings which lead it astray, but reins which guide it. united by this common philosophy, the sciences and arts in france advance together; and the progress made by one of them serves to promote that of the rest. there, the men who profess them, considering that their knowledge belongs not to themselves alone, not to their country only, but to all mankind, are continually striving to increase the mass of public knowledge. this they regard as a real duty, which they are proud to discharge; thus treading in the steps of the most memorable men of past ages. then, while the more unlearned and unskilled among us are emulating the patriotic enthusiasm of the french in volunteering, as they did, to resist invasion, let our men of science and genius exert themselves not to be surpassed by the industrious _savans_ and artists of that nation; but let them act on the principle inculcated by the following sublime idea of our illustrious countryman, the founder of modern philosophy. "it may not be amiss," says bacon, "to point out three different kinds, and, as it were, degrees of ambition. the first, that of those who desire to enhance, in their own country, the power they arrogate to themselves: this kind of ambition is both vulgar and degenerate. the second, that of those who endeavour to extend the power and domination of their country, over the whole of the human race: in this kind there is certainly a greater dignity, though; at the same time, no less a share of cupidity. but should any one strive to restore and extend the power and domination of mankind over the universality of things, unquestionably such an ambition, (if it can be so denominated) would be more reasonable and dignified than the others. now, the empire of man, over things, has its foundation exclusively in the arts and sciences; for it is only by an obedience to her laws, that nature can be commanded."[ ] london, june , . [footnote : of two things, we are left to believe one. bonaparte either was or was not invited to put himself at the head of the government of france. it is not probable that the directory should send for him from egypt, in order to say to him: "we are fools and drivelers, unfit to conduct the affairs of the nation; so turn us out of office, and seat yourself in our place." nevertheless, they might have hoped to preserve their tottering authority through his support. be this as it may, there it something so singular in the good fortune which has attended bonaparte from the period of his quitting alexandria, that, were it not known for truth, it might well be taken for fiction. sailing from the road of aboukir on the th of august, , he eludes the vigilance of the english cruisers, and lands at frejus in france on the th of october following, the forty-seventh day after his departure from egypt. on his arrival in paris, so far from giving an account of his conduct to the directory, he turns his back on them; accepts the proposition made to him, from another quarter, to effect a change in the government; on the th of november, carries it into execution; and, profiting by the _popularis aura_, fixes himself at the head of the state, at the same time kicking down the ladder by which he climbed to power. to achieve all this with such promptitude and energy, most assuredly required a mind of no common texture; nor can any one deny that ambition would have done but little towards its accomplishment, had it not been seconded by extraordinary firmness.] [footnote : _"præcipuum munus annalium reor, ne virtutes sileantur, utque praxis dictis factisque ex posteritate et infamiâ metus sit."_] [footnote : "_præterca non abs refuerit, tria hominum ambitionis genera et quasi gradus distinguere. primum eorum qui propriam potentiam in patria sua amplificare cupiunt; quod genus vulgare est et degener. secundum eorum, qui patriæ potentiam et imperium inter humanum genus amplificare nituntur; illud plus certe habet dignitatis, cupiditatis haud minus. quod si quis humani generis ipsius potentiam et imperium in rerum univertitatem instaurare et amplificare conetur ea procul dubio ambitio (si modo ita cocanda sit) reliquls et sanior est et augustior. hominis autem imperium in res, in solis artibus et scientiis ponitur: naturæ enim non imperatur, nisi parendo_." nov. org. scientiarum. aphor. cxxix. (vol. viii. page , new edition of bacon's works. london, printed .)] a sketch of paris, &c. &c. letter i. _calais, october , ._ my dear friend, had you not made it a particular request that i would give you the earliest account of my debarkation in france, i should, probably, not have been tempted to write to you till i reached paris. i well know the great stress which you lay on first impressions; but what little i have now to communicate will poorly gratify your expectation. from the date of this letter, you will perceive that, since we parted yesterday, i have not been dilatory in my motions. no sooner had a messenger from the alien-office brought me the promised passport, or rather his majesty's licence, permitting me to embark for france, than i proceeded on my journey. in nine hours i reached dover, and, being authorized by a proper introduction, immediately applied to mr. mantell, the agent for prisoners of war, cartels, &c. for a passage across the water. an english flag of truce was then in the harbour, waiting only for government dispatches; and i found that, if i could get my baggage visited in time, i might avail myself of the opportunity of crossing the sea in this vessel. on having recourse to the collector of the customs, i succeeded in my wish: the dispatches arriving shortly after, mid my baggage being already shipped, i stepped off the quay into the nancy, on board of which i was the only passenger. a propitious breeze sprang up at the moment, and, in less than three hours, wafted me to calais pier. by the person who carried the dispatches to citizen mengaud, the commissary for this department (_pas de calais_), i sent a card with my name and rank, requesting permission to land and deliver to him a letter from m. otto. this step was indispensable: the vessel which brought me was, i find, the first british flag of truce that has been suffered to enter the harbour, with the exception of the prince of wales packet, now waiting here for the return of a king's messenger from paris; and her captain even has not yet been permitted to go on shore. it therefore appears that i shall be the first englishman, not in an official character, who has set foot on french ground since the ratification of the preliminary treaty. the pier was presently crowded with people gazing at our vessel, as if she presented a spectacle perfectly novel: but, except the tri-coloured cockade in the hats of the military, i could not observe the smallest difference in their general appearance. instead of crops and round wigs, which i expected to see in universal vogue, here were full as many powdered heads and long queues as before the revolution. frenchmen, in general, will, i am persuaded, ever be frenchmen in their dress, which, in my opinion, can never be _revolutionized_, either by precept or example. the _citoyens_, as far as i am yet able to judge, most certainly have not fattened by warfare more than john bull: their visages are as sallow and as thin as formerly, though their persons are not quite so meagre as they are pourtrayed by hogarth. the prospect of peace, however, seemed to have produced an exhilarating effect on all ranks; satisfaction appeared on every countenance. according to custom, a host of inkeepers' domestics boarded the vessel, each vaunting the superiority of his master's accommodations. my old landlord ducrocq presenting himself to congratulate me on my arrival, soon freed me from their importunities, and i, of course, decided in favour of the _lion d'argent_. part of the _boulogne_ flotilla was lying in the harbour. independently of the decks of the gunboats being full of soldiers, with very few sailors intermixed, playing at different games of chance, not a plank, not a log, or piece of timber, was there on the quay but was also covered with similar parties. this then accounts for that rage for gambling, which has carried to such desperate lengths those among them whom the fate of war has lodged in our prisons. my attention was soon diverted from this scene, by a polite answer from the commissary, inviting me to his house. i instantly disembarked to wait on him; my letter containing nothing more than an introduction, accompanied by a request that i might be furnished with a passport to enable me to proceed to paris without delay, citizen mengaud dispatched a proper person to attend me to the town-hall, where the passports are made out, and signed by the mayor; though they are not delivered till they have also received the commissary's signature. however, to lose no time, while one of the clerks was drawing my picture, or, in other words, taking down a minute description of my person, i sent my keys to the custom-house, in order that my baggage might be examined. by what conveyance i was to proceed to paris was the next point to be settled; and this has brought me to the _lion d'argent_. among other vehicles, ducrocq has, in his _remise_, an apparently-good _cabriolet de voyage_, belonging to one of his paris correspondents; but, on account of the wretched state of the roads, he begs me to allow him time to send for his coachmaker, to examine it scrupulously, that i may not be detained by the way, from any accident happening to the carriage. i was just on the point of concluding my letter, when a french naval officer, who was on the pier when i landed, introduced himself to me, to know whether i would do him the favour to accommodate him with a place in the cabriolet under examination. i liked my new friend's appearance and manner too well not to accede to his proposal. the carriage is reported to be in good condition. i shall therefore send my servant on before as a courier, instead of taking him with me as an inside passenger. as we shall travel night and day, and the post-horses will be in readiness at every stage, we may, i am told, expect to reach paris in about forty-two hours. adieu; my next will be from the _great_ city. letter ii. _paris, october , ._ here i am safe arrived; that is, without any broken bones; though my arms, knees, and head are finely pummelled by the jolting of the carriage. well might ducrocq say that the roads were bad! in several places, they are not passable without danger--indeed, the government is so fully aware of this, that an inspector has been dispatched to direct immediate repairs to be made against the arrival of the english ambassador; and, in some _communes_, the people are at work by torch-light. with this exception, my journey was exceedingly pleasant. at ten o'clock the first night, we reached _montreuil_, where we supped; the next day we breakfasted at _abbeville_, dined at _amiens_, and supped that evening at _clermont_. the road between _calais_ and _paris_ is too well known to interest by description. most of the abbeys and monasteries, which present themselves to the eye of the traveller, have either been converted into hospitals or manufactories. few there are, i believe, who will deny that this change is for the better. a receptacle for the relief of suffering indigence conveys a consolatory idea to the mind of the friend of human nature; while the lover of industry cannot but approve of an establishment which, while it enriches a state, affords employ to the needy and diligent. this, unquestionably, is no bad appropriation of these buildings, which, when inhabited by monks, were, for the most part, no more than an asylum of sloth, hypocrisy, pride, and ignorance. the weather was fine, which contributed not a little to display the country to greater advantage; but the improvements recently made in agriculture are too striking to escape the notice of the most inattentive observer. the open plains and rising grounds of _ci-devant picardy_ which, from ten to fifteen years ago, i have frequently seen, in this season, mostly lying fallow, and presenting the aspect of one wide, neglected waste, are now all well cultivated, and chiefly laid down in corn; and the corn, in general, seems to have been sown with more than common attention. my fellow-traveller, who was a _lieutenant de vaisseau_, belonging to _latouche tréville's_ flotilla, proved a very agreeable companion, and extremely well-informed. this officer positively denied the circumstance of any of their gun-boats being moored with chains during our last attack. while he did ample justice to the bravery of our people, he censured the manner in which it had been exerted. the divisions of boats arriving separately, he said, could not afford to each other necessary support, and were thus exposed to certain discomfiture. i made the best defence i possibly could; but truth bears down all before it. the loss on the side of the french, my fellow-traveller declared, was no more than seven men killed and forty-five wounded. such of the latter as were in a condition to undergo the fatigue of the ceremony, were carried in triumphal procession through the streets of _boulogne_, where, after being harangued by the mayor, they were rewarded with civic crowns from the hands of their fair fellow-citizens. early the second morning after our departure from _calais_, we reached the town of _st. denis_, which, at one time since the revolution, changed its name for that of _françiade_. i never pass through this place without calling to mind the persecution which poor abélard suffered from adam, the abbot, for having dared to say, that the body of _st. denis_, first bishop of paris, in , which had been preserved in this abbey among the relics, was not that of the areopagite, who died in . the ridiculous stories, imposed on the credulity of the zealous catholics, respecting this wonderful saint, have been exhibited in their proper light by voltaire, as you may see by consulting the _questions sur l'encyclopédie_, at the article _denis_. it is in every person's recollection that, in consequence of the national convention having decreed the abolition of royalty in france, it was proposed to annihilate every vestige of it throughout the country. but, probably, you are not aware of the thorough sweep that was made among the sepultures in this abbey of _st. denis_. the bodies of the kings, queens, princes, princesses, and celebrated personages, who had been interred here for nearly fifteen hundred years, were taken up, and literally reduced to ashes. not a wreck was left behind to make a relic. the remains of turenne alone were respected. all the other bodies, together with the entrails or hearts, enclosed in separate urns, were thrown into large pits, lined with a coat of quick lime: they were then covered with the same substance; and the pits were afterwards filled up with earth. most of them, as may be supposed, were in a state of complete putrescency; of some, the bones only remained, though a few were in good preservation. the bodies of the consort of charles i. henrietta maria of france, daughter of henry iv, who died in , aged , and of their daughter henrietta stuart, first wife of monsieur, only brother to lewis xiv, who died in , aged , both interred in the vault of the bourbons, were consumed in the general destruction. the execution of this decree was begun at _st. denis_ on saturday the th of october , and completed on the th of the same month, in presence of the municipality and several other persons. on the th of november following, all the treasure of _st. denis_, (shrines, relics, &c.) was removed: the whole was put into large wooden chests, together with all the rich ornaments of the church, consisting of chalices, pyxes, cups, copes, &c. the same day these valuable articles were sent off, in great state, in waggons, decorated for the purpose, to the national convention. we left _st. denis_ after a hasty breakfast; and, on reaching paris, i determined to drive to the residence of a man whom i had never seen; but from whom i had little doubt of a welcome reception. i accordingly alighted in the _rue neuve st. roch_, where i found b----a, who perfectly answered the character given me of him by m. s----i. you already know that, through the interest of my friend, captain o----y, i was so fortunate as to procure the exchange of b----a's only son, a deserving youth, who had been taken prisoner at sea, and languished two years in confinement in portchester-castle. before i could introduce myself, one of young b----a's sisters proclaimed my name, as if by inspiration; and i was instantly greeted with the cordial embraces of the whole family. this scene made me at once forget the fatigues of my journey; and, though i had not been in bed for three successive nights, the agreeable sensations excited in my mind, by the unaffected expression of gratitude, banished every inclination to sleep. if honest b----a and his family felt themselves obliged to me, i felt myself doubly and trebly obliged to captain o----y; for, to his kind exertion, was i indebted for the secret enjoyment arising from the performance of a disinterested action. s----i was no sooner informed of my arrival, than he hastened to obey the invitation to meet me at dinner, and, by his presence, enlivened the family party. after spending a most agreeable day, i retired to a temporary lodging, which b----a had procured me in the neighbourhood. i shall remain in it no longer than till i can suit myself with apartments in a private house, where i can be more retired, or at least subject to less noise, than in a public hotel. of the fifty-eight hours which i employed in performing my journey hither from london, forty-four were spent on my way between calais and paris; a distance that i have often travelled with ease in thirty-six, when the roads were in tolerable repair. considerable delay too is at present occasioned by the erection of _barrières_, or turnpike-bars, which did not exist before the revolution. at this day, they are established throughout all the departments, and are an insuperable impediment to expedition; for, at night, the toll-gatherers are fast asleep, and the bars being secured, you are obliged to wait patiently till these good citizens choose to rise from their pillow. to counterbalance this inconvenience, you are not now plagued, as formerly, by custom-house officers on the frontiers of _every_ department. my baggage being once searched at _calais_, experienced no other visit; but, at the upper town of _boulogne_, a sight of my travelling passport was required; by mistake in the dark, i gave the _commis_ a scrawl, put into my hands by ducrocq, containing an account of the best inns on the road. would you believe that this inadvertency detained us a considerable time, so extremely inquisitive are they, at the present moment, respecting all papers? at _calais_, the custom-house officers even examined every piece of paper used in the packing of my baggage. this scrutiny is not particularly adopted towards englishmen; but must, i understand, be undergone by travellers of every country, on entering the territory of the republic. _p. s._ lord cornwallis is expected with impatience; and, at _st. denis_, an escort of dragoons of the th demi-brigade is in waiting to attend him into paris. letter iii. _paris, october , ._ on approaching this capital, my curiosity was excited in the highest degree; and, as the carriage passed rapidly along from the _barrière_, through the _porte st. denis_, to the _rue neuve st. roch_, my eyes wandered in all directions, anxiously seeking every shade of distinction between _monarchical_ and _republican_ paris. the first thing that attracted my attention, on entering the _faubourg_, was the vast number of inscriptions placed, during the revolution, on many of the principal houses; but more especially on public buildings of every description. they are painted in large, conspicuous letters; and the following is the most general style in which they have been originally worded: "rÉpublique franÇaise, une et indivisible." "libertÉ, ÉgalitÉ, fraternitÉ, ou la mort." since the exit of the french nero, the last three words "_ou la mort_" have been obliterated, but in few places are so completely effaced as not to be still legible. in front of all the public offices and national establishments, the tri-coloured flag is triumphantly displayed; and almost every person you meet wears in his hat the national cockade. the tumult which, ten or twelve years ago, rendered the streets of paris so noisy, so dirty, and at the same time so dangerous, is now most sensibly diminished. boileau's picture of them is no longer just. no longer are seen those scenes of confusion occasioned by the frequent stoppages of coaches and carts, and the contentions of the vociferating drivers. you may now pass the longest and most crowded thoroughfares, either on foot or otherwise, without obstacle or inconvenience. the contrast is striking. indeed, from what i have observed, i should presume that there is not, at the present day, one tenth part of the number of carriages which were in use here in - . except on the domestics of foreign ambassadors and foreigners, i have as yet noticed nothing like a livery; and, in lieu of armorial bearings, every carriage, without distinction, has a number painted on the pannel. however, if private equipages are scarce, thence ensues more than one advantage; the public are indemnified by an increased number of good hackney coaches, chariots, and cabriolets; and, besides, as i have just hinted, pedestrians are not only far less exposed to being bespattered, but also to having their limbs fractured. formerly, a _seigneur de la cour_ conceived himself justified in suffering his coachman to drive at a mischievous rate; and in narrow, crowded streets, where there is no foot-pavement, it was extremely difficult for persons walking to escape the wheels of a great number of carriages rattling along in this shameful manner. but he who guided the chariot of a _ministre d'état_, considered it as a necessary and distinctive mark of his master's pre-eminence to _brûler le pavé_. this is so strictly true, that, before the revolution, i have here witnessed repeated accidents of the most serious nature, resulting from the exercise of this sort of ministerial privilege: on one occasion particularly, i myself narrowly escaped unhurt, when a decent, elderly woman was thrown down, close by my feet, and had both her thighs broken through the unfeeling wantonness of the coachman of the baron de breteuil, at that time minister for the department of paris. owing to the salutary regulations of the police, the recurrence of these accidents is now, in a great measure, prevented; and, as the empirics say in their hand-bills: "_prevention is better than cure._" but for these differences, a person who had not seen paris for some years, might, unless he were to direct his visits to particular quarters, cross it from one extremity to the other, without remarking any change to inform his mind, that here had been a revolution, or rather that, for the last ten years, this city had been almost one continual scene of revolutions. bossnet, once preaching before lewis xiv, exclaimed: "kings die, and so do kingdoms!" could that great preacher rise from his grave into the pulpit, and behold france without a king, and that kingdom, not crumbled away, but enlarged, almost with the rapid accumulation of a snow-ball, into an enormous mass of territory, under the title of french republic, what would he not have to say in a sermon? _rien de nouveau sous le ciel_, though an old proverb, would not now suit as a maxim. this, in fact, seems the age of wonders. the league of monarchs has ended by producing republics; while a republic has raised a dukedom into a monarchy, and, by its vast preponderance, completely overturned the balance of power. not knowing when i may have an opportunity of sending this letter, i shall defer to close it for the present, as i may possibly lengthen it. but you must not expect much order in my narrations. i throw my thoughts on paper just as they happen to present themselves, without any studied arrangement. _october , in continuation_. when we have been for some time in the habit of corresponding with strangers, we are apt to draw such inferences from their language and style, as furnish us with the means of sketching an ideal portrait of their person. this was the case with myself. through the concurrence of the two governments, i had, as you know, participated, in common with others, in the indulgence of being permitted to correspond, occasionally, on subjects of literature with several of the _savans_ and literati of france. indeed, the principal motive of my journey to paris was to improve that sort of acquaintance, by personal intercourse, so as to render it more interesting to both parties. in my imagination, i had drawn a full-length picture of most of my literary correspondents. i was now anxious to see the originals, and compare the resemblance. yesterday, having first paid my respects to mr. m----y, the successor to captain c----s, as commissary for the maintenance and exchange of british prisoners of war, and at present _chargé d'affaires_ from our court to the french republic, i called on m. f----u, formerly minister of the naval department, and at present counsellor of state, and member of the national institute, as well as of the board of longitude. i then visited m. o----r, and afterwards m. l------re, also members of the institute, and both well known to our proficients in natural history, by the works which each has published in the different branches of that interesting science. in one only of my ideal portraits had i been very wide of the likeness. however, without pretending to be a lavater, i may affirm that i should not have risked falling into a mistake like that committed, on a somewhat similar occasion, by voltaire. this colossus of french literature, having been for a long time in correspondence with the great frederic, became particularly anxious to see that monarch. on his arrival in a village where the head-quarters of the prussian army were then established, voltaire inquired for the king's lodging: thither he paced with redoubled speed; and, being directed to the upper part of the house, he hastily crossed a large garret; he then found himself in a second, and was just on the point of entering the third, when, on turning round, he perceived in one of the comers of the room, a soldier, not overclean in appearance, lying on a sorry bedstead. he went up and said to him with eagerness: "where's the king?"--"i am frederic," replied the soldier; and, sure enough, it was the monarch himself. i am now settled in my new apartments, which are situated in the most centrical part of paris. when you visit this capital, i would by all means, recommend to you, should you intend to remain here a few weeks, to get into private lodgings. i know of no article here so much augmented in price, within the last ten years, as the apartments in all the hotels. after looking at several of them in the _rue de la loi_, accompanied by a french friend, who was so obliging as to take on himself all the trouble of inquiry, while i remained a silent bystander, i had the curiosity to go to the _hôtel d'angleterre_, in the _rue des filles st. thomas_, hot far from the _ci-devant palais royal_. the same apartments on the first floor of this hotel which i occupied in , happened to be vacant. at that time i paid for them twelve louis d'or a month; the furniture was then new; it is now much the worse for nearly eleven years' wear; and the present landlord asked twenty-five louis a month, and even refused twenty-two, if taken for three months certain. the fact is, that all the landlords of ready-furnished hotels in paris seem to be buoyed up with an idea that, on the peace, the english and foreigners of other nations will flock hither in such numbers as to enable them to reap a certain and plentiful harvest. not but all lodgings are considerably increased in price, which is ascribed to the increase of taxes. to find private lodgings, you have only to cast your eye on the daily advertiser of paris, called _les petites affiches_. there i read a description of my present quarters, which are newly fitted up in every particular, and, i assure you, with no small degree of tasteful fancy. my landlady, who is a milliner, and, for aught i know, a very fashionable one, left not the smallest convenience to my conjecture, but explained the particular use of every hole and corner in the most significant manner, not even excepting the _boudoir_. this would be a most excellent situation for any one whose principal object was to practise speaking french; for, on the right hand of the _porte-cochère_ or gateway, (which, by the bye, is here reckoned an indispensable appendage to a proper lodging), is the _magazin des modes_, where my landlady presides over twenty damsels, many of whom, though assiduously occupied in making caps and bonnets, would, i am persuaded, find repartee for the most witty gallant. letter iv. _paris, october , ._ since my arrival, i have been so much engaged in paying and receiving visits, that i really have not yet been able to take even a hasty view of any of the grand sights introduced here since the revolution, on wednesday i dined with m. s----i, whose new vo edition of buffon proceeds, i find, with becoming spirit. it is quite a journey to his residence; for he lives in one of the most retired quarters of paris, however, i had no reason to repine at the distance, as the party was exceedingly cheerful. naturalists and literati were not wanting. egypt was a subject that engrossed much of the conversation: it was mentioned as a matter of regret that, during the dominion of the french in that country, curiosity had not prompted the institute, established at cairo, to open one of the pyramids, with a view of ascertaining the object of the erection of those vast masses. at the desert, we had luscious grapes as large as damsons, in bunches of from three to five pounds in weight. they were of the species of the famous _chasselas de fontainebleau_, which are said to have sprung from a stock of vine-plants, imported by francis i. from the island of cyprus. these did not come from that town, but grew against the naked wall in s----i's garden. from this you may form a judgment of the climate of paris. the persons with whom i have had any correspondence, respecting literature, vie with each other in shewing me every mark of cordial hospitality; and those to whom i have been introduced, are by no means backward in friendly attention. all the lovers of science here seem to rejoice that the communication, which has been so long interrupted between the two countries, promises to be shortly re-opened. after dining yesterday with mr. m----y, the british minister, in company with mr. d----n, the member for ilchester, we all three went to an exhibition almost facing mr. m----y's residence in the _rue st. dominique_. this was the third time of its being open to the public. as it is of a novel kind, some account of it may not be uninteresting. in french, it is denominated thermolampes, _or stoves which afford heat and light on an economical plan_. the author of this invention, for which a patent has been obtained, is m. lebon, an engineer of bridges and highways. the place of exhibition was the ground floor of one of the large hotels in the _faubourg st. germain_, on which was a suite of rooms, extremely favourable for displaying the effect of this new method of lighting and warming apartments. in lieu of fire or candle, on the chimney stood a large crystal globe, in which appeared a bright and clear flame diffusing a very agreeable heat; and on different pieces of furniture were placed candlesticks with metal candles, from the top of each of which issued a steady light, like that of a lamp burning with spirits of wine. these different receptacles were supplied with inflammable gas by means of tubes communicating with an apparatus underneath. by this contrivance, in short, all the apartments were warmed very comfortably, and illuminated in a brilliant manner. on consulting m. lebon, he communicated to me the following observations: "you may have remarked," said he, "in sitting before a fire, that wood sometimes burns without flame, but with much smoke, and then you experience little heat, sometimes with flame, but with little smoke, and then you find much warmth. you may have remarked too, that ill-made charcoal emits smoke; it is, on that account, susceptible of flaming again; and the characteristic difference between wood and charcoal is, that the latter has lost, together with its smoke, the principle and aliment of flame, without which you obtain but little heat. experience next informs us, that this portion of smoke, the aliment of flame, is not an oily vapour condensable by cooling, but a gas, a permanent air, which may be washed, purified, conducted, distributed, and afterwards turned into flame at any distance from the hearth. "it is almost needless," continued he, "to point out the formation of verdigrise, white lead, and a quantity of other operations, in which acetous acid is employed. i shall only remark that it is this pyroligneous acid which penetrates smoked meat and fish, that it has an effect on leather which it hardens, and that _thermolampes_ are likely to render tanning-mills unnecessary, by furnishing the tan without further trouble. but to return to the aëriform principle. "this aliment of flame is deprived of those humid vapours, so perceptible and so disagreeable to the organs of sight and smell. purified to a perfect transparency, it floats in the state of cold air, and suffers itself to be directed by the smallest and most fragil pipes. chimnies of an inch square, made in the thickness of the plaster of ceilings or walls, tubes even of gummed silk would answer this purpose. the end alone of the tube, which, by bringing the inflammable gas into contact with the atmospheric air, allows it to catch fire, and on which the flame reposes, ought to be of metal. "by a distribution so easy to be established, a single stove may supply the place of all the chimnies of a house. every where inflammable air is ready to diffuse immediately heat and light of the most glowing or most mild nature, simultaneously or separately, according to your wishes. in the twinkling of an eye, you may conduct the flame from one room to another; an advantage equally convenient and economical, and which can never be obtained with our common stoves and chimnies. no sparks, no charcoal, no soot, to trouble you; no ashes, no wood, to soil your apartments. by night, as well as by day, you can have a fire in your room, without a servant being obliged to look after it. nothing in the _thermolampes_, not even the smallest portion of inflammable air, can escape combustion; while in our chimnies, torrents evaporate, and even carry off with them the greater part of the heat produced. "the advantage of being able to purify and proportion, in some measure, the principles of the gas which feeds the flame is," said m. lebon, "set forth in the clearest manner. but this flame is so subjected to our caprice, that even to tranquilize the imagination, it suffers itself to be confined in a crystal globe, which is never tarnished, and thus presents a filter pervious to light and heat. a part of the tube that conducts the inflammable air, carries off, out of doors, the produce of this combustion, which, nevertheless, according to the experiments of modern chymists, can scarcely be any thing more than an aqueous vapour. "who cannot but be fond of having recourse to a flame so subservient? it will dress your victuals, which, as well as your cooks, will not be exposed to the vapour of charcoal; it will warm again those dishes on your table; dry your linen; heat your oven, and the water for your baths or your washing, with every economical advantage that can be wished. no moist or black vapours; no ashes, no breaze, to make a dirt, or oppose the communication of heat; no useless loss of caloric; you may, by shutting an opening, which is no longer necessary for placing the wood in your oven, compress and coerce the torrents of heat that were escaping from it. "it may easily be conceived, that an inflammable principle so docile and so active may be made to yield the most magnificent illuminations. streams of fire finely drawn out, the duration, colour, and form of which may be varied at pleasure, the motion of suns and turning-columns, must produce an effect no less agreeable than brilliant." indeed, this effect was exhibited on the garden façade of m. lebon's residence. "wood," concluded he, "yields in condensable vapours two thirds of its weight; those vapours may therefore be employed to produce the effects of our steam-engines, and it is needless to borrow this succour from foreign water." _p. s._. on the st of last vendémiaire, ( rd of september), the government presented to the chief consul a sword, whose hilt was adorned with fourteen diamonds, the largest of which, called the _regent_, from its having been purchased by the duke of orleans, when regent, weighs carats. this is the celebrated _pitt_ diamond, of which we have heard so much: but its weight is exceeded by that of the diamond purchased by the late empress of russia, which weighs carats; not to speak of the more famous diamond, in possession of the great mogul, which is said to weigh carats. letter v. _paris, october , ._ last night i received yours of the th ult. and as mr. m----y purposes to send off a dispatch this morning, and will do me the favour to forward this, with my former letters, i hasten to write you a few lines. i scarcely need assure you, my dear friend, that i will, with pleasure, communicate to you my remarks on this great city and its inhabitants, and describe to you, as far as i am able, the principal curiosities which it contains, particularizing, as you desire, those recently placed here by the chance of war; and giving you a succinct, historical account of the most remarkable national establishments and public buildings. but to pass in review the present state of the _arts, sciences, literature, manners, &c. &c._ in this capital, and contrast it with that which existed before the revolution, is a task indeed; and far more, i fear, than it will be in my power to accomplish. however, if you will be content to gather my observations as they occur; to listen to my reflections, while the impression of the different scenes which produced them, is still warm in my mind; in short, to take a faithful sketch, in lieu of a finished picture, i will do the best i can for your satisfaction. relying on your indulgence, you shall know the life i lead: i will, as it were, take you by the arm, and, wherever i go, you shall be my companion. perhaps, by pursuing this plan, you will not, at the expiration of three or four months, think your time unprofitably spent. aided by the experience acquired by having occasionally resided here, for several months together, before the revolution, it will be my endeavour to make you as well acquainted with paris, as i shall then hope to be myself. for this purpose, i will lay under contribution every authority, both written and oral, worthy of being consulted. letter vi _paris, october , ._ from particular passages in your letter, i clearly perceive your anxiety to be introduced among those valuable antiques which now adorn the banks of the seine. on that account, i determined to postpone all other matters, and pay my first visit to the central museum of the arts, established in the louvre. but, before, we enter the interior of this building, it may not be amiss to give you some account of its construction, and describe to you its exterior beauties. the origin of this palace, as well as the etymology of its name, is lost in the darkness of time. it is certain, however, that it existed, under the appellation of _louvre_, in the reign of philip augustus, who surrounded it with ditches and towers, and made it a fortress. the great tower of the _louvre_, celebrated in history, was insulated, and built in the middle of the court. all the great feudatories of the crown derived their tenure from this tower, and came hither to swear allegiance and pay homage. "it was," says st. foix, "a prison previously prepared for them, if they violated their oaths."[ ] three counts of flanders were confined in it at different periods. the _louvre_, far from being cheerful from its construction, received also from this enormous tower a melancholy and terrifying aspect which rendered it unworthy of being a royal residence. charles v. endeavoured to enliven and embellish this gloomy abode, and made it tolerably commodious for those times. several foreign monarchs successively lodged in it; such as manuel, emperor of constantinople; sigismund, emperor of germany; and the emperor charles the fifth. this large tower of the _louvre_, which had, at different periods, served as a palace to the kings of france, as a prison to the great lords, and as a treasury to the state, was at length taken down in . the _tower of the library_ was famous, among several others, because it contained that of charles v. the most considerable one of the time, and in which the number of volumes amounted to nine hundred. old louvre the part of this palace which, at the present day, is called the _old louvre_, was begun under francis i. from the plan of pierre lescot, abbot of clugny; and the sculpture was executed by jean gougeon, whose minute correctness is particularly remarkable in the festoons of the frieze of the second order, and in the devices emblematic of the amours of henry ii. this edifice, though finished, was not inhabited during the reign of that king, but it was by his son charles ix. under him, the _louvre_ became the bloody theatre of treacheries and massacres which time will never efface from the memory of mankind, and which, till the merciless reign of robespierre, were unexampled in the history of this country. i mean the horrors of st. bartholemew's day. while the alarmed citizens were swimming across the river to escape from death, charles ix. from a window of this palace, was firing at them with his arquebuse. during that period of the revolution, when all means were employed to excite and strengthen the enmity of the people against their kings, this act of atrocity was called to their mind by an inscription placed under the very window, which looks on the _quai du louvre_. indeed, this instance of charles's barbarity is fully corroborated by historians. "when it was day-light," says brantome, "the king peeped out of his chamber-window, and seeing some people in the _faubourg st. germain_ moving about and running away, he took a large arquebuse which he had ready at hand, and, calling out incessantly: _kill, kill!_ fired a great many shots at them, but in vain; for the piece did not carry so far."--this prince, according to masson, piqued himself on his dexterity in cutting off at a single blow the head of the asses and pigs which he met with on his way. lansac, one of his favourites, having found him one day with his sword drawn and ready to strike his mule, asked him seriously: "what quarrel has then happened between his most christian majesty and my mule?" murad bey far surpassed this blood-thirsty monarch in address and strength. the former, we are told by travellers in egypt, has been known, when riding past an ox, to cut off its head with one stroke of his scimitar. the capital was dyed with the blood of charles's murdered subjects. into this very _louvre_, into the chamber of marguerite de valois, the king's sister, and even to her bed, in which she was then lying, did the fanatics pursue the officers belonging to the court itself, as is circumstantially related by that princess in her memoirs. let us draw the curtain on these scenes of horror, and pass rapidly from this period of fanaticism and cruelty, when the _louvre_ was stained by so many crimes to times more happy, when this palace became the quiet cradle of the arts and sciences, the school for talents, the _arena_ for genius, and the asylum of artists and literati. the centre pavilion over the principal gate of the _old louvre_, was erected under the reign of lewis xiii. from the designs of le mercier, as well as the angle of the left part of the building, parallel to that built by henry ii. the eight gigantic cariatides which are there seen, were sculptured by sarrasin. the façade towards the _jardin de l'infante_, (as it is called), that towards the _place du louvre_, and that over the little gate, towards the river, which were constructed under the reigns of charles ix. and henry iii. in the midst of the civil wars of the league, partake of the taste of the time, in regard to the multiplicity of the ornaments; but the interior announces, by the majesty of its decorations, the refined taste of lewis xiv. new louvre. the part of the _louvre_, which, with the two sides of the old building, forms the perfect square, three hundred and seventy-eight feet[ ] in extent, called the _new louvre_, consists in two double façades, which are still unfinished. le veau, and after him d'orbay, were the architects under whose direction this augmentation was made by order of lewis xiv. that king at first resolved to continue the _louvre_ on the plan begun by francis i.: for some time he caused it to be pursued, but having conceived a more grand and magnificent design, he ordered the foundation of the superb edifice now standing, to be laid on the th of october , under the administration of colbert. through a natural prejudice, lewis xiv. thought that he could find no where but in italy an artist sufficiently skilful to execute his projects of magnificence. he sent for the cavaliere bernini from rome. this artist, whose reputation was established, was received in france with all the pomp due to princes of the blood. the king ordered that, in the towns through which he might pass, he should be complimented and receive presents from the corporations, &c. bernini was loaded with wealth and honours: notwithstanding the prepossession of the court in favour of this italian architect, notwithstanding his talents, he did not succeed in his enterprise. after having forwarded the foundation of this edifice, he made a pretext of the impossibility of spending the winter in a climate colder than that of italy. "he was promised," says st. foix, "three thousand louis a year if he would stay; but," he said, "he would positively go and die in his _own_ country." on the eve of his departure, the king sent him three thousand louis, with the grant of a pension of five hundred. he received the whole with great coolness. several celebrated architects now entered the lists to complete this grand undertaking.--mansard presented his plans, with which colbert was extremely pleased: the king also approved of them, and absolutely insisted on their being executed without any alteration. mansard replied that he would rather renounce the glory of building this edifice than the liberty of correcting himself, and changing his design when he thought he could improve it. among the competitors was claude perrault, that physician so defamed by boileau, the poet. his plans were preferred, and merited the preference. many pleasantries were circulated at the expense of the new medical architect; and perrault replied to those sarcasms by producing the beautiful colonnade of the _louvre_, the master-piece of french architecture, and the admiration of all europe. the façade of this colonnade, which is of the corinthian order; is five hundred and twenty-five feet in length: it is divided into two peristyles and three avant-corps. the principal gate is in the centre avant-corps, which is decorated with eight double columns, crowned by a pediment, whose raking cornices are composed of two stones only, each fifty-four feet in length by eight in breadth, though no more than eighteen inches in thickness. they were taken from the quarries of meudon, and formed but one single block, which was sawed into two. the other two avant-corps are ornamented by six pilasters, and two columns of the same order, and disposed in the same manner. on the top, in lieu of a ridged roof, is a terrace, bordered by a stone balustrade, the pedestals of which are intended to bear trophies intermixed with vases. perrault's enemies disputed with him the invention of this master-piece. they maintained that it belonged to le veau, the architect; but, since the discovery of the original manuscript and drawings of perrault, there no longer remains a doubt respecting the real author of this beautiful production. in front of this magnificent colonnade, a multitude of salesmen erect their stalls, and there display quantities of old clothes, rags, &c. this contrast, as mercier justly remarks, still speaks to the eye of the attentive observer. it is the image of all the rest, grandeur and beggary, side by side. however, it is not on the _outside_ of these walls only, that beggary has been so nearly allied to grandeur. at least we have a solitary instance of this truth of a very sinking nature. cardinal de retz tells us, that going one morning to the _louvre_ to see the queen of england, he found her in the chamber of her daughter, aftenwards dutchess of orleans, and that she said to him: "you see, i come to keep henriette company: the poor girl could not leave her bed to-day, for want of fuel."--it is true, he adds, that, for six months past cardinal mazarin had not paid her pension; the tradesmen, would no longer give her credit, and she had not a piece of wood to warm her. like st. paul's in london, the façade of the _louvre_ cannot be seen to the best advantage, on account of the proximity of the surrounding buildings; and, like many other great undertakings too, will, probably, never be completed, but remain a monument of the fickleness of the nation. lewis xiv, after having for a long time made the _louvre_ his residence; abandoned it for _versailles_: "sire," said dufreny once to that prince, "i never look at the _new louvre_, without exclaiming, superb monument of the magnificence of our greatest kings, you would have been finished, had you been given to one of the begging orders of friars!" from that period, the _louvre_ was wholly consecrated to the sittings of different academies, and to the accommodation of several men of science and artists, to whom free apartments were allotted. i much regret having, for this year at least, lost a sight here, which i should have viewed with no inconsiderable degree of attention. this is the public exhibition of the productions of french industry. under the directorial government, this exhibition was opened in the _champ de mars_; but it now takes place, annually, in the square of the _louvre_, during the five complementary days of the republican calendar; namely, from the th to the d of september, both inclusive. the exhibition not only includes manufactures of every sort, but also every new discovery, invention, and improvement. for the purpose of displaying these objects to advantage, temporary buildings are erected along the four interior walls of this square, each of which are subdivided into twenty-five porticoes; so that the whole square of the _louvre_, during that period, represents a fair with a hundred booths. the resemblance, i am told, is rendered still more perfect by the prodigious crowd; persons of all ranks being indiscriminately admitted to view these productions. precautions, however, are taken to prevent the indiscreet part of the public from rushing into the porticoes, and sentinels are posted at certain intervals to preserve order. this, undoubtedly, is a very laudable institution, and extremely well calculated to excite emulation in the national manufactures, specimens of which being sent from all the principal manufacturing towns, the hundred porticoes may be said to comprise an epitome of the present state of all the flourishing manufactures of france. indeed, none but new inventions and articles of finished workmanship, the fabrication of which is known, are suffered to make part of the exhibition. even these are not admitted till after a previous examination, and on the certificate of a private jury of five members, appointed for that purpose by the prefect of each department. a new jury, composed of fifteen members, nominated by the minister of the interior, again examine the different articles admitted; and agreeably to their decision, the government award premiums and medals to those persons who have made the greatest improvement in any particular fabric or branch of industry, or produced any new discovery or invention. the successful candidates are presented to the chief consul by the minister of the interior, and have the honour of dining with him at his public monthly dinner. from all that i can learn concerning this interesting exhibition, it appears, that, though the useful arts, in general, cannot at present be put in competition here with those of a similar description among us, the object of the french government is to keep up a spirit of rivalship, and encourage, by every possible means, the improvement of those manufactures in which england is acknowledged to surpass other countries. i am reminded that it is time to prepare for going out to dinner. i must therefore not leave this letter, like the _louvre_, unfinished. fortunately, my good friend, the prevailing fashion here is to dine very late, which leaves me a long morning; but for this, i know not when i should have an opportunity of writing long letters. restrain then your impatience, and i promise that you shall very shortly be ushered into the gallery of antiques, "where the smooth chisel all its force has shewn, and soften'd into flesh the rugged stone." [footnote : _essais historiques sur paris_.] [footnote : it may be necessary to observe that, throughout these letters, we always speak of french feet. the english foot is to the french as to . , or as to . .] letter vii. _paris, october , ._ having, in my last letter, described to you the outside of the _louvre_, (with the exception of the great gallery, of which i shall speak more at length in another place), i shall now proceed to give you an account of some of the principal national establishments contained within its walls. before the revolution, the _louvre_ was, as i have said, the seat of different academies, such as the _french academy_, the _academy of sciences_, the _academy of inscriptions and belles lettres_, the _academy of painting and sculpture_, and the _academy of architecture_. all these are replaced by the _national institute of arts and sciences_, of which, however, i shall postpone further mention till i conduct you to one of its public sittings. at the period to which i revert, there existed in the _louvre_ a hall, called the _salle des antiques_, where, besides, some original statues by french artists, were assembled models in plaster of the most celebrated master-pieces of sculpture in italy, together with a small number of antiques. in another apartment, forming part of those assigned to the academy of painting, and called the _galérie d'apollon_, were seen several pictures, chiefly of the french school; and it was intended that the great gallery should be formed into a museum, containing a collection of the finest pictures and statues at the disposal of the crown. this plan, which had partly been carried into execution under the old _régime_, is now completed, but in a manner infinitely more magnificent than could possibly have been effected without the advantages of conquest. the _great gallery_ and _saloon_ of the _louvre_ are solely appropriated to the exhibition of pictures of the old masters of the italian, flemish, and french schools; and the _gallery of apollo_ to that of their drawings; while a suite of lofty apartments has been purposely fitted up in this palace for the reception of original antiques, in lieu of those copies of them before-mentioned. in other rooms, adjoining to the great gallery, are exhibited, as formerly, that is during one month every year, the productions of living painters, sculptors, architects, and draughtsmen. these different exhibitions are placed under the superintendance of a board of management, or an administration, (as the french term it), composed of a number of antiquaries, artists, and men of science, inferior to none in europe in skill, judgment, taste, or erudition. the whole of this grand establishment bears the general title of central museum of the arts. the treasures of painting and sculpture which the french nation have acquired by the success of their arms, or by express conditions in treaties of alliance or neutrality, are so immense as to enable them, not only to render this central museum the grandest collection of master-pieces in the world, but also to establish fifteen departmental museums in fifteen of the principal towns of france. this measure, evidently intended to favour the progress of the fine arts, will case paris of a great number of the pictures, statues, &c. amassed here from different parts of france, germany, belgium, holland, italy, piedmont, savoy, and the states of. venice. if you cast your eye on the annexed _plan of paris_, and suppose yourself near the exterior south-west angle of the _louvre_, or, as it is more emphatically styled, the national palace of arts and sciences, you will be in the right-hand corner of the _place du vieux louvre_, in which quarter is the present entrance to the central museum of the arts. here, after passing through a court, you enter a vestibule, on the left of which is the hall of the administration of the museum. on the ground-floor, facing the door of this vestibule, is the entrance to the gallery of antiques. in this gallery, which was, for the first time, opened to the public on the th of brumaire, year ix. of the french republic, ( th of november ), are now distributed no less than one hundred and forty-six statues, busts, and bas-reliefs. it consists of several handsome apartments, bearing appropriate denominations, according to the principal subjects which each contains. six only are at present completely arranged for public inspection: but many others are in a state of preparation. the greater part of the statues here exhibited, are the fruit of the conquests of the army of italy. conformably to the treaty of tolentino, they were selected at rome, from the capitol and the vatican, by barthÉlemy, bertholet, moitte, monge, thouin, and tinet, who were appointed, by the french government, commissioners for the research of objects appertaining to the arts and sciences. in the vestibule, for the moderate price of fifteen _sous_, is sold a catalogue, which is not merely a barren index, but a perspicuous and satisfactory explanation of the different objects that strike the eye of the admiring spectator as he traverses the gallery of antiques. it is by no means my intention to transcribe this catalogue, or to mention every statue; but, assisted by the valuable observations with which i was favoured by the learned antiquary, visconti, long distinguished for his profound knowledge of the fine arts, i shall describe the most remarkable only, and such as would fix the attention of the connoisseur. on entering the gallery, you might, perhaps, be tempted to stop in the first hall; but we will visit them all in regular succession, and proceed to that which is now the furthest on the left hand. the ceiling of this apartment, painted by romanelli, represents the four seasons; whence it is called the hall of the seasons. in consequence, among other antiques, here are placed the statues of the rustic divinities, and those relating to the seasons. of the whole, i shall distinguish the following: n° . diana. diana, habited as a huntress, in a short tunic without sleeves, is holding her bow in one hand; while, with the other, she is drawing an arrow from her quiver, which is suspended at her shoulder. her legs are bare, and her feet are adorned with rich sandals. the goddess, with a look expressive of indignation, appears to be defending the fabulous hind from the pursuit of hercules, who, in obedience to the oracle of apollo, was pursuing it, in order to carry it alive to eurystheus; a task imposed on him by the latter as one of his twelve labours. to say that, in the opinion of the first-rate connoisseurs, this statue might serve as a companion to the _apollo of belvedere_, is sufficient to convey an idea of its perfection; and, in fact, it is reckoned the finest representation of diana in existence. it is of parian marble, and, according to historians, has been in france ever since the reign of henry iv. it was the most perfect of the antiques which adorned the gallery of versailles. the parts wanting have been recently restored with such skill as to claim particular admiration. . rome. in this bust, the city of rome is personified as an amazon. the helmet of the female warrior is adorned with a representation of the she-wolf, suckling the children of mars. this antique, of parian marble, is of a perfect greek style, and in admirable preservation. it formerly belonged to the gallery of richelieu-castle. . adolescens spinam avellens. this bronze figure represents a young man seated, who seems employed in extracting a thorn from his left foot. it is a production of the flourishing period of the art, but, according to appearance, anterior to the reign of alexander the great. it partakes a little of the meagre style of the old greek school; but, at the same time, is finished with astonishing truth, and exhibits a graceful simplicity of expression. in what place it was originally discovered is not known. it was taken from the capitol, where it was seen in the _palazzo dei conservatori_. . a faun, _in a resting posture_. this young faun, with no other covering than a deer's skin thrown over his shoulders, is standing with his legs crossed, and leaning on the trunk of a tree, as if resting himself. the grace and finished execution that reign throughout this figure, as well as the immense number of copies still existing of it, and all antiques, occasion it to be considered as the copy of the faun in bronze, (or satyr as it is termed by the greeks), of praxiteles. that statue was so celebrated, that the epithet of [greek: perizoætos], or the famous, became its distinctive appellation throughout greece. this faun is of pentelic marble: it was found in , near _civita lavinia_, and placed in the capitol by benedict xiv. . ariadne, _known by the name of_ cleopatra. in this beautiful figure, ariadne is represented asleep on a rock in the isle of naxos, abandoned by the faithless theseus, and at the moment when bacchus became enamoured of her, as described by several ancient poets. it is astonishing how the expression of sleep could be mistaken for that of death, and cause this figure to be called _cleopatra_. the serpent on the upper part of the left arm is evidently a bracelet, of that figure which the greek women called [greek: opidion], or the little serpent. for three successive centuries, this statue of parian marble constituted one of the principal ornaments of the belvedere of the vatican, where it was placed by julius ii. . augustus. this head of augustus, adorned with the civic crown of oak leaves, is one of the fine portraits of that emperor. it is executed in parian marble, and comes from verona, where it was admired in the _bevilacqua_ cabinet. * * * * * on quitting the hall of the seasons, we return to that through which we first passed to reach it. this apartment, from being ornamented with the statues of zeno, trajan, demosthenes, and phocion, is denominated the hall of illustrious men. it is decorated with eight antique granite pillars brought from _aix-la-chapelle_, where they stood in the nave of the church, which contained the tomb of charlemagne. among the antiques placed in it, i shall particularize n° . menander. this figure represents the poet, honoured by the greeks with the title of _prince of the new comedy_, sitting on a hemi-cycle, or semicircular seat, and resting after his literary labours. he is clad in the grecian tunic and _pallium_. . posidippus. the dress of posidippus, who was reckoned among the greeks one of the best authors of what was called the _new comedy_, is nearly that of menander, the poet. like him, he is represented sitting on a hemi-cycle. these two statues, which are companions, are admirable for the noble simplicity of their execution. they are both of pentelic marble, and were found in the xvith century at rome, in the gardens of the convent of _san lorenzo_, on mount viminal. after making part of the baths of olympius, they were placed by sixtus v. at _negroni_, whence they were removed to the vatican by pius vi. * * * * * continuing our examination, after leaving the hall of illustrious men, we next come to the hall of the romans. the ceiling of this hall is ornamented with subjects taken from the roman history, painted by romanelli; and in it are chiefly assembled such works of sculpture as have a relation to that people. among several busts and statues, representing adrian, publius cornelius scipio, marcus junius brutus, lucius junius brutus, cicero, &c. i shall point out to your notice, . _the_ torso _of_ belvedere. this admirable remnant of a figure seated, though the head, arms, and legs are wanting, represents the apotheosis of hercules. the lion's skin spread on the rock, and the enormous size of the limbs, leave no doubt as to the subject of the statue. notwithstanding the muscles are strongly marked, the veins in the body of the hero are suppressed, whence antiquaries have inferred, that the intention of the author was to indicate the very moment of his deification. according to this idea, our countryman flaxman has immortalized himself by restoring a copy of the _torso_, and placing hebe on the left of hercules, in the act of presenting to him the cup of immortality. on the rock, where the figure is seated, is the following greek inscription: [greek: apollonios] [greek: nestoros] [greek: atÆnaios] [greek: epoiei.] by which we are informed, that it is the production of apollonius, _the athenian, the son of nestor_, who, probably, flourished in the time of pompey the great. this valuable antique is of pentelic marble, and sculptured in a most masterly style. it was found at rome, near pompey's theatre, now _campo di fiore_. julius ii. placed it in the garden of the vatican, where it was long the object of the studies of michael angelo, raphael, &c. those illustrious geniuses, to whom we are indebted for the improvement of the fine arts. among artists, it has always been distinguished by the appellation of the _torso of belvedere_. . _a wounded warrior, commonly called the_ gladiator moriens. this figure, represents a barbarian soldier, dying on the field of battle, without surrendering. it is remarkable for truth of imitation, of a choice nature, though not sublime, (because the subject would not admit of it,) and for nobleness of expression, which is evident without affectation. this statue formerly belonged to the _villa-ludovisi_, whence it was removed to the museum of the capitol by clement xii. it is from the chisel of agasias, a sculptor of ephesus, who lived years before the christian era. . ceres. this charming figure is rather that of a muse than of the goddess of agriculture. it is admirable for the _ideal_ beauty of the drapery. she is clad in a tunic; over this is thrown a mantle, the execution of which is so perfect, that, through it, are perceived the knots of the strings which fasten the tunic below the bosom. it formerly belonged to the _villa-mattei_, on mount esquiline; but was taken from the museum of the vatican, where it had been placed by clement xiv. . _a roman orator, called_ germanicus. hitherto this admirable figure of a roman orator, with the attributes of mercury, the god of eloquence, has passed for that of germanicus, though it is manifestly too old for him. here we have another model of beautiful elegance of form, though not of an _ideal_ sublimity. on the shell of a tortoise, at tide foot of the statue, is inscribed in beautiful greek characters: [greek: kleomenÆs] [greek: kleomenoys] [greek: atÆniose] [greek: poiÆsen.] whence we learn that it is the production of cleomenes, an athenian artist, mentioned by pliny, and who flourished towards the end of the roman republic, about years before christ. this statue was taken from the gallery of versailles, where it had been placed in the reign of lewis xiv. it formerly belonged to the garden of sixtus v. at _villa-montalto_, in rome. . antinoÜs, _called the_ antinoÜs of the capitol. in this monument, adrian's favourite is represented as having scarcely attained the age of puberty. he is naked, and his attitude has some affinity to that of mercury. however, his countenance seems to be impressed with that cast of melancholy, by which all his portraits are distinguished: hence has been applied to him that verse of virgil on marcellus; _"sed frons læta parum, et dejecto lumina vultu"_ this beautiful figure, of carrara marble, is sculptured in a masterly manner. it comes from the museum of the capitol, and previously belonged to the collection of cardinal alessandro albani. the fore-arm and left leg are modern. . antinoÜs. in this colossal bust of the bithynian youth, are some peculiarities which call to mind the images of the egyptian god _harpocrates_. it is finely executed in hard greek marble, and comes from the museum of the vatican. as recently as the year , it was dug from the ruins of the _villa-fede_ at tivoli. but enough for to-day--to-morrow i will resume my pen, and we will complete our survey of the gallery of antiques. letter viii. _paris, october , ._ if the culture of the arts, by promoting industry and increasing commerce, improves civilization, and refines manners, what modern people can boast of such advantages as are now enjoyed by the french nation? while the sciences keep pace with the arts, good taste bids fair to spread, in time, from the capital throughout the country, and to become universal among them. in antiquity, athens attests the truth of this proposition, by rising, through the same means, above all the cities of greece; and, in modern times, have we not seen in florence, become opulent, the darkness of ignorance vanish, like a fog, before the bright rays of knowledge, diffused by the flourishing progress of the arts and sciences? when i closed my letter yesterday, we had just terminated our examination of the hall of the romans. on the same line with it, the next apartment we reach, taking its name from the celebrated group here placed, is styled the hall of the laocoon. here are to be admired four pillars of _verde antico_, a species of green marble, obtained by the ancients, from the environs of thessalonica. they were taken from the church of _montmorency_, where they decorated the tomb of anne, the constable of that name. the first three apartments are floored with inlaid oak; but this is paved with beautiful marble. of the _chefs d'oeuvre_ exhibited in this hall, every person of taste cannot but feel particular gratification in examining the undermentioned; n° . laocoon. the pathetic story which forms the subject of this admirable group is known to every classic reader. it is considered as one of the most perfect works that ever came from the chisel; being at once a master-piece of composition, design, and feeling. any sort of commentary could but weaken the impression which it makes on the beholder. it was found in , under the pontificate of julius ii, at rome, on mount esquiline, in the ruins of the palace of titus. the three rhodian artists, agesander, polydorus, and athenoporus, mentioned by pliny, as the sculptors of this _chef d'oeuvre_ flourished during the time of the emperors, in the first century of the christian era. the group is composed of five blocks, but joined in so skilful a manner, that pliny thought them of one single piece. the right arm of the father and two arms of the children are wanting. . amazon. this uncommonly beautiful figure of parian marble represents a woman, whose feminine features and form seem to have contracted the impression of the masculine habits of warfare. clad in a very fine tunic, which, leaving the left breast exposed, is tucked up on the hips, she is in the act of bending a large bow. no attitude could be better calculated for exhibiting to advantage the finely-modelled person of this heroine. for two centuries, this statue was at the _villa-mattei_, on mount coelius at rome, whence it was removed to the museum of the vatican by clement xiv. . meleager. the son of oeneus, king of calydon, with nothing but a _chlamis_ fastened on his shoulders, and winding round his left arm, is here represented resting himself, after having killed the formidable wild boar, which was ravaging his dominions; at his side is the head of the animal, and near him sits his faithful dog. the beauty of this group is sublime, and yet it is of a different cast, from either that of the _apollo of belvedere_, or that of the _mercury_, called antinoüs, of which we shall presently have occasion to speak. this group is of greek marble of a cinereous colour: there are two different traditions respecting the place where it was found; but the preference is given to that of aldroandi, who affirms that it was discovered in a vineyard bordering on the tiber. it belonged to fusconi, physician to paul iii, and was for a long time in the _pighini_ palace at rome, whence clement xiv had it conveyed to the vatican. and . _two busts, called_ tragedy and comedy. these colossal heads of bacchantes adorned the entrance of the theatre of the _villa-adriana_ at tivoli. though the execution of them is highly finished, it is no detriment to the grandeur of the style. the one is of pentelic marble; and the other, of parian. having been purchased of count fede by pius vi, they were placed in the museum of the vatican. . antinoÜs. this bust is particularly deserving of attention, on account of its beauty, its excellent preservation, and perfect resemblance to the medals which remain of adrian's favourite. it is of parian marble of the finest quality, and had been in france long before the revolution. . ariadne, _called_ (in the catalogue) bacchus. some sculptors have determined to call this beautiful head that of bacchus; while the celebrated visconti, and other distinguished antiquaries, persist in preserving to it its ancient name of ariadne, by which it was known in the museum of the capitol. whichever it may be, it is of pentelic marble, and unquestionably one of the most sublime productions of the chisel, in point of _ideal_ beauty. * * * * * from the hall of the laocoon, we pass into the apartment, which, from the famous statue, here erected, and embellished in the most splendid manner, takes the appellation of the hall of the apollo. this hall is ornamented with four pillars of red oriental granite of the finest quality: those which decorate the niche of the apollo were taken from the church that contained the tomb of charlemagne at _aix-la-chapelle_. the floor is paved with different species of scarce and valuable marble, in large compartments, and, in its centre, is placed a large octagonal table of the same substance. in proportion to the dimensions of this apartment, which is considerably larger than any of the others, a greater number of antiques are here placed, of which the following are the most pre-eminent. n° . apollo pythius, _commonly called the_ apollo of belvedere. the name alone of this _chef d'oeuvre_ might be said to contain its eulogium. but as you may, probably, expect from me some remarks on it, i shall candidly acknowledge that i can do no better than communicate to you the able and interesting description given of it by the administration of the museum, of which the following is a fair abridgment. "apollo has just discharged the mortal arrow which has struck the serpent python, while ravaging delphi. in his left hand is held his formidable bow; his right has but an instant quitted it: all his members still preserve the impression given them by this action. indignation is seated on his lips; but in his looks is the assurance of success. his hair, slightly curled, floats in long ringlets round his neck, or is gracefully turned up on the crown of his head, which is encircled by the _strophium_, or fillet, characteristic of kings and gods. his quiver is suspended by a belt to the right shoulder: his feet are adorned with rich sandals. his _chlamis_ fastened on the shoulder, and tucked up only on the left arm, is thrown back, as if to display the majesty of his divine form to greater advantage. "an eternal youth is spread over all his beautiful figure, a sublime mixture of nobleness and agility, of vigour and elegance, and which holds a happy medium between the delicate form of bacchus, and the more manly one of mercury." this inimitable master-piece is of carrara marble, and, consequently, was executed by some greek artist who lived in the time of the romans; but the name of its author is entirely unknown. the fore-arm and the left hand, which were wanting, were restored by giovanni angelo de montorsoli, a sculptor, who was a pupil of michael angelo. towards the end of the fifteenth century, it was discovered at _capo d'anzo_, twelve leagues from rome, on the sea-shore, near the ruins of the ancient _antium_. julius ii, when cardinal, purchased this statue, and placed it in his palace; but shortly after, having arrived at the pontificate, he had it conveyed to the belvedere of the vatican, where, for three centuries, it was the admiration of the world. on the th of brumaire, year ix, ( th of november, ) bonaparte, as first consul, celebrated, in great pomp, the inauguration of the apollo; on which occasion he placed between the plinth of the statue, and its pedestal, a brass tablet bearing a suitable inscription. the apollo stands facing the entrance-door of the apartment, in an elevated recess, decorated, as i have before observed, with beautiful granite pillars. the flight of steps, leading to this recess, is paved with the rarest marble, inlaid with squares of curious antique mosaic, and on them are placed two egyptian sphynxes of red oriental granite, taken from the museum of the vatican. . venus of the capitol. this figure of parian marble represents the goddess of beauty issuing from the bath. her charms are not concealed by any veil or garment. she is slightly turning her head to the left, as if to smile on the graces, who are supposed to be preparing to attire her. in point of execution, this is allowed to be the most beautiful of all the statues of venus which we have remaining. the _venus of medicis_ surpasses it in sublimity of form, approaching nearer to _ideal_ beauty. bupalus, a sculptor of the isle of scio, is said to have produced this master-piece. he lived years before christ, so that it has now been in existence upwards of two thousand four hundred years. it was found about the middle of the eighteenth century, near _san-vitale_, at rome. benedict xiv having purchased it of the _stati_ family, placed it in the capitol. . mercury, _commonly called the_ antinoÜs of belvedere. this statue, also of the finest parian marble, is one of the most beautiful that can be imagined. more robust in form than either that of the _apollo_ or of the _meleager_, it loses nothing by being contemplated after the former. in short, the harmony which reigns between its parts is such, that the celebrated poussin, in preference to every other, always took from it the _proportions of the human figure_. it was found at rome, on mount esquiline, under the pontificate of paul iii, who placed it in the belvedere of the vatican, near the apollo and the laocoon. . _the egyptian_ antinoÜs. in this statue, antinoüs is represented as a divinity of egypt. he is standing in the usual attitude of the egyptian gods, and is naked, with the exception of his head and wrist, which are covered with a species of drapery in imitation of the sacred garments. this beautiful figure is wrought with superior excellence. it is of white marble, which leads to a conjecture that it might have been intended to represent orus, the god of light, it having been the custom of the egyptians to represent all their other divinities in coloured marble. it was discovered in , at tivoli, in the _villa-adriana_, and taken from the museum of the capitol. to judge from the great number of figures of antinoüs, sculptured by order of adrian to perpetuate the memory of that favourite, the emperor's gratitude for him must have been unbounded. under the form of different divinities, or at different periods of life, there are at present in the gallery of antiques no less than five portraits of him, besides three statues and two busts. three other statues of antinoüs, together with a bust, and an excellent bass-relief, in which he is represented, yet remain to be placed. . bacchus. the god of wine is here represented standing, and entirely naked. he is leaning carelessly with his left arm on the trunk of an elm, round which winds a grape-vine. this statue, of the marble called at rome _greco duro_, is reckoned one of the finest extant of the mirth-inspiring deity. * * * * * having surveyed every object deserving of notice in the hall of the apollo, we proceed, on the right hand, towards its extremity, and reach the last apartment of the gallery, which, from being consecrated to the tuneful nine, is called the hall of the muses. it is paved with curious marble, and independently of the muses, and their leader, apollo, here are also assembled the antique portraits of poets and philosophers who have rendered themselves famous by cultivating them. among these we may perceive homer and virgil; but the most remarkable specimen of the art is n° . euripides. in this hermes we have a capital representation of the features of the rival of sophocles. the countenance is at once noble, serious, and expressive. it bears the stamp of the genius of that celebrated tragic poet, which was naturally sublime and profound, though inclined to the pathetic. this hermes is executed in pentelic marble, and was taken from the academy of _mantua_. since the revival of the arts, the lovers of antiquity have made repeated attempts to form a collection of antique statues of the muses; but none was ever so complete as that assembled in the museum of the vatican by pius vi, and which the chance of war has now transferred to the banks of the seine. here the bard may offer up to them a solemn invocation, and compose his lay, as it were, under their very eyes. the statues of clio, thalia, terpsichore, erato, polyhymnia, and calliope, together with the apollo musagetes, were discovered in , at _tivoli_, among the ruins of the villa of cassius. to complete the number, pius vi obtained the euterpe and the urania from the _lancellotti_ palace at _veletri_. they are supposed to be antique copies of the statues of the nine muses by philiscus, which, according to pliny, graced the portico of octavia. * * * * * the air of grandeur that reigns in the general arrangement of the gallery is very striking: and the tasteful and judicious distribution of this matchless assemblage of antiques does great honour to the council of the central museum. among the riches which rome possessed, the french commissioners also, by their choice selection, have manifested the depth of their knowledge, and the justness of their discrimination. the alterations and embellishments made in the different apartments of the gallery of antiques have been executed under the immediate direction of their author, m. raymond, member of the national institute, and architect to the national palace of arts and sciences. in winter, the apartments are kept warm by means of flues, which diffuse a genial vapour. here, without the expense of a single _liard_, the young draughtsman may form his taste by studying the true antique models of grecian sculpture; the more experienced artist may consult them as he finds occasion in the composition of his subjects; while the connoisseur, the amateur, or the simple observer may spend many an agreeable hour in contemplating these master-pieces which, for centuries, have inspired universal admiration. these are the materials on which genius ought to work, and without which the most promising talent may be greatly misapplied, if not entirely lost. it was by studying closely these correct models, that the great michael angelo, the, sublime raphael, and other eminent masters, acquired that idea of excellence which is the result of the accumulated experience of successive ages. here, in one visit, the student may imbibe those principles to ascertain which many artists have consumed the best part of their days; and penetrated by their effect, he is spared the laborious investigation by which they came to be known and established. it is unnecessary to expatiate on the advantages which the fine arts may expect to derive from such a repository of antiques in a capital so centrical as paris. the contemplation of them cannot fail to fire the genius of any artist of taste, and prompt his efforts towards the attainment of that grand style, which, disdaining the minute accidental particularities of individual objects, improves partial representation by the general and invariable ideas of nature. a vast collection of antiquities of every description is still expected from italy, among which are the _venus of medicis_ and the _pallas of veletri_, a finely-preserved statue, classed by artists among those of the first rank, dug up at _veletri_ in , in consequence of the researches made there by order of the french commissioners. upwards of five hundred cases were lying on the banks of the tiber, at rome, ready to be sent off to france, when the neapolitans entered that city. they carried them all away: but by the last article of the treaty of peace with the king of naples, the whole of them are to be restored to the french republic. for the purpose of verifying their condition, and taking measures for their conveyance to paris, two commissioners have been dispatched to italy: one is the son of chaptal, minister of the interior, and the other is dufourny, the architect. on the arrival of these cases, even after the fifteen departmental museums have been supplied, it is asserted that there will yet remain in the french capital, antiquities in sufficient number to form a museum almost from paris to versailles. the central museum of the arts is open to the public in general on the th, th, and th of each decade;[ ] the other days are appropriated to the study of young pupils; but a foreigner has only to produce his _permis de séjour_ to gain admission _gratis_ every day from the hour of ten o'clock to four. to the credit of the nation, i must observe that this exception in favour of foreigners excites no jealousy whatever. it is no more than a justice due to the liberality of the french republican government to add, that they set a noble example which is worthy of being followed, not only in england, but in every other country, where the arts and sciences are honoured, or the general interests of mankind held in estimation. from persons visiting any national establishment, whether museum, library, cabinet, or garden, in this capital, no sort of fee or perquisite is now expected, or allowed to be taken. although it was not a public day when i paid my first visit to the central museum, no sooner did i shew my _permis de séjour_, than the doors were thrown open; and from m. visconti, and other members of the council, who happened to be present, i experienced the most polite and obliging attention. as an englishman, i confess that i felt a degree of shame on reflecting to what pitiful exaction a foreigner would be subject, who might casually visit any public object of curiosity in our metropolis. [footnote : by a subsequent regulation, saturday and sunday are the days on which the central museum is open to public inspection.] letter ix. _paris, october , ._ in answer to your question, i shall begin by informing you that i have not set eyes on the _petit caporal_, as some affect to style the chief consul. he spends much of his time, i am told, at _malmaison_, his country-seat; and seldom appears in public, except in his box at the opera, or at the french theatre; but at the grand monthly parade, i shall be certain to behold him, on the th of the present month of brumaire, according to the republican calendar, which day answers to the th of november. i have therefore to check my impatience for a week longer. however, if i have not yet seen bonaparte himself, i have at least seen a person who has seen him, and will take care that i shall have an opportunity of seeing him too: this person is no less than a general--who accompanied him in his expedition to egypt--who was among the chosen few that returned with him from that country--who there surveyed the mouths of the nile--who served under him in the famous campaign of syria; and who at this day is one of the first military engineers in europe. in a word, it is general a----y, of the artillery, at present director of that scientific establishment, called the dÉpÔt de la guerre. he invited me the day before yesterday to breakfast, with a view of meeting some of his friends whom he had purposely assembled. i am not fond of breakfasting from home; _mais il faut vivre à rome comme à rome_. between ten and eleven o'clock i reached the _dépôt_, which is situated in the _rue de l'université_, _faubourg st, germain_, at the _ci-devant hôtel d'harcourt_, formerly belonging to the duke of that name. passing through the gate-way, i was proceeding boldly to the principal entrance of the hotel, when a sentinel stopped me short by charging his bayonet. "citizen," said he fiercely, at the same time pointing to the lodge on the right, "you must speak to the porter." i accordingly obeyed the mandate. "what's your business, citizen?" inquired the porter gruffly.--"my business, citizen," replied i, "is only to breakfast with the general."--"be so good, citizen," rejoined he in a milder tone, "as to take the trouble to ascend the grand stair-case, and ring the bell on the first-floor." being introduced into the general's apartments, i there found eight or ten persons of very intelligent aspect, seated at a round table, loaded with all sorts of good things, but, in my mind, better calculated for dinner than breakfast. among a great variety of delicacies, were beef-steaks, or, as they are here termed, _bif-ticks à l'anglaise_. oysters too were not forgotten: indeed, they compose an essential part of a french breakfast; and the ladies seem particularly partial to them, i suppose, because they are esteemed strengthening to a delicate constitution. nothing could be more pleasant than this party. most of the guests were distinguished literati, or military men of no ordinary stamp. one of the latter, a _chef de brigade_ of engineers, near whom i considered myself fortunate in being placed, spoke to me in the highest terms of mr. spencer smith, sir sidney's brother, to whose interference at _constantinople_, he was indebted for his release from a turkish prison. notwithstanding the continual clatter of knives and forks, and the occasional gingle of glasses, the conversation, which suffered no interruption, was to me extremely interesting: i never heard any men express opinions more liberal on every subject that was started. it was particularly gratifying to my feelings, as an englishman, to hear a set of french gentlemen, some of whom had participated in the sort of disgrace attached to the raising of the siege of _st. jean d'acre_, generously bestow just encomiums on my brother-officer, to whose heroism they owed their failure. addison, i think, says, somewhere in the spectator, that national prejudice is a laudable partiality; but, however laudable it may be to indulge such a partiality, it ought not to render us blind to the merit of individuals of a rival nation. general a----y, being one of those whose talents have been found too useful to the state to be suffered to remain in inaction, was obliged to attend at the _conseil des mines_ soon after twelve o'clock, when the party separated. just as i was taking leave, he did me the favour to put into my hand a copy of his _histoire du canal du midi_, of which i shall say more when i have had leisure to peruse it. i do not know that a man in good health, who takes regular exercise, is the worse for breakfasting on a beef-steak, in the long-exploded style of queen bess; but i am no advocate for all the accessories of a french _déjeûner à la fourchette_. the strong mocha coffee which i swallowed, could not check the more powerful effect of the madeira and _crème de rose_. i therefore determined on taking a long walk, which, when saddle-horses are not to be procured, i have always found the best remedy for the kind of restlessness created by such a breakfast. i accordingly directed my steps across the _pont & place de la concorde_, traversed the street of the same name; and, following the _boulevard_ for a certain distance, struck off to the left, that is, towards the north, in order to gain the summit of montmartre. in ancient times, there stood on this hill a temple dedicated to mars, whence the name _mons martis_, of which has been made _montmartre_. at the foot of it, was the _campus martius_, or _champ de mars_, where the french kings of the first race caused their throne to be erected every year on the first of may. they came hither in a car, decorated with green boughs and flowers, and drawn by four oxen. such, indeed, was the town-equipage of king dagobert. "quatre boeufs attelés, d'un pas tranquil et lent, promenaient dans paris le monarque indolent." having seated themselves on the throne, they gave a public audience to the people, at the same time giving and receiving presents, which were called _estrennes_. hence annual presents were afterwards termed _étrennes_, and this gave rise to the custom of making them. on this hill too fell the head of [greek: dionusios] or _st. denis_; and in latter times, this was the spot chosen by the marshal de broglie, who commanded the thirty-five thousand troops by which the french capital was surrounded in may , for checking the spirit of the turbulent parisians, by battering their houses' about their ears, and burying them under the ruins. on the summit of _montmartre_, is a circular terrace, in the centre of which stands a windmill, and not far from it, are several others. round its brow are several _maisonettes_, or little country boxes, and also some public gardens with bowers, where lovers often regale their mistresses. hence you command a full view of the city of paris. you behold roof rising above roof; and the churches towering above the houses have, at this distance, somewhat the appearance of lofty chimnies. you look down on the capital as far as the seine, by which it is intersected: beyond that river, the surface of the land rises again in the form of an amphitheatre. on all sides, the prospect is bounded by eminences of various degrees of elevation, over which, as well as over the plains, and along the banks of the river, are scattered villas, windmills, country-seats, hamlets, villages, and coppices; but, from want of enclosures, the circumjacent country has not that rich and variegated aspect which delights the eye in our english rural scenery. this was always one of my favourite walks during my residence in paris before the revolution; and i doubt not, when you visit the french capital, that you will have the curiosity to scale the heights of _montmartre_. as to the theatres, concerning which you interrogate me, i shall defer entering into any particular detail of them, till i have made myself fully acquainted with the attractions of each: this mode of proceeding will not occasion any material delay, as i generally visit one of them every evening, but always endeavour to go to that house where the _best_ performers are to be seen, in their _best_ characters, and in the _best_ pieces. i mention this, in order that you may not think me inattentive to your request, by having hitherto omitted to point out to you the difference between the theatrical amusements here under the monarchy, and those of the republic. the _thèâtre des arts_ or grand french opera, the _opera buffa_ or italian comic opera, the _théâtre feydeau_ or french comic opera, and the _théâtre français_, chiefly engage my attention. yesterday evening i went to the last-mentioned theatre purposely to see mademoiselle contat, who played in both pieces. the first was _les femmes savantes_, a comedy, in which molière, wishing to aim a blow at female pedantry, has, perhaps, checked, in some french women, a desire for improvement; the second was _la fausse agnès_, a laughable afterpiece. notwithstanding the enormous _embonpoint_ which this celebrated comic actress has acquired since i saw her last on the parisian stage upwards of ten years ago, she acquitted herself with her accustomed excellence. i happened to sit next to a very warm admirer of her superior talents, who told me that, bulky as she was become, he had been highly gratified in seeing her perform at _rouen_ not long since, in her favourite character of _roxalane_, in _les trois sultanes_. "she was much applauded, no doubt." observed i. --"not at all," replied he, "for the crowd was so great, that in no part of the house was it possible for a man to use his hands." letter x. _paris, november , ._ on reaching paris, every person, whether jew or gentile, foreigner or not, coming from any department of the republic, except that of _la seine_, in which the capital is situated, is now bound to make his appearance at the _préfecture de police_. the new-comer, accompanied by two housekeepers, first repairs to the police-office of the _arrondissement_, or district, in which he has taken up his residence, where he delivers his travelling passport; in lieu of which he receives a sort of certificate, and then he shews himself at the _préfecture de police_, or general police-office, at present established in the _cité_. here, his name and quality, together with a minute description of his person and his place of abode, are inserted in a register kept for that purpose, to which he puts his signature; and a printed paper, commonly called a _permis de séjour_, is given to him, containing a duplicate of all these matters, filled up in the blanks, which he also signs himself. it is intended that he should always carry this paper about him, in order that he may produce it when called on, or, in case of necessity, for verifying his person, on any particular occasion, such as passing by a guard-house on foot after eleven o'clock at night, or being unexpectedly involved in any affray. in a word, it answers to a stranger the same end as a _carte de sureté_, or ticket of safety, does to an inhabitant of paris. i accordingly went through this indispensable ceremony in due form on my arrival here; but, having neglected to read a _nota bene_ in the margin of the _permis de séjour_, i had not been ten hours in my new apartments before i received a visit from an inspector of police of the _arrondissement_, who, very civilly reminding me of the omission, told me that i need not give myself the trouble of going to the central police-office, as he would report my removal. however, being determined to be strictly _en règle_, i went thither myself to cause my new residence to be inserted in the paper. i should not have dwelt on the circumstance, were it not to shew you the precision observed in the administration of the police of this great city. under the old _régime_, every master of a ready-furnished hotel was obliged to keep a register, in which he inserted the name and quality of his lodgers for the inspection of the police-officers whenever they came: this regulation is not only strictly adhered to at present; but every person in paris, who receives a stranger under his roof as an inmate, is bound, under penalty of a fine, to report him to the police, which is most vigilantly administered by citizen fouchÉ. last night, not being in time to find good places at the _théâtre des arts_, or grand french opera, i went to the _théâtre louvois_, which is within a few paces of it, in hopes of being more successful. i shall not at present attempt to describe the house, as, from my arriving late, i was too ill accommodated to be able to view it to advantage. however, i was well seated for seeing the performance. it consisted of three _petites pièces_: namely, _une heure d'absence_, _la petite ville_, and _le café d'une petite ville_. the first was entertaining; but the second much more so; and though the third cannot claim the merit of being well put together, i shall say a few words of it, as it is a production _in honour of peace_, and on that score alone, would, at this juncture, deserve notice. after a few scenes somewhat languid, interspersed with common-place, and speeches of no great humour, a _dénouement_, by no means interesting, promised not to compensate the audience for their patience. but the author of the _café d'une petite ville_, having eased himself of this burden, revealed his motive, and took them on their weak side, by making a strong appeal to french enthusiasm. this cord being adroitly struck, his warmth became communicative, and animating the actors, good humor did the rest. the accessories were infinitely more interesting than the main subject. an allemande, gracefully danced by two damsels and a hero, in the character of a french hussar, returned home from the fatigues of war and battle, was much applauded; and a gascoon poet, who declares that, for once in his life, he is resolved to speak truth, was loudly encored in the following couplets, adapted to the well-known air of _"gai, le coeur à la danse."_ "celui qui nous donne la paix, comme il fit bien la guerre! sur lui déjà force conplets.... mai il en reste à faire: au diable nous nous donnions, il revient, nous respirons.... il fait changer la danse; par lui chez nous plus de discord; il regle la cadence, et nous voilà d'accord." true it is, that bonaparte, as principal ballet-master, has changed the dance of the whole nation; he regulates their step to the measure of his own music, and _discord_ is mute at the moment: but the question is, whether the french are bona-fide _d'accord_, (as the gascoon affirms,) that is, perfectly reconciled to the new tune and figure? let us, however, keep out of this maze; were we to enter it, we might remain bewildered there, perhaps, till old father time came to extricate us. the morning is inviting: suppose we take a turn in the _tuileries_, not with a view of surveying this garden, but merely to breathe the fresh air, and examine the palais du gouvernement. since the chief consul has made it his town-residence, this is the new denomination given to the _palais des tuileries_, thus called, because a tile-kiln formerly stood on the site where it is erected. at that time, this part of paris was not comprised within its walls, nothing was to be seen here, in the vicinity of the tile-kiln, but a few coppices and scattered habitations. catherine de medicis, wishing to enlarge the capital on this side, visited the spot, and liking the situation, directed philibert de l'orme and jean bullan, two celebrated french architects, to present her with a plan, from which the construction of this palace was begun in may . at first, it consisted only of the large square pavilion in the centre of the two piles of building, which have each a terrace towards the garden, and of the two pavilions by which they are terminated. henry iv enlarged the original building, and, in , began the grand gallery which joins it to the _louvre_, from the plan of du cerceau. lewis xiii made some alterations in the palace; and in , exactly a century from the date of its construction being begun, lewis xiv directed louis de veau to finish it, by making the additions and embellishments which have brought it to its present state. these deviations from the first plan have destroyed the proportions required by the strict rules of art; but this defect would, probably, be overlooked by those who are not connoisseurs, as the architecture, though variously blended, presents, at first sight, an _ensemble_ which is magnificent and striking. the whole front of the palace of the _tuileries_ consists of five pavilions, connected by four piles of building, standing on the same line, and extending for the space of one thousand and eleven feet. the first order of the three middle piles is ionic, with encircled columns. the two adjoining pavilions are also ornamented with ionic pillars; but fluted, and embellished with foliage, from the third of their height to the summit. the second order of these two pavilions is corinthian. the two piles of building, which come next, as well as the two pavilions of the wings, are of a composite order with fluted pillars. from a tall iron spindle, placed on the pinnacle of each of the three principal pavilions is now seen floating a horizontal tri-coloured streamer. till the improvements made by lewis xiv, the large centre pavilion had been decorated with the ionic and corinthian orders only, to these was added the composite. on the façade towards the _place du carrousel_, the pillars of all these orders are of brown and red marble. here may be observed the marks of several cannon-balls, beneath each of which is inscribed, in black, aoÛt. this tenth of august , a day ever memorable in the history of france, has furnished many an able writer with the subject of an episode; but, i believe, few of them were, any more than myself, actors in that dreadful scene. while i was intently remarking the particular impression of a shot which struck the edge of one of the casements of the first floor of the palace, my _valet de place_ came up to know at which door i would have the carriage remain in waiting. on turning round, i fancied i beheld the man who "drew priam's curtain in the dead of night." that messenger, i am sure, could not have presented a visage more pale, more spiritless than my helvetian. recollecting that he had served in the swiss guards, i was the less at a loss to account for his extreme agitation. "in what part of the _château_ were you, jean," said i, "when these balls were aimed at the windows?"----"there was my post," replied he, recovering himself, and pointing to one of the centre casements.--"is it true," continued i, "that, by way of feigning a reconciliation, you threw down cartridges by handfuls to the marseillese below, and called out; _vive la nation?"_----"it is but too true," answered jean; "we then availed ourselves of the moment when they advanced under the persuasion that they were to become our friends, and opened on them a tremendous fire, by which we covered the place with dead and dying. but we became victims of our own treachery: for our ammunition being, by this _ruse de guerre_, the sooner expended, we presently had no resource left but the bayonet, by which we could not prevent the mob from closing on us."--"and how did you contrive to escape," said i? --"having thrown away my swiss uniform," replied he, "in the general confusion, i fortunately possessed myself of the coat of a national volunteer, which he had taken off on account of the hot weather. this garment, bespattered with blood, i instantly put on, as well as his hat with a tri-coloured cockade."--"this disguise saved your life," interrupted i.--"yes, indeed;" rejoined he. "having got down to the vestibule, i could not find a passage into the garden; and, to prevent suspicion, i at once mixed with the mob on the place where we are now standing."--"how did you get off at last," said i?--"i was obliged," answered he, "to shout and swear with the _poissardes_, while the heads of many of my comrades were thrown out of the windows."--"the _poissardes_," added i, "set no bounds to their cruelty?"--"no," replied he, "i expected every moment to feel its effects; my disguise alone favoured my escape: on the dead bodies of my countrymen they practised every species of mutilation." here jean drew a picture of a nature too horrid to be committed to paper. my pen could not trace it.----in a word, nothing could exceed the ferocity of the infuriate populace; and the sacking of the palace of the trojan king presents but a faint image of what passed here on the day which overset the throne of the bourbons. according to a calculation, founded as well on the reports of the police as on the returns of the military corps, it appears that the number of men killed in the attack of the palace of the _tuileries_ on the th of august , amounted in the whole to very near six thousand, of whom eight hundred and fifty-two were on the side of the besieged, and three thousand seven hundred and forty on the side of the besiegers. the interior of this palace is not distinguished by any particular style of architecture, the kings who have resided here having made such frequent alterations, that the distribution throughout is very different from that which was at first intended. here it was that catherine de medicis shut herself up with the guises, the gondis, and birague, the chancellor, in order to plan the horrible massacre of that portion of the french nation whose religious tenets trenched on papal power, and whose spirit of independence alarmed regal jealousy. among the series of entertainments, given on the marriage of the king of navarre with marguerite de valois, was introduced a ballet, in which the papists, commanded by charles ix and his brothers, defended paradise against the huguenots, who, with navarre at their head, were all repulsed and driven into hell. although this pantomime, solely invented by catherine, was evidently meant as a prelude to the dreadful proscription which awaited the protestants, they had no suspicion of it; and four days after, was consummated the massacre, where that monster to whom nature had given the form of a woman, feasted her eyes on the mangled corpses of thousands of bleeding victims! no sooner was the pope informed of the horrors of st. bartholemew's day; by the receipt of admiral de coligny's head which catherine embalmed and sent to him, than he ordered a solemn procession, by way of returning thanks to heaven for the _happy event_. the account of this procession so exasperated a gentlemen of anjou, a protestant of the name of bressaut de la rouvraye, that he swore he would make eunuchs of all the monks who should fall into his hands; and he rendered himself famous by keeping his word, and wearing the trophies of his victory. the _louvre_ and the palace of the _tuileries_ were alternately the residence of the kings of france, till lewis xiv built that of versailles, after which it was deserted till the minority of lewis xv, who, when a little boy, was visited here by peter the great, but, in , the court quitted paris altogether for versailles, where it continued fixed till the th of october . during this long interval, the palace was left under the direction of a governor, and inhabited only by himself, and persons of various ranks dependent on the bounty of the crown. when lewis xvi and his family were brought hither at that period, the two wings alone were in proper order; the remainder consisted of spacious apartments appointed for the king's reception when he came occasionally to paris, and ornamented with stately, old-fashioned furniture, which had not been deranged for years. the first night of their arrival, they slept in temporary beds, and on the king being solicited the next day to choose his apartments, he replied: "let everyone shift for himself; for my part, i am very well where i am." but this fit of ill-humor being over, the king and queen visited every part of the palace, assigning particular rooms to each person of their suite, and giving directions for sundry repairs and alterations. versailles was unfurnished, and the vast quantity of furniture collected in that palace, during three successive reigns, was transported to the _tuileries_ for their majesties' accommodation. the king chose for himself three rooms on the ground-floor, on the side of the gallery to the right as you enter the vestibule from the garden; on the entresol, he established his geographical study; and on the first floor, his bed-chamber: the apartments of the queen and royal family were adjoining to those of the king; and the attendants were distributed over the palace to the number of between six and seven hundred persons. the greater part of the furniture, &c. in the palace of the _tuileries_ was sold in the spring of . the sale lasted six months, and, had it not been stopped, would have continued six months longer. some of the king's dress-suits which had cost twelve hundred louis fetched no more than five. by the inventory taken immediately after the th of august , and laid before the legislative assembly, it appears that the moveables of every description contained in this palace were valued at , , livres (_circa_ £ , sterling,) in which was included the amount of the thefts, committed on that day, estimated at , , livres, and that of the dilapidations, at the like sum, making together about £ , sterling. when catherine de medicis inhabited the palace of the _tuileries_, it was connected to the _louvre_ by a garden, in the middle of which was a large pond, always well stocked with fish for the supply of the royal table. lewis xiv transformed this garden into a spacious square or _place_, where in the year , he gave to the queen dowager and his royal consort a magnificent fête, at which, were assembled princes, lords, and knights, with their ladies, from every part of europe. hence the square was named place du carrousel. previously to the revolution, the palace of the _tuileries_, on this side, was defended by a wall, pierced by three gates opening into as many courts, separated by little buildings, which, in part, served for lodging a few troops and their horses. all these buildings are taken down; the _place du carrousel_ is considerably enlarged by the demolition of various circumjacent edifices; and the wall is replaced by a handsome iron railing, fixed on a parapet about four feet high. in this railing are three gates, the centre one of which is surmounted by cocks, holding in their beak a civic crown over the letters r. f. the initials of the words _république française_. on each side of it are small lodges, built of stone; and at the entrance are constantly posted two _vedettes_, belonging to the horse-grenadiers of the consular guard. on the piers of the other two gates are placed the four famous horses of gilt bronze, brought from st. mark's place at venice, whither they had been carried after the capture of byzantium. these productions are generally ascribed to the celebrated lysippus, who flourished in the reign of alexander the great, about years before the christian era; though this opinion is questioned by some distguished antiquaries and artists. whoever may be the sculptor, their destiny is of a nature to fix attention, as their removal has always been the consequence of a political revolution. after, the conquest of greece by the romans, they were transported from corinth to rome, for the purpose of adorning the triumphal arch of septimius severus. hence they were removed to byzantium, when that city became the seat of the eastern empire. from byzantium, they were conveyed to venice, and from venice they have at last reached paris. as on the plain of pharsalia the fate of rome was decided by cæsar's triumph over pompey, so on the _place du carrousel_ the fate of france by the triumph of the convention over robespierre and his satellites. here, henriot, one of his most devoted creatures, whom he had raised to the situation of commandant general of the parisian guard, after having been carried prisoner before the committee of public safety, then sitting in the palace of the _tuileries_, was released by coffinhal, the president of the revolutionary tribunal, who suddenly made his appearance at the head of a large body of horse and foot, supported by four pieces of cannon served by gunners the most devoted to robespierre. it was half past seven o'clock in the evening, where coffinhal, decorated with his municipal scarf, presented himself before the committee: all the members thought themselves lost, and their fright communicating to the very bosom of the convention, there spread confusion and terror. but coffinhal's presence of mind was not equal to his courage: he availed himself only in part of his advantage. after having, without the slightest resistance, disarmed the guards attached to the convention, he loosened the fettered hands of henriot and his aides-de-camp, and conducted them straight to the _maison commune_. it is an incontestable fact that had either coffinhal or henriot imitated the conduct of cromwell in regard to the levellers, and marched at the head of their troops into the hall of the convention, he might have carried all before him, and robespierre's tyranny would have been henceforth established on a basis not to be shaken. but, when henriot soon after appeared on the _place du carrousel_, with his staff and a number of followers, he in vain endeavoured by haranguing the people to stir them up to act against the convention; his voice was drowned in tumultuous clamours, and he was deserted by his hitherto-faithful gunners. the convention had had time to recover from their panic, and to enlighten the sections. henriot was outlawed by that assembly, and, totally disconcerted by this news, he fled for refuge to the _maison commune_, where robespierre and all his accomplices were soon surrounded, and fell into the hands of those whom but an instant before, they had proscribed as conspirators deserving of the most exemplary punishment. henriot, confused and terrified, sought his safety in flight, and was stealing along one of the galleries of the _maison commune_ when he met coffinhal, who was also flying. at the sight of henriot, who on coming from the committee, had pledged his life on the success of his measures, coffinhal was unable to check his rage. "coward!" said he to him, "to this then has led your certain means of defence! scoundrel! you shall not escape the death you are endeavouring to avoid!" saying these words, he seized henriot by the middle, and threw him out of a window of the second story of the _maison commune_. henriot falling on the roof of a building in a narrow street adjoining, was not killed; but he had scarcely recovered himself before he was recognized by some soldiers in quest of him: he then crawled into a sewer, close to the spot where he had fallen; when a soldier thrusting his bayonet into the sewer, put out one of his eyes, and forced him to surrender. thus, the destiny of france, as is seen, hung by the thread of the moment. it will be recollected that henriot had the arsenal at his disposal; he commanded the parisian guard, and six thousand men encamped on the _plaine des sablons_, close to the capital: in a word, all the springs of the public force were in his hands. had he seized the critical minute, and attacked the convention at the instant of his release, the scene of the th of august would have been renewed, and the _place du carrousel_ again stained with the blood of thousands. letter xi. _paris, november , ._ i rise much later to-day than usual, in consequence of not having gone to bed till near seven o'clock this morning. happening to call yesterday on a french lady of my acquaintance, i perceived some preparations which announced that she expected company. she did not leave me long in suspense, but invited me to her party for that evening. this good lady, who is no longer in the flower of her age, was still in bed, though it was four o'clock when i paid my visit. on expressing my fears that she was indisposed, she assured me of the contrary, at the same time adding that she seldom rose till five in the afternoon, on account of her being under the necessity of keeping late hours. i was so struck by the expression, that i did not hesitate to ask her what was the _necessity_ which compelled her to make a practice of turning day into night? she very courteously gave me a complete solution of this enigma, of which the following is the substance. "during the reign of terror," said she, "several of us _ci-devant noblesse_ lost our nearest relatives, and with them our property, which was either confiscated, or put under sequestration, so that we were absolutely threatened by famine. when the prisoners were massacred in september , i left nothing unattempted to save the life of my uncle and grandfather, who were both in confinement in the _abbaye_. all my efforts were unavailing. my interference served only to exasperate their murderers and contributed, i fear, to accelerate their death, which it was my misfortune to witness. their inhuman butchers, from whom i had patiently borne every species of insult, went so far as to present to me, on the end of a pike, a human heart, which had the appearance of having been broiled on the embers, assuring me that, as it was the heart of my uncle, i might eat it with safety."--here an ejaculation, involuntarily escaping me, interrupted her for a moment. "for my part," continued she, "i was so overwhelmed by a conflict of rage, despair, and grief, that i scarcely retained the use of my senses. the excess of my horror deprived me of utterance.--what little i was able to save from the wreck of my fortune, not affording me sufficient means of subsistence, i was, however reluctantly, at length compelled to adopt a plan of life, by which i saw other women, in my forlorn situation, support a decent appearance. i therefore hired suitable apartments, and twice in each decade, i receive company. on one of these two nights i give a ball and supper, and on the other, under the name of _société_, i have cards only. "having a numerous circle of female acquaintance," concluded she, "my balls are generally well attended: those who are not fond of dancing, play at the _bouillotte_; and the card-money defrays the expenses of the entertainment, leaving me a handsome profit. in short, these six parties, during the month, enable me to pay my rent, and produce me a tolerable pittance." this meloncholy recital affected me so much, that, on its being terminated, i was unable to speak; but i have reason to think that a favourable construction was put on my silence. a volume, of the size of a family bible, would not be sufficient to display half the contrasts engendered by the revolution. many a _marquise_ has been obliged to turn sempstress, in order to gain a livelihood; but my friend the _comtesse_ had much ready wit, though no talents of that description. having soothed her mind by venting a few imprecations against the murderers of her departed relatives, she informed me that her company began to assemble between the hours of eleven and twelve, and begged that i would not fail to come to her private ball. about twelve o'clock, i accordingly went thither, as i had promised, when i found the rooms perfectly crowded. among a number of very agreeable ladies, several were to be distinguished for the elegance of their figure, though there were no more than three remarkable for beauty. these terrestrial divinities would not only have embarrassed the grand signior for a preference, but even have distracted the choice of the idalian shepherd himself. the dancing was already begun to an excellent band of music, led by citizen julien, a mulatto, esteemed the first player of country-dances in paris. of the dancers, some of the women really astonished me by the ease and gracefulness of their movements: steps, which are known to be the most difficult, seemed to cost them not the smallest exertion. famous as they have ever been for dancing, they seem now, in cibber's words, "to outdo their usual outdoings." in former times, an extraordinary degree of curiosity was excited by any female who excelled in this pleasing accomplishment. i remember to have read that don juan of austria, governor of the low countries, set out post from brussels, and came to paris _incog._ on purpose to see marguerite de valois dance at a dress-ball, this princess being reckoned, at that time, the best dancer in europe. what then would be the admiration of such an _amateur_, could he now behold the perfection attained here by some of the beauties of the present day? the men, doubtless, determined to vie with the women, seemed to pride themselves more on agility than grace, and, by attempting whatever required extraordinary effort, reminded me of _figurans_ on the stage, so much have the parisian youth adopted a truly theatrical style of dancing. the french country-dances (or cotilions, as we term them in england) and waltzes, which are as much in vogue here as in germany, were regularly interchanged. however, the parisians, in my opinion, cannot come up to the germans in this, their native dance. i should have wished to have had lavater by my side, and heard his opinion of the characters of the different female waltzers. it is a very curious and interesting spectacle to see one woman assume a languishing air, another a vacant smile, a third an aspect of stoical indifference; while a fourth seems lost in a voluptuous trance, a fifth captivates by an amiable modesty, a sixth affects the cold insensibility of a statue, and so on in ever-varying succession, though all turning to the animating changes of the same lively waltz. in short i observed that, in this species of dance, the eyes and feet of almost every woman appeared to be constantly at variance. without assuming the part of a moralist, i cannot help thinking that werter was not altogether in the wrong when he swore, that, were it to cost him his life, no woman on whom he had set his affections, should ever waltz with any one but himself. i am not singular in this opinion; for i recollect to have met with the same ideas in a book written by m. jacobi, i think, a german author. speaking of the waltz, "we either ought," says he, "not to boast so much of the propriety of our manners, or else not suffer that our wives and daughters, in a complete delirium, softly pressed in the arms of men, bosom to bosom, should thus be hurried away by the sound of intoxicating music. in this _whirligig_ dance, every one seems to forget the rules of decorum; and though an innocent, young creature, exposed in this manner, were to remain pure and spotless, can she, without horror, reflect that she becomes, the sport of the imagination of the licentious youths to whom she so abandons herself? it were to be wished," adds he, "that our damsels (i mean those who preserve any vestige of bashfulness), might, concealed in a private corner, hear sometimes the conversation of those very men to whom they yield themselves with so little reserve and caution." to the best of my recollection, these are the sentiments of m. jacobi, expressed twelve or fourteen years ago; yet i do not find that the waltz is discontinued, or even less practised, in germany, than it was at the time when his work first appeared. this dance, like every other french fashion, has now found its way into england, and is introduced between the acts, by way of interlude i presume, at some of our grand private balls and assemblies. but, however i may be amused by the waltzing of the parisian belles, i feel too much regard for my fair country-women to wish to see them adopt a dance, which, by throwing them off their guard, lays them completely open to the shafts of ridicule and malice. leaving this point to be settled by the worthy part of our british matrons, let us return to the parisian ball, from which i have been led into a little digression. the dancing continued in this manner, that is, french country-dances and waltzes alternately, till four o'clock, when soup was brought round to all the company. this was dispatched _sans façon_, as fast as it could be procured. it was a prelude to the cold supper, which was presently served in another spacious apartment. no sooner were the folding-doors of an adjoining room thrown open, than i observed that, large as it was, it could not possibly afford accommodation to more than half of the number present. i therefore remained in the back-ground, naturally supposing that places would first be provided for all the women. not so, my friend; several men seated themselves, and, in the twinkling of an eye, deranged the economy of the whole table; while the female bystanders were necessitated to seek seats at some temporary tables placed in the ballroom. here too were they in luck if they obtained a few fragments from the grand board; for, such determined voracity was there exhibited, that so many vultures or cormorants could not have been more expeditious in clearing the dishes. for instance, an enormous salmon, which would have done honour to the tweed or the severn, graced the middle of the principal table. in less than five minutes after the company were seated, i turned round, and missing the fish, inquired whether it had proved tainted. no: but it is all devoured, was the reply of a young man, who, pointing to the bone, offered me a pear and a piece of bread, which he shrewdly observed was all that i might probably get to recruit my strength at this entertainment. i took the hint, and, with the addition of a glass of common wine, at once made my supper. in half an hour, the tables being removed, the ball was resumed, and apparently with renewed spirit. the card-room had never been deserted. _mind the main chance_ is a wholesome maxim, which the good lady of the house seemed not to have forgotten. assisted by a sort of _croupier_, she did the honours of the _bouillotte_ with that admirable sang-froid which you and i have often witnessed in some of our hostesses of fashion; and, had she not communicated to me the secret, i should have been the last to suspect, while she appeared so indifferent, that she, like those ladies, had so great an interest in the card-party being continued till morning. as an old acquaintance, she took an opportunity of saying to, me, with joy in her eyes: "_le jeu va bien_;" but, at the same time, expressed her regret that the supper was such a scramble. while we were in conversation, i inquired the name and character of the most striking women in the room, and found that, though a few of them might be reckoned substantial in fortune, as well as in reputation, the female part of the company was chiefly composed of ladies who, like herself, had suffered by the revolution; several were divorced from their husbands, but as incompatibility of temper was the general plea for such a disunion, that alone could not operate as a blemish. to judge of the political predilection of these belles from their exterior, a stranger would, nine times out of ten, be led into a palpable error. he might naturally conclude them to be attached to a republican system, since they have, in general, adopted the athenian form of attire as their model; though they have not, in the smallest degree, adopted the simple manners of that people. their arms are bare almost to the very shoulder; their bosom is, in a great measure, uncovered; their ankles are encircled by narrow ribbands in imitation of the fastenings of sandals; and their hair, turned up close behind, is confined on the crown of the head in a large knot, as we see it in the antique busts of grecian beauties. the rest of their dress is more calculated to display, than to veil the contours of their person. it was thus explained to me by my friend, the _ci-devant comtesse_, who at the same time assured me that young french women, clad in this airy manner, brave all the rigour of winter. "a simple piece of linen, slightly laced before," said she, "while it leaves the waist uncompressed, answers the purpose of a corset. if they put on a robe, which is not open in front, they dispense with petticoats altogether; their cambric _chemise_ having the semblance of one, from its skirt being trimmed with lace. when attired for a ball, those who dance, as you may observe, commonly put on a tunic, and then a petticoat becomes a matter of necessity, rather than of choice. pockets being deemed an incumbrance, they wear none: what money they carry, is contained in a little morocco leather purse; this is concealed in the centre of the bosom, whose form, in our well-shaped women, being that of the medicean venus, the receptacle occasionally serves for a little gold watch, or some other trinket, which is suspended to the neck by a collar of hair, decorated with various ornaments. when they dance, the fan is introduced within the zone or girdle; and the handkerchief is kept in the pocket of some sedulous swain, to whom the fair one has recourse when she has occasion for it. some of the elderly ladies, like myself," added she, "carry these appendages in a sort of work-bag, denominated a _ridicule_. not long since, this was the universal fashion first adopted as a substitute for pockets; but, at present, it is totally laid aside by the younger classes." the men at this ball, were, for the most part, of the military class, thinly interspersed with returned emigrants. some of the generals and colonels were in their hussar dress-uniform, which is not only exceedingly becoming to a well-formed man, but also extremely splendid and costly. all the seams of the jacket and pantaloons of the generals are covered with rich and tasteful embroidery, as well as their sabre-tash, and those of the colonels with gold or silver lace: a few even wore boots of red morocco leather. most of the gallic youths, having served in the armies, either a few years ago under the requisition, or more recently under the conscription, have acquired a martial air, which is very discernible, in spite of their _habit bourgeois_. the brown coat cannot disguise the soldier. i have met with several young merchants of the first respectability in paris, who had served, some two, others four years in the ranks, and constantly refused every sort of advancement. not wishing to remain in the army, and relinquish the mercantile profession in which they had been educated, they cheerfully passed through their military servitude as privates, and, in that station, like true soldiers, gallantly fought their country's battles. the hour of six being arrived, i was assailed, on all sides, by applications to set down this or that lady, as the morning was very rainy, and, independently of the long rank of hackney-coaches, which had been drawn up at the door, every vehicle that could be procured, had long been in requisition. the mistress of the house had informed two of her particular female friends that i had a carriage in waiting; and as i could accommodate only a certain number at a time, after having consented to take those ladies home first; i conceived myself at liberty, on my return, to select the rest of my convoy. to relieve beauty in distress was one of the first laws of ancient chivalry; and no knight ever accomplished that vow with greater ardour than i did on this occasion. letter xii. _paris, november , ._ my impatience is at length gratified. i have seen bonaparte. yesterday, the th, as i mentioned in a former letter, was the day of the grand parade, which now takes place on the fifteenth only of every month of the republican calendar. the spot where this military spectacle is exhibited, is the court-yard of the palace of the _tuileries_, which, as i have before observed, is enclosed by a low parapet wall, surmounted by a handsome iron railing. from the kind attention of friend, i had the option of being admitted into the palace, or introduced into the hotel of cn. maret, the secretary of state, which adjoins to the palace, and standing at right angles with it, commands a full view of the court where the troops are assembled. in the former place, i was told, i should not, on account of the crowd, have an opportunity to see the parade, unless i took my station at a window two or three hours before it began; while from the latter, i should enjoy the sight without any annoyance or interruption. considering that an interval of a month, by producing a material change in the weather, might render the parade far less brilliant and attractive, and also that such an offer might not occur a second time, i made no hesitation in preferring cn. maret's hotel. accompanied by my introducer, i repaired thither about half past eleven o'clock, and certainly i had every reason to congratulate myself on my election. i was ushered into a handsome room on the first-floor, where i found the windows partly occupied by some lovely women. having paid my devoirs to the ladies, i entered into conversation with an officer of rank of my acquaintance, who had introduced me to them; and from him i gathered the following particulars respecting the grand monthly parade. on the fifteenth of every month, the first consul in person reviews all the troops of the consular guard, as well as those quartered in paris, as a garrison, or those which may happen to be passing through this city. the consular guard is composed of two battalions of foot-grenadiers, two battalions of light infantry, a regiment of horse-grenadiers, a regiment of mounted chasseurs or guides, and two companies of flying artillery. all this force may comprise between six and seven thousand men; but it is in contemplation to increase it by a squadron of mamalûks, intermixed with greeks and syrians, mounted on arabian horses. this guard exclusively does duty at the palace of the _tuileries_, and at _malmaison_, bonaparte's country-seat: it also forms the military escort of the consuls. at present it is commanded by general lasnes; but, according to rumour, another arrangement is on the point of being made. the consular guard is soon to have no other chief than the first consul, and under him are to command, alternately, four generals; namely, one of infantry, one of cavalry, one of artillery, and one of engineers; the selection is said to have fallen on the following officers, bessiÈres, davoust, soult, and songis. the garrison (as it is termed) of paris is not constantly of the same strength. at this moment it consists of three demi-brigades of the line, a demi-brigade of light infantry, a regiment of dragoons, two demi-brigades of veterans, the horse _gendarmerie_, and a new corps of choice _gendarmerie_, comprising both horse and foot, and commanded by the _chef de brigade_ savaby, aide-de-camp to the first consul. this garrison may amount to about , effective men. the consular guard and all these different corps, equipped in their best manner, repair to the parade, and, deducting the troops on duty, the number of men assembled there may, in general be from twelve to fifteen thousand. by a late regulation, no one, during the time of the parade, can remain within the railing of the court, either on foot or horseback, except the field and staff officers on duty; but persons enter the apartments of the _tuileries_, by means of tickets, which are distributed to a certain number by the governor of the palace. while my obliging friend was communicating to me the above information, the troops continued marching into the court below, till it was so crowded that, at first sight, it appeared impracticable for them to move, much less to manoeuvre. the morning was extremely fine; the sun shone in full splendour, and the gold and silver lace and embroidery on the uniforms of the officers and on the trappings of their chargers, together with their naked sabres, glittered with uncommon lustre. the concourse of people without the iron railing was immense: in short, every spot or building, even to the walls and rafters of houses under demolition, whence a transient view of the parade could be obtained, was thronged with spectators. by twelve o'clock, all the troops were drawn up in excellent order, and, as you may suppose, presented a grand _coup d'oeil._ i never beheld a finer set of men than the grenadiers of the consular guard; but owing, perhaps, to my being accustomed to see our troops with short skirts, i thought that the extreme length of their coats detracted from their military air. the horses mostly of norman breed, could not be compared to our english steeds, either for make or figure; but, sorry and rough as is their general appearance, they are, i am informed, capable of bearing much fatigue, and resisting such privations as would soon render our more sleek cavalry unfit for service. that they are active, and surefooted, i can vouch; for, in all their sudden wheelings and evolutions in this confined space, not one of them stumbled. they formed, indeed, a striking contrast to the beautiful white charger that was led about in waiting for the chief consul. the band of the consular guard, which is both numerous and select, continued playing martial airs, till the colours having been brought down from the palace, under the escort of an officer and a small detachment, the drums beat _aux champs_, and the troops presented arms, when they were carried to their respective stations. shortly after, the impatient steed, just mentioned, was conducted to the foot of the steps of the grand vestibule of the palace. i kept my eye stedfastly fixed on that spot; and such was the agility displayed by bonaparte in mounting his horse, that, to borrow the words of shakspeare, he seemed to "rise from the ground like feather'd mercury, and vaulted with such ease into his seat, as if an angel dropp'd down from the clouds to turn and wind a fiery pegasus, and witch the world with noble horsemanship." off he went at a hand canter, preceded by his aides-de-camp, and attended, on his right, by general lasnes and followed by other superior officers, particularly the general commanding the garrison of paris, and him at the head of the district. bonaparte was habited in the consular dress, scarlet velvet embroidered with gold, and wore a plain cocked hat with the national cockade. as i purpose to obtain a nearer view of him, by placing myself in the apartments of the palace on the next parade day, i shall say nothing of his person till that opportunity offers, but confine myself to the military show in question. having rid rapidly along the several lines of infantry and cavalry, and saluted the colours as he passed, bonaparte (attended by all his retinue, including a favourite mamalûk whom he brought from egypt), took a central position, when the different corps successively filed off before him with most extraordinary briskness; the corps composing the consular guard preceded those of the garrison and all the others: on inquiry, however, i find, that this order is not always observed. it is no less extraordinary than true, that the news of the establishment of this grand parade produced on the mind of the late emperor of russia the first impression in favour of the chief consul. no sooner did paul i. hear of the circumstance, than he exclaimed: "bonaparte is, however, a great man." although the day was so favourable, the parade was soon over, as there was no distribution of arms of honour, such as muskets, pistols, swords, battle-axes, &c. which the first consul presents with his own hand to those officers and soldiers who have distinguished themselves by deeds of valour or other meritorious service. the whole ceremony did not occupy more than half an hour, when bonaparte alighted at the place where he had taken horse, and returned to his audience-room in the palace, for the purpose of holding his levee. i shall embrace a future opportunity to speak of the interior etiquette observed on this occasion in the apartments, and close this letter with an assurance that you shall have an early account of the approaching _fête_. letter xiii. _paris, november , ._ great preparations for the _fête_ of to-morrow have, for several days, employed considerable numbers of people: it therefore becomes necessary that i should no longer delay to give you an idea of the principal scene of action. for that purpose, we must direct our steps to the jardin des tuileries. this garden, which is the most magnificent in paris, was laid out by the celebrated le notre in the reign of lewis xiv. it covers a space of three hundred and sixty toises[ ] long by one hundred and sixty-eight broad. to the north and south, it is bordered, throughout its length, by two terraces, one on each side, which, with admirable art, conceal the irregularity of the ground, and join at the farther end in the form of a horse-shoe. to the east, it is limited by the palace of the _tuileries_; and to the west, by the _place de la concorde_. from the vestibule of the palace, the perspective produces a most striking effect: the eye first wanders for a moment over the extensive parterre, which is divided into compartments, planted with shrubs and flowers, and decorated with basins, _jets-d'eau_, vases, and statues in marble and bronze; it then penetrates through a venerable grove which forms a beautiful vista; and, following the same line, it afterwards discovers a fine road, bordered with trees, leading by a gentle ascent to _pont de neuilly_, through the _barrière de chaillot_, where the prospect closes. the portico of the palace has been recently decorated with several statues. on each side of the principal door is a lion in marble. the following is the order in which the copies of antique statues, lately placed in this garden, are at present disposed. on the terrace towards the river, are: . venus _anadyomene_. . an apollo of belvedere. . the group of laocoon. . diana, called by antiquaries, _succincta_. . hercules carrying ajax. in front of the palace: . a dying gladiator. . a fighting gladiator. . the flayer of marsyas. . venus, styled _à la coquille_, crouched and issuing from the bath. n. b. all these figures are in bronze. in the alley in front of the parterre, in coming from the terrace next the river: . flora farnese. . castor and pollux. . bacchus instructing young hercules. . diana. on the grass-plot, towards the _manège_ or riding-house, hippomenes and atalanta. at the further end is an apollo, in front of the horse-shoe walk, decorated with a sphynx at each extremity. in the corresponding gras-plot towards the river, apollo and daphne; and at the further end, a venus _callypyga_, or (according to the french term) _aux belles fesses_. in the compartment by the horse-chesnut trees, towards the riding-house, the centaur. on the opposite side, the wrestlers. farther on, though on the same side, an antinoüs. in the niche, under the steps in the middle of the terrace towards the river, a cleopatra. in the alley of orange-trees, near the _place de la concorde_, meleager; and on the terrace, next to the riding-house, hercules farnese. in the niche to the right, in front of the octagonal basin, a faun carrying a kid. in the one to the left, mercury farnese. independently of these copies after the antique, the garden is decorated with several other modern statues, by coyzevox, regnaudin, costou, le gros, le pautre, &c. which attest the degree of perfection that had been attained, in the course of the last century, by french sculptors. for a historical account of them, i refer you to a work, which i shall send you by the first opportunity, written by the learned millin. here, in summer, the wide-spreading foliage of the lofty horse-chesnut trees afford a most agreeable shade; the air is cooled by the continual play of the _jets-d'eau_; while upwards of two hundred orange-trees, which are then set out, impregnate it with a delightful perfume. the garden is now kept in much better order than it was under the monarchy. the flower-beds are carefully cultivated; the walks are well gravelled, rolled, and occasionally watered; in a word, proper attention is paid to the convenience of the public. but, notwithstanding these attractions, as long as it was necessary for every person entering this garden to exhibit to the sentinels the national cockade, several fair royalists chose to relinquish its charming walks, shaded by trees of a hundred years' growth, rather than comply with the republican mandate. those anti-revolutionary _élégantes_ resorted to other promenades; but, since the accession of the consular government, the wearing of this doubtful emblem of patriotism has been dispensed with, and the garden of the _tuileries_ is said to be now as much frequented in the fine season as at any period of the old _régime_. the most constant visiters are the _quidnuncs_, who, according to the difference of the seasons, occupy alternately three walks; the _terrasse des feuillans_ in winter; that which is immediately underneath in spring; and the centre or grand alley during the summer or autumn. before the revolution, this garden was not open to the populace, except on the festival of st. lewis, and the eve preceding, when there was always a public concert, given under a temporary amphitheatre erected against the west façade of the palace: at present no person whatever is refused admittance. there are six entrances, at each of which sentinels are regularly mounted from the grenadiers of the consular guard; and, independently of the grand guard-room over the vestibule of the palace, there is one at the end of the garden which opens on the _place de la concorde_, and another on the _terrasse des feuillans_. but what is infinitely more interesting, on this terrace, is a new and elegant building, somewhat resembling a _casino_, which at once unites every accommodation that can be wished for in a coffee-house, a tavern, or a confectioner's. here you may breakfast _à l'anglaise_ or _à la fourchette_, that is in the most substantial manner, in the french fashion, read the papers, dine, or sup sumptuously in any style you choose, or drink coffee and liqueurs, or merely eat ices. while thus engaged, you enjoy a full view of the company passing and repassing, and what adds beyond measure to the beauty of the scene, is the presence of the ladies, who not unfrequently come hither with their admirers to indulge in a _téte-à-téte_, or make larger parties to dine or sup at these fashionable rendezvous of good cheer. according to the scandalous chronicle, véry, the master of the house, is indebted to the charms of his wife for the occupation of this tasteful edifice, which had been erected by the government on a spot of ground that was national property, and, of course, at its disposal. several candidates were desirous to be tenants of a building at once so elegant and so centrical. véry himself had been unsuccessful, though he had offered a _pot de vin_ (that is the parisian term for _good-will_) of five hundred louis, and six thousand francs a year rent. his handsome wife even began to apprehend that her mission would be attended with no better fortune. she presented herself, however, to the then minister of the interior, who, unrelenting as he had hitherto been to all the competitors, did not happen to be a scipio. on the contrary, he is said to have been so struck by the person of the fair supplicant, that he at once declared his readiness to accede to her request, on condition that she would favour him with her company to supper, and not forget to put her night-cap in her pocket. _relata refero_. be this as it may, i assure you that madame véry, without being a perfect beauty, is what the french call a _beau corps de femme_, or, in plain english, a very desirable woman, and such as few ministers of l'n. b--------te's years would choose to dismiss unsatisfied. this is not the age of continence, and i am persuaded that any man who sees and converses with the amiable madame véry, if he do not envy the minister the nocturnal sacrifice, will, on contemplating the elegance of her arrangements, at least allow that this spot of ground has not been disposed of to disadvantage. every step we take, in this quarter of paris, calls to mind some remarkable circumstance of the history of the revolution. as the classic reader, in visiting _troas_, would endeavour to trace the site of those interesting scenes described in the sublime numbers of the prince of poets; so the calm observer, in perambulating this garden, cannot but reflect on the great political events of which it has been the theatre. in front of the west façade of the palace, the unfortunate lewis xvi, reviewed the swiss, and some of the national guards, very early in the morning of the th of august . on the right, close to the _terrasse des feuillans_, still stands the _manège_ or riding-house, where the national assembly at that time held their sittings, and whither the king, with his family, was conducted by roederer, the deputy. that building, after having since served for various purposes, is at present shut up, and will, probably, be taken down, in consequence of projected improvements in this quarter. in the centre of the west end of the garden, was the famous _pont tournant_, by which, on the th of july , the prince de lambesc entered it at the head of his regiment of cavalry, and, by maltreating some peaceable saunterers, gave the parisians a specimen of what they were to expect from the disposition of the court. this inconsiderate _galopade_, as the french term it, was the first signal of the general insurrection. the _pont tournant_ is destroyed, and the ditch filled up. leaving the garden of the _tuileries_ by this issue, we enter the place de la concorde. this is the new name given to the _place de louis xv_. after the abolition of royalty in france, it was called the _place de la révolution_. when the reign of terror ceased, by the fall of robespierre, it obtained its present appellation, which forms a strong contrast to the number of victims that have here been sacrificed to the demon of faction. this square, which is seven hundred and eighty feet in length by six hundred and thirty in breadth, was planned after the treaty of aix-la-chapelle, and finished in . it forms a parallelogram with its angles cut off, which are surrounded by ditches, guarded by balustrades, breast high. to repair from the _tuileries_ to the _champs elysées_, you cross it in a straight line from east to west, and from north to south, to proceed from the _rue de la concorde (ci-devant rue royale)_ to the _pont de la concorde (ci-devant pont de louis xvi.)_ near the intersection of these roads stood the equestrian statue in bronze of lewis xv, which caught the eye in a direct line with the centre of the grand alley of the garden of the _tuileries_. it has since been replaced by a statue of liberty. this colossal figure was removed a few days ago, and, by all accounts, will not be re-erected. the north part of this square, the only one that is occupied by buildings, presents, on each side of the _rue de la concorde_, two edifices, each two hundred and forty-eight feet in front, decorated with insulated columns of the corinthian order, to the number of twelve, and terminated by two pavilions, with six columns, crowned by a pediment. on the ground-floor of these edifices, one of which, that next the _tuileries_, was formerly the _garde-meuble de la couronne_, are arcades that form a gallery, in like manner as the colonnade above, the cornice of which is surmounted by a balustrade. i have been thus particular in describing this façade, in order to enable you to judge of the charming effect which it must produce, when illuminated with thousands of lamps on the occasion of the grand _fête_ in honour of peace, which takes place to-morrow. it was in the right hand corner of this square, as you come out of the garden of the _tuileries_ by the centre issue, that the terrible guillotine was erected. from the window of a friend's room, where i am now writing, i behold the very spot which has so often been drenched with the mixed blood of princes, poets, legislators, philosophers, and plebeians. on that spot too fell the head of one of the most powerful monarchs in europe. i have heard much regret expressed respecting this execution; i have witnessed much lamentation excited by it both in england and france; but i question whether any of those loyal subjects, who deserted their king when they saw him in danger, will ever manifest the sincere affection, the poignant sensibility of dominique sarrÈde. to follow henry iv to the battle of ivry in , sarrÈde had his wounded leg cut off, in order that he might be enabled to sit on horseback. this was not all. his attachment to his royal master was so great, that, in passing through the _rue de la ferronnerie_ two days after the assassination of that prince, and surveying the fatal place where it had been committed, he was so overcome by grief, that he fell almost dead on the spot, and actually expired the next morning. i question, i say, whether any one of those emigrants, who made so officious a display of their zeal, when they knew it to be unavailing, will ever moisten with a single tear the small space of earth stained with the blood of their unfortunate monarch. since i have been in paris, i have met with a person of great respectability, totally unconnected with politics, who was present at several of those executions: at first he attended them from curiosity, which soon degenerated into habit, and at last became an occupation. he successively beheld the death of charlotte corday, madame roland, louis xvi, marie antoinette, madame elizabeth, philippe egalité, madame du barry, danton, robespierre, couthon, st. just, henriot, fouquier-tinville, _cum mullis aliis_, too numerous to mention. among other particulars, this person informed me that lewis xvi struggled much, by which the fatal instrument cut through the back of his head, and severed his jaw: the queen was more resigned; on the scaffold, she even apologized to samson, the executioner in chief, for treading accidentally on his toe. madame roland met her fate with the calm heroism of a roman matron. charlotte corday died with a serene and dignified countenance; one of the executioners having seized her head when it fell, and given it several slaps, this base act of cowardice raised a general murmur among the people. as to robespierre, no sooner had he ascended the scaffold, amid the vociferous acclamations of the joyful multitude, than the executioner tore off the dirty bandage in which his wounded head was enveloped and which partlv concealed his pale and ferocious visage. this made the wretch roar like a wild beast. his under jaw then falling from the upper, and streams of blood gushing from the wound, gave him the most ghastly appearance that can be imagined. when the national razor, as the guillotine was called by his partisans, severed robespierre's head from his body; and the executioner, taking it by the hair, held it up to the view of the spectators, the plaudits lasted for twenty minutes. couthon, st. just, and henriot, his heralds of murder, who were placed in the same cart with himself, next paid the debt of their crimes. they were much disfigured, and the last had lost an eye. twenty-two persons were guillotined at the same time with robespierre, all of them his satellites. the next day, seventy members of the commune, and the day following twelve others, shared the fate of their atrocious leader, who, not many hours before, was styled the virtuous and incorruptible patriot. you may, probably, imagine that, whatever dispatch might be employed, the execution of seventy persons, would demand a rather considerable portion of time, an hour and a half, or two hours, for instance. but, how wide of the mark! samson, the executioner of paris, worked the guillotine with such astonishing quickness, that, including the preparatives of the punishment, he has been known to cut off no less than forty-five heads, the one after the other, in the short space of fifteen minutes; consequently, at this expeditious rate of three heads in one minute it required no more than twenty-three minutes and twenty seconds to decapitate seventy persons. guillotin, the physician, who invented or rather improved this machine, which is called after his name with a feminine termination, is said to have been a man of humanity; and, on that principle alone, he recommended the use of it, from the idea of saving from painful sensations criminals condemned to die. seeing the abuse made of it, from the facility which it afforded of dispatching several persons in a few minutes, he took the circumstance so much to heart that grief speedily shortened his existence. according to robespierre, however, the axe of the guillotine did not do sufficient execution. one of his satellites announced to him the invention of an instrument which struck off nine heads at once: the discovery pleased him, and he caused several trials of this new machine to be made at _bicêtre_. it did not answer; but human nature gained nothing by its failure. instead of half a dozen victims a day, robespierre wished to have daily fifty or sixty, or more; and he was but too well obeyed. not only had he his own private lists of proscription; but all his creatures, from the president of the revolutionary tribunal down to the under-jailers, had similar lists; and the _almanac royal_, or french court calendar, was converted into one by himself. the inhabitants of the streets through which the unfortunate sufferers were carried, wearied at length by the daily sight of so melancholy a spectacle, ventured to utter complaints. robespierre, no less suspicious than cruel, was alarmed, and, dreading an insurrection, removed the scene of slaughter. the scaffold was erected on the _place de la bastille_: but the inhabitants of this quarter also murmured, and the guillotine was transferred to the _barrière st. antoine_. had not this modern nero been cut off in the midst of his cruelties, it is impossible to say where he would have stopped. being one day asked the question, he coolly answered: "the generation which has witnessed the old _règime_, will always regret it. every individual who was more than fifteen in , must be put to death: this is the only way to consolidate the revolution." it was the same in the departments as in paris. every where blood ran in streams. in all the principal towns the guillotine was rendered permanent, in order, as robespierre expressed himself, to _regenerate the nation_. if this sanguinary monster did not intend to "wade through slaughter to a throne," it is certain at least that he "shut the gates of mercy on mankind." but what cannot fail to excite your astonishment and that of every thinking person, is, that, in the midst of these executions, in the midst of these convulsions of the state, in the midst of these struggles for power, in the midst of these outcries against the despots of the day, in the midst of famine even, not artificial, but real; in short, in the midst of an accumulation of horrors almost unexampled, the fiddle and tambourin never ceased. galas, concerts, and balls were given daily in incredible numbers; and no less than from fifteen to twenty theatres, besides several, other places of public entertainment, were constantly open, and almost as constantly filled. p. s. i am this moment informed of the arrival of lord cornwallis. [footnote : the ratio between the english fathom and the french toise, as determined between the first astronomers of both countries, is as to . .] letter xiv. _paris, november , ._ on the evening of the th, there was a representation _gratis_ at all the theatres, it being the eve of the great day, of the occurrences of which i shall now, agreeably to my promise, endeavour to give you a narrative. i mean the national fÉte, in honour of peace, _celebrated on the th of brumaire, year x_, _the anniversary of_ bonaparte's _accession to the consulate_. notwithstanding the prayers which the parisians had addressed to the sun for the preceding twenty-four hours, "----_nocte pluit totà, redeunt spectacula mane_," it rained all night, and was still raining yesterday morning, when the day was ushered in by discharges of artillery from the saluting battery at the _hôtel des invalides_. this did not disturb me; i slept soundly till, about eight o'clock, a tintamarre of trumpets, kettle-drums, &c. almost directly under my window, roused me from my peaceful slumber. for fear of losing the sight, i immediately presented myself at the casement, just as i rose, in my shirt and night-cap. the officers of the police, headed by the prefect, and escorted by a party of dragoons, came to the _place des victoires_, as the third station, to give publicity, by word of mouth, to the proclamation of the consuls, of which i inclose you a printed copy. the civil officers were habited in their dresses of parade, and decorated with tricoloured sashes; the heads of their steeds, which, by the bye, were not of a fiery, mettlesome race, being adorned in like manner. this ceremony being over, i returned not to bed, but sat down to a substantial breakfast, which i considered necessary for preparing my strength for the great fatigues of so busy a day. presently the streets were crowded with people moving towards the river-side, though small, but heavy rain continued falling all the forenoon. i therefore remained at home, knowing that there was nothing yet to be seen for which it was worth while to expose myself to a good wetting. at two o'clock the sun appeared, as if to satisfy the eager desire of the parisians; the mist ceased, and the weather assumed a promising aspect. in a moment the crowd in the streets was augmented by a number of persons who had till now kept within doors, in readiness to go out, like the jews keeping easter, _cincti renibus & comedentes festinantur_. i also sallied forth, but alone, having previously refused every invitation from my friends and acquaintance to place myself at any window, or join any party, conceiving that the best mode to follow the bent of my humour was to go unaccompanied, and, not confining myself to any particular spot or person, stroll about wherever the most interesting objects presented themselves. with this view, i directed my steps towards the _tuileries_, which, in spite of the immense crowd, i reached without the smallest inconvenience. the appearance of carriages of every kind had been strictly prohibited, with the exception of those belonging to the british ambassador; a compliment well intended, no doubt, and very gratifying when the streets were so extremely dirty. for some time i amused myself with surveying the different countenances of the groups within immediate reach of my observation, and which to me was by no means the least diverting part of the scene; but on few of them could i discover any other impression than that of curiosity: i then took my station in the garden of the _tuileries_, on the terrace next the river. hence was a view of the _temple of commerce_ rising above the water, on that part of the seine comprised between the _pont national_ and the _pont neuf_. the quays on each side were full of people; and the windows, as well as the roofs of all the neighbouring houses, were crowded beyond conception. in the newspapers, the sum of francs, or £ sterling, was asked for the hire of a single window of a house in that quarter. previously to my arrival, a flotilla of boats, decked with streamers and flags of different colours, had ascended the river from _chaillot_ to this temple, and were executing divers evolutions around it, for the entertainment of the parisians, who quite drowned the music by their more noisy acclamations. about half after three, the first consul appeared at one of the windows of the apartments of the third consul, lebrun, which, being situated in the _pavillon de flore_, as it is called, at the south end of the palace of the _tuileries_, command a complete view of the river. he and lebrun were both dressed in their consular uniform. in a few minutes, a balloon, previously prepared at this floating _temple of commerce_, and adorned with the flags of different nations, ascended thence with majestic slowness, and presently took an almost horizontal direction to the south-west. in the car attached to it were garnerin, the celebrated aëronaut, his wife, and two other persons, who kept waving their tricoloured flags, but were soon under the necessity of putting them away for a moment, and getting rid of some of their ballast, in order to clear the steeples and other lofty objects which appeared to lie in their route. the balloon, thus lightened, rose above the grosser part of the atmosphere, but with such little velocity as to afford the most gratifying spectacle to an immense number of spectators. while following it with my eyes, i began to draw comparisons in my mind, and reflect on the rapid improvement made in these machines, since i had seen blanchard and his friend, dr. jefferies, leave dover cliff in january . they landed safely within a short distance of calais, as every one knows: yet few persons then conceived it possible, or at least probable, that balloons could ever be applied to any useful purpose, still less to the art of war. we find, however, that at the battle of fleurus, where the austrians were defeated, jourdan, the french general, was not a little indebted for his victory to the intelligence given him of the enemy's dispositions by his aëronautic reconnoitring-party. the sagacious franklin seems to have had a presentiment of the future utility of this invention. on the first experiments being made of it, some one asked him: "of what use are balloons?"--"of what use is a new-born child!" was the philosopher's answer. garnerin and his fellow-travellers being now at such a distance as not to interest an observer unprovided with a telespope, i thought it most prudent to gratify that ever-returning desire, which, according to dr. johnson, excites once a day a serious idea in the mind even of the most thoughtless. i accordingly retired to my own apartments, where i had taken care that dinner should be provided for myself and a friend, who, assenting to the propriety of allowing every man the indulgence of his own caprice, had, like me, been taking a stroll alone among the innumerable multitude of paris. after dinner, my friend and i sat chatting over our dessert, in order that we might not arrive too soon at the scene of action. at six, however, we rose from table, and separated. i immediately proceeded to the _tuileries_, which i entered by the centre gate of the _place du carrousel_. the whole facade of the palace, from the base of the lowest pillars up to the very turrets of the pavilions, comprising the entablatures, &c. was decorated with thousands of _lampions_, whence issued a steady, glaring light. by way of parenthesis, i must inform you that these _lampions_ are nothing more than little circular earthen pans, somewhat resembling those which are used in england as receptacles for small flower-pots. they are not filled with oil, but with a substance prepared from the offals of oxen and in which a thick wick is previously placed. although the body of light proceeding from _lampions_ of this description braves the weather, yet the smoke which they produce, is no inconsiderable drawback on the effect of their splendour. nothing could exceed the brilliancy of the _coup d'oeil_ from the vestibule of the palace of the _tuileries_. the grand alley, as well as the end of the parterre on each side and the edges of the basins, was illuminated in a style equally tasteful and splendid. the frame-work on which the lamps were disposed by millions, represented lofty arcades of elegant proportion, with their several pillars, cornices, and other suitable ornaments. the eye, astonished, though not dazzled, penetrated through the garden, and, directed by this avenue of light, embraced a view of the temporary obelisk erected on the ridge of the gradual ascent, where stands the _barrière de chaillot_; the road on each side of the _champs elysées_ presenting an illuminated perspective, whose vanishing point was the obelisk before-mentioned. after loitering a short time to contemplate the west façade of the palace, which, excelling that of the east in the richness of its architecture, also excelled it in the splendour of its illuminations, i advanced along the centre or grand alley to the _place de la concorde_. here, rose three _temples_ of correct design and beautiful symmetry, the most spacious of which, placed in the centre, was dedicated to _peace_, that on the right hand to the _arts_, and that on the left to _industry_. in front of these temples, was erected an extensive platform, about five feet above the level of the ground, on which was exhibited a pantomime, representing, as i was informed, the horrors of war succeeded by the blessings of peace. though i arrived in time to have seen at least a part of it, i saw nothing, except the back of the spectators immediately before me, and others, mounted on chairs and benches, some of whom seemed to consider themselves fortunate if they recovered their legs, when they came now and then to the ground, by losing their equilibrium. these little accidents diverted me for the moment; but a misadventure of a truly-comic nature afforded me more entertainment than any pantomime i ever beheld, and amply consoled me for being thus confined to the back-ground. a lusty young frenchman, who, from his head-dress _à la titus_, i shall distinguish by that name, escorting a lady whom, on account of her beautiful hair, i shall style _berenice_, stood on one of the hindmost benches. the belle, habited in a tunic _à la grecque_, with a species of sandals which displayed the elegant form of her leg, was unfortunately not of a stature sufficiently commanding to see over the heads of the other spectators. it was to no purpose that the gentleman called out "_à bas les chapeaux!_" when the hats were off, the lady still saw no better. what will not gallantry suggest to a man of fashionable education? our considerate youth perceived, at no great distance, some persons standing on a plank supported by a couple of casks. confiding the fair _berenice_ to my care, he vanished: but, almost in an, instant, he reappeared, followed by two men, bearing an empty hogshead, which, it seems, he procured from the tavern at the west entrance of the _tuileries_. to place the cask near the feet of the lady, pay for it, and fix her on it, was the business of a moment. here then she was, like a statue on its pedestal, enjoying the double gratification of seeing and being seen. but, for enjoyment to be complete, we must share it with those we love. on examining the space where she stood, the lady saw there was room for two, and accordingly invited the gentleman to place himself beside her. in vain he resisted her entreaties; in vain he feared to incommode her. she commanded; he could do no less than obey. stepping up on the bench, he thence nimbly sprang to the cask; but, o! fatal catastrophe! while, by the light of the neighbouring clusters of lamps, every one around was admiring the mutual attention of this sympathizing pair, in went the head of the hogshead. our till-then-envied couple fell suddenly up to the middle of the leg in the wine-lees left in the cask, by which they were bespattered up to their very eyes. nor was this all: being too eager to extricate themselves, they overset the cask, and came to the ground, rolling in it and its offensive contents. it would be no easy matter to picture the ludicrous situation of citizen _titus_ and madame _berenice_. this being the only mischief resulting from their fall, a universal burst of laughter seized the surrounding spectators, in which i took so considerable a share, that i could not immediately afford my assistance. letter xv. _paris, november , ._ what fortunate people are the parisians! yesterday evening so thick a fog came on, all at once, that it was almost impossible to discern the lamps in the streets, even when they were directly over-head. had the fog occurred twenty-four hours earlier, the effect of the illuminations would have been entirely lost; and the blind would have had the advantage over the clear-sighted. this assertion experience has proved: for, some years ago, when there was, for several successive days, a duration of such fogs in paris, it was found necessary, by persons who had business to transact out of doors, to hire the blind men belonging to the hospital of the _quinze-vingts_, to lead them about the streets. these guides, who were well acquainted with the topography of the capital, were paid by the hour, and sometimes, in the course of the day, each of them cleared five louis. last night, persons in carriages, were compelled to alight, and grope their way home as they could: in this manner, after first carefully ascertaining where i was, and keeping quite close to the wall, i reached my lodgings in safety, in spite of numberless interrogations put to me by people who had, or pretended to have, lost themselves. when i was interrupted in my account of the _fète_, we were, if i mistake not, on the _place de la concorde_. notwithstanding the many loads of small gravel scattered here, with a view of keeping the place clean, the quantity of mud collected in the space of a few hours was really astonishing. _n'importe_ was the word. no fine lady, by whatever motive she was attracted hither, regretted at the moment being up to her ankles in dirt, or having the skirt of her dress bemired. all was busy curiosity, governed by peaceable order. for my part, i never experienced the smallest uncomfortable squeeze, except, indeed, at the conclusion of the pantomime, when the impatient crowd rushed forward, and, regardless of the fixed bayonets of the guards in possession of the platform, carried it by storm. impelled by the torrent, i fortunately happened to be nearly in front of the steps, and, in a few seconds, i found, myself safely landed on the platform. the guard now receiving a seasonable reinforcement, order was presently restored without bloodshed; and, though several persons were under the necessity of making a retrograde movement, on my declaring that i was an englishman, i was suffered to retain my elevated position, till the musicians composing the orchestras, appropriated to each of the three temples, had taken their stations. admittance then became general, and the temples were presently so crowded that the dancers had much difficulty to find room to perform the figures. good-humour and decorum, however, prevailed to such a degree that, during the number, of hours i mixed in the crowd, i witnessed not the smallest disturbance. between nine and ten o'clock, i went to the _pont de la concorde_ to view the fireworks played off from the _temple of commerce_ on the river; but these were, as i understand, of a description far inferior to those exhibited at the last national fête of the th of july, the anniversary of the taking of the bastille. this inferiority is attributed to the precaution dictated, by the higher authorities, to the authors of the fireworks to limit their ingenuity; as, on the former occasion, some accidents occurred of a rather serious nature. the spectators, in general, appeared to me to be disappointed by the mediocrity of the present exhibition. i was compensated for the disappointment by the effect of the illumination of the quays, which, being faced with stone, form a lofty rampart on each embankment of the river. these were decorated with several tiers of lamps from the top of the parapet to the water's edge; the parapets and cornices of the bridges, together with the circumference of the arches, were likewise illuminated, as well as the gallery of the _louvre_, and the stately buildings adjoining the quays. the palace of the legislative body, which faces the south end of the _pont de la concorde_, formed a striking object, being adorned, in a magnificent style, with variegated lamps and transparencies. no less splendid, and in some respects more so, from the extent that it presented, was the façade of the _ci-devant garde-meuble_, and the corresponding buildings, which form the north side of the _place de la concorde_, whither i now returned. the effect of the latter was beautiful, as you may judge from the description which i have already given you of this façade, in one of my preceding letters. let it suffice then to say, that, from the base of the lower pillars to the upper cornice, it was covered with lamps so arranged as to exhibit, in the most brilliant manner, the style and richness of its architecture. the crowd, having now been attracted in various directions, became more penetrable; and, in regaining the platform on the _place de la concorde_, i had a full view of the turrets, battlements, &c. erected behind the three temples, in which the skilful machinist had so combined his plan, by introducing into it a sight of the famous horses brought from _marly_, and now occupying the entrance of the _champs elysées_, that these beautiful marble representations of that noble animal seemed placed here on purpose to embellish his scenery. finding myself chilled by standing so many hours exposed to the dampness of a november night, i returned to the warmer atmosphere of the temples, in order to take a farewell view of the dancers. the scene was truly picturesque, the male part of the groups being chiefly composed of journeymen of various trades, and the females consisting of a ludicrous medley of all classes; but it required no extraordinary penetration to perceive, that, with the exception of a few particular attachments, the military bore the bell, and, all things considered, this was no more than justice. independently of being the best dancers, after gaining the laurels of victory in the hard-fought field, who can deny that they deserved the prize of beauty? the dancing was kept up with the never-flagging vivacity peculiar to this nation, and, as i conclude, so continued till a very late hour in the morning. at half past eleven i withdrew, with a friend whom i chanced to meet, to véry's, the famous _restaurateur's_ in the _tuileries_, where we supped. on comparing notes, i found that i had been more fortunate than he, in beholding to advantage all the sights of the day: though it was meant to be a day of jubilee, yet it was far from being productive of that mirth or gaiety which i expected. the excessive dearness of a few articles of the first necessity may, probably, be one cause of this gloom among the people. bread, the staff of life, (as it may be justly termed in france, where a much greater proportion is, in general, consumed than in any other country,) is now at the enormous price of eighteen _sous_ (nine-pence sterling) for the loaf of four pounds. besides, the parisians have gone through so much during the revolution, that i apprehend they are, to a certain degree, become callous to the spontaneous sensations of joy and pleasure. be the cause what it may, i am positively assured that the people expressed not so much hilarity at this fête as at the last, i mean that of the th of july. in my way home, i remarked that few houses were illuminated, except those of the rich in the streets which are great thorough-fares. people here, in general, i suppose, consider themselves dispensed from lighting up their private residence from the consideration that they collectively contribute to the public illumination, the expenses of which are defrayed by the government out of the national coffers. several songs have been composed and published in commemoration of this joyful event. among those that have fallen under my notice, i have selected the following, of which our friend m---s, with his usual facility and taste, will, i dare say, furnish you an imitation. chant d'allÉgresse, _pour la paix._ air: _de la marche triomphante_. _"reviens pour consoler la terre, aimable paix, descends des cieux, depuis assez long-tems la guerre afflige un peuple généreux, ah! quell' aurore pure & calme s'offre à nos regards satisfaits! nous obtenons la double paline de la victoire & de la paix._ bis. _"disparaissez tristes images, d'un tems malheureux qui n'est plus, nous réparerons nos dommages par la sagesse & les vertus. que la paix enfin nous rallie! plus d'ingrats ni de mécontens, o triomphe de la patrie! plus de français indifférens._ bis. _"revenez phalanges guerrières, héros vengeurs de mon pays, au sein d'une épouse, d'un père, de vos parens, de vos amis, revenez dans votre patrie après tant d'effrayans hazards, trouver ce qui charme la vie, l'amitié, l'amour, et les arts._ bis. _"oh! vous qui, sous des catacombes, etes couchés au champ d'honneur, nos yeux sont fixés sur vos tombes, en chantant l'hymne du vainqueur, nous transmettrons votre mémoire jusqu' aux siécles à venir, avec le burin de l'histoire, et les larmes du souvenir."_ bis. song of joy, _in honor of peace._ imitated from the french. to the same tune: _de la marche triomphante._ come, lovely peace, from heav'n descending, thy presence earth at length shall grace; those terrible afflictions ending, that long have griev'd a gen'rous race: we see aurora rise refulgent; serene she comes to bless our sight; while fortune to our hopes indulgent, bids victory and peace unite. be gone, ye dark imaginations, remembrances of horrors past: virtue's and wisdom's reparations shall soon be made, and ever last. now peace to happiness invites us; the bliss of peace is understood: with love fraternal peace delights us, our private ease, and country's good. re-enter, sons of war, your houses; heroic deeds for peace resign: embrace your parents and your spouses, and all to whom your hearts incline: behold your countrymen invite you, with open, arms, with open hearts; here find whatever can delight you; here friendship, love, and lib'ral arts. departed heroes, crown'd with glory, while you are laid in honour's bed, sad o'er your tombs we'll sing the story, how gallia's warriors fought and bled: and, proud to shew to future ages the claims to patriot valour due, we'll vaunt, in our historic pages, the debt immense we owe to you. letter xvi. _paris, november , ._ enriched, as this capital now is, with the spoils of greece and italy, it may literally be termed the repository of the greatest curiosities existing. in the central museum are collected all the prodigies of the fine arts, and, day after day, you may enjoy the sight of these wonders. i know not whether you are satisfied with the abridged account i gave you of the gallery of antiques; but, on the presumption that you did not expect from me a description of every work of sculpture contained in it, i called your attention to the most pre-eminent only; and i shall now pursue the same plan, respecting the master-pieces of painting exhibited in the great gallery of the louvre this gallery, which is thirteen hundred and sixty-five feet in length by thirty in breadth, runs north and south all along the quays of the river seine, and joins the _louvre_ to the palace of the _tuileries_. it was begun by charles ix, carried as far as the first wicket by henry iv, to the second by lewis xiii, and terminated by lewis xiv. one half, beginning from a narrow strip of ground, called the _jardin de l'infante_, is decorated externally with large pilasters of the composite order, which run from top to bottom, and with pediments alternately triangular and elliptical, the tympanums of which, both on the side of the _louvre_, and towards the river, are charged with emblems of the arts and sciences. the other part is ornamented with coupled pilasters, charged with vermiculated rustics, and other embellishments of highly-finished workmanship. in the inside of this gallery are disposed the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of all the great masters of the italian, flemish, and french schools. the pictures, particularly the historical ones, are hung according to the chronological order of the painters' birth, in different compartments, the number of which, at the present period, amounts to fifty-seven; and the productions of each school and of each master are as much as possible assembled; a method which affords the advantage of easily comparing one school to another, one master to another, and a master to himself. if the chronology of past ages be considered as a book from which instruction is to be imbibed, the propriety of such a classification requires no eulogium. from the pictures being arranged chronologically, the gallery of the louvre becomes a sort of dictionary, in which may be traced every degree of improvement or decline that the art of painting has successively experienced. the entrance to the great gallery of paintings is precisely the same as that to the gallery of antiques. after ascending a noble stone stair-case, and turning to the left, you reach the saloon of the louvre. this apartment, which serves as a sort of antichamber to the great gallery, is, at the present moment, appropriated to the annual monthly exhibition of the productions of living painters, sculptors, architects, engravers, and draughtsmen. of these modern works, i shall, perhaps, speak on a future occasion. but, in the course of a few days, they will give place to several master-pieces of the italian school, some of which were under indispensable repair, when the others were arranged in the great gallery. it would be no easy task to express the various sentiments which take possession of the mind of the lover of the arts, when, for the first time, he enters this splendid repository. by frequent visits, however, the imagination becomes somewhat less distracted, and the judgment, by degrees, begins to collect itself. although i am not, like you, conversant in the fine arts, would you tax me with arrogance, were i to presume to pass an opinion on some of the pictures comprised in this matchless collection? painting being a representation of nature, every spectator, according to the justness of his ideas, may form an opinion how far the representation is happily pourtrayed, and in beholding it, experience a proportionate degree of pleasure: but how different the sensations of him who, combining all the requisites of a connoisseur, contemplates the composition of a masterly genius! in tracing the merits of such a production, his admiration gradually becomes inflamed, as his eye strays from beauty to beauty. in painting or sculpture, beauty, as you well know, is either natural, or generally admitted: the latter depends on the perfection of the performance, on certain rules established, and principles settled. this is what is termed _ideal_ beauty, which is frequently not within the reach of the vulgar; and the merit of which may be lost on him who has not learned to know and appreciate it. thus, one of the finest pictures, ever conceived and executed by man, might not, perhaps, make an impression on many spectators. natural beauty, on the contrary, is a true imitation of nature: its effect is striking and general, so that it stands not in need of being pointed out, but is felt and admired by all. notwithstanding this truth, be assured that i should never, of my own accord, have ventured to pronounce on the various degrees of merit of so many _chefs d'oeuvre_, which all at once solicit attention. this would require a depth of knowledge, a superiority of judgment, a nicety of discrimination, a fund of taste, a maturity of experience, to none of which have i any pretension. the greatest masters, who have excelled in a particular branch, have sometimes given to the world indifferent productions; while artists of moderate abilities have sometimes produced master-pieces far above their general standard. in a picture, which may, on the whole, merit the appellation of a _chef d'oeuvre_, are sometimes to be found beauties which render it superior, negligences which border on the indifferent, and defects which constitute the bad. genius has its flights and deviations; talent, its successes, attempts, and faults; and mediocrity even, its flashes and chances. whatever some persons may affect, a true knowledge of the art of painting is by no means an easy acquirement; it is not a natural gift, but demands much reading and study. many there are, no doubt, who may be able to descant speciously enough, perhaps, on the perfections and defects of a picture; but, on that account alone, they are not to be regarded as real judges of its intrinsic merit. know then, that, in selecting the most remarkable productions among the vast number exhibited in the central museum, i have had the good fortune to be directed by the same first-rate connoisseur who was so obliging as to fix my choice in the gallery of antiques. i mean m. visconti. not confining myself either to alphabetical or chronological order, i shall proceed to point out to you such pictures of each school as claim particular notice. italian school. n. b. _those pictures to which no number is prefixed, are not yet publicly exhibited_. raffaello. n° . (saloon.) _the virgin and child, &c._ commonly known by the name of the _madonna di foligno_. this is one of the master-pieces of raphael for vigour of colouring, and for the beauty of the heads and of the child. it is in his second manner; although his third is more perfect, seldom are the pictures of this last period entirely executed by himself. this picture was originally painted on pannel, and was in such a lamentable state of decay, that doubts arose whether it could safely be conveyed from italy. it has been recently transferred to canvass, and now appears as fresh and as vivid, as if, instead of a lapse of three centuries, three years only had passed since it was painted. never was an operation of the like nature performed in so masterly a manner. the process was attended by a committee of the national institute, appointed at the particular request of the administration of the museum. the _madonna di foligno_ is to be engraved from a drawing taken by that able draughtsman du tertre. n° ( ) _the holy family_. this valuable picture of raphael's third manner is one of the most perfect that ever came from his pencil. it belonged to the old collection of the crown, and is engraved by edelinck. although superior to the _madonna di foligno_ as to style and composition, it is inferior in the representation of the child, and in vigour of colouring. n° ( ) _the transfiguration of christ on mount tabor._ this is the last production of raphael, and his most admirable _chef d'oeuvre_ as to composition and grace of the contours in all its figures. it is not yet exhibited, but will be shortly. this picture is in perfect preservation, and requires only to be cleaned from a coat of dust and smoke which has been accumulating on it for three centuries, during which it graced the great altar of st. peter's church at rome. among the portraits by raphael, the most surprising are: n° . (saloon.) _baltazzare castiglione_, a celebrated writer in italian and latin. n° ( ) _leo x._ every thing that raphael's pencil has produced is in the first order. that master has something greatly superior in his manner: he really appears as a god among painters. addison seems to have been impressed with the truth of this sentiment, when he thus expresses himself: "fain would i raphael's godlike art rehearse, and shew th' immortal labours in my verse, when from the mingled strength of shade and light, a new creation rises, to my sight: such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, so warm with life his blended colours glow, from theme to theme with secret pleasure lost, amidst the soft variety i'm lost." leonardo da vinci. there are several pictures by this master in the present exhibition; but you may look here in vain for the portrait of _la gioconda_, which he employed four years in painting, and in which he has imitated nature so closely, that, as a well-known author has observed, "the eyes have all the lustre of life, the hairs of the eye brows and lids seem real, and even the pores of the skin are perceptible." this celebrated picture is now removed to the palace of the _tuileries_; but the following one, which remains, is an admirable performance. n° ( ) _portrait of charles viii._ fra bartolomeo. n° . (saloon.) _st. mark the evangelist_. n° . (saloon.) _the saviour of the world_. these two pictures, which were in the _pitti_ palace at florence, give the idea of the most noble simplicity, and of no common taste in the distribution of the lights and shades. giulio romano. n° . (saloon.) _the circumcision_. this picture belonged to the old collection of the crown. the figures in it are about a foot and a half in height. it is a real _chef d'oeuvre_, and has all the grace of the antique bas-reliefs. tiziano. n° . (saloon.) _the martyrdom of st. peter_. this large picture, which presents a grand composition in colossal figures, with a country of extraordinary beauty in the back-ground, is considered as the _chef d'oeuvre_ of titian. it was painted on pannel; but, having undergone the same operation as the _madonna di foligno_, is now placed on canvass, and is in such a state as to claim the admiration of succeeding ages. n° . (saloon.) _the portraits of titian and his mistress._ . (saloon.) _portrait of the marquis del guasto with some ladies_. both these pictures belonged to the old collection of the crown, and are to be admired for grace and beauty. n° . (gallery.) _christ crowned with thorns_. . (gallery.) _christ carried to the grave_. there is a wonderful vigour of colouring in these two capital pictures. the preceding are the most admirable of the productions which are at present exhibited of this inimitable master, the first of painters for truth of colouring. correggio. n° . (gallery.) _the virgin, the infant jesus, mary magdalen, and st. jerome._ this picture, commonly distinguished by the appellation of the _st. jerome_ of correggio, is undoubtedly his _chef d'oeuvre_. in the year , the king of portugal is said to have offered for it a sum equal in value to £ , sterling. n° . (gallery.) _the marriage of st. catherine_. . (gallery.) _christ taken down from the cross_. this last-mentioned picture has just been engraved in an excellent manner by an italian artist, m. rosa-spina. the grace of his pencil and his _chiaro oscuro_ place correggio in the first class of painters, where he ranks the third after raphael and titian. he is inferior to them in design and composition; however the scarceness of his pictures frequently gives them a superior value. poor correggio! it grieves one to recollect that he lost his life, in consequence of the fatigue of staggering home under a load of _copper_ coin, which avaricious monks had given him for pictures now become so valuable that they are not to be purchased for their weight, even in _gold_. no collection is so rich in pictures of correggio as that of the central museum. paolo veronese. n° . (saloon.) _the wedding at cana_. . (saloon.) _the repast at the house of levi_. . (saloon.) _the pilgrims of emmaüs_. these are astonishing compositions for their vast extent, the number and beauty of the figures and portraits, and the variety and truth of the colouring. nothing in painting can be richer. andrea del sarto. n° . (saloon.) _christ taken down from the cross_. andrea squazzelli (his pupil.) n° ( ) _christ laid in the tomb_. this capital picture is not in the catalogue. giorgione del castel-franco. n° . (saloon.) _a concert containing three portraits_. this master-piece is worthy of titian. guercino. n° (saloon.) _st. petronilla_. this large picture was executed for st. peter's church in the vatican, where it was replaced by a copy in mosaic, on being removed to the pontificate palace of monte cavallo, at rome. in the great gallery are exhibited no less than twenty-three pictures by guercino: but to speak the truth, though, in looking at some of his productions, he appears an extremely agreeable painter, as soon as you see a number of them, you can no longer bear him. this is what happens to _mannerists_. the dark shades at first astonish you, afterwards they disgust you. andrea sacchi. n° . (saloon.) _st. remuald_. this picture was always one of the most esteemed of those in the churches at rome. it was the altar-piece of the church of st. remuald in that city. albano. n° . (gallery.) _fire._ . _air._ . _water._ . _earth._ in the gallery are twenty-nine pictures of this master, and all of them graceful; but the preceding four, representing the elements, which were taken from the royal cabinet of turin, are the most remarkable. baroccio. n° . (gallery.) _the virgin, st anthony, and st. lucia._ . _st. michaelina._ these are the best pictures of baroccio already exhibited. his colouring is enchanting. it is entirely transparent and seems as if impregnated with light: however, his forms, and every thing else, bespeak the _mannerist_. annibale carracci. n° . (gallery.) _christ dead on the knees of the virgin._ . _the resurrection of christ._ . _the nativity of christ._ . _christ laid in the tomb._ of the carracci, annibale is the most perfect. he is also remarkable for the different manners which he has displayed in his works. they appear to be by two or three different painters. of more than twenty in the gallery, the above are the best of his productions. michael angelo da caravaggio. n° . (gallery.) _christ laid in the tomb._ this wonderful picture, which was brought from rome, is, for vigour of execution and truth of colouring, superior to all the others by the same master. every one of his works bears the stamp of a great genius. domenichino. n° . (gallery.) _the communion of st. jerome._ this picture, the master-piece of domenichico, comes from the great altar of the church of _san geronimo della carità_, at rome. it will appear incredible that for a work of such importance, which cost him so much time, study, and labour, he received no more than the sum of about £ sterling. n° . (gallery.) _st. cecilia_. this capital performance is now removed to the drawing-room of the first consul, in the palace of the _tuileries_. after raphael, domenichino is one of the most perfect masters; and his _st. jerome_, together with raphael's transfiguration, are reckoned among the most famous _chefs d'oeuvre_ of the art of painting. guido. n° . (gallery.) _the crucifixion of st. peter_. . _fortune_. these are the finest of the twenty pictures by that master, now exhibited in the central museum. they both came from rome; the former, from the vatican; the latter, from the capitol. guido is a noble and graceful painter; but, in general, he betrays a certain negligence in the execution of several parts. luini. n° . (gallery.) _the holy family_. in this picture, luini has fallen little short of his master, leonardo da vinci. andrea solario. n° . (gallery.) _the daughter of herodias receiving the head of st. john_. solario is another worthy pupil of leonardo. this very capital picture belonged to the collection of the crown, and was purchased by lewis xiv. pieruno del vaga. n° . (gallery.) _the muses challenged by the piërides_. an excellent picture from versailles. baltassare peruzzi. n° . (gallery.) _the virgin discovering the infant jesus asleep_. a remarkably fine production. sebastiano del piombo. n° ( ) _portrait of the young sculptor, baccio bomdinelli_. this picture is worthy of the pencil of raphael. it is not yet exhibited. pietro da cortona. n° . (saloon.) _the birth of the virgin_. . _remus and romulus_. these are the finest pictures in the collection by this master. we have now noticed the best productions of the italian school: in our next visit to the central museum, i shall point out the most distinguished pictures of the french and flemish schools. p. s. lord cornwallis is sumptuously entertained here, all the ministers giving him a grand dinner, each in rotation. after having viewed the curiosities of paris, he will, in about a fortnight, proceed to the congress at amiens. on his lordship's arrival, i thought it my duty to leave my name at his hotel, and was most agreeably surprised to meet with a very old acquaintance in his military secretary, lieut. col. l--------s. for any of the ambassador's further proceedings, i refer you to the english newspapers, which seem to anticipate all his movements. letter xvii. _paris, november , ._ the more frequently i visit the central museum of the arts, the more am i inclined to think that such a vast number of pictures, suspended together, lessen each other's effect. this is the first idea which now presents itself to me, whenever i enter the gallery of the louvre. were this collection rendered apparently less numerous by being subdivided into different apartments, the eye would certainly be less dazzled than it is, at present, by an assemblage of so many various objects, which, though arranged as judiciously as possible, somehow convey to the mind an image of confusion. the consequence is that attention flags, and no single picture is seen to advantage, because so many are seen together. in proportion as the lover of the arts becomes more familiarized with the choicest productions of the pencil, he perceives that there are few pictures, if any, really faultless. in some, he finds beauties, which are general, or forming, as it were, a whole, and producing a general effect; in others, he meets with particular or detached beauties, whose effect is partial: assembled, they constitute the beautiful: insulated, they have a merit which the amateur appreciates, and the artist ought to study. general or congregated beauties always arise from genius and talent: particular or detached beauties belong to study, to labour, that is, to the _nulla die sine lineâ_ and sometimes solely to chance, as is exemplified in the old story of protogenes, the celebrated rhodian painter. to discover some of these beauties, requires no extraordinary discernment; a person of common observation might decide whether the froth at the mouth of an animal, panting for breath, was naturally represented: but a spectator, possessing a cultivated and refined taste, minutely surveys every part of a picture, examines the grandeur of the composition, the elevation of the ideas, the nobleness of the expression, the truth and correctness of the design, the grace scattered over the different objects, the imitation of nature in the colouring, and the masterly strokes of the pencil. our last visit to the central museum terminated with the italian school; let us now continue our examination, beginning with the french school. le brun. n° . _(gallery) the defeat of porus._ . _the family of darius at the feet of alexander._ . _the entrance of alexander into babylon. the passage of the granicus._ . _jesus asleep, or silence._ . _the crucifix surrounded by angels._ the compositions of le brun are grand and rich; his costume well-chosen, and tolerably scientific; the tone of his pictures well-suited to the subject. but, in this master, we must not look for purity and correctness of drawing, in an eminent degree. he much resembles pietro da cortona. le brun, however, has a taste more in the style of raphael and the antique, though it is a distant imitation. the colouring of pietro da cortona is far more agreeable and more captivating. among the small pictures by le brun, n°s. and deserve to be distinguished; but his _chefs d'oeuvre_ are the achievements of alexander. when the plates from these historical paintings, engraved by audran, reached rome, it is related that the italians, astonished, exclaimed: "_povero raffaello! non sei più il primo_." but, when they afterwards saw the originals, they restored, to raphael his former pre-eminence. claude lorrain. n° . (gallery.) _view of a sea-port at sun-set_. . _a sea-piece on a fine morning_. . _a landscape enlivened by the setting sun_. the superior merit of claude in landscape-painting is too well known to need any eulogium, the three preceding are the finest of his pictures in this collection. however, at rome, and in england, there are some more perfect than those in the central museum. one of his _chefs d'oeuvre_, formerly at rome, is now at naples, in the gallery of prince colonna. jouvenet. n° . (gallery.) _christ taken down from the cross._ the above is the most remarkable picture here by this master. mignard. n° . (gallery.) _the virgin_, called _la vièrge à la grappe_, because she is taking from a basket of fruit a bunch of grapes to present to her son. nicolas poussin. n° . (gallery.) _the fall of the manna in the desert._ . _rebecca and eleazar._ . _the judgment of solomon._ . _the blind men of jericho._ . _winter or the deluge._ in this collection, the above are the finest historical paintings of poussin; and of his landscapes, the following deserve to be admired. n° . (gallery.) _diogenes throwing away his porringer._ . _the death of eurydice._ poussin is the greatest painter of the french school. his compositions bear much resemblance to those of raphael, and to the antique: though they have not the same _naïveté_ and truth. his back-grounds are incomparable; his landscapes, in point of composition, superior even to those of claude. his large altar-pieces are the least beautiful of his productions. his feeble colouring cannot support proportions of the natural size: in these pictures, the charms of the background are also wanting. le sueur. n° . (gallery.) _st. paul preaching at ephesus._ this is the _chef d'oeuvre_ of le sueur, who is to be admired for the simplicity of his pencil, as well as for the beauty of his compositions. valentino. n° . (gallery.) _the martyrdom of st. processa and st. martinian._ . _cæsar's tribute._ these are the finest productions of this master, who was a worthy rival of caravaggio. vernet. n° . (gallery.) _a sea-port at sun-set_. this painter's style is generally correct and agreeable. in the above picture he rivals claude. * * * * * we now come to the school which, of all others, is best known in england. this exempts me from making any observations on the comparative merits of the masters who compose it. i shall therefore confine myself to a bare mention of the best of their performances, at present exhibited in the central museum. flemish school. rubens. n° . (gallery.) _st. francis, dying, receives the sacrament._ . _christ taken down from the cross_, a celebrated picture from the cathedral of antwerp. . _nicholas rochox, a burgomaster of the city of antwerp, and a friend of_ rubens. . _the crucifixion of st. peter_. . _st. roch interceding for the people attacked by the plague._ . _the village-festival_. in this repository, the above are the most remarkable productions of rubens. vandyck. n° . (gallery.) _the mother of pity._ . _the portraits of charles i, elector palatine, and his brother, prince robert._ . _a full-length portrait of a man holding his daughter by the hand._ . _a full-length portrait of a lady with her son._ these are superior to the other pictures by vandyck in this collection. champagne. n° . (gallery.) _the nuns._ the history of this piece is interesting. the eldest daughter of champagne was a nun in the convent of _port-royal_ at paris. being reduced to extremity by a fever of fourteen months' duration, and given over by her physicians, she falls to prayers with another nun, and recovers her health. crayer. n° . (gallery.) _the triumph of st. catherine._ gerhard douw. n° . (gallery.) _the dropsical woman._ hans holbein. n° . (gallery.) _a young woman, dressed in a yellow veil, and with her hands crossed on her knees._ jordaens. n° . (gallery.) _twelfth-day_. . _the family-concert_. adrian van ostade. n° . (gallery.) _the family of ostade, painted by himself._ . _a smoking club_. . _the schoolmaster, with the ferula in his hand, surrounded by his scholars_. paul potter. n° . (gallery.) _an extensive pasture, with cattle._ this most remarkable picture represents, on the fore-ground, near an oak, a bull, a ewe with its lamb, and a herdsman, all as large as life. rembrandt. n° . (gallery.) _the head of a woman with ear-rings, and dressed in a fur-cloak._ . _the good samaritan_. . _the cabinet-maker's family._ . _tobias and his family kneeling before the angel raphael, who disappears from his sight, after having made himself known._ . _the presentation of jesus in the temple._ the pictures, exhibited in the _saloon_ of the _louvre_, have infinitely the advantage of those in the _great gallery_; the former apartment being lighted from the top; while in the latter, the light is admitted through large windows, placed on both sides, those on the one side facing the compartments between those on the other; so that, in this respect, the master-pieces in the _gallery_ are viewed under very unfavourable circumstances. the _gallery_ of the _louvre_ is still capable of containing more pictures, one eighth part of it (that next to the _tuileries_), being under repair for the purpose.[ ] it has long been a question with the french republican government, whether the palace of the _tuileries_ should not be connected to the _louvre_, by a gallery parallel to that which borders the seine. six years ago, i understand, the subject was agitated, and dropped again, on consideration of the state of the country in general, and particularly the finances. it is now revived; and i was told the other day, that a plan of construction had absolutely been adopted. this, no doubt, is more easy than to find the sums of money necessary for carrying on so expensive an undertaking. if the fact were true, it is of a nature to produce a great sensation in modern art, since it is affirmed that the object of this work is to give a vast display to every article appropriated to general instruction; for, according to report, it is intended that these united buildings, should, in addition to the national library, contain the collections of statues, pictures, &c. &c. still remaining at the disposal of the government. i would not undertake to vouch for the precise nature of the object proposed; but it cannot be denied that, in this project, there is a boldness well calculated to flatter the ambition of the chief consul. however, i think it more probable that nothing, in this respect, will be positively determined in the present state of affairs. the expedition to st. domingo will cost an immense sum, not to speak of the restoration of the french navy, which must occasion great and immediate calls for money. whence i conclude that the erection of the new gallery, like that of the national column, will be much talked of, but remain among other projects in embryo, and the discussion be adjourned _sine die_. leaving the _great gallery_, we return to the _saloon_ of the _louvre_, which, being an intermediate apartment, serves as a point of communication between it and the gallery of apollo. the old gallery of this name, first called _la petite galérie du louvre_, was constructed under the reign of henry iv, and, from its origin, ornamented with paintings. this gallery having been consumed by fire in , owing to the negligence of a workman employed in preparing a theatre for a grand ballet, in which the king was to dance with all his court, lewis xiv immediately ordered it to be rebuilt and magnificently decorated. le brun, who then directed works of this description in france, furnished the designs of all the paintings, sculpture, and ornaments, which are partly executed. he divided the vault of the roof into eleven principal compartments; in that which is in the centre, he intended to represent _apollo_ in his car, with all the attributes peculiar to the sun, which was the king's device. the _seasons_ were to have occupied the four nearest compartments; in the others, were to have been _evening_ and _morning_, _night_ and _day-break_, the _waking of the waters_, and that of the _earth at sun-rise_. unfortunately for his fame, this vast project of le brun was never completed. lewis xiv, captivated by versailles, soon turned all his thoughts towards the embellishment of that palace. the works of the gallery of apollo were entirely abandoned, and, of all this grand composition, le brun was enabled to execute no more than the following subjects: . _evening_, represented by morpheus, lying on a bed of poppies, and buried in a profound sleep. . _night_ succeeding to day, and lighted by the silvery disk of the moon, which, under the figure of diana, appears in a car drawn by hinds. . _the waking of the waters_. neptune and amphitrite on a car drawn by sea-horses, and accompanied by tritons, nereïds, and other divinities of the waters, seem to be paying homage to the rising sun, whose first rays dispel the winds and tempests, figured by a group to the left; while, to the right, polyphemus, seated on a rock, is calling with his loud instrument to his galatea. the other compartments, which le brun could not paint, on account of the cessation of the works, remained a long time vacant, and would have been so at this day, had not the _ci-devant_ academy of painting, to whom the king, in , granted the use of the gallery of apollo, resolved that, in future, the historical painters who might be admitted members, should be bound to paint for their reception one of the subjects which were still wanting for the completion of the ceiling. in this manner, five of the compartments, which remained to be filled, were successively decorated, namely: . _summer_, by durameau. . _autumn_, by taraval. . _spring_, by callet. . _winter_, by lagrenÉe the younger, . _morning_, or day-break, by renou. the gallery of apollo now making part of the central museum, it would be worthy of the government to cause its ceiling to be completed, by having the three vacant compartments painted by skillful french artists. under the compartments, and immediately above the cornice, are twelve medallions, which were to represent the _twelve months of the year_, characterized by the different occupations peculiar to them: eight only are executed, and these are the months of summer, autumn, and winter. the rich borders in gilt stucco, which serve as frames to all these paintings, the caryatides which support them, as well as the groups of muses, rivers, and children, that are distributed over the great cornice, are worthy of remark. not only were the most celebrated sculptors then in france, gaspar and balthazar marsy, regnaudin, and girardon, chosen to execute them; but their emulation was also excited by a premium of three hundred louis, which was promised to him who should excel. girardon obtained it by the execution of the following pieces of sculpture: . the figure representing a river which is under the _waking of the waters_; at the south extremity of the gallery. . the two trophies of arms which are near that river. . the caryatides that support one of the octagonal compartments towards the quay, at the foot of which are seen two children; the one armed with a sickle, the other leaning on a lion. . the group of caryatides that supports the great compartment where _summer_ is represented, and below which is a child holding a balance. . the two grouped figures of tragedy and comedy, which rest on the great cornice. in the gallery of apollo will be exhibited in succession, about twelve thousand original drawings of the italian, flemish, and french schools, the greater part of which formerly belonged to the crown. this valuable collection had been successively enriched by the choice of those of jabak, lanque, montarsis, le brun, crozat, mariette, &c. yet never rendered public. private and partial admission to it had, indeed, been granted; but artists and amateurs, in general, were precluded from so rich a source of study. by inconceivable neglect, it seemed almost to have escaped the attention of the old government, having been for a hundred years shut up in a confined place, instead of being exhibited to public view. the variety of the forms and dimensions of these drawings having opposed the more preferable mode of arranging them by schools, and in chronological order, the most capital drawings of each master have been selected (for, in so extensive a collection, it could not be supposed that they were all equally interesting); and these even are sufficiently numerous to furnish several successive exhibitions. the present exhibition consists of upwards of two hundred drawings by the most distinguished masters of the italian school, about one hundred by those of the flemish, and as many, or rather more, by those of the french. they are placed in glazed frames, so contrived as to admit of the subjects being changed at pleasure. among the drawings by raphael, is the great cartoon of the athenian school, a valuable fragment which served for the execution of the grand _fresco_ painting in the vatican, the largest and finest of all his productions. it was brought from the ambrosian library at milan, and is one of the most instructive works extant for a study. besides the drawings, is a frame containing a series of portraits of illustrious personages who made a figure in the reign of lewis xiv. they are miniatures in enamel, painted chiefly by the celebrated petitot of geneva. here are also to be seen some busts and antique vases. the most remarkable of the latter is one of parian marble, about twenty-one inches in height by twelve in diameter. it is of an oval form; the handles, cut out of the solid stone, are ornamented with four swans' heads, and the neck with branches of ivy. on the swell is a bas-relief, sculptured in the old greek style, and in the centre is an altar on which these words may be decyphered. [greek: sosibios atÆnaios epoiei.] _sosibios of athens fecit._ this beautiful vase[ ] is placed on a table of violet african breccia, remarkable for its size, being twelve feet in length, three feet ten inches in breadth, and upwards of three inches in thickness. it might, at first, be supposed that the indiscriminate admission of persons of all ranks to a museum, which presents so many attractive objects, would create confusion, and occasion breaches of decorum. but this is by no means the case. _savoyards_, _poissardes_, and the whole motley assemblage of the lower classes of both sexes in paris, behave themselves with as much propriety as the more refined visiters; though their remarks, perhaps, may be expressed in language less polished. in conspicuous places of the various apartments, boards are affixed, on which is inscribed the following significant appeal to the uncultivated mind, "_citoyens, ne touchez à rien; mais respectez la propriété nationale_." proper persons are stationed here and there to caution such as, through thoughtlessness or ignorance, might not attend to the admonition. on the days appropriated to the accommodation of students, great numbers are to be seen in different parts of the museum, some mounted on little stages, others standing or sitting, all sedulously employed in copying the favourite object of their studies. indeed, the epithet central has been applied to this establishment, in order to designate a museum, which is to contain the choicest productions of art, and, of course, become the _centre_ of study. here, nothing has been neglected that could render such an institution useful, either in a political light, or in regard to public instruction. its magnificence and splendour speak to every eye, and are calculated to attract the attention of foreigners from the four quarters of the globe; while, as a source of improvement, it presents to students the finest models that the arts and sciences could assemble. in a philosophical point of view, such a museum may be compared to a torch, whose light will not only dispel the remnant of that bad taste which, for a century, has predominated in the arts dependent on design, but also serve to guide the future progress of the rising generation. [footnote : in the great _gallery_ of the _louvre_ are suspended about nine hundred and fifty pictures; which, with ninety in the _saloon_, extend the number of the present exhibition to one thousand and forty.] [footnote : whatever may be the beauty of this vase, two others are to be seen in paris, which surpass it, according to the opinion of one of the most celebrated antiquaries of the age, m. visconti. they are now in the possession of m. aubri, doctor of physic, residing at n°. , _rue st. thomas du louvre_, but they formerly graced the cabinet of the _villa-albani_ at rome. in this apartment, cardinal alessandro had assembled some of the most valuable ornaments of antiquity. here were to be seen the apollo _sauroctonos_ in bronze, the diana in alabaster, and the _unique_ bas-relief of the apothesis of hercules. by the side of such rare objects of art, these vases attracted no less attention. to describe them as they deserve, would lead me too far; they need only to be seen to be admired. although their form is antique, the execution of them is modern, and ascribed to the celebrated sculptor, silvio da veletri, who lived in the beginning of the seventeenth century. indeed, m. visconti affirms that antiquity affords not their equal; assigning as a reason that porphyry was introduced into rome at a period when the fine arts were tending to their decline. notwithstanding the hardness of the substance, they are executed with such taste and perfection, that the porphyry is reduced to the thinness of china.] letter xviii. _paris, november , ._ the _louvre_, the _tuileries_, together with the _national fête_ in honour of peace, and a crowd of interesting objects, have so engrossed our attention, that we seem to have overlooked the _ci-devant palais royal_. let us then examine that noted edifice, which now bears the name of palais du tribunat. in , cardinal richelieu began the construction of this palace. when finished, in , he called it the _palais cardinal_, a denomination which was much criticized, as being unworthy of the founder of the french academy. like the politic wolsey, who gave hampton-court to henry viii, the crafty richelieu, in , thought proper to make a present of this palace to lewis xiii. after the death of that king, anne of austria, queen of france and regent of the kingdom, quitted the _louvre_ to inhabit the _palais cardinal_, with her sons lewis xiv and the duke of anjou. the first inscription was then removed, and this palace was called _le palais royal_, a name which it preserved till the revolution, when, after the new title assumed by its then owner, it was denominated _la maison Égalité_, till, under the consular government, since the tribunate have here established their sittings, it has obtained its present appellation of _palais du tribunat_. in the sequel, lewis xiv granted to monsieur, his only brother, married to henrietta stuart, daughter of charles i, the enjoyment of the _palais royal_, and afterwards vested the property of it in his grandson, the duke of chartres. that prince, become duke of orleans, and regent of france, during the minority of lewis xv, resided in this palace, and (to use voltaire's expression) hence gave the signal of voluptuousness to the whole kingdom. here too, he ruled it with principles the most daring; holding men, in general, in great contempt, and conceiving them to be all as insidious, as servile, and as covetous as those by whom he was surrounded. with the superiority of his character, he made a sport of governing this mass of individuals, as if the task was unworthy of his genius. the fact is illustrated by the following anecdote. at the commencement of his regency, the debts of the state were immense, and the finances exhausted: such great evils required extraordinary remedies; he wished to persuade the people that paper-money was better than specie. thousands became the dupes of their avarice, and too soon awoke from their dream only to curse the authors of a project which ended in their total ruin. it is almost needless to mention that i here allude to the mississippi bubble. in circumstances so critical, the parliament of paris thought it their duty to make remonstrances. they accordingly sent deputies to the regent, who was persuaded that they wished to stir up the parisians against him. after having listened to their harangue with much phelgm, he gave them his answer in four words: "go and be d----n'd." the deputy, who had addressed him, nothing disconcerted, instantly replied: "sir, it is the custom of the parliament to enter in their registers the answers which they receive from the throne: shall they insert this?" the principles of the regent's administration, which succeeded those of lewis xiv, form in history, a very striking shade. the french nation, which, plastic as wax, yields to every impression, was new-modelled in a single instant. as a rotten speck, by spreading, contaminates the finest fruit, so was the _palais royal_ the corrupt spot, whence the contagion of debauchery was propagated, even to the remotest parts of the kingdom. this period, infinitely curious and interesting, paved the way to the present manners. if the basis of morality be at this day overthrown in france, the regency of philip of orleans, by completing what the dissolute court of lewis xiv had begun, has occasioned that rapid change, whose influence was felt long before the revolution, and will, in all probability, last for ages. at least, i think that such a conclusion is exemplified by what has occurred in england since the profligate reign of charles ii, the effects of whose example have never been done away. different circumstances have produced considerable alterations in this palace, so that, at the present day, its numerous buildings preserve of the first architect, le mercier, no more than a small part of the second court. the principal entrance of the _palais du tribunat_ is from the _rue st. honoré_. the façade, on this side, which was constructed in , consists of two pavilions, ornamented by doric and ionic pillars, and connected by a lofty stone-wall, perforated with arches, to three grand gates, by which you enter the first court. here, two elegant wings present themselves, decorated with pilasters, also of the doric and ionic orders, which are likewise employed for the pillars of the avant-corps in the centre. this avant-corps is pierced with three arches, which serve as a passage into the second court, and correspond with the three gates before-mentioned. having reached the vestibule, between the two courts, where large doric pillars rise, though partly concealed by a number of little shops and stalls, you see, on the right, the handsome elliptical stair-case, which leads to the apartments. it branches off into two divisions at the third step, and is lighted by a lofty dome. the balustrade of polished iron is beautiful, and is said to have cost thirty-two workmen two years' labour. before the revolution, strangers repaired hither to admire the cabinet of gems and engraved stones, the cabinet of natural history, the collection of models of arts, trades, and manufactures, and the famous collection of pictures, belonging to the _last_ duke of orleans, and chiefly assembled, at a vast expense, by his grandfather, the regent. this second court is larger than the first; but it still remains in an incomplete state. the right-hand wing only is finished, and is merely a continuation of that which we have seen in the other court. on the left hand, is the site of the new hall intended for the sittings of the tribunate. workmen are now employed in its construction; heaps of stones and mortar are lying about, and, the building seems to proceed with tolerable expedition. here, in the back-ground, is a crowd of little stalls for the sale of various articles, such as prints, plays, fruit, and pastry. in front stand such carriages as remain in waiting for those who may have been set down at this end of the palace. proceeding onward, you pass through two parallel wooden galleries, lined on each side with shops, and enter the formerly-enchanting regions of the jardin du palais du tribunat. the old garden of the _palais royal_, long famous for its shady walks, and for being the most fashionable public promenade in paris, had, from its centrical situation, gradually attracted to its vicinity a considerable number of speculators, who there opened ready-furnished hotels, coffee-houses, and shops of various descriptions. the success of these different establishments awakened the cupidity of its wealthy proprietor, then duke, of chartres, who, conceiving that the ground might be made to yield a capital augmentation to his income, fixed on a plan for enclosing it by a magnificent range of buildings. notwithstanding the clamours of the parisian public, who, from long habit, considered that they had a sort of prescriptive right to this favourite promenade, the axe was laid to the celebrated _arbre de cracovie_ and other venerable trees, and their stately heads were soon levelled to the ground. every one murmured as if these trees had been his own private property, and cut down against his will and pleasure. this will not appear extraordinary, when it is considered that, under their wide-spreading branches, which afforded a shelter impervious to the sun and rain, politicians by day, adjusted the balance of power, and arbiters of taste discussed the fashions of the moment; while, by night, they presented a canopy, beneath which were often arranged the clandestine bargains of opera-girls and other votaries of venus. after venting their spleen in vague conjectures, witty epigrams, and lampoons, the parisians were silent. they presently found that they were, in general, not likely to be losers by this devastation. in , the execution of the new plan was begun: in less than three years, the present inclosure was nearly completed, and the modern garden thrown open to the public, uniting to the advantages of the ancient one, a thousand others more refined and concentrated. the form of this garden is a parallelogram, whose length is seven hundred and two feet by three hundred in breadth, taken at its greatest dimensions. it is bordered, on three of its sides, by new, uniform buildings, of light and elegant architecture. rising to an elevation of forty-two feet, these buildings present two regular stories, exclusively of the _mansarde_, or attic story, decorated by festoons, bas-reliefs, and large composite fluted pillars, bearing an entablature in whose frieze windows are pierced. throughout its extent, the whole edifice is crowned by a balustrade, on the pedestals of which vases are placed at equal distances. in the middle of the garden stood a most singular building, partly subterraneous, called a _cirque_. this circus, which was first opened in , with concerts, balls, &c. was also appropriated to more useful objects, and, in , a _lyceum of arts_ was here established; but in , it was consumed by fire, and its site is now occupied by a grass-plot. on the two long sides of the garden are planted three rows of horse-chesnut trees, not yet of sufficient growth to afford any shade; and what is new, is a few shrubs and flowers in inclosed compartments. the walks are of gravel, and kept in good order. on the ground-floor, a covered gallery runs entirely round the garden. the shops, &c. on this floor, as well as the apartments of the _entresol_ above them, receive light by one hundred and eighty porticoes, which are open towards the garden, and used to have each a glass lantern, with reflectors, suspended in the middle of their arch. in lieu of these, some of a less brilliant description are now distributed on a more economical plan under the piazzas; but, at the close of day, the rivalship of the shopkeepers, in displaying their various commodities, creates a blaze of light which would strike a stranger as the effect of an illumination. the fourth side of the garden towards the _rue st. honoré_ is still occupied by a double gallery, constructed, as i have already mentioned, of wood, which has subsisted nearly in its present state ever since i first visited paris in . it was to have been replaced by a colonnade for the inclosure of the two courts. this colonnade was to have consisted of six rows of doric pillars, supporting a spacious picture-gallery, (intended for the whole of the orleans collection), which was to have constituted the fourth façade to the garden, and have formed a covered walk, communicating with the galleries of the other three sides. these galleries, whose whole circumference measures upwards of a third of a mile, afford to the public, even in bad weather, a walk equally agreeable and convenient, embellished, on the one side, by the aspect of the garden, and, on the other, by the studied display of every thing that taste and fashion can invent to captivate the attention of passengers. no place in paris, however, exhibits such a contrast to its former attractions as this once-fashionable rendezvous. the change of its name from _palais royal_ to _maison Égalité_ conveys not to the imagination a dissimilitude more glaring than is observable between the present frequenters of this favourite promenade, and those who were in the habit of flocking hither before the revolution. at that period, the scene was enlivened by the most brilliant and most captivating company in the capital, both in point of exterior and manners. at this day, the medal is exactly reversed. in lieu of well-dressed or well-behaved persons of both sexes, this garden, including its purlieus, presents, morning and evening, nothing but hordes of stock-jobbers, money-brokers, gamblers, and adventurers of every description. the females who frequent it, correspond nearly to the character of the men; they are, for the greater part, of the most debauched and abandoned class: for a laïs of _bon ton_ seldom ventures to shew herself among this medley of miscreants. in the crowd, may be occasionally remarked a few strangers attracted by curiosity, and other individuals of respectable appearance called hither on business, as well as some inoffensive newsmongers, resorting to the coffee-houses to read the papers. but, in general, the great majority, of the company, now seen here, is of a cast so extremely low, that no decent woman, whether married or single, thinks of appearing in a place where she would run a risk of being put out of countenance in passing alone, even in the daytime. in the evening, the company is of a still worse complexion; and the concourse becomes so great under the piazzas, particularly when the inclemency of the weather drives people out of the garden, that it is sometimes difficult to cross through the motley assemblage. at the conclusion of the performances in the neighbouring theatres, there is a vast accession of the inferior order of nymphs of the cyprian corps; and then, amorous conversation and dalliance reach the summit of licentious freedom. the greater part of the political commotions which have, at different times, convulsed paris, took their rise in the _ci-devant palais royal_, or it has, in some shape, been their theatre. in this palace too originated the dreadful reverse of fortune which the queen experienced; and, indeed, when the cart in which her majesty was carried to the scaffold, passed before the gates of this edifice, she was unable to repress a sign of indignation. all writers who have spoken of the inveterate hatred, which existed between the queen and m. d'orléans, have ascribed it to despised love, whose pangs, as shakspeare tells, us, are not patiently endured. some insist that the duke, enamoured of the charms of the queen, hazarded a declaration, which her majesty not only received with disdain, but threatened to inform the king of in case of a renewal of his addresses. others affirm that the queen, at one time, shewed that the duke was not indifferent to her, and that, on a hint being given to him to that effect, he replied: "every one may be ambitious to please the queen, except myself. our interests are too opposite for love ever to unite them." on this foundation is built the origin of the animosity which, in the end, brought both these great personages to the scaffold. whatever may have been the motive which gave rise to it, certain it is that they never omitted any opportunity of persecuting each other. the queen had no difficulty in pourtraying the duke as a man addicted to the most profligate excesses, and in alienating from him the mind of the king: he, on his side, found it as easy, by means of surreptitious publications, to represent her as a woman given to illicit enjoyments; so that, long before the revolution, the character both of the queen and the duke were well known to the public; and their example tended not a little to increase the general dissoluteness of morals. the debaucheries of the one served as a model to all the young rakes of fashion; while the levity of the other, was imitated by what were termed the _amiable_ women of the capital. after his exile in , the hatred of m. d'orléans towards the queen roused that ambition which he inherited from his ancestors. in watching her private conduct, in order to expose her criminal weaknesses, he discovered a certain political project, which gave birth to the idea of his forming a plan of a widely-different nature. hitherto he had given himself little trouble about state affairs; but, in conjunction with his confidential friends, he now began to calculate the means of profiting by the distress of his country. the first shocks of the revolution had so electrified the greater part of the parisians, that, in regard to the duke of orleans, they imperceptibly passed from profound contempt to blind infatuation. his palace became the rendezvous of all the malcontents of the court, and his garden the place of assembly of all the demagogues. his exile appeared a public calamity, and his recall was celebrated as a triumph. had he possessed a vigour of intellect, and a daring equal to the situation of leader of a party, there is little doubt that he might have succeeded in his plan, and been declared regent. his immense income, amounting to upwards of three hundred thousand pounds sterling, was employed to gain partisans, and secure the attachment of the people. after the taking of the bastille, it is admitted that his party was sufficiently powerful to effect a revolution in his favour; but his pusillanimity prevailed over his ambition. the active vigilance of the queen thwarting his projects, he resolved to get rid of her; and in that intention was the irruption of the populace directed to versailles. this fact seems proved: for, on some one complaining before him in , that the revolution proceeded too slowly. "it would have been terminated long ago," replied he, "had the queen been sacrificed on the th of october ." two months before the fall of the throne, m. d'orléans still reckoned to be able to attain his wishes; but he soon found himself egregiously mistaken. the factions, after mutually accusing each other of having him for their chief, ended by deserting him; and, after the death of the king, he became a stranger to repose, and, for the second time, an object of contempt. the necessity of keeping up the exaltation of the people, had exhausted his fortune, great as it was; and want of money daily detached different agents from his party. his plate, his pictures, his furniture, his books, his trinkets, his gems, all went to purchase the favour, and at length the protection, of the maratists. not having it in his power to satisfy their cupidity, he opened loans on all sides, and granted illusory mortgages. having nothing more left to dispose of, he was reduced, as a last resource, to sell his body-linen. in this very bargain was he engaged, when he was apprehended and sent to marseilles. although acquitted by the criminal tribunal, before which he was tried in the south of france, he was still detained there in prison. at first, he had shed tears, and given himself up to despair, but now hope once more revived his spirits, and he availed himself of the indulgence granted him, by giving way to his old habits of debauchery. on being brought to paris after six months' confinement, he flattered himself that he should experience the same lenity in the capital. the jailer of the _conciergerie,_ not knowing whether m. d'orléans would leave that prison to ascend the throne or the scaffold, treated him with particular respect; and he himself was impressed with the idea that he would soon resume an ascendency in public affairs. but, on his second trial, he was unanimously declared guilty of conspiring against the unity and indivisibility of the republic, and condemned to die, though no proof whatever of his guilt was produced to the jury. one interrogatory put to him is deserving of notice. it was this: "did you not one day say to a deputy: _what will you ask of me when i am king?_ and did not the deputy reply: _i will ask you for a pistol to blow out your brains?_" every one who was present at the condemnation of m. d'orléans, and saw him led to the guillotine affirms that if he never shewed courage before, he did at least on that day. on hearing the sentence, he called out: "let it be executed directly." from the revolutionary tribunal he was conducted straight to the scaffold, where, notwithstanding the reproaches and imprecations which accompanied him all the way, he met his fate with unshaken firmness. letter xix. _paris, november , ._ but if the _ci-devant palais royal_ has been the mine of political explosions, so it still continues to be the epitome of all the trades in paris. under the arcades, on the ground-floor, here are, as formerly, shops of jewellers, haberdashers, artificial florists, milliners, perfumers, print-sellers, engravers, tailors, shoemakers, hatters, furriers, glovers, confectioners, provision-merchants, woollen-drapers, mercers, cutlers, toymen, money-changers, and booksellers, together with several coffee-houses, and lottery-offices, all in miscellaneous succession. among this enumeration, the jewellers' shops are the most attractive in point of splendour. the name of the proprietor is displayed in large letters of artificial diamonds, in a conspicuous compartment facing the door. this is a sort of signature, whose brilliancy eclipses all other names, and really dazzles the eyes of the spectators. but at the same time it draws the attention both of the learned and the illiterate: i will venture to affirm that the name of one of these jewellers is more frequently spelt and pronounced than that of any great man recorded in history, either ancient or modern. with respect to the price of the commodities exposed for sale in the _palais du tribunat_, it is much the same as in _bond street_, you pay one third at least for the idea of fashion annexed to the name of the place where you make the purchase, though the quality of the article may be nowise superior to what you might procure elsewhere. as in bond street too, the rents in this building are high, on which account the shopkeepers are, in some measure, obliged to charge higher than those in other parts of the town. not but i must do them the justice to acknowledge that they make no scruple to avail themselves of every prejudice formerly entertained in favour of this grand emporium, in regard to taste, novelty, &c. by a still further increase of their prices. no small advantage to the shopkeepers established here is the chance custom, arising from such a variety of trades being collected together so conveniently, all within the same inclosure. a person resorting hither to procure one thing, is sure to be reminded of some other want, which, had not the article presented itself to his eye, would probably have escaped his recollection; and, indeed, such is the thirst of gain, that several tradesmen keep a small shop under these piazzas, independently of a large warehouse in another quarter of paris. pamphlets and other ephemeral productions usually make their first appearance in the _palais du tribunat_; and strangers may rely on being plagued by a set of fellows who here hawk about prohibited publications, of the most immoral tendency, embellished with correspondent engravings; such as _justine, ou les malheurs de la vertu, les quarante manières, &c._ they seldom, i am told, carry the publication about them, for fear of being unexpectedly apprehended, but keep it at some secret repository hard by, whence they fetch it in an instant. it is curious to see with what adroitness these vagrants elude the vigilance of the police, i had scarcely set my foot in this building before a jew-looking fellow, coming close to me, whispered in my ear: "_monsieur veut-il la vie polissonne de madame--------?_" madame who do you think? you will stare when i tell you to fill up the blank with the name of her who is now become the first female personage in france? i turned round with astonishment; but the ambulating book-vender had vanished, in consequence, as i conclude, of being observed by some _mouchard._ thus, what little virtue may remain in the mind of youth is contaminated by precept, as well as example; and the rising generation is in a fair way of being even more corrupted than that which has preceded it. "_Ætas parentum, pejor avis, tulit nos nequiores, mox daturos progeniem vitiosiorem._" besides the shops, are some auction-rooms, where you may find any article of wearing apparel or household furniture, from a lady's wig _à la caraculla_ to a bed _à la grecque:_ here are as many puffers as in a mock auction in london; and should you be tempted to bid, by the apparent cheapness of the object put up for sale, it is fifty to one that you soon repent of your bargain. not so with the _magazins de confiance à prix fixé_, where are displayed a variety of articles, marked at a fixed price, from which there is no abatement. these establishments are extremely convenient, not only to ingenious mechanics, who have invented or improved a particular production of art, of which they wish to dispose, but also to purchasers. you walk in, and if any article strikes your fancy, you examine it at your ease; you consider the materials, the workmanship, and lastly the price, without being hurried by a loquacious shopkeeper into a purchase which you may shortly regret. a commission of from five to one half per cent, in graduated proportions, according to the value of the article, is charged to the seller, for warehouse-room and all other expenses. such is the arrangement of the ground-floor; the apartments on the first floor are at present occupied by _restaurateurs_, exhibitions of various kinds, billiard-tables, and _académies de jeu_, or public gaming-tables, where all the passions are let loose, and all the torments of hell assembled. the second story is let out in lodgings, furnished or unfurnished, to persons of different descriptions, particularly to the priestesses of venus. the rooms above, termed _mansardes_, in the french architectural dialect, are mostly inhabited by old batchelors, who prefer economy to show; or by artists, who subsist by the employment of their talents. these chambers are spacious, and though the ceilings are low, they receive a more uninterrupted circulation of fresh air, than the less exalted regions. over the _mansardes_, in the very roof, are nests of little rooms, or cock-lofts, resembling, i am told, the cells of a beehive. journeymen shopkeepers, domestics, and distressed females are said to be the principal occupiers of these aërial abodes. i had nearly forgot to mention a species of apartment little known in england: i mean the _entresol_, which is what we should denominate a low story, (though here not so considered), immediately above the ground-floor, and directly under the first-floor. in this building, some of the _entresols_ are inhabited by the shopkeepers below; some, by women of no equivocal calling, who throw out their lures to the idle youths sauntering under the arcades; and others again are now become _maisons de pret_, where pawnbrokers exercise their usurious dealings. in the _palais du tribunat_, as you may remark, not an inch of space is lost; every hole and corner being turned to account: here and there, the cellars even: are converted into scenes of gaiety and diversion, where the master of the house entertains his customers with a succession of vocal and instrumental music, while they are taking such refreshments as he furnishes. this speculation, which has, by all accounts, proved extremely profitable, was introduced in the early part of the revolution. since that period, other speculations, engendered by the luxury of the times, have been set on foot within the precincts of this palace. of two of these, now in full vigour and exercise, i must say a few words, as they are of a nature somewhat curious. the one is a _cabinet de décrotteur_, where the art of blacking shoes is carried to a pitch of perfection hitherto unknown in this country. not many years ago, it was common, in paris, to see counsellors, abbés, and military officers, as well as _petits-maîtres_ of every denomination, full dressed, that is, with their hat under their arm, their sword by their side, and their hair in a bag, standing in the open street, with one leg cocked up on a stool, while a rough savoyard or auvergnat hastily cleaned their shoes with a coarse mixture of lamp-black and rancid oil. at the present day, the _décrotteurs_ or shoe-blacks still exercise their profession on the _pont neuf_ and in other quarters; but, as a refinement of the art, there is also opened, at each of the principal entrances of the _palais du tribunat_, a _cabinet de décrotteur_, or small apartment, where you are invited to take a chair, and presented with the daily papers. the artist, with due care and expedition, first removes the dirt from your shoes or boots with a sponge occasionally moistened in water, and by means of several pencils, of different sizes, not unlike those of a limner, he then covers them with a jetty varnish, rivaling even japan in lustre. this operation he performs with a gravity and consequence that can scarcely fail to excite laughter. yet, according to the trite proverb, it is not the customer who ought to indulge in mirth, but the _artist_. although his price is much dearer than that demanded by the other professors of this art, his cabinet is seldom empty from morning to night; and, by a simple calculation, his pencil is found to produce more than that of some good painters of the modern french school. at the first view of the matter, it should appear that the other speculation might have been hit on by any man with a nose to his face; but, on more mature consideration, one is induced to think that its author was a person of some learning, and well read in ancient history. he, no doubt, took the hint from vespasian. as that emperor blushed not to make the urine of the citizens of rome a source of revenue, so the learned projector in question rightly judged that, in a place of such resort as the _palais du tribunat_, he might, without shame or reproach, levy a small tax on the parisians, by providing for their convenience in a way somewhat analogous. his penetration is not unhandsomely rewarded; for he derives an income of , francs, or £ sterling, from his _cabinets d'aisance_. since political causes first occasioned the shuting up of the old _théâtre français_ in the _faubourg st. germain_, now reduced to a shell by fire, melpomene and thalia have taken up their abode in the south-west angle of the _palais du tribunat_, and in its north-west corner is another theatre, on a smaller scale, where momus holds his court; so that be you seriously, sentimentally, or humorously disposed, you may, without quitting the shelter of the piazzas, satisfy your inclination. tragedy, comedy, and farce all lie before you within the purlieus of this extraordinary edifice. to sum up all the conveniences of the _palais du tribunat_, suffice it to say, that almost every want, natural or artificial, almost every appetite, gross or refined, might be gratified without passing its limits; for, while the extravagant voluptuary is indulging in all the splendour of asiatic luxury, the parsimonious sensualist need not depart unsatisfied. placed in the middle of paris, the _palais du tribunat_ has been aptly compared to a sink of vice, whose contagious effects would threaten society with the greatest evils, were not the scandalous scenes of the capital here concentrated into one focus. it has also been mentioned, by the same writer, mercier, as particularly worthy of remark, that, since this building is become a grand theatre, where cupidity, gluttony, and licentiousness shew themselves under every form and excess, several other quarters of paris are, in a manner, purified by the accumulation of vices which flourish in its centre. whether or not this assertion be strictly correct, i will not pretend to determine: but, certain it is that the _palais du tribunat_ is a vortex of dissipation where many a youth is ingulfed. the natural manner in which this may happen i shall endeavour briefly to explain, by way of conclusion to this letter. a young frenchman, a perfect stranger in paris, arrives there from the country, and, wishing to equip himself in the fashion, hastens to the _palais du tribunat_, where he finds wearing apparel of every description on the _ground-floor_: prompted by a keen appetite, he dines at a _restaurateur's_ on the _first-floor_: after dinner, urged by mere curiosity, perhaps, if not decoyed by some sharper on the look-out for novices, he visits a public gaming-table on the same story. fortune not smiling on him, he retires; but, at that very moment, he meets, on the landing-place, a captivating damsel, who, like virgil's galatea, flies to be pursued; and the inexperienced youth, after ascending another flight of stairs, is, on the _second-floor_, ushered into a brothel. cloyed or disgusted there, he is again induced to try the humour of the fickle goddess, and repairs once more to the gaming-table, till, having lost all his money, he is under the necessity of descending to the _entresol_ to pawn his watch, before he can even procure a lodging in a _garret_ above. what other city in europe can boast of such an assemblage of accommodation? here, under the same roof, a man is, in the space of a few minutes, as perfectly equipped from top to toe, as if he had all the first tradesmen in london at his command; and shortly after, without setting his foot into the street, he is as completely stripped, as if he had fallen into the hands of a gang of robbers. to cleanse this augæan stable, would, no doubt, be a herculean labour. for that purpose, merlin (of douay), when minister of the police, proposed to the directory to convert the whole of the buildings of the _ci-devant palais royal_ into barracks. this was certainly striking at the root of the evil; but, probably, so bold a project was rejected, lest its execution, in those critical times, should excite the profligate parisians to insurrection. letter xx. _paris, november , ._ one of the private entertainments here in great vogue, and which is understood to mark a certain pre-eminence in the _savoir-vivre_ of the present day, is a nocturnal repast distinguished by the insignificant denomination of a thÉ. a stranger might, in all probability, be led to suppose that he was invited to a tea-drinking party, when he receives a note couched in the following terms: _"madame r------ prie monsieur b--------- de lui faire l'honneur de venir au thé quelle doit donner le de ce mois."_ considering in that light a similar invitation which i received, i was just on the point of sending an apology, when i was informed that a _thé_ was nothing more or less than a sort of rout, followed by substantial refreshments, and generally commencing after the evening's performance was ended at the principal theatres. on coming out of the opera-house then the other night, i repaired to the lady's residence in question, and arriving there about twelve o'clock, found that i had stumbled on the proper hour. as usual, there were cards, but for those only disposed to play; for, as this lady happened not to be under the necessity of recurring to the _bouillotte_ as a financial resource, she gave herself little or no concern about the card-tables. being herself a very agreeable, sprightly woman, she had invited a number of persons of both sexes of her own character, so that the conversation was kept up with infinite vivacity till past one o'clock, when tea and coffee were introduced. these were immediately followed by jellies, sandwiches, pâtés, and a variety of savoury viands, in the style of a cold supper, together with different sorts of wines and liqueurs. in the opinion of some of the parisian sybarites, however, no _thé_ can be complete without the addition of an article, which is here conceived to be a perfect imitation of fashionable english cheer. this is hot punch. it was impossible for me to refuse the cheerful and engaging _dame du logis_ to taste her _ponche_, and, in compliment to me as an englishman, she presented me with a glass containing at least a treble allowance. not being overfond of punch, i would willingly have relinquished the honour of drinking her health in so large a portion, apprehending that this beverage might, in quality, resemble that of the same name which i had tasted here a few evenings ago in one of the principal coffeehouses. the latter, in fact, was a composition of new rum, which reminded me of the trash of that kind distilled in new england, acidulated with rotten lemons, sweetened with capillaire, and increased by a _quantum sufficit_ of warm water. my hostess's punch, on the contrary, was made of the best ingredients, agreeably to the true standard; in a word, it was proper lady's punch, that is, hot, sweet, sour, and strong. it was distributed in tea-pots, of beautiful porcelaine, which, independently of keeping it longer warm, were extremely convenient for pouring it out without spilling. thus concluded the entertainment. about half past two o'clock the party broke up, and i returned home, sincerely regretting the change in the mode of life of the parisians. before the revolution, the fashionable hour of dinner in paris was three o'clock, or at latest four: public places then began early; the curtain at the grand french opera drew up at a quarter past five. at the present day, the workman dines at two; the tradesman, at three; the clerk in a public office, at four; the rich upstart, the money-broker, the stock-jobber, the contractor, at five; the banker, the legislator, the counsellor of state, at six; and the ministers, in general, at seven, nay not unfrequently at eight. formerly, when the performance at the opera, and the other principal theatres, was ended at nine o'clock, or a quarter past, people of fashion supped at ten or half after; and a man who went much into public, and kept good company, might retire peaceably to rest by midnight. in three-fourths of the houses in paris, there is now no such meal as supper, except on the occasion of a ball, when it is generally a mere scramble. this, i presume, is one reason why substantial breakfasts are so much in fashion. "_déjeûners froids et chauds_," is an inscription which now generally figures on the exterior of a parisian coffeehouse, beside that of "_thé à l'anglaise, café à la crême, limonade, &c_." solids are here the taste of the times. two ladies, who very gallantly invited themselves to breakfast at my apartments the other morning, were ready to turn the house out of the window, when they found that i presented to them nothing more than tea, coffee, and chocolate. i was instantly obliged to provide cold fowl, ham, oysters, white wine, &c. i marvel not at the strength and vigour of these french belles. in appetite, they would cope with an english ploughman, who had just turned up an acre of wholesome land on an empty stomach. now, though a _thé_ may be considered as a substitute for a supper, it cannot, in point of agreeableness, be compared to a _petit souper_. if a man must sup, and i am no advocate for regular suppers, these were the suppers to my fancy. a select number of persons, well assorted, assembled at ten o'clock, after the opera was concluded, and spent a couple of hours in a rational manner. sometimes a _petit souper_ consisted of a simple _tête-à-tête_, sometimes of a _partie quarrée_, or the number was varied at pleasure. but still, in a _petit souper_, not only much gaiety commonly prevailed, but also a certain _épanchement de coeur_, which animated the conversation to such a degree as to render a party of this description the _acme_ of social intercourse, "the feast of reason and the flow of soul." under the old _régime_, not a man was there in office, from the _ministre d'état_ to the _commis_, who did not think of making himself amends for the fatigues of the morning by a _petit souper_: these _petits soupers_, however, were, in latter times, carried to an excessive pitch of luxurious extravagance. but for refinements attempted in luxury, though, i confess, of a somewhat dissolute nature, our countryman eclipsed all the french _bons vivans_ in originality of conception. being in possession of an ample fortune, and willing to enjoy it according to his fancy, he purchased in paris a magnificent house, but constructed on a small scale, where every thing that the most refined luxury could suggest was assembled. the following is the account given by one of his friends, who had been an eye-witness to his manner of living. "mr. b---- had made it a rule to gratify his five senses to the highest degree of enjoyment of which they were susceptible. an exquisite table, perfumed apartments, the charms of music and painting; in a word, every thing most enchanting that nature, assisted by art, could produce, successively flattered his sight, his taste, his smell, his hearing, and his feeling. "in a superb saloon, whither he conducted me," says this gentleman, "were six young beauties, dressed in an extraordinary manner, whose persons, at first sight, did not appear unknown to me: it struck me that i had seen their faces more than once, and i was accordingly going to address them, when mr. b----, smiling at my mistake, explained to me the cause of it." "i have, in my amours," said he, "a particular fancy. the choicest beauty of circassia would have ho merit in my eyes, did she not resemble the portrait of some woman, celebrated in past ages: and while lovers set great value on a miniature which faithfully exhibits the features of their mistress, i esteem mine only in proportion to their resemblance to ancient portraits. "conformably to this idea," continued mr. b----, "i have caused the intendant of my pleasures to travel all over europe, with select portraits, or engravings, copied from the originals. he has succeeded in his researches, as you see, since you have conceived that you recognized these ladies on whom you have never before set your eyes; but whose likenesses you may, undoubtedly, have met with. their dress must have contributed to your mistake: they all wear the attire of the personage they represent; for i wish their whole person to be picturesque. by these means, i have travelled back several centuries, and am in possession of beauties whom time had placed at a great distance." "supper was served up. mr. b---- seated himself between mary, queen of scots, and anne bullein. i placed myself opposite to him," concludes the gentleman, "having beside me ninon de l'enclos, and gabrielle d'estrées. we also had the company of the fair rosamond and nell gwynn; but at the head of the table was a vacant elbow-chair, surmounted by a canopy, and destined for cleopatra, who was coming from egypt, and of whose arrival mr. b---- was in hourly expectation." letter xxi. _paris, november , ._ often as we have heard of the extraordinary number of places of public entertainment in paris, few, if any, persons in england have an idea of its being so considerable as it is, even at the present moment. but, in , at the very time when we were told over and over again in parliament, that france was unable to raise the necessary supplies for carrying on the war, and would, as a matter of course, be compelled not only to relinquish her further projects of aggrandisement, but to return to her ancient territorial limits; at that critical period, there existed in paris, and its environs, no less than seventy public places of various descriptions. under the old _régime_, nothing like this number was ever known. such an almost incredible variety of amusements is really a phenomenon, in the midst of a war, unexampled in its consumption of blood and treasure, it proves that, whatever may have been the public distress, there was at least a great _show_ of private opulence. indeed i have been informed that, at the period alluded to, a spirit of indifference, prodigality, and dissipation, seemed to pervade every class of society. whether placed at the bottom or the top of fortune's wheel, a thirst of gain and want of economy were alike conspicuous among all ranks of people. those who strained every nerve to obtain riches, squandered them with equal profusion. no human beings on earth can be more fond of diversion than the parisians. like the romans of old, they are content if they have but _panem et circenses_, which a frenchman would render by _spectacles et de quoi manger_. however divided its inhabitants may be on political subjects, on the score of amusement at least the republic is one and indivisible. in times of the greatest scarcity, many a person went dinnerless to the theatre, eating whatever scrap he could procure, and consoling himself by the idea of being amused for the evening, and at the same time saving at home the expense of fire and candle. the following list of public places, which i have transcribed for your satisfaction, was communicated to me by a person of veracity; and, as far as it goes, its correctness has been confirmed by my own observation. although it falls short of the number existing here two years ago, it will enable you to judge of the ardour still prevalent among the parisians, for "running at the ring of pleasure." few of these places are shut up, except for the winter; and new ones succeed almost daily to those which are finally closed. however, for the sake of perspicuity, i shall annex the letter s to such as are intended chiefly for summer amusement. . _théâtre des arts, rue de la loi_. . _------- français, rue de la loi._ . _------- feydeau, rue feydeau._ . _------- louvois, rue de louvois._ . _------- favart,_ now _opéra buffa._ . _------- de la porte st. martin._ . _------- de la société olympique_ (late _opéra buffa.)_ . _------- du vaudeville, rue de chartres._ . _------- montansier, palais du tribunat._ . _------- de l'ambigu comique, boulevard du temple._ . _------- de la gaiété, boulevard du temple._ . _------- des jeunes artistes, boulevard st. martin._ . _------- des jeunes elèves, rue de thionville._ . _------- des délassemens comiques, boulevard du temple._ . _------- sans prétension, boulevard du temple._ . _------- du marais, rue culture ste. catherine._ . _------- de la cité, vis-à-vis le palais de justice._ . _------- des victoires, rue du bacq._ . _------- de molière, rue st. martin._ . _------- de l'estrapade._ . _------- de mareux, rue st. antoine._ . _------- des aveugles, rue st. denis._ . _------- de la rue st. jean de beauvais._ . _bal masqué de l'opéra, rue de la loi._ . _---------- de l'opéra buffa, rue de la victoire._ . _bal du sallon des Étrangers, rue grange batelière._ . _--- de l'hôtel de salm, rue de lille, faubourg st. germain._ . _--- de la rue michaudière._ . _soirées amusantes de l'hôtel longueville, place du carrousel._ . _veillées de la cité, vis-à-vis le palais de justice._ . _phantasmagorie de robertson, cour des capucines._ . _concert de feydeau._ . _ranelagh au bois de boulogne._ . _tivoli, rue de clichy_, s. . _frascati, rue de la loi_, s. . _idalie_, s. . _hameau de chantilly, aux champs Élysées._ . _paphos, boulevard du temple._ . _vauxhall d'hiver._ . _-------- d'été_, s. . _-------- à mousseaux_, s. . _-------- à st. cloud_, s. . _-------- au petit trianon_, s. . _jardin de l'hôtel biron, rue de varenne_, s. . _------ thélusson, chaussée d'antin_, s. . _------ marboeuf, grille de chaillot_, s. . _------ de l'hôtel d'orsay_, s. . _fêtes champêtres de bagatelle_, s. . _la muette, à l'entrée du bois de boulogne_, s. . _colisée, au parc des sablons_, s. . _amphithéâtre d'équitation de franconi, aux capucines._ . _panorama, même lieu._ . _exhibition de curtius, boulevard du temple._ . _expériences physiques, au palais du tribunat._ . _la chaumière, aux nouveaux boulevards._ . _cabinet de démonstration de physiologie et de pathologie, au palais du tribunat, no. , au premier._ although, previously to the revolution, the taste for dramatic amusements had imperceptibly spread, paris could then boast of no more than three principal theatres, exclusively of _l'opéra buffa_ introduced in . these were _l'opéra les français_, and _les italiens_, which, with six inferior ones, called _petits spectacles_, brought the whole of the theatres to ten in number. the subaltern houses were incessantly checked in their career by the privileges granted to the _comédie française_, which company alone enjoyed the right to play first-rate productions: it also possessed that of censorship, and sometimes exercised it in the most despotic manner. authors, ever in dispute with the comedians, who dictated the law to them, solicited, but in vain, the opening of a second french theatre. the revolution took place, and the unlimited number of theatres was presently decreed. a great many new ones were opened; but the attraction of novelty dispersing the amateurs, the number of spectators did not always equal the expectation of the managers; and the profits, divided among so many competitors, ceased to be sufficiently productive for the support of every establishment of this description. the consequence was, that several of them were soon reduced to a state of bankruptcy. three theatres of the first and second rank have been destroyed by fire within these two years, yet upwards of twenty are at present open, almost every night, exclusively of several associations of self-denominated _artistes-amateurs._ amidst this false glare of dramatic wealth, theatres of the first rank have imperceptibly declined, and at last fallen. it comes not within my province or intention to seek the causes of this in the defects of their management; but the fact is notorious. the _théâtres favart_ and _feydeau_, at each of which french comic operas were chiefly represented, have at length been obliged to unite the strength of their talents, and the disgrace which they have experienced, has not affected any of those inferior playhouses where subaltern performers establish their success on an assemblage of scenes more coarse, and language more unpolished. at the present moment, the government appear to have taken this decline of the principal theatres into serious consideration. it is, i understand, alike to be apprehended, that they may concern themselves too little or too much in their welfare. hitherto the persons charged with the difficult task of upholding the falling theatres of the first rank, have had the good sense to confine their measures to conciliation; but, of late, it has been rumoured that the stage is to be subjected to its former restrictions. the benefit resulting to the art itself and to the public, from a rivalship of theatres, is once more called in question: and some people even go so far as to assert that, with the exception of a few abuses, the direction of the _gentils-hommes de la chambre_ was extremely good: thence it should seem that the only difficulty is to find these lords of the bed-chamber, if there be any still in being, in order to restore to them their dramatic sceptre.[ ] doubtless, the liberty introduced by the revolution has been, in many respects, abused, and in too many, perhaps, relative to places of public amusement. but must it, on that account, be entirely lost to the stage, and falling into a contrary excess, must recourse be had to arbitrary measures, which might also be abused by those to whose execution they were intrusted? the unlimited number of theatres may be a proper subject for the interference of the government: but as to the liberty of the theatres, included in the number that may be fixed on to represent pieces of every description, such only excepted as may be hurtful to morals, seems to be a salutary and incontestable principle. this it is that, by disengaging the french comic opera from the narrow sphere to which it was confined, has, in a great measure, effected a musical revolution, at which all persons of taste must rejoice, by introducing on that stage the harmonic riches of italy. this too it is that has produced, on theatres of the second and third rank, pieces which are neither deficient in regularity, connexion, representation, nor decoration. the effect of such a principle was long wanted here before the revolution, when the independent spirit of dramatic authors was fettered by the procrastinations of a set of privileged comedians, who discouraged them by ungracious refusals, or disgusted them by unjust preferences. hence, the old adage in france that, when an author had composed a good piece, he had performed but half his task; this was true, as the more difficult half, namely, the getting it read and represented, still remained to be accomplished. as for the multiplicity of playhouses, it certainly belongs to the government to limit their number, not by privileges which might be granted through favour, or obtained, perhaps, for money. the taste of the public for theatrical diversions being known, the population should first be considered, as it is that which furnishes both money and spectators. it would be easy to ascertain the proportion between the population of the capital and the number of theatres which it ought to comprise. public places should be free as to the species of amusement, but limited in their number, so as not to exceed the proportion which the population can bear. the houses would then be constantly well attended, and the proprietors, actors, authors, and all those concerned in their success, secure against the consequences of failure, and the true interest of the art be likewise promoted. in a word, neither absolute independence, nor exclusive privilege should prevail; but a middle course be adopted, in order to fix the fate of those great scenic establishments, which, by forming so essential a part of public diversion, have a proportionate influence on the morals of the nation. i have been led, by degrees, into these observations, not only from a review of the decline of some of the principal playhouses here, but also from a conviction that their general principle is applicable to every other capital in europe. what, for example, can be more absurd than, in the dog-days, when room and air are particularly requisite, that the lovers of dramatic amusement in the british metropolis are to be crammed into a little theatre in the haymarket, and stewed year after year, as in a sweating-room at a bagnio, because half a century ago an exclusive privilege was inconsiderately granted? the playhouses here, in general, have been well attended this winter, particularly the principal ones; but, in paris, every rank has not exactly its theatre as at a ball. from the _spectacles_ on the _boulevards_ to those of the first and second rank, there is a mixture of company. formerly, the lower classes confined themselves solely to the former; at present, they visit the latter. an increase of wages has enabled the workman to gratify his inclination for the indulgence of a species of luxury; and, by a sort of instinct, he now and then takes a peep at those scenes of which he before entertained, from hearsay, but an imperfect idea. if you wish to see a new or favourite piece, you must not neglect to secure a seat in proper time; for, on such occasions, the house is full long before the rising of the curtain. as to taking places in the manner we do in england, there is no such arrangement to be made, except, indeed, you choose to take a whole box, which is expensive. in that case you pay for it at the time you engage it, and it is kept locked the whole evening, or till you and your party, make your appearance.[ ] at all the _spectacles_ in paris, you are literally kept on the outside of the house till you have received a ticket, in exchange for your money, through an aperture in the exterior wall. within a few paces of the door of the principal theatres are two receiver's offices, which are no sooner open, than candidates for admission begin to form long ranks, extending from the portico into the very street, and advance to them two abreast in regular succession. a steady sentinel, posted at the aperture, repeats your wishes to the receiver, and in a mild, conciliating manner, facilitates their accomplishment. other sentinels are stationed for the preservation of order, under the immediate eye of the officer, who sees that every one takes his turn to obtain tickets: however, it is not uncommon, for forestallers to procure a certain number of them, especially at the representation of a new or favourite piece, and offer them privately at a usurious price which many persons are glad to pay rather than fall into the rear of the ranks. the method i always take to avoid this unpleasant necessity, i will recommend to you as a very simple one, which may, perhaps, prevent you from many a theatrical disappointment. having previously informed myself what _spectacle_ is best worth seeing, while i am at dinner i send my _valet de place_, or if i cannot conveniently spare him, i desire him to dispatch a _commissionnaire_ for the number of tickets wanted, so that when i arrive at the theatre, i have only to walk in, and place myself to the best advantage. it is very wisely imagined not to establish the receiver's offices in the inside of the house, as in our theatres. by this plan, however great may be the crowd, the entrance is always unobstructed, and those violent struggles and pressures, which among us have cost the lives of many, are effectually prevented. you will observe that no half-price is taken at any theatre in paris; but in different parts of the house, there are offices, called _bureaux de supplément_, where, if you want to pass from one part of it to another, you exchange your counter-mark on paying the difference. nothing can be better regulated than the present police, both interior and exterior, of the theatres in paris. the eye is not shocked, as was formerly the case, by the presence of black-whiskered grenadiers, occupying different parts of the house, and, by the inflexible sternness of their countenance, awing the spectators into a suppression of their feelings. no fusileer, with a fixed bayonet and piece loaded with ball, now dictates to the auditors of the pit that such a seat must hold so many persons, though several among them might, probably, be as broad-bottomed as dutchmen. if you find yourself incommoded by heat or pressure, you are at liberty to declare it without fear of giving offence. the criticism of a man of taste is no longer silenced by the arbitrary control of a military despot, who, for an exclamation or gesture, not exactly coinciding with his own prepossessions, pointed him out to his myrmidons, and transferred him at once to prison. you may now laugh with molèire, or weep with racine, without having your mirth or sensibility thus unseasonably checked in its expansion. the existence of this despotism has been denied; but facts are stubborn things, and i will relate to you an instance in which i saw it most wantonly exercised. some years ago i was present at the _théâtre français_, when, in one of corneille's pieces, mademoiselle raucourt, the tragic actress, was particularly negligent in the delivery of a passage, which, to do justice to the author, required the nicest discrimination. an amateur in the _parterre_ reproved her, in a very gentle manner, for a wrong emphasis. being at this time a favourite of the queen, she was, it seems, superior to admonition, and persisted in her misplaced shrieks, till it became evident that she set the audience at defiance: other persons then joined the former in expressing their disapprobation. instantly the _major_ singled out the leading critic: two grenadiers forced their way to the place where he was seated, and conveyed him to prison for having had the audacity to reprove an actress in favour at court. from such improper exercise of authority, the following verse had become a proverb: _"ii est bien des sifflets, mais nous avons la garde."_ many there are, i know, who approved of this manner of bridling the fickle parisians, on the ground that they were so used to the curb that they could no longer dispense with it. a guard on the outside of a theatre is unquestionably necessary, and proper for the preservation of order; but that the public should not be at liberty to approve or condemn such a passage, or such an actor, is at once to stifle the expression of that general opinion which alone can produce good performers. the interior police of the theatre being at present almost entirely in the hands of the public themselves, it is, on that account, more justly observed and duly respected. considering the natural impetuosity of their character, one is surprised at the patient tranquillity with which the french range themselves in their places. seldom do they interrupt the performance by loud conversation, but exchange their thoughts in a whisper. when one sees them applaud with rapture a tender scene, which breathes sentiments of humanity or compassion, speaks home to every feeling heart, and inspires the most agreeable sensations, one is tempted to question whether the parisians of the present day belong to the identical race that could, at one time, display the ferocity of tigers, and, at another, the tameness of lambs, while their nearest relations and best friends were daily bleeding on the scaffold? by the existing regulations, many of which are worthy of being adopted in london, no theatre can be opened in paris without the permission of the police, who depute proper persons to ascertain that the house is solidly built, the passages and outlets unincumbered and commodious, and that it is provided with reservoirs of water, and an adequate number of fire-engines. every public place that may be open, is to be shut up immediately, if, for one single day, the proprietors neglect to keep the reservoirs full of water, the engines in proper order, and the firemen ready. no persons can be admitted behind the scenes, except those employed in the service of the theatre. nor is the number of tickets distributed to exceed that of the persons the house can conveniently hold. no coachman, under any pretext whatever, can quit the reins of his horses, while the persons he has driven, are getting out of or into their carriage. indeed, the necessity of his doing so is obviated by porters stationed at the door of the theatres, and appointed by the police. they are distinguished by a brass plate, on which their permission and the name of the theatre are engraved. at all the theatres in paris, there is an exterior guard, which is at the disposal of the _civil_ officer, stationed there for the preservation of order. this guard cannot enter the inside of the theatre but in case of the safety of the public being exposed, and at the express requisition of the said officer, who can never introduce the armed force into the house, till after he has, in a loud voice, apprized the audience of his intention. every citizen is bound to obey, _provisionally_, the officer of police. in consequence, every person invited by the officer of police, or summoned by him, to quit the house, is immediately to repair to the police-office of the theatre, in order to give such explanations as may be required of him. the said officer may either transfer him to the competent tribunal, or set him at liberty, according to circumstances. proper places are appointed for carriages to wait at. when the play is ended, no carriage in waiting can move till the first crowd coming out of the house has disappeared. the commanding officer of the guard on duty decides the moment when carriages may be called. no carriage can move quicker than a foot-pace, and but on a single rank, till it has got clear of the streets in the vicinity of the theatre. nor can it arrive thither but by the streets appointed for that purpose. two hours before the rising of the curtain, sentinels are placed in sufficient number to facilitate the execution of these orders, and to prevent any obstruction in the different avenues of the theatre. indeed, obstruction is now seldom seen; i have more than once had the curiosity to count, and cause to be counted, all the _private_ carriages in waiting at the grand french opera, on a night when the boxes were filled with the most fashionable company. neither i nor my _valet de place_ could ever reckon more than from forty to fifty; whereas, formerly, it was not uncommon to see here between two and three hundred; and the noise of so many equipages rattling through the streets, from each of the principal theatres, sufficiently indicated that the performance was ended. by the number of advertisements in the _petites affiches_ or daily advertiser of paris, offering a reward for articles lost, no doubt can exist of there being a vast number of pickpockets in this gay capital; and a stranger must naturally draw such an inference from observing where the pockets are placed in men's clothes: in the coat, it is in the inside of the facing, parallel to the breast: in the waistcoat, it is also in the inside, but lower down, so that when a frenchman wants to take out his money, he must go through the ceremony of unbuttoning first his surtout, if he wears one in winter, then his coat, and lastly his waistcoat. in this respect, the ladies have the advantage; for, as i have already mentioned, they wear no pockets. [footnote : during the old _régime_, the theatres were under the control of the _gentils-hommes de la chambre_, but at the establishment of the directorial government, they were placed in the power of the minister of the interior, in whose department they have since continued. of late, however, it is asserted, that they are each to be under the direction of a prefect of the palace.] [footnote : independently of the boxes reserved for the officers of the staff of the city of paris, and those at the head of the police, who have individually free admission to all the _spectacles_ on producing their ivory ticket, there is also a box at each theatre appropriated to the minister of public instruction.] letter xxii. _paris, november , ._ yesterday being the day appointed for the opening of the session of the legislative body, i was invited by a member to accompany him thither, in order to witness their proceedings. no one can be admitted without a ticket; and by the last constitution it is decreed, that not more than two hundred strangers are to be present at the sittings. the gallery allotted for the accommodation of the public, is small, even in proportion to that number, and, in general, extremely crowded. my friend, aware of this circumstance, did me the favour to introduce me into the body of the hall, where i was seated very conveniently, both for seeing and hearing, near the _tribune_, to the left of the president. this hall was built for the council of five hundred, on the site of the grand apartments of the _palais bourbon_. since the accession of the consular government, it has been appropriated to the sittings of the legislative body, on which account the palace has taken their name, and over the principal entrance is inscribed, in embossed characters of gilt bronze: palais du corps lÉgislatif. the palace stands on the south bank of the seine, facing the _pont de la concorde_. it was begun, in , for louise-françoise de bourbon, a legitimated daughter of lewis xiv. girardini, an italian architect, planned the original building, the construction of which was afterwards superintended by lassurance and gabriel. the prince de condé having acquired it by purchase, he caused it to be considerably augmented and embellished, at different times, under the direction of barrau, carpentier and bÉlisard. had the _pont de la concorde_ subsisted previously to the erection of the _palais bourbon_, the principal entrance would, probably, have been placed towards the river; but it faces the north, and is preceded by a paltry square, now called _place du corps législatif_. in the centre of a peristyle, of the corinthian order, is the grand gateway, crowned by a sort of triumphal arch, which is connected, by a double colonnade, to two handsome pavilions. the lateral buildings of the outer court, which is two hundred and eighty feet in length, are decorated with the same order, and a second court of two hundred and forty feet, includes part of the original palace, which is constructed in the italian style. the principal entrances to the right and left lead to two halls; the one dedicated to _peace_; the other, to _victory_. on the one side, is a communication to the apartments of the old palace; on the other, are two spacious rooms. the room to the left, inscribed to _liberty_, is intended for petitioners, &c.; that to the right, inscribed to _equality_, is appropriated to conferences. between the halls of liberty and equality, is the hall of the sittings of the legislative body. the form of this hall is semicircular; the benches, rising gradually one above the other, as in a roman amphitheatre, are provided with backs, and well adapted both for ease and convenience. they are intersected by passages, which afford to the members the facility of reaching or quitting their places, without disturbance or confusion. every seat is distinguished by a number, so that a deputy can never be at a loss to find his place. in the centre, is an elevated rostrum, with a seat for the president, directly under which is the _tribune_, also elevated, for the orator addressing the assembly. the tribune is decorated by a bas-relief, in white marble, representing france writing her constitution, and fame proclaiming it. the table for the four secretaries is placed facing the tribune, beneath which the _huissiers_ take their station. the desk and seat of the president, formed of solid mahogany, are ornamented with _or moulu_. the folding doors, which open into the hall, to the right and left of the president's chair, are also of solid mahogany, embellished in the same manner. their frames are of white marble, richly sculptured. independently of these doors, there are others, serving as a communication to the upper-seats, by means of two elegant stone stair-cases. in six niches, three on each side of the tribune, are so many statues of greek and roman legislators. on the right, are lycurgus, solon, and demosthenes: on the left, brutus, cato, and cicero. the inside of the hall is in stucco, and the upper part is decorated by a colonnade of the ionic order. the light proceeds from a cupola, glazed in the centre, and the remainder of which is divided into small compartments, each ornamented by an emblematical figure. the floor is paved with marble, also in compartments, embellished with allegorical attributes. having made you acquainted with the hall of the sittings, i think it may not be uninteresting to give you an account of the forms observed in opening the session. when i arrived, with my friend, at the palace of the legislative body, most of the members were already assembled in the apartments of their library. at noon, they thence repaired to the hall, preceded by the _huissiers_, messengers of state, and secretaries. the opening of the session was announced by the report of artillery. the oldest member, in point of years, took the president's chair, provisionally. the four youngest members of the assembly were called to the table to discharge the office of secretaries, also provisionally. the provisional president then declared, that the members of the legislative body were assembled by virtue of article xxxiii of the constitution, for the session of the year x; that, being provisionally organized, the sitting was opened; and that their names were going to be called over, for the purpose of ascertaining the number of members present, and for forming definitive arrangements, by the nomination of a president and four secretaries. the names were then called over alphabetically, and, after they were all gone through, they were recalled. this ceremony being terminated, four committees, each composed of four members, whose names were drawn by lot by the president, proceeded, in presence of the assembly, to scrutinize the ballot. it thence resulted, that the number of members present was two hundred and twenty-eight; that citizen dupuis was elected president by a majority of votes; that citizens dubosc, bord, estaque, and clavier were individually elected, by a similar majority, to officiate as secretaries. in consequence. citizen dupuis was proclaimed president, and took the chair. he then moved the following resolution, which was agreed to: "the legislative body declares, that it is definitely constituted, and decrees that the present declaration shall be carried to the conservative senate, to the tribunate, and to the consuls of the republic, by a messenger of state." the president next addressed the assembly in these words: "citizens legislators, "after twelve years of a painful and glorious struggle against all europe, in order to insure the triumph of the liberty of man and that of nations, the moment is at length arrived when peace is on the point of crowning the efforts of the french people, and securing the republic on a foundation never to be shaken. for this peace, which will unite by the bonds of friendship two great nations, already connected by esteem, we are indebted to the valour and wisdom of the heroic pacificator, to the wise administration of the government, to the bravery of our invincible armies, to the good understanding subsisting between all the constituted authorities, and, above all, to that spirit of moderation which has known how to fix limits to victory itself. the name of peace, so dear to the friend of human nature, ought to impose silence on all malignant passions, cordially unite all the children of the same country, and be the signal of happiness to the present generation, as well as to our posterity. "how gratifying is it to us, citizens legislators, after having passed through the storms of a long revolution, to have at length brought safely into port the sacred bark of the republic, and to begin this session by the proclamation of peace to the world, as those who preceded us opened theirs by the proclamation of the rights of man and that of the republic! to crown this great work, nothing more remains for us but to make those laws so long expected, which are to complete social organization, and regulate the interests of citizens. this code, already prepared by men of consummate prudence, will, i hope, be soon submitted to your examination and sanction; and the present session will be the most glorious epoch of our republic: for there is nothing more glorious to man than to insure the happiness of his fellow-creatures, and scatter beforehand the first seeds of the liberty of the world." "_l'impression! l'impression!_" was the cry that instantly proceeded from bench to bench on the close of this speech, which was delivered in a manner that did honour to the president's feelings. but, though you have it, as it were, at second-hand, and cannot be struck by citizen dupuis' manner, i hope you will deem the matter sufficiently interesting to justify its insertion in this letter. three orators, deputed by the government, were next announced, and introduced in form. they were habited in their dress of counsellors of state, that is, a scarlet coat, richly embroidered in shaded silks of the same colour, over which they wore a tricoloured silk sash. one of them, having ascended the tribune, and obtained leave to speak, read an extract from the registers of the council of state, dated the th of brumaire, purporting that the first consul had nominated the counsellors of state, regnier, bÉrenger, and dumas to repair to the present sitting. citizen regnier then addressed the assembly in the name of the government. he read his speech from a paper which he held in his hand. it began by announcing the signature of the preliminaries of peace with england, and informed the legislative body that measures had been taken by the government for regulating the various branches of the interior administration and of its intention to submit to them the civil code. it was replete with language of a conciliating nature, and concluded with a wish that the most unalterable harmony might subsist between the first authorities of the state, and strengthen in the mind of the people the confidence which they already testified. from the tenour of this speech, i think it may be inferred that the government is apprehensive of a difference of opinion respecting the civil code; not so much in this place, for, by the constitution, the lips of the deputies are sealed, but in the tribunate, where a warm discussion may be expected. the president made a short and apt reply to the orators of the government, who then retired with the same ceremony with which they had entered. both these speeches were ordered to be printed. the conservative senate addressed to the legislative body, by a message read by the president, the different acts emanated from its authority since the last session. ordered to be inserted in the journals. a few letters were also read by the president from different members, excusing themselves for non-attendance on account of indisposition. several authors having addressed a copy of their works to the legislative body, these presents were accepted, and ordered to be placed in their library. the administrative commission of the legislative body announced that the ambassador of the cisalpine republic had sent a present of three hundred medals, struck on occasion of the peace and of the _forum bonaparte_, which medals were distributed to the members. the assembly the broke up, the next sitting being appointed for the following day at noon. lord cornwallis and suite sat in the box allotted to foreign ministers, facing the president, as did the marquis de lucchesini, the prussian ambassador, and some others. a small box is likewise appropriated to reporters, who take down the proceedings. the members were all habited in their appointed dress, which consists of a dark blue coat embroidered with gold, blue pantaloons and white waistcoat, also embroidered, a tricoloured silk sash, worn above the coat, and ornamented with a rich gold fringe. they wore a plain cocked hat, with the national cockade, and short boots. this meeting of legislators, all in the same dress, undoubtedly presents a more imposing spectacle than such a variegated assemblage as is sometimes to be seen in our house of commons. by the present constitution, you will see that no new law can be promulgated, unless decreed by the legislative body. the votes in this assembly being taken by ballot, and the laws being enacted without any discussion, on the part of its members, on the plans debated before it by the orators of the tribunate and of the government, it necessarily follows that the sittings present far less interest to strangers, than would result from an animated delivery of the opinion of a few leading orators. before i take leave of this palace, i must introduce you into the suite of rooms formerly distinguished by the appellation of _petits appartemens du palais bourbon_, and which, before the revolution, constituted one of the curiosities of paris. in the distribution of these, bÉlisard assembled all the charms of modern elegance. the vestibule, coloured in french gray, contains, in the intervals between the doors, figures of bacchantes, and, in the ceiling, wreaths of roses and other ornaments painted in imitation of relief. the eating-room, which comes next, is decorated so as to represent a verdant bower, the paintings are under mirrors, and tin-plate, cut out in the chinese manner, seems to shew light through the foliage. in two niches, made in the arbour-work, in the form of porticoes, which cupids are crowning with garlands, are placed two statues from the antique, the one representing venus _pudica_, and the other, venus _callypyga_, or _aux belles fesses_: mirrors, placed in the niches, reflect beauties which the eye could not discover. the drawing room, another enchanting place, is of a circular form, surrounded with ionic pillars. in the intercolumniations, are arches lined with mirrors, and ornamented with the most tasteful hangings. under each arch is a sopha. the ceiling represents caryatides supporting a circular gallery, between which are different subjects, such as the toilet of venus, the departure of adonis, &c. every thing here is gallant and rich; but mark the secret wonder. you pull a string; the ceiling rises like a cloud, and exhibits to view an extensive sky, with which it becomes confounded. the music of an invisible orchestra, placed above the ceiling, used to be heard through the opening, and produced a charming effect, when entertainments were given in these apartments. this is not all. you pull another string; and, by means of concealed machinery, the aperture of the three casements suddenly becomes occupied by pannels of mirrors, so that you may here instantly turn day into night. the bed-chamber, the _boudoir_, the study, &c., are all decorated in a style equally elegant and tasteful. letter xxiii. _paris, november , ._ of all the public edifices in this capital, i know of none whose interior astonishes so much, at first sight, and so justly claims admiration, especially from those who have a knowledge of architecture or mechanics, as the halle au blÉ. this building is destined for the reception of corn and flour: it was begun in , on the site of the ancient _hôtel de soissons_, which was purchased by the city of paris. in the space of three years, the hall and the circumjacent houses were finished, under the direction of the architect, camus de meziÈre. the circular form of this hall, the solidity of its construction, its insulated position, together with the noble simplicity of its decoration, perfectly accord with the intention and character of the object proposed. twenty-five arches, all of equal size, serve each as an entrance. on the ground-floor are pillars of the tuscan order, supporting vast granaries, the communication to which is by two stair-cases of well-executed design. the court is covered by a cupola of one hundred and twenty feet in diameter, forming a perfect semicircle, whose centre, taken on a level with the cornice, is forty-four feet from the ground. the dome of the pantheon at rome, which is the largest known, exceeds that of the _halle au blé_ by thirteen feet only. this cupola is entirely composed of deal boards, a foot in breadth, an inch in thickness, and about four feet in length. it is divided into twenty-five lateral openings, which give as many rays of light diverging from the centre-opening, whose diameter is twenty-four feet. these openings are all glazed, and the wood-work of the dome is covered with sheets of tinned copper. philibert de l'orme, architect to henry ii, was the original author of this new method of covering domes, though he never carried it into execution. as a homage for the discovery, molinos and legrand, the architects of the cupola, have there placed a medallion with his portrait. it is said that this experiment was deemed so hazardous, that the builder could find no person bold enough to strike away the shores, and was under the necessity of performing that task in person. to him it was not a fearful one; but the workmen, unacquainted with the principles of this manner of roofing buildings, were astonished at the stability of the dome, when the shores were removed. no place in paris could well be more convenient for giving a banquet than the _halle au blé_; twelve or fourteen hundred persons might here be accommodated at table; and little expense would be required for decoration, as nothing can be more elegant than the cupola itself. several periodical publications give a statement, more or less exact, of the quantity of flour lodged in this spacious repository, which is filled and emptied regularly every four or five days. but these statements present not the real consumption of paris, since several bakers draw their supply directly from the farmers of the environs; and, besides, a great quantity of loaves are brought into the capital from some villages, famous for making bread, whose inhabitants come and retail them to the parisians. the annual consumption of bread-corn in this capital has, on an average, been computed at twenty-four millions of bushels. but it is not the consumption only that it is useful to know: the most material point to be ascertained, is the method of providing effectually for it; so that, from a succession of unfavourable harvests, or any other cause, the regular supplies may not experience even a momentary interruption. when it is considered that paris contains eight or nine hundred thousand of the human race, it is evident that this branch of administration requires all the vigilance of the government. bread is now reckoned enormously dear, nineteen _sous_ for the loaf of four pounds; but, during the winter of , the parisians felt all the horrors of a real famine. among other articles of the first necessity, bread was then so scarce, that long ranks of people were formed at the doors of the bakers' shops, each waiting in turn to receive a scanty portion of two ounces. the consumption of flour here is considerably increased by the immense number of dogs, cats, monkies, parrots, and other birds, kept by persons of every class, and fed chiefly on bread and biscuit. no poor devil that has not in his miserable lodging a dog to keep him company: not being able to find a friend among his own species, he seeks one in the brute creation. a pauper of this description, who shared his daily bread with his faithful companion, being urged to part with an animal that cost him so much to maintain: "part with him!" rejoined he; "who then shall i get to love me?" near the _halle au blé_, stands a large fluted pillar of the doric order, which formerly belonged to the _hôtel de soissons_, and served as an observatory to catherine de medicis. in the inside, is a winding stair-case, leading to the top, whither that diabolical woman used frequently to ascend, accompanied by astrologers, and there perform several mysterious ceremonies, in order to discover futurity in the stars. she wore on her stomach a skin of parchment, strewn with figures, letters, and characters of different colours; which skin she was persuaded had the virtue of insuring her from any attempt against her person. much about that period, , there were reckoned, in paris alone, no less than thirty thousand astrologers. at the present day, the ambulating magicians frequent the _old boulevards_, and there tell fortunes for three or four _sous_; while those persons that value science according to the price set on it, disdaining these two-penny conjurers, repair to fortune-tellers of a superior class, who take from three to six francs, and more, when the opportunity offers. the trophonius of paris is citizen martin, who lives at n° _rue d'anjou_: the phemonoË is madame villeneuve, _rue de l'antechrist_. formerly, none but courtesans here drew the cards; now, almost every female, without exception, has recourse to them. many a fine lady even conceives herself to be sufficiently mistress of the art to tell her own fortune; and some think they are so skilled in reading futurity in the cards, that they dare not venture to draw them for themselves, for fear of discovering some untoward event. this rage of astrology and fortune-telling is a disease which peculiarly affects weak intellects, ruled by ignorance, or afflicted by adversity. in the future, such persons seek a mitigation of the present; and the illusive enjoyments of the mind make them almost forget the real sufferings of the body. according to pope, "hope springs eternal in the human breast, man never _is_, but always _to be_ blest." at the foot of the above pillar, the only one of the sort in paris, is erected a handsome fountain, which furnishes water from the seine. at two-thirds of its height is a dial of a singular kind, which marks the precise hour at every period of the day, and in all seasons. it is the invention of father pingré, who was a regular canon of st. geneviève, and member of the _ci-devant_ academy of sciences. while we are in this quarter, let us avail ourselves of the moment; and, proceeding from the _halle au blé_ along the _rue oblin_, examine the church of saint eustache. this church, which is one of the most spacious in paris, is situated at the north extremity of the _rue des prouvaires_, facing the _rue du jour_. it was begun in , but not finished till the year . notwithstanding the richness of its architecture, it presents not an appearance uniformly handsome, on account of the ill-combined mixture of the greek and gothic styles: besides, the pillars are so numerous in it, that it is necessary to be placed in the nave to view it to the best advantage. the new portal of _st. eustache_, which was constructed in , is formed of two orders, the doric and the ionic, the one above the other. at each extremity of this portal, rise two insulated towers, receding from all the projection of the inferior order, and decorated by corinthian columns with pilasters, on an attic serving as a socle. these two towers were to have been crowned by a balustrade; one alone has been finished. several celebrated personages have been interred in this church. among them, i shall particularize one only; but that one will long live in the memory of every convivial british seaman. who has not heard the lay which records the defeat of tourville? yes-- he who "on the main triumphant rode to meet the gallant russel in combat o'er the deep;" who "led his noble troops of heroes bold to sink the english admiral and his fleet." though considered by his countrymen, as one of the most eminent seamen that france ever produced, and enjoying at the time of his death the dignity of marshal, together with that of vice-admiral of the kingdom, tourville never had an epitaph. he died on the th of may , aged . some of the monuments which existed here have been transferred to the museum in the _rue des petits augustins_, where may be seen the sarcophagus of colbert, minister to lewis xiv, and the medallion of cureau de la chambre, physician to that king, and also his physiognomist, whom he is said to have constantly consulted in the selection of his ministers. among the papers of that physician there still exists, in an unpublished correspondence with lewis xiv, this curious memorandum: "should i die before his majesty, he would run a great risk of making, in future, many a bad choice." it is impossible to enter one of these sanctuaries without reflecting on the rapid progress of irreligion among a people who, six months before, were, on their knees, adoring the effigies which, at that period, they were eager to mutilate and destroy. iron crows and sledge-hammers were almost in a state of requisition. in the beginning, it was a contest who should first aim a blow at the nose of the virgin mary, or break the leg of her son. in one day, contracts were entered into with masons for defacing images which for centuries, had been partly concealed under the dusty webs of generations of spiders. as for the statues within reach of swords and pikes, it was a continual scene of amusement to the licentious to knock off the ear of one angel, and scratch the face of another. not an epitaph was left to retrace the patriotic deeds of an upright statesman, or the more brilliant exploits of a heroic warrior; not a memento, to record conjugal affection, filial piety, or grateful friendship. the iconoclasts proceeded not with the impetuous fury of fanatics, but with the extravagant foolery of atheistical buffoons. all the gold and silver ornaments disappeared: a great part of them were dissolved in the crucibles of the mint, after having been presented as a homage to the convention, some of whose members danced the _carmagnole_ with those who presented them at their bar, loaded on the back of mules and asses, bedecked with all the emblems of catholic worship; while several of the rubies, emeralds, &c. which had formerly decorated the glory, beaming round the head of a christ, were afterwards seen glittering on the finger of the revolutionary committee-men. chaumette, an attorney, was the man who proclaimed atheism, and his example had many imitators. it seemed the wish of that impious being to exile god himself from nature. he it was who imagined those orgies, termed the festivals of reason. one of the most remarkable of these festivals was celebrated in this very church of _st. eustache_. although mademoiselle maillard, the singing heroine of the french opera, figured more than once as the goddess of reason, that divinity was generally personified by some shameless female, who, if not a notorious prostitute, was frequently little better. her throne occupied the place of the altar; her supporters were chiefly drunken soldiers, smoking their pipe; and before her, were a set of half-naked vagabonds, singing and dancing the _carmagnole_. "in this church," says an eye-witness, "the interior of the choir represented a landscape, decorated with cottages and clumps of trees. in the distance were mysterious bowers, to which narrow paths led, through declivities formed of masses of artificial rock. "the inside of the church presented the spectacle of a large public-house. round the choir were arranged tables, loaded with bottles, sausages, pies, pâtés, and other viands. on the altars of the lateral chapels, sacrifices were made to luxury and gluttony; and the consecrated stones bore the disgusting marks of beastly intemperance. "guests crowded in at all doors: whoever came partook of this festival: children thrust their hands into the dishes, and helped themselves out of the bottles, as a sign of liberty; while the speedy consequences of this freedom became a matter of amusement to grown persons in a similar state of ebriety. what a deplorable picture of the people, who blindly obeyed the will of a few factious leaders! "in other churches, balls were given; and, by way of shutting the door in the face of modesty, these were continued during the night, in order that, amidst the confusion of nocturnal revelry, those desires which had been kindled during the day, might be freely gratified under the veil of darkness. "the processions which accompanied these orgies, were no less attended with every species of atheistical frenzy. after feasting their eyes with the sacrifice of human victims, the jacobin faction, or their satellites, followed the car of their impure goddess: next came, in another car, a moving orchestra, composed of blind musicians, a too faithful image of that reason which was the object of their adoration." the state of france, at that period, proves that religion being detached from social order, there remained a frightful void, which nothing could have filled up but its subsequent restoration. without religion, men become enemies to each other, criminals by principle, and bold violators of the laws; force is the only curb that can restrain them. the inevitable consequence is, that anarchy and rapine desolate the face of the earth, and reduce it to a heap of misfortune and ruin. letter xxiv. _paris, november , ._ when we travel back in idea for the last ten years, and pass in review the internal commotions which have distracted france during that period, and the external struggle she has had to maintain for the security of her independence, we cannot refuse our admiration to the constancy which the french have manifested in forming institutions for the diffusion of knowledge, and repositories of objects tending to the advancement of the arts and sciences. in this respect, if we except the blood-thirsty reign of robespierre, no clash of political interests, no change in the form or administration of the government, has relaxed their ardour, or slackened their perseverance. whatever set of men have been in power, the arts and sciences have experienced almost uninterrupted protection. in the opinion of the french themselves, the gallery of antiques, in the central museum of the arts, may claim pre-eminence over every other repository of sculpture; but many persons may, probably, feel a satisfaction more pure and unadulterated in viewing the museum of french monuments. here, neither do insignia of triumph call to mind the afflicting scenes of war, nor do emblems of conquest strike the eye of the travelled visiter, and damp his enjoyment by blending with it bitter recollections. vandalism is the only enemy from whose attacks the monuments, here assembled, have been rescued. this museum, which has, in fact, been formed out of the wrecks of the revolutionary storm, merits particular attention. although it was not open to the public, for the first time, till the th of fructidor, year iii ( nd of september ), its origin may be dated from , when the constituent assembly, having decreed the possessions of the clergy to be national property, charged the _committee of alienation_ to exert their vigilance for the preservation of all the monuments of the arts, spread throughout the wide extent of the ecclesiastical domains. the philanthropic la rochefoucauld, (the last duke of the family), as president of that committee, fixed on a number of artists and literati to select such monuments as the committee were anxious to preserve. the municipality of paris, being specially entrusted, by the national assembly, with the execution of this decree, also nominated several literati and artists of acknowledged merit to co-operate with the former in their researches and labours. of this association was formed a commission, called _commission des monumens_. from that epoch, proper places were sought for the reception of the treasures which it was wished to save from destruction. the _committee of alienation_ appointed the _ci-devant_ monastery of the _petits augustins_ for the monuments of sculpture and pictures, and those of the _capucins, grands jesuites,_ and _cordeliers_, for the books and manuscripts. by these means, the monuments in the suppressed convents and churches were, by degrees, collected in this monastery, which is situated in the _rue des petits augustins_, so named after that order of monks, whose church here was founded, in , by marguerite de valois, first wife of henry iv. at the same period, alexandre lenoir was appointed, by the constituent assembly, director of this establishment. as i shall have frequent occasion to mention the name of that estimable artist, i shall here content myself with observing, that the choice did honour to their judgment. in the mean time, under pretext of destroying every emblem of feudality, the most celebrated master-pieces were consigned to ruin; but the commission before-mentioned opportunely published instructions respecting the means of preserving the valuable articles which they purposed to assemble. the national convention also gave indisputable proof of its regard for the arts, by issuing several decrees in their favour. its _committee of public instruction_ created a commission, composed of distinguished literati and artists of every class, for the purpose of keeping a watchful eye over the preservation of the monuments of the arts. the considerable number of memoirs, reports, and addresses, diffused through the departments by this learned and scientific association, enlightened the people, and arrested the arm of those modern vandals who took a pleasure in mutilating the most admired statues, tearing or defacing the most valuable pictures, and melting casts of bronze of the most exquisite beauty. among the numerous reports to which these acts of blind ignorance gave birth, three published by grÉgoire, ex-bishop of blois, claim particular distinction no less on account of the taste and zeal which they exhibit for the advancement of literature and the fine arts, than for the invective with which they abound against the madness of irreligious barbarism. this last stroke, aptly applied, was the means of recovering many articles of value, and of preserving the monuments still remaining in the provinces. in these eventful times, lenoir, the conservator of the rising museum, collected, through his own indefatigable exertions, a considerable number of mausolea, statues, bas-reliefs, and busts of every age and description. no sooner did a moment of tranquillity appear to be reestablished in this country, than he proposed to the government to place all these monuments in historical and chronological order, by classing them, according to the age in which they had been executed, in particular halls or apartments, and giving to each of these apartments the precise character peculiar to each century. this plan which, in its aggregate, united the history of the art and that of france, by means of her monuments, met with general approbation, and was accordingly adopted by the members of the government. thus, throughout this museum, the architectural decorations of the different apartments are of the age to which the monuments of sculpture, contained in each, belongs; and the light penetrates through windows of stained glass, from the designs of raphael, primaticcio, albert durer, le sueur, &c., the production of the particular century corresponding to that of the sculpture. come then, let us visit this museum, and endeavour to discriminate the objects which may be most interesting both to the artist and historian. we first enter the anti-chamber. this apartment presents itself to our inquisitive looks, as a hall of introduction, which may not be unaptly compared to the preface of a grand work. here we behold a crowd of monuments, arranged methodically, so as to prepare our eyes for tracing the different ages through which we have to travel. we first remark those altars, worn by the hand of time, on which the trading gauls of the ancient _lutetia_, now paris, sacrificed to the gods in the time of tiberius. jupiter, mars, vulcan, mercury, venus, pan, castor and pollux, and the religious ceremonies here sculptured, are sufficient to attest that the parisians were then idolaters, and followed the religion of the romans, to whom they were become tributary. the inscriptions on each of these monuments, which are five in number, leave no doubt as to their authenticity, and the epoch of their erection. these altars, five in number, are charged with bas-reliefs, and the first of them is inscribed with the following words in latin. tib. caesare. avg. iovi optvmo maxsvmo (_aram_) m. navtae. parisiaci publice posiervnt. _tiberius cæsar, having accepted or taken the name of augustus, the navigators (nautæ) belonging to the city of paris, publicly consecrated this altar to jupiter the most great and most good._ in , these monuments were dug up from the choir of the cathedral of _notre-dame_, out of the foundations of the ancient church of paris, constructed by childebert, on the ruins of a temple, formerly dedicated to isis, which he caused to be demolished. near them we see the great goddess of the germans figure under the name of nehalennia, in honour of whom that people had erected a great number of monuments, some of which were discovered in the year , when the sea retired from the island of walcheren. capitals, charged with bas-reliefs, taken from a subterraneous basilic, built by pepin, have likewise been collected, and follow those which i have just mentioned. next comes the tomb of clovis, which exhibits that prince lying at length; he is humbling himself before the almighty, and seems to be asking him forgiveness for his crimes. we likewise see those of childebert and of the cruel chilperic. the intaglio, relieved by inlaid pieces of mosaic, of queen fredegond, has escaped the accidents of twelve centuries. just heaven! what powers have disappeared from the face of the earth since that period! and to what reflections does not this image, still existing of that impious woman, give birth in the mind of the philosopher! charlemagne, who was buried at aix-la-chapelle, seated on a throne of gold, appears here, in a haughty attitude, with his sword in his hand, still to be giving laws to the world! as might naturally be supposed, most of these figures have suffered much by the rude attacks of time; but in spite of his indelible impression, the unpolished hand of the sculptor is still distinguishable, and betrays the degraded state of the arts during the darkness of the middle ages. let us pass into the hall of the thirteenth century. here we shall remark arches in the gothic style, supported by thick pillars, according to the architecture of that period. ornaments, in the form of _culs-de-lampe_, terminate the centre of the arches, which are painted in azure-blue, and charged with stars. when temples were begun to be sheltered or covered, nations painted the inside of the roof in this manner, in order to keep in view the image of the celestial canopy to which they directed all their affections, and to preserve the memory of the ancient custom of offering up sacrifices to the divinity in the open air. here the statue of lewis ix, surnamed the saint, is placed near that of philip, one of his sons, and of charles, his brother, king of sicily, branded in history, by having, through his oppression, driven his subjects into revolt, and caused the massacre of the french in that island in ; a massacre well known by the name of the _sicilian vespers_. it seems that it was the fashion, in those days, for kings themselves to be bearers at funerals. we are told by st. foix, that the body of lewis, another son of the saint, who died in , aged , and whose cenotaph is here, was first carried to st. denis, and thence to the abbey of royaumont, where it was interred. "the greatest lords of the kingdom," says he, "alternately bore the coffin on their shoulders, and henry iii; king of england, carried it himself for a considerable time, as feudatory of the crown." philip iii, too, above-mentioned, having brought to paris the remains of his father from tunis in africa, carried them barefooted, on his shoulders, to st. denis. wherever he rested by the way, towers were erected in commemoration of this act of filial piety; but these have been destroyed since the revolution. the casements of this hall, in the form of ogives, are ornamented with stained glass of the first epoch of the invention of that art. we now come to the hall of the fourteenth century. this hall shews us the light, yet splendid architecture of the arabs, introduced into france in consequence of the crusades. here are the statues of the kings that successively appeared in this age down to king john, who was taken prisoner by edward, the black prince, at the battle of poietiers. they are clad after the manner of their time, and lying at length on a stylobate, strewn with flower-de-luces. twenty-two knights, each mounted on lions, armed cap-à-pié, represented of the natural size, and coloured, fill ogive niches ornamented with mosaic designs, relieved with gold, red, and blue. the tombs of charles v, surnamed the _wise_, and of the worthy constable, du guesclin, together with that of sancerre, his faithful friend, rise in the middle of this apartment; which presents to the eye all the magnificence of a turkish mosque. after having quitted it, what a striking contrast do we not remark on entering the hall of the fifteenth century! columns, arabesque ceilings charged with gilding, light pieces of sculpture applied on blue and violet grounds, imitating cameo, china, or enamel; every thing excites astonishment, and concurs in calling to mind the first epoch of the regeneration of the arts in this country. the ideas of the amateur are enlivened in this brilliant apartment: they prepare him for the gratification which he is going to experience at the sight of the beautiful monuments produced by the age, so renowned of francis i. there, architecture predominates over sculpture; here, sculpture over architecture. the genius of raphael paved the way to this impulse of regeneration: he had recently produced the decorations of the vatican; and the admirable effect of these master-pieces of art, kindled an enthusiasm in the mind of the artists, who travelled. on their return to france, they endeavoured to imitate them: in this attempt, jean juste, a sculptor sent to rome, at the expense of the cardinal d'amboise, was the most succcessful. first, we behold the mausoleum of louis d'orlÉans, victim of the faction of the duke of burgundy, and that of his brother charles, the poet. near them is that of valentine de milan, the inconsolable wife of the former, who died through grief the year after she lost her husband. as an emblem of her affliction, she took for her device a watering-pot stooped, whence drops kept trickling in the form of tears. let it not be imagined, however, that it was on account of his constancy that this affectionate woman thus bewailed him till she fell a victim to her sorrow. louis d'orlÉans was a great seducer of ladies of the court, and of the highest rank too, says brantome. indeed, historians concur in stating that to a brilliant understanding, he joined the most captivating person. we accordingly find that the dutchess of burgundy and several others were by no means cruel to him; and he had been supping tête-à-tête with queen isabeau de bavière, when, in returning home, he was assassinated on the twenty-third of november . his amorous intrigues at last proved fatal to the english, as you will learn from the following story, related by the same author. one morning, m. d'orléans having in bed with him a woman of quality, whose husband came to pay him an early visit, he concealed the lady's head, while he exhibited the rest of her person to the contemplation of the unsuspecting intruder, at the same time forbidding him, as he valued his life, to remove the sheet from her face. now, the cream of the jest was, that, on the following night, the good soul of a husband, as he lay beside his dear, boasted to her that the duke of orleans had shewn him the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen: but that for her face he could not tell what to say of it, as it was concealed under the sheet. "from this little intrigue," adds brantome, "sprang that brave and valiant bastard of orleans, count dunois, the pillar of france, and the scourge of the english." here we see the statues of charles vi, and of jane of burgundy. the former being struck by a _coup de soleil_, became deranged in his intellects and imbecile, after having displayed great genius; he is represented with a pack of cards in his hand to denote that they were first invented for that prince's diversion. the latter was dutchess of beaufort, wife to the duke, who commanded the english army against charles vii, and as brother to our henry iv, was appointed regent of france, during the minority of his nephew, henry v. next come those of rÉnÉe d'orlÉans, grand-daughter of the intrepid dunois; and of philippe de commines, celebrated by his memoirs of the tyrant, lewis xi, whose statue faces that of charles vii, his father. the image of joan of arc, whom that king had the baseness to suffer to perish, after she had maintained him on the throne, also figures in this hall with that of isabeau de baviÈre. the shameful death of the maid of orleans, who, as every one knows, was, at the instigation of the english, condemned as a witch, and burnt alive at rouen on the th of may , must inspire with indignation every honest englishman who reflects on this event, which will ever be a blot in the page of our history. isabeau affords a striking example of the influence of a queen's morals on the affections of the people. on her first arrival in paris, she was crowned by angels, and received from the burghers the most magnificent and costly presents. at her death, she was so detested by the nation, that in order to convey her body privately to st. denis, it was embarked in a little skiff at _port-landri_, with directions to the waterman to deliver it to the abbot. the superb tomb of lewis xii, placed in the middle of this apartment, displays great magnificence; and his statue, lying at length, which represents him in a state of death, recalls to mind that moment so grievous to the french people, who exclaimed, in following his funeral procession to st. denis, "our good king lewis xii is dead, and we have lost our father." the historian delights to record a noble trait of that prince's character. lewis xii had been taken prisoner at the battle of st. aubin by louis de la trimouille, who, fearing the resentment of the new king, and wishing to excuse himself for his conduct, received this magnanimous reply: "it is not for the king of france to revenge the quarrels of the duke of orleans." the statue of pierre de navarre, son of charles the _bad_, seems placed here to form in the mind of the spectator a contrast between his father and lewis xii. the tragical end of charles is of a nature to fix attention, and affords an excellent subject for a pencil like that of fuseli. charles the _bad_, having fallen into such a state of decay that he could not make use of his limbs, consulted his physician, who ordered him to be wrapped up from head to foot, in a linen cloth impregnated with brandy, so that he might be inclosed in it to the very neck as in a sack. it was night when this remedy was administered. one of the female attendants of the palace, charged to sew up the cloth that contained the patient, having come to the neck, the fixed point where she was to finish her seam, made a knot according to custom; but as there was still remaining an end of thread, instead of cutting it as usual with scissars, she had recourse to the candle, which immediately set fire to the whole cloth. being terrified, she ran away, and abandoned the king, who was thus burnt alive in his own palace. what a picture for the moralist is this assemblage of persons, celebrated either for their errors, crimes, talents, or virtues! letter xxv. _paris, november , _. conceiving how interested you (who are not only a connoisseur, but an f.a.s.) must feel in contemplating the only repository in the world, i believe, which contains such a chronological history of the art of sculpture, i lose no time in conducting you to complete our survey of the museum of french monuments in the _rue des petits augustins_. having examined those of the fifteenth century, during our former visit, we are at length arrived at the age of the fine arts in france, and now enter the hall of the sixteenth century. "but see! each muse in leo's golden days, starts from her trance, and trims her wither'd bays; rome's ancient genius, o'er its ruins spread, shakes off the dust, and rears his reverend head; then sculpture and her sister arts revive, stones leap'd to form, and rocks began to live." these beautiful lines of pope immediately occur to the mind, on considering that, in italy, the great leo, by the encouragement which he gave to men of talents, had considerably increased the number of master-pieces; when the taste for the fine arts, after their previous revival by the medici, having spread throughout that country, began to dawn in france about the end of the fifteenth century. by progressive steps, the efforts made by the french artists to emulate their masters, attained, towards the middle of the sixteenth century, a perfection which has since fixed the attention of europe. on entering this hall, which is consecrated to that period, the amateur finds his genius inflamed. what a deep impression does not the perfection of the numerous monuments which it has produced make on his imagination! first, he admires the beautiful tomb erected to the memory of francis i, the restorer of literature and the arts; who, by inviting to his court leonardo da vinci and primaticcio, and establishing schools and manufactories, consolidated the great work of their regeneration. "curse the monks!" exclaimed i, on surveying this magnificent monument, constructed in , from the designs of the celebrated philibert de l'orme. "who cannot but regret," continued i to myself, "that so gallant a knight as francis i. should fall a victim to that baneful disease which strikes at the very sources of generation? who cannot but feel indignant that so generous a prince, whose first maxim was, that _true magnanimity consisted in the forgiveness of injuries, and pusillanimity in the prosecution of revenge_, should owe his death to the diabolical machinations of a filthy friar?" yet, so it was; the circumstances are as follows: francis i. was smitten by the charms of the wife of one lunel, a dealer in iron. a spanish chaplain, belonging to the army of the emperor charles v, passing through paris in order to repair to flayers, threw himself in this man's way, and worked on his mind till he had made him a complete fanatic: "your king," said the friar, "protects lutheranism in germany, and will soon introduce it into france. be revenged on him and your wife, by serving religion. communicate to him that disease for which no certain remedy is yet known."--"and how am i to give it to him?" replied lunel; "neither i nor my wife have it."--"but i have," rejoined the monk: "i hold up my hand and swear it. introduce me only for one half-hour by night, into your place, by the side of your faithless fair, and i will answer for the rest." the priest having prevailed on lunel to consent to his scheme, went to a place where he was sure to catch the infection, and, by means of lunel's wife, he communicated it to the king. being previously in possession of a secret remedy, the monk cured himself in a short time; the poor woman died at the expiration of a month; and francis i, after having languished for three or four years, at length, in , sunk under the weight of a disorder then generally considered as incurable. the tomb of the valois, erected in honour of that family, by catherine de medicis, soon after the death of henry ii, is one of the masterpieces of germain pilon. in the execution of this beautiful monument, that famous artist has found means to combine the correctness of style of michael angelo with the grace of primaticcio. to the countenance of henry and catherine, who are represented in a state of death, lying as on a bed, he has imparted an expression of sensibility truly affecting. next comes the tomb of diane de poitiers, that celebrated beauty, who displayed equal judgment in the management of state affairs and in the delicacy of her attachments; who at the age of , captivated king henry ii, when only ; and, who, though near at the death of that prince, had never ceased to preserve the same empire over his heart. at the age of fourteen, she was married to louis de brézé, grand seneschal of normandy, and died in april , aged . brantome, who saw her not long before her death, when she had just recovered from the confinement of a broken leg, and had experienced troubles sufficient to lessen her charms, thus expresses himself: "six months ago, when i met her, she was still so beautiful that i know not any heart of adamant which would not have been moved at the sight of her."--to give you a perfect idea of her person, take this laconic description, which is not one of fancy, but collected from the best historians. her jet black hair formed a striking contrast to her lily complexion. on her cheeks faintly blushed the budding rose. her teeth vied with ivory itself in whiteness: in a word, her form was as elegant as her deportment was graceful. by way of lesson to the belles of the present day, let them be told that diane de poitiers was never ill, nor affected indisposition. in the severity of the winter, she daily washed her face with spring-water, and never had recourse to cosmetics.----"what pity," says brantome, "that earth should cover so beautiful a woman!" no man, indeed, who sympathizes with the foibles of human nature, can contemplate the tomb of diane de poitiers, and reflect on her numerous virtues and attractions, without adopting the sentiments of brantome, and feeling his breast glow with admiration. this extraordinary woman afforded the most signal protection to literati and men of genius, and was, in fact, no less distinguished for the qualities of her heart than for the beauty of her person. "she was extremely good-humoured, charitable, and humane," continues brantome "the people of france ought to pray to god that the female favourite of every chief magistrate of their country may resemble this amiable frail one." as a proof of the elevation of her sentiments, i shall conclude by quoting to you the spirited reply diane made to henry ii, who, by dint of royal authority, wished to legitimate a daughter he had by her: "i am of a birth," said she, "to have had lawful children by you. i have been your mistress, because i loved you. i will never suffer a decree to declare me your concubine." the beautiful group of the modest graces, and that representing diana, accompanied by her dogs procion and syrius, sculptured by jean gougeon, to serve as the decoration of a fountain in the park of diane de poitiers at anet, attracts the attention of the connoisseur. the tomb of gougeon, composed of his own works, and erected to the memory of that great artist, through gratitude, is, undoubtedly, a homage which he justly deserved. this french phidias was a calvinist, and one of the numerous victims of st. bartholomew's day, being shot on his scaffold, as he was at work on the _louvre_, the th of august . here too we behold the statues of birague and of the gondi, those atrocious wretches who, together with catherine de medicis, plotted that infamous massacre; while charles ix, no less criminal, here exhibits on his features the stings of a guilty conscience. the man that has a taste for learning, gladly turns his eye from this horde of miscreants, to fix it on the statue of claude-catherine de clermont-tonnerre, who was so conversant in the dead languages as to bear away the palm from birague and chiveray, in a speech which she composed and spoke in latin, at twenty-four hours' notice, in answer to the ambassadors who tendered the crown of poland to charles ix. if the friend of the arts examine the beautiful portico erected by philibert de l'orme, on the banks of the eure, for diane de poitiers, composed of the three orders of architecture, placed the one above the other, and forming altogether an elevation of sixty feet, he will be amazed to learn that this superb monument constructed at anet, twenty leagues distant from paris, was removed thence, and re-established in this museum, by the indefatigable conservator, lenoir. on leaving the apartment containing the master-pieces brought to light by francis i, the next we reach is the hall of the seventeenth century. what a crowd of celebrated men contained in the temple consecrated to virtue, courage, and talents! there, i behold turenne, condÉ, montausier, colbert, moliÈre, corneille, la fontaine, racine, fÉnÉlon, and boileau. the great lewis xiv, placed in the middle of this hall, seems to become still greater near those immortal geniuses. farther on, we see the statue of the implacable richelieu, represented expiring in the arms of religion, while science is weeping at his feet. ye gods! what a prostitution of talent! this is the master-piece of girardon; but, in point of execution, many connoisseurs prefer the mausoleum of the crafty mazarin, whom coyzevox has pourtrayed in a supplicating posture. lewis xiii, surnamed the _just_, less great than his illustrious subject, de thou, casts down his eyes in the presence of his ministers. the mausolea of le brun, lulli, and jÉrome bignon, the honour, the love, and the example of his age, terminate the series of monuments of that epoch, still more remarkable for its literati than its artists. we at last come to the hall of the eighteenth century. here we admire the statues of montesquieu, fontenelle, voltaire, rousseau, helvÉtius, crÉbillon, piron, &c. &c. the tombs of the learned maupertuis and caylus, and also that of marshal d'harcourt, give a perfect idea of the state of degradation into which the art of design had fallen at the beginning of this century; but the new productions which decorate the extremity of this spacious hall are sufficient to prove to what degree the absolute will of a great genius can influence the progress of the arts, as well as of the sciences. vien and david appeared, and the art was regenerated. here, too, we find a statue, as large as life, representing christ leaning on a pillar, executed by michael angelo stodtz. i notice this statue merely to observe, that the original, from which it is taken, is to be seen at rome, in the _chiesa della minerva_ where it is held in such extraordinary veneration, that the great toe-nail of the right foot having been entirely worn away by the repeated kisses of the faithful, one of silver had been substituted. at length this second nail having been likewise worn away, a third was placed, of copper, which is already somewhat worn. it was sculptured by michael angelo buonaroti. we experience an emotion of regret at the aspect of the handsome monument by michallon, on learning that it was erected to the memory of young drouais, a skilful and amiable artist, stopped by death, in , during his brilliant career, at the early age of . he has left behind him three historical pictures, which are so many master-pieces. the beautiful statue of the youthful cyparissus, by chaudet, the most eminent french sculptor, reminds us of the full and elegant form of the fine greek bacchus, which decorates the peristyle of the antichamber or hall of introduction. thus the amateur and the student will find, in this museum, an uninterrupted chronology of monuments, both antique and modern, beginning by those of ancient greece, whose date goes back to two thousand five hundred years before our era, to examine those of the romans, of the lower empire, of the gauls, and thence pass to the first epoch of the french monarchy, and at length follow all the gradations through which the art has passed from its cradle to its decrepitude. the whole of this grand establishment is terminated by a spacious garden, which is converted into an elysium. there, on a verdant lawn, amid firs, cypresses, poplars, and weeping willows, repose the ashes of the illustrious poets, moliÈre, la fontaine, boileau, &c.; of the learned descartes, mabillon, montfaucon, &c., inclosed in sarcophagi; there, they still receive the homage which mankind owe to talents and virtue. but hold! mark the sepulchre of the learned and tender hÉloÏse. her remains, though formerly conjoined to those of her lover, were subsequently separated, and after a lapse of three hundred years, they are now reassembled. here one kind grave unites their hapless name, and grafts her love immortal on his fame. with a smile seated on her lips, hÉloÏse seems to be sighing for the object of her glowing affection: while the unfortunate abÉlard, coldly reclined, is still commenting on the trinity. the _paraclete_, having been sold and demolished, lenoir, with all the sensibility of an admirer of genius, withdrew the bones of abÉlard and hÉloÏse from that monastery, and placed them here in a sepulchral chapel, partly constructed from the remains of their ancient habitation. such is the museum of french monuments. when completed, for some valuable specimens of the arts slill remain to be added, it will be one of the most interesting establishments in paris, and perhaps in europe, especially if considered in regard to the improvement of modern sculpture, and, i may add, architecture. no building can be better adapted than a monastery for an establishment of this nature. the solemn gloom of cloisters suits the temper of the mind, when we reflect on the mortality incident to a succession of ages, and the melancholy which it inspires, is in perfect unison with our feelings, when we contemplate the sepulchral monuments that recall to our memory the actions of the illustrious departed. this museum is very extensive, the three courts and large garden, which at present compose the whole of its premises, occupying a space of three thousand seven hundred and sixty-two toises. lenoir, however, has recently presented to the first consul a plan for enlarging it, without any additional expense of building, by adding to it the neighbouring _hôtel de bouillon_. he proposes that there should be a new entrance by the quay, exhibiting a spacious court, decorated with statues, erected in regular order; and that the apartments on the ground-floor should be appropriated as follows: . to a collection of portraits of all the celebrated men of france. . to a chronological series of armour of all ages. . to a complete collection of french medals. . to a library, solely formed of the books necessary for obtaining a knowledge of the monuments contained in this museum. when i consider the mutilated state in which most of these monuments were found at the first formation of this interesting establishment, and view the perfection in which they now appear; when i remark the taste and judgment displayed in the distribution and interior arrangement of the different apartments of this rich museum; when i learn, from the printed documents on the subject, the strict economy which has been observed in the acquisition or restoration of a great number of monuments, the more valuable as they illustrate the history of the arts; i confess that i find myself at a loss which most to admire in the conservator, his courage, zeal, perseverance, or discrimination. indeed, nothing but an assemblage of those qualities could have overcome the difficulties and obstacles which he has surmounted. i shall add that lenoir's obliging disposition and amenity of manners equally entitle him to the gratitude and esteem of the connoisseur, the student, or the inquisitive stranger. letter xxvi. _paris, december , _. i was highly gratified the other day on finding myself in company with some of those men whom (to borrow lord thurlow's expression, in speaking of warren hastings,) i have known only as i know alexander, by the greatness of their exploits; men whose names will be transmitted to posterity, and shine with distinguished lustre in the military annals of france. general a----y had already invited me to dine with him, in order to meet general b----r; but, on the day fixed, the latter, as minister for the war department, being under the necessity of entertaining lord cornwallis, the party was postponed till the th of frimaire, ( th of november), when, in addition to general b----r, general a----y had assembled at his table several men of note. among others, were general m----rd, who commanded the right wing of the army of naples under macdonald, in which he distinguished himself as a brave soldier; and d----ttes, physician in chief to the army of the east. this officer of health, as medical men are here denominated, is lately returned from egypt, where his skill and attention to his professional duties gained him universal admiration. in society so agreeable, time passed away rapidly till general b----r arrived. it was late, that is about seven o'clock, though the invitation expressed five precisely, as the hour of dinner. but, in paris, a minister is always supposed to be detained on official business of a nature paramount to every other consideraton. on my being introduced to general b----r, he immediately entered into conversation with me concerning lord cornwallis, whom he had known in the american war, having served in the staff of rochambeau at the siege of yorktown. as far back as that period b----r signalized himself by his skill in military science. it was impossible to contemplate these distinguished officers without calling to mind how greatly their country was indebted to the exertion of their talents on various important occasions. these recollections led me to admire that wisdom which had placed them in stations for which they had proved themselves so eminently qualified. in england, places are generally sought for men; in france, men are sought for places. at seven, dinner was announced, and an excellent one it was, both in quality and quantity. _presto_ was the word, and all the guests seemed habituated to expedition. the difference between the duration of such a repast at this day, and what it was before the revolution, shews how constantly men become the slaves of fashion. had bonaparte resembled lucullus in being addicted to the pleasures of the festive board, i make no doubt that it would have been the height of _ton_ to sit quietly two or three hours after dinner. but the chief consul is said to be temperate, almost to abstemiousness; he rises from table in less than half an hour; and that mode is now almost universal in paris, especially among the great men in office. two elegant courses and a desert were presently dispatched; the whole time employed in eating i know not how many good dishes, and drinking a variety of choice wines, not exceeding thirty-five minutes. at the end of the repast, coffee was presented to the company in an adjoining room, after which the opera of _tarare_ was the attraction of the evening. i have already mentioned to you that general a----y had put into my hand _l'histoire du canal du midi_, written by himself. from a perusal of this interesting work, it appears that one of his ancestors[ ] was the first who conceived the idea of that canal, which was not only planned by him, but entirely completed under his immediate direction. having communicated his plan to riquet, the latter submited it to colbert, and, on its being approved by lewis xiv, became _contractor_ for all the works of that celebrated undertaking, which he did not live to see finished. riquet, however, not content with having derived from the undertaking every advantage of honour and emolument, greedily snatched from the original projector the meed of fame, so dearly earned by the unremitting labour of thirty successive years. these facts are set forth in the clearest light in the above-mentioned work, in which i was carefully examining general a----y's plans for the improvement of this famous canal, when i was most agreeably interrupted. i had expressed to the general a wish to know the nature of the establishment of which he is the director, at the same time apprizing him that this wish did not extend to any thing that could not with propriety be made public. he obligingly promised that i should be gratified, and this morning i received ftom him a very friendly letter, accompanied by the following account of the dÉpÔt de la guerre. the general _dépôt_ or repository of maps and plans of war, &c, &c, was established by louvois, in . this was the celebrated period when france, having attained the highest degree of splendour, secured her glory by the results of an administration enlightened in all its branches. at the beginning of its institution, the _dépôt de la guerre_ was no more than archives, where were collected, and preserved with order, the memoirs of the generals, their correspondence, the accounts yet imperfect, and the traces of anterior military operations. the numerous resources afforded by this collection alone, the assistance and advantages derived from it on every occasion, when it was necessary to investigate a military system, or determine an important operation, suggested the idea of assembling it under a form and classification more methodical. greater attention and exactness were exerted in enriching the _dépôt_ with every thing that might complete the theoretical works and practical elucidations of all the branches of the military art, marshal de maillebois, who was appointed director of this establishment in , was one of the first authors of the present existing order. the classification at first consisted only in forming registers of the correspondence of the generals, according to date, distinguishing it by _different wars_. it was divided into two parts, the former containing the letters of the generals; and the latter, the minutes or originals of the answers of the king and his ministers. to each volume was added a summary of the contents, and, in regular succession, the journal of the military operations of the year. these volumes, to the number of upwards of two thousand seven hundred, contain documents from the eleventh century to the close of the last american war; but the series is perfect only from the year . this was a valuable mine for a historiographer to explore; and, indeed, it is well known that the _memoirs of turenne and of condé_, the _history of the war of _, and part of the fragments of the _essay on the manners and history of nations_, by voltaire, were compiled and digested from the original letters and memoirs preserved in the _dépôt de la guerre_. geographical engineers did not then exist as a corps. topography was practised by insulated officers, impelled thereto by the rather superficial study of the mathematics and a taste for drawing; because it was for them a mean of obtaining more advantageous employments in the staffs of the armies: but the want of a central point, the difference of systems and methods, not admitting of directing the operations to one same principle, as well as to one same object, topography, little encouraged, was making but a slow progress, when m. de choiseuil established, as a particular corps, the officers who had applied themselves to the practice of that science. the _dépôt_ was charged to direct and assemble the labours of the new corps. this authority doubled the utility of the _dépôt_: its results had the most powerful influence during the war from to . lieutenant-general de vault, who had succeeded marshal de maillebois as director of the _dépôt de la guerre_, conceived, and executed a plan, destined to render still more familiar and secure the numerous documents collected in this establishment. he first retrenched from the _military correspondences and memoirs_ all tedious repetitions and unnecessary details; he then classed the remainder under the head of a different army or operation, without subjecting himself to any other order than a simple chronology; but he caused each volume to be preceded by a very succinct, historical summary, in order to enable the reader to seize the essence of the original memoirs and documents, the text of which was faithfully copied in the body of each volume, in this manner did he arrange all the military events from the german war in to the peace of . this analysis forms one hundred and twenty five volumes. it is easy to conceive how much more interesting these historical volumes became by the addition, which took place about the same epoch, of the labours of the geographical engineers employed in the armies. the military men having it at the same time in his power to follow the combinations of the generals with the execution of their plans, imbibes, without difficulty, the principles followed by great captains, or improves himself from the exact account of the errors and faults which it is so natural to commit on critical occasions. when all the establishments of the old _régime_ were tottering, or threatened by the revolutionary storm, measures were suggested for preserving the _dépôt de la guerre_, and, towards the end of , it was transferred from versailles to paris. presently the new system of government, the war declared against the emperor, and the foreseen conflagration of europe, concurred to give a new importance to this establishment. alone, amidst the general overthrow, it had preserved a valuable collection of the military and topographical labours of the monarchy, of manuscripts of the greatest importance, and a body of information of every kind respecting the resources, and the country, of the powers already hostile, or on the point of becoming so. all the utility which might result from the _dépôt_ was then felt, and it was thought necessary to give it a new organization.[ ] the _dépôt de la guerre_, however, would have attained but imperfectly the object of its institution, had there not been added to its topographical treasure, the richest, as well as the finest, collection in europe of every geographical work held in any estimation. the first epochs of the revolution greatly facilitated the increase of its riches of that description. the general impulse, imprinted on the mind of the french nation, prompted every will towards useful sacrifices. private cabinets in possession of the scarcest maps, gave them up to the government, the suppression of the monasteries and abbeys caused to flow to the centre the geographical riches which they preserved in an obscurity hurtful to the progress of that important science: and thus the _dépôt de la guerre_ obtained one of the richest collections in europe.[ ] the government, besides, completed it by the delivery of the great map of france by cassini, begun in , together with all the materials forming the elements of that grand work. it is painful to add that not long before that period (in ) the corps of geographical engineers, which alone could give utility to such valuable materials had been suppressed.[ ] in the mean time, the sudden changes in the administrative system had dispersed the learned societies employed in astronomy, or the mathematical sciences. the _national observatory_ was disused. the celebrated astronomers attached to it had no rallying point: they could not devote themselves to their labours but amidst the greatest difficulties; the salary allowed to them was not paid; the numerous observations, continued for two centuries, were on the point of being interrupted. the _dépôt de la guerre_ then became the asylum of those estimable men. this establishment excited and obtained the reverification of the measure of an arc of the meridian, in order to serve as a basis for the uniformity of the weights and measures which the government wished to establish. mÉchain, delambre, nouet, tranchot, and perny were dispatched to different places from barcelona to dunkirk. after having established at each extremity of this line a base, measured with the greatest exactness, they were afterwards to advance their triangles, in order to ascend to the middle point of the line. this operation, which has served for rectifying a few errors that the want of perfection in the instruments had occasioned to be introduced into the measure of the meridian of cassini, may be reckoned one of the most celebrated works which have distinguished the close of the eighteenth century. the establishment of the system of administration conformably to the constitution of the year iii ( ) separated the various elements which the _dépôt de la guerre_ had found means to preserve. the _board of longitude_ was established; the _national institute_ was formed to supply the place of the _academy of sciences_, &c. the _dépôt de la guerre_ was restored solely to its ancient prerogatives. two years before, it had been under the necessity of forming new geographical engineers and it succeeded in carrying the number sufficiently high to suffice for the wants of the fourteen armies which france had afterwards on foot.[ ] these officers being employed in the service of the staffs, no important work was undertaken. but, since the th of brumaire, year viii, ( th of november, ) the consuls of the republic have bestowed particular attention on geographical and topographical operations. the new limits of the french territory require that the map of it should be continued; and the new political system, resulting from the general pacification, renders necessary the exact knowledge of the states of the allies of the republic. the _dépôt de la guerre_ forms various sections of geographers, who are at present employed in constructing accurate maps of the four united departments. piedmont, savoy, helvetia, and the part of italy comprised between the adige and the adda. one section, in conjunction with the bavarian engineers, is constructing a topographical map of bavaria: another section is carrying into execution the military surveys, and other topographical labours, ordered by general moreau for the purpose of forming a map of suabia. the _dépôt_ has just published an excellent map of the tyrol, reduced from that of paysan, and to which have been added the observations made by chevaliers dupay and la lucerne. it has caused to be resumed the continuation of the superb map of the environs of versailles, called _la carte des chasses_, a master-piece of topography and execution in all the arts relating to that science. since the year v ( ), it has also formed a library composed of upwards of eight thousand volumes or manuscripts, the most rare, as well as the most esteemed, respecting every branch of the military art in general. although, in the preceding account, general a----y, with that modesty which is the characteristic of a superior mind, has been totally silent respecting his own indefatigable exertions, i have learned from the best authority, that france is soon likely to derive very considerable advantages from the activity and talent introduced by him, as director, into every branch of the _dépôt de la guerre_, and of which he has afforded in his own person an illustrious example. in giving an impulse to the interior labours of the _dépôt_, the sole object of general a----y is to make this establishment lose its _paralyzing_ destination of archives, in which, from time to time, literati might come to collect information concerning some periods of national or foreign history. he is of opinion that these materials ought to be drawn from oblivion, and brought into action by those very persons who, having the experience of war, are better enabled than any others to arrange its elements. instruction and method being the foundations of a good administration, of the application of an art and of a science, as well as of their improvement, he has conceived the idea of uniting in a classical work the exposition of the knowledge necessary for the direction of the _dépôt_, for geographical engineers, staff-officers, military men in general, and historians. this, then, is the object of the _mémomorial du dépôt de la guerre_, a periodical work, now in hand, which will become the guide of every establishment of this nature[ ], by directing with method the various labours used in the application of mathematical and physical sciences to topography, and to that art which, of all others, has the greatest influence on the destiny of empires: i mean the art military. the improvements of which it is still susceptible will be pointed out in the _mémorial_, and every new idea proposed on the subject will there be critically investigated. in transcribing general a----y's sketch of this extremely-interesting establishment, i cannot but reflect on the striking contrast that it presents, in point of geographical riches, even half a century ago, to the disgraceful poverty, in that line, which, about the same period, prevailed in england, and was severely felt in the planning of our military expeditions. i remember to have been told by the late lord howe, that, when he was captain of the magnanime at plymouth, and was sent for express to london, in the year , in order to command the naval part of an expedition to the coast of france, george ii, and the whole cabinet council, seemed very much astonished at his requiring the production of a map of that part of the enemy's coast against which the expedition was intended. neither in the apartment where the council sat, nor in any adjoining one, was any such document; even in the admiralty-office no other than an indifferent map of the coast could be found: as for the adjacent country, it was so little known in england, that, when the british troops landed, their commander was ignorant of the distance of the neighbouring villages. of late years, indeed, we have ordered these matters better; but, to judge from circumstances, it should seem that we are still extremely deficient in geographical and topographical knowledge; though we are not quite so ill informed as in the time of a certain duke, who, when first lord of the treasury, asked in what part of germany was the ohio? p.s. in order to give you, at one view, a complete idea of the collections of the _dépôt de la guerre_, and of what they have furnished during the war for the service of the government and of the armies, i shall end my letter by stating that, independently of eight thousand chosen volumes, among which is a valuable collection of atlases, of two thousand seven hundred volumes of old archives, and of upwards of nine hundred _cartons_ or pasteboard boxes of modern original documents, the _dépôt_ possesses one hundred and thirty-one volumes and seventy-eight _cartons_ of descriptive memoirs, composed at least of fifty memoirs each, four thousand seven hundred engraved maps, of each of which there are from two to twenty-five copies, exclusively of those printed at the _dépôt_, and upwards of seven thousand four hundred valuable manuscript maps, plans, or drawings of marches, battles, sieges, &c. by order of the government, it has furnished, in the course of the war, seven thousand two hundred and seventy-eight engraved maps, two hundred and seven manuscript maps or plans, sixty-one atlases of various parts of the globe, and upwards of six hundred descriptive memoirs. [footnote : franÇois andreossy; who was the great great grandfather of the present french ambassador at our court.] [footnote : on the th of april, , was published a regulation, decreed by the king, respecting the general direction of the _dépôt de la guerre_. the annual expense of the establishment, at that time amounted to , francs, but the geographical and historical departments were not filled. _note of the author._] [footnote : an _agence des cartes_ was appointed, by the national assembly, to class these materials, and arrange them in useful order.] [footnote : at the juncture alluded to ( ), the want of geographical engineers having been felt as soon as the armies took the field, three brigades were formed, each consisting of twelve persons. the composition of the _dépôt de la guerre_, was increased in proportion to its importance: intelligent officers were placed there; and no less than thirty-eight persons were employed in the interior labour, that is, in drawing plans of campaigns, sieges, &c. _note of the author_.] [footnote : that tempestuous period having dispersed the then director and his assistants, the _dépôt de la guerre_ remained, for some time, without officers capable of conducting it in a manner useful to the country. in the mean while, wants were increasing, and military operations daily becoming more important, when, in , carnot, then a member of the committee of public welfare, formed a private cabinet of topography, the elements of which he drew from the _dépôt de la guerre_. this was a first impulse given to these valuable collections. _note of the author_.] [footnote : prince charles is employed at vienna in forming a collection of books, maps, and military memoirs for the purpose of establishing a _dépôt_ for the instruction of the staff-officers of the austrian army. spain has also begun to organize a system of military topography in imitation of that of france. portugal follows the example. what are we doing in england?] letter xxvii _paris, december , _. in this season, when the blasts of november have entirely stripped the trees of their few remaining leaves, and winter has assumed his hoary reign, the garden of the _tuileries_, loses much of the gaiety of its attractions. besides, to frequent that walk, at present, is like visiting daily one of our theatres, you meet the same faces so often, that the scene soon becomes monotonous. as well for the sake of variety as exercise, i therefore now and then direct my steps along the boulevards. this is the name given to the promenades with which paris is, in part, surrounded for an extent of six thousand and eighty-four toises. they are distinguished by the names of the _old_ and the _new_. the _old_, or _north boulevards_, commonly called the _grands boulevards_, were begun in , and, when faced with ditches, which were to have been dug, they were intended to serve as fortifications against the english who were ravaging picardy, and threatening the capital. thence, probably, the etymology of their name; _boulevard_ signifying, as every one knows, a bulwark. however this may be, the extent of these _old_ boulevards is two thousand four hundred toises from the _rue de la concorde_ to the _place de la liberté_, formerly the site of the bastille. they were first planted in , and are formed into three alleys by four rows of trees: the middle alley is appropriated to carriages and persons on horseback, and the two lateral ones are for foot-passengers. here, on each side, is assembled every thing that ingenuity can imagine for the diversion of the idle stroller, or the recreation of the man of business. places of public entertainment, ambulating musicians, exhibitions of different kinds, temples consecrated to love or pleasure, vauxhalls, ball-rooms, magnificent hotels, and other tasteful buildings, &c. even the coffee-houses and taverns here have their shady bowers, and an agreeable orchestra. thus, you may always dine in paris with a band of music to entertain you, without additional expense. the _new_ boulevards, situated to the south, were finished in . they are three thousand six hundred and eighty-three toises in extent from the _observatoire_ to the _hôtel des invalides_. although laid out much in the same manner as the _old_, there is little resemblance between them; each having a very distinct appearance. on the _new boulevards_, the alleys are both longer and wider, and the trees are likewise of better growth. there, the prospect is rural; and the air pure; while cultivated fields, with growing corn, present themselves to the eye. towards the town, however, stand several pretty houses; little theatres even were built, but did not succeed. this was not their latitude. but some skittle-grounds and tea-gardens, lately opened, and provided with swings, &c. have attracted much company of a certain class in the summer. in this quarter, you seldom meet with a carriage, scarcely ever with persons sprucely dressed, but frequently with honest citizens, accompanied by their whole family, as plain in their garb as in their manners. lovers too with their mistresses, who seek solitude, visit this retired walk; and now and then a poor poet comes hither, not to sharpen his appetite, but to arrange his numbers. before, the revolution, the _old_ boulevards, from the _porte st. martin_ to the _théâtre favart_, was the rendezvous of the _élegantes_, who, on sundays and thursdays, used to parade there slowly, backward and forward, in their carriages, as our belles do in hyde park; with this difference, that, if their admirers did not accompany them, they generally followed them to interchange significant glances, or indulge in amorous parley. i understand that the summer lounge of the modern _élegantes_ has, of late years, been from the corner of the _rue grange batelière_ to that of the _rue mont-blanc_, where the ladies took their seats. this attracting the _muscadins_ in great numbers, not long since obtained for that part of the boulevard the appellation of _petit coblentz_. nearly about the middle of the north boulevard stand two edifices, which owe their erection to the vanity of lewis xiv. in the gratification of that passion did the _grand monarque_ console himself for his numerous defeats and disappointments; and the age in which he lived being fertile in great men, owing, undoubtedly, to the encouragement he afforded them, his display of it was well seconded by their superior talents. previously to his reign, paris had several gates, but some of these being taken down, arcs of triumph, in imitation of those of the romans, were erected in their stead by _louis le grand_, in commemoration of his exploits. and this too, at a time when the allies might, in good earnest, have marched to paris, had they not, by delay, given marshal villars an opportunity of turning the tide of their victories on the plain of denain. such was the origin of the porte saint denis. the magnificence of its architecture classes it among the first public monuments in paris. it consists of a triumphal arch, insulated in the manner of those of the ancients: it is seventy-two feet in diameter as well as in elevation, and was executed in , by bullet from the designs of blondel. on each side of the principal entrance rise two sculptured pyramids, charged with trophies of arms, both towards the faubourg, and towards the city. underneath each of these pyramids is a small collateral passage for persons on foot. the arch is ornamented with two bas-reliefs: the one facing the city represents the passage of the rhine; and the other, the capture of maestricht. on the frieze on both sides ludovico magno was formerly to be read, in large characters of gilt bronze. this inscription is removed, and to it are substituted the word _liberté, Égalité, fraternité_. on arriving from calais, you enter paris by the _porte st. denis_. it was also by the _porte st. denis_ that kings and queens made their public entry. on these occasions, the houses in all the streets through which they passed, were decorated with silk hangings and tapestry, as far as the cathedral of _notre-dame_. scented waters perfumed the air in the form of _jets d'eau_; while wine and milk flowed from the different public fountains. froissard relates that, on the entrance of isabeau de bavière, there was in the _rue st. denis_ a representation of a clouded heaven, thickly sown with stars, whence descended two angels who gently placed on her head a very rich crown of gold, set with precious stones, at the same time singing verses in her praise. it was on this occasion that charles vi, anxious for a sight of his intended bride, took a fancy to mix in the crowd, mounted on horseback behind savoisi, his favourite. pushing forward in order to approach her, he received from the serjeants posted to keep off the populace several sharp blows on the shoulders, which occasioned great mirth in the evening, when the circumstance was related before the queen and her ladies. proceeding along the boulevard towards the east, at a short distance from the _porte st. denis_, you arrive at the porte saint martin. although this triumphal arch cannot be compared to the preceding in magnificence, it was nevertheless executed by the same artists, having been erected in . it is pierced with three openings, the centre one of which is eighteen feet wide, and the two others nine. the whole structure, which is fifty-four feet both in height and breadth, is rusticated, and in the spandles of the arch are four bas-reliefs; the two towards the city represent the capture of besançon, and the rupture of the triple alliance; and those towards the faubourg, the capture of lomberg, and the defeat of the germans under the emblem of an eagle repulsed by the god of war. these bas-reliefs are crowned by an entablature of the doric order, surmounted by an attic. the _porte st. martin_ is the grand entrance into paris from all parts of flanders. at the west extremity of this _north_ boulevard, facing the _rue de la concorde_, stands an unfinished church, called _la magdeleine_, whose cemetery received not only the bodies of lewis xvi, his consort, and his sister, but of the greater part of the victims that perished by guillotine. in the space comprised between _la magdeleine_ and the _vieille rue du temple_, i speak within compass when i say that there are sometimes to be seen fifty ambulating conjurers of both sexes. they all vary the form of their art. some have tables, surmounted by flags, bearing mysterious devices; some have wheels, with compartments adapted to every age and profession--one has a robe charged with hieroglyphics, and tells you your fortune through a long tube which conveys the sound to your ear; the other makes you choose in a parcel, a square piece of white paper, which becomes covered with characters at the moment when it is thrown into a jug that appears empty. the secret of this is as follows: the jug contains a little sulphuret of potash, and the words are written with acetite of lead. the action of the exterior air, on, the sulphuret of potash, disengages from it sulphurated hydrogen gas, which, acting on the oxyd of lead, brings to view the characters that before were invislble. here, the philosophic parisians stop before the movable stall of an astrologer, who has surmounted it with an owl, as an emblem of his magic wisdom. many of them take this animal for a curiosity imported from foreign countries; for they are seldom able to distinguish a bat from a swallow. "does that bird come from china, my dear?" says a lusty dame to her elderly husband, a shopkeeper of the _rue st. denis_.--"i don't know, my love," replies the other.--"what eyes it has got," continues she; "it must see a great deal better than we." "no;" cries a countryman standing by; "though its eyes are so big, it can't, in broad day, tell a cow from a calf." the lady continues her survey of the scientific repository; and the conjurer, with an air of importance, proposes to her to draw, for two _sous_, a motto from merlin's wheel. "take one, my dear," says the husband; "i wish to know whether you love me." the wife blushes and hesitates; the husband insists; she refuses, and is desirous of continuing her walk, saying that it is all foolishness.--"what if it is?" rejoins the husband, "i've paid, so take a motto to please me." for this once, the lady is quite at a nonplus; she at last consents, and, with a trembling hand, draws a card from the magic wheel: the husband unrolls it with eagerness and confidence, and reads these words: "_my young lover is and will be constant_."--"what the devil does this mean?" exclaims the old husband; quite disconcerted. --"'tis a mistake," says the conjurer; "the lady put her hand into the wrong box; she drew the motto from the wheel for _young girls_, instead of that for _married women_. let _madame_ draw again, she shall pay nothing more."--"no, mr. conjurer," replies the shopkeeper, "that's enough. i've no faith in such nonsense; but another time, madam, take care that you don't put your hand into the wrong box." the fat lady, with her face as red as fire, follows her husband, who walks off grumbling, and it is easy to see, by their gestures, that the fatal motto has sown discord in the family, and confirmed the shopkeeper's suspicions. independently of these divers into futurity, the corners of streets and walls of public squares, are covered with hand-bills announcing books containing secrets, sympathetic calculations of numbers in the lottery, the explanation of dreams in regard to those numbers, together with the different manners of telling fortunes, and interpreting prognostics. at all times, the marvellous has prevailed over simple truth, and the cumæan sibyl attracted the inquisitive in greater crowds than socrates, plato, or any philosopher, had pupils in the whole course of their existence. in paris, the sciences are really making a rapid progress, notwithstanding the fooleries of the pseudo-philosophers, who parade the streets, and here, on the _boulevards_, as well as in other parts of the town, exhibit lessons of physics. one has an electrifying machine, and phials filled with phosphorus: for two _sous_, he gives you a slight shock, and makes you a present of a small phial. farther on, you meet with a _camera obscura_, whose effect surprises the spectators the more, as the objects represented within it have the motion which they do not find in common optics. there, you see a double refracting telescope: for two _sous_, you enjoy its effect. at either end, you place any object whatever, and though a hat, a board, or a child be introduced between the two glasses, the object placed appears not, on that account, the less clear and distinct to the eye of the person looking through the opposite glass. _pierre_ has seen, and cannot believe his eyes: _jacques_ wishes to see, and, on seeing, is in ecstacy: next comes _fanchon_, who remains stupified. enthusiasm becomes general, and the witnesses of their delirium are ready to go mad at not having two _sous_ in their pocket. another fellow, in short, has a microscope, of which he extols the beauty, and, above all, the effects: he will not describe the causes which produce them, because he is unacquainted with them; but, provided he adapts his lessons to the understanding of those who listen to him, this is all he wants. sometimes he may be heard to say to the people about him: "gentlemen, give me a creeping insect, and for one _sou_, i will shew it to you as big as my fist." sometimes too, unfortunately for him, the insect which he requires is more easily found among part of his auditors, than the money. p.s. for the preceding account of the parisian conjurers i am indebted to m. pujoulx. letter xxviii. _paris, december , _. in one of your former letters you questioned me on a subject, which, though it had not escaped my notice, i was desirous to avoid, till i should be able to obtain on it some precise information. this i have done; and i hasten to present you with the following sketch, which will afford you a tolerably-correct idea of the french funds, and national debt. the booked or consolidated debt is called tiers consolidÉ, from its being the consolidated third of the national debt, of which the remaining two-thirds were reimbursed in _bons de deux tiers_ in and . it bears interest at five per cent. payable half yearly at the _banque de france_. the payment of the interest is at present six months in arrear. but the intention of the government is, by paying off in specie the interest of one whole year, to pay in future as soon as due. the days of payment are the st of germinal ( d of march) and the st of vendémiaire ( d of september). this stock purchased at the present price of from to would produce from eight to nine per cent. the general opinion is, that it will rise to ; and as it is the chief stock, and the standard of the national credit, it is the interest, and must be the constant object of the government to keep up its price. there is a _caisse d'amortissement_ or sinking fund, for the special purpose of paying off this stock, the effect of which, though not exactly known, must shortly be very considerable. the _tiers consolidé_ is saleable and transferable at a moment's warning, and at a trifling expense. it is not subject to taxation, nor open to attachments, either on the principal or interest. for purchasing, no sort of formality is required; but for receiving interest, or selling, it is necessary to produce a power of attorney. an established rule is, that the seller always retains his right to half a year's interest at the succeeding stated period of payment, so that he who purchases in the interval between march and september, is entitled to the interest commencing from the d of the latter month only; and he who buys between september and march, receives not his first dividend till the d of the following september. tiers provisoire. this is the debt, yet unbooked, which is composed of the provisional claims of the creditors of the emigrants, the contractors, and various other holders of claims on the government. the _tiers provisoire_ is to be booked before the st of vendémiaire, year xii of the republic ( d of september, ), and will from that day bear interest of five per cent; so that, setting aside the danger of any retrospect in the interval, and that of any other change, it is at the present price, of from to , cheaper than the _tiers consolidé_ to which, in about eighteen months, it will, in every respect, be assimilated. bons de deux tiers, is paper issued for the purpose of reimbursing the reduced two-thirds of the national debt, and in the origin rendered applicable to the purchase of national houses and estates in the french colonies, since ordered to be funded at five per cent; so that the price of this species of paper is entirely subordinate to that of the _tiers consolidé_ and supposing that to be francs per cent, the _bon de deux tiers_ would be worth francs. there are no hopes, however distant, that the government will ever restore the _bons de deux tiers_ to their original value. bons de trois quarts, so called from having been issued for the purpose of reimbursing the three-fourths of the interest of the fifth and sixth years of the republic ( to ). they are, in all respects, assimilated to the preceding stock. coupons d'emprunt forcÉ. these are the receipts given by the government to the persons who contributed to the various forced loans. this paper is likewise assimilated to the two last-mentioned species, with this difference, that it is generally considered as a less sacred claim, and is therefore liquidated with greater difficulty. the holders of these three claims are hastening the liquidation and consolidation of them, and they are evidently right in so doing. quarts au nom et quart numÉraire. this paper is thus denominated from its having been issued for the purpose of reimbursing the fourth of the dividend of the fifth and sixth years of the republic ( to ). it is generally thought that this very sacred claim on the government will be funded _in toto_. rachats de rente, is the name given to the redemption of perpetual annuities due by individuals to the government, on a privileged mortgage on landed estates; the said annuities having been issued by the government in times of great distress, for the purpose of supplying immediate and urgent events. this paper is not only a mere government security, but is also specially mortgaged on the estates of the person who owes the annuity to the government, and who is, at any time, at liberty to redeem it at from twenty to twenty-five years purchase. claims of this description, mortgaged on most desirable estates near the metropolis, might be obtained for less than per cent; which, at the interest of five per cent, and with the additional advantage, in some instances, of the arrears of one or two years, would produce between eight and nine per cent. next to the _tiers consolidé_, _rachats de rente_ are particularly worthy of attention; indeed, this debt is of so secure and sacred a nature, that the government has appropriated a considerable part of it to the special purpose and service of the hospitals and schools; two species of institutions which ought ever to be sheltered from all vicissitudes, and which, whatever may be the form or character of the government, must be supported and respected. actions de la banque de france. these are shares in the national bank of france, which are limited to the number of thirty thousand, and were originally worth one thousand francs each; they therefore form a capital of , , francs, or £ , , sterling, and afford as follows: . a dividend which at present, and since the foundation, has averaged from eight to ten per cent, arising from the profits on discount. . a profit of from four to five per cent more on the discount of paper, which every holder of an _action_ or share effects at the bank, at the rate of one-half per cent per month, or six per cent for the whole year. the present price of an _action_ is about twelve hundred francs, which may be considered as producing: francs; dividend paid by the bank on each share. francs; certain profits according to the present discount of bills. francs; per share - / per cent. _actions de la banque de france_, though subject, in common with all stocks, to the influence of the government, are, however, far more independent of it than any other, and are the more secure, as the national bank is not only composed of all the first bankers, but also supported by the principal merchants in the country. this investment is at present very beneficial, and certainly promises great eventual advantages. the dividends are paid in two half-yearly instalments. actions de la caisse de commerce, et actions du comptoir commercial. the _caisse de commerce_ and the _comptoir commercial_ are two establishments on the same plan, and affording, as nearly as possible, the same advantages as the _banque de france_: the only difference is as follows: . these last two are, as far as any commercial establishment can be, independent of the government, and are more so than the _banque de france_, as the _actions_ or shares are not considered as being a public fund. . the _actions de la caisse de commerce_ limited in number to two thousand four hundred, originally cost francs, and are now worth . the holder of each _action_ moreover, signs circulating notes to the amount of five thousand francs, which form the paper currency of the bank, and for the payment of which the said holder would be responsible, were the bank to stop payment. . the _actions du comptoir commercial_ are still issued by the administrators of the establishment. the number of _actions_ is not as yet limited: the price of each _action_ is fifteen hundred francs (_circa_ £ sterling), and the plan and advantages are almost entirely similar to those of the two last-mentioned institutions. the _banque de france_ the _caisse de commerce_, and the _comptoir commercial_, discount three times a week. the first, the paper of the banking-houses and the principal commercial houses holding bank-stock; the second, the paper of the wholesale merchants of every class; and the third, the paper of retailers of all descriptions; and in a circulation which amounts to millions of francs (_circa_ millions sterling) per month, there have not, it is said, been seen, in the course of the last month, protests to the amount of , francs. bons de l'an vii et de l'an viii. is a denomination applied to paper, issued for the purpose of paying the dividend of the debt during the seventh and eighth years of the republic. these _bons_ are no further deserving of notice than as they still form a part of the floating debt, and are an article of the supposed liquidation at the conclusion of the present summary. it is therefore unnecessary to say more of them. arrÉrages des annÉes v et vi. these are the arrears due to such holders of stock as, during the fifth and sixth years of the republic, had not their dividend paid in _bons de trois quarts_ and _quart numéraire_, mentioned in art. iv and vi of this sketch. i also notice them as forming an essential part of the above-mentioned supposed liquidation, at the end of the sketch, and shall only add that it is the general opinion that they will be funded. to the preceding principal investments and claims on the government, might be added the following: _coupes de bois. cédules hypothécaires. rescriptions de domaines nationaux. actions de la caisse des rentiers. actions des indes. bons de moines et réligieuses. obligations de reçeveur._ however, they are almost entirely unworthy of attention, and afford but occasionally openings for speculation. of the last, (_obligations de reçeveur_) it may be necessary to observe that they are monthy acceptances issued by the receivers-general of all the departments, which the government has given to the five bankers, charged with supplying money for the current service, as security for their advances, and which are commonly discounted at from / to one per cent per month. i shall terminate this concise, though accurate sketch of the french funds by a general statement of the national debt, and by an account of an annuity supposed to be held by a foreigner before the revolution, and which, to become _tiers consolidé_, must undergo the regular process of reduction and liquidation. _national debt_. _francs._ consolidated stock (_tiers consolidé_) , , floating debt, to be consolidated, about , , life annuities , , ecclesiastical, military, and other pensions , , ----------- , , the value of a _franc_ is something more than _d_. english money: according to which calculation, the national debt of france is in round numbers no more than £ , , supposed liquidation of an annuity of £ . sterling, or , _livres tournois_ held by a foreigner before the war and yet unliquidated. _francs._ original annuity , _tiers consolidé bons de deux tiers_ , the actual value of the whole, including the arreared dividends up to the present day is as follows: _francs._ _tiers consolidé_ as above, francs sold at francs , _bons de deux tiers_, ditto francs sold at francs arrears from the first year of the republic to the fifth ditto ( d of september, to the d of september, ) are to be paid in assignats, and are of no value. arrears of the fifth and sixth years supposed to be liquidated so as to afford per cent of their nominal value, about arrears in _bons_ for the year vii, valued at per cent loss arrears of the year viii, due in _bons_, valued at per cent loss arrears of the year ix, due in specie arrears of the year x, of which three months are nearly elapsed ----- total of the principal and interest of an original annuity of , livres, reduced (according to law) to , or in sterling, _circa_ £ ------ i had almost forgot that you have asked me more than once for an explanation of the exact value of a modern franc. the following you may depend on as correct. the _unité monétaire_ is a piece of silver of the weight of five _grammes_, containing a tenth of alloy and nine tenths of pure silver. it is called _franc_, and is subdivided into _décimes_, and _centimes_: its value is to that of the old _livre tournois_ in the proportion of to . _value in livres tournois._ liv. sous. deniers. franc décime . centime . letter xxix. _paris, december , _. at the grand monthly parade of the th of last brumaire, i had seen the first consul chiefly on horseback: on which account, i determined to avail myself of that of the th of the present month of frimaire, in order to obtain a nearer view of his person. on these occasions, none but officers in complete uniform are admitted into the palace of the _tuileries_, unless provided with tickets, which are distributed to a certain number at the discretion of the governor. general a----y sent me tickets by ten o'clock this morning, and about half after eleven, i repaired to the palace. on reaching the vestibule from the garden of the _tuileries_, you ascend the grand stair-case to the left, which conducts you to the guard-room above it in the centre pavilion. hence you enter the apartments of the chief consul. on the days of the grand parade, the first room is destined for officers as low as the rank of captain, and persons admitted with tickets; the second, for field-officers; the third, for generals; and the fourth, for councellors of state, and the diplomatic corps. to the east, the windows of these apartments command the court-yard where the troops are assembled; while to the west, they afford a fine view of the garden of the _tuileries_ and the avenue leading to the _barrière de chaillot_. in the first-room, those windows which overlook the parade were occupied by persons standing five or six in depth, some of whom, as i was informed, had been patient enough to retain their places for the space of two or three hours, and among them were a few ladies. here, a sort of lane was formed from door to door by some grenadiers of the consular guard. i found both sides of this lane so much crowded, that i readily accepted the invitation of a _chef de brigade_ of my acquaintance to accompany him into the second room; this, he observed, was no more than a privilege to which i was entitled. this room was also crowded; but it exhibited a most brilliant _coup d'oeil_ from the great variety and richness of the uniforms of the field-officers here assembled, by which mine was entirely eclipsed. the lace or embroidery is not merely confined to the coats, jackets, and pantaloons, but extends to the sword belts, and even to the boots, which are universally worn by the military. indeed, all the foreign ambassadors admit that none of the levees of the european courts can vie in splendour with those of the chief consul. my first care on entering this room, was to place myself in a situation which might afford me an uninterrupted view of bonaparte. about twenty-five minutes past twelve, his sortie was announced by a _huissier_. immediately after, he came out of the inner apartment, attended by several officers of rank, and, traversing all the other rooms with a quick step, proceeded, uncovered, to the parade, the order of which i have described to you in a former letter. on the present occasion, however, it lasted longer on account of the distribution of arms of honour, which the first consul presents with his own hand to those heroes who have signalized themselves in fighting their country's battles. this part of the ceremony, which was all that i saw of the parade yesterday, naturally revived in my mind the following question, so often agitated: "are the military successes of the french the consequences of a new system of operations and new tactics, or merely the effect of the blind courage of a mass of men, led on by chiefs whose resolutions were decided by presence of mind alone and circumstances?" the latter method of explaining their victories has been frequently adopted, and the french generals have been reproached with lavishing the lives of thousands for the sake of gaining unimportant advantages, or repairing inconsiderable faults. sometimes, indeed, it should seem that a murderous obstinacy has obtained them successes to which prudence had not paved the way; but, certainly, the french can boast, too, of memorable days when talent had traced the road to courage, when vast plans combined with judgment, have been followed with perseverance, when resources have been found in those awful moments in which victory, hovering over a field of carnage, leaves the issue of the conflict doubtful, till a sudden thought, a ray of genius, inclines her in favour of the general, thus inspired, and then art may be said to triumph over art, and valour over valour. and whence came most of these generals who have shewn this inspiration, if i may so term it? some, as is well known, emerged from the schools of jurisprudence; some, from the studies of the arts; and others, from the counting-houses of commerce, as well as from the lowest ranks of the army. previously to the revolution it was not admitted, in this country at least, that such sources could furnish men fit to be one day the arbiters of battles and of the fate of empires. till that period, all those frenchmen who had distinguished themselves in the field, had devoted themselves from their infancy to the profession of arms, were born near the throne of which they constituted the lustre, or in that cast who arrogated to themselves the exclusive right of defending their country. the glory of the soldier was not considered; and a private must have been more than a hero to be as much remarked as a second lieutenant. men of reflection, seeing the old tactics fail against successful essays, against enthusiasm whose effects are incalculable, studied whether new ideas did not direct some new means; for it would have been no less absurd to grant all to valour than to attribute all to art. but to return to the main subject of my letter. in about three quarters of an hour, bonaparte came back from the parade, with the same suite as before, that is, preceded by his aides-de-camp, and followed by the generals and field-officers of the consular guard, the governor of the palace, the general commanding the first military division, and him at the head of the garrison of paris. for my part, i scarcely saw any one but himself; bonaparte alone absorbed my whole attention. a circumstance occurred which gave me an opportunity of observing the chief consul with critical minuteness. i had left the second room, and taken my station in front of the row of gazers, close to the folding-doors which opened into the first room, in order to see him receive petitions and memorials. there was no occasion for bonaparte to cast his eyes from side to side, like the _grand monarque_ coming from mass, by way of inviting petitioners to approach him. they presented themselves in such numbers that, after he put his hat under his arm, both his hands were full in a moment. to enable him to receive other petitions, he was under the necessity of delivering the first two handfuls to his aides-de-camp. i should like to learn what becomes of all these papers, and whether he locks them up in a little desk of which he alone has the key, as was the practice of lewis xiv. when bonaparte approached the door of the second room, he was effectually impeded in his progress by a lady, dressed in white, who, throwing herself at his feet, gracefully presented to him a memorial, which he received with much apparent courtesy; but still seemed, by his manner, desirous to pass forward. however, the crowd was so considerable and so intent on viewing this scene, that the grenadiers, posted near the spot where it took place, were obliged to use some degree of violence before they could succeed in clearing a passage. of all the portraits which you and i have seen of bonaparte in england, that painted by masquerier, and exhibited in piccadilly, presents the greatest resemblance. but for his side-face, you may, for twelve _sous_, here procure a perfect likeness of it at almost every stall in the street. in short, his features are such as may, in my opinion, be easily copied by any artist of moderate abilities. however incompetent i may be to the task, i shall, as you desire it, attempt to _sketch_ his person; though i doubt not that any french _commis_, in the habit of describing people by words, might do it greater justice. bonaparte is rather below the middle size, somewhat inclined to stoop, and thin in person; but, though of a slight make, he appears to be muscular, and capable of fatigue; his forehead is broad, and shaded by dark brown hair, which is cut short behind; his eyes, of the same colour, are full, quick, and prominent; his nose is aquiline; his chin, protuberant and pointed; his complexion, of a yellow hue; and his cheeks, hollow. his countenance, which is of a melancholy cast, expresses much sagacity and reflection: his manner is grave and deliberate, but at the same time open. on the whole, his aspect announces him to be of a temperate and phlegmatic disposition; but warm and tenacious in the pursuit of his object, and impatient of contradiction. such, at least, is the judgment which i should form of bonaparte from his external appearance. while i was surveying this man of universal talent, my fancy was not idle. first, i beheld him, flushed with ardour, directing the assault of the _téte-de-pont_ at _lodi_; next dictating a proclamation to the beys at _cairo_, and styling himself the friend of the faithful; then combating the ebullition of his rage on being foiled in the storming of _acre_ i afterwards imagined i saw him like another cromwell, expelling the council of five hundred at _st. cloud_, and seizing on the reins of government: when established in power, i viewed him, like hannibal, crossing the _alps_, and forcing victory to yield to him the hard-contested palm at _marengo_; lastly, he appeared to my imagination in the act of giving the fraternal embrace to caprara, the pope's legate, and at the same time holding out to the see of rome the re-establishment of catholicism in france. voltaire says that "no man ever was a hero in the eyes of his _valet-de-chambre_." i am curious to know whether the valet of the first consul be an exception to this maxim. as to bonaparte's public character, numerous, indeed, are the constructions put on it by the voice of rumour: some ascribe to him one great man of antiquity as a model; some, another; but many compare him, in certain respects, to julius cÆsar, as imitators generally succeed better in copying the failings than the good qualities of their archetypes, let us hope, supposing this comparison to be a just one, that the chief consul will, in one particular, never lose sight of the generous clemency of that illustrious roman--who, if any spoke bitterly against him, deemed it sufficient to complain of the circumstance publicly, in order to prevent them from persevering in the use of such language. "_acerbè loquentibus satis habuit pro concione denunciare, ne perseverarent._" "the character of a great man," says a french political writer, who denies the justness of this comparison, "like the celebrated picture of zeuxis, can be formed only of a multitude of imitations, and it is as little possible for the observer to find for him a single model in history, as it was for the painter of heraclea to discover in nature that of the ideal beauty he was desirous of representing[ ]."--"the french revolution," observes the same author, a little farther on, "has, perhaps, produced more than one cÆsar, or one cromwell; but they have disappeared before they have had it in their power to give full scope to their ambition[ ]." time will decide on the truth and impartiality of these observations of m. hauterive. as at the last monthly parade, bonaparte was habited in the consular dress, that is, a coat of scarlet velvet, embroidered with gold: he wore jockey boots, carelessly drawn over white cotton pantaloons, and held in his hand a cocked hat, with the national cockade only. i say only, because all the generals wear hats trimmed with a splendid lace, and decorated with a large, branching, tricoloured feather. after the parade, the following, i understand, is the _étiquette_ usually observed in the palace. the chief consul first gives audience to the general-officers, next to the field-officers, to those belonging to the garrison, and to a few petitioners. he then returns to the fourth apartment, where the counsellors of state assemble. being arrived there, notice is sent to the diplomatic corps, who meet in a room on the ground-floor of the palace, called _la salle des ambassadeurs_. they immediately repair to the levee-room, and, after paying their personal respects to the first consul, they each introduce to him such persons, belonging to their respective nations, as they may think proper. several were this day presented by the imperial, russian, and danish ambassadors: the british minister, mr. jackson, has not yet presented any of his countrymen nor will he, in all probability, as he is merely a _locum tenens_. after the levee, the chief consul generally gives a dinner of from one hundred and fifty to two hundred covers, to which all those who have received arms of honour, are invited. before i left the palace, i observed the lady above-mentioned, who had presented the memorial, seated in one corner of the room, all in tears, and betraying every mark of anxious grief: she was pale, and with her hair dishevelled; but, though by no means handsome, her distressed situation excited a lively interest in her favour. on inquiry, i was informed that it was madame bourmont, the wife of a vendean chief, condemned to perpetual imprisonment for a breach of the convention into which he had jointly entered with the agents of the french government. having now accomplished my object, when the crowd was somewhat dispersed, i retired to enjoy the fine weather by a walk in the champs elysÉes. after traversing the garden of the _tuileries_ and the _place de la concorde_, from east to west, you arrive at this fashionable summer promenade. it is planted with trees in quincunx; and although, in particular points of view, this gives it a symmetrical air; yet, in others, the hand of art is sufficiently concealed to deceive the eye by a representation of the irregular beauties of nature. the french, in general, admire the plan of the garden of the _tuileries_, and think the distribution tasteful; but, when the trees are in leaf, all prefer the _champs elysées_, as being more rural and more inviting. this spot, which is very extensive, as you may see by the plan of paris, has frequently been chosen for the scene of national fêtes, for which it is, in many respects, better calculated than the _champ de mars_. however, from its proximity to the great road, the foliage is imbrowned by the dust, and an idea of aridity intrudes itself on the imagination from the total absence of water. the sight of that refreshing element recreates the mind, and communicates a powerful attraction even to a wilderness. in fact, at this season of the year, the _champs elysées_ resemble a desert; but, in summer, they present one of the most agreeable scenes that can be imagined. in temporary buildings, of a tasteful construction, you then find here _restaurateurs_, &c, where all sorts of refreshments may be procured, and rooms where "the merry dance" is kept up with no common spirit. swings and roundabouts are also erected, as well as different machines for exercising the address of those who are fond of running at a ring, and other sports. between the road leading to _l'Étoile_, the _bois de boulogne_, &c, and that which skirts the seine, formerly called the _cours de la reine_, is a large piece of turf, where, in fine weather, and especially on sundays, the parisian youths amuse themselves at foot-ball, prison-bars, and long tennis. here, too, boys and girls assemble, and improve their growth and vigour by dancing, and a variety of healthful diversions; while their relations and friends, seated on the grass, enjoy this interesting sight, and form around each group a circle which is presently increased by numbers of admiring spectators. under the shade of the trees, on the right hand, as you face the west, an immense concourse of both sexes and all ages is at the same time collected. those who prefer sitting to walking occupy three long rows of chairs, set out for hire, three deep on each side, and forming a lane through which the great body of walkers parade. this promenade may then be said to deserve the appellation of _elysian fields_, from the number of handsome women who resort hither. the variety of their dresses and figures, the satisfaction which they express in seeing and being seen, their anxious desire to please, which constitutes their happiness and that of our sex, the triumph which animates the countenance of those who eclipse their rivals; all this forms a diversified and amusing picture, which fixes attention, and gives birth to a thousand ideas respecting the art and coquetry of women, as well as what beauty loses or gains by adopting the ever-varying caprices of fashion. here, on a fine summer's evening, are now to be seen, i am told, females displaying almost as much luxury of dress as used to be exhibited in the days of the monarchy. the essential difference is that the road in the centre is not now, as in those times, covered with brilliant equipages; though every day seems to produce an augmentation of the number of private carriages. at the entrance of the _champs elysées_ are placed the famous groups of numidian horses, held in by their vigorous and masterly conductors, two _chefs d'oeuvre_ of modern art, copied from the group of _monte-cavallo_ at rome. by order of the directory, these statues were brought from _marly_, where they ornamented the terrace. they are each of them cut out of a block of the most faultless carrara marble. on the pedestal on which they stood at that once-royal residence, was engraved the name of costou, , without any christian name: but, as there were two brothers of that name, nicolas and guillaume, natives of lyons, and both excellent sculptors, it is become a matter of doubt by which of them these master-pieces were executed; though the one died in , and the other in . it is conjectured, however, that fraternal friendship induced them to share the fame arising from these capital productions, and that they worked at them in common till death left the survivor the task of finishing their joint labour. to whichever of the two the merit of the execution may be due, it is certain that the fiery, ungovernable spirit of the horses, as well as the exertion of vigour, and the triumph of strength in their conductors, is very happily expressed. the subject has frequently afforded a comparison to politicians. "these statues," say some observers, "appear to be the emblem of the french people, over whom it is necessary to keep a tight hand."--"it is to be apprehended," add others, "that the reins, which the conductors hold with so powerful an arm, are too weak to check these ungovernable animals." [footnote : _de l'etat de la france, à la fin de l'an viii._ page .] [footnote : ibid. page .] letter xxx. _paris, dccemler , _. you desire that i will favour you with a particular account of the means employed to transfer from pannel to canvas those celebrated pictures which i mentioned in my letter of the th ult°. like many other, things that appear simple on being known, so is this process; but it is not, on that account, the less ingenious and difficult in execution. such is the great disadvantage of the art of painting that, while other productions of genius may survive the revolution of ages, the creations of the pencil are intrusted to perishable wood or canvas. from the effect of heat, humidity, various exhalations to which they may be carelessly exposed, and even an unperceived neglect in the priming of the pannel or cloth, master-pieces are in danger of disappearing for ever. happy, then, is it for the arts that this invaluable discovery has been lately brought to so great a degree of perfection, and that the restoration of several capital pictures having been confided to men no less skilful than enlightened, they have thus succeeded in rescuing them from approaching and inevitable destruction. of all the fruits of the french conquests, not a painting was brought from lombardy, rome, florence, or venice, that was not covered with an accumulation of filth, occasioned by the smoke of the wax-tapers and incense used in the ceremonies of the catholic religion. it was therefore necessary to clean and repair them; for to bring them to france, without rendering them fit to be exhibited, would have answered no better purpose than to have left them in italy. one of those which particularly fixed the attention of the administration of the central museum of the arts, was the famous picture by raphael, taken from the _chiesa delle contesse_ at foligno, and thence distinguished by the appellation of madonna di foligno. this _chef d'oeuvre_ was in such a lamentable state of decay, that the french commissioners who selected it, wereunder the necessity of pasting paper over it in order to prevent the scales, which curled up on many parts of its surface, from falling off during its conveyance to to paris. in short, had not the saving hand of art interposed, this, and other monuments of the transcendent powers of the italian school, marked by the corroding tooth of time, would soon have entirely perished. as this picture could not be exhibited in its injured state, the administration of the museum determined that it should be repaired. they accordingly requested the minister of the interior to cause this important operation to be attended by commissioners chosen from the national institute. the class of physical and mathematical sciences of that learned society appointed to this task, guyton and berthollet, chymists, and the class of literature and fine arts named vincent and taunay, painters. these commissioners, in concert with the administration, having ascertained the state of the picture, it was unanimously agreed that the only mean of saving it would be to remove it from the worm-eaten pannel on which it was painted. it was, besides, necessary to ascertain the safety of the process, in order that, without, exciting the apprehensions of the lovers of the arts, it might be applied to other pictures which required it. the report of the four commissioners before named, respecting the restoration of the _madonna di foligno_, has been adopted by the classes to which they respectively belong, and is to be made to the national institute at their next public sitting on the th of nivose ( th of january, ). in order to make you perfectly acquainted with the whole of the process, i shall transcribe, for your satisfaction, that part of the report immediately connected with the art of restoring damaged or decayed paintings. this labour, and the success by which it was attended, are really a memorial of what the genius and industry of the french can achieve. to all those who, like you, possess valuable collections, such information cannot but be particularly interesting. "the desire of repairing the outrages of time has unfortunately accelerated the decay of several pictures by coarse repainting and bad varnish, by which much of the original work has been covered. other motives, too, have conspired against the purity of the most beautiful compositions: a prelate has been seen to cause a discordant head of hair to conceal the charms of a magdalen." "nevertheless, efficacious means of restoration have been discovered: a painting, the convass of which is decayed, or the pannel worm-eaten, is transferred to a fresh cloth; the profane touches of a foreign pencil are made to disappear; the effaced strokes are reinserted with scrupulous nicety; and life is restored to a picture which was disfigured, or drawing near to its end. this art has made great progress, especially in paris, and experienced recent improvement under the superintendance of the administration of the museum; but it is only with a religious respect that any one can venture on an operation which may always give rise to a fear of some change in the drawing or colouring, above all when the question is to restore a picture by raphael."[ ] "the restoration may be divided into two parts; the one, which is composed of mechanical operations, whose object is to detach the painting from the ground on which it is fixed, in order to transfer it to a fresh one; the other, which consists in cleaning the surface of the painting from every thing that can tarnish it, in restoring the true colour of the picture, and in repairing the parts destroyed, by tints skilfully blended with the primitive touches. thence the distinctive division of the mechanical operations, and of the art of painting, which will be the object of the two parts of this report. the former particularly engaged the attention of the commissioners of the _class of sciences_; and the latter, which required the habit of handling a scientific pencil, fell to the share of the commissioners of the _class of fine arts_" first part. "although the mechanical labour is subdivided into several operations, it was wholly intrusted to citizen hacquins, on whose intelligence, address, and skill, it is our duty to bestow every commendation." "the picture represents the virgin mary, the infant jesus, st. john, and several other figures of different sizes. it was painted on a pannel of - / inches in thickness: a crack extended from its circumference to the left foot of the infant jesus: it was - / lines wide at its upper part, and diminished progressively to the under: from this crack to the right hand border, the surface formed a curve whose greatest bend was inches - / lines, and from the crack to the other border, another curve bending inches. the picture was scaling off in several places, and a great number of scales had already detached themselves; the painting was, besides, worm-eaten in many parts." "it was first necessary to render the surface even: to effect this, a gauze was pasted on the painting, and the picture was turned on its face. after that, citizen hacquins made, in the thickness of the wood, several grooves at some distance from each other, and extending from the upper extremity of the bend to the place where the pannel presented a more level surface. into these grooves he introduced little wooden wedges; he then covered the whole surface with wet cloths, which he took care to remoisten. the action of the wedges, which swelled by the moisture against the softened pannel, compelled the latter to resume its primitive form: both edges of the crack before-mentioned being brought together, the artist had recourse to glue, in order to unite the two separated parts. during the desiccation, he laid oak bars across the picture, for the purpose of keeping the pannel in the form which he wished it to assume." "the desiccation being effected slowly, the artist applied a second gauze on the first, then successively two thicknesses of grey blotting paper." "this preparation (which the french artists call _cartonnage_) being dry, he laid the picture with its face downward on a table, to which he carefully confined it; he next proceeded to the separation of the wood on which the painting was fixed." "the first operation was executed by means of two saws, one of which acted perpendicularly; and the other, horizontally: the work of the two saws being terminated, the pannel was found to be reduced to the thickness of - / lines. the artist then made use of a plane of a convex form on its breadth: with this instrument he planed the pannel in an oblique direction, in order to take off very short shavings, and to avoid the grain of the wood: by these means he reduced the pannel to / of a line in thickness. he then took a flat plane with a toothed iron, whose effect is much like that of a rasp which reduces wood into dust: in this manner he contrived to leave the pannel no thicker than a sheet of paper." "in that state, the wood was successively moistened with clear water, in small compartments, which disposed it to detach itself: then the artist separated it with the rounded point of a knife-blade." "the picture, thus deprived of all the wood, presented to the eye every symptom of the injury which it had sustained. it had formerly been repaired; and, in order to fasten again the parts which threatened to fall off, recourse had been had to oils and varnishes. but those ingredients passing through the intervals left by such parts of the picture as were reduced to curling scales, had been extended in the impression to the paste, on which the painting rested, and had rendered the real restoration more difficult, without producing the advantageous effect which had thence been expected." "the same process would not serve for separating the parts of the impression which had been indurated by varnishes, and those where the paste had remained unmixed: it was necessary to moisten the former for some time in small compartments: when they were become sufficiently softened, the artist separated them with the blade of his knife: the others were more easily separated by moistening them with a flannel, and rubbing them slightly. it required all the address and patience of citizen hacquins to leave nothing foreign to the work of the original painter: at length the outline of raphael was wholly exposed to view, and left by itself." "in order to restore a little suppleness to the painting, which was too much dried, it was rubbed all over with carded cotton imbibed with oil, and wiped with old muslin: then white lead, ground with oil, was substituted in the room of the impression made by paste, and fixed by means of a soft brush." "after being left to dry for three months, a gauze was glued on the impression made by oil; and on the latter, a fine canvas." "when this canvas was dry, the picture was detached from the table, and turned, in order to remove the _cartonnage_ from it with water; this operation being effected, the next proceeding was to get rid of the appearance of the inequalities of the surface arising from the curling up of its parts: for that purpose, the artist successively applied on the inequalities, flour-paste diluted. then having put a greasy paper on the moistened part, he laid a hot iron on the parts curled up, which became level: but it was not till after he had employed the most unequivocal signs to ascertan the suitable degree of heat, that he ventured to come near the painting with the iron." "it has been seen that the painting, disengaged from its impression made by paste and from every foreign substance, had been fixed on an impression made by oil, and that a level form had been given to the uneven parts of its surface. this master-piece was still to be solidly applied on a new ground: for that, it was necessary to paste paper over it again, detach it from the temporary gauze which had been put on the impression, add a new coat of oxyde of lead and oil, apply to it a gauze rendered very supple, and on the latter, in like manner done over with a preparation of lead, a raw cloth, woven all in one piece, and impregnated, on its exterior surface, with a resinous substance, which was to confine it to a similar canvass fixed on the stretching-frame. this last operation required that the body of the picture, disengaged from its _cartonnage_, or paper facing, and furnished with a new ground, should be exactly applied to the cloth done over with resinous substances, at the same time avoiding every thing that might hurt it by a too strong or unequal extension, and yet compelling every part of its vast extent to adhere to the cloth strained on the stretching-frame. it is by all these proceedings that the picture has been incorporated with a ground more durable than the original one, and guarded against the accidents which had produced the injuries. it was then subjected to restoration, which is the object of the second part of this report." "we have been obliged to confine ourselves to pointing out the successive operations, the numerous details of which we have attended; we have endeavoured to give an idea of this interesting art, by which the productions of the pencil may be indefinitely perpetuated, in order only to state the grounds of the confidence that it has appeared to us to merit." second part. "after having given an account of the mechanical operations, employed with so much success in the first part of the restoration of the picture by raphael, it remains for us to speak of the second, the restoration of the painting, termed by the french artists _restauration pittoresque_. this part is no less interesting than the former. we are indebted to it for the reparation of the ravages of time and of the ignorance of men, who, from their unskilfulness, had still added to the injury which this master-piece had already suffered. "this essential part of the restoration of works of painting, requires, in those who are charged with it, a very delicate eye, in order to know how to accord the new tints with the old, a profound knowledge of the proceedings employed by masters, and a long experience, in order to foresee, in the choice and use of colours, what changes time may effect in the new tints, and consequently prevent the discordance which would be the result of those changes. "the art of restoring paintings likewise requires the most scrupulous nicety to cover no other than the damaged parts, and an extraordinary address to match the work of the restoration with that of the master, and, as it were, replace the first priming in all its integrity, concealing the work to such a degree that even unexperienced eye cannot distinguish what comes from the hand of the artist from what belongs to that of the master. "it is, above all, in a work of the importance of that of which we are speaking, that the friends of the arts have a right to require, in its restoration, all the care of prudence and the exertion of the first talents. we feel a real satisfaction in acquainting you with the happy result of the discriminating wisdom of the administration of the central museum of the arts; who, after having directed and superintended the first part of the restoration, employed in the second, that of the painting (which we call _pittoresque_) citizen roeser, whose abilities in this line were long known to them, and whose repeated success had justified their confidence." after having assured the institute that they consider the _pittoresque_ part of the restoration of the _madonna di foligno_ as pure as it was possible to be desired, the commissioners proceed to call their attention to some discordance in the original design and colouring of this _chef d'oeuvre_, and to make on it some critical observations. this they do in order to prevent any doubts which might arise in the mind of observers, and lead them to imagine that the restoration had, in any manner, impaired the work of raphael. they next congratulate themselves on having at length seen this masterpiece of the immortal raphael restored to life, shining in all its lustre, and through such means, that there ought no longer to remain any fear respecting the recurrence of those accidents whose ravages threatened to snatch it for ever from general admiration. they afterwards terminate their report in the following words: "the administration of the central museum of the arts, who have, by their knowledge, improved the art of restoration, will, no doubt, neglect nothing to preserve that art in all its integrity; and, notwithstanding repeated success, they will not permit the application of it but to pictures so injured, that there are more advantages in subjecting them to a few risks inseparable from delicate and numerous operations, than in abandoning them to the destruction by which they are threatened. the invitation which the administration of the museum gave to the national institute to attend the restoration of the _madonna di foligno_ by raphael, is to us a sure pledge that the enlightened men of whom it is composed felt that they owed an account of their vigilance to all the connoisseurs in europe." [footnote : it may not be amiss to observe that raphael employed the _impasto_ colour but in few of his pictures, of which the _transfiguration_ is one wherein it is the most conspicuous: his other productions are painted with great transparency, the colours being laid on a white ground; which rendered still more difficult the operation above-mentioned. _note of the author_.] letter xxxi. _paris, december , ._ "of all the bridges that were ever built," says sterne, "the whole world, who have passed over it, must own that the noblest--the grandest--the lightest--the longest--the broadest that ever conjoined land and land together upon the face of the terraqueous globe, is the pont neuf." the _pont neuf_ is certainly the largest, and, on account of its situation[ ], the most conspicuous, and most frequented of any of the bridges in paris; but, in the environs of the capital, is one which surpasses them all. this is the _pont de neuilly._ the first stone of the _pont neuf_ was laid by henry iii in , and the foundation of the piles was begun to be formed on the opposite side; when the troubles of the league forced du cerceau, the architect, to withdraw to foreign countries. the work was not resumed till the reign of henry iv, who ordered it to be continued under the direction of marchand; but, owing to various causes, the _pont neuf_ was not finished till . the length of this bridge is one thousand and twenty feet, and its breadth seventy-two; which is sufficient to admit of five carriages passing abreast. it is formed of twelve arches, seven of which are on the side of the _louvre_, and five on the side of the _quai des augustins_, extending over the two channels of the river, which is wider in this place, from their junction. in , the parapets were repaired, and the foot-way lowered and narrowed. soufflot, the architect of the pantheon, availed himself of this opportunity to build, on the twenty half-moons which stand immediately above each pile, as many rotundas, in stone, to serve as shops. on the outside, above the arches, is a double cornice, which attracts the eye of the connoisseur in architecture, notwithstanding its mouldering state, on account of the _fleurons_ in the antique style, and the heads of sylvans, dryads, and satyrs, which serve as supports to it, at the distance of two feet from each other. as the mole that forms a projection on this bridge between the fifth and seventh arch, stands facing the _place dauphine_, which was built by henry iv, it was the spot chosen for erecting to him a statue. this was the first public monument of the kind that had been raised in honour of french kings. under the first, second, and third race, till the reign of lewis xiii, if the statue of a king was made, it was only for the purpose, of being placed on his tomb, or else at the portal of some church, or royal residence which he had either built or repaired. parisians and strangers used to admire this equestrian statue of henry iv, and before the revolution, all agreed in taking him for the model of goodness. in proof of his popularity, we are told, in the _tableau de paris_, that a beggar was one day following a passenger along, the foot-way, of the _pont neuf_: it was a festival. "in the name of st. peter," said the mendicant, "in the name of st. joseph, in the name of the virgin mary, in the name of her divine son, in the name of god?" being arrived before the statue of the conqueror of the league, "in the name of _henri quatre_" exclaimed he, "in the name of _henri quatre?_"--"here!" said the passenger, and he gave him a louis d'or. unquestionably, no monarch that ever sat on the throne of france was so popular as _henri quatre_; and his popularity was never eclipsed by any of his successors. even amidst the rage of the revolutionary storm, the military still held his memory in veneration. on opening the sepultures at st. denis in , the coffin of henry iv was the first that was taken out of the vault of the bourbons. though he died in , his body was found in such preservation that the features of his face were not altered. a soldier, who was present at the opening of the coffin, moved by a martial enthusiasm, threw himself on the body of this warlike prince, and, after a considerable pause of admiration, he drew his sabre, and cut off a long lock of henry's beard, which was still fresh, at the same time exclaiming, in very energetic and truly-military terms: "and i too am a french soldier! in future i will have no other whiskers." then placing this valuable lock on his upper lip, he withdrew, adding emphatically: "now i am sure to conquer the enemies of france, and i march to victory." in paris, all the statues of kings had fallen, while that of henry iv still remained erect. it was for some time a matter of doubt whether it should be pulled down. "the poem of the _henriade_ pleaded in its favour;" but, says mercier, "he was an ancestor of the perjured king," then, and not till then, this venerated statue underwent the same fate. it has been generally believed that the deed of ravaillac was dictated by fanaticism, or that he was the instrument employed by the marchioness of verneuil and the duke of epernon for assassinating that monarch. however, it stands recorded, i am told, in a manuscript found in the national library, that ravaillac killed henry iv because he had seduced his sister, and abandoned her when pregnant. thus time, that affords a clue to most mysteries, has also solved this historical enigma. this statue of henry iv was erected on the d of august, . to have insulted it, would, not long since, have been considered as a sacrilege; but, after having been mutilated and trodden under foot, this once-revered image found its way to the mint or the cannon-foundry. on its site now stands an elegant coffeehouse, whence you may enjoy a fine view of the stately buildings which adorn the quays that skirt the river. while admiring the magnificence of this _coup d'oeil_, an englishman cannot avoid being struck by the multitude of washerwomen, striving to expel the dirt from linen, by means of _battoirs_, or wooden battledores. on each side of the seine are to be seen some hundreds hard at work, ranged in succession, along the sides of low barks, equal in length to our west-country barges. such is the vigour of their arm that, for the circumference of half-a-mile, the air resounds with the noise of their incessant blows. after beating the linen for some time in this merciless manner, they scrub it with a hard brush, in lieu of soaping it, so that a shirt which has passed through their hands five or six times is fit only for making lint. no wonder then that frenchmen, in general, wear coarse linen: a hop-sack could not long resist so severe a process. however, it must be confessed, that some good arises from this evil. these washerwomen insensibly contribute to the diffusion of knowledge; for, as they are continually reducing linen into rags, they cannot but considerably increase the supply, of that article for the manufacture of paper. compared to the thames, even above bridge, the seine is far from exhibiting a busy scene; a few rafts of wood for fuel, and some barges occasionally in motion, now and then relieve the monotony of its rarely-ruffled surface. at this moment, its navigation is impeded from its stream being swollen by the late heavy rains. hence much mischief is apprehended to the country lying contiguous to its banks. many parts of paris are overflowed: in some streets where carriages must pass, horses are up to their belly in water; while pedestrians are under the necessity of availing themselves of the temporary bridges, formed with tressels and planks, by the industrious savoyards. the ill consequences of this inundation are already felt, i assure you; being engaged to dinner yesterday in the _rue st. florentin_, i was obliged to step into a punt in order to reach the bottom of the stair-case; and what was infinitely more mortifying to the master of the house, was that, the cellar being rendered inaccessible,--he was deprived of the satisfaction of regaling his guests with his best claret. on the right hand side of the _pont neuf_, in crossing that bridge from the _quai de l'École_ to the _quai de conti_, is a building, three stories high, erected on piles, with its front standing between the first and second arches. it is called la samaritaine. over the dial is a gilt group, representing jesus christ and the samaritan woman near jacob's well, pourtrayed by a basin into which falls a sheet of water issuing from a shell above. under the basin is the following inscription: _fons hortorum puteus aquarum viventium._ these words of the gospel are here not unaptly applied to the destination of this building, which is to furnish water to the garden of the _tuileries_, whose basins were not, on that account, the less dry half the year. the water is raised by means of a pump, and afterwards distributed, by several conduits, to the _louvre_ and the _palais du tribunat_, as well as to the _tuileries_. in the middle, and above the arch, is a superstructure of timber-work faced with gilt lead, where are the bells of the clock and those of chimes, which ought to play every half-hour. this tasteless edifice interrupts the view in every direction and as it is far from being an ornament to the _pont neuf_, no one could now regret its entire removal. under the old _régime_, however, it was nothing less than a government. among the functions of the governor, were included the care of the clock, which scarcely ever told the hour, and that of the chimes, which were generally out of order. when these chimes used to delight henry iv, it is to be presumed that they were kept in better tune. it was customary to make them play during all public ceremonies, and especially when the king passed. "the _pont neuf_, is in the city of paris what the heart is in the human body, the centre of motion and circulation: the flux and reflux of inhabitants and strangers crowd this passage in such a manner, that, in order to meet persons one is looking for, it is sufficient to walk here for an hour every day. here, the _mouchards_, or spies of the police, take their station; and, when at the expiration of a few days, they see not their man, they positively affirm that he is not in paris." such was the animated picture of the _pont neuf_, as drawn by mercier in , and such it really was before the revolution. at present, though this bridge is sometimes thronged with passengers, it presents not, according to my observation, that almost continual crowd and bustle for which it was formerly distinguished. no stoppage now from the press of carriages of any description, no difficulty in advancing quickly through the concourse of pedestrians. fruit-women, hucksters, hawkers, pedlars, indeed, together with ambulating venders of lottery-tickets, and of _tisane_, crying "_à la fraiche! qui veut boire?_" here take their stand as they used, though not in such numbers. but the most sensible diminution is among the shoe-blacks, who stand in the carriage-way, and, with all their implements before them, range themselves along the edge of the very elevated _trottoir_ or foot-pavement. the _décrotteurs_ of the _pont neuf_ were once reputed masters of the art: their foresight was equal to their dexterity and expedition. for the very moderate sum of two _liards_, they enabled an abbé or a poet to present himself in the gilded apartments of a dutchess. if it rained, or the rays of the sun were uncommonly ardent, they put into his hand an umbrella to protect the economy of his head-dress during the operation. their great patrons have disappeared, and, in lieu of a constant succession of customers, the few _décrotteurs_ who remain at their old-established station, are idle half the day for want of employment. these savoyards generally practise more than one trade, as is indicated by the _enseigne_ which is affixed, on a short pole, above their tool-box. la france tond les chiens coupe les chats proprement et sa femme vat en ville et en campagne change the name only, and such is, line for line, letter for letter, the most ordinary style of their _annonce_. it is, however, to be presumed, that the republican belles have adopted other favourites instead of dogs and cats; for no longer is seen, as in the days of royalty, the aspiring or favoured lover carrying his mistress's lap-dog in the public promenades. in fact, the business of dog-shearing, &c. seems full as dead in this part of paris as that of shoe-cleaning. the _artists_ of the _pont neuf_ are, consequently, chop-fallen; and hilarity which formerly shone on their countenance, is now succeeded by gloomy sadness. at the foot of the _pont neuf_ on the _quai de la féraille_ recruiting-officers used to unfurl their inviting banners, and neglect nothing that art and cunning could devise to insnare the ignorant, the idle, and the unwary. the means which they sometimes employed were no less whimsical than various: the lover of wine was invited to a public-house, where he might intoxicate himself; the glutton was tempted by the sight of ready-dressed turkies, fowls, sausages &c. suspended to a long pole; and the youth, inclined to libertinism, was seduced by the meretricious allurements of a well-tutored doxy. to second these manoeuvres, the recruiter followed the object of his prey with a bag of money, which he chinked occasionally, crying out "_qui en veut?_" and, in this manner, an army of heroes was completed. it is almost superfluous to add, that the necessity of such stratagems is obviated, by the present mode of raising soldiers by conscription. before we quit the _pont neuf_, i must relate to you an adventure which, in the year , happened to our friend p-----, who is now abroad, in a situation of considerable trust and emolument. he was, at that time, a half-pay subaltern in the british army, and visited paris, as well from motives of economy as from a desire of acquiring the french language. being a tall, fresh-coloured young man, as he was one day crossing the _pont neuf_, he caught the eye of a recruiting-officer, who followed him from the _quai de la féraille_ to a coffee-house, in the _rue st. honoré_, which our englishman frequented for the sake of reading the london newspapers. the recruiter, with all the art of a crimp combined with all the politeness of a courtier, made up to him under pretence of having relations in england, and endeavoured, by every means in his power, to insinuate himself into the good graces of his new acquaintance. p----, by way of sport, encouraged the eagerness of the recruiter, who lavished on him every sort of civility; peaches in brandy, together with the choicest refreshments that a parisian coffee-house could afford, were offered to him and accepted: but not the smallest hint was dropped of the motive of all this more than friendly attention. at length, the recruiter, thinking that he might venture to break the ice, depicted, in the most glowing colours, the pleasures and advantages of a military life, and declared ingenuously that nothing would make him so happy as to have our countryman p---- for his comrade. without absolutely accepting or rejecting his offer, p---- begged a little delay in order to consider of the matter, at the same time hinting that there was; at that moment, a small obstacle to his inclination. the recruiter, like a pioneer, promised to remove it, grasped his hand with joy and exultation, and departed, singing a song of the same import as that of serjeant kite: "come brave boys, 'tis one to ten, but we return all gentlemen." in a few days, the recruiter again met mr. p---- at his accustomed rendezvous; when, after treating him with coffee, liqueur, &c. he came directly to the point, but neglected not to introduce into his discourse every persuasive allurement. p----, finding himself pushed home, reminded the recruiter of the obstacle to which he had before alluded, and, to convince him of its existence, put into his hand his britannic majesty's commission. the astonishment and confusion of the french recruiter were so great that he was unable to make any reply; but instantly retired, venting a tremendous ejaculation. [footnote : by the plan of paris, it will be seen that the _pont neuf_ lies at the west point of the island called _l'ile du palais_, and is, as it were, in the very centre of the capital.] letter xxxii. _paris, december , ._ in this gay capital, balls succeed to balls in an almost incredible variety. there are actually an immense number every evening; so that persons fond of the amusement of dancing have full scope for the exercise of their talents in paris. it is no longer a matter of surprise to me that the french women dance so well, since i find that they take frequent lessons from their master, and, almost every night, they are at a dance of one kind or another. added to this, the same set of dances lasts the whole season, and go where you will, you have a repetition of the same. however, this detracts not in the smallest degree; from the merit of those parisian belles who shine as first-rate dancers. the mechanical part of the business, as mr. c----g would call it, they may thus, acquire by constant practice; but the decorative part, if i may so term the fascinating grace which, they display in all their movements, is that the result of study, or do they hold it from the bounteous hand of nature? while i am speaking of balls, i must inform you that, since the private ball of which i gave you so circumstantial an account, i have been at several others, also private, but of a different complexion; inasmuch as pleasure, not profit, was the motive for which they were given, and the company was more select; but, in point of general arrangement, i found them so like the former, that i did not think it worth while to make any one of them the subject of a distinct letter. in this line madame recamier takes the lead, but though her balls are more splendid, those of madame soubiran are more agreeable. on the st of frimaire, which was yesterday, i was at a public ball of the most brilliant kind now known in paris. it was the first of the subscription given this season, and, from the name of the apartment where it is held, it is styled the bal du salon des Étrangers. midnight is the general hour for the commencement of such diversions; but, owing to the long train of carriages setting down company at this ball, it was near two o'clock before i could arrive at the scene of action, in the _rue grange batelière_, near the boulevards. after i alighted and presented my ticket, some time elapsed before i could squeeze into the room where the dancing was going forward. the spectators were here so intermixed with the dancers, that they formed around them a border as complete as a frame to a picture. it is astonishing that, under such circumstances, a parisian terpsichore, far from being embarrassed, lays fresh claim to your applause. with mathematical precision, she measures with her eye the space to which she is restricted by the curiosity of the by-standers. rapid as lightning, she springs forward till the measure recalling her to the place she left, she traces her orbit, like a planet, at the same time revolving on her axis. sometimes her "light, fantastic toe" will approach within half an inch of your foot; nay, you shall almost feel her breath on your cheek, and still she will not touch you, except, perhaps, with the skirt of her floating tunic. among the female part of the company, i observed several lovely women; some, who might have been taken for asiatic sultanas, irradiating the space around them by the dazzling brilliancy of their ornaments; others, without jewels, but calling in every other aid of dress for the embellishment of their person; and a few, rich in their native charms alone, verifying the expression of the poet. truth compels me to acknowledge that six or eight english ladies here were totally eclipsed. for the honour of my country, i could have wished for a better specimen of our excellence in female beauty. no women in the world, or at least none that ever i have met with in the different quarters i have visited, are handsomer than the english, in point of complexion and features. this is a fact which frenchmen themselves admit; but for grace, say they, our countrywomen stand unrivalled, i am rather inclined to subscribe to this opinion. in a well-educated french woman, there is an ease, an affability, a desire to please and be pleased, which not only render her manners peculiarly engaging, but also influence her gait, her gestures, her whole deportment in short, and captivate admiration. her natural cheerfulness and vivacity spread over her features an animation seldom to be found in our english fair, whose general characteristics are reserve and coldness. hence that striking expression which exhibits the grace of the french belles to superior advantage. although my memory frequently disappoints me when i wish to retain names, i have contrived to recollect those of three of the most remarkable women in the ball-room. i shall therefore commit them to paper before i forget them. madame la princesse de santa-croce displayed more diamonds than any of her competitors; mademoiselle lescot was the best dancer among several ladies renowned for dancing; and madame tallien was, on the whole, the handsomest female that i saw in the room. there might possibly be women more beautiful than she at this ball, but they did not come under my observation. i had previously seen madame tallien at the _opera buffa_, and was struck by her appearance before, i knew who she was. on seeing her again at the _salon des Étrangers_, i inquired of a french lady of my acquaintance, whose understanding and discernment are pre-eminent, if madame t------ had nothing to recommend her but her personal attractions? the lady's answer is too remarkable for me not to repeat it, which i will do _verbatim_. "in madame t------," said she, "beauty, wit, goodness of heart, grace, talents, all are united. in a gay world, where malice subsists in all its force, her inconsistencies alone have been talked of, without any mention being made of the numerous acts of beneficence which have balanced, if they have not effaced, her weakness. would you believe," continued she, "that, in paris, the grand theatre of misconduct, where moral obligations are so much disregarded, where we daily commit actions which we condemn in others; would you believe, that madame t------ experiences again and again the mortification of being deprived of the society of this, or that woman who has nothing to boast of but her depravity, and cannot plead one act of kindness, or even indulgence? this picture is very dark," added she, "but the colouring is true."--"what you tell me," observed i, "proves that, notwithstanding the irruption of immorality, attributed to the revolution, it is still necessary for a woman to preserve appearances at least, in order to be received here in what is termed the best company."--"yes, indeed," replied she; "if a woman neglects that main point in paris, she will soon find herself lowered in the opinion of the fashionable world, and be at last excluded from even the secondary circles. in london, your people of fashion are not quite so rigid."--"if a husband chooses to wink at his wife's incontinence," rejoined i, "the world on our side of the water is sufficiently complaisant to follow his example. now with you, character is made to depend more on the observance of etiquette; and, certainly, hypocrisy, when detected, is of more prejudice to society than barefaced profligacy."--the lady then resumed thus concerning the subject of my inquiry. "were some people to hear me," said she, "they might think that i had drawn you a flattering portrait of madame t------ and say, by way of contrast, when the devil became old, he turned hermit; but i should answer that, for some years, no twenty-four hours have elapsed without persons, whom i could name on occasion, having begun their daily career by going to see her, who saved their life, when, to accomplish that object, she hazarded her own." here then is an additional instance of the noble energy manifested by women during the most calamitous periods of the revolution. unappalled by the terrors of captivity or of death, their sensibility impelled them to brave the ferocity of sanguinary tyrants, in order to administer hope or comfort to a parent, a husband, a relation, or a friend. some of these heroines, though in the bloom of youth, not content with sympathizing in the misfortunes of others, gave themselves up as a voluntary sacrifice, rather than survive those whose preservation they valued more than their own existence. rome may vaunt her porcia, or her cornelia; but the page of her history can produce no such exaltation of the female character as has been exhibited within the last ten years by french women. examples, like these, of generosity, fortitude, and greatness of soul, deserve to be recorded to the end of time, as they do honour to the sex, and to human nature. if, according to the scale of parisian enjoyment, a ball or rout is dull and insipid, _à moins qu'on ne manque d'y être étouffé_, how supreme must have been the satisfaction of the company at the _salon des Étrangers!_ the number present, estimated at seven or eight hundred, occasioned so great a crowd that it was by no means an easy enterprise to pass from one room to another. of course, there was no opportunity of viewing the apartments to advantage; however, i saw enough of them to remark that they formed a suite elegantly decorated. some persons amused themselves with cards, though the great majority neither played nor danced, but were occupied in conversing with their acquaintance, there was no regular supper, but substantial refreshments of every kind were to be procured on paying; and other smaller ones, _gratis_. from the tickets not being transferable, and the bearer's name being inserted in each of them, the company was far more select than it could have been without such a restriction. most of the foreign ambassadors, envoys, &c. were present, and many of the most distinguished persons of both sexes in paris. more regard was paid to the etiquette of dress at this ball than, i have ever witnessed here on similar occasions, the ladies, as i have before said, were all _en grande toilette_; and the men with cocked hats, and in shoes and stockings, which is a novelty here, i assure you, as they mostly appear in boots. but what surprised me not a little, was to observe several inconsiderate french youths wear black cockades. should they persist in such an absurdity, i shall be still more surprised, if they escape admonition from the police. this fashion seemed to be the _ignis fatuus_ of the moment; it was never before exhibited in public, and probably will be but of ephemeral duration. i cannot take leave of this ball without communicating to you a circumstance which occurred there, and which, from the extravagant credulity it exhibits in regard to the effects of sympathy, may possibly amuse you for a moment. a widow, about twenty years of age, more to be admired for the symmetry of her person, than for the beauty of her features, had, according to the prevailing custom, intrusted her pocket-handkerchief to the care of a male friend, a gentlemanlike young frenchman of my acquaintance. after dancing, the lady finding herself rather warm, applied for her handkerchief, with which she wiped her forehead, and returned it to the gentleman, who again put it into his pocket. he then danced, but not with her; and, being also heated, he, by mistake, took out the lady's handkerchief, which, when applied to his face, produced, as he fancied, such an effect on him, that, though he had previously regarded her with a sort of indifference, from that moment she engaged all his attention, and he was unable to direct his eyes, or even his thoughts, to any other object. some philosophers, as is well known, have maintained that from all bodies there is an emanation of corpuscles, which, coming into contact with our organs, make on the brain an impression, either more or less sympathetic, or of a directly-opposite nature. they tell you, for instance, that of two women whom you behold for the first time, the one the least handsome will sometimes please you most, because there exists a greater _sympathy_ between you and her, than between you and the more beautiful woman. without attempting to refute this absurd doctrine of corpuscles, i shall only observe that this young frenchman is completely smitten, and declares that no woman in the world can be compared to the widow. this circumstance reminds me of a still more remarkable effect, ascribed to a similar cause, experienced by henry iii of france. the marriage of the king of navarre, afterwards henry iv, with marguerite de valois, and that of the prince de condé with marie de cleves, was celebrated at the louvre on the th of august, . marie de cleves, then a most lovely creature only sixteen, after dancing much, finding herself incommoded by the heat of the ball-room, retired to a private apartment, where one of the waiting-women of the queen-dowager, seeing her in a profuse perspiration, persuaded her to make an entire change of dress. she had scarcely left the room when the duke of anjou, afterwards henry iii, who had also danced a great deal, entered it to adjust his hair, and, being overheated, wiped his face with the first thing that he found, which happened to be the shift she had just taken off. returning to the ball, he fixed his eyes on her, and contemplated her with as much surprise as if he had never before beheld her. his emotion, his transports, and the attention which he began to pay her, were the more extraordinary, as during the preceding week, which she had passed at court, he appeared indifferent to those very charms which now made on his heart an impression so warm and so lasting. in short, he became insensible to every thing that did not relate to his passion. his election to the crown of poland, say historians, far from flattering him, appeared to him an exile, and when he was in that kingdom, absence, far from diminishing his love, seemed to increase it. whenever he addressed the princess, he pricked his finger, and never wrote to her but with his blood. no sooner was he informed of the death of charles ix, than he dispatched a courier to assure her that she should soon be queen of france; and, on his return, his thoughts were solely bent on dissolving her marriage with the prince de condé, which, on account of the latter being a protestant, he expected to accomplish. but this determination proved fatal to the princess; for, shortly after, she was attacked by a violent illness, attributed to poison, which carried her off in the flower of her age. no words can paint henry's despair at this event: he passed several days in tears and groans; and when he was at length obliged to shew himself in public, he appeared in deep mourning, and entirely covered with emblems of death, even to his very shoe-strings. the princess de condé had been dead upwards of four months, and buried in the abbey-church of _st. germain-des-prés_, when henry, on entering the abbey, whither he was invited to a grand entertainment given there by cardinal de bourbon, felt such violent tremblings at his heart, that not being able to endure their continuance, he was going away; but they ceased all at once, on the body of the princess being removed from its tomb, and conveyed elsewhere for that evening. his mother, catherine de medicis, by prevailing on him to marry louise de vaudemont, one of the most beautiful women in europe, hoped that she would make him forget her whom death had snatched from him, and he himself perhaps indulged a similar hope, but the memoirs of those times concur in asserting that the image of the princess de condé was never effaced from his heart, and that, to the day of his assassination, which did not happen till seventeen years after, whatever efforts he made to subdue his passion, were wholly unavailing. sympathy is a sentiment to which few persons attach the same ideas. it may be classed in three distinct species. the first seems to have an immediate connexion with the senses; the second, with the heart; and the third, with the mind. although it cannot be denied that the preference we bestow on this or that woman is the result of the one or the other of these, or even of all three together; yet the analysis of our attachments is, in some cases, so difficult as to defy the investigation of reason. for, as the old song says, some lovers will "whimper and whine for lilies and roses, for eyes, lips, and noses, or a _tip of an ear_." to cut the matter short, i think it fully proved, by the example of some of the wisest men, that the affections are often captivated by something indefinable, or, in the words of corneille, _"par un je ne sais quoi--qu'on ne peut exprimer."_ letter xxxiii. _paris, december , ._ i have already spoken to you of the _pont neuf_. to the east of it, as you will see by the plan of paris, the small islands in the middle of the seine are connected to its banks by several bridges; while to the west, there are two only, though a third is projected, and, previously to the late rise of the river, workmen were employed in driving piles for the foundation. i shall now describe to you these two bridges, beginning with the pont national. before the revolution, this bridge bore the appellation of _pont royal_, from its having been built by lewis xiv, and the expenses defrayed but of his privy purse, to supply the place of one of wood, situated opposite to the _louvre_, which was carried away by the ice in . it is reckoned one of the most solid bridges in paris, and, till the existence of the _pont de la concorde_, was the only one built across the river, without taking advantage of the islands above-mentioned. it stands on four piles, forming with the two abutments five elliptical arches of a handsome sweep. the span of the centre arch is seventy-two feet, that of the two adjoining sixty-six, and that of the two outer ones sixty. on each side is a raised pavement for foot-passengers, in the middle of which i should imagine that there is breadth sufficient to admit of four carriages passing abreast. gabriel had undertaken this bridge from the designs of mansard. the work was already in a state of forwardness, when, at a pile on the side of the _faubourg st. germain_, the former could not succeed in excluding the water. a jacobin, not a clubist, but a jacobin friar, one franÇois romain, who had just finished the bridge of strasburg, was sent for by the king to the assistance of the french architects, and had the honour of completing the rest of the work. in the time of henry iv, there was no bridge over this part of the river, which he used frequently to cross in the first boat that presented itself. returning one day from the chace, in a plain hunting dress, and having with him only two or three gentlemen, he stepped into a skiff to be carried over from the _faubourg st. germain_ to the _tuileries_. perceiving that he was not known by the waterman, he asked him what people said of the peace, meaning the peace of vervins, which was just concluded. "faith! i don't understand this sort of peace," answered the waterman; "there are taxes on every thing, and even, on this miserable boat, with which i have a hard matter to earn my bread."--"and does not the king," continued henry, "intend to lighten these taxes?"--"the king is a good kind of man enough," replied the waterman; "but he has a lady who must needs have so many fine gowns and gewgaws; and 'tis we who pay for all that. one would not think so much of it either, if she kept to him only; but, they say, she suffers herself to be kissed by many others." henry iv was so amused by this conversation, that, the next morning, he sent for the waterman, and made him repeat, word for word, before the dutchess of beaufort, all that he had said the preceding evening. the dutchess, much irritated, was for having him hanged. "you are a foolish woman," said henry; "this is a poor devil whom poverty has put out of humour. in future, he shall pay no tax for his boat, and i am convinced that he will then sing every day, _vive henri! vive gabrielle!_" the north end of the _pont national_ faces the wing of the palace of the _tuileries_ distinguished by the name of the _pavillon de flore_. from the middle of this bridge, you see the city in a striking point of view. here, the celebrated marshal de catinat used frequently to make it part of his morning's amusement to take his stand, and, while he enjoyed the beauty of the prospect, he opened his purse to the indigent as they passed. that philosophic warrior often declared that he never beheld any thing equal to the _coup d'oeil_ from this station. in fact, on the one side, you discover the superb gallery of the _louvre_, extending from that palace to the _tuileries_; and, on the other, the _palais du corps législatif_, and a long range of other magnificent buildings, skirting the quays on each bank of the river. these quays, nearly to the number of thirty, are faced with stone, and crowned with parapets breast high, which, in eighteen or twenty different spots, open to form watering-places. the seine, being thus confined within its bed, the eye is never displeased here by the sight of muddy banks like those of the thames, or the nose offended by the smell arising from the filth which the common sewers convey to the river. the galiot of _st. cloud_ regularly takes its departure from the _pont national_. formerly, on sundays and holidays, it used to be a very entertaining sight to contemplate the paris cocknies crowding into this vessel. those who arrived too late, jumped into the first empty boat, which frequently overset, either through the unskilfulness of the waterman, or from being overloaded. in consequence of such accidents, the boats of the seine are prohibited from taking more than sixteen passengers. not many years ago, an excursion to _st. cloud_ by water, was an important voyage to some of the parisians, as you may see by referring to the picture which has been drawn of it, under the title of "_voyage de paris à saint cloud par mer, et le retour de saint cloud à paris par terre_." following the banks of the seine, towards the west, we next come to the pont de la concorde. this bridge, which had long been wished for and projected, was begun in , and finished in . its southern extremity stands opposite to the _palais du corps législatif_; while that of the north faces the _place de la concorde_, whence it not only derives its present appellation, but has always experienced every change of name to which the former has been subject. the lightness of its apearance is less striking to those who have seen the _pont de neuilly_, in which perronet, engineer of bridges and highways, has, by the construction of arches nearly flat, so eminently distinguished himself. he is likewise the architect of this bridge, which is four hundred and sixty-two feet in length by forty-eight in breadth. like the _pont national_, it consists of five elliptical arches. the span of the centre arch is ninety-six feet; that of the collateral ones, eighty-seven; and that of the two others near the abutments, sixty-eight. under one of the latter is a tracking-path for the facility of navigation. the piles, which are each nine feet in thickness, have, on their starlings, a species of pillars that support a cornice five feet and a half high. perpendicularly to these pillars are to rise as many pyramids, which are to be crowned by a parapet with a balustrade: in all these, it is intended to display no less elegance of workmanship than the arches present boldness of design and correctness of execution. on crossing these bridges, it has often occurred to me, how much the parisians must envy us the situation of our metropolis. if the seine, like the thames, presented the advantage of braving the moderate winds, and of conveying, by regular tides, the productions of the four quarters of the globe to the quays which skirt its banks, what an acquisition would it not be to their puny commerce! what a gratification to their pride to see ships discharging their rich cargoes at the foot of the _pont de la concorde_! the project of the canal of languedoc must, at first, have apparently presented greater obstacles; yet, by talents and perseverance, these were overcome at a time when the science of machinery of every description was far less understood than it is at the present moment. it appears from the account of abbon, a monk of the abbey of st. germain-des-prés, that, in the year , the swedes, danes, and normans, to the number of forty-five thousand men, came to lay siege to paris, with seven hundred sail of ships, exclusively of the smaller craft, so that, according to this historian, who was an eye-witness of the fact, the river seine was covered with their vessels for the space of two leagues. julius cæsar tells us, in the third book of his commentaries, that, at the time of his conquest of the gauls, in the course of one winter, he constructed six hundred vessels of the wood which then grew in the environs of paris; and that, in the following spring, he embarked his army, horse and foot, provisions and baggage, in these vessels, descended the seine, reached dieppe, and thence crossed over to england, of which, he says, he made a conquest. about forty years ago, the scheme engaged much attention. in , the academy of sciences, belles-lettres, and arts of rouen, proposed the following as a prize-question: "was not the seine formerly navigable for vessels of greater burden than those which are now employed on it; and are there not means to restore to it, or to procure it, that advantage?" in , the prize was adjourned; the memoirs presented not being to the satisfaction of the academy. in , the new candidates having no better success, the subject was changed. however, notwithstanding this discouragement, we find that, on the st of august, , captain berthelot actually reached the _pont royal_ in a vessel of one hundred and sixty tons burden. when, on the d of the same month, he departed thence, loaded with merchandise, the depth of the water in the seine was twenty-five feet, and it was nearly the same when he ascended the river. this vessel was seven days on her passage from rouen to paris: but a year or two ago, four days only were employed in performing the same voyage by another vessel, named the _saumon_. engineers have ever judged the scheme practicable, and the estimate of the necessary works, signed by several skilful surveyors, was submitted to the ministry of that day. the amount was forty-six millions of livres (circa £ , , sterling). but what can compensate for the absence of the tide? this is an advantage, which, in a commercial point of view, must ever insure to london a decided superiority over paris. were the seine to-morrow rendered navigable for vessels of large burden, they must, for a considerable distance, be tracked against the stream, or wait till a succession of favourable winds had enabled them to stem it through its various windings; whereas nothing can be more favourable to navigation than the position of london. it has every advantage of a sea-port without its dangers. had it been placed lower down, that is, nearer to the mouth of the thames, it would have been more exposed to the insults of a foreign enemy, and also to the insalubrious exhalations of the swampy marshes. had it been situated higher up the river, it would have been inaccessible to ships of large burden. thus, by no effort of human invention or industry can paris rival london in commerce, even on the supposition that france could produce as many men possessed of the capital and spirit of enterprise, for which our british merchants are at present unrivalled. yet, may not this pre-eminence in commercial prosperity lead to our destruction, as the gigantic conquests of france may also pave the way to her ruin? alas! the experience of ages proves this melancholy truth, which has also been repeated by raynal: "commerce," says that celebrated writer, "in the end finds its ruin in the riches which it accumulates, as every powerful state lays the foundation of its own destruction in extending its conquests." letter xxxiv. _paris, december , ._ no part of the engagement into which i have entered with you, so fully convinces me of my want of reflection, and shews that my zeal, at the time, got the better of my judgment, as my promising you some ideas on french literature. it would, i now perceive, be necessary to have inhabited france for several years past, with the determined intention of observing this great empire solely in that single point of view, to be able to keep my word in a manner worthy of you and of the subject. it would be necessary to write a large volume of rational things; and, in a letter, i ought to relate them with conciseness and truth; draw sketches with rapidity, but clearness; in short, express positive results, without deviating from abstractions and generalities, since you require from me, on this subject, no more than a letter, and not a book. i come to the point. i shall consider literature in a double sense. first, the thing in itself; then, its connexions with the sciences, and the men who govern. in england, it has been thought, or at least insinuated in some of the papers and periodical publications, that literature had been totally annihilated in france within the last twelve years. this is a mistake: its aberrations have been taken for eclipses. it has followed the revolution through all its phases. under the constituent assembly, the literary genius of the french was turned towards politics and eloquence. there remain valuable monuments of the fleeting existence of that assembly. mirabeau, barnave, cazalÈs, maury, and thirty other capital writers, attest this truth. nothing fell from their lips or their pen that did not hear at the same time the stamp of philosophy and literature. under the legislative assembly and the convention, the establishments of the empire of letters were little respected. literati themselves became victims of the political collisions of their country; but literature was constantly cultivated under several forms. those who shewed themselves its oppressors, were obliged to assume the refined language which it alone can supply, and that, at the very time when they declared war against it. under the directorial government, france, overwhelmed by the weight of her long misfortunes, first cast her eye on the construction of a new edifice, dedicated to human knowledge in general, under the name of _national institute_. literature there collected its remains, and those who cultivate it, as members of this establishment, are not unworthy of their office. such as are not admitted into this society, notwithstanding all the claims the most generally acknowledged, owe this omission to moral or political causes only, on which i could not touch, without occupying myself about persons rather than the thing itself. the french revolution, which has levelled so many gigantic fortunes, is said (by its advocates) to have really spread a degree of comfort among the inferior classes. indeed, if there are in france, as may be supposed, much fewer persons rolling in riches, there are, i am informed, much fewer pining in indigence. this observation, admitting it to be strictly true, may, with great propriety, be applied to french literature. france no longer has a voltaire or a rousseau, to wield the sceptre of the literary world; but she has a number of literary degrees of public interest or simple amusement, which are perfectly well filled. few literati are without employ, and still fewer are beneath their functions. the place of member of the institute is a real public function remunerated by the state. it is to this cause, and to a few others, which will occur to you beforehand, that we must attribute the character of gravity which literature begins to assume in this country. the prudery of the school of dorat would here be hissed. here, people will not quarrel with the graces; but they will no longer make any sacrifice to them at the expense of common sense. in this literary republic still exist, as you may well conceive, the same passions, the same littleness, the same intrigues as formerly for arriving at celebrity, and keeping in that envied sphere; but all this makes much less noise at the present juncture. it is this which has induced the belief that literature had diminished its intensity, both in form and object: that is another mistake. the french literati are mostly a noisy class, who love to make themselves conspicuous, even by the clashing of their pretensions; but, to the great regret of several among them, people in this country now attach a rational importance only to their quarrels, which formerly attracted universal attention. the revolution has been so great an event; it has overthrown such great interests; that no one here can any longer flatter himself with exciting a personal interest, except by performing the greatest actions. i must also make a decisive confession on this matter, and acknowledge that literature, which formerly held the first degree in the scale of the moral riches of this nation, is likely to decline in priority and influence. the sciences have claimed and obtained in the public mind a superiority resulting from the very nature of their object; i mean utility. the title of _savant_ is not more brilliant than formerly; but it is more imposing; it leads to consequence, to superior employments, and, above all, to riches. the sciences have done so much for this people during their revolution, that, whether through instinct, or premeditated gratitude, they have declared their partiality towards the _savans_, or men of science, to the detriment of the mere literati. the sciences are nearly allied both to pride and national interest; while literature concerns only the vanity and interest of a few individuals. this difference must have been felt, and of itself alone have fixed the esteem of the public, and graduated their suffrages according to the merit of the objects. regard being had to their specific importance, i foresee that this natural classification will be attended with happy consequences, both for sciences and literature. i have been enabled to observe that very few men of science are unacquainted with the literature of their country, whether for seeking in it pleasing relaxation, or for borrowing from it a magic style, a fluent elocution, a harmony, a pomp of expression, with which the most abstract meditations can no longer dispense to be received favourably by philosophers and men of taste. very few literati, on the other hand, are unacquainted with philosophy and the sciences, and, above all, with natural knowledge; whether not to be too much in arrear with the age in which they live, and which evidently inclines to the study of nature, or to give more colour and consistence to their thoughts, by multiplying their degrees of comparison with the eternal type of all that is great and fertile. it has been so often repeated that homer, ossian, and milton, knew every thing known in their times; that they were at once the greatest natural philosophers and the best moralists of their age, that this truth has made an impression on most of the adepts in literature; and as the impulse is given, and the education of the present day by the retrenchment of several unnecessary pursuits, has left, in the mind of the rising generation, vacancies fit to be filled by a great variety of useful acquirements, it appears to me demonstrated, on following analogy, and the gradations of human improvement, that the sciences, philosophy, and literature will some day have in france but one common domain, as they there have at present, with the arts, only one central point of junction. the french government has flattered the literati and artists, by calling them in great numbers round it and its ministers, either to give their advice in matters of taste, or to serve as a decoration to its power, and an additional lustre to the crown of glory with which it is endeavouring to encircle itself; but, in general, the palpable, substantial, and solid distinctions have been reserved for men of science, chymists, naturalists, and mathematicians: they have seats in the senate, in the tribunate, in the council of state, and in all the administrations; while laharpe, the veteran of french literature, is not even a member of the institute, and is reduced to give lessons, which are, undoubtedly, not only very interesting to the public, but also very profitable to himself, and produce him as much money, at least, as his knowledge has acquired him reputation. it results from what i have said, that french literature has not experienced any apparent injury from the revolutionary storm: it has only changed its direction and means: it has still remaining talents which have served their time, talents in their maturity, and talents in a state of probation, and of much promise. persons of reflection entertain great hopes from the violent shock given to men's minds by the revolution; from that silent inquietude still working in their hearts; from that sap, full of life, circulating with rapidity through this body politic. "the factions are muzzled," say they; "but the factious spirit still ferments under the curb of power; if means can be found to force it to evaporate on objects which belong to the domain of illusion and sensibility, the result will prove a great blessing to france, by carrying back to the arts and to literature, and even to commerce, that exuberance of heat and activity which can no longer be employed without danger on political subjects." the same men, whom i have just pointed out, affirm that england herself will feel, in her literary and scientific system, a salutary concussion from the direction given here to the public mind. they expect with impatience that the british government will engage in some great measure of public utility, in order that the rivalship subsisting between the two nations on political and military points, which have no longer any object, may soon become, in france, the most active and most powerful vehicle for different parts of her interior improvement. of all kinds of literature, _epic poetry_ is the only one in which france has not obtained such success as to place her on a level with tasso and milton. to make amends, her poets have followed with advantage the steps of ariosto, without being able to surpass him. from this school have issued two modern epic poems: _la guerre des dieux payens contre les dieux chretiens_, by parny and _la conquête de naples_, by gudin. the former is distinguished by an easy versification, and an imagination jocose and fertile, though, certainly, far too licentious. educated in the school of dorat, he possesses his redundance and grace, without his fatuity. his elegies are worthy of tibullus; and his fugitive pieces are at once dictated by wit and sentiment: thus it was that chaulieu wrote, but with more negligence. the latter has thought to compensate for the energy and grace that should give life to his subject (which he considers only in a playful and satirical light), by a truly tiresome multitude of incidents. conceive three huge volumes in octavo, for a poem which required but one of a moderate size, and, in them, a versification frequently negligent. these are two serious faults, which the french will not readily overlook. no where are critics more severe, on the one hand, against redundance that is steril, and on the other, respecting the essential composition of verse, which ought always to flow with grace, even when under restraint. catholicism, however, has no more reason to be pleased with the loose scenes presented in this work, than christianity, in general, has with the licentious pictures of parny; but gudin is far less dangerous to rome, because he will be less read. several authors have devoted their labours to _tragedy_, during the course of the revolution. chÉnier has produced a whole theatre, which will remain to posterity, notwithstanding his faults, as he has contrived to cover them with beauties. arnault and mercier of compiegne are two young authors that seem to have been educated in the school of ducis, who is at this day the father of all the present tragic writers. the pieces which they have produced have met with some success, and are of considerable promise. _comedy_ lost a vigorous supporter under the tyranny of robespierre. this was fabre d'eglantine. that poet seldom failed of success, drew none but bold characters, and placed himself, by his own merit, between moliÈre and destouches. colin d'harleville and legouvÉ produce agreeable pieces which succeed. they paint, with an easy and graceful pencil, the absurdities and humours of society; but their pieces are deficient in plot and action. fabrÉ d'eglantine pourtrayed, in striking colours, those frightful vices which are beyond the reach of the law. his pieces are strongly woven and easily unravelled. picard seems to have taken goldoni, the celebrated venetian comic writer, for his model. like him, an excellent painter, a writer by impulse, he produces, with wonderful fecundity, a number of interesting comedies, which make the audience laugh till they shed tears, and how and then give great lessons. palissot, cailhava, and mercier are still living; but no longer produce any thing striking. i shall say little of french eloquence. under the new form of government, orators have less opportunity and less scope for displaying transscendant talents than during the first years of the revolution. two members of the government, cambacÉrÈs and lebrun, have distinguished themselves in this career by close, logical argument, bright conceptions, and discriminating genius. benjamin constant and guinguÉnÉ, members of the tribunate, shewed themselves to advantage last year, as i understand, in some productions full of energy and wisdom. demeunier and boissi d'anglas are already, in the tribunate, veterans of eloquence; but the man who unites, in this respect, all the approbation of that body, and even of france, is daunou. in exterior means he is deficient; but his thoughts proceed at once from a warm heart and an open mind, guided by a superior genius; and his expressions manifest the source from which they flow. several capital works of the historic kind have made their appearance in france within the last ten years; but, with the exception of those of celebrated voyagers or travellers, such as la pÉrouse, baudin, sonnini, labillardiÈre, olivier, andrÉ michaud, &c. those whose object has been to treat of the arts, sciences, and manners of greece, such as the travels of anacharsis, of pythagoras, or of antenor; those whose subject has not been confined to france, such as the _précis de l'histoire générale_, by anquetil; people ought to be on their guard against the merit even of productions written mediately or immediately on the revolution, its causes, and consequences. the passions are not yet sufficiently calmed for us not to suspect the spirit of party to interpose itself between men and truth. the most splendid talents are frequently in this line only the most faithless guide. it is affirmed, however, that there are a few works which recommend themselves, by the most philosophic impartiality; but none of these have as yet fallen under my observation. a striking production is expected from the pen of the celebrated volney. this is a _tableau physique des États unis_; but it is with regret i hear that its appearance is delayed by the author's indisposition. _novels_ are born and die here, as among us, with astonishing abundance. the rage for evocations and magic spectres begins to diminish. the french assert that they have borrowed it from us, and from the school of mrs. radcliff, &c. &c. they also assert, that the policy of the royalist-party was not unconnected with this propagation of cavernous, cadaverous adventures, ideas, and illusions, intended, they say, by the impression of a new moral terror to infatuate their countrymen again with the dull and soporific prestiges of popery. they see with joy that the taste for pleasure has assumed the ascendency, at least in paris, and that novels in the english style no longer make any one tremble, at night by the fireside, but the old beldams of the provincial departments. the less important kinds of literature, such as the _apologue_ or _moral fable_, which is not at this day much in fashion; the _eclogue_ or _idyl_, whose culture particularly belongs to agrestical and picturesque regions; _political satire_, which is never more refined than under the influence of arbitrary power; these kinds, to which i might add the _madrigal_ and _epigram_, without being altogether abandoned, are not generally enough cultivated here to obtain special mention. i shall make an exception only in favour of the pastoral poems of leclerc (of marne and loire) of which i have heard a very favourable account. at the end of a revolution which has had periods so ensanguined, _romance_, (romantic poetry) must have been cultivated and held in request. it has been so, especially by sentimental minds, and not a little too through the spirit of party; this was likely to be the case, since its most affecting characteristic is to mourn over tombs. _lyric poetry_ has been carried by lebrun, chÉnier, &c. to a height worthy of jean baptiste rousseau. the former, above all, will stand his ground, by his weight, to the latest posterity; while hitherto the lyric productions of chÉnier have not been able to dispense with the charm of musical harmony. fontanes, cubiÈres, pons de verdun, baour-lornian, and despaze are secondary geniuses, who do not make us forget that delisle and the chevalier bertin are still living; but whose fugitive pieces sometimes display many charms. when you shall be made acquainted that paris, of all the cities in the world, is that where the rage for dancing is the most _nationalized_, where, from the gilded apartments of the most fashionable quarters to the smoky chambers of the most obscure suburbs, there are executed more capers in cadence, than in any other place on earth, you will not be surprised if i reserve a special article for one of the kinds of literature that bears the most affinity to this distinctive diversion of the parisian belles, which has led mercier to say, that their city was the _guingette_ of europe; i mean _song_. perhaps, a subject new and curious to treat on, would be the influence of vocal music on the french revolution. every one knows that this people marched to battle singing; but, independently of the subject being above my abilities, it would carry me too far beyond the limited plan which i have prescribed to myself. let it suffice for you to know, that there has existed in paris a sort of lyric manufactory, which, under the name of "_diners du vaudeville_" scrupulously performed, for several years, an engagement to furnish, every month, a collection of songs very agreeable and very captivating. these productions are pretty often full of allusions, more or less veiled, to the political events of the moment; seldom, however, have they been handled as very offensive weapons against persons or institutions. the friends of mirth and wine are seldom dark and dangerous politicians. this country possesses a great number of them, who combine the talents required by the gravest magistracy with all the levity of the most witty and most cheerful _bon vivant_. i shall quote at random franÇois de neufchÂteau, the two sÉgurs, piis, &c. &c. others, such as barrÉ, desfontaines, and radet, confine themselves to their exclusive functions of professed song-makers, and write only for the little musical theatres, or for the leisure of their countrymen and their evening-amusements. it is impossible to terminate a sketch of the literature of france, without saying a word of such of the _journals_ as i have yet perused, which are specially devoted to it. the _mercure de france_ is one of those held in most esteem; and habit, as well as the spirit of party, concurs in making the fortune of this journal. there exists another, conducted by a member of the institute, named pougens, under the title of _bibliothèque française_, which is spoken of very favourably. but that which appears every ten days, under the name of _décade philosophique_, is the best production of the sort. a society of literary men, prudent, well-informed, and warmly attached to their country, are its authors, and deposit in it a well-digested analysis of every thing new that appears in the arts, sciences, or literature. nevertheless, a labour so carefully performed, is perfectly disinterested. this is the only enterprise of the kind that does not afford a livelihood to its associates, and is supported by a zeal altogether gratuitous. without seeking to blame or approve the title of this last-mentioned journal, i shall only remark that the word _décade_, coupled with the word _philosophique_, becomes in the eyes of many persons a double cause of reprobation; and that, at this day, more than ever, those two words are, in the opinion the most in fashion, marked by a proscription that is reflected on every thing which belongs to the science of philosophy. this would be the moment to inquire into the secret or ostensible causes which have led to the retrograde course that is to be remarked in france in the ideas which have been hitherto reckoned as conducive to the advancement of reason. this would be the moment to observe the new government of france endeavouring to balance, the one by the other, the opinions sprung from the republic, and those daily conjured up from the monarchy; holding in _equilibrio_ two colours of doctrines so diametrically opposite, and consequently two parties equally dissatisfied at not being able to crush each other, _neutralizing_ them, in short, by its immense influence in the employment of their strength, when they bewilder or exhaust themselves uselessly for its interests; but i could not touch on these matters, without travelling out of the domain of literature, which is the only one that is at present familiar to me, in order to enter into yours, where you have not leisure to direct me; and you may conceive with what an ill grace i should appear, in making before you, in politics, excursions, which, probably, would have for me the inconvenience of commanding great efforts, without leaving me the hope of adding any thing to your stock of information. letter xxxv. _paris, december , ._ divided as paris is by the seine, it seldom happens that one has not occasion to cross it more than once in the course of the day. i shall therefore make you acquainted with the bridges which connect to its banks the islands situated in that part of the river i have not yet described. being out of my general track, i might otherwise forget to make any further mention of them, which would be a manifest omission, now you have before you the plan of paris. we will also embrace the opportunity of visiting the _palais de justice_ and the cathedral of _notre-dame_. east of the _pont-neuf_, we first arrive at the pont au change. this bridge, which leads from the north bank of the seine to the _ile du palais_, is one of the most ancient in paris. though, like all those of which i have now to speak, it crosses but one channel of the river, it was called the _grand pont_, till the year , when it acquired its present name on lewis vii establishing here all the money-changers of paris. it was also called _pont aux oiseaux_, because bird-sellers were permitted to carry on their business here, on condition of letting loose two hundred dozen of birds, at the moment when kings and queens passed, in their way to the cathedral, on the day of their public entry. by this custom, it was intended to signify that, if the people had been oppressed in the preceding reign, their rights, privileges, and liberties would be fully re-established under the new monarch. on the public entry of isabeau de bavière, wife of charles vi, a genoese stretched a rope from the top of the towers of _notre-dame_ to one of the houses on this bridge: he thence descended, dancing on this rope, with a lighted torch in each hand. habited as an angel, he placed a crown on the head of the new queen, and reascending his rope, he appeared again in the air. the chronicle adds that, as it was already dark, he was seen by all paris and the environs. this bridge was then of wood, and covered with houses also of wood. two fires, one of which happened in , and the other in , occasioned it to be rebuilt of stone in . the _pont au change_ consists of seven arches. previously to the demolition of the houses, which, till , stood on each side of this bridge, the passage was sufficiently wide for three carriages. traversing the _ile du palais_ from north to south, in order to proceed from the _pont au change_ to the _pont st. michel_, we pass in front of the palais de justice. towards the end of the ninth century, this palace was begun by eudes. it was successively enlarged by robert, son of hugh capet, by st. lewis, and by philip the fair. under charles v, who abandoned it to occupy the _hôtel st. paul_, which he had built, it was nothing more than an assemblage of large towers, communicating with each other by galleries. in , charles vi made it his residence. in , charles vii relinquished it to the parliament of paris. however, francis i. took up his abode here for some time. it was in the great hall of this palace that the kings of france formerly received ambassadors, and gave public entertainments. on whitsunday, , philip the fair here knighted his three sons, with all the ceremonies of ancient chivalry. the king of england, our unfortunate edward ii, and his abominable queen isabella, who were invited, crossed the sea on purpose, and were present at this entertainment, together with a great number of english barons. it lasted eight days, and is spoken of, by historians, as a most sumptuous banquet. this magnificent hall, as well as great part of the palace, being reduced to ashes in , it was rebuilt, in its present state, under the direction of that skilful architect, jacques de brosses. it is both spacious and majestic, and is the only hall of the kind in france: the arches and arcades which support it are of hewn stone. another fire, which happened in , consumed all the part extending from the gallery of prisoners to the _sainte chapelle_, founded by st. lewis, and where, before the revolution, were shewn a number of costly relics. the ravages occasioned by this fire, were repaired in , and the space in front laid open by the erection of uniform buildings in the form of a crescent. to two gloomy gothic gates has been substituted an iron railing, of one hundred and twenty feet in extent, through which is seen a spacious court formed by two wings of new edifices, and a majestic façade that affords an entrance to the interior of the palace. in this court madame la motte, who, in , made so conspicuous a figure in the noted affair of the diamond necklace, was publicly whipped. i was in paris at the time, though not present at the execution of the sentence. in the railing, are three gates, the centre one of which is charged with garlands and other gilt ornaments. at the two ends are pavilions decorated with four doric pillars. towards the _pont st. michel_ is a continuation of the building ornamented with a bas-relief, at present denominated _le serment civique_. at the top of a flight of steps, is an avant-corps, with four doric columns, a balustrade above the entablature, four statues standing on a level with the base of the pillars, and behind, a square dome. these steps lead you to the _mercière_ gallery, having on the one side, the _sainte chapelle_, and on the other, the great hall, called the _salle des procureurs_. in this extensive hall are shops, for the sale of eatables and pamphlets, which, since the suppression of the parliament, seem to have little custom, as well as those of the milliners, &c. in the other galleries. in what was formerly called the _grande chambre_, where the parliament of paris used to sit, the ill-fated lewis xvi, in , held the famous bed of justice, in which d'espresmenil, one of the members of that body, struck the first blow at royalty; a blow that was revenged by a _lettre de cachet_, which exiled him to the _ile de st. marguerite_, famous for being the place of confinement of the great personage who was always compelled to wear an _iron mask_. the courage of this counsellor, who was a noble and deputy of the _noblesse_, may be considered as the _primum mobile_ of the revolution. under the despotism of the court, he braved all its vengeance; but, in the sequel, he afforded a singular proof of the instability of the human mind. after haying stirred up all the parliaments against the royal authority, he again became the humble servant of the crown. after the revolution, the _palais de justice_ became the seat of the revolutionary tribunal, where the satellites of robespierre, not content with sending to the scaffold sixty victims at a time, complained of the insufficiency of their means for bringing to trial all the enemies of liberty. dumas, at one time president of this sanguinary tribunal, proposed to his colleagues to join to the hall, where the tribunal sat, part of the great hall of the palace, in order to assemble there five or six hundred victims at a time; and on its being observed to him that such a sight might in the end disgust the people; "well," said he, "there's but one method of accomplishing our object, without any obstacle, that is to erect a guillotine in the court-yard of every prison, and cause the prisoners to be executed there during the night." had not robespierre's downfall involved that of all his blood-thirsty dependents, there seems no doubt that this plan would have been carried into speedy execution. nothing can paint the vicissitude of human events in colours more striking than the transitions of this critical period. dumas who made this proposal, and had partially satisfied his merciless disposition by signing, a few hours before, the death-warrant of sixty victims, was the very next day brought before the same tribunal, composed of his accomplices, or rather his creatures, and by them condemned to die. thus did experience confirm the general observation, that the multiplicity and enormity of punishments announces an approaching revolution. the torrents of blood which tyrants shed, are, in the end, swelled by their own. in lieu of a tribunal of blood, the _palais de justice_ is now appropriated to the sittings of the three tribunals, designated by the following titles: _tribunal de cassation_, _tribunal d'appel_, and _tribunal de première instance_. the first of these, the _tribunal de cassation_, occupies the audience-chambers of the late parliament; while the _grande chambre_ is appointed for the meetings of its united sections. the decoration of this spacious apartment is entirely changed: it is embellished in the antique style; and a person in contemplating it might fancy himself at athens. adjoining to the _palais de justice_, is the famous prison, so dreaded in the early periods of the revolution, called la conciergerie. from this fatal abode, neither talent, virtue, nor patriotism could, at one time, secure those who possessed such enviable qualities. lavoisier, malsherbes, condorcet, &c. were here successively immured, previously to being sent to the guillotine. here too the unfortunate marie-antoinette lived in a comfortless manner, from the nd of july, , to the th of october following, the period of her condemnation. on being reconducted to the prison, at four o'clock in the morning, after hearing her sentence read, the hapless queen displayed a fortitude worthy of the daughter of the high-minded maria theresa. she requested a few hours' respite, to compose her mind, and entreated to be left to herself in the room which she had till then occupied. the moment she was alone, she first cut off her hair, and then laying aside her widow's weeds, which she had always worn since the death of the king, put on a white dress, and threw herself on her bed, where she slept till eleven o'clock the same morning, when she was awakened, in order to be taken to the scaffold. continuing to cross the _ile du palais_ in a direction towards the south, we presently reach the pont st. michel. this bridge stands in a direct line with the _pont au change_, and is situated on the south channel of the river. it was formerly of wood: but having been frequently destroyed, it was rebuilt with stone in , and covered on both sides with houses. from the _pont neuf_, the back of these buildings has a most disagreeable and filthy appearance. it is said that they are to be taken down, as those have been which stood on the other bridges. in severe winters, when there is much ice in the river, it is curious, on the breaking up of the frost, to behold families deserting their habitations, like so many rats, and carrying with them their valuables, from the apprehension that these crazy tenements might fall into the river. this wise precaution is suggested by the knowledge of these bridges, when built of wood, having been often swept away by ice or great inundations. the _pont st. michel_ consists of four arches. its length is two hundred and sixty-eight feet, by sixty in breadth, including the houses, between which is a passage for three carriages. if, to avoid being entangled in narrow, dirty streets, we return, by the same route, to the north bank of the seine, and proceed to the westward, along the _quai de gévres_, which is partly built on piles, driven into the bed of the river, we shall come to the pont notre-dame. a wooden bridge, which previously existed here, having been frequently carried away by inundations, lewis xii ordered the construction of the present one of stone, which was begun in , and completed in . it was built from the plan of one joconde, a cordelier, and native of verona, and is generally admired for the solidity, as well as beauty of its architecture. it consists of six arches, and is two hundred and seventy-six feet in length. formerly it was bordered by houses, which were taken down in : this has rendered the quarter more airy, and consequently more salubrious. it was on this bridge that the pope's legate reviewed the ecclesiastical infantry of the league, on the the d of june, . capuchins, minimes, cordeliers, jacobins or dominicans, feuillans, &c. all with their robe tucked up, their cowl thrown behind, a helmet on their head, a coat of mail on their body, a sword by their side, and a musquet on their shoulder, marched four by four, headed by the reverend bishop of senlis, bearing a spontoon. but some of this holy soldiery, forgetting that their pieces were loaded with ball, wished to salute the legate, and killed by his side one of his chaplains. his eminence finding that it began to grow hot at this review, hastened to give his benediction, and vanished. _december , in continuation_. traversing once more two-thirds of the _ile du palais_ in a direction from north to south, and then striking off to the east, up the _rue de callandre_, we reach the cathedral of notre-dame. this church, the first ever built in paris, was begun about the year , under the reign of the emperor valentinian i. it was then called _st. etienne_ or _st. stephen's_, and there was as yet no other within the walls of this city in , when childebert, son of clovis, repaired and enlarged it, adding to it a new basilic, which was dedicated to _notre dame_ or our lady. more anciently, under tiberius, there had been, on the same spot, an altar in the open air, dedicated to jupiter and other pagan gods, part of which is still in being at the museum of french monuments, in the _rue des petits augustins_. these two churches existed till about the year , under the reign of lewis the young, when the construction of the present cathedral was begun partly on their foundations. it was not finished till , during the reign of philip augustus. this gothic church is one of the handsomest and most spacious in france. it has a majestic and venerable appearance, and is supported by one hundred and twenty clustered columns. its length is three hundred and ninety feet by one hundred and forty-four in breadth, and one hundred and two in height. we must not expect to find standing here the twenty-six kings, benefactors of this church, from childeric i to philip augustus, fourteen feet high, who figured on the same line, above the three doors of the principal façade. they have all fallen under the blows of the iconoclasts, and are now piled up behind the church. there lie round-bellied charlemagne, with his pipe in his mouth, and pepin the short, with his sword in his hand, and a lion, the emblem of courage, under his feet. the latter, like tydeus, mentioned in the iliad, though small in stature, was stout in heart, as appears from the following anecdote related of him by the monk of st. gal. in former times, as is well known, kings took a delight in setting wild beasts and ferocious animals to fight against each other. at one of thege fights, between a lion and a bull, in the abbey of ferrières, pepin the short, who knew that some noblemen were daily exercising their pleasantry on his small stature, addressed to them this question: "which of you feels himself bold enough to kill or separate those terrible animals?" seeing that not one of them stepped forward, and that the proposal alone made them shudder: "well," added he, "'tis i then who will perform the feat." he accordingly descended from his place, drew his sword, killed the lion, at another stroke cut off the head of the bull, and then looking fiercely at the railers: "know," said he to them, "that stature adds nothing to courage, and that i shall find means to bring to the ground the proud persons who shall dare to despise me, as little david laid low the great giant goliah." hence the attribute given to the statue of king pepin, which not long since adorned the façade of _notre-dame_. the groups of angels, saints, and patriarchs, which, no doubt, owe their present existence only to their great number, still present to the eye of the observer that burlesque mixture of the profane and religious, so common in the symbolical representations of the twelfth century. these figures adorn the triple row of indented borders of the arches of the three doors. two enormous square towers, each two hundred and two feet in height, and terminated by a platform, decorate each end of the cathedral. the ascent to them is by a winding staircase of three hundred and eighty-nine steps, and their communication is by a gallery which has no support but gothic pillars of a lightness that excites admiration. independently of the six bells, which have disappeared with the little belfry that contained them, in the two towers were ten, one of which weighed forty-four thousand pounds. at the foot of the north tower is the rural calendar or zodiac, which has been described by m. le gentil, member of the academy of sciences. the goths had borrowed from the indians this custom of thus representing rustic labours at the entrance of their temples. another gothic bas-relief, which is seen on the left, in entering by the great door, undoubtedly represents that condemned soul who, tradition says, rose from his bier, during divine service, in order to pronounce his own damnation. none of the forty-five chapels have preserved the smallest vestige of their ornaments. those which escaped the destructive rage of the modern vandals, have been transported to the museum of french monuments. the most remarkable are the statue of pierre de gondi, archbishop of paris, the mausoleum of the conte d'harcourt, designed by his widow, the modern artemisia, and executed by pigalle, together with the group representing the vow of st. lewis, by costou the elder. six angels in bronze, which were seen at the further end of the choir, have also been removed thither. the stalls present, in square and oval compartments, bas-reliefs very delicately sculptured, representing subjects taken from the life of the holy virgin and from the new testament. of the two episcopal pulpits, which are at the further end, the one, that of the archbishop, represents the martyrdom of st. denis; the other, opposite, the cure of king childebert, by the intercession of st. germain. some old tapestry, hung scantily round the choir, makes one regret the handsome iron railing, so richly wrought, by which it was inclosed, and some valuable pictures, which now figure in the grand gallery of the central museum of the arts. the nave, quite as naked as the choir and the sanctuary, had been enriched, as far as the space would admit, with pictures, twelve feet high, given for a long time, on every first of may, by the goldsmiths' company and the fraternity of st. anne and st. marcel. on the last pillar of the nave, on the right, was the equestrian statue of philip of valois. that king was here represented on horseback, with his vizor down, sword in hand, and armed cap-à-pié, in the very manner in which he rode into the cathedral of _notre-dame_, in , after the battle of cassel. at the foot of the altar he left his horse, together with his armour, which he had worn in the battle, as an offering to the holy virgin, after having returned thanks to god and to her, say historians, for the victory he had obtained through her intercession. above the lateral alleys, as well of the choir as of the nave, are large galleries, separated by little pillars of a single piece, and bordered by iron balustrades. here spectators place themselves to see grand ceremonies. from their balconies were formerly suspended the colours taken from the enemy: these are now displayed in the _temple of mars_ at the hÔtel des invalides. the organ, which appears to have suffered no injury, is reckoned one of the loudest and most complete in france. it is related that daquin, an incomparable organist, who died in , once imitated the nightingale on it so perfectly, that the beadle was sent on the roof of the church, to endeavour to discover the musical bird. some of the stained glass is beautiful. two roses, restored to their original state, the one on the side of the archipiscopal palace in , and the other above the organ, in , prove by their lustre, that the moderns are not so inferior to the ancients, in the art of painting on glass, as is commonly imagined. should your curiosity lead you to contemplate the house of fulbert, the canon, the supposed uncle to the tender héloïse, where that celebrated woman passed her youthful days, you must enter, by the cloister of _notre-dame_, into the street that leads to the _pont rouge_, since removed. it is the last house on the right under the arcade, and is easily distinguished by two medallions in stone, preserved on the façade, though it has been several times rebuilt during the space of six hundred years. all the authors who have written on the antiquities of paris, speak of these medallions as being real portraits of abélard and héloïse. it is presumable that they were so originally; but, without being a connoisseur, any one may discover that the dresses of these figures are far more modern than those peculiar to the twelfth century; whence it may be concluded that the original portraits having been destroyed by time, or by the alterations which the house has undergone, these busts have been executed by some more modern sculptor of no great talents. leaving the cathedral, by the _rue notre-dame_, and turning to the left, on reaching the _marché palu_, we come to the petit pont. like the _pont st. michel_, this bridge is situated on the south channel of the river, and stands in a direct line with the _pont notre-dame_. it originally owed its construction to the following circumstance. four jews, accused of having killed one of their converted brethren, were condemned to be publicly whipped through all the streets of the city, on four successive sundays. after having suffered the half of their sentence, to redeem themselves from the other half, they paid , francs of gold. this sum was appropriated to the erection of the _petit pont_, the first stone of which was laid by charles vi, in . in , two barges, loaded with hay, caught fire, and being cut loose, drifted under the arches of this bridge, which, in the space of four hours, was consumed, together with the houses standing on it. the following year it was rebuilt, but without houses. proceeding to the east, along the quays of the _ile du palais_, you will find the pont au double. this little bridge, situated behind the _hôtel-dieu_, of which i shall speak hereafter, is destined for foot-passengers only, as was the _pont rouge_. the latter was the point of communication between the _cité_ and the _ile st. louis_; but the frequent reparations which it required, occasioned it to be removed in , though, by the plan of paris, it still appears to be in existence. however, it is in contemplation to replace it by another of stone.[ ] supposing that you have regained the north bank of the seine, by means of the _pont notre-dame_, you follow the quays, which skirt that shore, till you reach the pont marie. this bridge forms a communication between the _port st. paul_ and the _ile st. louis_. the _pont marie_ was named after the engineer who engaged with henry iv to build it; but that prince having been assassinated; the young king, lewis xiii, and the queen dowager, laid the first stone in : it was finished, and bordered with houses, in . it consists of five arches. its length is three hundred feet by sixty-two in breadth. an inundation having carried away two of the arches, in , they were repaired without the addition of houses, and in , the others were removed. passing through the _rue des deux ponts_, which lies in a direct line with the _pont marie_, we arrive at the pont de la tournelle. this bridge takes its name from the _château de la tournelle_, contiguous to the _porte st. bernard_, where the galley-slaves used formerly to be lodged, till they were sent off to the different public works. it consists of six arches of solid construction, and is bordered on each side by a foot-pavement. you are now acquainted with all the bridges in paris; but should you prefer crossing the seine in a boat, there are several ferries between the bridges, and at other convenient places. here, you may always meet with a waterman, who, for the sum of one _sou_, will carry you over, whether master or lackey. like the old ferryman charon, he makes no distinction of persons. [footnote : workmen are, at this moment, employed in the construction of three new bridges. the first, already mentioned, will form a communication between the _ci-devant collège des quatre nations_ and the _louvre_; the second, between the _ile du palais_ and the _ile st. louis_; and the third, between the _jardin des plantes_ and the arsenal.] letter xxxvi. _paris, december , ._ what a charming abode is paris, for a man who can afford to live at the rate of a thousand or fifteen hundred pounds a year! pleasures wait not for him to go in quest of them; they come to him of their own accord; they spring up, in a manner, under his very feet, and form around him an officious retinue. every moment of the day can present a new gratification to him who knows how to enjoy it; and, with prudent management, the longest life even would not easily exhaust so ample a stock. paris has long been termed an epitome of the world. but, perhaps, never could this denomination be applied to it with so much propriety as at the present moment. the chances of war have not only rendered it the centre of the fine arts, the museum of the most celebrated masterpieces in existence, the emporium where the luxury of europe comes to procure its superfluities; but the taste for pleasure has also found means to assemble here all the enjoyments which nature seemed to have exclusively appropriated to other climates. every country has its charms and advantages. paris alone appears to combine them all. every region, every corner of the globe seems to vie in hastening to forward hither the tribute of its productions. are you an epicure? no delicacy of the table but may be eaten in paris.--are you a toper? no delicious wine but may be drunk, in paris.--are you fond of frequenting places of public entertainment? no sort of spectacle but may be seen in paris.--are you desirous of improving your mind? no kind of instruction but may be acquired in paris.--are you an admirer of the fair sex? no description of female beauty but may be obtained in paris.--are you partial to the society of men of extraordinary talents? no great genius but comes to display his knowledge in paris.--are you inclined to discuss military topics? no hero but brings his laurels to paris.--in a word, every person, favoured by nature or fortune, flies to enjoy the gifts of either in paris. even every place celebrated in the annals of voluptuousness, is, as it were, reproduced in paris, which, in some shape or another, presents its name or image. without going out of this capital, you may, in the season when nature puts on her verdant livery, visit _idalium_, present your incense to the graces, and adore, in her temple, the queen of love; while at _tivoli_, you may, perhaps, find as many beauties and charms as were formerly admired at the enchanting spot on the banks of the anio, which, under its ancient name of _tibur_, was so extolled by the latin poets; and close to the boulevard, at _frascati_, you may, in that gay season, eat ices as good as those with which cardinal de bernis used to regale his visiters, at his charming villa in the _campagna di roma_. who therefore need travel farther than paris to enjoy every gratification? if then, towards the close of a war, the most frightful and destructive that ever was waged, the useful and agreeable seem to have proceeded here hand in hand in improvement, what may not be expected in the tranquillity of a few years' peace? who knows but the emperor julian's "_dear lutetia_" may one day vie in splendour with thebes and its hundred gates, or ancient rome covering its seven mountains? however, if _tivoli_ and _frascati_ throw open their delightful recesses to the votaries of pleasure only in spring and summer, even now, during the fogs of december, you may repair to paphos. it might almost be said that you enter this place of amusement gratis, for, though a slight tribute of seventy-five _centimes_ (_circa_ seven-pence halfpenny sterling) is required for the admission of every person, yet you may take refreshment to the amount of that sum, without again putting your hand into your pocket; because the counter mark, given at the door, is received at the bar as ready-money. this speculation, the first of the kind in france, and one of the most specious, is, by all accounts, also one of the most productive. it would be too rigorous, no doubt, to compare the frequenters of the modern paphos to the inhabitants of the ancient. here, indeed, you must neither look for _élégantes_, nor _muscadins_; but you may view belles, less gifted by fortune, indulging in innocent recreation; and for a while dispelling their cares, by dancing to the exhilarating music of an orchestra not ill composed. here, the grisette banishes the _ennui_ of six days' application to the labours of her industry, by footing it away on sunday. hither, in short, the less refined sons and daughters of mirth repair to see and be seen, and to partake of the general diversion. paphos is situated on that part of the boulevard, called the _boulevard du temple_, whither i was led the other evening by that sort of curiosity, which can be satisfied only when the objects that afford it aliment are exhausted. i had just come out of another place of public amusement, at no great distance, called la phantasmagorie. this is an exhibition in the _cour des capucines_, adjoining to the boulevard, where robertson, a skilful professor of physics, amuses or terrifies his audience by the appearance of spectres, phantoms, &c. in the piece which i saw, called _le tombeau de robespierre_, he carries illusion to an extraordinary degree of refinement. his cabinet of physics is rich, and his effects of optics are managed in the true style of french gallantry. his experiments of galvanism excite admiration. he repeats the difficult ones of m. volta, and clearly demonstrates the electrical phenomena presented by the metallic pile. a hundred disks of silver and a hundred pieces of zinc are sufficient for him to produce attractions, sparks, the divergency of the electrometer, and electric hail. he charges a hundred leyden bottles by the simple contact of the metallic pile. robertson, i understand, is the first who has made these experiments in paris, and has succeeded in discharging volta's pistol by the galvanic spark. fitzjames, a famous ventriloquist, entertains and astonishes the company by a display of his powers, which are truly surprising. you may, perhaps, be desirous to procure your family circle the satisfaction of enjoying the _phantasmagoria_, though not on the grand scale on which it is exhibited by robertson. by the communication of a friend, i am happy in being enabled to make you master of the secret, as nothing can be more useful in the education of children than to banish from their mind the deceitful illusion of ghosts and hobgoblins, which they are so apt to imbibe from their nurses. but to the point--"you have," says my author, "only to call in the first itinerant foreigner, who perambulates the streets with a _galantee-show_ (as it is commonly termed in london), and by imparting to him your wish, if he is not deficient in intelligence and skill, he will soon be able to give you a rehearsal of the apparition of phantoms: for, by approaching or withdrawing the stand of his show, and finding the focus of his glasses, you will see the objects diminish or enlarge either on the white wall, or the sheet that is extended. "the illusion which leads us to imagine that an object which increases in all its parts, is advancing towards us, is the basis of the _phantasmagoria_, and, in order to produce it with the _galantee-show_, you have only to withdraw slowly the lantern from the place on which the image is represented, by approaching the outer lens to that on which the object is traced: this is easily done, that glass being fixed in a moveable tube like that of an opera-glass. as for approaching the lantern gradually, it may be effected with the same facility, by placing it on a little table with castors, and, by means of a very simple mechanism, it is evident that both these movements may be executed together in suitable progression. "the deception recurred to by phantasmagorists is further increased by the mystery that conceals, from the eyes of the public, their operations and optical instruments: but it is easy for the showman to snatch from them this superiority, and to strengthen the illusion for the children whom you choose to amuse with this sight. for that purpose, he has only to change the arrangement of the sheet, by requiring it to be suspended from the ceiling, between him and the spectators, much in the same manner as the curtain of a playhouse, which separates the stage from the public. the transparency of the cloth shews through it the coloured rays, and, provided it be not of too thick and too close a texture, the image presents itself as clear on the one side as on the other. "if to these easy means you could unite those employed by robertson, such as the black hangings, which absorb the coloured rays, the little musical preparations, and others, you might transform all the _galantee-shows_ into as many _phantasmagorias_, in spite of the priority of invention, which belongs, conscientiously, to father kircher, a german jesuit, who first found means to apply his knowledge respecting light to the construction of the magic lantern. "the coloured figures, exhibited by the phatasmagorists, have no relation to these effects of light: they are effigies covered with gold-beater's skin, or any other transparent substance, in which is placed a dark lantern. the light of this lantern is extinguished or concealed by pulling a string, or touching a spring, at the moment when any one wishes to seize on the figure, which, by this contrivance, seems to disappear. "the proprietors of the grand exhibitions of _phantasmagoria_ join to these simple means a combination of different effects, which they partly derive from the phenomena, presented by the _camera obscura_. some faint idea of that part of physics, called optics, which newton illuminated, by his genius and experience, are sufficient for conceiving the manner in which these appearances are produced, though they require instruments and particular care to give them proper effect." such is the elucidation given of the _phantasmagoria_ by an intelligent observer, whose friend favoured me with this communication. letter xxxvii. _paris, december , ._ if paris affords a thousand enjoyments to the man of fortune, it may truly be said that, without money, paris is the most melancholy abode in the world. privations are then the more painful, because desires and even wants are rendered more poignant by the ostentatious display of every object which might satisfy them. what more cruel for an unfortunate fellow, with an empty purse, than to pass by the kitchen of a _restaurateur_, when, pinched by hunger, he has not the means of procuring himself a dinner? his olfactory nerves being still more readily affected when his stomach is empty, far from affording him a pleasing sensation, then serve only to sharpen the torment which he suffers. it is worse than the punishment of tantalus, who, dying with thirst, could not drink, though up to his chin in water. really, my dear friend, i would advise every rich epicure to fix his residence in this city. without being plagued by the details of housekeeping, or even at the trouble of looking at a bill of fare, he might feast his eye, and his appetite too, on the inviting plumpness of a turkey, stuffed with truffles. a boar's head set before him, with a seville orange between its tusks, might make him fancy that he was discussing the greatest interests of mankind at the table of an austrian prime minister, or british secretary of state; while _pâtés_ of _chartres_ or of _périgord_ hold out to his discriminating palate all the refinements of french seasoning. these, and an endless variety of other dainties, no less tempting, might he contemplate here, in walking past a _magazin de comestibles_ or provision-warehouse. among the changes introduced here, within these few years, i had heard much of the improvements in the culinary art, or rather in the manner of serving up its productions; but, on my first arrival in paris, i was so constantly engaged in a succession of dinner-parties, that some time elapsed before i could avail myself of an opportunity of dining at the house of any of the fashionable restaurateurs. this is a title of no very ancient date in paris. _traiteurs_ have long existed here: independently of furnishing repasts at home, these _traiteurs_, like birch in cornhill, or any other famous london cook, sent out dinners and suppers. but, in , one boulanger conceived the idea of _restoring_ the exhausted animal functions of the debilitated parisians by rich soups of various denominations. not being a _traiteur_, it appears that he was not authorized to serve ragouts; he therefore, in addition to his _restorative_ soups, set before his customers new-laid eggs and boiled fowl with strong gravy sauce: those articles were served up without a cloth, on little marble tables. over his door he placed the following inscription, borrowed from scripture: "_venite ad me omnes qui stomacho laboratis, et ego restaurabo vos._" such was the origin of the word and profession of _restaurateur_. other cooks, in imitation of boulanger, set up as _restorers_, on a similar plan, in all the places of public entertainment where such establishments were admissible. novelty, fashion, and, above all, dearness, brought them into vogue. many a person who would have been ashamed to be seen going into a _traiteur's_, made no hesitation of entering a _restaurateur's_, where he paid nearly double the price for a dinner of the same description. however, as, in all trades, it is the great number of customers that enrich the trader, rather than the select few, the _restaurateurs_, in order to make their business answer, were soon under the necessity of constituting themselves _traiteurs_; so that, in lieu of one title, they now possess two; and this is the grand result of the primitive establishment. at the head of the most noted _restaurateurs_ in paris, previously to the revolution, was la barriÈre in the _ci-devant palais royal_; but, though his larder was always provided with choice food, his cellar furnished with good wines, his bill of fare long, and the number of his customers considerable, yet his profits, he said, were not sufficiently great to allow him to cover his tables with linen. this omission was supplied by green wax cloth; a piece of economy which, he declared, produced him a saving of near , livres (_circa_ £ sterling) per annum in the single article of washing. hence you may form an idea of the extent of such an undertaking. i have often dined at la barriÈre's was always well served, at a moderate charge, and with remarkable expedition. much about that time, beauvilliers, who had opened, within the same precincts, a similar establishment, but on a more refined plan, proved a most formidable rival to la barriÈre, and at length eclipsed him. after a lapse of almost eleven years, i again find this identical beauvilliers still in the full enjoyment of the greatest celebrity. robert and naudet in the _palais du tribunat_, and vÉry on the _terrace des feuillant_ dispute with him the palm in the art of apicius. all these, it is true, furnish excellent repasts, and their wines are not inferior to their cooking: but, after more than one impartial trial, i think i am justified in giving the preference to beauvilliers. let us then take a view of his arrangements: this, with a few variations in price or quality, will serve as a general picture of the _ars coquinaria_ in paris. on the first floor of a large hotel, formerly occupied, perhaps, by a farmer-general, you enter a suite of apartments, decorated with arabesques, and mirrors of large dimensions, in a style no less elegant than splendid, where tables are completely arranged for large or small parties. in winter, these rooms are warmed by ornamental stoves, and lighted by _quinquets_, a species of argand's lamps. they are capable of accommodating from two hundred and fifty to three hundred persons, and, at this time of the year, the average number that dine here daily is about two hundred; in summer, it is considerably decreased by the attractions of the country, and the parties of pleasure made, in consequence, to the environs of the capital. on the left hand, as you pass into the first room, rises a sort of throne, not unlike the _estrado_ in the grand audience-chamber of a spanish viceroy. this throne is encircled by a barrier to keep intruders at a respectful distance. here sits a lady, who, from her majestic gravity and dignified bulk, you might very naturally suppose to be an empress, revolving in her comprehensive mind the affairs of her vast dominions. this respectable personage is madame beauvilliers, whose most interesting concern is to collect from the gentlemen in waiting the cash which they receive at the different tables. in this important branch, she has the assistance of a lady, somewhat younger than herself, who, seated by her side, in stately silence, has every appearance of a maid of honour. a person in waiting near the throne, from his vacant look and obsequious carriage, might, at first sight, be taken for a chamberlain; whereas his real office, by no means an unimportant one, is to distribute into deserts the fruit and other _et ceteras_, piled up within his reach in tempting profusion. we will take our seats in this corner, whence, without laying down our knife and fork, we can enjoy a full view of the company as they enter. we are rather early: by the clock, i perceive that it is no more than five: at six, however, there will scarcely be a vacant seat at any of the tables. "_garçon, la carte_!"--"_la voilà devant vous, monsieur._" good heaven! the bill of fare is a printed sheet of double _folio_, of the size of an english newspaper. it will require half an hour at least to con over this important catalogue. let us see; soups, thirteen sorts.--_hors-d'oeuvres_, twenty-two species.--beef, dressed in eleven different ways.--pastry, containing fish, flesh and fowl, in eleven shapes. poultry and game, under thirty-two various forms. --veal, amplified into twenty-two distinct articles.--mutton, confined to seventeen only.--fish, twenty-three varieties.--roast meat, game, and poultry, of fifteen kinds.--entremets, or side-dishes, to the number of forty-one articles.--desert, thirty-nine.--wines, including those of the liqueur kind, of fifty-two denominations, besides ale and porter.--liqueurs, twelve species, together with coffee and ices. fudge! fudge! you cry--pardon me, my good friend, 'tis no fudge. take the tremendous bill of fare into your own hand. _vide et lege_. as we are in no particular hurry, travel article by article through the whole enumeration. this will afford you the most complete notion of the expense of dining at a fashionable _restaurateur's_ in paris. beauvilliers, restaurateur _anciennement à la grande tavernede la république, palais-egalité, no. , présentement rue de la loi, no. ._ prix des mets pour une personne.--les articles dont les prix ne sont point fixes, manquent. potages. fr. s. potage aux laitues et petits pois potage aux croûtons à la purée potage aux choux potage au consommé potage au pain potage de santé potage au vermicel potage au ris potage à la julienne potage printanier potage à la purée potage au lait d'amandes potage en tortue hors-d'oeuvres. tranche de melon artichaud à la poivrade raves et radis salade de concombres thon mariné anchois à l'huile olives pied de cochon à la sainte-mènéhould cornichons petit salé aux choux saucisses aux choux petit pain de beurre oeufs frais citron rissole à la choisy croquette de volaille rognons à la brochette tête de veau en tortue tête de veau au naturel côtelette de porc frais, sauce robert chou-croûte garni jambon de mayence aux épinards entrÉes de boeuf. fr. s. boeuf au naturel ou à la sauce boeuf aux choux ou aux légumes carnebif rosbif filet de boeuf sauté dans sa glace bifteck entre-côte, sauce aux cornichons palais de boeuf au gratin palais de boeuf à la poulette ou à l'italienne langue de boeuf glacée aux épinards jarrets de veau entrÉes de patisserie. pâté chaud de légumes petits pâtés à la béchamel petits pâtés au jus pâté chaud d'anguille pâté chaud de crêtes et de rognons de coqs tourte de godiveau tourte aux confitures vol-au-vent de filets de volailles vol-au-vent de saumon frais vol-au-vent de morue à la béchamel vol-au-vent de cervelle de veau à l'allemande entrÉes de volailles. (_toutes les entrées aux truffes sont de de plus_). fr. s. caille aux petits pois pigeon à la crapaudine chapon au riz, le quart chapon au gros sel, le quart demi-poulet aux truffes ou aux huitres fricassée de poulets garnie, la moitié fricassée de poulets, la moitié salade de volaille friteau de poulet, la moitié demi-poulet à la ravigotte ou à la tartare marinade de poulet, la moitié le quart d'un poulet à l'estragon ou à la crème ou aux laitues blanquette de poularde cuisse de poulet aux petits pois cuisse de volaille au jambon côtelettes de poulet cuisse ou aile de poulet en papillote cuisse de poulet à la provençale ragoût mêlé de crêtes et de rognons de coqs capilotade de volaille filet de poularde au suprême mayonaise de volaille cuisses de dindon grillées, sauce robert le quart d'un canard aux petits pois ou aux navets foie gras en caisses ou en matelote perdrix aux choux, la moitié salmi de perdreau au vin de champagne pigeons en compote ou aux petits pois béchamel de blanc de volaille cuisses de poulet en hochepot ailerons de dinde aux navets blanc de volaille aux concombres entrÉes de veau. fr. s. riz de veau piqué, à l'oseille ou à la chicorée riz de veau à la poulette fricandeau aux petits pois fricandeau à la chicorée fricandeau à la ravigotte fricandeau à l'oseille fricandeau à l'espagnole côtelette de veau au jambon côtelette de veau aux petits pois côtelette de veau en papillotte côtelette de veau panée, sauce piquante côtelette de veau, sauce tomate blanquette de veau oreille de veau à la ravigotte oreille de veau farcie, frite oreille de veau frite ou en marinade cervelle de veau en matelote cervelle de veau à la purée tendons de veau panés, grillés, sauce piquante tendons de veau à la poulette tendons de veauen macédoine tendons de veau aux petits pois entrÉes de mouton. gigot de mouton braisé, aux légumes tendons de mouton grillés tendons de mouton aux petits pois hachi de mouton à la portugaise côtelettes de mouton à la minute côtelettes de mouton aux racines côtelettes de mouton au naturel côtelettes de pré epigramme d'agneau côtelettes d'agneau au naturel tendons d'agneau aux pointes d'asperges tendons d'agneau aux petits pois blanquette d'agneau filet de chevreuil côtelette de chevreuil queue de mouton à la purée queue de mouton à l'oseille ou à la chicorée entrÉes de poissons. fr. s. merlan frit maquereau à la maître d'hôtel saumon frais, sauce aux câpres raie, sauce aux câpres ou au beurre noir turbot, sauce aux câpres cabillaud morue fraîche au beurre fondu morue d'hol. à la maître-d'hôtel ou à la provençale sole frite sole sur le plat eperlans frits barbue turbotin matelote de carpe et d'anguille tronçon d'anguille à la tartare carpe frite, la moitié perche du rhin à la vallesfiche goujons frits truite au bleu laitance de carpe moules à la poulette homard esturgeon rÔts. fr. s. bécasse mauviettes poularde fine fr. la moitié poulet normand, fr. la moitié poulet gras, fr. la moitié pigeon de volière perdreau rouge perdreau gris caneton de rouen caille agneau veau mouton levreau grive obergine entremets. gelée de citron concombres à la béchamel laitues a jus petits pois à la française ou à l'anglaise haricots verts à la poulette ou à l'anglaise haricots blancs à la maître-d'hôtel fèves de marais artichaud à la sauce artichaud à la barigoul artichaud frit truffes au vin de champagne truffes à l'italienne croûte aux truffes navets carottes epinards au jus chicorée au jus céleri au jus choux-fleurs à la sauce ou au parmesan macédoine de légumes pommes de terre à la maître-d'hôtel champignons à la bordelaise croûtes aux champignons oeufs brouillés au jus oeufs au beurre noir omelette aux fines herbes omelette aux rognons ou au jambon omelette au sucre ou aux confitures omelette soufflée beignets de pommes charlotte de pommes charlotte aux confitures riz soufflé soufflé aux pommes de terre le petit pôt de crème macaroni d'italie au parmesan fondu plumpuding eorevisses salade dessert. fr. s. cerneaux raisins fraises cerises groseilles framboises abricot pêche prunes figue amandes noisettes pommes à la portugaise poires pomme compote de verjus épépine compote d'épine-vinette compote de poires compote de pommes compote de cerises nix vert meringue compote de groseilles compote d'abricot compote de pêche confitures cerises liquides marmelade d'abricots gelée de groseilles biscuit à la crème fromage à la crème fromage de roquefort fromage de viry fromage de gruyère fromage de neufehâtel fromage de clochestre ou chester cerises à l'eau-de-vie prunes à l'eau-de-vie abricots à l'eau-de-vie pêches à l'eau-de-vie vins. fr. s. clarette vin de bourgogne vin de chablis vin de beaune vin de mulsaux vin de montrachet vin de pomard vin de volnay vin de nuits vin de grave vin de soterne vin de champagne mousseux vin de champagne, mousseux tisane de champagne vin de rosé vin de silery rouge vin de silery blanc vin de pierri vin d'aï vin de porto latour vin de côte-rôtie vin du clos vougeot de clos st. georges vin de pomarel vin du rhin vin de chambertin vin de l'hermitage rouge vin de l'hermitage blanc vin delà romanée ronflante conti vin de richebourg chevalier montrachet vin de vône vîn de bordeaux de ségur vin de bordeaux lafite vin de saint emilion bierre forte ou porter bierre vins de liqueurs. fr. s. vin de chereste, demi-bouteille vin de malvoisie, _idem_ madère sec _id._ malaga alicante _id._ muscat le petit verre vermouth chipre calabre paille palme constance tokai le petit verre liqueurs. anisette d'hollande anisette de bordeaux eau-de-vie d'andaye fleur d'orange cuirasseau rhum kirschewaser eau cordiale de coradon liqueurs des isles marasquin eau-de-vie de dantzick eau-de-vie de coignac casé, la tasse s. la demie glace one advantage, well deserving of notice, of this bill of fare with the price annexed to each article, is, that, when you have made up your mind as to what you wish to have for dinner, you have it in your power, before you give the order, to ascertain the expense. but, though you see the price of each dish, you see not the dish itself; and when it comes on the table, you may, perhaps, be astonished to find that a pompous, big-sounding name sometimes produces only a scrap of scarcely three mouthfuls. it is the mountain in labour delivered of a mouse. however, if you are not a man of extraordinary appetite, you may, for the sum of nine or ten francs, appease your hunger, drink your bottle of champagne or burgundy, and, besides, assist digestion by a dish of coffee and a glass of liqueur. should you like to partake of two different sorts of wine, you may order them, and drink at pleasure of both; if you do not reduce the contents below the moiety, you pay only for the half bottle. a necessary piece of advice to you as a stranger, is, that, while you are dispatching your first dish, you should take care to order your second, and so on in progression to the end of the chapter: otherwise, for want of this precaution, when the company is very numerous, you may, probably, have to wait some little time between the acts, before you are served. this is no trifling consideration, if you purpose, after dinner, to visit one of the principal theatres: for, if a new or favourite piece be announced, the house is full, long before the raising of the curtain; and you not only find no room at the theatre to which you first repair; but, in all probability, this disappointment will follow you to every other for that evening. nevertheless, ten or fifteen minutes are sufficient for the most dainty or troublesome dish to undergo its final preparation, and in that time you will have it smoking on the table. those which admit of being completely prepared beforehand, are in a constant state of readiness, and require only to be set over the fire to be warmed. each cook has a distinct branch to attend to in the kitchen, and the call of a particular waiter to answer, as each waiter has a distinct number of tables, and the orders of particular guests to obey in the dining-rooms. in spite of the confused noise arising from the gabble of so many tongues, there being probably eighty or a hundred persons calling for different articles, many of whom are hasty and impatient, such is the habitual good order observed, that seldom does any mistake occur; the louder the vociferations of the hungry guests, the greater the diligence of the alert waiters. should any article, when served, happen not to suit your taste, it is taken back and changed without the slightest murmur. the difference between the establishments of the fashionable _restaurateurs_ before the revolution, and those in vogue at the present day, is, that their profession presenting many candidates for public favour, they are under the continual necessity of employing every resource of art to attract customers, and secure a continuance of them. the commodiousness and elegance of their rooms, the savouriness of their cooking, the quality of their wines, the promptitude of their attendants, all are minutely criticized; and, if they study their own interest, they must neglect nothing to flatter the eyes and palate. in fact, how do they know that some of their epicurean guests may not have been of their own fraternity, and once figured in a great french family as _chef de cuisine_? of course, with all this increase of luxury, you must expect an increase of expense: but if you do not now dine here at so reasonable a rate as formerly, at least you are sumptuously served for your money. if you wish to dine frugally, there are numbers of _restaurateurs_, where you may be decently served with _potage_, _bouilli_, an _entrée_, an _entremet_, bread and desert, for the moderate sum of from twenty-six to thirty _sous_. the addresses of these cheap eating-houses, if they are not put into your hand in the street, will present themselves to your eye, at the corner of almost every wall in paris. indeed, all things considered, i am of opinion that the difference in the expense of a dinner at a _restaurateur's_ at present, and what it was ten or eleven years ago, is not more than in the due proportion of the increased price of provisions, house-rent, and taxes. the difference the most worthy of remark in these rendezvous of good cheer, unquestionably consists in the company who frequent them. in former times, the dining-rooms of the fashionable _restaurateurs_ were chiefly resorted to by young men of good character and connexions, just entering into life, superannuated officers and batchelors in easy circumstances, foreigners on their travels, &c. at this day, these are, in a great measure, succeeded by stock-jobbers, contractors, fortunate speculators, and professed gamblers. in defiance of the old proverb, "_le ventre est le plus grand de tous nos ennemis,_" guttling and guzzling is the rage of these upstarts. it is by no means uncommon to see many of them begin their dinner by swallowing six or seven dozen of oysters and a bottle of white wine, by way of laying a foundation for a _potage en tortue_ and eight or ten other rich dishes. such are the modern parvenus, whose craving appetites, in eating and drinking, as in every thing else, are not easily satiated. it would be almost superfluous to mention, that where rich rogues abound, luxurious courtesans are at no great distance, were it not for the sake of remarking that the former often regale the latter at the _restaurateurs_, especially at those houses which afford the convenience of snug, little rooms, called _cabinets particuliers_. here, two persons, who have any secret affairs to settle, enjoy all possible privacy; for even the waiter never has the imprudence to enter without being called. in these asylums, love arranges under his laws many individuals not suspected of sacrificing at the shrine of that wonder-working deity. prudes, whose virtue is the universal boast, and whose austerity drives thousands of beaux to despair, sometimes make themselves amends for the reserve which they are obliged to affect in public, by indulging in a private _tête-à-tête_ in these mysterious recesses. in them too, young lovers frequently interchange the first declarations of eternal affection; to them many a husband owes the happiness of paternity; and without them the gay wife might, perhaps, be at a loss to deceive her jealous argus, and find an opportunity of lending an attentive ear to the rapturous addresses of her aspiring gallant. what establishment then can be more convenient than that of a _restaurateur_? but you would be mistaken, were you to look for _cabinets particuliers_ at every house of this denomination, here, at beauvilliers', for instance, you will find no such accommodation, though if you dislike dining in public, you may have a private room proportioned to the number of a respectable party: or, should you be sitting at home, and just before the hour of dinner, two or three friends call in unexpectedly, if you wish to enjoy their company in a quiet, sociable manner, you have only to dispatch your _valet de place_ to beauvilliers' or to the nearest _restaurateur_ of repute for the bill of fare, and at the same time desire him to bring table-linen, knives, silver forks, spoons, and all other necessary appurtenances. while he is laying the cloth, you fix on your dinner, and, in little more than a quarter of an hour, you have one or two elegant courses, dressed in a capital style, set out on the table. as for wine, if you find it cheaper, you can procure that article from some respectable wine-merchant in the neighbourhood. in order to save trouble, many single persons, and even small families now scarcely ever cook at home; but either dine at a _restaurateur's_, or have their dinners constantly furnished from one of these sources of culinary perfection. but, while i am relating to you the advantages of these establishments, time flies apace: 'tis six o'clock.--if you are not disposed to drink more wine, let us have some coffee and our bill. when you want to pay, you say: "_garçon, la carte payante!_" the waiter instantly flies to a person, appointed for that purpose, to whom he dictates your reckoning. on consulting your stomach, should you doubt what you have consumed, you have only to call in the aid of your memory, and you will be perfectly satisfied that you have not been charged with a single article too much or too little. remark that portly man, so respectful in his demeanour. it is beauvilliers, the master of the house: this is his most busy hour, and he will now make a tour to inquire at the different tables, if his guests are all served according to their wishes. he will then, like an able general, take a central station, whence he can command a view of all his dispositions. the person, apparently next in consequence to himself, and who seems to have his mind absorbed in other objects, is the butler: his thoughts are, with the wine under his care, in the cellar. observe the cleanly attention of the waiters, neatly habited in close-bodied vests, with white aprons before them: watch the quickness of their motions, and you will be convinced that no scouts of a camp could be more _on the alert_. an establishment, so extremely well conducted, excites admiration. every spring of the machine duly performs its office; and the regularity of the whole might serve as a model for the administration of an extensive state. repair then, ye modern machiavels, to n° , _rue de la loi_; and, while you are gratifying your palate, imbibe instruction from beauvilliers. end of the first volume. * * * * * * * * * * paris as it was and as it is; or a sketch of the french capital, illustrative of the effects of the revolution, with respect to sciences, literature, arts, religion, education, manners, and amusements; comprising also a correct account of the most remarkable national establishments and public buildings. in a series of letters, written by an english traveller, during the years - , to a friend in london. * * * * * ipsâ varietate tentamus efficere, ut alia aliis, quædem fortasse omnibus placeant. plin. epist. * * * * * vol. ii london a sketch of paris, &c. &c. letter xxxviii. _paris, december , ._ an establishment at once deserving of the attention of men of feeling, particularly of those who, in cultivating literature, apply themselves to the science of metaphysics and grammar; an establishment extremely interesting to every one, the great difficulties of which mankind had, repeatedly, in the course of ages, endeavoured to encounter, and which had driven to despair all those who had ventured to engage in the undertaking; an establishment, in a word, which produces the happiest effects, and in a most wonderful manner, is the national institution of the deaf and dumb. to the most religious of philanthropists is france indebted for this sublime discovery, and the abbé sicard, a pupil of the inventor; the abbé de l'epée, has carried it to such a degree of perfection, that it scarcely appears possible to make any further progress in so useful an undertaking. and, in fact, what can be wanting to a species of instruction the object of which is to establish between the deaf and dumb, and the man who hears and speaks, a communication like that established between all men by the knowledge and practice of the same idiom; when the deaf and dumb man, by the help of the education given him, succeeds in decomposing into phrases the longest period; into simple propositions, the most complex phrase; into words, each proposition; into simple words, words the most complex: and when he distinguishes perfectly words derived from primitives; figurative words from proper ones; and when, after having thus decomposed the longest discourse, he recomposes it; when, in short, the deaf and dumb man expresses all his ideas, all his thoughts, and all his affections; when he answers, like men the best-informed, all questions put to him, respecting what he knows through the nature of his intelligence, and respecting what he has learned, either from himself or from him who has enlightened his understanding? what wish remains to be formed, when the deaf and dumb man is enabled to learn by himself a foreign language, when he translates it, and writes it, as well as those of whom it is the mother-tongue? such is the phenomenon which the institution of the deaf and dumb presents to the astonishment of europe, under the direction, or rather under the regeneration of the successor of the celebrated abbé de l'epée. his pupils realize every thing that i have just mentioned. they write english and italian as well as they do french. nothing equals the justness and precision of their definitions. nor let it be imagined that they resemble birds repeating the tunes they have learned. never have they been taught the answer to a question. their answers are always the effect of their good logic, and of the ideas of objects and of qualities of beings, acquired by a mind which the institutor has formed from the great art of observation. this institution was far short of its present state of perfection at the death of the celebrated inventor, which happened on the d of december . during the long career of their first father, the deaf and dumb had been able to find means only to write, under the dictation of signs, words whose import was scarcely known to them. when endeavours were made to make them emerge from the confined sphere of the first wants, not one of them knew how to express in writing any thing but ideas of sense and wants of the first necessity. the nature of the verb, the relations of tenses, that of other words comprehended in the phrase, and which form the syntax of languages, were utterly unknown to them. and, indeed, how could they answer the most trifling question? every thing in the construction of a period was to them an enigma. it was not long before the successor of the inventor discovered the defect of this instruction, which was purely mechanical and acquired by rote. he thought he perceived this defect in the _concrete_ verb, in which the deaf and dumb, seeing only a single word, were unable to distinguish two ideas which are comprehended in it, that of affirmation and that of quality. he thought he perceived also that defect in the expression of the qualities, always presented, in all languages, out of the subjects, and never in the noun which they modify; and, by the help of a process no less simple than ingenious and profound, he has made the deaf and dumb comprehend the most arduous difficulty, the nature of abstraction; he has initiated them in the art of generalizing ideas by presenting to them the adjective in the noun, as the quality is in the object, and the quality subsisting alone and out of the object, having no support but in the mind, for him who considers it, and but in the abstract noun for him who reads the expression of it. he has, in like manner, separated the verb from the quality in concrete verbs, and communicated to the deaf and dumb the knowledge of the true verb, which he has pointed out to them in the termination of all the french verbs, by reattaching to the subject, by a line agreed on, its verbal quality. this line he has translated by the verb _to be_, the only verb recognized by philosophic grammarians. these are the two foundations of this very extraordinary source of instruction, and on which all the rest depend. the pronouns are learned by nouns; the tenses of conjugation, by the three absolute tenses of conjugation of all languages; and these, by this line, so happily imagined, which is a sign of the present when it connects the verbal quality and the subject, a sign of the past when it is intersected, a sign of the future when it is only begun. all the conjugations are reduced to a single one, as are all the verbs. the adverbs considered as adjectives, when they express the manner, and as substitutes for a preposition and its government, when they express time or place, &c. the preposition represented as a mean of transmitting the influence of the word which precedes it to that which follows it; the articles serving, as in the english language, to determine the extent of a common noun. such is a summary of the grammatical system of the institutor of the deaf and dumb. it is the metaphysical part, above all, which, in this institution, is carried to such a degree of simplicity and clearness, that it is within reach of understandings the most limited. and, indeed, one ought not to be astonished at the rapid progress of the deaf and dumb in the art of expressing their ideas and of communicating in writing with every speaker, as persons absent communicate with each other by similar means. in the space of eighteen months, a pupil begins to give an account in writing of the actions of which he is rendered a witness, and, in the space of five years, his education is complete. the objects in which the deaf and dumb are instructed, are grammar, the notions of metaphysics and logic, which the former renders necessary, religion, the use of the globes, geography, arithmetic, general notions of history, ancient and modern, of natural history, of arts and trades, &c. these unfortunates, restored by communication to society, from which nature seemed to have intended to exclude them, are usefully employed. one of their principal occupations is a knowledge of a mechanical art. masters in the most ordinary arts are established in the house of the deaf and dumb, and every one there finds employment in the art which best suits his inclination, his strength, and his natural disposition. in this school, which is established at the extremity of the _faubourg st. jacques_, is a printing-office, where some are employed as compositors; others, as pressmen. in a preparatory drawing-school they are taught the rudiments of painting, engraving, and mosaic, for the last of which there are two workshops. there is also a person to teach engraving on fine grained stones, as well as a joiner, a tailor, and a shoemaker. the garden, which is large, is cultivated by the deaf and dumb. almost every thing that is used by them is made by themselves. they make their own bedsteads, chairs, tables, benches, and clothes. the deaf and dumb females too make their shirts, and the rest of their linen. thus their time is so taken up that, with the exception of three hours devoted to moral instruction, all the rest is employed in manual labour. such is this establishment, where the heart is agreeably affected at the admirable spectacle which presents at once every thing that does the most honour to human intelligence, in the efforts which it has been necessary to make in order to overcome the obstacles opposed to its development by the privation of the sense the most useful, and that of the faculty the most essential to the communication of men with one another, and the sight of the physical power employed in seeking, in arts and trades, resources which render men independent. but to what degree are these unfortunates deaf, and why are they dumb? it is well known that they are dumb because they are deaf, and they are more or less deaf, when they are so only by accident, in proportion as the auditory nerve is more or less braced, or more or less relaxed. in various experiments made on sound, some have heard sharp sounds, and not grave ones; others, on the contrary, have heard grave sounds, and not sharp ones. all would learn, were it deemed expedient to teach them, the mechanism of speech. but, besides that the sounds which they would utter, would never be heard by themselves, and they would never be conscious of having uttered them, those, sounds would be to those who might listen to them infinitely disagreeable. never could they be of use, to them in conversing with us, and they would serve only to counteract their instruction. woe be to the deaf and dumb whom it should be proposed to instruct by teaching them to speak! how, in fact, can, the development of the understanding be assisted by teaching them a mechanism which has no object or destination, when the thought already formed in the mind, by the help of signs which fix the ideas, restores not the mechanism of speech? of this the institutor has been fully sensible, and, although in his public lessons, he explains all the efforts of the vocal instrument or organ of the voice, and proves that he could, as well as any other man, teach the deaf and dumb to make use of it, all his labour is confined to exercising the instrument of thought, persuaded that every thing will be obtained, when the deaf and dumb shall have learned to arrange their ideas, and to think. it is then only that the institutor gives lessons of analysis. but, how brilliant are they! you think yourself transported into a class of logic. the deaf and dumb man has ceased to be so. a contest begins between him and his master. all the spectators are astonished; every one wishes to retain what is written on both sides. it is a lesson given to all present. every one is invited to interrogate the deaf and dumb man, and he answers to any person whatsoever, with a pen or pencil in his hand, and in the same manner puts a question. he is asked, "what is time?" --"time," says the dumb pupil, "is a portion of duration, the nature of which is to be successive, to have commenced, and consequently to have passed, and to be no more; to be present, and to be so through necessity. time," adds he, "is the fleeting or the future." as if in the eyes of the dumb there was nothing real in time but the future. --"what is eternity?" says another to him--"it is a day without yesterday, or to-morrow," replies the pupil.--"what is a sense?"--"it is a vehicle for ideas."--"what is duration?"--"it is a line which has no end, or a circle."--"what is happiness?"--"it is a pleasure which never ceases."--"what is god?"--"the author of nature, the sun of eternity."--"what is friendship?"--"the affection of the mind." --"what is gratitude?"--"the memory of the heart." there are a thousand answers of this description, daily collected at the lessons of the deaf and dumb by those who attend them, and which attest the superiority of this kind of instruction over the common methods. thus, this institution is not only, in regard to beneficence and humanity, deserving of the admiration of men of feeling, it merits also the observation of men of superior understanding and true philosophers, on account of the ingenious process employed here to supply the place of the sense of seeing by that of hearing, and speech by gesture and writing. i must not conceal from my countrymen, above all, that the institutor, in his public lessons, formally declares, that it is by giving to the french language the simple form of ours, and accommodating to it our syntax, he has been chiefly successful in making the deaf and dumb understand that of their own country. i must also add, that it is no more than a justice due to the institutor to say that, in the midst of the concourse of auditors, who press round him, and who offer him the homage due to his genius and philanthropy, he shews for all the english an honourable preference, acknowledging to them, publicly, that this attention is a debt which he discharges in return for the asylum that we granted to the unfortunate persons of his profession, who, emigrating from their native land, came among us to seek consolation, and found another home. should ever this feeble sketch of so interesting an institution reach sicard, that religious philosopher, who belongs as much to every country in the world as to france, the land which gave him birth, he will find in it nothing more than the expression of the gratitude of one englishman; but he may promise himself that as soon as the definitive treaty of peace shall have reopened a free intercourse between the two nations, the sentiments contained in it will be adopted by all the english who shall witness the extraordinary success of his profoundly-meditated labours. they will all hasten to pay their tribute of admiration to a man, whose most gratifying reward consists in the benefits which he has had the happiness to confer on that part of his fellow-creatures from whom nature has withheld her usual indulgence. letter xxxix. _paris, december , ._ much has been said of the general tone of immorality now prevailing in this capital, and so much, that it becomes necessary to look beyond the surface, and examine whether morals be really more corrupt here at the present day than before the revolution. to investigate the subject through all its various branches and ramifications, would lead me far beyond the limits of a letter. i shall therefore, as a criterion, take a comparative view of the increase or decrease of the different classes of women, who, either publicly or privately, deviate from the paths of virtue. if we begin with the lowest rank, and ascend, step by step, to the highest, we first meet with those unfortunate creatures, known in france by the general designation of public women. their number in paris, twelve years ago, was estimated at thirty thousand; and if this should appear comparatively small, it must be considered how many amorous connexions here occupy the attention of thousands of men, and consequently tend to diminish the number of _public_ women. the question is not to ascertain whether it be necessary, for the tranquillity of private families, that there should be public women. who can fairly estimate the extent of the mischief which they produce, or of that which they obviate? who can accurately determine the best means for bringing the good to overbalance the evil? but, supposing the necessity of the measure, would it not be proper to prevent, as much as possible, that complete mixture by which virtuous females are often confounded with impures? charlemagne, though himself a great admirer of the sex, was of that opinion. he had, in vain, endeavoured to banish entirely from paris women of this description; by ordering that they should be condemned to be publicly whipped, and that those who harboured them, should carry them on their shoulders to the place where the sentence was put in execution. but it was not a little singular that, while the emperor was bent on reforming the morals of the frail fair, his two daughters, the princesses gifla and rotrude, were indulging in all the vicious foibles of their nature. charlemagne, who then resided in the _palais des thermes_, situated in the _rue de la harpe_, happened to rise one winter's morning much earlier than usual. after walking for some time about his room, he went to a window which looked into a little court belonging to the palace. how great was his astonishment, when, by the twilight, he perceived his second daughter, rotrude, with eginhard, his prime minister, on her back, whom she was carrying through the deep snow which had fallen in the night in order that the foot-steps of a man might not be traced. when lewis the _débonnaire_, his successor, ascended the throne, he undertook to reform these two princesses, whose father's fondness had prevented him from suffering them to marry. the new king began by putting to death two noblemen who passed for their lovers, thinking that this example would intimidate, and that they would find no more: but it appears that he was mistaken, for they were never at a loss. nor is this to be wondered at, as these princesses to a taste for literature joined a very lively imagination, and were extremely affable, generous, and beneficent; on which account, says father daniel, they died universally regretted. experience having soon proved that public women are a necessary evil in great cities, it was resolved to tolerate them. they therefore began to form a separate body, became subject to taxes, and had their statutes and judges. they were called _femmes amoureuses_, _filles folles de leur corps_, and, on st. magdalen's day, they were accustomed to form annually a solemn procession. particular streets were assigned to them for their abode; and a house in each street, for their commerce. a penitentiary asylum, called _les filles dieu_, was founded at paris in , and continued for some years open for the reception of _female sinners who had gone astray, and were reduced to beggary_. in the time of st. lewis, their number amounted to two hundred; but becoming rich, they became dissolute, and in , they were succeeded by the reformed nuns of fontevrault. when i was here in the year , a great concourse of people daily visited this convent in order to view the body of an ancient virgin and martyr, said to be that of st. victoria, which, having been lately dug up near rome, had just been sent to these nuns by the pope. this relic being exposed for some time to the veneration and curiosity of the parisian public, the devout wondered to see the fair saint with a complexion quite fresh and rosy, after having been dead for several centuries, and, in their opinion, this was a miracle which incontestably proved her sanctity. the incredulous, who did not see things in the same light, thought that the face was artificial, and that it presented one of those holy frauds which have so frequently furnished weapons to impiety. but they were partly mistaken: the nuns had thought proper to cover the face of the saint with a mask, and to clothe her from head to foot, in order to skreen from the eyes of the public the hideous spectacle of a skeleton. in , lewis viii, with a view of distinguishing impures from modest women, forbade the former to wear golden girdles, then in fashion. this prohibition was vain, and the virtuous part of the sex consoled themselves by the testimony of their conscience, whence the old proverb: "_bonne rénommée vaut mieux que ceinture dorée_." another establishment, first called _les filles pénitentes ou repenties_, and afterwards _filles de st. magloire_, was instituted in by a cordelier, and had the same destination. he preached against libertinism, and with such success, that two hundred dissolute women were converted by his fervent eloquence. the friar admitted them into his congregation, which was sanctioned by the pope. its statutes, which were drawn up by the bishop of paris, are not a little curious. among other things, it was established, that "none should be received but women who had led a dissolute life, and that, in order to ascertain the fact, they should be examined by matrons, who should swear on the holy evangelists to make a faithful report." there can be no doubt that women were well taken care of in this house, since it was supposed that virtue even might assume the mask of vice to obtain admission. the fact is singular. "to prevent girls from prostituting themselves in order to be received, those who shall have been once examined and refused, shall be excluded for ever. "besides, the candidates shall be obliged to swear, under penalty of their eternal damnation, in presence of their confessor and six nuns, that they did not prostitute themselves with a view of entering into this congregation; and in order that women of bad character may not wait too long before they become converted, in the hope that the door will always be open to them, none will be received above the age of thirty." this community, for some years, continued tolerably numerous; but its destination had been changed long before the suppression of convents, which took place in the early part of the revolution. all the places of public prostitution in paris, after having been tolerated upwards of four hundred years, were abolished by a decree of the states general, held at orleans in . the number of women of the town, however, was far from being diminished, though their profession was no longer considered as a trade; and as they were prohibited from being any where, that is, in any fixed place, they were compelled to spread themselves every where. at the present day, the number of these women in paris is computed at twenty-five thousand: they are taken up as formerly, in order to be sent into infirmaries, whence they, generally, come out only to return to their former habits. twelve years ago, those apprehended underwent a public examination once a month, and were commonly sentenced to a confinement, more or less long, according to the pleasure of the minister of the police. the examination of them became a matter of amusement for persons of not over-delicate feelings. the hardened females, neither respecting the judge not the audience, impudently repeated the language and gestures of their traffic. the judge added a fortnight's imprisonment for every insult, and the most abandoned were confined only a few months longer in the _salpétrière_. endeavours have since been made to improve the internal regulation of this and similar houses of correction; but, as far as my information goes, with little success. for want of separating, from the beginning of their confinement, the most debauched from those whom a moment of distress or error has thrown into these scenes of depravity, the contamination of bad example rapidly spreads, and those who enter dissolute, frequently come out thievish; while all timidity is banished from the mind of the more diffident. besides, it is not always the most culpable who fall into the hands of the police, the more cunning and experienced, by contriving to come to terms with its agents, employed on these errands, generally escape; and thus the object in view is entirely defeated. on their arrival at the _salpétrière_, the healthy are separated from the diseased; and the latter are sent to _bicêtre_, where they either find a cure or death. your imagination will supply the finishing strokes of this frightful picture.--these unfortunate victims of indigence or of the seduction of man, are deserving of compassion. with all their vices, they have, after all, one less than many of their sex who pride themselves on chastity, without really possessing it; that is, hypocrisy. as they shew themselves to be what they really are, they cannot make the secret mischief which a detected prude not unfrequently occasions under the deceitful mask of modesty. degraded in their own eyes, and being no longer able to reign through the graces of virtue, they fall into the opposite extreme, and display all the audaciousness of vice. the next class we come to is that which was almost honoured by the greeks, and tolerated by the romans, under the denomination of courtesans. by courtesans, i mean those ladies who, decked out in all the luxury of dress, if not covered with diamonds, put up their favours to the highest bidder, without having either more beauty or accomplishments, perhaps, than the distressed female who sells hers at the lowest price. but caprice, good fortune, intrigue, or artifice, sometimes occasions an enormous distance between women who have the same views. if the ancients made great sacrifices for the phrynes, the laïses, or the aspasias of the day, among the moderns, no nation has, in that respect, surpassed the french. every one has heard of the luxurious extravagance of mademoiselle deschamps, the cushion of whose _chaise-percée_, was trimmed with point-lace of very considerable value, and the harness of whose carriage was studded with paste, in imitation of diamonds. this woman, however, lived to repent of her folly; and if she did not literally die in a poorhouse, she at least ended her days in wretchedness. before the revolution, of all the gay ladies in paris, madame grandval displayed the greatest luxury in her equipage; and mademoiselle d'hervieux, in her house. i knew them both. the former i have seen at longchamp, as well as at the annual review of the king's household troops, in a splendid coach, as fine as that of any lord mayor, drawn by a set of eight english grays, which cost a hundred and twenty guineas a horse. she sat, like a queen, adorned with a profusion of jewels; and facing her was a _dame de compagnie_, representing a lady of the bedchamber. behind the carriage, stood no less than three tall footmen, besides a chasseur, in the style of that of the duke of gloucester, in rich liveries, with swords, canes, and bags. as for the house of mademoiselle d'hervieux, it was every thing that oriental luxury, combined with french taste, could unite on a small scale. although of very low origin, and by no means gifted with a handsome person, this lady, after having, rather late in life, obtained an introduction on the opera-stage as a common _figurante_, contrived to insinuate herself into the good graces of some rich protectors. on the _chaussée d'antin_, they built for her this palace in miniature, which, twelve years ago, was the object of universal admiration, and, in fact, was visited by strangers as one of the curiosities of paris. at the present day, one neither sees nor hears of such favourites of fortune; and, for want of subjects to paint under this head, i must proceed to those of the next rank, who are styled kept women. what distinctions, what shades, what different names to express almost one and the same thing! from the haughty fair in a brilliant equipage, figuring, like a favourite sultana, with "all the pride, pomp, and circumstance" of the toilet, down to the hunger-pinched female, who stands shivering in the evening at the corner of a street, what gradations in the same profession! before the revolution, there were reckoned in paris eight or ten thousand women to whom the rich nobility or financiers allowed from a thousand pounds a year upwards to an almost incredible amount. some of these ladies have ruined a whole family in the short space of six months; and, having nothing left at the year's end, were then under the necessity of parting with their diamonds for a subsistence. although many of them are far inferior in opulence to the courtesans, they are less depraved, and, consequently, superior to them in estimation. they have a lover, who pays, and from whom they, in general, get all they can, at the same time turning him into ridicule, and another whom, in their turn, they pay, and for whom they commit a thousand follies. these women used to have no medium in their attachments; they were either quite insensible to the soft passion, or loved almost to distraction. on the wane, they had the rage for marrying, and many of them found men who, preferring fortune to honour, disgraced themselves by such alliances. some of these ladies, if handsome, were not unfrequently taken by a man of fortune, and kept from mere ostentation, just as he would sport a superlatively elegant carriage, or ride a very capital horse; others were maintained from caprice, which, like achilles's spear, carried with it its own antidote; and then, of course, they passed into the hands of different keepers. it cannot be denied, however that a few of these connexions were founded on attachment; and when the woman, who was the object of it, was possessed of understanding, she assumed the manners and deportment of a wife. indeed, now and then a keeper adopted the style of oriental gallantry. beaujon, the banker of the court, who had amassed an immense fortune, indulged himself in his old age, and, till his death, in a society composed of pretty women, some of whom belonged to what was then termed good families, among which he had diffused his presents. in an elegant habitation, called _la chartreuse_, which he erected in the _faubourg du roule_, as a place of occasional retirement, was a most curious apartment, representing a bower, in the midst of which was placed a bedstead in imitation of a basket of flowers: four trees, whose verdant foliage extended over part of the ceiling, which was painted as a sky, seemed to shade this basket, and supported drapery, suspended to their branches. this was m. beaujon's temple of venus. the late prince of soubise, for some years, constantly kept ten or a dozen ladies. the only intercourse he had with them, was to breakfast or chat with them twice or thrice a month, and latterly he maintained several old stagers, in this manner, from motives of benevolence. at the end of the month, all these ladies came in their carriages at a fixed hour, in a string, as it were, one after the other. the steward had their money ready; they afterwards, one by one, entered a very spacious room furnished with large closets, filled with silks, muslins, laces, ribbands, &c. the prince distributed presents to each, according to her age and taste: thus ended a visit of mere ceremony, interspersed with a few words of general gallantry. such was the style in which many women were kept by men of fortune under the old _régime_. at the present day, if we except twenty or thirty perhaps, it would be no easy matter to discover any women supported in a style of elegance in paris, and the lot of these seems scarcely secured but from month to month. the reason of this mystery is, that the modern croesuses having mostly acquired their riches in a clandestine manner, they take every possible precaution to prevent the reports in circulation concerning their ill-gotten pelf from being confirmed by a display of luxury in their _chères amies_. on this account, many a matrimonial connexion, i am told, is formed between them and women of equivocal character, on the principle, that a man is better able to check the extravagant excesses of his wife than those of his mistress. we now arrive at that class of females who move in a sphere of life the best calculated for making conquests. i mean opera-dancers. when a spectator, whose eyes are fascinated by the illusion of scenic decorations, contemplates those beauties whose voluptuous postures, under the form of calypso, eucharis, delphis, &c. awaken desire in the mind of youth, and even of persons of maturer years, he forgets that the divinities before him are women, who not unfrequently lavish their favours on the common herd of mortals. his imagination lends to them a thousand secret charms which they possess not; and he cannot be persuaded that they are not tremblingly alive to a passion which they express with so much apparent feeling. it is in their arms only that he discovers his error. to arrive at this point, many an englishman has sacrificed thousands of pounds; while his faithless fair has been indulging in all the wantonness of her disposition, perhaps, with some obscure frenchman among the long train of her humble admirers. hence the significant appellation of _milord pot-au-feu_, given to one who supports a woman whose favours another enjoys _gratis_. such an opera-dancer used formerly to exhibit herself in a blaze of jewels in the lobby, and according to the style in which she figured, did she obtain respect from her companions. the interval between them was proportioned to the degree of opulence which the one enjoyed over the other, so that the richer scarcely appeared to belong to the same profession as the poorer. to the former, every shopkeeper became a candidate for custom; presents were heaped on presents, and gold was showered on her in such a manner that she might, for the time, almost have fancied herself a second danaë. in the midst of this good fortune, perhaps, an obscure rival suddenly started into fashion. she then was eclipsed by her whom, a few days before, she disdained. instead of a succession of visiters, her house was deserted; and, at the expiration of the year, the proud fair, awakened from her golden dream by the clamours of her importunate creditors, found herself without one friend to rescue her valuables from their rapacious gripe. no wonder, then, that this order of things, (excepting the reverse by which it was sometimes followed) was very agreeable to the great majority of these capering beauties, and, doubtless, they wished its duration. for, among the reports of the _secret_ police, maintained by lewis xvi, in , it appears by a letter addressed to m. de caylus, and found among the king's papers in the palace of the _tuileries_, that most of the female opera-dancers were staunch _aristocrates_; but that democracy triumphed among the women who sang at that theatre. this little anecdote shews how far curiosity was then stretched to ascertain what is called public opinion; and i have no doubt that the result confirmed the correctness of the statement. the opera-stage was certainly never so rich as it now is in first-rate female dancers, yet the frail part of these beauties were never so deficient, perhaps, in wealthy admirers. proceeding to the next order of meretricious fair, we meet with that numerous one denominated grisettes. this is the name applied to those young girls who, being obliged to subsist by their labour, chiefly fill the shops of milliners, mantua-makers, and sellers of ready-made linen, &c. the rank which ought to be assigned to them, i think, is between opera-dancers and demireps. you may smile at the distinction; but, as mr. tickle justly observes, in the spectator, we should vary our appellations of these fair criminals, according to circumstances. "those who offend only against themselves," says he, "and are not a scandal to society; but, out of deference to the sober part of the world, have so much good left in them as to be ashamed, must not be comprehended in the common word due to the worst of women. regard is to be had to their situation when they fell, to the uneasy perplexity in which they lived under senseless and severe parents, to the importunity of poverty, to the violence of a passion in its beginning well-grounded, to all the alleviations which make unhappy women resign the characteristic of their sex, modesty. to do otherwise than thus," adds he, "would be to act like a pedantic stoic, who thinks all crimes alike, and not as an impartial spectator, who views them with all the circumstances that diminish or enhance the guilt." if we measure them by this standard, _grisettes_ appear entitled to be classed immediately below demireps; for, as lear says of his daughter, "-------- not to be the worst stands in some rank of praise." their principal merit consists in their conducting themselves with a certain degree of decorum and reserve, and in being susceptible of attachment. born in an humble sphere, they are accustomed from their infancy to gain their livelihood by their industry. like young birds that feel the power of using their wings, they fly from the parent-nest at the age of sixteen; and, hiring a room for themselves, they live according to their means and fancy. more fortunate in their indigence than the daughters of petty tradesmen, they overleap the limits of restraint, while their charms are in full lustre; and sometimes their happiness arises from being born in poverty. in marrying an artisan of their own class, they see nothing but distress and servitude, which are by no means compatible with their spirit of independence. vanity becomes their guide, and is as bad a guide as distress; for it prompts them to add the resources of their youth and person to those of their needle. this double temptation is too strong for their weak virtue. they therefore seek a friend to console them on sundays for the _ennui_ of the remainder of the week, which must needs seem long, when they are sitting close at work from morning to night. in general, they are more faithful than any of the other classes of the frail part of the sex, and may be supported at little expense, and without scandal. it would require almost the powers of the inquisition to ascertain whether _grisettes_ have increased or diminished since the revolution; but their number is, and always has been, immense in paris. an object highly deserving of the attention of the french legislators would be to find a remedy for this evil. a mortal blow should, no doubt, be struck at the luxury of the toilet; as the rage for dress has, i am convinced, undermined the virtue of as many women as the vile stratagems of all the lotharios in being. leaving these matters to some modern lycurgus, i shall end my letter. but, in my eager haste to close it, i must not omit a class, which has increased in a proportion equal to the decrease of kept women. as they have no precise designation in france, i shall take the liberty of applying to them, that of demireps. without having the shameless effrontery of vice, these ladies have not the austere rigour of virtue. seeing that professed courtesans insnared the most promising youths, and snatched them from other women, this description of females sprang up, in a manner, to dispute with them, under the rose, the advantages which the others derived from their traffic. if they have not the same boldness in their carriage, their looks bespeak almost as much complaisance. they declaim loudly against women of all the classes before-mentioned, for the best possible reason; because these are their more dangerous rivals. it is certain that a virtuous woman cannot hold the breach of chastity too much in abhorrence, but every lucretia ought to have "a tear for pity," especially towards the fallen part of her sex. nothing can be more disgusting than to hear women, who are known to have transgressed, forget their own frailties, and rail against the more unguarded, and, consequently, more artless part of womankind, without mercy or justice. demireps, in general, profess the greatest disinterestedness in their connexions; but if they receive no money at the moment of granting their favours, they accept trinkets and other presents which have some value. it is not at all uncommon for a man to think that he has a _bonne fortune_, when he finds himself on terms of intimacy with such a woman. enraptured at his success, he repeats his visits, till one day he surprises his belle, overwhelmed by despair. he eagerly inquires the cause. after much entreaty, she informs him that she has had ill luck at play, and, with anguish in her looks, laments that she is ruined beyond redemption. the too credulous admirer can do no less than accommodate her secretly with a sufficient sum to prevent her from being taken to task by her husband; and thus the disinterested lady proves, in the end, a greater drain to the gallant's pocket than the most mercenary courtesan. the man who would wish to recommend himself to their favour, scarcely need take any further trouble than to change some of their trinkets, which are no longer in fashion. sometimes he may meet with a husband, who, conniving at his wife's infidelity, will shew him every mark of attention. in that case, the lover is quite at home, and his presence being equally agreeable to the obliging husband as to the kind wife, when they are all three assembled, they seem to fit their several places like the three sides of an equilateral triangle. since the revolution, the increase of demireps is said to have diminished most sensibly the class of what are termed kept women. indeed, it is affirmed by some, that the number of the former has, within these few years, multiplied in a tenfold proportion. others again maintain that it is no greater than it was formerly; because, say they, the state of society in paris is not near so favourable to amorous intrigue as that which existed under the old _régime_. riches being more equally divided, few persons, comparatively speaking, are now sufficiently affluent to entertain large parties, and give routs, balls, and suppers, where a numerous assemblage afforded, to those inclined to dissipation, every opportunity of cultivating an intimate acquaintance. i must confess that these reasons, assigned by some worthy frenchmen whose opinions i respect, do not altogether accord with the result of my observation; and, without taking on myself to controvert them, i am persuaded that truth will bear me out in asserting, that, if the morals of that class of society in which i have chiefly mixed during the different periods of my stay in france, are not deteriorated, they are certainly not improved since i last visited paris. after having painted, in regular succession, and with colours occasionally borrowed, the general portrait of all those classes of females whose likeness every english traveller has, no doubt, met with, i must find a little corner of my canvass for a small number of women who might, probably, be sought in vain out of paris. however great a recommendation their rarity may be in the eyes of some, still it is not the only quality that points them out to the notice of the impartial observer. when a man has come to his senses respecting the sex, or, according to the vulgar adage, sown his wild oats, he naturally seeks a sincere friend to whom he can unbosom himself with confidence. experience warns him that few men are to be trusted; and unless he has had the good fortune to meet with a virtuous wife, blessed with an engaging temper and a good understanding, he must even, like junius, be the depository of his own secret. in paris, however, he may find one of those scarce females, who, being accustomed early in life to reflection, possess the firm mind of a man, combined with the quick sensibility of a woman. when the illusion of the first passions is dissipated, their reason becomes unclouded. renouncing every narrow thought, they raise themselves to the knowledge of the most weighty affairs, and, by an active observation of mankind, are accustomed to discriminate every shade of character. hence their penetration is great; and they are capable of giving good advice on important occasions. in short, a french woman at thirty makes an excellent friend, and, attaching herself to the man she esteems, thinks no sacrifice too great for the advancement of his interest, or the security of his happiness or reputation. the friendship between man and woman is a thousand times more sweet than that between one man and another. a woman's friendship is active, vigilant, and at the same time tender. french women cherish more sincerely their old friends than their young lovers. they may perchance deceive the lover, but never the friend; the latter they consider as a sacred being. whence, no doubt, rousseau (who has not spared the parisian ladies) has been led to say: "i would never have sought in paris a wife, still less a mistress; but i would willingly have made there a female friend; and this treasure would, perhaps, have consoled me for not finding the other two." letter xl. _paris, december , ._ about thirty years ago, a public insult offered to human nature, in the person of some unfortunate blind men belonging to the hospital of the _quinze-vingts_, and repeated daily for the space of two months, suggested to a spectator the idea of avenging it in a manner worthy of a true philanthropist. in a coffeehouse of the _foire st. ovide_, in paris, were placed ten blind beggars, muffled up in grotesque dresses and long pointed caps, with large paste-board spectacles on their nose, without glass: music and lights were set before them; and one of them was characterized as midas, with the ears of an ass, and the addition of a peacock's tail, spread behind him. he sang, while all the others played the same parts of a monotonous tune, without either taste or measure; and the unfeeling public turned into derision the unfortunate actors in this infamous scene. this happened in september . from that moment, m. valentin haÜy, brother to the celebrated mineralogist of that name, animated by a noble enthusiasm, conceived the project of teaching the blind to write and read, and of placing in their hands books and music, printed by themselves. after employing twelve years in maturing it, at length, in , he ventured to carry it into execution. to so laudable and benevolent a purpose, he devoted all his fortune; and hence originated the establishment known in paris, since the year , by the title of national institution of the industrious blind. presently m. haÜy found his plan seconded by the philanthropic society, and the benefactions and advice of several persons, no less distinguished for understanding than benevolence, contributed not a little to encourage his zeal in its prosecution. the following were the primary objects of the establishment. . to withdraw the blind from the dangerous paths of idleness. . to procure them certain means of subsistence by the execution of pleasant and easy labours. . to restore them to society. . to console them for their misfortune. to rescue the blind from idleness is, unquestionably, of itself a great blessing, as it preserves them from an infinite number of vices, and consequently must be approved by the moralist. but another advantage, equally deserving of approbation, is to cause them to find, in their labour, an infallible resource against indigence. previously to the execution of this beneficent plan, a young blind child, born of poor parents, was reduced to the melancholy and humiliating necessity of standing in a public thoroughfare, exposed to all the inclemency of the weather, to beg its bread, and, at present, it has no occasion to owe its livelihood but to its own labour. the children that m. haÜy had to educate were, in general, of the class of artisans, though a few belonged to that of artists and men of science. some were born with a little aptitude for mechanical labours, others with a great disposition for the arts and sciences. these considerations naturally pointed out to him his plan of instruction, which is divided into four branches. i. handicraft work, viz. spinning, knitting, making of cord, fringe, trimming, ribband, pasteboard, &c. task-masters direct the execution of these works, which are as easy to the blind as to the clear-sighted. ii. education, viz. reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, literature, history, foreign languages, arts and sciences. this education of blind children is carried on by means of raised-work or relief, and is intrusted to other blind people whose education is completed. the latter not only instruct their unfortunate fellow-sufferers, but also the clear-sighted. the sense of feeling is so refined in blind children, that a pupil, a little informed, becomes perfectly acquainted with maps by handling them: he points out with his finger countries and towns; if a map is presented to him upside down, he places it in a proper manner, and if one map is substituted to another, he instantly discovers the deception. iii. printing, viz. in black characters, for the public. in relief, for themselves. in black, they have printed no inconsiderable number of voluminous works, for the use of the public. in relief, they have printed for themselves a catechism, a grammar, and a great quantity of music. no where but at this institution, and at the museum of the blind, of which i shall presently speak, is there to be found an office for printing in relief. iv. music, viz. vocal and instrumental, and composition. the music of the blind pupils has always been employed with the greatest success in public festivals, playhouses, balls, coffeehouses, and many public and private assemblies. it is impossible to form an adequate idea of the decided taste of the blind for music, and of the consolation which it affords them. deprived of their eyes, they seem to become all ears. no sooner had m. haÜy rendered public his first essays, than the learned, and especially the members of the _ci-devant_ academy of sciences, stamped them with their approbation, as appears by a report signed by some of the most distinguished of that body, such as desmarets, la rochefoucault, condorcet, &c. professors of the arts, cultivated by his pupils, such as printing, music, &c. were equally eager to acknowledge to what an astonishing degree the blind had succeeded in appropriating to themselves the enjoyment of those arts. three of the first master-printers in paris certified the intelligence and skill of the blind pupils; and a concert was executed by them to the no small satisfaction of the _ci-devant_ academy of music. persons of every degree now wished to be spectators of the result of these essays. lewis xvi sent for the industrious blind, their machinery, &c. to versailles; he visited them when at work, and inspected their several performances, attended by all the royal family, princes of the blood, ministers, ambassadors, &c. after having procured the inhabitants of that town this interesting sight for several successive days, he rewarded the blind with marks of his favour and encouragement. the government, which succeeded to the monarchy, shewed no less interest in the progress of m. haÜy's undertaking. the different legislatures, which have successively governed france, promoted it by various decrees. in proportion as the number of the pupils increased, so did the resources of their industrious activity. by a law which was solicited by m. haÜy, and which excited and kept up a singular emulation among his pupils, the blind, in preference to the clear-sighted of equal merit, were admitted to the various secondary employments of the establishment. from that period, the first blind pupils, formed by m. haÜy, being promoted to the functions of teachers, transmitted with success to young blind children, sent for instruction, from different parts of the republic, the first elements of education given them by himself and assistants. by virtue of this law, the office of house-steward was intrusted to lesueur, a blind pupil who had already discharged it with credit at a banker's. it will scarcely be believed, no doubt, that a blind man can be a cashier, receive money coming in, either from the public treasury, or from the industry of his brothers in misfortune; make of it a suitable division; buy commodities necessary for life and clothing; introduce the strictest economy into his disbursements; by means of his savings, procure the establishment the implements and machinery of the industrious blind; in times of real scarcity, make use of the productions of the labour of the grown blind, to maintain the young blind pupils, and that, with all these concerns on his hands, his accounts should always be ready for inspection. m. haÜy informs me that out of fifteen or twenty of his old pupils, whom he has connected by the ties of marriage, ten or twelve are fathers; and that they have children more fortunate than the authors of their days, since the enjoy the benefit of sight. but the most interesting part of these connexions is, that the blind father (on the principle of the plan before-stated) teaches his clear-sighted son reading, arithmetic, music, and every thing that it is possible to teach without the help of the eyes. raised work, or relief, is the simple and general process by means of which m. haÜy forms his pupils, and there are a great number of them whose abilities would excite the pride of many a clear-sighted person. for instance, in addition to the before-mentioned lesueur, who is an excellent geographer and a good mathematician, might be quoted huard, a man of erudition and a correct printer; likewise caillat, a capital performer on the violin, and a celebrated composer. for vocal and instrumental music, printing, and handicraft work, there might be noticed thirty or forty, as well as ten or twelve for knowledge relating to the sciences. it may not be improper to observe, that m. haÜy always first puts a frame into the hands of his pupils, and that he has made a law, to which he scrupulously adheres, not to lean too much towards the _agreeable_ arts, unless the pupil manifest for them a peculiar disposition. hence you may form an idea of the proficiency which these unfortunates attain under the auspices of the benevolent m. haÜy. in the compass of a letter, or even of several letters, it is impossible to develope proceedings which it is more easy to put into execution than to describe. the process alone of printing in relief would require a vast number of pages, and some plates, in order to make it perfectly intelligible; but the greater part of what composes these branches of instruction is amply detailed in a work, which i shall communicate to you, entitled "_essai sur l'Éducation des aveugles_, _par_ valentin haüy, _auteur de la manière de les instruire_," printed under the sanction of the _ci-devant_ academy of sciences. by a law on public education, passed in july , several establishments were to be founded in favour of blind children, in the principal towns of the republic; but, in consequence of the political changes which have since occurred in the government, it has never been carried into execution. in october, , the consuls decreed that the _national institution of the industrious blind_ should be united to the hospital of the _quinze-vingts_, together with the soldiers who had lost their sight in egypt. m. haÜy is shortly to be honoured by a pension, as a reward for the services which he has bestowed on those afflicted with blindness. at the present moment, he is engaged in founding a second establishment, of a similar nature, which is to take the name of museum of the blind. on my asking m. haÜy, whether he would not retire, as it was intended he should, on his pension? "this favour of the government," replied he, "i consider as a fresh obligation, silently imposed on me, to continue to be of service to the blind. the first establishment, supported and paid by the nation, belonged to the poor. in forming the second," added he, "i have yielded to the wishes of parents in easy circumstances, who were desirous of giving to their blind children a liberal education." i have already mentioned, that, agreeably to m. haÜy's plan, the blind instruct the clear-sighted; and in this museum, which is situated _rue sainte avoie, hôtel de mêsme, no. _, the former are to be seen directing a class of fifty youths, whom they instruct in every branch before-mentioned, writing excepted. it is also in contemplation to teach a blind pupil _pasigraphy_, or universal language, invented by demaimieux. m. haÜy details to strangers every part of his plan with the most patient and obliging attention. when he had concluded, i could not avoid expressing a wish that the art of instructing the blind in the fullest extent might be speedily introduced among all nations. "after having paid to my country," rejoined m. haÜy, "the merited homage of my invention, my anxiety to contribute to the relief of the afflicted, wherever they may be found, gives birth to the desire of propagating, as much as possible, an institution which enlightened men and philanthropists have been pleased to recommend to the attention of foreigners and to the esteem of my countrymen, as may be seen by consulting different literary publications from the year down to the present time, particularly the new french encyclopædia, at the article _aveugle_." "i should," added he, "perform a task very agreeable to my feelings in concurring, by my advice and knowledge, to lay in england the foundation of an establishment of a description similar to either of those which i have founded in paris. one of my pupils in the art of instructing the blind, m. grancher, a member of several learned societies in france, and possessed of my means and method, would voluntarily devote his talents and experience to the success of such an undertaking, to which he is himself strongly attached through philanthropy and zeal for my reputation."--"i am persuaded," interrupted i, "that were the advantages of such an establishment made public in england, it would receive the countenance and support of every friend of human nature."--"it is an unquestionable fact," concluded m. haüy, "that an institution of fifty blind, well conducted, ought, by their labour, to produce more than would defray its expenses. i have already even tried with success to apply to the english tongue my method of reading, which is so contrived for the french language, that i need not give more than two or three lessons to a blind child, in order to enable him to teach himself to read, without the further help of any master." letter xli. _paris, december , ._ such a crowd of different objects present themselves to my mind, whenever i sit down to write to you, that, frequently as i have visited the grand french opera since my arrival here, i have been hesitating whether i should make it the subject of this letter. however, as it is one of the first objects of attraction to a stranger, and the first in a theatrical point of view, i think you cannot be too soon introduced to a knowledge of its allurements. let us then pass in review the thÉÂtre des arts et de la republique.[ ] previously to the revolution, the french opera-house, under the name of _académie royale de musique_, was situated on the boulevard, near the _porte st. martin_. except the façade, which has been admired, there was nothing very remarkable in the construction of this theatre, but the dispatch with which it was executed. the old opera-house in the _palais royal_ having been burnt down on the th of june , m. lenoir, the architect, built a new one in the short space of sixty days, and, within a fortnight after, it was decorated and opened. had an hospital been reduced to ashes, observes an able writer, it would have required four years at least to determine on the eligibility of new plans.--but a theatre, constructed with such expedition, excited apprehensions respecting its stability: it was necessary to remove them, and, by way of _trying the house_, the first representation was given _gratis_. this had the desired effect: after having sustained the weight of between two and three thousand market-women, oyster-wenches, shoe-blacks, chimney-sweepers, porters, &c, it was deemed sufficiently solid to receive a more refined audience. at the beginning of the year , the interior of this quickly-built theatre was also destroyed by fire. but the opera experienced no interruption: such an event would be regarded as a public calamity in the capital. in fact, this expensive establishment affords employ to a vast number of persons. the singers, dancers, musicians, machinists, painters, tailors, dress-makers, scene-shifters, &c. attached to it, would constitute a little nation. the richness and variety of the dresses give activity to several branches of trade, and its representations involve all the agreeable arts. these united attractions captivate foreigners, and induce them to squander considerable sums of money in the country. hence, were the opera-house shut up, commerce would suffer; there would be an absolute void in the pleasures of the parisians; and, as experience proves, these volatile people would sooner resign every thing most valuable than any portion of their amusements. besides, without such an establishment, the talents of singers and dancers could not be maintained in their present perfection. it holds out to them constant encouragement and remuneration; while, compared to any other theatre, it excites in the spectators a greater number of pleasing sensations. how then could it be dispensed with? accordingly, when the disaster befell the theatre of the _porte st. martin_, it was considered as a fortunate circumstance that the present opera-house was just finished. the performers of the _ci-devant académie de musique_ immediately established themselves in this new asylum, which is situated in the _rue de la loi_, facing the national library, and opened it to the public under the name of _théâtre des arts_. i must observe, by the way, that, in france, all players, dancers, musicians, and every one who exercises an art, are now styled _artistes_. the form of this house is nearly a parallelogram: one of the shorter sides is occupied by the stage, and the other three are slightly curved. in general, one is ill placed here, except in the boxes in front of the stage, and in the pit, the seats of which rise abruptly, in the manner of an amphitheatre, from the orchestra to the first tier of boxes. the chief consul has chosen for himself the stage-box, as i believe we term it in england, on the right hand of the actors. it is elegantly decorated with scarlet velvet, embroidered in gold. the ornaments (i am not speaking of the scenery) are neither of superlative elegance, nor do they display extraordinary taste. the curtain, however, is majestic and beautiful, as well as the ceiling. "here," says a french author, "arts, graces, genius, and taste conspire to produce a most magnificent, a most brilliant, and most enchanting spectacle. here heroes come to life again to sing their love and their despair; here many a goddess is seen to mix with mortals, many a venus to descend from the radiant olympus in order to throw herself into the arms of more than one anchises."--certainly, if splendid decorations, rich and appropriate dresses, the most skilful machinists, the most distinguished composers, a numerous and most select orchestra, some excellent actors, together with the most celebrated dancers in europe, of both sexes, constitute a brilliant spectacle, this justly deserves that title. in these magnificent arrangements, we see again the grand french opera, as it appeared in the most splendid days of the monarchy. with the exception of the singing, every other department at this theatre is much improved; the only drawback that i can discover at the representation of the same pieces, which i have often seen here before the revolution, consists in the exterior of the spectators. between the acts, when i transport myself in idea to the former period, and, looking round the house, form a comparison, i find the republican audience far less brilliant, owing, no doubt, to the absence of that glare of diamonds, embroidery, lace, and other finery, which distinguished the frequenters of the opera under the old government. the performances at the opera being, in general, more calculated for charming the eyes and ears, than gratifying the understanding, it is, consequently, the most frequented of any of the capital. "-------- with the many action is eloquence, and th' eyes of th' ignorant more learned than their ears." there is, however, no piece represented at this theatre that a stranger ought not to see, either on account of the music, or of the spectacle and its decorations. the operas, or lyric tragedies, which, from the number of times they have been performed, appear to have obtained the greatest success, are those of gluck. the originality, the energy, the force and truth of declamation of this great musician were likely to render him successful, especially among the french, who applauded the two last-mentioned qualities on their other national theatre. with the exception of one only, all the works of gluck have remained as stock-pieces, and are played from time to time. they are five in number; namely, _iphigénie en aulide_, _iphigénie en tauride_, _orphée et euridice_, _armide_, and _alceste_. that which could not maintain its ground, and consequently fell, was _narcisse_. the flimsiness of the poem was the cause; for the music, i am assured, is the finest that gluck ever composed, and several pieces of it have been repeatedly performed in the parisian concerts. the _didon_ of piccini and the _oedipe à colonne_ of sacchini have had no less success than the operas of gluck. they are very frequently represented. it may not, perhaps, be unseasonable to remind you that, from twenty to twenty-five years ago, when the old operas of lulli and rameau were laid aside, and replaced by modern works, two parties were formed, which, from the name of the musician that each adopted, were called, the one, _gluckists_; and the other, _piccinists_. their inveteracy was great, somewhat like that which, forty years before, existed between the _molinists_ and _jansenists_: and few persons, if any, i believe, remained neuter. victory seems to have crowned the former party. indeed the music of gluck possesses a melody which is wonderfully energetic and striking. piccini is skilful and brilliant in his harmony, as well as sweet and varied in his composition; but this style of beauty has been thought to be deficient in expression. truth obliges me to say, that, of piccini's works, no opera is now played but his _didon_, and that his other productions, which, to the best of my recollection, are _alys_, an opera called _iphigénie en tauride_, and _pénélope_, have fallen. this was ascribed to the mediocrity of the language; a part of an opera somewhat essential, though no great attention seems to be bestowed on it. but if people here are not very difficult as to the style of the language, they require at least an action well conducted and interesting. when the piece is of itself cold, it is not in the power of the finest music to give it warmth. the _oedipe à colonne_ of sacchini is reckoned by many persons the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of operas. that able musician has there excelled in all that is graceful, noble, and pathetic; but it exhibits not the tragic fire that is to be found in the works of gluck. sacchini has left behind him another composition, called _arvire et evéline_, which, though a cold subject, taken from the history of england, is held in estimation. at this theatre are also performed what the french term _opéras de genre_. these are a species of comic opera, in which is introduced a great deal of show and bustle. _panurge_, _la caravanne_, _anacréon_, _tarare_, _les prétendus_, _les mystères d'isis_, &c. are of this description. the music of the first three is by grÉtry. it is considered as replete with grace, charm, and truth of expression. the poem of _panurge_ is an _estravaganza_. those of the _caravanne_ and of _anacréon_ are but indifferent. it required no small share of talent to put words into the mouth of the charming poet, whose name is given to the last-mentioned piece; but m. guy appears not to have thought of this. _tarare_ is a tissue of improbabilities and absurdities. the poem is frequently nothing but an assemblage of words which present no meaning. it is a production of the celebrated beaumarchais, who has contrived to introduce into it a sort of impious metaphysics, much in fashion here before the revolution. the music is by salieri; it is very agreeable. the decorations are brilliant and diversified. the piece is preceded by a prologue (which no other opera has) representing the confusion and separation of the elements; and at the time of its first appearance, i remember it was said that chaos was the image of the author's head. _les prétendus_ is a piece in one act, the plot of which is weak, though of a gay cast. the music is charming. it is by le moyne, who died a few years ago, at an early period of life. _les mystères d'isis_, which is now the rage, is an incoherent parody from a german opera, called _the enchanted flute_. to say that the music is by mozart, dispenses me from any eulogium. the decorations are extremely beautiful and varied: a scene representing paradise is really enchanting. after speaking of lyric tragedies, i should have mentioned those which are either in rehearsal, or intended to be brought forward at this theatre. they consist of _hécube_, _andromaque_, _sémiramis_, and _tamerlan_. although none of them are spoken of very highly, they will, in all probability, succeed in a certain degree; for a piece scarcely ever has a complete fall at the opera. this theatre has so many resources in the decorations, music, and dancing, that a new piece is seldom destitute of something worth seeing. what, at the present day, proves the greatest attraction to the opera, is the dancing. how bad soever may be a piece, when it is interspersed with fine ballets, it is sure of having a certain run. of these i shall say no more till i come to speak of that department. the weakest part of the performances at the opera is the singing. all are agreed as to the mediocrity of the singers at this theatre, called _lyric_. no one can say that, within the last ten or twelve years, they are improved. to any person fond of the italian style, it would be a sort of punishment to attend while some of the singers here go through a scene. on the stage of the french comic opera, it has been adopted, and here also a similar change is required; but with the will to accomplish it, say its partisans, the means, perhaps, might still be wanting. the greater part of the old performers have lost their voice, and those who have not, do not appear to have sufficiently followed the progress of modern taste to be able all at once to embrace a new manner. the first singer at the opera, in point of talent, is laÏs. he even leaves all the others far behind him, if we consider him only as a singer. he is a _tenore_, according to the expression of the italians, and a _taille_, according to that of the french: in the _cantabile_ or graceful style, he is perfect; but he ought to avoid tragic pieces requiring exertion, in which his voice, though flexible, is sometimes disagreeable, and even harsh. besides, he is absolutely deficient in nobleness of manner; and his stature and countenance are better suited to low character. indeed, he chiefly performs in the operas termed here _opéras de genre_, such as _panurge_, _la caravanne_, _anacréon_, and _les prétendus_. in these, his acting is correct, and his delivery judicious. laÏs is no less famous for the violence of his political opinions than for his talents as a singer. at the period when the abettors of the reign of terror were, in their turn, hunted down, for a long time he durst not appear on the stage. he was accused by his brother performers of having said that the opera would never go on well till a guillotine should be placed on the stage. this stroke was levelled against the greater part of the actors and the musicians belonging to the orchestra. however, as laÏs could not be reproached with any culpable _actions_, he found zealous defenders, and the public sacrificed their resentment to their pleasure. this lenity appears not to have had on him the effect which one would imagine. he still possesses every requisite for singing well, but seems indifferent as to the means of pleasing, and exerts himself but little. if singers were esteemed by seniority, and perhaps by employment, lainez would be reckoned the first at this theatre. he is a counter-tenor, and performs the parts of a lover. his voice is very strong, and, besides singing through his nose, he screams loud enough to split one's ears. i have already observed that the ears of a tasteful amateur would sometimes be shocked at this theatre. the same remark, no doubt, was equally just some time ago; for j. j. rousseau, when he was told that it was intended to restore to him the free admission which he had enjoyed at the opera, replied that this was unnecessary, because he had at the door of his country-residence the screech owls of the forest of montmorency. those who are partial to lainez think him an excellent actor. this means that he has some warmth, and bestirs himself like a demoniac. when the heroes of the opera wore hair-powder, nothing was more comic than to see him shake his head, which was instantly enveloped in a cloud of dust. at this signal the plaudits burst forth with great violence, and the would-be singer, screaming with still greater loudness, seemed on the point of bursting a blood-vessel. it is reported that, not long since, a great personage having sent for the _artists_ belonging to the opera, said to them, addressing himself to lainez, "gentlemen, do you intend to keep long your old singers?"[ ] the same personage then turning round to the dancers added, "as for you, gentlemen of the dance, none but compliments can be paid to you." laforÊt who (as the french express it), _doubles_ lainez, that is, performs the same characters in his absence, has little more to recommend him than his zeal. his voice is tolerably agreeable, but not strong enough for so large a house. as an actor he is cold and aukward. next comes chÉron: he sings bass. his voice is strong, and the tone of it sonorous and clear. however, it is thought to be weakened, and although this singer sometimes throws out fine tones, he is reproached with a want of taste and method. he is a sorry actor. indeed, he very seldom makes his appearance, which some attribute to idleness; and others, to his state of health. the latter is likely to be occasionally deranged, as in point of epicurism, he has as great a reputation as our celebrated quin. adrien, who _doubles_ chÉron, is an excellent actor; but his means do not equal his intelligence. he presents himself wonderfully well; all his movements, all his gestures have dignity, grace, and ease. there are, for the same employment, other secondary singers, some of whom are by no means backward in exertion, particularly dufresne; but an impartial observer can say nothing more in their commendation. let us now examine the qualifications of _mesdames les cantatrices_. the first female singer at the opera is mademoiselle maillard. by means of a rather pretty face, a clear voice, and a cabal of malcontents (for there are some every where and in every line), she obtained loud applause, when she first appeared some years ago as the rival of the charming st. huberti. since the revolution, france has lost this celebrated actress, and probably for ever. she emigrated, and has since married the _ci-devant_ comte d'antraigues. although she had not a powerful voice, she sang with the greatest perfection; and her impressive and dignified style of acting was at least equal to her singing. at the present day, mademoiselle maillard has succeeded madame st. huberti, and is, as i have said, the first singer, in point of rank. she is become enormous in bulk, and as the italians express it, _canta a salti_. her powerful voice fills the house, but she is not unfrequently out of tune: her declamation is noisy; while her masculine person gives her in all her motions the air of a bacchante. these qualities, no doubt, recommended her to the notice of chaumette, the proclaimer of atheism, under whose auspices she more than once figured as the goddess of reason. she has, nevertheless, occasionally distinguished herself as an actress; and those who love noise, admire the effect of her transitions. but i give the preference to mademoiselle latour, who has a melodious pipe, which you will probably hear, as it is said that she has not retired from the stage, where she frequently reminded the public of the fascinating st. huberti, particularly in the character of _didon_. since the prolonged absence of mademoiselle latour, madame branchu _doubles_ mademoiselle maillard. she is of much promise both as a singer and actress. her voice is agreeable, but not extensive. mademoiselle armand is another most promising singer, who has a more powerful organ than madame branchu, and when she has perfectly acquired the art of modulating it, will, doubtless, prove a very valuable acquisition to this theatre. her voice has much sweetness, and sometimes conveys to the ear the most flattering sounds, as its low tones are grave without being harsh, and its high ones sonorous without being sharp. she seems to execute the most difficult pieces of music with considerable ease; but she is deficient in action. mademoiselle henry is strong as to method, but weak as to means, in singing. there are several other female singers; but, in my opinion, their merits do not entitle them to particular mention. twelve or fourteen years ago, the opera was much better provided with singers than it is at the present moment. their voices, in every line of this department, were well-toned and powerful. they easily reached the highest notes according to the tone given by the diapason. since then, the powers of most of the singers who still remain on the stage have diminished, and those called in to supply the place of such as are dead or have retired, are not near so rich in voice as their predecessors. the diapason, however, has remained the same: to this, in a great measure, may be attributed those shrieks and efforts which disgust foreigners, unaccustomed to the french method. at the parisian comic opera, in consequence of a remonstrance from the principal singers, their diapason has been lowered half a tone; and it seems necessary to examine whether the same rule be not applicable to this theatre. the choruses, notwithstanding, are now given here with more effect and precision than i ever remember at any former period. in these, the ear is no longer offended by exaggerated extensions of the voice, and, on the whole, they are sung in a grand and graceful style. the orchestra, which is ably led by rey, has also experienced a manifest improvement. the principal musicians, i understand, have been recently changed; and the first artists are engaged for the execution of the solos, and nothing can now be wished for, either as to the spirit and correctness of the overtures, or to the melody and taste of the accompaniments. the chief consul is said to be particularly partial to italian music. in consequence, kreutzer, a capital violin, and also a celebrated composer, has been dispatched to italy by the french government, for the express purpose of selecting and purchasing the finest musical compositions which can be procured in that land of harmony. thus, the advice given by rousseau, in his _dictionnaire de musique_, has at length been followed. so much for the singing department of the opera, which, as you see, with some exceptions, is but indifferent: in my next, i shall speak of the dancing. [footnote : since the above letter was written, this lyric theatre has changed its name for that of _théâtre de l'opéra_. this seems like one of the minor modifications, announcing the general retrograde current setting towards the readoption of old habits; for the denomination of _théâtre des arts_ was certainly unobjectionable, as poetry, music, dancing, painting, and mechanics, concurred in rendering more pompous and more surprising the effects which a fertile genius, when governed by reason, might assemble here for the gratification of the public. the addition of the words _et de la république_ was probably given to it from patriotic zeal, at the time when the _royal academy of music_ was abolished by the decree which annihilated all similar monarchical institutions.] [footnote : it appears that, from pique, this old opera-singer refused to sing on easter-sunday last, ( ) at the cathedral of _notre-dame_.] letter xlii _paris, december , _. dancing, like the other arts in france, has, during the revolution, experienced the vicissitudes of this new order of things; but also, like the other arts, it has made a progress equally astonishing and rapid. however, it must not thence be inferred that dancing, particularly theatrical, had not attained a certain degree of superiority long before the revolution; yet a most evident improvement has been made in it, not only by the old-established dancers, who then seemed almost to have done their best, but by the numerous competitors who have since made their appearance. it is not in the power of words to convey an adequate idea of the effect produced on the senses by some of the ballets. in lieu of those whimsical capers, forced attitudes, vague and undefined gestures of a set of dancers whose movements had no signification, dancing now forms an animated, graceful, and diversified picture, in which all the human passions are feelingly pourtrayed. their language is the more expressive from its being more refined and concentrated. in the silence of pantomime, recourse is had to every ingenious gesture, in order to impart to them greater force and energy; and, in this mute play, restraint seems to kindle eloquence. every motion has its meaning; the foot speaks as well as the eye, and the sensations of the mind are expressed by the attitudes of the body. a delicate sentiment is rendered with the rapidity of lightning. love, fear, hope, and despair, change countenances, and say every thing that they wish to say, void of deceit, as if falsehood no longer existed as soon as the mouth ceased to open. it should not be forgotten that it was noverre who first brought about in france this reform in what were till then called ballets, without deserving the title. he banished wigs, hoop-petticoats, and other preposterous habiliments, and, by dint of superior genius, seconded by taste and perseverance, introduced those historical pictures, replete with grace, expression, and sentiment, in the room of the flat, insipid, and lifeless caricatures, which had hitherto usurped admiration. but, though noverre, and, after him, the gardels, introduced on the parisian stage the pantomimic art in all the lustre in which it flourished on the theatres of greece and rome, yet they had been anticipated by hilwerding in germany, and angiolini in italy, two celebrated men, who, in a distinguished manner, laid the foundations of a species of modern entertainment, before known only by the annals of ancient history. those who have trod in their steps have infinitely surpassed them in attractions, and, by their scientific compositions, acquired a justly-merited reputation. gardel, who, for the last fifteen years, has been the first dancer at the opera, shews himself but seldom. after having, during that long period, received the warmest and best deserved applause, either in the execution of the noble style of dancing, or in the composition of ballets, he seems now to have devoted himself almost exclusively to the last-mentioned branch of his art, and the perfection to which he daily carries it, may well compensate the public for the privation of his talents in the line of execution. the most famous pantomimical ballets or _ballets d'action_ (as they are styled) now represented here, are _psyché_, _télémaque_, _le jugement de paris_, _mirza_, and _la dansomanie_. the impression to which i have before alluded, is particularly observable during the representation of the first three (composed by gardel), the charm of which would be weakened by any attempt at description. no spectator, be his disposition ever so cold and indifferent, can behold them unmoved. every effort of human skill and invention is exerted to excite astonishment and admiration. the _ensemble_ of the _spectacle_ and decorations correspond to the fertile genius of the author. it is the triumph of the art, and there may be fixed the limits of pantomime, embellished by dancing. nothing more perfect than the rapid change of scenery. meteors, apparitions, divinities borne on clusters of clouds or in cars, appear and disappear, as if by enchantment, exhibiting situations the most picturesque and striking. boulay, the principal machinist, is, perhaps, the first in his line in europe. in the opera of _armide_, i have seen him raise into the air nearly one half of the theatre. he executes whatever is proposed to him, no matter how difficult, and he is well seconded by the painters and draughtsmen. the new decorations display much taste, and produce an effect truly wonderful. had i not already made the remark, you might have concluded from the general tenour of my observations, that the dancing forms the most brilliant part, of the _spectacle_ at this theatre, or, in other words, that the accessory prevails over the main subject. it is no longer, as heretofore, a few capital dancers of both sexes who form the ornament of the opera. almost all the competitors in this line are so many _virtuosi_ who deserve and equally participate the plaudits of the public. there is not among them any mediocrity. the establishment of the _école de la danse_ is for this theatre a nursery, where terpsichore finds, in great numbers, the most promising plants for the decoration of her temple. it is saying little to affirm that nothing equals the superiority of talents of this description which the opera comprehends at the present moment. these advantages, i understand, are chiefly due to gardel. he has given the example and the precept, and, through his guidance, the art of dancing is become doubly captivating. after having supplied most of the principal cities in europe with capital dancers, this theatre, far from being impoverished, is still in possession of a numerous train of first-rate _artists_ of both sexes in every style of dancing. the men are gardel, milon, st. amand, deshaies, goyon, beauprÉ, branchu, beaulieu, aumer, lÉon, taglioni, duport, and vestris. it is unnecessary to speak of the talents of vestris, as they are as well known in london as in paris. i shall therefore content myself with remarking that he delights in exhibiting feats of agility; but as his age increases, connoisseurs think that he declines a little. nevertheless, he is still, in reality, the first dancer at the opera. it is said that his son, armand vestris, will, in time, be able to supply his place; in the mean while, duport bids fair to fill it, in case the "_dieu de la danse_" should retire; not to mention deshaies, who has lately met with an accident which has disabled him for the present; but who, when on the stage in the presence of vestris, has shewn that he could also astonish and delight the spectators. without having the boldness of his rival, he exhibits more certainty and _à-plomb_. in the character of _télémaque_, he appears with all the grace of apollo. if excellence in dancing be allowed to consist less in the efforts of the dancer, than in the ease and gracefulness of his attitudes, and the lightness and precision of his steps, deshaies may he classed in the first rank of his profession. in this exercise, as in every thing else, there is a just medium, and this is more particularly observed by the principal female dancers. the names of these are gardel, clotilde, chevigny, pÉrignon, collomb, chameroi,[ ] saulnier, vestris, delisle, milliÈre, louise, fÉlicitÉ, duport, taglioni, aline, Étienne, jacotot, florine, adÈle, to whom may be added two most promising _débutantes_, la neuville and bigotini, whose first appearance i witnessed. though madame gardel, wife of the principal ballet-master, shines in _demi-caractère_, her talents, in the different parts in which she is placed, are above all panegyric. as noverre has said somewhere of a famous dancer, "she is always tender, always graceful, sometimes a butterfly, sometimes a zephyr, at one moment inconstant, at another faithful; always animated by a new sentiment, she represents with voluptuousness all the shades of love." to sum up her merits, she is really in her art the female proteus of the lyric scene. mademoiselle clotilde is a tall, elegant woman, who dances in the serious style. all her movements, made with precision, exhibit the beautiful proportion of her finely-modelled figure; but, owing to her stature, she appears to most advantage in pantomime, particularly in the character of _calypso_ in the ballet of _télémaque_. in the same ballet, milliÈre, in the part of _eucharis_, displays her playful graces and engaging mien. chevigny is full of expression in pantomime, and dances in great perfection, notwithstanding her _embonpoint_. pÉrignon and collomb are superior in the comic style, and all the others are not without some peculiar exellence.[ ] i should never finish, were i to attempt to particularize the merits of all these fascinating women, who, as well as the men, have, of late, alternately interchanged the characters they performed in the ballets of action. even those introduced occasionally in the fêtes given and received by the heroes in the different operas, present a real contest, in which the first-rate dancers of both sexes exert themselves to snatch the palm from their rivals. when a theatre possesses such a richness, variety, and assemblage of talents in the same art, it may boldly stylo itself the first in europe. but i must confess that an innovation has been introduced here which detracts much from what has always been considered as fine dancing. i mean the mania of _pirouettes_. this, however, seems less to be attributed to a decided _penchant_ of the dancers than to that of a new public, not yet familiarized to what constitutes true taste. during a revolution, every thing changes, every thing assumes a new face. what was entitled to please yesterday in times of tranquillity, is to-day, during the jar of public opinion, and will be to-morrow subject to all the variations of caprice. the marvellous and gigantic usurp the place of the natural, and claim alone the right to entertain. true it is that the dancers have found means to render this new manner interesting, while they have enjoyed the sweets of it. the pleasure of being applauded is so great, that it is no easy matter to withstand the powerful allurement of the plaudits of a numerous audience. boileau has said, "_aimez-vous la muscade? on en a mis par tout_." the french dancers, following his example, have said, "_aimez-vous les pirouettes?_" the public have answered _oui_; and _pirouettes_ are all the rage. when a certain king of bisnagar sneezes, the court, the town, the provinces, all the subjects of his empire, in short, sneeze in imitation of their monarch. without departing from my subject, i shall only observe that _pirouettes_, like this sneezing, have found their way from the opera-stage into the circles of every class of society in paris. there lies the absurdity. the young frenchmen have been emulous to dance like dancers by profession; the women have had the same ambition; and both men and women have, above all, been desirous to shine like them in _pirouettes_. thence most of the dances, formerly practised in society, in which simple and natural grace was combined with a certain facility and nobleness of execution, have been entirely laid aside. it must be acknowledged, that, among the dancers in private company, there are many, indeed, who, by dint of imitation and study, have attained a great degree of perfection. but i now perceive that people here no longer dance for their amusement; they dance to gratify their vanity, and many a person who has not practised some hours in the morning under the tuition of his master, excuses himself in the evening, pretends to be lame, and declines dancing. the taste and elegance of the dresses of the opera-dancers, like those of the heroes and heroines of the sock and buskin, leave nothing to be wished for. in lieu of drawers, which all women, without exception, were formerly obliged to wear on the stage[ ], those who dance have now substituted silk pantaloons, woven with feet, in order to serve also as stockings. in some particular characters, they wear these of flesh colour, and it is not then easy, at first sight, to distinguish whether it be or be not the clothing of nature. the french opera having been long considered as the grand national theatre, it has ever been the pride of the government, whether monarchical or republican, to support it in a manner worthy of the nation. in fact, the disbursements are so great, that it would be impossible for the receipts to cover them, though the performances are seldom suspended for more than two days in the week, and the house is generally crowded. this theatre is managed by the government, and on its account. the minister of the interior appoints a commissioner to superintend its operations, and managers to conduct them. during the old _régime_, the opera cost the crown annually from one hundred and fifty to two hundred thousand livres. what the extraordinary expenses of this house are, under the present government, is not so easily ascertained; but, from the best information that i have been able to procure, their amount is from three to four hundred thousand francs a year. here is a considerable increase; but it must be remembered that the price of several articles is now greatly augmented, if not doubled. the receipt of the opera, on an average, used to be from twelve to fifteen thousand livres a night; what it is at this day, is not positively known. formerly, the produce of the boxes, let by the year, was such, that nine thousand livres were paid, in a manner, before the doors were thrown open. that resource is almost void at present; nevertheless, this house being more spacious than the old one, the prices of admission higher, and the performance, perhaps, more constantly attended, the money taken at the door cannot well be less than it was formerly. it then cost much less than it does now to bring out a new piece. thirty or forty thousand livres were sufficient for the production of the most magnificent opera; while the disbursements to be made for _tamerlan_ will, it is thought, amount to upwards of eighty thousand francs. at this rate, the first representation of the _mystères d'isis_, of which so much has been said, must have been attended with an expense of more than a hundred thousand. scandal whispers, that the managers of the opera are rather partial to expensive pieces; but as they are accountable for their conduct to the minister of the interior, i should presume that they must act as honourable men. the salaries are not considerable at this theatre. the first performers have not more than twelve thousand francs a year, exclusively of the _feux_, which is the sum given to each of them, when they perform. this, i understand, does not exceed a louis a night. those who have a name, indemnify themselves by going, from time to time, to play in the great commercial towns of the departments, such as bordeaux, lyons, marseilles, &c. where they generally collect a rich harvest. it is said that vestris has received from the government a gratification to prevent him from visiting the british metropolis; and it is also reported that didelot and laborie have made vain efforts to return to the parisian opera; but that the managers, faithful to their instructions, refuse to readmit such of the old performers as have voluntarily quitted it. what attaches performers to the opera-house is the _pension de retraite._ they all eventually obtain it, even the chorus-singers. the remuneration of authors, that is, of the poet and composer of the music, is to each three hundred francs for every representation, when the piece is not less than three acts. this is the most common division. i know of no operas in one act; those in two are paid in the above proportion.[ ] [footnote : gardel has lately added another sprig of laurel to his brow, by the production of a new pantomimical ballet, called _daphnis et pandrose, ou la vengeance de l'amour_. he has borrowed the subject from a story of madame de genlis, who took it from fable. every resource of his inexhaustible genius has been employed to give the happiest effect to this charming work, to enumerate the beauties of which is, by general report, beyond the powers of language. all the first-rate dancers of both sexes are placed in the most advantageous point of view throughout this ballet. madame gardel performs in it the part of cupid, with all the charms, wiles, and graces which poets ascribe to the roguish deity. the other characters are represented in a manner no less interesting. in short, music, dancing, pantomime, dress, decoration, every thing in this piece, concurs to stamp it as one of the most wonderful productions of the kind ever exhibited to the admiration of the public.] [footnote : in a preceding note, vestris has been mentioned as the reputed lover of mademoiselle chameroi, and from this instance of illicit intercourse, it might, perhaps, be erroneously inferred that most of the parisian female opera-dancers had overleaped the pale of virtue. without pretending to enter the lists as the champion of their character, though i admire their talents as warmly as any amateur, truth induces me to observe that many of these ladies enjoy an unblemished reputation. madame vestris, in particular, is universally represented as a young and pretty woman, much attached to her faithless husband, and, notwithstanding his improper example, a constant observer of the most exemplary conduct.] [footnote : many years ago, a parisian actress, coming on the stage in the part of _mérope_, in the tragedy of that name, her petticoats somehow happened to catch in the side-scene, and, in her hasty endeavours to disentangle them, she exhibited to the audience the hind part of her person. in consequence of this accident, a _sentence de police_ enjoined every woman, whether actress or dancer, not to appear on the boards of any theatre, without drawers.] [footnote : the refusal made by the rector of st. roch to admit into that church the corpse of mademoiselle chameroi, has informed us in england of the loss which this theatre has sustained in that young and accomplished dancer. she died, generally regretted, in consequence of being delivered of a child of which vestris considered himself as the real father. however, m. de markoff, the russian ambassador at paris, stood sponsor to the infant, and, according to the scandalous chronicle, was not contented with being only a spiritual father. the parisian public have consoled themselves for this loss by talking a great deal about the scene to which it gave rise. it seems that the rector was decidedly in the wrong, the dancers of the opera never having been comprised in the papal excommunication which involved players. the persons composing the funeral procession were also in the wrong to go to st. roch, since the rector had positively declared that the corpse of mademoiselle chameroi should not enter the church.] letter xliii. _paris, january , ._ fast locked in the arms of morpheus, and not dreaming of what was to happen, as lord north said, when the king caused him to be awakened, in the dead of the night, to deliver up the seals, so was i roused this morning by a message from an amiable french lady of my acquaintance, requesting me to send her some _bonbons_. "_bonbons_!" exclaimed i, "in the name of wonder, rosalie, is your mistress so childishly impatient as to send you trailing through the snow, on purpose to remind me that i promised to replenish her _bonbonnière_?"--"not exactly so, monsieur," replied the _femme de chambre_, "madame was willing to be the first to wish you a happy new year."--"a new year!" said i, "by the republican calendar, i thought that the new year began on the st of vendémiaire."--"very true," answered she; "but, in spite of new laws, people adhere to old customs; wherefore we celebrate the first of january."--"as to celebrating the first of january, _à la bonne heure_, rosalie," rejoined i, "i have no sort of objection; but i wish you had adhered to some of your other old customs, and, above all, to your old hours. i was not in bed till past six o'clock this morning, and now, you wake me at eight with your congratulations."--"never mind, monsieur," said she, "you will soon drop asleep again; but my mistress hopes that you will not fail to make one of her party on the _fête des rois_."--"good heaven!" exclaimed i again, "what, is a counterrevolution at hand, that the _fête des rois_ must also be celebrated?"--"'tis," interrupted rosalie, "only for the pleasure of drawing for king and queen."--"tell madame," added i, "that i will accept her invitation."--dismissing the _soubrette_ with this assurance, at the same time not forgetting to present her with a new year's gift, she at once revealed the secret of her early visit, by hinting to me that, among intimate friends, it was customary to give _étrennes_. this, in plain english, implies nothing more nor less than that i must likewise make her mistress a present, on the principle, i suppose, that _les petits cadeaux entretiennent l'amitié_. my reflection then turned on the instability of this people. after establishing a new division of time, they return to the old one, and celebrate, as formerly, the first of january. now, it is evident that the former accords better with the order of nature, and that autumn was the first season which followed the creation. why else should apples of irresistible ripeness and beauty have presented themselves to the eye of our first parents in the garden of eden? this would not have been the case, had the world commenced in winter. besides, a multitude of advantages would accrue to the french from an adherence to the st of vendémiaire, or d of september of the gregorian calendar, as the first day of the year. the weather, after the autumnal equinox, is generally settled, in consequence of the air having been purified by the pre-existing gales, the ordinary forerunners of that period: and the parisians would not be obliged to brave the rain, the wind, the cold, the frost, the snow, &c. in going to wish a happy new year to their fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, and other relations. for to all this are they now exposed, unless they choose to ruin themselves in coach-hire. the consequence is that they are wet, cold, and dirty for two or three successive days, and are sure to suffer by a sore throat, rheumatism, or fever, all which entail the expensive attendance of the faculty; whereas, did they celebrate the d of september as new year's day, they might, in a quiet, unassuming manner, pay all their visits on foot, and, in that season, this exercise would neither be prejudicial to their purse nor their health. i do not immediately recollect whether i have spoken to you of the long-expected account of the french expedition to egypt, by denon: yet i ought not to have omitted to inform you that, upwards of two months ago, i set down your name for a copy of this splendid work. it will cost you francs; but you will have one of the proof impressions. i have seen a specimen of the letter-press, which is to consist of a folio volume, printed by didot. the plates, amounting to upwards of one hundred and forty in number, are entirely engraved from denon's original drawings, without any reduction or enlargement, with the exception of that representing the battle of the pyramids, the size of which has been increased at the express desire of bonaparte. i have often amused myself on a morning in contemplating these drawings; but the crowd of curious persons being generally great, i determined to seize the opportunity of examining them more at leisure to-day, when the french are entirely engaged in interchanging the compliments of the season. i found denon himself diligently employed on some of the engravings; and so anxious is he for the publication of the work, that he toils early and late to forward its appearance. notwithstanding the anxiety he feels on that account, this estimable artist takes a real pleasure in explaining the subject of his drawings; and, by means of his obliging communications, i am now become tolerably well acquainted with egypt. what country, in fact, has a better claim to fix attention than that which served as a cradle to human knowledge, and the history of which goes back to the first ages of the world; a country, where every thing seems to have commenced? laws, arts, sciences, and even fables, which derive their origin from nature, whose attributes they immortalize, and which, at a subsequent period, formed the ground-work of the ingenious fictions of mythology. what idea must we not conceive of the industry and civilization of a people who erected those celebrated monuments, anterior to the annals of history, to the accounts even of tradition, those pyramids which have unalterably withstood all the ravages of time? when we look back on the ancients, the greeks and romans almost exclusively divide our attention. the former, it is true, carried farther the love and the culture of the fine arts; while the latter are more remarkable for the great traits of their character; though both acquired that renown which mankind have so improperly attached to the success of arms. but, in allowing to greece all the interest which she claims, in so many respects, we cannot forget that she was originally peopled by egyptian colonies; that it was egyptians who, in later times, carried thither the knowledge of the arts, the most necessary and the most indispensable to society; and that, at the epoch which preceded the splendid days of greece, it was also into egypt that the sages went to acquire that knowledge of a superior kind, which constituted their glory, and rendered their country illustrious. what keeps up a sort of rivalship between greece and egypt is that, independently of the priority of knowledge, the former had the eminent advantage of opening her arms to philosophy and the sciences, which, forsaking their adoptive country, and not being able to survive the loss of liberty, fled back to their natal soil, and found, in the museum of alexandria, an asylum, which neither the lyceum, the portico, nor the academy, could longer afford them at athens. thus, to the reign of the ptolemies are we, unquestionably, indebted for the preservation of the knowledge acquired by the ancients. apropos, i forgot to mention to you that bertholet, a senator and member of the institute, communicated to that society, in one of its sittings last month, a letter from fourier, the geometrician, and member of the late institute of egypt. this _savant_, in the researches he made in upper egypt, discovered and delineated several zodiacs, which, he says, fully confirm the theory of dupuis, respecting the origin and antiquity of the figures of the zodiac. as far back as the year , dupuis published a memoir, since reprinted in his large work, entitled _de l'origine des cultes_, in which he presumes that the zodiac, such as it has been transmitted to us by the greeks, is of egyptian origin, and that it goes back to fifteen thousand years, at least, before the era of the french revolution. letter xliv. _paris, january , ._ an almost uninterrupted succession of wet weather has, of late, precluded me from the regular enjoyment of a morning walk. but, with the new year, we had a heavy fall of snow, which has since been succeeded by a severe frost. i gladly availed myself of this opportunity of taking exercise, and yesterday, after viewing the skaiters in that part of the _champs elysées_ which had been inundated, and is now frozen, i immediately proceeded to the hÔtel des invalides. this majestic edifice was projected by henry iv, and executed, by order of lewis xiv, after the designs of bruant, who laid the foundation on the th of november, . it is composed of five courts, surrounded by buildings. the middle court is as large as all the other four. a spacious esplanade planted with trees, an outer court surrounded by a wall newly-built, form the view towards the river, and lead to the principal façade, which is twelve hundred feet in extent. this façade has, within these few years, been entirely polished anew: the details of sculpture have, perhaps, gained by the operation; but the architecture has certainly lost that gloomy tint which gave to this building a manly and respectable character. in the middle of this façade, in the arched part above the great gate, was a bas-relief of lewis xiv on horseback. this gate leads to the great court, which is decorated by two rows of arcades, the one above the other, forming, on the two stories, uniform galleries which give light to the apartments of the circumference. the windows, which serve to light the upper apartments of the façade, are remarkable from their being placed in cuirasses, as those of the great court are in trophies of arms. from this court, you enter the church, now called the _temple of mars_. it is ornamented with the corinthian order, and has the form of a greek cross. the pulpit no longer exists. the altar, which was magnificently decorated, is likewise destroyed. the chapels, to the number of six, were each ornamented by a cupola painted in fresco, and statues in marble by the greatest masters, which, after being left for some time exposed to the injuries of the air in the court looking towards the country, are at length deposited in the museum of french monuments. to the arches of this temple are suspended the standards and colours taken from the enemy. two british flags only contribute to augment the number. the oldest of these trophies have been removed from _notre-dame_. when they were formerly displayed in that cathedral, a general, who was constantly victorious, was called by the people the _upholsterer of notre-dame_; an energetic appellation which spoke home to the feelings. but, however calculated these emblems of victory may be to foster heroism in the mind of youth, and rekindle valour in the heart of old age, what a subject of reflection do they not afford to the philanthropist! how can he, in fact, contemplate these different flags, without regretting the torrents of blood which they have cost his fellow-creatures? in this _temple of mars_ is erected the monument of turenne, whose body, after various removals, was conveyed hither, in great pomp, on the st of vendémiaire, year ix ( d of september, ) conformably to a decree of the consuls, and immediately deposited in the inside of this tomb. the present government of france seems to have taken the hint from st. foix, who expresses his astonishment that lewis xiv never conceived the idea of erecting, in the _hôtel des invalides_, mausolea, with the statues of the generals who had led with the greatest glory the armies of the nation. "where could they be more honourably interred," says he, "than amidst those old soldiers, the companions of their fatigues, who, like themselves, had lavished their blood for their country?"[ ] at the age of sixty-four, turenne was killed by a cannon-ball, while reconnoitring the enemy's batteries near the village of salzbach in germany, on the th of july, . no less esteemed for his virtues as a man, than honoured for his talents as a general, he at last fell a victim to his courage. his soldiers looked up to him as to a father, and in his life-time always gave him that title. after his death, when they saw the embarrassment in which it left the generals who succeeded him in the command of the army: "_let loose old piebald_," said they, "_he will guide us_."[ ] the same ball which (to borrow a line from pope) laid "the _god-like_ turenne prostrate in the dust," likewise took off the arm of st. hilaire, lieutenant-general of artillery: his son, who was beside him at the moment, uttered a cry of grief. "_'tis not me, my son, that you must bewail_," said st. hilaire; "_'tis that great man._" the marshal was as much lamented by the enemy as he was by his own countrymen; and montecuculli, the general opposed to him, when he learned the loss which france had sustained in the person of turenne, exclaimed: "then a man is dead who was an honour to human nature!" the germans, for several years, left untilled the field where he was killed; and the inhabitants shewed it as a sacred spot. they respected the old tree under which, he reposed a little time before his death, and would not suffer it to be cut down. the tree perished only, because soldiers of all nations carried away pieces of it out of respect to his memory. turenne had been interred in the abbey of st. denis, and at the time of the royal vaults being opened in , by order of the national convention, the remains of that great captain were respected amid the general destruction which ensued. from the eagerness of the workmen to behold them, his tomb was the very first that was opened. when the lid of the coffin was removed, the marshal was found in such a state of preservation that he was not at all disfigured: the features of his face, far from being changed, were perfectly conformable to the portraits and medallions of turenne in our possession. this monument, now placed in the _temple of mars_, had been erected to that warrior in the abbey of st. denis, and was preserved through the care of m. lenoir; after being seen for five years in the museum of french monuments, of which he is the director, it was removed hither by the before-mentioned decree of the consuls. le brun furnished the designs from which it was executed. the group, composed of turenne in the arms of immortality, is by tuby; the accessory figures, the one representing wisdom, and the other, valour, are by marsy. the bas-relief in bronze in the middle of the cenotaph is likewise by tury, and represents turenne charging the enemy at the battle of turckheim, in . the dome forms a second church behind the large one, to which it communicates. its exterior, entirely covered with lead, is surrounded by forty pillars of the composite order, and ornamented with twelve large gilt coats of mail, crowned with helmets, which serve as skylights, and with a small lantern with pillars which support a pyramid, surmounted by a large ball and a cross. all the architecture of the dome, which is called the new church, is from the design of mansard. its elevation, from the ground-floor, is three hundred feet; and its diameter, fifty. it has the character of elegance. the beauty of its proportion, its decoration, and especially all the parts which concur in forming the pyramid, render it a master-piece of architecture. but nothing commands admiration like the interior, though it may be said to be three-fourths damaged. the twelve windows, by which it is lighted, but which the observer below cannot perceive, are ornamented with coupled piasters, resting on a continued pedestal. on the broad band, which was formerly adorned with flower-de-luces, and at this day with emblems of liberty, were the medallions of twelve of the most famous kings of france: namely, clovis, dagobert, childebert, charlemagne, lewis the debonair, charles the bald, philip augustus, st. lewis, lewis xii, henry iv, lewis xiii, and lewis xiv. the first arch, distributed into twelve equal parts, presented the twelve apostles, painted in fresco by jouvenet. the second arch, painted by la fosse, represented the apotheosis of st. lewis, offering to god his sword and crown. the pavement, which alone has not suffered, is in compartments of different marbles of great value. the portal, which looks towards the country, is thirty toises in extent. of all the figures which decorated this façade, those of the four virtues; namely, justice, temperance, fortitude, and prudence, are the only ones that have been suffered to remain in their places. they are by coyzevox. the other objects most worthy of notice in this spacious, building, which, together with its precincts, occupies seventeen _arpens_, are the refectories and kitchens, which are very extensive. formerly, neither of these were kept in such high order as they are at present. the tables of the private soldiers are now better supplied; sirloins of beef and legs of mutton being no longer roasted for the officers only. in the four refectories, where the soldiers dine, twelve in a mess, they are regularly served with soup, bouilli, a plate of vegetables, and a pint of unadulterated wine. when peter the great visited this establishment, the invalids happened to be at dinner, the czar, on entering the first refectory, poured out a bumper of wine, and drank it off in a military style to the health of the veterans, whom he termed his comrades. the halls are ornamented with paintings representing the conquests of lewis xiv. during the reign of terror the features of the _grand monarque_, who made a conspicuous figure in these pictures, were concealed by a coat of dark paint, which answered the purpose of a mask. bonaparte has ordered this mask to be removed, so that the ambitious monarch now reappears in all his former glory. whatever may be said in praise of establishments of this description, for my part, i see nothing in them but the gratification of national pride. the old soldiers, are, in a manner, without a comrade, though living in the midst of their brother warriors. the good fellowship which they have witnessed in camps no longer subsists. the danger of battles, the weight of fatigues, and the participation of privations and hardships, no longer form the tie of common interest, by which they were once united. this, being dissolved, they seek in vain that reciprocity of little kindnesses which they used to find in their own regiments and armies. all hope of promotion or change being at an end, their only consolation is to enjoy the present by indulging in reveries concerning the past. instead of being doomed to end their days in this sort of stately confinement, subject to restrictions which render life so dull and monotonous, how different would these veterans feel, could they retire to the bosom of their families and friends! then, indeed, would they dwell with delight on the battles and sieges in which they had served, enumerating their many hair-breadth escapes, and detailing the particulars of the fight in which they lost their deficient leg or arm. after a pause, the sense of their country's gratitude operating powerfully on their mind, would soothe every painful recollection. their auditors, impressed with admiration, would listen in silence to the recital of the well-fought day, and, roused by the call of national honour, cheerfully step forth to emulate these mutilated heroes, provided they were sure of a _free_ asylum, when reduced to their helpless condition. whether i enter the _hôtel des invalides_, or _chelsea hospital_, such are the reflections which never fail to occur to me, when i visit either of those establishments, and contemplate the dejected countenances of the maimed beings that inhabit them. experience tells us that men dislike enjoyments, regularly prepared for them, if under restraint, and prefer smaller gratifications, of which they can partake without control. policy, as well as prudence, therefore dictates a departure from the present system of providing for those maimed in fighting the battles of their nation. in a word, i am fully persuaded that the sums expended in the purchase of the ground and construction of this magnificent edifice, together with the charges of maintaining the establishment, would have formed a fund that might have enabled the government to allow every wounded soldier a competent pension for life, in proportion to the length of his services, and the injuries which he might have suffered in defence of his country. from the _hôtel des invalides_ are avenues, planted with trees, which, on one side, communicate to the _new boulevards_, and, on the other, to the champ de mars. this extensive inclosure was originally intended for the exercises of the _École militaire_, in front of which it is situated, as you will perceive by referring to the plan of paris. its form is a parallelogram of four hundred and fifty toises in length by one hundred and fifty in breadth. it is surrounded by ditches, faced with masonry, which are bordered on each side by a double row of trees, extending from the façade of the _ci-devant École militaire_ to the banks of the seine. that building, i shall observe _en passant_, was founded in , by lewis xv, for the military education of five hundred young gentlemen, destitute of fortune, whose fathers had died in the service. it stands on the south side of the _champ de mars_, and serves at present as barracks for the horse-grenadiers of the consular guard. on the third story of one of the wings is a national observatory, which was constructed at the instigation of lalande, the celebrated astronomer. the various scenes of which the _champ de mars_ has successively been the theatre, are too interesting to be passed over in silence. indeed, they exhibit the character of the nation in such striking colours, that to omit them, would be like omitting some of the principal features in the drawing of a portrait. often have they been mentioned, it is true; but subsequent events have so weakened the remembrance of them, that they now present themselves to the mind more like dreams than realities. however, i shall touch on the most remarkable only. in , a spacious arena, encompassed by a mound of earth, divided into seats so as to accommodate three hundred thousand spectators, was formed within this inclosure. to complete it speedily for the ceremony of the first federation, required immense labour. the slow progress of twenty-five thousand hired workmen could not keep pace with the ardent wishes of the friends of liberty. but those were the days of enthusiasm: concord and harmony then subsisted among the great majority of the french people. what other sentiments, in fact, could daily bring together, in the _champ de mars_, two hundred and fifty thousand persons of every class, without distinction of age or sex, to work at the necessary excavation? thus, at the end of a week, the amphitheatre was completed as if by enchantment. never, perhaps, since the time of the spartans, was seen among any people such an example of cordial union. it would be difficult for the warmest imagination to conceive a picture so varied, so original, so animated. every corporation, every society was ambitious of the honour of assisting in the erection of the altar of the country: all wished to contribute, by individual labour, to the arrangement of the place where they were to swear to defend the constitution. not a man, woman, or child remained an idle spectator. on this occasion, the aged seemed to have recovered the vigour of youth, and women and children to have acquired the strength of manhood. in a word, men of all trades and professions were confounded, and cheerfully handled the pickaxe and shovel: delicate females, sprucely dressed, were seen here and there wheeling along barrows filled with earth; while long strings of stout fellows dragged heavy loads in carts and waggons. as the electric matter runs along the several links of an extensive chain, so patriotism seemed to have electrified this whole mass of people. the shock was universal, and every heart vibrated in unison. the general good order which prevailed among this vast assemblage, composed indiscriminately of persons of every rank and condition, was truly surprising. no sort of improper discourse, no dispute of any kind occurred. but what is still more singular and more worthy of remark is, that the mutual confidence shewn by so many people, strangers to each other, was in no one instance abused. those who threw off their coats and waistcoats, leaving them to the fate of chance, during the time they were at work elsewhere, on their return to the same spot found them untouched. hence, as paris is known to abound with _filoux_, it may be inferred that the _amor patriæ_ had deadened in them the impulse of their ordinary vocation. franklin, when promoting the emancipation of america, during his residence in paris, probably did not foresee that the french would soon borrow his favourite expression, and that it would become the burden of a popular air. yet so it happened; and even lewis xvi himself participated in the patriotic labours of the _champ de mars_, while different bands of military music made the whole inclosure resound with _ça ira_. to these exhilarating scenes succeeded others of the most opposite nature. hither the guillotine was transported for the execution of the greatest astronomer of the age, and this with no other view than to prolong his punishment. bailly, as every one knows, was the first mayor of paris after the revolution. launched into the vortex of politics, he became involved in the proscriptions which ensued during the reign of terror, and was dragged from prison to the _champ de mars_, where, though exposed to the most trying insults, he died, like a philosopher, with socratic calmness. in no one of the numerous victims of the revolution was the instability of popular favour more fully exemplified than in bailly. in this _champ de mars_, where he had published martial law in consequence of a decree of the convention, in the very place where he had been directed by the representatives of the people to repel the factions, he expired under the guillotine, loaded with the execration of that same people of whom he had been the most venerated idol. since those sanguinary times, the _champ de mars_ has chiefly been the site chosen for the celebration of national fêtes, which, within these few years, have assumed a character more distinguished than any ever seen under the old _régime_. these modern olympics consist of chariot-races and wrestling, horse and foot races, ascensions of balloons, carrying three or four persons, descents from them by means of a parachute, mock-fights and aquatic tilting. after the sports of the day, come splendid illuminations, grand fire-works, pantomimes represented by two or three hundred performers, and concerts, which, aided by splendid decorations, are not deficient in point of effect: the evening concludes with dancing. during the existence of the directorial government, the number of national fêtes had been considerably increased by the celebration of party triumphs. they are at present reduced to the two great epochs of the revolution, the taking of the bastille on the th of july, , and the foundation of the republic on the d of september, . on the anniversary of those days, the variety of the exhibitions always attracted an immense concourse. the whole of this mound, whose greatest diameter is upwards of eight hundred yards, was then covered with spectators; but were the _champ de mars_ now used on such occasions, they would be compelled to stand, there being no longer any seats for their accommodation. the subject of national fêtes has, in this country, employed many pens, and excited much discussion. some say that they might be rendered more interesting from the general arrangement; while others affirm that they might be made to harmonize more with the affections and habits of the people. in truth, this modern imitation of the greek festivals has fallen far short of those animating, mirth-inspiring scenes, so ably described by the learned author of anacharsis, where, to use his own words, "every heart, eagerly bent on pleasure, endeavoured to expand itself in a thousand different ways, and communicated to others the impression which rendered it happy." whatever exertions have hitherto been made to augment the splendour of these days of festivity, it seems not to admit of a doubt that they are still susceptible of great improvement. if the french have not the wine of _naxos_, their goblets may at least sparkle with _vin de surenne_; the _champs elysées_ may supply the place of the shady bowers of _delos_; and, in lieu of the name of the ill-fated nicias, the first promoter of the sports formerly celebrated in that once-happy island, the air may be made to ring with the name of the more fortunate bonaparte. [footnote : _essais historiques sur paris_.] [footnote : this was the name given by the soldiers to the marshal's favourite charger.] letter xlv. _paris, january , ._ in speaking of the interior of the _louvre_, in one of my former letters, i think i mentioned the various learned and scientific societies, which, under the name of academies, formerly held their sittings in that palace. for the sake of facilitating a comparison between the past and the present, it may be necessary to state the professed object of those different institutions. _french academy_. the preservation of the purity of the french language, its embellishment and augmentation. _academy of sciences_. the progress of the sciences, the encouragement of researches and discoveries, as well in physics, geometry, and astronomy, as in those sciences which are applicable to the daily wants of society. _academy of inscriptions and belles-lettres_. the composition of inscriptions, of the subjects of medals, and their mottos, the research of the manners, habits, customs, and monuments of antiquity, as well as all literature relating to history. _academy of painting and sculpture_. _academy of architecture_. the titles of these are a sufficient explanation. all these academies were founded by lewis xiv, at the instigation of his minister colbert; with the exception of the french academy, which owed its origin to cardinal richelieu. this was a misfortune for that society; for custom had established it as a law that every new member, on the day of his reception, should not only pronounce a panegyric on him whom he succeeded, but also on the founder of the institution. it certainly was not very philosophical for men of enlightened understanding, and possessing even a common portion of sensibility, to make an eulogium on a minister so cruel, a man of a spirit so diabolically vindictive, that he even punished the innocent to revenge himself on the guilty. de thou, the celebrated author of the _history of his own time_, had told some truths not very favourable to the memory of the cardinal's great uncle. in consequence, the implacable minister, under false pretences, caused the philosophic historian's eldest son to be condemned and decapitated, saying: "de thou, the father, has put my name into his history, i will put the son into mine." it is well known, from their memoirs, that these academies included among their members men of eminent talents. the academy of sciences, in particular, could boast of several first-rate geniuses in the different branches which they respectively cultivated, and the unremitting labours of some of them have, no doubt, greatly contributed to enlarge the sphere of human knowledge. during the early part of the revolution, all these monarchical institutions were overthrown, and on their ruins rose the national institute of arts and sciences.[ ] this establishment was formed, agreeably to a decree of the national assembly passed on the d of brumaire, year iv ( th of october, ). by that decree, it appears that the institute belongs to the whole republic, though its point of union is fixed in paris. its object is to extend the limits of the arts and sciences in general, by an uninterrupted series of researches, by the publication of discoveries, by a correspondence with the learned societies of foreign countries, and by such scientific and literary labours as tend to general utility and the glory of the republic. it is composed of one hundred and forty-four members, resident in paris, and of an equal number scattered over the departments. the number of its foreign associates is twenty-four. it is divided into three classes, and each class into several sections, namely: mathematical and physical sciences. moral and political sciences. literature and the fine arts. the mathematical class is divided into ten sections; each of which consists of six members. of this class, there are sixty members in paris, and as many in the departments, where they are divided, in the same manner, into ten sections, each of six members. the first section comprehends mathematics. the second, mechanical arts. the third, astronomy. the fourth, experimental physics. the fifth, chemistry. the sixth, natural history and mineralogy. the seventh, botany and vegetable physics. the eighth, anatomy and zoology. the ninth, medicine and surgery. the tenth, rural economy and the veterinary art. the moral and political class is divided into six sections, each consisting of six members, making in all thirty-six members in paris, and an equal number in the departments. the first section comprises the analysis of sensations and ideas. the second, morals. the third, social science and legislation. the fourth, political economy. the fifth, history. the sixth, geography. the class of literature and fine arts is divided into eight sections, each of six members, forty-eight of whom reside in paris, and as many in the departments. the first section includes grammar. the second, ancient languages. the third, poetry. the fourth, antiquities and monuments. the fifth, painting. the sixth, sculpture. the seventh, architecture. the eighth, music and declamation. twice in every decade, each class holds a meeting: that of the first class takes place on the first and sixth days; that of the second, on the second and seventh days; and that of the third, on the third and eighth days. every six months each class elects its president and two secretaries, who continue in office during that interval. on the fifth day of the first decade of every month is held a general meeting of the three classes, the purpose of which is to deliberate on affairs, relating to the general interests of the institute. the chair is then taken by the oldest of the three presidents, who, at these meetings, presides over the whole society. the national institute has four public quarterly meetings, on the th of the months of vendémiaire, nivôse, germinal, and messidor. each class annually proposes two prize questions, and in the general meetings, the answers are made public, and the premiums distributed. the united sections of painting, sculpture, and architecture nominate the pupils who are to visit rome, and reside there in the national palace, at the expense of the republic, in order to study the fine arts. conformably to the decree by which the institute was organised, six of its members were to travel at the public charge, with a view of collecting information, and acquiring experience in the different sciences; and twenty young men too were to visit foreign countries for the purpose of studying rural economy: but the expenses of the war and other matters have occasioned such a scarcity of money as, hitherto, to impede these undertakings. the apartments of the institute are on the first floor of the _louvre_, or, as it is now styled, the _palais nationial des sciences et des arts_. these apartments, which were once inhabited by henry iv, are situated on the west side of that building. before you arrive at the hall of the institute, you pass through a handsome antichamber, in which are the statues of molière, racine, corneille, la fontaine, and montesquieu. this hall, which is oblong and spacious, formerly served for the meetings of the academy of sciences. its sides are adorned with colonnades, and the ceiling is richly painted and decorated. in the intercolumniations are fourteen marble statues (seven on each side) of some of the most celebrated men that france has produced: namely, condé, tourville, descartes, bayard, sully, turenne, daguessau, luxembourg, l'hôpital, bossuet, duquesne, catinat, vauban, and fenelon. parallel to the walls, tables are set, covered with green cloth, at which the members take their places. at the upper end of the hall is the chair of the president, and on each side below him are seated the two secretaries. a little on one side again is the tribune, from which the members who speak address the assembly, after having asked leave of the president, who never quits the chair during the whole meeting. the space appropriated to the members is inclosed by a railing, between which and the walls, the hall is surrounded by benches for the spectators, among whom there are generally many of the fair sex. the library of the institute consists of three spacious apartments, which are said to contain about sixteen thousand volumes. on one side of the hall is an apartment, destined for the communications of correspondents. there is also an apartment for the secretary and his deputies, and a large room containing a collection of machines and models, (among which are several of shipping), as well as every apparatus necessary for chemical and physical experiments. although i have several times attended the private meetings of the three classes, i have thought that the printed accounts of their proceedings, which i subjoin, would be more satisfactory than a hasty sketch from my pen. however, as i promised to describe to you one of the public sittings of the institute, i shall now inform you of what passed at that held yesterday, the th of nivôse, year x, ( th of january, ), at which i was present. on this occasion, bigot-prÉameneu, one of the members of the class of moral and political sciences, was the president. the sitting was opened by proclaiming the nomination of three foreign associates, elected by the institute in its general sitting of the th of nivôse; namely, mr. jefferson, sir joseph banks, and haydn, the celebrated musical composer. a prize was then awarded to citizen framery, a literary character residing in paris, for having solved the following question proposed by the class of literature and fine arts. "to analyze the relations existing between music and declamation, and determine the means of applying declamation to music, without detracting from the charms of melody." delambre read an account of the life and works of cousin. dÉgÉrando, an account of the education which the young savage of aveyron receives from itard, physician to the institution of the deaf and dumb. prony, the result of observations made with a french instrument and an english one, for the purpose of determining the relation between the french metre and the english foot. next were heard notes, by camus, on the public exhibitions of the productions of french industry, which took place in the years vi and ix of the republic. then, the report of the restoration of the famous picture known by the name of the _madonna di foligno_, which i have already communicated to you. buache, the celebrated geographer, read some observations on the ancient map of the romans, commonly called peutinger's map, as well as on the geography of the anonymous writer of ravenna. the sitting was terminated by an account of the life and works of dumoustier, read by colin d'harleville. the members of the institute have a full-dress and a half-dress. the former consists of a suit of black, embroidered in dark green silk, with a cocked hat. the latter is the same, but the embroidery is confined to the collar and cuffs of the coat, which is trimmed with a cord edging, p.s. yesterday evening was married mademoiselle beauharnois, daughter-in-law of the first consul, to louis bonaparte, one of his younger brothers. [footnote : at the end of this volume will be found the new organization of the institute, conformably to a decree of the government, dated the d of pluviôse, year xi.] letter xlvi. _paris, january , ._ knowing you to be an amateur of italian music, i am persuaded that you will wish to be made acquainted with the theatre where you may enjoy it in full perfection. it is distinguished by the appellation of opÉra buffa. this establishment is not new in the french metropolis. in , paris was in possession of an excellent company of italian comedians, who then performed in the _théâtre de monsieur_, in the palace of the _tuileries_, which is now converted into a hall for the sittings of the council of state. the success of this company had a rapid influence on the taste of the discerning part of the french public. this was the less extraordinary as, perhaps, no italian sovereign had ever assembled one composed of so many capital performers. in italy, there are seldom more than two of that degree of merit in a company; the rest are not attended to, because they are not worth the trouble: but here every department was complete, and filled by persons deservedly enjoying a high reputation in their own country; such as mandini, raffanelli, simoni, mengozzi, viganoni, rovedino, and signoras morichelli and baletti. the events of banished from paris this admired assemblage. a new company of italian comedians has been formed here within these few months: they at first occupied a charming little theatre constructed for the use of a society, called _la loge olympique_; but are lately removed to the _théâtre favart_, on the boulevard. before the revolution, this was called _le théâtre italien_. the façade is decorated with eight very large ionic pillars. the house is of an oval form, and the interior distribution deserving of praise, in as much as it is far more commodious than that of any other theatre in paris. the audience here too is generally of a more select description. among the female amateurs, madame tallien is one of its most constant visiters, and, in point of grace and beauty, one of its greatest ornaments. at the head of this new company, may be placed raffanelli, the same whom i have just mentioned. he is a consummate comedian, and more to be commended in that point of view than as a singer. raffanelli has a countenance to which he gives any cast he pleases: his features, from their wonderful pliability, receive every impression: his eye is quick; his delivery, natural and correct; and his action, easy. sometimes he carries his buffooneries too far, merely to excite laughter; but as he never fails in his object, this defect may be overlooked. his best characters are _taddeo_ in _il rè theodora_, _il governatore_ in _la molinara_, the father in _furberia e puntiglio_, and the deaf man in _il matrimonio secreto_. it is necessary to see him in these different operas to form a just idea of the truth and humour with which he represents them. although he is but an indifferent singer, his method is good, and he seizes the spirit of the composer with perfect discrimination. in _morceaux d'ensemble_, he is quite at home, and when he dialogues with the orchestra, he shews much energy and feeling. independently of these gifts, nature has granted to raffanelli another most valuable privilege. she seems to have exempted him from the impression of time. in and , i saw him frequently, both on and off the stage; after a lapse of upwards of twelve years, he appears again to my eyes exactly the same man. i cannot perceive in him the smallest change. the tenor of the new company is lazzarini. his method too is very good; he sings with taste, expression, and feeling; but his voice is extremely weak: his powers appear exhausted; and it is only by dint of painful efforts that he succeeds in giving to his singing those embellishments which his taste suggests, but which lose their grace and charm when they are laboured. in short, lazzarini communicates to the audience an unpleasant sensation in proving that he has real talents. neither the same reproaches nor the same praises can be bestowed on parlamagni. he is a good counter-tenor, but has a harshness in the high tones, which he does not always reach with perfect justness. he is also deficient in ease and grace. parlamagni, however, having an advantageous person, and the air of a frenchman, is a great favourite with the parisian _dilettanti_. he is a tolerably good comedian, and in some scenes of buffoonery, his acting is natural, and his manner free and unaffected. the _prima donna_ of the italian company is signora strina-sacchi. she possesses a fine voice, and no small share of taste, joined to great confidence and a perfect acquaintance with the stage. sometimes she is rather apt to fatigue the ear by sounds too shrill, and thus breaks the charm produced by her singing. as for her acting, it is as extraordinary as can well be imagined; for her vivacity knows no bounds; and her passion, no restraint. she appears to conceive justly, to feel very warmly, and she plays in the same manner. in her, nature commands every thing; art, nothing. the parts in which she shines most, are _la molinara_ and _gianina_; in these, she literally follows the impulse given her by her situation, without concerning herself in the least, whether it is _secundum artem_; but certain that it is natural and conformable to the character and habits of the personage she represents. _anima in voce_ is the characteristic of her singing: the same epithet may be applied to her recitative and her acting: in these she displays no less spirit and animation. after signora sacchi, comes signora parlamagni. she is a young, and rather pretty woman, not unlike a french actress in her manner. her voice is free and clear, and her method by no means to be disdained. she wants habit and confidence. this is evident in her performance of a part new to her; for it is only after a few representations that she feels herself at her ease. then the public appreciate her powers, which she exhibits to advantage; and her exertions are rewarded by reiterated marks of their satisfaction. unfortunately it is the nature of an italian opera-house to have its shelf poorly furnished. it cannot, however, be denied that the managers of the _opera buffa_ take every pains to vary and increase their stock. the following are the pieces which i have seen at this theatre. _furberia e puntiglio_, which is a second-hand imitation of goldoni. the music, by signor marcello di capua, is agreeable, particularly a quartetto and a cavatina. raffanelli shines in this piece as a first-rate actor. _il matrimonio secreto_, the chef-d'oeuvre of cimarosa, and of its kind, perhaps, the most charming opera extant. throughout it, the composer has lavished beauties; there is not to be found in it an air of inferior merit, or which, of itself alone, would not sustain the reputation of a piece. what then can be said of a work in which they are all united? nothing can surpass the variety, spirit, grace, and originality of the duos, terzettos, quartettos, &c. with which this opera abounds. cimarosa has here combined the strength of german harmony with the grace which constitutes the charm of italian melody. he is particularly famous for the brilliancy of his ideas, the fecundity of his genius, the richness of his style, and, above all, for the finish of his pictures. the certain effect of such a production is to eclipse every thing put in competition with it. this effect is particularly conspicuous at the representation of other pieces, the music of which is by the same composer. _gianina e bernadone_, another of cimarosa's productions, makes less impression, though it is in the graceful style, what _il matrimonio secreto_ is in the serio-comic. _la molinara_, however, upholds the reputation of that celebrated composer, paËsiello. this opera requires no eulogium. selections from it are daily repeated in the public and private concerts in paris. _il matrimonio secreto_ is a masterpiece of spirit and originality, while _la molinara_ is a model of grace, melody, and simplicity. to the great regret of the lovers of italian music, cimarosa died not long since, just as he was preparing to visit paris. but his fame will long survive, as his works bear the stamp of true genius, combined with taste and judgment. his _italiana in londra_ is just announced for representation. _il matrimonio inaspettato_, a composition of paËsiello, is likewise in rehearsal, as well as _le nozze di dorina_, by sarti, and _la vilanella rapita_, by bianchi. mozart too will soon enter the lists; his _dom giovanni_ is to be speedily brought forward. the orchestra of the _opéra buffa_, though far from numerous, is extremely well-composed. it accompanies the singers with an _ensemble_, a grace, and precision deserving of the highest encomium. bruni, a distinguished italian composer, is the leader of the band, and parenti, a professor, known also by several admired productions, presides at the piano-forte. neuville, the manager of this theatre, is gone to italy for the purpose of completing the company by the addition of some eminent performers.[ ] in its present state, the _opéra buffa_ maintains its ground. it is thought that the french government will assist it in case of necessity, and even make it a national establishment; a commissary or agent having been appointed to superintend its proceedings. [footnote : the _opéra buffa_, the constant object of the jealousy of the other lyric theatres, because it constitutes the delight of real amateurs of music, has, during the year , acquired several new performers. two of these only, madame bolla and martinelli, deserve particular mention. madame bolla is a good figure on the stage, and though her features are not regular, yet they are susceptible of the most varied expression. her voice, which is a species of feminine _tenore_, astonishes by the purity and firmness of its grave tones; while her brilliant and sure method easily conceals its small extent in the higher notes. martinelli is a species of counter-tenor. his voice has already lost much of its strength, and has not that clearness which serves as an excuse for every thing; but connoisseurs find that he takes care to calculate its effects so as to make amends, by the art of transitions, for that firmness in which it is deficient. he is much applauded in the _cantabile_, which he sings with uncommon precision, and he particularly shines in the counter-parts which charm in the italian _finales_. as an actor, martinelli, though inferior to raffanelli, is also remarkable. his manner is easy and natural, and his countenance capable of assuming the most comic expression.] letter xlvii. _paris, january , ._ the exaggerated accounts of the interior state of france which have reached us, through various channels, during the late obstinate struggle, have diffused so many contradictions, that it is by no means surprising we still continue so ill-informed in england on many points most intimately connected with the morals of the french nation. respecting none of these, have we been more essentially mistaken than the present state of public worship. i am given to understand, from unquestionable authority, that there are at this moment, and have been for the last four years, no less than from thirty-five to forty thousand churches where divine service has been regularly performed throughout the different departments of the republic. it is therefore a gross error to suppose that the christian religion was extinguished in france. the recent arrangements made between the french government and the see of rome will consolidate that religion, which was, in a great measure, re-established long before his holiness occupied the papal chair. i shall illustrate this truth by a summary of the proceedings of the constitutional clergy. the last general assembly of the clergy of france, held in , the account of which has never been printed, already presented facts which announced that the necessity of reforming abuses was felt, and the epoch when that reform would take place was foreseen. in this assembly several bishops spoke with much force on the subject. the disastrous state of the finances, brought about by the shameful dilapidations of the court, occasioned a deficit which it was necessary to make good. this consideration, joined to the spirit of cupidity, jealous of the estates of the clergy, immediately caused every eye to turn towards that mortmain property, in order to employ it in the liquidation of the national debt. in the _moniteur_, and other journals of the time, may be seen what successive steps gradually led to the abolition of tythes, and the decision which placed the estates of the clergy at the disposal of the nation. the civil constitution of the clergy was a severe check given to the many existing abuses. it really brought back the gallican church to the discipline of the first ages. it snatched from the pope the power of giving the canonical institution to bishops. those who have thought proper to tax with novelty this constitution, have only to look into history. they will see that, during twelve hundred years, bishops received the canonical institution from the metropolitans, and not from the pope. thus to tax with intrusion the constitutional bishops, and condemn them because they have received that institution from the metropolitans, is to condemn the first twelve centuries of christianity. this civil constitution served as a pretext to the dignified clergy, irritated at the loss of their estates, for concerting a combined resistance to the new laws, in the hope that this resistance would lead to a subversion which would restore to them their riches. thence the refusal of the oath "to be faithful to the nation, to the law, and to the king, to guide faithfully the flock intrusted to their care, and to maintain with all their power the constitution decreed by the assembly, and sanctioned by the king." thence the line of division between the clergy who had taken the oath and those who had not. the constituent assembly, who had decreed the above oath, declared, that the refusal of giving this pledge of fidelity should be considered as a voluntary resignation. the royal sanction had rendered the above decree a law of the state. almost the whole of the bishops, a great number of rectors, and other ecclesiastics, refused to take this oath, already taken by several among them who were deputies to the assembly. they were, in consequence, declared to have resigned; and measures were taken for supplying their place. the people proceeded to effect this by electors authorized by law. a respectable number of ecclesiastics, who had already submitted to the law, accepted the elections. these priests thought that obedience to the national authority which respected and protected religion, was a catholic dogma. what resistance could be made to legitimate power, which neither attacked the dogma, nor morality, nor the interior and essential discipline of the church? it was, say they, resisting god himself. they thought that the pastor was chosen, and sent solely for the care of the flock intrusted to him; that, when difficult circumstances, flight, for instance, voluntary or forced, the prohibition from all functions, pronounced by the civil power, rendered the holy ministry impossible, or that the pastor could not exericise it, without declaring himself in open insurrection, the pretended unremoveable rights then ceased with the sacred duties which they could not discharge, without being accused of rebellion. the dissentient bishops drew many priests into their party. most of them spread themselves over europe, where they calumniated at their ease the patriotic clergy. those of their adherents who had remained in the interior of this country, kindled a civil war, tormented people's consciences, and disturbed the peace of families, &c. this conduct, which engendered the horrible scenes in la vendée, provoked repressive measures, emanated from legislative authority. enemies without and within, say the constitutional clergy, wished to create a disgust to liberty, by substituting to it licentiousness. and, indeed, the partisans of the dissentient clergy were seen to coalesce with the unbelievers, in order to produce the sacrilegious disorders which broke out every where in the year . the clergy who had taken the oath had organized the dioceses; the bishops, in general, had bestowed great pains in spreading in every parish the word of the gospel; for they preached themselves, and this was more than was done by their predecessors, who, engaged only in spending, frequently in a shameful manner, immense revenues, seldom or never visited their dioceses. the constitutional clergy followed a plan more conformable to the gospel, which gained them the affection of the well-disposed part of the nation. these priests were of opinion that the storm which threatened religion, required imperiously the immediate presence of the pastor, and that, in the day of battle, it was necessary to be in person at the breach. they were of opinion that the omission or impossibility of fulfilling minute and empty formalities, imposed by a concordat, rejected from the beginning by all the public bodies and the church of france, and annihilated at the moment by the will of the representatives of the nation, sanctioned by royal authority, could not exempt them from accepting holy functions presented by all the constituted authorities, and on which evidently depended the preservation of religion, the salvation of the faithful, and the peace of the state. but, when persecution manifested itself, the clergy who had taken the oath, became equally the victims of persecuting rage. some failed in this conjuncture; but the greater number remained intrepid in their principles. accordingly several constitutional bishops and priests were dragged to the scaffold. if, on the one hand, the dastardly gobel was guillotined, the same fate attended the respectable expilly, bishop of quimper, amourette, bishop of lyons, and gouttes, bishop of autun, &c. the dissentient clergy reproach some constitutional priests with having married, and even with having apostatized; but they say not that, among the dissentient, there are some who; have done the same. if the number of the latter is smaller, it is because the greater part of them were out of france; but what would they have done, if, like the constitutional clergy, they had either had the axe suspended over their head, or the guillotine accompanying all their steps? in england, where the french priests were not thus exposed, there are some who have likewise married, and even some who have apostatized. it is well known that, amidst the terrors of impiety, grÉgoire, bishop of blois, declared that he braved them, and remained attached to his principles and duties, as a christian and bishop. he firmly believed that, in doing so, he was pronouncing his sentence of death, and, for eighteen months, he was in expectation of ascending the scaffold. the same courage animated the majority of the constitutional bishops and priests. they exercised secretly their ministry, and consoled the faithful. as soon as the rage for persecution began to abate, grÉgoire and some other bishops, who had kept up a private correspondence with the clergy of various dioceses for the purpose of encouraging them, concerted together in order to reorganize worship. in nivôse year iii (january ), grÉgoire demanded this liberty of worship of the national convention. he was very sure of meeting with outrages, and he experienced some; but to speak in the tribune, was speaking to france and to all europe, and, in the then state of things, he was almost certain of staggering public opinion, which would force the convention to grant the free exercise of religion. accordingly, some time after having refused the liberty of worship on the demand of grÉgoire, that assembly granted it, though with evident reluctance, on a report of boissy d'anglas, which insulted every species of worship. the constitutional bishops had already anticipated this moment by their writings and their pastoral letters, &c. they then compiled two works, entitled _lettres encycliques_, to which the bishops and priests of the various dioceses adhered. the object of these works, which are monuments of wisdom, piety, and courage, was to reorganize public worship in all the dioceses, according to the principles of the primitive church. they pronounced a formal exclusion from ecclesiastical functions against all prevaricating priests or married ones, as well as all those who had the cowardice to deliver up their authority for preaching, and abdicate their functions. some interested persons thought this too severe. those bishops persisted in their decision, and, by way of answer, they reprinted a translation of the celebrated treatise of st. cyprian de lapsis. on all sides, they reanimated religions zeal, caused pastors for the various sees to be elected by the people, and consecrated by the metropolitan bishops. they held synods, the arts of which form a valuable collection, equally honourable to their zeal and knowledge. they did more. for a long time past the custom of holding councils had fallen into disuse. they convoked a national council, notwithstanding the unfavourableness of a silent persecution; and, in spite of the penury which afflicted the pastors, the latter had the courage to expose themselves in order to concur in it. this council was opened with the greatest solemnity on the th of august, , the day of the assumption of the virgin. it sat for three months. the canons and decrees of this assembly, which have been translated into italian and german, have been printed in one volume. this council was published in the different dioceses, and its regulations were put into force. during this time, the government, ever hostile to religion, had not abandoned the project of persecuting and perhaps of destroying it. the voice of the public, who called for this religion, and held in esteem the constitutional clergy as religious and patriotic, checked, in some respects, the hatred of the directory and its agents. then the spirit of persecution took a circuitous way to gain its end: this was to cry down religion and its ministers, to promote theophilanthropy, and enforce the transferring of sunday to the _décade_, or tenth day of every republican month. the bishops, assembled at paris, again caused this project to miscarry, and, in their name, grÉgoire compiled two consultations against the transferring of sunday to the _décade_. the adhesion of all the clergy was the fruit of his labour; but all this drew on him numerous outrages, the indigence to which he was at that time reduced, and multiplied threats of deportation. the functions which he had discharged, and the esteem of the friends of religion, formed around him a shelter of opinion that saved him from deportation, to which were condemned so many unfortunate and virtuous constitutional priests, who were crowded, with the refractory among others, into vessels lying in the road of rochefort. grÉgoire remonstrated against this grievance, and obtained an alleviation for his brethren; but it is to be remarked that, in giving an account of their enlargement, the dissentient priests have taken good care not to mention to whom they were indebted for having provoked in their behalf this act of humanity and justice. the constitutional clergy continued their labours, struggling incessantly against calumny and libels, either from their dissentient brethren or from the agents of the directorial government. this clergy convoked a second national council for the year . it was preceded by a vast number of synods, and by eight metropolitan councils. this second national council was opened at paris on st. peter's day of the same year. several decrees had already been carried, one of which renewed, in the face of the whole church, the example of the bishops of africa, by a solemn invitation of the dissentients to conferences for the grand affair which separated them from the constitutional clergy. the different congregations were on the point of presenting to the general meeting their labours on the dogma, morality, and discipline. a report on the liturgy by grÉgoire, bishop of blois and vice-president of the council; and a similar report on the plan of education for ecclesiastics, occupied the members of this assembly, when all at once the government manifested its wish to see the council closed, on account of the concordat which it had just arranged with the pope. notwithstanding this proceeding, which trenched on the rights of a national church, the fathers of the council suspended their remonstrances, in order not to afford any pretext to those who might have wished to perpetuate religious troubles. wherefore, after having sat six weeks and pronounced the suspension of the national council, &c. they separated quietly without quitting paris. their presence was necessary for the execution of the decree of the conferences. the eighteen members destined for that purpose by the council, after having held several meetings, presented themselves at the cathedral of _notre-dame_, the place appointed and proclaimed by the council throughout all the extent of france. for three successive days, morning and evening, they there assembled. at the expiration of that time, on seeing that the dissentient kept themselves concealed, the members of the constitutional clergy took for witnesses of this generous and open proceeding the vast body of people who had repaired to _notre-dame_, and by two energetic and moving discourses, delivered by belmay, bishop of carcassonne, and grÉgoire, bishop of blois, terminated the council after the accustomed prayers. m. spina, archbishop of corinth, charged by the court of rome with part of the affairs to be transacted with the first consul, about the middle of september, sent to the constitutional bishops a brief which he announced to come from pius vii, in order to induce them on the part of the pope to give up the episcopal sees they had occupied, and return to unity. an invitation so insulting, received by all these bishops, drew on m. spina energetic answers, which made the pope and himself sensible how wrong they were to accuse of intrusion and schism bishops, whose canonical institution was conformable to that of the bishops of the first twelve centuries, and who had always professed the warmest love for catholic unity. but as there was little good to be expected from m. spina, some bishops made their complaints to the government in a spirited and well-composed memorial, denouncing the pope's brief as an attack on the liberties of the gallican church and the rights of the republic. this measure had its effect. the government passed a decree for prohibiting the publication of the rescripts of rome, if they should not be found conformable to the rules and usages observed in france. during these transactions, the cardinal legate, caprara, arrived in paris. the concordat had just been signed. the constitutional bishops, without remonstrating against it, no sooner learnt that the government wished them to resign, than they hastened to do so, the more willingly, as they had a thousand times made the promise whenever the good of religion and of the country should require it. a similar generosity was expected on the part of the emigrated bishops. have they been to blame in refusing? this question may, in a great measure, depend on the arrangement of the concordat, and the imperious and menacing tone of the court of rome which demanded of them the resignation of their former sees.[ ] [footnote : for the gratification of the reader is here annexed an account of the pope's conduct in regard to the constitutional clergy, since the promulgation of the concordat. at length the nominations took place. a small number of those appointed to the sixty new dioceses, were taken from the constitutional clergy. the others were taken from the mass of the refractory and those who had retracted, and the greater number formed the most eloquent apology of the constitutional bishops. they all received the institution from the pope, who announced it with an air of triumph to the college of cardinals, in his collocution of the th of may, . he had good reason to congratulate himself at this epoch, the more so as he had been made to believe that the re-elected constitutional clergy had made a retraction, and received penitence and absolution. the author of this calumny was bernier, who had been charged by the cardinal legate with a step so worthy of his former military exploits. it was solemnly contradicted. after the decree of absolution which bernier had ventured to present to these bishops was thrown with indignation into the fire of portalis, the counsellor of state charged by the government with religious affairs, who was witness to the transaction. indeed, he had in this encouraged the bishops to imitate his own example in getting rid, by the same means, of a brief which the legate had transmitted to him in order to absolve him from the guilt he might have incurred by taking part in the revolution. the government wished to pacify religious troubles; but the majority of the dissentient bishops began to foment new disputes, by requiring retractations from the constitutional clergy, who, for the most part, have stood firm amidst privations of every description. however, the mischief made not the progress which there was every reason to apprehend: the government pronounced its opinion thereon by prohibiting bishops from requiring any thing more than submission to the concordat, and obedience to the new bishops. notwithstanding the wise intentions of the government, sincerely desirous of peace and concord, it is only in the dioceses fallen to the constitutional bishops that a good understanding prevails. most of the disentient clergy continue to promote discord, and torment their constitutional brethren. boischollet, bishop of séez, montault, bishop of angers, and some others, have been sent for to paris, in order to be reprimanded and cautioned to behave better. it is proper to mention the documents which cardinal caprara has distributed to all the bishops. they form a collection of thirteen papers, which might not improperly be called an analysis of the decretals of isidorus. on these, no doubt, good canonists will debate at some future day, in order to shame the court of rome, by pointing out its absurdities and blunders; and certainly the respect which catholics owe to the holy see ought not to prevent then from resisting the pretensions of the pope.] letter xlviii. _paris, january , ._ going the other day to call on m. s----i, i stopped by the way, to examine an edifice which, when i first visited paris in , engaged no small share of public attention. it was, at that time, one of the principal objects pointed out to the curiosity of strangers. at one period of the revolution, you will, doubtless, recollect the frequent mention made of the pantheon. conceive my surprise, on learning that this stately building, after having employed the hands of so many men, for the best part of half a century, was not only still unfinished; but had threatened approaching ruin. yes--like the gothic abbey at fonthill, it would, by all accounts, have fallen to the ground, without the aid of vandalism, had not prompt and efficacious measures been adopted, to avert the impending mischief. this monument, originally intended for the reception of the shrine of st. geneviève, once the patroness of the parisians, is situated on an eminence, formerly called _mont st. Étienne_, to the left of the top of the _rue st. jacques_, near the _place de l'estrapade_. it was begun under the reign of lewis xv, who laid the first stone on the th of september, . during the american war, the works were suspended; but, early in the year , they were resumed with increasing activity. the sculpture of this church already presented many attributes analogous to its object, when, in , it was converted into a pantheon. the late m. soufflot furnished the plan for the church, which, in point of magnificence, does honour both to the architect and to the nation. its form is a greek cross, three hundred and forty feet in length by two hundred and fifty in breadth. the porch, which is an imitation of that of the pantheon at rome, consists of a peristyle of twenty-two pillars of the corinthian order. eighteen of these are insulated, and are each five feet and a half in diameter by fifty-eight in height, including their base and capital. they support a pediment, which combines the boldness of the gothic with the beauty of the greek style. this pediment bears the following inscription: "aux grands hommes, la patrie reconnaissante." in the delirium of the revolutionary fever, when great crimes constituted great men, this sanctuary of national gratitude was polluted. marat, that man of blood, was, to use the modern phraseology, _pantheonized_, that is, interred in the pantheon. when the delirium had, in some measure, subsided, and reason began to resume her empire, he was _dispantheonized_; and, by means of quick-lime, his canonized bones were confounded with the dust. this apotheosis will ever be a blot in the page of the history of the revolution. however, it operated as a check on the inconsiderate zeal of hot-brained patriots in bestowing the honours of the pantheon on the undeserving. mirabeau was, consequently, _dispantheonized_; and, in all probability, this temple will, in future, be reserved for the ashes of men truly great; legislators whose eminent talents and virtues have benefited their fellow-citizens, or warriors, who, by distinguishing themselves in their country's cause, have really merited that country's gratitude. the interior of this temple consists of four naves, in whose centre rises an elegant dome, which, it is said, is to be painted in fresco by david. the naves are decorated by one hundred and thirty fluted pillars, also of the corinthian order, supporting an entablature, which serves as a base for lofty _tribunes_, bordered by stone balustrades. these pillars are three feet and a half in diameter by nearly twenty-eight feet in height. the inside of the dome is incircled by sixteen corinthian pillars, standing at an equal distance, and lighted by glazed apertures in part of the intercolumniations. they support a cupola, in the centre of which is an opening, crowned by another cupola of much more considerable elevation. to survey the interior of the pantheon, in its present state, is rather a matter of eager curiosity than of pleasing enjoyment. the precautions taken to prevent the fall of the whole building, which was apprehended from the almost tottering state of the dome, have necessitated the erection of such a quantity of scaffolding, that it is no easy task to gain an uninterrupted view of its majestic pillars, of the delicate and light foliage of its capitals, and of its proud and triple canopy. i mounted the ladders, and braved the dust of stone and plaster, amidst the echoing sound of saws, chisels, and mallets, at work in different directions. mercier is said to have offended several of the partisans of voltaire by observing that, through a strange inconsistency, the constant flatterer not only of royalty in general, but of kings in particular, and of all the great men and vices of the age in which he lived, here shares the gratitude of a republic with the _man of nature and truth_, as jean-jacques is styled on his sepulchral monument. thus, in the first instance, says he, a temple, consecrated to stern republican virtue, contains the remains of a great poet who could not strike superstition, without wounding morals.--unquestionably, the _pucelle_ is a work, which, like a blight on a promising crop, has committed incalculable ravage among the rising generation. notwithstanding the numerous inscriptions which now adorn the tomb of voltaire, perhaps, at some future distant period, he may experience the fate of mirabeau, and be _dispantheonized_. but why meddle with the cold remains of any great genius? would it not have been more rational to inscribe the name of rousseau in this national temple, and leave his corpse to rot undisturbed, in the _ile des peupliers_, at ermenonville. though circumstances prevented me from ascending to the dome, you will, no doubt, expect me to say something of its exterior architecture. it represents a circular temple, formed by thirty-four pillars, like those of the interior, of the corinthian order, and each, base and capital included, thirty-four feet in height by three feet and one third in diameter. this colonnade is supported by a circular stylobate, which rests on an octagon base, and is surrounded by a gallery, bordered by an iron balustrade. the cupola, rising above the attic, would appear crushed, were not a stranger apprised that the pedestal on the top is to be surmounted by a bronze figure of fame, twenty-eight feet in height, and weighing fifty-two thousand pounds. the pedestal is encircled by a second gallery at an elevation of one hundred and sixty-six feet, to reach which you ascend a flight of four hundred and sixty stone steps. as the pantheon itself stands on a considerable eminence, the prospect from this gallery is extensive and commanding. this sumptuous edifice may truly be said to exhibit a monument of the weakness of man. like him, before arrived at maturity, it is attacked by indisposition. the architects, like so many physicians, were not for some time agreed as to the seat of the evil. each proposed his means of cure as the most infallible; but all coincided in one opinion, that the danger was imminent. their skill has been exerted, and, no doubt, with effect; for all apprehension of further mischief is now removed. when i was taking a last look at this proud temple, i could not help regretting that one half of the money already expended on it, had not been appropriated to the erection of airy hospitals in the different quarters of this populous city. any one who had formerly visited the _hôtel-dieu_ in paris would, i am confident, have participated in this sentiment. what strange fatality impels men to persevere in such unprofitable erections? this was the first question which suggested itself to me, on getting fairly out of the pantheon. is it to gratify an excess of national vanity, or create a superior degree of admiration in the mind of foreigners? if so, the aim is missed: for, as majesty, fallen from the pinnacle of power, becomes more interesting, so do ruins inspire greater veneration than the most pompous structure, towering in the splendour of its perfection. experience tells us that every truncated pillar, every remnant, in short, of past grandeur, rouses attention, and speaks home to the contemplative mind; while these modern edifices, however firmly erect on their base, excite, comparatively speaking, but a feeble interest. in future ages, perhaps, when the pantheon of paris shall be prostrate on the ground, and the wreck of its stately dome be overrun with moss and ivy, it may, probably, attract as much notice as the far-tamed temple of jupiter-ammon. p.s. on the evening of the th, bonaparte left paris for lyons, where talleyrand, minister for foreign affairs, has been for some days preparing for the great event which is expected to take place. when a public measure is in agitation, the result is generally anticipated by the eagerness of mankind; and whispers the least audible are magnified into authentic information. those even who may be presumed to derive their intelligence from the best sources, not unfrequently misconceive what they have heard, and consequently mislead others. i will not, however, mislead you, by repeating any of the rumours in circulation here: in a short time, the _moniteur_ will, no doubt, explain the real object of this journey. letter xlix. _paris, january , ._ as no city in europe presents so many advantages as this for the cultivation of literature, arts, and sciences, it is not surprising that it should contain great numbers of literati, artists, and men of science, who form themselves into different associations. independently of the national institute, paris can boast of several other scientific societies. the following are the names of those held in most esteem. sociÉtÉ philotechnique. sociÉtÉ libre des sciences, lettres, et arts. athÉnÉe (_ci-devant_ lycÉe) des arts. sociÉtÉ philomatique. sociÉtÉ acadÉmique des sciences. sociÉtÉ galvanique. sociÉtÉ des belles-lettres. acadÉmie de lÉgislation. observateurs de l'homme. athÉnÉe de paris, _ci-devant_ lycÉe rÉpublicain. though, in all these societies, you may meet with a great number of estimable men, many of whose names may be found in the major part of them, yet that which holds the first rank in the public esteem, as well from the respectability of the members of whom it is composed, as from the proofs of talents which are necessary in order to be admitted into it, is the sociÉtÉ philotechnique. indeed, almost all its members are men whose works hove rendered them celebrated throughout europe. hitherto, with the exception of the national institute, this is the only society to which the government has granted the honour of receiving it as a body, or by deputation, on solemn occasions; and by that alone, it has _nationalized_, at least tacitly, its institution. it is also the only one which, to the present moment, has preserved the right of holding its public and private sittings in the _louvre_, since that palace has been ordered to be wholly evacuated. a report has been spread that the hall of the _ci-devant_ french academy is destined for it; but as yet nothing is determined in this respect. its number is confined to sixty resident members, and twenty free associates or veterans. it is necessary to have been ten years among the resident members, in order to have a right to be admitted into the number of the twenty free associates, who enjoy prerogatives, without being bound to take a part in the labours of the society. this favour, however, may be granted to those who are for a time called from paris by public functions, such as embassies, prefectures, &c. this society meets on the nd, th and nd of every month at seven o'clock in the evening. its various committees have their particular days for assembling. its officers consist of a president, a vice-president, a general and perpetual secretary, a temporary secretary, a treasurer, and a keeper of the records. it holds its public sittings at noon on the last sunday of the second month of every _trimestre_, or quarter of the republican year, namely, brumaire, pluviôse, floréal, and thermidor. it is composed of men of science, literati, and artists; but, resembling a family rather than a society, its principles of friendship admit of no classes. on the th of every month, it celebrates its foundation by an entertainment, at which its members have the liberty of introducing their friends. it reckons among its members, in the sciences, lacÉpÈde, fourcroy, cuvier, geoffroy, rotrou, ruel, le clerc, gautherot, gingembre, &c. in literature, boufflers, legouvÉ, andrieux, joseph lavallÉe, marius arnaud, sicard, guillard, guichard, franÇois de neufchÂteau, margourit, renaud de st. jean-d'angely, amaury and alexandre duval, say, desprÉs, marsolier, brousse, des faucherets, pigault le brun, pougens, framery, colin d'harleville, la chabeaussiÈre, &c. in the arts, viz. painting, sculpture, architecture, music, declamation, and dancing, regnault, valenciennes, silvestre the father, barbier the elder, barthelemy, sauvage, lethiers, pajou, chaudet, norry, legrand, bienaimÉ, decotte, director of the medals, foubert, honorary administrator of the central museum, la rive the tragedian, gossec, martini, le sueur, gavaux, kalkbrumer, adrien the elder, gardel, &c. the general and perpetual secretary is joseph lavallÉe. sociÉtÉ, libre des. sciences, lettres, et arts. it is composed of the junction of the old _museum of paris_ and of the society called that of the _nine sisters_. it is divided into classes, is unlimited in the number of its members, admits associated correspondents and foreigners, holds its private sittings at the _oratoire_ in the _rue st. honoré_, every thursday, and its public ones at six o'clock in the evening on the th of the first months of the _trimestre_; namely, vendémiaire, nivôse, germinal, and messidor. its officers consist of a president, taken alternately from the three classes, of two temporary secretaries, a treasurer, and a keeper of the records. this society is modelled a little too much after the institute, and it is easy to see that the former aims at rivaling the latter. this _esprit de corps_, which cannot well be perceived but by nice observers, has this advantage; it inspires a sort of emulation. but the society having neglected to limit the number of its members, and having thereby deprived itself of the means of appearing difficult as to admission, it thence results that its labours are not equally stamped with the impression of real talent; and if, in fact, it be ambitious, that is a great obstacle to its views. athenÉe (_ci-devant_ lycÉe) des arts.[ ] in imitation of our royal society, it comprises not only the sciences, literature, and the arts, but also arts and trades, mechanics, inventions, &c. its members are not idle, and they are a useful body, as they excite emulation by medals, civic crowns, premiums, and rewards. their number is considerable and unlimited; a condition which is an evil in the last-mentioned society, and a good in this, whose nature is not so much to shine as to encourage industry. it was for a while in disrepute, because desaudray, the director who founded it, exercised over it a tyrannic sway; it has succeeded in getting rid of him, and, since then, several persons of merit, who had before kept aloof, aspire to the honour of being admitted into it. for some time past it has adopted a custom, too obsequious and absurd, of choosing none but ministers for its presidents. by this, it exposes its liberty and its opinion, and gives itself chains, the weight of which it will feel some day, when too late to shake them off. it holds its general sittings at the _oratoire_ every monday, when it hears the reports of its numerous committees, who have their particular days for meeting. its public sittings are held at the same place, but at no fixed periods. its officers consist of a president, a vice-president, two secretaries, three conservators, a treasurer, and a keeper of the records. it has associated correspondents throughout europe. sociÉtÉ philomatique. it is wholly devoted to natural, physical, and mathematical sciences. it assembles on fridays, in the _rue d'anjou_, _faubourg st. germain_. it has no public sittings; but is merely a private meeting of men of learning, who publish once a month a _bulletin_ very important to the sciences, and to be commended, besides, for its composition, perspicuity, and conciseness. this publication is of a to size, consists of a single sheet of print, and has for its title _bulletin des sciences par la société philomatique_. sociÉtÉ acadÉmique des sciences. this society is recently formed: it employs itself on the sciences only; has not yet held any public sittings, nor published any memoirs. consequently, nothing can yet be said of its labours, or interior regulation. sociÉtÉ galvanique. its name indicates the sole object of its labours. it is newly formed, and composed of men eminently distinguished in medicine and physics. it has called in a few literati. its officers are the same in the other societies. it holds its sittings at the _oratoire_ every tuesday at eleven o'clock in the morning. its labours are pursued with ardour and it has already made several important experiments. it announces zeal, and talents, as well as-great defects, and aspires to fame, perhaps, a little too much; but it may still maintain its ground. sociÉtÉ des belles-lettres. it is somewhat frivolous. public sittings every month. half poetry, half music. it meets at the _oratoire_ every wednesday at seven o'clock in the evening. it arose from a small emigration of the _lycée des arts_, at this day _l'athénée_, during the tyranny of desaudray, and originally bore the title of _rosati_. a few men of merit, a great number of youths, and some useless members. too many futile readings, too many fugitive verses, too many little rivalships. it is faulty on account of its regulations, the basis of which is weak, and it exhibits too much parsimony in its expenses. it has not enough of that public consideration which perpetuates establishments of this description. under such circumstances, it is to be apprehended that it will not support itself. acadÉmie de lÉgislation. this is a fine institution, recently founded. it is composed of the most celebrated lawyers, and a few distinguished literati. it meets on the first of every month, gives every day courses of lectures on all the branches of jurisprudence to a great number of pupils; has established conferences, where these pupils form themselves to the art of speaking, by pleading on given points of law. it publishes two periodical works every month, the one entitled, _bulletin de jurisprudence_ and the other, _annales de jurisprudence._ the preliminary discourse of the first volume of the latter is by joseph lavallÉe, and has done him considerable credit. he is, however, a literary character, and not a lawyer. this academy has officers of the same description as those of the other societies. senator lanjuinais is the president at this moment. it occupies the _hôtel de la briffe_, _quai voltaire_. sociÉtÉ des observateurs de l'homme. it assembles at the _hôtel de la rochefoucauld_, _rue de seine_, _faubourg st. germain,_ and is composed of very estimable men. its labours, readings, and discussions are too metaphysical. in point of officers, it is formed like the other societies. citizen juaffret is perpetual secretary. athÉnÉe de paris, _ci-devant_ lycÉe rÉpublicain. this society has survived the revolutionary storm, having been established as far back as the year . according to the _programme_ published for the present year , its object is to propagate the culture of the sciences and literature; to make known the useful improvements in the arts; to afford pleasure to persons of all ages, by presenting to every one such attractions as may suit his taste, and to unite in literary conferences the charms of the mildest of human occupations. to strangers, the _athénée_ holds out many advantages. on being presented by one of the founders or a subscriber, and paying the annual subscription of francs, you receive an admission-ticket, which, however, is not transferrable. this entitles you to attend several courses of lectures by some of the most eminent professors, such as fourcroy, cuvier, la harpe, dÉgÉrando, suË, hassenfratz, legrand, &c. the subjects for the year are as follows: experimental physics, chymistry, natural history, anatomy and physiology, botany, technology or the application of sciences to arts and trades, literature, moral philosophy, architecture, together with the english, italian, and german languages. the lectures are always delivered twice, and not unfrequently thrice a day, in a commodious room, provided with all the apparatus necessary for experiments. on a sunday, an account of the order in which they are to be given in the course of the following week, is sent to every subscriber. there is no half-subscription, nor any admission _gratis_; but ladies pay no more than francs for their annual ticket. independently of so many sources of instruction, the _athénée_, as is expressed in the _programme_, really affords to subscribers the resources and charms of a numerous and select society. the apartments, which are situated near the _palais du tribunat_, in the _rue du lycée_, are open to them from nine o'clock in the morning to eleven at night. several rooms are appropriated to conversation; one of which, provided with a piano-forte and music, serves as a rendezvous for the ladies. the subscribers have free access to the library, where they find the principal literary and political journals and papers, both french and others, as well as every new publication of importance. a particular room, in which silence is duly observed, is set apart for reading. [footnote : this society has laid aside the title of _lyceum_ since the decree of the government, which declares that this denomination is to be applied only to the establishments for public instruction.] letter l. _paris, january , ._ i have spoken to you of palaces, museum, churches, bridges, public gardens, playhouses, &c. as they have chanced to fall under my observation; but there still remain houses of more than one description which i have not yet noticed, though they are certainly more numerous here than in any other city in europe. i shall now speak of coffeehouses. their number in paris has been reckoned to exceed seven hundred; but they are very far from enjoying a comparative degree of reputation. celebrity is said to be confined to about a dozen only, which have risen into superior consequence from various causes. except a few resorted to by the literati or wits of the day, or by military officers, they are, in general, the rendezvous of the idle, and the refuge of the needy. this is so true, that a frequenter of a coffeehouse scarcely ever lights a fire in his own lodging during the whole winter. no sooner has he quitted his bed, and equipped himself for the day, than he repairs to his accustomed haunt, where he arrives about ten o'clock in the morning, and remains till eleven at night, the hour at which coffeehouses are shut up, according to the regulation of the police. not unfrequently persons of this description make a cup of coffee, mixed with milk, with the addition of a penny-roll, serve for dinner; and, be their merit what it may, they are seldom so fortunate as to be consoled by the offer of a rich man's table. here, no person who wishes to be respected, thinks of lounging in a coffeehouse, because it not only shews him to be at a loss to spend his time, which may fairly be construed into a deficiency of education or knowledge, but also implies an absolute want of acquaintance with what is termed good company. certain it is that, with the exceptions before-mentioned, a stranger must not look for good company in a coffee-house in paris; if he does, he will find himself egregiously disappointed. having occasion to see an advertisement in an english newspaper, i went a few evenings ago to one of the most distinguished places of this sort in the _palais du tribunat_: the room was extremely crowded. in five minutes, one of the company whom i had seen taking out his watch on my entrance, missed it; and though many of the by-standers afterwards said they had no doubt that a person of gentlemanly exterior, who stood near him, had taken it, still it would have been useless to charge that person with the fact, as the watch had instantly gone through many hands, and the supposed accomplices had been observed to decamp with uncommon expedition. what diverted me not a little, was that the person suspected coolly descanted on the imprudence of taking out a valuable watch in a crowd of strangers; and, after declaiming the most virulent terms against the dishonesty of mankind; he walked away very quietly. notwithstanding his appearance and manner were so much in his favour, he had no sooner affected his retreat than some subalterns of the police, not thief-takers, but _mouchards_ or spies, some of whom are to be met with in every principal coffeehouse, cautioned the master of the house against suffering his presence in future, as he was a notorious adventurer. you must not, however, imagine from this incident, that a man cannot enter a coffeehouse in paris, without being a sufferer from the depredations of the nimble-fingered gentry. such instances are not, i believe, very frequent here; and though it is universally allowed that this capital abounds with adventurers and pickpockets of every description, i am of opinion that there is far less danger to be apprehended from them than from their archetypes in london. everyone knows that, in our refined metropolis, a lady of fashion cannot give a ball or a rout, without engaging mr. townsend, or some other bow street officer, to attend in her ball, in order that his presence may operate as a check on the audacity of knavish intruders. the principle coffeehouses here are fitted up with taste and elegance. large mirrors form no inconsiderable part of their decoration. there are no partitions to divide them into boxes. the tables are of marble; the benches and stools are covered with utrecht velvet. in winter, an equal degree of warmth is preserved in them by means of a large stove in the centre, which, from its figure, is an ornamental piece of furniture; while, in summer, the draught of air which it maintains, contributes not a little to cool the room. in the evening, they are lighted by _quinquets_ in a brilliant manner. formerly, every coffeehouse in paris used to have its chief orator; in those of the more remote part of the suburbs you might, i am informed, hear a journeyman tailor or shoemaker hold forth on various topics. with the revolution, politics were introduced; but, at the present day, that is a subject which seems to be entirely out of the question. in some coffeehouses, where literati and critics assemble, authors and their works are passed in review, and to each is assigned his rank and estimation. when one of these happens to have been checked in his dramatic career by an _undiscerning_ public, he becomes, in his turn, the most merciless of critics. in many of these places, the "busy hum" is extremely tiresome; german, italian, spanish, dutch, danish, russ, together with english and french, all spoken at the same time and in the same room, make a confusion of tongues as great almost as that which reigned at babel. in addition to the french newspapers, those of england and germany may be read; but as they are often bespoke by half a dozen persons in succession, it requires no small degree of patience to wait while these quidnuncs are conning over every paragraph. independently of coffee, tea, and chocolate, ices, punch and liqueurs may be had in the principal coffeehouses; but nothing in the way of dinner or supper, except at the subterraneous ones in the _palais du tribunat_, though there are many of a rather inferior order where substantial breakfasts in the french style are provided. whether voltaire's idea be just, that coffee clears the brain, and stimulates the genius, i will not pretend to determine: but if this be really the case, it is no wonder that the french are so lively and full of invention; for coffee is an article of which they make an uncommon consumption. indeed, if fame may be credited, the prior of a monastery in arabia, on the word of a shepherd who had remarked that his goats were particularly frisky when they had eaten the berries of the coffee-tree, first made a trial of their virtue on the monks of his convent, in order to prevent them from sleeping during divine service. be this as it may, soliman aga, ambassador of the porte to lewis xiv, in , was the first who introduced the use of coffee in paris. during a residence of ten years in the french capital, he had conciliated the friendship of many persons of distinction, and the ladies in particular took a pleasure in visiting him. according to the custom of his country, he presented them with coffee; and this beverage, however disgusting from its colour and bitterness, was well received, because it was offered by a foreigner, in beautiful china cups, on napkins ornamented with gold fringe. on leaving the ambassador's parties, each of the guests, in the enthusiasm of novelty, cried up coffee, and took means to procure it. a few years after, (in ) one paschal, an armenian, first opened, at the _foire st. germain_, and, afterwards on the _quai de l'École_, a shop similar to those which he had seen in the levant, and called his new establishment _café_. other levantines followed his example; but, to fix the fickle parisian, required a coffeeroom handsomely decorated. procope acted on this plan, and his house was successively frequented by voltaire, piron, fontenelle, and st. foix. as drinking, which was then in vogue, was pursued less on account of the pleasure which it afforded, than for the sake of society, the french made no hesitation in deserting the tavern for the coffeehouse. but, in making this exchange, it has been remarked, by the observers of the day, that they have not only lost their taste for conviviality, but are become more reserved and insincere than their forefathers, whose hearts expanded by the free use of the generous juice of the grape; thus verifying the old maxim, _in vino veritas._ no small attraction to a parisian coffeehouse is a pretty female to preside in the bar, and in a few i have seen very handsome women; though this post is commonly assigned to the mistress or some confidential female relation. beset as they are from morn to night by an endless variety of flatterers, the virtue of a lucretia could scarcely resist such incessant temptation. in general, they are coquetish; but, without coquetry, would they be deemed qualified for their employment? before the revolution, i remember, in the _ci-devant palais royal_, a coffeehouse called _le café mécanique_. the mechanical contrivance, whence it derived its name, was of the most simple nature. the tables stood on hollow cylinders, the tops of which, resembling a salver with its border, were level with the plane of the table, but connected with the kitchen underneath. in the bar sat a fine, showy lady, who repeated your order to the attendants below, by means of a speaking-trumpet. presently the superficial part of the salver, descended through the cylinder, and reascending immediately, the article called for made its appearance. this _café méchanique_ did not long remain in being, as it was not found to answer the expectation of the projector. but besides six or seven coffeehouses on the ground-floor of the _palais du tribunat_, there are also several subterraneous ones now open. in one of these, near the _théâtre français,_ is a little stage, on which farces, composed for the purpose, are represented _gratis_. in another, is an orchestra consisting entirely of performers belonging to the national institution of the blind. in a third, on the north side of the garden, are a set of musicians, both vocal and instrumental, who apparently never tire; for i am told they never cease to play and sing, except to retune their instruments. here a female now and then entertains the company with a solo on the french horn. to complete the sweet melody, a merry-andrew habited _à la sauvage_, "struts his hour" on a place about six feet in length, and performs a thousand ridiculous antics, at the same time flogging and beating alternately a large drum, the thunder-like sound of which is almost loud enough to give every auditor's brain a momentary concussion. a fourth subterraneous coffeehouse in the _palais du tribunat_ is kept by a ventriloquist, and here many a party are amused by one of their number being repeatedly led into a mistake, in consequence of being ignorant of the faculty possessed by the master of the house. this man seems to have no small share of humour, and exercises it apparently much to his advantage. in three visits which i paid to his cellar, the crowd was so great that it was extremely difficult to approach the scene of action, so as to be able to enjoy the effect of his ludicrous deceptions. a friend of mine, well acquainted with the proper time for visiting every place of public resort in paris, conducted me to all these subterraneous coffeehouses on a sunday evening, when they were so full that we had some difficulty to find room to stand, for to find a seat was quite impossible. such a diversity of character i never before witnessed in the compass of so small a space. however, all was mirth and good-humour. i know not how they contrive to keep these places cool in summer; for, in the depth of winter, a more than genial warmth prevails in them, arising from the confined breath of such a concourse. on approaching the stair-case, if the orchestra be silent, the entrance of these regions of harmony is announced by a heat which can be compared only to the true sirocco blast such as you have experienced at naples. letter li. _paris, january , ._ as after one of those awful and violent convulsions of nature which rend the bosom of the earth, and overthrow the edifices standing on its surface, men gradually repair the mischief it has occasioned, so the french, on the ruins of the ancient colleges and universities, which fell in the shock of the revolution, have from time to time reared new seminaries of learning, and endeavoured to organize, on a more liberal and patriotic scale, institutions for public instruction. the vast field which the organization of public instruction presents to the imagination has, as may be, supposed, given birth to a great number of systems more or less practicable; but, hitherto, it should seem that political oscillations have imprinted on all the new institutions a character of weakness which, if it did not absolutely threaten speedy ruin, announced at least that they would not be lasting. when the germs of discord prevailed, it was not likely that men's minds should be in that tranquil state necessary for the reestablishment of public seminaries, to lay the foundations of which, in a solid and durable manner, required the calm of peace and the forgetfulness of misfortune. after the suppression of the colleges and universities existing under the monarchy, and to which the _collège de france_ in paris is the sole exception, the national convention, by a decree of the th of nivôse, year iii ( th of january ) established _normal_ schools throughout the republic. professors and teachers were appointed to them; and it was intended that, in these nurseries, youth should be prepared for the higher schools, according to the new plan of instruction. however, in less than a year, these _normal_ schools were shut up; and, by a law of the d of brumaire, year iv ( th of october, ) primary, secondary, and central schools were ordered to be established in every department. in the primary schools, reading, writing, and arithmetic formed the chief part of the instruction. owing to various causes, the secondary schools, i understand, were never established. in the central schools, the internal regulation was to be as follows. the whole of the instruction was divided into three classes or sections. in the first, were taught drawing, natural history, and ancient and modern languages. in the second, mathematics, physics, and chymistry. in the third, universal grammar, the fine arts, history, and legislation. into the first class the pupils were to be received at the age of twelve; into the second, at fourteen; and into the third, at sixteen. in each central school were to be a public library, a botanic garden, and an apparatus of chymical and physical instruments. the professors were to be examined and chosen by a _jury of instruction_, and that choice confirmed by the administration of the department. the government, in turning its attention to the present state of the public schools, and comparing them with the wants and wishes of the inhabitants of the republic, has found that the primary schools have been greatly neglected, and that the central schools have not been of so much utility as was expected. alarmed at the consequences likely to be produced by a state of things which leaves a great part of the present generation destitute of the first rudiments of knowledge, the government has felt that the reorganization of these schools is become an urgent duty, and that it is impossible to delay longer to carry it into execution. the _special_ schools of arts and sciences are mostly confined to paris. the other rich and populous cities of the republic have undoubtedly a claim to similar institutions. there is at present no school of jurisprudence, and but one of medicine. the celebrated fourcroy[ ] has been some time engaged in drawing up a plan for the improvement of public instruction. in seeking a new mode of teaching appropriate to the present state of knowledge and to the genius of the french nation, he has thought it necessary to depart from the beaten track. enlightened by the past, he has rejected the ancient forms of the universities, whose philosophy and acquirements, for half a century past, called for reformation, and no longer kept pace with the progress of reason. in the central schools he saw institutions few in number, and too uniformly organized for departments varying in population, resources, and means. he has, nevertheless, taken what was good in each of these two systems successively adopted, and removed their abuses. without losing sight of the success due to good masters and skilful professors, he has, above all, thought of the means of insuring the success of the new schools by the competition of the scholars. he is of opinion that to found literary and scientific institutions on a solid basis, it is necessary to begin by attaching to them pupils, and filling the classes with students, in order not to run the risk of filling them with professors. such is the object which fourcroy wishes to attain, by creating a number of national pensions, so considerable that their funds, when distributed in the lyceums, may be sufficient for their support. agreeably to these ideas, the following is said to be the outline of the new organization of public instruction. it is to be divided into four classes; viz. primary schools, secondary schools, lyceums, and special schools. primary schools. a primary school may belong to several _communes_ at a time, according to the population and the locality of these _communes_. the teachers are to be chosen by the mayors and municipal councils. the under-prefects are to be specially charged with the organization of these schools, and give an account of their state, once a month, to the prefects. secondary schools. every school established in the _commune_ or kept by private individuals, in which are taught the latin and french languages, the first principles of geography, history and mathematics, is to be considered as a secondary school. the government promises to encourage the establishment of secondary schools, and reward the good instruction that shall be given in them, either by granting a spot for keeping them, or by the distribution of gratuitous places in the lyceums, to such of the pupils as shall have distinguished themselves most, and by gratifications to the fifty masters who shall have qualified most pupils for the lyceums. no secondary school is to be established without the authority of the government. the secondary schools and private schools, whose instruction is found superior to that of the primary schools, are to be placed under the superintendance and particular inspection of the prefects. lyceums. there is to be one lyceum at least in the district of every tribunal of appeal. here are to be taught ancient languages, rhetoric, logic, morality, and the elements of the mathematical and physical sciences. to these are to be added drawing, military exercises and the agreeable arts. instruction is to be given to the pupils placed here by the government, to those of the secondary schools admitted through competition, to those whose parents may put them here as boarders, and also to day-scholars. in each lyceum is to be a director, who is to have immediately under him a censor of studies, and an administrator who are all to be nominated by the first consul. in the former institutions, which are to be replaced by these new ones, a vigilant eye was not constantly kept on the state of the schools themselves, nor on that of the studies pursued in them. according to the new plan, three inspectors-general, appointed by the first consul, are to visit them carefully, and report to the government their situation, success, and defects. this new supervisorship is to be, as it were, the key-stone of the arch, and to keep all the parts connected. the fourth and highest degree of public instruction is to be acquired in the special schools. this is the name to be applied to those of the upper schools, where are particularly taught, and in the most profound manner, the useful sciences, jurisprudence, medicine, natural history, &c. but schools of this kind must not be confounded with the schools for engineers, artillery, bridges and highways, hydrography, &c. which, _special_ as they are essentially, in proportion to the sciences particularly taught in them, are better described, however, by the name of _schools for public services_, on account of the immediate utility derived from them by the government. in addition to the _special_ schools now in existence, which are to be kept up, new ones are to be established in the following proportion: ten schools of jurisprudence. these useful institutions, which have been abolished during the last ten years, are, by a new organization, to resume the importance that they had lost long before the revolution. the pupils are to be examined in a manner more certain for determining their capacity, and better calculated for securing the degree of confidence to be reposed in those men to whose knowledge and integrity individuals are sometimes forced to intrust their character and fortune. three new schools of medicine, in addition to the three at present in being. these also are to be newly organized in the most perfect manner. the mathematical and physical sciences have made too great a progress in france, their application to the useful arts, to the public service, and to the general prosperity, has been too direct, says fourcroy, for it not to be necessary to diffuse the taste for them, and to open new asylums where the advantages resulting from them may be extended, and their progress promoted. there are therefore to be four new _special_ schools of natural history, physics, and chymistry, and also a _special_ school devoted to transcendent mathematics. the mechanical and chymical arts, so long taught in several universities in germany under the name of _technology_, are to have two _special_ schools, placed in the cities most rich in industry and manufactures. these schools, generally wished for, are intended to contribute to the national prosperity by the new methods which they will make known, the new instruments and processes which they will bring into use, the good models of machines which they will introduce, in a word, by every means that mechanics and chymistry can furnish to the arts. a school of public economy, enlightened by geography and history, is to be opened for those who may be desirous to investigate the principles of governments, and the art of ascertaining their respective interests. in this school it is proposed to unite such an assemblage of knowledge as has not yet existed in france. to the three principal schools of the arts dependent on design, which are at present open, is to be added a fourth, become necessary since those arts bring back to france the pure taste of the beautiful forms, of which greece has left such perfect models. in each of the observatories now in use is to be a professor of astronomy, and the art of navigation is expected to derive new succour from these schools, most of which are placed in the principal sea-ports. a knowledge of the heavens and the study of the movements of the celestial bodies, which every year receives very remarkable augmentations from the united efforts of the most renowned geometricians and the most indefatigable observers, may have a great influence on the progress of civilization. on which account the french government is extremely eager to promote the science of astronomy. the language of neighbouring nations, with whom the french have such frequent intercourse, is to be taught in several lyceums, as being a useful introduction to commerce. the art of war, of which modern times have given such great examples and such brilliant lessons, is to have its _special_ school, and this school, on the plan which it is intended to be established by receiving as soldiers youths from the lyceums, will form for the french armies officers equally skilful in theory as in practice. this new military school must not be confounded with the old _école militaire_. independently of its not being destined for a particular class, which no longer exists in this country, the mode of instruction to be introduced there will render it totally different from the establishment which bore the same name. it is to be composed of five hundred pupils, forming a battalion, and who are to be accustomed to military duty and discipline; it is to have at least ten professors, charged to teach all the theoretical, practical, and administrative parts of the art of war, as well as the history of wars and of great captains. of the five hundred pupils of the special military school, two hundred are to be taken from among the national pupils of the lyceums, in proportion to their number in each of those schools, and three hundred from among the boarders and day-scholars, according to the examination which they must undergo at the end of their studies. every year one hundred of the former are to be admitted, and two hundred of the latter. they are to be maintained two years in the special military school, at the expense of the republic. these two years are to be considered as part of their military service. according to the report made of the behaviour and talents of the pupils of the military school, the government is to provide them with appointments in the army. national pupils. there are to be maintained at the expense of the republic six thousand four hundred pupils, as boarders in the lyceums and special schools. out of these six thousand four hundred boarders, two thousand four hundred are to be chosen by the government from among the sons of officers and public functionaries of the judicial, administrative, or municipal order, who shall have served the republic with fidelity, and for ten years only from among the children of citizens belonging to the departments united to france, although they have neither been military men nor public functionaries. these two thousand four hundred pupils are to be at least nine years of age, and able to read and write. the other four thousand are to be taken from double the number of pupils of the secondary schools, who, according to an examination where their talents are put in competition, are to be presented to the government. the pupils, maintained in the lyceums, are not to remain there more than six years at the expense of the nation. at the end of their studies, they are to undergo an examination, after which a fifth of them are to be placed in the different special schools according to their disposition, in order to be maintained there from two to four years at the expense of the republic. the annual cost of all these establishments is estimated at near eight millions of francs, (_circa_ £ , sterling) which exceeds by at least two millions the amount of the charges of the public instruction for the few preceding years; but this augmentation, which will only take place by degrees, and at soonest in eighteen months, appears trifling, compared to the advantages likely to result from the new system. whenever this plan is carried into execution, what hopes may not france conceive from the youth of the rising generation, who, chosen from among those inclined to study, will, in all probability, rise to every degree of fame! the surest pledge of the success of the measure seems to consist in the spirit of emulation which is to be maintained, not only among the pupils, but even among the professors in the different schools; for emulation, in the career of literature, arts and sciences, leads to fame, and never fails to turn to the benefit of society; whereas jealousy, in the road of ambition and fortune, produces nothing but hatred and discord. "envy, to which th' ignoble mind's a slave, is emulation in the learn'd and brave." so much for the plan.[ ] in your last letter, you desire that i will afford you some means of appreciating the essential difference between the old system of education pursued in france, and the basis on which public instruction is now on the point of being reorganised and established. you must be sensible that the comparison of the two modes, were i to enter deeply into the question, would far exceed the limits of a letter. but, though i have already extended this to a certain length, i can, in a few more lines, enable you to compare and judge, by informing you, from the best authority, what has been the spirit which has dictated the new organization. there are very few men who know how to confine themselves within just bounds. some yield to the mania of innovation, and imagine that they create only because they destroy and change. others bend under the yoke of old habits. some, solely because they have remained strangers to the sciences, would wish that youth should be employed only in the study of languages and literature. others who, no doubt, forget that every learned man, who aims at a solid reputation, ought to sacrifice to the muses, before he penetrates into the sanctuary of science, would wish education to be confined to the study of the exact sciences, and that youth should be occupied on things, before they are acquainted with words. for the sole reason that the old system of instruction bore too exclusively on the study of the learned languages, it was to be feared that the new one, through a contrary excess, would proscribe the greek and latin. the study of these two languages, as fourcroy has observed to me, is not merely useful to those who wish to acquire a thorough knowledge of the french, which has borrowed from them no small number of words, but it is only from the perusal of the great writers of antiquity, on whom the best among the moderns have formed themselves, that we can imbibe the sentiment of the beautiful, the taste, and the rectitude of mind equally necessary, whether we feel ourselves attracted towards eloquence or poetry, or raise ourselves to the highest conceptions of the physical or mathematical sciences. at no time can the instruction given to a youth be otherwise considered than as a preparatory mean, whose object is to anticipate his taste and disposition, and enable him to enter with more firmness into the career which he is intended to follow. from an attentive perusal of the plan, of which i have traced you the leading features, you will be convinced that the study of the sciences will gain by the new system, without that of literature being in danger of losing. the number of professors is increased, and yet the period of education is not prolonged. a pupil will always be at liberty to apply himself more intensely to the branch to which he is impelled by his particular inclination. he may confine himself to one course of lectures, or attend to several, according to his intellectual means. he will not be compelled to stop in his career, merely because the pupils of his class do not advance. in short, neither limits nor check have been put to the progress that may be made by talent. i here give you only a principal idea, but the application of it, improved by your sagacity and knowledge, will be sufficient to answer all the objections which may be started against the new plan of instruction, and which, when carefully investigated, may be reduced to a single one; namely, that literature is sacrificed to the sciences. [footnote : counsellor of state, now charged with the direction and superintendance of public instruction.] [footnote : the new organization of public instruction was decreed by the government on the th of floréal, year x.] letter lii. _paris, january , ._ of all the private lodgings in paris, none certainly can be more convenient for the residence of a single man than those of milliners. i have already said that such is the profession of my landlady. whenever i am disposed for a little lively chitchat, i have only to step to the next door but one into her _magazin de modes_, where, like a favourite courtier, under the old _régime_, i have both _les grandes et les petites entrées_, or, in plain english, i may either introduce myself by the public front entrance, or slip in by the private back-door. here, twenty damsels are employed in making up head-dresses which are hourly produced and varied by fashion. closely confined to the counter, with a needle in their hand, they are continually throwing their eyes towards the street. not a passenger escapes their notice. the place the nearest to the window is in the greatest request, as being most favourable for catching the transient homages of the crowds of men continually passing and repassing. it is generally occupied by the beauty of the _magazin_ or warehouse; for it would be resented as an almost unpardonable offence to term this emporium of taste a _boutique_ or shop. before each of them is a block, on which they form and adjust the gallant trophy destined to heighten the loveliness of some ambitious fair who has set her heart on surpassing all her rivals at an approaching ball. montesquieu observes, in his persian letters, that "if a lady has taken it into her head to appear at an assembly in a particular dress, from that moment fifty persons of the working class must no longer sleep, or have time to eat and drink. she commands, and is obeyed more expeditiously than the king of persia, because interest has greater sway than the most powerful monarch on earth." in the morning, some of these damsels wait on the ladies with bandboxes of millinery. obliged by their profession to adorn the heads of other women, they must stifle the secret jealousy of their sex, and contribute to set off the person of those who not unfrequently treat them with hauteur. however, they are now and then amply revenged: sometimes the proud rich lady is eclipsed by the humble little milliner. the unadorned beauty of the latter destroys the made up charms of the coquette: 'tis the triumph of nature over art. if, perchance, the lover drops in, fatal consequences ensue. his belle cannot but lose by the comparison: her complexion appears still more artificial beside the natural bloom of the youthful _marchande_. in a word, the silent admirer all at once becomes faithless. many a young parisian milliner has made a jump from behind the counter into a fashionable carriage, even into that of an english peer. strange revolution of fortune! in the course of a few days, she returns to the same shop to make purchases, holding high her head; and exulting in her success. her former mistress, sacrificing her rage to her interest, assumes a forced complaisance; while her once-dear companions are ready to burst with envy. millinery here constitutes a very extensive branch of trade. nothing short of the creative genius of the french could contrive to give, again and again, a new form to things the most common. in vain do females of other countries attempt to vie with them; in articles of tasteful fancy they still remain unrivaled. from paris, these studious mistresses of invention give laws to the polished world. after passing to london, berlin, hamburg, and vienna, their models of fashion are disseminated all over europe. these models alike travel to the banks of the neva and the shores of the propontis. at constantinople, they find their way into the seraglio of the grand signior; while, at petersburg, they are servilely copied to grace the empress of russia. thus, the fold given to a piece of muslin or velvet, the form impressed on a ribband, by the hand of an ingenious french milliner, is repeated among all nations. a fashion here does not last a week, before it is succeeded by another novelty; for a french woman of _bon ton_, instead of wearing what is commonly worn by others, always aims at appearing in something new. it is unfortunately too true, that the changeableness of taste and inconstancy of fashion in france furnish an aliment to the luxury of other countries; but the principle of this communication is in the luxury of this gay and volatile people. you reproach me with being silent respecting the _bals masqués_ or masquerades, mentioned in my enumeration of the amusements of paris. the fact is that a description of them will scarcely furnish matter for a few lines, still less a subject for a letter. however, in compliance with custom, i have been more than once to the bal de l'opÉra. this is a masquerade frequently given in the winter, at the theatre of the grand french opera, where the pit is covered over, as that is of our opera-house in the haymarket. from the powerful draught of air, which, coming from behind the scenes, may well be termed _vent de coulisse_, the room is as cold as the season. since the revolution, masquerades were strictly forbidden, and this prohibition continued under the directorial government. it is only since bonaparte's accession to the post of chief magistrate, that the parisians have been indulged with the liberty of wearing disguises during the carnival. of all the amusements in paris, i have ever thought this the most tiresome and insipid. but it is the same at the _bal de l'opéra_ as at _frascati_, _longchamp_, and other points of attraction here; every one is soon tired of them, and yet every one flocks thither. in fact, what can well be more tiresome than a place where you find persons masked, without wit or humour? though, according to the old french saying, "_i faut avoir bien peu d'esprit pour ne pas en avoir sous le masque?_" the men, who at a masquerade here generally go unmasked, think it not worth while to be even complaisant to the women, who are elbowed, squeezed, and carried by the tide from one end of the room to the other, before they are well aware of it. dominos are the general dress. the music is excellent; but it is not the fashion to dance; and _les femmes de bonne compagnie_, that is, well-bred women, are condemned to content themselves with the dust they inhale; for they dare not quit their mask to take any refreshment. but, notwithstanding these inconveniences, it is here reckoned a fine thing to have been at a _bal masqué_ when the crowd was great, and the pressure violent; as the more the ladies have shared in it, the more they congratulate themselves on the occasion. before the revolution, the _grand ton_ was for gentlemen to go to the _bal de l'opéra_ in a full-dress suit of black, and unmasked. swords were here prohibited, as at bath. this etiquette of dress, however, rendered not the company more select. i remember well that at a masked ball at the parisian opera, in the year , the very first beau i recognized in the room, parading in a _habit de cour_, was my own _perruquier_. as at present, the amusement of the women then consisted in teazing the men; and those who had a disposition for intrigue, gave full scope to the impulse of their nature. the _fille entretenue_, the _duchesse_, and the _bourgeoise_, disguised under a similar domino, were not always distinguishable; and i have heard of a certain french marquis, who was here laid under heavy contribution for the momentary gratification of his caprice, though the object of it proved to be no other than his own _cara sposa_. letter liii. _paris, january , ._ when you expressed your impatience to be informed of the dramatic amusements in paris, i promised to satisfy you as soon as i was able; for i knew that you would not be contented with a superficial examination. therefore, in reviewing the principal scenic establishments, i shall, as i have done before, exert my endeavours not only to make you acquainted with the _best_ performers in every department, but also with the _best_ stock-pieces, in order that, by casting your eye on the _affiches des spectacles_, when you visit this capital, you may at once form a judgment of the quality and quantity of the entertainment you are likely to enjoy at the representation of a particular piece, in which certain performers make their appearance. since the revolution, the custom of printing the names of the actors and dancers in each piece, has been introduced. formerly, amateurs often paid their money only to experience a disappointment; for, instead of seeing the hero or heroine that excited their curiosity, they had a bad duplicate, or, as the french term it, a _double_, imposed on them, more frequently through caprice than any other motive. this is now obviated; and, except in cases of sudden and unforeseen indisposition, you may be certain of seeing the best performers whenever their name is announced. in speaking of the theatres, the pieces represented, and the merits of the performers, i cannot be supposed to be actuated by any prejudice or partiality whatever. i have, it is true, been favoured with the oral criticism of a man of taste, who, as a very old acquaintance, has generally accompanied me to the different _spectacles_; but still i have never adopted his sentiments, unless the truth of them had been confirmed by my own observation. from him i have been favoured with a communication of such circumstances respecting them as occurred during the revolution, when i was absent from paris. you may therefore confidently rely on the candour and impartiality of my general sketch of the theatres; and if the stage be considered as a mirror which reflects the public mind, you will thence be enabled to appreciate the taste of the parisians. without forgetting that "_la critique est aisée, mais l'art est difficile_," i shall indulge the hope that you will be persuaded that truth alone has guided my pen in this attempt to trace the attractions of the thÉÂtre franÇais de la rÉpublique. the house, now occupied by the performers of this theatre, was built at the beginning of the revolution by the late duke of orleans, who, according to the opinion of those best acquainted with his schemes of profit, intended it for the representation of the grand french opera, for which, nevertheless, it is not sufficiently spacious. it stands adjoining to the south-west angle of the _palais du tribunat_, with its front entrance in the _rue de la loi_. its façade presents a row of twelve doric columns, surmounted by as many corinthian pilasters, crowned by their entablature. on the first story is an exterior gallery; ornamented by an iron balustrade, which runs the whole length of the façade, and communicates with the lobby. on the north side, and at the back of the theatre, on the ground-floor, are several covered galleries, bordered by shops, which communicate with the _rue st. honoré_ and the _palais du tribunat_. the vestibule, where four stair-cases terminate, is of an elliptic form, surrounded by three rows of doric pillars. above the vestibule, which is on the ground-floor, are the pit and lobby. the inside of the house, which is immoderately lofty, presents seven tiers of boxes, and, in the circumference, six corinthian pillars. the ornaments, numerously scattered, are in relief. at a certain elevation, the plan of the house is changed by a recess made facing the stage. two angels, above the stage-boxes, shock the eye by their enormous size. the boxes to the number of two hundred and twenty-two, are said to contain thirteen hundred persons; and the pit, including the _orchestre_,[ ] seven hundred and twenty-four, making in all two thousand and twenty persons. the construction of this house is remarkable for iron only being employed in lieu of wood. the architect was louis. this theatre, which was begun in , was finished in , when, all privileges having been done away, it was first opened by a company of french comedians, who played tragedy and comedy. it then took the name of _théâtre français de la rue de richelieu_, which street was afterwards and is now called _rue de la loi_. being opened at the commencement of the revolution, it naturally adopted its principles; and, when the national convention had proclaimed the republic, it assumed the pompous name of _théâtre de la république_. the greater part of the actors who performed here, rendered themselves remarkable for their _revolutionary_ ardour, and, during the reign of terror, it became a privileged theatre. the _comédie française_ in the _faubourg st. germain_, which, in its interior, presented the handsomest playhouse in paris, was called _l'odéon_ a few years ago, and, since then, has been reduced by fire to a mere shell, the walls only being left standing. in , this theatre appeared to follow the torrent of the revolution, and changed its name for that of _théâtre de la nation_. nevertheless, the actors did not, on that account, relinquish the title of _comédiens ordinaires du roi_. shortly after, they even became, in general, the declared partisans of the old _régime_, or at least of the court. their house was frequently an _arena_ where the two parties came to blows, particularly on the occasion of the tragedy of _charles neuf_, by chÉnier, and of the comedy of _l'ami des loix_. the former of these pieces, represented in the first ebullition of the revolution, was directed against the court; and the comedians refused to bring it on the stage, at the time of the assemblage of the national guards in paris, on the th of july, , known by the title of _federation_. the latter was played after the massacres of september , and had been composed with the laudable view of bringing back the public mind to sentiments of humanity, justice, and moderation. the maxims which it contained, being diametrically opposite to those of the plunderers who then reigned, that is, the members of the _commune_ of paris, the minority of the national convention, the jacobins, cordeliers, &c. they interrupted the representation, and, after a great uproar, the piece was prohibited. this minority of which i have just spoken, having succeeded in subduing the majority, nothing now stopped the rage of the revolutionary party. all those who gave them umbrage were imprisoned, and put to death with the forms of law. the comedians of the french theatre were thrown into prison; it appears that they were, both men and women, partly destined for the scaffold, and that if they escaped, it was through the address of a clerk of one of the committees of public welfare or of public safety, who repeatedly concealed the documents containing the charges brought against them. it is said that the comedians purpose to prove their gratitude, so long delayed, to this young man, without putting themselves to any expense, by giving for his benefit an extraordinary representation.[ ] at length the happy th of thermidor arrived; the prisons were thrown open; and, as you may well imagine in such a nation as this, the french comedians were not the last to be set at liberty. however, their theatre was not immediately restored to them. it was occupied by a sort of bastard _spectacle_, with the actors of which they were then obliged to form an association. this did not last long. the french comedians were received by the manager of the lyric theatre of the _rue feydeau_, whom they afterwards ruined. the actors of comedy, properly so called, contrived to expel those of tragedy, with whom they thought they could dispense; and, shortly, they themselves, notwithstanding their reputation, were deserted by the public. the heroes and heroines, with mademoiselle raucourt at their head, took possession of the theatre of the _rue de louvois_, and there prospered. but, after the th of fructidor, ( th of september, ) the directory caused this house to be shut up: the reason assigned was the representation given here of a little comedy, of ancient date however, and of no great importance, in which a knavish valet is called merlin, as was the minister of justice of that day, who since became director, not of the theatre, but of the republic. mademoiselle raucourt, who was directress of this theatre, returned with her company to the old theatre of the _faubourg st. germain_, which then took the name of _l'odéon_. in the mean time, the theatre of the _rue de richelieu_ had perceptibly declined, after the fall of robespierre, and the public appeared to have come to a positive determination to frequent it no longer. the manager of the _théâtre feydeau_, m. sargent, formerly a banker, who was rich, and enjoyed a good reputation, succeeded in uniting all the actors of the _comédie française_ and those of the _théâtre de la république_. this effected his own ruin. when he had relinquished the management of the undertaking, the government took it in hand, and definitively organized this tragic and comic association, to superintend which it appointed a special commissioner. the _repertoire_ (or list of pieces which are here played habitually, or have been acted with applause) is amazingly well furnished, and does infinite honour to french literature. it may be divided into two parts, the ancient and the modern. it is the former that deserves the encomium which i have just bestowed. in the line of tragedy, it is composed of the greater part of the pieces of the four principal pillars of the temple of the french melpomene: namely corneille[ ], racine, crÉbillon, and voltaire, to whom may be added du belloy, as well as of some detached pieces, such as _iphigénie en tauride_ by guimond de la touche, _le comte de warwick_ and _philoctète_ by la harpe. the modern _repertoire_, or list of stock-pieces, is formed of the tragedies of m. m. ducis, chÉnier, arnault, legouvÉ, and le mercier. in the line of comedy, it is also very rich. you know that, at the head of the french comic authors, stands moliÈre, who, in this country at least, has no equal, either among the ancients or the moderns. several of his pieces are still represented, though they are not numerously attended; as well because manners are changed, as because the actors are no longer able to perform them. next to moliÈre, but at a great interval, comes regnard, whom the french comedians have deserted, for much the same reason: they no longer give any plays from the pen of this author, who possessed the _vis comica_, except _les folies amoureuses_, a pretty little comedy in three acts. we no longer hear of his _joueur_ and his _légataire universel_, which are _chefs d'oeuvre_. there are likewise the works of destouches, who has written _le glorieux, le dissipateur_, and _la fausse agnès_, which are always played with applause. _le méchant_, by gresset, is a masterpiece in point of style, and _la métromanie_, by piron, the best of french comedies, next to those of moliÈre and regnard. then come the works of la chaussÉe, who is the father of the _drame_, and whose pieces are no longer represented, though he has composed several, such as _la gouvernante_, _l'École des mères_, _le préjugé à la mode_, which, notwithstanding, their whining style, are not destitute of merit, and those of dancourt, who has written several little comedies, of a very lively cast, which are still played, and those of marivaux, whose old metaphysical jargon still pleases such persons as have their head full of love. i might augment this list by the name of several other old authors, whose productions have more or less merit. the number of modern french comic authors is very limited; for it is not even worthwhile to speak of a few little comedies in one act, the title of which the public scarcely remember. according to this calculation, there is but one single comic author now living. that is colin d'harleville, who has written _l'inconstant_, _les châteaux en espagne_, _le vieux célibataire_, and _les moeurs du jour_, which are still represented. _le vieux célibataire_ is always received with much applause. in general, the pieces of m. colin are cold, but his style is frequently graceful: he writes in verse; and the whole part of _l'inconstant_ is very agreeably written. indeed, that piece is the best of this author. fabre d'eglantine is celebrated as an actor in the revolution (i mean on the political stage), and as the author who has produced the best piece that has appeared since _la métromanie_. it is the _philinte de molière_, which, in some measure, forms a sequel to the comedy of the _misanthrope_. nevertheless, this title is ill chosen; for the character of the _philinte_ in the piece of moliÈre, and that of fabre's piece scarcely bear any resemblance. we might rather call it the _Égoiste_. although the comic part of it is weak, the piece is strongly conceived, the fable very well managed, the style nervous but harsh, and the third act is a _chef-d'oeuvre_. since the death of fabre, another piece of his has been acted, entitled _le précepteur_. in this piece are to be recognized both his manner and his affected philosophical opinions. his object is to vaunt the excellence of the education recommended by j. j. rousseau, though the revolution has, in a great measure, proved the fallacy of the principles which it inculcates. as these, however, are presented with art, the piece had some success, and still maintains its ground on the stage. it was played for the first time about two years ago. the surname of eglantine, which fabre assumed, arose from his having won the prize at the floral games at toulouse. the prize consisted of an _eglantine_ or wild rose in gold. before he became a dramatic author, he was an actor and a very bad actor. being nominated member of the national convention, he distinguished himself in that assembly, not by oratorical talents, but by a great deal of villainy. he did not think as he acted or spoke. when the _montagnards_[ ] or mountaineers, that is, those monsters who were always thirsting for blood, divided, he appeared for some time to belong to the party of danton, who, however, denied him when they were both in presence of each other at the bar of the revolutionary tribunal. danton insisted that he who had been brought to trial for a just cause, if not a just motive, ought not to be confounded with stealers of port-folios.[ ] they were both sentenced to die, and accordingly executed. among the comic authors of our age, some people would reckon dumoustier, whose person was held in esteem, but whose works are below mediocrity. they are _le conciliateur_, a comedy in five acts, and _les femmes_, a comedy in three acts. the latter appears to be the picture of a brothel. they are both still played, and both have much vogue, which announces the total decline of the art. there is a third species of dramatic composition, proscribed by the rules of good taste, and which is neither tragedy nor comedy, but participates of both. it is here termed _drame_. although la chaussÉe is the father of this tragi-comic species of writing, he had not, however, written any _tragédies bourgeoises_, and the french declare that we have communicated to them this contagion; for their first _drame_, _beverley, ou le joueur anglais_ is a translation in verse from the piece of that name of our theatre. the celebrated lekain[ ] opposed its being acted, and affirmed with reason that this mixture of the two species of drama hurt them both. molÉ, who was fond of applause easily obtained, was the protector of the piece, and played the part of _beverley_ with success; but this _drame_ is no longer performed on the parisian stage. next to this, comes _le père de famille_, by diderot. it is a long sermon. however, it presents characters well drawn. this species of composition is so easy that the number of _drames_ is considerable; but scarcely any of them are now performed, except _eugénie_ and _la mère coupable_, by beaumarchais,[ ] which are frequently represented. i shall not finish this article without reminding you that mercier has written so many _drames_ that he has been called _le dramaturge_. all his are become the prey of the little theatres and the aliment of the provincial departments. this circumstance alone would suffice to prove the mediocrity of the _drame_. monvel, of whom i shall soon have occasion to speak, would well deserve the same title. [footnote : this is a place, so called in french theatres, comprising four or five rows of benches, parted off, between the place where the musicians are seated and the front of the pit.] [footnote : it is not mentioned whether these sons and daughters of thespis, who have since gained a great deal of money, have offered any _private_ remuneration to their benefactor, rather to their guardian-angel.] [transcriber's note: the scan of this footnote was imperfect. some of the text was interpolated.] [footnote : of course, pierre corneille is here meant. thomas corneille, who was surnamed the great, must not, however be forgotten. thomas is the author of _ariane_ and _le comte d'essex_, a tragedy much esteemed, and which is deserving of estimation.] [footnote : thus called, because they formed a very close and very elevated group at one of the extremities of the hall of the national convention.] [footnote : fabre d'eglantine was tried for having, in concert with certain stock-jobbers, proposed and caused the adoption of decrees concerning the finances.] [footnote : lekain said humourously that to play the _drame_ well, it was sufficient to know how to make a summerset.] [footnote : every one is acquainted with the two comedies written by this author, _le barbier de seville_ and _le mariage de figaro_. the astonishing run of the latter, which was acted one hundred and fifty succeeding nights, was greatly owing to beaumarchais having there turned into ridicule several persons of note in the ministry and the parliament: _la mère coupable_, which is often given, is the sequel to _le mariage de figaro_, as that piece is to _le barbier de seville_.] letter liv. _paris, january , ._ let us now examine the merits of the principal performers belonging to the _théâtre français_. tragedy. _noble fathers, or characters of kings_. vanhove, monvel, st. prix, and naudet. vanhove. this king of the _théâtre français_ neither has majesty nor nobleness of manner. his countenance is mean, and his make common. his monotonous and heavy utterance is sometimes intermingled with yelping sounds. he possesses no sensibility, and substitutes noise for expression. his mediocrity caused him to be received at the old _comédie française_; for the first or principal actors of that theatre were rather fond of receiving persons of weak talents, merely that they might be set off. he _doubled_ brizard, whom nature had endowed with the happiest gifts for tragedy. vanhove was the first player ever called for by a parisian audience after the representation, in order to express to him their satisfaction. however, it may be proper to observe that, in such cases, it is always some friend of the author who takes the lead. vanhove no longer obtains this favour at present, and is seldom applauded. he also plays the parts of fathers in comedy. monvel. this actor is not near so old as vanhove; but the decay of his person is such that, when he plays, he seems a skeleton bestirring itself, or that is set in motion. it is a misfortune for him that his physical means betray his talents. monvel is a man of genius. thus gifted, it is not astonishing that he has a just diction, and is not deficient in intelligence. some persons doubt whether he has real sensibility; but he at least presents the appearance of it. he, in some measure, breaks his voice, and vents mournful accents which produce much effect. with a constitution extremely weak, it is impossible that he should perform characters which require energy and pride. he therefore confines himself to those in which the pathetic is predominant, or which do not imperiously demand great efforts, such as _auguste_ in _cinna_, _burrhus_ in _britannicus_, _brutus_ in the tragedy of that name (now no longer played), _lusignan_ in _zaire_, _zopire_ in _mahomet_, _fénélon_[ ] and _l'abbé de l'epée_ in the two pieces of that name. his stock of characters then is by no means extensive. we may also add to it the part of _Ésope à la cour_, in the comedy of that name by boursault, which he plays or recites in great perfection, because it is composed of fables only. monvel delivers them with neatness and simplicity. for this part he has no equal in france.[ ] monvel is author as well as actor. he has composed several comic operas and _drames_; and his pieces, without being good, have always obtained great applause. his _drames_ are _l'amant bourru_, _clémentine et désormes_, _les amours de bayard_, _les victimes cloitrées_, &c. you will find in them forced situations, but set off by sentiment. he is lavish of stage-effect and that always pleases the multitude. _l'amant bourru_ has alone remained as a stock-piece. by his zeal for the revolution, he alienated from him a great part of the public. when every principle of religion was trodden under foot, and, under the name of festivals of reason or of the goddess of reason, orgies of the most scandalous nature were celebrated in the churches, monvel ascended the pulpit of the parish of st. roch, and preached _atheism_ before an immense congregation. shortly after, robespierre caused the national convention to proclaim the following declaration: "_the french people acknowledge the supreme being and the immortality of the soul." monvel trembled; and it is probable that, had not that sanguinary tyrant been overthrown, the atheistical preacher would have descended from the pulpit only to ascend the scaffold.[ ] st. prix. he has no fixed employment. sometimes he plays the parts of kings, sometimes those of lovers; but excels in none. he would be a very handsome man, were it possible to be so with a face void of expression. nature has given him a strong but hollow voice; and he recites so coldly, that he makes the public yawn, and seems sometimes to yawn himself. when he means to display warmth, he screams and fatigues the ear without mercy. naudet. this man, who is great only in stature, quitted the rank of serjeant in the _gardes françaises_ to become a bad player. in the character of kings, he scarcely now appears but to personate tyrants. he is very cold, and speaks through his nose like a capuchin friar, which has gained him the appellation of the reverend father naudet. _first parts or principal lovers, in tragedy_. talma, and lafond. talma. the great reputation which circumstances and his friends[ ] have given to this actor has, probably, rendered him celebrated in england. his stature and his voice (which, in theatrical language, is called _organ_), should seem to qualify him for the parts of _jeunes premiers_ only, of which i shall say more hereafter. accordingly he made his _début_ in that line about fifteen or sixteen years ago. without being brilliant, his first appearances were successful, and he was received on trial. he soon caused himself to be remarked by the correctness of his dress.[ ] but what fixed attention on talma, was the part of _charles neuf_, which he plays in the tragedy of that name.[ ] in the riots to which this piece gave rise in , talma figured as a patriot. having fallen out with the comedians who had behaved ill to him, and no longer placed him in any other parts than those of confidants, he was engaged at the new _théâtre français_ of the _rue de richelieu_, where it was proposed to him to perform the characters which pleased him best, that is, the best in each piece. thus he was seen alternately personating young princes, heroes, and tyrants. talma is now reduced to those of the old stock. the characters he at present represents are _cinna_ in the tragedy of that name by corneille, _oreste_ in the _andromaque_ of racine, _néron_ in the _britannicus_ of the same, _oedipe_ in the tragedy of that name by voltaire, and _faïel_ in _gabrielle du vergy_ by du belloy, _oreste_ in _iphigénie en tauride_ by guimond de la touche, and _Ægisthe_ in the _agamemnon_ of le mercier. talma also plays many other parts, but, in these, he makes no great figure. he had a great aversion to old pieces, and as long as he preserved his sway at the theatre, very few, if any were performed. in fact, there are many in which he is below mediocrity. you will certainly expect that i should tell you what constitutes the talent of this performer. he is small in stature, thin in person, and rather ill-made; his arms and legs being bowed, which he takes care to conceal by the fulness of his garments. he has a fine eye, and his features are regular, but too delicate for the perspective of the theatre. he has long since adopted the antique head-dress,[ ] and has contributed to bring it into fashion. he distinguished himself formerly in paris by wearing clothes of a strange form. as an actor, he has no nobleness of manner, and not unfrequently his gestures are aukward. his deportment is always ungraceful, though he often endeavours to imitate the posture of the antique statues; but even then he presents only a caricature. his countenance has little or no expression, except in moments of rage or terror. in pourtraying the latter sentiment, all the faculties of his soul appear absorbed; yet, though his distraction seems complete, there is a sort of silliness blended with his stupor, which certain persons take for truth, and which is much more perceptible in the rest of his characters. in rage, he is a tiger mangling his prey, and sometimes you might believe that you heard that animal drawing his breath. talma has never expressed well a tender, generous, or noble sentiment. his soul is neither to be softened nor elevated; and, to produce effect, he must be in a terror or in a rage; but then he makes a great impression on the majority of the public. his utterance is slow, minced, and split into syllables. his voice is hollow; but, in moments of rage, it is strong, yet without being of a considerable volume. he is generally reproached with being deficient in sensibility: i think, however, that, by dint of labour, he might paint feeling; for i have heard him render delicate passages happily enough. he is accused here of having adopted the english style of acting, though, as far as my opinion goes, with little or no foundation. be this as it may, he passed the early part of his youth in london, where his father resides, and follows the profession of a dentist. the son may now be about thirty-eight years of age. talma preserves the reputation of being a zealous partisan of the revolution; but i am confidently assured that he never injured any one, and held in horror the assassinations which have left an indelible stain on that event. he was intimately connected with the deputies, styled _girondists_ or _brisotins_, who perished on the scaffold, after their party was overcome, on the st of may, , by that of the ferocious mountaineers. the latter warmly reproached talma with having, in the year , after the retreat of the prussians, given a _fête_ or grand supper to the famous dumouriez, with whom they were beginning to fall out, and whom they accused of treason for not having taken the king of prussia prisoner. the hideous marat, i am told, went to call on that general at talma's, where the company received him very cavalierly, and when he was gone, dugazon the actor, hot-headed revolutionist as he was, by way of pleasantry, pretended to purify the room by burning sugar in a chaffing-dish. all this amounted to more than was necessary for being condemned by the revolutionary tribunal; and talma, being detested by robespierre, would, in all probability, have been delivered over to that tribunal, but for the protection of david, the celebrated painter, who was concerting with him about changing the form of dress of the french people. during all the reign of terror, talma and his wife were in continual fear of the scaffold. lafond. talma reigned, and was in possession of the first cast of parts. of these, he played whatever suited him, and rejected what he disliked, when about a year ago, there appeared in the same line a young actor of a rather tall and well-proportioned stature, and whom nature had, besides, gifted with an agreeable countenance and a tolerably good voice. he had played in the provincial theatres; but, in order to overcome every obstacle which might be opposed to his _début_, he became a pupil of dugazon, an actor of comedy, and what is more singular, of one more frequently a buffoon than a comedian. the latter, however, is said to possess a knowledge of the style of playing of the actors who, thirty years ago, graced the french stage, and consequently may be capable of giving good advice. by means of this powerful protection, lafond got the better of every difficulty. this actor made his first appearance in the character of _achille_ in the tragedy of _iphigénie en aulide_ by racine. he was not the achilles of homer, nor even that of the piece, or at best he represented him in miniature. however, his diction generally just, his acting, some grace, and, above all, the fatigue and _ennui_ which talma impressed on many of the spectators, procured this rival a decisive success. as is customary in such cases, the newspapers were divided in opinion. the majority declared for lafond, and none of the opposite side spoke unfavourably of him. it was not so with talma. some judged him harshly, calling him a detestable actor, while others bestowed on him the epithet of _sublime_, which, at the present day, has scarcely any signification; so much is it lavished on the most indifferent performers. this instance proves the fact; for if talma has reached the _sublime_, it is _le sublime de la halle_. these two rivals might live in peace; the parts which suit the one, being absolutely unfit for the talents of the other. talma requires only concentered rage, sentiments of hatred and vengeance, which certainly belong to tragedy, but which ought not to be expressed as if they came from the mouth of a low fellow, unworthy of figuring in an action of this kind; and lafond is little qualified for any other than graceful parts, bordering on knight-errantry or romance. his best character is _achille_. i have also seen him perform, if not in a manner truly tragic, at least highly satisfactory, _rodrigue_ in _le cid_ of corneille, and the part of _tancrède_ in voltaire's tragedy of that name. lafond obtains the preference over talma in the character of _orosmane_ in the tragedy of _zaïre_; a character which is the touchstone of an actor. not that he excels in it. he has not a marked countenance, the dignity, the tone of authority, the energy, and the extreme sensibility which characterize this part. he is not the sultan who commands. he is, if you please, a young _commis_ very amorous, a little jealous, who gets angry, and becomes good-humoured again; but at least he is not a ferocious being, as talma represents _orosmane_, in moments of rage and passion, or an unfeeling one in those which require sensibility. lafond is reproached sometimes with a bombastic and inflated tone. feeling that he is deficient in the necessary powers, he swells his voice, which is prejudicial to truth, and without truth, there is no theatrical illusion. nature had intended him for the parts of young lovers, of which i shall presently speak. his features are too delicate, his countenance not sufficiently flexible, and his person bespeaks too little of the hero, for great characters. but when he first appeared, there was a vacancy in this cast of parts, and none in the other. jeunes premiers, _or parts of young lovers_. st. fal, damas, and dupont. st. fal. this performer, who is upwards of forty-five, has never had an exterior sufficiently striking to turn the brain of young princesses. every thing in his person is common, and his acting is really grotesque. however, not long since he frequently obtained applause by a great affectation of sensibility and a stage-trick, which consists in uttering loud, harsh, and hoarse sounds after others faint and scarcely articulated. he has, besides, but a trivial or burlesque delivery, and no dignity, no grace in his deportment or gestures. damas. he is much younger than st. fal, but his gait and carriage are vulgar. he is not deficient in warmth; but all this is spoiled by a manner the most common. he first played at the theatres on the _boulevard_, and will never be able to forget the lessons he imbibed in that school. it is with him as with the rabbits of which boileau makes mention, in one of his satires where he describes a bad dinner, "-------- et qui, nés dans paris, sentaient encore le chou dont ils furent nourris." the _drame_ is the style in which damas best succeeds. there is one in particular, _le lovelace français_, where he personates an upholsterer of the _rue st. antoine_, who has just been cornuted by the young duke of richelieu. this part he performs with much truth, and _avec rondeur_, as the critics here express it, to signify plain-dealing. but damas is no less ignoble in comedy than in tragedy. dupont. this young actor, who is of a very delicate constitution, has never had what we call great powers on the stage; and a complaint in his tongue has occasioned a great difficulty in his articulation. without having a noble air, he has something distinguishing in his manner. his delivery is correct; but the defect of which i have spoken has rendered him disagreeable to the public, who manifest it to him rather rudely, though he has sometimes snatched from them great applause. after all the actors i have mentioned, come the confidants, a dull and stupid set, of whom one only deserves mention, not as an actor, but as an author. this is duval. he has written that pretty comic opera, entitled _le prisonnier_, as well as _maison à vendre_, and several _drames_, among which we must not forget _le lovelace français, ou la jeunesse du duc de richelieu_, the piece before-mentioned. _january , in continuation_. next follow the daughters of melpomene, or those heroines who make the most conspicuous figure in tragedy. _characters of queens_. mesdames raucourt and vestris. mademoiselle raucourt. never did _début_ make more noise than that of this actress, who appeared for the first time on the french stage about thirty years ago, and might then be sixteen or seventeen years of age. she was a pupil of mademoiselle clairon, who had a numerous party, composed of encyclopædists, french academicians, and almost all the literati of paris. the zeal of her friends, the youth, tall stature, and person of the _débutante_ supplied the place of talent; and her instructress has recorded in her memoirs that all her labour was lost. the success, however, of mademoiselle raucourt was such, that there were, it is said, several persons squeezed to death at the door of the playhouse. what increased enthusiasm in favour of the young actress was, that a reputation for virtue was granted to her as great and as justly merited as that for talent. her father declared in the public lobby that he would blow out her brains if he suspected her of having the smallest intrigue. he kept not his word. besides, it is well known that his daughter always took care to conduct herself in such a manner as to set the foresight even of jealousy at defiance. her _penchant_ not leaving her the resource to which women of her profession generally recur, and her expenses being considerable, her debts increased; and to avoid the pursuit of her creditors she took refuge in germany with her tender friend, mademoiselle souk, who has since been mistress to the late king of prussia. they both travelled over that country, and a thousand reports are circulated to their shame; but the most disgraceful of these are said to be unfounded. the protection of the queen of france, who paid her debts repeatedly, at length restored her to the _comédie française_. such inconsiderate conduct did no small injury to that unfortunate princess, whom i mention with concern on such an occasion. the stature of mademoiselle raucourt is colossal, and when she presents herself, she has a very imposing look. her face, however, is not so noble; she has small eyes, and her features have not that flexibility necessary for expressing the movements of the passions. her voice was formerly very full in the _medium_ of level-speaking; but it seemed like that of a man. when you heard it for the first time, you thought that, in impassioned sentences, she was going to thunder; but, on the contrary, she assumed a very extensive _falsetto_, which formed the most singular contrast with the dull sounds that had preceded it. that defect, perhaps, is somewhat less striking at the present day; but the voice of this actress is become hoarse, like that of persons who make a frequent use of strong liquors. the delivery of mademoiselle raucourt is, in general, just and correct; for she is allowed to have understanding; yet, as she neither has warmth nor sensibility, she produces scarcely any effect. plaudits most frequently burst forth when she appears; but, though these are obtained, she never touches the feelings of the spectator, she never reaches his heart, even in the parts, where she has had the most vogue. that of _médée_, in which she has begun to reestablish her declining reputation, was neither better felt nor better expressed. she was indebted for the success she obtained in it only to the magician's robe, to the wand, and to a stage-trick which consists in stooping and then raising herself to the utmost height at the moment when she apostrophizes the sun. in the scene of medea with her children, a heart-rending and terrible scene, there was nothing but dryness and a total absence of every maternal feeling. the characters of queens, which mademoiselle raucourt performs, are the first cast of parts at the theatre. it consists of those of mothers and a few parts of enraged or impassioned lovers. in the works of corneille, the principal ones are _cléopatre_ in _rodogune_, and _cornélie_ in the _mort de pompée_. in racine's, the parts of _athalie_ and of _phèdre_ in the tragedies of the same name, of _agrippine_ in _britannicus_, of _clitemnestre_ in _iphigénie en aulide_, and of _roxane_ in _bajazet_. in voltaire's, those of _mérope_ and _sémiramis_; and, lastly, that of _médée_ in the tragedy by longepierre. like all the performers belonging to the _théâtre français_, mademoiselle raucourt was imprisoned during the reign of terror. the patriots of that day bore her much ill-will, and it is asserted that robespierre had a strong desire to send her to the guillotine. when she reappeared on the stage, the public compensated her sufferings, and to this circumstance she owes the rather equivocal reputation she has since enjoyed. madame vestris. although she has been a very long time on the parisian stage, this actress is celebrated only from the famous quarrel she had twenty years ago with mademoiselle sainval the elder. through the powerful protection of the marshal de duras,[ ] her lover, she prevailed over her formidable rival, who, however, had on her side the public, and the sublimity of her talent. this quarrel arose from madame vestris wishing to wrest from mademoiselle sainval the parts for which she was engaged. a memoir, written by an indiscreet friend, in favour of the latter, which she scorned to disavow, and in which the court was not spared, caused her to be banished from the capital by a _lettre de cachet_. the public, informed of her exile, called loudly for mademoiselle sainval. no attention was paid to this by the higher powers, and the guard at the theatre was tripled, in order to insure to madame vestris the possibility of performing her part. nevertheless, whenever she made her appearance, the public lavished on her hisses, groans, and imprecations. all this she braved with an effrontery, which occasioned them to be redoubled. but, as all commotions subside in time, madame vestris remained mistress of the stage; while mademoiselle sainval travelled over the provinces, where the injustice of the court towards her caused no less regret than the superiority of her talent excited admiration. madame vestris was rather handsome, and this explains the whole mystery. she had, above all, a most beautiful arm, and paid no small attention to her toilet. she delivers her parts with tolerable correctness, but her tone is heavy and common. the little warmth with which she animates her characters, is the production of an effort; for she neither possesses energy nor feeling. her gestures correspond with her acting, and she has no dignity in her deportment. she seldom appears on the stage at present, which saves her from the mortification of being hissed. she is now old, and the political opinion of those who frequent most the theatres rouses them against her. although the court had really committed itself to favour her, madame vestris was the first to betray her noble patrons. at the period of the revolution, she quitted the old _comédie française_, taking with her dugazon, her father, and talma, and founded the present theatre, styled _théâtre de la république_. she was also followed by several authors; for not being able to conceal from herself the mediocrity of her talents, especially in such parts of the old plays as had been performed by other actresses in a manner far superior, she facilitated the representation of new pieces, in which she had not to fear any humiliating comparison. the principal of these authors were la harpe, ducis, and chÉnier. the last, who, besides, is famous as member of the national convention and other legislative assemblies, composed the tragedy of _charles neuf_, in which madame vestris, playing the part of _catherine de médicis_, affected, i am told, to advance her under-lip, _à l'autrichienne, in order to occasion comparisons injurious to the ill-fated marie-antoinette.[ ] _characters of princesses._ mesdames fleury, talma, bourgoin, and volnais. mademoiselle fleury. she has no longer youth nor beauty, and her talents as an actress are much on a par with her personal attractions. she recites with judgment, but almost always with languor, and betrays a want of warmth. besides, her powers have declined. however, she sometimes displays energetic flashes of a real tragic truth; but they are borrowed, and it is affirmed, not without foundation, that mademoiselle sainval the elder (who is still living) has been so obliging as to lend them to her. madame talma. for this name she is indebted to a divorce, having snatched talma from his first wife, an elderly woman who had ruined herself for him, or whom he had ruined. she quitted her first husband, a dancing-master of the name of petit, to live under the more than friendly protection of mademoiselle raucourt.----madame talma is not handsome, and is now on the wane. she plays tragedy, comedy, and the _drame_; but has no real talent, except in the last-mentioned line. in the first, she wants nobleness and energy. her delivery is monotonous. it is said in her praise, that she has "_tears in her voice_." i believe that it seldom happens to her to have any in her eyes, and that this sensibility, for which some would give her credit, proceeds not from her heart. in comedy, she wishes to assume a cavalier and bold manner, brought into vogue by mademoiselle contat. this manner by no means suits madame talma, who neither has elegance in her shape, nor animation in her features. in the _drame_, her defects disappear, and her good qualities remain. she then is really interesting, and her efforts to please are rewarded by the applause of the public. mademoiselle bourgoin. with respect to this young lady, a powerful protection serves her in lieu of talent; for she is handsome. she persists in playing tragedy, which is not her fort. in comedy, she appears to advantage. mademoiselle volnais. this is a very young girl. all she says is in a crying tone, and what is worse, she seems not to comprehend what she says. in the characters which she first represented she was very successful, but is no longer so at the present day. _characters of confidantes._ mesdames suin and thÉnard. there are two only who are deserving of notice. the one is madame suin, who certainly justifies the character she bears of a woman of judgment; for she has the most just delivery of all the performers belonging to the _théâtre français_; but she is advanced in years, and the public often treat her with rudeness. the other confidante is mademoiselle thÉnard, who has played the parts of princesses at this theatre with a partial success. there are also other confidantes, whom it is not worth while to mention. i shall conclude this account of the tragedians belonging to the _théâtre français_, by observing that the revolution is said to have given a new turn to the mind and character of the french women; and the success which several actresses, at this day obtain in the dramatic career, in the line of tragedy, is quoted in support of this opinion. for a number of years past, as has been seen, melpomene seemed to have placed the diadem on the head of mademoiselle raucourt, and this tragic queen would probably have grown gray under the garments of royalty, had not the revolution imparted to her sex a degree of energy sufficient for them to dispute her empire. women here have seen so many instances of cruelty, during the last ten or twelve years, they have participated, in a manner more or less direct, in an order of things so replete with tragical events, that those among them who feel a _penchant_ for the stage, find themselves, in consequence, disposed to figure in tragedy.[ ] [footnote : _fénélon_ is no longer performed. it is a very bad tragedy by _chénier_.] [footnote : there are players members of the national institute. monvel belongs to the class of literature and the fine arts.] [footnote : notwithstanding the ill effects likely to result from such doctrine, far more dangerous to society than the poniards of a host of assassins, it appears that, when those actors called terrorists, or partisans of terror, were hunted down, monvel was not molested.] [footnote : there are a great many enthusiastic admirers of his talent.] [footnote : it is really to talma that the french are indebted for the exact truth of costume which is at this day to be admired on the theatres of paris, especially in new pieces. an inhabitant of a country the most remote might believe himself in his native land; and were an ancient greek or roman to come to life again, he might imagine that the fashion of his day had experienced no alteration.] [footnote : the subject of it is the massacre of st. bartholomew's day.] [footnote : he wears his hair cut short, and without powder.] [footnote : one evening at the opera, m. de duras authoritatively took possession of a box hired for the night by another person. the latter, dreading his power, but at the same time desirous to stigmatize him, said: "'tis not he who took minorca, 'tis not he who took this place nor that, the man of whom i complain, never took any thing in his life but my box at the opera!"] [footnote : all the princes and princesses of the house of austria have the under-lip very prominent.] [footnote : the example of mesdemoiselles bourgoin and volnais having proved that first-rate talents were not necessary for being received at the _théâtre français_, as a tragic queen or princess, the number of candidates rapidly increased. for several months past, the merit of these _débutantes_ has been the general concern of all paris. each had her instructor, and, of course, was carefully tutored for the occasion. m. legouvÉ, the tragic writer, first brought forward on this stage mademoiselle duchesnois, a girl about twenty, extremely ill-favoured by nature. dugazon, the actor, next introduced madame xavier, a very handsome and elegant woman. lastly, mademoiselle raucourt presented her pupil, mademoiselle georges weimer, a young girl of perfect beauty. mademoiselle duchesnois played _phèdre_, in racine's tragedy of that name, seven successive times. she certainly displayed a semblance of sensibility, and, notwithstanding the disadvantages of her person, produced such an effect on the senses of the debauched parisian youth by the libidinous manner she adopted in the scene where _phèdre_ declares her unconquerable passion for her son-in-law _hippolyte_, that her success was complete. what greater proof can be adduced of the vitiated taste of the male part of the audience? she also performed _sémiramis_, _didon_, and _hermione_; but in the first two characters she betrayed her deficiency. the next who entered the lists was madame xavier. on her _début_ in _sémiramis_, she was favourably received by the public; but, afterwards, choosing to act _hermione_, the partisans of mademoiselle duchesnois assembled in such numbers as to constitute a decided majority in the theatre. not content with interrupting madame xavier, and hissing her off the stage, they waited for her at the door of the play-house, and loaded her with the grossest abuse and imprecations. lastly appeared mademoiselle georges weimer. warned by the disgraceful conduct of the _duchesnistes_ (as they are called) towards madame xavier, the comedians, by issuing a great number of _orders_, contrived to anticipate them, and obtain a majority, especially in the pit. mademoiselle georges made her _début_ in the character of _clitemnestre_, and was well received. her beauty excited enthusiasm, and effected a wonderful change in public opinion. after playing several parts in which mademoiselle duchesnois had either failed, or was afraid to appear, she at last ventured to rival her in that of _phèdre_. at the first representation of the piece, mademoiselle georges obtained only a partial success; but, at the second, she was more fortunate. the consequence, however, had well nigh proved truly tragic. the _duchesnistes_ and _georgistes_ had each taken their posts, the one on the right side of the pit; the other, on the left. when mademoiselle georges was called for after the performance, and came forward, in order to be applauded, the former party hissed her, when the latter falling on them, a general battle ensued. the guard was introduced to separate the combatants; but the _duchesnistes_ were routed; and, being the aggressors, several of them were conducted to prison. the first consul assisted at this representation; yet his presence had no effect whatever in restraining the violence of these dramatic factions. since then, mesdemoiselles duchesnois and georges have both been received into the company of the _théâtre français_. madame xavier has returned to the provinces.] letter lv. _paris, january , ._ the observation with which i concluded my last letter, might explain why the votaries of thalia gain so little augmentation to their number; while those of melpomene are daily increasing. i shall now proceed to investigate the merits of the former, at the _théâtre français_. comedy. _parts of noble fathers._ vanhove and naudet. vanhove. this actor is rather more sufferable in comedy than tragedy; but in both he is very monotonous, and justifies the lines applied to him by a modern satirist, m. despaze: "vanhove, _plus heureux, psalmodie à mon gré; quel succès l'attendait, s'il eût été curé!_" naudet. i have already said that the reverend father naudet, as he is called, played the parts of tyrants in tragedy. never did tyrant appear so inoffensive. as well as vanhove, in comedy, he neither meets with censure nor applause from the public. _first parts, or principal lovers, in comedy._ molÉ, fleury, and baptiste the elder. molÉ. at this name i breathe. perhaps you have imagined that ill-humour or caprice had till now guided my pen; but, could i praise the talent of molÉ as he deserves, you would renounce that opinion. molÉ made his _début_ at the _comédie française_ about forty-five years ago. he had some success; but as the parisian public did not then become enthusiasts in favour of mere beginners, he was sent into the provinces to acquire practice. at the expiration of two or three years, he returned, and was received to play the parts of young lovers in tragedy and comedy. he had not all the nobleness requisite for the first-mentioned line of acting; but he had warmth and an exquisite sensibility. in a word, he maintained his ground by the side of mademoiselle dumesnil and lekain, two of the greatest tragedians that ever adorned the french stage. for a long time he was famous in the parts of _petits-maîtres_, in which he shone by his vivacity, levity, and grace. this actor was ambitious in his profession. although applauded, and perhaps more so than lekain, he was perfectly sensible that he produced not such great, such terrible effects; and he favoured the introduction of the _drame_, which is a mixture of tragedy and comedy. but those who most detest the whining style of this species of composition are compelled to acknowledge that molÉ was fascinating in the part of _st. albin_, in diderot's _père de famille_. bellecourt being dead, molÉ took the first parts in comedy, with the exception of a few of those in which his predecessor excelled, whose greatest merit, i understand, was an air noble and imposing in the highest degree. as this was molÉ's greatest deficiency, he endeavoured to make amends for it by some perfection. he had no occasion to have recourse to art. it was sufficient for him to employ well the gifts lavished on him by nature. though now verging on seventy, no one expresses love with more eloquence (for sounds too have theirs), or with more charm and fire than molÉ. in the fourth act of the _misanthrope_, he ravishes and subdues the audience, when, after having overwhelmed _célimène_ with reproaches, he paints to her the love with which he is inflamed. but this sentiment is not the only one in the expression of which molÉ is pre-eminently successful. in the _philinte de molière_, which also bears the title of _la suite du misanthrope_, and in which fabre d'eglantine has presented the contrast between an egotist and a man who sacrifices his interest to that of his fellow-creatures, molÉ vents all the indignation of virtue with a warmth, a truth, and even a nobleness which at this day belong only to himself. in short, he performs this part, in which the word _love_ is not once mentioned, with a perfection that he maintains from the first line to the last. in the fifth act of _le dissipateur_ (a comedy by destouches), when he sees himself forsaken by his companions of pleasure, and thinks he is so by his mistress too, the expression of his grief is so natural, that you imagine you see the tears trickling from his eyes. in moments when he pictures love, his voice, which at times is somewhat harsh, is softened, lowers its key, and (if i may so express myself) goes in search of his heart, in order to draw from it greater flexibility and feeling. the effect which he produces is irresistible and universal. throughout the house the most profound silence is rigidly, but sympathetically enforced; so great is the apprehension of losing a single monosyllable in these interesting moments, which always appear too short. to this silence succeed shouts of acclamation and bursts of applause. i never knew any performer command the like but mademoiselle sainval the elder. in no character which molÉ performs, does he ever fail to deserve applause; but there is one, above all, which has infinitely added to his reputation. it is that of the _vieux célibataire_ in the comedy of the same name by colin d'harleville, which he personates with a good humoured frankness, an air of indolence and apathy, and at the same time a grace that will drive to despair any one who shall venture to take up this part after him. on seeing him in it, one can scarcely believe that he is the same man who renders with such warmth and feeling the part of _alceste_ in the _misanthrope_, and in the _suite de molière_; but molÉ, imbibing his talent from nature, is diversified like her. caressed by the women, associating with the most amiable persons both of the court and the town, and, in short, idolized by the public, till the revolution, no performer led a more agreeable life than molÉ. however, he was not proscribed through it, and this was his fault. not having been imprisoned like the other actors of the old _comédie française_, he had no share in their triumph on their reappearance, and it even required all his talent to maintain his ground; but, as it appears that no serious error could be laid to his charge, and as every thing is forgotten in the progress of events, he resumed part of his ascendency. i shall terminate this article or panegyric, call it which you please, by observing that whenever molÉ shall retire from the _théâtre français_, and his age precludes a contrary hope, the best stock-pieces can no longer be acted.[ ] fleury. a man can no more be a comedian in spite of thalia than a poet in spite of minerva. of this fleury affords a proof. this actor is indebted to the revolution for the reputation he now enjoys; but what is singular, it is not for having shewn himself the friend of that great political convulsion. nature has done little for him. his appearance is common; his countenance, stern; his voice, hoarse; and his delivery, embarrassed; so much so that he speaks only by splitting his syllables. a stammering lover! molÉ, it is true, sometimes indulged in a sort of stammer, but it was suited to the moment, and not when he had to express the ardour of love. a lover, such as is represented to us in all french comedies, is a being highly favoured by nature, and fleury shews him only as much neglected by her. a great deal of assurance and a habit of the stage, a warmth which proceeds from the head only, and a sort of art to disguise his defects, with him supply the place of talent. although naturally very heavy, he strives to appear light and airy in the parts of _petits-maîtres_, and his great means of success consist in turning round on his heel. he was calculated for playing _grims_ (which i shall soon explain), and he proves this truth in the little comedy of _les deux pages_, taken from the life of the king of prussia, the great frederic, of whose caricature he is the living model. he wished to play capital parts, the parts of molÉ, and he completely failed. he ventured to appear in the _inconstant_, in which molÉ is captivating, and it was only to his disgrace. being compelled to relinquish this absurd pretension, he now confines himself to new or secondary parts, in the former of which he has to dread no humiliating comparison, and the latter are not worthy to be mentioned. friends within and without the theatre, and the spirit of party, have, however, brought fleury into fashion. he will, doubtless, preserve his vogue; for, in paris, when a man has once got a name, he may dispense with talent: "_des réputations; on ne sait pourquoi!" says gresset, the poet, in his comedy of _le méchant_, speaking of those which are acquired in the capital of france. baptiste the elder. but for the revolution, he too would, in all probability, never have figured on the _théâtre français_. when all privileges were abolished, a theatre was opened in the _rue culture st. catherine_ in paris, and baptiste was sent for from rouen to perform the first parts. in _robert chef des brigands_ and _la mère coupable_, two _drames_, the one almost as full of improbabilities as the other, he had great success; but in _le glorieux_ he acquired a reputation almost as gigantic as his stature, and as brilliant as his coat covered with spangles. this was the part in which bellecourt excelled, and which had been respected even by molÉ. the latter at length appeared in it; but irony, which is the basis of this character, was not his talent: yet molÉ having seen the court, and knowing in what manner noblemen conducted themselves, baptiste had an opportunity of correcting himself by him in the part of _le glorieux_. the _théâtre français_ being in want of a performer for such characters, baptiste was called in. figure to yourself the person of don quixote, and you will have an idea of that of this actor, whose countenance, however, is unmeaning, and whose voice seems to issue from the mouth of a speaking-trumpet. jeunes premiers, _or young lovers, in comedy_. st. fal, dupont, damas, and armand. one might assemble what is best in these four actors, without making one perfect _lover_. i have already spoken of the first three, who, in comedy, have nearly the same defects as in tragedy. as for the fourth, he is young; but unfortunately for him, he has no other recommendation. _characters of_ grims, _or_ rôles à manteau.[ ] grandmÉnil and caumont. grandmÉnil. this performer is, perhaps, the only one who has preserved what the french critics call _la tradition_, that is, a traditionary knowledge of the old school, or of the style in which players formerly acted, and especially in the time of moliÈre. this would be an advantage for him, but for a defect which it is not in his power to remedy; for what avails justness of diction when a speaker can no longer make himself heard? and this is the case with grandmÉnil. however, i would advise you to see him in the character of the _avare_ (in moliÈre's comedy of that name) which suits him perfectly. by placing yourself near the stage, you might lose nothing of the truth and variety of his delivery, as well as of the play of his countenance, which is facilitated by his excessive meagreness, and to which his sharp black eyes give much vivacity. grandmÉnil is member of the national institute. caumont. he possesses that in which his principal in this cast of parts is deficient, and little more. one continually sees the efforts he makes to be comic, which sufficiently announces that he is not naturally so. however, he has a sort of art, which consists in straining his acting a little without overcharging it. _parts of valets_. dugazon, dazincourt, and larochelle. dugazon. one may say much good and much ill of this actor, and yet be perfectly correct. he has no small share of warmth and comic humour. he plays sometimes as if by inspiration; but more frequently too he charges his parts immoderately. prÉville, who is no common authority, said of dugazon: "how well he can play, if he is in the humour!" he is but seldom in the humour, and when he is requested not to overcharge his parts, 'tis then that he charges them most. not that he is a spoiled child of the public; for they even treat him sometimes with severity. true it is that he is reproached for his conduct during the storms of the revolution. although advanced in years, he became aide-de-camp to santerre.----santerre! an execrable name, and almost generally execrated! is then a mixture of horror and ridicule one of the characteristics of the revolution? and must a painful remembrance come to interrupt a recital which ought to recall cheerful ideas only? in his quality of aide-de-camp to the commandant of the national guard of paris, dugazon was directed to superintend the interment of the unfortunate lewis xvi, and in order to consume in an instant the body of that prince, whose pensioner he had been, he caused it to be placed in a bed of quick lime. no doubt, dugazon did no more than execute the orders he received; but he was to blame in putting himself in a situation to receive them. not to return too abruptly to the tone which suits an article wherein i am speaking of actors playing comic parts, i shall relate a circumstance which had well nigh become tragic, in regard to dugazon, and which paints the temper of the time when it took place. being an author as well as an actor, dugazon had written a little comedy, entitled _le modéré_. it was his intention to depress the quality indicated by the title. however, he was thought to have treated his subject ill, and, after all, to have made his _modéré_ an honest man. in consequence of this opinion, at the very moment when he was coming off the stage, after having personated that character in his piece, he was apprehended and taken to prison. dazincourt. in no respect can the same reproaches be addressed to him as to dugazon; but as to what concerns the art, it may be said that if dugazon goes beyond the mark, dazincourt falls short of it. prÉville said of the latter as a comedian: "leaving pleasantry out of the question, dazincourt is well enough." nothing can be added to the opinion of that great master. larochelle. he has warmth, truth, and much comic humour; but is sometimes a little inclined to charge his parts. he has a good stage face. it appears that he can only perform parts not overlong, as his voice easily becomes hoarse. this is a misfortune both for himself and the public; for he really might make a good comedian. there are a few secondary actors in the comic line, such as baptiste the younger, who performs in much too silly a manner his parts of simpletons, and one dublin, who is the ostensible courier; not to speak of some others, whose parts are of little importance. _january , in continuation,_ _principal female characters, in comedy._ mesdemoiselles contat, and mÉzeray.--madame talma. mademoiselle contat. this actress has really brought about a revolution in the theatre. before her time, the essential requisites for the parts which she performs, were sensibility, decorum, nobleness, and dignity, even in diction, as well as in gestures, and deportment. those qualities are not incompatible with the grace, the elegance of manners, and the playfulness also required by those characters, the principal object of which is to interest and please, which ought only to touch lightly on comic humour, and not be assimilated to that of chambermaids, as is done by mademoiselle contat. a great coquette, for instance, like _célimène_ in the _misanthrope_, ought not to be represented as a girl of the town, nor _madame de clainville_, in the pretty little comedy of _la gageure_, as a shopkeeper's wife. the innovation made by mademoiselle contat was not passed over without remonstrance. those strict judges, those conservators of rules, those arbiters of taste, in short, who had been long in the habit of frequenting the theatre, protested loudly against this new manner of playing the principal characters. "that is not becoming!" exclaimed they incessantly: which signified "that is not the truth!" but what could the feeble remonstrances of the old against the warm applause of the young? mademoiselle contat had a charming person, of which you may still be convinced. she was not then, as she is now, overloaded with _embonpoint_, and, though rather inclined to stoop, could avail herself of the advantages of an elevated stature. none of the resources of the toilet were neglected by her, and for a long time the most elegant women in paris took the _ton_ for dress from mademoiselle contat. besides, she always had a delicacy of discrimination in her delivery, and a varied sprightliness in the _minutiæ_ of her acting. her voice, though sometimes rather shrill, is not deficient in agreeableness, but is easily modulated, except when it is necessary for her to express feeling. the inferiority of mademoiselle contat on this head is particularly remarkable when she plays with molÉ. in a very indifferent comedy, called _le jaloux sans amour_, at the conclusion of which the husband entreats his wife to pardon his faults, molÉ contrives to find accents so tender, so affecting; he envelops his voice, as it were, with sounds so soft, so mellow, and at the same time so delicate, that the audience, fearing to lose the most trifling intonation, dare not draw their breath. mademoiselle contat replies, and, although she has to express the same degree of feeling, the charm is broken. being aware that the want of nobleness and sensibility was a great obstacle to her success, this actress endeavoured to insure it by performing characters which require not those two qualities. the first she selected for her purpose was _susanne_ in the _mariage de figaro_. _susanne_ is an elegant and artful chambermaid; and mademoiselle contat possessed every requisite for representing well the part. she had resigned the principal character in the piece to mademoiselle sainval the younger, an actress who was celebrated in tragedy, but had never before appeared in comedy. on this occasion, i saw mademoiselle sainval play that ungracious part with a truth, a grace, a nobleness, a dignity, a perfection in short, of which no idea had yet been entertained in paris. another part in which mademoiselle contat also rendered herself famous, is that of _madame evrard_, in the _vieux célibataire_. --_madame evrard_ is an imperious, cunning, and roguish housekeeper; and this actress has no difficulty in seizing the _ton_ suitable to such a character. this could not be done by one habituated to a more noble manner. mademoiselle contat has not followed the impulse of nature, who intended her for the characters of _soubrettes_; but, when she made her _début_, there were in that cast of parts three or four women not deficient in merit, and it would have taken her a long time to make her way through them. the parts which mademoiselle contat plays at present with the greatest success are those in the pieces of marivaux, which all bear a strong resemblance, and the nature of which she alters; for it is also one of her defects to change always the character drawn by the author. the reputation enjoyed by this actress is prodigious; and such a _critique_ as the one i am now writing would raise in paris a general clamour. her defects, it is true, are less prominent at this day, when hereditary rank is annihilated; and merit, more than manners, raises men to the highest stations. besides, it is a presumption inherent in the parisians to believe that they never can be mistaken. to reason with them on taste is useless; it is impossible to compel them to retract when they have once said "_cela est charmant_." before i take leave of mademoiselle contat, i shall observe that there exists in the _théâtre français_ a little league, of which she is the head. besides herself, it is composed of mademoiselle devienne, dazincourt, and fleury. i am confidently assured that the choice and reception of pieces, and the _début_ of performers depend entirely on them. as none of them possess all the requisites for their several casts of parts, they take care to play no other than pieces of an equivocal kind, in which neither _bon ton_, nor _vis comica_ is to be found. they avoid, above all, those of moliÈre and regnard, and are extremely fond of the comedies of marivaux, in which masters and lackies express themselves and act much alike. the unison is then perfect, and some people call this _de l'ensemble_, as if any could result from such a confusion of parts of an opposite nature. as for new pieces, the members of the league must have nothing but _papillotage_ (as the french call it), interspersed with allusions to their own talent, which the public never fail to applaud. when an author has inserted such compliments in his piece, he is sure of its being received, but not always of its being successful; for when the ground is bad, the tissue is good for nothing. mademoiselle mÉzeray. she is of the school of mademoiselle contat, whence have issued only feeble pupils. but she is very pretty, and has the finest eyes imaginable. she plays the parts of young coquettes, in which her principal dares no longer appear. without being vulgar in her manner, one cannot say that she has dignity. as for sensibility, she expresses it still less than mademoiselle contat. however, the absence of this sentiment is a defect which is said to be now common among the french. indeed, if it be true that they are fickle, and this few will deny, the feeling they possess cannot be lasting. madame talma. i have already spoken of her merits as a comic actress, when i mentioned her as a tragedian. _parts of young lovers._ mesdemoiselles mars, bourgoin, and gros. mademoiselle mars. she delivers in an ingenuous manner innocent parts, and those of lovers. she has modest graces, an interesting countenance, and appears exceedingly handsome on the stage. but she will never be a true actress. mademoiselle bourgoin. she has some disposition for comedy, which she neglects, and has none for tragedy, in which she is ambitious to figure. i have already alluded to her beauty, which is that of a pretty _grisette_. mademoiselle gros. she is the pupil of dugazon, and made her _début_ in tragedy. the newspaper-writers transformed her into melpomene, yet so rapid was her decline, that presently she was scarcely more than a waiting woman to thalia. characters, _or foolish mothers_. mesdemoiselles lachaissaigne and thÉnard. the latter of these titles explains the former. in fact, this cast of parts consists of _characters_, that is, foolish or crabbed old women, antiquated dowagers in love, &c. commonly, these parts are taken up by actresses grown too old for playing _soubrettes_; but to perform them well, requires no trifling share of comic humour; for, in general, they are charged with it. at the present day, this department may be considered as vacant. mademoiselle lachaissaigne, who is at the head of it, is very old, and never had the requisites for performing in it to advantage. mademoiselle thÉnard begins to _double_ her in this line of acting, but in a manner neither more sprightly nor more captivating. _parts of_ soubrettes _or chambermaids_. mesdemoiselles devienne and desbrosses. mademoiselle devienne. if mademoiselle contat changes the principal characters in comedy into those of chambermaids, mademoiselle devienne does the contrary, and from the same motive, namely, because she is deficient in the requisites for her cast of parts, such as warmth, comic truth, and vivacity. yet, while she assumes the airs of a fine lady, she takes care to dwell on the slightest _équivoque_; so that what would be no more than gay in the mouth of another woman, in hers becomes indecent. as she is a mannerist in her acting, some think it perfect, and they say too that she is charming. however, she must have been very handsome. mademoiselle desbrosses. the public say nothing of her, and i think this is all she can wish for. * * * * * i have now passed in review before you those who are charged to display to advantage the dramatic riches bequeathed to the french nation by corneille, racine, moliÈre, crÉbillon, voltaire, regnard, &c. &c. &c. if it be impossible to squander them, at least they may at present be considered as no more than a buried treasure. although the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of those masters of the stage are still frequently represented, and the public even appear to see them with greater pleasure than new pieces, they no longer communicate that electric fire which inflames genius, and (if i may use the expression) renders it productive. a great man can, it is true, create every thing himself; but there are minds which require an impulse to be set in motion. without a corneille, perhaps the french nation would not have had a racine. formerly, people went to the _théâtre français_ in order to hear, as it were, a continual course of eloquence, elocution, and pronunciation. it even had the advantage over the pulpit and the bar, where vivacity of expression was prohibited or restricted. many a sacred or profane orator came hither, either privately or publicly, to study the art by which great actors, at pleasure, worked on the feelings of the audience, and charmed their very soul. it was, above all, at the _théâtre français_ that foreigners might have learned to pronounce well the french language. the audience shuddered at the smallest fault of pronunciation committed by a performer, and a thousand voices instantly corrected him. at the present day, the comedians insist that it belongs to them alone to form rules on this point, and they now and then seem to vie with each other in despising those already established. the audience being perhaps too indulgent, they stand uncorrected. whether or not the _théâtre français_ will recover its former fame, is a question which time alone can determine. undoubtedly, many persons of a true taste and an experienced ear have disappeared, and no one now seems inclined to say to the performers: "that is the point which you must attain, and at which you must stop, if you wish not to appear deficient, or to overact your part." but the fact is, they are without a good model, and the spectators, in general, are strangers to the _minutiæ/i> of dramatic excellence. in tragedy, indeed, i am inclined to think that there never existed at the _théâtre français_ such a deficiency of superior talents. when lekain rose into fame, there were not, i have been told, any male performers who went as far as himself, though several possessed separately the qualifications necessary for that line. however, there was mademoiselle dumesnil, a pupil of nature, from whom he might learn to express all the passions; while from mademoiselle clairon he might snatch all the secrets of art. as for comedy, it is almost in as desperate a situation. the _ton_ of society and that of comedians may have a reciprocal influence, and the revolution having tended to degrade the performance of the latter, the consequences may recoil on the former. but here i must stop.--i shall only add that it is not to the revolution that the decline of the art, either in tragedy or comedy, is to be imputed. it is, i understand, owing to intrigue, which has, for a long time past, introduced pitiful performers on the stage of the _théâtre français_, and to a multiplicity of other causes which it would be too tedious to discuss, or even to mention. notwithstanding the encomiums daily lavished on the performers by the venal pen of newspaper writers, the truth is well known here on this subject. endeavours are made by the government to repair the mischief by forming pupils; but how are they to be formed without good masters or good models? [footnote : it must grieve every admirer of worth and talent to hear that molÉ is now no more. not long since he paid the debt of nature. as an actor, it is more than probable that "we ne'er shall look on his like again."] [footnote : the word _grim_, in french theatrical language, is probably derived from _grimace_, and the expression of _rôles à manteau_ arises from the personages which they represent being old men, who generally appear on the stage with a cloak.] letter lvi. _paris, january , ._ among the customs introduced here since the revolution, that of women appearing in public in male attire is very prevalent. the more the police endeavours to put a stop to this extravagant whim, the more some females seek excuses for persisting in it: the one makes a pretext of business which obliges her to travel frequently, and thinks she is authorized to wear men's clothes as being more convenient on a journey; another, of truly-elegant form, dresses herself in this manner, because she wishes to attract more notice by singularity, without reflecting that, in laying aside her proper garb, she loses those feminine graces, the all-seductive accompaniments of beauty. formerly, indeed, nothing could tend more to disguise the real shape of a woman than the costume of the french ladies. a head-dress, rising upwards of half a yard in height, seemed to place her face near the middle of her body; her stomach was compressed into a stiff case of whalebone, which checked respiration, and deprived her almost of the power of eating; while a pair of cumbersome hoops, placed on her hips, gave to her petticoats the amplitude of a small elliptical, inflated balloon. under these strange accoutrements, it would, at first sight, almost have puzzled buffon himself to decide in what species such a female animal should be classed. however, this is no longer an enigma. with the parade of a court, all etiquette of dress disappeared. divested of their uncouth and unbecoming habiliments, the women presently adopted a style of toilet not only more advantageous to the display of their charms, but also more analogous to modern manners. no sooner was france proclaimed a republic, than the annals of republican antiquity were ransacked for models of female attire: the roman tunic and greek _cothurnus_ soon adorned the shoulders of the parisian _élégantes_; and every antique statue or picture, relating to those periods of history, was, in some shape or another, rendered tributary to the ornament of their person. this revolution in their dress has evidently tended to strengthen their constitution, and give them a pectoral _embonpoint_, very agreeable, no doubt, to the amateur of female proportion, but the too open exposure of which cannot, in a moral point of view, be altogether approved. these treasures are, in consequence, now as plentiful as they were before uncommon. you can scarcely move a step in paris without seeing something of this kind to exercise your admiration. many of those domains of love, which, under the old-fashioned dress, would have been considered as a flat country, now present, through a transparent crape, the perfect rotundity of two sweetly-rising hillocks. as prisoners, wan and disfigured by confinement, recover their health and fulness on being restored to liberty, so has the bosom of the parisian belles, released from the busk and corset, experienced a salutary expansion. in a political light, this must afford no small satisfaction to him who takes an interest in the physical improvement of the human species, as it tends to qualify them better for that maternal office, dictated by nature, and which, in this country, has too long and too frequently been intrusted to the uncertain discharge of a mercenary hireling. another advantage too arises from the established fashion. thanks to the ease of their dress, the french ladies can now satisfy all the capacity of their appetite. nothing prevents the stomach from performing its functions; nothing paralyzes the spring of that essential organ. nor, indeed, can they be reproached with fastidiousness on that score. from the soup to the desert, they are not one moment idle: they eat of every thing on the table, and drink in due proportion. not that i would by any means insinuate that they drink more than is necessary or proper. on the contrary, no women on earth are more temperate, in this respect, than the french; they, for the most part, mix water even with their weakest wine; but they also swallow two or three glasses of _vin de dessert_, without making an affected grimace, and what is better, they eat at this rate without any ill consequence, now, a good appetite and good digestion must strengthen health, and, in general, tend to produce pectoral _embonpoint_. in this capital, you no longer find among the fair sex those over-delicate constitutions, whose artificial existence could be maintained only by salts, essences, and distilled waters. charms as fresh as those of hebe, beauties which might rival the feminine softness of those of venus, while they bespeak the vigour of diana, and the bloom of hygëia, are the advantages which distinguish many of the parisian belles of the present day, and for which they are, in a great measure, indebted to the freedom they enjoy under the antique costume. in no part of the world, perhaps, do women pay a more rigid attention to cleanliness in their person than in paris. the frequent use of the tepid bath, and of every thing tending to preserve the beauty of their fine forms, employ their constant solicitude. so much care is not thrown away. no where, i believe, are women now to be seen more uniformly healthy, no where do they possess more the art of assisting nature; no where, in a word, are they better skilled in concealing and repairing the ravages of time, not so much by the use of cosmetics, as by the tasteful manner in which they vary the decoration of their person. letter lvii. _paris, january , ._ i have already observed that the general effervescence to which the revolution gave birth, soon extended to the seminaries of learning. the alarm-bell resounded even in the most silent of those retreats. bands of insurgents, intermixed with women, children, and men of every condition, came each moment to interrupt the studies, and, forcing the students to range themselves under their filthy banner, presented to them the spectacle of every excess. it required not all this violence to disorganize institutions already become antiquated,[ ] and few of which any longer enjoyed much consideration in the public opinion. the colleges and universities were deserted, and their exercises ceased. not long after, they were suppressed. the only establishment of this description which has survived the storms of the revolution, and which is no less important from its utility than extensive in its object, is the collÈge de france. it neither owed this exemption to its ancient celebrity, nor to the talents of its professors; but having no rich collections which could attract notice, no particular estates which could tempt cupidity, it was merely forgotten by the revolutionists, and their ignorance insured its preservation. the _collège de france_ is, at the present day, in this country, and perhaps in the rest of europe, the only establishment where every branch of human knowledge is taught in its fullest extent. the object of this institution is to spread the most elevated notions of the sciences, to maintain and pave the way to the progress of literature, either by preserving the taste and purity of the ancient authors, or by exhibiting the order, lustre, and richness of the modern. its duty is to be continually at the head of all the establishments of public instruction, in order to guide them, lead them on, and, as it were, light them with the torch of knowledge. this college, which is situated in the _place de cambray_, _rue st. jacques_, was founded by francis i. that monarch, distinguished from all cotemporaries by his genius, amiableness, and magnificence, saw in literature the source of the glory of princes, and of the civilization of the people. he loved and honoured it, not only in the writings of the learned, but in the learned themselves, whom he called about his person, at the same time loading them with encouragement and favours. it is singular that those times, so rude in many respects, were, nevertheless, productive of sentiments the most delicate and noble. truth never shuns princes who welcome it. francis i was not suffered to remain ignorant of the deplorable state in which literature then was in france, and, though very young, he disdained not this information. nothing, in fact, could approach nearer to barbarism. the impulse charlemagne had given to study was checked. the torches he had lighted were on the point of being extinguished. that famous university which he had created had fallen into decline. a prey to all the cavils of pedantry, it substituted dispute and quibble to true philosophy. nothing was any longer talked of but the _five universals_, _substance_, and _accident_. all the fury of argument was manifested to know whether those were simple figures, or beings really existing, all things equally useful to the revival of knowledge and the happiness of mankind. the hebrew and greek tongues were scarcely, if at all, known; the living languages, little cultivated; latin itself, then almost common, was taught in the most rude and imperfect manner. in short, the most learned body of the state had fallen into the most profound ignorance: a striking example of the necessity of renewing continually and maintaining the life of those bodies employed in instruction. i am not speaking of the sciences, then entirely unknown. the languages were every thing at this period, on account of their connexion with religion. the small number of men of merit whom the bad taste of the age had not reached, were striving to restore to literature its lustre, and to men's minds their true direction; but, in order to revive the taste for good studies, it was necessary to create a new establishment for public instruction, which should be sufficiently extensive for acquiring a great influence. it was necessary to assemble men the most celebrated for their talent and reputation, in order that, being thus placed in full view, and presented to public attention, they might rectify the minds of men by their authority, as well as enlighten them by their knowledge. this undertaking, difficult in itself, became much less so through the circumstances which then existed. taste seemed to have taken refuge at the court, and the king easily yielded to the reasons of the learned who approached him; but no one took a greater share in this project than the celebrated erasmus. remote from it as he was, he accelerated its execution by the disinterested praises which he lavished on it. the king sent to invite him, in the most flattering terms, to take the direction of it and to settle in france; but erasmus, jealous of liberty, retained besides by the gratitude he owed to charles v, and by the care he bestowed on the college of louvain which he had founded, refused this task, equally honourable and useful. he manifested not the less, in his letters, the joy he felt to see studies re-established by the only means which could reanimate them. it is pleasing to the true friends of the sciences to find among those who cultivate them similar traits of generosity and nobleness. at length peace having restored to france repose and the means of repairing her losses, the king gave himself up without reserve to the desire he had of making the sciences flourish, and realized the grand project of public instruction which had for a long time occupied his mind. the new college took the name of _collège royal_. it had professors for the hebrew and greek tongues, and some even for the mathematics, philosophy, medicine, and the living languages. the formation of the _collège royal_ gave great displeasure to the university. after having held so long without a rival the sceptre of the sciences and literature, it was grating to its members to relinquish it. they could ill bear to see set above it an establishment evidently intended to direct and guide it. self-love offended seldom forgives, especially when it is animated by the _esprit de corps_. the university depreciated the new college, and endeavoured to fetter it in a thousand ways. at last, those dark intrigues being constantly smothered by the applause which the professors received, the university finished by bringing them before a court of justice. from, envy to persecution there is but one step, and that step was soon taken. religion served as a pretext and a cloak for this accusation. it was affirmed that the new professors could not, without danger to the faith, explain the hebrew and greek tongues, if they had not been presented to the university to be examined by it, and received from it their mission. to this it was answered, that if the theologians of the university understood greek and hebrew, it must be easy for them to denounce the passages in which the new professors had erred, and that if, on the contrary, they did not understand those languages, they ought not to pretend to judge those who taught them. after long debates, things were left in the state in which they were before the trial. each party continued quietly its lessons, and, as it almost always happens in such cases, reason ended by having its due weight: true it is that it was then supported by royal authority. the _collège de france_ has not since ceased to make an increasing progress. it even had the valuable advantage of reforming itself successively, and of following new ideas, the necessary result of its constitution and of the lustre that has always surrounded it; two causes which have occasioned its chairs to be sought by the most celebrated men of every description. it is this successive reform which constitutes the distinctive character of the _collège de france_, and which has always enabled it to fulfil its real object. thus, to quote but one example. the chair of greek philosophy was, in the beginning, intended to make known the writings of the ancient philosophers on the nature of things and the organization of the universe. these were, at that time, the only repositories of human knowledge for mathematics and physics; but, in proportion as the sciences, more advanced, substituted rational theories for hazardous conjectures, the modern discoveries of astronomy were taught, together with the writings of the ancients. the object of this chair, which at the present day bears the name of general physics and mathematics, is to disseminate the most elevated notions of mechanics and the theory of the system of the world. the works taught by its occupier are analytical mechanics and celestial mechanics, that is, those works which form the limits of our knowledge for mathematical analysis, and consequently those of which it is most important to increase the very small number of readers. by a consequence of that spirit of amelioration which animates this college, some time before the revolution, a chair and a cabinet of experimental physics were added to it. as for the natural sciences, which are taught here with much depth and detail in several establishments, they have, in the _collège de france_, a sort of regulator which directs them, as it were, by their generalities. it is, in fact, to this only that an establishment which, by its nature, contains no collection, ought to attach itself, and the philosophy of the sciences, the result and completion of their study, here constitutes the object of all the lectures. thus the improvements which the sciences have successively experienced, have always been spread by the instruction of the _collège royal_; and among the professors who have occupied its chairs, none can be quoted who have been strangers to their progress. the revolution, which overthrew in france the ancient universities, suspended for some time the exercises of this establishment; but, under the name of _collège de france_, it has since resumed a new lustre. it then found itself compelled to new efforts, in order to maintain its place among the scientific institutions, which have emulously risen in every branch of human knowledge. nevertheless, those different sciences, even natural history, and the curative art, taught with so much perfection in private establishments, have hence derived great advantages, and here it is that public instruction comes at once to be resumed, investigated, and extended. the present government appears to be perfectly sensible of the importance of such an establishment. the enlightened men, the celebrated _savans_, who approach it, have pointed out in the _collège de france_ a _normal_ school, completely formed, and which unites to the extent of its object the ever-powerful ascendant of seniority. the similarity between the circumstances in which this institution is at the present day and those when it was founded, affords the most certain hope of its progress being maintained and accelerated. this is what appears to me the most interesting in the history of this ancient college. i say nothing of its present professors; their zeal is proved by their assiduous and uninterrupted lessons; their merit is before the judgment of the public; and as for their names, these are indifferent to the results of their labours. if any other motive than that of the interest of the sciences were blended with the information i now communicate, i should not think that, in this letter, i was fulfilling the object of your wishes. p.s. it may not be useless to mention that no students are attached to the _collège de france_. the lectures are public; and every one who is desirous of improving his mind in any branch of science, may attend them free of expense or trouble. it is impossible for the friend of learning to withhold his admiration from so noble an institution. what, in fact, can be more liberal than this gratuitous diffusion of knowledge? [footnote : whatever sentiment may have been preserved respecting the ancient university of paris, every impartial person must acknowledge that it was several centuries in arrear in regard to every thing which concerns the arts and sciences. peripatetic, when the learned had, with descartes, renounced the philosophy of aristotle, it became cartesian, when they were newtonians. such is the too general custom of bodies, engaged in instruction, who make no discoveries. invested at their formation with great influence over scientific opinions, because they are composed of the best informed men of the day, they wish constantly to preserve those advantages. they with reluctance suffer that there should be formed, elsewhere than in their own bosom, new opinions which might balance theirs; and if the progress of the sciences at last obliges them to abandon their doctrine, they never adopt the most modern theories, were they, in other respects, preferable; but embrace those which existed for some time anterior to them, and which they themselves had before combated. this inertness of bodies, employed in instruction, is an unavoidable evil; because it is the effect of self-love, the most invariable of passions.] letter lviii. _paris, january , ._ if we do not consider the _opera buffa_ as a national theatre, then the next in rank, after the grand french opera and the _théâtre français_, is the thÉÂtre de l'opÉra comique. this house, which is situated in the _rue feydeau_, near the _rue de la loi_, was opened for the first time in january . the entrance to it is by a circular vestibule, externally decorated with caryatides, and sufficiently spacious for one carriage to enter while another drives off by an adjoining outlet. at the end of this vestibule is a long gallery, bordered by shops on both sides, which forms a second entrance by the _rue filles st. thomas_. the interior form of this theatre is a semi-circle, extended in a right line at its extremities, which places the orchestra in a central position, and renders the house one of the fittest in paris for a concert. two rows of gothic pillars, one above the other, occupy nearly all its height; and though it contains eight tiers of boxes, five only are in sight. the same distribution repeated in regard to the stage-boxes, presents a very projecting pavilion, which seems to support a large triumphal arch. however grand this style of architecture may be in appearance, in effect it renders the seats very inconvenient to two-thirds of the spectators. the ornaments consist of a strange mixture of the greek, gothic, and oriental. the house is said to contain two thousand persons. in the beginning, this theatre united the performers of the original _opéra buffa_ and some of those belonging to the old french comic opera, who played alternately. the former retiring from paris in , the latter for some time attracted full houses by the excellence of their style of singing, tasteful decorations, and one of the best composed orchestras in the capital. since then, it has experienced the changes and vicissitudes attendant on the revolution. at present, the company is composed of a selection from the performers of the _opéra comique_ of the _théâtre favart_ (formerly known by the name of _théâtre italien_), and those of the lyric theatre of which i am now speaking. this junction has not long been effected. previously to its taking place, the _comédie italienne_, where french comic operas only were represented, was still constituted as it was under the old _régime_, of which it was remarked as being the sole remnant. formerly, the french comic opera was very rich in stock-pieces, chiefly written by favart, sÉdaine, marmontel, hÈle,[ ] monvel, marsolier, hoffman, and others. their productions were set to music by grÉtry, monsigny, philidor, dÉsaÏdes, daleyrac, &c. these pieces are now seldom played, the music of them being antiquated; though for energy and truth of expression some of it surpasses that of many of the more modern compositions. the new authors are little known. the composers of the music are mÉhul, daleyrac before-mentioned, boyeldieu, tarchi, &c. the modern pieces the most in vogue and most attractive are _le prisonnier_, _l'opéra comique_, a piece so called, _le calife de bagdad_, _maison à vendre_, _d'auberge en auberge_, and a few others of the same description. all these are really pleasing comedies. the _théâtre feydeau_ itself was also in possession of a great number of stock-pieces, among which were some in the style of the grand french opera. a considerable change seems to have taken place, as the latter are now no longer represented. in surveying the _opéra comique_, one would imagine that, in lieu of one company, two separate ones had been formed to play in the same theatre. the former is the weaker in number, but the stronger in talent. the latter, though weaker, has some good performers, in the long list of those of whom it is composed; but, in general, they are either no longer in their pristine lustre, or have not yet attained a competent degree of perfection. seldom are the two companies mixed. pieces in the style of the modern _opéra comique_, in which easy mirth is replaced by quaint jests, are played exclusively by the former. they draw crowded houses, as the public are extremely partial to them. lyric _drames_ are abandoned to the latter, and the old stock-pieces to such of the performers as choose to act in them for a small number of spectators who are so obliging as to enter the house with _orders_ or _free_ admission. of all the repositories of old pieces that of the _comédie italienne_ is the one which is the most entirely neglected. this is rather the fault of the actors than that of the public. there are many old productions which would attract a crowd, were the best performers to play them; but who likes to pay for seeing a master-piece murdered? --we now come to speak of the qualifications of these performers. _principal characters and parts of lovers._ counter-tenors. elleviou, gavaudan, philippe, and gaveaux. elleviou. he is the first singer at the _opéra comique_. nor will this opinion be contradicted by any of the elegant and pretty women who, slaves to the custom of shewing themselves at the first representation of a new piece, never begin to applaud till elleviou makes his appearance. this performer is, in fact, gifted with a handsome person, an easy manner, an expressive countenance, and a voice, which, when he modulates it, is charming. his delivery is tolerably good, and in some parts, he is not deficient in warmth and feeling. as a singer, elleviou leaves behind all those destined to second him. after having begun by singing bass, he has taken the parts of counter-tenor, for which, however, his voice is not suited, but he makes up for this deficiency by a very flexible tenor. he displays much art and a very modern taste. his method too is good; he makes no improper use of his facility by lavishing graces, but his manner is too uniform. this is the greatest objection that can be made to him, in the double capacity of singer and comedian. gavaudan. this young actor, with a well-proportioned stature and a very agreeable countenance, ranks, at the _opéra comique_, next in merit to elleviou. his voice, as a counter-tenor, is not very brilliant, nor his means extensive; but his taste is good, and his method that of the modern school. as a player, he has a certain repution in lyric _drames_, and especially in those melancholy parts, the characteristic of which is a concentrated passion. he imitates talma, and, like him, "outsteps the modesty of nature." philippe. his reputation was begun by the advantages of his person, and he consolidated it by his performance in the line of knight-errantry. _richard, coeur de lion_, was the part which secured him the public favour. his voice is still an agreeable counter-tenor; but he declines through age. as an actor, he is deficient in nobleness, and his gestures are not dignified; but, being used to the stage, and possessing some feeling, he often produces happy effects. gaveaux. he has been a good singer in his youth, and is a very agreeable composer. he always acquits himself of any part he undertakes, if not in a brilliant manner, at least with credit. two of his musical productions are stock-pieces, and well worth seeing. _l'amour filial_ is a happy imitation of the italian school, and _sophie et moncars_ is always heard with pleasure. _characters of fathers, valets, or comic parts_. bass-voices. chenard, martin, rÉzicourt, juliet, and moreau. chenard. owing to an advantageous person, this actor once stood as high in the favour of the ladies as elleviou does at present. he still possesses a fine voice, as a bass, but it is not very flexible. in the part of _monsieur de la france_, in _l'Épreuve villageoise_, he established his fame as a singer; yet his style is not sufficiently modelled after the modern taste, which is the italian. as an actor, he is very useful; but, having always been treated by the public like a spoiled child, he is too apt to introduce his own sallies into his parts, which he sometimes charges with vulgarisms of the lowest description. martin. in the parts of valets, martin cannot be better placed than near elleviou, whom he seconds with skill and taste. this has led the composers here to an innovation. formerly, duets in the graceful style between men were seldom heard; but the voices of elleviou and martin being perfectly adapted to each other, almost all the composers have written for them duets in which the _cantabile_ prevails, and concerted cadences are very conspicuous. this, i understand, is unprecedented in paris. martin made his _début_ in at the _théâtre de monsieur_ in the company of italian buffoons. in this school he acquired that taste which he has since propagated with zeal, if not with success. at the present day, he is accused of loading his singing with superfluous embellishments, or of placing them without judgment in passages or situations where they are ill-suited. however, in _morceaux d'ensemble_ he is quite at home, and, of course, shews himself to great advantage. as an actor, he is by no means remarkable, though he sometimes displays intelligence. rÉzicourt. he may justly be called a good comedian, without examining his merits as a singer. juliet. in the newspapers, this performer is called _inimitable_. his manner is his own; yet, perhaps, it would be very dangerous to advise any one to imitate it. he is not deficient in intelligence, and has the habit of the stage; but his first quality is to be extremely natural, particularly in the parts of peasants, which he performs with much truth. he seems to be born a player, and though he is not a musician, he always sings in tune and in time. moreau. an agreeable person, open countenance, animation, an ingenuous manner, and an unerring memory. he is very well placed in young peasants, such as _le bon andré_ and _lubin_ of favart, as well as in the parts of valets. _mixed characters of every sort_.--tenors. soliÉ, and st. aubin. soliÉ. he first appeared in the parts of young lovers with a tall stature and a handsome face, but neither of them being fashioned for such characters, he met with no applause. his voice was not very brilliant, but his method of singing was replete with grace and taste. for this, however, he obtained no credit; the parisian public not being yet accustomed to the modern or italian style. clairval, the first singer at the old _opéra comique_, happening to be taken suddenly ill one night, soliÉ undertook his part at a moment's warning. success crowned his temerity, and from that moment his merit was appreciated. his best character is _micheli_ in _les deux savoyards_, in which he established his reputation. in the pieces of which mÉhul has composed the music, he shines by the finished manner in which he executes it; the _cantabile_ is his fort. as an actor, his declamation is not natural, and his deportment is too much that of a mannerist. however, these defects are compensated by his singing. to the music of others, he does every justice, and that which he composes himself is extremely agreeable. st. aubin. this performer once had a good voice as a counter-tenor; but as he now plays no other than secondary parts, one might imagine that he is retained at the theatre only in consideration of his wife's talents. _caricatures and simpletons_. dozainville, and lesage. dozainville. the person of this actor is very favourable for caricatures and the characters of simpletons, which he fills. the meagreness of his countenance renders it very flexible; but not unfrequently he carries this flexibility to grimace. as a singer, he must not be mentioned. lesage. he is a musician, but has little voice. he performs the parts of simple peasants in a natural manner, but with too much uniformity. this is is a general defect attached to those characters.--let me next introduce the female performers. _first female singers and parts of lovers_. mesdames st. aubin, scio, lesage, crÉtu, philis the elder, gavaudan, and pingenet. madame st. aubin. she is a capital actress, though chiefly in the parts of young girls; yet she is the main pillar of the _opéra comique_. she never has been handsome, at least when closely viewed, and is now on the wane, being turned of forty-five; but her graceful little figure and delicate features make her appear pretty on the stage. neatness and _naïveté_ characterise her acting. she has scarcely any voice, but no other songs than romances or ballads are assigned to her. she formerly played at the grand french opera, where she was applauded in noble and impassioned parts, though they are not, in general, suited to her manner. but an actress, high in favour with the public, is always applauded in whatever character she appears. the pieces in which madame st. aubin excels are _le prisonnier, adolphe et clara_, and _l'opéra comique_, which is the title of a piece, as i have already mentioned. madame scio. although she is said not to be well versed in music, she has a very extensive and powerful voice, but its tones have little variety. as an actress, she is very indifferent. without being mean, she has no nobleness of manner. like almost all the performers belonging to the _opéra comique_, she delivers ill the dialogue, or such sentences as are not set to music. as she frequently strains her acting, persons deficient in taste are pleased to bestow on her the epithet of _great_ as an actress. however, she played _médée_ in a lyric tragedy of that name; but such a medea was never seen! as a singer, madame scio is a valuable acquisition to this theatre. in point of person, she is neither ordinary nor handsome. mademoiselle lesage. her singing is chaste, but destitute of that musical energy which distinguishes great singers. she plays _les ingénuités_ or innocent characters; but is rather a mannerist, instead of being childish. she then employs a false voice, not at all suited to this line of acting, in which every thing should be natural. madame crÉtu. this actress came to paris from bourdeaux, preceded by a great reputation. she has been handsome: a clear voice, a good method of singing, a becoming manner of acting, insured her success. she is very useful at this theatre, in pieces where the _vis comica_ does not predominate. mademoiselle philis the elder. this is a pretty pupil of the famous garat. she has a clear pipe, a charming countenance, a quick eye, an agreeable person, and some taste. she possesses as much merit as an actress as a singer.[ ] madame gavaudan. she is admired for her pretty person, pretty voice, and pretty carriage. no wonder then that she has greatly contributed to the success of the little pieces in the style of _vaudeville_, which have been performed at this theatre. mesdemoiselles pingenet. these two sisters are nothing as actresses; but seem to aspire to the title of singers, especially the elder, who begins to distinguish herself. _noble mothers and duennas_. mesdames dugazon, philippe, and gonthier. madame dugazon. twenty years ago she enjoyed a great name, for which she was indebted to the bad taste that then prevailed. with large prominent eyes, and a broad flat nose, she could not be really handsome; but she had a very animated countenance. in lyric _drames_, she personated country-girls, chambermaids, and princesses. in the first-named cast of parts, she had an ingenuous, open, but rustic manner. she played chambermaids in a style bordering on effrontery. lastly, she represented princesses, but without any dignity, and also women bereft of their reason. the part in which she had the most vogue was that of _nina_ in _la folle par amour_. her madness, however, appeared not to be occasioned by the sensibility of her heart. it was too much inclined to the sentimental cast of sterne's maria. madame dugazon, who ought to have been in possession of a considerable fortune, from the vast sums of money lavished on her by englishmen, is at this day reduced to perform the parts of mothers, in which she acquits herself so as to deserve neither praise nor censure. madame philippe. under the name of desforges, she shone formerly in the part of _marguerite_ in _richard, coeur de lion_. without being a superior singer, she executes her songs with feeling. madame gonthier. this actress still enjoys the benefit of her former reputation. she is excellent in a cast of parts become hacknied on the stage; namely, gossips and nurses. i have said nothing of the _doubles_ or duplicates of all these ladies, as they are, in general, bad copies of the originals. the choruses of the _opéra comique_ are not very numerous, and have not the strength and correctness which distinguish those of the grand french opera. nor could this be expected. the orchestra has been lately recomposed, and at present consists of a selection of excellent performers. the scenery, decorations, and dresses are deserving of commendation. [footnote : or hale, an englishman, who wrote _le jugement de midas_, _l'amant jaloux_, and _les Évenemens imprevus_, pretty lyric comedies, especially the last. notwithstanding the success of his pieces, this author is said to have died in the greatest distress.] [footnote : not long since she set off for russia, without apprizing any one of her intention.] [footnote : the commissioner, appointed by the government to superintend the proceedings of this theatre, has since been replaced by a _prefect of the palace_, whose authority is much the same as that exercised when each of the principal theatres in paris was under the inspection of a _lord of the bedchamber_.] letter lix. _paris, january , ._ whenever the pen of an impartial writer shall trace the history of the french revolution, through all its accompanying vicissitudes, it will be seen that this country owed its salvation to the _savans_ or men of science. the arts and sciences, which were revived by their zeal and courage, united with unceasing activity to pave the way to victories abroad, and repair mischiefs at home. nor can it be denied, that every thing which genius, labour, and perseverance could create, in point of resources, was employed in such a manner that france was enabled, by land, to make head against almost all europe, and supply her own wants, as long as the war lasted. the _savans_ who had effected such great things, for some time enjoyed unlimited influence. it was well known that to them the republic was indebted for its safety and very existence. they availed themselves of this favourable moment for insuring to france that superiority of knowledge which had caused her to triumph over her enemies. such was the origin of the polytechnic school. this establishment had a triple object; namely, to form engineers for the different services; to spread in civil society enlightened men, and to excite talents which might promote the sciences. nothing was neglected that could tend to the accomplishment of a destination so important. it was, in fact, time to reorganize the instruction of corps destined for public services, the greater part of which were wholly deficient in this respect. some of them, it is true, had particular schools; but instruction there was feeble and incomplete. that for military engineers at _mézieres_, the best conducted of all, and which admitted twenty pupils only, had suspended its exercises, in consequence of the revolution. necessity had occasioned the formation of a provisionary school, where the pupils received rapidly the first notions of the attack and defence of places, after which they were sent to the armies. such institutions neither answered the exigencies of the state, nor conduced to its glory. their weakness was, above all, likely to be felt by men habituated to general ideas, and whose minds were still more exalted, and views enlarged, by the revolution. those men wished that the new _school for public works_ should be worthy of the nation. their plan was extensive in its object, but simple in its execution, and certain in its results. the first law concerning the _central school for public works_, since called the _polytechnic school_, was made on the th of ventôse year ii. ( th of march ). from that moment, much zeal was manifested in making the necessary arrangements for its formation. on the report made to the national convention respecting the measures taken on this subject, on the th of vendémiaire year iii ( th of september ) a decree was passed, directing a competition to be opened for the admission of four hundred pupils into this school. the examination was appointed to take place in twenty-two of the principal towns. the candidates were to answer in arithmetic and the elements of algebra and geometry. those admitted received the allowance of military officers for their travelling expenses to paris. they were to have annually twelve hundred francs, and to remain in the school three years, after which they were to be called to the different public services, when they were judged capable of performing them; and priority was to depend on merit. these services were the duty of military engineers, naval engineers, or ship-builders, artillerists, both military and naval, engineers of bridges and highways, geographical engineers, and engineers of mines, and to them were added the service of the pupils of the school of aërostation, which guyton morveau had caused to be established at meudon, for the purpose of forming the aërostatic company destined for manoeuvring air-balloons, applied to the art of war, as was seen at _maubeuge_, _fleurus_, _aix-la-chapelle_, &c. however, the conception of this project was far more easy than its execution. it was doing little to choose professors from among the first men of science in europe, if their lessons were not fixed in the mind of the pupils. being unable to communicate them to each pupil in private, they stood in need of agents who should transmit them to this numerous assemblage of youth, and be, as it were, the nerves of the body. to form these was the first object. among the young men who had presented themselves at the competition, twenty of the most distinguished were selected. philosophical instruments and a chemical laboratory were provided for them, and they were unremittingly exercised in every part of the plan which it was resolved to execute. these pupils, the greater part of whom had come from the schools for public service, felt the insufficiency of the instruction which they had there received. eager to learn, their mind became inflamed by the presence of the celebrated men who were incessantly with them. the days sufficed not for their zeal; and in three months they were capable of discharging the functions for which they were intended. nor was this all. at a time when opinion and power might change from one moment to another, much risk was incurred if a definitive form was not at once given to the _polytechnic school_. the authors of this vast project had seen the revolution too near not to be sensible of that truth. but they wished first, by a trial made on a grand scale, to insure their method, class the pupils, and shew what might be expected from them. they therefore developed to them, in rapid lectures, the general plan of instruction. this plan had been drawn up agreeably to the views of men the best informed, amongst whom monge must be particularly mentioned. he had been professor at _mezières_, and had there given the first lessons of descriptive geometry, that science so useful to the engineer. the enumeration of the various parts of instruction was reduced to a table, printed by order of the committee of public safety. it comprehends mathematics, analysis applied to descriptive geometry and to the mechanism of solids and fluids, stereotomy, drawing, civil architecture, fortification, general physics, chymistry, mineralogy, and their application to the arts. in three months, the work of three years was explained. a real enthusiasm was excited in these youths on finding themselves occupied by the sublimest ideas which had employed the mind of man. amidst the divisions and animosities of political party, it was an interesting sight, to behold four hundred young men, full of confidence and friendship, listening with profound attention to the lectures of the celebrated _savans_ who had been spared by the guillotine. the results of so great an experiment surpassed the most sanguine expectations. after this preliminary instruction, the pupils were divided into brigades, and education took the course it was intended should follow. what particularly distinguishes this establishment, is that the pupils not only receive oral lessons, but they must give in written solutions, present drawings, models, or plans for the different parts, and themselves operate in the laboratories. on the st of germinal year iii ( d of march ) the annual courses were commenced. they were then distributed for three years, but at this day they last two only. at the same time a decree was passed, regulating the number of professors, adjuncts, ushers, the holding of the meetings of the council of instruction and administration, the functions of the director, administrator, inspector of the studies, secretary of the council, librarian, keepers of the collection of drawings, models, &c. since that epoch, the _polytechnic school_, often attacked, even in the discussions of the _legislative body_, has maintained its ground by the impression of the reputation of the men who act there as professors, of the depth of the knowledge which makes the object of their lessons, and of the youths of superior talent who issue from it every year. the law which after many adjournments, has fixed its existence is dated the th of frimaire year viii ( th of december .) the most important changes introduced, are the determination of the age to be received into this school, which is from sixteen to twenty, the reduction of the pupils to the number of three hundred, the rank which is given them of serjeant of artillery of the first class, their pay fixed on the same footing, together with a fund of assistance for those labouring under difficulties, the obligation to wear a uniform, the establishment of a council of improvement, composed of three members of the national institute, of examiners, of a general-officer or superior agent of each of the branches of the public service, of the director, and four commissioners taken from the council of instruction. this council assembles every year, inquires into the state of the school, proposes its views of amelioration, respecting every department, and makes a report to the government. one of its principal functions is to harmonise the instruction with that of the schools of engineers, artillery, &c. into which the pupils enter after the final examination they undergo previously to their departure. after this, to judge of the advantages of the _polytechnic school_, it is sufficient to cast an eye on the printed reports, which present an account of the persons it furnishes to the different services, of those who have been taken from it for the expedition to egypt, for the corps of _aspirans de la marine_ or midshipmen, for entering into the line vith the rank of officers, or into the department of commissaries of war, (into which they are admitted after their examination if no places are vacant in the schools for public service), of those who have been called on to profess the sciences in the central schools (lyceums) of the departments, some to fill the first professors' chairs in paris, such as at the _collège de france_ and the _École polytechnique_, of those, in short, who have quitted this school to introduce into the manufactories the knowledge which they had acquired. the last-mentioned circumstance has always been a consideration for carrying the number of pupils beyond the presumable wants of the different public services. you see that this is no more than a summary of what might be said and collected from the journals of the _polytechnic school_, (which already form four volumes in to. independently of the classic works published by the professors), for giving a complete history of this interesting establishment, which attracts the notice of foreigners of all nations. bonaparte takes no small interest in the labours of the _polytechnic school_, and has often said that it would be difficult to calculate the effects of the impulse which it has given towards the mathematical sciences, and of the aggregate of the knowledge imparted to the pupils. the _polytechnic school_, which is under the authority of the minister of the interior, occupies an extensive range of building, formerly known by the name of _le petit palais bourbon, contiguous to the _palais du corps legislatif_. the different apartments contain every thing necessary for the elucidation of the arts and sciences here taught; but the pupils reside not at the school: they lodge and board with their friends, on the salary allowed them by the nation, and repair thither only for the prosecution of their studies. letter lx. _paris, january , ._ to judge from the records of the old bailey, one would conclude that, in proportion to the number of its inhabitants, london must contain a greater number of dishonest persons of both sexes than any metropolis in europe. but, though more notorious thieves and daring robbers may perhaps, be found in london than in many other great cities, yet i will venture to affirm that paris contains more pickpockets and sharpers. however superior too our rogues may be in boldness, i apprehend that, in dexterity, they are far inferior to those to be met with among our neighbours. to elude a more vigilant inspection, the latter are compelled to exert more art and cunning. in this dissipated capital, which is a grand theatre where they can display all their talent, and find a greater number of dupes, adventurers and swindlers of every description have long been famous; but it should seem that the females here of that stamp deserve to be no less celebrated. not many years ago, i heard of an english lady of quality being detected in the very act of secreting a quantity of valuable lace, to which she had taken a particular fancy at a great haberdasher's in pall-mall. it was said that she endeavoured to exculpate herself for this inadvertency on the ground of being in a pregnant state, which had produced an irrisistible longing. however this may be, she might here have got a lesson, as will appear from the following instance of ingenuity very lately practised by one of her own sex. in the _ci-devant palais royal_, a haberdasher of note keeps a shop where the highest-priced articles of female wear are exhibited, immediately on coming from the hands of the manufacturer or inventor. the other day, a lady somewhat turned of thirty, of genteel appearance and engaging address, entered this shop, and asked to see some white lace veils. several were shewn to her at the price of from twenty-five to fifty louis each. these not being sufficiently rich to please her taste, others more costly were produced, and she fixed on one of eighty louis in value. standing before a glass, she immediately put on this veil _à la réligieuse_, that is, in the form of the hood of a nun's dress. then taking from her bosom her little purse, she found it to contain no more than twenty louis in bankpaper, which she paid to the haberdasher as a deposit for the veil, at the same time desiring him to send one of his men with her to her _homme d'affaires_ or agent, in order that he might bring back the other sixty. as a parisian tradesman is always extremely glad to get rid of his goods, she had no difficulty in carrying her point; and, having selected from among the shopmen a shamefaced youth of eighteen, took him with her in the hackney-coach which she had kept in waiting. she gave the coachman her orders, and away he drove to a famous apothecary's, in the _rue st. honoré_. "this," said she to the shopman, "is the residence of my _homme d'affaires_: follow me, and you shall have your money." she accordingly alighted, and, after saying a few words in the ear of the doctor, on whose credulity she had already exercised her genius, desired him to take the young man to his private room, and settle the business, while she remained to chat with his wife. the unsuspecting youth, seeing the lady on such terms of intimacy in the family, made no hesitation to follow the doctor to a back-parlour, where, to his extreme surprise, he was closely questioned as to his present state of health, and the rise and progress of the disorder which he had caught through his own imprudence. the more he denied the circumstance, the more the doctor persisted in his endeavours to procure ocular demonstration. the latter had previously locked the door, having been apprized by the lady that her son was exceedingly bashful, and that stratagem, and even a certain degree of violence, perhaps, must be employed to obtain evidence of a complaint, which, as it injured her _dear boy's_ constitution, disturbed her own happiness and peace of mind. the doctor was proceeding to act on this information, when the young shopman, finding his retreat cut off, vociferously demanded the sixty louis which he was come to receive in payment for the veil. "sixty louis in payment for a veil!" re-echoed the doctor. "your mother begged me to examine you for a complaint which you have inconsiderately contracted in the pursuit of pleasure." the _dénouement_ now taking place, the two dupes hastened back to the shop, when they found that the lady had decamped, having previously discharged the coach, in order that she might not be traced by the number. the art of purloining a watch, a snuff-box, or a purse, unperceived by the owner, may, no doubt, be acquired by constant practice, till the novice becomes expert in his profession: but the admirable presence of mind displayed by parisian sharpers must, in a great measure, be inherited from nature. what can well surpass an example of this kind mentioned by a celebrated french writer? a certain person who had been to receive a sum of money at a banker's, was returning home with it in a hired carriage. the coachman, not remembering the name of the street whither he had been ordered to drive, got off his box, and opened the coach-door to ask it. he found the person dead and cold. at his first exclamation, several people collected. a sharper who was passing by, suddenly forced his way through the crowd, and, in a lamentable and pathetic voice, called out: "'tis my father! what a miserable wretch am i!" then, exhibiting every mark of the most poignant grief, he got into the coach, and, crying and sobbing, kissed the dead man's face. the bystanders were affected, and dispersed, saying, one to another, "what an affectionate son!" the sharper drove on in the coach, where he found the bags of money, which were an unexpected booty, and, stopping it at a door, told the coachman that he wished to apprize his sister of the melancholy accident that had just happened. he alighted, and shut the coach-door, leaving the corpse as naked as it came into the world. the coachman, having waited a long time, inquired in vain at the house for the young man and his sister; no one had any knowledge of her, him, or the deceased. i remember when i was last in paris, at the beginning of the revolution, being shewn a silversmith's shop, whence a few articles having been stolen, the master was induced to examine in what manner the thieves gained admittance. discovering an aperture where he conjectured that a man's hand might be introduced, he prepared a noose with a proper cord, and remained in waiting the following night to see if they would repeat their visit. at a late hour, when all was quiet, he perceived a man's hand thrust through the aperture; instantly he drew tight the noose, and thought he had effectually secured the culprit; but he was mistaken. the fellow's accomplices, fearing that the apprehension of one of them would lead to the discovery of all, on finding it impossible to extricate him by any other means, cut off his wrist. when the patrole arrived at the spot, on the call of the silversmith, he was not a little astonished to find that his prisoner had escaped, though with the loss of a hand, which remained fast in the noose. with respect to these more daring classes of rogues, every year almost produces some new race of them. since the revolution, the criminal code having condemned to death none but those guilty of murder, housebreakers, to avoid the penalty of the law, had recourse to a practice, which put the persons whom they subjected to it to the most severe pain. this was to hold their feet to the fire till they declared where all their moveable property was to be found. hence these villains obtained the name of _chauffeurs_. notwithstanding the vigilance of the police, they still occasionally exercise their cruelties in some of the departments, as may be seen by the proceedings of the criminal tribunals. i have also heard of another species of assassins, who trained blood-hounds to seize a man by the throat in certain solitary places, and then came afterwards, and plundered him at their ease. when apprehended, they coolly said: "we did not kill the man, but found him dead." as in former times, all sentences passed on criminals, tried in paris, whether condemned to die or not, are put into execution on the place de grÈve. the first sentence executed here was that passed on _marguerite porette_, a female heretic, who was burnt alive in the year . among the punishments which it has been found necessary to re-establish is that of marking with a hot iron. criminals, condemned to imprisonment in irons, are exposed for two hours on a scaffold in the middle of this square. they are seated and tied to a post, having above them a label with the words of their sentence. they are clad in woollen pantaloons and a waistcoat with sleeves, one half of each of which is white; the other, brown. after being exposed two hours, they are stripped, and to their shoulder is applied a hot iron, which there leaves the impression of the letter v, for _voleur_, thief. women, not being condemned to imprisonment in irons; are exempt from the penalty of being marked. this punishment is said to produce considerable effect on the culprits, as well as on the spectators. previously to its being revived, persons convicted of thieving were insolent beyond all endurance. the _place de grève_ is a parallelogram, one of the long sides of which is occupied by the _ci-devant hôtel de ville_, a tasteless edifice, begun in , but not finished till . before the revolution, the _place de grève_ was alternately the theatre of punishments and rejoicings. on the same pavement, where scaffolds were erected for the execution of criminals, rose superb edifices for public festivals. here, when any criminal of note was to suffer, the occupiers of the adjoining houses made a rich harvest by letting their apartments. every window that commanded a view of the horrid scene, was then hired at a most exorbitant price. women of the first rank and fashion, decked in all the luxury of dress, graced even the uppermost stories. these weak-nerved females, who would have fainted at the sight of a spider mangling a fly, stood crowded together, calmly viewing the agonies of an expiring malefactor, who, after having been racked on the wheel, was, perhaps, denied the _coup de grace_ which would, in an instant, have rid him of his miserable existence. the death of a regicide was a sort of gala to these belles; while the lead was melting over the furnace, the iron pinchers heating in the fire, and the horses disposed for tearing asunder the four quarters of the victim of the laws, some of them amused themselves with an innocent game at cards, in sight of all these terrible preparations, from which a man of ordinary feeling would avert his looks with horror. how happens it that, in all countries on the continent, ladies flock to these odious spectacles? every where, i believe, the populace run to behold them; but that a female of superior birth and breeding can deliberately seek so inhuman a gratification is a mystery which i cannot explain, unless, indeed, on the principle of shewing themselves, as well as that of seeing the show. "_spectatum veniunt, veniunt spectentur ut ipsæ_." letter lxi. _paris, february , ._ independently of the general organization of public instruction, according to the new plan, of which i have before traced you the leading features, there exist several schools appropriate to different professions, solely devoted to the public service, and which require particular knowledge in the arts and sciences. hence they bear the generic name of schools for public services. they are comprised under the following denominations. polytechnic school. school of artillery. military engineers. bridges and highways. mines. naval engineers. navigation. in order to be admitted into any of the above schools, the candidates must prove themselves qualified by the preliminary instruction required the examinations at the competition prescribed for each of them. the pupils of these schools receive a salary from the nation. at the head of them is the _polytechnic school_, of which i have already spoken. this is the grand nursery, whence the pupils, when they have attained a sufficient degree of perfection, are transplanted into the other _schools for public services_. next come the schools of artillery. there are eight of these in the places where the regiments of artillery are garrisoned. the pupils who are sent thither as officers, after having been examined, apply their knowledge to the arts, to the construction of works, and to the manoeuvres of war dependent on artillery. each school, in which the pupils must remain two years longer, is under the superintendance of a general of brigade of the corps. school of military engineers. this school, united to that of miners, is established at metz. its labours relate to the application of the theoretical knowledge which the pupils have imbibed at the _polytechnic school_. the objects of these labours is the construction of all sorts of works of fortification, mines and counter-mines, mock-representations of sieges, attack, and defence, the drawing of plans and military surveys, in a word, all the details of the duty of engineers in fortified places and in the field. the number of pupils is limited to twenty. they have the rank and pay of second lieutenant. the school of engineers, as well as the schools of artillery, is under the authority of the minister at war. much as i wish to compress my subject, i must observe that, previously to leaving the school, the pupils undergo a strict examination respecting the objects of instruction before-enumerated. this examination is intrusted to a _jury_ (as the french term it) composed of the commander in chief of the school, a general or field-officer of the corps, appointed every year by the minister at war, and one of the permanent examiners of the polytechnic school. _this jury forms the list of merit, which regulates the order of promotion._ can we then wonder that the french have the first military engineers in europe? school of bridges and highways. it was founded in , by trudaine, and continued under the direction of perronet, chief engineer of this corps, till his death, which happened in . he was then years of age. by his will, he bequeathed to this school, for the instruction of the pupils whom he loved as his children, his library, his models, his manuscripts, and his portfolios; articles which at this day form an invaluable collection. this school, which is at present established in the _hôtel de chatelet_ (formerly belonging to the duke of that name) _rue de grenelle_, _st. germain_, unites the _dépôt_ or repository of plans and models to the labours relating to roads, canals, and harbours for trade. the number of pupils admitted is fifty. they are taken from the _polytechnic school_, and retain the salary which they there received. the instruction given to them chiefly consists in the application of the principles of physics and mathematics to the art of planning and constructing works relative to roads, canals, and sea-ports, and the buildings belonging thereto; the means of execution, and the mode of forming plans and estimates of the works to be executed, and the order to be observed in keeping the accounts. the _school of bridges and highways_ is under the authority of the minister of the interior, practical schools of mines. one of these schools is established at geislautern, in the department of la sarre; and the other, at pesay, in the department of mont-blanc. the director and professors form a committee for the working of the mines of pesay, as well as for the instruction of the pupils. in consequence of the report of this committee the _council of mines_ established in paris, proposes to the government the measures necessary to be adopted. twenty pupils, who have passed their examination at the _polytechnic school_, are attached to the practical schools, for the purpose of applying the theoretical part of their instruction. extra-scholars, with testimonials of good behaviour and capacity, are admitted to be educated at their own expense. these schools are also under the authority of the minister of the interior. school of naval engineers. the _school of naval architects_, which existed in paris, has been removed to brest, under the name of _École des ingénieurs des vaisseaux_. no pupils are admitted but such as have been students, at least two years, in the _polytechnic school_. the examination of the candidates takes place every year, and the preference is given to those who excel in descriptive geometry, mechanics, and the other branches of knowledge appropriated to the first year's study at that school. when the pupils have proved, in the repeated examinations which they must undergo, that they are sufficiently qualified, they are sent to brest (as vacancies occur), in order to apply the theory they have acquired to the different works carried on in that port, where they find both the example and the precept, and are taught every thing relative to the construction of ships of war and merchant-vessels. this school is under the authority of the minister of the naval department. the pupils admitted into it, receive a salary of francs (_circa_ £. sterling) a year. schools of navigation. the schools of mathematics and hydrography, established for the navy of the state, and the schools of hydrography destined for the merchant-service, bear the name of _Écoles de navigation_. every year, there is a competition for the admission of candidates for naval employment. the hydrographical examiner makes a general tour to the different ports, where he interrogates the pupils in arithmetic, algebra, geometry, statics, and navigation. according to these examinations, they are admitted to the rank of _aspirons de marine_ or midshipmen, captains of merchant-ships for long voyages, masters of coasting-vessels, pilots, &c, by a late decree of the consuls, no one can be admitted to the examination prescribed for being received as master in the coasting-trade, unless he is twenty-four years of age, and has served five years on board the ships of war belonging to the republic. * * * * * in my letter of the th of january, i have shewn you that public instruction is to be divided into four classes: . in primary schools, established by the _communes_. . in secondary schools, established by the _communes_, and kept by private masters. . in lyceums. . in _special schools_. in the two last-mentioned establishments, the pupils are to be maintained at the expense of the nation. before i particularize the _special schools_, i must mention a national institution, distinguished by the appellation of prytanÉe franÇais. it is divided into four colleges, established at paris, st. cyr, st. germain-en-laye, and compiegne. it was destined for the gratuitous education of the children of the military killed in the field of honour, and of public functionaries who might happen to die in the discharge of their office. by a decree of the consuls, dated the st of germinal year viii ( nd of march ) the number of pupils, in each of the colleges of paris, st. cyr, and st. germain-en-laye, is limited to two hundred, and to three hundred, in that of compiegne. an augmentation, however, is to be made in favour of the new departments. the pupils are named by the first consul. on entering the college, they bring a stated proportion of necessaries, after which they are wholly maintained at the expense of the nation till they have finished their studies. the government provides for the advancement of those who give the greatest proof of good conduct and talent. the pupils cannot remain in either of these four colleges beyond the age of eighteen. as i have before observed, the central schools are, in future, to bear the name of lyceums, and the highest degree of public instruction is to be acquired in the special schools. in these upper schools are to be particularly taught, in the most profound manner, the useful sciences, together with jurisprudence, medicine, natural history, &c. the special schools now in existence are to be continued, subject to such modifications as the government may think fit to introduce for the benefit of the public service. they are still under the immediate superintendance of the minister of the interior. the _collège de france_ i have before described: the museum of natural history, the special school of docimastic mineralogy and chemistry, and that for oriental languages, i shall speak of elsewhere; but i shall now proceed to give you a rapid sketch of the others which i have not yet noticed, beginning with the special school of painting and sculpture. this institution was founded in , at the instigation of le brun. it was formerly held in the _place du louvre_, but is now removed to the _ci-devant collège des quatre-nations_, which has taken the name of _palais des beaux arts_. this is the only school in paris that has never indulged in any vacation. each professor is on duty for two months. during the first month, he gives his lessons in the school of living models; during the other, in the school of the antique, called, _la bosse_. it may not be uninteresting to give you an idea of the competitions. every year there is a competition in painting, sculpture, and architecture, which is to be called _national prize_. its object is to confer on those who have gained the first prize, at present proposed by the institute, the advantage of an allowance of francs for five years, which is insured to them at the french school of fine arts at rome. during their stay there, they are lodged, boarded, and taken care of, in case of illness, at the expense of the republic. a competition takes place every six months for the rank of places in the schools; and another, every three months for the distribution of medals. there is also a prize, of francs, founded by m. de caylus, for a head expressive of character, painted or drawn from nature; and another prize of francs, founded by latour, for a half-length, painted after a model, and of the natural size. independently of the competition of the school, there is every year a general competition followed by a distribution of the works of encouragement, granted to the artists who have distinguished themselves most in the annual exhibition of the _salon du louvre_. a jury, named by the competitors themselves, examines the different pictures, classes them according to the degree of merit which it finds they possess, and the minister of the interior allots to each of the artists _crowned_ a sum in payment of a new work which they are bound to furnish to the government. national school of architecture. in this school, which is held in the _louvre_, the professor of architecture delivers lectures on the history of that art, and the theory of its different branches, on the orders, and edifices erected by the ancients, and on the works of vitruvius, palladio, scamozzi, and vignole. he takes no small pains to make known the bold style of grecian architecture, which the athenians chiefly employed during the ages when they prided themselves on being a free people. the professor of mathematics explains the principles of arithmetic and elementary geometry, which he applies to the different branches of civil and military architecture, such as levelling, the art of constructing plans, and perspective. the professor of stereotomy, in his lectures, chiefly comprises masonry and carpentry; he points out the best methods of employing those arts in civil and military buildings. his demonstrations relate to the theoretical and practical part of both branches. all the pupils, and students of architecture are indiscriminately admitted to the competition for the great prize of architecture, provided they are not foreigners. conservatory of music. this establishment, situated in the _rue du faubourg poissonnière_, was founded on the th of thermidor year iii, ( th of august ) for the preservation and reproduction of music in all its branches. it is composed of a director, three inspectors of teaching, a secretary, a librarian, and thirty-five professors. the director presides over the whole establishment; the inspectors superintend the teaching, examine the pupils, and teach the branches of study attributed to them by the regulation. in the conservatory, the instruction is divided as follows: composition, harmony, solfaing, singing, violin, violincello, harpsicord, organ, flute, hautboy, clarinette, french-horn, bassoon, trumpet, trombonne, serpent, preparation for singing, and declamation applicable to the lyric stage. the completion of the study is effected by a series of lectures, treating specially of the relations between the sciences and the art of music. three hundred pupils of both sexes, taken in equal number from each department, are instructed gratuitously in the conservatory. the principal points towards which their studies are directed, are, to keep up music in society, to form artists for the execution of public _fêtes_, for the armies, and for the theatres. these pupils are admitted after an examination, which takes place four times a year. prizes are distributed annually, in a public meeting of the conservatory, to the pupils who distinguish themselves in each branch of study. * * * * * _february , in continuation._ to the preceding brief account of the conservatory, i shall subjoin a few observations on the present state of music in france. till the year , this was the country where the greatest expense was incurred in cultivating music; yet the means which were employed, though very numerous, produced but little effect, and contributed not to the improvement of that art. every thing even announces that its progress would have been still more retarded, but for the introduction of the italian opera, in , by cardinal mazarin. the brilliant success of _orfeo e euridice_, in , determined the national taste in favour of this sort of _spectacle_, and gave birth to the wish of transplanting it to the french stage. it was in that the first opera, with music adapted to a french poem, was performed at issy. since the epoch of the establishment of the french opera, every department belonging to it, with the sole exception of the singing, has been so much improved, that it is become the most brilliant _spectacle_ in europe. but, as the lyric theatres in france were always obliged to seek recruits among the pupils formed in the schools maintained by the clergy for the service of public worship, the influence of the clerical mode of instruction was felt; and this was, in fact, the source of the bad taste which for a long time characterized french singing. had the grand opera in france been continued an italian one, as it was first established, (like those subsequently introduced in the principal cities of europe) it would have been supported by performers formed by the conservatories of italy; and the good taste of those schools would have balanced or proscribed the bad taste of the french cathedrals; but the genius of the seventeenth century chose that the french language, purified and fixed by the writers who rendered it illustrious, should also become the language of the lyric theatre. musical instruction, remaining entirely subservient to the customs of religion, was unable to keep pace with the rapid progress of the arts and sciences during that brilliant period. among the defects of the old system of teaching music, must be placed that of confining it to men; nevertheless, the utility of women in concerts and plays was as incontestable then as it is at the present day. public instruction was therefore due to them in that point of view; but, had no such consideration existed, they should have been admitted to participate in this instruction, in order to propagate the art in society. the success of this method would have been infallible: as soon as women should have cultivated the musical art with success, its naturalization would have been effected in france, as it has been in germany and italy. the expense of the musical instruction pursued in the schools belonging to the cathedrals was immense, compared with its results in every branch of the art. as to composers, they produced but a very small number, and few of these distinguished themselves; no instrumental performer of eminence ever issued from them; and, with few exceptions, the singers they formed were very indifferent. the necessity of introducing a better method of singing induced the government, in , to establish a _special school of singing and declamation._ this institution continued in full exercise for ten years; but, though the celebrated piccini was appointed to preside over the vocal department, the habits of the old school obstructed its progress, and prevented it from producing the good which was expected from it. at the epoch of the dissolution of the monarchical institutions, there remained in france only the school of music of the parisian national guard, and that of singing and declamation just mentioned. the republican government ordered them to be united, and thus was formed the _conservatory of music_. nor let it be imagined that policy has had no share in establishing this institution. it has furnished the numerous bands of musicians rendered necessary by the levy of fourteen armies which france had, at one and the same time, in the field. it is well known that music has done almost wonders in reviving the courage of the french soldiers, who, when victory seemed adverse to them, inclined her in their favour, by rallying to the tune of the _marseillois_. in the heat of action, joining their voice to the instruments, and raising themselves to a pitch of enthusiasm, they received or dealt out death, while they kept singing this hymn. the french then are no less indebted to rouget de lille than the spartans were to tyrtÆus. at the beginning of the revolution, they had no songs of the warlike kind, except a few paltry ballads sung about the streets. rouget, who was then an officer of engineers at strasburg, was requested to compose a martial hymn. full of poetic fire, he shut himself up in his chamber, and, in the course of one night, wrote the words of the _marseillois_, adapting to them music, also of his own composition. notwithstanding this patriotic production, and the courage which the author is said to have displayed during the war, he was twice imprisoned, at one time on suspicion of royalism; at another, of terrorism. independently of the great number of musicians with which the conservatory has supplied the armies, it has furnished between two and three hundred to the theatres, as well in paris as in the departments.[ ] the band of the consular guard was formed from the pupils of the conservatory, and sixty of them at present compose the orchestra, known in paris by the name of _concert français_, and the execution of which has been much applauded by many celebrated composers. its members meet to discuss the theories which may improve and extend the different branches of the musical art. they have already laid the principal foundations of a body of elementary works for teaching them in perfection. _les principes élementaires de musique_, and a _traité d'harmonie_, which is said to have gained the universal approbation of the composers of the three schools, assembled to discuss its merits, are already published. a method of singing, established on the best principles of the italian school, applied to french declamation, is now in the press; and these publications are to be successively followed by other didactic works relative to the history of the art. a principal cause of the present scarcity of fine voices in france, is the war which she has had to maintain for ten years, by armies continually recruited by young men put in requisition at the period when the voice is forming, and needs to be cultivated in order to acquire the qualities which constitute a good singer. formerly, french commerce derived but very little advantage from articles relating to music; but the means employed by the conservatory may probably turn the scale in favour of this country, as well as render it, in that respect, independent of foreign nations. before the revolution, england furnished france with _piano-fortes_, the common price of which was from three to five hundred francs. germany mostly supplied her with wind and string instruments. german french-horns, though coarsely-made instruments, cost seventy-two francs, and the good violins of the tyrol were paid for as high as one hundred and twenty. the consumption of these instruments was considerable. nor will this appear surprising, as previously to the foundation of the conservatory, the instrumental musicians, employed in the french regiments and places of public amusement, were mostly germans. the french _piano-fortes_ are now in request in most parts of europe, and their price has, in consequence, increased from one thousand to two thousand four hundred francs. the price of french-horns, made in paris, which, from being better finished, are preferable to those of germany, has, in like manner, risen from three to five hundred francs. parisian violins have increased in proportion. with respect to printed music, the french import none; but, on the contrary, export a great deal; and the advantages resulting from these two branches of commerce, together with the stamp-duty attached to the latter, are said to be sufficient to defray the expenses of the musical establishments now existing, or those proposed to be created. before i close this letter, i must not omit to mention a very useful institution, for the promotion of the mechanical arts, established in the _rue de l'École de médecine_, and called the gratuitous school for drawing. it was founded in the year , for the instruction of fifteen hundred children intended for mechanical professions, and was the first beneficent establishment opened in favour of the common people. literature, sciences, and liberal arts had every where public schools; mechanical arts alone were neglected. the lower orders, by whom they were exercised, had no other means of learning them, and of developing the faculties of their mind, than the blind routine of apprenticeship. the success of this school had progressively caused similar ones to be instituted in a great number of towns of france, but most of them are buried under the ruins of the revolution; that of paris has escaped the general overthrow; and, though it has lost a considerable portion of its revenue, it still admits about six hundred pupils. they are taught every thing relative to the mechanical arts, such as drawing in all its various branches, military, civil, and naval architecture, hydraulics, arithmetic, land-surveying, mensuration, perspective, stone-cutting, and in short such parts of mathematics and practical geometry as relate to those different objects. the gratuitous school for drawing must not be assimilated to establishments intended for improving the taste of those who follow the career of the liberal arts. it presents immediately to the children of the lower orders of the people the instruction that suits them best. here, every thing is useful. not only are the pupils instructed _gratis_, but the school furnishes to the indigent, recommended by one of the founders, the paper, pencils, and instruments necessary for their studies in the classes, and also models for exercising their talents at home. * * * * * i shall speak elsewhere of the _special school of medicine_ of paris; there are two others, one at montpellier, and one at strasburg. at alfort, near paris, is established, on a grand scale, a veterinary school. it would lead me too far to particularize every department of this extensive establishment; but one of these is too useful to be passed over in silence. here are spacious hospitals where animals are classed, not only according to their species, but also according to the species of disorder by which they are affected. every person may bring hither sick animals, on paying for their food and medicaments only, the operations and dressings being performed and applied _gratis_. there are also veterinary schools at lyons, turin, and rodez. in addition to all these schools are to be established, in different parts of the republic, the following new _special schools_. ten of jurisprudence. three of medicine. four of natural history, physics, and chymistry. one of transcendent mathematics. two of technology. one of public economy, enlightened by geography and history. one of the arts dependent on design, and, lastly, a new military school. from the foregoing enumeration, it is evident that the government can never be at a loss for persons duly qualified to perform the duties of every branch of the public service. true it is that the nation is at a considerable expense in giving to them the instruction which fits them for the employment; but, in return, what advantages does not the nation derive from the exertion of their talent? [footnote : in france are reckoned seventy-fire lyric theatres, exclusively of those in the newly-united departments.] letter lxii. _paris, february , _. in one of your recent letters, you interrogated me respecting the changes which the revolution had produced in the ceremonies immediately connected with the increase and decrease of population. while the subject is fresh in my mind, i shall present the contrast which i have observed, in the years - and - , in the ceremony of funerals. under the old _régime_, there was no medium in them; they were either very indecorous or very expensive. i have been positively assured that eighteen francs were paid for what was called a parish-funeral, and not unfrequently a quarrel arose between the agent of the rector and the relations of the deceased. however, as it was necessary to bury every one, the _commissaire de police_ declared the fact, if the relations were unable to pay. those for whom eighteen francs were paid, had a coffin in which they were buried; the others were laid in a common coffin or shell, from which they were taken to be put into the ground. in a parish-funeral, whether paid or not, several dead bodies were assembled, that is, they were carried one after the other, but at the same time to the same ground. they were conducted by a single priest, reciting by the way the accustomed prayers. other funerals were varied without end, according to the fortune or pleasure of the relations. for persons of the richest class, a flaming chapel was constructed at the entrance of the house. this chapel was hung with black cloth, and in it was placed the corpse, surrounded by lighted torches. the apartments were also hung with black for the reception of the persons who were to attend the funeral procession. the priests came to conduct the corpse from the house of the deceased. they were more or less numerous, had or had not wax tapers, according to the will of those who defrayed the expenses. if the presentation of the corpse at the parish-church took place in the morning, a mass was sung; if in the evening, obsequies only were chaunted, and the former service was deferred till the next morning. the relations and friends, in mourning, followed the corpse. these persons walked in the procession, according to their degree of relationship to the deceased, and besides their complete mourning-suit, wore a black cloak, more or less long, according to the quality of the persons (or the price paid for it), and a flapped hat, from which was suspended a very long crape band. their hair, unpowdered, fell loose on their back. in lieu of a cloak, lawyers, whether presidents, counsellors, attornies, or tipstaffs, wore their black gown. on the cuff of their coat, men wore weepers, consisting of a band of cambric. every one wore black gloves, and likewise a long pendent white cravat. people of the highest rank wore _cottés crépés_, that is, a sort of crape petticoat, which fell from the waist to the feet. this was meant to represent the ancient coat of arms. servants in mourning, or pages for princes, supported the train of the cloak or gown of persons above the common rank. other servants, also in mourning, surrounded the relations and friends of the deceased, holding torches with his armorial bearings, if he was a _noble_. persons extremely rich or very elevated in rank, hired a certain number of poor (from fifty to three hundred), over whom were thrown several ells of coarse iron gray cloth, to which no particular form was given. they walked before the corpse, holding large lighted torches. the procession was closed by the carriages of persons belonging to it; and their owners did not get into them till their return from the funeral. sometimes on coming out of the parish-church, where the presentation of the corpse was indispensable, the rector performing the office of magistrate in regard to the delivery of the certificate of presentation, the corpse was carried into a particular church to be buried. this was become uncommon before the revolution, as to do this it was necessary to possess a vault, or pay extremely dear, it being prohibited by law, except in such cases, to bury the dead in churches. when the deceased belonged to a society or corporation, they sent a deputation to attend him to the grave, or followed in a body, if he was their chief. at the funeral of a prince of the blood, all his household, civil and military, marched in the procession. the _corbillard_, or sort of hearse, in which his highness was carried to _st. denis_, was almost as large as the moveable theatre which mr. flockton transports from fair to fair in england. calculated in appearance for carrying the body of a giant, it was decorated with escutcheons, and drawn by eight horses, also caparisoned to correspond with the hearse. these, however, were but the trappings of woe. while this funereal car moved slowly forward amidst a concourse of mourners, its three-fold hangings concealed from the eye of the observer the journeymen coach and harness makers, drinking, and playing at dice on the lid of his highness's coffin, by way of dispelling the _ennui_ of the journey. these careless fellows were placed there to be at hand to repair any accident that might happen on the road; so, while, on the outside of the hearse, all wore the appearance of sadness; within, all was mirth; no bad image of the reverse of grandeur and the emptiness of human ostentation. such were the ceremonies observed in funerals before the revolution. passing over the interval, from its commencement in to the end of the year , i shall describe those practised at the present day. it now depends on the relations to have the corpse presented at the parish-church; but there are many persons who dispense with this ceremony. the priests receive the corpse at the door of the church. it is carried thither in a _corbillard_. each municipality has its own, and there are twelve municipalities in paris. some of them have adopted the egyptian style; some, the greek; and others, the roman, for the fashion of their _corbillard_, according to the taste of the municipality who ordered its construction. it is drawn by two horses abreast, caparisoned somewhat like those of our hearses. the coachman and the four bearers are clothed in iron gray or black. an officer of the police, also clothed in black, and holding a cane with an ivory head, walks before the _corbillard_ or hearse. each corpse has its particular coffin furnished by the municipality. arrangements have been so made that the rich are made to pay for the poor. the coffin is covered with a black cloth, without a cross, for fear of scaring philosophers and protestants. the relations follow on foot, or in carriages, even in town. few of them are in mourning, and still fewer wear a cloak. at the _sainte chapelle_, near the _palais de justice_, is a private establishment where, mourning is let out for hire. here are to be had _corbillards_ on a more elegant plan. these are carriages hung on springs, and bearing much resemblance to our most fashionable sociables with a standing awning; so much so, that the first of them i saw i mistook for a _mourning_ sociable. some are ornamented with black feathers. caparisons, hangings, every thing is in black, as well as the coachman. this speculator also lets out mourning coaches, black without and within, like those in use in london. at a few funerals, these are hired for the mourners, and at a recent one, fifteen of these carriages were counted in the procession. however, this luxury of burials is not entirely come again into fashion. in the inside of the church, every thing passes as formerly. i shall now proceed from the _grave_ to the _gay_, and conclude this letter with a concise observation on marriages. the _civil_ act of marriage is entered into at the office of the municipality. but this civil act must not be coufounded with the contract, drawn up by the notary, and containing the stipulations, clauses, and conditions. the former signifies merely that such a man and such a woman take each other for man and wife. there are few, if any, persons married, who, from the municipality, do not repair to the parish-church, or go thither the next morning; the civil act being considered by individuals only as the ceremony of the betrothing, and till the priest has given the nuptial benediction, the relations take care that the intended bride and bridegroom shall have no opportunity of anticipating the duties of marriage. political opinions, therefore, prevent but few persons from going to church. mass is said in a low voice, during which the priest, or the rector, receives the promise of the wedded pair. with little exception, the ceremony is the same for all. those who pay well are married at the high altar; the rector addresses to them a speech in which he exhorts them to live happily together; the beadles perform their duty; and the organist strikes up a voluntary. in regard to marriages, the present and former times presenting no other contrast, i have nothing more to add on the subject. letter lxiii. _paris, february , ._ the mode of life of the persons with whom i chiefly associate here, precludes me from reading as much as i could wish, either for instruction or amusement. this, you will say, i ought not to regret; for a traveller visits foreign countries to study mankind, not books. unquestionably, the men who, like splendid folios in a library, make at present the most conspicuous figure in this metropolis, are worth studying; and, could we lay them open to our inspection, as we do books of a common description, it would be extremely entertaining to turn them over every morning, till we had them, in a manner, by heart. but i rather apprehend that they partake, more or less, of the qualities of a book just come out of the hands of the binder, which it is difficult to open. let us therefore content ourselves with viewing them as we would volumes of a superbly-bound edition, not to be examined by the general observer, and direct our eyes to such objects as are fully exposed to investigation. in paris, there are several public libraries, the greater part of them open every day; but that which eclipses all the others, is the bibliothÈque nationale. charles v, justly surnamed the _wise_, from the encouragement he gave to learning, may be considered as the first founder of this library. according to the president henault, that king had collected nine hundred volumes; whereas king john, his father, possessed not twenty. this collection was placed in a tower of the _louvre_, called _la tour de la librairie_, which was lighted up every night, in order that the learned might pursue their studies there at all hours. after the death of charles vi, in , the inventory amounted to no more than one hundred and twenty volumes, though several works had been added, because on the other hand, a great number had been lost. when paris fell into the power of the english, in , the duke of bedford, then regent of france, purchased these books, for which he paid livres, and the library was entirely dispersed. charles vii, being continually engaged in war, could not concern himself in its re-estahlishment. lewis xi collected the remains scattered in different royal residences, and availed himself of the resources afforded by the invention of printing, which was discovered at strasburg or mentz in . printers, however, were not established in paris till , and in that same year, they dedicated to lewis xi one of the first books which they printed. books were, at this time, very scarce and dear, and continued so for several years, both before and after the discovery of that invention. twenty thousand persons then subsisted in france by the sale of the books which they transcribed. this was the reason why printing was not at first more encouraged. charles viii added to this literary establishment such works as he was able to obtain in his conquest of naples. lewis xii increased it by the library of potrarch. francis i enriched it with greek manuscripts; but what most contributed to augment the collection was the ordinance of henry ii, issued in , which enjoined booksellers to furnish the royal libraries with a copy on vellum of all the works printed by privilege; and, under the subsequent reigns, it gradually acquired that richness and abundance which, before the revolution, had caused it to be considered as one of the first libraries in europe. in , the _bibliothèque du roi_, as it was till then called, was reckoned to contain one hundred and eighty thousand printed volumes, eighty thousand manuscripts, a prodigious numbcr of medals, antiques, and engraved stones, six thousand port-folios of prints, and two thousand engraved plates. but, under its present denomination of _bibliothèque nationale_, it has been considerably augmented. agreeably to your desire, i shall point out whatever is most remarkable in these augmentations. the buildings, which, since the year , contain this vast collection, formally made part of the _hôtel mazarin_. the entrance is by the _rue de la loi_. it is at present divided into four departments, and is managed by a conservatory, composed of eight members, namely: . two conservators for the printed books, m. m. capperonnier and van-praet. . three for the manuscripts, m. m. langlÈs, laporte dutheil, and dacier. . two for the antiques, medals, and engraved stones, m. m. millin and gosselin. . one for the prints and engraved plates, m. joly. the first department, containing the printed books, occupies, on the first floor of the three sides of the court, an extent of about nine hundred feet by twenty-four in breadth. the rooms, which receive light on one side only, are equal in height. in the second room to the right is the _parnasse français_, a little mountain, in bronze, covered with figures a foot high, and with medals, representing french poets. lewis xiv here occupies a distinguished place under the figure of apollo. it was a present made by titon du tillet. in another of these rooms, built on purpose, are a pair of globes of an extraordinary size, constructed, in , by father coronelli, a jesuit, for cardinal d'estrÉes, who presented them to lewis xiv. the feet of these globes rest in a lower apartment; while their hemispheres project by two apertures made in the floor of fhe first story, and are thus placed within reach of the observer. their diameter is eleven feet, eleven inches. the celebrated butterfield made for them two brass circles, (the one for the meridian, the other for the horizon), each eighteen feet in diameter. since the year , the department of printed books has received an augmentation of one hundred and forty thousand volumes, either arising from private acquisitions, or collected in france, italy, holland, germany, or belgium. among these is a valuable series of works, some more scarce than others, executed in the xvth century, which has rendered this department one of the most complete in europe. i shall abstain from entering into a detail of the articles assembled in it, several of which deserve particular notice. a great many ancient specimens of the typographical art are on vellum, and give to this collection a value which it would be no easy matter to appreciate. all the classes of it present a great number, the enumeration of which would far exceed my limits. the department of manuscripts, which is placed in a gallery one hundred and forty feet in length, by twenty-two in breadth, has been increased in proportion to that of the printed books. the library of versailles, that of several emigrants, the chapters of various cathedrals, the sorbonne, the _collège de navarre_ in paris, and the different suppressed religious corporations, have enriched it with upwards of twenty thousand volumes; eight thousand of these belonged to the library of _st. germain-des-prês_, which was burnt in - , and was immensely rich in manuscripts and old printed hooks. about fifteen hundred volumes have been taken from italy, holland, and germany. among those arrived from italy, we must distinguish the original manuscript of ruffin, a priest of aquilea, who lived in the ivth century, containing, on papyrus or egyptian paper, the latin tranlation of the jewish antiquities of flavius josephus; the grammar of probus or palÆmon, a manuscript of the vth century, on vellum, in uncial characters; a very beautiful volume in syriac, containing the four evangelists, a manuscript on vellum of the vith century; the two celebrated manuscripts of virgil of the viith century, the one from the vatican, the other from florence, both on vellum. a roll, in good preservation, composed of several skins, sewed together, containing the pentateuch in hebrew, a manuscript of the ixth century. a terence, with figures of the time and a representation of the masks introduced on the stage by the ancients, together with the various poetical works of prudentius; manuscripts on vellum of the ixth century. the terence is that of the vatican, in praise of which madame dacier speaks in her translation. the manuscripts of the ancient dukes of burgundy, which had so long constituted the ornament of the library of brussels, now increase the fame of those which the _bibliothèque nationale_ already possessed of this description. their number is about five hundred volumes; the greater part of them are remarkable for the beauty and richness of the miniatures by which they are embellished, and one scarcely inferior in magnificence to the primer of anne de bretagne, wife of lewis xii, to that of cardinal richelieu, to the primer and battles of lewis xiv, and to a heap of other manuscripts which rendered this _ci-devant bibliothèque du roi_ so celebrated in foreign countries. five large apartments on the second floor are occupied by titles and genealogies, which are still preserved here, in about five thousand portfolios or boxes, for the purpose of verifying the claims to property, and assisting the historian in his researches. the department of medals, antiques and engraved stones has, since , also experienced an abundant augmentation. the medals are in a cabinet at the end of the library; the antiques are in another, above it, on the second floor. in , the engraved stones which had been previously locked up in the drawers of the council-chamber at versailles, were conveyed hither, to the number of eight hundred. it would be too tedious to dwell on the beauty, merit, and scarceness of these stones, as well as on their finished workmanship and degree of antiquity. among them, the beautiful ring, called the _seal of michael angelo_, claims admiration. in , some antiquities which constituted part of the treasure of _st. denis_, were brought hither from that abbey. among these valuable articles, we must particularly distinguish the chalice of the abbot suger; a vase of sardonyx, with two handles formed of raised snakes, on which are represented, with admirable art, ceremonies relating to the worship of bacchus; a large gold cup, ornamented with enamel of various colours; a very large urn of porphyry, which formerly served as a sepulchral monument; several baptismal fonts; the arm-chair of king dagobert, a piece of very extraordinary workmanship for the time in which it was executed. among the valuable articles removed hither from _la sainte chapelle_ in paris, in the same year, are to be particularly remarked a sardonyx, representing the apotheosis of augustus, and commonly called _l'agathe de la sainte chapelle_. this stone is the largest and rarest known of that species. it was brought to france in the year by king charles v. at the end of the cabinet of medals of _st. geneviève_, forming in the whole seventeen thousand articles, and its fine collection of antique monuments, increased the new riches accumulated in the _bibliothèque nationale_. in , a beautiful series of antiquities, consisting of a great number of imperial medals, of nations, cities, and kings, of all sizes, in gold, silver, and bronze, together with little painted figures, busts, instruments of sacrifices, &c. arrived here from holland. in , the department of medals was also enriched by several articles from the _garde-meuble_ or jewel-office. among them were some suits of armour belonging to several of the kings of france, particularly that of francis i, that of henry iv, and that of lewis xiv. these were accompanied by a quantity of arms, helmets, shields, breast-plates, and weapons used in the ancient tournaments, as well as quivers, bows, arrows, swords, &c. towards the end of the year and in , several valuable articles arrived here from italy, among which are two crowns of gold, enriched with precious stones, worn by the ancient kings of lombardy, at the time of their coronation; the engraved stones and medals of the pope's cabinet; a head of jupiter Ægiochus, on a ground of sardonyx, a master-piece of art, which is above all eulogium; the celebrated isiac table, in copper incrustated with silver, a valuable table of egyptian mythology, which is presumed to have been executed, either at alexandria or at rome, in the first or second century of the christian era; some oriental weapons; a _fetfa_ or diploma of the grand signior contained in a silk purse, &c. the department of prints and engraved plates, formed of the celebrated cabinets of maholles, beringhen, gaigniÈres, uxelles, begon, gaylus, fontette, mariette, &c. contained, before the revolution the most ample, rich, and valuable collection in europe. it is placed in the _entresol_, and is divided into twelve classes. the first class comprehends sculptors, architectural engineers, and engravers, from the origin of the french nation to the present day, arranged in schools. the second, prints, emblems, and devices of piety. the third, every thing relative to fables and greek and roman antiquities. the fourth, medals, coins, and heraldry. the fifth, public festivals, cavalcades, and tournaments. the sixth, arts and mathematics. the seventh, prints relating to novels and books of entertainment. the eighth, natural history in all its branches. the ninth, geography. the tenth, plans and elevations of ancient and modern buildings. the eleventh, portraits of all professions, to the number of upwards of fifty thousand. the twelfth, a collection of the fashions and dresses of almost every country in the world. since , the augmentations made to it are considerable. among these must be distinguished four hundred and thirty-five volumes brought from the library of versailles, and fifty-two others, infinitely valuable, respecting china, found at the residence of m. bertin, minister, about eight thousand prints brought from holland, the greater part of them, very fine impressions; and about twelve thousand collected by different emigrants, almost all modern, indeed, but one half of which are select, and remarkable for their fine preservation. among five hundred volumes, obtained from the suppressed religious corporations, are to be remarked one hundred and nine port-folios from the abbey of _st. victor_, in paris, containing a beautiful series of mythological, historical, and typographical subjects. this forms a valuable addition to the collection of the same kind of which the department of prints was already in possession. in one hundred and forty-four volumes brought from cologne, there are several scarce and singular engravings. as for sixty articles sent from italy, they are, with the exception of the _museum pio-clementinum_, in such a state of degradation that they are scarcely fit for any thing but to mark the place which each composition has to occupy. since , the department of prints has made several acquisitions deserving of notice, such as the works of lebas, marcenay, and rode, all extremely difficult to find complete, and three hundred and seventeen plates sent from germany by fhauenhotz; most of them executed by foreign engravers, and some are very capital. a few well-known distinguished artists and amateurs, among whom i must not omit to name denon, st. aubin, and lamotte, a merchant at havre, have generously enriched the department of prints with a great number of very valuable ones. the library is open every day, sundays, and days of national fêtes excepted, from ten o'clock till two, to persons who wish to read, study, or take notes; and for whom every accommodation is provided; but to such as are attracted by curiosity alone, on the wednesdays and fridays of each week, at the same hours. on those days, you may perambulate in the different rooms of this magnificent establishment; on the other days, walking is here prohibited, in order that students may not be interrupted. however, john bull seems to pay little regard to this prohibition. englishmen are frequently seen stalking about the rooms at the forbidden time, as if they meant to shew that they disdained the rules of propriety and decorum.[ ] under the government which succeeded the monarchy, was established, within the precincts of the _bibliothèque nationale_, a school for oriental living languages. the design of this school, _which is of acknowledged utility in politics and commerce_, is to qualify persons to supply the place of the french droguemans in the east, who, at the beginning of the troubles which distracted france, abandoned the interests of their country, and deserted their stations. langlÈs, president of this school, here teaches the persian and malay languages. silvestre de sacy, literal and vulgar arabic. jaubert, turkish and the tartarian of the crimea. danse de villoison, modern greek. in general, very few pupils are instructed here, and the greater part of those who begin the courses of lectures, do not follow them three months. this fact i gathered from the professors themselves. when franÇois de neufchÂteau was minister, he had attached to this school an armenian, named cireied, who gave lessons in his native language, which are now discontinued. a course of archæology is also delivered here by the learned millin. the object of this course is to explain antique monuments, and compare them with passages of the classics. the professor indicates respecting each monument the opinions of the different learned men who have spoken of it: he also discusses those opinions, and endeavours to establish that which deserves to be adopted. every year he treats on different subjects. the courses which he has already delivered, related to the study of medals, and that of engraved stones; the explanation of the ancient monuments still existing in spain, france, and england; the history of ancient and modern egypt; sacred and heroic mythology, under which head he introduced an explanation of almost every monument of literature and art deserving to be known. [footnote : it is the intention of the government to remove the _bibliothèque nationale_ to the _louvre_, or _palais national des sciences & des arts_, as soon as apartments can be prepared for its reception.] letter lxiv. _paris, february , ._ having complied with your desire in regard to the _bibliothèque nationale_, i shall confine myself to a hasty sketch of the other principal public libraries, beginning with the bibliothÈque mazarine. by his will, dated the th of march , cardinal mazarin bequeathed this library for the convenience of the literati. it was formed by gabriel naudÉ of every thing that could be found most rare and curious, as well in france as in foreign countries. it occupies one of the pavilions and other apartments of the _ci-devant collège mazarin ou des quatre nations_, at present called _palais des beaux arts_. no valuable additions have been made to this library since the revolution; but it is kept in excellent order. the conservators, le blond, coquille, and palissot, whose complaisance is never tired, are well known in the republic of letters. it is open to the public every day, from ten o'clock to two, sundays, thursdays, and the days of national fêtes excepted. bibliothÈque du panthÉon. next to the _bibliothèque nationale_, this library is said to contain the most printed books and manuscripts, which are valuable on account of their antiquity, scarceness, and preservation. it formerly bore the title of _bibliothèque de st. geneviève_, and belonged to the canons of that order, who had enriched it in a particular manner. the acquisitions it has made since the revolution are not sufficiently important to deserve to be mentioned. with the exception of the _bibliothèque nationale_, not one of the public libraries in paris has enjoyed the advantage of making improvements and additions. the library of the _pantheon_ is open to the public on the same days as the _bibliothèque mazarine_. the present conservators are daunou, ventenat, and viallon. the first two are members of the national institute. bibliothÈque de l'arsenal. this library, one of the richest in paris, formerly belonged to the count d'artois. it is destined for the _conservative senate_, in whose palace a place is preparing for its reception. however, it is thought that this removal cannot take place in less than a year and a half or two years. it has acquired little since the revolution, and is frequented less than the other libraries, because it is rather remote from the fashionable quarters of the town. there are few inquisitive persons in the vicinity of the arsenal; and indeed, this library is open only on wednesdays, thursdays, and fridays of every week from ten o'clock till two. ameilhon, of the institute, is administrator; and saugrain, conservator. before i quit this library, you will, doubtless expect me to say something of the place from which it derives its appellation; namely, the arsenal. it is a pile of building, forming several courts between the _quai des célestins_ and the _place de la liberté_, formerly the _place de la bastille_. charles v had here erected some storehouses for artillery, which were lent very unwillingly by the provost of paris to francis i, who wanted them for the purpose of casting cannon. as was foreseen, the king kept possession of them, and converted them into a royal residence. on the th of january , lightning fell on one of the towers, then used as a magazine, and set fire to fifteen or twenty thousand barrels of powder. several lives were lost, and another effect of this explosion was that it killed all the fishes in the river. charles ix, henry iii, and henry iv rebuilt the arsenal, and augmented it considerably. before the revolution, the founderies served for casting bronze figures for the embellishment of the royal gardens. the arsenal then contained only a few rusty muskets and some mortars unfit for service, notwithstanding the energetic inscription which decorated the gate on the _quai des célestins_: "Ætnæ hæc henrico vulcania tela ministrat, tela gigantæos debellatura furores." nicolas bourbon was the author of these harmonious lines, which so much excited the jealousy of the famous poet, santeuil, that he exclaimed in his enthusiasm, "i would have wished to have made them, and been hanged." during the course of the revolution, the buildings of the arsenal have been appropriated to various purposes: at present even they seem to have no fixed destination. here is a garden, advantageously situated, which affords to the inhabitants of this quarter an agreeable promenade. the before-mentioned libraries are the most considerable in paris; but the _national institute_, the _conservative senate_, the _legislative body_, and the _tribunate_, have each their respective library, as well as the _polytechnic school_, the _council of the school of mines_, the _tribunal of cassation_, the _conservatory of music_, the _museum of natural history_, &c. independently of these libraries, here are also three literary _dépôts_ or repositories, which were destined to supply the public libraries already formed or to be formed, particularly those appropriated to public instruction. when the constituent assembly decreed the possessions of the clergy to be national property, the _committee of alienation_ fixed on the monasteries of the _capucins_, _grands jésuites_, and _cordeliers_, in paris, as _dépôts_, for the books and manuscripts, which they were desirous to save from revolutionary destruction. letter lxv. _paris, february , ._ _vive la danse!_ _vive la danse!_ seems now to prevail here universally over _"vive l'amour!_ _vive la bagatelle!_" which was the rage in the time of la fleur. i have already informed you that, in moments the most eventful, the inhabitants of this capital spent the greater part of their time in dancing. however extraordinary the fact may appear, it is no less true. when the prussians were at châlons, the austrians at valenciennes, and robespierre in the convention, they danced. when the young conscripts were in momentary expectation of quitting their parents, their friends, and their mistresses to join the armies, they danced. can we then wonder that, at the present hour, when the din of arms is no longer heard, and the toils of war are on the point of being succeeded by the mercantile speculations of peace, dancing should still be the favourite pursuit of the parisians? this is so much the case, that the walls of the metropolis are constantly covered by advertisements in various colours, blue, red, green, and yellow, announcing balls of different descriptions. the silence of streets the least frequented is interrupted by the shrill scraping of the itinerant fiddler; while by-corners, which might vie with erebus itself in darkness, are lighted by transparencies, exhibiting, in large characters, the words "_bal de société_." --"happy people!" says sterne, "who can lay down all your cares together, and dance and sing and sport away the weights of grievance, which bow down the spirit of other nations to the earth!" in summer, people dance here in rural gardens, or delightful bowers, or under marquees, or in temporary buildings, representing picturesque cottages, constructed within the limits of the capital: these establishments, which are rather of recent date, are open only in that gay season. in winter, the upper classes assemble in magnificent apartments, where subscription-balls are given; and taste and luxury conspire to produce elegant entertainments. however, it is not to the upper circles alone that this amusement is confined; it is here pursued, and with truer ardour too, by citizens of every class and description. an englishman might probably be at a loss to conceive this truth; i shall therefore enumerate the different gradations of the scale from the report of an impartial eye-witness, partly corroborated by my own observation. tradesmen dance with their neighbours, at the residence of those who have the best apartments: and the expense of catgut, rosin, &c. is paid by the profits of the card-table. young clerks in office and others, go to public balls, where the _cavalier_ pays thirty _sous_ for admission; thither they escort milliners and mantua-makers of the elegant class, and, in general, the first-rate order of those engaging belles, known here by the generic name of _grisettes_. jewellers' apprentices, ladies' hair-dressers, journeymen tailors and upholsterers dance, at twenty _sous_ a head, with sempstresses and ladies' maids. journeymen shoemakers, cabinet-makers, and workmen of other trades, not very laborious, assemble in _guingettes_, where they dance french country-dances at three _sous_ a ticket, with _grisettes_ of an inferior order. locksmiths, carpenters, and joiners dance at two _sous_ a ticket, with women who constantly frequent the _guinguettes_, a species of dancing-girls, whom the tavern-keepers hire for the day, as they do the fiddlers. water-carriers, porters, and, in general, the swiss and auvergnats have their private balls, where they execute the dances peculiar to their country, with fruit-girls, stocking-menders, &c. the porters of the corn-market form assemblies in their own neighbourhood; but the youngest only go thither, with a few _bons vivans_, whose profession it would be no easy matter to determine. bucksome damsels, proof against every thing, keep them in countenance, either in drinking brandy or in fighting, and not unfrequently at the same _bal de société_, all this goes on at the same time, and, as it were, in unison. those among the porters of the corn-market and charcoal carriers, who have a little _manners_, assemble on holidays, in public-houses of a more decent description, with good, plain-spoken market-women, and nosegay-girls. they drink unmixed liquor, and the conversation is somewhat more than _free_; but, in public, they get tipsy, and nothing farther! masons, paviours in wooden shoes, tipped with iron, and other hard-working men, in short, repair to _guingettes_, and make the very earth tremble with their heavy, but picturesque capers, forming groups worthy of the pencil of teniers. lastly, one more link completes the chain of this nomenclature of caperers. beggars, sturdy, or decrepit, dance, as well as their credulous betters: they not only dance, but drink to excess; and their orgies are more noisy, more prolonged, and even more expensive. the mendicant, who was apparently lame in the day, at night lays aside his crutch, and resumes his natural activity; the idle vagabond, who concealed one arm, now produces both; while the wretch whose wound excited both horror and pity, covers for a tune the large blister by which he makes a very comfortable living. letter lxvi. _paris, february , ._ in order to confer handsome pensions on the men of science who had benefited mankind by their labours, and who, under the old _régime_, were poorly rewarded, in , lakanal solicited and obtained the establishment of the bureau des longitudes. as members of this board of longitude, the first institution of the kind in france, lagrange, laplace, lalande, cassini,[ ] mÉchain, borda,[ ] bougainville, fleurieu, messier, buache, and carrochÉ, the optician, had each , francs (_circa_ £. sterling) a year, and the assistant astronomers, , . indeed, the professors of that science were in want of pecuniary assistance for the purpose of forming pupils. the _bureau des longitudes_ is on a more extensive scale, and possesses greater authority than the board of longitude in england. it is charged with the administration of all the observatories belonging to the republic, as well as with the correspondence with the astronomers of foreign countries. the government refers to it the examination of memoirs relative to navigation. such of its members as more specially cultivate practical astronomy in the national observatories of the capital, are charged to make all observations which may contribute to the progress of that science, and procure new means for rectifying the tables of the sun, as well as those which make known the position of the stars, and particularly the tables of the moon, the improvement of which so essentially concerns the safety of navigation. the great importance of the last-mentioned tables induced this board, about three years ago, to propose a premium of , francs (_circa_ £. sterling) for tables of the moon. lalande recommended to bonaparte to double it. the first consul took his advice: and the french now have tables that greatly surpass those which are used in england.[ ] a copy of these have, i understand, been sent to mr. maskelyne, our astronomer-royal at greenwich. the board of longitude of france, like that of england, calculates for every year tables or _ephemerides_, known in europe under the title of _connaissance des tems_. the french having at length procured able calculators, are now able to dispense with the english _ephemeris_. their observations follow each other in such a manner as to render it unnecessary for them to recur to those of greenwich, of which they have hitherto made continual use. since the year , the _connaissance des tems_ has been compiled by jÉrome lalande. at the end of the tables and their explanation, it contains a collection of observations, memoirs, and important calculations. the french astronomers are not a little surprised that we publish no similar work in london; while paris, berlin, vienna, gotha, and milan set us the example. it is in the last volumes of the _connaissance des tems_ that jÉrome lalande gives the history of astronomy, where you will find every thing that has been done in this science. the _bureau des longitudes_ also publishes for every year, in advance, the _annuaire de la république_, which serves as a rule for all the almanacks compiled in france. the meetings of the board are held at the national observatory. this edifice, which is situated at the farther end of the _faubourg st. jacques_, was constructed in , by order of colbert, and under the direction of perrault, the medical architect, who planned the celebrated façade of the _louvre_. the form of the building is rectangular. neither wood nor iron have been employed in its construction. it is arched throughout, and its four sides stand exactly in the direction of the four cardinal points of the horizon. although its elevation is eighty-five feet, it comprises but two stories, terminated by a flat roof, whence you command a fine view of paris. you ascend thither by a winding staircase which has a hollow newel. this staircase, consisting of three hundred and sixty steps, extends downward to a similar depth of eighty-five feet, and forms a sort of well, at the bottom of which you can perceive the light. from this well have been observed the different degrees of acceleration in the descent of bodies. the subterraneous vaults have served for meteorological experiments. in one of them water is seen to petrify on filtering through the rock above. they lead to near fifty streets or passages, formed by quarries excavated in procuring the stones with which great part of the city of paris is constructed. previously to the year , churches, palaces, whole streets of houses, and the public highway of several quarters of paris and its environs, were on the point of being swallowed up in gulfs no less vast in depth than in extent. since then, considerable works have been undertaken to consolidate these subterraneous caverns, and fill up the void, equally dangerous, occasioned by the working of the plaster-quarries. an accident of a very alarming nature, which happened in the _rue d'enfer_ in the year ; and another, at montmenil, in , shewed the necessity of expediting these operations, which were followed up with great activity from to , when their progress was relaxed from the circumstances of the times. these quarries are far more extensive than is commonly imagined. in the department of the seine alone, they extend under all the south part of paris, and the roads, plains, and _communes_, to the distance of several leagues round the circumference of this city. their roof, with the edifices standing on the soil that covers it, is either supported by walls recently built under the foundation of those edifices, or by pillars constructed at different periods in several places. the government is at the expense of providing for the safety of the streets, highways, and public buildings, but that of propping under-ground all private habitations must be defrayed by the proprietor. these ancient quarries had been much neglected, and the means of visiting them was equally dangerous and inconvenient. at present, every precaution is taken to insure the safety of the persons employed in them, as well as the stability of their roof; and for the better superintendance of all the subterraneous constructions of paris, galleries of communication have been formed of sufficient width to admit the free passage of materials necessary for keeping them in repair. let us now find our way out of these labyrinths, and reascending to the surface of the soil, pursue our examination of the observatory. in a large room on the first floor is traced the meridian line, which divides this building into two parts. thence, being extended to the south and north, it crosses france from colieure to dunkirk. on the pavement of one of the rooms is engraved a universal circular map, by chazelles and sÉdillan. another room is called the _salle aux secrets_, because on applying the mouth to the groove of a pilaster, and whispering, a person placed at the opposite pilaster hears what is said, while those in the middle of the room, hear nothing. this phenomenon, the cause of which has been so often explained, must be common to all buildings constructed in this manner. in speaking of the _champ de mars_, i mentioned that lalande obtained the construction of an observatory at the _ci-devant École militaire_. since , he and his nephew have discovered fifty thousand stars; an immense labour, the greater part of them being telescopic and invisible to the naked eye. of this number, he has already classed thirty thousand. the cassinis had neglected the observatory in paris; but when lalande was director of this establishment, he obtained from bonaparte good instruments of every description and of the largest dimensions. these have been executed by the first artists, who, with the greatest intelligence, have put in practice all the means of improvement which we owe to the fortunate discoveries of the eighteenth century. of course, it is now as well provided as that of greenwich. mÉchain, the present director, and bouvard, his associate, are extremely assiduous in their astronomical labours. carrochÉ has made for this observatory a twenty-two feet telescope, which rivals those of herschel of the same length; and the use of reflecting circles, imagined by mayer, and brought into use by borda, which lenoir executes in a superior manner, and which we have not yet chosen to adopt in england, has introduced into the observations of the french an accuracy hitherto unknown. the meridian from dunkirk to barcelona, measured between the years and , by delamere and mÉchain, is of an astonishing exactness. it has brought to light the irregularity of the degrees, which was not suspected. the rules, composed of platina and copper, which lavoisier and borda imagined for measuring bases, without having occasion to calculate the effect of dilatation, are a singular invention, and greatly surpass what ramsden made for the bases measured in england. laplace has discovered in the moon inequalities with which we were not acquainted. the work he has published, under the title of _mécanique céleste_, contains the most astonishing discoveries of physical theory, the great inequality of jupiter and saturn, the acceleration of the moon, the equation of the third satellite of jupiter, and the flux and reflux of the sea. burckhardt, one of the associated members of the _bureau des longitudes_, is a first-rate astronomer and a man of superior talent. he is at present employed on the difficult task of calculating the very considerable derangements of the planet discovered by olbers at bremen, on the th of march . vidal has made, at mirepoix, more observations of mercury than all the astronomers for two thousand years past, and these are the most difficult and uncommon. delambre has computed tables of the sun, of jupiter, of saturn, and of herschel; lalande, the nephew, has composed tables of mars; and his uncle, of mercury, which never deviate more than a few seconds from the observations. even during the reign of terror, astronomy was not neglected. through the interest of carnot, calon, lakanal, and fourcroy, the _bureau de consultation des arts_ gave annually the sum of , francs (_circa_ £ , sterling) in gratifications to artists. afterwards, in , the national institute, richly endowed, proposed considerable premiums. lalande, the uncle, founded one for astronomy; bonaparte, another for physics; and the first consul has promised , francs (_circa_ £ , sterling) to any one who shall make a discovery of importance. france can now boast of two young geometricians, biot and puisson, who, for analytical genius, surpass all that exist in europe. it is rather extraordinary that, with the exception of mr. cavendish and dr. waring, england has produced no great geometricians since the death of maclaurin, sterling, and simpson. the french tables of logarithms, printed stereotypically, are cleared of all the errors which afflicted calculators of every country. those of other nations will owe this obligation to frenchmen. herschel no longer looks for comets; but the french astronomers, messier, mÉchain, bouvard, and pons find some. last year, jÉrome lalande deposited francs in the hands of his notary, as a premium to stimulate the efforts of young observers. * * * * * _february , in continuation._ in the spring of , mÉchain will leave paris for the purpose of extending his meridian to the balearic islands. he will measure the length of the pendulum in several places, in order to ascertain the inequality of the earth which the measure of the degrees had indicated. this circumstance reminds me of my neglect in not having yet satisfied your desire to have a short account of the means employed for fixing the standard of the new french weights and measures. among the great ideas realized during the first period of the revolution, must be reckoned that of a uniform system of weights and measures. from all parts of france remonstrances were sent against the great variety of those in use. several kings had endeavoured to remedy this evil, which was so hurtful to lawful trade, and favourable only to fraud and double-dealing. yet what even _they_ had not been able to effect, was undertaken by the constituent assembly. it declared that there ought to be but one standard of weights and measures, in a country subject to the same laws. the _academy of sciences_ was charged to seek and present the best mode of carrying this decree into execution. that society proposed the adoption of the decimal division, by taking for a fundamental unit the ten-millionth part of the quarter of the terrestrial meridian. the motives which determined this choice were the extreme simplicity of decimal calculation, and the advantage of having a measure taken from nature. the latter condition would, in truth, have been accomplished, had there been taken, as a fundamental unit, the length of the pendulum marking seconds for a given latitude; but the measure of an arc of the meridian, executed with the precision to be obtained by the methods and instruments of the present day, was extremely interesting in regard to the theory of the figure of the earth. this influenced the decision of the academy, and if the motives which it presented to the constituent assembly were not exactly the real ones, it is because the sciences have also their policy: it sometimes happens that to serve mankind, one must resolve to deceive them. all the measures of the metrical system, adopted by the republic, are deduced from a base taken from nature, the fourth part of the terrestrial meridian; and the divisions of those measures are all subjected to the decimal order employed in arithmetic. in order to establish this base, the grand and important work of taking a new measure of the terrestrial meridian, from dunkirk to barcelona, was begun in . at the expiration of seven years, it was terminated; and the institute presented the result to the legislative body with the original table of the new measures. mÉchain and delambre measured the angles of ninety triangles with the new reflecting circles; imagined by mayer, and which borda had caused to be constructed. with these instruments, they made four observations of latitude at dunkirk, paris, Évaux, carcassonne, and barcelona; two bases measured near melun and perpignan, with rules of platina and copper, forming metallic thermometers, were connected with the triangles of the meridian line: the total interval, which was °. , was found to be . toises. as the degrees progressively diminished towards the south, but much more towards the middle than towards the extremities, the middle of the whole arc was taken; and, on comparing it with the degrees measured at peru, between the years and , the ellipticity of the earth was concluded to be / the mean degree, toises; and the mÈtre, which is the ten-millionth part of the quarter of the meridian, . lines of the old french toise which had been used at peru. the commissioners, sent from foreign countries, verified all the calculations, and sanctioned the results. the experiments of the pendulum made at the observatory, with extreme care, by borda, mÉchain, and cassini, with a new apparatus, constructed by lenoir, shewed the pendulum to be . of the _mètre_, on reducing it to the freezing point, and in _vacuo_: this would be sufficient for finding again the _mètre_, though all the standards were changed or lost. exact experiments, made by lefÈvre-gineau, with instruments constructed by fortin, shewed the weight of the cubic decimetre of distilled water, at the point of the greatest condensation to be . grains of the pile of marcs, which is preserved here in the _hôtel de la monnaie_, and is called _le poids de charlemagne_; the toise being supposed at degrees of the thermometer of degrees. the scales of fortin might give a millionth part and more; and lefÈvre-gineau employed in all these experiments and calculations the most scrupulous degree of exactness. thus the mÈtre or principal unit of the french linear measures has furnished those of the weights; and all this grand system, taken from nature, is connected with the base the most invariable, the size of the earth itself. the unit of the measures of capacity is a cube whose side is the tenth part of the _mètre_, to which has been given the name of litre; the unit of measures of solidity, relative to wood, a cube whose side is the _mètre_, which is called stÈre. in short, the thousandth part of a _litre_ of distilled water, weighed in _vacuo_ and at the temperature of melting ice, has been chosen for the unit of weights, which is called gramme. the following table presents the nomenclature of these different measures, their divisions, and multiples, together with the new weights, as decreed by the legislative body, and to it is annexed their correspondence both with the old french measures and weights, and those of england. * * * * * linear measures. french english t f i l m f y ft i[a] myriamètre (or league) , mètres , . kilomètre (or mile) , mètres . - . hectomètre mètres . - - décamètre (or perch) mètres . - - . mÈtre - . - - --- . décimètre (or palm) th of a mètre - - . - - --- - . centimètre (or digit) th of a mètre - - -- . - - --- - . millimètre (or trait) , th of a mètre - - -- . - - --- - . [footnote a: french measurements in toises (t), feet (f), inches (i), and lines (l). english mesurements in miles (m), furlongs (f), yards (y), feet (ft), and inches (i).] agrarian measures. a r p[b] myriare, square kilomètre . st milare . st hectare, (or _arpent_) square hectomètre . st . décare . st --- - . are, (or square _perch_) square decamètre . st --- - . déciare . st --- - . centiare, (or th part of a square perch) square _mètre_ . st --- - . [footnote b: french measurements in square toises (st). english measurements in acres (a), roods (r) and perches (p).] measures of capacity. cubic inches kilolitre, (or hogshead) cubic mètre . cubic feet hectolitre, (or setier) . cubic feet . decalitre, (or bushel) . cubic feet . litre; (or pinte) cubic décimètre . cubic inches . décilitre, (or glass) . cubic inches . centilitre . cubic inches . millitre, cubic centimèter . cubic inches . n. b. a litre is nearly equal to - / pints, english wine measure. measures for wood. cubic feet. stère, cubical mètre . cubic feet . décistère, (or solive) . cubic feet . centistère . cubic feet . millistère, cubic décimètre . cubic feet . weights. troy lbs. oz. d. gr. lbs. oz. dw. gr.[c] myriagramme . . kilogramme, (or pound) weight of the cubic décimètre of water at ° which is the maximum of density . . hectogramme, (or ounce) -- . -- . décagramme, (or drachm) -- - . -- - . gramme, (or denier) weight of the cubic centimètreat the freezing point -- - - . -- - -- . déciegramme, (or grain) -- - - . -- - -- . centigramme -- - - . -- - -- . milligramme, weight of the cubic millemètre of water -- - - . -- - -- . [footnote c: the labels on first set of columns are lbs., oz., drms., and grains; and on the second, lbs. oz. dwts. and grains.] [footnote : since dead. the former is replaced by delambre. chabert and prony are elected supernumerary members, and lefranÇais lalande, bouvard, and burckhardt, appointed assistant astronomers.] [footnote : the prize has been awarded to m. burg, an astronomer at vienna.] letter lxvii. _paris, february , ._ after speaking of the _board of longitude_ and the _national observatory_, i must not omit to say a few words of an establishment much wanted in england. i mean the dÉpÔt de la marine. this general repository of maps, charts, plans, journals, and archives of the navy and the colonies, is under the direction of a flag-officer. it is situated in the _rue de la place vendôme_; but the archives are still kept in an office at versailles. to this _dépôt_ are attached the hydrographer and astronomer of the navy, both members of the national institute and of the board of longitude, and also a number of engineers and draughtsmen proportioned to the works which the government orders to be executed. the title of this _dépôt_ sufficiently indicates what it contains. to it has been lately added a library, composed of all the works relative to navigation, hydrography, naval architecture, and to the navy in general, as well as of all the voyages published in the different dead or living languages. the collection of maps, charts, plans, &c. belonging to it, is composed of originals in manuscript, ancient and modern, of french or foreign sea-charts, published at different times, and of maps of the possessions beyond the seas belonging to the maritime states of europe and to the united-states of america. all the commanders of vessels belonging to the state are bound, on their return to port, to address to the minister of the naval department, in order to be deposited in the archives, the journals of their voyage, and the astronomical or other observations which they have been enabled to make, and the charts and plans which they have had an opportunity of constructing. one of the apartments of the _dépôt_ contains models of ships of war and other vessels, the series of which shews the progress of naval architecture for two centuries past, and the models of the different machines employed in the ports for the various operations relative to building, equipping, repairing, and keeping in order ships and vessels of war. the _dépôt de la marine_ publishes new sea-charts in proportion as new observations or discoveries indicate the necessity of suppressing or rectifying the old ones. when the service requires it, the engineers belonging to the _dépôt_ are detached to verify parts of the coasts of the french territory in europe, or in any other part of the world, where experience has proved that time has introduced changes with which it is important to be acquainted, or to rectify the charts of other parts that had not yet been surveyed with the degree of exactness of which the methods now known and practised have rendered such works susceptible. in the french navy, commanders of ships and vessels are supplied with useful charts and atlases of every description, at the expense of the nation. these are delivered into their care previously to the ship leaving port. when a captain is superseded in his command, he transfers them to his successor; and when the ship is put out of commission, they are returned to the proper office. why does not the british government follow an example so justly deserving of imitation? letter lxviii. _paris, february , ._ after the beautiful theatre of the old _comédie française_, under its new title of _l'odéon_, became a prey to flames, as i have before mentioned, the comedians belonging it were dispersed on all sides. at length, picard assembled a part of them in a house, built at the beginning of the revolution, which, from the name of the street where it is situated, is called the thÉÂtre louvois. no colonnade, no exterior decoration announces it as a place of public amusement, and any one might pass it at noon-day without suspecting the circumstance, but for the prices of admission being painted in large characters over the apertures in the wall, where the public deposit their money. this house, which is of a circular form, is divided, into four tiers of boxes. the ornaments in front of them, not being in glaring colours, give, by their pale tint, a striking brilliancy to the dress of the women. picard, the manager of this theatre, is the moliÈre of his company; that is, he is at once author and actor, and, in both lines, indefatigable. undoubtedly, the most striking, and, some say, the only resemblance he bears to the mirror of french comedy, is to be compelled to bring on the stage pieces in so unfinished a state as to be little more than sketches, or, in other words, he is forced to write in order to subsist his company. thus then, the stock-pieces of this theatre are all of them of his own composition. the greater part are _imbroglios_ bordering on farce. the _vis comica_ to be found in them is not easily understood by foreigners, since it chiefly consists in allusions to local circumstances and sayings of the day. however, they sometimes produce laughter in a surprising degree, but more frequently make those laugh who never blush to laugh at any thing. the most lively of his pieces are _le collatéral_ and _la petite ville_. in the course of last month, he produced one under the name of _la grande ville, ou les provinciaux à paris_, which occasioned a violent uproar. the characters of this pseudo-comedy are swindlers or fools; and the spectators insisted that the portraits were either too exact a copy of the originals, or not at all like them. by means of much insolence, by means of the guard which was incautiously introduced into the pit, and which put to flight the majority of the audience, and, lastly, by means of several alterations, picard contrived to get his piece endured. but this triumph may probably be the signal of his ruin,[ ] as the favour of the parisian public, once lost, is never to be regained. this histrionic author and manager has written some pieces of a serious cast. the principal are, _médiocre et rampant_, and _l'entrée dans le monde_. as in _la grande ville_, the characters in these are also cheats or fools. consequently, it was not difficult to conduct the plot, it would have been much more so to render it interesting. these two comedies are written in verse which might almost pass for prose. the _théâtre louvois_ is open to all young authors who have the ambition to write for the stage, before they have well stored their mind with the requisites. novelties here succeed each other with astonishing rapidity. hence, whatever success picard may have met with as an author, he has not been without competitors for his laurels. out of no less than one hundred and sixty-seven pieces presented for rehearsal and read at this house, one hundred and sixty-five are said to have been refused. of the two accepted, the one, though written forty years ago, was brought out as a new piece, and damned. however, the ill success of a piece represented here is not remarked; the fall not being great. the friends of this theatre call it _la petite maison de thalie_. they take the part for the whole. it is, in fact, no more than her anti-chamber. as for the drawing-room of the goddess, it is no longer to be found any where in paris. the performers who compose picard's company do no injustice to his pieces. it is affirmed that this company has what is called, on the french stage, _de l'ensemble_. with few exceptions, there is an _ensemble_, as it is very indifferent. for such an interpretation to be correct, it would be necessary for all the comedians of the _théâtre louvois_ to have great talents, and none can be quoted. picard, though not unfrequently applauded, is but a sorry actor. his cast of parts is that of valets and comic characters. devigny performs the parts of noble fathers and foolish ones, here termed _dindons_, and grooms, called by the french _jockeis_. the remark, that he who plays every thing plays nothing, has not been unaptly applied to him. he has a defect of pronunciation which shocks even the ear of a foreigner. dorsan is naturally cold and stiff, and when he endeavours to repair the former of these defects, the weakness of his powers betrays him. if he speaks correctly, it is without _finesse_, and he never adds by expression to the thought of the author. clozel is a very handsome young man. he performs the characters of _petits-maîtres_ and those of valets, which he confounds incessantly. the other actors of the _théâtre louvois_ exempt me from naming them. as for the actresses at this theatre, those only worthy to be mentioned are, mademoiselle adeline, who has a rather pretty face, and plays not ill innocent parts; mademoiselle beffroi, who is handsome, especially in male attire; and mademoiselle moliÈre, who is a very good _soubrette_. mademoiselle lescot, tired of obtaining applause at the _théâtre du vaudeville_, wished to do the same on a larger theatre. here, she has not even the consolation of saying "_tel brille au second rang, qui s'éclipse au premier._" madame molÉ, who is enormous in bulk, is a coarse caricature, whether she performs the parts of noble mothers, or what the french call _caractères_, that is, singular characters. * * * * * the _ci-devant comédie italienne_ in paris partly owed its prosperity to the _vaudeville_, which might be considered as the parent of the _opéra-comique_. they were united, when the _drame_ being introduced with songs, had like to have annihilated them both. the _vaudeville_ was sacrificed and banished. several years elapsed before it reappeared. this offspring of french gaiety was thought to be lost for ever; but a few authors had prepared for it an asylum under the name of thÉÂtre du vaudeville. this little theatre is situated in the _rue de chartres_, which faces the principal entrance of the _palais du tribunat_. the interior is of a circular form, and divided into four tiers of boxes. in general, the decorations are not of the first class, but in the dresses the strictest propriety is observed. the pieces performed at the _vaudeville_ are little comedies of the sentimental cast, a very extensive collection of portraits of french authors and of a few foreigners,[ ] some pastoral pieces, parodies closely bordering on the last new piece represented at one of the principal theatres, charming _harlequinades_, together with a few pieces, in some of which parade and show are introduced; in others, scenes of low life and vulgarity; but the latter species is now almost abandoned. these pieces are almost always composed in conjunction. it is by no means uncommon to see in the play-bills the names of five or six authors to a piece, in which the public applaud, perhaps, no more than three verses of a song. this association of names, however, has the advantage of saving many of them from ridicule. the authors who chiefly devote themselves to the species of composition from which this theatre derives its name, are barrÉ, radet, and desfontaines, who may be considered as its founders. bourgeuil, deschamps, desprez, and the two sÉgurs, also contribute to the success of the _vaudeville_, together with chazet, jouy, longchamps, and some others. in the exercise of their talents, these writers suffer no striking adventure, no interesting anecdote to escape their satirical humour; but aim the shafts of ridicule at every subject likely to afford amusement. it may therefore be conceived that this house is much frequented. no people on earth can be more fickle than the french in general, and the parisians in particular, in the choice of their diversions. like children, they are soon tired of the same toy, and novelty is for them the greatest attraction. hence, the _vaudeville_, as has been seen, presents a great variety of pieces. in general, these are by no means remarkable for the just conception of their plan. the circumstance of the moment adroitly seized, and related in some well-turned stanzas, interspersed with dialogue, is sufficient to insure the success of a new piece, especially if adapted to the abilities of the respective performers. among them, henry would shine in the parts of lovers, were he less of a _mannerist_. julien may be quoted as an excellent imitator of the beaux of the day. vertprÉ excels in personating a striking character. carpentier is no bad representative of a simpleton. chapelle displays much comic talent and warmth in the character of dotards, who talk themselves out of their reason. laporte, as a speaking harlequin, has no equal in paris. so much for the men: i shall now speak of the women deserving of notice. madame henry, in the parts of lovers, is to be preferred for her fine eyes, engaging countenance, elegant shape, and clear voice. mesdemoiselles colombe and laporte, who follow her in the same line of acting, are both young, and capable of improvement. mademoiselle desmares is far from being pretty; neither is she much of an actress, but she treads the stage well, and sings not amiss. mademoiselle blosseville plays chambermaids and characters of parody with tolerable success. mademoiselle delille, however, who performs caricatures and characters where frequent disguises are assumed, is a still greater favourite with the public. so much has been said of the glibness of a female tongue that many of the comparisons made on the subject are become proverbial; but nothing that i ever heard in that way can be compared to the volubility of utterance of mademoiselle delille, except the clearness of her articulation. a quick and attentive ear may catch every syllable as distinctly as if she spoke with the utmost gravity and slowness. the piece in which she exhibits this talent to great advantage, and under a rapid succession of disguises, is called _frosine ou la dernière venue_. mademoiselle fleury makes an intelligent columbine, not unworthy of laporte. madame duchaume represents not ill characters of duennas, country-women, &c. nothing can be said of the voice of the different performers of this theatre, on which acccount, perhaps, the orchestra is rather feeble; but still it might be better composed. during my present visit to paris, the _vaudeville_, as it is commonly called, has, i think, insensibly declined. it has, however, been said that its destiny seems insured by the character of the french, and that being the first theatre to bend to the caprices of the day, it can never be out of fashion. certainly, if satire be a good foundation, it ought to be the most substantial dramatic establishment in paris. it rests on public malignity, which is its main support. hence, one might conclude that it will last as long as there is evil doing or evil saying, an absurdity to catch at, an author to parody, a tale of scandal to relate, a rogue to abuse, and, in short, as long as the chapter of accidents shall endure. at this rate, the _vaudeville_ must stand to all eternity. whatever may be its defects, it unquestionably exemplifies the character of the nation, so faithfully pourtrayed by beaumarchais, in the following lines of the _vaudeville_ which concludes the _mariage de figaro_: _"si l'on opprime, il peste, il crie, il s'agite en cent façons, tout finit par des chansons." bis._ [footnote : the _théâtre louvois_ is rapidly on the decline.] [footnote : these are pieces the hero of which is a celebrated personage, such as rabelais, scarron, voltaire, rousseau, malesherbes, frederic, king of prussia, &c. &c.] letter lxix. _paris, february , ._ after having traversed the _pont neuf_, from the north side of the seine, you cannot avoid noticing a handsome building to the right, situated on the _quai de conti_, facing the river. this is the mint, or hÔtel de la monnaie. the construction of this edifice was suggested by m. laverdy, minister of state, and executed under the direction of m. antoine, architect. i do not recollect any building of the kind in europe that can be compared to it, since it far surpasses the _zecca_ at venice. the abbé terray (whose name will not be readily forgotten by the state-annuitants of his time, and for whom voltaire, as one, said that he preserved his only tooth) when comptroller-general of the finances, laid the first stone of the _hôtél de la monnaie_, in april . an avant-corps, decorated with six ionic pillars, and supported by two wings, from the division of the façade, which is three hundred and thirty-six feet in breadth by eighty-four in elevation. it is distributed into two stories above the ground-floor. perpendicularly to the six pillars, rise six statues, representing peace, commerce, prudence, law, strength, and plenty. in this avant-corps are three arches, the centre one of which is the principal entrance of the building. the vestibule is decorated with twenty-four fluted doric pillars, and on the right hand, is a stair-case, leading to the apartments intended for the use of the officers belonging to the mint, and in which they hold their meetings. this stair-case is lighted by a dome supported by sixteen fluted pillars of the ionic order. the whole building contains six courts: the principal court is one hundred and ten feet in depth by ninety-two in breadth. all round it are covered galleries, terminated by a circular wall alternately pierced with arches and gates. the entrance of the hall for the money-presses is ornamented by four doric pillars. this hall is sixty-two feet long by about forty broad, and contains nine money-presses. above it is the hall of the sizers or persons who prepare the blank pieces for stamping. next come the flatting-mills. here, in a word, are all the apartments necessary for the different operations, and aptly arranged for the labours of coinage. in the principal apartment of the avant-corps of the _hôtel de la monnaie_, towards the _quai de conti_, is the cabinet known in paris by the name of the musÉe des mines. this cabinet or museum was formed in by m. sage, who had then spent eighteen years in collecting minerals. when he began to employ himself on that science forty-five years ago, there existed in this country no collection which could facilitate the study of mineralogy. docimacy vas scarcely known here by name. france was tributary to foreign countries thirty-seven millions of livres (_circa_ £ , , sterling) a year for the mineral and metallic substances which she drew from them, although she possesses them within herself. m. sage directed his studies and labours to the research and analysis of minerals. for twenty years he has delivered _gratis_ public courses of chymistry and mineralogy. for the advancement of those sciences, he also availed himself of the favour he enjoyed with some persons at court and in the ministry, and this was certainly making a very meritorious use of it. to his care and interest is wholly due the collection of minerals placed in this building. the apartment containing it has, by some, been thought to deviate from the simple and severe style suitable to its destination, and to resemble too much the drawing-room of a fine lady. but those who have hazarded such a reproach do not consider that, at the period when this cabinet was formed, it was not useless, in order to bring the sciences into fashion, to surround them with the show of luxury and the elegance of accessory decoration. who knows even whether that very circumstance, trifling as it may appear, has not somewhat contributed to spread a taste for the two sciences in question among the great, and in the fashionable world? however this may be, the arrangement of this cabinet is excellent, and, in that respect, it is worthy to serve as a model. the productions of nature are so disposed that the glazed closets and cases containing them present, as it were, an open book in which the curious and attentive observer instructs himself with the greater facility and expedition, as he can without effort examine and study perfectly every individual specimen. the inside of the museum is about forty-five feet in length, thirty-eight in breadth, and forty in elevation. in the middle is an amphitheatre capable of holding two hundred persons. in the circumference are glazed cabinets or closets, in which are arranged methodically and analytically almost all the substances known in mineralogy. the octagonal gallery, above the elliptical amphitheatre, contains large specimens of different minerals. to each specimen is annexed an explanatory ticket. one of the large lateral galleries presents part of the productions of the mines of france, classed according to the order of the departments where they are found. the new transversal gallery contains models of furnaces and machines employed in the working of mines. the third gallery is also destined to contain the minerals of france, the essays and results of which are deposited in a private cabinet. the galleries are decorated with tables and vases of different species of marble, porphyry, and granite, also from the mines of france, collected by sage. the cupola which rises above, is elegantly ornamented from the designs of antoine, the architect of the building. this museum is open to the public every day from nine o'clock in the morning till two, and, though it has been so many years an object of curiosity, such is the care exerted in superintending it, that it has all the freshness of novelty. in a niche, on the first landing-place of the stair-case, is the bust of m. sage, a tribute of gratitude paid to him by his pupils. sage's principal object being to naturalize in france mineralogy, docimacy, and metallurgy, he first obtained the establishment of a _special school of mines_, in which pupils were maintained by the state. here, he directed their studies, and enjoyed the happiness of forming intelligent men, capable of improving the science of metallurgy, and promoting the search of ores, &c. for a number of years past, as i have already observed, sage has delivered _gratis_, in this museum; public courses of chymistry and mineralogy. he attracts hither many auditors by the ease of his elocution, and the address, the grace even which he displays in his experiments. if all those who have attended his lectures are to be reckoned his pupils, there will be found in the number names illustrious among the _savans_ of france. unfortunately, this veteran of science has created for himself a particular system in chymistry, and this system differs from that of lavoisier, fourcroy, guyton-morveau, berthollet, chaptal, &c. the sciences have also their schisms; but the real _savans_ are not persecutors. although sage was not of their opinion on many essential points, his adversaries always respected him as the man who had first drawn the attention of the government towards the art of mines, instigated the establishment of the first school which had existed for this important object, and been the author of several good analyses. on coming out of prison, into which he had been thrown during the reign of terror, he found this cabinet of mineralogy untouched. it would then have been easy, from motives of public utility, to unite it to the new school of mines. but the heads of this new school had, for the most part, issued from the old one, and sage was dear to them from every consideration. it was from a consequence of this sentiment that sage, who had been a member of the _academy of sciences_, not having been comprised in the list of the members of the national institute at the time of its formation, has since been admitted into that learned body, not as a chymist indeed, but as a professor of mineralogy, a science which owes to him much of its improvement. the new school of mines is now abolished, and practical ones are established in the mountains, as i have before mentioned. while i am speaking of mineralogy, i shall take you to view the cabinet du conseil des mines. this cabinet of mineralogy, formed at the _hôtel des mines_, _rue de l'université_, _no. _, is principally intended to present a complete collection of all the riches of the soil of the french republic, arranged in local order. a succession of glazed closets, contiguous and similar to each other, that is about six feet and a half in height by sixteen inches in depth, affords every facility of observing them with ease and convenience. on these cases the names of the departments are inscribed in alphabetical order, and the vacancies which still exist in this geographical collection, are daily filled up by specimens sent by the engineers of mines, who, being spread over the different districts they are charged to visit, employ themselves in recognizing carefully the mineral substances peculiar to each country, in order to submit their views to the government respecting the means of rendering them useful to commerce and to the arts. the departmental collection, being thus arranged on the sides of the gallery, leaves vacant the middle of the apartments, which is furnished with tables covered with large glazed cases, intended for receiving systematic collections, and the most remarkable mineral substances from foreign countries, distributed in geographical order. an apartment is specially appropriated to the systematic order adopted by haÜy in his new treatise on mineralogy; another is reserved for the method of werner. in both these oryctognostic collections, minerals of all countries are indiscriminately admitted. they are arranged by _classes_, _orders_, _genera_, _species_, and _varieties_, with the denominations adopted by the author of the method, and consequently designated by specific names in french for haÜy's method, and in german for that of werner. the proximity of the two apartments where they are exhibited, affords every advantage for comparing both methods, and acquiring an exact knowledge of mineralogical synonymy. each of the two methods contains also a geological collection of rocks and various aggregates, classed and named after the principles which their respective authors have thought fit to adopt. the other apartments are likewise furnished with tables covered with glazed cases, where are exhibited, in a manner very advantageous for study, the most remarkable minerals of every description from foreign countries, among which are: . a numerous series of minerals from russia, such as red chromate of lead, white carbonate of lead, green phosphate of lead; native copper, green and blue carbonate of copper; gold ore from berezof; iron ore, granitical rocks, fossil shells, in good preservation, from the banks of the moscorika, and others in the siliceous state, jaspers, crystals of quartz, beril, &c. . a collection from the iron and copper mines of sweden, as well as various crystals and rocks from the same country. . a very complete and diversified collection of minerals from the country of saltzburg. . another of substances procured in england, such as fluates and carbonates of lime from derbyshire; pyrites, copper and lead ore, zinc, and tin from cornwall. . a collection of tin ore, cobalt, uranite, &c. from saxony. . a series of minerals from simplon, st. gothard, the tyrol, transylvania, as well as from egypt and america. all these articles, without being striking from their size, and other accessory qualities to be remarked in costly specimens, incontestably present a rich fund of instruction to persons delirous of fathoming science, by multiplying the points of view under which mineral productions may be observed. such is the present state of the mineralogical collection of the _conseil des mines_, which the superintendants will, no doubt, with time and attention, bring to the highest degree of perfection. it is open to the public every monday and thursday: but, on the other days of the week, amateurs and students have access to it. a few years before the revolution, france was still considered as destitute of an infinite number of mineral riches, which were thought to belong exclusively to several of the surrounding countries. germany was quoted as a country particularly favoured, in this respect, by nature. yet france is crossed by mountains similar to those met with in germany, and these mountains contain rocks of the same species as those of that country which is so rich in minerals. what has happened might therefore have been foreseen; namely, that, when intelligent men, with an experienced eye, should examine the soil of the various departments of the republic, they would find in it not only substances hitherto considered as scarce, but even several of those whose existence there had not yet been suspected. since the revolution, the following are the _principal mineral substances discovered in france._ _dolomite_ in the mountains of vosges and in the pyrenees. _carburet of iron_ or _plumbago_, in the south peak of bigorre. the same variety has been been found near argentière, and the valley of chamouny, department of mont-blanc. a rock of the appearance of _porphyry_, with a _calcareous_ base, in the same valley of chamouny. _tremolite_ or _grammatite_ of haÜy, in the same place. these two last-mentioned substances were in terminated crystals. _red oxyd of titanium_, in the same place. _new violet schorl_, or _sphene_ of haÜy, (_rayonnante en goutière_ of saussure) in the same place. _crystallized sulphate of strontia_, in the mines of villefort in la lozère, in the environs of paris, at bartelemont, near the _salterns_ in the department of la meurthe. _fibrous and crystallized sulphate of strontia_, at bouvron, near toul. _earthy sulphate of strontia_, in the vicinity of paris, near the forest of montmorency, and to the north-east of it. _onyx-agate-quartz_, at champigny, in the department of la seine. _avanturine-quartz_, in the deux-sevres. _marine bodies_, imbedded in the soil, a little above the _oule de gavernie_. _anthracite_, and its direction determined in several departments. _other marine bodies_, at the height of upwards of _mètres_ or yards, on the summit of mont-perdu, in the upper pyrenées. _wolfram_, near st. yriex, in upper vienne. _oxyd of antimony_, at allemont, in the department of l'isère. _chromate of iron_, near gassin, in the department of _le var_, at the _bastide_ of the cascade. _oxyd of uranite_, at st. simphorien de marmagne, in the department of la côte d'or. _acicular arsenical lead ore_, at st. prix, in the department of saone and loire. this substance was found among some piles of rubbish, near old works made for exploring a vein of lead ore, which lies at the foot of a mountain to the north-east, and at three quarters of a league from the _commune_ of st. prix. in this country have likewise been found several varieties of new interesting forms relative to substances already known; several important geological facts have been ascertained; and, lastly, the emerald has here been recently discovered. france already possesses eighteen of the twenty-one metallic substances known. few countries inherit from nature the like advantages. with respect to the administration of the mines of france, the under-mentioned are the regulations now in force. a council composed of three members, is charged to give to the minister of the interior ideas, together with their motives, respecting every thing that relates to mines. it corresponds, in the terms of the law, with all the grantees and with all persons who explore mines, salterns, and quarries. it superintends the research and extraction of all substances drawn from the bosom of the earth, and their various management. it proposes the grants, permissions, and advances to be made, and the encouragements to be given. under its direction are the two practical schools, and twenty-five engineers of mines, nine of whom are spread over different parts of the french territory. general information relative to statistics, every thing that can concur in the formation of the mineralogical map of france and complete the collection of her minerals, and all observations and memoirs relative to the art of mines or of the different branches of metallurgy, are addressed by the engineers to the _conseil des mines_ at paris. letter lxx. _paris, february , _. having fully described to you all the theatres here of the first and second rank, i shall confine myself to a rapid sketch of those which may be classed in the third order.[ ] thÉÂtre montansier. this house stands at the north-west angle of the _palais du tribunat_. it is of an oval form, and contains three tiers of boxes, exclusively of a large amphitheatre. before the revolution, it bore the name of _théâtre des petits comédiens du comte de beaujolais_, and was famous for the novelty of the spectacle here given. young girls and boys represented little comedies and comic operas in the following manner. some gesticulated on the stage; while others, placed in the side-scenes, spoke or sang their parts without being seen. it was impossible to withhold one's admiration from the perfect harmony between the motions of the one and the speaking and singing of the other. in short, this double acting was executed with such precision that few strangers detected the deception. to these actors succeeded full-grown performers, who have since continued to play interludes of almost every description. indeed, this theatre is the receptacle of all the nonsense imaginable; nothing is too absurd or too low for its stage. here are collected all the trivial expressions to be met with in this great city, whether made use of in the markets, gaming-houses, taverns, or dancing-rooms. caroline and brunet, or brunet and caroline. they are like two planets, round which move a great number of satellites, some more imperceptible than others. if to these we add tiercelin, an actor of the grotesque species, little more is to be said. were it not for brunet, who makes the most of his comic humour, in playing all sorts of low characters, and sometimes in a manner truly original, and mademoiselle caroline, whose clear, flexible, and sonorous voice insures the success of several little operas, the _théâtre montansier_ would not be able to maintain its ground, notwithstanding the advantages of its centrical situation, and the attractions of its lobby, where the impures of the environs exhibit themselves to no small advantage, and literally carry all before them. we now come to the theatres on the _boulevard_, at the head of which is to be placed l'ambigu comique. this little theatre is situated on the _boulevard du temple_, and, of all those of the third order, has most constantly enjoyed the favour of the public. previously to the revolution, audinot drew hither crowded houses by the representation of comic operas and bad _drames_ of a gigantic nature, called here _pantomimes dialoguées_. the effects of decoration and show were carried farther at this little theatre than at any other. ghosts, hobgoblins, and devils were, in the sequel, introduced. all paris ran to see them, till the women were terrified, and the men disgusted. corse, the present manager, has of late added considerably to the attraction of the _ambigu comique_, by not only restoring it to what it was in the most brilliant days of audinot, but by collecting all the best actors and dancers of the _boulevard_, and improving on the plan adopted by his predecessor. he has neglected nothing necessary for the advantageous execution of the new pieces which he has produced. the most attractive of these are _victor_, _le pélerin blanc_, _l'homme à trois visages_, _le jugement de salomon_, &c. the best performers at this theatre are corse, the manager, tautin, and mademoiselle levesque. * * * * * in regard to all the other minor theatres, the enumeration of which i have detailed to you in a preceding letter,[ ] i shall briefly, observe that the curiosity of a stranger may be satisfied in paying each of them a single visit. some of these _petits spectacles_ are open one day, shut the next, and soon after reopened with performances of a different species. therefore, to attempt a description of their attractions would probably be superfluous; and, indeed, the style of the pieces produced is varied according to the ideas of the speculators, the taste of the managers, or the abilities of the performers, who, if not "the best actors in the world," are ready to play either "tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited." [footnote : the theatre of the _porte st. martin_ not having been open, when this letter was written, it is not here noticed. it may be considered as of the second rank. its representations include almost every line of acting; but those for which the greatest expense is incurred are melo-drames and pieces connected with pantomime and parade. the house is the same in which the grand french opera was performed before the revolution.] [footnote : see vol. i. letter xxi.] letter lxxi. _paris, february , ._ the variety of matter which crowds itself on the mind of a man who attempts to describe this immense capital, forms such a chaos, that you will, i trust, give me credit for the assertion, when i assure you that it is not from neglect or inattention i sometimes take more time than may appear strictly necessary to comply with your wishes. considering how deeply it involves the peace and comfort of strangers, as well as inhabitants, i am not at all surprised at the anxiety which you express to acquire some knowledge of the police of paris. in the present existing circumstances, it might be imprudent, if not dangerous, to discuss, freely openly, so delicate a question. i shall take a middle course. silence would imply fear; while boldness of expression might give offence; and though i certainly am not afraid to mention the subject, yet to offend, is by no means my wish or intention. in this country, the post-office has often been the channel through which the opinion of individuals has been collected. what has been, may again occur; and in such critical times, who knows, but the government may conceive itself justified in not considering as absolutely sacred the letters intrusted to that mode of conveyance? under these considerations, i shall beg leave to refer you to a work which has gone through the hands of every inquisitive reader; that is the _tableau de paris_, published in : but, on recollection, as this letter will, probably, find you in the country, where you may not have an immediate opportunity of gratifying your curiosity, and as the book is become scarce, i shall select from it for your satisfaction a few extracts concerning the police. this establishment is necessary and useful for maintaining order and tranquillity in a city like paris, where the very extremes of luxury and wretchedness are continually in collision. i mean _useful_, when no abuse is made of its power; and it is to be hoped that the present government of france is too wise and too just to convert an institution of public utility into an instrument of private oppression. since the machinery of the police was first put in order by m. d'argenson, in , its wheels and springs have been continually multiplied by the thirteen ministers who succeeded him in that department. the last of these was the celebrated m. lenoir. the present minister of the police, m. fouchÉ, has, it seems, adopted, in a great measure, the means put in practice before the revolution. his administration, according to general report, bears most resemblance to that of m. lenoir: he is said, however, to have improved on that vigilant magistrate: but he surpasses him, i am told, more in augmentation of expenses and agents, than in real changes.[ ] in selecting from the before-mentioned work the following _widely scattered_ passages, and assembling them as a _piece of mosaic_, it has been my endeavour to enable you to form an impartial judgment of the police of paris, by exhibiting it with all its perfections and imperfections. borrowing the language of mercier, i shall trace the institution through all its ramifications, and, in pointing out its effects, i shall "nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice." if we take it for granted, that the police of paris is now exercised on the same plan as that pursued towards the close of the old _régime_, this sketch will be the more interesting, as its resemblance to the original will exempt me from adding a single stroke from my own pencil. "d'argenson was severe," says mercier, "perhaps because he felt, in first setting the machine in motion, a resistance which his successors have less experienced. for a long time it was imagined that a minister of police ought to be harsh; he ought to be firm only. several of these magistrates have laid on too heavy a hand, because they were not acquainted with the people of paris; a people of quick feeling, but not ferocious[ ], whose motions are to be divined, and consequently easy to be led. whoever should be void of pity in that post, would be a monster." mercier then gives the fragment by fontenelle, on the police of paris and on m. d'argenson, of which i shall select only what may be necessary for elucidating the main subject. "the inhabitants of a well-governed city," says fontenelle, "enjoy the good order which is there established, without considering what trouble it costs those who establish or preserve it, much in the same manner as all mankind enjoy the regularity of the motions of celestial bodies, without having any knowledge of them, and even the more the good order of a police resembles by its uniformity that of the celestial bodies, the more is it imperceptible, and, consequently, the more it is unknown, the greater is its perfection. but he who would wish to know it and fathom it, would be terrified. to keep up perpetually in a city, like paris, an immense consumption, some sources of which may always be dried up by a variety of accidents; to repress the tyranny of shop-keepers in regard to the public, and at the same time animate their commerce; to prevent the mutual usurpations of the one over the other, often difficult to discriminate; to distinguish in a vast crowd all those who may easily conceal there a hurtful industry; to purge society of them, or tolerate them only as far as they can be useful to it by employments which no others but themselves would undertake, or discharge so well; to keep necessary abuses within the precise limits of necessity which they are always ready to over-leap; to envelop them in the obscurity to which they ought to be condemned, and not even draw them from it by chastisement too notorious; to be ignorant of what it is better to be ignorant of than to punish, and to punish but seldom and usefully; to penetrate by subterraneous avenues into the bosom of families, and keep for them the secrets which they have not confided, as long as it is not necessary to make use of them; to be present every where without being seen; in short, to move or stop at pleasure an immense multitude, and be the soul ever-acting, and almost unknown, of this great body: these are, in general, the functions of the chief magistrate of the police. it should seem that one man alone could not be equal to them, either on account of the quantity of things of which he must be informed, or of that of the views which he must follow, or of the application which he must exert, or of the variety of conduct which he most observe, and of the characters which he must assume: but the public voice will answer whether m. d'argenson has been equal to them. "under him, cleanliness, tranquillity, plenty, and safety were brought to the highest degree of perfection in this city. and, indeed, the late king (lewis xiv) relied entirely on his care respecting paris. he could have given an account of a person unknown who should have stolen into it in the dark; this person, whatever ingenuity he exerted in concealing himself, was always under his eye; and if, at last, any one escaped him, at least what produced almost the same effect, no one would have dared to think himself well-concealed. "surrounded and overwhelmed in his audiences by a crowd of people chiefly of the lower class, little informed themselves of what brought them, warmly agitated by interests very trifling, and frequently very ill understood, accustomed to supply the place of discourse by senseless clamour, he neither betrayed the inattention nor the disdain which such persons or such subjects might have occasioned." "fontenelle has not," continues mercier, "spoken of the severity of m. d'argenson, of his inclination to punish, which was rather a sign of weakness than of strength. alas! human laws, imperfect and rude, cannot dive to the bottom of the human heart, and there discover the causes of the delinquencies which they have to punish! they judge only from the surface: they would acquit, perhaps, those whom they condemn; they would strike him whom they suffer to escape. but they cannot, i confess, do otherwise. nevertheless, they ought to neglect nothing that serves to disclose the heart of man. they ought to estimate the strength of natural and indestructible passions, not in their effects, but in their principles; to pay attention to the age, the sex, the time, the day; these are nice rules, which could not be found in the brain of the legislator, but which ought to be met with in that of a minister of the police." "there are also epidemical errors in which the multitude of those who go astray, seems to lessen the fault; in which a sort of circumspection is necessary, in order that punishment may not be in opposition to public interest, because punishment would then appear absurd or barbarous, and indignation might recoil on the law, as well as on the magistrate." "what a life has a minister of police! he has not a moment that he can call his own; he is every day obliged to punish; he is afraid to give way to indulgence, because he does not know that he may not one day have to reproach himself with it. he is under the necessity of being severe, and of acting contrary to the inclination of his heart; not a crime is committed but he receives the shameful or cruel account: he hears of nothing but vicious men and vices; every instant he is told: 'there's a murder! a suicide! a rape!' not an accident happens but he must prescribe the remedy, and hastily; he has but a moment to deliberate and act, and he must be equally fearful to abuse the power intrusted to him, and not to use it opportunely. popular rumours, flighty conversations, theatrical factions, false alarms, every thing concerns him. "is he gone to rest? a fire rouses him from his bed. he must be answerable for every thing; he must trace the robber, and the lurking assassin who has committed a crime; for the magistrate appears blameable, if he has not found means to deliver him up quickly to justice. the time that his agents have employed in this capture will be calculated, and his honour requires that the interval between the crime and the imprisonment should be the shortest possible. what dreadful duties! what a laborious life! and yet this place is coveted! "on some occasions, it is necessary for the minister of police to demean himself like a true _greek_, as was the case in the following instance: "a person, being on the point of making a journey, had in his possession a sum of twenty thousand livres which embarrassed him; he had only one servant, whom he mistrusted, and the sum was tempting. he accordingly requested a friend to be so obliging as to take care of it for him till his return. "a fortnight after, the friend denied the circumstance. as there was no proof, the civil law could not pronounce in this affair. recourse was had to the minister of police, who pondered a moment, and sent for the receiver, making the accuser retire into an adjoining room: "the friend arrives, and maintains that he has not received the twenty thousand livres. 'well,' said the magistrate, 'i believe you; and as you are innocent you run no, risk in writing to your wife the note that i am going to dictate. write. "'"my dear wife, all is discovered. i shall be punished if i do not restore you know what. bring the sum: your coming quickly to my relief is the only way for me to get out of trouble and obtain my pardon." "'this note,' added the magistrate, 'will fully justify you. your wife can bring nothing since you have received nothing, and your accuser will be foiled.' "the note was dispatched; the wife, terrified, ran with the twenty thousand livres. "thus the minister of police can daily make up for the imperfection and tardiness of our civil laws; but he ought to use this rare and splendid privilege with extreme circumspection. "the chief magistrate of the police is become a minister of importance; he has a secret and prodigious influence; he knows so many things, that he can do much mischief or much good, because he has in hand a multitude of threads which he can entangle or disentangle at his pleasure; he strikes or he saves; he spreads darkness or light: his authority is as delicate as it is extensive. "the minister of police exercises a despotic sway over the _mouchards_ who are found disobedient, or who make false reports: as for these fellows, they are of a class so vile and so base, that the authority to which they have sold themselves, has necessarily an absolute right over their persons. "this is not the case with those who are apprehended in the name of the police; they may have committed trifling faults: they may have enemies in that crowd of _exempts_, spies, and satellites, who are believed on their word. the eye of the magistrate may be incessantly deceived, and the punishment of these crimes ought to be submitted to a more deliberate investigation; but the house of correction ingulfs a vast number of men who there become still more perverted, and who, on coming out, are still more wicked than when they went in. being degraded in their own eyes, they afterwards plunge themselves headlong into all sorts of irregularities. "these different imprisonments are sometimes rendered necessary by imperious circumstances; yet it were always to be wished that the detention of a citizen should not depend on a single magistrate, but that there should be a sort of tribunal to examine when this great act of authority, withdrawn from the eye of the law, ceases to be illegal. "a few real advantages compensate for these irregular forms, and there are, in fact, an infinite number of irregularities which the slow and grave process of our tribunals can neither take cognizance of, nor put a stop to, nor foresee, nor punish. the audacious or subtle delinquent would triumph in the winding labyrinth of our civil laws. the laws of the police, more direct, watch him, press him, and surround him mose closely. the abuse, is contiguous to the benefit, i admit; but a great many private acts of violence, base and shameful crimes, are repressed by this vigilant and active force which ought, nevertheless, to publish its code and submit it to the inspection of enlightened citizens." "could the minister of police communicate to the philosopher all he knows, all he learns, all he sees, and likewise impart to him certain secret things, of which he alone is well-informed, there would be nothing so curious and so instructive under the pen of the philosopher; for he would astonish all his brethren. but this magistrate is like the great penitentiary; he hears every thing, relates nothing, and is not astonished at certain delinquencies in the same degree as another man. by dint of seeing the tricks of roguery, the crimes of vice, secret treachery, and all the filth of human actions, he has necessarily a little difficulty in giving credit to the integrity and virtue of honest people. he is in a perpetual state of mistrust; and, in the main, he ought to possess such a character; for, he ought to think nothing impossible, after the extraordinary lessons which he receives from men and from things. in a word, his place commands a continual, and scrutinizing suspicion." * * * * * _february , in continuation._ "even should not the parisian have the levity with which he is reproached, reason would justify him in its adoption. he walks surrounded by spies. no sooner do two citizens whisper to each other, than up comes a third, who prowls about in order to listen to what they are saying. the spies of the police are a regiment of inquisitive fellows; with this difference, that each individual belonging to this regiment has a distinct dress, which he changes frequently every day; and nothing so quick or so astonishing, as these sorts of metamorphoses. "the same spy who figures as a private gentleman in the morning, in the evening represents a priest: at one time, he is a peaceable limb of the law; at another, a swaggering bully. the next day, with a gold-headed cane in his hand, he will assume the deportment of a monied man buried in calculations; the most singular disguises are quite familiar to him. in the course of the twenty-four hours, he is an officer of distinction and a journeyman hair-dresser, a shorn apostle and a scullion. he visits the dress-ball and the lowest sink of vice. at one time with a diamond ring on his finger, at another with the most filthy wig on his head, he almost changes his countenance as he does his apparel; and more than one of these _mouchards_ would teach the french _roscius_ the art of _decomposing_ himself; he is all eyes, all ears, all legs; for he trots, i know not how, over the pavement of every quarter of the town. squatted sometimes in the corner of a coffee-room, you would take him for a dull, stupid, tiresome fellow, snoring till supper is ready: he has seen and heard all that has passed. at another time, he is an orator, and been the first to make a bold speech; he courts you to open your mind; he interprets even your silence, and whether you speak to him or not, he knows what you think of this or that proceeding. "such is the universal instrument employed in paris for diving into secrets; and this is what determines the actions of persons in power more willingly than any thing that could be imagined in reasoning or politics. "the employment of spies has destroyed the ties of confidence and friendship. none but frivolous questions are agitated, and the government dictates, as it were, to citizens the subject on which they shall speak in the evening in coffee-houses, as well as in private circles. "the people have absolutely lost every idea of civil or political administration; and if any thing could excite laughter in the midst of an ignorance so deplorable, it would be the conversation of such a silly fellow who constantly imagines that paris must give the law and the _ton_ to all europe, and thence to all the world. "the men belonging to the police are a mass of corruption which the minister of that department divides into two parts: of the one, he makes spies or _mouchards_; of the other, satellites, _exempts_, that is, officers, whom he afterwards lets loose against pickpockets, swindlers, thieves, &c., much in the same manner as a huntsman sets hounds on wolves and foxes. "the spies have other spies at their heels, who watch over them, and see that they do their duty. they all accuse each other reciprocally, and worry one another for the vilest gain." i cannot here avoid interrupting my copious but laboriously-gathered selection from mercier, to relate an anecdote which shews in what a detestable light _mouchards_ are considered in paris. a man who appeared to be in tolerably good circumstances, fell in love, and married a girl whom the death of her parents and accumulated distress had driven to a life of dissipation. at the end of a few months, she learnt that her husband was a spy of the police. "probably," said, she to him, "you did not take up this trade till after you had reflected that in following that of a thief or a murderer, you would have risked your life." on saying this, she ran out of the house, and precipitated herself from the _pont royal_ into the seine, where she was drowned.--but to resume the observations of mercier. "it is from these odious dregs," continues our author, "that public order arises. "when the _mouchards_ of the police have acted contrary to their instructions, they are confined in the house of correction; but they are separated from the other prisoners, because they would be torn to pieces by those whom they have caused to be imprisoned, and who would recognize them. they inspire less pity on account of the vile trade which they follow. one sees with surprise, and with still more pain, that these fellows are very young. spies, informers at sixteen!--o! what a shocking life does this announce!" exclaims mercier. "no; nothing ever distressed me more than to see boys act such a part.... and those who form them into squads, who drill them, who corrupt such inexperienced youth!" such is the admirable order which reigns in paris, that a man suspected or described is watched so closely, that his smallest steps are known, till the very moment when it is expedient to apprehend him. "the description taken of the man is a real portrait, which it is impossible to mistake; and the art of thus describing the person by words, is carried to so great a nicety, that the best writer, after much reflection on the matter, could add nothing to it, nor make use of other expressions. "the theseuses of the police are on foot every night to purge the city of robbers, and it might be said that the lions, bears, and tigers are chained by political order. "there are also the court-spies, the town-spies, the bed-spies, the street-spies, the spies of impures, and the spies of wits: they are all called by the name of _mouchards_, the family name of the first spy employed by the court of france. "men of fashion at this day follow the trade of _mouchards_; most of them style themselves _monsieur le baron_, _monsieur le comte_, _monsieur le marquis_. there was a time, under lewis xv, when spies were so numerous, that it was impossible for friends, who assembled together, to open their heart to each other concerning matters which deeply affected their interest. the ministerial inquisition had posted its sentinels at the door of every room, and listeners in every closet. ingenuous confidences, made from friends to friends, and intended to die in the very bosom where they had been deposited, were punished as dangerous conspiracies. "these odious researches poisoned social life, deprived men of pleasures the most innocent, and transformed citizens into enemies who trembled to unbosom themselves to each other. "one fourth of the servants in paris serve as spies; and the secrets of families, which are thought the most concealed, come to the knowledge of those interested in being acquainted with them. "independently of the spies of the police, ministers have spies belonging to themselves, and keep them in pay: these are the most dangerous of all, because they are less suspected than others, and it is more difficult to know them. by these means, ministers know what is said of them; yet, of this they avail themselves but little. they are more intent to ruin their enemies, and thwart their adversaries, than to derive a prudent advantage from the free and ingenuous hints given them by the multitude. "it is entertaining enough to consider that, in proper time and place, spies are watching him who, at his pleasure, sets spies to watch other citizens. thus, the links which connect mankind in political order are really incomprehensible. he who does not admire the manner in which society exists, and is supported by the simultaneous reaction of its members, and who sees not the serpent's _tail_ entering its _mouth_, is not born for reflection. "but the secrets of courts are not revealed through spies; they get wind by means of certain people who are not in the least mistrusted; in like manner the best built ships leak through an imperceptible chink, which cannot be discovered. "what is interesting in courts, and particularly so in ours," says mercier, "is that there is a degree of obscurity spread over all its proceedings. we wish to penetrate what is concealed, we endeavour to know till we learn; thus it is that the most ingenious machine preserves its highest value only till we have seen the springs which set it in motion. "after having considered the different parts which form the police of the capital, we still perceive all the radii reaching from the centre to the circumference. how many ramifications issue from the same stem! how far the branches extend! what an impulse does not paris give to other neighbouring cities! "the police of paris has an intimate correspondence with that of lyons and other provincial cities: for it is evident that it would be imperfect, if it could not follow the disturber of public order, and if the distance of a few leagues skreened him from researches. "the correspondence of the parisian police is not therefore limited to its walls; it extends much farther; and it is in towns where imprudent or rash persons would imagine that they might give their tongue greater freedom, that the vigilant magistrate pries into conversation, and keeps a watchful eye over those who would measure their audacity by the degree of distance from the capital. "thus the police of paris, after having embraced france, penetrates also into switzerland, italy, holland, and germany;[ ] and when occasion requires, its eye is open on all sides to what can interest the government. when it wishes to know any fact, it is informed of it to a certainty; when it wishes to strike a serious blow, it seldom misses its aim. "it may easily be conceived that the machine would be incomplete, and that its play would fail in the desired effect, did it not embrace a certain extent. it costs but little to give to the lever the necessary length. whether the spy be kept in pay at paris, or a hundred leagues off, the expense is the same, and the utility becomes greater. "experience has shewn that these observations admit of essential differences in the branches of the police. weights and measures must be changed, according to time, place, persons, and circumstances. there are no fixed rules; they must be created at the instant, and the most versatile actions are not destitute of wisdom and reason. "of this wholesale legislators are not aware: it is reserved for practitioners to seize these shades of distinction. there must be a customary, and, as it were, every-day policy, in order to decide well without precipitation, without weakness, and without rigour. what would be a serious fault at paris, would be a simple imprudence at lyons, an indifferent thing elsewhere, and so on reciprocally. "now this science has not only its details and its niceties, it has also its variations, and sometimes even its oppositions. ministers must have a steady eye and great local experience, in order to be able to strike true, and strike opportunely, without espousing imaginary terrors; which, in matters of police, is the greatest fault that can be committed.[ ] "lycurgus, solon, locke, and penn! you have made very fine and majestic laws; but would you have divined these? although secret, they exist; they have their wisdom, and even their depth. the distance of a few leagues gives to matters of police two colours, which bear to each other no resemblance; and there is no principal town which is not obliged, in modeling its police on that of paris, to introduce into it the greatest modifications. the motto of every minister of police ought to be this: _the letter of the law kills, its spirit gives life._ "the safety of paris, during the night, is owing to the guard[ ] and two or three hundred _mouchards_, who trot about the streets, and recognize and follow suspected persons. it is chiefly by night that the police makes its captions." the manner in which these captions are made is humorously, gravely, feelingly, and philosophically described by the ingenious mercier. long as this letter already is, i am confident that you will not regret its being still lengthened by another extract or two relative to this interesting point; thus i shall terminate the only elucidation that you are likely to obtain on a subject which has so strongly excited your curiosity. "the comic," says our lively author, "is here blended with the serious. the fulminating order, which is going to crush you, is in the pocket of the _exempt_, who feels a degree of pleasure in the exercise of his dreadful functions. he enjoys a secret pride in being bearer of the thunder; he fancies himself the eagle of jove: but his motion is like that of a serpent. he glides along, dodges you, crouches before you, approaches your ear, and with down-cast eyes and a soft-toned voice, says to you, at the same time shrugging his shoulders: '_je suis au désespoir, monsieur; mais j'ai un ordre, monsieur, qui vous arrête, monsieur; de la part de la police, monsieur_.'----'_moi, monsieur_?'----'_vous-même, monsieur_.'----you waver an instant between anger and indignation, ready to vent all sorts of imprecations. you see only a polite, respectful, well-bred man, bowing to you, mild in his speech, and civil in his manners. were you the most furious of mankind, your wrath would be instantly disarmed. had you pistols, you would discharge them in the air, and never against the affable _exempt_. presently you return him his bows: there even arises between you a contest of politeness and good breeding. it is a reciprocity of obliging words and compliments, till the moment when the resounding bolts separate you from the polite man, who goes to make a report of his mission, and whose employment, by no means an unprofitable one, is to imprison people with all possible gentleness, urbanity, and grace. "i am walking quietly in the street; before me is a young man decently dressed. all at once four fellows seize on him, collar him, push him against the wall, and drag him away. natural instinct commands me to go to his assistance; a tranquil witness says to me coolly: 'don't interfere; 'tis nothing, sir, but a caption made by the police.' the young man is handcuffed, and he disappears. "i wish to enter a narrow street, a man belonging to the guard is posted there as a sentinel: i perceive several of the populace looking out of the windows. 'what's the matter, sir?' say i.---- 'nothing,' replies he; 'they are only taking up thirty girls of the town at one cast of the net.' presently the girls, with top-knots of all colours, file off, led by the soldiers of the guard, who lead them gallantly by the hand, with their muskets clubbed. "it is eleven o'clock at night, or five in the morning, there is a knock at your door; your servant opens it; in a moment your room is filled with a squad of satellites. the order is precise, resistance is vain; every thing that might serve as a weapon is put out of your reach; and the _exempt_, who will not, on that account, boast the less of his bravery even takes your brass pocket-inkstand for a pistol. "the next day, a neighbour, who has heard a noise in the house, asks what it might be: 'nothing, 'tis only a man taken up by the police.' ----'what has he done?'----'no one can tell; he has, perhaps, committed a murder, or sold a suspicious pamphlet.'----'but, sir, there's some difference between those two crimes.'----'may be so; but he is carried off.' "you have been apprehended; but you have not been shewn the order; you have been put into a carriage closely shut up; you know not whither you are going to be taken; but you may be certain that you will visit the wards or dungeons of some prison. "whence proceeds the decree of proscription? you cannot rightly guess. "it is not necessary to write a thick volume against arbitrary arrests. when one has said, _it is an arbitrary act_, one may, without any difficulty, infer every possible consequence. but all captions are not equally unjust: there are a multitude of secret and dangerous crimes which it would be impossible for the ordinary course of the law to take cognizance of, to put a stop to, and punish. when the minister is neither seduced nor deceived, when he yields not to private passion, to blind prepossession, to misplaced severity, his object is frequently to get rid of a disturber of the public peace; and the police, in the manner in which the machine is set up, could not proceed, at the present day, without this quick, active, and repressive power. "it were only to be wished that there should be afterwards a particular tribunal, which should weigh in an exact scale the motives of each caption, in order that imprudence and guilt, the pen and the poniard, the book and the libel, might not be confounded. "the inspectors of police determine on their part a great many subaltern captions; as they are generally believed on their word, and as they strike only the lowest class of the people, the chief readily concedes to them the details of this authority. "some yield to their peevishness; others, to their caprice: but who knows whether avarice has not also a share in their proceedings, and whether they do not often favour him who pays at the expense of him who does not pay? thus the liberty of the distressed and lowest citizens would have a tarif; and this strange tax would bear hard on the very numerous portion of _prostitutes_, _professed gamblers_, _quacks_, _hawkers_, _swindlers_, and _adventurers_, all people who do mischief, and whom it is necessary to punish; but who do more mischief when they are obliged to pay, and purchase, during a certain time, the privilege of their irregularities. "we have imitated from the english their vauxhall, their ranelagh, their whist, their punch, their hats, their horse-races, their jockies, their betting; but," concludes mercier, "when shall we copy from them something more important, for instance, that bulwark of liberty, the law of _habeas corpus_?" [footnote : the office of minister of the police has since been abolished. m. fouchÉ is now a senator, and the machine of which he was said to be so expert a manager, is confided to the direction of the prefect of police, who exercises his functions under the immediate authority of the ministers, and corresponds with them concerning matters which relate to their respective departments. the higher duties of the police are at present vested in the _grand juge_, who is also minister of justice. the former office is of recent creation.] [footnote : voltaire thought otherwise; and he was not mistaken.] [footnote : i shall exemplify this truth by two remarkable facts. about the year , when m. de sartine was minister of the police, several forgeries were committed on the bank of vienna; count de mercy, then austrian ambassador at paris, was directed to make a formal application for the delinquent to be delivered up to justice. what was his astonishment on receiving, a few hours after, a note from m. de sartine, informing him that the author of the said forgeries had never been in paris; but resided in vienna, at the same time mentioning the street, the number of the house, and other interesting particulars! a circumstance which occurred in , proves that, since the revolution, the system of the parisian police continues to extend to foreign countries. the english commissary for prisoners of war was requested by a friend to make inquiry, on his arrival in paris, whether a french lady of the name of beaufort was living, and in what part of france she resided. he did so; and the following day, the card, on which he had written the lady's name, was returned to him, with this addition: "she lives at no. , east-street, manchester-square, london."] [footnote : the same principle holds good in politics.] [footnote : the municipal guard of paris at present consists of men. the privates must be above and under years of age.] letter lxxii. _paris, february , ._ referring to an expression made use of in my letter of the th of december last,[ ] you ask me "what the sciences, or rather the _savans_ or men of science, have done for this people?" with the assistance of a young professor in the _collège de france_, who bids fair to eclipse all his competitors, it will not be difficult for me to answer your question. let me premise, however, that the _savans_ to whom i allude, must not be confounded with the philosophers, called _encyclopædists_, from their having been the first to conceive and execute the plan of the _encyclopædia_. these _savans_ were diderot, d'alembert, and voltaire, all professed atheists, who, by the dissemination of their pernicious doctrine, introduced into france an absolute contempt for all religion. this infidelity, dissolving every social tie, every principle between man and man, between the governing and the governed, in the sequel, produced anarchy, rapine, and all their attendant horrors. at the beginning of the revolution, every mind being turned towards politics, the sciences were suddenly abandoned: they could have no weight in the struggle which then occupied every imagination. presently their existence was completely forgotten. liberty formed the subject of every writing and every discourse: it seemed that orators alone possessed the power of serving her; and this error was partly the cause of the calamities which afterwards overwhelmed france. the greater part of the _savans_ remained simple spectators of the events which were preparing: not one of them openly took part against the revolution. some involved themselves in it. those men were urged by great views, and hoped to find, in the renewal of social organization, a mean of applying and realizing their theories. they thought to master the revolution, and were carried away by its torrent; but at that time the most sanguine hopes were indulged. if the love of liberty be no more than a phantom of the brain, if the wish to render men better and happier be no more than a matter of doubt, such errors may be pardoned in those who have paid for them with their life. it is in the recollection of every one that the national convention consisted of two parties, which, under the same exterior, were hastening to contrary ends: the one, composed of ignorant and ferocious men, ruled by force; the other, more enlightened, maintained its ground by address. the former, restless possessors of absolute power, and determined to grasp at every thing for preserving it, strove to annihilate the talents and knowledge which made them sensible of their humiliating inferiority. the others, holding the same language, acted in an opposite direction. but being obliged, in order to preserve their influence, never to shew themselves openly, they employed their means with an extreme reserve, and this similarity at once explains the good they did, the evil they prevented, and the calamities which they were unable to avert. at that time, france was on the very brink of ruin. _landrecies_, _le quesnoy_, _condé_ and _valenciennes_ were in the power of her enemies. _toulon_ had been given up to the english, whose numerous fleets held the dominion of the seas, and occasionally effected debarkations. this country was a prey to famine and terror; _la vendée_, _lyons_, and _marseilles_ were in a state of insurrection. no arms, no powder; no ally that could or would furnish any; and its only resource lay in an anarchical government without either plan or means of defence, and skilful only in persecution. in a word, every thing announced that the republic would perish, before it could enjoy a year's existence. in this extremity, two new members were called to the committee of public welfare. these two men organized the armies, conceived plans of campaign, and prepared supplies. it was necessary to arm nine hundred thousand men; and what was most difficult, it was necessary to persuade a mistrustful people, ever ready to cry out "treason!" of the possibility of such a prodigy. for this purpose, the old manufactories were comparatively nothing; several of them, situated on the frontiers, were invaded by the enemy. they were revived every where with an activity till then unexampled. _savans_ or men of science were charged to describe and simplify the necessary proceedings. the melting of the church-bells yielded all the necessary metal.[ ] steel was wanting; none could be obtained from abroad, the art of making it was unknown. the _savans_ were asked to create it; they succeeded, and this part of the public defence thus became independent of foreign countries. the exigencies of the war had rendered more glaring the urgent necessity of having good topographical maps, and the insufficiency of those in use became every day more evident. the geographical engineers, which corps had been suppressed by the constituent assembly, were recalled to the armies, and although they could not, in these first moments, give to their labours the necessary extent and detail, they nevertheless paved the way to the great results since obtained in this branch of the art military. nothing is more easy than to destroy; nothing is so difficult, and, above all, so tedious as to reconstruct. the persons then in power had likewise had the prudence to preserve in their functions such pupils and engineers in the civil line as were of an age to come under the requisition. whatever might be the want of defenders, it was felt that it requires ten years' study to form an engineer; while health and courage suffice for making a soldier. this disastrous period affords instances of foresight and skill which have not always been imitated in times more tranquil. the sciences had just rendered great services to the country. they were calumniated; those who had made use of them were compelled to defend them, and did so with courage. a circumstance, equally singular and unforeseen, occasioned complete recourse to be had to their assistance. an officer arrived at the committee of public welfare: he announced that the republican armies were in presence of the enemy; but that the french generals durst not march their soldiers to battle, because the brandies were poisoned, and that the sick in the hospitals, having drunk some, had died. he requested the committee to cause them to be examined, asked for orders on this subject, and wished to set off again immediately. the most skilful chymists were instantly assembled: they were ordered to analyze the brandies, and to indicate, in the course of the day, the poison and the remedy. these _savans_ laboured without intermission, trusting only to themselves for the most minute details. scarcely was time allowed them to finish their operations, when they were summoned to appear before the committee of public welfare, over which robespierre presided. they announced that the brandies were not poisoned, and that water only had been added to them, in which was slate in suspension, so that it was sufficient to filter them, in order to deprive them of their hurtful quality. robespierre, who hoped to discover a treason, asked the commissioners if they were perfectly sure of what they had just advanced. as a satisfactory answer to the question, one of them took a strainer, poured the liquor through it, and drank it without hesitation. all the others followed his example. "what!" said robespierre to him, "do you dare to drink these poisoned brandies?"----"i durst do much more," answered he, "when i put my name to the report." this service, though in itself of little importance, impressed the public mind with a conception of the utility of the _savans_, a greater number of whom were called into the committee of public welfare. there they were secure from subaltern informers, with which france abounded. having concerns only with the members charged with the military department, who were endeavouring to save them, they might, by keeping silence, escape the suspicious looks of the tyrants of the day. there was then but one resource for men of merit and virtue, namely, to conceal their existence, and cause themselves to be forgotten. in the midst of this sanguinary persecution, all the means of defence employed by france, issued from the obscure retreat where the genius of the sciences had taken refuge. powder was the article for which there was the most urgent occasion. the soldiers were on the point of wanting it. the magazines were empty. the administrators of the powder-mills were assembled to know what they could do. they declared that the annual produce amounted to three millions of pounds only, that the basis of it was saltpetre drawn from india, that extraordinary encouragements might raise them to five millions; but that no hopes ought to be entertained of exceeding that quantity. when the members of the committee of public welfare announced to the administrators that they must manufacture seventeen millions of pounds of powder in the space of a few months, the latter remained stupified. "if you succeed in doing this," said they, "you must have a method of making powder of which we are ignorant." this, however, was the only mean of saving the country. as the french were almost excluded from the sea, it was impossible to think of procuring saltpetre from india. the _savans_ offered to extract all from the soil of the republic. a general requisition called to this labour the whole mass of the people. short and simple directions, spread with inconceivable activity, made, of a difficult art, a common process. all the abodes of men and animals were explored. saltpetre was sought for even in the ruins of lyons; and soda, collected from among the ashes of the forests of la vendée. the results of this grand movement would have been useless, had not the sciences been seconded by new efforts. native saltpetre is not fit for making powder; it is mixed with salts and earths which render it moist, and diminish its activity. the process employed for purifying it demanded considerable time. the construction of powder-mills alone would have required several months, and before that period, france might have been subjugated. chymistry invented new methods for refining and drying saltpetre in a few days. as a substitute for mills, pulverized charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre were mixed, with copper balls, in casks which were turned round by hand. by these means, powder was made in twelve hours; and thus was verified that bold assertion of a member of the committee of public welfare: "earth impregnated with saltpetre shall be produced," said he, "and, in five days after, your cannon shall be loaded." circumstances were favourable for fixing, in all their perfection, the only arts which occupied france. persons from all the departments were sent to paris, in order to be instructed in the manufacture of arms and saltpetre. rapid courses of lectures were given on this subject. they contributed little to the general movement, which had saved the republic, but they had an effect no less important, that of bringing to light the astonishing facility of the french for acquiring the arts and sciences; a happy gift which forms one of the finest features in the character of the nation. notwithstanding so many services rendered by the sciences, the learned were not less persecuted; the most celebrated among them were the most exposed. the venerable daubenton, the co-operator in the labours of buffon, escaped persecution only because he had written a work on the improvement of sheep, and was taken for a simple shepherd. cousin was not so fortunate; yet, in his confinement, he had the stoicism to compose works of geometry, and give lessons of physics to his companions of misfortune. lavoisier, that immortal character, whose generosity in promoting the progress of science could be equalled only by his own enlightened example in cultivating it, was also apprehended. as one of the commissioners for fixing the standard of weights and measures, great hopes were entertained that he might be restored to liberty. measures were taken with that intention; but these were not suited to the spirit of the moment. the commission was dissolved, and lavoisier left in prison. shortly after, this ever to be lamented _savant_ was taken to the scaffold. he would still be living, had his friends acted on the cupidity of the tyrants who then governed, instead of appealing to their justice. about this period, some members of the convention having introduced a discussion in favour of public instruction, it was strongly opposed by the revolutionary party, who saw in the sciences nothing but a poison which enervated republics. according to them, the finest schools were the popular societies. to do good was then impossible, and to shew an inclination to do it, exposed to the greatest danger the small number of enlightened men france still possessed. in this point of view, every thing was done that circumstances permitted. a military school was created, where young men from all the departments were habituated to the exercise of arms and the life of a camp. it was called _l'École de mars_. its object was not to form officers, but intelligent soldiers, who, spread in the french armies, should soon render them the most enlightened of europe, as they were already the most inured to the hardships of war. thus, a small number of men, whose conduct has been too ill appreciated, alone retarded, by constant efforts, the progress of barbarism and struggled in a thousand ways against the oppression which others contented themselves with supporting. at length, the bloody throne, raised by robespierre, was overthrown: hope succeeded to terror; and victory, to defeat. then, the sciences, issuing from the focus in which they had been concentered and concealed, reappeared in all their lustre. the services they had rendered, the dangers which had threatened them, were felt and acknowledged. the plan of campaign, formed by the scientific men, called to the committee of public welfare, had completely succeeded. the french armies had advanced on the rear of those of the allies, and, threatening to cut off their retreat, not only forced them to abandon the places they had taken, but also marched from conquest to conquest on their territory. the means of having iron, steel, saltpetre, powder, and arms, had been created during the reign of terror. the following were the results of this grand movement at the beginning of the third year of the republic. twelve millions of pounds of saltpetre extracted from the soil of france in the space of nine months. formerly, scarcely one million was drawn from it. fifteen founderies at work for the casting of brass cannon. their annual produce increased to pieces. there existed in france but two establishments of this description before the revolution. thirty founderies for iron ordnance, yielding , pieces per year. at the breaking out of the war, there were but four, which yielded annually pieces of cannon. the buildings for the manufacture of shells, shot, and all the implements of artillery, multiplied in the same proportion. twenty new manufactories for side-arms, directed by a new process. before the war, there existed but one. an immense manufactory of fire-arms established all at once in paris, and yielding , muskets per year, that is, more than all the old manufactories together. several establishments of this nature formed on the same plan in the different departments of the republic. one hundred and eighty-eight workshops for repairing arms of every description. before the war, there existed but six. the establishment of a manufactory of carbines, the making of which was till then unknown in france. the art of renewing the touch-hole of cannon discovered, and carried immediately to a perfection which admits of its being exercised in the midst of camps. a description of the means by which tar, necessary for the navy, may be speedily extracted from the pine-tree. balloons and telegraphs converted into machines of war. all the process of the arts relative to war simplified and improved by the application of the most learned theories. a secret establishment formed at meudon for that purpose. experiments there made on the oxy-muriate of potash, on fire-balls, on hollow-balls, on ring-balls, &c. great works begun for extracting from the soil of france every thing that serves for the construction, equipment, and supplies of ships of war. several researches for replacing or reproducing the principal materials which the exigencies of the war had consumed, and for increasing impure potash, which the making of powder had snatched from the other manufactories. simple and luminous directions for fixing the art of making soap, and bringing it within reach of the meanest capacity. the invention of the composition of which pencils are now made in france, the black lead for which was previously drawn from england; and what was inappreciable in those critical circumstances, the discovery of a method for tanning, in a few days, leather which generally required several years' preparation. in a word, if we speak of the territorial acquisitions, which were the result of the victories obtained by means of the extraordinary resources created by the men of science, france has acquired an extent of , square leagues, and a population of , , individuals; namely, savoy, containing , inhabitants; the county of nice, , ; avignon, the _comtat venaissin_, and dutch flanders, , ; maëstricht and venloo, , ; belgium, , , ; the left bank of the rhine, , , ; geneva and its territory, , ; and mulhausen, , . p.s. paris is now all mirth and gaiety; in consequence of the revived pleasures of the carnival. i shall not give you my opinion of it till its conclusion. [footnote : see vol. i. letter xxxiv.] [footnote : the bells produced , , pounds of metal. this article, valued at _sous_ per pound, represents millions of francs (_circa_ £ , sterling). a part served for the fabrication of copper coin, the remainder furnished pieces of ordnance.] letter lxxiii _paris, february , ._ in all great cities, one may naturally expect to find great vices; but in regard to gaming, this capital presents a scene which, i will venture to affirm, is not to be matched in any part of the world. no where is the passion, the rage for play so prevalent, so universal: no where does it cause so much havock and ruin. in every class of society here, gamesters abound. from men revelling in wealth to those scarcely above beggary, every one flies to the gaming-table; so that it follows, as a matter of course, that paris must contain a great number of _maisons de jeu_, or public gaming-houses. they are to be met with in all parts of the town, though the head-quarters are in the _palais du tribunat_, or, as it is most commonly called, the _palais royal_. whenever you come to paris, and see, on the first story, a suite of rooms ostentatiously illuminated, and a blazing reverberator at the door, you may be certain that it is a house of this description. before the revolution, gaming was not only tolerated in paris, but public gaming-houses were then licensed by the government, under the agreeable name of _académies de jeu_. there, any one might ruin himself under the immediate superintendance of the police, an officer belonging to which was always present. besides these academies, women of fashion and impures of the first class were allowed to keep a gaming-table or _tripot de jeu_, as it was termed, in their own house. this was a privilege granted to them in order that they might thereby recover their shattered fortune. when all the necessary expenses were paid, these ladies commonly shared the profits with their protectors, that is, with their friends in power, through whose protection the _tripot_ was sanctioned. every one has heard of the fatal propensity to gaming indulged in by the unfortunate marie antoinette. the french women of quality followed her pernicious example, as the young male nobility did that of the count d'artois and the duke of orleans; so that, however decided might be the personal aversion of lewis xvi to gaming, it never was more in fashion at the court of france than during his reign. this is a fact, which can be confirmed by general s---th and other englishmen who have played deep at the queen's parties. at the present day, play is, as i have before stated, much recurred to as a financial resource, by many of the _ci-devant_ female _noblesse_ in paris. in their parties, _bouillotte_ is the prevailing game; and the speculation is productive, if the company will sit and play. consequently, the longer the sitting, the greater the profits. the same lady who moralizes in the morning, and will read you a lecture on the mischievous consequences of gaming, makes not the smallest hesitation to press you to sit down at her _bouillotte_ in the evening, where she knows you will almost infallibly be a loser. no protection, i believe, is now necessary for a lady who chooses to have a little private gaming at her residence, under the specious names of _société_, _bal_, _thé_, or _concert_. but this is not the case with the _maisons de jeu_, where the gaming-tables are public; or even with private houses, where the object of the speculation is publicly known. these purchase a license in the following manner. a person, who is said to have several _sleeping_ partners, engages to pay to the government the sum of , , francs (_circa_ £ , sterling) a year for the power of licensing all gaming-houses in this capital, and also to account for a tenth part of the profits, which enter the coffer of the minister at the head of the department of the police. this contribution serves to defray part of the expense of greasing the wheels of that intricate machine. without such a license, no gaming-house can be opened in paris. sometimes it is paid for by a share in the profits, sometimes by a certain sum per sitting. these _maisons de jeu_, where dupes are pitted against cheats, are filled from morning to night with those restless beings, who, in their eager pursuit after fortune, almost all meet with disappointment, wretchedness, ruin, and every mischief produced by gaming. this vice, however, carries with it its own punishment; but it is unconquerable in the heart which it ravages. it lays a man prostrate before those fantastic idols, distinguished by the synonymous names of fate, chance, and destiny. it banishes from his mind the idea of enriching himself, or acquiring a competence by slow and industrious means. it feeds, it inflames his cupidity, and deceives him in order to abandon him afterwards to remorse and despair. from the mere impulse of curiosity, i have been led to visit some of the principal _maisons de jeu_. i shall therefore represent what i have seen. in a spacious suite of apartments, where different games of chance are played, is a table of almost immeasurable length, covered with a green cloth, with a red piece at one end, and a black, one at the other. it is surrounded by a crowd of persons of both sexes, squeezed together, who, all suspended between fear and hope, are waiting, with eager eyes and open mouth, for the favourable or luckless chance. i will suppose that the banker or person who deals the cards, announces "_rouge perd, couleur gagne_." the oracle has spoken. at these words of fate, on one side of the table, you see countenances smiling, but with a smile of inquietude, and on the other, long faces, on which is imprinted the palid hue of death. however, the losers recover from their stupor: they hope that the next chance will be more fortunate. if that happens, and the banker calls out "_rouge gagne, couleur perd_;" then the scene changes, and the same persons whom you have just seen so gay, make a sudden transition from joy to sadness, and _vice versa_. this contrast no language can paint, and you must see it, in order to conceive how the most headstrong gamblers can spend hour after hour in such a continual state of agitation, in which they are alternately overwhelmed by rage, anguish, and despair. some are seen plucking out their hair by the roots, scratching their face, and tearing their clothes to pieces, when, after having lost considerable sums, frequently they have not enough left to pay for a breakfast or dinner. what an instructive lesaon for the novice! what a subject of reflection for the philosophic spectator! at these scenes of folly and rapacity it is that the demon of suicide exults in the triumphs he is on the point of gaining over the weakness, avarice, and false pride of mortals. if the wretched victim has not recourse to a pistol, he probably seeks a grave at the bottom of the river. among these professed gamblers, it often happens that some of them, in order to create what they term _resources_, imagine tricks and impostures scarcely credible. i shall relate an anecdote which i picked up in the course of my inquiries respecting the garning-houses in paris. it may be necessary to premise that the counterfeit louis, which are in circulation in this country, and have nearly the appearance of the real coin, are employed by these knaves; they commonly produce them at night, because they then run less risk of being detected in passing them; but these means are very common and almost out of date. in the great gaming-houses in paris, it is customary to have on the table several _rouleaux_ of louis d'or. an old, experienced gambler came one day to a house of this class, with his pockets full of leaden _rouleaux_ of the exact form and size of those containing fifty louis d'or. he placed at one of the ends of the table (either black or red) one of his leaden _rouleaux_: he lost. the master of the bank took up his _rouleau_, and, without opening it, put it with the good _rouleaux_ in the middle of the table, where the bank is kept. the old gambler, without being disconcerted, staked another. he won, and withdrew the good _rouleau_ given him, leaving the counterfeit one on the table, at the same time calling out, "i stake ten louis out of the _rouleau_." the cards were drawn; he won: the banker, to pay him the ten louis, took a _rouleau_ from the bank. chance willed that he lighted on the leaden _rouleau_. he endeavoured to break it open by striking it on the table: the _rouleau_ withstood his efforts. the gambler, without deranging his features, then said to the banker; "mind you don't break it." the banker, disconcerted, tore the paper, and, on opening it, found it to contain nothing but lead. there being no positive proof against the gambler, he was permitted to retire, and his only punishment was to be in future excluded from this gaming-house. but he had the consolation of knowing that ninety-nine others would be open to him. however, this and other impostures have led to a regulation, that, in all these houses, the value of every stake should be apparent to the eye, and openly exposed on the table. from what i have said you might infer that _trente-et-un_ (or _rouge et noir_) is the most fashionable game played here; but, though this is the case, it is not the only one in high vogue. many others, equally pernicious, are pursued at the same time, such as _la roulette_, _passe-dix_, and _biribi_, at which cheats and sharpers can, more at their ease, execute their feats of dexterity and schemes of plunder. women frequent the gaming-tables as well as the men, and often pledge their last shift to make up a stake. it is shocking to contemplate a young female gamester, the natural beauty of whose countenance is distorted into deformity by a succession of agonizing passions. yet so distressing an object is no uncommon thing in paris. you may, perhaps, be curious to know what are these games, of _trente-et-un_, _biribi_, _passe-dix,_ and _la roulette_. never having played at any of them, such a description as i might pretend to give, could at best be but imperfect. for which, reason i shall not engage in the attempt. it is confidently affirmed that in the principal towns of france, namely, bordeaux, lyons, marseilles, rouen, &c. the rage for play is no less prevalent than in the capital, where gaming-houses daily increase in number.[ ] they are now established in every quarter in paris, even the poorest, and there are some where the lowest of the populace can indulge in a _penchant_ for gaming, as the stake is proportioned to their means. this is the ruin of every class of inhabitants and of foreigners; so much so, that suicides here increase in exact proportion to the increase of gaming-houses. is it not astonishing that the government should suffer, still more promote the existence of an evil so pernicious in every point of view? from the present state of the french finances, it would, notwithstanding, appear that every consideration, however powerful, must yield to the want of money required for defraying the expenses of the department of the police. _minima de malis_ was the excuse of the old government of france for promoting gaming. "from the crowd of dissipated characters of every description, accumulated in great cities," said its partisans, "governments find themselves compelled to tolerate certain abuses, in order to avoid evils of greater magnitude. they are forced to compound with the passions which they are unable to destroy; and it is better that men should be professed gamblers than usurers, swindlers, and thieves." such was the reasoning employed in behalf of the establishment of the _académies de jeu_, which existed prior to the revolution. such is the reasoning reproduced, at the present day, in favour of the _maisons de jeu_; but, when i reflect on all the horrors occasioned by gaming, i most ardently wish that every argument in favour of so destructive a vice, may be combated by a pen like that of rousseau, which, sir william jones says, "had the property of spreading light before it on the darkest objects, as if he had written with phosphorus on the walls of a cavern." [footnote : during the carnival of the present year ( ) the masked balls at the grand french opera were quite deserted, in consequence of a new gaming-house, established solely for foreigners, having, by the payment of considerable sums to the government, obtained permission to give masked balls. these balls were all the rage. there was one every tuesday, and the employment of the whole week was to procure cards of invitation; for persons were admitted by _invitation_ only, no money being taken. the rooms, though spacious, were warm and comfortable; the company, tolerably good, and extremely numerous, but chiefly composed of foreigners. _treute-et-un_, _biribi_, _pharaon_, _creps_, and other fashionable games were played, so that the _speculators_ could very well afford to give all sorts of refreshments, and an elegant supper _gratis_.] letter lxxiv. _paris, march , _. of all the institutions subsisting here before the revolution, that which has experienced the greatest enlargement is the museum of natural history. this establishment, formerly called _le jardin du roi_, and now more commonly known by the name of _le jardin des plantes_, received its present denomination by a decree of the national convention, dated the th of june . it is situated on the south bank of the seine, nearly facing the arsenal, and consists of a botanical garden, a collection of natural history, a library of works relating to that science, an amphitheatre for the lectures, and a _ménagerie_ of living animals. originally, it was nothing more than a garden for medicinal plants, formed under that title, in , by guy de la brosse, principal physician to lewis xiii, who sanctioned the establishment by letters patent. the king's physicians were almost always intendants of this garden till the year , when it was placed under the direction of buffon. before his time, the cabinet was trifling. it consisted only of some curiosities collected by geoffroy, and a few shells which had belonged to tournefort; but, through the zeal of buffon, and the care of his co-operator daubenton, it became a general _dépôt_ of natural history, and its riches had increased still more than its utility. on the breaking out of the revolution, it had been protected through that sort of respect which the rudest men have for the productions of nature, whence they either receive or expect relief for their sufferings. it had even been constantly defended by the revolutionary administration, under whose control and dependence it was placed. regarding it, in some measure, as their private property, their pride was interested in its preservation; and had any attempt been made to injure it, they would infallibly have caused an insurrection among the inhabitants of the surrounding _faubourg_. these singular circumstances, joined to the good understanding prevailing among the professors, had maintained this fine establishment in a state, if not increasing, at least stationary. on the revival of order, ideas were entertained of giving to it an extension which had already been projected and decreed, even during the reign of terror. the botanical garden was enlarged; the extent of the ground intended for the establishment was doubled; a _ménagerie_ was formed; new hot-houses and new galleries were constructed; the addition of new professors was confirmed, and all the necessary disbursements were made with magnificence. thus, in the same place where every production of nature was assembled, natural history was for the first time taught in its aggregate; and these courses of lectures, become celebrated by the brilliancy of the facts illustrated in them, the number of pupils who frequent them, and the great works of which they have been the cause or the motive, have rendered the museum of natural history one of the first establishments of instruction existing in europe. formerly, there were but three professors attached to this establishment. at present, there are no less than thirteen, who each give a course of forty lectures. the courses of zoology and mineralogy take place in the halls of the cabinet containing the collections corresponding to each of those sciences. the courses of botany, anatomy, and chemistry are delivered in the great amphitheatre, and that of natural iconography in the library. the days and hours of the lectures are announced every year by particular advertisements. the establishment is administered, under the authority of the minister of the interior, by the professors, who choose, annually, from among themselves, a director. at present, that situation is held by fourcroy. although this celebrated professor, in his lectures on chemistry, must principally attach himself to minerals, the particular object of chemical inquiry, he is far from neglecting vegetable and animal substances, the analysis of which will, in time, spread great light on organic bodies. the most recent discoveries on the exact constitution of bodies are made known in the course of these lectures, and a series of experiments, calculated for elucidating the demonstrations, takes place under the eyes of the auditors. no one possesses more than fourcroy the rare talent of classing well his subjects, of presenting facts in a striking point of view, and of connecting them by a succession of ideas extremely rapid, and expressed in a voice whose melody gives an additional charm to eloquence. the pleasure of hearing him is peculiarly gratifying; and, indeed, when he delivers a lecture, the amphitheatre, spacious as it is, is much too small to contain the crowd of auditors. then, the young pupils are seen with their eyes stedfastly fixed on their master, catching his word with avidity, and fearing to lose one of them; thus paying by their attention the most flattering tribute to the astonishing facility of this orator of science, from whose lips naturally flow, as from a spring, the most just and most select expressions. frequently too, carried away by the torrent of his eloquence, they forget what they have just heard, to think only of what he is saying. fourcroy speaks in this manner for upwards of two hours, without any interruption, and, what is more, without tiring either his auditors or himself. he writes with no less facility than he speaks. this is proved by the great number of works which he has published. but in his writings, his style is more calm, more smooth than that of his lectures. each professor superintends and arranges the part of the collections corresponding to the science which he is charged to teach. for this purpose, there are also assistant naturalists, whose employment is to prepare the various articles of natural history. the keeper of the cabinet, under the authority of the director, takes all the measures necessary for the preservation of the collections. the principal ones are: . the cabinet of natural history, containing the animal kingdom, divided into its classes; the mineral kingdom; the fossils, woods, fruits, and other vegetable productions, together with the herbals. this cabinet, which occupies the buildings on the right, on entering from the street, is open to students on mondays, wednesdays, and saturdays, from eleven o'clock till two, and to the public in general every tuesday and friday in the afternoon. . the library, chiefly composed of works relating to natural history, contains, among other valuable articles, an immense collection of animals and plants, painted on vellum. three painters are charged to continue this collection under the superintendance of the professors. the library is open to the public every day from eleven o'clock to two. . the cabinet of anatomy, containing the preparations relative to the human race and to animals. it is situated in a separate building, and for the present open to students only. . the botanical school, containing the plants growing in the open ground, and the numerous hot-houses in which are cultivated those peculiar to warm countries. . the _ménagerie_ of foreign animals. at the present moment, they are dispersed in various parts of the garden; but they are shortly to be assembled in a spacious and agreeable place. . the chemical laboratory and the collection of chemical productions. to these may be added a laboratory for the preparation of objects of natural history, and another for that of objects of anatomy. notwithstanding the improved state to which buffon had brought this establishment, yet, through the united care of the several scientific men who have since had the direction of it, the constant attention bestowed on it by the government, and even by the conquests of the french armies, its riches have been so much increased, that its collection of natural history may at this day be considered as the finest in being. the department of the minerals and that of the quadrupeds are nearly complete; that of the birds is one of the most considerable and the handsomest known; and the other classes, without answering yet the idea which a naturalist might conceive of thenm, are, nevertheless, superior to what other countries have to offer. among the curious or scarce articles in this museum, the following claim particular notice: in the class of quadrupeds, adult individuals, stuffed, such as the camelopard, the hippopotamus, the single-horned rhinoceros, the madagascar squirrel, the senegal lemur, two varieties of the oran-outang, the proboscis-monkey, different specimens of the indri, some new species of bats and opossums, the batavian kangaroo, and several antelopes, ant-eaters, &c. in the class of birds, a great number of new or rare species, and among those remarkable either for size or beauty, are the golden vulture, the great american eagle, the impey peacock, the ju[] pheasant or argus, the plantain-eater, &c. among the reptiles, the crocodile of the ganges, the fimbriated tortoise of cayenne, &c. among the shells, the glass patella, and a number of valuable, scarce, or new species. the collection of insects has just been completed through the assiduity of the estimable lamarck, the professor who has charge of that department. in the mineral kingdom, independently of the numerous and select choice of all the specimens, are to be remarked as objects of particular curiosity, the petrifactions of crocodiles' bones found in the mountain of st. pierre at maëstricht, and the collection of impressions of fishes from mount bolca, near verona. at the present moment, the _ménagerie_ contains a female elephant only, the male having died since my arrival in paris, three dromedaries, two camels, five lions, male and female, a white bear, a brown bear, a mangousta, a civet, an alligator, an ostrich, and several other scarce and curious animals, the number and variety of which receive frequent additions. in other parts of the garden are inclosures for land and sea fowls, as well as ponds for fishes. the denomination of _jardin des plantes_ is very appropriate to this garden, as it furnishes to all the botanical establishments throughout france seeds of trees and plants useful to the p[]ess of agriculture and of the arts; and hence the indigent poor are supplied with such medicinal plants as are proper for the cure or relief of their complaints. letter lxxv. _paris, march , ._ it has been repeatedly observed that civilized nations adhere to their ancient customs for no other reason than because they are ancient. the french have, above all, a most decided partiality for those which afford them opportunities of amusement. it must therefore have been a subject of no small regret to them, on the annual return of those periods, to find the government taking every measure for the suppression of old habits. for some years since the revolution, all disguises and masquerades were strictly prohibited; but, though the executive power forbade pasteboard masks, its authority could not extend to those mental disguises which have been occasionally worn by many leading political characters in this country. no sooner was the prohibition against masquerading removed, than the parisians gave full scope to the indulgence of their inclination; and this year was revived, in all its glory, the celebration of the carnival. yesterday was the conclusion of that mirthful period, during which folly seemed to have taken possession of all the inhabitants of this populous city. every thing that gaiety, whim, humour, and eccentricity could invent, was put in practice to render it a sort of continued jubilee. from morn to night, the concourse of masks of every description was great beyond any former example; but still greater was the concourse of spectators. all the principal streets and public gardens were thronged by singular characters, in appropriate dresses, moving about in small detached parties or in numerous close bodies, on foot, on horseback, or in carriages. the _boulevards_, the _rue de la loi_, and the _rue st. honoré_, exhibited long processions of masks and grotesque figures, crowded both in the inside and on the outside of vehicles of all sorts, from a _fiacre_ to a german waggon, drawn by two, four, six, and eight horses; while the _palais royal_, the _tuileries_, the _place de la concorde_, and the _champs elysées_ were filled with pedestrian wits, amusing the surrounding multitude by the liveliness of their sallies and the smartness of their repartee. here s[]pins, scaramouches, punchinellos, pierrots, harlequins, and columbines, together with nuns, friars, abbés, bishops, and _marquis_ in caricature, enlivened the scene: there, sultans, sultanas, janissaries, mamlûks, turks, spaniards, and indians, in stately pride, attracted attention. on one side, a mars and venus, an apollo and daphne, figured under the attributes of heathen mythology: on another, more than one adam and eve recalled to mind the origin of the creation. to the eye of an untravelled englishman, the novelty of this sight must have been a source of no small entertainment. if he was of a reflecting mind, however, it must have given rise to a variety of observations, and some of them of a rather serious nature. in admiring the order and decency which reigned amidst so much mirth and humour, he must have been desirous to appreciate the influence of political events on the character of this people. in a word, he must have been anxious to ascertain how far the return of our gallic neighbours to their ancient habits, announces a return to their ancient institutions. it is well known that the carnival of modern times is an imitation of the saturnalia of the ancients, and that the celebration of those festivals was remarkable for the liberty which universally prevailed; slaves being, at that period, permitted to ridicule their masters, and speak with freedom on every subject. during the last years of the french monarchy, the parisians neglected not to avail themselves of this privilege. when all classes were confounded, at the time of the carnival, the most elevated became exposed to the lash of the lowest; and, under the mask of satire, the abuses which had crept into religious societies, and the corruption which prevailed in every department of the state, escaped not their bold censure. from a consciousness, no doubt, of their own weakness, the different governments that have ruled over france since the revolution, dreaded the renewal of scenes in which their tottering authority might be overthrown; but such an apprehension cannot have been entertained by the present government, as manifestly appears from the almost unlimited license which has reigned during the late carnival. notwithstanding which, it is worthy of remark that no satirical disguises were met with, no shafts of ridicule were aimed at the constituted authorities, no invective was uttered against such and such an opinion, no abuse was levelled against this or that party. censure and malice either slept or durst not shew themselves, though freedom of expression seemed to be under no restraint. formerly, when the people appeared indifferent to the motley amusements of the carnival, and little disposed to mix in them, either as actors or spectators, it was not uncommon for the government to pay for some masquerading. the _mouchards_ and underlings of the police were habited as grotesque characters, calculated to excite curiosity, and promote mirth. they then spread themselves, to the number of two or three thousand, over different parts of the town, and gave to the streets of paris a false colouring of joy and gladness; for the greater the misery of the people, the more was it thought necessary to exhibit an outward representation of public felicity. but these political impostures, having been seen through, at length failed in their effect, and were nearly relinquished before the revolution. at that time, nothing diverted the populace so much as _attrapes_ or bites; and every thing that engendered gross and filthy ideas was sure to please. pieces of money, heated purposely, were scattered on the pavement, in order that persons, who attempted to pick them up, might burn their fingers. every sort of bite was practised; but the greatest attraction and acme of delight consisted of _chianlits_, that is, persons masked, walking about, apparently, in their shirt, the tail of which was besmeared with mustard. at the present day, these coarse and disgusting jokes are evidently laid aside, as some of a more rational kind are exhibited; such as the nun, partly concealed in a truss of straw, and strapped on the catering friar's back; the effect of the galvanic fluid; and many others too numerous to mention. no factitious mirth was this year displayed; it was all natural; and if it did not add to the small sum of happiness of the distressed part of the parisian community, it must, for a while at least, have made them forget their wretchedness. with few exceptions, every one seemed employed in laughing or in exciting laughter. many of the characters assumed were such as afforded an opportunity of displaying a particular species of wit or humour; but the dress of some of the masquerading parties, being an excellent imitation of the rich costumes of asia, must have been extremely expensive. to conclude, the masked balls at the opera, on the last days of the carnival, were numerously attended. very few characters were here attempted, and those were but faintly supported. adventures are the principal object of the frequenters of these balls, and i have reason to think that the persons who went in quest of them were not disappointed. in short, though i have often passed the carnival in paris, i never witnessed one that went off with greater _éclat_. as the turkish spy observes, a small quantity of ashes, dropped, the day after its conclusion, on the head of these people in disguise, cools their frenzy. from being mad and foolish, they become calm and rational. letter lxxvi. _paris, march , ._ as i foresee that my private affairs will, probably, require my presence in england sooner than i expected, i hasten to give you an idea of the principal public edifices which i have not, yet noticed. one of these is the _luxembourg_ palace, now called the palais du sÉnat conservateur. mary of medicis, relict of henry iv, having purchased of the duke of luxembourg his hotel and its dependencies, erected on their site this palace. it was built in , under the direction of jacques de brosse, on the plan of the _pitti_ palace at florence. next to the _louvre_, the _luxembourg_ is the most spacious palace in paris. it is particularly distinguished for its bold character, its regularity, and the beauty of its proportions. the whole façade is ornamented with coupled pilasters: on the ground-floor, the tuscan order is employed, and above, the doric, with alternate rustics. in the four pavilions, placed at the angles of the principal pile, the ionic has been added to the other two orders, because they are more elevated than the rest of the buildings. towards the _rue de tournon_, the two pavilions communicate by a handsome terrace, in the middle of which is a circular saloon, surmounted by a dome of the most elegant proportion. beneath this dome is the principal entrance. the court is spacious, and on each side of it are covered arches which form galleries on the ground-floor and in front of the upper story. the twenty-four pictures which mary of medicis had caused to be painted by the celebrated rubens, for the gallery of the _luxembourg_, had been removed from it some years before the revolution. at that time even, they were intended for enriching the museum of the _louvre_. four of them are now exhibited there in the great gallery. they are allegorical; with the other twenty, they represent the prosperous part of the history of that queen, and form a striking contrast to the adversity she afterwards experienced through the persecution of cardinal richelieu. to gratify his revenge, he ordered all the furniture, &c. belonging to mary of medicis to be sold, together with the statues which then decorated the courts and garden of the _luxembourg_, and pursued with inveteracy the unfortunate queen who had erected this magnificent edifice. being exiled from france in , she wandered for a long time in flanders, and also in england, till the implacable cardinal prevailed on charles i, to command her to quit the kingdom. in , she took refuge at cologne, and, at the age of , there died in a garret, almost through hunger and distress. before the revolution, this palace belonged to monsieur, next brother to lewis xvi. it has since been occupied by the directory, each of whose members here had apartments. no material change has yet been made in it; nor does any thing announce that the partial alterations intended, either in its exterior or interior, will speedily be completed. "----_pendent opera interrupta minæque, &c._" at the present day, the _luxembourg_ is appropriated to the conservative senate, whose name it has taken, and who here hold their sittings in a hall, fitted up in a style of magnificence still superior to that of the legislative body. but the sittings of the former are not public like those of the latter; and as i had no more than a peep at their fine hall, i cannot enter into a description of its beauties. however, i took a view of their garden, in which i had formerly passed many a pleasant hour. here, workmen are employed in making considerable improvements. it was before very irregular, particularly towards the south, where the view from the palace was partly concealed by the buildings of the monastery of the carthusians. by degrees, these irregularities are made to disappear, and this garden will shortly be laid out in such a manner as to correspond better with the majesty of the palace, and display its architecture to greater advantage. alleys of trees, which were decayed from age, have been cut down, and replaced by young plants of thriving growth. in front of the south façade is to be a tasteful parterre, with an oblong piece of water in its centre. beyond the garden is a large piece of ground formerly belonging to the carthusian monastery, which is now nearly demolished; this ground is to be converted into a national nursery for all sorts of valuable fruit-trees. being contiguous to the garden of the senate, with which it communicates, it will furnish a very extensive promenade, and consequently add to the agreeableness of the place. the present minister of the interior, chaptal, who cultivates the arts and sciences with no less zeal than success, purposes to make here essays on the culture of vine-plants of every species, in order to obtain comparative results, which will throw a new light on that branch of rural economy. a great number of vases and statues are placed in the garden of the senate. many of these works are indifferently executed, though a few of them are in a good style. certainly, a more judicious and more decorous choice ought to have been made. it was not necessary to excite regret in the mind of the moralist, by placing under the eyes of the public figures of both sexes which are repugnant to modesty. if it be really meant to attempt to mend the loose morals of the nation, why are nudities, which may be considered as the leaven of corruption, exposed thus in this and other national gardens in paris? * * * * * _march , in continuation_. st. foix, in his "_essais historiques sur paris_" speaking of the bastille, says, "it is a castle, which, without being strong, is one of the most formidable in europe." in their arduous struggle for liberty, the french have scarcely left a vestige of this dread abode, in which have been immured so many victims of political vengeance. i will not pretend to affirm that such is the description of prisoners now confined in le temple. but when the liberty of individuals lies at the mercy of arbitrary power, every one has a right to draw his own inference. this edifice takes its name from the templars, whose chief residence it was till they were annihilated in . philip the fair and clement v contrived, under various absurd pretences, to massacre and burn the greater part of the knights of this order. the knights of st. john of jerusalem were put in possession of all the property of the templars, except such part as the king of france and the pope thought fit to share between them. the _temple_ then became the provincial house of the grand priory of france. the grand priory consisted of the inclosure within the walls of the _temple_, where stood a palace for the grand prior, a church, and several houses inhabited by shopkeepers and mechanics; but, with the considerable domains annexed to it, this post, before the revolution, yielded to the eldest son of the count d'artois, as grand prior, an annual revenue of , livres. the inclosure was at that time a place of refuge for debtors, where they enjoyed the privilege of freedom from arrest. the palace was erected by jacques souvrÉ, grand prior of france. near it, is a large gothic tower of a square form, flanked by four round turrets of great elevation, built by hubert, treasurer to the templars, who died in . it was in this building, which was considered as one of the most solid in france, that lewis xvi was confined from the middle of september to the day of his execution. from the th of august till that period, the royal family had occupied the part of the palace which has been preserved. this tower, when it had been entirely insulated and surrounded by a ditch, was inclosed by a high wall, which also included part of the garden. the casements were provided with strong iron bars, and masked by those shutters, called, i believe, _trunk-lights_. as for the life which the unhappy monarch led in this prison, a detailed narrative of it has been published in england, by cléry, his faithful _valet-de-chambre_. i have not been very anxious to approach the _temple_, because i concluded that, if fame was not a liar, there was no probability of my having an opportunity of seeing any part of it, except the outer wall. the result was a confirmation of my opinion. who are its occupiers? what is their number? what are their crimes? these are questions which naturally intrude themselves on the mind, when one surveys the turrets of this new bastille--for, whether a place of confinement for state-prisoners be called _la bastille_ or _le temple_, nevertheless it is a state-prison, and reminds one of slavery, which, as sterne says, is, in any disguise, a bitter draught; and though thousands, in all ages, have been made to drink of it, still it is not, on that account, less bitter. letter lxxvii _paris, march , _. nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be always able to answer your inquiries without hesitation. considering the round of amusements in which i live, i flatter myself you will readily admit that it requires no small share of good-will and perseverance to devote so much time to scribbling for your entertainment. as for information, you will, on your arrival in paris, know how much or how little you have derived from the perusal of my letters. you will then have it in your power to compare and judge. with the originals before you, you cannot be at a loss to determine how far the sketches resemble them. some of your inquiries have been already answered in my former letters. among the number, however, you will find no reply on the subject of the present state of the french press. this question being of a nature no less delicate than that concerning the police, you cannot but commend my discretion in adopting a similar method to gratify your curiosity; that is, to refer you to the intelligent author whom i quoted on the former occasion. if common report speaks the truth--_sit mihi fas audita loqui?_--the press here is now in much the same state in which it was before the revolution. i shall therefore borrow again the language of mercier, who is a famous dreamer, inasmuch as many of his dreams have been realized: yet, with all his foresight and penetration, i question whether he ever dreamt that his picture of the french press, drawn in the interval between the years and , would still be, in some respects, a true one at the beginning of the year . but, as boileau shrewdly remarks, "_le vrai peut quelquefois n'être pas vraisemblable._" "the enemies of books," says our author, "are the enemies of, knowledge, and consequently of mankind. the shackles with which the press is loaded, are an incitement for setting them at defiance. if we were to enjoy a decent liberty, we should no longer have recourse to licentiousness. there are political evils which the liberty of the press prevents, and this is already a great benefit. the interior police of states requires to be enlightened by disinterested writings. there is no one but the philosopher, satisfied with the esteem alone of his fellow-citizens, that can raise himself above the clouds formed by personal interest, and set forth the abuses of insidious custom. in short, the liberty of the press will always be the measure of civil liberty; and it is a species of thermometer, which shews, at one glance, what a people have lost or gained. "if we adopt this maxim, we are every day losing; for every day the press is more restricted. "suffer people to think and speak; the public will judge: they will even find means to correct authors. the surest method to purify the press, is to render it free: obstacles irritate it: prohibitions and difficulties engender the pamphlets complained of. "could despotism kill thought in its sanctuary, and prevent us from communicating the essence of our ideas to the mind of our fellow-creatures, it would do so. but not being able quite to pluck out the philosopher's tongue, and cut off his hands, it establishes an inquisition, peoples the frontiers with searchers, spreads satellites, and opens every package, in order to interrupt the infallible progress of morality and truth. useless and puerile effort! vain attack on the natural right of general society, and on the patriotic rights of a particular one! reason, from day to day, strikes nations with a greater lustre, and will at last shine unclouded. it answers no purpose to fear or persecute genius: nothing will extinguish in its hands the torch of truth: the decree which its mouth pronounces, will be repeated by all posterity against the unjust man. he wished to snatch from his fellow-creatures the most noble of all privileges, that of thinking, which is inseparable from that of existing: he will have manifested his weakness and folly; and he will merit the twofold reproach of tyranny and impotence. "when a very flat, very atrocious, and very calumniating libel appears under a fellow's coat, 'tis a contest who shall have it first. people pay an exorbitant price for it; the hawker who cannot read, and who wishes only to get bread for his poor family, is apprehended, and sent to prison, where he shifts for himself as well as he can. "the more the libel is prohibited, the more eager we are for it. when we have read it, and we see that nothing compensates for its mean temerity, we are ashamed to have sought after it. we scarcely dare say, _we have read it_: 'tis the scum of low literature, and what is there without its scum? "contempt would be the surest weapon against those miserable productions which are equally destitute of truth and talent. "when will men in power know how to disdain equally the interested encomiums of intriguing flatterers and the satires produced by hunger? "besides, those who sit in the first boxes must always expect some shafts levelled at them by those who are in the pit; this becomes almost inevitable. they must needs pay for their more commodious place: at least we attribute to those who rule over us more enjoyments: they have some which they will avow, solely with a view to raise themselves above the multitude. the human heart is naturally envious. let men in power then forgive or dissemble seasonably: satire will fall to the ground; it is by shewing themselves impassible, that they will disarm ardent malignity. "nevertheless, there is a kind of odious libel, which, having every characteristic of calumny, ought to be repressed. this is commonly nothing more than the fruit of anonymous and envenomed revenge: for what are the secret intrigues of courts to any man of letters? he will know time enough that which will suit the pen of history. "a libeller should be punished, as every thing violent ought to be. but the parties interested should abstain from pronouncing; for where then would be the proportion between the punishment and the crime? "i apply not the name of libels to those atrocious and gratuitous accusations against the private life of persons in power or individuals unconnected with the government. such injurious and unmeaning shafts are an attack on honour: their authors should be punished. "the police detected and apprehended one of its inspectors, who, being charged to discover those libels, proposed the composition of similar ones to some half-starved authors. after having laid for them this infernal snare for the gain of a little money, he informed against them, and sold them to the government. "these miscreants, blinded by the eager thirst of a little gold, divert themselves with the uneasiness of the government, and the more they see it in the trances of apprehension, the more they delight in magnifying the danger, and doubling its alarms. "liberty has rendered the english government insensible to libels. disdain is certain, before the work is commenced. if the satire is ingenious, people laugh at it, without believing it; if it is flat, they despise it. "why cannot the french government partly adopt this indifference? a contempt, more marked, for those vile and unknown pens that endeavour to wound the sensibility of pride, would disgust the readers of the flat and lying satires after which they are so eager, only because they imagine that the government is really offended by them. "it is to be observed that the productions that flatter more or less public malignity, spread in fugitive sparks a central fire, which, if compressed, would, perhaps, produce an explosion. "magistrates have not yet been seen disdaining those obscure shafts, rendering themselves invulnerable from the openness of their proceedings, and considering that praise will be mute, as long as criticism cannot freely raise its voice. "let them then punish the flattery by which they are assailed, since they are so much afraid of the libel that always contains some good truths: besides, the public are there to judge the detractor; and no unjust satire ever circulated a fort-night, without being branded with contempt. "ministers reciprocally deceive each other when they are attacked in this manner; the one laughs at the storm which has just burst on the other, and promotes secretly what he appears to prosecute openly and with warmth. it would be a curious thing if one could bring to light the good tricks which the votaries of ambition play each other in the road to power and fortune. "there is nothing now printed in paris, in the line of politics and history, but satires and falsehoods. foreigners look down with pity on every thing that emanates from the capital on these matters. other subjects begin to feel the consequences of this, because the restraint laid on the mind is manifested even in books of simple amusement. the presses of paris are no longer to serve but for posting-bills, and invitations to funerals and weddings. almanacks are already a subject too elevated, and the inquisition examines and garbles them. "when i see a book," says mercier, "sanctioned by the government, i would lay a wager, without opening it, that this book contains political falsehoods. the chief magistrate may well say: 'this piece of paper shall be worth a thousand francs;' but he cannot say: 'let this error become truth,' or, 'let this truth no longer be anything but an error.' he may say it, but he can never compel men's minds to adopt it. "what is admirable in printing, is that these fine works, which do honour to human genius, are not to be commanded or paid for; on the contrary, it is the natural liberty of a generous mind, which unfolds itself in spite of dangers, and makes a present to human nature, in spite of tyrants. this is what renders the man of letters so commendable, and insures to him the gratitude of future ages. "o! worthy englishmen! generous people, strangers to our shameful servitude, carefully preserve among you the liberty of the press: it is the pledge of your freedom. at this day, you alone are the representatives of nearly all mankind; you uphold the dignity of the name of man. the thunderbolts, which strike the pride and insolence of arbitrary power, issue from your happy island. human reason has found among you an asylum whence she may instruct the world. your books are not subject to an inquisition; and it would require a long comment to explain to you in what manner permission is at length obtained for a flimsy pamphlet, which no one will read, to be exposed for sale, and remain unsold, on the _quai de gévres_. "we are so absurd and so little in comparison to you," adds mercier, "that you would be at a loss to conceive the excess of our weakness and humiliation." letter lxxviii _paris, march , ._ among the national establishments in this metropolis, i know of none that have experienced so great an amelioration, since the revolution, as the hospitals and other charitable institutions; the civil hospitals in paris now form two distinct classes. the one comprehends the hospitals for the sick: the other, those for the indigent. the former are devoted to the relief of suffering human nature; the latter serve as an asylum to children, to the infirm, and to the aged indigent. all persons who are not ill enough to be admitted of necessity into the hospital the nearest to their residence, are obliged to present themselves to the _bureau central d'admissions_. here they are examined, and if there be occasion, they receive a ticket of admission for the hospital where their particular disorder is treated. at the head of the hospitals for the sick stands that so long known by the appellation of the hÔtel-dieu. formerly, nothing more horrid could be conceived than the spectacle presented in this asylum for the afflicted. it was rather a charnel-house than an hospital; and the name of the creator, over the gate, which recalled to mind the principle of all existence, served only to decorate the entrance of the tomb of the living. the _hôtel-dieu_, which is situated in the _parvis notre-dame_, _ile du palais_, was founded as far back as the year by st. landry, for the reception of the sick and maimed of both sexes, without any exception of persons. jews, turks, infidels, pagans, protestants, and catholics were alike admitted, without form or recommendation. yet, though it contained but beds, and the number of patients very often exceeded , and, on an average, was never less than , till the year , no steps were taken for enlarging the hospital, or providing elsewhere for those who could not be conveniently accommodated in it. the dead were removed from the wards only on visits made at a fixed time; so that it happened not unfrequently that a poor helpless patient was compelled to remain for hours wedged in between two corpses. the air or the neighbourhood was contaminated by the noisome exhalations continually arising from this abode of pestilence, and that which was breathed within the walls of the hospital was so contagious, as to turn a trifling complaint into a dangerous disorder, and a simple wound into a mortification. in , the attention of the government being called to this serious evil by various memoirs, the _academy of sciences_ was directed to investigate the truth of the bold assertions made in these publications. a commission was appointed; but as the revenues of the _hôtel-dieu_ were immense, for a long time it was impossible to obtain from the governors any account of their application. however, the commissioners, directing their attention to the principal object, reported as follows: "we first compared the _hôtel-dieu_ and the _hôpital de la charité_ relative to their mortality. in years, the _hôtel-dieu_, out of , , patients lost , , which is one out of four and a half. _la charité_, where but one dies out of seven and a half, would have lost only , , whence results the frightful picture that the _hôtel-dieu_, in years, has snatched from france , persons, whose lives would have been saved, had the _hôtel-dieu_ been as spacious, in proportion, as _la charité_. the loss in these years answers to deaths per year, and that is nearly the tenth part of the total and annual loss of paris. the preservation of this hospital in the site it now occupies, and on its present plan, therefore produces the same effect as a sort of plague which constantly desolates the capital." in consequence of this report, the hospital was enlarged so as to contain about beds. since the revolution, the improvements introduced into the interior government of the _hotel-dieu_ have been great and rapid. each patient now has a bed to himself. those attacked by contagious disorders are transferred to the _hospice st. louis_. insane persons are no longer admitted; men, thus afflicted, are sent to a special hospital established at _charenton_; and women, to the _salpétrière_. nor are any females longer received into the _hôtel-dieu_ to lie-in; an hospital having been established for the reception of pregnant women. at the _hôtel-dieu_, every method has been put in practice to promote the circulation of air, and expel the insalubrious miasmata. one of these, i think, well deserves to be adopted in england. in the french hospitals, one ward at least is now always kept empty. the moment it becomes so by the removal of the patients into another, the walls are whitewashed, and the air is purified by the fumigation with muriatic acid, according to the plan first proposed by guyton-morveau. this operation is alternately performed in each ward in succession; that which has been the longest occupied being purified the first, and left empty till it is again wanted. the number of hospitals in paris has been considerably augmented. they are all supported by the government, and not, like those in england, by private benefactions. sick children of both sexes, from the time of suckling to the age of sixteen, are no longer admitted into the different hospitals; but are received into a special hospital, extremely well arranged, and in a fine, airy situation, beyond the _barrière de sèvres_. two institutions have been formed for the aged, infirm and indigent, who pay, on entrance, a moderate sum. one of these charities is without the _barrière d'enfer_; the other, in the _faubourg st. martin_. in the same _faubourg_, a _maison de santé_ is established, where the sick are treated on paying thirty _sous_ a day. an hospital for gratuitous vaccination, founded by the prefect of the department of la seine, is now open for the continual treatment of the cow-pox, and the distribution of the matter to all parts of france. in general, the charitable institutions in paris have also undergone very considerable improvements since the revolution; for instance, the male orphans, admitted, to the number of two thousand, into the asylum formerly called _la pitié_, in the _faubourg st. victor_, used to remain idle. they were employed only to follow funeral processions. at present, they are kept at work, and instructed in some useful trade. a new institution for female orphans has been established in the _faubourg st. antoine_; for, here, the two sexes are not at present received into the same house, whether hospital or other charitable institution. in consequence of which, paris now contains two receptacles for _incurables_, in lieu of the one which formerly existed. the place of the _hôpital des enfans-trouvés_ is also supplied by an establishment, on a large scale, called the hospice de la maternitÉ. it is divided into two branches, each of which occupies a separate house. the one for foundlings, in the _rue de la bourbe_, is intended for the reception of children abandoned by their parents. here they are reared, if not sent into the country to be suckled. the other, in the _rue d'enfer_, which may be considered as the general lying-in hospital of paris, is destined for the reception of pregnant women. upwards of are here delivered every year. as formerly, no formality is now required for the admission of new-born infants. in the old foundling-hospital, the number annually received exceeded . it is not near so great at present. to those who reflect on the ravages made among the human race by war, during which disease sweeps off many more than are killed in battle, it is a most interesting sight to behold fifty or sixty little foundlings assembled in one ward, where they are carefully fed till they are provided with wet nurses. i must here correct a mistake into which i have been betrayed, in my letter of the th of december, respecting the present destination of la salpÊtriÈre. it is no longer used as a house of correction for dissolute women. prostitutes, taken up by the police, are now carried to st. lazare, in the _rue st. denis_. those in want of medical aid, for disorders incident to their course of life, are not sent to _bicêtre, but to the _ci-devant_ monastery of the capucins, in the _rue caumartin_. at present, the _salpêtrière forms an _hospice_ for the reception of indigent or infirm old women, and young girls, brought up in the foundling-hospital, are placed here to be instructed in needle-work and making lace. female idiots and mad women are also taken care of in a particular part of this very extensive building. the salpêtrière was erected by lewis xiii, and founded as an hospital, by lewis xiv, in . the facade has a majestic appearance. before the revolution, this edifice was said to lodge souls, and even now, it cannot contain less than . by the _plan of paris_, you will see its situation, to the south-east of the _jardin des plantes_. i shall also avail myself of the opportunity of correcting another mistake concerning bicÊtre. this place has now the same destination for men that the salpétrière has for women. there is a particular hospital, lately established, for male venereal patients, in the _rue du faubourg st. jacques_. * * * * * _march , in continuation._ previously to the decree of the th of august , which suppressed the universities and other scientific institutions, there existed in france faculties and colleges of physicians, as well as colleges and commonalities of surgeons. from one of those unaccountable contradictions of which the revolution affords so many instances, these were also suppressed at a time when they were becoming most necessary for supplying the french armies with medical men. but as soon as the fury of the revolutionary storm began to abate, the re-establishment of schools of medicine was one of the first objects that engaged attention. till these latter times, medicine and surgery, separated from each other, mutually contended for pre-eminence. each had its forms and particular schools. they seemed to have divided between them suffering human nature, instead of uniting for its relief. on both sides, men of merit despised such useless distinctions; they felt that the curative art ought to comprehend all the knowledge and all the means that can conduce to its success; but these elevated ideas were combated by narrow minds, which, not being capable of embracing general considerations, always attach to details a great importance. the revolution terminated these disputes, by involving both parties in the same misfortunes. at the time of the re-establishment of public instruction, the _schools of health_, founded at paris, montpelier, and strasburg, on plans digested by men the most enlightened, presented a complete body of instruction relative to every branch of the curative art. physics and chemistry, which form the basis of that art, were naturally included, and nothing that could contribute to its perfection, in the present state of the sciences, was forgotten. the plan of instruction is fundamentally the same in all these schools; but is more extensive in the principal one, that is, in the school of medicine of paris. this very striking monument of modern architecture, situated in the _faubourg st. germain_, owes its erection to the partiality which lewis xv entertained for the art of surgery. that monarch preferred it to every science; he was fond of conversing on it, and took such an interest in it, that, in order to promote its improvement, he built this handsome edifice for the _ci-devant académie et Écoles de chirurgie_. the architect was gondouin. the façade, extending nearly two hundred feet, presents a peristyle of the ionic order. the interior distribution of this building corresponds with the elegance of its exterior. it contains a valuable library, a cabinet of anatomical preparations (among which is a skeleton that presents a rare instance of a general _anchilosis_) and imitations in wax, a chemical laboratory, a vast collection of chirurgical and philosophical instruments, and a magnificent amphitheatre, the first stone of which was laid by lewis xvi in december . this lecture-room will conveniently hold twelve hundred persons, and its form and arrangement are such, that a pupil seated the farthest from the subject under dissection, can see all the demonstrations of the professor as well as if placed near the marble table. in one wing of the building is an _hospice de perfectionnement_, formerly instituted for the reception of rare chirurgical cases only; but into which other patients, labouring under internal disorders of an extraordinary nature, are now likewise admitted. to this school are attached from twenty to thirty professors, who lecture on anatomy and physiology; medical chemistry and pharmacy; medical physics; pathology, internal and external; natural history, as connected with medicine, and botany; operative medicine; external and internal clinical cases, and the modern improvements in treating them; midwifery, and all disorders incident to women; the physical education of children; the history of medicine, and its legitimate practice; the doctrine of hippocrates, and history of rare cases; medical bibliography, and the demonstration of the use of drugs and chirurgical instruments. there are also a chief anatomist, a painter, and a modeller in wax. the lectures are open to the public as well as to the students, who are said to exceed a thousand. besides this part of instruction, the pupils practise anatomical, chirurgical, and chemical operations. to the number of one hundred and twenty, they form a practical school, divided into three classes, and are successively distributed into three of the clinical hospitals in paris. at an annual competition, prizes are awarded to the greatest proficients. although this school is so numerously attended, and has produced several skilful professors, celebrated anatomists, and a multitude of distinguished pupils, yet it appears that, since there has been no regular admission for physicians and surgeons, the most complete anarchy has prevailed in the medical line. the towns and villages in france are overrun by quacks, who deal out poison and death with an audacity which the existing laws are unable to check. under the title of _officiers de santé_, they impose on the credulity of the public, in the most dangerous manner, by the distribution of nostrums for every disorder. to put a stop to this alarming evil, it is in contemplation to promulgate a law, enacting that no one shall in future practise in france as a physician or surgeon, without having been examined and received into one of the six special schools of medicine, or as an officer of health, without having studied a certain number of years, walked the hospitals, and also passed a regular examination.[ ] at the medical school of paris are held the meetings of the society of medicine. it was instituted for the purpose of continuing the labours of the _ci-devant_ royal society of medicine and the old academy of surgery. with this view, it is charged to keep up a correspondence, not only with the medical men resident within the limits of the republic, but also with those of foreign countries, respecting every object that can tend to the progress of the art of healing. * * * * * as far back as the year , there existed in paris a college of pharmacy. the apothecaries, composing this college, had formed, at their own expense, an establishment for instruction relative to the curative art, in their laboratory and garden in the _rue de l'arbalêtre_. since the revolution, the acknowledged utility of this institution has caused it to be maintained under the title of the gratuitous school of pharmacy. here are delivered _gratis_, by two professors in each department, public lectures on pharmaceutic chemistry, pharmaceutic natural history, and botany. when the courses are finished, prizes are annually distributed to the pupils who distinguish themselves most by their talents and knowledge. in the year , the apothecaries of paris, animated by a desire to render this establishment still more useful, formed themselves into a society, by the name of the free society of apothecaries. its object is to contribute to the progress of the arts and sciences, particularly pharmacy, chemistry, botany, and natural history. this society admits, as free and corresponding associates, _savans_ of all the other departments of france and of foreign countries, who cultivate those sciences and others analogous to them. some of the most enlightened men in france are to be found among its members. the advantageous changes made in the teaching of medicine, since the revolution, appear to consist chiefly in the establishment of clinical lectures. the teaching of the sciences, accessory to medicine, partakes more or less advantageously of the great progress made in that of chemistry. it seems that, in general, the students in medicine grant but a very limited confidence to accredited opinions, and that they recur to observation and experience much more than they did formerly. as for the changes which have occurred in the practice of medicine, i think it would be no easy matter to appreciate them with any degree of exactness. besides, sufficient time has not yet elapsed since the establishment of the new mode of teaching, for them to assume a marked complexion. it is, however, to be observed that, by the death of the celebrated dÉsault, surgery has sustained a loss which is not yet repaired, nor will be perhaps for ages. [footnote : a law to this effect is now made.] letter lxxix. _paris, march , ._ from the account i have given you of the public schools here, you will have perceived that, since the revolution, nothing has been neglected which could contribute to the mental improvement of the male part of the rising generation. but as some parents are averse to sending their children to these national schools, there are now established in paris a great number of private seminaries for youth of both sexes. several of these are far superior to any that previously existed in france, and are really of a nature to excite admiration, when we consider the cruel divisions which have distracted this country. but it seems that if, for a time, instruction, both public and private, was suspended, no sooner were the french permitted to breathe than a sudden and salutary emulation arose among those who devoted themselves to the important task of conducting these private schools. the great advantage which they appear to me to have over establishments of a similar description in england, is that the scholars are perfectly grounded in whatever they are taught; the want of which, among us, occasions many a youth to forget the greater part of what he has learned long before he has attained the years of manhood. if several of the schools for boys here are extremely well conducted, some of those for girls appear to be governed with no less care and judgment. in order to be enabled to form an opinion on the present mode of bringing up young girls in france, i have made a point of investigating the subject. i shall, in consequence, endeavour to shew you the contrast which strikes me to have occurred here in female education. in france, convents had, at all times, prior to the revolution, enjoyed the exclusive privilege of bringing up young women; and some families had, for a century past, preserved the habit of sending all their daughters to be st. ursulas, in order to enter afterwards into the world as virtuous wives and tender mothers. the natural result was, that, if the principles of excessive piety which had been communicated to them remained deeply engraved in their heart, they employed the whole day in the duties required by the catholic religion; and the confessor who dictated all these habitual practices, not unfrequently became the director of the temporal concerns of the family, as well as the spiritual. if the young girls, in emerging from the cells of a convent, were disposed to lay aside their religious practices, in order to adopt the customs and pleasures of the world, this sudden transition, from one extreme to the other, made them at once abandon, not only the puerile minutiæ, but also the sacred principles of religion. there was no medium. they either became outrageous devotees, and, neglecting the respectable duties of housewives and mistresses of a family, wrapped themselves up in a great hood, and were incessantly on their knees before the altars of the churches, or, on the other hand, rushed into extravagance and dissipation, and, likewise, deserting a family which claimed their care, dishonoured themselves by the licentiousness of their manners. at the present time, many women of good abilities and character, deprived of their property by the vicissitudes of the revolution, have established, in paris and its environs, seminaries, where young girls receive such advice as is most useful to females who are destined to live in the world, and acquirements, which, by employing them agreeably several hours in the day, contribute to the interior happiness of their family, and make them find charms in a domestic life. in short, the superiority of female education in france is decidedly in favour of the present system, whether considered in regard to mental improvement, health, or beauty. with respect to the morals inculcated in these modern french boarding schools, the best answer to all the prejudices might be entertained against them, is that the men, who have married women there educated, find that they prove excellent wives, and that their accomplishments serve only to embellish their virtues. letter lxxx. _paris, march , _. i plead guilty to your censure in not having yet furnished you with any remarks on the origin of this capital; but you will recollect that i engaged only to give you a mere sketch; indeed, it would require more time and talent than i can command to present you with a finished picture. i speak of things just as they happen to occur to my mind; and provided my letters bring you acquainted with such objects here as are most deserving of attention, my purpose will be fully accomplished. however, in compliance with your pressing request, i shall now briefly retrace the progressive aggrandisement of paris. without hazarding any vague conjectures, i may, i think, safely affirm that cæsar is the first historian who makes mention of this city. in the seventh book of his commentaries, that conqueror relates that he sent his lieutenant labienus towards lutetia; this was the name given by the gauls to the capital of the parisii. it was then entirely contained within that island on the seine, which, at the present day, is called _l'ile du palais_. in comparison to the capitals of the other provinces of gaul, _lutetia_ was but a sorry village; its houses were small, of a round form, built of wood and earth, and covered with straw and reeds. after having conquered _lutetia_, the romans embellished it with a palace, surrounded it by walls, and erected, at the head of each of the two bridges leading to it, a fortress, one of which stood on the site of the prison called _le grand châtelet_; and the other, on that of _le petit châtelet_. the yonne, the marne, and the oise, being rivers which join the seine, suggested the idea of establishing a trading company by water, in order to facilitate, by those channels, the circulation of warlike stores and provisions. these merchants were called _nautæ parisiaci_. the romans also erected, near the left bank of the seine, a magnificent palace and an aqueduct. this palace was called _thermæ_, on account of its tepid baths. julian, being charged to defend gaul against the irruptions of the barbarians, took up his residence in these _thermæ_ in , two years before he was proclaimed emperor, in the square which was in front of this palace. "i was in winter-quarters in my dear _lutetia_," says he in his _misopogon_. "thus is named, in gaul, the little capital of the parisii."--"it occupies," observes abbon, "an inconsiderable island, surrounded by walls, the foot of which is bathed by the river. the entrance to it, on each side, is by a wooden bridge." towards the middle of the fifth century, this city passed from the dominion of the romans to that of the francs. it was besieged by childeric i. in , clovis declared it the capital of his kingdom. the long stay which that prince made in it, contributed to its embellishment. charlemagne founded in it a celebrated school. a little time after, another was established in the abbey of _st. germain-des-prés_. in the course of the ninth century, it was besieged and pillaged three times by the normans. philip augustus surrounded paris with walls, and comprised in that inclosure a great number of small towns and hamlets in its vicinity. this undertaking occupied twenty years, having been begun in , and finished in . the same king was also the first who caused the streets of this city to be paved. the wars of the english required new fortifications; and, under king john, ditches were dug round the city; and the _bastille_, erected. these works were continued during the reigns of charles v and charles vi. francis i, the restorer of literature and of the arts, neglected nothing that might conduce to the farther embellishment of this capital. he caused several new streets to be made, many gothic edifices to be pulled down, and was, in france, the first who revived greek architecture, the remains of which, buried by the hand of time, or mutilated by that of barbarians, being collected and compared at rome, began to improve the genius of celebrated artists, and, in the sequel, led to the production of masterpieces. the kings, his successors, executed a part of the projects of that prince, and this extensive city imperceptibly lost its irregular and gothic aspect. the removal of the houses, which, not long since, encumbered the bridges, and intercepted the current of air, has diffused cheerfulness and salubrity. you will pardon me, i trust, if i here make a retrograde movement, not to recapitulate the aggrandisement of paris, but to retrace rapidly the progressive amelioration of the manners of its inhabitants. the latter paved the way to the former. under the first kings of france of the third race, justice was administered in a summary way; the king, the count, and the viscount heard the parties, and gave a prompt sentence, or else left the controversy to be decided by a pitched battle, if it was of too intricate a nature. no colleges then existed here; the clergy only keeping schools near the cathedral of _notre-dame_ for those who were intended for holy orders. the nobles piqued themselves on extreme ignorance, and as many of them could not even sign their own name, they dipped their glove in ink, and stamped it on the parchment as their signature. they lived on their estates, and if they were obliged to pass three or four days in town, they affected to appear always in boots, in order that they might not be taken for _vassals_. ten men were sufficient for the collection of all the taxes. there were no more than two gates to the city; and under lewis surnamed _le gros_, from his corpulency, the duties at the north gate produced no more than twelve francs a year. philip augustus, being fond of literature, welcomed and protected men of learning. it had appeared to revive under charlemagne; but the ravages of the normans occasioned it to sink again into oblivion till the reign of lewis the young, father of philip augustus. under the latter, the schools of paris became celebrated; they were resorted to, not only from the distant provinces, but from foreign countries. the quarter, till lately called _l'université_, became peopled; and, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, was covered by colleges and monasteries. philip the fair rendered the parliament sedentary. he prohibited duelling in civil contentions; and a person might have recourse to a court of justice, without being under the necessity of fighting. anne de bretagne, great and majestic in every thing, was desirous of having a court. ladies who, till then, were born in one castle only to marry and die in another, came to paris. they were unwilling to leave it, and men followed them thither. all these circumstances increased its inhabitants to a thirtieth part beyond their former number. the wars of religion under charles ix and henry iii rendered gold and silver a little more common, by the profanations of the calvinists, who pillaged the churches, and converted into specie the sacred vases, as well as the shrines and statues of saints. the vast sums of money which the court of spain lavished in paris, to support the league, had also diffused a certain degree of affluence among no inconsiderable number of citizens; and it is to be remarked that, under henry iv, several handsome streets were finished in less than a year. henry iv was the first of the kings of france who embellished paris with regular squares, or open spaces, decorated with the different orders of architecture. after having nearly finished the _pont neuf_, he built the _place royale_, now called _place des fédérés_, and also the _place dauphine_. towards the end of the administration of cardinal richelieu, there no longer existed in france more than one master; and the petty tyrants in the provinces, who had fortified themselves so long in their castles against the royal authority, were seen to come to court, to solicit the most paltry lodging with all the servility of courtiers, and at the same time erect mansions in town with all the splendour of men inflated by pride and power. at last came the reign of lewis xiv, and presently paris knew no limits. its gates were converted into arcs of triumph, and its ditches, being filled up and planted with trees, became public walks. when one considers the character of that monarch, it should seem that paris ought to have been more embellished under his reign. in fact, had lewis xiv expended on paris one-fourth part of the money which he lavished on versailles,[ ] it would have become the most astonishing city in europe. however, its great extent and population, magnificent edifices, celebrated national establishments of learning and science, rich libraries, curious cabinets, where lessons of knowledge and genius present themselves to those who have a taste for them, together with its theatres and other places of public entertainment, have long rendered paris deserving of the admiration of enlightened nations. before the revolution, paris contained parish churches, and others answering the same purpose, abbeys, and monasteries or convents of men and women, colleges, public seminaries, and hospitals. to these must be added the three royal habitations, the _louvre_, the _tuileries_, and the _luxembourg_, also the _hôtel des invalides_, the _palais royal_, the _palais bourbon_, and a great number of magnificent hotels, inhabited by titled or wealthy persons. since the revolution, several of these buildings have been destroyed; almost all the monasteries and convents, together with the churches belonging to them, have been sold as national property, and either demolished for the sake of the materials, or converted to different uses. fifteen principal churches, besides the _pantheon_, the _invalides_, _val-de-grace_, the _sorbonne_, and a few others, were preserved as national temples, intended for the celebration of _decadary fétes_, and for a time rendered common to every sort of worship. most of the old churches were of gothic architecture, and not much to be commended with respect to art; but several of them were models of boldness, from the lightness of their construction. the colleges, as i have before observed, are replaced by public schools and private seminaries of every description. the number of the houses in paris, many of which are from five to eight stories in height, has been estimated at upwards of , . the number of its inhabitants appears to have been over-rated. by an official statement, in which foreigners are not included, it contains no more than , souls. during the last year of the republican era, the number of males born in paris was ; and that of females, ; making the general total of births , , of which the males, born out of wedlock, amounted to ; and the females, to . the number of persons deceased, within the same period, was , males, and , females; making together , . the annual decrease in population was consequently souls. the number of marriages was ; and that of divorces, ; which is nearly out of . the ancient division of paris consisted of three parts; namely, _la cité_, _l'université_, and _la ville_. _la cite_ comprised all the _ile du palais_. this is the parent-stock of the capital, whence have extended, like so many branches, the numerous quarters by which it is surrounded. _l'université_ was bordered by the seine, the _faubourg st. bernard_, _st. victor_, _st. marcel_, _st. jacques_, and the _faubourg st. germain_. the number of colleges in this quarter, had obtained it the name of _le pays latin_. _la ville_ comprehended all the rest of the capital, not included in the suburbs. at present, paris is divided into twelve mayoralties (as you will see by the _plan_), each of which is presided by a central office of municipal police. the _faubourgs_ retain their ancient names; but those of many of the streets have been changed in the course of the revolution. the _chaussée d'antin_, which comprises the new streets north of the _boulevard italien_, is now the most fashionable part of the town. the houses here are chiefly inhabited by bankers and persons living in affluence; and apartments in this neighbourhood are considerably dearer than in the _faubourg st. germain_, which, comparatively speaking, is deserted. i have already described the _porte st. denis_ and the _porte st. martin_, which are nothing more than arcs of triumph. in proportion as the limits of the capital became extended, the real gates were removed, but reappeared under the name of _barrières_. these costly edifices were constructed during the ministry of calonne, under the direction of ledoux, the architect, who has taken a pleasure in varying their form and character. one represents an observatory; another, a chapel; some have the appearance of rusticated buildings; others, that of temples. under the old _régime_ too, the farmers-general had inclosed paris with a high wall, the extent of which has been estimated at upwards of , toises. this wall displeased the eye of the parisians, and, when they were out of humour, induced them to murmur loudly. whence the following _jeu de mots_: _"le mur, murant paris, rend paris murmurout."_ during the revolution, it was by no means uncommon to shut the _barrières_, in order to serve the purposes of party, and favour the arrest of particular persons. to the number of sixty, they are placed at the principal outlets of the suburbs, and occupied by custom-house officers, whose business is to collect duties, and watch that no contraband goods find their way into the city. formerly, when every carriage entering paris was stopped and examined (which is not the case at present), the self-importance of these _commis des barrières_ could be equalled only by their ignorance. a traveller arriving from egypt brought with him a mummy. the case being long, he chose not to fasten it on to his post-chaise, but sent it to paris by water. when it was landed at the _barrière_, the custom-house officers opened it, and, finding it to contain a black-looking body, decided that this was a man who had been baked in an oven. they took the linen bandages for his burnt shirt, and, after drawing up a _procès-verbal_ in due form, sent the mummy to the _morne_, where dead bodies are exposed in order to be owned. when the proprietor reached paris, he went to the _barrière_ to claim his mummy. the _commis_ listened to him and stared at him with astonishment. he grew angry, and at length broke out into a violent passion; when one of the searchers, in a whisper, advised him to decamp, if he wished to avoid the gallows. the traveller, stupified, was obliged to apply to the minister of the police, and, with some difficulty, recovered from the _morne_ his egyptian prince or princess, who, after having been preserved years, was on the point of being buried in a catholic cemetery, instead of figuring in a cabinet of curiosities. [footnote : the article of lead alone for the water-pipes cost thirty-two millions of livres or £ , , sterling; but "rich in her weeping country's spoils, versailles! may boast a thousand fountains, that can cast the tortur'd waters to the distant heav'ns"--] letter lxxxi. _paris, march , ._ an object which must infallibly strike the eye of the attentive observer, who has not visited this capital within the last ten years,g is the change in the style of french furniture. this remark may, at first sight, appear trivial; but a second view of the subject will produce reflections on the frivolity of this people, even amidst their intestine commotions, and at the same time shew that they are, in no small degree, indebted to the influence of those events for the taste which is to be distinguished in the new productions of their industry, and, in general, for the progress they have made, not only in the mechanical arts, but also in the sciences of every description. this will appear the more extraordinary, as it should seem natural to presume that the persecution which the protectors of the arts and sciences experienced, in the course of the revolution, was likely to produce quite a contrary effect. but the man of science and the artist, each abandoned to himself, acquired, in that forlorn situation, a knowledge and a taste which very frequently are the result of long study only, seconded by encouragement from the wealthy. the apartments of the fine ladies, of the rich, of the bankers, and merchants in paris, and generally speaking, of all those who, from their business and connexions, have most intercourse with the public and with foreigners, are furnished in the modern mode, that is, in the antique taste. many of the french artists, being destitute of employment, were compelled through necessity to seek it; some entered into the warehouse of the upholsterer to direct the shape and disposition of his hangings; some, into the manufactory of the paper-maker to furnish him with new patterns; and others, into the shop of the cabinet-maker to sell him sketches of antique forms. had the easels of these artists been occupied by pictures no sooner finished than paid for, the grecian bed would not have expelled the _lit à la polonaise_, in vogue here before the revolution; the etruscan designs would not have succeeded to the chinese paper; nor would the curtains with persian borders have been replaced by that elegant drapery which retraces the pure and simple taste of the people of attica. the elegant forms of the modern french _secrétaires_, commodes, chairs, &c. have also been copied from the greeks and romans. the ornaments of these are either bronzed or gilt, and are uncommonly well finished. in general, they represent heads of men, women, and animals, designed after the antique. caryatides are sometimes introduced, as well as egyptian attributes; the arms of the chairs being frequently decorated with sphinxes. in short, on entering the residence of a _parvenu_, you would fancy yourself suddenly transported into the house of a wealthy athenian; and these new favourites of fortune can, without crossing the threshold of their own door, study chaste antiquity, and imbibe a taste for other knowledge, connected with it, in which they are but little versed. mahogany is the wood employed for making these modern articles of furniture, whose forms are no less varied than elegant; advantages which cause them to be preferred to the ancient. but the latter, though heavy in their construction, are, nevertheless, thought, by some persons, superior to the former in point of solidity and convenience. the old-fashioned bedsteads and chairs are generally of oak, painted or gilt, and are covered with silk or tapestry of different patterns. the _ci-devant_ nobles appear to be greatly attached to them, and preserve them as monuments, which supply the place of the titles and parchments they were forced to burn during the sanguinary periods of the revolution. but this taste is not exclusive; several of the parisian _bourgeois_, either from economy, or from a wish to appear to have belonged to that class, shew no less eagerness to possess these spoils of the _noblesse_, as furniture for their apartments. while i am speaking of furniture, it naturally occurs to me that i have not yet taken you to visit les gobelins. this national manufactory, which is situated in the _faubourg st. marcel_, takes its name from two famous flemish dyers, who settled in paris under francis i. in , colbert purchased part of the old premises where the _gobelins_ had carried on their business, and there opened an establishment under the direction of le brun. it was not confined to the manufacture of tapestry only, but was composed of painters, sculptors, engravers, goldsmiths, watch-makers, lapidaries, and other artists and workmen of almost every description, whose pupils and apprentices here acquired their freedom. since the revolution, tapestry alone is manufactured here, on two sorts of looms, distinguished by the denominations of _haute_ and _basso lisse_, which are fully explained in an interesting _notice_, published by the intelligent director, guillaumot, who, it seems, has introduced into each of these branches several recent improvements. the art of making tapestry originated in england and flanders, where the cartoons of raphael and julio romano were coarsely copied. it was gradually improved in france, and is now brought here to the greatest perfection. indeed, a piece of _gobelin_ tapestry may be called a picture painted with wool and silk; but its admirable execution produces an illusion so complete, that skilful painters have been seen to lay their hands on this tapestry, to convince themselves that it was not a real painting. tapestry is now entirely out of fashion; and, with the exception of a few small fancy-pieces, the productions of this manufactory are intended solely for the decoration of the national palaces and other public buildings. in the blood-thirsty marat strove hard to annihilate this establishment, by exaggerating the expenses of its maintenance. in , their real amount was , francs; journeymen and apprentices were then employed, and paid in proportion to their merit and to the quantity of work they performed. in , they were divided into classes, and paid by the day. this regulation produces less work, but its execution is more perfect, since no motive of interest induces the workman to neglect his performance. at present, its expenses cannot be so great, as the number of persons employed is less than . should the penury of the finances not allow the means of re-establishing pupils, this manufactory will be extinguished like a lamp for want of oil. twenty years are necessary to make a good manufacturer of tapestry; those of the first abilities are now nearly years of age, and therefore it seems high time to prepare for them competent successors. at _chaillot_, we shall find another national manufactory, somewhat analogous to the former, and which also claims the attention of the curious observer. from having been fixed in a place originally occupied by a soap-house, it is called la savonnerie. it was established, as far back as , at the instigation of pierre dupont, who, being forced to quit his native land by the civil commotions arising from the league, went to the levant. having seen carpets made without taste or design in that country, he conceived the idea of introducing a manufactory of this kind into france, where it would be susceptible of considerable improvement from the exercise of the arts unknown in turkey. the project was approved by henry iv, who first gave dupont an establishment in the _louvre_, which was afterwards transferred to its present situation. like the _gobelins_, the national manufactory of the _savonnerie_ is, and has been, constantly supported by the government, and like it too, contributes to the decoration of the national palaces, &c. nothing, in the shape of carpets, can answer this purpose better than those manufactured here, the colours of which are extremely brilliant. the close, velvety texture of the manufacture gives a peculiar expression to objects which are copied from nature, such as the hair of animals, the down of fruit, and the lustre of flowers. from its foundation till the year , this manufactory continued to be under the direction of a contractor, who delivered the carpeting to the government at the rate of francs per square ell. at the revolution, new regulations were established; the workmen were paid by the day, and classed according to their merit. in consequence, though less work is performed, it is executed with greater perfection. the present government has lately ordered the old patterns, which were overloaded with ornaments and flowers, to be suppressed, and replaced by compositions more simple, more elegant, and infinitely more tasteful. i understand that the workmen are to be put to task-work, under the superintendance of the respectable administrator duvivier, who informs me that the present price of this carpeting amounts to francs per square _mètre_ (_circa_ ft. inc. english measure). in , thirty persons were employed here, at from to _sous_ a day. at present, there are no more than twenty, who daily earn, on an average, francs, and are lodged in the buildings of the manufactory. before i lay down my pen, i shall notice a national establishment, equally connected with the subject of this letter; i mean the manufactory of plate-glass. like all the other french manufactories, this has suffered from the revolution and the war; but it has now nearly resumed its former activity, owing to the effects of the peace and the laudable exertions of the government to revive commerce. at this time, it gives employment to about persons. before colbert founded the present establishment, which is situated in the _rue de reuilli_, _faubourg st. antoine_, the french drew their plate-glass from venice; but they have left their masters in this branch very far behind them, and now make mirrors of dimensions of which the venetians had no idea. these plates are cast at st. gobin, near la fère, in the department of l'aisne, and sent to paris to be polished and silvered. here you may witness the process employed in each of these different operations. a method of joining together two small plates of glass in such a manner that no mark appears, has, i am informed, been lately discovered in paris. it is said, however, not to be applicable to those of large dimensions. after the operation of this species of soldering, the plates are silvered. letter lxxxii. _paris, march , ._ as the period of my stay here is drawing rapidly towards a conclusion, i find much less leisure for writing; otherwise i should, in my last letter, have made you acquainted with an establishment not irrelevant to the leading subject of it, and which, when completed, cannot fail to attract general notice and admiration. every one has heard of the piranesi. in the year , pietro and francesco, the surviving sons of the celebrated giovanni-battista, transported to france their immense collection of drawings, with all their plates and engravings. they were welcomed, protected, and encouraged by the french government. anxious to give to these ingenious artists every facility for the success of an undertaking that they had conceived, it has granted to them the spacious and handsome premises of the _ci-devant collège de navarre_, in the _rue de la montagne st. geneviève_, which the piranesi will shortly open as an academy of fine arts. that ancient college is extremely well calculated for such a destination, from the extent of its buildings, its remoteness from noise, and the airiness of its situation. by this liberal conduct to the piranesi, the french government has shewn the warm interest it takes in the progress of those arts. the establishment of these romans is to be divided into three branches. the first is placed in the _collège de navarre_; the second is to be in the _palais du tribunat_; and the third, at _morfontaine_. three hundred artists of different nations, some of whom are known by master-pieces, while others announce the genius necessary for producing them, are to be distributed in the seven classes of this academy, which include the fine arts of every description. each artist being at liberty to follow the branch to which he is most partial, it may easily be conceived how noble an emulation will be roused by such an assemblage of talents. several are now employed here in the workshops of painting, sculpture, mosaic, and engraving. let us see in what manner. the ground-floor is devoted to sculpture. here are made, in plaster and terra cotta, models of the finest monuments of greece and italy, which are executed in stone of the richest species, such as porphyry, granite, red antique, parian and carrara marble. from the hands of the two cardelli, and other eminent artists, are seen to issue copies of the most magnificent bas-reliefs of ancient rome, and the most beautiful friezes of raphael, michael angelo, julio romano, and other great masters of the italian school; tripods, obelisks, antique vases, articles of furniture in the egyptian and chinese taste, together with objects taken from nature, such as the most curious animals in the national _ménagerie_, likewise occupy their talents. all these subjects are executed in different sizes, and form, together or separately, decorations for apartments or tables, particularly pilasters, and plateaux, in which the richness of the materials is surpassed by that of the workmanship. on the same floor is the workshop of mosaic. it is under the direction of belloni, who has invented methods, by means of which he has introduced mosaic into articles of furniture, and for the pavement of rich apartments, at prices far inferior to what might be imagined. the principal articles here exhibited, as specimens, are: -- . superb marble tables and stands, in which are inserted ornaments and pictures in mosaic, or incrustated in the florentine manner-- . a large pavement, where the beauty and variety of the marbles are relieved by embellished incrustations-- . small pictures, in which the painting, in very fine mosaic, is raised on an even ground of one piece of black marble-- . large tables, composed of specimens of fine-grained stones, such as jasper, agate, carnelion, lapis lazuli, &c. and also of valuable marbles, distributed into compartments and after a design imitated from the antique, and enriched with a few incrustated pictures, representing animals and flowers. besides these, here are to be seen other essays of a kind entirely new. these are marbles, intended for furniture, coloured in an indelible manner. sometimes the figures and ornaments in them are coloured in the ground; sometimes they are in colour, but raised on a ground of white marble. on the first story is the workshop for engraving. here the artists are employed in engraving the seven hills of rome, ancient circuses of that celebrated city, plans of the _forum_, obelisks of rome and egypt, ruins of pompeia, drawn on the spot by the late j. b. piranesi, together with modern subjects, such as the splendid edifices of paris, the beautiful views of the environs, the national fêtes, and every thing that can deservedly interest artists and persons of taste. on the same story are the plates of the piranesi calcography, the place where they are printed, and the warehouse where they are deposited. the engravings, now nearly executed, will form upwards of twenty volumes; and those begun will equal that number. the second story is occupied by painters in oil-colours; the third, by those in water-colours; the fourth, by draughtsmen in indian ink and bistre; and the fifth serves for the lodging of the artists, particularly the most skilful among them, who direct the different branches of this establishment. the principal pile of building is crowned by a _belvedere_, which commands an extensive view of paris, and seems calculated for promoting the inspirations of genius. here are copied, in oil, water-colours, indian ink and bistre, the fresco paintings of raphael, michael angelo, and julio romano; the vatican, the farnesian palace, the villa altoviti, and the villa lante alternately furnishing models no less happily chosen than carefully executed. the antiquities of herculaneum, so interesting from the knowledge they afford us of the customs of the ancient romans, and from the elegant decorations of which they have procured us the models, the ruins of palmyra and balbeck, those of greece and sicily, together with views of constantinople and of the country in which it is situated, are here rendered with the most exact truth, joined to the most harmonious colouring. here too are represented; in the three manners before-mentioned, views and sites of egypt, greece, italy, france, and all other countries; cascades, such as those of terni, narni, and tivoli; sea-pieces; landscapes, parks; and gardens; arabesques after raphael; new and picturesque plants; in a word, decorations formed of an assemblage of every thing most perfect in art and nature. on the first and second stories are also two exhibition-rooms, for such pictures and works of sculpture as are finished, where the eye wanders agreeably amidst a crowd of objects of an enlivening or serious nature. here it is that the amateur, after having seen the artists at work in the classes of this academy, fixes his choice on the kind of production which most takes his fancy. these two rooms contain the different articles which are afterwards to be displayed in the two porticos of the _palais du tribunat_. those elegant and spacious porticos, situated in the most centrical part of paris, facing the _rue st. honoré_, have likewise been granted to the prianesi through the special favour of the government. not only all the productions of their establishment, but also the principal master-pieces in painting, sculpture, and architecture, produced by artists of all nations, will there be exhibited; so that those porticos will present, as it were, an encyclopædia of the fine arts.[ ] [footnote : the principal protector of the undertaking of the piranesi is joseph bonaparte, who has not confined himself to assisting them in the capital. being desirous to introduce the arts into the country where he passes the finest season of the year, and to promote the discovery of the piranesi, relative to the properties of the argill found at _morfontaine_, he has given to them for several years the use of a large building and a very extensive piece of ground, ornamented with bowers, where all the subjects modelled at the _collège de navarre_, in _terra cotta_ or in porcelain of _morfontaine_, undergo the process of baking. in the last-mentioned place, the piranesi purpose to establish a foundery for sculpture in bronze and other metals. the government daily affords to them encouragement and resources which insure the success of their establishment. to its other advantages are added a library, and a printing-office.] letter lxxxiii. _paris, march , ._ as to the mechanical arts, if you are desirous to view some of the modern improvements and inventions in that line, you must accompany me to the _rue st. martin_, where, in the _ci-devant_ priory, is an establishment of recent date, entitled the conservatory of arts and trades. here is a numerous collection of machines of every description employed in the mechanical arts. among these is the _belier hydraulique_, newly invented by montgolfier, by means of which a stream of water, having a few feet of declivity, can be raised to the top of a house by a single valve or sucker, so disposed as to open, to admit the water, and shut, when it is to be raised by compression. by increasing the compression, it can be raised to feet, and may be carried to a much greater elevation. the commissioners appointed by the institute to examine this machine, reported that it was new, very simple, very ingenious, and might be extremely useful in turning to account little streams of water for the purposes of agriculture, manufactories, &c. this reminds me of another singular hydraulic machine, of which i have been informed by a person who attended a trial made of it not long since in paris. a basin placed at the height of twenty feet, was filled with water, the fall of which set in motion several wheels and pumps that raised the water again into the basin. the machine was fixed in a place, glazed on all sides, and locked by three different keys. it kept in play for thirty-two days, without the smallest interruption; but the air, the heat, and the wood of the machine, having undoubtedly diminished the water, it no longer ascended into the basin. till the thirty-second day, many persons imagined that the perpetual motion had been discovered. however, this machine was extremely light, well combined, and very simple in its construction. i ought to observe that it neither acted by springs nor counterpoise; all its powers proceeding from the fall of the water. the conservatory also contains several models of curious buildings, too numerous to mention. the mechanical arts in france appear to have experienced more or less the impulse given to the sciences towards the close of the eighteenth century. while calamities oppressed this country, and commerce was suspended, the inventive and fertile genius of the french was not dormant. the clothiers have introduced woollen articles manufactured on a new plan; and their fine broad cloths and kerseymeres have attained great perfection. the introduction of the spanish merinos into france has already produced in her wools a considerable amelioration. like a phoenix, lyons is reviving from its ashes, and its silks now surpass, if possible, their former magnificence. brocaded silk is at present made in a loom worked by one man only, in lieu of two, which the manufacture of that article hitherto demanded. another new invention is a knitting-loom, by means of which threads are interwoven with the greatest exactness, by merely turning a winch. the cotton manufactures are much improved, and the manufactories in that line are daily increasing in number and perfection. a new spinning-machine has produced here, i am told, , ells in length out of a pound of cotton. the fly-shuttle is now introduced into most of the manufactories in this country, and pieces of narrow goods are thus made at once by a single workman. in adopting arkwright's system, the french have applied it to small machines, which occupy no more room than a common spinning-wheel. among other branches in which the french mechanics have particularly distinguished themselves, since the revolution, is the making of astronomical and philosophical instruments. all the machines used here in coining have also been modified and improved. by one of these, the piece is struck at the same time on the edge and on the flat side in so perfect a manner, that the money thus coined cannot he counterfeited. i have already mentioned the invention of a composition which supplies the place of black lead for pencils, and the discovery of a new and very expeditious method of tanning leather. new species of earthen-ware have been invented, and those already known have received considerable improvement. chemists have put the manufacturers in possession of new means of decomposing and recomposing substances. muriat of tin is now made here with such economy, that it is reduced to one-eighth of its former price. this salt is daily used in dying and in the manufacture of printed calicoes. carbonates of strontia and of baryt, obtained by a new process, will shortly be sold in paris at francs the _kilogramme_. this discovery is expected to have a great influence on several important arts, such as the manufacture of glass, of soap, &c. articles of furniture, jewellery, and every branch dependent on design, are now remarkable for a purer taste than that which they formerly exhibited. indeed, the characteristic difference of the present state of french industry, and that in which it was before the revolution, is that most of the proprietors of the manufactories have received a scientific education. at that time, many of them were strangers to the principles applicable to the processes of their art; and, in this respect, they lay at the mercy of the routine, ignorance, and caprice of their workmen. at present, the happy effects of instruction, more widely-diffused, begin to be felt, and, in proportion as it is extended, it excites a spirit of emulation which promises no small advantage to french commerce. letter lxxxiv. _paris, march , ._ in the richness of her territory, the abundance of her population, the activity of her inhabitants, and the knowledge comprised in her bosom, france possesses great natural advantages; but the effect which they might have produced on her industry, has been counteracted by the errors of her old government, and the calamities attendant on the revolution. some public-spirited men, thinking the moment favourable for restoring to them all their influence, have lately met; and from this union has sprung the society for the encouragement of national industry. it is formed on a scale still more extensive than the _society for the encouragement of arts, manufactures, and commerce_, instituted at london. its meetings are held in the _louvre_; but, though fixed in the metropolis, it embraces the whole extent of the republic, and every department will participate in the benefits which it proffers. the chief objects of this society are: to collect, from all quarters, discoveries and inventions useful to the progress of the arts; to bestow annually premiums and gratuitous encouragements; to propagate instruction, by disseminating manuals on different objects relative to the arts, by combining the lights of theory with the results of practice, and by constructing at its own expense, and disseminating among the public in general, and particularly in the manufactories, such machines, instruments, and apparatus as deserve to be more generally known and brought into use; to make essays and experiments for ascertaining the utility which may be expected from new discoveries; to make advances to artists who may be in distress, or deficient in the means to put in practice the processes of their inventions; to unite by new ties all such persons as from their situation in life, their taste, or their talents, feel an interest in the progress of the arts; to become the centre of similar institutions, which are called for in all the principal manufacturing-towns of the republic; in a word, to _excite emulation, diffuse knowledge, and assist talents_. to attain these objects, various committees, consisting of men the most conversant in knowledge relative to the arts, are already appointed, and divide among them _gratuitously_ the whole of the labour. this society, founded, on principles so purely patriotic, will, no doubt, essentially second the strenuous efforts of the government to reanimate the different branches of national industry. the free and spontaneous concurrence of the men of whom it is composed, may unite the power of opinion to that of other means; and public opinion produces naturally that which power and authority obtain only by a slow and difficult progress. but, while those branches of industry, more immediately connected with the arts, are stimulated by these simultaneous encouragements, that science, on the practice of which depends the welfare of states, is not neglected. independently of the council of agriculture, commerce and arts, established under the presidency of the minister of the interior, here is a free society of agriculture. its object is to improve agriculture, not only in the department of la seine, but throughout france. for this purpose, it maintains a regular correspondence with all the agricultural societies of the other departments. it publishes memoirs, in which are inserted the results of its labours, as well as the notices and observations read at the meetings by any one of its members, and the decision which has followed. every year it proposes prizes for the solution of some question important to the amelioration of agriculture. what, at first view, appears extraordinary, is not, on that account, less founded on truth. amidst the storms of the revolution, agriculture has been improved in france. at a period of happiness and tranquillity, the soil was not so well cultivated as in times of terror and mourning; because, during the latter, the lands enjoyed the franchises so long wanted. hands never failed; for, when the men marched to the armies, women supplied their place; and no one was ashamed to handle the spade or the plough. however, if, in , agriculture in france was far from a state of prosperity, it was beginning to receive new light from the labours of the agricultural societies. that of paris had given a great impulse to the culture of artificial meadows, potatoes, hemp, flax, and fruit-trees. practical directions, spread with profusion in the country, had diverted the inhabitants from the routine which they had blindly followed from generation to generation. before the revolution, the french began to imitate us in gelding their horses, and giving to their lackies, their coachmen, and their equipages an english appearance; instead of copying us in the cultivation of our land, and adopting the principles of our rural economy. this want of foresight they are now anxious to repair, by increasing their pastures, and enriching them by an extensive variety of plants, augmenting the number of their cattle, whether intended for subsistence or reproduction, and improving the breed by a mixture of races well assorted, procuring a greater quantity of manure, varying their culture so as not to impoverish the soil, and separating their lands by inclosures, which obviate the necessity of constantly employing herdsmen to tend their cattle. agriculture has, unquestionably, suffered much, and is still suffering in the western departments. notwithstanding the succour afforded by the government to rebuild and repair the deserted cottages and barns, to supply them with men and cattle, to set the ploughs to work, and revive industry, it is still evident that the want of confidence which maintains the value of money at an exorbitant rate, the love of stock-jobbing, the impossibility of opening small loans, the excessive price of manual labour, contributions exacted in advance, and the distress of most of the land-owners, who are not in a condition to shew favour to their tenants, are scourges which still overwhelm the country. but i am credibly informed that, in general, the rural inhabitants now lend a more attentive ear to instruction, and that prejudices have less empire over their reason. the great landed proprietors, whom terror had induced to fly their country, have, on recovering possession of their patrimony, converted their parks into arable land. others, who are not fond of living in town, are daily repairing to their estates, in order to superintend the cultivation of them. no one disdains the simple title of farmer. old publications relative to agriculture are reprinted in a form more within reach of the capacity of the people; though treatises on domestic animals are still much wanted. at rambouillet, formerly the country-seat of the duke of penthièvre, is an experimental national farm. fine cattle are now held in high estimation. flocks of sheep of the spanish breed are daily increasing; and the number of those of a pure race, already imported, or since bred in france, exceeds .[ ] wide roads, which led to one solitary castle only, have been ploughed, and sown. the rage for ornamental gardens and pleasure-grounds is dying away. the breeding of horses, a branch of industry which the war and the requisition had caused to be abandoned, is on the point of being resumed with increased activity. it is in contemplation to establish studs, on plans better combined and much more favourable to the object than those which formerly existed. in short, the ardent wish of the thinking part of the nation seems to be, that the order which the government is endeavouring to introduce into every branch of its administration, may determine the labourer to proportion his hire to the current price of corn; but all these truths assembled form not such a sketch as you may, perhaps, expect. the state of french agriculture has never yet been delineated on a comprehensive scale, except by arthur young. you must persuade him to repeat his tour, if you wish for a perfect picture.[ ] * * * * * _march , in continuation._ most persons are acquainted with didot's stereotypic editions of the classics, &c. which are sold here for _sous_ per copy. nothing more simple than the plan of this mode of printing. a page is first set up in moveable types; a mould or impression is then taken of the page with any suitable plastic substance, and a solid page is cast from it. the expense of a solid page exceeds not that of resetting it in moveable types; so that, by this invention, the price of books will be considerably reduced, and standard works will never be out of print. nor are these the only advantages attending the use of stereotype; i must mention another of still greater importance. by the common method of printing, it is impossible ever to have correct books. they are in the market before all their errors are discovered; and the latest edition of a work, which ought to be the most correct, is necessarily the most faulty; for it presents not only the errors of that from which it was copied, but also those peculiar to itself. stereotypic books are printed only to answer the extent of the demand; and errors, when discovered, being corrected in the metal, they must, through time and attention, become immaculate; a circumstance of infinite importance in astronomical and mathematical tables of every description.[ ] for elegance of printing, didot is the bensley of paris; but to see a grand establishment in this line, you must go to the _rue de la vrillière_, near the _place des victoires_, and visit the printing-office of the republic. under the title of _imprimerie royale_, this establishment vas formerly placed in the galleries of the _louvre_. instituted by francis i in , it was greatly enlarged and improved under lewis xiii and lewis xiv. it has also been considerably augmented since its removal, in , to the hotel belonging to the late duke of penthièvre, which it now occupies. in its present state, it may be considered as the most extensive and most complete typographical establishment in being. every branch relating to typography, from the casting of the type to the article of binding, is here united. the _dépôt_ of punches contains upwards of , characters of all languages. among others, here are to be remarked, in all their primitive purity, the beautiful greek ones of garamon, engraved by order of francis i, and which served for the editions of the stephen, the byzantine, &c, the oriental characters of the polyglot of vitræus, and the collection of exotic characters from the printing-office of the propaganda. the government business alone constantly employs one hundred presses. a much greater number can be set to work, if wanted. independently of the works concerning administration and the sciences, which are executed here at the public cost, the government allows authors to cause to be printed at this office, at their own private expense, such works as, on account of their importance, the difficulty of execution, and the particular types which they require, are entitled to that favour. on applying to the director, the amateurs of typography are instantly admitted to view this establishment, and shewn every thing interesting in it, with that spirit of liberality which is extended to every public institution here, and which reflects the highest honour on the french nation. [footnote : at the last annual sale at rambouillet, the average price of a good spanish ram was no more than francs or £ sterling. the dearest sold for francs.] [footnote : the statistical accounts of the different departments, which are to be compiled by order of the minister of the interior, will specify all the agricultural improvements. the few already published, shew that if the population of france is somewhat diminished in the large towns, it is considerably increased in the country-places.] [footnote : it is, however, to be remarked that the merit of this invaluable invention is not due to france, but to britain. as far back as the year , a mr. ged, of edinburgh, turned his thoughts to the formation of cast letter-press plates, and, in , printed a stereotype edition of sallust. being opposed by a combination of printers and booksellers, whose ignorance and prejudices he was unable to overcome, he relinquished the prosecution of his discovery; and thus the stereotypic art was lost to the world, till rediscovered, in , by mr. alexander tilloch. in the year , mr. tilloch took out a patent for it, in conjunction with mr. foulis, then printer to the university of glasgow. they printed several books in this manner; but it seems that they also experienced an opposition from the booksellers, and, owing to different circumstances, have not since availed themselves of their patent. notwithstanding this evidence of priority, the french dispute the invention; and the learned camus, in his "_historical sketch of polytypage and stereotypage_," affirms, on the authority of lottin, that, towards the end of the seventeenth century, the stereotypic process was put in practice in france, for printing the calendars prefixed to the missals. hence it is seen that the claim of the english is supported by positive proof; while that of the french rests on bare assertion.] letter lxxxv. _paris, march_ , . in visiting a foreign country, and more especially its capital, the traveller, whose object is instruction, enters into the most minute details, in order to obtain a complete knowledge of the various classes of its inhabitants. as seneca justly observes, in his epistles, what benefit can a person reap from his travels, who spends all his time in examining the beauty and magnificence of public buildings? will the contemplation of them render him more wise, more temperate, more liberal in his ideas? will it remove his prejudices and errors? it may amuse him for a time, as a child, by the novelty and variety of objects, which excite an unmeaning admiration. to act thus, adds the learned stoic, is not to travel, it is to wander, and lose both one's time and labour. "_non est hoc peregrinari, sed erraie_." wherefore horace, in imitation of homer, says, in praise of ulysses, "_qui mores hominum multorum vidit, et urbes_." i have, i hope, given you enough of sights and shows; let us then, my good friend, follow the wise example of the ancients, and take a view of men and manners. owing, in some measure, to the levity of french character, and the freedom which now prevails generally enough in all society here, this sort of study, sometimes so tedious, is greatly facilitated. in the parisian assemblies of the present day, by an almost continual collision, self-love discovers the weak side of an individual whose whole merit consists in a little small-talk, and a rotation of those _jolis petits riens_, which, seconded by a well-favoured countenance and an agreeable carriage, have given him in the world the reputation of an amiable man; while, from another, we see a thousand essential qualities, concealed under a coarse exterior, force themselves into notice, and which his modesty, or more frequently his timidity, prevented him from displaying. from the preceding preamble, you will naturally conclude that i purpose to appropriate this letter to a few remarks on the present state of society in paris. in this city are three very distinct kinds of society. but the order i shall adopt in the description of each of them must not, in any way, lead you to prejudge my opinion respecting the rank which they hold among the french themselves. in this respect, i shall abstain from every sort of reflection, and, confining myself to the simple character of a faithful narrator, shall leave to your sagacity to decide the question. i shall begin by the society, chiefly composed of the _ci-devant noblesse_, several of whom, never having quitted france, have preserved some of their property; and of emigrants, lately returned to their own country, and who have enough remaining to allow them to have a household establishment, but in a very modest style indeed, compared to that which their rank and fortune enabled them to support before the revolution. you present yourself at the residence of _madame la marquise de c----_. in the anti-room, you declare your name and quality to the groom of the chambers. then, the opening of one or two folding-doors announces to the mistress of the house, and to the company, the _quantum_ of the ceremonies which are to be paid to the newcomer. keep your eye constantly on the _marquise_, her behaviour will regulate yours in regard to the individuals who compose her party. in the course of conversation, take special care not to omit the title of the person to whom you address yourself. such an instance of forgetfulness savours of a man of the new _régime_. never pronounce the new denominations respecting the divisions of the french territory, the months, the weights, measures, &c. those words would draw on you an unfavourable interpretation. if you are inclined to hear a discussion on the arts and sciences, or on any new discovery whatever, you seldom find, in these parties, persons who can gratify your taste; though you may meet with many who, as locke says, "know a little, presume a great deal, and so jump to a conclusion." from the plebeians, whose presence the _ci-devant_ nobles are so condescending as to endure, much obsequiousness and servility are required; and it is expected that the distance of rank should never be forgotten. but the learned or scientific french revolutionist, who admits no other distance than that between knowledge and ignorance, not choosing to submit to such conditions, seldom presents himself at the house of _madame la marquise de c----_. however, you will hear her company speak of the court of france, of the interest which each individual had there, and also a few anecdotes not uninteresting, and which will furnish you with some ideas of the brilliant parties there formed. after this discussion, one will talk to you of his regiment; another, of his hunting establishment, of his _châteaux_, of his estates, &c. _chez madame la marquise de c----_, you will find no inconsiderable prepossession against every thing that is not of the old order of things, and even some exclusive pretensions to manners which belong to those only who are real gentlemen. yet, through all these absurdities, you will always see good-breeding prevail in this society, and the disposition which distinguishes a frenchman from other polished nations, will here break forth and present itself to you in a striking manner. while speaking of the _ci-devant noblesse_, i cannot forbear to mention the loss which those who had the happiness of her acquaintance, have sustained by the recent death of madame de choiseul, the relict of the duke of that name, minister to lewis xv. her virtues shed such a lustre round her, that it reached even the monarch himself, who, when he banished her husband to chanteloup, wrote to him: "i should have sent you much further, but for the particular esteem i have for madame de choiseul, in whose health i take no small interest." this uncommonly-respectable woman will long be quoted and deservedly regretted, because she was modest in greatness, beneficent in prosperity, courageous in misfortune, pure in the vortex of corruption, solid in the midst of frivolity, as simple in her language as she was brilliant in her understanding, and as indulgent to others as she was superior to them in grace and virtue. i shall next lead you to the house of a _parvenu_, that is, one of those, who, from having made some successful speculations, and possessing a conscience not overnice as to the means of fixing fortune, is enabled to live in the expensive style of the _ci-devant_ court-lords and farmers-general. a letter changed in the person's name, not unfrequently a _de_ or a _st._ added, (sometimes both) puzzles the curious, who endeavour to discover what was formerly m. _de st. h------_, now in the enjoyment of an annual income of a hundred thousand francs, or £ sterling. at his house, more than any where else, etiquette is kept up with an extraordinary minuteness; and evil tongues will tell you that it is natural for m. _de st. h------_ to remember and avail himself of the observations which he had it in his power to make in the place he formerly occupied. under his roof, you will find little of that ease and amiableness which are to be remarked in the other societies of paris. each individual is on his guard, and afraid of betraying himself by certain expressions, which the force of habit has not yet allowed him to forget. but if you are fond of good music, if you take a pleasure in balls, and in the company of _femmes galantes_ or demireps; and even if first-rate jugglers, ventriloquists, and mimics amuse you by their skilful performances, frequent the house of m. _de st. h------_, and every day, or at least every day that he is at home, you will have a new entertainment. between the acts, the company make their remarks, each in his own way, on what they have just seen or heard. afterwards, the conversation turns on the public funds. little is said, however, on affairs of state, the bankruptcies of the day, and the profit which such or such a speculation might produce. the ladies, after having exhausted the subject of the toilet, finish by giving, as an apology for their own conduct, the charitable enumeration of the peccadilloes which they fancy they have remarked in other women. so little am i disposed for gaming, that i forgot to mention _bouillotte_, _quinze_, and also whist and reversi, which are introduced at all these parties. but the two last-mentioned games are reserved for those only who seek in cards nothing more than a recreation from the occupations of the day. at the others, gain is the sole object of the player; and many persons sit at the gaming-table the whole night, and, in the depth of winter even, never leave it till the "garish sun" warns them that it is time to withdraw. i have now only to introduce you at m. _b------'s_, counsellor of state. here you will find the completion of the other two societies, and a very numerous party, which affords to every one a conversation analogous to his taste or his means. refrain, however, from touching on politics; the french government, still in its infancy, resembles a young plant exposed to the inclemency of the air, and whose growth is directed by skilful hands. this government must remove, and even sometimes destroy every obstacle it meets with, and which may be prejudicial to the form and direction that it thinks proper to give to its branches and various ramifications. beware, above all, of speaking of the revolution. that string is too delicate to be touched in regard to certain individuals of m. _b------'s_ party, perhaps also in regard to himself: for the periods of the calamities which the french have undergone are still quite recent, and the parts that many of these persons may have acted, call to mind recollections too painful, which, for their tranquillity, ought ever to be buried in oblivion. and, in fact, you will always perceive, in the meetings of this class, a harmony, apparent indeed, but which, surprises a stranger the more, as, of all the societies in paris, it presents to him the greatest medley in point of the persons who compose it. in this society you will hear very instructive dissertations on the sciences, sound literature, the fine arts, mechanics, and the means of rendering useful the new discoveries, by applying them with economy to the french manufactories, either public or private: for m. _b------_ considers it as his duty to receive with distinction all the _savans_, and generally all those called men of talent. in this line of conduct, he follows the example set him by the government; and every one is desirous to appear a mæcenas in the eyes of augustus. in other respects, the house of m. _b------_ will afford you the agreeble pastimes which you have found at m. _de st. h------'s_. in paris, however, are several other societies which, to consider them rightly, are no more than a diminutive of those you have just left; but which, nevertheless, are of a character sufficiently distinct in their composition to justify their pretensions to be classed as well as the others. this difference proceeding chiefly from that of political opinions alone, an acquaintance with the great societies here will enable you to select those of the middle class which you may think proper to frequent, according to your taste, or your manner of seeing and judging of the events of the french revolution. yet, you must not hence conclude that the conversation turns chiefly on that subject in this particular class of the parisian societies. they concern themselves less about it perhaps than the others, whether from the little share they have had in it, or because they have but very indirect connexions with the government, or lastly, and this final reason is, i believe, the most conclusive, because a frenchman, from the nature of his character, ends by forgetting his misfortunes and losses, cares little for the future, and appears desirous to enjoy the present only; following, in that respect, the precept of la fontaine: _"jouis dès aujourd'hui, tu n'as pas tant à vivre; je te rebàts ce mot--car il vaut tout un livre."_ in truth, although, among this people, vexations and enjoyments are almost always the result of imagination, they have preserved the remembrance of their misfortunes only to turn to account the terrible lessons which they have received from them, by adopting, in regard to the present and to the future, that happy philosophy which knows how to yield to the circumstances of the moment. this it is (you may rely on the fact) that has contributed, more than any other cause, to re-establish, in so short a period, the order and tranquillity which france presents to the eyes of astonished foreigners. this it is too that has, in a great measure, obviated the fatal consequences which their past troubles must have made them fear for a long time to come, and for which few remedies could be expected, especially when we reflect on the divisions which the revolution has sown in almost every family in this country. p. s. the sound of cannon, which strikes my ear at this moment, announces the signature of the definitve treaty. in the evening, a grand illumination will take place to celebrate the return of the most desirable of all blessings. "------------o beauteous peace! sweet union of a state! what else but thou giv'st safety, strength, and glory to a people?" letter lxxxvi. _paris, march , ._ whatever changes may have been introduced by the revolution, in one respect at least, the parisians still preserve towards foreigners that urbanity for which they were remarkable half a century ago, when sterne paid them a visit. if you ask a shopkeeper here, of either sex, the way to a place, perhaps at some distance, he or she neglects the occupation of the moment to direct you, with as much solicitude and attention as though a considerable advantage was to be the result of the given information. it is the small sweet courtesies of life, as that sentimental traveller remarks, which render the road of it less rugged. sometimes, indeed, a foreigner pays dearly for the civility shewn him in paris; but, in laying out his money, he must ever bear in mind that the shopkeepers make no scruple to overcharge their articles to their own countrymen, and some will not blush to take, even from them, a third less than the price demanded. soon after my arrival here, i think i mentioned to you the excessive dearness of furnished lodgings. since the revolution, their price is nearly doubled, and is extremely high in the most fashionable parts of the town, such as the _chaussée d'antin_, the _rue de la loi_, the _rue de la concorde_, &c. for strangers that know not in paris any friend who will take the trouble to seek for them suitable apartments, the only way to procure good accommodation is to alight at a ready-furnished hotel, and there hire rooms by the day till they can look about them, and please themselves. for my own part, i prefer the quiet of a private lodging to the bustle of a public hotel, and, as i have before mentioned, my constant resource, on such occasions, has been the _petites affiches_. if you go to the office where this daily advertiser is published, and inspect the file, it is ten to one that you immediately find apartments to your wishes. a single man may now be comfortably lodged here, in a private house with a _porte-cochère_, at from to louis per month; and a small family may be well accommodated, in that respect, at from to louis. a larger party, requiring more room, may obtain excellent apartments at from louis a month upwards, according to the situation, the conveniences, the taste and condition of the furniture, and other contingencies. to prevent subsequent misunderstanding, i would always recommend a written agreement. the english have hitherto paid dearer than other foreigners for whatever they want in paris, because they generally trust to their servants, and think it beneath them to look into those matters connected with their own comfort. but the _milords anglais_ are now entirely eclipsed by the russian counts, who give two louis where the english offer one. a person's expenses here, as every where else, materially depend on good management, without which a thoughtless man squanders twice as much as a more considerate one; and while the former obtains no more than the common comforts of life, the latter enjoys all its indulgences. with respect to the gratifications of the table, i have little to add to what i have already said on that subject, in speaking of the _restaurateurs_. if you choose to become a boarder, you may subscribe at the _hôtel du cirque_, _rue de la loi_, and sit down every day in good company for about seven louis a month; and there are very respectable private houses, where you may, when once introduced, dine very well for five livres a time; but, at all these places, you are sure to meet either english or americans; and the consequence is, that you are eternally speaking your mother-tongue, which is a material objection with those who are anxious to improve themselves in the french language. for a man who brings his family to paris, and resides in private apartments, it might, perhaps, be more advisable to hire a cook, and live _à l'anglaise_ or _à la française_, according to his fancy. no conveniences have been so much improved in paris, since the revolution, as job and hackney carriages. formerly, the _remises_ or job-carriages were far inferior to those in use at the present day; and the old _fiacres_ or hackney-coaches were infamous. the carriages themselves were filthy; the horses, wretched; and the coachmen, in tatters, had more the look of beggars than that of drivers. now, not only good hackney-coaches, but chariots and cabriolets likewise, figure here on the stands; and many of them have an appearance so creditable that they might even be taken for private french equipages. the regular stipulated fare of all these vehicles is at present _sous_ a _course_, and the same for every hour after the first, which is fixed at _sous_.[ ] in , it used to be no more than . for the _sous_, you may drive from one extremity of paris to the other, provided you do not stop by the way; for every voluntary stoppage is reckoned a _course_. however, if you have far to go, it is better to agree to pay _sous_ per hour, and then you meet with no contradiction. from midnight to six o'clock in the morning, the fare is double. the present expense of a job-carriage, with a good pair of horses, (including the coachman, who is always paid by the jobman) varies from to louis a month, according to the price of forage. if you use your own carriage, the hire of horses and coachman will cost you from to louis, which, in , was the price of a job-carriage, all expenses included. under the old _régime_, there were no stands of cabriolets.[ ] these carriages are very convenient to persons pressed for time; but it must be confessed that they are no small annoyance to pedestrians. of this lewis xv was so convinced, that he declared if he were minister of the police, he would suffer no cabriolets in paris. he thought this prohibition beneath his own greatness. to obviate, in some measure, the danger arising both from the want of foot-pavement, and from the inconsiderate rapidity with which these carriages are not unfrequently driven, it is now a law that the neck of every horse in a cabriolet must be provided with bells, and the carriage with two lamps, lighted after dark; yet, in spite of these precautions, and the severity which the police exercises against those who transgress the decree, serious accidents sometimes happen. before the revolution, "_gare! gare!_" was the only warning given here to foot-passengers. the master, in his cabriolet, first drove over a person, the servant behind then bawled out "_gare!_" and the maimed pedestrian was left to get up again as he was able. such brutal negligence now meets with due chastisement. at a trial which took place here the other day in a court of justice, the driver of a cabriolet was condemned to three months imprisonment in a house of correction, and to pay a fine of francs for maiming a carter. the horse had no bells, as prescribed by law; and the owner of the cabriolet was, besides, condemned, in conjunction with the driver, to pay an indemnification of francs to the wounded carter, as being civilly responsible for the conduct of his servant. notwithstanding the danger of walking in the streets of paris, such french women as are accustomed to go on foot, traverse the most frequented thoroughfares in the dirtiest weather, at the same time displaying, to the astonished sight of bespattered foreigners, a well-turned leg, a graceful step, and spotless stockings. if you arrive in paris without a servant, or (what amounts almost to the same thing) should you bring with you a man ignorant of the french language, you may be instantly accommodated with one or several domestics, under the name of valets-de-place. like every thing else here, the wages of these job-servants are augmented. formerly, their salary was or _sous_ a day: they now ask francs; but, if you purpose to spend a few weeks here, will be glad to serve you for . some are very intelligent; others, very stupid. most of them are spies of the police; but, as an englishman in paris has nothing to conceal, of what consequence is it whether his steps are watched by his own _valet-de-place_ or any other _mouchard_? it is usual for them to lay under contribution all the tradesmen you employ; and thus the traiteur, the jobman, &c. contribute to augment their profits. however, if they pilfer you a little themselves, they take care that you are not subjected to too much imposition from others.--to proceed to a few general observations. in visiting the french capital, many englishmen are led into an error. they imagine that a few letters of recommendation will be the means of procuring them admission into other houses besides those of the persons to whom these letters are addressed. but, on their arrival in paris, they will find themselves mistaken. the houses of the _great_ are difficult of access, and those of the secondary class scarcely open with more ease than they did before the revolution. if proper attention be paid to all the letters which a stranger brings, he may be satisfied; though the persons to whom he is recommended, seldom think of taking him to the residence of any of their friends. therefore, an english traveller, who wishes to mix much in french society, should provide himself with as many letters of recommendation as he can possibly obtain; unless, indeed, he has a celebrated name, which, in all countries, is the best introduction; for curiosity prompts the higher classes to see and examine the man who bears it. the doors of every house will be open to him, when they are shut against other strangers, and he may soon establish an intimacy in the first circles. to those who possess not that advantage, a frenchman may be induced to offer a dinner, or two, perhaps, and return them a few formal visits. he will profess more than he performs. in a word, he will be polite, but not familiar and friendly. an englishman, thus circumstanced, finding that he gains no ground, and is treated with a sort of ceremony, will probably seek other company, dine at the _restaurateurs'_, frequent the _spectacles_, and visit the impures: for such was the life our countrymen, in general, led in paris before the revolution. public amusements may, perhaps, make him amends for the want of private society. as, from their astonishing number, they may be varied without end, he may contrive to pass away his evenings. his mornings will, at first, be employed, no doubt, in visiting public curiosities; but, after he has repeatedly surveyed these scenes of attraction, he will fail in what ought to be the grand object of foreign travel, and return home without having acquired a competent knowledge of the manners of the country. he ought therefore to husband proper french acquaintances, and keep up a constant intercourse with them, or he will run a risk of finding himself insulated. should indisposition confine him to the house for a few days, every one to whom he has been recommended, will suppose him gone, he will no longer be thought of; _ennui_ will take possession of him, and, cursing france, he will wish himself safely landed on the shore of old england. if this is the case with an englishman who brings letters to paris, what must be the situation of one who visits this capital entirely unprovided in that respect? the banker on whom he has a letter of credit, may invite him to a dinner, at which are assembled twenty persons, to all of whom he is a perfect stranger. without friends, without acquaintances, he will find himself like a man dropped from the clouds, amidst six or seven hundred thousand persons, driving or walking about in pursuit of their affairs or pleasures. for want of a proper clue to direct him, he is continually in danger of falling into the most detestable company; and the temptations to pleasure are so numerous and so inviting in this gay city, that it requires more fortitude than falls to the lot of many to resist them. consequently, an untravelled foreigner cannot be too much on his guard in paris; for it will require every exertion of his prudence and discrimination to avoid being duped and cheated. above all, he should shun those insinuating and subtle characters who, dexterous in administering that delicious essence which mixes so sweetly with the blood, are ever ready to shew him the curiosities, and introduce him into coteries, which they will represent as respectable, and in which the mistress of the house and her daughters will, probably, conspire to lighten his pocket, and afterwards laugh at his credulity. as to the reception which the english are likely to meet with here after the ratification of the definitive treaty, (if i may be permitted to judge from personal experience and observation) i think it will, in a great measure, depend on themselves. therefore, should any of our countrymen complain of being treated here with less attention now than before the revolution, it will, on candid investigation, prove to be their own fault. the essential difference will be found to consist in the respect paid to the man, not, as formerly, in proportion to his money, but to his social worth. the french seem now to make a distinction between individuals only, not between nations. whence it results that, _cæteris paribus_, the foreigner who possesses most the talent of making himself agreeable in society, will here be the most welcome. not but, in general, they will shew greater indulgence to an englishman, and be inclined to overlook in him that which they would consider as highly unpardonable in a stranger of any other country. on such occasions, their most usual exclamation is "_les anglais sont des gens bien extraordinaires! ma foi! ils sont inconcevables!_" and, indeed, many englishmen appear to glory in justifying the idea, and _astonishing the natives_ by the eccentricity of their behaviour. but these _originals_ should recollect that what may be tolerated in a man of superior talent, is ridiculous, if not contemptible, in one undistinguished by such a pretension; and that, by thus _posting_ their absurdities to the eyes of a foreign nation, they leave behind them an impression which operates as a real injury in regard to their more rational countrymen. another circumstance deserves no less animadversion. in their first essay of foreign travel, our british youths generally carry with them too ample a share of national prepossession and presumption. accustomed at home to bear down all before them by the weight of their purse, they are too apt to imagine that, by means of a plentiful provision of gold, they may lord it over the continent, from naples to petersburg; and that a profuse expenditure of money supersedes the necessity of a compliance with established forms and regulations. instead of making their applications and inquiries in a proper manner, so as to claim due attention, they more frequently demand as a right what they should rather receive as a favour. finding themselves disappointed in their vain conclusions, their temper is soured; and, being too proud to retract their error, or even observe a prudent silence, they deal out their impertinence and abuse in proportion to the number of guineas which they may be able to squander. of course, they cannot but view the peculiar habits and customs of all foreign nations with a jaundiced eye, never reflecting that in most countries are to be found, either in a moral or a physical sense, advantages and disadvantages in which others are deficient. _le_ pour _et le_ contre, as a well-known traveller observes, _se trouvent en chaque nation_. the grand desideratum is to acquire by travel a knowledge of this pour _et/i> contre, which, by emancipating us from our prejudices, teaches us mutual toleration --for, of every species of tyranny, that which is exercised on things indifferent in themselves, is the most intolerable. hence it is less difficult to deprive a nation of its laws than to change its habits. [footnote : when assignats were in circulation, a single _course en fiacre_ sometimes cost livres, which was at the rate of livres per minute. but this will not appear extraordinary, when it is known that the depreciation of that paper-currency was such that, at one time, , livres in assignats could be procured for a single _louis d'or_.] [footnote : a cabriolet is a kind of one-horse chaise, with a standing head, and inclosed in front by a wooden flap, in lieu of one of leather. behind, there is a place for a footman.] letter lxxxvii _paris, march , ._ if i mistake not, i have answered most of the questions contained in your letters; i shall now reply to you on the subject of divorce. the number of divorced women to be met with here, especially among the more affluent classes, exceeds any moderate calculation. nothing can more clearly manifest the necessity of erecting some dike against the torrent of immorality, which has almost inundated this capital, and threatens to spread over all the departments. before the revolution, the indissolubility of marriage in france was supposed to promote adultery in a very great degree: the vow was broken because the knot could not be untied. at present, divorces are so easily obtained, that a man or woman, tired of each other, have only to plead _incompatibility of temper_, in order to slip their necks out of the matrimonial noose. in short, some persons here change their wedded partner with as much unconcern as they do their linen. thus, the two extremes touch each other; and either of them has proved equally pernicious to morals. formerly, if a frenchman kept a watchful eye on his wife, he was reckoned jealous, and was blamed. if he adopted a contrary conduct, and she was faithless, he was ridiculed. not unfrequently, a young miss, emerged from the cloisters of a convent, where she had, perhaps, been sequestered, in order that her bloom might not eclipse the declining charms of her mother, and who appeared timid, bashful, and diffident, was no sooner married to a man in a certain rank in life, than she shone as a meteor of extravagance and dissipation. such a wife thought of nothing but the gratification of her own desires; because she considered it as a matter of course that all the cares of the family ought to devolve by right on the husband. provided she could procure the means of satisfying her taste for dress, and of making a figure in the _beau monde_, no other concerns ever disturbed her imagination. if, at first, she had sufficient resolution to resist the contagion of example, and not take a male friend to her bosom, by way of lightening the weight of her connubial chains, she seldom failed, in the end, to follow the fashion of the day, and frequent the gaming-table, where her virtue was sacrificed to discharge her debts of honour. but what have these _would-be_ republicans to allege as an excuse in their favour? they have no convents to initiate young girls in the arts of dissimulation; no debauched court to contaminate, by its example, the wavering principles of the weak part of the sex, or sap the more determined ones of those whose mind is of a firmer texture; nor have they any friendly, sympathizing confessors to draw a spunge, as it were, over the trespasses hid in a snug corner of their heart. no: every one is left to settle his own account with heaven. yet the libertinism which at present reigns in paris is sufficient to make a deep impression on persons the least given to reflection. _il matrimonio_, says the italian proverb, _è un paradiso o un inferno_. in fact, nothing can be compared to the happiness of a married couple, united by sympathy. to them, marriage is really a terrestrial paradise. but what more horrid than the reverse, that is, two beings cursing the fatal hour which brought them together in wedlock? it is a very hell on earth; for surely no punishment can exceed that of being condemned to pass our days with the object of our detestation. if the indissolubility of marriage in france was formerly productive of such bad consequences; now that the nuptial knot can be loosened with so much facility, there can no longer exist the same plea for adultery. is then this accumulation of vice less the effect of the institution of divorce in itself, than that of the undigested law by which it was first introduced? the law of divorce was, i find, projected in , under the auspices of the last duke of orleans, who, utterly regardless of the welfare of the state, wished to revolutionize every thing, solely with a view to his own individual interest. his object was to get rid of his wife, who was a woman of strict virtue. this law was decreed on the th of september , without any discussion whatever. on the th of nivôse and th of floréal, year ii, ( th of december and th of april ) the convention decreed additional laws, all tending to favour the impetuosity of the passions. thus the door was opened still wider to licentiousness and debauchery. by these laws, an absence of six months is sufficient for procuring a divorce, and, after the observance of certain forms, either of the parties may contract a fresh marriage. it is not difficult to conceive how many hot-headed, profligate, unprincipled persons, of both sexes, have availed themselves of such laws to gratify their unruly passions, their resentment, their avarice, or their ambition. oaths, persons, or property, are, in these cases, little respected. if a libertine finds that he cannot possess the object of his desires on any other terms, like sir john brute, in the play, he marries her, in order to go to bed to her, and in a few days sues for a divorce. i have been shewn here a lothario of this description, who, in the course of a short space of time had been married to no less than six different women. "divorce," says a judicious french writer, "is a separation, the necessity for which ought to be supported by unquestionable proofs; otherwise, it is nothing more than a legitimate scandal." the french often wish to assimilate themselves to the romans, and the roman laws sanctioned divorce. let us then examine how far the comparison can, in this respect, be supported. "among the romans," continues he, "the first who availed himself of this privilege was spurius corbilius, because his wife was steril. the second divorce was that of c. sulpicius, because his wife had gone abroad with her hair uncovered, and without a veil over her head. q. anstitius divorced on account of having seen his wife speak to a person of her own sex, who was reckoned loose in her conduct; and sempronius, because his had been to see the public entertainments without having informed him. these different divorces took place about a hundred years after the foundation of rome. the romans, after that, were upwards of five hundred years without affording an instance of any divorce. they then were moral and virtuous. but, at length, luxury, that scourge of societies, corrupted their hearts; and divorces became so frequent, that many women reckoned their age by the number of their husbands." to this he might have added, that several roman ladies of rank were so lost to all sense of shame, that they publicly entered their names among the licensed prostitutes. "marriage," concludes he, "presently became nothing more than an object of commerce and speculation; and divorce, a tacit permission for libertinism. can divorce among the french, be considered otherwise, when we reflect that this institution, which seemed likely to draw closer the conjugal tie, by restoring it to its state of natural liberty, is, through the abuse made of it, now only a mean of shameful traffic, in which the more cunning of the two ruins the ether, in short, a mound the less against the irruptions of immorality?" so much for the opinion of a french writer of estimation on the effect of these laws: let us at present endeavour to illustrate it by some examples. a young lady, seduced by a married man, found herself pregnant. she was of a respectable family: he was rich, and felt the consequences of this event. what was to be done? he goes to one of his friends, whom he knew not to be overburdened with delicacy, and proposes to him to marry this young person, in consideration of a certain sum of money. the friend consents, and the only question is to settle the conditions. they bargain for some time: at last they agree for , francs (_circa_ £ sterling). the marriage is concluded, the lady is brought to bed, the child dies, and the gentleman sues for a divorce. all this was accomplished in six months. as such opportunities are by no means scarce, he may, in the course of the year, probably, meet with another of the same nature: thus the office of bridegroom is converted into a lucrative situation. the following is another instance of this melancholy truth, but of a different description. a man about thirty-two years of age, well-made, and of a very agreeable countenance, had been married three months to a young woman of uncommon beauty. he was loved, nay almost adored by her. every one might have concluded that they were the happiest couple in paris; and, in fact, no cloud had hitherto overshadowed the serenity of their union. one day when the young bride was at table with her husband, indulging herself in expressing the happiness which she enjoyed, a tipstaff entered, and delivered to her a paper. she read it. what should it be but a subpoena for a divorce? at first she took the thing for a pleasantry: but the husband soon convinced her that nothing was more serious. he assured her that this step would make her fortune, and his own too, if she would consent to the arrangement which he had to propose to her. "you know," said he, "the rich and ugly madame c----: she has , francs a year (circa £ sterling); she will secure to me the half of her property, provided i will marry her. i offer you a third, if, after having willingly consented to our divorce, you will permit me to see you as my female friend." such a proposal shocked her at the moment; but a week's reflection effected a change in her sentiments; and the business was completed. _o tempora! o mores!_ but though many married individuals still continue to break their chains, it appears that divorces are gradually decreasing in number; and should the government succeed in introducing into the law on this subject the necessary modifications, of course they will become far less frequent. every legislature must be aware to what a degree plays are capable of influencing the opinions of a nation, and what a powerful spring they are for moving the affections. why then are not theatrical representations here so regulated, that the stage may conduce to the amelioration of morals? instead of this, in most french comedies, the husband is generally made the butt of ridicule, and the whole plot often lies in his being outwitted by some conceited spark. marriage, in short, is incessantly railed at in such a lively, satirical manner as to delight nine-tenths of the audience. this custom was also introduced on our stage under the reign of charles ii; and, not many years ago, it was, i am told, as usual to play _the london cuckolds_ on lord mayor's day, as it is now to give a representation of _george barnwell_ during the easter holidays. yet, what is this practice of exhibiting a cuckold in a ridiculous point of view, but an apology for adultery, as if it was intended to teach women that their charms are not formed for the possession of one man only? alas! it is but too true that some of the french belles need no encouragement to infidelity: too soon all scruple is stifled in their bosom; and then, they not only set modesty, but decency too at defiance. _ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute_; or, as the same idea is more fully expressed by our great moral poet: "vice is a monster of so frightful mien, as, to be hated, needs but to be seen; yet, seen too oft, familiar with her face, we first endure, then pity, then embrace." however, in both the instances which i have adduced, the fault was entirely on the side of the men; and, in general, i believe this will prove to be the case. recrimination, indeed, is loudly urged by our sex in paris; they blame the women, with a view of extenuating their own irregularities, which scarcely know any limits. on a question of a divorce-bill brought on, not long since, in the house of commons, you may recollect that a member was laughed at, for asserting that if men expected women to reform, they ought to begin by reforming themselves. for my part, i conceive the idea to be perfectly just. infidelity on the woman's side is, unquestionably, more hurtful to society than a failure of the same sort on the man's; yet, is it reasonable to suppose women to be so exempt from human frailty, as to preserve their chastity inviolate, when men set them so bad an example? letter lxxxviii. _paris, april , _. circumstances have at length occurred to recall me to england, and as this will, probably, be the last letter that you will receive from me before i have the pleasure of taking you by the hand, i shall devote it to miscellaneous subjects, and, without studying any particular arrangement, speak of them at random, just as they chance to present themselves. a fellow-creature, whose care-worn countenance and emaciated body claimed a mite from any one who had a mite to bestow, had taken his stand at the gate-way just now as i entered. the recollection of his tale of woe being uppermost in my mind, i begin with mendicants. in spite of the calamities which all great political convulsions never fail to engender, the streets of paris present not at this day that vast crowd of beggars, covered with rags and vermin, by which they were formerly infested. this is to be attributed to the partial adoption of measures for employing the poor; and, doubtless, when receptacles come to be established here, according to the salutary plans introduced into bavaria by count rumford, mendicity will be gradually annihilated. but, if beggars have decreased in paris, this is not the case with pawnbrokers. they seem to have multiplied in proportion to the increase of the number of opportunities afforded for gambling in the lottery, that is, in the ratio of to .[ ] formerly, in addition to the public establishment called the _mont de piété_, commissioners were appointed, in different parts of the town, to take in pledges, and make advances on them previously to their being lodged in that grand repository. there, money was lent on them at an interest of per cent; and if the article pledged was not redeemed by a certain time, it was sold by public auction, and, the principal and interest being deducted, the surplus was paid to the holder of the duplicate. thus the iniquitous projects of usury were defeated; and the rich, as well as the poor, went to borrow at the _mont de piété_. to obtain a sum for the discharge of a debt of honour, a dutchess here deposited her diamond ear-rings; while a washerwoman slipped off her petticoat, and pawned it to satisfy the cravings of hunger. at the present moment, the _mont de piété_ still exists; but, doubtless, on a different plan; for paris abounds with _maisons de prêt_. on the eve of particular days in each month when the shopkeepers' promissory notes become due, they here pledge articles in order to procure the means of making good their payments. but the crowd of borrowers is the greatest on the days immediately preceding those on which the paris lottery is drawn; the hucksters, marketwomen, porters, retailers of fruit, and unfortunate females, then deposit their wearing apparel at these dens of rapacity, that they may acquire a share of a ticket, the price of which is fixed so low as to be within the purchase of the poorest classes. the lottery being over, till the next drawing, those persons think no more of their effects, provided they are within two or three of the winning numbers; and thus they gamble away almost every thing belonging to them, even to the very clothes on their back. this is so true that it is not, i understand, at all uncommon in paris, for a cyprian nymph to send her last robe to the nearest pawnbroker's, in order to have the chance of a prize in the lottery, and to lie in bed till she obtains the means of purchasing another. nor is this by far the worst part of the story. the too credulous followers of fortune, on finding all their hopes of success blasted, frequently seek a termination of their misery by suicide: and a person of veracity, who made a point of visiting the _morne_ almost daily, assured me that he always knew when the lottery had just been drawn, by the increased number of dead bodies, there exposed, of persons who had put an end to their existence. these are facts shocking to relate; but, if legislators will promote gaming, either by lotteries, or in any other manner, such are the consequences to be expected. another article which has multiplied prodigiously in paris, since the revolution, consists of newspapers. in , the only daily papers in circulation here were the _journal de paris_ and the _petites affiches_; for the _gazette de france_ appeared only twice a week. from that period, these ephemeral productions increased so rapidly, that, under the generic name of _journaux_, upwards of six thousand, bearing different titles, have appeared in france, five hundred of which were published in paris. at this time, here is a great variety of daily papers. the most eminent of these are well known in england; such as the _moniteur_, the only official paper, the sale of which is said to be , per day; that of the _journal de paris_, , ; of the _publiciste_, , ; of the _journal des débats_, , ; of the _journal des défenseurs de la patrie_, , ; and of the _clé du cabinet_, , . the sale of the others is comparatively trifling, with the exception of the _petites affiches_, of which the number daily sold exceeds , . in addition to the _journals_, which i mentioned in my letter of the th of december last, the most esteemed are the _magazin encyclopédique_, edited by millin, the _annales de chimie_, the _journal des arts_, the _journal polytechnique_, the _journal des mines_, the _journal général des inventions et des découvertes_, &c. i stop here, because it would be useless to attempt to send you a complete list of all the french periodical publications, as, in the flux and reflux of this literary ocean, such a list cannot long be expected to preserve its exactness. among the conveniences which this city affords in an enviable degree and in great abundance, are baths. those of paris, of every description, still retain their former pre-eminence. the most elegant are the _bains chinois_ on the north boulevards, where, for three francs, you may enjoy the pleasure of bathing in almost as much luxury as an asiatic monarch. near the _temple_ and at the _vauxhall d'Été_, also on the old boulevards, are baths, where you have the advantage of a garden to saunter in after bathing. on the seine are several floating baths, the most remarkable of which are the _bains vigier_, at the foot of the _pont national_. the vessel containing them is upwards of feet in length by about in breadth, and presents two tiers of baths, making, on both decks, in number. it is divided in the middle by a large transparent plate of glass, which permits the eye to embrace its whole extent; one half of which is appropriated to men; the other, to women. on each deck are galleries, nine feet wide, ornamented with much architectural taste. on the exterior part of the vessel is a promenade, decorated with evergreens, orange and rose trees, jasmines, and other odoriferous plants. by means of a hydraulic machine, worked by two horses, in an adjoining barge, the reservoirs can be emptied and filled again in less than an hour. the _bains vigier_ are much frequented, as you may suppose from their daily consumption of two cords of wood for fuel. tepid baths, at blood-heat, are, at present, universally used by the french ladies, and, apparently, with no small advantage. the price of one of these is no more than _sous_, linen, &c. included. if you want to learn to swim, you may be instructed here in that necessary art, or merely take a look at those acquiring it, at the school of natation. the seine is the school where the lessons are given, and the police takes care that the pupils infringe not the laws of decency. * * * * * it is certain that, as far back as the year , means were proposed in london to transmit signs to a great distance in a very short space of time, and that, towards the close of the seventeenth century, a member of the academy of sciences made, near paris, several minute experiments on the same subject. the paper read at the royal society of london, and the detail of the experiments made in france, seem to suggest nearly the same means as those now put in practice, by the two nations, with respect to telegraphs. the construction of those in france differs from ours in consisting of one principal pole, and two arms, moveable at the ends. there are four in paris; one, on the _louvre_, which corresponds with lille; another, on the _place de la concorde_, with brest; a third, on one of the towers of the church of _st. sulpice_, with strasburg; and the fourth, on the other tower of the said church, which is meant to extend to nice, but is as yet carried no farther than dijon. to and from lille, which is leagues distant from paris, intelligence is conveyed and received in six minutes, three for the question, and three for the answer. yet, however expeditious this intercourse may seem, it is certain that the telegraphic language may be abridged, by preserving these machines in their present state, but at the same time allotting to each of the signs a greater portion of idea, without introducing any thing vague into the signification. independently of the public curiosities, which i have described, paris contains several private collections. among them, those most deserving of attention are: adanson's cabinet of natural history, _rue de la victoire_. casas' cabinet of models and drawings, _rue de seine, faubourg st. germain_. charles's cabinet of physics, _palais national des sciences et des arts._ denon's cabinet of drawings, &c. _hôtel de bouillon_, _rue j. j. rousseau_. fouquet's cabinet of models of antique monuments, _rue de lille_, _f. s. g._ haupois' cabinet of mechanics. suË's cabinet of anatomy, _rue du luxembourg_. tersan's cabinet of antiquities, _cloître st. honoré_. vaillant's cabinet of birds, &c. _rue du sépulchre_, _f. s. g._ van-horren's cabinet of curiosities, _rue st. dominique_, _f. s. g._ i must observe that, to visit these men of science, without putting them to inconvenience, it is expedient either to procure an introduction, or to address them a note, requesting permission to view their cabinet. this observation holds good with respect to every thing that is not public. if you are fond of inspecting curious fire-arms, you should examine the _dépôt d'armes_ of m. boutet in the _rue de la loi_, whose manufactory is at versailles, and also pay a visit to m. regnier, at the _dépôt central de l'artillerie_, _rue de l'université_, who is a very ingenious mechanic, and will shew you several curious articles of his own invention, such as a _dynamomètre_, by means of which you can ascertain and compare the relative strength of men, as well as that of horses and draught-cattle, and also judge of the resistance of machines, and estimate the moving power you wish to apply to them; a _potamomètre_, by which you can tell the force of running streams, and measure the currents of rivers. m. regnier has also invented different kinds of locks and padlocks, which cannot be picked; as well as some curious pistols, &c. i have, as you will perceive, strictly confined myself to the limits of the capital, because i expect that my absence from it will not be long; and, in my next trip to france, i intend, not only to point out such objects as i may now have neglected, but also to describe those most worthy of notice in the environs of paris. if i have not spoken to you of all the metamorphoses occasioned here by the revolution, it is because several of them bear not the stamp of novelty. if the exchange in paris is now held in the _ci-devant eglise des petits pères_, did we not at boston, in new england, convert the meeting-houses and churches into riding-schools and barracks? as the _charnier des innocens_, which had subsisted in the centre of paris for upwards of eight centuries, and received the remains of at least ten millions of human beings, was, before the revolution, turned into a market-place; so is the famous spot where the jacobin convent stood in the _rue st. honoré_, and whence issued laws more bloody than those of draco, now on the point of being appropriated to a similar destination. the cemetery of st. sulpice is transformed into a ranelagh. over the entrance is written, in large letters, encircled by roses, "bal des zÉphyrs," and, underneath, you read: _"has ultra metas requiescunt beatam spem expectantes."_ and on the door itself: _"expectances misericordiam dei."_ i was just going to conclude with _adieu, till we meet_, when i was most agreeably surprised by the receipt of your letter. i am happy to find that, through the kind attention of mr. mantell of dover, whose good offices on this and other simllar occasions claim my most grateful acknowledgments, you have received all the packets and books which i have addressed to you during my present visit to paris. it is likewise no small gratification to me to learn that my correspondence has afforded to you a few subjects of deep reflection. as i told you at the time, the task which you imposed on me was more than i could accomplish; and you must now be but too well convinced that the apprehension of my inability was not unfounded. it may not, perhaps, be difficult for a man of sound judgment to seize and delineate the general progress of the human mind during a determined period; but to follow successively, through all their details, the ramifications of the arts and sciences, is a labour which requires much more knowledge and experience than i can pretend to: nor did self-love ever blind me so far as to lead me to presume, for a moment, that success would crown my efforts. however, i think i have said enough to shew that one of the striking effects of the revolution has been to make the arts and sciences popular in france. it has rendered common those doctrines which had till then been reserved for first-rate _savans_ and genuises. the arsenals of the sciences (if i may use the expression) were filled; but soldiers were wanting. the revolution has produced them in considerable numbers; and, in spite of all the disasters and evils which it has occasioned, it cannot be denied that the minds of frenchmen, susceptible of the least energy, have here received a powerful impulse which has urged them towards great and useful ideas. this impulse has been kept alive and continued by the grand establishments of public instruction, founded during the course of that memorable period. thus, in a few words, you are at once in possession both of the causes and the result of the progress of the human mind in this country. you may, probably, be surprised that i could have written so much, in so short a space of time, amid all the allurements of the french capital, and the variety of pursuits which must necessarily have diverted my attention. perhaps too, you may think that i might have dwelt less on some of my least interesting details. i must confess that i have, in some measure, subjected myself to such an opinion; but, knowing your wish to acquire every sort of information, i have exerted myself to obtain it from all quarters. to collect this budget has been no easy task; to compress it would have been still more difficult, and, alas! to have transmitted it, in an epistolary form, would have been totally out of my power, but for the assistance of two very ingenious artists, who have not a little contributed to lighten my labour. introducing themselves to me, very shortly after my arrival, the one furnished me with an everlasting pen; and the other, with an inexhaustible inkstand. farewell, my good friend. i have obtained a passport for england. my baggage is already packed up. to-morrow i shall devote to the ceremony of making visits _p. p. c._ that is, _pour prendre congé_ of my parisian friends; and, on the day after, (_deo volente_) i shall bid adieu to the "paradise of women, the purgatory of men, and the hell of horses." [footnote : since the revolution, the paris lottery is drawn three times in each month, in lieu of twice; and lotteries have also been established in the principal towns of the republic, namely; bordeaux, lyons, marseilles, rouen, strasburg, and brussels. the offices in the capital present the facility of gambling in all these different lotteries as often every month as in that of paris.] the end. _the new organisation of the national institute, referred to in letter xlv of this volume, will be found among the prefaratory matter in vol. i, immediately preceding the introduction._ history of the commune of the reformers' bookshelf. _large crown vo., cloth, s. d. each._ . the english peasant: his past and present. by richard heath. . the labour movement. by l. t. hobhouse, m.a. preface by r. b. haldane, m.p. & . sixty years of an agitator's life: george jacob holyoake's autobiography. vols. & . bamford's passages in the life of a radical. edited, and with an introduction by henry dunckley ("verax"). vols. . richard cobden and the jubilee of free trade. by p. leroy-beaulieu, henry dunckley ("verax"), dr. theodor barth, the right hon. leonard courtney, m.p., and the right hon. charles villiers, m.p. & . the economic interpretation of history: lectures on political economy and its history, delivered at oxford, - . by professor thorold rogers. third edition. vols. & . the industrial and commercial history of england. by professor thorold rogers. vols. . the gladstone colony. by james francis hogan, m.p. & . charles bradlaugh: a record of his life and work. by his daughter, hypatia bradlaugh bonner. vols. & . the inner life of the house of commons. selected from the writings of william white, with a prefatory note by his son, and an introduction by justin mccarthy, m.p. . political crime. by louis proal. & . the life of richard cobden. by john morley. vols. london: t. fisher unwin. history of the commune of from the french of lissagaray [illustration] london t. fisher unwin contents. prologue. page how the prussians got paris and the rurals france chapter i. first attacks of the coalition against paris--the battalions of the national guard federalise and seize their cannon--the prussians enter paris chapter ii. the coalition opens fire on paris--the central committee constitutes itself--m. thiers orders the assault chapter iii. the eighteenth of march chapter iv. the central committee convokes the electors--the mayors of paris and deputies of the seine turn against it chapter v. the central committee affirms itself, reorganises the public services, and holds paris chapter vi. the mayors, the deputies, the journalists, the assembly combine against paris--the reaction marches on the place vendÔme, and is punished chapter vii. the central committee triumphs over all obstacles and constrains the mayors to capitulate chapter viii. proclamation of the commune chapter ix. the commune at lyons, st. etienne, and creuzot chapter x. the commune at marseilles, toulouse, and narbonne chapter xi. the council of the commune wavers from its first sittings --the mayors and adjuncts elected desert en masse chapter xii. sortie of the third april--the parisians are repulsed everywhere--flourens and duval are killed--the versaillese massacre some prisoners chapter xiii. the commune is vanquished at marseilles and narbonne chapter xiv. the great resources of the commune--the great weakness of the council--nomination of cluseret--decree concerning the hostages--the central committee--the bank chapter xv. the first combats of neuilly and ansniÈres--organisation and defeat of the conciliators chapter xvi. the manifesto of the council--the complimentary elections of the th april show a minority within the council--first disputes--the germs of defeat chapter xvii. our parisiennes--suspension of arms for the evacuation of neuilly--the army of versailles and that of paris chapter xviii. the public services--finance--war--police--exterior--justice --education--labor and exchange chapter xix. the freemasons join the commune--the first evacuation of the part of issy--creation of the committee of public safety chapter xx. rossel replaces cluseret--the rivalries--the defence of the fort of issy chapter xxi. paris is bombarded--the fort of issy succumbs--the council elects a new committee of public safety--rossel flies chapter xxii. the conspiracies against the commune chapter xxiii. m. thiers' policy with regard to the provinces--the extreme left betrays paris chapter xxiv. the impotence of the second committee of public safety-- evacuation of the fort of vanves and of the village of issy --the manifesto of the minority--the explosion in the avenue rapp--fall of the vendÔme column chapter xxv. paris on the eve of death chapter xxvi. the versaillese enter paris on sunday, st may, at three o'clock in the afternoon--the council of the commune dissolves chapter xxvii. monday nd--the versaillese invade the quarters of the east--paris rises chapter xxviii. tuesday rd--montmartre is taken--the wholesale massacres --we lose ground--paris on fire--the last night of the hÔtel-de-ville chapter xxix. wednesday th--the members of the council evacuate the hÔtel-de-ville--the panthÉon is taken--the versaillese shoot the federals by hundreds--the federals shoot six hostages-- the night of the cannon chapter xxx. thursday th--the whole left bank falls into the hands of the troops--delescluze dies--the brassardiers stimulate the massacre--the members of the council evacuate the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement chapter xxxi. the resistance centres in belleville--friday, forty-eight hostages are shot in the rue haxo--saturday th, the whole twentieth arrondissement is invaded--the pÈre lachaise is taken--sunday th, the battle ends at eleven o'clock in the morning--monday th, the fort of vincennes is surrendered chapter xxxii. the versaillese fury--the slaughter-houses--the prevotal courts--the death of varlin--the burials chapter xxxiii. the convoys of prisoners--the orangerie--the arrests--satory --the denunciators--the press--the left insults the vanquished--demonstrations in foreign countries chapter xxxiv. the pontoons--the forts--the prisons--the first trials chapter xxxv. the courts-martial--the executions--balance-sheet of the condemnations chapter xxxvi. new caledonia--exile--balance-sheet of bourgeois vengeance --the liberal chamber and the amnesty appendix history of the commune. prologue. "osons, ce mot renferme toute la politique de cette heure."--_rapport de st. just à la convention._ how the prussians got paris and the rurals france. _august , ._--in six days the empire has lost three battles. douai, frossart, macmahon have allowed themselves to be isolated, surprised, crashed. alsace is lost, the moselle laid bare. the dumbfoundered ministry has convoked the chamber. ollivier, in dread of a demonstration, denounces if beforehand as "prussian." but since eleven in the morning an immense agitated crowd occupies the place de la concorde, the quays, and surrounds the corps législatif. paris is waiting for the _mot d'ordre_ of the deputies of the left. since the announcement of the defeats they have become the only moral authority. bourgeoisie, workingmen, all rally round them. the workshops have turned their army into the streets, and at the head of the different groups one sees men of tried energy. the empire totters--it has now only to fall. the troops drawn up before the corps législatif are greatly excited, ready to turn tail in spite of the decorated and grumbling marshal baraguay d'hilliers. the people cry, "to the frontier." officers answer aloud, "our place is not here." in the salle des pas perdus well-known republicans, the men of the clubs, who have forced their way in, roughly apostrophise the imperialist deputies, speak loudly of proclaiming the republic. the pale-faced mamelukes steal behind the groups. m. thiers arrives and exclaims, "well, then, make your republic!" when the president, schneider, passes to the chair, he is received with cries of "abdication!" the deputies of the left are surrounded by delegates from without. "what are you waiting for? we are ready. only show yourselves under the colonnades at the gates." the honourables seem confounded, stupefied. "are you numerous enough? were it not better to put it off till to-morrow?" there are indeed only , men ready. some one arrives and tells gambetta, "there are several thousands of us at the place bourbon." another, the writer of this history, says, "make sure of the situation to-day, when it may still be saved. to-morrow, having become desperate, it will be forced upon you." but these brains seem paralysed; no word escapes these gaping mouths. the sitting opens. jules favre proposes to this base chamber, the abettor of our disasters, the humus of the empire, to seize upon the government. the mamelukes rise up in dudgeon, and jules simon, hair on end, returns to us in the salle des pas perdus. "they threaten to shoot us," he shrieks; "i descended into the midst of the hall and said, 'well, shoot us.'" we exclaim, "put an end to this." "yes," says he, "we must make an end of it,"--and he returns to the chamber. and thus ended their "damnable faces." the mamelukes, who know their left, recover their self-assurance, throw ollivier overboard and form a _coup-d'état_ ministry. schneider precipitately breaks up the sitting in order to get rid of the crowd. the people, feebly repulsed by the soldiers, repair in masses to the bridges, follow those who leave the chamber, expecting every moment to hear the republic proclaimed. m. jules simon, out of reach of the bayonets, makes a heroic discourse, and convokes the people to meet the next day at the place de la concorde. the next day the police occupy all the approaches. thus the left abandoned to napoleon iii. our two last armies. one effort would have sufficed to overthrow this pasteboard empire.[ ] the people instinctively offered their help to render the nation unto herself. the left repulsed them, refused to save the country by a riot, and, confining their efforts to a ridiculous motion, left to the mamelukes the care of saving france. the turks in showed more intelligence and elasticity. during three weeks it was the story of the bas-empire all over again,--the fettered nation sinking into the abyss in the face of its motionless governing classes. all europe cried, "beware!" they alone heard not. the masses, deceived by a braggart and corrupt press, might ignore the danger, lull themselves with vain hopes; but the deputies have, must have, their hands full of crushing truths. they conceal them. the left exhausts itself in exclamations. on the th m. gambetta cries, "we must wage republican war"--and sits down again. on the th jules favre demands the creation of a committee of defence. it is refused. he utters no syllable. on the th the ministry announces that bazaine has forced three army corps into the quarries of jaumont; the next day the whole european press related, on the contrary, that bazaine, three times beaten, had been thrown back upon metz by , germans. and no deputy rises to interpellate the liars! since the th they have known macmahon's insane march upon metz, exposing the last army of france, a mob of , conscripts, and vanquished, to , victorious germans. m. thiers, again restored to favour since the disasters, demonstrates in the committees and in the lobbies that this march is the way to utter ruin. the extreme left says and bruits about that all is lost and of all these responsible persons seeing the state ship tempest-tossed, not one raises his hand to seize the helm. since france had seen no such collapse of the governing classes. the ineffable dastardliness of the cent-jours pales before this superior cowardice; for here tartuffe is grafted upon trimalcion. thirteen months later, at versailles, i hear, amidst enthusiastic applause, the empire apostrophised, "varus, give us back our legions." who speaks, who applauds thus? the same great bourgeoisie, which, for eighteen years mute and bowed to the dust, offered their legions to varus. the bourgeoisie accepted the second empire from fear of socialism, even as their fathers had submitted to the first to make an end of the revolution. napoleon i. rendered the bourgeoisie two services not overpaid by his apotheosis. he gave them an iron centralisation and sent to their graves , wretches still kindled by the flame of the revolution, who at any moment might have claimed the public lands granted to them. but he left the same bourgeoisie saddled for all masters. when they possessed themselves of the parliamentary government, to which mirabeau wished to raise them at one bound, they were incapable of governing. their mutiny of , turned into a revolution by the people, made the belly master. the great bourgeois of , like him of , had but one thought--to gorge himself with privileges, to arm the bulwarks in defence of his domains, to perpetuate the proletariat. the fortune of his country is nothing to him, so that he fatten. to lead, to compromise france, the parliamentary king has as free license as bonaparte. when by a new outburst of the people the bourgeoisie are compelled to seize the helm after three years, spite of massacre and proscription, it slips out of their palsied hands into those of the first comer. from to they relapse into the same state as after the th brumaire. their privileges safe, they allow napoleon iii. to plunder france, make her the vassal of rome, dishonour her in mexico, ruin her finances, vulgarise debauchery. all-powerful by their retainers and their wealth, they do not risk a man, a dollar, for the sake of protesting. in the pressure from without raises them to the verge of power; a little strength of will and the government is theirs. they have but the velleity of the eunuch. at the first sign of the impotent master they kiss the rod that smote them on the nd december, making room for the plebiscite which rebaptizes the empire. bismarck prepared the war, napoleon iii. wanted it, the great bourgeoisie looked on. they might have stopped it by an earnest gesture. m. thiers contented himself with a grimace. he saw in this war our certain ruin; he knew our terrible inferiority in everything; he could have united the left, the _tiers-parti_, the journalists, have made palpable to them the folly of the attack, and, supported by this strength of opinion, have said to the tuileries, to paris if needs be, "war is impossible; we shall combat it as treason." he, anxious only to clear himself, simply demanded the despatches instead of speaking the true word, "you have no chance of success."[ ] and these great bourgeois, who would not have risked the least part of their fortunes without the most serious guarantees, staked , lives and the milliards of france on the word of a leboeuf and the equivocations of a grammont.[ ] and what then is the small middle-class doing meanwhile? this lean class, which penetrates everything--industry, commerce, the administration--mighty by encompassing the people, so vigorous, so ready in the first days of our hegira, will it not, as in , rise for the common weal? alas! it has been spoilt under the hot corruption of the empire. for many years it has lived at random, isolating itself from the proletariat, whence it issued but yesterday, and whither the great barons of capital will hurl it back again to-morrow. no more of that fraternity with the people, of that zeal for reform, which manifested themselves from to . with its bold initiative, its revolutionary instinct, it loses also the consciousness of its force. instead of representing itself, as it might so well do, it goes about in quest of representatives among the liberals. the friend of the people who will write the history of liberalism in france will save us many a convulsion. sincere liberalism would be folly in a country where the governing classes, refusing to concede anything, constrain every honest man to become a revolutionist. but it was never anything else than the jesuitism of liberty, a trick of the bourgeoisie to isolate the workmen. from bailly to jules favre, the moderantists have masked the manoeuvres of despotism, buried our revolutions, conducted the great massacres of proletarians. the old clear-sighted parisian sections hated them more than the down right reactionists. twice imperial despotism rehabilitated them, and the small middle-class, soon forgetting their true part, accepted as defenders those who pretended to be vanquished like themselves. the men who had made abortive the movement of and paved the way for the nd december thus became during the darkness which followed it the acclaimed vindicators of ravished liberty. at the first dawn they appeared what they had ever been----the enemies of the working-class. under the empire the left never condescended to concern itself with the interests of the workmen. these liberals never found for them a word, a protestation, even such as the chambers of - sometimes witnessed. the young lawyers whom they had affiliated to themselves soon revealed their designs, rallying to the liberal empire, some openly, like ollivier and darimon, others with prudence, like picard. for the timid or ambitious they founded the "open left," a bench of candidates for public office; and in a number of liberals indeed solicited official functions. for the "intransigeants" there was the "closed left," where the irreconcilable dragons gambetta, crémieux, arago, pelletan guarded the pure principles. the chiefs towered in the centre. these two groups of augurs thus held every fraction of bourgeois opposition--the timorous and the intrepid. after the plebiscite they became the holy synod, the uncontested chiefs of the small middle-class, more and more incapable of governing itself, and alarmed at the socialist movement, behind which they showed it the hand of the emperor. it gave them full powers, shut its eyes, and allowed itself to drift gradually towards the parliamentary empire, big with portfolios for its patrons. the thunderbolt of the defeats galvanised it into life, but only for a moment. at the bidding of the deputies to keep quiet, the small middle-class, the mother of the th august, docilely bent its head and let the foreigner plunge his sword into the very bosom of france. poor france! who will save thee? the humble, the poor, those who for six years contended for thee with the empire. while the upper classes sell the nation for a few hours of rest, and the liberals seek to feather their nests under the empire, a handful of men, without arms, unprotected, rise up against the still all-powerful despot. on the one hand, young men who form the bourgeoisie have gone over to the people, faithful children of , resolved to continue the work of the revolution; on the other hand, working-men unite for the study and the conquest of the rights of labor. in vain the empire attempts to split their forces, to seduce the working-men. these see the snare, hiss the professors of cæsarian socialism, and from , without journals, without a tribune, affirm themselves as a class, to the great scandal of the liberal sycophants, maintaining that has equalized all classes. in they descend into the streets, make a manifestation at the tomb of manin, and, despite the bludgeons of the sbirri, protest against mentana. at this appearance of a revolutionary socialist party the left gnashes its teeth. when some working-men, ignorant of their own history, ask jules favre if the liberal bourgeoisie will support them on the day of their rising for the republic, the leader of the left impudently answers, "gentlemen workmen, you have made the empire; it is your business to unmake it." and picard says, "socialism does not exist, or at any rate we will not treat with it." thus set right for the future, the working-men continue the struggle single-handed. since the re-opening of the public meetings they fill the halls, and, in spite of persecution and imprisonment, harass, undermine the empire, taking advantage of every accident to inflict a blow. on the th october they threaten to march on the corps législatif; in november they insult the tuileries by the election of rochefort; in december they goad the government by the _marseillaise_; in january, , they go , strong to the funeral of victor noir, and, well directed, would have swept away the throne. the left, terrified at this multitude, which threatens to overwhelm them, brands their leaders as desperadoes or as police agents. they, however, keep to the fore, unmasking the left, defying them to discussion, keeping up at the same time a running fire on the empire. they form the vanguard against the plebiscite. at the war rumors they are the first to make a stand. the old dregs of chauvinism, stirred by the bonapartists, discharge their muddy waters. the liberals remain impassible or applaud; the workingmen stop the way. on the th july, at the very same hour when ollivier from the tribune invokes war with a light heart, the revolutionary socialists crowd the boulevards crying, "vive la paix!" and singing the pacific refrain-- "les peuples sont pour nous des frères et les tyrans des ennemis." from the château d'eau to the boulevard st. denis they are applauded, but are hissed in the boulevards bonne nouvelle and montmartre, and come to blows with certain bands shouting for war. the next day they meet again at the bastille, and parade the streets, ranvier, a painter on porcelain, well known in belleville, marching at their head with a banner. in the faubourg montmartre the sergents-de-ville charge them with drawn swords. unable to influence the bourgeoisie, they turn to the working-men of germany, as they had done in :--"brothers, we protest against the war, we who wish for peace, labour, and liberty. brothers, do not listen to the hirelings who seek to deceive you as to the real wishes of france." their noble appeal received its reward. in the students of berlin had answered the pacific address of the french students with insults. the working-men of berlin in spoke thus to the working-men of france: "we too wish for peace, labour, and liberty. we know that on both sides of the rhine there are brothers with whom we are ready to die for the universal republic." great prophetic words! let them be inscribed on the first page of the golden book just opened by the workmen. thus towards the end of the empire there was no life, no activity, save in the ranks of the proletariat and the young men of the middle-class who had joined them. they alone showed some political courage, and in the midst of the general paralysis of the month of july , they alone found the energy to attempt at least the salvation of france. they lacked authority; they failed to carry with them the small middle-class, for which they also combat, because of their utter want of political experience. how could they have acquired it during eighty years, when the ruling class not only withheld light from them, but even the right to enlighten themselves? by an infernal machiavelism they forced them to grope their way in the dark, so that they might hand them over the more easily to dreamers and sectarians. under the empire, when the public meetings and journals reappeared, the political education of the workmen had still to be effected. many, abused by morbid minds, in the belief that their affranchisement depended on a _coup-de-main_, gave themselves up to whoever spoke of overthrowing the empire. others, convinced that even the most thorough-going bourgeois were hostile to socialism, and only courted the people in furtherance of their ambitious plans, wanted the workmen to constitute themselves into groups independent of all tutelage. these different currents crossed each other. the chaotic state of the party of action was laid bare in its journal, the _marseillaise_, a hot mish-mash of doctrinaires and desperate writers united by hatred of the empire, but without definite views, and above all, without discipline. much time was wanted to cool down the first effervescence and get rid of the romantic rubbish which twenty years of oppression and want of study had made fashionable. however, the influence of the socialists began to prevail, and no doubt with time they would have classified their ideas, drawn up their programme, eliminated the mere spouters, entered upon serious action. already, in , working-men's societies, founded for mutual credit, resistance and study, had united in a federation, whose headquarters were the place de la corderie du temple. the international, setting forth the most adequate idea of the revolutionary movement of our century, under the guidance of varlin, a bookbinder of rare intelligence, of duval, theisz, frankel, and a few devoted men, was beginning to gain power in france. it also met at the corderie, and urged on the more slow and reserved workmen's societies. the public meetings of no longer resembled the earlier ones; the people wanted useful discussions. men like millière, lefrançais, vermorel, longuet, etc., seriously competed with the mere declaimers. but many years would have been required for the development of the party of labour, hampered by young bourgeois adventurers in search of a reputation, encumbered with conspiracy-mongers and romantic visionaries, still ignorant of the administrative and political mechanism of the bourgeois régime which they attacked. just before the war some discipline was attempted. some tried to move the deputies of the left, and met them at crémieux'. they found them stupefied, more afraid of a _coup-d'état_ than of the prussian victories. crémieux, pressed to act, answered naïvely, "let us wait for a new disaster, as, for instance, the fall of strasbourg." it was indeed necessary to wait, for without these shadows nothing could be done. the small parisian middle-class believed in the extreme left, as it had believed in our armies. those who wished to do without them failed. on the th the friends of blanqui attempted to raise the outlying districts, attacked the quarters of the firemen of la villette, and put the sergents-de-ville to flight. masters of the field, they traversed the boulevard up to belleville, crying, "vive la république! death to the prussians!" no one joined them. the crowd looked on from afar, astonished, motionless, rendered suspicious by the police agents, who thus drew them off from the real enemy--the empire. the left pretended to believe in the prussian agent, to reassure the bourgeoisie, and gambetta demanded the immediate trial of the prisoners of la villette. the minister palikao had to remind him that certain forms must be observed, even by military justice. the court-martial condemned ten to death, although almost all the accused had had nothing to do with the affray. some true-hearted men, wishing to prevent these executions, went to michelet, who wrote a touching letter on their behalf. the empire had no time to carry out the sentences. since the th macmahon was leading his army into the snares laid by moltke. on the th, surprised and beaten at beaumont l'argonne, he knew himself overreached, and yet pushed forward. palikao had written to him on the th: "if you abandon bazaine we shall have the revolution in paris." and to ward off the revolution he exposed france. on the th he threw his troops into the pit of sedan; on the st september the army was surrounded by , enemies, and cannons crowned the heights. the next day napoleon iii. delivered up his sword to the king of prussia. the telegraph announced it; all europe knew it that same night. the deputies, however, were silent; they remained so on the rd. on the th only, at midnight, after paris had passed through a day of feverish excitement, they made up their minds to speak. jules favre demanded the abolition of the empire and a commission charged with the defence, but took care not to touch the chamber. during the day some men of tried energy had attempted to raise the boulevards, and in the evening an anxious crowd pressed against the railings of the corps législatif, crying: "vive la république." gambetta met them and said, "you are wrong; we must remain united; make no revolution." jules favre, surrounded on his leaving the chamber, strove to calm the people. if paris had been guided by the left, france would have capitulated that very hour more shamefully than napoleon iii. but on the morning of the th of september the people assemble, and amongst them national guards armed with their muskets. the astonished gendarmes give way to them. little by little the corps législatif is invaded. at ten o'clock notwithstanding the desperate efforts of the left, the crowd fills the galleries. it is time. the chamber, on the point of forming a ministry, try to seize the government. the left support this combination with all its might, waxing indignant at the mere mention of a republic. when that cry bursts forth from the galleries, gambetta makes unheard-of efforts and conjures the people to await the result of the deliberations of the chamber,--a result known beforehand. it is the project of m. thiers: a government commission named by the assembly; peace demanded and accepted at any price; after that disgrace, the parliamentary monarchy. happily a new crowd of invaders bursts its way through the doors, while the occupants of the galleries glide into the hall. the people expel the deputies. gambetta, forced to the tribune, is obliged to announce the abolition of the empire. the crowd, wanting more than this, asks for the republic, and carries off the deputies to proclaim it at the hôtel-de-ville. this was already in the hands of the people. in the salle du trône were some of those who for a month had attempted to rouse public opinion. first on the ground, they might, with a little discipline, have influenced the constitution of the government. the left surprised them haranguing, and, incited by an acclaiming multitude, jules favre took the chair, which millière gave up to him, saying, "at the present moment there is but one matter at stake--the expulsion of the prussians."[ ] jules favre, jules simon, jules ferry, gambetta, crémieux, emmanuel arago, glais-bizoin, pelletan, garnier-pages, picard, uniting, proclaimed themselves the government, and read their own names to the crowd, which answered by adding those of men like delescluze, ledru-rollin, blanqui. they, however, declared they would accept no colleagues but the deputies of paris. the crowd applauded. this frenzy of just-emancipated serfs made the left masters. they were clever enough to admit rochefort. they next applied to general trochu, named governor of paris by napoleon. this general had become the idol of the liberals because he had sulked a little with the empire.[ ] his whole military glory consisted in a few pamphlets. the left had seen much of him during the last crisis. having attained to power, it begged him to direct the defence. he asked, firstly, a place for god in the new régime; secondly, for himself the presidency of the council. he obtained everything. the future will show what secret bond so quickly united the men of the left to the loyal breton who had promised "to die on the steps of the tuileries in defence of the dynasty."[ ] twelve individuals thus took possession of france. they invoked no other title than their mandate as representatives of paris, and declared themselves legitimate by popular acclamation. in the evening the international and syndicates of the workmen sent delegates to the hôtel-de-ville. they had on the same day sent a new address to the german workingmen. their fraternal duty fulfilled, the french workmen gave themselves up to the defence. let the government organize it and they would stay by it. the most suspicious were taken in. on the th, in the first number of his paper _la patrie en danger_, blanqui and his friends offered the government their most energetic, their absolute co-operation. all paris abandoned itself to the men of the hôtel-de-ville, forgetting their late defections, investing them with the grandeur of the danger. to seize, to monopolize the government at such a moment, seemed a stroke of audacity of which genius alone is capable. paris, deprived for eighty years of her municipal liberties, accepted as mayor the lachrymose etienne arago. in the twenty arrondissements he named the mayors he liked, and they again named the adjuncts agreeable to themselves. but arago announced early elections and spoke of reviving the great days of . at this moment jules favre, proud as danton, cried to prussia, to europe, "we will cede neither an inch of our territories nor a stone of our fortresses," and paris rapturously applauded this dictatorship announcing itself with words so heroic. on the th, when trochu held the review of the national guard, , men stationed in the boulevards, the place de la concorde, and the champs-elysées cheered enthusiastically, and renewed a vow like that of their fathers on the morning of valmy. yes, paris gave herself up without reserve--incurable confidence--to that same left to which she had been forced to do violence in order to make her revolution. her outburst of will lasted but for an hour. the empire once overthrown, she re-abdicated. in vain did far-seeing patriots try to keep her on the alert; in vain did blanqui write, "paris is no more impregnable than we were invincible. paris, mystified by a braggart press, ignores the greatness of the peril; paris abuses confidence." paris abandoned herself to her new masters, obstinately shutting her eyes. and yet each day brought with it new ill omens. the shadow of the siege approached, and the government of defence, far from removing the superfluous mouths, crowded the , inhabitants of the suburbs into the town. the exterior works did not advance. instead of throwing all paris into the work, and taking these descendants of the levellers of the champ-de-mars out of the enceinte in troops of , , drums beating, banners flying, trochu abandoned the earthworks to the ordinary contractors. the heights of châtillon, the key to our forts of the south, had hardly been surveyed, when on the th the enemy presented himself, sweeping from the plateau an affrighted troop of zouaves and soldiers who did not wish to fight. the following day, that paris which the press had declared could not be invested, was surrounded and cut off from france. this gross ignorance very soon alarmed the revolutionists. they had promised their support, but not blind faith. since the th september, wishing to centralise the forces of the party of action for the defence and the maintenance of the republic, they had invited the public meetings in each arrondissement to name a committee of vigilance charged to control the mayors and to delegate four members to a central committee of the twenty arrondissements. this tumultuous mode of election had resulted in a committee composed of working-men, employés, authors, known in the revolutionary movements of the last years. this committee had established itself in the hall of the rue de la corderie, lent by the international and the federation of the syndicates. these had almost suspended their work, the service of the national guard absorbing all their activity. some of their members again met in the committee of vigilance and in the central committee, which caused the latter to be erroneously attributed to the international. on the th it demanded by a manifesto the election of the municipalities, the police to be placed in their hands, the election and control of all the magistrates, absolute freedom of the press, public meeting and association, the expropriation of all articles of primary necessity, their distribution by allowance, the arming of all citizens, the sending of commissioners to rouse the provinces. but paris was then infected with a fit of confidence. the bourgeois journals denounced the committee as prussian. the names of some of the signers were, however, well known in the meetings and to the press: ranvier, millière, longuet, vallès, lefrançais, mallon, etc. their placards were torn down. on the th, after jules favre's application to bismarck, the committee held a large meeting in the alcazar and sent a deputation to the hôtel-de-ville to demand war _à outrance_ and the early election of the commune of paris. jules ferry gave his word of honour that the government would not treat at any price, and announced the municipal elections for the end of the month. two days after a decree postponed them indefinitely. thus this government, which in seventeen days had prepared nothing, which had allowed itself to be blocked up without even a struggle, refused the advice of paris, and more than ever arrogated to itself the right of directing the defence. did it then possess the secret of victory? trochu had just said, "the resistance is a heroic madness;" picard, "we shall defend ourselves for honour's sake, but all hope is chimerical;" the elegant crémieux, "the prussians will enter paris like a knife goes into butter;"[ ] the chief of trochu's staff, "we cannot defend ourselves; we have decided not to defend ourselves;"[ ] and, instead of honestly warning paris, saying, "capitulate at once or conduct the combat yourselves," these men, who declared defence impossible, claimed its undivided direction. what then is their aim? to negotiate. since the first defeats they have no other. the reverses which exalted our fathers only made the left more cowardly than the imperialist deputies. on the th of august jules favre, jules simon, and pelletan had said to schneider, "we cannot hold out; we must come to terms as soon as possible."[ ] all the following days the left had only one plan of policy--to urge the chamber to possess itself of the government in order to negotiate, hoping to get into office afterwards. hardly established, these defenders sent m. thiers all over europe to beg for peace, and jules favre to run after bismarck to ask his conditions,[ ]--a step that revealed to the prussian with what tremblers he had to deal. when all paris cried to them, "defend us; drive back the enemy," they applauded, accepted, but said to themselves, "you shall capitulate." there is no more crying treason in history. the asinine confidence of the immense majority no more diminishes the crime than the foolishness of the dupe excuses the cheater. did the men of the th september, yes or no, betray the mandate they received? "yes," will be the verdict of the future. a tacit mandate, it is true, but so clear, so formal, that all paris started at the news of the proceedings at ferrières. if the defenders had gone a step farther, they would have been swept away. they were obliged to adjourn, to give way to what they termed the "madness of the siege," to simulate a defence. in point of fact, they did not abandon their idea for an hour, esteeming themselves the only men in paris who had not lost their heads. "there shall be fighting since those parisians will have it so, but only with the view to soften bismarck." on his return from the review, this scene of hopeful enthusiasm manifested by , armed men is said to have affected trochu, who announced that it would perhaps be possible to hold the ramparts.[ ] such was the maximum of his enthusiasm: to hold out--not to open the gates. as to drilling or organising these , men, uniting them with the , mobiles, soldiers and marines gathered together in paris, and with all these forces forming a powerful scourge to drive the enemy back to the rhine, of this he never dreamt. his colleagues thought of it as little, and only discussed with him the more or less cavilling they might venture upon with the prussian invader. he was all for mild proceedings. his devoutness forbade him to shed useless blood. since, according to all military manuals, the great town was to fall, he would make that fall as little sanguinary as possible. besides, the return of m. thiers, who might at any moment bring back the treaty, was waited for. leaving the enemy to establish himself tranquilly round paris, trochu organised a few skirmishes for the lookers-on. one single serious engagement took place on the th at chevilly, when, after a success, we retreated, abandoning a battery for want of reinforcements and teams. public opinion still hoaxed by the same men that had cried, "a berlin," believed in a success. the revolutionists only were not taken in. the capitulation of toul and of strasbourg was to them a solemn warning. flourens, chief of the d battalion, but who was the real commander of belleville, could no longer restrain himself. with the head and heart of a child, an ardent imagination, guided only by his own impulse, flourens conducted his battalions to the hôtel-de-ville, demanded the _levée en masse_, sorties, municipal elections, and the putting the town on short rations. trochu, who, to amuse him, had given him the title of major of the rampart, made an elaborate discourse; the twelve apostles argued with him, and wound up by showing him out. as delegates came from all sides to demand that paris should have a voice in her own defence, should name a council, her commune, the government declared on the th that their dignity forbade them to concede these behests. this insolence caused the movement of the th october. the committee of the twenty arrondissements protested in an energetic placard. seven or eight hundred persons cried "vive la commune" under the windows of the hôtel-de-ville. but the multitude had not yet lost faith. a great number of battalions hastened to the rescue; the government passed them in review. jules favre opened the flood-gates of his rhetoric and declared the election impossible because--unanswerable reason!--everybody ought to be at the ramparts. the majority greedily swallowed the bait. on the th trochu having written to his crony etienne arago, "i shall pursue the plan i have traced for myself to the end," the loungers announced a victory, and took up the burden of their august song on bazaine, "let him alone; he has his plan." the agitators looked like prussians, for trochu, as a good jesuit, had not failed to speak of "a small number of men whose culpable views serve the projects of the enemy." then paris allowed herself during the whole month of october to be rocked asleep to the sound of expeditions commencing with success and always terminated by retreats. on the th we took bagneux, and a spirited attack would have repossessed us of châtillon: trochu had no reserves. on the st a march on the malmaison revealed the weakness of the investment and spread panic even to versailles. instead of pressing forward, general ducrot engaged only six thousand men, and the enemy repulsed him, taking two cannons. the government transformed these repulses into successful reconnoitres, and coined money out of the despatches of gambetta, who, sent to the provinces on the th, announced imaginary armies, and intoxicated paris with the account of the brilliant defence of châteaudun. the mayors encouraged this pleasant confidence. they sat at the hôtel-de-ville with their adjuncts, and this assembly of sixty-four members could have seen clearly what the defence was if they had had the least courage. but it was composed of those liberals and republicans of whom the left is the last expression. they knocked at the door of the government now and then, timidly interrogated it, and received only vague assurances, in which they did not believe,[ ] but made every effort to make paris believe. but at the corderie, in the clubs, in the paper of blanqui, in the _réveil_ of delescluze, in the _combat_ of félix pyat, the plan of the men of the hôtel-de-ville is exposed. what mean these partial sorties which are never sustained? why is the national guard hardly armed, unorganized, withheld from every military action? why is the casting of cannon not proceeded with? six weeks of idle talk and inactivity cannot leave the least doubt as to the incapacity or ill-will of the government. this same thought occupies all minds. let the sceptics make room for those that believe in the defence; let paris regain possession of herself; let the commune of be revived to again save the city and france. every day this resolution sinks more deeply into virile minds. on the th the _combat_, which preached the commune in high-flown phraseology whose musical rhythm struck the masses more than the nervous dialectics of blanqui, hurls a terrific thunderbolt. "bazaine is about to surrender metz, to treat for peace in the name of napoleon iii.; his aide-de-camp is at versailles." the hôtel-de-ville immediately contradicted this news, "as infamous as it is false. the glorious soldier bazaine has not ceased harassing the besieging army with brilliant sorties." the government called down upon the journalist "the chastisement of public opinion." at this appeal the drones of paris buzzed, burnt the journal, and would have torn the journalist to pieces if he had not decamped. the next day the _combat_ declared that they had the statement from rochefort, to whom flourens had communicated it. other complications followed. on the th a surprise made us masters of bourget, a village in the northeast of paris, and on the th the general staff announced this success as a triumph. the whole day it left our soldiers without food, without reinforcements, under the fire of the prussians, who, returning on the th , strong, recovered the village from its , defenders. on the st of october, paris on awaking received the news of three disasters: the loss of bourget, the capitulation of metz, together with the whole army of the "glorious bazaine," and the arrival of m. thiers for the purpose of negotiating an armistice. the men of the th september believed they were saved, that their goal was reached. they had placarded the armistice side by side with the capitulation, "good and bad news,"[ ] convinced that paris, despairing of victory, would accept peace with open arms. paris started up as with an electric shock, at the same time rousing marseilles, toulouse, and saint-etienne. there was such spontaneity of indignation, that from eleven o'clock, in pouring rain, the masses came to the hôtel-de-ville crying "no armistice." notwithstanding the resistance of the mobiles who defended the entrance, they invaded the vestibule. arago and his adjuncts hastened thither, swore that the government was exhausting itself in efforts to save us. the first crowd retired; a second followed hard upon. at twelve o'clock trochu appeared at the foot of the staircase, thinking to extricate himself by a harangue; cries of "down with trochu" answered him. jules simon relieved him, and, confident in his rhetoric, even went to the square in front of the hôtel-de-ville and expatiated upon the comforts of the armistice. the people cried "no armistice." he only succeeded in backing out by asking the crowd to name six delegates to accompany him to the hôtel-de-ville. trochu, jules favre, jules ferry, and picard received them. trochu in ciceronic periods demonstrated the uselessness of bourget, and pretended that he had only just learnt the capitulation of metz. a voice cried, "you are a liar." a deputation from the committee of the twenty arrondissements and of the committees of vigilance had entered the hall a little while before. others, wishing to pump trochu, invited him to continue his speech. he recommenced, when a shot was fired in the square, putting an end to the monologue and scaring away the orator. calm being re-established, jules favre supplied the place of the general, and took up the thread of his discourse. while these scenes were going on in the salle du trône, the mayors, so long the accomplices of trochu, were deliberating in the hall of the municipal council. to quell the riot, they proposed the election of municipalities, the formation of battalions of the national guard, and their joining them to the army. the scapegoat etienne aragot was sent to offer this salve to the government. at two o'clock an immense crowd inundated the place de l'hôtel-de-ville, crying, "down with trochu! vive la commune!" and carrying banners with the inscription "no armistice." they had several times come into collision with the mobiles. the delegates who entered the hôtel-de-ville brought no answer. about three o'clock, the crowd, growing impatient, rushed forward, breaking through the mobiles, and forcing félix pyat, come to the hôtel-de-ville as a sight-seer, into the salle des maires. he exclaimed, struggled, protested that this was against all rules. the mayors supported him as well as they could, and announced that they had demanded the election of the municipalities, and that the decree in that sense was about to be signed. the multitude, still pushing forward, goes up to the salle du trône, cutting short the oration of jules favre, who had rejoined his colleagues in the government-room. while the people were thundering at the door, the defenders voted the proposition of the mayors--but in principle--not fixing the date for the elections,[ ]--another jesuitical trick. towards four o'clock the mass penetrated into the room. rochefort in vain promised the municipal elections. they asked for the commune! one of the delegates of the committee of the twenty arrondissements, getting upon the table, proclaimed the abolition of the government. a commission was charged to proceed with the elections within forty-eight hours. the names of dorian, the only minister who had taken the defence to heart, of louis blanc, ledru-rollin, victor hugo, raspail, delescluze, félix pyat, blanqui and millière were received with acclamation. had this commission seized on authority, cleared the hôtel-de-ville, posted up a proclamation convoking the electors with the briefest delay, the day's work would have been beneficially concluded. but dorian refused. louis blanc, victor hugo, ledru-rollin, raspail, félix pyat remained silent or turned tail altogether. flourens had time to come up. he broke in upon the assembly with his tirailleurs of belleville, got upon the table round which were gathered the members of the government, and instead of a commune proposed a committee of public safety. some applauded, others protested, declaring the question was not to substitute one kind of dictatorship for another. flourens got the upper hand, read the names, his own first, then those of blanqui, delescluze, millière, ranvier, félix pyat, and mottu. interminable discussions followed, the disorder became terrible. the men of the th september felt they were saved, and smiled as they looked at the conquerors who allowed victory to slip through their fingers. thenceforth all became involved in an inextricable imbroglio. every room had its government, its orators. the confusion was such that about eight o'clock reactionary national guards could, under flourens' nose, pick up trochu and jules ferry, while others carried off blanqui when some franc-tireurs tried to rescue him. in the cabinet of the mayor, etienne arago and his adjuncts convoked the electors for the next day under the presidency of dorian and schoelcher. towards ten o'clock their placard was posted up in paris. the whole day paris had looked on. "on the morning of the st october," says jules ferry, "the parisian population, from highest to lowest, was absolutely hostile to us.[ ] everybody thought we deserved to be dismissed." not only did trochu's battalions not stir, but one of the best, led to the succour of the government by general tamisier, commander-in-chief of the national guard, raised the butt end of their guns on arriving at the place de l'hôtel-de-ville. in the evening everything changed when it became known that the members of the government were prisoners, and above all who were their substitutes. the measure seemed too strong. such a one, who might have accepted ledru-rollin or victor hugo, could not make up his mind to flourens and blanqui.[ ] in vain the whole day drums had been beating to arms; in the evening they proved effective. battalions refractory in the morning arrived at the place vendôme, most of them believing, it is true, that the elections had been granted; an assemblage of officers at the bourse only consented to wait for the regular vote on the strength of dorian and schoelcher's placard. trochu and the deserters from the hôtel-de-ville again found their faithful flock. the hôtel-de-ville, on the other hand, was getting empty. most of the battalions of the commune, believing their cause victorious, had returned to their quarters. in the edifice there remained hardly a thousand unarmed men, the only troops being flourens' unmanageable tirailleurs, while he wandered up and down amidst this mob. blanqui signed and again signed. delescluze tried to save some remnants from this great movement. he saw dorian, received the formal assurance that the elections of the commune would take place the next day, those of the provisional government the day after; put these assurances upon record in a note where the insurrectional committee declared itself willing to wait for the elections, and had it signed by millière, flourens and blanqui. millière and dorian went to communicate this document to the members of the defence. millière proposed to them to leave the hôtel-de-ville together, while charging dorian and schoelcher to proceed with the elections, but on the express condition that no prosecutions were to take place. the members of the defence accepted,[ ] and millière was just saying to them, "gentlemen, you are free," when the national guards asked for written engagements. the prisoners became indignant that their word should be doubted, while millière and flourens could not make the guards understand that signatures are illusory. during this mortal anarchy the battalions of order grew larger, and jules ferry attacked the door opening on to the place lobau. delescluze and dorian informed him of the arrangement which they believed concluded, and induced him to wait. at three o'clock in the morning chaos still reigned supreme. trochu's drums were beating on the place de l'hôtel-de-ville. a battalion of breton mobiles debouched in the midst of the hôtel-de-ville through the subterranean passage of the napoleon barracks, surprised and disarmed many of the tirailleurs. jules ferry invaded the government-room. the indisciplinable mass offered no resistance. jules favre and his colleagues were set free. as the bretons became menacing, general tamisier reminded them of the convention entered upon during the evening, and, as a pledge of mutual oblivion, left the hôtel-de-ville between blanqui and flourens. trochu paraded the streets amidst the pompous pageantry of his battalions. thus this day, which might have buoyed up the defence, ended in smoke. the desultoriness, the indiscipline of the patriots restored to the government its immaculate character of september. it took advantage of it that very night to tear down the placards of dorian and schoelcher; it accorded the municipal elections for the th, but in exchange demanded a plebiscite, putting the question in the imperialist style, "those who wish to maintain the government will vote _aye_." in vain the committee of the twenty arrondissements issued a manifesto; in vain the _réveil_, the _patrie en danger_, the _combat_, enumerated the hundred reasons which made it necessary to answer _no_. six months after the plebiscite which had made the war, the immense majority of paris voted the plebiscite that made the capitulation. let paris remember and accuse herself. for fear of two or three men she opened fresh credit to this government which added incapacity to insolence, and said to it, "i want you," , times. the army, the mobiles, gave , ayes. there were but , civilians and , soldiers to say boldly, _no_. how did it happen that those , men, so clear-sighted, prompt, and energetic, could not manage to direct public opinion? simply because they were wanting in _cadres_, in method, in organizers. the fever of the siege had been unable to discipline the revolutionary party, in such dire confusion a few weeks before, nor had the patriarchs of tried to do so. the jacobins like delescluze and blanqui, instead of leading the people, lived in an exclusive circle of friends. félix pyat, vibrating between just ideas and literary epilepsy, only became practical[ ] when he had to save his own skin. the others, ledru-rollin, louis blanc, schoelcher, the hope of the republicans under the empire, returned from exile shallow, pursy, rotten to the core with vanity and selfishness, without courage or patriotism, disdaining the socialists. the dandies of jacobinism, who called themselves radicals, floquet, clémenceau, brinon, and other democratic politicians, carefully kept aloof from the working-men. the old montagnards themselves formed a group of their own, and never came to the committee of the twenty arrondissements, which only wanted method and political experience to become a power. so it was only a centre of emotions, not of direction,--the gravilliers section of - , daring, eloquent, but, like its predecessor, treating of everything by manifestoes. there at least was life, a lamp, not always bright, but always burning. what is the small middle-class contributing now? where are their jacobins, even their cordeliers? at the corderie i see the proletariat of the small middle-class, men of the pen and orators, but where is the bulk of the army? all is silent. save the faubourgs, paris was a vast sick chamber, where no one dared to speak above his breath. this moral abdication is the true psychological phenomenon of the siege, all the more extraordinary that it co-existed with an admirable ardour for resistance. men who speak of going to seek death with their wives and children, who say, "we will burn our houses rather than surrender them to the enemy,"[ ] get angry at any controversy as to the power intrusted to the men of the hôtel-de-ville. if they dread the giddy-headed, the fanatics, or compromising collaborators, why do they not take the direction of the movement into their own hands? but they confine themselves to crying, "no insurrection before the enemy! no fanatics!" as though capitulation were better than an insurrection; as though the th of august and st may had not been insurrections before the enemy; as though there were no medium between abdication and delirium. and you, citizens of the old sections of - , who furnished ideas to the convention and the commune, who dictated to them the means of safety, who directed the clubs and fraternal societies, entertained in paris a hundred luminous centres, say, do you recognise your offspring in these gulls, weaklings, jealous of the people, prostrate before the left like devotees before the host? on the th and th they renewed their plebiscitory vote, naming twelve of the twenty mayors named by arago, four amongst them, dubail, vautrain, tirard, and desmarets, belonging to the pure reaction. the greater part of the adjuncts were of the liberal type. the faubourgs, always at their post, elected delescluze in the nineteenth arrondissement and ranvier, millière, lefrançais, and flourens in the twentieth. these latter could not take their seats. the government, violating the convention of dorian and tamisier, had issued warrants for their arrest, and for that of about twenty other revolutionists.[ ] thus, out of seventy-five effective members, mayors and adjuncts, there were not ten revolutionists. these shadows of municipal councillors looked upon themselves as the stewards of the defence, forbade themselves any indiscreet question, were on their best behaviour, feeding and administering trochu's patient. they allowed the insolent and incapable ferry to be appointed to the central mairie, and clément-thomas, the executioner of june , to be made commander-in-chief of the national guard. for seventy days, feeling the pulse of paris growing from hour to hour more weak, they never had the honesty, the courage to say to the government, "where are you leading us?" nothing was lost in the beginning of november. the army, the mobiles, the marines numbered, according to the plebiscite, , men and , officers: , national guards capable of serving a campaign might easily have been picked out in paris, and , left for the defence of the interior.[ ] the necessary armaments might have been furnished in a few weeks, the cannon especially, every one depriving himself of bread in order to endow his battalion with five pieces, the traditional pride of the parisians. "where find , artillerists?" said trochu. why, in every parisian mechanic there is the stuff of a gunner, as the commune has sufficiently proved. in everything else there was the same superabundance. paris swarmed with engineers, overseers, foremen, who might have been drilled into officers. there lying wasted were all the materials for a victorious army. the gouty martinets of the regular army saw here nothing but barbarism. this paris, for which hoche, marceau, kleber would have been neither too young, nor too faithful, nor too pure, had for generals the residue of the empire and orleanism, vinoy of december, ducrot, luzanne, leflô, and a fossil like chabaud-latour. in their pleasant intimacy they made much fun of the defence.[ ] finding, however, that the joke was lasting a little too long, the st october enraged them. they conceived an implacable, rabid hatred to the national guard, and up to the last hour refused to utilise it. instead of amalgamating the forces of paris, of giving to all the same _cadres_, the same uniforms, the same flag, the proud name of national guard, trochu had maintained the three divisions: the army, mobiles, and civilians. this was the natural consequence of his opinion of the defence. the army, incited by the staff, shared its hatred of paris, who imposed on it, it was said, useless fatigues. the mobiles of the provinces, prompted by their officers, the cream of the country squires, became also embittered. all, seeing the national guard despised, despised it, calling them, "_les à outrance! les trente sous!_" (since the siege the parisians received thirty sous-- s. -½d.--as indemnity.) collisions were to be feared every day.[ ] the st of october changed nothing in the real state of affairs. the government broke off the negotiations, which, notwithstanding their victory, they could not have pursued without foundering, decreed the creation of marching companies in the national guard, and accelerated the cannon-founding, but did not believe a whit the more in defence, still steered towards peace. riots formed the chief subject of their preoccupation.[ ] it was not only from the "folly of the siege" that they wished to save paris, but above all from the revolutionists. in this direction they were pushed on by the great bourgeoisie. before the th september the latter had declared they "would not fight if the working-class were armed, and if it had any chance of prevailing;"[ ] and on the evening of the th september jules favre and jules simon had gone to the corps législatif to reassure them, to explain to them that the new tenants would not damage the house. but the irresistible force of events had provided the proletariat with arms, and to make them inefficient in their hands became now the supreme aim of the bourgeoisie. for two months they had been biding their time, and the plebiscite told them it had come. trochu held paris, and by the clergy they held trochu, all the closer that he believed himself to be amenable only to his conscience. strange conscience, full of trap-doors, with more complications than those of a theatre. since the th of september the general had made it his duty to deceive paris, saying, "i shall surrender thee, but it is for thy good." after the st october he believed his mission two-fold--saw in himself the archangel, the st. michael of threatened society. this marks the second period of the defence. it may perhaps be traced to a cabinet in the rue des postes, for the chiefs of the clergy saw more clearly than any one else the danger of inuring the working-men to war. their intrigues were full of cunning. violent reactionists would have spoilt all, precipitated paris into a revolution. they applied subtle tricks in their subterranean work, watching trochu's every movement, whetting his antipathy to the national guard, penetrating everywhere into the general staff, the ambulances, even the mairies. like the fisherman struggling with too big a prey, they bewildered paris, now apparently allowing her to swim in her own element, than suddenly weakening her by the harpoon. on the th november trochu gave a first performance to a full-band accompaniment. general ducrot, who commanded, presented himself like a leonidas: "i take the oath before you, before the whole nation. i shall return to paris dead or victorious. you may see me fall; you will never see me retreat." this proclamation exalted paris. she fancied herself on the eve of jemmappes, when the parisian volunteers scaled the artillery-defended heights; for this time the national guard was to take part in the proceedings. we were to force an opening by the marne in order to join the mythic armies of the provinces, and cross the river at nogent. ducrot's engineer had taken his measures badly; the bridges were not in a fit state. it was necessary to wait till the next day. the enemy, instead of being surprised, was able to put himself on the defensive. on the th a spirited assault made us masters of champigny. the next day ducrot remained inactive, while the enemy, disgarnishing versailles, accumulated its forces upon champigny. on the nd they recovered part of the village. the whole day we fought severely. the former deputies of the left were represented on the field of battle by a letter to their "very dear president." that evening we camped in our positions, but half frozen, the "dear president" having ordered the blankets to be left in paris, and we had set out--a proof that the whole thing had been done in mockery--without tents or ambulances. the following day ducrot declared we must retreat, and, "before paris, before the whole nation," this dishonoured braggart sounded the retreat. we had , dead or wounded out of the , men who had been sent out, and of the , engaged. for twenty days trochu rested on his laurels. clément-thomas took advantage of this leisure time to disband and stigmatise the tirailleurs of belleville, who had, however, had many dead and wounded in their ranks. on the mere report of the commanding general at vincennes, he also stigmatised the th battalion. flourens was arrested. on the th of december these rabid purgers of our own ranks consented to take a little notice of the prussians. the mobiles of the seine were launched without cannons against the walls of stains and to the attack of bourget. the enemy received them with a crushing artillery. an advantage obtained on the right of the ville-evrard was not followed up. the soldiers returned in the greatest consternation, some of them crying, "vive la paix!" each new enterprise betrayed trochu's plan, enervated the troops, but had no effect on the courage of the national guards engaged. during two days on the plateau d'ouron they sustained the fire of sixty pieces. when there was a goodly number of dead, trochu discovered that the position was of no importance, and evacuated. these repeated foils began to wear out the credulity of paris. from hour to hour the sting of hunger was increasing, and horse-flesh had become a delicacy. dogs, cats, and rats were eagerly devoured. the women waited for hours in the cold and mud for a starvation allowance. for bread they got black grout, that tortured the stomach. children died on their mothers' empty breasts. wood was worth its weight in gold, and the poor had only to warm them the despatches of gambetta, always announcing fantastic successes.[ ] at the end of december their privations began to open the eyes of the people. were they to give in, their arms intact? the mayors did not stir. jules favre gave them little weekly receptions, where they gossiped about the cuisine of the siege.[ ] only one did his duty--delescluze. he had acquired great authority by his articles in the _réveil_, as free of partiality as they were severe. on the th december he interpellated jules favre, said to his colleagues, "you are responsible," demanded that the municipal council should be joined to the defence. his colleagues protested, more especially dubail and vacherot. he returned to the charge on the th of january, laid down a radical motion--the dismissal of trochu and of clément-thomas, the mobilisation of the national guard, the institution of a council of defence, the renewal of the committee of war. no more attention was paid him than before. the committee of the twenty arrondissements supported delescluze in issuing a red placard on the th: "has the government which charged itself with the national defence fulfilled its mission? no. by their procrastination, their indecision, their inertion, those who govern us have led us to the brink of the abyss. they have known neither how to administer nor how to fight. we die of cold, almost of hunger. sorties without object, deadly struggles without results, repeated failures. the government has given the measure of its capacity; it is killing us. the perpetuation of this régime means capitulation. the politics, the strategies, the administration of the empire continued by the men of the th september have been judged. make way for the people! make way for the commune!"[ ] this was outspoken and true. however incapable of action the committee may have been, its ideas were just and precise, and to the end of the siege it remained the indefatigable, sagacious monitor of paris. the multitude who wanted illustrious names, paid no attention to these placards. some of those who had signed it were arrested. trochu, however, felt himself attainted, and the very same evening had posted on all the walls, "the governor of paris will never capitulate." and paris again applauded, four months after the th september. it was even wondered at that, in spite of trochu's declaration, delescluze and his adjuncts should tender their resignations.[ ] nevertheless, without obstinately shutting one's eyes it was impossible not to see the precipice to which the government was hurrying us on. the prussians bombarded our houses from the forts of issy and of vanves, and on the th december, trochu, having declared all further action impossible, invoked the opinion of all his generals, and wound up by proposing that he should be replaced. on the nd, rd, and th january the defenders discussed the election of an assembly which was to follow the catastrophe.[ ] but for the irritation of the patriots, paris would have capitulated before the th. the faubourgs no longer called the men of the government other than "the band of judas." the great democratic lamas, who had withdrawn after the st october, returned to the commune, thus proving their own helplessness and the common sense of the people. the republican alliance, where ledru-rollin officiated before half-a-dozen incense-bearers, the republican union, and other bourgeois chapels, went so far as to very energetically demand a parisian assembly to organise the defence. the government felt it had no time to lose. if the bourgeoisie joined the people, it would become impossible to capitulate without a formidable _émeute_. the population which cheered under the shells would not allow itself to be given up like a flock of sheep. it was necessary to mortify it first, to cure it of its "infatuation," as jules ferry said, to purge it of its fever. "the national guard will only be satisfied when , national guards have fallen," they said at the government table. urged on by jules favre and picard on the one hand, and on the other by the simple-minded emmanuel arago, garnier-pages, and pelletan, the quack trochu consented to give a last performance. it was gotten up as a farce[ ] at the same time as the capitulation.[ ] on the th the council of defence stated that a new defeat would be the signal of the catastrophe. trochu was willing to accept the mayors as coadjutors on the question of capitulation and revictualling. jules simon and garnier-pages were willing to surrender paris, and only make some reserve with regard to france. garnier-pages proposed to name by special elections mandatories charged to capitulate. such was their vigil before the battle. on the th the din of trumpets and drums called paris to arms and put the prussians on the alert. for this supreme effort trochu had been able to muster only , men, of whom nineteen regiments belonged to the national guard. he made them pass the night, which was cold and rainy, in the mud of the fields of mont-valérien. the attack was directed against the defences that covered versailles from the side of la bergerie. at ten o'clock, with the impulse of old troops,[ ] the national guards and the mobiles, who formed the majority of the left wing and centre,[ ] had stormed the redoubt of montretout, the park of buzenval, a part of st. cloud, pushing forward as far as garches, occupying, in one word, all the posts designated. general ducrot, commanding the left wing, had arrived two hours behind time, and though his army consisted chiefly of troops of the line, he did not advance. we had conquered several commanding heights which the generals did not arm. the prussians were allowed to sweep these crests at their ease, and at four o'clock sent forth assault columns. ours gave way at first, then, steadying themselves, checked the onward movement of the enemy. towards six o'clock, when the hostile fire diminished, trochu ordered a retreat. yet there were , reserves between mont-valérien and buzenval. out of artillery pieces, thirty only had been employed. but the generals, who during the whole day had hardly deigned to communicate with the national guard, declared they could not hold out a second night, and trochu had montretout and all the conquered positions evacuated. battalions returned weeping with rage. all understood that the whole affair was a cruel mockery.[ ] paris, which had gone to sleep victorious, awoke to the sound of trochu's alarm-bell. the general asked for an armistice of two days to carry off the wounded and bury the dead. he said, "we want time, carts, and many litters." the dead and wounded did not exceed men. this time paris at last saw the abyss. besides, the defenders, disdaining all further disguise, suddenly dropped the mask. jules favre and trochu summoned the mayors. trochu declared that all was lost and any further struggle impossible.[ ] the sinister news immediately spread over the town. during four months' siege, patriotic paris had foreseen, accepted all; pestilence, assault, pillage, everything save capitulation. on this point the th of january found paris, notwithstanding her credulity, her weakness, the same paris as on the th september. thus, when the fatal word was uttered, the city seemed at first wonder-struck, as at the sight of some crime monstrous, unnatural. the wounds of four months opened again, crying for vengeance. cold, starvation, bombardment, the long nights in the trenches, the little children dying by thousands, death scattered abroad in the sorties, and all to end in shame, to form an escort for bazaine, to become a second metz. one fancied one could hear the prussian sneering. with some, stupor turned into rage. those who were longing for the surrender threw themselves into attitudes. the white-livered mayors even affected to fly into a passion. on the evening of the st they were again received by trochu. that same morning all the generals had unanimously decided that another sortie was impossible. trochu very philosophically demonstrated to the mayors the absolute necessity of making advances to the enemy, but declared he would have nothing to do with it, insinuating that they should capitulate in his stead. they cut wry faces, protested, still imagining they were not responsible for this issue. after their departure the defenders deliberated. jules favre asked trochu to tender his resignation. but he, the apostle, insisted upon being dismissed by them, fancying thus to cheat history into the belief that he had to the last resisted capitulation.[ ] the discussion was growing warm when, at three o'clock in the morning, they were informed of the rescue of flourens and other political prisoners confined at mazas. a body of national guards headed by an adjunct from the eighteenth arrondissement had presented themselves an hour before in front of the prison. the bewildered governor had let them have their way. the defenders, fearing a repetition of the st october, hurried on their resolution replacing trochu by vinoy. he wanted to be implored. jules favre and leflô had to show him the people in arms, an insurrection imminent. at that very moment, the morning of the nd, the prefect of police, declaring himself powerless, had sent in his resignation. the men of the th september had fallen so low as to bend their knees before those of the nd december. vinoy condescended to yield. his first act was to arm against paris, to dismantle her lines before the prussians, to recall the troops of suresne, gentilly, les lilas, to call out the cavalry and gendarmerie. a battalion of mobiles commanded by vabre, a colonel of the national guard, fortified itself in the hôtel-de-ville. clément-thomas issued a furious proclamation: "the factions are joining the enemy." he adjured the "_entire_ national guard to rise in order to smite them." he had not called upon it to rise against the prussians. there were signs of anger afloat, but no symptoms of a serious collision. many revolutionists, well aware that all was at an end, would not support a movement which, if successful, would have saved the men of the defence and forced the victors to capitulate in their stead. others, whose patriotism was not enlightened by reason, still warm from the ardour of buzenval, believed in a _sortie en masse_. we must at least, said they, save our honor. the evening before, some meetings had voted that an armed opposition should be offered to any attempt at capitulation, and had given themselves a rendezvous before the hôtel-de-ville. at twelve o'clock the drums beat to arms at the batignolles. at one o'clock several armed groups appeared in the square of the hôtel-de-ville; the crowd was gathering. a deputation, led by a member of the alliance, was received by g. chaudey, adjunct to the mayor, for the government was seated at the louvre since the st october. the orator said the wrongs of paris necessitated the nomination of the commune. chaudey answered that the commune was nonsense; that he always had, and always would oppose it. another and more eager deputation arrived. chaudey received it with insults. meanwhile the excitement was spreading to the crowd that filled the square. the st battalion arrived from the left bank crying "death to the traitors!" when the th of the batignolles, who had marched down the boulevards, debouched on the square through the rue du temple and drew up before the hôtel-de-ville, whose doors and windows were closed. others joined them. some shots were fired, the windows of the hôtel-de-ville were clouded with smoke, and the crowd dispersed with a cry of terror. sheltered by lamp-posts and some heaps of sand, some national guards sustained the fire of the mobiles. others fired from the houses in the avenue victoria. the fusillade had been going on for half an hour when the gendarmes appeared at the corner of the avenue. the insurgents, almost surrounded, made a retreat. about a dozen were arrested and taken to the hôtel-de-ville, where vinoy wanted to despatch them at once. jules ferry recoiled, and had them sent before the regular court-martials. those who had got up the demonstration and the inoffensive crowd of spectators had thirty killed or wounded, among others a man of great energy, commandant sapia. the hôtel-de-ville had only one killed and two wounded. the same evening the government closed all the clubs and issued numerous warrants. eighty-three persons, most of them innocent,[ ] were arrested. this occasion was also taken advantage of to send delescluze, notwithstanding his sixty-five years, and an acute bronchitis which was undermining his health, to rejoin the prisoners of the st october, thrown pell-mell into a damp dungeon at vincennes. the _réveil_ and the _combat_ were suppressed. an indignant proclamation denounced the insurgents as "the partisans of the foreigners," the only resource left the men of the th september in this shameful crisis. in this only they were jacobins. who served the enemy? the government ever ready to negotiate, or the men ever offering a desperate resistance? history will tell how at metz an immense army, with _cadres_, well-trained soldiers, allowed itself to be given over without a single marshal, _chef-de-corps_, or a regiment rising to save it from bazaine;[ ] whereas the revolutionists of paris, without leaders, without organization, before , soldiers and mobiles gained over to peace, delayed the capitulation for months and revenged it with their blood. the simulated indignation of traitors raised only a feeling of disgust. their very name, "government of defence," cried out against them. on the very day of the affray they played their last farce. jules simon having assembled the mayors and a dozen superior officers,[ ] offered the supreme command to the military man who could propose a plan. this paris, which they had received exuberant with life, the men of the th september, now that they had exhausted and bled her, proposed to abandon to others. not one of those present resented the infamous irony. they confined themselves to refusing this hopeless legacy. this was exactly the thing jules simon waited for. some one muttered, "we must capitulate." it was general lecomte. the mayors understood why they had been convoked, and a few of them squeezed out a tear. from this time forth paris existed like the patient who is expecting amputation. the forts still thundered, the dead and the wounded were still brought in, but jules favre was known to be at versailles. on the th at midnight the cannon were silenced. bismarck and jules favre had come to an _honourable_ understanding.[ ] paris had surrendered. the next day the government of the defence published the basis of the negotiations--a fortnight's armistice, the immediate convocation of an assembly, the occupation of the forts, the disarmament of all the soldiers and mobiles with the exception of one division. the town remained gloomy. these days of anguish had stunned paris. only a few demonstrations were made. a battalion of the national guard came before the hôtel-de-ville crying "down with the traitors!" in the evening, officers signed a pact of resistance, naming as their chief brunel, an ex-officer expelled from the army under the empire for his republican opinions, and resolved to march on the forts of the east, commanded by admiral saisset, whom the press credited with the reputation of a beaurepaire. at midnight the call to arms and the alarm bell summoned the tenth, thirteenth, and twentieth arrondissements. but the night was icy cold, the national guard too enervated for an act of despair. two or three battalions only came to the rendezvous. brunel was arrested two days after. on the th january the german flag was hoisted on our forts. all had been signed the evening before. , men armed with muskets and cannons capitulated before , . the forts, the enceinte were disarmed. paris was to pay , , francs in a fortnight. the government boasted of having preserved the arms of the national guard, but every one knew that to take these it would have been necessary to storm paris. in fine, not content with surrendering paris, the government of the national defence surrendered all france. the armistice applied to all the armies of the provinces save bourbaki's, the only one that would have profited by it. on the following days there arrived some news from the provinces. it was known that bourbaki, pressed by the prussians, had, after a comedy of suicide, thrown his whole army into switzerland. the aspect and the weakness of the delegation of the defence in the provinces had just begun to reveal themselves, when the _mot d'ordre_, founded by rochefort, who had abandoned the government after the st october, published a proclamation by gambetta, stigmatizing a shameful peace, and a whole litany of radical decrees: ineligibility of all the great functionaries and official deputies of the empire; dissolution of the _conseils-généraux_, revocation of some of the judges[ ] who had formed part of the mixed commission of the nd december. it was ignored that during the whole war the delegation had acted in contradiction to its last decrees, which, coming from a fallen power, were a mere electoral trick, and gambetta's name was placed on most of the electoral lists. some bourgeois papers supported jules favre and picard, who had been clever enough to make themselves looked upon as the out-and-outers of the government; none dared to go so far as to support trochu, simon and ferry. the variety of electoral lists set forth by the republican party explained its impotence during the siege. the men of refused to accept blanqui, but admitted several members of the international in order to usurp its name, and their list, a medley of neo-jacobins and socialists, entitled itself "the list of the four committees." the clubs and the workingmen's groups drew up lists of a more outspoken character; one bore the name of the german socialist deputy, liebknecht. the most decided one was that of the corderie. the international and the federal chamber of the workingmen's societies, mute and disorganized during the siege, again taking up their programme, said, "we must also have workingmen amongst those in power." they came to an arrangement with the committee of the twenty arrondissements, and the three groups issued the same manifesto. "this," said they, "is the list of the candidates presented in the name of a new world by the party of the disinherited. france is about to reconstitute herself; workingmen have the right to find and take their place in the new order of things. the socialist-revolutionary candidatures signify the denial of the right to discuss the existence of the republic; affirmation of the necessity for the accession of workingmen to political power; overthrow of the oligarchical government and of industrial feudalism." besides a few names familiar to the public, blanqui, gambon, garibaldi, félix pyat, ranvier, tridon, longuet, lefrançais, vallès, these socialist candidates were known only in the workingmen's centers--mechanics, shoemakers, ironfounders, tailors, carpenters, cooks, cabinetmakers, carvers.[ ] their placards were but few in number. these disinherited could not compete with bourgeois enterprise. their day was to come a few weeks later, when two-thirds of them were to be elected to the commune. now those only received a mandate who were accepted by the middle-class papers, five in all: garibaldi, gambon, félix pyat, tolain, and malon. the list of representatives of the th february was a harlequinade, including every republican shade and every political crotchet. louis blanc, who had played the part of a goody during the siege, and who was supported by all the committees except that of the corderie, headed the procession with , votes, followed by victor hugo, gambetta, and garibaldi; delescluze obtained , votes. then came a motley crowd of jacobin fossils, radicals, officers, mayors, journalists, and inventors. one single member of the government slipped in, jules favre, although his private life had been exposed by millière, who was also elected.[ ] by a cruel injustice, the vigilant sentinel, the only journalist who during the siege had always shown sagacity, blanqui, found only , votes, about the number of those who opposed the plebiscite, while félix pyat received , for his piping in the _combat_.[ ] this confused incongruous ballot affirmed at least the republican idea. paris, trampled upon by the empire and the liberals, clung to the republic, who gave her promise for the future. but even before her vote has been proclaimed she heard coming forth from the provincial ballot boxes a savage cry of reaction. before a single one of her representatives had left the town, she saw on the way to bordeaux a troop of rustics, of _pourceaugnacs_, of sombre clericals, spectres of , , , high and low reactionists, who, mumbling and furious, came by the grace of universal suffrage to take possession of france. what signified this sinister masquerade? how had this subterranean vegetation contrived to pierce and overgrow the summit of the country? it was necessary that paris and the provinces should be crushed, that the prussian shylock should drain our milliards and cut his pound of flesh, that the state of siege should for four years weigh down upon forty-two departments, that , frenchmen should be cut off from life or banished from their native soil, that the black brotherhood should conduct their processions all over france, to bring about this great conservative machination, which from the first hour to the last explosion, the revolutionists of paris and of the provinces had not ceased to denounce to our treacherous or sluggish governors. in the provinces the field and the tactics were not the same. the conspiracy, instead of being carried on within the government, circumvented it. during the whole month of september the reactionists hid in their lurking-places. the government of national defence had only forgotten one element of defence--the provinces, seventy-six departments. yet they were agitating, showed life; they alone held in check the reaction. lyons had even understood her duty earlier than paris; in the morning of the th september she proclaimed the republic, hoisted the red flag, named a committee of public safety.--marseilles and toulouse organized regional commissions.--the defenders understood nothing of this patriotic zeal, thought france disjointed, and delegated to put it right again two liberal relics very much tainted, crémieux and glais-bizoin, together with a former governor of cayenne, the bonapartist admiral fourichon. they reached tours on the th. the patriots hastened thither to meet them. in the west and south, they had already organized leagues to marshal the departments against the enemy and supply the want of a central impulse. they surrounded the delegates of paris, asking them for a _mot-d'ordre_, vigorous measures, the sending of commissioners, and promised their absolute co-operation. the putridities answered, "we are _entre nous_, let us speak frankly. well, then, we have no longer any army; all resistance is impossible. we only hold out for the sake of making better conditions." we ourselves witnessed the scene.[ ] there was but one cry of indignation: "what! is this your answer when thousands of frenchmen come to offer you their lives and fortunes?" on the th, the lyonese broke out. hardly four departments separated them from the enemy, who might at any moment come to levy a contribution on their city, and since the th september they had in vain demanded arms. the municipality, elected on the th in place of the committee of public safety, passed its time in squabbling with the prefect, challemel-lacour, an arrogant neo-jacobin. on the th, instead of any serious measures of defence, the council had reduced by fivepence the pay of the workingmen employed in the fortifications, and appointed cluseret general _in partibus_ of an army to be created.[ ] the republican committees of les brotteaux, of la guillotière, of la croix-rousse,[ ] and the central committee of the national guard decided to urge on the hôtel-de-ville, and laid before it on the th an energetic programme of defence. the workingmen of the fortifications, led by saigne, supported this step by a demonstration. they filled the place des terreaux, and what with speeches, what with the excitement, invaded the hôtel-de-ville. saigne proposed the nomination of a revolutionary commission, and perceiving cluseret, named him commander of the national guard. cluseret, much concerned for his future, only appeared on the balcony to propound his plan and recommend calm. however, the commission being constituted, he no longer dared to resist, but set out in search of his troops. at the door, the mayor, hénon, and the prefect arrested him. they had penetrated into the hôtel-de-ville by the place de la comédie. saigne, springing upon the balcony, announced the news to the crowd, which, throwing itself upon the hôtel-de-ville, delivered the prospective general and in turn arrested the mayor and prefect. the bourgeois battalions soon arrived at the place des terreaux; shortly after those of la croix-rousse and of la guillotière debouched. great misfortune might have resulted from the first shot. they parleyed. the commission disappeared and the general swooned. this was a warning. other symptoms manifested themselves in several towns. the prefects even presided over leagues and met each other. at the commencement of october, the admiral of cayenne had only been able to set on foot , men, and nothing came from tours but a decree convoking the election for the th. on the th, when gambetta alighted from his balloon, all the patriots started. the conservatives, who had begun to creep out of their recesses, quickly drew back again. the ardour and the energy of his first proclamation carried people away. gambetta held france absolutely; he was all-powerful. he disposed of the immense resources of france, of the innumerable men; of bourges, brest, l'orient, rochefort, toulon for arsenals; workshops like lille, nantes, bordeaux, toulouse, marseilles, lyons; the seas free; incomparably greater strength than that of , which had to fight at the same time the foreigner and internal rebellions. the centers were kindling. the municipal councils made themselves felt, the rural districts as yet showing no signs of resistance; the national reserve intact. the burning metal needed only moulding. the début of the delegate was a serious blunder. he executed the decree of paris for the adjournment of the elections, which promised to be republican and bellicose. bismarck himself had told jules favre that he did not want an assembly, because this assembly would be for war. energetic circulars, some measures against the intriguers, formal instructions to the prefects, would have brightened and victoriously brought out this patriotic fervor. an assembly fortified by all the republican aspirations, vigorously led, sitting in a populous town, would have increased the national energy a hundredfold, brought to light unhoped-for talents, and might have exacted everything from the country, blood and gold. it would have proclaimed the republic, and in case of being obliged by reverses to negotiate, would have saved her from foundering, prevented reaction. but gambetta's instructions were formal. "elections at paris would bring back days like june," said he. "we must do without paris," was our answer. all was useless. besides, several prefects, incapable of influencing their surroundings, predicted pacific elections. lacking the energy to grapple with the real difficulties of the situation, gambetta fancied he might shift them by the claptrap expedient of his dictatorship. did he bring a great political revolution? no. his whole programme was, "to maintain order and liberty and push on the war."[ ] crémieux had called the bonapartists "republicans going astray." gambetta believed, or pretended to believe, in the patriotism of the reactionists. a few pontifical zouaves who offered themselves, the abject submission of the bonapartist generals, the wheedling of a few bishops,[ ] sufficed to delude him. he continued the tactics of his predecessors to conciliate everybody; he spared even the functionaries. in the department of finance and public instruction, he and his colleagues forbade the dismissal of any official. the war office for a long time remained under the supreme direction of a bonapartist, and always carried on an underhand war against the defence. gambetta maintained in some prefectures the same employés who had drawn up the proscription lists of the nd december, . with the exception of a few justices of the peace and a small number of magistrates, nothing was changed in the political _personnel_, the whole subordinate administration remaining intact. was he wanting in authority? his colleagues of the council did not even dare to raise their voices; the prefects knew only him; the generals put on the manner of school-boys in his presence. was a _personnel_ wanting? the leagues contained solid elements; the small bourgeoisie and proletariat might have given the _cadres_. gambetta saw here only marplots, chaos, federalism, and roughly dismissed their delegates. each department possessed groups of known, tried republicans, to whom the administration and the part of spurring the defence under the direction of commissioners might have been intrusted. gambetta refused almost everywhere to refer to them; the few whom he appointed he knew how to fetter closely. he vested all power in the prefects, most of them ruins of , or his colleagues of the conférence molé, nerveless, loquacious, timorous, anxious to have themselves well spoken of, and many anxious to feather themselves a nest in their department. the defence in the provinces set out on these two crutches--the war office and the prefects. on this absurd plan of conciliation the government was conducted. did the new delegate at least bring a powerful military conception? "no one in the government, neither general trochu nor general leflô, no one had suggested a military operation of any kind."[ ] did he at least possess that quick penetration which makes up for want of experience? after twenty days in the provinces he comprehended the military situation no better than he had done at paris. the capitulation of metz drew from him indignant proclamations, but he understood no more than his colleagues of the hôtel-de-ville that this was the very moment to make a supreme effort. with the exception of three divisions ( , men) and the greater part of their cavalry, the germans had been obliged to employ for the investment of paris all their troops, and they had no reserve left them. the three divisions at orléans and châteaudun were kept in check by our forces of the loire. the cavalry, while infesting a large extent of territory in the west, north and east, could not hold out against infantry. at the end of october, the army before paris, strongly fortified against the town, was not at all covered from the side of the provinces. the appearance of , men, even of young troops, would have forced the prussians to raise the blockade. moltke was far from disregarding the danger. he had decided in case of need to raise the blockade, to sacrifice the park of artillery then being formed at villecoublay, to concentrate his army for action in the open country, and only to re-establish the blockade after the victory, that is to say, after the arrival of the army of metz. "everything was ready for our decampment; we only had to team the horses," has been said by an eye-witness, the swiss colonel d'erlach. the official papers of berlin had already prepared public opinion for this event. the blockade of paris raised, even momentarily, might have led, under the pressure of europe, to an honorable peace; this was almost certain. paris and france recovering their salutary buoyancy, the revictualling of the great town, and the consequent prolongation of her resistance, would have given the time necessary for the organization of the provincial armies. at the end of october our army of the loire was in progress of formation, the th corps at salbris, the th at blois, already numbering , men. if it had pushed between the bavarians at orléans and the prussians at châteaudun; if--and this was an easy matter with its numerical superiority--it beat the enemy one after another, the route to paris would have been thrown open, and the deliverance of paris almost sure. the delegation of tours did not see so far. it confined its efforts to recovering orléans, in order to establish there an entrenched camp; so on the th general d'aurelles de paladines, named by gambetta commander-in-chief of the two corps, received the order to rescue the town from the bavarians. he was a senator, a bigoted, rabid reactionist, at best fit only to be an officer of zouaves, fuming in his heart at the defence. it was resolved to make the attack from blois. instead of conducting the th corps on foot, which by romorantin would have taken forty-eight hours, the delegation sent it by the vierzon railway to tours, a journey which took five days and could not be hidden from the enemy. still, on the th, d'aurelles established before blois, disposed of , men at least, and the next day he was to have left for orléans. on the th, at nine o'clock in the evening, the commander of the german troops had him informed of the capitulation of metz. d'aurelles, jumping at this pretext, telegraphed to tours that he should adjourn his movement. a general of some ability, of some good faith, would, on the contrary, have precipitated everything. since the german army before metz, now disengaged, would swoop down upon the centre of france, there was not a day to lose to be beforehand with it. every hour told. this was the critical juncture of the war. the delegation of tours was as foolish as d'aurelles. instead of dismissing him, it contented itself with moans, ordering him to concentrate his forces. this concentration was terminated on the d november.[ ] d'aurelles then had , men established from mer to marchenoir. he might have acted, for events seconded him. that very day a whole brigade of prussian cavalry had been obliged to abandon mantes and to retreat before bands of franc-tireurs; french forces were observed to be marching from courville in the direction of chartres. d'aurelles did not stir, and the delegation remained as paralyzed as he. "m. le ministre," wrote on the th november the delegate at war, m. de freycinet,[ ] "for some days the army and myself do not know if the government wants peace or war. at this moment, when we are just disposing ourselves to accomplish projects laboriously prepared, rumors of an armistice disturb the minds of our generals, and i myself, i seek to revive their spirits and push them on, i know not whether the next day i shall not be disavowed by the government." gambetta the same day answered: "i agree with you as to the detestable influence of the political hesitations of the government. from to-day we must decide on our march forward;" and on the th d'aurelles still remained motionless. at last, on the th, he set out, and went about fifteen kilometers, and in the evening again spoke of making a halt.[ ] all his forces together exceeded , men. on the th he made up his mind to attack at coulmiers. the bavarians immediately evacuated orléans. far from pursuing them, d'aurelles announced that he was going to fortify himself before the town. the delegation let him do as he liked, and gave him no orders to pursue the enemy.[ ] three days after the battle gambetta came to the headquarters and approved of d'aurelles's plan. the bavarians during this respite had fallen back upon toury, and two divisions hurried from metz by the railway arrived before paris. moltke could at his ease direct the th prussian division towards toury, where it arrived on the th. three other corps of the army of metz approached the seine by forced marches. the ignorance of the delegation, the obstruction of trochu, the ill-will and blunders of d'aurelles, frustrated the only chances of raising the blockade of paris. on the th, the army of metz protected the blockade in the north and in the south. henceforth the delegation had but one part to play--to prepare armies for france, solid, capable of manoeuvring, and finding for this the necessary time, as in ancient times the romans did, and in our days the americans. it preferred bolstering up vain appearances, amusing public opinion with the din of arms, imagining that they could thus puzzle the prussians also. it threw upon them men raised but a few days before, without instruction, without discipline, without instruments of war, fatally destined to defeat. the prefects charged with the organization of the mobiles, and those on the point of being mobilized, were in continual strife with the generals, and lost themselves in the details of the equipments. the generals, unable to make anything of those ill-supplied contingents, only advanced on compulsion.[ ] gambetta on his arrival had said in his proclamation, "we will make young chiefs," and the important commands were given to the men of the empire, worn out, ignorant, knowing nothing of patriotic wars. to these young recruits, who should have been electrified by stirring appeals, d'aurelles preached the word of the lord and the interest of the service.[ ] the accomplice of bazaine, bourbaki,[ ] on his return from england, received the command of the army of the east. the weakness of the new delegate encouraged the resistance of all malcontents. gambetta asked the officers whether they would accept service under garibaldi;[ ] he not only allowed them to refuse, but even released a curé who in the pulpit had set a price on the general's head. he humbly explained to the royalist officers that the question at issue was not to defend the republic but the territory. he gave leave to the pontifical zouaves to hoist the banner of the sacred heart. he suffered admiral fourichon to contend for the disposal of the navy with the delegation.[ ] he indignantly rejected every project for an enforced loan, and refused to sanction those voted in some departments. he left the railway companies masters of the transport, in the hands of reactionists, always ready to raise difficulties. from the end of november, these boisterous and contradictory orders, these accumulations of impracticable decrees, these powers given and taken back, clearly proved that only a sham resistance was meant. the country obeyed, giving everything with passive blindness. the contingents were raised without difficulty; there were no refractory recruits in rural districts, although the gendarmerie were absent with the army; the leagues had given way on the first remonstrance. there was only a movement on the st october. the marseilles revolutionists, indignant at the weakness of their municipal council, proclaimed the commune. cluseret, who from geneva had asked the "prussian" gambetta for the command of an army corps, appeared at marseilles, got himself named general, again backed out and retired to switzerland, his dignity forbidding him to serve as a simple soldier. at toulouse, the population expelled the general. at saint-etienne the commune existed for an hour. but everywhere a word sufficed to replace the authority in the hands of the delegation; such was the apprehension of everybody of creating the slightest embarrassment. this abnegation only served the reactionists. the jesuits, who resumed their intrigues, had been reinstated by gambetta at marseilles, whence the indignation of the people had expelled them. the delegate cancelled the suspension of papers that had published letters from chambord and d'aumale. he protected the judges who had formed part of the mixed commission, released the one who had decimated the department of the var, and dismissed the prefect of toulouse for having suspended the functions of another in the haute-garonne. the bonapartists mustered again.[ ] the prefect of bordeaux, an ultra-moderate liberal, asking for the authorization to arrest some of their ringleaders, gambetta severely answered him, "these are practices of the empire, not of the republic." crémieux, too, said, "the republic is the reign of law." then the conservative vendée arose. monarchists, clericals, capitalists, waited for their time; cowering in their castles, all their strongholds remained intact; seminaries, tribunals, general councils, which for a long time the delegation refused to dissolve _en masse_. they were clever enough to figure here and there in the field of battle, in order to preserve the appearance of patriotism. in a few weeks they had seen through gambetta and found out the liberal behind the tribune. their campaign was sketched, conducted from the beginning, by the only serious political tacticians whom france possesses--by the jesuits, masters of the clergy. the arrival of m. thiers provided the apparent chief. the men of the th september had made him their ambassador. france, almost without diplomatists since talleyrand, has never possessed one more easily gulled than this little man. he had gone naïvely to london, to petersburg, to italy, whose inveterate enemy he had always been, begging for vanquished france alliances which had been refused her when yet intact. he was trifled with everywhere. he obtained but one interview with bismarck, and negotiated the armistice rejected by the st october. when he arrived at tours in the first days of november, he knew that peace was impossible, and that henceforth it must be war to the knife. instead of courageously making the best of it, of placing his experience at the service of the delegation, he had but one object, to baffle the defence. it could not have had a more redoubtable enemy. the success of this man, without ideas, without principles of government, without comprehension of progress, without courage, would have been impossible everywhere, save with the french bourgeoisie. but he has always been at hand when a liberal was wanted to shoot down the people, and he is a wonderful artist in parliamentary intrigue. no one has known like him how to attack, to isolate a government, to group prejudices, hatred, and interests, to hide his intrigues behind a mask of patriotism and common sense. the campaign of - will certainly be his masterpiece. he had made up his mind as to the lion's share due to the prussians, and took no more notice of them than if they had recrossed the moselle. for him the enemy was the defender. when our poor mobiles, without _cadres_, without military training, succumbed to a temperature as fatal as that of , m. thiers exulted at our disasters. his house had become the headquarters for the conservative notabilities. at bordeaux especially it seemed to be the true seat of the government. before the investment the reactionary press of paris had organized a provincial service, and from the outset cooled down the delegation. after the arrival of m. thiers it carried on a regular war. it never ceased harassing, accusing, pointing out the slightest shortcomings, with a view not to instruct, but to slander, and to wind up by the foregone conclusion: fighting is madness, disobedience legitimate. from the middle of december this watchword, faithfully followed by all the papers of the party, spread over the rural districts. for the first time country squires found their way to the ear of the peasant. this war was about to draw off all the men who were not in the army or in the garde mobile, and camps were being prepared to receive them. the prisons of germany held , men; paris, the loire, the army of the east, more than , . thirty thousand were dead, and thousands filled the hospitals. since the month of august france had given at least , men. where are they to stop? this cry was echoed in every cottage: "it is the republic that wants war! paris is in the hands of the _levellers_." what does the french peasant know of his fatherland, and how many could say where alsace lies? it is he above all whom the bourgeoisie have in view when they resist compulsory education. for eighty years all their efforts tended to transforming into coolies the descendants of the volunteers of . before long a spirit of revolt infected the mobiles, almost everywhere commanded by reactionists of mark. here an equerry of the emperor, there rabid royalists led battalions. in the army of the loire they muttered, "we will not fight for m. gambetta."[ ] officers of the mobilized troops boasted of never having exposed the lives of their men. in the beginning of the provinces were undermined from end to end. some general councils that had been dissolved met publicly, declaring that they considered themselves elected. the delegation followed the progress of this enemy, cursed m. thiers in private, but took good care not to arrest him. the revolutionists who came to tell it the lengths things were going were curtly shown out. gambetta, worn out, not believing in the defence, thought only of conciliating the men of influence and rendering himself acceptable for the future. at the signal of the elections, the scenery, laboriously prepared, appeared all of a piece, showing the conservatives grouped, supercilious, their lists ready. we were far now from the month of october, when, in many departments, they had not dared to put forward their candidates. the decrees on the ineligibility of the high bonapartist functionaries only affected shadows. the coalition, disdaining the broken-down men of the empire, had carefully formed a _personnel_ of pigtailed nobles, well-to-do farmers, captains of industry, men likely to do the work bluntly. the clergy had skilfully united on their lists the legitimists and orleanists, perhaps laid down the basis for a fusion. the vote was carried like a plebiscite. the republicans tried to speak of an honorable peace; the peasants would only hear of peace at any price. the towns knew hardly how to make a stand; at the utmost elected liberals. out of members, the assembly counted born monarchists. the apparent chief of the campaign, the king of liberals, m. thiers, was returned in twenty-three departments. the conciliator _à outrance_ could rival trochu. the one had worried out paris, the other the republic. footnotes: [ ] the prefect of police, pietri, attests it: "it is certain that on that day the revolution might have succeeded, for the crowd which surrounded the corps législatif on the th august was composed of elements similar to those which triumphed on the th september."-- _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. i. p. . [ ] let it be understood that i proceed, the words of our adversaries in hand--parliamentary inquiries, memoirs, reports, histories; that i do not attribute to them an act or a word which has not been avowed by them, their documents, or their friends. when i say m. thiers _saw_, m. thiers _knew_, it is that m. thiers has said, _i saw_, page , _i knew_, page , vol. i. of the _enquête sur les actes du gouvernement de la defense nationale_. it will be the same with all the acts and words of all the official or adverse personages that i quote. [ ] see the evidence of the marquis de talhouet, reporter of the commission charged to verify the famous despatch which precipitated the vote for war. _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. i. p. - . [ ] _compte-rendu du octobre_, by millière. [ ] which did not, however, prevent his accepting a secret mission during the crimean war. he was commissioned by napoleon iii. to propose to the english to betray turkey by limiting the war to the defence of constantinople. [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, jules brame, vol. i. p. . [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] ibid., p. . [ ] ibid., jules favre, vol. i. p. . [ ] in his official report, jules favre, to clear the government, did not neglect to assume the responsibility of this mission, which he said he had undertaken without the knowledge of his colleagues. [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, garnier-pages, vol. i. p. . [ ] "constantly in relations with the anxious population, which urgently asked what was going on, what the government thought, what it was doing, we were obliged to screen it; to say that it was acting for the best; that it had given itself up entirely to the defence; that the chiefs of the army were most devoted and working with ardour.... we said this without knowing, without believing it. we knew nothing."--_enquête sur le septembre_, corbon, vol. i. p. . [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, jules ferry. he even calls the armistice a "compensation." [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. i. p. . [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. i. p. . the deposition of this imbecile, always equally naïve, is all the more conclusive. [ ] "we were able to unite , men by telling the national guards that blanqui and flourens occupied the hôtel-de-ville. these two names did not fail to produce their usual effect."--_enquête sur le mars_, ed. adam, vol. ii. p. . "if the name of blanqui had not been pronounced, the new elections announced by the placard of dorian and schoelcher would have taken place the next day."--_enquête sur le septembre_, jules ferry, vol. i. p. - . [ ] see the affirmation of dorian. _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. i. p. - . [ ] he offered a musket of honour to any one who would kill the king of prussia, and patronised a greek-fire that was to roast the german army. [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, jules favre, vol. ii. p. . [ ] even félix pyat was arrested. he managed to get out of prison through a jest, writing to emmanuel arago: "what a pity that i should be your prisoner; you might have been my advocate." he was set free. [ ] the minister of war, leflô, who naturally undervalues everything, says, "this left us, while assuring the operations of the siege against the prussians, a disposable force of , to , men." [ ] appendix i. [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, cresson, vol. ii. p. . [ ] jules simon, _souvenirs du septembre_. his textual expressions. [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, jules favre, vol. ii. p. . [ ] after the disaster of orleans, which cut in two our army, he wrote: "the army of the loire is far from being annihilated; it is separated into two armies of equal force." [ ] they avoided drawing up minutes to prevent even the appearance of being a municipality (_enquête sur le septembre_, jules ferry, vol. i. p. ). a dozen of these brave ones met with a few adjuncts at the mairie of the third arrondissement. they confined their whole efforts to seeking some one to replace trochu. one of them, m. corbon, has said (_enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. ): "however displeased they might have been at the manner affairs were conducted by the defence, they would not for the world overthrow or weaken the government." [ ] this placard was drawn up by tridon and vallès. [ ] "see," said they, "what a terrible responsibility we should incur if we consented any longer to remain the passive instruments of a policy condemned by the interests of france and of the republic." [ ] see the minutes of the government of the defence, evidently arranged for the best by m. dréo, the son-in-law of garnier-pages. [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, ducrot, vol. iii. p. xx. [ ] see the minutes of the government of defence. [ ] who bears witness to the bravery of the national guard? superior officers themselves. see in the _enquête sur le mars_, the depositions of general leflô, vice-admiral pothuan, colonel lambert, and trochu, speaking from the tribune: "if i did not fear to appear intrusive, i could show that up to the close of the day the inexperienced national guards took and retook with the energy of old troops, under terrific fire, the heights that had been abandoned. it was necessary to hold them at any price in order to effect the retreat of the troops engaged in the centre. i had told them so, and they sacrificed themselves without hesitation." [ ] vinoy's corps, which took montretout, had five regiments and one battalion of infantry, nineteen battalions of mobiles, five regiments of national guards. that of general bellemare, which took buzenval, had five regiments of line, seventeen battalions of mobiles, eight regiments of national guards. [ ] "we shall give the national guard a little peppering (_ecrabouiller un peu la garde nationale_) since they wish it," said a colonel of infantry, much annoyed at this affair. _enquête sur le septembre_, colonel chaper, vol. ii. p. . [ ] he told them by way of consolation that "from the evening of the th september he had declared that it would be madness to attempt sustaining a siege by the prussian army."--_enquête sur le septembre_, corbon, vol. iv. p. . [ ] he has pronounced these words of perfect jesuitism: "to yield to hunger is to die, not to capitulate."--_jules simon, souvenirs du septembre_, p. . [ ] deposition of general soumairs, _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] what disgrace! , men pretending that they had been sold by a single one! in the seven years' war, in westphalia, at minden, when general morangies prepared to capitulate, men, roused by a corporal, refused to surrender, forced their way, and rejoined the army of the count of clermont. [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, arnaud de l'ariège, vol. ii. p. - . [ ] "i return from versailles. i have come to terms with m. de bismarck, and it has been agreed upon between us as a matter of honour the firing should cease."--order sent by jules favre on the th, seven o'clock evening. vinoy, _l'armistice et la commune_, p. . [ ] the decree sacrificed fifteen and spared twenty-four. [ ] _a. arnaud_, _avrial_, _beslay_, _blanqui_, _demay_, _dereure_, dupas, e. dupont, _j. durand_, _e. duval_, _eudes_, flotte, _frankel_, _gambon_, _goupil_, granger, humbert, jaclard, jarnigon, lacambre, lacord, _langevin_, _lefrançais_, leverdays, _longuet_, macdonnell, _malon_, _meillet_, minet, _oudet_, _pindy_, _f. pyat_, _ranvier_, rey, rouillier, _serraillier_, _theisz_, tolain, _tridon_, _vaillant_, _vallès_, _varlin_. the names of those who were elected members of the commune are in italics. [ ] in the _vengeur_, which had taken the place of the _combat_, he proved, documents in hand, that for years jules favre had been guilty of forgery, bigamy, and falsification of papers of legitimation. [ ] after the five returned, sixteen candidates of la corderie obtained from , votes to , votes; tridon , , duval , . [ ] which, besides, has been recounted by marc dufraisse in the _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. iv. p. . [ ] cluseret, an ex-officer, decorated in for his spirited conduct. "i unfortunately displayed too much energy in that disastrous battle," he wrote in _fraser's magazine_ of march . attached to the arabian bureaux, he threw up his commission after the crimean war, and not being able to play a part in europe, engaged in the american civil war for a short time, then withdrew to new york, where he campaigned with his pen. misunderstood by the bourgeoisie of the two worlds, he again took to politics, but from the opposite side; offered himself to the irish insurgents; landed in ireland urging them to rise, and one fine night abandoned them. the nascent international also saw this powerful general come and offer his services. he did a good deal in the way of pamphleteering; tried to impress upon the workmen that he was the sword and buckler of socialism. "we or nothing," said he to the sons of the massacred of june. the government of the th september having also failed to appreciate his genius, he called gambetta _prussian_, and got himself sent as delegate to lyons by the corderie, where varlin, whom he deceived for a long time, had introduced him. he offered the lyons council to organise an army of volunteers which was to operate on the flank of the enemy. [ ] the working-men's quarters of lyons. [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, gambetta, vol. i. p. . [ ] the jew crémieux lived with the ultramontane archbishop guibert (since made archbishop of paris) in his episcopal palace at tours, dining every day at his table, and in return rendering him all the little services asked for by the clergy. [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, gambetta, vol. i. p. . [ ] d'aurelles de paladines, _la première armée de la loire_, p. . [ ] de freycinet, _la guerre en province_, p. , . [ ] ibid., p. . [ ] on the th, the delegate telegraphed to d'aurelles: "we fully approve of the dispositions you had taken for your troops round orléans.... you will receive instructions. in the meantime redouble your vigilance in prevision of a return to the offensive on the part of the enemy."--_d'aurelles de paladines_, _la première armée de la loire_, p. . thus, far from speaking of attacking, the delegation only thought of the defensive. [ ] "it was only when they could not help it that they made up their minds to act," gambetta has said in the _enquête sur le septembre_. the avowal is precious, coming from him. [ ] it is most amusing to hear d'aurelles chaffing trochu without perceiving that he is just as ridiculous. in his evidence (_enquête sur le septembre_, vol. iii. p. ) he says: "i did not deposit either a plan or a testament at a lawyer's; i confined myself to writing to the bishop of orléans: monsignor, the army of the loire to-day sets out on its march to meet the army of general ducrot. pray, monsignor, for the salvation of france." [ ] and what other name is merited by the general who abandoned his post in the field to go and negotiate with the sovereign whom france had expelled? [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, rolland, vol. iii. p. . [ ] ibid., dalloz, vol. iv. p. . [ ] if general boyer, who saw the letter, is to be believed, the delegation of tours on the th october made officious advances to the empress, and then gave the order to the chargé-d'affaires at london to go and thank her for the patriotism that she had shown in refusing to treat with bismarck, who trifled with her as well as with bazaine. see _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. iv. p. . [ ] _enquête sur le septembre_, admiral jaureguiberry, vol. iii. p. . chapter i. "le chef du pouvoir exécutif, pas plus que l'assemblée nationale, s'appuyant l'un sur l'autre et se fortifiant l'un par l'autre, n'avaient en aucune manière provoqué l'insurrection parisienne."--_discours de m. dufaure contre l'amnistie_, _séance du mai ._ first attacks of the coalition against paris--the battalions of the national guard federalise and seize their cannon--the prussians enter paris. the invasion has brought back the "chambre introuvable" of . after having dreamt of a regenerated france soaring towards the light, to feel oneself hurled back half a century, under the yoke of the jesuits of the congregation, of the brutal rurals! there were men who lost heart. many spoke of expatriating themselves. the thoughtless said, "the chamber will only last a day, since it has no mandate but to decide on peace and war." those, however, who had watched the progress of the conspiracy and the leading part taken in it by the clergy, knew beforehand that these men would not allow france to escape their clutches before they crushed her. men just escaped from famine-stricken but glowing paris found on their arrival at bordeaux the coblentz of the first emigration, but this time invested with the power to glut rancors that had been accumulating for forty years. clericals and conservatives were for the first time allowed, without the interference of either emperor or king, to trample to their hearts' content on paris, the atheist, the revolutionist, who had so often shaken off their yoke and baffled their schemes. at the first sitting their choler burst out. at the farther end of the hall, sitting alone on his bench, shunned by all, an old man rose and asked to address the assembly. under his cloak glared a red shirt. it was garibaldi. at the call of his name, he wished to answer, to say in a few words that he resigned the mandate with which paris had honored him. his voice was drowned in howls. he remained standing, raising his hand, but the insults redoubled. the chastisement, however, was at hand. "rural majority! disgrace of france!" cried from the gallery a young vibrating voice, that of gaston crémieux, of marseilles. the deputies rose threatening. hundreds of "bravos" answered from the galleries, overwhelming the rurals. after the sitting the crowd cheered garibaldi and hooted his insulters. the national guard presented arms, despite the rage of m. thiers, who under the peristyle apostrophized the commanding officer. the next day the people returned, forming lines in front of the theatre, and forced the reactionist deputies to undergo their republican cheers. but they knew their strength, and from the beginning of the sittings opened their attack. one of the rurals, pointing to the representatives of paris, cried, "they are stained with the blood of civil war!" and when one of these representatives cried, "vive la république!" the majority hooted him, saying, "you are only a fraction of the country." on the next day the chamber was surrounded by troops, who kept off the republicans. at the same time the conservative papers united in their hissings against paris, denying even her sufferings. the national guard, they said, had fled before the prussians; its only exploits had been the st october and nd january. these calumnies fructified in the provinces, long since prepared to receive them. such was their ignorance of the siege, that they had named some of them several times--trochu, ducrot, ferry, pelletan, garnier-pages, emmanuel arago--to whom paris had refused a single vote. it was the duty of the parisian representatives to clear up this darkness, to recount the siege, to denounce the men responsible for the failure of the defence, to explain the significance of the parisian vote, to unfurl the flag of republican france against the clerico-monarchical coalition. they remained silent, contenting themselves with puerile party meetings, from which delescluze turned away as heart-broken as from the assembly of the paris mayors. our epimenides of answered with stereotyped humanitarian phrases the clashing of arms of the enemy, who all the while affirmed his programme: to patch up a peace, to bury the republic, and for that purpose to checkmate paris. thiers was named chief of the executive power with general acclamation, and chose for his ministers jules favre, jules simon, picard and leflô, who might still pass muster with the provincial republicans. these elections, these menaces, these insults to garibaldi, to the paris representatives; thiers, the incarnation of the parliamentary monarchy, first magistrate of the republic, blow after blow was struck at paris, a feverish, hardly revictualled paris, hungering still more for liberty than bread. this then was the reward for five months of suffering and endurance. these provinces, which paris had invoked in vain during the whole siege, dared now to brand her with cowardice, to throw her back from bismarck to chambord. well, then, paris was resolved to defend herself even against france. the new imminent danger, the hard experience of the siege, had exalted her energy and endued the great town with one collective soul. already, towards the end of january, some republicans, and also some bourgeois intriguers in search of a mandate, had tried to group the national guards with a view to the elections. a large meeting, presided over by courty, a merchant of the third arrondissement, had been held in the cirque. they had there drawn up a list, decided to meet again to deliberate in case of double electoral returns, and had named a committee charged to convoke all the companies regularly. this second meeting was held on the th in the vauxhall douané street. but who then thought of the elections? one single thought prevailed: the union of all parisian forces against the triumphant rurals. the national guard represented all the manhood of paris. the clear, simple, essentially french idea of confederating the battalions had long been in every mind. it was received with acclamation and resolved that the confederate battalions should be grouped round a central committee. a commission during the same sitting was charged to elaborate the statutes. each arrondissement represented--eighteen out of twenty--named a commissary. who were these men? the agitators, the revolutionists of la corderie, the socialists? no; there was not a known name amongst them. all those elected were men of the middle classes, shopkeepers, employés, strangers to the coteries, till now for the most part strangers even to politics.[ ] courty, the president, was known only since the meeting at the cirque. from the first day the idea of the federation appeared what it was--universal, not sectarian, and therefore powerful. the next day, clément-thomas declared to the government that he could no longer be answerable for the national guard, and sent in his resignation. he was provisionally replaced by vinoy. on the th, in the vauxhall, before , delegates and guards, the commission read the statutes it had drawn up, and pressed the delegates to proceed immediately to the election of the central committee. the assembly was tempestuous, disquiet, little inclined for calm deliberations. each of the last eight days had brought with it more insulting menaces from bordeaux. they were going, it was said, to disarm the battalions, suppress the thirty sous, the only resource of the workingmen, and exact at once the owing house-rents and overdue commercial bills. besides, the armistice, prolonged for a week, was to expire on the th, and the papers announced that the prussians would enter paris on the th. for a week this nightmare had weighed on all the patriots. the meeting, too, proceeded at once to consider these burning questions. varlin proposed: the national guard only recognizes the chiefs elected by itself. another: the national guard protests through the central committee against any attempt at disarmament, and declares that in case of need it will offer armed resistance. both propositions were voted unanimously. and now, was paris to submit to the entry of the prussians, to let them parade her boulevards? it could not even be discussed. the whole assembly, springing up over-excited, raised one cry of war. some warnings of prudence are disdained. yes, they would oppose their arms to the entry of the prussians. the proposition would be submitted by the delegates to their respective companies. and adjourning to the rd march, the meeting broke up its sitting and marched _en masse_ to the bastille, carrying along with it a great number of soldiers and mobiles. since the morning, paris, fearing the loss of her liberty, had gathered round her revolutionary column, as she had before crowded round the statue of strasbourg when trembling for france. the battalions defiled, headed by drums and flags, covering the rails and pedestal with crowns of immortelles. from time to time a delegate ascended the plinth, and from this tribune of bronze harangued the people, who answered with cries of "vive la république!" suddenly a red flag was carried through the crowd into the monument, reappearing soon after at the balustrade. a formidable cry saluted it, followed by a long silence. a man, climbing the cupola, had the daring to go and fix it in the hand of the statue of liberty surmounting the column. thus, amidst the frantic cheering of the people, for the first time since , the flag of equality overshadowed this spot, redder than its flag by the blood of a thousand martyrs. the following day the pilgrimages were continued, not only by national guards, but by the soldiers and mobiles. the army gave way to the inspiration of paris. the mobiles arrived preceded by their quartermasters carrying large black crowns; the trumpeters, posted at each corner of the pedestal, saluted them, and the crowd cheered them to the echo. women dressed in black suspended a tricolor flag bearing the inscription, "the republican women to the martyrs." when the pedestal was covered, the crowns and flowers soon wound themselves entirely round the bust, encircling it from top to bottom with yellow and black flowers, red and tricolor oriflammes, symbols of mourning for the past and hope in the future. on the th the manifestations became innumerable and irritated. a police agent, surprised taking down the names of the battalions, was seized and thrown into the seine. twenty-five battalions defiled, sombre, a prey to a terrible anguish. the armistice was about to expire and the _journal officiel_ did not speak of a prorogation. the journals announced the entry of the german army by the champs-elysées for the next day. the government was sending the troops to the left bank of the seine and clearing out the palace de l'industrie. they forgot only the cannons of the national guards accumulated at the place wagram and at passy. already the carelessness of the capitulards had delivered , more muskets to the prussians than were stipulated for.[ ] who could tell if the latter would not stretch out their hands to these fine pieces, cast with the flesh and blood of the parisians, marked with the numbers of the battalions?[ ] spontaneously all paris rose. the bourgeois battalions of passy, in accord with the municipality,[ ] set the example, drawing the pieces of the ranelagh to the parc monceaux.[ ] other battalions came to fetch their cannon in the park wagram, wheeling them by the rues st. honoré and rivoli to the place des vosges, under the protection of the bastille. during the day the troop sent by vinoy to the bastille had fraternized with the people. in the evening, the rappel, the tocsin, the trumpets had thrown thousands of armed men into the streets, who came to mass themselves at the bastille, the château d'eau, and the rue de rivoli. the prison of st. pélagie was forced and brunel set free. at two o'clock in the morning, forty thousand men remounted the champs-elysées and the avenue de la grande armée, silent, in good order, to encounter the prussians. they waited till daybreak. on their return, the battalions of montmartre seized all the cannon they found on their way, and took them to the mairie of the eighteenth arrondissement and to the boulevard ornano. to this feverish but chivalrous outburst vinoy could only oppose an order of the day stigmatizing it. and this government, that insulted paris, asked her to immolate herself for france! a placard posted up on the morning of the th announced the prolongation of the armistice, and for the st of march the occupation of the champs-elysées by , germans. at two o'clock the commission charged to draw up the statutes for a central committee held a sitting at the mairie of the third arrondissement. some of its members since the evening before, considering themselves invested with powers by the situation, had tried to organize a permanent sub-committee in this mairie; but not being numerous enough, they had adjourned until the next day and consulted the chiefs of the battalions. the sitting, presided over by captain bergeret, was stormy. the delegates of the battalion of montmartre, who had established a committee of their own in the rue des rosiers, would speak only of fighting, showed their _mandats impératifs_, and recalled the resolution of the vauxhall. it was almost unanimously resolved to take up arms against the prussians. the mayor, bonvalet, rather uneasy at having such guests, had the mairie surrounded, and, half by persuasion, half by force, succeeded in getting rid of them. during the whole day the faubourgs had armed and seized the munitions; the rampart pieces were remounted on their carriages; the mobiles, forgetting that they were prisoners of war, went to retake their arms. in the evening one crowd inveigled the marines of la pepinière barracks, and led them to the bastille to fraternize with the people. a catastrophe was inevitable but for the courage of a few men who dared to oppose this dangerous current. all the societies that met at the place de la corderie, the central committee of the twenty arrondissements, the international, and the federation, looked with reserve upon this central committee, composed of unknown men, who had never taken part in the revolutionary campaigns. on leaving the mairie of the third arrondissement, some delegates of battalions who belonged to the sections of the international came to the corderie to tell of the sitting and the desperate resolution come to. every exertion was made to pacify them, and speakers were sent to the vauxhall, where a large meeting was being held; they succeeded in making themselves heard. many other citizens made great efforts to recall the people to reason. the next morning, the th, the three groups of the corderie published a manifesto conjuring the workingmen to beware. "every attack," said they, "would serve to expose the people to the blows of the enemies of the revolution, who would drown all social vindications in a sea of blood." pressed on all sides, the central committee was obliged to yield, as it announced in a proclamation signed by twenty-nine names. "every aggression would result in the immediate overthrow of the republic. barricades will be established all round the quarters to be occupied by the enemy, so he will parade in a camp shut out from our town." this was the first official appearance of the central committee. the twenty-nine unknown men[ ] capable of thus pacifying the national guard were applauded even by the bourgeoisie, who did not seem to wonder at their power. the prussians entered paris on the st march. this paris which the people had taken possession of was no longer the paris of the nobles and the great bourgeoisie of . black flags hung from the houses, but the deserted streets, the closed shops, the dried-up fountains, the veiled statues of the place de la concorde, the gas not lighted at night, still more pregnantly announced a town in its agony. prostitutes who ventured into the quarters of the enemy were publicly whipped. a café in the champs-elysées which had opened its doors to the victors was ransacked. there was but one _grand seigneur_ in the faubourg st. germain to offer his house to the prussians. paris was still wincing under this affront, when a new avalanche of insults poured down upon her from bordeaux. not only had the assembly not found a word or act to help her in this painful crisis, but its papers, the _journal officiel_ at their head, were indignant that she should have thought of defending herself against the prussians. a proposition was being signed in the bureaux to fix the seat of the assembly outside of paris. the projected law on overdue bills and house-rents opened the prospect of numberless failures. peace had been accepted, hurriedly voted like an ordinary business. alsace, the greater part of lorraine, , , frenchmen torn from their fatherland, five milliards to pay, the forts to the east of paris to be occupied till the payment of the first , , francs, and the departments of the east till the entire payment; this was what trochu, favre, and the coalition cost us, the price for which bismarck permitted us the _chambre introuvable_. and to console paris for so much disgrace, m. thiers appointed as general of the national guard the incapable and brutal commander of the first army of the loire, d'aurelles de paladines. two senators, vinoy and d'aurelles, two bonapartists, at the head of republican paris--this was too much. all paris had the presentiment of a _coup-d'état_.[ ] that evening there were large groups gathered in the boulevards. the national guards, refusing to acknowledge d'aurelles as their commander, proposed the appointment of garibaldi. on the rd two hundred battalions sent their delegates to vauxhall. matters began with the reading of the statutes. the preamble declared the republic "the only government by law and justice superior to universal suffrage, which is its offspring." "the delegates," said article , "must prevent every attempt whose object would be the overthrow of the republic." the central committee was composed of three delegates for each arrondissement, elected by the companies, battalions, legions and of the _chefs-de-légion_.[ ] while awaiting the regular election, the meeting there and then named a provisional executive committee. varlin, pindy, jacques durand, and some other socialists of the corderie formed part of it, an understanding having been come to between the central committee, or rather the commission which had drawn up the statutes, and the three groups of the corderie. varlin carried a unanimous vote on the immediate re-election of the officers of the national guard. another motion was put: "that the department of the seine constitute itself an independent republic in case of the assembly attempting to decapitalize paris,"--a motion unsound in its conception, faultily drawn up, which seemed to isolate paris from the rest of france--an anti-revolutionist, anti-parisian idea, cruelly exploited against the commune. who then was to feed paris if not the provinces? who was to save our peasants if not paris? but paris had been confined to solitary life for six months; she alone to the last moment had declared for the continuation of the struggle at any price, alone affirmed the republic by a vote. her abandonment, the vote of the provinces, the rural majority, made so many men ready to die for the universal republic fancy that the republic might be shut up within paris. footnotes: [ ] rd arrondissement, a. genotal; th, alavoine; th, manet; th, v. frontier; th, badois; th, morterol?; th, mayer; th, arnold; th, piconel; th, audoynaud; th, soncial; th, dacosta; th, masson; th, pé; th, weber; th, trouillet; th, lagarde; th, a. bonit. courty remained president, ramel secretary. [ ] vinoy, _l'armistice et la commune_, p. . [ ] the reactionists have said that this fear was feigned; that the cannon were safe from the prussians. this is so false that the general staff itself feared a surprise. see mortemart, chef d'état-major, _enquête sur le septembre_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, colonel lavigne, vol. ii. p. . [ ] "the first cannons were taken, carried away, on the news of the entry of the prussians. and these, gentlemen, believe me, were carried off by citizens devoted to order, the national guards of passy and auteuil, and taken where? from the ranelagh."--_jules ferry_, _enquête sur le mars_, vol ii. p. . [ ] a. alavoine, a. bouit, frontier, boursier, david, buisson, harond, gritz, tessier, ramel, badois, arnold, piconel, audoynaud, masson, weber, lagarde, j. laroque, j. bergeret, pouchain, lavalette, fleury, maljournal, chouteau, cadaze, gastaud, dutil, matté, mutin. ten only of those elected on the th figure in this document. various delegations, abstentions, and irregular adhesions had given nearly twenty new names. [ ] roger du nord, the chief of d'aurelles' staff, "heard it said in all the fractions of the national guard, 'why place a man of such energy at the head of the national guard if not to make a _coup d'état_?'"--_enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. [ ] the national guards of each of the twenty arrondissements were formed into a separate legion. chapter ii. "cette république a été menacée par l'assemblée, a-t-on dit, messieurs, quand l'insurrection a éclaté, l'assemblée ne s'était encore signalée au point de vue politique que par deux actes: la nomination du chef du pouvoir exécutif et l'acceptation d'un cabinet républicain."--_discours de m. larcy, du centre gauche, contre l'amnistie, séance du mai ._ the coalition opens fire on paris--the central committee constitutes itself--m. thiers orders the assault. to the rural plebiscite the parisian national guard had answered by their federation; to the threats of the monarchists, to the projects of decapitalization, by the manifestation of the bastille; to d'aurelles' appointment, by the resolutions of the rd march. what the perils of the siege had not been able to effect the assembly had brought about--the union of the middle class with the proletariat. the immense majority of paris looked upon the growing army of the republic without regret. on the rd the minister of the interior, picard, having denounced "the anonymous central committee," and called upon "all good citizens to stifle these culpable manifestations," no one stirred. besides, the accusation was ridiculous. the committee showed itself in the open day, sent its minutes to the papers, and had only made a manifestation to save paris from a catastrophe. it answered the next day: "the committee is not anonymous; it is the union of the representatives of free men aspiring to the solidarity of all the members of the national guard. its acts have always been signed. it repels with contempt the calumnies which accuse it of inciting to pillage and civil war." the signatures followed.[ ] the chiefs of the coalition saw clearly which way events were drifting. the republican army each day increased its arsenal of muskets, and especially of cannon. there were now pieces of ordnance at ten different places--at the barrière d'italie, at the faubourg st. antoine, at the buttes montmartre. a red placard informed paris of the formation of the central committee of the federation of the national guards, and invited citizens to organize in each arrondissement committees of battalions and councils of legions, and to appoint the delegates to the central committee. the ensemble, the ardour of the movement seemed to bear witness to the powerful organization of the central committee. a few days more and the answer of the people would be complete if a blow were not struck at once. what they misunderstood was the stout heart of the enemy. the victory of the nd january blinded them. they believed in the stories of their journals, in the cowardice of the national guards, in the bragging of ducrot, who, in the bureaux of the assembly swore eternal hatred to the demagogues, but for whom, he said, he would have conquered.[ ] the bullies of the reaction fancied they could swallow paris at a mouthful. the operation was conducted with clerical skill, method, and discipline. legitimists and orleanists, disagreeing as to the name of the monarch, had accepted the compromise of thiers, an equal share in the government, which was called "the pact of bordeaux." besides, against paris there could be no division. from the commencement of march the provincial papers held forth at the same time, speaking of incendiarism and pillage in paris. on the th there was but one rumor in the bureaux of the assembly--that an insurrection had broken out; that the telegraphic communications were cut off; that general vinoy had retreated to the left bank of the seine. the government, which propagated these rumors,[ ] despatched four deputies, who were also mayors, to paris. they arrived on the th, and found paris perfectly calm, even gay.[ ] the mayors and adjuncts, assembled by the minister of the interior, attested to the tranquility of the town. but picard, no doubt in the conspiracy, said, "this tranquility is only apparent. we must act." and the ultra-conservative vautrain added, "we must take the bull by the horns and arrest the central committee." the right never ceased baiting the bull. sneers, provocations, insults, were showered upon paris and her representatives. some among them, rochefort, tridon, malon, and ranc, when withdrawing after the vote mutilating the country, were followed by cries of "pleasant journey to you." victor hugo defending garibaldi was hooted. delescluze demanding the impeachment of the members of the national defence was no better listened to. jules simon declared that he would maintain the law against association. on the th the breach was opened. a resolution was passed that paris should no longer be the capital, and that the assembly should sit at versailles. this was calling forth the commune, for paris could not remain at the same time without a government and without a municipality. the field of battle once found, despair was to supply it with an army. the government had already decided to continue the pay of the national guards to those only who should ask for it. the assembly decreed that the bills due on the th november, , should be made payable on the th march, that is, in three days. the minister dufaure obstinately refused any concession on this point. notwithstanding the urgent appeals of millière, the assembly refused to pass any protective bill for the tenants whose house-rents had been due for six months. two or three hundred thousand workmen, shopkeepers, model makers, small manufacturers working in their own lodgings, who had spent their little stock of money and could not yet earn any more, all business being at a stand-still, were thus thrown upon the tender mercies of the landlord, of hunger and bankruptcy. from the th to the th of march , bills were dishonored. finally, the right obliged m. thiers to declare from the tribune "that the assembly could proceed to its deliberations at versailles without fearing the paving stones of an _émeute_," thus constraining him to act at once, for the deputies were to meet again at versailles on the th. d'aurelles commenced operations against the national guard, declaring he would submit it to rigorous discipline and purge it of its bad elements. "my first duty," said his order of the day, "is to secure the respect due to law and property,"--this eternal provocation on the part of the bourgeoisie when lifted to supreme power by revolutionary events. the other senators also joined in. on the th vinoy threw into the streets with a pittance of eight shillings a head the twenty-one thousand mobiles of the seine. on the th, the day on which paris learnt her decapitalization and the ruinous decrees, vinoy suppressed six republican journals, four of which, _le cri du peuple_, _le mot d'ordre_, _le père duchêne_, and _le vengeur_, had a circulation of , . the same day the court-martial which judged the accused of the st october condemned several to death, among others flourens and blanqui. thus everybody was hit--bourgeois, republicans, revolutionists. this assembly of bordeaux, the deadly foe of paris, a stranger to her in sentiment, mind, and language, seemed a government of foreigners. the commercial quarters as well as the faubourgs rang with a general outcry against it.[ ] from this time the last hesitation disappeared. the mayor of montmartre, clémenceau, had been intriguing for several days to effect the surrender of the cannon, and he had even found officers disposed to capitulate; but the battalion protested, and on the th, when d'aurelles sent his teams, the guards refused to deliver the pieces. picard, making an attempt at firmness, sent for courty, saying, "the members of the central committee are risking their heads," and obtained a quasi-promise. the committee expelled courty. it had since the th met at the hall of the corderie. although keeping aloof from, and entirely independent of, the three other groups, the reputation of the place was useful to it. it gave evidence of good policy and baffled the intrigues of the _commandant_, du bisson, an officer who had served abroad and been employed in undertakings of an equivocal character, and who was trying to constitute a central committee from above with the chiefs of the battalions. the central committee sent three delegates to this group, where they met with lively opposition. one chief of battalion, barberet, showed himself particularly restive; but another, faltot, carried away the assembly, saying, "i am going over to the people." the fusion was concluded on the th, the day of the general meeting of the delegates. the committee presented its weekly report. it recounted the events of the last days, the nomination of d'aurelles, the menaces of picard, remarking very justly, "that which we are, events have made us: the reiterated attacks of a press hostile to democracy have taught it, the menaces of the government have confirmed it; we are the inexorable barrier raised against every attempt at the overthrow of the republic." the delegates were invited to push forward the elections of the central committee. an appeal to the army was drawn up: "soldiers, children of the people! let us unite to serve the republic. kings and emperors have done us harm enough." the next day the soldiers lately arrived from the army of the loire gathered in front of these red placards, which bore the names and addresses of all the members of the committee. the revolution, bereft of its journals, spoke now through placards, of the greatest variety of color and opinion, posted on all the walls. flourens and blanqui, condemned in contumacy, placarded their protestations. sub-committees were being formed in all the popular arrondissements. that of the thirteenth arrondissement had for its chief a young iron founder, duval, a man of cold and commanding energy. the sub-committee of the rue des rosiers surrounded their cannon by a ditch and had them guarded day and night.[ ] all these committees quashed the orders of d'aurelles and were the true commanders of the national guard. no doubt paris was roused, ready to redeem her abdication during the siege. this paris, lean and oppressed by want, adjourned peace and business, thinking only of the republic. the provisional central committee, without troubling itself about vinoy, who had demanded the arrest of all its members, presented itself on the th at the general assembly of the vauxhall. two hundred and fifteen battalions were represented, and acclaimed garibaldi as commander-in-chief of the national guard. an orator, lullier, led the assembly astray. he was an ex-naval officer, completely crack-brained, with a semblance of military instruction, and when not heated by alcohol having intervals of lucidity which might deceive any one. he was named commanding colonel of the artillery. then came the names of those elected members of the central committee, about thirty in all, for several arrondissements had not yet voted. this was the regular central committee which was to be installed at the hôtel-de-ville. many of those elected had formed part of the preceding commission. the others were all equally obscure, belonging to the proletariat and small middle class, known only to their battalions. what mattered their obscurity? the central committee was not a government at the head of a party. it had no utopia to initiate. a very simple idea, fear of the monarchy, could alone have grouped together so many battalions. the national guard constituted itself an assurance company against a _coup-d'état_; for if thiers and his agents repeated the word "republic," their own party and the assembly cried "vive le roi!" the central committee was a sentinel, that was all. the storm was gathering; all was uncertain. the international convoked the socialist deputies to ask them what to do. but no attack was planned, nor even suggested. the central committee formally declared that the first shot would not be fired by the people, and that they would only defend themselves in case of aggression. the aggressor, m. thiers, arrived on the th. for a long time he had foreseen that it would be necessary to engage in a terrible struggle with paris; but he intended acting at his own good time, to retake the town when disposing of an army of forty thousand men, well picked, carefully kept aloof from the parisians. this plan has been revealed by a general officer. at this moment thiers had only the mere wreck of an army. the , men disarmed by the capitulation, mostly mobiles or men having finished their term of service, had been sent home in hot haste, as they would only have swelled the parisian army. already some mobiles, marines, and soldiers had laid the basis of a republican association with the national guards. there remained to vinoy only the division allowed him by the prussians and , sergents-de-ville or gendarmes, in all , men, rather ill-conditioned. lefiô sent him a few thousand men picked up in the armies of the loire and of the north, but they arrived slowly, almost without _cadres_, harassed, and disgusted at the service. at vinoy's very first review they were on the point of mutinying. they left them straggling through paris, abandoned, mixing with the parisians, who succored them, the women bringing them soups and blankets to their huts, where they were freezing. in fact, on the th the government had only about , men, without cohesion and discipline, two-thirds of them gained over to the faubourgs. how disarm , men with this mob? for, to carry off the cannon, it was necessary to disarm the national guard. the parisians were no longer novices in warfare. "having taken our cannon," they said, "they will make our muskets useless." the coalition would listen to nothing. hardly arrived, they urged m. thiers to act, to lance the abscess at once. the financiers--no doubt the same who had precipitated the war to give fresh impulse to their jobbery[ ]--said to him, "you will never be able to carry out financial operations if you don't make an end of these scoundrels."[ ] all these declared the taking of the cannon would be mere child's play. they were indeed hardly watched, but because the national guard knew them to be in a safe place. it would suffice to pull up a few paving stones to prevent their removal down the narrow steep streets of montmartre. on the first alarm all paris would hasten to the rescue. this had been seen on the th, when gendarmes presented themselves to take from the place des vosges the cannon promised by vautrain. the national guards arrived from all sides and unscrewed the pieces, and the shopkeepers of the rue des tournelles commenced unpaving the street. an attack was nonsensical, and it was this that determined paris to remain on the defensive. but m. thiers saw nothing, neither the disaffection of the middle classes nor the deep irritation of the faubourgs. the little man, a dupe all his life, even of a macmahon, prompted by the approach of the th march, spurred on by jules favre and picard, who, since the failure of the st of october, believed the revolutionists incapable of any serious action, and jealous to play the part of a bonaparte, threw himself head foremost into the venture. on the th he held a council, and, without calculating his forces or those of the enemy, without forewarning the mayors--(picard had formally promised them not to attempt to use force without consulting them)--without listening to the chiefs of the bourgeois battalions,[ ] this government, too weak to arrest even the twenty-five members of the central committee, gave the order to carry off two hundred and fifty cannon[ ] guarded by all paris. footnotes: [ ] arnold, j. bergeret, bouit, castioni, chauvière, chouteau, courty, dutil, fleury, frontier, h. fortuné, lacord, lagarde, lavalette, maljournal, matté, ostyn, piconel, pindy, prudhomme, varlin, h. verlet, viard. many of these names, those of the representatives elected on the rd, were new ones. on the other hand, many of those that had figured in the placard of the th were missing, because only those signed who were present at the sitting. [ ] he dared to say from the tribune that he only returned on the rd "to save paris from any demagogic attempts." [ ] the prefecture of rennes placarded this despatch of the government: "a criminal insurrection is being organised in paris. i send forces which, joined to the honest national guards of paris and to the other regular troops which are still stationed there, will suppress, i hope, this odious attempt." [ ] jules ferry, who had remained at paris, telegraphed on the th to the government: "never has a sunday been calmer, notwithstanding sinister reports. the population is enjoying the sun and their promenades as if nothing had happened. i no longer believe in the danger." [ ] "the vote of the assembly," wrote jules favre, "was received at paris with extreme disfavour; not only amongst the fanatics and the agitators; all classes of the population showed themselves almost unanimous. every one saw in it an affront and a menace. it was repeated everywhere that this was the first act of a monarchical _coup-d'état_; that the assembly was ready to name a king, and that, knowing the unpopularity of its work, it sought to accomplish it far from the eyes of those who might oppose it." [ ] this is the committee which many took for the central committee. [ ] some bourse speculators, in the belief that a campaign of six weeks would give a fresh impulse to the speculations they were living upon, said, "it is a disagreeable moment to pass through, some , men to be sacrificed, after which the horizon will clear and commerce revive."--_m. thiers, enquête sur le septembre_, vol. i. p. . [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, m. thiers, vol. ii. p. . [ ] in the evening d'aurelles assembled forty of the most reliable, and asked them if their battalions would march. they all said their men were not to be counted upon. _enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. , . [ ] this is the number of pieces given by m. thiers in the _enquête sur le mars_. chapter iii. "nous avons donc fait ce que nous devions faire; rien n'a provoqué l'insurrection de paris."--_discours de m. dufaure contre l'amnistie, séance du mai ._ the eighteenth of march. the execution was as foolish as the conception. on the th of march, at three o'clock in the morning, several columns dispersed in various directions to the buttes chaumont, belleville, the faubourg du temple, the bastille, the hôtel-de-ville, place st. michel, the luxembourg, the thirteenth arrondissement and the invalides. general susbielle marched on montmartre with two brigades about , men strong. all was silent and deserted. the brigade paturel took possession of the moulin de la galette without striking a blow. the brigade lecomte gained the tower of solferino, only meeting with one sentinel, turpin, who crossed bayonets with them and was hewn down by the gendarmes. they then rushed to the post of the rue des rosiers, stormed it, and threw the national guards into the caves of the tower of solferino. at six o'clock the surprise was complete. m. clémenceau hurried to the buttes to congratulate general lecomte. everywhere else the cannon were surprised in the same way. the government triumphed all along the line, and d'aurelles sent the papers a proclamation written in the conqueror's vein. there was only something wanted--teams to convey the spoil. vinoy had almost forgotten them. at eight o'clock they began to put some horses to the pieces. meanwhile the faubourgs were awaking and the early shops opening. around the milkmaids and before the wineshops the people began talking in a low voice; they pointed to the soldiers, the mitrailleuse levelled at the streets, the walls covered with the still wet placard signed by m. thiers and his ministers. they spoke of paralyzed commerce, suspended orders, frightened capitals: "inhabitants of paris, in your interest the government has resolved to act. let the good citizens separate from the bad ones; let them aid public force; they will render a service to the republic herself," said mm. pouyer-quertier, de larcy, dufaure and other republicans. the conclusion is borrowed from the phraseology of december: "the culpable shall be surrendered to justice. order, complete, immediate and unalterable, must be re-established." they spoke of order;--blood was to be shed. as in our great days, the women were the first to act. those of the th march, hardened by the siege--they had had a double ration of misery--did not wait for the men. they surrounded the mitrailleuses, apostrophized the sergeant in command of the gun, saying, "this is shameful; what are you doing there?" the soldiers did not answer. occasionally a non-commissioned officer spoke to them: "come, my good women, get out of the way." at the same time a handful of national guards, proceeding to the post of the rue doudeauville, there found two drums that had not been smashed, and beat the _rappel_. at eight o'clock they numbered officers and guards, who ascended the boulevard ornano. they met a platoon of soldiers of the th, and, crying, "vive la république!" enlisted them. the post of the rue dejean also joined them, and the butt-end of their muskets raised, soldiers and guards together marched up to the rue muller that leads to the buttes montmartre, defended on this side by the men of the th. these, seeing their comrades intermingling with the guards, signed to them to advance, that they would let them pass. general lecomte, catching sight of the signs, had the men replaced by sergents-de-ville, and confined them in the tower of solferino, adding, "you will get your deserts." the sergents-de-ville discharged a few shots, to which the guards replied. suddenly a large number of national guards, the butt-end of their muskets up, women and children, debouched on the other flank by the rue des rosiers. general lecomte, surrounded, three times commanded fire. his men stood still, their arms ordered. the crowd, advancing, fraternized with them, and lecomte and his officers were arrested. the soldiers whom he had just shut up in the tower wanted to shoot him, but some national guards having succeeded in disengaging him with great difficulty--for the crowd took him for vinoy--conducted him with his officers to the château-rouge, where the staff of the battalions of the national guard was seated. there they asked him for an order to evacuate the buttes. he signed it without hesitation.[ ] the order was immediately communicated to the officers and soldiers of the rue des rosiers. the gendarmes surrendered their chassepots, and even cried, "vive la république!" three discharges from the cannon announced the recapture of the buttes. general paturel, who wanted to carry away the cannon, surprised at the moulin de la galette, came into collision with a living barricade in the rue lepic. the people stopped the horses, cut the traces, dispersed the artillerymen, and took back the cannon to their post. in the place pigalle, general susbielle gave the order to charge the crowd collected in the rue houdon, but the chasseurs, intimidated, spurred back their horses and were laughed at. a captain, dashing forward, sabre in hand, wounded a guard, and fell, pierced with balls. the general fled. the gendarmes, who commenced firing from behind the huts, were soon dislodged, and the bulk of the soldiers went over to the people. at belleville, the buttes chaumont, the luxembourg, the troops fraternized everywhere with the crowds that had collected at the first alarm. by eleven o'clock the people had vanquished the aggressors at all points, preserved almost all their cannon, of which only ten had been carried off, and seized thousands of chassepots. all their battalions were now on foot, and the men of the faubourgs commenced unpaving the streets. since six o'clock in the morning d'aurelles had had the rappel beaten in the central quarters, but in vain. battalions formerly noted for their devotion to trochu sent only twenty men to the rendezvous. all paris, on reading the placards, said, "this is the _coup-d'état_." at twelve o'clock d'aurelles and picard sounded the alarm: "the government call on you to defend your homes, your families, your property. some misguided men, under the lead of some secret chiefs, turn against paris the cannon kept back from the prussians." these reminiscences of june, , this accusation of indelicacy toward the prussians, failing to rouse any one, the whole ministry came to the rescue: "an absurd rumor is being spread that the government is preparing a _coup-d'état_. it has wished and wishes to make an end of an insurrectional committee, whose members only represent communist doctrines." these alarms, repeatedly sounded, raised in all men.[ ] the government were at the foreign office, and, after the first reverses, m. thiers had given the order to fall back with all the troops on the champ-de-mars. when he saw the desertion of the national guards of the centre, he declared that it was necessary to evacuate paris. several ministers objected, wanted a few points to be guarded, the hôtel-de-ville, its barracks occupied by the brigade derroja, the ecole militaire, and that they should take a position on the trocadéro. the little man, quite distracted, would only hear of extreme measures. leflô, who had almost been made a prisoner at the bastille, vigorously supported him. it was decided that the whole town should be evacuated, even the forts on the south, restored by the prussians a fortnight before. towards three o'clock the popular battalions of the gros caillou marched past the hôtel-de-ville, headed by drums and trumpets. the council believed itself surrounded.[ ] m. thiers escaped by a back stair, and left for versailles so out of his senses that at the bridge of sévres he gave the written order to evacuate mont-valérien. at the self-same hour when m. thiers ran away, the revolutionary battalions had not yet attempted any attack or occupied any official posts.[ ] the aggression of the morning had surprised the central committee, as it had all paris. the evening before they had separated as usual, giving themselves a rendezvous for the th, at eleven o'clock at night, behind the bastille, at the school in the rue basfroi; the place de la corderie, actively watched by the police, no longer being safe. since the th new elections had added to their numbers, and they had appointed a committee of defence. on the news of the attack, some ran to the rue basfroi, others applied themselves to raising the battalions of their quarters: varlin at the batignolles, bergeret, recently named chef-de-légion, at montmartre, duval at the panthéon, pindy in the third arrondissement, faltot in the rue de sévres. ranvier and brunel, without belonging to the committee, were agitating belleville and the tenth arrondissement. at ten o'clock a dozen members met together, overwhelmed with messages from all sides, and receiving from time to time some prisoners. positive intelligence only came in towards two o'clock. they then drew up a kind of plan by which all the federalist battalions were to converge upon the hôtel-de-ville, and then dispersed in all directions to transmit orders.[ ] the battalions were indeed on the alert, but did not march. the revolutionary quarters, fearing a resumption of the attack, and ignoring the plenitude of their victory, were strongly barricading themselves, and remained where they were. even montmartre was only swarming with guards in search of news, and disbanded soldiers for whom collections were being made, as they had had nothing to eat since the morning. towards half-past three o'clock the committee of vigilance of the eighteenth arrondissement, established in the rue de clignancourt, was informed that general lecomte was in great danger. a crowd, consisting chiefly of soldiers, surrounded the château-rouge and demanded the general. the members of the committee of vigilance, ferré, jaclard, and bergeret, immediately sent an order to the commander of the château-rouge to guard the prisoner, who was to be put on his trial. when the order arrived lecomte had just left. he had long been asking to be taken before the central committee. the chiefs of the post, much perturbed by the cries of the crowd, anxious to get rid of their responsibility, and believing this committee was sitting in the rue des rosiers, decided to conduct the general and his officers there. they arrived at about four o'clock, passing through a terribly irritated crowd, yet no one raised a hand against them. the general was closely guarded in a small front room on the ground floor. there the scenes of the château-rouge recommenced. the exasperated soldiers asked for his death. the officers of the national guard made desperate efforts to quiet them, crying, "wait for the committee." they succeeded in posting sentinels and appeasing the commotion for a time. no member of the committee had arrived when, at half-past four, formidable cries filled the street, and hunted by a fierce multitude, a man with a white beard was thrust against the wall of the house. it was clément-thomas, the man of june, , the insulter of the revolutionary battalions. he had been recognized and arrested at the chaussée des martyrs, where he was examining the barricades. some officers of the national guard, a garibaldian captain, herpin-lacroix, and some franc-tireurs had tried to stop the deadly mass, repeating a thousand times, "wait for the committee! constitute a court-martial!" they were jostled, and clément-thomas was again seized and hurled into the little garden of the house. twenty muskets levelled at him battered him down. during this execution the soldiers broke the windows of the room where general lecomte was confined, threw themselves upon him, dragging him towards the garden. this man, who in the morning had three times commanded fire upon the people, wept, begged for pity, and spoke of his family. he was forced against the wall and fell under the bullets. these reprisals over, the wrath of the mass subsided. they allowed the officers of lecomte's suite to be taken back to the château-rouge, and at nightfall they were set at liberty. while these executions took place, the people, so long standing on the defensive, had begun to move. brunel surrounded the prince eugène barracks, held by the th of the line. the colonel, accompanied by about a hundred officers, assuming lofty airs, brunel had them all locked up. two thousand chassepots fell into the hands of the people. brunel continued his march by the rue du temple towards the hôtel-de-ville. the imprimerie nationale was occupied at five o'clock. at six the crowd attacked the doors of the napoleon barracks with hatchets. a discharge was made, fired from the opening, and three persons fell; but the soldiers made signs from the windows of the rue de rivoli, crying, "it is the gendarmes who have fired. vive la république!" soon after they opened the doors and allowed their arms to be carried off.[ ] at half-past seven the hôtel-de-ville was almost invested. the gendarmes who occupied it fled by the subterranean passage of the lobau barracks. about half-past eight jules ferry and vabre, entirely abandoned by their men, left without any order by the government, also stole away. shortly after brunel's column debouched on the place and took possession of the hôtel-de-ville, where ranvier arrived at the same time by the quays. the number of the battalions augmented incessantly. brunel had given order to raise barricades in the rue de rivoli, on the quays, manned all the approaches, distributed the posts, and sent out strong patrols. one of these, surrounding the mairie of the louvre, where the mayors were deliberating, almost succeeded in catching ferry, who saved himself by jumping out of a window. the mayors returned to the mairie of the place de la bourse. they had already met there during the day together with many adjuncts, much offended at the senseless governmental attack, waiting for information and for ideas. towards four o'clock they sent delegates to the government. m. thiers had already made off. picard politely showed them out. d'aurelles washed his hands of the whole affair, saying the lawyers had done it. at night, however, it became necessary to take a resolution. the federal battalions already surrounded the hôtel-de-ville and occupied the place vendôme, whither varlin, bergeret, and arnold had conducted the battalions of montmartre and the batignolles. vacherot, vautrain, and a few reactionists spoke of resisting at any price, as though they had had an army to back them. others, more sensible, sought for some expedient. they thought they could calm down every thing by naming as prefect of police ed. adam, who had distinguished himself against the insurgents of june, , and as general of the national guards the giddy proudhonist langlois, a former internationalist, who had been for the movement of the st of october in the morning, against it in the evening, and was named deputy, thanks to a scratch received while gesticulating at buzenval. the delegates went to propose this brilliant solution to jules favre. he refused outright, saying, "we cannot treat with assassins." this comedy was only played to justify the evacuation of paris, which he concealed from the mayors. during the conference it was announced that jules ferry had abandoned the hôtel-de-ville. the other jules feigned surprise, and engaged the mayors to call out the battalions of order for the purpose of replacing the vanished army. they returned overwhelmed by this raillery, humbled at having been altogether left in the dark about the intention of the government. if possessed of some political courage, they would have gone straight to the hôtel-de-ville, instead of commencing to deliberate again in their mairie. at last, at ten o'clock in the morning, picard informed them that they might bring out their lafayette. they immediately sent langlois to the hôtel-de-ville. some of the members of the central committee had been there since ten o'clock, generally very anxious and very hesitating. not one of them had dreamt that power would fall so heavily upon their shoulders. many did not want to sit at the hôtel-de-ville. they deliberated. at last it was decided that they would only stay during the two or three days wanted for the elections. meanwhile it was necessary to ward off any attempt at resistance. lullier was present, buzzing around the committee, in one of his intervals of grave lucidity, promising to ward off all danger and appealing to the vote of vauxhall. he had played no part during the whole day.[ ] the committee committed the blunder of appointing him commander-in-chief of the national guard, while brunel, who had rendered such service since the morning, was already installed in the hôtel-de-ville. at three o'clock, langlois, the competitor of lullier, announced himself. he was full of confidence in himself, and had already sent his proclamation to the _journal officiel_. "who are you?" the sentinels asked him. "general of the national guard," answered langlois. some deputies of paris, lockroy, cournet, &c., accompanied him. the committee consented to receive them. "who has named you?" said they to langlois. "m. thiers." they smiled at this aplomb of a madman. as he pleaded the rights of the assembly they put him to the test; "do you recognise the central committee?" "no." he decamped to run after his proclamation. the night was calm, fatally calm for liberty. by the gates of the south vinoy marched off his regiments, his artillery, and his baggage to versailles. the disbanded troops jogged along peevishly, insulting the gendarmes.[ ] the staff, true to its traditions, had lost its head, and left in paris three regiments, six batteries, and all the gunboats, which it would have sufficed to leave to the current of the river. the slightest demonstration of the federals would have stopped this exodus. far from thinking of closing the gates, the new commander of the national guard--he boasted of it before the council of war--left open all issues to the army. footnotes: [ ] this order enjoining the troop to file off in the midst of the national guards was drawn up in pencil by a captain. lecomte copied it in ink without changing a word. the court-martial has denied this, in order to glorify this general, who died so pusillanimously. [ ] five to six hundred, says m. thiers; fourteen men per battalion, says jules perry. _enquête sur le mars._ [ ] m. thiers in the _enquéte sur le mars_ says, firstly, "we let them defile," then, twenty lines farther, "we repulsed them." leflô has not concealed the fright the council was in: "the moment seemed critical to me. and i said, 'i think we are done for; we shall be carried off;' and indeed the battalions had only to penetrate into the palace and we were all taken to the last man. but the three battalions marched off without saying anything."--vol. ii. p. . [ ] the report of the _enquéte sur le mars_ said that "the committee did not hesitate on the afternoon of the th march to take possession of all the administrations." this is if not a lie, intended to palliate the stampede of m. thiers,--one of the grossest proofs of the ignorance of this report, which attributes the manifestation of the th of february to an order of the central committee. [ ] see appendix ii., the details of the proceedings of the central committee during this day, told by one of its members. [ ] vinoy has the impudence to say in his book _l'armistice et la commune_: "the general assembled his men, and _sword in hand_ he bravely placed himself at the head of his troops." [ ] ten days after he recounted in a crazy letter written in the conciergerie that he had done everything; taken the hôtel-de-ville, the prefecture of police, the place vendôme, the tuileries, &c.; and this letter is referred to as an authority by the report of the _enquête sur le mars_! for the future, i shall abstain from pointing out the errors that abound in this report, which is an ignorant and malignant résumé of the lies, inaccuracies, and animosity accumulated in this _inquiry_, from which all the vanquished, and even the smallest adversaries, were excluded. entirely insufficient as a historical source, it may well serve to set forth the intelligence and morality of the french bourgeoisie of the epoch. [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, marreille, vol. ii. p. . chapter iv. "nos coeurs brisés font appel aux vôtres."--_les maires et adjoints de paris et les députés de la seine à la garde nationale et à tous les citoyens._ the central committee convokes the electors--the mayors of paris and deputies of the seine turn against it. paris only became aware of her victory on the morning of the th of march. what a change in the scene, even after all the scene-shifting in the drama enacted during these last seven months! the red flag floated above the hôtel-de-ville. with the early morning mists the army, the government, the administration had evaporated. from the depths of the bastille, from the obscure rue basfroi, the central committee was lifted to the summits of paris in the sight of all the world. thus on the th september the empire had vanished; thus the deputies of the left had picked up a derelict power. the committee, to its great honour, had only one thought, to restore its power to paris. had it been sectarian, hatching decrees, the movement would have ended like that of the st october. happily it was composed of new-comers, without a past, and without political pretensions; men of the small middle-class, as well as workmen, shopkeepers, commercial clerks, mechanics, sculptors, architects, caring little for systems, anxious above all to save the republic. at this giddy height they had but one idea to sustain them, that of securing to paris her municipality. under the empire this was one of the favourite schemes of the left, by which it had mainly won over the small parisian bourgeoisie, much humiliated at the sight of governmental nominees enthroned at the hôtel-de-ville for full eighty years. even the most pacific amongst them were shocked, scandalised by the incessant increase of the budget, the multiplied loans, and the financial swindling of haussmann. and how they applauded picard, revindicating for the largest and most enlightened city of france at least the rights enjoyed by the smallest village, or when he defied the pasha of the seine to produce regular accounts! towards the end of the empire, the idea of an elective municipal council had taken root; it had to a certain extent been put into practice during the siege, and now its total realisation could alone console paris for her decentralisation. on the other hand, the popular masses, insensible to the bourgeois ideal of a municipal council, were bent on the commune. they had called for it during the siege as an arm against the foreign enemy; they still called for it as a lever for uprooting despotism and misery. what did they care for a council, even elective, but without real liberties and fettered to the state--without authority over the administration of schools and hospitals, justice and police, and altogether unfit for grappling with the social slavery of its fellow-citizens? what the people strove for was a political form allowing them to work for the amelioration of their condition. they had seen all the constitutions and all the representative governments run counter to the will of the so-called represented elector, and the state power, grown more and more despotic, despoil the workmen even of the right to defend his labour, and this power, which has ordained even the very air to be breathed, always refusing to interfere in capitalist brigandage. after so many failures, they were fully convinced that the actual governmental and legislative régime was from its very nature unable to emancipate the workingman. this emancipation they expected from the autonomous commune, sovereign within the limits compatible with the maintenance of the national unity. the communal constitution was to substitute for the representative lording it over his elector the strictly responsible mandatory. the old state power grafted upon the country, feeding upon its substance, usurping supremacy on the foundation of divided and antagonistic interests, organising for the benefit of the few, justice, finance, army, and police, was to be superseded by a delegation of all the autonomous communes. thus the municipal question, appealing to the legitimate susceptibilities of the one, to the bold aspirations of the other, gathered all classes round the central committee. at half-past eight they held their first sitting in the same room where trochu had been enthroned. the president was a young man of about thirty-two; edward moreau, a small commission agent. "he was not in favour," he said, "of sitting at the hôtel-de-ville, but since they were there, it was necessary to at once regularise their situation, tell paris what they wanted, proceed to the elections within the briefest term possible, provide for the public services, and protect the town from a surprise." two of his colleagues immediately said, "we must first march on versailles, disperse the assembly, and appeal to france to pronounce." another, the author of the vauxhall motion, said, "no. we have only the mandate to secure the rights of paris. if the provinces share our views, let them imitate our example." some wanted to consummate the revolution before referring to the electors. others opposed this vague suggestion. the committee decided to proceed at once to the elections, and charged moreau to draw up an appeal. while it was being signed, a member of the committee arrived, saying, "citizens, we have just been told that most of the members of the government are still in paris; an attempt at resistance is being organised in the first and second arrondissements; the soldiers are leaving for versailles. we must take prompt measures to lay hands on the ministers, disperse the hostile battalions, and prevent the enemy from leaving the town." in fact, jules favre and picard had hardly left paris. the clearing of the ministries was publicly going on; files of soldiers were still marching off through the gates of the left bank. but the committee continued signing, neglecting this traditional precaution--the shutting of the gates--and lost itself in the elections. it saw not--very few saw as yet--that this was a death-struggle with the assembly of versailles. the committee, distributing the work to be done, appointed the delegates who were to take possession of the ministries and direct the various services. some of these delegates were chosen outside the committee, from amongst those who were reputed men of action, or the revolutionists. some one having spoken of an increase of pay, his colleagues indignantly answered, "we are not here to imitate the government of the defence. we have lived till now on our pay; it will still suffice." arrangements were made for the permanent presence of some members at the hôtel-de-ville, and then they adjourned at one o'clock. outside the joyous clamor of the people enlivened the streets. a spring sun smiled on the parisians. this was their first day of consolation and of hope for eight months. before the barricades of the hôtel-de-ville, at the buttes montmartre, in all the boulevards, lookers-on were thronging. who then spoke of civil war? only the _journal officiel_. it recounted the events in its own way. "the government had exhausted every means of conciliation," and in a despairing appeal to the national guard it said, "a committee taking the name of central committee has assassinated in cold blood the generals clément-thomas and lecomte. who are the members of this committee? communists, bonapartists, or prussians? will you take upon yourselves the responsibility of these assassinations?" these lamentations of runaways moved only a few companies of the centre. yet--a grave symptom this--the young bourgeois of the polytechnic school came to the mairie of the second arrondissement, where the mayors had flocked, and the students of the universities, till now the advanced guard of all our revolutions, pronounced against the committee. for this revolution was made by proletarians. who were they? what did they want? at two o'clock every one hurried to see the placards of the committee just issued from the imprimerie nationale. "citizens, the people of paris, calm and impassible in their strength, have awaited without fear, as without provocation, the shameless fools who want to touch our republic. let paris and france together lay the foundation of a true republic, the only government which will for ever close the era of revolutions. the people of paris is convoked to make its elections." and turning to the national guard: "you have charged us to organise the defence of paris and of your rights. our mandate has now expired. prepare, and at once make your communal elections. meanwhile we shall, in the name of the people, hold the hôtel-de-ville." twenty names[ ] followed, which, save three or four, assi, lullier, and varlin, were only known through the placards of the last few days. since the morning of the th august, , paris has not seen in her hôtel-de-ville such an advent of obscure men. and yet their placards were respected, their battalions circulated freely. they took possession of the posts; at one o'clock the ministries of finance and of the interior; at two o'clock the naval and war offices, the telegraph, the _journal officiel_, and duval was installed at the prefecture de police. and they had hit the mark. what indeed could be said against this new-born power whose first word was its own abdication? everything around them bore a warlike aspect. let us cross the half-open barricades of the rue de rivoli. twenty thousand men camped in the square of the hôtel-de-ville; bread stuck on the end of their muskets. fifty ordnance pieces, cannon, and mitrailleuses drawn up along the façade served as the _chevaux de frise_ of the town hall. the court and staircases encumbered with guards taking their meals, the large salle du trône swarming with officers, guards, and civilians. in the hall on the left, which was used by the staff, the noise subsided. the room by the river-side, at the corner of the edifice, was the antechamber of the committee. about fifty men were writing there, bending over a long table. there discipline and silence reigned. we were far from the anarchists of the st october. from time to time the door, guarded by two sentinels, opened to a member of the committee who carried orders or made inquiries. the sitting had recommenced. a member asked the committee to protest against the executions of clément-thomas and lecomte, to which it was entirely foreign. "take care not to disavow the people," answered another, "for fear they in turn should disavow you." a third said, "the _journal officiel_ declares the execution took place under our eyes. we must stop these calumnies. the people and the bourgeoisie have joined hands in this revolution. this union must be maintained. you want everybody to take part in the elections." "well, then," he was apostrophised, "abandon the people in order to gain the bourgeoisie; the people will withdraw, and you will see if it is with the bourgeois that revolutions are made."[ ] the committee decided that a note should be inserted in the _journal officiel_ to re-establish the truth. ed. moreau proposed and read the draft of a manifesto, which was adopted. the committee were discussing the date and mode of the elections when it was informed that a large meeting of the chiefs of battalions, the mayors and deputies of the seine was being held at the mairie of the third arrondissement. m. thiers, during the morning, had given over to the union of the mayors the provisional administration of paris, and they were trying their authority on the national guard. the committee was assured that they intended to convoke the electors. "if it is so," said several members, "we must come to an agreement with them to make the situation regular." others, remembering the siege, simply wanted to have them arrested. one member said, "if we wish to have france with us, we must not frighten her. think what an effect the arrest of the deputies and mayors would produce, and what, on the other hand, the effect of their adhesion would be." another, "it is important to collect an imposing number of voters. all paris will go to the ballot-boxes if the representatives and mayors join us." "say rather," cried an impetuous colleague, "that you are not equal to your position; that your only preoccupation is to disengage yourselves." they finally decided to send arnold to the mairie as delegate. he was badly enough received. the most radical adjuncts and deputies, socialists like millière and malon, flatly declared against the hôtel-de-ville, appalled at the dangerous initiative of the people. many too said, "who are these unknown men?" even at the corderie, internationalists and former members of the committee of the twenty arrondissements maintained a diffident attitude. however, the meeting decided to send commissioners to the hôtel-de-ville, for, whether they liked it or not, there was the power. the central committee had, in the meantime, fixed the elections for the wednesday, decreed the raising of the state of siege, the abolition of the court-martials, and amnesty for all political crimes and offences. it held a third sitting at eight o'clock to receive the commissioners. these were the deputies clémenceau, millière, tolain, cournet, malon, and lockroy, the mayors bonvalet and mottu, the adjuncts murat, jaclard, and léo meillet. clémenceau, half accomplice, half dupe of m. thiers' _coup d'état_, in his quality of mayor and deputy, was the spokesman. he was prolix and pedantic. "the insurrection has been undertaken upon an illegitimate motive; the cannon belong to the state. the central committee is without a mandate and in no wise holds paris. numerous battalions were gathering round the deputies and mayors. soon the committee will become ridiculous and its decrees will be despised. besides, paris has no right to revolt against france, and must absolutely acknowledge the authority of the assembly. the committee has but one other way of getting out of the difficulty--to submit to the union of the deputies and mayors, who are resolved to obtain from the assembly the satisfaction claimed by paris." he was frequently interrupted during this speech. what! they dared speak of an insurrection! who had began the civil war, attacked first? what had the national guards done but answer a nocturnal aggression, taken back cannon paid for by themselves? what had the central committee done but follow the people and occupy the deserted hôtel-de-ville? a member of the committee said, "the central committee has received a regular, imperative mandate. this mandate forbids them to allow the government or the assembly to touch their liberties or the republic. now the assembly has never ceased putting the existence of the republic in question. it has placed a dishonoured general at our head, decapitalised paris, tried to ruin her commerce. it has sneered at our sufferings, denied the devotion, the courage, the abnegation paris has shown during the siege, hooted her best-loved representatives, garibaldi and victor hugo. the plot against the republic is evident. the attempt was commenced by gagging the press; they hoped to terminate it by the disarmament of our battalions. yes, our case was one of legitimate defence. if we have bowed our heads under this new affront, there was an end of the republic. you have just spoken of the assembly of france. the mandate of the assembly has expired. as to france, we had not the pretension of dictating her laws--we have too often suffered under hers--but we will not submit to her rural plebiscites. you see it; the question is no longer to know which of our mandates is the most regular. we say to you the revolution is made; but we are not usurpers. we wish to call upon paris to name her representatives. will you aid us, and proceed with us to consult the elections? we eagerly accept your co-operation." as he spoke of autonomous communes and their federation, "have a care," said millière; "if you unfurl this flag they will launch all france upon paris, and i foresee days fatal as those of june. the hour of the social revolution has not yet struck. progress is obtained by slower marches. descend from the heights where you have placed yourselves. victorious to-day, your insurrection may be vanquished to-morrow. make as much of it as you can, but do not hesitate to content yourselves with little. i adjure you to leave the field open to the union of the mayors and deputies; your confidence will be well placed." one of the committee: "since the social revolution has been spoken of, i declare our mandate does not go so far." (others of the committee, "yes! yes!" "no! no!") "you have spoken of a federation, of paris as a free town. our duty is more simple. it is to proceed to the elections. the people will afterwards decide on their action. as to yielding to the deputies and mayors, this is impossible. they are unpopular and have no authority in the assembly. the elections will take place with or without their concurrence. will they help us? we will receive them with open arms. if not, we shall do without them, and, if they attempt to obstruct our way, we shall know how to reduce them to impotency." the delegates resisted. the discussion grew hot. "but, in fine," said clémenceau, "what are your pretensions? do you confine your mandate to asking the assembly for a municipal council?" many of the committee: "no! no!" "we want," said varlin, "not only the election of the municipal council, but real municipal liberties, the suppression of the prefecture of police, the right of the national guard to name its chiefs and to reorganise itself, the proclamation of the republic as the legal government, the pure and simple remittance of the rents due, an equitable law on overdue bills, and the parisian territory interdicted the army." malon: "i share your aspirations, but the situation is perilous. it is clear that the assembly will listen to nothing as long as the committee occupies the hôtel-de-ville. if, on the contrary, paris intrusts herself again to her legal representatives, i believe they could do more than you." the discussion was protracted until half-past ten; the committee defending its right to proceed to the elections, the delegates their pretension of superseding the committee. they at last agreed that the committee should send four of its members to the second arrondissement. varlin, moreau, arnold, and jourde were appointed. there they found the whole staff of liberalism: deputies, mayors, and adjuncts; louis blanc, schoelcher, carnot, peyrat, tirard, floquet, desmarets, vautrain, and dubail, about sixty altogether. the cause of the people there had a few partisans, sincere, but terribly dismayed by the uncertain future. the mayor of the second arrondissement, tirard, presided, a liberal, nervous, haughty, one of those who had helped to paralyse paris in the hands of trochu. in his evidence before the rural committee of inquiry, he has mutilated, travestied this sitting, where the radico-liberal bourgeoisie laid bare all its baseness. we shall now, for the instruction of and in justice to the people, give the plain truth. the delegates: "the central committee does not wish anything better than to come to an agreement with the municipalities, if they will proceed with the elections." schoelcher, tirard, peyrat, louis blanc, all the radicals and liberals in chorus: "the municipalities will not treat with the central committee. there is only one authority--the union of the mayors invested with the delegation by the government." the delegates: "let us not discuss the point. the central committee exists. we have been named by the national guard and we hold the hôtel-de-ville. will you proceed to make the elections?" "but what is your programme?" varlin set it forth. he was attacked from all sides. the four delegates had to face twenty assailants. the great argument of the liberals was that paris could not convoke herself, but ought to wait for the permission of the assembly. a reminiscence this of the times of the siege, when they fell prone before the government of the defence. the delegates affirmed, on the contrary: "the people has the right to convoke itself. it is an undeniable right, which it has more than once made use of in our history in moments of great peril, and at present we are passing through such a crisis, since the assembly of versailles is making for monarchy." then recriminations followed: "you are now face to face with force," said the delegates. "beware of letting loose a civil war by your resistance." "it is you who want a civil war," replied the liberals. at midnight moreau and arnold, quite disheartened, withdrew. their colleagues were about to follow, when some adjuncts entreated them to stay. "we promise," said the mayors and deputies, "to make every effort to obtain the municipal elections with the shortest delay." "very well," answered the delegates, "but we maintain our position; we want guarantees." the deputies and mayors, growing obstinate, pretended that paris must surrender unconditionally. jourde was about to retire, when some of the adjuncts again detained him. for a moment they seemed to be coming to an understanding. the committee was to give up all the administrative services to the mayors, and let them occupy one part of the hôtel-de-ville; itself, however, was to continue sitting there, to retain the exclusive direction of the national guard, and to watch over the security of the town. this agreement only required to be confirmed by the issue of a common proclamation, but when the heading of the latter came to be discussed, the contest grew more violent than before. the delegates proposed, "the deputies, mayors, and adjuncts, in accord with the central committee." these gentlemen, on the contrary, desired to hide themselves behind a mask. for an hour louis blanc, tirard, and schoelcher overwhelmed the delegates with indignities. louis blanc cried to them, "you are insurgents against a most freely elected assembly.[ ] we, the regular mandatories, we cannot avow a transaction with insurgents. we should be willing to prevent a civil war, but not to appear as your auxiliaries in the eyes of france." jourde answered the mannikin that this transaction, in order to be accepted by the people of paris, must be publicly consented to, and, despairing of making anything out of this meeting, withdrew. and amongst this _élite_ of the liberal bourgeoisie, former exiles, publicists, historians of our revolutions, not one indignant voice protested, "let us cease these cruel disputes, this barking at a revolution. woe to us if we do not recognise the force manifesting itself through unknown men! the jacobins of denied it, and they perished; the montagnards of abandoned it, and they perished; the left under the empire, the government of the national defence, disdained it, and our integrity as a nation has perished. let us open our eyes, our hearts; let us break out of the beaten track. no; we will not widen the gulf that the days of june, , and the empire have placed between us and the workmen. no; with the disasters of france in view, we shall not allow her living forces still in reserve to be touched. the more abnormal, monstrous our situation is, the more we are bound to find the solution, even under the eye of the prussian. you, the central committee, who are the spokesmen of paris, we, who are listened to by republican france, we will mark out a field for common action. you supply the force, the large aspirations, we the knowledge of realities and their inexorable behests. we shall present to the assembly this charter free from all utopian views, equally regardful of the rights of the nation and of those of the capital. if the assembly rejects it, we shall be the first to make the elections, to ask for your suffrage. and when france sees paris raising her force counterpoised by prudence at her hôtel-de-ville, vigorous new-comers allied with men of old repute, the only possible bulwark against royalists and clericals, she will rise as in the days of the federation, and at her voice versailles will have to yield." but what was to be expected of men who had not even been able to pluck up sufficient courage to wrench paris from trochu? varlin single-handed had to stand their combined attack. exhausted, worn out--this contest had lasted five hours--he at last gave way, but under protest. on returning to the hôtel-de-ville, he recovered all his wonted energy, his calm intelligence, and told the committee he now saw the snare, and advised it to reject the pretensions of the mayors and deputies. footnotes: [ ] assi, billioray, ferrat, babick, ed. moreau, c. dupont, varlin, boursier, mortier, gouhier, lavalette, f. jourde, rousseau, c. lullier, blanchet, j. grollard, barrond, h. geresme, fabre, fougeret, the members present at the morning sitting. the committee decided later on that its publications should bear the names of all its members. [ ] the minutes of the first central committee have disappeared, but one of its most assiduous members has restored the principal sittings from memory. it is from his notes, checked by several of his colleagues, that we have taken these details. it is superfluous to say that the minutes published by the _paris journal_, which have been used by reactionist historians, are incomplete, inexact, drawn up from hearsay, unintelligent indiscretions, and often from pure imagination. thus, for instance, they make all the sittings presided over by assi, attributing to him the principal part, because under the empire he was very incorrectly supposed to have directed the strike of creuzot. assi never had any influence in the committee. [ ] textual. it is from the little man of paris that the little man of versailles borrowed the phrase while he completed it. chapter v. "je croyais que les insurgés de paris ne pourraient pas conduire leur barque."--_jules favre, enquête sur le mars._ the central committee affirms itself, reorganises the public services, and holds paris. thus no agreement had been come to, only one of the four delegates having, from sheer weariness, given way to a certain extent. so on the morning of the th, when the mayor bonvalet and two adjuncts sent by the mayors came to take possession of the hôtel-de-ville, the members of the committee unanimously exclaimed, "we have not treated." but bonvalet, feigning to believe in a regular agreement, continued, "the deputies are to-day going to ask for the municipal franchises. their negotiations cannot succeed if the administration of paris is not given up to the mayors. on pain of frustrating the efforts which will save you, you must fulfil the engagements of your delegates." one of the committee: "our delegates received no mandate to enter into such engagements for us. we do not ask to be saved." another: "the weakness of the deputies and of the mayors is one of the causes of the revolution. if the committee abandons its position and disarms, the assembly will grant nothing." another: "i have just come from the corderie. the committee of the second arrondissement is holding a sitting, and it adjures the central committee to remain at its post till the elections." others were about to speak, when bonvalet declared that he had come to take possession of the hôtel-de-ville, not to discuss, and walked off. his superciliousness confirmed the worst suspicions. those who the evening before had been favourable to making terms said, "these men want to betray us." behind the mayors the committee beheld the implacable reaction. in any case, to ask them for the hôtel-de-ville was to ask their lives, for the national guards would have believed them traitors, and punished them on the spot. in one word, compromise had become impossible. the _journal officiel_, for the first time in the hands of the people, and the placards had spoken. "the election of the municipal council will take place on wednesday next, nd march," decreed the central committee. and in a manifesto it said, "the offspring of a republic whose device bears the great word fraternity, the central committee pardons its traducers, but it would convince the honest people who have believed their calumnies through ignorance. it has not been secret, for its members have signed their names to all its proclamations. it has not been unknown, for it was a free expression of the suffrage of battalions. it has not been the fomenter of disorder, for the national guard has committed no excess. and yet provocations have not been wanting. the government calumniated paris and set on the provinces against her, wished to impose on us a general, attempted to disarm us, and said to paris, 'thou hast shown thyself heroic, we are afraid of thee, hence we will tear from thee the crown of the capital of france.' what has the central committee done in answer to these attacks? it has founded the federation, preached moderation, generosity. one of the greatest causes of anger against us is the obscurity of our names. alas! many names were known, well known, and this notoriety has been fatal to us. notoriety is cheaply gained; often hollow phrases or a little cowardice suffice; recent events have proved this. now that our object is attained, we say to the people, who esteemed us enough to listen to the advice that has often clashed with their impatience, 'here is the mandate you intrusted to us.' there, where our personal interest commences, our duty ends. do your will. you have freed yourselves. obscure a few days ago, obscure we shall return to your ranks, and show our governors that it is possible to descend the steps of your hôtel-de-ville, head erect, with the certainty of receiving at the bottom the pressure of your loyal and hardy hands."[ ] by the side of the proclamation of an eloquence so vivid and so novel the deputies and the mayors placarded a few dry and colourless lines, where they promised to demand of the assembly that same day the election of all the chiefs of the national guard and the establishment of a municipal council. at versailles they found a wildly excited crowd. the terrified functionaries who arrived from paris spread terror about them, and five or six insurrections were announced from the provinces. the coalition was dismayed. paris victorious, the government in flight--this was not what had been promised. these conspirators, blown up by the mine which they had themselves sprung, raised the cry of conspiracy, spoke of taking refuge at bourges. picard had certainly telegraphed to all the provinces, "the army, to the number of , men, is concentrated at versailles;" but the only army to be seen was straggling bands of soldiers wandering about the streets. all vinoy had been able to do was to place a few posts along the routes of châtillon and sèvres, and protect the approaches to the assembly by some mitrailleuses. the president, grévy, who during the whole war had cowered in the provinces, sullenly hostile to the defence, opened the sitting by stigmatising this criminal insurrection "which no pretext could extenuate." then the deputies of the seine commenced a procession towards the tribune. instead of a collective manifesto, they laid before the assembly a series of fragmentary propositions, without connection, without general views, and without a preamble to explain them. first a bill convoking with the briefest delay the elections of paris, then another granting to the national guard the election of its chiefs. millière alone thought of the overdue commercial bills, and proposed to prolong them for six months. till then exclamations only and half-muttered insults had been levelled at paris, but no formal act of accusation. in the evening sitting a deputy applied this requisite. trochu made a sortie. in this monstrous scene, which a shakspere only could depict, the gloomy man who had softly slipped the great town into the hands of william, threw his own treason upon the revolutionists, accusing them of having almost a dozen times brought the prussians into paris. and the assembly, grateful for his services, his hatred, giving him the crown he merited, covered him with applause. another came to fan this rage. the evening before the national guards had arrested in a train arriving from orléans two generals in uniform. one of them was chanzy, unknown to the crowd, who took him for d'aurelles. they could not have been released without endangering their lives, but a deputy, turquet, who accompanied them, was immediately set free. he rushed off to the chamber, told them a fairy tale, and affected to be much moved in speaking of his companions. "i hope," said the hypocrite, "that they will not be assassinated." this story was accompanied by the furious yelling of the assembly.[ ] from the first sitting one could see what the struggle between versailles and paris was to be. the monarchical conspirators, abandoning their dream for a moment, hastened to do the most urgent work first: to save themselves from the revolution. they surrounded m. thiers and promised him their absolute support to crush paris. thus this ministry, that a truly national assembly would have impeached, became, even through its crime, all-powerful. scarcely recovered from the fright of their stampede, m. thiers and his ministers dared to play the swaggerers. and indeed, would not the provinces hasten to their rescue, as in june, ? and proletarians without political education, without administration, without money, how could they be able "to steer their bark"? in the proletarians, masters of lyons, had failed in their attempt at self-government, and how much greater was the difficulty for those of paris! all new powers had until then found the administrative machine in working order, in readiness for the victor. on the th march the central committee found it taken to pieces. at the signal from versailles the majority of functionaries had abandoned their posts. octrois, street inspection, lighting, markets, public charity, telegraphs, all the respiratory and digestive apparatus of the town of , , souls, everything had to be extemporised. certain mayors had carried off the seals, the registers, and the cash of their mairies. the military intendance left without a farthing six thousand sick in the hospitals and ambulances.[ ] m. thiers had tried to disorganise even the management of the cemeteries. poor man! who never knew anything of our paris, of her inexhaustible strength, her marvellous elasticity. the central committee received support from all sides. the committees of arrondissements furnished a _personnel_ to the mairies; some of the small middle-class lent their experience, and the most important services were set to rights in no time by men of common sense and energy, which soon proved superior to routine. the employés who had remained at their posts in order to hand over the funds to versailles were soon discovered and obliged to flee. the central committee overcame a more menacing difficulty. three hundred thousand persons without work, without resources of any kind, were waiting for the thirty sous upon which they had lived for the last seven months. on the th, varlin and jourde, delegates to the finance department, took possession of that ministry. the coffers, according to the statement of accounts handed over to them, contained , , francs; but the keys were at versailles, and, in view of the movement for conciliation then being carried on, the delegates did not dare to force the locks. the next day they went to ask rothschild to open them a credit at the bank, and he sent word that the funds would be advanced. the same day the central committee broached the question more forcibly, and sent three delegates to the bank to request the necessary advances. they were answered that a million was placed at the disposition of varlin and jourde, who at six o'clock in the evening were received by the governor, m. rouland. "i expected your visit," he said. "on the morning following a change of government, the bank has always to find the money for the new-comers. it is not my business to judge events; the bank of france has nothing to do with politics. you are a _de facto_ government, and the bank gives you for to-day a million. only be so kind as to mention in your receipt that this sum has been requisitioned on account of the town of paris."[ ] the delegates took away a million francs in bank-notes. all the employés of the ministry of finance had disappeared since the morning, but with the help of a few friends the sum was rapidly divided among the paying officers. at ten o'clock the delegates were able to tell the central committee that the pay was being distributed in all the arrondissements. the bank acted prudently: the central committee firmly held paris. the mayors and deputies had not been able to unite more than three or four hundred men, although they had charged admiral saisset with the organisation of the resistance. the committee was so sure of its strength that it had the barricades demolished. everybody came to it, the garrison of vincennes spontaneously surrendering themselves with the fort. its victory was too complete, for it was perilous, obliging it to disperse its troops in order to take possession of the abandoned forts on the south. lullier, intrusted with this mission, had the forts of ivry, bicêtre, montrouge, vanves, and issy occupied on the th and th. the last to which he sent the national guard, mont-valérien, was the key of paris, and, at that time, of versailles. for thirty-six hours the impregnable fortress had remained empty. on the evening of the th, after the order of evacuation, it had to defend it only twenty muskets and some chasseurs of vincennes, interned there for mutiny. the same evening they burst open the locks of the fortress and returned to paris. when the evacuation of mont-valérien became known at versailles, generals and deputies begged m. thiers to have it reoccupied. he obstinately refused, declaring this fort had no strategical value. during the whole day of the th they still failed. at last vinoy, in his turn, urged by them, succeeded on the th, at one o'clock in the morning, in wresting an order from m. thiers. a column was immediately despatched, and at mid-day a thousand soldiers occupied the fortress. not until evening, at eight o'clock, did the battalions of ternes present themselves; the governor easily got rid of their officers. lullier, on making his report to the central committee, said he had occupied all the forts, and even named the battalion which, according to him, was then in possession of mont-valérien. footnotes: [ ] i need not justify the long quotations i shall make. the french proletarian has never been allowed to speak in books of history; at least he should do so in the recital of his own revolution. [ ] the two generals have testified to the extreme consideration shown them in their prison. see the _enquête sur le mars_. two days later, on chanzy's simple promise not to serve against paris, the central committee set them free. [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, dr. danet, vol. ii. p. . [ ] of course the radicals have seen in this a bonapartist manoeuvre, have written and said from the tribune of the assembly, "the bonapartist director of the bank of france saved the revolution; without the million of the monday the central committee would have capitulated." two facts answer this: from the th the committee had in the ministry of finance , , francs; the municipal coffers contained , , francs, and on the st the octroi had brought in , more. chapter vi. "l'ideé de voir un massacre me remplissait de douleur."-- _jules favre, enquête sur le septembre._ the mayors, the deputies, the journalists, the assembly combine against paris--the reaction marches on the place vendÔme, and is punished. on the st the situation stood out in bold relief. at paris--the central committee, with it all the workmen and all the generous and enlightened men of the small middle-class. the committee said, "we have but one object--the elections. everybody is welcome to co-operate with us, but we shall not leave the hôtel-de-ville before they have been made." at versailles--the assembly;--all the monarchists, all the great bourgeoisie, all the slaveholders. they yelled, "paris is only a rebel, the central committee a band of brigands." between versailles and paris--a few radical deputies, all the mayors, many adjuncts. they comprised the liberal bourgeois, that sacred herd that makes all revolutions and allows all the empires to be made. despised by the assembly, disdained by the people, they cried to the central committee, "usurpers!" and to the assembly, "you will spoil all." the day of the st is memorable, for on it all these voices made themselves heard. the central committee: "paris has in nowise the intention of separating from france; far from it. for france she has borne with the empire and the government of the national defence, with all their treachery and defections, certainly not to abandon her now, but only to say to her as an elder sister: sustain thyself as i have sustained myself; oppose thyself to oppression as i have done." and the _journal officiel_, in the first of those articles where moreau, longuet, and rogeard commented upon the new revolution, said: "the proletarians of the capital, amidst the failures and treasons of the ruling classes, have understood that the hour has struck for them to save the situation by taking into their own hands the direction of public affairs. hardly possessed of the government, they have hastened to convoke the people of paris to the ballot-boxes. there is no example in history of a provisional government so anxious to divest itself of its mandate. in the presence of conduct so disinterested, one may well ask how a press can be found unjust enough to pour out upon these citizens slander, contumely, and insult? the workingmen, those who produce everything and enjoy nothing, are they then for ever to be exposed to outrage? the bourgeoisie, which has accomplished its emancipation, does it not understand that now the time for the emancipation of the proletariat is come? why, then, does it persist in refusing the proletariat its legitimate share?" it was the first socialist note struck in the movement. parisian revolutions never remain purely political. the approach of the foreigner, the abnegation of the workmen, had, on the th september, silenced all social demands. peace once concluded, the workmen in power, their voice would naturally make itself heard. how just was this complaint of the central committee! what an act of accusation the french proletariat could draw up against its masters! and on the th march, , could not the people, making greater their great words of , say, "we had placed eighty years of patience at the service of our country"? the same day the central committee suspended the sale of objects pledged in the pawnshops, prolonged the overdue bills for a month, and forbade landlords to dismiss their tenants till further notice. in three lines it did justice, beat versailles, and gained paris. on the other hand, the representatives and mayors told the people, "no election; everything is for the best. we wanted the maintenance of the national guard; we shall have it. we wanted paris to recover her municipal liberty; we shall have it. your requests have been brought before the assembly. the assembly _has satisfied them_ by a unanimous vote, which guarantees the municipal elections. awaiting these, the only legal elections, we declare that we shall abstain from the elections announced for to-morrow, and we protest against their illegality." thrice-lying address! the assembly had not said a word of the national guard; it had promised no municipal liberty, and several of the signatures were supposititious. the bourgeois press followed suit. since the th the figarist papers, supported by the police, the altar, and the alcove, the liberal gazettes, by which trochu had prepared the capitulation of paris, had not ceased to fall foul of the federal battalions. they spoke of the public coffers and private property being pillaged, of prussian gold streaming into the faubourgs, of documentary evidence hurtful to the members of the central committee destroyed by them. the republican journals also discovered gold in the movement, but bonapartist gold; and the best of them, naïvely convinced that the republic belonged to their patrons, inveigled against the accession of the proletariat, saying, "these people dishonour us." emboldened by the mayors and deputies, they all agreed to revolt; and on the st, in a collective declaration, asked the electors to consider as null and void the illegal convocation of the hôtel-de-ville. illegality! thus the question was put by the legitimists, twice imposed on us by foreign bayonets; by the orléanists, raised to power through barricades; by the brigands of december; even by the exiles returned home, thanks to an insurrection. what! when the bourgeois, who make all laws, always act illegally, how are the workmen to proceed, against whom all the laws are made? these attacks of the mayors and deputies and of the press screwed up the courage of the hectors of the reaction. for two days this rabble of runaways, who during the siege had infested the cafés of brussels and the haymarket of london, gesticulated on the fashionable boulevards, asking for order and _work_. on the st, at about ten o'clock, at the place de la bourse, about a hundred of these strange workingmen marched round the stock exchange, banners flying, and advancing along the boulevards to the cries of "vive l'assemblée!" came to the place vendôme, shouting before the general staff, "down with the committee!" the commander of the place, bergeret, told them to send delegates. "no, no!" cried they; "no delegates! you would assassinate them!" the federals, losing patience, had the place cleared. the riotous fops gave themselves a rendezvous for the next day before the new opera-house. at the same hour the assembly made its demonstration. the draft of an address to the people and the army, a tissue of lies and insults to paris, having just been read, and millière having pointed out that it contained some unfortunate expressions, was hooted. the demand of the left to at least conclude the address with the words "vive la république!" was frantically refused by an immense majority. louis blanc and his group, entreating the assembly to immediately examine their project of municipal law and oppose a vote to the elections that the committee announced for the next day, m. thiers answered, "give us time to study the question." "time!" exclaimed m. clémenceau, "we have none to lose." then m. thiers gave those drones a lesson they richly deserved: "what would be the use of concessions?" said he. "what authority have you at paris? who would listen to you at the hôtel-de-ville? do you think that the adoption of a bill would disarm the party of brigands, the party of assassins?" then he charged jules favre to expatiate on this theme for the special benefit of the provinces. for an hour and a half that bitter follower of guadet, spinning round paris his elaborate periods, limed her with his venom. no doubt he again saw himself on the st october, when the people held him in their power and pardoned him, a cruel remembrance for his rankling spirit. he commenced by reading the declaration of the press, "courageously written," said he, "under the knife of the assassins." he spoke of paris as in the power of "a handful of scoundrels, putting above the right of the assembly i know not what bloody and rapacious ideal." then, humbly supplicating monarchists and catholics: "what they want," cried he, "what they have realised, is an attempt at that baleful doctrine which in philosophy may be called individualism and materialism, and which in politics means the republic placed above universal suffrage." at this idiotic quibbling the assembly burst into roars of applause. "these new doctors," continued he, "have the pretension of separating paris from france. but let the insurgents know this: if we left paris, it was with the intention of returning in order to combat them resolutely." (bravo! bravo!) then stirring the panic of those rurals who every moment expected to see the federal battalions coming down upon them: "if some of you fall into the hands of these men, who have only usurped power for the sake of violence, assassination and theft, the fate of the unfortunate victims of their ferocity would be yours." and finally, garbling, improving with ferocious skill the maladroitness of an article in the _journal officiel_ on the execution of the generals: "no more temporising. for three days i combated the exigencies of the victor who wanted to disarm the national guard. i ask pardon for it of god and of man." each new insult, each banderillo thrust into the flesh of paris, drew from the assembly mad hurrahs. admiral saisset stamped, emphasizing certain phrases of the speaker with his hoarse interjections. goaded by these wild cheers, jules favre doubled his invective. since the gironde, since isnard's curse, paris had not undergone such an imprecation. even langlois, unable to stand it any longer, exclaimed, "oh, it is outrageous, atrocious to speak thus!" and when jules favre concluded, implacable, impassible, only foaming a little at the mouth: "france will not be lowered to the bloody level of the wretches who oppress the capital," the whole assembly rose raving. "let us appeal to the provinces," shrieked the rurals. and saisset: "yes, let us appeal to the provinces and march on paris." in vain one of the deputies of the seine adjured the assembly not to let them return to paris empty-handed. this great bourgeoisie, which had just surrendered the honour, the fortune, and the territory of france to the prussian, trembled with rage at the mere thought of conceding anything to paris. after this horrible scene, the radical deputies found nothing better to do than to issue a lachrymose address inviting paris to be patient. the central committee was obliged to adjourn the elections till the rd, for several mairies belonged to the enemy; but on the nd it warned the papers that provocation to revolt would be severely repressed. the matadors of reaction, reanimated by jules favre's speech, took this warning for an idle boast. on the nd at mid-day they assembled at the place du nouvel opera. at one o'clock they numbered a thousand dandies, squireens, journalists, notorious familiars of the empire, who marched down the rue de la paix to the cry of "vive l'ordre!" their plan was, under the cloak of a pacific demonstration, to force the place vendôme and to expel the federals from it; then, masters of the mairie of the first arrondissement, of half of the second and of passy, they would have cut paris in two and menaced the hôtel-de-ville. admiral saisset followed them. before the rue neuve st. augustin these pacific demonstration-men disarmed and ill-treated two detached sentries of the national guard. seeing this, the federals of the place vendôme seized their muskets and hurried in marching order to the top of the rue neuve des petits-champs. they were but , the whole garrison of the place; the two cannon levelled at the rue de la paix had no cartridges. the reactionists soon encountered the first line with the cry, "down with the committee! down with the assassins!" waving a banner and their handkerchiefs, while some of them stretched out their hands to seize the muskets. bergeret, maljournal, members of the committee, in the first ranks, summoned the rioters to retire. furious cries of "cowards! brigands!" drowned their voices, and sword-canes were pointed at them. bergeret made a sign to the drummers. a dozen times the _sommations_ were made and repeated. for several minutes only the roll of the drums was heard, and between these savage cries. the ranks in the rear of the manifestation pushed on those in front and tried to break through the lines of the federals. at last, despairing no doubt of succeeding by mere bravado, the insurgents fired their revolvers;[ ] two guards were killed and seven wounded;[ ] maljournal was struck in the thigh. the muskets of the guards went off, so to say, spontaneously. a volley and a terrible cry, followed by silence more dismal. in a few seconds the crowded rue de la paix was emptied. in the deserted road, strewn with revolvers, sword-canes, and hats, lay about a dozen corpses. if the federals had only aimed at foes' hearts, there would have been killed, for in this compact mass no shot would have missed. the insurgents had killed one of their own, the vicomte de molinat, fallen in the front ranks, his face towards the place, a ball in the occiput. on his body was found a poniard fixed by a small chain. a witty ball struck in the rear the chief editor of the _paris journal_, the bonapartist de pène, one of the basest revilers of the movement. the runaways traversed paris shouting, "murder!" the shops of the boulevards were closed and the place de la bourse filled with rabid groups. at four o'clock some of the reactionist companies appeared, resolute, in good order, their muskets on their shoulders, and took possession of the quarters of the bourse. at three o'clock the event became known at versailles. the assembly had just rejected louis blanc's bill on the municipal council, and picard was reading another one refusing all justice to paris, when the news arrived. the assembly precipitately raised the sitting; the ministers looked dumbfoundered. all their swaggering of the evening before had only been meant to frighten paris, to encourage the men of order, and provoke a _coup-de-main_. the incident had occurred, but the central committee triumphed. for the first time m. thiers began to believe that this committee, able to repress a riot, might after all be a government. the news in the evening was more reassuring. the fusillade seemed to have roused the _men of order_. they were flocking to the place de la bourse. a great many officers just returned from germany came to offer their help. the reactionary companies were establishing themselves solidly in the mairie of the ninth arrondissement and reoccupying that of the sixth, dislodging the federals of the station of st. lazare, guarding all the approaches of the occupied quarters, and forcibly arresting the passers-by. they formed a town within the town. the mayors were constituting a permanent committee in the mairie of the second arrondissement. their resistance was now provided with an army. footnotes: [ ] the aggression was so evident, that not one of the twenty court-martials that searched into every detail of the revolution of the th march dared allude to the affair of the place vendôme. [ ] their names were published in the _journal officiel_. chapter vii. the central committee triumphs over all obstacles and constrains the mayors to capitulate. the central committee was equal to the occasion. its proclamations, its socialist articles in the _officiel_, the truculence of the mayors and deputies, had at last rallied round it all the revolutionary groups. it had also added to its members some men better known to the masses.[ ] by its order the place vendôme was provided with barricades; the battalions of the hôtel-de-ville were reinforced; strong patrols remounted the boulevards before the reactionary posts of the rues vivienne and drouot. thanks to it, the night passed tranquilly. as the elections on the next day had become impossible, the committee declared they could only take place on the th, and said to paris: "the reaction, excited by your mayors and your deputies, has declared war on us. we must accept the struggle and break this resistance." it announced that it would summon before it all the journalists libelling the people. it sent a battalion of belleville to reoccupy the mairie of the sixth, and replaced by its delegates the mayors and adjuncts of the third, tenth, eleventh, twelfth, and eighteenth arrondissements, in spite of their protestations. m. clémenceau wrote that he yielded to force, but would not himself resort to force. this was all the more magnanimous that his whole force consisted of himself and his adjunct. the federals installed themselves at the batignolles on the railway lines, and stopped the trains, thus preventing the occupation of the st. lazare station. lastly, the committee proceeded energetically against the bourse. the reaction counted upon famine to make the committee capitulate. the million of the monday was gone; a second one had been promised. on the thursday morning, varlin and jourde, going to fetch an instalment, received only threats. they wrote to the governor: "to starve out the people, such is the aim of a party that styles itself honest. famine disarms no one; it will only encourage devastation. we take up the glove that has been flung down to us." and, without deigning to take any notice of the swashers of the bourse, the committee sent two battalions to the bank, which had to give in. at the same time the committee neglected nothing in order to reassure paris. numerous ticket-of-leave men had been let loose upon the town. the committee denounced them to the vigilance of the national guard, and posted upon the doors of the hôtel-de-ville, "every individual taken in the act of stealing will be shot." picard's police had failed to put an end to the gamblers who every night since the siege had encumbered the streets; a single order of the committee sufficed. the great scarecrow of the reactionists was the prussians, and jules favre had announced their early intervention. the committee published the despatches that had passed between it and the commander of compiègne, to this effect: "the german troops will remain passive so long as paris does not take a hostile attitude." the committee had answered with great dignity: "the revolution accomplished at paris is of an essentially municipal character. we are not qualified to discuss the preliminaries of peace voted by the assembly." paris was therefore without anxiety on that head. the only disturbance proceeded from the mayors. authorised by m. thiers, they appointed as chief of the national guards saisset, the madman of the sitting of the st, giving him langlois and schoelcher as coadjutors, and made every effort to attract national guards to the place de la bourse, where they distributed the pay due to the guards of the invaded mairies. many came only to get the pay, not to fight. even the chiefs began to be divided amongst themselves. the most rabid certainly spoke of sweeping away everything before them. those were vautrain, dubail, denormandie, degouve-denuncques, and héligon, an ex-workingman, an idle fellow, admitted into the bourgeois servants' hall, and bumptious like other lackeys. but many others flagged and thought of conciliation, especially since some of the deputies and adjuncts--millière, malon, dereure, and jaclard--had withdrawn from the union of the mayors, thus still further setting forth its frankly reactionary character. finally, some soft-headed mayors, still believing that the assembly needed only enlightenment, extemporised a melodramatic scene. they arrived at versailles on the rd, at the moment when the rurals, again plucking up their courage, made an appeal to the provinces to march on paris. in most solemn attitude these mayors put in their appearance before the tribune of the president, girdled with their official scarfs. the left applauded, crying "vive la république!" the lamourettes returned the compliment. but the right and the centre cried "vive la france! order! order!" and with clenched hands they apostrophised the deputies of the left, who naïvely answered, "you insult paris!" to which the others replied, "you insult france!" and they left the house. in the evening a deputy, who was also a mayor, arnaud de l'ariège, read from the tribune the declaration that they had brought, and wound up by saying, "we are on the eve of an awful civil war. there is but one way to prevent it--that the election of the commander-in-chief of the national guard be fixed for the th, and that of the municipal council for the rd of april." these propositions were referred to the committee. the mayors returned home indignant. a despatch of the evening before had already disquieted paris. m. thiers announced to the provinces that the bonapartist ministers, rouher, chevreau, and boitelle, arrested by the people of boulogne, had been protected, and that marshal canrobert, one of the accomplices of bazaine, had offered his services to the government. the insult inflicted upon the mayors irritated the whole middle-class, and called forth a sudden change in their republican journals. the attacks against the central committee relaxed. even the moderates began to expect the worst from versailles. the central committee took advantage of this change of opinion. having just been informed of the proclamation of the commune at lyons, it spoke out all the more clearly in its manifesto of the th. "some battalions, misled by their reactionary chiefs, have thought it their duty to clog our movements. some mayors and deputies, forgetting their mandates, have encouraged this resistance. we rely upon your courage for the accomplishment of our mission. it is objected that the assembly promises us at some indefinite period the election of the municipal council and that of our chiefs, and that consequently our resistance ought not to be prolonged. we have been deceived too often to be entrapped again; the left hand would take back what the right hand gives. see what the government has already done. in the chamber, through the voice of jules favre, it has challenged a terrible civil war, called on the provinces to destroy paris, and covered us with the most odious calumnies." having spoken, the committee now acted, and named three generals--brunel, duval, and eudes. it had to confine the drunkard lullier, who, assisted by a staff of traitors, had the evening before allowed a whole regiment of the army encamped at the luxembourg to leave paris with arms and baggage. now, too, it was known that mont-valérien was lost by his fault. the generals made a profession not to be misunderstood: "this is no longer a time for parliamentarism. we must act. paris wishes to be free. the great city will not permit public order to be disturbed with impunity." a direct caution this addressed to the camp of the bourse, which, moreover, was visibly growing less. the desertions from it multiplied at every sitting of the rurals. women came to fetch their husbands. the bonapartist officers, overshooting the mark, irritated moderate republicans. the programme of the mayors--submission to versailles--discouraged the middle-class. the general staff of this helter-skelter army had been foolishly established at the grand hôtel. there sat the crazy trio--saisset, langlois, and schoelcher--who, from extreme confidence, had fallen into a state of utter dejection. the most crack-brained of them, saisset, took upon himself to announce by placards that the assembly had granted the complete recognition of the municipal franchise, the election of all the officers of the national guard, including the general-in-chief, modifications of the law on the overdue commercial bills, and a bill on rents favourable to the tenants. this gigantic hoax only mystified versailles. the committee, pushing forward,[ ] ordered brunel to seize the mairies of the first and second arrondissements. brunel, with men of belleville, two pieces of artillery, and accompanied by two delegates of the committee, lisbonne and protot, presented himself at three o'clock at the mairie of the louvre. the bourgeois companies assumed an air of resistance. brunel had his cannon advanced, when the passage was at once opened to him. he declared to the adjuncts, meline and ad. adam, that the committee would proceed with the elections as soon as possible. the adjuncts, intimidated, sent to the mairie of the second arrondissement to ask for the authorisation to treat. dubail answered that they might promise the elections for the rd april. brunel insisted on appointing the th march. the adjuncts acquiesced. the national guards of the two camps saluted this agreement with enthusiastic acclamations, and mingling their ranks, marched to the mairie of the second arrondissement. in the rue montmartre a few companies of the bourse army, trying to stop the way, were told, "peace is made," and they let them pass. at the mairie of the second arrondissement, schoelcher, who presided at the meeting of the mayors, dubail, and vautrain resisted, refusing to ratify the convention, insisting on the date of the rd april. but the great majority of their colleagues accepted that of the th, and the election of the commander-in-chief of the national guard for the rd april. immense cheers hailed the good news, and the popular battalions, saluted by the bourgeois battalions, defiled through the rue vivienne and the boulevards, dragging along their cannon, mounted by lads with green branches in their hands. the central committee could not accept this transaction. twice it had postponed the elections. a new adjournment would have given certain mayors five days for plotting and playing into the hands of versailles. besides, the federal battalions, on foot since the th, were really tired out. ranvier and arnold the same evening went to the mairie of the second arrondissement to say that the hôtel-de-ville adhered to the date of the th for the elections. the mayors and adjuncts, many of whom had only the one purpose, as they have avowed since,[ ] of gaining time, inveighed against a breach of faith. the delegates protested, for brunel had had no mandate but that of occupying the mairies. for several hours everything was tried to talk over the delegates, but they held their ground, and went away at two o'clock in the morning without any conclusion being arrived at. after their departure the more intractable discussed the chance of resistance. the irrepressible dubail wrote a call to arms, sent it to the printing-office, and spent the whole night with his faithful héligon in transmitting orders to the chiefs of battalions and providing the mairie with mitrailleuses. while they were thus bent upon resistance the rurals thought themselves betrayed. every day they became more nervous, being deprived of their creature-comforts, obliged to camp in the lobbies of the castle of versailles, exposed to all winds and to all panics. they felt weary of the incessant interference of the mayors, and were thunderstruck by the proclamation of saisset. they fancied that m. thiers was coquetting with the _émeute_, that the _petit bourgeois_, as he hypocritically called himself, wanted to cozen the monarchists, and, using paris as his lever, overthrow them. they spoke of removing him, and appointing as commander-in-chief one of the d'orléans, joinville or d'aumale. their plot might have come to a head at the evening sitting, when the proposition of the mayors was to be read. m. thiers was beforehand with them, implored the assembly to adjourn the discussion, adding that an ill-considered word might cost torrents of blood. grévy shuffled through the sitting in ten minutes. but the rumour of a plot got abroad. saturday was the last day of the crisis. either the central committee or the mayors had to disappear. the committee on that very morning placarded: "the transport of mitrailleuses to the mairie of the second arrondissement compels us to maintain our resolution. the election will take place on the th march." paris, which had believed peace concluded, and for the first time since five days had passed a quiet night, was very angry at seeing the mayors recommence the wrangle. the idea of the election had made its way in all ranks, and many papers declared for it, even among those that had signed the protestation of the st. no one could understand this quarrel about a date. one irresistible current of fraternisation swayed the whole town. the ranks of the two or three hundred soldiers of order who had remained faithful to dubail dwindled away from hour to hour, leaving admiral saisset alone to make his proclamation in the desert of the grand hôtel. the mayors had no longer an army when, at ten o'clock, ranvier came to ask for their final decision. their dispute grew hot when some deputies of paris on their return from versailles announced the news that the duc d'aumale was proclaimed lieutenant-general. several mayors and adjuncts then at last understood that the republic was at stake, and, convinced of their impotence, capitulated. the draft of a placard was drawn up to be signed by the mayors, deputies, and for the central committee by the two delegates ranvier and arnold. the committee wanted to sign _en masse_, and slightly modified the text, saying, "the central committee, round which the deputies of paris, the mayors, and adjuncts have rallied, convokes...." thereupon some of the mayors, on the look-out for a pretext, rose, crying, "this is not our convention; we said the deputies, the mayors, the adjuncts, and the members of the committee...;" and, at the risk of rekindling the embers, placarded the protest. yet the committee might well say, "which have rallied?" since it had yielded no point. however, paris overruled the mischief-mongers. admiral saisset had to disband the four men who remained to him. tirard in a placard advised the electors to vote; for m. thiers that same morning had given him the hint, "do not continue a useless resistance. i am reorganising the army. i hope that in a fortnight or three weeks we shall have a sufficient force to relieve paris."[ ] five deputies only signed the address for the election, mm. lockroy, floquet, clémenceau, tolain, and greppo; the rest of louis blanc's group had kept aloof from paris for several days. these weaklings, having all their life sung the glories of the revolution, when it rose up before them ran away appalled, like the arab fisher at the apparition of the genie. with these mandarins of the tribune of history and of journalism, mute and lifeless, contrast strangely the sons of the multitude, obscure, but rich in will, faith, and eloquence. their farewell address was worthy of their advent: "do not forget that the men who will serve you best are those whom you will choose from amongst yourselves, living your life, suffering the same ills. beware of the ambitious as much as of the upstarts. beware also of mere talkers. shun those whom fortune has favoured, for only too rarely is he who possesses fortune prone to look upon the workingman as a brother. give your preference to those who do not solicit your suffrages. true merit is modest, and it is for the workingmen to know those who are worthy, not for these to present themselves." they could indeed "come down the steps of the hôtel-de-ville head erect," these obscure men who had safely anchored the revolution of the th march. named only to organise the national guard, thrown at the head of a revolution without precedent and without guides, they had been able to resist the impatient, quell the riot, re-establish the public services, victual paris, baffle intrigues, take advantage of all the blunders of versailles and of the mayors, and, harassed on all sides, every moment in danger of civil war, known how to negotiate, to act at the right time and in the right place. they had embodied the tendency of the movement, limited their programme to communal revindications, and conducted the entire population to the ballot-box. they had inaugurated a precise, vigorous, and fraternal language unknown to all bourgeois powers. and yet they were obscure men, all with an incomplete education, some of them fanatics. but the people thought with them. paris was the brazier, the hôtel-de-ville the flame. in the hôtel-de-ville, where illustrious bourgeois have only accumulated folly upon defeat, these new-comers found victory because they listened to paris. may their services absolve them from two grave faults--allowing the escape of the army and of the functionaries, and the retaking of mont-valérien by versailles. it has been said that on the th or th they ought to have marched on versailles. but on the first alarm these would have fled to fontainebleau, with the administration and the left, everything that was wanted to govern and deceive the provinces. the occupation of versailles would only have displaced the enemy, and it would not have been for long, as the popular battalions were too badly provided, too badly commanded, to hold at the same time this open town and paris. at all events, the central committee left its successor all the means necessary to disarm the enemy. footnotes: [ ] here are the names of those who signed the proclamations and notices of the committee. we shall restore, as far as possible, their correct orthography, often altered, even in the _officiel_, to the extent of giving fictitious names:--andignoux, a. arnaud, g. arnold, a. assi, babick, barroud, bergeret, billioray, bouit, boursier, blanchet, castioni, chouteau, c. dupont, eudes, fabre, ferrat, fleury, h. fortuné, fougeret, gaudier, geresme, gouhier, grêlier, j. grollard, josselin, jourde, lavalette, lisbonne, lullier, maljournal, ed. moreau, mortier, prudhomme, ranvier, rousseau, varlin, viard. notwithstanding the decision of the committee, all its members did not always sign the proclamations. finally, some who took part in certain deliberations never signed at all. [ ] this order had been given the evening before. the treachery of du bisson, nominated chief of the staff by lullier, had prevented its execution. [ ] tirard: "my whole preoccupation and that of my colleagues had been to postpone the elections so as to reach the date of the rd april"--_enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. . vautrain: "my colleagues and i thus gained eight days more."--_ibid._, p. . j. favre: "for eight days we were the only barricade raised up between the insurrection and the government."--_ibid._, p. . desmarets: "i believed it necessary to remain exposed to danger in order to give the government of versailles time for arming."--_ibid._, p. . [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, tirard, vol. ii. p. . chapter viii. "une portion considérable de la population et de la garde nationale de paris sollicite le concours des départements pour le rétablissement de l'ordre."--_circulaire de m. thiers aux préfets, le mars._ proclamation of the commune. this week ended with the triumph of paris. paris-commune again resumed her part as the capital of france, again became the national initiator. for the tenth time since the workmen put france upon the right track. the bayonets of prussia had laid bare our country, such as eighty years of bourgeois domination had left it--a goliath at the mercy of his driver. paris broke the thousand fetters which bound france down to the ground, like gulliver a prey to ants; restored the circulation to her paralysed limbs; said, "the life of the whole nation exists in each of her smallest organisms; the unity of the hive, and not that of the barracks. the organic cell of the french republic is the municipality, the commune." the lazarus of the empire and of the siege resuscitated, having torn the napkin from his brow and shaken off the grave-clothes, was about to begin a new existence with the regenerated communes of france in his train. this new life gave to all paris a youthful aspect. those who had despaired a month before were now full of enthusiasm. strangers addressed each other and shook hands. for indeed we were not strangers, but bound together by the same faith and the same aspirations. sunday the th was a day of joy and sunshine. paris breathed again, happy like one just escaped from death or great peril. at versailles the streets looked gloomy, gendarmes occupied the station, brutally demanded passports, confiscated all the journals of paris, and at the slightest expression of sympathy for the town arrested you. at paris everybody could enter freely. the streets swarmed with people, the cafés were noisy; the same lad cried out the _paris journal_ and the _commune_; the attacks against the hôtel-de-ville, the protestation of a few malcontents, were posted on the walls by the side of the placards of the central committee. the people were without anger because without fear. the voting paper had replaced the chassepot. picard's bill only gave paris sixty municipal councillors, three for each arrondissement, whatever might be its population. thus the , inhabitants of the eleventh arrondissement had the same number of representatives as the , of the sixteenth. the central committee had decreed that there was to be a councillor for every , inhabitants, and for each fraction of , ; ninety in all. the elections were to be conducted with the lists of february and in the usual manner; only the committee had expressed the wish that for the future open voting should be considered the only mode worthy of democratic principles. all the faubourgs obeyed, and gave an open vote. the electors of the st. antoine quarter formed in long columns, and, headed by a red flag, their voting papers stuck in their hats, defiled before the column of the bastille, and in the same order marched to their sections. the adhesion and convocation of the mayors dissipating all scruple, also made the bourgeois quarters vote. the elections became legal since plenipotentiaries of the government had given their consent. two hundred and eighty-seven thousand men voted, relatively a far greater number than in the elections of february; for since the opening of the gates after the siege, a great part of the easy classes had rushed to the provinces there to recruit their health. the elections were conducted in a way becoming a free people. at the approach to the halls, no police, no intrigues. and yet m. thiers dared telegraph to the provinces: "the elections will take place to-day without liberty and without moral authority." the liberty was so absolute that in all paris not one single protestation occurred. the moderate papers even commended the articles of the _officiel_, in which the delegate longuet set forth the part of the future communal assembly: "above all, it must define its mandate, fix the boundaries of its attributes. its first work must be the discussion and the drawing up of its charter. this done, it must consider the means of having that statute of the municipal autonomy recognised and guaranteed by the central power." the plainness, the prudence, the moderation which marked all official acts was beginning to move the most obdurate. only the hatred of the versaillese did not abate. that same day m. thiers cried from the tribune, "no, france will not let those wretches triumph who would drown her in blood." the next day , "wretches" came to the hôtel-de-ville there to instal their chosen representatives, the battalion drums beating, the banners surmounted by the phrygian cap and with red fringe round the muskets; their ranks, swelled by soldiers of the line, artillerists, and marines faithful to paris, came down from all the streets to the place de gréve like the thousand streams of a great river. in the middle of the hôtel-de-ville, against the central door, a large platform was raised. above it towered the bust of the republic, a red scarf slung round it. immense red streamers beat against the frontal and the belfry, like tongues of fire announcing the good news to france. a hundred battalions thronged the place, and piled their bayonets, lit up by the sun, in front of the hôtel-de-ville. the other battalions that could not get into the place lined the streets up to the boulevard de sebastopol and to the quays. the banners were grouped in front of the platform, some tricolour, all with red tassels, symbolising the advent of the people. while the place was filling, songs burst forth, the bands played the _marseillaise_ and the _chant du départ_, trumpets sounded the charge, and the cannon of the old commune thundered on the quay. suddenly the noise subsided. the members of the central committee and of the commune, their red scarfs over their shoulders, appeared on the platform. ranvier said, "citizens, my heart is too full of joy to make a speech. permit me only to thank the people of paris for the great example they have given the world." a member of the committee announced the names of those elected. the drums beat a salute, the bands and two hundred thousand voices chimed in with the _marseillaise_. ranvier, in an interval of silence, cried out, "in the name of the people the commune is proclaimed." a thousandfold echo answered, "vive la commune!" caps were flung up on the ends of bayonets, flags fluttered in the air. from the windows, on the roofs, thousands of hands waved handkerchiefs. the quick reports of the cannon, the bands, the drums, blended in one formidable vibration. all hearts leaped with joy, all eyes filled with tears. never since the great federation had paris been thus moved. the filing off was very cleverly managed by brunel, who, while having the place evacuated on the one hand, brought in those battalions that were without, all equally anxious to acclaim the commune. before the bust of the republic the flags were lowered, the officers saluted with their sabres, the men raised their muskets. not until seven o'clock did the last procession pass by. the agents of m. thiers returned in dismay to tell him, "it was really the whole of paris that took part in the manifestation." and the central committee might well exclaim in its enthusiasm, "to-day paris opened a fresh page in the book of history, and there inscribed her powerful name. let the spies of versailles, who are prowling around us, go and tell their masters what the common movement of an entire population means. let these spies carry back to them the image of the magnificent spectacle of a people recovering their sovereignty." this lightning would have made the blind to see. , voters, , men with the same watchword. this was not a secret committee, a handful of factious rioters and bandits, as had been said for ten days. here was an immense force at the service of a definite idea--communal independence, the intellectual life of france--an invaluable force in this time of universal anæmia, a godsend as precious as the compass saved from the wreck and saving the survivors. this was one of those great historical turning-points when a people may be remoulded. liberals, if it was in good faith that you called for decentralisation under the empire; republicans, if you have understood june, , and december, ; radicals, if you really want the self-government of the people, listen to this new voice, avail yourselves of this marvellous opportunity. but the prussian! what does it matter? why not forge arms under the eye of the enemy? bourgeois, was it not in sight of the foreigner that your ancestor etienne marcel tried to remake france? and your convention, did not it first act in the very midst of the hurricane? what did they answer? death to paris! the red sun of civil discord melts veneer and all masks. there they are side by side as in , , and , monarchists, clericals, liberals, radicals, all of them, their hands raised against the people--one army in different uniforms. their decentralisation is rural and capitalist federalism; their self-government, the exploitation of the budget by themselves, just as the whole political science of their statesmen consists only in massacre and the state of siege. what bourgeoisie in the world after such immense disasters would not with careful heed have tended such a reservoir of living force? they, seeing this paris capable of engendering a new world, her heart swelled with the best blood of france, had but one thought--to bleed paris. chapter ix. "toutes les parties de la france sont unies et ralliées autour de l'assemblée et du gouvernement."--_circulaire de m. thiers à la province, le au soir._ the commune at lyons, st. etienne, and creuzot. what was the state of the provinces? for some days, without any of the parisian journals, they lived upon lying despatches of m. thiers,[ ] then looked at the signatures to the proclamations of the central committee, and finding there neither the left nor the democratic paragons, said, "who are these unknown men?" the republican bourgeois, misinformed on the events occurring during the siege of paris--very cleverly hoodwinked, too, by the conservative press--as their fathers had formerly said, "pitt and coburg," when unable to comprehend popular movements, they cried, "these unknown men can be nothing but bonapartists." the people alone showed true instinct. the paris commune found its first echo at lyons. this was a necessary reverberation. since the advent of the assembly the workmen found themselves watched. the municipal councillors, weak men, some of them, almost to reaction, had lowered the red flag under the pretext that "the proud flag of resistance _à outrance_ should not survive the humiliation of france." the clumsy trick had not deceived the people, who, at the guillotière, mounted guard round their flag. the new prefect, valentin, an ex-officer as brutal as vulgar, a kind of clément-thomas, sufficiently forewarned the people what sort of republic was in store for them. on the th, at the first news, republicans were on the alert, nor did they hide their sympathy for paris. the next day valentin issued a provocative proclamation, seized the parisian journals, and refused to communicate any despatches. on the st, in the municipal council, some of the members grew indignant, and one said, "let us at least have the courage to be the commune of lyons." on the nd, at mid-day, eight hundred delegates of the national guard assembled at the palais de st. pierre. a motion was put proposing to choose between paris and versailles. a citizen just arrived from paris explained the movement there, and many wanted the meeting to declare itself immediately for paris. the assembly finally sent delegates to the hôtel-de-ville to ask for the extension of the municipal liberties, the appointment of the mayor as chief of the national guard, and his investiture with the functions of prefect. the municipal council was just sitting. the mayor, hénon, a wooden-headed relic of , opposed all resistance to versailles. the mayor of the guillotière, crestin, a known republican, demanded that they should at least protest. others wanted the council to extend its prerogatives. hénon threatened to tender his resignation if they went on like that, and proposed they should repair to the prefect, who was then convoking the reactionary battalions. the delegates of the palais st. pierre arrived, and were roughly received by hénon. one deputation succeeded the other, always meeting with the same rebuffs. however, during this time the battalions of brotteaux and la guillotière were preparing, and at eight o'clock a dense mass filled the place des terreaux in front of the hôtel-de-ville, crying, "vive la commune! down with versailles!" the reactionary battalions did not respond to the prefect's appeal. part of the council had met again at nine o'clock, while the others, together with hénon, were still wrangling with the delegates. after an answer from the mayor, which left them no hope of coming to an understanding, the delegates invaded the council-chamber, and the crowd, apprised of this, rushed into the hôtel-de-ville. the delegates, sitting down round the council table, named crestin mayor of lyons. he refused, and, summoned to give his reasons, declared that the direction of the movement belonged to those who had initiated it. after a great uproar, the national guards acclaimed a communal commission, at the head of which they placed five municipal councillors--crestin, durand, bouvatier, perret and velay. the delegates sent for valentin, and asked him if he were for versailles. he answered that his proclamation could leave no doubt on that head, whereupon he was put under arrest. then they decided on the proclamation of the commune, the dissolution of the municipal council, the dismissal of the prefect and of the general of the national guard, who was to be replaced by ricciotti garibaldi, noted alike by his name and his services in the army of the vosges. these resolutions were announced to the people and hailed with cheers. the red flag was again unfurled from the balcony. the next day, the rd march, early in the morning, the five councillors named the evening before backed out, thus obliging the insurgents to present themselves single-handed to lyons and the neighboring towns. "the commune," they said, "must vindicate for lyons the right to impose and administer her own taxes, to have her own police, and to dispose of her national guard, which is to occupy all posts and forts." this rather meagre programme was a little further expanded by the committees of the national guard and the republican alliance: "with the commune, the taxes will be lightened, the public money will no longer be squandered, social institutions demanded by the working-class will be founded. much misery and suffering will be alleviated pending the final disappearance of that hideous social evil, pauperism." insufficient proclamations these, inconclusive, mute as to the danger of the republic and the clerical conspiracy, the only levers by which the small middle-class might have been roused. so the commission found itself isolated. it had taken the fort of charpennes, accumulated cartridges, disposed the cannons and mitrailleuses round the hôtel-de-ville; but the popular battalions, except two or three, had withdrawn without leaving a picket, and the resistance was being organised. general crouzat at the station picked up all the soldiers, marines, and mobiles dispersed about lyons. hénon named a general of the national guard. the officers of the battalions of order protested against the commune, and placed themselves at the disposition of the municipal council, which sat in the cabinet of the mayor, close to the commission. forgetting it had dissolved the council the evening before, it invited the council to hold their sitting in the ordinary council-room. they arrived at four o'clock. the commission gave up the place to them, national guards occupying that part of the room reserved to the public. had there been some vigour in this middle class, some foreboding of the conservative atrocities, the republican councillors would have taken the lead of this popular movement; but they were still, some of them, the same mercantile aristocrats, chary of their gold and their persons during the war of the national defence; the others, the same overweening radicals who had always striven for the subordination instead of the emancipation of the working-class. while they were deliberating without coming to any resolution, the assistants, growing impatient, uttered a few exclamations shocking to their lordliness, and they brusquely raised the sitting in order to go and draw up an address with hénon. in the evening two delegates of the central committee of paris arrived at the club of the rue duguesclin. they were taken to the hôtel-de-ville, where from the large balcony they harangued the mass, who answered with cries of "vive paris! vive la commune!" and ricciotti's name was again acclaimed. but this was only a demonstration. the delegates were themselves too inexperienced to keep alive and direct this movement. on the th there remained on the place de terreaux but a few groups of idlers. the _rappel_ sounded in vain. the four important journals of lyons, radical, liberal and clerical, "energetically repudiated all connivance with the parisian, lyonese, and other insurrections;" and general crouzat spread the rumour that the prussians, camping at dijon, threatened to occupy lyons within twenty-four hours if order were not re-established. the commission, more and more deserted, again turned to the council, which now held its sitting at the bourse, proposing to hand over the administration to them. the council refused to treat. "no," said the mayor, "we will never accept the commune." and as the mobiles from belfort were announced, the council decided to give them a solemn reception. this was a declaration of war. the parley had been going on the whole afternoon until late into the evening. little by little the hôtel-de-ville grew empty, and the members of the commission disappeared. at four o'clock in the morning the only two who remained cancelled their powers,[ ] dismissed the sentries who guarded the prefect, and left the hôtel-de-ville. the next day lyons found her commune gone. * * * * * on the same evening, when dying out at lyons, the revolutionary movement burst forth at st. etienne. since the st october, when they had almost succeeded in officially proclaiming the commune, the socialists had not ceased calling for it, despite the resistance, and even the threats, of the municipal council. there were two republican centres--the committee of the national guard, spurred on by the revolutionary club of the rue de la vierge, and the republican alliance at the head of the advanced republicans. the municipal council was, with one or two exceptions, composed of those radicals who know not how to resist the people without being crushed by the reaction. the committee and the alliance agreed to ask for its renewal. the th march was enthusiastically welcomed by the workmen. the radical organ, _l'eclaireur_, said, without drawing any conclusion: "if the assembly prevails, the republic is done for; if, on the other hand, the deputies of paris separate from the central committee, they must have a good reason for it." the people went straight on. on the rd the club de la vierge sent delegates to the hôtel-de-ville to ask for the commune. the mayor promised to submit the question to his colleagues. the alliance also came to demand the adjunction to the council of a certain number of delegates. the next day, the th, the delegations returned. the council tendered their resignation, and declared they would only officiate till their replacement by the electors, to be convoked with the briefest delay. this was a defeat, for the same day the prefect _ad interim_, morellet, adjured the population not to proclaim the commune, but to respect the authority of the assembly. at seven o'clock in the evening a company of the national guard relieved the sentinel to the cries of "vive la commune!" the central committee invited the alliance to join them in taking possession of the hôtel-de-ville. the radicals refused, saying that the promise of the council sufficed; that the movements of paris and lyons were of a vague character, and that it was necessary to affirm order and public tranquility. during these negotiations the people had assembled at the club de la vierge, accusing the first delegates of weakness, resolved to send others, and to accompany them, so that they could not give way. at ten o'clock two columns of men each drew up before the rails that cover the hôtel-de-ville. these had been closed by order of the new prefect, m. de l'espée, an autocrat of iron works, who had just then arrived, eager to subdue the disturbers. but the people began pulling down the rails, and it was necessary to let in their delegates. they found the mayor and morellet, asked for the commune, and provisionally the adjunction of a popular commission. the mayor refused, the former prefect obstinately tried to demonstrate that the commune was a prussian invention. hopeless of convincing the delegates, he went to warn m. de l'espée--the prefecture being contiguous to the mairie--and both then making off by the garden, succeeded in rejoining general lavoye, the commander of the garrison. at midnight the delegates, unable to obtain anything, declared that nobody would be allowed to leave the hôtel-de-ville, and proceeding to the rails, told the demonstrators to reflect. some ran off in quest of arms, others penetrated into the salle des prudhommes, where they held a meeting. the night passed tumultuously. the delegates, who had just learned the miscarriage of the movement at lyons wavered. the people threatened and were for beating the _rappel_. the mayor refused. at last, at seven o'clock, he found an expedient, and promised to propose a plebiscite on the establishment of the commune. a delegate read this declaration to the people, who at once withdrew from the hôtel-de-ville. at the same moment m. de l'espée conceived the brilliant idea of beating the _rappel_, which the people had in vain asked for since midnight. he picked up some national guards of order, re-entered the now empty hôtel-de-ville, and promulgated his victory. the municipal council informing him of the morning's agreement, de l'espée refused to fix the date of the elections. besides, said he, the general had promised him the aid of the garrison. at eleven o'clock the prefect's call to arms had reassembled all the popular battalions. groups formed before the hôtel-de-ville, crying "vive la commune!" de l'espée sent for his troops, consisting of foot-soldiers and two squadrons of hussars, who came up sluggishly. the multitude surrounded them; the council protested; and the prefect had to discharge his warriors, there remaining to face the crowd only a line of firemen, and in the hôtel-de-ville two companies, of which but one was favourable to the party of order. towards mid-day a delegation summoned the council to keep their promise. the councillors present--only few in number--were not adverse to accepting as coadjutors two delegates from each company, but de l'espée formally declared against any concession. at four o'clock a very numerous delegation from the committee presented itself. the prefect spoke of retrenching himself and of strengthening the gates for defence; but the firemen raised the butt end of their muskets, opened the passage, and de l'espée had to receive some of the delegates. the crowd outside waxed unruly, impatient at these useless parleys. at half-past four the workmen from the manufactory of arms arrived, when a shot was fired from one of the houses of the place, killing lyonnet, a workingman. a hundred shots answered; the drums beat, the trumpets sounded the charge, and the battalions rushed into the hôtel-de-ville, while others searched the house whence the attack was supposed to have come. at the noise of the firing the prefect broke off the conference and tried to escape as on the night before, mistook his way, was recognised and seized, together with the deputy of the _procureur de la république_, brought back with the latter into the large hall, and shown from the balcony. the crowd hooted him, convinced that he had given the order to fire upon the people. one of the reactionist guards, m. de ventavon, on his flight from the mairie, was taken for the murderer of lyonnet, and carried about on the litter on which the corpse had just been transported to the hospital. the prefect and the procureur's deputy were left in the large hall in the midst of exasperated men. many accused de l'espée of having provoked the fusillade of the miners of aubin under the empire. he protested, stating that he had been director of the mines of archambault, not those of aubin. little by little, the crowd, tired out, dispersed, and at eight o'clock about forty guards only remained in the hall. the prisoners took some food, when the president of the commune, which was constituting itself in a neighbouring room, seeing everything calm, also withdrew. at nine o'clock the crowd returned, crying, "la commune! la commune! sign!" de l'espée offered to sign his resignation, but added that he did so under compulsion. the prisoners were in charge of two men, victoire and fillon, the latter an old exile, quite distracted, who turned now against the crowd, now against the prisoners. at ten o'clock, being hard pressed by the throng of people, fillon, as in a dream, faced about, fired two shots from his revolver, killing his friend victoire and wounding a drummer. instantaneously the muskets were levelled at him, and fillon and de l'espée fell dead. the deputy, covered by the corpse of fillon, escaped the discharge. the next day he and m. de ventavon were set free. during the evening a commission constituted itself, chosen from amongst the officers of the national guards and the habitual orators of the club de la vierge. it had the station occupied, took possession of the telegraph, seized the cartridges of the powder-magazine, and convoked the electors for the th. "the commune," it said, "does not mean incendiarism, nor theft, nor pillage, as so many are pleased to give out, but the conquest of the franchises and the independence ravished from us by imperial and monarchical legislation; it is the true basis of the republic." this was the whole preamble. in this industrial hive, by the side of the thousands of miners of la ricamarie and firminy, they found not a word to say on the social question. the commission only knew how to beat the _rappel_, which, as at lyons, was not responded to. the next day, sunday, the town, calm and curious, read the proclamation of the commune, placarded side by side with the appeals of the general and of the procureur. while this latter, as became a good radical, spoke of a bonapartist plot, the general invited the council to withdraw its resignation. he went to the councillors, who had taken refuge in the barracks, and said to them, "my soldiers won't fight, but i have a thousand chassepots. if you will make use of them, forward!" the councillors protested their unfitness for military exploits; but at the same time, as at lyons, refused to communicate with the hôtel-de-ville, considering "that one can only treat with honest men." on the th the alliance and _l'eclaireur_ altogether withdrew, and the commission gradually dwindled down. in the evening, the few faithful still holding out received two young men, whom the delegates from the central committee at lyons had sent. they urged resistance; but the hôtel-de-ville was being deserted, and on the morning of the th there were only about a hundred left. at six o'clock general lavoye presented himself with the francs-tireurs of the vosges and some troops come from montbrison. the national guards, on his appeal to lay down their arms in order to avoid bloodshed, consented to evacuate the mairie. numerous arrests were made. the conservatives overwhelmed the commune with the customary insults, and recounted that cannibals had been seen amongst the murderers of the prefect.[ ] _l'eclaireur_ did not fail to demonstrate that the movement was purely bonapartist. the workingmen felt themselves vanquished, and at the solemn funeral of m. de l'espée not loud but deep curses were uttered. * * * * * at creuzot, also the proletarians were defeated. yet the socialists administered the town from the th september, the mayor, dumay, being a former workman at the iron works. on the th, at the news from lyons, they spoke of proclaiming the commune. at their review on the th the national guards cried "vive la commune!" and the crowd accompanied them to the place of the mairie, held by the colonel of cuirassiers, gerhardt. he ordered the foot-soldiers to fire. they refused. he then ordered the cavalry to charge; but the guards levelled their bayonets and invaded the mairie. dumay pronounced the abolition of the versailles government, proclaimed the commune, and the red flag was hoisted. but there, as everywhere else, the people did not move. the commander of creuzot came back the next day with a reinforcement, dispersed the crowd, which was standing curious and passive in the square, and took possession of the mairie. in four days all the revolutionary centres of the east, lyons, st. etienne, and creuzot, were lost to the commune. footnotes: [ ] he then and there inaugurated this incomparable lying campaign, the progress of which we shall closely watch. on the th he said, "the army, to the number of , men, is concentrated in good order at versailles." there were , men (the number given by himself in the _enquête_) totally disbanded. on the th: "the government did not want to enter into a bloody struggle, though provoked." by the st the army had grown to , men: "the insurrection is disavowed by everybody." on the nd: "from all sides the government is offered battalions of mobiles to support it against anarchy." on the th, while the votes were being counted: "a considerable proportion of the population and of the national guard of paris solicits the help of the provinces to re-establish order." [ ] "considering," said they in their declaration, "that the provisional commune of lyons, acclaimed by the national guard, is no longer feeling itself supported by them, the members of the commune declare themselves released from their engagements towards their electors, and resign all powers they have received." [ ] certain infamous evidence must be quoted in full in order to give a notion of the delirium tremens of the great bourgeoisie when speaking of the commune. four months after these events the prefect ducros, the inventor of the famous bridges of the marne, deposed before the _commission d'enquête sur le mars_: "they did not respect his corpse; they cut off his head. in the night, horrible to say, one of the men who had participated in the assassination, and who has been put on his trial, came to a café offering those present pieces of m. de l'espée's skull, and cracking under his teeth pieces of the same skull." and ducros dared to add: "the man had been arrested, put on his trial, and acquitted." horrible imaginings, which even the radicals of st. etienne have stigmatised. chapter x. the commune at marseilles, toulouse, and narbonne. since the elections of the th february, the advent of the reactionists, the nomination of m. thiers, the patched-up and shameful peace, the monarchy in prospect, the defiances and the defeats were as bitterly resented by the valiant town of marseilles as by paris. there the news of the th march fell upon a powder-magazine. nevertheless, further details were looked for, when the nd brought the famous despatch of rouher-canrobert. the clubs, playing a great part in the ardent life of marseilles, were at once thronged. the prudent and methodical radicals affected the club of the national guard; the popular elements met at the el dorado. there they applauded gaston crémieux, an elegant and effeminate speaker, now and then happy at epigrammatic turns, as, for instance, at bordeaux. gambetta owed him his election at marseilles under the empire. crémieux at once hurried to the club of the national guard, denounced versailles, told them they could not allow the republic to perish, but ought to act. the club, though highly indignant at the despatch, cautioned him against over-hastiness. the proclamations of the central committee, they said, did not announce any clearly defined politics. signed by unknown names, they might well proceed from bonapartists. this jacobin argument was ridiculous at marseilles, where the despatch of m. thiers had given the signal for the commotion. who smacked of bonapartism--these unknown men rising against versailles, or m. thiers patronising rouher and his ministers, and boasting of canrobert's offer? after a speech of bouchet, the deputy of the _procureur de la république_, gaston crémieux reconsidering his first impulsive step, and accompanied by the delegates of the club, repaired to the el dorado. there he read and made comments upon the _officiel_ of paris, which he had got from the prefect, and calmed the excitement. "the government of versailles have raised their crutch against what they call the insurrection of paris; but it has broken in their hands, and their attempt has brought forth the commune. let us swear that we are united for the defence of the government of paris, the only one that we recognise." they separated, ready for resistance, but resolved to bide their time. thus the excited population still checked itself when the prefect goaded it by the most stupid of provocations. this admiral cosnier, a distinguished naval officer, but politically a mere cipher, quite out of his element in these surroundings, where he had only just arrived, was the passive tool of the reaction, which since the th september had already several times fallen out with the national guard--the _civiques_--who had proclaimed the commune and expulsed the jesuits. the rev. father tissier, though absent, was still its leader. the moderation of the town it mistook for cowardice. like m. thiers on the th, it believed itself strong enough to make a brilliant stroke. in the evening the admiral held council with the mayor, bories, an old wreck of , who had dabbled in all the clerico-liberal coalitions, the _procureur de la république_, guibert, a timid trimmer, and general espivent de la villeboisnet, one of those cruel caricatures in which the civil wars of south america abound. an obtuse legitimist, a besotted zealot, the syllabus incarnate, a carpet knight and former member of the mixed commissions of , during the war he had been expelled from lille by the people, indignant alike at his utter incapacity and his antecedents. he brought the council the _mot d'ordre_ of the priests and reactionists, and proposed convoking the national guards to make an armed manifestation in favour of versailles. he would have asked for more, no doubt, but the garrison was solely composed of waifs of the army of the east and of a few disbanded artillerists. cosnier, quite led astray, approved of the manifestation, and gave orders to the mayor and to the colonel of the national guards to prepare for it. on the rd march, at seven o'clock in the morning, the call to arms sounded. the ingenious idea of the prefect had spread over the town, and the popular battalions made ready to do it honour. from ten o'clock they arrived at the cours du chapitre, and the artillery of the national guard was drawn up along the st. louis cours. at twelve, francs-tireurs, national guards, soldiers of all arms mingling, gathered in the belzunce cours. soon all the battalions of the belle-de-mai and of endourre[ ] mustered in full strength, while the battalions of order remained invisible. the municipal council, taking fright, disavowed the manifestation and placarded a republican address. the club of the national guard joined the council and demanded the return of the assembly to paris and the exclusion from public functions of all the accomplices of the empire. the deputy of the procureur bouchet tendered his resignation. all this time the battalions were marching up and down crying "vive paris!" popular orators harangued them, and the club, apprehensive of an imminent explosion, sent gaston crémieux, bouchet, and frayssinet, to ask the prefect to break up the ranks and communicate the despatches from paris. the delegates were discussing with cosnier, when a terrific clamour rose from without. the prefecture was besieged. at four o'clock the battalions, on foot for six hours, had moved, headed by their drums. twelve or thirteen thousand men having debouched through the cannebière and the rue st. ferréol, drew up before the prefecture. the delegates of the club tried to parley, when a shot was fired, and the crowd, rushing into the prefecture, arrested the prefect, his two secretaries, and general ollivier. gaston crémieux appeared on the balcony, spoke of the rights of paris, and recommended the maintenance of order. the crowd cheered, but still continued to enter and ask for arms. g. crémieux had two columns formed and sent them to the iron works of menpenti, whose guns were surrendered. during this tumult a commission of six members was formed: g. crémieux, job, etienne, a street-porter, maviel, a shoemaker, gaillard, a mechanic, and allerini, who deliberated in the midst of the crowd. g. crémieux proposed setting at liberty the prisoners just made, but from all sides they cried, "keep them as sureties." the admiral was conducted into a neighbouring room, closely watched, and--strange mania of all these popular movements--asked for his resignation. cosnier, quite out of his latitude, signed what he was asked for.[ ] the commission placarded that all the powers were concentrated in its hands, and feeling the necessity of strengthening itself, invited the municipal council and the club of the national guard to send three delegates each. the council named david bosc, desservy, and sidore; the club, bouchet, cartoux, and fulgéras. the next day they made a moderate proclamation: "marseilles has wished to prevent the civil war provoked by the circulars of versailles. marseilles will support a regularly constituted republican government sitting in the capital. the departmental commission, formed with the concourse of all republican groups, will watch over the republic till a new authority emanating from a regular government sitting at paris relieves it." the names of the municipal council and of the club reassured the middle-class. the reactionists continued drawing in their horns, and the army had evacuated the town during the night. leaving the prefect in the trap into which he had thrust him, the coward espivent, on the investment of the prefecture, went to hide himself at the mistress's of a commander of the national guard named spir, on whom he afterwards conferred the knighthood of the legion of honour for this service to moral order. at midnight he sneaked off and rejoined the troops, who, without hindrance from the people, lulled into security by its victory, reached the village of aubagne, about seventeen kilometres from marseilles. thus marseilles was entirely in the hands of the people. the victory was even too complete for heads prone to exultation. that "city of the sun" is not propitious to soft tints; its sky, its fields, its men all affect crude colours. on the th the civil guards hoisted the red flag and already deemed the commission too lukewarm. sidore, desservy, and fulgéras, regardless of their duty, kept aloof from the prefecture; cartoux had gone to paris for information, and so the whole burden weighed upon bosc and bouchet, who, with gaston crémieux, strove to regularise the movement. having said that the red flag was inopportune, the detention of the hostages useless, they soon became suspected and menaced. on the evening of the th, bouchet, quite discouraged, gave in his resignation, but, on g. crémieux' complaint to the club of the national guard, consented to resume his post. these disagreements were already bruited about the town, and on the th the commission was obliged to announce that "the most perfect accord united it with the municipal council." but the latter on the same day declared itself the only existing power, and called upon the national guard to rouse from apathy. trimming between the reaction and the people, it began that miserable play that was to end in ignominy. while the liberals were imitating the tirards and the deputies of the extreme left, to whom dufaure referred in his despatches, espivent in every point copied general thiers. he had rifled all the administrative departments of marseilles. the treasury office of the garrison had been shuffled off to aubagne. fifteen hundred garibaldians of the army of the vosges and soldiers who were rejoining their depots in africa were left without bread, without pay, without _feuilles-de-routes_, and would have remained without refuge if gaston crémieux and bouchet had not caused a provisional quartermaster to be named by the council. thanks to the commission, those who had shed their blood for france received bread and shelter. gaston crémieux said to them in an address, "you will remember when the time comes, the fraternal hand that we have held out to you." he was a gentle enthusiast, who beheld the revolution under rather a bucolic aspect. on the th the isolation of the commission became more obvious. no one armed against it, but no one joined it. almost all the mayors of the department refused to placard its proclamations, and at arles a manifestation in favor of the red flag miscarried. the fiery spirits at the prefecture did nothing to explain the import of the flag which they had unfurled, and, in the midst of this dull calm, in view of marseilles looking on curiously, it hung from the campanile of the prefecture motionless and mute as an enigma. * * * * * the capital of the south-west also saw its insurrection die out. toulouse had vibrated at the thunder-burst of the th march. in the faubourg st. cyprien there was an intelligent and valiant workingmen's population that formed the very sinews of the national guard, and had since the th relieved the watch to the cries of "vive paris!" a few revolutionists summoned the prefect, duportal, to pronounce for or against paris. for a month the _emancipation_, which he directed, had made a campaign against the rurals, and he had even in a public meeting emphasized his republican views. but he was not the man to take the initiative, and refused to break with versailles. the clubs, however, beset him, obliging the officers of the national guard to take an oath to defend the republic, and asked for cartridges. m. thiers, seeing that duportal would after all follow their lead, named as prefect de kératry, the former prefect of police of the th september. he arrived on the night of the st- nd at the house of the general of the division, nansouty, and being told that the garrison consisted of only disbanded men, and that the whole national guard would declare for duportal, he beat his retreat on agen. on the rd the national guard prepared a manifestation in order to take possession of the arsenal, when duportal and the mayor rushed off to the capitol, the hôtel-de-ville of toulouse. the mayor declared that the intended review was not to take place, and duportal that he would tender his resignation rather than pronounce for the movement. but the generals, afraid of this outbreak of the faubourg, took refuge in the arsenal. the mayor and the municipal council, understanding it would no longer do to continue their platonic rôle, fled in their turn, and hence duportal, left alone in his prefecture, shone forth as a great revolutionist, and therefore all the more worthy of the sympathy of the national guard. he exerted himself to reassure the generals, went to the arsenal, intimated there his firm resolution to maintain order in the name of the government of versailles, the only one he recognised as legitimate, and was so successful that they advised m. thiers to keep him in his post. kératry, availing himself of his declaration, requested his aid to take possession of the prefecture, and duportal gave him a rendezvous before the officers of the mobiles and of the national guard, convoked for the next day, the th. kératry understood and remained at agen. the object of this meeting was to find the volunteers against paris asked for by the assembly. four officers of mobiles out of sixty offered their services to versailles. the officers of the national guard did not come to the prefecture, but, on the contrary, prepared at that same moment a demonstration against kératry. at one o'clock , men were assembled in the place du capitole, and, their banner flying, repaired to the prefecture, where duportal received their officers. one of them declared that, far from supporting the assembly, they were ready to march against it, and that if m. thiers did not make peace with paris they would proclaim the commune. at this name cries burst forth from all corners of the room, "vive la commune! vive paris!" the officers, growing hot, decreed the arrest of kératry, proclaimed the commune, and summoned duportal to place himself at their head. he tried to back out, and proposed to act only as the officious prompter of the chiefs of the commune; but the officers, inveighing against defection, induced him to come out to the square of the prefecture, where he was acclaimed by the national guard, and they proceeded to the capitol. hardly arrived in the large hall, the leaders seemed much embarrassed. they offered the presidency in turn to the mayor, to other municipal councillors, who slunk away, and to duportal, who got off by drawing up a manifesto, which was read from the large balcony. "the commune of toulouse," it said, "declares for the republic one and indivisible, adjures the deputies of paris to be the intermediaries between the government and the great town, and summons m. thiers to dissolve the assembly." the mass cheered this milk-and-water commune, which believed in the deputies of the left and the oppression of m. thiers by the rural majority. in the evening some officers of the national guard appointed an executive commission, composed, with two or three exceptions, of mere talkers; in this the principal leaders of the movement did not figure. it contented itself with placarding the manifesto, and neglected the smallest precautions, even that of occupying the railway station. the generals, nevertheless, did not dare to stir from their arsenal, where they were joined on the th by the first president of the court and the procureur-general, who launched an address calling upon the population to rally round them. the national guard wanted to answer by storming the arsenal, and already the faubourg flocked to the capitol. but the commission preferred to negotiate, sent word to the arsenal that it would dissolve if the government appointed a republican prefect in the stead of kératry and entirely abandoned duportal, who, it is true, had done nothing. the negotiations lasted all the evening, and the national guard, tired out, deceived by their chiefs, and fancying everything settled, returned to their homes. kératry, well informed of all these failures, arrived the next day at the railway station with three squadrons of cavalry, proceeded to the arsenal, broke off the negotiations, and gave the order to march. at one o'clock the versaillese army, cavalry and ill-assorted soldiers strong, opened its campaign. one column occupied the st. cyprien bridge, in order to separate the town from the faubourg, another proceeded to the prefecture, and the third, with nansouty, kératry, and the magistrates, marched on the capitol. about men filled the courts, the windows, and the terrace. the versaillese deployed their troops and placed six guns in line at about sixty yards from the edifice, thus recklessly exposing their infantry and artillerists to the muskets of the insurgents. the first president of the court and the procureur-general advanced to parley, but obtained nothing. kératry made the _sommations_, his voice being drowned by cries. a single blank-cartridge volley would have scared soldiers and artillerists, who might besides have been harassed on both flanks. but the leaders had fled from the capitol. the courage of a few men might still have brought about a fight, when the republican association interposed, persuaded the guards to retreat, and saved kératry. the prefecture was taken just as easily, and that same evening kératry installed himself there. the members of the executive commission the next day published a manifesto of such platitude as to secure them impunity, and one of them got himself named mayor by kératry. thus the generous workingmen of toulouse, who had risen to the cry of "vive paris!" were left in the lurch by those who had raised the insurrection. a disastrous check this for paris, for the whole south would have followed the example of toulouse if victorious. * * * * * the man of thought and energy, wanting in all these movements, appeared in the insurrection of narbonne. the old city, gallic in its enthusiasm, roman in its tenacity, is the true centre of democracy in the department of aude. nowhere during the war had a more vigorous protest been entered against the shortcomings of gambetta. for this very reason the national guards of narbonne had not yet received their muskets, when those of carcassonne had long since been armed. at the news of the th march, narbonne did not hesitate, but declared for paris. to proclaim the commune, an exile of the empire, a man of strong convictions and firm character, digeon, was at once applied to. digeon, as modest as resolute, offered the direction of the movement to his comrade in exile, marcou, the recognised chief of the democracy in the aude, one of the most ardent opponents of gambetta during the war. marcou, a crafty lawyer, afraid of compromising himself, and dreading the energy of digeon in the chief town of the department, induced him to leave for narbonne. digeon arrived there on the rd, and first thought of converting the municipal council to the principles of the commune. but on the refusal of the mayor, raynal, to summon the council, the people, out of all patience, invaded the hôtel-de-ville on the evening of the th, and arming themselves with the muskets detained by the municipality, installed digeon and his friends. he appeared on the balcony, proclaimed the commune of narbonne united to that of paris, and immediately proceeded to take measures of defence. the following day raynal tried to rally the garrison, and some companies formed before the hôtel-de-ville; but the people, especially the women, worthy of their parisian sisters, disarmed the soldiers. a captain and a lieutenant were retained as hostages; the rest of the garrison went and shut itself up in the st. bernard barracks. as raynal still continued stirring up resistance, the people arrested him on the th; and digeon, with the three hostages, at the head of a detachment of federals, went to take possession of the prefecture, placing pickets at the railway station and telegraph office. to get arms he forced the arsenal, where, despite their lieutenant, who commanded them to fire, the soldiers surrendered their guns. the same day the delegates from the neighbouring communes arrived, and digeon set to work to generalise the movement. he had clearly understood that the departmental insurrections would soon founder if not well combined, and he wanted to hold out a helping hand to the rising of toulouse and of marseilles. béziers and cette had already promised him their support, and he was preparing to leave for béziers, when, on the th, two companies of turcos arrived, soon followed by other troops sent from montpellier, toulouse, and perpignan. from this moment digeon was obliged to stand on the defensive. he had barricades thrown up, reinforced the posts, ordering the federals always to await the attacks and to aim at the officers. we shall return to this subject later on. paris now recalls us. the other provincial movements were but momentary vibrations. on the th, when paris was still elated with victory, all the communes of france were already swept away save those of marseilles and narbonne. footnotes: [ ] the popular quarters of marseilles. [ ] this abdication was revealed before the court-martial by the advocate of one of the accused. cosnier, fearing that it might be interpreted as an act of cowardice, blew out his brains. chapter xi. the council of the commune wavers from its first sittings--the mayors and adjuncts elected desert en masse. the place of the hôtel-de-ville was still astir when the newly elected members of the commune assembled in the municipal council-hall. the ballot had returned sixteen mayors, adjuncts, and liberals of all shades,[ ] a few radicals,[ ] and about sixty revolutionists of all sorts.[ ] how came these latter to be chosen? all must be told, and virile truth at last substituted for the stale flattery of the old romantic school styling itself "revolutionary." there might be something more terrible than the defeat: to misconstrue or to forget its causes. responsibility weighs heavily enough upon the elected, but we must not charge it all to one side--the electors also have their share of it. the central committee had told the people on sunday, the th instant, "prepare for your communal elections." they thus had a whole week in which to frame a mandate and select their mandatories. no doubt the resistance of the mayors and the occupation of the military posts kept away many of the revolutionary electors from their arrondissements, but there still remained enough citizens to conduct the work of selection. never had a mandate been more indispensable, for the question at issue was to give paris a communal constitution acceptable to all france. never did paris stand in such need of enlightened and practical men, capable at once of negotiating and of combating. yet there was never less preparatory discussion. a few men only recalled to prudence a people habitually so over-scrupulous in electoral matters, and which had just made a revolution to get rid of their representatives. the committee of the twenty arrondissements issued a manifesto very pertinent in several points, and which might have served as an outline; the two delegates at the home office tried, through an article in the _officiel_, to impress paris with the importance of her vote. not a single assembly framed the general programme of paris; only two or three arrondissements gave some sort of mandate. instead of voting for a programme, they voted for names. those who had demanded the commune, made a mark at the corderie or during the siege, were elected without being asked for further explanations, some even twice, like flourens, in spite of the blunders of the st october. only seven or eight, and those not the best, of the obscure men of the central committee were named, the latter, it is true, having decided not to present itself for election. the public meetings in many arrondissements sent up the most violent talkers, romanticists sprung up during the siege, and lacking all knowledge of practical life. nowhere were the candidates put to any test. in the ardour of the struggle they took no thought for the morrow. one might have fancied that the object in view was a simple manifestation, not the foundation of a new order of things. twenty-four workmen only were elected, and of these a third belonged rather to the public meetings than to the international or the workingmen's societies. the other delegates of the people were chosen from the small middle-class and the so-called liberal professions, accountants, publicists--there were as many as twelve of these--doctors and lawyers. these, save a few really studious men, whether veterans or new-comers, were as ignorant as the workmen of the political and administrative mechanism of the bourgeoisie, albeit full of their own personality. the safety of the central committee lay in this, that it was unadorned with great men, each one provided with a formula of his own. the council of the commune, on the contrary, abounded in chapels, groups, semi-celebrities, and hence endless competition and rivalry. thus the precipitation and heedlessness of the revolutionary electors sent up to the hôtel-de-ville a majority of men, most of them devoted, but chosen without discernment, and, into the bargain, abandoned them to their own inspirations, to their whims, without any determined mandate to restrain and guide them in the struggle entered upon. time and experience would no doubt have corrected this negligence, but time was wanting. the people never holds sway but for an hour, and woe to them if they are not then ready, armed _cap-à-pie_. the elections of the th march were irreparable. only about sixty of those elected were present at the first sitting. at its opening, the central committee came to congratulate the council. the chairman by seniority, beslay, a capitalist of a fraternising turn of mind, made the opening speech. he very happily defined this young revolution: "the enfranchisement of the commune of paris is the enfranchisement of all the communes of the republic. your adversaries have said that you have struck the republic. it is as with the pile, to be driven deeper into the earth. the republic of was a soldier, who wanted to centralise all the forces of the nation; the republic of is a workman, who above all wants liberty to fecundate peace. the commune will occupy itself with all that is local, the department with what is regional, the government with what is national. let us not overstep this limit, and the country and the government will be happy and proud to applaud this revolution." this was the naïve illusion of an old man, who, nevertheless, had had the experience of a long political life. this programme, so moderate in its form, was nothing less than the death-knell of the great bourgeoisie, as shown during this very sitting. there were already some jarring notes. the violent and the giddy-headed launched out into random motions, and wanted the commune to declare itself omnipotent. tirard, elected by his arrondissement, improved this occasion to withdraw, stating that his mandate was purely municipal, that he could not recognise the political character of the commune, gave in his resignation, and ironically bade farewell to the council: "i leave you my sincere good wishes; may you succeed in your task," &c. the insolence of this dishonest man, who for eight days had been busy in fomenting civil war and now threw up the mandate solicited in his address to the electors, evoked general indignation. the more impatient wanted to have him arrested, others to declare his mandate forfeited. he escaped scot-free because he had said at the versailles tribune, "when you enter the hôtel-de-ville, you are not sure to return from it." this incident no doubt induced the council to vote the secrecy of their sittings, their awkward pretext being that the commune was not a parliament. this decision produced a very bad effect, violating the best traditions of the great commune of - , as it gave the council the appearance of a conspiracy, and it was found necessary to quash it two weeks after, when the newspapers abounded in fantastic reports, as a natural consequence of the secret sittings. but the publicity never consisted in anything but the insertion of curtailed reports in the _officiel_. the council never admitted the public, whose presence would have prevented many faults. the next day the council subdivided itself into commissions charged with the various services. a military commission, and others of finance, justice, public safety, labour and exchange, provisions, foreign affairs, public services, and education were named. the executive commission was composed of lefrançais, duval, félix pyat, bergeret, tridon, eudes, and vaillant, of whom duval, bergeret, and eudes also belonged to the military commission. it had just been voted that all decrees should be signed _the commune_--a vote too soon forgotten--when the delegates of the central committee were announced. after waiting half an hour they were introduced. "citizens," said their spokesman, "the central committee comes to hand over to you its revolutionary powers. we resume the functions defined by our statutes." this was the moment for the council to affirm its authority. the only representative of the population, alone responsible, it should now have absorbed all powers, not tolerating the co-existence of a committee which was sure always to remember the paramount position it had held and strive to recover it. in the previous sitting, the council had done justice to the central committee in voting that they had deserved well of paris and the republic, and now taking them at their word, ought to have declared that the rôle of the committee had come to an end. instead of an authoritative decision in this sense, recriminations were resorted to. a member of the council recalled the promise of the central committee to dissolve after the elections. unless they aimed at power, there was no necessity for the maintenance of their organisation. varlin and beslay defended the existence of the committee, which was combated by jourde and rigault. the delegates, who would have yielded to a peremptory word, held out against this weakness. "this is," they said, "the federation that has saved the republic. the last word is not yet said. to dissolve this organisation is to break your strength. the central committee does not pretend to share in the government. it remains the bond of union between you and the national guard, the right hand of the revolution. we again become what we were, the great _conseil de famille_ of the national guard." this simile made a marked impression. the debate was prolonged, and the delegates of the committee withdrew, no conclusion having been arrived at. thereupon, without preamble, like a jack-in-the-box, félix pyat jumped up and proposed the abolition of the conscription. on the rd march he had stolen away from the national assembly, as he had on the st october deserted the hôtel-de-ville, and, a few days after, sneaked out of prison. on the th march he did not stir, while delescluze had joined the revolution from the first day. félix pyat waited for the triumph, and on the eve of the elections came to sound the timbrel before the committee, "which teaches modesty to the proudest name and inspires men of genius with a feeling of inferiority." elected by about , votes in the tenth arrondissement, he was now forward to take his seat at the hôtel-de-ville. the hour awaited for twenty years had at last struck; he was about to tread the boards. amidst the crowd of dramatists, thaumaturgists, romanticists, visionaries, and jacobin relics, trailing since at the heels of the social revolution, his business had been that of appeals to regicide, to revolutionary chouannerie, of epistles, allegories, toasts, invocations, evocations, pieces of rhetoric on the events of the day, tinkering the old montagnard wares, and doing them up with a little humanitarian varnish. under the empire his rabid manifestoes had been the joy of the police and of the bonapartist journals, excellent sops to throw to the people, who could not extract from them a practical idea or a grain of sense. this intoxication was more than half-feigned. the dishevelled madman of the stage behind the scenes turned crafty, trickish, and wary to a degree. at bottom he was only a splenetic sceptic, sincere only in his self-idolatry. he came to the commune his pockets crammed with decrees. when he read his motion, it was lustily cheered by the romanticists and passed at once. yet still in the morning the council had intimated nothing of the sort, but only stated in the proclamation in which they presented themselves to paris: "to-day the decision on house-rents, to-morrow that on the overdue bills, the public services re-established and simplified, and the national guards reorganised, these are our first acts." and now it abruptly encroached upon national affairs. commune in the morning, constituent assembly in the evening. if they wanted to change the revolution from a communal into a national one, they ought to have said so, boldly set forth their whole programme, and demonstrated to france the necessity of their attempt. but what signified this decree, improvised at random, without a preliminary declaration and without a sequel? this _quid pro quo_ was not even taken up. under pretext of avoiding parliamentarism, the matters at issue were hurried over. then the council decreed the general release of rents due between october, , and july, . versailles had offered only delays; this was contrary to equity. the council released rents for the good reason that property ought to bear its share of the general sacrifices; but it did not except a lot of industrials who had realised scandalous profits during the siege. this was contrary to justice. finally, they neglected to announce themselves to the provinces, already so forsaken by the central committee. a commission had certainly been charged to draw up an address, but its work had not pleased, and another one had been named, so that what with one commission and another, the programme of the commune was kept in suspense for twenty-two days, and the council had allowed all the insurrections of the provinces to die out without giving them any advice or ideas. these encroachments, this disorder, disturbed paris with the thought that the new power had neither very clear ideas nor consciousness of the situation. the liberal fraction of the council took advantage of this pretext to withdraw. if their convention of the th had been sincere, if they had cared for the destinies of paris, the mayor and adjuncts elected would have courageously stood by their mandates. like those of the provinces, they deserted, but were still more culpable, since they had not protested against their elections. many had never been seen at the hôtel-de-ville; others wrung their hands, lamenting, "where are we going?" some shammed mortal illness: "you see i am at my last gasp." those who have been most abusive since, then sought for humble evasions. not one broke boldly. their resignations,[ ] the double elections, left twenty-two seats vacant on the th, when the council verified the credentials. faithful to the best traditions of the french republic, it admitted the hungarian frankel, one of the most intelligent members of the international, elected in the thirteenth arrondissement. six candidates had not received the eighth part of the votes required by the law of ; the council passed by this irregularity because the arrondissements of these candidates, composed of reactionary quarters, were emptying themselves from day to day. the men of order, twice chastised, continued migrating to versailles, which they stocked with a new store of rancour and rhodomontades. the town had assumed a warlike aspect; all announced that the struggle was near at hand. already m. thiers had cut off paris from france. on the eve of the april term, the st march, the director of the general post-office, rampont, belying the word of honour he had given the delegate of the central committee, theisz, made off after having disorganised the postal service, and m. thiers suppressed all the goods trains and kept back all correspondence destined for paris. on the st april he officially announced war. "the assembly," he telegraphed to the prefects, "is sitting at versailles, where the organisation of one of the finest armies that france has ever possessed is being completed. good citizens may then take heart and hope for the end of a struggle which will be sad but short." a cynical boast of that same bourgeoisie which had refused to organise armies against the prussians. "one of the finest armies," was as yet only the rabble of the th march, strengthened by five or six regiments; about , men, with , horses, and , gendarmes or sergents-de-ville, the only corps that had any solidity. paris would not believe in the existence even of this army. the popular papers demanded a sortie, speaking of the journey to versailles as a promenade. the most impetuous was the _vengeur_, in which félix pyat furiously shook his cap and bells. he exhorted the commune "to press versailles. poor versailles! it no longer remembers the th and th october, , when the women of the commune alone sufficed to catch its king." on the morning of sunday the nd april the same member of the executive commission announced to paris: "yesterday at versailles the soldiers, requested to vote by _aye_ or _no_ if they were to march on paris, answered no!" footnotes: [ ] ad. adam, meline, rochard, barré ( st arrondissement, louvre); brelay, loiseau-pinson, tirard, chéron ( nd, bourse); ch. murat ( rd, temple); a. le roy, robinet ( th, luxembourg); desmarets, e. ferry, nast ( th, opéra); marmottan, de bouteillier ( th, passy). [ ] goupil ( th, luxembourg); e. lefévre ( th, palais-bourbon); a. ranc, u. parent ( th, opéra). [ ] demay, a. arnaud, pindy, c. dupont ( rd, temple); a. arnould, lefrançais, clémence, e. gérardin ( th, hôtel-de-ville); régère, jourde, tridon, blanchet, ledroit ( th, panthéon); beslay, varlin ( th, luxembourg); parizel, urbain, brunel ( th, palais-bourbon); raoul rigault, vaillant, a. arnould, alix ( th, champs-elysées); gambon, félix, pyat, h. fortuné, champy, babick, rastoul ( th, enclos st. laurent); mortier, delescluze, assi, protot, eudes, avrial, verdure ( th, popincourt); varlin, geresme, theisz, fruneau ( th, reuilly); léo meillet, duval, chardon, frankel ( th, gobelins); billioray, martelet, decamp ( th, observatoire); v. clément, j. vallès, langevin ( th, vaugirard); varlin, e. clément, ch. gérardin, chalain, malon ( th, batignolles); blanqui, theisz, dereure, j. b. clément, ferré, vermorel, p. grousset ( th, montmartre); oudet, puget, delescluze, j. miot, ostyn, flourens ( th, buttes-chaumont); bergeret, ranvier, flourens, blanqui ( th, menilmontant). blanqui had been arrested in the south of france, where he had gone for the sake of his health. [ ] see appendix iii. chapter xii. sortie of the third april--the parisians are repulsed everywhere--flourens and duval are killed--the versaillese massacre some prisoners. that very day, the nd april, at one o'clock, without warning, without summons, the versaillese opened fire and threw their shells into paris. for several days their cavalry had exchanged shots with our advanced posts at châtillon and putteaux. we occupied courbevoie, that commands the route to versailles, which made the rurals very anxious. on the nd, at ten o'clock in the morning, three brigades of the best versailles troops, , strong, arrived at the cross-roads of bergères. six or seven hundred cavalry of the brigade gallifet supported this movement, while we had only three federal battalions at courbevoie, in all five or six hundred men, defended by a half-finished barricade on the road of st. germain. their watch, however, was well kept; their vedettes had killed the head-surgeon of the versaillese army, whom they had mistaken for a colonel of gendarmerie. at mid-day the versaillese, having cannonaded the barracks of courbevoie and the barricade, launched themselves to the assault. at the first shots from our men they scampered off, abandoning on the road cannon and officers. vinoy was obliged to come himself and rally the runagates. meanwhile the th of the line outflanked courbevoie on the right, and the infantry of marines turned the left, marching through putteaux. too inferior in number and fearing to be cut off from paris, the federals evacuated courbevoie, and, pursued by shells, fell back on the avenue de neuilly, leaving twelve dead and some prisoners. the gendarmes had taken five, one of whom was a child of fifteen, beating them unmercifully, and shot them at the foot of mont-valérien. this expedition concluded, the army regained its cantonment. at the report of the cannon all paris started. no one believed in an attack, so completely did all, since the th, live in an atmosphere of confidence. it was no doubt an anniversary, a misunderstanding at the utmost. when the news, the ambulance-carriages, arrived; when the word was spoken, "the siege is recommencing!" an explosion of horror shook all the quarters. an affrighted hive, such was paris. the barricades were again thrown up, the call to arms beaten everywhere, and the cannon drawn to the ramparts of the porte-maillot and of the ternes. at three o'clock , men were on their legs crying, "to versailles!" the women excited the battalions, and spoke of marching in the vanguard. the executive commission met and placarded a proclamation: "the royalist conspirators have attacked; despite the moderation of our attitude, they have attacked. our duty is to defend the great city against these culpable aggressions." in the commission, the generals duval, bergeret, and eudes declared for an attack. "the enthusiasm," they said, "is irresistible, unique. what can versailles do against , men? we must sally out." their colleagues resisted, especially félix pyat, confronted with his rant and vapourings of the morning. his poltroonery stood him in the stead of a life-preserver. "one does not start," said he, "at random, without cannon, without _cadres_, and without chiefs;" and he demanded the return of the strength of the troops. duval, who since the th march had been strongly bent upon a sortie, violently apostrophised him: "why, then, for three days have you shouted, 'to versailles?'" the most energetic opponent of the sortie was lefrançais. finally, the four civil members--that is, the majority--decided that the generals should present a detailed statement as to their forces in men, artillery, munitions, and transports. the same evening the commission named cluseret delegate at war jointly with eudes, who, being a member of the so-called party of action, owed this post only to the patronage of his old cronies. in spite of the majority of the commission, the generals set out. they had, besides, received no formal order to the contrary. félix pyat had even concluded by saying, "after all, if you think you are ready...." they saw flourens always ready for a _coup-de-main_, other colleagues equally adventurous, and, on their own authority, certain of being followed by the national guard. they sent to the _chefs-de-légion_ the order to form columns. the battalions of the right bank were to concentrate at the place vendôme and place wagram; those of the left bank, at the place d'italie and champ-de-mars. these movements, without staff officers to guide them, were very badly executed. many men marched hither and thither, grew tired. yet at midnight there were still about , men on the right bank of the seine and about , on the left. from eight o'clock to midnight the council was sitting. the inexorable félix pyat, always pertinent, demanded the abolition of the budget of public worship. the majority immediately satisfied him. he might just as well have decreed the abolition of the versaillese army. of the sortie, of the military preparations deafening paris, no one breathed a word in the council--no one disputed the field with the generals. the plan of the latter, which they communicated to cluseret, was to make a strong demonstration in the direction of rueil, while two columns were to march on versailles by meudon and the plateau of châtillon. bergeret, assisted by flourens, was to operate on the right; eudes and duval were to command the columns of the centre and the left. a simple idea, and easy of execution with experienced officers and solid heads of columns. but most of the battalions had been without chiefs since the th march, the national guards without _cadres_, and the generals who assumed the responsibility of leading , men had never conducted a single battalion into the field. they neglected even the most elementary precautions, knew not how to collect artillery, ammunition-waggons, or ambulances, forgot to make an order of the day, and left the men for several hours without food in a penetrating fog. every federal chose the chief he liked best. many had no cartridges, and believed the sortie to be a simple demonstration. the executive commission had just placarded a despatch from the place vendôme, headquarters of the national guard: "soldiers of the line are all coming to us, and declare that, save the superior officers, no one wants to fight." at three o'clock in the morning bergeret's column, about , men strong and with only eight ordnance pieces, arrived at the bridge of neuilly. it was necessary to give the men, who had taken nothing since the evening before, time to recover themselves. at dawn they moved in the direction of rueil. the battalions marched by sections in line in the middle of the road, without scouts, and cheerfully climbed the plateau des bergères, when suddenly a shell burst into their ranks, followed by a second. mont-valérien had opened fire. a terrible panic broke the battalions, amidst thousandfold cries of "treason!" the whole national guard believing that we occupied mont-valérien. many members of the commune, of the central committee, at the place vendôme, knew the contrary, and very foolishly concealed it, living in the hope that the fortress would not fire. it possessed, it is true, only two or three badly appointed guns, the range of which the guards might have escaped by one quick movement; but, surprised when in a state of blind confidence, they fancied themselves betrayed, and fled on all sides. bergeret exhausted every means to stay them. a shell cut in two the brother of the chief of his staff, an officer of the regular army gone over to the commune. the greater part of the federals dispersed in the fields and regained paris. the st only and a few others, , men in all, remained with bergeret, and, dividing into small groups, reached rueil. shortly after, flourens arrived by the road of asnières, bringing hardly a thousand men.[ ] the rest had lagged behind in paris or on the way. flourens, all the same, pressing forward, arrived at the malmaison, put gallifet's chasseurs to flight, and the parisian vanguard pushed as far as bougival. the versaillese, surprised by this sortie, only drew up very late, towards ten o'clock. ten thousand men were launched against bougival, and the batteries placed on the hill of la jonchère cannonaded rueil. two brigades of cavalry on the right and that of gallifet on the left defended the wings. the parisian vanguard--a mere handful of men--offered a determined resistance, in order to give bergeret time to operate his retreat, which commenced towards one o'clock, on neuilly, where they fortified the bridge-head. some valiant men, who had obstinately held out in rueil, with great difficulty gained the bridge of asnières, whither they were pursued by the cavalry, who took some prisoners. flourens was surprised at rueil, and the house which he occupied with some officers surrounded by gendarmes. while preparing to defend himself, the officer of the detachment, captain desmarets, cleft his head with so furious a blow of the sabre that the brains gushed out. the body was thrown into a dust-cart and taken to versailles, where the fine ladies gathered to enjoy the spectacle. thus ended the large-hearted man, loved of the revolution. at the extreme left duval had passed the night with six or seven thousand men on the plateau of châtillon. towards seven o'clock he formed a column of picked men, advanced to petit-bicêtre, dispersed the outpost of general du barail, and sent an officer to reconnoitre villecoublay, that commanded the route. the officer announced that the roads were free, and the federals advanced without fear. when near the hamlet firing commenced. the men deployed as skirmishers, and duval, uncovered, in the middle of the road, set them the example. they held out for several hours. a few shells would have sufficed to dislodge the enemy; but duval had no artillery. even cartridges were already wanting, and he had to send to châtillon for more. the bulk of the federals who occupied the redoubt, confounded in an inextricable disorder, already believed themselves surrounded on all sides. the messengers of duval on their arrival begged, menaced, but could not obtain either reinforcements or munitions. an officer even ordered a retreat. the unfortunate duval, totally abandoned, was assailed by the derroja brigade and the whole pellé division, , men. he retired with his troops to the plateau of châtillon. our efforts in the centre were not more fortunate. ten thousand men had left the champ-de-mars at three o'clock in the morning with ranvier and avrial. general eudes as his whole battle array had ordered the troops to move on. at six o'clock the st reached the moulineaux, defended by gendarmes; these were soon forced to retreat to meudon, strongly occupied by a versaillese brigade entrenched in the villas and provided with mitrailleuses. the federals had only eight pieces, while paris possessed hundreds, and each of these had only eight rounds. at six o'clock, weary of shooting at walls, they retreated to moulineaux. ranvier went in search of cannon, and mounted them in the fort of issy, thus preventing the versaillese from taking the offensive. we were beaten at all points, and the communalist papers shouted "victory!" led astray by staffs which did not even know the names of the generals, the executive commission announced the junction of flourens and duval at courbevoie. félix pyat, again become bellicose, six times cried in his _vengeur_, "to versailles!"[ ] despite the runaways of the morning, the popular enthusiasm did not flag. a battalion of women marched up the champs-elysées, the red flag at their head, demanding to sally forth against the enemy. the journals of the evening announced the arrival of flourens at versailles. at the ramparts the sad truth was discovered. long files of guards re-entered by all the gates, and at six o'clock the only army outside paris was the guards on the plateau de châtillon. a few shells falling in their midst completed the disorder. some of the men threatened duval, who was making desperate efforts to keep them together. he remained, surrounded only by a handful of men, but always equally resolute. the whole night he, usually so taciturn, did not cease repeating, "i will not retreat." the next day at eight o'clock the plateau and the neighbouring villages were surrounded by the brigade derroja and the division pellé. "surrender and your lives will be spared," general pellé had told them. the parisians surrendered. the versaillese at once seized the soldiers fighting in the ranks of the federals and shot them. the prisoners, between two lines of chasseurs, were sent on to versailles, while their officers, bare-headed, their _galons_ torn off, were put at the head of the convoy. at petit-bicêtre they met the general-in-chief, vinoy. he commanded the officers to be shot, but the chief of the escort reminding him of general pellé's promise, vinoy said, "is there a chief?" "myself," said duval, darting from the ranks. another advanced: "i am the chief of duval's staff." then the commander of the volunteers of montrouge placed himself by their side. "you are awful scoundrels," said vinoy; and, turning to his officers, "shoot them." duval and his comrades disdained to reply, cleared a ditch, and leant against a wall on which were inscribed the words, "duval, horticulturist." they undressed, and, crying "vive la commune," died for it. a horseman tore off duval's boots and carried them about as a trophy,[ ] and an editor of the _figaro_ took possession of his blood-stained collar. thus the army of order inaugurated the civil war by the massacre of the prisoners. it had begun on the nd; on the rd, at chatou, general gallifet had three federals shot who were surprised in an inn taking their meal, and then he published a ferocious proclamation: "war has been declared by the bandits of paris. they have assassinated my soldiers. it is a merciless war which i declare against these assassins. i had to make an example." the general who called the combatants of paris "bandits" and these assassinations "an example" was a scamp of high life, first ruined, then kept by actresses. famous for his brigandage in mexico, he had in a few years obtained a generalship of brigade by the charms of his wife, prominent in the orgies of the imperial court. nothing is more edifying in this civil war than the standard-bearers of the "honest people." their band in full strength hastened to the paris avenue at versailles to receive the prisoners of châtillon. the whole parisian emigration, functionaries, elegants, women of the world and of the streets, all came with the rage of hyenas to strike the federals with closed hands, with canes and parasols, pushing off their képis and cloaks, crying, "down with the assassins! to the guillotine!" amongst these "assassins" was the geographer elisée reclus, taken with duval. in order to give them time to glut their fury, the escort made several halts before conducting their prisoners to the barracks of the gendarmes. they were then thrown into the docks of satory, and thence carried to brest in cattle-trucks. picard wanted to associate all the honest people of the provinces in this baiting. "never," telegraphed this falstaff of pustulous aspect, "have baser countenances of a base demagogy met the afflicted gaze of honest men." already, the evening before, after the assassinations of mont-valérien and of chatou, m. thiers had written to his prefects, "the moral effect is excellent." odious repetition of those words, "order reigns in warsaw," and "the chassepot has done wonders." ah! it is well known that it was not the french bourgeoisie, but a daughter of the people who spoke those great words, "i have never seen french blood shed without my hair standing on end." footnotes: [ ] macmahon, with his _coup-d'oeil_ of reischoffen and sedan, saw there , men. _enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] "to versailles, if we don't want again to resort to balloons! to versailles, if we don't want to fall back upon pigeons! to versailles, if we don't want to be reduced to bran bread," &c., &c.--_le vengeur_, rd april. [ ] these details, related in part by the journals of the time, have been completed by numerous comrades of duval whom we have questioned. in his mutilated, lying, naïvely cynical book, vinoy dared to say: "the insurgents threw down their arms an surrendered _at discretion_: the man called duval was _killed in the affray_." chapter xiii. the commune is vanquished at marseilles and narbonne. the same sun that saw the scale turn against paris looked also on the defeat of the people of marseilles. the paralytic commission still continued to dose, when, on the th, espivent beat the réveille, placed the department in a state of siege, and issued a proclamation _à la_ thiers. the municipal council began to tremble, and on the th withdrew their delegates from the prefecture. gaston crémieux and bouchet were at once sent to the mairie to announce that the commission was ready to withdraw before the council. the council asked for time to consider. the evening was passing away, and the commission searching for a loophole by which to escape from a position become untenable, when bouchet proposed to telegraph to versailles that they would resign their powers into the hands of a republican prefect. poor issue of a great movement! they knew what the republican prefects of m. thiers were. the commission, jaded, discouraged, let bouchet draw up the telegram, when landeck, amouroux, and may arrived, sent, they said, by paris. they spoke in the name of the great town. bouchet wanted to verify their powers and contested their validity, which were indeed more than contestable, whereat the members of the commission grew indignant. the magic name of victorious paris resuscitated the enthusiasm of the first hours, and bouchet left the place. at midnight the municipal council decided to maintain its resolution, and communicated this to the club of the national guard, who immediately followed their example. at half-past one in the morning the delegates of the club informed the commission that their powers were at an end. the liberal bourgeoisie, coward-like, stole away, the radicals backed out, and the people remained alone to face the reaction. this was the second phase of the movement. the most exalted of the three delegates, landeck, became an authority paramount to the commission. the cold-blooded republicans who heard him and knew of his past dealings with the imperialist police, suspected a bonapartist under the grossly ignorant bully. he was indeed but a juggler, meant for the itinerant stage, of grotesque vanity, and shrinking from nothing, because ignorant of everything. the situation waxed tragic with this mountebank for a leader. g. crémieux, unable to find another issue, was still for the solution of the evening before. on the th he wrote to the municipal council that the commission was ready to retire, leaving them the responsibility of events, and urged his colleagues to release the hostages; this only rendered him the more suspected of moderatism. closely watched, threatened, he lost heart at these disputes, and that same evening left the prefecture. his secession divested the commission of all authority. it succeeded in discovering his retreat, made an appeal to his devotion to the cause, and led him back to the prefecture, there to resume his strange part of a chief at once captive and responsible. the municipal council did not answer g. crémieux' letter and on the th the commission renewed its proposal. the council still remained silent. in the evening delegates of the national guard, met at the museum, decided to federate the battalions, and appointed a commission charged to negotiate between the hôtel-de-ville and the prefecture. but these delegates represented only the revolutionary element of the battalions, and the hôtel-de-ville plunged more and more into a slough of despond. a war of proclamations now ensued between the two powers. on the th the council answered the deliberations of the museum meeting by a proclamation of the chiefs of the reactionary battalions. the commission launched a manifesto demanding the autonomy of the commune and the abolition of prefectures; immediately after, the council declared the general secretary of the prefect the legal representative of the government, and invited him to retake his post. the secretary turned a deaf ear and took refuge aboard _la couronne_, many councillors also betaking themselves to the frigate--gratuitous cowardice, since the most notorious reactionists went to and fro without being in the least interfered with. the energy of the commission was mere show; it arrested only two or three functionaries, the procureur guibert, the deputy, and for a short time the director of the customhouse, and the son of the mayor. general ollivier was set free as soon as it became known that he had refused to form part of the mixed commissions of . they even were so facile as to leave a post close to the prefecture in the hands of chasseurs forgotten by espivent. the flight of the council, therefore, appeared only the more shameful. the town continued to be calm, gay, facetious. one day the advice-boat _le renard_ coming to show its cannon at the cannebière, the crowd thronging on the quay hooted so much that it was obliged to slip its cable and rejoin the frigate in the new harbour. therefore the commission inferred this, that no one would dare to attack them, and thus took no measures of defence. they might easily have armed the heights of notre-dame-de-la-garde, which commanded the town, and enlisted a great number of garibaldians, some officers of the last campaign having offered to organise everything. the commission thanked them, said that the troops would not come, and that even if they did, they would fraternise with the people. they contented themselves with hoisting the black flag, addressing a proclamation to the soldiers, and accumulating at the prefecture arms and cannon without projectiles of corresponding calibre. landeck, for his part, wanting to distinguish himself, declared espivent's grade forfeited, and in his place nominated a former cavalry sergeant named pelissier. "until the assumption of his functions," said the decree, "the troops will remain under the orders of general espivent." this gross farce dated from the st april. before the court-martial which tried him, pelissier hit the mark. when asked, "of what armies were you general?" "i was general of the situation," was his reply; and indeed he never did lead any troops. on the morning of the th the workmen had returned to their work, for the national guards, save the guardians of the prefecture, were not paid. men to garrison the posts were found with difficulty, and at midnight the prefecture had but a hundred defenders. a _coup-de-main_ would have been easy, and some rich bourgeois wanted to try it. the men were there and the manoeuvres agreed upon. at midnight the commission was to be carried off and the prefecture taken possession of, while espivent was to march on the town so as to get there by daybreak. an officer was despatched to aubagne. the general refused under the pretext of prudence, but his retinue revealed the true motive of the refusal. "we," they told the messenger, "have stolen away from marseilles like thieves; we want to re-enter it as conquerors." such a performance seemed rather difficult with the army of aubagne, or men, without _cadres_ and without discipline. one single regiment, the th chasseurs, showed a more martial carriage. but espivent relied upon the sailors of _la couronne_, the national guards of order, in continual relations with him, and above all, on the well-known supineness of the commission. the latter tried to strengthen itself by the adjunction of delegates from the national guard. they voted the dissolution of the municipal council, and the commission convoked the electors for the rd april. this measure, if taken on the th march, might perhaps have settled everything, but on the nd april it was only a stroke in the air. on the rd, at the news from versailles, espivent sent an order to the chiefs of the reactionary battalions to hold themselves in readiness. in the evening, at eleven o'clock, garibaldian officers came to inform the prefecture that the troops at aubagne were moving. the commission recommenced its old refrain: "let them come; we are ready to receive them." at half-past one they decided to beat the retreat, and towards four o'clock some men mustered at the prefecture. about a hundred franc-tireurs established themselves at the station, where the commission had not even thought of placing a battery. at five o'clock marseilles was on the alert. some reactionary companies appeared at the place du palais de justice and in the cours bonaparte; the sailors of _la couronne_ were drawn up before the bourse; the first shots were fired at the station. espivent's troops presented themselves at three points--the station, the place castellane, and la plaine. the franc-tireurs, notwithstanding a fine defence, were soon surrounded and obliged to retreat. the versaillese shot the federalist stationmaster under the eyes of his son, a child of sixteen, who threw himself at the feet of the officer, offering his life for his father's. the second stationmaster, funel, was able to escape with only a broken arm. the columns of la plaine and l'esplanade pushed their advanced posts as far as yards from the prefecture. the commission, always in the clouds, sent an embassy to espivent. g. crémieux and pélissier set out, followed by an immense mass of men and children, crying "vive paris!" at the outposts of the place castellane, the seat of the staff, the chief of the th chasseurs, villeneuve, came forward towards the delegates. "what are your intentions?" asked g. crémieux. "we want to re-establish order." "what! you would dare fire on the people?" cried g. crémieux, and commenced haranguing, when the versaillese threatened to order his chasseurs to march on. the delegates then had themselves conducted to espivent. he first spoke of putting them under arrest, but then would allow them five minutes for the evacuation of the prefecture. g. crémieux on his return found the chasseurs struggling with the crowd, who sought to disarm them. a new current of people, preceded by a black flag, arrived, making a vigorous push against the soldiers. a german officer of espivent's staff arrested pelissier, but the versaillese chiefs, seeing their men waver, ordered a retreat. the mass applauded, believing they would disband. two infantry corps had already refused to march, and the place de la prefecture was filled with groups certain of success. suddenly, towards ten o'clock, the chasseurs debouched by the rues de rome and de l'armény. the people shouted and surrounded them, when many raised the butt-end of their muskets. one officer who, urging on his company, made them cross bayonets, fell, his head pierced by a bullet. his men charged the federals, who took refuge and were taken prisoners in the prefecture, whither the chasseurs followed. the volleys of the national guards of order and the chasseurs from the cours bonaparte and from the house of the frères ignorantins, keeping up a running fire, were replied to by the federals from the windows of the prefecture. the fusillade had lasted two hours, and no reinforcement arrived in support of the federals. inexpugnable in the prefecture, a solid square building, they were none the less vanquished, having neither provisions nor sufficient munition, and it would have sufficed to wait with arms ordered till they had exhausted their cartridges. but the general of the sacré coeur would not put up with such a half-triumph. this was his first campaign; he wanted blood, and, above all, noise. since eleven o'clock he had had the prefecture bombarded from the top of notre-dame-de-la-garde, a distance of about yards. the fort st. nicolas also opened its fire, but its shells, less far-seeing than those of our lady-de-la-garde, dashed down upon the aristocratic houses of the cours bonaparte, killing one of those heroic guards of order who fired from behind the soldiers. at three o'clock the prefecture hoisted a flag of truce. espivent continued to fire. an envoy was sent to him, but he insisted upon their surrender at discretion. at five o'clock more than shells had traversed the edifice, wounding many federals. little by little, the defenders, seeing that they were not supported, left the place. the prefecture had long ceased firing when espivent was still bombarding it. the fright of this brute was so great that he continued throwing shells till nightfall. at half past seven the sailors of _la couronne_ and _le magnanime_ courageously stormed the prefecture, void of all its defenders. they found the hostages safe and sound, as were the chasseurs taken prisoner in the morning. yet the jesuitic repression was atrocious. the men of order arrested at hazard, and dragged their victims into the lamp-stores of the station. there an officer scrutinised the prisoners, made a sign to one or the other of them to step out, and blew out his brains. the following days there were rumours of summary executions in the barracks, the forts and the prisons. the number of dead the people lost is unknown, but it exceeded , besides many wounded who concealed themselves. the versaillese had thirty killed and fifty wounded. more than persons were thrown into the casemates of the château d'if and of the fort st. nicolas. g. crémieux was arrested at the porter's of the israelite cemetery. he voluntarily discovered himself to those who sought him, strong in his good faith, and still believing in the judges. the brave etienne was also taken. landeck, of course, had made his exit in good time. on the th espivent entered triumphantly, acclaimed with savage frenzy by the reactionists. but from the further ranks of the crowd cries and hisses rose against the murderers. at the place st. ferréol a captain was fired at, and the people stoned the windows of a house from which the sailors had been cheered. two days after the struggle, on its return from _la couronne_, the municipal council recovered its voice to strike the vanquished. the national guard was disarmed, a fierce reaction raged, the jesuits again lorded it, and espivent paraded about, receiving ovations to the cries of "vive jésus! vive le sacré coeur!" the club of the national guard was closed, bouchet arrested, and the radicals, insulted, persecuted, once more saw what it costs to desert the people. narbonne, too, was subdued. on the th march the prefect and the procureur-general issued a proclamation in which they spoke of "the handful of factious men," presented themselves as upholders of the true republic, and telegraphed everywhere the failure of the provincial movements. "is this a reason," digeon answered in a placard, "to lower before force this red flag dyed in the blood of our martyrs? let others consent to live eternally oppressed." whereupon he prepared for battle, and barricaded the streets leading to the hôtel-de-ville. the women, always to the fore, pulled up pavements and piled up furniture. the authorities, afraid of a serious resistance, sent m. marcou to his friend digeon. the brutus of carcassonne bestrode the hôtel-de-ville, accompanied by two republicans of limoux, to offer in the name of the procureur-general a full and complete amnesty to those who would evacuate the edifice. they offered digeon twenty-four hours to gain the frontier. digeon assembled his council, and all refused to fly. m. marcou hastened to inform the military authorities that they might now act.[ ] general zentz was at once sent to narbonne. at three o'clock in the morning a detachment of turcos reconnoitred the barricades of the rue du pont. the federals, anxious to fraternise, cleared it, and were received with a volley, killing two men and wounding three. on the st, at seven o'clock, zentz in a proclamation announced that the bombardment was about to recommence. digeon at once wrote to him, "i have the right to reply to such a savage menace in the same style. i warn you that if you bombard the town, i shall have the three prisoners who are in my power shot." zentz for all answer arrested the envoy, and had brandy distributed to the turcos, the only troops who would march. these brutes arrived at narbonne eager to loot, and had already pillaged three cafés. the fight was about to begin, when the procureur-general again sent two envoys, offering amnesty to all those who would evacuate the hôtel-de-ville before the opening of the fire, but the execution of the hostages would be punished by the massacre of all its occupants. digeon wrote out these conditions under the dictation of one of the envoys, read them to the federals, and left every one free to withdraw. at this moment the procureur-general presented himself with the turcos before the terrace of the garden. digeon rushed thither. the procureur harangued the multitude, and as he spoke of indulgence, digeon protested that an amnesty had just been promised. the procureur drowned the discussion in a roll of drums, read the legal _sommation_ in front of the hôtel-de-ville, and asked for the hostages, whom the soldiers who had deserted delivered over to him. all these parleys had profoundly enervated the defence. besides, the hôtel-de-ville could do nothing against a bombardment that would have battered the town. digeon had the edifice evacuated, and shut himself up alone in the cabinet of the mayor, resolved to sell his life dearly; but the people, in spite of his resistance, carried him off. the hôtel-de-ville was empty when the turcos arrived. they plundered in all its corners, and officers were seen to deck themselves with stolen valuables. notwithstanding the formal promises of amnesty, numerous warrants of arrest were issued. digeon refused to fly, and wrote to the procureur-general that he might arrest him. such a man at toulouse would have saved the movement and raised the whole south. * * * * * limoges had one glimpse of hope on the fatal day of the th april. that revolutionary capital of the centre could not look on the efforts of paris unmoved. on the rd march the société populaire, centralised all the democratic forces and passed a vote of thanks to the army of paris for its conduct on the th. when versailles called for volunteers, the society enjoined the municipal council to prevent such an incitement to civil war. the workingmen's societies despatched a delegate to paris soon after the proclamation of the commune, there to inquire into its principles, and to request the sending of a commissary to limoges. the members of the commune replied that this was impossible for the present, that they would consider it by and by; and never sent anybody. the société populaire was thus obliged to act alone. it urged the municipal council to hold a review of the national guards, certain that it would result in a demonstration against versailles. the council composed, with few exceptions, of timid men, tried to gain time, when the news of the rd april became known. on the morning of the th, on reading on the walls the triumphant telegram from versailles, the workmen revolted. a detachment of five hundred soldiers was about to leave for versailles; the crowd followed them to the station, and the workmen urged them to join the people. the soldiers, surrounded, much excited, fraternised, surrendered their arms, many of which were taken to the société populaire, and hidden there. the rappel was at once beaten. the colonel of cuirassiers, billet, who, accompanied by orderlies, rode through the town, was hemmed in by the people, and constrained to cry, "vive la république!" at five o'clock the whole national guard was in arms on the place de la mairie. the officers met in the hôtel-de-ville, where a councillor proposed to proclaim the commune. the mayor objected, but the cry resounded on all sides. captain coissac took upon himself to go to the station in order to stop the train ready for the departure of the troops. the other officers consulted their companies, which answered with one unanimous cry, "vive paris! a bas versailles!" soon after, the battalions, filing off before the hôtel-de-ville, preceded by two municipal councillors in their official costume, went to ask the general for the release of the soldiers arrested during the course of the day. the general gave the order to set them free, and at the same time sent word to colonel billet to prepare against the insurrection. from the place tourny the federals repaired to the prefecture, occupying it in spite of the resistance of the conservative national guards, and commenced throwing up some barricades. a few soldiers arriving from the rue des prisons, several citizens adjured the officers not to commence a civil war. these hesitated, retired, when colonel billet, at the head of about fifty cuirassiers, debouched on the place de l'eglise st. michel, and ordered his men to advance and draw swords. they fired their pistols, the federals answered, and the colonel was mortally wounded. his horse turning about, carried its rider as far as the place st. pierre, the other horses following, and the federals thus remained masters of the field. but lacking organisation, they disbanded in the night and left the prefecture. the next day the company that occupied the station seeing themselves abandoned withdrew. the arrests began, and many were obliged to hide. * * * * * thus the revolts of the great towns died out one by one like the lateral craters of an exhausted volcano. the revolutionists of the provinces showed themselves everywhere completely disorganised, without any faculty to wield power. everywhere victorious at the outset, the workmen had only known how to pronounce for paris. but at least they showed some vitality, generosity, and pride. eighty years of bourgeois domination had not been able to transform them into a nation of mercenaries; while the radicals, who either combated or held aloof from them, once more attested the decrepitude, the egotism of the middle-class, always ready to betray the workingmen to the "upper" classes. footnotes: [ ] "the general commanding the department and the procureur-general, aware that i had for thirty years been the friend of the man who commanded the commune at narbonne, came to solicit my intervention to induce him to submit. it was arranged that if i did not succeed i should immediately send a telegram to general robinet, in order that the military authorities might act in consequence. at midnight i sent the telegram.... you do not know me; it is thanks to my personal influence that order was maintained at carcassonne."--_speech of m. marcou to the assembly in answer to m. de gavardie, sitting of the th january ._ chapter xiv. the great resources of the commune--the great weakness of the council--nomination of cluseret--decree concerning the hostages--the central committee--the bank. committee--the bank. after an armistice of seventy days, paris again took up the struggle for france single-handed. it was no longer the territory only which she strove for, but the very ground-work of the nation. victorious, her victory would not be sterile as those of the battlefield; regenerated, the people would set to the great work of remaking the social edifice; vanquished, all liberty would be quenched, the bourgeoisie turn its whips into scorpions, and a generation glide into the grave. and paris, so generous, so fraternal, did not shudder at the impending civil war. she stood up for an idea that exalted her battalions. while the bourgeois refuses to fight, saying, "i have a family," the workman says, "i fight for my children." for the third time since the th march paris had but one soul. the official despatches, the hireling journalists established at versailles, pictured her as the pandemonium of all the black-legs of europe, recounted the thefts, the arrests _en masse_, the endless orgies, detailed sums and names. according to them, honest women no longer dared venture into the streets; , , persons oppressed by , ruffians were offering up ardent prayers for versailles. but the traveller running the risk of a visit to paris, found the streets and boulevards tranquil, presenting their usual aspect. the pillagers had only pillaged the guillotine, solemnly burnt before the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement. from all quarters the same murmur of execration rose against the assassination of the prisoners and the ignoble scenes at versailles. the incoherence of the first acts of the council was hardly noticed while the ferocity of the versaillese was the topic of the day. persons coming full of indignation against paris, seeing this calm, this union of hearts, these wounded men crying "vive la commune!" these enthusiastic battalions; there mont-valérien vomiting death, here men living as brothers, in a few hours caught the parisian malady. this was a fever of faith, of blind devotion, and of hope--of hope above all. what rebellion had been thus armed? it was no longer a handful of desperate men fighting behind a few pavements, reduced to charging their muskets with slugs or stones. the commune of , much better armed than that of , possessed at least , men, , muskets, , cannon, five forts; an enceinte covered by montmartre, belleville, the panthéon overtowering the whole city, munitions enough to last for years, and milliards at her bidding. what else is wanted to conquer? some revolutionary instinct. there was not a man at the hôtel-de-ville who did not boast of possessing it. the sitting of the rd april during the battle was stormy. many inveighed against this mad sortie. lefrançais, indignant at having been deceived, withdrew from the commission, which, called upon to explain, threw all the blame upon the generals. the friends of the latter took up their defence, demanded that news should be waited for. soon the disastrous tidings were brought, and they could not hesitate any longer. for such a usurpation of authority there was but one atonement possible. flourens and duval had made it voluntarily. the others ought to have followed. thus the dead would have been appeased, similar follies once for all cut short, and the authority of the commune brought home to the most refractory. but the men at the hôtel-de-ville were not of such inflexibility. many had fought, plotted together under the empire, lived in the same prisons, identified the revolution with their friends. and besides, the generals, were they alone guilty? so many battalions could not have bestirred themselves all the night without the council being informed thereof. though blind or deaf, they were none the less responsible. in order to be just they ought to have decimated themselves. they felt this, no doubt, and did not dare strike the generals. they might at least have dismissed them. they contented themselves with replacing them on the executive commission, and notified this measure most respectfully. "the commune was desirous to leave them all liberty in the conduct of the military operations; it was as far from wishing to disoblige them as from wishing to weaken their authority." and yet their heedlessness, their incapacity, had been mortal. their ignorance only saved them from the suspicion of having betrayed. this indulgence was big with promises for the future. this future meant cluseret. from the first days he had beset the central committee, the ministries, in quest of a generalship, his hands full of war plans against the mayors. the committee would have nothing to do with him. he then clung to the executive commission, which on the nd april, at seven o'clock in the evening, appointed him delegate at war, with the order to enter upon his duties immediately.[ ] the rappel was being beaten at that moment for the fatal sortie. cluseret took good care not to take possession of his post, allowed the generals to ruin themselves, and on the rd appeared before the council to denounce their "_gaminerie_." it was this military pamphlet-monger, with no pledge but his decoration, won against the socialists of , who had played the marionette in three insurrections, whom the socialists of charged with the defence of their revolution. the choice was execrable, the very idea of naming a delegate faulty. the council had just decided to keep on the defensive. to guard the lines, regularise the services, provision and administer the battalions, the best delegate would have been common sense. a commission, composed of a few active and laborious men, would have offered all guarantees of security. moreover, the council failed to point out what sort of defence they had in view. the defence of the forts, of the redoubts, of the accessory positions, required thousands of men, experienced officers, a war with the mattock as well as the musket. the national guard was not qualified for such soldiership. behind the ramparts, on the contrary, it became invincible. it would have sufficed to blow up the forts of the south, to fortify montmartre, the panthéon, and the buttes-chaumont, to strongly arm the ramparts, to create a second, a third enceinte, to render paris inaccessible or untenable to the enemy. the council did not indicate either of these systems, but allowed its delegates to dabble with the two, and finally annulled the one by the other. if they wished by the appointment of a delegate to concentrate the military power, why not dissolve the central committee? the latter acted, spoke more boldly and much better than the council which had excluded it from the hôtel-de-ville. the committee had installed itself in the rue de l'entrepôt, behind the customs house, near its cradle. thence on the th april it launched a fine proclamation: "workmen, do not deceive yourselves about the import of the combat. it is the engagement between parasitism and labour, exploitation and production. if you are tired of vegetating in ignorance and wallowing in misery, if you want your children to be men enjoying the benefit of their labour, and not mere animals trained for the workshop and the battlefield, if you do not want your daughters, whom you are unable to educate and overlook as you yearn to do, to become instruments of pleasure in the arms of the aristocracy of money, if you at last want the reign of justice, workmen, be intelligent, rise!" the committee certainly declared in another placard that it did not pretend to any political power, but power in times of revolution of itself belongs to those who define it. for eight days the council had not known how to interpret the commune, and its whole baggage consisted in two insignificant decrees. the central committee, on the contrary, very distinctly set forth the character of this contest, that had become a social one, pointed out behind the struggle for municipal liberties that devouring sphinx the question of the proletariat. the council might have profited by the lesson, endorsed if necessary that manifesto, and then, referring to the protestations of the committee, obliged it to dissolve itself. this was all the more easy that the committee, much weakened by the elections, only existed thanks to four or five members and its eloquent mouthpiece, moreau. but the council contented itself with mildly protesting at the sitting of the th, and as usual letting things get along as best they could. it was already drifting from weakness to weakness; and yet, if ever it believed in its own energy it was that day. the savagery of the versaillese, the assassination of the prisoners, of flourens and duval, had excited the most calm. they had been there full of life three days ago, these brave colleagues and friends. their empty places seemed to cry out for vengeance. well, then, since versailles waged a war of cannibals, they would answer an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. besides, if the council did not act, the people, it was said, would perhaps revenge itself, and more terribly. they decreed that any one accused of complicity with versailles would be judged within forty-eight hours, and if guilty, retained as a hostage. the execution by versailles of a defender of the commune would be followed by that of a hostage--by three said the decree, in equal or double number said the proclamation. these different readings betrayed the troubled state of their minds. the council alone believed in having frightened versailles. the bourgeois journals certainly shouted "abomination!" and m. thiers, who shot without any decrees, denounced the ferocity of the commune. at bottom they all laughed in their sleeves. the reactionists of any mark had long since fled; there only remained in paris the small fry and a few isolated men, whom, if needs be, versailles was ready to sacrifice.[ ] the members of the council, in their childish impetuosity, had not seen the real hostages staring them in the face--the bank, the civil register, the domains and the suitors' fund. these were the tender points by which to hold the bourgeoisie. without risking a single man, the commune had only to stretch out its hand and bid versailles negotiate or commit suicide. the timid delegates of the th march were not the men to dare this. in allowing the versaillese army to file off, the central committee had committed a heavy fault; that of the council was incomparably more damaging. all serious rebels have commenced by seizing upon the sinews of the enemy--the treasury. the council of the commune was the only revolutionary government that refused to do so. while abolishing the budget of public worship, which was at versailles, they bent their knees to the budget of the bourgeoisie, which was at their mercy. then followed a scene of high comedy, if one could laugh at negligence that has caused so much bloodshed. since the th march the governors of the bank lived like men condemned to death, every day expecting the execution of their treasure. of removing it to versailles they could not dream. it would have required sixty or eighty vans and an army corps. on the rd, its governor, rouland, could no longer stand it, and fled. the sub-governor, de ploeuc, replaced him. from his first interview with the delegates of the hôtel-de-ville he had seen through their timidity, given battle, then seemed to soften, yielded little by little, and doled out his money franc by franc. the bank, which versailles believed almost empty, contained: coin, millions;[ ] bank-notes, millions; bills discounted, millions; securities for advances made, millions; bullion, millions; jewels in deposit, millions; public effects and other titles in deposit, millions; that is, milliards million francs: millions in bank-notes only required the signature of the cashier, a signature easily made. the commune had then three milliards in its hands, of which over a milliard realised, enough to buy all the generals and functionaries of versailles; as hostages, , depositors of titles, and the two milliards in circulation whose guarantee lay in the boxes in the rue de la vrillière. on the th march old beslay presented himself before the tabernacle. de ploeuc had mustered his clerks, armed with muskets without cartridges. beslay, led through the lines of these warriors, humbly prayed the governor to be so kind as to supply the pay of the national guard. de ploeuc answered superciliously, spoke of defending himself. "but," said beslay, "if, to prevent the effusion of blood, the commune appointed a governor." "a governor! never!" said de ploeuc, who understood his man; "but a delegate! if you were that delegate we might come to an understanding." and, doing the pathetic, "come, m. beslay, help me to save this. this is the fortune of your country; this is the fortune of france." beslay, deeply moved, hurried off to the executive commission, repeated his lesson all the better that he believed it and prided himself on his financial lore. "the bank," he said, "is the fortune of the country: without it, no more industry, no more commerce. if you violate it, all its notes will be so much waste-paper."[ ] this trash circulated in the hôtel-de-ville, and the proudhonists of the council, forgetting that their master put the suppression of the bank at the head of his revolutionary programme, backed old beslay. at versailles itself, the capitalist stronghold had no more inveterate defenders than those of the hôtel-de-ville. if some one had at least proposed, "let us at least occupy the bank," but the executive commission had not the nerve to do this, and contented itself with commissioning beslay. de ploeuc received the good man with open arms, installed him in the nearest cabinet, even persuading him to sleep at the bank, made him his hostage, and once more breathed freely. thus since the first week the assembly of the hôtel-de-ville showed itself weak towards the authors of the sortie, weak towards the central committee, weak towards the bank, trifling in its decrees, in the choice of its delegate to the war office, without a military plan, without a programme, without general views, and indulging in desultory discussions. the radicals who had remained in the council saw whither it was drifting, and, not inclined to play the martyrs, they sent in their resignations. o revolution! thou dost not await the well-timed day and hour. thou comest suddenly, blind and fatal as the avalanche. the true soldier of the people accepts the combat wherever hazard may place him. blunders, defections, compromising companions do not dishearten him. though certain of defeat, he struggles still; his victory looms in the future. footnotes: [ ] such is the text of the decree. [ ] m. barthélemy st. hilaire, m. thiers' secretary, answered barral de montaut, who spoke of the possibility of a massacre in the prisons: "the hostages! the hostages! but we can do nothing. what should we do? so much the worse for them."--_enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] m. beslay, in his book _mes souvenirs_, paris, , says: "the cash in hand was forty and some odd millions." these "some odd" were no less than millions. they presented the good man fictitious statements, with which they gulled him. in his evidence and the annexes (_enquête sur le mars_, vol. iii. errata, p. ), m. de ploeuc has given the true statements. [ ] these were all the reasons he could ever allege, even in his book written in switzerland, whither m. de ploeuc himself went to deposit him after the fall of the commune. besides his life being saved, he, later on, received a judicial ordinance to the effect that no further judicial proceedings were to be taken against him. chapter xv. the first combats of neuilly and asniÈres--organisation and defeat of the conciliators. the rout of the rd april daunted the timorous but exalted the fervent. battalions inert until then rose; the armament of the forts no longer lagged. save issy and vanves, rather damaged, the forts were intact. all paris soon heard these fine cannon of seven, which trochu had disdained,[ ] firing so lustily and with such correct aim, that on the evening of the th the versaillese were obliged to evacuate the plateau of châtillon. the trenches that protected the forts were manned. les moulineaux, clamart, le val-fleury resounded with the fusillade. to the right we reoccupied courbevoie, and the bridge of neuilly was barricaded. thence we continued to threaten versailles. vinoy received the order to take neuilly. on the morning of the th, mont-valérien, recently armed with -pounders, opened fire on courbevoie. after six hours of bombardment the federals evacuated the cross-roads and took up a position behind the large barricade of the bridge of neuilly. the versaillese cannonaded it while it was protected by the porte-maillot. this porte-maillot, which has become legendary, had only a few cannon exposed to the fire from above of mont-valérien. for forty-eight days the commune found men to hold this untenable post. their courage electrified all. the crowd went to the arc-de-triomphe to see them, and the boys hardly waited for the explosion to run after the fragments of the shells. the parisian intrepidity soon reappeared in the first skirmishes. the bourgeois papers themselves regretted that so much ardour should not have been spent on the prussians. the panic of the rd april had witnessed heroic deeds, and the council, happily inspired, wanted to give the defenders of the commune a funeral worthy of them. it appealed to the people. on the th, at two o'clock, an innumerable multitude hurried up to the beaujon hospital, whither the dead had been transported. many, shot after the combat, bore on their arms the marks left by cords. there were heart-rending scenes. mothers and wives bending over these bodies uttered cries of fury and vows of vengeance. three immense catafalques, each containing thirty-five coffins, covered with black crape, adorned with red flags, drawn by eight horses each, slowly rolled towards the great boulevards, preceded by trumpets and the _vengeurs de paris_. delescluze and five members of the commune, with their red scarfs on and bare-headed, walked as chief mourners. behind them followed the relations of the victims, the widows of to-day supported by those of to-morrow. thousands upon thousands, men, women, and children, immortelles in their button-holes, silent, solemn, marched to the sound of the muffled drums. at intervals subdued strains of music burst forth like the spontaneous mutterings of sorrow too long contained. on the great boulevards we numbered , , and , pale faces looked down upon us from the windows. the women sobbed, many fainted. this via sacra of the revolution, the scene of so many woes and so many joys, has perhaps never witnessed such a communion of hearts. delescluze exclaimed in ecstasy, "what an admirable people! will they still say that we are a handful of malcontents?" at the père la chaise he advanced to the common grave. wrinkled, stooping, sustained only by his indomitable faith, this dying man saluted the dead. "i will make you no long speeches; these have already cost us too dear.... justice for the families of the victims; justice for the great town which, after five months of siege, betrayed by its government, still holds in its hands the future of humanity.... let us not weep for our brothers who have fallen heroically, but let us swear to continue their work, and to save liberty, the commune, the republic!" the following day the versaillese cannonaded the barricade and the avenue of neuilly. the inhabitants, whom they had not the humanity to forewarn, were obliged to take refuge in their cellars. towards half-past four the fire of the versaillese ceased, and the federals were snatching a little rest, when the soldiers debouched en masse on the bridge. the federals, surprised, attempted to arrest their progress, wounding one general and killing two, one of whom, besson, was responsible for the surprise of beaumont l'argonne during the march on sedan. but the soldiers in overwhelming force succeeded in pushing as far as the old park of neuilly. the loss of this outlet was all the more serious that bergeret, in a letter published in the _officiel_, had answered for neuilly. the executive commission replaced him by the pole dombrowski, whom garibaldi had demanded for his general staff during the war in the vosges. bergeret's staff protested, and their bickerings led to the arrest of their chief by the council, already grown suspicious. the national guard itself showed some distrust of the new general. the commission had to present him to paris, and, misinformed, invented a legend in his favour. dombrowski was not long in making it good. the same day the federals of neuilly beheld a young man, small of stature, in a modest uniform, slowly inspecting the vanguards in the thick of the fire. it was dombrowski. instead of the explosive glowing french bravery, the cool and, as it were, unconscious courage of the slav. in a few hours the new chief had conquered all his men. the able officer soon revealed himself. on the th, during the night, with two battalions from montmartre, dombrowski, accompanied by vermorel, took the versaillese by surprise at asnières, drove them off, seized their cannon, and from the ironclad railway carriages cannonaded courbevoie and the bridge of neuilly from the flank. at the same time his brother stormed the castle of bécon, that commands the road from asnières to courbevoie. vinoy having tried to retake this post on the night of the th- th, his men were shamefully repulsed, and fled to courbevoie as fast as their legs would carry them. paris was ignorant of this success, so defective was the service of the general staff. this brilliant attack was the deed of one man, just as the defence of the forts was the spontaneous work of the national guard. there was as yet no direction. whoever cared to rush into some venture did so; whoever wanted cannon or reinforcements went to ask for them at the place vendôme, at the central committee, at the hôtel-de-ville, of the generalissime cluseret. the latter had made his début with a blunder, calling out only the unmarried men from seventeen to thirty-five, thus depriving the commune of its most energetic defenders, the grey-headed men, the first and last under fire in all our insurrections. three days after, this decree had to be revoked. on the th, in his report to the council, this profound strategist announced that the attack of versailles masked a movement for occupying the forts of the right bank, at that moment in the hands of the prussians. like trochu, he blamed the cannonades of the last few days, for squandering, as he said, the munitions. and this when paris abounded in powder and shell; when her young troops should have been amused and sustained by artillery; when the versaillese of châtillon, incessantly pursued by our fire, were obliged to remove every night; when an uninterrupted cannonade alone could save neuilly. the council was no wiser in its measures of defence. it decreed compulsory service and the disarmament of the refractory; but the perquisitions, made at random, without the assistance of the police, did not procure a man or a hundred muskets the more. it voted life-pensions to the widows, to the parents of the federals killed in combat, to their children an annuity till the age of eighteen, and adopted the orphans. excellent measures these, raising the spirits of the combatants, only they assumed the commune victorious. was it not better, as in the cases of duval and dombrowski, to give at once a few thousand francs to those having a right to them? in fact, these unfortunate pensioners received but fifty francs from the commune. these measures, incomplete, ill-managed, implied a want of study and of reflection. the members came to the council as to a public meeting, without any preparation, there to proceed without any method. the decrees of the day before were forgotten, questions only half solved. the council created councils of war and court-martials, and allowed the central committee to regulate the procedure and the penalties; it organised one-half of the medical service and cluseret the other; it suppressed the title of general, and the superior officers retained it, the delegate at war conferring it on them. in the middle of a sitting, félix pyat bounded from his chair to demand the abolition of the vendôme column, while dombrowski was making desperate appeals for reinforcements. he had hardly , men to hold neuilly, asnières, and the whole peninsula of gennevilliers, while the versaillese were accumulating their best troops against him. from the th to th april they cannonaded the castle of bécon, and on the morning of the th attacked it with a brigade. the federals who occupied it held out for six hours, and the survivors fell back upon asnières, where panic entered with them. dombrowski, okolowitz, and a few sturdy men hastened thither, succeeded in re-establishing a little order and fortified the bridge-head. dombrowski asking for reinforcements, the war office sent him only a few companies. the following day our vanguard was surprised by strong detachments, and the cannon of courbevoie battered asnières. after a well-contested struggle, towards ten o'clock, several battalions, worn out, abandoned the southern part of the village. in the northern part the combat was desperate. dombrowski, in spite of telegram after telegram received only men. at five o'clock in the evening the versaillese made a great effort, and the federals, exhausted, fearing for their retreat, threw themselves upon the bridge of boats, which they crossed in disorder. the reactionary journals made much ado about this retreat. paris was stirred by it. this fierce obstinacy of the combat began to open the eyes of the optimists. till then many persons believed it all some dreadful misunderstanding and formed groups of conciliation. how many thousands in paris failed to understand the plan of m. thiers and the coalition till the day of the final massacre! on the th april some manufacturers and tradesmen had created the _national union of the syndical chambers_, and taken for their programme, maintenance and enfranchisement of the republic, acknowledgment of the municipal franchises of paris. the same day, in the quartier des ecoles, professors, doctors, lawyers, engineers, and students placarded a manifesto demanding a democratic and laical republic, an autonomous commune and the federation of the communes. an analogous group placarded a letter to m. thiers: "you believe in a riot, and you find yourself brought face to face with precise and universal convictions. the immense majority of paris demands the republic as a right superior to all discussion. paris has seen in the whole conduct of the assembly the premeditated design of re-establishing the monarchy." some dignitaries of the freemason lodges appealed at once to versailles and to the council: "stop the effusion of such precious blood." finally, a certain number of those mayors and adjuncts who had not capitulated till the eleventh hour, like floquet, corbon, bonvalet, &c., pompously got up the _republican union league for the rights of paris_. now they asked for the recognition of the republic, the right of paris to govern herself, and the custody of the town exclusively confided to the national guard; all that the commune had wanted--all that they had contented against from the th to the th of march. other groups were forming. all agreed on two points--the consolidation of the republic and the recognition of the rights of paris. almost all the communal journals reproduced this programme, and the republican journals accepted it. the deputies of paris were the last to speak, and then only to fall foul of paris. in that lachrymose and jesuitical tone with which he has travestied history,[ ] in those long-winded sentimental periods which serve to mask the aridity of his heart and the pettiness of his mind, that king of gnomes, louis blanc, wrote in the name of his colleagues: "not one member of the majority has as yet questioned the republican principle.... as to those engaged in the insurrection, we tell them that they ought to have shuddered at the thought of aggravating, of prolonging the scourge of the foreign occupation by adding thereto the scourge of civil discords." it is this that m. thiers repeated word for word to the first conciliators, the delegates of the _union syndicale_, who applied to him on the th may: "let the insurrection disarm; the assembly cannot disarm. but paris wants the republic. the republic exists; by my honour, so long as i am in power, it will not succumb. but paris wants municipal franchises. the chamber is preparing a law for all communes; paris will get neither more nor less." the delegates read a project of compromise which spoke of a general amnesty and a suspension of arms. m. thiers let them read on, did not formally contest a single article, and the delegates returned to paris convinced that they had discovered the basis of an arrangement. they had hardly left when m. thiers rushed off to the assembly, which had just endowed all communes with the right of electing their mayors. m. thiers ascended the tribune, demanding that this right should be restricted to towns of less than , souls. they cried to him, "it is already voted." he persisted, declaring that "in a republic the government must be all the better armed because order is the more difficult to maintain;" threatened to hand in his resignation, and forced the assembly to annul its vote. on the th, the _league of the rights of paris_ sounded the trumpet and had a solemn declaration placarded: "let the government give up assailing the facts accomplished on the th march. let the general re-election of the commune be proceeded with.... if the government of versailles remains deaf to these legitimate revindications, let it be well understood that all paris will rise to defend them."[ ] the next day the delegates of the league went to versailles, and m. thiers took up his old refrain, "let paris disarm," and would hear neither of an armistice nor of an amnesty. "pardon shall be extended" said he, "to those who will disarm, save to the assassins of clément-thomas and lecomte." this was to reserve himself the choice of a few thousands. in short, he wanted to be replaced in his position of the th march with victory into the bargain. the same day he said to the delegates of the masonic lodges, "address yourselves to the commune; what is wanted is the submission of the insurgents, and not the resignation of legal power." to facilitate this submission, the next day the _officiel_ of versailles compared paris to the plain of marathon infested by a band of "brigands and assassins." on the th, a deputy, brunet, having asked whether the government would or would not make peace with paris, the assembly adjourned this interpellation for a month. the league, thus well whipped, went on the th to the hôtel-de-ville. the council, foreign to all these negotiations, left them entirely free, and had only forbidden a meeting announced at the bourse by ill-disguised tirards. it contented itself with opposing to the league its declaration of the th: "you have said that if versailles remained deaf all paris would rise. versailles has remained deaf; arise." and to make paris the judge, the council loyally published in its _officiel_ the report of the conciliators. footnotes: [ ] out of pieces cast by paris during the siege, the government of the national defence only accepted forty, on the pretence that the others were imperfect.--vinoy, _siège de paris_, p. . [ ] sometimes even to falsification. in his account of the th thermidor, he makes barrère say to billaud-varennes, "do _not_ attack robespierre;" and on the strength of this expatiates on the greatness of his hero. now, the report of courtois that he quotes, hoping, no doubt, that no one would examine the accuracy of the statement, says, "attack _only_," and not "do _not_ attack." [ ] it seems there was a split in the league. the radicals, floquet, corbon, &c., disapproved of this semi-commanding attitude, and boasted of it later on before the committee of inquiry into the th march; but during the commune they made no public protest against this address. chapter xvi. the manifesto of the council--the complementary elections of the th april show a minority within the council--first disputes--the germs of defeat. for the second time the situation was distinctly marked out. if the council did not know how to define the commune, was it not in the most unmistakable manner, and before the eyes of all paris, declared to mean a camp of rebels by the fighting, the bombardment, the fury of the versaillese, and the rebuff of the conciliators? the complementary elections of the th april--death, double election returns, and resignations had given thirty-one vacant seats--revealed the effective forces of the insurrection. the illusion of the th march had vanished; the votes were now taken under fire. also the journals of the commune and the delegates of the syndical chambers in vain summoned the electors to the ballot-box. out of , who had mustered in these arrondissements at the election of the th march, there came now only , . the arrondissements of the councillors who had deserted their seats gave , instead of , votes. it was now or never the moment to explain their programme to france. the executive commission had on the th, in an address to the provinces, protested against the calumnies of versailles, but had confined itself to the statement that paris fought for all france, and had not set forth any programme. the republican protestations of m. thiers, the hostility of the extreme left, the desultory decrees, had completely led astray the provinces. it was necessary to set them right at once. on the th, a commission charged to draw up a programme presented its work, or rather the work of another. sad and characteristic symbol this; the declaration of the commune did not emanate from the council, its twelve publicists notwithstanding. of the five members charged to draw up the project, only delescluze contributed some passages; the technical part was the work of a journalist, pierre denis. in the _cri du peuple_ he had taken up and formulated as a law the whim of _paris a free town_, hatched in the first gush of passion of the vauxhall meetings. according to this legislator, paris was to become a hanseatic town, crowning herself with all liberties, and from the height of her proud fortress say to the enchained communes of france, "imitate me if you can; but mind, i shall do nothing for you but set an example." this charming plan had turned the heads of several members of the council, and too many traces of it were visible in the declaration. "what does paris demand?" it said. "the recognition of the republic. absolute autonomy of the commune extended to all localities of france. the inherent rights of the commune are: the vote of the communal budget; the settlement and repartition of taxes; the direction of the local services; the organisation of its magistracy, of its internal police, and of education; the administration of communal goods; the choice and permanent right of control over the communal magistrates and functionaries; the absolute guarantee of individual liberty, of the liberty of conscience and the liberty of labour; the organisation of urban defence and of the national guard; the commune alone charged with the surveillance and assurance of the free and just exercise of the right of meeting and of publicity.... paris wants nothing more ... on condition of finding in the great central administration, the delegation of the federated communes, the realisation and practical application of the same principle." what were to be the powers of that central delegation, the reciprocal obligations of the communes? the declaration did not state these. according to this text, every locality was to possess the right to shut itself up within its autonomy. but what to expect of autonomy in lower brittany, in nine-tenths of the french communes, more than half of which have not inhabitants,[ ] if even the parisian declaration violated the most elementary rights, charged the commune with the surveillance of the _just_ exercise of the right of meeting and of publicity, forgetting to mention the right of association? it is notorious, it has been proved but too well. the rural autonomous communes would be a monster with a thousand suckers attached to the flank of the revolution. no! thousands of mutes and blind are not fitted to conclude a social pact. weak, unorganised, bound by a thousand trammels, the people of the country can only be saved by the towns, and the people of the towns guided by paris. the failure of all the provincial insurrections, even of the large towns, had sufficiently testified this. when the declaration said, "unity such as has been imposed upon us until to-day by the empire, the monarchy and parliamentarism is only despotic, unintelligent centralisation," it laid bare the cancer that devours france; but when it added, "political unity, as understood by paris, is the voluntary association of all local initiative," it showed that it knew nothing whatever of the provinces. the declaration continued, in the style of an address, sometimes to the point: "paris works and suffers for all france, whose intellectual, moral, administrative, and economical regeneration she prepares by her combats and her sufferings.... the communal revolution, commenced by the popular initiative of the th march, inaugurates a new era." but in all this there was nothing definite. why not, taking up the formula of the th march, "to the commune what is communal, to the nation what is national," define the future commune, sufficiently extended to endow it with political life, sufficiently limited to allow its citizens easily to combine their social action, the commune of , to , souls, the canton-commune, and clearly set forth its rights and those of france? they did not even speak of federating the large towns for the conquest of their common enfranchisement. such as it was, this programme, obscure, incomplete, impossible in many points, could not, spite of some generous ideas, contribute much to the enlightenment of the provinces. it was only a project. no doubt the council was going to discuss it. it was voted after the first reading. no debate, hardly an observation. this assembly, which gave four days to the discussion on overdue commercial bills, had not one sitting for the study of this declaration, its programme in case of victory, its testament if it succumbed. to make things worse, a new malady infected the council, the germs of which, sown for some days, were brought to full maturity by the complementary elections. the romanticists gave rise to the casuists, and both came to loggerheads on the verification of the new mandates. on the th march the council had validated six elections with a relative majority. the reporter on the election of the th proposed declaring all those candidates elected who had received an absolute majority. the casuists grew indignant. "this would be," said they, "the worst blow that any government had dealt universal suffrage." but it was impossible to go on continually convoking the electors. three of the most devoted arrondissements had given no result; one of them, the thirteenth, being deprived of its best men, then fighting at the advanced posts. a new ballot would only set forth in bolder relief the isolation of the commune; and then, is the moment of the fight, when the battalion is decimated, deprived of its chief, the opportune time for insisting upon a regular promotion? the discussion was very warm, for in this outlawed hôtel-de-ville there sat outrageous legality-mongers. paris was to be strangled by their saving principles. already, in the name of holy autonomy, which forbade intervention with the autonomy of one's neighbour, the executive commission had refused to arm the communes round paris that asked to march against versailles. m. thiers took no more efficient measure to isolate paris. * * * * * twenty-six voices against thirteen voted the conclusions of the report. twenty elections only were declared valid,[ ] which was illogical; one with less than votes was admitted, another with rejected. all the elections should have been declared valid, or none at all. four of the new delegates were journalists, six only workmen. eleven sent by the public meetings came to strengthen the romanticists. two whose elections had been validated by the council refused to sit because they had not obtained the eighth part of the votes. the author of the admirable _propos de labiénus_, rogeard, allowed himself to be deceived by a false scruple of legality--the only weakness of this generous man, who devoted to the commune his pure and brilliant eloquence. his resignation deprived the council of a man of common sense, but once more served to unmask the apocalyptic félix pyat. * * * * * since the st april, scenting the coming storm and professing the same horror for blows as panurge, félix pyat had attempted to leave paris, sent in his resignation as member of the executive commission to the council, and declared his presence at versailles indispensable. the versaillese hussars making the sortie too perilous, he had condescended to stay, but at the same time assuming two masks, one for the hôtel-de-ville, the other for the public. in the council, at the secret sittings, he urged violent measures with the vivacity of a wild cat; in the _vengeur_ he held forth pontifically, shaking his grey hairs, saying, "to the ballot-box, not to versailles!" in his own paper he had two faces. did he want the suppression of the journals, he signed "le vengeur;" did he want to cajole, he signed félix pyat. the defeat of asnières struck him again with fear, and anew he looked out for a loophole. the resignation of rogeard opened it. under the shelter of this pure name félix pyat slipped in his resignation. "the commune has violated the law," wrote he. "i do not want to be an accomplice." and, to debar himself from any return to the council he involved the dignity of the latter. if, said he, it persisted, he would be forced, to his great regret, to send in his resignation "_before the victory_." he had counted on stealing away as from the assembly of bordeaux; but his roguery disgusted the council. the _vengeur_ had just blamed the suppression of several reactionary papers demanded many and many a time by félix pyat. vermorel denounced this duplicity. one member: "it has been said here that resignations would be considered as treason." another: "a man must not leave his post when that post is one of peril and of honour." a third formally demanded the arrest of félix pyat. "i regret," said another, "that it has not been distinctly laid down that resignation can only be tendered to the electors themselves." and delescluze added, "nobody has the right to withdraw for personal rancour or because some measure does not chime in with his ideal. do you then believe that every one approves what is done here? yes; there are members who have remained, and who will remain till the end, notwithstanding the insults hurled at us. for myself, i am decided to remain at my post, and if we do not see victory, we shall not be the last to fall on the ramparts or on the steps of the hôtel-de-ville." these manly words were received with prolonged cheers. no one's devotion was more meritorious. the habits of delescluze, grave and laborious, his high aspirations, alienated him more than any other from many of his colleagues, light-headed idlers, prone to personal bickerings. one day, weary of this chaos, he wanted to resign. it sufficed to tell him that his withdrawal would be very prejudicial to the cause of the people to persuade him to remain, and await, not victory--as well as félix pyat he knew that impossible--but the death that fecundates the future. félix pyat, so lashed from all sides, not daring to snap at delescluze, turned round upon vermorel, whom for all argument he called "spy;" and as vermorel was a member of the commission of public safety, accused him in the _vengeur_ of putting out of the way evidence accumulated against him at the prefecture of police. this member of the leporide species called vermorel "_bombic_." such was his mode of discussion. under the veil of literary refinement lurked the amenities of billingsgate. in , in the _constituante_, he called proudhon "_swine_;" and in , in the _commune_, he called tridon "_dunghill_." he was the only member of this assembly, where there were workmen of rude professions, who introduced ribaldry into the discussions. vermorel, replying in the _cri du peuple_, easily floored him. the electors of félix pyat sent him three summations to remain at his post: "you are a soldier; you must stay in the breach. it is we alone who have the right to revoke you." ferreted out by his mandatories, threatened with arrest by the council, this greek chose the lesser danger, and re-entered the hôtel-de-ville in mincing attitude. versailles was jubilant at these miserable triflings. for the first time the public became acquainted with the interior of the council, its infinitesimal coteries, made up of purely personal friendships or antipathies. whoever belonged to such a group got thorough support, whatever his blunders. far more; in order to be allowed to serve the commune, it was necessary to belong to such a confraternity. many sincerely devoted men offered themselves, tried democrats, intelligent employés, deserters from the government, even republican officers. they were overweeningly met by some incapable upstarts of yesterday, whose devotion was not to outlast the th may. and yet the insufficiency of the _personnel_ and the want of talent each day became more overwhelming. the members of the council complained that nothing was getting on. the executive commission did not know how to command, nor its subordinate how to obey; the council devolved power and retained it at the same time, interfered every moment with the slightest details of the service; conducted the government, the administration, and the defence like the sortie of the rd april. footnotes: [ ] seventy-three communes have more than , inhabitants; have from , to , ; from to , ; from to ; and from to . there are then only communes having more than inhabitants, at most that possess any political life. [ ] vesinier, cluseret, pillot, andrieu ( st arrondissement, louvre); pothier, serraillier, j. durand, johannard ( nd, bourse); courbet, rogeard ( th, luxembourg); sicard ( th, palais-bourbon); briosne ( th, opéra); philippe, lonclas ( th, reuilly); longuet ( th, passy); dupont ( th, batignolles); cluseret, arnold ( th, montmartre); menotti garibaldi ( th, buttes-chaumont); viard, trinquet ( th ménilmontant). chapter xvii. our parisiennes--suspension of arms for the evacuation of neuilly--the army of versailles and that of paris. the glorious flame of paris still hid these failings. one must have been enkindled by it to describe it. beside it the communard journals, in spite of their romanticism, show pale and dull. it is true the _mise en scéne_ was unpretending. in the streets, in the silent boulevards, a battalion of a hundred men setting out for the battle or returning from it; a woman who follows, a passer-by who applauds--that is all. but it is the drama of the revolution, simple and gigantic as a drama of Æschylus. the commander in his _vareuse_, dusty, his silver lace singed, his men greyheads or youths, the veterans of june and the pupils of march, the son often marching by the side of the father.[ ] this woman, who salutes or accompanies them, she is the true parisienne. the unclean androgyne, born in the mire of the empire, the madonna of the pornographers, the dumas fils and the feydeaux, has followed her patrons to versailles or works the prussian mine at st. denis. she, who is now uppermost, is the parisienne, strong, devoted, tragic, knowing how to die as she loves. a helpmeet in labour, she will also be an associate in the death-struggle. a formidable equality this to oppose to the bourgeoisie. the proletarian is doubly strong--one heart and four hands. on the th of march a federal addressed these noble words to the bourgeois battalions of the first arrondissement, making them drop their arms: "believe me, you cannot hold out; your wives are all in tears, and ours do not weep." she does not keep back her husband.[ ] on the contrary, she urges him to battle, carries him his linen and his soup, as she had before done to his workshop. many would not return, but took up arms. at the plateau de châtillon they were the last to stand the fire. the _cantinières_, simply dressed as workwomen, not fancy costumes, fell by dozens. on the rd april, at meudon, the citoyenne lachaise, _cantinière_ of the th battalion, remained the whole day in the field of battle, tending the wounded, alone, without a doctor. if they return, it is to call to arms. having formed a central committee at the mairie of the tenth arrondissement, they issued fiery proclamations: "we must conquer or die. you who say, 'what matters the triumph of our cause if i must lose those i love?' know that the only means of saving those who are dear to you is to throw yourselves into the struggle." their committees multiplied. they offered themselves to the commune, demanding arms, posts of danger, and complaining of the cowards who swerved from their duty.[ ] madame andré léo, with her eloquent pen, explained the meaning of the commune, summoned the delegate at the war office to avail himself of the "holy fever that burns in the hearts of the women." a young russian lady, of noble birth, educated, beautiful, rich, called demitrieff, was the théroigne de méricourt of this revolution. the proletarian character of the commune was embodied in louise michel, a teacher in the seventeenth arrondissement. gentle and patient with the little children, who adored her, in the cause of the people the mother became a lioness. she had organised a corps of ambulance nurses, who tended the wounded even under fire. there they suffered no rivals. they also went to the hospitals to save their beloved comrades from the harsh nuns; and the eyes of the dying brightened at the murmur of those gentle voices that spoke to them of the republic and of hope. in this contest of devotion the children fought with men and women. the versaillese, victorious, took of them, and many perished in the battle of the streets. thousands served during the siege. they followed the battalions to the trenches, in the forts, especially clinging to the cannon. some gunners of the porte-maillot were boys of from thirteen to fourteen years old. unsheltered, in the open country, they performed exploits of mad heroism.[ ] this parisian flame radiated beyond the enceinte. the municipalities of sceaux and st. denis united at vincennes to protest against the bombardment, revindicate the municipal franchises and the establishment of the republic. its heat was even felt in the provinces. they began to believe paris was impregnable, and laughed much at the despatches of m. thiers, saying on the rd april, "this day is decisive of the fate of the insurrection;" on the th, "the insurgents have to-day suffered a decisive defeat;" on the th, "this day is decisive;" on the th, "irresistible means are being prepared at versailles;" on the th, "we expect the decisive moment." and despite so many decisive successes and irresistible means, the versaillese army was all the while baffled at our advanced posts. its only decisive victories were against the houses of the enceinte and the suburbs. the neighbourhood of the porte-maillot, the avenue de la grande armée, and the ternes were continually lighting up with conflagrations. asnières and levallois were filling with ruins, the inhabitants of neuilly starving in their cellars. the versaillese threw against these points alone shells a day; and yet m. thiers wrote to his prefects, "if a few cannon-shots are heard, it is not the act of the government, but of a few insurgents trying to make us believe they are fighting, while they hardly dare show themselves." the commune assisted the bombarded people of paris, but could do nothing for those of neuilly, caught between two fires. a cry of pity went up from the whole press. all the journals demanded an armistice for the evacuation of neuilly; the freemasons and the _ligue des droits de paris_ interposed. with much trouble, for the generals did not want an armistice, the delegates got a suspension of arms for eight hours. the council appointed five of its members to receive the bombarded people; the municipalities prepared them an asylum, and some of the women's committees left paris to assist them. on the th, at nine o'clock in the morning, the cannon from the porte-maillot to asnières were silent. thousands of parisians went to visit the ruins of the avenue and the porte-maillot, a mortar of earth, granite, and fragments of shells; stood still, deeply moved, before the artillerists leaning on their famous pieces, and then dispersed all over neuilly. the little town, once so coquettish, displayed in the bright rays of the sun its shattered houses. at the limits agreed upon were two barriers, one of soldiers of the line, the other of federals, separated from each other by an interval of about twenty yards. the versaillese, chosen from amongst their most reliable troops, were watched by officers with hangdog looks. the parisians, good fellows, approached the soldiers, speaking to them. the officers immediately ran up shouting furiously. when a soldier gave a polite answer to two ladies, an officer threw himself upon him, tore away his musket, and pointing the bayonet at the parisiennes, cried, "this is how one speaks to them." some persons having crossed the boundary marked out were taken prisoners. still five o'clock struck without any massacre having occurred. the avenue grew empty. each parisian on returning home carried his sack of earth to the fortifications of the porte-maillot, which found themselves re-established as if by magic. in the evening the versaillese again opened fire. it had not ceased against the forts of the south. that same day the enemy unmasked on this side the batteries he had been constructing for a fortnight,--the first part of the plan of general thiers. he had on the th placed all the troops under the command of that macmahon, his stains of sedan still upon him. the army at this time was , strong, for the most part the residuum of depots, incapable of any serious action. to reinforce it and obtain soldiers, m. thiers had sent jules favre whining to bismarck. the prussians had set free , prisoners on harsher conditions of peace, and authorised his gossip thiers to augment to , men the number of soldiers round paris, which, according to the preliminaries of peace, were not to have exceeded , men. on the th april the versaillese army comprised five corps, two of them, those of douai and clinchant, composed of the released prisoners from germany and a reserve commanded by vinoy, all in all , men. it increased to , receiving rations, of whom , were combatants. m. thiers displayed real ability in setting it against paris. the soldiers were well fed, well dressed, severely overlooked; discipline was re-established. there occurred mysterious disappearances of officers guilty of having given utterance to their horror at this fratricidal war. still this was not yet the army for an attack, the men always scampering away before a steady resistance. despite official brag, the generals only counted upon the artillery, to which they owed the successes of courbevoie and of asnières. paris was only to be overcome by fire. as during the first siege, paris was literally hemmed in by bayonets, but this time half-foreign, half-french. the german army, forming a semi-circle from the marne to st. denis, occupying the forts of the east and of the north; the versaillese army, closing the circle from st. denis to villeneuve st. georges, mistress only of mont-valérien. the latter could then only attack the commune by the west and south. the federals had then the five forts of ivry, bicêtre, montrouge, vanves, and issy to defend themselves, with the trenches and the advanced posts that united them to each other, and the principal villages, neuilly, asnières, and st. ouen. the vulnerable point of the enceinte facing the versaillese was on the south-west, the salient of the point du jour, defended by the fort of issy. sufficiently covered on the right by the park, the castle of issy and a trench uniting it to the seine, commanded by our gunboats, this fort was overtopped in front and on the left by the heights of bellevue, meudon, and châtillon. m. thiers armed them with siege pieces which he had sent from toulon, cherbourg, douai, lyons, and besançon-- ordnance pieces--and their effect was such that from the first days the fort of issy was shaken. general cissey, charged with the command of these operations, immediately commenced manoeuvring. to crush the fort of issy and that of vanves, which supported it, then to force the point du jour, whence the troops could deploy into paris, such was m. thiers' plan. the only object of the operations from st. ouen to neuilly was to prevent our attack by courbevoie. what forces and what plan did the commune oppose? the returns stated about , men and officers for the active national guard; for the reserve, , men and officers.[ ] thirty-six free corps claimed to number men. all deductions made, , combatants might have been obtained had they known how to set about it. but the weakness of the council, the difficulty of supervision and repression, allowed the less brave and those who did not stand in need of pay, to shirk all control. many contrived to limit their services to the interior of paris. thus for want of order the effective forces remained very weak, and the line from st. ouen to ivry was never held by more than , or , federals. the cavalry existed only on paper. there were only horses to drag the guns or the waggons and to mount the officers and estafettes. the engineer department remained in a rudimentary state, the finest decrees notwithstanding. of the cannon possessed by paris, only were utilised. there were never more than artillerists, while the returns stated . dombrowski occupied the bridge of asnières, levallois, and neuilly with or men at the utmost.[ ] to protect his positions he had at clichy and asnières about thirty ordnance pieces and two ironclad railway carriages, which from the th april to the nd may, even after the entry of the versaillese, did not cease running along the lines; at levallois, a dozen pieces. the ramparts of the north assisted him, and the valiant porte-maillot covered him at neuilly. on the left bank, from issy to ivry, in the forts, the villages, and the trenches, there were , to , federals. the fort of issy contained on an average men and pieces of and centimetres, of which two-thirds were inactive. the bastions and relieved him a little, aided by four ironclad locomotives established on the viaduct of the point du jour. underneath, the gunboats, re-armed, fired on breteuil, sèvres, brimborion, even daring to push as far as châtillon, and, unsheltered, cannonaded meudon. a few hundred tirailleurs occupied the park and the castle of issy, the moulineaux, le val, and the trenches which united the fort of issy to that of vanves. this latter, exposed like issy, valiantly supported its efforts with a garrison of men and about cannon. the bastions of the enceinte supported it very little. the fort of montrouge, with men and to ordnance pieces, had only to support the fort of vanves. that of bicêtre, provided with men and pieces, had to fire at objects hidden from its view. three considerable redoubts protected it--the hautes bruyères, with men and pieces; the moulin saquet, with men and about pieces; and villejuif, with men and a few howitzers. at the extreme left, the fort of ivry and its dependencies had men and about pieces. the intermediate villages, gentilly, cachan, and arcueil, were occupied by to federals. the nominal command of the forts of the south, first confided to eudes, assisted by an ex-officer of garibaldi, la cécilia, on the th passed into the hands of the alsatian wetzel, an officer of the army of the loire. from his headquarters of issy he was to superintend the trenches of issy and of vanves and the defence of the forts. in reality, their commanders, who often changed, did just as they pleased. the command, from issy to arcueil was, towards the middle of april, entrusted to general wroblewski, one of the best officers of the polish insurrection, young, an adept in military science, brave, methodical, and shrewd, turning everybody and everything to account; an excellent chief for young troops.[ ] all these general officers never received but one order: "defend yourselves." as to a general plan, there never was one. neither cluseret nor rossel held councils of war. the men were also abandoned to themselves, being neither cared for nor controlled. scarcely any, if any, relieving of the troops under fire ever took place. the whole strain fell upon the same men. certain battalions remained twenty, thirty days in the trenches, while others were continually kept in reserve. if some men grew so inured to fire that they refused to return home, others were discouraged, came to show their clothes covered with vermin and asked for rest. the generals were obliged to retain them, having no one to put in their places. this carelessness soon destroyed all discipline. the brave wanted to rely only upon themselves, and the others slunk from the service. the officers did the same, some leaving their posts to assist the fight at a contiguous place, others returning to the town. the court-martial sentenced a few of them very severely. the council quashed the sentences, and commuted one condemnation to death to three years' imprisonment. as they recoiled from rigour, from regular war discipline, they ought to have changed their method and their tactics. but the council was now even less capable of showing will of its own than on the first day. it always lamented that things were at a stand-still, but did not know how to set them going. on the th, the military commission, declaring that decrees and orders remained a dead letter, charged the municipalities, the central committee, and the _chefs-de-légions_ with the reorganisation of the national guard. not one of these mechanisms functioned methodically; the council had not even thought of organising paris by sections; the central committee intrigued; the _chefs de légions_ were agitated; certain members of the council and generals dreamt of a military dictatorship. in the midst of this fatal wrestling, the council discussed during several sittings whether the pawn-tickets to be given back gratuitously to their owners should amount to twenty or thirty francs, and whether the _officiel_ should be sold for five centimes. towards the end of april, no observer of any perspicacity could fail to see that the defence had become hopeless. in paris, active and devoted men exhausted their strength in enervating struggles with the bureaux, the committees, the sub-committees, and the thousand pretentious rival administrations, often losing a whole day in order to obtain possession of a single cannon. at the ramparts, some artillerists riddled the line of versailles, and, asking for nothing but bread and iron, stood to their pieces until torn away by shells. the forts, their casemates staved in, their embrasures destroyed, lustily answered the fire from the heights. brave skirmishers, unprotected, surprised the line-soldiers in their lurking-places. all this devotion and dazzling heroism were spent in vain, like the steam of an engine escaping through hundreds of issues. footnotes: [ ] appendix iv. [ ] and what sublime faith in their naïveté! we heard in an omnibus two women on their return from the trenches. the one wept; the other said to her, "do not distress yourself; our husbands will come back. and then the commune has promised to take care of us and of our children. but no! it is impossible they should be killed in defending so good a cause. besides i would rather have my husband dead than in the hands of the versaillese." [ ] "my heart bleeds to see that only those ready to volunteer engage in the combat. this is not, citizen delegate, a denunciation; far from me such a thought; but i fear lest the weakness of the members of the commune should cause our great projects for the future to miscarry." this heroic letter is taken from a book, _le fond de la société sous la commune_, which contains documents found by the army in different mairies and administrations. the work in general is an odious caricature, of which the author himself, a joseph prudhomme, in the shape of a bloodhound, is certainly the most ridiculous trait. [ ] appendix v. [ ] very approximate numbers. the return of the _officiel_ of the th may is very incomplete. in general, these statements were erroneous, fictitious, especially after the administration of meyer. [ ] the figures which i give have been carefully verified _de visu_, first during the struggle, afterwards with generals, superior officers, and functionaries of the war office. general appert has drawn up merely fantastic returns. he has created imaginary brigades, manufactured effective returns by counting as regular combatants all men who, at any time, might have been told off for active service, and constantly duplicated the items of his accounts. he has thus contrived to give more than , men to dombrowski, and as much as , to the three commanders--quite ridiculous figures. his report swarms with mistakes as to names and functions; he does not even know the names of certain general commanders. it possesses no kind of historical value. [ ] a member of the council discovered him, and presented him at the war office, where he explained his ideas: "but," it was remarked to him, "this is word for word what félix pyat does not cease saying to us." "a few days ago," answered wroblewski, "i sent félix pyat a memorandum." rossel went to pyat's bureau, and there found the memorandum. for several days this trickster had been making capital of the ideas of wroblewski without the least allusion to their author, and astounding the commission by his common sense and technical knowledge. chapter xviii. the public services--finance--war--police--exterior--justice --education--labour and exchange. the insufficiency and the weakness of the executive commission became so shocking, that on the th the council decided to replace it by the delegates of the nine commissions, amongst whom it had distributed its different functions. these commissions were renewed the same day. in general they were rather neglected; and how could one man attend to the daily sittings of the hôtel-de-ville, to his commission and his mairie? for the council had charged its members with the administration of their respective arrondissements; and the real work of the several commissions weighed on the delegates who had presided over them from their origin, and for the most part were not changed on the th april. they continued to act, as heretofore, almost single-handed. before proceeding with our narrative we will look more narrowly into their doings. two delegations required only good-will--those of the victualling department and of the public or municipal services. the provisioning of the town was carried on through the neutral zone, where m. thiers, however anxious to starve paris,[ ] could not prevent a regular supply of food. all the foremen having remained at their posts, the municipal services did not suffer. four delegations--finance, war, public safety, exterior--required special aptitude. the three others, education, justice, labour and exchange, had to propound the philosophical principles of this revolution. all the delegates save frankel, a workman, belonged to the small middle-class. the commission of finance centered in jourde, who, with his inexhaustible garrulity, had eclipsed the too modest varlin. the task imposed was to procure every morning , francs for the payment of the services, to feed , persons, and find the sinews of war. besides the , , francs in the coffers of the treasury, millions in shares and other effects had been found in the finance office; but jourde could not or would not negotiate them, and to fill his exchequer he had to lay hold of the revenues of all the administrations--the telegraph and postal offices, the octrois, direct contributions, custom house offices, markets, tobacco, registration and stamps, municipal funds and the railway duties. the bank, little by little, paid back the , , francs due to the town, and even parted with , , francs on its own account. from the th march to the th april, twenty-six millions were thus scraped together. during the same period the war office alone absorbed over twenty. the intendance received , , francs, all the municipalities together , , , the interior , , marine , , justice , commerce , , education _one thousand_ only, exterior , , firemen , , national library , , commission of barricades , , l'imprimerie nationale , , the association of tailors and shoemakers , . these proportions remained almost the same from the st may to the fall of the commune. the expenses of the second period rose to about twenty millions. the sum total of the expenses of the commune was about , , francs, of which , , were supplied by the bank, and the rest by the various services, the octrois yielding nearly twelve millions. most of these services were under the superintendence of workmen or former subordinate employés, and were all carried on with a fourth part of their ordinary numerical strength. the director of the postal department, theisz, a chaser, found the service quite disorganised, the divisionary bureaux closed, the stamps hidden away or carried off, the material, seals, the carts, &c., taken away, and the coffers empty. placards posted up in the hall and courts ordered the employés to proceed to versailles on pain of dismissal, but theisz acted with promptitude and energy. when the subordinate employés who had not been forewarned came as usual to organise the mail service, he addressed them, discussed with them, and had the doors shut. little by little they gave way. some functionaries who were socialists also lent their help, and the direction of the various services was intrusted to the head-clerks. the divisionary bureaux were opened, and in forty-eight hours the collection and distribution of letters for paris reorganised. as to the letters destined for the provinces, clever agents threw them into the offices of st. denis and ten miles round, while for the introduction of letters into paris every latitude was given to private initiative. a superior council was instituted, which raised the wages of postmen, sorters, porters, caretakers of the bureaux, shortened the time of service as supernumeraries, and decided that the ability of the employés should be tested for the future by means of tests and examinations.[ ] the mint, directed by camélinat, a bronze-mounter, one of the most active members of the international, manufactured the postage stamps. at the mint, as at the general post-office, the versaillese director and principal employés had first parleyed, then made off. camélinat, supported by some friends, bravely took this place, had the works continued, and every one contributing his professional experience, improvements in the machinery as well as new methods were introduced. the bank, which concealed its bullion, was obliged to furnish about , francs' worth, immediately coined into five-franc pieces. a new coin-plate was engraved, and was about to be put into use, when the versaillese entered paris. the department of public assistance also depended on that of the finances. a man of the greatest merit, treilhard, an old exile of , reorganised this administration, which he found entirely out of order. some doctors and agents of the service had abandoned the hospitals; the director and the steward of the petits-ménages at issy had fled, thus reducing many of their pensioners to go out begging. some employés forced our wounded to wait before the doors of the hospital, while the sisters of mercy tried to make them blush for their glorious wounds; but treilhard soon put all in order, and, for the second time since , the sick and the infirm found friends in their guardians and blessed the commune. this kind-hearted and intellectual man, who was assassinated by a versaillese officer on the th may at the panthéon, has left a very elaborate report on the suppression of bureaux of charity, which chain the poor to the government and to the clergy. he proposed having them replaced by a bureau of assistance in each arrondissement, under the direction of a communal committee. the telegraph-office, registration, and domains, cleverly directed by the honest fontaine; the service of the contributions, entirely re-established by faillet and combault; the national printing press, which debock reorganised and administered with remarkable dexterity,[ ] and the other departments connected with that of finance, ordinarily reserved to the great bourgeoisie, were managed with skill and economy--the maximum of the salaries, francs, was never reached--by workmen, subordinate employés; and this is not one of their least crimes in the eyes of the versaillese bourgeoisie. compared with the finance department, that of war was a region of darkness and utter confusion. officers and guards encumbered the offices of the ministry, some demanding munitions and victuals, others complaining of not being relieved. they were sent back to the place vendôme, maintained in the teeth of common sense, and directed by the rather equivocal colonel, henry prudhomme. on the floor below, the central committee, installed there by cluseret, bustled, spent time and breath in endless sittings, found fault with the delegate at war, amused itself with creating new insignia, received the malcontents of the ministry, asked returns from the general staff, claimed to give advice on military operations. in its turn, the committee of artillery, founded on the th march, wrangled about the disposal of the cannon with the war office. the latter had the pieces of the champ-de-mars and the committee those of montmartre. attempts at creating a central park of artillery,[ ] or even at learning the exact number of the ordnance pieces, were made in vain. pieces of long range remained to the last moment lying along the ramparts, while the forts had only pieces of seven and twelve centimetres to answer the huge cannon of marine, and often the munitions sent were not of corresponding calibre. the commissariat, assailed by adventurers of all sorts, took their stores at haphazard. the construction of the barricades, which were to form a second and third enceinte, instituted on the th april, had been left to a crotchety fellow, sowing works broadcast without method and against the plans of his superiors. all the other services were conducted in the same style, without fixed principles, without limitation of their respective provinces, the wheels of the machine not working within one another. in this concert without a conductor, each instrumentalist played what he liked, confusing his own score with his neighbour's. a firm and supple hand would soon have restored harmony. the central committee, despite its assumption of lecturing the commune, which it said was "its daughter and must not be allowed to go astray," was now only an assemblage of talkers devoid of all authority. it had, to a great extent, been renewed since the establishment of the commune, and the much-contested elections to it--for many aspired to the title of member--had given a majority of flighty, heedless men.[ ] in its present state this committee derived its whole importance from the jealousy of the council. the committee of artillery, monopolised by brawlers, would have yielded at once to the slightest pressure. the commissariat and the other services depended entirely upon the action of the delegate at war. the phantom general, stretched on his sofa, hatched orders, circulars, now melancholy, now commanding, and never stirred a finger to watch over their execution. if some member of the council came to rouse him, "what are you doing? such a place is in peril;" he answered loftily, "all my precautions are taken; give my combinations time to be accomplished," and turned over again. one day he bullied the central committee, which left the ministry to go and sulk in the rue de l'entrepôt; a week later he went after the same committee, reinstating it at the war office. vain to shamelessness,[ ] he showed sham letters from todleben proposing plans of defense, and spent his time in posing to correspondents of foreign journals. with an affectation of pride, he never put on a uniform, which, however, at that time was the true dress of the proletarian. it took the council almost a month to recognise that this pithless braggart was only a disappointed officer of the standing army, his airs of an innovator notwithstanding. many hopes turned to the chief of his staff, rossel, a young radical, twenty-eight years old, self-restrained, puritanic, who was sowing his revolutionary wild oats. a captain of engineers in the army of metz, he had attempted to resist bazaine, and escaped from the prussians. gambetta had appointed him colonel of engineers at the camp of nevers, where he was still lingering on the th march. he was dazzled; saw in paris the future of france, and his own; threw up his commission and hurried thither, where some friends placed him in the th legion. he was haughty, soon became unpopular, and was arrested on the rd april. two members of the council, malon and ch. gérardin, had him set free and presented him to cluseret, by whom he was accepted as chief of the general staff. rossel, fancying that the central committee was a power, made up to it, seemed to ask it for advice, and sought out the men he thought popular. his coldness, his technical vocabulary, his clearness of speech, his get up as a great man, enchanted the bureaux, but those who studied him more closely noticed his unsteady look, the infallible sign of a perturbed spirit. by degrees the young revolutionary officer became the fashion, and his consular bearing did not displease the public, sickened at the flabbiness of cluseret. nothing, however, justified this infatuation. chief of the general staff since the th april, he allowed all the services to shift for themselves; the only one in some measure organised, the _control of general information_, was the work of moreau, who every morning furnished the war office and the commune with detailed, and often very picturesque, reports on the military operations and the moral condition of paris. this was about all the police the commune had. the commission of public safety, which should have thrown light upon the most secret recesses, emitted only a fitful glimmering. the central committee had appointed raoul rigault, a young man of twenty-four, much mixed up in the revolutionary movement, as civil delegate to the prefecture of police, but under the severe direction of duval. rigault well kept in hand might have made a very good subaltern, and so long as duval lived he did not go wrong. the unpardonable fault of the council was to place him at the head of a service where the slightest mistake was more dangerous than at the advanced posts. his friends, who, with the exception of a small number, ferré, regnard, and two or three others, were as young and as giddy-headed as himself, discharged in a boyish way the most delicate functions. the commission of public safety, which ought to have superintended rigault, only followed his example. there, above all, did they live as boon companions, apparently unaware of having assumed the guardianship of, and the responsibility for, , lives. no wonder the mice were soon seen playing round the prefecture of police. papers suppressed in the morning were cried out in the evening in the streets; the conspirators wormed themselves into all the services without exciting the suspicion of rigault or his companions. they never discovered anything; it was always necessary to do it for them. they made arrests like military marches in the daytime, with large reinforcements of national guards. after the decree on the hostages, they had only managed to lay hands on four or five ecclesiastics of mark, the gallican archbishop darboy, an arrant bonapartist; his grand-vicar, lagarde; the curate of the madeleine; deguerry, a kind of de morny in cassock; the abbé allard, the bishop of surat; and a few jesuits of nerve. chance only delivered into their hands the president of the court of appeal, bonjean,[ ] and jecker, the famous inventor of the expedition to mexico.[ ] this culpable heedlessness, which the people have paid for with their blood, was the salvation of criminals. some national guards had brought to light the mysteries of the picpus convent, discovered three unfortunate women shut up in grated cages, strange instruments,[ ] corselets of iron, straps, racks, which smacked strangely of the inquisition, a treatise on abortion, and two skulls still covered with hair. one of the prisoners, the only one whose reason had not given way, said that she had been in this cage for ten years. the police contented itself with sending the nuns to st. lazare.[ ] some inhabitants of the tenth arrondissement had discovered feminine skeletons in the caves of the st. laurent church. the prefecture only made a show of inquiry that ended in nothing. however, in the midst of all these faults, the humanitarian idea revealed itself, so thoroughly sound was this popular revolution. the chief of the bureau of public safety, making an appeal to the public for the victims of the war, said, "the commune has sent bread to ninety-two wives of those who are killing us. the widows belong to no party. the republic has bread for every misery and care for all the orphans." admirable words these, worthy of châlier and of chaumette. the prefecture, overrun by denunciations, declared that it would take no account of the anonymous ones. "the man," said the _officiel_, "who does not dare to sign a denunciation serves a personal rancour and not the public interest." the hostages were allowed to obtain from without food, linen, books, papers, to be visited by their friends, and to receive the reporters of foreign journals. an offer was even made m. thiers to exchange the hostages of greatest mark, the archbishop, deguerry, bonjean, and lagarde, for the single blanqui. to conduct this negotiation the vicar-general was sent to versailles, after having sworn to the archbishop and the delegate to return to his prison in case of non-success. but m. thiers thought that blanqui would give a head to the movement, while the ultramontanes, eagerly covetous of the episcopal seat of paris, took good care not to save the gallican darboy, whose death would be a double profit, leaving them a rich inheritance, and giving them at small expense a martyr. m. thiers refused, and lagarde remained at versailles.[ ] the council did not punish the archbishop for this want of faith, and a few days after set his sister at liberty. never even in the days of despair was the privilege of women forgotten. the culpable nuns of picpus and the other religieuses conducted to st. lazare were confined in a special part of the building. the prefecture and the delegation of justice also evinced their humanity in ameliorating the service of the prisons. the council in its turn, striving to guarantee individual liberty, decreed that every arrest should be immediately notified to the delegate of justice, and that no perquisition should be made without a regular warrant. national guards, misinformed, having arrested certain individuals reputed suspicious, the council declared in the _officiel_ that every arbitrary act would be followed by a dismissal and immediate prosecution. a battalion looking for arms at the gas company's thought itself authorised to seize the cash-box; the council at once had the sum returned. the commissary of police who arrested gustave chaudey, arraigned for having commanded fire on the nd january, had also seized the money of the prisoner; the council dismissed the commissary. to prevent all abuse of power, it ordered an inquiry into the state of the prisoners and the motives of their detention, authorising at the same time all its members to visit the prisoners. rigault thereupon sent in his resignation, which was accepted, for he was beginning to weary everybody, and delescluze had been obliged to rebuke him. his pranks filled the columns of the versaillese journals, always on the look-out for scandals. they accused this childish police of terrorising paris, and represented the members of the council, who refused to endorse the condemnations of the court-martial, as assassins. the figarist historians have kept up this legend. that vile bourgeoisie, which bent its head under the , arrests of december, the _lettres de cachet_ of the empire, and applauded the , arrests of may, still howls about the or arrests made under the commune. they never exceeded this figure in two months of strife, and two-thirds of those arrested were only imprisoned a few days, many only a few hours. but the provinces, only fed with news by the versaillese press, believed in its inventions, amplified in the circulars of m. thiers telegraphing to the prefects: "the insurgents are emptying the principal houses of paris in order to put the furniture to sale." to enlighten the provinces and provoke their intervention, such was the rôle of the delegation of the exterior, which, under an ill-chosen title, was only second in importance to that of war. since the th april--(i shall afterwards recount these movements)--the departments had been stirring. save that of marseilles, in part disarmed, the national guard everywhere had guns. in the centre, east, west and south, powerful diversions might easily have been made, the stations occupied, and thereby the reinforcements and artillery destined for versailles arrested. the delegation contented itself with sending some few emissaries, without knowledge of the localities they were sent to, without tact and without authority. it was even exploited by traitors, who pocketed its money and handed over its instructions to versailles. well-known republicans, familiar with the habits of the provinces, offered their services in vain. there, as elsewhere, it was necessary to be a favourite. finally, for the work of enlightening and rousing france to insurrection, only a sum of , francs was allowed. the delegation put forth only a small number of manifestoes, one a true and eloquent résumé of the parisian revolution, and two addresses to the peasants, one by madame andré leo, simple, fervent, quite within the reach of the peasantry: "brother, you are being deceived. our interests are the same. what i ask for, you wish it too. the affranchisement which i demand is yours.... what paris after all wants is the land for the peasant, the instrument for the workmen." this good seed was carried away in free balloons, which, by a cleverly-contrived mechanism, from time to time dropped the printed papers. how many were lost, fell among thorns! this delegation, created only for the exterior, entirely forgot the rest of the world. throughout all europe the working-classes eagerly awaited news from paris, were in their hearts fellow-combatants of the great town, now become their capital, multiplied their meetings, processions, and addresses. their papers, poor for the most part, courageously struggled against the calumnies of the bourgeois press. the duty of the delegation was to hold out a hand to these priceless auxiliaries: it did nothing. some of these papers exhausted their last means in defense of the commune, which allowed its defenders to succumb for want of bread. the delegation, without experience, without resources, could not fight against the astute cleverness of m. thiers. it showed great zeal in protecting foreigners, and sent the rich silver plate of the ministry to the mint, but it did almost no real work. now we come to the delegations of vital importance. since, by the force of events, the commune had become the champion of the revolution, it ought to have proclaimed the aspirations of the century, and, if it was to die, leave at least their testament on its tomb. it would have sufficed to state lucidly the ensemble of institutions demanded for forty years by the revolutionary party. the delegate of justice, a lawyer, had only to make a summary of the reforms long since demanded by all socialists. it was the part of a proletarian revolution to show the aristocracy of our judicial system the despotic and antiquated doctrines of the code napoleon; the sovereign people hardly ever judging themselves, but judged by a caste issued from another authority than their own, the absurd hierarchy of judges and tribunals, the _tabellionat_, the procureurs, , notaries, solicitors, sheriffs' officers, registrars, bailiffs, advocates and lawyers, draining national wealth to the amount of many hundreds of millions. it was, above all, for a revolution made in the name of the commune to endow the commune with a tribunal at which the people, restored to their rights, should judge by jury all cases, civil and commercial, misdemeanours as well as crimes; a final tribunal, without any appeal but for informalities, to state how solicitors, registrars, sheriffs, may be rendered useless, and the notaries replaced by simple registration officers. the delegate mostly limited himself to appointing notaries, sheriffs' officers, and bailiffs, provided with a fixed salary,--very useless appointments in a time of war, and which, besides, had the fault of consecrating the principle of the necessity for such officers. scarcely anything progressive came of it. it was decreed that, in case of arrests, the minutes were to state the motives and the names of the witnesses to be called, while the papers, valuables and effects of the prisoners were to be deposited at the suitors' fund. another decree ordered the directors of lunatic asylums to send the nominal and explanatory statement concerning their patients within four days. if the council had thrown some light on these institutions, which veil so many crimes, humanity would have been its debtor. however, these decrees were never executed. did practical instinct make up for want of science on the part of the delegation? did it shed light upon the mysteries of the caves of picpus, the skeletons of st. laurent? it seemed to take no notice of them, and the reaction made merry at these supposed discoveries. the delegation even missed the opportunity of winning over to the commune, if only for one day, all republicans of france. jecker was in their power. rich, brave, audacious, he had always lived certain of impunity, since bourgeois legality inflicts no chastisement for crimes like the mexican expedition. the revolution alone could smite him. nothing was more easy than to proceed against him. jecker, pretending to have been the dupe of the empire, craved to make revelations. in a public court, before twelve jurors chosen at hazard, in the face of the world, through him the mexican expedition might have been sifted, the intrigues of the clergy unveiled, the pockets of the thieves turned out; it might have been shown how the empress, miramon, and morny had set the plot on foot, in what cause and for what men france had lost seas of blood and hundreds of millions. afterwards the expiation might have been accomplished in the open day, on the place de la concorde, in face of the tuileries. poets, who rarely get shot, would perhaps have sighed, but the people, the eternal victim, would have applauded, and said, "the revolution alone does justice." they neglected even to question jecker. the delegation at the education department was bound to write one of the finest pages of the commune, for, after go many years of study and experiments this question should spring forth ready armed from a truly revolutionary brain. the delegation has not left a memoir, a sketch, an address, a line, to bear witness for it in the future. yet the delegate was a doctor, a student of the german universities. he contented himself with suppressing the crucifixes in the schoolrooms and making an appeal to all those who had studied the question of teaching. a commission was charged to organise primary and professional instruction, whose work consisted in announcing the opening of a school on the th may. another commission for the education of women was named on the day the versaillese entered paris. the administrative action of the delegate was confined to impracticable decrees and a few appointments. two devoted and talented men, elie reclus and b. gastineau, were charged with the reorganisation of the national library. they forbade the lending of books, thus putting an end to the scandalous practice by which a privileged few carved out a private library from public collections. the federation of artists, presided over by courbet, elected member of the council on the th april, occupied itself with the re-opening and superintendence of the museums. nothing would be known of the ideas of this revolution on education were it not for a few circulars of the municipalities. many had reopened the schools abandoned by the congregationists and the municipal teachers, or driven away the priests who had remained. the municipality of the twentieth arrondissement clothed and fed the children; that of the fourth said, "to teach children to love and respect their fellow-creatures, to inspire them with a love of justice, to teach them that they must instruct themselves in the interests of all, such are the principles of morality on which for the future communal education will be based." "the teachers of the schools and infant asylums," declared the municipality of the seventeenth arrondissement, "will for the future exclusively employ the experimental and scientific method, that which always starts from facts, physical, moral, intellectual." but these vague formulas could not make amends for the want of a complete programme. who, then, will speak for the people? the delegation of labour and exchange. exclusively composed of revolutionary socialists, its purpose was, "the study of all the reforms to be introduced into the public services of the commune or into the relations of the working men and women with their employers; the revision of the commercial code and customhouse duties; the transformation of all direct and indirect taxes, the establishment of statistics of labour." it intended collecting from the citizens themselves the materials for the decrees to be submitted to the commune. the delegate to this department, leo frankel, procured the assistance of a commission of initiative composed of workingmen. registers for offers and demands of work were opened in all the arrondissements. at the request of many journeymen bakers night-work was suppressed, a measure of hygiene as much as of morality. the delegation prepared a project for the suppression of pawnshops, a decree concerning stoppages of wages, and supported the decree relative to workshops abandoned by their runaway masters. their plan gratuitously returned the pledged objects to the victims of war and to the necessitous. those who might refuse to confess this latter title were to receive their pledges in exchange for a promise of repayment in five years. the report terminated with these words: "it is well understood that the suppression of the pawnshops is to be succeeded by a social organisation giving serious guarantees of support to the workmen thrown out of employment. the establishment of the commune necessitates institutions protecting the workmen from the exploitation of capital." the decree that abolished stoppages of salaries and wages put an end to one of the most crying iniquities of the capitalist régime, these fines often being inflicted on the most futile pretext by the employer himself, who is thus at once judge and plaintiff. the decree relative to the deserted workshops made restitution to the mass, dispossessed since centuries, of the property of their own labour. a commission of inquiry named by the syndical chambers was to draw up the statistics and the inventory of the deserted workshops to be given back into the hands of the workmen. thus "the expropriators were in their turn expropriated." the nineteenth century will not pass away without having begun this revolution; every progress in machinery brings it nearer. the more the exploitation of labour concentrates itself in a few hands, the more the working multitude are massed together and disciplined. soon, conscious and united, the producing class will, like the young france of , have to confront but a handful of privileged appropriators. the most inveterate revolutionary socialist is the monopolist. no doubt this decree contained voids and stood in need of an elaborate explanation, especially on the subject of the co-operative societies to which the workshops were to be handed over. it was no more than the other applicable in this hour of strife, and required a number of supplementary decrees; but it at least gave some idea of the claims of the working-class, and had it nothing else on its credit side, by the mere creation of the commission of labour and exchange, the revolution of the th march would have done more for the workmen than all the bourgeois assemblies of france since the th may, . the delegation of labour wanted to look carefully into the contracts of the commissariat. it demonstrated that in the case of contracts adjudicated to the lowest bidder, the running down of prices falls upon wages and not on the profit of the contractor. "and the commune is blind enough to lend itself to such manoeuvres," said the report, "and at this very moment, when the workingman dares death rather than submit any longer to this exploitation." the delegate demanded that the estimate of charges should specify the cost of labour, that the orders should by preference be given to the workmen's corporations, and the contracting prices fixed by arbitration between the commissariat, the syndical chamber of the corporation, and the delegate of labour. to overlook the financial administration of all the delegations, the council in the month of may instituted a superior commission charged to audit their accounts. it decreed that functionaries or contractors guilty of peculation or theft should be punished with death. in short, save the delegation of labour, where they did work, the fundamental delegations were unequal to their task. all committed the same fault. during two months they had in their hands the archives of the bourgeoisie since . there was the cour des comptes (a judicial board of accounts) to disclose the mysteries of official jobbery; the council of state, the dark deliberations of despotism; the prefecture of police, the scandalous under-currents of social power; the ministry of justice, the servility and crimes of the most oppressive of all classes. in the hôtel-de-ville there lay deposited the still unexplored records of the first revolution, of those of , , , and all diplomatists of europe dreaded the opening of the portfolios at the foreign office. they might have laid bare before the eyes of the people the intimate history of the revolution, the directory, the first empire, the monarchy of july, , and of napoleon iii. they published only two or three fascicles.[ ] the delegates slept by the side of these treasures, heedless, as it seemed, of their value. the radicals, seeing these lawyers, these doctors, these publicists, who allowed jecker to remain mute and the cour des comptes closed, would not believe in such ignorance, and still affect to unriddle the enigma with the word "bonapartism." a stupid accusation, given the lie by a thousand proofs. for the honour even of the delegates the bitter truth must be told. their ignorance was not simulated, but only too real. to a great extent it was the offspring of past oppression. footnotes: [ ] appendix vi. [ ] appendix vii., report by theisz. [ ] appendix viii. [ ] there were five parks--the hôtel-de-ville, the tuileries, the ecole militaire, montmartre, vincennes. in all, including the artillery of the forts and that of the open country, the commune had more than cannon, howitzers, mortars, and mitrailleuses. [ ] the second central committee was composed of forty members, of whom twelve only had formed part of the first committee. [ ] "do you know," said he to delescluze, "that versailles has offered me a million?" "be silent!" answered delescluze, turning his back upon him. [ ] he was arrested on the th march in his private room in the palace of justice, where he had given the procureur-general a rendezvous. [ ] he was recognised as he asked for his passport at the prefecture of police. [ ] the correspondent of the _times_ wrote in the number of th may: "the superior and her nuns explained that these were orthopædic instruments--a superficial falsehood. the mattress and straps struck me as being easily accounted for; i have seen such things used in french midwifery and in cases of violent delirium; but the rack and its adjuncts are justly objects of grave suspicion, for they imply a use of brutal force which no disease at present known would justify." [ ] the nun who filled the post of superior, a big and bold virago, answered rigault in an easy-going manner. "why have you shut up these women?" "to do their families a service; they were mad. see gentlemen, you are young men of good families; you'll understand that sometimes one is glad to conceal the madness of one's relations." "but do you not know the law?" "no, we obey our superiors." "whose books are these?" "we know nothing about them." thus affecting simpleness, they sold the simpletons. [ ] this negotiation has in part been recounted in the _officiel_ of the commune. we add further details. soon after his arrest the archbishop wrote to m. thiers begging him to stop the execution of the prisoners, on which the lives of the hostages depended. m. thiers did not answer. an old friend of blanqui's, flotte, went to the president to propose an exchange, and said that the archbishop might incur peril. m. thiers made a decided gesture: "what does it matter to me?" flotte again took up the negotiation through darboy, who named deguerry as envoy to versailles. the prefecture, unwilling to give up such a hostage, the vicar-general lagarde took deguerry's place. the archbishop furnished him with instructions, and on the th april flotte conducted lagarde to the station and made him swear to return if he failed in his mission. lagarde swore, "even if to be shot, i shall return. can you believe that i could for a single moment harbour the thought of leaving monseigneur alone here?" at the moment when the train was about to start, flotte insisted again, "do not go if you have not the intention of returning." the priest again renewed his oath. he went off, and handed over a letter in which the archbishop solicited the exchange. m. thiers, pretending to know nothing of this one, answered the first, which a communalist journal had just published. his answer is one of his masterpieces of hypocrisy and falsehood: "the facts to which you call my attention are absolutely false, and i am really surprised that so enlightened a prelate as you, monseigneur.... our soldiers have never shot prisoners nor sought to kill the wounded. that, in the heat of the combat, they may have turned their arms against men who assassinate their generals, is possible; but, the combat terminated, they resume the natural generosity of the national character. i therefore spurn, monseigneur, the calumny that has been told you. i affirm that our soldiers have never shot prisoners." on the th flotte received a letter in which lagarde informed him that his presence was still indispensable at versailles. flotte complained to the archbishop, who could not believe in this desertion. "it is impossible," said he, "that m. lagarde should remain at versailles; he will come back; he has sworn it to me myself," and he gave flotte a note for lagarde. the latter answered that m. thiers retained him. on the rd darboy wrote to him again: "on the reception of this letter, m. lagarde is immediately to retrace his steps to paris and to re-enter mazas. this delay compromises us gravely, and may have the saddest results." lagarde did not answer any more. blanqui, transported to the fort du taureau, was rigorously kept in solitary confinement. his friends thought of delivering him, and a sum of , francs was prepared for his release. but much more would have been necessary, and, above all, adroit agents, for the least imprudence would have cost the life of the prisoner. the affair was procrastinated, and part of the funds were still in the coffers of the committee of public safety at the entry of the versaillese. [ ] georges duchêne began examining the commercial transactions of the government of national defence, but he published nothing. chapter xix. the freemasons join the commune--the first evacuation of the fort of issy--creation of the committee of public safety. m. thiers was fully acquainted with the failings of the commune, but he also knew the weakness of his army. besides, he piqued himself upon playing the soldier before the prussians. in order to appease his colleagues, eager for the assault on paris, he received haughtily the conciliators, who multiplied their advances and their lame combinations. everybody intermeddled, from the good and visionary considérant down to the cynic girardin, down to saisset's ex-aide-de-camp schoelcher, who had replaced his plan of battle of the th march by a plan of conciliation. these encounters became the common topics of raillery. since its pompous declaration, "all paris will rise," the _ligue des droits de paris_ had been altogether sunk out of sight. it was perfectly understood that these radicals were in search of some decent contrivance to back out of the peril. at the end of april their sham movements served only as a foil to set off the courageous conduct of the freemasons. on the st april the freemasons, having gone to versailles to ask for the armistice, complained of the municipal law recently voted by the assembly. "what!" m. thiers replied, "but this is the most liberal one we have had in france for eighty years." "we beg your pardon, and how about the communal institutions of ?" "ah! you want to return to the follies of our fathers?" "but, after all, are you then resolved to sacrifice paris?" "there will be some houses riddled, some persons killed, but the law will be enforced." the freemasons had this hideous answer placarded in paris. on the th they met at the châtelet, and several proposed that they should go and plant their banners on the ramparts. a thousand cheers answered. m. floquet, who, with an eye to the future, had sent in his resignation as deputy, together with mm. lockroy and clémenceau, protested against this co-operation of the small middle-class with the people. his shrill voice was drowned in the enthusiastic cries in the hall.[ ] on the motion of ranvier, the freemasons went up to the hôtel-de-ville, preceded by their banner, where they were met by the council in the court of honour. "if at the outset," said their spokesman, thirifocq, "the freemasons did not wish to act, it was because they wanted to have certain proof that versailles would not hear of conciliation. they are ready to-day to plant their banner on the rampart. if one single ball touches it, the freemasons will march with the same ardour as yourselves against the common enemy." this declaration was loudly applauded. jules vallès, in the name of the commune, tendered his red scarf, which was twisted round the banner, and a delegation of the council accompanied the brethren to the masonic temple in the rue cadet. they came three days after to redeem their word. the announcement of this intervention had given great hope to paris. from early in the morning an immense crowd encumbered the approaches to the carrousel, the rendezvous of all the lodges; and, despite a few reactionary freemasons, who had protested in a placard, at ten o'clock , brethren, representing fifty-five lodges, had gathered in the carrousel. six members of the council led them to the hôtel-de-ville in the midst of the crowd and a lane of battalions. a band, playing music of solemn and ritual character, preceded the procession; then came superior officers, the grand-masters, the members of the council, and the brethren, with their wide blue, green, white, red or black ribbon, according to their grade, grouped around sixty-five banners that had never before been displayed in public. the one carried at the head of the procession was the white banner of vincennes, bearing in red letters the fraternal and revolutionary inscription, "_love one another_." a lodge of women was especially cheered. the banners and a numerous delegation were introduced into the hôtel-de-ville, the members of the council waiting to receive them on the balcony of the staircase of honour. the banners were fixed along the steps. these standards of peace by the side of the red flag, this small middle-class joining hands with the proletariat under the proud image of the republic, these cries of fraternity dazzled, brightened up even the most downcast. félix pyat indulged in a rhapsody of words and rhetorical antitheses. old beslay was much more eloquent in a few words broken by true tears. a brother solicited the honour of being the first to plant on the rampart the banner of his lodge, _la persévérance_, founded in , in the era of the great federations. a member of the council presented the red flag: "let it accompany your banners; let no hand henceforth turn us against each other." and the orator of the delegation, thirifocq, pointing to the banner of vincennes: "this will be the first to be presented before the ranks of the enemy. we will say to them, 'soldiers of the mother country, fraternise with us, come and embrace us.' if we fail, we shall go and join the companies of war." when the delegates left the hôtel-de-ville, a free balloon, marked with the three symbolical points, made an ascent, here and there dropping the manifesto of the freemasons. the immense procession having shown the bastille and the boulevards its mysterious banners, frantically applauded, arrived about two o'clock at the cross-roads of the champs-elysées. the shells of mont-valérien obliged them to take the bye-streets on their way to the arc-de-triomphe. there a delegation of all the venerables went to plant the banners at the most dangerous posts, from the porte-maillot to the porte-bineau. when the white flag was hoisted on the outpost of the porte-maillot the versaillese ceased firing. the delegates of the freemasons and some members of the council, appointed by their colleagues to accompany them, advanced, headed by their banner, into the avenue of neuilly. at the bridge of courbevoie, before the versaillese barricade, they found an officer who conducted them to general montaudon, himself a freemason. the parisians explained the object of their manifestation, and asked for a truce. the general proposed that they should send a deputation to versailles. three delegates were chosen, and their companions returned to the town. in the evening silence reigned from st. ouen to neuilly, dombrowski having taken upon himself to continue the truce. for the first time for twenty-five days the sleep of paris was not disturbed by the report of cannon. the next day the delegates returned. m. thiers had hardly deigned to receive them, had shown himself impatient, irritated, decided to grant nothing and to admit no more deputations. the freemasons then resolved to march to battle with their insignia. in the afternoon the _alliance républicaine des départements_ made an act of adhesion to the commune. millière, who had quite joined the movement without being able to gain the confidence of the hôtel-de-ville, exerted himself to group the provincials residing at paris. who does not know what the provinces contributed in blood and sinew to the great town? out of , prisoners of french origin figuring in the official reports of versailles, there were, according to their own statement, only , born parisians. each departmental group was to strain itself to enlighten its native place, to send circulars, proclamations, delegates. on the th all the groups met in the court of the louvre to vote an address to the departments, and all, about , men, headed by millière, went to the hôtel-de-ville "to renew their adhesion to the patriotic work of the commune of paris." the procession was still passing when a sinister rumour spread: the fort of issy had been evacuated. under cover of their batteries, the versaillese, pushing forward, had on the night of the th to the th surprised the moulineaux, by which the park of issy may be reached. on the following day sixty pieces of powerful calibre concentrated their shells on the fort, while others occupied vanves, montrouge, the gunboats and the enceinte. issy answered valiantly, but our trenches, to which wetzel ought to have attended, were in bad condition. on the th the bombardment redoubled and the projectiles ploughed the park. at eleven o'clock in the evening the versaillese ceased firing, and in the nocturnal stillness surprised the federals and occupied the trenches. on the th, at five o'clock in the morning, the fort, which had received no warning of this incident, found itself surrounded by a semi-circle of versaillese. the commander, mégy, was disconcerted, sent for reinforcements, but received none. the garrison grew alarmed, and these federals, who had cheerfully withstood a hailstorm of shells, took fright at a few skirmishers. mégy held a council, and the evacuation was decided upon. the cannon were precipitately spiked--so badly that they were unnailed the same evening--and the bulk of the garrison left. some men with different notions of duty made it a point of honour to stay at their post. in the course of the day a versaillese officer summoned them to surrender within a quarter of an hour on pain of being shot. they did not even answer. at three o'clock cluseret and la cécilia arrived at issy with a few companies picked up in haste. they deployed as skirmishers, drove the versaillese from the park, and at six o'clock the federals reoccupied the fort. at the entrance they found a child, dufour, near a wheelbarrow filled with cartridges and cartouches, ready to blow himself up, and, as he believed, the vault with him. in the evening vermorel and trinquet brought other reinforcements, and we reoccupied all our positions. at the first rumour of the evacuation, national guards had hurried to the hôtel-de-ville interpellating the executive commission. it denied having given any order to evacuate the fort, and promised to punish the traitors if there were any. in the evening it arrested cluseret on his arrival from the fort of issy. strange rumours circulated about him, and he quitted the ministry without leaving the slightest trace of any useful work whatever. as to the defence of the interior, all he had done was to bury cannon at the trocadéro, which, he said, were to breach mont-valérien. at a later period, after the fall of the commune, he endeavoured to throw his whole incapacity upon his colleagues, treating them in english reviews as vain and ignorant fools, imputing villanies to a man like delescluze, stating that his arrest had ruined everything, and modestly calling himself the "incarnation of the people."[ ] this panic of issy was the origin of the committee of public safety. already on the th april, at the end of the sitting, miot, one of the best-bearded men of , had risen to demand "without phrases" the creation of a committee of public safety, having authority over all the commissions. being pressed to give his reasons, he majestically replied that he believed the committee necessary. there was only one opinion as to the necessity of strengthening the central control and action, for the second executive commission had shown itself as impotent as the first, each delegate going his own way and decreeing on his own account. but what signified this word committee of public safety, this parody of the past and scarecrow of boobies? it jarred with this proletarian revolution, this hôtel-de-ville, whence the original committee of public safety had torn away chaumette, jacques roux and the best friends of the people. but the romanticists of the council had only a smattering of the history of the revolution, and this high-sounding title delighted them. they would have there and then voted it but for the energy of some colleagues, who insisted on a discussion. "yes," said these latter, "we want a vigorous commission, but give us no revolutionary pasticcio. let the commune be re-formed; let it cease to be a small talkative parliament, quashing one day, just as it suits its caprices, what it created the day before." and they proposed an executive committee. the votes were equally divided. the affair of issy turned the scale. on the st may _ayes_ against _noes_ carried the title of committee of public safety. on the whole of the project voted for and against. several had voted for the committee notwithstanding its title, with the only object of creating a strong power. many explained their votes. some alleged they were obeying the _mandat imperatif_ of their electors. some wanted "to make the cowards and traitors tremble;" others simply declared, like miot, that "it was an indispensable measure." félix pyat, who had egged on miot, and violently supported the proposition in order to win back the esteem of the ultras, gave this cogent reason: "yes: considering that the words _salut public_ are absolutely of the same epoch as the words french republic and commune of paris." but tridon: "no: because i dislike useless and ridiculous cast-off old clothes." vermorel: "no: they are only words, and the people have too long taken up with words." longuet: "not believing any more in words of salvation than in talismans and amulets, i vote no." seventeen collectively declared against the institution of a committee, which, they said, would create a dictatorship, and others pleaded the same motive, which was puerile enough. the council remained so sovereign that eight days after it overturned the committee. having protested by this vote, the opponents ought afterwards to have made the best of the situation. tridon had certainly said, "i see no men to put in such a committee;" all the more reason not to leave the place to the romanticists. instead of coming to an understanding with those of their colleagues who were desirous to concentrate the power and not galvanise a corpse, the opponents folded their arms. "we can," they said, "appoint no one to an institution considered by us as useless and fatal.... we consider abstention as the only dignified, logical, and politic attitude." the ballot, thus stigmatised beforehand, gave a power without authority; there were only votes. ranvier, a. arnaud, leo meillet, ch. gérardin, félix pyat were named. the alarmists might comfort themselves. the only one of real energy, the upright and warm-hearted ranvier, was at the mercy of his blind kindliness. the friends of the commune, the brave soldiers of the trenches and of the forts, then learnt that there was a minority at the hôtel-de-ville. it put in its appearance at the very moment when versailles unmasked its batteries. this minority, which, with the exception of some ten members, comprised the most enlightened and the most laborious members of the council, was never able to accommodate itself to the situation. these men could never understand that the commune was a barricade, not a government. this was the general error, the superstitious belief in their governmental longevity; hence, for instance, they delayed for seven months the date for the total return of the pledges at the pawnshops. there were perhaps as many dreamers in the minority as in the majority. some put forward their principles like the head of a medusa, and would have made no concessions even for the sake of victory. they strained the reaction against the principle of authority to the verge of suicide. "we," they said, "were for liberty under the empire; in power we will not deny it." even in exile they have fancied that the commune perished through its authoritative tendencies. with a little diplomacy, by yielding to circumstances and the weaknesses of their colleagues, they might have detached from the majority all men of real value.[ ] tridon had come to them uninvited, but his was a superior mind; they ought to have made advances to the others, opposing to the mere braggarts precise ideas, and by true energy reduced the turbulent. they remained unrelenting, dogged, and contented themselves with forcible protests. thenceforth divergences degenerated into hostilities. the council-room was small, badly ventilated; the soon overheated atmosphere ruffled the temper. the discussions grew bitter, and félix pyat turned them into attacks. delescluze never spoke but for union, concord. the other would have preferred the commune dead rather than saved by one of those he bore a grudge to, and he hated whoever smiled at his craziness. he did not mind discrediting the council, aspersing its most devoted members, so that he resented a trespass on his vanity. he could lie with perfect effrontery, carve out some infamous calumny, slaver a colleague, then suddenly, in emotional attitude, open his arms, exclaiming, "let us embrace." he now accused vermorel of having sold his journal to the empire after having offered it to the orléanists. he glided about in the lobbies, the commissions, a barrère of the boards, now insinuating, now foaming, now patriarchal. "the commune! why it is my child! i have watched over it for twenty years. i have nursed, i have rocked it." to hear him, the th march was owing to him. he thus enlisted the naïve, the light-headed sent to the council by the public meetings, and, despite his blank incapacity, shown by the man while a member of the first executive, despite his attempts at fight, he picked up twenty-four voices at the election of the committee of public safety. the aspic profited by it to hiss forth discord. disunion within the council was fatal, the mother of defeat. it ceased--let the people know this as well as their faults--when they thought of the people, when they rose above these miserable personal quarrels. they followed the funeral of pierre leroux, who had defended the insurgents of june, ; ordered the demolition of the bréa church, built in memory of a justly punished traitor; of the expiatory monument, an affront to the revolution; were not forgetful of the political prisoners still at the bagnio, and ennobled the place d'italie with the name of duval. all socialist decrees passed unanimously; for though they differed they were all socialists. there was but one voice in the council to expel two of its members guilty of some former offence,[ ] and no one even in the thick of the peril dared to utter the word capitulation. footnotes: [ ] before the commission of inquiry at the assembly he has assumed the attitude of a daniel in the lions' den. the meeting, however, contented with hissing him, for paris let these impotent drones buzz as much as they liked without taking any notice of them. [ ] appendix ix. [ ] the minority formed a nucleus of twenty-two members: andrieu, arnold, a. arnould, avrial, beslay, clémence, v. clément, courbet, frankel, e. gérardin, jourde, lefrançais, longuet, malon, ostyn, pindy, serraillier, theisz, tridon, vallès, varlin, vermorel. [ ] blanchet, an ex-capucin and bankrupt, and e. clément, who under the empire had offered his services to the police. chapter xx. rossel replaces cluseret--the rivalries--the defence of the fort of issy. the last act of the second executive commission was to name rossel delegate at war. on the same evening (the th april) it sent for him. he came at once, recited the history of famous sieges, and promised to make paris impregnable. no one asked him for a written plan, and there and then, as on the stage, his nomination was signed. he forthwith wrote to the council, "i accept these difficult functions, but i want your entire support in order not to succumb under the weight of these circumstances." rossel knew these circumstances through and through. for twenty-five days chief of the general staff, he was the best-informed man in paris as to all her military resources. he was familiar with the members of the council, of the central committee, the officers, the effective forces, the character of the troops he undertook to lead. at the outset he struck a wrong chord in his answer to the versaillese officer who had summoned the fort of issy to surrender. "my dear comrade, the first time you permit yourself to send us such an insolent summons, i shall have your flag of truce shot. your devoted comrade." the cynical levity smacked of the condottiere. certainly he who threatened to shoot an innocent soldier, and bestowed his _dear_, his _devoted comrade_ upon a collaborator of gallifet, was foreign to the great heart of paris and her civil war. no man understood paris, the national guard, less than rossel. he imagined that the _père duchesne_ was the real mouthpiece of the workmen. hardly raised to the ministry, he spoke of putting the national guard into barracks, of cannonading the runaways; he wanted to dismember the legions and form them into regiments, with colonels named by himself. the central committee, to which the _chefs-de-légion_ belonged, protested, and the battalions complained to the council, which sent for rossel. he set forth his project in a professional way in sober, precise words, so different from the pyatical declamations, that the council believed it beheld a man and was charmed. still his project was the breaking-up of the national guard, and the council no more than the executive commission got a general plan of defence from him. he certainly demanded that the municipalities should be charged with concentration of arms, the horses, and prosecution of the refractory, but he made no condition _sine quâ non_. he sent in no report on the military situation. he gave orders for the construction of a second enceinte of barricades, and of three citadels at montmartre, the trocadéro, and the panthéon, but never personally concerned himself about their execution. he extended the command of general wroblewski over all troops and forts on the left bank, but three days after restricted it again to bestow it upon la cécilia, who had none of the qualities necessary in a superior commander. he never gave the generals any instructions for attack or defence. despite certain fits and starts, he had in reality so little energy that he named eudes commander of the second active reserve at the very moment when, against formal orders, this latter left the fort of issy, which he had commanded since the reoccupation. the versaillese had recommenced firing with perfect fury. the shells, the bombs, battered the casemates, the grapeshot paved the trenches with iron. in the night of the st- nd, the versaillese, always proceeding by nocturnal surprises, attacked the station of clamart, which was taken almost without a struggle, and the castle of issy, which they had to conquer foot by foot. on the morning of the nd the fort again found itself in the same situation as three days before. a part of the village of issy was even in the hands of the soldiers. during the day the francs-tireurs of paris dislodged them at the point of the bayonet. eudes, who in vain demanded reinforcements, went to the war office to declare that he would not remain if wetzel were not discharged. wetzel was replaced by la cécilia, but eudes did not return to the fort, and left the command to the chief of his staff. thus since the rd it was evident that everything would go on as under cluseret, and the central committee grew bolder. it had been thrown more and more into the shade, for the commission of war kept it at a distance. its sittings, more and more confused and void, were little attended--by about ten members, sometimes even by less. the enterprise of rossel against the legions gave it back a little authority and daring. on the rd, in accord with the _chefs-de-légion_, they resolved to ask the council for the direction and administration of the war office. rossel got wind of the affair, and had one of its members arrested; the others in great numbers, the _chefs-de-légion_ with their sabres at their sides, went up to the hôtel-de-ville, where they were received by félix pyat, deeply moved by the odd conceit that they came to lay hands on him. "nothing is getting along at the war office," said they. "all the services are in disorder. the central committee offers itself to direct them. the delegate will conduct the operations, the committee will see to the administration." félix pyat approved of the idea and submitted it to the council. the minority took umbrage at the pretensions of the committee, and even spoke of having them arrested. the majority left the matter to the committee of public safety, which issued a decree admitting the co-operation of the central committee. rossel accepted the situation and announced it to the chiefs of corps. the commission of war continued, in spite of all this, to squabble with the committee. our men paid dearly for these small cabinet revolutions. tired out, badly commanded, they were negligent of their watches, and thus exposed to every surprise. the most terrible one took place in the night of the rd- th may at the redoubt of the moulin saquet, held by men at this moment. they were sleeping in their tents, when the versaillese, having seized the sentinels, entered the redoubt and butchered about fifty federals. the soldiers pierced the tents with their bayonets, slashing the corpses, and then made off with five pieces and prisoners. the captain of the th was accused of having betrayed the watchword. the truth is not known, as--incredible fact!--the council never inquired into the affair. m. thiers announced this "elegant _coup-de-main_"[ ] in a bantering despatch to the effect that they had killed two hundred men; that "such was the victory the commune might announce in its bulletins." the prisoners, taken to versailles, were received by the elegant rabble who killed time in the cafés of st. germain, now become the headquarters of high-life prostitution, or who went to the heights to see the shells battering the walls and the parisians. but what were these insipid amusements by the side of a convoy of prisoners, whom they could beat, spit upon, and revile, a thousand times renewing the agonies of mathô? the simply bestial ferocity of the soldiers was much less horrible. these poor wretches firmly believed that the federals were thieves or prussians, and that they tortured their prisoners. there were some who, taken to paris, for a long time refused all nourishment in dread of poison. the officers propagated these horrible stories; some even believed them.[ ] the greater part, arriving from germany in a state of extreme irritation against paris,[ ] said publicly, "we shall give these scoundrels no quarter," and they set the example of summary executions. on the th april, at the belle-epine, near ville-juif, four national guards, surprised by mounted chasseurs, called upon to surrender, laid down their arms. the soldiers were leading them when an officer appeared, and, without further ado, discharged his revolver at them. two were killed; the two others, left for dead, were able to drag themselves as far as the neighbouring trenches, where one of them expired.[ ] the fourth was transported to the ambulance. paris, erstwhile besieged by the prussians, was now tracked by tigers. these sinister forebodings of the lot reserved to the vanquished made the council indignant, but did not enlighten it. the disorder grew greater with the danger. rossel set nothing going. pyat, whom he had often silenced with a word, abhorred him, and never ceased undermining his authority. "you see this man," said he to the romanticists, "well, he is a traitor--a cæsarian! after the trochu plan, the rossel plan." on the th may he had the direction of the military operations transferred to dombrowski, leaving only nominal functions to rossel, who, apprised of this that same evening, hurried to the committee of public safety and forced it to revoke the decree.[ ] on the th félix pyat sent orders to general wroblewski without informing rossel. the next day rossel complained to the council of the committee of public safety of this mischievous interference, which embroiled everything. "under these circumstances i cannot be responsible," said he, and demanded the publicity of the sittings, as he had always been received in private audience. instead of forcing him to communicate his plan, they amused themselves with making him pass a sort of freemason examination. the antediluvian miot asked him what were his democratic antecedents. rossel extricated himself very cleverly. "i will not tell you that i have studied the question of social reforms profoundly, but i abominate this society which has just betrayed france in so dastardly a way. i do not know what will be the new order of socialism. i like it on trust, and it will anyhow be better than the old one." everybody put him the questions he chose personally, and not through the medium of the president. he answered them all with sangfroid and precision, disarming all their scruples, and carried away cheers, but nothing more. had he possessed the strong head he was credited with, he would long since have fathomed the situation, understood that for this struggle without precedent new tactics were wanted, found a field of battle for these improvised soldiers, organised the internal defence, and awaited versailles from the heights of montmartre, the trocadéro, and mont-valérien. but he dreamt of battles, was at bottom but a bookish soldier, original only in speech and style. while always complaining of want of discipline and of men, he allowed the best blood of paris to be shed in the sterile struggles without the town, in heroic challenges at neuilly, vanves, and issy. at issy above all. it was no longer a fort, hardly a strong position, but a medley of earth and rubble-work battered by shells. the staved-in casemates opened a view upon the country, the powder magazines were laid bare, half of bastion was in the moat, one could drive up to the breach in a carriage. ten pieces at most answered the fire of sixty versaillese ordnance pieces, while the fusillade of the trenches aimed at the embrasures killed almost all our artillerists. on the rd the versaillese renewed their summons to surrender; they were answered with the word of cambronne. the chief of the general staff left by eudes had also made off, but happily the fort remained in the valiant hands of the engineer rist and of julien, commander of the th battalion of the eleventh arrondissement. it is to them and to the federals who stood by them that the honour of this prodigious defence belongs. here are a few notes from their military journal. "_ th may._--we are receiving explosive balls that burst with the noise of percussion-caps. the waggons do not come; food is scanty and the shells of seven centimetres, our best pieces, will soon fail us. the reinforcements promised every day do not appear. two chiefs of battalions have been to rossel. he received them very badly, and said that he had the right to shoot them for having abandoned their post. they explained our situation. rossel answered that a fort defends itself with the bayonet and quoted the work of carnot. still he has promised reinforcements. the freemasons have planted their banner on our ramparts. the versaillese knocked it down in an instant. our ambulances are full; the prison and corridor that lead to it are crammed with corpses. an ambulance omnibus arrives in the evening. we put in as many of our wounded as possible. during its passage from the fort to issy the versaillese pepper it with balls. "_ th._--the fire of the enemy does not cease for a moment. our embrasures no longer exist; the pieces of the front still answer. at two o'clock we receive ten waggons of shells of seven centimetres. rossel has come. he looked at the works of the versaillese for a long time. the _enfants-perdus_ who serve the pieces of bastion are losing many men; they remain steadfast. there are now in the dungeons two yards deep of corpses. all our trenches, riddled by artillery, have been evacuated. the trench of the versaillese is sixty yards from the counterscarp. they push on more and more. the necessary precautions are taken in case of an attack to-night. all the flank pieces are loaded with grapeshot. we have two mitrailleuses above the _terre-plein_ to sweep at once the moat and the glacis. "_ th._--the battery of fleury regularly discharges its six rounds on us every five minutes. a cantinière has just been brought to the ambulance, wounded in the left side of the groin. for four days past three women have gone into the thickest of the fire to tend the wounded. this one is dying and bids us remember her two little children. no more food. we eat only horse-flesh. evening: the rampart is untenable. "_ th._--we are receiving as many as ten shells a minute. the ramparts are totally uncovered. all the pieces, save two or three, are dismounted. the versaillese works almost touch us. there are thirty more dead. we are about to be surrounded." footnotes: [ ] _la guerre des communeux_ by a superior officer of the versaillese army. [ ] on the th may, at the barricade of petit-vanves, an officer of engineers of the lacretelle division, second corps, captain rozhem, was taken prisoner. when brought before the commander of the trenches, "i know what is in store for me," said he; "shoot me." the commander shrugged his shoulders and took him to delescluze. "captain," said the delegate, "promise that you will not fight against the commune and you are free." the officer promised, and, deeply moved, asked delescluze for permission to shake hands with him. this is one fact among a hundred such. is it necessary to add that from the rd april to the rd may the federals did not shoot _one single_ prisoner, officer or soldier? [ ] appendix x. [ ] this fact was established through the minute inquiry which the council charged three of its members to make. two of these, gambon and langevin, are by their characters above all suspicion. they received the declaration of the wounded man and saw one of the bodies, the two others not having been found. [ ] it never appeared in the _officiel_, but was announced in the _vengeur_; for félix pyat abused his functions in order to give his journal the first news of the official decisions. this time he was a little too quick. chapter xxi. "la plus grande infamie dont l'histoire moderne ait garde la souvenir, s'accomplit à cette heure, paris est bombardé." --jules favre, jules simon, e. picard, trochu, jules ferry, e. arago, garnier-pages, pelletan. _proclamation du gouvernement de la defense nationale à propos du bombardement prussien._ "nous avons écrasé tout un quartier de paris."--_m. thiers à l'assemblée nationale, séance du août ._ paris is bombarded--the fort of issy succumbs--the council elects a new committee of public safety--rossel flies. we must leave this heroic atmosphere to return to the quarrels of the council and of the central committee. why did they not hold their sittings at the muette or under the eyes of the public?[ ] the shells of montretout, which had just unmasked its powerful battery, the severe attitude of the people, would no doubt have made them unite against the common enemy. he had commenced to batter in breach. on the th may, in the morning, seventy marine pieces began to attack the enceinte from the bastion to the point du jour. the shells of clamart already reached the quay of javelle, and the battery of breteuil covered the grenelle quarter with projectiles. in a few hours half passy had become uninhabitable. m. thiers accompanied his shells with a proclamation: "parisians, the government will not bombard paris, as the men of the commune will not fail to tell you. it will discharge its cannon.... it knows, it would have understood, even if you had not said so on all sides, that as soon as the soldiers cross the enceinte you will rally round the national flag." and he invited the parisians to open the gates to him. what was the action of the council in reply to this appeal to treason? on the th it entered upon a random discussion on the minutes of its sittings[ ] and the publicity of the latter, which one member of the majority wanted to suppress altogether. the minority complained of the central committee, which had encroached upon all services in spite of the commission of war; it had driven away varlin from the commissariat, entirely reorganised by him. they asked whether the government called itself central committee or commune. félix pyat justified himself by accusing rossel. "it is not the fault of the committee of public safety if rossel has neither the strength nor the intelligence to keep the central committee within its functions." the friends of rossel answered, accusing pyat of continually interfering even in purely military questions. if the moulin saquet had been surprised, it was because wroblewski, who commanded on that side, received a formal order from félix pyat to repair to issy. "it is false," said pyat; "i have never given such an order." they let him thoroughly enmesh himself, and then produced the order, written entirely in his own hand. he took hold of it, turned it round, feigned astonishment, and was finally obliged to confess.[ ] the discussion then reverted to the central committee--were they to dissolve it, arrest its members, or surrender to it the administration of the war office? the council, as usual, did not dare to decide, and, after a confused debate, abode by the resolution of the rd may--the central committee will be held subordinate to the military commission. at this very moment strange scenes were enacted at the war office. the _chefs-de-légion_, who were stirring more and more against rossel, had that day resolved to ask him for the report of all the decisions he was about to take with respect to the national guard. rossel knew of their project. in the evening, when they arrived at the ministry, they found in its court an armed platoon, and beheld rossel watching them from his window. "you are audacious," said he; "do you know that this platoon is here to shoot you?" they, without appearing to care much: "there is no need of audacity; we simply come to speak to you of the organisation of the national guard." rossel relaxed, went to the window, gave orders to the platoon to re-enter. this burlesque demonstration did not miss its effect. the _chefs-de-légion_ disputed the project on the regiments point by point, demonstrating its impossibility. tired of arguing, rossel said to them, "i am fully aware that i have no forces, but i affirm you have not either. you have, say you? well, give me the proof. to-morrow, at eleven o'clock, bring me , men to the place de la concorde, and i will try to do something." he wanted to make an attempt by the clamart station. the _chefs-de-légion_ engaged to find the men, and spent the whole night in search of them. while these contests went on, the fort of issy was being evacuated. since the morning it had been reduced to the last extremity. any of its defenders who approached the guns was a dead man. in the evening the officers assembled, and came to the conclusion that they could no longer hold out. thereupon the men, driven away from all sides by the shells, massed themselves under the entrance vault, when a shell from the moulin de pierre fell in their midst, killing sixteen of them. rist, julien, and several others, who were stubbornly bent upon holding these ruins, were at last obliged to yield. about seven o'clock the evacuation began. the commander, lisbonne, one of the members of the first central committee, a man of extraordinary courage, covered the retreat amidst a shower of bullets. a few hours after, the versaillese, crossing the seine, established themselves before boulogne in front of the bastions of the point du jour, and opened a trench three hundred yards from the enceinte. all that night and the whole morning of the th the war office and the committee of public safety knew nothing of the evacuation of the fort. on the th, at mid-day, the battalions asked for by rossel were drawn up along the place de la concorde. rossel arrived on horseback, hardly looked at the front lines, and then addressed the _chefs-de-légion_, "there are not enough men here for me;" and at once turning about, rode off to the war office, where he was informed of the evacuation of the fort of issy. he seized his pen, wrote, "the tricolor flag floats from the fort of issy, abandoned yesterday evening by the garrison," and, without apprising the council or the committee of public safety, gave the order to placard ten thousand copies of these two lines, while six thousand was the number usually printed. he next sent in his resignation: "citizens, members of the commune, i feel myself incapable of any longer bearing the responsibility of a command where every one deliberates and no one obeys. the central committee of artillery has deliberated and prescribed nothing. the commune has deliberated and resolved upon nothing. the central committee deliberates and has not yet known how to act. during this delay the enemy has hemmed in the fort of issy by imprudent attacks, for which i would punish him if i had the smallest military force at my disposal." he then recounted in his own fashion, and very inaccurately, the evacuation of the fort, the review on the place de la concorde; said that, instead of the , men promised, there were only , ,[ ] and concluded: "thus the nullity of the committee of artillery prevented the organisation of the artillery; the hesitation of the central committee stopped the administration; the paltry pre-occupations of the _chefs-de-légion_ paralysed the mobilisation of the troops. my predecessor committed the fault of struggling against this absurd situation. i retire, and have the honour to ask you for a cell at mazas." he thus thought to clear his military reputation; but point by point he might have been categorically answered. why did you accept this "absurd" situation with which you were thoroughly conversant? why did you make no conditions on entering the ministry on the st april, no condition to the council on the nd and rd may? why did you send away at least , men this morning, when you pretend not to have "the smallest military force" at your disposal? why did you know nothing for fifteen hours of the evacuation of a fort whose straits it was your duty to watch from hour to hour? where is your second enceinte? why has no work been done at montmartre and the panthéon? rossel might perhaps have addressed his reproaches to the council, but he committed an unpardonable fault in sending his letters to the journals. thus in less than two hours he had disheartened , combatants, spread panic, stigmatised the brave men of issy, denounced the weakness of the defence to the enemy, and that at the very moment when the versaillese were rejoicing over the taking of issy. there every one was merrymaking. m. thiers and macmahon harangued the soldiers, who, singing, brought back the few pieces found in the fort. the assembly suspended its sittings and came into the marble court to applaud these children of the people who thought themselves victors. m. thiers a month later said from the tribune, "when i see these sons of our soil, strangers often to an education that elevates, die for you, for us, i am profoundly touched." touching emotion this of the hunter before his pack. remember this avowal and the sort of men for whom you die, sons of the soil! and at the hôtel-de-ville they were still disputing! rigault recriminated. the majority of the council had named him procureur of the commune in spite of his culpable levity at the prefecture. the discussion was growing angry when delescluze entered hastily and exclaimed, "you discuss when it has been placarded that the tricolor flag floats from the fort of issy. i make an appeal to you all. i had hoped that france would be saved by paris and europe by france. the commune is pregnant with a power of revolutionary instinct capable of saving the country. cast aside to-day all your animosities. we must save the country. the committee of public safety has not answered our expectations. it has been an obstacle instead of a stimulus. with what is it occupying itself? with individual appointments instead of general measures. a decree signed meillet names this citizen himself governor of the fort of bicêtre. we had a man there, a soldier,[ ] who was thought too severe. it is desirable that all were as severe as he. your committee of public safety is undone, crushed beneath the weight of the memories attached to it. i say it must disappear." the assembly, thus brought back to a sense of its duty, resolved into a secret committee, thoroughly discussing the committee of public safety. what had it done for a week past? installed the central committee at the war office, increased the disorder, sustained two disasters. its members lost themselves in details or else did amateur service. one deserted the hôtel-de-ville to go and shut himself up in a fort; if at least it had been that of issy or of vanves! félix pyat passed the greater part of his time in the office of the _vengeur_, there venting his spleen in long-winded articles. a member of the committee of public safety endeavoured to defend it by pleading the vagueness of its attributes. he was answered that article of the decree gave the committee full powers over all the commissions. finally, after many hours, they decided to renew the committee at once; to appoint a civil delegate to the war office; to draw up a proclamation; to meet, save in cases of emergency, only three times a week; to establish the new committee permanently at the hôtel-de-ville, while the other members of the council were to stay regularly in their respective arrondissements. delescluze was named delegate at war. in the evening, at ten o'clock, there was a second meeting for the nomination of the new committee. the majority voted félix pyat, quite exasperated at the attacks of the afternoon, to the chair. he opened the sitting by demanding the arrest of rossel. cleverly grouping together appearances which seemed proofs to the suspicious, he made rossel the scapegoat of the faults of the committee, turning the anger of the council against him. for half an hour he disparaged the absent man, whom he would not have dared attack to his face. "i told you, citizens, that he was a traitor. you would not believe me. you are young; you did not, like our paragons of the convention, know how to mistrust military power." this reminiscence ravished the romanticists. they had but one dream--to be conventionnels. so difficult was it for this revolution of proletarians to rid itself of bourgeois tinsel. the ire of pyat was not wanted to convince the assembly. rossel's act was culpable in the eyes of the least prejudiced. his arrest was decreed unanimously, less two voices, and the commission of war received the order to carry it out. they next passed to the nomination of the committee. the minority, a little reassured by the election of delescluze and jourde, which seemed to acknowledge the right of the council to appoint the delegates, resolved to take part in the vote, and asked for a place in the list of the majority. this was an excellent occasion to efface all differences, to re-establish union against versailles. but the perfidious promptings of félix pyat had induced the romanticists to look upon their colleagues of the minority as veritable reactionists. after his speech the sitting was suspended; little by little the members of the minority found themselves alone in the council-hall. they looked for their colleagues and surprised them in a neighbouring room deliberating apart. after a violent altercation they all returned to the council. a member of the minority demanded that they should put an end to these shameful divisions. a romanticist answered by asking for the arrest of the factious minority, and the president, pyat, was about to empty the vials of his wrath, when malon cried to him, "silence! you are the evil genius of this revolution. do not continue to spread your venomous suspicions, to stir up discords. it is your influence that is ruining the commune!" and arnold, one of the founders of the central committee, "it is still these fellows of who will undo the revolution." but it was too late now to engage in the struggle, and the minority was to expiate its doctrinairism and maladroitness. the whole list of the majority passed; ranvier, arnaud, gambon, delescluze, and eudes. the nomination of delescluze to the war office having left a vacancy, there was after two days a second vote, and the minority proposed varlin. the majority, abusing their victory, committed the impropriety of preferring billioray, a most worthless member. the council broke up at one o'clock in the morning. "did not we do them? and what do you think of the way i managed the business?" said félix pyat to his friends on leaving the chair.[ ] this honest mandatory, altogether absorbed in the work of "doing" his colleagues, had forgotten to verify the capture of the fort of issy. and that same evening, twenty-six hours after the evacuation, the hôtel-de-ville placarded on the door of the mairies, "it is false that the tricolor flag floats on the fort of issy. the versaillese do not and shall not occupy it." this contradiction was as good as trochu's apropos of metz. during these tempests at the hôtel-de-ville the central committee had sent for rossel, reproached him with the placard of the afternoon, and the unusual number of copies printed. he defended himself acrimoniously. "it was my duty. the greater the danger, the greater the duty to make it known to the people." yet he had done nothing of the kind on the surprise of the moulin-saquet. after his departure the committee deliberated at length. some one said, "we are lost if we get no dictatorship." for some days this idea was uppermost in the committee. the latter voted quite seriously that there should be a dictator, and that the dictator was to be rossel. a deputation of five members gravely went to fetch him; he came down to the committee, pretended to reflect, and finally said, "it is too late. i am no longer delegate. i have sent in my resignation." some waxing angry with him, he rebuked them and left. in his cabinet he found the commission of war, delescluze, tridon, avrial, johannard, varlin, and arnold, who had just arrived. delescluze explained their mission. rossel listened very calmly; said that though the decree was unjust, he submitted to it. he then described the military situation, the rivalries of all kinds that had continually clogged him, the weakness of the council. "it has not known," said he, "how to utilise the central committee, nor how to break it at the opportune time. our resources are quite sufficient, and i am ready, for my own part, to assume all responsibility, but on the condition of being supported by a strong and homogeneous power. i could not in the face of history take upon myself the responsibility for certain necessary repressions without the assent and support of the commune." he spoke at great length in that clear and nervous style that twice in the council had won over his most decided adversaries. the commission, much struck by his arguments, withdrew to another room. delescluze declared that he could not make up his mind to arrest rossel till the council had heard him. his colleagues were of the same opinion, and left the ex-delegate under the guard of avrial and johannard, who the next morning conducted him to the hôtel-de-ville. avrial stayed with rossel in the questor's office, while johannard went to apprise the council of their arrival. some wanted rossel to be heard; the greater number, distrustful of themselves, were afraid lest his voice should again bring round the council, maintained that his hearing was contrary to equity, and cited the example of cluseret, who had been arrested without being heard, as though one injustice could sanction another. the admission of rossel was refused. ch. gérardin, a member of the council, repaired to the questor's office. "what has the commune decided?" said avrial. "nothing yet," answered ch. gérardin, who nevertheless had just left the sitting, and seeing avrial's revolver on the table, he said to rossel, "your guardian fulfils his duty conscientiously." "i do not suppose," answered rossel hurriedly, "that this precaution concerns me. besides, citizen avrial, i give you my word of honour as a soldier that i shall not seek to escape." avrial, very tired of his post as sentry, had already asked the council to relieve him. receiving no answer, he thought he might leave his prisoner under the guard of a member of the committee of public safety--for ch. gérardin had not yet been discharged from his functions--and he proceeded to the council. when he returned, rossel and ch. gérardin were gone. the ambitious young man had slunk like a weasel out of this civil war into which he had heedlessly thrown himself. one may divine whether pyat was sparing of adjectives against the fugitive. the new committee having just been informed of the discovery of two conspiracies, launched a desperate proclamation: "treason had slipped into our ranks. the abandonment of the fort of issy announced in an impious placard by the wretch who surrendered it, was only the first act of the drama. a monarchical insurrection in our midst coinciding with the surrender of one of our gates was to follow. all the threads of the dark plot are now in our hands. most of the culprits are arrested. let all eyes be open, all arms ready to strike the traitors!" this was going off into melodrama when cold blood and precision were wanted. and the committee boasted strangely when it pretended to have arrested "most of the culprits" and that it held "in its hands all the threads of the dark plot." footnotes: [ ] on the rd may they had voted that the public should be admitted, and even charged two members to find a suitable hall; but the decree was not executed, although in the hôtel-de-ville itself there was the splendid st. jean hall, which might have been prepared in a few hours. [ ] the reports in the _officiel_, confided to inexperienced writers, who abridged or amplified at pleasure, again altered at the printing-office, frequently interrupted by the formation of secret committees, give but a very vague idea of these sittings. [ ] "committee of public safety, no. .--paris, rd may .--general wroblewski,--please repair immediately to the fort of issy. it is urgent to make provision for several services, engineering, artillery, &c. the members of the committee of public safety. félix pyat, ant. arnaud. enclosed is a despatch from the commander of the fort." before the public, ignorant of this despatch, pyat kept up his lie. he said in the _vengeur_: "the only order given directly to the generals by the committee of public safety to defend issy, which rossel did not defend, was addressed to general wroblewski, intrusted with the forts of the south. the committee of public safety, in ordering him to watch over issy, did not displace him." in point of fact, not wroblewski was charged with the defence of the fort of issy, but la cécilia, who since the reoccupation held the chief post on this side, and commanded wetzel, intrusted with the defence of the approaches of the fort. [ ] the _chefs-de-légion_ have said , . the truth lies between the two. [ ] p. vichard, ex-chief of the staff of the garibaldian general bossack. [ ] heard and reported by lefrançais, whose veracity is above suspicion. _etude sur le mouvement communaliste par g. lefrançais_, p. . neuchâtel, . chapter xxii. the conspiracies against the commune. the commune had given rise to the various trades of the plot-monger, the betrayer of gates, the conspiracy-broker. vulgar sharpers, jonathan wilds of the gutter, whom a shadow of police would have scared away, they had no other strength than the weakness of the prefecture and the carelessness of the delegations. the evidence relative to them is to a certain extent still in the keeping of the versaillese; but they have themselves published a good deal, often borne witness against each other, and what with private information, what with the opportunities offered by our exile, we shall be able to penetrate into this realm of blackguardism. from the end of march they levied contributions upon all the ministries of versailles, offering for a few sous to surrender some of the gates of paris or to kidnap the members of the council. by degrees they were more or less classed. the colonel of the staff, corbin, was charged with the organisation of the faithful national guards still at paris. the commander of a reactionary battalion, charpentier, a former drill officer of st. cyr, offered him his services, was accepted, and presented a few of his cronies, durouchoux, demay, and gallimard. their instructions were to recruit clandestine battalions, who were to occupy the strategic points of the town on the day when the general attack would summons all the federals to the ramparts. a naval officer, domalain, offered at that moment to surprise montmartre, the hôtel-de-ville, the place vendôme, and the commissariat, with a few thousand volunteers, whom he professed to have at hand. he entered into partnership with charpentier. they bestirred themselves with might and main, grouped an astonishing number of persons around official posts, and soon gave notice of , men and artillerists provided with spiking machines. all these brave ones only waited for a signal. in the meanwhile, money was of course wanted to keep up their zeal, and charpentier and domalain, through the agency of durouchoux, indeed drew several hundred thousand francs from the versaillese. towards the end of april they found a redoubtable rival in le mère de beaufond, an ex-naval officer and governor of cayenne _ad interim_. instead of drumming up for bourgeois recruits, an idea he declared ridiculous, beaufond proposed paralysing the resistance by means of clever agents who should provoke defections and disorganise the services. his plan, quite in accord with m. thiers' notions, was favourably looked upon at versailles, which gave him full powers. he took as helpmates two men of resolution, laroque, a clerk at the bank, and lasnier, an ex-officer of schoelcher's legion. besides these, the ministry had still other bloodhounds--the alsatian aronshonne, colonel of a free corps during the war, cashiered by his men, who at tours had accused him of theft; franzini, later on extradited by england and condemned as a swindler; barral de montaut, who boldly presented himself at the war office, and, thanks to his aplomb, got himself named chief of the seventh legion; the abbé cellini, chaplain of one knows not what fleet, patronised by jules simon; last, the noble-minded conspirators, the great generals disdained by the revolution, lullier, du bisson, ganier d'abin. these honest republicans could not allow the commune to ruin the republic. if they accepted money from versailles, it was only with a view to saving paris and the republican party from the men of the hôtel-de-ville. they wanted to overthrow the commune, but betray it, oh! no, by no means! one brière de st.-lagier framed comprehensive reports on all these knights, and m. thiers' secretary, troncin-dumersan, condemned three years after as swindler, travelled backwards and forwards between paris and versailles, brought the money, superintended and held in his hand all the threads of these multifarious conspiracies, the one being often carried on behind the back of the other. thence continual collisions. the ragamuffins mutually denounced each other. brière de st.-lagier wrote: "i beg m. le ministre of the interior to have m. le mère de beaufond watched. i strongly suspect him of being a bonapartist. the money he has received has been used to a great extent to pay his debts." by way of compensation another report said, "i suspect mm. domalain, charpentier, and brière de st.-lagier. they often meet at peter's, and instead of occupying themselves with the great cause of the deliverance, imitate pantagruel. they pass for orleanists."[ ] the most venturesome of these enterprisers, beaufond, managed to enter into relations with the general staff of colonel henry prodhomme, with the ecole militaire, commanded by vinot, and with the war office, where the chief of the artillery, guyet, contrived to embroil the service of the munitions. his agents, lasnier and laroque, worked upon a certain muley, who, having circumvented the central committee, got himself named chief of the seventeenth legion, and to some extent disabled it. an officer of artillery, captain piguier, placed at their disposal by the ministry, traced the plan of the barricades, and one of the band could write on the th may, "no torpedoes are laid; the army may enter to the flourish of trumpets." now they had recourse to direct subornation; now acting the part of fervent communards, they knew how to draw out information; while the imprudence of the functionaries singularly facilitated their task. staff officers, chiefs of services, fond of assuming consequential airs, discussed the most delicate matters in the cafés of the boulevards, full of spies.[ ] cournet, who had succeeded rigault at the prefecture of police, despite the gravity of his deportment, did not better the service of general safety. lullier, twice arrested, each time escaping, openly spoke in the cafés of sweeping away the commune. troncin-dumersan, known for twenty years as the police agent of the ministry of the interior, freely promenaded on the boulevards, passing his retainers in review. the contractors charged with the fortification of montmartre every day found new pretexts to defer the opening of the works; the bréa church remained intact; the undertaker of the demolition of the expiatory monument managed to put it off till the entry of the troops. hazard alone discovered the _brassard_ (armlet) plot, and the fidelity of dombrowski disclosed that of vaysset. this commercial agent had gone to versailles to propose to the ministry an operation of revictualling. shown out, he again turned up, but this time with the offer to bribe dombrowski. under the patronage of admiral saisset--more crazy than ever--he got up his enterprise in the shape of a commercial society, found shareholders, twenty thousand francs for the incidental expenses, and entered into communication with an aide-de-camp of dombrowski's named hutzinger, afterwards employed by the versaillese police as spy amongst the exiles in london. vaysset told him that versailles would give dombrowski a million if the general surrendered the gates under his command. dombrowski at once apprised the committee of public safety, and proposed to allow one or two versaillese army corps to enter the town and then to crush them by battalions lying in ambush. the committee would not risk this venture, but ordered dombrowski to follow up the negotiation.[ ] hutzinger accompanied vaysset to versailles, saw saisset, who offered to surrender himself as hostage in guarantee of the execution of the promises made to dombrowski. the admiral was even, on a certain night, to repair secretly to the place vendôme, and the committee of public safety, forewarned, was preparing to arrest him, when barthélemy st. hilaire dissuaded saisset from this new blunder. then m. thiers began to abandon the hope of taking the town by surprise. this was his hobby of the first days of may. upon the faith of a bailiff, who promised to get the dauphine gate surrendered by his friend laporte, chief of the sixteenth legion, m. thiers had built up a whole plan in spite of the repugnance of macmahon and of the army, eager for a triumphal entry.[ ] in the night of the d may the whole active army and part of the reserve were set on foot, and general thiers went to sleep at sévres. at midnight the troops were massed in the bois de boulogne before the lower lake, their eyes fixed on the closed gates. the latter were to be thrown open by a reactionary company which had formed at passy under the orders of wéry, a lieutenant of the thirty-eighth, acting as deputy of his former commander, lavigne. but the intelligent conspirators had forgotten to warn lavigne, and the company that was to relieve the federals having had no order from their superior, suspected an ambush, and refused the service. thus the trusty watch was not relieved. at dawn, after waiting in vain for several hours, the troops returned to their cantonments. two days after laporte was arrested and set free again, much too soon. beaufond, taking up the bailiff's plan, guaranteed the surrender of the gates of auteuil and dauphine for the night of the th to the th may. m. thiers, again caught, forwarded all the gear for an escalade, and several detachments were directed towards the point du jour, while the army held itself in readiness to follow. but at the last moment the profound combinations of the conspirators were foiled,[ ] and, as on the rd, the army had to turn tail. this attempt was known to the committee of public safety, who had known nothing of the first one. lasnier was arrested the next day. the committee had just laid hands upon the tricolor armlets which the national guards of order were to have worn on the entry of the army. the woman legros, who made them, neglected to pay the girls in her employ. one of them, believing that the work was done on account of the commune, went to ask for her wages at the hôtel-de-ville. inquiries made at the woman legros' put them on the traces of beaufond and his accomplices. beaufond and laroque managed to hide; troncin-dumersan packed off to versailles. charpentier thus remained master of the field. corbin urged him to organise his men by tens and hundreds, and traced him out a whole plan by which to get possession of the hôtel-de-ville immediately after the entry of the troops. charpentier, always imperturbable, diverted him day by day by news of fresh conquests, spoke of , recruits, asked for dynamite to blow up the houses,[ ] and in true pantagruelic style gobbled up the considerable sums made over to him by durouchoux. after all, the whole gang of conspirators did not succeed in surrendering one single gate, but they lent considerable aid in disorganising the services. still great care should be taken in availing oneself of their reports, often inflated with imaginary successes to justify the disbursement of the hundreds of thousands of francs that they pocketed. footnotes: [ ] all the unpublished reports that i quote and on which i rely have been copied from the originals. [ ] appendix xi. [ ] appendix xii. [ ] "it was better to take possession of the town by main force," said the apostolic comte de mun (_enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. ). "thus right manifests itself in peremptory manner"--the right of carnage, no doubt. "it was better that it should not be said that we had got in by the back-door." [ ] it has been stated that a polish officer of dombrowski's staff, killed afterwards during the street fight, was the agent in this attempted treason. i have been unable, in spite of a minute search, to discover the least proof of this imputation. [ ] see a letter from colonel corbin, quoted in the _histoire des conspirations sous la commune_, a work by a. j. dalsème, arranged in the form of a novel, but containing some documents. chapter xxiii. "c'est par le canon et par la politique que nous avons pris paris."--_m. thiers, enquête sur le mars._ m. thiers' policy with regard to the provinces--the extreme left betrays paris. who was the great conspirator against paris? the extreme left. on the th march, what remained to m. thiers wherewith to govern france? he had neither an army, nor cannon, nor the large towns. these possessed arms, and their workmen were on the alert. if that small middle-class which makes the provinces endorse the revolutions of the metropolis had followed the movement, imitated their kindred of paris, m. thiers could not have opposed to them a single regiment. in order to subsist, retain the provinces, and induce them to provide the soldiers and the cannon that were to reduce paris, what were the resources of the chief of the bourgeoisie? a word and a handful of men. the word was republic; the men, the recognised chiefs of the republican party. though the dull rurals barked at the mere name of the republic, and refused to insert it in their proclamations, m. thiers, more cunning, mouthed it lustily, and distorting the votes of the assembly,[ ] gave it out as the watchword to his underlings.[ ] since the first risings all the provincial officials had the same refrain: "we defend the republic against the factions."[ ] this was certainly something; but the rural votes, the past of m. thiers, clashed with these republican protestations. the former heroes of the national defence were no longer acceptable as securities even for the provinces. m. thiers was well aware of it, and invoked the purest of the pure--the chevroned returned from exile. their prestige was still intact in the eyes of the provincial democrats. m. thiers met them in the lobbies, told them they held the fate of the republic in their hands, flattered their senile vanity, and inveigled them so successfully, that, from the rd,[ ] they served him as bottle-holders. when the small middle-class republicans of the provinces beheld the profound louis blanc, the intelligent schoelcher, and the most famous grumblers of the radical vanguard fly to versailles, and insult the central committee, and, on the other hand, received neither programme nor able emissaries from paris, they turned away, and let the flame enkindled by the workmen die out. the cannonading of the rd april roused them a little. on the th, the municipal council of lille, composed of republican notabilities, spoke of conciliation, and called upon m. thiers to affirm the republic. that of lyons drew up a like address; st. omer sent delegates to versailles; troyes declared that it was "heart and soul with the heroic citizens who fought for their republican convictions." mâcon summoned the government and the assembly to put an end to this struggle by the recognition of republican institutions. the drôme, the var, vaucluse, the ardèche, the loire, savoy, the hérault, the gers, and the eastern pyrénées, twenty departments, issued similar addresses. the workmen of rouen declared their adhesion to the commune; the workmen of havre, rebuffed by the bourgeois republicans, constituted an independent group. on the th april, at grenoble, men, women, and children went to the station to prevent the departure of the troops and munitions for versailles. on the th, at nîmes, the people, headed by a red flag, marched through the town to the cry of "vive la commune! vive paris! down with versailles!" on the th, th, th, there were disturbances at bordeaux. some police agents were imprisoned, some officers ill-treated, the infantry barracks pelted with stones, the people crying, "vive paris! death to the traitors!" the movement even spread to the agricultural classes. at saincoin in the cher, at the charité-sur-loire, at pouilly in the nièvre, the national guards in arms carried about the red flag. cosne followed on the th, fleury-sur-loire on the th. the red flag was permanently hoisted in the ariège; at foix they stopped the transport of the cannon; at varilhes they tried to run the munition trains off the lines. at périgueux, the workmen of the railway station seized the mitrailleuses. on the th april five delegates from the municipal council of lyons presented themselves to m. thiers. he protested his devotion to the republic, swore that the assembly should not turn into a constituent assembly. if he chose his functionaries outside the republicans, it was in order to treat all parties with consideration in the interest of the republic itself. he defended it against the men of the hôtel-de-ville, its worst enemies, said he; the delegates might assure themselves of this even in paris, and he was quite ready to furnish them with safe-conducts. besides, if lyons dared to stir, , men were ready to quell it.[ ] this was his typical speech. all the deputations received the same answer, given with such an air of bonhommie and such complaisant familiarity as quite to overwhelm the provincials. from the presidency they proceeded to the luminaries of the extreme left, louis blanc, schoelcher, adam, and other eminent democrats, who endorsed m. thiers' words. these gentlemen, if condescending to admit that the cause of paris was not altogether wrong, declared it ill-begun and compromised by a criminal combat. when paris once disarmed they would see what could be done. opportunism is not of yesterday's growth. it was born[ ] into the world on the th march, , had louis blanc & co. for godfathers, and was baptized in the blood of , parisians. "with whom should they treat in paris?" asked louis blanc. "without speaking of bonapartist and prussian intrigues, the people who were there striving to seize the government were fanatics, fools, or rogues."[ ] and all the radicals bridled up: "should we not be at paris if paris were in the right?" the majority of the delegates, lawyers, doctors, business men, brought up in veneration of these shining lights, hearing besides the young men speaking like the pontiffs, went back to the provinces, and as the left preached to them, preached in turn that it was necessary to abandon the commune in order to save the republic. a few of them had visited paris; but seeing the divisions of the hôtel-de-ville, often received by men unable to formulate their ideas, threatened by félix pyat in the _vengeur_, they came back convinced that nothing could emerge from this disorder. when they again passed through versailles the deputies of the left triumphed. "well, what did we tell you?" even martin-bernard gave his electors the ass's kick. at paris there were people who could not believe in such barefaced treachery on the part of the left, and still adjured them. "what are you about at versailles when versailles is bombarding paris?" said an address of the end of april. "what figure can you cut in the midst of these colleagues who assassinate your electors? if you persist in remaining amongst the enemies of paris, at least do not make yourselves their accomplices by your silence. what! you allow m. thiers to write to the departments, '_the insurgents are emptying the principal houses of paris in order to put the furniture to sale_,' and you do not ascend the tribune to protest! what! the whole bonapartist and rural press may inundate the departments with infamous articles, in which they affirm that at paris murder, violation, and theft reign supreme, and you are silent! what! m. thiers may assert that his gendarmes do not assassinate the prisoners; you cannot ignore these atrocious executions, and you are silent! ascend the tribune; tell the departments the truth, which the enemies of the commune conceal from them. but our enemies, are they yours also?" a useless appeal, which the cowardice of the left knew how to elude. louis blanc, in his tartuffe style, exclaimed, "o civil war! hideous struggle! the cannon thunder! people are killing each other and dying; and those in the assembly who would willingly give their life to see this sanguinary problem pacifically resolved are condemned to the torture of not being able to make an act, utter a cry, speak a word." since the birth of the french assemblies so ignominious a left had never been seen. the spectacle of the prisoners smitten, reviled, spat upon, was unable to draw a protest from these wretched parisian deputies. one only, tolain, asked for an explanation on the assassination at the belle-epine. louis blanc, schoelcher, greppo, adam, langlois, brisson, &c., the gérontes and the scapins, sanctimoniously contemplated their bombarded electors, and, fully aware of the facile forgetfulness of paris, dreamt of their future re-election. their calumnies succeeded in stifling the action but not the anguish of the provinces. with heart and soul the workmen of france were with paris. the employés at the railway stations harangued the soldiers on their passage, adjuring them to raise the butt-ends of their guns; the official placards were torn during the night; the large centres sent their addresses by the hundred; all the republican papers demanded peace, sought for some method of conciliation between paris and versailles. paris and versailles! the agitation becoming chronic, m. thiers launched forth dufaure, the chapelier of the modern bourgeoisie, one of the most odious executors of its dirty work. he enjoined his procureurs to prosecute all the writers countenancing the commune, "that dictatorship usurped by foreigners and ticket-of-leave men, which signalises its reign by burglary, breaking open private houses in the dead of night and by force of arms," and to lay hands upon "the conciliators who entreat the assembly to hold out its noble hand to the blood-stained hand of its enemies." versailles thus hoped to strike terror at the moment of the municipal elections, which took place on the th april. they were everywhere republican. these provinces, which had risen against paris in june, , and in the elections of , did not send a hundred volunteers in , and would only fight the assembly. at thiers (puy-de-dôme) the people occupied the hôtel-de-ville, hoisted the red flag, and seized the telegraphs. there occurred disturbances at souppe, nemours, château-landau, in the arrondissement of fontainebleau. at dordives (loiret) the communards planted a poplar surmounted by the red flag in front of the mairie. at montargis they raised the red flag, placarded the appeal of the commune to the rural districts, and forced a solicitor who had tried to tear down the placard to ask pardon on his knees. at coulommiers (seine-et-marne) a demonstration took place to the cries of "vive la république! vive la commune!" lyons rose in insurrection. since the th march the tricolor lorded it here, save at the guillotière,[ ] where the people maintained the red one. the council on its return to the hôtel-de-ville had demanded the recognition of the rights of paris, the election of a constituent assembly, and named an officer of _francs-tireurs_, bourras, commander of the national guard. while the council multiplied its addresses and its applications to m. thiers, the national guard was again stirring. it presented a programme to the municipal council, which officially rejected it. the rebuff met by the delegates sent to versailles increased the irritation. when the communal elections were announced for the th april, the revolutionary element maintained that the municipal law voted by the assembly was null and void, because that assembly had not the rights of a constituent one. two delegates from paris summoned the mayor, hénon, to postpone the elections; and one of the actors in the affray of the th september, gaspard blanc, reappeared on the scene. the radicals, always upon the scent of bonapartism, have made much ado about the presence of that personage. however, at that time he was as yet but a madcap, and only in exile put on the imperialist livery. on the th, at the brotteaux, in a large public meeting, abstention from voting was decided upon. all the committees of the guillotière followed, and in a public sitting of the th resolved to oppose the vote. on the th, the day of the elections, from six o'clock in the morning the _rappel_ was beaten at the guillotière; armed citizens carried off the ballot-boxes, and posted sentinels at the entrance of the hall. a proclamation was placarded: "the city of lyons can no longer look on while her sister the heroic city of paris is being strangled. the lyonnese revolutionists have with one accord named a provisional commission. its members are above all determined, rather than sustain defeat, to make one heap of ruins of a town cowardly enough to allow the assassination of paris and the republic." the place de la mairie was thronged with an excited crowd; the mayor, crestin, and his adjutant, who attempted to interfere, were not listened to, and a revolutionary commission installed itself in the mairie. bourras sent an order to the commanders of the guillotière to unite their battalions. they drew up towards two o'clock in the des brosses court. a great number of guards disapproved the movement, yet no one was willing to be the soldier of versailles. the crowd surrounded them, and finally broke the ranks; about a hundred, led by their captain, went to the mairie to hoist their red field-colours. the mayor was sent for, and the commission called upon him to join the movement; but he refused, as he had done on the nd march. suddenly the cannon thundered. hénon and his council, as the month before, would have liked to temporise; while valentin and crouzat dreamt of espivent. at five o'clock the th of the line debouched by the bridge of the guillotière; the crowd penetrated into the ranks of the soldiers, conjuring them not to fire, and the officers were constrained to take back their men to the barracks. during this time the guillotière was fortifying itself. a large barricade, extending from the store-houses of the nouveau-monde to the angle of the mairie, barred the grande rue; another was thrown up at the entrance of the rue des trois rois; a third on a level with the rue de chabrol. at half-past six the th came out of their barracks, but this time watched by a battalion of chasseurs. valentin, crouzat, and the procureur de la république marched at their head. in front of the mairie the riot act was read; some shots answered it, wounding the prefect. the cavalry swept the des brosses court and the place de la mairie, while two pieces of cannon opened fire on the edifice. its doors soon gave way and the occupants abandoned it. the troops entered after having killed the sentinel, intent upon mounting guard to the very last. it has been said that five insurgents, taken by surprise in the interior of the building, were killed by a versaillese officer with shots from his revolver. the struggle continued during part of the night in the neighbouring streets, and the soldiers, deceived by the darkness, killed about a hundred of their own men. the losses of the communards were less great. by three o'clock in the morning all was over. at the croix-rousse some citizens had invaded the mairie and scattered the voting-papers; the check of the guillotière cut short their resistance. the versaillese took advantage of this victory to disarm the battalions of the guillotière; but the population refused, rallying round the victors. some monarchists had been elected during the day, but everybody considering the elections of the th null and void, they were obliged to submit to a second ballot, and not one of them was re-elected. the movement in favour of paris continued. these newly-elected republican councillors might have effectively counterbalanced the authority of versailles; the advanced press encouraged them. the _tribune_ of bordeaux had the honour first to propose a congress of all the towns of france, for the purpose of terminating the civil war, assuring the municipal franchises, and consolidating the republic. the municipal council of lyons issued an identical programme, inviting all the municipalities to send delegates to lyons. on the th may the delegates of the councils of the principal towns of the hérault met at montpellier. the _liberté_ of the hérault, in a warm appeal reproduced by fifty journals, convoked the departmental press to a congress. a common action was about to take the place of the incoherent agitations of the last few weeks. if the provinces understood their own strength, the time, their wants--if they found a group of men equal to the occasion, versailles, taken between paris and the departments, would have been obliged to capitulate to republican france. m. thiers, with a vivid presentment of the danger, affected the attitude of a strong government, and energetically forbade the congresses. "the government would betray the assembly, france, civilisation," said the _officiel_ of the th may, "if it allowed the assizes of communism and of the rebellion to constitute themselves by the side of the regular power issued from universal suffrage." picard, speaking from the tribune of the instigation of the congress, said, "never was there a more criminal attempt than theirs. outside the assembly there exists no right." the procureurs-généraux and the prefects received the order to prevent all meetings. some members of the _ligue des droits de paris_ on their way to bordeaux were arrested. more was not needed to frighten the radicals. the organisers of the congress of bordeaux held their peace; those of lyons wrote a piteous address to versailles, to the effect that they had only intended convoking an assembly of the notables. m. thiers, having attained his object, disdained to prosecute them, even allowed the delegates of eighteen departments to draw up their grievances, and seriously declare that they "made that one of the two combatants responsible who should refuse their conditions." and yet they might feel proud. their chief had done less. gambetta had retired to spain, to st. sébastien, and there, mute, without a sign of sympathy for those who sacrificed themselves for the republic, he in a cynical _far niente_ awaited the issue of the civil war. thus the small middle-class of the provinces missed a rare chance of conquering their liberties, of again taking up their grand rôle of . it became obvious how much its blood and its intelligence had been impoverished by a long political vassalage and the complete absence of all municipal life. from the th march to the th april they had forsaken the workmen, when by seconding their efforts they might have saved and continued the revolution. when at last they wanted to pronounce, they found themselves alone, the toy and laughing-stock of their enemies. such is their history since robespierre. so on the th may m. thiers entirely mastered the situation. making use of all arms, of corruption as well as of patriotism, lying in his telegrams, making his journals lie, by turns familiar and haughty in his interviews with the deputations, putting forward now his gendarmes, now the deputies of the left, he had succeeded in baffling all attempts at conciliation. he had just signed the peace of frankfort, and, free on this side, rid of the provinces, he remained alone face to face with paris. it was time. five weeks of siege had exhausted the patience of the rurals; the suspicions of the first days were reviving; they fancied that the "petit bourgeois" was procrastinating in order to spare paris. the _union des syndicats_ had just published a report of a new interview, in which m. thiers had seemed to relax. a deputy of the right rushed to the tribune accusing m. thiers of putting off the entry into paris. he answered curtly, "the opening by our army of trenches only six hundred yards from paris does not signify that we do not want to enter there." the following day, th may, the right returned to the charge. was it true that m. thiers had said to the mayor of bordeaux, "if the insurgents will cease hostilities the gates of paris shall be flung wide open during a week for all except the assassins of the generals?" could it be that the government intended withdrawing some parisians out of the clutches of the assembly? m. thiers inveighed, whined. "you select the day when i am exiled, on which my house is being pulled down. it is an indignity. i am obliged to command terrible acts; i command them. i must have a vote of confidence." at last, nettled out of patience, he retorted upon the rural growls with a snarl. "i tell you that there are among you imprudent men, who are in too great a hurry. they must have another eight days. at the end of these eight days there will be no more danger, and the task will be proportionate to their courage and to their capacity." eight days! do you hear, members of the commune? footnotes: [ ] on the rd, picard telegraphed to the procureur-general of aix: "the republic was, the day before yesterday, again affirmed in a proclamation of the assembly." the very proclamation which the assembly had refused to conclude by the cry "vive la république!" [ ] the same day--it was that of the marseilles insurrection--dufaure telegraphed to the same procureur-general: "read the name république française at the head of all the despatches i send you." [ ] i have in my possession about twenty proclamations of prefects or magistrates. they are all on this point identically the same. [ ] "a great speech of the president of the council has been applauded by the extreme left." the speech of the st march against paris. dufaure to the procureur-general at aix, rd march. [ ] he confessed his trickery in a speech pronounced at bordeaux in : "i was enabled with the remains of the defeated army to unite a military force of , men, but if this force was sufficient to tear paris from the commune, it could not have kept down the large towns of france, keenly bent on the maintenance of the republic, and coming to ask me with distrust and irritation if it were the monarchy that we combated for." [ ] i should say "resuscitated," if it were not doing these eunuchs too much honour to compare them to robespierre, who by their side appears a hero. but how prevent one's thoughts from wandering to the pontiff declaring inopportune the republican outburst of june-july ; inopportune the cries of paris famished by engrossers; inopportune the people asking for a single article in their favour in the constitution of ; inopportune the commissaries, without whom france would have been dismembered; inopportune the great movement against the church; inopportune the socialists and jacques roux, whom he did to death; inopportune the popular societies closed by him, and after the disappearance of which paris expired; inopportune clootz, yearning to rally round france all the revolutionary forces of the world; inopportune hébert, who, nevertheless, had helped him to stifle the socialists; inopportune, in fine, all that was not cut out after his own amiable pattern up to the day when he was himself declared inopportune by the great bourgeoisie, who found it as easy as opportune to swallow him at a mouthful as soon as he had purged, bled, muzzled for them the revolutionary lion. [ ] appendix xiii. [ ] the workmen's quarter in lyons. chapter xxiv. the impotence of the second committee of public safety-- evacuation of the fort of vanves and of the village of issy--the manifesto of the minority--the explosion in the avenue rapp--fall of the vendÔme column. at the advent of the new committee on the th may our military situation had not changed within the line from st. ouen to neuilly, where both sides faced each other on the same level; but it was becoming serious from la muette. the powerful battery of montretout, that of meudon, of mont-valérien, covered passy with shells and greatly injured the ramparts. the versaillese trenches extended from boulogne to the seine. their skirmishers were pressing upon the village of issy, and occupied the trenches between the fort and that of vanves, which they tried to cut off from montrouge. the negligence of the defence was still the same. the ramparts from la muette to the fort of vanves were hardly armed; our gunboats supported almost alone the fire of meudon, clamart, and val-fleury. the first act of the new committee was to order the demolition of m. thiers' house. this giddy act helped the bombarder to a palace, which the assembly voted him the day after. then the committee issued its proclamation: "treason had slipped into," &c. delescluze issued one on his own account. he dragged himself along, panting for breath, and might well say, "if i consulted only my strength i should have declined this function. the situation is grave; but when i contemplate the sublime future in store for our children, even though it should not be given us to reap what we have sown, i shall still enthusiastically hail the revolution of the th march." on entering the ministry, he found the central committee also elaborating a proclamation. "the central committee declares that it is its duty not to allow this revolution of the th march, which it had so well begun, to succumb. it will unsparingly break down all resistance. it is determined to make an end of all controversies, put down the malignants, quell rivalry, ignorance, and incapacity." this was to speak more authoritatively than the council, and, above all, to flatter itself strangely. from the first night it was necessary to repair a disaster. the fort of vanves, upon which all the fires formerly directed against issy were now concentrated, had become almost untenable, and its commander had evacuated it. wroblewski, informed of this, took the command from la cécilia, who had fallen ill, and in the night of the th to the th hurried thither at the head of the th and the th battalions of the celebrated th legion, which up to the last day did not cease to supply the defence with men. at four o'clock in the morning wroblewski appeared before the glacis where the versaillese were stationed, charged them at the point of the bayonet, put them to flight, took some prisoners, and recovered the fort. once more our brave federals showed what they could do when properly commanded. during the day the versaillese recommenced the bombardment. they overwhelmed the convent des oiseaux and the whole village of issy, whose principal street was now one heap of ruins, with shells, grenades filled with potassium picrate. on the night of the th to the th they surprised the lycée of vanves, and on the th they attacked the seminary of issy. for five days brunel exhausted himself in trying to bring a little order into the defence of this village. rossel had sent for this brave member of the council, whom the jealousy of coteries kept at a distance, and said to him, "the situation of issy is almost lost; will you undertake its defence?" brunel devoted himself, threw up barricades, asked for artillery (there were only four pieces), and new battalions to relieve the , men who had held out for forty-one days.[ ] they only sent him two or three hundred men. he tried to make something of these, and fortified the seminary, which the federals, under a hailstorm of shells, were unable to hold. brunel organised a second line of defence in the houses of the village, and in the evening repaired to the war office, where delescluze wanted him to assist at the council of war. the first and only council of war held under the commune. dombrowski, wroblewski, and la cécilia were present. dombrowski, very enthusiastic, spoke of raising , men. wroblewski, more practical, proposed to concentrate all the efforts uselessly spent at neuilly against the trenches of the south. after a long debate no conclusion was come to. when brunel arrived the sitting was already raised; so he was obliged to go and look for delescluze at the hôtel-de-ville, and then he retraced his steps to issy. at the gate of versailles he perceived his battalions on the other side of the rampart. these, deaf to their chiefs, had evacuated the village and wanted to re-enter the town. brunel forbade the lowering of the drawbridge, and tried to get out by the gates of vanves, where they refused to let him pass. he returned to the war office, explained the situation, asked for men, wandered about the whole night looking for some, and at four o'clock in the morning set out with federals, but found the village entirely occupied by the versaillese. the officers of issy were tried by court-martial. brunel gave evidence, and complained bitterly of the culpable carelessness which had paralysed the defence. for answer he was arrested. he spoke but too truly. the disorder of the war office rendered all resistance chimerical. delescluze had brought only his devotion. of a weak character despite his apparent rigidity, he was at the mercy of the general staff, still directed by prodhomme, who, surviving all his chiefs, had succeeded in making himself thought indispensable. the central committee, emboldened by the timidity of the council, intruded everywhere, published decrees, ordered the payment of expenses without submitting them to the control of the military commission. the members of the commission, men of intelligence, but belonging to the minority, complained to the committee of public safety, which replaced them by romanticists. the dispute went on all the same, and waxed so violent that rumours of a rupture between the council and the central committee spread amongst the legions. the versaillese, on their part, still pushed on. in the night of the th to the th the fort of vanves, which now only fired occasional volleys, was quite extinguished, and could no more be rekindled. the garrison, cut off on all sides, retired by the quarries of montrouge, and the versaillese occupied what remained of the fort. there was again an ovation at versailles. on the th may we had not a single man from the left bank to the petit vanves, where about , federals, under the command of la cécilia and lisbonne, were encamped. we attempted to retake the village of issy, but were repulsed. henceforth the enemy could continue his approaches and arm the two bastions of the fort of issy that faced the town. his fire, counteracted for a moment by the ramparts, now showed a marked superiority, and joined the batteries that crushed the sixteenth arrondissement. this unfortunate quarter was now taken in enfilade from the front and the flank by nearly a hundred ordnance pieces. it was indeed time to think of the defence of the interior. delescluze extended the powers of the three generals to the quarters of the town contiguous to their command; he disbanded the battalion of the barricades, which had been of no utility whatever; he confided the works to the military engineers, and made an appeal to the navvies. but all his decrees remained so much waste paper or were crossed by others. when the delegate offered the navvies francs centimes, the committee of public safety, in the same column of the _officiel_, offered them francs centimes. the committee of public safety contributed to the defence by a decree obliging all the inhabitants of paris to provide themselves with a civil card, whose production might be requested by any national guard--as impracticable and unpractised a decree as that on the refractory recruits. the hôtel-de-ville awed nobody; behind its big words impotence made itself felt. on the th, some battalions having surrounded the bank and wanting to make a search, old beslay prevented them doing so, and the terrible dictators of the committee of public safety disavowed their own agent. the public chaffed--a terrible thing! a last blow, and it was all over with the authority of the commune; and this blow came from the minority. the latter was exasperated at seeing its most capable members expelled from the services--vermorel from the commission of public safety, longuet from the _officiel_, varlin from the commissariat--and was struck with dismay at the disorder of the war office. it had the unfortunate idea of denying its own responsibility, prepared a manifesto, and brought it to the sitting of the th. the majority, forewarned, with the exception of four or five members, kept away. the minority had their absence verified, and instead of waiting for the next sitting, sent the declaration to the papers. "the commune," it said, "has abdicated its power into the hands of a dictatorship, to which it has given the name of committee of public safety. the majority has declared itself irresponsible by its vote. the minority, on the contrary, affirms that the commune owes it to the revolutionary movement to accept all responsibilities. as to ourselves, we claim the right of being alone answerable for our acts without screening ourselves behind a supreme dictatorship. we withdraw to our arrondissements. convinced that the question of the war takes the lead of all other ones, we shall spend the time left us by our municipal functions in the midst of our brothers of the national guard." a great fault this, and altogether inexcusable. the minority had not the right to cry out about a dictatorship, having voted, without making any express reserve, for the second committee. it had not the right to say that the elected delegates of the people were encroaching upon its sovereignty, for this concentration of power was quite accidental, necessitated by the battle, and leaving the principle of the people's sovereignty intact under ordinary circumstances. it would have been more dignified to openly disavow the acts of the committee, and then propose something better themselves. it would have been logical, since "the question of the war took the lead of all others," not to thus morally weaken the defence by deserting the hôtel-de-ville. it was not with a view to retain them in their arrondissements that the arrondissements had sent delegates to the council. several members of the minority brought the question before public meetings, which called on them to return to their posts. those of the fourth arrondissement gave an explanation in the théâtre-lyrique, in which they said "that their guiding principle was that the commune was to be only the executive agent of the public will, manifesting itself continually, and indicating day by day what was to be done to secure the triumph of the revolution." no doubt that principle was correct, and the revolution can only be made safe by the direct legislation of the people. but was this a time to legislate when the cannon ruled supreme? and in the midst of the fire, is the "executive agent" to expect that the soldier who does battle for him will also bring him ideas? the versaillese journals crowed over this manifesto. many of those who had signed it understood their mistake, and fifteen of them presented themselves at the sitting of the th. the council had never been so numerous; the roll-call was answered by sixty-six members. the council was first taken up with a proposition prompted by a traitor. barral de montaut, chief of the staff of the th legion, had just published that the versaillese of vanves had shot an ambulancière of the commune. urbain, urged by montaut, who had managed to gain his friendship, asked that, as reprisal, five hostages should be shot in the interior of paris, and five at the advanced posts. the council passed to the order of the day. immediately after this incident, a member of the majority interpellated those of the minority. he demonstrated without any difficulty the futility of the reasons invoked in their manifesto, and, growing warm, called his adversaries girondists. "what! girondists!" answered frankel; "one can see that you go to bed at night and get up in the morning with the _moniteur_ of , else you would know the difference there is between us socialist revolutionists and the girondists." the discussion became heated. vallès, who had signed the manifesto, said, "i have declared that we must come to an understanding with the majority; but they must also respect the minority, which is a force;" and he demanded that all forces should be turned against the enemy. citizen miot answered severely from the profound depths of his beard. a member of the majority spoke of conciliation; immediately félix pyat, to incense their ire, asked for the reading of the manifesto. in vain vaillant said, with sense and justice, "when our colleagues come back to us disavowing their programme, we must not put it under their eyes to engage them to persevere in their faults," and a conciliatory order of the day was beaten by that of miot, drawn up in terms offensive to the minority. suddenly a tremendous explosion interrupted the dispute. billioray rushed into the room with the news that the cartridge factory of the avenue rapp had just blown up. the whole east of paris was shaken. a pyramid of flame, of molten lead, human remains, burning timber and bullets burst forth from the champ-de-mars to an enormous height, and showered down upon the environs. four houses fell in; more than forty persons were wounded, and the catastrophe would have been still more terrible if the firemen of the commune had not torn waggons of cartridges and barrels of gunpowder from the midst of the flames. a maddened crowd gather, and believe in a crime; a few individuals were arrested, and an artillerist was taken to the ecole militaire. who was the culprit? nobody knows. neither the council nor the procureur of the commune examined the affair. yet the committee of public safety announced in a proclamation that it held four of the culprits, and delescluze that the case was to be sent before the court-martial. no more was heard about it, although it was as much the duty as the interest of the council to throw light upon this affair. a serious inquest would probably have revealed a crime. the women, who usually left the factory at seven o'clock, had been on that day dismissed at six o'clock. it has been seen that charpentier asked corbin for dynamite; it might have been very useful to the conspirators to spread panic with one stroke at the war office, the ecole militaire, the artillery park and the huts of the champ-de-mars, which were always occupied by a few federals.[ ] paris firmly believed in a plot. the reactionists said, "this is the revenge for the vendôme column." it had been pulled down the evening before with great ceremony. its demolition, the idea of which had become quite current during the first siege,[ ] was decreed on the th april.[ ] this inspiration, popular, humane, profound, showing that a war of classes was to supersede the war of nations, aimed at the same time a blow at the ephemeral triumph of the prussian. the rather expensive preparations, costing almost , francs, had been much protracted, owing to the lukewarmness of the engineer and the continual efforts to suborn the workmen. on the th may, at two o'clock, an immense crowd thronged all the neighbouring streets, rather anxious as to the result of the operation. the reactionists foretold all sorts of catastrophes; the engineer, on the contrary, affirmed that there would be no shock; that the column would break to pieces during its descent. he had sawn it horizontally a little above the pedestal; a slanting groove was to facilitate the fall backwards upon a vast bed of faggots, sand, and dung, accumulated in the direction of the rue de la paix. a rope attached to the summit of the column was twisted round a capstan fixed at the entrance of the street. the place was crowded with national guards; the windows, the roofs were filled with curious spectators. in default of mm. jules simon and ferry, erewhile warm partisans of the operation, m. glais-bizoin felicitated the new prefect of police, ferré, who had just taken the place of cournet, and confided to him that for forty years it had been his ardent desire to see the expiatory monument demolished. the bands played the "marseillaise," the capstan turned about, the pulley broke, and a man was wounded. already rumours of treason circulated among the crowd; but a second pulley was soon supplied. at a quarter past five an officer appeared on the balustrade for some time, waved a tricolor flag, then fixed it on the rails. at half-past five the capstan again turned, and a few minutes after the extremity of the column slowly displaced itself; the shaft little by little gave way, then, suddenly reeling to and fro, broke and fell with a low moan. the head of bonaparte rolled on the ground, and his parricidal arm lay detached from the trunk. an immense acclamation, as that of a people freed from a yoke, burst forth. the ruins were climbed upon and saluted by enthusiastic cries, and the red flag floated from the purified pedestal, which on that day had become the altar of the human race. the people wanted to divide among themselves the fragments of the column, but were prevented by the inopportune interference of the council members present. a week afterwards, the versaillese picked them up. one of the first acts of the victorious bourgeoisie was to again raise this enormous block, the symbol of their sovereignty. to lift up cæsar on his pedestal they needed a scaffolding of , corpses. like the mothers under the first empire, may those of our days never look upon this bronze without weeping. footnotes: [ ] these were what general appert calls the brunel brigade. strong. [ ] appendix xiv. [ ] during the first siege, the _journal officiel_ of the mairie of paris had inserted a letter from courbet demanding the overthrow of the column. [ ] thus courbet was not as yet a member of the council. nevertheless he was considered as the principal author of the fall of the column, and condemned in the costs of its re-erection. chapter xxv. paris on the eve of death. the paris of the commune has but three days more to live; let us engrave upon our memory her luminous physiognomy. he who has breathed in thy life that fiery fever of contemporaneous history, who has panted on thy boulevards and wept in thy faubourgs, who has sung to the morns of thy revolutions and a few weeks after bathed his hands in powder behind thy barricades, he who can hear from beneath thy stones the voices of the martyrs of sublime ideas and read in every one of thy streets a date of human progress, even he does less justice to thy original grandeur than the stranger, though a philistine, who came to glance at thee during the days of the commune. the attraction of rebellious paris was so strong that men hurried thither from america to behold this spectacle unprecedented in the world's history--the greatest town of the european continent in the hands of the proletarians. even the pusillanimous were drawn towards her. in the first days of may one of our friends arrived--one of the most timid men of the timid provinces. his kith and kin had escorted him on his departure, tears in their eyes, as though he were descending into the infernal regions. he said to us, "what is true in all the rumours bruited about?" "well, come and search all the recesses of the den." we set out from the bastille. street-arabs cry rochefort's _mot d'ordre_, the _père duchêne_, jules vallès' _cri du peuple_, félix pyat's _vengeur_, _la commune_, _l'affranchi_, _le pilori des mouchards_. the _officiel_ is little asked for; the journalists of the council stifle it by their competition. the _cri du peuple_ has a circulation of , . it is the earliest out; it rises with chanticleer. if we have an article by vallès this morning, we are in luck; but in his stead, pierre denis, with his autonomy _à outrance_, makes himself too often heard. only buy the _père duchêne_ once, though its circulation is more than , . take félix pyat's article in the _vengeur_ as a fine example of literary intoxication. the bourgeoisie has no better helpmates than these vain and ignorant claptrap-mongers. here is the doctrinaire journal _la commune_, in which millière sometimes writes, and in which georges duchêne takes the young men and the old of the hôtel-de-ville to task with a severity which would better fit another character than his. do not forget the _mot d'ordre_, whatever the romanticists may say. it was one of the first to support the revolution of the th march, and darted terrible arrows at the versaillese. in the kiosques are the caricatures. thiers, picard, and jules favre figure as the three graces, clasping each other's paunches. this fine fish, the _maquereau_, with the blue-green scales, who is making up a bed with an imperial crown, is the marquis de gallifet. _l'avenir_, the mouthpiece of the _ligue_. _le siècle_, become very hostile since the arrest of gustave chaudey; and _la vérité_, the yankee portalis's paper, are piled up, melancholy and intact. many reactionist papers have been suppressed by the prefecture, but for all that are not dead; for a lad, without any mystery about him, offers them to us. read, search, find one appeal to murder, to pillage, a single cruel line in all these communard journals excited by the battle, and then compare them with the versaillese papers, demanding fusillades _en masse_ as soon as the troops shall have vanquished paris. let us follow those catafalques that are being taken up the rue de la roquette, and enter with them into the père lachaise cemetery. all those who die for paris are entombed with obsequies in the great resting-place. the commune has claimed the honour of paying for their funerals; its red flag blazes from the four corners of the hearse, followed by some comrades of the battalion, while a few passers-by always join the procession. this is a wife accompanying her dead husband. a member of the council follows the coffin; at the grave he speaks not of regrets, but of hope, of vengeance. the widow presses her children in her arms, and says to them, "remember and cry with me, 'vive la république! vive la commune!'"[ ] on retracing our steps, we pass by the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement. it is hung with black, the mourning of the last imperialist plébiscite, of which the people of paris was innocent and became the victim. we cross the place de la bastille, gay, animated by the ginger-bread fair. paris will yield nothing to the cannon; she has even prolonged the annual fair for a week. the swings move to and fro, the wheels-of-fortune turn, booth-keepers cry their sixpenny wares, the mountebanks allure spectators, and promise half their receipts to the wounded. we go down these great boulevards. a crowd pushes against the napoleon circus, where , people are gathered, filling it from the area to the ceiling. small flags, each one bearing the name of a department, urge the provincials to group themselves. this meeting has been called by some merchants, who propose to the citizens of the departments to send delegates to their respective deputies, in the belief that the latter may be brought round and peace gained by explanations. a tall, thin man, with a sad face, asks for permission to address the people, and gets upon the platform. it is millière, whom the crowd cheers. "peace," said he, "we all wish for it, citizens. but who, then, has commenced the war? who attacked paris on the th march? m. thiers. who attacked her on the nd april? m. thiers. who has spoken of conciliation, multiplied attempts at peace? paris. who has always repulsed them? m. thiers. conciliation! m. dufaure has said, 'why, insurrection is less criminal.' and that which neither the freemasons, nor the leagues, nor the addresses, nor the municipal councillors of the provinces could do, you expect to get from a deputation chosen from amongst the parisians! see, without knowing it, you are enervating the defence. no, no more deputations, but active correspondence with the provinces--there lies salvation!" "this, then, is that energumen whom we are so frightened of in the provinces!" exclaimed our friend. "yes, and these thousands of men of all conditions, who in common seek for peace, consult each other, answer courteously, these are the demented people, the handful of bandits who hold the capital." before the prince eugène barracks we notice the , soldiers who remained in paris on the th march, and whom the commune entertains without asking them for any service. at the top of the boulevard magenta we visit the numerous skeletons of the st. laurent church, arranged in the same order they were found in, without coffins or winding-sheets. are not interments in churches formally prohibited? some, however, notre dame des victoires especially, abound in skeletons. is it not the duty of the commune to expose these illegal proceedings, which are perhaps crimes? on the boulevards, from bonne-nouvelle to the opéra, we find the same paris loitering before the shops, sitting in front of the cafés. carriages are rare, for the second siege has cut short the provisions for horses. by the rue du septembre we reach the stock exchange, surmounted by the red flag, and the bibliothèque nationale, where readers are sitting round the long tables. crossing the palais-royal, whose arcades are always noisy, we come to the museum of the louvre; the rooms, hung with their pictures, are open to the public. the versaillese journals none the less say the commune is selling the national collections to foreigners. we descend the rue de rivoli. on the right, in the rue castiglione, a huge barricade obstructs the entrance of the place vendôme. the issue of the place de la concorde is barred by the st. florentin redoubt, stretching to the ministry of marine on its right, and the garden of the tuileries on its left, with three rather badly directed embrasures eight yards wide. an enormous ditch, laying bare all the arteries of subterranean life, separates the place from the redoubt. the workmen are giving it the finishing stroke, and cover the epaulments with gazon. many promenaders look on inquisitively, and more than one brow lowers. a corridor skilfully constructed conducts us to the place de la concorde. the proud profile of the strasbourg statue stands out against the red flags. the communards, who are accused of ignoring france, have piously replaced the faded crowns of the first siege by fresh spring flowers. we now enter the zone of battle. the avenue of the champs-elysées unrolls its long-deserted line, cut by the dismal bursting of the shells from mont-valérien and courbevoie. these reach as far as the palais de l'industrie, whose treasures the employés of the commune courageously protect. in the distance rises the mighty bulk of the arc de triomphe. the sight-seers of the first days have disappeared, for the place de l'etoile has become almost as deadly as the rampart. the shells break off the bas-reliefs that m. jules simon had caused to be iron-clad against the prussians. the main arch is walled up to stop the projectiles that enfiladed it. behind this barricade they are getting ready to mount some pieces on the platform, which is almost as high as mont-valérien. by the faubourg st. honoré we pass along the champs-elysées. in the right angle comprised between the avenue de la grande armée, that of the ternes, the ramparts, and the avenue wagram there is not a house intact. you see m. thiers "does not bombard paris, as the people of the commune will not fail to say." some shreds of a placard hang from a half-battered wall; it is m. thiers' speech against king bomba, which a group of conciliators have been witty enough to reproduce. "you know, gentlemen," said he to the bourgeois of , "what is happening at palermo. you all have shaken with horror on hearing that during forty-eight hours a large town has been bombarded. by whom? was it by a foreign enemy exercising the rights of war? no, gentlemen, it was by its own government. and why? because that unfortunate town demanded its rights. well, then, for the demand of its rights it has got forty-eight hours of bombardment!" happy palermo! paris already has had forty days of bombardment. we have some chance of getting to the boulevard péreire by the left side of the avenue des ternes. from there to the porte-maillot every spot is beset with danger. watching for a momentary lull, we reach the gate, or rather the heap of ruins that mark its place. the station no longer exists, the tunnel is filled up, the ramparts are slipping into the moats. and yet there are human salamanders who dare to move about amidst these ruins. facing the gate there are three pieces commanded by captain la marseillaise; on the right, captain rouchat with five pieces; on the left, captain martin with four. monteret, who commands this post for the last five weeks, lives with them in this atmosphere of shells. the mont-valérien, courbevoie, and bécon have thrown more than eight hundred of them. twelve pieces are served by ten men, naked to the waist, their body and arms blackened with powder, in a stream of perspiration, often a match in each hand. the only survivor of the first set, the sailor bonaventure, has twenty times seen his comrades dashed to pieces. and yet they hold out, and these pieces, continually dismounted, are continually renewed; their artillerists only complain of the want of munition, for the waggons no longer dare approach. the versaillese have very often attempted, and may attempt, surprises. monteret watches day and night, and he can without boasting write to the committee of public safety that so long as he is there the versaillese will not enter by the porte-maillot. every step towards la muette is a challenge to death. but our friend must witness all the greatness of paris. on the ramparts, near the gate of la muette, an officer is waving his képi toward the bois de boulogne; the balls are whistling around him. it is dombrowski, who is amusing himself with inveighing against the versaillese of the trenches. a member of the council who is with him succeeds in making him forego this musketeer foolhardiness, and the general takes us to the castle, where he has established one of his headquarters. all the rooms are perforated by shells. still he remains there, and makes his men remain. it has been calculated that his aides-de-camp on an average lived eight days. at this moment the watch of the belvedere rushes in with appalled countenance; a shell has traversed his post. "stay there," says dombrowski to him; "if you are not destined to die there you have nothing to fear." such was his courage--all fatalism. he received no reinforcements despite his despatches to the war office; believed the game lost, and said so but too often. this is my only reproach, for you do not expect me to apologise for the commune's having allowed foreigners to die for it. is not this the revolution of all proletarians? is it not for the people to at last do justice to that great polish race which all french governments have betrayed? dombrowski accompanies us across passy as far as the seine, and shows us the almost abandoned ramparts. the shells crush or mow down all the approaches to the railway; the large viaduct is giving way at a hundred places; the iron-clad locomotives have been overthrown. the versaillese battery of the billancourt isle fires point-blank at our gunboats, and sinks one, _l'estoc_, under our very eyes. a tug arrives in time, picks up the crew, and ascends the seine under the fire that follows it up to the jena bridge. a clear sky, a bright sun, peaceful silence envelop this stream, this wreck, these scattered shells. death appears more cruel amidst the serenity of nature. let us go and salute our wounded at passy. a member of the council, lefrançais, is visiting the ambulance of dr. demarquay, whom he questions as to the state of the wounded. "i do not share your opinions," answers the doctor, "and i cannot desire the triumph of your cause; but i have never seen wounded men preserve more calm and sangfroid during operations. i attribute this courage to the energy of their convictions." we then visit the beds; most of the sick anxiously inquire when they will be able to resume their service. a young fellow of eighteen, whose right hand had just been amputated, holds out the other, exclaiming, "i have still this one for the service of the commune!" an officer, mortally wounded, is told that the commune has just handed over his pay to his wife and children. "i had no right to it," answers he. "these, my friend, these are the brutish drunkards who, according to versailles, form the army of the commune." we return by the champ-de-mars; its huts are badly manned. other _cadres_, a different discipline would be needed to retain the battalions there. before the ecole, yards from the ramparts, and a few steps from the war office, a hundred ordnance pieces remain inert, loaded with mud. leaving on our right the war office, that centre of discord, let us enter the corps législatif, transformed into a workshop. fifteen hundred women are there, sewing the sand sacks that are to stop up the breaches. a tall and handsome girl, marthe, round her waist the red scarf with silver fringe given her by her comrades, distributes the work. the hours of labour are shortened by joyous songs. every evening the wages are paid, and the women receive the whole sum, eight centimes a sack, while the former contractors hardly gave them two. we now proceed along the quays, lulled in imperturbable calm. the academy of sciences holds its monday sittings. it is not the workmen who have said, "the republic wants no savants." m. delaunay is in the chair. m. elie de beaumont looks through the correspondence, and reads a note from his colleague, m. j. bertrand, who has fled to st. germain. we shall find the report in the _officiel_ of the commune. we must not leave the left bank without visiting the military prison. ask the soldiers if they have met with a single menace, a single insult in paris; if they are not treated as comrades, subjected to no exceptional rules, set free when willing to help their parisian brothers. meanwhile evening has set in. the theatres are opening. the lyrique gives a grand performance for the benefit of the wounded, and the opéra-comique is preparing another. the opéra promises us a special performance for the following monday, when we shall hear gossec's revolutionary hymn. the artists of the gaieté, abandoned by their manager, themselves direct their theatre. the gymnase, châtelet, théâtre-français, ambigu-comique, délassements, have large audiences every night. let us pass to more virile spectacles, such as paris has not witnessed since . ten churches open, and the revolution mounts the pulpits. in the old quarter of the gravilliers, st. nicholas des champs is filling with the powerful murmur of many voices. a few gas-burners hardly light up the swarming crowd; and at the farther end, almost hidden by the shadow of the vaults, hangs the figure of christ draped in the popular oriflamme. the only luminous centre is the reading-desk, facing the pulpit, hung with red. the organ and the people chant the _marseillaise_. the orator, over-excited by these fantastic surroundings, launches forth into ecstatic apostrophes, which the echo repeats like a menace. the people discuss the events of the day, the means of defence; the members of the council are severely censured, and vigorous resolutions are voted to be presented to the hôtel-de-ville the next day. women sometimes ask to speak; at the batignolles they have a club of their own. no doubt, few precise ideas come forth from these feverish meetings, but many find there a provision of energy and of courage. it is only nine o'clock, and we may still be in time for the concert of the tuileries. at the entrance, citoyennes, accompanied by commissioners, are making a collection for the widows and orphans of the commune. the immense rooms are animated by a decent and gay throng. for the first time respectably-dressed women are seated on the forms of the court. three orchestras are playing in the galleries, but the soul of the fête is in the salle des maréchaux, where mademoiselle agar recites from "les châtiments" in that same place, where, ten months before, bonaparte and his band were enthroned. mozart, meyerbeer, rossini, the great works of art have driven away the musical obscenities of the empire. from the large central window the harmonious strains vibrate to the garden; joyous lights shine like stars on the green-sward, dance among the trees, and colour the playing fountains. within the arbours the people are laughing; but the noble champs-elysées, dark and desolate, seem to protest against these popular masters, whom they have never acknowledged. versailles, too, protests by that conflagration of which a wan reflex lights up the arc de triomphe, whose sombre mass overtowers the civil war. at eleven o'clock, as the crowd is retiring, we hear a noise from the side of the chapel. m. schoelcher has just been arrested. he has been taken to the prefecture, where, a few hours after, the procureur rigault sets him at liberty. the boulevards are thronged with the people coming from the theatres. at the café-peters there is a scandalous gathering of staff-officers and prostitutes. suddenly a detachment of national guards appears and leads them off. we follow them to the hôtel-de-ville, where ranvier, who is on duty there, receives them. short shrift is made: the women to st. lazare, the officers, with spades and mattocks, to the trenches. one o'clock in the morning. paris sleeps tranquilly. such, my friend, is the paris of the brigand. you have seen this paris thinking, weeping, combating, working, enthusiastic, fraternal, severe to vice. her streets free during the day, are they less safe in the silence of the night? since paris has her own police crime has disappeared.[ ] each one is left to his instincts, and where do you see debauchery victorious? these federals, who might draw milliards, live on ridiculous pay compared with their usual salaries. do you at last recognise this paris, seven times shot down since , and always ready to rise for the salvation of france? where is her programme, say you? why, seek it before you, and not at the faltering hôtel-de-ville. these smoking ramparts, these explosions of heroism, these women, these men of all professions united, all the workmen of the earth applauding our combat, all monarchs, all the bourgeois coalesced against us, do they not speak loudly enough our common thought, and that all of us are fighting for equality, the enfranchisement of labour, the advent of a social society? woe to france if she does not comprehend! leave at once; recount what paris is. if she dies, what life remains to you? who, save paris, will have strength enough to continue the revolution? who save paris will stifle the clerical monster? go, tell the republican provinces, "these proletarians fight for you too, who perhaps may be the exiles of to-morrow." as to that class, the purveyor of empires, that fancies it can govern by periodical butcheries, go and tell them, in accents loud enough to drown their clamours, "the blood of the people will enrich the revolutionary field. the idea of paris will arise from her burning entrails and become an inexorable firebrand with the sons of the slaughtered." footnotes: [ ] funeral of lieutenant châtelet, of the st. [ ] see the evidence of the chief of police, m. claude, _Énquête sur le mars_. vol. ii. p. . chapter xxvi. "la porte de st. cloud vient de s'abatre. le général douai s'y est précipité."--_m. thiers aux préfets, le mai._ the versaillese enter paris on sunday, st may. at three o'clock in the afternoon--the council of the commune dissolves. the great attack approached; the assembly drew up in battle-array. on the th may it refused to recognise the republic as the government of france, and voted public prayers by voices out of . on the th the army established its breach batteries against the gates of la muette, auteuil, st. cloud, point du jour, issy. the batteries in the rear continued to pound the enceinte of the point du jour and to confound passy. the pieces of the château de brécon ruined the montmartre cemetery, and reached as far as the place st. pierre. we had five arrondissements under shell. on the th, in the evening, the versaillese surprised the federals of cachan by approaching them with the cry of "vive la commune!" however, we succeeded in preventing their movement towards the hautes-bruyères. the dominican monks who from their convent gave signals to the enemy were arrested and taken to the fort de bicêtre. _ th._--despite the versaillese approaches, our defence did not become more vigorous. the bastions and threw a few occasional shells upon the village and the fort of issy. from the point du jour to the porte-maillot we had only the cannon of the dauphine gate to answer the hundred versaillese pieces and check their works in the bois de boulogne. a few barricades at the bineau and asnières gates and the boulevard d'italie, two redoubts at the place de la concorde and rue castiglione, a moat in the rue royale and another at the trocadéro; this was all that the council had done in seven weeks for the defence of the interior. there were no works at the mont-parnasse station, the panthéon, the buttes montmartre, where two or three pieces had been fired off on the th, only to kill our own men at laval's. at the terrace of the tuileries about twelve navvies sadly dug away at a useless fosse. the committee of public safety could not, they said, find workmen, when they had , idlers at the prince-eugène barracks, , sedentary guards, and millions of francs to hand. an iron will and firm direction might still have saved everything; and we were now in the period of coma, of immense lassitude. the competitions, quarrels, and intrigues had relaxed all energy. the council occupied itself with details, with trifles. the committee of public safety multiplied its romantic proclamations, which moved nobody. the central committee thought only of seizing upon a power it was unable to wield, and on the th announced itself administrator of the war office. its members had made so sure of their sway, that one of them by a decree inserted in the _officiel_ ordered all the inhabitants of paris to "present themselves at their homes within forty-eight hours," on pain of "having their rent-titles on the grand livre burnt." this was the pendant of the civic card. our best battalions, decimated, abandoned to themselves, were but wrecks. since the beginning of april we had lost , men, killed or wounded, and , prisoners. there now remained to us , men from asnières to neuilly, , perhaps from la muette to petit-vanves. the battalions designated for the posts of passy were not there, or stayed in the houses far from the ramparts; many of their officers had disappeared. at the bastions to , precisely at the point of attack, there were not twenty artillerists; the sentinels were absent. was it treason? the conspirators boasted a few days after of having dismantled these ramparts; but the terrible bombardment would suffice to explain this dereliction. still there was a culpable heedlessness. dombrowski, weary of struggling against the inertness of the war office, was discouraged, went too often to his quarters at the place vendôme, while the committee of public safety, informed of the abandonment of the ramparts, contented itself with warning the war office instead of hurrying to the rescue and taking the situation in hand. on saturday, the th may, the breach batteries were unmasked; naval guns and siege-pieces blending together their detonations announced the beginning of the end. the same day de beaufond, whom lasnier's arrest had not discouraged, sent his habitual emissary to warn the chief of the versaillese general staff that the gates of montrouge, vanves, vaugirard, point du jour, and dauphine were entirely deserted. orders for concentrating the troops were immediately issued. on the st the versaillese found themselves in readiness, as on the rd and th, but this time success seemed certain; the gate of st. cloud was dashed to pieces. for several days some members of the council had pointed out this breach to the chief of the general staff, henry prodhomme. he answered à la cluseret that his measures were taken; that he was even going to throw up a terrible iron-clad barricade before this gate; but he did not stir. on the sunday morning, lefrançais, traversing the moat on the ruins of the drawbridge, at about fifteen yards distance, ran up against the versaillese trenches. struck by the imminence of the peril, he sent delescluze a note, which was lost. at half-past two, under the shade of the tuileries, a monster concert was being given for the benefit of the widows and orphans of the commune. thousands of people had come; the bright spring dresses of the women lit up the green alleys; people eagerly inhaled the fresh air sent forth from the great trees. two hundred yards off, on the place de la concorde, the versaillese shells burst, uttering their discordant note amidst the joyous sounds of the bands and the invigorating breath of spring. at the end of the concert a staff officer ascended the platform of the conductor of the orchestra. "citizens," said he, "m. thiers promised to enter paris yesterday. m. thiers has not entered; he will not enter. i invite you to come here next sunday, to the same place, to our second concert for the benefit of the widows and orphans." at that very hour, at that very minute, almost within gunshot, the vanguard of the versaillese was making its entry into paris. the expected signal had at last been given from the st. cloud gate, but did not come from the licensed conspirators. an amateur spy, ducatel, was crossing these quarters, when he saw everything, gates and ramparts, quite deserted. he thereupon climbed the bastion , waving a white handkerchief, and cried to the soldiers of the trenches, "you can enter; there is no one here." a naval officer came forward, interrogated ducatel, crossed over the ruins of the drawbridge, and was able to assure himself that the bastions and neighbouring houses were entirely abandoned. returning immediately to the trenches, the officer telegraphed the news to the nearest generals. the breach batteries ceased firing, and the soldiers of the trenches near penetrated by small platoons into the enceinte. m. thiers, macmahon, and admiral pothuan, who were just then at mont-valérien, telegraphed to versailles to have all the divisions put in motion. dombrowski, absent from his headquarters of la muette for several hours, arrived at four o'clock. a commander met him, and informed him of the entry of the versaillese. dombrowski let the officer terminate his report, then, turning to one of his aides-de-camp, with that coolness that he exaggerated in critical circumstances, said, "send to the ministry of marine for a battery of seven cannon; warn such and such battalions. i shall take the command myself." he also addressed a despatch to the committee of public safety and the war office, and sent the battalion of volunteers to occupy the gate of auteuil. at five o'clock, national guards, without képis, without arms, uttered a cry of alarm in the streets of passy; some officers unsheathing their swords tried to stop them; the federals left their houses, some loading their guns, others maintaining that it was a false alarm. the commander of the volunteers picked up and led off as many men as he could get to follow him. these volunteers were troops inured to fire. near the railway station they saw the red-coats, and received them with a volley. a versaillese officer on horseback, who hurried up trying to urge on his men with drawn sabre, fell beneath our balls, and his soldiers retreated. the federals established themselves solidly on the viaduct and at the opening of the murat boulevard, while, at the same time, the quay abreast of the jena bridge was being barricaded. dombrowski's despatch had reached the committee of public safety. billioray, on duty at this moment, at once proceeded to the council. the assembly was just putting cluseret on his trial, and vermorel was speaking. the ex-delegate, seated on a chair, listened to the orator with that vain nonchalance which the naïve took for talent. billioray, very pale, entered, and for a moment sat down; then, as vermorel went on, cried to him, "conclude! conclude! i have to make a communication of the greatest importance to the assembly; i demand a secret sitting." vermorel: "let citizen billioray speak." billioray rose and read a paper that trembled slightly in his hand. "dombrowski to war and committee of public safety. the versaillese have entered by the porte de st. cloud. i take measures to drive them back. if you can send me reinforcements, i answer for everything."[ ] there was first a silence of anguish, soon broken by interpellations. "some battalions have marched off," answered billioray; "the committee of public safety watches." the discussion was again taken up, and naturally cut short. the council acquitted cluseret; the ridiculous impeachment brought forward by miot, made up only of gossip, neglected the only incriminating fact--the inactivity of cluseret during his delegation. they then formed into groups and commented on the despatch. the confidence of dombrowski, the assurance of billioray, proved quite sufficient to the romanticists. what with faith in the general, the solidity of the ramparts, the immortality of the cause; what with the responsibility of the committee of public safety, the question at issue was slurred over; let every one go about in search of information, and in case of need betake himself to his own arrondissement. the time was wasted in small-talk; there were neither motion nor debate; eight o'clock struck, and the president raised the sitting. the last sitting of the council! and there was no one to demand a permanent committee; no one to call on his colleague to wait here for news, to summon the committee of public safety to the bar of the council. there was no one to insist that at this critical moment of uncertainty, when perhaps it might be necessary to improvise a plan of defence at a moment's notice or take a great resolution in case of disaster, the post of the guardians of paris was in the centre, at the hôtel-de-ville, and not in their respective arrondissements. thus the council of the commune disappeared from history and the hôtel-de-ville at the moment of supreme danger, when the versaillese penetrated into paris. the same prostration reigned at the war office, where they had received the news at five o'clock. the central committee went to delescluze, who seemed very calm, and said, what many indeed believed, that the fight in the streets would be favourable to the commune. the commander of the section of the point du jour having just come to report that nothing serious had happened, the delegate accepted his statements without corroboration. the chief of the general staff did not even think it worth while to go and make a personal recognisance, and towards eight o'clock he had this incredible despatch placarded: "the observatory of the arc de triomphe denies the entry of the versaillese; at least, it sees nothing that looks like it. the commander (renaud) of the section has just left my cabinet, and declares that there has only been a panic, and that the gate of auteuil has not been forced; that if a few versaillese have entered, they have been repulsed. i have sent for eleven battalions of reinforcements, by as many officers of the general staff, who are not to leave them till they have led them to the posts which they are to occupy." at the same hour m. thiers telegraphed to his prefects, "the gate of st. cloud has fallen under the fire of our cannon. general douai has dashed into the town." a two-fold lie. the gate of st. cloud had been wide open for three days without the versaillese daring to pass it, and general douai had crept in very modestly, man by man, introduced by treason. at night the ministry seemed to wake up a little. officers flocked thither asking for orders. the general staff would not allow the tocsin to be sounded, on the pretext that the population must not be alarmed. some members of the council pored over the plan of paris at last, studying those strategical points that had been forgotten for six weeks. when it was necessary at once to find an idea, a method, and give precise instructions, the delegate shut himself in his cabinet in order to frame a proclamation. while in the midst of paris, confident in her trustees, a few men, without soldiers, without information, prepared the first resistance, the versaillese continued to slip in through the breaches of the ramparts. wave on wave their flood grew silent, veiled by the dusk. by degrees they massed themselves between the railway line and the fortifications. at eight o'clock they were numerous enough to divide into two columns, one of which, turning to the left, crowned the bastions and , while the other filed off to the right on the route to versailles. the first lodged itself in the centre of passy, occupying the st. périne asylum, the church, and the place of auteuil; the other, having swept away the rudimentary barricade constructed on the quay at the top of the rue guillon, towards one o'clock in the morning, by the rue raynouard, scaled the trocadéro, neither fortified nor manned on this side, and at once took possession of it. at the hôtel-de-ville the members of the committee of public safety had at last assembled. billioray alone had vanished not to appear again. they knew nothing of the number and position of the troops, but knew that under the cover of night the enemy had entered passy. staff officers sent to the muette to reconnoitre came back with the most reassuring news. thereupon, at eleven o'clock, a member of the council, assi, entered the rue beethoven, where the lights had been put out. soon his horse refused to advance; it had slipped down in large pools of blood, and national guards seemed to lie asleep along the walls. suddenly men sprang forward. they were the versaillese waiting in ambush; these sleepers were murdered federals. the versaillese were slaughtering within the walls of paris, and paris knew it not. the night was clear, starlit, mild, fragrant; the theatres were crowded, the boulevards sparkling with life and gaiety, the bright cafés swarming with visitors, and the cannon were everywhere hushed--a silence unknown for three weeks. if "the finest army that france ever had" were to push straight on by the quays and boulevards, entirely free of barricades, with one bound, without firing a shot, it would crush the commune of paris. the volunteers held out on the railway line till midnight; then, exhausted, left without any reinforcements, they fell back upon la muette. general clinchant followed them, occupied the auteuil gate, passed by that of passy, and marched on the headquarters of dombrowski. fifty volunteers for some time still kept up a skirmish in the château, but outflanked on the east, about to be closed in from the trocadéro, at half-past one in the morning they beat a retreat on the champs-elysées. on the left bank general cissey had the whole evening massed his forces at about yards from the enceinte. at midnight his sappers crossed the moat, scaled the ramparts, without even falling in with a sentinel, and opened the gates of sèvres and versailles. at three o'clock in the morning the versaillese inundated paris through the five gaping wounds of the gates of passy, auteuil, st. cloud, sèvres, and versailles. the greater part of the fifteenth arrondissement was occupied, the muette taken; taken all passy and the heights of the trocadéro, taken too the powder-magazine of the rue beethoven, immense catacombs running underneath the sixteenth arrondissement, crammed with , barrels of powder, millions of cartridges, thousands of shells. at five o'clock the first versaillese shell fell upon the légion d'honneur. as on the morning of the nd december, paris was asleep. footnotes: [ ] the original of this document has been lost, but we have been able to re-establish the text with the evidence of dombrowski's brother and of a great number of members of the council present at this sitting. chapter xxvii. "les généraux qui ont conduit l'entree à paris sont de grands hommes de guerre."--_m. thiers à l'assemblée nationale, mai ._ monday nd--the versaillese invade the quarters of the east--paris rises. at two o'clock dombrowski arrived at the hôtel-de-ville, pale, dejected, his chest bruised with stones ploughed up by shot. he told the committee of public safety of the entry of the versaillese, the surprise of passy, his useless efforts to rally the men. as he was pressed for news, as they appeared astonished at such a rapid invasion, so little did the committee know of the military situation, dombrowski, who misunderstood them, exclaimed, "what! the committee of public safety takes me for a traitor! my life belongs to the commune." his gesture, his voice, testified to his bitter despair. the morn was warm and bright, as the day before. the call to arms, the tocsin, set three or four thousand men on foot, who hurried towards the tuileries, the hôtel-de-ville, and the war office; but hundreds of others at that moment had abandoned their posts, left passy, and emptied the fifteenth arrondissement. the federals of petit-vanves came back to paris at five o'clock, and seeing the trocadéro occupied by the versaillese, refused to hold out. on the left bank, at the st. clothilde square, some officers attempted to stay them, but were repulsed by the guards. "it is now a war of barricades," said they; "every one to his quarter." at the légion d'honneur they forced their way; the proclamation of delescluze had released them. thus began that fatal proclamation placarded on all the walls:-- "enough of militarism! no more staff-officers with their gold-embroidered uniforms! make way for the people, for the combatants with naked arms! the hour of the revolutionary war has struck! the people know nothing of learned manoeuvres. but when they have a gun in their hands, pavement under their feet, they fear not all the strategists of the monarchical school!" when the minister of war thus stigmatises all discipline, who will henceforth obey? when he repudiates all method, who will listen to reason? thus we shall see hundreds of men refusing to quit the pavement of their street, paying no heed to the neighboring quarter in agonies, remaining motionless up to the last hour waiting for the army to come and overwhelm them. at five o'clock in the morning the official retreat began. the chief of the general staff, henri prodhomme, had the war office precipitately evacuated, without carrying off or destroying the papers. the next day they fell into the hands of the versaillese, and furnished the courts-martial with thousands of victims. on leaving the ministry, delescluze met brunel, who, set at liberty only the evening before, had at once rallied his legion, and now came to offer his services, for he was one of those men of convictions too strong to be shaken by the most cruel injustice. delescluze gave him the order to defend the place de la concorde. brunel repaired thither, and disposed tirailleurs, three pieces of cm., one of , two of on the terrace of the tuileries and by the bank of the river. he provided the st. florentin redoubt with a mitrailleuse and a piece of ; that of the rue royale, at the entrance of the place de la concorde, with two pieces of . in front of brunel, at the place beauvan, some men of the th legion made vain efforts to stop the fugitives from passy and auteuil, and then betook themselves to put the quarter in a fit state of defence. barricades were thrown up in the faubourg st. honoré as far as the english embassy, in the rue de suresne and ville-levêque; obstacles were heaped up at the place st. augustin, the opening of the boulevard haussmann, and in front of the boulevard malesherbes, when the versaillese presented themselves. early in the morning they had begun their onward march. at half-past five douai, clinchant, and ladmirault, passing along the ramparts, debouched on the avenue de la grande armée. the artillerists of the porte-maillot, turning round, beheld in their rear the versaillese, their neighbours for some ten hours. not a sentinel had denounced them. monteret filed off his men by the ternes; then, alone with a child, charged one of the cannon of the porte-maillot, fired his last round at the enemy, and succeeded in escaping by the batignolles. the column douai remounted the avenue as far as the barricade in front of the arc de triomphe, which they took without a struggle, the federals hardly having time to carry off the cannon that were to have surmounted the arc de triomphe. the soldiers marched up the quay, and ventured on the silent place de la concorde; suddenly the terrace of the tuileries lighted up; the versaillese, received with a point-blank volley, fled as far as the palais de l'industrie, leaving many dead. on the left the soldiers occupied the abandoned elysée, and by the rues morny and abbatucci debouched on the place st. augustin, where the barricades, hardly begun, could not resist, and towards half-past seven the versaillese installed themselves at the pepinière barracks. the federals formed a second line in the rear, closing the boulevard malesherbes at the top of the rue boissy d'anglas. on the left of douai, clinchant and ladmirault continued their movement along the ramparts. the important works at the gates of bineau, courcelles, asnières, and clichy, directed against the fortifications, became useless, and the ternes were occupied without striking a blow. at the same time one of the clinchant divisions passed by the outer ramparts. the federal battalions on duty at neuilly, levallois-perret, and st. ouen were assailed with balls from the rear--(this was the first intimation they got of the entry of the versaillese)--and many federals were taken prisoners. others succeeded in returning to paris by the gates of bineau, asnières, and clichy, spreading panic and rumours of treason in the seventeenth arrondissement. the rappel had been beaten all night in the batignolles, and had called out the sedentary guards and the youths. a battalion of engineers rushed forward to encounter clinchant's skirmishers, and began firing in front of the parc monceaux and the place wagram, when the national guards, deceived by their red trousers, opened a deadly fire upon them. they retreated and laid bare the parc, which the versaillese occupied, and then pushed on to the batignolles. there they were stopped by barricades rising on all sides; on the left, from the place clichy to the rue lévis; in the centre, in the rues lebouteux, la condamine, and des dames; on the right, la fourche, the rival position of the place clichy, had been fortified, and soon the batignolles formed a serious outwork for montmartre, our principal fortress. the latter, for seventeen hours,[ ] had looked silently on the entry of the troops of versailles. in the morning the columns of douai and ladmirault, their artillery and their waggons, had met each other, and become entangled on the place du trocadéro. a few shells from montmartre[ ] would have changed this confusion into a rout, and the least check met with by the troops on their entry would have been for paris a second th march; but the cannon of the buttes remained mute. monstrous negligence, which alone would suffice to condemn the council, the war office, and the delegates of montmartre. eighty-five cannon and about twenty mitrailleuses were lying there, dirty, pell-mell, and no one during these eight weeks had even thought of cleaning them. projectiles of cm. abounded, but there were no cartridges. at the moulin de la galette three pieces of cm. alone were supplied with carriages, but there were neither parapets, blindages, nor even platforms. at nine o'clock in the morning they had not yet fired; after the first discharge the recoil overthrew the carriages, and much time was required to set them up again. these three pieces themselves had very little munition. of fortifications or earthworks there were none; merely a few barricades at the foot of the external boulevards had been begun. at nine o'clock la cécilia sent to montmartre, and found the defence in this disgraceful state. he immediately addressed despatches to the hôtel-de-ville, conjuring the members of the council to come themselves, or at least to send reinforcements of men and munitions. a similar thing occurred at the same time on the left bank at the ecole militaire. face to face with its park of artillery, the versaillese since one o'clock in the morning were manoeuvring on the trocadéro without a single cannon shot being fired at them. what, then, was the governor of the ecole about? at daybreak the langourian brigade attacked the huts of the champ-de-mars. the federals defended themselves several hours, and were only dislodged by the shells of the trocadéro, which enkindled a conflagration.[ ] they then fell back upon the ecole, and for a long time checking the effort of the troops, gave the seventeenth arrondissement time to rise. the quay as far as the légion d'honneur, the rues de lille, de l'université, and the boulevard st. germain up to the rue solferino were being barricaded. half-a-dozen of the armlet conspirators, led by durouchoux and vrignault, were coming down the rue du bac at great speed, when a member of the council, sicard, arrested them before the petit st. thomas. a bullet struck durouchoux; his acolytes carried him away, and took advantage of the occasion not to appear again. the rue de beaune, verneuil, and st. pères were put in a state of defence, and a barricade was thrown up in the rue de sèvres at the abbaye-au-bois. on the right cissey's soldiers descended the rue de vaugirard without hindrance as far as the avenue du maine; another column filed off along the railway, and at half-past six reached the mont-parnasse station. this position, of supreme importance, had been utterly neglected; about twenty men defended it, and they were soon short of cartridges, and obliged to retreat to the rue de rennes, where, under the fire of the troops, they constructed a barricade at the top of the rue du vieux colombier. on his extreme right cissey occupied the vanves gate and lined the whole railway of the west. paris rose to the roar of the cannon and read the proclamation of delescluze. the shops were at once shut up again, the boulevards remained empty, and paris, the old insurgent, resumed her combative physiognomy. estafets dashed through the streets, and remainders of battalions came to the hôtel-de-ville, where the central committee, the committee of artillery, and all the military services were concentrated. at nine o'clock twenty members of the council had assembled. a miracle! there was félix pyat, who had cried "to arms!" in his paper that very morning. he had put on his patriarchal air. "well, my friends, our last hour has come. oh, for myself what matters it! my hair is grey, my career run out. what more glorious end could i hope for than that of the barricade. but when i see around me so many in the prime of youth, i tremble for the future of the revolution!" then he demanded that the names of the members present should be entered, in order to mark out distinctly those true to their duty. he signed his name, and, with tears in his eyes, the old comedian trotted off to a hiding-place, surpassing by his last cowardice all his former villainies. a sterile meeting this, spent in discussing the news of the day; no impulsion given, no system of defence propounded. the federals were left to their own inspirations--left to look after themselves. during the whole past night neither dombrowski, nor the war office, nor the hôtel-de-ville had thought of the battalions outside the town. henceforth each corps had nothing to expect but from its own initiative, from the resources it might be able to create and the intelligence of its chiefs. in default of direction proclamations abounded. "let good citizen rise! to the barricades! the enemy is within our walls. no hesitation. forward, for the commune and for liberty. to arms!" "let paris bristle up with barricades, and from behind these improvised ramparts still hurl at her enemies her cry of war, of pride, of defiance, but also of victory; for paris with her barricades is inexpugnable." great words; nothing but words. _mid-day._--general cissey had turned the ecole militaire, and thereby forced its last defenders. the soldiers invaded the esplanade des invalides and entered the rue grenelle st. germain, when l'ecole d'etat-major exploded and put them to flight. two of our cannon enfiladed the rue de l'université; four gunboats, anchored under the pont-royal, opened fire on the trocadéro. in the centre, in the eighth arrondissement, the versaillese skirmished. at the batignolles they did not advance, but their shells harassed the rue lévis. we also lost many men in the rue cardinet, where children were fighting furiously. malon and jaclard, who directed this part of the defence, had since morning in vain applied to montmartre for reinforcements; so towards one o'clock they themselves went in search of them. not one of the staff-officers could give them the slightest information. the federals were wandering about the streets or chatting in small groups. malon wanted to take them back with him, but they refused, reserving themselves, they said, for the defence of their own quarter. the cannon of the buttes were mute, being short of cartridges; the hôtel-de-ville had sent only words. still there were two generals on the heights, cluseret and la cécilia, the ex-delegate melancholily airing his somnolent incapacity, while la cécilia, unknown in this quarter, at once found himself powerless. _two o'clock._--the hôtel-de-ville had again assumed its grand aspect of march. on the right the committee of public safety and on the left the war office were overrun. the central committee was multiplying its orders and exclaiming against the incapacity of the members of the council, though itself incapable of setting forth a single precise idea. the committee of artillery, more beset than ever, could not yet make out its cannon, did not know to whom to give them, and often refused pieces for the most important positions. the delegates of the congress of lyons, conducted by mm. jules amigues and j. larroque, came to offer their intervention, but they had no mandate, and did not even know whether m. thiers would admit them. they were received rather coldly. besides, many at the hôtel-de-ville believed in victory, and almost rejoiced at the entry of the versaillese; for indeed paris seemed to be rising. the barricades increased quickly. that of the rue de rivoli, which was to protect the hôtel-de-ville, was erected at the entrance of the st. jacques square, at the corner of the rue st. denis. fifty workmen did the mason-work, while swarms of children brought wheelbarrows full of earth from the square. this work, several yards deep, six yards high, with fosses, embrasures, an outwork, as solid as the florentin redoubt, which had taken weeks to raise, was finished in a few hours--an example this of what an intelligent effort at the right time might have done for the defence of paris. in the ninth arrondissement, the rues auber, de la chaussée d'antin, de châteaudun, the cross-roads of the faubourg montmartre, notre dame de lorette, de la trinité, and the rue des martyrs were being unpaved. the large approaches, la chapelle, buttes chaumont, belleville, ménilmontant, the rue de la roquette, the bastille, the boulevards voltaire and richard lenoir, the place du château d'eau, the large boulevards especially from the porte st. denis; and on the left bank the whole length of the boulevard st. michel, the panthéon, the rue st. jacques, the gobelins, and the principal avenues of the thirteenth arrondissement were being barricaded. a great many of these works of defence were never finished. while paris was preparing for the last struggle, versailles was wild with joy. the assembly had met at an early hour, and m. thiers would not leave to any of his ministers the glory of announcing the first butcheries in paris. his appearance on the tribune was hailed by ferocious cheers. "the cause of justice, order, humanity, and civilisation has triumphed," screamed the little man. "the generals who have conducted the entry into paris are great men of war. the expiation will be complete. it will take place in the name of the law, by the law, with the law." the chamber understanding this promise of carnage, rose to a man, and by a unanimous vote, right, left, centre, clericals, republicans, monarchists, swore that "the versaillese army and the chief of the executive power had merited well of the country."[ ] the sitting was at once raised, the deputies rushing off to the lanterne de diogène, châtillon, and mont-valérien, to all the heights whence they could, as from an immense colosseum, observe the butchery of paris without incurring the least danger. the population of idlers accompanied them, and on this route of versailles deputies, courtesans, women of the world, journalists, functionaries stung by the same craving, sometimes crammed into the same carriage, displayed before the prussians and france the spectacle of a saturnalia of the bourgeoisie. after eight o'clock the army ceased to advance, save in the eighth arrondissement, where the barricade before the english embassy was turned by the gardens. our line of the faubourg st. germain resisted from the seine to the mont-parnasse station, which we were cannonading. with nightfall the fusillade slackened, but the cannonade still went on. a red light glared in the tuileries; the ministry of finance was burning. it had during the whole day received part of the versaillese shells, destined for the terrace of the tuileries, and the papers piled up in its upper storeys had taken fire. the firemen of the commune had at first extinguished this conflagration, interfering with the defence of the st. florentin redoubt, but it had soon lit up again, and become unquenchable. then began those nights of horror, where, amidst the roaring of the cannon, by the glimmer of burning houses, men sought each other in pools of blood. the paris of the revolt had at length been roused. her battalions descended towards the hôtel-de-ville headed by bands and the red flag. small in number, a battalion perhaps two hundred strong, but resolute, these federals marched on in silence; there were seen also, muskets on their shoulders, those men, devoted to the social revolution, whom personal jealousy had kept at a distance. but in this hour none thought of such recriminations. because of the incapacity of the chiefs ought the soldiers to desert their flag? the paris of represented against versailles the social revolution and the new destinies of the nation; one must be against or for her despite the faults committed. cowards only abstained. all the true revolutionists rose, even those who had no illusions as to the issue of the struggle, eager to defy death in the service of their immortal cause. _ten o'clock._--we proceeded to the hôtel-de-ville. an irritated group of federals had just arrested dombrowski. the general, without any command since morning, had repaired with his officers to the outposts of st. ouen, and believing his rôle terminated, wanted in the night to ride through the prussian ranks and gain the frontier. a commander, who was afterwards shot as a traitor, had incited his men against the general under the pretext that he was betraying them. led before the committee of public safety, dombrowski indignantly exclaimed, "they say i have betrayed!" the members of the committee welcomed him affectionately, and the incident had no further consequences. messengers arrived at the war office from all the points of the battle. a great number of guards and officers issued orders and despatches in the midst of a continual bustle. the inner courts were full of waggons and carriages, the horses all ready harnessed; munitions were being taken out or brought in, and not the least sign of discouragement, or even of anxiety, was visible, but everywhere an almost gay activity. the streets and boulevards, with the exception of the invaded quarters, had been lighted as usual. at the entrance of the faubourg montmartre the light ceased abruptly, giving it the appearance of an enormous black hole. this obscurity was guarded by federal sentinels, uttering every now and then their cry, "passez au large!" beyond this only a menacing silence. these shadows moving about in the night seemed to assume gigantic forms; one fancied oneself haunted by a sinister dream; the bravest were appalled. there were nights more noisy, more glaring, more grandiose, when the conflagrations and the cannonade enveloped paris, but none of more lugubrious impress. a night of meditation this, the vigil of battle. we sought each other in the gloom, spoke low, giving and taking comfort. at the cross-roads we consulted each other in order to examine our positions, and then to work! now for the spade and the pavements! let the earth be heaped up where the shells may flatten themselves against it; let the mattresses thrown from the windows shelter the combatants. henceforth there is to be no more rest; let the stones cemented with hate press against each other like the shoulders of men arrayed for the battlefield. the enemy has taken us by surprise, defenceless. may he to-morrow encounter a saragossa or a moscow! every passer-by was requisitioned. "come, citizen, lend a hand for the republic!" at the bastille and in the interior boulevards one met crowds of workers, some digging the earth, others carrying the paving-stones; children using spades and mattocks as big as themselves. the women encouraged the men; the delicate hand of the young girl raised the heavy pickaxe that fell with a sharp sound, emitting fiery sparks. it took an hour to seriously break through the soil. what matter! they will spend their night at it. on the tuesday evening, at the intersection of the square st. jacques and the boulevard sebastopol, many _dames de la halle_ worked for a long time, filling earth sacks and wicker baskets.[ ] and these were no longer the traditional redoubts two storeys high. save four or five in the rue st. honoré and the rue de rivoli, the barricades of may consisted of a few paving-stones hardly a man's height; behind these sometimes a cannon or a mitrailleuse; and in the midst, wedged in by two paving-stones, the red flag, the colour of vengeance. behind these shreds of ramparts thirty men held regiments in check. if this general effort had been directed by the least thought of combination, if montmartre and the panthéon had crossed their fires, the versaillese army would have melted away in paris; but the federals, without directions, without military knowledge, saw no further than just their own quarter, or even their own streets; so that instead of strategical solidary barricades, easy to defend with , or , men, hundreds were scattered about which it was impossible to arm sufficiently. the general mistake was a belief that they would be attacked from the front; while the versaillese, thanks to their numbers, everywhere executed flank movements. in the evening the versaillese line extended from the station of the batignolles to the extremity of the railway of the west on the left bank, passing by the st. lazare station, the pépinière barracks, the english embassy, the palais de l'industrie, the corps législatif, the rue de bourgogne, the boulevard des invalides, and the mont-parnasse station. to face the invader there were but embryo barricades. if with one effort he were to break through this line still so weak, he would surprise the centre quite disarmed. but these , men did not dare to. soldiers and chiefs were afraid of paris. they fancied the streets would open, the houses fall upon them; as witness the fable of the torpedoes, of the mines under the sewers, invented later on to justify their indecision.[ ] on the monday evening, masters of several arrondissements, they still trembled, fearful of some terrible surprise. they needed all the tranquility of the night to recover from their conquest, and convince themselves that the committee of defence, despite their boasting, had neither foreseen nor prepared anything. footnotes: [ ] "seventeen hours were required to get in , men and our numerous artillery."--_m. thiers, enquête sur le mars._ [ ] "from this unexpected obstruction there resulted a confusion that lasted till after the passage of the troops, and might have had serious consequences. if the insurgents had then opened fire upon the trocadéro, from the batteries of montmartre, their shells would have harassed us a great deal. but the cannon of montmartre still kept silent. it was only a little after nine o'clock that they commenced firing; the passage was then already cleared."--_vinoy, la commune_, p. . [ ] the first conflagration of the days of may, and the versaillese have admitted that they themselves kindled it.--_vinoy, l'armistice et la commune_, p. . [ ] no deputy protested either on this day or after, or declared he had abstained from voting, neither those of the extreme left nor those of the extreme right. they are then, all of them equally answerable for this vote. [ ] "at the place blanche," wrote g. maroteau in the _salut public_ of the next day, "there was a barricade perfectly constructed and defended by a battalion of women, about . at the moment when i arrived, a dark form detached itself from the recess of a courtyard. it was a young girl with a phrygian cap on her head, a chassepot in her hand, a cartridge-box by her side. 'stand, citizen! no one passes here!' i stopped astonished, showed my safe-conduct, and the citoyenne allowed me to go to the foot of the barricade." [ ] appendix xv. chapter xxviii. tuesday rd--montmartre is taken--the wholesale massacres --we lose ground--paris on fire--the last night of the hÔtel-de-ville. the defenders of the barricades slept on their paving-stones. the hostile outposts were on the watch. at the batignolles the versaillese reconnaissance carried off a sentinel. the federal cried out with all his might, "vive la commune!" and his comrades, thus warned, were able to put themselves on their guard. he was shot there and then. in like manner fell d'assas and barra. at two o'clock la cécilia, accompanied by the members of the council, lefrançais, vermorel, and johannard, and the journalists alphonse humbert and g. maroteau, brought up a reinforcement of men to the batignolles. to malon's reproaches for having left the quarter without succour the whole day, the general answered, "i am not obeyed." _three o'clock._--to the barricades! the commune is not dead! the fresh morning air bathes the fatigued faces and revives hope. the enemy's cannonade along the whole line salutes the break of day. the artillerists of the commune, from mont-parnasse to the buttes montmartre, which seem awaking, answered as well as they could. ladmirault, almost motionless the day before, now launched his men along the fortifications, taking all the gates from neuilly to st. ouen in the rear. on his right, clinchant attacked by the same movement all the barricades of the batignolles. the rue cardinet yielded first, then the rues noblet, truffaut, la condamine, and the lower avenue of clichy. suddenly the gate of st. ouen opened, and the versaillese poured into paris; it was the montaudon division, which since evening had been operating in the exterior. the prussians had surrendered the neutral zone, and so, with the help of bismarck, clinchant and ladmirault were able to take the buttes by the two flanks. nearly surrounded in the mairie of the seventeenth arrondissement, malon ordered the retreat on montmartre, whither a detachment of twenty-five women, come to offer their services under the conduct of the citoyennes dimitrieff and louise michel, were also sent. clinchant, pursuing his route, was arrested by the barricade of the place clichy. to reduce these badly disposed paving-stones, behind which hardly fifty men were fighting, required the combined effort of the versaillese of the rue de st. pétersbourg and their tirailleurs of the collége chaptal. the federals, having no more shells, charged with stones and bitumen; their powder exhausted, they fell back upon the rue des carrières, and ladmirault, master of the st. ouen avenue, turned their barricade by the montmartre cemetery. about twenty guards refused to surrender, and were at once shot by the versaillese. in the rear, the quarter des epinettes still held out for a time; at last all resistance ceased, and about nine o'clock the entire batignolles belonged to the army. the hôtel-de-ville knew nothing yet of the progress of the troops when vermorel rushed thither in search of munitions for montmartre. as he was setting out at the head of the waggons he met ferré, and, with the smile familiar to him, said, "well, ferré, the members of the minority fight." "the members of the majority will do their duty," answered ferré. generous emulation of these men, who were both devoted to the people, and who were to die so nobly. vermorel could not take his waggons as far as montmartre, the versaillese already investing the heights. masters of the batignolles, they had but to stretch out their hand to seize upon montmartre. the buttes seemed dead; panic had during the night hurried on its underhand work; the battalions, one after the other, had grown smaller, vanished. individuals seen later on in the ranks of the army had stirred defections, spread false news, and every moment arrested civil and military chiefs, under the pretext that they were betraying. only about a hundred men lined the north side of the hill; a few barricades had been commenced in the night, but without spirit; the women alone had shown any ardour. cluseret had, according to his usual habit, gone off in a vapour. despite his despatches and the promises of the hôtel-de-ville, la cécilia had received neither reinforcements nor munitions. at nine o'clock, no longer hearing the cannon of the buttes, he hurried up, and found the cannoniers gone. the runaways from the batignolles arriving at ten o'clock only brought in panic. the versaillese might have presented themselves; there were not combatants there to receive them. macmahon, however, only dared attempt the assault with his best troops, so redoubtable was this position, so great the renown of montmartre. two entire army corps assailed it by the rues lepic, mercadet, and the chaussée clignancourt. from time to time some shots were fired from a few houses; forthwith frightened columns came to a stand-still and began regular sieges. these , men, who completely surrounded montmartre, helped by the artillery established on the terre-plein of the enceinte, took three hours to climb these positions, defended without method by a few dozen tirailleurs. at eleven o'clock the cemetery was taken, and shortly after the troops reached the château-rouge. in the environs there were some fusillades, but the few obstinate men who still fought were soon killed, or withdrew discouraged at their isolation. the versaillese, scrambling up to the buttes by all the acclivities that lead to them, at mid-day installed themselves at the moulin de la galette, descended by the place st. pierre to the mairie, and occupied the whole of the eighteenth arrondissement without any resistance. thus without a battle, without an assault, without even a protestation of despair, was this impregnable fortress abandoned, from which a few hundred resolute men might have kept the whole versaillese army in check, and constrained the assembly to come to terms. hardly arrived at montmartre, the versaillese staff offered a holocaust to the manes of lecomte and clément-thomas. forty-two men, three women, and four children were conducted to no. in the rue des rosiers and forced to kneel bare-headed before the wall, at the foot of which the generals had been executed on the th march; then they were killed. a woman, who held her child in her arms, refused to kneel down, and cried to her companions, "show these wretches that you know how to die upright." on the following day these massacres continued. each batch of prisoners halted some time before this wall, marked with bullets, and were then despatched on the slope of the buttes that overlooks the st. denis route.[ ] the batignolles and montmartre witnessed the first wholesale massacres. every individual wearing a uniform or regulation boots was shot, as a matter of course, without questions put, without explanations given. thus the versaillese had been assassinating since the morning in the square des batignolles, place de l'hôtel-de-ville, and at the gate of clichy. the parc monceaux was their principal slaughter-house in the seventeenth arrondissement. at montmartre the centres of massacre were the buttes, the elysée, of which every step was strewn with corpses, and the exterior boulevards. a few steps from montmartre the catastrophe was not known. at the place blanche the women's barricade held out for several hours against clinchant's soldiers; they then retreated towards the pigalle barricade, which fell at about two o'clock. its chief was led before a versaillese chief of battalion. "who are you?" asked the officer. "lévêque, mason, member of the central committee." the versaillese discharged his revolver in his face; the soldiers finished him. on the other bank of the seine our resistance was more successful. the versaillese had been able since morning to occupy the babylone barracks and l'abbaye-au-bois, but varlin stopped them at the cross-roads of the croix-rouge. this cross-road will remain celebrated in the defence of paris. all the streets that open into it had been powerfully barricaded, and this stronghold was only abandoned when fire and shells had reduced it to a heap of ruins. on the banks of the river, the rues de l'université, st. dominique, st. germain, and de grenelle, the th, th, th, and th battalions, supported by the _enfants perdus_ and _les tirailleurs_, resisted obstinately. in the rue de rennes and on the contiguous boulevards the versaillese exhausted their strength. in the rue vavin, where lisbonne conducted the defence, the resistance was prodigious; for two days this advanced sentinel kept back the invasion from the luxembourg. we were less secure on our extreme left. the versaillese had early in the day invested the mont-parnasse cemetery, which we held with a handful of men. near the restaurant richefeu, the federals, allowing the enemy to approach, unmasked their mitrailleuses; but in vain, for the versaillese were numerous enough to surround the few defenders of the cemetery on all sides, and soon stormed it. from there, passing by the ramparts of the fourteenth arrondissement, they arrived at the place st. pierre. the fortifications of the avenue d'italie and of the route de châtillon, long since carefully prepared, but always against the ramparts, were taken in the rear by the chaussée du maine, and the whole defence of the cross-roads of the quatre-chemins was concentrated round the church. from the top of the steeple about a dozen federals of montrouge supported the barricade that barred two-thirds of the chaussée du maine, held by thirty men for several hours. at last, their cartridges exhausted, the tricolor flag was hoisted at the mairie, at the same hour that it floated above the buttes montmartre. henceforth the route to the place d'enfer was open, and the versaillese arrived there after having undergone the fire from the observatoire, where some federals had made a stand. behind these lines thus forced other defences were thrown up, thanks to the care of wroblewski. the day before, the general, receiving the order to evacuate the forts, had answered, "is it treachery or a misunderstanding? i will not evacuate." montmartre taken, the general went to delescluze, urging him to transfer the defence to the left bank. the seine, the forts, the panthéon, the bièvre, formed, in his opinion, a safe citadel, with the open fields for a retreat; a very just conception this with regular troops, but one cannot at will displace the heart of an insurrection, and the federals were more and more bent on remaining in their own quarters. wroblewski returned to his headquarters, assembled the commanders of the forts, prescribed all the dispositions to be taken for their defence, and came back to resume the command of the left bank, given him by earlier decrees. but on sending orders to the panthéon, he was answered that lisbonne commanded there. wroblewski, undeterred, placed the section left to him in a state of defence. he installed a battery of eight pieces and two batteries of four on the butte-aux-cailles, a dominant position between the panthéon and the forts; he fortified the boulevards d'italie, de l'hôpital, and de la gare. his headquarters were established at the mairie des gobelins, and his reserve at the place d'italie, place jeanne d'arc, and at bercy. at the other extremities of paris the fourteenth and twentieth arrondissements also prepared their defence. the brave passedouet had replaced du bisson, who still dared to present himself as _chef-de-légion_ of la villette. they barricaded the grande rue de la chapelle behind the strasbourg railway, the rues d'aubervilliers, de flandre, and the canal, so as to form five lines of defence, protected on the flank by the boulevards and the fortifications. cannon were placed in the rue riquet at the gasworks, while rampart pieces were carried by the men on to the buttes chaumont and others to the rue de puebla. a battery of six was mounted on the height of the père lachaise, covering paris with its rumbling reports. a mute and desolate paris. as on the day before, the shops remained closed, and the streets, bleached by the sun, looked empty and menacing. estafets riding at full speed, pieces of artillery shifted from their places, combatants on the march, alone broke this solitude. cries of "open the shutters!" "draw up the blinds!" alone interrupted this silence. two journals, _le tribun du peuple_ and _le salut public_, were published, notwithstanding the versaillese shells that were falling into the printing-office of the rue aboukir. a few men at the hôtel-de-ville did their best to attend to details. one decree authorised the chiefs of barricades to requisition the necessary implements and victuals; another condemned every house from which federals were shot at to be burned. in the afternoon the committee of public safety issued an appeal to the soldiers:-- "the people of paris will never believe that you could raise your arms against them. when they face you your hands will recoil from an act that would be a veritable fratricide. "like us, you too are proletarians. that which you did on the th march you will do again. come to us, brothers, come to us; our arms are open to receive you." the central committee at the same time placarded a similar appeal--a puerile but generous illusion; and on this point the people of paris entirely agreed with their mandatories. in spite of the frenzy of the assembly, the fusillade of the wounded, the treatment inflicted upon the prisoners for six weeks, the workingmen did not admit that children of the people could rend the entrails of that paris who combated for them. at three o'clock m. bonvalet and other members of the _ligue des droits de paris_ presented themselves at the hôtel-de-ville, where some members of the council and of the committee of public safety received them. they bewailed this struggle, proposed to interfere, as they had so successfully done during the siege, and to carry to m. thiers the expression of their sorrow; further, they placed themselves at the disposition of the hôtel-de-ville. "well, then," they were answered, "shoulder a gun and go to the barricades!" before this direct appeal the league fell back upon the central committee, which had the weakness to listen to them. there was no question of negotiating in the midst of the battle. the versaillese, following up their success at montmartre, were at this moment pushing towards the boulevard ornano and the northern railway station. at two o'clock the barricades of the chaussée clignancourt were abandoned, and in the rue myrrha, by the side of vermorel, dombrowski fell mortally wounded. in the morning delescluze had told him to try his best in the neighbourhood of montmartre; and, without hope, without soldiers, suspected since the entry of the versaillese, all dombrowski could do was to die. he expired two hours afterwards at the lariboisière hospital. his body was taken to the hôtel-de-ville, the men of the barricades presenting arms as he was carried by. his glorious death had disarmed suspicion. clinchant, thenceforth free on his left, proceeded to the ninth arrondissement. a column marched down the rues fontaine, st. georges, and notre dame de lorette, and made a halt at the cross-roads; while another cannonaded the rollin collége before penetrating into the rue trudaine, where it was held in check until the evening. more in the centre, at the boulevard haussmann, douai pressed close upon the barricade of the printemps shop, and with gunshots dislodged the federals who occupied the trinité church. five pieces established under the porch of the church were then directed at the very important barricade that barred the chaussée d'antin at the entrance of the boulevard. a detachment penetrated into the rues châteaudun and lafayette, but at the cross-roads of the faubourg montmartre a barricade, a yard high at the utmost, defended by twenty-five men, arrested them until night. douai's right was still powerless against the rue royale. there for two days brunel sustained a struggle only equalled by that of the butte-aux-cailles, of the bastille, and the château d'eau. his main barricade, transversely crossing the street, was overlooked by the neighbouring houses, from which the versaillese decimated the federals; and brunel, impressed with the importance of the post confided to him, ordered these murderous houses to be burned down. a federal obeying him was struck by a ball in the eye, and came back dying to brunel's side, saying, "i am paying with my life for the order you have given me. vive la commune!" all the houses comprised between no. and the faubourg st. honoré were caught in the flames, and the versaillese, appalled, ran away, some passing over to the federals. one of them put on the parisian uniform and became brunel's orderly. on the right the boulevard malesherbes, on the left the terrace of the tuileries, which bergeret occupied since the day before, seconded brunel's efforts. the boulevard malesherbes, furrowed by shells, was like a field ploughed up by gigantic shares. the fire of eighty pieces of artillery at the quay d'orsay, passy, the champ-de-mars, the barrière de l'etoile converged on the terrace of the tuileries and the barricade st. florentine. about a dozen federal pieces bore up against this shower. the place de la concorde, taken between these cross-fires, was strewn with fragments of fountains and lamp-posts. the statue of lille was beheaded, that of strasbourg pitted by the grapeshot. on the left bank the versaillese made their way from house to house. the inhabitants of the quarter lent their assistance, and from behind their closed blinds fired on the federals, who, indignant, forced and set fire to the treacherous houses. the versaillese shells had already begun the conflagration, and the rest of the quarter was soon in flames. the troops continued to gain ground, occupied the ministry of war, the telegraph office, and reached the bellechasse barracks and the rue de l'université. the barricades of the quay and the rue du bac were battered down by the shells; the federal battalions, which for two days had held out at the légion d'honneur, had no longer any retreat but the quays. at five o'clock they evacuated this unclean place after having set it on fire. at six o'clock the barricade of the chaussée d'antin was lost to us; the enemy advancing by the side streets had occupied the nouvel opéra, entirely dismantled, and from the top of the roofs the marine-fusileers commanded the barricade. instead of imitating them, of also occupying the houses, the federals, there as everywhere else, obstinately kept behind the barricade. at eight o'clock the barricade of the rue neuve des capucines, at the entrance of the boulevard, gave way under the fire of the pieces of cm. established in the rue caumartin. the versaillese approached the place vendôme. at all points the army had made decided progress. the versaillese line, starting from the northern railway station, following the rues rochechouart, cadet, drouot, whose mairie was taken, the boulevard des italiens, stretched to the place vendôme and the place de la concorde, passed along the rue du bac, the abbaye-au-bois, and the boulevard d'enfer, ending at the bastion . the place de la concorde and the rue royale, surrounded on their flanks, stood out like a promontory in the midst of a tempest. ladmirault faced la villette; on his right clinchant occupied the ninth arrondissement; douai presented himself at the place vendôme; vinoy supported cissy operating on the left bank. at this hour hardly one-half of paris was still held by the federals. the rest was given over to massacre. they were still fighting at one end of a street when the conquered part was already being sacked. woe to him who possessed arms or a uniform! woe to him who betrayed dismay! woe to him who was denounced by a political or personal enemy! he was dragged away. each corps had its regular executioner, the provost; but to speed the business there were supplementary provosts in the streets. the victims were led there--shot. the blind fury of the soldiers encouraged by the men of order served their hatred and liquidated their debts. theft followed massacre. the shops of the tradesmen who had supplied the commune, or whom their rival shopkeepers accused, were given over to pillage; the soldiers smashed their furniture and carried off the objects of value. jewels, wine, liqueurs, provisions, linen, perfumery, disappeared into their knapsacks. when m. thiers was apprised of the fall of montmartre, he believed the battle over, and telegraphed to the prefects. for six weeks he had not ceased to announce that, the ramparts taken, the insurgents would fly; but paris, contrary to the habits of the men of sedan and metz and of the national defence, contested street by street, house by house, and rather than surrender, burned them. a blinding glare arose at nightfall. the tuileries were burning, so also the légion d'honneur, the conseil d'etat, and the cour des comptes. formidable detonations were heard from the palace of the kings, whose walls were falling, its vast cupolas giving way. flames, now slow, now rapid as darts, flashed from a hundred windows; the red tide of the seine reflected the monuments, thus redoubling the conflagration. fanned by an eastern wind, the blazing flames rose up against versailles, and cried to the conqueror of paris that he will no longer find his place there, and that these monarchical monuments will not again shelter a monarchy. the rue du bac, the rue du lille, la croix-rouge, dashed luminous columns into the air; the rue royale to st. sulplice seemed a wall of fire divided by the seine. eddies of smoke clouded all the west of paris, and the spiral flames shooting forth from these furnaces emitted showers of sparks that fell upon the neighbouring quarters. _eleven o'clock._--we go to the hôtel-de-ville. sentinels on far advanced posts made it secure against any surprise; at long intervals a gaslight flickered in the obscurity; at several barricades there were torches, and even bivouac fires. that of the st. jacques square, opposite the boulevard sebastopol, made of large trees, whose branches swung to and fro in the wind, muttered and fluttered in the redoubtable gloom. the façade of the hôtel-de-ville was reddened by distant flames; the statues, which the reflection seemed to move, stirred in their niches. the interior courts were filled with crowds and tumult. artillery ammunition waggons, carts, omnibuses, crammed with munitions, rolled off with a great noise under the vaults. the fêtes of baron haussmann awoke no such sonorous echoes. life and death, agony and laughter, jostled each other on these staircases, on every storey, illumined by the same dazzling light of the gas. the lower lobbies were encumbered by national guards rolled up in their blankets. the wounded lay groaning on their reddened mattresses; blood was trickling from the litters placed along the walls. a commander was brought in who no longer presented a human aspect; a ball had passed through his cheek, carried away the lips, broken the teeth. incapable of articulating a sound, this brave fellow still waved a red flag, and summoned those who were resting to replace him in the combat. in the notorious chamber of valentine haussmann the corpse of dombrowski was laid out upon a bed of blue satin. a single taper threw its lurid light on the heroic soldier. his face, white as snow, was calm, the nose fine, the mouth delicate, the small fair beard standing out pointed. two aides-de-camp seated in the darkened corners watched silently, another hurriedly sketched the last traits of his general. the double marble staircase was filled with people coming and going, whom the sentinels could hardly keep away from the delegate's cabinet. delescluze signed orders, mute and wan as a spectre. the anguish of those later days had absorbed his last vital powers; his voice was only a death-rattle; the eye and the heart alone lived still in this moribund athlete. two or three officers calmly prepared the orders, stamped and sent the despatches; many officers and guards surrounded the table. no speeches, a little conversation, among the various groups. if hope had waned, resolution had not grown less. who are these officers who have laid aside their uniforms, these members of the council, these functionaries who have shaved their beards? what are they doing here amongst these brave men? ranvier, meeting two of his colleagues thus disguised, who during the siege had been among the most beplumed, apostrophised them, threatening to shoot them if they did not at once return to their arrondissements. a great example would not have been useless. from hour to hour all discipline foundered. at that same moment the central committee, which believed itself invested with power by the abdication of the council, launched a manifesto, in which it made conditions: "dissolution of the assembly and of the commune; the army to leave paris; the government to be provisionally confided to the delegates of the large towns, who will have a constituent assembly elected; mutual amnesty." the ultimatum of a conqueror. this dream was placarded on a few walls, and threw new disorder into the resistance. from time to time some greater clamour arose from the square. a spy was shot against the barricade of the victoria avenue. some were audacious enough to penetrate into the most intimate councils.[ ] that evening, at the hôtel-de-ville, bergeret had received the verbal authorisation to fire the tuileries, when an individual pretending to be sent by him asked for this order in writing. he was still speaking when bergeret returned. "who sent you?" said he to the personage. "bergeret." "when did you see him?" "just here, a moment ago." during this evening, raoul rigault, taking orders from himself only, and without consulting any of his colleagues, repaired to the prison of ste. pélagie, and signified to chaudey that he was to die. chaudey protested, said he was a republican, and swore that he had not given the order to fire on the nd january. however, he had been at that time the only authority in the hôtel-de-ville. his protestations were of no avail against rigault's resolution. led into the exercise-ground of ste. pélagie, chaudey was shot, as were also three gendarmes taken prisoners on the th march. during the first siege he had said to some partisans of the commune, "the strongest will shoot the others." he died perhaps for those words. footnotes: [ ] appendix xvi. [ ] appendix xvii. chapter xxix. "nos vaillants soldats se conduisent de manière à inspirer la plus haute estime, la plus grande admiration à l'étranger."--_discours de m. thiers, à l'assemblée nationale le mai ._ wednesday th--the members of the council evacuate the hÔtel-de-ville--the panthÉon is taken--the versaillese shoot the federals by hundreds--the federals shoot six hostages--the night of the cannon. the defenders of the barricades, already without reinforcements and munitions, were now left even without food, and altogether thrown on the resources of the neighbourhood. many, quite worn out, went in search of some nourishment; their comrades, not seeing them return, grew desperate, while the chiefs of the barricades strained themselves to keep them back. at nine o'clock brunel received the order to evacuate the rue royale. he went to the tuileries to tell bergeret that he could still hold out, but at midnight the committee of public safety again sent him a formal order to retreat. forced to abandon the post he had so well defended for two days, the brave commander first removed his wounded and then his cannon by the rue st. florentin. the federals followed; when at the top of the rue castiglione, they were assailed by shots. it was the versaillese, who, masters of the rue de la paix and the rue neuve des capucines, had invaded the place vendôme, entirely deserted, and by the hôtel-du-rhin turned the barricade of the rue castiglione. brunel's federals, abandoning the rue de rivoli, forced the rails of the garden, went up the quays, and regained the hôtel-de-ville. the enemy did not dare to pursue them, and only at daybreak occupied the ministry of marine, long since abandoned. the rest of the night the cannon were silent. the hôtel-de-ville had lost its animation. the federals slept in the square; in the bureaux the members of the committees and the officers snatched a few moments of repose. at three o'clock a staff officer arrived from notre dame, occupied by a detachment of federals. he came to tell the committee of public safety that the hôtel-dieu harboured eight hundred sick, who might suffer from the proximity of the struggle, and the committee commanded the evacuation of the cathedral in order to save these unfortunate people. and now the sun rose, eclipsing the glare of the conflagrations; the day dawned radiant, but with no ray of hope for the commune. paris had no longer a right wing; her centre was broken; to assume the offensive was impossible. the prolongation of her resistance could now only serve to bear witness to her faith. early in the morning the versaillese moved on all points. they pushed towards the louvre, the palais-royal, the bank, the comptoir d'escompte, the montholon square, the boulevard ornano, and the line of the northern railway. from four o'clock they cannonaded the palais-royal, round which desperate battles were being fought. by seven o'clock they were at the bank and at the bourse; thence they descended to st. eustache, where they met an obstinate resistance. many children fought with the men; and when the federals were outflanked and massacred, these children had the honour not to be excepted. on the left bank the troops with difficulty marched up the quays and all that part of the sixth arrondissement bordering upon the seine. in the centre, the barricade of the croix-rouge had been evacuated during the night, like that of the rue de rennes, which thirty men had held for two days. the versaillese were then able to enter the rues d'assas and notre-dame-des-champs. on the extreme right they reached the val de grace, and advanced against the panthéon. at eight o'clock about fifteen members of the council assembled at the hôtel-de-ville and decided to evacuate it. two only protested. the third arrondissement, intersected by narrow and well-barricaded streets, sheltered the flank of the hôtel-de-ville, which defied every attack from the front and by the quays. under such conditions of defence to fall back was to fly, to strip the commune of the little prestige still remaining to it; but no more than the days before were they able to collect two sound ideas. they feared everything, because ignorant of everything. already the commander of the palais royal had received the order to evacuate that edifice, after having set it on fire. he had protested, and declared he could still hold out, but the order was repeated. such was the state of bewilderment, that a member proposed a retreat on belleville. they might as well abandon the château d'eau and the bastille at once. as usual, the time was spent in small-talk. the governor of the hôtel-de-ville went backwards and forwards impatient. suddenly the flames burst forth from the summit of the belfry; an hour after the hôtel-de-ville was but one glow. the old edifice, witness of so many perjuries, where the people have so often installed powers that have afterwards shot them down, now cracked and fell with its true master. with the noise of the crumbling pavilions, of the toppling vaults and chimneys, of the dull detonations and the loud explosions, mingled the sharp reports of the cannon from the large barricade st. jacques, that swept the rue de rivoli. the war office and all the services moved off to the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement. delescluze had protested against the desertion of the hôtel-de-ville, and predicted that this retreat would discourage many combatants. the next day they left the imprimerie nationale, where the _officiel_ of the commune appeared on the th for the last time. like an _officiel_ that respects itself, it was a day behind time; it contained the proclamations of the day before and a few details of the battle, but not beyond the tuesday morning. this flight from the hôtel-de-ville, cutting the defence in two, increased the difficulty of the communications. the staff officers who had not disappeared reached the new headquarters with great trouble; they were stopped at every barricade and constrained to carry paving-stones. on producing their despatches pleading urgency, they were answered, "to-day there are no more epaulettes." the anger they had inspired for a long time broke out this very morning. in the rue sedaine, near the place voltaire, a young officer of the general staff, the count de beaufort, was recognised by the guards of the th battalion, whom he had threatened some days before at the war office. arrested for having tried to violate the orders of the post, beaufort, losing his temper, had flung out a menace to purge the battalion. now, the day before, near the madeleine, the battalion had lost sixty men, and believed in a revenge on the part of beaufort. this officer was arrested and conducted before a court-martial, which installed itself in a shop of the boulevard voltaire. beaufort produced such certificates that the accusation was abandoned. nevertheless, the judges decided that he was to serve in the battalion as a simple guard. some of those present objected and named him captain. he came out triumphant. the crowd, ignorant of his explanation, grumbled on seeing him free. a guard rushed at him, and beaufort was imprudent enough to draw out his revolver. he was immediately seized and thrown back into the shop. the chief of the general staff did not dare to come to the rescue of his officer. delescluze hurried up, asked for a respite, said that beaufort should be judged; but the crowd would hear of nothing, and it was necessary to yield in order to prevent a terrible affray. beaufort, conducted to the open space situated behind the mairie, was shot. close by this outburst of fury, at the père lachaise, dombrowski was receiving the last honours. his corpse had been transported thither in the night, and during the passage to the bastille a touching scene had taken place. the federals of these barricades had stopped the cortège and placed the corpse at the foot of the july column; some men, torches in their hands, formed into a circle, and all the federals, one after the other, came to place a last kiss on the brow of the general, while the drums beat a salute. the body, enveloped in a red flag, was then put into the coffin. vermorel, the general's brother, his aides-de-camp, and about guards were standing up bareheaded. "there is he," cried vermorel, "who was accused of treachery! one of the first, he has given his life for the commune. and we, what are we doing here instead of imitating him?" he went on stigmatising cowardice and panics. his speech, usually intricate, now flowed from him, heated by passion, like molten metal. "let us swear to leave here only to seek death!" this was his last word; he was to keep it. the cannon a few steps off had at intervals covered his voice; few of the men present but shed tears. happy those who may have such funerals! happy those buried during the battle saluted by their cannon, wept over by their friends. at that same moment the versaillese agent who had flattered himself he could corrupt dombrowski was being shot. towards mid-day the versaillese, vigorously pushing their attack on the left bank, had stormed the ecole des beaux-arts, the institute, the mint, which its director, camélinat, left only at the last minute. on the point of being shut up in the ile notre dame, ferré had given the order to evacuate the prefecture of police and to destroy it. the prisoners arrested for slight offences were, however, first set at liberty; one only, vaysset, was retained and shot on the pont-neuf before the statue of henry iv. just before his death he uttered these strange words, "you will answer for my death to the comte de fabrice."[ ] the versaillese, neglecting the prefecture, entered the rue tarranes and the contiguous streets. they were held in check for two hours at the barricade of the place de l'abbaye, which the inhabitants of the quarter helped to outflank. eighteen federals were shot. more to the right the troops penetrated into the place st. sulpice, where they occupied the mairie of the sixth arrondissement; thence they entered the rue st. sulpice on one side, and on the other penetrated by the rue de vaugirard into the garden of the luxembourg. after two days of struggle the brave federals of the rue vavin fell back, and on their retreat blew up the powder-magazine of the luxembourg garden. the commotion for a moment suspended the combat. the palace of the luxembourg was not defended. some soldiers crossed the garden, broke down the rails facing the rue soufflot, traversed the boulevard, and surprised the first barricade in that street. three barricades were raised before the panthéon; the first at the entrance of the rue soufflot--it had just been taken; the second in the centre; the third extending from the mairie of the fifth arrondissement to the ecole de droit. varlin and lisbonne, hardly escaped from the croix-rouge, had hastened up again to face the enemy. unfortunately the federals would listen to no chief, remained on the defensive, and, instead of attacking the handful of soldiers exposed at the entrance of the rue soufflot, gave the reinforcements time to arrive. the bulk of the versaillese reached the boulevard st. michel by the rues racine and de l'ecole de médecine, which women had defended. the st. michel bridge ceased firing for want of munitions, so that the soldiers were able to pass over the boulevard in a body, and got as far as the place maubert, while at the same time on the right they remounted the rue mouffetard. at four o'clock the height ste. geneviève, well-nigh abandoned, was invaded by all its slopes and its few defenders dispersed. thus the panthéon, like montmartre, fell almost without a struggle. as at montmartre, too, the massacres commenced immediately. forty prisoners were shot one after the other in the rue st. jacques, under the eyes and by the orders of a colonel. rigault was killed in this neighbourhood. the soldiers seeing a federal officer knocking at the door of a house in the rue gay-lussac fired without hitting him. the door opened and rigault went in. the soldiers followed at full speed, rushed into the house, seized the landlord, who proved his identity, and hastened to deliver up rigault. the soldiers were dragging him to the luxembourg, when, in the rue royal-collard, a versaillese staff colonel met the escort, and asked the name of the prisoner. rigault bravely answered, "vive la commune! down with assassins!" he was immediately thrown against a wall and shot. may this courageous end be counted to him! when the fall of the panthéon, so valiantly defended in june, , became known in the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement, they at once cried out against traitors; but what then had the council and the committee of public safety done for the defence of this capital post? at the mairie, as at the hôtel-de-ville, they were deliberating. at two o'clock the members of the council, of the central committee, superior officers, and the chiefs of the services were assembled in the library. delescluze spoke first, amidst a profound silence, for the least whisper would have covered his dying voice. he said all was not lost; that they must make a great effort, and hold out to the last. cheers interrupted him. he called upon each one to state his opinion. "i propose," said he, "that the members of the commune, engirded with their scarfs, shall make a review of all the battalions that can be assembled on the boulevard voltaire. we shall then at their head proceed to the points to be conquered." the idea appeared grand, and transported those present. never since the sitting when he had said that certain delegates of the people would know how to die at their post, had delescluze so profoundly moved all hearts. the distant fusillade, the cannon of the père lachaise, the confused clamours of the battalions surrounding the mairie, blended with, and at times drowned his voice. behold, in the midst of this defeat, this old man upright, his eyes luminous, his right hand raised defying despair, these armed men fresh from the battle suspending their breath to listen to this voice which seemed to ascend from the tomb. there was no scene more solemn in the thousand tragedies of that day. there was a superabundance of most vigorous resolutions. open on the table lay a large case of dynamite; an imprudent gesture might explode the mairie. they spoke of cutting off the bridges, of upheaving the sewers. what was the use of this tall talking? very different munitions were needed now. where is the engineer-in-chief who had said that at his bidding an abyss would open and swallow up the enemy? he is gone. gone too the chief of the general staff. since the execution of beaufort, he has felt an ill wind blowing for his epaulettes. more motions were made, and motions will still be made to the end. the central committee condescended to declare that it would subordinate itself to the committee of public safety. it seemed settled at last that the chief of the th legion was to group all the federals who had taken refuge in the eleventh arrondissement; perhaps he might succeed in forming the columns of which delescluze had spoken. the delegate at war then visited the defences. solid preparations were being made at the bastille. in the rue st. antoine, at the entrance of the place, a barricade provided with three pieces of artillery was being finished; another at the entrance of the faubourg covered the rues de charenton and de la rouqette; but here, as everywhere else, the flanks were not guarded. cartridges, shells, were piled up along the houses, exposed to all projectiles. the approaches to the eleventh arrondissement were hastily armed, and at the intersection of the boulevards voltaire and richard-lenoir a barricade was being thrown up with casks, pavements, and large bales of paper. this work, inaccessible from the front, was also to be turned. before it, at the entrance of the boulevards voltaire, place du château d'eau, a wall of pavement two yards high was raised. behind this mortal rampart, assisted by two pieces of cannon, the federals for twenty-four hours stopped all the versaillese columns debouching on the place du château d'eau. on the right, the bottom of the rues oberkampf, d'angoulême, of the faubourg du temple, the rue fontaine-au-roi, and the avenue des amandiers were already on the defensive. higher up, in the tenth arrondissement, brunel, arrived that same morning from the rue royale, was again to the fore, like lisbonne, like varlin, eager for new perils. a large barricade cut off the intersection of the boulevards magenta and strasbourg; the rue du château d'eau was barred, and the works of the porte st. martin and st. denis, at which they had worked day and night, were filling with combatants. towards ten o'clock the versaillese had been able to gain possession of the northern railway station by turning the rue stephenson and the barricades of the rue de dunkerque; but the strasbourg railway, the second line of defence of la villette, withstood their shock, and our artillery harassed them greatly. on the buttes chaumont, ranvier, who directed the defence of these quarters, had established three howitzers of cm., two pieces of near the temple de la sybille, and two pieces of on the lower hill, while five cannon enfiladed the rue puebla and protected the rotonde. at the carrières d'amérique there were two batteries of three pieces; the pieces of the père lachaise fired incessantly at the invaded quarters, seconded by cannon of large calibre at the bastion . the ninth arrondissement filled with fusillades. we lost much ground in the faubourg poissonnière. despite their success in the halles, the versaillese were not able to get into the third arrondissement, sheltered by the long arm of the boulevard sébastopol, and we commanded the rue turbigo by the prince eugène barracks. the second arrondissement, almost totally occupied, still held out on the banks of the seine; from the pont-neuf the barricades of the avenue victoria and quai de gèvres resisted till night. our gunboats having been abandoned, the enemy seized and re-armed them. the only success of our defence was at the butte aux cailles, where, under the impulsion of wroblewski, it changed into the offensive. during the night the versaillese had examined our positions, and at daybreak they mounted to the assault. the federals did not wait for them, and rushed forward to meet them. four times the versaillese were repulsed, four times they returned; four times they retreated, and the soldiers, discouraged, no longer obeyed their officers. thus la villette and the butte aux cailles, the two extremities of our defence, kept their ground; but what gaps all along the line! of paris, all theirs on sunday, the federals now only possessed the eleventh, twelfth, nineteenth, and twentieth arrondissements, and a part only of the third, fifth, and thirteenth. on that day the massacres took that furious flight which in a few hours left st. bartholomew's day far behind. till then only the federals or the people denounced had been killed; now the soldiers knew neither friend nor foe. when the versaillese fixed his eye upon you, you must die; when he searched a house, nothing escaped him. "these are no longer soldiers accomplishing a duty," said a conservative journal, _la france_. and indeed these were hyenas, thirsting for blood and pillage. in some places it sufficed to have a watch to be shot. the corpses were searched,[ ] and the correspondents of foreign newspapers called those thefts the last perquisition. and the same day m. thiers had the effrontery to tell the assembly: "our valiant soldiers conduct themselves in such a manner as to inspire foreign countries with the highest esteem and admiration." then, too, was invented that legend of the petroleuses, which, born of fear and propagated by the press, cost hundreds of unfortunate women their lives. the rumour was spread that furies were throwing burning petroleum into the cellars. every woman badly dressed, or carrying a milk-can, a pail, an empty bottle, was pointed out as a petroleuse, her clothes torn to tatters, she was pushed against the nearest wall, and killed with revolver-shots. the monstrously idiotical side of the legend is that the petroleuses were supposed to operate in the quarters occupied by the army. the fugitives from the invaded quarters brought the news of these massacres to the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement. there, within smaller compass and more menacing, reigned the same confusion as at the hôtel-de-ville. the narrow courts were full of waggons, cartridges, and powder; every step of the principal staircase was occupied by women sewing sacks for the barricades. in the salle des mariages, whither ferré had removed the office of public safety, the delegate, assisted by two secretaries, gave orders, signed free passes, questioned the people brought to him with the greatest calm, and pronounced his decisions in a polite, soft, and low voice. farther on, in the rooms occupied by the war office, some officers and chiefs of services received and expedited despatches; some of them, as at the hôtel-de-ville, doing their duty with perfect sangfroid. at this hour certain men revealed extraordinary strength of character, especially among the secondary actors of the movement. they felt that all was lost, that they were about to die, perhaps even at the hands of their own people, for the fever of suspicion had reached its utmost degree of paroxysm; yet they remained in the furnace, their hearts calm, their minds lucid. never had a government, with the exception of that of the national defence, more resources, more intelligence, more heroism at its disposal than the council of the commune; never was there one so inferior to its electors. at half-past seven a great noise was heard before the prison of la roquette, where the day before the three hundred hostages, detained until then at mazas, had been transported. amidst a crowd of guards, exasperated at the massacres, stood a delegate of the public safety commission, who said, "since they shoot our men, six hostages shall be executed. who will form the platoon?" "i! i!" was cried from all sides. one advanced and said, "i avenge my father;" another, "i avenge my brother." "as for me," said a guard, "they have shot my wife." each one brought forward his right to vengeance. thirty men were chosen and entered the prison. the delegate looked over the jail register, pointed out the archbishop darboy, the president bonjean, the banker jecker, the jesuits allard, clerc, and ducoudray; at the last moment jecker was replaced by the curé deguerry. they were taken to the exercise-ground. darboy stammered out, "i am not the enemy of the commune. i have done all i could. i have written twice to versailles." he recovered a little when he saw death was inevitable. bonjean could not keep on his legs. "who condemns us?" said he. "the justice of the people." "oh, this is not the right one," replied the president. one of the priests threw himself against the sentry-box and uncovered his breast. they were led further on, and, turning a corner, met the firing-party. some men apostrophised them; the delegate at once ordered silence. the hostages placed themselves against the wall, and the officer of the platoon said to them, "it is not we whom you must accuse of your death, but the versaillese, who are shooting the prisoners." he then gave the signal and the guns were fired. the hostages fell back in one line, at an equal distance from each other. darboy alone remained standing, wounded in the head, one hand raised. a second volley laid him by the side of the others.[ ] the blind justice of revolutions punishes in the first-comers the accumulated crimes of their caste. at eight o'clock the versaillese closed in upon the barricade of the porte st. martin. their shells had long since set the theatre on fire, and the federals, pressed by this conflagration, were obliged to fall back. that night the versaillese bivouacked in front of the strasbourg railway, the rue st. denis, the hôtel-de-ville (occupied towards nine o'clock by vinoy's troops), the ecole polytechnique, the madelonnettes, and the monsouris park. they presented a kind of fan, of which the fixed point was formed by the pont-au-change, the right side by the thirteenth arrondissement, the left by the streets of the faubourg st. martin and the rue de flandre, the arc by the fortifications. the fan was about to close at belleville, which formed the centre. paris continued to burn furiously. the porte st. martin, the st. eustache church, the rue royale, the rue de rivoli, the tuileries, the palais-royal, the hôtel-de-ville, the théâtre-lyrique, the left bank from the légion d'honneur up to the palais de justice and the prefecture de police, stood out bright red in the darkness of night. the caprices of the fire displayed a blazing architecture of arches, cupolas, spectral edifices. great volumes of smoke, clouds of sparks flying into the air, attested formidable explosions; every minute stars lit up and died out again in the horizon. these were the cannon of the fort of bicêtre, of the père lachaise, and the buttes chaumont, which fired on the invaded quarters. the versaillese batteries answered from the panthéon, the trocadéro, and montmartre. now the reports followed each other at regular intervals; now there was a continuous thunder along the whole line. they aimed at random, blindly, madly. the shells often exploded in the midst of their career; the whole town was enveloped in a whirl of flame and smoke. what men this handful of combatants, who, without chiefs, without hope, without retreat, disputed their last pavements as though they implied victory! the hypocritical reaction has charged them with the crime of incendiarism, as if in war fire were not a legitimate arm; as if the versaillese shells had not set fire to at least as many edifices as those of the federals; as if the private speculation of certain men of order had not its share in the ruins.[ ] and that same bourgeois who spoke of "burning everything"[ ] before the prussians, calls this people scoundrels because they preferred to bury themselves in the ruins rather than abandon their faith, their property, their families, to a coalition of despots a thousand times more cruel and more lasting than the foreigner. at eleven o'clock two officers entered delescluze's room and informed him of the execution of the hostages. he listened to the recital without ceasing to write, and then only asked, "how did they die?" when the officers were gone, delescluze turned to the friend who was working with him, and, hiding his face in his hands, "what a war!" cried he, "what a war!" but he knew revolutions too well to lose himself in bootless reflections, and, mastering his emotion, he exclaimed, "we shall know how to die!" during the whole night despatches succeeded each other without intermission, all demanding cannon and men under the threat of abandoning such or such a position. but where to find cannon? and men began to be as rare as the bronze. footnotes: [ ] one of the commanders of the german troops. [ ] appendix xviii. [ ] at half-past eight o'clock in the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement the delegate genton made this recital, which we heard, and reproduce verbatim. [ ] appendix xix. [ ] "burn everything! i have heard these words from the most wise, the most virtuous men."--_jules favre, enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. . "rather moscow than sedan," wrote during the first siege one of these wise and virtuous men--m. jules simon. chapter xxx. thursday th--the whole left bank falls into the hands of the troops--delescluze dies--the brassardiers[ ] stimulate the massacre--the members of the council evacuate the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement. a few thousand men could not indefinitely hold a line of battle several miles long. when night had set in, many federals abandoned their barricades in order to snatch a little rest. the versaillese, who were on the look-out, took possession of their defences, and the glimmering of dawn saw the tricolor where on the eve had floated the red flag. in the darkness the federals evacuated the greater part of the tenth arrondissement, whose artillery pieces were transported to the château d'eau. brunel and the brave _pupilles de la commune_ still stood their ground in the rue magnan and on the quay jemappes, the troops holding the top of the boulevard magenta. on the left bank, the versaillese erected batteries at the place d'enfer, the luxembourg, and the bastion . more than fifty cannon and mitrailleuses were levelled at the butte aux cailles; for, despairing of taking it by assault, cissey wished to crush it with his artillery. wroblewski, on his side, did not remain inactive. besides the th and th battalions, he had under his command the legendary st, which was to the troops of the commune what the nd brigade had been to the army of italy. since the rd april the st had not rested. day and night, their guns hot, they had roamed about the trenches, the villages, the fields; the versaillese of neuilly, of asnières, ten times fled before them. they had taken three cannon from them, which, like faithful mastiffs, followed them everywhere. all citizens of the thirteenth arrondissement and the mouffetard quarter, undisciplined, undisciplinable, wild, rough, their clothes and flag torn, obeying only one order, that to march forward, mutineering when inactive, when hardly out of fire rendering it necessary to plunge them into it again. sérizier commanded, or rather accompanied them; for indeed their rage was their only commander. while at the front they attempted surprises, seized outposts, kept the soldiers in alarm. wroblewski, uncovered on his right since the taking of the panthéon, secured his communications with the seine by a barricade on the bridge of austerlitz, and furnished the place jeanne d'arc with cannon, in order to check the troops who might venture along the railway station. that day m. thiers dared to telegraph to the provinces that marshal macmahon had just, for the last time, summoned the federals to surrender. this was an odious lie added to so many others. like cavaignac in , m. thiers, on the contrary, wanted to prolong the battle. he knew that his shells were setting paris on fire, that the massacre of the prisoners, of the wounded, would fatally entail that of the hostages. but what cared he for the fate of a few priests and a few gendarmes? what cared the bourgeoisie if it triumphed amidst ruins--if on these ruins it could write, "paris waged war with the privileged; paris is no more!" the hôtel-de-ville and the panthéon in the power of the troops, their whole efforts concentrated upon the château d'eau, the bastille, and the butte aux cailles. at four o'clock clinchant resumed his march towards the château d'eau. one column, setting out from the rue paradis, went up the rues du château d'eau and de bondy; another advanced against the barricade of the boulevards magenta and strasbourg; while a third from the rue des jeuneurs pushed on between the boulevards and the rue turbigo. the corps douay on the right supported this movement, and endeavoured to remount the third arrondissement by the rues charlot and de saintonge. vinoy advanced towards the bastille by the small streets that abut upon the rue st. antoine, the quays of the right and of the left banks. cissey, with more modest strategy, cannonaded the butte aux cailles, before which his men had so often turned tail. painful scenes were enacted in the forts. wroblewski, whose left wing was covered by them, relied for their preservation upon the energy of the member of the council who had assumed the functions of delegate. the evening before the commander of montrouge had abandoned that fort and had retreated to bicêtre with his garrison. the fort of bicêtre did not hold out much longer. the battalions declared that they wanted to return to the town in order to defend their quarters, and the delegate, in spite of his threats, was unable to retain them; so, after having spiked their guns, the whole garrison returned to paris. the versaillese occupied the two evacuated forts, and there at once erected batteries against the fort of ivry and the butte aux cailles. the general attack on the butte did not begin till mid-day. the versaillese followed the ramparts as far as the avenue d'italie and the route de choisy, with the view of making sure of the place d'italie, which they attacked from the side of the gobelins. the avenues d'italie and de choisy were defended by powerful barricades which they could not dream of forcing; but that of the boulevard st. marcel, protected on one side by the conflagration of the gobelins, could be turned by the numerous gardens intersecting this quarter, and the versaillese succeeded in doing this. they first took possession of the rue des cordillières st. marcel, where twenty federals who refused to surrender were massacred, and then entered the gardens. for three hours a long and obstinate fusillade enveloped the butte aux cailles, battered down by the versaillese cannon, six times as numerous as wroblewski's. the garrison of ivry arrived towards one o'clock. on leaving the fort they had set fire to a mine which sprung two bastions. soon after the versaillese penetrated into the abandoned fort, and then there was no struggle, as m. thiers tried to make it appear in one of those bulletins in which he very cleverly intermingled truth and falsehood. towards ten o'clock on the right bank the versaillese reached the barricade of the faubourg st. denis, near the st. lazare prison, outflanked and shot seventeen federals.[ ] thence they went to occupy the st. laurent barricade at the junction of the boulevard sébastopol, erected batteries against the château d'eau, and by the rue des récollets gained the quay valmy. on the night, their debouching on the boulevard st. martin was retarded by the rue de lanery, against which they fired from the ambigu-comique théatre. in the third arrondissement they were stopped in the rue meslay, rue nazareth, rue du vert-bois, rue charlot, rue de saintonge. the second arrondissement, invaded from all sides, was still disputing its rue montorgueuil nearer the seine, vinoy succeeded in entering the grenier d'abondance by circuitous streets, and in order to dislodge him the federals set fire to this building, which overlooks the bastille. _three o'clock._--the versaillese invaded the thirteenth arrondissement more and more. their shells falling upon the prison of the avenue d'italie, the federals evacuated it, at the same time taking out the prisoners, amongst whom were the dominicans of arcueil, who had been brought back to paris with the garrison of bicêtre. the sight of these men, doubly odious, exasperated the combatants, whose guns, so to say, spontaneously went off, and a dozen of the apostles of the inquisition fell under the bullets at the moment they were running away by the avenue. all the other prisoners were respected. since the morning wroblewski had received the order to fall back upon the eleventh arrondissement. he persisted in holding out, and had shifted the centre of his resistance a little further to the rear, to the place jeanne d'arc. but the versaillese, masters of the avenue des gobelins, made their junction with the columns of the avenues d'italie and choisy in the thirteenth arrondissement. one of their detachments continuing to file along the rampart, reached the embankment of the orleans railway, and the red-coats were already showing themselves on the boulevard st. marcel. wroblewski, almost hemmed in on all sides, was at last forced to consent to a retreat. moreover, the subaltern chiefs had, like their general, received the order to fall back; and so, protected by the fire of the austerlitz bridge, the able defender of the butte aux cailles passed the seine in good order with his cannon and a thousand men. a certain number of federals, who obstinately remained behind in the thirteenth arrondissement, were surrounded and taken prisoners. the versaillese did not dare to disturb wroblewski's retreat, although they held part of the boulevard st. marcel, the orleans station, and their gunboats were ascending the seine. the latter were delayed for a moment at the entrance of the st. martin's canal, but putting on full steam, they overcame the obstacle, and in the evening lent assistance in the attack on the eleventh arrondissement. the whole left bank now belonged to the enemy; the bastille and the château d'eau became the centre of the combat. in the boulevard voltaire might now be seen all the true-hearted men who had not perished, or whose presence was not indispensable in their quarters. one of the most active was vermorel, who during the whole struggle showed a courage composed at once of fire and coolness. on horseback, his red scarf tied round him, he rode from barricade to barricade, encouraging the men, fetching and bringing reinforcements. at the mairie another meeting was held towards twelve o'clock. twenty-two members of the council were present; about ten more were defending their arrondissements, the others had disappeared. arnold explained that the evening before, the secretary of mr. washburne, the ambassador of the united states, had come to offer the mediation of the germans. the commune, he said, had now only to send commissaries to vincennes in order to regulate the conditions of an armistice. the secretary, introduced to the meeting, renewed this declaration, and the discussion began. delescluze showed great reluctance to accept this plan. what motive induced the foreigner to intervene? to put an end to the conflagration and preserve their guarantee, he was answered. but their guarantee was the versaillese government, whose triumph was no longer doubtful at this moment. others gravely asserted that the inveterate defence of paris had inspired the prussian with admiration. no one asked whether this insensate proposition did not hide some snare; if the pretended secretary were not a simple spy. they clung like drowning men to this last chance of salvation. arnold even set forth the basis of an armistice similar to that of the central committee. four of the members present, and amongst them delescluze, were charged to accompany the american secretary to vincennes. at three o'clock they reached the gate of vincennes, but the commissary of police refused to let them pass. they showed their scarfs, their cards of members of the council. the commissary insisted upon a safe-conduct from the commission of public safety. while the discussion was going on some federals came up. "where are you going?" said they. "to vincennes." "why?" "on a mission." a painful controversy ensued. the federals thought the members of the council wanted to abscond, and they were even about to ill-use them, when some one recognised delescluze. his name saved the others; but the commissary still insisted upon a safe-conduct. one of the delegates run off to the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement to procure it, but, even on ferré's order, the guards refused to lower the drawbridge. delescluze addressed them, said that the common weal of all was at stake; but prayers and threats proved alike unable to overcome the idea of a defection. delescluze came back shivering all over. for one moment he had been suspected of cowardice; this was to him a death-blow. before the mairie he found a crowd shouting at some flags, surmounted by eagles, which had just, they said, been taken from the versaillese. wounded were being brought from the bastille. mademoiselle dimitrieff, wounded herself, supported frankel, wounded at the barricade of the faubourg st. antoine. wroblewski just arriving from the butte aux cailles, delescluze offered him the command-in-chief. "have you a few thousand resolute men?" asked wroblewski. "a few hundred at most," answered the delegate. wroblewski could not accept any responsibility of command under such unequal conditions, and continued to fight as a simple soldier. he was the only general of the commune who had showed the qualities of a chef-de-corps. he always asked to have those battalions sent him which everybody else declined, undertaking to utilise them. the attack was coming nearer and nearer the château d'eau. this place, constructed with the object of checking the faubourgs, and opening into eight large avenues, had not been really fortified. the versaillese, masters of the folies-dramatiques théatre and of the rue du château d'eau, attacked it by turning the prince eugène barracks. house by house they tore the rue magnan from the _pupilles de la commune_. brunel, after facing the enemy for four days, fell wounded in the thigh. the _pupilles_ carried him away on a litter across the place du château d'eau amidst a shower of bullets. from the rue magnan the versaillese soon reached the barracks, and the federals, too few in number to defend this vast monument, had to evacuate it. the fall of this position uncovered the rue turbigo, thus enabling the versaillese to occupy the whole upper part of the third arrondissement, and to surround the conservatoire des arts et métiers. after a rather long struggle the federals abandoned the barricade of the conservatoire, leaving behind them a loaded mitrailleuse. a woman also remained. as soon as the soldiers were within range she discharged the mitrailleuse at them. the barricades of the boulevards voltaire and dejazet's théâtre had henceforth to sustain the whole fire of the prince eugène barracks, the boulevard magenta, the boulevard st. martin, the rue du temple, and the rue turbigo. behind their fragile shelter the federals gallantly received this avalanche. how many men have been called heroes who never showed a hundredth part of this simple courage, without any stage effects, without a history, which shone forth during these days in a thousand places in paris! at the château d'eau a young girl of nineteen, rosy and charming, with black, curling hair, dressed as a marine fusileer, fought desperately a whole day. at the same place a lieutenant was killed in front of the barricade; a child of fifteen, dauteuille, went to pick up the képi of the dead man in the thick of the bullets, and brought it back amidst the cheers of his companions. for in the battle of the streets, as in the open field, the children proved themselves as brave as the men. at a barricade of the faubourg du temple the most indefatigable gunner was a child. the barricade taken, all its defenders were shot, and the child's turn also came. he asked for three minutes' respite; "so that he could take his mother, who lived opposite, his silver watch, _in order that she might at least not lose everything_." the officer, involuntarily moved, let him go, not thinking to see him again; but three minutes after the child cried, "here i am!" jumped on to the pavement, and nimbly leant against the wall near the corpses of his comrades. paris will never die as long as she brings forth such people. the place du château d'eau was ravaged as by a cyclone. the walls crumbled beneath the shells and bombs; enormous blocks were thrown up; the lions of the fountains perforated or overthrown, the basin surmounting it shattered. fire burst out from twenty houses. the trees were leafless, and their broken branches hung like limbs all but parted from the main body. the gardens, turned up, sent forth clouds of dust. the invisible hand of death alighted upon each stone. at a quarter to seven, near the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement, we saw delescluze, jourde, and about a hundred federals marching in the direction of the château d'eau. delescluze wore his ordinary dress, black hat, coat, and trousers, his red scarf, little conspicuous as was his wont, tied round his waist. without arms, he lent on a cane. apprehensive of some panic at the château d'eau, we followed the delegate. some of us stopped at the st. ambroise church to get arms. we then met a merchant from alsace, who, exasperated at those who had betrayed his country, had been fighting for five days, and had just been severely wounded; farther on, lisbonne, who, like brunel, having too often defied death, had at last fallen at the château d'eau; he was being brought back almost dead; and finally, vermorel, wounded by the side of lisbonne, whom theisz and jaclard were carrying off on a litter, leaving behind him large drops of blood. we thus remained a little behind delescluze. at about eighty yards from the barricade the guards who accompanied him kept back, for the projectiles obscured the entrance of the boulevard. delescluze still walked forward. behold the scene; we have witnessed it; let it be engraved in the annals of history. the sun was setting. the old exile, unmindful whether he was followed, still advanced at the same pace, the only living being on the road. arrived at the barricade, he bent off to the left and mounted upon the paving-stones. for the last time his austere face, framed in his white beard, appeared to us turned towards death. suddenly delescluze disappeared. he had fallen as if thunderstricken on the place du château d'eau. some men tried to raise him. three out of four fell dead. the only thing to be thought of now was the barricade, the rallying of its few defenders. a member of the council, johannard, almost in the middle of the boulevard, raising his gun, and weeping with rage, cried to those who hesitated, "no! you are not worthy of defending the commune!" night set in. we returned heart-broken, leaving, abandoned to the outrages of an adversary without respect for death, the body of our friend. he had forewarned no one, not even his most intimate friends. silent, having for confidant only his severe conscience, delescluze walked to the barricade as the old montagnards went to the scaffold. an eventful life had exhausted his strength; he had but a breath left, and he gave it. the versaillese have stolen his body, but his memory will remain enshrined in the heart of the people as long as france shall be the mother-country of the revolution. he lived only for justice. that was his talent, his science, the pole-star of his life. he proclaimed her, confessed her, through thirty years of exile, prisons, insult, disdaining the persecutions that crushed him. a jacobin, he fell with the men of the people to defend her. it was his recompense to die for her, his hands free, in the open daylight, at his own time, not afflicted by the sight of the executioner. compare the conduct of the minister of war of the commune with the cowardice of the bonapartist minister and generals escaping death by surrendering their swords. the whole evening the versaillese attacked the entrance of the boulevard voltaire, protected by the conflagration of the two corner houses. on the side of the bastille they did not get beyond the place royale, but they were breaking into the twelfth arrondissement. under the shelter of the wall of the quay, they had in the course of the day penetrated beneath the austerlitz bridge; in the evening, protected by their gunboats and the batteries of the jardin des plantes, they pushed as far as mazas. our right wing held out better. the versaillese had not been able to proceed further than the eastern railway line. from afar they attacked the rue d'aubervilliers, aided by the fire of the rotonde. ranvier vigorously cannonaded montmartre, when a despatch from the committee of public safety informed him that the red flag was floating from the moulin de la galette. ranvier, unable to believe this, refused to cease firing. in the evening the versaillese formed in front of the federals a broken line, commencing from the eastern railway, passing the château d'eau and the bastille, and ending at the lyons railway. there remained to the commune but two arrondissements intact, the nineteenth and twentieth, and about half of the eleventh and twelfth. the paris of versailles no longer presented a civilised aspect. fear, hate, and fiendish brutishness smothered all feelings of humanity. it was a universal "furious madness," said the siècle of the th. "one no longer distinguishes the just from the unjust, the innocent from the guilty. the life of citizens weighs no more than a hair. for a cry, for a word, one is arrested, shot." the ventilators of the cellars were blocked up by order of the army, which wanted to give credit to the legend of the petroleuses. the national guards of order crept out from their lurking-places, proud of their armlets, offering their services to the officers, ransacking the houses, revindicating the honour of presiding at the fusillades. in the tenth arrondissement the former mayor, dubail, assisted by the commander of the th battalion, led the soldiers to hunt those who had formerly been under his administration. thanks to the _brassardiers_, the tide of prisoners swelled so that it became necessary to centralise the carnage. the victims were pushed into the mairies, the barracks, the public edifices, where prevotal courts were organised, and shot in troops. when the fusillade proved insufficient the mitrailleuse mowed them down. all did not die at once, and in the night there arose from these bleeding heaps ghastly cries of agony. the shades of night brought back the spectacle of the conflagrations. where the rays of the sun had only shown sombre clouds, pyramids of fire now appeared. the grenier d'abondance illuminated the seine far beyond the fortifications. the column of the bastille, entirely perforated by the shells, which had set its covering of crowns and flags on fire, blazed like a gigantic torch. the boulevard voltaire was burning on the side of the château d'eau. the death of delescluze had been so simple and so rapid, that even at the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement it was doubted. towards midnight some members of the council agreed to evacuate the mairie. what! always fly before powder and shot! is the bastille taken? does not the boulevard voltaire still hold out? the whole strategy of the committee of public safety, its whole plan of battle, was to retreat. at two o'clock in the morning, when a member of the commune was wanted to support the barricade of the château d'eau, only gambon was found, asleep in a corner. an officer awoke him and begged his pardon. the worthy republican answered, "it is as well it should be i as another; i have lived," and he departed. but the balls already swept the boulevard voltaire up to the st. ambroise church. the barricade was deserted. footnotes: [ ] armlet conspirators. [ ] summoned several times to surrender, the federals answered, "vive la commune!" they were thrown against the wall of the prison and fell with the same cry, one of them still clasping the red flag of the barricade. before such faith the versaillese officer felt a little ashamed. he turned to the people who had hurried up from the neighbouring houses, and several times repeated by way of excuse, "it is their fault! why did they not surrender!" as though all federals were not regularly and mercilessly massacred by them. chapter xxxi. "le commandant ségoyer a été pris par les scélérats qui défendaient la bastille, et, sans respect des lois de la guerre, a été immédiatement fusillé"--_m. thiers aux préfets, le mai._ the resistance centres in belleville--friday, forty-eight hostages are shot in the rue haxo--saturday th, the whole twentieth arrondissement is invaded--the pÈre lachaise is taken--sunday th, the battle ends at eleven o'clock in the morning--monday th, the fort of vincennes is surrendered. the soldiers continuing their nocturnal surprises, got hold of the deserted barricades of the rue d'aubervilliers and the boulevard de la chapelle. on the side of the bastille they occupied the barricade of the rue st. antoine at the corner of the rue castex, the station of the lyons railway, and the mazas prison; in the third, all the abandoned defences of the market and of the square du temple. they reached the first houses of the boulevard voltaire, and established themselves at the magasins réunis. in the darkness of the night a versaillese officer was surprised by our outposts of the bastille and shot; "without respecting the laws of war," said m. thiers the next day. as though during the four days that he had been mercilessly shooting thousands of prisoners, old men, women, and children, m. thiers obeyed any other law than that of the savages. the attack recommenced at daybreak. at la villette the versaillese, crossing the rue d'aubervilliers, turned and occupied the abandoned gasworks; in the centre, they got as far as the cirque napoleon; on the right, in the twelfth arrondissement, they invaded the bastions nearest the river without a struggle. one detachment went up the embankment of the vincennes railway and occupied the station, while another took possession of the boulevard mazas, the avenue lacuée, and penetrated into the faubourg st. antoine. the bastille was thus close pressed on its right flank, while the troops of the place royale attacked it on the left by the boulevard beaumarchais. the sun did not shine forth. this five days' cannonade had drawn on the rainfall that usually accompanies great battles. the fusillade had lost its sharp, quick voice, but rolled on in muffled tones. the men, harassed, wet to the skin, hardly distinguished through the misty veil the point whence the attack came. the shells of a versaillese battery established at the orleans railway station disturbed the entrance of the faubourg st. antoine. at seven o'clock the presence of soldiers at the top of the faubourg was announced. the federals hurried thither with their cannon. if they do not hold out, the bastille will be turned. they did hold out. the rue d'aligre and the avenue lacuée vied with each other in devotion. intrenched in the houses, the federals fell, but neither yielded nor retreated; and, thanks to their self-sacrifice, the bastille for six hours still disputed its shattered barricades and ruined houses. each stone had its legend in this estuary of the revolution. here encased in the wall is a bullet launched in against the fortress. leaning against the same wall the sons of the combatants of june fought for the same pavement as their fathers. here the conservatives of gave vent to their rage; but what was their fury compared with that of ? the house at the corner of the rue de la roquette, the angle of the rue de charenton, disappeared like the scenery of a theatre, and amidst these ruins, under these burning beams, some men fired their cannon, twenty times raised up the red flag, as often overthrown by the versaillese balls. powerless as it well knew to triumph over an entire army, the old glorious place will at least succumb honourably. how many were there at mid-day? hundreds, since at night hundreds of corpses lay around the chief barricade. in the rue crozatier they were dead; they were dead too in the rue d'aligre, killed in the struggle or after the combat. and how they died! in the rue crozatier an artillerist of the army, gone over to the people on the th march, was surrounded. "we are going to shoot you," cried the soldiers. he, shrugging his shoulders, answered, "we can only die once!" farther on an old man was struggling; the officer by a refinement of cruelty wanted to shoot him upon a heap of filth. "i fought bravely," said the old man; "i have the right not to die in the mire." indeed they died well everywhere. that same day millière, arrested on the left bank of the seine, was taken to cissey's staff. this imperialist general, ruined by the vilest debauchery, and who terminated his ministerial career by treachery,[ ] had made of his headquarters at the luxembourg one of the slaughter-houses of the left bank. millière's rôle during the commune had been one of mere conciliation, and his polemic in the journals entirely one of doctrine, and of a most elevated character; but the hatred of the officers for every socialist, the hatred of jules favre, lay in wait for him. the assassin, the staff-captain garcin,[ ] has recounted his crime, head erect.[ ] before history we must let him speak. "millière was brought in when we were breakfasting with the general at the restaurant de tournon, near the luxembourg. we heard a great noise, and went out. i was told, 'it is millière.' i took care that the crowd did not take justice into its own hands. he did not come into the luxembourg; he was stopped at the gate. i addressed myself to him, and said, 'you are millière?' 'yes, but you know that i am a deputy.' 'that may be, but i think you have lost your character of deputy. besides, there is a deputy amongst us, m. de quinsonnas, who will recognise you.' "i then said to millière that the general's orders were that he was to be shot. he said to me, 'why?' "i answered him, 'i only know your name. i have read articles by you that have revolted me' (probably the articles on jules favre). 'you are a viper, that one crushes under one's feet. you detest society.' he stopped, saying, with a significant air, 'oh, yes! i indeed hate this society.' 'well, it will remove you from its bosom; you are going to be shot.' 'this is summary justice, barbarity, cruelty.' 'and all the cruelty you have committed, do you take that for nothing? at any rate, since you say you are millière, there is nothing else to be done.' "the general had ordered that he was to be shot at the panthéon, on his knees, to ask pardon of society for all the ill he had done. he refused to be shot kneeling. i said to him, 'it is the order; you will be shot on your knees, and not otherwise.' he played a little comedy, opening his coat, and baring his breast before the firing party. i said to him, 'you are acting; you want them to say how you died; die quietly, that will be the best.' 'i am free in my own interest and for the sake of my cause to do as i like.' 'so be it; kneel down.' then he said to me, 'i will only do so if you force me down by two men.' i had him forced on his knees, and then his execution was proceeded with. he cried, 'vive l'humanité!' he was about to cry something else when he fell dead."[ ] an officer ascended the steps, approached the corpse, and discharged his chassepot into the left temple. millière's head rebounded, and, falling back, burst open, black with powder, seemed to look at the frontispiece of the monument. "vive l'humanité!" the word implies two causes. "i care as much for the liberty of other people as for that of france," said a federal to a reactionist.[ ] in , as in , paris combats for all the oppressed. the bastille succumbed about two o'clock. la villette still struggled on. in the morning the barricade at the corner of the boulevard and of the rue de flandre had been surrendered by its commander. the federals concentrated in the rear along the line of the canal, and barricaded the rue de crimée. the rotonde, destined to support the principal shock, was reinforced by a barricade on the quay of the loire. the th, which for two days had withstood the enemy, recommenced the struggle behind the new positions. this line from la villette being of great extent, ranvier and passedouet went to fetch reinforcements in the twentieth arrondissement, where the remnants of all the battalions took refuge. they crowded round the mairie, that distributed lodgings and orders for food. near the church the waggons and horses were noisily put up. the headquarters and different services were established in the rue haxo at the cité vincennes, a series of constructions intersected by gardens. the very numerous barricades in the inextricable streets of ménilmontant were almost all turned against the boulevard. the strategical route, which on this point overlooks the père lachaise, the buttes chaumont, and the exterior boulevard, was not even guarded. from the heights of the ramparts the prussians were discernible in arms. according to the terms of a convention previously concluded between versailles and the prince of saxony, the german army since monday invested paris on the north and east. it had cut off the railway of the north, manned the canal line from st. denis, posted sentinels from st. denis to charenton, erected barricades on all the routes. from five o'clock in the evening of thursday , bavarians marched down from fontenay, nogent, and charenton, forming an impenetrable cordon from the marne to montreuil; and during the evening another corps of , men occupied vincennes, with eighty artillery pieces. at nine o'clock he invested the fort and disarmed the federals, who wanted to return to paris. he did still better--trapped the game for versailles. already during the siege the prussians had given an indirect support to the versaillese army; their cynical collusion with the french conservatives showed itself undisguised during the eight days of may. of all m. thiers' crimes, one of the most odious will certainly be his introducing the conquerors of france into our civil discords, and begging their help in order to crush paris. towards mid-day fire broke out in the west part of the docks of la villette, an immense warehouse of petroleum, essences, and combustible matters, set alight by the shells from both sides. this conflagration forced us to leave the barricades of the rues de flandre and riquet. the versaillese, attempting to traverse the canal in boats, were stopped by the barricades of the rue de crimée and the rotonde. vinoy continued to ascend the twelfth arrondissement after having left the few thousand men necessary for the perquisitions and executions at the bastille. the barricade of the rue de reuilly, at the corner of the faubourg st. antoine, held out a few hours against the soldiers who cannonaded it from the boulevard mazas. at the same time the versaillese, marching along the boulevard mazas and the rue picpus, moved towards the place du trône, which they tried to outflank by the ramparts. the artillery prepared and covered their slightest movement. generally they charged the pieces at the corner of the roads they wanted to reduce, advanced them, fired, and drew them back again under shelter. the federals could only reach this invisible enemy from the heights; but it was impossible to centralise the artillery of the commune, for each barricade wanted to possess its gun without caring where it carried. there was no longer authority of any kind. at the headquarters a pell-mell of bewildered officers. the march of the enemy was only known by the arrival of the survivors of the battalions. such was the confusion, that in this place, mortal to traitors, there might be seen, in a general's uniform, du bisson, turned out of la villette. the few members of the council to be met with in the twentieth arrondissement wandered about at hazard, absolutely ignored; but they had not foregone deliberating. on the friday there were twelve of them in the rue haxo, when the central committee arrived and claimed the dictatorship. it was given them, in spite of some who protested, varlin being added to their number. the committee of public safety was no longer heard of. the only one of its members who played any part was ranvier, splendidly energetic in the combats. during these days he was the soul of la villette and belleville, urging on the men, watching over everything. on the th he issued a proclamation: "citizens of the twentieth arrondissement! if we succumb you know what fate is in store for you. to arms! be vigilant, above all in the night. i ask you to execute our orders faithfully. lend your support to the nineteenth arrondissement; help it to repulse the enemy. there lies your safety. do not wait for belleville itself to be attacked. forward then. vive la république!" but very few read or obeyed. the shells from montmartre, which from the day before crushed belleville and ménilmontant, the cries, the sight of the wounded, dragging themselves from house to house in search of succour, the too evident signs of the approaching end, precipitated the ordinary phenomena of defeat. the people became fierce and suspicious. any individual without a uniform ran the risk of being shot if he had not a well-known name to recommend him. the news that came from all points of paris augmented the anguish and despair. it was known that the soldiers gave no quarter; that they despatched the wounded, killing even doctors;[ ] that every individual taken in a national guard's uniform, shod with regulation boots, or whose clothes showed traces of stripes recently unstitched, was shot in the street or in the yard of his house; that the combatants who surrendered, under the promise of having their lives spared, were massacred; that thousands of men, women, children, and aged people were taken to versailles bareheaded, and often killed on the way; that it sufficed to be related to a combatant, or to offer him a refuge in order to share his fate; the numberless executions of so-called petroleuses were recounted. about six o'clock forty-eight gendarmes, ecclesiastics, and civilians marched up the rue haxo between a detachment of federals. at first they were supposed to be prisoners recently taken, and defiled in the midst of perfect silence. but the rumour spread that they were the hostages of la roquette, and that they were being led to death. the crowd grew larger, followed, apostrophised, but did not strike them. at half-past six the cortège reached the cité vincennes; the gates closed upon them, and the crowd dispersed in the neighbouring grounds. the escort tumultuously pushed the hostages against a kind of trench at the foot of a wall. the chassepots were being levelled, when a member of the council said, "what are you doing? there is a powder-magazine here; you will blow us up." he thus hoped to delay the execution. others, quite distracted, went from group to group, attempting to discuss, to appease the wrath. they were repulsed, menaced, and their notoriety hardly sufficed to save them from death. the chassepots went off on all sides; by degrees the hostages fell. outside the crowd applauded. and yet for two days the soldiers taken prisoners passed through belleville without exciting a murmur; but these gendarmes, these spies, these priests, who for fully twenty years had trampled upon paris, represented the empire, the bourgeoisie, the massacres under their most hateful forms. that same morning jecker, the accomplice of morny, had been shot. the council had not known how to punish him; the justice of the people alighted upon him. a platoon of four federals went to fetch him at la roquette. he appeared to resign himself quietly, and even chatted on the way. "you are mistaken," said he, "if you think i did a good piece of business. those people cheated me." he was executed in the open grounds adjoining the père lachaise from the side of charonne. during this day the troops did not execute any great movements. the corps douay and clinchant were stationed on the boulevard richard-lenoir. the double barricade in the rear of bataclan stopped the invasion of the boulevard voltaire; a versaillese general was killed in the rue st. sébastian; the place du trône still held out by means of the philippe-auguste barricade. the rotonde and docks of la villette also prolonged their resistance. towards the close of the day the conflagration spread to the part of the docks nearest the mairie. in the evening, the army hedged in the defence between the fortifications and a curved line which from the slaughter-houses of la villette extended to the gate of vincennes, passing by the st. martin canal, the boulevard richard-lenoir, and the rue du faubourg st. antoine--ladmirault and vinoy occupying the two extremities, douay and clinchant the centre. the night of the friday to saturday was sombre and feverish in ménilmontant and belleville, ravaged by the shells. at the turning of each street the sentinels demanded the watchword (bouchotte-belleville), and often even that did not suffice, and one had to prove being sent upon an errand. every chief of a barricade claimed the right to stop your passage. the remainder of the battalions continued arriving in disorder, and encumbered all the houses. the majority finding no shelter, rested in the open air, amidst the shells, always saluted with cries of "vive la commune!" in the grande rue de belleville some national guards carried coffins on their crossed muskets, some men preceding them with torches, the drums beating. these combatants, who amidst the shells silently interred their comrades, appeared in touching grandeur. they were themselves at the gates of death. in the night the barricades of the rue d'allemagne were abandoned. a thousand men at the utmost had for two days kept in check ladmirault's , soldiers. almost all these brave men were sedentary guards and children. the humid glimmer of the saturday morning discovered a sinister prospect. the fog was dense and penetrating, the soil steeped in moisture. clouds of white smoke rose slowly above the rain; it was the fusillade. the federals shivered under their drenched cloaks. since daybreak barricades of the strategic route, the gates of montreuil and bagnolet, were occupied by the troops, who without resistance invaded charonne. at seven o'clock they established themselves in the place du trône, whose defences had been abandoned. at the entrance of the boulevard voltaire the versaillese erected a battery of six pieces against the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement. henceforth certain of victory, the officers wanted to triumph noisily. this barricade, against which they fired during the whole day of the th, had but two pieces of the most irregular projection. many a versaillese shell strayed to the legs of the statue of voltaire, who, with his sardonic smile, seemed to remind his bourgeois descendants of the "beau tapage" he had promised them. at la villette the soldiers deviated from the line on all sides, passed by the fortifications and attacked the rues puebla and de crimée. their left, still engaged in the upper part of the tenth arrondissement, endeavoured to gain possession of all its streets leading to the boulevard de la villette. their batteries of the rue de flandre, of the ramparts, and the rotonde united their fire to that of montmartre, and whelmed the buttes chaumont with shells. the barricade of the rue puebla yielded towards ten o'clock. a sailor who had remained alone, hidden behind the paving-stones, awaited the versaillese, discharged his revolver at them, and then, hatchet in hand, dashed into the midst of their ranks. the enemy deployed in all the adjacent streets up to the rue ménadier, steadily held by our tirailleurs. at the place des fêtes two of our pieces enfiladed the rue de crimée and protected our right flank. at eleven o'clock nine or ten members of the council met in the rue haxo. one of them, jules allix, whom his colleagues had been obliged to shut up as mad during the commune, came up radiant. according to him, all was for the best; the quarters of the centre were dismantled; they had only to descend thither. others thought that by surrendering themselves to the prussians, who would deliver them up to versailles, they might put an end to the massacres. one or two members demonstrated the absurdity of this hope, and that besides the federals would allow no one to leave paris. they were not listened to. a solemn note was being drawn up, when ranvier, who wandered about in all corners picking up men one by one for the defence of the buttes chaumont, broke in upon their deliberations, exclaiming, "why do you not go and fight instead of discussing!" they dispersed in different directions, and this was the last meeting of these men of everlasting deliberations. at this moment the versaillese occupied the bastion . at mid-day the rumour spread that the troops were issuing by the rue de paris and the ramparts. a crowd of men and women, driven from their houses by the shells, beset the gate of romainville, asking with loud cries to be allowed to flee into the neighbouring fields. at one o'clock the drawbridge was lowered in order to give passage to some freemasons who had been to the german authorities to ask them whether they would allow free passage to the fugitives. the crowd dashed out and dispersed in the houses of the village des lilas. some women and children attempting to push on further and to cross the barricade thrown up in the middle of the road, the sergeant of gendarmerie of romainville threw himself upon them, crying to the prussians, "fire! come, fire on this _canaille_!" a prussian soldier fired, wounding a woman. meanwhile the drawbridge had been raised. about four o'clock colonel parent, on horseback, and preceded by a trumpet, dared on his own authority to go and ask the prussian troops for permission to pass. useless degradation. the officer answered that he had no orders, and that he would refer to st. denis. the same day the member of the council, arnold, who still believed in an american intervention, went to take a letter for mr. washburne to the german outposts. he was conducted from one officer to another, received rather rudely, and sent back with the promise that his letter would be forwarded to the ambassador. near two o'clock several versaillese battalions, having swept the strategic route, reached the rue de crimée by the rue des lilas and the open grounds of the fortifications, but were stopped in the rue de bellevue. from the place du marché three cannon joined their fire to that of the place des fêtes in order to protect the buttes chaumont. these pieces were the whole day served by only five artillerists, their arms bare, without witnesses, needing neither chief nor orders. at five o'clock the cannon of the buttes were silent, having no more munitions, and their gunners rejoined the skirmishers of the rues ménadier, fessart, and des annelets. at five o'clock ferré brought up to the rue haxo the line soldiers of the prince eugène barracks, removed since wednesday to the prison of la petite roquette, which had just been evacuated, as also the grande roquette. the crowd looked at them, not uttering a single threat, for they felt no hatred to the soldiers, who belong, like themselves, to the people. they were quartered in belleville church. their arrival caused a fatal diversion. the people ran up to see them pass, and the place des fêtes was dismantled. the versaillese came up, occupied it, and the last defenders of the buttes fell back on the faubourg du temple and the rue de paris. while our front was yielding we were attacked from the rear. since four o'clock in the afternoon the versaillese had been laying siege to the père lachaise, which enclosed no more than federals, resolute, but without discipline or foresight. the officers had been unable to make them embattle the walls. five thousand versaillese approached the enceinte from all sides, while the artillery of the bastion furrowed the interior. the pieces of the commune had scarcely any munition since the afternoon. at six o'clock the versaillese, not daring, in spite of their numbers, to escalade the enceinte, cannonaded the large gate of the cemetery, which soon gave way, notwithstanding the barricade propping it. then began a desperate struggle. sheltered behind the tombs, the federals disputed their refuge foot by foot; they closed in with the enemy in frightful hand-to-hand scuffles; in the vaults they fought with side-arms. the foes rolled and died in the same grave. the darkness that set in early did not end the despair. on the saturday evening there only remained to the federals part of the eleventh and twentieth arrondissements. the versaillese camped in the place des fêtes, rue fessart, rue pradier up to rue rebeval, where, as on the boulevard, they were detained. the quadrilateral comprised between the rue de faubourg du temple, the rue folie méricourt, the rue de la roquette and the exterior boulevard was in part occupied by the federals. douay and clinchant awaited on the boulevard richard-lenoir the moment when vinoy and ladmirault would have carried the heights, and thus forced the federals against the guns. what a night for the few combatants of the last hours! it rained in torrents. the conflagration of la villette lit up this gloom with its blinding glare. the shells continued to pound belleville; they even reached as far as bagnolet and wounded some prussian soldiers. the wounded arrived in large numbers at the mairie of the twentieth arrondissement. there were neither doctors, nor medicines, nor mattresses, nor blankets, and the unhappy people expired without succour. some spies, surprised in the dress of national guards, were there and then shot in the court. the _vengeurs de flourens_ arrived, headed by their captain, a fine, handsome young fellow, reeling in his saddle. the cantinière, delirious, a handkerchief tied round her bleeding brow, swore, called the men together with the cry of a wounded lioness. from between the convulsive hands the guns went off at random. the noise of the waggons, the threats, the lamentations, the fusillades, the whizzing of the shells, mingled in a maddening tumult, and who in those frightful hours did not feel his reason giving way? every moment brought with it a new disaster. one guard rushed up and said, "the barricade pradier is abandoned!;" another, "we want men in the rue rebeval;" a third, "they are flying in the rue des près." to hear these death-knells there were but a few members of the council present, among whom were trinquet, ferré, varlin, and ranvier. desperate of their powerlessness, broken down by these eight days, without sleep and without hope, the strongest were lost in grief. from four o'clock vinoy and ladmirault launched their troops along the ramparts on the defenceless strategic route, and soon effected a junction at the romainville gate. towards five o'clock the troops occupied the barricade of the rue rebeval in the boulevard de la villette, and by the rue vincent and the passage du renard attacked the barricades of the rue de paris from behind. the mairie of the twentieth arrondissement was not taken till eight o'clock. the barricade of the rue de paris at the corner of the boulevard was defended by the commander of the st and five or six guards, who held out till their munitions were exhausted. a column set out from the boulevard philippe-auguste, penetrated into the roquette towards nine o'clock, and released the hostages who were there. masters of the père lachaise from the day before, the versaillese might at least from nine o'clock in the evening have penetrated into the abandoned prison. this delay of twelve hours sufficiently shows their contempt for the lives of the hostages. four of the latter--among whom was the bishop surat--who had made their escape in the afternoon of saturday, had been retaken at the neighbouring barricades and shot before the petite roquette. at nine o'clock the resistance was reduced to the small square formed by the rues du faubourg du temple, des trois bornes, des trois couronnes, and the boulevard de belleville. two or three streets of the twentieth arrondissement still struggled on, among others the rue ramponeau. a small phalanx of fifty men, led by varlin, ferré, and gambon, their red scarfs round their waists, their chassepots slung across their shoulders, marched down the rue des champs, and from the twentieth arrondissement debouched on the boulevard. a gigantic garibaldian carried an immense red flag in front of them. they entered the eleventh arrondissement. varlin and his colleagues were going to defend the barricade of the rue du faubourg du temple and of the rue fontaine au roi. from the front it was inaccessible; the versaillese, masters of the st. louis hospital, succeeded in turning it by the rues st. maur and bichat. at ten o'clock the federals had almost no cannon left, and two-thirds of the army hemmed them in. what mattered it? in the rue du faubourg du temple, rue oberkampf, rue st. maur, rue parmentier, they still wanted to fight. there were barricades not to be turned and houses without exits. the versaillese artillery cannonade them till the federals had used up their munitions. their last cartridge spent, whelmed by shells, they threw themselves upon the muskets bristling around them. by degrees the fusillade was lulled, all was silent. about ten o'clock the last federal cannon was discharged in the rue de paris, which the versaillese had taken. the piece, charged with double shot, with a terrible crash exhaled the last sigh of the commune of paris. the last barricade of the days of may was in the rue ramponeau. for a quarter of an hour a single federal defended it. thrice he broke the staff of the versaillese flag hoisted on the barricade of the rue de paris. as a reward for his courage, this last soldier of the commune succeeded in escaping. at eleven o'clock all was over. the place de la concorde had held out two days, the butte aux cailles two, la villette three, the boulevard voltaire two days and a half. of the seventy-nine members of the council filling functions on the st of may, one, delescluze, had died on the barricades; two, j. durand and r. rigault, had been shot; two, brunel and vermorel (who died some days after at versailles),[ ] were wounded severely; three, oudet, protot, frankel, slightly. the versaillese had lost few men. we had , killed or wounded. the losses of the army in june, , and the resistance of the insurgents had been relatively more serious. but the insurgents of june had only to face , men; those of may combated against , soldiers. the struggle of june lasted only three days; that of the federals eight weeks. on the eve of june the revolutionary army was intact; on the st may it was decimated. the most valiant defenders had fallen at the advanced posts. what might not these , men, uselessly sacrificed outside the town, have done within paris? what might not the brave men of neuilly, asnières, issy, vanves, cachan, have done at the panthéon and montmartre? the occupation of the fort of vincennes took place on monday the th. this fort, disarmed in conformity with the stipulations of the treaty of peace, had been unable to take any part in the strife. its garrison consisted of men and twenty-four officers, commanded by the _chef-de-légion_ faltot, a veteran of the wars of poland and of garibaldi, one of the most active men on the th march. he was offered a perfectly secure asylum, but answered that honour forbade his deserting his companions in arms. on the saturday a versaillese staff colonel came to negotiate a capitulation. faltot demanded passports in blank, not for himself, but for some of his officers of foreign nationality, and on the refusal of the versaillese, faltot committed the fault of applying to the germans. but macmahon, in prevision of a siege, had solicited the assistance of the prince of saxony, and the german was on the look-out on behalf of his brother officer.[ ] during the negotiations general vinoy had managed to hold communication with the place, where a few disreputable individuals offered to reduce the intractable federals. among the latter was merlet, garde-général of engineering and artillery, ex-non-commissioned officer, able, energetic, and quite resolved to blow up the place rather than surrender it. the powder-magazine contained , kilogrammes of powder and , cartridges. on sunday, at eight o'clock in the morning, a shot sounded in merlet's chamber. his room was entered, and he was found lying on the ground, his head pierced by the ball of a revolver. the disorder of the room attested a struggle; and a captain of the th, released later on by the versaillese, b----, admitted that he had dispersed the elements of the electric pile by means of which merlet intended to spring the fort. on monday towards mid-day the versaillese colonel renewed the proposal for a surrender. for twenty-four hours the struggle had been over in paris. the officers deliberated; it was agreed that the gates should be opened, and at three o'clock the versaillese entered. the garrison, having laid down their arms, had drawn up at the end of the court. nine officers were incarcerated apart. in the night, in the fosses, a hundred yards from the spot where the duke of enghien had fallen, these nine officers formed in a line before a firing-party. one of them, colonel delorme, turned to the versaillese in command with the words, "feel my pulse; see if i am afraid." footnotes: [ ] minister of war from , he was in , notwithstanding the desperate efforts of macmahon, expelled from the ministry, partly because of irregularities discovered in his budget, partly for having let his mistress, a german, take the plan of one of the new forts round paris, which was transmitted to berlin. [ ] since promoted to a higher grade. [ ] _enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. . [ ] see appendix xx. [ ] heard and reported by the author of the book _le fond de la société sous la commune_. the author wittily adds, "what the devil was this imbecile solicitous about?" [ ] appendix xxi. [ ] the versaillese calumniators, pursuing him even to his last hour, spread abroad that he had confessed to a jesuit, and had disavowed his writings "in presence of the gendarmes and nuns." [ ] "marshal macmahon to general vinoy, th may, . morning.--on our propositions to enter the fort, prince of saxony has given the order to enlarge the blockade, in order to leave the french authorities free to act as they think fit. he has promised to preserve the blockade."--_vinoy, l'armistice et la commune_, p. . chapter xxxii. "nous sommes d'honnêtes gens; c'est par les lois ordinaires que justice sera faite. nous n'aurons recours qu'à la loi."--_m. thiers à l'assemblée nationale, mai ._ "honest, honest iago!"--_shakespere._ the versaillese fury--the slaughter-houses--the prevotal courts--the death of varlin--the burials. order reigned in paris. everywhere ruins, death, sinister crepitations. the officers walked provokingly about clashing their sabres; the non-commissioned officers imitated their arrogance. the soldiers bivouacked in all the large roads. some, stupefied by fatigue and carnage, slept on the pavement; others prepared their soup by the side of the corpses, singing the songs of their native homes. the tricolor flag hung from all the windows in order to prevent house-searches. guns, cartridge-boxes, uniforms, were piled up in the gutters of the popular quarters. before the doors sat women leaning their heads upon their hands, looking fixedly before them, waiting for a son or a husband who was never to return. in the rich quarters the joy knew no bounds. the runaways of the two sieges, the demonstrators of the place vendôme, many emigrants of versailles, had again taken possession of the boulevards. since the thursday this kid-glove populace followed the prisoners, acclaiming the gendarmes who conducted the convoys,[ ] applauding at the sight of the blood-covered vans.[ ] the civilians strove to outdo the military in levity. such a one, who had ventured no further than the café du helder, recounted the taking of the château d'eau, bragged of having shot his dozen prisoners. elegant and joyous women, as in a pleasure trip, betook themselves to the corpses, and, to enjoy the sight of the valorous dead, with the ends of sunshades raised their last coverings. "inhabitants of paris," said macmahon on the th at mid-day, "paris is delivered! to-day the struggle is over. order, labour, security are about to revive." "paris delivered" was parcelled into four commands under the orders of general vinoy, ladmirault, cissey, douay, and once more placed under the régime of the state of siege raised by the commune. there was no longer any government at paris than the army which massacred paris. the passers-by were constrained to demolish the barricades, and any sign of impatience brought with it an arrest, any imprecation death. it was placarded that any one in the possession of arms would immediately be sent before a court-martial; that any house from which shots were fired would be given over to summary execution. all public places were closed at eleven o'clock. henceforth officers in uniform alone could circulate freely. mounted patrols thronged the streets. entrance into the town became difficult, to leave it impossible. the tradespeople not being allowed to go backwards and forwards, victuals were on the point of failing. "the struggle over," the army transformed itself into a vast platoon of executioners. on the sunday more than , prisoners taken in the neighbourhood of the père lachaise were led to the prison of la roquette. a chief of battalion standing at the entrance surveyed the prisoners and said, "to the right," or "to the left." those to the left were to be shot. their pockets emptied, they were drawn up along a wall and then slaughtered. opposite the wall two or three priests bending over their breviaries mumbled the prayers for the dying. from the sunday to the monday morning in la roquette alone more than , persons were thus murdered.[ ] blood flowed in large pools in the gutters of the prison. the same slaughter took place at the ecole militaire and the parc monceaux. these were the butcheries without phrases. at other places the prisoners were conducted before the prevotal courts, with which paris swarmed since the monday. these had not sprung up at hazard, and, as has been believed in the midst of the fury of the struggle. it was proved before the courts-martial that the number and seats of these prevotal courts, with their respective jurisdictions, had been appointed at versailles before the entry of the troops.[ ] one of the most celebrated was that of the châtelet théâtre, where colonel vabre officiated. thousands of prisoners who were led there were first of all penned in upon the stage and in the auditorium, under the guns of the soldiers placed in the boxes; then, little by little, like sheep driven to the door of the slaughter-house, from wing to wing they were pushed to the saloon, where, round a large table, officers of the army and the honest national guard were seated,[ ] their sabre between their legs, a cigar in their mouth. the examination lasted a quarter of a minute. "did you take arms? did you serve the commune? show your hands." if the resolute attitude of a prisoner betrayed a combatant, if his face was unpleasant, without asking for his name, his profession, without entering any note upon any register, he was _classed_. "you?" was said to the next one, and so on to the end of the file, without excepting the women, children, and old men. when by a caprice a prisoner was spared, he was said to be _ordinary_, and reserved for versailles. no one was liberated. the _classed_ ones were at once delivered to the executioners, who led them into the nearest garden or court. from the châtelet, for instance, they were taken to the lebau barracks.[ ] there the doors were no sooner closed than the gendarmes fired, without even grouping their victims before a platoon. some, only wounded, ran along by the walls, the gendarmes chasing and shooting at them till they fell dead. moreau of the central committee perished in one of these gangs. surprised on the thursday evening in the rue de rivoli, he was conducted to the châtelet, and shot the next day. those condemned in the prevotal court of the luxembourg were conducted into the garden and placed against a terrace. there were so many victims, that the soldiers, tired out, were obliged to rest their guns actually against the sufferers. the wall of the terrace was covered with brains; the executioners waded through pools of blood. the massacre was thus carried on, methodically organised, at the caserne dupleix, the lycée bonaparte, the northern and eastern railway stations, the jardin des plantes, in many mairies and barracks, at the same time as in the abattoirs. large open vans came to fetch the corpses, and went to empty them in the square or any open space in the neighbourhood. the victims died simply, without fanfaronade.[ ] many crossed their arms before the muskets, and themselves commanded the fire. women and children followed their husbands and their fathers, crying to the soldiers, "shoot us with them!" and they were shot. women, till then strangers to the struggle, were seen to come down into the streets, exasperated by these butcheries, strike the officers, and then throw themselves against a wall waiting for death.[ ] in june, , cavaignac had promised pardon, and he massacred. m. thiers had sworn by the law, and he gave the army carte-blanche. the officers returned from germany might now glut to their hearts' content their wrath against that paris which had insulted them by not capitulating; the bonapartists revenge on the republicans the old hatreds of the empire; the boys just fresh from st. cyr serve their apprenticeship of insolence upon the _pékins_. a general (cissey most probably) gave the order to shoot m. cernuschi, whose crime consisted in having offered , francs for the anti-plebiscitary campaign of .[ ] any individual of some popular notoriety was sure to die. dr. tony moilin, who had played no part during the commune, but had been implicated in several political trials during the empire, was in a few moments judged and condemned to death; "not," his judges condescended to tell him, "that he had committed any act that merited death, but because he was a chief of the socialist party, one of those men of whom a prudent and wise government must rid itself when it finds a legitimate occasion."[ ] the radicals of the chamber, whose hatred of the commune had been most clearly demonstrated, did not dare to set foot in paris for fear of being included in the massacres. the army, having neither police nor precise information, killed at random. any passer-by calling a man by a revolutionary name caused him to be shot by soldiers eager to get the premium. at grenelle they shot a pseudo-billioray,[ ] notwithstanding his despairing protests; at the place vendôme they shot a pseudo-brunel in the apartments of madame fould. the _gaulois_ published the recital by a military surgeon who _knew_ vallès, and was present at his execution;[ ] an eye-witness declared he had seen lefrançais shot on the thursday in the rue de la banque. the real billioray was tried in the month of august; brunel, vallès, and lefrançais succeeded in escaping from france. members and functionaries of the commune were thus shot, and often several times over, in the persons of individuals who resembled them more or less. varlin, alas! was not to escape. on sunday, the th may, he was recognised in the rue lafayette, and led, or rather dragged, to the foot of the buttes montmartre before the commanding general. the versaillese sent him to be shot in the rue des rosiers. for an hour, a mortal hour, varlin was dragged through the streets of montmartre, his hands tied behind his back, under a shower of blows and insults. his young, thoughtful head, that had never harboured other thoughts than of fraternity, slashed open by the sabres, was soon but one mass of blood, of mangled flesh, the eye protruding from the orbit. on reaching the rue des rosiers, he no longer walked; he was carried. they set him down to shoot him. the wretches dismembered his corpse with blows of the butt-ends of their muskets. the mount of martyrs has no more glorious one than varlin. may he too be enshrined in the great heart of the working-class! varlin's whole life was an example. he had quite alone, by the mere force of his will, educated himself, giving to study the rare hours left him in the evening after the workshop; learning not with the view to push into the bourgeoisie, as many others, but to instruct and enfranchise the people. he was the heart and soul of the workingmen's associations at the end of the empire. indefatigable, modest, speaking little, always at the right moment, and then enlightening a confused discussion with a word, he had preserved that revolutionary instinct which is often blunted in educated workmen. one of the first on the th march, labouring during the whole commune, he was at the barricades to the last. his death is all to the honour of the workmen. it is to varlin and to delescluze that this history should be dedicated, if there were room in the frontispiece for any other name than that of paris. the versaillese journalists spat on his corpse; said that some hundreds of thousands of francs had been found on him.[ ] returned to paris behind the army, they followed it like jackals. those of the demi-monde, above all, were mad with a sanguinary hysteria. the coalition of the st march was re-made. all uttered one howl against the vanquished workmen. far from moderating the massacre, they encouraged it, published the names, the hiding-places of those who were to be killed, unflagging in inventions calculated to keep up the furious terror of the bourgeoisie. after every fusillade they cried encore. i quote at hazard, and could quote pages: "we must make a communard hunt" (_bien public_). "not one of the malefactors in whose hands paris has been for two months will be considered as a political man. they will be treated like the brigands they are, like the most frightful monsters ever seen in the history of humanity. many journals speak of re-erecting the scaffold destroyed by them, in order not even to do them the honour of shooting them" (_moniteur universel_). "come, honest people, an effort to make an end of this democratic and international vermin" (_figaro_). "these men, who have killed for the sake of killing and stealing, are taken, and we should answer, mercy! these hideous women, who stabbed the breast of dying officers, are taken, and we should cry, mercy!" (_patrie_).[ ] to encourage the hangmen, if that were necessary, the press threw them crowns. "what an admirable attitude is that of our officers and soldiers!" said the _figaro_. "it is only to the french soldier that it is given to recover so quickly and so well." "what an honour!" cried the _journal des debats_. "our army has avenged its disasters by an inestimable victory." thus the army wreaked on paris revenge for its defeats. paris was an enemy like prussia, and all the less to be spared that the army had its prestige to reconquer. to complete the similitude, after the victory there was a triumph. the romans never adjudged it after civil struggles. m. thiers was not ashamed, under the eye of the foreigner, before still smoking paris, to parade his troops in a grand review. who then will dare to blame the federals for having resisted the army of versailles as they would have the prussians? and when did foreigners show such fury?[ ] death even seemed to whet their rancour. on sunday, the th, near the mairie of the eleventh arrondissement, about fifty prisoners had just been shot. urged not by an unworthy curiosity, but by the earnest desire to know the truth, we went, at the risk of being recognised, as far as the corpses lying on the pavement. a woman lay there, her skirts turned up; from her ripped-up body protruded the entrails, which a marine-fusileer amused himself by dividing with the end of his bayonet. the officers, a few steps off, let him do this. the victors, in order to dishonor these corpses, had placed inscriptions on their breasts, "assassin," "thief," "drunkard," and stuck the necks of bottles into the mouths of some of them. how to justify this savagery? the official reports only mention very few deaths among the versaillese-- during the whole time of the operations, from the rd april up to the th may.[ ] the versaillese fury had then no excuse for these reprisals. when a handful of exasperated men, to avenge thousands of their brothers, shoot sixty-three of their most inveterate enemies[ ] out of nearly whom they had in their hands, the hypocritical reaction veils its face and protests in the name of justice. what, then, will this justice say when those shall be judged who methodically, without any anxiety as to the issue of the combat, and, above all, the battle over, shot , persons, of whom three-fourths had not taken part in the fight? still some flashes of humanity were shown by the soldiers, and some were seen coming back from the executions their heads bowed down; but the officers never slackened for one second in their ferocity. even after the sunday they still slaughtered the prisoners, shouted "bravo!" at the executions. the courage of the victims they called insolence.[ ] let them be responsible before paris, france, the new generation, for these deeds of infamy. at last the smell of the carnage began to choke even the most frantic. the pest, if not pity, was coming. myriads of flesh-flies flew up from the putrefied corpses. the streets were full of dead birds. the _avenir libéral_, singing the praises of macmahon's proclamations, applied the words of flèchier: "he hides himself, but his glory finds him out." the glory of the turenne of betrayed him even up to the seine.[ ] in certain streets the corpses encumbered the pathway, looking at the passers-by from out of their dead eyes. in the faubourg st. antoine they were to be seen everywhere in heaps, half white with chloride of lime. at the polytechnic school they occupied a space of yards long and three deep. at passy, which was not one of the great centres of execution, there were , near the trocadéro. these, covered over by a thin shroud of earth, also showed their ghastly profiles. "who does not recollect," said the _temps_, "even though he had seen it but one moment, the square, no, the charnel of the tour st. jacques? from the midst of this moist soil, recently turned up by the spade, here and there look out heads, arms, feet, and hands. the profiles of corpses, dressed in the uniform of national guards, were seen impressed against the ground. it was hideous. a decayed, sickening odour arose from this garden, and occasionally at some places it became fetid." the rain and heat having precipitated the putrefaction, the swollen bodies reappeared. the glory of macmahon displayed itself too well. the journals were taking fright. "these wretches," said one of them, "who have done us so much harm during their lives, must not be allowed to do so still after their death." and those that had instigated the massacre cried "enough!" "let us not kill any more," said the _paris journal_ of the nd june, "even the assassins, even the incendiaries. let us not kill any more. it is not their pardon we ask for, but a respite." "enough executions, enough blood, enough victims," said the _nationale_ of the st june. and the _opinion nationale_ of the same day: "a serious examination of the accused is imperative. one would like to see only the really guilty die." the executions abated, and the sweeping off began. carriages of all kinds, vans, omnibuses, came to pick up the corpses and traversed the town. since the great pests of london and marseilles, such cart-loads of human flesh had not been seen. these exhumations proved that a great number of people had been buried alive. imperfectly shot, and thrown with the heaps of dead into the common grave, they had eaten earth, and showed the contortions of their violent agony. certain corpses were taken up in pieces. it was necessary to shut them as soon as possible into closed waggons, and to take them with the utmost speed to the cemeteries, where immense graves of lime swallowed up these putrid masses. the cemeteries of paris absorbed all they could. the victims, placed side by side, without any other covering than their clothes, filled enormous ditches at the père lachaise, montmartre, mont-parnasse, where the people in pious remembrance will annually come as pilgrims. others, more unfortunate, were carried out of the town. at charonne, bagnolet, bicêtre, &c., the trenches dug during the first siege were utilised. "there nothing is to be feared of the cadaverous emanations," said _la liberté_ "an impure blood will water the soil of the labourer, fecundating it. the deceased delegate at war will be able to pass a review of his faithful followers at the hour of midnight; the watchword will be _incendiarism and assassination_." women by the side of the lugubrious trench endeavoured to recognise these remains. the police waited that their grief should betray them, in order to arrest those "females of insurgents." the burying of such a large number of corpses soon became too difficult, and they were burnt in the casemates of the fortifications; but for want of draught the combustion was incomplete, and the bodies were reduced to a pulp. at the buttes chaumont the corpses, piled up in enormous heaps, inundated with petroleum, were burnt in the open air. the wholesale massacres lasted up to the first days of june,[ ] and the summary executions up to the middle of that month. for a long time mysterious dramas were enacted in the bois de boulogne.[ ] never will the exact number of the victims of the bloody week be known. the chief of military justice admitted , shot;[ ] the municipal council of paris paid the expenses of burial of , corpses; but a great number were killed out of paris or burnt. there is no exaggeration in saying , at least. many battlefields have numbered more dead, but these at least had fallen in the fury of the combat. the century has not witnessed such a slaughtering after the battle; there is nothing to equal it in the history of our civil struggles. st. bartholomew's day, june, , the nd december, would form but an episode of the massacres of may. even the great executioners of rome and modern times pale before the duke of magenta. the hecatombs of the asiatic victors, the fêtes of dahomey alone could give some idea of this butchery of proletarians. such was the repression "by the laws, with the laws." and during these atrocities of incomparably worse than bulgarian type, the bourgeoisie, raising to heaven its bloody hands, undertook to incite the whole world against this people, who, after two months of domination and the massacre of thousands of their own, had shed the blood of sixty-three prisoners. all social powers covered the death-rattle of the victims by their applause. the priests, those great consecrators of assassination, celebrated the victory in a solemn service, at which the entire assembly assisted. the reign of the _gesu_ was about to commence. footnotes: [ ] in the boulevard des italiens women kissed the boots of the mounted officers who escorted the convoys. a journalist, francisque sarcey, wrote: "with what serene joy the eye rested on the loyal faces of those brave gendarmes, who marched with a sprightly step by the sides of the hideous column, forming a martial and severe framework!" [ ] appendix xxii. [ ] appendix xxiii. [ ] appendix xxiv. [ ] later on all the names will be known. let us cite from amongst a hundred. at the mairie of the fifth arrondissement, the colonel of the national guard, galle; at the seventh, m. gabriel ossude and m. blamont; at the collége bonaparte, m. de soulanges, chief of the th battalion; at the mairie of the ninth arrondissement, m. charpentier; at l'elysée, m. de st. geniez, chief of the rd battalion; at the luxembourg, mm. gosselin, parfait, daniel; at the mairie of the thirteenth arrondissement, mm. d'avril, chief of the th battalion, lascol, chief of the th thierce; at the châtelet, vabre in a few hours achieved an atrocious celebrity. [ ] appendix xxv. [ ] appendix xxvi. [ ] appendix xxvii. [ ] appendix xxviii. [ ] appendix xxix. [ ] appendix xxx. [ ] appendix xxxi. [ ] the journal _l'ariégeois_ has published the text of the report addressed to the colonel of the th of the line by lieutenant sicre, a native of the department of ariège, who had taken part in the arrest of varlin, and commanded the firing-party. we extract the following passage:--"amongst the objects found on him were a pocket-book bearing his name, a purse containing francs centimes, a penknife, a silver watch, and a card of the man tridon." [ ] some foreign journals uttered the same cry. the _naval and military gazette_ of the th may said, "we are deliberately of opinion that hanging is too good a death for such villains to die, and if medical science could be advanced by operating upon the living body of the malefactors who have crucified their country, we at least should find no fault with the experiment." [ ] at a wineshop of the place voltaire we met some quite young soldiers on the sunday morning. they were marine-fusileers of the class. their complexion was sallow, their movements heavy, their eyes dull. "and there are many dead?" said we. "ah!" answered one of them in a stupefied tone, "we have the order to make no prisoners; it is the general who told us" (they could not tell us the name of their general). "if they had not lighted these fires they would not have been served thus; but as they set on fire, we must kill" (textual). then he went on talking to his comrade. "this morning there" (and he pointed to the barricade of the mairie), "one came up in a blouse. we led him off. 'you are not going to shoot me?' said he. 'oh, i should think not!' we made him pass in front of us, and then, pan, pan; and didn't he kick about funnily!" [ ] sixty-three officers killed and wounded, soldiers dead and wounded--in all, dead and wounded. _rapport du maréchal macmahon._ [ ] this is the exact number of the hostages executed: four at ste. pélagie, six at the roquette, forty-eight at the rue haxo, four at the petite roquette, and the banker jecker. [ ] the count de mun said (_enquête sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. ), "when they were shot, they all died with a kind of insolence which cannot be attributed to a moral sentiment" (the sentiment of the executioner, monsieur de mun, no doubt), "and can only be attributed to the resolution to come to an end by death rather than live by working." it is true that macmahon had said (p. ), "they seemed to think they were defending a sacred cause, the independence of paris. in their intentions some of them may have been of good faith." who is more odious, he who believes he is killing an "insolent," or he who knows that he is killing a martyr? [ ] "on the seine may be seen a long trail of blood following the course of the water and passing under the second arch from the side of the tuileries. this trail never stopped."--_la liberté of the st may._ [ ] appendix xxxii. [ ] appendix xxxiii. [ ] this is the figure given by general appert in the _enquête sur le mars_. macmahon has said, "when men surrender their arms they must not be shot; that was admitted. unhappily, on certain points, the instructions i had given were forgotten. i can, however, affirm that the number of executions has been very restricted." admire the logic of this reasoning. no doubt a list has been kept of all, oblivious as to the victims of the prevotal courts; the "loyal soldier" ignores them completely. some days after the battle the _nationale_, a liberal-conservative paper said, "in official circles it is estimated that , is the number of federals killed, shot, or dead in consequence of wounds received during the days of may. we should not have dared to give this figure, which seems to us considerable, if we had not got this information from officers who have declared that this estimate is very probably correct." chapter xxxiii. "la cause de la justice, de l'ordre, de l'humanité, de la civilisation, a triomphé."--_m. thiers à l'assemblée nationale, mai ._ the convoys of prisoners--the orangerie--the arrests-- satory--the denunciators--the press--the left insults the vanquished--demonstrations in foreign countries. happy the dead! they had not to mount the calvary of the prisoners. from the wholesale fusillades one may guess the number of arrests. it was a furious razzia; men, women, children, parisians, provincials, foreigners, a crowd of people of all sexes and all ages, of all parties and all conditions. all the lodgers of a house, all the inhabitants of a street, were carried off in a body. a suspicion, a word, a doubtful attitude were sufficient to cause one to be seized by the soldiers. from the st to the th may they thus picked up , persons. these prisoners were formed into long chains, sometimes free, sometimes, as in june, , bound by cords so as to form only one body. whoever refused to walk on was pricked with the bayonet, and, if he resisted, shot on the spot, sometimes attached to a horse's tail.[ ] in front of the churches of the rich quarters the captives were forced to kneel down, bareheaded, amidst an infamous mob of lackeys, fashionables, and prostitutes, crying, "death! death! do not go any further; shoot them here!" at the champs-elysées they wanted to break the files to taste blood. the prisoners were sent on to versailles. gallifet awaited them at la muette. in the town he escorted the chains, halting under the windows of the aristocratic clubs in order to earn plaudits and hurrahs. at the gates of paris he levied his tithe, walked past the ranks, and, with his look of a famished wolf, "you seem intelligent," said he to some one; "step out of the ranks." "you have a watch," said he to another; "you must have been a functionary of the commune," and he placed him apart. on the th, in one single convoy, he chose eighty-three men and three women, made them draw up along the talus of the fortifications and had them shot.[ ] then he said to their comrades, "my name is gallifet. your journals in paris had sullied me enough. i take my revenge." on sunday, the th, he said, "let those who have white hairs step out from the ranks." one hundred and eleven captives advanced. "you," continued gallifet, "you have seen june, ; you are more culpable than the others," and he had their corpses thrown over into the fortifications. this purgation over, the convoys entered upon the route to versailles, pressed between two files of cavalry. it looked like the population of a city dragged away by fierce hordes. lads, grey-bearded men, soldiers, dandies, all and every condition; the most delicate and the most rude confounded in the same vortex. many women, some with manacles on their hands; such a one with her baby, who pressed its mother's neck with its frightened little hands; another, her arm broken, her chemisette stained with blood; another depressed, clinging to the arm of her more vigorous neighbour; another in a statuesque attitude, defying pain and insults; always that woman of the people, who, after having carried the bread to the trenches and given consolation to the dying, hopeless-- "découragée de mettre au jour des malheureux," longed for liberating death. their attitude, which inspired foreign journals with admiration,[ ] exasperated the versaillese ferocity. "in seeing the convoys of insurgent women," said the _figaro_, "one feels in spite of oneself a kind of pity; but one is reassured by thinking that all the brothels of the capital have been thrown open by the national guards, who patronised them, and that the majority of these ladies were inhabitants of these establishments." panting, covered with filth, idiotic with fatigue, hunger, and thirst, burnt by the sun, the convoys dragged themselves along for hours in the overheated dust of the roads, harassed by the cries, the blows from the mounted chasseurs. the prussians had not thus cruelly treated these soldiers when, prisoners themselves some months before, they had been led away from sedan or metz. the captives who fell were sometimes shot, sometimes they were only thrown into the carts that followed. at the entry into versailles the crowd awaited them, always the _élite_ of french society, deputies, functionaries, priests, officers, women of all sorts. the fury of the th april and the preceding convoys were as much surpassed as the sea swells at the equinoctial tide. the avenues de paris and de st. cloud were lined by savages, who followed the convoys with vociferations, blows, covered them with filth and broken pieces of bottle. "one sees," said the liberal-conservative newspaper, the _siècle_, of the th may, "women, not prostitutes, but elegant ladies, insult the prisoners on their passage, and even strike them with their sunshades." woe to whoever did not insult the vanquished! woe to him who allowed a movement of commiseration to escape him! he was at once seized, led to the post,[ ] or else simply forced into the convoy. frightful retrogradation of human nature, all the more hideous that it contrasted with the elegance of the costume! prussian officers came from st. denis once more to see what governing classes they had had to oppose them. the first convoys were promenaded about as a spectacle in the streets of versailles; others were stationed for hours at the torrid place d'armes, a few steps from the large trees, whose shade was refused them. the prisoners were then distributed in four depots, the cellars of the grandes-ecuries, the orangerie of the castle, the docks of satory, and the manèges of the ecole de st. cyr. into these damp, nauseous cellars, where light and air only penetrated by some narrow openings, men, children, of whom some were not more than ten years old, were crowded without straw during the first days. when they did get some, it was soon reduced to mere dung. no water to wash with; no means of changing their rags, as the relations who brought linen were brutally sent back. twice a day, in a trough, they got a yellowish liquid, a porridge. the gendarmes sold tobacco at exorbitant prices, and confiscated it in order to sell it over again. there were no doctors. gangrene attacked the wounded; ophthalmia broke out; deliriousness became chronic. in the night were heard the shrieks of the fever-stricken and the mad. opposite, the gendarmes remained impassive, their guns loaded. even these horrors were outdone by the fosse-aux-lions, a vault without air, absolutely dark, the antechamber of the tomb, under the large red marble staircase of the terrace. whoever was noted as dangerous, or whoever had simply displeased the corporal, was thrown into it. the most robust could only bear up against it a few days. on leaving it, giddy, the mind a blank, dazzled by the broad daylight, they swooned. happy he who met the look of his wife. the wives of the captives pressed against the outer rails of the orangerie, striving to distinguish some one amidst the dimly seen herd. they tore their hair, implored the gendarmes, who thrust them back, struck them, called them infamous names. the hell of open daylight was the docks of the plateau of satory, a vast parallelogram enclosed by walls. the soil is clayey, and the least rain soaks it. the first arrivals were placed within the buildings, which could contain about thirteen hundred persons, the others remained outside, bareheaded, for their hats had been knocked off at paris or at versailles. the gendarmes were on duty, being more reliable, more hardened than the soldiers. on the thursday evening at eight o'clock a convoy, composed chiefly of women, arrived at the dock. "many of us," one of them has reported to me, the wife of a _chef-de-légion_, "had died on the way; we had had nothing since morning. "it was still daylight. we saw a great multitude of prisoners. the women were apart in a hut at the entrance. we joined them. "we were told that there was a pond, and, dying of thirst, we rushed thither. the first who drank uttered a loud cry, vomited. 'oh, the wretches! they make us drink the blood of our own people.' for since evening the wounded went there to bathe their wounds; but thirst tormented us so cruelly, that some had the courage to rinse out their mouths with this bloody water. "the hut was already full, and we were made to lie on the earth in groups of about . an officer came and said to us, 'vile creatures! listen to the order i give. gendarmes, the first who moves, fire on these----!' "at ten o'clock we heard reports quite near. we jumped up. 'lie down, wretches!' cried the gendarmes, taking aim at us. it was some prisoners being shot a few steps from us. we thought the balls would pass through our heads. the gendarmes who had just been shooting came to relieve our guardians. we remained the whole night watched by men heated with carnage. they grumbled at those who writhed with terror and cold. 'do not be impatient; your turn is coming.' at daybreak we saw the dead. the gendarmes said to each other, 'oh! isn't this a jolly vintage?' "in the evening the prisoners heard a sound of spades and hammers in the wall of the south. the fusillades, the menaces had maddened them. they awaited death from all sides and in every shape; they thought that this time they were going to be blown up. holes opened and mitrailleuses appeared, some of which were discharged."[ ] on friday evening a storm of several hours broke out above the camp. the prisoners were forced, on pain of being shot, to lie down all night in the mud. about twenty died of cold. the camp of satory soon became the longchamp of versailles high life. captain aubrey did the honors with the ladies, the deputies, the literary men, showing them his subjects grovelling in the mud, devouring a few biscuits, taking tumblers of water from the pond into which the gendarmes stood on no ceremony in easing themselves. some, going mad, dashed their heads against the walls; others howled, tearing their beards and hair. a fetid cloud arose from this living mass of rags and horrors. "there are," said the _indépendence française_, "several thousands of people poisoned with dirt and vermin spreading infection a kilomètre around. cannon are levelled at these wretches penned up like wild beasts. the inhabitants of paris are afraid of the epidemic resulting from the burying of the insurgents killed in the town. those whom the _officiel___ of paris called the rurals are much more afraid of the epidemic resulting from the presence of the live insurgents at satory." those are the honest people of versailles, who had just caused the triumph of "the cause of justice, order, humanity, and civilisation." how good and humane, despite the bombardment and the sufferings of the siege, those _brigands_ of paris had been, above all by the side of these _honest people_! who ever ill-treated a prisoner in the paris of the commune? what woman perished or was insulted? what obscure corner of the parisian prisons had hidden a single one of the thousand tortures which displayed themselves in broad daylight at versailles? from the th may to the first days of june the convoys did not cease flowing into those depths. the arrests went on in large hauls by day and night. the sergents-de-ville accompanied the soldiers, and, under the pretext of perquisitions, forced the locks, appropriating objects of value. several officers were in the sequel condemned for the embezzlement of objects seized.[ ] they arrested not only the persons compromised in the late affairs, those who were denounced by their uniforms, or documents found in the mairies and at the war office, but whoever was known for his republican opinions. they arrested, too, the purveyors of the commune, and even the musicians, who had never crossed the ramparts. the ambulance attendants shared the same fate. and yet during the siege a delegate of the commune, having inspected the ambulances of the press, had said to the personnel, "i am aware that most of you are the friends of the government of versailles, but i hope you may live long enough to recognise your mistake. i do not trouble myself to know whether the lancets at the service of the wounded are royalist or republican. i see that you do your task worthily. i thank you for it. i shall report it to the commune." some poor wretches had taken refuge in the catacombs. they were hunted by torchlight. the police agents, assisted by dogs, fired at every suspicious shadow. battues were organised in the forests near paris. the police watched all the stations, all the ports of france. passports had to be renewed and viséd at versailles. the masters of boats were under supervision. on the th jules favre had solemnly asked the foreign powers for the extradition of the fugitives, under the pretext that the battle of the streets was not a political act. extradition flourished at paris. fear closed all doors. no shelter was there for the fugitives. few friends were left--no comrades. everywhere pitiless refusals or denunciations. doctors renewed the infamies of , and delivered up the wounded.[ ] every cowardly instinct rose to the surface, and paris disclosed sloughs of infamy whose existence she had not suspected even under the empire. the honest people, masters of the streets, had their rivals, their creditors, arrested as communards, and formed committees of inquiry in their arrondissements. the commune had rejected the denunciators; the police of order received them with open arms. the denunciations rose to the fabulous height of , ,[ ] of which a twentieth at most were signed. a very considerable part of these denunciations issued from the press. for several weeks it did not cease stirring the rage and panic of the bourgeoisie. m. thiers, re-editing one of the absurdities of june, , in a bulletin spoke of "poisonous liquids collected in order to poison the soldiers." all the inventions of that time were again taken up, appropriated to the hour, and horribly amplified; chambers in the sewers with wires all prepared, , petroleuses enrolled, houses marked with a stamp for burning, pumps, injectors, eggs filled with petroleum, poisoned balls, roasted gendarmes, hanged sailors, violated women, prostitutes requisitioned, endless thefts--all was printed, and the gulls believed all. some journals had the speciality of false orders for arson;[ ] false autographs, of which the originals could never be produced, but which were to be admitted as positive evidence by the courts-martial and honest historians. when it fancied the fury of the bourgeoisie was flagging, the press fanned it again, each journal outbidding the other in villainy. "paris, we know," said the _bien public_, "asks for nothing better than to go to sleep again; though we should trouble her, we will awaken her." and on the th june the _figaro_ still drew up plans of carnage.[ ] the revolutionary writer who will take the pains to collect in a volume extracts from the reactionary press of may and june, , from the parliamentary inquiries, the bourgeois pamphlets, and histories of the commune--a mixture as monstrous as that of the witches' cauldron--will do more for the edification and the future justice of the people than a whole band of mouthing agitators. there were, to french honour, some traits of generosity, and even heroism, amidst this epidemic of cowardice. vermorel, wounded, was taken in by the wife of a concierge, who succeeded for a few hours in passing him off for her son. the mother of a versaillese soldier gave several members of the council of the commune an asylum. a great number of insurgents were saved by unknown people; and yet it was during the first days a matter of death, afterwards of transportation, to shelter the vanquished. the women once again showed their great heart. the average of arrests kept up in june and july to a hundred a day. at belleville, ménilmontant, in the thirteenth arrondissement, in certain streets, there were only old women left. the versaillese, in their lying returns, have admitted , prisoners,[ ] amongst whom were , women and children, of whom forty-seven were thirteen years of age, twenty-one twelve, four ten, and one seven,[ ] as though they had by some secret method counted the herds whom they fed at the troughs. the number of those arrested very probably reached , men. the errors were numberless. some women of that beau monde who went with dilated nostrils to contemplate the corpses of the federals were included in the razzias, and led off to satory, where, their clothes in rags, devoured by vermin, they figured very well as the imaginary petroleuses of their journals. thousands of individuals were obliged to hide; thousands gained the frontier. an idea of the general losses may be gathered from the fact that at the complementary elections of july there were , less electors than in february.[ ] parisian industry was crushed by it. most of the workmen who gave this branch of manufacture its artistic cachet perished, were arrested, or emigrated in masses. in the month of october the municipal council proved in an official report that certain industries were obliged to refuse orders for want of hands. the savageness of the searches, the number of the arrests, joined to the despair of the defeat, tore from this town--bled to the last drop of blood--some supreme convulsions. at belleville, at montmartre, in the thirteenth arrondissement, shots were fired from houses. at the café du helder, in the rue de rennes, the rue de la paix, place de la madeleine, soldiers and officers fell, struck by invisible hands; near the pépinière barracks a general was shot at. the versaillese journals wondered, with naïve impudence, that popular fury was not calmed, and could not understand "what reason, even the most futile, of hatred one could have for soldiers who had the most inoffensive look in the world" (_la cloche_). the left followed to the very end the line it had traced out for itself on the th march. having prevented the provinces from coming to the rescue of paris and voted its thanks to the army, it also joined its maledictions to those of the rurals. louis blanc, who in was to defend the red flag, wrote to the _figaro_ to stigmatise the vanquished, to bow down before their judges, and declare "the public indignation legitimate."[ ] this extreme left, which five years after grew enthusiastic for the amnesty, would not hear the death-groans of the , shot, nor even, though but a hundred yards from them, the shrieks from the orangerie. in june, , the sombre imprecation of lammennais fell upon the massacres, and pierre leroux defended the insurgents. the great philosophers of the rural assembly, catholic or positivist, were all one against the workingmen. gambetta, delighted at being rid of the socialists, hurried back from st. sébastien, and in a solemn speech at bordeaux declared that the government which had been able to crush paris "had even by that proved itself legitimate." there were some men of courage in the provinces. the _droits de l'homme_ of montpellier, the _emancipation_ of toulouse, the _national du loiret_, and several advanced journals recounted the assassinations of the conquerors. most of these journals were prosecuted and suppressed. some movements took place; a commencement of riots at pamiers (ariège) and at voiron (isère). at lyons the army was confined in its barracks, and the prefect, valentin, had the town closed in order to arrest the fugitives of paris. there were arrests at bordeaux. at brussels victor hugo protested against the declaration of the belgian government, which promised to deliver up the fugitives. louis blanc and schoelcher wrote him a letter full of blame, and his house was stoned by a fashionable mob. bebel in the german parliament and whalley in the house of commons denounced the versaillese fury. garcia lopez said from the tribune of the cortes, "we admire this great revolution, which no one can appreciate justly to-day." the workingmen of foreign countries solemnised the obsequies of their brothers of paris. at london, brussels, zurich, geneva, leipzig, and berlin, monster meetings proclaimed themselves in accord with the commune, devoted the slaughterers to universal execration, and declared accomplices of these crimes the governments which had not made any remonstrances. all the socialist journals glorified the struggle of the vanquished. the great voice of the international recounted their effort in an eloquent address,[ ] and confided their memory to the workmen of the whole world. on the triumphal entry of moltke at the head of the victorious prussian army into berlin, the workmen received them with hurrahs for the commune, and at several places the people were charged by the cavalry. footnotes: [ ] appendix xxxiv. [ ] this fact and the following one are not only attested by the prisoners, but by the journals of order and the correspondents of the conservative foreign newspapers speaking as eye-witnesses. appendix xxxv. [ ] "i observed a slender figure walking alone, in the costume of the national guard, with long fair hair floating over the shoulders, a bright blue eye, and a handsome, bold young face, that seemed to know neither shame nor fear. when the spectators detected at a glance that this seeming young national guardsman was a woman, their indignation found vent in strong language; but the only response of the victim was to glare right and left with heightened colour and flashing eyes. if the french nation were composed only of frenchwomen, what a terrible nation it would be!"--_the times, th may, ._ [ ] they treated in this manner m. ratisbonne, he who in the _debats_ had just written, "what an inestimable victory!" [ ] these facts are borne witness to by several conservative journals, among others the _siècle_. we cite this paper in preference to the figarist journals, which might be suspected of having amplified the glory of the army. "the day before yesterday there has been (at satory) an attempt at revolt. the soldiers began by aiming at the most mutinous; but as this procedure did not seem sufficiently expeditious, mitrailleuses were advanced, which fired into the crowd. order was re-established, but at what a price!" (versailles, th may). "towards four o'clock in the morning a new rising took place amongst the prisoners of satory. there were several volleys of mitrailleuses, and, as you may suppose, the number of dead and wounded must have been rather considerable." (versailles, may ). [ ] among others, one thierce, lieutenant-colonel, who had presided at the executions in the thirteenth arrondissement. [ ] at the beaujon hospital there was a wounded federal whom all the staff wanted to save. only one person refused, the doctor delbeau, head-surgeon and professor in the faculty of medicine. he sent up the soldiers of the neighbouring post and had the poor fellow taken away. be it said to the honour of the students that they forced him some months after to suspend his lectures. [ ] the numbers of the registers where the denunciations were inscribed enabled the proof of this statistic of infamy, published by the spy journals of the time, to be ascertained. [ ] one of these orders, which commanded millière to set fire to the left bank, was signed billioray, who had fled on the st, and dombrowski, already dead at this time. [ ] "general enterprise of parisian sweeping.--the repression must equal the crime. these are the means by which this result will be arrived at. the members of the commune, the chiefs of the insurrection, the members of the committees, courts-martial and revolutionary tribunals, the foreign generals and officers, the deserters, the assassins of montmartre, la roquette, and mazas, the _pétroleurs_ and the _petroleuses_, the ticket-of-leave men, are to be shot. martial law must be applied in all its rigour to the journalists who have placed the torch and the chassepot in the hands of fanatic imbeciles. a part of these measures have already been put into practice. our soldiers have simplified the work of the courts-martial of versailles by shooting on the spot; but it must not be overlooked that a great many culprits have escaped chastisement."--_le figaro of the th june._ [ ] report of the general appert, table i. pp. , . [ ] report of the captain guichard, _enquête sur le mars_, vol. iii. p. . [ ] the _journal des débats_ estimated that "the losses by the party of the insurrection in dead and prisoners reached the figure of , individuals." [ ] in the _figaro_ of the th june--the same number which contained the plan of massacre--might be read, "we have received the following letter from m. louis blanc:-- "'to monsieur philippe gille. "'sir,--i read in an article signed by you that the honest republican party has the right to expect a protestation from me against the abominations of which paris has been the theatre and the victim. this observation surprises me. "'what honest man could, without lacking self-respect, believe himself obliged to warn the public that incendiarism, pillage, and assassination horrify him? i esteem myself enough to judge that, on my part, a declaration is perfectly useless. "'when, too, public indignation is so legitimate and so great, are you aware, sir, that in the tribunals the silence of the assistants is obligatory; so true is it that the duty of everybody is to remain silent when the judge is about to speak. receive, sir, the assurance of my regard. louis blanc.'" [ ] the civil war in france. address of the council of the international working-men's association. chapter xxxiv. "la conciliation, c'est l'ange qui plane après l'orage."--_dufaure à l'assemblée nationale, avril ._ the pontoons--the forts--the prisons--the first trials. the human lakes of versailles and satory were soon overflowing. from the first days of june the prisoners were filed off to the seaports and crowded into cattle-waggons, the awnings of which, hermetically closed, let in no breath of air. in a corner was a heap of biscuits; but themselves thrown upon this heap, the prisoners had soon reduced it to mere crumbs. for twenty-four hours, and sometimes thirty-two hours, they remained without anything to drink. they fought in this throng for a little air, a little room. some, maddened, flung themselves upon their comrades.[ ] one day at la ferté-bernard cries were uttered in a waggon. the chief of the escort stopped the convoy; the sergents-de-ville discharged their revolvers through the awning. silence ensued, and the rolling coffins set out again at full speed. from the month of june to the month of september , prisoners were thus thrown into the harbours, the forts and the oceanic isles, from cherbourg to the gironde. twenty-five pontoons took in , , the forts and isles , . on the pontoons tortures were inflicted by regulation. the traditions of june and of december were religiously observed with the victims of . the prisoners, penned in cages made of wooden planks and iron bars, received only a dim light through the nailed down port-holes. ventilation there was none. from the first hours the exhalations were unbearable. the sentinels walked up and down in this menagerie with the order to fire at the slightest alarm. cannon charged with grapeshot overlooked the batteries. there were neither hammocks nor blankets, and for all food some biscuits, bread, and haricots, but no wine or tobacco. the inhabitants of brest and cherbourg having sent some provisions and little luxuries, the officers sent them back. this cruelty relaxed somewhat after a time. the prisoners received a hammock for every two, some shirts, some blouses, and now and then some wine. they were allowed to wash, to come on to the deck to snatch a little fresh air. the sailors showed some humanity, but the marine-fusileers were always the same bandits as in the days of may, and the crew was often obliged to tear the prisoners from them. the régime of the pontoons varied according to the officers. at brest the second officer, commander of the _ville de lyon_, forbade the insulting of the prisoners; while the master-at-arms of the _breslau_ treated them like convicts. at cherbourg one of the lieutenants of the _tage_, clémenceau, was ferocious. the commander of the _bayard_ turned his vessel into a diminutive orangerie. this ship had witnessed the most abominable acts perhaps that have sullied the history of the french navy. absolute silence was the rule on board. as soon as any one spoke in the cages, the sentry menaced and several times shot. for a complaint, or mere forgetfulness of a rule, the prisoners were tied to the bars of their cages by the ankles and wrists.[ ] the dungeons on shore were as terrible as the pontoons. at quélern as many as forty prisoners were shut up in the same casemate. the lower ones were deadly. the cesspools emptied into them, and in the morning the fæcal matter covered the floor some two inches deep. by the side of these were salubrious disengaged lodgments, but they would not remove the prisoners thither. one day m. jules simon came, thought that his former electors were looking but poorly, and decided that recourse must be taken to severity. elisée reclus had opened a school, and tried to raise out of their ignorance a hundred and fifty-one prisoners who could neither read nor write. the minister of public education had the classes stopped, and had the small library, which the prisoners had got together by making the greatest sacrifices, closed. the prisoners of the forts, like those of the pontoons, were fed on biscuits and bacon; later on, soup and broth were added on sundays; knives and forks were forbidden; it cost several days' struggle to get spoons. the profit of the sutler, which, according to the list of charges, ought to be limited to a tenth, reached as much as five hundred per cent. at the fort boyard men and women were packed into the same enclosure, separated only by a screen. the women were forced to perform their ablutions under the eyes of the sentinels. sometimes their husbands were in the neighbouring compartment. "we noticed," wrote a prisoner, "a young and beautiful woman, twenty years old, who fainted every time she was forced to undress."[ ] according to much evidence which we have received, the most cruel prison was that of st. marcouf. the prisoners remained there for over six months, deprived of air, light, and tobacco, forbidden to speak, having for their only nourishment the crumbs of brown biscuits and rancid fat. all were attacked with scurvy. this continual severity got the better of the most robust constitutions; there were in consequence , sick in the hospitals. the official reports admit , dead out of , civil prisoners. this figure is evidently below the truth. during the first days at versailles a certain number of individuals were killed, and others died without being counted. there were no statistics before the transfer to the pontoons. there is no exaggeration in saying that , prisoners died while in the hands of the versaillese. a great number perished afterwards of anæmia, and of maladies contracted during their captivity. some idea of the tortures of the pontoons and the forts, far from the surveillance of public opinion, may be gathered from those that were openly displayed at versailles,[ ] under the eyes of the government, the chamber, and the radicals. colonel gaillard, chief of military justice, had said to the soldiers who guarded the prisoners of the chantiers, "as soon as you see any one move, raising their arms, fire; it is i who give you the order." at the grenier d'abondance of the western railway there were eight hundred women. for weeks and weeks they slept on straw, were unable to change their linen. at the slightest noise, a quarrel, the guards threw themselves upon them, struck them, more especially on the breasts. charles mercereau, a former cent-garde, the governor of this sink, had those that displeased him tied down and then beat them with his cane. he led about over his dominions the ladies of versailles, covetous of petroleuses, and before them said to his victims, "come, hussies, cast down your eyes." and indeed that was the least our federal women could do before these honest persons. prostitutes, carried off in the razzias, and carefully kept there in order to spy upon the other prisoners, publicly abandoned themselves to the guardians. the protests of the women of the commune were punished by blows with cords. with a refinement of infamy, the versaillese wished to bow down these valiant women to the level of the others. all the prisoners were subjected to inspection. dignity and outraged nature revenged themselves by terrible crises. "where is my father? where my husband? and my son? what! alone, quite alone, and all these cowards against me! i, the mother, the laborious wife, subjected to the whip, insult, and sullied by these unclean hands for having defended liberty!" many went mad. all passed through their hours of madness. those who were pregnant miscarried or brought forth still-born children. the priests were no more wanting in the prisons than at the fusillades. the chaplain of richemont said to the prisoners, "i know that i am here in a forest of bondy,[ ] but my duty," &c. on the day of st. magdalene the bishop of algiers, making a delicate allusion to the saint of the day, said to them, "that they were all magdalenes, but not repentant; that magdalene had neither burned nor assassinated;" and uttering other evangelical amenities. the children were shut up in a part of the women's prison, and were just as brutally treated. a corporal, the secretary of mercereau, kicked open the stomach of a boy; another received the bastinado, and lingered for a long time at the infirmary. the son of ranvier, twelve years old, was cruelly beaten for refusing to betray the hiding-place of his father. all these unfortunate prisoners of the pontoons, the forts, and the houses of correction were for several months devoured by vermin before their cases were inquired into. the versaillese moloch held more victims than he could digest. after the first days of june he disgorged , persons reclaimed by the reactionists. but how to draw up indictments against , prisoners? it was all very well for dufaure to let loose all the police agents of the empire into the prisons; in the month of august only , prisoners had been interrogated. still it was necessary to satiate the rage of the bourgeoisie, which wanted a sensational trial. a few celebrities who had escaped the massacre had been taken, some members of the council of the commune, of the central committee, rossel, rochefort, &c. m. thiers and dufaure got up a grand performance. this trial was to be the model one, to serve as a type for the jurisprudence of the courts-martial, for the prisoners were to be judged by the same soldiers who had conquered them. the old procureur and his president applied all their pettifogging cunning to lowering the debate. they refused the character of political men to the accused, and reduced the insurrection to an ordinary crime, thus securing to themselves the right of cutting short effective defences, and the advantage of condemnations to the bagnio and to death, which the hypocritical bourgeoisie pretends to have abolished in political cases.[ ] the third court-martial was carefully selected. the commissary chosen was gaveau, a low energumen, who had shown signs of mental alienation, and had struck the prisoners in the streets of versailles; the president, merlin, a colonel of engineers, one of the capitulards of bazaine's army; the rest an assortment of trusty bonapartists. sedan and metz were going to judge paris. the ceremony commenced on the th august, in a large hall containing two thousand seats. personages of rank reclined in the red velvet arm-chairs; deputies occupied three hundred seats; the remainder belonged to the bourgeois of note, to "honest" families, to the aristocracy of prostitution, and to the howling press. these talking journalists, these brilliant dresses, these smiling faces, these toyings with fans, these gay bouquets, these opera-glasses pointed in all directions, reminded one of the most elegant first-night performances. the staff officers, in full uniform, smartly conducted the ladies to their seats, not forgetting to make the indispensable bow. all this scum boiled over when the prisoners appeared. there were seventeen: ferré, assi, jourde, paschal grousset, régère, billioray, courbet, urbain, victor clément, trinquet, champy, rastoul, verdure, decamps, parent, members of the council of the commune; ferrat and lullier, members of the central committee. gaveau read the accusation act. this revolution was born of two plots, that of the revolutionary party and that of the international; paris had risen on the th march, in answer to the appeal of a few scoundrels; the central committee had ordered the execution of lecomte and clément-thomas; the manifestation of the place vendôme was an unarmed manifestation; the head-surgeon of the army had been assassinated while making a supreme appeal to conciliation; the commune had committed thefts of all kinds; the implements of the nuns of picpus were transformed into instruments of orthopedy; the explosion of the rapp magazines was the work of the commune; desirous of kindling violent hatred of the enemy in the hearts of the federals, ferré had presided at the execution of the hostages of la roquette, set fire to the ministry of finance, as was proved by the facsimile of an order written in his hand, "_burn finances!_" each one of the members of the council of the commune had to answer for facts relating to his particular functions, and collectively for all the decrees issued. this indictment, worthy of a low police agent, communicated beforehand to m. thiers, indeed made of the cause a simple affair of robbery and arson. it took up a whole sitting. the next day, ferré, interrogated the first, refused to answer, and laid his conclusions upon the table. "the conclusions of the incendiary ferré are of no moment!" cried gaveau, and the witnesses against him were called. fourteen out of twenty-four belonged to the police; the others were priests or government employés. an expert in handwriting, celebrated at the law-courts for his blunders, affirmed that the order "_burn finances_" was certainly in ferré's hand. in vain the accused demanded that the signature of this order should be compared with his, which figured very often in the jail register; that at least the original should be produced, and not the facsimile. gaveau exclaimed indignantly, "why, this is want of confidence!" thus set to rights from the outset as to the plot and the character of their judges, the accused might have declined every debate; they committed the fault of accepting it. if even they had proudly revindicated their political character! but it was not so; some even denied it. almost all, confining themselves to their personal defence, abandoned the revolution of the th march, whose mandate they had solicited or accepted. their preoccupation for their own safety betrayed itself by sad defections. but from the very dock of the accused the voice of the people thus denied arose avengingly. a workman of that brave parisian race, the first in labour, study, and combat, a member of the council of the commune, intelligent and convinced, modest in the council, one of the foremost in the struggle, the shoemaker trinquet, revindicated the honour of having fulfilled his mandate to the end. "i was," said he, "sent to the commune by my co-citizens; i have paid with my person; i have been to the barricades, and i regret not having died there; i should not to-day assist at this sad spectacle of colleagues who, after having taken their share in the action, will no longer bear their part of the responsibility. i am an insurgent; i do not deny it." the examinations were drawn out with fastidious slowness during seventeen sittings. always the same public of soldiers, bourgeois, courtesans, hissing the accused; the same witnesses, priests, police agents, and functionaries; the same fury in the accusation, the same cynicism in the tribunal, the same howling of the press. the massacres had not glutted this. it yelled at the accused, demanded their death, and every day dragged them through the mire of its reports.[ ] foreign correspondents were revolted. the _standard_, a great reviler of the commune, said, "anything more scandalous than the tone of the demi-monde press during this trial it is impossible to imagine." some of the accused having asked for the protection of the president, merlin took up the defence of the journals. then came the prosecutor's address to the court. gaveau, to remain true to his instructions, was to demonstrate that paris had fought for six weeks in order to enable a few individuals to steal the remainder of the public chests, to burn some houses, and to shoot a few gendarmes. this epauletted limb of the law overthrew as a soldier all the arguments he built up as a magistrate. "the commune," he said, "had acted as a government," and five minutes after he refused the members of the council of the commune the character of political men. passing in review the different accused, he said of ferré, "i should be wasting my time and yours by discussing the numerous charges weighing upon him;" of jourde, "the figures he has given you are quite imaginary. i shall not trespass upon your time by discussing them." during the battle in the streets jourde had received the order of the committee of public safety to remit a thousand francs to every member of the council. about thirty only had received this sum. gaveau said, "they divided millions amongst each other;" and a man of his sort must have believed this. what sovereign has ever abandoned power without carrying off millions? he lengthily accused grousset of having stolen paper in order to print his journal; another of having lived with a mistress. a coarse _lansquenet_, incapable of understanding that the more he lowered the men the greater he made this revolution, so vital despite all defections and incapacities. the audience emphasised this accusation with frantic applause. at the conclusion there were calls as in a theatre. merlin gave ferré's advocate permission to speak, but ferré declared he wished to defend himself, and commenced reading:-- after the conclusion of the treaty of peace consequent upon the shameful capitulation of paris, the republic was in danger, the men who had succeeded the empire fallen in the midst of mire and blood"---- _merlin._ fallen in the midst of mire and blood! here i must stop you. was not your government in the same situation? _ferré._ "clung to power, and, though overwhelmed by public contempt, they prepared in the dark a coup-d'état; they persisted in refusing paris the election of her municipal council"---- _gaveau._ this is not true. _merlin._ what you are saying, ferré, is false. continue, but at the third time i shall stop you. _ferré._ "the honest and sincere journals were suppressed, the best patriots condemned to death"---- _gaveau._ the prisoner cannot go on reading this. i shall ask for the application of the law. _ferré._ "the royalists were preparing for the partition of france. at last, in the night of the th march, they believed themselves ready, and attempted to disarm the national guard, and the wholesale arrest of republicans"---- _merlin._ come, sit down. i allow your advocate to speak. the advocate of ferré demanded that his client might be allowed to read the last sentences of his declaration, and merlin gave way. _ferré._ "a member of the commune, i am in the hands of its victors. they want my head; they may take it. i will never save my life by cowardice. free i have lived, so i will die. i add but one word. fortune is capricious; i confide to the future the care of my memory and my revenge." _merlin._ the memory of an assassin! _gaveau._ it is to the bagnio that such manifestoes should be sent. _merlin._ all this does not answer to the acts for which you are here. _ferré._ this means that i accept the fate that is in store for me. during this duel between merlin and ferré the hall had remained silent. ferocious hisses burst forth when ferré concluded. the president was obliged to raise the sitting, and the judges were going out when a barrister demanded that notice should be taken for the defence that the president had called ferré "assassin." the hisses of the audience answered. the advocate indignantly turned to the tribunal, to the seats of the press, to the public. cries of rage arose from all corners of the hall, drowning his voice for several minutes. merlin, who was radiant, at last obtained silence, and answered cavalierly, "i acknowledge that i made use of the expression of which the advocate spoke. the court takes notice of your conclusions." the day before, as a barrister remarked to him, "we are all answerable, not to the public opinion of to-day, but to history, which will judge us;" merlin had cynically answered, "history! at that epoch we shall no longer be here!" the french bourgeoisie had found its jeffries. early the next day the hall was crowded. the curiosity of the public, the anxiety of the judges, were extreme. gaveau, in order to accuse his adversaries of all crimes at once, had for two days talked politics, history, socialism. it would have sufficed to answer each one of his arguments, in order to give the cause that political character which he denied it, if one of the prisoners were at last to rouse up, and, less careful of his person than of the commune, follow up the accusation step by step, oppose to the grotesque theories of conspiracy the eternal provocation of the privileged classes; describe paris offering herself to the government of national defence, betrayed by it, then attacked by versailles, abandoned; the proletarians reorganising all the services of this great city, and in a state of war, surrounded by treason, governing for two months without police spies and without executions, remaining poor in sight of the milliards of the bank; if he were to confront the sixty-three hostages with the , assassinated, unveil the pontoons, the jails, swarming with , unfortunate beings; take the world to witness in the name of truth, of justice, of the future, and make of the accused commune the accuser. the president might have interrupted him, the cries of the public drowned his revindication, the court after the first words declared him outlawed. such a man, reduced to silence, would, like danton gagged, find a gesture, a cry, which should pierce the walls and hurl his anathema at the head of the tribunal. the vanquished missed this revenge. instead of presenting a collective defence or of maintaining a silence which would have saved their dignity, the accused intrusted themselves to the barristers. each one of these gentlemen stretched a point to save his client even at the expense of his brother lawyers. one barrister was also the _figaro's_ and the confidant of the empress; another, one of the demonstrators of the place vendôme, begged the court not to confound his cause with that of the scoundrel's near him. there were scandalous pleadings. this debasement disarmed neither the tribunal nor the public. every moment gaveau bounded out of his arm-chair. "you are an insolent fellow," said he to a lawyer. "if there is anything absurd here, it is you." the audience applauded, ever ready to pounce upon the prisoners. on the st august its fury rose to such a pitch that merlin threatened to have the court cleared. on the nd september the court feigned to deliberate the whole day. at nine o'clock in the evening it returned to the sitting, and merlin read the judgment. ferré and lullier were condemned to death; trinquet and urbain to hard labour for life; assi, billioray, champy, régère, grousset, verdure, ferrat to transportation in a fortress; courbet to six months' and victor clément to three months' imprisonment. decamps and parent were acquitted. the audience retired much disappointed at having got only two condemnations to death. as a fact, this judicial performance had proved nothing. could the revolution of the th march be appreciated from the conduct of secondary actors, and delescluze, varlin, vermorel, tridon, moreau, and many others, by the attitude of lullier, decamps, victor clément, or billioray? and even if the bearing of ferré and trinquet had not proved that there had been men in the council of the commune, what then did the defection of the majority show if not that this movement was the work of all, not of a few great minds; that in this crisis the people only had been great, they only revolutionary; that the revolution was to be found in the people, not in the government of the commune? the bourgeoisie, on the contrary, had displayed all its hideousness. the audience, the tribunal, had been on the same level. some witnesses had manifestly perjured themselves. during the debates, in the lobbies, in the cafés, all the ragamuffins who had endeavoured to dupe the commune impudently ascribed to themselves the success of the army. the _figaro_, having opened a subscription for ducatel, had picked up , francs and an order of the légion d'honneur for him. allured by this success, all the conspirators demanded their alms and their order. the partisans of beaufond-lasnier, those of charpentier-domalain, fell out, recounted their prowess, each and all swearing that he had betrayed better than his rivals. while society was being avenged at versailles, the court of assizes of paris avenged the honour of jules favre. immediately after the commune, the minister for foreign affairs had had m. laluyé arrested, who was guilty of having communicated to millière the documents published in the _vengeur_. the honest minister, not having succeeded in getting his enemy shot as a communard, summoned him before the assizes for libel. here the former member of the government of national defence, the former minister of foreign affairs, the deputy of paris, publicly confessed that he had committed forgeries, but he pleaded having done so to secure his children a fortune. this touching avowal melted the _patres familias_ of the jury, and laluyé was condemned to imprisonment for one year. some months after he died at ste. pélagie. jules favre was terribly lucky. in less than six months the fusillade and the dungeon had delivered him of two redoubtable enemies.[ ] while the third court-martial was quarrelling with the lawyers, the fourth hurried through its business without phrases. on the th august, almost immediately after its opening, it had already pronounced two sentences of death. if the one court had its jeffries, the other had its trestaillon in colonel boisdenemetz, a kind of wild boar, a drunkard, seeing all red, a wit at times, and correspondent of the _figaro_. on the th september some women were brought before him, accused of setting fire to the légion d'honneur. this was the trial of the petroleuses. the eight thousand enrolled furies who had been announced by the journals of order were reduced to the number of five. the cross-examination proved that the so-called petroleuses were only admirably kind-hearted ambulance nurses. one of them, rétiffe, said, "i should have looked after a soldier of versailles as well as a national guard." "why," another was asked, "did you remain when all the battalion ran away?" "there were wounded and dying," answered she simply. the witnesses for the prosecution themselves declared that they had not seen any of them kindle fire; but their fate was decided beforehand. between two sittings boisdenemetz cried in a café, "death to all these trulls!" three barristers out of five had deserted the bar. "where are they?" said the president. "they have asked to be allowed to absent themselves to go to the country," answered the commissary. the court charged soldiers with the defence of these poor women. one of them, the quartermaster bordelais, made this fine speech: "i defer to the wisdom of the tribunal." his client, suétens, was condemned to death, as were also rétiffe and marchais, "for having attempted to change the form of the government;" the two others to transportation and confinement. one of the condemned, turning to the officer who read the sentence, cried to him in a heart-rending voice, "and who will feed my child?" thy child! see, he is here! some days after, before this same boisdenemetz, fifteen children of paris appeared; the eldest was sixteen years old, the youngest, so small that he could hardly be seen in the dock of prisoners, was eleven. they wore blue blouses and military képis. "druet," said the soldier, "what did your father do?" "he was a mechanic." "why did you not work like him?" "because there was no work for me." "bouverat, why did you join the _pupilles de la commune_?" "to get something to eat." "you have been arrested for vagrancy?" "yes, twice; the second time for stealing a pair of stockings." "cagnoncle, you were _enfant de la commune_?" "yes, sir." "why did you leave your family?" "because they had no bread." "did you discharge many shots?" "about fifty." "lescot, why did you leave your mother?" "because she could not keep me." "how many children were there of you?" "three." "you have been wounded?" "yes, by a ball in the head." "leberg, you have been with a master, and you were surprised taking the cash-box. how much did you take?" "ten sous." "did not that money burn your hands?" and you, red-handed man! these words, do they not burn your lips? sinister fools! who do not understand that before these children, thrown into the streets without education, without hope, through the necessity you have made for them, the culprit is you, lace-bedecked soldier, you, the public minister of a society in which children twelve years old, capable and willing to work, are forced to steal in order to get a pair of stockings, and have no other alternative than to fall beneath bullets or die of hunger! footnotes: [ ] these details are extracted from very numerous notes furnished not only by the prisoners, among others by elisée reclus, but by persons entire strangers to the commune, municipal councillors of seaport towns, foreign journalists, &c. [ ] general appert's report is not only silent with regard to these ignominious proceedings, but lies with a placidity that is frightful. he says, for instance, "the prisoners of the pontoons were treated like the sailors, with this difference, that they did no work and got frequent distributions of wine." of the cages, the vermin, the blows, not a word. in the same manner he recounts, in the style of a pretentious quartermaster, the history of the commune and of the last struggles. it would be doing him too much honour to point out how his absurd statements contradict each other. and yet it is from these official lies that all bourgeois historians have till to-day compiled their histories. [ ] letter addressed to the _liberté_ of brussels. [ ] besides the , prisoners officially recognised at the pontoons, others were admitted as being dispersed at satory, l'orangerie, les chautiers, the houses of justice and correction of rouen-clermont and st. cyr. on the th of october there were still in the prisons of versailles. [ ] the former resort of all sorts of criminals. [ ] the great political hecatombs have taken place in france since the decree of the provisional government of . [ ] here is a sample, and not one of the most emphatic, "we must make no mistake," said _la liberté_; "we must, above all, not stand on niceties; this is certainly a band of scoundrels, assassins, thieves, and incendiaries whom we have before our eyes. to argue from their situation of accused in order to exact for them the respect and benefit of the law which supposes them innocent would be a want of faith. no, no! a thousand times no! these are not ordinary accused; they were taken, some in the very act, and the others have so surely signed their culpability by authentic and solemn acts that it suffices to establish their identity in order to cry with the full and sonorous voice of conviction, 'yes, yes! they are guilty!' "the detained witnesses are, for the most part, sinister bandits, with atrocious faces, repulsive types, especially the youngest, and whom one would not like to meet even in broad daylight at the corner of a wood." [ ] family and morality were triumphing along the whole line. some days after the fall of the commune, the first president of the court of cassation, the official go-between of the amours of napoleon iii., solemnly reoccupied, before all the courts united, his seat, whence the hypocritical prudery of the men of the th september had expelled him. chapter xxxv. "a versailles, tous les moyens ont été employés pour assurer l'instruction la plus sérieuse, la plus attentive, la plus complète de tous les procès qui ont été juges.... je tiens donc que les jugements qui ont été rendus ne sont pas seulement en droit, d'après toutes nos lois, inattaquables, mais que, pour la conscience la plus scrupuleuse, ils sont des jugements qui ont dit la vérité.--('très bien! très bien!')"--_le garde des sceaux dufaure, discours contre l'amnistie, séance du mai ._ "les conseils de guerre ont jugé, je l'admets, pour le mieux."--_allain-targé, député gambettiste, séance du mai ._ the courts-martial--the executions--balance-sheet of the condemnations. twenty-six courts-martial, twenty-six judicial mitrailleuses, were at work at versailles, mont-valérien, paris, vincennes, st. cloud, sèvres, st. germain, rambouillet, as far as chartres. in the composition of these tribunals not only all semblance of justice, but even all military rules had been despised. the assembly had not even troubled itself to define their prerogatives. and these officers, hot from the struggle, and for whom every resistance, even the most legitimate, is a crime, had been let loose upon their overwhelmed enemies without any other jurisprudence than their fancy, without any other rein than their humanity, without any other instruction than their commission. with such janissaries and a penal code comprising everything in its elastic obscurity, there was no need for exceptional laws in order to attaint all paris. soon one saw the most extravagant theories invented and propagated in these judicial dens. thus, being at the place of the crime constituted legal complicity; with these magistrates this was a dogma. instead of removing the courts-martial into the ports, the prisoners were forced to again undergo the painful journey from the sea to versailles. some, like elisée reclus, had thus to pass through fourteen prisons. from the pontoons they were conducted to the railway station on foot, their hands manacled; but at brest, when they passed through the streets showing their chains, the passers-by uncovered before them. with the exception of a few prisoners of note, whose trials i shall briefly recount, the bulk of the prisoners were thrust before the tribunals after an examination which did not even always make sure of their identity. too poor to get a defender, these unfortunate people, without guides, without witnesses for the defence--those whom they called did not dare to come for fear of being arrested--only appeared and disappeared before the tribunal. the accusation, the examination, the sentence were shuffled through in a few minutes. "you fought at issy, at neuilly? sentenced to transportation." "what! for life? and my wife, my children?" to another: "you served in the battalions of the commune?" "and who would have fed my family when the workshop and factory were closed?" again sentenced to transportation. "and you? guilty of an illegal arrest. to the bagnio." on the th october, in less than two months, the first and second courts had pronounced more than six hundred sentences. would that i could recount the martyrology of the thousands who defiled thus in sombre lines, national guards, women, children, old men, ambulance attendants, doctors, functionaries, of this decimated town! it is you whom i should honour, you above all, you, the nameless, to whom i should give the first place, as you took it in the work at the barricades, where you obscurely did your duty. the true drama of the courts-martial was not in those solemn sittings in which the accused, the tribunal, the barristers prepared for public performance, but in those halls which only saw the unhappy ones, ignored by the whole world, face to face with a tribunal as inexorable as the chassepot. how many of these humble defenders of the commune held up their heads more proudly than the chiefs, and whose heroism no one will tell! when the insolence, the insults, the grotesque arguments of the conspicuous judges are known, it may be guessed with what ignominy the unknown accused were overwhelmed in the shade of these new prevotal courts. who will avenge these hecatombs of unknown men, executed in silence, like the last combatants of the père lachaise in the darkness of the night? the journals have left no trace of their trials; but, in default of the names of the victims, i can scatter those of some judges to the four winds of history. formerly, in the days of honour of the french army, in , after quiberon, it was necessary to threaten the officers of the republic with death in order to form the courts-martial that were to judge the vendéens. and yet those vanquished had, under the cannon, with english arms, attacked their country in the rear, while the coalesced powers struck her in front. in the accomplices of bazaine solicited the honour of judging the vanquished of that paris which had been the bulwark of national honour. through long months , officers of this degraded army, that has not an hour too much for its rehabilitation and for study, generals, colonels and lieutenant-colonels, and commanders, were dubbed judges and commissaries. how select amongst this pick of bestiality? when i mention a few presidents at hazard--merlin, boisdenemetz, jobey, delaporte, dulac, barthel, donnat, aubert--i shall be wronging a hundred others. merlin and boisdenemetz are known. colonel delaporte was of the gallifet species. old, used up, valetudinarian, he only revived after a sentence of death. it is he who pronounced the greatest number, aided by the clerk of the court, duplan, who prepared the sentences beforehand, and afterwards committed the most impudent forgeries in the minutes. jobey had, it was said, lost a son in the struggle with the commune, and now he avenged himself. his small wrinkled eye watched for the anguish in the face of the unfortunate he condemned. every appeal to good sense was to him an insult. "he would have been happy," said he, "to stew the lawyers together with the culprits." and yet how few lawyers did their duty! many had declared that one could not decently assist such prisoners. others wanted to be requisitioned. with four or five exceptions,[ ] these unworthy defenders banqueted with the officers. barristers and commissaries communicated to each other their means of attack or defence; the officers announced the verdicts beforehand. the advocate riché boasted of having drawn up the accusation act against rossel. the advocates officially designated did not answer the call. these ignorant judges, making a parade of violence, insulting the prisoners, witnesses, and lawyers, were worthily seconded by the commissaries. one of them, grimal, sold to the demi-monde journals the papers of the celebrated prisoners.[ ] gaveau, a savage simpleton, without a shadow of talent, died some months after in a madhouse. bourboulon, eager for display, aimed at oratorical effects. barthélemy, a beer-drinker, fair and fat, made puns while asking for the heads of the accused. charrière, at fifty years of age still captain, a kind of wild-cat, an imbecile, and a pretentious liar, said that he had "made a vow of cruelty to cæsar." jouesne, notorious in the army for his stupidity, made up for it by his stubborn animosity. not much was needed in such courts. the most implacable, on the whole, were the third, fourth, and sixth courts, and the thirteenth at st. cloud, which publicly boasted of acquitting nobody. so much for the judges and the justice which the bourgeoisie gave those proletarians they had not shot down. i should like to be able to follow up step by step their swash-buckling jurisprudence, take the trials one by one, show the laws violated, the most elementary rules of procedure despised, the documents falsified, the evidence distorted, the prisoners condemned to hard labour and to death without what would have been the ghost of a proof with a serious jury; the cynicism of the prevotal courts of the restoration and of the mixed commissions of december ingrafted on the brutality of the soldier who revenges his caste. such a work would require long technical labour.[ ] i shall only indicate the principal lines. besides, are not these judgments already judged? in the versaillese government demanded of switzerland the extradition of the governor of the ecole militaire, in that of the delegate frankel from hungary, both condemned to death for assassination and incendiarism. they were at once arrested. liberal switzerland and rural hungary, considering the acts of the commune as common crimes, were ready to deliver up the prisoners if versailles furnished the legal proof required by treaties of extradition that they had committed the acts for which they had been condemned. the versaillese government only produced the sentences of the courts-martial, and could not add the least "trace of proof or any precise evidence establishing culpability."[ ] the prisoners had to be released. on the th september rossel appeared before the third court. his defence consisted in saying that he had served the commune in the hope that the insurrection would recommence the war against the prussians. merlin treated the prisoner with the greatest consideration, who in turn testified the most profound respect for the army. but an example was needed for romantic soldiers, and rossel was condemned to death. on the st rochefort was sentenced to transportation in a fortress. the bonapartists of the court especially had their eye on the author of the _lanterne_. merlin had defended pierre bonaparte. gaveau accused the prisoner of having outraged the person of the emperor. trochu, whom rochefort had called as a witness for the defence, answered the man who during the siege had for him sacrificed his popularity, by an insulting letter. revolutionary journalism had the honour of counting some victims in its ranks. young maroteau, for two articles--two only--in the _salut public_ was condemned to death; alphonse humbert, for three or four articles in the _père duchesne_, to hard labour for life. other journalists were condemned to transportation. what was their crime? having defended the commune. yet the commune had contented itself with suppressing the journals that defended versailles. in point of fact, the courts-martial were charged to exterminate the revolutionary party. fear of the future rendered them implacable. after the numberless assassinations in the rue des rosiers, they too wanted to offer a holocaust to the manes of lecomte and clément-thomas. the real executioners were not to be found. the explosion of fury which cost the two generals their lives had been spontaneous, sudden as that which in killed flesselles, foulon, and berthier. the actors of the drama were legion, and with it all traces of them were lost. the military judges selected the accused at random, as their colleagues had on the buttes montmartre shot the first-comers. "simon mayer," said the report, "tried to the last moment to defend the prisoners, and kazdansky did his best to oppose the carrying out of the threats of death. the crowd insulted him and tore off his gold lace." herpin-lacroix had made desperate efforts; lagrange, who had refused to form the firing-party, felt so secure in his innocence that he had come to give himself up to the judges of his own free will. the report made the principal accused of him, along with simon mayer, kazdansky, herpin-lacroix, and a sergeant of the line, verdagnier, who on the th march had raised the butt-end of his gun. the trial was conducted by colonel aubert, a sneering melodramatic bigot. despite his efforts and those of the commissary, not the slightest proof could be brought forward against the prisoners. even the officers of the army, companions of general lecomte, gave evidence in their favour. "simon mayer did all that was possible to save us," said the commander poussargue. this officer had heard a voice cry, "do not kill even traitors without judgment; form a court-martial;" textually the words of herpin-lacroix. of all the accused, he only recognised mayer. another officer gave similar evidence. verdagnier proved that at the time of the executions he had been at the huts of courcelles. the accusation denied all, but without being able to produce a single witness. ribemont proved that he had withstood the assailants in the room of the rue des rosiers. masselot had against him nothing but the evidence of some hostile women, pretending that he had boasted of having shot at the generals. captain beugnot, aide-de-camp of the minister, and present at the execution, affirmed, on the contrary, that the generals had been surrounded by the soldiers; m. de maillefu, that the front of the platoon was composed of nine soldiers, whose regiments he named. there were not even false official witnesses, as in the trial of the members of the commune; and yet the accusation, far from letting them escape its clutches, was most implacable with regard to these very men who had risked their lives to save the generals. the commissary threatened to arrest a witness who warmly gave evidence in favour of a prisoner. after several sittings they discovered that they were judging one individual for another. the president ordered the press to hush up the incident. each sitting, each new evidence, cleared the prisoners and made a condemnation more impossible. yet on the th november verdagnier, mayer, herpin-lacroix, masselot, leblond, and aldenhoff were condemned to death; the others to penalties varying from hard labour to imprisonment. one of those condemned to death, leblond, was only fifteen and a half years old. this satisfaction given the army, the courts, as good courtiers, avenged the offences against m. thiers. the functionary fontaine, charged by the commune with the demolition of the hotel of him who had demolished hundreds of houses, appeared before the fifth court-martial, which did its utmost to make him appear a thief. every one knew that m. thiers' furniture and silver plate had been sent to the garde-meuble, the objects of art to the museums, the books to the public libraries, the linen to the ambulances, and that after the entry of the troops the little man had regained possession of most of these objects. some having perished in the conflagration of the tuileries, the report accused fontaine of having abstracted them, although only two valueless medals had been found in his house. to this accusation, from which he believed himself secured by a long life of probity and honour, fontaine could only reply with tears. the figarists laughed at it a good deal, and he was condemned to twenty years' hard labor. on the th november the assembly recommenced its fusillade. m. thiers, cleverly throwing upon the representatives the right of commuting the penalties, had a commission of pardons named by the chamber. it was composed of fifteen members, purveyors of the mixed commission of , great proprietors, inveterate royalists.[ ] one of them, the marquis de quinsonnas, had during the battle in the streets superintended the executions at the luxembourg. the president, martel, was an old satyr, who sold his pardons to pretty solicitresses. the first cases which they took up were those of rossel and ferré. the liberal press pleaded warmly for the young officer. in his restless mind, without unsound political opinions, who had so cavalierly turned his back upon the commune, the bourgeoisie soon recognised one of her prodigal children. he had besides made an _amende honorable_. the press published his memoirs, in which he reviled the commune and the federals. day by day they recounted the life of the prisoner, his sublime colloquies with a protestant clergyman, his heart-rending interviews with his family. of ferré not a word, except to say he was "hideous." his mother had died mad; his brother was shut up as mad in the dungeons of versailles; his father was a prisoner in the citadel of fouras; his sister, a young girl of nineteen, silent, resigned, stoical, spent her days and nights in order to earn the twenty francs that she every week sent her brother. she had refused the aid of her friends, unwilling to share with any one the honour of accomplishing her pious duty. indeed, one can imagine nothing more "hideous!" for twelve weeks death remained suspended above the heads of the condemned. at last, on the th november, at six o'clock in the morning, they were told that they must die. ferré jumped out of bed without showing the slightest emotion, declined the visit of the chaplain, wrote to ask the military tribunals for the release of his father, and to his sister that she should have him buried so that his friends would be able to find him again. rossel, rather surprised at first, afterwards conversed with his clergyman. he wrote a letter demanding that his death should not be avenged--a very useless precaution--and addressed a few thanks to jesus christ. for comrade in death they had a sergeant of the th line, bourgeois, who had gone over to the commune, and who showed the same calm as ferré. rossel was indignant when they put on the handcuffs; ferré and bourgeois disdained to protest. the day was hardly dawning; it was bitterly cold. before the butte of satory , men under arms surrounded three white stakes, each one guarded by twelve executioners. colonel merlin commanded, thus uniting the three functions of conqueror, judge, and hangman. some curious lookers-on, officers and journalists, composed the whole public. at seven o'clock the carts of the condemned appeared; the drums beat a salute, the trumpets sounded. the prisoners descended, escorted by gendarmes. rossel, on passing before a group of officers, saluted them. the brave bourgeois, looking on at the whole drama with an indifferent air, leant against the middle stake. ferré came last, dressed in black and smoking a cigar, not a muscle of his face moving. with a firm and even step he walked up and leant against the third stake. rossel, attended by his lawyer and his clergyman, asked to be allowed to command the fire. merlin refused. rossel wished to shake hands with him, in order to do homage to his sentence. this was refused. during these negotiations ferré and bourgeois remained motionless, silent. in order to put a stop to rossel's effusions an officer was obliged to tell him that he was prolonging the torture of the two others. at last they blindfolded him. ferré pushed back the bandage, and, fixing his eyeglass, looked the soldiers straight in the face. the sentence read, the adjutants lowered their sabres, the guns were discharged. rossel and bourgeois fell back. ferré remained standing; he was only hit in the side. he was again fired at and fell. a soldier placing his chassepot at his ear blew out his brains. on a gesture of merlin a flourish of trumpets burst forth, and, emulating the customs of the cannibals, the troops defiled in triumph before the corpses. what cries of horror the bourgeoisie would have uttered if before the executed hostages the federals had paraded to the sound of music! the bodies of rossel and ferré were claimed by their families; that of bourgeois disappeared in the common grave of the st. louis cemetery. the people will not disassociate his memory from that of ferré, for they both died with the same courage for the cause they had served with the same devotion. the liberal press reserved its tears for rossel. some courageous provincial papers did honour to all the victims, and devoted to the hatred of france the commission of pardons--"the commission of assassins," as a deputy, ordinaire junior, said in the assembly. prosecuted before juries, all these journals were acquitted. two days after the execution of satory, the commission of pardons ordered gaston crémieux to be killed. six months had elapsed since his condemnation, and this long delay seemed to make the murder impossible. but the rural commission wanted to avenge his famous speech of bordeaux. on the th november, at seven o'clock in the morning, gaston crémieux was led to the prado, a large plain bordering the sea. he said to his guardians, "i will show how a republican should die." he was placed against the same stake where a month before the soldier paquis had been shot for going over to the insurrection. gaston crémieux wished to have his eyes unbandaged and to command the fire. they consented. then addressing himself to the soldiers, "aim at the chest; do not touch my head. fire! vive la répub...." the last word was cut short by death. as at satory, the dance of the soldiers round the corpse followed. the death of this young enthusiast made a deep impression in the town. registers placed at the door of his house filled in a few hours with thousands of signatures. the revolutionists of marseilles will not forget his children. the same day the sixth court avenged the death of chaudey. this had been ordered and superintended by raoul rigault alone. the men who formed the platoon were abroad. préau de védel, the principal accused, then imprisoned in ste. pélagie for a common offence, had only held the lantern. but the jurisprudence of the officers attributed to simple agents the same responsibility as to the chiefs. préau de védel was condemned to death. on the th december, in the hall of the third court, a kind of phantom, pale-faced and sympathetic, appeared. it was lisbonne, who for six months had dragged about his wounds of the château d'eau. the same before the court-martial as during the commune and at buzenval, this bravest of the brave gloried in having fought, and only denied the accusations of pillage. other judges would have been proud to spare such an enemy; the versaillese condemned him to death. some days after, this same court-martial heard a woman's voice. "i will not defend myself; i will not be defended," cried louise michel. "i belong entirely to the social revolution, and i declare that i accept the responsibility of all my acts. i accept it entirely and without reserve. you accuse me of having participated in the execution of the generals. to this i answer, yes. if i had been at montmartre, when they wished to fire on the people, i should not have hesitated to order fire myself on those who gave such commands. as to the conflagrations of paris, yes, i did participate in them. i wanted to oppose a barrier of flames to the invaders of versailles. i have no accomplices; i acted on my own account." the commissary dailly demanded the penalty of death. _louise michel._ what i ask of you, you who style yourselves a court-martial, who proclaim yourselves my judges, who do not hide yourselves like the commission of pardons, is the field of satory, where our brothers have already fallen. i must be cut off from society; you have been told to do so. well, the commissary of the republic is right. since it seems that every heart which beats for liberty has only right to a little lead, i too demand my part. if you let me live, i shall not cease to cry vengeance, and i shall denounce to the vengeance of my brothers the assassins of the commission of pardons. _the president._ i cannot allow you to go on. _louise michel._ i have done. if you are not cowards, kill me. they had not the courage to kill her at one blow. she was condemned to transportation to a fortress. louise michel did not stand alone in her courageous attitude. many others, amongst whom must be mentioned lemel and augustine chiffon, showed the versaillese what terrible women these parisians are, even vanquished, even in chains. the affair of the executions of la roquette came on at the beginning of . there, as in the clément-thomas and chaudey trials, they had none of the real actors except genton, who had carried the order. almost all the witnesses, former hostages, gave evidence with the rage natural to people who have trembled. the accusation, refusing to believe in an outburst of fury, had built up a ridiculous scaffolding of a court-martial discussing and ordering the death of the prisoners. it asserted that one of the accused had commanded the fire, and he was about to be condemned, in spite of the solemn protests of genton, when the real chief of the firing-party, who had just been discovered dying in a prison, was brought in. genton was condemned to death. his advocate had odiously slandered him, then fled, and the court refused to allow him a second defender. the most important affair which followed was that of the dominicans of arcueil. no execution had been less premeditated. these monks had fallen in crossing the avenue d'italie, shot down by the men of the st. the report accused sérizier, who at that moment was not even in the avenue. the only witness called against him said, "i do not affirm anything myself; i have heard it said." but we know what close bonds unite army and clergy. sérizier was condemned to death, as was also one of his lieutenants, bouin, against whom not a single witness could be brought forward. the court took advantage of the occasion to pronounce sentences of death against wroblewski, who at that time had been at the butte-aux-cailles, and against frankel, who had been fighting at the bastille. on the th march the affair of the rue haxo came on before the sixth court, still presided over by delaporte. the executioners of the hostages had been no more discoverable than those of the rue des rosiers. the indictment fell back upon the director of the prison, françois, who for a long time had disputed the surrender of his prisoners, and upon twenty-two persons denounced by gossip contradicted at the trial. not one of the witnesses recognised the accused. delaporte multiplied his menaces with such a cynicism that the commissary rustaud, who had, however, given proofs of his animosity in the preceding trials, could not refrain from exclaiming, "but do you want to condemn them all?" he was the next day replaced by the idiot charrière. in spite of all this, the indictment frittered away from hour to hour before the disavowals of the witnesses. still not one of the prisoners escaped. seven were condemned to death, nine to hard labour, and the others to transportation. the commission of pardons awaited, chassepot in hand, the prey given up to them by the courts-martial. on the d of february, , it shot three of the so-called murderers of clément-thomas and lecomte, even those whose innocence had most clearly come out in the trial--herpin-lacroix, lagrange, and verdagnier. upright at the stake of the th november, they cried "vive la commune!" and died, their faces radiant. on the th march préau de védel was executed. on the th april it was genton's turn. the wounds which he had received in may had reopened, and he dragged himself to the butte on his crutches. arrived at the stake, he threw them from him, cried "vive la commune!" and fell under the fire. on the th may the three stakes were again occupied by sérizier, bouin, and boudin, the latter condemned as chief of the platoon which in front of the tuileries had executed a versaillese who attempted to prevent the erection of the barricades of the rue richelieu. they said to the soldiers of the platoon, "we are children of the people, and you are too. we shall show you that the children of paris know how to die." and they, also, fell, crying "vive la commune!" these men who went to the grave so courageously, who with a gesture defied the musket, who, dying, cried that their cause died not, these ringing voices, these steadfast looks, disconcerted the soldiers profoundly. the muskets trembled, and almost within point-blank range they rarely killed at the first discharge. so at the next execution, the th july, the commander colin, who presided at these fusillades, ordered the eyes of the victims bandaged. there were two of them--baudoin, accused of setting fire to the st. eloi church, and of killing an individual who had fired at the federals; and rouilhac, an insurgent who had shot at a bourgeois who was potting federals. both pushed back the sergeants who came to blindfold them. colin gave the order to tie them to the stake. three times baudoin tore asunder the cords; rouilhac struggled desperately. the priest who came to assist the soldiers received some blows in the chest. at last, overwhelmed, they cried, "we die for the good cause." they were mangled by the balls. after the march past, an officer of a psychological turn of mind, moving with the tip of his boot the brains that trickled down, remarked to a colleague, "it is with this that they thought." in june, , all the celebrated cases being disposed of, military justice avenged the death of a federal, captain beaufort. there is but one explanation for this strange fact, which is that beaufort belonged to the versaillese. we have received important evidence on this head.[ ] at all events, if delescluze or varlin had been shot by the federals, versailles would not have avenged their death. three of those accused out of four were present, deschamps, denivelle, and madame lachaise, the celebrated cantinière of the th. she had followed beaufort before the council held at the boulevard voltaire, and, having heard explanations, had done her best to protect him. the indictment none the less made of her the principal instigator of his death. on the written evidence of a witness who was not to be found, and who had never been confronted with her, the commissary accused madame lachaise of having profaned beaufort's corpse. at this abominable accusation this noble woman burst into tears. she, as well as denivelle and deschamps, were condemned to death. the obscene imagination of soldiers with algerian habits taxed itself to pollute the accused. colonel dulac, judging an intimate friend of rigault's, pretended that their friendship had been of an infamous character. despite the indignant protests of the prisoner, the wretched officer persisted. the bourgeois press, far from stigmatising, applauded. without truce, without lassitude, since the opening of the courts-martial it accompanied all the trials with the same chorus of imprecations and the same slanders. some persons having protested against these executions so long after the battle, francisque sarcey wrote, "the axe ought to be riveted to the hand of the executioner." till then the commission of pardons had only killed three at a time. on the th of july it slaughtered four--françois, the director of la roquette, aubry, dalivoust, and de st. omer, condemned for the affair of the rue haxo. de st. omer was more than suspected, and in the prison his comrades kept aloof from him. before the muskets they cried "vive la commune!" he answered, "down with it!" on the th september, lolive (accused of having participated in the execution of the archbishop), denivelle, and deschamps were executed. these last cried, "long live the universal and social republic! down with the cowards!" on the nd january, , nineteen months after the battle in the streets, the commission of pardons tied three more victims to its stakes--philippe, member of the council of the commune, guilty of having energetically defended bercy; benot, who set fire to the tuileries; and decamps, condemned for the conflagration of the rue de lille, although they had not been able to bring forward any evidence whatever against him. "i die innocent," cried he. "down with thiers!" philippe and benot: "long live the social republic! vive la commune!" they fell, not having belied the courage of the soldiers of the revolution of the th march. this was the last execution at satory. the blood of twenty-five victims had reddened the stakes of the commission of pardons. in it had a young soldier shot at vincennes, accused of the death of the detective vizentini, thrown into the seine by hundreds of hands at the manifestation of the bastille.[ ] the movements of the provinces were judged by courts-martial or assize courts, according to the department being or not being in a state of siege. everywhere the issue of the parisian struggle had been waited for. immediately after the defeat of paris the reaction ran riot. espivent's courts-martial initiated these trials. he had his gaveau in commander villeneuve, one of the bombarders of the th april, his merlin, and his boisdenemetz in the colonels thomassin and douat. on the th june gaston crémieux, etienne, pélissier, roux, bouchet, and all those who could be connected with the movement of the rd march appeared before the soldiers. the pretentious blockheadedness of villeneuve served as type of the military prosecutor's addresses with which france was inundated. crémieux, etienne, pélissier, and roux were condemned to death. this was not enough for the jesuitical bourgeois reaction. espivent had declared through the court of cassation that the department of the bouches-du-rhône was in a state of siege since the th august, , in virtue of a decree by the empress, which had neither been published in the bulletin of laws, nor been sanctioned by the senate, nor even promulgated. provided with this arm, he persecuted all marked out by the hand of the congregation. the municipal councillor, david bosc, ex-delegate to the commission, a millionaire shipowner, accused of having stolen a silver watch from a police agent, was only acquitted by a small majority of voices. the next day the colonel-president was replaced by the lieutenant-colonel of the th chasseurs, donnat, half-mad with absinthe-drinking. a workingman, aged seventy-five, was condemned to ten years' hard labour and twenty years' deprivation of civil and political rights for having on the th september arrested for half an hour a police agent who had sent him to cayenne in . a crazy old woman, purveyor of the jesuits, arrested for a few moments on the th september, accused the former commander of the civil guard of her arrest. her accusation was contradicted by herself and quite overthrown by alibis and numberless proofs. the ex-commander was condemned to five years' of prison and ten years' privation of civil rights. one of the soldier-judges, coming out after committing this crime, said, "one must have very profound political convictions to condemn in similar affairs." with these cynical collaborators espivent could satisfy all his hatred. he asked the courts of versailles to deliver up to him the member of the council of the commune, amourox, delegate for a time at marseilles. "i am prosecuting him for tampering with soldiers," wrote espivent, "a crime punished by death; and i am persuaded that this punishment will be applied to him." the court-martial of lyons was not very inferior. forty-four persons were prosecuted for the movement of the nd march, and thirty-two condemned to penalties varying from transportation to imprisonment. the insurrection of the th april furnished seventy prisoners, taken at hazard at lyons, as was the custom at versailles. the mayor of the guillotière, crestin, called as witness, did not recognise amongst them any of those he had seen on that day in his mairie. presidents of the courts, the colonels marion and rébillot. at limoges, dubois and roubeyrol, democrats esteemed by the whole town, were condemned in default to death, as the principal actors in the movement of the th april; two were condemned to twenty years' imprisonment for having boasted of knowing who had shot at colonel billet. another got ten years for having distributed munitions. the verdicts of the jury varied. that of the basses-pyrénées on the th august acquitted duportal and the four or five persons accused of the movement of toulouse. the same acquittal took place at rhodez, where digeon and the accused of narbonne appeared after a preliminary imprisonment of eight months. a sympathetic public filled the hall and the approaches of the tribunal and cheered the accused at their departure. the energetic attitude of digeon once more showed the strong cast of his character. the jury of riom condemned for the affairs of st. etienne twenty-one prisoners, among whom was amouroux, who had only sent two delegates. a young workingman, caton, distinguished himself by his intelligence and firmness. the jury of orléans was severe upon the accused of montargis, all of whom they condemned to prison, and atrocious to those of cosnes and newry-sur-loire, where there had been no resistance. there were twenty-three altogether, of whom three were women. their whole crime had been carrying about a red flag and crying "vive paris! down with versailles!" malardier, a former representative of the people, who only arrived on the eve of the manifestation, and who had taken no part in it, was condemned to fifteen years' imprisonment. none of the accused was spared. the proprietors of the loiret avenged the fright of their fellow-proprietors of the nièvre. the movements of coulommiers, nîmes, dordives, and voiron gave rise to some convictions. in the month of june, , the greater part of the work of repression was done. of the , [ ] prisoners, men, women, and children, without counting the , military prisoners, to whom the versaillese have confessed, , , said they, had died in their prisons; , had been liberated after long winter months in the pontoons, the forts, and the prisons; , brought before the courts-martial, who had condemned , of them. the persecutions did not cease. on the advent of macmahon, the th may, , there set in a recrudescence. on the st january, , the general résumé of versaillese justice gave , condemnations pronounced in presence of the accused, and , in default. the sentences passed were distributed thus:-- condemnations to death of whom women. hard labour " " transportation in a fortress " " simple transportation " women and child. detention " women. confinement " " hard labour at public works imprisonment from three months and upwards imprisonment from three months to one year " women and child. imprisonment for more than one year " women and children. banishment surveillance of the police " woman. fines children under sixteen sent to houses of correction -------- --- -- total , of whom were women and children. this résumé contained neither the sentences pronounced by the courts-martial beyond the jurisdiction of versailles nor those of the courts of assizes. we must therefore add condemnations to death, to hard labour, to transportation in a fortress, to simple transportation, to detention, to confinement, and a certain number to imprisonment. the total figure of the condemned of paris and the provinces exceeds , , among whom were women and children. three-fourths of the , condemned while present-- , out of , --were simple guards or non-commissioned officers, , subaltern officers. there were only superior officers, members of the council of the commune, of the central committee. despite their savage jurisprudence, the inquiries, and the false witnesses, the courts-martial had been unable to bring forward against nine-tenths of the condemned-- , --any other crime than the bearing of arms or the exercise of public functions. of the condemned for so-called common crimes, were for simple arrests, for the battle in the streets, for crimes classed as "others" by the report, all evidently for acts of war.[ ] notwithstanding the great number of ticket-of-leave men designedly included in these prosecutions, nearly three-fourths of the condemned-- , --had no judiciary antecedents; had incurred condemnation for misdemeanor against public order (political or simple police cases); , for crimes or misdemeanours, which the report took care not to specify. finally, this insurrection, provoked and conducted by the foreigner according to the bourgeois press, furnished in all but prisoners of foreign origin. this is the balance-sheet of . the following years added new condemnations. the number of the courts was reduced, but their institution was maintained and the prosecutions are going on. even now, six years after the defeat, the arrests and convictions have not ceased. footnotes: [ ] let us cite dupont de bussac, and above all léon bigot, who defended maroteau, lisbonne, and a great number of obscure prisoners. for a year he gave them his time, his labour, his money, publishing memoirs, exhausting himself in applications. he died in harness, falling, struck by apoplexy, even at the bar. the friends of the commune will not forget this noble devotion. [ ] he was condemned in to five years' imprisonment for embezzlement. [ ] in the law-schools is there no one to undertake it? what finer cause to begin with for a young man? what noble occasion to efface the great wrongs of the schools during the commune, to bring nearer the proletarian this part of our youth, which is drifting further from them every day? [ ] "to this demand of the communication of judicial evidence," said the tribunal of buda-pesth in its judgment, "the french government has answered by purely and simply transmitting the sentence of the court-martial. in this sentence there exists no trace of proof, nor any precise evidence establishing culpability. considering that this verdict is totally destitute of evidence and legal proofs, and that it indicates no means of procuring them, this tribunal exonerates frankel from the charges brought against him." [ ] here are their names, which truly belong to the history of the people:--martel, president; piou, vice-president; the count octave de bastard, félix voisin, secretaries; batbie, the count de maillé, the count duchâtel, peltereau-villeneuve, françois sacaze, tailhaud, the marquis de quinsonnas, bigot, merveilleux-duvignan, paris, corne. [ ] appendix xxxvii. [ ] according to reactionary journals this agent had been first bound to a board, an odious invention, which nothing that came out during the trial could justify. vizentini, seized in a spontaneous outburst of fury, and thrown immediately into the seine, might even have been saved, if a board to which he clung had not in tipping over struck him on the head. [ ] report of general appert. [ ] thus the seizures made during the house-searches, in virtue of regular mandates, were classed among the acts of theft with violence, pillage, &c., as though these acts had had any personal motive. now it is necessary to point out that no one gave evidence of theft against the prisoners before the courts-martial; no one could say that the conflagrations had been taken advantage of for pillage. chapter xxxvi. "les déportés sont plus heureux que nos soldats, car nos soldats ont des factions à faire ... tandis que le déporté vit au milieu des fleurs de son jardin."--_discours de l'amiral fourichon, ministre de la marine, contre l'amnistie, séance du mai ._ "ce sont surtout les républicains qui ne doivent pas vouloir l'amnistie."--_victor lefranc, séance du mai ._ new caledonia--exile--balance-sheet of bourgeois vengeance--the liberal chamber and the amnesty. two days' journey from france there is a colony eager for hands, rich enough to enrich thousands of families. after every victory over parisian workmen the bourgeoisie has always preferred throwing its victims to the antipodes to fecundating algeria with them. the republic of had nouka-hiva; the versaillese assembly, new caledonia. it is to this rock, six thousand leagues from their native land, that it decided to transport those condemned for life. "the council of the government," said the reporter on the law, "gives the transported a family and a home." the mitrailleuse was more honest. those condemned to transportation were huddled together into four depots, fort boyard, st. martin de ré, oléron, and quélern, where for long months they languished between despair and hope, which never abandon political victims. one day, when they believed themselves almost forgotten, a brutal call resounded. to the surgery! a doctor looked at them, questioned them, did not listen to their answers, and said, "fit for departure!"[ ] and then farewell family, country, society, human life, _en route_ for the sepulchre of the antipodes. and happy he who was condemned to transportation only. he could for a last time press a friendly hand, see tears in kindly eyes, give a last kiss. but the galley-slave of the commune will only see the taskmaster. at the call of the whistle he must undress, be searched, then have the livery of the voyage thrown him, and, without a farewell, ascend the floating bagnio. the transport ship was a moving pontoon. large cages built on the gun-deck shut in the prisoners. in the night these became centres of infection. in the daytime, the uncaged people had but one-half hour to come up on the deck and breathe a little fresh air. around the cages the jailers stood grumbling, punishing with the blackhole the slightest infringement of the rules. some unhappy beings made the whole voyage at the bottom of the hold, sometimes almost naked, for having refused to comply with a caprice. the women, like the men, were sent to the blackhole; the nuns who watched them were worse than the jailers. for five months they had to live in this promiscuous fashion in the cage, in the filth of their neighbours, fed upon biscuits often musty, on bacon, on almost salt water; now burnt by the tropics, now frozen by the cold of the south, or by the spray dashing over the gun-deck. and what spectres arrived! when the _orne_ dropped anchor off melbourne there were sick of scurvy out of prisoners.[ ] they inspired even the rough colonials of australia with pity. the inhabitants of melbourne came to succour them, collecting in a few hours , francs. the commander of the _orne_ refused to transmit the sum to the prisoners, even in the shape of clothes, tools, and simple necessaries. the _danaë_ was the first ship that set sail, on the rd may, ; the _guerrière_, _garonne_, _var_, _sibylle_, _orne_, _calvados_, _virginie_, &c., followed. by the st july, , , prisoners had landed in new caledonia.[ ] this caledonian sepulchre has three circles: the peninsula ducos, not far from noumea, the capital of new caledonia, for those condemned to transportation in a fortress-- men and women; the ile des pins, thirty miles south-east of the principal island, for those condemned to simple transportation-- , men and women; and, quite in the background, worse than death, the bagnio of the ile nou, for galley-slaves. the peninsula ducos, a narrow neck of land commanded by cannon, with its mouth guarded by soldiers, without a watercourse, without verdure, is traversed by arid hills and swampy valleys. for all shelter the condemned found a few dilapidated hovels; for all furniture, a saucepan and a hammock. the ile des pins, a tableland, its centre perfectly desolate, is bounded by fertile plains, but in the hands of the marist monks, who exploit the labour of the natives. nothing was prepared for the reception of the condemned. the first who arrived wandered about in the woods; only very long after did they receive bad tents and hammocks. the natives, incited by the missionaries, fled from them, or sold them provisions at enormous prices. the administration was to have provided the indispensable clothing. none of the prescribed rules was observed. the képis and boots were soon worn out, and the immense majority of the condemned having no means whatever, had to bear the sun and the rainy season bare-headed and bare-footed. they had neither tobacco nor soap; there was no brandy to mix with the brackish water. the prisoners did not lose heart at this beginning. laborious, active, with that universal aptitude of the parisian workman, they felt themselves equal to overcoming the first difficulties. the reporter on the law had extolled the thousand revenues of new caledonia--fisheries, cattle-breeding, the working of mines--and represented this compulsory emigration as the founding of a new french empire in the pacific. the condemned hoped to make themselves a home in this far-off land. these proletarians were free of the false dignity affected by the proscribed bourgeois; far from refusing work, they sought for it. in the ile des pins there were an hospital, an aqueduct, administrative warehouses to be finished, a large road to be constructed; , condemned presented themselves; only were employed, and their wages never exceeded centimes a day. some of those rebuffed by the administration then demanded concessions of territory; they were granted a few yards of land,[ ] and at exorbitant prices some seeds and tools. with the greatest efforts they could hardly make the soil yield a few vegetables. the others, who possessed nothing, applied to private industry, offering their services to the tradespeople of noumea. but the colony, stifled by the military régime, hampered by bureaucratic officials, and of very limited resources besides, could only furnish work to about at the most. moreover, many of them who had undertaken farming were obliged to give it up very soon and return to the ile des pins. this was the golden age of the transportation. towards the middle of a despatch of the minister of marine reached noumea. the versaillese government suspended all administrative credits in support of the state works. "if one admitted," said he, "the right to labour of the convict, one would soon see the renewal of the scandalous example of the national workshops of ." perfectly logical this. versailles owes no means of labour to those it has deprived of their liberty to labour. so the workshops were closed. the woods of the ile des pins offered valuable supplies to the cabinetmakers, and some of the condemned manufactured furniture much in request at noumea. they were ordered to discontinue. and on the th december the minister of marine dared to pronounce from the tribune that the majority of the condemned refused every kind of work.[ ] at the very moment that the administration thus curtailed the life of the transported, it summoned their wives to the ministry of marine, where the most charming picture of new caledonia was exhibited to them. they were to find there, on their arrival, a house, a piece of land, seeds, and tools. most of them, suspecting some snare, refused to set out unless invited by their husbands. sixty-nine, however, were inveigled, and embarked on board the _fénélon_, with women sent forth by the public assistance office as helpmates for the colonials. these unfortunate wives of the convicts, on landing, found only the despair and misery of their husbands. the government refused to send them back again. thus there are thousands of men accustomed to work, to activity of mind, penned up, idle and miserable, some in the narrow peninsula, others in the ile des pins, without clothes, ill-fed, under orders executed by brutes,[ ] revolver in hand, hardly in connection with the world, save for a few rare letters, and these are even delayed for three weeks at noumea. in the beginning endless reveries, then discouragement and sombre despair; cases of madness occurred, at last death. the first one set free was the teacher verdure, member of the council of the commune. the commissary of the court-martial had accused him of but one crime. "he was a philanthropic utopist." he wanted to open a school in the peninsula; permission was refused him. useless, far from his wife and daughter, he languished and died. one morning in the jailers and the priests saw in the winding pathway that leads to the cemetery a coffin covered with flowers carried by some of the condemned. behind them walked friends in a deep silence. "the coffin," one of them has told us, "was lowered into the grave. a friend spoke a few words of farewell; each one threw in his little red flower, cried, 'vive la république! vive la commune!' and all was over." in november, in the ile des pins, albert grandier, one of the staff of the _rappel_, died. his heart had remained in france, with a sister whom he adored. every day he went to the sea-shore to wait for her; so he became mad. the administration refused to admit him into an asylum. he escaped from the friends who guarded him, and one morning was found dead of cold in the swamps, not far from the road that leads to the sea.[ ] these at least have the consolation of suffering with their equals. but the convicts chained in the sink of the scoundrels! "i know but one bagnio," replied the republican minister, victor lefranc, to a mother begging for her son. and there is indeed but one bagnio, where heroes like trinquet and lisbonne, men all compact of devotion and probity like fontaine, roques, the mayor of puteaux (so many names press forward that i am ashamed to mention a few), journalists of high character like brissac and humbert, some whose sole crime was to have carried out a warrant of arrest, have been chained for five years to assassins and thieves, enduring their insults, and bound at night to the same camp-bed. the versaillese want more than the body; they must attaint the rebellious mind, surround it with an atmosphere of stench and vice, in order to make it fail and founder. the "felons" of the commune, assimilated to criminals, subjected to the same labour, to the same rule of the stick and whip, are beset by the special hatred of the jailers, who incite the convicts against them. from time to time a letter escapes, and even reaches us. thus writes a member of the council of the commune, a man of thirty-three, at one time in robust health:-- "st. louis. "... the work of the camp is considered the most severe. it includes the digging up of stones, earthworks, &c. it is only interrupted on the sunday morning for the religious service. for nourishment we have coffee without sugar at five o'clock in the morning, grammes of bread, and grammes of beans; in the evening a small piece of beef; and, finally, centilitres of wine a week. when i am able to buy a quarter of a pound of bread, my health leaves less to be desired. already several of ours are no more. many are attacked with anæmia. fifteen out of sixty in st. louis are at the hospital. all this would be nothing if there were not that commingling with men of infamous passions. there are fifty of us in one compartment. as to the employments, shops, and offices, the communards are excluded from these." another writes: "ile nou, _ th february_. "i isolate myself as much as i can, but there are hours when i must be in the bagnio on pain of death. there are hours when i must defend my rations from the voracity of my companions, when i must submit to the familiarity of a mano or of a lathauer.[ ] this is horrible, and i blush with shame when i think that i have become almost insensible to all this infamy. these wretches are cowards, and are not the least of our tormentors. it is enough to drive one mad, and i believe that many amongst us will become so. berezowski, this unfortunate man,[ ] who has suffered so much for eight years, is almost demented, and it is painful to look upon him. it is terrible, and i dare not think of this. how many months, years, are we still to pass in this bagnio? i tremble at the thought. despite all, believe that i shall not allow myself to be crushed; my conscience is tranquil, and i am strong. my health alone could betray me and be vanquished, but of myself i am sure, and shall never swerve." a third:-- "i have suffered much; the bagnio of toulon, the chains, the convicts' dress, and, what is still worse, the ignoble contact of the criminals--all this i have had to bear with. i have, it is true, one consolation for so much suffering--my tranquil conscience, the love of my old parents, and the esteem of men such as you.... how many times have i been discouraged! what despair, what doubts have seized me! i believed in mankind, and all my illusions have been lost one by one; a great change has come over me, and i have almost failed to resist so many disillusions." yet another:-- "i do not deceive myself; these years are entirely lost for me; not only is my health undermined, but i feel myself getting lower every day. this life is really too hard to bear, without books (save those of the mame library), in this filthy bagnio, exposed to all insults, to all blows; shut up in grated caves; in the workshops treated as beasts; insulted by our jailers and our comrades of the chain, we must submit to it all without a murmur, the slightest infringement entailing terrible punishments--the cell, quarter ration of bread, irons, thumbscrews, the lash. it is ignominious, and i shudder at the thought of it. many of our comrades are in double chains in the correction platoon, subjected to the hardest labour, dying of hunger, driven on with blows of a cane, often with revolver-shots, unable to communicate with us, who cannot even pass them a mouthful of bread. it is terrible, and i am afraid all this will not end very soon. but protestations will be made; we shall not be abandoned; it would be horrible if we were left here. i am unable to work, so i am right in saying that these years are completely lost, and this drives me to despair; yet i was willing to learn; but what is to be done without books and without a guide? we are almost without news. still we know that the republic is affirming itself from day to day; our hope is there, but i dare not believe it; we have had so many deceptions." how many live to-day? it is not known. maroteau left in march, . the commission of pardons had aggravated his sentence; commuted satory to the ile nou. at twenty-five years of age he died in the bagnio for two articles, when the jackals of the versaillese press, whose every line has demanded and obtained carnage, sway our paris. to the last moment his courage did not forsake him. "it is not a great affair to die," said he to the friends who surrounded his deathbed; "but i should have preferred the stake of satory to this filthy pallet. my friends, think of me! what will become of my mother?" hear this knell tolled by one of the convicts:-- "ile nou (limekiln works), _ th april_. "i cannot help saying that many friends are dying, and that this month five have succumbed." "_ th may._ "old audant, one of the transported of the nd december, has been for ever released from his chain. he was sickly, old (fifty-nine), and our labour had overcome him. one day, tired out, attacked by acute bronchitis, he was unable to get up; still he was obliged to recommence his work. two days after he asked for the visit of the doctor. he got the dungeon. five days after he died in the hospital; and a few days later on, another, gobert, followed him to the tomb." "canala, _ th december_. "... add to that the death of old and good friends. after maroteau, morten, mars, lecolle, whom we buried a month ago." they die, but none have faltered. the political convicts are men; they succeed in remaining in the pitch without being defiled. it is the general inspector raboul who has allowed this avowal to escape him. what is the christian martyr's vaunted heroism of an hour in comparison with these men, who each day, in the indefatigable, merciless clutches of the jailers, maintain unbent their revolutionary faith and their dignity? and do we even know all their sufferings? chance alone has raised a corner of the veil. on the th march, , rochefort, jourde, paschal grousset, and three others, condemned to transportation, succeeded in escaping on board an australian ship.[ ] they landed safely in australia, and the information they brought with them has thrown a little light upon the den. it was then we learnt that the convicts of the commune had suffered additional tortures; that the torture of the thumbscrews, which mutilated the hands, is still in use at the bagnio; that four convicts had been shot in the ile des pins for a simple assault, which would have been punished by a few months' imprisonment by ordinary tribunals; that the severity and insults of the jailers seemed intended to cause a rising, which would permit of all those condemned to transportation being sent to the bagnio. the convicts had to pay dearly for these revelations. the versaillese government immediately sent out the rear-admiral ribourt, and the torture-screw was turned more tightly than ever. those who had obtained permission to sojourn in the principal island were again shut up in the peninsula ducos or the ile des pins; fishing was interdicted; every sealed letter confiscated; the right to fetch wood in the forest for cooking food suppressed. the jailers redoubled their brutality, fired at the convicts who went beyond bounds, or who had not returned to their huts at the regulation hour. some merchants of noumea, accused of having facilitated the escape of rochefort and his friends, were expelled from the isle. ribourt had brought the dismissal of the governor, la richerie, former governor of cayenne, who by dint of rapine had made a great fortune in new caledonia. of course it was not for his dishonesty, but for the escape of the th march that he was punished. the provisional government was confided to colonel alleyron, who had become famous by the massacres of may. alleyron decreed that every prisoner was to give the state half-a-day's labour, on pain of receiving only the strictly indispensable food, grammes of bread, centilitre of oil, and grammes of dried vegetables. as the prisoners protested, he began by applying the decree to fifty-seven persons, of whom four were women. for the women were subjected to the same rigorous treatment as the men, and they had courageously revindicated the right of sharing the common lot of all. louise michel and lemel, whom they had wanted to separate from their comrades, declared that they would kill themselves if the law were violated. insulted by the jailers, abused sometimes in the order of the day of the commander of the peninsula, scarcely provided with dresses, more than once they had been obliged to put on men's clothes. the arrival at the beginning of of the new governor, de pritzbuer, terminated the short but brilliant career of alleyron. pritzbuer, a renegade of protestantism turned arrant jesuit, and sent to new caledonia through the jesuitical tendencies of the ministry, found ways and means with his mawkish airs to even aggravate the misery of the convicts. he was guided in this task by colonel charrière, general director of the new caledonian penitentiary, who declared the criminals of the bagnio much more honourable than the political convicts. pritzbuer renewed the order of his predecessor, adding that those of the convicts who in one year should not have been able to create for themselves sufficient resources would no longer receive full rations; and, finally, that the administration intended exonerating itself at the end of a certain time of all expenses with regard to the convicts. an agent was appointed to act as intermediary between them and the traders of noumea. but all the decrees in the world cannot extend the commerce or industry of a country without natural resources. it had been said, been proved a hundred times, that new caledonia has no employment for these thousands of men, who would prosper in a vital and flourishing colony. those few who could be employed have proved their intelligence, and have carried off several medals or been honourably mentioned at the exhibition of noumea. the less favoured--hundreds of them--suffer under the blow of the decree of . in reality, the immense majority of those condemned to transportation are now subjected to hard labour. the regulations put into force since the escape of rochefort have never been mitigated. the wives, the mothers of the convicts, are only allowed to communicate with them at rare intervals, and under the eye of the jailers. more than one has been expelled from the colony. despite so many efforts to break them, the honour of the majority of the prisoners has not yielded; far more, it is an example to others. although the courts-martial have mixed up with the condemned of the commune a bad element, totally foreign to this revolution, common misdemeanours are very rare. their condemnation for political misdemeanour, the contact with the best workmen, has even re-made the conscience of many men with but sorry antecedents. the majority of the condemned are punished only for infringements of the rules or for attempts to escape; attempts almost always condemned to failure beforehand. how fly without money and without confederates? there have been but fifteen successful escapes. towards the middle of march, , twenty prisoners of the ile des pins, amongst whom were the member of the council of the commune, rastoul, fled in a bark which they had secretly constructed. their fate has never been known, but a few days after their flight the wreck of a craft was found amongst the reefs. in november, , trinquet and some of his comrades managed to abscond in a steamboat. they were pursued, overtaken. two threw themselves into the sea to escape their pursuers. one died; the other, trinquet, was restored to life and the bagnio. * * * * * before such abysses of misery the exiles must not speak of their sufferings, but they may say in a word that they have not sullied the honour of the cause. thousands of workmen, with their families, thrown helpless, without resources, into a strange country, speaking a foreign language, employées, professors, still more forlorn, have succeeded by dint of energy in gaining a livelihood. the workmen of the commune of paris have won an honourable place in the workshops of foreign countries. they have even, especially in belgium, rendered prosperous industries till then languishing; they have imparted to certain manufactures the secret of parisian taste. the proscription of the communards, like that of the protestants formerly, has thrown across the frontiers a part of the national wealth. the exiles of the so-called liberal professions, often more unfortunate than the workmen, have not shown less courage. some fill posts of confidence; one perhaps condemned to death as an incendiary or to hard labour for pillage, is a teacher in a large college or examines the candidates for government schools. despite the difficulty at the commencement, sickness, slackness of work, not one exile has given way, and not a single condemnation before the police court has occurred. not a single woman has fallen. yet it is the women who bear the greater share of the common misery. amongst these thousands of exiles there have been discovered but two or three spies; and there was only one, landeck, to get up a journal of denunciations more vile than the _figaro_. justice was soon done, for no proscription has been more careful of its dignity. one ex-member of the council of the commune had to defend himself before the refugees for having received money from the deputies of the extreme left. never was the commemorative meeting of the th march better attended than that of during the debate on the amnesty, for one and all would have blushed to hide their colours at such a moment. no doubt, like any other proscription, that of has its groups and its animosities, but all these opinions disappear behind the red flag escorting the coffin of a comrade. no doubt there have been virulent manifestoes, which, however, only affect their authors. finally, these exiles have not forgotten their brothers of new caledonia, and they have opened a permanent subscription for them, which has its centre in london. poor help, no doubt; but this mite from the exiles goes and says to the unfortunate convict of the commune, "courage, brother! thy comrades do not forget thee; they honour thee." it is the hand of the wounded held out to the dying. * * * * * twenty-five thousand men, women, and children killed during the battle or after; three thousand at least dead in the prisons, the pontoons, the forts, or in consequence of maladies contracted during their captivity; thirteen thousand seven hundred condemned, most of them for life; seventy thousand women, children, and old men deprived of their natural supporters or thrown out of france; one hundred and eleven thousand victims at least;--that is the balance-sheet of the bourgeois vengeance for the solitary insurrection of the th march. what a lesson of revolutionary vigour given to the workingmen! the governing classes shoot in the lump without taking the trouble to select the hostages. their vengeance lasts not an hour; neither years nor victims appease it; they make of it an administrative function, methodical and continuous. for four years the rural assembly allowed the courts-martial to work, and the liberal element, which so many elections had sent up in great force, at once followed the track of the rurals. one or two motions for amnesty were burked by the previous question. in the month of january, , when the rural assembly broke up, it had removed a few convicts from one part of new caledonia to another, shortened a few terms of imprisonment, and given full pardon to six hundred persons, condemned to the lightest penalties. the caledonian reservoir remained intact. but at the general elections the people did not forget the vanquished. in all the large towns _amnesty_ was the watchword; it was inscribed at the head of all the democratic programmes; at all the public meetings the question was put to the candidates. the radicals, tears in their eyes and their hands on their fraternal hearts, pledged themselves to ask for a free and complete amnesty; even the liberals promised "to wipe out the last traces of our civil discords," as the bourgeoisie is wont to say when it condescends to have the paving-stones cleaned which itself has reddened with blood. the elections of february, , were republican. the famous gambettist layers had come to the surface. a crowd of lawyers, liberal landlords, had carried away the provinces in the name of liberty, reforms, appeasement. the minister of the reaction, buffet, was beaten along the whole line, even in rural corners. the radical papers declared the democratic republic once for all founded; and one of these in its enthusiasm cried, "may we be cursed if we do not close the era of revolutions!" the hopes for amnesty became now a certainty. no doubt this was the boon by which the reparative chamber would signalise its joyous advent. a convoy of convicts was about to set sail for new caledonia. victor hugo summoned the president, macmahon, to adjourn the departure until the discussion and the certainly favourable decision of the two chambers. a petition, hurriedly organised, in a few days had over a hundred thousand signatures. soon the question of the amnesty effaced all others, and the ministry insisted upon an immediate discussion. five propositions had been laid on the table. one only demanded the full and complete amnesty. the others excepted the crimes qualified as common crimes, and amongst which were classed newspaper articles. the chamber appointed a commission to draw up a report. seven commissioners out of ten declared against all the propositions. the new layers were manifesting themselves. it was always this same middle-class, bare of ideas and courage, hard to the people, timid before cæsar, pettifogging and jesuitical. the workmen already shot down in june, , by an assembly of republicans were to see in a republican assembly rivet the chain forged by the rurals. the motion for a full and complete amnesty was supported by those same radicals who had combated the commune or abetted m. thiers. they were now the democratic lions of a paris without a socialist press, without popular tribunes, without a history of the commune, watched by the courts-martial, always on the look-out for more victims, bereft of all revolutionary electors. in this town which he had helped to bleed, there were arrondissements which disputed the honour of electing louis blanc. the deputy of montmartre was the same man who, on the th march, had congratulated lecomte on the capture of the cannon, m. clémenceau. he made a jejune, garbled, timid exposé of the immediate causes of the th march, but took good care not to touch upon the veritable causes. other radicals, in order to make the vanquished more interesting, strove to lower them. "you are absolutely mistaken as to the character of this revolution," said m. lockroy very grandly. "you see in it a social revolution, where there has really been only a fit of hysterics and an attack of fever." m. floquet, nominated in the most revolutionary arrondissement, the one in which delescluze had fallen, called the movement "detestable." m. marcou wisely declared that the commune was "an anachronism." no one even in the extreme left dared courageously to tell the country the truth. "yes, they were right to cling to their arms, these parisians, who remembered june and december; yes, they were right to maintain that the monarchists were plotting for a revolution; yes, they were right to struggle to the death against the advent of the priest." no one dared to speak of the massacres, to call the government to account for the bloodshed. they were even less outspoken than the enquête parlementaire. it is evident from this weak and superficial discussion that they only wanted to redeem their word given to their electors. to advocates who stooped so low the answer was easy enough. as m. thiers and jules favre had done on the st march, , the minister dufaure pertinently set forth the true question at issue. "no, gentlemen," said he, "this was not a communal movement; this was in its ideas, its thoughts, and even in its acts, the most radical revolution which has ever been undertaken in the world." and the reporter of the commission: "there have been hours in our contemporary history when amnesty may have been a necessity, but the insurrection of the th march cannot from any point of view be compared with our civil wars. i see a formidable insurrection, a criminal insurrection, an insurrection against all society. no, nothing obliges us to give back to the condemned of the commune the rights of citizens." the immense majority applauded dufaure, singing the praises of the courts-martial, and not a radical had the courage to protest, to defy the minister to produce a single document, a single regular judgment. it would be easy to retort to this extreme left: "silence, pharisees, who allow the people to be massacred and then come supplicating for them; mute or hostile during the battle, grandiloquent after their defeat." admiral fourichon denied that the convicts of the commune are put on the same footing as the others; denied their ill-treatment; said the convicts lived in a very garden of flowers. some intransigents having stated that "the torture has been re-established," this delicious answer was vouchsafed them, "it is we whom you put to the torture." on the th may, , noes against ayes rejected the full and complete amnesty. gambetta did not vote. the next day they discussed one proposition of amnesty, which excluded those condemned for acts qualified as common crimes by the courts-martial. the commission again rejected this motion, saying that it must be left to the mercy of the government, which had promised a considerable number of pardons. the radicals discussed a little to save appearances. m. floquet said, "it is not on a question of generosity and mercy that we should ever doubt of the intentions of the government;" and the proposition was thrown over. two days after, in the senate, victor hugo asked for the amnesty in a speech in which he drew a comparison between the defenders of the commune and the men of the nd december. his proposition was not even discussed. two months after, macmahon completed this hypocritical comedy by writing to the minister-at-war, "henceforth no more prosecutions are to take place unless commanded by the unanimous sentiment of honest people." the honest officers understood. the condemnations continued. some persons condemned by default, who had ventured to return to france on the strength of the hopes of the first days, had been captured; the sentences against them were confirmed. the organisers of workingmen's groups were mercilessly struck when their connection with the commune could be established.[ ] in november, , the courts-martial pronounced sentences of death.[ ] this merciless tenacity alarmed public opinion to such an extent that the radicals were again obliged to bestir themselves a little. towards the end of they demanded that the chamber should put a stop to the prosecutions, or at least limit them. an illusory law was voted; the senate threw it out; our liberals reckoned upon that. the mercy of macmahon was on a par with the rest. the day after the rejection of the motion for an amnesty, dufaure had installed a consulting commission of pardons, composed of functionaries and reactionists carefully culled by himself. the penitentiary establishments in france then contained , persons condemned for participation in the commune, and the number of the transports rose to about , . the new commission continued the system of the former one, commuted some penalties, granted pardons of a few weeks or a few months, even liberated two or three condemned who were dead. a year after its institution it had recalled from new caledonia a hundred at the utmost of the least interesting of the prisoners. thus the liberal chamber continued the vengeance of the rural assembly; thus the bourgeois republic appeared to the workingmen as hostile to their rights, more implacable perhaps than the monarchists, justifying the remark of one of m. thiers' ministers, "it is above all the republicans who must be adverse to the amnesty." once again there was justified the instinct of the people on the th march, when they perceived in the conservative republic held out to them by m. thiers an anonymous oppression worse than the imperialist yoke. * * * * * at the present time, six years after the massacres, near fifteen thousand men, women, and children are maintained in new caledonia or in exile.[ ] what hope remains? none. the bourgeoisie has been too much frightened. the cries for amnesty, the blazoned-forth elections, will not disquiet the conservative republicans or monarchists. all the apparent concessions will only be so many snares. the most valiant, the most devoted, will die in the bagnio, in the peninsula ducos, in the ile des pins. it belongs to the workmen to do their duty so far as it is possible to-day. the irish, after the fenian insurrection, opened hundreds of public subscriptions for the benefit of the victims. near £ , were devoted to their defence before the tribunals. the three men hanged at manchester received on the morning of their death the formal promise that their families should want for nothing. this promise was kept. the parents of the one, the wife of the other, were provided for, the children were educated, dowered. in ireland alone the donations, for the families exceeded £ , . when the partial amnesty was granted, all irish people rushed forward to help the amnestied. the single journal, the _irishman_, in a few weeks received £ , , for the most part in penny and sixpenny subscriptions. in one single donation the irish of america sent them £ , , and the poorest of the poor irish, the emigrants of new zealand, over £ . and this was not the outburst of one day. in the political prisoners' family fund still received £ . the total of the subscriptions exceed £ , . finally, in , a few fenians chartered a vessel and carried off some of their comrades still retained in australia. in france all the subscriptions for the families of the condemned of the commune have not exceeded £ , . the irish victims numbered only a few hundreds; those of versailles must be counted by thousands. nothing has been done for the transported "convicts." the greppos, louis blancs & co., who, without mandate, without any surveillance, have arrogated to themselves the right of centralising the subscriptions, of distributing them at pleasure, have thus formed themselves a retinue out of the families of those whom they had betrayed. they have refused to transmit anything to the convicts, that is to say, to the most necessitous, who, six thousand leagues from france, pine away without resources and with no possibility of work. do you understand, workingmen, you who are free? you now know what the whole situation is and what the men are. remember the vanquished not for a day, but at all hours. women, you whose devotion sustains and elevates their courage, let the agony of the prisoners haunt you like an everlasting nightmare. let all workshops every week put something aside from their wages. let the subscriptions no longer be sent to the versaillese committee, but made over to loyal hands. let the socialist party attest its principles of international solidarity and its power by saving those who have fallen for it. footnotes: [ ] "we all recollect one of our comrades, corcelles, who had contracted pulmonary phthisis of the gravest form. he could scarcely keep himself on his legs when crawling before the commission. to the president's usual question he answered by a pitiful smile only, and while one of the younger members of the commission, moved probably to pity at the sight of the walking corpse, bent himself towards the ear of the old surgeon, doubtless with the view of begging a respite, the latter retorted, loud enough to be heard by the patient and several other prisoners, 'bah! the sharks will want something to eat.' and the sharks did have something to eat; less than three weeks after we were out at sea our friend corcelles was dead, and we committed his remains to the last common reservoir." we must give the name of this friend of sharks; his name is dr. chanal. "out of the four thousand condemned who passed in file before him, ten cases of exemption are not known. and perhaps the motives which dictated this may be better judged when the following facts are known. m. edmond adam, deputy of the seine, having come to the ile de ré in order to visit m. h. rochefort, who was shut up there, had a young woman present herself at his hotel, who proposed to him, for the modest sum of francs, to procure from the chief-surgeon a respite for his friend on his departure. she had but one word to say, remarked she, and the old man was under her orders."--_account by two escaped prisoners from new caledonia, paschal grousset and jourde, published by the times, th june ._ [ ] the australian and english journals having revealed these sufferings, the versaillese government answered in its journal: "the news of the convict ship the _orne_, transmitted through the english press, is inexact in all points. far from counting cases of scurvy, this vessel had hardly cases." [ ] report of the commission of pardons, presented in january , by mm. martel and f. voisin. [ ] in the ile des pins, condemned received between them all hectares (about acres). "we have been mistaken as to the resources offered by the ile des pins," philosophically remarked the minister of marine in . "i said so three years ago," answered m. georges périn. [ ] "admiral ribourt, in his inquiry, declares that during the year the engineering department had paid the condemned in the peninsula , francs. we must then leave off saying that the convicts won't work."--_speech of m. georges périn in favour of an amnesty, sitting of the th may ._ [ ] an overlooker of the first class had been condemned for an attempt to murder; another, decorated with the cross of the légion d'honneur, sentenced to seven years' hard labour for attempting to murder his wife. many of them were every day condemned for drunkenness. [ ] details taken from the very correct and by no means exaggerated relation which paschal grousset and jourde published in the _times_ after their escape. it has since been republished as a pamphlet. [ ] two notorious murderers. [ ] the pole condemned for having in paris shot at the czar. [ ] one of them has given a complete account of their escape, together with some interesting details on new caledonia: "un voyage de circumnavigation," by a. baillère. [ ] on the nd december , baron, ex-delegate of the accountants of paris to the workmen's congress, was summoned before the third court-martial, which accused him of having been one of the secretaries of the delegation of war during the commune. baron was condemned to transportation in a fortress. during the examination the president said, "the court will take notice that the accused still has the same sentiments as those which animated him in , for in we have seen that he took part in the workmen's congress." [ ] appendix xxxviii. [ ] even in the month of april another ship, having condemned to transportation, has been despatched from france to new caledonia. appendix. i.--(page .) the central committee found in the bureau of the war-office, and the _officiel_ of the commune published on the th april, the following letter from the supreme commander of the artillery of the army to general suzanne:-- "paris, _ th december _. "my dear suzanne--i have not found among the young auxiliaries your protégé hetzel, but only a m. hessel. is it he who is meant? "tell me frankly what you desire, and i will do it. i will attach him to my staff, where he will be bored, having nothing to do, or else i will send him to mont valérien, where he will run less risk than at paris (this for the parents), and where he will have the air of firing the cannons into the air, according to noël's method. "unbutton--your mouth, of course.--yours, guiod" the noël mentioned at that time commanded mont valérien. ii.--(page .) _the rôle of the central committee during the day of the th march._ "i would remind you that the members of the committee had separated at about half-past three in the morning of the th to the th. before raising the sitting it had been decided that the meeting of the following day should take place at eleven o'clock in the evening, at a school requisitioned for the purpose in the rue basfroi. "despite the lateness of the hour, nothing had transpired as to the movements which the government had decided upon, and the committee having only just constituted itself for the examination of its powers and the distribution of the commissions, had received no information which might have led it to suppose the imminence of the peril. its military commission had not yet begun to work; it had taken possession of the documents, notes, and minutes of the former one, and that was all. "you know how paris woke up on the morning of the th. the members of the committee heard of the events of the night through public rumours and the official placards. for my own part, aroused at about eight o'clock, i hurried on my clothes, and repaired to the rue basfroi, crossing the place de la bastille, occupied by the guard of paris. i had hardly entered the rue de la roquette when i saw that the people were beginning to organise the defence. a barricade was being commenced at the corner of the rue neuve de lappe. a little higher up i was refused passage, in spite of the declaration which i made of my quality of member of the central committee. i was obliged to go up the rue de charonne, the faubourg, and come back in the direction of the rue st. bernard. no work was going on as yet in the rue du faubourg st. antoine, but the excitement there was great. at last, towards half-past ten o'clock, i reached the rue basfroi, which was barricaded at both outlets, with the exception of an opening reserved for the cannon drawn up in the open grounds of this street, which were taken away one by one to the different barricades in course of erection. "i succeeded, not without difficulty, in getting into a schoolroom, where some of my colleagues were gathered. citizens assi, prudhomme, rousseau, gouhier, lavalette, geresme, bouit, and fougeret were there. just as i entered, a staff sublieutenant, arrested in the rue st. maur, was being led in. he was examined. next a gendarme was brought, but the only papers found in his possession were placards transmitted to one of the mairies. x. looked after this business, and had organised a sort of prison in the courtyard. i also saw defiling about fifteen individuals, military and civil, arrested by the people. in the meantime i learnt that bergeret had been sent to take the command of montmartre, where he had been named _chef-de-légion_ the day before. varlin, who came immediately after me, had set out again in order to organise the defence of the batignolles. arnold also put in his appearance for a moment, and then went to place himself at the head of his battalion. the committee had added citizens audoyneau, ferrat and billioray to its numbers. "at mid-day the course events would take was still waited for, and nothing was decided upon. i begged some of my colleagues to leave x. to his useless interrogations, and to come and to deliberate in another room, the one we occupied having by degrees been invaded by persons strangers to the committee. as soon as we were installed, we asked for some citizens willing to serve as our general staff, and to inform us as to the situation in the different quarters. a great number presented themselves. we sent them in all directions, to tell our colleagues to hurry on as much as possible the construction of the barricades, to muster the national guard, to take the command of it, and to specify the points whither we were to forward our communications. "of our messengers only four returned. he whom we had sent to the twentieth arrondissement informed us that the rallying point was in the rue de paris and at menilmontant, in front of the new mairie. varlin had great trouble in grouping the national guards of the batignolles. one staff had mustered forces at the place du trône, and had repaired to the neuilly barracks, but the soldiers had closed the gates, and assumed a menacing attitude. brunel, together with lisbonne, was preparing to threaten the barracks of the château d'eau. "other accounts apprised us that the orders of the committee were being waited for. duval had established himself at the panthéon, and waited. faltot sent us a note in these words: 'i have five or six battalions in the rue de sèvres; what am i to do?' pindy had taken possession of the mairie of the third arrondissement, and was mustering the battalions devoted to the committee. as soon as we had got this intelligence some dispositions for the attack were taken. "while these resolutions were being discussed lullier had come to place himself at the disposal of the committee. the committee had given him no formal order, and confined itself to telling him that all forces available for the taking of the hôtel-de-ville were being mustered. "in order to assure the transmission of the orders, each one of the members then present--others had come up, but i could not say who--undertook to carry them to a designated point. so at three o'clock the committee broke up, leaving assi and two other members as a permanent sub-committee at the rue basfroi."--extract from an account addressed to the author by a member of the central committee. iii.--(page .) here is a letter from one of them, later a most violent enemy of this revolution, m. meline, general secretary of the ministry of justice, written on the th march, to the president of the council of the commune: "ville de paris (_first arrondissement, mairie of the louvre_). "citizen president--i no longer possess sufficient physical strength after prolonged fatigues to combat in the midst of our assembly, which is destined to discuss so many grave questions. i beg you then to accept my resignation, and my sincere hopes that the assembly may consolidate the republic.--receive, citizen president, the expression of my fraternal sentiments, "jules meline. "_ th march ._" iv.--(page .) here is a letter addressed to the delegate at war:-- "citizen--excuse my addressing you these lines, and be so kind as to take into consideration the request which i address to you. "i have three sons in the ranks of the national guard--the eldest in the th battalion, the second in the th, and the third in the th. as to myself, i am in the th. "however, there yet remains to me one son, who is the youngest. he will soon be sixteen years old, and desires with all his heart to be enrolled in no matter what battalion; for he has sworn to his brothers and to me that he will take arms to sustain our young republic against the hangmen of versailles. "we have all agreed, and we have sworn an oath to revenge him who should fall under the fratricidal balls of our enemies. "citizen, take then the last of my sons. i offer him with all my heart to the republican fatherland. do with him as you wish, place him in a battalion of your choice, and you will make me a thousand times happy.--accept, citizen, my fraternal salutation, auguste joulon, "_guard of the th battalion_. " avenue d'italie, paris, _ th may _." v.--(page .) instances of their courage abound in the journals of the time. one quotation taken at hazard from _la commune_ of the th april:-- "on thursday, the th, at the moment when the th battalion of st. ouen defended the barricade of the cross-roads, a child, v. thiebault, fourteen years old, ran up amidst the balls in order to give the defenders something to drink. the shells having forced the federals to fall back, they were about to sacrifice the victuals of the battalion, when the child, in spite of the shells, sprang towards a barrel of wine, which he staved in, crying, 'at any rate they shall not drink our wine.' at the same instant, seizing the rifle of a federal who had just fallen, he charged it, took aim, and killed an officer of gendarmes. then perceiving a waggon with two horses harnessed to it, whose driver had just been wounded, he mounted the horses and saved the waggon.--eugène léon vanvière, thirteen and a half years old, contrived to save the guns at the outpost of the porte-maillot, in spite of his wound." vi.--(page .) the prefect of police, valentin, sent the following circular to the commissaries of the different railway stations:-- "versailles, _ th april _. "the chief of the executive power has just decided that, dating from to-day, all victualling trains and all supplies of provisions directed to paris shall be stopped. "i beg you to take all measures you may deem needful for the execution of this decree at once. you are to examine with the most vigilant attention all the railway trains, all the carriages destined for paris, and you will send back to the purveyors all the provisions you may discover. "you will for this purpose concert with ... &c. "the delegate to the functions of prefect of police. "valentin." vii.--(page .) "... accompanied by frankel and one of my brothers, i proceeded to the general post-office, which was still occupied by the national guards of order. i was immediately received by m. rampont, surrounded by the board of administration. m. rampont at first declared that he did not recognise the authority of the central committee, which had appointed me; but i think this was a merely formal precaution, for he began to parley immediately. i told him that the government of the th september, which had named him, was also born of a revolutionary movement, and that notwithstanding this he had accepted his post. during this discussion he told us that he was a mutualist-socialist, a partisan of proudhon's ideas, and consequently hostile to communistic ideas, which had just triumphed with the revolution of the th march. i answered that the revolution of the th march was not the triumph of a socialist school, but the prelude of a social transformation fettered by no particular school, and that i myself belonged to the mutualist school. after a long conversation, in which he declared himself ready to acknowledge the authority of the commune, which was to be named in two or three days, he proposed to me to submit the following undertaking to the central committee. till the day when the commune should have decided, he engaged to remain at the head of the post-office; he accepted the control of two delegates of the committee. i communicated this proposal to vaillant and a. arnaud (who had made over to me my nomination), in order that they might inform the committee. i waited in vain for an answer. "the commune met. the second day, perhaps, i broached the question of the post-office. it was to be comprised in the order of the day, but always in the confused way which one finds in the order of these debates, when, on the th march, a workman came to apprise pindy that the administration of the post-office was deserting. the commune immediately voted my nomination, and gave me the order to have the office occupied. chardon set out at the head of a battalion, accompanied by vermorel and myself. it was seven or eight o'clock in the evening. the work was done, and only a small number of employés remained. some gave us a sympathetic welcome, others seemed indifferent. chardon left a guard, and i spent the night alone in the office. "the next day, at three o'clock in the morning, i walked through the rooms and courts where the employés were arriving for the first delivery. a manuscript placard, posted in all the rooms and courts, ordered the employés to abandon their services, and repair to versailles, under pain of dismissal. i tore down these placards and exhorted the men to remain true to their posts. there was at first some indecision, then a few made up their minds to rally round me. "at eight o'clock other employés came; at nine o'clock still more. they formed groups in the large court, talked, discussed, some beat a retreat, and their example was about to be followed. "i had the doors closed, and militarily occupied by guards; and i went from group to group, discussing, menacing. at last i gave the order to each one to return to his respective bureau. thereupon a precious auxiliary came up, citizen a----, an employé at the post-office, a socialist, for whom i had a letter from a friend. there was a momentary hesitation. the father of a family, much respected, sure of an early promotion, he was about to risk an advantageous place. but his hesitation lasted only a few seconds. he promised me his assistance, and he gave it me faithfully up to the last day. he brought me into relation with citizen b----, who soon became my second. both of them furnished me with information of the greatest utility concerning this department, of which i did not know the most simple details. "all the chiefs of bureaux had abandoned their posts; so, too, had the second head-clerks, save one, who immediately had himself put on the sick-list. a---- and b---- got together some friends, head-clerks, who for a long time had done all the work of the chiefs of the bureaux. citizen c---- was placed at the head of the postal service for paris. "all the divisional bureaux, save two, had been closed and abandoned. the stock had been carried off, the cash-box emptied, as was proved by the minutes drawn up by a commissary of the commune, with the assistance of several well-known people of the quarter, amongst whom was m. brelay, since named deputy of paris. postage stamps were wanting. the carts had set off for versailles. "a., b., and some others of an indefatigable zeal, had the divisional bureaux opened by locksmiths in the presence of the commissaries of the quarter, and installed well-meaning citizens, whose apprenticeship they superintended. but there was a stoppage of two days in the delivery of letters, which gave rise to public grumbling, and i was obliged to explain the facts in a placard. at the end of forty-eight hours a. and b. had reorganised the collection and delivery of letters. "all the citizens whose services had been accepted as auxiliaries received provisionally, till their capacities could be judged of, a salary of five francs a day. "by chance we found some postage-stamps of ten centimes at the bottom of a chest. camélinat, appointed the director of the mint, sent for the plates and the stock, and forthwith began manufacturing stamps. "during the first days bundles of letters from paris destined for the provinces were taken in by the receiving officer of sceaux, who no doubt was without precise instructions; then the blockade was completed. the sending of letters to the provinces became the object of a daily struggle. secret agents went to throw them into the boxes of the offices for ten miles round. the letters of paris for paris alone were stamped with date-marks. those sent to the provinces by our smugglers only had the postage-stamp, which did not permit of their being distinguished from the others. when versailles found out the manoeuvre, it changed the dotting of the stamps. we were quits at paris by sending off the letters of importance without prepayment, and procuring stamps from the bureaux of versailles. "if the bureaux for the letters to be sent out of paris could still work, those for the collection of the letters from abroad were at a stand-still. the letters from the provinces accumulated at versailles. some men of business set up agencies, where, for a very high fee, the letters which they went to fetch at versailles might be obtained. these people exploited the population, but we could not supersede them, and we were obliged to shut our eyes. we contented ourselves with reducing the profits somewhat, by deducting from each letter the postage of paris for paris, without their being able on that account to raise the sum fixed by their advertisements. "the efforts of versailles to disorganise the reconstituted postal services were several times baffled, thanks to the vigilance of our two inspectors. however, we could not prevent the success of all their attempts at subornation. "from the first days of april we instituted a council at the post-office, composed of the delegate, his secretary, the general secretary, all the heads of services, two inspectors, and two head postmen. the postmen, _gardiens de bureaux_, and sorters had their wages raised, very little, alas! for our receipts, considerably reduced, did not allow us to be very liberal. "we decided upon the suppression, if not absolute, at least partial, of the time for serving as supernumerary, which was reduced to the strictly necessary time. the aptness of the workmen had henceforth to be proved by tests and examinations, as also the quantity and quality of their labour."--extract from an account addressed to the author by theisz. viii.--(page .) the limits of this appendix oblige me to make a résumé of the extremely interesting accounts by faillet and louis debock on the direct taxes and the national printing office:-- "in the evening of the th march faillet and combault (of the international) presented themselves at the administration of the direct taxes. on the written declaration that he yielded to menaces, the director handed them over the keys. citizen x., who was thoroughly acquainted with the administrative movement, placed himself very promptly at their disposal. "the original register and other materials for the collection of taxes had disappeared. it was decided that the taxes should be gathered according to the list of . the _personnel_ of the forty collectorships, the valuers, the employés, to make up the list, had fled. the collectors were replaced by forty citizens, some workingmen belonging to the international, the others clerks of commercial houses or government offices. some of the old officials who had not withdrawn were retained, but under the superintendence of a safe man. the presence of citizen x. decided a great number of employés to come and work under the new directors. "the service of the direct taxes was composed--for the _interior_, of a director, a general administrator, a general secretary, two sub-secretaries, one chief of the bureaux of taxes and lists, a head accountant, five other accountants, and two inspectors of the collecting offices; for the _exterior_, of forty tax-gatherers, each one assisted by two or three clerks, a bearer of summonses, and an agent with his accountants at the bonded warehouse for wine. "once or twice a week the director made a round in all the collector's offices, which the inspectors visited every day. each tax-gatherer brought the cashier of the direction the receipts of the day before. the cashier every evening laid the returns before the administration, and made over to the central pay-office of the finance department all that was not needed for the general expenses of the service. "the service ceased on the saturday evening, th may. a hundred clerks, not thinking their whole duty to the commune done, formed a corps of scouts, whose post was established in the presbytery of the temple des billettes." "on the th march, at five o'clock in the evening, pindy and louis debock presented themselves with a battalion at the national printing-office, and established themselves there. the director hauréau came down, tried to negotiate, and then went up again to his apartments. during the evening debock went to ask him for the list of workmen. hauréau took advantage of the occasion to protest his republicanism, said he was a former editor of the _national_, a friend of marrast, arago, &c., and that the movement of the th march had no _raison d'être_ whatever. a few days were allowed him for removing. "the whole _personnel_ was maintained, with the exception of the director, the sub-director, the overseer, and the chief of the works, félix derenémesnil, who was cordially detested for his brutality and injustice. these spread abroad that the central committee had no money, and that the workmen would not be paid. debock answered by an order of the day placarded in the workshops, guaranteeing the wages in the name of the central committee. "at the end of march, on the injunction of versailles, all the employés and heads of the services, with very few exceptions, abandoned the printing-office after having received their salaries. the new director took advantage of this to have the new foremen of the workshops appointed by the workmen themselves. the places of managers of the printing-press were put up for competition. as the administration of the rue pagevin threw obstacles into the way of placarding the decrees and proclamations, debock advised the workmen bill-stickers to associate themselves. they did so; their wages increased by per cent., and the printing-office saved francs a day. "the bulk of the salaries was greatly reduced; that of the lower clerks and workmen increased. on the th march a fortnight's salary was due to the workingmen and women, and a week's to the employés. the commune discharged these arrears. versailles, victorious, refused to pay the few days' wages due to the workmen. yet the versailles administration found the stock intact and in perfect order. "the budget of monthly expenses before the th march rose to , francs, of which , were absorbed by the salaries of the functionaries, employés, &c. after this date the expenses did not reach , francs a week, the expenses of placarding included. "after the commune the union républicaine announced in the journals that it had saved the archives and the national printing-office from the flames. this was a lie, as proved by the order sent on the th may to the archives at the request of debock. "_order.--the archives not to be burnt.--the colonel commanding the hôtel-de-ville, pindy._ "as to the printing-office, it was occupied by debock up to the invasion of the quarter. in the night of the th he sent to ask the committee of public safety for the documents, papers, and articles necessary for the composition of the _journal officiel_. the next day, having received no answer, and the versaillese pressing forward, he repaired to belleville, where the three proclamations or placards which appeared on the following days were printed by his order." ix.--(page .) "certainly the communal principle must have been very strong in itself to have held sixty days against such fools."--_behind the scenes at the commune_, _"fraser's magazine,"_ december, . "to conquer was so easy and simple, that it needed the double dose of vanity and ignorance with which the feeble brains of the majority of the commune were stuffed to baulk the people of its victory."--_the paris commune of , "fraser's magazine,"_ march, . "he (delescluze) had only once dared to attack me to my face, but it resulted in so much discomfiture to himself, and he came out of the affair so crestfallen, that for the future he confined himself to plotting against us behind my back, while to my face he was as civil as possible."--_behind the scenes at the commune, "fraser's magazine,"_ december, . x.--(page .) at the trial of the members of the commune, the advocate of assi read a letter which the prisoners in germany had sent his client:-- "citizen assi--so you no longer think, with the central committee of the crapulous, that we are tired of your farces and evolutions without an aim and without limits.... woe to you, sink of the people! all possible reverses will accumulate upon you, and give you, as the whole result of your acts deprived of common-sense and capacity, the hatred of the prisoners confined in germany, and the severe punishment which the admired representatives of all france will mercilessly inflict upon you. once over the frontier, the last of the prisoners will go and plunge into the heart of the guilty the poniard which is to give back security to the legal government. be prepared for the sentence which all the prisoners in germany have in store for you.... death to the insurgents! death to the infernal committee! tremble, brigands! "seen and approved by all the prisoners of magdebourg, erfurt, coblentz, mayence, berlin," &c. the signatures follow. xi.--(page .) one of laroque's reports concluded thus: "i send you the names of the friends of order and of the agents who have rendered the greatest service. jules masse, p. verdier, sigismond, galle, tarjest, honobede, toussaint, arthur sellion, jullia francisque baltead, e. philips, salowhicht, maniel, dolsand ( d battalion), rollin, verox (seminarist), d'anthome, sommé, cremonaty, tascher de la pagerie, josephine legros, jupiter (police agent), the manager of the café de suéde, the proprietor of the café de madrid, lucia, hermance, amélie, little celestine of the café des princes, camille and laura (café peters), madame du valdy (faubourg st. germain), leynhass (brewer). xii.--(page .) this is what had passed between the committee of public safety and dombrowski:-- "the latter came to us one evening and informed us that through the instrumentality of one of his officers (hutzinger), versailles had made overtures to him, and asked him to appoint a rendezvous. he demanded of us whether something could not be got out of this for the commune. we resolved to let him try the interview on condition that he should tell us all that passed. that evening we charged somebody to follow and arrest him if he yielded. from this time dombrowski was closely watched--it is thanks to this surveillance that he was not carried off by the versaillese who made use of a woman to allure him to the neighbourhood of the luxembourg--and i declare we learnt nothing that was of a nature to weaken our confidence in him. "he came the next day, and told us that a million was offered him on condition that he would betray one of the gates. he gave us the names of those he had seen; amongst others, there was a confectioner of the place de la bourse, the address of the suborners ( rue de la michaudière) and announced another rendezvous for the next day.... he explained to us how he would entice a few thousand versaillese into paris to make them prisoners. pyat and i opposed this attempt. he did not insist, but demanded that the next day , men and some howitzers should be provided for him. he had decided on attracting the versaillese troops by a surprise within reach of the fortifications.... of the , men, , or , only could be mustered, and instead of artillerists, there came only fifty."--_extract from an account addressed to the author by a member of the committee of public safety._ xiii.--(page .) here is an extract from the report addressed to the municipal council of toulouse by the delegates sent to versailles to m. thiers and the deputies of the extreme left to inquire into the situation:-- "we went then for information to the members of the extreme left; martin bernard, the companion and friend of barbès, louis blanc, schoelcher, &c. "m. louis blanc gave us the most precise information. it is useless, said he to us, to again attempt conciliation; there is too much animosity on both sides. besides, with whom could one treat in paris? these different and hostile forces dispute for power. "first there is the _commune_, the result of an election at which only a small number of electors took part, composed chiefly of unknown men, of doubtful capacities, and some times even of doubtful honour. "in the second place, a _committee of public safety_ named by the commune, but soon coming to a violent rupture with it because it wanted to direct dictatorially. "in the third place, the _central committee_, formed during the siege, and principally composed of agents of the international, solely occupied with cosmopolitan interests, and caring very little for parisian or french interests; it is this central committee which disposes of the cannon and the munitions, in one word, of almost all the material forces. "to all this must be added the bonapartist and prussian influences, whose more or less apparent action it is easy to trace in all three powers.[ ] "the parisian insurrection," continued m. louis blanc, "is legitimate in its motives and in its first aim--the revindication of the municipal franchise of paris. but the intervention of the central committee and the pretension manifested of governing all the other communes of the republic, have quite altered its character. finally, the insurrection in the presence of the prussian army, ready to enter paris if the commune is victorious, is altogether condemnable, and must be condemned by every true republican. this is why the mayors of paris, the left of the assembly, and the extreme left, have not hesitated to protest against an insurrection which the presence of the prussian army and other circumstances might render criminal. "m. martin bernard held the same language, and spoke almost in the same terms. 'if barbès still lived,' cried he, 'his heart would have been rent, and he too would have condemned this fatal insurrection.' "all the other persons whom we have been able to see--mm. henri martin, barthélemy st. hilaire, humbert, victor lefranc, &c., have spoken to us in the same way, and this unanimity could not but make a deep impression upon us." xiv.--(page .) this is the textual copy of a report addressed to the versaillese general staff:-- "the _mot d'ordre_ has been tampered with on the th, th, and th. "we had that of versailles (general douai's corps). "there has been an explosion at the rapp powder magazine, as i have already reported to you. there were some dead, and many wounded. "a commissary of police of the commission of safety has made about forty arrests. those made on account of the explosion are estimated to be about . "sergeant toussaint ( rd battery, nd squadron) has been arrested by the commune. it is said that this brave officer is shot. "the sick, according to our information, had been taken away either the day before or on the morning of the day of the catastrophe to the hôtel des invalides. the workwomen, and not the men, were sent home earlier that day. "the official of the audit office of the hospital du gros-caillou, m. bernard, has behaved very well. "i recommend to the good-will of m. le ministre, mm. janvier, bertalon (?), mauduit, morelli, and sigismond, men enjoying an excellent reputation. "they desire the cross or an important collectorship. "signal services have been rendered by madame brosset, and by mademoiselle gigaud. it is at the latter's house that i hid for eight days when rigault's people were searching for me. "this woman is very devoted; she lives in the quartier du gros caillou, rue dominique st. germain. she is the daughter of an ex-officer. she would be glad to have a tobacconist's shop."--_report of commander jerriait, ex-chief of squadron._ xv.--(page .) this fact was categorically deposed to by m. e. belgrand, director of the service of public roads, before the commission of inquiry into the th march (vol. iii., p. - ). "the insurgents attempted nothing with the sewers. in short, i may affirm that from the th march up to the entry of the troops into paris there was no attempt at all as to the sewers; that no chambers had been established there; that no incendiary, or explosive matters had been introduced, nor wires destined to set fire to mines or to incendiary matters." xvi.--(page .) the _bien public_, m. thiers' organ, directed by vrignault, published in its number of the rd june, :-- "all paris has preserved the souvenir of that terrible cannonade directed from montmartre during the last three days of the civil war against the buttes chaumont, belleville, and the père lachaise. here are some very correct details of what was happening then at the summit of the butte, behind the batteries at no. rue des rosiers. "there had been installed in this house, so sadly celebrated, a provostship, presided over by a captain of chasseurs. as the inhabitants of the quarter rivalled each other in zeal in denouncing the insurgents, the arrests were numerous. as the prisoners arrived they were questioned. "they were forced to kneel down, bare-headed, in silence, before the wall at the foot of which the unfortunate generals lecomte and clément-thomas had been assassinated. they remained thus a few hours, till others came to take their place. soon, to lessen what might be cruel in this _amende honorable_, the prisoners were allowed to sit down in the shade, but always opposite the wall, the aspect of which prepared them for death, and shortly after the principal culprits amongst them were shot. "they were taken a few steps from there to the slope of the hill, at the spot where during the siege a battery overlooked the st. denis route. it is there too that varlin was conducted, whom they had great trouble in protecting from the violence of the crowd. varlin had confessed his name, and made no efforts to escape the fate that awaited him; he died game. v. b." xvii.--(page .) the day before, at five o'clock, at the moment when the baggage of the war office arrived at the hôtel-de-ville, in the avenue victoria, two guards, carrying a chest, were assailed with a hatchet, by an individual dressed in a blouse and wearing a cap. one of the federals fell dead. the assassin, immediately seized hold of, cried, 'you are done for! you are done for! give me back my hatchet and i shall recommence.' on this madman the commissary of police of the hôtel-de-ville found papers and the _livret_, proving that he had served in the _sergents-de-ville_. during the evening of tuesday, an individual, wearing the uniform of an officer of a free corps, came to ask for orders at the hôtel-de-ville. a commandant of the same corps entered the hall and saw this officer, and not recognising him, asked his name. the latter grew confused: 'but no, you are not one of my men,' said the commandant. the individual was arrested, and found to be the bearer of versaillese instructions and orders. treason assumed all shapes. the same morning at belleville, place des fêtes, ranvier and frankel heard a drummer reading the federal guards the order not to leave their arrondissements. ranvier, interrogating the drummer, learned that the order emanated from general du bisson. xviii.--(page .) "colonel gaillard, chief of the military prisons, interrogated by the _commission d'enquête_ as to the objects of value found on the insurgents, answered: 'i can give you no information on this head. there were valuables which have not been sent to versailles. a few days ago i saw a minister of denmark. he came to inquire what had become of a sum of , francs seized on one of his compatriots who had been shot near the hôtel-de-ville. his minister told me he had been unable to obtain any information. many things happened in paris of which we know nothing.'"--_enquête sur le mars, colonel gaillard_, v. , p. . xix.--(page .) shall we ever know of all the spurious speculators, the commercial men with no resources left, the men at the brink of bankruptcy, who made use of the conflagrations in order to quit scores? how many cried 'death!' who had themselves just set the petroleum on fire. on the th march, , the assize court of the seine sentenced to ten years' hard labour a ruined bonapartist, prieur de la comble, found guilty of having set fire to his house, with the object of getting a heavy premium from the companies where he was insured. he had prepared his crime with the greatest _sang froid_, painted the walls, saturated the hangings with petroleum, made sure of nine different centres of fire. his father, a former mayor of the first arrondissement, had failed to the amount of , , francs, and at the end of the empire there had been proceedings of bankruptcy instituted against him. now, on the th may, , the house of the accused in the rue du louvre, that of his father in the rue de rivoli, that of the assignee of the failure in the boulevard sebastopol, were consumed, and owing to these triple conflagrations the account-books and vouchers disappeared. this fact was only mentioned before the assize court, and the president confined himself to saying that it was odd. he took good care not to interrogate prieur; and one knows that the presidents of assize courts are not usually chary of sifting the antecedents of the accused. the motive of this extraordinary reticence is that no blame was to be thrown upon the army and the courts-martial, which had shot or condemned some _petroleuses_ for the burning of these very houses set on fire by prieur de la comble. xx.--(page .) "... a picket of soldiers debouched from the rue de vaugirard on our left. they marched in two ranks. in the midst of them was millière. "he was dressed exactly as i had seen him some months before at bordeaux on the tribune of the assembly and in the republican circle--black trousers, dark-blue overcoat, tight and buttoned up, a high black hat. "the picket stopped before the door of the luxembourg. one of the soldiers, who held his rifle by the end of the barrel, cried, 'it is i who took him! it is i who am entitled to shoot him!' there were about a hundred persons there of both sexes and of all ages. many cried, 'death to him! shoot him!' "a national guard, wearing a tricolor armlet, seized hold of millière by the wrist, led him into the corner on the right, and placed him against the wall, then he retired.... millière uncovered himself, placed his hat on the pedestal of the column, crossed his arms on his breast, and calm and cool looked at the troops. he waited. "round us the soldiers were being questioned. 'who is it?' one of them was asked, and i heard him answer, 'it is mayer.' "a priest came out of the luxembourg; he wore a straight-cut cassock and a high hat. advancing towards millière, he spoke a few words to him and pointed to heaven. "without ostentation, but with a very firm and calm attitude, millière appeared to thank him, and shook his head in sign of refusal. the priest retired. "two officers came out from the palace and addressed themselves to the prisoner. one of them, whom the first seemed to guide, spoke to him for a minute or two. we heard the sound of voices without understanding the words exchanged, then i heard this command: 'to the panthéon!' "the picket re-formed round millière, who put on his hat, and the cortège remounted the rue de vaugirard in the direction of the panthéon. "we reached the rails at the same time as the picket. the door opened and shut upon them. placing my feet on the stone balustrade, i passed my two arms round the top of the bars; my head overlooked them, for these railings are low. by my side a soldier, the sentry of the interior, answered some prostitutes who were questioning him; his elbow, leaning against the rails, touched mine. "the picket of the troop had stopped and almost leant against the closed door. millière was led between the two columns of the centre. arrived at the spot where he was to die, and after having ascended the last step of the stairs, he exchanged a few words with the officer. searching in the pocket of his overcoat, which he had just unbuttoned, he took out an object, which i believed to be a letter, and handed it over to him, as also a watch and a locket. the officer took them, then seized hold of millière and placed him in such a manner that he should be shot from behind. the latter turned round with a brusque movement, and, his arms crossed, faced the troop. this is the only movement of indignation or of anger that i saw him make. "some more words were exchanged; millière seemed to be refusing to obey an order. the officer came down. the instant after, a soldier seized him who was to be shot by the shoulder and forced him to bend his knee upon the flagstone. "half the rifles of the platoon only were levelled at him; the others remained in the arms of the soldiers. during this time, believing his last moment come, millière three times uttered the cry, 'vive la république!' "the officer approaching the picket of the troop, ordered the rifles, which had been too hurriedly lowered, to be raised again, and then he pointed out with his sword how the order to fire would be given. "'vive le peuple! vive l'humanité,' cried millière. "the soldier on sentry, whose elbow touched my arm, answered the last words by these: 'on va t'en foutre de l'humanité!' i had hardly heard them when millière fell as if thunderstricken. "a military man, whom i believe to have been a non-commissioned officer, went up the steps, approached the corpse, lowered his rifle, and fired point-blank near the left temple. the explosion was so violent that the head of millière bounded, and appeared as if twisted back. the rain for three-quarters of an hour had beaten against his face; the cloud of powder fixed itself there. "lying on his side, his hands joined, his clothes open and thrown into disorder by the fall, his head blackened, as if burst open, seeming to look at the frontispiece of the monument, his corpse was something terrible...."--_the death of millière recounted by m. louis mie, conseiller-général of the dordogne, municipal counciller of périgueux, deputy of bordeaux to the chamber._ * * * * * madame millière having instituted judiciary proceedings against staff-captain garcin, the murderer of her husband, the trial was cut short by the following letter:-- "versailles, _ th june _. "captain garcin of the general staff attached to the d corps, has during the second siege of paris only executed the orders given him by his superiors. he can thus in no way be made responsible for deeds which were the result of these orders. the responsibility rests exclusively upon those who have given the orders. "the minister at war, "de cissey." xxi.--(page .) to the number of the innocent victims of our civil discords we have the sorrow to add the name of a young man, twenty-seven years old, m. faneau, a doctor of medicine. "dr. faneau had worked from the beginning of the war in the international ambulances. during the whole siege of paris he did not cease tending the wounded with zealous devotion. "after the revolution of the th march he remained in paris, and resumed his service in the ambulances. "on the th may he was on duty at the grand seminaire de st. sulpice, where the federals had established an ambulance. "when the army had taken possession of the cross-roads of the croix rouge, it advanced as far as the place. "a company of line soldiers came up to the door of the seminary, where floated the flag of geneva. "the officer who commanded asked to speak to the chief of the ambulance. dr. faneau, who filled this function, presented himself. "'are there any federals here?' the officer asked him. "'i have only wounded,' answered m. faneau, 'they are federals, but they have been in my ambulance for several days.' "at the moment when he was concluding these words, a shot was fired from one of the windows of the first storey, and struck a soldier. "this shot was discharged by one of the wounded federals, who had dragged himself from his bed to the window.[ ] "immediately the officer, exasperated, threw himself upon dr. faneau, crying to him, 'you lie, you have set a snare for us; you are the friend of these rascals; you are going to be shot.' "dr. faneau understood that it would be in vain to attempt to justify himself; also, he offered no resistance to the firing-party. "some minutes after the unfortunate young man fell, struck by ten bullets. "we knew dr. faneau, and we can affirm that, far from sympathising with the members of the commune, he deplored their fatal errors, and waited with impatience for the re-establishment of order."--_le siècle._ xxii.--(page .) in the _national_ of the th may appeared the following:-- "paris, _ th may _. "sir,--last friday, at the time when corpses were being picked up in the boulevard st. michel, some individuals of nineteen to twenty-five years old, dressed as well-to-do people, were seated with gay women inside, and at the doors of certain cafés of this boulevard, indulging with these in scandalous merrymaking.--accept, monsieur le rédacteur, &c., "duhamel. boulevard d'enfer." the facts mentioned above were repeated every day. the _journal de paris_, a versaillese journal suppressed by the commune, wrote:-- "the manner in which the population of paris manifested its satisfaction yesterday was rather more than frivolous, and we fear it will grow worse as time progresses. paris has now a fête-day appearance, which is sadly out of place; and unless we are to be called the parisians of the decline, this sort of thing must come to an end." then he quoted the passage from tacitus: "yet on the morrow of that horrible struggle, even before it was completely over, rome, degraded and corrupt, began once more to wallow in the voluptuous slough which was destroying its body and polluting its soul--_alibi proelia et vulnera, alibi balnea popinaeque_--'here fights and wounds, there baths and restaurants.'" xxiii.--(page .) the versaillese journals confessed to prisoners buried in the père lachaise. the _opinion nationale_ of the th june said:-- "we do not wish to leave the père lachaise without saluting with a look of christian compassion these deep trenches, where lie entombed pell-mell the insurgents taken under arms, and those who would not surrender. "they have expiated their criminal folly by an act of summary justice. may god pity and have mercy upon them! "let us rectify, in passing, the exaggerated rumours which have been spread on the subject of the executions at the père lachaise and in the environs. "it appears from certain information--we might almost venture to say official statements--that there have only been buried in that cemetery, _shot_ or killed fighting, _sixteen hundred men in all_." but the following account of the executions of la roquette has been given me by an eye-witness, who barely escaped death:-- "i had returned to my house on the saturday evening. sunday morning, on crossing the boulevard du prince eugène, i was taken in a razzia. we were conducted to la roquette. a chief of battalion was standing at the entrance. he surveyed us; then, with a nod of the head, said, 'to the right,' or 'to the left.' i was sent to the left. 'your affair is settled,' the soldiers said to us; 'you are going to be shot, _canailles!_' we were ordered to throw away our matches if we had any about us, and then the signal was given to march on. "i was the last of the file, and by the side of the sergeant who conducted us. he looked at me. 'who are you?' he asked me. 'a professor. i was taken this morning as i came out of my house.' no doubt my accent, the elegance of my clothes, struck him, for he added, 'have you any papers?' 'yes.' 'come!' and he took me back before the chief of battalion. 'commander,' said he, 'there is a mistake. this young man has his papers.' 'all right,' answered the officer, without looking at me, 'to the right.' "the sergeant led me off. as we went along, he explained to me that the prisoners taken to the left were shot. we had already got to a door on the right, when a soldier ran after us: 'sergeant, the commandant says you are to take back this man to the left.' "fatigue, despair at the defeat, the enervation caused by so much anguish, deprived me of all strength to dispute my life. 'well, shoot me,' said i to the sergeant, 'for you it will be but a crime the more! only return these papers to my family,' and i turned to the left. "i already perceived a long file of men drawn up against a wall, others lying on the ground. opposite them three priests read in their breviaries the prayers of the dying. a few steps more and i was dead, when suddenly i was seized hold of by the arm. it was my sergeant. he took me back by force to the officer. 'commandant,' said he, 'we cannot shoot this man. he has his papers!' 'let me see,' said the officer. i handed over my pocket-book, which contained a card as employé at the ministry of commerce during the first siege. 'to the right,' said the commandant. "there were soon more than , prisoners on the right. all sunday and part of the night detonations resounded by the side of us. on monday morning a platoon came in. 'fifty men,' said the sergeant. we thought we were going to be shot by parties, and no one stirred. the soldiers took the first fifty they came across. i was of the number. we were taken to the famous left side. "on a space which seemed to us endless we saw heaps of corpses. 'pick up all this rubbish,' said the sergeants to us, 'and put them into these carts.' we raised up these corpses covered with blood and mud. the soldiers made frightful jokes; 'see what grimaces they cut,' and with their heels crushed some face. it seemed to me that some were still living. we told the soldiers so, but they answered, 'come, come! get on!' certainly some died under the earth. we put , corpses into these carts." the _liberté_ of the th june said:-- "the governor of la roquette during the commune, and his acolytes, were shot on the very scene of their exploits. "for the other national guards arrested in this neighbourhood, and whose number exceeded , , a provisional court-martial was installed in the roquette itself. a commissary of police and police agents of safety were charged with the first examination. those appointed to be shot were sent into the interior; they were killed from behind while they were walking along, and their bodies were thrown on to the nearest heap. all these monsters had the faces of bandits; the exceptions were to be regretted." xxiv.--(page .) "at the time of the trial of the members of the council of the commune before the third court-martial sitting at versailles, a certain m. gabriel ossude came to give evidence as witness against jourde, in whose arrest he was concerned, he said, in his quality of provost of the seventh arrondissement, and as colonel merlin, president of the court, seemed astonished that such a function should have devolved upon a civilian, m. ossude entered into very precise explanations, which i remember perfectly. "he declared that towards the end of the commune the prevotal courts had been instituted by the government of versailles in view of the early entry of the troops into paris; that the number and the seats of the exceptional tribunals had been arranged beforehand, as well as the topographical limits of their jurisdictions; that he (m. gabriel ossude) had received his nomination from the hands of m. thiers, although he held no rank in the army, but as captain of the seventeenth battalion of the national guard."--_letter of ulysse parent, rappel, march , ._ xxv.--(page .) "near the ecole militaire the scene is at this moment very affecting; prisoners are continually being led there, and their trial is _terminated_ beforehand. it consists only in detonations."--_siècle, th may._ "the courts-martial functioned in paris with unheard-of activity at several special points. at the lobau barracks, at the ecole militaire, the fusillade is permanently heard. it is the settling of accounts with those wretches who openly took part in the struggle."--_liberté, th may._ "since morning (sunday, th may) a strong cordon is being formed round the theatre (châtelet), where a court-martial is permanently established. from time to time one sees a band of fifteen to twenty individuals coming out, composed of national guards, civilians, _women and children fifteen to sixteen years old_. "these individuals are condemned to death. they march two and two, escorted by a platoon of chasseurs, who lead and bring up the procession. this cortège goes up the quai de gèvres and enters the republican barracks in the place lobau. a minute after one hears from within the fire of platoons and successive musketry discharges; it is the sentence of the court-martial which has just been executed. "the detachment of chasseurs returns to the châtelet to fetch other prisoners. the crowd seems deeply impressed on hearing the noise of the fusillades."--_journal des débats, th may, ._ xxvi.--(page .) a journal of the belgian bourgeoisie, the _etoile_, one of the most violent against the commune, allowed this avowal to escape it:-- "the majority have met death like the arabs after battle, with indifference, with contempt, without hatred, without anger, without insult to their executioners. "all the soldiers who took part in these executions, and whom i have questioned, have been unanimous in their accounts. "one of them said to me, 'we shot about forty of these _canailles_ at passy. they all died like soldiers. some crossed their arms, and stood head erect. others opened their tunics and cried to us 'fire! we are not afraid of death.' "not one of those whom we have shot trembled. i especially remember an artillerist, who by himself did us more harm than a whole battalion. he was alone serving a piece of cannon. during three-quarters of an hour he peppered us with grape shot, and he killed and wounded not a few of my comrades. at last he was overwhelmed. we had turned his barricade. "i still see him. he was a strongly-built man. he was bathed in perspiration from the service he had done during three-quarters of an hour. 'your turn now,' said he to us. 'i have merited shooting, but i shall die game.' "another soldier of general clinchant's corps told me how his company had led to the ramparts eighty-four insurgents taken bearing arms. "they all placed themselves in a line, he said to me, as if they were going to exercise. not one faltered. one of them who had a handsome face, wore trousers in fine cloth tucked into his boots, and a zouave's belt round his waist, said to us calmly, 'try to aim at my chest; be careful not to touch my head.' we all fired, but the poor fellow had half of his head carried away." a functionary of versailles made me the following recital:-- "during the day, sunday, i made an excursion to paris. i went by the théâtre du châtelet towards the smoking ruins of the hôtel-de-ville, when i was surrounded and carried along by the stream of a crowd which was following a convoy of prisoners. "i found among them the same men whom i had seen in the battalions of the siege of paris. almost all seemed to me to be working-men. "their faces betrayed neither despair nor despondency nor emotion. they walked on with a firm, resolute step, and they seemed to me so indifferent to their fate that i thought they expected to be released. i was entirely mistaken. these men had been taken in the morning at menilmontant, and knew whither they were being led. arrived at the lobau barracks, the cavalry officers who preceded the escort had a semi-circle formed, and prevented the curious from advancing." xxvii.--(page .) one of the most ignoble barkers of versailles, francisque sarcey, wrote in the _gaulois_ of the th june:-- "men who are quite cool, of whose judgment and word i cannot doubt, have spoken to me with an astonishment mingled with horror of the scenes they had seen, seen with their own eyes, and which rendered me rather meditative. "young women, pretty of face, and dressed in silk dresses, came down into the street, and a revolver in their hands, fired at random, and then said with proud mien, elevated voice, eyes full of hatred, 'shoot me at once!' one of them, who had been taken in a house whence they had fired from the windows, was about to be bound in order to be taken to versailles and judged there. "'come,' said she, 'save me the trouble of the journey!' and placing herself against a wall, her arms spread open, her breast bare, she seemed to solicit--to provoke death. "all those who have been seen executed thus summarily by furious soldiers have died, insults on their tongues, with a laugh of contempt, like martyrs, who in sacrificing themselves accomplish a great duty." xxviii.--(page .) at the time of an action entered against m. raspail, _fils_, in , for his pamphlet in favour of an amnesty, the following letter, addressed to him by m. hervey de saisy, senator, was read in court:-- "i cannot, for motives of discretion bearing on divers persons, repeat in this letter the recital which i made you _vivâ voce_ on the occasion of which you remind me. however, i wish to answer your courteous appeal by repeating here the words which served as a reason for the iniquitous order by which the life of m. cernuschi was menaced, during the day on which the troops took possession of the prison of ste. pélagie and the jardin des plantes. "these are the words pronounced by the general of division who gave the order of summary execution. learning that cernuschi had repaired to the prison, at the door of which i saw his carriage, he said to some one, whom i cannot mention, 'ah! it is cernuschi, the man of the , francs of the plébiscite. return to the prison, and let him be shot within five minutes.' "five minutes represented the time that would be required by the bearer of the order in going to the prison from the cèdre du jussieu, whence the general watched the phases of the combat. "at first i did not understand this strange phrase, but some moments after i remembered that it was the expression of a political vengeance which was about to be exercised against m. cernuschi for having offered , francs for the propaganda which the opposition was to make during the final plébiscite of the empire. "profoundly indignant at what i had just heard, i was fortunate enough to bring about a fortuitous incident to which the already condemned victim owed his salvation. "such are the details i am able to furnish you with. "hervÉ de saisy." xxix.--(page .) "some journals of paris," wrote the _echo de la dordogne_, on the th june, , "have repeated that tony moilin had been condemned and shot for having been taken arms in hand on the th may. this report is incorrect. "one single fact was tony moilin reproached with: that of having on the th march taken possession of the mairie of his arrondissement, and having thus had a share in giving the signal for the insurrection. he was shown a kind of dismissal given by him on that day to m. hérisson, the mayor whom he had replaced. no witness was heard. "moilin admitted the fact; then he added that he had exercised the function of mayor during hardly two days; that at the end of this time, little in accord with the men of the commune, he had voluntarily ceased to appear at the mairie, where he had been immediately replaced. "the court-martial asked moilin to account for his time and his acts since the day of the entry of the army of versailles into paris. he answered that, known for a long time, especially through the blois trial and by his writings, as one of the chiefs of the socialist party, having to answer for taking possession of the mairie of the eighth arrondissement on the th march, fearing a too summary justice and the fury of the first moments, he had sought and found shelter at a friend's, and that, from the monday morning till the saturday night; ... that on the saturday evening, the th march, this friend had asked his guest to leave his retreat, and that on leaving this inhospitable house, discouraged, not seeking any longer to defend his liberty, nor even his life, he had returned to his home, where, on the denunciation of his porter and his neighbours, he had been almost directly afterwards arrested and taken before the court-martial at the luxembourg. "to this recital was confined the defence of tony moilin, who was immediately condemned to death. the court-martial _condescended to tell him that the fact of the mairie, the only one he could be reproached with, had in itself not much importance, and did not merit death, but that he was one of the chiefs of the socialist party, dangerous through his talents, his character, and his influence over the masses; one of those men, in short, of whom a prudent and wise government must rid itself when it finds a legitimate occasion to do so_. "tony moilin could only be satisfied with the urbanity (_sic_) of the members of the court. without any difficulty a respite of twelve hours was granted him in order that he might make his testament, write a few words of farewell to his father, and finally give his name to the woman who had, during the blois trial and since, shown him the greatest devotion. these duties fulfilled, on the th may, in the morning, tony moilin was led into the garden a few steps from the palace and shot. his body, which his widow claimed, the surrender of which had been at first promised, was refused her." xxx.--(page .) this assassination also stands to the debit account of garcin. let us again allow him to speak. "billioray at first attempted to deny his identity. he wanted to rush upon a soldier; he was a man of athletic strength.... he defended himself, he foamed with rage. there was hardly time to interrogate him. he began some tale about money, whose place of concealment he could indicate. he spoke of , francs; then he interrupted himself, in order to say to me, 'i see you are going to have me shot. it is useless for me to say any more.' i said to him, 'you persist?' 'yes.' he was shot."--_enquéte sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. . xxxi--(page .) "the event took place on thursday, th may, at a few minutes past six in the evening, in the small rue des prêtres-saint-germain l'auxerrois. vallès was coming out of the théâtre du châtelet, led off by the firing-party charged to shoot him. he wore a black coat, and light trousers of a yellowish shade. he wore no hat; and his beard, which he had shaved but lately, was very short, and already getting grey. "on entering the lane where the ominous sentence was to be carried out, the sentiment of self-preservation gave him back the energy which seemed to have abandoned him. he wanted to fly; but, held back by the soldiers, he got into a horrible fury, crying 'murder!' writhing, seizing his executioners by the throat, biting them, offering, in one word, a desperate resistance. "the soldiers were beginning to be embarrassed and a little moved at this horrible struggle, when one of them passing behind gave him such a furious blow in the loins with the butt-end of his gun that the unfortunate man fell with a low groan. "no doubt the spinal column was broken. they then fired some shots with their revolvers straight into his body, and pierced him with bayonet thrusts. as he was still breathing, one of the executioners approached and discharged his chassepot into his ear. part of the skull burst open; his body was abandoned in the gutter till some one came to pick it up. "it is then that the spectators of this scene approached, and despite the wounds that disfigured him, were able to establish his identity."--_account by a military surgeon published in the gaulois._ xxxii.--(page .) the _radical_ of the th may, , published the following letter from an employé at st. thomas d'acquin, who during the commune had rendered the versaillese the service of preventing the firing of the cannons of cm. breechloaders:-- "_to monsieur le comte daru, president of the committee of inquiry into the insurrection of the th march, versailles._ "monsieur le president,--i have just read in a book, which is entitled _enquête parlementaire sur l'insurrection du mars_, under the head, _evidence of witnesses_, the following evidence by the staff-captain garcin:-- "'all those who were arrested under arms were shot during the first moments, that is to say, during the combat. but when we were masters of the left bank there were no more executions.' "in the report of marshal macmahon on the operations of the army of versailles against insurgent paris, i find the following declaration:-- "'in the evening of the th may the whole left bank was in our power, as also the bridges of the seine.' "the evidence of captain garcin is unfortunately contrary to the truth. four days after the th may my son and fourteen other unhappy victims were killed at the dupleix barracks, situated on the left bank, near the ecole militaire. "on the st august i addressed the minister of justice a complaint on this subject, of which i send you a correct copy. after having related the facts with regard to my son, i demanded that the law should search for and punish the culprits. "up to the present time the law has remained deaf to my claims, notwithstanding the publicity i have given this complaint, in order to prove the disappearance of my child. "if it were true, as captain garcin declares, that orders had been given by the general commander-in-chief of the troops of the left bank to put an end to these executions after the evening of the th may; if again it were true that marshal macmahon had by his despatch of the th may given the order to suspend all executions, as the colonel presiding over the court-martial at the trial of the members of the commune declared--the officer of the gendarmerie, named roncol, who ordered the massacres at the dupleix barracks, and his accomplices should have been prosecuted for having, in contempt of the orders of the chief of the army, had unfortunate people killed who had taken no part in the combat. "thus, horrible fact, in the morning of the th may, while i was giving up the cannon at st. thomas d'acquin, which my son and i had sworn on our honour to preserve for the state, and for which we had risked our lives, my son was being massacred at the end of a stable by those who ought to have protected him. "in consequence of these facts, which i have just made public, i beg monsieur le président to be so obliging as to have the evidence of captain garcin rectified, which is on this point of the executions entirely contrary to truth.--i have the honour, monsieur le président, &c., (signed) "g. laudet." "the correct copy of this was addressed in a registered letter of the th march, , under the number , to m. le comte daru, who has acknowledged the receipt of it. "g. laudet." "paris, _ rd may _." xxxiii.--(page .) "it is in the bois de boulogne that those condemned to death by the court-martial will for the future be executed. whenever the number of the condemned shall exceed ten men the execution platoons will be replaced by a mitrailleuse."--_paris journal, th june._ "all circulation is forbidden in the bois de boulogne. "one is forbidden to enter there, unless accompanied by a platoon of soldiers, and still more forbidden to come out again."--_paris journal, th june._ xxxiv.--(page .) "one man, a swarthy, burly fellow, with a shock head of black hair, sat down at the corner of the rue de la paix and declined to go any further, shaking his fist at the people and grinding his teeth. after several attempts at coercive measures, one of the soldiers lost all patience, and drove his bayonet twice into his body, telling him to get up and walk on like the rest. as might have been expected, this method was not successful, and so he was seized and placed on a horse, from which he speedily threw himself, and was then tied to its tail, and dragged along the ground after the manner of brunhilda. he soon became faint from loss of blood, and having thus been reduced to a quiescent state, was bundled into an ambulance waggon, and carried off amid the shouts and execrations of the populace."--_times, may st._ "another prisoner, who had also refused to march, was dragged by the hands and hair of the head along the road."--_times, may th._ "near the parc monceaux a husband and wife were seized, and ordered to march forward towards the place vendôme, a distance of a mile and a half. they were both of them invalids and unable to walk so far. the woman sat down on the kerbstone, and declined to move a step in spite of her husband's entreaties that she would try. she persisted in her refusal, and they both knelt down together, begging the gendarmes who accompanied them to shoot them at once if shot they were to be. twenty revolvers were fired, but they still breathed, and it was only at the second discharge that they finally sank down dead. the gendarmes then rode away, leaving the bodies as they had fallen."--_times, may th._ xxxv.--(page .) the conservative paper, the _tricolore_, said on the st may:-- "sunday morning, the th, out of more than _two thousand_ federals, one hundred and eleven of them have been shot in the ditches of passy, and that under circumstances which show that the victory [the conclusion of this nonsensical phrase must be given in the original] _était entrée dans toute la maturité de la situation_. "'let those who have white hairs step out from the ranks!' said general gallifet, who presided at the execution, and the number of grey-headed federals amounted to one hundred and eleven! "for these the aggravating circumstance was having been contemporaries of june, . "there is here a new _retro-syncopante_ theory which might take us a long way back." the _liberté_ of brussels published the following declaration, signed by eve-witnesses, of the facts which had occurred at la muette on the th may, :-- "on the th of last may we formed part of the column of prisoners who had left the boulevard malesherbes at eight o'clock in the morning in the direction of versailles. we stopped at the château of la muette, where general gallifet, after having dismounted from his horse, passed into our ranks, and then making a choice, he pointed out to the troops eighty-three men and three women. they were taken away along the talus of the fortifications and shot before us. after this exploit the general said to us: '_my name is gallifet. your journals in paris have sullied me enough. i take my revenge._' "thence we were directed to versailles, where during the journey we were again obliged to assist at frightful executions of two women and three men, who, falling down exhausted and being unable to keep up with the column, were killed with bayonet-thrusts by the _sergents de ville_ forming our escort." the names followed, with the professions and addresses of the signers, to the number of eleven. * * * * * "the column of prisoners halted in the avenue uhrich and was drawn up four or five deep on the footway facing to the road. general the marquis de gallifet and his staff, who had preceded us there, dismounted, and commenced an inspection from the left of the line and near where i was. walking down slowly, and eyeing the ranks as if at an inspection, the general stopped here and there, tapping a man on the shoulder or beckoning him out of the rear-ranks. in most cases, without further parley, the individual thus selected was marched out into the centre of the road, where a small supplementary column was thus soon formed.... they evidently knew too well that their last hour had come, and it was fearfully interesting to see their different demeanours. one, already wounded, his shirt soaked with blood, sat down in the road and howled with anguish; ... others wept in silence; two soldiers, presumed deserters, pale but collected, appealed to all the other prisoners as to whether they had ever seen them amongst their ranks; some smiled defiantly.... it was an awful thing to see one man thus picking out a batch of his fellow-creatures to be put to a violent death in a few minutes without further trial.... a few paces from where i stood, a mounted officer pointed out to general gallifet a man and woman for some particular offence. the woman, rushing out of the ranks, threw herself on her knees and with outstretched arms implored mercy, and protested her innocence in passionate terms. the general waited for a pause, and then, with most impassable face and unmoved demeanour, said: 'madame, i have visited every theatre in paris; your acting will have no effect on me' (ce n'est pas la peine de jouer la comédie).... i followed the general closely down the line, still a prisoner, but honoured with a special escort of two chasseurs-à-cheval, and endeavoured to arrive at what guided him in his selections. the result of my observations was that it was not a good thing on that day to be noticeably taller, dirtier, cleaner, older, or uglier than one's neighbour. one individual in particular struck me as probably owing his speedy release from the ills of this world to his having a broken nose on what might have been otherwise an ordinary face, and being unable from his height to conceal it. over a hundred being thus chosen, a firing party told off, and the column resumed its marching, leaving them behind. in a few minutes afterwards, a dropping fire in our rear commenced and continued for over a quarter of an hour. it was the execution of these summarily convicted wretches."--_the daily news, june , ._ "yesterday (sunday, th), about one o'clock, general gallifet appeared at the head of a column of , prisoners.... upon their haggard countenances and in their downcast eyes there was no ray of hope to be seen. they were evidently prepared for the worst fate, and dragged listlessly along, as though it were not worth while to walk to versailles to be shot when an immediate execution might save them the trouble. m. de gallifet seemed to be of the same opinion, and a little beyond the arc-de-triomphe he halted the column, selected eighty-two, and had them shot there and then. a little after this a band of twenty pompiers were marched into the parc monceaux and executed."--_the times, may , ._ xxxvi.--(page .) here is a copy of a letter addressed to the versaillese general staff, and probably still in its possession, and bearing the number ibis:-- "_to the chief of the general staff._ "general--i have been mistaken for a m. de beaufond, and this annoys me all the more, that negligences committed by him are imputed to me. "i have certainly not wasted my time during this period of fifteen days. i have organised quite a legion of combatants. their order is to run away on the approach of the troops, and thus to throw the ranks of the federals into disorder. "the means indicated by the committee of a---- seems to be practicable. i will make use of it. with only one hundred drunkards one can do many a thing." xxxvii.--(page .) this, according to the, of course, very approximate report of general appert, is the contingent furnished by the different professions:-- jewellers, pasteboard makers, hatters, carpenters, , clerks, , shoemakers, dressmakers, gilders, cabinetmakers, , commercial employés, instrument makers, tin-workers, founders, engravers, watchmakers, compositors, stained paper printers, teachers, , day labourers, , bricklayers, , joiners, lace-makers, house-painters, bookbinders, sculptors, , locksmiths and mechanicians, tailors, tanners, moulders, stone-cutters. xxxviii.--(page .) notably in the affair of the spy of the hautes-bruyères, for which several persons had already been condemned. this spy--a young man of twenty, and not a child, as the reactionists have stated--had attracted the shells of the enemy to the federal positions. brought before a court-martial, composed of la cécilia, commander of the army corps, of johannard, delegate of the commune, and of all the chiefs of battalions, he admitted having taken the versaillese the plan of the federal positions, and having received twenty francs as reward. he was unanimously condemned to death. at the moment of the execution, johannard and grandier, la cécilia's aide-de-camp, explained to the condemned man that he would be pardoned if he would reveal the name of his accomplice, an inhabitant of montrouge. he replied, "you are brigands. _je vous emm...._" this fact, odiously travestied, has furnished victor hugo, very ill informed as to this civil war, with a verse for his "année terrible," as unjust to johannard as to sérizier, one of the men shot at satory. the great poet owes himself a disclaimer. footnotes: [ ] thiers and jules favre themselves have calumniated paris less than louis blanc. the first says in the _enquéte sur le mars_, vol. ii. p. : "_it is not true, as has been asserted, that i had great difficulties with the prussian government concerning the commune, or that it had any predilection for the latter._" jules favre, vol. ii. p. ; "_i have seen nothing that could authorise me to accuse either the bonapartists or prussia. general trochu has been mistaken. i have seen nothing that could authorise me to accuse the bonapartists of having fomented the th march. after the insurrection of the th march, i spent my time in refusing the offers which were made me by the prussians to assist in the overthrow of the commune._" [ ] the _siècle_, in search of attenuating circumstances for the army, had invented this more than phantasmagorial incident. the end. +---------------------------------------------------+ | transcriber's note: | | | | inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | page xii creusot changed to creuzot | | page xii ansniÈres changed to asniÈres | | page wantel changed to wanted | | page strasburg changed to strasbourg | | page unheard-off changed to unheard-of | | page phrenzy changed to frenzy | | page lafrançais changed to lefrançais | | page seing changed to seeing | | page sergeants changed to sergents | | page d'aurelle's changed to d'aurelles's | | page sergeants changed to sergents | | page posession changed to possession | | page baracks changed to barracks | | page champs changed to champ | | page brunei changed to brunel | | page dou changed to do | | page obstain changed to abstain | | page vemdÔme changed to vendÔme | | page oppresion changed to oppression | | page arnand changed to arnaud | | page beuit changed to bouit | | page commisssion changed to commission | | page curassiers changed to cuirassiers | | page motionles changed to motionless | | page thiesz changed to theisz | | page molineaux changed to moulineaux | | page kepis changed to képis | | page commume changed to commune | | page battailons changed to battalions | | page seing changed to seeing | | page asnieres changed to asniÈres | | page slaav changed to slav | | page is changed to it | | page bourdeaux changed to bordeaux | | page offiee changed to office | | page themelves changed to themselves | | page aut changed to out | | page galiffet changed to gallifet | | page haid changed to said | | page aout changed to août | | page gamlon changed to gambon | | page afer changed to after | | page montargies changed to montargiss | | page sebastien changed to sébastien | | page voll. changed to vol. | | page batallion changed to battalion | | page de changed to the | | page sarragossa changed to saragossa | | page pigale changed to pigalle | | page carefuly changed to carefully | | page hausman changed to hausmann | | page run changed to ran | | page und changed to and | | page sergeants changed to sergents | | page verdagner changed to verdagnier | | page boidenemetz changed to boisdenemetz | | page quinsonnaz changed to quinsonnas | | page intransigeants changed to intransigents | | page fvom changed to from | | page committe changed to committee | | page meillot changed to maillot | | page perigeux changed to perigueux | | page proclia changed to proelia | | page cemetry changed to cemetery | +---------------------------------------------------+ [illustration: "paris had taken off her mourning"] about paris by richard harding davis illustrated by charles dana gibson [illustration] new york harper & brothers publishers by richard harding davis. our english cousins. illustrated. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . the rulers of the mediterranean. illustrated. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . the west from a car-window. illustrated. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . the exiles, and other stories. illustrated. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ . van bibber, and others. illustrated. post vo, cloth, ornamental, $ ; paper, cents. =published by= harper & brothers, =new york=. copyright, , by harper & brothers. _all rights reserved._ to paul bourget contents page i. the streets of paris ii. the show-places of paris--night iii. paris in mourning iv. the grand prix and other prizes v. americans in paris illustrations page "paris had taken off her mourning" _frontispiece_ "the concierge of each house stood continually at the front door" "she looked down upon our street" "with a long loaf of bread" "tes dans la rue, va, t'es chez toi" "the party promptly broke up" "and transform long-haired students into members of the institute" inside columbin's "and you believe the guides" the chÂteau rouge at bruant's at the black cat a cafÉ chantant on montmartre some young people of montmartre at the moulin rouge at the jardin de paris portraits of carnot in heavy black "to bring a queen back to paris" "the girl who represented alsace" the restaurant among the trees interested in the winner "around some stately dignitary" "the man that broke the bank at monte carlo" "listening for the voice to speak his name once more" "standing on their feet for hours at a time" "the american colony is not wicked" what might some time happen if these were love-matches "'i have one picture in the salon'" about paris i the streets of paris the street that i knew best in paris was an unimportant street, and one into which important people seldom came, and then only to pass on through it to the rue de rivoli, which ran parallel with it, or to the rue castiglione, which cut it evenly in two. it was to them only the shortest distance between two points, for the sidewalks of this street were not sprinkled with damp sawdust and set out with marble-topped tables under red awnings, nor were there the mirrors and windows of jewellers and milliners along its course to make one turn and look. it was interesting only to those people who lived upon it, and to us perhaps only for that reason. if you judged it by the circumstance that we all spent our time in hanging out of the windows, and that the concierge of each house stood continually at the front door, you would suppose it to be a most interesting thoroughfare, in which things were always happening. what did happen was not interesting to the outsider, and you had to live in it some time before you could appreciate the true value of the street. with one exception. this was the great distinction of our street, and one of which we were very proud. a poet had lived in his way, and loved in his way, in one of the houses, and had died there. you could read the simple, unromantic record of this in big black letters on a tablet placed evenly between the two windows of the entresol. it gave a distinguished air to that house, and rendered it different from all of the others, as a legion of honor on the breast of a french soldier makes him conspicuous amongst his fellows. alfred de musset né à paris le décembre est mort dans cette maison le mai [illustration: "the concierge of each house stood continually at the front door"] we were all pleased when people stopped and read this inscription. we took it as a tribute to the importance of our street, and we felt a proprietary interest in that tablet and in that house, as though this neighborly association with genius was something to our individual credit. we had other distinguished people in our street, but they were very much alive, and their tablets were colored ones drawn by chéret, and pasted up all over paris in endless repetition; and though their celebrity may not live as long as has the poet's, while they are living they seem to enjoy life as fully as he did, and to get out of the present all that the present has to give. the one in which we all took the most interest lived just across the street from me, and by looking up a little you could see her looking out of her window, with her thick, heavy black hair bound in bandeaux across her forehead, and a great diamond horseshoe pinned at her throat, and with just a touch of white powder showing on her nose and cheeks. she looked as though she should have lived by rights in the faubourg st.-germain, and she used to smile down rather kindly upon the street with a haughty, tolerant look, as if it amused her by its simplicity and idleness, and by the quietness, which only the cries of the children or of the hucksters, or the cracking at times of a coachman's whip, ever broke. she looked very well then, but it was in the morning that the street saw her at her best. for it was then that she went out to ride in the bois in her whitechapel cart, and as she never awoke in time, apparently, we had the satisfaction of watching the pony and the tiger and cart for an hour or two until she came. it was a brown basket-cart, and the tiger used to walk around it many times to see that it had not changed in any particular since he had examined it three minutes before, and the air with which he did this gave us an excellent idea of the responsibility of his position. so that people passing stopped and looked too--bakers' boys in white linen caps and with baskets on their arms, and commissionnaires in cocked hats and portfolios chained to their persons, and gentlemen freshly made up for the morning, with waxed mustaches and flat-brimmed high hats, and little girls with plaits, and little boys with bare legs; and all of us in-doors, as soon as we heard the pony stamp his sharp hoofs on the asphalt, would drop books or razors or brooms or mops and wait patiently at the window until she came. when she came she wore a black habit with fresh white gloves, holding her skirt and crop in one hand, and the crowd would separate on either side of her. she did not see the crowd. she was used to crowds, and she would pat the pony's head or rub his ears with the fresh kid gloves, and tighten the buckle or shift a strap with an air quite as knowing as the tiger's, but not quite so serious. then she would wrap the lap-robe about her, and her maid would take her place at her side with the spaniel in her arms, and she would give the pony the full length of the lash, and he would go off like a hound out of the leash. they always reached the corner before the tiger was able to overtake them, and i believe it was the hope of seeing him some morning left behind forever which led to the general interest in their departure. and when they had gone, the crowd would look at the empty place in the street, and at each other, and up at us in the windows, and then separate, and the street would grow quiet again. one could see her again later, if one wished, in the evening, riding a great horse around the ring, in another habit, but with the same haughty smile; and as the horse reared on his hind-legs, and kicked and plunged as though he would fall back on her, she would smile at him as she did on the children in our street, with the same unconcerned, amused look that she would have given to a kitten playing with its tail. the houses on our street had tall yellow fronts with gray slate roofs, and roof-gardens of flowers and palms in pots. some of the houses had iron balconies, from which the women leaned and talked across the street to one another in purring nasal voices, with a great rolling of the r's and an occasional disdainful movement of the shoulders. when any other than a french woman shrugs her shoulders she moves the whole upper part of her body, from the hips up; but the french woman's shoulders and arms are all that change when she makes that ineffable gesture that we have settled upon as the characteristic one of her nation. [illustration: "she looked down upon our street"] in a street of like respectability to ours in london or new york those who lived on it would know as little of their next-door neighbor as of a citizen at another end of the town. the house fronts would tell nothing to the outside world; they would frown upon each other like family tombs in a cemetery; but in this street of paris the people lived in it, or on the balconies, or at the windows. we knew what they were going to have for dinner, because we could see them carrying the uncooked portions of it from the restaurant at the corner, with a long loaf of bread under one arm and a single egg in the other hand; and when some one gave a fête we knew of it by the rows of bottles on the ledge of the window and the jellies set out to cool on the balcony. we were all interested in the efforts of the stout gentleman in the short blue smoking-jacket who taught his parrot to call to the coachman of each passing fiacre; he did this every night after dinner, with his cigarette in his mouth, and with great patience and good-nature. we took a common pride also in the flower-garden of the young people on the seventh floor, and in their arrangement of strings upon which the vines were to grow, and in the lines of roses, which dropped their petals whenever the wind blew, upon the head of the concierge, so that she would look up and shake her head at them, and then go inside and get a broom and sweep the leaves carefully away. when any one in our street went off in his best clothes in a fiacre we looked after him with envy, and yet with a certain pride that we lived with such fortunate people, who were evidently much sought after in the fashionable world; and when a musician or a blind man broke the silence of our street with his music or his calls, we vied with one another in throwing him coppers--not on his account at all, but because we wished to stand well in the opinion of our neighbors. it was like camping out on two sides of a valley where every one could look over into the other's tent. there was a young couple near the corner, who, i think, had but lately married, and every evening she used to watch for him in a fresh gown for a half-hour or so before he came. during the day she wore a very plain gown, and her eyes wandered everywhere; but during that half-hour before he came she never changed her position nor relaxed her vigil. and it made us all quite uncomfortable, and we could not give our attention to anything else until he had turned the corner and waved his hand, and she had answered him with a start and a little shrug of content. after dinner they appeared together, and he would put his arm around her waist, with that refreshing disregard for the world that french lovers have, and they would smile down upon us in a very happy and superior manner, or up at the sun as it sank a brilliant red at the end of our street, with the hundreds of chimney-pots looking like black musical notes against it. there was also a very interesting old lady in the house that blocked the end of our street, a very fat and masculine old lady in a loose white wrapper, who spent all of her time rearranging her plants and flowers, and kept up an amiable rivalry with the people in the balconies above and below her in the abundance and verdure of her garden. it was a very pleasant competition for the rest of us, as it hung that end of the street with a curtain of living green. [illustration: "with a long loaf of bread"] for a little time there was a young girl who used to sit upon the balcony whenever the sun was brightest and the air not too chill; but she took no interest in the street, for she knew nothing of it except its noises. she lay always in an invalid's chair, looking up at the sky and the roof-line above, and with her profile against the gray wall. during the day a nurse in a white cap sat with her; but after dinner a stout, jaunty man of middle age came back from his club or his bureau, and took the place beside her until it grew dark, when he and the nurse would lift her in-doors again, and he would take his hat and go off to the boulevards, i suppose, to cheer himself a bit. it did not last long, for one day i came home to find them taking down a black-and-silver curtain from the front of the house, and the concierge said that the girl had been buried, and that her father was now quite alone. for the first week after that he did not go to the boulevards, but used to sit out on the balcony until late into the evening, with the night about him, so that we would not have known he was there save for the light of his cigar burning in the darkness. the step from our street to the boulevards is a much longer one in the imagination than in actual distance. our street, after all, was only typical of thousands of other parisian streets, and when you have explained it you have described miles after miles of other streets like it. but there is nothing just like the boulevards. if you should wish to sit at the exact centre of the world and to watch it revolve around you, you have only to take your place at that corner table of the café de la paix which juts the farthest out into the avenue de l'opéra and the boulevard capucines. this table is the apex of all the other tables. it turns the tides of pedestrians on the broad sidewalks of both the great thoroughfares, and it is geographically situated exactly under the "de la" of the "café de la paix," painted in red letters on the awning over your head. from this admirable position you can sweep the square in front of the opera-house, the boulevard itself, and the three great streets running into it from the river. people move obligingly around and up and down and across these, and if you sit there long enough you will see every one worth seeing in the known world. there is a large class of parisians whose knowledge of that city is limited to the boulevards. they neither know nor care to know of any other part; we read about them a great deal, of them and their witticisms and café politics; and what "the boulevards" think of this or that is as seriously quoted as what "a gentleman very near the president," or "a diplomat whose name i am requested not to give, but who is in a position to know whereof he speaks," cares to say of public matters at home. for my part, i should think an existence limited to two sidewalks would be somewhat sad, especially if it were continued into the middle age, which all boulevardiers seem to have already attained. it does not strike one as a difficult school to enter, or as one for which there is any long apprenticeship. you have only to sit for an hour every evening under the "de la," and you will find that you know by sight half the faces of the men who pass you, who come up suddenly out of the night and disappear again, like slides in a stereopticon, or whom you find next you when you take your place, and whom you leave behind, still sipping from the half-empty glasses ordered three hours before you came. the man who goes to paris for a summer must be a very misanthropic and churlish individual if he tires of the boulevards in that short period. there is no place so amusing for the stranger between the hours of six and seven and eleven and one as these same boulevards; but to the parisian what a bore it must become! that is, what a bore it would become to any one save a parisian! to have the same fat man with the sombrero and the waxed mustache snap patent match-boxes in your face day after day and night after night, and to have "carnot at longchamps" taking off his hat and putting it on again held out for your inspection for weeks, and to seek the same insipid silly faces of boys with broad velvet collars and stocks, which they believe are worn by englishmen, and the same pompous gentlemen who cut their white goatees as do military men of the second empire, and who hope that the ruddiness of their cheeks, which is due to the wines of burgundy, will be attributed to the suns of tunis and algiers. and the same women, the one with the mustache and the younger one with the black curl, and the hundreds of others, silent and panther-like, and growing obviously more ugly as the night grows later and the streets more deserted. if any one aspires to be known among such as these, his aspirations are easily gratified. he can have his heart's desire; he need only walk the boulevards for a week, and he will be recognized as a boulevardier. it is a cheap notoriety, purchased at the expense of the easy exercise of walking, and the cost of some few glasses of "bock," with a few cents to the waiter. there is much excuse for the visitor; he is really to be envied; it is all new and strange and absurd to him; but what an old, old story it must be to the boulevardier! [illustration: "tes dans la rue, va, t'es chez toi"] the visitor, perhaps, has never sat out-of-doors before and taken his ease on the sidewalk. yet it seems a perfectly natural thing to do, until he imagines himself doing the same thing at home. there was a party of men and women from new york sitting in front of the café de la paix one night after the opera, and enjoying themselves very much, until one of them suggested their doing the same thing the next month at home. "we will all take chairs," he said, "and sit at the corner of twenty-sixth street and broadway at twelve o'clock at night and drink bock-bier," and the idea was so impossible that the party promptly broke up and went to their hotels. of course the visitor in paris misses a great deal that the true boulevardier enjoys through not knowing or understanding all that he sees. but, on the other hand, he has an advantage in being able to imagine that he is surrounded by all the famous journalists and poets and noted duellists; and every clerk with a portfolio becomes a deputy, and every powdered and auburn-haired woman who passes in an open fiacre is a celebrated actress of the comédie française. he can distribute titles as freely as the papal court, and transform long-haired students into members of the institute, and promote the boys of the polytechnic school, in their holiday cocked hats and play-swords, into lieutenants and captains of the regular army. he believes that the ill-looking individual in rags who shows such apparent fear of the policeman on the corner really has forbidden prints and books to sell, and that the guides who hover about like vultures looking for a fresh victim have it in their power to show him things to which they only hold the key--things which any frenchman could tell him he could see at his own home if he has the taste for such sights. the best of the boulevards is that the people sitting on their sidewalks, and the heavy green trees, and the bare heads of so many of the women, make one feel how much out-of-doors he is, as no other street or city does, and what a folly it is to waste time within walls. i do not think we appreciate how much we owe to the women in paris who go without bonnets. they give the city so homelike and friendly an air, as though every woman knew every other woman so well that she did not mind running across the street to gossip with her neighbor without the formality of a head-covering. and it really seems strange that the prettiest bonnets should come from the city where the women of the poorer classes have shown how very pretty a woman of any class can look without any bonnet at all. the enduring nature of the boulevards impresses one who sees them at different hours as much as does their life and gayety at every hour. you sometimes think surely to-morrow they will rest, and the cafés will be closed, and the long passing stream of cabs and omnibuses will stop, and the asphalt street will be permitted to rest from its burden. you may think this at night, but when you turn up again at nine the next morning you will find it all just as you left it at one the same morning. the same waiters, the same rush of carriages, the same ponderous omnibuses with fine straining white horses, the flowers in the booths, and the newspapers neatly piled round the colored kiosks. [illustration: "the party promptly broke up"] the champs Élysées is hardly a street, but as a thoroughfare it is the most remarkable in the world. it is a much better show than are the boulevards. the place for which you pay to enter is generally more interesting than the place to which admittance is free, and any one can walk along the boulevards, but to ride in the champs Élysées you must pay something, even if you take your fiacre by the hour. some parisians regret that the avenue des champs Élysées should be so cheapened that it is not reserved for carriages hired by the month, and not by the course, and that omnibuses and hired cabs are not kept out of it, as they are kept out of hyde park. but should this rule obtain the avenue des champs Élysées would lose the most amusing of its features. it would shut out the young married couples and their families and friends in their gala clothes, which look strangely unfamiliar in the sunlight, and make you think that the wearers have been up all night; and the hundreds of girls in pairs from the jardin de paris, who have halved the expense of a fiacre, but who cannot yet afford a brougham; and the english tourists dressed in flannel shirts and hunting-caps and knickerbockers, exactly as though they were penetrating the mountains of afghanistan or the deserts of syria, and as unashamed of their provincialism as the young marquis who passes on his dog-cart is unashamed of having placed the girl with him on his right hand instead of his left, though by so doing he tells every one who passes who and what she is. it would shut out the omnibuses, with the rows of spectators on their tops, who lean on their knees and look down into the carriages below, and point out the prettiest gowns and faces; and it would exclude the market-wagons laden with huge piles of yellow carrots and purple radishes, with a woman driving on the box-seat, and a dog chained beside her. there is no other place in the world, unless it be piccadilly at five o'clock in the afternoon, where so many breeds of horses trot side by side, where the chains of the baron banker and the cracking whip of a drunken cabman and the horn of some american millionaire's four-in-hand all sound at the same time. to be known is easy in the boulevards, but it is a distinction in the avenue des champs Élysées--a distinction which costs much money and which lasts an hour. sometimes it is gained by liveries and trappings and a large red rosette in the button-hole, or by driving the same coach at the same hour at the same rate of speed throughout the season, or by wearing a fez, or by sending two sais ahead of your cart to make a way for it, or by a beautiful face and a thoroughbred pug on a cushion at your side, although this last mode is not so easy, as there are many pretty faces and many softly cushioned victorias and innumerable pug-dogs, and when the prevailing color for the hair happens to be red--as it was last summer--the chance of gaining any individuality becomes exceedingly difficult. when all of these people meet in the afternoon on their way to and from the bois, there is no better entertainment of the sort in the world, and the avenue grows much too short, and the hours before dinner even shorter. there are women in light billowy toilets, with elbows squared and whip in hand, fearlessly driving great english horses from the top of a mail-phaeton, while a frightened little english groom clutches at the rail and peers over their shoulder to grasp the reins if need be, or to jump if he must. and there are narrow-chested corseted and padded young frenchmen in white kid gloves, who hold one rein in each hand as little girls hold a skipping-rope, and who imagine they are so like englishmen that no one can distinguish them even by their accent. there are fat hebrew bankers and their equally fat sons in open victorias, who, lacking the spirit of the frenchmen, who at least attempt to drive themselves, recline consciously on cushions, like the poodles in the victorias of the ladies with the red hair. there are also visiting princes from india or pashas from egypt; or diplomats of the last spanish-american republic, as dark as the negroes of sixth avenue, but with magnificent liveries and clanking chains; the nabobs of haiti, of algiers and tunis, and with these the beautiful spanish-looking woman from south america, the wives of the _rastaqouères_; and mixed with these is the long string of bookmakers and sporting men coming back from the races at longchamps or auteuil, red-faced and hot and dusty, with glasses strapped around them, and the badges still flying from their button-holes. there are three rows of carriages down and three of carriages up, and if you look from the arc de triomphe to the tuileries you see a broken mass of glittering carriage-tops and lace parasols, and what looks like the flashing of thousands of mirrors as the setting sun strikes on the glass of the lamps and windows and on the lacquered harness and polished mountings. whether you view this procession from the rows of green iron seats on either side or as a part of it, you must feel lifted up by its movement and color and the infinite variety of its changes. a man might live in the champs Élysées for a week or a month, seeing no more of paris than he finds under its beautiful trees or on its broad thoroughfare, and be so well content with that much of the city as to prefer it to all other cities. there was a little fat man in his shirt sleeves one morning in front of the theatre of the republic, which, as everybody knows, stands under the trees in the champs Élysées, on the rue matignon, hanging a new curtain, and the fat man, as the proprietor and manager, was naturally anxious. two small boys with their bare legs, and leather belts about their smocks, and a nurse with broad blue ribbons down her back, and myself looked our admiration from the outside of the roped enclosure. the orchestra had laid down its fiddle, and was helping the man who takes the twenty centimes to adjust the square yard of canvas. the proprietor placed his fat fingers on the small of his back and threw his head to one side and shut one eye. we waited breathlessly for his opinion. he took two steps backward from the ten-centime seats, and studied the effect of the curtain from that distance, with his chin thrown up and his arms folded severely. we suggested that it was an improvement on the old curtain, and one that would be sure to catch the passer's eye. [illustration: "and transform long-haired students into members of the institute"] "possibly," the proprietor said, indulgently, and then wiped his brow and shook his head. he told us we had little idea how great were the trials of an _impresario_ of an open-air theatre in the champs Élysées. what with the rent and the cost of the costumes and the employment of three assistants--one to work the marionettes, and one to take up the money, and one to play in the orchestra--expenses did run up. of course there was madame, his wife, who made costumes herself better than those that could be bought at the regular costumers', and that was a saving; and then she also helped in working the figures when there were more than two on the scene at once, but this was hard upon her, as she was stout, and the heat at the top of the tin-roofed theatre up among the dusty flies was trying. and then, i suggested, there was much competition. the proprietor waved a contemptuous dismissal of the claims of the four little theatres about him. it was not their rivalry that he cared for. it is true the seats were filled, but with whom? ah, yes, with whom? he placed his finger at the side of his nose, and winked and nodded his head mysteriously. with the friends of the proprietor, of course. poor non-paying acquaintances to make a show, and attract others less knowing to a very inferior performance. now here with him everybody paid, and received the worth of his money many times. perhaps i had not seen the performance; in that case i should surely do so. the clown and the donkey-cart were very amusing, and the dancing skeleton, which came to pieces before the audience and frightened the gendarme, was worthy of my approval. so the two small boys and the nurse and the baby and i dodged under the rope and waited for the performance. the idle man, who knows that "they also serve who only stand and wait," must find the champs Élysées the most acceptable of all places for such easy service. there are at one corner the stamp-collectors to entertain him, with their scrap-books and market-baskets full of their precious bits of colored paper, gathered from all over the known world, comparing and examining their treasures, bargaining with easy good-nature and with the zeal of enthusiasts. three times a week he will find this open market or exchange under the trees, where old men and little boys and pretty young girls meet together and chatter over their common hobby, and swap columbian stamps for those of some french protectorate, and of many other places of which they know nothing save that it has a post-office of its own. at another corner there are smoothly-shaven men and plump, well-fed-looking women waiting to take service on some gentleman's box-seat or in front of some lady's cooking-stove--an intelligence office where there is no middleman to whom they must pay a fee, and where, while they wait for a possible employer, they hold an impromptu picnic, and pay such gallant compliments that one can see they have lived much in the fashionable world. or the idler can drop into a chair in one of the cafés chantants on an off day, when there is no regular performance, but a rehearsal, to which the public is neither invited nor forbidden. it is an entertaining place in which to spend an hour or two, with something to drink in front of you, and a cigar, and the sun shining through the trees upon the mirrors and artificial flowers and the gaudy hangings of the stage. here you will see mlle. nicolle as she is in her moments of leisure. the night before she wore a greasy gingham gown, with her hair plastered over her forehead in oily flat curls, as a laundress or charwoman of montmartre might wear them. now she is fashionably dressed in black, with white lace over it, and with a lace parasol, which she swings from her finger in time to the music, while the other artists of the ambassadeurs' stand farther up the stage waiting their turn, or politely watch her from the front. the girl who chalked her face as pierrot the evening before follows her in a blue boating-dress and a kick at the end of it, which she means to introduce later in the same day; and the others comment audibly on it from their seats, calling her by her first name, and disagreeing with the leader of the orchestra as to the particular note upon which the kick should come, while he turns in his seat with his violin on his knee and argues it out with them, shrugging his shoulders, and making passes in the air with his lighted cigarette as though it were a baton. [illustration: inside columbin's] two gendarmes, with their capes folded and thrown over their shoulders, come in and stand with the waiters, surveying the rehearsal with critical disapproval, and the woman who collects the pennies for the iron seats in the avenue takes a few moments' recess, and brings with her two nurse-maids, with their neglected charges swinging by the silken straps around their silken bodies. and so they all stand at one side and gaze with large eyes at the breathless, laughing young woman on the stage above them, who runs and kicks and runs back and kicks again, reflected many times in the background of mirrors around her; and then the two american song-and-dance men, and the english acrobats, and the italian who owns the performing dogs, and the smooth-faced french comédiennes, and all the idle gentlemen with glasses of bock before them, sit up as though some one had touched their shoulders with a whip, and all the actresses smile politely, and look with pressed lips and half-closed eyes at a very tall woman with red hair, who walks erectly down the stage with a roll of music in her gloved hands. this is yvette guilbert, the most artistic and the most improper of all the women of the cafés chantants. she is also the most graceful. you can see that even now when she is off her guard. she could not make an ungraceful gesture even after long practice, and when she shudders and jumps at a false note from the orchestra she is still graceful. when the rehearsal is finished you can cross the place de la concorde and hang over the stone parapet, and watch the deputies coming over the bridge, or the men washing the dogs in the seine, and shaving and trimming their tufts of curly hair, and twisting their mustaches into military jauntiness; or you can turn your back to this and watch the thousands of carriages and cabs and omnibuses crossing the great square before you from the eight streets opening into it, with the water of the fountains in the middle blown into spray by the wind, and turned into the colors of the rainbow by the sun. this great, beautiful open place, even to one accustomed to city streets and their monuments, seems to change more rapidly and to form with greater life than any other spot in the world, and its great stupid obelisk in the centre appears to rise like a monster exclamation-point of wonder at what it sees about it, and with the surprise over all of finding itself in the centre of it. [illustration: "and you believe the guides"] you cannot say you have seen the streets of paris until you have walked them at sunrise; every one has seen them at night, but he must watch them change from night to day before he can claim to have seen them at their best. i walked under the arches of the rue de rivoli one morning when it was so dark that they looked like the cloisters of some great monastery, and it was impossible to believe that the empty length of the rue cambon had but an hour before been blocked by the blazing front of the olympia, and before that with rows of carriages in front of the two columbins. there were a few belated cabs hugging the sidewalk, with their drivers asleep on the boxes, and a couple of gendarmes slouching together across the place de la concorde made the only sound of life in the whole city. the seine lay as motionless as water in a bath-tub, and the towers of notre dame rising out of the mist at one end, and the round bulk of the trocadéro bounding it at the other, seemed to limit the river to what one could see of its silent surface from the bridge of the deputies. the eiffel tower, the great skeleton of the departed exposition, disappeared and reformed itself again as drifting clouds of mist swept through it and cut its great ugly length into fragments hung in mid-air. as the light grew in strength the façades of the government buildings grew in outline, as though one were focussing them through an opera-glass, and the pillars of the madeleine took form and substance; then the whole great square showed itself, empty and deserted. the darkness had hidden nothing more terrible than the clean asphalt and the motionless statues of the cities of france. a solitary fiacre passed me slowly with no one on the box, but with the coachman sitting back in his cab. he was returning to the stables, evidently, and had on his way given a seat to a girl from the street, whom he was now entertaining with genial courtesy. he had one leg thrown over the other, and one arm passed back along the top of the seat, and with the other he waved to the great buildings as they sprang up into life as the day grew. the girl beside him was smiling at his pleasantries, while the rising sun showed how tired and pale she was, and mocked at the paint around her sleepy eyes. the horse stumbled at every sixth step, and then woke again, while the whip rocked and rolled fantastically in its socket like a drunken man. from up the avenue of the champs Élysées came the first of the heavy market-wagons, with the driver asleep on the bench, and his lantern burning dully in the early light. back of him lay the deserted stretch of the avenue, strange and unfamiliar in its emptiness--save for the great arch that rose against the dawn, and seemed, from its elevation on the very top of the horizon, to serve as a gateway into the skies beyond. the air in the champs Élysées was heavy with a perfume of flowers and of green plants, and the leaves dripped damp and cool with the dew. hundreds of birds sang and chattered as though they knew the solitude was theirs but for only one more brief hour, and that they then must give way to the little children, and later to crowds of idle men and women. it seemed impossible that but a few hours before duclerc had filled these silent, cool woods with her voice--duclerc, with her shoulder-straps slipping to her elbows and her white powdered arms tossing in the colored lights of the serpentine dance. the long, gaudy lithographs on the bill-boards and the arches of colored lamps stood out of the silence and fresh beauty of the hour like the relics of some feast which should have been cleared away before the dawn, and the theatres themselves looked like temples to a heathen idol in some primeval wood. and as i passed out from under the cool trees to the silent avenues i felt as though i had caught paris napping, and when she was off her guard, and good and fresh and sweet, and had discovered a hidden trait in her many-sided character, a moment of which she would be ashamed an hour or two later, as cynics are ashamed of their secret acts of charity. ii the show-places of paris night paris is the only city in the world which the visitor from the outside positively refuses to take seriously. he may have come to paris with an earnest purpose to study art, or to investigate the intricacies of french law, or the historical changes of the city; or, if it be a woman, she may have come to choose a trousseau; but no matter how serious his purpose may be, there is always some one part of each day when the visitor rests from his labors and smiles indulgently and does as the parisians do. whether the city or the visitor is responsible for this, whether paris adopts the visitor, or the visitor adapts himself to his surroundings, it is impossible to say. but there is certainly no other capital of the world in which the stranger so soon takes on the local color, in which he becomes so soon acclimated, and which brings to light in him so many new and unsuspected capacities for enjoyment and adventure. americans go to london for social triumph or to float railroad shares, to rome for art's sake, and to berlin to study music and to economize; but they go to paris to enjoy themselves. and there are no young men of any nation who enter into the accomplishment of this so heartily and so completely as does the young american. it is hardly possible for the english youth to appreciate paris perfectly, because he has been brought up to believe that "one englishman can thrash three frenchmen," and because he holds a nation that talks such an absurd language in some contempt; hence he is frequently while there irritable and rude, and jostles men at the public dances, and in other ways asserts his dignity. but the american goes to paris as though returning to his inheritance and to his own people. he approaches it with the friendly confidence of a child. its language holds no terrors for him; and he feels himself fully equipped if he can ask for his "edition," and say, "cocher, allez henry's tout sweet." there is nothing so joyous and confiding as the american during his first visit to the french metropolis. he has been told by older men of the gay, glad days of the second empire, and by his college chum of the summer of the last exposition, and he enters paris determined to see all that any one else has ever seen, and to outdo all that any one else has ever done, and to stir that city to its suburbs. he saves his time, his money, and his superfluous energy for this visit, and the most amusing part of it is that he always leaves paris fully assured that he has enjoyed himself while there more thoroughly than any one else has ever done, and that the city will require two or three months' rest before it can readjust itself after the shock and wonder due to his meteoric flight through its limits. london he dismisses in a week as a place in which you can get good clothes at moderate prices, and which supports some very entertaining music-halls; but paris, he tells you, ecstatically, when he meets you on the boulevards or at the banker's, where he is drawing grandly on his letter of credit, is "the greatest place on earth," and he adds, as evidence of the truth of this, that he has not slept in three weeks. he is unsurpassed in his omnivorous capacity for sight-seeing, and in his ability to make himself immediately and contentedly at home. there is a story which illustrates this that is told by a young american banker who has been living in paris for the last six years. he met one day on the boulevards an old college friend of his, and welcomed him with pleasure. "you must let me be your guide," the banker said. "i have been here so long now that i know just what you ought to see, and i shall enjoy seeing it with you as much as though it were for the first time. when did you come?" the new arrival had reached paris only three days before, and said that he was ready to see all that it had to show. "you have nothing to do to-night, then?" asked the banker. "well, we will drop in at the gardens and the cafés chantants. there is nothing like them anywhere." his friend said he had made the tour of the gardens on the night of his arrival, but that he would be glad to revisit them. but that being the case, the banker would rather take him to the cafés--"the black cat," and bruant's, and "the dead rat." these his friend had visited on his second evening. "oh, well, we can cross the river, then, and i will show you some slumming," said the banker. "you should see the places where the thieves go--the château rouge and père lunette." "i went there last night," said the new-comer. the man who had lived six years in paris took the stranger by the arm and asked him if he was sure he was not engaged for that evening. "for if you are not," he said, "you might take me with you and show me some of the sights!" the american visitor is not only undaunted by the strange language, but unimpressed by the signs of years of vivid history about him. he sandwiches a glimpse at the tomb of napoleon, and a trip on a penny steamer up the seine, and back again to the morgue, with a rush through the cathedral of notre dame, between the hours of his breakfast and the race-meeting at longchamps the same afternoon. nothing of present interest escapes him, and nothing bores him. he assimilates and grasps the method of parisian existence with a rapidity that leaves you wondering in the rear, and at the end of a week can tell you that you should go to one side of the grand hôtel for cigars, and to the other to have your hat blocked. he knows at what hour yvette guilbert comes on at the ambassadeurs', and on which mornings of the week the flower-market is held around the madeleine. while you are still hunting for apartments he has visited the sewers under the earth, and the eiffel tower over the earth, and eaten his dinner in a tree at robinson's, and driven a coach to versailles over the same road upon which the mob tramped to bring marie antoinette back to paris, without being the least impressed by the contrast which this offers to his own progress. he develops also a daring and reckless spirit of adventure, which would never have found vent in his native city or town, or in any other foreign city or town. it is in the air, and he enters into the childish good-nature of the place and of the people after the same manner that the head of a family grows young again at his class reunion. one harvard graduate arrived in paris summer before last during those riots which originated with the students, and were carried on by the working-people, and which were cynically spoken of on the boulevards as the revolution of sarah brown. in any other city he would have watched these ebullitions from the outskirts of the mob, or remained a passive spectator of what did not concern him, but being in paris, and for the first time, he mounted a barricade, and made a stirring address to the students behind it in his best harvard french, and was promptly cut over the head by a gendarme and conveyed to a hospital, where he remained during his stay in the gay metropolis. but he still holds that paris is the finest place that he has ever seen. there was another american youth who stood up suddenly in the first row of seats at the nouveau cirque and wagered the men with him that he would jump into the water with which the circus ring is flooded nightly, and swim, "accoutred as he was," to the other side. they promptly took him at his word, and the audience of french bourgeois were charmed by the spectacle of a young gentleman in evening dress swimming calmly across the tank, and clambering leisurely out on the other side. he was loudly applauded for this, and the management sent the "american original" home in a fiacre. in any other city he would have been hustled by the ushers and handed over to the police. those show-places of paris which are seen only at night, and of which one hears the most frequently, are curiously few in number. it is their quality and not their quantity which has made them talked about. it is quite as possible to tell off on the fingers of two hands the names and the places to which the visitor to paris will be taken as it is quite impossible to count the number of times he will revisit them. in london there are so many licensed places of amusement that a man might visit one every night for a year and never enter the same place twice, and those of unofficial entertainment are so numerous that men spend years in london and never hear of nooks and corners in it as odd and strange as stevenson's suicide club or fagan's school for thieves--public-houses where blind beggars regain their sight and the halt and lame walk and dance, music-halls where the line is strictly drawn between the gentleman who smokes a clay pipe and the one who smokes a brier, and arenas like the lambeth school of arms, from which boy pugilists and coal-heavers graduate to the prize-ring, and such thoroughfares as ship's alley, where in the space of fifty yards twenty murders have occurred in three years. in paris there are virtually no slums at all. the dangerous classes are there, and there is an army of beggars and wretches as poor and brutal as are to be found at large in any part of the world, but the parisian criminal has no environment, no setting. he plays the part quite as effectively as does the london or new york criminal, but he has no appropriate scenery or mechanical effects. if he wishes to commit murder, he is forced to make the best of the well-paved, well-lighted, and cleanly swept avenue. he cannot choose a labyrinth of alleyways and covered passages, as he could were he in whitechapel, or a net-work of tenements and narrow side streets, as he could were he in the city of new york. young men who have spent a couple of weeks in paris, and who have been taken slumming by paid guides, may possibly question the accuracy of this. they saw some very awful places indeed--one place they remember in particular, called the château rouge, and another called père lunette. the reason they so particularly remember these two places is that these are the only two places any one ever sees, and they do not recall the fact that the neighboring houses were of hopeless respectability, and that they were able to pick up a cab within a hundred yards of these houses. young frenchmen who know all the worlds of paris tell you mysteriously of these places, and of how they visited them disguised in blue smocks and guarded by detectives; detectives themselves speak to you of them as a fisherman speaks to you of a favorite rock or a deep hole where you can always count on finding fish, and every newspaper correspondent who visits paris for the first time writes home of them as typical of parisian low life. they are as typical of parisian low life as the animals in the zoo in central park are typical of the other animals we see drawing stages and horse-cars and broughams on the city streets, and you require the guardianship of a detective when you visit them as much as you would need a policeman in mulberry bend or at an organ recital in carnegie hall. they are show-places, or at least they have become so, and though they would no doubt exist without the aid of the tourist or the man about town of intrepid spirit, they count upon him, and are prepared for him with set speeches, and are as ready to show him all that there is to see as are the guides around the capitol at washington. i should not wish to be misunderstood as saying that these are the only abodes of poverty and the only meeting-places for criminals in paris, which would of course be absurd, but they are the only places of such interest that the visitor sees. there are other places, chiefly wine-shops in cellars in the districts of la glacière, montrouge, or la villette, but unless an inspector of police leads you to them, and points out such and such men as thieves, you would not be able to distinguish any difference between them and the wine-shops and their _habitués_ north of the bridges and within sound of the boulevards. the paternal municipality of paris, and the thought it has spent in laying out the streets, and the generous manner in which it has lighted them, are responsible for the lack of slums. houses of white stucco, and broad, cleanly swept boulevards with double lines of gas lamps and shade trees, extend, without consideration for the criminal, to the fortifications and beyond, and the thief and bully whose interests are so little regarded is forced in consequence to hide himself underground in cellars or in the dark shadows of the bois de boulogne at night. this used to appeal to me as one of the most peculiar characteristics of paris--that the most desperate poverty and the most heartless of crimes continued in neighborhoods notorious chiefly for their wickedness, and yet which were in appearance as well-ordered and commonplace-looking as the new model tenements in harlem or the trim working-men's homes in the factory districts of philadelphia. the château rouge was originally the house of some stately family in the time of louis xiv. they will tell you there that it was one of the mistresses of this monarch who occupied it, and will point to the frescos of one room to show how magnificent her abode then was. this tradition may or may not be true, but it adds an interest to the house, and furnishes the dramatic contrast to its present wretchedness. it is a tall building painted red, and set back from the street in a court. there are four rooms filled with deal tables on the first floor, and a long counter with the usual leaden top. "whoever buys a glass of wine here may sleep with his or her head on the table, or lie at length up-stairs on the floor of that room where one still sees the stucco cupids of the fine lady's boudoir. it is now a lodging-house for beggars and for those who collect the ends of castaway cigars and cigarettes on the boulevards, and possibly for those who thieve in a small way. by ten o'clock each night the place is filled with men and women sleeping heavily at the tables, with their heads on their arms, or gathered together for miserable company, whispering and gossiping, each sipping jealously of his glass of red wine." [illustration: the chÂteau rouge] there is a little room at the rear, the walls of which are painted with scenes of celebrated murders, and the portraits of the murderers, of anarchists, and of their foes the police. a sharp-faced boy points to these with his cap, and recites his lesson in a high singsong, and in an _argot_ which makes all he says quite unintelligible. he is interesting chiefly because the men of whom he speaks are heroes to him, and he roars forth the name of "antoine, who murdered the policeman jervois," as though he were saying gambetta, the founder of the republic, and with the innocent confidence that you will share with him in his enthusiasm. the pictures are ghastly things, in which the artist has chiefly done himself honor in the generous use of scarlet paint for blood, and in the way he has shown how by rapid gradations the criminal descends from well-dressed innocence to ragged viciousness, until he reaches the steps of the guillotine at roquette. it is a miserable chamber of horrors, in which the heavy-eyed absinthe-drinkers raise their heads to stare mistily at the visitor, and to listen for the hundredth time to the boy's glib explanation of each daub in the gallery around them, from the picture of the vermilion-cheeked young woman who caused the trouble, to an imaginative picture of montfaucon covered with skulls, where, many years in the past, criminals swung in chains. the café of père lunette is just around several sharp corners from the château rouge. it was originally presided over by an old gentleman who wore spectacles, which gave his shop its name. it is a resort of the lowest class of women and men, and its walls are painted throughout with faces and scenes a little better in execution than those in the château rouge, and a little worse in subject. it is a very small place to enjoy so wide-spread a reputation, and its front room is uninteresting, save for a row of casks resting on their sides, on the head of each of which is painted the portrait of some noted parisian, like zola, eiffel, or boulanger. the young proprietor fell upon us as his natural prey the night we visited the place, and drove us before him into a room in the rear of the wineshop. he was followed as a matter of course by a dozen men in blouses, and as many bareheaded women, who placed themselves expectantly at the deal tables, and signified what it was they wished to drink before going through the form of asking us if we meant to pay for it. they were as ready to do their part of the entertainment as the actors of the theatre are ready to go on when the curtain rises, and there was nothing about any of them to suggest that he or she was there for any other reason than the hope of a windfall in the person of a stranger who would supply him or her with money or liquor. a long-haired boy with a three days' growth of hair upon his chin, of whom the proprietor spoke proudly as a poet, recited in verse a long descriptive story of what the pictures on the wall were intended to represent, and another youth, with a vandyck beard and slouched hat, and curls hanging to his shoulder, sang aristide bruant's song of "saint lazare." all of the women of the place belonged to the class which spends many months of each year in that prison. the music of the song is in a minor key, and is strangely sad and eerie. it is the plaint of a young girl writing to her lover from within the walls of the prison, begging him to be faithful to her while she is gone, and bruant cynically makes her designate three or four feminine friends as those whose society she particularly desires him to avoid. the women, all of whom sang with sodden seriousness, may not have appreciated how well the words of the song applied to themselves, but you could imagine that they did, and this gave to the moment and the scene a certain touch of interest. apart from this the place was dreary, and the pictures indecent and stupid. there is much more of interest in the café of aristide bruant, on the boulevard rochechouart. bruant is the modern françois villon. he is the poet of the people, and more especially of the criminal classes. he sings the virtues or the lack of virtue of the several districts of paris, with the life of which he claims an intimate familiarity. he is the bard of the bully, and of the thief, and of the men who live on the earnings of women. he is unquestionably one of the most picturesque figures in paris, but his picturesqueness is spoiled in some degree by the evident fact that he is conscious of it. he is a poet, but he is very much more of a _poseur_. [illustration: at bruant's] bruant began by singing his own songs in the café chantant in the champs Élysées, and celebrating in them the life of montmartre and the place de la république, and of the bastille. he has done for the parisian bully what albert chevallier has done for the coster of whitechapel, and edward harrigan for the east side of new york, but with the important difference that the frenchman claims to be one of the class of whom he writes, and the audacity with which he robs stray visitors to his café would seem to justify his claims. there is no question as to the strength in his poems, nor that he gives you the spirit of the places which he describes, and that he sees whatever is dramatic and characteristic in them. but the utter heartlessness with which he writes of the wickedness of his friends the souteneurs rings false, and sounds like an affectation. one of the best specimens of his verse is that in which he tells of the bois de boulogne at night, when the woods, he says, cloak all manner of evil things, and when, instead of the rustling of the leaves, you hear the groans of the homeless tossing in their sleep under the sky, and calls for help suddenly hushed, and the angry cries of thieves who have fallen out over their spoils and who fight among themselves; or the hurried footsteps of a belated old gentleman hastening home, and followed silently in the shadow of the trees by men who fall upon and rob him after the fashion invented and perfected by le père françois. others of his poems are like the most realistic paragraphs of _l'assommoir_ and _nana_ put into verse. bruant himself is a young man, and an extremely handsome one. he wears his yellow hair separated in the middle and combed smoothly back over his ears, and dresses at all times in brown velvet, with trousers tucked in high boots, and a red shirt and broad sombrero. he has had the compliment paid him of the most sincere imitation, for a young man made up to look exactly like him now sings his songs in the cafés, even the characteristically modest one in which bruant slaps his chest and exclaims at the end of each verse: "and i? i am bruant." the real bruant sings every night in his own café, but as his under-study at the ambassadeurs' is frequently mistaken for him, he may be said to have accomplished the rather difficult task of being in two places at once. bruant's café is a little shop barred and black without, and guarded by a commissionnaire dressed to represent a policeman. if you desire to enter, this man raps on the door, and bruant, when he is quite ready, pushes back a little panel, and scrutinizes the visitor through the grated opening. if he approves of you he unbars the door, with much jangling of chains and rasping of locks, and you enter a tiny shop, filled with three long tables, and hung with all that is absurd and fantastic in decoration, from chéret's bill-posters to unframed oil-paintings, and from beer-mugs to plaster death-masks. there is a different salutation for every one who enters this café, in which all those already in the place join in chorus. a woman is greeted by a certain burst of melody, and a man by another, and a soldier with easy satire, as representing the government, by an imitation of the fanfare which is blown by the trumpeters whenever the president appears in public. there did not seem to be any greeting which exactly fitted our case, so bruant waved us to a bench, and explained to his guests, with a shrug: "these are two gentlemen from the boulevards who have come to see the thieves of montmartre. if they are quiet and well-behaved we will not rob them." after this somewhat discouraging reception we, in our innocence, sat perfectly still, and tried to think we were enjoying ourselves, while we allowed ourselves to be robbed by waiters and venders of songs and books without daring to murmur or protest. bruant is assisted in the entertainment of his guests by two or three young men who sing his songs, the others in the room joining with them. every third number is sung by the great man himself, swaggering up and down the narrow limits of the place, with his hands sunk deep in the pockets of his coat, and his head rolling on his shoulders. at the end of each verse he withdraws his hands, and brushes his hair back over his ears, and shakes it out like a mane. one of his perquisites as host is the privilege of saluting all of the women as they leave, of which privilege he avails himself when they are pretty, or resigns it and bows gravely when they are not. it is amusing to notice how the different women approach the door when it is time to go, and how the escort of each smiles proudly when the young man deigns to bend his head over the lips of the girl and kiss her good-night. the café of the black cat is much finer and much more pretentious than bruant's shop, and is of wider fame. it is, indeed, of an entirely different class, but it comes in here under the head of the show-places of paris at night. it was originally a sort of club where journalists and artists and poets met round the tables of a restaurant-keeper who happened to be a patron of art as well, and fitted out his café with the canvases of his customers, and adopted their suggestions in the arrangement of its decoration. the outside world of paris heard of these gatherings at the black cat, as the café and club were called, and of the wit and spirit of its _habitués_, and sought admittance to its meetings, which was at first granted as a great privilege. but at the present day the café has been turned over into other hands, and is a show-place pure and simple, and a most interesting one. the café proper is fitted throughout with heavy black oak, or something in imitation of it. there are heavy broad tables and high wainscoting and an immense fireplace and massive rafters. [illustration: at the black cat] to set off the sombreness of this, the walls are covered with panels in the richest of colors, by steinlen, the most imaginative and original of the parisian illustrators, in all of which the black cat appears as a subject, but in a different rôle and with separate treatment. upon one panel hundreds of black cats race over the ocean, in another they are waltzing with naiads in the woods, and in another they are whirling through space over red-tiled roofs, followed by beautiful young women, gendarmes, and boulevardiers in hot pursuit. and in every other part of the café the black cat appears as frequently as did the head of charles i. in the writings of mr. dick. it stalks stuffed in its natural skin, or carved in wood, with round glass eyes and long red tongue, or it perches upon the chimney-piece with back arched and tail erect, peering down from among the pewter pots and salvers. the gas-jets shoot from the mouths of wrought-iron cats, and the dismembered heads of others grin out into the night from the stained-glass windows. the room shows the struggle for what is odd and bizarre, but the drawings in black and white and the watercolors and oil-paintings on the walls are signed by some of the cleverest artists in paris. the inscriptions and rules and regulations are as odd as the decorations. as, for example, the one placed halfway up the narrow flight of stairs which leads to the tiny theatre, and which commemorates the fact that the café was on such a night visited by president carnot, who--so the inscription adds, lest the visitor should suppose the black cat was at all impressed by the honor--"is the successor of charlemagne and napoleon i." another fancy of the black cat was at one time to dress all the waiters in the green coat and gold olive leaves of the members of the institute, to show how little the poets and artists of the café thought of the other artists and poets who belonged to that ancient institution across the bridges. but this has now been given up, either because the uniforms proved too expensive, or because some one of the black cat's _habitués_ had left his friends "for a ribbon to wear in his coat," and so spoiled the satire. three times a week there is a performance in the theatre up-stairs, at which poets of the neighborhood recite their own verses, and some clever individual tells a story, with a stereopticon and a caste of pasteboard actors for accessories. these latter little plays are very clever and well arranged, and as nearly proper as a frenchman with such a temptation to be otherwise could be expected to make them. it is a most informal gathering, more like a performance in a private house than a theatre, and the most curious thing about it is the character of the audience, which, instead of being bohemian and artistic, is composed chiefly of worthy bourgeoisie, and young men and young women properly chaperoned by the parents of each. they sit on very stiff wooden chairs, while a young man stands on the floor in front of them with his arms comfortably folded and recites a poem or a monologue, or plays a composition of his own. and then the lights are all put out, and a tiny curtain is rung up, showing a square hole in the proscenium, covered with a curtain of white linen. on this are thrown the shadows of the pasteboard figures, who do the most remarkable things with a naturalness which might well shame some living actors. it would be impossible to write of the entertainment paris affords at night without cataloguing the open-air concerts and the public gardens and dance-halls. the best of the cafés chantants in paris is the ambassadeurs'. there are many others, but the ambassadeurs' is the best known, is nearest to the boulevards, and has the best restaurant. it is like all the rest in its general arrangement, or all the others copy it, so that what is true of the ambassadeurs' may be considered as descriptive of them all. the ambassadeurs' is a roof-garden on the ground, except that there are comfortable benches instead of tables with chairs about them, and that there is gravel underfoot in place of wooden flooring. lining the block of benches on either side are rows of boxes, and at the extreme rear is the restaurant, with a wide balcony, where people sit and dine, and listen to the music of the songs without running any risk of hearing the words. the stage is shut in with mirrors and set with artificial flowers, which make a bad background for the artists, and which at matinées, in the broad sunlight, look very ghastly indeed. but at night, when all the gas-jets are lit and the place is crowded, it is very gay, joyous, and pretty. [illustration: a cafÉ chantant] the parisian may economize in household matters, in the question of another egg for his breakfast, and in the turning of an uneaten entrée into a soup, but in public he is most generous; and he is in nothing so generous as in his reckless use of gas. he raises ten lamp-posts to every one that is put up in london or new york, and he does not plant them only to light some thing or some person, but because they are pleasing to look at in themselves. it is difficult to feel gloomy in a city which is so genuinely illuminated that one can sit in the third-story window of a hotel and read a newspaper by the glare of the gas-lamps in the street below. this is a very wise generosity, for it helps to attract people to paris, who spend money there, so that in the end the lighting of the city may be said to pay for itself. if we had as good government in new york as there is in paris, madison square would not depend for its brilliancy at night on the illuminated advertising of two business firms. individuals follow the municipality of paris in this extravagance, and the ambassadeurs' is in consequence as brilliant as many rows of gas-jets can make it, and these globes of white light among the green branches of the trees are one of the prettiest effects on the champs Élysées at night. they do not turn night into day, but they make the darkness itself more attractive by contrast. the performers at the ambassadeurs' are the best in their line of work, and the audiences are composed of what in london would be called the middle class, mixed with cocottes and boulevardiers. you will also often see american men and women who are well known at home dining there on the balcony, but they do not bring young girls with them. it is interesting to note what pleases french people of the class who gather at these open-air concerts. what is artistic they seem to appreciate much more fully than would an american or an english audience--at least, they are more demonstrative in their applause; but the contradictory feature of their appreciation lies in their delight and boisterous enthusiasm, not only over what is very good, but also over what is most childish horse-play. they enjoy with equal zest the quiet, inimitable character studies of nicolle and the efforts of two trained dogs to play upon a fiddle, while a hideous, gaunt creature, six foot tall, in a woman's ballet costume, throws them off their chairs in convulsions of delight. they are like children with a mature sense of the artistic, and still with an infantile delight in what is merely noisy and absurd. it is also interesting to note how much these audiences will permit from the stage in the direction of suggestiveness, and what would be called elsewhere "outraged propriety." this is furnished them to the highest degree by yvette guilbert. it seems that as this artist became less of a novelty, she recognized that it would be necessary for her to increase the audacity of her songs if she meant to hold her original place in the interest of her audiences, and she has now reached a point in daring which seems hardly possible for her or any one else to pass. no one can help delighting in her and in her line of work, in her subtlety, her grace, and the absolute knowledge she possesses of what she wants to do and how to do it. but her songs are beyond anything that one finds in the most impossible of french novels or among the legends of the viennese illustrated papers. these latter may treat of certain subjects in a too realistic or in a scoffing but amusing manner, but guilbert talks of things which are limited generally to the clinique of a hospital and the _blague_ of medical students; things which are neither funny, witty, nor quaint, but simply nasty and offensive. the french audiences of the open-air concerts, however, enjoy these, and encore her six times nightly. at pastor's theatre last year a french girl sang a song which probably not one out of three hundred in the audience understood, but which she delivered with such appropriateness of gesture as to make her meaning plain. when she left the stage there was absolute silence in the house, and in the wings the horrified manager seized her by the arms, and in spite of her protests refused to allow her to reappear. so her performance in this country was limited to that one song. it was a very long trip to take for such a disappointment, and the management were, of course, to blame for not knowing what they wanted and what their audiences did not want, but the incident is interesting as showing how widely an american and a french audience differs in matters of this sort. there was another frenchwoman who appeared in new york last winter, named duclerc. she is a very beautiful woman, and very popular in paris, and i used to think her amusing at the ambassadeurs', where she appealed to a sympathetic audience; but in a new york theatre she gave you a sense of personal responsibility that sent cold shivers down your back, and you lacked the courage to applaud, when even the gallery looked on with sullen disapproval. and when the irish comedian who followed her said that he did not understand her song, but that she was quite right to sing it under an umbrella, there was a roar of relief from the audience which showed it wanted some one to express its sentiments, which it had been too polite to do except in silence. this tolerance impressed me very much, especially because i had seen the same woman suffer at the hands of her own people, whom she had chanced to offend. the incident is interesting, perhaps, as showing that the french have at times not only the child's quick delight, but also the cruelty of a child, than which there is nothing more unreasoning and nothing more savage. [illustration: on montmartre] one night at the ambassadeurs', when duclerc had finished the first verse of her song, a man rose suddenly in the front row of seats and insulted her. had he used the same words in any american or english theatre, he would have been hit over the head by the member of the orchestra nearest him, and then thrown out of the theatre into the street. it appeared from this man's remarks that the actress had formerly cared for him, but that she had ceased to do so, and that he had come there that night to show her how well he could stand such treatment. he did this by bringing another woman with him, and by placing a dozen bullies from montmartre among the audience to hiss the actress when she appeared. this they did with a rare good-will, while the rejected suitor in the front row continued to insult her, assisted at the same time by his feminine companion. no one in the audience seemed to heed this, or to look upon it as unfair to himself or to the actress, who was becoming visibly hysterical. there was a piece of wood lying on the stage that had been used in a previous act, and duclerc, in a frenzy at a word which the man finally called to her, suddenly stooped, and, picking this up, hurled it at him. in an instant the entire audience was on its feet. this last was an insult to itself. as long as it was duclerc who was being attacked, it did not feel nor show any responsibility, but when she dared to hurl sticks of wood at the face of a parisian audience, it rose in its might and shouted its indignation. under the cover of this confusion the hired bullies stooped, and, scooping up handfuls of the gravel with which the place is strewn, hurled them at duclerc, until the stones rattled around her on the stage like a fall of hail. she showed herself a very plucky woman, and continued her song, even though you could see her face growing white beneath the rouge, and her legs twisting and sinking under her when she tried to dance. it was an awful scene, breaking so suddenly into the easy programme of the evening, and one of the most cowardly and unmanly exhibitions that i have ever witnessed. there did not seem to be a man in the place who was not standing up and yelling "À bas duclerc!" and the groans and hisses and abuse were like the worst efforts of a mob. of course the stones did not hurt the woman, but the insult of being stoned did. they put an end to her misery at last by ringing down the curtain, and they said at the stage door afterwards that she had been taken home in a fit. when i saw her a few months later at pastor's, i was thankful that, as a people, our self-respect is not so easily hurt as to make us revenge a slight upon it by throwing stones at a woman. of course a frenchman might say that it is not fair to judge the parisians by the audience of a music-hall, but there were several ladies of title and gentlemen of both worlds in the audience, who a few months later assailed jane harding when she appeared as phryne in the opéra comique with exactly the same violence and for as little cause. these outbursts are only temporary aberrations, however; as one of the attendants of the ambassadeurs' said, "to-morrow they will applaud her the more to make up for it," which they probably did. it is in the same spirit that they change the names of streets, and pull down columns only to rebuild them again, until it would seem a wise plan for them, as one englishman suggested, to put the column of vendôme on a hinge, so that it could be raised and lowered with less trouble. of the public gardens and dance-halls there are a great number, and the men who have visited paris do not have to be told much concerning them, and the women obtain a sufficiently correct idea of what they are like from the photographs along the rue de rivoli to prevent their wishing to learn more. what these gardens were in the days of the second empire, when the jardin mabille and the bal bullier were celebrated through books and illustrations, and by word of mouth by every english and american traveller who had visited them, it is now difficult to say. it may be that they were the scenes of mad abandon and fascinating frenzy, of which the last generation wrote with mock horror and with suggestive smiles, and of which its members now speak with a sigh of regret. but we are always ready to doubt whether that which has passed away, and which in consequence we cannot see, was as remarkable as it is made to appear. we depreciate it in order to console ourselves. and if the mabille and the bullier were no more wickedly attractive in those days than is the moulin rouge which has taken their place under the republic, we cannot but feel that the men of the last generation visited paris when they were very young. perhaps it is true that paris was more careless and happy then. it can easily be argued so, for there was more money spent under the empire, and more money given away in fêtes and in spectacles and in public pleasures, and the parisian in those days had no responsibility. now that he has a voice and a vote, and is the equal of his president, he devotes himself to those things which did not concern him at all in the earlier times. then the emperor and his ministers felt the responsibility, and asked of him only that he should enjoy himself. [illustration: some young people of montmartre] but whatever may have been true of the spirit of paris then, the man who visits it to-day expecting to see leech's illustrations and mark twain's description of the mabille reproduced in the jardin de paris and the moulin rouge will be disappointed. he will, on the contrary, find a great deal of light and some very good music, and a mixed crowd composed chiefly of young women and frenchmen well advanced in years and english and american tourists. the young women have all the charm that only a frenchwoman possesses, and parade quietly below the boxes, and before the rows of seats that stretch around the hall or the garden, as it happens to be, and are much better behaved and infinitely more self-respecting and attractive in appearance than the women of their class in london or new york. but there are no students nor grisettes to kick off high hats and to dance in an ecstasy of abandon. there are in their places from four to a dozen ugly women and shamefaced-looking men, who are hired to dance, and who go sadly through the figures of the quadrille, while one of the women after another shows how high she can kick, and from what a height she can fall on the asphalt, and do what in the language of acrobats is called a "split;" there is no other name for it. it is not an edifying nor thrilling spectacle. [illustration: at the moulin rouge] the most notorious of these dance-halls is the moulin rouge. you must have noticed when journeying through france the great windmills that stand against the sky-line on so many hilltops. they are a picturesque and typical feature of the landscape, and seem to signify the honest industry and primitiveness of the french people of the provinces. and as the great arms turn in the wind you can imagine you can hear the sound of the mill-wheel clacking while the wheels inside grind out the flour that is to give life and health. and so when you see the great red mill turn high up where four streets meet on the side of montmartre, and know its purpose, you are impressed with the grim contrast of its past uses and its present notoriety. an imaginative person could not fail to be impressed by the sight of the moulin rouge at night. it glows like a furnace, and the glare from its lamps reddens the sky and lights up the surrounding streets and cafés and the faces of the people passing like a conflagration. the mill is red, the thatched roof is red, the arms are picked out in electric lights in red globes, and arches of red lamp-shades rise on every side against the blackness of the night. young men and women are fed into the blazing doors of the mill nightly, and the great arms, as they turn unceasingly and noisily in a fiery circle through the air, seem to tell of the wheels within that are grinding out the life and the health and souls of these young people of montmartre. if you have visited many of the places touched upon in this article in the same night, you will find yourself caught in the act by the early sunlight, and as it will then be too late to go to bed, you can do nothing better than turn your steps towards the madeleine. there you may find the market-people taking the flowers out of the black canvas wagons and putting up the temporary booths, while the sidewalk is hidden with a mass of roses in their white paper cornucopiæ and the dark, damp green of palms and ferns. it will be well worth your while to go on through the silent streets from this market of flowers to the market of food in the halles centrales, where there are strawberry patches stretching for a block, and bounded by acres of radishes or acres of mushrooms, and by queer fruits from as far south as algiers and tunis, just arrived from marseilles on the train, and green pease and carrots from no greater a distance than just beyond the fortifications. it is the only spot in the city where many people are awake. everybody is awake here, bustling and laughing and scolding--porters with brass badges on their sleeves carrying great piles of vegetables, and plump market-women in white sleeves and caps, and drivers in blue blouses smacking their lips over their hot coffee after their long ride through the night. it is like a great exposition building of food exhibits, with the difference that all of these exhibits are to be scattered and are to disappear on the breakfast-tables of paris that same morning. loud-voiced gentlemen are auctioneering off whole crops of potatoes, a sidewalk at a time, or a small riverful of fish with a single clap of the hands; live lobsters and great turtles crawl and squirm on marble slabs, and vistas of red meat stretch on iron hooks from one street corner to the next. you are, and feel that you are, a drone in this busy place, and salute with a sense of guilty companionship the groups of men and girls in dinner dress who have been up all night, and who come singing and chaffing in their open carriages in search of coffee and a box of strawberries, or a bunch of cold, crisp radishes with the dew still on them, which they buy from a virtuous matron of grim and disapproving countenance at a price which throws a lurid light on the profits of bignon's and laurent's. and then you become conscious of your evening dress and generally dissolute and out-of-place air, and hurry home through the bright sunlight to put out your sputtering candle and to creep shamefacedly to bed. iii paris in mourning [illustration] the news of the assassination of president carnot at lyons reached paris and the café de la paix at ten o'clock on sunday night. what is told at the café de la paix is not long in traversing the length of the boulevards, and in crossing the place de la concorde to the cafés chantants and the public gardens in the champs Élysées, so that by eleven o'clock on the night of the th of june "all paris" was acquainted with the fact that the president of the republic had been cruelly murdered. there are many people in america who remember the night when president garfield died, and how, when his death was announced from the stage of the different theatres, the audience in each theatre rose silently as one man and walked quietly out. to them the president's death was not unexpected; it did not stun them, it came with no sudden shock, but it was not necessary to announce to them that the performance for that evening was at an end. they did not leave because the manager had rung down the curtain, but because at such a time they felt more at ease with themselves outside of a place of amusement than in one. this was not the feeling of the parisians when president carnot died. on that night no lights were put out in the cafés; no leader's bâton rapped for a sudden silence in the jardin de paris, and the parisians continued to drink their bock and to dance, or to watch others dance, even though they knew that at that same moment madame carnot in a special train was hurrying through the night to reach the death-bed of her husband. it is never possible to tell which way the french people will jump, or how they will act at a crisis. they have no precedents of conduct; they are as likely to do the characteristic thing, which in itself is different from what people of any other nation would do under like circumstances, as the uncharacteristic thing, which is even more unexpected. they complicate history by behaving with perfect tranquillity when other people would become excited, and by losing their heads when there is no occasion for it. as the yale captain said of the princeton team, "they keep you guessing." so when i was convinced by the morning papers, after the first shock of unbelief, that the president of france was dead, i walked out into the streets to see what sign there would be of it in paris. i argued that in a city given to demonstrations the feelings of the people would take some actual and visible form; that there would be meetings in the street, rioting perhaps in the italian quarter, and extraordinary expressions of grief in the shape of crêpe and mourning. but the people were as undisturbed and tranquil as the sun; the same men were sitting at the same round tables; the same women were shopping in the rue de la paix, and but for an increased energy on the part of the newsboys there was no sign that a good man had died, that one who had harmed no one had himself been cruelly harmed, and that the highest office of the state was vacant. when i complained of this to parisians, or to those who were parisians by choice and not by birth, they explained it by saying that the people were stunned. "they are too shocked to act. it is a horror without a precedent," they said; but it struck me that they were an inordinately long time in recovering from the blow. at one o'clock on monday morning a workman crawled out upon the roof of the invalides, and, gathering the tricolored flag in his arms, tied a wisp of crêpe about it. the flags in the chamber of deputies and in the war office were draped in the same manner, and with these three exceptions i saw no other visible sign of mourning in all paris. on monday night those theatres subsidized by the government, and some others, but not all, were closed for that evening. at three o'clock on tuesday, two days after the death of the president, i counted but three flags draped with crêpe on the boulevards; but on the day following all the shops on the rue de la paix and the hotels on the rue de rivoli put out flags covered with mourning, and so advertised themselves and their grief. it is interesting to remember that the most generous display of crêpe in paris was made by an english firm of ladies' tailors. during this time the correspondents were cabling of the grief and rage of the parisians to sympathetic peoples all over the world; and we, in our turn, were reading in paris the telegrams of condolence and the resolutions of sympathy from as different sources as the parliament of cape town and the congress of the united states. what effect the reading of these sincere and honest words had upon the people of paris i do not know, but i could not at the time conceive of their reading them without blushing. i looked up from the paper which gave lord rosebery's speech, and the brotherly words which came from little colonies in the pacific, from barbarous monarchs, and from widows to madame carnot, and from corporations, emperors, and presidents to the city of paris, and saw nothing in the countenances of the parisians at the table next to mine but smiles of gratification at the importance that they had so suddenly attained in the eyes of the whole world. [illustration: at the jardin de paris] it was also interesting to note by the paris papers how the french valued the expressions of sympathy which poured in upon them. the fact that both houses in the united states had adjourned to do honor to the memory of m. carnot was not in their minds of as much importance as was the telegram from the czar of russia, which was given the most important place in every paper. it was followed almost invariably by the message from the german emperor, whose telegram, it is also interesting to remember, was the second one to reach paris after the death of the president was announced. when one reads a congratulatory telegram from the german emperor on the result of the cambridge-oxford boat-race, and another of condolence to the king of greece in reference to an earthquake, and then this one to the french people, it really seems as though the young ruler did not mean that any event of importance should take place anywhere without his having something to say concerning it. but this last telegram was well timed, and the line which said that m. carnot had died like a soldier at his post was well chosen to please the french love of things military, and please them it did, as the emperor knew that it would. but the condolence from the sister republic across the sea was printed at the end of the column, after those from bulgaria and switzerland. in the eyes of the parisian news editor, the sympathy of the people of a great nation was not so important to his readers as the few words from an emperor to whom they looked for help in time of war. this was not probably true of the whole of france, but it was true of the parisians. two years from now carnot's assassination will have become history, and will impress them much more than it did at the time of his death. the next salon will be filled with the apotheosis of carnot, with his portrait and with pictures of his murder, and of france in mourning laying a wreath upon his tomb. his son will find quick promotion in the army, and may possibly aspire to presidential honors, or threaten the safety of the republic with a military dictatorship. it sounds absurd now, but it is quite possible in a country where general dodds at once became a dangerous presidential possibility because he had conquered the dahomans in the swamps of africa. where the french will place carnot in their history, and how they will reverence his memory, the next few years will show; but it is a fact that at the time of his death they treated him with scant consideration, and were much more impressed with the effect which their loss made upon others than with what it meant to them. it is not a pleasant thing to write about, nor is it the point of view that was taken at the time, but in writing of facts it is more interesting to report things as they happened than as they should have happened. it is also true that those parisians who could decently make a little money out of the nation's loss went about doing so with an avidity that showed a thrifty mind. almost every one who had windows or balconies facing the line of the funeral procession offered them for rent, and advertised them vigorously by placards and through the papers; venders of knots of crêpe and emblems of mourning filled the streets with their cries. portraits of carnot in heavy black were hawked about by the same men who weeks before had sold ridiculous figures of him taking off his hat and bowing to an imaginary audience; the great shops removed their summer costumes from the windows and put stacks of flags bound with crêpe in their place; the flower-shops lined the sidewalks with specimens of their work in mourning-wreaths; and the papers, after their first expression of grief, proceeded to actively discuss carnot's successor, quoting the popularity of different candidates by giving the betting odds for and against them, as they had done the week before, when the horses were entered for the grand prix. this was three days after carnot's death, and while he was still lying unburied at the Élysée. the french constitution provides that in such an event as that of the national assembly shall be convened immediately to select a new president. according to this the president of the senate, in his capacity as president of the national assembly, decided that the two chambers should convene for that purpose at versailles on wednesday, june th, at one o'clock. this certainly seemed to promise a scene of unusual activity, and perhaps historical importance. i knew what the election of a president meant to us at home, and i argued that if the less excitable americans could work themselves up into such a state of frenzy that they blocked the traffic of every great city, and reddened the sky with bonfires from boston to san francisco, the frenchman's ecstasy of excitement would be a spectacle of momentous interest. this seemed to be all the more probable because to the american an election means a new executive but for the next four years, while to the frenchman the new state of affairs that threatened him would extend for seven. young howlett had a vacant place on the top of his public coach, and was just turning the corner as i came out of the hotel; so i went out with him, and looked anxiously down on each side to see the hurrying crowds pushing forward to the palace in the suburbs; and when i found that all roads did not lead to versailles that day, i decided that it must be because we were on the wrong one, which would eventually lead us somewhere else. [illustration: portraits of carnot in heavy black] it did not seem possible that the parisians would feel so little interest as to who their new president might be that they would remain quietly in paris while he was being elected on its outskirts. i expected to see them trooping out along the seven-mile road to versailles in as great numbers as when they went there once before to bring a queen back to paris. but when we drove into versailles the coach rattled through empty streets. there were no processions of cheering men in white hats tramping to the music of "marching through georgia." no red, white, and blue umbrellas, no sky-rocket yells, no dangling badges with gold fringe, nothing that makes a presidential convention in chicago the sight of a lifetime. no one was shouting the name of his political club or his political favorite; no one had his handkerchief tucked inside his collar and a palm leaf in his hand; there were no brass-bands, no banners, and not even beer. nor was there any of the excitement which surrounds the election of even a parliamentary candidate in england. i saw no long line of sandwich-men tramping in each gutter, no violent radicals hustling equally elated conservatives, and crying, "good old smith!" or "good old brown!" no women with primrose badges stuck to their persons making speeches or soliciting votes from the back of dog-carts. and nobody was engaged in throwing kippered herring or blacking the eyes of anybody else. versailles was as unmoved as the statues in her public squares. her broad, hospitable streets lay cool and quiet in the reflection of her yellow house-fronts, and under the heavy shadows of the double rows of elms the round, flat cobble-stones, unsoiled by hurrying footsteps, were as clean and regular as a pan of biscuit ready for the oven. there were about six hundred deputies in the town, who had not been there the day before, and who would leave it before the sun set that evening, but they bore themselves so modestly that their presence could not disturb the sleepy, sunny beauty of the grand old gardens and of the silent thoroughfares, and when we rattled up to the hôtel des réservoirs at one o'clock we made more of a disturbance with the coach-horn than had the arrival of both chambers of deputies. these gentlemen were at _déjeuner_ when we arrived, and eating and drinking as leisurely and good-naturedly as though they had nothing in hand of more importance than a few calls to make or a game of cards at the club. indeed, it looked much more as though versailles had been invaded by a huge wedding-party than by a convention of presidential electors. some of the deputies had brought their wives with them, and few as they were, they leavened and enlivened the group of black coats as the same number of women of no other nation could have done, and the men came from different tables to speak to them, to drink their health, and to pay them pretty compliments; and the good fellows of the two chambers hustled about like so many maîtres d'hôtel seeing that such a one had a place at the crowded tables, that the salad of this one was being properly dressed, and that another had a match for his cigarette. besides the deputies, there were a half-dozen young and old parisians--those who make it a point to see everything and to be seen everywhere. they would have attended quite as willingly a fête of flowers, or a prize-fight between two english jockeys at longchamps, and at either place they would have been as completely at home. they were typical parisians of the highest world, to whom even the selection of a president for all france was not without its interest. with them were the diplomats, who were pretending to take the change of executive seriously, as representatives of the powers, but who were really whispering that it would probably bring back the leadership of the fashionable world to the Élysée, where it should be, and that it meant the reappearance of many royalist families in society, and the inauguration of magnificent functions, and the reopening of ballrooms long unused. it was throughout a pretty, lazy, well-bred scene. outside the entrance to the hotel, coachmen with the cockades of the different embassies in their hats were standing at ease in their shirtsleeves, and with their pipes between their teeth; and the gentlemen, having finished their breakfast, strolled out into the court-yard and watched the hostlers rubbing down the coach-horses, or walked up the hill to the palace, where the boy sentries were hugging their guns, and waving back the few surprised tourists who had come to look at the pictures in the historical gallery, and who did not know that the palace on that day was being used for the prologue of a new historical play. [illustration: "to bring a queen back to paris"] at the gates leading to the great court of honor there were possibly two hundred people in all. they came from the neighboring streets, and not from paris. none of these people spoke in tones louder than those of ordinary converse, and they speculated with indolent interest as to the outcome of the afternoon's voting. a young man in a brown straw hat found an objection to casimir-perier as a candidate because he was so rich, but he withdrew his objection when an older man in a blouse pointed out that casimir-perier would make an excellent appearance on horseback. "the president of france," he said, "must be a man who can look well on a horse;" and the crowd of old women in white caps, and boy soldiers with their hands on their baggy red breeches, from the barracks across the square, nodded their heads approvingly. it was a most interesting sight when compared with the anxious, howling mob that surrounds the building in which a presidential convention is being held at home. it is also interesting to remember that a special telephone wire was placed in the chamber at versailles in order that the news of the election might be communicated to the newspaper offices in paris, and that this piece of enterprise was considered so remarkable that it was commented upon by the entire newspaper press of that city. in chicago, at the time of the last presidential convention, when a nomination merely and not an election was taking place, the interest of the people justified the western union telegraph company in sending out fifteen million words from the building during the three days of the convention. wires ran from it directly to the offices of all the principal newspapers from san francisco to boston, and in chicago itself there were two hundred extra operators, and relays of horsemen galloping continually with "copy" from the convention to the main offices of the different telegraph companies. this merely shows a difference of temperament: the american likes to know what has happened while it is hot, and to know all that has happened. the european and the parisian, on this occasion at least, was content to wait at a café in ease and comfort until he was told the result. he did not feel that he could change that result in any way by going out to versailles in the hot sun and cheering his candidate from the outside of an iron fence. at the gate of the place d'armes there was a crowd of fifty people, watched by a few hundred more from under the shade of the trees and the awnings of the restaurants around the square. the dust rose in little eddies, and swept across the square in yellow clouds, and the people turned their backs to it and shrugged their shoulders and waited patiently. inside of the court of honor a single line of lancers stood at their horses' heads, their brass helmets flashing like the signals of a dozen heliographs. officers with cigarettes and heavily braided sleeves strolled up and down, and took themselves much more seriously than they did the matter in hand. a dozen white-waistcoated and high-hatted deputies standing outside of the chamber suggested nothing more momentous or national than a meeting of a presbyterian general assembly. bicyclers of both sexes swung themselves from their machines and peered curiously through the iron fence, and, seeing nothing more interesting than the fluttering pennants of the lancers, mounted their wheels again and disappeared in the clouds of dust. in the meanwhile casimir-perier has been elected on the first ballot, which was taken without incident, save when one deputy refused to announce his vote as the roll was called until he was addressed as "citizen," and not as "monsieur." this silly person was finally humored, and the result was declared, and casimir-perier left the hall to put on a dress-suit in order that he might receive the congratulations of his friends. as the first act of the new president, this must not be considered as significant of the particular man who did it, but as illustrating the point of view of his countrymen, who do not see that if the highest office in the country cannot lend sufficient dignity to the man who holds it, a dress-suit or his appearance on horseback is hardly able to do so. the congratulations last a long time, and are given so heartily and with such eloquence that the new president weeps while he grasps the hand of his late confrères, and says to each, "you must help me; i need you all." neither is the fact that the president wept on this occasion significant of anything but that he was laboring under much excitement, and that the temperament of the french is one easily moved. people who cannot see why a strong man should weep merely because he has become a president must remember that casimir-perier wears the cross of the legion of honor for bravery in action on the field of battle. the congratulations come to an end at last, and the new president leaves the palace, and takes his place in the open carriage that has been waiting his pleasure these last two hours. there is a great crowd around the gate now, all versailles having turned out to cheer him, and he can hear them crying "vive le président!" from far across the length of the court of honor. m. dupuy, his late rival at the polls, seats himself beside him on his left, and two officers in uniform face him from the front. before his carriage are two open lines of cavalry, proudly conscious in their steel breastplates and with their carbines on the hip that they are to convoy the new president to paris; and behind him, in close order, are the lancers, with their flashing brass helmets, and their pennants fluttering in the wind. the horses start forward with a sharp clatter of hoofs on the broad stones of the square, the deputies raise their high hats, and with a jangling of steel chains and swords, and with the pennants snapping in the breeze like tiny whips, the new president starts on his triumphal ride into paris. the colossal statues of france's great men, from charlemagne to richelieu, look down upon him curiously as he whirls between them to the iron gateway and disappears in the alley of mounted men and cheering civilians. he is out of it in a moment, and has galloped on in a whirling cloud of yellow dust towards the city lying seven miles away, where, six months later, by his unexpected resignation, he is to create a consternation as intense as that which preceded his election. it would be interesting to know of what casimir-perier thought as he rode through the empty streets in the cool of the summer evening, startling the villagers at their dinners, and bringing them on a run to the doors by the ringing jangle of his mounted men and the echoing hoofs. perhaps he thought of the anarchists who might attempt his life, or of those who succeeded with the man whose place he had taken, or, what is more likely, he gave himself up to the moment, and said to himself, as each new face was framed by a window or peered through a doorway: "yes, it is the new president of france, casimir-perier; not only of france, but of all her colonies. by to-night they will know in siam, in tunis, in algiers, and in the swamps of dahomey that there is a new step on the floor, and governors of provinces, and native rulers of barbarous states, and _sous-préfets_, and pretenders to the throne of france, will consider anxiously what the change means to them, and will be measuring their fortunes with mine." the carriage and its escort enter the cool shadows of the bois de boulogne at passy, and pass longchamps, where the french president annually reviews the army of france, and where now the victorias and broughams and fiacres draw to one side; and he notes the look of amused interest on the faces of their occupants as his outriders draw rapidly nearer, and the smiles of intelligence as they comprehend that it is the new president, and he catches a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of nodding faces, and hats half raised in salute as he gallops past. it must have been a pleasant drive. very few men have taken it. very few men have swept round the circle of the arc de triomphe and seen the mass of glittering carriages stretching far down the avenue part and make way for them on either side. casimir-perier's brief term included many imbitterments, but it is a question if they will ever destroy the sweetness of that moment when power first touched him as he was borne back to paris the president of france; and in his retirement he will recall that ride in the summer twilight, which the refractory deputies who caused his downfall have never taken, and hear again the people cheering at versailles, and the galloping horses, and see the crowd that waited for him in the place de la concorde and ran beside his carriage across the bridge. * * * * * although the funeral procession was not to leave the Élysée until ten o'clock on sunday morning, the thrifty citizens of paris began to prepare for it as early as eleven o'clock on saturday night. the champs Élysées at that hour was lined with tables, boxes, and ladders, and any other portable object that could afford from its top a view of the pageant and standing-room, for which one might reasonably ask a franc. this barricade stretched in an unbroken front, which extended far back under the trees from the avenue marigny to the place de la concorde, where it spread out over the raised sidewalks and around the fountains and islands of safety, until the square was transformed into what looked like a great market-place. it was one of the most curious sights that parisians have ever seen in time of peace. over four thousand people were encamped around these temporary stands, some drinking and eating, others sleeping, and others busily and noisily engaged in erecting still more stands, while the falling of the boards that were to form them rattled as they fell from the carts to the asphalt like the reports of musketry. each stand was lit by a lantern and a smoking lamp; and the men and women, as they moved about in the half-darkness, or slept curled up beneath the carts and tables, suggested the bivouac of an army, or that part of a besieged city where the people had gathered with their household goods for safety. the procession the next morning moved down the champs Élysées and across the place de la concorde and along the rue de rivoli to notre dame, from whence, after the ceremony there, it proceeded on to the panthéon. all of this line of march was guarded on either side by double lines of infantry, and one can obtain an idea of how great was the crowd behind them by the fact that on the morning of the procession five hundred people were taken in ambulances to the different hospitals of paris. this included those who had fainted in the crush, or who had been overcome by the heat, or who had fallen from one of the many tottering scaffoldings. each of the great vases along the iron fence of the tuileries held one or two men, one of whom sat opposite us across the rue de rivoli, who had been there six hours, like stylites on his pillar, except that the parisian had an opera-glass, a morning paper, and a bottle of red wine to keep him company. the trees in the tuileries were blackened with men, and the sky-line of every house-top moved with them. the crowd was greatest perhaps in the place de la concorde, where it spread a black carpet over the great square, which parted and fell away before the repeated charges of the cavalry like a piece of cloth before a pair of shears. it was a most orderly crowd, and an extremely good-humored one, and it manifested no strong feeling at any time, except over two features of the procession, which had nothing to do with the death of carnot. except when there was music, which was much too seldom, the crowd chattered and laughed as it might have done at a purely military function, and only the stern hisses of a few kept the majority from applauding any one who passed for whom they held an especial interest. the procession left the Élysée at ten o'clock, to the accompaniment of minute-guns from the battery on the pier near the chamber of deputies. it was led by a very fine body of cuirassiers, who presented a better appearance than any of the soldiers in the procession. it was not the great military display that had been expected; there was no artillery in line, and the navy was not represented, save by a few guards around the wreath from the officers of that particular service. the regiments of infantry, who were followed by the cavalry, lacked form, and marched as though they had not convinced themselves that what they were doing was worth doing well. the infantry was followed by the mourning-wreaths sent by the senate and by the different monarchs of europe. these wreaths form an important and characteristic part of the funeral of a great man in france, and as the french have studied this form of expressing their grief for some time, they produce the most magnificent and beautiful tributes, of greater proportions and in better taste than any that can be seen in any other country in the world. the larger of these wreaths were hung from great scaffoldings, supported on floats, each drawn by four or six horses. some of these were so large that a man standing upright within them could not touch the opposite inner edges with his finger-tips. they were composed entirely of orchids or violets, with bands of purple silk stretching from side to side, and bearing the names of the senders in gold letters. the wreath sent by the emperor of russia was given a place by itself, and mounted magnificently on a car draped with black, and surrounded by a special guard of military and servants of the household. the wreaths of the royalties were followed by more soldiers, and then came the black and silver catafalque that bore the body of the late president. the wheels of this car were muffled with cloth, and the horses that drew it were completely hidden under trappings of black and silver; the reins were broad white ribbons, and there was a mute at each horse's head. as the car passed, there was the first absolute silence of the morning, and many people crossed themselves, and all of the men stood bareheaded. separated from the catafalque by but a few rods, and walking quite alone, was the new president, casimir-perier. there were soldiers and attendants between him and the line of soldiers which guarded the sidewalks, but he was alone in that there was no one near him. according to the protocol he should not have been there at all, as the etiquette of this function ruled that the new president should not intrude his person upon the occasion when the position held by his predecessor is being officially recognized for the last time. casimir-perier, however, chose to disregard the etiquette of this protocol, arguing that the occasion was exceptional, and that no one had a better right to mourn for the late president than the man who had succeeded to the dangers and responsibilities of that office. he was also undoubtedly moved by the fact that it was generally believed that his life would be attempted if he did walk conspicuously in the procession. had carnot died a natural death, casimir-perier's presence at the funeral would have been in debatable taste, but carnot's assassination, and the threats which hung thick in the air, made the president take the risk he did, in spite of the fact that carnot had been murdered in a public place, and not on account of it. it was distinctly a courageous thing for him to do, and it was done against the wishes of his best friends and the entreaties of his family, who spent the entire night before the procession in a chapel praying for his safety. he walked erect, with his eyes turned down, and with his hat at his side. he was in evening dress, with the crimson sash of the legion of honor across his breast, and he presented a fine and soldierly bearing, and made an impression, both by his appearance and by his action, that could not have been gained so soon in any other manner. the embassies and legations followed casimir-perier in an irregular mass of glittering groups. all of these men were on foot. there was no exception permitted to this rule; and it was interesting to see lord dufferin in the uniform of a viceroy of india, which he wore instead of his diplomatic uniform, marching in the dust in the same line with the firemen and letter-carriers. the ambassadors and their attachés were undoubtedly the most brilliant and picturesque features of the occasion, and the united states ambassador and his secretaries were, on account of the contrast their black-and-white evening dress made to the colors and ribbons of the others, on this occasion, the most conspicuous and appropriately dressed men present. [illustration: "the girl who represented alsace"] but what best pleased the french people were two girls dressed in the native costumes of alsace and lorraine. they headed the deputation from those provinces. the girl who represented alsace was particularly beautiful, with long black hair parted in the middle, and hanging down her back in long plaits. she wore the characteristic head-dress of the alsacian women, and a short red skirt, black velvet bodice, and black stockings. she carried the french flag in front of her draped in crêpe, and as she stepped briskly forward the wind blew the black bow on her hair and the folds of the flag about her face, and gave her a living and spirited air that in no way suited the occasion, but which delighted the populace. they applauded her and her companion from one end of the march to the other, and the spectacle must have rendered the german ambassador somewhat uncomfortable, and made him wish for a billet among a people who could learn to forget. the only other feature of the procession which called forth applause, which no one tried to suppress, was the presence in it of an old general who was mistaken by the spectators for marshal canrobert. this last of the marshals of france was too ill to march in the funeral cortége; but the old soldier, who looked not unlike him, and whose limping gait and bent back and crutch-stick led him to be mistaken for the marshal, served the purpose quite as well. one wondered if it did not embarrass the veteran to find himself so suddenly elevated into the rôle of popular idol of the hour; but perhaps he persuaded himself that it was his white hair and crutch and many war-medals which called forth the ovation, and that he deserved it on his own account--as who can say he did not? the unpleasant incident of the day was one which was unfortunately acted in full view of the balconies of the hotels meurice and continental. these were occupied by most of the foreigners visiting paris, and were virtually the grandstands of the spectacle. in the rue castiglione, which separated the two hotels, and in full sight of these critical onlookers, a horse was taken with the blind staggers, and upset a stand, throwing those who sat upon it out into the street. in an instant the crash of the falling timbers and the cries of the half-dozen men and women who had been precipitated into the street struck panic into the crowd of sight-seers on the pavement and among the firemen who were at that moment marching past. the terror of another dynamite outrage was in the minds of all, and without waiting to learn what had happened, or to even look, the thousands of people broke into a confused mass of screaming, terrified creatures, running madly in every direction, and changing the quiet solemnity of the moment into a scene of horror and panic. the firemen dropped the wreath they were carrying and fled with the crowd; and then the french soldiers who were lining the pavements, to the astonishment and disgust of the americans and english on the balconies, who were looking down like spectators at a play, tucked their guns under their arms and joined in the mad rush for safety. it was a sight that made even the women on the balconies keep silence in shame for them. it was pathetic, ridiculous, and inexcusable, and the boy officers on duty would have gained the sympathy of the unwilling spectators had they cut their men down with their swords, and shown the others that he who runs away from a falling grandstand is not needed to live to fight a german army later. it is true that the men who ran away were only boys fresh from the provinces, with dull minds filled with the fear of what an anarchist might do; but it showed a lack of discipline that should have made the directors of the salon turn the military pictures in that gallery to the wall, until the picture exhibited in the rue castiglione was effaced from the minds of the visiting strangers. imagine a squad of new york policemen running away from a horse with the blind staggers, and not, on the contrary, seizing the chance to club every one within reach back to the sidewalk! remember the london bobby who carried a dynamite bomb in his hand from the hall of the houses of parliament, and the chicago police who walked into a real anarchist mob over the bodies of their comrades, and who answered the terrifying bombs with the popping of their revolvers! it is surprising that napoleon, looking down upon the scene in the rue castiglione from the top of his column, did not turn on his pedestal. after such an exhibition as this it was only natural that the people should turn from the soldiers to find the greater interest in the miles of wreaths that came from every corner of france. these were the expressions of the truer sympathy with the dead president, and there seemed to be more sentiment and real regret in the little black bead wreaths from the villages in the south and west of france than there were in all the great wreaths of orchids and violets purchased on the boulevards. the procession had been two hours in passing a given point. it had moved at ten o'clock, and it was four in the afternoon before it dispersed at the panthéon, and deputies in evening dress and attachés in uniform and judges in scarlet robes could be seen hurrying over paris in fiacres, faint and hot and cross, for the first taste of food and drink that had touched their lips since early morning. a few hours later there was not a soldier out of his barracks, the scaffoldings had been taken to pieces, the spectators had been distributed in trains to the environs, the bands played again in the gardens, and the theatres opened their doors. paris had taken off her mourning, and fallen back into her interrupted routine of pleasure, and had left nothing in the streets to show that carnot's body had passed over them save thousands of scraps of greasy newspapers in which the sympathetic spectators of the solemn function had wrapped their breakfasts. iv the grand prix and other prizes i think the most satisfying thing about the race for the grand prix at longchamps is the knowledge that every one in paris is justifying your interest in the event by being just as much excited about it as you are. you have the satisfaction of feeling that you are with the crowd, or that the crowd is with you, as you choose to put it, and that you move in sympathy with hundreds of thousands of people, who, though they may not be at the race-track in person, wish they were, which is the next best thing, and which helps you in the form of moral support, at least. you feel that every one who passes by knows and approves of your idea of a holiday, and will quite understand when you ride out on the champs Élysées at eleven o'clock in the morning with four other men packed in one fiacre, or when, for no apparent reason, you hurl your hat into the air. there are two ways of reaching longchamps, the right way and the wrong way. the wrong way is to go with the crowd the entire distance through the bois, and so find yourself stopped half a mile from the race-track in a barricade of carriages and hired fiacres, with the wheels scraping, and the noses of the horses rubbing the backs of the carriages in front. this is entertaining for a quarter of an hour, as you will find that every american or english man and woman you have ever met is sitting within talking distance of you, and as you weave your way in and out like a shuttle in a great loom you have a chance to bow to a great many friends, and to gaze for several minutes at a time at all of the celebrities of paris. but after an hour has passed, and you have discovered that your driver is not as clever as the others in stealing ground and pushing himself before his betters, you begin to grow hot, dusty, and cross, and when you do arrive at the track you are not in a proper frame of mind to lose money cheerfully and politely, like the true sportsman that you ought to be. the right way to go is through the bois by the lakes, stopping within sound of the waterfall at the café de la cascade. the advantage of this is that you escape the crowd, and that you have the pleasing certainty in your mind throughout the rest of the afternoon of knowing that you will be able to find your carriage again when the races are over. if you leave your fiacre at the main entrance, you will have to pick it out from three or four thousand others, all of which look exactly alike; and even if you do tie a red handkerchief around the driver's whip, you will find that six hundred other people have thought of doing the same thing, and you will be an hour in finding the right one, and you will be jostled at the same time by the boys in blouses who are hunting up lost carriages, and finding the owners to fit them. you can avoid all this if you go to the cascade and take your coachman's little ticket, and send him back to wait for you in the stables of the café, not forgetting to give him something in advance for his breakfast. it is then only a three minutes' walk from the restaurant among the trees to the back door of the race-track, and in five minutes after you have left your carriage you will have passed the sentry at the ticket-box, received your ticket from the young woman inside of it, given it to the official with a high hat and a big badge, and will be within the enclosure, with your temper unruffled and your boots immaculate. and then, when the races are over, you have only to return to the restaurant and hand your coachman's ticket to the tall chasseur, and let him do the rest, while you wait at a little round table and order cooling drinks. all great race meetings look very much alike. there are always the long grandstand with human beings showing from the lowest steps to the sky-line; the green track, and the miles of carriages and coaches encamped on the other side; the crowd of well-dressed people in the enclosure, and the thin-legged horses cloaked mysteriously in blankets and stalking around the paddock; the massive crush around the betting-booths, that sweeps slowly in eddies and currents like a great body of water; and the rush which answers the starting-bell. the two most distinctive features of the grand prix are the numbers of beautifully dressed women who mix quietly with the men around the booths at which the mutuals are sold, and the fact that every one speaks english, either because that is his native tongue, or because, if he be a frenchman, he finds so many english terms in his racing vocabulary that it is easier for him to talk entirely in that tongue than to change from french to english three or four times in each sentence. but the most curious, and in a way the most interesting feature of the grand prix day, is the queer accompaniment to which the races are run. it never ceases or slackens, or lowers its sharp monotone. it comes from the machines which stamp the tickets bought in the mutual pools. if you can imagine a hundred ticket-collectors on an elevated railroad station all chopping tickets at the same time, and continuing at this uninterruptedly for five hours, you can obtain an idea of the sound of this accompaniment. it is not a question of cancelling a five-cent railroad ticket with these little instruments. it is the same to them whether they clip for the girl who wagers a louis on the favorite for a place, and who stands to win two francs, or for the english plunger who has shoved twenty thousand francs under the wire, and who has only the little yellow and red ticket which one of the machines has so nonchalantly punched to show for his money. people may neglect the horses for luncheon, or press over the rail to see them rush past, or gather to watch the president of the republic enter to a solemn fanfare of trumpets between lines of soldiers, but there are always a few left to feed these little machines, and their clicking goes on through the whole of the hot, dusty day, like the clipping of the shears of atropos. [illustration: the restaurant among the trees] the grand prix is the only race at which you are generally sure to win money. you can do this by simply betting against the english horse. the english horse is generally the favorite, and of late years the french horse-owners have been so loath to see the blue ribbon of the french turf go to perfidious albion that their patriotism sometimes overpowers their love of fair play. if the english horse is not only the favorite, but also happens to belong to the stable of baron hirsch, you have a combination that apparently can never win on french soil, and you can make your bets accordingly. when matchbox walked on to the track last year, he was escorted by eight gendarmes, seven detectives in plain clothes, his two trainers, and the jockey, and it was not until he was well out in the middle of the track that this body-guard deserted him. possibly if they had been allowed to follow him round the course on bicycles he might have won, and no combination of french jockeys could have ridden him into the rail, or held cannon back by a pressure of one knee in front of another, or driven him to making such excursions into unknown territory to avoid these very things that the horse had little strength left for the finish. but perhaps the french horse was the better one, after all, and it was certainly worth the loss of a few francs to see the frenchmen rejoice over their victory. to their minds, such a defeat of the english on the field of longchamps went far to wipe away the memory of that other victory on the field near brussels. grand prix night is a fête-night in paris--that is, in the paris of the boulevards and the champs Élysées--and if you wish to dine well before ten o'clock, you should engage your table for that night several days in advance. you have seen people during horse show week in new york waiting in the hall at delmonico's for a table for a half-hour at a time, but on grand prix night you will see hundreds of hungry men standing outside of the open-air restaurants in the champs Élysées, or wandering disconsolately under the trees from the crowded tables of l'horloge across the avenue to those of the ambassadeurs', and from them to the alcazar d'Été, and so on to laurent's and the café d'orient. every one apparently is dining out-of-doors on that night, and the white tables, with their little lamps, and with bottles of red wine flickering in their light, stretch under the trees from the place de la concorde up to the avenue matignon. there are splashing fountains between them and bands of music, and the voices of the singers in the cafés chantants sound shrilly above the chorus of rattling china and of hundreds of people talking and laughing, and the never-ceasing undertone of the cabs rolling by on the great avenue, with their lamps approaching and disappearing in the night like thousands of giant fire-flies. you are sure to dine well in such surroundings, and especially so after the great race--for the reason that if your friends have won, they command a good dinner to celebrate the fact; or should they have lost, they design a better one in order to help them forget their ill-fortune. the spirit of adventure and excitement that has been growing and feeding upon itself throughout the day of the grand prix reaches its climax after the dinner hour, and finds an outlet among the trees and chinese lanterns of the jardin de paris. there you will see all paris. it is the crest of the highest wave of pleasure that rears itself and breaks there. you will see on that night, and only on that night, all of the most celebrated women of paris racing with linked arms about the asphalt pavement which circles around the band-stand. it is for them their one night of freedom in public, when they are permitted to conduct themselves as do their less prosperous sisters, when, instead of reclining in a victoria in the bois, with eyes demurely fixed ahead of them, they can throw off restraint and mix with all the men of paris, and show their diamonds, and romp and dance and chaff and laugh as they did when they were not so famous. the french swells who are their escorts have cut down chinese lanterns with their sticks, and stuck the candles inside of them on the top of their high hats with the burning tallow, and made living torches of themselves. so on they go, racing by--first a youth in evening dress, dripping with candle-grease, and then a beautiful girl in a dinner gown, with her silk and velvet opera cloak slipping from her shoulders--all singing to the music of the band, sweeping the people before them, or closing in a circle around some stately dignitary, and waltzing furiously past him to prevent his escape. sometimes one party will storm the band-stand and seize the musicians' instruments, while another invades the stage of the little theatre, or overpowers the women in charge of the shooting-gallery, or institutes a hurdle-race over the iron tables and the wicker chairs. [illustration: interested in the winner] or you will see ambassadors and men of title from the jockey club jostling cockney bookmakers and english lords to look at a little girl in a linen blouse and a flat straw hat, who is dancing in the same circle of shining shirt-fronts _vis-à-vis_ to the most-talked-of young person in paris, who wears diamonds in ropes, and who rode herself into notoriety by winning a steeplechase against a field of french officers. the first is a hired dancer, who will kick off some gentleman's hat when she wants it, and pass it round for money, and the other is the companion of princes, and has probably never been permitted to enter the jardin de paris before; but they are both of the same class, and when the music stops for a moment they approach each other smiling, each on her guard against possible condescension or familiarity; and the hired dancer, who is as famous in her way as the young girl with the ropes of diamonds is in hers, compliments madame on her dancing, and madame calls the other "mademoiselle," and says, "how very warm it is!" and the circle of men around them, who are leaning on each other's shoulders and standing on benches and tables to look, smile delightedly at the spectacle. they consider it very _chic_, this combination. it is like a meeting between madame bernhardt and yvette guilbert. but the climax of the night was reached last year when the band of a hundred pieces struck buoyantly into that most reckless and impudent of marches and comic songs, "the man that broke the bank at monte carlo." the cymbals clashed, and the big drums emphasized the high notes, and the brass blared out boastfully with a confidence and swagger that showed how sure the musicians were of pleasing that particular audience with that particular tune. and they were not disappointed. the three thousand men and women hailed the first bars of the song with a yell of recognition, and then dancing and strutting to the rhythm of the tune, and singing and shouting it in french and english, they raised their voices in such a chorus that they could be heard defiantly proclaiming who they were and what they had done as far as the boulevards. and when they reached the high note in the chorus, the musicians, carried away by the fever of the crowd, jumped upon the chairs, and held their instruments as high above their heads as they could without losing control of that note, and every one stood on tiptoe, and many on one foot, all holding on to that highest note as long as their breath lasted. it was a triumphant, reckless yell of defiance and delight; it was the war-cry of that class of parisians of which one always reads and which one sees so seldom, which comes to the surface only at unusual intervals, and which, when it does appear, lives up to its reputation, and does not disappoint you. * * * * * it happened a short time ago, when i was in paris, that the ranks of those members of the institute of france who are known as the forty immortals were incomplete, one of the forty having but lately died. i do not now recall the name of this immortal, which is not, i trust, an evidence of ignorance on my part so much as it is an illustration of the circumstance that when men choose to make sure of immortality while they are alive, in preference to waiting for it after death, they are apt to be considered, when they cease to live, as having had their share, and the world closes its account with them, and opens up one with some less impatient individual. it is only a matter of choice, and suggests that one cannot have one's cake and eat it too. and so, while we can but envy françois coppée in his green coat and his laurel wreath of the immortals of france, we may remember the other sort of immortality that came to françois villon and françois millet, who were not members of the institute, and whose coats were very ragged indeed. i do, however, remember the name of the gentleman who was elected to fill the vacancy in the ranks of the forty, and in telling how he and other living men take on the robe of immortality i hope to report the proceedings of one of the most interesting functions of the french capital. he was the vicomte de bornier, and his name was especially impressed upon me by a paragraph which appeared in the _figaro_ on the day following his admittance to the academy. "m. manel," the paragraph read, "the well-known journalist, has renounced his candidacy for the vacant chair among the forty immortals. m. manel will be well remembered by parisians as the author who has written so much and so charmingly under the _nom de plume_ of 'le vicomte de bornier.'" whether this was or was not fair to the gentleman i had seen so highly honored i do not know, but it was calculated to make him a literary light of interest. you are told in paris that the title of academician is the only one remaining under the republic which counts for anything; and, on the other hand, you hear the academy called a pleasant club for old gentlemen, to which new members are elected not for any great work which they are doing in the world, but because their point of view is congenial to those who are already members. all that can be said against the academy by a frenchman has been printed by alphonse daudet in _the immortals_. in that novel he charges that the academy numbs the style of whosoever wears its green livery; he says that he who enters its door leaves originality behind, that he grows conservative and self-conscious, and that whatever freshness of thought or literary method may have been his before his admittance to its venerable portals is chilled by the severe classicism of his thirty-nine brethren. this may or may not be true of some of the members, but it certainly cannot be true of all, as many of them were never distinguished as authors, but were elected, as were de lesseps and pasteur, for discoveries and research in science, medicine, or engineering. nor is it true of m. paul bourget, who is the last distinguished frenchman to be received into the ranks of the immortals. the same observations which he made to me while in this country, and when he was not an academician, upon americans and american institutions, he has repeated, since his accession to the rank of an immortal, in _outre mer_. and the freedom with which he has spoken shows that the shadow of the palm-trees has not clouded his cosmopolitan point of view, nor the classicism of the academy dulled his wonderful powers of analysis. in his election, representing as he does the most brilliant of the younger and progressive school of french writers, the academy has not so much honored the man as the man has honored the academy. m. daudet's opinion, however, is interesting as being that of one of the most distinguished of french writers, and it is a satire which costs something, for it shuts off m. daudet forever from hope of election to the body at which he scoffs, and at the same time robs him of the possibility of ever enjoying the added money value which attaches to each book that bears the leaves of the academy on its title-page. since the days of richelieu, frenchmen have mocked at this institution, and frenchmen have given up years of their lives in working, scheming, and praying to be admitted to its councils, and died disappointed, and bitterly cursing it in their hearts. we have on the one hand the familiar story of alexis piron, who had engraved on his tombstone, "_ci-gît piron, qui ne fut rien, pas même académicien._" and on the other there is the present picture of m. zola knocking year after year at its portals, asking men in many ways his inferior to permit him a right to sit beside them. if you look over its lists from to the present day you will find as many great names among its members as those which are missing from its rolls; so that proves nothing. [illustration: "around some stately dignitary"] no ridicule can disestablish the importance of the work done by the academy in keeping the french language pure, or the value of its dictionary, or the incentive which it gives to good work by examining and reporting from time to time on literary, scientific, and historical works. a short time ago the anarchists of paris determined to actively ridicule the académie française by putting forth a foolish person, citizen achille le roy, as a candidate for its honors. as a preliminary to election to the academy a candidate must call upon all of its members. it is a formality which may be considered somewhat humiliating, as it suggests begging from door to door, hat in hand; but citizen le roy made his round of visits in triumphal state, dressed in the cast-off uniform of a bolivian general, and accompanied by a band of music and a wagonette full of journalists. wherever he was not received he deposited an imitation bomb at the door of the member who had refused to see him, either as a warning or as a joke, and much to the alarm of the servants who opened the door. he concluded his journey, which extended over several days, by being photographed outside of the door of the institute, which was, of course, the only side of the door which he will ever see. the institute of france stands beyond the bridges, facing the seine. it is a most impressive and ancient pile, built around a great court, and guarded by statues in bronze and stone of the men who have been admitted to its gates. the ceremony of receiving a new member takes place in one end of this quadrangle of stone, in a little round hall, not so large as the auditorium of a new york theatre, and built like a dissecting-room, with three rows of low-hanging stone balconies circling the entire circumference of its walls. one part of the lowest balcony is divided into two large boxes, with a high desk between them, and a flight of steps leading down from it into the pit, which is packed close with benches. in one of these boxes sit some members of the institute, and in the other the members of the académie française, which is only one, though the best known, of the five branches into which the institute is divided. behind the high desk sits the president, or, as he is called, the secrétaire perpétuel, of the academy, with a member on either side. it is the duty of one of these to read the address of welcome to the incoming mortal. it is a very pretty sight and a most important function in the social world, and as there are no reserved places, the invited ones come as early as eight o'clock in the morning to secure a good place, although the brief exercises do not begin until two o'clock in the afternoon. at that hour the street outside is lined with long rows of carriages, guarded by the smartest of english coachmen, and emblazoned with the oldest of french coats-of-arms. in the court-yard there is a fluttering group of pretty women in wonderful toilets, surrounding a few distinguished-looking men with ribbons in their coats, and encircled by a ring of journalists making notes of the costumes and taking down the names of the social celebrities. a double row of soldiers--for the institute is part of the state--lines the main hall leading to the chamber, and salutes all who pass, whether men or women. i was so unfortunate as to arrive very late, but as i came in with the american ambassador i secured a very good place, although a most awkwardly conspicuous one. three old gentlemen in silk knickerbockers and gold chains bowed the ambassador down the hall between the soldiers, and out on to the steps which lead from the desk between the boxes in which sat the immortals. there they placed two little camp-stools about eight inches high, on which they begged us to be seated. there was not another square foot of space in the entire chamber which was not occupied, so we dropped down upon the camp-stools. we were as conspicuous as you would be if you seated yourself on top of the prompter's box on the stage of the grand opera-house, and i felt exactly, after the audience had examined us at their leisure, as though the secretary was about to suddenly rap on his desk and auction me off for whatever he could get. still, we sat among the immortals, if only for an hour, and that was something. the venerable secretary peered over his desk, and the other immortals gazed with polite curiosity, for the ambassador had only just arrived in paris, and was not yet known. the gentleman on the right of the secretary was françois coppée, a very handsome man, with a strong, kind face, smoothly shaven, and suggesting a priest or a tragic actor. he wore the uniform of the academy, which napoleon spent much time in devising. it consists of a coat of dark green, bordered with palm leaves in a lighter green silk; there are, too, a high standing collar and a white waistcoat and a pearl-handled sword. the poet also wore a great many decorations, and smiled kindly upon mr. eustis and myself, with apparently great amusement. on the other side of the president, back of mr. eustis, was comte d'haussonville; he is a tall man with a vandyck beard, and it was he who was to read the address of welcome to the vicomte de bornier. below in the pit, and all around in the balconies, were women beautifully dressed, among whom there were as few young girls as there were men. these were the most interesting women in parisian society--the ladies of the faubourg st.-germain, who at that time would have appeared at scarcely any other function, and the ladies who support the _revue des deux mondes_, and the pretty young daughters of champagne and chocolate-making papas who had married ancient titles, and who try to emulate in their interests, if not in their toilets, their more noble sisters-in-law, and all the prettiest women of the high world, as well as the sisters of pretenders to the throne and the wife of president carnot. the absence of men was very noticeable; the immortals seemed to have it all to themselves, and it looked as though they had purposely refrained from asking any men, or that the men who had not been given the robe of immortality were jealous, and so stayed away of their own accord. those who were there either looked bored, or else posed for the benefit of the ladies, with one hand in the opening of their waistcoats, nodding their heads approvingly at what the speaker said. in the pit i recognized m. blowitz, the famous correspondent of the _times_, entirely surrounded by women. he wore a gray suit and a flowing white tie, and he did not seem to be having a very good time. there were also among the immortals jules simon, and alexandre dumas fils, dark-skinned, with little, black, observant eyes, and white, curled hair, and crisp mustache. he seemed to be more interested in watching the women than in listening to the speeches, and moved restlessly and inattentively. when the exercises were over, and the academicians came out of their box and were presented to mr. eustis, dumas was gravely courteous, and spoke a few words of welcome to the ambassador in a formal, distant way, and then hurried off by himself without waiting to chat with the women, as the others did. he was the most interesting of them all to me, and the least interested in what was going on. there were many others there, and it was amusing to try and fasten to them the names of pasteur and henri meilhac, ludovic halévy, and the duc d'aumale, the uncle of the comte de paris, who was then alive, and benjamin constant, who had the week before been admitted to the institute. some of them, heavy-eyed men, with great firm jaws and heavy foreheads, wearing their braided coats uneasily, as though they would have been more comfortable in a surgeon's apron or a painter's blouse, kept you wondering what they had done; and others, dapper and smiling and obsequious, made you ask what they could possibly do. the vicomte bornier opened the proceedings by reading his address to the beautiful ladies, with his cocked hat under his arm and his mother-of-pearl sword at his side, and i am afraid it did not appeal to me as a very serious business. it was too suggestive of an afternoon tea. there was too much patting of kid-gloved hands, and too many women altogether. it was a little like bunthorne and the twenty maidens. if the little theatre had been crowded with men eager to hear what this new light in literature had to say, it might have been impressive, but the sight of forty distinguished men sitting apart and calling themselves fine names, and surrounded by women who believed they were what they called themselves, had its humorous side. i could not make out what the speech was about, because the french was too good; but it was eminently characteristic and interesting to find that both bornier and d'haussonville made their most successful points when they paid compliments to the ladies present, or to womenkind in general, or when they called for revenge on germany. i thought it curious that even in a eulogy on a dead man, and in an address of welcome to a live one, each frenchman could manage to introduce at least three references of alsace-lorraine, and to bow and make pretty speeches to the ladies in the audience. [illustration: "the man that broke the bank at monte carlo"] there is a peculiarity about this second address which is worth noting. it concerns itself with the virtues of the incoming member, and as he is generally puffed up with honor, the address is always put into the hands of one whose duty it is to severely criticise and undervalue him and his words. it is a curious idea to belittle the man whom you have just honored, but it is the custom, and as both speeches are submitted to a committee before they are read, there is no very hard feeling. it is only in the address read after a member's death that he is eulogized, and then it does not do him very much good. on the occasion of pierre loti's admission to the academy he, instead of eulogizing the man whose place he had taken, lauded his own methods and style of composition so greatly that when the second member arose he prefaced his remarks by suggesting that "m. loti has said so much for himself that he has left me nothing to add." * * * * * it is very much of a step from the académie française to the fête of flowers in the bois de boulogne, but the latter comes under the head of one of the shows of paris, and is to me one of the prettiest and the most remarkable. i do not believe that it could be successfully carried out in any other city in the world. there would certainly be horse-play and roughness to spoil it, and it is only the frenchman's idea of gallantry and the good-nature of both the french man and woman which render it possible. it would be an easy matter to hold a fête of flowers at los angeles or at nice, or in any small city or watering-place where all the participants would know one another and the masses would be content to act as spectators; but to venture on such a spectacle, and to throw it open to any one who pays a few francs, in as great a city as paris, requires, first of all, the highest executive ability before the artistic and pictorial side of the affair is considered at all, and the most hearty co-operation of the state or local government with the citizens who have it in hand. on the day of the fête the allée du jardin d'acclimatation in the bois is reserved absolutely for the combatants in this annual battle of flowers, which begins at four o'clock in the afternoon and lasts uninterruptedly until dinner-time. each of the cross-roads leading up to the allée is barricaded, and carriages are allowed to enter or to depart only at either end. this leaves an open stretch of road several miles in extent, and wide enough for four rows of carriages to pass one another at the same moment. thick woods line the allée on either side, and the branches of the trees almost touch above it. beneath them, and close to the roadway, sit thousands of men, women, and children in close rows, and back of them hundreds more move up and down the pathways. the carriages proceed in four unbroken lines, two going up and two going down; and as they pass, the occupants pelt each other and the spectators along the road-side with handfuls of flowers. for three miles this battle rages between the six rows of people, and the air is filled with the flying missiles and shrieks of laughter and the most graceful of compliments and good-natured _blague_. at every fifty yards stands a high arch, twined with festoons trailing from one arch to the next, and temporary flagpoles flying long banners of the tricolor, and holding shields which bear the monogram of the republic. the long festoons of flowers and the flags swinging and flying against the dark green of the trees form the allée into one long tunnel of color and light; and at every thirty paces there is the gleaming cuirass of a trooper, with the sun shining on his helmet and breastplate, and on other steel breastplates, which extend, like the mirrors in "richard iii.," as far as the eye can reach, flashing and burning in the sun. between these beacons of steel, and under the flags and flowers and green branches, move nearly eight miles of carriages, with varnished sides and polished leather flickering in the light, each smothered with broad colored ribbons and flowers, and gay with lace parasols. it is a most cosmopolitan crowd, and it is interesting to see how seriously some of the occupants of the carriages take the matter in hand, and how others turn it into an ovation for themselves, and still others treat it as an excuse to give some one else pleasure. you will see two parisian dandies in a fiacre, with their ammunition piled as high as their knees, saluting and chaffing and calling by name each pretty woman who passes, and following them in the line you will see a respectable family carriage containing papa, mamma, and the babies, and with the coachman on the box hidden by great breastworks of bouquets. to the proud parents on the back seat the affair is one which is to be met with dignified approval, and they bow politely to whoever hurls a rose or a bunch of wild flowers at one of their children. they, in their turn, will be followed by a magnificent victoria, glittering with varnish and emblazoned by strange coats-of-arms, and holding two coal-black negroes, with faces as shiny as their high silk hats. they have with them on the front seat a hired guide from one of the hotels, who is showing paris to them, and who is probably telling them that every woman who laughs and hits them with a flower is a duchess at least, at which their broad faces beam with good-natured embarrassment and their teeth show, and they scramble up and empty a handful of rare roses over the lady's departing shoulders. there are frequent halts in the procession, which moves at a walk, and carriages are often left standing side by side facing opposite ways for the space of a minute, in which time there is ample opportunity to exhaust most of the ammunition at hand, or to express thanks for the flowers received. the good order of the day is very marked, and the good manners as well. the flowers are not accepted as missiles, but as tributes, and the women smile and nod demurely, and the men bow, and put aside a pretty nosegay for the next meeting; and when they draw near the same carriage again, they will smile their recognition, and wait until the wheels are just drawing away from one another, and then heap their offerings at the ladies' feet. there are a great number of americans who are only in paris for the month, and whom you have seen on the steamer, or passing up the rue de la paix, or at the banker's on mail day, and they seize this chance to recognize their countrymen, and grow tremendously excited in hitting each other in the eyes and on the nose, and then pass each other the next day in the champs Élysées without the movement of an eyelash. the hour excuses all. it has the freedom of carnival-time without its license, and it is pretty to see certain women posing as great ladies, in hired fiacres, and being treated with as much _empressement_ and courtesy by every man as though he believed the fiacre was not hired, and the pearl necklace was real and not from the palais royal, and that he had not seen the woman the night before circling around the endless treadmill of the jardin de paris. sometimes there will be a coach all red and green and brass, and sometimes a little wicker basket on low wheels, with a donkey in the shafts, and filled with children in the care of a groom, who holds them by their skirts to keep them from hurling themselves out after the flowers, and who looks immensely pleased whenever any one pelts them back and points them out as pretty children. but the greater number of the children stand along the road-side with their sisters and mothers. they are of the good bourgeois class and of the decently poor, who beg prettily for a flower instead of giving one, and who dash out under the wheels for those that fall by the wayside, and return with them to the safety of their mother's knee in a state of excited triumph. when you see how much one of the broken flowers means to them, you wonder what they think of the cars that pass toppling over with flowers, with the harness and the spokes of the wheels picked out in carnations, and banked with shields of nodding roses at the sides and backs. these are the carriages entered for prizes, and some of them are very wonderful and very beautiful. one holds a group of rastaqouères, who have spent a clerk's yearly income in decorating their victoria, that they may send word back to south america that they have won a prize from a board of parisian judges. and another is a big billowy phaeton blooming within and without with white roses and carnations, and holding a beautiful lady with auburn hair and powdered face, and with the lace of her empire bonnet just falling to the line of her black eyebrows. she is all in white too, with white gloves, and a parasol of nothing but white lace, and she reclines rather than sits in this triumphal car of pure white flowers, like a cleopatra in her barge, or venus lying on the white crest of the waves. all the men recognize her, and throw their choicest offerings into her lap; but whenever i saw her she seemed more interested in the crowds along the road-side, who announced her approach with an excited murmur of admiration, and the little children in blouses threw their nosegays at her, and then stood back, abashed at her loveliness, with their hands behind them. she was quite used to being pelted with flowers at one of the theatres, but she seemed to enjoy this tribute very much, and she tossed roses back at the children, and watched them as they carried her flowers to the nurse or the elder sister who was taking care of them, and who looked after the woman with frightened, admiring eyes. v americans in paris americans who go to paris might be divided, for the purposes of this article at least, into two classes--those who use paris for their own improvement or pleasure, and those who find her too strong for them, and who go down before her and worship her, and whom she either fashions after her own liking, or rides under foot and neglects until they lose heart and disappear forever. balzac, in the last paragraph of one of his novels, leaves his hero standing on the top of a hill above paris, shaking his fist at the city below him, and cursing her for a wanton. one might argue that this was a somewhat childish and theatrical point of view for the young man to have taken. he probably found in paris exactly what he brought there, and it seems hardly fair, because the city was stronger than he, that he should blame her and call her a hard name. paris is something much better than that, only the young man was probably not looking for anything better. he had taken her frivolous side too seriously, and had not sought for her better side at all. some one should have told him that paris makes a most agreeable mistress, but a very hard master. there are a few americans who do not know this until it is too late, until they lose their heads with all the turmoil and beauty and unending pleasures of the place, and grow to believe that the voice of paris is the voice of the whole world. perhaps they have heard the voice speak once; it has praised a picture which they have painted, or a book of verses that they have written, or a garden fête that they have given, at which there were present as many as three ambassadors. and they sit breathless ever after, waiting for the voice to speak to them again, and while they are waiting paris is exclaiming over some new picture, or another fête, at which there were four ambassadors; and the poor little artist or the poor little social struggler wonders why he is forgotten, and keeps on struggling and fluttering and biting his nails and eating his heart out in private, listening for the voice to speak his name once more. [illustration: "listening for the voice to speak his name once more"] he will not believe that his time has come and gone, and that paris has no memory, and no desire but to see and to hear some new thing. she has taken his money and eaten his dinners and hung his pictures once or twice in a good place; but, now that his money is gone, paris has other dinners to eat, and other statues to admire, and no leisure time to spend at his dull receptions, which have taken the place of his rare dinners, or to climb to his garret when there is a more amusing and more modern painter on the first floor. paris is full of these poor hangers-on, who have allowed her to use them and pat them on the back, and who cannot see that her approbation is not the only reward worth the striving for, but who go on year after year tagging in her train, beseeching her to take some notice of them. they are like the little boys who run beside the coaches and turn somersaults to draw a copper from the passengers on top, and who are finally left far behind, unobserved and forgotten beside the dusty road. the wise man and the sensible man takes the button or the medal or the place on a jury that paris gives him, and is glad to get it, and proud of the recognition and of the source from which it comes, and then continues on his way unobserved, working for the work's sake. he knows that paris has taught him much, but that she has given him all she can, and that he must now work out his own salvation for himself. or, if he be merely an idler visiting paris for the summer, he takes paris as an idler should, and she receives him with open arms. he does not go there to spend four hours a day, or even four hours a week, in the serious occupation of leaving visiting-cards. he does not invite the same people with whom he dined two weeks before in new york to dine and breakfast with him again in paris, nor does he spend every afternoon in a frock-coat watching polo, or in flannels playing lawn-tennis on the Île de puteaux. he has tennis and polo at home. nor did he go all the way to paris to dance in little hot apartments, or to spend the greater part of each day at the race-tracks of longchamps or auteuil. the americans who do these things in paris are a strange and incomprehensible class. fortunately they do not form a large class, but they do form a conspicuous one, and while it really does not concern any one but themselves as to how they spend their time, it is a little aggravating to have them spoiling the local color of a city for which they have no real appreciation, and from which they get no more benefit than they would have received had they remained at home in newport. they treat paris as they would treat narragansett pier, only they act with a little less restraint, and are very much more in evidence. they are in their own environment and in the picture at the pier or at the horse show, and if you do not like it you are at perfect liberty to keep out of it, and you will not be missed; but you do object to have your view of the arc de triomphe cut in two by a coach-load of them, or to have them swoop down upon d'armenonville or maxim's on the boulevards, calling each other by their first names, and running from table to table, and ordering the hungarians to play "daisy bell," until you begin to think you are in the hall of the hotel waldorf, and go out into the night to hear french spoken, if only by a cabman. i was on the back seat of a coach one morning in the bois de boulogne, watching howlett give a man a lesson in driving four horses at once. it was very early, and the dew was still on the trees, and the great, broad avenues were empty and sweet-smelling and green, and i exclaimed on the beauty of paris. "beautiful?" echoed howlett. "i should say it was, sir. now in london, sir, all the roads lie so straight there's no practice driving there. but in paris it's all turns and short corners. it's the most beautiful city in the world." i thought it was interesting to find a man so wrapped up in his chosen work that he could see nothing in the french capital but the angles which made the driving of four horses a matter of some skill. but what interest can you take in those americans who have been taught something else besides driving, and who yet see only those things in paris that are of quite as little worth as the sharp turns of the street corners? you wonder if it never occurs to them to walk along the banks of the seine and look over the side at the people unloading canal-boats, or clipping poodles, or watering cavalry horses, or patiently fishing; if they never pull over the books in the stalls that line the quays, or just loiter in abject laziness, with their arms on the parapet of a bridge, with the sun on their backs, and the steamboats darting to and fro beneath them, and with the towers of notre dame before and the grim prison of the conciergerie on one side. surely this is a better employment than taking tea to the music of a hungarian band while your young friends from beverly farms and rockaway knock a polo-ball around a ten-acre lot. i met two american women hurrying along the rue de rivoli one morning last summer who told me that they had just arrived in paris that moment, and were about to leave two hours later for havre to take the steamer home. "so," explained the elder, "as we have so much time, we are just running down to the louvre to take a farewell look at 'mona lisa' and the 'winged victory;' we won't see them again for a year, perhaps." their conduct struck me as interesting when compared with that of about four hundred other american girls, who never see anything of paris during their four weeks' stay there each summer, because so much of their time is taken up at the dress-makers'. it is pathetic to see them come back to the hotel at five, tired out and cross, with having had to stand on their feet four hours at a time while some mysterious ceremony was going forward. it is hard on them when the sun is shining out-of-doors and there are beautiful drives and great art galleries and quaint old chapels and curious museums and ancient gardens lying free and open all around them, that they should be compelled to spend four weeks in this fashion. there was a young woman of this class of american visitors to paris who had just arrived there on her way from rome, and who was telling us how much she had delighted in the galleries there. she was complaining that she had no more pictures to enjoy. some one asked her what objection she had to the louvre or the luxembourg. "oh, none at all," she said; "but i saw those pictures last year." these are the americans who go to paris for the spring and summer only, who live in hotels, and see little of the city beyond the rue de la paix and the avenue of the champs Élysées and their bankers'. they get a great deal of pleasure out of their visit, however, and they learn how important a thing it is to speak french correctly. if they derive no other benefit from their visit they are sufficiently justified, and when we contrast them with other americans who have made paris their chosen home, they almost shine as public benefactors in comparison. for they, at least, bring something back to their own country: themselves, and pretty frocks and bonnets, and a certain wider knowledge of the world. that is not much, but it is more than the american colony does. [illustration: "standing on their feet for hours at a time"] there is something fine in the idea of a colony, of a body of men and women who strike out for themselves in a new country, who cut out their homes in primeval forests, and who make their peace with the native barbarians. the pilgrim fathers and the early settlers in australia and south africa and amidst the snows of canada were colonists of whom any mother-nation might be proud; but the emigrants who shrink at the crudeness of our present american civilization, who shirk the responsibilities of our government, who must have a leisure class with which to play, and who are shocked by the familiarity of our press, are colonists who leave their country for their country's good. the american colony in paris is in a strange position. its members are neither the one thing nor the other. they cannot stand in the shadow of the arc de triomphe and feel that any part of its glory falls on them, nor can they pretend an interest in the defeat of tammany hall, nor claim any portion in the magnificent triumph of the chicago fair. their attitude must always be one of explanation; they are continually on the defensive; they apologize to the american visitor and to the native frenchman; they have declined their birthright and are voluntary exiles from their home. the only way by which they can justify their action is either to belittle what they have given up, or to emphasize the benefits which they have received in exchange, and these benefits are hardly perceptible. they remain what they are, and no matter how long it may have been since they ceased to be americans, they do not become frenchmen. they are a race all to themselves; they are the american colony. on regular occasions this colony asserts itself, but only on those occasions when there is a chance of its advertising itself at the expense of the country it has renounced. when this chance comes the colonists suddenly remember their former home; they rush into print, or they make speeches in public places, or buy wreaths for some dead celebrity. or when it so happens that no one of prominence has died for some time, and there seems to be no other way of getting themselves noticed, the american colony rises in its strength and remembers lafayette, and decorates his grave. once every month or so they march out into the country and lay a wreath on his tomb, and so for the moment gain a certain vogue with the parisians, which is all that they ask. they do not perform this ceremony because lafayette fought in america, but because he was a frenchman fighting in america, and they are playing now to the french galleries and not to the american bleaching-boards. there are a few descendants of lafayette who are deserving of our sincere sympathy. for these gentlemen are brought into the suburbs many times a year in the rain and storm to watch different american colonists place a wreath on the tomb of their distinguished ancestor, and make speeches about a man who left his country only to fight for the independence of another country, and not to live in it after it was free. some day the descendants of lafayette and the secretaries of the american embassy will rise up and rebel, and refuse to lend themselves longer to the uses of these gentlemen. they will suggest that there are other graves in paris. there is, for instance, the grave of paul jones, who possibly did as much for america on the sea as lafayette did on shore. if he had only been a frenchman, with a few descendants of title still living who would consent to act as chief mourners on occasion, his spirit might hope to be occasionally remembered with a wreath or two; but as it is, he is not to be considered with the french marquis, who must, we can well imagine, turn uneasily beneath the wreaths these self-advertising patriots lay upon his grave. the american colony is not wicked, but it would like to be thought so, which is much worse. among some of the men it is a pose to be considered the friend of this or that particular married woman, and each of them, instead of paying the woman the slight tribute of treating her in public as though they were the merest acquaintances, which is the least the man can do, rather forces himself upon her horizon, and is always in evidence, not obnoxiously, but unobtrusively, like a pet cat or a butler, but still with sufficient pertinacity to let you know that he is there. as a matter of fact the women have not the courage to carry out to the end these affairs of which they hint, as have the french men and women around them whose example they are trying to emulate. and, moreover, the twenty-five years of virtue which they have spent in america, as balzac has pointed out, is not to be overcome in a day or in many days, and so they only pretend to have overcome it, and tell _risqués_ stories and talk scandalously of each other and even of young girls. but it all begins and ends in talk, and the _risqués_ stories, if they knew it, sound rather silly from their lips, especially to men who put them away when they were boys at boarding-school, and when they were so young that they thought it was grand to be vulgar and manly to be nasty. it is a question whether or not one should be pleased that the would-be wicked american woman in paris cannot adopt the point of view of the parisian women as easily as she adopts their bonnets. she tries to do so, it is true; she tries to look on life from the same side, but she does not succeed very well, and you may be sure she is afraid and a fraud at heart, and in private a most excellent wife and mother. if it be reprehensible to be a hypocrite and to pretend to be better than one is, it should also be wrong to pretend to be worse than one dares to be, and so lend countenance to others. it is like a man who shouts with the mob, but whose sympathies are against it. the mob only hears him shout and takes courage at his doing so, and continues in consequence to destroy things. and these foolish, pretty women lend countenance by their talk and by their stories to many things of which they know nothing from experience, and so do themselves injustice and others much harm. sometimes it happens that an outsider brings them up with a sharp turn, and shows them how far they have strayed from the standard which they recognized at home. i remember, as an instance of this, how an american art student told me with much satisfaction last summer of how he had made himself intensely disagreeable at a dinner given by one of these expatriated americans. "i didn't mind their taking away the character of every married woman they knew," he said; "they were their own friends, not mine; but i did object when they began on the young girls, for that is something we haven't learned at home yet. and finally they got to miss ----, and one of the women said, 'oh, she has so compromised herself now that no one will marry her.'" at which, it seems, my young man banged the table with his fist, and said: "i'll marry her, if she'll have me, and i know twenty more men at home who would be glad of the chance. we've all asked her once, and we're willing to ask her again." [illustration: "the american colony is not wicked"] there was an uncomfortable pause, and the young woman who had spoken protested she had not meant it so seriously. she had only meant the girl was a trifle _passée_ and travel-worn. but when the women had left the table, one of the men laughed, and said: "you are quite like a breeze from the piny woods at home. i suppose we do talk rather thoughtlessly over here, but then none of us take what we say of each other as absolute truth." the other men all agreed to this, and protested that no one took them or what they said seriously. they were quite right, and, as a matter of fact, it would be unjust to them to do so, except to pity them. the man without a country was no more unfortunate than they. it is true they have henry's bar, where they can get real american cocktails, and the travellers', where they can play real american poker; but that is as near as they ever get to anything that savors of our country, and they do not get as near as that towards anything that savors of the frenchman's country. they have their own social successes, and their own salons and dinner-parties, but the faubourg st.-germain is as strange a territory to many of them as though it were situated in the heart of the congo basin. of course there are many fine, charming, whole-souled, and clean-minded american women in paris. they are the wives of bankers or merchants or the representatives of the firms which have their branches in paris and london as well as new york. and there are hundreds more of americans who are in paris because of its art, the cheapness of its living, and its beauty. i am not speaking of them, and should they read this they will understand. the american in paris of whom one longest hesitates to speak is the girl or woman who has married a title. she has been so much misrepresented in the press, and so misunderstood, and she suffers in some cases so acutely without letting it be known how much she suffers, that the kindest word that could be said of her is not half so kind as silence. no one can tell her more distinctly than she herself knows what her lot is, or how few of her illusions have been realized. it is not a case where one can point out grandiloquently that uneasy lies the head that wears a coronet; it is not magnificent sorrow; it is just pathetic, sordid, and occasionally ridiculous. to treat it too seriously would be as absurd as to weep over a man who had allowed himself to be fooled by a thimblerigger; only in this case it is a woman who has been imposed upon, and who asks for your sympathy. there is a very excellent comic song which points out how certain things are only english when you see them on broadway; and a title, or the satisfaction of being a countess or princess, when viewed from a broadway or fifth avenue point of view, is a very pretty and desirable object. but as the title has to be worn in paris and not in new york, its importance lies in the way in which it is considered there, not here. as far as appears on the surface, the american woman of title in paris fails to win what she sought, from either her own people or those among whom she has married. to her friends from new york or san francisco she is still sallie this or eleanor that. her friends are not deceived or impressed or overcome--at least, not in paris. when they return to new york they speak casually of how they have been spending the summer with the princess so-and-so, and they do not add that she used to be sallie sprigs of san francisco. but in paris, when they are with her, they call her sallie, just as of yore, and they let her understand that they do not consider her in any way changed since she has become ennobled, or that the glamour of her rank in any way dazzles them. and she in her turn is so anxious that they shall have nothing to say of her to her disadvantage when they return that she shows them little of her altered state, and is careful not to refer to any of the interesting names on her new visiting-list. her husband's relations in france are more disappointing: they certainly cannot be expected to see her in any different light from that of an outsider and a nobody; they will not even admit that she is pretty; and they say among themselves that, so long as cousin charles had to marry a great fortune, it is a pity he did not marry a french woman, and that they always had preferred the daughter of the chocolate-maker, or the champagne-grower, or the hebrew banker--all of whom were offered to him. the american princess cannot expect people who have had title and ancestors so long as to have forgotten them to look upon sallie sprigs of california as anything better than an indian squaw. and the result is, that all which the american woman makes by her marriage is the privilege of putting her coronet on her handkerchief and the humble deference of the women at paquin's or virot's, who say "madame the baroness" and "madame the princess" at every second word. it really seems a very heavy price to pay for very little. we are attributing very trivial and vulgar motives to the woman, and it may be, after all, that she married for love in spite of the title, and not on account of it. but if these are love-matches, it would surely sometimes happen that the american men, in their turn, would fall in love with foreign women of title, and that we would hear of impecunious princesses and countesses hunting through the states for rich brokers and wheat-dealers. of course the obvious answer to this is that the american women are so much more attractive than the men that they appeal to people of all nations and of every rank, and that american men are content to take them without the title. the rich fathers of the young girls who are sacrificed should go into the business with a more accurate knowledge of what they are buying. even the shrewdest of them--men who could not be misled into buying a worthless railroad or an empty mine--are frequently imposed upon in these speculations. the reason is that while they have made a study of the relative values and the soundness of railroads and mines, they have not taken the pains to study this question of titles, and as long as a man is a count or a prince, they inquire no further, and one of them buys him for his daughter on his face value. there should be a sort of bradstreet for these rich parents, which they could consult before investing so much money plus a young girl's happiness. there are, as a matter of fact, only a very few titles worth buying, and in selecting the choice should always lie between one of england and one of germany. an english earl is the best the american heiress can reasonably hope for, and after him a husband with a german title is very desirable. these might be rated as "sure" and "safe" investments. but these french titles created by napoleon, or the italians, with titles created by the papal court, and the small fry of other countries, are really not worth while. theirs are not titles; as some one has said, they are epitaphs; and the best thing to do with the young american girl who thinks she would like to be a princess is to take her abroad early in her life, and let her meet a few other american girls who have become princesses. after that, if she still wants to buy a prince and pay his debts and supply him with the credit to run into more debt, she has only herself to blame, and goes into it with her pretty eyes wide open. it will be then only too evident that she is fitted for nothing higher. [illustration: "what might some time happen if these were love-matches"] on no one class of visitor does paris lay her spell more heavily than on the american art student. for, no matter where he has studied at home, or under what master, he finds when he reaches paris so much that is new and beautiful and full of inspiration that he becomes as intolerant as are all recent converts, and so happy in his chosen profession that he looks upon everything else than art with impatience and contempt. as art is something about which there are many opinions, he too often passes rapidly on to the stage when he can see nothing to admire in any work save that which the master that he worships declares to be true, and he scorns every other form of expression and every other school and every other artist. you almost envy the young man his certainty of mind and the unquestionableness of his opinion. he will take you through the salon at a quick step, demolishing whole walls of pictures as he goes with a sweeping gesture of the hand, and will finally bring you breathless before a little picture, or a group of them, which, so he informs you, are the only ones in the exhibition worthy of consideration. and on the day following a young disciple of another school will escort you through the same rooms, and regard with pitying contempt the pictures which your friend of the day before has left standing, and will pick out somewhere near the roof a strange monstrosity, beneath which he will stand with bowed head, and upon which he will comment in a whisper. it is an amusing pose, and most bewildering to a philistine like myself when he finds all the artists whom he had venerated denounced as photographers and decorators, or story-tellers and illustrators. i used to be quite ashamed of the ignorance which had left me so long unenlightened as to what was true and beautiful. these boys have, perhaps, an aunt in kansas city, or a mother in lynn, massachusetts, who is saving and pinching to send them fifteen or twenty dollars a week so that they can learn to be great painters, and they have not been in paris a week before they have changed their entire view of art, and adopted a new method and a new master and a new religion. it is nowise derogatory to a boy to be supported by a fond aunt in kansas city, who sends him fifteen dollars a week and the news of the social life of that place, but it is amusing to think how she and his cousins in the west would be awed if they heard him damn a picture by waving his thumb in the air at it, and saying, "it has a little too much of that," with a downward sweep of the thumb, "and not enough of this," with an upward sweep. for one hardly expects a youth who is still at julien's, and who has not yet paid the first quarter's rent for his studio, to proclaim all the first painters of france as only fit to color photographs. it is as if some one were to say, "you can take away all of the books of the boston library and nothing will be lost, but spare three volumes of sonnets written by the only great writer of the present time, who is a friend of mine, and of whom no one knows but myself." of course one must admire loyalty of that sort, for when it is loyalty to an idea it cannot help but be fine and sometimes noble, though it is a trifle amusing as well. it is just this tenacity of belief in one's own work, and just this intolerance of the work of others, that make paris inspiring. a man cannot help but be in earnest, if he amounts to anything at all, when on every side he hears his work attacked or vaunted to the skies. as long as the question asked is "is it art?" and not "will it sell?" and "is it popular?" the influence must be for good. these students, in their loyalty to the particular school they admire, of course proclaim their belief in every public and private place, and are ever on their guard, but it is in their studios that they have set up their gods and established their doctrines most firmly. one of these young men, whom i had known at college, took me to his studio last summer, and asked me to tell him how i liked it. it was a most embarrassing question to me, for to my untrained eye the rooms seemed to be stricken with poverty, and so bare as to appear untenanted. i said, at last, that he had a very fine view from his windows. "yes, but you say nothing of the room itself," he protested; "and i have spent so much time and thought on it. i have been a year and a half in arranging this room." "but there is nothing in it," i objected; "you couldn't have taken a year and a half to arrange these things. there is not enough of them. it shouldn't have taken more than half an hour." he smiled with a sweet, superior smile, and shook his head at me. "i am afraid," he said, "that you are one of those people who like studios filled with tapestries and armor and palms and huge, hideous chests of carved wood. you are probably the sort of person who would hang a tennis-racket on his wall and consider it decorative. _we_ believe in lines and subdued colors and broad, bare surfaces. there is nothing in this room that has not a meaning of its own. you are quite right; there is very little in it; but what is here could not be altered or changed without spoiling the harmony of the whole, and nothing in it could be replaced or improved upon." i regarded the studio with renewed interest at this, and took a mental inventory of its contents for my own improvement. i was guiltily conscious that once at college i had placed two lacrosse-sticks over my doorway, and what made it worse was that i did not play lacrosse, and that they had been borrowed from the man up-stairs for decorative purposes solely. i hoped my artist friend would not question me too closely. his room had a bare floor and gray walls and a green door. there was a long, low bookcase, and a straight-legged table, on which stood, ranged against the wall, a blue and white jar, a gold buddha, and a jade bottle. on one wall hung a gray silk poke-bonnet, of the fashion of the year , and on another an empty gold frame. with the exception of three chairs there was nothing else in the room. i moved slightly, and with the nervous fear that if i disturbed or disarranged anything the bare gray walls might fall in on me. and then i asked him why he did not put a picture in his frame. "ah, exactly!" he exclaimed, triumphantly; "that shows exactly what you are; you are an american philistine. you cannot see that a picture is a beautiful thing in itself, and that a dead-gold frame with its four straight lines is beautiful also; but together they might not be beautiful. that gray wall needs a spot on it, and so i hung that gold frame there, not because it was a frame, but because it was beautiful; for the same reason i hung that eighteen-thirty bonnet on the other wall. the two grays harmonize. people do not generally hang bonnets on walls, but that is because they regard them as things of use, and not as things of beauty." i pointed with my stick at the three lonely ornaments on the solitary table. "then if you were to put the blue and white jar on the right of the buddha, instead of on the left," i asked, "the whole room would feel the shock?" "of course," answered my friend. "can't even you see that?" i tried to see it, but i could not. i had only just arrived in paris. there was another artist with a studio across the bridges, and his love of art cost him much money and some severe trials. his suite of rooms was all in blue, gray, white, and black. he said that if you looked at things in the world properly, you would see that they were all gray, blue, or black. he had painted a gray lady in a gray dress, with a blue parrot on her shoulder. she had brown lips and grayish teeth. he was very much disappointed in me when i told him that lips always looked to me either pink or red. he explained by saying that my eyes were not trained properly. i resented this, and told him that my eyes were as good as his own, and that a recruiting officer had once tested them with colored yarns and letters of the alphabet held up in inaccessible corners, and had given me a higher mark for eyesight than for anything else. he said it was not a question of colored yarns; and that while i might satisfy a recruiting sergeant that i could distinguish an ammunition train from a travelling circus, it did not render me a critic on art matters. he pointed out that the eyes of the women in the caucasus who make rugs are trained to distinguish a hundred and eighty different shades of colors that other eyes cannot see; and in time, he added, i would see that everything in real life looked flat and gray. i took a red carnation out of my coat, and put it over the gray lady's lips, and asked him whether he would call it gray or red, and he said that was no argument. he suffered a great deal in his efforts to live up to his ideas, but assured me that he was much happier than i in my ignorance of what was beautiful. he explained, for instance, that he would like to put up some of the photographs of his family that he had brought with him around his room, but that he could not do it, because photographs were so undecorative. so he kept them in his trunk. he also kept a green cage full of doves because they were gray and white and decorative, and in spite of the fact that they were a nuisance, and always flying away, and being caught again by small boys, who brought them back, and wanted a franc for so doing. he suffered, too, in his inability to find the shade of blue for his chair covers that would harmonize with the rest of his room. he covered the furniture five times, and never successfully, and hence the cushions of his lounge and stiff chairs were still as white as when they had last gone to the upholsterer's. these young men are friends of mine, and i am sure they will not object to my describing their ateliers, of which they were very proud. they believed in their own schools, and in their own ways of looking at art, and no one could laugh or argue them out of it; consequently they deserved credit for the faith that was in them. they are chiefly interesting here as showing how a young man will develop in the artistic atmosphere of paris. it is only when he ceases to develop, and sinks into the easy lethargy of a life of pleasure there, that he becomes uninteresting. there was still another young man whom i knew there who can serve here now as an example of the american who stops in paris too long. i first met this artist at a garden-party, and he asked me if i did not think it dull, and took me for a walk up to montmartre, talking all the way of what a great and beautiful mother paris was to those who worked there. his home was in maine, and he let me know, without reflecting on his native town, that he had been choked and cramped there, and that his life had been the life of a siberian exile. here he found people who could understand; here, the very statues and buildings gave him advice and encouragement; here were people who took him and his work seriously, and who helped him on to fresh endeavors, and who made work a delight. "i have one picture in the salon," he said, flushing with proper pride and pleasure, "and one has just gone to the world's fair, and another has received an honorable mention at munich. that's pretty good for my first year, is it not? and i'm only twenty-five years old now," he added, with his eyes smiling into the future at the great things he was to do. nobody could resist the contagion of his enthusiasm and earnestness of purpose. he was painting the portrait of some rich man's daughter at the time, and her family took a patronizing interest in him, and said it was a pity that he did not go out more into society and get commissions. they asked me to tell him to be more careful about his dress, and to suggest to him not to wear a high hat with a sack-coat. i told them to leave him alone, and not to worry about his clothes, or to suggest his running after people who had pretty daughters and money enough to have them painted. these people would run after him soon enough, if he went on as he had begun. [illustration: "'i have one picture in the salon'"] when i saw him on the boulevards the next summer he had to reintroduce himself; he was very smartly dressed, in a cheap way, and he was sipping silly little sweet juices in front of a café. he was flushed and nervous and tired looking, and rattled off a list of the fashionable people who were then in paris as correctly as a _galignani_ reporter could have done it. "how's art?" i asked. "oh, very well," he replied. "i had a picture in the salon last year, and another was commended at munich, and i had another one at the fair. that's pretty good for my first two years abroad, isn't it?" the next year i saw him several times with various young women in the court-yard of the grand hôtel, than which there is probably no place in all paris less parisian. they seemed to be models in street dress, and were as easy to distinguish as a naval officer in citizen's clothes. he stopped me once again before i left paris, and invited me to his studio to breakfast. i asked him what he had to show me there. "i have three pictures," he said, "that i did the first six months i was here; they--" "yes, i know," i interrupted. "one was at last year's salon, and one at the world's fair, and the other took a prize at munich. is that all?" he flushed a little, and laughed, and said, "yes, that is all." "do you get much inspiration here?" i asked, pointing to the colored fountain and the piles of luggage and the ugly glass roof. "i don't understand you," he said. he put the card he had held out to me back in his case, and bowed grandly, and walked back to the girl he had left at one of the tables, and on my way out from the offices i saw him frowning into a glass before him. the girl was pulling him by the sleeve, but he apparently was not listening. the american artist who has taken paris properly has only kind words to speak of her. he is grateful for what she gave him, but he is not unmindful of his mother-country at home. he may complain when he returns of the mud in our streets, and the height of our seventeen-story buildings, and the ugliness of our elevated roads--and who does not? but if his own art is lasting and there is in his heart much constancy, his work will grow and continue in spite of these things, and will not droop from the lack of atmosphere about him. new york and every great city owns a number of these men who have studied in the french capital, and who speak of it as fondly as a man speaks of his college and of the years he spent there. they help to leaven the lump and to instruct others who have not had the chance that was given them to see and to learn of all these beautiful things. these are the men who made the columbian fair what it was, who taught their teacher and the whole world a lesson in what was possible in architecture and in statuary, in decoration and design. that was a much better and a much finer thing for them to have done than to have dragged on in paris waiting for a ribbon or a medal. they are the best examples we have of the americans who made use of paris, instead of permitting paris to make use of them. and because they did the one thing and avoided the other, they are now helping and enlightening their own people and a whole nation, and not selfishly waiting in a foreign capital for a place on a jury for themselves. the end transcriber's note: . obvious punctuation and typographical errors repaired. . italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. page : the phrase "find out if he can any single" seems to be missing a word. page : the phrase starting "swarm _au sixième_" has no closing quotation mark. preparing for publication, by the same author, in vols. post vo. with characteristic engravings. the life and adventures of jonathan jefferson whitlaw; or, scenes on the mississippi. paris and the parisians, in . vol. . [illustration: museum des curiosites historiques le public est priÉ de ne toucher À aucun de ces objets. drawn & etched by a. hervieu.] london: richard bentley, new burlington street, publisher in ordinary to his majesty. . paris and the parisians in . by frances trollope, author of "domestic manners of the americans," "tremordyn cliff," &c. "le pire des états, c'est l'état populaire."--corneille. in two volumes. vol. ii. london: richard bentley, new burlington street, publisher in ordinary to his majesty. . london: printed by samuel bentley, dorset street, fleet street. contents to the second volume. letter xliii. peculiar air of frenchwomen.--impossibility that an englishwoman should not be known for such in paris.--small shops.--beautiful flowers, and pretty arrangement of them.--native grace.--disappearance of rouge.--grey hair.--every article dearer than in london.--all temptations to smuggling removed. page letter xliv. exclusive soirées.--soirée doctrinaire.--duc de broglie.--soirée républicaine.--soirée royaliste.--partie impériale.--military greatness.--dame de l'empire. letter xlv. l'abbé lacordaire.--various statements respecting him.--poetical description of notre dame.--the prophecy of a roman catholic.--les jeunes gens de paris.--their omnipotence. letter xlvi. la tour de nesle. letter xlvii. palais royal.--variety of characters.--party of english.--restaurant.--galerie d'orléans.--number of loungers.--convenient abundance of idle men.--théâtre du vaudeville. letter xlviii. literary conversation.--modern novelists.--vicomte d'arlincourt.--his portrait.--châteaubriand.--bernardin de saint pierre.--shakspeare.--sir walter scott.--french familiarity with english authors.--miss mitford.--miss landon.--parisian passion for novelty.--extent of general information. letter xlix. trial by jury.--power of the jury in france.--comparative insignificance of that vested in the judge.--virtual abolition of capital punishments.--flemish anecdote. letter l. english pastry-cooks.--french horror of english pastry.--unfortunate experiment upon a muffin.--the citizen king. letter li. parisian women.--rousseau's failure in attempting to describe them.--their great influence in society.--their grace in conversation.--difficulty of growing old.--do the ladies of france or those of england manage it best? letter lii. la sainte chapelle.--palais de justice.--traces of the revolution of .--unworthy use made of la sainte chapelle.--boileau.--ancient records. letter liii. french ideas of england.--making love.--precipitate retreat of a young frenchman.--different methods of arranging marriages.--english divorce.--english restaurans. letter liv. mixed society.--influence of the english clergy and their families.--importance of their station in society. letter lv. le grand opéra.--its enormous expense.--its fashion.--its acknowledged dulness.--'la juive.'--its heavy music.--its exceeding splendour.--beautiful management of the scenery.--national music. letter lvi. the abbé deguerry.--his eloquence.--excursion across the water.--library of ste. geneviève.--copy-book of the dauphin.--st. etienne du mont.--pantheon. letter lvii. little suppers.--great dinners.--affectation of gourmandise.--evil effects of "dining out."--evening parties.--dinners in private under the name of luncheons.--late hours. letter lviii. hôpital des enfans trouvés.--its doubtful advantages.--story of a child left there. letter lix. procès monstre.--dislike of the prisoners to the ceremony of trial.--société des droits de l'homme.--names given to the sections.--kitchen and nursery literature.--anecdote of lagrange.--republican law. letter lx. memoirs of m. châteaubriand.--the readings at l'abbaye-aux-bois.--account of these in the french newspapers and reviews.--morning at the abbaye to hear a portion of these memoirs.--the visit to prague. letter lxi. jardin des plantes.--not equal in beauty to our zoological gardens.--la salpêtrière.--anecdote.--les invalides.--difficulty of finding english colours there.--the dome. letter lxii. expedition to montmorency.--rendezvous in the passage delorme.--st. denis.--tomb prepared for napoleon.--the hermitage.--dîner sur l'herbe. letter lxiii. george sand. letter lxiv. "angelo tyran de padoue."--burlesque at the théâtre du vaudeville.--mademoiselle mars.--madame dorval.--epigram. letter lxv. boulevard des italiens.--tortoni's.--thunder-storm.--church of the madeleine.--mrs. butler's "journal." letter lxvi. a pleasant party.--discussion between an englishman and a frenchman.--national peculiarities. letter lxvii. chamber of deputies.--punishment of journalists.--institute for the encouragement of industry.--men of genius. letter lxviii. walk to the marché des innocens.--escape of a canary bird.--a street orator.--burying-place of the victims of july. letter lxix. a philosophical spectator.--collection of baron sylvestre.--hôtel des monnaies.--musée d'artillerie. letter lxx. concert in the champs elysées.--horticultural exhibition.--forced flowers.--republican hats.--carlist hats--juste-milieu hats.--popular funeral. letter lxxi. minor french novelists. letter lxxii. breaking-up of the paris season.--soirée at madame récamier's.--recitation.--storm.--disappointment. --atonement.--farewell. postscript embellishments to the second volume. soirée page le roi citoyen prêtres de la jeune france lecture à l'abbaye-aux-bois boulevard des italiens "v'là les restes de notre révolution de juillet" paris and the parisians in . letter xliii. peculiar air of frenchwomen.--impossibility that an englishwoman should not be known for such in paris.--small shops.--beautiful flowers, and pretty arrangement of them.--native grace.--disappearance of rouge.--grey hair.--every article dearer than in london.--all temptations to smuggling removed. considering that it is a woman who writes to you, i think you will confess that you have no reason to complain of having been overwhelmed with the fashions of paris: perhaps, on the contrary, you may feel rather disposed to grumble because all i have hitherto said on the fertile subject of dress has been almost wholly devoted to the historic and fanciful costume of the republicans. personal appearance, and all that concerns it, is, however, a very important feature in the daily history of this showy city; and although in this respect it has been made the model of the whole world, it nevertheless contrives to retain for itself a general look, air, and effect, which it is quite in vain for any other people to attempt imitating. go where you will, you see french fashions; but you must go to paris to see how french people wear them. the dome of the invalides, the towers of notre dame, the column in the place vendôme, the windmills of montmartre, do not come home to the mind as more essentially belonging to paris, and paris only, than does the aspect which caps, bonnets, frills, shawls, aprons, belts, buckles, gloves,--and above, though below, all things else--which shoes and stockings assume, when worn by parisian women in the city of paris. it is in vain that all the women of the earth come crowding to this mart of elegance, each one with money in her sack sufficient to cover her from head to foot with all that is richest and best;--it is in vain that she calls to her aid all the _tailleuses_, _coiffeuses_, _modistes_, _couturières_, _cordonniers_, _lingères_, and _friseurs_ in the town: all she gets for her pains is, when she has bought, and done, and put on all and everything they have prescribed, that, in the next shop she enters, she hears one _grisette_ behind the counter mutter to another, "voyez ce que désire cette dame anglaise;"--and that, poor dear lady! before she has spoken a single word to betray herself. neither is it only the natives who find us out so easily--that might perhaps be owing to some little inexplicable freemasonry among themselves; but the worst of all is, that we know one another in a moment. "there is an englishman,"--"that is an englishwoman," is felt at a glance, more rapidly than the tongue can speak it. that manner, gait, and carriage,--that expression of movement, and, if i may so say, of limb, should be at once so remarkable and so impossible to imitate, is very singular. it has nothing to do with the national differences in eyes and complexion, for the effect is felt perhaps more strongly in following than in meeting a person; but it pervades every plait and every pin, every attitude and every gesture. could i explain to you what it is which produces this effect, i should go far towards removing the impossibility of imitating it: but as this is now, after twenty years of trial, pretty generally allowed to be impossible, you will not expect it of me. all i can do, is to tell you of such matters appertaining to dress as are open and intelligible to all, without attempting to dive into that very occult part of the subject, the effect of it. in milliners' phrase, the ladies dress much _less_ in paris than in london. i have no idea that any frenchwoman, after her morning dishabille is thrown aside, would make it a practice, during "the season," to change her dress completely four times in the course of the day, as i have known some ladies do in london. nor do i believe that the most _précieuses_ in such matters among them would deem it an insufferable breach of good manners to her family, did she sit down to dinner in the same apparel in which they had seen her three hours before it. the only article of female luxury more generally indulged in here than with us, is that of cashmere shawls. one, at the very least, of these dainty wrappers makes a part of every young lady's _trousseau_, and is, i believe, exactly that part of the _présent_ which, as miss edgeworth says, often makes a bride forget the _futur_. in other respects, what is necessary for the wardrobe of a french woman of fashion, is necessary also for that of an english one; only jewels and trinkets of all kinds are more frequently worn with us than with them. the dress that a young englishwoman would wear at a dinner party, is very nearly the same as a frenchwoman would wear at any ball but a fancy one; whereas the most elegant dinner costume in paris is exactly the same as would be worn at the french opera. there are many extremely handsome "_magasins de nouveautés_" in every part of the town, wherein may be found all that the heart of woman can desire in the way of dress; and there are smart _coiffeuses_ and _modistes_ too, who know well how to fabricate and recommend every production of their fascinating art: but there is no howell and james's wherein to assemble at a given point all the fine ladies of paris; no reunions of tall footmen are to be seen lounging on benches outside the shops, and performing to the uninitiated the office of signs, by giving notice how many purchasers are at that moment engaged in cheapening the precious wares within. the shops in general are very much smaller than ours,--or when they stretch into great length, they have uniformly the appearance of warehouses. a much less quantity of goods of all kinds is displayed for purposes of show and decoration,--unless it be in china shops, or where or-molu ornaments, protected by glass covers, form the principal objects: here, or indeed wherever the articles sold can be exhibited without any danger of loss from injury, there is very considerable display; but, on the whole, there is much less appearance of large capital exhibited in the shops here than in london. one great source of the gay and pretty appearance of the streets, is the number and elegant arrangement of the flowers exposed for sale. along all the boulevards, and in every brilliant passage (with which latter ornamental invention paris is now threaded in all directions), you need only shut your eyes in order to fancy yourself in a delicious flower-garden; and even on opening them again, if the delusion vanishes, you have something almost as pretty in its place. notwithstanding the multitudinous abominations of their streets--the prison-like locks on the doors of their _salons_, and the odious common stair which must be climbed ere one can get to them--there is an elegance of taste and love of the graceful about these people which is certainly to be found nowhere else. it is not confined to the spacious hotels of the rich and great, but may be traced through every order and class of society, down to the very lowest. the manner in which an old barrow-woman will tie up her sous' worth of cherries for her urchin customers might give a lesson to the most skilful decorator of the supper-table. a bunch of wild violets, sold at a price that may come within reach of the worst-paid _soubrette_ in paris, is arranged with a grace that might make a duchess covet them; and i have seen the paltry stock-in-trade of a florist, whose only pavilion was a tree and the blue heavens, set off with such felicity in the mixture of colours, and the gradations of shape and form, as made me stand to gaze longer and more delightedly than i ever did before flora's own palace in the king's road. after all, indeed, i believe that the mystical peculiarity of dress of which i have been speaking wholly arises from this innate and universal instinct of good taste. there is a fitness, a propriety, a sort of harmony in the various articles which constitute female attire, which may be traced as clearly amongst the cotton _toques_, with all their variety of brilliant tints, and the 'kerchief and apron to match, or rather to accord, as amongst the most elegant bonnets at the tuileries. their expressive phrase of approbation for a well-dressed woman, "_faite à peindre_," may often be applied with quite as much justice to the peasant as to the princess; for the same unconscious sensibility of taste will regulate them both. it is this national feeling which renders their stage groups, their corps _de ballet_, and all the _tableaux_ business of their theatres, so greatly superior to all others. on these occasions, a single blunder in colour, contrast, or position, destroys the whole harmony, and the whole charm with it: but you see the poor little girls hired to do angels and graces for a few sous a night, fall into the composition of the scene with an instinct as unerring, as that which leads a flight of wild geese to cleave the air in a well-adjusted triangular phalanx, instead of scattering themselves to every point of the compass; as, _par exemple_, our _figurantes_ may be often seen to do, if not kept in order by the ballet-master as carefully as a huntsman whistles in his pack. it is quite a relief to my eyes to find how completely rouge appears to be gone out of fashion here. i will not undertake to say that no bright eyes still look brighter from having a touch of red skilfully applied beneath them: but if this be done, it is so well done as to be invisible, excepting by its favourable effect; which is a prodigious improvement upon the fashion which i well remember here, of larding cheeks both young and old to a degree that was quite frightful. another improvement which i very greatly admire is, that the majority of old ladies have left off wearing artificial hair, and arrange their own grey locks with all the neatness and care possible. the effect of this upon their general appearance is extremely favourable: nature always arranges things for us much better than we can do it for ourselves; and the effect of an old face surrounded by a maze of wanton curls, black, brown, or flaxen, is infinitely less agreeable than when it is seen with its own "sable silvered" about it. i have heard it observed, and with great justice, that rouge was only advantageous to those who did not require it: and the same may be said with equal truth of false hair. some of the towering pinnacles of shining jet that i have seen here, certainly have exceeded in quantity of hair the possible growth of any one head: but when this fabric surmounts a youthful face which seems to have a right to all the flowing honours that the friseur's art can contrive to arrange above it, there is nothing incongruous or disagreeable in the effect; though it is almost a pity, too, to mix anything approaching to deceptive art with the native glories of a young head. for which sentiment _messieurs les fabricans_ of false hair will not thank me;--for having first interdicted the use of borrowed tresses to the old ladies, i now pronounce my disapproval of them for the young. _au reste_, all i can tell you farther respecting dress is, that our ladies must no longer expect to find bargains here in any article required for the wardrobe; on the contrary, everything of the kind is become greatly dearer than in london: and what is at least equally against making such purchases here is, that the fabrics of various kinds which we used to consider as superior to our own, particularly those of silks and gloves, are now, i think, decidedly inferior; and such as can be purchased at the same price as in england, if they can be found at all, are really too bad to use. the only foreign bargains which i long to bring home with me are in porcelain: but this our custom-house tariff forbids, and very properly; as, without such protection, our wedgewoods and mortlakes would sell but few ornamental articles; for not only are their prices higher, but both their material and the fashioning of it are in my opinion extremely inferior. it is really very satisfactory to one's patriotic feelings to be able to say honestly, that excepting in these, and a few other ornamental superfluities, such as or-molu and alabaster clocks, etcætera, there is nothing that we need wish to smuggle into our own abounding land. letter xliv. exclusive soirées.--soirée doctrinaire.--duc de broglie.--soirée républicaine.--soirée royaliste.--partie impériale.--military greatness.--dame de l'empire. though the _salons_ of paris probably show at the present moment the most mixed society that can be found mingled together in the world, one occasionally finds oneself in the midst of a set evidently of one stamp, and indeed proclaiming itself to be so; for wherever this happens, the assembly is considered as peculiarly chosen and select, and as having all the dignity of exclusiveness. the picture of paris as it is, may perhaps be better caught at a glance at a party collected together without any reference to politics or principles of any kind; but i have been well pleased to find myself on three different occasions admitted to _soirées_ of the exclusive kind. at the first of these, i was told the names of most of the company by a kind friend who sat near me, and thus became aware that i had the honour of being in company with most of king philippe's present ministry. three or four of these gentlemen were introduced to me, and i had the advantage of seeing _de près_, during their hours of relaxation, the men who have perhaps at this moment as heavy a weight of responsibility upon their shoulders as any set of ministers ever sustained. nevertheless, nothing like gloom, preoccupation, or uneasiness, appeared to pervade them; and yet that chiefest subject of anxiety, the _procès monstre_, was by no means banished from their discourse. their manner of treating it, however, was certainly not such as to make one believe that they were at all likely to sink under their load, or that they felt in any degree embarrassed or distressed by it. some of the extravagances of _les accusés_ were discussed gaily enough, and the general tone was that of men who knew perfectly well what they were about, and who found more to laugh at than to fear in the opposition and abuse they encountered. this light spirit however, which to me seemed fair enough in the hours of recreation, had better not be displayed on graver occasions, as it naturally produces exasperation on the part of the prisoners, which, however little dangerous it may be to the state, is nevertheless a feeling which should not be unnecessarily excited. in that amusing paper or magazine--i know not which may be its title--called the "chronique de paris," i read some days ago a letter describing one of the _séances_ of the chamber of peers on this _procès_, in which the gaiety manifested by m. de broglie is thus censured:-- "j'ai fait moi-même partie de ce public privilégié que les accusés ne reconnaissent pas comme un vrai public, et j'ai pu assister jeudi à cette dramatique audience où la voix tonnante d'un accusé lisant une protestation, a couvert la voix du ministère public. j'étais du nombre de ceux qui ont eu la fièvre de cette scène, et je n'ai pu comprendre, au milieu de l'agitation générale, qu'un homme aussi bien élevé que m. de broglie (je ne dis pas qu'un ministre) trouvât seul qu'il y avait là sujet de rire en lorgnant ce vrai romain, comparable à ces tribuns qui, dans les derniers temps de la république, faisaient trembler les patriciens sur leurs chaises curules." "_ce vrai romain_," however, rather deserved to be scourged than laughed at; for never did any criminal when brought to the bar of his country insult its laws and its rulers more grossly than the prisoner beaune on this occasion. if indeed the accounts which reach us by the daily papers are not exaggerated, the outrageous conduct of the accused furnishes at every sitting sufficient cause for anger and indignation, however unworthy it may be of inspiring anything approaching to a feeling of alarm: and the calm, dignified, and temperate manner in which the chamber of peers has hitherto conducted itself may serve, i think, as an example to many other legislative assemblies. the ministers of louis-philippe are very fortunate that the mode of trial decided on by them in this troublesome business is likely to be carried through by the upper house in a manner so little open to reasonable animadversion. the duty, and a most harassing one it is, has been laid upon them, as many think, illegally; but the task has been imposed by an authority which it is their duty to respect, and they have entered upon it in a spirit that does them honour. the second exclusive party to which i was fortunate enough to be admitted, was in all respects quite the reverse of the first. the fair mistress of the mansion herself assured me that there was not a single doctrinaire present. here, too, the eternal subject of the _procès monstre_ was discussed, but in a very different tone, and with feelings as completely as possible in opposition to those which dictated the lively and triumphant sort of persiflage to which i had before listened. nevertheless, the conversation was anything but _triste_, as the party was in truth particularly agreeable; but, amidst flashes of wit, sinister sounds that foreboded future revolutions grumbled every now and then like distant thunder. then there was shrugging of shoulders, and shaking of heads, and angry taps upon the snuff-box; and from time to time, amid the prattle of pretty women, and the well-turned _gentillesses_ of those they prattled to, might be heard such phrases as, "tout n'est pas encore fini".... "nous verrons ... nous verrons".... "s'ils sont arbitraires!" ... and the like. the third set was as distinct as may be from the two former. this reunion was in the quartier st. germain; and, if the feeling which i know many would call prejudice does not deceive me, the tone of first-rate good society was greatly more conspicuous here than at either of the others. by all the most brilliant personages who adorned the other two _soirées_ which i have described, i strongly suspect that the most distinguished of this third would be classed as _rococo_; but they were composed of the real stuff that constitutes the true patrician, for all that. many indeed were quite of the old régime, and many others their noble high-minded descendants: but whether they were old or young,--whether remarkable for having played a distinguished part in the scenes that have been, or for sustaining the chivalric principles of their race, by quietly withdrawing from the scenes that are,--in either case they had that air of inveterate superiority which i believe nothing on earth but gentle blood can give. there is a fourth class still, consisting of the dignitaries of the empire, which, if they ever assemble in distinct committee, i have yet to become acquainted with. but i suspect that this is not the case: one may perhaps meet them more certainly in some houses than in others; but, unless it be around the dome of the invalides, i do not believe that they are to be found anywhere as a class apart. nothing, however, can be less difficult than to trace them: they are as easily discerned as a boiled lobster among a panier full of such as are newly caught. that amusing little vaudeville called, i think, "la dame de l'empire," or some such title, contains the best portrait of a whole _clique_, under the features of an individual character, of any comedy i know. none of the stormy billows which have rolled over france during the last forty years have thrown up a race so strongly marked as those produced by the military era of the empire. the influence of the enormous power which was then in action has assuredly in some directions left most noble vestiges. wherever science was at work, this power propelled it forward; and ages yet unborn may bless for this the fostering patronage of napoleon: some midnight of devastation and barbarism must fall upon the world before what he has done of this kind can be obliterated. but the same period, while it brought forth from obscurity talent and enterprise which without its influence would never have been greeted by the light of day, brought forward at the same time legions of men and women to whom this light and their advanced position in society are by no means advantageous in the eyes of a passing looker-on. i have heard that it requires three generations to make a gentleman. those created by napoleon have not yet fairly reached a second; and, with all respect for talent, industry, and valour be it spoken, the necessity of this slow process very frequently forces itself upon one's conviction at paris. it is probable that the great refinement of the post-imperial aristocracy of france may be one reason why the deficiencies of those now often found mixed up with them is so remarkable. it would be difficult to imagine a contrast in manner more striking than that of a lady who would be a fair specimen of the old bourbon _noblesse_, and a bouncing _maréchale_ of imperial creation. it seems as if every particle of the whole material of which each is formed gave evidence of the different birth of the spirit that dwells within. the sound of the voice is a contrast; the glance of the eye is a contrast; the smile is a contrast; the step is a contrast. were every feature of a _dame de l'empire_ and a _femme noble_ formed precisely in the same mould, i am quite sure that the two would look no more alike than queen constance and nell gwyn. nor is there at all less difference in the two races of gentlemen. i speak not of the men of science or of art; their rank is of another kind: but there are still left here and there specimens of decorated greatness which look as if they must have been dragged out of the guard-room by main force; huge moustached militaires, who look at every slight rebuff as if they were ready to exclaim, "sacré nom de d***! je suis un héros, moi! vive l'empereur!" a good deal is sneeringly said respecting the parvenus fashionables of the present day: but station, and place, and court favour, must at any rate give something of reality to the importance of those whom the last movement has brought to the top; and this is vastly less offensive than the empty, vulgar, camp-like reminiscences of imperial patronage which are occasionally brought forward by those who may thank their sabre for having cut a path for them into the salons of paris. the really great men of the empire--and there are certainly many of them--have taken care to have other claims to distinction attached to their names than that of having been dragged out of heaven knows what profound obscurity by napoleon: i may say of such, in the words of the soldier in macbeth-- "if i say sooth, i must report they were as cannon overcharged with double cracks." as for the elderly ladies, who, from simple little bourgeoises demoiselles, were in those belligerent days sabred and trumpeted into maréchales and duchesses, i must think that they make infinitely worse figures in a drawing-room, than those who, younger in years and newer in dignity, have all their blushing honours fresh upon them. besides, in point of fact, the having one bourbon prince instead of another upon the throne, though greatly to be lamented from the manner in which it was accomplished, can hardly be expected to produce so violent a convulsion among the aristocracy of france, as must of necessity have ensued from the reign of a soldier of fortune, though the mightiest that ever bore arms. many of the noblest races of france still remain wedded to the soil that has been for ages native to their name. towards these it is believed that king louis-philippe has no very repulsive feelings; and should no farther changes come upon the country--no more immortal days arise to push all men from their stools, it is probable that the number of these will not diminish in the court circles. meanwhile, the haut-ton born during the last revolution must of course have an undisputed _entrée_ everywhere; and if by any external marks they are particularly brought forward to observation, it is only, i think, by a toilet among the ladies more costly and less simple than that of their high-born neighbours; and among the gentlemen, by a general air of prosperity and satisfaction, with an expression of eye sometimes a little triumphant, often a little patronizing, and always a little busy. it was a duchess, and no less, who decidedly gave me the most perfect idea of an imperial parvenue that i have ever seen off the stage. when a lady of this class attains so very elevated a rank, the perils of her false position multiply around her. a quiet bourgeoise turned into a noble lady of the third or fourth degree is likely enough to look a little awkward; but if she has the least tact in the world, she may remain tranquil and _sans ridicule_ under the honourable shelter of those above her. but when she becomes a duchess, the chances are terribly against her: "madame la duchesse" must be conspicuous; and if in addition to mauvais ton she should par malheur be a bel esprit, adding the pretension of literature to that of station, it is likely that she will be very remarkable indeed. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. soiree. london. published by richard bentley. .] my parvenue duchess _is_ very remarkable indeed. she steps out like a corporal carrying a message: her voice is the first, the last, and almost the only thing heard in the salon that she honours with her presence,--except it chance, indeed, that she lower her tone occasionally to favour with a whisper some gallant _décoré_, military, scientific or artistic, of the same standing as herself; and moreover, she promenades her eyes over the company as if she had a right to bring them all to roll-call. notwithstanding all this, the lady is certainly a person of talent; and had she happily remained in the station in which both herself and her husband were born, she might not perhaps have thought it necessary to speak quite so loud, and her bons mots would have produced infinitely greater effect. but she is so thoroughly out of place in the grade to which she has been unkindly elevated, that it seems as if napoleon had decided on her fate in a humour as spiteful as that of monsieur jourdain, when he said-- "votre fille sera marquise, en dépit de tout le monde: et si vous me mettez en colère, je la ferai duchesse." letter xlv. l'abbé lacordaire.--various statements respecting him.--poetical description of notre dame.--the prophecy of a roman catholic.--les jeunes gens de paris--their omnipotence. the great reputation of another preacher induced us on sunday to endure two hours more of tedious waiting before the mass which preceded the sermon began. it is only thus that a chair can be hoped for when the abbé lacordaire mounts the pulpit of notre dame. the penalty is really heavy; but having heard this celebrated person described as one who "appeared sent by heaven to restore france to christianity"--as "a hypocrite that set tartuffe immeasurably in the background"--as "a man whose talent surpassed that of any preacher since bossuet"--and as "a charlatan who ought to harangue from a tub, instead of from the _chaire de notre dame de paris_,"--i determined upon at least seeing and hearing him, however little i might be able to decide on which of the two sides of the prodigious chasm that yawned between his friends and enemies the truth was most likely to be found. there were, however, several circumstances which lessened the tedium of this long interval: i might go farther, and confess that this period was by no means the least profitable portion of the four hours which we passed in the church. on entering, we found the whole of the enormous nave railed in, as it had been on easter sunday for the concert (for so in truth should that performance be called); but upon applying at the entrance to this enclosure, we were told that no ladies could be admitted to that part of the church--but that the side aisles were fully furnished with chairs, and afforded excellent places. this arrangement astonished me in many ways:--first, as being so perfectly un-national; for go where you will in france, you find the best places reserved for the women,--at least, this was the first instance in which i ever found it otherwise. next, it astonished me, because at every church i had entered, the congregations, though always crowded, had been composed of at least twelve women to one man. when, therefore, i looked over the barrier upon the close-packed, well-adjusted rows of seats prepared to receive fifteen hundred persons, i thought that unless all the priests in paris came in person to do honour to their eloquent confrère, it was very unlikely that this uncivil arrangement should be found necessary. there was no time, however, to waste in conjecture; the crowd already came rushing in at every door, and we hastened to secure the best places that the side aisles afforded. we obtained seats between the pillars immediately opposite to the pulpit, and felt well enough contented, having little doubt that a voice which had made itself heard so well must have power to reach even to the side aisles of notre dame. the first consolation which i found for my long waiting, after placing myself in that attitude of little ease which the straight-backed chair allowed, was from the recollection that the interval was to be passed within the venerable walls of notre dame. it is a glorious old church, and though not comparable in any way to westminster abbey, or to antwerp, or strasburg, or cologne, or indeed to many others which i might name, has enough to occupy the eye very satisfactorily for a considerable time. the three elegant rose-windows, throwing in their coloured light from north, west, and south, are of themselves a very pretty study for half an hour or so; and besides, they brought back, notwithstanding their miniature diameter of forty feet, the remembrance of the magnificent circular western window of strasburg--the recollection of which was almost enough to while away another long interval. then i employed myself, not very successfully, in labouring to recollect the quaint old verses which i had fallen upon a few days before, giving the dimensions of the church, and which i will herewith transcribe for your use and amusement, in case you should ever find yourself sitting as i was, _bolt upright_, as we elegantly express ourselves when describing this ecclesiastical-parisian attitude, while waiting the advent of the abbé lacordaire. "si tu veux savoir comme est ample de notre dame le grand temple, il y a, dans oeuvre, pour le seur, dix et sept toises de hauteur, sur la largeur de vingt-quatre, et soixante-cinq, sans rebattre, a de long; aux tours haut montées trente-quatre sont comptées; le tout fondé sur pilotis-- aussi vrai que je te le dis." while repeating this poetical description, you have only to remember that _une toise_ is the same as a fathom,--that is to say, six feet; and then, as you turn your head in all directions to look about you, you will have the satisfaction of knowing exactly how far you can see in each. i had another source of amusement, and by no means a trifling one, in watching the influx of company. the whole building soon contained as many human beings as could be crammed into it; and the seats, which we thought, as we took them, were very so-so places indeed, became accomodations for which to be most heartily thankful. not a pillar but supported the backs of as many men as could stand round it; and not a jutting ornament, the balustrade of a side altar, or any other "point of 'vantage," but looked as if a swarm of bees were beginning to hang upon it. but the sight which drew my attention most was that displayed by the exclusive central aisle. when told that it was reserved for gentlemen, i imagined of course that i should see it filled by a collection of staid-looking, middle-aged, catholic citizens, who were drawn together from all parts of the town, and perhaps the country too, for the purpose of hearing the celebrated preacher: but, to my great astonishment, instead of this i saw pouring in by dozens at a time, gay, gallant, smart-looking young men, such indeed as i had rarely seen in paris on any other religious occasion. amongst these was a sprinkling of older men; but the great majority were decidedly under thirty. the meaning of this phenomenon i could by no means understand; but while i was tormenting myself to discover some method of obtaining information respecting it, accident brought relief to my curiosity in the shape of a communicative neighbour. in no place in the world is it so easy, i believe, to enter into conversation with strangers as in paris. there is a courteous inclination to welcome every attempt at doing so which pervades all ranks, and any one who wishes it may easily find or make opportunities of hearing the opinions of all classes. the present time, too, is peculiarly favourable for this; a careless freedom in uttering opinions of all kinds being, i think, the most remarkable feature in the manners of paris at the present day. i have heard that it is difficult to get a tame, flat, short, matter-of-fact answer from a genuine irishman;--from a genuine frenchman it is impossible: let his reply to a question which seeks information contain as little of it as the dry anglicism "i don't know," it is never given without a tone or a turn of phrase that not only relieves its inanity, but leaves you with the agreeable persuasion that the speaker would be more satisfactory if he could, and moreover that he would be extremely happy to reply to any further questions you may wish to ask, either on the same, or any other subject whatever. it was in consequence of my moving my chair an inch and a half to accommodate the long limbs of a grey-headed neighbour, that he was induced to follow his "milles pardons, madame!" with an observation on the inconvenience endured on the present occasion by the appropriation of all the best places to the gentlemen. it was quite contrary, he added, to the usual spirit of parisian arrangements; and yet, in fact, it was the only means of preventing the ladies suffering from the tremendous rush of _jeunes gens_ who constantly came to hear the abbé lacordaire. "i never saw so large a proportion of young men in any congregation," said i, hoping he might explain the mystery to me. what i heard, however, rather startled than enlightened me. "the catholic religion was never so likely to be spread over the whole earth as it is at present," he replied. "the kingdom of ireland will speedily become fully reconciled to the see of rome. le sieur o'connell desires to be canonized. nothing, in truth, remains for that portion of your country to do, but to follow the example we set during our famous three days, and place a prince of its own choosing upon the throne." i am persuaded that he thought we were irish roman catholics: our sitting with such exemplary patience to wait for the preaching of this new apostle was not, i suppose, to be otherwise accounted for. i said nothing to undeceive him, but wishing to bring him back to speak of the congregation before us, i replied, "paris at least, if we may judge from the vast crowd collected here, is more religious than she has been of late years." "france," replied he with energy, "as you may see by looking at this throng, is no longer the france of , when her priests sang canticles to the tune of "_Ça ira_." france is happily become most deeply and sincerely catholic. her priests are once more her orators, her magnates, her highest dignitaries. she may yet give cardinals to rome--and rome may again give a minister to france." i knew not what to answer: my silence did not seem to please him, and i believe he began to suspect he had mistaken the party altogether, for after sitting for a few minutes quite silent, he rose from the place into which he had pushed himself with considerable difficulty, and making his way through the crowd behind us, disappeared; but i saw him again, before we left the church, standing on the steps of the pulpit. the chair he left was instantly occupied by another gentleman, who had before found standing-room near it. he had probably remarked our sociable propensities, for he immediately began talking to us. "did you ever see anything like the fashion which this man has obtained?" said he. "look at those _jeunes gens_, madame! ... might one not fancy oneself at a première représentation?" "those must be greatly mistaken," i replied, "who assert that the young men of paris are not among her _fidèles_." "do you consider their appearing here a proof that they are religious?" inquired my neighbour with a smile. "certainly i do, sir," i replied: "how can i interpret it otherwise?" "perhaps not--perhaps to a stranger it must have this appearance; but to a man who knows paris...." he smiled again very expressively, and, after a short pause, added--"depend upon it, that if a man of equal talent and eloquence with this abbé lacordaire were to deliver a weekly discourse in favour of atheism, these very identical young men would be present to hear him." "once they might," said i, "from curiosity: but that they should follow him, as i understand they do, month after month, if what he uttered were at variance with their opinions, seems almost inconceivable." "and yet it is very certainly the fact," he replied: "whoever can contrive to obtain the reputation of talent at paris, let the nature of it be of what kind it may, is quite sure that _les jeunes gens_ will resort to hear and see him. they believe themselves of indefeasible right the sole arbitrators of intellectual reputation; and let the direction in which it is shown be as foreign as may be to their own pursuits, they come as a matter of prescriptive right to put their seal upon the aspirant's claim, or to refuse it." "then, at least, they acknowledge that the abbé's words have power, or they would not grant their suffrage to him." "they assuredly acknowledge that his words have eloquence; but if by power, you mean power of conviction, or conversion, i do assure you that they acknowledge nothing like it. not only do i believe that these young men are themselves sceptics, but i do not imagine that there is one in ten of them who has the least faith in the abbé's own orthodoxy." "but what right have they to doubt it?... surely he would hardly be permitted to preach at notre dame, where the archbishop himself sits in judgment on him, were he otherwise than orthodox?" "i was at school with him," he replied: "he was a fine sharp-witted boy, and gave very early demonstrations of a mind not particularly given either to credulity, or subservience to any doctrines that he found puzzling." "i should say that this was the greatest proof of his present sincerity. he doubted as a boy--but as a man he believes." "that is not the way the story goes," said he. "but hark! there is the bell: the mass is about to commence." he was right: the organ pealed, the fine chant of the voices was heard above it, and in a few minutes we saw the archbishop and his splendid train escorting the host to its ark upon the altar. during the interval between the conclusion of the mass and the arrival of the abbé lacordaire in the pulpit, my sceptical neighbour again addressed me. "are you prepared to be very much enchanted by what you are going to hear?" said he. "i hardly know what to expect," i replied: "i think my idea of the preacher was higher when i came here, than since i have heard you speak of him." "you will find that he has a prodigious flow of words, much vehement gesticulation, and a very impassioned manner. this is quite sufficient to establish his reputation for eloquence among _les jeunes gens_." "but i presume you do not yourself subscribe to the sentence pronounced by these young critics?" "yes, i do,--as far, at least, as to acknowledge that this man has not attained his reputation without having displayed great ability. but though all the talent of paris has long consented to receive its crown of laurels from the hands of her young men, it would be hardly reasonable to expect that their judgment should be as profound as their power is great." "your obedience to this beardless synod is certainly very extraordinary," said i: "i cannot understand it." "i suppose not," said he, laughing; "it is quite a paris fashion; but we all seem contented that it should be so. if a new play appears, its fate must be decided by _les jeunes gens_; if a picture is exhibited, its rank amidst the works of modern art can only be settled by them: does a dancer, a singer, an actor, or a preacher appear--a new member in the tribune, or a new prince upon the throne,--it is still _les jeunes gens_ who must pass judgment on them all; and this judgment is quoted with a degree of deference utterly inconceivable to a stranger." "chut! ... chut!" ... was at this moment uttered by more than one voice near us: "le voilà!" i glanced my eye towards the pulpit, but it was still empty; and on looking round me, i perceived that all eyes were turned in the direction of a small door in the north aisle, almost immediately behind us. "il est entré là!" said a young woman near us, in a tone that seemed to indicate a feeling deeper than respect, and, in truth, not far removed from adoration. her eyes were still earnestly fixed upon the door, and continued to be so, as well as those of many others, till it reopened and a slight young man in the dress of a priest prepared for the _chaire_ appeared at it. a verger made way for him through the crowd, which, thick and closely wedged as it was, fell back on each side of him, as he proceeded to the pulpit, with much more docility than i ever saw produced by the clearing a passage through the intervention of a troop of horse. silence the most profound accompanied his progress; i never witnessed more striking demonstrations of respect: and yet it is said that three-fourths of paris believe this man to be a hypocrite. as soon as he had reached the pulpit, and while preparing himself by silent prayer for the duty he was about to perform, a movement became perceptible at the upper part of the choir; and presently the archbishop and his splendid retinue of clergy were seen moving in a body towards that part of the nave which is immediately in front of the preacher. on arriving at the space reserved for them, each noiselessly dropped into his allotted seat according to his place and dignity, while the whole congregation respectfully stood to watch the ceremony, and seemed to "admirer un si bel ordre, et reconnaître l'église." it is easier to describe to you everything which preceded the sermon, than the sermon itself. this was such a rush of words, such a burst and pouring out of passionate declamation, that even before i had heard enough to judge of the matter, i felt disposed to prejudge the preacher, and to suspect that his discourse would have more of the flourish and furbelow of human rhetoric than of the simplicity of divine truth in it. his violent action, too, disgusted me exceedingly. the rapid and incessant movement of his hands, sometimes of one, sometimes of both, more resembled that of the wings of a humming-bird than anything else i can remember: but the _hum_ proceeded from the admiring congregation. at every pause he made, and like the claptraps of a bad actor, they were frequent, and evidently faits exprès: a little gentle laudatory murmur ran through the crowd. i remember reading somewhere of a priest nobly born, and so anxious to keep his flock in their proper place, that they might not come "between the wind and his nobility," that his constant address to them when preaching was, "canaille chrétienne!" this was bad--very bad, certainly; but i protest, i doubt if the abbé lacordaire's manner of addressing his congregation as "messieurs" was much less unlike the fitting tone of a christian pastor. this mundane apostrophe was continually repeated throughout the whole discourse, and, i dare say, had its share in producing the disagreeable effect i experienced from his eloquence. i cannot remember having ever heard a preacher i less liked, reverenced, and admired, than this new parisian saint. he made very pointed allusions to the reviving state of the roman catholic church in ireland, and anathematized pretty cordially all such as should oppose it. in describing the two hours' prologue to the mass, i forgot to mention that many young men--not in the reserved places of the centre aisle, but sitting near us, beguiled the tedious interval by reading. some of the volumes they held had the appearance of novels from a circulating library, and others were evidently collections of songs, probably less spiritual than _spirituels_. the whole exhibition certainly showed me a new page in the history of _paris as it is_, and i therefore do not regret the four hours it cost me: but once is enough--i certainly will never go to hear the abbé lacordaire again. letter xlvi. la tour de nesle. it is, i believe, nearly two years ago since the very extraordinary drama called "la tour de nesle" was sent me to read, as a specimen of the outrageous school of dramatic extravagance which had taken possession of all the theatres in paris; but i certainly did not expect that it would keep its place as a favourite spectacle with the people of this great and enlightened capital long enough for me to see it, at this distance of time, still played before a very crowded audience. that this is a national disgrace, is most certain: but the fault is less attributable to the want of good taste, than to the lamentable blunder which permits every species of vice and abomination to be enacted before the eyes of the people, without any restraint or check whatever, under the notion that they are thereby permitted to enjoy a desirable privilege and a noble freedom. yet in this same country it is illegal to sell a deleterious drug! there is no logic in this. it is however an undeniable fact, as i think i have before stated, that the best class of parisian society protest against this disgusting license, and avoid--upon principle loudly proclaimed and avowed--either reading or seeing acted these detestable compositions. thus, though the crowded audiences constantly assembled whenever they are brought forward prove but too clearly that such persons form but a small minority, their opinion is nevertheless sufficient, or ought to be so, to save the country from the disgrace of admitting that such things are good. we seem to pique ourselves greatly on the superiority of our taste in these matters; but let us pique ourselves rather on our theatrical censorship. should the clamours and shoutings of misrule lead to the abolition of this salutary restraint, the consequences would, i fear, be such as very soon to rob us of our present privilege of abusing our neighbours on this point. while things do remain as they are, however, we may, i think, smile a little at such a judgment as monsieur de saintfoix passes upon our theatrical compositions, when comparing them to those of france. "les actions de nos tragédies," says he, "sont pathétiques et terribles; celles des tragédies angloises sont atroces. on y met sous les yeux du spectateur les objets les plus horribles; un mari qui discourt avec sa femme, qui la caresse et l'étrangle." might one not think that the writer of this passage had just arrived from witnessing the famous scene in the "monomane," only he had mistaken it for english? but he goes on-- "une fille toute sanglante...." (triboulet's daughter blanche, for instance.)--"après l'avoir violée...." he then proceeds to reason upon the subject, and justly enough, i think--only we should read england for france, and france for england. "il n'est pas douteux que les arts agréables ne réussissent chez un peuple qu'autant qu'ils en prennent le génie, et qu'un auteur dramatique ne sauroit espérer de plaire si les objets et les images qu'il présente ne sont pas analogues au caractère, au naturel, et au goût de la nation: on pourroit donc conclure de la différence des deux théâtres, que l'âme d'un anglais est sombre, féroce, sanguinaire; et que celle d'un franÇais est vive, impatiente, emportée, mais généreuse même dans sa haine; idolatrant l'honneur"--(just like buridan in this same drama of the tour de nesle--this popular production of _la jeune france_--_la france régénérée_)--"idolatrant l'honneur, et ne cessant jamais de l'apercevoir, malgré le trouble et toute la violence des passions." though it is impossible to read this passage without a smile, at a time when it is so easy for the english to turn the tables against this patriotic author, one must sigh too, while reflecting on the lamentable change which has taken place in the moral feeling of revolutionised france since the period at which it was written. what would saintfoix say to the notion that victor hugo had "heaved the ground from beneath the feet of corneille and racine"? the question, however, is answered by a short sentence in his "essais historiques," where he thus expresses himself:-- "je croirois que la décadence de notre nation seroit prochaine, si les hommes de quarante ans n'y regardoient pas corneille comme le plus grand génie qui ait jamais été." if the spirit of the historian were to revisit the earth, and float over the heads of a party of parisian critics while pronouncing sentence on his favourite author, he might probably return to the shades unharmed, for he would only hear "rococo! rococo! rococo!" uttered as by acclamation; and unskilled to comprehend the new-born eloquence, he would doubtless interpret it as a _refrain_ to express in one pithy word all reverence, admiration, and delight. but to return to "la tour de nesle." the story is taken from a passage in brantôme's history "des femmes galantes," where he says, "qu'une reine de france"--whom however he does not name, but who is said to have been marguérite de bourgogne, wife of louis dix--"se tenoit là (à la tour de nesle) d'ordinaire, laquelle fesant le guet aux passans, et ceux qui lui revenoient et agréoient le plus, de quelque sorte de gens que ce fussent, les fesoit appeler et venir à soy, et après ... les fesoit précipiter du haut de la tour en bas, en l'eau, et les fesoit noyer. je ne veux pas," he continues, "assurer que cela soit vrai, mais le vulgaire, au moins la plupart de paris, l'affirme, et n'y a si commun qu'en lui montrant la tour seulement, et en l'interrogeant, que de lui-même ne le die." this story one might imagine was horrible and disgusting enough; but mm. gaillardet et ***** (it is thus the authors announce themselves) thought otherwise, and accordingly they have introduced her majesty's sisters, the ladies jeanne and blanche of burgundy, who were both likewise married to sons of philippe-le-bel, the brothers of louis dix, to share her nocturnal orgies. these "imaginative and powerful" scenic historians also, according to the fashion of the day among the theatrical writers of france, add incest to increase the interest of the drama. this is enough, and too much, as to the plot; and for the execution of it by the authors, i can only say that it is about equal in literary merit to the translations of an italian opera handed about at the haymarket. it is in prose--and, to my judgment, very vulgar prose; yet it is not only constantly acted, but i am assured that the sale of it has been prodigiously great, and still continues to be so. that a fearful and even hateful story, dressed up in all the attractive charm of majestic poetry, and redeemed in some sort by the noble sentiments of the personages brought into the scenes of which it might be the foundation--that a drama so formed might captivate the imagination even while it revolted the feelings, is very possible, very natural, and nowise disgraceful either to the poet, or to those whom his talent may lead captive. the classic tragedies which long served as models to france abound in fables of this description. alfieri, too, has made use of such, following with a poet's wing the steady onward flight of remorseless destiny, yet still sublime in pathos and in dignity, though appalling in horror. in like manner, the great french dramatists have triumphed by the power of their genius, both over the disgust inspired by these awful classic mysteries, and the unbending strictness of the laws which their antique models enforced for their composition. if we may herein deem the taste to have been faulty, the grace, the majesty, the unswerving dignity of the tragic march throughout the whole action--the lofty sentiments, the bursts of noble passion, and the fine drapery of stately verse in which the whole was clothed, must nevertheless raise our admiration to a degree that may perhaps almost compete with what we feel for the enchanting wildness and unshackled nature of our native dramas. but what can we think of those who, having ransacked the pages of history to discover whatever was most revolting to the human soul, should sit down to arrange it in action, detailed at full length, with every hateful circumstance exaggerated and brought out to view for the purpose of tickling the curiosity of his countrymen and countrywomen, and by that means beguiling them into the contemplation of scenes that virtue would turn from with loathing, and before which innocence must perish as she gazes? no gleam of goodness throughout the whole for the heart to cling to,--no thought of remorseful penitence,--no spark of noble feeling; nothing but vice,--low, grovelling, brutal vice,--from the moment the curtain rises to display the obscene spectacle, to that which sees it fall between the fictitious infamy on one side, and the real impurity left on the other! as i looked on upon the hideous scene, and remembered the classic horrors of the greek tragedians, and of the mighty imitators who have followed them, i could not help thinking that the performance of mm. gaillardet et ***** was exceedingly like that of a monkey mimicking the operations of a man. he gets hold of the same tools, but turns the edges the wrong way; and instead of raising a majestic fabric in honour of human genius, he rolls the materials in mud, begrimes his own paws in the slimy cement, and then claws hold of every unwary passenger who comes within his reach, and bespatters him with the rubbish he has brought together. such monkeys should be chained, or they will do much mischief. it is hardly possible that such dramas as the "tour de nesle" can be composed with the intention of producing a great tragic effect; which is surely the only reason which can justify bringing sin and misery before the eyes of an audience. there is in almost every human heart a strange love for scenes of terror and of woe. we love to have our sympathies awakened--our deepest feelings roused; we love to study in the magic mirror of the scene what we ourselves might feel did such awful visitations come upon us; and there is an unspeakable interest inspired by looking on, and fancying that were it so with us, we might so act, so feel, so suffer, and so die. but is there in any land a wretch so lost, so vile, as to be capable of feeling sympathy with any sentiment or thought expressed throughout the whole progress of this "tour de nesle"? god forbid! i have heard of poets who have written under the inspiration of brandy and laudanum--the exhalations from which are certainly not likely to form themselves into images of distinctness or beauty; but the inspiration that dictated the "tour de nesle" must have been something viler still, though not less powerful. it must, i think, have been the cruel calculation of how many dirty francs might be expressed from the pockets of the idle, by a spectacle new from its depth of atrocity, and attractive from its newness. but, setting aside for a moment the sin and the scandal of producing on a public stage such a being as the woman to whom mm. gaillardet et ***** have chosen to give the name of marguérite de bourgogne, it is an object of some curiosity to examine the literary merits of a piece which, both on the stage and in the study, has been received by so many thousands--perhaps millions--of individuals belonging to "_la grande nation_" as a work deserving their patronage and support--or at least as deserving their attention and attendance for years; years, too, of hourly progressive intellect--years during which the march of mind has outdone all former marches of human intelligence--years during which young france has been labouring to throw off her ancient coat of worn-out rococoism, and to clothe herself in new-fledged brightness. during these years she has laid on one shelf her once-venerated corneille,--on another, her almost worshipped racine. molière is named but as a fine antique; and voltaire himself, spite of his strong claims upon their revolutionary affections, can hardly be forgiven for having said of the two whom victor hugo is declared to have overthrown, that "ces hommes enseignèrent à la nation, à penser, à sentir, à s'exprimer; leurs auditeurs, instruits par eux seuls, devinrent enfin des juges sévères pour eux mêmes qui les avaient éclairés." let any one whose reason is not totally overthrown by the fever and delirium of innovation read the "tour de nesle," and find out if he can any single scene, speech, or phrase deserving the suffrage which paris has accorded to it. has the dialogue either dignity, spirit, or truth of nature to recommend it? is there a single sentiment throughout the five acts with which an honest man can accord? is there even an approach to grace or beauty in the _tableaux_? or skill in the arrangement of the scenes? or keeping of character among the demoniacal _dramatis personæ_ which mm. gaillardet et ***** have brought together? or, in short, any one merit to recommend it--except only its superlative defiance of common decency and common sense? if there be any left among the men of france; i speak not now of her boys, the spoilt grandchildren of the old revolution;--but if there be any left among her men, as i in truth believe there are, who deprecate this eclipse of her literary glory, is it not sad that they should be forced to permit its toleration, for fear they should be sent to ham for interfering with the liberty of the press? it is impossible to witness the representation of one of these infamous pieces without perceiving, as you glance your eye around the house, who are its patrons and supporters. at no great distance from us, when we saw the "tour de nesle," were three young men who had all of them a most thoroughly "_jeunes gens_" and republican cast of countenance, and tournure of person and dress. they tossed their heads and snuffed the theatrical air of "_la jeune france_," as if they felt that they were, or ought to be, her masters: and it is a positive fact that nothing pre-eminently absurd or offensive was done or said upon the stage, which this trio did not mark with particular admiration and applause. there was, however, such a saucy look of determination to do what they knew was absurd, that i gave them credit for being aware of the nonsense of what they applauded, from the very fact that they did applaud it. it is easy enough sometimes to discover "le vrai au travers du ridicule;" and these silly boys were not, i am persuaded, such utter blockheads as they endeavoured to appear. it is a bad and mischievous tone, however; and the affecting a vice where you have it not, is quite as detestable a sort of hypocrisy as any other. some thousand years hence perhaps, if any curious collectors of rare copies should contrive among them to preserve specimens of the french dramas of the present day, it may happen that while the times that are gone shall continue to be classed as the iron, the golden, the dark, and the augustan ages, this day of ours may become familiar in all men's mouths as the diabolic age,--unless, indeed, some charitable critic shall step forward in our defence, and bestow upon it the gentler appellation of "the idiot era." letter xlvii. palais royal.--variety of characters.--party of english.--restaurant.--galerie d'orléans.--number of loungers.--convenient abundance of idle men.--théâtre du vaudeville. though, as a lady, you may fancy yourself quite beyond the possibility of ever feeling any interest in the palais royal, its restaurans, its trinket-shops, ribbon-shops, toy-shops &c. &c. &c. and all the world of misery, mischief, and good cheer which rises _étage_ after _étage_ above them; i must nevertheless indulge in a little gossip respecting it, because few things in paris--i might, i believe, say nothing--can show an aspect so completely un-english in all ways as this singular region. the palace itself is stately and imposing, though not externally in the very best taste. corneille, however, says of it,-- "l'univers entier ne peut voir rien d'égal au superbe dehors du palais cardinal," as it was called from having been built and inhabited by the cardinal de richelieu. but it is the use made of the space which was originally the cardinal's garden, which gives the place its present interest. all the world--men, women and children, gentle and simple, rich and poor,--in short, i suppose every living soul that enters paris, is taken to look at the palais royal. but though many strangers linger there, alas! all too long, there are many others who, according to my notions, do not linger there long enough. the quickest eye cannot catch at one glance, though that glance be in activity during a tour made round the whole enclosure, all the national characteristic, picturesque, and comic groups which float about there incessantly through at least twenty hours of the twenty-four. i know that the palais royal is a study which, in its higher walks and profoundest depths, it would be equally difficult, dangerous, and disagreeable to pursue: but with these altitudes and profundities i have nothing to do; there are abundance of objects to be seen there, calculated and intended to meet the eyes of all men, and women too, which may furnish matter for observation, without either diving or climbing in pursuit of knowledge that, after all, would be better lost than found. but one should have the talent of hogarth to describe the different groups, with all their varied little episodes of peculiarity, which render the palais royal so amusing. these groups are, to be sure, made up only of parisians, and of the wanderers who visit _la belle ville_ in order to see and be seen in every part of it; yet it is in vain that you would seek elsewhere the same odd selection of human beings that are to be found sans faute in every corner of the palais royal. how it happens i know not, but so it is, that almost every person you meet here furnishes food for speculation. if it be an elegant well-appointed man of fashion, the fancy instantly tracks him to a _salon de jeu_; and if you are very good-natured, your heart will ache to think how much misery he is likely to carry home with him. if it be a low, skulking, semi-genteel _moustache_, with large, dark, deep-set eyes rolling about to see whom he can devour, you are as certain that he too is making for a salon, as that a man with a rod and line on his shoulder is going to fish. that pretty _soubrette_, with her neat heels and smart silk apron, who has evidently a few francs tied up in the corner of the handkerchief which she holds in her hand--do we not know that she is peering through the window of every trinket-shop to see where she can descry the most tempting gold ear-rings, for the purchase of which a quarter's wages are about to be dis-kerchiefed? we must not overlook, and indeed it would not be easy to do so, that well-defined domestic party of our country-folks who have just turned into the superb galerie d'orléans. father, mother, and daughters--how easy to guess their thoughts, and almost their words! the portly father declares that it would make a capital exchange: he has not yet seen la bourse. he looks up to its noble height--then steps forward a pace or two, and measures with his eye the space on all sides--then stops, and perhaps says to the stately lady on his arm, (whose eyes meanwhile are wandering amidst shawls, gloves, cologne bottles, and sèvres china, first on one side and then on the other,)--"this is not badly built; it is light and lofty--and the width is very considerable for so slight-looking a roof; but what is it compared to waterloo-bridge!" two pretty girls, with bright cheeks, dove-like eyes, and "tresses like the morn," falling in un-numbered ringlets, so as almost to hide their curious yet timid glances, precede the parent pair; but, with pretty well-taught caution, pause when they pause, and step on when they step on. but they can hardly look at anything; for do they not know, though their downcast eyes can hardly be said to see it, that those youths with coal-black hair, favoris and imperials, are spying at them with their lorgnettes? here too, as at the tuileries, are little pavilions to supply the insatiable thirst for politics; and here, too, we could distinguish the melancholy champion of the elder branch of the bourbons, who is at least sure to find the consolation of his faithful "quotidienne," and the sympathy of "la france." the sour republican stalks up, as usual, to seize upon the "réformateur;" while the comfortable doctrinaire comes forth from the café véry, ruminating on the "journal des débats," and the chances of his bargains at tortoni's or la bourse. it was in a walk taken round three sides of the square that we marked the figures i have mentioned, and many more too numerous to record, on a day that we had fixed upon to gratify our curiosity by dining--not at véry's, or any other far-famed artist's, but tout bonnement at a restaurant of quarante sous par tête. having made our tour, we mounted au second at numéro--i forget what, but it was where we had been especially recommended to make this coup d'essai. the scene we entered upon, as we followed a long string of persons who preceded us, was as amusing as it was new to us all. i will not say that i should like to dine three days in the week at the palais royal for quarante sous par tête; but i will say, that i should have been very sorry not to have done it once, and moreover, that i heartily hope i may do it again. the dinner was extremely good, and as varied as our fancy chose to make it, each person having privilege to select three or four plats from a carte that it would take a day to read deliberately. but the dinner was certainly to us the least important part of the business. the novelty of the spectacle, the number of strange-looking people, and the perfect amenity and good-breeding which seemed to reign among them all, made us look about us with a degree of interest and curiosity that almost caused the whole party to forget the ostensible cause of their visit. there were many english, chiefly gentlemen, and several germans with their wives and daughters; but the majority of the company was french; and from sundry little circumstances respecting taking the places reserved for them, and different words of intelligence between themselves and the waiters, it was evident that many among them were not chance visitors, but in the daily habit of dining there. what a singular mode of existence is this, and how utterly inconceivable to english feelings!... yet habit, and perhaps prejudice, apart, it is not difficult to perceive that it has its advantages. in the first place, there is no management in the world, not even that of mrs. primrose herself, which could enable a man to dine at home, for the sum of two francs, with the same degree of luxury as to what he eats, that he does at one of these restaurans. five hundred persons are calculated upon as the daily average of company expected; and forty pounds of ready money in paris, with the skilful aid of french cooks, will furnish forth a dinner for this number, and leave some profit besides. add to which, the sale of wine is, i believe, considerable. some part of the receipts, however, must be withdrawn as interest upon the capital employed. the quantity of plate is very abundant, not only in the apparently unlimited supply of forks and spoons, but in furnishing the multitude of grim-looking silver bowls in which the _potage_ is served. on the whole, however, i can better understand the possibility of five hundred dinners being furnished daily for two francs each, by one of these innumerable establishments, than i can the marvel of five hundred people being daily found by each of these to eat them. hundreds of these houses exist in paris, and all of them are constantly furnished with guests. but this manner of living, so unnatural to us, seems not only natural, but needful to them. they do it all so well--so pleasantly! imagine for a moment the sort of tone and style such a dining-room would take in london. i do not mean, if limited to the same price, but set it greatly beyond the proportion: let us imagine an establishment where males and females should dine at five shillings a-head--what din, what unsocial, yet vehement clattering, would inevitably ensue!--not to mention the utter improbability that such a place, really and _bonâ fide_ open to the public, should continue a reputable resort for ladies for a week after its doors were open. but here, everything was as perfectly respectable and well arranged as if each little table had been placed with its separate party in a private room at mivart's. it is but fair, therefore, that while we hug ourselves, as we are all apt to do, on the refinement which renders the exclusive privacy of our own dining-rooms necessary to our feelings of comfort, we should allow that equal refinement, though of another kind, must exist among those who, when thrown thus promiscuously together, still retain and manifest towards each other the same deference and good-breeding which we require of those whom we admit to our private circle. at this restaurant, as everywhere else in paris, we found it easy enough to class our _gens_. i feel quite sure that we had around us many of the employés du gouvernement actuel--several anciens militaires of napoleon's--some specimens of the race distinguished by louis dix-huit and charles dix--and even, if i do not greatly mistake, a few relics of the convention, and of the unfortunate monarch who was its victim. but during this hour of rest and enjoyment all differences seem forgotten; and however discordant may be their feelings, two frenchmen cannot be seated near each other at table, without exchanging numberless civilities, and at last entering into conversation, so well sustained and so animated, that instead of taking them for strangers who had never met before, we, in our stately shyness, would be ready to pronounce that they must be familiar friends. whether it be this _causant_, social temper which makes them prefer thus living in public, or that thus living in public makes them social, i cannot determine to my own satisfaction; but the one is not more remarkable and more totally unlike our own manners than the other, and i really think that no one who has not dined thus in paris can have any idea how very wide, in some directions, the line of demarcation is between the two countries. i have on former occasions dined with a party at places of much higher price, where the object was to observe what a very good dinner a very good cook could produce in paris. but this experiment offered nothing to our observation at all approaching in interest and nationality to the dinner of quarante sous. in the first place, you are much more likely to meet english than french society at these costly repasts; and in the second, if you do encounter at them a genuine native gourmet of la grande nation, he will, upon this occasion, be only doing like ourselves,--that is to say, giving himself un repas exquis, instead of regaling himself at home with his family-- "sur un lièvre flanqué de deux poulets étiques." but at the humble restaurant of two francs, you have again a new page of paris existence to study,--and one which, while it will probably increase your english relish for your english home, will show you no unprofitable picture of the amiable social qualities of france. i think that if we could find a people composed in equal proportions of the two natures, they would be as near to social perfection as it is possible to imagine. the french are almost too amiable to every one they chance to sit near. the lively smile, the kind empressement, the ready causerie, would be more flattering did we not know that it was all equally at the service of the whole world. whereas we are more than equally wrong in the other extreme; having the air of suspecting that every human being who happens to be thrown into contact with us, before we know his birth, parentage, and education, is something very dangerous, and to be guarded against with all possible care and precaution. query--do not the germans furnish something very like this juste milieu? having concluded our unexpensive repast with the prescribed tasse de café noir, we again sallied forth to take the tour of the palais royal, in order to occupy the time till the opening of the théâtre du vaudeville, with which, as we were so very close to it, we determined to finish the evening. we returned, as we came, through the noble galerie d'orléans, which was now crowded with the assembled loungers of all the numerous restaurans. it is a gay and animated scene at any time of the day; but at this particular hour, just before the theatres open, and just after the gay people have all refreshed their animal spirits, paris itself seems typified by the aspect of the lively, laughing, idle throng assembled there. one reason, i believe, why paris is so much more amusing to a looker-on than london, is, that it contains so many more people, in proportion to its population, who have nothing in the world to do but to divert themselves and others. there are so many more idle men here, who are contented to live on incomes that with us would be considered as hardly sufficient to supply a lodging; small rentiers, who prefer being masters of their own time and amusing themselves with a little, to working very hard and being very much ennuyés with a great deal of money. i am not quite sure that this plan answers well when youth is past--at least for the individuals themselves: it is probable, i think, that as the strength, and health, and spirits fade away, something of quieter and more substantial comfort must often be wished for, when perhaps it is too late to obtain it; but for others--for all those who form the circle round which the idle man of pleasure skims thus lightly, he is a never-failing resource. what would become of all the parties for amusement which take place morning, noon, and night in paris, if this race were extinct? whether they are married or single, they are equally eligible, equally necessary, equally welcome wherever pleasure makes the business of the hour. with us, it is only a small and highly-privileged class who can permit themselves to go wherever and whenever pleasure beckons; but in france, no lady arranging a fête, let it be of what kind it may, has need to think twice and thrice before she can answer the important but tormenting question of--"but what men can we get?" the vaudeville was very full, but we contrived to get a good box au second, from whence we saw, greatly to our delectation and amusement, three pretty little pieces,--"les gants jaunes," "le premier amour," and "elle est folle;" which last was of the larmoyante school, and much less to my taste than the lively nonsense of the two former; yet it was admirably well played too. but i always go to a vaudeville with the intention of laughing; and if this purpose fail, i am disappointed. letter xlviii. literary conversation.--modern novelists.--vicomte d'arlincourt.--his portrait.--châteaubriand.--bernardin de saint pierre.--shakspeare.--sir walter scott.--french familiarity with english authors.--miss mitford.--miss landon.--parisian passion for novelty.--extent of general information. we were last night at a small party where there was neither dancing, music, cards, nor--(wonderful to say!) politics to amuse or occupy us: nevertheless, it was one of the most agreeable _soirées_ at which i have been present in paris. the conversation was completely on literary subjects, but totally without the pretension of a literary society. in fact, it was purely the effect of accident; and it was just as likely that we might have passed the evening in talking of pictures, or music, or rocks and rivers, as of books. but fate decreed that so it should be; and the consequence was, that we had the pleasure of hearing three frenchmen and two frenchwomen talk for three hours of the literature of their country. i do not mean to assert that no other person spoke--but the frais de la conversation were certainly furnished by the five natives. one of the gentlemen, and that too the oldest man in company, was more tolerant towards the present race of french novel-writers than any person of his age and class that i have yet conversed with; but nevertheless, his approval went no farther than to declare that he thought the present mode of following human nature with a microscope into all the recesses to which passion, and even vice, could lead it, was calculated to make a better novelist than the fashion which preceded it, of looking at all things through a magnifying medium, and of straining and striving, in consequence, to make that appear great, which was by its nature essentially the reverse. the vicomte d'arlincourt was the author he named to establish the truth of his proposition: he would not admit him to be an exaggeration of the school which has passed away, but only the perfection of it. "i remember," said he, "to have seen at the louvre, many years ago, a full-length portrait of this gentleman, which i thought at the time was as perfect a symbol of what is called in france le style romantique, as it was well possible to conceive. he was standing erect on the rocky point of a precipice, with eye inspired, and tablets in his hand: a foaming torrent rolled its tortured waters at his feet, whilst he, calm and sublime, looked not 'comme une jeune beauté qu'on arrache au sommeil,' but very like a young incroyable snatched from a fashionable salon to meditate upon the wild majesty of nature, with all the inspiring adjuncts of tempest, wildness, and solitude. he appeared dressed in an elegant black coat and waistcoat, black silk stockings, and dancing pumps. it would be lost labour," he continued, "should i attempt to give you a more just idea of his style of writing than the composition of this portrait conveys. it is in vain that m. le vicomte places himself amidst rocks and cataracts--he is still m. le vicomte; and his silk stockings and dancing pumps will remain visible, spite of all the froth and foam he labours to raise around him." "it was not d'arlincourt, however," said m. de c***, "who has either the honour or dishonour of having invented this _style romantique_--but a much greater man: it was châteaubriand who first broke through all that was left of classic restraint, and permitted his imagination to run wild among everything in heaven and earth." "you cannot, however, accuse him of running this wild race with his imagination en habit bourgeois," said the third gentleman: "his style is extravagant, but never ludicrous; châteaubriand really has, what d'arlincourt affected to have, a poetical and abounding fancy, and a fecundity of imagery which has often betrayed him into bad taste from its very richness; but there is nothing strained, forced, and unnatural in his eloquence,--for eloquence it is, though a soberer imagination and a severer judgment might have kept it within more reasonable bounds. after all that can be said against his taste, châteaubriand is a great man, and his name will live among the literati of france; but god forbid that any true prophet should predict the same of his imitators!" "and god forbid that any true prophet should predict the same of the school that has succeeded them!" said madame v***--a delightful old woman, who wears her own grey hair, and does not waltz. "i have sometimes laughed and sometimes yawned over the productions of the _école d'arlincourt_," she added; "but i invariably turn with disgust and indignation from those of the domestic style which has succeeded to it." "invariably?" ... said the old gentleman interrogatively. "yes, invariably; because, if i see any symptom of talent, i lament it, and feel alarmed for the possible mischief which may ensue. i can never wish to see high mental power, which is the last and best gift of heaven, perverted so shamelessly." "come, come, dear lady," replied the advocate of what goethe impressively calls 'la littérature du désespoir,' you must not overthrow the whole fabric because some portion of it is faulty. the object of our tale-writers at present is, beyond all doubt, to paint men as they are: if they succeed, their labours cannot fail of being interesting--and i should think they might be very useful too." "fadaise que tout cela!" exclaimed the old lady eagerly. "before men can paint human nature profitably, they must see it as it really is, my good friend--and not as it appears to these misérables in their baraques and greniers. we have nothing to do with such scenes as they paint; and they have nothing to do (god help them!) with literary labours. have you got bernardin de saint pierre, ma chère?" said she, addressing the lady of the house. the little volume was immediately handed to her from a chiffonnière that stood behind us. "now this," she continued, having found the passage she sought,--"this is what i conceive to be the legitimate object of literature;" and she read aloud the following passage:-- "les lettres sont un secours du ciel. ce sont des rayons de cette sagesse qui gouverne l'univers, que l'homme, inspiré par un art céleste, a appris à fixer sur la terre.... elles calment les passions; elles répriment les vices; elles excitent les vertus par les exemples augustes des gens de bien qu'elles célèbrent, et dont elles nous présentent les images toujours honorées." "eh bien! a-t-il raison, ce bernardin?" said she, laying aside her spectacles and looking round upon us. every one admired the passage. "is this the use your french romancers make of letters?" she continued, looking triumphantly at their advocate. "not exactly," he replied, laughing,--"or at least not always: but i could show you passages in michel raymond...." "bah!" exclaimed the old lady, interrupting him; "i will have nothing to do with his passages. i think it is chamfort who says, that "un sot qui a un moment d'esprit, étonne et scandalise comme des chevaux de fiacre au galop." i don't like such unexpected jerks of sublimity--they startle more than they please me." the conversation then rambled on to shakspeare, and to the mischief--such was the word--to the mischief his example, and the passionate admiration expressed for his writings, had done to the classic purity of french literature. this phrase, however, was not only cavilled at, but in true french style was laughed to death by the rest of the party. the word "classic" was declared too rococo for use, and shakspeare loudly proclaimed to be only defective as a model because too mighty to imitate. i have, however, some faint misgivings as to the perfect sincerity of this verdict,--and this chiefly because there was but one frenchman present who affected to know anything about him excepting through the medium of translation. now, notwithstanding that the talent shown by m. ducis in the translation of some passages is very considerable, we all know that shakspeare may be very nearly as fairly judged from the italian "otello" as the "french hamlet." the party were however quite sincere, i am sure, in the feeling they expressed of reverence for the unequalled bard, founded upon the rank he held in the estimation of his countrymen; this being, as the clear-headed old lady observed, the only sure criterion, for foreigners, of the station which he ought to hold among the poets of the earth. then followed some keen enough observations--applicable to any one but shakspeare--of the danger there might be, that in mixing tragedy and comedy together, farce might unfortunately be the result; or, if the "fusion," as it has been called, of tragedy and comedy into one were very skilfully performed, the sublime and prodigious monster called melodrame might be hoped for, as the happiest product that could be expected. it being thus civilly settled that our shakspeare might be as wild as he chose, but that it would be advisable for other people to take care how they attempted to follow him, the party next fell into a review, more individual and particular than i was well able to follow, or than i can now repeat, of many writers of verses and of novels that, i was fain to confess, i had never heard of before. one or two of the novel-writers were declared to be very successful imitators of the style and manner of sir walter scott: and when this was stated, i was, to say the truth, by no means sorry to plead total and entire ignorance of their name and productions; for, having, as i fear, manifested a little national warmth on the subject of shakspeare, i should have been sorry to start off in another tirade concerning sir walter scott, which i might have found it difficult to avoid, had i known exactly what it was which they ventured to compare to him. i do not quite understand how it happens that the parisians are so much better acquainted with the generality of our light literature, than we are with the generality of theirs. this is the more unaccountable, from the fact so universally known, that for one french person who reads english, there are at least ten english who read french. it is, however, impossible to deny that such is the fact. i am sure i have heard the names of two or three dozen authors, since i have been here, of whose existence, or of that of their works, neither i, nor any of my literary friends, i believe, have had the least knowledge; and yet we have considered ourselves quite _au courant du jour_ in such matters, having never missed any opportunity of reading every french book that came in our way, and moreover of sedulously consulting the foreign quarterly. in canvassing this difference between us, one of the party suggested that it might perhaps arise from the fact that no work which was popular in england ever escaped being reprinted on the continent,--that is to say, either at paris or brussels. though this is done solely as a sort of piratical speculation, for the purpose of inducing all the travelling english to purchase new books for four francs here, instead of giving thirty shillings for them at home, it is nevertheless a natural consequence of this manoeuvre, that the names of english books are familiarly known here even before they have been translated. many of our lady authors have the honour apparently of being almost as well known at paris as at home. i had the pleasure of hearing miss mitford spoken of with enthusiasm; and one lady told me, that, judging her from her works, she would rather become acquainted with her than with any author living. miss landon is also well known and much admired. madame tastu told me she had translated many of her compositions, and thought very highly of them. in short, english literature and english literati are at present very hospitably treated in france. i was last night asked innumerable questions about many books, and many people, whose _renommée_ i was surprised to find had crossed the channel; and having communicated pretty nearly all the information i possessed upon the subject, i began to question in my turn, and heard abundance of anecdotes and criticisms, many of them given with all the sparkling keenness of french satire. many of les petits ridicules that we are accustomed to hear quizzed at home seem to exist in the same manner, and spite of the same light chastisement, here. the manner, for example, of making a very little wit and wisdom go a great way, by means of short lines and long stops, does not appear to be in any degree peculiar to our island. as a specimen of this, a quotation from a new romance by madame girardin (ci-devant mademoiselle delphine gay) was shown me in a newspaper. i will copy it for you as it was printed, and i think you will allow that our neighbours at least equal us in this ingenious department of literary composition. "pensez-vous qu'arthur voulût revoir mademoiselle de sommery?" "non: au lieu de l'aimer, _il la détestait_!" "oui, il la détestait!" * * * * * i think our passion for novelty is pretty strong; but if the information which i received last night respecting the same imperious besoin here was not exaggerated by the playful spirit of the party who were amusing themselves by describing its influence, we are patient and tame in our endurance of old "by-gones," in comparison to the parisians. they have, indeed, a saying which in few words paints this craving for novelty, as strongly as i could do, did i torment my memory to repeat to you every word said by my lively friends last night: "il nous faut du nouveau, n'en fût-il plus au monde." it is delightful to us to get hold of a new book or a new song--a new preacher or a new fiddler: it is delightful to us, but to the parisians it is indispensable. to meet in society and have nothing new for the _causette_, would be worse than remaining at home. "this fond desire, this longing after" fresh materials for the tongue to work upon, is at least as old as the days of molière. it was this which made madelon address herself with such energy to mascarille, assuring him that she should be "obligée de la dernière obligation" if he would but report to her daily "les choses qu'il faut savoir de nécessité, et qui sont de l'essence d'un bel esprit;" for, as she truly observes, "c'est là ce qui vous fait valoir dans les compagnies, et si l'on ignore ces choses, je ne donnerais pas un clou de tout l'esprit qu'on peut avoir;"--while her cousin cathos gives her testimony to the same truth by this impressive declaration: "pour moi, j'aurais toutes les hontes du monde s'il fallait qu'on vînt à me demander si j'aurais vu quelque chose de nouveau que je n'aurais pas vu." i know not how it is that people who appear to pass so few hours of every day out of sight contrive to know so well everything that has been written and everything that has been done in all parts of the world. no one ever appears ignorant on any subject. is this tact? or is it knowledge,--real, genuine, substantial information respecting all things? i suspect that it is not wholly either the one or the other; and that many circumstances contribute both to the general diffusion of information, as well as to the rapid manner of receiving and the brilliant style of displaying it. this at least is certain, that whatever they do know is made the very most of; and though some may suspect that so great display of general information indicates rather extent than depth of knowledge, none, i think, can refuse to acknowledge that the manner in which a frenchman communicates what he has acquired is particularly amiable, graceful, and unpedantic. letter xlix. trial by jury.--power of the jury in france.--comparative insignificance of that vested in the judge.--virtual abolition of capital punishments.--flemish anecdote. do not be terrified, my dear friend, and fancy that i am going to exchange my idle, ambling pace, and my babil de femme, to join the march of intellect, and indite wisdom. i have no such ambition in my thoughts; and yet i must retail to you part of a conversation with which i have just been favoured by an extremely intelligent friend, on the very manly subject of.... not political economy;--be tranquil on that point; the same drowsy dread falls upon me when those two portentous words sound in my ears with which they seem to have inspired coleridge;--not political economy, but _trial by jury_. m. v***, the gentleman in question, gave me credit, i believe, for considerably more savoir than i really possess, as to the actual and precise manner in which this important constitutional right works in england. my ignorance, however, though it prevented my giving much information, did not prevent my receiving it; and i repeat our conversation for the purpose of telling you in what a very singular manner, according to his account, it appears to work in france. i must, however, premise that my friend is a stanch henri-quintist; which, though i am sure that in his case it would not produce any exaggeration in the statement of facts, may nevertheless be fairly presumed to influence his feelings, and consequently his manner of stating them. the circumstance which gave rise to this grave discussion was a recent judgment passed here upon a very atrocious case of murder. i am not particularly fond of hanging; nevertheless, i was startled at hearing that this savage and most ferocious slayer of men was condemned to imprisonment and travail forcé, instead of death. "it is very rarely that any one now suffers the extreme penalty of the law in this country," said m. v***, in reply to my remark on this sentence. "is it since your last revolution," said i, "that the punishment of death has been commuted for that of imprisonment and labour?" "no such commutation has taken place as an act of the legislature," he replied: "it rests solely with the jury whether a murderer be guillotined, or only imprisoned." i fancied that i misunderstood him, and repeated his words,--"with the jury?" "oui, madame--absolument." this statement appeared to me so singular, that i still supposed i must be blundering, and that the words _le jury_ in france did not mean the same thing as the word jury in england. in this, as it subsequently appeared, i was not much mistaken. notwithstanding, my informer, who was not only a very intelligent person, but a lawyer to boot, continued to assure me that trial by jury was exactly the same in both countries as to principle, though not as to effect. "but," said i, "our juries have nothing to do with the sentence passed on the criminal: their business is to examine into the evidence brought forward by the witnesses to prove the guilt of the prisoner, and according to the impression which this leaves on their minds, they pronounce him 'guilty,' or 'not guilty;' and here their duty ends." "yes, yes--i understand that perfectly," replied m. v***; "and it is precisely the same thing with us;--only, it is not in the nature of a frenchman to pronounce a mere dry, short, unspeculating verdict of 'guilty,' or 'not guilty,' without exercising the powers of his intellect upon the shades of culpability which attach to the acts of each delinquent." this impossibility of giving a verdict without _exercising the power of intellect_ reminded me of an assize story on record in cornwall, respecting the sentence pronounced by a jury upon a case in which it was very satisfactorily proved that a man had murdered his wife, but where it also appeared from the evidence that the unhappy woman had not conducted herself remarkably well. the jury retired to consult, and upon re-entering their box the foreman addressed the court in these words: "guilty--but sarved her right, my lord." it was in vain that the learned judge desired them to amend their verdict, as containing matter wholly irrelevant to the duty they had to perform; the intellect of the jurymen was, upon this occasion, in a state of too great activity to permit their returning any other answer than the identical "guilty--but sarved her right." i could hardly restrain a smile as this anecdote recurred to me; but my friend was too much in earnest in his explanation for me to interrupt him by an ill-timed jest, and he continued-- "this frame of mind, which is certainly essentially french, is one cause, and perhaps the most inveterate one, which makes it impossible that the trial by jury should ever become the same safe and simple process with us that it is in england." "and in what manner does this activity of intellect interfere to impede the course of justice?" said i. "thus," he replied. "let us suppose the facts of the case proved to the entire satisfaction of the jury: they make up their minds among themselves to pronounce a verdict of 'guilty;' but their business is by no means finished,--they have still to decide how this verdict shall be delivered to the judge--whether with or without the declaration that there are circumstances calculated to extenuate the crime." "oh yes! i understand you now," i replied. "you mean, that when there are extenuating circumstances, the jury assume the privilege of recommending the criminal to mercy. our juries do this likewise." "but not with the same authority," said he, smiling. "with us, the fate of the culprit is wholly in the power of the jury; for not only do they decide upon the question of guilty or not guilty, but, by the use of this word _extenuating_, they can remit by their sole will and pleasure the capital part of the punishment, let the crime be of what nature it may. no judge in this country dare sentence a criminal to capital punishment where the verdict against him has been qualified by this extenuating clause." "it should seem then," said i, "that the duty of judge, which is attended with such awful responsibilities with us, is here little more than the performance of an official ceremony?" "it is very nearly such, i assure you." "and your jurymen, according to a phrase of contempt common among us, are in fact judge and jury both?" "beyond all contradiction they are so," he replied: "and i conceive that criminal justice is at this time more loosely administered in france than in any other civilised country in the world. in fact, our artisans have become, since the revolution of , not only judge and jury, but legislators also. different crimes have different punishments assigned to them by our penal code; but it rarely, or i might say never, occurs in our days that the punishment inflicted has any reference to that which is assigned by the law. that guilt may vary even when the deed done does not, is certain; and it is just and righteous therefore that a judge, learned in the law of the land, and chosen by high authority from among his fellows as a man of wisdom and integrity,--it is quite just and righteous that such a one should have the power--and a tremendous power it is--of modifying the extent of the penalty according to his view of the individual case. the charge too of an english judge is considered to be of immense importance to the result of every trial. all this is as it should be; but we have departed most widely from the model we have professed to follow. with us the judge has no such power--at least not practically: with us a set of chance-met artisans, ignorant alike of the law of the land and of the philosophy of punishment, have this tremendous power vested in them. it matters not how clearly the crime has been proved, and still less what penalty the law has adjudged to it; the punishment inflicted is whatever it may please the jury to decide, and none other." "and what is the effect which this strangely assumed power has produced on your administration of justice?" said i. "the virtual abolition of capital punishment," was the reply. "when a jury," continued m. v***, "delivers a verdict to the judge of 'guilty, but with extenuating circumstances,' the judge dare not condemn the criminal to death, though the law of the land assign that punishment to his offence, and though his own mind is convinced, by all which has come out upon the trial, that instead of _extenuating circumstances_, the commission of the crime has been attended with every possible aggravation of atrocity. such is the practical effect of the revolution of on the administration of criminal justice." "does public opinion sanction this strange abuse of the functions of jurymen?" said i. "public opinion cannot sanction it," he replied, "any more than it could sanction the committal of the crime itself. the one act is, in fact, as lawless as the other; but the populace have conceived the idea that capital punishment is an undue exercise of power, and therefore our rulers fear to exercise it." this is a strange statement, is it not? the gentleman who made it is, i am sure, too much a man of honour and integrity to falsify facts; but it may perhaps be necessary to allow something for the colouring of party feeling. whatever the present government does, or permits to be done, contrary to the system established during the period of the restoration, is naturally offensive to the feelings of the legitimatists, and repugnant to their judgments; yet, in this case, the relaxation of necessary power must so inevitably lead to evil, that we must, i think, expect to see the reins gathered up, and the command resumed by the proper functionaries, as soon as the new government feels itself seated with sufficient firmness to permit the needful exertion of strength to be put forth with safety. it is certain that m. v*** supported his statement by reciting so many strong cases in which the most fearful crimes, substantiated by the most unbroken chain of evidence, have been reported by the jury to the judge as having "extenuating circumstances" attached to them, that it is impossible, while things remain as they are, not to feel that such a mode of administering justice must make the habit of perjury as familiar to their jurymen as that of taking their oaths. this conversation brought to my recollection some strange stories which i had heard in belgium apropos of the trial by jury there. if those stories were correct, they are about as far from comprehending, or at least from acting upon, our noble, equitable, and well-tried institution there, as they appear to be here--but from causes apparently exactly the reverse. there, i am told, it often happens that the jury can neither read nor write; and that when they are placed in their box, they are, as might be expected, quite ignorant of the nature of the duty they are to perform, and often so greatly embarrassed by it, that they are ready and willing--nay, thankful--to pronounce as their verdict whatever is dictated to them. i heard an anecdote of one man--and a thorough honest fleming he was--who having been duly empannelled, entered the jury-box, and having listened attentively to a trial that was before the court, declared, when called upon for his verdict, that he had not understood a single word from the beginning to the end of it. the court endeavoured to explain the leading points of the question; but still the worthy burgher persisted in declaring that the business was not in his line, and that he could not comprehend it sufficiently to give any opinion at all. the attempt at explanation was repeated, but in vain; and at length the conscientious fleming paid the fine demanded for the non-performance of the duty, and was permitted to retire. in france, on the contrary, it appears that human intellect has gone on so fast and so far, that no dozen of men can be found simple-minded enough to say 'yes' or 'no' to a question asked, without insisting that they must legislate upon it. in this case, at least, england shows a beautiful specimen of the _juste milieu_. letter l. english pastry-cook's.--french horror of english pastry.--unfortunate experiment upon a muffin.--the citizen king. we have been on a regular shopping tour this morning; which was finished by our going into an english pastry-cook's to eat buns. while thus engaged, we amused ourselves by watching the proceedings of a french party who entered also for the purpose of making a morning goûter upon cakes. they had all of them more or less the air of having fallen upon a terra incognita, showing many indications of surprise at sight of the ultra-marine compositions which appeared before them;--but there was a young man of the party who, it was evident, had made up his mind to quiz without measure all the foreign dainties that the shop afforded, evidently considering their introduction as a very unjustifiable interference with the native manufacture. "est-il possible!" said he, with an air of grave and almost indignant astonishment, as he watched a lady of his party preparing to eat an english bun,--"est-il possible that you can prefer these strange-looking comestibles à la pâtisserie française?" "mais goûtez-en," said the lady, presenting a specimen of the same kind as that she was herself eating: "ils sont excellens." "no, no! it is enough to look at them!" said her cavalier, almost shuddering. "there is no lightness, no elegance, no grace in any single gâteau here." "mais goûtez quelque chose," reiterated the lady. "vous le voulez absolument!" exclaimed the young man; "quelle tyrannie! ... and what a proof of obedience i am about to give you!... voyons donc!" he continued, approaching a plate on which were piled some truly english muffins--which, as you know, are of a somewhat mysterious manufacture, and about as palatable if eaten untoasted as a slice from a leathern glove. to this _gâteau_, as he supposed it to be, the unfortunate connoisseur in pâtisserie approached, exclaiming with rather a theatrical air, "voilà donc ce que je vais faire pour vos beaux yeux!" as he spoke, he took up one of the pale, tough things, and, to our extreme amusement, attempted to eat it. any one might be excused for making a few grimaces on such an occasion,--and a frenchman's privilege in this line is well known: but this hardy experimentalist outdid this privilege;--he was in a perfect agony, and his spittings and reproachings were so vehement, that friends, strangers, boutiquier, and all, even down to a little befloured urchin who entered at the moment with a tray of patties, burst into uncontrollable laughter, which the unfortunate, to do him justice, bore with extreme good humour, only making his fair countrywoman promise that she would never insist upon his eating english confectionary again. had this scene continued a minute longer, i should have missed seeing what i should have been sorry not to have seen, for i certainly could not have left the pastry-cook's shop while the young frenchman's sufferings lasted. happily, however, we reached the boulevard des italiens in time to see king louis-philippe, en simple bourgeois, passing on foot just before les bains chinois, but on the opposite side of the way. excepting a small tri-coloured cockade in his hat, he had nothing whatever in his dress to distinguish him from any other gentleman. he is a well-looking, portly, middle-aged man, with something of dignity in his step which, notwithstanding the unpretending citizen-like style of his promenade, would have drawn attention, and betrayed him as somebody out of the common way, even without the plain-speaking _cocarde tricolore_. there were two gentlemen a few paces behind him, as he passed us, who, i think, stepped up nearer to him afterwards; but there were no other individuals near who could have been in attendance upon him. i observed that he was recognised by many, and some few hats were taken off, particularly by two or three englishmen who met him; but his appearance excited little emotion. i was amused, however, at the nonchalant air with which a young man at some distance, in full robespierrian costume, used his lorgnon to peruse the person of the monarch as long as he remained in sight. the last king i saw in the streets of paris was charles the tenth returning from a visit to one of his suburban palaces, escorted and accompanied in kingly state and style. the contrast in the men and in the mode was striking, and calculated to awaken lively recollections of all the events which had occurred to both of them since the last time that i turned my head to look after a sovereign of france. my fancy flew to prague, and to the three generations of french monarchs stationed there almost as peaceably as if they had taken up their quarters at st. denis! [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. le roi citoyen. london. published by richard bentley. .] how like a series of conjurer's tricks is their history! think of this charles the tenth in the flower of his youth and comeliness--the gallant, gay, and dissolute comte d'artois; recall the noble range of windows belonging to his apartments at versailles, and imagine him there radiant in youth and joy--the thoughtless, thriftless cadet of his royal race--the brother and the guest of the good king who appeared to reign over a willing people, by every human right, as well as right divine! louis seize was king of france; but the gay comte d'artois reigned sovereign of all the pleasures of versailles. what joyous fêtes! ... what brilliant jubilees!... meanwhile "malignant fate sat by and smiled." had he then been told that he should live to be crowned king of france, and live thus many years afterwards, would he not have thought that a most brilliant destiny was predicted to him? few men, perhaps, have suffered so much from the ceaseless changes of human events as charles the tenth of france. first, in the person of his eldest brother, dethroned and foully murdered; then in his own exile, and that of another royal brother; and again, when fortune seemed to smile upon his race, and the crown of france was not only placed upon that brother's head, but appeared fixed in assured succession on his own princely sons, one of those sons was murdered: and lastly, having reached the throne himself, and seen this lost son reviving in his hopeful offspring, comes another stroke of fate, unexpected, unprepared for, overwhelming, which hurls him from his throne, and drives him and his royal race once more to exile and to civil death.... has he seen the last of the political earthquakes which have so shaken his existence? or has his restless star to rise again? those who wish most kindly to him cannot wish for this. but when i turned my thoughts from the dethroned and banished king to him who stepped on in unguarded but fearless security before me, and thought too on the vagaries of his destiny, i really felt as if this earth and all the people on it were little better than so many children's toys, changing their style and title to serve the sport of an hour. it seemed to me at that moment as if all men were classed in their due order only to be thrown into greater confusion--knocked down but to be set up again, and so eternally dashed from side to side, so powerless in themselves, so wholly governed by accidents, that i shrunk, humbled, from the contemplation of human helplessness, and turned from gazing on a monarch to meditate on the insignificance of man. how vain are all the efforts he can make to shape the course of his own existence! there is, in truth, nothing but trusting to surer wisdom, and to surer power, which can enable any of us, from the highest to the lowest, to pass on with tranquil nerves through a world subject to such terrible convulsions. letter li. parisian women.--rousseau's failure in attempting to describe them.--their great influence in society.--their grace in conversation.--difficulty of growing old.--do the ladies of france or those of england manage it best? there is perhaps no subject connected with paris which might give occasion to such curious and inexhaustible observation as the character, position, and influence of its women. but the theme, though copious and full of interest, is not without its difficulties; and it is no small proof of this, that rousseau, who rarely touched on any subject without persuading his reader that he was fully master of it, has nevertheless almost wholly failed on this. in one of the letters of "la nouvelle héloïse," he sketches the characters of a few very commonplace ladies, whom he abuses unmercifully for their bad taste in dress, and concludes his abortive attempt at making us acquainted with the ladies of paris by acknowledging that they have some goodness of heart. this is but a meagre description of this powerful portion of the human race, and i can hardly imagine a volume that i should read with greater pleasure than one which should fully supply all its deficiencies. do not imagine, however, that i mean to undertake the task. i am even less capable of it than the sublime misanthrope himself; for though i am of opinion that it should be an unimpassioned spectator, and not a lover, who should attempt to paint all the delicate little atoms of exquisite mosaic-work which constitute _une parisienne_, i think it should not be a woman. all i can do for you on this subject is to recount the observations i have been myself led to make in the passing glances i have now the opportunity of giving them, supported by what i have chanced to hear from better authority than my own: but i am aware that i can do little more than excite your wish to become better acquainted with them than it is in my power to make you. it is impossible to be admitted into french society without immediately perceiving that the women play a very distinguished part in it. so, assuredly, do the women of england in their own: yet i cannot but think that, setting aside all cases of individual exception, the women of france have more power and more important influence than the women of england. i am aware that this is a very bold proposition, and that you may feel inclined to call me to account for it. but be i right or wrong in this judgment, it is at least sincere, and herein lies its chief value; for i am by no means sure that i shall be able to explain very satisfactorily the grounds on which it is formed. france has been called "the paradise of women;" and if consideration and deference be sufficient to constitute a paradise, i think it may be called so justly. i will not, however, allow that frenchmen make better husbands than englishmen; but i suspect they make politer husbands-- "je ne sais pas, pour moi, si chacun me ressemble, mais j'entends là-dessous un million de mots:" and, all pleasantry apart, i am of opinion that this more observant tone or style, or whatever it may be termed, is very far from superficial--at least in its effects. i should be greatly surprised to hear from good authority that a french gentleman had ever been heard to speak rudely to his wife. rousseau says, when he means to be what he himself calls "_souverainement impertinent_," that "il est convenu qu'un homme ne refusera rien à aucune femme, fût-ce même la sienne." but it is not only in refusing her nothing that a french husband shows the superiority which i attribute to him; i know many english husbands who are equally indulgent; but, if i mistake not, the general consideration enjoyed by frenchwomen has its origin not in the conjugal indulgence they enjoy, but in the domestic respect universally shown them. what foundation there may be for the idea which prevails amongst us, that there is less strictness of morality among married women in france than in england, i will not attempt to decide; but, judging from the testimonies of respect shown them by fathers, husbands, brothers, and sons, i cannot but believe that, spite of travellers' tales, innuendoes, and all the authority of _les contes moraux_ to boot, there must be much of genuine virtue where there is so much genuine esteem. in a recent work on france, to which i have before alluded, a comparison is instituted between the conversational powers of the sex in england and in france; and such a picture is drawn of the frivolous inanity of the author's fair countrywomen, as, were the work considered as one of much authority in france, must leave the impression with our neighbours that the ladies of england are _tant soit peu agnès_. now this judgment is, i think, as little founded in truth as that of the traveller who accused us all of being brandy-drinkers. it is indeed impossible to say what effect might have been produced upon the ladies from whom this description was drawn, by the awful consciousness that they were conversing with a person of overwhelming ability. there is such a thing as being "blasted by excess of light;" but where this unpleasant accident does not occur, i believe that those who converse with educated englishwomen will find them capable of being as intellectual companions as any in the world. our countrywomen however, particularly the younger part of them, labour under a great disadvantage. the majority of them i believe to be as well, or perhaps better informed than the majority of frenchwomen; but, unfortunately, it frequently happens that they are terrified at the idea of appearing too much so: the terror of being called learned is in general much more powerful than that of being classed as ignorant. happily for france, there is no _blue_ badge, no stigma of any kind attached to the female possessors of talent and information. every frenchwoman brings forward with equal readiness and grace all she knows, all she thinks, and all she feels on every subject that may be started; whereas with us, the dread of imputed blueism weighs down many a bright spirit, and sallies of wit and fancy are withheld from the fear of betraying either the reading or the genius with which many a fair girl is endued who would rather be thought an idiot than a blue. this is, however, a very idle fear; and that it is so, a slight glance upon society would show, if prejudice did not interfere to blind us. it is possible that here and there a sneer or a shrug may follow this opprobrious epithet of "blue;" but as the sneer and the shrug always come from those whose suffrage is of the least importance in society, their coming at all can hardly be a sufficient reason for putting on a masquerade habit of ignorance and frivolity. it is from this cause, if i mistake not, that the conversation of the parisian women takes a higher tone than that to which english females venture to soar. even politics, that fearful quicksand which engulfs so many of our social hours, dividing our drawing-rooms into a committee of men and a coterie of women,--even politics may be handled by them without danger; for they fearlessly mix with that untoward subject so much lively persiflage, so much acuteness, and such unerring tact, that many a knotty point which may have made puzzled legislators yawn in the chamber, has been played with in the salon till it became as intelligible as the light of wit could make it. no one who is familiar with that delightful portion of french literature contained in their letters and memoirs, which paint the manners and the minds of those they treat of with more truth of graphic effect than any other biography in the world,--no one acquainted with the aspect of society as it is painted there, but must be aware that the character of frenchmen has undergone a great and important change during the last century. it has become perhaps less brilliant, but at the same time less frivolous; and if we are obliged to confess that no star remains above the horizon of the same magnitude as those which composed the constellation that blazed during the age of louis quatorze and his successor, we must allow also that it would be difficult to find a minister of state who should now write to his friend as the cardinal de retz did to boisrobert,--"je me sauve à la nage dans ma chambre, au milieu des parfums." if, however, these same minute records can be wholly trusted, i should say that no proportionate change has taken place among the women. i often fancy i can trace the same "genre d'esprit" amongst them with which madame du deffand has made us so well acquainted. fashions must change--and their fashions have changed, not merely in dress perhaps, but in some things which appear to go deeper into character, or at least into manners; but the essentials are all the same. a petite maîtresse is a petite maîtresse still; and female wit--female french wit--continues to be the same dazzling, playful, and powerful thing that it ever was. i really do not believe that if madame de sévigné herself were permitted to revisit the scene of her earthly brightness, and to find herself in the midst of a paris soirée to-morrow, that she would find any difficulty in joining the conversation of those she would find there, in the same tone and style that she enjoyed so keenly in days of yore with madame de la fayette, mademoiselle scuderie, or any other sister sparkler of that glorious _via lactea_--provided indeed that she did not talk politics,--on that subject she might not perhaps be well understood. ladies still write romances, and still write verses. they write memoirs too, and are moreover quite as keen critics as ever they were; and if they had not left off giving _petits soupers_, where they doomed the poets of the day to oblivion or immortality according to their will, i should say, that in no good gifts either of nature or of art had they degenerated from their admired great-grandmothers. it can hardly, i think, be accounted a change in their character, that where they used to converse respecting a new comedy of molière, they now discuss the project of a new law about to be passed in the chamber. the reason for this is obvious: there is no longer a molière, but there is a chamber; there are no longer any new comedies greatly worth talking about, but there are abundance of new laws instead. in short, though the subjects are changed, they are canvassed in the same spirit; and however much the marquis may be merged in the doctrinaire, the ladies at least have not left off being light, bright, witty, and gay, in order to become advocates for the "positif," in opposition to the "idéal." they still keep faithful to their vocation of charming; and i trust they may contrive so far to combat this growing passion for the "positif" in their countrymen, as to prevent their turning every salon--as they have already turned the boulevards before tortoni's--into a little bourse. i was so much struck by the truth and elegance of "a thought" apropos to this subject, which i found the other day in turning over the leaves of a french lady's album, that i transcribed it:-- "proscrire les arts agréables, et ne vouloir que ceux qui sont absolument utiles, c'est blâmer la nature, qui produit les fleurs, les roses, les jasmins, comme elle produit des fruits." this sentiment, however, simple and natural as it is, appears in some danger of being lost sight of while the mind is kept upon such a forced march as it is at present: but the unnatural oblivion cannot fall upon france while her women remain what they are. the graces of life will never be sacrificed by them to the pretended pursuit of science; nor will a purblind examination of political economy be ever accepted in paris as a beautiful specimen of light reading, and a first-rate effort of female genius. yet nowhere are the higher efforts of the female mind more honoured than in france. the memory of madame de staël seems enshrined in every woman's heart, and the glory she has brought to her country appears to shed its beams upon every female in it. i have heard, too, the name of mrs. somerville pronounced with admiration and reverence by many who confessed themselves unable to appreciate, or at least to follow, the efforts of her extraordinary mind. in speaking of the women of paris, however, i must not confine myself to the higher classes only; for, as we all know but too well, "les dames de la halle," or, as they are more familiarly styled, "les poissardes," have made themselves important personages in the history of paris. it is not, however, to the hideous part which they took in the revolution of ninety-three that i would allude; the doing so would be equally disagreeable and unnecessary, for the deeds of alexander are hardly better known than their infernal acts;--it is rather to the singular sort of respect paid to them in less stormy times that i would call your attention, because we have nothing analogous to it with us. upon all great public occasions, such as the accession of a king, his restoration, or the like, these women are permitted to approach the throne by a deputation, and kings and queens have accepted their bouquets and listened to their harangues. the newspapers in recording these ceremonious visitings never name these poissardes by any lesser title than "les dames de la halle;" a phrase which could only be rendered into english by "the ladies of billingsgate." these ladies have, too, a literature of their own, and have found troubadours among the beaux-esprits of france to chronicle their bons-mots and give immortality to their adventures in that singular species of composition known by the name of "chansons grivoises." when napoleon returned from elba, they paid their compliments to him at the tuileries, and sang "la carmagnole" in chorus. one hundred days after, they repeated the ceremony of a visit to the palace; but this time the compliment was addressed to louis dix-huit, and the _refrain_ of the song with which they favoured him was the famous calembourg so much in fashion at the time-- "rendez-nous notre _père de gand_." not only do these "dames" put themselves forward upon all political occasions, but, if report say true, they have, _parfois_, spite of their revolutionary ferocity, taken upon themselves to act as conservators of public morals. when madame la comtesse de n*** and her friend madame t*** appeared in the garden of the tuileries with less drapery than they thought decency demanded, les dames de la halle armed themselves with whips, and repairing in a body to the promenade, actually flogged the audacious beauties till they reached the shelter of their homes. the influence and authority of these women among the men of their own rank is said to be very great; and that through all the connexions of life, as long as his mother lives, whatever be her rank, a frenchman repays her early care by affection, deference, and even by obedience. "consolez ma pauvre mère!" has been reported in a thousand instances to have been the last words of french soldiers on the field of battle; and whenever an aged female is found seated in the chimney-corner, it is to her footstool that all coaxing petitions, whether for great or small matters, are always carried. i heard it gravely disputed the other day, whether the old ladies of england or the old ladies of france have the most _bonheur en partage_ amongst them. every one seemed to agree that it was a very difficult thing for a pretty woman to grow old in any country--that it was terrible to "devenir chenille après avoir _été_ papillon;" and that the only effectual way of avoiding this shocking transition was, while still a few years on the handsome side of forty, to abandon in good earnest all pretensions to beauty, and claiming fame and name by the perennial charm of wit alone, to bid defiance to time and wrinkles. this is certainly the best parachute to which a drooping beauty can trust herself on either side of the channel: but for one who can avail herself of it, there are a thousand who must submit to sink into eternal oblivion without it; and the question still remains, which nation best understands the art of submitting to this downfall gracefully. there are but two ways of rationally setting about it. the one is, to jump over the rubicon at once at sight of the first grey hair, and so establish yourself betimes on a sofa, with all the comforts of footstool and elbow-room; the other is, to make a desperate resolution never to grow old at all. nous autres anglaises generally understand how to do the first with a respectable degree of resignation; and the french, by means of some invaluable secret which they wisely keep to themselves, are enabled to approach very nearly to equal success in the other. letter lii. la sainte chapelle.--palais de justice.--traces of the revolution of .--unworthy use made of la sainte chapelle.--boileau.--ancient records. a week or two ago we made a vain and unprofitable expedition into the city for the purpose of seeing "la sainte chapelle;" sainte to all good catholics from its having been built by louis neuf (st. louis) expressly for the purpose of receiving all the ultra-extra-super-holy relics purchased by st. louis from baldwin emperor of constantinople, and almost equally sainte to us heretics from having been the scene of boileau's poem. great was our disappointment at being assured, by several flitting officials to whom we addressed ourselves in and about le palais de justice, that admission was not to be obtained--that workmen were employed upon it, and i know not what besides; all, however, tending to prove that a long, lingering look at its beautiful exterior was all we had to hope for. in proportion to this disappointment was the pleasure with which i received an offer from a new acquaintance to conduct us over the palais de justice, and into the sacred precints of la sainte chapelle, which in fact makes a part of it. my accidental introduction to m. j***, who has not only shown us this, but many other things which we should probably never have seen but for his kindness, has been one of the most agreeable circumstances which have occurred to me in paris. i have seldom met a man so "rempli de toutes sortes d'intelligences" as is this new parisian acquaintance; and certainly never received from any stranger so much amiable attention, shown in so profitable a manner. i really believe he has a passe-partout for everything that is most interesting and least easy of access in paris; and as he holds a high judicial situation, the palais de justice was of course open to him even to its remotest recesses: and of all the sight-seeing mornings i remember to have passed, the one which showed me this interesting edifice, with the commentary of our deeply-informed and most agreeable companion, was decidedly one of the most pleasant. there is but one drawback to the pleasure of having met such a man--and this is the fear that in losing sight of paris we may lose sight of him also. the palais de justice is from its extent alone a very noble building; but its high antiquity, and its connexion with so many points and periods of history, render it one of the most interesting buildings imaginable. we entered all the courts, some of which appeared to be in full activity. they are in general large and handsome. the portrait of napoleon was replaced in one of them during the three days, and there it still remains: the old chancellor d'auguesseau hangs opposite to him, being one of the few pictures permitted to retain their places. the vacant spaces, and in some instances the traces of violence with which others have been removed, indicate plainly enough that this venerable edifice was not held very sacred by the patriots of . the capricious fury of the sovereign people during this reign of confusion, if not of terror, has left vestiges in almost every part of the building. the very interesting bas relief which i remember on the pedestal of the fine statue of malesherbes, the intrepid defender of louis seize, has been torn away; and the _brute_ masonry which it has left displayed, is as striking and appropriate a memento of the spoilers, as the graphic group they displaced was of the scene it represented. m. j*** told me the sculpture was not destroyed, and would probably be replaced. i heartily hope, for the honour of frenchmen, that this may happen: but if it should not, i trust that, for the sake of historic effect, the statue and its mutilated pedestal will remain as they are--both the one and the other mark an epoch in the history of france. but it was in the obscurer parts of the building that i found the most interest. in order to take a short cut to some point to which our kind guide wished to lead us, we were twisted through one of the old--the very old towers of this venerable structure. it had been, i think they said, the kitchen of st. louis himself; and the walls, as seen by the enormous thickness pierced for the windows, are substantial enough to endure another six hundred years at least. in one of the numerous rooms which we entered, we saw an extremely curious old picture, seized in the time of louis quinze from the jesuits, as containing proof of their treasonable disrespect for kings: and certainly there is not wanting evidence of the fact; very speaking portraits of henry the third and henry the fourth are to be found most unequivocally on their way to the infernal regions. the whole performance is one of the most interesting specimens of jesuitical ingenuity extant. having fully indulged our curiosity in the palace, we proceeded to the chapel. it is exquisitely beautiful, and so perfect in its delicate proportions, that the eye is satisfied, and dwells with full contentment on the whole for many minutes before the judgment is at leisure to examine and criticise the different parts of it. but even when this first effect is over, the perfect elegance of this diminutive structure still rests upon the mind, producing a degree of admiration which seems disproportioned to its tiny dimensions. it was built for a shrine in which to preserve relics; and pierre de montreuil, its able architect, appears to have sought rather to render it worthy by its richness and its grace to become the casket for those holy treasures, than to give it the dignity of a church. that beautiful miniature cathedral, st. george's chapel at windsor, is an enormous edifice compared to this; but less light, less lofty in its proportions--in short, less enchanting in its general effect, than the lovely bijou of st. louis. of all the cruel profanations i have ever witnessed, that of turning this exquisite chef-d'oeuvre into a chest for old records is the most unpardonable: as if paris could not furnish four walls and a roof for this purpose, without converting this precious _châsse_ to it! it is indeed a pitiful economy; and were i the archbishop of paris, i would besiege the tuileries with petitions that these hideous presses might be removed; and if it might not be restored to the use of the church, that we might at least say of it-- ---- "la sainte chapelle conservait du vieux tems l'oisiveté fidèle." this would at least be better than seeing it converted into a cupboard of ease to the overflowing records of the palais de justice. the length of this pretty reliquaire exactly equals its height, which is divided by a gallery into a lower and upper church, resembling in some degree as to its arrangement the much older structure at aix-la-chapelle,--the high minster there being represented by the sainte couronne here. as we stood in the midst of the floor of the church, m. j*** pointed to a certain spot-- "et bientôt le lutrin se fait voir à nos yeux." he placed me to stand where that offensive mass of timber stood of yore; and i could not help thinking that if the poor chantre hated the sight of it as much as i did that of the ignoble cases containing the old parchments, he was exceedingly right in doing his utmost to make it disappear. boileau lies buried here. the spot must have been chosen in consequence of the connexion he had established in the minds of all men between himself and its holy precincts. but it was surely the most lively and light-hearted connexion that ever was hallowed by so solemn a result. one might fairly steal or parody vanburgh's epitaph for him-- "rise graceful o'er him, roof! for he raised many a graceful verse to thee." the preservation of the beautiful painted glass of the windows through the two revolutions which (both of them) were so busy in labours of metamorphosis and destruction in the immediate neighbourhood, not to mention all the ordinary chances against the safety of so frail a treasure during so many years, is little short of miraculous; and, considering the extraordinary sanctity of the place, it is probably so interpreted by _les fidèles_. a remarkable proof of the reverence in which this little shrine was held, in consequence, i presume, of the relics it contained, may be found in the dignified style of its establishment. kings and popes seem to have felt a holy rivalry as to which should most distinguish it by gifts and privileges. the wealth of its functionaries appears greatly to have exceeded the bounds of christian moderation; and their pride of place was sustained, notwithstanding the _petitesse_ of their dominions, by titles and prerogatives such as no _chapelains_ ever had before. the chief dignitary of the establishment had the title of archichapelain; and, in , pope clement vii. permitted him to wear a mitre, and to pronounce his benediction on the people when they were assembled during any of the processions which took place within the enclosure of the palace. not only, indeed, did this arch-chaplain take the title of prelate, but in some public acts he is styled "le pape de la sainte chapelle." in return for all these riches and honours, four out of the seven priests attached to the establishment were obliged to pass the night in the chapel, for the purpose of watching the relics. nevertheless, it appears that, in the year , a portion of the _vraie croix_ was stolen in the night between the th and th of may. the thief, however, was strongly suspected to be no less a personage than king henry iii. himself; who, being sorely distressed for money, and knowing from old experience that a traffic in relics was a right royal traffic, bethought him of a means of extracting a little venetian gold from this true cross, by leaving it in pawn with the republic of venice. at any rate, this much-esteemed fragment disappeared from the sainte chapelle, and a piece of the holy rood was left _en gage_ with the venetians by henry iii. i have transcribed, for your satisfaction, the list i find in dulaure of the most sacred of the articles for the reception of which this chapel was erected:-- du sang de notre seigneur jésus-christ. les drapeaux dont notre sauveur fut enveloppé en son enfance. du sang qui miraculeusement a distillé d'une image de notre seigneur, ayant été frappé d'un infidèle. la chaîne et lien de fer, en manière d'anneau, dont notre seigneur fut lié. la sainte touaille, ou nappe, en un tableau. du lait de la vierge. une partie du suaire dont il fut enseveli. la verge de moïse. les chefs des saints blaise, clément, et simon. is it not wonderful that the emperor of constantinople could consent to part with such precious treasures for the lucre of gain? i should like to know what has become of them all. as late as the year , the annual ceremony of turning out devils on good friday, from persons pretending to be possessed, was performed in this chapel. the form prescribed was very simple, and always found to answer perfectly. as soon as it was understood that all the demoniacs were assembled, _le grand chantre_ appeared, carrying a cross, which, spite of king henry's _supercherie_, was declared to enclose in its inmost recesses a morsel of the _vraie croix_, and in an instant all the contortions and convulsions ceased, and the possessed became perfectly calm and tranquil, and relieved from every species of inconvenience. having seen all that this lovely chapel had to show, and particularly examined the spot where the battle of the books took place, the passe-partout of m. j*** caused a mysterious-looking little door in the sainte couronne to open for us; and, after a little climbing, we found ourselves just under the roof of the palais de justice. the enormous space of the _grande salle_ below is here divided into three galleries, each having its entire length, and one-third of its width. the manner in which these galleries are constructed is extremely curious and ingenious, and well deserves a careful examination. i certainly never found myself in a spot of greater interest than this. the enormous collection of records which fill these galleries, arranged as they are in the most exquisite order, is one of the most marvellous spectacles i ever beheld. amidst the archives of so many centuries, any document that may be wished for, however remote or however minute, is brought forward in an instant, with as little difficulty as dr. dibdin would find in putting his hand upon the best-known treasure in lord spencer's library. our kind friend obtained for us the sight of the volume containing all the original documents respecting the trial of poor joan of arc, that most ill-used of heroines. vice never braved danger and met death with such steady, unwavering courage as she displayed. we saw, too, the fatal warrant which legalised the savage murder of this brave and innocent fanatic. several other death-warrants of distinguished persons were also shown to us, some of them of great antiquity; but no royal hand had signed them. this painful duty is performed in france by one of the superior law-officers of the crown, but never by the hand of majesty. another curious trial that was opened for our satisfaction, was that of the wretched marquise de brinvilliers, the famous _empoisonneuse_, who not only destroyed father, brother, husband, at the instigation of her lover, but appears to have used her power of compounding fatal drugs upon many other occasions. the murderous atrocities of this woman seem to surpass everything on record, except those of marguérite de bourgogne, the inconceivable heroine of the "tour de nesle." i was amused by an anecdote which m. j*** told me of an englishman to whom he, some years ago, showed these same curious papers--among which is the receipt used by madame de brinvilliers for the composition of the poison whose effects plunged paris in terror. "will you do me the favour to let me copy this receipt?" said the englishman. "i think that my privilege does not reach quite so far as that," was the discreet reply; and but for this, our countryman's love for chemical science might by this time have spread the knowledge of the precious secret over the whole earth. letter liii. french ideas of england.--making love.--precipitate retreat of a young frenchman.--different methods of arranging marriages.--english divorce.--english restaurans. it now and then happens, by a lucky chance, that one finds oneself full gallop in a conversation the most perfectly unreserved, without having had the slightest idea or intention, when it began, of either giving or receiving confidence. this occurred to me a few days ago, while making a morning visit to a lady whom i had never seen but twice before, and then had not exchanged a dozen words with her. but, upon this occasion, we found ourselves very nearly tête-à-tête, and got, i know not how, into a most unrestrained discussion upon the peculiarities of our respective countries. madame b*** has never been in england, but she assured me that her curiosity to visit our country is quite as strong as the passion for investigation which drew robinson crusoe from his home to visit the...." "savages," said i, finishing the sentence for her. "no! no! no!... to visit all that is most curious in the world." this phrase, "most curious," seemed to me of doubtful meaning, and so i told her; asking whether it referred to the museums, or the natives. she seemed doubtful for a moment whether she should be frank or otherwise; and then, with so pretty and playful a manner as must, i think, have disarmed the angry nationality of the most thin-skinned patriot alive, she answered-- "well then--the natives." "but we take such good care," i replied, "that you should not want specimens of the race to examine and make experiments upon, that it would hardly be worth your while to cross the channel for the sake of seeing the natives. we import ourselves in such prodigious quantities, that i can hardly conceive you should have any curiosity left about us." "on the contrary," she replied, "my curiosity is only the more _piquée_: i have seen so many delightful english persons here, that i die to see them at home, in the midst of all those singular customs, which they cannot bring with them, and which we only know by the imperfect accounts of travellers." this sounded, i thought, very much as if she were talking of the good people of mongo creek, or karakoo bay; but being at least as curious to know what her notions were concerning the english in their remote homes, and in the midst of all their "singular customs," as she could be to become better acquainted with them, i did my best to make her tell me all she had heard about us. "i will tell you," she said, "what i want to see beyond everything else: i want to see the mode of making love _tout-à-fait à l'anglaise_. you know that you are all so polite as to put on our fashions here in every respect; but a cousin of mine, who was some years ago attached to our embassy at london, has described the style of managing love affairs as so ... so romantic, that it perfectly enchanted me, and i would give the world to see how it was done (_comment cela se fait_)." "pray tell me how he described it," said i, "and i promise faithfully to tell you if the picture be correct." "oh, that is so kind!... well then," she continued, colouring a little, from the idea, as i suppose, that she was going to say something terribly atrocious, "i will tell you exactly what happened to him. he had a letter of introduction to a gentleman of great estate--a member of the chamber of your parliament, who was living with his family at his chateau in one of the provinces, where my cousin forwarded the letter to him. a most polite reply was immediately returned, containing a pressing invitation to my cousin to come to the chateau without delay, and pass a month with them for the hunting season. nothing could be more agreeable than this invitation, for it offered the best possible opportunity of studying the manners of the country. every one can cross from calais to dover, and spend half their year's income in walking or driving through the long wide streets of london for six weeks; but there are very few, you know, who obtain an entrée to the chateaux of the noblesse. in short, my cousin was enchanted, and set off immediately. he arrived just in time to arrange his toilet before dinner; and when he entered the salon, he was perfectly dazzled by the exceeding beauty of the three daughters of his host, who were all _décolletées_, and full-dressed, he says, exactly as if they were going to some very elegant _bal paré_. there was no other company, and he felt a little startled at being received in such a ceremonious style. the young ladies all performed on the piano-forte and harp, and my cousin, who is very musical, was in raptures. had not his admiration been too equally drawn to each, he assures me that before the end of that evening he must inevitably have been the conquest of one. the next morning, the whole family met again at breakfast: the young ladies were as charming as ever, but still he felt in doubt as to which he admired most. whilst he was exerting himself to be as agreeable as he could, and talking to them all with the timid respect with which demoiselles are always addressed by frenchmen, the father of the family startled and certainly almost alarmed my cousin by suddenly saying,--"we cannot hunt to-day, mon ami, for i have business which will keep me at home; but you shall ride into the woods with elizabeth: she will show you my pheasants. get ready, elizabeth, to attend monsieur...!" madame b*** stopped short, and looked at me as if expecting that i should make some observation. "well?" said i. "well!" she repeated, laughing; "then you really find nothing extraordinary in this proceeding--nothing out of the common way?" "in what respect?" said i: "what is it that you suppose was out of the common way?" "that question," said she, clasping her hands in an ecstasy at having made the discovery--"that question puts me more au fait than anything else you could say to me. it is the strongest possible proof that what happened to my cousin was in truth nothing more than what is of every-day occurrence in england." "what did happen to him?" "have i not told you?... the father of the young ladies whom he so greatly admired, selected one of them and desired my cousin to attend her on an excursion into the woods. my dear madame ... national manners vary so strangely.... i beseech you not to suppose that i imagine that everything may not be exceedingly well arranged notwithstanding. my cousin is a very distinguished young man--excellent character--good name--and will have his father's estate ... only the manner is so different...." "did your cousin accompany the young lady?" said i. "no, he did not--he returned to london immediately." this was said so gravely--so more than gravely--with an air of so much more meaning than she thought it civil to express, that my gravity and politeness gave way together, and i laughed most heartily. my amiable companion, however, did not take it amiss--she only laughed with me; and when we had recovered our gravity, she said, "so you find my cousin very ridiculous for throwing up the party?--_un peu timide, peut-être?_" "oh no!" i replied--"only a little hasty." "hasty!... mais que voulez-vous? you do not seem to comprehend his embarrassment." "perhaps not fully; but i assure you his embarrassment would have ceased altogether, had he trusted himself with the young lady and her attendant groom: i doubt not that she would have led the way through one of our beautiful pheasant preserves, which are exceedingly well worth seeing; but most certainly she would have been greatly astonished, and much embarrassed in her turn, had your cousin taken it into his head to make love to her." "you are in earnest?" said she, looking in my face with an air of great interest. "indeed i am," i replied; "i am very seriously in earnest; and though i know not the persons of whom we have been speaking, i can venture to assure you positively, that it was only because no gentleman so well recommended as your cousin could be suspected of abusing the confidence reposed in him, that this english father permitted him to accompany the young lady in her morning ride." "c'est donc un trait sublime!" she exclaimed: "what noble confidence--what confiding honour! it is enough to remind one of the _paladins_ of old." "i suspect you are quizzing our confiding simplicity," said i; "but, at any rate, do not suspect me of quizzing you--for i have told you nothing more than a very simple and certain fact." "i doubt it not the least in the world," she replied; "but you are indeed, as i observed at first, superiorly romantic." she appeared to meditate for a moment, and then added, "mais dites moi un peu ... is not this a little inconsistent with the stories we read in the 'novels of fashionable life' respecting the manner in which husbands are acquired for the young ladies of england?... you refuse yourselves, you know, the privilege of disposing of your daughters in marriage according to the mutual interests of the parties; and therefore, as young ladies must be married, it follows that some other means must be resorted to by the parents. all frenchmen know this, and they may perhaps for that reason be sometimes too easily induced to imagine that it is intended to lead them into marriage by captivating their senses. this is so natural an inference, that you really must forgive it." "i forgive it perfectly," i replied; "but as we have agreed not to _mystify_ each other, it would not be fair to leave you in the belief that it is the custom, in order to 'acquire' husbands for the young ladies, that they should be sent on love-making expeditions into the woods with the premier venu. but what you have said enables me to understand a passage which i was reading the other day in a french story, and which puzzled me most exceedingly. it was on the subject of a young girl who had been forsaken by her lover; and some one, reproaching him for his conduct, uses, i think, these words: 'après l'avoir compromise autant qu'il est possible de compromettre une jeune miss--ce qui n'est pas une chose absolument facile dans la bienheureuse albion....' this puzzled me more than i can express; because the fact is, that we consider the compromising the reputation of a young lady as so tremendous a thing, that excepting in novels, where neither national manners nor natural probabilities are permitted to check the necessary accumulation of misery on the head of a heroine, it never occurs; and this, not because nothing can compromise her, but because nothing that can compromise her is ever permitted, or, i might almost say, ever attempted. among the lower orders, indeed, stories of seduction are but too frequent; but our present examination of national manners refers only to the middle and higher classes of society." madame b*** listened to me with the most earnest attention; and after i had ceased speaking, she remained silent, as if meditating on what she had heard. at length she said, in a tone of much more seriousness than she had yet used,--"i am quite sure that every word you say is _parfaitement exact_--your manner persuades me that you are speaking neither with exaggeration nor in jest: _cependant_ ... i cannot conceal from you my astonishment at your statement. the received opinion among us is, that private and concealed infidelities among married women are probably less frequent in england than in france--because it seems to be essentially _dans vos moeurs de faire un grand scandale_ whenever such a circumstance occurs; and this, with the penalties annexed to it, undoubtedly acts as a prevention. but, on the other hand, it is universally considered as a fact, that you are as lenient to the indiscretions of unmarried ladies, as severe to those of the married ones. tell me--is there not some truth in this idea?" "not the least in the world, i do assure you. on the contrary, i am persuaded that in no country is there any race of women from whom such undeviating purity and propriety of conduct is demanded as from the unmarried women of england. slander cannot attach to them, because it is as well known as that a jew is not qualified to sit in parliament, that a single woman suspected of indiscretion immediately dies a civil death--she sinks out of society, and is no more heard of; and it is therefore that i have ventured to say, that a compromised reputation among the unmarried ladies of england never occurs." "nous nous sommes singulièrement trompés sur tout cela donc, nous autres," said madame b***. "but the single ladies no longer young?" she continued;--"forgive me ... but is it really supposed that they pass their entire lives without any indiscretion at all?" this question was asked in a tone of such utter incredulity as to the possibility of a reply in the affirmative, that i again lost my gravity, and laughed heartily; but, after a moment, i assured her very seriously that such was most undoubtedly the case. the naïve manner in which she exclaimed in reply, "est-il possible!" might have made the fortune of a young actress. there was, however, no acting in the case; madame b*** was most perfectly unaffected in her expression of surprise, and assured me that it would be shared by all frenchwomen who should be so fortunate as to find occasion, like herself, to receive such information from indisputable authority. "quant aux hommes," she added, laughing, "je doute fort si vous en trouverez de si croyans." we pursued our conversation much farther; but were i to repeat the whole, you would only find it contained many repetitions of the same fact--namely, that a very strong persuasion exists in france, among those who are not personally well acquainted with english manners, that the mode in which marriages are arranged, rather by the young people themselves than by their relatives, produces an effect upon the conduct of our unmarried females which is not only as far as possible from the truth, but so preposterously so, as never to have entered into any english head to imagine. so few opportunities for anything approaching to intimacy between french and english women arise, that it is not very easy for us to find out exactly what their real opinion is concerning us. nothing in madame b***'s manner could lead me to suspect that any feeling of reprobation or contempt mixed itself with her belief respecting the extraordinary license which she supposed was accorded to unmarried woman. nothing could be more indulgent than her tone of commentary on our _national peculiarities_, as she called them. the only theme which elicited an expression of harshness from her was the manner in which divorces were obtained and paid for: "se faire payer pour une aventure semblable! ... publier un scandale si ridicule, si offensant pour son amour-propre--si fortement contre les bonnes moeurs, pour en recevoir de l'argent, was," she said, "perfectly incomprehensible in a nation de si braves gens que les anglais." i did my best to defend our mode of proceeding in such cases upon the principles of justice and morality; but french prejudices on this point are too inveterate to be shaken by any eloquence of mine. we parted, however, the best friends in the world, and mutually grateful for the information we had received. this conversation only furnished one, among several instances, in which i have been astonished to discover the many popular errors which are still current in france respecting england. can we fairly doubt that, in many cases where we consider ourselves as perfectly well-informed, we may be quite as much in the dark respecting them? it is certain that the habit so general among us of flying over to paris for a week or two every now and then, must have made a great number of individuals acquainted with the external aspect of france between calais and paris, and also with all the most conspicuous objects of the capital itself--its churches and its theatres, its little river and its great coffee-houses: but it is an extremely small proportion of these flying travellers who ever enter into any society beyond what they may encounter in public; and to all such, france can be very little better known than england is to those who content themselves with perusing the descriptions we give of ourselves in our novels and newspapers. of the small advance made towards obtaining information by such visits as these, i have had many opportunities of judging for myself, both among english and french, but never more satisfactorily than at a dinner-party at the house of an old widow lady, who certainly understands our language perfectly, and appears to me to read more english books, and to be more interested about their authors, than almost any one i ever met with. she has never crossed the channel, however, and has rather an overweening degree of respect for such of her countrymen as have enjoyed the privilege of looking at us face to face on our own soil. the day i dined with her, one of these travelled gentlemen was led up and presented to me as a person well acquainted with my country. his name was placed on the cover next to the one destined for me at table, and it was evidently intended that we should derive our principal amusement from the conversation of each other. as i never saw him before or since, as i never expect to see him again, and as i do not even remember his name, i think i am guilty of no breach of confidence by repeating to you a few of the ideas upon england which he had acquired on his travels. his first remark after we were placed at table was,--"you do not, i think, use table-napkins in england;--do you not find them rather embarrassing?" the next was,--"i observed during my stay in england that it is not the custom to eat soup: i hope, however, that you do not find it disagreeable to your palate?"... "you have, i think, no national cuisine?" was the third observation; and upon this _singularity in our manners_ he was eloquent. "yet, after all," said he consolingly, "france is in fact the only country which has one: spain is too oily--italy too spicy. we have sent artists into germany; but this cannot be said to constitute _une cuisine nationale_. pour dire vrai, however, the rosbif of england is hardly more scientific than the sun-dried meat of the tartars. a frenchman would be starved in england did he not light upon one of the imported artists,--and, happily for travellers, this is no longer difficult." "did you dine much in private society?" said i. "no, i did not: my time was too constantly occupied to permit my doing so." "we have some very good hotels, however, in london." "but no tables d'hôte!" he replied with a shrug. "i did very well, nevertheless; for i never permitted myself to venture anywhere for the purpose of dining excepting to your celebrated leicester-square. it is the most fashionable part of london, i believe; or, at least, the only fashionable restaurans are to be found there." i ventured very gently to hint that there were other parts of london more à-la-mode, and many hotels which had the reputation of a better cuisine than any which could be found in leicester-square; but the observation appeared to displease the traveller, and the belle harmonie which it was intended should subsist between us was evidently shaken thereby, for i heard him say in a half-whisper to the person who sat on the other side of him, and who had been attentively listening to our discourse,--"pas exact...." letter liv. mixed society.--influence of the english clergy and their families.--importance of their station in society. though i am still of opinion that french society, properly so called,--that is to say, the society of the educated ladies and gentlemen of france,--is the most graceful, animated, and fascinating in the world; i think, nevertheless, that it is not as perfect as it might be, were a little more exclusiveness permitted in the formation of it. no one can be really well acquainted with good society in this country without being convinced that there are both men and women to be found in it who to the best graces add the best virtues of social life; but it is equally impossible to deny, that admirable as are some individuals of the circle, they all exercise a degree of toleration to persons less estimable, which, when some well-authenticated anecdotes are made known to us, is, to say the least of it, very startling to the feelings of those who are not to this easy manner either born or bred. to look into the hearts of all who form either a parisian or a london lady's visiting list, in order to discover of what stuff each individual be made, would not perhaps be very wise, and is luckily quite impossible. nothing at all approaching to such a scrutiny can be reasonably wished or expected from those who open their doors for the reception of company; but where society is perfectly well ordered, no one of either sex, i think, whose outward and visible conduct has brought upon them the eyes of all and the reprobation of the good, should be admitted. that such are admitted much more freely in france than in england, cannot be denied; and though there are many who conscientiously keep aloof from such intercourse, and more who mark plainly enough that there is a distance in spirit even where there is vicinity of person, still i think it is greatly to be regretted that such a leven of disunion should ever be suffered to insinuate itself into meetings which would be so infinitely more agreeable as well as more respectable without it. one reason, i doubt not, why there is less exclusiveness and severity of selection in the forming a circle here is, that there are no individuals, or rather no class of individuals, in the wide circle which constitutes what is called _en grand_ the society of paris, who could step forward with propriety and say, "_this may not be_." with us, happily, the case is as yet different. the clergy of england, their matronly wives and highly-educated daughters, form a distinct caste, to which there is nothing that answers in the whole range of continental europe. in this caste, however, are mingled a portion of every other; yet it has a dignity and aristocracy of its own: and in this aristocracy are blended the high blood of the noble, the learning which has in many instances sufficed to raise to a level with it the obscure and needy, and the piety which has given station above either to those whose unspotted lives have marked them out as pre-eminent in the holy profession they have chosen. while such men as these mingle freely in society, as they constantly do in england, and bring with them the females who form their families, there is little danger that notorious vice should choose to obtrude itself. it will hardly be denied, i believe, that many a frail fair one, who would boldly push her way among ermine and coronets where the mitre was not, would shrink from parading her doubtful honours where it was: and it is equally certain, that many a thoughtless, easy, careless giver of fine parties has been prevented from filling up her constellation of beauties because "it is impossible to have lady this, or mrs. that, when the bishop and his family are expected." nor is this wholesome influence confined to the higher ranks alone;--the rector of the parish--nay, even his young curate, with a smooth cheek and almost unrazored chin, will in humbler circles produce the same effect. in short, wherever an english clergyman or an english clergyman's family appears, there decency is in presence, and the canker of known and tolerated vice is not. whenever we find ourselves weary of this restraint, and anxious to mix (unshackled by the silent rebuke of such a presence) with whatever may be most attractive to the eye or amusing to the spirit, let the stamp of vice be as notorious upon it as it may, whenever we reach this state, it will be the right and proper time to pass the irish church bill. these meditations have been thrust upon me by the reply i received in answer to a question which i addressed to a lady of my acquaintance at a party the other evening. "who is that very elegant-looking woman?" said i. "it is madame de c***," was the reply. "have you never met her before? she is very much in society; one sees her everywhere." i replied, that i had seen her once or twice before, but had never learned her name; adding, that it was not only her name i was anxious to learn, but something about her. she looked like a personage, a heroine, a sybil: in short, it was one of those heads and busts that one seems to have the same right to stare at, as at a fine picture or statue; they appear a part of the decorations, only they excite a little more interest and curiosity. "can you not tell me something of her character?" said i: "i never saw so picturesque a figure; i could fancy that the spirit of titian had presided at her toilet." "it was only the spirit of coquetry, i suspect," answered my friend with a smile. "but if you are so anxious to know her, i can give you her character and history in very few words:--she is rich, high-born, intellectual, political, and unchaste." i do not think i started; i should be shocked to believe myself so unfit for a salon as to testify surprise thus openly at anything; but my friend looked at me and laughed. "you are astonished at seeing her here? but i have told you that you may expect to meet her everywhere; except, indeed, chez moi, and at a few exceedingly rococo houses besides." as the lady i was talking to happened to be an englishwoman, though for many years a resident in paris, i ventured to hint the surprise i felt that a person known to be what she described madame de c*** should be so universally received in good society. "it is very true," she replied: "it is surprising, and more so to me perhaps than to you, because i know thoroughly well the irreproachable character and genuine worth of many who receive her. i consider this," she continued, "as one of the most singular traits in parisian society. if, as many travellers have most falsely insinuated, the women of paris were generally corrupt and licentious, there would be nothing extraordinary in it: but it is not so. where neither the husband, the relatives, the servants, nor any one else, has any wish or intention of discovering or exposing the frailty of a wife, it is certainly impossible to say that it may not often exist without being either known or suspected: but with this, general society cannot interfere; and those whose temper or habits of mind lead them to suspect evil wherever it is possible that it may be concealed, may often lose the pleasure of friendship founded on esteem, solely because it is possible that some hidden faults may render their neighbour unworthy of it. that such tempers are not often to be found in france, is certainly no proof of the depravity of national manners; but where notorious irregularity of conduct has brought a woman fairly before the bar of public opinion, it does appear to me very extraordinary that such a person as our hostess, and very many others equally irreproachable, should receive her." "i presume," said i, "that madame de c*** is not the only person towards whom this remarkable species of tolerance is exercised?" "certainly not. there are many others whose _liaisons_ are as well known as hers, who are also admitted into the best society. but observe--i know no instance where such are permitted to enter within the narrower circle of intimate domestic friendship. no one in paris seems to think that they have any right to examine into the private history of all the _élégantes_ who fill its salons; but i believe they take as good care to know the _friends_ whom they admit to the intimacy of their private hours as we do. there, however, this species of decorum ends; and they would no more turn back from entering a room where they saw madame de c***, than a london lady would drive away from the opera because she saw the carriage of lady ---- at the door." "there is no parallel, however, between the cases," said i. "no, certainly," she replied; "but it is not the less certain that the parisians appear to think otherwise." now it appears evident to me, that all this arises much less from general licentiousness of morals than from general easiness of temper. sans souci is the darling device of the whole nation: and how can this be adhered to, if they set about the very arduous task of driving out of society all those who do not deserve to be in it? but while feeling sincerely persuaded, as i really do, that this difference in the degree of moral toleration practised by the two countries does not arise from any depravity in the french character, i cannot but think that our mode of proceeding in this respect is infinitely better. it is more conducive, not only to virtue, but to agreeable and unrestrained intercourse; and for this reason, if for no other, it is deeply our interest to uphold with all possible reverence and dignity that class whose presence is of itself sufficient to guarantee at least the reputation of propriety, in every circle in which they appear. though not very german to paris and the parisians, which i promised should make the subjects of my letters as long as i remained among them, i cannot help observing how utterly this most important influence would be destroyed in the higher circles--which will ever form the model of those below them--if the riches, rank, and worldly honours of this class are wrested from them. it is indeed very certain that a clergyman, whether bishop, priest, or deacon, may perform the duty of a minister in the desk, at the altar, or in the pulpit, though he has to walk home afterwards to an humble dwelling and an humble meal: he may perform this duty well, and to the entire satisfaction of the rich and great, though his poverty may prevent him from ever taking his place among them; but he may not--he can not, while such is the station allotted him, produce that effect on society, and exert that influence on the morals of the people, which he would do were his temporal place and power such as to exalt him in the eyes even of the most worldly. amidst all the varieties of cant to which it is the destiny of the present age to listen, there is none which i endure with so little patience as that which preaches the "_humility of the church_." were there the shadow of reason or logic in the arguments for the degradation of the clergy drawn from the scriptures, they must go the length of showing that, in order to follow the example of the great master, they must all belong to the class of carpenters and fishermen. could we imagine another revelation of the divinity accorded to man, it would be natural enough to conceive that the rich gift of direct inspiration should be again given to those who had neither learning, knowledge, pride, nor power of any kind, to combat or resist, to explain or to weaken, the communication which it was their duty simply to record and spread abroad. but the eternal word of god once delivered, does it follow that those who are carefully instructed in all the various learning which can assist in giving strength and authority to the propagation of it should alone, of all the sons of men, be for ever doomed to the lower walks of social life in order to imitate the humility of the saviour of the world? i know not if there be more nonsense or blasphemy in this. the taking the office of preaching his own blessed will to man was an act of humility in god; but the taking upon themselves to instruct their fellow-men in the law thus solemnly left us, is a great assumption of dignity in men,--and where the offices it imposes are well performed, it becomes one of the first duties of the believers in the doctrine they have made it their calling to expound, to honour them with such honour as mortals can understand and value. if any one be found who does not perform the duties of this high calling in the best manner which his ability enables him to do, let him be degraded as he deserves; but while he holds it, let him not be denied the dignity of state and station to which all his fellow-citizens in their different walks aspire, in order forsooth to _keep him humble_! humble indeed--yea, humbled to the dust, will our long-venerated church and its insulted ministers be, if its destiny and their fortune be left at the mercy of those who have lately undertaken to legislate for them. i often feel a sort of vapourish, vague uncertainty of disbelief, as i read the records of what has been passing in the house of commons on this subject. i cannot _realise_ it, as the americans say, that the majority of the english parliament should consent to be led blind-fold upon such a point as this, by a set of low-born, ignorant, bullying papists. i hope, when i return to england, i shall awake and find that it is not so. and now forgive me for this long digression: i will write to you to-morrow upon something as essentially french as possible, to make up for it. letter lv. le grand opéra.--its enormous expense.--its fashion.--its acknowledged dulness.--'la juive'.--its heavy music.--its exceeding splendour.--beautiful management of the scenery.--national music. can i better keep the promise i gave you yesterday than by writing you a letter of and concerning le grand opéra? is there anything in the world so perfectly french as this? something like their pretty opéra comique may exist elsewhere; we have our comic opera, and italy has her buffa; the opéra italien, too, may be rather more than rivalled at the haymarket: but where out of paris are we to look for anything like the académie royale de musique? ... le grand opéra? ... l'opéra par excellence?--i may safely answer, nowhere. it is an institution of which the expenses are so enormous, that though it is more constantly and fully attended perhaps than any other theatre in the world, it could not be sustained without the aid of funds supplied by the government. the extraordinary partiality for this theatre seems to have existed among the higher classes, without any intermission from change of fashion, occasional inferiority of the performances, or any other cause, from the time of louis quatorze to the present. that immortal monarch, whose whim was power, and whose word was law, granted a patent privilege to this establishment in favour of the musical abbé perrin, but speedily revoked it, to bestow one more ample still on lulli. in this latter act, it is ordained that "_tous gentilshommes et demoiselles puissent chanter aux dites pièces et représentations de notre dite académie royale sans que pour ça ils soient censés déroger au dit titre de noblesse et à leurs priviléges_." this was a droll device to exalt this pet plaything of the fashionable world above all others. voltaire fell into the mode like the rest of the fine folks, and thus expressed his sensibility to its attractions:-- "il faut se rendre à ce palais magique, où les beaux vers, la danse, la musique, l'art de charmer les yeux par les couleurs, l'art plus heureux de séduire les coeurs, de cent plaisirs font un plaisir unique." but the most incomprehensible part of the business is, that with all this enthusiasm, which certainly rather goes on increasing than diminishing, every one declares that he is _ennuyé à la mort_ at le grand opéra. i do not mean that their being ennuyés is incomprehensible--heaven knows that i understand that perfectly: but why, when this is avowed, they should continue to persecute themselves by going there two or three times in every week, i cannot comprehend. if attendance at the opera were here, as it is with us, a sort of criterion of the love of music and _other fine arts_, it would be much less difficult to understand: but this is far from being the case, as both the italian and the comic operas have more perfect orchestras. the style and manner of singing, too, are what no genuine lover of music could ever be brought to tolerate. when the remembrance of a german or italian opera comes across one while listening to the dry, heavy recitative of the academy, it produces a feeling of impatience difficult to conceive by those who have never experienced it. if, however, instead of being taken in by the name of opera, and expecting the musical treat which that name seems to promise, we go to this magnificent theatre for the purpose of seeing the most superb and the best-fancied decorations in the world, we shall at least not be disappointed, though before the end of the entertainment we may probably become heartily weary of gazing at and admiring the dazzling pageant. i told you just now what voltaire said of the opera, either when he was particularly enchanted by some reigning star--the adorable sophie arnould perhaps--or else when he chose to be particularly à-la-mode: but he seems more soberly in earnest, i think, when he says afterwards, "l'opéra n'est qu'un rendezvous publique, où l'on s'assemble à certains jours, sans trop savoir pourquoi: c'est une maison où tout le monde va, quoiqu'on pense mal du maître, et qu'il soit assez ennuyeux." that little phrase, "où tout le monde va," contains, i suspect after all, the only true solution of the mystery. "man is a gregarious animal," say the philosophers; and it is therefore only in conformity to this well-known law of his nature that hes and shes flock by thousands to be pent up together, in defiance of most _triste musique_ and a stifling atmosphere, within the walls of this beautiful puppet-show. that it is beautiful, i am at this moment particularly willing to avouch, as we have just been regaling ourselves, or rather our eyes, with as gorgeous a spectacle there as it ever entered into the heart of a carpenter to _étaler_ on the stage of a theatre. this splendid show is known by the name of "la juive;" but it should rather have been called "le cardinal," for a personage of no less dignity is decidedly its hero. m. halévy is the composer, and m. scribe the author of the "paroles." m. scribe stands so high as a dramatic composer, that i suppose he may sport a little with his fame without running much risk of doing it an injury: but as the académie royale has the right of drawing upon the treasury for its necessities, it is to be hoped that the author of "bertrand et raton" is well paid for lending his name to the pegs on which ermine and velvet, feathers and flowers, cardinals' hats and emperors' mantles, are hung up to view for the amusement of all who may be curious in such matters. i suspect, however, that the composition of this piece did not cost the poet many sleepless nights: perhaps he remembered that excellent axiom of the barbier de seville,--"ce qui ne vaut pas la peine d'être dit, on le chante;" and under this sentence i think such verses as the following, which strongly remind one of the famous lilliputian ode in the bath guide, may fairly enough be condemned to music. "fille chère près d'un père viens mourir; et pardonne quand il donne la couronne du martyr! plus de plainte-- vaine crainte est éteinte en mon coeur; saint délire! dieu m'inspire, et j'expire vainqueur." unhappily, however, the music is at least as worthless as the rhymes. there is one passage, nevertheless, that is singularly impressive and beautiful. this is the chorus at the opening of the second act, where a party of jews assembled to eat the passover chant a grace in these words:-- "oh! dieu de nos pères! toi qui nous éclaires, parmi nous descends!" &c. &c. &c. this is very fine, but perhaps it approaches rather too closely to the "dieu d'israël" in méhul's opera of "joseph" to be greatly vaunted on the score of originality. yet, with all these "points of 'vantage" at which it may be hostilely attacked, "la juive" draws thousands to gaze at its splendour every time it is performed. twice we attempted to get in without having secured places, and were told on both occasions that there was not even standing-room for gentlemen. among its attractions are two which are alike new to me as belonging to an opera: one is the performance of the "te deum laudamus," and the other the entrance of franconi's troop of horse. but, after all, it was clear enough that, whatever may have been the original object of this institution, with its nursery academies of music and dancing, its royal patronage and legalised extravagance, its present glory rests almost wholly on the talents of the taglioni family, and with the sundry mm. décorateurs who have imagined and arranged the getting up this extraordinary specimen of scenic magnificence, as well as the many others of the same kind which have preceded it. i have seen many very fine shows of the kind in london, but certainly never anything that could at all be compared with this. individual scenes--as, for instance, that of the masqued ball in "gustavus"--may equal, by the effect of the first coup-d'oeil, any scene in "la juive"; but it is the extraordinary propriety and perfection of all the accessaries which make this part of the performance worthy of a critical study from the beginning to the end of it. i remember reading in some history of paris, that it was the fashion to be so _précieuse_ as to the correctness of the costumes of the french opera, that the manager could not venture to bring out "les trois sultanes" without sending to constantinople to obtain the dresses. a very considerable portion of the same spirit has evidently been at work to render the appearance of a large detachment of the court of rome and the whole court of the emperor sigismund _comme il faut_ upon the scene. but, with all a woman's weakness at my heart in favour of velvet, satin, gold tissue, and ermine, i cannot but confess that these things, important as they are, appear but secondary aids in the magical scenic effects of "la juive." the arrangement and management of the scenery were to me perfectly new. the coulisses have vanished, side scenes are no more,--and, what is more important still, these admirable mechanists have found the way of throwing across the stage those accidental masses of shadow by aid of which nature produces her most brilliant effects; so that, instead of the aching eyes having to gaze upon a blaze of reflected light, relieved only by an occasional dip of the foot-lights and a sudden paling of gas in order to enact night, they are now enchanted and beguiled by exactly such a mixture of light and shade as an able painter would give to a picture. how this is effected, heaven knows! there are, i am very sure, more things at present above, about, and underneath the opera stage, than are dreamed of in any philosophy, excepting that of a parisian carpenter. in the first scene of the "juive," a very noble-looking church rears its sombre front exactly in the centre of the stage, throwing as fine, rich, deep a shadow on one side of it as notre dame herself could do. in another scene, half the stage appears to be sunk below the level of the eye, and is totally lost sight of, a low parapet wall marking the boundary of the seeming river. our box was excellently situated, and by no means distant from the stage; yet we often found it impossible to determine at what point, in different directions, the boards ended and the scenery began. the arrangement of the groups too, not merely in combinations of grace and beauty, but in such bold, easy, and picturesque variety, that one might fancy murillo had made the sketches for them, was another source of wonder and admiration; and had all these pretty sights been shown us in the course of two acts instead of five, i am sure we should have gone home quite delighted and in the highest possible good-humour. but five acts of raree-show is too much; and accordingly we yawned, and talked of grétry, méhul, nicolo, and i know not whom beside;--in short, became as splenetic and pedantic as possible. we indulged ourselves occasionally in this unamiable mood by communicating our feelings to each other, in a whisper however which could not go beyond our own box, and with the less restraint because we felt sure that the one stranger gentleman who shared it with us could not understand our language. but herein we egregiously deceived ourselves: though in appearance he was _français jusqu'aux ongles_, we soon found out that he could speak english as well as any of us; and, with much real politeness, he had the good-nature to let us know this before we had uttered anything too profoundly john bullish to be forgiven. fortunately, too, it appeared that our judgments accorded as well as if we had all been born in the same parish. he lamented the decadence of music in this, which ought to be its especial theatre; but spoke with enthusiasm of the théâtre italien, and its great superiority in science over every other in paris. this theatre, to my great vexation, is now closed; but i well remember that such too was my judgment of it some seven years ago. the english and the french are generally classed together as having neither one nor the other any really national music of their own. we have both of us, however, some sweet and perfectly original airs, which will endure as long as the modulations of sound are permitted to enchant our mortal ears. nevertheless, i am not going to appeal against a sentence too often repeated not to be universally received as truth. but, notwithstanding this absence of any distinct school of national music, it is impossible to doubt that the people of both countries are fondly attached to the science. more sacrifices are made by both to obtain good music than the happy german and italian people would ever dream of making. nor would it, i think, be fair to argue, from the present style of the performances at the académie, that the love of music is on the decline here. the unbounded expense bestowed upon decorations, and the pomp and splendour of effect which results from it, are quite enough to attract and dazzle the eyes of a more "thinking people" than the parisians; and the unprecedented perfection to which the mechanists have brought the delusion of still-life seems to permit a relaxation in the efforts of the manager to obtain attraction from other sources. but this will not last. the french people really love music, and will have it. it is more than probable that the musical branch of this academic establishment will soon revive; and if in doing so it preserve its present superiority of decoration, it will again become an amusement of unrivalled attraction. i believe the french themselves generally consider us as having less claim to the reputation of musical amateurship than themselves; but, with much respect for their judgment on such subjects, i differ from them wholly in this. when has france ever shown, either in her capital or out of it, such a glorious burst of musical enthusiasm as produced the festivals of westminster abbey and of york? it was not for the sake of encouraging an english school of music, certainly, that these extraordinary efforts were made. they were not native strains which rang along the vaulted roofs; but it was english taste, and english feeling, which recently, as well as in days of yore, conceived and executed a scheme of harmony more perfect and sublime than i can remember to have heard of elsewhere. i doubt, too, if in any country a musical institution can be pointed out in purer taste than that of our ancient music concert. the style and manner of this are wholly national, though the compositions performed there are but partially so; and i think no one who truly and deeply loves the science but must feel that there is a character in it which, considering the estimation in which it has for so many years been held, may fairly redeem the whole nation from any deficiency in musical taste. there is one branch of the "gay science," if i may so call it, which i always expect to find in france, but respecting which i have hitherto been always disappointed: this is in the humble class of itinerant musicians. in germany they abound; and it not seldom happens that their strains arrest the feet and enchant the ear of the most fastidious. but whenever, in france, i have encountered an ambulant troubadour, i confess i have felt no inclination to linger on my way to listen to him. i do not, however, mean to claim much honour for ourselves on the score of our travelling minstrels. if we fail to pause in listening to those of france, we seldom fail to run whenever our ears are overtaken by our own. yet still we give strong proof of our love of music, in the more than ordinary strains which may be occasionally heard before every coffee-house in london, when the noise and racket of the morning has given place to the hours of enjoyment. i have heard that the bands of wind instruments which nightly parade through the streets of london receive donations which, taken on an average throughout the year, would be sufficient to support a theatre. this can only proceed from a genuine propensity to being "moved by concord of sweet sounds;" for no fashion, as is the case at our costly operas, leads to it. on the contrary, it is most decidedly mauvais ton to be caught listening to this unexclusive harmony; yet it is encouraged in a degree that clearly indicates the popular feeling. have i then proved to your satisfaction, as completely as i undoubtedly have to my own, that if without a national music, at least we are not without a national taste for it? letter lvi. the abbé deguerry.--his eloquence.--excursion across the water.--library of ste. geneviève.--copy-book of the dauphin.--st. etienne du mont.--pantheon. the finest sermon i have heard since i have been in paris--and, i am almost inclined to think, the finest i ever heard anywhere--was preached yesterday by the abbé deguerry at st. roch. it was a discourse calculated to benefit all christian souls of every sect and denomination whatever--had no shade of doctrinal allusion in it of any kind, and was just such a sermon as one could wish every soi-disant infidel might be forced to listen to while the eyes of a christian congregation were fixed upon him. it would do one good to see such a being cower and shrink, in the midst of his impotent and petulant arrogance, to feel how a "plain word could put him down." the abbé deguerry is a young man, apparently under thirty; but nature seems to have put him at once in possession of a talent which generally requires long years to bring to perfection. he is eloquent in the very best manner; for it is an eloquence intended rather to benefit the hearer than to do honour to the mere human talent of the orator. beautifully as his periods flowed, i felt certain, as i listened to him, that their harmonious rhythm was the result of no study, but purely the effect, unconsciously displayed, of a fine ear and an almost unbounded command of language. he had studied his matter,--he had studied and deeply weighed his arguments; but, for his style, it was the free gift of heaven. extempore preaching has always appeared to me to be a fearfully presumptuous exercise. thoughts well digested, expressions carefully chosen, and arguments conscientiously examined, are no more than every congregation has a right to expect from one who addresses them with all the authority of place on subjects of most high importance; and rare indeed is the talent which can produce this without cautious and deliberate study. but in listening to the abbé deguerry, i perceived it was possible that a great and peculiar talent, joined to early and constant practice, might enable a man to address his fellow-creatures without presumption even though he had not written his sermon;--yet it is probable that i should be more correct were i to say, without reading it to his congregation, for it is hardly possible to believe that such a composition was actually and altogether extempore. his argument, which was to show the helpless insufficiency of man without the assistance of revelation and religious faith, was never lost sight of for an instant. there was no weak wordiness, no repetition, no hacknied ornaments of rhetoric; but it was the voice of truth, speaking in that language of universal eloquence which all nations and all creeds must feel; and it flowed on with unbroken clearness, beauty, and power, to the end. having recently quitted flanders, where everything connected with the roman catholic worship is sustained in a style of stately magnificence which plainly speaks its spanish origin, i am continually surprised by the comparatively simple vestments and absence of ostentatious display in the churches of paris. at the metropolitan church of notre dame, indeed, nothing was wanting to render its archiepiscopal dignity conspicuous; but everywhere else, there was a great deal less of pomp and circumstance than i expected. but nowhere is the relaxation of clerical dignity in the clergy of paris so remarkable as in the appearance of the young priests whom we occasionally meet in the streets. the flowing curls, the simple round hat, the pantaloons, and in some cases the boots also, give them the appearance of a race of men as unlike as possible to their stiff and primitive predecessors. yet they all look flourishing, and well pleased with themselves and the world about them: but little of mortification or abstinence can be traced on their countenances; and if they do fast for some portion of every week, they may certainly say with father philip, that "what they take prospers with them marvellously." [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. prÊtres de la jeune france. london. published by richard bentley. .] we have this morning made an excursion to the other side of the water, which always seems like setting out upon a journey; and yet i know not why it should be so, for as the river is not very wide, the bridges are not very long; but so it is, that for some reason or other, if it were not for the magnetic abbaye-aux-bois, we should very rarely find ourselves on the left bank of the seine. on this occasion, our object was to visit the famous old library of ste. geneviève, on the invitation of a gentleman who is one of the librarians. nothing can be more interesting than an expedition of this sort, with an intelligent and obliging cicisbeo, who knows everything concerning the objects displayed before you, and is kindly willing to communicate as much of his _savoir_ as the time may allow, or as may be necessary to make the different objects examined come forth from that venerable but incomprehensible accumulation of treasures, which form the mass of all the libraries and museums in the world, and which, be he as innocent of curiosity as an angel, every stranger is bound over to visit, under penalty, when honestly reciting his adventures, of hearing exclamations from all the friends he left at home, of--"what! ... did you not see that?... then you have seen nothing!" i would certainly never expose myself to this cutting reproach, could i always secure as agreeable a companion as the one who tempted us to mount to the elevated repository which contains the hundred thousand volumes of the royal library of ste. geneviève. were i a student there, i should grumble prodigiously at the long and steep ascent to this temple of all sorts of learning: but once reached, the tranquil stillness, and the perfect seclusion from the eternal hum of the great city that surrounds it, are very delightful, and might, i think, act as a sedative upon the most restive and truant imagination that ever beset a student. i was sorry to hear that symptoms of decay in the timbers of the venerable roof make it probable that this fine old room must be given up, and the large collection it has so long sheltered be conveyed elsewhere. the apartment is in the form of a cross, with a dome at the point of intersection, painted by the elder restout. though low, and in fact occupying only the roof of the college, formerly the abbaye of sainte geneviève, there is something singularly graceful and pleasing to the eye in this extensive chamber, its ornaments and general arrangement;--something monastic, yet not gloomy; with an air of learned ease, and comfortable exclusion of all annoyance, that is very enviable. the library appears to be kept up in excellent style, and in a manner to give full effect to its liberal regulations, which permit the use of every volume in the collection to all the earth. the wandering scholar at distance from his own learned cell, and the idle reader for mere amusement, may alike indulge their bookish propensities here, with exactly the same facilities that are accorded to the students of the college. the librarians or their deputies are ready to deliver to them any work they ask for, with the light and reasonable condition annexed that the reader shall accompany the person who is to find the volume or volumes required, and assist in conveying them to the spot which he has selected for his place of study. the long table which stretches from the centre under the doom, across the transepts of the cross, was crowded with young men when we were there, who really seemed most perfectly in earnest in their occupation--gazing on the volumes before them "with earnest looks intent," even while a large party swept past them to examine a curious model of rome placed at the extremity of one of the transepts. a rigorous silence, however, is enjoined in this portion of the apartments; so that even the ladies were obliged to postpone their questions and remarks till they had passed out of it. after looking at splendid editions, rare copies, and so forth, our friend led us to some small rooms, fitted up with cases for the especial protection under lock and key of the manuscripts of the collection. having admired the spotless vellum of some, and the fair penmanship of others, a thin morocco-bound volume was put into my hands, which looked like a young lady's collection of manuscript waltzes. this was the copy-book of the dauphin, father of the much-regretted duke de bourgogne, and grandfather of louis quinze. the characters were evidently written with great care. each page contained a moral axiom, and all of them more or less especially applicable to a royal pupil. there was one of these which i thought might be particularly useful to all such at the present day: it was entitled, in large letters-- se moqueur de libelles --the superfluous u being erased by a dash of the master's pen. then followed, in extremely clear and firm characters, these lines:-- si de vos actions la satyre réjoue, feignez adroitement de ne la pas ouïr: qui relève une injure, il semble qu'il l'avoue; qui la scait mépriser, la fait évanouir. l louis louis louis louis in one of these smaller rooms hangs the portrait of a negress in the dress of a nun. it has every appearance of being a very old painting, and our friend m. c*** told us that a legend had been ever attached to it, importing that it was the portrait of a daughter of mary queen of scots, born before she left france for scotland. what could have originated such a very disagreeable piece of scandal, it is difficult to imagine; but i can testify that all the internal evidence connected with it is strong against its truth, for no human countenance can well be conceived which would show less family likeness to our lovely and unfortunate northern queen than does that of this grim sister. from the library of ste. geneviève, we went under the same kind escort to look at the barbaric but graceful vagaries of st. etienne du mont. the galleries suspended as if by magic between the pillars of the choir, and the spiral staircases leading to them, out of all order as they are, must nevertheless be acknowledged as among the lightest and most fairy-like constructions in the world. this singular church, capricious in its architecture both within and without, is in some parts of great antiquity, and was originally built as a chapel of ease to the old church of ste. geneviève, which stood close beside it, and of which the lofty old tower still remains, making part of the college buildings. as a proof of the entire dependance of this pretty little church upon its mother edifice, it was not permitted to have any separate door of its own, the only access to it being through the great church. this subsidiary chapel, now dignified into a parish church, has at different periods been enlarged and beautified, and has again and again petitioned for leave from its superior to have a door of its own; but again and again it was refused, and it was not till the beginning of the sixteenth century that this modest request was at length granted. the great pascal lies buried in this church. i was very anxious to give my children a sight of the interior of that beautiful but versatile building called, when i first saw it, the pantheon--when i last saw it, ste. geneviève, and which is now again known to all the world, or at least to that part of it which has been fortunate enough to visit paris since the immortal days, as the pantheon. we could not, however, obtain an entrance to it; and it is very likely that before we shall again find ourselves on its simple and severe, but very graceful threshold, it will have again changed its vocation, and be restored to the use of the christian church.--ainsi soit-il! letter lvii. little suppers.--great dinners.--affectation of gourmandise.--evil effects of "dining out."--evening parties.--dinners in private under the name of luncheons.--late hours. how i mourn for the departed petits soupers of paris!... and how far are her pompous dinners from being able to atone for their loss! for those people, and i am afraid there are many of them, who really and literally live to eat, i know that the word "dinner" is the signal and symbol of earth's best, and, perhaps, only bliss. for them the steaming vapour, the tedious long array, the slow and solemn progress of a dîner de quatre services, offers nothing but joy and gladness; but what is it to those who only eat to live? i know no case in which injustice and tyranny are so often practised as at the dinner-table. perhaps twenty people sit down to dinner, of whom sixteen would give the world to eat just no more than they like and have done with it: but it is known to the amphitryon that there are four heavy persons present whose souls hover over his ragoûts like harpies over the feast of phinæus, and they must not be disturbed, or revilings instead of admiration will repay the outlay and the turmoil of the banquet. a tedious, dull play, followed by a long, noisy, and gunpowder-scented pantomime, upon the last scene of which your party is determined to see the curtain fall; a heavy sermon of an hour long, your pew being exactly in front of the preacher; a morning visit from a lady who sends her carriage to fetch her boys from school at wimbleton, and comes to entertain you with friendly talk about her servants till it comes back;--each of these is hard to bear and difficult to escape; but which of them can compare in suffering to a full-blown, stiff, stately dinner of three hours long, where the talk is of food, and the only relief from this talk is to eat it?... how can you get away? how is it possible to find or invent any device that can save you from enduring to the end? with cheeks burning from steam and vexation, can you plead a sudden faintness? still less can you dare to tell the real truth, and confess that you are dying of disgust and ennui. the match is so unfair between the different parties at such a meeting as this--the victims so utterly helpless!... and, after all, there is no occasion for it. in london there are the clubs and the clarendon; in paris are périgord's and véry's, and a score beside, any one of whom could furnish a more perfect dinner than can be found at any private mansion whatever, where sufferings are often inflicted on the wretched lookers-on very nearly approaching to those necessary for the production of the _foie gras_. think not, however, that i am inclined in the least degree to affect indifference or dislike to an elegant, well-spread table: on the contrary, i am disposed to believe that the hours when mortals meet together, all equally disposed to enjoy themselves by refreshing the spirits, recruiting the strength, and inspiring the wit, with the cates and the cups most pleasing to the palate of each, may be reckoned, without any degradation to human pride, among the happiest hours of life. but this no more resembles the endless crammings of a _repas de quatre services_, than a work in four volumes on political economy to an epigram in four lines upon the author of it. in fact, to give you a valuable hint upon the subject, i am persuaded that some of the most distinguished gourmets of the age have plunged themselves and their disciples into a most lamentable error in this matter. they have overdone the thing altogether. their object is to excite the appetite as much as possible, in order to satisfy it as largely as possible; and this end is utterly defeated by the means used. but i will not dwell on this; neither you nor i are very particularly interested in the success either of the french or english eaters by profession; we will leave them to study their own business and manage it as well as they can. for the more philosophical enjoyers of the goods the gods provide i feel more interest, and i really lament the weakness which leads so many of them to follow a fashion which must be so contrary to all their ideas of real enjoyment; but, unhappily, it is daily becoming more necessary for every man who sits down at a fashionable table to begin talking like a cook. they surely mistake the thing altogether. this is not the most effectual way of proving the keenness of their gourmandise. in nine cases out of ten, i believe this inordinate passion for good eating is pure affectation; and i suspect that many a man, especially many a young man, both in paris and london, would often be glad to eat a reasonably good dinner, and then change the air, instead of sitting hour after hour, while dishes are brought to his elbow till his head aches in shaking it as a negative to the offer of them, were it not that it would be so dreadfully bourgeois to confess it. if, however, on the other hand, an incessant and pertinacious "diner-out" should take up the business in good earnest, and console himself for the long sessions he endures by really eating on from soup to ice, what a heavy penalty does he speedily pay for it! i have lived long enough to watch more than one svelte, graceful, elegant young man, the glory of the drawing-room, the pride of the park, the hero of almack's, growing every year rounder and redder; the clear, well-opened eye becoming dull and leaden--the brilliant white teeth looking "not what they were, but quite the reverse," till the noble-looking, animated being, that one half the world was ready to love, and the other to envy, sank down into a heavy, clumsy, middle-aged gentleman, before half his youth was fairly past; and this solely for the satisfaction of continuing to eat every day for some hours after he had ceased to be hungry. it is really a pity that every one beginning this career does not set the balance of what he will gain and what he will lose by it fairly before him. if this were done, we should probably have much fewer theoretical cooks and practical crammers, but many more lively, animated table-companions, who might oftener be witty themselves, and less often the cause of wit in others. the fashion for assembling large parties, instead of selecting small ones, is on all occasions a grievous injury to social enjoyment. it began perhaps in vanity: fine ladies wished to show the world that they had "a dear five hundred friends" ready to come at their call. but as everybody complains of it as a bore, from whitechapel to belgrave-square, and from the faubourg st. antoine to the faubourg du roule, vanity would now be likely enough to put a general stop to it, were it not that a most disagreeable species of economy prevents it. "a large party kills such a prodigious number of birds," as i once heard a friend of mine say, when pleading to her husband for permission to overflow her dinner-table first, and then her drawing-rooms, "that it is the most extravagant thing in the world to have a small one." now this is terrible, because it is true: but, at least, those blest with wealth might enjoy the extreme luxury of having just as many people about them as they liked, and no more; and if they would but be so very obliging as to set the fashion, we all know that it would speedily be followed in some mode or other by all ranks, till it would be considered as positively mauvais ton to have twice as many people in your house as you have chairs for them to sit on. the pleasantest evening parties remaining in paris, now that such delightful little committees as molière brings together after the performance of "l'ecole des femmes" can meet no more, are those assembled by an announcement made by madame une telle to a somewhat select circle, that she shall be at home on a certain evening in every week, fortnight, or month, throughout the season. this done, nothing farther is necessary; and on these evenings a party moderately large drop in without ceremony, and depart without restraint. no preparation is made beyond a few additional lights; and the albums and portfolios in one room, with perhaps a harp or pianoforte in another, give aid, if aid be wanted, to the conversation going on in both. ices, eau sucrée, syrup of fruits, and gaufres are brought round, and the party rarely remain together after midnight. this is very easy and agreeable,--incomparably better, no doubt, than more crowded and more formal assemblées. nevertheless, i am so profoundly rococo as to regret heartily the passing away of the petits soupers, which used to be the favourite scene of enjoyment, and the chosen arena for the exhibition of wit, for all the beaux esprits, male and female, of paris. i was told last spring, in london, that at present it was the parvenus only who had incomes unscathed by the stormy times; and that, consequently, it was rather elegant than otherwise to _chanter misère_ upon all occasions. i moreover heard a distinguished confectioner, when in conversation with a lady on the subject of a ball-supper, declare that "orders were so slack, that he had countermanded a set of new ornaments which he had bespoken from paris." such being the case, what an excellent opportunity is the present for a little remuement in the style of giving entertainments! poverty and the clubs render fine dinners at once dangerous, difficult, and unnecessary; but does it follow that men and women are no more to meet round a banqueting table? "because we are virtuous, shall there be no more cakes and ale?" i have often dreamed, that were i a great lady, with houses and lands, and money at will, i would see if i could not break through the tyrannous yoke of fashion, often so confessedly galling to the patient wearers of it, and, in the place of heavy, endless dinners, which often make bankrupt the spirit and the purse, endeavour to bring into vogue that prettiest of all inventions for social enjoyment--a real supper-table: not a long board, whereat aching limbs and languid eyes may yawningly wait to receive from the hand of mr. gunter what must cost the giver more, and profit the receiver less, than any imaginable entertainment of the kind i propose, and which might be spread by an establishment as simply monté as that of any gentleman in london. then think of the luxury of sitting down at a table neither steaming with ragoûts, nor having dyspepsia hid under every cover; where neither malignant gout stands by, nor servants swarm and listen to every idle word; where you may renew the memory of the sweet strains you have just listened to at the opera, instead of sitting upon thorns while you know that your favourite overture is in the very act of being played! all should be cool and refreshing, nectarine and ambrosial,--uncrowded, easy, intimate, and as witty as englishmen and englishwomen could contrive to make it! till this experiment has been fairly made and declared to fail, i will never allow that the conversational powers of the women of england have been fully proved and found wanting. the wit of mercury might be weighed to earth by the endurance of three long, pompous courses; and would it not require spirits lighter and brighter than those of a peri to sustain a woman gaily through the solemn ceremonies of a fine dinner? in truth, the whole arrangement appears to me strangely defective and ill-contrived. let english ladies be sworn to obey the laws of fashion as faithfully as they will, they cannot live till eight o'clock in the evening without some refreshment more substantial than the first morning meal. in honest truth and plain english, they all dine in the most unequivocal manner at two or three o'clock; nay, many of those who meet their hungry brethren at dinner-parties have taken coffee or tea before they arrive there. then what a distasteful, tedious farce does the fine dinner become! now just utter a "passe! passe!" and, by a little imaginative legerdemain, turn from this needless dinner to such a petit souper as madame de maintenon gave of yore. let fancy paint the contrast; and let her take the gayest colours she can find, she cannot make it too striking. you must, however, rouse your courage, and strengthen your nerves, that they may not quail before this fearful word--supper. in truth, the sort of shudder i have seen pass over the countenances of some fashionable men when it is pronounced may have been natural and unaffected enough; for who that has been eating in despite of nature from eight to eleven can find anything _appétissant_ in this word "supper" uttered at twelve. but if we could persuade messieurs nos maîtres, instead of injuring their health by the long fast which now precedes their dinner, during which they walk, talk, ride, drive, read, play billiards, yawn--nay, even sleep, to while away the time, and to accumulate, as it were, an appetite of inordinate dimensions;--if, instead of this, they would for one season try the experiment of dining at five o'clock, and condescend afterwards to permit themselves to be agreeable in the drawing-room, they would find their wit sparkle brighter than the champagne at their supper-tables, and moreover their mirrors would pay them the prettiest compliments in the world before they had tried the change for a fortnight. but, alas! all this is very idle speculation; for i am not a great lady, and have no power whatever to turn dull dinners into gay suppers, let me wish it as much as i may. letter lviii. hôpital des enfans trouvés.--its doubtful advantages.--story of a child left there. like diligent sight-seers, as we are, we have been to visit the hospital for les enfans trouvés. i had myself gone over every part of the establishment several years before, but to the rest of my party it was new--and certainly there is enough of strangeness in the spectacle to repay a drive to the rue d'enfer. our kind friend and physician, dr. mojon, who by the way is one of the most amiable men and most skilful physicians in paris, was the person who introduced us; and his acquaintance with the visiting physician, who attended us round the rooms, enabled us to obtain much interesting information. but, alas! it seems as if every question asked on this subject could only elicit a painful answer. the charity itself, noble as it is in extent, and admirable for the excellent order which reigns throughout every department of it, is, i fear, but a very doubtful good. if it tend, as it doubtless must do, to prevent the unnatural crime of infanticide, it leads directly to one hardly less hateful in the perpetration, and perhaps more cruel in its result,--namely, that of abandoning the creature whom nature, unless very fearfully distorted, renders dearer than life. nor is it the least melancholy part of the speculation to know that one fourth of the innocent creatures, who are deposited at the average rate of above twenty each day, die within the first year of their lives. but this, after all, perhaps is no very just cause of lamentation: one of the sisters of charity who attend at the hospital told me, in reply to an inquiry respecting the education of these immortal but unvalued beings, that the charity extended not its cares beyond preserving their animal life and health--that no education whatever was provided for them, and that, unless some lucky and most rare accident occurred to change their destiny, they generally grew up in very nearly the same state as the animals bred upon the farms which received them. peasants come on fixed days--two or three times a week, i believe--to receive the children who appear likely to live, as nurslings; and they convey them into the country, sometimes to a great distance from paris, partly for the sake of a consideration in money which they receive, but chiefly for the value of their labour. it is a singular fact, that during the years which immediately followed the revolution, the number of children deposited at the hospital was greatly diminished; but, among those deposited, the proportion of deaths was still more greatly increased. in , for instance, , children were received, , of whom died. i have lately heard a story, of which a child received at this hospital is in some sort the heroine; and as i thought it sufficiently interesting to insert in my note-book, i am tempted to transcribe it for you. the circumstances occurred during the period which immediately followed the first revolution; but the events were merely domestic, and took no colour from the times. m. le comte de g*** was a nobleman of quiet and retired habits, whom delicate health had early induced to quit the service, the court, and the town. he resided wholly at a paternal chateau in normandy, where his forefathers had resided before him too usefully and too unostentatiously to have suffered from the devastating effects of the revolution. the neighbours, instead of violating their property, had protected it; and in the year , when my story begins, the count with his wife and one little daughter were as quietly inhabiting the mansion his ancestors had inhabited before him, as if it stood on english soil. it happened, during that year, that the wife of a peasant on his estate, who had twice before made a journey to paris, to take a nursling from among the enfans trouvés, again lost a new-born baby, and again determined upon supplying its place from the hospital. it seemed that the poor woman was either a bad nurse or a most unlucky one; for not only had she lost three of her own, but her two foster-children also. of this excursion, however, she prophesied a better result; for the sister of charity, when she placed in her arms the baby now consigned to her care, assured her it was the loveliest and most promising child she had seen deposited during ten years of constant attendance among the enfans trouvés. nor were her hopes disappointed: the little alexa (for such was the name pinned on her dress) was at five years old so beautiful, so attractive, so touching, with her large blue eyes and dark chesnut curls, that she was known and talked of for a league round pont st. jacques. m. and madame de g***, with their little girl, never passed the cottage without entering to look at and caress the lovely child. isabeau de g*** was just three years older than the little foundling; but a most close alliance subsisted between them. the young heiress, with all the pride of a juvenile senior, delighted in nothing so much as in extending her patronage and protection to the pretty alexa; and the forsaken child gave her in return the _prémices_ of her warm heart's fondness. no sunday evening ever passed throughout the summer without seeing all the village assembled under an enormous lime-tree, that grew upon a sort of platform in front of the primitive old mansion, with a pepper-box at each corner, dignified with the title of château tourelles. the circular bench which surrounded this giant tree afforded a resting-place for the old folks;--the young ones danced on the green before them--and the children rolled on the grass, and made garlands of butter-cups, and rosaries of daisies, to their hearts' content. on these occasions it was of custom immemorial that m. le comte and madame la comtesse, with as many offspring as they were blessed withal, should walk down the strait pebbled walk which led from the chateau to the tree exactly as the clock struck four, there to remain for thirty minutes and no longer, smiling, nodding, and now and then gossiping a little, to all the poor bodies who chose to approach them. of late years, mademoiselle isabeau had established a custom which shortened the time of her personal appearance before the eyes of her future tenants to somewhat less than one-sixth of the allotted time; for five minutes never elapsed after the little lady reached the tree, before she contrived to slip her tiny hand out of her mother's, and pounce upon the little alexa, who, on her side, had long learned to turn her beautiful eyes towards the chateau the moment she reached the ground, nor removed them till they found isabeau's bright face to rest upon instead. as soon as she had got possession of her pet, the young lady, who had not perhaps altogether escaped spoiling, ran off with her, without asking leave of any, and enjoyed, either in the aristocratic retirement of her own nursery, or her own play-room or her own garden, the love, admiration, and docile obedience of her little favourite. but if this made a fête for isabeau, it was something dearer still to alexa. it was during these sabbath hours that the poor child learned to be aware that she knew a great many more wonderful things than either père gautier or mère françoise. she learned to read--she learned to speak as good french as isabeau or her parisian governess; she learned to love nothing so well as the books, and the pianoforte, and the pictures, and the flowers of her pretty patroness; and, unhappily, she learned also to dislike nothing so much as the dirty cottage and cross voice of père gautier, who, to say truth, did little else but scold the poor forsaken thing through every meal of the week, and all day long on a sunday. things went on thus without a shadow of turning till alexa attained her tenth, and isabeau her thirteenth year. at this time the summer sunday evenings began to be often tarnished by the tears of the foundling as she opened her heart to her friend concerning the sufferings she endured at home. père gautier scolded more than ever, and mère françoise expected her to do the work of a woman;--in short, every day that passed made her more completely, utterly, hopelessly wretched; and at last she threw her arms round the neck of isabeau, and told her so, adding, in a voice choked with sobs, "that she wished ... that she wished ... she could die!" they were sitting together on a small couch in the young heiress's play-room when this passionate avowal was made. the young lady disengaged herself from the arms of the weeping child, and sat for a few moments in deep meditation. "sit still in this place, alexa," she said at length, "till i return to you;" and having thus spoken, with an air of unusual gravity she left the room. alexa was so accustomed to show implicit obedience to whatever her friend commanded, that she never thought of quitting the place where she was left, though she saw the sun set behind the hills through a window opposite to her, and then watched the bright horizontal beams fading into twilight, and twilight vanishing in darkness. it was strange, she thought, for her to be at the chateau at night; but mademoiselle isabeau had bade her sit there, and it must be right. weary with watching, however, she first dropped her head upon the arm of the sofa, then drew her little feet up to it, and at last fell fast asleep. how long she lay there my story does not tell; but when she awoke, it was suddenly and with a violent start, for she heard the voice of madame de g*** and felt the blaze of many lights upon her eyes. in another instant, however, they were sheltered from the painful light in the bosom of her friend. isabeau, her eyes sparkling with even more than their usual brightness, her colour raised, and out of breath with haste and eagerness, pressed her fondly to her heart, and covered her curls with kisses; then, having recovered the power of speaking, she exclaimed, "look up, my dear alexa! you are to be my own sister for evermore: papa and mamma have said it. cross père gautier has consented to give you up; and mère françoise is to have little annette morneau to live with her." how this had all been arranged it is needless to repeat, though the eager supplication of the daughter and the generous concessions of the parents made a very pretty scene as i heard it described; but i must not make my story too long. to avoid this, i will now slide over six years, and bring you to a fine morning in the year , when isabeau and alexa, on returning from a ramble in the village, found madame de g*** with an open letter in her hand, and an air of unusual excitement in her manner. "isabeau, my dear child," she said, "your father's oldest friend, the vicomte de c***, is returned from spain. they are come to pass a month at v----; and this letter is to beg your father and me to bring you to them immediately, for they were in the house when you were born, my child, and they love you as if you were their own. your father is gone to give orders about horses for to-morrow. alexa dear, what will you do without us?" "cannot alexa go too, mamma?" said isabeau. "not this time, my dear: they speak of having their chateau filled with guests." "oh, dearest isabeau! do not stand to talk about me; you know i do not love strangers: let me help you to get everything ready." the party set off the next morning, and alexa, for the first time since she became an inhabitant of château tourelles, was left without isabeau, and with no other companion than their stiff governess; but she rallied her courage, and awaited their return with all the philosophy she could muster. time and the hour wear through the longest fortnight, and at the end of this term the trio returned again. the meeting of the two friends was almost rapturous: monsieur and madame had the air of being _parfaitement contents_, and all things seemed to go on as usual. important changes, however, had been decided on during this visit. the vicomte de c. had one son. he is the hero of my story, so believe him at once to be a most charming personage in all ways--and in fact he was so. a marriage between him and isabeau had been proposed by his father, and cordially agreed to by hers; but it was decided between them that the young people should see something more of each other before this arrangement was announced to them, for both parents felt that the character of their children deserved and demanded rather more deference to their inclinations that was generally thought necessary in family compacts of this nature. the fortnight had passed amidst much gaiety: every evening brought waltzing and music; isabeau sang _à ravir_; but as there were three married ladies at the chateau who proclaimed themselves to be unwearying waltzers, young jules, who was constrained to do the honours of his father's house, had never found an opportunity to dance with isabeau excepting for the last waltz, on the last evening; and then there never were seen two young people waltzing together with more awkward restraint. madame de g***, however, fancied that he had listened to isabeau's songs with pleasure, and moreover observed to monsieur son mari that it was impossible he should not think her beautiful. madame was quite right--jules did think her daughter beautiful: he thought, too, that her voice was that of a syren, and that it would be easy for him to listen to her till he forgot everything else in the world. i would not be so abrupt had i more room; but as it is necessary to hasten over the ground, i must tell you at once that isabeau, on her side, was much in the same situation. but as a young lady should never give her heart anywhere till she is asked, and in france not before her husband has politely expressed his wish to be loved as he leads her to her carriage from the altar, isabeau took especial good care that nobody should find out the indiscretion her feelings had committed, and having not only a mind of considerable power, but also great confidence and some pride in her own strength, she felt little fear but that she should be able both to conceal and conquer a passion so every way unauthorised. now it unfortunately happened that jules de c. was, unlike the generality of his countrymen, extremely romantic;--but he had passed seven years in spain, which may in some degree excuse it. his education, too, had been almost wholly domestic: he knew little of life except from books, and he had learned to dread, as the most direful misfortune that could befall him, the becoming enamoured of, and perhaps marrying, a woman who loved him not. soon after the departure of isabeau and her parents, the vicomte hinted to his son that he thought politeness required a return of the visit of the de g*** family; and as both himself and his lady were _un peu incommodés_ by some malady, real or supposititious, he conceived that it would be right that he, jules, should present himself at château tourelles to make their excuses. the heart of jules gave a prodigious leap; but it was not wholly a sensation of pleasure: he felt afraid of isabeau,--he was afraid of loving her,--he remembered the cold and calm expression of countenance with which she received his farewell--his trembling farewell--at the door of the carriage. yet still he accepted the commission; and in ten days after the return of the de g*** family, jules de c. presented himself before them. his reception by the comte and his lady was just what may be imagined,--all kindness and cordiality of welcome. that of isabeau was constrained and cold. she turned a little pale, but then she blushed again; and the shy jules saw nothing but the beauty of the blush--was conscious only of the ceremonious curtsy, and the cold "bonjour, monsieur jules." as for alexa, her only feeling was that of extreme surprise. how could it be that isabeau had seen a person so very graceful, handsome and elegant, and yet never say one word to her about him!... isabeau must be blind, insensible, unfeeling, not to appreciate better such a being as that. such was the effect produced by the appearance of jules on the mind of alexa,--the beautiful, the enthusiastic, the impassioned alexa. from that moment a most cruel game of cross purposes began to be played at château tourelles. alexa commenced by reproaching isabeau for her coldness, and ended by confessing that she heartily wished herself as cold. jules ceased not to adore isabeau, but every day strengthened his conviction that she could never love him; and isabeau, while every passing hour showed more to love in jules, only drew from thence more reasons for combating and conquering the flame that inwardly consumed her. there could not be a greater contrast between two girls, both good, than there was both in person and mind between these two young friends. isabeau was the prettiest little brunette in france--et c'est beaucoup dire: alexa was, perhaps, the loveliest blonde in the world. isabeau, with strong feelings, had a command over herself that never failed: in a good cause, she could have perished at the stake without a groan. alexa could feel, perhaps, almost as strongly as her friend; but to combat those feelings was beyond her power: she might have died to show her love, but not to conceal it; and had some fearful doom awaited her, she would not have lived to endure it. such being the character and position of the parties, you will easily perceive the result. jules soon perceived the passion with which he had inspired the young and beautiful alexa, and his heart, wounded by the uniform reserve of isabeau, repaid her with a warmth of gratitude, which though not love, was easily mistaken for it by both the innocent rivals. poor jules saw that it was, and already felt his honour engaged to ratify hopes which he had never intended to raise. repeatedly he determined to leave the chateau, and never to see either of its lovely inmates more; but whenever he hinted at such an intention, m. and madame de g*** opposed it in such a manner that it seemed impossible to persevere in it. they, good souls, were perfectly satisfied with the aspect of affairs: isabeau was perhaps a little pale, but lovelier than ever; and the eyes of jules were so often fixed upon her, that there could be no doubt as to his feelings. they were very right,--yet, alas! they were very wrong too: but the situation of alexa put her so completely out of all question of marriage with a gentleman _d'une haute naissance_, that they never even remembered that she too was constantly with jules. about three weeks had passed in this mischief-working manner, when isabeau, who clearly saw traces of suffering on the handsome face of poor jules, believing firmly that it arose from the probable difficulty of obtaining his high-born father's consent to his marriage with a foundling, determined to put every imaginable means in requisition to assist him. alexa had upon her breast a mark, evidently produced by gunpowder. her nurse, and everybody else who had seen it, declared it to be perfectly shapeless, and probably a failure from the awkwardness of some one who had intended to impress a cipher there; but isabeau had a hundred times examined it, and as often declared it to be a coronet. hitherto this notion had only been a source of mirth to both of them, but now it became a theme of incessant and most anxious meditation to isabeau. she remembered to have heard that when a child is deposited at the foundling hospital of paris, everything, whether clothes or token, which is left with it, is preserved and registered, with the name and the date of the reception, in order, if reclamation be made within a certain time, that all assistance possible shall be given for the identification. what space this "certain time" included isabeau knew not, but she fancied that it could not be less than twenty years; and with this persuasion she determined to set about an inquiry that might at least lead to the knowledge either that some particular tokens had been left with alexa, or that there were none. with this sort of feverish dream working in her head, isabeau rose almost before daylight one morning, and escaping the observation of every one, let herself out by the door of a salon which opened on the terrace, and hastened to the abode of mère françoise. it was some time before she could make the old woman understand her object; but when she did, she declared herself ready to do all and everything mademoiselle desired for her "dear baby," as she persisted to call the tall, the graceful, the beautiful alexa. as isabeau had a good deal of trouble to make her plans and projects clearly understood to mère françoise, it will be better not to relate particularly what passed between them: suffice it to say, that by dint of much repetition and a tolerably heavy purse, françoise at last agreed to set off for paris on the following morning, "without telling a living soul what for." such were the conditions enforced; which were the more easily adhered to, because cross père gautier had grumbled himself into his grave some years before. on reaching the hospital, françoise made her demand, "de la part d'une grande dame," for any token which they possessed relative to a baby taken ... &c. &c. &c. the first answer she received was, that the time of limitation for such inquiries had long expired; and she was on the point of leaving the bureau, all hope of intelligence abandoned, when an old sister of charity who chanced to be there for some message from the superior, and who had listened to her inquiries and all the particulars thus rehearsed, stopped her by saying, that it was odd enough two great ladies should send to the hospital with inquiries for the same child. "but, however," she added, "it can't much matter now to either of them, for the baby died before it was a twelvemonth old." "died!" screamed françoise: "why, i saw her but four days ago, and a more beautiful creature the sun never shone upon." an explanation ensued, not very clear in all its parts, for there had evidently been some blunder; but it plainly appeared, that within a year after the child was sent to nurse, inquiries had been made at the hospital for a baby bearing the singular name of alexa, and stating that various articles were left with her expressly to ensure the power of recognition. an address to a peasant in the country had been given to the persons who had made these inquiries, and application was immediately made to her: but she stated that the baby she had received from the hospital at the time named had died three months after she took it; but what name she had received with it she could not remember, as she called it marie, after the baby she had lost. it was evident from this statement that a mistake had been made between the two women, who had each taken a female foundling into the country on the same day. it was more easy, however, to hit the blunder than to repair it. communication was immediately held with some of the _chefs_ of the establishment; who having put in action every imaginable contrivance to discover any traces which might remain of the persons who had before inquired for the babe named alexa, at length got hold of a man who had often acted as commissionnaire to the establishment, and who said he remembered _about that time_ to have taken letters from the hospital to a fine hôtel near the elysée bourbon. this man was immediately conveyed to the elysée bourbon, and without hesitation pointed out the mansion to which he had been sent. it was inhabited by an english gentleman blessed with a family of twelve children, and who assured the gentleman entrusted with the inquiry that he had not only never deposited any of his children at the enfans trouvés, but that he could not give them the slightest assistance in discovering whether any of his predecessors in that mansion had done so. discouraged, but not chilled in the ardour of his pursuit, the worthy gentleman proceeded to the proprietor of the hôtel: he had recently purchased it; from him he repaired to the person from whom he had bought it. he was only an agent; but at last, by means of indefatigable exertion during three days, he discovered that the individual who must have inhabited the hôtel when these messages were stated to have been sent thither from the enfans trouvés was a russian nobleman of high rank, who, it was believed, was now residing at st. petersburg. his name and title, however, were both remembered; and these, with a document stating all that was known of the transaction, were delivered to mère françoise, who, hardly knowing if she had succeeded or failed in her mission, returned to her young employer within ten days of the time she left her. isabeau, generously as her noble heart beat at learning what she could not but consider as a favourable report of her embassy, did feel nevertheless something like a pang when she remembered to what this success would lead. but she mastered it, and, with all the energy of her character, instantly set to work to pursue her enterprise to the end. it was certainly a relief to her when jules, after passing a month of utter misery in the society of the woman he adored, took his leave. the old people were still perfectly satisfied: it was not the young man's business, they said, to break through the reserve which his parents had enjoined, and a few days would doubtless bring letters from them which would finally settle the business. alexa saw him depart with an aching heart; but she believed that he was returning home only to ask his father's consent to their union. isabeau fed her hopes, for she too believed that the young man's heart was given to alexa. during this time isabeau concealed her hope of discovering the parents of the foundling from all. day after day wore away, and brought no tidings from jules. the hope of alexa gave way before this cruel silence. the circumstances of her birth, which rankled at her heart more deeply than even her friend imagined, now came before her in a more dreadful shape than ever. sin, shame, and misery seemed to her the only _dot_ she had to bring in marriage, and her mind brooded over this terrible idea till it overpowered every other; her love seemed to sink before it, and, after a sleepless night of wretched meditation, she determined never to bring disgrace upon a husband--she heroically determined never to marry. as she was opening her heart on this sad subject to isabeau, and repeating to her with great solemnity the resolution she had taken, a courier covered with dust galloped up to the door of the chateau. isabeau instantly suspected the truth, but could only say as she kissed the fair forehead of the foundling, "look up, my alexa!... you shall be happy at least." before any explanation of these words could even be asked for, a splendid travelling equipage stopped at the door, and, according to the rule in all such cases, a beautiful lady descended from it, handed out by a gentleman of princely rank: in brief, for i cannot tell you one half his titles and honours, or one quarter of the circumstances which had led to the leaving their only child at the hôpital des enfans trouvés, alexa was proved to be the sole and most lawful idol and heiress of this noble pair. the wonder and joy, and all that, you must guess: but poor isabeau!... o! that all this happiness could but have fallen upon them before she had seen jules de c----! on the following morning, while alexa, seated between her parents, was telling them all she owed to isabeau, the door of the apartment opened and the young jules entered. this was the moment at which the happy girl felt the value of all she had gained with the most full and perfect consciousness of felicity. her bitter humiliation was changed to triumph; but jules saw it not--he heard not the pompous titles of her father as she proudly rehearsed them, but, in a voice choking with emotion, he stammered out--"où donc est isabeau?" alexa was too happy, too gloriously happy, to heed his want of politeness, but gaily exclaiming, "pardon, maman!" she left the room to seek for her friend. jules was indeed come on no trifling errand. his father, having waited in vain for some expression of his feelings respecting the charming bride he intended for him, at last informed him of his engagement, for the purpose of discovering whether the young man were actually made of ice or no. on this point he was speedily satisfied; for the intelligence robbed the timid lover of all control over his feelings, and the father had the great pleasure of perceiving that his son was as distractedly in love as he could possibly desire. as to his doubts and his fears, the experienced vicomte laughed them to scorn. "only let her see you as you look now, jules," said the proud father, "and she will not disobey her parents, i will answer for it. go to her, my son, and set your heart at ease at once." with a courage almost as desperate as that which leads a man firm and erect to the scaffold, jules determined to follow this advice, and arrived at château tourelles without having once thought of poor alexa and her tell-tale eyes by the way;--nay, even when he saw her before him, his only sensation was that of impatient agony that the moment which was to decide upon his destiny was still delayed. as alexa opened the door to seek her friend, she appeared, and they returned together. at the unexpected sight of jules, isabeau lost her self-possession, and sank nearly fainting on a chair. in an instant he was at her feet. "isabeau!" he exclaimed, in a voice at once solemn and impassioned--"isabeau! i adore you--speak my fate in one word!--isabeau! can you love me?" the noble strangers had already left the room. they perceived that there was some knotty point to be explained upon which their presence could throw no light. they would have led their daughter with them, but she lingered. "one moment ... and i will follow you," she said. then turning to her almost fainting friend, she exclaimed, "you love him, isabeau!--and it is i who have divided you!"... she seized a hand of each, and joining them together, bent her head upon them and kissed them both. "god for ever bless you, perfect friend!... i am still too happy!... believe me, jules,--believe me, isabeau,--i am happy--oh! too happy!" the arms that were thrown round them both, relaxed as she uttered these words, and she fell to the ground. alexa never spoke again. she breathed faintly for a few hours, and then expired,--the victim of intense feelings, too long and too severely tried. * * * * * this story, almost verbally as i have repeated it to you, was told me by a lady who assured me that she knew all the leading facts to be true; though she confessed that she was obliged to pass rather slightly over some of the details, from not remembering them perfectly. if the catastrophe be indeed true, i think it may be doubted whether the poor alexa died from sorrow or from joy. letter lix. procès monstre.--dislike of the prisoners to the ceremony of trial.--société des droits de l'homme.--names given to the sections.--kitchen and nursery literature.--anecdote of lagrange.--republican law. it is a long time since i have permitted a word to escape me about the trial of trials; but do not therefore imagine that we are as free from it and its daily echo as i have kindly suffered you to be. it really appears to me, after all, that this monster trial is only monstrous because the prisoners do not like to be tried. there may perhaps have been some few legal incongruities in the manner of proceeding, arising very naturally from the difficulty of ascertaining exactly what the law is, in a country so often subjected to revolution as this has been. i own i have not yet made out completely to my own satisfaction, whether these gentry were accused in the first instance of high treason, or whether the whole proceedings rest upon an indictment for a breach of the peace. it is however clear enough, heaven knows, both from evidence and from their own avowals, that if they were not arraigned for high treason, many of them were unquestionably guilty of it; and as they have all repeatedly proclaimed that it was their wish to stand or fall together, i confess that i see nothing very monstrous in treating them all as traitors. it is only within these few last hours that i have been made to understand what object these simultaneous risings in april had in view. the document which has been now put into my hands appeared, i believe, in all the papers; but it was to me, at least, one of the thousand things that the eye glances over without taking the trouble of communicating to the mind what it finds. i will not take it for granted, however, that you are as ignorant or unobservant as myself, and therefore i shall not recite to you the evidence i have been just reading to prove that the union calling itself "la société des droits de l'homme" was in fact the mainspring of the whole enterprise; but in case the expressive titles given by the central committee of this association to its different sections should have escaped you, i will transcribe them here,--or rather a part of them, for they are numerous enough to exhaust your patience, and mine too, were i to give them all. among them, i find as pet and endearing names for their separate bands of employés the following: section marat, section robespierre, section quatre-vingt-treize, section des jacobins; section de guerre aux châteaux--abolition de la propriété--mort aux tyrans--des piques--canon d'alarme--tocsin--barricade st. méri,--and one which when it was given was only prophetic--section de l'insurrection de lyon. these speak pretty plainly what sort of reform these men were preparing for france; and the trying those belonging to them who were taken with arms in their hands in open rebellion against the existing government, as traitors, cannot very justly, i think, be stigmatised as an act of tyranny, or in any other sense as a monstrous act. the most monstrous part of the business is their conceiving (as the most conspicuous among them declare they do) that their refusing to plead, or, as they are pleased to call it, "refusing to take any part in the proceedings," was, or ought to be, reason sufficient for immediately stopping all such proceedings against them. these persons have been caught, with arms in their hands, in the very fact of enticing their fellow-citizens into overt acts of rebellion; but because they do not choose to answer when they are called upon, the court ordained to try them are stigmatised as monsters and assassins for not dismissing them untried! if this is to succeed, we shall find the fashion obtain vogue amongst us, more rapidly than any of madame leroy's. where is the murderer arraigned for his life who would not choose to make essay of so easy a method of escaping from the necessity of answering for his crime? the trick is well imagined, and the degree of grave attention with which its availability is canvassed--out of doors at least--furnishes an excellent specimen of the confusion of intellect likely to ensue from confusion of laws amidst a population greatly given to the study of politics. never was there a finer opportunity for revolution and anarchy to take a lesson than the present. it is, i think, impossible for a mere looker-on, unbiassed by party or personal feelings of any kind, to deny that the government of louis-philippe is acting at this trying juncture with consummate courage, wisdom, and justice: but it is equally impossible not to perceive what revolution and revolt have done towards turning lawful power into tyranny. this is and ever must be inevitable wherever there is a hope existing that the government which follows the convulsion shall be permanent. fresh convulsions may arise--renewed tumult, destruction of property and risk of life may ensue; but at last it must happen that some strong hand shall seize the helm, and keep the reeling vessel to her stays, without heeding whether the grasp he has got of her be taken in conformity to received tactics or not. hardly a day passes that i do not hear of some proof of increased vigour on the part of the present government of france; and though i, for one, am certainly very far from approving the public acts which have given the present dynasty its power, i cannot but admire the strength and ability with which it is sustained. the example, however, can avail but little to the legitimate monarchs who still occupy the thrones their forefathers occupied before them. no legitimate sovereign, possessing no power beyond what long-established law and precedent have given him, could dare show equal boldness. a king chosen in a rebellion is alone capable of governing rebels: and happy is it for the hot-headed jeunes gens of france that they have chanced to hit upon a prince who is neither a parvenu nor a mere soldier! the first would have had no lingering kindness at all for the still-remembered glories of the land; and the last, instead of trying them by the chamber of peers, would have had them up by fifties to a drum-head court martial, and probably have ordered the most troublesome among them to be picked off by their comrades, as an exercise at sharp-shooting, and as a useful example of military promptitude and decision. the present government has indeed many things in its favour. the absence of every species of weakness and pusillanimity in the advisers of the crown is one; and the outrageous conduct of its enemies is another. it is easy to perceive in the journals, and indeed in all the periodical publications which have been hitherto considered as belonging to the opposition, a gradual giving way before the overwhelming force of expediency. conciliatory words come dropping in to the steady centre from côté droit and from côté gauche; and the louder the factious rebels roar around them, the firmer does the phalanx in which rests all the real strength of the country knit itself together. the people of france are fully awakened to the feeling which sheridan so strongly expresses when he says, that "the altar of liberty has been begrimed at once with blood and mire," and they are disposed to look towards other altars for their protection. all the world are sick of politics in england; and all the world are sick of politics in france. it is the same in spain, the same in italy, the same in germany, the same in russia. the quiet and peaceably-disposed are wearied, worried, tormented, and almost stunned, by the ceaseless jarring produced by the confusion into which bad men have contrived to throw all the elements of social life. chaos seems come again--a moral chaos, far worse for the poor animal called man than any that a comet's tail could lash the earth into. i assure you i often feel the most unfeigned longing to be out of reach of every sight and sound which must perforce mix up questions of government with all my womanly meditations on lesser things; but the necessity _de parler politique_ seems like an evil spirit that follows whithersoever you go. i often think, that among all the revolutions and rumours of revolutions which have troubled the earth, there is not one so remarkable as that produced on conversation within the last thirty years. i speak not, however, only of that important branch of it--"the polite conversation of sensible women," but of all the talk from garret to cellar throughout the world. go where you will, it is the same; every living soul seems persuaded that it is his or her particular business to assist in arranging the political condition of europe. a friend of mine entered her nursery not long ago, and spied among her baby-linen a number of the westminster quarterly review. "what is this, betty?" said she. "it is only a book, ma'am, that john lent me to read," answered the maid. "upon my word, betty," replied her mistress, "i think you would be much better employed in nursing the child than in reading books which you cannot understand." "it does not hinder me from nursing the child at all," rejoined the enlightened young woman, "for i read as the baby lies in my lap; and as for understanding it, i don't fear about that, for john says it is no more than what it is the duty of everybody to understand." so political we are, and political we must be--for john says so. wherefore i will tell you a little anecdote apropos of the procès monstre. an english friend of mine was in the court of peers the other day, when the prisoner lagrange became so noisy and troublesome that it was found necessary to remove him. he had begun to utter in a loud voice, which was evidently intended to overpower the proceedings of the court, a pompous and inflammatory harangue, accompanied with much vehement action. his fellow-prisoners listened, and gazed at him with the most unequivocal marks of wondering admiration, while the court vainly endeavoured to procure order and silence. "remove the prisoner lagrange!" was at last spoken by the president--and the guards proceeded to obey. the orator struggled violently, continuing, however, all the time to pour forth his rhapsody. "yes!" he cried,--"yes, my countrymen! we are here as a sacrifice. behold our bosoms, tyrants! ... plunge your assassin daggers in our breasts! we are your victims ... ay, doom us all to death, we are ready--five hundred french bosoms are ready to...." here he came to a dead stop: his struggles, too, suddenly ceased.... he had dropped his cap,--the cap which not only performed the honourable office of sheltering the exterior of his patriotic head, but of bearing within its crown the written product of that head's inspired eloquence! it was in vain that he eagerly looked for it beneath the feet of his guards; the cap had been already kicked by the crowd far beyond his reach, and the bereaved orator permitted himself to be led away as quiet as a lamb. the gentleman who related this circumstance to me added, that he looked into several papers the following day, expecting to see it mentioned; but he could not find it, and expressed his surprise to a friend who had accompanied him into court, and who had also seen and enjoyed the jest, that so laughable a circumstance had not been noticed. "that would not do at all, i assure you," replied his friend, who was a frenchman, and understood the politics of the free press perfectly; "there is hardly one of them who would not be afraid of making a joke of anything respecting _les prévenus d'avril_." before i take my final leave of these precious prévenus, i must give you an extract from a curious volume lent me by my kind friend m. j***, containing a table of the law reports inserted in the bulletin of the laws of the republic. i have found among them ordinances more tyrannical than ever despot passed for the purpose of depriving of all civil rights his fellow-men; but the one i am about to give you is certainly peculiarly applicable to the question of allowing prisoners to choose their counsel from among persons not belonging to the bar,--a question which has been setting all the hot heads of paris in a flame. "_loi concernant le tribunal révolutionnaire du prairial, l'an deuxième de la république française une et indivisible._ "la loi donne pour défenseurs aux patriotes calomniés, (the word 'accused' was too harsh to use in the case of these bloody patriots,)--la loi donne pour défenseurs aux patriotes calomniés, des jurés patriotes. elle n'en accorde point aux conspirateurs." what would the liberals of europe have said of king louis-philippe, had he acted upon this republican principle? if he had, he might perhaps have said fairly enough-- "cæsar does never wrong but with just cause," for they have chosen to take their defence into their own hands; but how the pure patriots of l'an deuxième would explain the principle on which they acted, it would require a republican to tell. letter lx. memoirs of m. de châteaubriand.--the readings at l'abbaye-aux-bois.--account of these in the french newspapers and reviews.--morning at the abbaye to hear a portion of these memoirs.--the visit to prague. in several visits which we have lately made to the ever-delightful abbaye-aux-bois, the question has been started, as to the possibility or impossibility of my being permitted to be present there "aux lectures des mémoires de m. de châteaubriand." the apartment of my agreeable friend and countrywoman, miss clarke, also in this same charming abbaye, was the scene of more than one of these anxious consultations. against my wishes--for i really was hardly presumptuous enough to have hopes--was the fact that these lectures, so closely private, yet so publicly talked of and envied, were for the present over--nay, even that the gentleman who had been the reader was not in paris. but what cannot zealous kindness effect? madame récamier took my cause in hand, and ... in a word, a day was appointed for me and my daughters to enjoy this greatly-desired indulgence. before telling you the result of this appointment, i must give you some particulars respecting these memoirs, not so much apropos of myself and my flattering introduction to them, as from being more interesting in the way of paris literary intelligence than anything i have met with. the existence of these memoirs is of course well known in england; but the circumstance of their having been read _chez madame récamier_, to a very select number of the noble author's friends, is perhaps not so--at least, not generally; and the extraordinary degree of sensation which this produced in the literary world of paris was what i am quite sure you can have no idea of. this is the more remarkable from the well-known politics of m. de châteaubriand not being those of the day. the circumstances connected with the reading of these memoirs, and the effect produced on the public by the peep got at them through those who were present, have been brought together into a very interesting volume, containing articles from most of the literary periodicals of france, each one giving to its readers the best account it had been able to obtain of these "lectures de l'abbaye." among the articles thus brought together, are _morceaux_ from the pens of every political party in france; but there is not one of them that does not render cordial--i might say, fervent homage to the high reputation, both literary and political, of the vicomte de châteaubriand. there is a general preface to this volume, from the pen of m. nisard, full of enthusiasm for the subject, and giving an animated and animating account of all the circumstances attending the readings, and of the different publications respecting them which followed. it appears that the most earnest entreaties have been very generally addressed to m. de châteaubriand to induce him to publish these memoirs during his lifetime, but hitherto without effect. there is something in his reasonings on the subject equally touching and true: nevertheless, it is impossible not to lament that one cannot wish for a work so every way full of interest, without wishing at the same time that one of the most amiable men in the world should be removed out of it. all those who are admitted to his circle must, i am very sure, most heartily wish never to see any more of his memoirs than what he may be pleased himself to show them: but he has found out a way to make the world at large look for his death as for a most agreeable event. notwithstanding all his reasonings, i think he is wrong. those who have seen the whole, or nearly the whole of this work, declare it to be both the most important and the most able that he has composed; and embracing as it does the most interesting epoch of the world's history, and coming from the hand of one who has played so varied and distinguished a part in it, we can hardly doubt that it is so. of all the different articles which compose the volume entitled "lectures des mémoires de m. de châteaubriand," the most interesting perhaps (always excepting some fragments from the memoirs themselves) are the preface of m. nisard, and an extract from the revue du midi, from the pen of m. de lavergne. i must indulge you with some short extracts from both. m. nisard says-- "depuis de longues années, m. de châteaubriand travaille à ses mémoires, avec le dessein de ne les laisser publier qu'après sa mort. au plus fort des affaires, quand il était ministre, ambassadeur, il oubliait les petites et les grandes tracasseries en écrivant quelques pages de ce livre de prédilection."... "c'est le livre que m. de châteaubriand aura le plus aimé, et, chose étrange! c'est le livre en qui m. de châteaubriand ne veut pas être glorifié de son vivant." he then goes on to speak of the manner in which _the readings_ commenced ... and then says,--"cette lecture fut un triomphe; ceux qui avaient été de la fête nous la racontèrent, à nous qui n'en étions pas, et qui déplorions que le salon de madame récamier, cette femme qui s'est fait une gloire de bonté et de grâce, ne fut pas grand comme la plaine de sunium. la presse littéraire alla demander à l'illustre écrivain quelques lignes, qu'elle encadra dans de chaudes apologies: il y eut un moment où toute la littérature ne fut que l'annonce et la bonne nouvelle d'un ouvrage inédit." m. nisard, as he says, "n'était pas de la fête;" but he was admitted to a privilege perhaps more desirable still--namely, that of reading some portion of this precious ms. in the deep repose of the author's own study. he gives a very animated picture of this visit. "... j'osai demander à m. de châteaubriand la grace de me recevoir quelques heures chez lui, et là, pendant qu'il écrirait ou dicterait, de m'abandonner son porte-feuille et de me laisser m'y plonger à discretion ... il y consentit. au jour fixe, j'allai rue d'enfer: le coeur me battait; je suis encore assez jeune pour sentir des mouvemens intérieurs à l'approche d'une telle joie. m. de châteaubriand fit demander son manuscrit. il y en a trois grands porte-feuilles: _ceux-là, nul ne les lui disputera_; ni les révolutions, ni les caprices de roi, ne les lui peuvent donner ni reprendre. "il eut la bonté de me lire les sommaires des chapitres--lequel choisir, lequel préférer? ... je ne l'arrêtais pas dans la lecture, je ne disais rien ... enfin il en vint au voyage à prague. une grosse et sotte interjection me trahit; du fruit défendu c'était la partie la plus défendue. je demandai donc le voyage à prague. m. de châteaubriand sourit, et me tendait le manuscrit.... je mets quelque vanité à rappeler ces détails, bien que je tienne à ce qu'on sache bien que j'ai été encore plus heureux que vain d'une telle faveur; mais c'est peut-être le meilleur prix que j'ai reçu encore de quelques habitudes de dignité littéraire, et à ce titre il doit m'être pardonné de m'en enorgueillir. "quand j'eus le précieux manuscrit, je m'accoudai sur la table, et me mis a la lecture avec une avidité recueillie.... quelquefois, à la fin des chapitres, regardant par-dessus mes feuilles l'illustre écrivain appliqué à son minutieux travail de révision, effaçant, puis, après quelque incertitude, écrivant avec lenteur une phrase en surcharge, et l'effaçant à moitié écrite, je voyais l'imagination et le sens aux prises. quand, après mes deux heures de délices, amusé, instruit, intéressé, transporté, ayant passé du rire aux larmes, et des larmes au rire, ayant vu tour à tour, dans sa plus grande naïveté de sentimens, le poète, le diplomate, le voyageur, le pèlerin, le philosophe, je me suis jeté sur la main de m. de châteaubriand, et lui ai bredouillé quelques paroles de gratitude tendre et profonde: ni lui ni moi n'étions gênés, je vous jure;--moi, parce que je donnais cours à un sentiment vrai; lui, parce qu'à ce moment-là il voulait bien mesurer la valeur de mes louanges sur leur sincérité." this is, i think, very well _conté_; and as i have myself been _de la fête_, and heard read precisely this same admirable _morceau_, _le voyage à prague_, i can venture to say that the feeling expressed is in no degree exaggerated. "que puis-je dire maintenant de ces mémoires?" ... he continues. "sur le voyage à prague ma plume est gênée; je ne me crois pas le droit de trahir le secret de m. de châteaubriand--mais qui est-ce qui l'ayant suivi dans tous les actes de sa glorieuse vie, ne devine pas d'avance, sauf les détails secrets, et les milles beautés de rédaction, quelle peut être la pensée de cette partie des mémoires! qui ne sait à merveille qu'on y trouvera la vérité pour tout le monde, douce pour ceux qui ont beaucoup perdu et beaucoup souffert, dure pour les médiocrités importantes, qui se disputent les ministères et les ambassades auprès d'une royauté qui ne peut plus même donner de croix d'honneur? qui est-ce qui ne s'attend à des lamentations sublimes sur des infortunes inouïes, à des attendrissemens de coeur sur toutes les misères de l'exil; sur le délabrement des palais où gîtent les royautés déchues; sur ces longs corridors éclairés par un quinquet à chaque bout, comme un corps de garde, ou un cloître; sur ces salles des gardes sans gardes; sur ces antichambres sans sièges pour s'asseoir; sur ces serviteurs rares, dont un seul fait l'étiquette qui autrefois en occupait dix; sur les malheurs toujours plus grands que les malheureux, qu'on plaint de loin pour ceux qui les souffrent, et de près pour soi-même?... et puis après la politique vient la poésie; après les leçons sévères, les descriptions riantes, les observations de voyage, fines, piquantes, comme si le voyageur n'avait pas causé la veille avec un vieux roi d'un royaume perdu...." i have given you this passage because it describes better than i could do myself the admirable narrative which i had the pleasure of hearing. m. nisard says much more about it, and with equal truth; but i will only add his concluding words--"voilà le voyage à prague.... j'y ai été remué au plus profond et au meilleur de mon coeur par les choses touchantes, et j'ai pleuré sur la légitimité tombée, quoique n'ayant jamais compris cet ordre d'idées, et y étant resté, toute ma jeunesse, non seulement étranger, mais hostile." i have transcribed this last observation for the purpose of proving to you that the admiration inspired by this work of m. de châteaubriand's is not the result of party feeling, but in complete defiance of it. in the "revue de paris" for march is an extremely interesting article from m. janin, who was present, i presume, at the readings, and who must have been permitted, i think, now and then to peep over the shoulder of the reader, with a pencil in his hand, for he gives many short but brilliant passages from different parts of the work. this gentlemen states, upon what authority he does not say, that english speculators have already purchased the work at the enormous price of , francs for each volume. it already consists of twelve volumes, which makes the purchase amount to £ , sterling,--a very large sum, even if the acquisition could be made immediately available; but as we must hope that many years may elapse before it becomes so, it appears hardly credible that this statement should be correct. whenever these memoirs are published, however, there can be no doubt of the eagerness with which they will be read. m. janin remarks, that "m. de châteaubriand, en ne croyant écrire que ses mémoires, aura écrit en effet l'histoire de son siècle;" and adds, "d'où l'on peut prédire, que si jamais une époque n'a été plus inabordable pour un historien, jamais aussi une époque n'aura eu une histoire plus complète et plus admirablement écrite que la nôtre. songez donc, que pendant que m. de châteaubriand fait ses mémoires, m. de talleyrand écrit aussi ses mémoires. m. de châteaubriand et m. de talleyrand attelés l'un et l'autre à la même époque!--l'un qui en représente le sens poétique et royaliste, l'autre qui en est l'expression politique et utilitaire: l'un l'héritier de bossuet, le conservateur du principe religieux; l'autre l'héritier de voltaire, et qui ne s'est jamais prosterné que devant le doute, cette grande certitude de l'histoire: l'un enthousiaste, l'autre ironique; l'un éloquent partout, l'autre éloquent dans son fauteuil, au coin de son feu: l'un homme de génie, et qui le prouve; l'autre qui a bien voulu laisser croire qu'il était un homme d'esprit: celui-ci plein de l'amour de l'humanité, celui-là moins égoïste qu'on ne le croit; celui-ci bon, celui-là moins méchant qu'il ne veut le paraître: celui-ci allant par sauts et par bonds, impétueux comme un tonnerre, ou comme une phrase de l'ecriture; celui-là qui boite, et qui arrive toujours le premier: celui-ci qui se montre toujours quand l'autre se cache, qui parle quand l'autre se tait; l'autre qui arrive toujours quand il faut arriver, qu'on ne voit guère, qu'on n'entend guère, qui est partout, qui voit tout, qui sait presque tout: l'un qui a des partisans, des enthousiastes, des admirateurs; l'autre qui n'a que des flatteurs, des parens, et des valets: l'un aimé, adoré, chanté; l'autre à peine redouté: l'un toujours jeune, l'autre toujours vieux; l'un toujours battu, l'autre toujours vainqueur; l'un victime des causes perdues, l'autre héros des causes gagnées; l'un qui mourra on ne sait où, l'autre qui mourra prince, et dans sa maison, avec un archevêque à son chevet; l'un grand écrivain à coup sûr, l'autre qui est un grand écrivain sans qu'on s'en doute; l'un qui a écrit ses mémoires pour les lire à ses amis, l'autre qui a écrit ses mémoires pour les cacher à ses amis; l'un qui ne les publie pas par caprice, l'autre qui ne les publie pas, parce qu'ils ne seront terminés que huit jours après sa mort; l'un qui a vu de haut et de loin, l'autre qui a vu d'en bas et de près: l'un qui a été le premier gentilhomme de l'histoire contemporaine, qui l'a vue en habit et toute parée; l'autre qui en a été le valet de chambre, et qui en sait toutes les plaies cachées;--l'un qu'on appelle châteaubriand, l'autre qu'on appelle le prince de bénévent. tels sont les deux hommes que le dix-neuvième siècle désigne à l'avance comme ses deux juges les plus redoutables, comme ses deux appréciateurs les plus dangereux, comme les deux historiens opposés, sur lesquels la postérité le jugera." this parallel, though rather long perhaps, is very clever, and, à ce qu'on dit, very just. though my extracts from this very interesting but not widely-circulated volume have already run to a greater length than i intended, i cannot close it without giving you a small portion of m. de lavergne's animated recital of the scene at the old abbaye-aux-bois;--an abbaye, by the way, still partly inhabited by a society of nuns, and whose garden is sacred to them alone, though a portion of the large building which overlooks it is the property of madame récamier. "a une des extrémités de paris on trouve un monument d'une architecture simple et sévère. la cour d'entrée est fermée par une grille, et sur cette grille s'élève une croix. la paix monastique règne dans les cours, dans les escaliers, dans les corridors; mais sous les saintes voûtes de ce lieu se cachent aussi d'élégans réduits qui s'ouvrent par intervalle aux bruits du monde. cette habitation se nomme l'abbaye-aux-bois,--nom pittoresque d'où s'exhale je ne sais quel parfum d'ombre et de mystère, comme si le couvent et la forêt y confondaient leurs paisibles harmonies. or, dans un des angles de cet édifice il y a un salon que je veux décrire, moi aussi, car il reparaît bien souvent dans mes rêves. vous connaissez le tableau de corinne de gérard: corinne est assise au cap misène, sur un rocher, sa belle tête levée vers le ciel, son beau bras tombant vers la terre, avec sa lyre détendue; le chant vient de finir, mais l'inspiration illumine encore ses regards divins.... ce tableau couvre tout un des murs du salon, en face la cheminée avec une glace, des girandoles, et des fleurs.... des deux autres murs, l'un est percé de deux fenêtres qui laissent voir les tranquilles jardins de l'abbaye, l'autre disparaît presque tout entier sous des rayons chargés de livres. des meubles élégans sont épars çà et là, avec un gracieux désordre. dans un des coins, la porte qui s'entr'ouvre, et dans l'autre une harpe qui attend. "je vivrais des milliers d'années que je n'oublierais jamais rien de ce que j'ai vu là.... d'autres ont rapporté des courses de leur jeunesse le souvenir d'un site grandiose, ou d'une ruine monumentale; moi, je n'ai vu ni la grèce ... etc: ... mais il m'a été ouvert ce salon de l'europe et du siècle, où l'air est en quelque sorte chargé de gloire et de génie.... là respire encore l'âme enthousiaste de madame de staël; là reparaît, à l'imagination qui l'évoque, la figure mélancolique et pâle de benjamin constant; là retentit la parole vibrante et libre du grand foy. tous ces illustres morts viennent faire cortége à celle qui fut leur amie; car cet appartement est celui d'une femme célèbre dont on a déjà deviné le nom. malgré cette pudeur de renommée qui la fait ainsi se cacher dans le silence, madame récamier appartient à l'histoire; c'est désormais un de ces beaux noms de femme qui brillent dans la couronne des grandes époques ainsi que des perles sur un bandeau. révélée au monde par sa beauté, elle l'a charmé peut-être plus encore par les graces de son esprit et de son coeur. mêlée par de hautes amitiés aux plus grands événemens de l'époque, elle en a traversé les vicissitudes sans en connaître les souillures, et, dans sa vie toute d'idéal, le malheur même et l'exil n'ont été pour elle que des charmes de plus. a la voir aujourd'hui si harmonieuse et si sereine, on dirait que les orages de la vie n'ont jamais approché de ses jours; à la voir si simple et si bienveillante, on dirait que sa célébrité n'est qu'un songe, et que les plus superbes fronts de la france moderne n'ont jamais fléchi devant elle. aimée des poètes, des grands, et du ciel, c'est à-la-fois laure, eléonore et béatrix, dont pétrarque, tasse et le dante ont immortalisé les noms. "un jour de février dernier il y avait dans le salon de madame récamier une réunion convoquée pour une lecture. l'assemblée était bien peu nombreuse, et il n'est pas d'homme si haut placé par le rang ou par le génie qui n'eût été fier de s'y trouver. a côté d'un montmorency, d'un larochefoucauld, et d'un noailles, représentans de la vieille noblesse française, s'asseyaient leurs égaux par la noblesse du talent, cet autre hasard de la naissance; saint-beuve et quinet, gerbet et dubois, lenormand et ampère: vous y étiez aussi, ballanche!... "il parut enfin celui dont le nom avait réuni un tel auditoire, et toutes les têtes s'inclinèrent.... son front avait toute la dignité des cheveux gris, mais ses yeux vifs brillaient de jeunesse. il portait à la main, comme un pèlerin ou un soldat, un paquet enveloppé dans un mouchoir de soie. cette simplicité me parut merveilleuse dans un pareil sujet; car ce noble vieillard, c'était l'auteur des martyrs, du génie du christianisme, de rené--ce paquet du pèlerin, c'étaient les mémoires de m. de châteaubriand.... mais quelle doloureuse émotion dans les premiers mots--'_mémoires d'outre-tombe!... préface testamentaire!_'... * * * * * "continuez, châteaubriand, à filer en paix votre suaire. aussi bien, il n'y a de calme aujourd'hui que le dernier sommeil, il n'y a de stable que la mort!... vieux serviteur de la vieille monarchie! vous n'avez pas visité sans tressaillir ces sombres galeries du hradschin, où se promènent trois larves royales, avec une ombre de couronne sur le front. vous avez baigné de vos pleurs les mains de ce vieillard qui emporte avec lui toute une société, et la tête de cet enfant dont les graces n'ont pu fléchir l'inexorable destinée qui s'attache aux races antiques.... filez votre suaire de soie et d'or, châteaubriand, et enveloppez-vous dans votre gloire; il n'est pas de progrès qui vous puisse ravir votre immortalité." * * * * * i think that by this time you must be fully aware, my dear friend, that this intellectual fête to which we were invited at the abbaye-aux-bois was a grace and a favour of which we have very good reason to be proud. i certainly never remember to have been more gratified in every way than i was on this occasion. the thing itself, and the flattering kindness which permitted me to enjoy it, were equally the source of pleasure. i may say with all truth, like m. de lavergne, "je vivrais des milliers d'années que je ne l'oublierais jamais." the choice of the _morceau_, too, touched me not a little: "du fruit défendu, cette partie la plus défendue" was most assuredly what i should have eagerly chosen had choice been offered. m. de châteaubriand's journey to prague furnishes as interesting an historical scene as can well be imagined; and i do not believe that any author that ever lived, jean-jacques and sir walter not excepted, could have recounted it better--with more true feeling or more finished grace: simple and unaffected to perfection in its style, yet glowing with all the fervour of a poetical imagination, and all the tenderness of a most feeling heart. it is a gallery of living portraits that he brings before the eye as if by magic. there is no minute painting, however: the powerful, the painfully powerful effect of the groups he describes, is produced by the bold and unerring touch of a master. i fancied i saw the royal race before me, each one individual and distinct; and i could have said, as one does in seeing a clever portrait, "that is a likeness, i'll be sworn for it." many passages made a profound impression on my fancy and on my memory; and i think i could give a better account of some of the scenes described than i should feel justified in doing as long as the noble author chooses to keep them from the public eye. there were touches which made us weep abundantly; and then he changed the key, and gave us the prettiest, the most gracious, the most smiling picture of the young princess and her brother, that it was possible for pen to trace. she must be a fair and glorious creature, and one that in days of yore might have been likely enough to have seen her colours floating on the helm of all the doughtiest knights in christendom. but chivalry is not the fashion of the day;--there is nothing _positif_, as the phrase goes, to be gained by it;--and i doubt if "its ineffectual fire" burn very brightly at the present time in any living heart, save that of m. de châteaubriand himself. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. lecture À l'abbaye-aux-bois. london. published by richard bentley. .] the party assembled at madame récamier's on this occasion did not, i think, exceed seventeen, including madame récamier and m. de châteaubriand. most of these had been present at the former readings. the duchesses de larochefoucauld and noailles, and one or two other noble ladies, were among them. i felt it was a proof that genius is of no party, when i saw a granddaughter of general lafayette enter among us. she is married to a gentleman who is said to be of the extreme côté gauche; but i remarked that they both listened with as much deep interest to all the touching details of this mournful visit as the rest of us. who, indeed, could help it?--this lady sat between me and madame récamier on one sofa; m. ampère the reader, and m. de châteaubriand himself, on another, immediately at right angles with it,--so that i had the pleasure of watching one of the most expressive countenances i ever looked at, while this beautiful specimen of his head and his heart was displayed to us. on the other side of me was a gentleman whom i was extremely happy to meet--the celebrated gérard; and before the reading commenced, i had the pleasure of conversing with him: he is one of those whose aspect and whose words do not disappoint the expectations which high reputation always gives birth to. there was no formal circle;--the ladies approached themselves a little towards the sofa which was placed at the feet of corinne, and the gentlemen stationed themselves in groups behind them. the sun shone _delicately_ into the room through the white silk curtains--delicious flowers scented the air--the quiet gardens of the abbaye, stretched to a sufficient distance beneath the windows to guard us from every parisian sound--and, in short, the whole thing was perfect. can you wonder that i was delighted? or that i have thought the occurrence worth dwelling upon with some degree of lingering fondness? the effect this delightful morning has had on us is, i assure you, by no means singular: it would be easy to fill a volume with the testimonies of delight and gratitude which have been offered from various quarters in return for this gratification. madame tastu, whom i have heard called the mrs. hemans of france, was present at one or more of the readings, and has returned thanks in some very pretty lines, which conclude thus fervently:-- "ma tête s'incline pour saisir jusques aux moindres sons, et mon genou se ploie à demi, quand je prête, enchantée et muette, l'oreille à vos leçons!" apropos of tributary verses on this subject, i am tempted to conclude my unmercifully long epistle by giving you some lines which have as yet, i believe, been scarcely seen by any one but the person to whom they are addressed. they are from the pen of the h. g. who so beautifully translated the twelve first cantos of the "frithiof saga," which was so favourably received in england last spring. h. g. is an englishwoman, but from the age of two to seventeen she resided in the united states of america. did i not tell you this, you would be at a loss to understand her allusion to the distant dwelling of her youth. this address, as you will perceive, is not as an acknowledgment for having been admitted to the abbaye, but an earnest prayer that she may be so; and i heartily hope it will prove successful. to m. le vicomte de chateaubriand. in that distant region, the land of the west, where my childhood and youth glided rapidly by, ah! why was my bosom with sorrow oppress'd? why trembled the tear-drop so oft in mine eye? no! 'twas not that pleasures they told me alone were found in the courts where proud monarchs reside; my knee could not bend at the foot of a throne, my heart could not hallow an emperor's pride. but, oh! 'twas the thought that bright genius there dwelt, and breathed on a few holy spirits its flame, that awaken'd the grief which in childhood i felt, when, europe! i mutter'd thy magical name. and now that as pilgrim i visit thy shore, i ask not where kings hold their pompous array; but i fain would behold, and all humbly adore, the wreath which thy brows, châteaubriand! display. my voice may well falter--unknown is my name, but say, must my accents prove therefore in vain? beyond the atlantic we boast of thy fame, and repeat that thy footstep has traversed our plain. great bard!--then reject not the prayer that i speak with trembling emotion, and offer thee now; in thy eloquent page, oh! permit me to seek the joys and the sorrows that genius may know. h. g. letter lxi. jardin des plantes.--not equal in beauty to our zoological gardens.--la salpêtrière.--anecdote.--les invalides.--difficulty of finding english colours there.--the dome. another long morning on the other side of the water has given us abundant amusement, and sent us home in a very good humour with the expedition, because, after very mature and equitable consideration, we were enabled honestly to decide that our zoological gardens are in few points inferior, in many equal, and in some greatly superior, to the long and deservedly celebrated jardin des plantes. if considered as a museum and nursery for botanists, we certainly cannot presume to compare our comparatively new institution to that of paris; but, zoologically speaking, it is every way superior. the collection of animals, both birds and beasts, is, i think, better, and certainly in finer condition. i confess that i envy them their beautiful giraffe; but what else have they which we cannot equal? then as to our superiority, look at the comparative degree of beauty of the two enclosures. "o england!" as i once heard a linen-draper exclaim in the midst of his shop, intending in his march of mind to quote byron-- "o england! with all thy faults, i can't help loving thee still." and i am quite of the linen-draper's mind: i cannot help loving those smooth-shaven lawns, those untrimmed flowing shrubs, those meandering walks, now seen, now lost amidst a cool green labyrinth of shade, which are so truly english. you have all this at the zoological gardens--we have none of it in the jardin des plantes; and, therefore, i like the zoological gardens best. we must not say a word, my friend, about the lectures, or the free admission to them--that is not our forte; and if the bourgeoisie go on much longer as they do at present, becoming greater and more powerful with every passing day, and learning to know, as their mercantile neighbours have long known, that it is quite necessary both governments and individuals should turn all things to profit;-- "car dans le siècle où nous sommes, on ne donne rien pour rien;"-- if this happens, as i strongly suspect it will, then we shall have no more lectures gratis even in paris. from the jardin des plantes, we visited that very magnificent hospital, la salpêtrière. i will spare you, however, all the fine things that might be said about it, and only give you a little anecdote which occurred while we stood looking into the open court where the imbecile and the mad are permitted to take their exercise. by the way, without at all presuming to doubt that there may be reasons which the managers of this establishment conceive to be satisfactory, why these wretched objects, in different stages of their dreadful calamity, should be thus for ever placed before each other's eyes, i cannot but observe, that the effect upon the spectator is painful beyond anything i ever witnessed. with my usual love for the terrible, i remained immovable for above twenty minutes, watching the manner in which they appeared to notice each other. if fancy did not cheat me, those who were least wildly deranged looked with a sort of triumph and the consciousness of superiority on those who were most so: some looked on the mad movements of the others and laughed distractedly;--in short, the scene is terribly full of horror. but to return to my anecdote. a stout girl, who looked more imbecile than mad, was playing tricks, that a woman who appeared to have some authority among them endeavoured to stop. the girl evidently understood her, but with a sort of dogged obstinacy persevered, till the nurse, or matron, or whatever she was, took hold of her arm, and endeavoured to lead her into the house. upon this the girl resisted; and it was not without some degree of violence that she was at last conquered and led away. "what dreadful cruelty!" exclaimed a woman who like ourselves was indulging her curiosity by watching the patients. an old crone, a very aged and decrepid pensioner of the establishment, was passing by on her crutches as she spoke. she stopped in her hobbling walk, and addressing the stranger in the gentle voice of quiet good sense, and in a tone which made me fancy she had seen better days, said--"_dreadful cruelty, good woman?_... she is preventing her from doing what ought not to be done. if you had the charge of her, you would think it your duty to do the same, and then it would be right. but 'dreadful cruelty!' is easily said, and sounds good-hearted; and those who know not what it is to govern, generally think it is a sin and a shame to use authority in any way." and so saying, the old woman hobbled on, leaving me convinced that la salpêtrière did not give its shelter to fools only. from this hospital we took a very long drive to another, going almost from the extremest east to the extremest west of paris. the invalides was now our object; and its pleasant, easy, comfortable aspect offered a very agreeable contrast to the scene we had left. we had become taciturn and melancholy at la salpêtrière; but this interesting and noble edifice revived our spirits completely. two of the party had never been there before, and the others were eloquent in pointing out all that their former visits had shown them. no place can be better calculated to stimulate conversation; there is so much to be said about our own greenwich and queen elizabeth, versus louis le grand and the invalides. then we had the statue of a greater than he--even of napoleon--upon which to gaze and moralise. some veteran had climbed up to it, despite a wooden leg, or a single arm perhaps, and crowned the still-honoured head with a fresh wreath of bays. while we stood looking at this, the courteous bow and promising countenance of a fine old man arrested the whole party, and he was questioned and chatted to, till he became the hero of his own tale, and we soon knew exactly where he had received his first wound, what were his most glorious campaigns, and, above all, who was the general best deserving the blessing of an old soldier. those who in listening to such chronicles in france expect to hear any other name than that of napoleon will be disappointed. we may talk of his terrible conscriptions, of poisonings at jena or forsakings at moscow, as we will; the simple fact which answers all is, that he was adored by his soldiers when he was with them, and that his memory is cherished with a tender enthusiasm to which history records no parallel. the mere tone of voice in which the name of "napoleon!" or the title of "l'empereur!" is uttered by his veterans, is of itself enough to prove what he was to them. they stand taller by an inch when he is named, and throw forward the chest, and snuff the air, like an old war-horse that hears the sound of a trumpet. but still, with all these interesting speculations to amuse us, we did not forget what must ever be the primary object of a stranger's visit to the invalides--the interior of the dome. but this is only to be seen at particular hours; and we were too late for the early, and too early for the late, opening of the doors for this purpose. four o'clock was the hour we had to wait for--as yet it was but three. we were invited into the hall and into the kitchen; we were admitted, too, into sundry little enclosures, appropriated to some happy individuals favoured for their skill in garden craft, who, turning their muskets into hoes and spades, enjoy their honourable leisure ten times more than their idle brethren. in three out of four of these miniature domains we found plaister napoleons of a foot high stuck into a box-tree or a rose-bush: one of these, too, had a wreath of newly-gathered leaves twisted round the cocked-hat, and all three were placed and displayed with as much attention to dignity and effect as the finest statues in the tuileries. if the spirit of napoleon is permitted to hover about paris, to indulge itself in gathering the scattered laurels of his posthumous fame, it is not to the lofty chambers of the tuileries that it should betake itself;--nor would it be greatly soothed by listening to the peaceful counsels of his once warlike maréchals. no--if his ghost be well inspired, it will just glide swiftly through the gallery of the louvre, to compare it with his earthly recollections; balance itself for a moment over the statue of the place vendôme, and abide, for the rest of the time allotted for this mundane visit, among his faithful invalids. there only would he meet a welcome that would please him. the whole nation, it is true, dearly love to talk of his greatness; but there is little now left in common between them and their sometime emperor. france with a charter, and france without, differs not by many degrees so widely as france military, and france bourgeoise and boursière. under napoleon she was the type of successful war; under louis-philippe, she will, i think--if the republicans will let her alone--become that of prosperous peace: a sword and a feather might be the emblem of the one--a loom and a long purse of the other. * * * * * but still it was not four o'clock. we were next invited to enter the chapel; and we did so, determined to await the appointed hour reposing ourselves on the very comfortable benches provided for the veterans to whose use it is appropriated. here, stretched and lounging at our ease, we challenged each other to discover english colours among the multitude of conquered banners which hung suspended above our heads. it is hardly possible that some such should not be there; yet it is a positive fact, that not all our familiar acquaintance with the colours we sought could enable us to discover them. there is indeed one torn and battered relic, that it is just possible might have been hacked and sawed from the desperately firm grasp of an englishman; but the morsel of rag left is so small, that it was in fact more from the lack of testimony than the presence of it that we at length came to the conclusion that this relic of a stick might once have made part of an english standard. not in any degree out of humour at our disappointment in this search after our national banner, we followed the guide who summoned us at last to the dome, chatting and laughing as cheerily and as noisily as if we had not been exhausting our spirits for the last four hours by sight-seeing. but what fatigue could not achieve, was the next moment produced by wonder, admiration, and delight. never did muter silence fall upon a talking group, than the sight of this matchless chapel brought on us. speech is certainly not the first or most natural resource that the spirit resorts to, when thus roused, yet chastened--enchanted, yet subdued. i have not yet been to rome, and know not how i shall feel if ever i find myself under the dome of st. peter's. there, i conceive that it is a sense of vastness which seizes on the mind; here it is wholly a feeling of beauty, harmony, and grace. i know nothing like it anywhere: the pantheon (ci-devant ste. geneviève), with all its nobleness and majesty, is heavy, and almost clumsy, when compared to it. though possessing no religious solemnity whatever, and in this respect inferior beyond the reach of comparison to the choir of cologne, or king's college chapel at cambridge, it nevertheless produces a stronger effect upon the senses than either of them. this is owing, i suspect, to the circumstance of there being no mixture of objects: the golden tabernacle seems to complete rather than destroy its unity. if i could give myself a fête, it should be, to be placed within the pure, bright, lofty loveliness of this marble sanctuary, while a full and finished orchestra performed the chefs-d'oeuvre of handel or mozart in the church. letter lxii. expedition to montmorency.--rendezvous in the passage delorme.--st. denis.--tomb prepared for napoleon.--the hermitage.--dîner sur l'herbe. it is more than a fortnight ago, i think, that we engaged ourselves with a very agreeable party of twenty persons to take a long drive out of paris and indulge ourselves with a very gay "dîner sur l'herbe." but it is no easy matter to find a day on which twenty people shall all be ready and willing to leave paris. however, a steadfast will can conquer most things. the whole twenty were quite determined that they would go to montmorency, and to montmorency at last we have been. the day was really one of great enjoyment, but yet it did not pass without disasters. one of these which occurred at the moment of starting very nearly overthrew the whole scheme. the place of general rendezvous for us and our hampers was the galerie delorme, and thither one of the party who had undertaken that branch of the business had ordered the carriages to come. at ten o'clock precisely, the first detachment of the party was deposited with their belongings at the southern extremity of the gallery; another and another followed till the muster-roll was complete. baskets were piled on baskets; and the passers-by read our history in these, and in our anxious eyes, which ceased not to turn with ever-increasing anxiety the way the carriages should come. what a _supplice_!... every minute, every second, brought the rolling of wheels to our ears, but only to mock us: the wheels rolled on--no carriages came for us, and we remained in statu quo to look at each other and our baskets. then came forth, as always happens on great and trying occasions, the inward character of each. the sturdy and firm-minded set themselves down on the packages, determined to abide the eyes of all rather than shrink from their intent. the timid and more frail of purpose gently whispered proposals that we should all go home again; while others, yet listening to "hope's enchanting measure, which still promised coming pleasure," smiled, and looked forth from the gallery, and smiled again--though still no carriage came. it was, as i suspect, these young hopes and smiles which saved us from final disappointment: for the young men belonging to the cortége, suddenly rousing themselves from their state of listless watching, declared with one voice and one spirit, that les demoiselles should not be disappointed; and exchanging _consignes_ which were to regulate the number and species of vehicles each was to seek--and find, too, on peril of his reputation,--they darted forth from the gallery, leaving us with renewed spirits and courage to bear all the curious glances bestowed upon us. our half-dozen aides-de-camp returned triumphantly in a few minutes, each one in his delta or his citadine; and the galerie delorme was soon left far behind us. it is lucky for you that we had not to make a "voyage par mer" and "retour par terre," or my story might be as long--if resembling it in no other way--as the immortal expedition to st. cloud. i shall not make a volume of it; but i must tell you that we halted at st. denis. the church is beautiful--a perfect bijou of true gothic architecture--light, lofty, elegant; and we saw it, too, in a manner peculiarly advantageous, for it had neither organ, altar, nor screen to distract the eye from the great and simple beauty of the original design. the repairs going on here are of a right royal character--on a noble scale and in excellent taste. several monuments restored from the collection made under the empire aux petits augustins are now again the glory of st. denis; and some of them have still much remaining which may entitle them to rank as very pure and perfect specimens of highly-antiquated monumental sculpture. but the chiselled treasures of a thousand years' standing cannot be made to travel about like the scenery of strolling players, in conformity to the will and whim of the successive actors who play the part of king, without great injury. in some instances the original nooks in this venerable mausoleum of royal bones have again received the effigies originally carved to repose within them; but the regal image has rarely been replaced without showing itself in some degree way-worn. in other cases, the monumental portrait, venerable and almost hallowed by its high antiquity, is made to recline on a whitened sepulchre as bright as parisian masonry can make it. having fully examined the church and its medley of old and new treasures, we called a council as to the possibility of finding time for descending to the crypts: but most of the party agreeing in opinion that we ought not to lose the opportunity of visiting what a wit amongst us happily enough designated "le palais royal de la mort," we ordered the iron gates to be unbarred for us, and proceeded with some solemnity of feeling into the pompous tomb. and here the unfortunate result of that bold spirit of change which holds nothing sacred is still more disagreeably obvious than in the church. all the royal monuments of france that could be collected are assembled in this magnificent vault, but with such incongruity of dates belonging to different parts of the same structure, as almost wholly to destroy the imposing effect of this gorgeous grave. but if the spectator would seek farther than his eye can carry him, and inquire where the mortal relics of each sculptured monarch lie, the answer he will receive must make him believe that the royal dust of france has been scattered to the four winds of heaven. nothing i have heard has sounded more strangely to me than the naïveté with which our guide informed us that, among all this multitude of regal tombs, there was not one which contained a single vestige of the mortal remains of those they commemorate. for the love of good taste and consistency, these guardians of the royal sepulchre of france should be taught a more poetical lesson. it is inconceivable how, as he spoke, the solemn memorials of the illustrious dead, near which my foot had passed cautiously and my voice been mute, seemed suddenly converted into something little more sacred than the show furnishing of a stone-mason's shop. the bathos was perfect. i could not but remember with a feeling of national pride the contrast to this presented by westminster abbey and st. george's chapel. the monuments of these two royal fanes form a series as interesting in the history of art as of our royal line, and no painful consciousness of desecration mixes itself with the solemn reverence with which we contemplate the honoured tombs. the most interesting object in the crypts of st. denis, and which comes upon the moral feeling with a force increased rather than diminished by the incongruities which surround it, is the door of the vault prepared by napoleon for himself. it is inscribed, ici reposent les dÉpouilles mortelles de this inscription still remains, as well as the massive brazen gates with their triple locks, which were designed to close the tomb. these rich portals are not suspended on hinges, but rest against a wall of solid masonry, over which the above inscription is seen. the imperial vault thus chosen by the living despot as the sanctuary for bones which it was our fortune to dispose of elsewhere is greatly distinguished by its situation, being exactly under the high altar, and in the centre of the crypts, which follow the beautiful curve of the lady chapel above. it now contains the bodies of louis dix-huit and the duc de berri, and is completely bricked up. in another vault, at one end of the circular crypts, and perfectly excluded from the light of day, but made visible by a single feeble lamp, are two coffins enclosing the remains of the two last defunct princes of the blood royal; but i forget their names. when i inquired of our conductor why these two coffins were thus exposed to view, he replied, with the air of a person giving information respecting what was as unchangeable as the laws of the medes and persians, "c'est toujours ainsi;" adding, "when another royal corpse is interred, the one of these two which was the first deposited will be removed, to be placed beneath its monument; but two must ever remain thus." "always" and "ever" are words which can seldom be used discreetly without some reservation; but respecting anything connected with the political state of france, i should think they had better never be used at all. we returned to the carriages and pursued our pretty drive. the latter part of the route is very beautiful, and we all walked up one long steep hill, as much, or more perhaps, to enjoy the glorious view, and the fresh delicious air, as to assist the horses. arrived at the famous _cheval blanc_ at montmorency, (a sign painted, as the tradition says, by no less a hand than that of gérard, who, in a youthful pilgrimage with his friend isabey to this region consecrated to romance, found himself with no other means of defraying their bill than by painting a sign for his host,) we quitted our wearied and wearisome citadines, and began to seek, amidst the multitude of horses and donkeys which stood saddled and bridled around the door of the inn, for twenty well-conditioned beasts, besides a sumpter-mule or two, to carry us and our provender to the forest. and, oh! the tumult and the din that accompanied this selection! multitudes of old women and ragamuffin boys assailed us on all sides.--"tenez, madame; voilà mon âne! y a-t-il une autre bête comme la mienne?..." "non, non, non, belles dames! ne le croyez pas; c'est la mienne qu'il vous faut..." "et vous, monsieur--c'est un cheval qui vous manque, n'est-ce pas? en voilà un superbe...." the multitude of hoarse old voices, and shrill young ones, joined to our own noisy mirth, produced a din that brought out half the population of montmorency to stare at us: but at length we were mounted--and, what was of infinitely more consequence, and infinitely more difficulty also, our hampers and baskets were mounted too. but before we could think of the greenwood tree, and the gay repast to be spread under it, we had a pilgrimage to make to the shrine which has given the region all its fame. hitherto we had thought only of its beauty,--who does not know the lovely scenery of montmorency?--even without the name of rousseau to give a fanciful interest to every path around it, there is enough in its hills and dales, its forest and its fields, to cheer the spirits and enchant the eye. a day stolen from the dissipation, the dust, and the noise of a great city, is always delightful; but when it is enjoyed in the very fullest green perfection of the last days of may, when every new-born leaf and blossom is fully expanded to the delicious breeze, and not one yet fallen before it, the enjoyment is perfect. it is like seeing a new piece while the dresses and decorations are all fresh; and never can the mind be in a state to taste with less of pain, and more of pleasure, the thoughts suggested by such a scene as _the hermitage_. i have, however, no intention of indulging myself in a burst of tender feeling over the melancholy memory of rousseau, or of enthusiastic gratitude at the recollection of grétry, though both are strongly brought before the mind's eye by the various memorials of each so carefully treasured in the little parlour in which they passed so many hours: yet it is impossible to look at the little rude table on which the first and greatest of these gifted men scribbled the "héloïse," or on the broken and untuneable keys of the spinette with which the eloquent visionary so often soothed his sadness and solitude, without some feeling tant soit peu approaching to the sentimental. before the window of this small gloomy room, which opens upon the garden, is a rose-tree planted by the hand of rousseau, which has furnished, as they told us, cuttings enough to produce a forest of roses. the house is as dark and dull as may be; but the garden is pretty, and there is something of fanciful in its arrangement which makes me think it must be as he left it. the records of grétry would have produced more effect if seen elsewhere,--at least i thought so;--yet the sweet notes of "o richard! o mon roi!" seemed to be sounding in my ears, too, as i looked at his old spectacles, and several other little domestic relics that were inscribed with his name. but the "rêveries du promeneur solitaire" are worth all the notes that grétry ever wrote. a marble column stands in a shady corner of the garden, bearing an inscription which states that her highness the duchesse de berri had visited the hermitage, and taken "le coeur de grétry" under her august protection, which had been unjustly claimed by the liégeois from his native france. what this means, or where her highness found the great composer's heart, i could not learn. we took the objects of our expedition in most judicious order, fasting and fatigue being decidedly favourable to melancholy; but, even with these aids, i cannot say that i discovered much propensity to the tender vein in the generality of our party. sentiment is so completely out of fashion, that it would require a bold spirit to confess before twenty gay souls that you felt any touch of it. there was one young italian, however, of the party whom i missed from the time we entered the precincts of the hermitage; nor did i see him till some time after we were all mounted again, and in full chase for the well-known chesnut-trees which have thrown their shadow over so many al-fresco repasts. when he again joined us, he had a rose in his button-hole: i felt quite certain that it was plucked from the tree the sad philosopher had planted, and that he, at least, had done homage to his shade, whoever else had failed to do so. whatever was felt at the hermitage, however, was now left behind us, and a less larmoyante party never entered the forest of montmorency. when we reached the spot on which we had fixed by anticipation for our salle-à-manger, we descended from our various _montures_, which were immediately unsaddled and permitted to refresh themselves, tied together in very picturesque groups, while all the party set to work with that indescribable air of contented confusion and happy disorder which can only be found at a pic-nic. i have heard a great many very sensible remarks, and some of them really very hard to answer, upon the extreme absurdity of leaving every accommodation which is considered needful for the comfort of a christian-like dinner, for the sole purpose of devouring this needful repast without one of them. what can be said in defence of such an act?... nothing,--except perhaps that, for some unaccountable reason or other, no dinner throughout the year, however sumptuously served or delicately furnished, ever does appear to produce one half so much light-hearted enjoyment as the cold repast round which the guests crouch like so many gipsies, with the turf for their table and a tree for their canopy. it is very strange--but it is very true; and as long as men and women continue to experience this singular accession of good spirits and good humour from circumstances which might be reasonably expected to destroy both, nothing better can be done than to let them go on performing the same extraordinary feat as long as the fancy lasts. and so we sat upon the grass, caring little for what the wise might say of us, for an hour and a half at the very least. our attendant old women and boys, seated at convenient distance, were eating as heartily and laughing as merrily as ourselves; whilst our beasts, seen through the openings of the thicket in which they were stabled, and their whimsical housings piled up together at the foot of an old thorn at its entrance, completed the composition of our gipsy festival. at length the signal was given to rise, and the obedient troop were on their feet in an instant. the horses and the asses were saddled forthwith: each one seized his and her own and mounted. a council was then called as to whither we should go. sundry forest paths stretched away so invitingly in different directions, that it was difficult to decide which we should prefer. "let us all meet two hours hence at the cheval blanc," said some one of brighter wit than all the rest: whereupon we all set off, fancy-led, by twos and by threes, to put this interval of freedom and fresh air to the best account possible. i was strongly tempted to set off directly for eaubonne. though i confess that jean-jacques' descriptions (tant vantées!) of some of the scenes which occurred there between himself and his good friend madame d'houdetot, in which she rewards his tender passion by constant assurances of her own tender passion for saint-lambert, have always appeared to me the very reverse of the sublime and beautiful; yet still the place must be redolent of the man whose "rêveries" have made its whole region classic ground: and go where i will, i always love to bring the genius of the place as near to me as possible. but my wishes were effectually checked by the old lady whose donkey carried me. "oh! dame--il ne faut pas aller par là ... ce n'est pas là le beau point de vue; laissez-moi faire ... et vous verrez...." and then she enumerated so many charming points of forest scenery that ought to be visited by "tout le monde," that i and my companions decided it would be our best course to permit the _laisser faire_ she asked for; and accordingly we set off in the direction she chose. we had no cause to regret it, for she knew her business well, and, in truth, led us as beautiful a circuit as it was well possible to imagine. if i did not invoke rousseau in his bosquet d'eaubonne, or beside the "cascade dont," as he says, "je lui avais donné _l'idée_, et qu'elle avait fait _exécuter_,"--(rousseau had never seen niagara, or he would not have talked of his sophie's having executed his idea of a cascade;)--though we did not seek him there, we certainly met him, at every step of our beautiful forest path, in the flowers and mosses whose study formed his best recreation at montmorency. "herboriser" is a word which, i think, with all possible respect for that modern strength of intellect that has fixed its stigma upon _sentiment_, rousseau has in some sort consecrated. there is something so natural, so genuine, so delightfully true, in his expressions, when he describes the pleasure this occupation has given him, contrasted as it is with his sour and querulous philosophy, and still more perhaps with the eloquent but unrighteous bursts of ill-directed passion, that its impression on my mind is incomparably greater than any he has produced by other topics. "brillantes fleurs, émail des prés!" ... is an exclamation a thousand times more touching, coming from the poor solitary j.j. at sixty-five, than any of the most passionate exclamations which he makes st. preux utter; and for this reason the woods of montmorency are more interesting from their connexion with him than any spot the neighbourhood of vévay could offer. the view from the rendezvous de chasse is glorious. while pausing to enjoy it, our old woman began talking politics to us. she told us that she had lost two sons, who both died fighting beside "_notre grand empereur_," who was certainly "le plus grand homme de la terre; cependant, it was a great comfort for poor people to have bread for onze sous--and that was what king louis-philippe had done for them." after our halt, we turned our heads again towards the town, and were peacefully pursuing our deliciously cool ride under the trees, when a holla! from behind stopped us. it proceeded from one of the boys of our cortége, who, mounted upon a horse that one of the party had used, was galloping and hollaing after us with all his might. the information he brought was extremely disagreeable: one of the gentlemen had been thrown from his horse and taken up for dead; and he had been sent, as he said, to collect the party together, to know what was to be done. the gentleman who was with our detachment immediately accompanied the boy to the spot; but as the unfortunate sufferer was quite a stranger to me, and was already surrounded by many of the party, i and my companion decided upon returning to montmorency, there to await at le cheval blanc the appearance of the rest. a medical man, we found, had been already sent for. when at length the whole party, with the exception of this unfortunate young man and a friend who remained with him, were assembled, we found, upon comparing notes together, that no less than four of our party had been unhorsed or undonkeyed in the course of the day; but happily three of these were accidents followed by no alarming results. the fourth was much more serious; but the report from the montmorency surgeon, which we received before we left the town, assured us that no ultimate danger was to be apprehended. one circumstance attending this disagreeable contre-tems was very fortunate. the accident took place at the gates of a chateau, the owners of which, though only returned a few hours before from a tour in italy, received the sufferer and his friend with the greatest kindness and hospitality. thus, though only eighteen of us returned to paris to recount the day's adventures, we had at least the consolation of having a very interesting, and luckily not fatal, episode to narrate, in which a castle and most courteous knights and dames bore a part, while the wounded cavalier on whom their generous cares were bestowed had not only given signs of life, but had been pronounced, to the great joy of all the company, quite out of danger either of life or limb. so ended our day at montmorency, which, spite of our manifold disasters, was declared upon the whole to have been one of very great enjoyment. letter lxiii. george sand. i have more than once mentioned to you my observations on the reception given in paris to that terrible school of composition which derives its power from displaying, with strength that exaggerates the vices of our nature, all that is worst and vilest in the human heart. i have repeatedly dwelt upon the subject, because it is one which i have so often heard treated unfairly, or at least ignorantly, in england; and a love of truth and justice has therefore led me to assure you, with reiterated protestations, that neither these mischief-doing works nor their authors meet at all a better reception in paris than they would in london. it is this same love of truth and justice which prompts me to separate from the pack one whom nature never intended should belong to it. the lady who writes under the signature of george sand cannot be set aside by the sternest guardian of public morals without a sigh. with great--perhaps, at the present moment, with unequalled power of writing, madame de d---- perpetually gives indications of a heart and mind which seem to prove that it was intended her place should be in a very different set from that with which she has chosen to mingle. it is impossible that she should write as she has done without possessing some of the finest qualities of human nature; but she is and has been tossed about in that whirlpool of unsettled principles, deformed taste and exaggerated feeling, in which the distempered spirits of the day delight to bathe and disport themselves, and she has been stained and bruised therein. yet she has nothing in common with their depraved feelings and distorted strength; and there is so much of the divine spirit of real genius within her, that it seems as if she could not sink in the vortex that has engulfed her companions. she floats and rises still; and would she make one bold effort to free herself from this slough, she might yet become one of the brightest ornaments of the age. not her own country only, but all the world have claims on her; for genius is of no nation, but speaks in a language that can be heard and understood by all. and is it possible that such a mind as hers can be insensible to the glory of enchanting the best and purest spirits in the world?... can she prefer the paltry plaudits of the obscure herd who scorn at decency, to the universal hymn of love and praise which she must hear rising from the whole earth to do honour to the holy muse of walter scott? the powers of this lady are of so high an order as in fact to withdraw her totally, though seemingly against her will, from all literary companionship or competition with the multitude of little authors whose moral theories appear of the same colour as her own; and in the tribute of admiration which justice compels me to pay her, my memory dwells only on such passages as none but herself could write, and which happily all the world may read. it is sad, indeed, to be forced to read almost by stealth volumes which contain such passages, and to turn in silence from the lecture with one's heart glowing with admiration of thoughts that one might so proudly quote and boast of as coming from the pen of a woman! but, alas! her volumes are closed to the young and innocent, and one may not dare to name her among those to whom the memory clings with gratitude as the giver of high mental enjoyment. one strong proof that the native and genuine bent of her genius would carry her far above and quite out of sight of the whole décousu school is, that, with all her magical grace of expression, she is always less herself, less original, a thousand times less animated and inspired, when she sets herself to paint scenes of unchaste love, and of unnatural and hard indifference to decorum, than when she throws the reins upon the neck of her own pegasus, and starts away into the bright region of unsoiled thoughts and purely intellectual meditation. i should be sorry to quote the titles of any books which ought never to have been written, and which had better not be read, even though there should be buried in them precious gems of thought and expression which produce the effect of a ray of sunshine that has entered by a crevice into a dark chamber; but there are some morsels by george sand which stand apart from the rest, and which may be cited without mischief. "la revue des deux mondes" has more than once done good service to the public by putting forth in its trustworthy pages some of her shorter works. amongst these is a little story called "andré," which if not quite _faultless_, may yet be fairly quoted to prove of what its author might be capable. the character of geneviève, the heroine of this simple, natural little tale, is evidence enough that george sand knows what is good. yet even here what a strange perversity of purpose and of judgment peeps out! she makes this geneviève, whose character is conceived in a spirit of purity and delicacy that is really angelic,--she makes this sweet and exquisitely innocent creature fall into indiscretion with her lover before she marries him, though the doing so neither affects the story nor changes the catastrophe in the slightest degree. it is an impropriety _à pure perte_, and is in fact such a deplorable incongruity in the character of geneviève--so perfectly gratuitous and unnecessary, and so utterly out of keeping with the rest of the picture, that it really looks as if madame d---- _might not_ publish a volume that was not timbré with the stamp of her clique. it would not, i suppose, pass current among them without it. this story of "andré" is still before me; and though it is quite impossible that i should be able to give you any idea of it by extracts, i will transcribe a few lines to show you the tone of thought in which its author loves to indulge. speaking of the universal power or influence of poetry, which certainly, like m. jourdain's prose, often exists in the mind sans qu'on en sache rien, she says,-- "les idées poétiques peuvent s'ajuster à la taille de tous les hommes. l'un porte sa poésie sur son front, un autre dans son coeur; celui-ci la cherche dans une promenade lente et silencieuse au sein des plaines, celui-là la poursuit au galop de son cheval à travers les ravins; un troisième l'arrose sur sa fenêtre, dans un pot de tulipes. au lieu de demander où elle est, ne devrait-on pas demander où n'est-elle pas? si ce n'était qu'une langue, elle pourrait se perdre; mais c'est une essence qui se compose de deux choses, la beauté répandue dans la nature extérieure, et le sentiment départi à toute l'intelligence ordinaire." again she shows the real tone of her mind when, speaking of a future state, she says,-- "qui sait si, dans un nouveau code de morale, un nouveau catéchisme religieux, le dégoût et la tristesse ne seront pas flétris comme des vices, tandis que l'amour, l'espoir, et l'admiration seront récompensés comme des vertus?" this is a beautiful idea of the _duties_ belonging to a happier state of existence; nay, i think that if we were only as good as we easily might be here, even this life would become rather an act of thanksgiving than what it too often is--a record of sighs. i know not where i should look in order to find thoughts more true, or fanciful ideas more beautifully expressed, than i have met with in this same story, where the occupations and reveries of its heroine are described. geneviève is by profession a maker of artificial flowers, and the minute study necessary to enable her to imitate skilfully her lovely models has led her to an intimate acquaintance with them, the pleasures of which are described, and her love and admiration of them dwelt upon, in a strain that i am quite persuaded none other but george sand could utter. it is evident, indeed, throughout all her writings, that the works of nature are the idols she worships. in the "lettres d'un voyageur,"--which i trust are only begun, for it is here that the author is perfect, unrivalled, and irreproachable,--she gives a thousand proofs of a heart and imagination which can only be truly at home when far from "the rank city." in writing to a friend in paris, whom she addresses as a person devoted to the cares and the honours of public life, she says,--"quand tu vois passer un pauvre oiseau, tu envies son essor, et tu regrettes les cieux." then she exclaims, "que ne puis-je t'emmener avec moi sur l'aile des vents inconstans, te faire respirer le grand air des solitudes et t'apprendre le secret des poètes et des bohémiens!" she has learned that secret, and the use she makes of it places her, in my estimation, wondrously above most of the descriptive poets that france has ever boasted. yet her descriptions, exquisite as they sometimes are, enchant me less perhaps than the occasional shooting, if i may so express it, of a bold new thought into the regions of philosophy and metaphysics; but it is done so lightly, so playfully, that it should seem she was only jesting when she appears to aim thus wildly at objects so much beyond a woman's ken. "tous les trônes de la terre ne valent pas pour moi une petite fleur au bord d'un lac des alpes," she says; and then starts off with this strange query: "une grande question serait celle de savoir si la providence a plus d'amour et de respect pour notre charpente osseuse, que pour les pétales embaumés de ses jasmins." she professes herself (of course) to be a republican; but only says of it, "de toutes les causes dont je ne me soucie pas, c'est la plus belle;" and then adds, quite in her own vein, "du moins, les mots de patrie et de liberté sont harmonieux--tandis que ceux de légitimité et d'obéissance sont grossiers, mal-sonnans, et faits pour des oreilles de gendarmes."... "aduler une bûche couronnée," is, she declares, "renoncer à sa dignité d'homme, et se faire académicien." however, she quizzes her political friend for being "le martyr des nobles ambitions;" adding, "gouvernez-moi bien tous ces vilains idiots ... je vais chanter au soleil sur une branche, pendant ce tems-là." in another place, she says that she is "bonne à rien qu'à causer avec l'écho, à regarder lever la lune, et à composer des chants mélancoliques ou moqueurs pour les étudians poètes et les écoliers amoureux." as a specimen of what this writer's powers of description are, i will give you a few lines from a little story called "mattéa,"--a story, by the way, that is beautiful, one hardly knows why,--just to show you how she can treat a theme worn threadbare before she was born. is there, in truth, any picture much less new than that of a gondola, with a guitar in it, gliding along the canals of venice? but see what she makes of it. "la guitare est un instrument qui n'a son existence véritable qu'à venise, la ville silencieuse et sonore. quand une gondole rase ce fleuve d'encre phosphorescente, où chaque coup de rame enfonce un éclair, tandis qu'une grêle de petites notes légères, nettes, et folâtres, bondit et rebondit sur les cordes que parcourt une main invisible, on voudrait arrêter et saisir cette mélodie faible mais distincte qui agace l'oreille des passans, et qui fuit le long des grandes ombres des palais, comme pour appeler les belles aux fenêtres, et passer en leur disant--ce n'est pas pour vous la sérénade; et vous ne saurez ni d'où elle vient, ni où elle va." could rousseau himself have chosen apter words? do they not seem an echo to the sound she describes? the private history of an author ought never to mix itself with a judgment of his works. of that of george sand i know but little; but divining it from the only source that the public has any right to examine,--namely, her writings,--i should be disposed to believe that her story is the old one of affection either ill requited, or in some way or other unfortunate; and there is justice in quoting the passages which seem to indicate this, because they are written in a spirit that, let the circumstances be what they will, must do her honour. in the "lettres d'un voyageur" already mentioned, the supposed writer of them is clearly identified with george sand by this passage:--"meure le petit george quand dieu voudra, le monde n'en ira pas plus mal pour avoir ignoré sa façon de penser. que veux-tu que je te dise? il faut que je te parle encore de moi, et rien n'est plus insipide qu'une individualité qui n'a pas encore trouvé le mot de sa destinée. je n'ai aucun intérêt à formuler une opinion quelconque. quelques personnes qui lisent mes livres ont le tort de croire que ma conduite est une profession de foi, et le choix des sujets de mes historiettes une sorte de plaidoyer contre certaines lois: bien loin de là, je reconnais que ma vie est pleine de fautes, et je croirais commettre une lâcheté si je me battais les flancs pour trouver un système d'idées qui en autorisât l'exemple." after this, it is impossible to read, without being touched by it, this sublime phrase used in speaking of one who would retire into the deep solitudes of nature from struggling with the world:-- "_les astres éternels auront toujours raison_, et l'homme, quelque grand qu'il soit parmi les hommes, sera toujours saisi d'épouvante quand il voudra interroger ce qui est au-dessus de lui. _o silence effrayant, réponse éloquente et terrible de l'éternité!_" in another place, speaking with less lightness of tone than is generally mixed throughout these charming letters with the gravest speculations, george sand says:-- "j'ai mal vécu, j'ai mal usé des biens qui me sont échus, j'ai négligé les oeuvres de charité; j'ai vécu dans la mollesse, dans l'ennui, dans les larmes vaines, dans les folles amours, dans les vains plaisirs. je me suis prosterné devant des idoles de chair et de sang, et j'ai laissé leur souffle enivrant effacer les sentences austères que la sagesse des livres avait écrites sur mon front dans ma jeunesse.... j'avais été honnête autrefois, sais-tu bien cela, everard? c'est de notoriété bourgeoise dans notre pays; mais il y avait peu de mérite,--j'étais jeune, et les funestes amours n'étaient pas éclos dans mon sein. ils ont étouffé bien des qualités; mais _je sais qu'il en est auxquelles je n'ai pas fait la plus légère tache au milieu des plus grands revers de ma vie, et qu'aucune des autres n'est perdu pour moi sans retour_." i could go on very long quoting with pleasure from these pages; but i cannot, i think, conclude better than with this passage. who is there but must wish that all the great and good qualities of this gifted woman (for she must have both) should break forth from whatever cloud sorrow or misfortune of any kind may have thrown over her, and that the rest of her days may pass in the tranquil developement of her extraordinary talents, and in such a display of them to the public as shall leave its admiration unmixed? letter lxiv. "angelo tyran de padoue."--burlesque at the théâtre du vaudeville.--mademoiselle mars.--madame dorval.--epigram. we have seen and enjoyed many very pretty, very gay little pieces at most of the theatres since we have been here; but we never till our last visit to the théâtre français enjoyed that uncontrollable movement of merriment which, setting all lady-like nonchalance at defiance, obliged us to yield ourselves up to hearty, genuine laughter; in which, however, we had the consolation of seeing many of those around us join. and what was the piece, can you guess, which produced this effect upon us?... it was "angelo!" it was the "tyran de padoue"--_pas doux_ du tout, as the wits of the parterre aver. but, in truth, i ought not to assent to this verdict, for never tyrant was so _doux_ to me and mine as this, and never was a very long play so heartily laughed at to the end. but must i write to you in sober earnest about this comic tragedy? i suppose i must; for, except the procès monstre, nothing has been more talked of in paris than this new birth of m. hugo. the cause for this excitement was not that a new play from this sufficiently well-known hand was about to be put upon the scene, but a circumstance which has made me angry and all paris curious. this tragedy, as you shall see presently, has two heroines who run neck and neck through every act, leaving it quite in doubt which ought to come in prima donna. mademoiselle mars was to play the part of one--but who could venture to stand thus close beside her in the other part?--nobody at the français, as it should seem: and so, wonderful to tell, and almost impossible to believe, a lady, a certain madame dorval, well known as a heroine of the porte st. martin, i believe, was enlisted into the corps of the français to run a tilt with--mars. this extraordinary arrangement was talked of, and asserted, and contradicted, and believed, and disbelieved, till the noise of it filled all paris. you will hardly wonder, then, that the appearance of this drama has created much sensation, or that the desire to see it should extend beyond the circle of m. hugo's young admirers. i have been told, that as soon as this arrangement was publicly made known, the application for boxes became very numerous. the author was permitted to examine the list of all those who had applied, and no boxes were positively promised till he had done so. before the night for the first representation was finally fixed, a large party of friends and admirers assembled at the poet's house, and, amongst them, expunged from this list the names of all such persons as were either known or suspected to be hostile to him or his school. whatever deficiencies this exclusive system produced in the box-book were supplied by his particular partisans. the result on this first night was a brilliant success. "l'auteur de cromwell," says the revue des deux mondes, "a proclamé d'une voix dictatoriale la fusion de la comédie et de la tragédie dans le drame." it is for this reason, perhaps, that m. hugo has made his last tragedy so irresistibly comic. the dagger and the bowl bring on the catastrophe,--therefore, _sans contredire_, it is a tragedy: but his playful spirit has arranged the incidents and constructed the dialogue,--therefore, _sans faute_, it is a comedy. in one of his exquisite prefaces, m. hugo says, that he would not have any audience quit the theatre without carrying with them "quelque moralité austère et profonde;" and i will now make it my task to point out to you how well he has redeemed this promise in the present instance. in order to shake off all the old-fashioned trammels which might encumber his genius, m. hugo has composed his "angelo" in prose,--prose such as old women love--(wicked old women i mean,)--lengthy, mystical, gossiping, and mischievous. i will give you some extracts; and to save the trouble of describing the different characters, i will endeavour so to select these extracts that they shall do it for me. angelo tyran de padoue thus speaks of himself:-- "oui ... je suis le podesta que venise met sur padoue.... et savez-vous ce que c'est que venise?... c'est le conseil des dix. oh! le conseil des dix!... souvent la nuit je me dresse sur mon séant, j'écoute, et j'entends des pas dans mon mur.... oui, c'est ainsi, tyran de padoue, esclave de venise. je suis bien surveillé, allez. oh! le conseil des dix!" this gentleman has a young, beautiful, and particularly estimable wife, by name catarina bragadini, (which part is enacted on the boards of the théâtre français by madame dorval, from the théâtre de la porte st. martin,) but unfortunately he hates her violently. he could not, however, as he philosophically observes himself, avoid doing so, and he shall again speak for himself to explain this. "angelo. "la haine c'est dans notre sang. il faut toujours qu'un malipieri haïsse quelqu'un. moi, c'est cette femme que je hais. je ne vaux pas mieux qu'elle, c'est possible--mais il faut qu'elle meure. c'est une nécessité--une résolution prise." this necessity for hating does not, however, prevent the podesta from falling very violently in love with a strolling actress called la tisbe (personated by mademoiselle mars). the tisbe also is a very remarkably virtuous, amiable, and high-minded woman, who listens to the addresses of the tyrant pas doux, but hates him as cordially as he hates his lady-wife, bestowing all her tenderness and private caresses upon a travelling gentleman, who is a prince in disguise, but whom she passes off upon the tyrant for her brother. la tisbe, too, shall give you her own account of herself. "la tisbe (_addressing angelo_). "vous savez qui je suis? ... rien, une fille du peuple, une comédienne.... eh bien! si peu que je suis, j'ai eu une mère. savez-vous ce que c'est que d'avoir une mère? en avez-vous eu une, vous?... eh bien! j'avais une mère, moi." this appears to be a species of refinement upon the old saying, "it is a wise child that knows its own father." the charming tisbe evidently piques herself upon her sagacity in being quite certain that she had a mother;--but she has not yet finished her story. "c'était une pauvre femme sans mari qui chantait des chansons dans les places publiques." (the "_delicate_" esmeralda again.) "un jour, un sénateur passa. il regarde, il entendit," (she must have been singing the _Ça ira_ of ,) "et dit au capitaine qui le suivait--a la potence cette femme! ma mère fut saisie sur-le-champ--elle ne dit rien ... a quoi bon? ... m'embrassa avec une grosse larme, prit son crucifix et se laissa garrotter. je le vois encore ce crucifix en cuivre poli, mon nom tisbe écrit en bas.... mais il y avait avec le sénateur une jeune fille.... elle se jeta aux pieds du sénateur et obtint la grace de ma mère.... quand ma mère fut déliée, elle prit son crucifix, ma mère, et le donna à la belle enfant, en lui disant, madame, gardez ce crucifix--il vous portera bonheur." imagine mademoiselle mars uttering this trash!... oh, it was grievous! and if i do not greatly mistake, she admired her part quite as little as i did, though she exerted all her power to make it endurable,--and there were passages, certainly, in which she succeeded in making one forget everything but herself, her voice, and her action. but to proceed. on this crucifix de cuivre poli, inscribed with the name of tisbe, hangs all the little plot. catarina bragadini, the wife of the tyrant, and the most ill-used and meritorious of ladies, is introduced to us in the third scene of the second day (new style--acts are out of fashion,) lamenting to her confidential femme de chambre the intolerable long absence of her lover. the maid listens, as in duty bound, with the most respectful sympathy, and then tells her that another of her waiting-maids for whom she had inquired was at prayers. whereupon we have a morsel of naïveté that is _impayable_. "catarina. "laisse-la prier.--hélas! ... moi, cela ne me fait rien de prier!" this, i suspect, is what is called "the natural vein," in which consists the peculiar merit of this new style of writing. after this charming burst of natural feeling, the podesta's virtuous lady goes on with her lament. "catarina. "il y a cinq semaines--cinq semaines éternelles que je ne l'ai vu!... je suis enfermée, gardée, en prison. je le voyais une heure de tems en tems: cette heure si étroite, et si vite fermée, c'était le seul _soupirail_[ ] par où entrait un peu d'air et de soleil dans ma vie. maintenant tout est muré.... oh rodolpho!... dafné, nous avons passé, lui et moi, de bien douces heures!... est-ce que c'est coupable tout ce que je dis là de lui? non, n'est-ce pas?" * * * * * now you must know, that this signor rodolpho plays the part of gallant to both these ladies, and, though intended by the author for another of his estimable personages, is certainly, by his own showing, as great a rascal as can well be imagined. he loves only the wife, and not the mistress of angelo; and though he permits her par complaisance to be his mistress too, he addresses her upon one occasion, when she is giving way to a fit of immoderate fondness, with great sincerity. "rodolpho. "prenez garde, tisbe, ma famille est une famille fatale. il y a sur nous une prédiction, une destinée qui s'accomplit presque inévitablement de père en fils. nous tuons qui nous aime." from this passage, and one before quoted, it should seem, i think, that notwithstanding all the innovations of m. hugo, he has still a lingering reverence for the immutable power of destiny which overhangs the classic drama. how otherwise can he explain these two mystic sentences?--"ma famille est une famille fatale. il y a sur nous une destinée qui s'accomplit de père en fils." and this other: "la haine c'est dans notre sang: il faut toujours qu'un malipieri haïsse quelqu'un." the only other character of importance is a very mysterious one called homodei; and i think i may best describe him in the words of the excellent burlesque which has already been brought out upon this "angelo" at the vaudeville. there they make one of the dramatis personæ, when describing this very incomprehensible homodei, say of him,-- "c'est le plus grand dormeur de france et de navarre." in effect, he far out-sleeps the dozing sentinels in the "critic;" for he goes on scene after scene sleeping apparently as sound as a top, till all on a sudden he starts up wide awake, and gives us to understand that he too is exceedingly in love with madame la podesta, but that he has been rejected. he therefore determines to do her as much mischief as possible, observing that "un sbire (for such is his humble rank) qui aime est bien petit--un sbire qui se venge est bien grand." this great but rejected sbire, however, is not contented with avenging himself on catarina for her scorn, but is pushed, by his destiny, i presume, to set the whole company together by the ears. he first brings rodolpho into the bed-room of catarina, then brings the jealous tisbe there to look at them, and finally contrives that the tyrant himself should find out his wife's little innocent love affair--for innocent she declares it is. fortunately, during this unaccountable reunion in the chamber of madame, la tisbe discovers that her mother the ballad-singer's crucifix is in the possession of her rival catarina; whereupon she not only decides upon resigning her claim upon the heart of signor rodolpho in her favour, but determines upon saving her life from the fury of her jealous husband, who has communicated to the tisbe, as we have seen above, his intention of killing his wife, because "il faut toujours qu'un malipieri haïsse quelqu'un." fortunately, again, it happens that the tisbe has communicated to her lover the tyrant, in a former conversation, the remarkable fact that another lover still had once upon a time made her a present of two phials--one black, the other white--one containing poison, the other a narcotic. after he has discovered catarina's innocent weakness for rodolpho, he informs the tisbe that the time is come for him to kill his lady, and that he intends to do it by cutting her head off privately. the tisbe tells him that this is a bad plan, and that poison would do much better. "angelo. "oui! le poison vaudrait mieux. mais il faudrait un poison rapide, et, _vous ne me croirez pas_, je n'en ai pas ici. "la tisbe. "j'en ai, moi. "angelo. "où? "la tisbe. "chez moi. "angelo. "quel poison? "la tisbe. "le poison malispine, _vous savez_: cette boîte que m'a envoyée le primicier de saint marc." * * * * * after this satisfactory explanation, angelo accepts her offer, and she trots away home and brings him the phial containing the narcotic. the absurdity of the scene that takes place when angelo and the tisbe are endeavouring to persuade catarina to consent to be killed is such, that nothing but transcribing the whole can give you an idea of it: but it is too long for this. believe me, we were not the only part of the audience that laughed at this scene _à gorge déployée_. angelo begins by asking if she is ready. "catarina. "prête à quoi? "angelo. "a mourir. "catarina. "... mourir! non, je ne suis pas prête. je ne suis pas prête. je ne suis pas prête _du tout_, monsieur! "angelo. "combien de temps vous faut-il pour vous préparer? "catarina. "oh! je ne sais pas--beaucoup de temps!" angelo tells her she shall have an hour, and then leaves her alone: upon which she draws aside a curtain and discovers a block and an axe. she is naturally exceedingly shocked at this spectacle; her soliloquy is sublime! "catarina (_replacing the curtain_). "derrière moi! c'est derrière moi. ah! vous voyez bien que ce n'est pas un rêve, et que c'est bien réel ce qui passe ici, puisque _voilà des choses là derrière le rideau_!" * * * * * corneille! racine! voltaire!--this is tragedy,--tragedy played on the stage of the théâtre français--tragedy which it has been declared in the face of day shall "lift the ground from under you!" such is the march of mind! after this glorious soliloquy, her lover rodolpho pays catarina a visit--again in her bed-room, in her guarded palace, surrounded by spies and sentinels. how he gets there, it is impossible to guess: but in the burlesque at the vaudeville they make this matter much clearer;--for there these unaccountable entrées are managed at one time by the falling down of a wall; at another, by the lover's rising through the floor like a ghost; and at another, by his coming flying down on a wire from an opening in the ceiling like a cupid. the lovers have a long talk; but she does not tell him a word about the killing, for fear it should bring him into mischief,--though where he got in, it might be easy enough for her to get out. however, she says nothing about "_les choses_" behind the curtain, but gives him a kiss, and sends him away in high glee. no sooner does he disappear, than angelo and the tisbe enter, and a conversation ensues between the three on the manner of the doomed lady's death that none but m. victor hugo could have written. he would represent nature, and he makes a high-born princess, pleading for her life to a sovereign who is her husband, speak thus: "parlons simplement. tenez ... vous êtes infâme ... et puis, comme vous mentez toujours, vous ne me croirez pas. tenez, vraiment je vous méprise: vous m'avez épousée pour mon argent...." then she makes a speech to the tisbe in the same exquisite tone of nature; with now and then a phrase or expression which is quite beyond even the fun of the vaudeville to travestie; as for instance--"je suis toujours restée honnête--vous me comprenez, vous--mais je ne puis dire cela à mon mari. _les hommes ne veulent jamais nous croire_, vous savez; cependant nous leur disons _quelquefois_ des choses bien vraies...." at last the tyrant gets out of patience. "angelo. "c'en est trop! catarina bragadina, le crime fait, veut un châtiment; la fosse ouverte, veut un cercueil; le mari outragé, veut une femme morte. _tu perds toutes les paroles qui sortent de ta bouche_ (montrant le poison). "voulez vous, madame? "catarina. "non! "angelo. "non?... j'en reviens à ma première idée alors. les épées! les épées! troilo! qu'on aille me chercher.... j'y vais!" * * * * * now we all know that his première idée was not to stab her with one or more swords, but to cut her head off on a block--and that _les choses_ are all hid ready for it behind the curtain. but this "j'y vais" is part of the machinery of the fable; for if the tyrant did not go away, the tisbe could have found no opportunity of giving her rival a hint that the poison was not so dangerous as she believed. so when angelo returns, the tisbe tells him that "elle se résigne au poison." catarina drinks the potion, falls into a trance, and is buried. (victor hugo is always original, they say.) the tisbe digs her up again, and lays her upon a bed in her own house, carefully drawing the curtains round her. then comes the great catastrophe. the lover of the two ladies uses his privilege, and enters the tisbe's apartment, determined to fulfil his destiny and murder her, because she loves him--as written in the book of fate--and also because she has poisoned his other and his favourite love catarina. the signor rodolpho knows that she brought the phial, because one of the maids told him so: this is another instance of the ingenious and skilful machinery of the fable. rodolpho tells the poor woman what he is come for; adding, "vous avez un quart d'heure pour vous préparer à la mort, madame!" there is something in this which shows that m. hugo, notwithstanding he has some odd décousu notions, is aware of the respect which ought to be paid to married ladies, beyond what is due to those who are not so. when the podesta announced the same intention to his wife, he says--"vous avez devant vous une heure, madame." at the vaudeville, however, they give another turn to this variation in the time allowed under circumstances so similar: they say-- "catarina eut une heure au moins de son mari: le tems depuis tantôt est donc bien renchéri." the unfortunate tisbe, on receiving this communication from her dear rodolpho, exclaims--"ah! vous me tuez! ah! c'est la première idée qui vous vient?" some farther conversation takes place between them. on one occasion he says--like a prince as he is--"mentez un peu, voyons!"--and then he assures her that he never cared a farthing for her, repeating very often, because, as he says, it is her _supplice_ to hear it, that he never loved anybody but catarina. during the whole scene she ceases not, however, to reiterate her passionate protestations of love to him, and at last the dialogue ends by rodolpho's stabbing her to the heart. i never beheld anything on the stage so utterly disgusting as this scene. that mademoiselle mars felt weighed down by the part, i am quite certain;--it was like watching the painful efforts of a beautiful racer pushed beyond its power--distressed, yet showing its noble nature to the last. but even her exquisite acting made the matter worse: to hear the voice of mars uttering expressions of love, while the ruffian she addresses grows more murderous as she grows more tender, produced an effect at once so hateful and so absurd, that one knows not whether to laugh or storm at it. but, what was the most terrible of all, was to see mars exerting her matchless powers to draw forth tears, and then to look round the house and see that she was rewarded by--a smile! after tisbe is stabbed, catarina of course comes to life; and the whole farce concludes by the dying tisbe's telling the lovers that she had ordered horses for them; adding tenderly, "elle est déliée--(how?)--morte pour le podesta, vivante pour toi. trouves-tu cela bien arrangé ainsi?" then rodolpho says to catarina, "par qui as-tu été sauvée?" "la tisbe (_in reply_). "par moi, pour toi!" m. hugo, in a note at the end of the piece, apologises for not concluding with these words--"par moi, pour toi," which he seems to think particularly effective: nevertheless, for some reason which he does not very clearly explain, he concludes thus;-- "la tisbe. "madame, permettez-moi de lui dire encore une fois, mon rodolpho. adieu, mon rodolpho! partez vite à présent. je meurs. vivez. je te bénis!" * * * * * it is impossible in thus running through the piece to give you any adequate idea of the loose, weak, trumpery style in which it is written. it really seems as if the author were determined to try how low he might go before the boys and grisettes who form the chorus of his admirers shall find out that he is quizzing them. one peculiarity in the plot of "this fine tragedy" is, that the hero angelo never appears, nor is even alluded to, after the scene in which he commissions la tisbe to administer the poison to madame. his sudden disappearance is thus commented upon at the vaudeville. the tyrant there makes his appearance after it is all over, exclaiming-- "je veux en être, moi ... l'on osera peut-être finir un mélodrame en absence du traître? suis-je un hors-d'oeuvre, un inutile article, une cinquième roue ajoutée au tricycle?" in the preface to this immortal performance there is this passage:-- "dans l'état où sont aujourd'hui toutes ces questions profondes qui touchent aux racines même de la société, il semblait depuis long-tems à l'auteur de ce drame qu'il pourrait y avoir utilité et grandeur" (utilité et grandeur!) "à développer sur le théâtre quelque chose de pareil à l'idée que voici...." and then follows what he calls his idea: but this preface must be read from beginning to end, if you wish to see what sort of stuff it is that humbug and impudence can induce the noisiest part of a population to pronounce "fine!" but you must hear one sentence more of this precious preface, for fear "the work" may not fall into your hands. "le drame, comme l'auteur de cet ouvrage le voudrait faire, doit donner à la foule une philosophie; aux idées, une formule; à la poésie, des muscles, du sang, et de la vie; à ceux qui pense, une explication désintéressée; aux âmes altérées un breuvage, aux plaies secrètes un baume--à chacun un conseil, à tous une loi." (!!!!) he concludes thus:-- "au siècle où nous vivons, l'horizon de l'art est bien élargi. autrefois le poète disait, le public; aujourd'hui le poète dit, le peuple." is it possible to conceive affected sublimity and genuine nonsense carried farther than this? let us not, however, sit down with the belief that the capital of france is quite in the condition he describes;--let us not receive it quite as gospel that the raptures, the sympathy of this "foule sympathique et éclairée," that he talks of, in his preface to "angelo," as coming nightly to the theatre to do him honour, exists--or at least that it exists beyond the very narrow limits of his own clique. the men of france do not sympathise with victor hugo, whatever the boys may do. he has made himself a name, it is true,--but it is not a good one; and in forming an estimate of the present state of literature in france, we shall greatly err if we assume as a fact that hugo is an admired writer. i would not be unjustly severe on any one; but here is a gentleman who in early life showed considerable ability;--he produced some light pieces in verse, which are said to be written with good moral feeling, and in a perfectly pure and correct literary taste. we have therefore a right to say that m. hugo turned his talents thus against his fellow-creatures, not from ignorance--not from simple folly--but upon calculation. for is it possible to believe that any man who has once shown by his writings a good moral feeling and a correct taste, can expose to the public eye such pieces as "lucrèce borgia," "le roi s'amuse," "angelo," and the rest--in good faith, believing the doing so to be, as he says, "une tâche sainte?" is this possible?... and if it be not, what follows?... why, that the author is making a job of corrupting human hearts and human intellects. he has found out that the mind of man, particularly in youth, eagerly seeks excitement of any kind: he knows that human beings will go to see their fellows hanged or guillotined by way of an amusement, and on this knowledge he speculates. but as the question relates to france, we have not hitherto treated it fairly. i am persuaded that had our stage no censorship, and were dramas such as those of dumas and victor hugo to be produced, they would fill the theatres at least as much as they do here. their very absurdity--the horror--nay, even the disgust they inspire, is quite enough to produce this effect; but it would be unwise to argue thence that such trash had become the prevailing taste of the people. that the speculation, as such, has been successful, i have no doubt. this play, for instance, has been very generally talked of, and many have gone to see it, not only on its own account, but in order to behold the novel spectacle of mademoiselle mars _en lutte_ with an actress from la porte st. martin. as for madame dorval, i imagine she must be a very effective melodramatic performer when seen in her proper place; but, however it may have flattered her vanity, i do not think it can have added to her fame to bring her into this dangerous competition. as an actress, she is, i think, to mademoiselle mars much what victor hugo is to racine,--and perhaps we shall hear that she has "heaved the ground from under her." among various stories floating about on the subject of the new play and its author, i heard one which came from a gentleman who has long been in habits of intimacy with m. hugo. he went, as in duty bound, to see the tragedy, and had immediately afterwards to face his friend. the embarrassment of the situation required to be met by presence of mind and a _coup de main_: he showed himself, however, equal to the exigency; he spoke not a word, but rushing towards the author, threw his arms round him, and held him long in a close and silent embrace. another pleasantry on the same subject reached me in the shape of four verses, which are certainly droll enough; but i suspect that they must have been written in honour, not of "angelo," but of some one of the tragedies in verse--"le roi s'amuse," perhaps, for they mimic the harmony of some of the lines to be found there admirably. "où, ô hugo! huchera-t-on ton nom? justice encore rendu, que ne t'a-t-on? quand donc au corps qu'académique on nomme, grimperas-tu de roc en roc, rare homme?" and now farewell to victor hugo! i promise to trouble you with him no more; but the consequence which has been given to his name in england, has induced me to speak thus fully of the estimation in which i find him held in france. "rare homme!" footnote: [ ] vent-hole. letter lxv. boulevard des italiens.--tortoni's.--thunder-storm.--church of the madeleine.--mrs. butler's "journal." all the world has been complaining of the tremendous heat of the weather here. the thermometer stands at.... i forget what, for the scale is not my scale; but i know that the sun has been shining without mercy during the last week, and that all the world declare that they are baked. of all the cities of the earth to be baked in, surely paris is the best. i have been reading that beautiful story of george sand's about nothing at all, called "lavinia," and chose for my study the deepest shade of the tuileries garden. if we could but have sat there all day, we should have felt no inconvenience from the sun, but, on the contrary, only have watched him from hour to hour caressing the flowers, and trying in vain to find entrance for one of his beams into the delightful covert we had chosen: but there were people to be seen, and engagements to be kept; and so here we are at home again, looking forward to a large party for the evening! the boulevard as we came along was prettier than ever;--stands of delicious flowers tempting one at every step--a rose, and a bud, and two bits of mignonette, and a sprig of myrtle, for five sous; but all arranged so elegantly, that the little bouquet was worth a dozen tied up less tastefully. i never saw so many sitters in a morning; the people seemed as if they were reposing from necessity--as if they sat because they could walk no farther. as we passed tortoni's, we were amused by a group, consisting of a very pretty woman and a very pretty man, who were seated on two chairs close together, and flirting apparently very much to their own satisfaction; while the third figure in the group, a little savoyard, who had probably begun by asking charity, seemed spell-bound, with his eyes fixed on the elegant pair as if studying a scene for the _gaie science_, of which, as he carried a mandoline, i presume he was a disciple. we were equally entertained by the pertinacious staring of the little minstrel, and the utter indifference to it manifested by the objects of his admiration. a few steps farther, our eyes were again arrested by an exquisite, who had taken off his hat, and was deliberately combing his coal-black curls as he walked. in a brother beau, i doubt not he would have condemned such a degree of _laisser-aller_; but in himself, it only served to relever the beauty of his forehead and the general grace of his movements. i was glad that no fountain or limpid lake opened beneath his feet,--the fate of narcissus would have been inevitable. last night we had intended to make a farewell visit to the feydeau,--feydeau no longer, however,--to the opéra comique, i should say. but fortunately we had not secured a box, and therefore enjoyed the privilege of changing our minds,--a privilege ever dear, but in such weather as this inestimable. instead of going to the theatre, we remained at home till it began to grow dark and cool--cooler at least by some degrees, but still most heavily sultry. we then sallied forth to eat ices at tortoni's. all paris seemed to be assembled upon the boulevard to breathe: it was like a very crowded night at vauxhall, and hundreds of chairs seemed to have sprung up from the ground to meet the exigences of the moment, for double rows of sitters occupied each side of the pavement. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. boulevard des italiens. london. published by richard bentley. .] frenchwomen are so very lovely in their evening walking-dress, that i would rather see them thus than when full-dressed at parties. a drawing-room full of elegantly-dressed women, all looking prepared for a bal paré, is no unusual sight for english eyes; but truth obliges me to confess that it would be in vain at any imaginable evening promenade in london to look for such a spectacle as the italian boulevard showed us last night. it is the strangest thing in the world that it should be so--for it is certain that neither the bonnets, nor the pretty faces they shelter, are in any way inferior in england to any that can be seen elsewhere; but frenchwomen have more the habit and the _knack_ of looking elegantly-dressed without being full-dressed. it is impossible to enter into detail in order to explain this--nothing less skilful than a milliner could do this; and i think that even the most skilful of the profession would not find it easy: i can only state the fact, that the general effect of an evening promenade in paris is more elegant than it is in london. we were fortunate enough to secure the places of a large party that were leaving a window in the upper room at tortoni's as we entered it: and here again is a scene as totally un-english as that of a restaurant in the palais royal. both the rooms above, as well as those below, were quite full of gay company, each party sitting round their own little marble table, with the large _carafe_ of ice--for so it may well be called, for it only melts as you want it--the very sight of which, even if you venture not to drain a draught from the slowly yielding mass, creates a feeling of delicious coldness. then the incessant entrées of party-coloured pyramids, with their accompaniment of gaufres,--the brilliant light within, the humming crowd without,--the refreshing coolness of the delicate regale, and the light gaiety which all the world seem to share at this pleasant hour of perfect idleness,--all are incontestably french, and, more incontestably still, not english. while we were still at our window, amused by all within and all without, we were started by some sharp flashes of lightning which began to break through a heavy cloud of most portentous blackness that i had been for some time admiring, as forming a beautiful contrast to the blaze of light on the boulevard. no rain was as yet falling, and i proposed to my party a walk towards the madeleine, which i thought would give us some fine effects of light and darkness on such a night as this. the proposal was eagerly accepted, and we wandered on till we left the crowd and the gas behind us. we walked to the end of the rue royale, and then turned round slowly and gradually to approach the church. the effect was infinitely finer than anything i had anticipated: the moon was only a few days past the full; and even when hid behind the heavy clouds that were gathering together as it seemed from all parts of the sky, gave light enough for us dimly, yet distinctly, to discern the vast and beautiful proportions of the magnificent portico. it looked like the pale spectre of a grecian temple. with one accord we all paused at the point where it was most perfectly and most beautifully visible; and i assure you, that with the heavy ominous mass of black clouds above and behind it--with the faint light of the "inconstant moon," now for a moment brightly visible, and now wholly hid behind a driving cloud, reflected from its columns, it was the most beautiful object of art that i ever looked at. it was some time before we could resolve to leave it, quite sure as we were that it never could be our chance to behold it in such perfection again; and while we stayed, the storm advanced rapidly towards us, adding the distant rumbling of its angry voice to enhance the effect of the spectacle. yet still we lingered; and were rewarded for our courage by seeing the whole of the vast edifice burst upon our sight in such a blaze of sudden brightness, that when it passed away, i thought for an instant that i was struck blind. another flash followed--another and another. the spectacle was glorious; but the danger of being drenched to the skin became every moment more imminent, and we hastily retreated to the boulevard. as we emerged from the gloom of the madeleine boulevard to the glaring gas-light from the cafés which illuminated the italian, it seemed as if we had got into another atmosphere and another world. no rain had as yet fallen; and the crowd, thicker than ever, were still sitting and lounging about, apparently unconscious of the watery danger which threatened them. so great is the force of example, that, before we got to the end of the promenade, we seemed unconscious of it too, for we turned with the rest. but we were soon punished for our folly: the dark canopy burst asunder, and let down upon us as pelting a shower as ever drove feathers and flowers, and ribbons and gauze, to every point of the compass in search of shelter. i have sometimes wondered at the short space of time it required to clear a crowded theatre of its guests; but the vanishing of the crowd from the boulevard was more rapid still. what became of them all, heaven knows; but they seemed to melt and dissolve away as the rain fell upon them. we took shelter in the passage de l'opéra; and after a few minutes the rain ceased, and we got safely home. in the course of our excursion we encountered an english friend, who returned home with us; and though it was eleven o'clock, he looked neither shocked nor surprised when i ordered tea, but even consented to stay and partake of it with us. our tea-table gossip was concerning a book that all the world--all the english world at least--had been long eagerly looking for, and which we had received two days before. our english friend had made it his travelling-companion, and having just completed the perusal of it, could talk of nothing else. this book was mrs. butler's "journal." happily for the tranquillity of our tea-table, we were all perfectly well agreed in opinion respecting it: for, by his account, parties for and against it have been running very strong amongst you. i confess i heard this with astonishment; for it appears to me that all that can be said against the book lies so completely on the surface, that it must be equally visible to all the world, and that nobody can fail to perceive it. but these obvious defects once acknowledged--and they must be acknowledged by all, i should have thought that there was no possibility left for much difference of opinion,--i should have thought the genius of its author would then have carried all before it, leaving no one sufficiently cold-blooded and reasonable to remember that it contained any faults at all. it is certainly possible that my familiarity with the scenes she describes may give her spirited sketches a charm and a value in my eyes that they may not have for those who know not their truth. but this is not all their merit: the glow of feeling, the warm eloquence, the poetic fervour with which she describes all that is beautiful, and gives praise to all that is good, must make its way to every heart, and inspire every imagination with power to appreciate the graphic skill of her descriptions even though they may have no power to judge of their accuracy. i have been one among those who have deeply regretted the loss, the bankruptcy, which the stage has sustained in the tragic branch of its business by the secession of this lady: but her book, in my opinion, demonstrates such extraordinary powers of writing, that i am willing to flatter myself that we shall have gained eventually rather than lost by her having forsaken a profession too fatiguing, too exhausting to the spirits, and necessarily occupying too much time, to have permitted her doing what now we may fairly hope she will do,--namely, devote herself to literature. there are some passages of her hastily-written, and too hastily-published journal, which evidently indicate that her mind was at work upon composition. she appears to judge herself and her own efforts so severely, that, when speaking of the scenes of an unpublished tragedy, she says "they are not bad,"--which is, i think, the phrase she uses: i feel quite persuaded that they are admirable. then again she says, "began writing a novel...." i would that she would finish it too!--and as i hold it to be impossible that such a mind as hers can remain inactive, i comfort myself with the belief that we shall soon again receive some token of her english recollections handed to us across the atlantic. that her next production will be less _faulty_ than her last, none can doubt, because the blemishes are exactly of a nature to be found in the journal of a heedless young traveller, who having caught, in passing, a multitude of unseemly phrases, puts them forth in jest, unmindful--much too unmindful certainly--of the risk she ran that they might be fixed upon her as her own genuine individual style of expression. but we have only to read those passages where she certainly is not jesting--where poetry, feeling, goodness, and piety glow in every line--to know what her language is _when she is in earnest_. on these occasions her power of expression is worthy of the thoughts of which it is the vehicle,--and i can give it no higher praise. letter lxvi. a pleasant party.--discussion between an englishman and a frenchman.--national peculiarities. i told you yesterday that, notwithstanding the tremendous heat of the weather, we were going to a large party in the evening. we courageously kept the engagement; though, i assure you, i did it in trembling. but, to our equal surprise and satisfaction, the rooms of mrs. m---- proved to be deliciously cool and agreeable. her receiving-apartment consists of three rooms. the first was surrounded and decorated in all possible ways with a profusion of the most beautiful flowers, intermixed with so many large glass vases for gold fish, that i am sure the air was much cooled by evaporation from the water they contained. this room was lighted wholly by a large lamp suspended from the ceiling, which was enclosed in a sort of gauze globe, just sufficiently thick to prevent any painful glare of light, but not enough so to injure the beautiful effect always produced by the illumination of flowers. the large croisées were thrown open, with very slight muslin curtains over them; and the whole effect of the room--its cool atmosphere, its delicious fragrance, and its subdued light--was so enchanting, that it was not without difficulty we passed on to pay our compliments to mrs. m----, who was in a larger but much less fascinating apartment. there were many french persons present, but the majority of the company was english. having looked about us a little, we retreated to the fishes and the myrtles; and as there was a very handsome man singing buffa songs in one of the other rooms, with a score of very handsome women looking at and listening to him, the multitude assembled there; and we had the extreme felicity of finding fresh air and a sofa _à notre disposition_, with the additional satisfaction of accepting or refusing ices every time the trays paraded before us. you will believe that we were not long left without companions, in a position so every way desirable: and in truth we soon had about us a select committee of superlatively agreeable people; and there we sat till considerably past midnight, with a degree of enjoyment which rarely belongs to hours devoted to a very large party in very hot weather. and what did we talk about?--i think it would be easier to enumerate the subjects we did not touch upon than those we did. everybody seemed to think that it would be too fatiguing to run any theme far; and so, rather in the style of idle, pampered lap-dogs, than of spirited pointers and setters, we amused ourselves by skittishly pursuing whatever was started, just as it pleased us, and then turned round and reposed till something else darted into view. the whole circle, consisting of seven persons, were english with the exception of one; and that one was--he must excuse me, for i will not name him--that one was a most exceedingly clever and superlatively agreeable young frenchman. as we had snarled and snapped a little here and there in some of our gambols after the various objects which had passed before us, this young man suggested the possibility of his being _de trop_ in the coterie. "are you not gênés," said he, "by my being here to listen to all that you and yours may be disposed to say of us and ours?... shall i have the amiability to depart?" a general and decided negative was put upon this proposition; but one of the party moved an amendment. "let us," said he, "agree to say everything respecting france and the french with as much unreserve as if you were on the top of notre dame; and do you, who have been for three months in england, treat us exactly in the same manner; and see what we shall make of each other. we are all much too languid to suffer our patriotism to mount up to 'spirit-boil,' and so there is no danger whatever that we should quarrel." "i would accept the partie instantly," said the frenchman, "were it not so unequal. but six to one! ... is not this too hard?" "no! ... not the least in the world, if we take it in the quizzing vein," replied the other; "for it is well known that a frenchman can out-quiz six englishmen at any time." "eh bien!" ... said the complaisant parisian with a sigh, "i will do my best. begin, ladies, if you please." "no! no! no!" exclaimed several female voices in a breath; "we will have nothing to do with it; fight it out between yourselves: we will be the judges, and award the honours of the field to him who hits the hardest." "this is worse and worse," cried our laughing enemy: "if this be the arrangement of the combat, the judgment, à coup sûr, will be given against me. how can you expect such blind confidence from me?" we protested against this attack upon our justice, promised to be as impartial as jove, and desired the champions to enter the lists. "so then," said the englishman, "i am to enact the part of st. george ... and god defend the right!" "and i, that of st. denis," replied the frenchman, his right hand upon his breast and his left gracefully sawing the air. "mon bras ... non ... 'ma _langue_ à ma patrie, mon coeur à mon amie, mourir gaiement pour la gloire et l'amour, c'est la devise d'un vaillant troubadour.' allons!... now tell me, st. george, what say you in defence of the english mode of suffering ladies--the ladies of britain--the most lovely ladies in the world, n'est-ce pas?--to rise from table, and leave the room, and the gentlemen--alone--with downcast eyes and timid step--without a single preux chevalier to offer them his protection or to bear them company on their melancholy way--banished, turned out--exiled from the banquet-board!--i protest to you that i have suffered martyrdom when this has happened, and i, for my sins, been present to witness it. croyez-moi, i would have joyfully submitted to make my exit à quatre pattes, so i might but have followed them. ah! you know not what it is for a frenchman to remain still, when forced to behold such a spectacle as this!... alas! i felt as if i had disgraced myself for life; but i was more than spell-bound--i was promise-bound; the friend who accompanied me to the party where i witnessed this horror had previously told me what i should have to endure--i did endure it--but i have not yet forgiven myself for participating in so outrageous a barbarism." "the gentlemen only remain to drink the fair ladies' health," said our st. george very coolly; "and i doubt not all ladies would tell you, did they speak sincerely, that they were heartily glad to get rid of you for half an hour or so. you have no idea, my good fellow, what an agreeable interlude this makes for them: they drink coffee, sprinkle their fans with esprit de rose, refresh their wit, repair their smiles, and are ready to set off again upon a fresh campaign, certain of fresh conquests. but what can st. denis say in defence of a frenchman who makes love to three women at once--as i positively declare i saw you do last night at the opera?" "you mistook the matter altogether, mon cher; i did not make love--i only offered adoration: we are bound to adore the whole sex, and all the petits soins offered in public are but the ceremonies of this our national worship.... we never make love in public, my dear friend--_ce n'est pas dans nos moeurs_. but will you explain to me un peu, why englishmen indulge themselves in the very extraordinary habit of taking their wives to market with that vilaine corde au cou that it is so dreadful to mention, and there sell them for the mesquine somme de trois francs?... ah! be very sure that were there a single frenchman present at your terrible smithfield when this happened, he would buy them all up, and give them their liberty at once." the st. george laughed--but then replied very gravely, that the custom was a very useful one, as it enabled an englishman to get rid of a wife as soon as he found that she was not worth keeping. "but will you tell me," he continued, "how it is that you can be so inhuman as to take your innocent young daughters and sisters, and dispose of them as if they were virginian slaves born on your estates, to the best bidder, without asking the charming little creatures themselves one single word concerning their sentiments on the subject?" "we are too careful of our young daughters and sisters," replied the champion of france, "not to provide them with a suitable alliance and a proper protector before they shall have run the risk of making a less prudent selection for themselves: but, what can put it into the heads of english parents to send out whole ship-loads of young english demoiselles--si belles qu'elles sont!--to the other side of the earth, in order to provide them with husbands?" our knight paused for a moment before he answered, and i believe we all shook for him; but at length he replied very sententiously-- "when nations spread their conquests to _the other side of the earth_, and send forth their generals and their judges to take and to hold possession for them, it is fitting that their distant honours should be shared by their fair countrywomen. but will you explain to me why it is that the venerable grandmothers of france think it necessary to figure in a contre-danse--nay, even in a waltz, as long as they think that they have strength left to prevent their falling on their noses?" "'vive la bagatelle!' is the first lesson we learn in our nurses' arms--and heaven forbid we should any of us live long enough to forget it!" answered the frenchman. "but if the question be not too indiscreet, will you tell me, most glorious st. george, in what school of philosophy it was that englishmen learned to seek satisfaction for their wounded honour in the receipt of a sum of money from the lovers of their wives?" "most puissant st. denis," replied the knight of england, "i strongly recommend you not to touch upon any theme connected with the marriage state as it exists in england; because i opine that it would take you a longer time to comprehend it than you may have leisure to give. it will not take you so long perhaps to inform me how it happens that so gay a people as the french, whose first lesson, as you say, is 'vive la bagatelle!' should make so frequent a practice as they do of inviting either a friend or a mistress to enjoy a tête-à-tête over a pan of charcoal, with doors, windows, and vent-holes of all kinds carefully sealed, to prevent the least possible chance that either should survive?" "it has arisen," replied the frenchman, "from our great intimacy with england--where the month of november is passed by one half of the population in hanging themselves, and by the other half in cutting them down. the charcoal system has been an attempt to improve upon your insular mode of proceeding; and i believe it is, on the whole, considered preferable. but may i ask you in what reign the law was passed which permits every englishman to beat his wife with a stick as large as his thumb; and also whether the law has made any provision for the case of a man's having the gout in that member to such a degree as to swell it to twice its ordinary size?" "it has been decided by a jury of physicians," said our able advocate, "that in all such cases of gout, the decrease of strength is in exact proportion to the increase of size in the pattern thumb, and therefore no especial law has passed our senate concerning its possible variation. as to the law itself, there is not a woman in england who will not tell you that it is as laudable as it is venerable." "the women of england must be angels!" cried the champion of france, suddenly starting from his chair and clasping his hands together with energy,--"angels! and nothing else, or" (looking round him) "they could never smile as you do now, while tyranny so terrible was discussed before them!" what the st. denis thus politely called a smile, was in effect a very hearty laugh--which really and bonâ fide seemed to puzzle him, as to the feeling which gave rise to it. "i will tell you of what you all remind me at this moment," said he, reseating himself: "did you ever see or read 'le médecin malgré lui'?" we answered in the affirmative. "eh bien! ... do you remember a certain scene in which a certain good man enters a house whence have issued the cries of a woman grievously beaten by her husband?" we all nodded assent. "eh bien! ... and do you remember how it is that martine, the beaten wife, receives the intercessor?--'et je veux qu'il me batte, moi.' voyez-vous, mesdames, i am that pitying individual--that kind-hearted m. robert; and you--you are every one of you most perfect martines." "you are positively getting angry, sir champion," said one of the ladies: "and if that happens, we shall incontestably declare you vanquished." "nay, i am vanquished--i yield--i throw up the partie--i see clearly that i know nothing about the matter. what i conceived to be national barbarisms, you evidently cling to as national privileges. allons! ... je me rends!" "we have not given any judgment, however," said i. "but perhaps you are more tired than beaten?--you only want a little repose, and you will then be ready to start anew." "non! absolument non!--but i will willingly change sides, and tell you how greatly i admire england...." the conversation then started off in another direction, and ceased not till the number of parties who passed us in making their exit roused us at length to the necessity of leaving our flowery retreat, and making ours also. letter lxvii. chamber of deputies.--punishment of journalists.--institute for the encouragement of industry.--men of genius. of all the ladies in the world, the english, i believe, are the most anxious to enter a representative chamber. the reason for this is sufficiently obvious,--they are the only ones who are denied this privilege in their own country; though i believe that they are in general rather disposed to consider this exclusion as a compliment, inasmuch as it evidently manifests something like a fear that their conversation might be found sufficiently attractive to draw the solons and lycurguses from their duty. but however well they may be disposed to submit to the privation at home, it is a certain fact that englishwomen dearly love to find themselves in a legislative assembly abroad. there certainly is something more than commonly exciting in the interest inspired by seeing the moral strength of a great people collected together, and in the act of exerting their judgment and their power for the well-being and safety of millions. i suspect, however, that the sublimity of the spectacle would be considerably lessened by a too great familiarity with it; and that if, instead of being occasionally hoisted outside a lantern to catch an uncertain sight and a broken sound of what was passing within the temple, we were in the constant habit of being ushered into so commodious a tribune as we occupied yesterday at the chamber of deputies, we might soon cease to experience the sort of reverence with which we looked down from thence upon the collected wisdom of france. nothing can be more agreeable than the arrangement of this chamber for spectators. the galleries command the whole of it perfectly; and the orator of the hour, if he can be heard by any one, cannot fail of being heard by those who occupy them. another peculiar advantage for strangers is, that the position of every member is so distinctly marked, that you have the satisfaction of knowing at a glance where to find the brawling republican, the melancholy legitimatist, and the active doctrinaire. the ministers, too, are as much distinguished by their place in the chamber as in the red book, (or whatever may be the distinctive symbol of that important record here,) and by giving a franc at the entrance, for a sort of map that they call a "_table figurative_" of the chamber, you know the name and constituency of every member present. this greatly increases the interest felt by a stranger. it is very agreeable to hear a man speak with fervour and eloquence, let him be who he may; but it enhances the pleasure prodigiously to know at the same time who and what he is. if he be a minister, every word has either more or less weight according ... to circumstances; and if he be in opposition, one is also more au fait as to the positive value of his sentiments from being acquainted with the fact. the business before the house when we were there was stirring and interesting enough. it was on the subject of the fines and imprisonment to be imposed on those journalists who had outraged law and decency by their inflammatory publications respecting the trials going on at the luxembourg.--general bugeaud made an excellent speech upon the abuse of the freedom of the press; a subject which certainly has given birth to more "cant," properly so called, than any other i know of. to so strange an extent has this been carried, that it really requires a considerable portion of moral courage to face the question fairly and honestly, and boldly to say, that this unrestricted power, which has for years been dwelt upon as the greatest blessing which can be accorded to the people, is in truth a most fearful evil. if this unrestricted power had been advocated only by demagogues and malcontents, the difficulties respecting the question would be slight indeed, compared to what they are at present; but so many good men have pleaded for it, that it is only with the greatest caution, and the strongest conviction from the result of experience, that the law should interfere to restrain it. nothing, in fact, is so plausible as the sophistry with which a young enthusiast for liberty seeks to show that the unrestrained exercise of intellect must not only be the birthright of every man, but that its exercise must also of necessity be beneficial to the whole human race. how easy is it to talk of the loss which the ever-accumulating mass of human knowledge must sustain from stopping by the strong hand of power the diffusion of speculation and experience! how very easy is it to paint in odious colours the tyranny that would check the divine efforts of the immortal mind!--and yet it is as clear as the bright light of heaven, that not all the sufferings which all the tyrants who ever cursed the earth have brought on man can compare to those which the malign influence of an unchecked press is calculated to inflict upon him. the influence of the press is unquestionably the most awful engine that providence has permitted the hand of man to wield. if used for good, it has the power of raising us higher in the intellectual scale than plato ever dreamed; but if employed for evil, the prince of darkness may throw down his arms before its unmeasured strength--he has no weapon like it. what are the temptations--the seductions of the world which the zealous preacher deprecates, which the watchful parent dreads, compared to the corruption that may glide like an envenomed snake into the bosom of innocence from this insidious agency? where is the retreat that can be secured from it? where is the shelter that can baffle its assaults?--blasphemy, treason, and debauchery are licensed by the act of the legislature to do their worst upon the morals of every people among whom an unrestricted press is established by law. surely, but perhaps slowly, will this truth become visible to all men: and if society still hangs together at all, our grandchildren will probably enjoy the blessing without the curse of knowledge. the head of the serpent has been bruised, and therefore we may hope for this,--but it is not yet. the discussions in the chamber on this important subject, not only yesterday, but on several occasions since the question of these fines has been started, have been very animated and very interesting. never was the right and the wrong in an argument more ably brought out than by some of the speeches on this business: and, on the other hand, never did effrontery go farther than in some of the defences which have been set up for the accused gérans of the journals in question. for instance, m. raspail expresses a very grave astonishment that the chamber of peers, instead of objecting to the liberties which have been taken with them, do not rather return thanks for the useful lesson they have received. he states too in this same _defence_, as he is pleased to call it, that the conductors of the "réformateur" have adopted a resolution to publish without restriction or alteration every article addressed to them by the accused parties or their defenders. this _resolution_, then, is to be pleaded as an excuse for whatever their columns may contain! the concluding argument of this defence is put in the form of a declaration, purporting that whoever dooms a fellow-creature to the horrors of imprisonment ought to undergo the same punishment for the term of twenty years as an expiation of the crime. this is logical. there is a tone of vulgar, insolent defiance in all that is recorded of the manner and language adopted by the partisans of these lyons prisoners, which gives what must, i think, be considered as very satisfactory proof that the party is not one to be greatly feared. after the vote had passed the chamber of peers for bringing to account the persons who subscribed the protest against their proceedings, two individuals who were not included in this vote of reprobation sent in a written petition that they might be so. what was the official answer to this piece of bravado, or whether it received any, i know not; but i was told that some one present proposed that a reply should be returned as follows:-- "the court regrets that the request cannot be granted, inasmuch as the sentence has been already passed on those whom it concerned;--but that if the gentlemen wished it, they might perhaps contrive to get themselves included in the next indictment for treason." * * * * * in the evening we went to the institute for the encouragement of industry. the meeting was held in the salle st. jean, at the hôtel de ville. it was extremely full, and was altogether a display extremely interesting to a stranger. the speeches made by several of the members were in excellently good taste and extremely to the purpose: i heard nothing at all approaching to that popular strain of eloquence which has prevailed of late so much in england upon all similar occasions,--nothing that looked like an attempt to bamboozle the respectable citizens of the metropolis into the belief that they were considered by wise men as belonging to the first class in society. the speeches were admirably calculated to excite ingenuity, emulation, and industry; and i really believe that there was not a single word of nonsense spoken on the occasion. several ingenious improvements and inventions were displayed, and the meeting was considerably égayé by two or three pieces exceedingly well played on a piano-forte of an improved construction. many prizes were bestowed, and received with that sort of genuine pleasure which it is so agreeable to witness;--but these were all for useful improvements in some branch of practical mechanics, and not, as i saw by the newspapers had recently been the case at a similar meeting in london, for essays! one of the prize compositions was, as i perceived, "the best essay on education," from the pen of a young bell-hanger! next year, perhaps, the best essay on medicine may be produced by a young tinker, or a gold medal be awarded to betty the housemaid for a digest of the laws of the land. our long-boasted common sense seems to have emigrated, and taken up its abode here; for, spite of their recent revolution, you hear of no such stuff on this side the water;--mechanics are mechanics still, and though they some of them make themselves exceeding busy in politics, and discuss their different kings with much energy over a bottle of small wine, i have not yet heard of any of the "_operative classes_" throwing aside their files and their hammers to write essays. this queer mixture of occupations reminds me of a conversation i listened to the other day upon the best manner in which a nation could recompense and encourage her literary men. one english gentleman, with no great enthusiasm of manner or expression, quietly observed that he thought a moderate pension, sufficient to prevent the mind from being painfully driven from speculative to practical difficulties, would be the most fitting recompense that the country could offer. "is it possible you can really think so, my dear sir?" replied another, who is an amateur, and a connoisseur, and a bel esprit, and an antiquary, and a fiddler, and a critic, and a poet. "i own my ideas on the subject are very different. good god! ... what a reward for a man of genius!... why, what would you do for an old nurse?" "i would give her a pension too," said the quiet gentleman. "i thought so!" retorted the man of taste. "and do you really feel no repugnance in placing the immortal efforts of genius on a par with rocking a few babies to sleep?--fie on such philosophy!" "and what is the recompense which you would propose, sir?" inquired the advocate for the pension. "i, sir?--i would give the first offices and the first honours of the state to our men of genius: by so doing, a country ennobles itself in the face of the whole earth." "yes, sir.... but the first offices of the state are attended with a good deal of troublesome business, which might, i think, interfere with the intellectual labour you wish to encourage. i should really be very sorry to see dr. southey made secretary-at-war,--and yet he deserves something of his country too." "a man of genius, sir, deserves everything of his country.... it is not a paltry pension can pay him. he should be put forward in parliament ... he should be..." "i think, sir, he should be put at his ease: depend upon it, this would suit him better than being returned knight of the shire for any county in england." "good heaven, sir!"... resumed the enthusiast; but he looked up and his opponent was gone. letter lxviii. walk to the marché des innocens.--escape of a canary bird.--a street orator.--burying-place of the victims of july. i must give you to-day an account of the adventures i have encountered in a _course à pied_ to the marché des innocens. you must know that there is at one of the corners of this said marché a shop sacred to the ladies, which débits all those unclassable articles that come under the comprehensive term of haberdashery,--a term, by the way, which was once interpreted to me by a celebrated etymologist of my acquaintance to signify "_avoir d'acheter_." my magasin "à la mère de famille" in the marché des innocens fully deserves this description, for there are few female wants in which it fails to "avoir d'acheter." it was to this compendium of utilities that i was notably proceeding when i saw before me, exactly on a spot that i was obliged to pass, a throng of people that at the first glance i really thought was a prodigious mob; but at the second, i confess that they shrank and dwindled considerably. nevertheless, it looked ominous; and as i was alone, i felt a much stronger inclination to turn back than to proceed. i paused to decide which i should do; and observing, as i did so, a very respectable-looking woman at the door of a shop very near the tumult, i ventured to address an inquiry to her respecting the cause of this unwonted assembling of the people in so peaceable a part of the town; but, unfortunately, i used a phrase in the inquiry which brought upon me more evident quizzing than one often gets from the civil parisians. my words, i think, were,--"pourriez-vous me dire, madame, ce que signifie tout ce monde?... est-ce qu'il y a quelque mouvement?" this unfortunate word _mouvement_ amused her infinitely; for it is in fact the phrase used in speaking of all the _real_ political hubbubs that have taken place, and was certainly on this occasion as ridiculous as if some one, on seeing forty or fifty people collected together around a pick-pocket or a broken-down carriage in london, were to gravely inquire of his neighbour if the crowd he saw indicated a revolution. "mouvement!" she repeated with a very speaking smile: "est-ce que madame est effrayée?... mouvement ... oui, madame, il y a beaucoup de mouvement; mais cependant c'est sans mouvement.... c'est tout bonnement le petit serin de la marchande de modes là bas qui vient de s'envoler. je puis vous assurer la chose," she added, laughing, "car je l'ai vu partir." "is that all?" said i. "is it possible that the escape of a bird can have brought all these people together?" "oui, madame, rien autre chose.... mais regardez--voilà les agens de police qui s'approchent pour voir ce que c'est--ils en saisissent un, je crois.... ah! ils ont une manière si étonnante de reconnaître leur monde!" this last hint quite decided my return, and i thanked the obliging bonnetière for her communications. "bonjour, madame," she replied with a very mystifying sort of smile,--"bonjour; soyez tranquille--il n'y a pas de danger d'un _mouvement_." i am quite sure she was the wife of a doctrinaire; for nothing affronts the whole party, from the highest to the lowest, so much as to breathe a hint that you think it possible any riot should arise to disturb their dear tranquillity. on this occasion, however, i really had no such matter in my thoughts, and sinned only by a blundering phrase. i returned home to look for an escort; and having enlisted one, set forth again for the marché des innocens, which i reached this time without any other adventure than being splashed twice, and nearly run over thrice. having made my purchases, i was setting my face towards home again, when my companion proposed that we should go across the market to look at the monuments raised over some half-dozen or half-score of revolutionary heroes who fell and were buried on a spot at no great distance from the fountain, on the th july . when we reached the little enclosure, we remarked a man, who looked, i thought, very much like a printer's devil, leaning against the rail, and haranguing a girl who stood near him with her eyes wide open as if she were watching for, as well as listening to, every word which should drop from his oracular lips. a little boy, almost equally attentive to his eloquence, occupied the space between them, and completed the group. i felt a strong inclination to hear what he was saying, and stationed myself doucement, doucement at a short distance, looking, i believe, almost as respectfully attentive as the girl for whose particular advantage he was evidently holding forth. he perceived our approach, but appeared nowise annoyed by it; on the contrary, it seemed to me that he was pleased to have an increased audience, for he evidently threw more energy into his manner, waved his right hand with more dignity, and raised his voice higher. i will not attempt to give you his discourse verbatim, for some of his phrases were so extraordinary, or at least so new to me, that i cannot recall them; but the general purport of it made an impression both on me and my companion, from its containing so completely the very soul and essence of the party to which he evidently belonged. the theme was the cruel treatment of the amiable, patriotic, and noble-minded prisoners at the luxembourg. "what did we fight for?" ... said he, pointing to the tombs within the enclosure: "was it not to make france and frenchmen free?... and do they call it freedom to be locked up in a prison ... actually locked up?... what! can a slave be worse than that? slaves have got chains on ... qu'est-ce que cela fait?... if a man is locked up, he cannot go farther than if he was chained--c'est clair ... it is all one, and frenchmen are again slaves.... this is what we have got by our revolution...." the girl, who continued to stand looking at him with undeviating attention, and, as i presume, with proportionate admiration, turned every now and then a glance our way, to see what effect it produced on us. my attention, at least, was quite as much riveted on the speaker as her own; and i would willingly have remained listening to his reasons, which were quite as "plentiful as blackberries," why no frenchman in the world, let him do what he would, (except, i suppose, when they obey their king, like the unfortunate victims of popular tyranny at ham,) should ever be restricted in his freedom--because freedom was what they fought for--and being in prison was not being free--and so on round and round in his logical circle. but as his vehemence increased, so did his audience; and as i did not choose to be present at a second "mouvement" on the same day, or at any rate of running the risk of again seeing the police approaching a throng of which i made one, i walked off. the last words i heard from him, as he pointed piteously to the tombs, were--"v'là les restes de notre révolution de juillet!" in truth, this fellow talked treason so glibly, that i felt very glad to get quietly away; but i was also glad to have fallen in with such an admirable display of popular eloquence, with so little trouble or inconvenience. we lingered long enough within reach of the tombs, while listening to this man, for me to read and note the inscription on one of them. the name and description of the "victime de juillet" who lay beneath it was, "hapel, du département de la sarthe, tué le juillet ." [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. "v'la les restes de notre revolution de juillet". london. published by richard bentley. .] nothing can be more trumpery than the appearance of this burying-place of "the immortals," with its flags and its foppery of spears and halberds. there is another similar to it in the most eastern court of the louvre, and, i believe, in several other places. if it be deemed advisable to leave memorials upon these unconsecrated graves, it would be in better taste to make them of such dignity as might excuse their erection in these conspicuous situations; but at present the effect is decidedly ludicrous. if the bodies of those who fell are really deposited within these fantastical enclosures, it would show much more reverence for them and their cause if they were all to receive christian burial at père lachaise, with all such honours, due or undue, as might suit the feelings of the time; and over them it would be well to record, as a matter of historical interest, the time and manner of their death. this would look like the result of national feeling, and have something respectable in it; which certainly cannot be said of the faded flaunting flags and tassels which now wave over them, so much in the style of decorations in the barn of a strolling company of comedians. as we left the spot, my attention was directed to the rue de la ferronnerie, which is close to the marché des innocens, and in which street henri quatre lost his life by the assassin hand of ravaillac. it struck me as we talked of this event, and of the many others to which the streets of this beautiful but turbulent capital have been witness, that a most interesting--and, if accompanied by good architectural engravings, a most beautiful--work might be compiled on the same plan, or at least following the same idea as mr. leigh hunt has taken in his work on the interesting localities of london. a history of the streets of paris might contain a mixture of tragedy, comedy, and poetry--of history, biography, and romance, that might furnish volumes of "entertaining knowledge," which being the favourite _genre_ amidst the swelling mass of modern literature, could hardly fail of meeting with success. how pleasantly might an easy writer go on anecdotizing through century after century, as widely and wildly as he pleased, and yet sufficiently tied together to come legitimately under one common title; and how wide a grasp of history might one little spot sometimes contain! where some scattered traces of the stones may still be seen that were to have been reared into a palace for the king of rome, once stood the convent of the "visitation de sainte marie," founded by henriette the beautiful and the good, after the death of her martyred husband, our first charles; within whose church were enshrined her heart, and those of her daughter, and of james the second of england. where english nuns took refuge from english protestantism, is now--most truly english still--a manufactory for spinning cotton. where stood the most holy altar of le verbe incarné, now stands a caserne. in short, it is almost impossible to take a single step in paris without discovering, if one does but take the trouble of inquiring a little, some tradition attached to it that might contribute information to such a work. i have often thought that a history of the convents of paris during that year of barbarous profanation , would make, if the materials were well collected, one of the most interesting books in the world. the number of nuns returned upon the world from the convents of that city alone amounted to many thousands; and when one thinks of all the varieties of feeling which this act must have occasioned, differing probably from the brightest joy for recovered hope and life, to the deepest desolation of wretched helplessness, it seems extraordinary that so little of its history has reached us. paris is delightful enough, as every one knows, to all who look at it, even with the superficial glance that seeks no farther than its external aspect at the present moment; but it would, i imagine, be interesting beyond all other cities of the modern world if carefully travelled through with a consummate antiquarian who had given enough learned attention to the subject to enable him to do justice to it. there is something so piquant in the contrasts offered by some localities between their present and their past conditions,--such records furnished at every corner, of the enormous greatness of the human animal, and his most _chétif_ want of all stability--traces of such wit and such weakness, such piety and profanation, such bland and soft politeness, and such ferocious barbarism,--that i do not believe any other page of human nature could furnish the like. i am sure, at least, that no british records could furnish pictures of native manners and native acts so dissimilar at different times from each other as may be found to have existed here. the most striking contrast that we can show is between the effects of oliver cromwell's rule and that of charles the second; but this was unity and concord compared to the changes in character which have repeatedly taken place in france. that this contrast with us was, speaking of the general mass of the population, little more than the mannerism arising from adopting the style of "the court" for the time being, is proved by the wondrously easy transition from one tone to the other which followed the restoration. this was chiefly the affair of courtiers, or of public men, who as necessarily put on the manners of their master as a domestic servant does a livery; but englishmen were still in all essentials the same. not so the french when they threw themselves headlong, from one extremity of the country to the other, into all the desperate religious wildness which marks the history of the ligue; not so the french when from the worship of their monarchs they suddenly turned as at one accord and flew at their throats like bloodhounds. were they then the same people?--did they testify any single trait of moral affinity to what the world thought to be their national character one short year before? then again look at them under napoleon, and look at them under louis-philippe. it is a great, a powerful, a magnificent people, let them put on what outward seeming they will; but i doubt if there be any nation in the world that would so completely throw out a theorist who wished to establish the doctrine of distinct races as the french. you will think that i have made a very circuitous ramble from the marché des innocens; but i have only given you the results of the family speculation we fell into after returning thence, which arose, i believe, from my narrating how i had passed from the tombeaux of the _victimes de juillet_ to the place where henri quatre received his death. this set us to meditate on the different political objects of the slain; and we all agreed that it was a much easier task to define those of the king than those of the subject. there is every reason in the world to believe that the royal henri wished the happiness and prosperity of france; but the guessing with any appearance of correctness what might be the especial wish and desire of the sieur hapel du département de la sarthe, is a matter infinitely more difficult to decide. letter lxix. a philosophical spectator.--collection of baron sylvestre.--hôtel des monnaies.--musée d'artillerie. we have been indebted to m. j***, the same obliging and amiable friend of whom i have before spoken, for one or two more very delightful mornings. we saw many things, and we talked of many more. m. j*** is inexhaustible in piquant and original observation, and possesses such extensive knowledge on all those subjects which are the most intimately connected with the internal history of france during the last eventful forty years, as to make every word he utters not only interesting, but really precious. when i converse with him, i feel that i have opened a rich vein of information, which if i had but time and opportunity to derive from it all it could give, would positively leave me ignorant of nothing i wish to know respecting the country. the memoirs of such a man as m. j*** would be a work of no common value. the military history of the period is as familiar to all the world as the marches of alexander or the conquests of cæsar; the political history of the country during the same interval is equally well known; its literary history speaks for itself: but such memoirs as i am sure m. j*** could write, would furnish a picture that is yet wanting. we are not without full and minute details of all the great events which have made france the principal object for all europe to stare at for the last half-century; but these details have uniformly proceeded from individuals who have either been personally engaged in or nearly connected with these stirring events; and they are accordingly all tinctured more or less with such strong party feeling, as to give no very impartial colouring to every circumstance they recount. the inevitable consequence of this is, that, with all our extensive reading on the subject, we are still far from having a correct impression of the internal and domestic state of the country throughout this period. we know a great deal about old nobles who have laid down their titles and become men of the people, and about new nobles who have laid down their muskets to become men of the court,--of ministers, ambassadors, and princes who have dropped out of sight, and of parvenus of all sorts who have started into it; but, meanwhile, what do we know of the mass--not of the people--of them also we know quite enough,--but of the gentlemen, who, as each successive change came round, felt called upon by no especial duty to quit their honourable and peaceable professions in order to resist or advance them? yet of these it is certain there must be hundreds who, on the old principle that "lookers-on see most of the game," are more capable of telling us what effect these momentous changes really produced than any of those who helped to cause them. m. j*** is one of these; and i could not but remark, while listening to him, how completely the tone in which he spoke of all the public events he had witnessed was that of a philosophical spectator. he seemed disposed, beyond any frenchman i have yet conversed with, to give to each epoch its just character, and to each individual his just value: i never before had the good fortune to hear any citizen of the great nation converse freely, calmly, reasonably, without prejudice or partiality, of that most marvellous individual napoleon. it is not necessary to attempt recalling the precise expressions used respecting him; for the general impression left on my mind is much more deeply engraven than the language which conveyed it: besides, it is possible that my inferences may have been more conclusive and distinct than i had any right to make them, and yet so sincerely the result of the casual observations scattered here and there in a conversation that was anything but _suivie_, that were i to attempt to repeat the words which conveyed them, i might be betrayed into involuntary and unconscious exaggeration. the impression, then, which i received is, that he was a most magnificent tyrant. his projects seem to have been conceived with the vastness and energy of a moral giant, even when they related to the internal regulation only of the vast empire he had seized upon; but the mode in which he brought them into action was uniformly marked by barefaced, unshrinking, uncompromising tyranny. the famous ordonnances of charles dix were no more to be compared, as an act of arbitrary power, to the daily deeds of napoleon, than the action of a dainty pair of golden sugar-tongs to that of the firmest vice that ever vulcan forged. but this enormous, this tremendous power, was never wantonly employed; and the country when under his dominion had more frequent cause to exclaim in triumph-- "'tis excellent to have a giant's strength," than to add in suffering, "but tyrannous to use it like a giant." it was the conviction of this--the firm belief that the glory of france was the object of her autocrat, which consecrated and confirmed his power while she bent her proud neck to his yoke, and which has since and will for ever make his name sound in the ears of her children like a pæan to their own glory. what is there which men, and most especially frenchmen, will not suffer and endure to hear that note? had napoleon been granted to them in all his splendour as their emperor for ever, they would for ever have remained his willing slaves. when, however, he was lost to them, there is every reason to believe that france would gladly have knit together the severed thread of her ancient glory with her hopes of future greatness, had the act by which it was to be achieved been her own: but it was the hand of an enemy that did it--the hand of a triumphant enemy; and though a host of powerful, valiant, noble, and loyal-hearted frenchmen welcomed the son of st. louis to his lawful throne with as deep and sincere fidelity as ever warmed the heart of man, there was still a national feeling of wounded pride which gnawed the hearts of the multitude, and even in the brightest days of the restoration prevented their rightful king from being in their eyes what he would have been had they purchased his return by the act of drawing their swords, instead of laying them down. it was a greatness that was thrust upon them--and for that reason, and i truly believe for that reason only, it was distasteful. in days of old, if it happened by accident that a king was unpopular, it mattered very little to the general prosperity of his country, and still less to the general peace of europe. even if hatred went so far as to raise the hand of an assassin against him, the tranquillity of the rest of the human race was but little affected thereby. but in these times the effect is very different: disaffection has been taught to display itself in acts that may at one stroke overthrow the prosperity of millions at home, and endanger the precious blessings of peace abroad; and it becomes therefore a matter of importance to the whole of europe that every throne established within her limits should be sustained not only by its own subjects, but by a system of mutual support that may insure peace and security to all. to do this where a king is rejected by the majority of the people, is, to say the least of it, a very difficult task; and it will probably be found that to support power firmly and legally established, will contribute more to the success of this system of mutual support for the preservation of universal tranquillity, than any crusade that could be undertaken in any part of the world for the purpose of substituting an exiled dynasty for a reigning one. this is the _doctrine_ to which i have now listened so long and so often, that i have ceased all attempts to refute it. i have, however, while stating it, been led to wander a little from those reminiscences respecting fair france which i found so interesting, coming forth as they did, as if by accident, from the rich storehouse of my agreeable friend's memory: but i believe it would be quite in vain were i to go back to the point at which i deviated, for i could do justice neither to the matter nor the manner of the conversations which afforded me so much pleasure;--i believe therefore that i had better spare you any more politics just at present, and tell you something of several things which we had the pleasure of seeing with him. one of these was baron gros' magnificent sketch, if i must so call a very finished painting, of his fine picture of the plague of jaffa. a week or two before i had seen the picture itself at the luxembourg, and felt persuaded then that it was by far the finest work of the master; but this first developement of his idea is certainly finer still. it is a beautiful composition, and there are groups in it that would not have lowered the reputation of michael angelo. the severe simplicity of the emperor's figure and position is in the very purest taste. this very admirable work was, when we saw it, in the possession of the baron de sylvestre, whose collection, without having the dignity of a gallery, has some beautiful things in it. our visit to it and its owner was one of great interest to me. i have seldom seen any one with a more genuine and enthusiastic love of art. he has one cabinet,--it is, i believe, his own bed-room,--which almost from floor to ceiling is hung with little gems, so closely set together as to produce at first sight the effect of almost inextricable confusion;--portraits, landscapes, and historic sketches--pencil crayon, water-colour and oil--with frames and without frames, all blended together in utter defiance of all symmetry or order whatever. but it was a rich confusion, and many a collector would have rejoiced at receiving permission to seize upon a chance handful of the heterogeneous mass of which it was composed. curious, well-authenticated, original drawings of the great masters, though reduced to a mere rag, have always great interest in my eyes,--and the baron de sylvestre has many such: but it was his own air of comfortable domestic intimacy with every scrap, however small, on the lofty and thickly-studded walls of this room, which delighted me;--it reminded me of denon, who many years ago showed me his large and very miscellaneous collection with equal enthusiasm. i dearly love to meet with people who are really and truly in earnest. on the same morning that we made this agreeable acquaintance, we passed an hour or two at the hôtel des monnaies, which is situated on the quai conti, and, i believe, on the exact spot where the old hôtel de conti formerly stood. the building, like all the public establishments in france, is very magnificent, and we amused ourselves very agreeably with our intelligent and amiable cicisbeo in examining an immense collection of coins and medals. this collection was formerly placed at the louvre, but transferred to this hôtel as soon as its erection was completed. the medals, as usual in all such examinations, occupied the greater part of our time and attention. it is quite a gallery of portraits, and many of them of the highest historical interest: but perhaps our amusement was as much derived from observing how many ignoble heads, who had no more business there than so many turnips, had found place nevertheless, by the outrageous vanity either of themselves or their friends, amidst kings, heroes, poets, and philosophers. it is perfectly astonishing to see how many such as these have sought a bronze or brazen immortality at the hôtel des monnaies: every medal struck in france has an impression preserved here, and it is probably the knowledge of this fact which has tempted these little people so preposterously to distinguish themselves. on another occasion we went with the same agreeable escort to visit the national museum of ancient armour. this musée d'artillerie is not quite so splendid a spectacle as the same species of exhibition at the tower; but there are a great many beautiful things there too. some exquisitely-finished muskets and arquebuses of considerable antiquity, and splendid with a profusion of inlaid ivory, mother-of-pearl, and precious stones, are well arranged for exhibition, as are likewise some complete suits of armour of various dates;--among them is one worn in battle by the unfortunate maid of orleans. but this is not only a curious antiquarian exhibition,--it is in truth a national institution wherein military men may study the art of war from almost its first barbarous simplicity up to its present terrible perfection. the models of all manner of slaughtering instruments are beautifully executed, and must be of great interest to all who wish to study the theory of that science which may be proved "par raison démonstrative," as molière observes, to consist wholly "dans l'art de donner et ne pas recevoir." but i believe the object which most amused me in the exhibition, was a written notice, repeated at intervals along all the racks on which were placed the more modern and ordinary muskets, to this effect:-- "manquant, au second rang de ce râtelier d'armes, environ quatre-vingt carabines à rouet, _ornées d'incrustation d'ivoire et de nacre, dans le genre de celles du premier rang_. toutes celles qu'on voit ici ont servi dans les journées de juillet, et ont été rendues après. les personnes qui auraient encore celles qui manquent sont priées de les rapporter." there is such a superlative degree of _bonhomie_ in the belief that because all the ordinary muskets which were seized upon by the july patriots were returned, those also adorned with "incrustations d'ivoire et de nacre" would be returned too, that it was quite impossible to restrain a smile at it. such unwearied confidence and hope deserve a better reward than, i fear, they will meet: the "incrustations d'ivoire et de nacre" are, i doubt not, in very safe keeping, and have been converted, by the patriot hands that seized them, to other purposes, as dear to the hearts they belonged to as that of firing at the royal guard over a barricade. our doctrinaire friend himself confessed that he thought it was time these naïve notices should be removed. it was, i think, in the course of this excursion that our friend gave me an anecdote which i think is curious and characteristic. upon some occasion which led to a private interview between charles dix and himself, some desultory conversation followed the discussion of the business which led to the audience. the name of malesherbes, the intrepid defender of louis seize, was mentioned by our friend. the monarch frowned. "sire!"--was uttered almost involuntarily. "il nous a fait beaucoup de mal," said the king in reply to the exclamation--adding with emphasis, "mais il l'a payé par sa tête!" letter lxx. concert in the champs elysées.--horticultural exhibition.--forced flowers.--republican hats.--carlist hats.--juste-milieu hats.--popular funeral. the advancing season begins to render the atmosphere of the theatres insupportable, and even a crowded soirée is not so agreeable as it has been; so last night we sought our amusement in listening to the concert "en plein air" in the champs elysées. i hear that you too have been enjoying this new delight of al-fresco music in london. france and england are exceedingly like the interlocutors of an eclogue, where first one puts forth all his power and poetry to enchant the world, and then the other "takes up the wondrous tale," and does his utmost to exceed and excel, and so go on, each straining every nerve to outdo the other. thus it is with the two great rivals who perform their various feats à l'envi l'un de l'autre on the opposite sides of the channel. no sooner does one burst out with some new and bright idea which like a newly-kindled torch makes for awhile all other lights look dim, than the other catches it, finds out some ingenious way of making it his own, and then grows as proud and as fond of it as if it had been truly the offspring of his own brain. but in this strife and this stealing neither party has any right to reproach the other, for the exchange is very nearly at par between them. a very few years ago, half a dozen scraping fiddlers, and now and then a screaming "sirène ambulante," furnished all the music of the champs elysées; but now there is the prettiest "salon de concert en plein air" imaginable. by the way, i confess that this phrase "salon de concert en plein air" has something rather paradoxical in it: nevertheless, it is perfectly correct; the concerts of the champs elysées are decidedly _en plein air_, and yet they are enclosed within what may very fairly be called a salon. the effect of this fanciful arrangement is really very pretty; and if you have managed your echo of this agreeable fantasia as skilfully, an idle london summer evening has gained much. shall i tell you how it has been done in paris? in the lower part of the champs elysées, a round space is enclosed by a low rail. within this, to the extent of about fifteen or twenty feet, are ranged sundry circular rows of chairs that are sheltered by a light awning. within these, a troop of graceful nymphs, formed of white plaster, but which a spectator if he be amiably disposed may take for white marble, stand each one with a lamp upon her head, forming altogether a delicate halo, which, as daylight fades, throws a faint but sufficient degree of illumination upon the company. in the centre of the enclosure rises a stage, covered by a tent-like canopy and brilliant as lamps can make it. here the band is stationed, which is sufficiently good and sufficiently full to produce a very delightful effect: it must indeed be very villanous music which, listened to while the cool breeze of a summer's evening refreshes the spirit, should not be agreeable. the whole space between the exterior awning and the centre pavilion appropriated to the band is filled with chairs, which, though so very literally en plein air, were all filled with company, and the effect of the whole thing was quite delightful. the price of entrance to all this prettiness is one franc! this, by the bye, is a part of the arrangement which i suspect is not rivalled in england. neither will you, i believe, soon learn the easy sort of unpremeditated tone in which it is resorted to. it is ten to one, i think, that no one--no ladies at least--will ever go to your al-fresco concert without arranging a party beforehand; and there will be a question of whether it shall be before tea or after tea, in a carriage or on foot, &c. &c. but here it is enjoyed in the very spirit of sans souci:--you take your evening ramble--the lamps sparkle in the distance, or the sound of the instruments reaches your ears, and this is all the preparation required. and then, as you may always be perfectly sure that everybody you know in paris is occupied as well as yourself in seeking amusement, the chances are greatly in your favour that you will not reach the little bureau at the gate without encountering some friend or friends whom you may induce to _promener_ their idleness the same way. i often marvel, as i look around me in our walks and drives, where all the sorrow and suffering which we know to be the lot of man contrives to hide itself at paris. everywhere else you see people looking anxious and busy at least, if not quite woe-begone and utterly miserable: but here the glance of every eye is a gay one; and even though this may perhaps be only worn in the sunshine and put on just as other people put on their hats and bonnets, the effect is delightfully cheering to the spirits of a wandering stranger. it was we, i think, who set the example of an annual public exhibition by an horticultural society. it has been followed here, but not as yet upon the same splendid scale as in london and its neighbourhood. the orangery of the louvre is the scene of this display, which is employed for the purpose as soon as the royal trees that pass their winters in it are taken out to the gardens of the tuileries. i never on any occasion remember having been exposed to so oppressive a degree of heat as on the morning that we visited this exhibition. the sun shone with intolerable splendour upon the long range of windows, and the place was so full of company, that it was with the greatest difficulty we crept on an inch at a time from one extremity of the hall to the other. some of the african plants were very fine; but in general the show was certainly not very magnificent. i suspect that the extreme heat of the apartment had considerably destroyed the beauty of some of the more delicate flowering plants, for there were scarcely any of the frail blossoms of our hothouse treasures in perfection. the collection of geraniums was, compared to those i have seen in england, very poor, and so little either of novelty or splendour about them, that i suspect the cultivation of this lovely race, and the production of a new variety in it, is not a matter of so great interest in france as in england. the climate of france is perhaps more congenial to delicate flowers than our own; and yet it appears to me that, with some few exceptions, such as oranges and the laurier-rose, i have seen nothing in paris this year equal to the specimens found at the first-rate florists' round london. even in the decoration of rooms, though flowers are often abundant here, they are certainly less choice than with us; and, excepting in one or two instances, i have observed no plants whatever forced into premature bloom to gratify the pampered taste of the town amateur. i do not, however, mention this as a defect; on the contrary, i perfectly agree in the truth of rousseau's observation, that such impatient science by no means increases the sum of the year's enjoyment. "ce n'est pas parer l'hiver," he says,--"c'est déparer le printemps:" and the truth of this is obvious, not only in the indifference with which those who are accustomed to receive this unnatural and precocious produce welcome the abounding treasures of that real spring-time which comes when it pleases heaven to send it, but also in the worthless weakness of the untimely product itself. i certainly know many who appear to gaze with ecstasy on the pale hectic-looking bloom of a frail rose-tree in the month of february, who can walk unmoved in the spicy evenings of june amidst thousands of rich blossoms all opening their bright bosoms to the breeze in the sweet healthy freshness of unforced nature: yet i will not assert that this proceeds from affectation--indeed, i verily believe that fine ladies do in all sincerity think that roses at christmas are really much prettier and sweeter things than roses in june; but, at least, i may confess that i think otherwise. among the numerous company assembled to look at this display of exotics, was a figure perhaps the most remarkably absurd that we have yet seen in the grotesque extremity of his republican costume. we watched him for some time with considerable interest,--and the more so, as we perceived that he was an object of curiosity to many besides ourselves. in truth, his pointed hat and enormous lapels out-heroded herod; and i presume the attention he excited was occasioned more by the extravagant excess than the unusual style of his costume. a gentleman who was with us at the orangery told me an anecdote respecting a part of this sort of symbolic attire, which had become, he said, the foundation of a vaudeville, but which nevertheless was the record of a circumstance which actually occurred at paris. a young provincial happened to arrive in the capital just at the time that these hieroglyphic habiliments were first brought into use, and having occasion for a new hat, repaired to the magasin of a noted chapelier, where everything of the newest invention was sure to be found. the young man, alike innocent of politics and ignorant of its symbols, selected a hat as high and as pointed as that of the toughest roundhead at the court of cromwell, and sallied forth, proud of being one of the first in a new fashion, to visit a young relative who was en pension at an establishment rather celebrated for its freely-proclaimed carlist propensities. his young cousin, he was told, was enjoying the hour of recreation with his schoolfellows in the play-ground behind the mansion. he desired to be led to him; and was accordingly shown the way to the spot, where about fifty young legitimatists were assembled. no sooner, however, had he and his hat obtained the entrée to this enclosure, than the most violent and hideous yell was heard to issue from every part of it. at first the simple-minded provincial smiled, from believing that this uproar, wild as it was, might be intended to express a juvenile welcome; and having descried his young kinsman on the opposite side of the enclosure, he walked boldly forward to reach him. but, before he had proceeded half a dozen steps, he was assailed on all sides by pebbles, tops, flying hoops, and well-directed handfuls of mud. startled, astounded, and totally unable to comprehend the motives for so violent an assault, he paused for a moment, uncertain whether to advance boldly, or shelter himself by flight from an attack which seemed every moment to increase in violence. ere he had well decided what course to pursue, his bold-hearted little relative rushed up to him, screaming, as loud as his young voice would allow,--"sauve-toi, mon cousin! sauve-toi! Ôte ton vilain chapeau!... c'est le chapeau! le méchant chapeau!" the young man again stopped short, in the hope of being able to comprehend the vociferations of his little friend; but the hostile missives rang about his ears with such effect, that he suddenly came to the decision at which falstaff arrived before him, and feeling that, at least on the present occasion, discretion was the better part of valour, he turned round, and made his escape as speedily as possible, muttering, however, as he went, "qu'est-ce que c'est donc qu'un chapeau à-la-mode pour en faire ce vacarme de diable?" having made good his retreat, he repaired without delay to the hatter of whom he had purchased this offensive article, described the scene he had passed through, and requested an explanation of it. "mais, monsieur," replied the unoffending tradesman, "c'est tout bonnement un chapeau républicain;" adding, that if he had known monsieur's principles were not in accordance with a high crown, he would most certainly have pointed out the possible inconvenience of wearing one. as he spoke, he uncovered and displayed to view one of those delicate light-coloured hats which are known at paris to speak the loyal principles of the wearer. "this hat," said he, gracefully presenting it, "may be safely worn by monsieur even if he chose to take his seat in the extremest corner of the côté droit." once more the inexperienced youth walked forth; and this time he directed his steps towards the stupendous plaster elephant on the place de la bastile, now and ever the favourite object of country curiosity. he had taken correct instructions for his route, and proceeded securely by the gay succession of boulevards towards the spot he sought. for some time he pursued his pleasant walk without any adventure or interruption whatever; but as he approached the region of the porte st. martin sundry little _sifflemens_ became audible, and ere he had half traversed the boulevard du temple he became fully convinced that whatever fate might have awaited his new, new hat at the pensionnat of his little cousin, both he and it ran great risk of being rolled in the mud which stagnated in sullen darkness near the spot where once stood the awful temple. no sooner did he discover that the covering of his unlucky head was again obnoxious, than he hastened once more to the treacherous hatter, as he now fully believed him to be, and in no measured tone expressed his indignation of a line of conduct which had thus twice exposed the tranquillity--nay, perhaps the life of an unoffending individual to the fury of the mob. the worthy hatter with all possible respect and civility repelled the charge, declaring that his only wish and intention was to accommodate every gentleman who did him the honour to enter his magasin with exactly that species of hat which might best accord with his taste and principles. "if, however," he added with a modest bow, "monsieur really intended to condescend so far as to ask his advice as to which species of hat it was best and safest to wear at the present time in paris, he should beyond the slightest shadow of doubt respectfully recommend the _juste milieu_." the young provincial followed his advice; and the moral of the story is, that he walked in peace and quietness through the streets of paris as long as he stayed. * * * * * on our way home this morning we met a most magnificent funeral array: i reckoned twenty carriages, but the _piétons_ were beyond counting. i forget the name of the individual, but it was some one who had made himself very popular among the people. there was not, however, the least appearance of riot or confusion; nor were there any military to _protect the procession_,--a dignity which is always accorded by this thoughtful government to every person whose funeral is likely to be honoured by too great a demonstration of popular affection. every man as it passed took off his hat; but this they would have done had no cortége accompanied the hearse, for no one ever meets a funeral in france without it. but though everything had so peaceful an air, we still felt disposed to avoid the crowd, and to effect this, turned from the quay down a street that led to the palais royal. here there was no pavement; and the improved cleanliness of paris, which i had admitted an hour before to a _native_ who had remarked upon it, now appeared so questionable to some of my party, that i was challenged to describe what it had been before this improvement took place. but notwithstanding this want of faith, which was perhaps natural enough in the rue des bons enfans, into which we had blundered, it is nevertheless a positive fact that paris is greatly improved in this respect; and if the next seven years do as much towards its purification as the last have done, we may reasonably hope that in process of time it will be possible to drive--nay, even walk through its crowded streets without the aid either of aromatic vinegar or eau de cologne. much, however, still remains to be done; and done it undoubtedly will be, from one end of the "_belle ville_" to the other, if no barricades arise to interfere with the purifying process. but english noses must still have a little patience. letter lxxi. minor french novelists. it is not long since, in writing to you of modern french works of imagination, i avowed my great and irresistible admiration for the high talent manifested in some of the writings published under the signature of george sand; and i remember that the observations i ventured to make respecting them swelled into such length as to prevent my then uttering the protest which all christian souls are called upon to make against the ordinary productions of the minor french story-tellers of the day. i must therefore now make this amende to the cause of morality and truth, and declare to you with all sincerity, that i believe nothing can be more contemptible, yet at the same time more deeply dangerous to the cause of virtue, than the productions of this unprincipled class of writers. while conversing a short time ago on the subject of these noxious ephemera with a gentleman whose professional occupations of necessity bring him into occasional contact with them, he struck off for my edification a sketch which he assured me might stand as a portrait, with wonderfully little variation, for any individual of the fraternity. it may lose something of its raciness by the processes of recollecting and translating; but i flatter myself that i shall be able to preserve enough of the likeness to justify my giving it to you. "these authors," said their lively historian, "swarm _au sixième_ in every quarter of paris. for the most part, they are either idle scholars who, having taken an aversion to the vulgar drudgery of education, determine upon finding a short cut to the temple of fame; or else they are young artisans--journeymen workers at some craft or other, which brings them in just francs enough to sustain an honest decent existence, but wholly insufficient to minister to the sublime necessities of revolutionary ambition. as perfect a sympathy appears to exist in the politics of all these gentry as in their doctrine of morals: they all hold themselves ready for rebellion at the first convenient opportunity--be it against louis, charles, henri, or philippe, it is all one; rebellion against constituted and recognised authority being, according to their high-minded code, their first duty, as well as their dearest recreation. they must wait, however, till the fitting moment come; and, meanwhile, how may they better the condition in which the tyranny of kings and law-makers has placed them? shall they listen to the inward whisperings which tell them, that, being utterly unfitted to do their duty in that state of life to which it has pleased god to call them, they must of necessity and by the inevitable nature of things be fitted for some other?... what may it be?... treason and rapine, of course, if time be ripe for it--but _en attendant_? to trace on an immortal page the burning thoughts that mar their handicraft ... to teach the world what fools the sages who have lived, and spoken, and gone to rest, would make of them ... to cause the voice of passion to be heard high above that of law or of gospel.... yes ... it is thus they will at once beguile the tedious hours that must precede another revolution, and earn by the noble labours of genius the luxuries denied to grovelling industry. this sublime occupation once decided on, it follows as a necessary result that they must begin by awakening all those tender sympathies of nature, which are to the imagination what oil is to the lamp. a favourite grisette is fixed upon, and invited to share the glory, the cabbage, the inspiration, and the garret of the exalted journeyman or truant scholar. it is said that the whole of this class of authors are supposed to place particular faith in that tinsel sentiment, so prettily and poetically untrue,-- "love, light as air, at sight of human ties, spreads his bright wings, and in a moment flies;" and the inspired young man gently insinuates his unfettered ideas on the subject to the chosen fair one, who, if her acquaintance has lain much among these "fully-developed intelligences," is not unfrequently found to be as sublime in her notions of such subjects as himself; so the interesting little ménage is monté on the immortal basis of freedom. then comes the literary labour, and its monstrous birth--a volume of tales, glowing with love and murder, blasphemy and treason, or downright obscenity, affecting to clothe itself in the playful drapery of wit. it is not difficult to find a publisher who knows where to meet with young customers ever ready to barter their last sous for such commodities, and the bargain is made. at the actual sight and at the actual touch of the unhoped-for sum of three hundred francs, the flood of inspiration rises higher still. more hideous love and bloodier murders, more phrensied blasphemy and deadlier treason, follow; and thus the fair metropolis of france is furnished with intellectual food for the craving appetites of the most useful and productive part of its population. can we wonder that the morgue is seldom untenanted?... or that the tender hand of affection is so often seen to pillow its loved victim where the fumes of charcoal shall soon extinguish a life too precious to be prolonged in a world where laws still exist, and where man must live, and woman too, by the sweat of their brows? it was some time after the conversation in which i received this sketch, that i fell into company with an englishman who enjoys the reputation of high cultivation and considerable talent, and who certainly is not without that species of power in conversation which is produced by the belief that hyperbole is the soul of eloquence, and the stout defence of a paradox the highest proof of intellectual strength. to say i _conversed_ with this gifted individual would hardly be correct; but i listened to him, and gained thereby additional confirmation of a fact which i had repeatedly heard insisted on in paris, that admiration for the present french school of décousu writing is manifested by critics of a higher class in england than could be found to tolerate it in france. "have you read the works of the _young men_ of france?" was the comprehensive question by which this gentleman opened the flood-gates of the eloquence which was intended to prove, that without having studied well the bold and sublime compositions which have been put forth by this class, no one had a right to form a judgment of the existing state of human intelligence. for myself, i confess that my reading in this line, though greatly beyond what was agreeable to my taste, has never approached anything that deserved the name of study; and, indeed, i should as soon have thought of forming an estimate of the "existing state of human intelligence" from the height to which the boys of paris made their kites mount from the top of montmartre, as from the compositions to which he alluded: but, nevertheless, i listened to him very attentively; and i only wish that my memory would serve me, that i might repeat to you all the fine things he said in praise of a multitude of authors, of whom, however, it is more than probable you never heard, and of works that it is hardly possible you should have ever seen. it would be difficult to give you any just idea of the energy and enthusiasm which he manifested on this subject. his eyes almost started from his head, and the blood rushed over his face and temples, when one of the party hinted that the taste in which most of these works were composed was not of the most classic elegance, nor their apparent object any very high degree of moral utility. it is a well-known fact that people are seldom angry when they are quite in the right; and i believe it is equally rare to see such an extremity of vehemence as this individual displayed in asserting the high intellectual claims of his favourites exhibited on any question where reason and truth are on the side espoused by the speaker. i never saw the veins of the forehead swell in an attempt to prove that "hamlet" was a fine tragedy, or that "ivanhoe" was a fine romance; but on this occasion most of the company shrank into silence before the impassioned pleadings of this advocate for ... modern french historiettes. in the course of the discussion many _young_ names were cited; and when a few very palpable hits were made to tell on the literary reputations of some among them, the critic seemed suddenly determined to shake off all slighter skirmishing, and to defend the broad battle-field of the cause under the distinguished banner of m. balzac himself. and here, i confess, he had most decidedly the advantage of me; for my acquaintance with the writings of this gentleman was exceedingly slight and superficial,--whereas he appeared to have studied every line he has ever written, with a feeling of reverence that seemed almost to bear a character of religious devotion. among many of his works whose names he cited with enthusiasm, that entitled "la peau de chagrin" was the one which evidently raised his spirit to the most exalted pitch. it is difficult to imagine admiration and delight expressed more forcibly; and as i had never read a single line of this "peau de chagrin," my preconceived notions of the merit of m. balzac's compositions really gave way before his enthusiasm; and i not only made a silent resolution to peruse this incomparable work with as little delay as possible, but i do assure you that i really and truly expected to find in it some very striking traits of genius, and a perfection of natural feeling and deep pathos which could not fail to give me pleasure, whatever i might think of the tone of its principles or the correctness of its moral tendency. early then on the following morning i sent for "la peau de chagrin."... i have not the slightest wish or intention of entering into a critical examination of its merits; it would be hardly possible, i think, to occupy time more unprofitably: but as every author makes use of his preface to speak in his own person, whatever one finds written there assuming the form of a literary dictum may be quoted with propriety as furnishing the best and fairest testimony of his opinions, and i will therefore take the liberty of transcribing a few short sentences from the preface of m. balzac, for the purpose of directing your attention to the theory upon which it is his intention to raise his literary reputation. the preface to "la peau de chagrin" appears to be written chiefly for the purpose of excusing the licentiousness of a former work entitled "la physiologie du mariage." in speaking of this work he says, frankly enough certainly, that it was written as "une tentative faite pour retourner à la littérature fine, vive, railleuse et gaie du dix-huitième siècle, où les auteurs ne se tenaient pas toujours droits et raides.... l'auteur de ce livre cherche à favoriser la réaction littéraire que préparent certains bons esprits.... il ne comprend pas la pruderie, l'hypocrisie de nos moeurs, et refuse, du reste, aux gens blasés le droit d'être difficiles." this is telling his readers fairly enough what they have to expect; and if after this they will persist in plunging headlong into the mud which nearly a century of constantly-increasing refinement has gone far to drag us out of ... why they must. as another reason why his pen has done ... what it has done, m. balzac tells us that it is absolutely necessary to have something in a _genre_ unlike anything that the public has lately been familiar with. he says that the reading world (which is in fact all the world) "est las aujourd'hui" ... of a great many different styles of composition which he enumerates, summing up all with ... "et l'histoire de france, walter-scottée.... que nous reste-t-il donc?" he continues. "si le public condamne les efforts des écrivains qui essaient de remettre en honneur la littérature _franche_ de nos ancêtres...." as another specimen of the theories of these new immortals, let me also quote the following sentence:--"si polyeucte n'existait pas, plus d'un poète moderne est capable de _refaire_ corneille." again, as a reason for going back to the tone of literature which he has chosen, he says,--"les auteurs ont souvent raison dans leurs impertinences contre le tems présent. le monde nous demande de belles peintures--où en seraient les types? vos habits mesquins--vos révolutions manquées--vos bourgeois discoureurs--votre religion morte--vos pouvoirs éteints--vos rois en demi-solde--sont-ils donc si poétiques qu'il faille vous les transfigurer?... nous ne pouvons aujourd'hui que nous moquer--la raillerie est toute la littérature des sociétés expirantes." m. balzac concludes this curious essay on modern literature thus:--"enfin, le tems présent marche si vite--la vie intellectuelle déborde partout avec tant de force, que plusieurs idées ont vieilli pendant que l'auteur imprimait son ouvrage." this last phrase is admirable, and gives the best and clearest idea of the notions of the school on the subject of composition that i have anywhere met with. imagine shakspeare and spenser, swift and pope, voltaire and rousseau, publishing a work with a similar prefatory apology!... but m. balzac is quite right. the ideas that are generated to-day will be old to-morrow, and dead and buried the day after. i should indeed be truly sorry to differ from him on this point; for herein lies the only consolation that the wisdom of man can suggest for the heavy calamity of witnessing the unprecedented perversion of the human understanding which marks the present hour. it will not last: common sense will reclaim her rights, and our children will learn to laugh at these spasmodic efforts to be great and original as cordially as cervantes did at the chronicles of knight-errantry which turned his hero's brain. letter lxxii. breaking-up of the paris season.--soirée at madame récamier's.--recitation.--storm.--disappointment.--atonement. --farewell. my letters from paris, my dear friend, must now be brought to a close--and perhaps you will say that it is high time it should be so. the summer sun has in truth got so high into the heavens, that its perpendicular beams are beginning to make all the gay folks in paris fret--or, at any rate, run away. everybody we see is preparing to be off in some direction or other,--some to the sea, some to philosophise under the shadow of their own vines, and some, happier than all the rest, to visit the enchanting watering-places of lovely germany. we too have at length fixed the day for our departure, and this is positively the last letter you will receive from me dated from the beauteous capital of the great nation. it is lucky for our sensibilities, or for our love of pleasure, or for any other feeling that goes to make up the disagreeable emotion usually produced by saying farewell to scenes where we have been very happy, that the majority of those whose society made them delightful are going to say farewell to them likewise: leaving paris a month ago would have been a much more dismal business to us than leaving it now. our last soirée has been passed at the abbaye-aux-bois; and often as i have taken you there already, i must describe this last evening, because the manner in which we passed it was more essentially un-english than any other. about ten days before this our farewell visit, we met, at one of madame récamier's delightful reception-nights, a m. lafond, a tragic actor of such distinguished merit, that even in the days of talma he contrived, as i understand, to obtain a high reputation in paris, though i do not believe his name is much known to us;--in fact, the fame of talma so completely overshadowed every other in his own walk, that few actors of his day were remembered in england when the subject of the french drama was on the tapis. on the evening we met this gentleman at the abbaye-aux-bois, he was prevailed upon by our charming hostess (to whom i suspect that nobody can be found tough enough to pronounce a refusal of anything she asks) to recite a very spirited address from the pen of casimir delavigne to the people of rouen, which m. lafond had publicly spoken in the theatre of that city when the statue of racine, who was native to it, was erected there. the verses are good, full of fervour, spirit and true poetical feeling, and the manner in which they were spoken by m. lafond gave them their full effect. the whole scene was, indeed, striking and beautiful. a circle of elegant women,--among whom, by the way, was a niece of napoleon's,--surrounded the performer: the gentlemen were stationed in groups behind them; while the inspired figure of gérard's corinne, strongly brought forward from the rest of the picture by a very skilful arrangement of lamps concealed from the eye of the spectator, really looked like the genius of poetry standing apart in her own proper atmosphere of golden light to listen to the honours rendered to one of her favourite sons. i was greatly delighted; and madame récamier, who perceived the pleasure which this recitation gave me, proposed to me that i should come to her on a future evening to hear m. lafond read a play of racine's. no proposition could have been more agreeable to us all. the party was immediately arranged; m. lafond promised to be punctually there at the hour named, and we returned home well pleased to think that the last soirée we should pass in paris would be occupied so delightfully. last night was the time fixed for this engagement. the morning was fair, but there was no movement in the air, and the heat was intense. as the day advanced, thick clouds came to shelter us from the sun while we set forth to make some of our last farewell calls; but they brought no coolness with them, and their gloomy shade afforded little relief from the heavy heat that oppressed us: on the contrary, the sultry weight of the atmosphere seemed to increase every moment, and we were soon driven home by the ominous blackness which appeared to rest on every object, giving very intelligible notice of a violent summer-storm. it was not, however, till late in the evening that the full fury of this threatened deluge fell upon paris; but about nine o'clock it really seemed as if an ocean had broken through the dark canopy above us, so violent were the torrents of rain which then fell in one vast waterspout upon her roofs. we listened to the rushing sound with very considerable uneasiness, for our anxious thoughts were fixed upon our promised visit to the abbaye-aux-bois; and we immediately gave orders that the porter's scout--a sturdy little personage well known to be good at need--should be despatched without a moment's delay for a fiacre: and you never, i am sure, saw a more blank set of faces than those exhibited in our drawing-room when the tidings reached us that not a single voiture could be found! after a moment's consultation, it was decided that the experienced porter himself should be humbly requested to run the risk of being drowned in one direction, while his attendant satellite again dared the same fate in another. this prompt and spirited decision produced at length the desired effect; and after another feverish half-hour of expectation, we had the inexpressible delight of finding ourselves safely enveloped in cloaks, which rendered it highly probable we might be able to step from the vehicle without getting wet to the skin, and deposited in the corners of one of those curiously-contrived swinging machines, whose motion is such that nothing but long practice or the most vigilant care can enable you to endure without losing your balance, and running a very dangerous tilt against the head of your opposite neighbour with your own. i never quitted the shelter of a roof in so unmerciful a night. the rain battered the top of our vehicle as if enraged at the opposition it presented to its impetuous descent upon the earth. the thunder roared loud above the rattling and creaking of all the crazy wheels we met, as well as the ceaseless grinding of those which carried us; and the lightning flashed with such rapidity and brightness, that the very mud we dashed through seemed illuminated. the effect of this storm as we passed the pont neuf was really beautiful. one instant our eyes looked out upon the thickest darkness; and the next, the old towers of notre dame, the pointed roofs of the palais de justice, and the fine bold elevation of st. jacques, were "instant seen and instant gone." one bright blue flash fell full, as we dashed by it, on the noble figure of henri quatre, and the statua gentilissima, horse and all, looked as ghastly and as spectre-like as heart could wish. at length we reached the lofty iron grille of the venerable abbaye. the ample court was filled with carriages: we felt that we were late, and hastening up the spacious stairs, in a moment found ourselves in a region as different as possible from that we had left. instead of darkness, we were surrounded by a flood of light; rain and the howling blast were exchanged for smiles and gentle greetings; and the growling thunder of the storm, for the sweet voice of madame récamier, which told us however that m. lafond was not yet arrived. as the party expected was a large one, it was miss c----'s noble saloon that received us. it was already nearly full, but its stately monastic doors still continued to open from time to time for the reception of new arrivals--yet still m. lafond came not. at length, when disappointment was beginning to take place of expectation, a note arrived from the tragedian to madame récamier, stating that the deluge of rain which had fallen rendered the streets of paris utterly impassable without a carriage, and the same cause made it absolutely impossible to procure one; ergo, we could have no m. lafond--no racine. such a contre-tems as this, however, is by no means very difficult to bear at the abbaye-aux-bois. but madame récamier appeared very sorry for it, though nobody else did; and admirable as m. lafond's reading is known to be, i am persuaded that the idea of her being vexed by his failing to appear caused infinitely more regret to every one present than the loss of a dozen tragedies could have done. and then it was that the spirit of genuine french _amabilité_ shone forth; and in order to chase whatever was disagreeable in this change in the destination of our evening's occupations, one of the gentlemen present most good-humouredly consented to recite some verses of his own, which, both from their own merit, and from the graceful and amiable manner in which they were given, were well calculated to remove every shadow of dissatisfaction from all who heard them. this example was immediately followed in the same delightful spirit by another, who in like manner gave us more than one proof of his own poetic power, as well as of that charming national amenity of manner which knows so well how to round and polish every rough and jutting corner which untoward accidents may and must occasionally throw across the path of life. one of the pieces thus recited was an extremely pretty legend, called, if i mistake not, "les soeurs grises," in which there is a sweet and touching description of a female character made up of softness, goodness, and grace. as this description fell trait by trait from the lips of the poet, many an eye turned involuntarily towards madame récamier; and the duchesse d'abrantes, near whom i was sitting, making a slight movement of the hand in the same direction, said in a half whisper,-- "c'est bien elle!" * * * * * on the whole, therefore, our disappointment was but lightly felt; and when we rose to quit this delightful abbaye-aux-bois for the last time, all the regret of which we were conscious arose from recollecting how doubtful it was whether we should ever find ourselves within its venerable walls again. postscript. the letters which are herewith presented to the public contain nothing beyond passing notices of such objects as chiefly attracted my attention during nine very agreeable weeks passed amidst the care-killing amusements of paris. i hardly know what they contain; for though i have certainly been desirous of giving my correspondent, as far as i was able, some idea of paris at the present day, i have been at least equally anxious to avoid everything approaching to so presumptuous an attempt as it would have been to give a detailed history of all that was going on there during the period of our stay. these letters, therefore, have been designedly as unconnected as possible: i have in this been _décousu_ upon principle, and would rather have given a regular journal, after the manner of lloyd's list, noting all the diligences which have come in and gone out of "la belle ville" during my stay there, than have attempted to analyse and define the many unintelligible incongruities which appeared to me to mark the race and mark the time. but though i felt quite incapable of philosophically examining this copious subject, or, in fact, of going one inch beneath the surface while describing the outward aspect of all around me, i cannot but confess that the very incongruity which i dared not pretend to analyse appeared to me by far the most remarkable feature in the present state of the country. there has, i know, always been something of this kind attributed to the french character. splendour and poverty--grace and grimace--delicacy and filth--learning and folly--science and frivolity, have often been observed among them in a closeness of juxta-position quite unexampled elsewhere; but of late it has become infinitely more conspicuous,--or rather, perhaps, this want of consistency has seemed to embrace objects of more importance than formerly. heretofore, though it was often suspected in graver matters, it was openly demonstrated only on points which concerned the externals of society rather than the vital interests of the country; but from the removal of that restraint which old laws, old customs, and old authority imposed upon the public acts of the people, the unsettled temper of mind which in time past showed itself only in what might, comparatively speaking, be called trifles, may in these latter days be traced without much difficulty in affairs of much greater moment. no one of any party will now deny, i believe, that many things which by their very nature appear to be incompatible have been lately seen to exist in paris, side by side, in a manner which certainly resembled nothing that could be found elsewhere. as instances of this kind pressed upon me, i have sometimes felt as if i had got behind the scenes of a theatre, and that all sorts of materials, for all sorts of performances, were jumbled together around me, that they might be ready at a moment's notice if called for. here a crown--there a cap of liberty. on this peg, a mantle embroidered with fleurs-de-lis; on that, a tri-coloured flag. in one corner, all the paraphernalia necessary to deck out the pomp and pageantry of the catholic church; and in another, all the symbols that can be found which might enable them to show respect and honour to jews, turks, infidels, and heretics. in this department might be seen very noble preparations to support a grand military spectacle; and in that, all the prettiest pageants in the world, to typify eternal peace. i saw all these things, for it was impossible not to see them; but as to the scene-shifters who were to prepare the different tableaux, i in truth knew nothing about them. their trap-doors, wires, and other machinery were very wisely kept out of sight of such eyes as mine; for had i known anything of the matter, i should most assuredly have told it all, which would greatly tend to mar the effect of the next change of decorations. it was with this feeling, and in this spirit of purely superficial observation, that the foregoing letters were written; but, ere i commit them to the press, i wish to add a few graver thoughts which rest upon my mind as the result of all that i saw and heard while at paris, connected as they now are with the eventful changes which have occurred in the short interval that has elapsed since i left it. "_the country is in a state of transition_," is a phrase which i have often listened to, and often been disposed to laugh at, as a sort of oracular interpretation of paradoxes which, in truth, no one could understand: but the phrase may now be used without any delphic obscurity. france was indeed in a state of transition exactly at the period of which i have been writing; but this uncertain state is past, nearly all the puzzling anomalies which so completely defied interpretation have disappeared, and it may now be fairly permitted, to simple-minded travellers who pretend not to any conjuring skill, to guess a little what she is about. i revisited france with that animating sensation of pleasure which arises from the hope of reviving old and agreeable impressions; but this pleasure was nevertheless dashed with such feeling of regret as an _english conservative_ may be supposed to feel for the popular violence which had banished from her throne its legitimate sovereign. as an abstract question of right and wrong, my opinion of this act cannot change; but the deed is done,--france has chosen to set aside the claim of the prince who by the law of hereditary succession has a right to the crown, in favour of another prince of the same royal line, whom in her policy she deems more capable of insuring the prosperity of the country. the deed is done; and the welfare of tens of millions who had, perhaps, no active share in bringing it about now hangs upon the continuance of the tranquillity which has followed the change. however deep therefore may be the respect felt for those who, having sworn fealty to charles the tenth, continue steadfastly undeviating in their declaration of his right, and firm in their refusal to recognise that of any other, still a stranger and sojourner in the land may honestly acknowledge the belief that the prosperity of france at the present hour depends upon her allegiance to the king she has chosen, without being accused of advocating the cause of revolution. to judge fairly of france as she actually exists, it is absolutely necessary to throw aside all memory of the purer course she might have pursued five years ago, by the temperate pleading of her chartered rights, to obtain redress of such evils as really existed. the popular clamour which rose and did the work of revolution, though it originated with factious demagogues and idle boys, left the new power it had set in action in the hands of men capable of redeeming the noble country they were called to govern from the state of disjointed weakness in which they found it. the task has been one of almost unequalled difficulty and peril; but every day gives greater confidence to the hope, that after forty years of blundering, blustering policy, and changes so multiplied as to render the very name of revolution ridiculous, this superb kingdom, so long our rival, and now, as we firmly trust, our most assured ally, will establish her government on a basis firm enough to strengthen the cause of social order and happiness throughout all europe. the days, thank heaven! are past when englishmen believed it patriotic to deny their gallic neighbours every faculty except those of making a bow and of eating a frog, while they were repaid by all the weighty satire comprised in the two impressive words john bull. we now know each other better--we have had a long fight, and we shake hands across the water with all the mutual good-will and respect which is generated by a hard struggle, bravely sustained on both sides, and finally terminated by a hearty reconciliation. the position, the prospects, the prosperity of france are become a subject of the deepest interest to the english nation; and it is therefore that the observations of any one who has been a recent looker-on there may have some value, even though they are professedly drawn from the surface only. but when did ever the surface of human affairs present an aspect so full of interest? now that so many of the circumstances which have been alluded to above as puzzling and incongruous have been interpreted by the unexpected events which have lately crowded upon each other, i feel aware that i have indeed been looking on upon the dénouement of one of the most interesting political dramas that ever was enacted. the movements of king philippe remind one of those by which a bold rider settles himself in the saddle, when he has made up his mind for a rough ride, and is quite determined not to be thrown. when he first mounted, indeed, he took his seat less firmly; one groom held the stirrup, another the reins: he felt doubtful how far he should be likely to go--the weather looked cloudy--he might dismount directly.... but soon the sun burst from behind the cloud that threatened him: now for it, then! neck or nothing! he orders his girths to be tightened, his curb to be well set, and the reins fairly and horsemanly put into his hands.... now he is off! and may his ride be prosperous!--for should he fall, it is impossible to guess how the dust which such a catastrophe might raise would settle itself. the interest which his situation excites is sufficiently awakening, and produces a species of romantic feeling, that may be compared to what the spectators experienced in the tournaments of old, when they sat quietly by to watch the result of a combat _à outrance_. but greater, far greater is the interest produced by getting a near view of the wishes and hopes of the great people who have placed their destinies in his hands. nothing that is going on in paris--in the chamber of deputies, in the chamber of peers, or even in the cabinet of the king--could touch me so much, or give me half so much pleasure to listen to, as the tone in which i have heard some of the most distinguished men in france speak of the repeated changes and revolutions in her government. it is not in one or two instances only that i have remarked this tone,--in fact, i might say that i have met it whenever i was in the society of those whose opinions especially deserved attention. i hardly know, however, how to describe it, for it cannot be done by repeating isolated phrases and observations. i should say, that it marks distinctly a consciousness that such frequent changes are not creditable to any nation--that they feel half ashamed to talk of them gravely, yet more than half vexed to speak of the land they love with anything approaching to lightness or contempt. that the men of whom i speak do love their country with a true, devoted, romanlike attachment, i am quite sure; and i never remember to have felt the conviction that i was listening to real patriots so strongly as when i have heard them reason on the causes, deplore the effects, and deprecate the recurrence of these direful and devastating convulsions. it is, if i mistake not, this noble feeling of wishing to preserve their country from the disgrace of any farther demonstrations of such frail inconstancy, which will tend to keep louis-philippe on his throne as much, or even more perhaps, than that newly-awakened energy in favour of the _boutique_ and the _bourse_ of which we hear so much. it is nowise surprising that this proud but virtuous sentiment should yet exist, notwithstanding all that has happened to check and to chill it. frenchmen have still much of which they may justly boast. after a greater continuance of external war and internal commotion than perhaps any country was ever exposed to within the same space of time, france is in no degree behind the most favoured nations of europe in any one of the advantages which have ever been considered as among the especial blessings of peace. tremendous as have been her efforts and her struggles, the march of science has never faltered: the fine arts have been cherished with unremitting zeal and a most constant care, even while every citizen was a soldier; and now, in this breathing-time that heaven has granted her, she presents a spectacle of hopeful industry, active improvement, and prosperous energy, which is unequalled, i believe, in any european country except our own. can we wonder, then, that the nation is disposed to rally round a prince whom fate seems to have given expressly as an anchor to keep her firm and steady through the heavy swell that the late storms have left? can we wonder that feelings, and even principles, are found to bend before an influence so salutary and so strong? however irregular the manner in which he ascended the throne, louis-philippe had himself little more to do with it than yielding to the voice of the triumphant party who called upon him to mount its troublesome pre-eminence; and at the moment he did so, he might very fairly have exclaimed-- "if chance will have me king, why chance may crown me without my stir." * * * * * never certainly did any event brought on by tumult and confusion give such fair promise of producing eventually the reverse, as the accession of king louis-philippe to the throne of france. the manner of this unexpected change itself, the scenes which led to it, and even the state of parties and of feelings which came afterwards, all bore a character of unsettled confusion which threatened every species of misery to the country. when we look back upon this period, all the events which occurred during the course of it appear like the rough and ill-assorted fragments of worsted on the reverse of a piece of tapestry. no one could guess, not even the agents in them, what the final result would be. but they were at work upon a design drawn by the all-powerful and unerring hand of providence; and strange as the medley has appeared to us during the process, the whole when completed seems likely to produce an excellent effect. the incongruous elements, however, of which the chaos was composed from whence this new order of things was to arise, though daily and by slow degrees assuming shape and form, were still in a state of "most admired disorder" during our abode in paris. it was impossible to guess where-unto all those things tended which were evidently in movement around us; and the signs of the times were in many instances so contrary to each other, that nothing was left for those who came to view the land, but to gaze--to wonder, and pass on, without attempting to reconcile contradictions so totally unintelligible. but, during the few weeks that have elapsed since i left the capital of france, this obscurity has been dispersed like a mist. it was the explosion of an infernal machine that scattered it; but it is the light of heaven that now shines upon the land, making visible to the whole world on what foundation rest its hopes, and by what means they shall be brought to fruition. never, perhaps, did even a successful attempt upon the life of an individual produce results so important as those likely to ensue from the failure of the atrocious plot against the king of the french and his sons. it has roused the whole nation as a sleeping army is roused by the sound of a trumpet. the indifferent, the doubting--nay, even the adverse, are now bound together by one common feeling: an assassin has raised his daring arm against france, and france in an instant assumes an attitude so firm, so bold, so steady, and so powerful, that all her enemies must quail before it. as for the wretched faction who sent forth this bloody agent to do their work, they stand now before the face of all men in the broad light of truth. high and noble natures may sometimes reason amiss, and may mistake the worse cause for the better; but however deeply this may involve them in error, it will not lead them one inch towards crime. such men have nothing in common with the republicans of . from their earliest existence as a party, these republicans have avowed themselves the unrelenting enemies of all the powers that be: social order, and all that sustains it, is their abhorrence; and neither honour, conscience, nor humanity has force sufficient to restrain them from the most hideous crimes when its destruction is the object proposed. honest men of all shades of political opinion must agree in considering this unbridled faction as the common enemies of the human race. in every struggle to sustain the laws which bind society together, their hand is against every man; and the inevitable consequence must and will be, that every man's hand shall be against them. deplorable therefore as were the consequences of the fieschi plot in its partial murderous success, it is likely to prove in its ultimate result of the most important and lasting benefit to france. it has given union and strength to her councils, energy and boldness to her acts; and if it be the will of heaven that anything shall stay the plague of insurrection and revolt which, with infection more fearful than that of the asiatic pest, has tainted the air of europe with its poisonous breath, it is from france, where the evil first arose, that the antidote to it is most likely to come. it will be in vain that any republican clamour shall attempt to stigmatise the acts of the french legislature with the odium of an undue and tyrannical use of the power which it has been compelled to assume. the system upon which this legislature has bound itself to act is in its very nature incompatible with individual power and individual ambition: its acts may be absolute--and high time is it that they should be so,--but the absolutism will not be that of an autocrat. the theory of the doctrinaire government is not so well, or at least so generally, understood as it will be; but every day is making it better known to europe,--and whether the new principles on which it is founded be approved or not, its power will be seen to rest upon them, and not upon the tyrannical will of any man or body of men whatever. it is not uncommon to hear persons declare that they understand no difference between the juste-milieu party and that of the doctrinaires; but they cannot have listened very attentively to the reasonings of either party. the juste-milieu party, if i understand them aright, consists of politicians whose principles are in exact conformity to the expressive title they have chosen. they approve neither of a pure despotism nor of a pure democracy, but plead for a justly-balanced constitutional government with a monarch at its head. the doctrinaires are much less definite in their specification of the form of government which they believe the circumstances of france to require. it might be thought indeed, from some of their speculations, that they were almost indifferent as to what form the government should assume, or by what name it should be known to the world, provided always that it have within itself power and efficacy sufficient to adopt and carry into vigorous effect such measures as its chiefs shall deem most beneficial to the country for the time being. a government formed on these principles can pledge itself by no guarantee to any particular line of politics, and the country must rest contented in the belief that its interests shall be cared for by those who are placed in a situation to control them. upon these principles, it is evident that the circumstances in which the country is placed, internally and externally, must regulate the policy of her cabinet, and not any abstract theory connected with the name assumed by her government. thus despotism may be the offspring of a republic; and liberty, the gift of a dynasty which has reigned for ages by right divine. m. de carné, a political writer of much ability, in his essay on parties and "le mouvement actuel," ridicules in a spirit of keen satire the idea that any order of men in france at the present day should be supposed to interest themselves seriously for any abstract political opinion. "croit-on bien sérieusement encore," he says, "au mécanisme constitutionnel--à la multiplicité de ses poids et contre-poids--à l'inviolabilité sacrée de la pensée dirigeante, combinée avec la responsabilité d'argent?"... and again he says,--"est-il beaucoup d'esprits graves qui attachent aujourd'hui une importance de premier ordre pour le bien-être moral et matériel de la race humaine à la substitution d'une présidence américaine, à la royauté de ?" it is evident from the tone sustained through the whole of this ingenious essay, that it is the object of m. carné to convince his readers of the equal and total futility of every political creed founded on any fixed and abstract principle. who is it, he asks, "qui a établi en france un despotisme dont on ne trouve d'exemple qu'en remontant aux monarchies de l'asie?--napoleon--lequel régnait comme les césars romains, en vertu de la souveraineté du peuple. qui a fondé, après tant d'impuissantes tentatives, une liberté sérieuse, et l'a fait entrer dans nos moeurs au point de ne pouvoir plus lui résister?--la maison de bourbon, qui régnait par le droit divin." in advocating this system of intrusting the right as well as the power of governing a country to the hands of its rulers, without exacting from them a pledge that their measures shall be guided by theoretical instead of practical wisdom, m. carné naturally refers to his own--that is to say, the doctrinaire party, and expresses himself thus:--"cette disposition à chercher dans les circonstances et dans la morale privée la seule règle d'action politique, a donné naissance à un parti qui s'est trop hâté de se produire, mais chez lequel il y a assez d'avenir pour résister à ses propres fautes. il serait difficile d'en formuler le programme, si vaporeux encore, autrement qu'en disant qu'il s'attache à substituer l'étude des lois de la richesse publique aux spéculations constitutionnelles, dont le principal résultat est d'équilibrer sur le papier des forces qui se déplacent inévitablement dans leur action." it is certainly possible that this distaste for pledging themselves to any form or system of government, and the apparent readiness to accommodate their principles to the exigences of the hour, may be as much the result of weariness arising from all the restless experiments they have made, as from conviction that this loose mode of wearing a political colour, ready to drop it, or change it according to circumstances, is in reality the best condition in which a great nation can place itself. it can hardly be doubted that the french people have become as weary of changes and experiments as their neighbours are of watching them. they have tried revolutions of every size and form till they are satiated, and their spirits are worn out and exhausted by the labour of making new projects of laws, new charters, and new kings. it is, in truth, contrary to their nature to be kept so long at work. no people in the world, perhaps, have equal energy in springing forward to answer some sudden call, whether it be to pull down a bastile with lafayette, to overturn a throne with robespierre, to overrun europe with napoleon, or to reorganise a monarchy with louis-philippe. all these deeds could be done with enthusiasm, and therefore they were natural to frenchmen. but that the mass of the people should for long years together check their gay spirits, and submit themselves, without the recompense of any striking stage effect, to prose over the thorny theories of untried governments, is quite impossible,--for such a state would be utterly hostile to the strongest propensities of the people. "chassez le naturel, il revient au galop." it is for this reason that "_la loi bourgeoise_" has been proclaimed; which being interpreted, certainly means the law of being contented to remain as they are, making themselves as rich and as comfortable as they possibly can, under the shelter of a king who has the will and the power to protect them. m. carné truly says,--"le plus puissant argument que puisse employer la royauté pour tenir en respect la bourgeoisie, est celui dont usait l'astrologue de louis onze pour avoir raison des capricieuses velléités de son maître,--'je mourrai juste trois jours avant votre majesté.'" this quotation, though it sound not very courtier-like, may be uttered before louis-philippe without offence; for it is impossible, let one's previous political bias have been what it will, not to perceive in every act of his government a firm determination to support and sustain in honour and in safety the order of things which it has established, or to perish; and the consequence of this straightforward policy is, that thousands and tens of thousands who at first acknowledged his rule only to escape from anarchy, now cling to it, not only as a present shelter, but as a powerful and sure defence against the return of the miserable vicissitudes to which they have been so long exposed. among many obvious advantages which the comprehensive principles of the "doctrine" offered to france under the peculiar circumstances in which she was placed at the time it was first propagated, was, that it offered a common resting-place to all who were weary of revolutions, let them be of what party they would. this is well expressed by m. carné when he says,--"ce parti semble appelé, par ce qu'il a de vague en lui, à devenir le sympathique lien de ces nombreuses intelligences dévoyées qui ont pénétré le vide de l'idée politique." there cannot, i think, be a happier phrase to describe the host who have bewildered themselves in the interminable mazes of a science so little understood by the multitude, than this of "_intelligences dévoyées qui ont pénétré le vide de l'idée politique_." for these, it is indeed a blessing to have found one common name (vague though it be) under which they may all shelter themselves, and, without the slightest reproach to the consistency of their patriotism, join heart and hand in support of a government which has so ably contrived to "draw golden opinions from all sorts of men." in turning over the pages of hume's history in pursuit of a particular passage, i accidentally came upon his short and pithy sketch of the character and position of our henry the seventh. in many points it approaches very nearly to what might be said of louis-philippe. "the personal character of the man was full of vigour, industry, and severity; deliberate in all his projects, steady in every purpose, and attended with caution, as well as good fortune, in each enterprise. he came to the throne after long and bloody civil wars. the nation was tired with discord and intestine convulsions, and willing to submit to usurpations and even injuries rather than plunge themselves anew into like miseries. the fruitless efforts made against him served always, as is usual, to confirm his authority." such a passage as this, and some others with which i occasionally indulge myself from the records of the days that are gone, have in them a most consoling tendency. we are apt to believe that the scenes we are painfully witnessing contain, amidst the materials of which they are formed, elements of mischief more terrible than ever before threatened the tranquillity of mankind; yet a little recollection, and a little confidence in the providence so visible in every page of the world's history, may suffice to inspire us with better hopes for the future than some of our doubting spirits have courage to anticipate. "the fruitless efforts made against" king philippe "have served to confirm his authority," and have done the same good office to him that similar outrages did to our "princely tudor" in the fourteenth century. the people were sick of "discord and intestine convulsions" in his days: so are they at the present time in france; so will they be again, at no very distant period, in england. while congratulating the country i have so recently left, as i do most heartily, on the very essential improvements which have taken place since my departure, i feel as if i ought to apologise for some statements to be found in the preceding pages of these volumes which if made now might fairly be challenged as untrue. but during the last few months, letters from france should have been both written and read post-haste, or the news they contained would not be of much worth. we left paris towards the end of june, and before the end of july the whole moral condition of france had received a shock, and undergone a change which, though it does not falsify any of my statements, renders it necessary at least that the tense of many of them should be altered. thus, when i say that an unbounded license in caricaturing prevails, and that the walls of the capital are scrawled over with grotesque representations of the sovereign, the errata should have--"for _prevails_, read _did prevail_; for _are_, read _were_;" and the like in many other instances. the task of declaring that such statements are no longer correct is, however, infinitely more agreeable than that of making them. the daring profligacy of all kinds which was exposed to the eyes and the understanding at paris before the establishment of the laws, which have now taken the morals of the people under their protection, was fast sinking the country into the worst and coarsest species of barbarism; and there is a sort of patriotism, not belonging to the kingdom, but to the planet that gave one birth, which must be gratified by seeing a check given to what tended to lower human nature itself. as a matter of hope, and consolation too, under similar evils which beset us at home, there is much satisfaction to be derived from perceiving that, however inveterate the taint may appear which unchecked licentiousness has brought upon a land, there is power enough in the hands of a vigorous and efficient magistracy to stay its progress and wipe out the stain. a "te deum" for this cleansing law should be performed in every church in christendom. * * * * * there is something assuredly of more than common political interest in the present position of france, interesting to all europe, but most especially interesting to us. the wildest democracy has been advocated by her press, and even in her senate. the highest court of justice in the kingdom has not been held sufficiently sacred to prevent the utterance of opinions within it which, if acted upon, would have taken the sceptre from the hands of the king and placed it in those of the mob. her journals have poured forth the most unbridled abuse, the most unmitigated execrations against the acts of the government, and almost against the persons of its agents. and what has been the result of all this? steadily, tranquilly, firmly, and without a shadow of vacillation, has that government proceeded in performing the duties intrusted to it by the country. it has done nothing hastily, nothing rashly, nothing weakly. on first receiving the perilous deposit of a nation's welfare,--at a moment too when a thousand dangers from within and without were threatening,--the most cautious and consummate wisdom was manifested, not only in what it did, but in what it did not do. like a skilful general standing on the defensive, it remained still a while, till the first headlong rush which was intended to dislodge it from its new position had passed by; and when this was over, it contemplated well the ground, the force, and the resources placed under its command, before it stirred one step towards improving them. when i recollect all the nonsense i listened to in paris previous to the trial of the lyons prisoners; the prophecies that the king would not dare to persevere in it; the assurances from some that the populace would rise to rescue them,--from others, that the peers would refuse to sit in judgment,--and from more still, that if nothing of all this occurred in paris, a counter-revolution would assuredly break out in the south;--when i remember all this, and compare it to the steady march of daily-increasing power which has marked every act of this singularly vigorous government from that period to the present, i feel it difficult to lament that, at this eventful epoch of the world's history, power should have fallen into hands so capable of using it wisely. yet, with all this courage and boldness of decision, there has been nothing reckless, nothing like indifference to public opinion, in the acts of the french government. the ministers have uniformly appeared willing to hear and to render reason respecting all the measures they have pursued; and the king himself has never ceased to manifest the same temper of mind which, through all the vicissitudes of his remarkable life, have rendered him so universally popular. but it is quite clear that, whatever were the circumstances which led to his being placed on the throne of france, louis-philippe can never become the tool of a faction: i can well conceive him replying, to any accusation brought against him, in the gentle but dignified words of athalie-- "ce que j'ai fait, abner, j'ai cru le devoir faire-- je ne prends point pour juge un peuple téméraire." and who is there, of all those whom nature, fortune, and education have placed, as it were, in inevitable opposition to him, but must be forced to acknowledge that he is right? none, i truly believe,--save only that unfortunate, bewildered, puzzle-headed set of politicians, the republicans, who seem still to hang together chiefly because no other party will have anything to say to them, and because they alone, of all the host of would-be lawgivers, dare not to seek for standing-room under the ample shelter of _the doctrine_, inasmuch as its motto is "public order," and the well-known gathering word of their tribe is "confusion and misrule." there are still many persons, i believe, who, though nowise desirous themselves of seeing any farther change in the government of france, yet still anticipate that change must come, because they consider it impossible that this restless party can long remain quiet. i have heard several who wish heartily well to the government of louis-philippe express very gloomy forebodings on this subject. they say, that however beneficial the present order of things has been found for france, it is vain to hope it should long endure, contrary to the wish and will of so numerous a faction; especially as the present government is formed on the doctrine, that the protection of arts and industry, and the fostering of all the objects connected with that wealth and prosperity to which the restoration of peace has led, should be its first object: whereas the republicans are ever ready to be up and doing in any cause that promises change and tumult, and will therefore be found, whenever a struggle shall arise, infinitely better prepared to fight it out than the peaceable and well-contented majority, of whom they are the declared enemies. i think, however, that such reasoners are altogether wrong: they leave out of their consideration one broad and palpable fact, which is, however, infinitely more important than any other,--namely, that a republic is a form of government completely at variance with the spirit of the french people. that it has been already tried and found to fail, is only one among many proofs that might easily be brought forward to show this. that love of glory which all the world seems to agree in attributing to france as one of her most remarkable national characteristics, must ever prevent her placing the care of her dignity and her renown in the hands of a mob. it was in a moment of "drunken enthusiasm" that her first degrading revolution was brought about; and deep as was the disgrace of it, no one can fairly say that the nation should be judged by the wild acts then perpetrated. everything that has since followed goes to establish the conviction, that france cannot exist as a republic. there is a love of public splendour in their nature that seems as much born with them as their black eyes; and they must have, as a centre to that splendour, a king and a court, round which they may move, and to which they may do homage in the face of europe without fearing that their honour or their dignity can be compromised thereby. it has been said (by an englishman) that the present is the government of the bourgeoisie, and that louis-philippe is "un roi bourgeois." his bourbon blood, however, saves him from this jest; and if by "the government of the bourgeoisie" is meant a cabinet composed of and sustained by the wealth of the country, as well as its talent and its nobility, there is nothing in the statement to shock either patrician pride or regal dignity. the splendid military pageant in which the french people followed the imperial knight-errant who led them as conquerors over half europe, might well have sufficient charm to make so warlike a nation forget for a while all the blessings of peace, as well as the more enduring glory which advancing science and well-instructed industry might bring. but even had napoleon not fallen, the delirium of this military fever could not have been much longer mistaken for national prosperity by such a country as france; and, happily for her, it was not permitted to go on long enough to exhaust her strength so entirely as to prevent her repairing its effects, and starting with fresh vigour in a far nobler course. but even now, with objects and ambition so new and so widely different before their eyes, what is the period to which the memory of the people turns with the greatest complacency?... is it to the convention, or to the directory?--is it to their mimicry of roman consulships? alas! for the classic young-headed republicans of france!... they may not hope that their cherished vision can ever endure within the realm of st. louis long enough to have its lictors' and its tribunes' robes definitively decided on. no! it is not to this sort of schoolboy mummery that gallic fancies best love to return,--but to that portentous interval when the bright blaze of a magnificent meteor shone upon their iron chains, and made them look like gold. if this be true--if it cannot be denied that the affections of the french people cling with more gratitude to the splendid despotism of napoleon than to any other period of their history, is it to be greatly feared that they should turn from the substantial power and fame that now "flames in the forehead of the morning sky" before their eyes, accompanied as they are by the brightest promise of individual prosperity and well-being, in order to plunge themselves again into the mingled "blood and mire" with which their republic begrimed its altars? were there even no other assurance against such a deplorable effort at national self-destruction than that which is furnished by the cutting ridicule so freely and so generally bestowed upon it, this alone, in a country where a laugh is so omnipotent, might suffice to reassure the spirits of the timid and the doubting. it has been said sturdily by a french interpreter of french feelings, that "si le diable sortait de l'enfer pour se battre, il se présenterait un français pour accepter le défi." i dare say this may be very true, provided said diable does not come to the combat equipped from the armoury of ridicule,--in which case the french champion would, i think, be as likely to run away as not: and for this reason, if for no other, i truly believe it to be impossible that any support should now be given in france to a party which has not only made itself supremely detestable by its atrocities, but supremely ridiculous by its absurdities. it is needless to recapitulate here observations already made. they have been recorded lightly, however, and their effect upon the reader may not be so serious as that produced upon my own mind by the circumstances which drew them forth; but it is certain that had not the terrible and most ferocious plot against the king's life given a character of horror to the acts of the republican party in france, i should be tempted to conclude my statement of all i have seen and heard of them by saying, that they had mixed too much of weakness and of folly in their literature, in their political acts, and in their general bearing and demeanour, to be ever again considered as a formidable enemy by the government. i was amused the other day by reading in an english newspaper, or rather in an extract from an irish one, (the dublin journal,) a passage in a speech of mr. daniel o'connell's to the "dublin trades' union," the logic of which, allowing perhaps a little for the well-known peculiarities in the eloquence of the "emerald isle," reminded me strongly of some of the republican reasonings to which i have lately listened in paris. "the house of commons," says mr. daniel o'connell, "will always be a pure and _independent_ body, because we are under the lash of our masters, and we will be kicked out if we do not perform the duties imposed on us by the people." * * * * * trifling as are the foregoing pages, and little as they may seem obnoxious to any very grave criticism, i am quite aware that they expose me to the reproach of having permitted myself to be wrought upon by the "_wind of doctrine_." i will not deny the charge; but i will say in defence of this "shadow of turning," (for it is in truth no more,) that i return with the same steadfast belief which i carried forth, in the necessity of a government for every country which should possess power and courage to resist at all times the voice of a wavering populace, while its cares were steadily directed to the promotion of the general welfare. as well might every voice on board a seventy-four be lifted to advise the captain how to manage her, as the judgment of all the working classes in a state be offered on questions concerning her government. a self-regulating populace is a chimera, and a dire one. the french have discovered this already; the americans are beginning, as i hear, to feel some glimmerings of this important truth breaking in upon them; and for our england, spite of all the trash upon this point that she has been pleased to speak and to hear, she is not a country likely to submit, if the struggle should come, to be torn to pieces by her own mob. admirably, however, as this jury-mast of "the doctrine" appears to answer in france, where the whirlwind and the storm had nearly made the brave vessel a wreck, it would be a heavy day for england were she to find herself compelled to have recourse to the same experiment for safety--for the need of it can never arise without being accompanied by a necessity for such increased severity of discipline as would be very distasteful to her. it is true, indeed, that her spars do creak and crack rather ominously just at present: nevertheless, it will require a tougher gale than any she has yet had to encounter, before she will be tempted to throw overboard such a noble piece of heart of oak as her constitution, which does in truth tower above every other, and, "like the tall mast of some proud admiral," looks down upon those around, whether old or new, well-seasoned and durable, or only skilfully erected for the nonce, with a feeling of conscious superiority that she would be very sorry to give up. but whatever the actual position of england may be, it must be advantageous to her, as well as to every other country in europe, that france should assume the attitude she has now taken. the cause of social order is a common cause throughout the civilised world, and whatever tends to promote it is a common blessing. obvious as is this truth, its importance is not yet fully understood; but the time must come when it will be,--and then all the nations of the earth will be heard to proclaim in chorus, that "le pire des états, c'est l'état populaire." the end. london: printed by samuel bentley, dorset street, fleet street. transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. italic text is denoted by _underscores_. the errata listed at the end of the "embellishments" were corrected in this edition. paris and the parisians in . vol. i. preparing for publication, by the same author, in vols. post vo. with characteristic engravings. the life and adventures of jonathan jefferson whitlaw or, scenes on the mississippi. paris and the parisians, in . vol. i. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu.] london: richard bentley, new burlington street. publisher in ordinary to his majesty, . paris and the parisians in . by frances trollope, author of "domestic manners of the americans," "tremordyn cliff," &c. "le pire des états, c'est l'état populaire."--corneille. in two volumes. vol. i. london: richard bentley, new burlington street, publisher in ordinary to his majesty. . london: printed by samuel bentley, dorset street, fleet street. preface. from the very beginning of reading and writing--nay, doubtless from the very beginning of speaking,--truth, immortal truth has been the object of ostensible worship to all who read and to all who listen; and, in the abstract, it is unquestionably held in sincere veneration by all: yet, in the detail of every-day practice, the majority of mankind often hate it, and are seen to bear pain, disappointment, and sorrow more patiently than its honoured voice when it echoes not their own opinion. preconceived notions generally take a much firmer hold of the mind than can be obtained by any statement, however clear and plain, which tends to overthrow them; and if it happen that these are connected with an honest intention of being right, they are often mistaken for principles;--in which case the attempt to shake them is considered not merely as a folly, but a sin. with this conviction strongly impressed upon my mind, it requires some moral courage to publish these volumes; for they are written in conformity to the opinions of ... perhaps none,--and, worse still, there is that in them which may be considered as contradictory to my own. had i before my late visit to paris written a book for the purpose of advocating the opinions i entertained on the state of the country, it certainly would have been composed in a spirit by no means according in all points with that manifested in the following pages: but while profiting by every occasion which permitted me to mix with distinguished people of all parties, i learnt much of which i was--in common, i suspect, with many others--very profoundly ignorant. i found good where i looked for mischief--strength where i anticipated weakness--and the watchful wisdom of cautious legislators, most usefully at work for the welfare of their country, instead of the crude vagaries of a revolutionary government, active only in leading blindfold the deluded populace who trusted to them. the result of this was, first a wavering, and then a change of opinion,--not as to the immutable laws which should regulate hereditary succession, or the regret that it should ever have been deemed expedient to violate them--but as to the wisest way in which the french nation, situated as it actually is, can be governed, so as best to repair the grievous injuries left by former convulsions, and most effectually to guard against a recurrence of them in future. that the present policy of france keeps these objects steadily in view, and that much wisdom and courage are at work to advance them, cannot be doubted; and those most anxious to advocate the sacred cause of well-ordered authority amongst all the nations of the earth should be the first to bear testimony to this truth. london, december . contents to the first volume. letter i. difficulty of giving a systematic account of what is doing in france.--pleasure of revisiting paris after long absence.--what is changed; what remains the same. page letter ii. absence of the english embassy.--trial of the lyons prisoners.--church of the madeleine.--statue of napoleon. letter iii. slang.--les jeunes gens de paris.--la jeune france. --rococo.--décousu. letter iv. théâtre français.--mademoiselle mars.--elmire.--'charlotte brown.'--extract from a sermon. letter v. exhibition of living artists at the louvre.--the deluge.--poussin and martin.--portraits.--appearance of the company. letter vi. society.--morality.--false impressions and false reports. --observations from a frenchman on a recent publication. letter vii. alarm created by the trial of the lyons prisoners.--visits from a republican and from a doctrinaire: reassured by the promises of safety and protection received from the latter. letter viii. eloquence of the pulpit.--l'abbé coeur.--sermon at st. roch.--elegant congregation.--costume of the younger clergy. letter ix. literature of the revolutionary school.--its low estimation in france. letter x. lonchamps.--the "three hours' agony" at st. roch.--sermons on the gospel of good-friday.--prospects of the catholics. --o'connell. letter xi. trial chamber at the luxembourg.--institute.--m. mignet. --concert musard. letter xii. easter-sunday at notre dame.--archbishop.--view of paris.--victor hugo.--hôtel dieu.--mr. jefferson. letter xiii. "le monomane". letter xiv. the gardens of the tuileries.--legitimatist.--republican. --doctrinaire.--children.--dress of the ladies.--of the gentlemen.--black hair.--unrestricted admission.--anecdote. letter xv. street police.--cleaning beds.--tinning kettles.--building houses.--loading carts.--preparing for the scavenger.--want of drains.--bad pavement.--darkness. letter xvi. preparations for the fête du roi.--arrival of troops.--champs elysées.--concert in the garden of the tuileries.--silence of the people.--fireworks. letter xvii. political chances.--visit from a republican.--his high spirits at the prospects before him.--his advice to me respecting my name.--removal of the prisoners from ste. pélagie.--review.--garde de paris.--the national guard. letter xviii. first day of the trials.--much blustering, but no riot.--all alarm subsided.--proposal for inviting lord b----m to plead at the trial.--society.--charm of idle conversation. --the whisperer of good stories. letter xix. victor hugo.--racine. letter xx. versailles.--st. cloud. letter xxi. history of the vicomte de b----. his opinions.--state of france.--expediency. letter xxii. père lachaise.--mourning in public.--defacing the tomb of abelard and eloïsa.--baron munchausen.--russian monument.--statue of manuel. letter xxiii. remarkable people.--distinguished people.--metaphysical lady. letter xxiv. expedition to the luxembourg.--no admittance for females.--portraits of "henri."--republican costume.--quai voltaire.--mural inscriptions.--anecdote of marshal lobau.--arrest. letter xxv. chapelle expiatoire.--devotees seen there.--tri-coloured flag out of place there.--flower market of the madeleine. --petites maîtresses. letter xxvi. delicacy in france and in england.--causes of the difference between them. letter xxvii. objections to quoting the names of private individuals. --impossibility of avoiding politics.--_parceque_ and _quoique_.--soirée antithestique. letter xxviii. new publications.--m. de lamartine's "souvenirs, impressions, pensées, et paysages."--tocqueville and beaumont.--new american regulation.--m. scribe.--madame tastu.--reception of different writers in society. letter xxix. sunday in paris.--family groups.--popular enjoyment. --polytechnic students.--their resemblance to the figure of napoleon.--enduring attachment to the emperor. --conservative spirit of the english schools.--sunday in the gardens of the tuileries.--religion of the educated. --popular opinion. letter xxx. madame récamier.--her morning parties.--gérard's picture of corinne.--miniature of madame de staël.--m. de châteaubriand.--conversation on the degree in which the french language is understood by foreigners.--the necessity of speaking french. letter xxxi. exhibition of sèvres china at the louvre.--gobelins and beauvais tapestry.--legitimatist father and doctrinaire son.--copies from the medicean gallery. letter xxxii. eglise apostolique française.--its doctrine.--l'abbé auzou. --his sermon on "les plaisirs populaires." letter xxxiii. establishment for insane patients at vanves.--description of the arrangements.--englishman.--his religious madness. letter xxxiv. riot at the porte st. martin.--prevented by a shower of rain.--the mob in fine weather.--how to stop emeutes. --army of italy.--théâtre français.--mademoiselle mars in henriette.--disappearance of comedy. letter xxxv. soirée dansante.--young ladies.--old ladies.--anecdote.--the consolations of chaperones.--flirtations.--discussion upon the variations between young married women in france and in england.--making love by deputy.--not likely to answer in england. letter xxxvi. improvements of paris.--introduction of carpets and trottoirs.--maisonnettes.--not likely to answer in paris. --the necessity of a porter and porter's lodge.--comparative expenses of france and england.--increasing wealth of the bourgeoisie. letter xxxvii. horrible murder.--la morgue.--suicides.--vanity. --anecdote.--influence of modern literature.--different appearance of poverty in france and england. letter xxxviii. opéra comique.--"cheval de bronze."--"la marquise." --impossibility of playing tragedy.--mrs. siddons's readings.--mademoiselle mars has equal power.--_laisser aller_ of the female performers.--decline of theatrical taste among the fashionable. letter xxxix. the abbé de lamennais.--cobbett.--o'connell.--napoleon. --robespierre. letter xl. which party is it ranks second in the estimation of all?--no caricatures against the exiles.--horror of a republic. letter xli. m. dupré.--his drawings in greece.--l'eglise des carmes.--m. vinchon's picture of the national convention. --léopold robert's fishermen.--reported cause of his suicide.--roman catholic religion.--mr. daniel o'connell. letter xlii. old maids.--rarely to be found in france.--the reasons for this. embellishments to the first volume. louvre page morning at the tuileries gardens "pro patria" "ce soir, à la porte st. martin."--"j'y serai." tuileries gardens (on sunday) porte st. martin p. , line , _read_ given--p. , line , _read_ new. paris and the parisians in . letter i. difficulty of giving a systematic account of what is doing in france.--pleasure of revisiting paris after long absence.--what is changed; what remains the same. paris, th april . my dear friend, in visiting paris it certainly was my intention to describe in print what i saw and heard there; and to do this as faithfully as possible, i proposed to continue my old habit of noting in my journal all things, great and small, in which i took an interest. but the task frightens me. i have been here but a few days, and i already find myself preaching and prosing at much greater length than i approve: i already feel that i am involved in such a mizmaze of interesting subjects, that to give anything like an orderly and well-arranged digest of them, would beguile me into attempting a work greatly beyond my power to execute. the very most i can hope to do will be but to "skim lightly over the surface of things;" and in addressing myself to you, i shall feel less as if i were about to be guilty of the presumption of writing "a work on france," than if i threw my notes into a less familiar form. i will then discourse to you, as well as i may, of such things as leave the deepest impression among the thousand sights and sounds in the midst of which i am now placed. should it be our will hereafter that these letters pass from your hands into those of the public, i trust that nobody will be so unmerciful as to expect that they shall make them acquainted with everything past, present, and to come, "respecting the destinies of this remarkable country." it must indeed be a bold pen that attempts to write of "young france," as it is at present the fashion to call it, with anything like a reasonable degree of order and precision, while still surrounded by all the startling novelties she has to show. to reason of what she has done, what she is doing, and--more difficult still--of what she is about to do, would require a steadier head than most persons can command, while yet turning and twisting in all directions to see what this young france looks like. in truth, i am disposed to believe that whatever i write about it will be much in the style of the old conundrum-- "i saw a comet rain down hail i saw a cloud" &c. and here you will remember, that though the things seen are stated in the most simple and veracious manner, much of the meaning is occult, depending altogether upon the stopping or pointing of the narrative. this stopping or pointing i must leave to you, or any other readers i may happen to have, and confine myself to the plain statement of "i saw;" for though it is sufficiently easy to see and to hear, i feel extremely doubtful if i shall always be able to understand. it is just seven years and seven months since i last visited the capital of the "great nation." the interval is a long one, as a portion of human life; but how short does it appear when the events that it has brought forth are contemplated! i left the white banner of france floating gaily over her palaces, and i find it torn down and trampled in the dust. the renowned lilies, for so many ages the symbol of chivalric bravery, are everywhere erased; and it should seem that the once proud shield of st. louis is soiled, broken, and reversed for ever. but all this was old. france is grown young again; and i am assured that, according to the present condition of human judgment, everything is exactly as it should be. knighthood, glory, shields, banners, faith, loyalty, and the like, are gone out of fashion; and they say it is only necessary to look about me a little, to perceive how remarkably well the present race of frenchmen can do without them;--an occupation, it is added, which i shall find much more profitable and amusing than lamenting over the mouldering records of their ancient greatness. the good sense of this remonstrance is so evident, that i am determined henceforth to profit by it; remembering, moreover, that, as an englishwoman, i have certainly no particular call to mourn over the fading honours of my country's rival. so in future i shall turn my eyes as much as i can from the tri-coloured flag--(those three stripes are terribly false heraldry)--and only think of amusing myself; a business never performed anywhere with so much ease as at paris. since i last saw it, i have journeyed half round the globe; but nothing i have met in all my wanderings has sufficed to damp the pleasure with which i enter again this gay, bright, noisy, restless city,--this city of the living, as beyond all others it may be justly called. and where, in truth, can anything be found that shall make its air of ceaseless jubilee seem tame?--or its thousand depôts of all that is prettiest in art, lose by comparison with any other pretty things in the wide world? where do all the externals of happiness meet the eye so readily?--or where can the heavy spirit so easily be roused to seek and find enjoyment? cold, worn-out, and dead indeed must the heart be that does not awaken to some throb of pleasure when paris, after long absence, comes again in sight! for though a throne has been overturned, the tuileries still remain;--though the main stock of a right royal tree has been torn up, and a scion sprung from one of the roots, that had run, wildly enough, to a distance, has been barricaded in, and watered, and nurtured, and fostered into power and strength of growth to supply its place, the boulevards, with their matchless aspect of eternal holiday, are still the same. no commotion, however violent, has yet been able to cause this light but precious essence of parisian attractiveness to evaporate; and while the very foundations of society have been shaken round them, the old elms go on, throwing their flickering shadows upon a crowd that--allowing for some vagaries of the milliner and tailor--might be taken for the very same, and no other, which has gladdened the eye and enlivened the imagination since first their green boughs beckoned all that was fairest and gayest in paris to meet together beneath them. whilst this is the case, and while sundry other enchantments that may be named in their turn continue to proclaim that paris is paris still, it would be silly quarrelling with something better than bread-and-butter, did we spend the time of our abode here in dreaming of what has been, instead of opening our eyes and endeavouring to be as much awake as possible to look upon all that is. farewell! letter ii. absence of the english embassy.--trial of the lyons prisoners.--church of the madeleine.--statue of napoleon. it may be doubtful, perhaps, whether the present period[ ] be more favourable or unfavourable for the arrival of english travellers at paris. the sort of interregnum which has taken place in our embassy here deprives us of the centre round which all that is most gay among the english residents usually revolves; but, on the other hand, the approaching trial of the lyons prisoners and their parisian accomplices is stirring up from the very bottom all the fermenting passions of the nation. every principle, however quietly and unobtrusively treasured,--every feeling, however cautiously concealed,--is now afloat; and the most careless observer may expect to see, with little trouble, the genuine temper of the people. the genuine temper of the people?--nay, but this phrase must be mended ere it can convey to you any idea of what is indeed likely to be made visible; for, as it stands, it might intimate that the people were of one temper; and anything less like the truth than this cannot easily be imagined. the temper of the people of paris upon the subject of this "atrocious trial," as all parties not connected with the government are pleased to call it, varies according to their politics,--from rage and execration to ecstasy and delight--from indifference to enthusiasm--from triumph to despair. it will be impossible, my friend, to ramble up and down paris for eight or nine weeks, with a note-book in my hand, without recurring again and again to a theme that meets us in every _salon_, murmurs through the corridors of every theatre, glares from the eyes of the republican, sneers from the lip of the doctrinaire, and in some shape or other crosses our path, let it lead in what direction it may. this being inevitable, the monster must be permitted to protrude its horns occasionally; nor must i bear the blame should it sometimes appear to you a very tedious and tiresome monster indeed. having announced that its appearance may be frequently expected, i will leave you for the present in the same state of expectation respecting it that we are in ourselves; and, while we are still safe from its threatened violence, indulge in a little peaceable examination of the still-life part of the picture spread out before me. the first objects that struck me as new on re-entering paris, or rather as changed since i last saw them, were the column of the place vendôme, and the finished church of the madeleine. finished indeed! did greece ever show any combination of stones and mortar more graceful, more majestic than this? if she did, it was in the days of her youth; for, poetical association apart, and the unquestionably great pleasure of learned investigation set aside, no ruin can possibly meet the eye with such perfect symmetry of loveliness, or so completely fill and satisfy the mind, as does this modern temple. why might not our national gallery have risen as noble, as simple, as beautiful as this? as for the other novelty--the statue of the sometime emperor of the french, i suspect that i looked up at it with rather more approbation than became an englishwoman. but in truth, though the name of napoleon brings with it reminiscences which call up many hostile feelings, i can never find myself in paris without remembering his good, rather than his terrible actions. perhaps, too, as one gazes on this brazen monument of his victories, there may be something soothing in the recollection that the bold standard he bore never for an instant wantoned on a british breeze. however, putting sentiment and personal feeling of every kind apart, so much that is admirable in paris owes its origin to him, that his ambition and his usurpations are involuntarily forgotten, and the use made of his ill-gotten power almost obliterates the lawless tyranny of the power itself. the appearance of his statue, therefore, on the top of the column formed of the cannon taken by the armies of france when fighting under his command, appeared to me to be the result of an arrangement founded upon perfect propriety and good taste. when his effigy was torn down some twenty years ago by the avenging hands of the allies, the act was one both of moral justice and of natural feeling; and that the rightful owners of the throne he had seized should never have replaced it, can hardly be matter of surprise: but that it should now again be permitted to look down upon the fitful fortunes of the french people, has something of historic propriety in it which pleases the imagination. this statue of napoleon offers the only instance i remember in which that most grotesque of european habiliments, a cocked-hat, has been immortalized in marble or in bronze with good effect. the original statue, with its flowing outline of roman drapery, was erected by a feeling of pride; but this portrait of him has the every-day familiar look that could best satisfy affection. instead of causing the eye to turn away as it does from some faithful portraitures of modern costume with positive disgust, this _chapeau à trois cornes_, and the well-known loose _redingote_, have that air of picturesque truth in them which is sure to please the taste even where it does not touch the heart. to the french themselves this statue is little short of an idol. fresh votive wreaths are perpetually hung about its pedestal; and little draperies of black crape, constantly renewed, show plainly how fondly his memory is still cherished. while napoleon was still among them, the halo of his military glory, bright as it was, could not so dazzle the eyes of the nation but that some portentous spots were discerned even in the very nucleus of that glory itself; but now that it shines upon them across his tomb, it is gazed at with an enthusiasm of devoted affection which mixes no memory of error with its regrets. it would, i think, be very difficult to find a frenchman, let his party be what it might, who would speak of napoleon with disrespect. i one day passed the foot of his gorgeous pedestal in company with a legitimate _sans reproche_, who, raising his eyes to the statue, said--"notre position, madame trollope, est bien dure: nous avons perdu le droit d'être fidèles, sans avoir plus celui d'être fiers." footnote: [ ] april . letter iii. slang.--les jeunes gens de paris.--la jeune france.--rococo.--décousu. i suppose that, among all people and at all times, a certain portion of what we call slang will insinuate itself into familiar colloquial intercourse, and sometimes even dare to make its unsanctioned accents heard from the tribune and the stage. it appears to me, i confess, that france is at present taking considerable liberties with her mother-tongue. but this is a subject which requires for its grave discussion a native critic, and a learned one too. i therefore can only venture distantly and doubtingly to allude to it, as one of the points at which it appears to me that innovation is visibly and audibly at work. i know it may be said that every additional word, whether fabricated or borrowed, adds something to the riches of the language; and no doubt it does so. but there is a polished grace, a finished elegance in the language of france, as registered in the writings of her augustan age, which may well atone for the want of greater copiousness, with which it has been sometimes reproached. to increase its strength, by giving it coarseness, would be like exchanging a high-mettled racer for a dray-horse. a brewer would tell you, that you gained in power what you lost in grace: it may be so; but there are many, i think, even in this age of operatives and utilitarians, who would regret the change. this is a theme, however, as i have said before, on which i should not feel myself justified in saying much. none should pretend to examine, or at any rate to discuss critically, the niceties of idiom in a language that is not native to them. but, distinct from any such presumptuous examination, there are words and phrases lawfully within the reach of foreign observation, which strike me as remarkable at the present day, either from their frequent recurrence, or for something of unusual emphasis in the manner in which they are employed. _les jeunes gens de paris_ appears to me to be one of these. translate it, and you find nothing but "the young men of paris;" which should seem to have no more imposing meaning than "the young men of london," or of any other metropolis. but hear it spoken at paris--mercy on me! it sounds like a thunderbolt. it is not only loud and blustering, however; you feel that there is something awful--nay, mystical, implied by the phrase. it appears solemnly to typify the power, the authority, the learning--ay, and the wisdom too, of the whole nation. _la jeune france_ is another of these cabalistic forms of speech, by which everybody seems expected to understand something great, terrible, volcanic, and sublime. at present, i confess that both of these, pronounced as they always are with a sort of mysterious emphasis, which seems to say that "more is meant than meets the ear," produce rather a paralysing effect upon me. i am conscious that i do not clearly comprehend all the meaning with which they are pregnant, and yet i am afraid to ask, lest the explanation should prove either more unintelligible or more alarming than even the words themselves. i hope, however, that ere long i shall grow more intelligent or less timid; and whenever this happens, and i conceive that i fully comprehend their occult meaning, i will not fail to transmit it faithfully to you. besides these phrases, and some others that i may perhaps mention hereafter as difficult to understand, i have learned a word quite new to me, and which i suspect has but very recently been introduced into the french language; at least, it is not to be found in the dictionaries, and i therefore presume it to be one of those happy inventions which are permitted from time to time to enrich the power of expression. how the academy of former days might have treated it, i know not; but it seems to me to express a great deal, and might at this time, i think, be introduced very conveniently into our own language: at any rate, it may often help me, i think, as a very useful adjective. this new-born word is "_rococo_," and appears to me to be applied by the young and innovating to everything which bears the stamp of the taste, principles, or feelings of time past. that part of the french population to whom the epithet of _rococo_ is thus applied, may be understood to contain all varieties of old-fashionism, from the gentle advocate for laced coats and diamond sword-knots, up to the high-minded venerable loyalist, who only loves his rightful king the better because he has no means left to requite his love. such is the interpretation of _rococo_ in the mouth of a doctrinaire: but if a republican speaks it, he means that it should include also every gradation of orderly obedience, even to the powers that be; and, in fact, whatever else may be considered as essentially connected either with law or gospel. there is another adjective which appears also to recur so frequently as fully to merit, in the same manner, the distinction of being considered as fashionable. it is, however, a good old legitimate word, admirably expressive too, and at present of more than ordinary utility. this is "_décousu_;" and it seems to be the epithet now given by the sober-minded to all that smacks of the rambling nonsense of the new school of literature, and of all those fragments of opinions which hang so loosely about the minds of the young men who discourse fashionably of philosophy at paris. were the whole population to be classed under two great divisions, i doubt if they could be more expressively designated than by these two appellations, the _décousu_ and the _rococo_. i have already stated who it is that form the _rococo_ class: the _décousu_ division may be considered as embracing the whole of the ultra-romantic school of authors, be they novelists, dramatists, or poets; all shades of republicans, from the avowed eulogists of the "spirited robespierre" to the gentler disciples of lamennais; most of the schoolboys, and all the _poissardes_ of paris. letter iv. théâtre français.--mademoiselle mars.--elmire.--charlotte brown.--extract from a sermon. it was not without some expectation of having "guilty of rococoism" recorded against me, that i avowed, very soon after my arrival, the ardent desire i felt of turning my eyes from all that was new, that i might once again see mars perform the part of elmire in the "tartuffe." i was not quite without fear, too, that i was running some risk of effacing the delightful recollections of the past, by contemplating the change which seven years had made. i almost feared to let my children behold a reality that might destroy their _beau idéal_ of the only perfect actress still remaining on the stage. but "tartuffe" was on the bills: it might not soon appear again; an early dinner was hastily dispatched, and once more i found myself before the curtain which i had so often seen rise to talma, duchenois, and mars. i perceived with great pleasure on reaching the theatre, that the parisians, though fickle in all else, were still faithful in their adoration of mademoiselle mars: for now, for perhaps the five hundredth representation of her elmire, the barricades were as necessary, the _queue_ as long and as full, as when, fifteen years ago, i was first told to remark the wonderful power of attraction possessed by an actress already greatly past the first bloom of youth and beauty. were the parisians as defensible in their ordinary love of change as they are in this singular proof of fidelity, it would be well. it is, however, strange witchery. that the ear should be gratified, and the feelings awakened, by the skilful intonations of a voice the sweetest perhaps that ever blest a mortal, is quite intelligible; but that the eye should follow with such unwearied delight every look and movement of a woman, not only old--for that does sometimes happen at paris--but one known to be so from one end of europe to the other, is certainly a singular phenomenon. yet so it is; and could you see her, you would understand why, though not how, it is so. there is still a charm, a grace, in every movement of mademoiselle mars, however trifling and however slight, which instantly captivates the eye, and forbids it to wander to any other object--even though that object be young and lovely. why is it that none of the young heads can learn to turn like hers? why can no arms move with the same beautiful and easy elegance? her very fingers, even when gloved, seem to aid her expression; and the quietest and least posture-studying of actresses contrives to make the most trifling and ordinary movement assist in giving effect to her part. i would willingly consent to be dead for a few hours, if i could meanwhile bring molière to life, and let him see mars play one of his best-loved characters. how delicious would be his pleasure in beholding the creature of his own fancy thus exquisitely alive before him; and of marking, moreover, the thrill that makes itself heard along the closely-packed rows of the parterre, when his wit, conveyed by this charming conductor, runs round the house like the touch of electricity! do you think that the best smile of louis le grand could be worth this? few theatrical pieces can, i think, be calculated to give less pleasure than that of "charlotte brown," which followed the "tartuffe;" but as the part of charlotte is played by mademoiselle mars, people will stay to see it. i repented however that i did not go, for it made me cross and angry. such an actress as mars should not be asked to try a _tour de force_ in order to make an abortive production effective. and what else can it be called, if her touching pathos and enchanting grace are brought before the public, to make them endure a platitude that would have been hissed into oblivion ere it had well seen light without her? it is hardly fair to expect that a performer should create as well as personate the chief character of a piece; but mademoiselle mars certainly does nothing less, when she contrives to excite sympathy and interest for a low-born and low-minded woman, who has managed to make a great match by telling a great falsehood. yet "charlotte brown" is worth seeing for the sake of a certain tragic look given by this wonderful actress at the moment when her falsehood is discovered. it is no exaggeration to say, that mrs. siddons never produced an expression of greater power. it is long since i have seen any theatre so crowded. i remember many years ago hearing what i thought an excellent sermon from a venerable rector, who happened to have a curate more remarkable for the conscientious manner in which he performed his duty to the parish, and the judicious selection of his discourses, than for the excellence of his original sermons. "it is the duty of a minister," said the old man, "to address the congregation which shall assemble to hear him with the most impressive and most able eloquence that it is within the compass of his power to use; and far better is it that the approved wisdom of those who have passed away be read from the pulpit, than that the weak efforts of an ungifted preacher should fall wearily and unprofitably on the ears of his congregation. the fact that his discourse is manuscript, instead of printed, will hardly console them for the difference." do you not think--with all reverence be it spoken--that the same reasoning might be very usefully addressed to the managers of theatres, not in france only, but all the world over? if it cost too much to have a good new piece, would it not be better to have a good old one? letter v. exhibition of living artists at the louvre.--the deluge.--poussin and martin.--portraits.--appearance of the company. i have been so little careful about dates and seasons, as totally to have forgotten, or rather neglected to learn, that the period of our arriving at paris was that of the exhibition of living artists at the louvre: and it is not easy to describe the feeling produced by entering the gallery, with the expectation of seeing what i had been used to see there, and finding what was, at least, so very different. nevertheless, the exhibition is a very fine one, and so greatly superior to any i had heretofore seen of the modern french school, that we soon had the consolation of finding ourselves amused, and i may say delighted, notwithstanding our disappointment. but surely there never was a device hit upon so little likely to propitiate the feelings which generate applause, as this of covering up poussin, rubens, raphael, titian, and correggio, by hanging before them the fresh results of modern palettes. it is indeed a most un-coquettish mode of extorting attention. there are some pictures of the louvre gallery in particular, with which my children are well acquainted, either by engravings or description, whose eclipse produced a very sad effect. "the deluge" of poussin is one of these. perhaps it may have been my brother's striking description of this picture which made it pre-eminently an object of interest to us. you may remember that mr. milton, in his elegant and curious little volume on the fine arts, written at paris just before the breaking up of napoleon's collection, says in speaking of it--"colouring was unquestionably poussin's least excellence; yet in this collection there is one of his pictures--the deluge--in which the effect produced by the mere colouring is most singular and powerful. the air is burdened and heavy with water; the earth, where it is not as yet overwhelmed, seems torn to pieces by its violence: the very light of heaven is absorbed and lost." i give you this passage, because i remember no picture described with equal brevity, yet brought so powerfully before the imagination of the reader. can the place where one comes to look for this be favourable for hanging our illustrious countryman's representation of the same subject? it is doing him a most ungratifying honour; and were i mr. martin, or any other painter living, i would not consent to be exposed to the invidious comparisons which must inevitably ensue from such an injudicious arrangement. how exceedingly disagreeable, for instance, must it be for the artists--who, i believe, not unfrequently indulge themselves by hovering under the incognito of apparent indifference near their favourite works--to overhear such remarks as those to which i listened yesterday in that part of the gallery where le sueur's st. brunos hang!--"certainly, the bows on that lady's dress are of a delicate blue," said the critic; "and so is the drapery of le sueur, which, for my sins, i happen to know is hid just under it.... would one wish a better contrast to what it hides, than that unmeaning smile--that cold, smooth, varnished skin,--those lifeless limbs, and the whole unspeakable tameness of this thing, called _portrait d'une dame_?" he spoke truly; yet was there but little point in what he said, for it might have referred with equal justice to many a pretty lady doomed to simper for ever in her gilded frame. on the whole, however, portraits are much less oppressively predominating than with us; and among them are many whose size, composition, and exquisite style of finishing redeem them altogether from the odium of being _de trop_ in the collection. i cannot but wish that this style of portrait-painting may find favour and imitation in england. lawrence is gone; and though gérard on this side of the water, and indeed too many to rehearse on both, are left, whose portraitures of the human face are admirable; true to nature; true to art; true to expression,--true, even to the want of it; i am greatly inclined to believe that the enormous sums annually expended on these clever portraits contribute more to lower than to raise the art in popularity and in the genuine estimation of the public. the sums thus lavished may be termed patronage, certainly; but it is patronage that bribes the artist to the restraint, and often to the destruction, of his genius. is there, in fact, any one who can honestly deny that a splendid exhibition-room, crowded with ladies and gentlemen on canvass, as large as life, is a lounge of great tediousness and inanity? we may feel some satisfaction in recognising at a glance the eyes, nose, mouth, and chin of many of our friends and acquaintance,--nay, our most critical judgment may often acknowledge that these familiar features are registered with equal truth and skill; but this will not prevent the exhibition from being very dull. nor is the thing much mended when each portrait, or pair of portraits, has been withdrawn from the gaudy throng, and hung up for ever and for ever before the eyes of their family and friends. the fair lady, sweetly smiling in one division of the apartment, and the well-dressed gentleman looking _distingué_ in another, contribute as little at home as they did when suspended on the walls of the academy to the real pleasure and amusement of the beholder. at the exhibition this year at the louvre are many exquisite full-length portraits in oil, of which the canvass measures from eighteen inches to a foot in height, and from a foot to ten inches in width. the composition and style of these beautiful little pictures are often such as to detain one long before them, even though one does not recognise in them the features of an acquaintance. their unobtrusive size must prevent their ever being disagreeably predominant in the decoration of a room; while their delicate and elaborate finish, and the richness of their highly-studied composition, will well reward attention; and even the closest examination, when directed to them, either by politeness, affection, or connoisseurship, can never be disappointed. the catalogue of the exhibition notices all the pictures which have been either ordered or purchased by the king or any of the royal family; and the number is so considerable as to show plainly that the most liberal and widely-extended patronage of art is a systematic object with the government. the gold medal of the year has been courteously bestowed upon mr. martin for his picture of the deluge. had i been the judge, i should have awarded it to stuben's battle of waterloo. that the faculty of imagination is one of the highest requisites for a painter is most certain; and that mr. martin pre-eminently possesses it, not less so. but imagination, though it can do much, cannot do all; and common sense is at least equally important in the formation of a finished artist. the painter of the great day of waterloo has both. his imagination has enabled him to dive into the very hearts and souls of the persons he has depicted. passion speaks in every line; and common sense has taught him, that, however powerful--nay, vehement, might be the expression he sought to produce, it must be obtained rather by the patient and faithful imitation of nature than by a bold defiance of her. the assassination of the duc de guise, by m. delaroche, is an admirable and highly popular work. it requires some patient perseverance to contest inch by inch the slow approach to the place where this exquisite piece of finishing is hung--but it well rewards the time and labour. one or two lovely little pictures by franquelin made me envy those who have power to purchase, and sigh to think that they will probably go into private collections, where i shall never see them more. there are, indeed, many pictures so very good, that i think it possible the judges may have relieved themselves from the embarrassment of declaring which was best, by politely awarding the palm to the stranger. i could indulge myself, did i not fear to weary you, by dwelling much longer upon my agreeable recollections of this extensive exhibition--containing, by the way, , pictures,--and might particularise many very admirable works. nevertheless, i must repeat, that thus hiding the precious labours of all schools, and of all ages of painting, by the promiscuous productions of the living artists of france during the last year, is a most injudicious device for winning for them the golden opinions of those who throng from all quarters of the world to visit the louvre. this exhibition reaches to about three-fourths of the gallery; and where it ceases, a grim curtain, suspended across it, conceals the precious labours of the spanish and italian schools, which occupy the farther end. can anything be imagined more tantalising than this? and where is the living artist who could stand his ground against such cruel odds? to render the effect more striking still, this dismal curtain is permitted so to hang as to leave a few inches between its envious amplitude and the rich wall--suffering the mellow browns of a well-known murillo to meet and mock the eye. certainly not all the lecturers of all the academies extant could point out a more effectual manner of showing the modern french artist wherein he chiefly fails: let us hope he will profit by it. as i am writing of paris, it must be almost superfluous to say that the admission to this collection is gratis. i cannot quit the subject without adding a few words respecting the company, or at least a part of it, whose appearance, i thought, gave very unequivocal marks of the march of mind and of indecorum;--for a considerable sprinkling of very particularly greasy citizens and citizenesses made itself felt and seen at every point where the critical crowd was thickest. but-- "sweetest nut hath sourest rind;" and it were treason here, i suppose, to doubt that such a proportion of intellect and refinement lies hid under the soiled _blouse_ and time-worn petticoat, as is at least equal to any that we may hope to find enveloped in lawn, and lace, and broadcloth. it is an incontrovertible fact, i think, that when the immortals of paris raised the barricades in the streets, they pulled them down, more or less, in society. but this is an evil which those who look beyond the present hour for their sources of joy and sorrow need not deeply lament. nature herself--at least such as she shows herself, when man, forsaking the forest, agrees with his fellows to congregate in cities--nature herself will take care to set this right again. "strength will be lord of imbecility;" and were all men equal in the morning, they would not go to rest till some amongst them had been thoroughly made to understand that it was their lot to strew the couches of the rest. such is the law of nature; and mere brute numerical strength will no more enable a mob to set it aside, than it will enable the ox or the elephant to send us to plough, or draw out our teeth to make their young one's toys. for the present moment, however, some of the rubbish that the commotion of "the ordonnances" stirred up may still be seen floating about on the surface; and it is difficult to observe without a smile in what chiefly consists the liberty which these immortals have so valiantly bled to acquire. we may truly say of the philosophical population of paris, that "they are thankful for small matters;" one of the most remarkable of their newly-acquired rights being certainly the privilege of presenting themselves dirty, instead of clean, before the eyes of their magnates. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. louvre. london, published by richard bentley, .] i am sure you must remember in days of yore,--that is to say, before the last revolution,--how very agreeable a part of the spectacle at the louvre and in the tuileries gardens was constituted by the people,--not the ladies and gentlemen--they look pretty much the same everywhere; but by the careful coquetry of the pretty costumes, now a _cauchoise_, and now a _toque_,--the spruce neatness of the men who attended them,--nay, even by the tight and tidy trimness of the "wee things" that in long waist, silk apron, snow-white cap, and faultless _chaussure_, trotted beside them. all these added greatly to the pleasantness and gaiety of the scene. but now, till the fresh dirt (not the fresh gloss) of the three days' labour be worn off, dingy jackets, uncomely _casquettes_, ragged _blouses_, and ill-favoured round-eared caps, that look as if they did duty night and day, must all be tolerated; and in this toleration appears to consist at present the principal external proof of the increased liberty of the parisian mob. letter vi. society.--morality.--false impressions and false reports.--observations from a frenchman on a recent publication. much as i love the sights of paris,--including as we must under this term all that is great and enduring, as well as all that is for ever changing and for ever new,--i am more earnestly bent, as you will readily believe, upon availing myself of all my opportunities for listening to the conversation within the houses, than on contemplating all the marvels that may be seen without. joyfully, therefore, have i welcomed the attention and kindness that have been offered me in various quarters; and i have already the satisfaction of finding myself on terms of most pleasant and familiar intercourse with a variety of very delightful people, many of them highly distinguished, and, happily for me, varying in their opinions of all things both in heaven and earth, from the loftiest elevation of the _rococo_, to the lowest profundity of the _décousu_ school. and here let me pause, to assure you, and any other of my countrymen and countrywomen whose ears i can reach, that excursions to paris, be they undertaken with what spirit of enterprise they may, and though they may be carried through with all the unrestrained expense that english wealth can permit, yet without the power by some means or other of entering into good french society, they are nothing worth. it is true, that there is something most exceedingly exhilarating to the spirits in the mere external novelty and cheerfulness of the objects which surround a stranger on first entering paris. that indescribable air of gaiety which makes every sunshiny day look like a fête; the light hilarity of spirit that seems to pervade all ranks; the cheerful tone of voice, the sparkling glances of the numberless bright eyes; the gardens, the flowers, the statues of paris,--all together produce an effect very like enchantment. but "use lessens marvel;" and when the first delightful excitement is over, and we begin to feel weary from its very intensity, the next step is backward into rationality, low spirits, and grumbling. from that moment the english tourist talks of nothing but wide rivers, magnificent bridges, prodigious _trottoirs_, unrivalled drains, and genuine port. it is at this stage that the traveller, in order to continue his enjoyment and bring it to perfection, should remit his examination of the exterior of noble _hôtels_, and endeavour to be admitted to the much more enduring enchantment which prevails within them. so much has already been said and written on the grace and charm of the french language in conversation, that it is quite needless to dwell upon it. that _good things_ can be said in no other idiom with equal grace, is a fact that can neither be controverted nor more firmly established than it is already. happily, the art of expressing a clever thought in the best possible words did not die with madame de sévigné; nor has it yet been destroyed by revolution of any kind. it is not only for the amusement of an hour, however, that i would recommend the assiduous cultivation of good french society to the english. great and important improvements in our national manners have already arisen from the intercourse which long peace has permitted. our dinner-tables are no longer disgraced by inebriety; nor are our men and women, when they form a party expressly for the purpose of enjoying each other's society, separated by the law of the land during half the period for which the social meeting has been convened. but we have much to learn still; and the general tone of our daily associations might be yet farther improved, did the best specimens of parisian habits and manners furnish the examples. it is not from the large and brilliant parties which recur in every fashionable mansion, perhaps, three or four times in each season, that i think we could draw much improvement. a fine party at lady a----'s in grosvenor square, is not more like a fine party at lady b----'s in berkeley square, than a fine party in paris is to one in london. there are abundance of pretty women, handsome men, satin, gauze, velvet, diamonds, chains, stars, moustaches, and imperials at both, with perhaps very little deserving the name of rational enjoyment in either. i suspect, indeed, that we have rather the advantage on these crowded occasions, for we more frequently change the air by passing from one room to another when we eat our ices; and as the tulip-tinctured throng enjoy this respite from suffocation by detachments, they have often not only opportunity to breathe, but occasionally to converse also, for several minutes together, without danger of being dislodged from their standing-ground. it is not, therefore, at the crowded roll-calls of all their acquaintance that i would look for anything rational or peculiar in the _salons_ of paris, but in the daily and constant intercourse of familiar companionship. this is enjoyed with a degree of pleasant ease--an absence of all pomp, pride, and circumstance, of which unhappily we have no idea. alas! we must know by special printed announcement a month beforehand that our friend is "at home,"--that liveried servants will be in attendance, and her mansion blazing with light,--before we can dare venture to pass an evening hour in her drawing-room. how would a london lady stare, if some half-dozen--though perhaps among the most chosen favourites of her visiting-list--were to walk unbidden into her presence, in bonnets and shawls, between the hours of eight and eleven! and how strangely new would it seem, were the pleasantest and most coveted engagements of the week, formed without ceremony and kept without ostentation, to arise from a casual meeting at the beginning of it! it is this ease, this habitual absence of ceremony and parade, this national enmity to constraint and tediousness of all kinds, which renders the tone of french manners so infinitely more agreeable than our own. and the degree in which this is the case can only be guessed at by those who, by some happy accident or other, possess a real and effective "open sesame!" for the doors of paris. with all the superabundance of vanity ascribed to the french, they certainly show infinitely less of it in their intercourse with their fellow-creatures than we do. i have seen a countess, whose title was of a dozen fair descents, open the external door of her apartment, and welcome the guests who appeared at it with as much grace and elegance as if a triple relay of tall fellows who wore her colours had handed their names from hall to drawing-room. yet in this case there was no want of wealth. coachman, footman, abigail, and doubtless all fitting etceteras, owned her as their sovereign lady and mistress. but they happened to have been sent hither and thither, and it never entered her imagination that her dignity could be compromised by her appearing without them. in short, the vanity of the french does not show itself in little things; and it is exactly for this reason that their enjoyment of society is stripped of so much of the anxious, sensitive, ostentatious, self-seeking etiquette which so heavily encumbers our own. there are some among us, my friend, who might say of this testimony to the charm of french society, that there was danger in praising, and pointing out as an example to be followed, the manners of a people whose morality is considered as so much less strict than our own. could i think that, by thus approving what is agreeable, i could lessen by a single hair's-breadth the interval which we believe exists between us in this respect, i would turn my approval to reproof, and my superficial praise to deep-dyed reprobation: but to any who should express such a fear, i would reply by assuring them that it would require a very different species of intimacy from any to which i had the honour of being admitted, in order to authorise, from personal observation, any attack upon the morals of parisian society. more scrupulous and delicate refinement in _the tone of manners_ can neither be found nor wished for anywhere; and i do very strongly suspect, that many of the pictures of french depravity which have been brought home to us by our travellers, have been made after sketches taken in scenes and circles to which the introductions i so strongly recommend to my countrywomen could by no possibility lead them. it is not of such that i can be supposed to speak. apropos of false impressions and false reports, i may repeat to you an anecdote which i heard yesterday evening. the little committee in which it was related consisted of at least a dozen persons, and it appeared that i was myself the only one to whom it was new. "it is rather more than two years ago," said the speaker, "that we had amongst us an english gentleman, who avowed that it was his purpose to write on france, not as other men write--superficially, respecting truths that lie obvious to ordinary eyes--but with a research that should make him acquainted with all things above, about, and underneath. he professed this intention to more than one dear friend; and more than one dear friend took the trouble of tracing him in his chase after hidden truths. not long after his arrival among us, this gentleman became intimately acquainted with a lady more celebrated for the variety of her friendships with men of letters than for the endurance of them. this lady received the attentions of the stranger with distinguished kindness, and, among other proofs of regard, undertook to purvey for him all sorts of private anecdotes, great and little, that from the mass he might form an average estimate of the people; assuring him at the same time, that no one in paris was more _au fait_ of its secret histories than herself. this," continued my informant, "might be, and i believe was, very particularly true; and the english traveller might have been justified in giving to his countrymen and countrywomen as much insight into such mysteries as he thought good for them: but when he published the venomous slanders of this female respecting persons not only of the highest honour, but of the most unspotted reputation, he did what will blast his name as long as his charlatan book is remembered." such were the indignant words, and there was nothing in the tone with which they were uttered to weaken their expression. i tell you the tale as i heard it; but i will not repeat much more that was said on the same subject, nor will i give any a..., b..., or c... hints as to the names so freely mentioned. some degree of respectability ought certainly to attach to those from whom important information is sought respecting the morals and manners of a country, when it is the intention of the inquirer that his observations and statements upon it should become authority to the whole civilized world. the above conversation, however, was brought to a laughing conclusion by madame c----, who, addressing her husband as he was seconding the angry eloquence i have repeated, said, "calmez-vous donc, mon ami: après tout, le tableau fait par m. le voyageur des dames anglaises n'a rien à nous faire mourir de jalousie." i suspect that neither you nor any other lady of england will feel disposed to contradict her. adieu! letter vii. alarm created by the trial of the lyons prisoners.--visits from a republican and from a doctrinaire: reassured by the promises of safety and protection received from the latter. we have really had something very like a panic amongst us, from the rumours in circulation respecting this terrible trial, which is now rapidly approaching. many people think that fearful scenes may be expected to take place in paris when it begins. the newspapers of all parties are so full of the subject, that there is little else to be found in them; and all those, of whatever colour, which are opposed to the government, describe the manner in which the proceedings are to be managed, as the most tyrannical exercise of power ever practised in modern europe. the legitimate royalists declare it to be illegal, inasmuch as the culprits have a right to be tried by a jury of their peers--the citizens of france; whereas it appears that this their chartered right is denied them, and that no other judge or jury is to be permitted in their case than the peers of france. whether this accusation will be satisfactorily answered, i know not; but there certainly does appear to be something rather plausible, at least, in the objection. nevertheless, it is not very difficult to see that the th article of the charter may be made to answer it, which says,-- "the chamber of peers takes cognizance of high-treason, and of attempts against the safety of the state, _which shall be defined by law_." now, though this _defining by law_ appears, by what i can learn, to be an operation not yet quite completed, there seems to be something so very like high-treason in some of the offences for which these prisoners are to be tried, that the first clause of the article may do indifferently well to cover it. the republican journals, pamphlets, and publications of all sorts, however, treat the whole business of their detention and trial as the most tremendous infringement of the newly-acquired rights of young france; and they say--nay, they do swear, that crowned king, created peers, and placed ministers never dared to venture upon anything so tyrannical as this. all that the unfortunate louis seize ever did, or suffered to be done--all that the banished charles dix ever threatened to do--never "roared so loud, and thundered in the index," as does this deed without a name about to be perpetrated by king louis-philippe the first. at last, however, the horrible thing has been christened, and procÈs monstre is its name. this is a happy device, and will save a world of words. before it received this expressive appellation, every paragraph concerning it began by a roundabout specification of the horrific business they were about to speak of; but since this lucky name has been hit upon, all prefatory eloquence is become unnecessary: _procès monstre!_ simply _procès monstre!_ expresses all it could say in two words; and whatever follows may safely become matter of news and narrative respecting it. this news, and these narratives, however, still vary considerably, and leave one in a very vacillating state of mind as to what may happen next. one account states that paris is immediately to be put under martial law, and all foreigners, except those attached to the different embassies, civilly requested to depart. another declares all this to be a weak invention of the enemy; but hints that it is probable a pretty strong _cordon_ of troops will surround the city, to keep watch day and night, lest _les jeunes gens_ of the metropolis, in their mettlesome mood, should seek to wash out in the blood of their fellow-citizens the stain which the illegitimate birth of the monster has brought upon france. others announce that a devoted body of patriots have sworn to sacrifice a hecatomb of national guards, to atone for an abomination which many believe to originate with them. not a few declare that the trial will never take place; that the government, audacious as they say it is, dare do no more than hold up the effigy of the monster to frighten the people, and that a general amnesty will end the business. in truth, it would be a tedious task to record one half of the tales that are in circulation on this subject: but i do assure you, that listening to the awful note of preparation for all that is to be done at the luxembourg is quite enough to make one nervous, and many english families have already thought it prudent to leave the city. at one moment we were really worked into a state very nearly approaching terror by the vehement eloquence of a fiery-hot republican who paid us a visit. i ventured to lead to the terrible subject by asking him if he thought the approaching political trials likely to produce any result beyond their disagreeable influence on the convenience of the parties concerned; but i really repented my temerity when i saw the cloud which gathered on his brow as he replied:-- "result! what do you call result, madam? is the burning indignation of millions of frenchmen a result? are the execrations of the noble beings enslaved, imprisoned, tortured, trampled on by tyranny, a result? are the groans of their wives and mothers--are the tears of their bereaved children--a result?--yes, yes, there will be results enough! they are yet to come, but come they will; and when they do, think you that the next revolution will be one of three days? do your countrymen think so? does europe think so? there has been another revolution, to which it will more resemble." he looked rather ashamed of himself, i thought, when he had concluded his tirade,--and well he might: but there was such a hideous tone of prophecy in this, that i actually trembled as i listened to him, and, all jesting apart, thoughts of passports to be signed and conveyances to be hired were arranging themselves very seriously in my brain. but before we went out for the evening, all these gloomy meditations were most agreeably dispersed by a visit from a staid old doctrinaire, who was not only a soberer politician, but one considerably more likely to know what he was talking about than the youth who had harangued us in the morning. anxious to have my fears either confirmed or removed, i hastened to tell him, half in jest, half in earnest, that we were beginning to think of taking an abrupt leave of paris. "and why?" said he. i stated very seriously my newly-awakened fears; at which he laughed heartily, and with an air of such unfeigned amusement, that i was cured at once. "whom can you have been listening to?" said he. "i will not give up my authority," i replied with proper diplomatic discretion; "but i will tell you exactly what a gentleman who has been here this morning has been saying to us." and i did so precisely as i have repeated it to you; upon which he laughed more heartily than before, and rubbing his hands as if perfectly delighted, he exclaimed, "delicious! and you really have been fortunate enough to fall in with one of these _enfans perdus_? i really wish you joy. but do not set off immediately: listen first to another view of the case." i assured him that this was exactly what i wished to do, and very truly declared that he could do me no greater favour than to put me _au fait_ of the real state of affairs. "willingly will i do so," said he; "and be assured i will not deceive you." whereupon i closed the _croisée_, that no rattling wheels might disturb us, and prepared to listen. "my good lady," he began with great kindness, "soyez tranquille. there is no more danger of revolution at this time in france than there is in russia. louis-philippe is adored; the laws are respected; order is universally established; and if there be a sentiment of discontent or a feeling approaching to irritation among any deserving the name of frenchmen, it is against these miserable _vauriens_, who still cherish the wild hope of disturbing our peace and our prosperity. but fear nothing: trust me, the number of these is too small to make it worth while to count them." you will believe i heard this with sincere satisfaction; and i really felt very grateful, both for the information, and the friendly manner in which it was given. "i rejoice to hear this," said i: "but may i, as a matter of curiosity, ask you what you think about this famous trial? how do you think it will end?" "as all trials ought to end," he replied: "by bringing all such as are found guilty to punishment." "heaven grant it!" said i; "for the sake of mankind in general, and for that portion of it in particular which happen at the present moment to inhabit paris. but do you not think that the irritation produced by these preparations at the luxembourg is of considerable extent and violence?" "to whatever extent this irritation may have gone," he answered gravely, "it is an undoubted fact,--undoubted in the quarter where most is known about the matter,--that the feeling which approves these preparations is not only of greater extent, but of infinitely deeper sincerity, than that which is opposed to it. what you have heard to-day is mere unmeaning bluster. the trial, i do assure you, is very popular. it is for the justification and protection of the national guard;--and are we not all national guards?" "but are all the national guards true?" "perhaps not. but be sure of this, that there are enough true to _égorger_ without any difficulty those who are not." "but is it not very probable," said i, "that the republican feeling may be quite strong enough to produce another disturbance, though not another revolution? and the situation of strangers would probably become very embarrassing, should this eventually lead to any renewed outbreakings of public enthusiasm." "not the least in the world, i do assure you: for, at any rate, all the enthusiasm, as you civilly call it, would only elicit additional proof of the stability and power of the government which we are now so happy as to enjoy. the enthusiasm would be speedily calmed, depend upon it." "a peaceable traveller," said i, "can wish for no better news; and henceforward i shall endeavour to read and to listen with a tranquil spirit, let the prisoners or their partisans say what they may." "you will do wisely, believe me. rest in perfect confidence and security, and be assured that louis-philippe holds all the english as his right good friends. while this is the case, neither windsor castle nor the tower of london itself could afford you a safer abode than paris." with this seasonable and very efficient encouragement, he left me; and as i really believe him to know more about the new-born politics of "young france" than most people, i go on very tranquilly making engagements, with but few misgivings lest barricades should prevent my keeping them. letter viii. eloquence of the pulpit.--l'abbé coeur.--sermon at st. roch.--elegant congregation.--costume of the younger clergy. there is one novelty, and to me a very agreeable one, which i have remarked since my return to this volatile france: this is the fashion and consideration which now attend the eloquence of her preachers. political economists assert that the supply of every article follows the demand for it in a degree nicely proportioned to the wants of the population; and it is upon this principle, i presume, that we must account for the present affluence of a talent which some few years ago could hardly be said to exist in france, and might perhaps have been altogether denied to it, had not the pages both of fenelon and his eloquent antagonist, bossuet, rendered such an injustice impossible. it was, i think, about a dozen years ago that i took some trouble to discover if any traces of this glorious eloquence remained at paris. i heard sermons at notre dame--at st. roch--at st. eustache; but never was a search after talent attended with worse success. the preachers were nought; they had the air, too, of being vulgar and uneducated men,--which i believe was, and indeed still is, very frequently the case. the churches were nearly empty; and the few persons scattered up and down their splendid aisles appeared, generally speaking, to be of the very lowest order of old women. how great is now the contrast! nowhere are we so certain of seeing a crowd of elegantly-dressed and distinguished persons as in the principal churches of paris. nor is it a crowd that mocks the eye with any tinsel pretensions to a rank they do not possess. inquire who it is that so meekly and devoutly kneels on one side of you--that so sedulously turns the pages of her prayer-book on the other, and you will be answered by the announcement of the noblest names remaining in france. though the eloquence of the pulpit has always been an object of attention and interest to me in all countries, i hardly ventured on my first arrival here to inquire again if anything of the kind existed, lest i should once more be sent to listen to an inaudible mumbling preacher, and to look at the deaf and dozing old women who formed his congregation. but it has needed no inquiry to make us speedily acquainted with the fact, that the churches have become the favourite resort of the young, the beautiful, the high-born, and the instructed. whence comes this change? "have you heard l'abbé coeur?" was a question asked me before i had been here a week, by one who would not for worlds have been accounted _rococo_. when i replied that i had not even heard of him, i saw plainly that it was decided i could know very little indeed of what was going on in paris. "that is really extraordinary! but i engage you to go without delay. he is, i assure you, quite as much the fashion as taglioni." as the conversation was continued on the subject of fashionable preachers, i soon found that i was indeed altogether benighted. other celebrated names were cited: lacordaire, deguerry, and some others that i do not remember, were spoken of as if their fame must of necessity have reached from pole to pole, but of which, in truth, i knew no more than if the gentlemen had been private chaplains to the princes of chili. however, i set down all their names with much docility; and the more i listened, the more i rejoiced that the passion-week and easter, those most catholic seasons for preaching, were before us, being fully determined to profit by this opportunity of hearing in perfection what was so perfectly new to me as popular preaching in paris. i have lost little time in putting this resolution into effect. the church of st. roch is, i believe, the most fashionable in paris; it was there, too, that we were sure of hearing this celebrated abbé coeur; and both these reasons together decided that it was at st. roch our sermon-seeking should begin: i therefore immediately set about discovering the day and hour on which he would make his appearance in the pulpit. when inquiring these particulars in the church, we were informed, that if we intended to procure chairs, it would be necessary to come at least one good hour before the high mass which preceded the sermon should begin. this was rather alarming intelligence to a party of heretics who had an immense deal of business on their hands; but i was steadfast in my purpose, and, with a small detachment of my family, submitted to the preliminary penance of sitting the long silent hour in front of the pulpit of st. roch. the precaution was, however, perfectly necessary, for the crowd was really tremendous; but, to console us, it was of the most elegant description; and, after all, the hour scarcely appeared much too long for the business of reviewing the vast multitude of graceful personages, waving plumes, and blooming flowers, that ceased not during every moment of the time to collect themselves closer and closer still about us. nothing certainly could be more beautiful than this collection of bonnets, unless it were the collection of eyes under them. the proportion of ladies to gentlemen was on the whole, we thought, not less than twelve to one. "je désirerais savoir," said a young man near me, addressing an extremely pretty woman who sat beside him,--"je désirerais savoir si par hasard m. l'abbé coeur est jeune." the lady answered not, but frowned most indignantly. a few minutes afterwards, his doubts upon this point, if he really had any, were removed. a man far from ill-looking, and farther still from being old, mounted the tribune, and some thousands of bright eyes were riveted upon him. the silent and profound attention which hung on every word he uttered, unbroken as it was by a single idle sound, or even glance, showed plainly that his influence upon the splendid and numerous congregation that surrounded him must be very great, or the power of his eloquence very strong: and it was an influence and a power that, though "of another parish," i could well conceive must be generally felt, _for he was in earnest_. his voice, though weak and somewhat wirey, was distinct, and his enunciation clear: i did not lose a word. his manner was simple and affectionate; his language strong, yet not intemperate; but he decidedly appealed more to the hearts of his hearers than to their understandings; and it was their hearts that answered him, for many of them wept plenteously. a great number of priests were present at this sermon, who were all dressed in their full clerical habits, and sat in places reserved for them immediately in front of the pulpit: they were consequently very near us, and we had abundant opportunity to remark the traces of that _march of mind_ which is doing so many wondrous works upon earth. instead of the tonsure which we have been used to see, certainly with some feeling of reverence--for it was often shorn into the very centre of crisped locks, while their raven black or shining chesnut still spoke of youth that scrupled not to sacrifice its comeliness to a feeling of religious devotion;--instead of this, we now saw unshaven crowns, and more than one pair of flourishing _favoris_, nourished, trained, and trimmed evidently with the nicest care, though a stiff three-cornered cowl in every instance hung behind the rich and waving honours of the youthful head. the effect of this strange mixture is very singular. but notwithstanding this bold abandonment of priestly costume among the junior clergy, there were in the long double row of anointed heads which faced the pulpit some exceedingly fine studies for an artist; and wherever the offending adam was subdued by years, nothing could be in better keeping than the countenances, and the sacred garb of those to whom they belonged. similar causes will, i suppose, at all times produce similar effects; and it is therefore that among the twenty priests at st. roch in , i seemed to recognise the originals of many a holy head with which the painters of italy, spain, and flanders have made me familiar. the contrast furnished by the deep-set eyes, and the fine severe expression of some of these consecrated brows, to the light, airy elegance of the pretty women around them, was sufficiently striking; and, together with the mellow light of the shaded windows, and the lofty spaciousness of the noble church, formed a spectacle highly picturesque and impressive. after the sermon was over, and while the gaily-habited congregation fluttered away through the different doors like so many butterflies hastening to meet returning sunshine, we amused ourselves by wandering round the church. it is magnificently large for a parish church; but, excepting in some of the little chapels, we found not much to admire. that very unrighteous old churchman, the abbé dubois, has a fine monument there, restored from les petits augustins; and a sort of marble medallion, bearing the head of the immortal corneille--immortal despite m. victor hugo--is also restored, and placed against one of the heavy columns of, i think, the centre aisle. but we paused longest in a little chapel behind the altar--not the middle one, with its well-managed glory of crimson light, though that is very beautiful; but in the one to the right of it, which contains a sculptured calvary. it is, i believe, only one of _les stations_, of which twelve are to be found in different parts of the church; but it has a charm--seen as we saw it, with a strong effect of accidental light, bringing forward the delicate figure of the adoring magdalene, and leaving the saviour in the dark shadow and repose of death--that sets at defiance all the connoisseurship of art, and taking from you all faculty to judge, leaves only the power to feel. under these circumstances, whether quite delusive or not i hardly know, this group appeared to us one of exceeding beauty. the high altar of st. roch, and the extremity of the carpeted space enclosed round it, is most lavishly, beautifully, and fragrantly adorned with flowers of the choicest kind, all flourishing in the fullest bloom in boxes and vases. it is the only instance i remember in which the perfume of this most fair and holy decoration actually pervaded the church. they certainly offer the sweetest incense that can be found to breathe its grateful life and spirit out on any altar; and were it not for the graceful swinging of the censers, which very particularly pleases my eye, i would recommend to the roman catholic church henceforth an economy of their precious gums, and advise them to offer the incense of flowers in their stead. before we left the church, about a hundred and fifty boys and girls, from ten to fourteen years of age, assembled to be catechised by a young priest, who received them behind the lady chapel. his manner was familiar, caressing and kind, and his waving hair fell about his ears like the picture of a young st. john. letter ix. literature of the revolutionary school.--its low estimation in france. among many proofs of attentive kindness which i have received from my paris friends, their care to furnish me with a variety of modern publications is not the least agreeable. one fancies everywhere, that it is easy, by the help of a circulating library, to know tolerably well what is going on at paris: but this is a mighty fond delusion; though sometimes, perhaps, our state may be the more gracious from our ignorance. one gentleman, to whom i owe much gratitude for the active good-nature with which he seems willing to assist me in all my researches, has given me much curious information respecting the present state of literature and literary men in france. in this department of human greatness, at least, those of the party which has lost power and place have a most decided pre-eminence. would it be a pun to say that there is poetical justice in this? the active, busy, bustling politicians of the hour have succeeded in thrusting everything else out of place, and themselves into it. one dynasty has been overthrown, and another established; old laws have been abrogated, and hundreds of new ones framed; hereditary nobles have been disinherited, and little men made great;--but amidst this plenitude of destructiveness, they have not yet contrived to make any one of the puny literary reputations of the day weigh down the renown of those who have never lent their voices to the cause of treason, regicide, rebellion, or obscenity. the literary reputations both of châteaubriand and lamartine stand higher, beyond all comparison, than those of any other living french authors: yet the first, with all his genius, has often suffered his imagination to run riot, and the last has only given to the public the leisure of his literary life. but both of them are men of honour and principle, as well as men of genius; and it comforts one's human nature to see that these qualities will keep themselves aloft, despite whatever squally winds may blow, or blustering floods assail them. that both châteaubriand and lamartine belong rather to the imaginative than to the _positif_ class, cannot be denied; but they are renowned throughout the world, and france is proud of them. the most curious literary speculations, however, suggested by the present state of letters in this country, are not respecting authors such as these: they speak for themselves, and all the world knows them and their position. the circumstance decidedly the most worthy of remark in the literature of france at the present time, is the effect which the last revolution appears to have produced. with the exception of history, to which both thiers and mignet have added something that may live, notwithstanding their very defective philosophy, no single work has appeared since the revolution of which has obtained a substantial, elevated, and generally acknowledged reputation for any author unknown before that period: not even among all the unbridled ebullitions of imagination, though restrained neither by decorum, principle, nor taste,--not even here (excepting from one female[ ] pen, which might become, were it the pleasure of the hand that wields it, the first now extant in the world of fiction,) has anything appeared likely to survive its author; nor is there any writer who during the same period has raised himself to that station in society, by means of his literary productions, which is so universally accorded to all who have acquired high literary celebrity in any country. the name of m. guizot was too well known before the revolution for these observations to have any reference to him; and however much he may have distinguished himself since july , his reputation was made before. there are, however, little writers in prodigious abundance; and though as perfectly sure of the truth of what i have here stated as that i am alive to write it, i should expect a terrible riot about my ears, could such words be heard by the swarm of tiny geniuses that settle in clusters, some on the newspapers, some on the theatres, and some on the busy little printing-press of the tale-tellers--could they catch me, i am sure i should be stung to death. how well i can fancy the clamour!... "infamous libeller!" cries one; "have not i achieved a reputation? do i not receive yearly some hundreds of francs for my sublime familiarity with sin and misery? and are not my works read by 'young france' with ecstasy? is not this fame?" "and i," says another,--"is it of such as i and my cotemporary fellow-labourers in the vast field of new-ploughed speculation that you speak?" "what call you reputation, woman?" says a third: "do not the theatres overflow when i send murder, lust, and incest on the stage, to witch the world with wondrous wickedness?" "and, i too," groans another,--"am i not famous? are not my delicious tales of unschooled nature in the hands of every free-born youth and tender maid in this our regenerated athens? is not this fame, infamous slanderer?" were i obliged to answer all this, i could only say, "_arrangez-vous, canaille!_ if you call this fame, take it, try it, make the most of it, and see where you will be some dozen years hence." notwithstanding this extraordinary lack of great ability, however, there never, i believe, was any period in which the printing-presses of france worked so hard as at present. the revolution of seems to have set all the minor spirits in motion. there is scarcely a boy so insignificant, or a workman so unlearned, as to doubt his having the power and the right to instruct the world. "every breathing soul in paris took a part in this glorious struggle," says the recording newspaper;--"yes, all!" echoes the smutched mechanic, snorting and snuffing the air with the intoxicating consciousness of imputed power;--"yes!" answer the _galopins_ one and all, "it is we, it is we!" and then, like the restless witches on the barren heath that their breath has blasted, the great reformers rouse themselves again, and looking from the mischief they have done to the still worse that remains behind, they mutter prophetically, "we'll do--we'll do--we'll do!" to me, i confess, it is perfectly astonishing that any one can be found to class the writers of this restless _clique_ as "the literary men of france." yet it has been done; and it is not till the effects of the popular commotion which brought them into existence has fully subsided, that the actual state of french literature can be fairly ascertained. béranger was not the production of that whirlwind: but, in truth, let him sing what or when he will, the fire of genuine poetic inspiration must perforce flash across the thickest mist that false principles can raise around him. he is but a meteor perhaps, but a very bright one, and must shine, though his path lie amongst unwholesome exhalations and most dangerous pitfalls. but he cannot in any way be quoted as one of the new-born race whose claim to genuine fame i have presumed to doubt. that flashes of talent, sparkles of wit, and bursts of florid eloquence are occasionally heard, seen, and felt even from these, is, however, certain: it could hardly be otherwise. but they blaze, and go out. the oil which feeds the lamp of revolutionary genius is foul, and such noxious vapours rise with the flame as must needs check its brightness. do not, however, believe me guilty of such presumption as to give you my own unsupported judgment as to the position which this "new school" (as the _décousu_ folks always call themselves) hold in the public esteem. such a judgment could be little worth if unsupported; but my opinion on this subject is, on the contrary, the result of careful inquiry among those who are most competent to give information respecting it. when the names of such as are best known among this class of authors are mentioned in society, let the politics of the circle be what they may, they are constantly spoken of as a paria caste that must be kept apart. "do you know ---- ----?" has been a question i have repeatedly asked respecting a person whose name is cited in england as the most esteemed french writer of the age,--and so cited, moreover, to prove the low standard of french taste and principle. "no, madam," has been invariably the cold reply. "or ----?" "no. he is not in society." "or ----?" "oh no! his works live an hour (too long!) and are forgotten." should i therefore, my friend, return from france with an higher idea of its good taste and morality than i had when i entered it, think not that my own standard of what is right has been lowered, but only that i have had the pleasure of finding it differed much less than i expected from that of our agreeable and hardly-judged neighbours on this side the water. but i shall probably recur to this subject again; and so, for the present, farewell! footnote: [ ] g. sand. letter x. lonchamps.--the "three hours' agony" at st. roch.--sermons on the gospel of good-friday.--prospects of the catholics.--o'connell. i dare say you may know, my friend, though i did not, that the wednesday, thursday, and friday of passion-week are yearly set apart by the parisians for a splendid promenade in carriages, on horseback, and on foot, to a part of the bois de boulogne called lonchamps. what the origin could be of so gay and brilliant an assemblage of people and equipages, evidently coming together to be stared at and to stare, on days so generally devoted to religious exercises, rather puzzled me; but i have obtained a most satisfactory explanation, which, in the hope of your ignorance, i will communicate. the custom itself, it seems, is a sort of religious exercise; or, at any rate, it was so at the time of its institution. when the _beau monde_ of paris first adopted the practice of repairing to lonchamps during these days of penitence and prayer, a convent stood there, whose nuns were celebrated for performing the solemn services appointed for the season with peculiar piety and effect. they sustained this reputation for many years; and for many years all who could find admittance within their church thronged to hear their sweet voices. this convent was destroyed at _the_ revolution (_par excellence_), but the horses and carriages of paris still continue to move for evermore in the same direction when the last three days of lent arrive. the cavalcade assembled on this occasion forms an extremely pretty spectacle, rivalling a spring sunday in hyde park as to the number and elegance of the equipages, and greatly exceeding it in the beauty and extent of the magnificent road on which they show themselves. though the attending this congregation of wealth, rank, and fashion is still called "going to lonchamps," the evolutions of the company, whether in carriages, on horseback, or on foot, are at present almost wholly confined to the noble avenue which leads from the entrance to the champs elysées up to the barrière de l'etoile. from about three till six, the whole of this ample space is crowded; and i really had no idea that so many handsome, well-appointed equipages could be found collected together anywhere out of london. the royal family had several handsome carriages on the ground: that of the duke of orleans was particularly remarkable for the beauty of the horses, and the general elegance of the "turn-out." the ministers of state, and all the foreign legations, did honour to the occasion; most of them having very complete equipages, chasseurs of various plumage, and many with a set of four beautiful horses really well harnessed. many private individuals, also, had carriages which were handsome enough, together with their elegant lading, greatly to increase the general brilliancy of the scene. the only individual, however, except the duke of orleans, who had two carriages on the ground, two feathered chasseurs, and twice two pair of richly-harnessed steeds, was a certain mr. t----, an american merchant, whose vast wealth, and still more vast expenditure, is creating considerable consternation among his sober-minded countrymen in paris. we were told that the exuberance of this gentleman's transatlantic taste was such, and such the vivacity of his inventive fancy, that during the three days of the lonchamps promenade he appeared on the ground each day with different liveries; having, as it should seem, no particular family reasons for preferring any one set of colours to another. the ground was sprinkled, and certainly greatly adorned, by many very elegant-looking englishmen on horseback; the pretty caprioles, sleek skins, and well-managed capers of that prettiest of creatures, a high-bred english saddle-horse, being as usual among the most attractive parts of the show. nor was there any deficiency of frenchmen, with very handsome _montures_, to complete the spectacle; while the ample space under the trees on either side was crowded with thousands of smart pedestrians; the whole scene being one vast moving mass of pomp and pleasure. nevertheless, the weather on the first of the three days was very far from favourable: the wind was so bitterly cold that i countermanded the carriage i had ordered, and instead of going to lonchamps, we actually sat shivering over the fire at home; indeed, before three o'clock, the ground was perfectly covered with snow. the next day promised something better, and we ventured to emerge: but the spectacle was really vexatious; many of the carriages being open, and the shivering ladies attired in all the light and floating drapery of spring costume. for it is at lonchamps that all the fashions of the coming season are exhibited; and no one can tell, however fashion-wise they be, what bonnet, scarf or shawl, or even what prevailing colour, is to be worn in paris throughout the year, till this decisive promenade be over. accordingly the milliners had done their duty, and, in fact, had far outstripped the spring. but it was sad to see the beautiful bunches of lilac, and the graceful, flexible laburnums--each a wonder of art--twisted and tortured, bending and breaking, before the wind. it really seemed as if the lazy spring, vexed at the pretty mimicry of blossoms she had herself failed to bring, sent this inclement blast on purpose to blight them. everything went wrong. the tender tinted ribbons were soon dabbled in a driving sleet; while feathers, instead of wantoning, as it was intended they should do, on the breeze, had to fight a furious battle with the gale. it was not therefore till the following day--the last of the three appointed--that lonchamps really showed the brilliant assemblage of carriages, horsemen, and pedestrians that i have described to you. upon this last day, however, though it was still cold for the season--(england would have been ashamed of such a th of april)--the sun did come forth, and smiled in such a sort as greatly to comfort the pious pilgrims. we remained, like all the rest of paris, driving up and down in the midst of the pretty crowd till six, when they gradually began to draw off, and all the world went home to dinner. the early part of this day, which was good-friday, had been very differently passed. the same beautiful and solemn music which formerly drew all paris to the convent in the bois de boulogne is now performed in several of the churches. we were recommended to hear the choir of st. roch; and it was certainly the most impressive service at which i was ever present. there is much wisdom in thus giving to music an important part in the public ceremonies of religion. nothing commands and enchains the attention with equal power: the ear may be deaf to eloquence, and the thoughts may often grovel earthward, despite all the efforts of the preacher to lead them up to heaven; but few will find it possible to escape from the effect of music; and when it is of such a character as that performed in the roman catholic church on good-friday, it can hardly be that the most volatile and indifferent listener should depart unmoved. this service was advertised as "the three hours' agony." the crowd assembled to listen to it was immense. it is impossible to speak too highly of the composition of the music; it is conceived in the very highest tone of sublimity; and the deeply effective manner of its performance recalled to me an anecdote i have heard of some young organist, who, having accompanied an anthem in a manner which appeared greatly superior to that of the usual performer, was asked if he had not made some alteration in the composition. "no," he replied, "i have not; but i always read the words when i play." so, i should think, did those who performed the services at st. roch on good-friday; and nothing can be imagined more touching and effective than the manner in which the whole of these striking ceremonies were performed and arranged there. the awful gospel of the day furnished a theme for the impassioned eloquence of several successive preachers; one or two of whom were wonderfully powerful in their manner of recounting the dreadful narrative. they were all quite young men; but they went through the whole of the appalling history with such deep solemnity, such strength of imagery and vehemence of eloquence, as to produce prodigious effect. at intervals, while the exhausted preachers reposed, the organ, with many stringed instruments, and a choir of exquisite voices, performed the same gospel, in a manner that made one's whole soul thrill and quiver within one. the suffering--the submission--the plaintive yet sublime "it is finished!" and the convulsive burst of indignant nature that followed, showing itself in thunder, hail, and earthquake, were all brought before the mind with most miraculous power. i have been told since, that the services at notre dame on that day were finer still; but i really find some difficulty in believing that this is possible. during these last and most solemn days of lent, i have been endeavouring by every means in my power to discover how much fasting, of any kind, was going on. if they fast at all, it is certainly performed in most strict obedience to the very letter of the gospel: for, assuredly, they "appear not unto men to fast." everything goes on as gaily as if it were the season of the carnival. the _restaurans_ reek with the savoury vapour of a hundred dishes; the theatres are opened, and as full as the churches; invitations cease not; and i can in no direction perceive the slightest symptom of being among a roman catholic population during a season of penitence. and yet, contradictory as the statement must appear, i am deeply convinced that the clergy of the church of rome feel more hope of recovered power fluttering at their hearts now, than they have done at any time during the last half-century. nor can i think they are far wrong in this. the share which the roman catholic priests of this our day are said to have had in the belgian revolution, and the part, more remarkable still, which the same race are now performing in the opening scenes of the fearful struggle which threatens england, has given a new impulse to the ambition of rome and of her children. one may read it in the portly bearing of her youthful priests,--one may read it in the deep-set meditative eye of those who are older. it is legible in their brand-new vestments of gold and silver tissue; it is legible in the costly decorations of their renovated altars; and deep, deep, deep is the policy which teaches them to recover with a gentle hand that which they have lost by a grasping one. how well can i fancy that, in their secret synods, the favourite text is, "no man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment; for that which is put in to fill it up, taketh from the garment, and the rent is made worse." were they a whit less cautious, they must fail at once; but they tickle their converts before they think of convincing them. it is for this that the pulpits are given to young and eloquent men, who win the eye and ear of their congregations long before they find out to what point they wish to lead them. but while the young men preach, the old men are not idle: there are rumours of new convents, new monasteries, new orders, new miracles, and of new converts, in all directions. this wily, worldly, tranquil-seeming, but most ambitious sect, having in many quarters joined themselves to the cause of democracy, sit quietly by, looking for the result of their work, and watching, like a tiger that seems to dose, for the moment when they may avenge themselves for the long fast from power, during which they have been gnawing their heart-strings. but they now hail the morning of another day. i would that all english ears could hear, as mine have done, the prattle that prophesies the downfall of our national church as a thing certain as rain after long drought! i would that english ears could hear, as mine have done, the name of o'connell uttered as that of a new apostle, and his bold bearding of those who yet raise their voices in defence of the faith their fathers gave them, triumphantly quoted in proof of the growing influence both of himself and his popish creed,--which are in truth one and inseparable! but forgive me!--all this has little to do with my subject, and it is moreover a theme i had much better not meddle with. i cannot touch it lightly, for my heart is heavy when i turn to it; i cannot treat it powerfully, for, alas! i have no strength but to lament. "hé! que puis-je au milieu de ce peuple abattu? benjamin est sans force, et juda sans vertu." letter xi. trial chamber at the luxembourg.--institute.--m. mignet.--concert musard. as a great and especial favour, we have been taken to see the new chamber that has been erected at the luxembourg for the trial of the political prisoners. the appearance of the exterior is very handsome, and though built wholly of wood, it corresponds perfectly, to all outward seeming, with the old palace. the rich and massive style of architecture is imitated to perfection: the heavy balustrades, the gigantic bas-reliefs, are all vast, solid, and magnificent; and when it is stated that the whole thing has been completed in the space of two months, one is tempted to believe that alladdin has turned doctrinaire, and rubbed his lamp most diligently in the service of the state. the trial-chamber is a noble room; but from the great number of prisoners, and greater still of witnesses expected to be examined, the space left for the public is but small. prudence, perhaps, may have had as much to do with this as necessity: nor can we much wonder if the peers of france should desire to have as little to do with the paris mob upon this occasion as possible. i remarked that considerable space was left for passages, ante-rooms, surroundings, and outposts of all sorts;--an excellent arrangement, the wisdom of which cannot be questioned, as the attendance of a large armed force must be indispensable. in fact, i believe it ever has been and ever will be found, that troops furnish the only means of keeping a remarkably free people in order. it was, however, very comforting and satisfactory to hear the manner in which the distinguished and agreeable individual who had procured us the pleasure of seeing this building discoursed of the business which was to be carried on there. there is a quiet steadiness and confidence in their own strength among these doctrinaries, that seems to promise well for the lasting tranquillity of the country; nor does it impeach either their wisdom or sincerity, if many among them adhere heart and hand to the government, though they might have better liked a white than a tri-coloured banner to wave over the palace of its head. whatever the standers-by may wish or feel about future struggles and future changes, i think it is certain that no frenchman who desires the prosperity of his country can at the present moment wish for anything but a continuance of the tranquillity she actually enjoys. if, indeed, democracy were gaining ground,--if the frightful political fallacies, among which the very young and the very ignorant are so apt to bewilder themselves, were in any degree to be traced in the policy pursued by the existing government,--then would the question be wholly changed, and every honest man in full possession of his senses would feel himself called upon to stay the plague with all his power and might. but the very reverse of all this is evidently the case; and it may be doubted if any sovereign in europe has less taste for license and misrule than king louis-philippe. be very sure that it is not to him that the radicals of any land must look for patronage, encouragement, or support: they will not find it. after quitting the luxembourg, we went to the _bureau_ of the secretary at the institute, to request tickets for an annual sitting of the five academies, which took place yesterday. they were very obligingly accorded--(o that our institutions, our academies, our lectures, were thus liberally arranged!)--and yesterday we passed two very agreeable hours in the place to which they admitted us. i wish that the polytechnic school, when they took a fancy for changing the ancient _régimes_ of france, had included the uniform of the institute in their proscriptions. the improvement would have been less doubtful than it is respecting some other of their innovations: for what can be said in defence of a set of learned academicians, varying in age from light and slender thirty to massive and protuberant fourscore, wearing one and all a fancy blue dress-coat "embroidered o'er with leaves of myrtle"? it is really a proof that very good things were said and done at this sitting, when i declare that my astonishment at the corydon-like costume was forgotten within the first half-hour. we first witnessed the distribution of the prizes, and then heard one or two members speak, or rather read their compositions. but the great fête of the occasion was hearing a discourse pronounced by m. mignet. this gentleman is too celebrated not to have excited in us a very earnest wish to hear him; and never was expectation more agreeably gratified. combined with the advantages of a remarkably fine face and person, m. mignet has a tone of voice and play of countenance sufficient of themselves to secure the success of an orator. but on this occasion he did not trust to these: his discourse was every way admirable; subject, sentiment, composition, and delivery, all excellent. he had chosen for his theme the history of martin luther's appearance before the diet at worms; and the manner in which he treated it surprised as much as it delighted me. not a single trait of that powerful, steadfast, unbending character, which restored light to our religion and freedom to the mind of man, escaped him: it was a mental portrait, painted with the boldness of outline, breadth of light, and vigour of colouring, which mark the hand of a consummate master. but was it a roman catholic who pronounced this discourse?--were they roman catholics who filled every corner of the theatre, and listened to him with attention so unbroken, and admiration so undisguised? i know not. but for myself, i can truly declare, that my protestant and reformed feelings were never more gratified than by listening to this eloquent history of the proudest moment of our great apostle's life, pronounced in the centre of cardinal mazarin's palace. the concluding words of the discourse were as follows: "sommé pendant quatre ans de se soumettre, luther, pendant quatre ans, dit non. il avait dit non au légat; il avait dit non au pape; il dit non à l'empereur. dans ce non héroïque et fécond se trouvait la liberté du monde." another discourse was announced to conclude the sitting of the day. but when m. mignet retired, no one appeared to take his place; and after waiting for a few minutes, the numerous and very fashionable-looking crowd dispersed themselves. i recollected the anecdote told of the first representation of the "partie de chasse de henri quatre," when the overture of mehul produced such an effect, that the audience would not permit anything else to be performed after it. the piece, therefore, was _remise_,--and so was the harangue of the academician who was to have followed m. mignet. you will confess, i think, that we are not idle, when i tell you that, after all this, we went in the evening to _le concert musard_. this is one of the pastimes to which we have hitherto had no parallel in london. at half-past seven o'clock, you lounge into a fine, large, well-lighted room, which is rapidly filled with company: a full and good orchestra give you during a couple of hours some of the best and most popular music of the season; and then you lounge out again, in time to dress for a party, or eat ices at tortoni's, or soberly to go home for a domestic tea-drinking and early rest. for this concert you pay a franc; and the humble price, together with the style of toilet (every lady wearing a bonnet and shawl), might lead the uninitiated to suppose that it was a recreation prepared for the _beau monde_ of the faubourg; but the long line of private carriages that occupies the street at the conclusion of it, shows that, simple and unpretending as is its style, this concert has attractions for the best company in paris. the easy _entrée_ to it reminded me of the theatres of germany. i remarked many ladies coming in, two or three together, unattended by any gentleman. between the acts, the company promenaded round the room, parties met and joined, and altogether it appeared to us a very agreeable mode of gratifying that french necessity of amusing one's self out of one's own house, which seems contagious in the very air of paris. letter xii. easter-sunday at notre dame.--archbishop.--view of paris.--victor hugo.--hôtel dieu.--mr. jefferson. it was long ago decided in a committee of the whole house, that on easter-sunday we should attend high mass at notre dame. i shall not soon forget the spectacle that greeted us on entering. ten thousand persons, it was said, were on that day assembled in the church; and its dimensions are so vast, that i have no doubt the statement was correct, for it was crowded from floor to roof. the effect of the circular gallery, that at mid-height encompasses the centre aisle, following as it does the graceful sweep of the chapel behind the altar, and filled row after row with gaily-dressed company up, as it seemed, almost to the groining of the roof, was beautiful. the chairs on this occasion were paid for in proportion to the advantageousness of the position in which they stood, and by disbursing an extra franc or two we obtained very good places. the mass was performed with great splendour. the dresses of the archbishop and his train were magnificent; and when this splendid, princely-looking personage, together with his court of dignitaries and priests, paraded the host round the church and up the crowded aisle spite of the close-wedged throng, they looked like a stream of liquid gold, that by its own weight made way through every obstacle. the archbishop is a mild and amiable-looking man, and ceased not to scatter blessings from his lips and sprinkle safety from his fingers'-ends upon the admiring people, as slowly and gracefully he passed among them. the latter years of this prelate's life have been signalized by some remarkable changes. he has seen the glories and the penitences of his church alike the favourite occupation of his king;--he has seen that king and his highest nobles walking in holy procession through the streets of paris;--he has seen that same king banished from his throne and his country, a proscribed and melancholy exile, while the pomp and parade of his cherished faith were forbidden to offend the people's eyes by any longer pouring forth its gorgeous superstitions into the streets;--he has seen his own consecrated palace razed to its foundation, and its very elements scattered to the winds:--and now, this self-same prelate sees himself again well received at the court whence charles dix was banished; and, stranger still, perhaps, he sees his startled flock once more assembling round him, quietly and silently, but steadily and in earnest; while he who, within five short years, was trembling for his life, now lifts his head again, and not only in safety, but, with all his former power and pride of place, is permitted to "chanter les _oremus_, faire des processions, et répandre à grands flots les bénédictions." it is true, indeed, that there are no longer any roman catholic processions to be seen in the streets of paris; but if we look within the churches, we find that the splendour concentrated there, has lost nothing of its impressive sumptuousness by thus changing the scene of its display. the service of this day, as far as the music was concerned, was in my opinion infinitely less impressive than that of good-friday at st. roch. this doubtless arose in a great degree from the style of composition; but i suspect, moreover, that my imagination was put out of humour by seeing about fifty fiddlers, with every appearance of being (what they actually were) the orchestra of the opera, performing from a space enclosed for them at the entrance of the choir. the singing men and boys were also stationed in the same unwonted and unecclesiastical place; and though some of those hired for the occasion had very fine italian voices, they had all the air of singing without "reading the words;" and, on the whole, my ear and my fancy were disappointed. victor hugo's description of old paris as seen from the towers of notre dame sent us labouring to their summit. the state of the atmosphere was very favourable, and i was delighted to find that the introduction of coal, rapid as its progress has lately been, has not yet tinged the bright clear air sufficiently to prevent this splendid panorama from being distinctly seen to its remotest edge. that impenetrable mass of dun, dull smoke, that we look down upon whenever a mischievous imp of curiosity lures us to the top of any dome, tower, or obelisk in london, can hardly fail of making one remember every weary step which led to the profitless elevation; but one must be tired indeed to remember fatigue while looking down upon the bright, warm, moving miniature spread out below the towers of notre dame. what an intricate world of roofs it is!--and how mystically incomprehensible are the ins and outs, the bridges and the islands, of the idle seine! a raft, caught sight of at intervals, bearing wood or wine; a floating wash-house, with its line of bending naïads, looking like a child's toy with figures all of a row; and here and there a floating-bath,--are all this river shows of its power to aid and assist the magnificent capital which has so strangely chosen to stretch herself along its banks. when one thinks of the forest of masts which we see covering whole miles of extent in london, it seems utterly unintelligible how that which is found needful for the necessities of one great city should appear so perfectly unnecessary for another. victor hugo's picture of the scene he has fancied beneath the towers of notre dame in the days of his esmeralda is sketched with amazing spirit; though probably paris was no more like the pretty panorama he makes of it than timbuctoo. i heartily wish, however, that he would confine himself to the representation of still-life, and let his characters be all of innocent bricks and mortar: for even though they do look shadowy and somewhat doubtful in the distance, they have infinitely more nature and truth than can be found among all his horrible imaginings concerning his fellow-creatures. his description of the old church itself, too, is delicious: for though it has little of architectural reality or strict graphic fidelity about it, there is such a powerful air of truth in every word he says respecting it, that one looks out and about upon the rugged stones, and studies every angle, buttress, and parapet, with the lively interest of old acquaintance. i should like to have a legend, as fond and lingering in its descriptions, attached to some of our glorious and mysterious old gothic cathedrals at home. this sort of reading gives a pleasure in which imagination and reality are very happily blended; and i can fancy nothing more agreeable than following an able romancer up and down, through and amongst, in and out, the gloomy, shadowy, fanciful, unintelligible intricacies of such a structure. how well might winchester, for instance, with its solemn crypts, its sturdy saxon strength, its quaintly-coffined relics of royal bones, its gothic shrines, its monumental splendour, and its stately magnitude, furnish forth the material for some such spirit-stirring record! having spent an hour of first-rate interest and gratification in wandering inside and outside of this very magnificent church, we crossed the place, or _parvis_, of notre dame, to see the celebrated hospital of the hôtel dieu. it is very particularly large, clean, airy, and well-ordered in every way; and i never saw sick people look less miserable than some scores of men and women did, tucked snugly up in their neat little beds, and most of them with a friend or relative at their side to console or amuse them. the access to the wards of this building is as free as that into a public bazaar; but there is one caution used in the admission of company which, before i understood it, puzzled me greatly. there are three doors at the top of the fine flight of steps which leads to the building. the centre one is used only as an exit; at the other two are placed guards, one a male, the other a female. through these side-doors all who enter must pass--the men on one side, the women on the other; and all must submit to be pretty strictly examined, to see that they are conveying nothing either to eat or drink that might be injurious to the invalids. the covered bridge which opens from the back part of the hôtel dieu, connecting _l'isle de la cité_ with the left bank of the seine, with its light glass roof, and safe shelter from wind, dust, or annoyance of any kind, forms a delightful promenade for the convalescent. the evening of this day we spent at a _soirée_, where we met, among many other pleasant persons, a very sensible and gentlemanlike american. i had the pleasure of a long conversation with him, during which he said many things extremely worth listening to. this gentleman has held many distinguished diplomatic situations, appears to have acquired a great deal of general information, and moreover to have given much attention to the institutions and character of his own country. he told me that jefferson had been the friend of his early life; that he knew his sentiments and opinions on all subjects intimately well, and much better than those who were acquainted with them no otherwise than by his published writings. he assured me most positively that jefferson was not a democrat in principle, but believed it expedient to promulgate the doctrine, as the only one which could excite the general feeling of the people, and make them hang together till they should have acquired strength sufficient to be reckoned as one among the nations. he said, that jefferson's ulterior hope for america was, that she should, after having acquired this strength, give birth to men distinguished both by talent and fortune; that when this happened, an enlightened and powerful aristocracy might be hoped for, without which he knew that no country could be really great or powerful. as i am assured that the word of this gentleman may be depended on, these observations--or rather, i should say, statements--respecting jefferson appear to me worth noting. letter xiii. "le monomane." as a distinguished specimen of fashionable horror, i went last night to the porte st. martin to see "the monomane," a drama in five acts, from the pen of a m. duveyrier. i hardly know whether to give you a sketch of this monstrous outrage against common sense or not; but i think i will do so, because i flatter myself that no one will be silly enough to translate it into english, or import it in any shape into england; and, therefore, if i do not tell you something about it, you may chance to die without knowing to what prodigious lengths a search after absurdity may carry men. but first let me mention, as not the least extraordinary part of the phenomenon, that the theatre was crowded from floor to roof, and that shakspeare was never listened to with attention more profound. however, it does not follow that approval or admiration of any kind was either the cause or the effect of this silent contemplation of the scene: no one could be more devoted to the business of the hour than myself, but most surely this was not the result of approbation. if i am not very clear respecting the plot, you must excuse me, from my want of habitual expertness in such an analysis; but the main features and characters cannot escape me. an exceedingly amiable and highly intellectual gentleman is the hero of this piece; a part personated by a m. lockroi with a degree of ability deserving a worthier employment. this amiable man holds at colmar the office of _procureur du roi_; and, from the habit of witnessing trials, acquires so vehement a passion for the shedding of blood on the scaffold, that it amounts to a mania. to illustrate this singular trait of character, m. balthazar developes his secret feelings in an opening speech to an intimate friend. in this speech, which really contains some very good lines, he dilates with much enthusiasm on the immense importance which he conceives to attach to the strict and impartial administration of criminal justice. no man could deliver himself more judge-like and wisely; but how or why such very rational and sober opinions should lead to an unbounded passion for blood, is very difficult to understand. the next scene, however, shows the _procureur du roi_ hugging himself with a kind of mysterious rapture at the idea of an approaching execution, and receiving with a very wild and mad-like sort of agony some attempts to prove the culprit innocent. the execution takes place; and after it is over, the innocence of the unfortunate victim is fully proved. the amiable and excellent _procureur du roi_ is greatly moved at this; but his repentant agony is soon walked off by a few well-trod melodramatic turns up and down the stage; and he goes on again, seizing with ecstasy upon every opportunity of bringing the guilty to justice. what the object of the author can possibly be in making out that a man is mad solely because he wishes to do his duty, i cannot even guess. it is difficult to imagine an honest-minded magistrate uttering more common-place, uncontrovertible truths upon the painful duties of his station, than does this unfortunate gentleman. m. victor hugo, speaking of himself in one of his prefaces, says, "il (victor hugo) continuera donc fermement; et chaque fois qu'il croira nécessaire de faire bien voir à tous, dans ses moindres détails, une idée utile, une idée sociale, une idée humaine, il posera le théâtre déssus comme un verre grossissant."[ ] it strikes me that m. duveyrier, the ingenious author of the monomane, must work upon the same principle, and that in this piece he thinks he has put a magnifying-glass upon "une idée sociale." but i must return to my analysis of this drama of five mortal acts.--after the execution, the real perpetrator of the murder for which the unfortunate victim of legal enthusiasm has innocently suffered appears on the scene. he is brought sick or wounded into the house of a physician, with whom the _procureur du roi_ and his wife are on a visit. balthazar sees the murderer conveyed to bed in a chamber that opens from that of his friend the doctor. he then goes to bed himself with his wife, and appears to have fallen asleep without delay, for we presently see him in this state come forth from his chamber upon a gallery, from whence a flight of stairs descends upon the stage. we see him walk down these stairs,--take some instrument out of a case belonging to the doctor,--enter the apartment where the murderer has been lodged,--return,--replace the instrument,--wash his bloody hands and wipe them upon a hand-towel,--then reascend the staircase and enter his lady's room at the top of it; all of which is performed in the silence of profound sleep. the attention which hung upon the whole of this long silent scene was such, that one might have supposed the lives of the audience depended upon their not waking this murderous sleeper by any sound; and the applause which followed the mute performance, when once the awful _procureur du roi_ was again safely lodged in his chamber, was deafening. the following morning it is discovered that the sick stranger has been murdered; and instantly the _procureur du roi_, with his usual ardour in discovering the guilty, sets most ably to work upon the investigation of every circumstance which may throw light upon this horrible transaction. everything, particularly the case of instruments, of which one is bloody, and the hand-towel found in his room, stained with the same accusing dye--all tends to prove that the poor innocent physician is the murderer: he is accordingly taken up, tried, and condemned. this unfortunate young doctor has an uncle, of the same learned profession, who is addicted to the science of animal magnetism. this gentleman having some suspicion that balthazar is himself the guilty person, imagines a very cunning device by which he may be made to betray himself if guilty. he determines to practise his magnetism upon him in full court while he is engaged in the duties of his high office, and flatters himself that he shall be able to throw him into a sleep or trance, in which state he may _par hasard_ let out something of the truth. this admirable contrivance answers perfectly. the attorney-general does fall into a most profound sleep the moment the old doctor begins his magnetising manoeuvres, and in this state not only relates aloud every circumstance of the murder, but, to give this confession more sure effect, he writes it out fairly, and sets his name to it, being profoundly asleep the whole time. and here it is impossible to avoid remarking on the extreme ill fortune which attends the sleeping hours of this amiable attorney-general. at one time he takes a nap, and kills a man without knowing anything of the matter; and then, in a subsequent state of oblivion, he confesses it, still without knowing anything of the matter. as soon as the unfortunate gentleman has finished the business for which he was put to sleep, he is awakened, and the paper is shown to him. he scruples not immediately to own his handwriting, which, sleeping or waking, it seems, was the same; but testifies the greatest horror and astonishment at the information the document contains, which was quite as unexpected to himself as to the rest of the company. his high office, however, we must presume, exempts him from all responsibility; for the only result of the discovery is an earnest recommendation from his friends, particularly the old and young doctors, that he should travel for the purpose of recovering his spirits. there is a little episode, by the way, from which we learn, that once, in one of his alarming slumbers, this amiable but unfortunate man gave symptoms of wishing to murder his wife and child; in consequence of which, it is proposed by the doctors that this tour for the restoration of his spirits should be made without them. to this separation balthazar strongly objects, and tells his beautiful wife, with much tenderness, that he shall find it very dull without her. to this the lady, though naturally rather afraid of him, answers with great sweetness, that in that case she shall be extremely happy to go with him; adding tenderly, that she would willingly die to prove her devotion. nothing could be so unfortunate as this expression. at the bare mention of his hobby-horse, _death_, his malady revives, and he instantly manifests a strong inclination to murder her,--and this time without even the ceremony of going to sleep. big with the darling thought, his eyes rolling, his cheek pale, his bristling hair on end, and the awful genius of melodrame swelling in every vein, balthazar seats himself on the sofa beside his trembling wife, and taking the comb out of her (mademoiselle noblet's) beautiful hair, appears about to strangle her in the rope of jet that he pulls out to its utmost length, and twists, and twists, and twists, till one really feels a cold shiver from head to foot. but at length, at the very moment when matters seem drawing to a close, the lady throws herself lovingly on his bosom, and his purpose changes, or at least for a moment seems to change, and he relaxes his hold. at this critical juncture the two doctors enter. balthazar looks at them wildly, then at his wife, then at the doctors again, and finally tells them all that he must beg leave to retire for a few moments. he passes through the group, who look at him in mournful silence; but as he approaches the door, he utters the word 'poison,' then enters, and locks and bolts it after him. upon this the lady screams, and the two doctors fly for a crow-bar. the door is burst open, and the _procureur du roi_ comes forward, wide awake, but having swallowed the poison he had mentioned. this being "the last scene of all that ends this strange eventful history," the curtain falls upon the enthusiastic attorney-general as he expires in the arms of his wife and friends. we are always so apt, when we see anything remarkably absurd abroad, to flatter ourselves with the belief that nothing like it exists at home, that i am almost afraid to draw a parallel between this inconceivable trash, and the very worst and vilest piece that ever was permitted to keep possession of the stage in england, lest some one better informed on the subject than myself should quote some british enormity unknown to me, and so prove my patriotic theory false. nevertheless, i cannot quit the subject without saying, that as far as my knowledge and belief go, english people never did sit by hundreds and listen patiently to such stuff as this. there is no very atrocious vice, no terrific wickedness in the piece, as far as i could understand its recondite philosophy; but its silliness surely possesses the silliness of a little child. the grimaces, the dumb show, the newly-invented passions, and the series of impossible events, which drag through these five longsome acts, seem to show a species of anomaly in the human mind that composed the piece, to which i imagine no parallel can be found on record. is this the result of the march of mind?--is it the fruit of that universal diffusion of knowledge which we are told is at work throughout the world, but most busily in france?... i shall never understand the mystery, let me meditate upon it as long as i will. no! never shall i understand how a french audience, lively, witty, acute, and prone to seize upon whatever is ridiculous, can thus sit night after night with profound gravity, and the highest apparent satisfaction, to witness the incredible absurdity of such a piece as "le monomane." there is one way, and one way only, in which the success of this drama can be accounted for intelligibly. may it not be, that "les jeunes gens," wanton in their power, have determined in merry mood to mystify their fellow-citizens by passing a favourable judgment upon this tedious performance? and may they not now be enjoying the success of their plot in ecstasies of private laughter, at seeing how meekly the dutiful parisians go nightly to the porte st. martin, and sit in obedient admiration of what it has pleased their youthful tyrants to denominate "a fine drama"? but i must leave off guessing; for, as the wise man saith, "the finding out of parables is a wearisome labour of the mind." some critic, speaking of the new school of french dramatists, says that "they have heaved the ground under the feet of racine and corneille." if this indeed be so, the best thing that the lovers of tragedy can do is to sit at home and wait patiently till the earth settles itself again from the shock of so deplorable an earthquake. that it will settle itself again, i have neither doubt nor fear. nonsense has nothing of immortality in its nature; and when the storm which has scattered all this frothy scum upon us shall have fairly blown over and passed away, then i suspect that corneille and racine will still find solid standing-ground on the soil of france;--nay, should they by chance find also that their old niches in the temple of her great men remain vacant, it is likely enough that they may be again invited to take possession of them; and they may keep it too perhaps for a few more hundred years, with very little danger that any greater than they should arrive to take their places. footnote: [ ] _translation._--he will continue then firmly; and every time that he shall think it necessary to make visible to all, in its least details, a useful idea, a social idea, a humane idea, he will place upon it the theatre, as a magnifying-glass. letter xiv. the gardens of the tuileries.--legitimatist.--republican.-- doctrinaire.--children.--dress of the ladies.--of the gentlemen.--black hair.--unrestricted admission.--anecdote. is there anything in the world that can be fairly said to resemble the gardens of the tuileries? i should think not. it is a whole made up of so many strongly-marked and peculiar features, that it is not probable any other place should be found like it. to my fancy, it seems one of the most delightful scenes in the world; and i never enter there, though it is long since the enchantment of novelty made any part of the charm, without a fresh feeling of enjoyment. the _locale_ itself, independent of the moving throng which for ever seems to dwell within it, is greatly to my taste: i love all the detail of its embellishment, and i dearly love the bright and happy aspect of the whole. but on this subject i know there are various opinions: many talk with distaste of the straight lines, the clipped trees, the formal flower-beds, the ugly roofs,--nay, some will even abuse the venerable orange-trees themselves, because they grow in square boxes, and do not wave their boughs in the breeze like so many ragged willow-trees. but i agree not with any one of these objections; and should think it as reasonable, and in as good taste, to quarrel with westminster abbey because it did not look like a grecian temple, as to find fault with the gardens of the tuileries because they are arranged like french pleasure-grounds, and not like an english park. for my own part, i profess that i would not, if i had the power, change even in the least degree a single feature in this pleasant spot: enter it at what hour or at what point i will, it ever seems to receive me with smiles and gladness. we seldom suffer a day to pass without refreshing our spirits by sitting for a while amidst its shade and its flowers. from the part of the town where we are now dwelling, the gate opposite the place vendôme is our nearest entrance; and perhaps from no point does the lively beauty of the whole scene show itself better than from beneath the green roof of the terrace-walk, to which this gate admits us. to the right, the dark mass of unshorn trees, now rich with the flowers of the horse-chesnut, and growing as boldly and as loftily as the most english-hearted gardener could desire, leads the eye through a very delicious "continuity of shade" to the magnificent gate that opens upon the place louis-quinze. to the left is the widely-spreading façade of the tuileries palace, the ungraceful elevation of the pavilion roofs, well nigh forgotten, and quite atoned for by the beauty of the gardens at their feet. then, just where the shade of the high trees ceases, and the bright blaze of sunshine begins, what multitudes of sweet flowers are seen blushing in its beams! an universal lilac bloom seems at this season to spread itself over the whole space; and every breeze that passes by, comes to us laden with perfume. my daily walk is almost always the same,--i love it so well that i do not like to change it. following the shady terrace by which we enter to the point where it sinks down to the level of the magnificent esplanade in front of the palace, we turn to the right, and endure the splendid brightness till we reach the noble walk leading from the gateway of the centre pavilion, through flowers, statues, orange-trees, and chesnut-groves, as far as the eye can reach, till it reposes at last upon the lofty arch of the barrière de l'etoile. this _coup-d'oeil_ is so beautiful, that i constantly feel renewed pleasure when i look upon it. i do indeed confess myself to be one of those "who in trim gardens take their pleasure." i love the studied elegance, the carefully-selected grace of every object permitted to meet the pampered eye in such a spot as this. i love these fondly-nurtured princely exotics, the old orange-trees, ranged in their long stately rows; and better still do i love the marble groups, that stand so nobly, sometimes against the bright blue sky, and sometimes half concealed in the dark setting of the trees. everything seems to speak of taste, luxury, and elegance. having indulged in a lingering walk from the palace to the point at which the sunshine ceases and the shade begins, a new species of interest and amusement awaits us. thousands of chairs scattered just within the shelter of this inviting covert are occupied by an interminable variety of pretty groups. i wonder how many months of constant attendance there, it would take before i should grow weary of studying the whole and every separate part of this bright picture? it is really matchless in beauty as a spectacle, and unequalled in interest as a national study. all paris may in turn be seen and examined there; and nowhere is it so easy to distinguish specimens of the various and strongly-marked divisions of the people. this morning we took possession of half a dozen chairs under the trees which front the beautiful group of pelus and aria. it was the hour when all the newspapers are in the greatest requisition; and we had the satisfaction of watching the studies of three individuals, each of whom might have sat as a model for an artist who wished to give an idea of their several peculiarities. we saw, in short, beyond the possibility of doubt, a royalist, a doctrinaire, and a republican, during the half-hour we remained there, all soothing their feelings by indulging in two sous' worth of politics, each in his own line. a stiff but gentleman-like old man first came, and having taken a journal from the little octagon stand--which journal we felt quite sure was either "la france" or "la quotidienne"--he established himself at no great distance from us. why it was that we all felt so certain of his being a legitimatist i can hardly tell you, but not one of the party had the least doubt about it. there was a quiet, half-proud, half-melancholy air of keeping himself apart; an aristocratical cast of features; a pale care-worn complexion; and a style of dress which no vulgar man ever wore, but which no rich one would be likely to wear to-day. this is all i can record of him: but there was something pervading his whole person too essentially loyal to be misunderstood, yet too delicate in its tone to be coarsely painted. such as it was, however, we felt it quite enough to make the matter sure; and if i could find out that old gentleman to be either doctrinaire or republican, i never would look on a human countenance again in order to discover what was passing within. the next who approached us we were equally sure was a republican: but here the discovery did little honour to our discernment; for these gentry choose to leave no doubt upon the subject of their _clique_, but contrive that every article contributing to the appearance of the outward man shall become a symbol and a sign, a token and a stigma, of the madness that possesses them. he too held a paper in his hand, and without venturing to approach too nearly to so alarming a personage, we scrupled not to assure each other that the journal he was so assiduously perusing was "le réformateur." just as we had decided what manner of man it was who was stalking so majestically past us, a comfortable-looking citizen approached in the uniform of the national guard, who sat himself down to his daily allowance of politics with the air of a person expecting to be well pleased with what he finds, but nevertheless too well contented with himself and all things about him to care over-much about it. every line of this man's jocund face, every curve of his portly figure, spoke contentment and well-being. he was probably one of that very new race in france, a tradesman making a rapid fortune. was it possible to doubt that the paper in his hand was "le journal des débats?" was it possible to believe that this man was other than a prosperous doctrinaire? [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. morning at the tuileries. london, published by richard bentley, .] thus, on the neutral ground furnished by these delightful gardens, hostile spirits meet with impunity, and, though they mingle not, enjoy in common the delicious privileges of cool shade, fresh air, and the idle luxury of an _al fresco_ newspaper, in the midst of a crowded and party-split city, with as much certainty of being unchallenged and uninterrupted as if each were wandering alone in a princely domain of his own. such, too, as are not over splenetic may find a very lively variety of study in watching the ways of the little dandies and dandiesses who, at some hours of the day, swarm like so many hummingbirds amidst the shade and sunshine of the tuileries. either these little french personages are marvellously well-behaved, or there is some superintending care which prevents screaming; for i certainly never saw so many young things assembled together who indulged so rarely in that salutary exercise of the lungs which makes one so often tremble at the approach of "soft infancy, that nothing can, but cry." the costumes of these pretty creatures contribute not a little to the amusement; it is often so whimsical as to give them the appearance of miniature maskers. i have seen little fellows beating a hoop in the full uniform of a national guard; others waddling under the mimicry of kilted highlanders; and small ladies without number in every possible variety of un-babylike apparel. the entertainment to be derived from sitting in the tuileries gardens and studying costume is, however, by no means confined to the junior part of the company. in no country have i ever seen anything approaching in grotesque habiliments to some of the figures daily and hourly met lounging about these walks. but such vagaries are confined wholly to the male part of the population; it is very rare to see a woman outrageously dressed in any way; and if you do, the chances are five hundred to one that she is not a frenchwoman. an air of quiet elegant neatness is, i think, the most striking characteristic of the walking costume of the french ladies. all the little minor finishings of the female toilet appear to be more sedulously cared for than the weightier matters of the pelisse and gown. every lady you meet is _bien chaussée_, _bien gantée_. her ribbons, if they do not match her dress, are sure to accord with it; and for all the delicate garniture that comes under the care of the laundress, it should seem that paris alone, of all the earth, knows how to iron. the whimsical caprices of male attire, on the contrary, defy anything like general remark; unless, indeed, it be that the air of paris appears to have the quality of turning all the _imperials_, _favoris_, and _moustaches_ which dwell within its walls to jetty blackness. at a little distance, the young men have really the air of having their faces tied up with black ribbon as a cure for the mumps; and, handsome as this dark _chevelure_ is generally allowed to be, the heavy uniformity of it at present very considerably lessens its striking effect. when every man has his face half covered with black hair, it ceases to be a very valuable distinction. perhaps, too, the frequent advertisements of compositions infallible in their power of turning the hair to any colour except "what pleases god," may tend to make one look with suspicious eyes at these once fascinating southern decorations; but, at present, i take it to be an undoubted fact, that a clean, close-shaven, northern-looking gentleman is valued at a high premium in every _salon_ in paris. it is not to be denied that the "glorious and immortal days" have done some injury to the general appearance of the tuileries gardens. before this period, no one was permitted to enter them dressed in a _blouse_, or jacket, or _casquette_; and no one, either male or female, might carry bundles or baskets through these pretty regions, sacred to relaxation and holiday enjoyment. but liberty and unseemly sordidness of attire being somehow or other jumbled together in the minds of the sovereign mob,--not sovereign either--the mob is only vice-regal in paris as yet;--but the mob, however, such as it is, has obtained, as a mark of peculiar respect and favour to themselves, a new law or regulation, by which it is enacted that these royal precincts may become like unto noah's ark, and that both clean and unclean beasts may enter here. could one wish for a better specimen of the sort of advantage to be gained by removing the restraint of authority in order to pamper the popular taste for what they are pleased to call freedom? not one of the persons who enter the gardens now, were restricted from entering them before; only it was required that they should be decently clad;--that is to say, in such garments as they were accustomed to wear on sunday or any other holiday; the only occasions, one should imagine, on which the working classes could wish to profit by permission to promenade in a public garden: but the obligation to appear clean in the garden of the king's palace was an infringement on their liberty, so that formality is dispensed with; and they have now obtained the distinguished and ennobling privilege of being as dirty and ill-dressed as they like. the power formerly intrusted to the sentinel, wherever there was one stationed, of refusing the _entrée_ to all persons not properly dressed, gave occasion once to a saucy outbreaking of french wit in one of the national guard, which was amusing enough. this civic guardian was stationed at the gates of a certain _mairie_ on some public occasion, with the usual injunction not to permit any person "_mal-mise_" to enter. an _incroyable_ presented himself, not dressed in the fashion, but immoderately beyond it. the sentinel looked at him, and lowered his piece across the entrance, pronouncing in a voice of authority-- "you cannot enter." "not enter?" exclaimed the astonished beau, looking down at the exquisite result of his laborious toilet; "not enter?--forbid me to enter, sir?--impossible! what is it you mean? let me pass, i say!" the imperturbable sentinel stood like a rock before the entrance: "my orders are precise," he said, "and i may not infringe them." "precise? your orders precise to refuse me?" "oui, monsieur, précis, de refuser qui que ce soit que je trouve mal-mis." letter xv. street police.--cleaning beds.--tinning kettles.--building houses.--loading carts.--preparing for the scavenger.--want of drains.--bad pavement.--darkness. my last letter was of the tuileries gardens; a theme which furnished me so many subjects of admiration, that i think, if only for the sake of variety, i will let the smelfungus vein prevail to-day. such, then, being my humour,--or my ill-humour, if you will,--i shall indulge it by telling you what i think of the street-police of paris. i will not tell you that it is bad, for that, i doubt not, many others may have done before me; but i will tell you that i consider it as something wonderful, mysterious, incomprehensible, and perfectly astonishing. in a city where everything intended to meet the eye is converted into graceful ornament; where the shops and coffee-houses have the air of fairy palaces, and the markets show fountains wherein the daintiest naïads might delight to bathe;--in such a city as this, where the women look too delicate to belong wholly to earth, and the men too watchful and observant to suffer the winds of heaven to visit them too roughly;--in such a city as this, you are shocked and disgusted at every step you take, or at every gyration that the wheels of your chariot can make, by sights and smells that may not be described. every day brings my astonishment on this subject to a higher pitch than the one which preceded it; for every day brings with it fresh conviction that a very considerable portion of the enjoyment of life is altogether destroyed in paris by the neglect or omission of such a degree of municipal interference as might secure the most elegant people in the world from the loathsome disgust occasioned by the perpetual outrage of common decency in their streets. on this branch of the subject it is impossible to say more; but there are other points on which the neglect of street-police is as plainly, though less disgustingly, apparent; and some of these i will enumerate for your information, as they may be described without impropriety; but when they are looked at in conjunction with the passion for graceful decoration, so decidedly a characteristic of the french people, they offer to our observation an incongruity so violent, as to puzzle in no ordinary degree whoever may wish to explain it. you cannot at this season pass through any street in paris, however pre-eminently fashionable from its situation, or however distinguished by the elegance of those who frequent it, without being frequently obliged to turn aside, that you may not run against two or more women covered with dust, and probably with vermin, who are busily employed in pulling their flock mattresses to pieces in the street. there they stand or sit, caring for nobody, but combing, turning, and shaking the wool upon all comers and goers; and, finally, occupying the space round which many thousand passengers are obliged to make what is always an inconvenient, and sometimes a very dirty _détour_, by poking the material, cleared from the filth, which has passed into the throats of the gentlemen and ladies of paris, back again into its checked repository. i have within this half-hour passed from the italian boulevard by the opera-house, in the front of which this obscene and loathsome operation was being performed by a solitary old crone, who will doubtless occupy the place she has chosen during the whole day, and carry away her bed just in time to permit the duke of orleans to step from his carriage into the opera without tumbling over it, but certainly not in time to prevent his having a great chance of receiving as he passes some portion of the various animate and inanimate superfluities which for so many hours she has been scattering to the air. a few days ago i saw a well-dressed gentleman receive a severe contusion on the head, and the most overwhelming destruction to the neatness of his attire, in consequence of a fall occasioned by his foot getting entangled in the apparatus of a street-working tinker, who had his charcoal fire, bellows, melting-pot, and all other things necessary for carrying on the tinning trade in a small way, spread forth on the pavement of the rue de provence. when the accident happened, many persons were passing, all of whom seemed to take a very obliging degree of interest in the misfortune of the fallen gentleman; but not a syllable either of remonstrance or remark was uttered concerning the invasion of the highway by the tinker; nor did that wandering individual himself appear to think any apology called for, or any change in the arrangement of his various chattels necessary. whenever a house is to be built or repaired in london, the first thing done is to surround the premises with a high paling, that shall prevent any of the operations that are going on within it from annoying in any way the public in the street. the next thing is to arrange a footpath round this paling, carefully protected by posts and rails, so that this unavoidable invasion of the ordinary foot-path may be productive of as little inconvenience as possible. were you to pass a spot in paris under similar circumstances, you would fancy that some tremendous accident--a fire, perhaps, or the falling in of a roof--had occasioned a degree of difficulty and confusion to the passengers which it was impossible to suppose could be suffered to remain an hour unremedied: but it is, on the contrary, permitted to continue, to the torment and danger of daily thousands, for months together, without the slightest notice or objection on the part of the municipal authorities. if a cart be loading or unloading in the street, it is permitted to take and keep a position the most inconvenient, in utter disregard of any danger or delay which it may and must occasion to the carriages and foot-passengers who have to travel round it. nuisances and abominations of all sorts are without scruple committed to the street at any hour of the day or night, to await the morning visit of the scavenger to remove them: and happy indeed is it for the humble pedestrian if his eye and nose alone suffer from these ejectments; happy, indeed, if he comes not in contact with them, as they make their unceremonious exit from window or door. "_quel bonheur!_" is the exclamation if he escapes; but a look, wholly in sorrow and nowise in anger, is the only helpless resource should he be splashed from head to foot. on the subject of that monstrous barbarism, a gutter in the middle of the streets expressly formed for the reception of filth, which is still permitted to deform the greater portion of this beautiful city, i can only say, that the patient endurance of it by men and women of the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-five is a mystery difficult to understand. it really appears to me, that almost the only thing in the world which other men do, but which frenchmen cannot, is the making of sewers and drains. after an hour or two of very violent rain last week, that part of the place louis-quinze which is near the entrance to the champs elysées remained covered with water. the board of works having waited for a day or two to see what would happen, and finding that the muddy lake did not disappear, commanded the assistance of twenty-six able-bodied labourers, who set about digging just such a channel as little boys amuse themselves by making beside a pond. by this well-imagined engineering exploit, the stagnant water was at length conducted to the nearest gutter; the pickaxes were shouldered, and an open muddy channel left to adorn this magnificent area, which, were a little finishing bestowed upon it, would probably be the finest point that any city in the world could boast. perhaps it will hardly be fair to set it amongst my complaints against the streets of paris, that they have not yet adopted our last and most luxurious improvement. i cannot but observe, however, that having passed some weeks here, i feel that the macadamised streets of london ought to become the subject of a metropolitan jubilee among us. the exceeding noise of paris, proceeding either from the uneven structure of the pavement, or from the defective construction of wheels and springs, is so violent and incessant as to appear like the effect of one great continuous cause,--a sort of demon torment, which it must require great length of use to enable one to endure without suffering. were a cure for this sought in the macadamising of the streets, an additional advantage, by the bye, would be obtained, from the difficulties it would throw in the way of the future heroes of a barricade. there is another defect, however, and one much more easily remedied, which may fairly, i think, come under the head of defective street-police. this is the profound darkness of every part of the city in which there are not shops illuminated by the owners of them with gas. this is done so brilliantly on the boulevards by the _cafés_ and _restaurans_, that the dim old-fashioned lamp suspended at long intervals across the _pavé_ is forgotten. but no sooner is this region of light and gaiety left, than you seem to plunge into outer darkness; and there is not a little country town in england which is not incomparably better lighted than any street in paris which depends for its illumination upon the public regulations of the city. as it is evident that gas-pipes must be actually laid in all directions in order to supply the individuals who employ it in their houses, i could in no way understand why these most dismal _réverbères_, with their dingy oil, were to be made use of in preference to the beautiful light which almost outblazes that of the sun; but i am told that some unexpired contract between paris and her lamplighters is the cause of this. were the convenience of the public as sedulously studied in france as in england, not all the claims of all the lamplighters in the world, let it cost what it might to content them, would keep her citizens groping in darkness when it was so very easy to give them light. but not to dwell ungratefully upon the grievances which certainly disfigure this city of delight, i will not multiply instances; yet i am sure i may assert, without fear of contradiction or reproach, that such a street-police as that of london would be one of the greatest civic blessings that king philippe could possibly bestow upon his "_belle ville de paris_." letter xvi. preparations for the fête du roi.--arrival of troops.--champs elysées.--concert in the garden of the tuileries.--silence of the people.--fireworks. may , . for several days past we have been watching the preparations for the king's fête, which though not quite equal to those in the days of the emperor, when all the fountains in paris ran wine, were on a large and splendid scale, and if more sober, were perhaps not less princely. temporary theatres, ball-rooms, and orchestras in the champs elysées--magnificent fireworks on the pont louis-seize--preparations for a full concert immediately in front of the tuileries palace, and arrangement of lamps for general illuminations, but especially in the gardens, were the chief of these; but none of them struck us so much as the daily-increasing number of troops. national guards and soldiers of the line divided the streets between them; and as a grand review was naturally to make a part of the day's pageantry, there would have been nothing to remark in this, were it not that the various parties into which the country is divided perpetually leads people to suppose that king philippe finds it necessary to act on the defensive. numberless are the hints, as you may imagine, on this theme that have been thrown out on the present occasion; and it is confidently asserted in some quarters, that the reviewing of large bodies of troops is likely to become a very fashionable and frequent, if not a very popular, amusement here. if, indeed, a show of force be necessary to ensure the tranquillity of this strife-worn land, the government certainly do right in displaying it; but if this be not the case, there is some imprudence in it, for the effect much resembles that of "a rich armour, worn in heat of day, that scalds with safety." yesterday, then, being marked in the calendar as sacred to st. jacques and st. philippe, was kept as the fête of the present king of the french. the weather was brilliant, and everything looked gay, particularly around the courtly region of the tuileries, champs elysées, and all parts near or between them. being assured by a philosophical looker-on upon all such assemblings of the people as are likely to show forth indications of their temper, that the humours of the champs elysées would display more of this than i could hope to find elsewhere, i was about to order a carriage to convey us there; but my friend stopped me. "you may as well remain at home," said he; "from a carriage you will see nothing but a mob: but if you will walk amongst them, you may perhaps find out whether they are thinking of anything or nothing." "anything?--or nothing?" i repeated. "does the _anything_ mean a revolution? tell me truly, is there any chance of a riot?" instead of answering, he turned to a gentleman of our party who was just returned from the review of the troops by the king. "did you not say you had seen the review?" he demanded. "yes; i am just come from it." "and what do you think of the troops?" "they are very fine troops,--remarkably fine men, both the national guards and the troops of the line." "and in sufficient force, are they not, to keep paris quiet if she should feel disposed to be frolicsome?" "certainly--i should think so." it was therefore determined, leaving the younger part of the females behind us however in case of the worst, that we should repair to the champs elysées. no one who has not seen a public fête celebrated at paris can form an idea of the scene which the whole of this extensive area presents: it makes me giddy even to remember it. imagine a hundred swings throwing their laughing cargoes high into the air; a hundred winged ships flying in endless whirl, and bearing for their crews a _tête-à-tête_ pair of holiday sweethearts: imagine a hundred horses, each with two prancing hoofs high poised in air, coursing each other in a circle, with nostrils of flame; a hundred mountebanks, chattering and gibbering their inconceivable jargon, some habited as generals, some as turks,--some offering their nostrums in the impressive habit of an armenian jew, and others rolling head-over-heels upon a stage, and presenting a dose with the grin of grimaldi. we stopped more than once in our progress to watch the ways of one of these animals when it had succeeded in fascinating its prey: the poor victim was cajoled and coaxed into believing that none of woman born could ever taste of evil more, if he would but trust to the one only true, sure, and certain specific. at all sides of us, as we advanced, we were skirted by long lines of booths, decked with gaudy merchandise, rings, clasps, brooches, buckles, most tempting to behold, and all to be had for five sous each. it is pretty enough to watch the eager glances and the smirking smiles of the damsels, with the yielding, tender looks of the fond boys who hover round these magazines of female trumpery. alas! it is perhaps but the beginning of sorrow! in the largest open space afforded by these elysian fields were erected two theatres, the interval between them holding, it was said, twenty thousand spectators. while one of these performed a piece, pantomimic i believe, the other enjoyed a _relâche_ and reposed itself: but the instant the curtain of one fell, that of the other rose, and the ocean of heads which filled the space between them turned, and undulated like the waves of the sea, ebbing and flowing, backwards and forwards, as the moon-struck folly attracted them. four ample _al fresco_ enclosures prepared for dancing, each furnished with a very respectable orchestra, occupied the extreme corners of this space; and notwithstanding the crowd, the heat, the sunshine, and the din, this exercise, which was carried on immediately under them, did not, i was told, cease for a single instant during the whole of that long summer-day. when one set of fiddlers were tired out, another succeeded. the activity, gaiety, and universal good-humour of this enormous mob were uniform and uninterrupted from morning to night. these people really deserve fêtes; they enjoy them so heartily, yet so peaceably. such were the great and most striking features of the jubilee; but we hardly advanced a single step through the throng which did not exhibit to us some minor trait of national and characteristic revelry. i was delighted to observe, however, throughout the whole of my expedition, that, according to our friend's definition, "_nobody was thinking of anything_." but what pleased me incomparably more than all the rest was the temperate style of the popular refreshments. the young men and the old, the time-worn matron and the dainty damsel, all alike slaked their thirst with iced lemonade, which was furnished in incredible quantities by numberless ambulant cisterns, at the price of one sou the glass. happily this light-hearted, fête-loving population have no gin-palaces to revel in. but hunger was to be satisfied as well as thirst; and here the _friand_ taste of the people displayed itself by dozens of little chafing-dishes lodged at intervals under the trees, each with its presiding old woman, who, holding a frying-pan, for ever redolent of onions, over the coals, screamed in shrill accents the praises of her _saucisses_ and her _foie_. this was the only part of the business that was really disagreeable: the odour from these _al fresco_ kitchens was not, i confess, very pleasant; but everything else pleased me exceedingly. it was the first time i ever saw a real mob in full jubilee; and i did not believe it possible i could have been so much amused, and so not at all frightened. even before one of these terribly odoriferant kitchens, i could not help pausing for a moment as i passed, to admire the polite style in which an old woman who had taken early possession of the shade of a tree for her _restaurant_ defended the station from the wheelbarrow of a merchant of gingerbread who approached it. "pardon, monsieur!... ne venez pas, je vous prie, déranger mon établissement." the two grotesque old figures, together with their fittings up, made this dignified address delightful; and as it was answered by a bow, and the respectful drawing back of the wheelbarrow, i cannot but give it the preference over the more energetic language which a similar circumstance would be likely to produce at bartholomew fair. altogether we were infinitely amused by this excursion; but i think i never was more completely fatigued in my life. nevertheless, i contrived to repose myself sufficiently to join a large party to the tuileries gardens in the evening, where we were assured that _two hundred thousand persons_ were collected. the crowd was indeed very great, and the party soon found it impossible to keep together; but about three hours afterwards we had the satisfaction of assembling in safety at the same pleasant mansion from which we set out. the attraction which during the early part of the evening chiefly drew together the crowd was the orchestra in front of the palace. a large military band were stationed there, and continued playing, while the thousands and tens of thousands of lamps were being lighted all over the gardens. during this time, the king, queen, and royal family appeared on the balcony. and here the only fault which i had perceived in this pretty fête throughout the day showed itself so strongly as to produce a very disagreeable effect. from first to last, it seemed that the cause of the jubilee was forgotten; not a sound of any kind greeted the appearance of the royal party. that so gay and demonstrative a people, assembled in such numbers, and on such an occasion, should remain with uplifted heads, gazing on the sovereign, without a sound being uttered by any single voice, appeared perfectly astonishing. however, if there were no bravoes, there was decidedly no hissing. the scene itself was one of enchanting gaiety. before us rose the illuminated pavilions of the tuileries: the bright lights darting through the oleanders and myrtles on the balcony, showed to advantage the royal party stationed there. on every side were trees, statues, flowers, brought out to view by unnumbered lamps rising in brilliant pyramids among them, while the inspiring sounds of martial music resounded in the midst. the _jets d'eau_, catching the artificial light, sprang high into the air like arrows of fire, then turned into spray, and descended again in light showers, seeming to shed delicious coolness on the crowd; and behind them, far as the eye could reach, stretched the suburban forest, sparkling with festoons of lamps, that seemed drawn out, "fine by degrees and beautifully less," up to the barrière de l'etoile. the scene itself was indeed lovely; and if, instead of the heavy silence with which it was regarded, a loud heartfelt cheering had greeted the _jour de fête_ of a long-loved king, it would have been perfect. the fireworks, too, were superb; and though all the theatres in paris were opened gratis to the public, and, as we afterwards heard, completely filled, the multitudes that thronged to look at them seemed enough to people a dozen cities. but it is so much the habit of this people, old and young, rich and poor, to live out of doors, that a slight temptation "bye common" is sufficient to draw forth every human being who is able to stand alone: and indeed, of those who are not, thousands are deposited in chairs, and other thousands in the arms of mothers and nurses. the pont louis-seize was the point from which all the fireworks were let off. no spot could have been better chosen: the terraces of the tuileries looked down upon it; and the whole length of the quays, on both sides of the river, as far as the _cité_, looked up to it, and the persons stationed on them must have seen clearly the many-coloured fires that blazed there. one of the prettiest popular contrivances for creating a shout when fireworks are exhibited here, is to have rockets, sending up tri-coloured balls, blue, white, and red, in rapid succession, looking, as i heard a young republican say, "like winged messengers, from their loved banner up to heaven." i could not help remarking, that if the messengers repeated faithfully all that the tri-coloured banner had done, they would have strange tales to tell. the _bouquet_, or last grand display that finished the exhibition, was very fanciful and very splendid: but what struck me as the prettiest part of the whole show, was the chamber of deputies, the architecture of which was marked by lines of light; and the magnificent flight of steps leading to it having each one its unbroken fencing of fire, was perhaps intended as a mystical type of the ordeal to be passed in a popular election before this temple of wisdom could be entered. how very delightful was the abounding tea of that hot lamp-lit night!... and how very thankful was i this morning, at one o'clock, to feel that the _fête du roi_ was peaceably over, and i ready to fall soundly to sleep in my bed! letter xvii. political chances.--visit from a republican.--his high spirits at the prospects before him.--his advice to me respecting my name.--removal of the prisoners from ste. pélagie.--review.--garde de paris.--the national guard. we are so accustomed, in these our luckless days, to hear of _émuetes_ and rumours of _émuetes_, here, there, and everywhere, that we certainly grow nerve-hardened, and if not quite callous, at least we are almost reckless of the threat. but in this city the business of getting up riots on the one hand, and putting them down on the other, is carried on in so easy and familiar a manner, that we daily look for an account of something of the kind as regularly as for our breakfast bread; and i begin already to lose in a great degree my fear of disagreeable results, in the interest with which i watch what is going on. the living in the midst of all these different parties, and listening first to one and then to another of them, is to a foreigner much like the amusement derived by an idle spectator from walking round a card-table, looking into all the hands, and then watching the manner in which each one plays his game. it has so often happened here, as we all know, that when the game has appeared over, and the winner in possession of the stake he played for, they have on a sudden shuffled the cards and begun again, that people seem always looking out for new chances, new bets, new losses, and new confusion. i can assure you, that it is a game of considerable movement and animation which is going on at paris just now. the political trials are to commence on tuesday next, and the republicans are as busy as a nest of wasps when conscious that their stronghold is attacked. they have not only been upon the alert, but hitherto in great spirits at the prospect before them. the same individual whose alarming communications on this subject i mentioned to you soon after we came here, called on me again a few days ago. i never saw a man more altered in the interval of a few weeks: when i first saw him here, he was sullen, gloomy, and miserable-looking in the extreme; but at his last visit he appeared gay, frolicsome, and happy. he was not disposed, however, to talk much on politics; and i am persuaded he came with a fixed determination not to indulge our curiosity by saying a word on the subject. but "out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh;" and this gentleman did not depart without giving us some little intimation of what was passing in his. observe, that i do no treason in repeating to you whatever this young man said in my hearing; for he assured me the first time i ever saw him, that he knew me to be "_une absolutiste enragée_;" but that, so far from fearing to speak freely before me, there was nothing that would give him so much pleasure as believing that i should publish every word he uttered on the subject of politics. i told him in return, that if i did so, it should be without mentioning his name; for that i should be truly sorry to hear that he had been consigned to ste. pélagie as a rebel on my evidence. so we understand each other perfectly. on the morning in question, he began talking gaily and gallantly concerning the pleasures of paris, and expressed his hope that we were taking care to profit by the present interval of public tranquillity. "is this interval of calm likely to be followed by a storm?" said one of the party. "mais ... que sais-je?... the weather is so fine now, you know.... and the opera? en vérité, c'est superbe!... have you seen it yet?" "seen what?" "eh! mais, 'la juive'! ... à présent il n'y a que cela au monde.... you read the journals?" "yes; galignani's at least." "ah! ah!" said he, laughing; "c'est assez pour vous autres." "is there any interesting news to-day in any of the papers?" "intéressante? ... mais, oui ... assez.... cependant...." and then again he rattled on about plays, balls, concerts, and i know not what. "i wish you would tell me," said i, interrupting him, "whether you think, that in case any popular movement should occur, the english would be molested, or in any way annoyed." "non, madame--je ne le crois pas--surtout les femmes. cependant, si j'étais vous, madame trollope, je me donnerai pour le moment le nom d'o'connell." "and that, you think, would be accepted as a passport through any scene of treason and rebellion?" said i. he laughed again, and said that was not exactly what he meant; but that o'connell was a name revered in france as well as at rome, and might very likely belong one day or other to a pope, if his generous wishes for an irish republic were too dear to his heart to permit him ever to accept the title of king. "an irish republic? ... perhaps that is just what is wanted," said i. but not wishing to enter into any discussion on the niceties of speech, i waived the compliments he began to pay me on this liberal sentiment, and again asked him if he thought anything was going on amongst the friends of the prisoners that might impede the course of justice. though not aware of the quibble with which i had replied to him, he answered me by another, saying with energy-- "no! ... never!... they will never do anything to impede the course of justice." "will they do anything to assist it?" said i. he sprang from his chair, gave a bound across the room, as if to hide his glee by looking out of the window, and when he showed his face again, said with much solemnity--"they will do their duty." the conversation continued for some time longer, wavering between politics and dissipation; and though we could not obtain from him anything approaching to information respecting what might be going on among his hot-headed party, yet it seemed clear that he at least hoped for something that would lead to important results. the riddle was explained a very few hours after he left us. the political prisoners, most of whom were lodged in the prison of ste. pélagie, have been removed to the luxembourg; and it was confidently hoped and expected by the republicans that enough malcontents would be found among the citizens of paris to get up a very satisfactory _émeute_ on the occasion. but never was hope more abortive: not the slightest public sensation appears to have been excited by this removal; and i am assured that the whole republican party are so bitterly disappointed at this, that the most sanguine among them have ceased for the present to anticipate the triumph of their cause. i suspect, therefore, that it will be some time before we shall receive another visit from our riot-loving friend. meanwhile preparations are going on in a very orderly and judicious style at the luxembourg. the trial-chamber and all things connected with it are completed; tents have been pitched in the gardens for the accommodation of the soldiers, and guards stationed in such a manner in all directions as to ensure a reasonable chance of tranquillity to the peaceable. we have attended a review of very fine troops in the place du carrousel, composed of national guards, troops of the line, and that most superb-looking body of municipal troops called _la garde de paris_. these latter, it seems, have performed in paris since the revolution of the duties of that portion of the police formerly called _gendarmerie_; but the name having fallen into disrepute in the capital--(_les jeunes gens_, _par exemple_, could not bear it)--the title of _garde de paris_ has been accorded to them instead, and it is now only in the provinces that _gendarmes_ are to be found. but let them be called by what name they may, i never saw any corps of more superb appearance. men and horses, accoutrements and discipline, all seem perfect. it is amusing to observe how slight a thread will sometimes suffice to lead captive the most unruly spirits. "what is there in a name?" yet i have heard it asserted with triumphant crowings by some of the revolutionary set, that, thanks to their valour! the odious system was completely changed--that _gendarmes_ and _mouchards_ no longer existed in paris--that citizens would never again be tormented by their hateful _surveillance_--and, in short, that frenchmen were redeemed from thraldom now and for evermore; so now they have _la garde de paris_, just to take care of them: and if ever a set of men were capable of performing effectually the duties committed to their charge, i think it must be this well-drilled stalworth corps. the appearance of a large body of the national guard too, when brought together, as at a review, in full military style, is very imposing. the eye at once sees that they are not ordinary troops. all the appointments are in excellent order; and the very material of which their uniform is made, being so much less common than usual, helps to produce this effect. not to mention that the uniform itself, of dark blue, with the delicately white pantaloons, is peculiarly handsome on parade; much more so, i think, though perhaps less calculated for a battle-field, than the red lower garments by which the troops of the french line are at present distinguished. the king looks well on horseback--so do his sons. the whole staff, indeed, was gay and gallant-looking, and in style as decidedly aristocratic as any prince need desire. shouts of "_vive le roi!_" ran cheerily and lustily along the lines; and if these may be trusted as indications of the feelings of the soldiery towards king philippe, he may, i think, feel quite indifferent as to whatever other vows may be uttered concerning him in the distance. but in this city of contradictions one can never sit down safely to ruminate upon any one inference or conclusion whatever; for five minutes afterwards you are assured by somebody or other that you are quite wrong, utterly mistaken, and that the exact contrary of what you suppose is the real fact. thus, on mentioning in the evening the cordial reception given by the soldiers to the king in the morning, i received for answer--"je le crois bien, madame; les officiers leur commandent de le faire." we remained a good while on the ground, and saw as much as the confinement of a carriage would permit. like all reviews of well-dressed, well-appointed troops, it was a gay and pretty spectacle; and notwithstanding the caustic reprimand for my faith in empty sounds which i have just repeated to you, i am still of opinion that king philippe had every reason to be contented with his troops, and with the manner in which he was received by them. every hour that one remains at paris increases, i think, one's conviction of the enormous power and importance of the national guard. our volunteer corps, in the season of threatenings and danger, gave us unquestionably an immense accession of strength; and had the threatener dared to come, neither his legions nor his eagles, his veterans nor his victories, would have saved him from utter destruction. he knew this, and he came not: he knew that the little island was bristling from her centre to her shore with arms raised to strike, by the impulse of the heart and soul, and not by conscription; he knew this, and wisely came not. our volunteers were armed men--armed in a cause that warmed their blood; and it is sufficient to establish their importance, that history must record the simple fact, that napoleon looked at them and turned away. but, great as was the power of this critical show of volunteer strength among us, as a permanent force it was trifling when compared to the present national guard of france. not only are their numbers greater--paris alone has eighty thousand of them,--but their discipline is perfect, and their practical habits of being on duty keep them in such daily activity, that a tocsin sounded within their hearing would suffice to turn out within an hour nearly the whole of this force, not only completely armed, equipped, and in all respects fit for service--not only each one with his quarters and rations provided, but each one knowing and feeling the importance of the duty he is upon as intimately as the general himself; and each one, in addition to all other feelings and motives which make armed men strong, warmed with the consciousness that it is his own stronghold, his own property, his own castle, as well as his own life, that he is defending. this force will save france from devouring her own vitals, if anything can do it. among all the novelties produced by the ever-growing experience of men, and of which so many have ripened in these latter days, i doubt if any can be named more rationally calculated to fulfil the purpose for which it is intended than this organization of a force formed of the industrious and the orderly part of a community to keep in check the idle and disorderly,--and that, without taxing the state, compromising their professional usefulness, or sacrificing their personal independence, more than every man in his senses would be willing to do for the purpose of keeping watch and ward over all that he loves and values on earth. the more the power of such a force as this increases, the farther must the country where it exists be from all danger of revolution. such men are, and must be, conservatives in the strongest sense of the word; and though it may certainly be possible for some who may be rebel to the cause of order to get enrolled among them, the danger of the enterprise will unquestionably prevent its frequent recurrence. the wolf might as safely mount guard in the midst of armed shepherds and their dogs, as demagogues and agitators place themselves in the ranks of the national guard of paris. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. "pro patria!" london, published by richard bentley. .] letter xviii. first day of the trials.--much blustering, but no riot.--all alarm subsided.--proposal for inviting lord b----m to plead at the trial.--society.--charm of idle conversation.--the whisperer of good stories. th may . the monster is hatched at last! the trials began yesterday, and we are all rejoicing exceedingly at having found ourselves alive in our beds this morning. what will betide us and it, as its scales or its plumes push forth and gather strength from day to day, i know not; but "sufficient for the day is the evil thereof;" and i do assure you in very sober earnest, that when galignani's paper arrived this morning, the party round the breakfast-table was greatly comforted by finding that nothing more alarming than a few republican demands on the part of the prisoners, and a few monarchical refusals on the part of the court, took place. this interchange of hostilities commenced by some of the accused refusing to answer when their names were called;--then followed a demand for free admission to the chamber, during the trials, for the mothers, wives, and all other females belonging to the respective families of the prisoners;--and next, a somewhat blustering demand for counsel of their own choosing; the body of legal advocates, who, by general rule and common usage, are always charged with the defence of prisoners, not containing, as it should seem, orators sufficiently of their own _clique_ to content them. this was of course stoutly refused by the court, after retiring, however, for a couple of hours to deliberate upon it--a ceremony i should hardly have supposed necessary. the company of the ladies, too, was declined; and as, upon a moderate computation, their numerical force could not have amounted to less than five hundred, this want of gallantry in the peers of france must be forgiven in favour of their discretion. the gentleman, however, who was appointed, as he said, by the rest, to request the pleasure of their society, declared loudly that the demand for it should be daily renewed. this reminds one of the story of the man who punished his wife for infidelity by making her sit to hear the story of her misdeeds rehearsed every day of her life, and pretty plainly indicates that it is the plan of the accused to torment their judges as much as they conveniently can. one of the prisoners named the celebrated abbé de lamennais, author of "les paroles d'un croyant," as his advocate. the _procureur-général_ remarked, that it was for the interest of the defence that the rule for permitting lawyers only to plead should be adhered to. next came a demand from one of the accused, in the name of all the rest, that permission for free and unrestrained intercourse between the prisoners of lyons, paris, and marseilles should be allowed. this was answered only by the announcement that "the court was adjourned;" an intimation which produced an awful clamour; and as the peers quitted the court, they were assailed with vehement cries of "we protest! ... we protest!... we will make no defence!... we protest! ... we protest!" and so ended the business of the day. i believe that the government, and all those who are sufficiently connected with it to know anything of the real state of the case, were perfectly aware that no public movement was likely to take place at this stage of the business. every one seems to know that the restless spirits, the desperate adventurers engaged in the extensive plot now under investigation, consider their trial as the best occasion possible for a political _coup de théâtre_, and that nothing would have disturbed their performance more than a riot before the curtain rose. everything like panic seems now to have subsided, even among those who are farthest from the centre of action; and all the effects of this mighty affair apparently visible at present are to be seen on the faces of the republicans, who, according to their wont, strut about wherever they are most likely to be looked at, and take care that each one of their countenances shall be "like to a book where men may read strange matters." i thank heaven, nevertheless, that this first day is so well over. i had heard so over-much about it, that it became a sort of nightmare to me, from which i now feel happily relieved. it is quite clear, that if the out-of-door agitators should think proper to make any attempts to produce disturbance, the government feels quite equal to the task of making them quiet again, and of insuring that peaceable security to the country for which she has so long languished in vain. the military force employed at the luxembourg is, however, by no means large. one battalion of the first legion of national guards was in the court of the palace, and about four hundred troops of the line occupied the garden. but though no show of force is unnecessarily displayed, every one has the comfort of knowing that there is enough within reach should any necessity arise for employing it. i was told the other day, that when lord b----m was in paris, he was so kind as to visit m. armand carrel in prison; and that, on the strength of this proof of sympathy and affection, it has been suggested to the prisoners at the luxembourg, that they should despatch a deputation of their friends to wait upon his lordship, requesting the aid of his eloquence in pleading their cause against the tyrants who so unjustifiably hold them in durance. the proposal, it seems, was very generally approved; but nevertheless, it was at last negatived on the representation of a person who had once heard his lordship argue in the french language. this is the more to be regretted by the friends of these suffering victims, since their choice of defenders is to be restricted to members of the bar: and this restriction, narrow-minded and severe as it is, would not exclude his lordship; a legal advocate being beyond all question a legal advocate all the world over. it was not till we had sent out in one or two directions to ascertain if all things were quiet, that we ventured to keep an engagement which we had made for last night to pass the _soirée_ at madame de l*****'s. i should have been sorry to have lost it; for the business of the morning appeared to have awakened the spirits and set everybody talking. there are few things i like better than listening to a full, free flow of paris talk; particularly when, as in this instance, the party is small and in a lively mood. it appears as if there were nothing like caution or reserve here in any direction. among those whom i have had the satisfaction of occasionally meeting are some who figure amongst the most important personages of the day; but their conversation is as gaily unrestrained as if they had nothing to do but to amuse themselves. these, indeed, are not likely to commit themselves; but i have known others less secure, who have appeared to permit every thought that occurred to them to meet the ear of whoever chose to listen. in short, whatever restraint the police, which by its nature is very phoenix-like, may endeavour to put upon the periodical press, its influence certainly does not as yet reach the lips, which open with equal freedom for the expression of faith, scepticism, loyalty, treason, philosophy, and wit. in an intercourse so transient as mine is likely to be with most of the acquaintance i have formed here,--an intercourse consisting chiefly, as to the manner of it, of evening visits through a series of _salons_,--amusement is naturally more sought than information: and were it otherwise, i should, with some few exceptions, have reaped disappointment instead of pleasure; for it is evident that the same feeling which leads the majority of persons you meet in society here, to speak freely, prevents them from saying anything seriously. so that, after talking for an hour or two upon subjects which one should think very gravely important, a light word, a light laugh, ends the colloquy, and very often leaves me in doubt as to the real sentiments of those to whom i have been listening. but if not always successful in obtaining information, i never fail in finding amusement. rarely, even for a moment, does conversation languish; and a string of lively nothings, or a startling succession of seemingly bold, but really unmeaning speculations, often make me imagine that a vast deal of talent has been displayed; yet, when memory sets to work upon it, little remains worth recording. nevertheless, there is talent, and of a very charming kind too, in this manner of uttering trifles so that they may be mistaken for wit. i know some few in our own dear land who have also this happy gift; and, as a matter of grace and mere exterior endowment, i question if it be not fairly worth all the rest. but i believe we have it in about the same proportion that we have good actors of genteel comedy, compared to the number which they can boast of the same class here. with us this easy, natural style of mimicking real life is a rare talent, though sometimes possessed in great perfection; but with them it seems more or less the birthright of all. so is it with the gift of that bright colloquial faculty which bestows such indescribable grace upon the airy nothings uttered in french drawing-rooms. to listen to it, is very like quaffing the sparkling, frothy beverage native to their sunny hills;--french talk is very like champagne. the exhilaration it produces is instantaneous: the spirits mount, and something like wit is often struck out even from dull natures by merely coming in contact with what is so brilliant. i could almost venture to assert that the effect of this delightful inspiration might be perceived by any one who had gained admission to french society even if they did not understand the language. let an observing eye, well accustomed to read the expression so legibly, though so transiently written in the countenances of persons in conversation,--let such a one only see, if he cannot hear, the effect produced by the hits and flashes of french eloquence. allow me another simile, and i will tell you that it is like applying electricity to a bunch of feathers tied together and attached to the conductor by a thread: first one, then another starts, flies off, mounts, and drops again, as the bright spark passes lightly, gracefully, capriciously, yet still all making part of one circle. of course, i am not speaking now of large parties; these, as i think i have said before, are wonderfully alike in all lands, and nothing approaching to conversation can possibly take place at any of them. it is only where the circle is restricted to a few that this sort of effect can be produced; and then, the impulse once given by a piquant word, seemingly uttered at random, every one present receives a share of it, and contributes in return all the lively thoughts to which it has given birth. but there was one gentleman of our party yesterday evening who had a most provoking trick of attracting one's attention as if on purpose to disappoint it. he was not quite like molière's timante, of whom célimène says, "et, jusques au bonjour, il dit tout à l'oreille;" but in the midst of pleasant talk, in which all were interested, he said aloud-- "_par exemple!_ i heard the very best thing possible to-day about the king. will you hear it, madame b...?" this question being addressed to a decided doctrinaire, the answer was of course a reproachful shake of the head; but as it was accompanied by half a smile, and as the lady bent her fair neck towards the speaker, she, and she only, was made acquainted with "the best of all possible things," conveyed in a whisper. at another time he addressed himself to the lady of the house; but as he spoke across the circle, he not only fixed her attention, but that of every one else. "madame!" said he coaxingly, "will you let me tell you a little word of treason?" "comment?--de la trahison?... apropos de quoi, s'il vous plaît?... mais c'est égal--contez toujours." on receiving this answer, the whisperer of good stories got up from the depth of his arm-chair--an enterprise of some difficulty, for he was neither rapid nor light in his movements,--and deliberately walking round the chairs of all the party, he placed himself behind madame de l*****, and whispered in her ear what made her colour and shake her head again; but she laughed too, telling him that she hated timid politics, and had no taste for any _trahisons_ which were not "_hautement prononcées_." this hint sent him back to his place; but it was taken very good-humouredly, for, instead of whispering any more, he uttered aloud sundry odds and ends of gossip, but all so well dressed up in lively wording, that they sounded very like good stories. letter xix. victor hugo.--racine. i have again been listening to some curious details respecting the present state of literature in france. i think i have before stated to you, that i have uniformly heard the whole of the _décousu_ school of authors spoken of with unmitigated contempt,--and that not only by the venerable advocates for the _bon vieux temps_, but also, and equally, by the distinguished men of the present day--distinguished both by position and ability. respecting victor hugo, the only one of the tribe to which i allude who has been sufficiently read in england to justify his being classed by us as a person of general celebrity, the feeling is more remarkable still. i have never mentioned him or his works to any person of good moral feeling and cultivated mind, who did not appear to shrink from according him even the degree of reputation that those who are received as authority among our own critics have been disposed to allow him. i might say, that of him france seems to be ashamed. again and again it has happened to me, when i have asked the opinions of individuals as to the merit of his different plays, that i have been answered thus:-- "i assure you i know nothing about it: i never saw it played." "have you read it?" "no; i have not. i cannot read the works of victor hugo." one gentleman, who has heard me more than once persist in my inquiries respecting the reputation enjoyed by victor hugo at paris as a man of genius and a successful dramatic writer, told me, that he saw that, in common with the generality of foreigners, particularly the english, i looked upon victor hugo and his productions as a sort of type or specimen of the literature of france at the present hour. "but permit me to assure you," he added gravely and earnestly, "that no idea was ever more entirely and altogether erroneous. he is the head of a sect--the high-priest of a congregation who have abolished every law, moral and intellectual, by which the efforts of the human mind have hitherto been regulated. he has attained this pre-eminence, and i trust that no other will arise to dispute it with him. but victor hugo is not a popular french writer." such a judgment as this, or the like of it, i have heard passed upon him and his works nine times out of ten that i have mentioned him; and i consider this as a proof of right feeling and sound taste, which is extremely honourable, and certainly more than we have lately given our neighbours credit for. it pleased me the more perhaps because i did not expect it. there is so much meretricious glitter in the works of victor hugo,--nay, so much real brightness now and then,--that i expected to find at least the younger and less reflective part of the population warm in their admiration of him. his clinging fondness for scenes of vice and horror, and his utter contempt for all that time has stamped as good in taste or feeling, might, i thought, arise from the unsettled spirit of the times; and if so, he could not fail of receiving the meed of sympathy and praise from those who had themselves set that spirit at work. but it is not so. the wild vigour of some of his descriptions is acknowledged; but that is all of praise that i ever heard bestowed upon victor hugo's theatrical productions in his native land. the startling, bold, and stirring incidents of his disgusting dramas must and will excite a certain degree of attention when seen for the first time, and it is evidently the interest of managers to bring forward whatever is most likely to produce this effect; but the doing so cannot be quoted as a proof of the systematic degradation of the theatre. it is moreover a fact, which the play-bills themselves are alone sufficient to attest, that after victor hugo's plays have had their first run, they are never brought forward again: not one of them has yet become what we call a stock-play. this fact, which was first stated to me by a person perfectly _au fait_ of the subject, has been subsequently confirmed by many others; and it speaks more plainly than any recorded criticism could do, what the public judgment of these pieces really is. the romance of "notre dame de paris" is ever cited as victor hugo's best work, excepting some early lyrical pieces of which we know nothing. but even this, though there are passages of extraordinary descriptive power in it, is always alluded to with much more of contempt than admiration; and i have heard it ridiculed in circles, whose praise was fame, with a light pleasantry more likely to prove an antidote to its mischief than all the reprobation that sober criticism could pour out upon it. but may not this champion of vice--this chronicler of sin, shame, and misery--quote scripture and say, "a prophet is not without honour, save in his own country"? for i have seen a criticism in an english paper (the examiner) which says, "_the_ notre dame _of victor hugo must take rank with the best romances by the author of_ waverley.... _it transcends them in vigour, animation, and familiarity with the age._" in reply to the last point here mentioned, in which our countryman has given the superiority to victor hugo over sir walter scott, a very strong testimony against its correctness has reached me since i have been in paris. an able lawyer, and most accomplished gentleman and scholar, who holds a distinguished station in the cour royale, took us to see the palais de justice. having shown us the chamber where criminal trials are carried on, he observed, that this was the room described by victor hugo in his romance; adding,--"he was, however, mistaken here, as in most places _where he affects a knowledge of the times of which he writes_. in the reign of louis the eleventh, no criminal trials ever took place within the walls of this building; and all the ceremonies as described by him resemble much more a trial of yesterday than of the age at which he dates his tale." the vulgar old adage, that "there is no accounting for taste," must, i suppose, teach us to submit patiently to the hearing of any judgments and opinions which it is the will and pleasure of man to pronounce; but it does seem strange that any can be found who, after bringing sir walter scott and victor hugo into comparison, should give the palm of superiority to the author of "notre dame de paris." were the faults of this school of authors only of a literary kind, few persons, i believe, would take the trouble to criticise them, and their nonsense would die a natural death as soon as it was made to encounter the light of day: but such productions as victor hugo's are calculated to do great injury to human nature. they would teach us to believe that all our gentlest and best affections can only lead to crime and infamy. there is not, i truly believe, a single pure, innocent, and holy thought to be found throughout his writings: sin is the muse he invokes--he would "take off the rose from the fair forehead of an innocent love, and set a blister there;" horror is his handmaid; and "thousands of liveried _monsters_ lackey him," to furnish the portraits with which it is the occupation of his life to disgust the world. can there, think you, be a stronger proof of a diseased intellect among the _décousu_ part of the world, than that they not only admire this man's hideous extravagances, but that they actually believe him to be ... at least they say so ... a second shakspeare!... a shakspeare! to chastise as he deserves an author who may be said to defy mankind by the libels he has put forth on the whole race, requires a stouter and a keener weapon than any a woman can wield; but when they prate of shakspeare, i feel that it is our turn to speak. how much of gratitude and love does every woman owe to him! he, who has entered deeper into her heart than ever mortal did before or since his day, how has he painted her?--as portia, juliet, constance, hermione;--as cordelia, volumnia, isabella, desdemona, imogene! then turn and see for what we have to thank our modern painter. who are his heroines?--lucrèce borgia, marion de lorme, blanche, maguelonne, with i know not how many more of the same stamp; besides his novel heroine, whom mr. henry lytton bulwer calls "the most delicate female ever drawn by the pen of romance"--the esmeralda! ... whose sole accomplishments are dancing and singing in the streets, and who ... delicate creature! ... being caught up by a horseman in a midnight brawl, throws her arms round his neck, swears he is very handsome, and thenceforward shows the delicate tenderness of her nature, by pertinaciously doting upon him, without any other return or encouragement whatever than an insulting caress bestowed upon her one night when he was drunk ... "delicate female!" but this is all too bad to dwell upon. it is, however, in my estimation a positive duty, when mentioning the works of victor hugo, to record a protest against their tone and tendency; and it is also a duty to correct, as far as one can, the erroneous impression existing in england respecting his reputation in france. whenever his name is mentioned in england, his success is cited as a proof of the depraved state, moral and intellectual, of the french people. and such it would be, were his success and reputation such as his partisans represent them to be. but, in point of fact, the manner in which he is judged by his own countrymen is the strongest possible evidence that neither a powerful fancy, a commanding diction, nor an imagination teeming with images of intense passion, can suffice to ensure an author any exalted reputation in france at the present day if he outrages good feeling and good taste. should any doubt the correctness of this statement, i can only refer them to the source from whence i derived the information on which it is founded,--i can only refer them to france herself. there is one fact, however, which may be ascertained without crossing the channel;--namely, that when one of their reviews found occasion to introduce an article upon the modern drama, the editors acquitted themselves of the task by translating the whole of the able article upon that subject which appeared about a year and a half ago in the quarterly, acknowledging to what source they were indebted for it. were the name and the labours of victor hugo confined to his own country, it would now be high time that i should release you from him; but it is an english critic who has said, that he has heaved the ground from under the feet of racine; and you must indulge me for a few minutes, while i endeavour to bring the two parties together before you. in doing this, i will be generous; for i will introduce m. hugo in "le roi s'amuse," which, from the circumstance (the happiest, i was assured, that ever befel the author) of its being withdrawn by authority from the théâtre français, has become infinitely more celebrated than any other he has written. it may be remarked by the way, that a few more such acts of decent watchfulness over the morals and manners of the people may redeem the country from the stigma it now bears of being the most licentious in its theatre and its press in the world. the first glorious moment of being forbidden at the français appears almost to have turned the lucky author's brain. his preface to "le roi s'amuse," among many other symptoms of insanity has the following:-- "le premier mouvement de l'auteur fut de douter.... l'acte était arbitraire au point d'être incroyable.... l'auteur ne pouvait croire à tant d'insolence et de folie.... le ministre avait en effet, de son droit divin de ministre, intimé l'ordre.... le ministre lui avait pris sa pièce, lui avait pris son droit, lui avait pris sa chose. il ne restait plus qu'à le mettre, lui poëte, à la bastille.... est-ce qu'il y a eu en effet quelque chose qu'on a appelé la révolution de juillet?... que peut être le motif d'une pareille mesure?... il parait que nos faiseurs de censure se prétendent scandalisés dans leur morale par 'le roi s'amuse;' le nom seul du poëte inculpé aurait dû être une suffisante réfutation (!!!)... cette pièce a révolté la pudeur des gendarmes; la brigade léotaud y était, et l'a trouvé obscène; le bureau des moeurs s'est voilé la face; m. vidocq a rougi.... holà, mes maîtres! silence sur ce point!... depuis quand n'est-il plus permis à un roi de courtiser sur la scène une servante d'auberge?... mener un roi dans un mauvais lieu, cela ne serait pas même nouveau non plus.... l'auteur veut l'art chaste, et non l'art prude.... il est profondement triste de voir comment se termine la révolution de juillet...." then follows a _précis_ of the extravagant and hateful plot, in which the heroine is, as usual, "une fille séduite et perdue;" and he sums it up thus pompously:--"au fond d'un des ouvrages de l'auteur il y a la fatalité--au fond de celui-ci il y a la providence." i wish much that some one would collect and publish in a separate volume all m. victor hugo's prefaces; i would purchase it instantly, and it would be a fund of almost inexhaustible amusement. he assumes a tone in them which, all things considered, is perhaps unequalled in the history of literature. in another part of the one from which i have given the above extracts, he says-- "vraiment, le pouvoir qui s'attaque à nous n'aura pas gagné grand' chose à ce que nous, hommes d'art, nous quittions notre tâche consciencieuse, tranquille, sincère, profonde; notre tâche sainte...." what on earth, if it be not insanity, could have put it into mr. hugo's head that the manufacturing of his obscene dramas was "une tâche sainte"? the principal characters in "le roi s'amuse" are françois premier; triboulet, his pander and buffoon; blanche, the daughter of triboulet, "la fille séduite," and heroine of the piece; and maguelonne, another esmeralda. the interest lies in the contrast between triboulet pander and triboulet père. he is himself the most corrupt and infamous of men; and because he is humpbacked, makes it both his pastime and his business to lead the king his master into every species of debauchery: but he shuts up his daughter to preserve her purity; and the poet has put forth all his strength in describing the worship which triboulet père pays to the virtue which he passes his life as triboulet pander in destroying. of course, the king falls in love with blanche, and she with him; and triboulet pander is made to assist in carrying her off in the dark, under the belief that she was the wife of a nobleman to whom also his majesty the king was making love. when triboulet père and pander finds out what he has done, he falls into a terrible agony: and here again is a _tour de force_, to show how pathetically such a father can address such a daughter. he resolves to murder the king, and informs his daughter, who is passionately attached to her royal seducer, of his intention. she objects, but is at length brought to consent by being made to peep through a hole in the wall, and seeing his majesty king francis engaged in making love to maguelonne. this part of the plot is brought out shortly and pithily. blanche (_peeping through the hole in the wall_). et cette femme! ... est-elle affrontée! ... oh!... triboulet. tais-toi; pas de pleurs. laisse-moi te venger! blanche. hélas!--faites-- tout ce que vous voudrez. triboulet. merci! this _merci_, observe, is not said ironically, but gravely and gratefully. having arranged this part of the business, he gives his daughter instructions as to what she is to do with herself, in the following sublime verses:-- triboulet. Écoute. va chez moi, prends-y des habits d'homme, un cheval, de l'argent, n'importe quelle somme; et pars, sans t'arrêter un instant en chemin, pour evreux, où j'irai te joindre après-demain. --tu sais ce coffre auprès du portrait de ta mère; l'habit est là,--je l'ai d'avance exprès fait faire. having dismissed his daughter, he settles with a gipsy-man named saltabadil, who is the brother of maguelonne, all the details of the murder, which is to be performed in their house, a small cabaret at which the foul weather and the fair maguelonne induce the royal rake to pass the night. triboulet leaves them an old sack in which they are to pack up the body, and promises to return at midnight, that he may himself see it thrown into the seine. blanche meanwhile departs; but feeling some compunctious visitings about the proposed murder of her lover, returns, and again applying her ear to the hole in the wall, finds that his majesty is gone to bed in the garret, and that the brother and sister are consulting about his death. maguelonne, a very "delicate female," objects too; she admires his beauty, and proposes that his life shall be spared if any stranger happens to arrive whose body may serve to fill the sack. blanche, in a fit of heroic tenderness, determines to be that stranger; exclaiming, "eh bien! ... mourons pour lui!" but before she knocks at the door, she kneels down to say her prayers, particularly for forgiveness to all her enemies. here are the verses, making part of those which have overthrown racine:-- blanche. oh! dieu, vers qui je vais, je pardonne à tous ceux qui m'ont été mauvais: mon père et vous, mon dieu! pardonnez-leurs de même au roi françois premier, que je plains et que j'aime. she knocks, the door opens, she is stabbed and consigned to the sack. her father arrives immediately after as by appointment, receives the sack, and prepares to drag it towards the river, handling it with revengeful ecstasy, and exclaiming-- maintenant, monde, regarde-moi: ceci, c'est un bouffon; et ceci, c'est un roi. at this triumphant moment he hears the voice of the king, singing as he walks away from the dwelling of maguelonne. triboulet. mais qui donc m'a-t-il mis à sa place, le traître! he cuts open the sack; and a flash of lightning very melodramatically enables him to recognise his daughter, who revives, to die in his arms. this is beyond doubt what may be called "a tragic situation;" and i confess it does seem very hard-hearted to laugh at it: but the _pas_ that divides the sublime from the ridiculous is not distinctly seen, and there is something vulgar and ludicrous, both in the position and language of the parties, which quite destroys the pathetic effect. it must be remembered that she is dressed in the "habit d'homme" of which her father says so poetically-- je l'ai d'avance exprès fait faire. observe, too, that she is still in the sack; the stage directions being, "le bas du corps, qui est resté vêtu, est caché dans le sac." blanche. où suis-je? triboulet. blanche! que t'a-t-on fait? quel mystère infernal! je crains en te touchant de te faire du mal.... ah! la cloche du bac est là sur la muraille: ma pauvre enfant, peux-tu m'attendre un peu, que j'aille chercher de l'eau.... a surgeon arrives, and having examined her wound, says, elle est morte. elle a dans le flanc gauche une plaie assez forte: le sang a dû causer la mort en l'étouffant. triboulet. j'ai tué mon enfant! j'ai tué mon enfant! (_il tombe sur le pavé._) fin. all this is very shocking; but it is not tragedy,--and it is not poetry. yet it is what we are told has heaved the earth from under racine! after such a sentence as this, it must be, i know, _rococo_ to name him; but yet i would say, in his own words, d'adorateurs zélés à peine un petit nombre ose des premiers temps nous retracer quelque ombre; le reste.... se fait initier à ces honteux mystères, et blasphème le nom qu'ont invoqué leurs pères. as i profess myself of the _petit nombre_, you must let me recall to your memory some of the fragments of that noble edifice which racine raised over him, and which, as they say, has now perished under the mighty power of victor hugo. it will not be lost time to do this; for look where you will among the splendid material of this uprooted temple, and you will find no morsel that is not precious; nothing that is not designed, chiseled, and finished by the hand of a master. racine has not produced dramas from ordinary life; it was not his object to do so, nor is it the end he has attained. it is the tragedy of heroes and demi-gods that he has given us, and not of cut-purses, buffoons, and street-walkers. if the language of racine be poetry, that of m. hugo is not; and wherever the one is admired, the other must of necessity be valueless. it would be endless to attempt giving citations to prove the grace, the dignity, the majestic flow of racine's verse; but let your eye run over "iphigénie," for instance,--there also the loss of a daughter forms the tragic interest,--and compare such verses as those i have quoted above with any that you can find in racine. hear the royal mother, for example, describe the scene that awaits her: un prêtre environné d'une foule cruelle portera sur ma fille une main criminelle, déchirera son sein, et d'un oeil curieux dans son coeur palpitant consultera les dieux; --et moi--qui l'amenai triomphante, adorée, je m'en retournerai, seule, et désespérée. surely this is of a better fabric than-- tu sais ce coffre auprès du portrait de ta mère; l'habit est là,--je l'ai d'avance exprès fait faire. i have little doubt but that the inspired author, when this noble phrase, "exprès fait faire," suggested itself, felt ready to exclaim, in the words of philaminte and bélise-- ah! que cet "exprès fait" est d'un goût admirable! c'est à mon sentiment un endroit impayable; j'entends là-dessous un million de mots.-- --il est vrai qu'il dit plus de choses qu'il n'est gros. but to take the matter seriously, let us examine a little the ground upon which this school of dramatic writers found their claim to superiority over their classic predecessors. is it not that they declare themselves to be more true to nature? and how do they support this claim? were you to read through every play that m. hugo has written--(and may you long be preserved from so great annoyance!)--i doubt if you would find a single personage with whom you could sympathise, or a single sentiment or opinion that you would feel true to the nature within you. it would be much less difficult, i conceive, so strongly to excite the imagination by the majestic eloquence of racine's verses as to make you conscious of fellow-feeling with his sublime personages, than to debase your very heart and soul so thoroughly as to enable you to fancy that you have anything in common with the corrupt creations of victor hugo. but even were it otherwise--were the scenes imagined by this new shakspeare more like the real villany of human nature than those of the noble writer he is said to have set aside, i should still deny that this furnished any good reason for bringing such scenes upon the stage. why should we make a pastime of looking upon vulgar vice? why should the lowest passions of our nature be for ever brought out in parade before us? "it is not and it cannot be for good." the same reasoning might lead us to turn from the cultured garden, its marble terraces, its velvet lawns, its flowers and fruits of every clime, that we might take our pleasure in a bog--and for all consolation be told, when we slip and flounder about in its loathsome slime, that it is more natural. i have written you a most unmerciful letter, and it is quite time that i should quit the theme, for i get angry--angry that i have no power to express in words all i feel on this subject. would that for one short hour or so i had the pen which wrote the "dunciad!"--i would use it--heartily--and then take my leave by saying, "rentre dans le néant, dont je t'ai fait sortir." letter xx. versailles.--st. cloud. the château de versailles, that marvellous _chef-d'oeuvre_ of the splendid taste and unbounded extravagance of louis le grand, is shut up, and has been so for the last eighteen months. this is a great disappointment to such of our party as have never seen its interminable chambers and their gorgeous decorations. the reason assigned for this unwonted exclusion of the public is, that the whole of this enormous pile is filled with workmen; not, however, for the purpose of restoring it as a palace for the king, but of preparing it as a sort of universal museum for the nation. the buildings are in fact too extensive for a palace; and splendid as it is, i can easily believe no king of modern days would wish to inhabit it. i have sometimes wondered that napoleon did not take a fancy to its vastness; but, i believe, he had no great taste in the upholstering line, and preferred converting his millions into the sinews of war, to the possession of all the carving and gilding in the world. if this projected museum, however, should be _monté_ with science, judgment and taste, and on the usual scale of french magnificence, it will be turning the costly whim of _le grand monarque_ to excellent account. the works which are going on there, were mentioned at a party the other evening, when some one stated that it was the intention of the king to convert one portion of the building into a gallery of national history, that should contain pictures of all the victories which france had ever won. the remark made in reply amused me much, it was so very french.--"ma foi!... mais cette galerie-là doit être bien longue--et assez ennuyeuse pour les étrangers." though the château was closed to us, we did not therefore give up our purposed expedition to versailles: every object there is interesting, not only from its splendour, but from the recollections it revives of scenes with whose history we are all familiar. not only the horrors of the last century, but all the regal glories of the preceding one, are so well known to everybody, that there must have been a prodigious deal of gossip handed down to us from france, or we never could feel so much better acquainted with events which have passed at versailles than with any scenes that have occurred at an equal distance of time at windsor. but so it is; and the english go there not merely as strangers visiting a palace in a foreign land, but as pilgrims to the shrine of the princes and poets who have left their memory there, and with whose names and histories they are as familiar as if they belonged to us. the day we passed among the royal spectres that never fail to haunt one at this palace of recollections, was a mixture of sunshine and showers, and our meditations seemed to partake of the vicissitude. it is said that the great louis reared this stupendous dwelling in which to pass the gilded hours of his idleness, because from st. germain's he could see the plain of st. denis, over which his funeral array was to pass, and the spire that marked the spot where his too precious dust was to be laid. happy was it for him that the scutcheoned sepulchre of st. denis was the most distant and most gloomy point to which his prophetic glance could reach! could the great king have looked a little farther, and dreamed of the scenes which were destined to follow this dreaded passage to his royal tomb, how would he have blessed the fate which permitted him to pass into it so peacefully! it is quite wonderful to see how much of the elaborate decoration and fine finishing of this sumptuous place remains uninjured after being visited by the most ferocious mob that ever collected together. had they been less intent on the savage object of their mission, it is probable that they would have sated their insane rage in destroying the palace itself, and the costly decorations of its singular gardens. though far inferior in all ways either to the gardens of the elector of hesse cassel at wilhelmshöhe, or to those of the grand duke of baden at schwetzingen, those of versailles are still highly interesting from many causes, and have so much of majesty and pomp about them, that one cannot look upon them without feeling that only the kings of the earth could ever have had a master's right to take their pleasure therein. before we entered upon the orderly confusion of groves, statues, temples, and water-works through which it is necessary to be led, we made our grey-headed guide lead us round and about every part of the building while we listened to his string of interesting old stories about louis seize, and marie antoinette, and monsieur, and le comte d'artois, (for he seemed to have forgotten that they had borne any other titles than those he remembered in his youth,) all of whom seemed to retain exactly the same place in his imagination that they had occupied some fifty years ago, when he was assistant to the keeper of the _orangerie_. he boasted, with a vanity as fresh as if it had been newly born, of the honours of that near approach to royalty which he had formerly enjoyed; recounted how the queen called one of the orange-trees her own, because she fancied its blossoms sweeter than all the rest; and how from such a broad-leafed double-blossoming myrtle he had daily gathered a _bouquet_ for her majesty, which was laid upon her toilet exactly at two o'clock. this old man knew every orange-tree, its birth and history, as well as a shepherd knows his flock. the venerable father of the band dates his existence from the reign of françois premier, and truly he enjoys a green old age. the one surnamed louis le grand, who was twin brother, as he said, to that mighty monarch, looks like a youth beside it--and you are told that it has not yet attained its full growth. oh! could those orange-trees but speak! could they recount to us the scenes they have witnessed; could they describe to us all the beauties over whom they have shed their fragrant flowers--all the heroes, statesmen, poets, and princes who have stepped in courtly paces beneath their shade; what a world of witty wickedness, of solemn warning, and of sad reflection, we should have! but though the orange-trees were mute, our old man talked enough for them all. he was a faithful servant to the old _régime_: and indeed it should seem that there is something in the air of versailles favourable alike to orange-trees and loyalty; for never did i hear, while wandering amidst their aristocratic perfume, one word that was not of sound orthodox legitimate loyalty to the race for whose service they have for so many hundred years lived and bloomed. and still they blossom on, unscathed by revolution, unblighted though an usurper called them his;--happier in this than many of those who were once privileged to parade their dignity beneath their royal shade. the old servitors still move among these venerable vegetable grandees with the ceremonious air of courtiers, offering obsequious service, if not to the king himself, at least to his cousin-germans; and i am persuaded there is not one of these old serving-men, who wander about versailles like ghosts revisiting the scenes of former happiness, who would not more humbly pull off his hat to françois premier or louis le grand in the greenhouse, than to any monarch of a younger race. napoleon has left less trace of himself and his giant power at versailles than anywhere else; and the naïads and hamadryads still lift their sculptured heads with such an eternity of stately grace, as makes one feel the evanescent nature of the interlude that was played among them during the empire. it is of the old race of bourbon that the whole region is redolent. "there," said our old guide, "is the range of chambers that was occupied by the queen ... those were the king's apartments ... there were the royal children ... there monsieur ... and there the comte d'artois." then we were led round to the fatal balcony which overhangs the entrance. it was there that the fallen marie antoinette stood, her young son in her arms, and the doomed king her husband beside her, when she looked down upon the demons drunk with blood, who sought her life. i had heard all this hateful, but o'er-true history, more than once before on the same spot, and shortening the frightful detail, i hastened to leave it, though i believe the good old man would willingly have spent hours in dwelling upon it. the day had been named as one on which the great waters were to play. but, little as nature has to do with this pretty exhibition, she interfered on this occasion to prevent it. there was no water. the dry winter would, they told us, probably render it impossible to play them during the whole summer. here was another disappointment; but we bore it heroically, and after examining and much admiring the numberless allegories which people the grounds, and to the creation of which, a poet must have been as necessary as a sculptor, we adjourned to the trianons, there to meditate on all the ceaseless vicissitudes of female influence from maintenon to josephine. it is but a sad review, but it may serve well to reconcile the majority of womankind to the tranquil dreaminess of obscurity. the next thing to be done was dining--and most wretchedly done it was: but we found something to laugh at, nevertheless; for when the wine brought to us was found too bad to drink, and we ordered better, no less than four bottles were presented to us in succession, each one increasing in price, but being precisely of the same quality. when we charged the black-eyed daughter of the house with the fact, she said with perfect good-humour, but nowise denying it, that she was very sorry they had no better. when the bill was brought, the same damsel civilly hoped that we should not think ten sous (half-a-franc) too much to pay for having opened so many bottles. now, as three of them were firmly corked, and carefully sealed besides, we paid our ten sous without any complaining. the looking at a fête at st. cloud made part of the business of the day; but in order to get there, we were obliged to mount into one of those indescribable vehicles by which the gay _bourgeoisie_ of paris are conveyed from palace to palace, and from _guinguette_ to _guinguette_. we had dismissed our comfortable _citadine_, being assured that we should have no difficulty in finding another. in this, however, we were disappointed, the proportion of company appearing greatly to exceed that of the carriages which were to convey them, and we considered ourselves fortunate in securing places in an equipage which we should have scorned indignantly when we quitted paris in the morning. the whimsical gaiety of the crowd, all hurrying one way, was very amusing; all anxious to reach st. cloud before the promised half-hour's display of water-works were over; all testifying, by look, gesture, voice, and words, that light effervescence of animal spirits so essentially characteristic of the country, and all forming a moving panorama so gay and so bright as almost to make one giddy by looking at it. some among the capricious variety of vehicles were drawn by five or six horses. these were in truth nothing but gaily-painted waggons, hung on rude springs, with a flat awning over them. in several i counted twenty persons; but there were some few among them in which one or perhaps two seats were still vacant--and then the rapturous glee of the party was excited to the utmost by the efforts of the driver, as gay as themselves, to obtain customers to fill the vacancies. every individual overtaken on the road was invited by the most clamorous outcries to occupy the vacant seats. "st. cloud! st. cloud! st. cloud!" shouted by the driver and re-echoed by all his company, rang in the startled ears of all they passed; and if a traveller soberly journeying in the contrary direction was met, the invitation was uttered with tenfold vehemence, accompanied by shouts of laughter; which, far from offending the party who provoked it, was invariably answered with equal frolic and fun. but when upon one occasion a carriage posting almost at full gallop towards versailles was encountered, the ecstasy of mirth with which it was greeted exceeds description. "st. cloud! st. cloud! st. cloud!--tournez donc, messieurs--tournez à st. cloud!" the shouts and vociferations were enough to frighten all the horses in the world excepting french ones; and they must be so thoroughly broken to the endurance of din, that there is little danger of their starting at it. i could have almost fancied that upon this occasion they took part in it; for they shook their ropes and their tassels, snorted and tossed, very much as if they enjoyed the fun. after all, we, and many hundred others, arrived too late for the show, the supply of water failing even before the promised half-hour had elapsed. the gardens, however, were extremely full, and all the world looked as gay and as well-pleased as if nothing had gone wrong. i wonder if these people ever grow old,--that is, old as we do, sitting in the chimney-corner, and dreaming no more of fêtes than of playing at blind-man's-buff. i have certainly seen here, as elsewhere, men, and women too, grey-headed, and wrinkled enough to be as solemn as the most venerable judge upon the bench; but i never saw any that did not seem ready to hop, skip, jump, waltz, and make love. letter xxi. history of the vicomte de b----. his opinions.--state of france.--expediency. i have had a curious conversation this morning with an old gentleman whom i believed to be a thorough legitimate, but who turns out, as you will see, something else--i hardly know what to call it--_doctrinaire_ i suppose it must be, yet it is not quite that either. but before i give you his opinions, let me present himself. m. le vicomte de b---- is a person that i am very sure you would be happy to know anywhere. his residence is not in paris, but at a château that he describes as the most profound retirement imaginable; yet it is not more than thirty leagues from paris. he is a widower, and his only child is a daughter, who has been some years married. the history of this gentleman, given as he gave it himself, was deeply interesting. it was told with much feeling, some wit, and no prolixity. were i, however, to attempt to repeat it to you in the same manner, it would become long and tedious, and in every way as unlike as possible to what it was as it came fresh from the living fountain. in brief, then, i will tell you that he was the younger son of an old and noble house, and, for seven years, page to louis seize. he must have been strikingly handsome; and young as he was at the time of the first revolution, he seems already to have found the court a very agreeable residence. he had held a commission in the army about two years, when his father, and his only brother, his elder by ten years, were obliged to leave the country, to save their lives. the family was not a wealthy one, and great sacrifices were necessary to enable them to live in england. what remained became eventually the property of our friend, both father and brother having died in exile. with this remnant of fortune he married, not very prudently; and having lost his wife and disposed of his daughter in marriage, he is now living in his large dilapidated château, with one female servant, and an old man as major-domo, valet, and cook, who served with him in la vendée, and who, by his description, must be a perfect corporal trim. i would give a good deal to be able to accept the invitation i have received to pay him a visit at his castle. i think i should find just such a _ménage_ as that which scott so beautifully describes in one of his prefaces. but the wish is vain, such an excursion being quite impossible; so i must do without the castle, and content myself with the long morning visits that its agreeable owner is so kind as to make us. i have seen him frequently, and listened with great interest to his little history; but it was only this morning that the conversation took a speculative turn. i was quite persuaded, but certainly from my own preconceived notions only, and not from anything i have heard him say, that m. de b---- was a devoted legitimate. an old noble--page to louis seize--a royalist soldier in la vendée,--how could i think otherwise? yet he talked to me as ... you shall hear. our conversation began by his asking me if i was conscious of much material change in paris since i last visited it. i replied, that i certainly saw some, but perhaps suspected more. "i dare say you do," said he; "it is what your nation is very apt to do: but take my advice,--believe what you see, and nothing else." "but what one can see in the course of a month or two is so little, and i hear so much." "that is true; but do you not find that what you hear from one person is often contradicted by another?" "constantly," i replied. "then what can you do at last but judge by what you see?" "why, it appears to me that the better plan would be to listen to all parties, and let my balancing belief incline to the testimony that has most weight." "then be careful that this weight be not false. there are some who will tell you that the national feeling which for so many centuries has kept france together as a powerful and predominating people is loosened, melted, and gone;--that though there are frenchmen left, there is no longer a french people." "to any who told me so," i replied, "i would say, that the division they complained of, arose not so much from any change in the french character, as from the false position in which many were unhappily placed at the present moment. men's hearts are divided because they are diversely drawn aside from a common centre." "and you would say truly," said he; "but others will tell you, that regenerated france will soon dictate laws to the whole earth; that her flag will become the flag of all people--her government their government; and that their tottering monarchies will soon crumble into dust, to become part and parcel of her glorious republic." "and to these i should say, that they appeared to be in a very heavy slumber, and that the sooner they could wake out of it and shake off their feverish dreams, the better it would be for them." "but what would your inference be as to the state of the country from such reports as these?" "i should think that, as usual, truth lay between. i should neither believe that france was so united as to constitute a single-minded giant, nor so divided as to have become a mass of unconnected atoms, or a race of pigmies." "you know," he continued, "that the fashionable phrase for describing our condition at present is, that we are in _a state of transition_,--from butterflies to grubs, or from grubs to butterflies, i know not which; but to me it seems that the transition is over,--and it is high time that it should be so. the country has known neither rest nor peace for nearly half a century; and powerful as she has been and still is, she must at last fall a prey to whoever may think it worth their while to despoil her, unless she stops short while it is yet time, and strengthens herself by a little seasonable repose." "but how is this repose to be obtained?" said i. "some of you wish to have one king, some another, and some to have no king at all. this is not a condition in which a country is very likely to find repose." "not if each faction be of equal power, or sufficiently so to persevere in struggling for the mastery. our only hope lies in the belief that there is no such equality. let him who has seized the helm keep it: if he be an able helmsman, he will keep us in smooth water;--and it is no longer time for us to ask how he got his commission; let us be thankful that he happens to be of the same lineage as those to whose charge we have for so many ages committed the safety of our bark." i believe my countenance expressed my astonishment; for the old gentleman smiled and said, "do i frighten you with my revolutionary principles?" "indeed, you surprise me a little," i replied: "i should have thought that the rights of a legitimate monarch would have been in your opinion indefeasible." "where is the law, my good lady, that may control necessity?... i speak not of my own feelings, or of those of the few who were born like myself in another era. very terrible convulsions have passed over france, and perhaps threaten the rest of europe. i have for many years stood apart and watched the storm; and i am quite sure, and find much comfort in the assurance, that the crimes and passions of men cannot change the nature of things. they may produce much misery, they may disturb and confuse the peaceful current of events; but man still remains as he was, and will seek his safety and his good, where he has ever found them--under the shelter of power." "there, indeed, i quite agree with you. but surely the more lawful and right the power is, the more likely it must be to remain tranquil and undisputed in its influence." "france has no longer the choice," said he, interrupting me abruptly. "i speak but as a looker-on; my political race is ended; i have more than once sworn allegiance to the elder branch of the house of bourbon, and certainly nothing would tempt me to hold office or take oath under any other. but do you think it would be the duty of a frenchman who has three grandsons native to the soil of france,--do you really think it the duty of such a one to invoke civil war upon the land of his fathers, and remembering only his king, to forget his country? i will not tell you, that if i could wake to-morrow morning and find a fifth henry peacefully seated on the throne of his fathers, i might not rejoice; particularly if i were sure that he would be as likely to keep the naughty boys of paris in order as i think his cousin philippe is. were there profit in wishing, i would wish for france a government so strong as should effectually prevent her from destroying herself; and that government should have at its head a king whose right to reign had come to him, not by force of arms, but by the will of god in lawful succession. but when we mortals have a wish, we may be thankful if the half of it be granted;--and, in truth, i think that i have the first and better half of mine to rejoice in. there is a stout and sturdy strength in the government of king philippe, which gives good hope that france may recover under its protection from her sins and her sorrows, and again become the glory of her children." so saying, m. de b---- rose to leave me, and putting out his hand in the english fashion, added, "i am afraid you do not like me so well as you did.... i am no longer a true and loyal knight in your estimation ... but something, perhaps, very like a rebel and a traitor?... is it not so?" i hardly knew how to answer him. he certainly had lost a good deal of that poetical elevation of character with which i had invested him; yet there was a mixture of honesty and honour in his frankness that i could not help esteeming. i thanked him very sincerely for the openness with which he had spoken, but confessed that i had not quite made up my mind to think that expediency was the right rule for human actions. it certainly was not the noblest, and therefore i was willing to believe that it was not the best. "i must go," said he, looking at his watch, "for it is my hour of dining, or i think i could dispute with you a little upon your word _expediency_. whatever is really expedient for us to do--that is, whatever is best for us in the situation in which we are actually placed, is really right. adieu!--i shall present myself again ere long; and if you admit me, i shall be thankful." so saying, he departed,--leaving us all, i believe, a little less in alt about him than before, but certainly with no inclination to shut our doors against him. letter xxii. père lachaise.--mourning in public.--defacing the tomb of abelard and eloïsa.--baron munchausen.--russian monument.--statue of manuel. often as i have visited the enclosure of père lachaise, it was with feelings of renewed curiosity and interest that i yesterday accompanied thither those of my party who had not yet seen it. i was well pleased to wander once more through the cypress alleys, now grown into fine gloomy funereal shades, and once more to feel that wavering sort of emotion which i always experience there;--one moment being tempted to smile at the fantastic manner in which affection has been manifested,--and the next, moved to tears by some touch of tenderness, that makes itself felt even amidst the vast collection of childish superstitions with which the place abounds. this mournful garden is altogether a very solemn and impressive spectacle. what a world of mortality does one take in at one glance! it will set one thinking a little, however fresh from the busy idleness of paris,--of paris, that antidote to all serious thought, that especial paradise for the worshippers of sans souci. a profusion of spring flowers are at this season hourly shedding their blossoms over every little cherished enclosure. there is beauty, freshness, fragrance on the surface.... it is a fearful contrast! i do not remember any spot, either in church or churchyard, where the unequal dignity of the memorials raised above the dust which lies so very equally beneath them all is shown in a manner to strike the heart so forcibly as it does at père lachaise. here, a shovelful of weeds have hardly room to grow; and there rises a costly pile, shadowing its lowly neighbour. on this side the narrow path, sorrow is wrapped round and hid from notice by the very poverty that renders it more bitter; while, on the other, wealth, rank, and pride heap decorations over the worthless clay, striving vainly to conceal its nothingness. it is an epitome of the world they have left: remove the marble and disturb the turf, human nature will be found to wear the same aspect under both. many groups in deep mourning were wandering among the tombs; so many indeed, that when we turned aside from one, with the reverence one always feels disposed to pay to sorrow, we were sure to encounter another. this manner of lamenting in public seems so strange to us! how would it be for a shy english mother, who sobs inwardly and hides the aching sorrow in her heart's core,--how would she bear to bargain at the public gate for a pretty garland, then enter amidst an idle throng, with the toy hanging on her finger, and, before the eyes of all who choose to look, suspend it over the grave of her lost child? an englishwoman surely must lose her reason either before or after such an act;--if it were not the effect of madness, it would be the cause of it. yet such is the effect of habit, or rather of the different tone of manners and of mind here, that one may daily and hourly see parents, most devoted to their children during their lives, and most heart-broken when divided from them by death, perform with streaming eyes these public lamentations. it is nevertheless impossible, let the manner of it differ from our own as much as it may, to look at the freshly-trimmed flowers, the garlands, and all the pretty tokens of tender care which meet the eye in every part of this wide-spread mass of mortal nothingness, without feeling that real love and real sorrow have been at work. one small enclosure attracted my attention as at once the most _bizarre_ and the most touching of all. it held the little grassy tomb of a young child, planted round with choice flowers; and at its head rose a semicircular recess, containing, together with a crucifix and other religious emblems, several common playthings, which had doubtless been the latest joy of the lost darling. his age was stated to have been three years, and he was mourned as the first and only child after twelve years of marriage. below this melancholy statement was inscribed-- "passans! priez pour sa malheureuse mère!" might we not say, that thought and affliction, passion, death itself, they turn to favour and to prettiness? it would, i believe, be more just, as well as more generous, instead of accusing the whole nation of being the victims of affectation instead of sorrow under every affliction that death can cause, to believe that they feel quite as sincerely as ourselves; though they have certainly a very different way of showing it. i wish they, whoever they are, who had the command of such matters, would have let the curious tomb of abelard and eloïsa remain in decent tranquillity in its original position. nothing can assimilate worse than do its gothic form and decorations with every object around it. the paltry plaster tablet too, that has been stuck upon it for the purpose of recording the history of the tomb rather than of those who lie buried in it, is in villanously bad taste; and we can only hope that the elements will complete the work they have begun, and then this barbarous defacing will crumble away before our grandchildren shall know anything about it. the thickly-planted trees and shrubs have grown so rapidly, as in many places to make it difficult to pass through them; and the ground appears to be extremely crowded nearly over its whole extent. a few neighbouring acres have been lately added to it; but their bleak, naked, and unornamented surface forbids the eye as yet to recognise this space as part of the enclosure. one pale solitary tomb is placed within it, at the very verge of the dark cypress line that marks the original boundary; and it looks like a sheeted ghost hovering about between night and morning. one very noble monument has been added since i last visited the garden: it is dedicated to the memory of a noble russian lady, whose long unspellable name i forget. it is of white or greyish marble, and of magnificent proportions,--lofty and elegant, yet massive and entirely simple. altogether, it appeared to me to be as perfect in taste as any specimen of monumental architecture that i have ever seen, though it had not the last best grace of sculpture to adorn it. there is no effigy--no statue--scarcely an ornament of any kind, but it seems constructed with a view to unite equally the appearance of imposing majesty and enduring strength. this splendid mausoleum stands towards the top of the garden, and forms a predominating and very beautiful object from various parts of it. among the hundreds of names which one reads in passing,--i hardly know why, for they certainly convey but small interest to the mind,--we met with that of the _baron munchausen_. it was a small and unpretending-looking stone, but bore a host of blazing titles, by which it appears that this baron, whom i, and all my generation, i believe, have ever looked upon as an imaginary personage, was in fact something or other very important to somebody or other who was very powerful. why his noble name has been made such use of among us, i cannot imagine. in the course of our wanderings we came upon this singular inscription:-- "ci-gît caroline,"--(i think the name is caroline,)--"fille de mademoiselle mars." is it not wonderful what a difference twenty-one miles of salt-water can make in the ways and manners of people? there are not many statues in the cemetery, and none of sufficient merit to add much to its embellishment; but there is one recently placed there, and standing loftily predominant above every surrounding object, which is strongly indicative of the period of its erection, and of the temper of the people to whom it seems to address itself. this is a colossal figure of manuel. the countenance is vulgar, and the expression of the features violent and exaggerated: it might stand as the portrait of a bold factious rebel for ever. letter xxiii. remarkable people.--distinguished people.--metaphysical lady. last night we passed our _soirée_ at the house of a lady who had been introduced to me with this recommendation:--"you will be certain of meeting at madame de v----'s many remarkable people." this is, i think, exactly the sort of introduction which would in any city give the most piquant interest to a new acquaintance; but it does so particularly at paris; for this attractive capital draws its collection of remarkable people from a greater variety of nations, classes, and creeds, than any other. nevertheless, this term "remarkable people" must not be taken too confidently to mean individuals so distinguished that all men would desire to gaze upon them; the phrase varying in its value and its meaning according to the feelings, faculties, and station of the speaker. everybody has got his or her own "remarkable people" to introduce to you; and i have begun to find out, among the houses that are open to me, what species of "remarkable people" i am likely to meet at each. when madame a---- whispers to me as i enter her drawing-room--"ah! vous voilà! c'est bon; j'aurais été bien fâchée si vous m'aviez manquée; il y a ici, ce soir, une personne bien remarquable, qu'il faut absolument vous présenter,"--i am quite sure that i shall see some one who has been a marshal, or a duke, or a general, or a physician, or an actor, or an artist, to napoleon. but if it were madame b---- who said the same thing, i should be equally certain that it must be a comfortable-looking doctrinaire, who was, had been, or was about to be in place, and who had made his voice heard on the winning side. madame c----, on the contrary, would not deign to bestow such an epithet on any one whose views and occupations were so earthward. it could only be some philosopher, pale with the labour of reconciling paradoxes or discovering a new element. my charming, quiet, graceful, gentle madame d---- could use it only when speaking of an ex-chancellor, or chamberlain, or friend, or faithful servant of the exiled dynasty. as for the tall dark-browed madame e----, with her thin lips and sinister smile, though she professes to hold a _salon_ where talent of every party is welcome, she never cares much, i am very sure, for any remarkableness that is not connected with the great and immortal mischief of some revolution. she is not quite old enough to have had anything to do with the first; but i have no doubt that she was very busy during the last, and i am positive that she will never know peace by night or day till another can be got up. if her hopes fail on this point, she will die of atrophy; for nothing affords her nourishment but what is mixed up with rebellion against constituted authority. i know that she dislikes me; and i suspect i owe the honour of being admitted to appear in her presence solely to her determination that i should hear everything that she thinks it would be disagreeable for me to listen to. i believe she fancies that i do not like to meet americans; but she is as much mistaken in this as in most other of her speculations. i really never saw or heard of any fanaticism equal to that, with which this lady worships destruction. that whatever is, is wrong, is the rule by which her judgment is guided in all things. it is enough for her that a law on any point is established, to render the thing legalised detestable; and were the republic about which she raves, and of which she knows as much as her lap-dog, to be established throughout france to-morrow, i am quite persuaded that we should have her embroidering a regal robe for the most legitimate king she could find, before next monday. madame f----'s _remarkables_ are almost all of them foreigners of the philosophic revolutionary class; any gentry that are not particularly well off at home, and who would rather prefer being remarkable and remarked a few hundred miles from their own country than in it. madame g----'s are chiefly musical personages. "croyez-moi, madame," she says, "il n'y a que lui pour toucher le piano.... vous n'avez pas encore entendu mademoiselle z----.... quelle voix superbe!... elle fera, j'en suis sûre, une fortune immense à londres." madame h----'s acquaintance are not so "remarkable" for anything peculiar in each or any of them, as for being in all things exactly opposed to each other. she likes to have her parties described as "les soirées antithestiques de madame h----," and has a peculiar sort of pleasure in seeing people sitting side by side on her hearth-rug, who would be very likely to salute each other with a pistol-shot were they to meet elsewhere. it is rather a singular device for arranging a sociable party; but her _soirées_ are very delightful _soirées_, for all that. madame j----'s friends are not "remarkable;" they are "distinguished." it is quite extraordinary what a number of distinguished individuals i have met at her house. but i must not go through the whole alphabet, lest i should tire you. so let me return to the point from whence i set out, and take you with me to madame de v----'s _soirée_. a large party is almost always a sort of lottery, and your good or bad fortune depends on the accidental vicinity of pleasant or unpleasant neighbours. i cannot consider myself to have gained a prize last night; and fortune, if she means to make things even, must place me to-night next the most agreeable person in paris. i really think that should the same evil chance that beset me yesterday pursue me for a week, i should leave the country to escape from it. i will describe to you the manner of my torment as well as i can, but must fail, i think, to give you an adequate idea of it. a lady i had never seen before walked across the room to me last night soon after i entered it, and making prisoner of madame de v---- in the way, was presented to me in due form. i was placed on a sofa by an old gentleman with whom we have formed a great friendship, and for whose conversation i have a particular liking: he had just seated himself beside me, when my new acquaintance dislodged him by saying, as she attempted to squeeze herself in between us, "pardon, monsieur; ne vous dérangez pas! ... mais si madame voulait bien me permettre" ... and before she could finish her speech, my old acquaintance was far away and my new one close beside me. she began the conversation by some very obliging assurances of her wish to make my acquaintance. "i want to discuss with you," said she. i bowed, but trembled inwardly, for i do not like discussions, especially with "remarkable" ladies. "yes," she continued, "i want to discuss with you many topics of vital interest to us all--topics on which i believe we now think differently, but on which i feel quite sure that we should agree, would you but listen to me." i smiled and bowed, and muttered something civil, and looked as much pleased as i possibly could,--and recollected, too, how large paris was, and how easy it would be to turn my back upon conviction, if i found that i could not face it agreeably. but, to say truth, there was something in the eye and manner of my new friend that rather alarmed me. she is rather pretty, nevertheless; but her bright eyes are never still for an instant, and she is one of those who aid the power of speech by that of touch, to which she has incessant recourse. had she been a man, she would have seized all her friends by the button: but as it is, she can only lay her fingers with emphasis upon your arm, or grasp a handful of your sleeve, when she sees reason to fear that your attention wanders. "you are a legitimatist! ... quel dommage! ah! you smile. but did you know the incalculable injury done to the intellect by putting chains upon it!... my studies, observe, are confined almost wholly to one subject,--the philosophy of the human mind. metaphysics have been the great object of my life from a very early age." (i should think she was now about seven or eight-and-twenty.) "yet sometimes i have the weakness to turn aside from this noble pursuit to look upon the troubled current of human affairs that is rolling past me. i do not pretend to enter deeply into politics--i have no time for it; but i see enough to make me shrink from despotism and legitimacy. believe me, it cramps the mind; and be assured that a constant succession of political changes keeps the faculties of a nation on the _qui vive_, and, abstractedly considered as a mental operation, must be incalculably more beneficial than the half-dormant state which takes place after any long continuance in one position, let it be what it may." she uttered all this with such wonderful rapidity, that it would have been quite impossible for me to have made any observation upon it as she went along, if i had been ever so much inclined to do so. but i soon found that this was not expected of me. "'twas hers to speak, and mine to hear;" and i made up my mind to listen as patiently as i could till i should find a convenient opportunity for changing my place. at different times, and in different climes, i have heretofore listened to a good deal of nonsense, certainly; but i assure you i never did nor ever can expect again to hear such a profusion of wild absurdity as this lady uttered. yet i am told that she has in many circles the reputation of being a woman of genius. it would be but a vain attempt did i endeavour to go on remembering and translating all she said; but some of her speeches really deserve recording. after she had run her tilt against authority, she broke off, exclaiming-- "mais, après tout,--what does it signify?... when you have once devoted yourself to the study of the soul, all these little distinctions do appear so trifling!... i have given myself wholly to the study of the soul; and my life passes in a series of experiments, which, if i do not wear myself out here," putting her hand to her forehead, "will, i think, eventually lead me to something important." as she paused for a moment, i thought i ought to say something, and therefore asked her of what nature were the experiments of which she spoke. to which she replied-- "principally in comparative anatomy. none but an experimentalist could ever imagine what extraordinary results arise from this best and surest mode of investigation. a mouse, for instance.... ah, madame! would you believe it possible that the formation of a mouse could throw light upon the theory of the noblest feeling that warms the heart of man--even upon valour? it is true, i assure you: such are the triumphs of science. by watching the pulsations of that _chétif_ animal," she continued, eagerly laying hold of my wrist, "we have obtained an immense insight into the most interesting phenomena of the passion of fear." at this moment my old gentleman came back to me, but evidently without any expectation of being able to resume his seat. it was only, i believe, to see how i got on with my metaphysical neighbour. there was an infinite deal of humour in the glance he gave me as he said, "eh bien, madame trollope, est-ce que madame ---- vous a donné l'ambition de la suivre dans ses sublimes études?" "i fear it would prove beyond my strength," i replied. upon which madame ---- started off anew in praise of _her_ science--"the only science worthy the name; the science...." here my old friend stole off again, covered by an approaching tray of ices; and i soon after did the same; for i had been busily engaged all day, and i was weary,--so weary that i dreaded dropping to sleep at the very instant that madame ---- was exerting herself to awaken me to a higher state of intelligence. i have not, however, told you one tenth part of the marvellous absurdities she poured forth; yet i suspect i have told you enough. i have never before met anything so pre-eminently ridiculous as this: but upon my saying so to my old friend as i passed him near the door, he assured me that he knew another lady, whose mania was education, and whose doctrines and manner of explaining them were decidedly more absurd than madame ----'s philosophy of the soul. "be not alarmed, however; i shall not bestow her upon you, for i intend most carefully to keep out of her way. do you know of any english ladies thus devoted to the study of the soul?"... i am sincerely happy to say that i do not. letter xxiv. expedition to the luxembourg.--no admittance for females.--portraits of "henri."--republican costume.--quai voltaire.--mural inscriptions.--anecdote of marshal lobau.--arrest. ever since the trials at the luxembourg commenced, we have intended to make an excursion thither, in order to look at the encampment in the garden, at the military array around the palace, and, in short, to see all that is visible for female eyes in the general aspect of the place, so interesting at the present moment from the important business going on there. i have done all that could be done to obtain admission to the chamber during their sittings, and have not been without friends who very kindly interested themselves to render my efforts successful--but in vain; no ladies have been permitted to enter. whether the feminine regrets have been lessened or increased by the daily accounts that are published of the outrageous conduct of the prisoners, i will not venture to say. _c'est égal_; get in we cannot, whether we wish it or not. it is said, indeed, that in one of the tribunes set apart for the public, a small white hand has been seen to caress some jet-black curls upon the head of a boy; and it was said, too, that the boy called himself george s----d: but i have heard of no other instance of any one not furnished with that important symbol of prerogative, _une barbe au menton_, who has ventured within the proscribed limits. our humble-minded project of looking at the walls which enclose the blustering rebels and their patient judges has been at length happily accomplished, and not without affording us considerable amusement. in addition to our usual party, we had the pleasure of being accompanied by two agreeable frenchmen, who promised to explain whatever signs and symbols might meet our eyes but mock our comprehension. as the morning was delightful, we agreed to walk to the place of our destination, and repose ourselves as much as the tossings of a _fiacre_ would permit on the way home. that our route lay through the tuileries gardens was one reason for this arrangement; and, as usual, we indulged ourselves for a delightful half-hour by sitting under the trees. whenever six or eight persons wish to converse together--not in _tête-à-tête_, but in a general confabulation, i would recommend exactly the place we occupied for the purpose, with the chairs of the party drawn together, not spread into a circle, but collected in a group, so that every one can hear, and every one can be heard. our conversation was upon the subject of various prints which we had seen exposed upon the boulevards as we passed; and though our two frenchmen were excellent friends, it was very evident that they did not hold the same opinions in politics;--so we had some very pleasant sparring. we have been constantly in the habit of remarking a variety of portraits of a pretty, elegant-looking youth, sometimes totally without letters--and yet they were not proofs, excepting of an antique loyalty,--sometimes with the single word "henri!"--sometimes with a sprig of the pretty weed we call "forget-me-not,"--and sometimes with the name of "le duc de bordeaux." as we passed one of the cases this morning which stand out before a large shop on the boulevards, i remarked a new one: it was a pretty lithographic print, and being very like an original miniature which had been kindly shown me during a visit i paid in the faubourg st. germain, i stopped to buy it, and writing my name on the envelope, ordered it to be sent home. m. p----, the gentleman who was walking beside me when i stopped, confirmed my opinion that it was a likeness, by his personal knowledge of the original; and it was not difficult to perceive, though he spoke but little on the subject, that an affectionate feeling for "the cause" and its young hero was at his heart. m. de l----, the other gentleman who had joined our party, was walking behind us, and came up as i was making my purchase. he smiled. "i see what you are about," said he: "if you and p---- continue to walk together, i am sure you will plot some terrible treason before you get to the luxembourg." when we were seated in the tuileries gardens, m. de l---- renewed his attack upon me for what he called my seditious conduct in having encouraged the vender of a prohibited article, and declared that he thought he should but do his duty if he left m. p---- and myself in safe custody among the other rebellious characters at the luxembourg. "my sedition," replied m. p----, "is but speculative. the best among us now can only sigh that things are not quite as they should be, and be thankful that they are not quite as bad as they might be." "i rejoice to find that you allow so much, mon cher," replied his friend. "yes, i think it might be worse; par exemple, if such gentry as those yonder were to have their way with us." he looked towards three youths who were stalking up the walk before us with the air of being deeply intent on some business of dire import. they looked like walking caricatures--and in truth they were nothing else. they were republicans. similar figures are constantly seen strutting upon the boulevards, or sauntering, like those before us, in the tuileries, or hovering in sinister groups about the bois de boulogne, each one believing himself to bear the brow of a brutus and the heart of a cato. but see them where or when you will, they take good care to be unmistakable; there is not a child of ten years old in paris who cannot tell a republican when he sees him. in several print-shops i have seen a key to their mystical toilet which may enable the ignorant to read them right. a hat, whose crown if raised for a few inches more would be conical, is highest in importance, as in place; and the shade of cromwell may perhaps glory in seeing how many desperate wrongheads still mimic his beaver. then come the long and matted locks, that hang in heavy ominous dirtiness beneath it. the throat is bare, at least from linen; but a plentiful and very disgusting profusion of hair supplies its place. the waistcoat, like the hat, bears an immortal name--"gilet À la robespierre" being its awful designation; and the extent of its wide-spreading lapels is held to be a criterion of the expansive principles of the wearer. _au reste_, a general air of grim and savage blackguardism is all that is necessary to make up the outward man of a republican of paris in . but, oh! the grimaces by which i have seen human face distorted by persons wearing this masquerading attire! some roll their eyes and knit their brows as if they would bully the whole universe; others fix their dark glances on the ground in fearful meditation; while other some there be who, while gloomily leaning against a statue or a tree, throw such terrific meaning into their looks as might naturally be interpreted into the language of the witches in macbeth-- "we must, we will--we must, we will have much more blood,--and become worse, and become worse" ... &c. &c. the three young men who had just passed us were exactly of this stamp. our legitimate friend looked after them and laughed heartily. "c'est à nous autres, mon cher," said de l----, "to enjoy that sight. you and yours would have but small reason to laugh at such as these, if it were not the business of us and ours to take care that they should do you no harm. you may thank the eighty thousand national guards of paris for the pleasure of quizzing with such a complacent feeling of security these very ferocious-looking persons." "for that i thank them heartily," replied m. p----; "only i think the business would have been quite as well done if those who performed it had the right to do so." "bah! have you not tried, and found you could make nothing of it?" "i think not, my friend," replied the legitimatist: "we were doing very well, and exerting ourselves to keep the unruly spirits in order, when you stepped in, and promised all the naughty boys in paris a holiday if they would but make you master. they did make you master--they have had their holiday, and now...." "and now ..." said i, "what will come next?" both the gentlemen answered me at once. "riots," said the legitimatist. "good order," said the doctrinaire. we proceeded in our walk, and having crossed the pont royal, kept along the quai voltaire, to avoid the rue du bac; as we all agreed that, notwithstanding madame de staël spoke so lovingly of it at a distance, it was far from agreeable when near. were it not for a sort of english horror of standing before shop-windows, the walking along that quai voltaire might occupy an entire morning. from the first wide-spread display of "remarkable people" for five sous apiece--and there are heads among them which even in their rude lithography would repay some study--from this five-sous gallery of fame to the entrance of the rue de seine, it is an almost uninterrupted show;--books, old and new--rich, rare, and worthless; engravings that may be classed likewise,--_articles d'occasion_ of all sorts,--but, far above all the rest, the most glorious museums of old carving and gilding, of monstrous chairs, stupendous candlesticks, grotesque timepieces, and ornaments without a name, that can be found in the world. it is here that the wealthy fancier of the massive splendour of louis quinze comes with a full purse, and it is hence that beyond all hope he departs with a light one. the present royal family of france, it is said, profess a taste for this princely but ponderous style of decoration; and royal carriages are often seen to stop at the door of _magasins_ so heterogeneous in their contents as to admit all titles excepting only that of "_magasin de nouveautés_," but having at the first glance very greatly the air of a pawnbroker's shop. during this lounge along the quai voltaire, i saw for the first time some marvellously uncomely portraits, with the names of each inscribed below, and a running title for all, classing them _en masse_ as "_les prévenus d'avril_." if these be faithful portraits, the originals are to be greatly pitied; for they seem by nature predestined to the evil work they have been about. every one of them looks "worthy to be a rebel, for to that the multiplying villanies of nature do swarm upon him." it should seem that the materials for rebellion were in shakspeare's days much of the same kind as they are in ours. if these be portraits, the originals need have no fear of the caricaturist before their eyes--their "villanies of nature" could hardly be exaggerated; and i should think that h. b. himself would try his pencil upon them in vain. on the subject which the examination of these _prévenus d'avril_ naturally led to, our two french friends seemed to be almost entirely of the same opinion; the legitimatist confessing that "any king was better than none," and the doctrinaire declaring that he would rather the country should have gone without the last revolution, glorious and immortal as it was, than that it should be exposed to another, especially such a one as mm. les prévenus were about to prepare for them. being arrived at _le quartier latin_, we amused ourselves by speculating upon the propensity manifested by very young men, who were still subjected to restraint, for the overthrow and destruction of everything that denotes authority or threatens discipline. thus the walls in this neighbourhood abounded with inscriptions to that effect; "_a bas philippe!_"--"_les pairs sont des assassins!_"--"_vive la république!_" and the like. pears of every size and form, with scratches signifying eyes, nose, and mouth, were to be seen in all directions: which being interpreted, denotes the contempt of the juvenile students for the reigning monarch. a more troublesome evidence of this distaste for authority was displayed a few days ago by four or five hundred of these disorderly young men, who assembling themselves together, followed with hootings and shoutings m. royer collard, a professor lately appointed by the government to the medical school, from the college to his home in the rue de provence. upon all such occasions, this government, or any other, would do well to follow the hint given them by an admirable manoeuvre of general lobau's, the commander-in-chief of the national guard. i believe the anecdote is very generally known; but, in the hope that you may not have heard it, i will indulge myself by telling you the story, which amused me infinitely; and it is better that i should run the risk of your hearing it twice, than of your not hearing it at all. a party of _les jeunes gens de paris_, who were exerting themselves to get up a little republican _émeute_, had assembled in considerable numbers in the place vendôme. the drums beat--the commandant was summoned and appeared. the young malcontents closed their ranks, handled their pocket-knives and walking-sticks, and prepared to stand firm. the general was seen to dismiss an aide-de-camp, and a few anxious moments followed, when something looking fearfully like a military engine appeared advancing from the rue de la paix. was it cannon?... a crowd of high-capped engineers surrounded it, as with military order and address it wheeled about and approached the spot where the rioters had formed their thickest phalanx. the word of command was given, and in an instant the whole host were drenched to their skins with water. many who saw this memorable rout, in which the laughing _pompiers_ followed with their leather pipes the scampering heroes, declare that no military manoeuvre ever produced so rapid an evacuation of troops. there is something in the tone and temper of this proceeding of the national guard which appears to me strikingly indicative of the easy, quiet, contemptuous spirit in which these powerful guardians of the existing government contemplate its republican enemies. having reached the luxembourg and obtained admission to the gardens, we again rested ourselves, that we might look about at our ease upon a scene that was not only quite novel, but certainly very singular to those who were accustomed to the ordinary aspect of the place. in the midst of lilacs and roses an encampment of small white tents showed their warlike fronts. arms, drums, and all sorts of military accoutrements were visible among them; while loitering troops, some smoking, some reading, some sleeping, completed the unwonted appearance of the scene. it would have been impossible, i believe, in all france to have fixed ourselves on a spot where our two french friends would have found so many incitements to unity of opinion and feeling as this. our conversation, therefore, was not only very amicable, but ran some risk of being dull from the mere want of contradiction; for to a hearty conscientious condemnation of the proceedings which led to this trial of the _prévenus d'avril_ there was an unanimous sentence passed _nem. con._ throughout the whole party. m. de l---- gave us some anecdotes of one or two of the persons best known among the prisoners; but upon being questioned respecting the others, he burst out indignantly in the words of corneille-- ----"le reste ne vaut pas l'honneur d'être nommé: un tas d'hommes perdus de dettes et de crimes, que pressent de nos loix les ordres légitimes, et qui désespérant de les plus éviter, si tout n'est renversé, ne sauraient subsister." "ben trovato!" exclaimed p----; "you could not have described them better--but...." this "but" would very probably have led to observations that might have put our _belle harmonie_ out of tune, or at least have produced the renewal of our peaceable sparring, had not a little bustle among the trees at a short distance behind us cut short our session. it seems that ever since the trials began, the chief duty of the gendarmes--(i beg pardon, i should say, of _la garde de paris_)--has been to prevent any assembling together of the people in knots for conversation and gossipings in the courts and gardens of the luxembourg. no sooner are two or three persons observed standing together, than a policeman approaches, and with a tone of command pronounces, "circulez, messieurs!--circulez, s'il vous plaît." the reason for this precaution is, that nightly at the porte st. martin a few score of _jeunes gens_ assemble to make a very idle and unmeaning noise, the echo of which regularly runs from street to street till the reiterated report amounts to the announcement of an _émeute_. we are all now so used to these harmless little _émeutes_ at the porte st. martin, that we mind them no more than general lobau himself: nevertheless, it is deemed proper, trumpery as the cause may be, to prevent anything like a gathering together of the mob in the vicinity of the luxembourg, lest the same hundred-tongued lady who constantly magnifies the hootings of a few idle mechanics into an _émeute_ should spread a report throughout france that the luxembourg was besieged by the people. the noise which had disturbed us was occasioned by the gathering together of about a dozen persons; but a policeman was in the midst of the group, and we heard rumours of an _arrestation_. in less than five minutes, however, everything was quiet again: but we marked two figures so picturesque in their republicanism, that we resumed our seats while a sketch was made from them, and amused ourselves the while in fancying what the ominous words could be that were so cautiously exchanged between them. m. de l---- said that there could be no doubt that they ran thus: "ce soir, à la porte st. martin!" _answer._--"j'y serai." [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. "ce soir À la porte st. martin!" "j'y serai." london, published by richard bentley, .] letter xxv. chapelle expiatoire.--devotees seen there.--tri-coloured flag out of place there.--flower market of the madeleine.--petites maîtresses. of all the edifices finished in paris since my last visit, there is not one which altogether pleases me better than the little "chapelle expiatoire" erected in memory of louis the sixteenth, and his beautiful but ill-starred queen. this monument was planned and in part executed by louis the eighteenth, and finished by charles the tenth. it stands upon the spot where many butchered victims of the tyrant mob were thrown in . the story of the royal bodies having been destroyed by quicklime is said to have been fabricated and circulated for the purpose of preventing any search after them, which might, it was thought, have produced a dangerous reaction of feeling among the whim-governed populace. these bodies, and several others, which were placed in coffins, and inscribed with the names of the murdered occupants, lay buried together for many years after the revolution in a large _chantier_, or wood-yard, at no great distance from the place of execution. that this spot had been excavated for the purpose of receiving these sad relics, is a fact well known, and it was never lost sight of from the terrible period at which the ground was so employed; but the unseemly vault continued undisturbed till after the restoration, when the bodies of the royal victims were sought and found. their bones were then conveyed to the long-hallowed shrine of st. denis; but the spot where the mangled remains were first thrown was consecrated, and is now become the site of this beautiful little chapelle expiatoire. the enclosure in which this building stands is of considerable extent, reaching from the rue de l'arcade to the rue d'anjou. this space is lined with closely-planted rows of cypress-trees on every side, which are protected by a massive railing, neatly painted. the building itself and all its accompaniments are in excellent taste; simple, graceful, and solemn. the interior is a small greek cross, each extremity of which is finished by a semicircle surmounted by a semi-dome. the space beneath the central dome is occupied by chairs and benches covered with crimson velvet, for the use of the faithful--in every sense--who come to attend the mass which is daily performed there. as long as the daughter of the murdered monarch continued to reside in paris, no morning ever passed without her coming to offer up her prayers at this expiatory shrine. one of the four curved extremities is occupied by the altar; that opposite to it, by the entrance; and those on either side, by two well-composed and impressive groups in white marble--that to the right of the altar representing marie antoinette bending beside a cross supported by an angel,--and that to the left, the felon-murdered monarch whose wretched and most unmerited destiny she shared. on the pedestal of the king's statue is inscribed his will; on that of the queen, her farewell letter to the princess elizabeth. nothing can exceed the chaste delicacy of the few ornaments admitted into the chapel. they consist only, i think, of golden candlesticks, placed in niches in the white marble walls. the effect of the whole is beautiful and impressive. i often go there; yet i can hardly understand what the charm can be in the little building itself, or in the quiet mass performed there without music, which can so attract me. it is at no great distance from our apartments in the rue de provence, and a walk thither just occupies the time before breakfast. i once went there on a sunday morning with some of my family; but then it was full--indeed so crowded, that it was impossible to see across the building, or feel the beauty of its elegant simplicity. the pale figures of the royal dead, the foully murdered, were no longer the principal objects; and though i have no doubt that all present were right loyal spirits, with whose feelings i am well enough disposed to sympathise, yet i could not read each saddened brow, and attach a romance to it, as i never fail to do during my week-day visits. there are two ladies, for example, whom i constantly see there, ever in the same place, and ever in the same attitude. the elder of these i feel perfectly sure must have passed her youth near marie antoinette, for it is at the foot of her statue that she kneels--or i might almost say that she prostrates herself, for she throws her arms forward on a cushion that is placed before her, and suffers her aged head to fall upon them, in a manner that speaks more sorrow than i can describe. the young girl who always accompanies and kneels beside her may, i think, be her granddaughter. they have each of them "_gentlewoman born_" written on every feature, in characters not to be mistaken. the old lady is very pale, and the young one looks as if she were not passing a youth of gaiety and enjoyment. there is a grey-headed old man, too, who is equally constant in his attendance at this melancholy chapel. he might sit as a model for a portrait of _le bon vieux temps_; but he has a stern though sad expression of countenance, which seems to be exactly a masculine modification of what is passing at the heart and in the memory of the old lady at the opposite side of the chapel. these are figures which send the thoughts back for fifty years; and seen in the act of assisting at a mass for the souls of louis seize and his queen, produce a powerful effect on the imagination. i have ventured to describe this melancholy spot, and what i have seen there, the more particularly because, easy as it is of access, you might go to paris a dozen times without seeing it, as in fact hundreds of english travellers do. one reason for this is, that it is not opened to the public gaze as a show, but can only be entered during the hour of prayer, which is inconveniently early in the day. as this sad and sacred edifice cannot justly be considered as a public building, the elevation of the tri-coloured flag upon it every fête-day might, i think, have been spared. another, and a very different novelty, is the new flower-market, that is now kept under the walls and columns of the majestic church of la madeleine. this beautiful collection of flowers appears to me to produce from its situation a very singular effect: the relative attributes of art and nature are reversed;--for here, art seems sublime, vast, and enduring; while nature is small, fragile, and perishing. it has sometimes happened to me, after looking at a work of art which raised my admiration to enthusiasm, that i have next sought some marvellous combination of mountain and valley, rock and river, forest and cataract, and felt as i gazed on them something like shame at remembering how nearly i had suffered the work of man to produce an equal ecstasy. but here, when i raised my eyes from the little flimsy crowd of many-coloured blossoms to the simple, solemn pomp of that long arcade, with its spotless purity of tint and its enduring majesty of graceful strength, i felt half inclined to scorn myself and those around me for being so very much occupied by the roses, pinks, and mignonette spread out before it. laying aside, however, all philosophical reflections on its locality, this new flower-market is a delightful acquisition to the parisian _petite maîtresse_. it was a long expedition to visit the _marché aux fleurs_ on the distant quay near notre dame; and though its beauty and its fragrance might well repay an hour or two stolen from the pillow, the sweet decorations it offered to the boudoir must have been oftener selected by the _maître d'hôtel_ or the _femme de chambre_ than by the fair lady herself. but now, three times in the week we may have the pleasure of seeing numbers of graceful females in that piquant species of dishabille, which, uniting an equal portion of careful coquetry and saucy indifference, gives to the morning attire of a pretty, elegant, frenchwoman, an air so indescribably attractive. followed by a neat _soubrette_, such figures may now be often seen in the flower-market of the madeleine before the brightness of the morning has faded either from their eyes, or the blossoms they so love to gaze upon. the most ordinary linen gown, made in the form of a wrapper--the hair _en papillote_--the plain straw-bonnet drawn forward over the eyes, and the vast shawl enveloping the whole figure, might suffice to make many an _élégante_ pace up and down the fragrant alley incognita, did not the observant eye remark that a veil of rich lace secured the simple bonnet under the chin--that the shawl was of cashmere--and that the little hand, when ungloved to enjoy the touch of a myrtle or an orange blossom, was as white as either. letter xxvi. delicacy in france and in england.--causes of the difference between them. there is nothing perhaps which marks the national variety of manners between the french and the english more distinctly than the different estimate they form of what is delicate or indelicate, modest or immodest, decent or indecent: nor does it appear to me that all the intimacy of intercourse which for the last twenty years has subsisted between the two nations has greatly lessened this difference. nevertheless, i believe that it is more superficial than many suppose it to be; and that it arises rather from contingent circumstances, than from any original and native difference in the capability of refinement in the two nations. among the most obvious of these varieties of manner, is the astounding freedom with which many things are alluded to here in good society, the slightest reference to which is in our country banished from even the most homely class. it seems that the opinion of martine is by no means peculiar to herself, and that it is pretty generally thought that "quand on se fait entendre, on parle toujours bien." in other ways, too, it is impossible not to allow that there exists in france a very perceptible want of refinement as compared to england. no englishman, i believe, has ever returned from a visit to paris without adding his testimony to this fact; and notwithstanding the gallomania so prevalent amongst us, all acknowledge that, however striking may be the elegance and grace of the higher classes, there is still a national want of that uniform delicacy so highly valued by all ranks, above the very lowest, with us. sights are seen and inconveniences endured with philosophy, which would go nigh to rob us of our wits in july, and lead us to hang ourselves in november. to a fact so well known, and so little agreeable in the detail of its examination, it would be worse than useless to draw your attention, were it not that there is something curious in tracing the manner in which different circumstances, seemingly unconnected, do in reality hang together and form a whole. the time certainly has been, when it was the fashion in england, as it is now in france, to call things, as some one coarsely expresses it, _by their right names_; very grave proof of which might be found even in sermons--and from thence downwards through treatises, essays, poems, romances, and plays. were we indeed to form our ideas of the tone of conversation in england a century ago from the familiar colloquy found in the comedies then written and acted, we must acknowledge that we were at that time at a greater distance from the refinement we now boast, than our french neighbours are at present. i do not here refer to licentiousness of morals, or the coarse avowal of it; but to a species of indelicacy which might perhaps have been quite compatible with virtue, as the absence of it is unhappily no security against vice. the remedy of this has proceeded, if i mistake not, from causes much more connected with the luxurious wealth of england, than with the severity of her virtue. you will say, perhaps, that i have started off to an immense distance from the point whence i set out; but i think not--for both in france and england i find abundant reason to believe that i am right in tracing this remarkable difference between the two countries, less to natural disposition or character, than to the accidental facilities for improvement possessed by the one people, and not by the other. it would be very easy to ascertain, by reference to the various literary records i have named, that the improvement in english delicacy has been gradual, and in very just proportion to the increase of her wealth, and the fastidious keeping out of sight of everything that can in any way annoy the senses. when we cease to hear, see, and smell things which are disagreeable, it is natural that we should cease to speak of them; and it is, i believe, quite certain that the english take more pains than any other people in the world that the senses--those conductors of sensation from the body to the soul--shall convey to the spirit as little disagreeable intelligence of what befalls the case in which it dwells, as possible. the whole continent of europe, with the exception of some portion of holland perhaps, (which shows a brotherly affinity to us in many things,) might be cited for its inferiority to england in this respect. i remember being much amused last year, when landing at calais, at the answer made by an old traveller to a novice who was making his first voyage. "what a dreadful smell!" said the uninitiated stranger, enveloping his nose in his pocket-handkerchief. "it is the smell of the continent, sir," replied the man of experience. and so it was. there are parts of this subject which it is quite impossible to dwell upon, and which unhappily require no pen to point them out to notice. these, if it were possible, i would willingly leave more in the dark than i find them. but there are other circumstances, all arising from the comparative poverty of the people, which tend to produce, with a most obvious dependency of thing on thing, that deficiency of refinement of which i am speaking. let any one examine the interior construction of a paris dwelling of the middle class, and compare it to a house prepared for occupants of the same rank in london. it so happens that everything appertaining to decoration is to be had _à bon marché_ at paris, and we therefore find every article of the ornamental kind almost in profusion. mirrors, silk hangings, or-molu in all forms; china vases, alabaster lamps, and timepieces, in which the onward step that never returns is marked with a grace and prettiness that conceals the solemnity of its pace,--all these are in abundance; and the tenth part of what would be considered necessary to dress up a common lodging in paris, would set the london fine lady in this respect upon an enviable elevation above her neighbours. but having admired their number and elegant arrangement, pass on and enter the ordinary bed-rooms--nay, enter the kitchens too, or you will not be able to judge how great the difference is between the two residences. in london, up to the second floor, and often to the third, water is forced, which furnishes an almost unlimited supply of that luxurious article, to be obtained with no greater trouble to the servants than would be required to draw it from a tea-urn. in one kitchen of every house, generally in two, and often in three, the same accommodation is found; and when, in opposition to this, it is remembered that very nearly every family in paris receives this precious gift of nature doled out by two buckets at a time, laboriously brought to them by porters, clambering in _sabots_, often up the same stairs which lead to their drawing-rooms, it can hardly be supposed that the use of it is as liberal and unrestrained as with us. against this may be placed fairly enough the cheapness and facility of the access to the public baths. but though personal ablutions may thus be very satisfactorily performed by those who do not rigorously require that every personal comfort should be found at home, yet still the want of water, or any restraint upon the freedom with which it is used, is a vital impediment to that perfection of neatness, in every part of the establishment, which we consider as so necessary to our comfort. much as i admire the church of the madeleine, i conceive that the city of paris would have been infinitely more benefited, had the sums expended upon it been used for the purpose of constructing pipes for the conveyance of water to private dwellings, than by all the splendour received from the beauty of this imposing structure. but great and manifold as are the evils entailed by the scarcity of water in the bed-rooms and kitchens of paris, there is another deficiency greater still, and infinitely worse in its effects. the want of drains and sewers is the great defect of all the cities in france; and a tremendous defect it is. that people who from their first breath of life have been obliged to accustom their senses and submit without a struggle to the sufferings this evil entails upon them,--that people so circumstanced should have less refinement in their thoughts and words than ourselves, i hold to be natural and inevitable. thus, you see, i have come round like a preacher to his text, and have explained, as i think, very satisfactorily, what i mean by saying that the indelicacy which so often offends us in france does not arise from any natural coarseness of mind, but is the unavoidable result of circumstances, which may, and doubtless will change, as the wealth of the country and its familiarity with the manners of england increases. this withdrawing from the perception of the senses everything that can annoy them,--this lulling of the spirit by the absence of whatever might awaken it to a sensation of pain,--is probably the last point to which the ingenuity of man can reach in its efforts to embellish existence. the search after pleasure and amusement certainly betokens less refinement than this sedulous care to avoid annoyance; and it may be, that as we have gone farthest of all modern nations in this tender care of ourselves, so may we be the first to fall from our delicate elevation into that receptacle of things past and gone which has engulfed old greece and rome. is it thus that the reform bill, and all the other horrible bills in its train, are to be interpreted? as to that other species of refinement which belongs altogether to the intellect, and which, if less obvious to a passing glance, is more deep and permanent in its dye than anything which relates to manners only, it is less easy either to think or to speak with confidence. france and england both have so long a list of mighty names that may be quoted on either side to prove their claim to rank high as literary contributors to refinement, that the struggle as to which ranks highest can only be fairly settled by both parties agreeing that each country has a fair right to prefer what they have produced themselves. but, alas! at the present moment, neither can have great cause to boast. what is good, is overpowered and stifled by what is bad. the uncontrolled press of both countries has thrown so much abominable trash upon literature during the last few years, that at present it might be difficult to say whether general reading would be most dangerous to the young and the pure in england or in france. that the hugo school has brought more nonsense with its mischief, is, i think, clear: but it is not impossible that this may act as an antidote to its own poison. it is a sort of humbug assumption of talent which will pass out of fashion as quickly as morrison's pills. we have nothing quite so silly as this; but much i fear that, as it concerns our welfare as a nation, we have what is more deeply dangerous. as to what is moral and what is not so, plain as at first sight the question seems to be, there is much that is puzzling in it. in looking over a volume of "adèle et théodore" the other day,--a work written expressly "_sur l'éducation_," and by an author that we must presume meant honestly and spoke sincerely,--i found this passage:-- "je ne connais que trois romans véritablement moraux;--clarisse, le plus beau de tous; grandison, et pamela. ma fille les lira en anglais lorsqu'elle aura dix-huit ans." the venerable grandison, though by no means _sans tache_, i will let pass: but that any mother should talk of letting her daughter of "dix-huit ans" read the others, is a mystery difficult to comprehend, especially in a country where the young girls are reared, fostered, and sheltered from every species of harm, with the most incessant and sedulous watchfulness. i presume that madame de genlis conceived that, as the object and moral purpose of these works were good, the revolting coarseness with which some of their most powerful passages are written could not lead to evil. but this is a bold and dangerous judgment to pass when the question relates to the studies of a young girl. i think we may see symptoms of the feeling which would produce such a judgment, in the tone of biting satire with which molière attacks those who wished to banish what might "faire insulte à la pudeur des femmes." spoken as he makes philaminte speak it, we cannot fail to laugh at the notion: yet ridicule on the same subject would hardly be accepted, even from sheridan, as jesting matter with us. "mais le plus beau projet de notre académie, une entreprise noble, et dont je suis ravie, un dessein plein de gloire, et qui sera vanté chez tous les beaux-esprits de la postérité, c'est le retranchement de ces syllabes sales qui dans les plus beaux mots produisent des scandales; ces jouets éternels des sots de tous les temps, ces fades lieux communs de nos méchans plaisans; ces sources d'un amas d'équivoques infâmes dont on vient faire insulte à la pudeur des femmes." such an academy might be a very comical institution, certainly; but the duties it would have to perform would not suffer a professor's place to become a sinecure in france. letter xxvii. objections to quoting the names of private individuals.--impossibility of avoiding politics.--_parceque_ and _quoique_.--soirée antithestique. it would be a pleasure to me to give you the names of many persons with whom i have become acquainted in paris, and i should like to describe exactly the _salons_ in which i met them; but a whole host of proprieties forbid this. where individuals are so well known to fame as to render the echoing of their names a matter of ordinary recurrence, i can of course feel no scruple in repeating the echo--one reverberation more can do no harm: but i will never be the first to name any one, either for praise or for blame, beyond the sanctuary of their own circle. i must therefore restrict myself to the giving you the best general idea i can of the tone and style of what i have seen and heard; and if i avail myself of the conversations i have listened to, it shall be in such a manner as to avoid the slightest approach to personal allusion. this necessary restraint, however, is not submitted to without regret: it must rob much of what i would wish to repeat of the value of authority; and when i consider how greatly at variance my impressions are on many points to some which have been publicly proclaimed by others, i feel that i deserve some praise for suppressing names which would stamp my statements with a value that neither my unsupported assertions, nor those of any other traveller, can be supposed to bear. those who best know what i lose by this will give me credit for it; and i shall be sufficiently rewarded for my forbearance if it afford them a proof that i am not unworthy the flattering kindness i have received. we all declare ourselves sick of politics, and a woman's letters, at least, ought if possible to be free from this wearily pervading subject: but the describing a human being, and omitting to mention the heart and the brain, would not leave the analysis more defective, than painting the parisians at this moment without permitting their politics to appear in the picture. the very air they breathe is impregnated with politics. were all words expressive of party distinctions to be banished from their language--were the curse of babel to fall upon them, and no man be able to discourse with his neighbour,--still political feeling would find itself an organ whereby to express its workings. one man would wear a pointed hat, another a flat one; one woman would be girt with a tri-coloured sash, and another with a white one. some exquisites would be closely buttoned to the chin, while the lapels of others would open wide in all the expansive freedom of republican unrestraint. one set would be seen adorning napoleon's pillar with trophies; another, prostrate before the altar of the elder bourbon's monumental chapel; a third, marshalling themselves under the bloody banner of robespierre to the tune of "dansons la carmagnole;" whilst a fourth, by far the most numerous, would be brushing their national uniforms, attending to their prosperous shops, and giving a nod of good-fellowship every time his majesty the king passes by. some friends of mine entered a shop the other day to order some article of furniture. while they remained there, a royal carriage passed, and one of the party said-- "it is the queen, i believe?" "yes, sir," replied the _ébéniste_, "it is the lady that it pleases us to call the queen. we may certainly call her so if we like it, for we made her ourselves; and if we find it does not answer, we shall make another.--may i send you home this table, sir?..." when politics are thus lightly mixed up with all things, how can the subject be wholly avoided without destroying the power of describing anything as we find it? such being the case, i cannot promise that all allusion to the subject shall be banished from my letters; but it shall be made as little predominant as possible. could i indeed succeed in transferring the light tone in which these weighty matters are generally discussed to the account i wish to give you of them, i need not much fear that i should weary you. whether it be essentially in the nature of the people, or only a transitory feature of the times, i know not; but nothing strikes me so forcibly as the airy, gay indifference with which subjects are discussed on which hang the destinies of the world. the most acute--nay, often the most profound remarks are uttered in a tone of badinage; and the probabilities of future events, vital to the interests of france, and indeed of europe, are calculated with as idle an air, and with infinitely more _sang froid_, than the chances at a game of _rouge et noir_. yet, behind this i suspect that there is a good deal of sturdy determination in all parties, and it will be long ere france can be considered as one whole and united people. were the country divided into two, instead of into three factions, it is probable that the question of which was to prevail would be soon brought to an issue; but as it is, they stand much like the uncles and nieces in the critic, each keeping the other two in check. meanwhile this temporary division of strength is unquestionably very favourable to the present government; in addition to which, they derive much security from the averseness which all feel, excepting the naughty boys and hungry desperadoes, to the disturbance of their present tranquillity. it is evident that those who do not belong to the triumphant majority are disposed for the most part to wait a more favourable opportunity of hostilely and openly declaring themselves; and it is probable that they will wait long. they know well, and are daily reminded of it, that all the power and all the strength that possession can give are vested in the existing dynasty; and though much deeply-rooted feeling exists that is inimical to it, yet so many of all parties are firmly united to prevent farther anarchy and revolution, that the throne of louis-philippe perhaps rests on as solid a foundation as that of any monarch in europe: the fear of renewed tumult acts like the key-stone of an arch, keeping firm, sound, and in good condition, what would certainly fall to pieces without it. in addition to this wholesome fear of pulling their own dwellings about their ears, there is also another fear that aids greatly in producing the same result. many of the riotous youths who so essentially assisted in creating the confusion which ended in uncrowning one king and crowning another, are, as far as i can understand, quite as well disposed to make a row now as they were then: but they know that if they do, they will most incontestably be whipped for it; and therefore, though they pout a little in private, they are, generally speaking, very orderly in public. every one, not personally interested in the possible result of another uproar, must rejoice at this improvement in discipline. the boys of france must now submit to give way before her men; and as long as this lasts, something like peace and prosperity may be hoped for. yet it cannot be denied, i think, that among these prudent men--these doctrinaires who now hold the high places, there are many who, "with high thoughts, such as lycurgus loved," still dream of a commonwealth; or that there are others who have not yet weaned their waking thoughts from meditations on faith, right, and loyalty. but nevertheless, all unite in thinking that they had better "let things be," than risk making them worse. nothing is more common than to hear a conversation end by a cordial and unanimous avowal of this prudent and sagacious sentiment, which began by an examination of general principles, and the frank acknowledgment of opinions which would certainly lead to a very different conclusion. it is amusing enough to remark how these advocates for expediency contrive each of them to find reasons why things had better remain as they are, while all these reasons are strongly tinted by their various opinions. "charles dix," says a legitimate in principle, but a _juste-milieu_ man in practice,--"charles dix has abdicated the throne, which otherwise must unquestionably be his by indefeasible right. his heir-apparent has followed the example. the country was in no state to be governed by a child; and what then was left for us, but to take a king from the same race which so for many ages has possessed the throne of france. _louis-philippe est roi, parcequ'il est bourbon_." "pardonnez-moi," replies another, who, if he could manage it without disturbing the tranquillity about him, would take care to have it understood that nothing more legitimate than an elective monarchy could be ever permitted in france,--"pardonnez-moi, mon ami; _louis-philippe est roi, quoiqu'il est bourbon_." these two parties of the _parceques_ and the _quoiques_, in fact, form the great bulwarks of king philippe's throne; for they both consist of experienced, practical, substantial citizens, who having felt the horrors of anarchy, willingly keep their particular opinions in abeyance rather than hazard a recurrence of it. they, in truth, form between them the genuine _juste-milieu_ on which the present government is balanced. that there is more of the practical wisdom of expediency than of the dignity of unbending principle in this party, can hardly be denied. they are "wiser in their generation than the children of light;" but it is difficult, "seeing what we have seen, seeing what we see," to express any heavy sentence of reprobation upon a line of conduct which ensures, for the time at least, the lives and prosperity of millions. they tell me that my friend the vicomte has sapped my legitimate principles; but i deny the charge, though i cannot deliberately wish that confusion should take the place of order, or that the desolation of a civil war should come to deface the aspect of prosperity that it is so delightful to contemplate. this discrepancy between what is right and what is convenient--this wavering of principle and of action, is the inevitable consequence of repeated political convulsions. when the times become out of joint, the human mind can with difficulty remain firm and steadfast. the inconceivable variety of wild and ever-changing speculations which have long overborne the voice of established belief and received authority in this country, has brought the principles of the people into a state greatly resembling that of a wheel radiated with every colour of the rainbow, but which by rapid movement is left apparently without any colour at all. our last _soirée_ was at the house of a lady who takes much interest in showing me "le paris d'aujourd'hui," as she calls it. "chère dame!" she exclaimed as i entered, "i have collected _une société délicieuse_ for you this evening." she had met me in the ante-room, and, taking my arm within hers, led me into the _salon_. it was already filled with company, the majority of which were gentlemen. having found room for us on a sofa, and seated herself next to me, she said-- "i will present whomsoever you choose to know; but before i bring anybody up, i must explain who they all are." i expressed my gratitude, and she began:--"that tall gentleman is a great republican, and one of the most respectable that we have left of the _clique_. the party is very nearly worn out among the _gens comme il faut_. his father, however, is of the same party, and still more violent, i believe, than himself. heaven knows what they would be at!... but they are both deputies, and if they died to-morrow, would have, either father or son, a very considerable mob to follow them to père lachaise; not to mention the absolute necessity which i am sure there would be to have troops out: c'est toujours quelque chose, n'est-ce pas? i know that you hate them all--and, to say truth, so do i too;--mais, chère amie! qu'est-ce que cela fait? i thought you would like to see them: they really begin to get very scarce in _salons_." i assured her that she was quite right, and that nothing in the whole jardin des plantes could amuse me better. "ah ça!" she rejoined, laughing; "voilà ce que c'est d'être raisonnable. mais regardez ce beau garçon leaning against the chimneypiece. he is one of _les fidèles sans tache_. is he not handsome? i have him at all my parties; and even the ministers' ladies declare that he is perfectly charming." "and that little odd-looking man in black," said i, "who is he?... what a contrast!" "n'est-ce pas? do they not group well together? that is just the sort of thing i like--it amuses everybody: besides, i assure you, he is a very remarkable person,--in short, it is m----, the celebrated atheist. he writes for the ----. but the institute won't have him: however, he is excessively talked of--and that is everything.... then i have two peers, both of them highly distinguished. there is m. de ----, who, you know, is king philippe's right hand; and the gentleman sitting down just behind him is the dear old duc de ----, who lived ages in exile with louis dix-huit.... that person almost at your elbow, talking to the lady in blue, is the comte de p----, a most exemplary catholic, who always followed charles dix in all religious processions. he was half distracted, poor man! at the last revolution; but they say he is going to dine with king philippe next week: i long to ask him if it is true, but i am afraid, for fear he should be obliged to answer 'yes;'--that would be so embarrassing!... oh, by the way, that is a peer that you are looking at now;--he has refused to sit on the trial.... now, have i not done _l'impossible_ for you?" i thanked her gratefully, and as i knew i could not please her better than by showing the interest i took in her menagerie, i inquired the name of a lady who was talking with a good deal of vehemence at the opposite side of the room. "oh! that's a person that i always call my '_dame de l'empire_.' her husband was one of napoleon's creations; and josephine used to amuse herself without ceasing by making her talk--her language and accent are _impayables_!" "and that pretty woman in the corner?" "ah! ... she is charming!... it is madame v----, daughter of the celebrated vicomte de ----, so devoted, you know, to the royal cause. but she is lately married to one of the present ministers--quite a love-match; which is an innovation, by the way, more hard to pardon in france than the introduction of a new dynasty. mais c'est égal--they are all very good friends again.... now, tell me whom i shall introduce to you?" i selected the heroine of the love-match; who was not only one of the prettiest creatures i ever saw, but so lively, intelligent, and agreeable, that i have seldom passed a pleasanter hour than that which followed the introduction. the whole of this heterogeneous party seemed to mix together with the greatest harmony; the only cold glance i saw given being from the gentleman designated as "king philippe's right hand," towards the tall republican deputy of whose funeral my friend had predicted such honours. the _dame de l'empire_ was indulging in a lively flirtation with one of the peers _sans tache_; and i saw the fingers of the exemplary catholic, who was going to dine with king philippe, in the _tabatière_ of the celebrated atheist. i then remembered that this was one of the _soirées antithestiques_ so much in fashion. letter xxviii. new publications.--m. de lamartine's "souvenirs, impressions, pensées, et paysages."--tocqueville and beaumont.--new american regulation.--m. scribe.--madame tastu.--reception of different writers in society. though among the new publications sent to me for perusal i have found much to fatigue and disgust me, as must indeed be inevitable for any one accustomed for some scores of years to nourish the heart and head with the literature of the "_bon vieux temps_"--which means, in modern phrase, everything musty, rusty, rococo, and forgotten,--i have yet found some volumes which have delighted me greatly. m. de lamartine's "souvenirs, impressions, pensées, et paysages" in the east, is a work which appears to me to stand solitary and alone in the world of letters. there is certainly nothing like it, and very little that can equal it, in my estimation, either as a collection of written landscapes or as a memorial of poetical feeling, just sentiment, and refined taste. his descriptions may perhaps have been, in some rare instances, equalled in mere graphic power by others; but who has painted anything which can excite an interest so profound, or an elevation of the fancy so lofty and so delightful? alas! that the scenes he paints should be so utterly beyond one's reach! how little, how paltry, how full of the vulgar interests of this "working-day world," do all the other countries of the earth appear after reading this book, when compared to judea! but there are few who could visit it as lamartine has done,--there are very few capable of feeling as he felt--and none, i think, of describing as he describes. his words live and glow upon the paper; he pours forth sunshine and orient light upon us,--we hear the gale whispering among the palm-trees, see jordan's rapid stream rushing between its flowery banks, and feel that the scene to which he has transported us is holy ground. the exalted tone of his religious feelings, and the poetic fervour with which he expresses them, might almost lead one to believe that he was inspired by the sacred air he breathed. it seems as if he had found the harps which were hung up of old upon the trees, and tuned them anew to sing of the land of david; he has "beheld the beauty of the lord, and inquired in his temple," and the result is exactly what it should be. the manner in which this most poetic of travellers, while standing on the ruins of tyre, speaks of the desolation and despair that appear settling upon the earth in these latter days, is impressive beyond anything i know of modern date. had france produced no other redeeming volumes than these, there is enough within them to overpower and extinguish the national literary disgrace with which it has been reproached so loudly; and it is a comfort to remember that this work is as sure to live, as the literary labours of the diabolic school are to perish. it is perhaps good for us to read trash occasionally, that we may learn to value at their worth such thoughts as we find here; and while there are any left on earth who can so think, so feel, and so write, our case is not utterly hopeless. great, indeed, is the debt that we owe to an author like this, who, seizing upon the imagination with power unlimited, leads it only into scenes that purify and exalt the spirit. it is a tremendous power, that of taking us how and where he will, which is possessed by such an author as this. when it is used for evil, it resembles fearfully the action of a fiend, tempting, dragging, beckoning, cajoling to destruction: but when it is for good, it is like an angel's hand leading us to heaven. i intended to have spoken to you of many other works which have pleased me; but i really at this moment experience the strangest sort of embarrassment imaginable in referring to them. many agreeable new books are lying about before me; but while my head is so full of lamartine and the holy land, everything seems to produce on me the effect of platitude and littleness. i must, however, conquer this so far as to tell you that you ought to read both tocqueville and beaumont on the united states. by the way, i am assured that the americans declare themselves determined to change their line of conduct altogether respecting the national manner of receiving european sketches of themselves. this new law is to embrace three clauses. the first will enforce the total exclusion, from henceforth and for evermore, of all european strangers from their american homes; the second will recommend that all citizens shall abstain from reading anything, in any language written, or about to be written, concerning them and their affairs; and the third, in case the other two should fail, seems to take the form of a vow, protesting that they never will storm, rave, scold, or care about anything that anybody can say of them more. if this passes during the presidentship of general jackson, it will immortalize his reign more than paying off the national debt. having thus, somehow or other, slipped from the holy land to the united states of america, i feel sufficiently subdued in spirit to speak of lesser things than lamartine's "pilgrimage." on one point, indeed, a sense of justice urges me, when on the subject of modern productions, to warn you against the error of supposing that all the new theatrical pieces, which come forth here as rapidly and as brilliantly as the blossoms of the gum cistus, and which fade almost as soon, are of the nature and tendency of those i have mentioned as belonging to the victor hugo school. on the contrary, i have seen many, and read more, of these little comedies and vaudevilles, which are not only free from every imputation of mischief, but absolutely perfect in their kind. the person whose name is celebrated far above all others for this species of composition, is m. scribe; and were it not that his extraordinary facility enables him to pour forth these pretty trifles in such abundance as already to have assured him a very large fortune, which offers an excellent excuse in these _positif_ times for him, i should say that he would have done better had he written less. he has shown on several occasions, as in "l'ambitieux," "bertrand et raton," &c. that he can succeed in that most difficult of tasks, good legitimate comedy, as well as in the lighter labour of striking off a sparkling vaudeville. it is certain, indeed, that, spite of all we say, and say in some respects so justly, respecting the corrupted taste of france at the present era, there never was a time when her stage could boast a greater affluence of delightful little pieces than at present. i really am afraid to enter more at large upon this theme, from a literal _embarras de richesses_. if i begin to name these pretty, lively trifles, i shall run into a list much too long for your patience: for though scribe is still the favourite as well as the most fertile source of these delightful novelties, there are one or two others who follow him at some little distance, and who amongst them produce such a sum total of new pieces in the year as would make an english manager tremble to think of;--but here the chief cost of bringing them out is drawn, not from the theatrical treasury, but from the ever-fresh wit and spirit of the performers. such an author as scribe is a national museum of invention--a never-failing source of new enjoyment to his lively countrymen, and he has probably tasted the pleasures of a bright and lasting reputation as fully as any author living. we are already indebted to him for many charming importations; and, thanks to the yates talent, we begin to be not unworthy of receiving such. if we cannot have shakspeare, racine, and molière got up for us quite "in the grand style of former years," these bright, light, biting, playful, graceful little pieces are by far the best substitutes for them, while we wait with all the patience we can for a new growth of players, who shall give honour due to the next tragedy miss mitford may bestow upon us. another proof that it is not necessary to be vicious in order to be in vogue at paris, and that purity is no impediment to success, is the popularity of madame tastu's poetry. she writes as a woman ought to write--with grace, feeling, delicacy, and piety. her literary efforts, however, are not confined to the "flowery path of poesy;" though it is impossible not to perceive that she lingers in it with delight, and that when she leaves it, she does so from no truant inclination to wander elsewhere, but from some better impulse. her work entitled "education maternelle" would prove a most valuable acquisition to english mothers desirous themselves of giving early lessons in french to their children. the pronunciation and accentuation are marked in a manner greatly to facilitate the task, especially to a foreigner; whose greatest difficulty, when attempting to teach the language without the aid of a native master, is exactly what these initiatory lessons are so well calculated to obviate. it is no small source of consolation and of hope, at a period when a sort of universal epidemic frenzy appears to have seized upon the minds of men, leading them to advocate as good that which all experience shows to be evil, and to give specimens of dirty delirium that might be collected in an hospital, by way of exalted works of imagination,--it is full of hope and consolation to find that, however rumour may clamour forth tidings of these sad ravings whenever they appear, fame still rests only with such as really deserve it. let a first-rate collector of literary lions at paris make it known that m. de lamartine would appear at her _soirée_, and the permission to enter there would be sought so eagerly, that before eleven o'clock there would not be standing-room in her apartments, though they might be as spacious as any the "belle ville" can show. but let it be announced that the authors of any of the obscene masques and mummings which have disgraced the theatres of france would present themselves, and depend upon it they would find space sufficient to enact the part of triboulet at the moment when he exclaims in soliloquy, "que je suis grand ici!" letter xxix. sunday in paris.--family groups.--popular enjoyment.--polytechnic students.--their resemblance to the figure of napoleon.--enduring attachment to the emperor.--conservative spirit of the english schools.--sunday in the gardens of the tuileries.--religion of the educated.--popular opinion. sunday is a delightful day in paris--more so than in any place i ever visited, excepting francfort. the enjoyment is so universal, and yet so domestic; were i to form my idea of the national character from the scenes passing before my eyes on that day, instead of from books and newspapers, i should say that the most remarkable features in it, were conjugal and parental affection. it is rare to see either a man or a woman, of an age to be wedded and parents, without their being accompanied by their partner and their offspring. the cup of light wine is drunk between them; the scene that is sought for amusement by the one is also enjoyed by the other; and whether it be little or whether it be much that can be expended on this day of jubilee, the man and wife share it equally. i have entered many churches during the hours of the morning masses, in many different parts of the town, and, as i have before stated, i have uniformly found them extremely crowded; and though i have never remarked any instances of that sort of penitential devotion so constantly seen in the churches of belgium when the painfully extended arms remind one of the hindoo solemnities, the appearance of earnest and devout attention to what is going on is universal. it is not till after the grand mass is over that the population pours itself out over every part of the town, not so much to seek as to meet amusement. and they are sure to find it; for not ten steps can be taken in any direction without encountering something that shall furnish food for enjoyment of some kind or other. there is no sight in the world that i love better than a numerous populace during their hours of idleness and glee. when they assemble themselves together for purposes of legislation, i confess i do not greatly love or admire them; but when they are enjoying themselves, particularly when women and children share in the enjoyment, they furnish a delightful spectacle--and nowhere can it be seen to greater advantage than in paris. the nature of the people--the nature of the climate--the very form and arrangement of the city, are all especially favourable to the display of it. it is in the open air, under the blue vault of heaven, before the eyes of thousands, that they love to bask and disport themselves. the bright, clear atmosphere seems made on purpose for them; and whoever laid out the boulevards, the quays, the gardens of paris, surely remembered, as they did so, how necessary space was for the assembling together of her social citizens. the young men of the polytechnic school make a prominent feature in a paris sunday; for it is only on the _jours de fête_ that they are permitted to range at liberty through the town: but all occasions of this kind cause the streets and public walks to swarm with young napoleons. it is quite extraordinary to see how the result of a strong principle or sentiment may show itself externally on a large body of individuals, making those alike, whom nature has made as dissimilar as possible. there is not one of these polytechnic lads, the eldest of whom could hardly have seen the light of day before napoleon had left the soil of france for ever,--there is hardly one of them who does not more or less remind one of the well-known figure and air of the emperor. be they tall, be they short, be they fat, be they thin, it is the same,--there is some approach (evidently the result of having studied their worshipped model closely in paintings, engravings, bronzes, marbles, and sèvres china,) to that look and bearing which, till the most popular tyrant that ever lived had made it as well known as sunshine to the eyes of france, was as little resembling to the ordinary appearance and carriage of her citizens as possible. the tailor can certainly do much towards making the exterior of one individual look like the exterior of another; but he cannot do all that we see in the mien of a polytechnic scholar that serves to recall the extraordinary man whose name, after years of exile and of death, is decidedly the most stirring that can be pronounced in france. busy, important, and most full of human interest has been the period since his downfall; yet his memory is as fresh among them as if he had marched into the tuileries triumphant from one of his hundred victories but yesterday. o, if the sovereign people could but understand as well as read!... and o that some christian spirit could be found who would interpret to them, in such accents as they would listen to, the life and adventures of napoleon the great! what a deal of wisdom they might gain by it! where could be found a lesson so striking as this to a people who are weary of being governed, and desire, one and all, to govern themselves? with precisely the same weariness, with precisely the same desire, did this active, intelligent, and powerful people throw off, some forty years ago, the yoke of their laws and the authority of their king. then were they free as the sand of the desert--not one individual atom of the mighty mass but might have risen in the hurricane of that tempest as high as the unbridled wind of his ambition could carry him; and what followed? why, they grew sick to death of the giddy whirl, where each man knocked aside his neighbour, and there was none to say "forbear!" then did they cling, like sinking souls in the act of drowning, to the first bold man who dared to replace the yoke upon their necks; they clung to him through years of war that mowed down their ranks as a scythe mows down the ripe corn, and yet they murmured not. for years they suffered their young sons to be torn from their sides while they still hung to them with all the first fondness of youth, and yet they murmured not;--for years they lived uncheered by the wealth that commerce brings, uncheered by any richer return of labour than the scanty morsel that sustained their life of toil, and yet they murmured not: for they had once more a prince upon the throne--they had once more laws, firmly administered, which kept them from the dreaded horrors of anarchy; and they clung to their tyrant prince, and his strict and stern enactments, with a devotion of gratitude and affection which speaks plainly enough their lasting thankfulness to the courage which was put forth in their hour of need to relieve them from the dreadful burden of self-government. this gratitude and affection endures still--nothing will ever efface it; for his military tyranny is passed away, and the benefits which his colossal power enabled him to bestow upon them remain, and must remain as long as france endures. the only means by which another sovereign may rival napoleon in popularity, is by rivalling him in power. were some of the feverish blood which still keeps france in agitation to be drawn from her cities to reinforce her military array, and were a hundred thousand of the sons of france marched off to restore to italy her natural position in europe, power, glory, and popularity would sustain the throne, and tranquillity be restored to the people. without some such discipline, poor young france may very probably die of a plethora. if she has not this, she must have a government as absolute as that of russia to keep her from mischief: and that she will have one or the other before long, i have not the least doubt in the world; for there are many very clever personages at and near the seat of power who will not be slow to see or to do what is needful. meanwhile this fine body of young men are, as i understand, receiving an education calculated to make them most efficient officers, whenever they are called upon to serve. unfortunately for the reputation of the polytechnic school, their names were brought more forward than was creditable to those who had the charge of them, during the riots of . but the government which the men of france accepted from the hands of the boys really appears to be wiser and better than they had any right to expect from authority so strangely constituted. the new government very properly uses the strength given it, for the purpose of preventing the repetition of the excesses to which it owes its origin; and these fine lads are now said to be in a state of very respectable discipline, and to furnish no contemptible bulwark to the throne. it is otherwise, however, as i hear, with most of the bodies of young men collected together in paris for the purpose of education. the silly cant of republicanism has got among them; and till this is mended, continued little riotous outbreakings of a naughty-boy spirit must be expected. one of the happiest circumstances in the situation of poor struggling england at present is, that her boys are not republican. on the contrary, the rising spirit among us is decidedly conservative. all our great schools are tory to the heart's core. the young english have been roused, awakened, startled at the peril which threatens the land of their fathers! the _penny king_ who has invaded us has produced on them the effect usual on all invasions; and rather than see him and his popish court succeed in conquering england, they would rush from their forms and their cloisters to repel him, shouting, "alone we'll do it, boys!"--and they would do it, too, even if they had no fathers to help them. but i have forgotten my sunday holiday, while talking about the gayest and happiest of those it brings forth to decorate the town. many a proud and happy mother may on these occasions be seen leaning on the arm of a son that she is very conscious looks like an emperor; and many a pretty creature, whom her familiarity, as well as her features, proclaims to be a sister, shows in her laughing eyes that the day which gives her smart young brother freedom is indeed a _jour de fête_ for her. you will be weary of the tuileries gardens; but i cannot keep out of them, particularly when talking of a paris sunday, of whose prettiest groups they are the rendezvous: the whole day's history may be read in them. as soon as the gates are open, figures both male and female, in dishabille more convenient than elegant, may be seen walking across them in every direction towards the _sortie_ which leads towards the quay, and thence onwards to _les bains vigier_. next come the after-breakfast groups: and these are beautiful. elegant young mothers in half-toilet accompany their _bonnes_, and the pretty creatures committed to their care, to watch for an hour the happy gambols which the presence of the "chère maman" renders seven times more gay than ordinary. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. tuileries gardens, on sunday. london, published by richard bentley, .] i have watched such, repeatedly, with extreme amusement; often attempting to read, but never able to pursue the occupation for three-quarters of a minute together, till they at last abandon it altogether, and sit with the useless volume upon their knee, complacently answering all the baby questions that may be proposed to them, while watching with the smiling satisfaction of well-pleased maternity every attitude, every movement, and every grimace of the darling miniatures in which they see themselves, and perhaps one dearer still. from about ten till one o'clock the gardens swarm with children and their attendants: and pretty enough they are, and amusing too, with their fanciful dresses and their baby wilfulness. then comes the hour of early dinners: the nurses and the children retreat; and were it possible that any hour of the day could find a public walk in paris unoccupied, it would be this. the next change shows the gradual influx of best bonnets,--pink, white, green, blue. feathers float onwards, and fresh flowers are seen around: gay barouches rush down the rues castiglione and rivoli; cabs swing round every corner, all to deposit their gay freight within the gardens. by degrees, double, treble rows of chairs are occupied on either side of every walk, while the whole space between is one vast moving mass of pleasant idleness. this lasts till five; and then, as the elegant crowd withdraws, another, less graceful perhaps, but more animated, takes its place. caps succeed to bonnets; and unchecked laughter, loud with youth and glee, replaces the whispered gallantry, the silent smile, and all the well-bred ways of giving and receiving thoughts with as little disturbance to the circumambient air as possible. from this hour to nightfall the multitude goes on increasing; and did one not know that every theatre, every guinguette, every boulevard, every café in paris were at the same time crammed almost to suffocation, one might be tempted to believe that the whole population had assembled there to recreate themselves before the windows of the king. among the higher ranks the sunday evening at paris is precisely the same as that of any other day. there are the same number of _soirées_ going on, and no more; the same number of dinner-parties, just as much card-playing, just as much dancing, just as much music, and just as much going to the opera; but the other theatres are generally left to the _endimanchés_. you must not, however, imagine that no religious exercises are attended to among the rich and noble because i have said nothing especially about them on this point. on the contrary, i have great reason to believe that it is not alone the attractive eloquence of the popular preachers which draws such multitudes of wealthy and high-born females into the fashionable churches of paris; but that they go to pray as well as to listen. nevertheless, as to the general state of religion amongst the educated classes in paris, it is quite as difficult to obtain information as it is to learn with anything like tolerable accuracy the average state of their politics. it is not that there is the least reserve or apparent hanging back when either subject is discussed; on the contrary, all seem kindly eager to answer every question, and impart to you all the information it is possible to wish for: but the variety of statements is inconceivable; and as i have repeatedly listened to very strong and positive assertions respecting the opinions of the majority, from those in whose sincerity i have perfect confidence, but which have been flatly contradicted by others equally deserving of credit, i am led to suppose that in effect the public mind is still wavering on both subjects. there is, in fact, but one point upon which i truly and entirely believe that an overwhelming majority exists,--and this is in the aversion felt for any farther trial of a republican form of government. the party who advocate the cause of democracy do indeed make the most noise--it is ever their wont to do so. neither the chamber of deputies nor the chamber of peers can assemble nightly at a given spot to scream "vive le roi!" nor are the quiet citizens, who most earnestly wish to support the existing government, at all more likely to leave their busy shops for this purpose than the members of the two chambers are to quit their _hôtels_;--so that any attempt to judge the political feelings of the people by the outcries heard in the streets must of necessity lead to error. yet it is of such judgments, both at home and abroad, that we hear the most. as to the real private feelings on the subject of religion which exist among the educated portion of the people, it is still more difficult to form an opinion, for on this subject the strongest indications are often declared to prove nothing. if churches filled to overflowing be proof of national piety, then are the people pious: and farther than this, no looker-on such as myself should, i think, attempt to go. letter xxx. madame récamier.--her morning parties.--gérard's picture of corinne.--miniature of madame de staël.--m. de châteaubriand.--conversation on the degree in which the french language is understood by foreigners.--the necessity of speaking french. of all the ladies with whom i have become acquainted in paris, the one who appears to me to be the most perfect specimen of an elegant frenchwoman is madame récamier,--the same madame récamier that, i will not say how many years ago, i remember to have seen in london, the admired of all eyes: and, wonderful to say, she is so still. formerly i knew her only from seeing her in public, where she was pointed out to me as the most beautiful woman in europe; but now that i have the pleasure of her acquaintance, i can well understand, though you who know her only by the reputation of her early beauty may not, how and why it is that fascinations generally so evanescent are with her so lasting. she is, in truth, the very model of all grace. in person, manner, movement, dress, voice, and language, she seems universally allowed to be quite perfect; and i really cannot imagine a better mode of giving a last finish to a young lady's study of the graces, than by affording her an opportunity of observing every movement and gesture of madame récamier. she is certainly a monopolist of talents and attractions which would suffice, if divided in ordinary proportions, to furnish forth a host of charming women. i never met with a frenchman who did not allow, that though his countrywomen were charming from _agrémens_ which seem peculiarly their own, they have fewer faultless beauties among them than may be found in england; but yet, as they say, "quand une française se mêle d'être jolie, elle est furieusement jolie." this _mot_ is as true in point of fact as piquant in expression;--a beautiful frenchwoman is, perhaps, the most beautiful woman in the world. the perfect loveliness of madame récamier has made her "a thing to wonder at:" and now that she has passed the age when beauty is at its height, she is perhaps to be wondered at still more; for i really doubt if she ever excited more admiration than she does at present. she is followed, sought, looked at, listened to, and, moreover, beloved and esteemed, by a very large circle of the first society in paris, among whom are numbered some of the most illustrious literary names in france. that her circle, as well as herself, is delightful, is so generally acknowledged, that by adding my voice to the universal judgment, i perhaps show as much vanity, as gratitude for the privilege of being admitted within it: but no one, i believe, so favoured could, when speaking of the society of paris, omit so striking a feature of it as the _salon_ of madame récamier. she contrives to make even the still-life around her partake of the charm for which she is herself so remarkable, and there is a fine and finished elegance in everything about her that is irresistibly attractive: i have often entered drawing-rooms almost capable of containing her whole suite of apartments, and found them infinitely less striking in their magnificence than her beautiful little _salon_ in the abbaye-aux-bois. the rich draperies of white silk, the delicate blue tint that mixes with them throughout the apartment,--the mirrors, the flowers,--all together give an air to the room that makes it accord marvellously well with its fair inhabitant. one might fancy that madame récamier herself was for ever _vouée au blanc_, for no drapery falls around her that is not of snowy whiteness--and indeed the mixture of almost any colour would seem like profanation to the exquisite delicacy of her appearance. madame récamier admits morning visits from a limited number of persons, whose names are given to the servant attending in the ante-room, every day from four till six. it was here i had the pleasure of being introduced to m. de châteaubriand, and had afterwards the gratification of repeatedly meeting him; a gratification that i shall assuredly never forget, and for which i would have willingly sacrificed one-half of the fine things which reward the trouble of a journey to paris. the circle thus received is never a large one, and the conversation is always general. the first day that i and my daughters were there, we found, i think, but two ladies, and about half a dozen gentlemen, of whom m. de châteaubriand was one. a magnificent picture by gérard, boldly and sublimely conceived, and executed in his very best manner, occupies one side of the elegant little _salon_. the subject is corinne, in a moment of poetical excitement, a lyre in her hand, and a laurel crown upon her head. were it not for the modern costume of those around her, the figure must be mistaken for that of sappho: and never was that impassioned being, the martyred saint of youthful lovers, portrayed with more sublimity, more high poetic feeling, or more exquisite feminine grace. the contemplation of this _chef-d'oeuvre_ naturally led the conversation to madame de staël. her intimacy with madame récamier is as well known as the biting reply of the former to an unfortunate man, who having contrived to place himself between them, exclaimed,--"me voilà entre l'esprit et la beauté!" to which bright sally he received for answer--"sans posséder ni l'un ni l'autre." my knowledge of this intimacy induced me to take advantage of the occasion, and i ventured to ask madame récamier if madame de staël had in truth intended to draw her own character in that of corinne. "assuredly ..." was the reply. "the soul of madame de staël is fully developed in her portrait of that of corinne." then turning to the picture, she added, "those eyes are the eyes of madame de staël." she put a miniature into my hand, representing her friend in all the bloom of youth, at an age indeed when she could not have been known to madame récamier. the eyes had certainly the same dark beauty, the same inspired expression, as those given to corinne by gérard. but the artist had too much taste or too little courage to venture upon any farther resemblance; the thick lips and short fat chin of the real sibyl being changed into all that is loveliest in female beauty on the canvass. the apparent age of the face represented in the miniature points out its date with tolerable certainty; and it gives no very favourable idea of the taste of the period; for the shock head of crisped brutus curls is placed on arms and bust as free from drapery, though better clothed in plumpness, than those of the medicean venus. as we looked first at one picture, then at the other, and conversed on both, i was struck with the fine forehead and eyes, delightful voice, and peculiarly graceful turn of expression, of a gentleman who sat opposite to me, and who joined in this conversation. i remarked to madame récamier that few romances had ever had the honour of being illustrated by such a picture as this of gérard, and that, from many circumstances, her pleasure in possessing it must be very great. "it is indeed," she replied: "nor is it my only treasure of the kind--i am so fortunate as to possess girodet's original drawing from atala, the engraving from which you must often have seen. let me show you the original." we followed her to the dining-room, where this very interesting drawing is placed. "you do not know m. de châteaubriand?" said she. i replied that i had not that pleasure. "it is he who was sitting opposite to you in the _salon_." i begged that she would introduce him to me; and upon our returning to the drawing-room she did so. the conversation was resumed, and most agreeably--every one bore a part in it. lamartine, casimir delavigne, dumas, victor hugo, and some others, passed under a light but clever and acute review. our byron, scott, &c. followed; and it was evident that they had been read and understood. i asked m. de châteaubriand if he had known lord byron: he replied, "non;" adding, "je l'avais précédé dans la vie, et malheureusement il m'a précédé au tombeau." the degree in which any country is capable of fully appreciating the literature of another was canvassed, and m. de châteaubriand declared himself decidedly of opinion that such appreciation was always and necessarily very imperfect. much that he said on the subject appeared incontrovertibly true, especially as respecting the slight and delicate shadows of expression of which the subtile grace so constantly seems to escape at the first attempt to convert it into another idiom. nevertheless, i suspect that the majority of english readers--i mean the english readers of french--are more _au fait_ of the original literature of france than m. de châteaubriand supposes. the habit, so widely extended amongst us, of reading this language almost from infancy, gives us a greater familiarity with their idiom than he is aware of. he doubted if we could relish molière, and named lafontaine as one beyond the reach of extra-gallican criticism or enjoyment. i cannot agree to this, though i am not surprised that such an idea should exist. every english person that comes to paris is absolutely obliged to speak french, almost whether they can or can not. if they shrink from doing so, they can have no hope of either speaking or being spoken to at all. this is alone sufficient to account very satisfactorily, i think, for any doubt which may prevail as to the national proficiency in the language. no frenchman that is at all in the habit of meeting the english in society but must have his ears and his memory full of false concords, false tenses, and false accents; and can we wonder that he should set it down as a certain fact, that they who thus speak cannot be said to understand the language they so mangle? yet, plausible as the inference is, i doubt if it be altogether just. which of the most accomplished hellenists of either country would be found capable of sustaining a familiar conversation in greek? the case is precisely the same; for i have known very many whose power of tasting the beauty of french writing amounted to the most critical acuteness, who would have probably been unintelligible had they attempted to converse in the language for five minutes together; whereas many others, who have perhaps had a french valet or waiting-maid, may possess a passably good accent and great facility of imitative expression in conversation, who yet would be puzzled how to construe with critical accuracy the easiest passage in rousseau. a very considerable proportion of the educated french read english, and often appear to enter very ably into the spirit of our authors; but there is not one in fifty of these who will pronounce a single word of the language in conversation. though they endure with a polite gravity, perfectly imperturbable, the very drollest blunders of which language is capable, they cannot endure to run the risk of making blunders in return. everything connected with the externals of good society is held as sacred by the members of it; and if they shrink from offending _la bienséance_ by laughing at the mistakes of others, they avoid, with at least an equal degree of caution, the unpardonable offence of committing any themselves. i do not believe that it would be possible for a french person to enter into conversation merely for the pleasure of conversing, and not from the pressure of absolute necessity, unless he were certain, or at least believed himself to be so, that he should express himself with propriety and elegance. the idea of uttering the brightest or the noblest thought that ever entered a human head, in an idiom ridiculously broken, would, i am sure, be accompanied with a feeling of repugnance sufficient to tame the most animated and silence the most loquacious frenchman in existence. it therefore falls wholly upon the english, in this happy period of constant and intimate intercourse between the nations, to submit to the surrender of their vanity, to gratify their love for conversation; blundering on in conscious defiance of grammar and accent, rather than lose the exceeding pleasure of listening in return to the polished phrase, the graceful period, the epigrammatic turn, which make so essential a part of genuine high-bred french conversation. but the doubts expressed by m. de châteaubriand as to the possibility of the last and best grace of french writing being fully appreciated by foreigners, was not confined wholly to the english,--the germans appeared to share it with us; and one who has been recently proclaimed as the first of living german critics was quoted as having confounded in his style, names found among the immortals of the french pantheon, with those of such as live and die; _monsieur_ fontaine, and _monsieur_ bruyère, being expressions actually extant in his writings. more than once, during subsequent visits to madame récamier, i led her to speak of her lost and illustrious friend. i have never been more interested than while listening to all which this charming woman said of madame de staël: every word she uttered seemed a mixture of pain and pleasure, of enthusiasm and regret. it is melancholy to think how utterly impossible it is that she should ever find another to replace her. she seems to feel this, and to have surrounded herself by everything that can contribute to keep the recollection of what is for ever gone, fresh in her memory. the original of the posthumous portrait of madame de staël by gérard, made so familiar to all the world by engravings--nay, even by sèvres vases and tea-cups, hangs in her bed-room. the miniature i have mentioned is always near her; and the inspired figure of her corinne, in which it is evident that madame récamier traces a resemblance to her friend beyond that of features only, appears to be an object almost of veneration as well as love. it is delightful to approach thus to a being that i have always been accustomed to contemplate as something in the clouds. admirable and amiable as my charming new acquaintance is in a hundred ways, her past intimacy and ever-enduring affection for madame de staël have given her a still higher interest in my eyes. letter xxxi. exhibition of sèvres china at the louvre.--gobelins and beauvais tapestry.--legitimatist father and doctrinaire son.--copies from the medicean gallery. we are just returned from an exhibition at the louvre; and a very splendid exhibition it is--though, alas! but a poor consolation for the hidden treasures of the picture-gallery. several magnificent rooms are now open for the display of works in tapestry and sèvres porcelain; and however much we might have preferred seeing something else there, it is impossible to deny that these rooms contain many objects as wonderful perhaps in their way as any that the higher branches of art ever produced. the copy of titian's portrait of his mistress, on porcelain, and still more perhaps that of raphaël's "virgin and st. john watching the sleep of the infant jesus," (the _parce somnum rumpere_,) are, i think, the most remarkable; both being of the same size as the originals, and performed with a perfection of colouring that is almost inconceivable. that the fragile clay of which porcelain is fabricated should so lend itself to the skill of the workman,--or rather, that the workman's skill should so triumph over the million chances which exist against bringing unbroken out of the fire a smooth and level _plaque_ of such extent,--is indeed most wonderful. still more so is the skill which has enabled the artist to prophesy, as he painted with his greys and his greens, that the tints which flowed from his pencil of one colour, should assume, from the nicely-regulated action of an element the most difficult to govern, hues and shades so exquisitely imitative of his great original. but having acknowledged this, i have nothing more to say in praise of a _tour de force_ which, in my opinion, can only be attempted by the sacrifice of common sense. the _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of a titian or a raphaël are treasures of which we may lawfully covet an imitation; but why should it be attempted in a manner the most difficult, the most laborious, the most likely to fail, and the most liable to destruction when completed?--not to mention that, after all, there is in the most perfect copy on porcelain a something--i am mistress of no words to define it--which does not satisfy the mind. as far as regards my own feelings indeed, i could go farther, and say that the effect produced is to a certain degree positively disagreeable,--not quite unlike that occasioned by examining needlework performed without fingers, or watch-papers exquisitely cut out by feet instead of hands. the admiration demanded is less for the thing itself, than for the very defective means employed to produce it. were there indeed none other, the inventor would deserve a statue, and the artist, like trisotin, should take the air "_en carrosse doré_:" but as it is, i would rather see a good copy on canvass than on china. far different, however, is the effect produced by this beautiful and ingenious branch of art when displayed in the embellishment of cups and plates, vases and tea-trays. i never saw anything more gracefully appropriate to the last high finish of domestic elegance than all the articles of this description exhibited this year at the louvre. it is impossible to admire or to praise them too much; or to deny that, wonderfully as similar manufactories have improved in england within the last thirty years, we have still nothing equal to the finer specimens of the sèvres porcelain. these rooms were, like every other place in paris where human beings know that they shall meet each other, extremely full of company; and i have certainly never seen such ecstasy of admiration produced by any objects exhibited to the public eye, as was elicited by some of the articles displayed on this occasion: they are indeed most beautiful; the form, the material, the workmanship, all perfect. the sèvres manufactory must, i think, have some individuals attached to it who have made the theory of colour an especial study. it is worth while to walk round the vast table, or rather platform, raised in the middle of the apartment, for the purpose of examining the different sets, with a view only to observe the effect produced on the eye by the arrangement of colours in each. the finest specimens, after the wonderful copies from pictures which i have already mentioned, are small breakfast-sets--for a _tête-à-tête_, i believe,--enclosed in large cases lined either with white satin or white velvet. these cases are all open for inspection, but with a stout brass bar around, to protect them from the peril of too near an approach. the lid is so formed as exactly to receive the tray; while the articles to be placed upon it, when in use, are arranged each in its own delicate recess, with such an attention to composition and general effect as to show all and everything to the greatest possible advantage. some of these exquisite specimens are decorated with flowers, some with landscapes, and others with figures, or miniatures of heads, either superlative in beauty or distinguished by fame. these beautiful decorations, admirable as they all are in design and execution, struck me less than the perfect taste with which the reigning colour which pervades each set, either as background, lining, or border, is made to harmonize with the ornaments upon it. it is a positive pleasure, independent of the amusement which may be derived from a closer examination, to cast the eye over the general effect produced by the consummate taste and skill thus displayed. those curious affinities and antipathies among colours, which i have seen made the subject of many pretty experimental lectures, must, i am sure, have been studied and acted upon by the _colour-master_ of each department; and the result is to my feelings productive of a pleasure, from the contemplation of the effect produced, as distinct from the examination of the design, or of any other circumstance connected with the art, as the gratification produced by the smell of an orange-blossom or a rose: it is a pleasure which has no connexion with the intellect, but arises solely from its agreeable effect on the sense. the eye seems to be unconsciously soothed and gratified, and lingers upon the rich, the soft, or the brilliant hues, with a satisfaction that positively amounts to enjoyment. whoever may be occupied by the "delightful task" of fitting up a sumptuous drawing-room, will do well to take a tour round a room filled with sets of sèvres porcelain. the important question of "what colours shall we mix?" would receive an answer there, with the delightful certainty that no solecism in taste could possibly be committed by obeying it. the gobelins and beauvais work for chairs, screens, cushions, and various other articles, makes a great display this year. it is very beautiful, both in design and execution; and at the present moment, when the stately magnificence of the age of louis quinze is so much in vogue--in compliment, it is said, to the taste of the duc d'orléans,--this costly manufacture is likely again to flourish. never can a large and lofty chamber present an appearance of more princely magnificence than when thus decorated; and the manner in which this elaborate style of ancient embellishment is now adopted to modern use, is equally ingenious and elegant. some political economists talk of the national advantage of decreasing labour by machinery, while others advocate every fashion which demands the work of hands. i will not attempt to decide on which side wisdom lies; but, in our present imperfect condition, everything that brings an innocent and profitable occupation to women appears to me desirable. the needles of france are assuredly the most skilful in the world; and set to work as they are upon designs that rival those of the vatican in elegance, they produce a perfection of embroidery that sets all competition at defiance. in pursuing my way along the rail which encloses the specimens exhibited--a progress which was necessarily very slow from the pressure of the crowd,--i followed close behind a tall, elegant, aristocratic-looking gentleman, who was accompanied by his son--decidedly his son,--the boy "fathered himself;" i never saw a stronger likeness. their conversation, which i overheard by no act of impertinent listening, but because i could not possibly avoid it, amused me much. i am seldom thrown into such close contact with strangers without making a fancy-sketch of who and what they are; but upon this occasion i was thrown out,--it was like reading a novel, the _dénouement_ of which is so well concealed as to evade guessing. the boy and his father were not of one mind; their observations were made in the spirit of different parties: the father, i suspect, was a royalist,--the son, i am sure, was a young doctrinaire. the crowd hung long upon the spot where a magnificent collection of embroidery for the seats and backs of a set of chairs was displayed. "they are for the duke of orleans," said the father. "yes, yes," said the boy; "they are fit for him--they are princely." "they are fit for a king!" said the father with a sigh. the lad paused for a moment, and then said, _avec intention_, as the stage directions express it, "mais lui aussi, il est fils de st. louis; n'est-ce pas?" the father answered not, and the crowd moved on. all i could make of this was, that the boy's instructor, whether male or female, was a faithful disciple of the "_parcequ'il est bourbon_" school; and whatever leaven of wavering faith may be mixed up with this doctrine, it forms perhaps the best defence to be found for attachment to the reigning dynasty amongst those who are too young to enter fully into the expediency part of the question. in the last of the suite of rooms opened for this exhibition, are displayed splendid pieces of tapestry from subjects taken from rubens' medicean gallery. that the achievement of these enormous combinations of stitches must have been a labour of extreme difficulty, there can be no doubt; but notwithstanding my admiration for french needles, i am tempted to add, in the words of our uncompromising moralist, "would it had been impossible!" letter xxxii. eglise apostolique française.--its doctrine.--l'abbé auzou.--his sermon on "les plaisirs populaires." among the multitude of friendly injunctions to see this, and to hear that, which have produced me so much agreeable occupation, i have more than once been very earnestly recommended to visit the "eglise apostolique française" on the boulevard st. denis, for the purpose of hearing l'abbé auzou, and still more, that i might have an opportunity of observing the peculiarities of this mode of worship, or rather of doctrine; for, in fact, the ceremonies at the altar differ but little, as far as i can perceive, from those of the church of rome, excepting that the evident poverty of the establishment precludes the splendour which usually attends the performance of its offices. i have no very satisfactory data by which to judge of the degree of estimation in which this new sect is held: by some i have heard them spoken of as apostles, and by others as a paria caste unworthy of any notice. before hearing m. l'abbé auzou, or attending the service at his church, i wished to read some of the publications which explain their tenets, and accordingly called at the little bureau behind their chapel on the boulevard st. denis, where we were told these publications could be found. having purchased several pamphlets containing catechism, hymns, sermons, and so forth, we entered into conversation with the young man who presided in this obscure and dark closet, dignified by the name of "secrétariat de l'eglise apostolique française." he told us that he was assistant minister of the chapel, and we found him extremely conversible and communicative. the chief differences between this new church and those which have preceded it in the reform of the roman catholic religion, appears to consist in the preservation of the external forms of worship, which other reformers have rejected, and also of several dogmas, purely doctrinal, and wholly unconnected with those principles of church power and church discipline, the abuse of which was the immediate cause of all protestant reform. they acknowledge the real presence. i find in the _catéchisme_ these questions and answers: "jésus-christ est-il sous le pain, ou bien sous le vin?--il est sous les deux espèces à la fois. "et quand l'hostie est partagée?--jésus-christ est tout entier en chaque partie. "que faut-il faire pendant le jour où l'on a communié?--assister aux offices, et ensuite se réjouir de son bonheur avec ses parens et ses amis." * * * * * their clergy are permitted to marry. they deny that any power of absolution rests with the priest, allowing him only that of intercession by prayer for the forgiveness of the penitent. auricular confession is not enjoined, but recommended as useful to children. they profess entire toleration to every variety of christian belief; but as the "eglise française" refuses to acknowledge dependance upon any _secte étrangère_,--by which phrase i conceive the church of rome to be meant,--they also declare, "d'après l'evangile, que la religion ne doit jamais intervenir dans les gouvernemens temporels." they recognise the seven sacraments, only modifying that of penitence, as above mentioned. they deny the eternity of punishment, but i find no mention of purgatory. they do not enjoin fasting. i find in the _catéchisme_ the following explanation of their doctrine on this head, which appears to be extremely reasonable. "l'eglise française n'impose donc pas le jeûne et l'abstinence?--non; l'eglise apostolique française s'en rapporte pour le jeûne aux fidèles eux-mêmes, et ne reconnaît en aucune façon le précepte de l'abstinence; mais, plus prudente dans ses principes, elle substitue à un jeûne de quelques jours une sobriété continuelle, et remplace une abstinence périodique par une tempérance de chaque jour, de chaque année, de toute la vie." in all this there appears little in doctrine, excepting the admission of the divine presence in the elements of the eucharist, that differs greatly from most other reformed churches: nevertheless, the ceremonies are entirely similar to those of the roman catholic religion. but whatever there may be either of good or of evil in this mixture, its effect must, i think, prove absolutely nugatory on society, from the entire absence of any church government or discipline whatever. that this is in fact the case, is thus plainly stated in the preface to their published catechism:-- "l'eglise apostolique française ne reconnaît aucune hiérarchie; elle repousse en conséquence l'autorité de tout pouvoir spirituel étranger, et de tout autre pouvoir qui en dépend ou qui s'y soumet. elle ne reconnaît d'autre autorité spirituelle que celle qu'exercerait la réunion de ses fidèles; réunion qui, suivant les principes des apôtres, constitue seule ce que de leur temps on appelait eglise. "elle n'est point salariée par l'état. l'administration de ses secours spirituels est gratuite. elle n'a de tarif, ni pour les baptêmes, ni pour les mariages, ni enfin pour les inhumations. elle vit de peu, et s'en remet à la générosité, ou plutôt à la volonté, des fidèles. "ne reconnaissant pas d'hiérarchie, elle ne reconnaît pas non plus de division de territoire, soit en arrondissement, soit en paroisse: elle accueille donc tous les chrétiens qui se présentent à elle pour mander à ses prêtres l'accomplissement des fonctions de ministres de jésus-christ." * * * * * the _décousu_ principles of the day can hardly be carried farther than this. a rope of sand is the only fitting emblem for a congregation so constituted; and, like a rope of sand, it must of necessity fall asunder, for there is no principle of union to prevent it. after i had finished my studies on the subject, i heard a sermon preached in the church,--not, however, by m. l'abbé auzou, who was ill, but by the same person with whom we had conversed at the _secrétariat_. his sermon was a strong exposition of the abuses practised by the clergy of the church of rome,--a theme certainly more fertile than new. in reading some of the most celebrated discourses of the abbé auzou, i was the most struck with one entitled--"discours sur les plaisirs populaires, les bals, et les spectacles." the text is from st. matthew,--"come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and i will give you rest ... for my yoke is easy, and my burden is light." in this singular discourse, among some things that are reasonable, and more that are plausible, it is impossible to avoid seeing a spirit of lawless uncontrol, which seems to breathe more of revolution than of piety. i am no advocate for a judaical observance of the sabbath, nor am i ignorant of the fearful abuses which have arisen from man's daring to arrogate to himself a power vested in god alone,--the power of forgiving the sins of man. the undue authority assumed by the sovereign pontiff of rome is likewise sufficiently evident, as are many other abuses justly reprobated in the sermons of the abbé auzou. nevertheless, education, observation, and i might say experience, have taught me that religion requires and demands that care, protection, and government which are so absolutely essential to the well-being of every community of human beings who would unite together for one general object. to talk of a self-governing church, is just as absurd as to talk of a self-governing ship, or a self-governing family. it should seem, by the reprobation expressed against the severity of the roman catholic clergy in these sermons, as well as from anecdotes which i have occasionally heard in society, that the church of rome and the church of calvin are alike hostile to every kind of dissipation, and that at the present moment they have many points of discipline in common--at least as respects the injunctions laid upon their congregations respecting their private conduct. m. l'abbé auzou says, in speaking of revolutionary reforms,-- "rien n'est changé dans le sacerdoce; et l'on peut dire aussi des prêtres toujours romains, qu'ils n'ont rien oublié, qu'ils n'ont rien appris. cependant, sous le règne de napoléon leur orgueil a fléchi devant le grand intérêt de leur réinstallation.... aussi, au retour de leur roi légitime, cet orgueil comprimé s'est-il relevé dans toute sa hauteur. rome a placé son trône à côté de celui d'un roi, un peu philosophe, a-t-on dit, mais perclus et impotent. et enfin, lorsque son successeur, d'abord accueilli par le peuple, est tombé entre les mains des prêtres, ceux-ci, profitant de son âge et de sa faiblesse, ont exploité les erreurs d'une jeunesse fougueuse, qui cependant lui avaient valu le surnom de chevalier français. alors nous avons vu ce roi sacrifier sa popularité à leurs exigeances; appeler toute la nation à l'expiation de ses fautes personnelles, à son repentir, à sa pénitence; et la forcer à renier, pour ainsi dire, trente ans de gloire et de liberté.... un roi que le remords poursuit, dévore, et qui ne reconnaît d'autre recours que dans le prêtre qui l'a soumis à sa loi par la menace et la terreur de l'enfer; ce roi, sous le coup d'une absolution conditionnelle et toujours suspendue, abdique, sans le savoir, en faveur de son confesseur.... "roi! tu languis dans l'exil, et tes fautes sont punies jusque dans les dernières générations! "les prêtres, les prêtres romains se sont cependant soumis à un nouveau prince, à qui la souveraineté nationale a remis le sceptre; ils prient enfin pour lui ... et l'on sait avec quelle sincérité. "mais, peuple, comme leur joug s'appesantit sur toi!... dans leur fureur mal-déguisée ils le disent.... la maison du seigneur est déserte, et tu te rues avec fureur vers les plaisirs, les fêtes, les bals et les spectacles! anathême donc contre les plaisirs, les fêtes et les bals! anathême contre les spectacles! "ne sont-ce point là, mes frères, les paroles qui tombent chaque jour menaçantes de la chaire de l'eglise romaine?... "combien notre langage sera différent! le dieu des juifs est bien notre dieu; mais sa colère a été désarmée par le sacrifice que son fils lui a offert pour notre rédemption. "pourquoi ce sang répandu sur la croix pour nos péchés si la satisfaction de nos besoins physiques, si nos fonctions intellectuelles, si l'entrainement des passions qui constituent notre être peuvent à chaque instant nous faire tomber dans le péché et nous précipiter dans l'abîme? "aussi nous vous disons dans notre chaire apostolique,--exécutez les commandemens de dieu, adorez et glorifiez notre père qui est aux cieux, pratiquez la morale de l'evangile, aimez votre prochain comme vous-mêmes, et vous aurez accompli la loi de jésus-christ ... et nous ajoutons,--vous êtes membre de la société pour laquelle vous avez été créés, et cette société vous impose des devoirs; en échange elle vous procure des jouissances et des plaisirs: remplissez vos devoirs et livrez-vous ensuite sans crainte aux jouissances et aux plaisirs qu'elle vous présente. votre participation à ces mêmes plaisirs, à ces mêmes jouissances, est encore une partie de vos devoirs, et vous aurez accompli encore une fois la loi de jésus-christ." this doctrine may assuredly entitle the eglise apostolique française to the appellation of a new church. m. l'abbé auzou goes on yet farther in the same strain:-- "anathême!... arme vieille, rouillée, émoussée, et que vous cherchez en vain à retremper dans le fiel de la colère et de la vengeance!... anathême aux plaisirs! et quoi! parceque dieu a dit à notre premier père, vous mangerez votre pain à la sueur de votre visage, l'homme serait condamné à rester toujours courbé sous le joug du travail? n'aura-t-il à espérer aucun adoucissement à ses peines?... "non, sans doute ... vous dira le clergé romain, puisque dieu a consacré le septième jour au repos? "et quel est ce repos? "sera-ce celui, qu'en vous servant du bras du séculier, vous avez tenté de lui imposer par une ordonnance préscrivant de fermer tous les établissemens qui décorent notre cité, nos cafés, nos restaurans, pour ne tolérer que l'ouverture des officines du pharmacien?--ordonnance dont une caricature spirituelle a fait si prompte justice." the following picture of a fanatical sunday takes me back at once to america. there, however, its worst effect was to steep the senses in the unnecessary oblivion of a few more hours of sleep; but in paris i should really expect that such restraint, were it indeed possible to impose it, would literally drive the sensitive and mobile population to madness. "et quel est donc ce repos? "sera-ce l'immobilité des corps; l'abandon de toutes nos facultés; l'oisiveté; l'ennui, compagnon inséparable de l'oisiveté; la prière; la méditation,--la méditation plus pénible pour la plupart des hommes que le travail des mains; et, enfin, vos sermons intolérans, et, qui pis est peut-être, si ennuyeux? "ah! imposer à l'homme un pareil repos ne serait que suspendre son travail pour lui faire porter, comme à st. simon de cyrène, la croix de jésus-christ jusqu'au sommet escarpé du calvaire." the abbé then proceeds to promulgate his bull for the permission of all sorts of parisian delights; nay, he takes a very pretty and picturesque ramble into the country, where "les jeunes garçons et les jeunes filles s'y livrent à des danses rustiques"--and, in short, gives so animated a picture of the pleasures which ought to await the sabbath both in town and country, that it is almost impossible to read it without feeling a wish that every human being who through the six days of needful labour has been "weary worn with care" should pass the seventh amid the bright and cheering scenes he describes. but he effectually checks this feeling of sympathy with his views by what follows. he describes habitual drunkenness with the disgust it merits; but strangely qualifies this, by adding to his condemnation of the "homme dégradé qui, oubliant chaque jour sa dignité dans les excès d'une hideuse ivrognerie, _n'attend pas le jour que dieu a consacré au repos_, à la distraction, aux plaisirs, pour se livrer à son ignoble passion," these dangerous words:-- "mais condamnerons-nous sans retour notre frère pour un jour d'intempérance passagère, et blamerons-nous celui qui, cherchant dans le vin, ce présent du ciel, un moment d'oubli des misères humaines, n'a point su s'arrêter à cette douce ivresse, oublieuse des maux et créatrice d'heureuses illusions?" is not this using the spur where the rein is most wanting? i am persuaded that it is not the intention of the abbé auzou to advocate any species of immorality; but all the world, and particularly the french world perhaps, is so well disposed to amuse itself _coûte qui coûte_, that i confess i doubt the wisdom of enforcing the necessity of so doing from the pulpit. the unwise, unauthorised, and most unchristian severity of the calvinistic and romish priesthood may, i think, lawfully and righteously be commented upon and reprobated both in the pulpit and out of it; but this reprobation should not clothe itself in license, or in any language that can be interpreted as such. there are many, i should think, in every christian land, both clergy and laity, but neither popish nor calvinistic, who would shrink both from the sentiment and expression of the following passage:-- "rappelons-nous que le patriarche noé, lui qui planta la vigne et exprima le jus de son fruit, en abusa une fois, et que dieu ne lui en fit point le reproche: dieu punit, au contraire, le fils qui n'avait point caché cette faiblesse d'un père." there is some worldly wisdom, however, in the exclamation he addresses to his intolerant brethren. "et vous, prêtres aveugles et impolitiques, laissez le peuple se livrer à ses plaisirs innocens; faites en sorte qu'il se contente de sa position; qu'il ne compare pas cette position pénible, douloureuse, avec l'oisiveté dans laquelle vous vivez vous-mêmes, et que vous ne devez qu'à la nouvelle dîme qui s'exprime de son front." he then proceeds to say, that it is not the poor only who are subjected to this severity, but the rich also ... "que le prêtre de la secte romaine veut arrêter, troubler dans ses plaisirs, dans ses délassemens."... "un repas par lequel on célèbre l'union de deux jeunes coeurs, l'union de deux familles, et dans lequel règnent la joie, _et peut-être aussi un peu plus que de la gaîté_, est l'objet de la censure inexorable de ces prêtres rigides.... ils oublient que celui qu'ils disent être leur maître a consacré ces réunions par sa présence, et que le vin ayant manqué par le trop grand usage qu'on en avait fait, il n'en a pas moins changé l'eau en vin. ils sont tous disposés à répondre comme ce janséniste à qui l'on rappelait cet intéressant épisode de la vie de jésus,--'ce n'est pas ce qu'il a fait de mieux.'--impie! ... tu blasphêmes contre ton maître!... "ah! mes frères, admirons, nous, dans la sincérité de notre coeur, cet exemple de bienveillance et de _sociabilité pratique_, et bénissons la bonté de jésus." then follows an earnest defence, or rather eulogy, of dancing. but though i greatly approve the exercise for young people, and believe it to be as innocent as it is natural, i would not, were i called upon to preach a sermon, address my hearers after this manner:-- "quant aux bals, je ne chercherai point à les excuser, à les défendre, par _des exemples puisés dans l'écriture sainte_. je ne vous représenterai point david dansant devant l'arche.... je ne vous le donnerai pas non plus pour modèle, à vous, jeunes gens de notre france _si polie_, _si élégante_, car sans doute _il dansait mal_; puisque, suivant la bible, michal sa femme, voyant le roi david qui sautait et dansait, se moqua de lui et le méprisa dans son coeur." there is about as much piety as good taste in this. i have already given you such long extracts, that i must omit all he says,--and it is much in favour of this amusement. such forbearance is the more necessary, as i must give you a passage or two more on other subjects. among the general reasons which he brings forward to prove that fêtes and festivals are beneficial to the people, he very justly remarks that the occupation they afford to industry is not the least important, observing that the popish church takes no heed of such things; and then adds, addressing the manufacturers,-- "et lorsque le besoin se fera sentir et pour vous et vos enfans, allez à l'archevêché! ... à l'archevêché! ... un jour la colère du peuple a éclaté,-- "je n'ai fait que passer, il n'était déjà plus."... the date which this sermon bears on its title-page is ; but the event to which this line from racine alludes was the destruction of the archiepiscopal palace, which took place, if i mistake not, in . if the "_il n'était déjà plus_" alludes to the palace, it is correct enough, for destruction could not have done its work better: but if it be meant to describe the fate of monseigneur l'archevÊque de paris, the preacher is not a prophet; for, in truth, the sacrilegious rout "n'a fait que passer," and monseigneur has only risen higher from the blow. public orators of all kinds should be very cautious, in these moveable times, how they venture to judge from to-day what may be to-morrow. the only oracular sentence that can be uttered at present with the least chance of success from the developement of the future is, "who can say what may happen next?" all who have sufficient prudence to restrict their prescience to this acute form of prophecy, may have the pleasure, let come what may, of turning to their neighbours triumphantly with the question--"did i not tell you that something was going to happen?"--but it is dangerous to be one atom more precise. even before this letter can reach you, my friend, m. l'abbé's interpretation of "il n'était déjà plus" may be more correct than mine. i say this, however, only to save my credit with you in case of the worst; for my private opinion is, that monseigneur was never in a more prosperous condition in his life, and that, "as no one can say what will happen next," i should not be at all astonished if a cardinal's hat were speedily to reward him for all he has done and suffered. i certainly intended to have given you a few specimens of the abbé auzou's manner of advocating theatrical exhibitions; but i fear they would lead me into too great length of citation. he is sometimes really eloquent upon the subject: nevertheless, his opinions on it, however reasonable, would have been delivered with better effect from the easy-chair of his library than from the pulpit of his church. it is not that what would be good when heard from the one could become evil when listened to from the other: but the preacher's pulpit is intended for other uses; and though the visits to a well-regulated theatre may be as lawful as eating, and as innocent too, we go to the house of god in the hope of hearing tidings more important than his minister's assurance that they are so. letter xxxiii. establishment for insane patients at vanves.--description of the arrangements.--englishman.--his religious madness. you will think perhaps that i have chosen oddly the object which has induced me to make an excursion out of town, and obliged me to give up nearly an entire day at paris, when i tell you that it was to visit an institution for the reception of the insane. there are, however, few things which interest me more than an establishment of this nature; especially when, as in the present instance, my manner of introduction to it is such as to give me the hope of hearing the phenomena of these awful maladies discussed by those well acquainted with them. the establishment of mm. voisin and fabret, at vanves, was mentioned to me as one in which many improvements in the mode of treating alienation of mind have been suggested and tried with excellent effect; and having the opportunity of visiting it in company with a lady who was well acquainted with the gentlemen presiding over it, i determined to take advantage of it. my friend, too, knew how to direct my attention to what was most interesting, from having had a relation placed there, whom for many months she had been in the constant habit of visiting. her introduction obtained for me the most attentive reception, and the fullest explanation of their admirable system, which appears to me to combine, and on a very large and noble scale, everything likely to assuage the sufferings, soothe the spirits, and contribute to the health of the patients. vanves is situated at the distance of one league from paris, in a beautiful part of the country; and the establishment itself, from almost every part of the high ground on which it is placed, commands views so varied and extensive, as not only to render the principal mansion a charming residence, but really to make the walks and drives within the enclosure of the extensive premises delightful. the grounds are exceedingly well laid out, with careful attention to the principal object for which they are arranged, but without neglecting any of the beauty of which the spot is so capable. they have shade and flowers, distant views and sheltered seats, with pleasant walks, and even drives and rides, in all directions. the enclosure contains about sixty acres, to every part of which the patients who are well enough to walk about can be admitted with perfect safety. in this park are situated two or three distinct lodges, which are found occasionally to be of the greatest utility, in cases where the most profound quiet is necessary, and yet where too strict confinement would be injurious. indeed, it appears to me that the object principally kept in view throughout all the arrangements, is the power of keeping patients out of sight and hearing of each other till they are sufficiently advanced towards recovery to make it a real pleasure and advantage to associate together. as soon as they reach this favourable stage of their convalescence, they mix with the family in very handsome rooms, where books, music, and a billiard-table assist them to pass the hours without _ennui_. every patient has a separate sleeping-apartment, in none of which are the precautions necessary for their safety permitted to be visible. what would wear the appearance of iron bars in every other place of the kind that i have seen, are here made to look like very neat _jalousies_. not a bolt or a bar is perceptible, nor any object whatever that might shock the spirit, if at any time a gleam of recovered intellect should return to visit it. this cautious keeping out of sight of the sufferers everything that might awaken them to a sense of their own condition, or that of the other patients, appears to me to be the most peculiar feature of the discipline, and is evidently one of the objects most sedulously kept in view. next to this i should place the system of inducing the male patients to exercise their limbs, and amuse their spirits, by working in the garden, at any undertaking, however _bizarre_ and profitless, which can induce them to keep mind and body healthily employed. i know not if this has been systematically resorted to elsewhere; but the good sense of it is certainly very obvious, and the effect, as i was told, is found to be very generally beneficial; though it occasionally happens that some among them have fancied their dignity compromised by using a spade or a hoe,--and then some of the family join with them in the labour, to prove that it is merely a matter of amusement: in short, everything likely to cheer or soothe the spirits seems brought into use among them. the ground close adjoining to the house is divided into many small well-enclosed gardens; the women's apartments opening to some, the men's to others of them. in several of these gardens i observed neat little tables, such as are used in the _restaurans_ of paris, with a clean cloth, and all necessary appointments, placed pleasantly and commodiously in the shade, at each of which was seated one person, who was served with a separate dinner, and with every appearance of comfort. had i not known their condition, i should in many instances have thought the spectacle a very pleasing one. m. voisin walked through all parts of the establishment with us, and there appeared to exist a perfectly good understanding between him and his patients. among many regulations, which all appeared excellent, he told me that the friends of his inmates were permitted at all times, and under all circumstances, to visit them without any restraint whatever: an arrangement which can only be productive of confidence and advantage to all parties; as it is perfectly inconceivable that any one who had felt obliged to place an unhappy friend or relative under restraint should wish to interfere with the discipline necessary for his ultimate advantage; whereas a contrary system is likely to give occasion to constant doubts and fears on one hand, and to the possibility of ill treatment or unnecessary restraint on the other. in one of the courts appropriated to the use of such male patients as were sufficiently convalescent to permit their associating together, and amusing themselves with the different games in which they are permitted to share, we saw a young englishman, now rapidly recovering, but who had scrawled over the walls of his own sleeping-apartment, poor fellow! with a pencil, a vast quantity of writing, almost wholly on religious subjects; proving but too plainly that he was one of the many victims of fanaticism. every thought seemed pregnant with suffering, and sometimes bursts of agony were scrawled in trembling characters, that spoke the very extremity of terror. "who is there can endure fire and flame for ever, for ever, and for ever?" "death is before us--hell follows it!" "the bottomless pit--groans--tortures--anguish--for ever!"... such sentences as these were still legible, though much had been obliterated. who can wonder that a mind thus occupied should lose that fine balance with which nature has arranged our faculties, making one keep watch and ward over the other?... this poor fellow lost his wits under the process of conversion: judgment being entirely overthrown, imagination had vaulted into its seat, pregnant with visions black as night, dark--oh! far darker than the tomb! "palled in the dunnest smoke of hell," and armed with every image for the eternity of torture that the ingenuity of man could devise. who can wonder at his madness? and how many crimes are there recorded in the newgate calendar which equal in atrocity that of so distorting a mind, that sought to raise its humble hopes towards heaven! i felt particularly interested for this poor lunatic, both as my countryman, and the victim of by far the most fearful tyranny that man can exercise on man. against all other injury it is not difficult to believe that a steadfast spirit can arm itself and say with hamlet, "i do not set my life at a pin's fee." but against this, it were a vain boast to add, "and for my soul, what can it do to that, being a thing immortal as itself?" for, alas! it is that very immortality which gives hope, comfort, and strength under every other persecution that paralyses the sufferer under this, and arms with such horrid strength the blasphemous wretch who teaches him to turn in terror from his god. m. voisin told me that this unfortunate young man had been for some time daily becoming more calm and tranquil, and that he entertained not any doubt of his ultimate recovery. excepting this my poor countryman, the only patient i saw whose situation it was particularly painful to contemplate was a young girl who had only arrived the preceding day. there was in her eyes a restless, anxious, agitated manner of looking about on all things, and gathering a distinct idea from none--a vague uncertainty as to where she was, not felt with sufficient strength to amount to wonder, but enough to rob her of all the feeling of repose which belongs to home. poor girl! perhaps some faltering, unfixable thought brought at intervals the figure of her mother to her; for as i looked at her pale face, its vacant expression received more than once a sad but passing gleam of melancholy meaning. she coughed frequently; but the cough seemed affected,--or rather, it appeared to be an effort not so much required by her lungs, as by the need of some change, some relief--she knew not what, nor where nor how to seek it. she appeared very desirous of shaking off the attendance of a woman who was waiting upon her, and her whole manner indicated a sort of fretful unrest that it made one wretched to contemplate. but here again i was comforted by the assurance that there were no symptoms which forbade hope of recovery. i remember being told, when visiting the lunatic asylum near new york, that the most frequent causes of insanity were ascertained to be religion and drunkenness. near paris i find that love, high play, and politics are considered as the principal causes of this calamity; and certainly nothing can be more accordant with what observation would teach one to expect than both these statements. at new york the physician told me that madness arising from excessive drinking admitted, in the great majority of cases, of a perfect cure; but that religious aberration of intellect was much more enduring. at paris i have heard the same; for here also it occasionally happens, though not often, that the reason becomes disturbed by repeated and frequent intoxication: but where either politics or love has taken such hold of the mind as to disturb the reasoning power, the recovery is less certain and more slow. dr. voisin told me that he uniformly found the first symptoms of insanity appear in the wavering, indifferent, and altered state of the affections towards relations and friends;--apathy, coldness, and, in some cases, dislike, and even violent antipathy, being sure to appear, wherever previous attachment had been the most remarkable. they sometimes, but not very often, take capricious fits of fondness for strangers; but never with any show of reason, and never for any length of time. the most certain symptom of an approach towards recovery is when the heart appears to be re-awakened to its natural feelings and old attachments. there was one old lady that i watched eating her dinner of vegetables and fruit at a little table in one of the gardens, who had adorned her bonnet with innumerable scraps of trumpery, and set it on her head with the most studied and coquettish air imaginable: she fed herself with the grace or grimace of a young beauty, eating grapes of a guinea a pound, from a plate of crystal, with a golden fork. i am sure she was enjoying all the happiness of feeling herself beautiful, elegant, and admired: and when i looked at the wrinkled ruin of her once handsome face, i could hardly think her madness a misfortune; for though i did not obtain any pitiful story concerning her, or any history of the cause which brought her there, i felt sure that it must in some way or other be connected with some feeling of deeply-mortified vanity: and if i am right in my conjecture, what has the world left for her equal in consolation to the wild fancies which now shed such simpering complacency over her countenance? and might we not exclaim for her in all kindness-- "let but the cheat endure!--she asks not aught beside?" what was passing in this poor old head, it was easy enough to guess--wild as it was, and wide from the truth. but there was another, which, though i studied it as long as i could possibly contrive to do so, wholly baffled me; and yet i would have given much to know what thoughts were flitting through that young brain. she was a young girl, extremely pretty, with coal-black hair and eyes, and seated, quite apart from all, upon a pleasant shady bench in one of the gardens. her face was like a fair landscape, over which passes cloud and sunshine in rapid succession: for one moment she smiled, and the next seemed preparing to weep; but before a tear could fall, her fine teeth were again displayed in an unmeaning smile. o, what could be the fleeting visions formed that worked her fancy thus? could it be memory? or was the fitful emotion caused by the galloping vagaries of an imagination which outstripped the power of reason to follow it? or was it none of this, but a mere meaningless movement of the muscles, that worked in idle mockery of the intellect that used to govern them? i have sometimes thought it very strange that people should feel such deep delight in watching on the stage the representation of the utmost extremity of human woe that the mind of man can contrive to place before them; and i have wondered more, much more, at the gathering together of thousands and tens of thousands, whenever the law has doomed that some wretched soul should be separated by the hand of man from the body in which it has sinned: but i doubt if my own intense interest in watching poor human nature when deprived of reason is not stranger still. i can in no way account for it; but so it is. i can never withdraw myself from the contemplation of a maniac without reluctance; and yet i am always conscious of painful feelings as long as it lasts, and perfectly sure that i shall be followed by more painful feelings still when it is over. it is certain, however, that the comfort, the tenderness, the care, so evident in every part of the establishment at vanves, render the contemplation of insanity there less painful than i ever found it elsewhere; and when i saw the air of healthy physical enjoyment (at least) with which a large number of the patients prepared to take their pastime, during their hours of exercise, each according to his taste or whim, amid the ample space and well-chosen accessories prepared for them, i could not but wish that every retreat fitted up for the reception of this unfortunate portion of the human race could be arranged on the same plan and governed by the same principles. letter xxxiv. riot at the porte st. martin.--prevented by a shower of rain.--the mob in fine weather.--how to stop emeutes.--army of italy.--théâtre français.--mademoiselle mars in henriette.--disappearance of comedy. though paris is really as quiet at present as any great city can possibly be, still we continue to be told regularly every morning, "qu'il y avait une émeute hier soir à la porte st. martin." but i do assure you that these are very harmless little pastimes; and though it seldom happens that the mysterious hour of revolution-hatching passes by without some arrest taking place, the parties are always liberated the next morning; it having appeared clearly at every examination that the juvenile aggressors, who are seldom above twenty years of age, are as harmless as a set of croaking bull-frogs on the banks of the wabash. the continually repeated mention, however, of these nightly meetings, induced two gentlemen of our party to go to this often-named porte st. martin a few nights ago, in hopes of witnessing the humours of one of these small riotings. but on arriving at the spot they found it perfectly tranquil--everything wore the proper stillness of an orderly and well-protected night. a few military were, however, hovering near the spot; and of these they made inquiry as to the cause of a repose so unlike what was usually supposed to be the state of this celebrated quarter of the town. "mais ne voyez-vous pas que l'eau tombe, messieurs?" said the national guard stationed there: "c'est bien assez pour refroidir le feu de nos républicains. s'il fait beau demain soir, messieurs, nous aurons encore notre petit spectacle." determined to know whether there was any truth in these histories or not, and half suspecting that the whole thing, as well as the assurance of the civil _militaire_ to boot, was neither more nor less than a hoax, they last night, the weather being remarkably fine, again attempted the adventure, and with very different success. on this occasion, there was, by their description, as pretty a little riot as heart could wish. the numbers assembled were stated to be above four hundred: military, both horse and foot, were among them; pointed hats were as plenty as blackberries in september, and "banners waved without a blast" on the tottering shoulders of little ragamuffins who had been hired for two sous apiece to carry them. on this memorable evening, which has really made a figure this morning in some of the republican journals, a considerable number of the most noisy portion of the mob were arrested; but, on the whole, the military appear to have dealt very gently with them; and our friends heard many a crazy burst of artisan eloquence, which might have easily enough been construed into treason, answered with no rougher repartee than a laughing "vive le roi!" at one point, however, there was a vehement struggle before a young hero, equipped cap-à-pie à la robespierre, could be secured; and while two of the civic guard were employed in taking him, a little fellow of about ten years old, who had a banner as heavy as himself on his shoulder, and who was probably squire of the body to the prisoner, stood on tiptoe before him at the distance of a few feet, roaring "vive la république!" as loud as he could bawl. another fellow, apparently of the very lowest class, was engaged, during the whole time that the tumult lasted, in haranguing a party that he had collected round him. his arms were bare to the shoulders, and his gesticulation exceedingly violent. "nous avons des droits!" he exclaimed with great vehemence.... "nous avons des droits!... qui est-ce qui veut les nier?... nous ne démandons que la charte.... qu'ils nous donnent la charte!"... the uproar lasted about three hours, after which the crowd quietly dispersed; and it is to be hoped that they may all employ themselves honestly in their respective callings, till the next fine evening shall again bring them together in the double capacity of actors and spectators at the "petit spectacle." the constant repetition of this idle riot seems now to give little disturbance to any one; and were it not that the fines and imprisonments so constantly, and sometimes not very leniently inflicted, evidently show that they are thought worth some attention, (though, in fact, this system appears to produce no effect whatever towards checking the daring demonstrations of disaffection manifested by the rabble and their newspaper supporters,) one might deem this indifference the result of such sober confidence of strength in the government, as left them no anxiety whatever as to anything which this troublesome faction could achieve. such, i believe, is in fact the feeling of king philippe's government: nevertheless, it would certainly conduce greatly to the well-being of the people of paris, if such methods were resorted to as would effectually and at once put a stop to such disgraceful scenes. [illustration: drawn & etched by a. hervieu. porte st. martin. london, published by richard bentley, .] "liberty and order" is king philippe's motto: he could only improve it by adding "repose and quiet;" for never can he reign by any other power than that given by the hope of repose and tranquillity. the harassed nation looks to him for these blessings; and if it be disappointed, the result must be terrible. louis-philippe is neither napoleon nor charles the tenth. he has neither the inalienable rights of the one, nor the overpowering glory of the other; but should he be happy enough to discover a way of securing to this fine but strife-worn and weary country the tranquil prosperity that it now appears beginning to enjoy, he may well be considered by the french people as greater than either. bold, fearless, wise, and strong must be the hand that at the present hour can so wield the sceptre of france; and i think it may reasonably be doubted if any one could so wield it, unless its first act were to wave off to a safe distance some of the reckless spirits who are ready to lay down their lives on the scaffold--or in a gutter--or over a pan of charcoal, rather than "live peaceably in that state of life unto which it has pleased god to call them." if king louis-philippe would undertake a crusade to restore independence to italy, he might convert every traitor into a hero. let him address the army raised for the purpose in the same inspiring words that napoleon used of yore. "soldats!... partons! rétablir le capitole.... réveiller le peuple romain engourdi par plusieurs siècles d'esclavage.... tel sera le fruit de vos victoires. vous rentrerez alors dans vos foyers, et vos concitoyens diront en vous montrant--il était de l'armée d'italie!" and then let him institute a new order, entitled "l'ordre impérial de la redingote grise," or "l'ordre indomptable des bras croisés," and accord to every man the right of admission to it, with the honour to boot of having an eagle embroidered on the breast of his coat if he conducted himself gallantly and like a frenchman in the field of battle, and we should soon find the porte st. martin as quiet as the autocrat's dressing-room at st. petersburg. if such an expedient as this were resorted to, there would no longer be any need of that indecent species of safety-valve by which the noxious vapour generated by the ill-disposed part of the community is now permitted to escape. it may be very great, dignified, and high-minded for a king and his ministers to laugh at treasonable caricatures and seditious pleasantries of all sorts,--but i do greatly doubt the wisdom of it. human respect is necessary for the maintenance and support of human authority; and that respect will be more profitably shown by a decent degree of general external deference, than by the most sublime kindlings of individual admiration that ever warmed the heart of a courtier. this "_avis au lecteur_" might be listened to with advantage, perhaps, in more countries than one. since i last gave you any theatrical news, we have been to see mademoiselle mars play the part of henriette in molière's exquisite comedy of "les femmes savantes;" and i really think it the most surprising exhibition i ever witnessed. having seen her in "tartuffe" and "charlotte brown" from a box in the first circle, at some distance from the stage, i imagined that the distance had a good deal to do with the effect still produced by the grace of form, movement, and toilet of this extraordinary woman. to ascertain, therefore, how much was delusion and how much was truth in the beauty i still saw or fancied, i resolved upon the desperate experiment of securing that seat in the balcony which is nearest to the stage. it was from this place that i saw her play henriette; a character deriving no aid whatever from trick or stage effect of any kind; one, too, whose charm lies wholly in simple, unaffected youthfulness: there are no flashes of wit, no startling hits either of pathos or pleasantry--nothing but youth, gentleness, modesty, and tenderness--nothing but a young girl of sixteen, rather more quiet and retiring than usual. yet this character, which seems of necessity to require youth and beauty in the performer, though little else, was personated by this miraculous old lady in a manner that not only enchanted me--being, as i am, _rococo_--but actually drew forth from the omnipotent _jeunes gens_ in the _parterre_ such clamorous rapture of applause as must, i think, have completely overset any actress less used to it than herself. is not this marvellous? how much it is to be regretted that the art of writing comedy has passed away! they have vaudevilles here--charming things in their way; and we have farces at home that certainly cannot be thought of without enjoying the gratification of a broad grin. but for comedy, where the intellect is called upon as well as the muscles, it is dead and gone. the "hunchback" is perhaps the nearest approach to it, whose birth i remember in our country, and "bertrand and raton" here; but in both cases the pleasurable excitement is produced more by the plot than the characters--more by the business of the scene than by the wit and elegance of the dialogue, except perhaps in the pretty wilfulness of julia in the second act of the "hunchback." but even here i suspect it was more the playful grace of the enchanting actress who first appeared in the part, than anything in the words "set down for her," which so delighted us. we do now and then get a new tragedy,--witness "fazio" and "rienzi;" but comedy--genuine, easy, graceful, flowing, talking comedy--is dead: i think she followed sheridan to the grave and was buried with him! but never is one so conscious of the loss, or so inclined to mourn it, as after seeing a comedy of molière's of the first order,--for his pieces should be divided into classes, like diamonds. what a burst of new enjoyment would rush over all england, or all france, if a thing like "the school for scandal" or "les femmes savantes" were to appear before them! fancy the delight of sitting to hear wit--wit that one did not know by rote, bright, sparkling, untasted as yet by any--new and fresh from the living fountain!--not coming to one in the shape of coin, already bearing the lawful stamp of ten thousand plaudits to prove it genuine, and to refuse to accept which would be treason; but as native gold, to which the touchstone of your own intellect must be applied to test its worth! shall we ever experience this? it is strange that the immense mass of material for comedy which the passing scenes of this singular epoch furnish should not be worked up by some one. molière seems not to have suffered a single passing folly to escape him. had he lived in these days, what delicious whigs, radicals, "penny-rint" kings, from our side of the water,--what tragic poets, republicans, and parvenus from his own, would he have cheered us withal! rousseau says, that when a theatre produces pieces which represent the real manners of the people, they must greatly assist those who are present at them to see and amend what is vicious or absurd in themselves, "comme on ôte devant un miroir les taches de son visage." the idea is excellent; and surely there never was a time when it would be so easy or so useful to put it in practice. would the gods but send a sheridan to england and a molière to france, we might yet live to see some of our worst misfortunes turned to jest, and, like the man choking in a quinsey, laugh ourselves into health again. letter xxxv. soirée dansante.--young ladies.--old ladies.--anecdote.--the consolations of chaperones.--flirtations.--discussion upon the variations between young married women in france and in england.--making love by deputy.--not likely to answer in england. last night we were at a ball,--or rather, i should say, a "_soirée dansante_;" for at this season, though people may dance from night to morning, there are no balls. but let it be called by what name it may, it could not have been more gay and agreeable were this the month of january instead of may. there were several english gentlemen present, who, to the great amusement of some of the company, uniformly selected their partners from among the young ladies. this may appear very natural to you; but here it is thought the most unnatural proceeding possible. to a novice in french society, there is certainly no circumstance so remarkable as the different position which the unmarried hold in the drawing-rooms of england and _les salons_ of france. with us, the prettiest things to look at, and the partners first sought for the dance, are the young girls. brilliant in the perfection of their youthful bloom, graceful and gay as young fawns in every movement of the most essentially juvenile of all exercises, and eclipsing the light elegance of their own toilet by loveliness that leaves no eyes to study its decoration,--it is they who, in spite of diamonds and of blonde, of wedded beauty or of titled grace, ever appear to be the principal actors in a ball-room. but "they manage these matters" quite otherwise "in france." unfortunately, it may sometimes happen among us, that a coquettish matron may be seen to lead the giddy waltz with more sprightliness than wisdom; but she always does it at the risk of being _mal notée_ in some way or other, more or less gravely, by almost every person present;--nay, i would by no means encourage her to be very certain that her tonish partner himself would not be better pleased to whirl round the mazy circle with one of the slight, light, sylph-like creatures he sees flying past him, than with the most fashionable married woman in london. but in paris all this is totally reversed; and, what is strange enough, you will find in both countries that the reason assigned for the difference between them arises from national attention to good morals. on entering a french ball-room, instead of seeing the youngest and loveliest part of the company occupying the most conspicuous places, surrounded by the gayest men, and dressed with the most studied and becoming elegance, you must look for the young things quite in the background, soberly and quietly attired, and almost wholly eclipsed behind the more fully-blown beauties of their married friends. it is really marvellous, considering how very much prettier a girl is at eighteen than she can possibly be some dozen years afterwards, to see how completely fashion will nevertheless have its own way, making the worse positively appear the better beauty. all that exceeding charm and fascination which is for ever and always attributed to an elegant frenchwoman, belongs wholly, solely, and altogether to her after she becomes a wife. a young french girl, "_parfaitement bien élevée_," looks ... "_parfaitement bien élevée_;" but it must be confessed, also, that she looks at the same time as if her governess (and a sharp one) were looking over her shoulder. she will be dressed, of course, with the nicest precision and most exact propriety; her corsets will forbid a wrinkle to appear in her robe, and her _friseur_ deny permission to any single hair that might wish to deviate from the station appointed for it by his stiff control. but if you would see that graceful perfection of the toilet, that unrivalled _agacerie_ of costume which distinguishes a french woman from all others in the world, you must turn from mademoiselle to madame. the very sound of the voice, too, is different. it should seem as if the heart and soul of a french girl were asleep, or at least dozing, till the ceremony of marriage awakened them. as long as it is mademoiselle who speaks, there is something monotonous, dull, and uninteresting in the tone, or rather in the tune, of her voice; but when madame addresses you, all the charm that manner, cadence, accent can bestow, is sure to greet you. in england, on the contrary, of all the charms peculiar to youthful loveliness, i know none so remarkable as the unconstrained, fresh, natural, sweet, and joyous sound of a young girl's voice. it is as delicious as the note of the lark, when rising in the first freshness of morning to meet the sun. it is not restrained, held in, and checked into tameness by any fear lest it should too early show its syren power. even in the dance itself, the very arena for the display of youthful gracefulness, the young french girl fails, when her well-taught steps are compared with the easy, careless, fascinating movements of the married woman. in the simple kindness of manner too, which, if there were no other attraction, would ever suffice to render an unaffected, good-natured young girl charming, there must be here a cautious restraint. a _demoiselle française_ would be prevented by _bienséance_ from showing it, were she the gentlest-hearted creature breathing. a young englishman of my acquaintance, who, though he had been a good deal in french society, was not initiated into the mysteries of female education, recounted to me the other day an adventure of his, which is german to the matter, though not having much to do with our last night's ball. this young man had for a long time been very kindly received in a french family, had repeatedly dined with them, and, in fact, considered himself as admitted to their house on the footing of an intimate friend. the only child of this family was a daughter, rather pretty, but cold, silent, and repulsive in manner--almost awkward, and utterly uninteresting. every attempt to draw her into conversation had ever proved abortive; and though often in her company, the englishman hardly thought she could consider him as an acquaintance. the young man returned to england; but, after some months, again revisited paris. while standing one day in earnest contemplation of a picture at the louvre, he was startled at being suddenly addressed by an extremely beautiful woman, who in the kindest and most friendly manner imaginable asked him a multitude of questions--made a thousand inquiries after his health--invited him earnestly to come and see her, and concluded by exclaiming--"mais c'est un siècle depuis que je vous ai vu." my friend stood gazing at her with equal admiration and surprise. he began to remember that he had seen her before, but when or where he knew not. she saw his embarrassment and smiled. "vous m'avez oublié donc?" said she. "je m'appelle eglé de p----.... mais je suis mariée...." but to return to our ball. as i saw the married women taken out to dance one after the another, till at last there was not a single dancing-looking man left, i felt myself getting positively angry; for, notwithstanding the assistance given by my ignorant countrymen, there were still at least half a dozen french girls unprovided with chevaliers. they did not, however, look by many degrees so sadly disappointed as english girls would do did the same misfortune betide them. they, like the poor eels, were used to it; and the gentlemen, too, were cruelly used to the task of torture,--making their pretty little feet beat time upon the floor, while they watched the happy wedded in pairs--not wedded pairs--swim before their eyes in mazes which they would most gladly have threaded after them. when at length all the married ladies, young and old, were duly provided for, several staid and very respectable-looking gentlemen emerged from corners and sofas, and presenting themselves to the young expectants, were accepted with quiet, grateful smiles, and permitted to lead them to the dance. old ladies like myself, whose fate attaches them to the walls of a ball-room, are accustomed to find their consolation and amusement from various sources. first, they enjoy such conversation as they can catch; or, if they will sit tolerably silent, they may often hear the prettiest airs of the season exceedingly well played. then the whole arena of twinkling feet is open to their criticism and admiration. another consolation, and frequently a very substantial one, is found in the supper;--nay, sometimes a passing ice will be caught to cheer the weary watcher. but there is another species of amusement, the general avowal of which might lead the younger part of the civilized world to wish that old ladies wore blinkers: i allude to the quiet contemplation of half a dozen sly flirtations that may be going on around them,--some so well managed! ... some so clumsily! but upon all these occasions, in england, though well-behaved old ladies will always take especial care not so to see that their seeing shall be seen, they still look about them with no feeling of restraint--no consciousness that they would rather be anywhere else than spectators of what is going forward near them. they feel, at least i am sure i do, a very comfortable assurance that the fair one is engaged, not in marring, but in making her fortune. here again i may quote the often-quoted, and say, "they manage all these matters differently at least, if not better, in france." in england, if a woman is seen going through all the manoeuvres of the flirting exercise, from the first animating reception of the "how d'ye do?" to the last soft consciousness which fixes the eyes immovably on the floor, while the head, gently inclined, seems willing to indulge the happy ear in receiving intoxicating draughts of _parfait amour_,--when this is seen in england, even should the lady be past eighteen, one feels assured that she is not married; but here, without scandal or the shadow of scandal be it spoken, one feels equally well assured that she is. she may be a widow--or she may flirt in the innocence of her heart, because it is the fashion; but she cannot do it, because she is a young lady intending to be married. i was deeply engaged in these speculations last night, when an elderly lady--who for some reason or other, not very easy to divine, actually never waltzes--came across the room and placed herself by my side. though she does not waltz, she is a very charming person; and as i had often conversed with her before, i now welcomed her approach with great pleasure. "a quoi pensez-vous, madame trollope?" said she: "vous avez l'air de méditer." i deliberated for a moment whether i should venture to tell her exactly what was passing in my mind; but as i deliberated, i looked at her, and there was that in her countenance which assured me i should have no severity to fear if i put her wholly in my confidence: i therefore replied very frankly,-- "i am meditating; and it is on the position which unmarried women hold in france." "unmarried women?... you will scarcely find any such in france," said she. "are not those young ladies who have just finished their quadrille unmarried?" "ah!... but you cannot call them unmarried women. _elles sont des demoiselles._" "well, then, my meditations were concerning them." "eh bien...." "eh bien.... it appears to me that the ball is not given--that the music does not play--that the gentlemen are not _empressé_, for them." "no, certainly. it would be quite contrary to our ideas of what is right if it were so." "with us it is so different!... it is always the young ladies who are, at least, the ostensible heroines of every ball-room." "the ostensible heroines?"... she dwelt rather strongly upon the adjective, adding with a smile,--"our ostensible, are our real heroines upon these occasions." i explained. "the real heroines," said i, "will, i confess, in cases of ostentation and display, be sometimes the ladies who give balls in return." "well explained," said she, laughing: "i certainly thought you had another meaning. you think, then," she continued, "that our young married women are made of too much importance among us?" "oh no!" i replied eagerly: "it is, in my opinion, almost impossible to make them of too much importance; for i believe that it is entirely upon their influence that the tone of society depends." "you are quite right. it is impossible for those who have lived as long as we have in the world to doubt it: but how can this be, if, upon the occasions which bring people together, they are to be overlooked, while young girls who have as yet no position fixed are brought forward instead?" "but surely, being brought forward to dance in a waltz or quadrille, is not the sort of consequence which we either of us mean?" "perhaps not; but it is one of its necessary results. our women marry young,--as soon, in fact, as their education is finished, and before they have been permitted to enter the world, or share in the pleasures of it. their destiny, therefore, instead of being the brightest that any women enjoy, would be the most _triste_, were they forbidden to enter into the amusements so natural to their age and national character, because they were married." "but may there not be danger in the custom which throws young females, thus early and irrevocably engaged, for the first time into the society, and, as it were, upon the attentions of men whom it has already become their duty not to consider as too amiable?" "oh no!... if a young woman be well-disposed, it is not a quadrille, or a waltz either, that will lead her astray. if it could, it would surely be the duty of all the legislators of the earth to forbid the exercise for ever." "no, no, no!" said i earnestly; "i mean nothing of the kind, i assure you: on the contrary, i am so convinced, from the recollections of my own feelings, and my observations on those of others, that dancing is not a fictitious, but a real, natural source of enjoyment, the inclination for which is inherent in us, that, instead of wishing it to be forbidden, i would, had i the power, make it infinitely more general and of more frequent occurrence than it is: young people should never meet each other without the power of dancing if they wished it." "and from this animating pleasure, for which you confess that there is a sort of _besoin_ within us, you would exclude all the young women above seventeen--because they are married?... poor things!... instead of finding them so willing as they generally are to enter on the busy scenes of life, i think we should have great difficulty in getting their permission to _monter un ménage_ for them. marriage would be soon held in abhorrence if such were its laws." "i would not have them such, i assure you," replied i, rather at a loss how to explain myself fully without saying something that might either be construed into coarseness of thinking and a cruel misdoubting of innocence, or else into a very uncivil attack upon the national manners: i was therefore silent. my companion seemed to expect that i should proceed, but after a short interval resumed the conversation by saying,--"then what arrangement would you propose, to reconcile the necessity of dancing with the propriety of keeping married women out of the danger which you seem to imagine might arise from it?" "it would be too national were i to reply, that i think our mode of proceeding in this case is exactly what it ought to be." "but such is your opinion?" "to speak sincerely, i believe it is." "will you then have the kindness to explain to me the difference in this respect between france and england?" "the only difference between us which i mean to advocate is, that with us the amusement which throws young people together under circumstances the most likely, perhaps, to elicit expressions of gallantry and admiration from the men, and a gracious reception of them from the women, is considered as befitting the single rather than the married part of the community." "with us, indeed, it is exactly the reverse," replied she,--"at least as respects the young ladies. by addressing the idle, unmeaning gallantry inspired by the dance to a young girl, we should deem the cautious delicacy of restraint in which she is enshrined transgressed and broken in upon. a young girl should be given to her husband before her passions have been awakened or her imagination excited by the voice of gallantry." "but when she is given to him, do you think this process more desirable than before?" "certainly it is not desirable; but it is infinitely less dangerous. when a girl is first married, her feelings, her thoughts, her imagination are wholly occupied by her husband. her mode of education has ensured this; and afterwards, it is at the choice of her husband whether he will secure and retain her young heart for himself. if he does this, it is not a waltz or quadrille that will rob him of it. in no country have husbands so little reason to complain of their wives as in france; for in no country does the manner in which they live with them depend so wholly on themselves. with you, if your novels, and even the strange trials made public to all the world by your newspapers, may be trusted, the very reverse is the case. previous attachments--early affection broken off before the marriage, to be renewed after it--these are the histories we hear and read; and most assuredly they do not tempt us to adopt your system as an amendment upon our own." "the very notoriety of the cases to which you allude proves their rare occurrence," replied i. "such sad histories would have but little interest for the public, either as tales or trials, if they did not relate circumstances marked and apart from ordinary life." "assuredly. but you will allow also that, however rare they may be in england, such records of scandal and of shame are rarer still in france?" "occurrences of the kind do not perhaps produce so much sensation here," said i. "because they are more common, you would say. is not that your meaning?" and she smiled reproachfully. "it certainly was not my meaning to say so," i replied; "and, in truth, it is neither a useful nor a gracious occupation to examine on which side the channel the greater proportion of virtue may be found; though it is possible some good might be done on both, were the education in each country to be modified by the introduction of what is best in the other." "i have no doubt of it," said she; "and as we go on exchanging fashions so amicably, who knows but we may live to see your young ladies shut up a little more, while their mothers and fathers look out for a suitable marriage for them, instead of inflicting the awkward task upon themselves? and in return, perhaps, our young wives may lay aside their little coquetries and become _mères respectables_ somewhat earlier than they do now. but, in truth, they all come to it at last." as she finished speaking these words, a new waltz sounded, and again a dozen couples, some ill, some well matched, swam past us. one of the pairs was composed of a very fine-looking young man, with blue-black _favoris_ and _moustaches_, tall as a tower, and seeming, if air and expression may be trusted, very tolerably well pleased with himself. his _danseuse_ might unquestionably have addressed her husband, who sat at no great distance from us, drawing up his gouty feet under his chair to let her pass, in these touching words:-- "full thirty times hath phoebus' cart gone round neptune's salt wash and tellus' orbed ground, and thirty dozen moons, with borrow'd sheen, about the world have times twelve thirties been, since love our hearts and hymen did our hands unite commutual in most sacred bands." my neighbour and i looked up and exchanged glances as they went by. we both laughed. "at least you will allow," said she, "that this is one of the cases in which a married lady may indulge her passion for the dance without danger of consequences?" "i am not quite sure of that," replied i. "if she be not found guilty of sin, she will scarcely obtain a verdict that shall acquit her of folly. but what can induce that magnificent personage, who looks down upon her as if engaged in measuring the distance between them--what could induce him to request the honour of enclosing her venerable waist in his arm?" "nothing more easily explained. that little fair girl sitting in yonder corner, with her hair so tightly drawn off her forehead, is her daughter--her only daughter, and will have a noble _dot_. now you understand it?... and tell me, in case his speculation should not succeed, is it not better that this excellent lady, who waltzes so very like a duck, should receive all the eloquence with which he will seek to render himself amiable, upon her time-steeled heart, than that the delicate little girl herself should have to listen to it?" "and you really would recommend us to adopt this mode of love-making by deputy, letting the mamma be the substitute, till the young lady has obtained a brevet to listen to the language of love in her own person? however excellent the scheme may be, dear lady, it is vain to hope that we shall ever be able to introduce it among us. the young ladies, i suspect, would exclaim, as you do here, when explaining why you cannot permit any english innovations among you, "ce n'est pas dans nos moeurs." * * * * * i assure you, my friend, that i have not composed this conversation _à loisir_ for your amusement, for i have set down as nearly as possible what was said to me, though i have not quite given it all to you; but my letter is already long enough. letter xxxvi. improvements of paris.--introduction of carpets and trottoirs.--maisonnettes.--not likely to answer in paris.--the necessity of a porter and porter's lodge.--comparative expenses of france and england.--increasing wealth of the bourgeoisie. among the many recent improvements in paris which evidently owe their origin to england, those which strike the eye first, are the almost universal introduction of carpets within doors, and the frequent blessing of a _trottoir_ without. in a few years, unless all paving-stones should be torn up in search of more immortality, there can be no doubt that it will be almost as easy to walk in paris as in london. it is true that the old streets are not quite wide enough to admit such enormous esplanades on each side as regent and oxford streets; but all that is necessary to safety and comfort may be obtained with less expense of space; and to those who knew paris a dozen years ago, when one had to hop from stone to stone in the fond hope of escaping wet shoes in the dog-days--tormented too during the whole of this anxious process with the terror of being run over by carts, fiacres, concous, cabs, and wheelbarrows;--whoever remembers what it was to walk in paris then, will bless with an humble and grateful spirit the dear little pavement which, with the exception of necessary intervals to admit of an approach to the portes-cochère of the various _hôtels_, and a few short intervals beside, which appear to have been passed over and forgotten, borders most of the principal streets of paris now. another english innovation, infinitely more important in all ways, has been attempted, and has failed. this was the endeavour to introduce _maisonnettes_, or small houses calculated for the occupation of one family. a few such have been built in that new part of the town which stretches away in all directions behind the madeleine; but they are not found to answer--and that for many reasons which i should have thought it very easy to foresee, and which i suspect it would be very difficult to obviate. in order to come at all within reach of the generality of french incomes, they must be built on too small a scale to have any good rooms; and this is a luxury, and permits a species of display, to which many are accustomed who live in unfurnished apartments, for which they give perhaps fifteen hundred or two thousand francs a year. another accommodation which habit has made it extremely difficult for french families to dispense with, and which can be enjoyed at an easy price only by sharing it with many, is a porter and a porter's lodge. active as is the race of domestic servants in paris, their number must, i think, be doubled in many families, were the arrangement of the porter's lodge to be changed for our system of having a servant summoned every time a parcel, a message, a letter, or a visit arrives at the house. nor does the taking charge of these by any means comprise the whole duty of this servant of many masters; neither am i at all competent to say exactly what does: but it seems to me that the answer i generally receive upon desiring that anything may be done is, "oui, madame, le portier ou la portière fera cela;" and were we suddenly deprived of these factotums, i suspect that we should be immediately obliged to leave our apartments and take refuge in an hôtel, for i should be quite at a loss to know what or how many additional "helps" would be necessary to enable us to exist without them. that the whole style and manner of domestic existence throughout all the middling classes of such a city as paris should hang upon their porters' lodges, seems tracing great effects to little causes; but i have been so repeatedly told that the failure of the _maisonnettes_ has in a great degree arisen from this, that i cannot doubt it. i know not whether anything which prevents their so completely changing their mode of life as they must do if living in separate houses, is to be considered as an evil or not. the parisians are a very agreeable, and apparently a very happy population; and who can say what effect the quiet, steady, orderly mode of each man having a small house of his own might produce? what is admirable as a component part of one character, is often incongruous and disagreeable when met in another; and i am by no means certain if the snug little mansion which might be procured for the same rent as a handsome apartment, would not tend to circumscribe and tame down the light spirits that now send _locataires_ of threescore springing to their elegant _premier_ by two stairs at a time. and the prettiest and best _chaussés_ little feet in the world too, which now trip _sans souci_ over the common stair, would they not lag painfully perhaps in passing through a low-browed hall, whose neatness or unneatness had become a private and individual concern? and might not many a bright fancy be damped while calculating how much it would cost to have a few statues and oleanders in it?--and the head set aching by meditating how to get "ce vilain escalier frotté" from top to bottom? yet all these, and many other cares which they now escape, must fall upon them if they give up their apartments for _maisonnettes_. the fact, i believe, is, that french fortunes, taken at the average at which they at present stand, could not suffice to procure the pretty elegance to which the middle classes are accustomed, unless it were done by the sacrifice of some portion of that costly fastidiousness which english people of the same rank seem to cling to as part of their prerogative. though i am by no means prepared to say that i should like to exchange my long-confirmed habit of living in a house of my own for the parisian mode of inhabiting apartments, i cannot but allow that by this and sundry other arrangements a french income is made to contribute infinitely more to the enjoyment of its possessor than an english one. let any english person take the trouble of calculating, let their revenue be great or small, how much of it is expended in what immediately contributes to their personal comfort and luxury, and how much of it is devoted to the support of expenses which in point of fact add to neither, and the truth of this statement will become evident. rousseau says, that "cela se fait," and "cela ne se fait pas," are the words which regulate everything that goes on within the walls of paris. that the same words have at least equal power in london, can hardly be denied; and, unfortunately for our individual independence, obedience to them costs infinitely more on our side of the water than it does on this. hundreds are annually spent, out of very confined incomes, to support expenses which have nothing whatever to do with the personal enjoyment of those who so tax themselves; but it must be submitted to, because "cela se fait," or "cela ne se fait pas." in paris, on the contrary, this imperative phrase has comparatively no influence on the expenditure of any revenue, because every one's object is not to make it appear that he is as rich as his neighbour, but to make his means, be they great or small, contribute as much as possible to the enjoyment and embellishment of his existence. it is for this reason that a residence in paris is found so favourable an expedient in cases of diminished or insufficient fortune. a family coming hither in the hope of obtaining the mere necessaries of life at a much cheaper rate than in england would be greatly disappointed: some articles are cheaper, but many are considerably dearer; and, in truth, i doubt if at the present moment anything that can be strictly denominated a necessary of life is to be found cheaper in paris than in london. it is not the necessaries, but the luxuries of life that are cheaper here. wine, ornamental furniture, the keep of horses, the price of carriages, the entrance to theatres, wax-lights, fruit, books, the rent of handsome apartments, the wages of men-servants, are all greatly cheaper, and direct taxes greatly less. but even this is not the chief reason why a residence in paris may be found economical to persons of any pretension to rank or style at home. the necessity for parade, so much the most costly of all the appendages to rank, may here be greatly dispensed with, and that without any degradation whatever. in short, the advantage of living in paris as a matter of economy depends entirely upon the degree of luxury to be obtained. there are certainly many points of delicacy and refinement in the english manner of living which i should be very sorry to see given up as national peculiarities; but i think we should gain much in many ways could we learn to hang our consequence less upon the comparison of what others do. we shudder at the cruel madness of the tyrant who would force every form to reach one standard; but those are hardly less mad who insist that every one, to live _comme il faut_, must live, or appear to live, exactly as others do, though the means of doing so may vary among the silly set so prescribed to, from an income that may justify any extravagance to one that can honestly supply none. this is a folly of incalculably rarer occurrence here than in england; and it certainly is no proof of the good sense of our "most thinking people," that for one private family brought to ruin by extravagance in france, there are fifty who suffer from this cause in england. it is easy to perceive that our great wealth has been the cause of this. the general scale of expense has been set so high, that thousands who have lived in reference to that, rather than to their individual fortunes, have been ruined by the blunder; and i really know no remedy so likely to cure the evil as a residence in paris; not, however, so much as a means of saving money, as of making a series of experiments which may teach them how to make the best and most enjoyable use of it. i am persuaded, that if it were to become as much the fashion to imitate the french independence of mind in our style of living, as it now is to copy them in ragoûts, bonnets, moustaches, and or-molu, we should greatly increase our stock of real genuine enjoyment. if no english lady should ever again feel a pang at her heart because she saw more tall footmen in her neighbour's hall than in her own--if no sighs were breathed in secret in any club-house or at any sale, because jack somebody's stud was a cut above us--if no bills were run up at gunter's, or at howell and james's, because it was worse than death to be outdone,--we should unquestionably be a happier and a more respectable people than we are at present. it is, i believe, pretty generally acknowledged by all parties, that the citizens of france have become a more money-getting generation since the last revolution than they ever were before it. the security and repose which the new dynasty seems to have brought with it, have already given them time and opportunity to multiply their capital; and the consequence is, that the shop-keeping propensities with which napoleon used to reproach us have crossed the channel, and are beginning to produce very considerable alterations here. it is evident that the wealth of the _bourgeoisie_ is rapidly increasing, and their consequence with it; so rapidly, indeed, that the republicans are taking fright at it,--they see before them a new enemy, and begin to talk of the abominations of an aristocratic _bourgeoisie_. there is, in fact, no circumstance in the whole aspect of the country more striking or more favourable than this new and powerful impulse given to trade. it is the best ballast that the vessel of the state can have; and if they can but contrive that nothing shall happen to occasion its being thrown overboard, it may suffice to keep her steady, whatever winds may blow. the wide-spreading effect of this increasing wealth among the _bourgeoisie_ is visible in many ways, but in none more than in the rapid increase of handsome dwellings, which are springing up, as white and bright as new-born mushrooms, in the north-western division of paris. this is quite a new world, and reminds me of the early days of russell square, and all the region about it. the church of the madeleine, instead of being, as i formerly remember it, nearly at the extremity of paris, has now a new city behind it; and if things go on at the same rate at which they seem to be advancing at present, we shall see it, or at least our children will, occupying as central a position as st. martin's-in-the-fields. an excellent market, called marché de la madeleine, has already found its way to this new town; and i doubt not that churches, theatres, and restaurans innumerable will speedily follow. the capital which is now going so merrily on, increasing with almost american rapidity, will soon ask to be invested; and when this happens, paris will be seen running out of town with the same active pace that london has done before her; and twenty years hence the bois de boulogne may very likely be as thickly peopled as the regent's park is now. this sudden accession of wealth has already become the cause of a great increase in the price of almost every article sold in paris; and if this activity of commerce continue, it is more than probable, that the hitherto moderate fortunes of the parisian _boursier_ and merchant will grow into something resembling the colossal capitals of england, and we shall find that the same causes which have hitherto made england dear will in future prevent france from being cheap. it will then happen, that many deficiencies which are now perceptible, and which furnish the most remarkable points of difference between the two countries, will disappear; great wealth being in many instances all that is required to make a french family live very much like an english one. whether they will not, when this time arrives, lose on the side of unostentatious enjoyment more than they will gain by increased splendour, may, i think, be very doubtful. for my own part, i am decidedly of opinion, that as soon as heavy ceremonious dinners shall systematically take place of the present easy, unexpensive style of visiting, paris will be more than half spoiled, and the english may make up their minds to remain proudly and pompously at home, lest, instead of a light and lively contrast to their own ways, they may chance to find a heavy but successful rivalry. letter xxxvii. horrible murder.--la morgue.--suicides.--vanity.--anecdote. --influence of modern literature.--different appearance of poverty in france and england. we have been made positively sick and miserable by the details of a murder, which seems to show that we live in a world where there are creatures ten thousand times more savage than any beast that ranges the forest, "be it ounce, or cat, or bear, pard, or boar with bristled hair." this horror was perpetrated on the person of a wretched female, who appeared, by the mangled remains which were found in the river, to have been very young. but though thus much was discovered, it was many days ere, among the thousands who flocked to the morgue to look at the severed head and mangled limbs, any one could be found to recognise the features. at length, however, the person with whom she had lodged came to see if she could trace any resemblance between her lost inmate and these wretched relics of a human being. she so far succeeded as to convince herself of the identity; though her means of judging appeared to be so little satisfactory, that few placed any reliance upon her testimony. nevertheless, she at length succeeded in having a man taken up, who had lived on intimate terms with the poor creature whose sudden disappearance had induced this woman to visit the morgue when the description of this mangled body reached her. he immediately confessed the deed, in the spirit, though not in the words, of the poet:-- "mourons: de tant d'horreurs qu'un trépas me délivre! est-ce un malheur si grand que de cesser de vivre? * * * * * je ne crains pas le nom que je laisse après moi." the peculiarly horrid manner in which the crime was committed, and the audacious style in which the criminal appears to brave justice, will, it is thought, prevent any _extenuating circumstances_ being pleaded, as is usually done, for the purpose of commuting the punishment of death into imprisonment with enforced labour. it is generally expected that this atrocious murderer will be guillotined, notwithstanding the averseness of the government to capital punishment. the circumstances are, indeed, hideous in all ways, and the more so from being mixed up with what is miscalled the tender passion. the cannibal fury which sets a man to kill his foe that he may eat him, has fully as much tenderness in it as this species of affection. when "the passion is made up of nothing but the finest parts of love," it may, perhaps, deserve the epithet of tender; but we have heard of late of so many horrible and deliberate assassinations, originating in what newspapers are pleased to call "_une grande passion_" that the first idea which a love-story now suggests to me is, that the sequel will in all probability be murder "most foul, strange, and unnatural!" is there in any language a word that can raise so many shuddering sensations as "_la morgue_?" hatred, revenge, murder, are each terrible; but la morgue outdoes them all in its power of bringing together in one syllable the abstract of whatever is most appalling in crime, poverty, despair, and death. to the ghastly morgue are conveyed the unowned dead of every description that are discovered in or near paris. the seine is the great receptacle which first receives the victims of assassination or despair; but they are not long permitted to elude the vigilance of the parisian police: a huge net, stretched across the river at st. cloud, receives and retains whatever the stream brings down; and anything that retains a trace of human form which is found amidst the product of the fearful draught is daily conveyed to la morgue;--daily; for rarely does it chance that for four-and-twenty hours its melancholy biers remain unoccupied; often do eight, ten, a dozen corpses at a time arrive by the frightful caravan from "_les filets de st. cloud_." i have, in common with most people, i believe, a very strong propensity within me for seeing everything connected directly or indirectly with any subject or event which has strongly roused my curiosity, or interested my feelings; but, strange to say, i never feel its influence so irresistible as when something of shuddering horror is mixed with the spectacle. it is this propensity which has now induced me to visit this citadel of death;--this low and solitary roof, placed in the very centre of moving, living, laughing paris. no visit to a tomb, however solemn or however sad, can approach in thrilling horror to the sensation caused by passing the threshold of this charnel-house. the tomb calls us to the contemplation of the common, the inevitable lot; but this gathering place of sin and death arouses thoughts of all that most outrages nature, and most foully violates the sanctuary of life, into which god has breathed his spirit. but i was steadfast in my will to visit it, and i have done it. the building is a low, square, carefully-whited structure, situated on the quai de la cité. it is open to all; and it is fearful to think how many anxious hearts have entered, how many despairing ones have quitted it. on entering i found myself in a sort of low hall which contained no object whatever. if i mistake not, there is a chamber on each side of it: but it was to the left hand that i was led, and it was thither that about a dozen persons who entered at the same time either followed or preceded me. i do not too well remember how i reached the place where the bodies are visible; but i know that i stood before one of three large windows, through the panes of which, and very near to them, lighted also by windows in the roof, are seen a range of biers, sloping towards the spectator at an angle that gives the countenance as well as the whole figure of the persons extended on them fully to view. in this manner i saw the bodies of four men stretched out before me; but their aspect bore no resemblance to death--neither were they swollen or distorted in any way, but so discoloured as to give them exactly the appearance of bronze statues. two out of the four had evidently been murdered, for their heads and throats gave frightful evidence of the violence that had been practised upon them; the third was a mere boy, who probably met his fate by accident: but that the fourth was a suicide, it was hardly possible to doubt; even in death his features held the desperate expression that might best paint the state of mind likely to lead to such an act. it was past mid-day when we entered the morgue; but neither of the bodies had yet been claimed or recognised. this spectacle naturally set me upon seeking information, wherever i was likely to find it, respecting the average number of bodies thus exposed within the year, the proportion of them believed to be suicides, and the causes generally supposed most influential in producing this dreadful termination. i will not venture to repeat the result of these inquiries in figures, as i doubt if the information i received was of that strictly accurate kind which could justify my doing so; yet it was quite enough so, to excite both horror and astonishment at the extraordinary number which are calculated to perish annually at paris by self-slaughter. in many recent instances, the causes which have led to these desperate deeds have been ascertained by the written acknowledgment of the perpetrators themselves, left as a legacy to mankind. such a legacy might perhaps not be wholly unprofitable to the survivors, were it not that the motives assigned, in almost every instance where they have been published, have been of so frivolous and contemptible a nature as to turn wholesome horror to most ill-placed mirth. it can hardly be doubted, from the testimony of these singular documents, that many young frenchmen perish yearly in this guilty and deplorable manner for no other reason in the world than the hope of being talked of afterwards. had some solitary instance of so perverted a vanity been found among these records, it might perhaps have been considered as no more incredible than various other proofs of the enfeebling effects of this paltry passion on the judgment, and have been set down to insanity, produced by excessive egotism: but nothing short of the posthumous testimony of the persons themselves could induce any one to believe that scarcely a week passes without such an event, from such a cause, taking place in paris. in many instances, i am told that the good sense of surviving friends has led them to disobey the testamentary instructions left by the infatuated young men who have thus acted, requesting that the wretched reasonings which have led them to it should be published. but, in a multitude of cases, the "constitutionnel" and other journals of the same stamp have their columns filled with reasons why these poor reckless creatures have dared the distant justice of their creator, in the hope that their unmeaning names should be echoed through paris for a day. it is not long since two young men--mere youths--entered a _restaurant_, and bespoke a dinner of unusual luxury and expense, and afterwards arrived punctually at the appointed hour to eat it. they did so, apparently with all the zest of youthful appetite and youthful glee. they called for champagne, and quaffed it hand in hand. no symptom of sadness, thought, or reflection of any kind was observed to mix with their mirth, which was loud, long, and unremitting. at last came the _café noir_, the cognac, and the bill: one of them was seen to point out the amount to the other, and then both burst out afresh into violent laughter. having swallowed each his cup of coffee to the dregs, the _garçon_ was ordered to request the company of the _restaurateur_ for a few minutes. he came immediately, expecting perhaps to receive his bill, minus some extra charge which the jocund but economical youths might deem exorbitant. instead of this, however, the elder of the two informed him that the dinner had been excellent, which was the more fortunate as it was decidedly the last that either of them should ever eat: that for his bill, he must of necessity excuse the payment of it, as in fact they neither of them possessed a single sous: that upon no other occasion would they thus have violated the customary etiquette between guest and landlord; but that finding this world, its toils and its troubles, unworthy of them, they had determined once more to enjoy a repast of which their poverty must for ever prevent the repetition, and then--take leave of existence for ever! for the first part of this resolution, he declared that it had, thanks to his cook and his cellar, been achieved nobly; and for the last, it would soon follow--for the _café noir_, besides the little glass of his admirable cognac, had been medicated with that which would speedily settle all their accounts for them. the _restaurateur_ was enraged. he believed no part of the rhodomontade but that which declared their inability to discharge the bill, and he talked loudly, in his turn, of putting them into the hands of the police. at length, however, upon their offering to give him their address, he was persuaded to let them depart. on the following day, either the hope of obtaining his money, or some vague fear that they might have been in earnest in the wild tale that they had told him, induced this man to go to the address they had left with him; and he there heard that the two unhappy boys had been that morning found lying together hand in hand, on a bed hired a few weeks before by one of them. when they were discovered, they were already dead and quite cold. on a small table in the room lay many written papers, all expressing aspirations after greatness that should cost neither labour nor care, a profound contempt for those who were satisfied to live by the sweat of their brow--sundry quotations from victor hugo, and a request that their names and the manner of their death might be transmitted to the newspapers. many are the cases recorded of young men, calling themselves dear friends, who have thus encouraged each other to make their final exit from life, if not with applause, at least with effect. and more numerous still are the tales recounted of young men and women found dead, and locked in each other's arms; fulfilling literally, and with most sad seriousness, the destiny sketched so merrily in the old song:-- gai, gai, marions-nous-- mettons-nous dans la misère; gai, gai, marions-nous-- mettons-nous la corde au cou. i have heard it remarked by several individuals among those who are watching with no unphilosophical eyes many ominous features of the present time and the present race, or rather perhaps of that portion of the population which stand apart from the rest in dissolute idleness, that the worst of all its threatening indications is the reckless, hard indifference, and gladiator-like contempt of death, which is nurtured, taught, and lauded as at once the foundation and perfection of all human wisdom and of all human virtue. in place of the firmness derived from hope and resignation, these unhappy sophists seek courage in desperation, and consolation in notoriety. with this key to the philosophy of the day, it is not difficult to read its influence on many a countenance that one meets among those who are lounging in listless laziness on the boulevards or in the gardens of paris. the aspect of these figures is altogether unlike what we may too often see among those who linger, sunken, pale, and hopeless, on the benches of our parks, or loiter under porticos and colonnades, as if waiting for courage to beg. hunger and intemperance often leave blended traces on such figures as these, exciting at once pity and disgust. i have encountered at paris nothing like this: whether any such exist, i know not; but if they do, their beat is distant from the public walks and fashionable promenades. instead of these, however, there is a race who seem to live there, less wretched perhaps in actual want of bread, but as evidently thriftless, homeless, and friendless as the other. on the faces of such, one may read a state of mind wholly different,--less degraded, but still more perverted;--a wild, bold eye, that rather seeks than turns from every passing glance--unshrinking hardihood, but founded more on indifference than endurance, and a scornful sneer for any who may suffer curiosity to conquer disgust, while they fix their eye for a moment upon a figure that looks in all ways as if got up to enact the hero of a melodrame. were i the king, or the minister either, i should think it right to keep an eye of watchfulness upon all such picturesque individuals; for one might say most truly, "yon cassius hath a lean and hungry look; he thinks too much: such men are dangerous." the friend to whom i addressed myself on the subject of these constantly-recurring suicides told me that there was great reason to believe that the increase of this crime, so remarkable during the last few years, might be almost wholly attributed to the "light literature," as it is called, of the period:--dark literature would be a fitter name for it. the total absence of anything approaching to a virtuous principle of action in every fictitious character held up to admiration throughout all the tales and dramas of the _décousu_ school, while every hint of religion is banished as if it were treason to allude to it, is in truth quite enough to account for every species of depravity in those who make such characters their study and their model. "how oft and by how many shall they be laughed to scorn!"--yet believing all the while, poor souls! that they are producing a sensation, and that the eyes of europe are fixed upon them, notwithstanding they once worked as a tailor or a tinker, or at some other such unpoetical handiwork; for they may all be described in the words of ecclesiasticus, with a very slight alteration,--"they would maintain the state of the world, and all their desire is in (forgetting) the work of their craft." letter xxxviii. opéra comique.--"cheval de bronze."--"la marquise."--impossibility of playing tragedy.--mrs. siddons's readings.--mademoiselle mars has equal power.--_laisser aller_ of the female performers.--decline of theatrical taste among the fashionable. the "cheval de bronze" being the _spectacle par excellence_ at the opéra comique this season, we have considered it a matter of sight-seeing necessity to pay it a visit; and we have all agreed that it is as perfectly beautiful in its scenery and decorations as the size of the theatre would permit. we gazed upon it, indeed, with a perfection of contentment, which, in secret committee afterwards, we confessed did not say much in favour of our intellectual faculties. i really know not how it is that one can sit, not only without murmuring, but with positive satisfaction, for three hours together, with no other occupation than looking at a collection of gewgaw objects, with a most unmeaning crowd, made for the most part by nature's journeymen, incessantly undulating among them. yet so it is, that a skilful arrangement of blue and white gauze, aided by the magic of many-coloured lights, decidedly the prettiest of all modern toys, made us exclaim at every fresh manoeuvre of the carpenter, "beautiful! beautiful!" with as much delight as ever a child of five years old displayed at a first-rate exhibition of punch. m. auber's music has some pretty things in it; but he has done much better in days of yore; and the wretched taste exhibited by all the principal singers made me heartily wish that the well-appointed orchestra had kept the whole performance to themselves. madame casimir has had, and indeed still has, a rich and powerful voice: but the meanest peasant-girl in germany, who trims her vines to the sound of her native airs, might give her a lesson on taste more valuable than all that science has ever taught her. i should like, could i do so with a conscience that should not reproach me with exaggeration, to name miss stephens and madame casimir as fair national specimens of english and french singing. and in fact they are so; though i confess that the over-dressing of madame casimir's airs is almost as much out of the common way here, as the chaste simplicity of our native syren's strains is with us: yet the one is essentially english, and the other french. we were told that the manager of our london theatres had been in paris for the purpose of seeing and taking a cast from this fine chinese butterfly. if this be so, mr. bunn will find great advantage from the extent of his theatre: that of the opéra comique is scarcely of sufficient magnitude to exhibit its gaudy but graceful _tableaux_ to advantage. but, on the other hand, i doubt if he will find any actress quite so _piquante_ as the pretty madame ----, in the last act, when she relates to the enchanted princess, her mistress, the failure she had made in attempting by her _agaceries_ to retain the young female who had ventured into the magic region: and if he did, i doubt still more if her performance would be received with equal applause. a _petite comédie_ called "la marquise" preceded this brilliant trifle. the fable must, i think, be taken, though greatly changed, from a story of george sand. it has perhaps little in it worth talking about; but it is a fair specimen of one of that most agreeable of french nationalities, a natural, easy, playful little piece, at which you may sit and laugh in sympathy with the performers as much as with the characters, till you forget that there are such things as sorrow and sadness in the world. the acting in this style is so very good, that the author's task really seems to be the least important part of the business. it is not at one theatre, but at all, that we have witnessed this extraordinary excellence in the performance of this species of drama; but i doubt if the chasm which seems to surround the tragic muse, keeping her apart on a pedestal sacred to recollections, be at all wider or more profound in england than in france. in truth, it is less impassible with us than it is here; for though i will allow that our tragic actresses may be no better than those of france, seeing that a woman's will in the one case, and the atlantic ocean in the other, have robbed us of mrs. bartley and the fanny--who between them might bring our stage back to all its former glory,--still they have neither charles kemble nor macready to stand in the place that talma has left vacant. i have indeed no doubt whatever that mademoiselle mars could read corneille and racine as effectively as mrs. siddons read shakspeare in the days of argyle-street luxury, and, like our great maga, give to every part a power that it never had before. i well remember coming home from one of mrs. siddons's readings with a passionate desire to see her act the part of hamlet; and from another, quite persuaded that by some means the witch-scene in macbeth should be so arranged that she should speak every word of it. in like manner, were i to hear mars read corneille, i should insist upon it that she ought to play the cid; and if racine, oreste would probably be the first part i should choose for her. but as even she, with all her garrick-like versatility, would not be able to perform every part of every play, tragedy must be permitted to repose for the present in france as well as in england. during this interregnum, it is well for them, considering how dearly they love to amuse themselves, that they have a stock of comedians, old, young, and middle-aged, that they need not fear should fail; for the whole french nation seem gifted with a talent that might enable them to supply, at an hour's warning, any deficiencies in the company. i seldom return from an exhibition of this sort without endeavouring in some degree to analyse the charm that has enchanted me: but in most cases this is too light, too subtile, to permit itself to be caught by so matter-of-fact a process. i protest to you, that i am often half ashamed of the pleasure i receive from ... i know not what. a playful smile, a speaking glance, a comic tone, a pretty gesture, give effect to words that have often nothing in them more witty or more wise than may often be met with (especially here) in ordinary conversation. but the whole thing is so thoroughly understood, from the "_père noble_" to the scene-shifter--so perfect in its getting-up--the piece so admirably suited to the players, and the players to the piece,--that whatever there is to admire and enjoy, comes to you with no drawbacks from blunders or awkwardness of any kind. that the composition of these happy trifles cannot be a work of any great labour or difficulty, may be reasonably inferred from the ceaseless succession of novelties which every theatre and every season produces. the process, for this lively and ready-witted people, must be pleasant enough--they must catch from what passes before them; no difficult task, perhaps--some _piquante_ situation or ludicrous _bévue_: the slightest thread is strong enough to hold together the light materials of the plot; and then must follow the christening of a needful proportion of male and female, old and young, enchanting and ridiculous personages. the list of these once set down, and the order of scenes which are to bring forth the plot arranged, i can fancy the author perfectly enjoying himself as he puts into the mouth of each character all the saucy impertinences upon every subject that his imagination, skilful enough in such matters, can suggest. when to this is added an occasional touch of natural feeling, and a little popular high-mindedness in any line, the _petite comédie_ is ready for the stage. it is certainly a very light manufacture, and depends perhaps more upon the fearless _laisser aller_ of both author and actor than upon the brilliancy of wit which it displays. that old-fashioned blushing grace too, so much in favour with king solomon, and called in scripture phrase shamefacedness, is sacrificed rather too unmercifully by the female part of the performers, in the fear, as it should seem, of impairing the spirit and vivacity of the scene by any scruple of any kind. but i suspect these ladies miscalculate the respective value of opposing graces; mademoiselle mars may show them that delicacy and vivacity are not inseparable; and though i confess that it would be a little unreasonable to expect all the female vaudevillists of paris to be like mars, i cannot but think that, in a city where her mode of playing comedy has for so many years been declared perfect, it must be unnecessary to seek the power of attraction from what is so utterly at variance with it. the performance of comedy is often assisted here by a freedom among the actors which i have sometimes, but not often, seen permitted in london. it requires for its success, and indeed for its endurance, that the audience should be perfectly in good-humour, and sympathise very cordially with the business of the scene. i allude to the part which the performers sometimes take not only in the acting, but in the enjoyment of it. i never in my life saw people more heartily amused, or disposed more unceremoniously to show it, than the actors in the "précieuses ridicules," which i saw played a few nights ago at the français. on this occasion i think the spirit of the performance was certainly heightened by this license, and for this reason--the scene represents a group in which one party must of necessity be exceedingly amused by the success of the mystification which they are practising on the other. but i own that i have sometimes felt a little _english stiffness_ at perceiving an air of frolic and fun upon the stage, which seemed fully as much got up for the performers as for the audience. but though the instance i have named of this occurred at the théâtre français, it is not there that it is likely to be carried to any offensive extent. the lesser theatres would in many instances do well to copy closely the etiquette and decorum of all kinds which the great national theatre exhibits: but perhaps it is hardly fair to expect this; and besides, we might be told, justly enough, to _look at home_. the theatres, particularly the minor ones, appear to be still very well attended: but i constantly hear the same observations made in paris as in london upon the decline of theatrical taste among the higher orders; and it arises, i think, from the same cause in both countries,--namely, the late dinner-hour, which renders the going to a play a matter of general family arrangement, and often of general family difficulty. the opera, which is later, is always full; and were it not that i have lived too long in the world to be surprised at anything that the power of fashion could effect, i should certainly be astonished that so lively a people as the french should throng night after night as they do to witness the exceeding dulness of this heavy spectacle. the only people i have yet seen enjoying their theatres rationally, without abstaining from what they liked because it was unfashionable, or enduring what they did not, because it was the _mode_, are the germans. their genuine and universal love of music makes their delicious opera almost a necessary of life to them; and they must, i think, absolutely change their nature before they will suffer the silly conventional elegance supposed by some to attach to the act of eating their dinner late, to interfere with their enjoyment of it. i used to think the theatre as dear to the french as music to the germans. but what is a taste in france is, from the firmer fibre of the national character, a passion in germany;--and it is easier to abandon a taste than to control a passion. perhaps, however, in england and france too, if some new-born theatrical talent of the first class were to "flame in the forehead of the morning sky," both paris and london would submit to the degradation of dining at five o'clock in order to enjoy it: but late hours and indifferent performances, together, have gone far towards placing the stage among the popular rather than the fashionable amusements of either. letter xxxix. the abbé de lamennais.--cobbett.--o'connell.--napoleon.-- robespierre. i had last night the satisfaction of meeting the abbé de lamennais at a _soirée_. it was at the house of madame benjamin constant; whose _salon_ is as celebrated for the talent of every kind to be met there, as for the delightful talents and amiable qualities of its mistress. in general appearance, this celebrated man recalls an original drawing that i remember to have seen of rousseau. he is greatly below the ordinary height, and extremely small in his proportions. his countenance is very striking, and singularly indicative of habitual meditation; but the deep-set eye has something very nearly approaching to wildness in its rapid glance. his dress was black, but had certainly more of republican negligence than priestly dignity in it; and the little, tight, chequered cravat which encircled his slender throat, gave him decidedly the appearance of a person who heeded not either the fashion of the day, or the ordinary costume of the _salon_. he, in company with four or five other distinguished men, had dined with madame constant; and we found him deep sunk in a _bergère_ that almost concealed his diminutive person, surrounded by a knot of gentlemen, with whom he was conversing with great eagerness and animation. on one side of him was m. jouy, the well-known "_hermite_" of the chaussée d'antin; and on the other, a deputy well known on the benches of the _côté gauche_. i was placed immediately opposite to him, and have seldom watched the play of a more animated countenance. in the course of the evening, he was brought up and introduced to me. his manners are extremely gentlemanlike; no stiffness or reserve, either rustic or priestly, interfering with their easy vivacity. he immediately drew a chair _vis-à-vis_ to the sofa on which i was placed, and continued thus, with his back turned to the rest of the company, conversing very agreeably, till so many persons collected round him, many of whom were ladies, that not feeling pleased, i suppose, to sit while they stood, he bowed off, and retreated again to his _bergère_. he told me that he must not remain long in paris, where he was too much in society to do anything; that he should speedily retreat to the profound seclusion of his native brittany, and there finish the work upon which he was engaged. whether this work be the defence of the _prévenus d'avril_, which he has threatened to fulminate in a printed form at the head of those who refused to let him plead for them in court, i know not; but this document, whenever it appears, is expected to be violent, powerful, and eloquent. the writings of the abbé de lamennais remind me strongly of those of cobbett,--not, certainly, from their matter, nor even from the manner of treating it, but from the sort of effect which they produce upon the mind. had the pen of either of them been wholly devoted to the support of a good cause, their writings would have been invaluable to society; for they both have shown a singular power of carrying the attention, and almost the judgment, of the reader along with them, even when writing on subjects on which he and they were perfectly at issue. were there not circumstances in the literary history of both which contradict the notion, i should say that this species of power or charm in their writings arose from their being themselves very much in earnest in the opinions they were advocating: but as the abbé de lamennais and the late mr. cobbett have both shown that their faith in their own opinions was not strong enough to prevent them from changing them, the peculiar force of their eloquence can hardly be referred to the sincerity of it. i remember hearing a lively young barrister declare that he would rather argue against his own judgment than according to it; and i am sure he spoke in all sincerity,--much as he would have done had he said that he preferred shooting wild game to slaughtering tame chickens: the difficulty made the pleasure. but we cannot presume to suppose that either of the two persons whose names i have so incongruously brought together have written and argued on the same principle; and even if it were so, they have not the less changed their minds,--unless we suppose that they have amused themselves and the public, by sometimes arguing for what they believed to be truth, and sometimes only to show their skill. as to what mr. cobbett's principles might really have been, i think it is a question that must ever remain in uncertainty,--unless we adopt that easiest and most intelligible conclusion, that he had none at all. but it is far otherwise with m. de lamennais: it is impossible to doubt that in his early writings he was perfectly sincere; there is a warmth of faith in them that could proceed from no fictitious fire. nor is it easily to be imagined that he would have thrown himself from the height at which he stood in the opinion of all whom he most esteemed, had he not fancied that he saw truth at the bottom of that abyss of heresy and schism into which all good catholics think that he has thrown himself. the wild republicanism which m. de lamennais has picked up in his descent is, however, what has probably injured him most in the general estimation. some few years ago, liberal principles were advocated by many of the most able as well as the most honest men in europe; but the unreasonable excesses into which the ultras of the party have fallen seem to have made the respectable portion of mankind draw back from it, and, whatever their speculative opinions may be, they now show themselves anxious to rally round all that bears the stamp of order and lawful authority. it would be difficult to imagine a worse time for a man to commence republican and free-thinker than the present;--unless, indeed, he did so in the hope that the loaves and fishes were, or would be, at the disposition of that party. putting, however, all hope of being paid for it aside, the period is singularly unpropitious for such a conversion. as long as their doctrine remained a theory only, it might easily delude many who had more imagination than judgment, or more ignorance than either: but so much deplorable mischief has arisen before our eyes every time the theory has been brought to the test of practice, that i believe the sound-minded in every land consider their speculations at present with as little respect as they would those of a joint-stock company proposing to colonize the moon. that the abbé de lamennais is no longer considered in france as the pre-eminent man he has been, is most certain; and as it is easy to trace in his works a regular progression downwards, from the dignified and enthusiastic catholic priest to the puzzled sceptic and factious demagogue, i should not be greatly surprised to hear that he, who has been spoken of at rome as likely to become a cardinal, was carrying a scarlet flag through the streets of paris, with a conical hat and a robespierre waistcoat, singing "_Ça ira_" louder than he ever chanted a mass. m. de lamennais, in common with several other persons of republican principles with whom i have conversed since i have been in paris, has conceived the idea that england is at this moment actually and _bonâ fide_ under the rule, dictation, and government of mr. daniel o'connell. he named him in an accent of the most profound admiration and respect, and referred to the english newspapers as evidence of the enthusiastic love and veneration in which he was held throughout great britain! i waxed wroth, i confess; but i took wisdom and patience, and said very meekly, that he had probably seen only that portion of the english papers which were of mr. daniel's faction, and that i believed great britain was still under the dominion of king william the fourth, his lords and commons. it is not many days since i met another politician of the same school who went farther still; for he gravely wished me joy of the prospect of emancipation which the virtue of the great o'connell held out to my country. on this occasion, being in a gay mood, i laughed heartily, and did so with a safe conscience, having no need to set the enlightened propagandist right; this being done for me, much better than i could have done it myself, by a hard-headed doctrinaire who was with me. "o'connell is the napoleon of england," said the republican. "not of england, at any rate," replied the doctrinaire. "and if he must have a name borrowed from france, let it be robespierre's: let him be called magnificently the robespierre of ireland." "he has already been the redeemer of ireland," rejoined the republican gravely; "and now _he has taken england under his protection_." "and i suspect that ere long england will take him under hers," said my friend, laughing. "hitherto it appears as if the country had not thought him worth whipping; ... mais si un chien est méchant, si même ce ne serait qu'un vilain petit hargneux, il devrait être lié, ou bien pendu." having finished this oracular sentence, the doctrinaire took a long pinch of snuff, and began discoursing of other matters: and i too withdrew from the discussion, persuaded that i could not bring it to a better conclusion. letter xl. which party is it ranks second in the estimation of all?--no caricatures against the exiles.--horror of a republic. i have been taking some pains to discover, by the aid of all the signs and tokens of public feeling within my reach, who among the different parties into which this country is divided enjoys the highest degree of general consideration. we know that if every man in a town were desired to say who among its inhabitants he should consider as fittest to hold an employment of honour and profit, each would probably answer, "myself:" we know also, that should it happen, after the avowal of this very natural partiality, that the name of the second best were asked for, and that the man named as such by one were so named by all, this second best would be accounted by the disinterested lookers-on as decidedly the right and proper person to fill the station. according to this rule, the right and proper government for france is neither republican, nor military, nor doctrinaire, but that of a legitimate and constitutional monarchy. when men hold office, bringing both power and wealth, consideration will of necessity follow. that the ministers and their friends, therefore, should be seen in pride of place, and enjoying the dignity they have achieved, is natural, inevitable, and quite as it should be. but if, turning from this every-day spectacle, we endeavour to discover who it is that, possessing neither power nor place, most uniformly receive the homage of respect, i should say, without a shadow of doubt or misgiving, that it was the legitimate royalists. the triumphant doctrinaires pass no jokes at their expense; no _bons mots_ are quoted against them, nor does any shop exhibit caricatures either of what they have been or of what they are. the republicans are no longer heard to name them, either with rancour or disrespect: all their wrath is now poured out upon the present actual power of the prosperous doctrinaires. this, indeed, is in strict conformity to the principle which constitutes the foundation of their sect; namely, that whatever exists ought to be overthrown. but neither in jest nor earnest do they now show hostility to charles the tenth or his family: nor even do the blank walls of paris, which for nearly half a century have been the favourite receptacle of all their wit, exhibit any pleasantries, either in the shape of hieroglyphic, caricature, or lampoon, alluding to them or their cause. i have listened repeatedly to sprightly and to bitter jestings, to judicious and to blundering reasonings, for and against the different doctrines which divide the country; but in no instance do i remember to have heard, either in jest or earnest, any revilings against the exiled race. a sort of sacred silence seems to envelope this theme; or if it be alluded to at all, it is far from being in a hostile spirit. "henri!" is a name that, without note or comment, may be read _ça et là_ in every quarter of paris, that of the tuileries not excepted: and on a wall near the royal college of henri quatre, where the younger princes of the house of orleans still study, were inscribed not long ago these very intelligible words:-- "pour arriver à bordeaux, il faut passer par orléans." in short, whatever feelings of irritation and anger might have existed in , and produced the scenes which led to the exile of the royal family, they now seem totally to have subsided. it does not, however, necessarily follow from this that the majority of the people are ready again to hazard their precious tranquillity in order to restore them: on the contrary, it cannot be doubted that were such a measure attempted at the present moment, it would fail--not from any dislike of their legitimate monarch, or any affection for the kinsman who has been placed upon his throne, but wholly and solely from their wish to enjoy in peace their profitable speculations at the _bourse_--their flourishing _restaurans_--their prosperous shops--and even their tables, chairs, beds, and coffee-pots. very different, however, is the feeling manifested towards the republicans. never did napoleon in the days of his most absolute power, or the descendants of louis le grand in those of their proudest state, contemplate this factious, restless race with such abhorrence as do the doctrinaires of the present hour. it is not that they fear them--they have no real cause to do so; but they feel a sentiment made up of hatred and contempt, which never seems to repose, and which, if not regulated by wisdom and moderation, is very likely eventually to lead to more barricades; though to none, i imagine, that the national guards may not easily throw down. it is on the subject of this unpopular _clique_ that by far the greater part of the ever-springing parisian jokes expends itself; though the doctrinaires get it "_pas mal_" in return, as i heard a national guardsman remark, as we were looking over some caricatures together. but, in truth, the republicans seem upon principle to offer themselves as victims and martyrs to the quizzing propensities of their countrymen. harlequin does not more scrupulously adhere to his parti-coloured suit, than do the republicans of paris to their burlesque costume. it is, i presume, to show their courage, that they so ostentatiously march with their colours flying; but the effect is very ludicrous. the symbolic peculiarities of their dress are classed and lithographed with infinite fun. drolleries, too, on the parvenus of the empire are to be found for the seeking; and when they beset king philippe himself, it should seem that it is done with all the enthusiasm so well expressed by garrick in days of yore:-- "'tis for my king, and, zounds! i'll do my best!" the only extraordinary part of all this caricaturing on walls and in print-shops, is the license taken with those who have power to prevent it. the principle of legislation on this point appears, with a little variation, to be that of the old ballad: "thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason; but surely _jokes_ were ne'er indicted treason." in speaking of the parties into which france is divided, the three grand divisions of carlists, doctrinaires, and republicans naturally present themselves first and foremost, and, to foreigners in general, appear to contain between them the entire nation: but a month or two passed in paris society suffices to show one that there are many who cannot fairly be classed with either. in the first place, the carlist party by no means contains all those who disapprove of treating a crown like a ready-made shoe, which, if it be found to pinch the person it was intended for, may be disposed of to the first comer who is willing to take it. the carlist party, properly so called, demand the restoration of king charles the tenth, the immediate descendant and representative of their long line of kings--the prince who has been crowned and anointed king of france, and who, while he remains alive, must render the crowning and anointing of any other prince an act of sacrilege. wherefore, in effect, king louis-philippe has not received "_le sacre_:" he is not as yet the anointed king of france, whatever he may be hereafter. henri quatre is said to have exclaimed under the walls of the capital, "paris vaut bien une messe;" and it is probable that louis-philippe premier thinks so too; but hitherto he has been able to have this performed only in military style--being incapable, in fact, of going through the ceremony either civilly or religiously. the carlists are, therefore, those only who _en rigueur_ do not approve of any king but the real one. the legitimate royalists are, i believe, a much more numerous party. as strictly attached to the throne and to the principle of regular and legitimate succession as the carlists, they nevertheless conceive that the pressure of circumstances may not only authorise, but render it imperative upon the country to accept, or rather to permit, the abdication of a sovereign. the king's leaving the country and placing himself in exile, is one of the few causes that can justify this; and accordingly the abdication of charles dix is virtual death to him as a sovereign. but though this is granted, it does not follow in their creed, that any part of the nation have thereupon a right to present the hereditary crown to whom they will. the law of succession, they say, is not to be violated because the king has fled before a popular insurrection; and having permitted his abdication, the next heir becomes king. this next heir, however, choosing to follow his royal father's example, he too becomes virtually defunct, and his heir succeeds. this heir is still an infant, and his remaining in exile cannot therefore be interpreted as his own act. thus, according to the reasoning of those who conceive the abdication of the king and the dauphin to be acts within their own power, and beyond that of the nation to nullify, henri, the son of the duc de berri, is beyond all doubt henri cinq, roi de france. of this party, however, there are many, and i suspect their number is increasing, who, having granted the power of setting aside (by his own act) the anointed monarch, are not altogether averse to go a step farther, if so doing shall ensure the peace of the country; and considering the infancy of the rightful heir as constituting insufficiency, to confess louis-philippe as the next in succession to be the lawful as well as the actual king of the french. it is this party who i always find have the most to say in support (or defence) of their opinions. whether this proceed from their feeling that some eloquence is necessary to make them pass current, or that the conviction of their justice is such as to make their hearts overflow on the theme, i know not; but decidedly the sect of the "_parcequ'il est bourbon_" is that which i find most eager to discourse upon politics. and, to confess the truth, they have much to say for themselves, at least on the side of expediency. it is often a matter of regret with me, that in addressing these letters to you i am compelled to devote so large a portion of them to politics; but in attempting to give you some idea of paris at the present moment, it is impossible to avoid it. were i to turn from this theme, i could only do so by labouring to forget everything i have seen, everything i see. go where you will, do what you will, meet whom you will, it is out of your power to escape it. but observe, that it is wholly for your sake, and not at all for my own, that i lament it; for, however flat and unprofitable my report may be, the thing itself, when you are in the midst of it, is exceedingly interesting. when i first arrived, i was considerably annoyed by finding, that as soon as i had noted down some piece of information as an undoubted fact, the next person i conversed with assured me that it was worth considerably less than nought; inasmuch as my informer had not only failed to give me useful instruction on the point concerning which i was inquiring, but had altogether deluded, deceived, and led me astray. these days of primitive matter-of-factness are now, however, quite passed with me; and though i receive a vast deal of entertainment from all, i give my faith in return to very few. i listen to the carlists, the henri-quintists, the philippists, with great attention and real interest, but have sometimes caught myself humming as soon as they have left me, "they were all of them kings in their turn." indeed, if you knew all that happens to me, instead of blaming me for being too political, you would be very thankful for the care and pains i bestow in endeavouring to make a digest of all i hear for your advantage, containing as few contradictions as possible. and truly this is no easy matter, not only from the contradictory nature of the information i receive, but from some varying weaknesses in my own nature, which sometimes put me in the very disagreeable predicament of doubting if what is right be right, and if what is wrong be wrong. when i came here, i was a thorough unequivocating legitimatist, and felt quite ready and willing to buckle on armour against any who should doubt that a man once a king was always a king--that once crowned according to law, he could not be uncrowned according to mob--or that a man's eldest son was his rightful heir. but, oh! these doctrinaires! they have such a way of proving that if they are not quite right, at least everybody else is a great deal more wrong: and then they talk so prettily of england and _our_ revolution, and our glorious constitution--and the miseries of anarchy--and the advantages of letting things remain quietly as they are, till, as i said before, i begin to doubt what is right and what is wrong. there is one point, however, on which we agree wholly and heartily; and it is this perhaps that has been the means of softening my heart thus towards them. the doctrinaires shudder at the name of a republic. this is not because their own party is regal, but is evidently the result of the experience which they and their fathers have had from the tremendous experiment which has once already been made in the country. "you will never know the full value of your constitution till you have lost it," said a doctrinaire to me the other evening, at the house of the beautiful princess b----, formerly an energetic propagandiste, but now a very devoted doctrinaire,--"you will never know how beneficial is its influence on every hour of your lives, till your mr. o'connell has managed to arrange a republic for you: and when you have tasted that for about three months, you will make good and faithful subjects to the next king that heaven shall bestow upon you. you know how devoted all france was to the emperor, though the police was somewhat tight, and the conscriptions heavy: but he had saved us from a republic, and we adored him. for a few days, or rather hours, we were threatened again, five years ago, by the same terrible apparition: the result is, that four millions of armed men stand ready to protect the prince who chased it. were it to appear a third time--which heaven forbid!--you may depend upon it that the monarch who should next ascend the throne of france might play at _le jeu de quilles_ with his subjects, and no one be found to complain." letter xli. m. dupré.--his drawings in greece.--l'eglise des carmes.--m. vinchon's picture of the national convention.--léopold robert's fishermen.--reported cause of his suicide.--roman catholic religion.--mr. daniel o'connell. we went the other morning, with miss c----, a very agreeable countrywoman, who has however passed the greater portion of her life in paris, to visit the house and atelier of m. dupré, a young artist who seems to have devoted himself to the study of greece. her princes, her peasants, her heavy-eyed beauties, and the bright sky that glows above them,--all the material of her domestic life, and all the picturesque accompaniments of her classic reminiscences, are brought home by this gentleman in a series of spirited and highly-finished drawings, which give decidedly the most lively idea of the country that i have seen produced. engravings or lithographs from them are, i believe, intended to illustrate a splendid work on this interesting country which is about to be published. in our way from m. dupré's house, in which was this collection of greek drawings, to his atelier--where he was kind enough to show us a large picture recently commenced--we entered that fatal "eglise des carmes," where the most hideous massacre of the first revolution took place. a large tree that stands beside it is pointed out as having been sought as a shelter--alas! how vainly!--by the unhappy priests, who were shot, sabred, and dragged from its branches by dozens. a thousand terrible recollections are suggested by the interior of the building, aided by the popular traditions attached to it, unequalled in atrocity even in the history of that time of horror. another scene relating to the same period, which, though inferior to the massacre of the priests in multiplied barbarity, was of sufficient horror to freeze the blood of any but a republican, has, strange to say, been made, since the revolution of , the subject of an enormous picture by m. vinchon, and at the present moment makes part of the exhibition at the louvre. the canvass represents a hall at the tuileries which in was the place where the national convention sat. the mob has broken in, and murdered feraud, who attempted to oppose them; and the moment chosen by the painter is that in which a certain "_jeune fille nommée aspasie migelli_" approaches the president's chair with the young man's head borne on a pike before her, while she triumphantly envelopes herself in some part of his dress. the whole scene is one of the most terrible revolutionary violence. this picture is stated in the catalogue to belong to the minister of the interior; but whether the present minister of the interior, or any other, i know not. the subject was given immediately after the revolution of , and many artists made sketches in competition for the execution of it. one of those who tried, and failed before the superior genius of m. vinchon, told us, that the subject was given at that time as one likely to be popular, either for love of the noble resolution with which boissy d'anglas keeps possession of the president's chair, which he had seized upon, or else from admiration of the energetic female who has assisted in doing the work of death. in either case, this young artist said, the popularity of such a subject was passed by, and no such order would be given now. finding myself again on the subject of pictures, i must mention a very admirable one which is now being exhibited at the "mairie du second arrondissement." it is from the hand of the unfortunate leopold robert, who destroyed himself at venice almost immediately after he had completed it. the subject is the departure of a party of italian fishermen; and there are parts of the picture fully equal to anything i have ever seen from the pencil of a modern artist. i should have looked at this picture with extreme pleasure, had the painter still lived to give hope of, perhaps, still higher efforts; but the history of his death, which i had just been listening to, mixed great pain with it. i have been told that this young man was of a very religious and meditative turn of mind, but a protestant. his only sister, to whom he was much attached, was a catholic, and had recently taken the veil. her affection for him was such, that she became perfectly wretched from the danger she believed awaited him from his heresy; and she commenced a species of affectionate persecution, which, though it failed to convert him, so harassed and distracted his mind, as finally to overthrow his reason, and lead him to self-destruction. this charming picture is exhibited for the benefit of the poor, at the especial desire of the unhappy nun; who is said, however, to be so perfect a fanatic, as only to regret that the dreadful act was not delayed till she had had time to work out the salvation of her own soul by a little more persecution of his. there is something exceedingly curious, and, perhaps, under our present lamentable circumstances, somewhat alarming, in the young and vigorous after-growth of the roman catholic religion, which, by the aid of a very little inquiry, may be so easily traced throughout france. were we keeping our own national church sacred, and guarded both by love and by law, as it has hitherto been from all assaults of the pope and ... mr. o'connell, it could only be with pleasure that we should see france recovering from her long ague-fit of infidelity,--and, as far as she is concerned, we must in christian charity rejoice, for she is unquestionably the better for it; but there is a regenerated activity among the roman catholic clergy, which, under existing circumstances, makes a protestant feel rather nervous,--and i declare to you, i never pass within sight of that famous window of the louvre, whence charles neuf, with his own royal and catholic hand, discharged a blunderbuss amongst the huguenots, without thinking how well a window at whitehall, already noted in history as a scene of horror, might serve king daniel for the same purpose. the great influence which the religion of rome has of late regained over the minds of the french people has, i am told, been considerably increased by the priests having added to the strength derived from their command of pardons and indulgences, that which our methodist preachers gain from the terrors of hell. they use the same language, too, respecting regeneration and grace; and, as one means of regaining the hold they had lost upon the human mind, they now anathematize all recreations, as if their congregations were so many aspirants to the sublime purifications of la trappe, or so many groaning fanatics just made over to them from lady huntingdon's chapel. that there is, however, a pretty strong force to stem this fresh spring-tide of moon-struck superstition, is very certain. the doctrinaires, i am told, taken as a body, are not much addicted to this species of weakness. i remember, during the prevalence of that sweeping complaint called the influenza, hearing of a "good lady," of the high evangelical _clique_, who said to some of the numerous pensioners who flocked to receive the crumbs of her table and the precepts of her lips, that she could make up some medicine that was very good for all poor people that were seized with this complaint. "what can be the difference, ma'am," said the poor body who told me this, "between us and madame c---- in this illness? is not what is good for the poor, good for the rich too?" the same pertinent question may, i think, be asked in paris just now respecting the medicine called religion. it is administered in large doses to the poor, to which class a great number of the fair sex of all ranks happily seem to have joined themselves, intending, at least, to rank themselves as among the poor in spirit; nay, parish doctors are regularly paid by authority; yet, if the tale be true, the authorities themselves take little of it. "it is very good for poor people;" but, like the hot-baths which anstie talks of, "no creature e'er view'd any one of the government gentry stew'd." whether the returning power of this pompous and aspiring faith will mount as it proceeds, and embrace within its grasp, as it was wont to do, all the great ones of the earth, is a question that it may require some years to answer; but one thing is at least certain,--that its ministers will try hard that it shall do so, whether they are likely to succeed or not; and, at the worst, they may console themselves by the reflection of lafontaine:-- "si de les gagner je n'emporte pas le prix, j'aurais au moins l'honneur de l'avoir entrepris." one great one they have certainly already got, besides king charles the tenth,--even the immortal daniel; and however little consequence you may be inclined to attach to this fact, it cannot be considered as wholly unimportant, since i have heard his religious principles and his influence in england alluded to in the pulpit here with a tone of hope and triumph which made me tremble. i heartily wish that some of those who continue to vote in his traitorous majority because they are pledged to do so, could hear him and his power spoken of here. if they have english hearts, it must, i think, give them a pang. letter xlii. old maids.--rarely to be found in france.--the reasons for this. several years ago, while passing a few weeks in paris, i had a conversation with a frenchman upon the subject of old maids, which, though so long past, i refer to now for the sake of the sequel, which has just reached me. we were, i well remember, parading in the gardens of the luxembourg; and as we paced up and down its long alleys, the "miserable fate," as he called it, of single women in england was discussed and deplored by my companion as being one of the most melancholy results of faulty national manners that could be mentioned. "i know nothing," said he with much energy, "that ever gave me more pain in society, than seeing, as i did in england, numbers of unhappy women who, however well-born, well-educated, or estimable, were without a position, without an _état_ and without a name, excepting one that they would generally give half their remaining days to get rid of." "i think you somewhat exaggerate the evil," i replied: "but even if it were as bad as you state it to be, i see not why single ladies should be better off here." "here!" he exclaimed, in a tone of horror: "do you really imagine that in france, where we pride ourselves on making the destiny of our women the happiest in the world,--do you really imagine that we suffer a set of unhappy, innocent, helpless girls to drop, as it were, out of society into the _néant_ of celibacy, as you do? god keep us from such barbarity!" "but how can you help it? it is impossible but that circumstances must arise to keep many of your men single; and if the numbers be equally balanced, it follows that there must be single women too." "it may seem so; but the fact is otherwise: we have no single women." "what, then, becomes of them?" "i know not; but were any frenchwoman to find herself so circumstanced, depend upon it she would drown herself." "i know one such, however," said a lady who was with us: "mademoiselle isabelle b*** is an old maid." "est-il possible!" cried the gentleman, in a tone that made me laugh very heartily. "and how old is she, this unhappy mademoiselle isabelle?" "i do not know exactly," replied the lady; "but i think she must be considerably past thirty." "c'est une horreur!" he exclaimed again; adding, rather mysteriously, in a half-whisper, "trust me, she will not bear it long!" * * * * * i had certainly forgotten mademoiselle isabelle and all about her, when i again met the lady who had named her as the one sole existing old maid of france. while conversing with her the other day on many things which had passed when we were last together, she asked me if i remembered this conversation. i assured her that i had forgotten no part of it. "well, then," said she, "i must tell you what happened to me about three months after it took place. i was invited with my husband to pay a visit at the house of a friend in the country,--the same house where i had formerly seen the mademoiselle isabelle b*** whom i had named to you. while playing _écarté_ with our host in the evening, i recollected our conversation in the gardens of the luxembourg, and inquired for the lady who had been named in it. "'is it possible that you have not heard what has happened to her?' he replied. "'no, indeed; i have heard nothing. is she married, then?' "'married!... alas, no! she has _drowned herself_!'" terrible as this dénouement was, it could not be heard with the solemn gravity it called for, after what had been said respecting her. was ever coincidence more strange! my friend told me, that on her return to paris she mentioned this catastrophe to the gentleman who had seemed to predict it; when the information was received by an exclamation quite in character,--"god be praised! then she is out of her misery!" this incident, and the conversation which followed upon it, induced me to inquire in sober earnest what degree of truth there might really be in the statement made to us in this well-remembered conversation; and it certainly does appear, from all i can learn, that the meeting a single woman past thirty is a very rare occurrence in france. the arranging _un mariage convenable_ is in fact as necessary and as ordinary a duty in parents towards a daughter, as the sending her to nurse or the sending her to school. the proposal for such an alliance proceeds quite as frequently from the friends of the lady as from those of the gentleman: and it is obvious that this must at once very greatly increase the chance of a suitable marriage for young women; for though we do occasionally send our daughters to india in the hope of obtaining this much-desired result, few english parents have as yet gone the length of proposing to anybody, or to anybody's son, to take their daughter off their hands. i have not the least doubt in the world that, were the custom otherwise--were a young lady's claim to an establishment pointed out by her friends, instead of being left to be discovered or undiscovered as chance will have it,--i have no doubt in the world that in such a case many happy marriages might be the result: and where such an arrangement infringes on no feeling of propriety, but is adopted only in conformity to national custom, i can well believe that the fair lady herself may deem her having nothing to do with the business a privilege of infinite importance to her delicacy. but would our english girls like, for the satisfaction of escaping the chance of being an old maid, to give up the dear right of awaiting in maiden dignity till they are chosen--selected from out the entire world--and then of saying yes or no, as may please their fancy best? if i do not greatly mistake the national character of englishwomen, there are very few who could be found to exchange this privilege for the most perfect assurance that could be given of obtaining a marriage in any other way. as to which is best and which is wisest, or even which is likely to produce, ultimately and generally, the most happy _ménage_, i will not pretend to say; because i have heard so much plausible, and indeed, in some respects, substantial reasoning in favour of the mode pursued here, that i feel it may be considered as doubtful: but as to which is and must be most agreeable to the parties chiefly concerned at the time the connexion is formed, herein i own i think there can be no question whatever that english men and english women have the advantage. with all the inclination in the world to believe that france abounds with loving, constant, faithful wives, and husbands too, i cannot but think that if they are so, it is in spite of the manner in which their marriages are made, and not in consequence of it. the strongest argument in favour of their manner of proceeding undoubtedly is, that a husband who receives a young wife as totally without impressions of any kind, (as a well-brought-up french girl certainly is,) has a better chance--or rather, has more _power_ of making her heart entirely his own, than any man can have that falls in love with a beauty of twenty, who may already have heard as tender sighs as he can utter breathed in her ear by some one who may have had no power to marry her, but who might have had a heart to love her, and a tongue to win her as well as himself. but against this how much is to be placed! however dearly a frenchwoman may love her husband, he can never feel that it is a love which has selected him; and though it may sometimes happen that a pretty creature is applied for because of her prettiness, yet if the application be made and answered, and no question asked as to her will or wish in the affair, she can feel but little gratification even to her vanity--and certainly nothing whatever approaching to a feeling of tenderness at her heart. the force of habit is ever so inveterate, that it is not likely either nation can be really a fair and impartial judge of the other in a matter so entirely regulated by it. therefore, all that i, as english, will venture to say farther on the subject is, that i should be sorry on this point to see us adopt the fashion of our neighbour france. i have reason to believe, however, that my friend of the luxembourg gardens exaggerated a good deal in his statement respecting the non-existence of single women in france. they do exist here, though certainly in less numbers than in england,--but it is not so easy to find them out. with us it is not unusual for single ladies to take what is called _brevet rank_;--that is, miss dorothy tomkins becomes mrs. dorothy tomkins--and sometimes _tout bonnement_ mrs. tomkins, provided there be no collateral mrs. tomkins to interfere with her: but upon no occasion do i remember that any lady in this predicament called herself the widow tomkins, or the widow anything else. here, however, i am assured that the case is different; and that, let the number of spinsters be great or small, no one but the near connexions and most intimate friends of the party know anything of the matter. many a _veuve respectable_ has never had a husband in her life; and i have heard it positively affirmed, that the secret is often so well kept, that the nieces and nephews of a family do not know their maiden aunts from their widowed ones. this shows, at least, that matrimony is considered here as a more honourable state than that of celibacy; though it does not quite go the length of proving that all single women drown themselves. but before i quit this subject, i must say a few words to you concerning the old maids of england. there are few things which chafe my spirit more than hearing single women spoken of with contempt because they are such, or seeing them treated with less consideration and attention than those who chance to be married. the cruelty and injustice of this must be obvious to every one upon a moment's thought; but to me its absurdity is more obvious still. it is, i believe, a notorious fact, that there is scarcely a woman to be found, of any rank under that of a princess of the blood royal, who, at the age of fifty, has not at some time or in some manner had the power of marrying if she chose it. that many who have had this power have been tyrannically or unfortunately prevented from using it, is certain; but there is nothing either ridiculous or contemptible in this. still less does a woman merit scorn if she has had the firmness and constancy of purpose to prefer a single life because she has considered it best and fittest for her: in fact, i know nothing more high-minded than the doing so. the sneering which follows female celibacy is so well known and so coarsely manifested, that it shows very considerable dignity of character to enable a woman to endure it, rather than act against her sense of what is right. i by no means say this by way of running a-tilt against all the ladies in france who have submitted, _bon gré, mal gré_, to become wives at the command of their fathers, mothers, uncles, aunts, and guardians: they have done exactly what they ought, and i hope all their pretty little quiet-looking daughters will do the same; it is the custom of the country, and cannot discreetly be departed from. but being on the subject, i am led, while defending our own modes of proceeding in the important affair of marriage, to remark also on the result of them. in permitting a young woman to become acquainted with the man who proposes for her before she consents to pass her whole life with him, i certainly see some advantage; but in my estimation there is more still in the protection which our usage in these matters affords to those who, rather than marry a man who is not the object of their choice, prefer remaining single. i confess, too, that i consider the class of single women as an extremely important one. their entire freedom from control gives them great power over their time and resources, much more than any other woman can possibly possess who is not a childless widow. that this power is often--very often--nobly used, none can deny who are really and thoroughly acquainted with english society; and if among the class there be some who love cards, and tattle, and dress, and slander, they should be treated with just the same measure of contempt as the married ladies who may also occasionally be found to love cards, and tattle, and dress, and slander,--but with no more. it has been my chance, and i imagine that it has been the chance of most other people, to have found my dearest and most constant friends among single women. of all the helenas and hermias that before marriage have sat "upon one cushion, warbling of one song," even for years together, how few are there who are not severed by marriage! kind feelings may be retained, and correspondence (lazily enough) kept up; but to whom is it that the anxious mother, watching beside the sick couch of her child, turns for sympathy and consolation?--certainly not to the occupied and perhaps distant wedded confidante of her youthful days, but to her maiden sister or her maiden friend. nor is it only in sickness that such friends are among the first blessings of life: they violate no duty by giving their time and their talents to society; and many a day through every house in england has probably owed some of its most delightful hours to the presence of those whom no duty has called "to suckle fools or chronicle small beer," and whose talents, therefore, are not only at their own disposal, but in all probability much more highly cultivated than any possessed by their married friends. thus, spite of him of the luxembourg, i am most decidedly of opinion, that, in england at least, there is no reason whatever that an unmarried woman should consign herself to the fate of the unfortunate mademoiselle isabelle. end of the first volume. london: printed by samuel bentley, dorset street, fleet street. generously made available by the internet archive/american libraries.) dumas' paris _uniform volumes_ dickens' london by francis miltoun library mo, cloth, gilt top $ . the same, / levant morocco . milton's england by lucia ames mead library mo, cloth, gilt top . the same, / levant morocco . dumas' paris by francis miltoun library mo, cloth, gilt top _net_ . _postpaid_ . the same, / levant morocco _net_ . _postpaid_ . l. c. page & company new england building boston, mass. [illustration: _alexandre dumas_] dumas' paris by francis miltoun author of "dickens' london," "cathedrals of southern france," "cathedrals of northern france," etc. with two maps and many illustrations boston l. c. page & company mdccccv _copyright, _ by l. c. page & company (incorporated) _all rights reserved_ published november, _colonial press electrotyped and printed by c. h. simonds & co. boston, mass., u.s.a._ contents chapter page i. a general introduction ii. dumas' early life in paris iii. dumas' literary career iv. dumas' contemporaries v. the paris of dumas vi. old paris vii. ways and means of communication viii. the banks of the seine ix. the second empire and after x. la ville xi. la citÉ xii. l'universitÉ quartier xiii. the louvre xiv. the palais royal xv. the bastille xvi. the royal parks and palaces xvii. the french provinces xviii. les pays Étrangers appendices index list of illustrations page alexandre dumas _frontispiece_ dumas' house at villers-cotterets statue of dumas at villers-cotterets facsimile of dumas' own statement of his birth facsimile of a manuscript page from one of dumas' plays d'artagnan alexandre dumas, _fils_ two famous caricatures of alexandre dumas tomb of abelard and hÉloÏse general foy's residence d'artagnan, from the dumas statue by gustave dorÉ pont neuf--pont au change portrait of henry iv. grand bureau de la poste the odÉon in palais royal, street front rue d'amsterdam--rue de st. denis place de la grÈve tour de st. jacques la boucherie (mÉryon's etching, "le stryge") hÔtel des mousquetaires, rue d'arbre sec d'artagnan's lodgings, rue tiquetonne rue du faubourg st. denis (dÉscamps' studio) nÔtre dame de paris plan of la citÉ carmelite friary, rue vaugirard plan of the louvre the gardens of the tuileries the orleans bureau, palais royal the fall of the bastille inn of the pont de sÈvres bois de boulogne--bois de vincennes--forÊt de villers-cotterets chÂteau of the ducs de valois, crÉpy castle of pierrefonds nÔtre dame de chartres castle of angers--chÂteau of blois dumas' paris chapter i. a general introduction there have been many erudite works, in french and other languages, describing the antiquities and historical annals of paris from the earliest times; and in english the mid-victorian era turned out--there are no other words for it--innumerable "books of travel" which recounted alleged adventures, strewn here and there with bits of historical lore and anecdotes, none too relevant, and in most cases not of undoubted authenticity. of the actual life of the people in the city of light and learning, from the times of napoleon onward, one has to go to the fountainhead of written records, the acknowledged masterworks in the language of the country itself, the reports and _annuaires_ of various _sociétês_, _commissions_, and what not, and collect therefrom such information as he finds may suit his purpose. in this manner may be built up a fabric which shall be authentic and proper, varied and, most likely, quite different in its plan, outline, and scope from other works of a similar purport, which may be recalled in connection therewith. paris has been rich in topographical historians, and, indeed, in her chroniclers in all departments, and there is no end of relative matter which may be evolved from an intimacy with these sources of supply. in a way, however, this information ought to be supplemented by a personal knowledge on the part of the compiler, which should make localities, distances, and environments--to say nothing of the actual facts and dates of history--appear as something more than a shrine to be worshipped from afar. given, then, these ingredients, with a love of the subject,--no less than of the city of its domicile,--it has formed a pleasant itinerary in the experiences of the writer of this book to have followed in the footsteps of dumas _père_, through the streets that he knew and loved, taking note meanwhile of such contemporary shadows as were thrown across his path, and such events of importance or significance as blended in with the scheme of the literary life of the times in which he lived, none the less than of those of the characters in his books. nearly all the great artists have adored paris--poets, painters, actors, and, above all, novelists. from which it follows that paris is the ideal city for the novelist, who, whether he finds his special subjects in her streets or not, must be inspired by this unique fulness and variety of human life. nearly all the great french novelists have adored paris. dumas loved it; victor hugo spent years of his time in riding about her streets on omnibuses; daudet said splendid things of it, and nearly, if not quite, all the great names of the artistic world of france are indissolubly linked with it. paris to-day means not "la ville," "la cité," or "l'université," but the whole triumvirate. victor hugo very happily compared the three cities to a little old woman between two handsome, strapping daughters. it was beranger who announced his predilection for paris as a birthplace. dumas must have felt something of the same emotion, for he early gravitated to the "city of liberty and equality," in which--even before the great revolution--misfortune was at all times alleviated by sympathy. * * * * * from the stones of paris have been built up many a lordly volume--and many a slight one, for that matter--which might naturally be presumed to have recounted the last word which may justifiably have been said concerning the various aspects of the life and historic events which have encircled around the city since the beginning of the _moyen age_. this is true or not, according as one embraces a wide or a contracted horizon in one's view. for most books there is, or was at the time of their writing, a reason for being, and so with familiar spots, as with well-worn roads, there is always a new panorama projecting itself before one. the phenomenal, perennial, and still growing interest in the romances of dumas the elder is the excuse for the present work, which it is to be hoped is admittedly a good one, however far short of exhaustiveness--a much overworked word, by the way--the volume may fall. it were not possible to produce a complete or "exhaustive" work on any subject of a historical, topographical or æsthetic nature: so why claim it? the last word has not yet been said on dumas himself, and surely not on paris--no more has it on pompeii, where they are still finding evidences of a long lost civilization as great as any previously unearthed. it was only yesterday, too (this is written in the month of march, ), that a party of frock-coated and silk-hatted benevolent-looking gentlemen were seen issuing from a manhole in the _université quartier_ of paris. they had been inspecting a newly discovered _thermale établissement_ of roman times, which led off one of the newly opened subterranean arteries which abound beneath paris. it is said to be a rival of the roman bath which is enclosed within the walls of the present musée cluny, and perhaps the equal in size and splendour of any similar remains extant. this, then, suggests that in every land new ground, new view-points, and new conditions of life are making possible a record which, to have its utmost value, should be a progressively chronological one. and after this manner the present volume has been written. there is a fund of material to draw upon, historic fact, pertinent and contemporary side-lights, and, above all, the environment which haloed itself around the personality of dumas, which lies buried in many a _cache_ which, if not actually inaccessible, is at least not to be found in the usual books of reference. perhaps some day even more will have been collected, and a truly satisfying biographical work compiled. if so, it will be the work of some ardent frenchman of a generation following that in which alexandre dumas lived, and not by one of the contemporaries of even his later years. albert vandam, perhaps, might have done it as it should have been done; but he did not do so, and so an intimate personal record has been lost. paris has ever been written down in the book of man as the city of light, of gaiety, and of a trembling vivacity which has been in turn profligate, riotous, and finally criminal. all this is perhaps true enough, but no more in degree than in most capitals which have endured so long, and have risen to such greatness. with paris it is quantity, with no sacrifice of quality, that has placed it in so preëminent a position among great cities, and the life of paris--using the phrase in its most commonly recognized aspect--is accordingly more brilliant or the reverse, as one views it from the _boulevards_ or from the _villettes_. [illustration: dumas' house at villers-cotterets] french writers, the novelists in particular, have well known and made use of this; painters and poets, too, have perpetuated it in a manner which has not been applied to any other city in the world. to realize the conditions of the life of paris to the full one has to go back to rousseau--perhaps even farther. his observation that "_les maisons font la ville, mais le citoyens font la cité_," was true when written, and it is true to-day, with this modification, that the delimitation of the confines of _la ville_ should be extended so far as to include all workaday paris--the shuffling, bustling world of energy and spirit which has ever insinuated itself into the daily life of the people. the love and knowledge of alexandre dumas _père_ for paris was great, and the accessory and detail of his novels, so far as he drew upon the capital, was more correct and apropos. it was something more than a mere dash of local colour scattered upon the canvas from a haphazard palette. in _minutiæ_ it was not drawn as fine as the later zola was wont to accomplish, but it showed no less detail did one but comprehend its full meaning. though born in the provincial town villers-cotterets,--seventy-eight kilomètres from paris on the road to soissons,--dumas came early in touch with the metropolis, having in a sort of runaway journey broken loose from his old associations and finally becoming settled in the capital as a clerk in the bureau d'orleans, at the immature age of twenty. thus it was that his impressions and knowledge of paris were founded upon an experience which was prolonged and intimate, extending, with brief intervals of travel, for over fifty years. he had journeyed meantime to switzerland, england, corsica, naples, the rhine, belgium,--with a brief residence in italy in - ,--then visiting spain, russia, the caucasus, and germany. this covered a period from , when he first came to paris, until his death at puys, near dieppe, in ; nearly a full half-century amid activities in matters literary, artistic, and social, which were scarce equalled in brilliancy elsewhere--before or since. in spite of his intimate association with the affairs of the capital,--he became, it is recalled, a candidate for the chamber of deputies at the time of the second republic,--dumas himself has recorded, in a preface contributed to a "histoire de l'eure," by m. charpillon ( ), that if he were ever to compile a history of france he should first search for _les pierres angulaires_ of his edifice in the provinces. this bespeaks a catholicity which, perhaps, after all, is, or should be, the birthright of every historical novelist. he said further, in this really valuable and interesting contribution, which seems to have been entirely overlooked by the bibliographers, that "to write the history of france would take a hundred volumes"--and no doubt he was right, though it has been attempted in less. and again that "the aggrandizement of paris has only been accomplished by a weakening process having been undergone by the provinces." the egg from which paris grew was deposited in the nest of _la cité_, the same as are the eggs laid _par un cygne_. he says further that in writing the history of paris he would have founded on "lutetia (or louchetia) the _villa de jules_, and would erect in the place de notre dame a temple or altar to ceres; at which epoch would have been erected another to mercury, on the mount of ste. geneviève; to apollo in the rue de la barillerie, where to-day is erected that part of tuileries built by louis xiv., and which is called _le pavillon de flore_. "then one would naturally follow with _les thermes de julien_, which grew up from the _villa de jules_; the reunion under charlemagne which accomplished the sorbonne (_sora bona_), which in turn became the favourite place of residence of hugues capet, the stronghold of philippe-auguste, the _bibliothèque_ of charles v., the monumental capital of henri vi. d'angleterre; and so on through the founding of the first printing establishment in france by louis xi.; the new school of painting by françois i.; of the académie by richelieu; ... to the final curtailment of monarchial power with the horrors of the revolution and the significant events which centred around the bastille, versailles, and the tuileries." leaving the events of the latter years of the eighteenth century, and coming to the day in which dumas wrote ( ), paris was truly--and in every sense-- "the capital of france, and its history became not only the history of france but the history of the world.... the city will yet become the capital of humanity, and, since napoleon repudiated his provincial residences and made paris _sa résidence impériale_, the man of destiny who reigns in paris in reality reigns throughout the universe." there may be those who will take exception to these brilliant words of dumas. the frenchman has always been an ardent and _soi-disant_ bundle of enthusiasm, but those who love him must pardon his pride, which is harmless to himself and others alike, and is a far more admirable quality than the indifference and apathy born of other lands. his closing words are not without a cynical truth, and withal a pride in paris: "it is true that if we can say with pride, we parisians, 'it was paris which overthrew the bastille,' you of the provinces can say with equal pride, 'it was we who made the revolution.'" as if to ease the hurt, he wrote further these two lines only: "at this epoch the sister nations should erect a gigantic statue of peace. this statue will be paris, and its pedestal will represent _la province_." his wish--it was not prophecy--did not, however, come true, as the world in general and france and poor rent alsace et lorraine in particular know to their sorrow; and all through a whim of a self-appointed, though weakling, monarch. the era of the true peace of the world and the monument to its glory came when the french nation presented to the new world that grand work of bartholdi, "liberty enlightening the world," which stands in new york harbour, and whose smaller replica now terminates the allée des cygnes. the grasp that dumas had of the events of romance and history served his purpose well, and in the life of the fifties in paris his was a name and personality that was on everybody's lips. how he found time to live the full life that he did is a marvel; it certainly does not bear out the theory of heredity when one considers the race of his birth and the "dark-skinned" languor which was supposedly his heritage. one edition of his work comprises two hundred and seventy-seven volumes, and within the year a london publisher has announced some sixty volumes "never before translated." dumas himself has said that he was the author of over seven hundred works. in point of time his romances go back to the days of the house of valois and the anglo-french wars ( ), and to recount their contents is to abstract many splendid chapters from out the pages of french history. it would seem as though nearly every personage of royalty and celebrity (if these democratic times will allow the yoking together of the two; real genuine _red_ republicans would probably link royalty and notoriety) stalked majestically through his pages, and the record runs from the fourteenth nearly to the end of the nineteenth century, with the exception of the reign of louis xi. an ardent admirer of sir walter scott has commented upon this lapse as being accounted for by the apparent futility of attempting to improve upon "quentin durward." this is interesting, significant, and characteristic, but it is not charitable, generous, or broad-minded. chapter ii. dumas' early life in paris at fifteen ( ), dumas entered the law-office of one mennesson at villers-cotterets as a _saute-ruisseau_ (gutter-snipe), as he himself called it, and from this time on he was forced to forego what had been his passion heretofore: bird-catching, shooting, and all manner of woodcraft. when still living at villers-cotterets dumas had made acquaintance with the art of the dramatist, so far as it was embodied in the person of adolphe de leuven, with whom he collaborated in certain immature melodramas and vaudevilles, which de leuven himself took to paris for disposal. "no doubt managers would welcome them with enthusiasm," said dumas, "and likely enough we shall divert a branch of that pactolus river which is irrigating the domains of m. scribe" ( ). later on in his "mémoires" he says: "complete humiliation; we were refused everywhere." [illustration: statue of dumas at villers-cotterets] from villers-cotterets the scene of dumas' labours was transferred to crépy, three and a half leagues distant, a small town to which he made his way on foot, his belongings in a little bundle "_not more bulky than that of a savoyard when he leaves his native mountains_." in his new duties, still as a lawyer's clerk, dumas found life very wearisome, and, though the ancient capital of the valois must have made an impress upon him,--as one learns from the valois romances,--he pined for the somewhat more free life which he had previously lived; or, taking the bull by the horns, deliberated as to how he might get into the very vortex of things by pushing on to the capital. as he tritely says, "to arrive it was necessary to make a start," and the problem was how to arrive in paris from crépy in the existing condition of his finances. by dint of ingenuity and considerable activity dumas left crépy in company with a friend on a sort of a runaway holiday, and made his third entrance into paris. it would appear that dumas' culinary and gastronomic capabilities early came into play, as we learn from the "mémoires" that, when he was not yet out of his teens, and serving in the notary's office at crépy, he proposed to his colleague that they take this three days' holiday in paris. they could muster but thirty-five francs between them, so dumas proposed that they should shoot game _en route_. said dumas, "we can kill, shall i say, one hare, two partridges, and a quail.... we reach dammartin, get the hinder part of our hare roasted and the front part jugged, then we eat and drink." "and what then?" said his friend. "what then? bless you, why we pay for our wine, bread, and seasoning with the two partridges, and we tip the waiter with the quail." the journey was accomplished in due order, and he and his friend put up at the hôtel du vieux-augustins, reaching there at ten at night. in the morning he set out to find his collaborateur de leuven, but the fascination of paris was such that it nearly made him forswear regard for the flight of time. he says of the palais royale: "i found myself within its courtyard, and stopped before the theatre français, and on the bill i saw: "'demain, lundi sylla tragédie dans cinq actes par m. de jouy' "i solemnly swore that by some means or other ... i would see sylla, and all the more so because, in large letters, under the above notice, were the words, 'the character of sylla will be taken by m. talma.'" in his "mémoires" dumas states that it was at this time he had the temerity to call on the great talma. "talma was short-sighted," said he, "and was at his toilet; his hair was close cut, and his aspect under these conditions was remarkably un-poetic.... talma was for me a god--a god unknown, it is true, as was jupiter to semele." and here comes a most delicious bit of dumas himself, dumas the egotist: "ah, talma! were you but twenty years younger or i twenty years older! i know the past, you cannot foretell the future.... had you known, talma, that the hand you had just touched would ultimately write sixty or eighty dramas ... in each of which you would have found the material for a marvellous creation...." dumas may be said to have at once entered the world of art and letters in this, his third visit to paris, which took place so early in life, but in the years so ripe with ambition. having seen the great talma in sylla, in his dressing-room at the theatre français, he met delavigne, who was then just completing his "ecole des viellards," lucien arnault, who had just brought out "regulus;" soumet, fresh from the double triumph of "saul" and "clymnestre;" here, too, were lemercier, delrien, viennet, and jouy himself; and he had met at the café du roi, theadlon, francis, rochefort, and de merle; indeed by his friend de leuven he was introduced to the assemblage there as a "future corneille," in spite of the fact that he was but a notary's clerk. leaving what must have been to dumas _the presence_, he shot a parting remark, "ah, yes, i shall come to paris for good, i warrant you that." in "the taking of the bastille" dumas traces again, in the characters of pitou and old father billot, much of the route which he himself took on his first visit to paris. the journey, then, is recounted from first-hand information, and there will be no difficulty on the part of any one in tracing the similarity of the itinerary. chapter i., of the work in question, brings us at once on familiar ground, and gives a description of villers-cotterets and its inhabitants in a manner which shows dumas' hand so unmistakably as to remove any doubts as to the volume of assistance he may have received from others, on this particular book at least. "on the borders of picardy and the province of soissons, and on that part of the national territory which, under the name of the isle of france, formed a portion of the ancient patrimony of our kings, and in the centre of an immense crescent, formed by a forest of fifty thousand acres, which stretches its horns to the north and south, rises, almost buried amid the shades of a vast park planted by françois i. and henri ii., the small city of villers-cotterets. this place is celebrated from having given birth to charles albert demoustier, who, at the period when our present history commences, was there writing his letters to emilie on mythology, to the unbounded satisfaction of the pretty women of those days, who eagerly snatched his publications from each other as soon as printed. "let us add, to complete the poetical reputation of this little city, whose detractors, notwithstanding its royal château and its two thousand four hundred inhabitants, obstinately persist in calling it a mere village--let us add, we say, to complete its poetical reputation, that it is situated at two leagues distance from laferte-milan, where racine was born, and eight leagues from château-thierry, the birthplace of la fontaine. "let us also state that the mother of the author of 'britannicus' and 'athalie' was from villers-cotterets. "but now we must return to its royal château and its two thousand four hundred inhabitants. "this royal château, begun by françois i., whose salamanders still decorate it, and finished by henri ii., whose cipher it bears entwined with that of catherine de medici and encircled by the three crescents of diana of poictiers, after having sheltered the loves of the knight king with madame d'etampes, and those of louis philippe of orleans with the beautiful madame de montesson, had become almost uninhabited since the death of this last prince; his son, philippe d'orleans, afterward called egalité, having made it descend from the rank of a royal residence to that of a mere hunting rendezvous. "it is well known that the château and forest of villers-cotterets formed part of the appanage settled by louis xiv. on his brother monsieur, when the second son of anne of austria married the sister of charles ii., the princess henrietta of england. "as to the two thousand four hundred inhabitants of whom we have promised our readers to say a word, they were, as in all localities where two thousand four hundred people are united, a heterogeneous assemblage. "firstly: of the few nobles, who spent their summers in the neighbouring châteaux and their winters in paris, and who, mimicking the prince, had only a lodging-place in the city. "secondly: of a goodly number of citizens, who could be seen, let the weather be what it might, leaving their houses after dinner, umbrella in hand, to take their daily walk, a walk which was regularly bounded by a deep, invisible ditch which separated the park from the forest, situated about a quarter of a league from the town, and which was called, doubtless on account of the exclamation which the sight of it drew from the asthmatic lungs of the promenaders, satisfied at finding themselves not too much out of breath, the 'ha, ha!' "thirdly: of a considerably greater number of artisans who worked the whole of the week and only allowed themselves to take a walk on the sunday; whereas their fellow townsmen, more favoured by fortune, could enjoy it every day. "fourthly and finally: of some miserable proletarians, for whom the week had not even a sabbath, and who, after having toiled six days in the pay of the nobles, the citizens, or even of the artisans, wandered on the seventh day through the forest to gather up dry wood or branches of the lofty trees, torn from them by the storm, that mower of the forest, to whom oak-trees are but ears of wheat, and which it scattered over the humid soil beneath the lofty trees, the magnificent appanage of a prince. "if villers-cotterets (villerii ad cotiam retiæ) had been, unfortunately, a town of sufficient importance in history to induce archæologists to ascertain and follow up its successive changes from a village to a town and from a town to a city--the last, as we have said, being strongly contested, they would certainly have proved this fact, that the village had begun by being a row of houses on either side of the road from paris to soissons; then they would have added that its situation on the borders of a beautiful forest having, though by slow degrees, brought to it a great increase of inhabitants, other streets were added to the first, diverging like the rays of a star and leading toward other small villages with which it was important to keep up communication, and converging toward a point which naturally became the centre, that is to say, what in the provinces is called _le carrefour_,--and sometimes even the square, whatever might be its shape,--and around which the handsomest buildings of the village, now become a burgh, were erected, and in the middle of which rises a fountain, now decorated with a quadruple dial; in short, they would have fixed the precise date when, near the modest village church, the first want of a people, arose the first turrets of the vast château, the last caprice of a king; a château which, after having been, as we have already said, by turns a royal and a princely residence, has in our days become a melancholy and hideous receptacle for mendicants under the direction of the prefecture of the seine, and to whom m. marrast issues his mandates through delegates of whom he has not, nor probably will ever have, either the time or the care to ascertain the names." the last sentence seems rather superfluous,--if it was justifiable,--but, after all, no harm probably was done, and dumas as a rule was never vituperative. continuing, these first pages give us an account of the difficulties under which poor louis ange pitou acquired his knowledge of latin, which is remarkably like the account which dumas gives in the "mémoires" of his early acquaintance with the classics. when pitou leaves haramont, his native village, and takes to the road, and visits billot at "bruyere aux loups," knowing well the road, as he did that to damploux, compiègne, and vivières, he was but covering ground equally well known to dumas' own youth. finally, as he is joined by billot _en route_ for paris, and takes the highroad from villers-cotterets, near gondeville, passing nanteuil, dammartin, and ermenonville, arriving at paris at la villette, he follows almost the exact itinerary taken by the venturesome dumas on his runaway journey from the notary's office at crépy-en-valois. crépy-en-valois was the near neighbour of villers-cotterets, which jealously attempted to rival it, and does even to-day. in "the taking of the bastille" dumas only mentions it in connection with mother sabot's _âne_, "which was shod,"--the only ass which pitou had ever known which wore shoes,--and performed the duty of carrying the mails between crépy and villers-cotterets. at villers-cotterets one may come into close contact with the château which is referred to in the later pages of the "vicomte de bragelonne." "situated in the middle of the forest, where we shall lead a most sentimental life, the very same where my grandfather," said monseigneur the prince, "henri iv. did with 'la belle gabrielle.'" so far as lion-hunting goes, dumas himself at an early age appears to have fallen into it. he recalls in "mes mémoires" the incident of napoleon i. passing through villers-cotterets just previous to the battle of waterloo. "nearly every one made a rush for the emperor's carriage," said he; "naturally i was one of the first.... napoleon's pale, sickly face seemed a block of ivory.... he raised his head and asked, 'where are we?' 'at villers-cotterets, sire,' said a voice. 'go on.'" again, a few days later, as we learn from the "mémoires," "a horseman coated with mud rushes into the village; orders four horses for a carriage which is to follow, and departs.... a dull rumble draws near ... a carriage stops.... 'is it he--the emperor?' yes, it was the emperor, in the same position as i had seen him before, exactly the same, pale, sickly, impassive; only the head droops rather more.... 'where are we?' he asked. 'at villers-cotterets, sire.' 'go on.'" that evening napoleon slept at the elysée. it was but three months since he had returned from elba, but in that time he came to an abyss which had engulfed his fortune. that abyss was waterloo; only saved to the allies--who at four in the afternoon were practically defeated--by the coming up of the germans at six. among the books of reference and contemporary works of a varying nature from which a writer in this generation must build up his facts anew, is found a wide difference in years as to the date of the birth of dumas _père_. as might be expected, the weight of favour lies with the french authorities, though by no means do they, even, agree among themselves. his friends have said that no unbiassed, or even complete biography of the author exists, even in french; and possibly this is so. there is about most of them a certain indefiniteness and what dumas himself called the "colour of sour grapes." the exact date of his birth, however, is unquestionably , if a photographic reproduction of his natal certificate, published in charles glinel's "alex. dumas et son oeuvre," is what it seems to be. dumas' aristocratic parentage--for such it truly was--has been the occasion of much scoffing and hard words. he pretended not to it himself, but it was founded on family history, as the records plainly tell, and whether alexandre, the son of the brave general dumas, the marquis de la pailleterie, was prone to acknowledge it or not does not matter in the least. the "feudal particle" existed plainly in his pedigree, and with no discredit to any concerned. [illustration: facsimile of dumas' own statement of his birth] general dumas, his wife, and his son are buried in the cemetery of villers-cotterets, where the exciting days of the childhood of dumas, the romancer, were spent, in a plot of ground "conceded in perpetuity to the family." the plot forms a rectangle six metres by five, surrounded by towering pines. the three monuments contained therein are of the utmost simplicity, each consisting of an inclined slab of stone. the inscriptions are as follows: famille thomas-alexandre dumas davy de la pailleterie général dé division né à jeremie ile et côte de saint dominique le mars , décédé à villers-cotterets le février alexandre marie-louise-elizabeth labouret Épouse du général de division dumas davy de la pailleterie née à villers-cotterets le juillet décédée le er aout dumas alexandre dumas né à villers-cotterets le juillet décédé le décembre à puys transféré à villers-cotterets le avril there would seem to be no good reason why a book treating of dumas' paris might not be composed entirely of quotations from dumas' own works. for a fact, such a work would be no less valuable as a record than were it evolved by any other process. it would indeed be the best record that could possibly be made, for dumas' topography was generally truthful if not always precise. there are, however, various contemporary side-lights which are thrown upon any canvas, no matter how small its area, and in this instance they seem to engulf even the personality of dumas himself, to say nothing of his observations. dumas was such a part and parcel of the literary life of the times in which he lived that mention can scarce be made of any contemporary event that has not some bearing on his life or work, or he with it, from the time when he first came to the metropolis (in ) at the impressionable age of twenty, until the end. it will be difficult, even, to condense the relative incidents which entered into his life within the confines of a single volume, to say nothing of a single chapter. the most that can be done is to present an abridgment which shall follow along the lines of some preconceived chronological arrangement. this is best compiled from dumas' own words, leaving it to the additional references of other chapters to throw a sort of reflected glory from a more distant view-point. the reputation of dumas with the merely casual reader rests upon his best-known romances, "monte cristo," ; "les trois mousquetaires," ; "vingt ans après," ; "le vicomte de bragelonne," ; "la dame de monsoreau," ; and his dramas of "henri iii. et sa cour," , "antony," , and "kean," . his memoirs, "mes mémoires," are practically closed books to the mass of english readers--the word books is used advisedly, for this remarkable work is composed of twenty stout volumes, and they only cover ten years of the author's life. therein is a mass of fact and fancy which may well be considered as fascinating as are the "romances" themselves, and, though autobiographic, one gets a far more satisfying judgment of the man than from the various warped and distorted accounts which have since been published, either in french or english. beginning with "memories of my childhood" ( - ), dumas launches into a few lines anent his first visit to paris, in company with his father, though the auspicious--perhaps significant--event took place at a very tender age. it seems remarkable that he should have recalled it at all, but he was a remarkable man, and it seems not possible to ignore his words. "we set out for paris, ah, that journey! i recollect it perfectly.... it was august or september, . we got down in the rue thiroux at the house of one dollé.... i had been embraced by one of the most noble ladies who ever lived, madame la marquise de montesson, widow of louis-philippe d'orleans.... the next day, putting brune's sword between my legs and murat's hat upon my head, i galloped around the table; when my father said, '_never forget this, my boy_.'... my father consulted corvisart, and attempted to see the emperor, but napoleon, the quondam general, had now become the emperor, and he refused to see my father.... to where did we return? i believe villers-cotterets." again on the th of march, , dumas entered paris in company with his mother, now widowed. he says of this visit: "i was delighted at the prospect of this my second visit.... i have but one recollection, full of light and poetry, when, with a flourish of trumpets, a waving of banners, and shouts of 'long live the king of rome,' was lifted up above the heads of fifty thousand of the national guard the rosy face and the fair, curly head of a child of three years--the infant son of the great napoleon.... behind him was his mother,--that woman so fatal to france, as have been all the daughters of the cæsars, anne of austria, marie antoinette, and marie louise,--an indistinct, insipid face.... the next day we started home again." * * * * * through the influence of general foy, an old friend of his father's, dumas succeeded in obtaining employment in the orleans bureau at the palais royal. his occupation there appears not to have been unduly arduous. the offices were in the right-hand corner of the second courtyard of the palais royal. he remained here in this bureau for a matter of five years, and, as he said, "loved the hour when he came to the office," because his immediate superior, lassagne,--a contributor to the _drapeau blanc_,--was the friend and intimate of désaugiers, théaulon, armand gouffé, brozier, rougemont, and all the vaudevillists of the time. dumas' meeting with the duc d'orleans--afterward louis-philippe--is described in his own words thus: "in two words i was introduced. 'my lord, this is m. dumas, whom i mentioned to you, general foy's protégé.' 'you are the son of a brave man,' said the duc, 'whom bonaparte, it seems, left to die of starvation.'... the duc gave oudard a nod, which i took to mean, 'he will do, he's by no means bad for a provincial.'" and so it was that dumas came immediately under the eye of the duc, engaged as he was at that time on some special clerical work in connection with the duc's provincial estates. the affability of dumas, so far as he himself was concerned, was a foregone conclusion. in the great world in which he moved he knew all sorts and conditions of men. he had his enemies, it is true, and many of them, but he himself was the enemy of no man. to english-speaking folk he was exceedingly agreeable, because,--quoting his own words,--said he, "it was a part of the debt which i owed to shakespeare and scott." something of the egoist here, no doubt, but gracefully done nevertheless. with his temperament it was perhaps but natural that dumas should have become a romancer. this was of itself, maybe, a foreordained sequence of events, but no man thinks to-day that, leaving contributary conditions, events, and opportunities out of the question, he shapes his own fate; there are accumulated heritages of even distant ages to contend with. in dumas' case there was his heritage of race and colour, refined, perhaps, by a long drawn out process, but, as he himself tells in "mes mémoires," his mother's fear was that her child would be born black, and he _was_, or, at least, purple, as he himself afterward put it. chapter iii. dumas' literary career just how far dumas' literary ability was an inheritance, or growth of his early environment, will ever be an open question. it is a manifest fact that he had breathed something of the spirit of romance before he came to paris. although it was not acknowledged until , "the wolf-leader" was a development of a legend told to him in his childhood. recalling then the incident of his boyhood days, and calling into recognition his gift of improvisation, he wove a tale which reflected not a little of the open-air life of the great forest of villers-cotterets, near the place of his birth. here, then, though it was fifty years after his birth, and thirty after he had thrust himself on the great world of paris, the scenes of his childhood were reproduced in a wonderfully romantic and weird tale--which, to the best of the writer's belief, has not yet appeared in english. to some extent it is possible that there is not a little of autobiography therein, not so much, perhaps, as dickens put into "david copperfield," but the suggestion is thrown out for what it may be worth. it is, furthermore, possible that the historic associations of the town of villers-cotterets--which was but a little village set in the midst of the surrounding forest--may have been the prime cause which influenced and inspired the mind of dumas toward the romance of history. in point of chronology, among the earliest of the romances were those that dealt with the fortunes of the house of valois (fourteenth century), and here, in the little forest town of villers-cotterets, was the magnificent manor-house which belonged to the ducs de valois; so it may be presumed that the sentiment of early associations had somewhat to do with these literary efforts. all his life dumas devotedly admired the sentiment and fancies which foregathered in this forest, whose very trees and stones he knew so well. from his "mémoires" we learn of his indignation at the destruction of its trees and much of its natural beauty. he says: "this park, planted by françois i., was cut down by louis-philippe. trees, under whose shade once reclined françois i. and madame d'etampes, henri ii. and diane de poitiers, henri iv. and gabrielle d'estrées--you would have believed that a bourbon would have respected you. but over and above your inestimable value of poetry and memories, you had, unhappily, a material value. you beautiful beeches with your polished silvery cases! you beautiful oaks with your sombre wrinkled bark!--you were worth a hundred thousand crowns. the king of france, who, with his six millions of private revenue, was too poor to keep you--the king of france sold you. for my part, had you been my sole possession, i would have preserved you; for, poet as i am, one thing that i would set before all the gold of the earth: the murmur of the wind in your leaves; the shadow that you made to flicker beneath my feet; the visions, the phantoms, which, at eventide, betwixt the day and night, in the doubtful hour of twilight, would glide between your age-long trunks as glide the shadows of the ancient abencerrages amid the thousand columns of cordova's royal mosque." what wonder, with these lines before one, that the impressionable dumas was so taken with the romance of life and so impracticable in other ways. * * * * * from the fact that no thorough biography of dumas exists, it will be difficult to trace the fluctuations of his literary career with preciseness. it is not possible even with the twenty closely packed volumes of the "mémoires"--themselves incomplete--before one. all that a biographer can get from this treasure-house are facts,--rather radiantly coloured in some respects, but facts nevertheless,--which are put together in a not very coherent or compact form. they do, to be sure, recount many of the incidents and circumstances attendant upon the writing and publication of many of his works, and because of this they immediately become the best of all sources of supply. it is to be regretted that these "mémoires" have not been translated, though it is doubtful if any publisher of english works could get his money back from the transaction. other clues as to his emotions, and with no uncertain references to incidents of dumas' literary career, are found in "mes bêtes," "ange pitou," the "causeries," and the "travels." these comprise many volumes not yet translated. [illustration: facsimile of a manuscript page from one of dumas' plays] dumas was readily enough received into the folds of the great. indeed, as we know, he made his _entrée_ under more than ordinary, if not exceptional, circumstances, and his connection with the great names of literature and statecraft extended from hugo to garibaldi. as for his own predilections in literature, dumas' own voice is practically silent, though we know that he was a romanticist pure and simple, and drew no inspiration or encouragement from voltairian sentiments. if not essentially religious, he at least believed in its principles, though, as a warm admirer has said, "he had no liking for the celibate and bookish life of the churchman." dumas does not enter deeply into the subject of ecclesiasticism in france. his most elaborate references are to the abbey of ste. genevieve--since disappeared in favour of the hideous pagan panthéon--and its relics and associations, in "la dame de monsoreau." other of the romances from time to time deal with the subject of religion more or less, as was bound to be, considering the times of which he wrote, of mazarin, richelieu, de rohan, and many other churchmen. throughout the thirties dumas was mostly occupied with his plays, the predominant, if not the most sonorous note, being sounded by "antony." as a novelist his star shone brightest in the decade following, commencing with "monte cristo," in , and continuing through "le vicomte de bragelonne" and "la dame de monsoreau," in . during these strenuous years dumas produced the flower of his romantic garland--omitting, of course, certain trivial and perhaps unworthy trifles, among which are usually considered, rightly enough, "le capitaine paul" (paul jones) and "jeanne d'arc." at this period, however, he produced the charming and exotic "black tulip," which has since come to be a reality. the best of all, though, are admittedly the mousquetaire cycle, the volumes dealing with the fortunes of the valois line, and, again, "monte cristo." by , dumas, eager, as it were, to experience something of the valiant boisterous spirit of the characters of his romances, had thrown himself heartily into an alliance with the opponents of louis-philippe. orleanist successes, however, left him to fall back upon his pen. in , having finished "monte cristo," he followed it by "les trois mousquetaires," and before the end of the same year had put out forty volumes, by what means, those who will read the scurrilous "fabrique des romans"--and properly discount it--may learn. the publication of "monte cristo" and "les trois mousquetaires" as newspaper _feuilletons_, in - , met with amazing success, and were, indeed, written from day to day, to keep pace with the demands of the press. here is, perhaps, an opportune moment to digress into the ethics of the profession of the "literary ghost," and but for the fact that the subject has been pretty well thrashed out before,--not only with respect to dumas, but to others as well,--it might justifiably be included here at some length, but shall not be, however. the busy years from - could indeed be "explained"--if one were sure of his facts; but beyond the circumstances, frequently availed of, it is admitted, of dumas having made use of secretarial assistance in the productions which were ultimately to be fathered by himself, there is little but jealous and spiteful hearsay to lead one to suppose that he made any secret of the fact that he had some very considerable assistance in the production of the seven hundred volumes which, at a late period in his life, he claimed to have produced. the "_maquet affaire_," of course, proclaims the whilom augustus mackeat as a _collaborateur_; still the ingenuity of dumas shines forth through the warp and woof in an unmistakable manner, and he who would know more of the pros and cons is referred to the "_maison dumas et cie_." maquet was manifestly what we have come to know as a "hack," though the species is not so very new--nor so very rare. the great libraries are full of them the whole world over, and very useful, though irresponsible and ungrateful persons, many of them have proved to be. maquet, at any rate, served some sort of a useful purpose, and he certainly was a confidant of the great romancer during these very years, but that his was the mind and hand that evolved or worked out the general plan and detail of the romances is well-nigh impossible to believe, when one has digested both sides of the question. an english critic of no inconsiderable knowledge has thrown in his lot recently with the claims of maquet, and given the sole and entire production of "les trois mousquetaires," "monte cristo," "la dame de monsoreau," and many other of dumas' works of this period, to him, placing him, indeed, with shakespeare, whose plays certain gullible persons believe to have been written by bacon. the flaw in the theory is apparent when one realizes that the said maquet was no myth--he was, in fact, a very real person, and a literary personage of a certain ability. it is strange, then, that if he were the producer of, say "les trois mousquetaires," which was issued ostensibly as the work of dumas, that he wrote nothing under his own name that was at all comparable therewith; and stranger still, that he was able to repeat this alleged success with "monte cristo," or the rest of the mousquetaire series, and yet not be able to do the same sort of a feat when playing the game by himself. one instance would not prove this contention, but several are likely to not only give it additional strength, but to practically demonstrate the correct conclusion. the ethics of plagiarism are still greater and more involved than those which make justification for the employment of one who makes a profession of _library research_, but it is too involved and too vast to enter into here, with respect to accusations of its nature which were also made against dumas. as that new star which has so recently risen out of the east--mr. kipling--has said, "they took things where they found them." this is perhaps truthful with regard to most literary folk, who are continually seeking a new line of thought. scott did it, rather generously one might think; even stevenson admitted that he was greatly indebted to washington irving and poe for certain of the details of "treasure island"--though there is absolutely no question but that it was a sort of unconscious absorption, to put it rather unscientifically. the scientist himself calls it the workings of the subconscious self. as before said, the maquet _affaire_ was a most complicated one, and it shall have no lengthy consideration here. suffice to say that, when a case was made by maquet in court, in - , maquet lost. "it is not justice that has won," said maquet, "but dumas." edmond about has said that maquet lived to speak kindly of dumas, "as did his legion of other _collaborateurs_; and the proudest of them congratulate themselves on having been trained in so good a school." this being so, it is hard to see anything very outrageous or preposterous in the procedure. blaze de bury has described dumas' method thus: "the plot was worked over by dumas and his colleague, when it was finally drafted by the other and afterward _rewritten_ by dumas." m. about, too, corroborates blaze de bury's statement, so it thus appears legitimately explained. dumas at least supplied the ideas and the _esprit_. in dumas' later years there is perhaps more justification for the thought that as his indolence increased--though he was never actually inert, at least not until sickness drew him down--the authorship of the novels became more complex. blaze de bury put them down to the "dumas-legion," and perhaps with some truth. they certainly have not the vim and fire and temperament of individuality of those put forth from to . dumas wrote fire and impetuosity into the veins of his heroes, perhaps some of his very own vivacious spirit. it has been said that his moral code was that of the camp or the theatre; but that is an ambiguity, and it were better not dissected. certainly he was no prude or puritan, not more so, at any rate, than were burns, byron, or poe, but the virtues of courage, devotion, faithfulness, loyalty, and friendship were his, to a degree hardly excelled by any of whom the written record of _cameraderie_ exists. dumas has been jibed and jeered at by the supercilious critics ever since his first successes appeared, but it has not leavened his reputation as the first romancer of his time one single jot; and within the past few years we have had a revival of the character of true romance--perhaps the first _true_ revival since dumas' time--in m. rostand's "cyrano de bergerac." we have had, too, the works of zola, who, indomitable, industrious, and sincere as he undoubtedly was, will have been long forgotten when the masterpieces of dumas are being read and reread. the mousquetaire cycle, the valois romances, and "monte cristo" stand out by themselves above all others of his works, and have had the approbation of such discerning fellow craftsmen as george sand, thackeray, and stevenson, all of whom may be presumed to have judged from entirely different points of view. thackeray, indeed, plainly indicated his greatest admiration for "la tulipe noire," a work which in point of time came somewhat later. at this time dumas had built his own chalet de monte cristo near st. germain, a sort of a gallic rival to abbotsford. it, and the "théâtre historique," founded by dumas, came to their disastrous end in the years immediately following upon the revolution of , when dumas fled to brussels and began his "mémoires." he also founded a newspaper called _le mousquetaire_, which failed, else he might have retrenched and satisfied his creditors--at least in part. he travelled in russia, and upon his return wrote of his journey to the caspian. in he obtained an archæological berth in italy, and edited a garibaldian newspaper. by , the "director of excavations at naples," which was dumas' official title, fell out with the new government which had come in, and he left his partisan journal and the lava-beds of pompeii for paris and the literary arena again; but the virile power of his early years was gone, and dumas never again wielded the same pen which had limned the features of athos, porthos, aramis, and d'artagnan. in dumas participated in a sort of personally-conducted bonapartist tour to the mediterranean, in company with the son of jerome napoleon. on this journey dumas first saw the island of monte cristo and the château d'if, which lived so fervently in his memory that he decided that their personality should be incorporated in the famous tale which was already formulating itself in his brain. again, this time in company with the duc de montpensier, he journeyed to the mediterranean, "did" spain, and crossed over to algiers. when he returned he brought back the celebrated vulture, "jugurtha," whose fame was afterward perpetuated in "mes bêtes." that there was a deal of reality in the characterization and the locale of dumas' romances will not be denied by any who have acquaintance therewith. dumas unquestionably took his material where he found it, and his wonderfully retentive memory, his vast capacity for work, and his wide experience and extensive acquaintance provided him material that many another would have lacked. m. de chaffault tells of his having accompanied dumas by road from sens to joigny, dumas being about to appeal to the republican constituency of that place for their support of him as a candidate for the parliamentary elections. "in a short time we were on the road," said the narrator, "and the first stage of three hours seemed to me only as many minutes. whenever we passed a country-seat, out came a lot of anecdotes and legends connected with its owners, interlarded with quaint fancies and epigrams." aside from the descriptions of the country around about crépy, compiègne, and villers-cotterets which he wove into the valois tales, "the taking of the bastille," and "the wolf-leader," there is a strong note of personality in "georges;" some have called it autobiography. the tale opens in the far-distant isle of france, called since the english occupation mauritius, and in the narrative of the half-caste georges munier are supposed to be reflected many of the personal incidents of the life of the author. this story may or may not be a mere repetition of certain of the incidents of the struggle of the mulatto against the barrier of the white aristocracy, and may have been an echo in dumas' own life. it is repeated it may have been this, or it may have been much more. certain it is, there is an underlying motive which could only have been realized to the full extent expressed therein by one who knew and felt the pangs of the encounter with a world which only could come to one of genius who was by reason of race or creed outclassed by his contemporaries; and therein is given the most vivid expression of the rise of one who had everything against him at the start. this was not wholly true of dumas himself, to be sure, as he was endowed with certain influential friends. still it was mainly through his own efforts that he was able to prevail upon the old associates and friends of the dashing general dumas, his father, to give him his first lift along the rough and stony literary pathway. in this book there is a curious interweaving of the life and colour which may have had not a little to do with the actual life which obtained with respect to his ancestors, and as such, and the various descriptions of negro and creole life, the story becomes at once a document of prime interest and importance. since dumas himself has explained and justified the circumstance out of which grew the conception of the d'artagnan romances, it is perhaps advisable that some account should be given of the original d'artagnan. primarily, the interest in dumas' romance of "les trois mousquetaires" is as great, if not greater, with respect to the characters as it is with the scenes in which they lived and acted their strenuous parts. in addition, there is the profound satisfaction of knowing that the rollicking and gallant swashbuckler has come down to us from the pages of real life, as dumas himself recounts in the preface to the colman lévy edition of the book. the statement of dumas is explicit enough; there is no mistaking his words which open the preface: "dans laquelle il est établi que, malgré leurs noms en _os_ et en _is_, les héros de l'histoire que nous allons avoir l'honneur de raconter à nos lecteurs n'ont rien de mythologique." the contemporary facts which connect the real comte d'artagnan with romances are as follows: charles de batz de castlemore, comte d'artagnan, received his title from the little village of artagnan, near the gascon town of orthez in the present department of the hautes-pyrénées. he was born in . dumas, with an author's license, made his chief figure a dozen years older, for the real d'artagnan was but five years old at the time of the siege of la rochelle of which dumas makes mention. on the whole, the romance is near enough to reality to form an ample endorsement of the author's verity. [illustration: d'artagnan] the real d'artagnan made his way to paris, as did he of the romance. here he met his fellow béarnais, one m. de treville, captain of the king's musketeers, and the illustrious individuals, _armand de sillegue d'athos_, a béarnais nobleman who died in , and whose direct descendant, colonel de sillegue, commanded, according to the french army lists of a recent date, a regiment of french cavalry; _henry d'aramitz_, lay abbé of oloron; and _jean de portu_, all of them probably neighbours in d'artagnan's old home. d'artagnan could not then have been at the siege of la rochelle, but from the "mémoires de m. d'artagnan," of which dumas writes in his preface, we learn of his feats at arms at arras, valenciennes, douai, and lille, all places where once and again dumas placed the action of the novels. the real d'artagnan died, sword in hand, "in the imminent deadly breach" at maestricht, in . he served, too, under prince rupert in the civil war, and frequently visited england, where he had an _affaire_ with a certain milady, which is again reminiscent of the pages of dumas. this d'artagnan in the flesh married charlotte anne de chanlecy, and the last of his direct descendants died in paris in the latter years of the eighteenth century, but collateral branches of the family appear still to exist in gascony, and there was a certain baron de batz, a béarnais, who made a daring attempt to save marie antoinette in . the inception of the whole work in dumas' mind, as he says, came to him while he was making research in the "bibliothèque royale" for his history of louis xiv. thus from these beginnings grew up that series of romances which gave undying fame to alexandre dumas, and to the world of readers a series of characters and scenes associated with the mediæval history of france, which, before or since, have not been equalled. alexandre dumas has been described as something of the soldier, the cook, and the traveller, more of the journalist, diplomatist, and poet, and, more than all else, the dramatist, romancer, and _raconteur_. he himself has said that he was a "veritable wandering jew of literature." his versatility in no way comprised his abilities, and, while conceit and egoism played a not unimportant share in his make-up, his affability--when he so chose--caused him to be ranked highly in the estimation of his equals and contemporaries. by the cur-dogs, which always snap at the heels of a more splendid animal, he was not ranked so high. certain of these were for ever twitting him publicly of his creed, race, and foibles. it is recorded by theodore de bauville, in his "odes," that one jacquot hailed dumas in the open street with a ribald jeer, when, calmly turning to his detractor, dumas said, simply: "hast thou dined to-day, jacquot?" then it was that this said jacquot published the slanderous brochure, "_la maison dumas et cie_," which has gone down as something considerable of a sensation in the annals of literary history; so much so, indeed, that most writers who have had occasion to refer to dumas' literary career have apparently half-believed its accusations, which, truth to tell, may have had some bearing on "things as they were," had they but been put forward as a bit of temperate criticism rather than as a sweeping condemnation. to give the reader an idea of the dumas of , one can scarcely do better than present his portrait as sketched by de villemessant, the founder and brilliant editor of the _figaro_, when dumas was at the height of his glory, and a grasp of his hand was better than a touch of genius to those receiving it: "at no time and among no people had it till then been granted to a writer to achieve fame in every direction; in serious drama and in comedy, and novels of adventure and of domestic interest, in humourous stories and in pathetic tales, alexandre dumas had been alike successful. the frequenters of the théâtre français owed him evenings of delight, but so did the general public as well. dumas alone had had the power to touch, interest, or amuse, not only paris or france, but the whole world. if all other novelists had been swallowed up in an earthquake, this one would have been able to supply the leading libraries of europe. if all other dramatists had died, alexandre dumas could have occupied every stage; his magic name on a playbill or affixed to a newspaper _feuilleton_ ensured the sale of that issue or a full house at the theatre. he was king of the stage, prince of _feuilletonists_, _the_ literary man _par excellence_, in that paris then so full of intellect. when he opened his lips the most eloquent held their breath to listen; when he entered a room the wit of man, the beauty of woman, the pride of life, grew dim in the radiance of his glory; he reigned over paris in right of his sovereign intellect, the only monarch who for an entire century had understood how to draw to himself the adoration of all classes of society, from the faubourg st. germain to the batignolles. "just as he united in himself capabilities of many kinds, so he displayed in his person the perfection of many races. from the negro he had derived the frizzled hair and those thick lips on which europe had laid a delicate smile of ever-varying meaning; from the southern races he derived his vivacity of gesture and speech, from the northern his solid frame and broad shoulders and a figure which, while it showed no lack of french elegance, was powerful enough to have made green with envy the gentlemen of the russian life-guards." dumas' energy and output were tremendous, as all know. it is recorded that on one occasion,--in the later years of his life, when, as was but natural, he had tired somewhat,--after a day at _la chasse_, he withdrew to a cottage near by to rest until the others should rejoin him, after having finished their sport. this they did within a reasonably short time,--whether one hour or two is not stated with definiteness,--when they found him sitting before the fire "twirling his thumbs." on being interrogated, he replied that he had not been sitting there long; _in fact, he had just written the first act of a new play_. the french journal, _la revue_, tells the following incident, which sounds new. some years before his death, dumas had written a somewhat quaint letter to napoleon iii., apropos of a play which had been condemned by the french censor. in this epistle he commenced: "sire:--in , and, indeed, even to-day, there are three men at the head of french literature. these three men are victor hugo, lamartine, and myself. although i am the least of the three, the five continents have made me the most popular, probably because the one was a thinker, the other a dreamer, while i am merely a writer of commonplace tales." this letter goes on to plead the cause of his play, and from this circumstance the censorship was afterward removed. a story is told of an incident which occurred at a rehearsal of "les trois mousquetaires" at the "ambigu." this story is strangely reminiscent of another incident which happened at a rehearsal of halévy's "guido et génevra," but it is still worth recounting here, if only to emphasize the indomitable energy and perspicacity of dumas. it appears that a _pompier_--that gaudy, glistening fireman who is always present at functions of all sorts on the continent of europe--who was watching the rehearsal, was observed by dumas to suddenly leave his point of vantage and retire. dumas followed him and inquired his reason for withdrawing. "what made you go away?" dumas asked of him. "because that last act did not interest me so much as the others," was the answer. whereupon dumas sent for the prompt-book and threw that portion relating to that particular tableau into the fire, and forthwith set about to rewrite it on the spot. "it does not amuse the _pompier_," said dumas, "but i know what it wants." an hour and a half later, at the finish of the rehearsal, the actors were given their new words for the seventh tableau. in spite of the varied success with which his plays met, dumas was, we may say, first of all a dramatist, if construction of plot and the moving about of dashing and splendid figures counts for anything; and it most assuredly does. this very same qualification is what makes the romances so vivid and thrilling; and they do not falter either in accessory or fact. the cloaks of his swashbucklering heroes are always the correct shade of scarlet; their rapiers, their swords, or their pistols are always rightly tuned, and their entrances and their exits correctly and most appropriately timed. when his characters represent the poverty of a tatterdemalion, they do it with a sincerity that is inimitable, and the lusty throatings of a d'artagnan are never a hollow mockery of something they are not. dumas drew his characters of the stage and his personages of the romances with the brilliance and assurance of a velasquez, rather than with the finesse of a praxiteles, and for that reason they live and introduce themselves as cosmopolitans, and are to be appreciated only as one studies or acquires something of the spirit from which they have been evolved. of dumas' own uproarious good nature many have written. albert vandam tells of a certain occasion when he went to call upon the novelist at st. germain,--and he reckoned dumas the most lovable and genial among all of his host of acquaintances in the great world of paris,--that he overheard, as he was entering the study, "a loud burst of laughter." "i had sooner wait until monsieur's visitors are gone," said he. "monsieur has no visitors," said the servant. "monsieur often laughs like that at his work." dumas as a man of affairs or as a politician was not the success that he was in the world of letters. his activities were great, and his enthusiasm for any turn of affairs with which he allied himself remarkable; but, whether he was _en voyage_ on a whilom political mission, at work as "director of excavations" at pompeii, or founding or conducting a new journal or a new playhouse, his talents were manifestly at a discount. in other words, he was singularly unfit for public life; he was not an organizer, nor had he executive ability, though he had not a little of the skill of prophecy and foresight as to many turns of fortune's wheel with respect to world power and the comity of nations. commenting upon the political state of europe, he said: "geographically, prussia has the form of a serpent, and, like it, she appears to be asleep, in order to gain strength to swallow everything around her." all of his prophecy was not fulfilled, to be sure, but a huge slice was fed into her maw from out of the body of france, and, looking at things at a time fifty years ahead of that of which dumas wrote,--that is, before the franco-prussian war,--it would seem as though the serpent's appetite was still unsatisfied. in , when dumas took upon himself to wish for a seat in the government, he besought the support of the constituency of the borough in which he had lived--st. germain. but st. germain denied it him--"on moral grounds." in the following year, when louis-philippe had abdicated, he made the attempt once again. the republican constituency of joigny challenged him with respect to his title of marquis de la pailleterie, and his having been a secretary in the orleans bureau. the following is his reply--verbatim--as publicly delivered at a meeting of electors, and is given here as illustrating well the earnestness and devotion to a code which many puritan and prudish moralists have themselves often ignored: "i was formerly called the marquis de la pailleterie, no doubt. it was my father's name, and one of which i was very proud, being then unable to claim a glorious one of my own make. but at present, when i am somebody, i call myself alexandre dumas, and nothing more; and every one knows me, yourselves among the rest--you, you absolute nobodies, who have come here merely to boast, to-morrow, after having given me insult to-night, that you have known the great dumas. if such were your avowed ambition, you could have satisfied it without having failed in the common courtesies of gentlemen. there is no doubt, either, about my having been a secretary to the duc d'orleans, and that i have received many favours from his family. if you are ignorant of the meaning of the phrase, 'the memories of the heart,' allow me, at least, to proclaim loudly that i am not, and that i entertain toward this family of royal blood all the devotion of an honourable man." * * * * * that dumas was ever accused of making use of the work of others, of borrowing ideas wherever he found them, and, indeed, of plagiarism itself,--which is the worst of all,--has been mentioned before, and the argument for or against is not intended to be continued here. dumas himself has said much upon the subject in defence of his position, and the contemporary scribblers of the time have likewise had their say--and it was not brief; but of all that has been written and said, the following is pertinent and deliciously naïve, and, coming from dumas himself, has value: "one morning i had only just opened my eyes when my servant entered my bedroom and brought me a letter upon which was written the word _urgent_. he drew back the curtains; the weather--doubtless by some mistake--was fine, and the brilliant sunshine entered the room like a conqueror. i rubbed my eyes and looked at the letter to see who had sent it, astonished at the same time that there should be only one. the handwriting was quite unknown to me. having turned it over and over for a minute or two, trying to guess whose the writing was, i opened it and this is what i found: "'sir:--i have read your "three musketeers," being well to do, and having plenty of spare time on my hands--' "('lucky fellow!' said i; and i continued reading.) "'i admit that i found it fairly amusing; but, having plenty of time before me, i was curious enough to wish to know if you really did find them in the "memoirs of m. de la fère." as i was living in carcassonne, i wrote to one of my friends in paris to go to the bibliothèque royale, and ask for these memoirs, and to write and let me know if you had really and truly borrowed your facts from them. my friend, whom i can trust, replied that you had copied them word for word, and that it is what you authors always do. so i give you fair notice, sir, that i have told people all about it at carcassonne, and, if it occurs again, we shall cease subscribing to the _siècle_. "'yours sincerely, "'----.' "i rang the bell. "'if any more letters come for me to-day,' said i to the servant, 'you will keep them back, and only give them to me sometime when i seem a bit too happy.' "'manuscripts as well, sir?' "'why do you ask that question?' "'because some one has brought one this very moment.' "'good! that is the last straw! put it somewhere where it won't be lost, but don't tell me where.' "he put it on the mantelpiece, which proved that my servant was decidedly a man of intelligence. "it was half-past ten; i went to the window. as i have said, it was a beautiful day. it appeared as if the sun had won a permanent victory over the clouds. the passers-by all looked happy, or, at least, contented. "like everybody else, i experienced a desire to take the air elsewhere than at my window, so i dressed, and went out. "as chance would have it--for when i go out for a walk i don't care whether it is in one street or another--as chance would have it, i say, i passed the bibliothèque royale. "i went in, and, as usual, found pâris, who came up to me with a charming smile. "'give me,' said i, 'the "memoirs of la fère."' "he looked at me for a moment as if he thought i was crazy; then, with the utmost gravity, he said, 'you know very well they don't exist, because you said yourself they did!' "his speech, though brief, was decidedly pithy. "by way of thanks i made pâris a gift of the autograph i had received from carcassonne. "when he had finished reading it, he said, 'if it is any consolation to you to know it, you are not the first who has come to ask for the "memoirs of la fère"; i have already seen at least thirty people who came solely for that purpose, and no doubt they hate you for sending them on a fool's errand.' "as i was in search of material for a novel, and as there are people who declare novels are to be found ready-made, i asked for the catalogue. "of course, i did not discover anything." * * * * * every one knows of dumas' great fame as a gastronome and epicure; some recall, also, that he himself was a _cuisinier_ of no mean abilities. how far his capacities went in this direction, and how wide was his knowledge of the subject, can only be gleaned by a careful reading of his great "dictionnaire de cuisine." still further into the subject he may be supposed to have gone from the fact that he also published an inquiry, or an open letter, addressed to the _gourmands_ of all countries, on the subject of mustard. it is an interesting subject, to be sure, but a trifling one for one of the world's greatest writers to spend his time upon; say you, dear reader? well! perhaps! but it is a most fascinating contribution to the literature of epicurism, and quite worth looking up and into. the history of the subtle spice is traced down through biblical and roman times to our own day, chronologically, etymologically, botanically, and practically. it will be, and doubtless has been, useful to other compilers of essays on good cheer. whatever may be the subtle abilities which make the true romancer, or rather those which make his romances things of life and blood, they were possessed by alexandre dumas. perhaps it is the more easy to construct a romantic play than it is to erect, from matter-of-fact components, a really engrossing romantic novel. dumas' abilities seem to fit in with both varieties alike, and if he did build to order, the result was in most cases no less successful than if evolved laboriously. it is a curious fact that many serial contributions--if we are to believe the literary gossip of the time--are only produced as the printer is waiting for copy. the formula is manifestly not a good one upon which to build, but it has been done, and successfully, by more writers than one, and with scarce a gap unbridged. dickens did it,--if it is allowable to mention him here,--and dumas himself did it,--many times,--and with a wonderful and, one may say, inspired facility, but then his facility, none the less than his vitality, made possible much that was not granted to the laborious zola. dumas was untiring to the very last. his was a case of being literally worked out--not worked to death, which is quite a different thing. it has been said by dumas _fils_ that in the latter years of the elder's life he would sit for length upon length of time, pen in hand, and not a word would flow therefrom, ere the ink had dried. an interesting article on dumas' last days appeared in _la revue_ in . it dealt with the sadness and disappointments of dumas' later days, in spite of which the impression conveyed of the great novelist's personality is very vivid, and he emerges from it much as his books would lead one to expect--a hearty, vigorous creature, surcharged with vitality, with desire to live and let live, a man possessed of almost equally prominent faults and virtues, and generous to a fault. [illustration: alexandre dumas, fils] money he had never been able to keep. he had said himself, at a time when he was earning a fortune, "i can keep everything but money. money unfortunately always slips through my fingers." the close of his life was a horrible struggle to make ends meet. when matters came to a crisis dumas would pawn some of the valuable _objets d'art_ he had collected in the opulent past, or ask his son for assistance. but, though the sum asked was always given, there were probably few things which the old man would not have preferred to this appeal to the younger author. as he grew old, dumas _père_ became almost timid in his attitude toward the son, whose disapproval had frequently found expression in advice and warning. but dumas could not settle down, and he could not become careful. neither of these things was in his nature, and there was consequently always some little undercurrent of friction between them. to the end of his days his money was anybody's who liked to come and ask for it, and nothing but the final clouding of his intellectual capacity could reduce his optimism. then, it is true, he fell into a state of sustained depression. the idea that his reputation would not last haunted him. in , when dumas was already very ill, his son, anxious that he should not be in paris during its investment by the germans, took him to a house he had at puys, near dieppe. here the great man rapidly sank, and, except at meal-times, passed his time in a state of heavy sleep, until a sudden attack of apoplexy finally seized him. he never rallied after it, and died upon the day the prussian soldiers took possession of dieppe. many stories are rife of dumas the prodigal. some doubtless are true, many are not. those which he fathers himself, we might well accept as being true. surely he himself should know. the following incident which happened in the last days of his life certainly has the ring of truth about it. when in his last illness he left paris for his son's country house near dieppe, he had but twenty francs, the total fortune of the man who had earned millions. on arriving at puys, dumas placed the coin on his bedroom chimneypiece, and there it remained all through his illness. one day he was seated in his chair near the window, chatting with his son, when his eye fell on the gold piece. a recollection of the past crossed his mind. "fifty years ago, when i went to paris," he said, "i had a louis. why have people accused me of prodigality? i have always kept that louis. see--there it is." and he showed his son the coin, smiling feebly as he did so. chapter iv. dumas' contemporaries among those of the world's great names in literature contemporary with dumas, but who knew paris ere he first descended upon it to try his fortune in its arena of letters, were lamartine, who already, in , had charmed his public with his "meditations;" hugo, who could claim but twenty years himself, but who had already sung his "odes et ballades," and chateaubriand. soulié and de vigny won their fame with poems and plays in the early twenties, de musset and chénier followed before a decade had passed, and gautier was still serving his apprenticeship. it was the proud goethe who said of these young men of the twenties, "they all come from chateaubriand." béranger, too, "the little man," even though he was drawing on toward the prime of life, was also singing melodiously: it was his _chansons_, it is said, that upset the bourbon throne and made way for the "citizen-king." nodier, of fanciful and fantastic rhyme, was already at work, and mérimée had not yet taken up the administrative duties of overseeing the preserving process which at his instigation was, at the hands of a paternal government, being applied to the historical architectural monuments throughout france; a glory which it is to be feared has never been wholly granted to mérimée, as was his due. [illustration: two famous caricatures of alexandre dumas] guizot, the _bête noire_ of the later louis-philippe, was actively writing from to , and his antagonist, thiers, was at the same period producing what carlyle called the "voluminous and untrustworthy labours of a brisk little man in his way;" which recalls to mind the fact that carlylean rant--like most of his prose--is a well-nigh insufferable thing. at this time mignet, the historian, was hard at work, and st. beauve had just deserted _materia medica_ for literature. michelet's juvenile histories were a production of the time, while poor, unhonoured, and then unsung, balzac was grinding out his pittance--in after years to grow into a monumental literary legacy--in a garret. eugène sue had not yet taken to literary pathways, and was scouring the seas as a naval surgeon. the drama was prolific in names which we have since known as masters, scribe, halévy, and others. george sand, too, was just beginning that grand literary life which opened with "indiana" in , and lasted until . she, like so many of the great, whose name and fame, like dumas' own, has been perpetuated by a monument in stone, the statue which was unveiled in the little town of her birth on the indre, la châtre, in . like dumas, too, hers was a cyclopean industry, and so it followed that in the present twentieth century (in the year ), another and a more glorious memorial to france's greatest woman writer was unveiled in the garden of the luxembourg. among the women famous in the _monde_ of paris at the time of dumas' arrival were mesdames desbordes-valmore, amable tastu, and delphine gay. "for more than half a century this brilliant group of men and women sustained the world of ideas and poetry," said dumas, in his "mémoires," "and i, too," he continued, "have reached the same plane ... unaided by intrigue or coterie, and using none other than my own work as the stepping-stone in my pathway." dumas cannot be said to have been niggardly with his praise of the work of others. he said of a sonnet of arnault's--"la feuille"--that it was a masterpiece which an andré chénier, a lamartine, or a hugo might have envied, and that for himself, not knowing what his "literary brothers" might have done, he would have given for it "any one of his dramas." it was into the office of arnault, who was chief of a department in the université, that béranger took up his labours as a copying-clerk,--as did dumas in later years,--and it was while here that béranger produced his first ballad, the "roi d'yvetot." in millet was at his height, if one considers what he had already achieved by his "great agrarian poems," as they have been called. gautier called them "georgics in paint," and such they undoubtedly were. millet would hardly be called a parisian; he was not of the life of the city, but rather of that of the countryside, by his having settled down at barbizon in , and practically never left it except to go to paris on business. his life has been referred to as one of "sublime monotony," but it was hardly that. it was a life devoted to the telling of a splendid story, that of the land as contrasted with that of the paved city streets. corot was a real parisian, and it was only in his early life in the provinces that he felt the bitterness of life and longed for the flagstones of the quais, for the tuileries, the seine, and his beloved rue de bac, where he was born on th thermidor, year iv. (july , ). corot early took to painting the scenes of the metropolis, as we learn from his biography, notably at the point along the river bank where the london steamer moors to-day. but these have disappeared; few or none of his juvenile efforts have come down to us. corot returned to paris, after many years spent in rome, during the reign of louis-philippe, when affairs were beginning to stir themselves in literature and art. in his "site d'italie" and a "soir" were shown at the annual salon,--though, of course, he had already been an exhibitor there,--and inspired a sonnet of théophile gautier, which concludes: "corot, ton nom modest, écrit dans un coin noir." corot's pictures _were_ unfortunately hung in the darkest corners--for fifteen years. as he himself has said, it was as if he were in the catacombs. in corot figured as one of the thirty-four judges appointed by napoleon iii. to make the awards for paintings exhibited in the world's first universal exhibition. it is not remarked that corot had any acquaintance or friendships with dumas or with victor hugo, of whom he remarked, "this victor hugo seems to be pretty famous in literature." he knew little of his contemporaries, and the hurly-burly knew less of him. he was devoted, however, to the genius of his superiors--as he doubtless thought them. of delacroix he said one day, "he is an eagle, and i am only a lark singing little songs in gray clouds." a literary event of prime importance during the latter years of dumas' life in paris, when his own purse was growing thin, was the publication of the "histoire de jules césar," written by napoleon iii. nobody ever seems to have taken the second emperor seriously in any of his finer expressions of sentiment, and, as may be supposed, the publication of this immortal literary effort was the occasion of much sarcasm, banter, violent philippic, and sardonic criticism. possibly the world was not waiting for this work, but royalty, no less than other great men, have their hobbies and their fads; nero fiddled, and the first napoleon read novels and threw them forthwith out of the carriage window, so it was quite permissible that napoleon iii. should have perpetuated this life history of an emperor whom he may justly and truly have admired--perhaps envied, in a sort of impossible way. already louis napoleon's collection of writings was rather voluminous, so this came as no great surprise, and his literary reputation was really greater than that which had come to him since fate made him the master of one of the foremost nations of europe. from his critics we learn that "he lacked the grace of a popular author; that he was quite incapable of interesting the reader by a charm of manner; and that his _style_ was meagre, harsh, and grating, but epigrammatic." no frenchman could possibly be otherwise. dumas relates, again, the story of sir walter scott's visit to paris, seeking documents which should bear upon the reign of napoleon. dining with friends one evening, he was invited the next day to dine with barras. but scott shook his head. "i cannot dine with that man," he replied. "i shall write evil of him, and people in scotland would say that i have flung the dishes from his own table at his head." it is not recorded that dumas' knowledge of swordsmanship was based on practical experience, but certainly no more scientific sword-play of _passe_ and _touche_ has been put into words than that wonderful attack and counter-attack in the opening pages of "les trois mousquetaires." of the _duel d'honneur_ there is less to be said, though dumas more than once sought to reconcile estranged and impetuous spirits who would have run each other through, either by leaden bullet or the sword. a notable instance of this was in the memorable _affaire_ between louis blanc of _l'homme-libre_ and dujarrier-beauvallon of _la presse_. the latter told dumas that he had no alternative but to fight, though he went like a lamb to the slaughter, and had no knowledge of the _code_ nor any skill with weapons. dumas _père_ was implored by the younger dumas--both of whom took dujarrier's interests much to heart--to go and see grisier and claim his intervention. "i cannot do it," said the elder; "the first and foremost thing to do is to safeguard his reputation, which is the more precious because it is his first duel." the grisier referred to was the great master of fence of the time who was immortalized by dumas in his "maître d'armes." dumas himself is acknowledged, however, on one occasion, at least, to have acted as second--co-jointly with general fleury--in an _affaire_ which, happily, never came off. it was this blanc-dujarrier duel which brought into further prominent notice that most remarkable and quasi-wonderful woman, lola montez; that daughter of a spaniard and a creole, a native of limerick, pupil of a boarding-school at bath, and one-time resident of seville; to which may be added, on the account of lord malmesbury, "the woman who in munich set fire to the magazine of revolution which was ready to burst forth all over europe." she herself said that she had also lived in calcutta as the wife of an officer in the employ of the east india company; had at one time been reduced to singing in the streets at brussels; had danced at the italian opera in london,--"not much, but as well as half the ugly wooden women who were there,"--and had failed as a dancer in warsaw. "this illiterate schemer," says vandam, "who probably knew nothing of geography or history, had pretty well the almanach de gotha by heart." "why did i not come earlier to paris?" she once said. "what was the good? there was a king there bourgeois to his finger-nails, tight-fisted besides, and notoriously the most moral and the best father in all the world." this woman, it seems, was a beneficiary in the testament of dujarrier, who died as a result of his duel, to the extent of eighteen shares in the théâtre du palais royal, and in the trial which followed at rouen, at which were present all shades and degrees of literary and professional people, dumas, gustave flaubert, and others, she insisted upon appearing as a witness, for no reason whatever, apparently, than that of further notoriety. "six months from this time," as one learns from vandam, "her name was almost forgotten by all of us except alexandre dumas, who once and again alluded to her." "though far from superstitious, dumas, who had been as much smitten with her as most of her admirers, avowed that he was glad that she had disappeared. 'she has the evil eye,' said he, 'and is sure to bring bad luck to any one who closely links his destiny with hers.'" there is no question but that dumas was right, for she afterward--to mention but two instances of her remarkably active career--brought disaster "most unkind" upon louis i. of bavaria; committed bigamy with an english officer who was drowned at lisbon; and, whether in the guise of lovers or husbands, all, truly, who became connected with her met with almost immediate disaster. the mere mention of lola montez brings to mind another woman of the same category, though different in character, alphonsine plessis, more popularly known as la dame aux camélias. she died in , and her name was not marie or marguérite duplessis, but as above written. dumas _fils_ in his play did not idealize alphonsine plessis' character; indeed, dumas _père_ said that he did not even enlarge or exaggerate any incident--all of which was common property in the _demi-monde_--"save that he ascribed her death to any cause but the right one." "i know he made use of it," said the father, "but he showed the malady aggravated by duval's desertion." we learn that the elder dumas "wept like a baby" over the reading of his son's play. but his tears did not drown his critical faculty. "at the beginning of the third act," said dumas _père_, "i was wondering how alexandre would get his marguérite back to town, ... but the way alexandre got out of the difficulty proves that he is my son, every inch of him, and at the very outset of his career he is a better dramatist than i am ever likely to be." "alphonsine plessis was decidedly a real personage, but not an ordinary one in her walk of life," said doctor véron. "a woman of her refinement might not have been impossible in a former day, because the grisette--and subsequently the _femme entretenue_--was not then even surmised. she interests me much; she is the best dressed woman in paris, she neither conceals nor hides her vices, and she does not continually hint about money; in short, she is wonderful." "la dame aux camélias" appeared within eighteen months of the actual death of the heroine, and went into every one's hands, interest being whetted meanwhile by the recent event, and yet more by much gossip--scandal if you will--which universally appeared in the paris press. her pedigree was evolved and diagnosed by count g. de contades in a french bibliographical journal, _le livre_, which showed that she was descended from a "_guénuchetonne_" (slattern) of longé, in the canton of brionze, near alençon; a predilection which the elder dumas himself had previously put forth when he stated that, "i am certain that one might find taint either on the father's side, or on the mother's, probably on the former's, but more probably still on both." the following eulogy, extracted from a letter written to dumas _fils_ by victor hugo upon the occasion of the inhumation of the ashes of alexandre dumas at villers-cotterets, whither they were removed from puits, shows plainly the esteem in which his literary abilities were held by the more sober-minded of his compeers: "mon cher confrÈre:--i learn from the papers of the funeral of alexandre dumas at villers-cotterets.... it is with regret that i am unable to attend.... but i am with you in my heart.... what i would say, let me write.... no popularity of the past century has equalled that of alexandre dumas. his successes were more than successes: they were triumphs.... the name of alexandre dumas is more than 'français, il est européen;' and it is more than european, it is universal. his theatre has been given publicity in all lands, and his romances have been translated into all tongues. alexandre dumas was one of those men we can call the sowers of civilization.... alexandre dumas is seducing, fascinating, interesting, amusing, and informing.... all the emotions, the most pathetic, all the irony, all the comedy, all the analysis of romance, and all the intuition of history are found in the supreme works constructed by this great and vigorous architect. "... his spirit was capable of all the miracles he performed; this he bequeathed and this survives.... your renown but continues his glory. "... your father and i were young together.... he was a grand and good friend.... i had not seen him since .... as i entered paris alexandre dumas was leaving. i did not have even a parting shake of the hand. "the visit which he made me in my exile i will some day return to his tomb. "_cher confrère, fils de mon ami, je vous embrasse._ "victor hugo." of dumas, charles reade said: "he has never been properly appreciated; he is the prince of dramatists, the king of romancists, and the emperor of good fellows." dumas _fils_ he thought a "vinegar-blooded iconoclast--shrewd, clever, audacious, introspective, and mathematically logical." * * * * * the cimetière du père la chaise has a contemporary interest with the names of many who were contemporaries of dumas in the life and letters of his day. of course, sentimental interest first attaches itself to the gothic canopy--built from the fragments of the convent of paraclet--which enshrines the remains of abelard and heloïse ( - ), and this perhaps is as it should be, but for those who are conversant with the life of paris of dumas' day, this most "famous resting-place" has far more interest because of its shelter given to so many of dumas' contemporaries and friends. scribe, who was buried here ; michelet, d. ; delphine cambacérès, ; lachambeaudie, ; soulie, ; balzac, ; ch. nodier, ; c. delavigne, ; delacroix, the painter, ; talma, the tragedian, ; boieldieu, the composer, ; chopin, ; herold, ; general foy, ; david d'angers, ; hugo, (the father of victor hugo); david, the painter, ; alfred de musset, ; rossini, . [illustration: tomb of abelard and hÉloÏse] chapter v. the paris of dumas dumas' real descent upon the paris of letters and art was in , when he had given up his situation in the notary's office at crépy, and after the eventful holiday journey of a few weeks before. his own account of this, his fourth entrance into the city, states that he was "landed from the coach at five a. m. in the rue bouloi, no. . it was sunday morning, and bourbon paris was very gloomy on a sunday." within a short time of his arrival the young romancer was making calls, of a nature which he hoped would provide him some sort of employment until he should make his way in letters, upon many bearers of famous bourbon names who lived in the faubourgs st. germain and st. honoré--all friends and compatriots of his father. he had brought with him letters formerly written to his father, and hoped to use them as a means of introduction. he approached marshal jourdain, general sebastiani, the duc de bellune, and others, but it was not until he presented himself to general foy, at rue du mont blanc,--the deputy for his department,--that anything to his benefit resulted. finally, through the kindly aid of general foy, dumas--son of a republican general though he was--found himself seated upon a clerk's stool, quill in hand, writing out dictation at the secretary's bureau of the duc d'orleans. "i then set about to look for lodgings," said dumas, "and, after going up and down many staircases, i came to a halt in a little room on a fourth story, which belonged to that immense pile known as the 'pâté des italiens.' the room looked out on the courtyard, and i was to have it for one hundred and twenty francs per annum." from that time on dumas may be said to have known paris intimately--its life, its letters, its hotels and restaurants, its theatres, its salons, and its boulevards. so well did he know it that he became a part and parcel of it. his literary affairs and relations are dealt with elsewhere, but the various aspects of the social and economic life of paris at the time dumas knew its very pulse-beats must be gleaned from various contemporary sources. [illustration: general foy's residence] the real paris which dumas knew--the paris of the second empire--exists no more. the order of things changeth in all but the conduct of the stars, and paris, more than any other centre of activity, scintillates and fluctuates like the changings of the money-markets. the life that dumas lived, so far as it has no bearing on his literary labours or the evolving of his characters, is quite another affair from that of his yearly round of work. he knew intimately all the gay world of paris, and fresh echoes of the part he played therein are being continually presented to us. he knew, also, quite as intimately, certain political and social movements which took place around about him, in which he himself had no part. it was in the fifties of the nineteenth century that paris first became what one might call a coherent mass. this was before the days of the application of the adjective "greater" to the areas of municipalities. since then we have had, of course, a "greater paris" as we have a "greater london" and a "greater new york," but at the commencement of the second empire ( ) there sprang into being,--"jumped at one's eyes," as the french say,--when viewed from the heights of the towers of notre dame, an immense panorama, which showed the results of a prodigious development, radiating far into the distance, from the common centre of the _ile de la cité_ and the still more ancient _lutèce_. up to the construction of the present fortifications,--under louis-philippe,--paris had been surrounded, at its outer confines, by a simple _octroi_ barrier of about twenty-five kilometres in circumference, and pierced by fifty-four entrances. since this wall has been raised and the limits of what might be called paris proper have been extended up to the fortified lines. this fortification wall was thirty-four kilometres in length; was strengthened by ninety-four bastions, and surrounded and supported by thirteen detached forts. sixty-five openings gave access to the inner city, by which the roadways, waterways, and railways entered. these were further distinguished by classification as follows: _portes_--of which there were fifty; _poternes_--of which there were five; and _passages_--of which there were ten. nine railways entered the city, and the "_ceinture_" or girdle railway, which was to bind the various _gares_, was already conceived. at this time, too, the quais received marked attention and development; trees were planted along the streets which bordered upon them, and a vast system of sewerage was planned which became--and endures until to-day--one of the sights of paris, for those who take pleasure in such unsavoury amusements. lighting by gas was greatly improved, and street-lamps were largely multiplied, with the result that paris became known for the first time as "_la ville lumière_." a score or more of villages, or _bourgs_, before , were between the limits of these two barriers, but were at that time united by the _loi d'annexion_, and so "greater paris" came into being. the principle _bourgs_ which lost their identity, which, at the same time is, in a way, yet preserved, were auteuil, passy, les ternes, batignolles, montmartre, la chapelle, la villette, belleville, ménilmontant, charenton, and bercy; and thus the population of paris grew, as in the twinkling of an eye, from twelve hundred thousand to sixteen hundred thousand; and its superficial area from thirty-four hundred _hectares_ to more than eight thousand--a _hectare_ being about the equivalent of two and a half acres. during the period of the "restoration," which extended from the end of the reign of the great napoleon to the coming of louis-philippe ( - ), paris may be said to have been in, or at least was at the beginning of, its golden age of prosperity. in a way the era was somewhat inglorious, but in spite of liberal and commonplace opinion, there was made an earnest effort to again secure the pride of place for french letters and arts; and it was then that the romantic school, with dumas at its very head, attained its first importance. it was not, however, until louis-philippe came into power that civic improvements made any notable progress, though the pont des invalides had been built, and gas-lamps, omnibuses, and sidewalks, had been introduced just previously. under louis-philippe were completed the Église de la madeleine and the arc de triomphe d'etoile. the obelisk,--a gift from mohammed ali, viceroy of egypt, to louis-philippe,--the colonne de juillet, and the ponts louis-philippe and du carrousel were built, as well as the modern fortifications of paris, with their detached forts of mont valerien, ivry, charenton, nogent, etc. there existed also the encircling boulevards just within the fortifications, and yet another parallel series on the north, beginning at the madeleine and extending to the colonne de juillet. it was not, however, until the second republic and the second empire of napoleon iii. that a hitherto unparallelled transformation was undertaken, and there sprung into existence still more broad boulevards and spacious squares, and many palatial civic and private establishments, the bourse, the new opera, and several theatres, the ceinture railway, and the bois de boulogne and the bois de vincennes. by this time dumas' activities were so great, or at least the product thereof was so great, that even his intimate knowledge of french life of a more heroic day could not furnish him all the material which he desired. it was then that he produced those essentially modern stories of life in paris of that day, which, slight though they are as compared with the longer romances, are best represented by the "corsican brothers," "captain pamphile," and "gabriel lambert." * * * * * among the buildings at this time pulled down, on the place du carrousel, preparatory to the termination of the louvre, was the hôtel longueville, the residence of the beautiful duchess of that name, celebrated for her support of the fronde and her gallantries, as much as for her beauty. dumas would have revelled in the following incident as the basis of a tale. in the arched roof of one of the cellars of the duchess' hôtel two skeletons of a very large size and in a perfect state of preservation were discovered, which have since been the object of many discussions on the part of the antiquarians, but _adhuc sub judice lis est_. another discovery was made close by the skeletons, which is more interesting from a literary point of view; namely, that of a box, in carved steel, embellished with gilded brass knobs, and containing several papers. among them was an amatory epistle in verse, from the prince de marsillac to the fair duchess. the other papers were letters relating to the state of affairs at that time; some from the hand of the celebrated turenne, with memorandums, and of the prince de conti, "of great value to autograph collectors," said the newspaper accounts of the time, but assuredly of still more value to historians, or even novelists. at this time paris was peopled with many hundreds--perhaps thousands--of _mauvais sujets_, and frequent robberies and nightly outrages were more numerous than ever. the government at last hit on the plan of sending to the _bagnes_ of toulon and brest for several of the turnkeys and gaolers of those great convict _dépôts_, to whom the features of all their former prisoners were perfectly known. these functionaries, accompanied by a policeman in plain clothes, perambulated every part of paris by day, and by night frequented all the theatres, from the grand opéra downward, the low _cafés_ and wine-shops. it appears that more than four hundred of these desperadoes were recognized and retransferred to their old quarters at toulon. some of these worthies had been carrying on schemes of swindling on a colossal scale, and more than one is described as having entered into large speculations on the bourse. perhaps it was from some such circumstance as this that dumas evolved that wonderful narrative of the life of a forger, "gabriel lambert." one of the most noted in the craft was known by the _soubriquet_ of pierre mandrin, the name of that _célébré_ being conferred on account of his superiority and skill in assuming disguises. when arrested he was figuring as a polish count, and covered with expensive rings and jewelry. the career of this ruffian is interesting. in , while undergoing an imprisonment of two years for robbery, he attempted to make his escape by murdering the gaoler, but failed, however, and was sent to the galleys at toulon for twenty years. in he did escape from brest, and, notwithstanding the greatest exertions on the part of the police, he succeeded in crossing the whole of france and gaining belgium, where he remained for some time. owing to the persecutions of the belgian police, he subsequently returned to france. he was so unfortunate as to be captured in the very act of breaking into a house at besançon, but his prodigious activity enabled him once again to escape while on his way to prison, and he came to paris. being possessed of some money, he resolved to abandon his evil courses, and set up a greengrocer's shop in the rue rambuteau, which went on thrivingly for some time. but such an inactive life was insupportable to him, and he soon resumed his former exciting pursuits. several robberies committed with consummate skill soon informed the police of the presence in paris of some great master of the art of mercury. the most experienced officers were accordingly sent out, but they made no capture until one of the toulon gaolers fancied he recollected the convict under the features of an elegantly attired _lion_ on the boulevard des italiens. a few hours afterward the luckless _échappé_ was safely lodged at the conciergerie. at his lodgings, besides the usual housebreaking implements, a complete assortment of costumes of every kind was discovered--from that of the dandy of the first water to the blouse of the artisan. there is something more than a morbid interest which attaches itself to the former homes and haunts of a great author or artist. the emotion is something akin to sentiment, to be sure, but it is pardonable; far more so than the contemplation of many more popular and notorious places. he who would follow the footsteps of alexandre dumas about paris must either be fleet of foot, or one who can sustain a long march. at any rate, the progress will take a considerable time. it is impossible to say in how many places he lived, though one gathers from the "mémoires," and from contemporary information, that they numbered many score, and the uncharitable have further said that he found it more economical to move than to pay his rents. reprehensible as this practice may be, dumas was no single exponent of it--among artists and authors; and above all in his case, as we know, it resulted from imprudence and ofttimes misplaced confidence and generosity. one of dumas' early homes in paris, jocularly called by him "la pâté d'italie," was situated in that famous centre of unconventionality, the boulevard des italiens, a typical tree-shaded and café-lined boulevard. its name was obviously acquired from its resemblance to, or suggestion of being constructed of, that mastic which is known in germany as noodles, in italy as macaroni, and in english-speaking countries as dough. to-day the structure, as it then was, exists no more, though the present edifice at the corner of the rue louis le grand, opposite the vaudeville theatre, has been assuredly stated as in no wise differing in general appearance from its prototype, and, as it is after the same ginger-cake style of architecture, it will serve its purpose. albert vandam, in "an englishman in paris," that remarkable book of reminiscence whose authorship was so much in doubt when the work was first published, devoted a whole chapter to the intimacies of dumas _père_; indeed, nearly every feature and character of prominence in the great world of paris--at the time of which he writes--strides through the pages of this remarkably illuminating book, in a manner which is unequalled by any conventional volume of "reminiscence," "observations," or "memoirs" yet written in the english language, dealing with the life of paris--or, for that matter, of any other capital. his account, also, of a "literary café" of the paris of the forties could only have been written by one who knew the life intimately, and, so far as dumas' acquaintances and contemporaries are concerned, vandam's book throws many additional side-lights on an aspect which of itself lies in no perceptible shadow. even in those days the "boulevards"--the popular resort of the men of letters, artists, and musical folk--meant, as it does to-day, a somewhat restricted area in the immediate neighbourhood of the present opera. at the corner of the rue lafitte was a tobacconist's shop, whose genius was a "splendid creature," of whom alfred de musset became so enamoured that his friends feared for an "imprudence on his part." the various elements of society and cliques had their favourite resorts and rendezvous; the actors under the trees in the courtyard of the palais royal; the _ouvrier_ and his family meandered in the champs elysées or journeyed countryward to grenelle; while the soldiery mostly repaired to la plaine de st. denis. a sister to thiers kept a small dining establishment in the rue drouet, and many journalistic and political gatherings were held at her _tables d'hôte_. when asked whether her delicious pheasants were of her illustrious brother's shooting, she shook her head, and replied: "no, m. the president of the council has not the honour to supply my establishment." bohemia, as paris best knew it in the fifties, was not that pleasant land which lies between the moravian and the giant mountains; neither were the bohemians of paris a slavonic or teutonic people of a strange, nomad race. but the history of the bohemia of arts and letters--which rose to its greatest and most prophetic heights in the paris of the nineteenth century--would no doubt prove to be as extensive a work as buckle's "history of civilization," though the recitation of tenets and principles of one would be the inevitable reverse of the other. the intellectual bohemian--the artist, or the man of letters--has something in his make-up of the gipsy's love of the open road; the vagabond who instinctively rebels against the established rules of society, more because they are established than for any other reason. henri mürger is commonly supposed to have popularized the "bohemia" of arts and letters, and it is to him we owe perhaps the most graphic pictures of the life which held forth in the _quartier latin_, notorious for centuries for its lack of discipline and its defiance of the laws of church, state, and society. it was the very nursery of open thought and liberty against absolutism and the conventional proprieties. gustave nadaud described this "unknown land" in subtle verse, which loses not a little in attempted paraphrase: "there stands behind ste. geneviève, a city where no fancy paves with gold the narrow streets, but jovial youth, the landlady on gloomy stairs, in attic high, gay hope, her tenant, meets. * * * * * 'twas there that the pays latin stood, 'twas there the world was _really_ good, 'twas there that she was gay." of the freedom and the unconventionally of the life of the bohemian world of paris, where the lives of literature and art blended in an almost imperceptible manner, and the gay indifference of its inhabitants, one has but to recall the incident where george sand went to the studio of the painter delacroix to tell him that she had sad news for him; that she could never love him; and more of the same sort. "indeed," said delacroix, who kept on painting.--"you are angry with me, are you not? you will never forgive me?"--"certainly i will," said the painter, who was still at his work, "but i've got a bit of sky here that has caused me a deal of trouble and is just coming right. go away, or sit down, and i will be through in ten minutes." she went, and of course did not return, and so the _affaire_ closed. dumas was hardly of the pays latin. he had little in common with the bohemianism of the _poseur_, and the bohemia of letters and art has been largely made up of that sort of thing. more particularly dumas' life was that of the boulevards, of the journalist, of tremendous energy and output rather than that of the _dilettante_, and so he has but little interest in the south bank of the seine. * * * * * michelet, while proclaiming loudly for french literature and life in _le peuple_, published in , desponds somewhat of his country from the fact that the overwhelming genius of the popular novelists of that day--and who shall not say since then, as well--have sought their models, too often, in dingy cabarets, vile dens of iniquity, or even in the prisons themselves. he said: "this mania of slandering oneself, of exhibiting one's sores, and going, as it were, to look for shame, will be mortal in the course of time." this may, to a great extent, have been true then--and is true to-day--manifestly, but no lover of the beautiful ought to condemn a noisome flower if but its buds were beautiful, and paris--the paris of the restoration, the empire, or the republic--is none the worse in the eyes of the world because of the iniquities which exist in every large centre of population, where creeds and intellects of all shades and capacities are herded together. the french novelist, it is true, can be very sordid and banal, but he can be as childlike and bland as an unsophisticated young girl--when he has a mind to. dumas' novels were not lacking in vigour, valour, or action, and he wrote mostly of romantic times; so michelet could not have referred to him. perhaps he had the "mysteries of paris" or "the wandering jew" in mind, whose author certainly did give full measure of sordid detail; but then, sue has been accused before now as not presenting a strictly truthful picture. so much for the presentation of the _tableaux_. but what about the actual condition of the people at the time? michelet's interest in europe was centred on france and confined to _le peuple_; a term in which he ofttimes included the _bourgeois_, as well he might, though he more often regarded those who worked with their hands. he repeatedly says: "i myself have been one of those workmen, and, although i have risen to a different class, i retain the sympathies of my early conditions." michelet's judgment was quite independent and original when he compared the different classes; and he had a decided preference for that section which cultivates the soil, though by no means did he neglect those engaged in trade and manufacture. the _ouvrier industriel_ was as much entitled to respect as the labourer in the fields, or even the small tenant-farmer. he regretted, of course, the competition which turned _industrialisme_ into a cut-throat policy. he furthermore had this to say concerning foreign trade: "alsace and lyons have conquered art and science to achieve beauty for others.... the 'fairy of paris' (the _modiste_) meets, from minute to minute, the most unexpected flights of fancy--and she _or he_ does to-day, be it recalled. _les étrangers_ come in spite of themselves, and they buy of her (france); _ils achètent_--but what?--patterns, and then go basely home and copy them, to the loss, _but to the glory_, of france. "the englishman or the german buys a few pieces of goods at paris or lyons; just as in letters france writes and belgium sells." on the whole, michelet thought that the population was more successful in tilling the soil than in the marts of the world; and there is this to be said, there is no question but what france is a self-contained country, though its arts have gone forth into the world and influenced all nations. paris is, ever has been, and proudly--perhaps rightly--thinks that it ever will be, the artistic capital of the world. georges avenel has recently delivered himself of a screed on the "mechanism of modern life," wherein are many pertinent, if sometimes trite, observations on the more or less automatic processes by which we are lodged, fed, and clothed to-day. he gives rather a quaint, but unquestionably true, reason for the alleged falling-off in the cookery of french--of course he means parisian--restaurants. it is, he says, that modern patrons will no longer pay the prices, or, rather, will not spend the money that they once did. in the first half of the last century--the time of dumas' activities and achievements--he tells us that many parisian lovers of good fare were accustomed to "eat a napoleon" daily for their dinner. nowadays, the same persons dine sufficiently at their club for eight and a half francs. perhaps the abatement of modern appetites has something to say to this, as many folk seldom take more than thirty-five or forty minutes over their evening meal. how would this compare with the gargantuan feasts described by brillat-savarin and others, or the gastronomic exploits of those who ate two turkeys at a sitting? clearly, for comfort, and perhaps luxury, the parisian hotels and restaurants of a former day compare agreeably with those of our own time; not so much, perhaps, with regard to time and labour-saving machinery, which is the equipment of the modern _batterie de cuisine_, but with the results achieved by more simple, if more laborious, means, and the appointments and surroundings amid which they were put upon the board. "the proof of the pudding is in the eating" is still applicable, whether its components be beaten or kneaded by clockwork or the cook's boy. with the hotels himself, avenel is less concerned, though he reminds us again that madame de sevigné had often to lie upon straw in the inns she met with in travelling, and looked upon a bed in a hotel, which would allow one to undress, as a luxury. we also learn that the travellers of those days had to carry their own knives, the innkeeper thinking that he did enough in providing spoons and forks. nor were hotels particularly cheap, a small suite of rooms in a hotel of the rue richelieu costing francs a week. it was napoleon iii. who, by his creation of the hôtel de louvre,--not the present establishment of the same name, but a much larger structure,--first set the fashion of monster hostelries. but what was this compared with the elysées palace, which m. d'avenel chooses as his type of modern luxury, with its forty-three cooks, divided into seven brigades, each commanded by an officer drawing , francs a year, and its thirty-five hundred pairs of sheets and fifty thousand towels, valued together at little short of , francs? yet, as we well know, even these totals pale before some of the hotels of america, in which m. d'avenel sees the _ne plus ultra_ of organization and saving of labour by the ingenious use of machinery, and incidentally a great deal of the sentiment of good cheer, which was as much an ingredient of former hospitality as was the salt and pepper of a repast. it is pleasant to read of alexandre dumas' culinary skill, though the repetition of the fact has appeared in the works of well-nigh every writer who has written of the paris of the fifties and sixties. the dinners at his apartments in the boulevard malesherbes were worthy of soyer or even of brillat-savarin himself in his best days. in his last "causeries culinaires," the author of "monte cristo" tells us that the bourbon kings were specially fond of soup. "the family," he writes, "from louis xiv. to the last of their race who reigned in france, have been great eaters. the grand monarque commenced his dinner by two and sometimes three different kinds of soup; louis-philippe by four plates of various species of this comestible; in the fifth plate his majesty usually mixed portions of the four varieties he had eaten, and appeared to enjoy this singular culinary combination." dumas' reputation as an epicure must have been formed early; he describes in his "mémoires" how, on a certain occasion, when he had first become installed in paris, he met a gentleman, charles nodier, in the stalls of the porte st. martin, who was reading a well-worn elzevir entitled "la pastissier française." he says, "i address him.... 'pardon my impertinence, but are you very fond of eggs?' 'why so?' 'that book you are reading, does it not give recipes for cooking eggs in sixty different ways?' 'it does.' 'if i could but procure a copy.' 'but this is an elzevir,' says my neighbour." the parisian is without a rival as an epicure and a _gastronome_, and he associates no stigma with the epithet. in anglo-saxon lands the reverse is the case, though why it is hard to see. "frog-legs" came to be a tidbit in the _tables d'hôte_ of new york and london many years ago, but sympathy has been withheld from the luscious _escargot_. there be those fearless individuals who by reason of the _entente cordiale_ have tasted of him and found him good, but learning that in the cookshops of paris they have at last learned to fabricate them to equal the native grown article of bourgogne, have tabooed them once for all, and threaten to withdraw their liking for that other succulent dainty, the frog. at any rate, the schoolboy idea that the parisian's staple fare is snails and frogs is quite exploded, and small wonder it is that anglo-saxon palates never became wholly inured to them. but what about england's peculiar dishes? marrow-bones and stewed eels, for instance? * * * * * dumas' familiarity with the good things of the table is nowhere more strongly advanced than in the opening chapter of "the queen's necklace," wherein the author recounts the incident of "the nobleman and his _maître d'hôtel_." the scene was laid in , and runs as follows: "the marshal turned toward his _maître d'hôtel_, and said, 'sir, i suppose you have prepared me a good dinner?' "'certainly, your grace.' "'you have the list of my guests?' "'i remember them perfectly.' "'there are two sorts of dinners, sir,' said the marshal. "'true, your grace, but--' "'in the first place, at what time do we dine?' "'your grace, the citizens dine at two, the bar at three, the nobility at four--' "'and i, sir?' "'your grace will dine to-day at five.' "'oh, at five!' "'yes, your grace, like the king--' "'and why like the king?' "'because, on the list of your guests is the name of a king.' "'not so, sir, you mistake; all my guests to-day are simple noblemen.' "'your grace is surely jesting; the count haga, who is among the guests--' "'well, sir!' "'the count haga is a king.' (the count haga was the well-known name of the king of sweden, assumed by him when travelling in france.) "'in any event, your grace _cannot_ dine before five o'clock.' "'in heaven's name, do not be obstinate, but let us have dinner at four.' "'but at four o'clock, your grace, what i am expecting will not have arrived. your grace, i wait for a bottle of wine.' "'a bottle of wine! explain yourself, sir; the thing begins to interest me.' "'listen, then, your grace; his majesty, the king of sweden--i beg pardon, the count haga, i should have said--drinks nothing but tokay.' "'well, am i so poor as to have no tokay in my cellar? if so, i must dismiss my butler.' "'not so, your grace; on the contrary, you have about sixty bottles.' "'well, do you think count haga will drink sixty bottles with his dinner?' "'no, your grace; but when count haga first visited france when he was only prince royal, he dined with the late king, who had received twelve bottles of tokay from the emperor of austria. you are aware that the tokay of the finest vintages is reserved exclusively for the cellar of the emperor, and that kings themselves can only drink it when he pleases to send it to them.' "'i know it.' "'then, your grace, of these twelve bottles of which the prince royal drank, only two remain. one is in the cellar of his majesty louis xvi.--' "'and the other?' "'ah, your grace!' said the _maître d'hôtel_, with a triumphant smile, for he felt that, after the long battle he had been fighting, the moment of victory was at hand, 'the other one was stolen.' "'by whom, then?' "'by one of my friends, the late king's butler, who was under great obligations to me.' "'oh! and so he gave it to you.' "'certainly, your grace,' said the _maître d'hôtel_, with pride. "'and what did you do with it?' "'i placed it carefully in my master's cellar.' "'your master? and who was your master at that time?' "'his eminence the cardinal de rohan.' "'ah, _mon dieu!_ at strasbourg?' "'at saverne.' "'and you have sent to seek this bottle for me!' cried the old marshal. "'for you, your grace,' replied the _maître d'hôtel_, in a tone which plainly said, 'ungrateful as you are.' "the duke de richelieu seized the hand of the old servant, and cried, 'i beg pardon; you are the king of _maîtres d'hôtel_.'" the french noblesse of the eighteenth century may have had retainers of the perspicacity and freedom of manners of this servant of the maréchal de richelieu, but it is hard to picture them in real life to-day. at any rate, it bespeaks dumas' fondness of good eating and good drinking that he makes so frequent use of references thereto, not only in this novel of a later day, but throughout the mediæval romances as well. dumas' knowledge of gastronomy again finds its vent in "the count of monte cristo," when the unscrupulous danglars is held in a dungeon pending his giving up the five millions of francs which he had fraudulently obtained. it is not a very high-class repast that is discussed, but it shows at least dumas' familiarity with the food of man. "at twelve the guard before danglars' cell was replaced by another functionary, and, wishing to catch sight of his new guardian, danglars approached the door again. he was an athletic, gigantic bandit, with large eyes, thick lips, and a flat nose; his red hair fell in dishevelled masses like snakes around his shoulders. 'ah! ah!' cried danglars, 'this fellow is more like an ogre than anything else; however, i am rather too old and tough to be very good eating!' we see that danglars was quite collected enough to jest; at the same time, as though to disprove the ogreish propensities, the man took some black bread, cheese, and onions from his wallet, which he began devouring voraciously. 'may i be hanged,' said danglars, glancing at the bandit's dinner through the crevices of the door, 'may i be hanged if i can understand how people can eat such filth!' and he withdrew to seat himself upon his goatskin, which recalled to him the smell of the brandy.... "four hours passed by, the giant was replaced by another bandit. danglars, who really began to experience sundry gnawings at the stomach, rose softly, again applied his eye to the crack of the door, and recognized the intelligent countenance of his guide. it was, indeed, peppino, who was preparing to mount guard as comfortably as possible by seating himself opposite to the door, and placing between his legs an earthen pan, containing chick-pease stewed with bacon. near the pan he also placed a pretty little basket of grapes and a bottle of vin d'orvieto. peppino was decidedly an epicure. while witnessing these preparations, danglars' mouth watered.... 'i can almost imagine,' said he, 'that i were at the café de paris.'" dumas, like every strong personality, had his friends and his enemies. it is doubtful which class was in the ascendency as to numbers. when asked, on one occasion, when he had been dining at the café de paris, if he were an archæologist,--he had been admiring a cameo portrait of julius cæsar,--he replied, "no, i am absolutely nothing." his partisans were many, and they were as devoted as his enemies were jealous and uncharitable. continuing, he said, "i admire this portrait in the capacity of cæsar's historian." "indeed," said his interlocutor, "it has never been mentioned in the world of savants." "well," said dumas, "the world of savants never mentions me." this may be conceit or modesty, accordingly as one takes one view or another. dumas, like most people, was not averse to admiration. far from it. he thrived exceedingly on it. but he was, as he said, very much alone, and quite felt a nobody at times. of his gastronomic and epicurean abilities he was vainly proud. the story is told of the sole possession by dumas of a certain recipe for stewed carp. véron, the director of the opera, had instructed his own cook to serve the celebrated dish; she, unable to concoct it satisfactorily, announced her intention of going direct to the novelist to get it from his own lips. sophie must have been a most ingenious and well-informed person, for she approached dumas in all hostility and candour. she plunged direct into the subject, presuming that he had acquired the knowledge of this special tidbit from some outside source. dumas was evidently greatly flattered, and gave her every possible information, but the experiment was not a success, and the fair _cordon-bleu_ began to throw out the suspicion that dumas had acquired his culinary accomplishments from some other source than that he had generally admitted. it was at this time that dumas was at the crux of his affairs with his collaborators. accordingly sophie made her pronouncement that it was with dumas' cooking as it was with his romances, and that he was "_un grand diable de vaniteux_." at his home in the rue chaussée d'antin dumas served many an epicurean feast to his intimates; preparing, it is said, everything with his own hands, even to the stripping of the cabbage-leaves for the _soupe aux choux_, "sleeves rolled up, and a large apron around his waist." a favourite menu was _soupe aux choux_, the now famous carp, a _ragoût de mouton, à l'hongroise_; _roti de faisans_, and a _salade japonaise_--whatever that may have been; the ices and _gateaux_ being sent in from a _pâtissier's_. * * * * * the customs of the theatre in paris are, and always have been, peculiar. dumas himself tells how, upon one occasion, just after he had come permanently to live there, he had placed himself beside an immense _queue_ of people awaiting admission to the porte st. martin. he was not aware of the procedure of lining up before the entrance-doors, and when one well up in the line offered to sell him his place for _twenty sous_--held since midday--dumas willingly paid it, and, not knowing that it did not include admission to the performance, was exceedingly distraught when the time came to actually pay for places. this may seem a simple matter in a later day, and to us who have become familiar with similar conditions in paris and elsewhere; but it serves to show the guilelessness of dumas, and his little regard for business procedure of any sort. the incident is continued in his own words, to the effect that he "finally purchased a bit of pasteboard that once had been white, which i presented to the check-taker and received in return another of red.... my appearance in the amphitheatre of the house must have been astonishing. i was the very latest villers-cotterets fashion, but a revolution had taken place in paris which had not yet reached my native place. my hair was long, and, being frizzled, it formed a gigantic aureole around my head. i was received with roars of laughter.... i dealt the foremost scoffer a vigorous slap in the face, and said, at the same time, 'my name is alexandre dumas. for to-morrow, i am staying at the hôtel des vieux-augustins, and after that at no. place des italiens.'" by some incomprehensible means dumas was hustled out of the theatre and on to the sidewalk--for disturbing the performance, though the performance had not yet begun. he tried his luck again, however, and this time bought a place at two francs fifty centimes. every visitor to paris has recognized the preëminence of the "opera" as a social institution. the national opera, or the théâtre impérial de l'opéra, as it was originally known, in the rue lepelletier, just off the boulevard des italiens, was the progenitor of the splendid establishment which now terminates the westerly end of the avenue de l'opera. the more ancient "grand opera" was uncontestably the most splendid, the most pompous, and the most influential of its contemporary institutions throughout europe. the origin of the "grand opera" was as remote as the times of anne of austria, who, it will be recalled, had a most passionate regard for _musique_ and spectacle, and mazarin caused to be brought from italy musicians who represented before the queen "musical pieces" which proved highly successful. later, in , louis xiv. accorded the privilege of the opera to lulli, a distinguished musician of florence, and the theatre of the palais royal was ceded to the uses of académie de musique. after the fire of , the opera was transferred to the tuileries, but removed again, because of another fire, to the porte st. martin, where it remained until , when it was transferred to a new house which had been constructed for it in the rue richelieu. again in it was removed to a new establishment, which had been erected on the site of the former hôtel de choiseul. this house had accommodations for but two thousand spectators, and, in spite of its sumptuousness and rank, was distinctly inferior in point of size to many opera-houses and theatres elsewhere. up to this time the management had been governed after the manner of the old régime, "by three gentlemen of the king's own establishment, in concurrence with the services of a working director," and the royal privy purse was virtually responsible for the expenses. louis-philippe astutely shifted the responsibility to the public exchequer. in , dr. louis véron, the founder of the _revue de paris_,--since supplanted by the _revue des deux mondes_,--became the manager and director. doctor véron has been called as much the quintessence of the life of paris of the first half of the nineteenth century as was napoleon i. of the history of france. albert vandam, the author of "an englishman in paris," significantly enough links véron's name in his recollections with that of dumas, except that he places dumas first. "robert le diable" and taglioni made véron's success and his fortune, though he himself was a master of publicity. from onward, during véron's incumbency, the newspapers contained column after column of the "puff personal," not only with respect to véron himself, but down through the galaxy of singers and dancers to the veriest stage-carpenter, scenic artist, and call-boy. the modern managers have advanced somewhat upon these premature efforts; but then the art was in its infancy, and, as véron himself was a journalist and newspaper proprietor, he probably well understood the gentle art of exchanging favouring puffs of one commodity for those of another. these were the days of the first successes of meyerbeer, halévy, auber, and duprez; of taglioni, who danced herself into a nebula of glory, and later into a shadow which inspired the spiteful critics into condemnation of her waning power. it has been said that marie taglioni was by no means a good-looking woman. indeed, she must have been decidedly plain. her manners, too, were apparently not affable, and "her reception of frenchmen was freezing to a degree--when she thawed it was to russians, englishmen, or viennese." "one of her shoulders was higher than the other, she limped slightly, and, moreover, waddled like a duck." clearly a stage setting was necessary to show off her charms. she was what the french call "_une pimbêche_." the architectural effect produced by the exterior of this forerunner of the present opera was by no means one of monumental splendour. its architect, debret, was scathingly criticized for its anomalies. a newspaper anecdote of the time recounts the circumstance of a provincial who, upon asking his way thither, was met with the direction, "that way--the first large gateway on your right." near by was the establishment of the famous italian _restaurateur_, paolo broggi, the resort of many singers, and the estaminet du divan, a sort of humble counterpart of the café riche or the café des anglais, but which proclaimed a much more literary atmosphere than many of the bigger establishments on the boulevards. vandam relates of this house of call that "it is a positive fact that the _garçon_ would ask, 'does monsieur desire sue's or dumas' _feuilleton_ with his _café_?'" of the opera which was burned in , dumas, in "the queen's necklace," has a chapter devoted to "some words about the opera." it is an interesting, albeit a rather superfluous, interpolation in a romance of intrigue and adventure: "the opera, that temple of pleasure at paris, was burned in the month of june, . twenty persons had perished in the ruins; and, as it was the second time within eighteen years that this had happened, it created a prejudice against the place where it then stood, in the palais royal, and the king had ordered its removal to a less central spot. the place chosen was la porte st. martin. "the king, vexed to see paris deprived for so long of its opera, became as sorrowful as if the arrivals of grain had ceased, or bread had risen to more than seven sous the quartern loaf. it was melancholy to see the nobility, the army, and the citizens without their after-dinner amusement; and to see the promenades thronged with the unemployed divinities, from the chorus-singers to the prima donnas. "an architect was then introduced to the king, full of new plans, who promised so perfect a ventilation, that even in case of fire no one could be smothered. he would make eight doors for exit, besides five large windows placed so low that any one could jump out of them. in the place of the beautiful hall of moreau he was to erect a building with ninety-six feet of frontage toward the boulevard, ornamented with eight caryatides on pillars forming three entrance-doors, a bas-relief above the capitals, and a gallery with three windows. the stage was to be thirty-six feet wide, the theatre seventy-two feet deep and eighty across, from one wall to the other. he asked only seventy-five days and nights before he opened it to the public. "this appeared to all a mere gasconade, and was much laughed at. the king, however, concluded the agreement with him. lenoir set to work, and kept his word. but the public feared that a building so quickly erected could not be safe, and when it opened no one would go. "even the few courageous ones who did go to the first representation of 'adele de ponthieu' made their wills first. the architect was in despair. he came to the king to consult him as to what was to be done. "it was just after the birth of the dauphin; all paris was full of joy. the king advised him to announce a gratuitous performance in honour of the event, and give a ball after. doubtless plenty would come, and if the theatre stood, its safety was established. "'thanks, sire,' said the architect. "'but reflect, first,' said the king, 'if there be a crowd, are you sure of your building?' "'sire, i am sure, and shall go there myself.' "'i will go to the second representation,' said the king. "the architect followed this advice. they played 'adele de ponthieu' to three thousand spectators, who afterward danced. after this there could be no more fear." it was three years after that madame and the cardinal went to the celebrated ball, the account of which follows in the subsequent chapter of the romance. dumas as a dramatist was not so very different from dumas the novelist. when he first came to paris the french stage was by no means at a low and stagnant ebb--at least, it was not the thin, watery concoction that many english writers would have us believe; and, furthermore, the world's great dramatist--shakespeare--had been and was still influencing and inspiring the french playwright and actor alike. it was the "hamlet" of ducis--a very french hamlet, but still hamlet--and the memory of an early interview with talma that first set fire to the fuel of the stage-fever which afterward produced dumas the dramatist. dumas was not always truthful, or, at least, correct, in his facts, but he did not offend exceedingly, and he was plausible; as much so, at any rate, as scott, who had erred to the extent of fifteen years in his account of the death of amy robsart. in was born alexandre dumas _fils_, and at this time the parent was collaborating with soulié in an attempted, but unfinished, dramatization of scott's "old mortality." by , after he had left official work, dumas had produced that drama of the valois, "henri iii.," at the théâtre français, where more than a century before voltaire had produced his first play, "oedipe," and where the "hernani" of victor hugo had just been produced. it was a splendid and gorgeous event, and the adventures of the duchesse de guise, st. mégrin, henri iii. and his satellites proved to the large and distinguished audience present no inconspicuous element in the success of the future king of romance. it was a veritable triumph, and for the time the author was more talked of and better known than was hugo, who had already entered the arena, but whose assured fame scarcely dates from before "hernani," whose first presentation--though it was afterward performed over three hundred times in the same theatre--was in february of the same year. voltaire had been dead scarce a half-century, but already the dust lay thick on his dramatic works, and the world of paris was looking eagerly forward to the achievements of the new school. one cannot perhaps claim for dumas that he was in direct lineage of shakespeare,--as was claimed for hugo, and with some merit,--but he was undoubtedly one of the first of the race of the popular french playwrights whose fame is perpetuated to-day by sardou. at any rate, it was a classic struggle which was inaugurated in france--by literature and the drama--in the early half of the nineteenth century, and one which was a frank rebellion against the rigid rules by which their arts had been restrained--especially dramatic art. [illustration: d'artagnan from the dumas statue by gustave doré] with all due credit, then, to hugo, it was dumas who led the romanticists through the breach that was slowly opening; though at the same time one may properly enough recall the names of alfred de musset, theophile gautier, and gerard de nerval. dumas' next play was in "classical form"--"christine." mere chance brought dumas into an acquaintance with the history of christine of sweden, and, though the play was written and accepted before "henri iii. et sa cour," it was not until some time later that it was produced at the odéon; the recollection of which also brings up the name of mlle. mars. * * * * * the statue in paris in the place malesherbes, erected to the memory of dumas, has been highly commended in conception and execution. it was the work of gustave doré, and, truth to tell, it has some wonderfully effective sculptures in bronze. a group of three symbolical figures _en face_, and a lifelike and life-sized representation of the courageous d'artagnan _d'arrière_. these details are charming when reproduced on paper by process of photography or the hand of an artist. indeed, they are of much the same quality when viewed as details, but in the ensemble, combined with a cold, inartistic base or pedestal, which is crowned by a seated effigy of dumas--also life-size--clad in the unlovely raiment of the latter nineteenth century, there is much to be desired. statues, be they bronze or marble, are often artistically successful when their figures are covered with picturesque mediæval garments, but they are invariably a failure, in an artistic sense, when clothed in latter-day garb. doublet and hose, and sword and cloak lend themselves unmistakably to artistic expression. trousers and top-hats do not. just back of the place malesherbes is the avenue de villiers--a street of fine houses, many of them studio apartments, of paris's most famous artists. here at no. lived alexandre dumas during the later years of his life; so it is fitting that his monument should be placed in this vicinity. the house was afterward occupied by dumas _fils_, and more lately by his widow, but now it has passed into other hands. of interest to americans is the fact which has been recorded by some one who was _au courant_ with parisian affairs of the day, "that the united states minister to france, mr. john bigelow, breakfasted with dumas at st. gratien, near paris," when it came out that he (dumas) had a notion to go out to america as a war correspondent for the french papers; the civil war was not then over. unhappily for all of us, he did not go, and so a truly great book was lost to the world. in this same connection it has been said that dumas' "quadroon autographs" were sold in the united states, to provide additional funds for the widows and orphans of slain abolitionists. as it is apocryphally said that they sold for a matter of a hundred and twenty dollars each, the sum must have reached considerable proportions, if their number was great. chapter vi. old paris the paris of dumas was méryon's--though it is well on toward a half-century since either of them saw it. hence it is no longer theirs; but the master romancer and the master etcher had much in common. they both drew with a fine, free hand, the one in words that burn themselves in the memory, and the other in lines which, once bitten on the copper plate, are come down to us in indelible fashion. the mention of méryon and his art is no mere rambling of the pen. like that of dumas, his art depicted those bold, broad impressions which rebuilt "old paris" in a manner which is only comparable to the background which dumas gave to "les trois mousquetaires." the iconoclastic haussman caused much to disappear, and it is hard to trace the footsteps of many a character of history and romance, whose incomings and outgoings are otherwise very familiar to us. there are many distinct cities which go to make up paris itself, each differing from the other, but dumas and méryon drew them each and all with unerring fidelity: dumas the university quarter and the faubourgs in "les trois mousquetaires," and méryon the cité in "the stryge." the sheer beauty and charm of old-world paris was never more strongly suggested than in the work of these two masters, who have given a permanence to the abodes of history and romance which would otherwise have been wanting. it is a pleasurable occupation to hunt up the dwellings of those personages who may, or may not, have lived in the real flesh and blood. the mere fact that they lived in the pages of a dumas--or for that matter of a balzac or a hugo--is excuse enough for most of us to seek to follow in their footsteps. in spite of the splendour of the present and the past, paris is by no means too great to prevent one's tracing its old outlines, streets, and landmarks, even though they have disappeared to-day, and the site of the famous hôtel chevreuse or the carmelite establishment in the rue vaugirard--against whose wall d'artagnan and his fellows put up that gallant fight against the cardinal's guard--are in the same geographical positions that they always were, if their immediate surroundings have changed, as they assuredly have. indeed, the sturdy wall which kept the carmelite friars from contact with the outer world has become a mere hoarding for gaudily coloured posters, and the magnificent hôtel chevreuse on the boulevard st. germain has been incorporated into a modern apartment-house, and its garden cut through by the boulevard raspail. the destruction of "old paris"--the gabled, half-timbered, mediæval city--is not only an artistic regret, but a personal one to all who know intimately the city's history and romance. it was inevitable, of course, but it is deplorable. méryon, too, like dumas, etched details with a certain regard for effect rather than a colder preciseness, which could hardly mean so much as an impression of a mood. they both sought the picturesque element, and naturally imparted to everything modern with which they came into contact the same charm of reality which characterized the tangible results of their labours. nothing was left to chance, though much may--we have reason to think--have been spontaneous. the witchery of a picturesque impression is ever great, but the frequency of its occurrence is growing less and less. to-day we have few romancers, few painters or etchers of fleeting moods or impressions, and are fast becoming schooled in the tenets of zola and baudry, to the glorification of realism, but to the death and deep burial of the far more healthy romanticism of the masters of a few generations since. * * * * * to the roman occupation of paris succeeded that of the franks, and clovis, son of childérie and grandson of merovée, after his conversion to christianity at reims, established the seat of his empire at paris. childebert, the descendant of clovis,--who had taken unto himself the title king of paris,--in laid the foundation of the first Église de notre dame. the kings of the second race lived in paris but little, and under the feeble successors of charlemagne the city became the particular domain of the hereditary counts. in the year the normans came up the river by boat and razed all of that part known even to-day as la cité, hence the extreme improbability of there being existing remains of an earlier date than this, which are to-day recognizable. after successive disasters and invasions, it became necessary that new _quartiers_ and new streets should be formed and populated, and under the reign of louis vii. the walls were extended to include, on the right bank, le bourg l'abbé, le bourg thibourg, le beau-bourg, le bourg st. martin,--regions which have since been occupied by the rues st. martin, beaubourg, bourtebourg, and bourg l'abbé,--and, on the right bank, st. germain des prés, st. victor, and st. michel. since this time paris has been divided into three distinct parts: la ville, to the north of the seine, la cité, in the centre, and l'université, in the south. the second _enceinte_ did not long suffice to enclose the habitations of the people, and in the year philippe-auguste constructed the third wall, which was strengthened by five hundred towers and surrounded by a deep _fosse_, perpetuated to-day as the rempart des fosses. at this time the first attempts were made at paving the city streets, principally at the instigation of the wealthy gérard de poissy, whose name has since been given to an imposing street on the south bank. again, in , the famous etienne marcel commenced the work of the fourth _enceinte_. on the south, the walls were not greatly extended, but on the north they underwent a considerable aggrandizement. fortified gateways were erected at the extremity of the rue de st. antoine, and others were known variously as the porte du temple and porte st. denis. other chief features of the time--landmarks one may call them--were the porte st. honoré, which was connected with the river-bank by a prolonged wall, the tour du bois, and a new fortification--as a guardian against internal warfare, it would seem--at the upper end of the ile de la cité. toward the end of the reign of louis xi. the city had become repeopled, after many preceding years of flood, ravage, and famine, and contained, it is said, nearly three hundred thousand souls. from this reign, too, dates the establishment of the first printing-shop in paris, the letter-post, and the _poste-chaise_. charles vii., the son of louis xi., united with the bibliothèque royal those of the kings of naples. louis xii., who followed, did little to beautify the city, but his parental care for the inhabitants reduced the income of the tax-gatherer and endeared his name to all as the _père du peuple_. françois i.--whose glorious name as the instigator of much that has since become national in french art--considerably enlarged the fortifications on the west, and executed the most momentous embellishments which had yet taken place in the city. in public edifices he employed, or caused his architects to employ, the greek orders, and the paintings by italian hands and the sculptures of goujon were the highest expressions of the art of the renaissance, which had grown so abundantly from the seed sown by charles viii. upon his return from his wanderings in italy. it may be questioned if the art of the renaissance is really beautiful; it is, however, undeniably effective in its luxuriant, if often ill-assorted, details; so why revile it here? it was the prime cause, more than all others put together, of the real adornment of paris; and, in truth, was far more successful in the application of its principles here than elsewhere. during the reign of françois i. were built, or rebuilt, the great Églises de st. gervais, st. germain l'auxerrois, and st. merry, as well as the hôtel de ville. the louvre was reconstructed on a new plan, and the faubourg st. germain was laid out anew. under henri ii. the work on the louvre was completed, and the hôpital des petites maisons constructed. it was henri ii., too, who first ordained that the effigies of the kings should be placed upon all coins. the principal edifices built under charles ix. were the palais des tuileries, hôtel de soissons, the jesuit college, and the hôpital du st. jacques du haut pas. henri iii. erected the church of the jesuits in the rue st. antoine, the Église de st. paul et st. louis, the monastère des feuillants, the hôtel de bourgogne, and the théâtre italien. under henri iv. was achieved the pont neuf, whose centre piers just impinge upon the lower end of the ile de la cité; the quais de l'arsenal, de l'horloge, des orphelins, de l'ecole, de la mégisserie, de conti, and des augustins; la place dauphine, and the rue dauphine. the place royale came to replace--in the _quartier du marais_--the old palais des tournelles, the pleasure of so many kings, françois i. in particular. louis xiii., the feeble king who reigned without governing, saw many improvements, which, however, grew up in spite of the monarch rather than because of him. there was a general furbishing up of the streets and quais. marie de medicis built the palais du luxembourg and planted the cours la reine; many new bridges were constructed and new monuments set up, among others the palais royal, at this time called the palais cardinal; the Église st. roch; the oratoire; le val-de-grace; les madelonnettes; la salpêtrièré; the sorbonne, and the jardin des plantes. many public places were also decorated with statues: the effigy of henri iv. was placed on the pont neuf, and of louis xii. in the place royale. by this time the population had overflowed the walls of philippe-auguste, already enlarged by françois i., and louis xiv. overturned their towers and ramparts, and filled their _fosses_, believing that a strong community needed no such protections. these ancient fortifications were replaced by the boulevards which exist even unto to-day--not only in paris, but in most french towns and cities--unequalled elsewhere in all the world. up to the reign of louis xiv. the population of paris had, for the most part, been lodged in narrow, muddy streets, which had subjected them to many indescribable discomforts. meanwhile, during the glorious reign of louis xiv., paris achieved great extension of area and splendour; many new streets were opened in the different _quartiers_, others were laid out anew or abolished altogether, more than thirty churches were built,--"all highly beautiful," say the guide-books. but they are not: paris churches taken together are a decidedly mixed lot, some good in parts and yet execrable in other parts, and many even do not express any intimation whatever of good architectural forms. [illustration: pont neuf.--pont au change] the pont au change was rebuilt, and yet four other bridges were made necessary to permit of better circulation between the various _faubourgs_ and _quartiers_. to the credit of louis xiv. must also be put down the hôtel des invalides, the observatoire, the magnificent colonnade of the louvre, the pont royal, the collège des quatre nations, the bibliothèque royale, numerous fountains and statues, the royal glass, porcelain, and tapestry manufactories, the arc de triomphe du carrousel, and the boulevards st. denis and st. martin. saint foix (in his "essais sur paris") has said that it was louis xiv. who first gave to the reign of a french monarch the _éclat_ of grandeur and magnificence, not only for his court, but for his capital and his people. under the succeeding reign of louis xv. the beautifying of paris took another flight. on the place which first bore the name of the monarch himself, but which is to-day known as the place de la concorde, were erected a pair of richly decorated monuments which quite rivalled in achievement the superb colonnaded louvre of the previous reign, the champs elysées were replanted, the École militaire, the École de droit, and the hôtel de la monnaie were erected, and still other additional boulevards and magnificent streets were planned out. a new church came into being with st. genevieve, which afterward became the panthéon. the reign following saw the final achievement of all these splendid undertakings; then came the revolution, that political terror which would have upset all established institutions; and if paris, the city of splendid houses, did not become merely a cemetery of tombs, it was not because maniacal fanaticism and fury were lacking. religious, civic, and military establishments were razed, demolished, or burnt, regardless of their past associations or present artistic worth. in a way, however, these sacrilegious demolitions gave cause to much energetic rebuilding and laying out of the old city anew, in the years immediately succeeding the period of the revolution, which as an historical event has no place in this book other than mere mention, as it may have been referred to by dumas. it was napoleon who undertook the rehabilitation of paris, with an energy and foresight only equalled by his prowess as a master of men. he occupied himself above all with what the french themselves would call those _monuments et decorations utiles_, as might be expected of his abilities as an organizer. the canal from the river ourcq through la villette to the seine was, at the fosses de la bastille, cleared and emptied of its long stagnant waters; _abattoirs_ were constructed in convenient places, in order to do away with the vast herds of cattle which for centuries had been paraded through the most luxurious of the city's streets; new markets were opened, and numerous fountains and watering-troughs were erected in various parts of the city; four new and ornate bridges were thrown across the seine, the magnificent rues castiglione and de la paix, extending from the tuileries to the interior boulevards, were opened up; the place vendome was then endowed with its bronze column, which stands to-day; the splendid and utile rue de rivoli was made beside the garden of the tuileries (it has since been prolonged to the hôtel de ville). napoleon also founded the palais de la bourse ( ), and caused to be erected a superb iron _grille_ which should separate the place du carrousel from the tuileries. under the restoration little happened with regard to the beautifying and aggrandizing of the city, though certain improvements of a purely economic and social nature made their own way. the literature and art of dumas and his compeers were making such sturdy progress as to give paris that preëminence in these finer elements of life, which, before or since, has not been equalled elsewhere. since the revolution of have been completed the arc de triomphe de l'etoile (commenced by napoleon i.), the Église de la madeleine, the fine hotel of the quai d'orsay, the palais des beaux arts, the restoration of the chambre des députés (the old palais bourbon), and the statues set up in the place de la concorde; though it is only since the ill-starred franco-prussian _affaire_ of that strasbourg's doleful figure has been buried in jet and alabaster sentiments, so dear to the frenchman of all ranks, as an outward expression of grief. at the commencement of the second empire the fortifications, as they then existed, possessed a circumference of something above thirty-three kilometres--approximately nineteen miles. the walls are astonishingly thick, and their _fossés_ wide and deep. the surrounding exterior forts "_de distance en distance_" are a unique feature of the general scheme of defence, and played, as it will be recalled, no unimportant part in the investiture of the city by the germans in the seventies. a french writer of the early days of the last empire says: "these new fortifications are in their ensemble a gigantic work." they are, indeed--though, in spite of their immensity, they do not impress the lay observer even as to impregnability as do the wonderful walls and ramparts of carcassonne, or dead aigues-mortes in the midi of france; those wonderful somnolent old cities of a glorious past, long since departed. the fortifications of paris, however, are a wonderfully utile thing, and must ever have an unfathomable interest for all who have followed their evolution from the restricted battlements of the early roman city. the parisian has, perhaps, cause to regret that these turf-covered battlements somewhat restrict his "_promenades environnantes_," but what would you? once outside, through any of the gateways, the avenue de la grande armée,--which is the most splendid,--or the porte du canal de l'ourcq,--which is the least luxurious, though by no means is it unpicturesque; indeed, it has more of that variable quality, perhaps, than any other,--one comes into the charm of the french countryside; that is, if he knows in which direction to turn. at any rate, he comes immediately into contact with a life which is quite different from any phase which is to be seen within the barrier. from the revolution of to the first years of the second empire, which ought properly to be treated by itself,--and so shall be,--there came into being many and vast demolitions and improvements. paris was a vast atelier of construction, where agile minds conceived, and the artisan and craftsman executed, monumental glories and improvements which can only be likened to the focusing of the image upon the ground glass. the prolongation of the rue de rivoli was put through; the boulevards sebastopol, malesherbes,--where in the place malesherbes is that appealing monument to dumas by gustave doré,--du prince eugène, st. germain, magenta, the rue des Écoles, and many others. all of which tended to change the very face and features of the paris the world had known hitherto. the "caserne napoleon" had received its guests, and the tour st. jacques, from which point of vantage the "clerk of the weather" to-day prognosticates for paris, had been restored. magnificent establishments of all sorts and ranks had been built, the palais de l'industrie (since razed) had opened its doors to the work of all nations, in the exhibition of . of paris, one may well concentrate one's estimate in five words: "each epoch has been rich," also prolific, in benefits, intentions, and creations of all manner of estimable and admirable achievements. by favour of these efforts of all the reigns and governments which have gone before, the paris of to-day in its architectural glories, its monuments in stone, and the very atmosphere of its streets, places, and boulevards, is assuredly the most marvellous of all the cities of europe. * * * * * it may not be an exceedingly pleasant subject, but there is, and always has been, a certain fascination about a visit to a cemetery which ranks, in the minds of many well-informed and refined persons, far above even the contemplation of great churches themselves. it may be a morbid taste, or it may not. certainly there seems to be no reason why a considerable amount of really valuable facts might not be impressed upon the retina of a traveller who should do the round of _campos santos_, _cimetières_ and burial-grounds in various lands. in this respect, as in many others, paris leads the way for sheer interest in its tombs and sepulchres, at montmartre and père la chaise. in no other burial-ground in the world--unless it be mount auburn, near boston, where, if the world-wide name and fame of those there buried are not so great as those at paris, their names are at least as much household words to english-speaking folk, as are those of the old-world resting-place to the french themselves--are to be found so many celebrated names. there are a quartette of these famous resting-places at paris which, since the coming of the nineteenth century, have had an absorbing interest for the curiously inclined. père la chaise, montmartre, the royal sepulchres in the old abbey church of st. denis, and the churchyard of st. innocents. "man," said sir thomas brown, "is a noble animal, splendid in ashes, and pompous in the grave." why this should be so, it is not the province of this book to explain, nor even to justify the gorgeous and ill-mannered monuments which are often erected over his bones. [illustration: portrait of henry iv.] the catacombs of paris are purposely ignored here, as appealing to a special variety of morbidity which is as unpleasant to deal with and to contemplate as are snakes preserved in spirit, and as would be--were we allowed to see them--the sacred human _reliques_ which are preserved, even to-day, at various pilgrims' shrines throughout the christian world. that vast royal sepulchre of the abbey church of st. denis, which had been so outrageously despoiled by the decree of the convention in , was in a measure set to rights by louis xviii., when he caused to be returned from the petits augustins, now the palais des beaux arts, and elsewhere, such of the monuments as had not been actually destroyed. the actual spoliation of these shrines belongs to an earlier day than that of which this book deals. the history of it forms as lurid a chapter as any known to the records of riot and sacrilege in france; and the more the pity that the motion of barrere ("_la main puissante de la république doit effacer inpitoyablement ces epitaphes_") to destroy these royal tombs should have had official endorsement. the details of these barbarous exhumations were curious, but not edifying; the corpse of turenne was exhibited around the city; henri iv.--"his features still being perfect"--was kicked and bunted about like a football; louis xiv. was found in a perfect preservation, but entirely black; louis viii. had been sewed up in a leather sack; and françois i. and his family "had become much decayed;" so, too, with many of the later bourbons. in general these bodies were deposited in a common pit, which had been dug near the north entrance to the abbey, and thus, for the first time in the many centuries covered by the period of their respected demises, their dust was to mingle in a common blend, and all factions were to become one. viollet-le-duc, at the instruction of napoleon iii., set up again, following somewhat an approximation of the original plan, the various monuments which had been so thoroughly scattered, and which, since their return to the old abbey, had been herded together without a pretence at order in the crypt. paris had for centuries been wretchedly supplied with _cimetières_. for long one only had existed, that of the churchyard of st. innocents', originally a piece of the royal domain lying without the walls, and given by one of the french kings as a burial-place for the citizens, when interments within the city were forbidden. it has been calculated that from the time of philippe-auguste over a million bodies had been interred in these _fosses communes_. in the council of state decreed that the cemetery should be cleared of its dead and converted into a market-place. cleared it was not, but it has since become a market-place, and the waters of the fontaine des innocents filter briskly through the dust of the dead of ages. sometime in the early part of the nineteenth century the funeral undertakings of paris were conducted on a sliding scale of prices, ranging from four thousand francs in the first class, to as low as sixteen francs for the very poor; six classes in all. this law-ordered _tarif_ would seem to have been a good thing for posterity to have perpetuated. the artisan or craftsman who fashions the funeral monuments of paris has a peculiar flight of fancy all his own; though, be it said, throughout the known world, funeral urns and monuments have seldom or never been beautiful, graceful, or even austere or dignified: they have, in fact, mostly been shocking travesties of the ideals and thoughts they should have represented. it is remarkable that the french architect and builder, who knows so well how to design and construct the habitation of living man, should express himself so badly in his bizarre funeral monuments and the tawdry tinsel wreaths and flowers of their decorations. an english visitor to paris in the thirties deplored the fact that her cemeteries should be made into mere show-places, and perhaps rightly enough. at that time they served as a fashionable and polite avenue for promenades, and there was (perhaps even is to-day) a guide-book published of them, and, since grief is paradoxically and proverbially dry, there was always a battery of taverns and drinking-places flanking their entrances. it was observed by a writer in a parisian journal of that day that "in the cimetière du montmartre--which was the deposit for the gay part of the city--nine tombs out of ten were to the memory of persons cut off in their youth; but that in père la chaise--which served principally for the sober citizens of paris--nine out of ten recorded the ages of persons who had attained a good old age." chapter vii. ways and means of communication the means of communication in and about paris in former days was but a travesty on the methods of the "metropolitain," which in our time literally whisks one like the wings of the morning, from the arc de triomphe to the bois de vincennes, and from the place de la nation to the trocadero. in there were officially enumerated over twenty-eight hundred boulevards, avenues, _rues_, and passages, the most lively being st. honoré, richelieu, vivienne, castiglione, de l'université,--dumas lived here at no. , in a house formerly occupied by chateaubriand, now the magazin st. thomas,--de la chaussée d'antin, de la paix, de grenelle, de bac, st. denis, st. martin, st. antoine, and, above all, the rue de rivoli,--with a length of nearly three miles, distinguished at its westerly end by its great covered gallery, where the dwellings above are carried on a series of arcades, flanked by _boutiques_, not very sumptuous to-day, to be sure, but even now a promenade of great popularity. at no. rue de rivoli, near the rue st. roch, dumas himself lived from to . there were in those days more than a score of passages, being for the most part a series of fine galleries, in some instances taking the form of a rotunda, glass-covered, and surrounded by shops with _appartements_ above. the most notable were those known as the panoramas jouffroy, vivienne, colbert, de l'opera, delorme, du saumon, etc. there were more than a hundred squares, or _places_--most of which remain to-day. the most famous on the right bank of the seine are de la concorde, vendome, du carrousel, du palais royal, des victoires, du châtelet, de l'hôtel de ville, royale, des vosges, and de la bastille; on the left bank, du panthéon, de st. sulpice, du palais bourbon. most of these radiating centres of life are found in dumas' pages, the most frequent mention being in the d'artagnan and valois romances. among the most beautiful and the most frequented thoroughfares were--and are--the tree-bordered quais, and, of course, the boulevards. the interior boulevards were laid out at the end of the seventeenth century on the ancient ramparts of the city, and extended from the madeleine to la bastille, a distance of perhaps three miles. they are mostly of a width of thirty-two metres ( feet). this was the boulevard of the time _par excellence_, and its tree-bordered _allées_--sidewalks and roadways--bore, throughout its comparatively short length, eleven different names, often changing meanwhile as it progressed its physiognomy as well. on the left bank, the interior boulevard was extended from the jardin des plantes to the hôtel des invalides; while the "_boulevards extérieurs_" formed a second belt of tree-shaded thoroughfares of great extent. yet other boulevards of ranking greatness cut the _rues_ and avenues tangently, now from one bank and then from the other; the most splendid of all being the avenue de l'opéra, which, however, did not come into being until well after the middle of the century. among these are best recalled sébastopol, st. germain, st. martin, magenta, malesherbes, and others. the place malesherbes, which intersects the avenue, now contains the celebrated dumas memorial by doré, and the neighbouring thoroughfare was the residence of dumas from to . yet another class of thoroughfares, while conceived previous to the chronological limits which the title puts upon this book, were the vast and splendid promenades and rendezvous, with their trees, flowers, and fountains; such as the gardens of the tuileries and the luxembourg, the champs elysées, the esplanade des invalides, and the bois de boulogne and de vincennes. dibdin tells of his _entrée_ into paris in the early days of the nineteenth century, having journeyed by "_malle-poste_" from havre, in the pages of his memorable bibliographical tour. his observations somewhat antedate the paris of dumas and his fellows, but changes came but slowly, and therein may be found a wealth of archæological and topographical information concerning the french metropolis; though he does compare, detrimentally, the panorama of paris which unrolls from the heights of passy, to that of london from highgate woods. on the contrary, his impressions change after passing the barriers. "nothing in london," says he, "can enter into comparison with the imposing spectacle which is presented by the magnificent champs elysées, with the château of the tuileries _en face_, and to the right the superb dome of the invalides glistening in the rays of the setting sun." paris had at this time , "_voitures de louage_," which could be hired for any journey to be made within reasonable distance; and eighty-three which were run only on predetermined routes, as were the later omnibuses and tram-cars. these , carriages were further classified as follows; _fiacres_; _cabriolets_, circulating in the twelve interior _arrondissements_; _cabriolets_ for the exterior; _carrosses de remise_ (livery-coaches), and _cabriolets de remise_. the _préfet de police_, count anglès, had received from one godot, an _entrepreneur_,--a sort of early edition of what we know to-day as a company promoter,--a proposition to establish a line of omnibuses along the quais and boulevards. authorization for the scheme was withheld for the somewhat doubtful reason that "the constant stoppage of the vehicles to set down and take up passengers would greatly embarrass other traffic;" and so a new idea was still-born into the world, to come to life only in , when another received the much coveted authority to make the experiment. already such had been established in bordeaux and nantes, by an individual by the name of baudry, and he it was who obtained the first concession in paris. the first line inaugurated was divided into two sections: rue de lancry--madeleine, and rue de lancry--bastille. it is recorded that the young--but famous--duchesse de berry was the first to take passage in these "intramural _diligences_," which she called "_le carrosse des malheureux_;" perhaps with some truth, if something of snobbishness. there seems to have been a considerable difficulty in attracting a _clientèle_ to this new means of communication. the public hesitated, though the prices of the places were decided in their favour, so much so that the enterprise came to an untimely end, or, at least, its founder did; for he committed suicide because of the non-instantaneous success of the scheme. the concession thereupon passed into other hands, and there was created a new type of vehicle of sixteen places, drawn by two horses, and priced at six sous the place. the new service met with immediate, if but partial, success, and with the establishment of new routes, each served by carriages of a distinctive colour, its permanence was assured. then came the "_dames blanches_,"--the name being inspired by boieldieu's opera,--which made the journey between the porte st. martin and the madeleine in a quarter of an hour. they were painted a cream white, and drawn by a pair of white horses, coiffed with white plumes. after the establishment of the omnibus came other series of vehicles for public service: the "_ecossaises_," with their gaudily variegated colours, the "_carolines_," the "_bearnaises_," and the "_tricycles_," which ran on three wheels in order to escape the wheel-tax which obtained at the time. in spite of the rapid multiplication of omnibus lines under louis-philippe, their veritable success came only with the ingenious system of transfers, or "_la correspondance_;" a system and a convenience whereby one can travel throughout paris for the price of one fare. from this reason alone, perhaps, the omnibus and tram system of paris is unexcelled in all the world. this innovation dates, moreover, from , and, accordingly, is no new thing, as many may suppose. finally, more recently,--though it was during the second empire,--the different lines were fused under the title of the "compagnie générale des omnibus." "_la malle-poste_" was an institution of the greatest importance to paris, though of course no more identified with it than with the other cities of france between which it ran. it dated actually from the period of the revolution, and grew, and was modified, under the restoration. it is said that its final development came during the reign of louis xviii., and grew out of his admiration for the "_élégance et la rapidité des malles anglaises_," which had been duly impressed upon him during his sojourn in england. this may be so, and doubtless with some justification. _en passant_ it is curious to know, and, one may say, incredible to realize, that from the g. p. o. in london, in this year of enlightenment, there leaves each night various mail-coaches--for dover, for windsor, and perhaps elsewhere. they do not carry passengers, but they do give a very bad service in the delivery of certain classes of mail matter. the marvel is that such things are acknowledged as being fitting and proper to-day. in the "_malle-poste_" was reckoned, in paris, as being _élégante et rapide_, having a speed of not less than sixteen kilometres an hour over give-and-take roads. each evening, from the courtyard of the hôtel des postes, the coaches left, with galloping horses and heavy loads, for the most extreme points of the frontier; eighty-six hours to bordeaux at first, and finally only forty-four (in ); one hundred hours to marseilles, later but sixty-eight. [illustration: grand bureau de la poste] stendhal tells of his journey by "_malle-poste_" from paris to marseilles in three days, and victor hugo has said that two nights on the road gave one a high idea of the _solidité_ of the human machine; and further says, of a journey down the loire, that he recalled only a great tower at orleans, a candlelit _salle_ of an _auberge en route_, and, at blois, a bridge with a cross upon it. "in reality, during the journey, animation was suspended." what we knew, or our forefathers knew, as the "_poste-chaise_," properly "_chaise de poste_," came in under the restoration. all the world knows, or should know, edouard thierry's picturesque description of it. "_le rêve de nos vingt ans, la voiture où l'on n'est que deux ... devant vous le chemin libre, la plaine, la pente rapide, le pont._" "you traverse cities and hamlets without number, by the _grands rues_, the _grande place_, etc." in april, , stendhal quitted paris under exactly these conditions for his tour of france. he bought "_une bonne calèche_," and left _via_ fontainebleau, montargis, and cosne. two months after, however, he returned to the metropolis _via_ bourges, having refused to continue his journey _en calèche_, preferring the "_malle-poste_" and the _diligence_ of his youth. public _diligences_, however, had but limited accommodation on grand occasions; victor hugo, who had been invited to the consecration of charles x. at reims, and his friend, charles nodier, the bibliophile,--also a friend of dumas, it is recalled,--in company with two others, made the attempt amid much discomfort in a private carriage,--of a sort,--and nodier wittily tells of how he and hugo walked on foot up all the hills, each carrying his gripsack as well. more than all others the "coches d'eau" are especially characteristic of paris; those fly-boats, whose successors ply up and down the seine, to the joy of americans, the convenience of the parisian public, and--it is surely allowable to say it--the disgust of londoners, now that their aged and decrepit "thames steamboats" are no more. these early parisian "coches d'eau" carried passengers up and down river for surprisingly low fares, and left the city at seven in the morning in summer, and eight in winter. the following is a list of the most important routes: paris--nogent-sur-seine days en route paris--briare " " " paris--montereau " " " paris--sens " " " paris--auxerre " " " all of these services catered for passengers and goods, and were, if not rapid, certainly a popular and comfortable means of communication. an even more popular journey, and one which partook more particularly of a pleasure-trip, was that of the _galiote_, which left each day from below the pont-royal for st. cloud, giving a day's outing by river which to-day, even, is the most fascinating of the many _petits voyages_ to be undertaken around paris. the other recognized public means of communication between the metropolis and the provincial towns and cities were the "messageries royales," and two other similar companies, "la compagne lafitte et caillard" and "les françaises." these companies put also before the parisian public two other classes of vehicular accommodation, the "_pataches suspendues_," small carriages with but one horse, which ran between paris and strasburg, metz, nancy, and lyons at the price of ten sous per hour. again there was another means of travel which originated in paris; it was known as the "messageries à cheval." travellers rode _on_ horses, which were furnished by the company, their _bagages_ being transported in advance by a "_chariot_." in fine weather this must certainly have been an agreeable and romantic mode of travel in those days; what would be thought of it to-day, when one, if he does not fly over the kilometres in a sud--or orient--express, is as likely as not covering the _route nationale_ at sixty or more kilometres the hour in an automobile, it is doubtful to say. finally came the famous _diligence_, which to-day, outside the "rollo" books and the reprints of old-time travel literature, is seldom met with in print. "these immense structures," says an observant french writer, "which lost sometimes their centre of gravity, in spite of all precaution and care on the part of the driver and the guard, were, by an _ordonnance royale_ of the th of july, , limited as to their dimensions, weight, and design." each _diligence_ carried as many spare parts as does a modern automobile, and workshops and supply-depots were situated at equal distances along the routes. hugo said that the complexity of it all represented to him "the perfect image of a nation; its constitution and its government. in the _diligence_ was to be found, as in the state, the aristocracy in the coupé, the _bourgeoisie_ in the interior, the people in _la rotonde_, and, finally, 'the artists, the thinkers, and the unclassed' in the utmost height, the _impériale_, beside the _conducteur_, who represented the law of the state. "this great _diligence_, with its body painted in staring yellow, and its five horses, carries one in a diminutive space through all the sleeping villages and hamlets of the countryside." from paris, in , the journey by _diligence_ to toulouse-- french leagues--took eight days; to rouen, thirteen hours; to lyons, _par_ auxerre, four days, and to calais, two and a half days. the _diligence_ was certainly an energetic mode of travel, but not without its discomforts, particularly in bad weather. prosper merimée gave up his winter journey overland to madrid in , and took ship at bordeaux for alicante in spain, because, as he says, "all the inside places had been taken for a month ahead." the coming of the _chemin de fer_ can hardly be dealt with here. its advent is comparatively modern history, and is familiar to all. paris, as might naturally be supposed, was the hub from which radiated the great spokes of iron which bound the uttermost frontiers intimately with the capital. there were three short lines of rail laid down in the provinces before paris itself took up with the innovation: at roanne, st. etienne-andrézieux, epinac, and alais. by _la loi du juillet_, , a line was built from paris to st. germain, seventeen kilometres, and its official opening for traffic, which took place two years later, was celebrated by a _déjeuner de circonstance_ at the restaurant du pavillon henri quatre at st. germain. then came "le nord" to lille, boulogne, and calais; "l'ouest" to havre, rouen, cherbourg, and brest; "l'est" to toul and nancy; "l'orleans" to orleans and the loire valley; and, finally, the "p. l. m." (paris-lyon et méditerranée) to the south of france. "then it was that paris really became the rich neighbour of all the provincial towns and cities. before, she had been a sort of pompous and distant relative"--as a whimsical frenchman has put it. the mutability of time and the advent of mechanical traction is fast changing all things--in france and elsewhere. the chevaux blancs, deux pigeons, cloches d'or, and the hôtels de la poste, de la croix, and du grand cerf are fast disappearing from the large towns, and the way of iron is, or will be, a source of inspiration to the poets of the future, as has the _postillon_, the _diligence_, and the _chaise de poste_ in the past. here is a quatrain written by a despairing _aubergiste_ of the little town of salons, which indicates how the innovation was received by the provincials--in spite of its undeniable serviceability: "en l'an neuf cent, machine lourde a tretous farfit damne et mal, gens moult rioient d'icelle bourde, au campas renovoient cheval." the railways which centre upon paris are indeed the ties that bind paris to the rest of france, and vice versa. their termini--the great _gares_--are at all times the very concentrated epitome of the life of the day. the new _gares_ of the p. l. m. and the orleans railways are truly splendid and palatial establishments, with--at first glance--little of the odour of the railway about them, and much of the ceremonial appointments of a great civic institution; with gorgeous _salles à manger_, waiting-rooms, and--bearing the p. l. m. in mind in particular--not a little of the aspect of an art-gallery. the other _embarcadères_ are less up-to-date--that vague term which we twentieth-century folk are wont to make use of in describing the latest innovations. the gare st. lazare is an enormous establishment, with a hotel appendage, which of itself is of great size; the gare du nord is equally imposing, but architecturally unbeautiful; while the gare de l'est still holds in its tympanum the melancholy symbolical figure of the late lamented ville de strasbourg, the companion in tears, one may say, of that other funereally decorated statue on the place de la concorde. paris, too, is well served by her tramways propelled by horses,--which have not yet wholly disappeared,--and by steam and electricity, applied in a most ingenious manner. by this means paris has indeed been transformed from its interior thoroughfares to its uttermost _banlieu_. the last two words on the subject have reference to the advent and development of the bicycle and the automobile, as swift, safe, and economical means of transport. the reign of the bicycle as a pure fad was comparatively short, whatever may have been its charm of infatuation. as a utile thing it is perhaps more worthy of consideration, for it cannot be denied that its development--and of its later gigantic offspring, the automobile--has had a great deal to do with the better construction and up-keep of modern roadways, whether urban or suburban. "_la petite reine bicyclette_" has been fêted in light verse many times, but no one seems to have hit off its salient features as did charles monselet. others have referred to riders of the "new means of locomotion" as "cads on casters," and a writer in _le gaulois_ stigmatized them as "_imbéciles à roulettes_," which is much the same; while no less a personage than francisque sarcey demanded, in the journal _la france_, that the police should suppress forthwith this _eccentricité_. charles monselet's eight short lines are more appreciative: "instrument raide en fer battu qui dépossède le char torlu; vélocipède rail impromptu, fils d'archimède, d'où nous viens-tu?" though it is apart from the era of dumas, this discursion into a phase of present-day paris is, perhaps, allowable in drawing a comparison between the city of to-day and that even of the second empire, which was, at its height, contemporary with dumas' prime. if paris was blooming suddenly forth into beauty and grace in the period which extended from the revolution to the franco-prussian war, she has certainly, since that time, not ceased to shed her radiance; indeed, she flowers more abundantly than ever, though, truth to tell, it is all due to the patronage which the state has ever given, in france, to the fostering of the arts as well as industries. and so paris has grown,--beautiful and great,--and the stranger within her gates, whether he come by road or rail, by automobile or railway-coach, is sure to be duly impressed with the fact that paris is for one and all alike a city founded of and for the people. chapter viii. the banks of the seine the city of the ancient parisii is the one particular spot throughout the length of the sea-green seine--that "winding river" whose name, says thierry, in his "histoire des gaulois," is derived from a celtic word having this signification--where is resuscitated the historical being of the entire french nation. here it circles around the ile st. louis, cutting it apart from the ile de la cité, and rushing up against the northern bank, periodically throws up a mass of gravelly sand, just in the precise spot where, in mediæval times, was an open market-place. here the inhabitants of the city met the country dealers, who landed produce from their boats, traded, purchased, and sold, and departed whence they came, into the regions of the upper seine or the marne, or downward to the lower river cities of meulan, mantes, and vernon. at this time paris began rapidly to grow on each side of the stream, and became the great market or trading-place where the swains who lived up-river mingled with the hewers of wood from the forests of la brie and the reapers of corn from the sunny plains of la beauce. these country folk, it would appear, preferred the northern part of paris to the southern--it was less ceremonious, less ecclesiastical. if they approached the city from rearward of the université, by the orleans highroad, they paid exorbitant toll to the abbot of st. germain des prés. here they paid considerably less to the prévôt of paris. and thus from very early times the distinction was made, and grew with advancing years, between the town, or la ville, which distinguished it from the cité and the université. this sandy river-bank gradually evolved itself into the quai and place de la grève,--its etymology will not be difficult to trace,--and endured in the full liberty of its olden functions as late as the day of louis xv. here might have been seen great stacks of firewood, charcoal, corn, wine, hay, and straw. [illustration: the odÉon in ] aside from its artistic and economic value, the seine plays no great part in the story of paris. it does not divide what is glorious from what is sordid, as does "london's river." when one crosses any one of its numerous bridges, one does not exchange thriftiness and sublimity for the commonplace. les invalides, l'institut, the luxembourg, the panthéon, the odéon, the université,--whose buildings cluster around the ancient sorbonne,--the hôtel de cluny, and the churches of st. sulpice, st. etienne du mont, and st. severin, and, last but not least, the chamber of deputies, all are on the south side of paris, and do not shrink greatly in artistic or historical importance from notre dame, the louvre, the tour st. jacques, the place de la bastille, the palais royal, or the théâtre-français. the greatest function of the seine, when one tries to focus the memory on its past, is to recall to us that old paris was a trinity. born of the river itself rose the cité, the home of the church and state, scarce finding room for her palaces and churches, while close to her side, on the south bank, the université spread herself out, and on the right bank the ville hummed with trade and became the home of the great municipal institutions. dumas shifts the scenes of his parisian romances first from one side to the other, but always his mediæval paris is the same grand, luxurious, and lively stage setting. certainly no historian could hope to have done better. intrigue, riot, and bloodshed of course there were; and perhaps it may be thought in undue proportions. but did not the history of paris itself furnish the romancer with these very essential details? at all events, there is no great sordidness or squalor perpetuated in dumas' pages. perhaps it is for this reason that they prove so readable, and their wearing qualities so great. there is in the reminiscence of history and the present aspect of the seine, throughout its length, the material for the constructing a volume of bulk which should not lack either variety, picturesqueness, or interest. it furthermore is a subject which seems to have been shamefully neglected by writers of all ranks. turner, of the brilliant palette, pictured many of its scenes, and his touring-companion wrote a more or less imaginative and wofully incorrect running commentary on the itinerary of the journey, as he did also of their descent of the loire. philip gilbert hamerton, accompanied by a series of charming pictures by joseph pennell (the first really artistic topographical illustrations ever put into the pages of a book), did the same for the saône; and, of course, the thames has been "done" by many writers of all shades of ability, but manifestly the seine, along whose banks lie the scenes of some of the most historic and momentous events of mediæval times, has been sadly neglected. paris is divided into practically two equal parts by the swift-flowing current of the seine, which winds its way in sundry convolutions from its source beyond chatillon-sur-seine to the sea at honfleur. the praises of the winding river which connects havre, rouen, vernon, mantes, and paris has often been sung, but the brief, virile description of it in the eighty-seventh chapter of dumas' "le vicomte de bragelonne" has scarcely been equalled. apropos of the journey of madame and buckingham paris-ward, after having taken leave of the english fleet at havre, dumas says of this greatest of french waterways: "the weather was fine. spring cast its flowers and its perfumed foliage upon the path. normandy, with its vast variety of vegetation, its blue sky, and silver rivers, displayed itself in all its loveliness." * * * * * through paris its direction is from the southeast to the northwest, a distance, within the fortifications, of perhaps twelve kilometres. two islands of size cut its currents: the ile st. louis and the ile de la cité. a description of its banks, taken from a french work of the time, better defines its aspect immediately after the revolution of than any amount of conjecture or present-day observation, so it is here given: "in its course through the metropolis, the seine is bordered by a series of magnificent quais, which in turn are bordered by rows of sturdy trees. "the most attractive of these quais are those which flank the louvre, the tuileries, d'orsay, voltaire, and conti. "below the quais are deposed nine ports, or _gares_, each devoted to a special class of merchandise, as coal, wine, produce, timber, etc. "the north and south portions of the city are connected by twenty-six _ponts_ (this was in ; others have since been erected, which are mentioned elsewhere in the book). "coming from the upper river, they were known as follows: the ponts napoléon, de bercy, d'austerlitz, the passerelle de l'estacade; then, on the right branch of the river, around the islands, the ponts maril, louis-philippe, d'arcole, notre dame, and the pont au change; on the left branch, the passerelle st. louis or constantine, the ponts tournelle, de la cité, de l'archevêche, le pont aux doubles, le petit pont, and the pont st. michel; here the two branches join again: le pont neuf, des arts, du carrousel, royal, solferino, de la concorde, des invalides, de l'alma, de jena, and grenelle. "near the pont d'austerlitz the seine receives the waters of the petite rivière de bièvre, or des gobelins, which traverses the faubourgs." of the bridges of paris, dumas in his romances has not a little to say. it were not possible for a romanticist--or a realist, for that matter--to write of paris and not be continually confronting his characters with one or another of the many splendid bridges which cross the seine between conflans-charenton and asnières. in the "mousquetaires" series, in the valois romances, and in his later works of lesser import, mention of these fine old bridges continually recurs; more than all others the pont neuf, perhaps, or the pont au change. in "pauline" there is a charming touch which we may take to smack somewhat of the author's own predilections and experiences. he says, concerning his embarkation upon a craft which he had hired at a little norman fishing-village, as one jobs a carriage in paris: "i set up to be a sailor, and served apprenticeship on a craft between the pont des tuileries and the pont de la concorde." of the seine bridges none is more historic than the pont neuf, usually reckoned as one of the finest in europe; which recalls the fact that the french--ecclesiastic and laymen architects alike--were master bridge-builders. for proof of this one has only to recall the wonderful bridge of st. bénezet d'avignon, the fortified bridges of orthos and cahors, the bridge at lyons, built by the primate of gaul himself, and many others throughout the length and breadth of france. the pont neuf was commenced in the reign of henri iii. ( ), and finished in the reign of henri iv. ( ), and is composed of two unequal parts, which come to their juncture at the extremity of the ile de la cité. in the early years a great bronze horse, known familiarly as the "cheval de bronze," but without a rider, was placed upon this bridge. during the revolution, when cannon and ammunition were made out of any metal which could be obtained, this curious statue disappeared, though later its pedestal was replaced--under the bourbons--by an equestrian statue of the huguenot king. the pont des arts, while not usually accredited as a beautiful structure,--and certainly not comparable with many other of its fellows,--is interesting by reason of the fact that its nine iron arches, which led from the quai du louvre to the quai de la monnai, formed the first example of an iron bridge ever constructed in france. its nomenclature is derived from the louvre, which was then called--before the title was applied to the collège des quatre nations--the palais des arts. in restoration times it was one of the fashionable promenades of paris. the pont au change took its name from the _changeurs_, or money-brokers, who lived upon it during the reign of louis le jeune in . it bridged the widest part of the seine, and, after being destroyed by flood and fire in , , and , was rebuilt in . the houses which originally covered it were removed in by the order of louis xvi. in "the conspirators," dumas places the opening scene at that end of the pont neuf which abuts on the quai de l'École, and is precise enough, but in "marguerite de valois" he evidently confounds the pont neuf with the pont au change, when he puts into the mouth of coconnas, the piedmontese: "they who rob on the pont neuf are, then, like you, in the service of the king. _mordi!_ i have been very unjust, sir; for until now i had taken them for thieves." the pont louis xv. was built in out of part of the material which was taken from the ruins of the bastille. latterly there has sprung up the new pont alexandre, commemorative of the czar's visit to paris, which for magnificent proportions, beauty of design and arrangement, quite overtops any other of its kind, in paris or elsewhere. the quais which line the seine as it runs through paris are like no other quais in the known world. they are the very essence and epitome of certain phases of life which find no counterpart elsewhere. the following description of a bibliomaniac from dumas' "mémoires" is unique and apropos: "bibliomaniac, evolved from _book_ and _mania_, is a variety of the species man--_species bipes et genus homo_. "this animal has two feet and is without features, and usually wanders about the quais and boulevards, stopping in front of every stall and fingering all the books. he is generally dressed in a coat which is too long and trousers which are too short, his shoes are always down at heel, and on his head is an ill-shapen hat. one of the signs by which he may be recognized is shown by the fact that he never washes his hands." the booksellers' stalls of the quais of paris are famous, though it is doubtful if genuine bargains exist there in great numbers. it is significant, however, that more volumes of dumas' romances are offered for sale--so it seems to the passer-by--than of any other author. the seine opposite the louvre, and, indeed, throughout the length of its flow through paris, enters largely into the scheme of the romances, where scenes are laid in the metropolis. like the throng which stormed the walls of the louvre on the night of the th of august, , during that splendid royal fête, the account of which opens the pages of "marguerite de valois," the seine itself resembles dumas' description of the midnight crowd, which he likens to "a dark and rolling sea, each swell of which increases to a foaming wave; this sea, extending all along the quai, spent its waves at the base of the louvre, on the one hand, and against the hôtel de bourbon, which was opposite, on the other." in the chapter entitled "what happened on the night of the twelfth of july," in "the taking of the bastille," dumas writes of the banks of the seine in this wise: "once upon the quai, the two countrymen saw glittering on the bridge near the tuileries the arms of another body of men, which, in all probability, was not a body of friends; they silently glided to the end of the quai, and descended the bank which leads along the seine. the clock of the tuileries was just then striking eleven. "when they had got beneath the trees which line the banks of the river, fine aspen-trees and poplars, which bathe their feet in its current, when they were lost to the sight of their pursuers, hid by their friendly foliage, the farmers and pitou threw themselves on the grass and opened a council of war." just previously the mob had battered down the gate of the tuileries, as a means of escape from the pen in which the dragoons had crowded the populace. "'tell me now, father billot,' inquired pitou, after having carried the timber some thirty yards, 'are we going far in this way?' "'we are going as far as the gate of the tuileries.' "'ho, ho!' cried the crowd, who at once divined his intention. "and it made way for them more eagerly even than before. "pitou looked about him, and saw that the gate was not more than thirty paces distant from them. "'i can reach it,' said he, with the brevity of a pythagorean. "the labour was so much the easier to pitou from five or six of the strongest of the crowd taking their share of the burden. "the result of this was a very notable acceleration in their progress. "in five minutes they had reached the iron gates. "'come, now,' cried billot, 'clap your shoulders to it, and all push together.' "'good!' said pitou. 'i understand now. we have just made a warlike engine; the romans used to call it a ram.' "'now, my boys,' cried billot, 'once, twice, thrice,' and the joist, directed with a furious impetus, struck the lock of the gate with resounding violence. "the soldiers who were on guard in the interior of the garden hastened to resist this invasion. but at the third stroke the gate gave way, turning violently on its hinges, and through that gaping and gloomy mouth the crowd rushed impetuously. "from the movement that was then made, the prince de lambesq perceived at once that an opening had been effected which allowed the escape of those whom he had considered his prisoners. he was furious with disappointment." chapter ix. the second empire and after the revolution of narrowed itself down to the issue of bourbonism or bonapartism. nobody had a good word to say for the constitution, and all parties took liberties with it. it was inaugurated as the most democratic of all possible charters. it gave a vote to everybody, women and children excepted. it affirmed liberty with so wide a latitude of interpretation as to leave nothing to be desired by the reddest republican that ever wore pistols in his belt at the heels of the redoubtable m. marc caussidière, or expressed faith in the social utopia of the enthusiastic m. proudhon. freedom to speak, to write, to assemble, and to vote,--all were secured to all frenchmen by this marvellous charter. when it became the law of the land, everybody began to nibble at and destroy it. the right of speaking was speedily reduced to the narrowest limits, and the liberty of the press was pared down to the merest shred. the right of meeting was placed at the tender mercies of the prefect of police, and the right of voting was attacked with even more zeal and fervour. the revolution proved more voracious than saturn himself, in devouring its children, and it made short work of men and reputations. it reduced mm. de lamartine, armand marrast, and general cavaignac into nothingness; sent mm. louis blanc, ledru rollin, and caussidière into the dreary exile of london, and consigned the fiery barbés, the vindictive blanqui, the impatient raspail, and a host of other regenerators of the human race, to the fastnesses of vincennes. having done this, the revolution left scarcely a vestige of the constitution,--nothing but a few crumbs, and those were not crumbs of comfort, which remained merely to prove to the incredulous that such a thing as the constitution once existed. the former king and queen took hidden refuge in a small cottage at honfleur, whence they were to depart a few days later for england--ever a refuge for exiled monarchists. escape became very urgent, and the king, with an english passport in the name of william smith, and the queen as madame lebrun, crossed over to le havre and ultimately to england. lamartine evidently mistakes even the time and place of this incident, but newspaper accounts of the time, both french and english, are very full as to the details. on landing at the quai at le havre, the ex-royal party was conducted to the "express" steam-packet, which had been placed at their disposal for the cross-channel journey. dumas takes the very incident as a detail for his story of "pauline," and his treatment thereof does not differ greatly from the facts as above set forth. two years later (august , ), at claremont, in surrey, in the presence of the queen and several members of his family, louis-philippe died. he was the last of the bourbons, with whom dumas proudly claimed acquaintanceship, and as such, only a short time before, was one of the mightiest of the world's monarchs, standing on one of the loftiest pinnacles of an ambition which, in the mind of a stronger or more wilful personality, might have accomplished with success much that with him resulted in defeat. after the maelstrom of discontent--the revolution of --had settled down, there came a series of events well-nigh as disturbing. events in paris were rapidly ripening for a change. the known determination of louis napoleon to prolong his power, either as president for another term of four years, or for life, or as consul or emperor of the french, and the support which his pretensions received from large masses of the people and from the rank and file of the army, had brought him into collision with a rival--general changarnier--almost as powerful as himself, and with an ambition quite as daring as his own. what louis napoleon wanted was evident. there was no secret about his designs. the partisans of henri v. looked to changarnier for the restoration of peace and legitimacy, and the orleanists considered that he was the most likely man in france to bring back the house of orleans, and the comfortable days of bribery, corruption, and a thriving trade; while the fat _bourgeoisie_ venerated him as the unflinching foe of the disturbers of order, and the great bulwark against communism and the red republic. still, this was manifestly not to be, though no one seemed to care a straw about louis napoleon's republic, or whether or no he dared to declare himself king or emperor, or whether they should be ruled by bonapartist, bourbon, or orleanist. these were truly perilous times for france; and, though they did not culminate in disaster until twenty years after, louis napoleon availed himself of every opportunity to efface from the second republic, of which he was at this time the head, every vestige of the democratic features which it ought to have borne. at the same time he surrounded himself with imposing state and pomp, so regal in character that it was evidently intended to accustom the public to see in him the object of that homage which is usually reserved for crowned heads alone, and thus gradually and imperceptibly to prepare the nation to witness, without surprise, his assuming, when the favourable occasion offered, the purple and diadem of the empire. for instance, he took up his residence in the ancient palace of the sovereigns of france, the tuileries, and gave banquets and balls of regal magnificence; he ordered his effigy to be struck upon the coinage of the nation, surrounded by the words "louis napoleon bonaparte," without any title, whether as president or otherwise, being affixed. he restored the imperial eagles to the standards of the army; the official organ, the _moniteur_, recommended the restoration of the titles and orders of hereditary nobility; the trees of liberty were uprooted everywhere; the republican motto, "liberty, equality, fraternity," was erased from the public edifices; the colossal statue of liberty, surmounted by a phrygian cap, which stood in the centre of the place de bourgogne, behind the legislative assembly, was demolished; and the old anti-republican names of the streets were restored, so that the palais national again became the palais royal; the théâtre de la nation, the théâtre français; the rue de la concorde, the rue royal, etc.; and, in short, to all appearances, louis napoleon began early in his tenure of office to assiduously pave the way to the throne of the empire as napoleon iii. [illustration: palais royal, street front] the _london times_ correspondent of that day related a characteristic exercise of this sweeping instruction of the minister of the interior to erase the words "liberté, egalité, fraternité" from all public buildings. (the three revolutionary watchwords had, in fact, been erased the previous year from the principal entrance to the elysée, and the words "république française," in large letters, were substituted.) "there is, i believe, only one public monument in paris--the ecole de droit--where the workmen employed in effacing that inscription will have a double duty. they will have to interfere with the 'liberalism' of two generations. immediately under the coat of yellow paint which covered the façade of the building, and on which time and the inclemency of the seasons have done their work, may still be traced, above the modern device, the following words, inscribed by order of the commune of paris during the reign of terror: 'liberté, egalité, fraternité, unité, indivisibilité de la république française!' as the effacing of the inscription of is not now by means of whitewash or paint, but by erasure, both the inscriptions will disappear at the same moment." among the most important demolitions and renovations of the sixties was the work undertaken on the louvre at the orders of the ambitious emperor, napoleon iii. the structure was cloven to the foundations, through the slated roof, the gilded and painted ceiling, the parqueted floors; and, where one formerly enjoyed an artistic feast that had taken four centuries to provide, one gazed upon, from the pavement to the roof, a tarpaulin that closed a vista which might otherwise have been a quarter of a mile in length. builders toiled day and night to connect the louvre with the main body of the palace of the tuileries, which itself was to disappear within so short a time. meanwhile so great a displacement of the art treasures was undergone, that _habitués_ knew not which way to turn for favourite pictures, with which the last fifty years had made them so familiar. to those of our elders who knew the paris of the early fifties, the present-day aspect--in spite of all its glorious wealth of boulevards and architectural splendour--will suggest the mutability of all things. it serves our purpose, however, to realize that much of the character has gone from the quartier latin; that the tuileries disappeared with the commune, and that the old distinctions between old paris, the faubourgs, and the communal annexes, have become practically non-existent with the opening up of the haussman boulevards, at the instigation of the wary napoleon iii. paris is still, however, an "_ancienne ville et une ville neuve_," and the paradox is inexplicable. the differences between the past and the present are indeed great, but nowhere--not even in the tower of london, which is usually given as an example of the contrast and progress of the ages--is a more tangible and specific opposition shown, than in what remains to-day of mediæval paris, in juxtaposition with the later architectural embellishments. in many instances is seen the newest of the "_art nouveau_"--as it is popularly known--cheek by jowl with some mediæval shrine. it is difficult at this time to say what effect these swirls and blobs, which are daily thrusting themselves into every form of architectural display throughout continental europe, would have had on these masters who built the gothic splendours of france, or even the hybrid _rococo_ style, which, be it not denied, is in many instances beautiful in spite of its idiosyncrasies. * * * * * to those who are familiar with the "sights" of paris, there is nothing left but to study the aspects of the life of the streets, the boulevards, the quais, the gardens, the restaurants, and the cafés. here at least is to be found daily, and hourly, new sensations and old ones, but at all events it is an ever-shifting scene, such as no other city in the world knows. the life of the _faubourgs_ and of the _quartiers_ has ever been made the special province of artists and authors, and to wander through them, to sit beneath the trees of the squares and gardens, or even outside a café, is to contemplate, in no small degree, much of the incident and temperament of life which others have already perpetuated and made famous. there is little new or original effort which can be made, though once and again a new performer comes upon the stage,--a poet who sings songs of vagabondage, a painter who catches a fleeting impression, which at least, if not new, seems new. but in the main one has to hark back to former generations, if one would feel the real spirit of romance and tradition. there are few who, like monet, can stop before a shrine and see in it forty-three varying moods--or some other incredible number, as did that artist when he limned his impressions of the façade of the cathedral of nôtre dame de rouen. such landmarks as the place de la bastille, the pantheon,--anciently the site of the abbey de ste. geneviève,--the chambre des députés,--the former palais bourbon,--the tour st. jacques, the fountain des innocents, st. germain l'auxerrois, the palais du luxembourg, the louvre, and quite all the historic and notable buildings one sees, are all pictured with fidelity, and more or less minuteness, in the pages of dumas' romances. again, in such other localities as the boulevard des italiens, the café de paris, the théâtre français, the odêon, the palais royal,--where, in the "orleans bureau," dumas found his first occupation in paris,--took place many incidents of dumas' life, which are of personal import. for recollections and reminders of the author's contemporaries, there are countless other localities too numerous to mention. in the rue pigalle, at no. , died eugene scribe; in the rue de douai lived edmond about, while in the rue d'amsterdam, at no. , lived dumas himself, and in the rue st. lazare, madame george sand. montmartre is sacred to the name of zola in the minds of most readers of latter-day french fiction, while many more famous names of all ranks, of litterateurs, of actors, of artists and statesmen,--all contemporaries and many of them friends of dumas,--will be found on the tombstones of père la chaise. the motive, then, to be deduced from these pages is that they are a record of many things associated with alexandre dumas, his life, and his work. equally so is a fleeting itinerary of strolls around and about the paris of dumas' romances, with occasional journeys into the provinces. [illustration: rue d'amsterdam] [illustration: rue de st. denis] thus the centuries have done their work of extending and mingling,--"_le jeu est fait_," so to speak,--but paris, by the necessities of her growth and by her rather general devotion to one stately, towering form of domestic architecture, has often made the separation of old from new peculiarly difficult to a casual eye. it is indeed her way to be new and splendid, to be always the bride of cities, espousing human destiny. and, truly, it is in this character that we do her homage with our visits, our money, and our admiration. out of gray, unwieldy, distributed london one flies from a vast and romantic camp to a city exact and beautiful. so exact, so beautiful, so consistent in her vivacity, so neat in her industry, so splendid in her display, that one comes to think that the ultimate way to enjoy paris is to pass unquestioning and unsolicitous into her life, exclaiming not "look here," and "look there" in a fever of sightseeing, but rather baring one's breast, like daudet's _ouvrier_, to her assaults of glistening life. * * * * * the paris of to-day is a reconstructed paris; its old splendours not wholly eradicated, but changed in all but their associations. the life of paris, too, has undergone a similar evolution, from what it was even in dumas' time. the celebrities of the café de paris have mostly, if not quite all, passed away. no more does the eccentric prince demidoff promulgate his eccentricities into the very faces of the onlookers; no more does the great dumas make omelettes in golden sugar-bowls; and no more does he pass his criticisms--or was it encomiums?--on the _veau sauté_. the student revels of the _quartier_ have become more sedate, if not more fastidious, and there is no such mardi gras and mi-carême festivities as used to hold forth on the boulevards in the forties. and on the buttes chaumont and montmartre are found batteries of questionable amusements,--especially got up for the delectation of _les anglais_, provincials, and soldiers off duty,--in place of the _cabarets_, which, if of doubtful morality, were at least a certain social factor. new bridges span the seine, and new thoroughfares, from humble alleys to lordly and magnificent boulevards, have clarified many a slum, and brightened and sweetened the atmosphere; so there is some considerable gain there. the parisian cabby is, as he always was, a devil-may-care sort of a fellow, who would as soon run you down with his sorry old outfit as not; but perhaps even his characteristics will change sooner or later, now that the automobile is upon us in all its proclaimed perfection. the "new opera," that sumptuous structure which bears the inscription "académie nationale de musique," begun by garnier in , and completed a dozen years later, is, in its commanding situation and splendid appointments, the peer of any other in the world. in spite of this, its fame will hardly rival that of the comédie française, or even the opéra comique of former days, and the names of latter-day stars will have difficulty in competing with those of rachel, talma, and their fellow actors on the stage of other days. whom, if you please, have we to-day whose name and fame is as wide as those just mentioned? none, save madame bernhardt, who suggests to the well-informed person--who is a very considerable body--the preëminent influences which formerly emanated from paris in the fifties. but this of itself is a subject too vast for inclusion here, and it were better passed by. so, too, with the parisian artists who made the art of the world in the latter half of the nineteenth century. decamps, delacroix, corot, and vernet are names with which to conjure up reminiscences as great as those of rubens, titian, and van dyke. this may be disputed, but, if one were given the same familiarity therewith, it is possible that one's contrary opinion would be greatly modified. to-day, in addition to the glorious art collection of former times, there are the splendid, though ever shifting, collections of the musée du luxembourg, the mural paintings of the hôtel de ville, which are a gallery in themselves, and the two spring salon exhibitions, to say nothing of the newly attempted salon d'automne. curiously enough, some of us find great pleasure in the contemplation of the decorations in the interiors of the great _gares_ of the lyons or the orleans railways. certainly these last examples of applied art are of a lavishness--and even excellence--which a former generation would not have thought of. the arc de triomphe d'Étoile, of course, remains as it always has since its erection at the instigation of napoleon i.; while the bois de boulogne came into existence as a municipal pleasure-ground only in the early fifties, and has since endured as the great open-air attraction of paris for those who did not wish to go farther afield. the churches have not changed greatly in all this time, except that they had some narrow escapes during the franco-prussian war, and still narrower ones during the commune. it may be remarked here _en passant_ that, for the first time in seventy years, so say the records, there has just been taken down the scaffolding which, in one part or another, has surrounded the church of st. eustache. here, then, is something tangible which has not changed until recently (march, ), since the days when dumas first came to paris. the paris of the nineteenth century is, as might naturally be inferred, that of which the most is known; the eighteenth and seventeenth are indeed difficult to follow with accuracy as to the exact locale of their events; but the sixteenth looms up--curiously enough--more plainly than either of the two centuries which followed. the histories, and even the guide-books, will explain why this is so, so it shall have no place here. order, of a sort, immediately came forth from out the chaos of the revolution. the great napoleon began the process, and, in a way, it was continued by the plebeian louis-philippe, elaborated in the second empire, and perfected--if a great capital such as paris ever really is perfected--under the third republic. improvement and demolition--which is not always improvement--still go on, and such of old paris as is not preserved by special effort is fast falling before the stride of progress. a body was organized in , under the name of the "_commission du vieux paris_," which is expected to do much good work in the preservation of the chronicles in stone of days long past. the very streets are noisy with the echo of an unpeaceful past; and their frequent and unexpected turnings, even in these modern days, are suggestive of their history in a most graphic manner. the square in front of the fontaine des innocents is but an ancient burial-ground; before the hôtel de ville came etienne marcel; and charlemagne to the cathedral; the place de la concorde was the death-bed of the girondins, and the place de la madeleine the tomb of the capetians; and thus it is that paris--as does no other city--mingles its centuries of strife amid a life which is known as the most vigorous and varied of its age. to enter here into a detailed comparison between the charm of paris of to-day and yesterday would indeed be a work of supererogation; and only in so far as it bears directly upon the scenes and incidents amid which dumas lived is it so made. chapter x. la ville it would be impossible to form a precise topographical itinerary of the scenes of dumas' romances and the wanderings of his characters, even in paris itself. the area is so very wide, and the number of localities, which have more than an incidental interest, so very great, that the futility of such a task will at once be apparent. probably the most prominent of all the romances, so far as identifying the scenes of their action goes, are the valois series. as we know, dumas was very fond of the romantic house of valois, and, whether in town or country, he seemed to take an especial pride in presenting details of portraiture and place in a surprisingly complete, though not superfluous, manner. the louvre has the most intimate connection with both the valois and the d'artagnan romances, and is treated elsewhere as a chapter by itself. dumas' most marked reference to the hôtel de ville is found in the taking of the bastille, and, though it is not so very great, he gives prominence to the incident of the deputation of the people who waited upon de flesselles, the prévôt, just before the march upon the bastille. in history we know the same individual as "messire jacques de flesselles, chevalier, conseiller de la grande chambre, maître honoraire des requêtes, conseiller d'etat." the anecdote is recorded in history, too, that louis xvi., when he visited the hôtel de ville in , was presented with a cockade of blue and red, the colours of the ville--the white was not added till some days later. _"votre majesté," dit le maire, "veut-elle accepte le signe distinctif des français?"_ for reply the king took the cockade and put it on his chapeau, entered the _grande salle_, and took his place on the throne. all the broils and turmoils which have taken place since the great revolution, have likewise had the hôtel de ville for the theatre where their first scenes were represented. it was invaded by the people during the revolutions of and , as well as in the commune in , when, in addition to the human fury, it was attacked by the flames, which finally brought about its destruction. thus perished that noble structure, which owed its inception to that art-loving monarch, françois i. [illustration: place de la grÈve] the present-day quai de l'hôtel de ville is the successor of the quai des ormes, which dates from the fourteenth century, and the quai de la grève, which existed as early as , and which descended by an easy slope to the strand from which it took its name. adjoining the quai was the place de la grève, which approximates the present place de l'hôtel de ville. a near neighbour of the hôtel de ville is the tour de st. jacques la boucherie, where sits to-day paris's clerk of the weather. it was here that marguerite de valois, in company with the duchesse de nevers, repaired from their pilgrimage to the cimetière des innocents, to view the results of the huguenot massacre of the preceding night. "'and where are you two going?' inquired catherine, the queen's mother. 'to see some rare and curious greek books found at an old protestant pastor's, and which have been taken to the tour de st. jacques la boucherie,' replied the inquisitive and erudite marguerite. for, be it recalled, her knowledge and liking of classical literature was most profound." this fine gothic tower, which is still a notable landmark, is the only _relique_ of the church of st. jacques. a bull of pope calixtus ii., dated , first makes mention of it, and françois i. made it a royal parish church. the tower itself was not built until , having alone cost , livres. it has often been pictured and painted, and to-day it is a willing or unwilling sitter to most snap-shot camerists who come within focus of it, but no one has perceived the spirit of its genuine old-time flavour as did méryon, in his wonderful etching--so sought for by collectors--called "le stryge." the artist's view-point, taken from the gallery of nôtre dame,--though in the early nineteenth century,--with the grotesque head and shoulders of one of those monstrous figures, half-man, half-beast, with which the galleries of nôtre dame are peopled, preserves, with its very simplicity and directness, an impression of _vieux paris_ which is impossible to duplicate to-day. the place de la grève was for a time, at least, the most famous or infamous of all the places of execution in paris. one reads of it largely in "marguerite de valois" in this connection, and in "le vicomte de bragelonne" it again crops up, but in a much more pleasant manner. [illustration: tour de st. jacques la boucherie (méryon's etching, "le stryge")] dumas, ever praiseful of good wine and good food, describes vatel, the _maître d'hôtel_ of fouquet, as crossing the square with a hamper filled with bottles, which he had just purchased at the _cabaret_ of the sign of "l'image de nôtre dame;" a queer name for a wine-shop, no doubt, and, though it does not exist to-day, and so cannot be authenticated, it may likely enough have had an existence outside the novelist's page. at all events, it is placed definitely enough, as one learns from the chapter of "le vicomte de bragelonne," entitled "the wine of m. de la fontaine." "'what the devil are you doing here, vatel?' said fouquet. 'are you buying wine at a _cabaret_ in the place de grève?'... 'i have found here, monsieur, a "_vin de joigny_" which your friends like. this i know, as they come once a week to drink it at the "image de nôtre dame."'" in the following chapter dumas reverts to the inglorious aspect of the place and the quai de la grève as follows: "at two o'clock the next day, fifty thousand spectators had taken their position upon the place, around two gibbets which had been elevated between the quai de la grève and quai pelletier; one close to the other, with their backs to the parapet of the river. in the morning, also, all the sworn criers of the good city of paris had traversed the quarters of the city, particularly the halles and the faubourgs, announcing with their hoarse and indefatigable voices the great justice done by the king upon two peculators; two thieves, devourers of the people. and these people, whose interests were so warmly looked after, in order not to fail in respect for their king, quitted shops, stalls, and ateliers, to go and evince a little gratitude to louis xiv., absolutely like invited guests, who feared to commit an impoliteness in not repairing to the house of him who invited them. according to the tenor of the sentence, which the criers read loudly and badly, two farmers of the revenues, monopolists of money, dilapidators of the royal provisions, extortioners and forgers, were about to undergo capital punishment on the place de grève, with their names affixed over their heads, according to their sentence. as to those names, the sentence made no mention of them. the curiosity of the parisians was at its height, and, as we have said, an immense crowd waited with feverish impatience the hour fixed for the execution." d'artagnan, who, in the pages of "le vicomte de bragelonne," was no more a young man, owned this very _cabaret_, the "image de nôtre dame." "'i will go, then,' says he, 'to the "image de nôtre dame," and drink a glass of spanish wine with my tenant, which he cannot fail to offer me.'" _en route_ to the _cabaret_, d'artagnan asked of his companion, "is there a procession to-day?" "it is a hanging, monsieur." "what! a hanging on the grève? the devil take the rogue who gets himself hung the day i go to take my rent," said d'artagnan. the old _mousquetaire_ did not get his rent, there was riot and bloodshed galore, "l'image de nôtre dame" was set on fire, and d'artagnan had one more opportunity to cry out "_a moi, mousquetaires_," and enter into a first-class fight; all, of course, on behalf of right and justice, for he saved two men, destined to be gibbeted, from the more frightful death of torture by fire, to which the fanatical crowd had condemned them. the most extensive reference to the place de la grève is undoubtedly in the "forty-five guardsmen," where is described the execution of salcède, the coiner of false money and the co-conspirator with the guises. "m. friard was right when he talked of one hundred thousand persons as the number of spectators who would meet on the place de la grève and its environs, to witness the execution of salcède. all paris appeared to have a rendezvous at the hôtel de ville; and paris is very exact, and never misses a fête; and the death of a man is a fête, especially when he has raised so many passions that some curse and others bless him. "the spectators who succeeded in reaching the place saw the archers and a large number of swiss and light horse surrounding a little scaffold raised about four feet from the ground. it was so low as to be visible only to those immediately surrounding it, or to those who had windows overlooking the place. four vigorous white horses beat the ground impatiently with their hoofs, to the great terror of the women, who had either chosen this place willingly, or had been forcibly pushed there. "these horses were unused, and had never done more work than to support, by some chance, on their broad backs, the chubby children of the peasants. after the scaffold and the horses, what next attracted all looks was the principal window of the hôtel de ville, which was hung with red velvet and gold, and ornamented with the royal arms. this was for the king. half-past one had just struck when this window was filled. first came henri iii., pale, almost bald, although he was at that time only thirty-five, and with a sombre expression, always a mystery to his subjects, who, when they saw him appear, never knew whether to say '_vive le roi!_' or to pray for his soul. he was dressed in black, without jewels or orders, and a single diamond shone in his cap, serving as a fastening to three short plumes. he carried in his hand a little black dog that his sister-in-law, marie stuart, had sent him from her prison, and on which his fingers looked as white as alabaster. "behind the king came catherine de medici, almost bowed by age, for she might be sixty-six or sixty-seven, but still carrying her head firm and erect, and darting bitter glances from under her thick eyebrows. at her side appeared the melancholy but sweet face of the queen, louise de touraine. catherine came as a triumph, she as a punishment. behind them came two handsome young men, brothers, the eldest of whom smiled with wonderful beauty, and the younger with great melancholy. the one was anne, duc de joyeuse, and the other henri de joyeuse, comte de bouchage. the people had for these favourites of the king none of the hatred which they had felt toward maugiron, quelus, and schomberg. "henri saluted the people gravely; then, turning to the young men, he said, 'anne, lean against the tapestry; it may last a long time.'... "henri, in anger, gave the sign. it was repeated, the cords were refastened, four men jumped on the horses, which, urged by violent blows, started off in opposite directions. a horrible cracking and a terrible cry was heard. the blood was seen to spout from the limbs of the unhappy man, whose face was no longer that of a man, but of a demon. "'ah, heaven!' he cried; 'i will speak, i will tell all. ah! cursed duch--' "the voice had been heard above everything, but suddenly it ceased. "'stop, stop,' cried catherine, 'let him speak.' "but it was too late; the head of salcède fell helplessly on one side, he glanced once more to where he had seen the page, and then expired." * * * * * near the hôtel de ville is "le châtelet," a name familiar enough to travellers about paris. it is an omnibus centre, a station on the new "metropolitan," and its name has been given to one of the most modern theatres of paris. dumas, in "le collier de la reine," makes but little use of the old prison du grand châtelet, but he does not ignore it altogether, which seems to point to the fact that he has neglected very few historic buildings, or, for that matter, incidents of paris in mediæval times, in compiling the famous d'artagnan and valois romances. the place du châtelet is one of the most celebrated and historic open spots of paris. the old prison was on the site of an old cæsarian forum. the prison was destroyed in , but its history for seven centuries was one of the most dramatic. one may search for planchet's shop, the "pilon d'or," of which dumas writes in "the vicomte de bragelonne," in the rue des lombards of to-day, but he will not find it, though there are a dozen _boutiques_ in the little street which joins the present rue st. denis with the present boulevard sebastopol, which to all intents and purposes might as well have been the abode of d'artagnan's old servitor. the rue des lombards, like lombard street in london, took its names from the original money-changers, who gathered here in great numbers in the twelfth century. planchet's little shop was devoted to the sale of green groceries, with, presumably, a sprinkling of other attendant garnishings for the table. to-day, the most notable of the shops here, of a similar character, is the famous _magasin de confiserie_, "au fidèle berger," for which guilbert, the author of "jeune malade," made the original verses for the wrappers which covered the products of the house. a contemporary of the poet has said that the "_enveloppe était moins bonne que la marchandaise_." the reader may judge for himself. this is one of the verses: "le soleil peut s'eteindre et le ciel s'obscurcir, j'ai vu ma marita, je n'ai plus qu'à mourir." every lover of dumas' romances, and all who feel as though at one time or another they had been blessed with an intimate acquaintance with that "king of cavaliers,"--d'artagnan,--will have a fondness for the old narrow ways in the rue d'arbre sec, which remains to-day much as it always was. it runs from the quai de l'hôtel de ville,--once the unsavoury quai de la grève,--toward les halles; and throughout its length, which is not very great, it has that crazy, tumble-down appearance which comes, sooner or later, to most narrow thoroughfares of mediæval times. it is not so very picturesque nor so very tumble-down, it is simply wobbly. it is not, nor ever was, a pretentious thoroughfare, and, in short, is distinctly commonplace; but there is a little house, on the right-hand side, near the river, which will be famous as long as it stands, as the intimate scene of much of the minor action of "marguerite de valois," "chicot the jester," and others of the series. [illustration: hÔtel des mousquetaires, rue d'arbre sec] this _maison_ is rather better off than most of its neighbours, with its white-fronted lower stories, its little balcony over the crémerie, which now occupies the ground-floor, and its escutcheon--a blazing sun--midway in its façade. moreover it is still a lodging-house,--an humble hotel if you like,--at any rate something more than a mere house which offers "_logement à pied_." indeed its enterprising proprietor has erected a staring blue and white enamel sign which advertises his house: hÔtel des mousquetaires there is, perhaps, no harm in all this, as it would seem beyond all question to have some justification for its name, and it is above all something more tangible than the sites of many homes and haunts which may to-day be occupied with a modern _magasin_, _à tous génres_, or a great tourist caravanserai. this house bears the name of "hôtel des mousquetaires," as if it were really a lineal descendant of the "hôtel de la belle etoile," of which dumas writes. probably it is not the same, and if it is, there is, likely enough, no significance between its present name and its former glory save that of perspicacity on the part of the present patron. from the romance one learns how catherine de medici sought to obtain that compromising note which was in possession of orthon, the page. dumas says of this horror-chamber of the louvre: "catherine now reached a second door, which, revolving on its hinges, admitted to the depths of the _oubliette_, where--crushed, bleeding, and mutilated, by a fall of more than one hundred feet--lay the still palpitating form of poor orthon; while, on the other side of the wall forming the barrier of this dreadful spot, the waters of the seine were heard to ripple by, brought by a species of subterraneous filtration to the foot of the staircase. "having reached the damp and unwholesome abyss, which, during her reign, had witnessed numerous similar scenes to that now enacted, catherine proceeded to search the corpse, eagerly drew forth the desired billet, ascertained by the lantern that it was the one she sought, then, pushing the mangled body from her, she pressed a spring, the bottom of the _oubliette_ sank down, and the corpse, borne by its own weight, disappeared toward the river. "closing the door after her, she reascended; and, returning to her closet, read the paper poor orthon had so valiantly defended. it was conceived in these words: "'this evening at ten o'clock, rue de l'arbre-sec, hôtel de la belle etoile. should you come, no reply is requisite; if otherwise, send word back, _no_, by the bearer. "'de mouy de saint-phale.' "at eight o'clock henri of navarre took two of his gentlemen, went out by the porte st. honoré, entered again by the tour de bois, crossed the seine at the ferry of the nesle, mounted the rue st. jacques, and there dismissed them, as if he were going to an amorous rendezvous. at the corner of the rue des mathurins he found a man on horseback, wrapped in a large cloak; he approached him. "'mantes!' said the man. "'pau!' replied the king. "the horseman instantly dismounted. henri wrapped himself in his splashed mantle, sprang on his steed, rode down the rue de la harpe, crossed the pont st. michel, passed the rue barthelemy, crossed the river again on the pont au meunier, descended the quais, reached the rue de l'arbre-sec, and knocked at maître la hurière's." the route is easily traced to-day, and at the end of it is the hôtel des mousquetaires, so it will not take much imagination to revivify the incident which dumas conceived, though one may not get there that "good wine of artois" which the innkeeper, la hurière, served to henri. the circumstance is recounted in "marguerite de valois," as follows: "'la hurière, here is a gentleman wants you.' "la hurière advanced, and looked at henri; and, as his large cloak did not inspire him with very great veneration: "'who are you?' asked he. "'eh, _sang dieu_!' returned henri, pointing to la mole. 'i am, as the gentleman told you, a gascon gentleman come to court.' "'what do you want?' "'a room and supper.' "'i do not let a room to any one, unless he has a lackey.' "'oh, but i will pay you a rose noble for your room and supper.' "'you are very generous, worthy sir,' said la hurière, with some distrust. "'no; but expecting to sup here, i invited a friend of mine to meet me. have you any good wine of artois?' "'i have as good as the king of navarre drinks.' "'ah, good!'" the rue de l'arbre-sec is of itself historic, though it was baptized as l'arbre-sel. two legends of more than ordinary interest are connected with this once important though unimposing street. the first applies to its early nomenclature, and is to the effect that in the thirteenth century it contained an oak-tree, which, in the snows of winter, always remained free of the white blanket which otherwise covered everything around about. for this reason the tree was said to be so full of salt that the snow that fell upon it melted immediately, and the name was created for the thoroughfare, which then first rose to the dignity of a recognized _rue_. the second legend in a similar way accounts for the change of name to _arbre-sec_. at a certain rainy period, when the pavements and the walls of the houses were "_ruisselants d'eau_," the same tree remained absolutely dry. it is curious, too, to note that the rue de l'arbre-sec is identified with a certain personage who lived in mazarin's time, by the name of mathieu mollé, whose fame as the first president of the _parlement_ is preserved in the neighbouring rue mathieu mollé. it was in the hotel of "la belle etoile" that dumas ensconced his character de la mole--showing once again that dumas dealt with very real characters. opposite the colonnade of the louvre is the Église st. germain l'auxerrois. from this church--founded by childebert in --rang out the tocsin which was the signal for that infamous massacre of the protestants in the time of charles ix. in "marguerite de valois" dumas has vividly described the event; not, perhaps, without certain embroidered embellishment, but, nevertheless, with a graphicness which the dry-as-dust historian of fact could hardly hope to equal. this cruel inspiration of catherine de medici's is recorded by dumas thus: "'hush!' said la hurière. "'what is it?' inquired coconnas and maurevel together. "they heard the first stroke of the bell of st. germain de l'auxerrois vibrate. "'the signal!' exclaimed maurevel. 'the time is put ahead, for it was agreed for midnight. so much the better. when it is the interest of god and the king, it is better that the clock should be put forward than backward.' and the sinister sound of the church-bell was distinctly heard. then a shot was fired, and, in an instant, the light of several flambeaux blazed up like flashes of lightning in the rue de l'arbre-sec." there is much more of moment that happened before and afterward "on this bloody ground;" all of which is fully recounted by the historians. * * * * * at no. rue du helder, just off the boulevard des italiens, in a region so well known to dumas and his associates, lived de franchi, the hero of the "corsican brothers." the _locale_ and the action of that rapid review of emotions to which dumas gave the name of the "corsican brothers" ("les frères du corse"), was not of the mean or sordid order, but rather of the well-to-do, a sort of semi-luxuriousness of the middle-class life of the time. the scene of the novelette bears the date of , and paris, especially in many of what are known as the newer parts, has changed but little since. a new shop-front here and there, the addition of a huge gilt sign, of which the proprietors of parisian establishments are so fond, somewhat changes the outside aspect of things, but, on the whole, the _locale_ often remains much as it was before, and, in this case, with but scarce three-quarters of a century past, the view down the rue du helder from its junction with rue taitbout differs little. "hôtel picardie," in the rue tiquetonne,--still to be seen,--may or may not be the "la chevrette" of "twenty years after," to which d'artagnan repaired in the later years of his life. d'artagnan's residence in the rue tiquetonne has, in the minds of many, made the street famous. it was famous, though, even before it was popularized by dumas, and now that we are not able even to place the inn where d'artagnan lived after he had retired from active service--it is still famous. at no. and are two grand habitations of former times. the former served as a residence to henri de talleyrand, who died in , and later to the marquis de mauge, then to daubonne, a _tapissier_, much in the favour of louis xiii. the other is known as the "hôtel d'artagnan," but it is difficult to trace its evolution from the comfortable inn of which dumas wrote. [illustration: d'artagnan's lodgings, rue tiquetonne] at no. is about the only _relique_ left which bespeaks the gallant days of d'artagnan and his fellows. it is a square tower of five _étages_, and, from the character of its architecture, we know it to be of the fourteenth or fifteenth century. it is known as the "tour de jean-sans-peur." jean-sans-peur was the grandfather of charles-le-téméraire. monstrelet has said that it was built to contain a strong chamber, in which its owner might sleep safely at night. it formed originally a part of the hôtel de bourgogne, but to-day, though but partially disengaged from the neighbouring houses, it is evidently the only member of the original establishment which remains. not far from the precincts of the louvre was the rue de la martellerie, where lived marie touchet. the portraiture of dumas forms a wonderfully complete list of the royalties and nobilities of france. both the d'artagnan gallery and the valois series literally reek with the names of celebrated personages, and this, too, in the mere romances, for it must be remembered that, in spite of his reputation as a romancist, dumas' historical sketches and travels were both numerous and of great extent. one significant portrait, though it is not one of noble birth, is that of marie touchet, extracted from "marguerite de valois," and reprinted here. "when charles ix. and henri of navarre visited the rue de la martellerie, it was to see the celebrated marie, who, though 'only a poor, simple girl,' as she referred to herself, was the eve of charles' paradise. 'your eden, sire,' said the gallant henri. "'dearest marie,' said charles, 'i have brought you another king happier than myself, for he has no crown; more unhappy than me, for he has no marie touchet.' "'sire, it is, then, the king of navarre?' "'it is, love.' "henri went toward her, and charles took his right hand. "'look at this hand, marie,' said he; 'it is the hand of a good brother and a loyal friend; and but for this hand--' "'well, sire!' "'but for this hand, this day, marie, our boy had been fatherless.' "marie uttered a cry, seized henri's hand, and kissed it. "the king went to the bed where the child was still asleep. "'eh!' said he, 'if this stout boy slept in the louvre, instead of sleeping in this small house, he would change the aspect of things at present, and perhaps for the future.' "'sire,' said marie, 'without offence to your majesty, i prefer his sleeping here; he sleeps better.'" this illustrates only one phase of dumas' power of portraiture, based on historical fact, of course, and casting no new light on matters which are otherwise well known, but still a very fresh and vivifying method of projecting the features of those famous in the history of france, and a method, perhaps, which will serve to impress them upon the reader in a more nearly indelible fashion than any other. "it was this child of marie touchet and charles ix. who afterward was the famous duke d'angoulême, who died in ; and, had he been legitimate, would have taken precedence of henri iii., henri iv., louis xiii., louis xiv., etc., and altered the whole line of the royal succession of france." it was a pleasurable visit for all three, that of which dumas writes. charles, henri, and marie supped together, and the accomplished prince of béarn made the famous anagram from the letters of the lady's name, "_je charme tout_," which charles declared he would present to her worked in diamonds, and that it should be her motto. history does not state that he did so, but no doubt that was a detail which the chroniclers have overlooked, or, of course, it may have been an interpolation of dumas'. * * * * * dumas' pen-pictures of the great napoleon--whom he referred to as "the ogre of corsica"--will hardly please the great corsican's admirers, though it is in no manner contemptuous. the following is from "the count of monte cristo": "'monsieur,' said the baron to the count, 'all the servants of his majesty must approve of the latest intelligence which we have from the island of elba. bonaparte--' m. dandré looked at louis xviii., who, employed in writing a note, did not even raise his head. 'bonaparte,' continued the baron, 'is mortally wearied, and passes whole days in watching his miners at work at porto-longone.' "'and scratches himself for amusement,' added the king. "'scratches himself?' inquired the count. 'what does your majesty mean?' "'yes, indeed, my dear count. did you forget that this great man, this hero, this demigod, is attacked with a malady of the skin which worries him to death, _prurigo_?' "'and, moreover, m. le comte,' continued the minister of police, 'we are almost assured that, in a very short time, the usurper will be insane.' "'insane?' "'insane to a degree; his head becomes weaker. sometimes he weeps bitterly, sometimes laughs boisterously; at other times he passes hours on the seashore, flinging stones in the water, and when the flint makes "ducks and drakes" five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he had gained another marengo or austerlitz. now, you must agree these are indubitable symptoms of weakness?' "'or of wisdom, m. le baron--or of wisdom,' said louis xviii., laughing; 'the greatest captains of antiquity recreated themselves with casting pebbles into the ocean--see plutarch's life of scipio africanus.'" again, from the same work, the following estimate of napoleon's position at elba was, if not original, at least opinionated: "the emperor, now king of the petty isle of elba, after having held sovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting us, his subjects, a small population of twenty millions,--after having been accustomed to hear the '_vive napoléons_' of at least six times that number of human beings, uttered in nearly every language of the globe,--was looked upon among the _haute société_ of marseilles as a ruined man, separated for ever from any fresh connection with france or claim to her throne." * * * * * firstly the faubourg st. denis is associated with dumas' early life in paris. he lived at no. of the rue du faubourg st. denis in . when one walks past the porte st. denis and looks up at that seventeenth-century arch of triumph, built to commemorate the german victories of louis quatorze, one just misses the historical significance and architectural fitness of the arch. it is not merely an incident in the boulevard. it belongs not so much to the newer boulevard, as to the ancient rue st. denis, and it is only by proceeding some distance up this street, the ancient route of the pilgrims to the tomb of the saint, that the meaning of the porte st. denis can truly be appreciated. the arch may be heavy,--it has been described as hideous, and it truly is,--but seen in the rue st. denis, whose roadway passes under it, it forms a typical view even to-day of old paris, and of the paris which entered so largely into dumas' romances of the louis. the more ancient porte st. denis, the gateway which lay between the faubourg, the plain, and the ville, performed a function quite different from that of the renaissance gateway which exists to-day; in just what manner will be readily inferred when it is recalled that, with the porte st. antoine, the porte st. denis was the scene of much riot and bloodshed in the early history of paris. [illustration: rue du faubourg st. denis (dÉscamps' studio)] there are no tram-cars or omnibuses passing through its arch, as through the place du carrousel, or the courtyards of the louvre, to take away the sentiment of romance; though the traffic which swirls and eddies around its sturdy piers and walls is of a manifest up-to-date, twentieth-century variety. through its great arch runs the rue du faubourg st. denis, where, at no. , was the studio of gabriel déscamps, celebrated in "capitaine pamphile." * * * * * in "marguerite de valois" we have a graphic reference--though rather more sentimental than was the author's wont--to the cimetière des innocents: "on the day which succeeded that terrible massacre of st. bartholomew's night, in , a hawthorn-tree," said dumas, and it is also recognized history, as well, "which had blossomed in the spring, and which, according to custom, had lost its odorous flower in the month of june, had strangely reblossomed during the night, and the catholics, who saw in this even a miracle, and who by rendering this miracle popular made the deity their accomplice, went in procession, cross and banner at their head, to the cemetery of the innocents, where this hawthorn was blooming." amidst the cries of "_vive le roi!_" "_vive la messe!_" "_mort aux huguenots_," the accomplished marguerite herself went to witness the phenomenon. "when they reached the top of the rue des prouvelles, they met some men who were dragging a carcass without any head. it was that of 'the admiral' (coligny).... the men were going to hang it by the feet at montfaucon...." "they entered the cemetery of st. innocents, and the clergy, forewarned of the visit of the king and the queen mother, awaited their majesties to harangue them." the cemetery--or signs of it--have now disappeared, though the mortal victims of the massacre, and countless other souls besides, rest beneath the flagstones adjacent to les halles, the great market-house of paris. the fontaine des innocents formerly marked the site, but now it is removed to the other side of les halles. this graceful renaissance fountain was first erected in , from designs of pierre lescot and jean goujon. it stood formerly before the Église des innocents, which was demolished in . the fontaine des innocents, in spite of its migrations, is a charming oasis of green trees and running water, in the midst of the rather encumbered market-square of les halles. not that the region around about is at all unsavoury; far from it. there is débris of green vegetables and ripe fruits everywhere about, but it has not yet reached the unsavoury stage; before it does all will be swept away, and on the morrow the clamour and traffic will start fresh anew. the place royale, now called the place des vosges, is so largely identified with "la comtesse de charny" that no special mention can well be made of any action which here took place. at no. , now of course long since departed, lived "a gentleman entirely devoted to your majesty," said dumas, and the adventuress, lady de winter, whom d'artagnan was wont to visit, was given domicile by dumas at no. . likely enough it was her true residence, though there is no opportunity of tracing it to-day, and one perforce must be satisfied with locating the houses of madame de sévigné and victor hugo, each of which bear tablets to that effect. the place des vosges is a charming square, reminiscent, in a way, of the courtyard of the palais royal, though lacking its splendour. the iron gateway to the central garden was a gift of louis xiv., in , when the square was known as the place royale. richelieu caused to be set up here a magnificent equestrian statue of louis xiii., which, however, was overturned in the revolution, though it has since been replaced by another statue. the horse was the work of ricciarelli de volterre, a pupil of michelangelo, and the figure was by biard. the first great historical event held here was the _carrousel_ given in , two years after the tragic death of henri iv. at the hands of the assassin ravaillac. it was a function of marie de medici's to celebrate the alliance of france and spain. under richelieu, the place became a celebrated duelling-ground, the most famous duel being that between the duc de guise and coligny _fils_, the son of the admiral. the place royale soon became the most fashionable _quartier_, the houses around about being greatly in demand of the _noblesse_. among its illustrious inhabitants have been the rohans, the d'alégres, corneille, condé, st. vincent de paul, molière, turenne, madame de longueville, cinq-mars, and richelieu. by _un arrêté_ of the th ventose, year vii., it was declared that the name of the department which should pay the largest part of its contributions by the th germinal would be given to that of the principal place or square of paris. the department of the vosges was the first to pay up, and the place royale became the place des vosges. a great deal of the action of the d'artagnan romances took place in the place royale, and in the neighbouring _quartiers_ of st. antoine and la bastille, the place being the scene of the notable reunion of the four gallants in "vingt ans après." la roquette, the prison, has disappeared, like the bastille itself, but they are both perpetuated to-day, the former in the rue roquette, and the latter in the place de la bastille. dumas does not project their horrors unduly, though the bastille crops up in many of the chapters of the valois romances, and one entire volume is devoted to "the taking of the bastille." d'artagnan himself was doomed, by an order of arrest issued by richelieu, to be incarcerated therein; but the gallant _mousquetaire_, by a subtle scheme, got hold of the warrant and made a present of it to the intriguing cardinal himself. the sombre and sinister guillotine, since become so famous, is made by dumas subject of a weirdly fascinating chapter in "la comtesse de charny." dumas' description is as follows: "when guilbert got out of the carriage he saw that he was in the court of a prison, and at once recognized it as the bicêtre. a fine misty rain fell diagonally and stained the gray walls. in the middle of the court five or six carpenters, under the direction of a master workman, and a little man clad in black, who seemed to direct everybody, put a machine of a hitherto strange and unknown form. guilbert shuddered; he recognized doctor guillotin, and the machine itself was the one of which he had seen a model in the cellar of the editor of '_l'ami du peuple_.'... the very workmen were as yet ignorant of the secret of this novel machine. 'there,' said doctor guillotin, ... 'it is now only necessary to put the knife in the groove.'... this was the form of the machine: a platform fifteen feet square, reached by a simple staircase, on each side of this platform two grooved uprights, ten or twelve feet high. in the grooves slid a kind of crescent-shaped knife. a little opening was made between two beams, through which a man's head could be passed.... 'gentlemen,' said guillotin, 'all being here, we will begin.'" then follows the same vivid record of executing and blood-spurting that has attracted many other writers perhaps as gifted as dumas, but none have told it more graphically, simply, or truthfully. * * * * * every one knows the mount of martyrs, its history, and its modern aspect, which has sadly degenerated of late. to-day it is simply a hilltop of cheap gaiety, whose patrons are catered for by the moulin rouge, the moulin de la galette, and a score of "eccentric cafés," though its past is burdened with christian tragedy. up its slope st. denis is fabulously supposed to have carried his head after his martyrdom, and the quiet, almost forlorn rue st. eleuthère still perpetuates the name of his companion in misery. long afterward, in the chapel erected on this spot, ignatius loyola and his companions solemnly vowed themselves to their great work. so here on sinful montmartre, above paris, was born the society of jesus. the revolution saw another band of martyrs, when the nuns of the abbaye de montmartre, old and young, chanted their progress to the guillotine, and little more than thirty years ago the commune precipitated its terrible struggle in montmartre. it was in the rue des rosiers, on the th of march, , that the blood of generals lecomte and clément-thomas was shed. hard by, in the parc monceau, is the statue of guy de maupassant, and so the memory of the sinful mount is perpetuated to us. dumas did not make the use of this banal attribute of paris that many other realists and romancists alike have done, but he frequently refers to it in his "mémoires." madame de la motte, the scheming adventuress of the "collier de la reine," lived at no. rue charlot, in the quartier des infants-rouges. it was here, at the hôtel boulainvilliers, where the marquise de boulainvilliers brought up the young girl of the blood royal of the valois, who afterward became known as madame de la motte. near by, in the same street, is the superb hôtel of gabrielle d'estrées, who herself was not altogether unknown to the court. the rue de valois, leading from the rue st. honoré to the rue beaujolais, beside the palais royal, as might be supposed, especially appealed to dumas, and he laid one of the most cheerful scenes of the "chevalier d'harmental" in the hotel, no. , built by richelieu for l'abbé metel de bois-robert, the founder of the académie française. off the rue sourdière, was the couloir st. hyacinthe, where lived jean paul marat--"the friend of the people," whose description by dumas, in "la comtesse de charny," does not differ greatly from others of this notorious person. in the early pages of "the count of monte cristo," one's attention is transferred from marseilles to paris, to no. rue coq-héron, where lived m. noirtier, to whom the luckless dantès was commissioned to deliver the fateful packet, which was left in his care by the dying captain leclerc. the incident of the handing over of this letter to the député procureur du roi is recounted thus by dumas: "'stop a moment,' said the deputy, as dantès took his hat and gloves. 'to whom is it addressed?' "'to m. noirtier, rue coq-héron, paris.' had a thunderbolt fallen into the room, villefort could not have been more stupefied. he sank into his seat, and, hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror. "'m. noirtier, rue coq-héron, no. ,' murmured he, growing still paler. "'yes,' said dantès; 'do you then know him?' "'no,' replied villefort; 'a faithful servant of the king does not know conspirators.' "'it is a conspiracy, then?' asked dantès, who, after believing himself free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. 'i have already told you, however, sir, i was ignorant of the contents of the letter.' "'yes, but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed,' said villefort. "'i was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it.' "'have you shown this letter to any one?' asked villefort, becoming still more pale. "'to no one, on my honour.' "'everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the isle of elba, and addressed to m. noirtier?' "'everybody, except the person who gave it to me.'" * * * * * the rue coq-héron is one of those whimsically named streets of paris, which lend themselves to the art of the novelist. the origin of the name of this tiny street, which runs tangently off from the rue du louvre, is curious and naïve. a shopkeeper of the street, who raised fowls, saw, one day, coming out of its shell, a _petit coq_ with a neck and beak quite different, and much longer, than the others of the same brood. everybody said it was a heron, and the neighbours crowded around to see the phenomenon; and so the street came to be baptized the rue coq-héron. in the rue chaussée d'antin, at no. , the wily baron danglars had ensconced himself after his descent on paris. it was here that dantès caused to be left his first "_carte de visite_" upon his subsequent arrival. among the slighter works of dumas, which are daily becoming more and more recognized--in english--as being masterpieces of their kind, is "gabriel lambert." it deals with the life of paris of the thirties; much the same period as does "captain pamphile," "the corsican brothers," and "pauline," and that in which dumas himself was just entering into the literary life of paris. like "pauline" and "captain pamphile," too, the narrative, simple though it is,--at least it is not involved,--shifts its scenes the length and breadth of the continent of europe, and shows a versatility in the construction of a latter-day romance which is quite the equal of that of the unapproachable mediæval romances. it further resembles "the corsican brothers," in that it purveys a duel of the first quality--this time in the allée de la muette of the bois de boulogne, and that most of the parisians in the story are domiciled in and about the boulevard des italiens, the rue taitbout, and the rue du helder; all of them localities very familiar to dumas in real life. in spite of the similarity of the duel of gabriel to that of de franchi, there is no repetition of scene or incident detail. the story deals frankly with the brutal and vulgar malefactor, in this case a counterfeiter of bank notes, one gabriel, the son of a poor peasant of normandy, who, it would appear, was fascinated by the ominous words of the inscription which french bank notes formerly bore. la loi punit de mort le contrefacteur dumas occasionally took up a theme which, unpromising in itself, was yet alluring through its very lack of sympathy. "gabriel lambert" is a story of vulgar rascality unredeemed by any spark of courage, wit, or humanity. there is much of truth in the characterization, and some sentiment, but little enough of romance of the gallant vagabond order. dumas never attempted a more difficult feat than the composition of an appealing story from this material. twenty years after the first appearance of "gabriel lambert," in , m. amédée de jallais brought dumas a "scenario" taken from the romance. unsuitable and unsympathetic though the principal character was, dumas found the "scenario" so deftly made that he resolved to turn the book into a drama. this was quickly done, and the rehearsals promised a success. on the evening of the first performance dumas showed himself full of confidence in the play--confidence which amounted almost to certainty; for he said to a friend with whom he promenaded the corridors of the theatre while awaiting the rise of the curtain: "i am sure of my piece; to-night, i can defy the critics." some of these gentlemen, unfortunately overhearing him, were provoked to hostility, and, finding unhappy phrases here and there in the piece, they laid hold of them without mercy. only the comic part of the drama, a scene introduced by dumas, in which a vagabond steals a clock in the presence of its owner with superb audacity, disarmed their opposition. but the verve of this comic part could not save the play, says gabriel ferry, in narrating this anecdote. the antipathy aroused by the principal character doomed it, and the career of the piece was short. it remains, however,--in the book, at any rate,--a wonderful characterization, with its pictures of the blue mediterranean at toulon, the gay life of the parisian boulevards, its miniature portrait of the great vidocq, and the sinister account of the prison of bicêtre, which, since the abandonment of the place de la grève, had become the last resort of those condemned to death. the tale is a short one, but it vibrates between the _rues_ and the boulevards, from the hôtel de venise in the rue des vieux-augustins (now the rue herold), where gabriel, upon coming to paris, first had his lodgings, to the purlieus of the fashionable world,--the old italian opera in the rue pelletier,--and no. rue taitbout, where afterward gabriel had ensconced himself in a luxurious apartment. [illustration: nÔtre dame de paris] chapter xi. la citÉ it is difficult to write of la cité; it is indeed, impossible to write of it with fulness, unless one were to devote a large volume--or many large volumes--to it alone. to the tourists it is mostly recalled as being the _berceau_ of nôtre dame or the morgue. the latter, fortunately, is an entirely modern institution, and, though it existed in dumas' own time, did not when the scenes of the d'artagnan or valois romances were laid. looking toward nôtre dame from the pont du carrousel, one feels a veritable thrill of emotion as one regards this city of kings and revolutions. the very buildings on the ile de la cité mingle in a symphony of ashen memories. the statue of the great henri iv., bowered in trees; the two old houses at the apex of the place dauphine, in one of which madame roland was born; the massive palais de justice; the soaring sainte chapelle, which st. louis built for the crown of thorns, and "to the glory of god and france," and the towers of the conciergerie, whose floor is for ever stained with the tears of marie antoinette. romance and history have both set their seal upon the locality, and no one better than dumas has told its story in romance. * * * * * henri of navarre being protestant, the church would not open its doors to him, and thus his marriage to the talented but wicked margot, sister of charles ix., took place on a platform erected before its doors. in the opening chapter of "marguerite de valois," dumas refers to it thus: "the court was celebrating the marriage of madame marguerite de valois, daughter of henri ii. and sister of king charles ix., with henri de bourbon, king of navarre; and that same morning the cardinal de bourbon had united the young couple with the usual ceremonial observed at the marriages of the royal daughters of france, on a stage erected at the entrance to nôtre dame. this marriage had astonished everybody, and occasioned much surmise to certain persons who saw clearer than others. they could not comprehend the union of two parties who hated each other so thoroughly as did, at this moment, the protestant party and the catholic party; and they wondered how the young prince de condé could forgive the duke d'anjou, the king's father, for the death of his father, assassinated by montesquieu at jarnac. they asked how the young duke de guise could pardon admiral de coligny for the death of his father, assassinated at orleans by poltrot de mère." [illustration: _la cité_] * * * * * the tour de nesle is one of those bygones of the history of paris, which as a name is familiar to many, but which, after all, is a very vague memory. it perpetuates an event of bloodshed which is familiar enough, but there are no tangible remains to mark the former site of the tower, and only the name remains--now given to a short and unimportant _rue_. the use of the title "la tour de nesle," by dumas, for a sort of second-hand article,--as he himself has said,--added little to his reputation as an author, or, rather, as a dramatist. in reality, he did no more than rebuild a romantic drama, such as he alone knows how to build, out of the framework which had been unsuccessfully put together by another--gaillardet. however, it gives one other historical title to add to the already long list of his productions. * * * * * the history of the conciergerie is most lurid, and, withal, most emphatic, with regard to the political history of france. for the most part, it is more associated with political prisoners than with mere sordid crime, as, indeed, to a great extent were many of the prisons of france. the summer tourist connects it with marie antoinette; visits the "cachot de marie antoinette;" the great hall where the girondists awaited their fate; and passes on to the palais des beaux arts, with never a thought as to the great political part that the old prison played in the monarchial history of france. to know it more fully, one should read nogaret's "histoire des prisons de paris." there will be found anecdotes and memoirs, "_rares et precieux_" and above all truthful. it has been eulogized, or, rather, anathematized in verse by voltaire,-- "exterminez, grandes dieux, de la terre ou nous sommes quiconque avec plaisir repand le sang des hommes,"-- and historians and romancists have made profuse use of the recollections which hang about its grim walls. to-day it stands for much that it formerly represented, but without the terrible inquisitorial methods. in fact, in the palais de justice, which now entirely surrounds all but the turreted façade of tourelles, which fronts the quai de l'horloge, has so tempered its mercies that within the past year it has taken down that wonderful crucifix and triptych, so that those who may finally call upon the court of last appeal may not be unduly or superstitiously affected. the place de la grève opposite was famous for something more than its commercial reputation, as readers of the valois romances of dumas, and of hugo's "dernier jour d'un condamné" will recall. it was a veritable gehenna, a sort of tower hill, where a series of events as dark and bloody as those of any spot in europe held forth, from , when a poor unfortunate, marguerite porette, was burned as a heretic, until ,--well within the scope of this book,--when the headsmen, stakesmen, and hangmen, who had plied their trade here for five centuries, were abolished in favour of a less public _barrière_ on the outskirts, or else the platform of the prison near the cimetière du père la chaise. it was in that a low thief and murderer, lacenaire, who was brought to the scaffold for his crimes, published in one of the parisian papers some verses which were intended to extract sympathy for him as _un homme de lettres_. in reality they were the work of a barrister, lemarquier by name, and failed utterly of their purpose, though their graphic lines might well have evoked sympathy, had the hoax carried: "slow wanes the long night, when the criminal wakes; and he curses the morn that his slumber breaks; for he dream'd of other days. "his eyes he may close,--but the cold icy touch of a frozen hand, and a corpse on his couch, still comes to wither his soul. "and the headsman's voice, and hammer'd blows of nails that the jointed gibbet close, and the solemn chant of the dead!" la conciergerie was perhaps one of the greatest show-places of the city for the morbidly inclined, and permission _à visiter_ was at that time granted _avec toutes facilités_, being something more than is allowed to-day. the associations connected with this doleful building are great indeed, as all histories of france and the guide-books tell. it was in the chapel of this edifice that the victims of the terror foregathered, to hear the names read out for execution, till all should have been made away. müller's painting in the louvre depicts, with singular graphicness, this dreadful place of detention, where princes and princesses, counts, marquises, bishops, and all ranks were herded amid an excruciating agony. in "the queen's necklace" we read of the conciergerie--as we do of the bastille. when that gang of conspirators, headed by madame de la motte,--jeanne de st. remy de valois,--appeared for trial, they were brought from the bastille to the conciergerie. after the trial all the prisoners were locked for the night in the conciergerie, sentence not being pronounced till the following day. the public whipping and branding of madame de la motte in the cour du justice,--still the _cour_ where throngs pass and repass to the various court-rooms of the palais de justice,--as given by dumas, is most realistically told, if briefly. it runs thus: "'who is this man?' cried jeanne, in a fright. "'the executioner, m. de paris,' replied the registrar. "the two men then took hold of her to lead her out. they took her thus into the court called cour de justice, where was a scaffold, and which was crowded with spectators. on a platform, raised about eight feet, was a post garnished with iron rings, and with a ladder to mount to it. this place was surrounded with soldiers.... "numbers of the partisans of m. de rohan had assembled to hoot her, and cries of '_a bas la motte_, the forger!' were heard on every side, and those who tried to express pity for her were soon silenced. then she cried in a loud voice, 'do you know who i am? i am the blood of your kings. they strike in me, not a criminal, but a rival; not only a rival, but an accomplice. yes,' repeated she, as the people kept silence to listen, 'an accomplice. they punish one who knows the secrets of--' "'take care,' interrupted the executioner. "she turned and saw the executioner with the whip in his hand. at this sight she forgot her desire to captivate the multitude, and even her hatred, and, sinking on her knees, she said, 'have pity!' and seized his hand; but he raised the other, and let the whip fall lightly on her shoulders. she jumped up, and was about to try and throw herself off the scaffold, when she saw the other man, who was drawing from a fire a hot iron. at this sight she uttered a perfect howl, which was echoed by the people. "'help! help!' she cried, trying to shake off the cord with which they were tying her hands. the executioner at last forced her on her knees, and tore open her dress; but she cried, with a voice which was heard through all the tumult, 'cowardly frenchmen! you do not defend me, but let me be tortured; oh! it is my own fault. if i had said all i knew of the queen i should have been--' "she could say no more, for she was gagged by the attendants: then two men held her, while the executioner performed his office. at the touch of the iron she fainted, and was carried back insensible to the conciergerie." chapter xii. l'universitÉ quartier l'université is the _quartier_ which foregathered its components, more or less unconsciously, around the sorbonne. to-day the name still means what it always did; the ecole de médicine, the ecole de droit, the beaux arts, the observatoire, and the student ateliers of the latin quarter, all go to make it something quite foreign to any other section of paris. the present structure known as "the sorbonne" was built by richelieu in , as a sort of glorified successor to the ancient foundation of robert de sorbonne, confessor to st. louis in . the present université, as an institution, was founded, among many other good and valuable things, which he has not always been given credit for, by the astute napoleon i. * * * * * with the work of the romancer, it is the unexpected that always happens. but this very unexpectedness is only another expression of naturalness; which raises the question: is not the romancist more of a realist than is commonly supposed? dumas often accomplished the unconventional, and often the miraculous, but the gallant attack of d'artagnan and his three whilom adversaries against the cardinal's guard is by no means an impossible or unreasonable incident. considering dumas' ingenuity and freedom, it would be unreasonable to expect that things might not take the turn that they did. of "les trois mousquetaires" alone, the scheme of adventure and incident is as orderly and sagacious as though it had been laid down by the wily cardinal himself; and therein is dumas' success as the romancist _par excellence_ of his time. a romancist who was at least enough of a realist to be natural, if unconventional. dumas is supposed to have fallen from the heights scaled by means of "les trois mousquetaires," when he wrote "vingt ans après." as a piece of literary workmanship, this perhaps is so; as a chronicle of great interest to the reader, who would trace the movement of its plot by existing stones and shrines, it is hardly the case. one can get up a wonderful enthusiasm for the old luxembourg quarter, which the gascon don quixote entered by one of the southern gates, astride his rosinante. the whole neighbourhood abounds with reminiscences of the characters of the tale: d'artagnan, with the rue des fossoyeurs, now the rue servandoni; athos with the rue ferou; aramis, with the rue de la harpe, and so on. there is, however, a certain tangible sentimentality connected with the adventures of athos, aramis, d'artagnan, and porthos in "twenty years after," that is not equalled by the earlier book, the reputed scenes of which have, to some extent, to be taken on faith. in "vingt ans après," the scene shifts rapidly and constantly: from the rue tiquetonne, in paris, to the more luxurious precincts of the palais royal; countrywards to compiègne, to pierrefonds--which ultimately came into the possession of porthos; to england, even; and southward as far as blois in touraine, near to which was the country estate of athos. at the corner of the rue vaugirard, which passes the front of the luxembourg palace, and the rue cassette, is the wall of the carmelite friary, where d'artagnan repaired to fulfil his duelling engagements with the three musketeers of the company of de treville, after the incidents of the shoulder of athos, the baldric of porthos, and the handkerchief of aramis. [illustration: carmelite friary, rue vaugirard] both sides of the river, and, indeed, the cité itself, are alive with the association of the king's musketeers and the cardinal's guards; so much so that one, with even a most superficial knowledge of paris and the d'artagnan romances, cannot fail to follow the shifting of the scenes from the neighbourhood of the palais du luxembourg, in "les trois mousquetaires," to the neighbourhood of the palais royal, in "vingt ans après" and the "vicomte de bragelonne." in "le vicomte de bragelonne," the fraternal _mousquetaires_ take somewhat varying paths from those which they pursued in the first two volumes of the series. porthos and athos had arrived at distinction and wealth, and surrounded themselves accordingly; though, when they came to paris, they were doubtless frequenters--at times--of their old haunts, but they had perforce to live up to their exalted stations. with d'artagnan and aramis this was not so true. d'artagnan, it would seem, could not leave his beloved palais royal quarter, though his lodgings in the hôtel in the rue tiquetonne could have been in no way luxurious, judging from present-day appearances. in the université quarter, running squarely up from the seine is a short, unpretentious, though not unlovely, street--the rue guenegard. it runs by the hôtel de la monnaie, and embouches on the quai conti, but if you ask for it from the average stroller on the quais, he will reply that he never heard of it. it was here, however, at "au grand roi charlemagne," "a respectable inn," that athos lived during his later years. in the course of three hundred years this inn has disappeared,--if it ever existed,--though there are two hôtels, now somewhat decrepit, on the short length of the street. perhaps it was one of these,--the present hôtel de france, for instance,--but there are no existing records to tell us beyond doubt that this is so. there is another inn which dumas mentions in "the forty-five guardsmen," not so famous, and not traceable to-day, but his description of it is highly interesting and amusing. "near the porte buci," says chapter vii. of the book before mentioned, "where we must now transport our readers, to follow some of their acquaintances, and to make new ones, a hum, like that in a beehive at sunset, was heard proceeding from a house tinted rose colour, and ornamented with blue and white pointings, which was known by the sign of 'the sword of the brave chevalier,' and which was an immense inn, recently built in this new quarter. this house was decorated to suit all tastes. on the entablature was painted a representation of a combat between an archangel and a dragon breathing flame and smoke, and in which the artist, animated by sentiments at once heroic and pious, had depicted in the hands of 'the brave chevalier,' not a sword, but an immense cross, with which he hacked in pieces the unlucky dragon, of which the bleeding pieces were seen lying on the ground. at the bottom of the picture crowds of spectators were represented raising their arms to heaven, while from above angels were extending over the chevalier laurels and palms. then, as if to prove that he could paint in every style, the artist had grouped around gourds, grapes, a snail on a rose, and two rabbits, one white and the other gray. "assuredly the proprietor must have been difficult to please, if he were not satisfied, for the artist had filled every inch of space--there was scarcely room to have added a caterpillar. in spite, however, of this attractive exterior, the hôtel did not prosper--it was never more than half full, though it was large and comfortable. unfortunately, from its proximity to the pré-aux-clercs, it was frequented by so many persons either going or ready to fight, that those more peaceably disposed avoided it. indeed, the cupids with which the interior was decorated had been ornamented with moustaches in charcoal by the _habitués_; and dame fournichon, the landlady, always affirmed that the sign had brought them ill-luck, and that, had her wishes been attended to, and the painting represented more pleasing things, such as the rose-tree of love surrounded by flaming hearts, all tender couples would have flocked to them. "m. fournichon, however, stuck to his sign, and replied that he preferred fighting men, and that one of them drank as much as six lovers." dumas' reference to this curiously disposed "happy family" calls to mind the anecdote which he recounts in "the taking of the bastille," concerning salamanders: "the famous trunk, which had now been dignified with the name of desk, had become, thanks to its vastness, and the numerous compartments with which pitou had decorated its interior, a sort of noah's ark, containing a couple of every species of climbing, crawling, or flying reptiles. there were lizards, adders, ant-eaters, beetles, and frogs, which reptiles became so much dearer to pitou from their being the cause of his being subjected to punishment more or less severe. "it was in his walks during the week that pitou made collections for his menagerie. he had wished for salamanders, which were very popular at villers-cotterêts, being the crest of françois i., and who had them sculptured on every chimneypiece in the château. he had succeeded in obtaining them; only one thing had strongly preoccupied his mind, and he ended by placing this thing among the number of those which were beyond his intelligence; it was, that he had constantly found in the water these reptiles which poets have pretended exist only in fire. this circumstance had given to pitou, who was a lad of precise mind, a profound contempt for poets." * * * * * here, at "the sword of the brave chevalier," first met the "forty-five guardsmen." in the same street is, or was until recently, a modernized and vulgarized inn of similar name, which was more likely to have been an adaption from the pages of dumas than a direct descendant of the original, if it ever existed. it is the hôtel la trémouille, near the luxembourg, that figures in the pages of "les trois mousquetaires," but the hôtel of the duc de treville, in the rue du vieux-colombier, has disappeared in a rebuilding or widening of this street, which runs from the place de st. sulpice to the place de la croix-rouge. all these places centre around that famous _affaire_ which took place before the carmelite establishment on the rue vaugirard: that gallant sword-play of athos, porthos, and aramis,--helped by the not unwilling d'artagnan,--against richelieu's minions, headed by jussac. within the immediate neighbourhood, too, is much of the _locale_ of "les trois mousquetaires." here the four friends themselves lodged, "just around the corner, within two steps of the luxembourg," though porthos more specifically claimed his residence as in the rue de vieux-colombier. "that is my abode," said he, as he proudly pointed to its gorgeous doorway. the hôtel de chevreuse of "_la frondeuse duchesse_," famed alike in history and the pages of dumas, is yet to be seen in somewhat changed form at no. boulevard st. germain; its garden cut away by the boulevard raspail. at no. or rue des fossoyeurs, beside the panthéon,--still much as it was of yore,--was d'artagnan's own "sort of a garret." one may not be able to exactly place it, but any of the decrepitly picturesque houses will answer the description. * * * * * it is a wonderfully varied and interesting collection of buildings which is found on the height of ste. geneviève, overlooking the jardin and palais du luxembourg: the hybrid st. etienne du mont, the pagan panthéon, the tower of the ancient abbaye de ste. geneviève, and the bibliothèque, which also bears the name of paris's patron saint. the old abbey must have had many and varied functions, if history and romance are to be believed, and to-day its tower and a few short lengths of wall, built into the lycée henri quatre, are all that remain, unless it be that the crypt and dungeons, of which one reads in "chicot the jester," are still existent. probably they are, but, if so, they have most likely degenerated into mere lumber-rooms. the incident as given by dumas relates briefly to the plot of the guises to induce charles ix., on the plea of some religious ceremony, to enter one of the monkish _caches_, and there compel him to sign his abdication. the plot, according to the novelist, was frustrated by the ingenious chicot. at all events, the ensemble to-day is one most unusual, and the whole locality literally reeks with the associations of tradition. architecturally it is a jumble, good in parts, but again shocking in other parts. the Église st. etienne du mont is a weird contrast of architectural style, but its interior is truly beautiful, and on the wall near the south transept are two tablets, on which one may read the facts concerning ste. geneviève, which likely enough have for the moment been forgotten by most of us. the old abbey must have been a delightful place, in spite of the lurid picture which dumas draws of it. * * * * * probably in none of dumas' romances is there more lively action than in "the queen's necklace." the characters are in a continual migration between one and another of the faubourgs. here, again, dumas does not forget or ignore the luxembourg and its environment. he seems, indeed, to have a special fondness for its neighbourhood. it was useful to him in most of the valois series, and doubly so in the d'artagnan romances. beausire, one of the thieves who sought to steal the famous necklace, "took refuge in a small _cabaret_ in the luxembourg quarter." the particular _cabaret_ is likely enough in existence to-day, as the event took place but a hundred years ago, and dumas is known to have "drawn from life" even his pen-portraits of the _locale_ of his stories. at any rate, there is many a _cabaret_ near the luxembourg which might fill the bill. the gardens of the luxembourg were another favourite haunt of the characters of dumas' romances, and in "the queen's necklace" they are made use of again, this time, as usual, as a suitable place for a promenade or a rendezvous of the fair oliva, who so much resembled marie antoinette. * * * * * like the rue du helder, celebrated in "the corsican brothers," the rue de lille, where lived, at no. , de franchi's friend, adrien de boissy, is possessed of an air of semi-luxuriousness, or, at any rate, of a certain middle-class comfort. it lies on the opposite side of the seine from the river side of the louvre, and runs just back of the site formerly occupied by the duc de montmorenci, where was held the gorgeous ceremony of the marriage of the marquis st. luc, of which one reads in "chicot the jester." there is not much of splendour or romance about the present-day rue de lille; indeed, it is rather commonplace, but as dumas places the particular house in which de boissy lived with definiteness, and, moreover, in that it exists to-day practically unaltered, there seems every good reason why it should be catalogued here. [illustration: the builders of the louvre ( ) françois i., _ _; ( ) catherine de medici, _ - _; ( ) catherine de medici, _ _ (destroyed at the commune); ( ) louis xiii., _ _; ( ) louis xiv., _ - _; ( ) napoleon i., _ _; ( ) louis xviii., _ _; ( ) napoleon iii., _ - _; ( ) napoleon iii., _ - _.] chapter xiii. the louvre "_paris renferme beaucoup de palais; mais le vrai palais de paris, le vrai palais de la france, tout le monde l'a nommé,--c'est le louvre._" upon the first appearance of "marguerite de valois," a critic writing in _blackwood's magazine_, has chosen to commend dumas' directness of plot and purpose in a manner which every lover of dumas and student of history will not fail to appreciate. he says: "dumas, according to his custom, introduces a vast array of characters, for the most part historical, all spiritedly drawn and well sustained. in various respects the author may be held up as an example to our own history-spoilers, and self-styled writers of historical romance. one does not find him profaning public edifices by causing all sorts of absurdities to pass, and of twaddle to be spoken, within their precincts; neither does he make his king and beggar, high-born dame and private soldier use the very same language, all equally tame, colourless, and devoid of character. the spirited and varied dialogue, in which his romances abound, illustrates and brings out the qualities and characteristics of his actors, and is not used for the sole purpose of making a chapter out of what would be better told in a page. in many instances, indeed, it would be difficult for him to tell his story, by the barest narrative, in fewer words than he does by pithy and pointed dialogue." no edifice in paris itself, nor, indeed, in all france, is more closely identified with the characters and plots of dumas' romances than the louvre. in the valois cycle alone, the personages are continually flocking and stalking thither; some mere puppets,--walking gentlemen and ladies,--but many more, even, who are personages so very real that even in the pages of dumas one forgets that it is romance pure and simple, and is almost ready to accept his word as history. this it is not, as is well recognized, but still it is a pleasant manner of bringing before the omnivorous reader many facts which otherwise he might ignore or perhaps overlook. it really is not possible to particularize all the action of dumas' romances which centred around the louvre. to do so would be to write the mediæval history of the famous building, or to produce an analytical index to the works of dumas which would somewhat approach in bulk the celebrated chinese encyclopædia. we learn from "le vicomte de bragelonne" of d'artagnan's great familiarity with the life which went on in the old château of the louvre. "i will tell you where m. d'artagnan is," said raoul; "he is now in paris; when on duty, he is to be met at the louvre; when not so, in the rue des lombards." this describes the situation exactly: when the characters of the d'artagnan and the valois romances are not actually within the precincts of the louvre, they have either just left it or are about to return thither, or some momentous event is being enacted there which bears upon the plot. perhaps the most dramatic incident in connection with the louvre mentioned by dumas, was that of the massacre of st. bartholomew's night, "that bloody deed which culminated from the great struggle which devastated france in the latter part of the sixteenth century." dumas throws in his lot with such historians as ranke and soldain, who prefer to think that the massacre which took place on the fête-day of st. bartholomew was not the result of a long premeditated plot, but was rather the fruit of a momentary fanatical terror aroused by the unsuccessful attempt on the life of coligny. this aspect is apart from the question. the principal fact with which the novelist and ourselves are concerned is that the event took place much as stated: that it was from the louvre that the plot--if plot it were--emanated, and that the sounding bell of st. germain l'auxerrois did, on that fateful night, indicate to those present in the louvre the fact that the bloody massacre had begun. the fabric itself--the work of many hands, at the instigation of so many minds--is an enduring monument to the fame of those who projected it, or who were memorialized thereby: philippe-auguste, marie de medici, françois i., charles ix., henri iv., louis xiv., napoleon i.,--who did but little, it is true,--and napoleon iii.--who did much, and did it badly. besides history, bloody deeds, and intrigue, there is also much of sentiment to be gathered from an observation of its walls; as witness the sculptures and decorations of goujon and lescot, the interlaced monogram g. h., of henri and gabrielle d'estrées, and the superimposed crescents of the fair diane de poitiers. but such romances as these are best read in the pages of dumas. "to the french the louvre is more than a palace; it is a sanctuary," said an enthusiastic frenchman. as such it is a shrine to be worshipped by itself, though it is pardonable to wish to know to-day just where and when the historic events of its career took place. one can trace the outline, in white marble, of the ancient château du louvre, in the easterly courtyard of the present establishment; can admire the justly celebrated eastern colonnade, though so defective was the architect in his original plans that it overlaps the side walls of the connecting buildings some dozen or more feet; can follow clearly all the various erections of monarchs and eras, and finally contemplate the tiny columns set about in the garden of the tuileries, which mark all that is left of that ambitious edifice. the best description of the tuileries by dumas comes into the scene in "the count of monte cristo," when villefort,--who shares with danglars and fernand the distinction of being the villain of the piece,--after travelling with all speed from marseilles to paris, "penetrates the two or three apartments which precede it, and enters the small cabinet of the tuileries with the arched window, so well known as having been the favourite cabinet of napoleon and louis xviii., as also that of louis-philippe. "there, in this closet, seated before a walnut-tree table he had brought with him from hartwell, and to which, from one of those fancies not uncommon to great people, he was particularly attached, the king, louis xviii., was carelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with gray hair, aristocratic bearing, and exceedingly gentlemanly attire, whilst he was making a note in a volume of horace, gryphius's edition, which was much indebted to the sagacious observations of the philosophical monarch." of course, an author of to-day would have expressed it somewhat differently, but at the time in which dumas wrote, the little cabinet did exist, and up to the time of the destruction of the palace, at the commune, was doubtless as much of a showplace in its way as is the window of the louvre from which charles ix. was supposed to have fired upon the fleeing huguenots--with this difference: that the cabinet had a real identity, while the window in question has been more recently ascertained as not having been built at the time of the event. * * * * * some one has mentioned paris, the forgetter, as if modern paris and its gay life--for assuredly it is gay, regardless of what the _blasé_ folk may say or think--had entirely blotted out from its memory the horrors of st. bartholomew's night, the tragedies of la roquette, the conciergerie, or the bastille. this is so in a measure, however, though one has only to cross the square which lies before les halles, la tour st. jacques, or notre dame, to recall most vividly the tragedies which have before been enacted there. the louvre literally reeks with the intrigue and bloodshed of political and religious warfare; and dumas' picture of the murder of the admiral, and his version of the somewhat apocryphal incident of charles ix. potting at the protestant victims, with a specially made and garnished firearm, is sufficiently convincing, when once read, to suggest the recollections, at least, of the heartless act. from the louvre it is but a step--since the tuileries has been destroyed--to the place de la concorde. when this great square, now given over to bird-fanciers, automobilists, and photograph-sellers, was first cleared, it was known as the place de la révolution. in the later volumes of the valois romances one reads of a great calendar of scenes and incidents which were consummated here. it is too large a list to even catalogue, but one will recollect that here, in this statue surrounded place, with playing fountains glittering in the sunlight, is buried under a brilliance--very foreign to its former aspect--many a grim tragedy of profound political purport. it was here that louis xvi. said, "i die innocent; i forgive my enemies, and pray god to avert his vengeance for my blood, and to bless my people." to-day one sees only the ornate space, the _voitures_ and automobiles, the tricolour floating high on the louvre, and this forgetful paris, brilliant with sunlight, green with trees, beautified by good government, which offers in its _kiosks_, cafés, and theatres the fulness of the moment at every turn. paris itself truly forgets, if one does not. * * * * * the louvre as it is known to-day is a highly intricate composition. its various parts have grown, not under one hand, but from a common root, until it blossomed forth in its full glory when the western front of catherine de medici took form. unfortunately, with its disappearance at the commune the completeness of this elaborate edifice went for ever. one is apt to overlook the fact that the old louvre, the _ancienne palais du louvre_, was a mediæval battlemented and turreted structure, which bore little resemblance to the louvre of to-day, or even that of charles, henri, catherine, or marguerite, of whom dumas wrote in the valois romances. [illustration: the gardens of the tuileries] the general ground-plan of the two distinct portions is the same, except for some minor additions of napoleon i. and the connecting links built by napoleon iii., and many of the apartments are of course much the same, but there has been a general laying out of the courts anew, and tree-planting and grading of the streets and quais in the immediate neighbourhood; so much so that almost the entire aspect is changed. in spite of its compositeness, there is a certain aspect of uniformity of outline, though not of excellence of design. the only relics of the palace of the tuileries are the colonnettes set about in the garden and surmounted by gilded balls. chapter xiv. the palais royal it seems hardly necessary to more than mention the name of the palais royal, in connection with either the life or the writings of alexandre dumas, to induce a line of thought which is practically limitless. it was identified with dumas' first employment in the capital, and it has been the scene of much of the action of both the d'artagnan and the valois romances. more than all else, however, though one is apt to overlook it somewhat, it is so closely identified with richelieu that it is difficult to separate it from any event of french political history of the period. it was built by richelieu in , on the site occupied by the hôtels de mercoeur and rambouillet, and was originally intended to have borne the name of hôtel richelieu. toward it was enlarged, and was known as the palais cardinal. finally it was presented, in , to louis xiii., and at his death came to anne of austria, when the royal family removed thither and it became known as the palais royal. the incident of the flight of the royal family and mazarin to st. germain is one of the historic and dramatic incidents which dumas used as one of the events in which d'artagnan participated. the court never returned to make use of the palais royal as a royal residence, and it became the refuge of henriette de france, queen of england and widow of charles i. thirty years later louis xiv., who had fled from its walls when a child, gave it to his nephew philippe d'orleans, duc de chartres. it was during the _régence_ that the famous _fêtes_ of the palais royal were organized,--they even extended to what the unsympathetic have called orgies,--but it is certain that no town residences of kings were ever as celebrated for their splendid functions as was the palais royal in the seventeenth century. in a fire brought about certain reconstructions at the expense of the city of paris. in , it became again the prey of fire; and philippe-Égalité, who was then duc de chartres, constructed the three vast galleries which surround the palais of to-day. the _boutiques_ of the galleries were let to merchants of all manner of foibles, and it became the most lively quarter of paris. the public adopted the galleries as fashionable promenades, which became, for the time, "_un bazar européen et un rendez-vous d'affaires et de galanterie_." it was in that the duc d'orleans constructed "_une salle de spectacle_," which to-day is the théâtre du palais royal, and in the middle of the garden a _cirque_ which ultimately came to be transformed into a restaurant. the purely theatrical event of the history of the palais royal came on the th of july, , when at midday--as the _coup_ of a _petit canon_ rang out--a young unknown _avocat_, camille desmoulins, mounted a chair and addressed the throng of promenaders in a thrilling and vibrant voice: "_citoyens, j'arrive de versailles!_--necker is fled and the baron breteuil is in his place. breteuil is one of those who have demanded the head of mirabeau ... there remains but one resource, and that 'to arms' and to wear the cockade that we may be known. _quelle couleur voulez-vous?_" with almost a common accord the tricolour was adopted--and the next day the bastille fell. [illustration: the orleans bureau, palais royal] dumas' account of the incident, taken from "the taking of the bastille," is as follows: "during this time the procession kept on advancing; it had moved obliquely to the left, and had gone down the rue montmartre to the place des victoires. when it reached the palais royal some great impediment prevented its passing on. a troop of men with green leaves in their hats were shouting 'to arms!' "it was necessary to reconnoitre. were these men who blocked up the rue vivienne friends or enemies? green was the colour of the count d'artois. why then these green cockades? "after a minute's conference all was explained. "on learning the dismissal of necker, a young man had issued from the café foy, had jumped upon a table in the garden of the palais royal, and, taking a pistol from his breast, had cried 'to arms!' "on hearing this cry, all the persons who were walking there had assembled around him, and had shouted 'to arms!' "we have already said that all the foreign regiments had been collected around paris. one might have imagined that it was an invasion by the austrians. the names of these regiments alarmed the ears of all frenchmen; they were reynac, salis samade, diesbach, esterhazy, roemer; the very naming of them was sufficient to make the crowd understand that they were the names of enemies. the young man named them; he announced that the swiss were encamped in the champs elysées, with four pieces of artillery, and that they were to enter paris the same night, preceded by the dragoons, commanded by prince lambesq. he proposed a new cockade which was not theirs, snatched a leaf from a chestnut-tree and placed it in the band of his hat. upon the instant every one present followed his example. three thousand persons had in ten minutes unleaved the trees of the palais royal. "that morning no one knew the name of that young man; in the evening it was in every mouth. "that young man's name was camille desmoulins." * * * * * after the palais royal was converted, by decree, into the palais et jardin de la révolution; and reunited to the domains of the state. napoleon i. granted its use to the tribunal for its seances, and lucien bonaparte inhabited it for the "hundred days." in louis-philippe, duc d'orleans, gave there a fête in honour of the king of naples, who had come to pay his respects to the king of france. charles x. assisted as an invited guest at the function, but one month after he had inhabited it as king. under napoleon iii. the palais royal was the residence of prince jerome, the uncle of the emperor, afterward that of his son the prince napoleon, when the _fleur-de-lis_ sculptured on the façade gave way before escutcheons bearing the imperial eagles, which in turn have since given way to the republican device of "' "--"liberté, Égalité, fraternité." * * * * * it is with a remarkable profusion of detail--for dumas, at any rate--that the fourteenth chapter of "the conspirators" opens. it is a veritable guide-book phraseology and conciseness, which describes the streets of the palais royal quarter: "the evening of the same day, which was sunday, toward eight o'clock, at the moment when a considerable group of men and women, assembled around a street singer, who was playing at the same time the cymbals with his knees and the tambourine with his hands, obstructed the entrance to the rue de valois, a musketeer and two of the light horse descended a back staircase of the palais royal, and advanced toward the passage du lycée, which, as every one knows, opened on to that street; but seeing the crowd which barred the way, the three soldiers stopped and appeared to take counsel. the result of their deliberation was doubtless that they must take another route, for the musketeer, setting the example of a new manoeuvre, threaded the cour des fontaines, turned the corner of the rue des bons enfants, and, walking rapidly,--though he was extremely corpulent,--arrived at no. , which opened as by enchantment at his approach, and closed again on him and his two companions. "... the crowd dispersed. a great many men left the circle, singly, or two and two, turning toward each other with an imperceptible gesture of the hand, some by the rue de valois, some by the cour des fontaines, some by the palais royal itself, thus surrounding the rue des bons enfants, which seemed to be the centre of the rendezvous." the locality has not changed greatly since the times of which dumas wrote, and if one would see for himself this rue de bons enfants, numéro , and try to find out how the regent of france was able to climb over the roof-tops to the palais royal, for a wager, he may still do so, for apparently the roof-tops have changed but little. the especial connection of the rue des bons enfants with literature is perhaps sylvestre's establishment, which will, for a price, sell you almost any french celebrity's autograph, be he king, prince, painter, or litterateur. in the "vicomte de bragelonne" there is a wonderfully interesting chapter, which describes mazarin's gaming-party at the palais royal. in that it enters somewhat more into detail than is usual with dumas, it appears worth quoting here, if only for its description of the furnishing of the _salle_ in which the event took place, and its most graphic and truthful picture of the great cardinal himself: "in a large chamber of the palais royal, covered with a dark-coloured velvet, which threw into strong relief the gilded frames of a great number of magnificent pictures, on the evening of the arrival of the two frenchmen, the whole court was assembled before the alcove of m. le cardinal de mazarin, who gave a party, for the purposes of play, to the king and queen. a small screen separated three prepared tables. at one of these tables the king and the two queens were seated. louis xiv., placed opposite to the young queen, his wife, smiled upon her with an expression of real happiness. anne of austria held the cards against the cardinal, and her daughter-in-law assisted her in her game, when she was not engaged in smiling at her husband. as for the cardinal, who was reclining on his bed, his cards were held by the comtesse de soissons, and he watched them with an incessant look of interest and cupidity. "the cardinal had been painted by bernouin; but the rouge, which glowed only on his cheeks, threw into stronger contrast the sickly pallor of the rest of his countenance and the shining yellow of his brow. his eyes alone acquired a more lively expression from this auxiliary, and upon those sick man's eyes were, from time to time, turned the uneasy looks of the king, the queen, and the courtiers. the fact is, that the two eyes of mazarin were the stars more or less brilliant in which the france of the seventeenth century read its destiny every evening and every morning. monseigneur neither won nor lost; he was, therefore, neither gay nor sad. it was a stagnation in which, full of pity for him, anne of austria would not have willingly left him; but in order to attract the attention of the sick man by some brilliant stroke, she must have either won or lost. to win would have been dangerous, because mazarin would have changed his indifference for an ugly grimace; to lose would likewise have been dangerous, because she must have cheated, and the infanta, who watched her game, would, doubtless, have exclaimed against her partiality for mazarin. profiting by this calm, the courtiers were chatting. when not in a bad humour, m. de mazarin was a very debonnaire prince, and he, who prevented nobody from singing, provided they paid, was not tyrant enough to prevent people from talking, provided they made up their minds to lose. they were chatting, then. at the first table, the king's younger brother, philip, duc d'anjou, was admiring his handsome face in the glass of a box. his favourite, the chevalier de lorraine, leaning over the _fauteuil_ of the prince, was listening, with secret envy, to the comte de guiche, another of philip's favourites, who was relating in choice terms the various vicissitudes of fortune of the royal adventurer, charles ii. he told, as so many fabulous events, all the history of his peregrinations in scotland, and his terrors when the enemy's party was so closely on his track; of nights passed in trees, and days passed in hunger and combats. by degrees, the fate of the unfortunate king interested his auditors so greatly, that the play languished even at the royal table, and the young king, with a pensive look and downcast eye, followed, without appearing to give any attention to it, the smallest details of this odyssey, very picturesquely related by the comte de guiche." * * * * * again mention of the palais royal enters into the action of "the queen's necklace." when madame de la motte and her companion were _en route_ to versailles by cabriolet, "they met a delay at the gates of the palais royal, where, in a courtyard, which had been thrown open, were a host of beggars crowding around fires which had been lighted there, and receiving soup, which the servants of m. le duc d'orleans were distributing to them in earthen basins; and as in paris a crowd collects to see everything, the number of the spectators of this scene far exceeded that of the actors. "here, then, they were again obliged to stop, and, to their dismay, began to hear distinctly from behind loud cries of 'down with the cabriolet! down with those that crush the poor!' "'can it be that those cries are addressed to us?' said the elder lady to her companion. "'indeed, madame, i fear so,' she replied. "'have we, do you think, run over any one?' "'i am sure you have not.' "'to the magistrate! to the magistrate!' cried several voices. "'what in heaven's name does it all mean?' said the lady. "'the crowd reproaches you, madame, with having braved the police order which appeared this morning, prohibiting all cabriolets from driving through the streets until the spring.'" this must have been something considerable of an embargo on pleasure, and one which would hardly obtain to-day, though asphalted pavements covered with a film of frost must offer untold dangers, as compared with the streets of paris as they were then--in the latter years of the eighteenth century. chapter xv. the bastille the worshipper at the shrines made famous by dumas--no less than history--will look in vain for the prison of la roquette, the bastille, the hôtel of the duc de guise, at no. rue du chaume, that of coligny in the rue de bethusy, or of the montmorencies, "near the louvre." they existed, of course, in reality, as they did in the valois romances, but to-day they have disappeared, and not even the "_commission des monuments historiques_" has preserved a pictorial representation of the three latter. one of dumas' most absorbing romances deals with the fateful events which culminated at the bastille on the th thermidor, . "this monument, this seal of feudality, imprinted on the forehead of paris," said dumas, "was the bastille," and those who know french history know that he wrote truly. the action of "the taking of the bastille," so far as it deals with the actual assault upon it, is brief. so was the event itself. dumas romances but little in this instance; he went direct to fact for his details. he says: "when once a man became acquainted with the bastille, by order of the king, that man was forgotten, sequestrated, interred, annihilated.... "moreover, in france there was not only one bastille; there were twenty other bastilles, which were called fort l'evêque, st. lazare, the châtelet, the conciergerie, vincennes, the castle of la roche, the castle of if, the isles of st. marguerite, pignerolles, etc. "only the fortress at the gate st. antoine was called _the bastille_, as _rome_ was called _the_ city.... "during nearly a whole century the governorship of the bastille had continued in one and the same family. "the grandfather of this elect race was m. de chateauneuf; his son lavrillière succeeded him, who, in turn, was succeeded by his grandson, st. florentin. the dynasty became extinct in .... "among the prisoners, it will be recollected, the following were of the greatest note: "the iron mask, lauzun, latude. "the jesuits were connoisseurs; for greater security they confessed the prisoners. "for greater security still, the prisoners were buried under supposititious names. "the iron mask, it will be remembered, was buried under the name of marchiali. he had remained forty-five years in prison. "lauzun remained there fourteen years. "latude, thirty years.... "but, at all events, the iron mask and lauzun had committed heinous crimes. "the iron mask, whether brother or not of louis xiv., it is asserted, resembled king louis xiv. so strongly, that it was almost impossible to distinguish the one from the other. "it is exceedingly imprudent to dare to resemble a king. "lauzun had been very near marrying, or did actually marry, the grande mademoiselle. "it is exceedingly imprudent to dare to marry the niece of king louis xiii., the granddaughter of henri iv. "but latude, poor devil, what had he done? "he had dared to fall in love with mlle. poisson, dame de pompadour, the king's mistress. "he had written a note to her. "this note, which a respectable woman would have sent back to the man who wrote it, was handed by madame de pompadour to m. de sartines, the lieutenant-general of police." "to the bastille!" was the cry upon which dumas built up his story. "'to the bastille!' "only that it was a senseless idea, as the soldiers had remarked, that the bastille could be taken. "the bastille had provisions, a garrison, artillery. "the bastille had walls, which were fifteen feet thick at their summit, and forty at their base. "the bastille had a governor, whose name was de launay, who had stored thirty thousand pounds of gunpowder in his cellars, and who had sworn, in case of being surprised by a _coup de main_, to blow up the bastille, and with it half the faubourg st. antoine." dumas was never more chary of tiresome description than in the opening chapters of this book. chapter xvi. opens as follows: "we will not describe the bastille--it would be useless. "it lives as an eternal image, both in the memory of the old and in the imagination of the young. "we shall content ourselves with merely stating, that, seen from the boulevard, it presented, in front of the square then called place de la bastille, two twin towers, while its two fronts ran parallel with the banks of the canal which now exists. "the entrance to the bastille was defended, in the first place, by a guard-house, then by two lines of sentinels, and besides these by two drawbridges. "after having passed through these several obstacles, you came to the courtyard of the government-house--that is to say, the residence of the governor. "from this courtyard a gallery led to the ditches of the bastille. "at this other entrance, which opened upon the ditches, was a drawbridge, a guard-house, and an iron gate." then follow some pages of incident and action, which may be fact or may be fiction. the detail which comes after is picturesque and necessary to the plot: "the interior court, in which the governor was waiting for billot, was the courtyard which served as a promenade to the prisoners. it was guarded by eight towers--that is to say, by eight giants. no window opened into it. never did the sun shine on its pavement, which was damp and almost muddy. it might have been thought the bottom of an immense well. "in this courtyard was a clock, supported by figures representing enchained captives, which measured the hours, from which fell the regular and slow sounds of the minutes as they passed by, as in a dungeon the droppings from the ceiling eat into the pavement slabs on which they fall. "at the bottom of this well, the prisoner, lost amid the abyss of stone, for a moment contemplated its cold nakedness, and soon asked to be allowed to return to his room.... "at the bastille, all the places were sold to the highest bidder, from that of the governor himself, down to that of the scullion. the governor of the bastille was a gaoler on a grand scale, an eating-house keeper wearing epaulets, who added to his salary of sixty thousand livres sixty thousand more, which he extorted and plundered.... "m. de launay, in point of avarice, far surpassed his predecessors. this might, perhaps, have arisen from his having paid more for the place, and having foreseen that he would not remain in it so long as they did. "he fed his whole house at the expense of his prisoners. he had reduced the quantity of firing, and doubled the hire of furniture in each room. "he had the right of bringing yearly into paris a hundred pipes of wine, free of duty. he sold his right to a tavern-keeper, who brought in wines of excellent quality. then, with a tenth part of this duty, he purchased the vinegar with which he supplied his prisoners." the rest of dumas' treatment of the fall of the bastille is of the historical kind. he does not blame de launay for the fall, but by no means does he make a hero of him. "a flash of fire, lost in a cloud of smoke, crowned the summit of a tower; a detonation resounded; cries of pain were heard issuing from the closely pressed crowd; the first cannon-shot had been fired from the bastille; the first blood had been spilled. the battle had commenced.... "on hearing the detonation we have spoken of, the two soldiers who were still watching m. de launay threw themselves upon him; a third snatched up the match, and then extinguished it by placing his heel upon it. "de launay drew the sword which was concealed in his cane, and would have turned it against his own breast, but the soldiers seized it and snapped it in two. "he then felt that all he could do was to resign himself to the result; he therefore tranquilly awaited it. [illustration: the fall of the bastille] "the people rush forward; the garrison open their arms to them; and the bastille is taken by assault--by main force, without a capitulation. "the reason for this was that, for more than a hundred years, the royal fortress had not merely imprisoned inert matter within its walls--it had imprisoned thought also. thought had thrown down the walls of the bastille, and the people entered by the breach." the life-history of the bastille was more extended than was commonly recalled. still the great incident in its life covered but fifteen short days,--from the th june to the th july, ,--when it fell before the attack of the revolutionists. there is rather vague markings in the pavement on the boulevard henri quatre and the rue st. antoine, which suggest the former limits of this gruesome building. it were not possible to catalogue all the scenes of action celebrated or perpetuated by alexandre dumas. in his "crimes célèbres" he--with great definiteness--pictures dark scenes which are known to all readers of history; from that terrible affair of the cenci, which took place on the terrace of the château de rocca petrella, in , to the assassination of kotzebue by karl ludwig sand in . not all of these crimes deal with paris, nor with france. the most notable was the poisoning affair of the marquise de brinvilliers ( ), who was forced to make the "_amende honorable_" after the usual manner, on the parvis du nôtre dame, that little tree-covered place just before the west façade of the cathedral. the chevalier gaudin de ste. croix, captain of the regiment de tracy, had been arrested in the name of the king, by process of the "_lettre de cachet_" and forthwith incarcerated in the bastille, which is once more made use of by dumas, though in this case, as in many others, it is historic fact as well. the story, which is more or less one of conjugal and filial immorality, as well as political intrigue, shifts its scene once and again to the cul-de-sac des marchands des chevaux, in the place maubert, to the forêt de l'aigue--within four leagues of compiègne, the place du châtelet, the conciergerie, and the bastille. here, too, dumas' account of the "question by water," or, rather, the notes on the subject, which accompanied the first ( ) edition of "les crimes célèbres," form interesting, if rather horrible, reading. not alone in the bastille was this horrible torture practised, but in most of the prisons of the time. "_pour la 'question ordinaire,' quatre coquemars pleins d'eau, et contenant chacun deux pintes et demi, et pour 'la question extraordinaire' huit de même grandeur._" this was poured into the victim through a funnel, which entered the mouth, and sooner or later drowned or stifled him or her, or induced confession. the final act and end of the unnatural marquise de brinvilliers took place at the place de la grève, which before and since was the truly celebrated place of many noted crimes, though in this case it was justice that was meted out. as a sort of sequel to "the conspirators," dumas adds "a postscriptum," wherein is recounted the arrest of richelieu, as foreordained by mlle. de valois. he was incarcerated in the bastille; but his captivity was but a new triumph for the crafty churchman. "it was reported that the handsome prisoner had obtained permission to walk on the terrace of the bastille. the rue st. antoine was filled with most elegant carriages, and became, in twenty-four hours, the fashionable promenade. the regent--who declared that he had proofs of the treason of m. de richelieu, sufficient to lose him four heads if he had them--would not, however, risk his popularity with the fair sex by keeping him long in prison. richelieu, again at liberty, after a captivity of three months, was more brilliant and more sought after than ever; but the closet had been walled up, and mlle. de valois became duchesse de modena." not only in the "vicomte de bragelonne" and "the taking of the bastille" does dumas make mention of "the man in the iron mask," but, to still greater length, in the supplementary volume, called in the english translations "the man in the iron mask," though why it is difficult to see, since it is but the second volume of "the vicomte de bragelonne." this historical mystery has provided penmen of all calibres with an everlasting motive for argumentative conjecture, but dumas without hesitancy comes out strongly for "a prince of the royal blood," probably the brother of louis xiv. it has been said that voltaire invented "the man in the iron mask." there was nothing singular--for the france of that day--in the man himself, his offence, or his punishment; but the mask and the mystery--chiefly of voltaire's creation--fascinated the public, as the veil of mokanna fascinated his worshippers. here are some of the voltairean myths about this mysterious prisoner: one day he wrote something with his knife on a silver plate and threw it down to a fisherman, who took it to the governor of the prison. "have you read it?" asked the governor, sternly. "i cannot read," replied the fisherman. "that has saved your life," rejoined the governor. another day a young lad found beneath the prison tower a shirt written closely all over. he took it to the governor, who asked, anxiously. "have you read it?" the boy again and again assured him that he had not. nevertheless, two days later the boy was found dead in his bed. when the iron mask went to mass he was forbidden to speak or unmask himself on pain of being then and there shot down by the invalids, who stood by with loaded carbines to carry out the threat. here are some of the personages the iron mask was supposed to be: an illegitimate son of anne of austria; a twin brother of louis xiv., put out of the way by cardinal richelieu to avoid the risk of a disputed succession; the count of vermandois, an illegitimate son of louis xiv.; fouquet, louis' minister; the duke of beaufort, a hero of the fronde; the duke of monmouth, the english pretender; avedick, the armenian patriarch; and of late it has almost come to be accepted that he was mattioli, a piedmontese political prisoner, who died in . dumas, at any rate, took the plausible and acceptable popular solution; and it certainly furnished him with a highly fascinating theme for a romance, which, however, never apparently achieved any great popularity. "the clock was striking seven as aramis passed before the rue du petit muse and stopped at the rue tourelles, at the gateway of the bastille.... "of the governor of the prison aramis--now bishop of vannes--asked, 'how many prisoners have you? sixty?'... "'for a prince of the blood i have fifty francs a day, ... thirty-six for a marechal de france, lieutenant-generals and brigadiers pay twenty-six francs, and councillors of parliament fifteen, but for an ordinary judge, or an ecclesiastic, i receive only ten francs.'" here dumas' knowledge and love of good eating again crops out. continuing the dialogue between the bishop and the governor, he says: "'a tolerably sized fowl costs a franc and a half, and a good-sized fish four or five francs. three meals a day are served, and, as the prisoners have nothing to do, they are always eating. a prisoner from whom i get ten francs costs me seven francs and a half.' "'have you no prisoners, then, at less than ten francs?' queried aramis. "'oh, yes,' said the governor, 'citizens and lawyers.' "'but do they not eat, too?... do not the prisoners leave some scraps?' continued aramis. "'yes, and i delight the heart of some poor little tradesman or clerk by sending him a wing of a red partridge, a slice of venison, or a slice of a truffled pasty, dishes which he never tasted except in his dreams (these are the leavings of the twenty-four-franc prisoners); and he eats and drinks, and at dessert cries, "long live the king!" and blesses the bastille. with a couple of bottles of champagne, which cost me five sous, i make him tipsy every sunday. that class of people call down blessings upon me, and are sorry to leave the prison. do you know that i have remarked, and it does me infinite honour, that certain prisoners, who have been set at liberty, have almost immediately afterward got imprisoned again? why should this be the case, unless it be to enjoy the pleasures of my kitchen? it is really the fact.' aramis smiled with an expression of incredulity." a visit to the prisoners themselves follows, but the reader of these lines is referred to "le vicomte de bragelonne" for further details. the following few lines must suffice here: "the number of bolts, gratings, and locks for the courtyard would have sufficed for the safety of an entire city. aramis was neither an imaginative nor a sensitive man; he had been somewhat of a poet in his youth, but his heart was hard and indifferent, as the heart of every man of fifty-five years of age is, who has been frequently and passionately attached to women in his lifetime, or rather who has been passionately loved by them. but when he placed his foot upon the worn stone steps, along which so many unhappy wretches had passed, when he felt himself impregnated, as it were, with the atmosphere of those gloomy dungeons, moistened with tears, there could be but little doubt he was overcome by his feelings, for his head was bowed and his eyes became dim, as he followed baisemeaux, the governor, without uttering a syllable." dumas gives a further description, of similar import, in "the regent's daughter:" "and now, with the reader's permission, we will enter the bastille--that formidable building at which even the passing traveller trembled, and which, to the whole neighbourhood, was an annoyance and cause of alarm; for often at night the cries of the unfortunate prisoners who were under torture might be heard piercing the thick walls, so much so, that the duchesse de lesdequieres once wrote to the governor, that, if he did not prevent his patients from making such a noise, she should complain to the king. "at this time, however, under the reign of philippe d'orleans, there were no cries to be heard; the society was select, and too well bred to disturb the repose of a lady. "in a room in the du coin tower, on the first floor, was a prisoner alone.... he had, however, been but one day in the bastille, and yet already he paced his vast chamber, examining the iron-barred doors, looking through the grated windows, listening, sighing, waiting.... "a noise of bolts and creaking hinges drew the prisoner from this sad occupation, and he saw the man enter before whom he had been taken the day before. this man, about thirty years of age, with an agreeable appearance and polite bearing, was the governor, m. de launay, father of that de launay who died at his post in ' .... "'m. de chanlay,' said the governor, bowing, 'i come to know if you have passed a good night, and are satisfied with the fare of the house and the conduct of the employés'--thus m. de launay, in his politeness, called the turnkeys and jailors. "'yes, monsieur; and these attentions paid to a prisoner have surprised me, i own.' "'the bed is hard and old, but yet it is one of the best; luxury being forbidden by our rules. your room, monsieur, is the best in the bastille; it has been occupied by the duc d'angoulême, by the marquis de bassompierre, and by the marshals de luxembourg and biron; it is here that i lodge the princes when his majesty does me the honour to send them to me.' "'it is an excellent lodging,' said gaston, smiling, 'though ill furnished; can i have some books, some paper, and pens?' "'books, monsieur, are strictly forbidden; but if you very much wish to read, as many things are allowed to a prisoner who is _ennuyé_, come and see me, then you can put in your pocket one of those volumes which my wife or i leave about; you will hide it from all eyes; on a second visit you will take the second volume, and to this abstraction we will close our eyes.' "'and paper, pens, ink?' said gaston. 'i wish most particularly to write.' "'no one writes here, monsieur; or, at least, only to the king, the regent, the minister, or to me; but they draw, and i can let you have drawing-paper and pencils.'" all of the above is the authenticated fact of history, as written records prove, but it is much better told by dumas, the novelist, than by most historians. still other evidence of the good things set before the guests at the "hôtel de la bastille" is shown by the following. if dumas drew the facts from historical records, all well and good; if they were menus composed by himself,--though unconventional ones, as all _bon vivants_ will know,--why, still all is well. "'a fifteen-franc boarder does not suffer, my lord,' said de baisemeaux.--'he suffers imprisonment, at all events.'--'no doubt, but his suffering is sweetened for him. you must admit this young fellow was not born to eat such things as he now has before him. a pasty; crayfish from the river marne--almost as big as lobsters; and a bottle of volnay.'" the potency of the bastille as a preventative, or, rather, a fit punishment for crime, has been nowhere more effectually set forth than by the letter which cagliostro wrote from london (in the "queen's necklace"). in this letter, after attacking king, queen, cardinal, and even m. de breteuil, cagliostro said: "yes, i repeat, now free after my imprisonment, there is no crime that would not be expiated by six months in the bastille. they ask me if i shall ever return to france. yes, i reply, when the bastille becomes a public promenade. you have all that is necessary to happiness, you frenchmen; a fertile soil and genial climate, good hearts, gay tempers, genius, and grace. you only want, my friends, one little thing--to feel sure of sleeping quietly in your beds when you are innocent." to-day "the bastille," as it is commonly known and referred to, meaning the place de la bastille, has become a public promenade, and its bygone terrors are but a memory. chapter xvi. the royal parks and palaces since the romances of dumas deal so largely with paris, it is but natural that much of their action should take place at the near-by country residences of the royalty and nobility who form the casts of these great series of historical tales. to-day fontainebleau, st. germain, versailles, and even chantilly, compiègne, and rambouillet are but mere attractions for the tourist of the butterfly order. the real parisian never visits them or their precincts, save as he rushes through their tree-lined avenues in an automobile; and thus they have all come to be regarded merely as monuments of splendid scenes, which have been played, and on which the curtain has been rung down. this is by no means the real case, and one has only to read dumas, and do the round of the parks and châteaux which environ paris, to revivify many of the scenes of which he writes. versailles is the most popular, fontainebleau the most grand, st. germain the most theatrical, rambouillet the most rural-like, and compiègne and chantilly the most delicate and dainty. still nearer to paris, and more under the influence of town life, were the châteaux of madrid in the bois de boulogne, and of vincennes, at the other extremity of the city. all these are quite in a class by themselves; though, of course, in a way, they performed the same functions when royalty was in residence, as the urban palaces. dumas' final appreciation of the charms of fontainebleau does not come till one reaches the last pages of "le vicomte de bragelonne." true, it was not until the period of which this romance deals with fontainebleau, its château, its _forêt_, and its fêtes, actually came to that prominence which to this day has never left them. when the king required to give his fête at fontainebleau, as we learn from dumas, and history, too, he required of fouquet four millions of francs, "in order to keep an open house for fifteen days," said he. how he got them, and with what result, is best read in the pages of the romance. "life at the palais royal having become somewhat tame, the king had directed that fontainebleau should be prepared for the reception of the court." here, then, took place the fêtes which were predicted, and dumas, with his usual directness and brilliance, has given us a marvellous description of the gaiety of court life, surrounded by the noble forest, over which artists and sentimentalists have ever rhapsodized. continuing, from the pages of dumas which immediately follow, one reads: "for four days, every kind of enchantment brought together in the magnificent gardens of fontainebleau, had converted this spot into a place of the most perfect enjoyment. m. colbert seemed gifted with ubiquity. in the morning, there were the accounts of the previous night's expenses to settle; during the day, programmes, essays, enlistments, payments. m. colbert had amassed four millions of francs, and dispersed them with a prudent economy. he was horrified at the expenses which mythology involved; every wood-nymph, every dryad, did not cost less than a hundred francs a day. the dresses alone amounted to three hundred francs. the expense of powder and sulphur for fireworks amounted, every night, to a hundred thousand francs. in addition to these, the illuminations on the borders of the sheet of water cost thirty thousand francs every evening. the fêtes had been magnificent; and colbert could not restrain his delight. from time to time he noticed madame and the king setting forth on hunting expeditions, or preparing for the reception of different fantastic personages, solemn ceremonials, which had been extemporized a fortnight before, and in which madame's sparkling wit and the king's magnificence were equally displayed." the "inn of the beautiful peacock," celebrated by dumas in "le vicomte de bragelonne," is not directly traceable to-day in the many neighbouring hostelries of fontainebleau. just what dumas had in mind is vague, though his description might apply to any house for travellers, wherever it may have been situated in this beautiful wildwood. it was to this inn of the "beau paon" that aramis repaired, after he had left fouquet and had donned the costume of the cavalier once more. "where," said dumas, "he (aramis) had, by letters previously sent, directed an apartment or a room to be retained for him. he chose the room, which was on the first floor, whereas the apartment was on the second." the description of the establishment given by dumas is as follows: "in the first place, let us supply our readers with a few details about the inn called the beau paon. it owed its name to its sign, which represented a peacock spreading out its tail. but, in imitation of some painters who had bestowed the face of a handsome young man upon the serpent which tempted eve, the painter of this sign had conferred upon the peacock the features of a woman. this inn, a living epigram against that half of the human race which renders existence delightful, was situated at fontainebleau, in the first turning on the left-hand side, which divides on the road from paris, that large artery which constitutes in itself along the entire town of fontainebleau. the side street in question was then known as the rue de lyon, doubtless because geographically it advanced in the direction of the second capital of the kingdom." lyons itself is treated by dumas at some length in "chicot the jester," particularly with reference to chicot's interception of the pope's messenger, who brought the documents which were to establish the duc de guise's priority as to rights to the throne of france. "the inn of the beau paon had its principal front toward the main street; but upon the rue de lyon there were two ranges of buildings, divided by courtyards, which comprised sets of apartments for the reception of all classes of travellers, whether on foot or on horseback, or even with their own carriages, and in which could be supplied, not only board and lodging, but also accommodation for exercise or opportunities of solitude for even the wealthiest courtiers, whenever, after having received some check at the court, they wished to shut themselves up with their own society, either to devour an affront or to brood over their revenge. from the windows of this part of the building the travellers could perceive, in the first place, the street with the grass growing between the stones, which were being gradually loosened by it; next, the beautiful hedges of elder and thorn, which embraced, as though within two green and flowering arms, the houses of which we have spoken; and then, in the spaces between those houses, forming the groundwork of the picture, and appearing like an almost impassable barrier, a line of thick trees, the advanced sentinels of the vast forest, which extends itself in front of fontainebleau." on the road to versailles, where the seine is crossed by the not beautiful pont de sèvres, is the little inn of the bridge of sèvres, in which the story of "la comtesse de charny" opens, and, indeed, in which all its early action takes place. the inn, or even its direct descendant, is not discernible to-day. the pont de sèvres is there, linking one of those thumblike peninsulas made by the windings of the seine with the bois de meudon, and the traffic inward and outward from paris is as great and varied as it always was, probably greater, but there is no inn to suggest that which dumas had in mind. the rural aspect is somewhat changed, the towering stacks of the china-factory chimneys, the still more towering--though distant--tour eiffel, which fortunately is soon to be razed, and the iron rails of the "ceinture" and the "quest," all tend to estrange one's sentiments from true romance. [illustration: inn of the pont de sÈvres] farther on to the westward lies versailles, with its theatrical, though splendid, _palais_ and _parc_, the trianons and les grandes eaux, beloved by the tourist and the parisian alike. still farther to the northward by the same road is the pretty town of st. germain-en-laye, with the remains of its château neuf, once the most splendid and gorgeous country residence of henri ii. and henri iv., continuing, also, in the favour of the court until the birth here of louis xiv. james ii. of england made his residence here after his exile. dumas' references to st. germain are largely found in "vingt ans après." it was near st. germain, too, that dumas set about erecting his famous "châtelet du monte cristo." in fact, he did erect it, on his usual extravagant ideas, but his tenure there was short-lived, and, altogether, it was not a creditable undertaking, as after-events proved. the gaiety of the life at st. germain departed suddenly, but it is said of dumas' life there, that he surrounded himself with a coterie which bespoke somewhat its former abandon and luxuriance. it was somewhat of a bohemian life that he lived there, no doubt, but it was not of the sordid or humble kind; it was most gorgeous and extravagant. of all the royal parks and palaces in the neighbourhood of paris, versailles has the most popularly sentimental interest. a whim of louis xiv., it was called by voltaire "an abyss of expense," and so it truly was, as all familiar with its history know. in the later volumes of dumas' "la comtesse de charnay," "the queen's necklace," and "the taking of the bastille," frequent mention is made but he does not write of it with the same affection that he does of fontainebleau or st. germain. the details which dumas presents in "the taking of the bastille" shows this full well. "at half-past ten, in ordinary times, every one in versailles would have been in bed and wrapped in the profoundest slumber; but that night no eye was closed at versailles. they had felt the counter-shock of the terrible concussion with which paris was still trembling. "the french guards, the body-guards, the swiss drawn up in platoons, and grouped near the openings of all the principal streets, were conversing among themselves, or with those of the citizens whose fidelity to the monarchy inspired them with confidence. "for versailles has, at all times, been a royalist city. religious respect for the monarchy, if not for the monarch, is engrafted in the hearts of its inhabitants, as if it were a quality of its soil. having always lived near kings, and fostered by their bounty, beneath the shade of their wonders--having always inhaled the intoxicating perfume of the _fleurs-de-lis_, and seen the brilliant gold of their garments, and the smiles upon their august lips, the inhabitants of versailles, for whom kings have built a city of marble and porphyry, feel almost kings themselves; and even at the present day, even now, when moss is growing around the marble, and grass is springing up between the slabs of the pavement, now that gold has almost disappeared from the wainscoting, and that the shady walks of the parks are more solitary than a graveyard, versailles must either belie its origin, or must consider itself as a fragment of the fallen monarchy, and no longer feeling the pride of power and wealth, must at least retain the poetical associations of regret, and the sovereign charms of melancholy. thus, as we have already stated, all versailles, in the night between the th and th july, , was confusedly agitated, anxious to ascertain how the king of france would reply to the insult offered to the throne, and the deadly wound inflicted on his power." versailles was one of the latest of the royal palaces, and since its birth, or at least since the days of "personally" and "non-conducted" tourists, has claimed, perhaps, even more than its share of popular favour. certainly it is a rare attraction, and its past has been in turn sad, gay, brilliant, and gloomy. event after event, some significant, others unimportant, but none mean or sordid, have taken place within its walls or amid its environment. dumas evidently did not rank its beauties very high,--and perhaps rightly,--for while it is a gorgeous fabric and its surroundings and appointments are likewise gorgeous, it palls unmistakably by reason of its sheer artificiality. dumas said much the same thing when he described it as "that world of automata, of statues, and boxwood forests, called versailles." much of the action of "the queen's necklace" takes place at versailles, and every line relating thereto is redolent of a first-hand observation on the part of the author. there is no scamping detail here, nor is there any excess of it. with the fourth chapter of the romance, when madame de la motte drove to versailles in her cabriolet, "built lightly, open, and fashionable, with high wheels, and a place behind for a servant to stand," begins the record of the various incidents of the story, which either took place at versailles or centred around it. "'where are we to go?' said weber, who had charge of madame's cabriolet.--'to versailles.'--'by the boulevards?'--'no.'... 'we are at versailles,' said the driver. 'where must i stop, ladies?'--'at the place d'armes.'" "at this moment," says dumas, in the romance, "our heroines heard the clock strike from the church of st. louis." dumas' descriptions of versailles are singularly complete, and without verboseness. at least, he suggests more of the splendours of that gay residence of the court than he actually defines, and puts into the mouths of his characters much that others would waste on mere descriptive matter. in the chapter headed vincennes, in "marguerite de valois," dumas gives a most graphic description of its one-time château-prison: "according to the order given by charles ix., henri was the same evening conducted to vincennes, that famous castle of which only a fragment now remains, but colossal enough to give an idea of its past grandeur. "at the postern of the prison they stopped. m. de nancey alighted from his horse, opened the gate closed with a padlock, and respectfully invited the king to follow him. henri obeyed without a word of reply. every abode seemed to him more safe than the louvre, and ten doors, closing on him at the same time, were between him and catherine de medici. "the royal prisoner crossed the drawbridge between two soldiers, passed the three doors on the ground floor and the three doors at the foot of the staircase, and then, still preceded by m. de nancey, went up one flight of stairs. arrived there, captain de nancey requested the king to follow him through a kind of corridor, at the extremity of which was a very large and gloomy chamber. "henri looked around him with considerable disquietude. "'where are we?' he inquired. "'in the chamber of torture, monseigneur.' "'ah, ah!' replied the king, looking at it attentively. "there was something of everything in this apartment: pitchers and trestles for the torture by water; wedges and mallets for the question of the boot; moreover, there were stone benches for the unhappy wretches who awaited the question, nearly all around the chamber; and above these seats, and to the seats themselves, and at the foot of these seats, were iron rings, mortised into the walls with no symmetry but that of the torturing art. "'ah, ah!' said henri, 'is this the way to my apartment?' "'yes, monseigneur, and here it is,' said a figure in the dark, who approached and then became distinguishable. "henri thought he recognized the voice, and, advancing toward the individual, said, 'ah, is it you, beaulieu? and what the devil do you do here?' "'sire, i have been nominated governor of the fortress of vincennes.' "'well, my dear sir, your début does you honour; a king for a prisoner is no bad commencement.' "'pardon me, sire, but before i received you i had already received two gentlemen.' "'who may they be? ah! your pardon; perhaps i commit an indiscretion.' "'monseigneur, i have not been bound to secrecy. they are m. de la mole and m. de coconnas.' "'poor gentlemen! and where are they?' "'high up, in the fourth floor.' "henri gave a sigh. it was there he wished to be. "'now, then, m. de beaulieu,' said henri, 'have the kindness to show me my chamber. i am desirous of reaching it, as i am very much fatigued with my day's toil.' "'here, monseigneur,' said beaulieu, showing henri an open door. "'no. !' said henri. 'and why not no. ?' "'because it is reserved, monseigneur.' "'ah! that is another thing,' said henri, and he became even more pensive. "he wondered who was to occupy no. . "the governor, with a thousand apologies, installed henri in his apartment, made many excuses for his deficiencies, and, placing two soldiers at the door, retired. "'now,' said the governor, addressing the turnkey, 'let us visit the others.'" * * * * * the present aspect of st. germain-en-laye is hardly what it was in the days of which dumas wrote in "marguerite de valois" or in "vingt ans après." le bois or le forêt looks to-day in parts, at least--much as it did in the days when royalty hunted its domain, and the glorious façade château has endured well. beyond this, the romance and history have well-nigh evaporated into air. the whole neighbourhood is quite given over to a holiday, pleasure-making crowd, which, though it is typically french, and therefore interesting, is little in keeping with the splendid scenes of its past. to-day peasants from brittany, heavily booted cavalry and artillery, _ouvriers_, children and nursemaids, and _touristes_ of all nationalities throng the _allées_ of the forest and the corridors of the château, where once royalty and its retainers held forth. vesinet, on the road from paris to st. germain,--just before one reaches pecq, and the twentieth-century _chemin-de-fer_ begins to climb that long, inclined viaduct, which crosses the seine and rises ultimately to the platform on which sits the vieux château,--was a favourite hawking-ground of charles ix. indeed, it was here that that monarch was warned of "a fresh calumny against his poor harry" (henri de navarre), as one reads in the pages of "marguerite de valois." a further description follows of charles' celebrated falcon, bec de fer, which is assuredly one of the most extraordinary descriptions of a hunting-scene extant in the written page of romance. much hunting took place in all of dumas' romances, and the near-by forests of france, _i. e._, near either to paris or to the royal residences elsewhere, were the scenes of many gay meetings, where the stag, the boar, the _cerf_, and all manner of footed beasts and winged fowl were hunted in pure sport; though, after all, it is not recorded that it was as brutal a variety as the _battues_ of the present day. st. germain, its château and its _forêt_, enters once and again, and again, into both the valois series and the mousquetaire romances. of all the royal, suburban palaces, none have been more admired and loved for its splendid appointments and the splendid functions which have taken place there, than st. germain. it had early come into favour as the residence of the french kings, the existing chapel being the foundation of st. louis, while the château neuf was built mainly by henri ii. to-day but a solitary _pavillon_--that known as henri iv.--remains, while the vieux château, as it was formerly known, is to-day acknowledged as _the_ château. the most significant incident laid here by dumas, is that of the flight of anne of austria, louis xiv., and the court, from paris to the château of st. germain. this plan was amplified, according to dumas, and furthered by d'artagnan and athos; and since it is an acknowledged fact of history, this points once again to the worth of the historical romance from an exceedingly edifying view-point. at the time of the flight louis was but a mere boy, and it may be recalled here that he was born at st. germain in . the architectural glories of st. germain are hardly so great as to warrant comparison with versailles, to which louis subsequently removed his court; indeed, the château neuf, with the exception of the _pavillon_ before mentioned, is not even a dignified ruin, being but scattered piles of débris, which, since , when the structure was razed, have been left lying about in most desultory fashion. the vieux château was made use of by the great napoleon as a sort of a barracks, and again as a prison, but has since been restored according to the original plans of the architect ducercen, who, under françois i., was to have carried it to completion. once st. germain was the home of royalty and all the gaiety of the court life of the louis, and once again it was on the eve of becoming the fashionable paris suburb, but now it is the resort of "trippers," and its château, or what was left of it after the vandalism of the eighteenth century, is a sad ruin, though the view from its heights is as lovely as ever--that portion which remains being but an aggravation, when one recalls the glories that once were. save the vieux château, all that is left is the lovely view. paris-wards one sees a panorama--a veritable _vol-d'oiseaux_--of the slender, silvery loops of the seine as it bends around port marly, argenteuil, courbevoie, st. denis, and st. cloud; while in the dimmest of the dim distance the eiffel tower looms all its ugliness up into the sky, and the domed heights of montmartre and the buttes chaumont look really beautiful--which they do not on closer view. the height of st. germain itself--the _ville_ and the château--is not so very great, and it certainly is not giddy, which most of its frequenters, for one reason or another, are; but its miserable _pavé_ is the curse of all automobilists, and the sinuous road which ascends from the pont du pecq is now "rushed," up and down, by motor-cars, to the joy of the native, when one gets stalled, as they frequently do, and to the danger to life and limb of all other road-users and passers-by. * * * * * in all of the valois cycle, "_la chasse_" plays an important part in the pleasure of the court and the noblesse. the forests in the neighbourhood of paris are numerous and noted. [illustration: forÊt de villers-cotterets] [illustration: bois de vincennes] [illustration: bois de boulogne] at villers-cotterets, dumas' birthplace, is the forêt de villers-cotterets, a dependence of the valois establishment at crépy. bondy, fontainebleau, st. germain, vincennes, and rambouillet are all mentioned, and are too familiar to even casual travellers to warrant the inclusion of detailed description here. next to fontainebleau, whose present-day fame rests with the artists of the barbizon school, who have perpetuated its rocks and trees, and st. germain, which is mostly revered for the past splendour of its château, rambouillet most frequently comes to mind. even republican france has its national hunt yearly, at rambouillet, and visiting monarchs are invariably expected to partake in the shooting. rambouillet, the _hameau_ and the _forêt_, was anciently under the feudal authority of the comtes de montford, afterward ( ) under regnault d'augennes, capitaine du louvre under charles vi., and still later under jacques d'augennes, capitaine du château de rambouillet in . louis xvi. purchased the château for one of his residences, and napoleon iii., as well as his more illustrious namesake, was specially fond of hunting in its forests. since the château and the forest have been under the domination of the state. there is a chapter in dumas' "the regent's daughter," entitled "a room in the hotel at rambouillet," which gives some little detail respecting the town and the forest. there is no hotel in rambouillet to-day known as the "royal tiger," though there is a "golden lion." "ten minutes later the carriage stopped at the tigre-royal. a woman, who was waiting, came out hastily, and respectfully assisted the ladies to alight, and then guided them through the passages of the hotel, preceded by a valet carrying lights. "a door opened, madame desroches drew back to allow hélène and sister thêrèse to pass and they soon found themselves on a soft and easy sofa, in front of a bright fire. "the room was large and well furnished, but the taste was severe, for the style called rococo was not yet introduced. there were four doors; the first was that by which they had entered--the second led to the dining-room, which was already lighted and warmed--the third led into a richly appointed bedroom--the fourth did not open.... "while the things which we have related were passing in the parlour of the hôtel tigre-royal, in another apartment of the same hotel, seated near a large fire, was a man shaking the snow from his boots, and untying the strings of a large portfolio. this man was dressed in the hunting livery of the house of orleans; the coat red and silver, large boots, and a three-cornered hat, trimmed with silver. he had a quick eye, a long, pointed nose, a round and open forehead, which was contradicted by thin and compressed lips." * * * * * compiègne, like crépy-en-valois, dammartin, villers-cotterets, and other of the towns and villages of the district, which in the fourteenth century belonged to the younger branch of the royal house, enter largely into the romances of dumas, as was but natural, seeing that this region was the land of his birth. the most elaborate and purely descriptive parts are found in "the wolf leader," wherein are presented so many pictures of the forest life of the region, and in "the taking of the bastille," in that part which describes the journey of ange pitou to paris. crépy, compiègne, senlis, pierrefonds, are still more celebrated in dumas' writings for glorious and splendid achievements--as they are with respect to the actual fact of history, and the imposing architectural monuments which still remain to illustrate the conditions under which life endured in mediæval times. at crépy, now a sleepy old-world village, is still seen the establishment of the valois of which dumas wrote; and another _grande maison_ of the valois was at villers-cotterets--a still more somnolent reminder of the past. at compiègne, only, with its magnificent hôtel de ville, does one find the activities of a modern-day life and energy. here in strange juxtaposition with a remarkably interesting and picturesque church, and the dainty renaissance hôtel de ville, with its _jacquemart_, its belfry, its pointed gable, and its ornate façade, is found a blend of past and present, which combines to produce one of those transformations or stage-settings which throughout france are so often met with and admired. no more charming _petite ville_ exists in all france than compiègne, one of the most favoured of all the country residences of the kings of france. the château seen to-day was an erection of louis xv. le forêt de compiègne is as beautiful and unspoiled as any, and is, moreover, not overrun with tourists and trippers, as is fontainebleau. [illustration: chÂteau of the ducs de valois, crÉpy] its area approximates , acres, and its circumference sixty miles. in short, the whole domain forms a charming and delightful place of retreat, which must have been duly appreciated during the troublous times of louis' reign. it was here, in the forêt de compiègne, that the great hunting was held, which is treated in "chicot the jester." the bois de vincennes was a famous duelling-ground--and is to-day, _sub rosa_. it was here that louis de franchi, in the "corsican brothers," who forewarned of his fate, died in the duel with rené de chateaurien, just as he had predicted; at exactly "_neuf heures dix_." this park is by no means the rival of the bois de boulogne in the affections of the parisian public, but it is a wide expanse of tree-covered park land, and possesses all the characteristics of the other suburban _forêts_ which surround paris on all sides. it has, moreover, a château, a former retreat or country residence of the kings of france, though to-day it has been made over to the ministry of war, whereas the château de madrid, the former possession of the bois de boulogne, has disappeared. the château de vincennes is not one of the sights of paris. for a fact, it is quite inaccessible, being surrounded by the ramparts of the fort de vincennes, and therefore forbidden to the inquisitive. it was here in the château de vincennes that charles ix. died a lingering death, "by the poison prepared for another," as dumas has it in "marguerite de valois." among the many illustrious prisoners of the château de vincennes have been the king of navarre ( ), condé ( ), cardinal de retz ( ), fouquet ( ), mirabeau ( ), the duc d'enghien ( ), and many others, most of whom have lived and breathed in dumas' pages, in the same parts which they played in real life. chapter xvii. the french provinces dumas' acquaintance with the french provinces was very comprehensive, though it is of the region northeast of paris that he was most fond; of the beloved forest region around crépy and villers-cotterets; the road to calais, and picardie and flanders. dumas was ever fond of, and familiar with, the road from paris to calais. the national route ran through crépy, and the byroad through his native villers-cotterets. in the "vicomte de bragelonne," he calls the region "the land of god," a sentiment which mostly has not been endorsed by other writers; still, it is a beautiful country, and with its thickly wooded plantations, its industrious though conglomerate population, it is to-day--save for the cantal and the auvergne--that part of france of which english-speaking folk know the least. and this, too, on the direct road between london and paris! dumas, in the above-mentioned book, describes the journey through this region which was made by buckingham and de wardes. "arriving at calais, at the end of the sixth day, they chartered a boat for the purpose of joining the yacht that was to convey them to england, and which was then tacking about in full view." the old port of calais must have been made use of by the personages of whom dumas wrote, who trafficked forth between england and france. calais has ever been the most important terminus of cross-channel traffic, and there be those who know, who say that the boat service is not improved in comfort in all these ages, and certainly calais, which most english travellers know only by fleeting glimpses, might with profit be visited more frequently, if only to follow in the wake of sterne's sentimental footsteps. the old port, of course, exists no more; new dykes, breakwaters, and the _gare maritime_ have taken the place of the ancient landing-places, where royalties and others used to embark in frail sailing-vessels for the english ports across the channel. the old belfry still exists, and forms a beacon by day, at least, much as it did of yore. by night the new electric-light flashes its beams twenty odd miles across the channel on dover cliff, in a way which would have astonished our forefathers in the days gone by. it was at calais, too, that was enacted the final scene in the life of mary stuart in france. the misfortunes of mary stuart formed the subject of one of the series of "les crimes célèbres." in the opening words of this chapter, dumas has said, "of all the names predestined to misfortune in france, it is the name of henri. henri i. was poisoned, henri ii. was killed (maliciously, so some one has said) in a tournament, henri iii. and henri iv. were assassinated." in scotland it is the name of stuart. the chronicle concerns france only with respect to the farewell of mary, after having lost her mother and her spouse in the same year ( ). she journeyed to scotland by calais, accompanied by the cardinals de guise and de lorraine, her uncles, by the duc and duchesse de guise, the duc d'aumale, and m. de nemours. here took place that heartrending farewell, which poets and painters, as well as historians and novelists, have done so much to perpetuate. "adieu, france!" she sobbed. "adieu, france!" and for five hours she continued to weep and sob, "adieu, france! adieu, france!" for the rest, the well-known historical figures are made use of by dumas,--darnley, rizzio, huntley, and hamilton,--but the action does not, of course, return to france. not far south of calais is arras, whence came the robespierre who was to set france aflame. "the ancestors of the robespierres," says dumas, "formed a part of those irish colonists who came to france to inhabit our seminaries and monasteries. there they received from the jesuits the good educations they were accustomed to give to their pupils. from father to son they were notaries; one branch of the family, that from which this great man descends, established himself at arras, a great centre, as you know, of noblesse and the church. "there were in this town two _seigneurs_, or, rather, two kings; one was the abbé of st. waast, the other was the bishop of arras, whose palace threw one-half the town into shade." the former palace of the bishop of arras is to-day the local _musée_. it is an extensive establishment, and it flanks an atrocious renaissance cathedral of no appealing charm whatever, and, indeed, the one-time bishop's palace does not look as though it was ever a very splendid establishment. still farther to the southward of calais is the feudal castle of pierrefonds, so beloved of porthos in "vingt ans après." it is, and has ever been since its erection in by louis d'orleans, the brother of charles vi., one of the most highly impregnable and luxurious châteaux of all france. [illustration: castle of pierrefonds] four times it was unsuccessfully besieged, and came finally, in , to be dismantled. the great napoleon purchased it after the revolution, and finally, through the liberality of napoleon iii.,--one of the few acts which redound to his credit,--it was restored, by viollet-le-duc, at a cost of over five million francs. in "pauline," that fragment which dumas extracted from one of his "impressions du voyage," the author comes down to modern times, and gives us, as he does in his journals of travel, his "mémoires," and others of his lighter pieces of fiction, many charming pen-portraits of localities familiar not only to his pen, but to his personal experiences. he draws in "pauline" a delightful picture of the old fishing-village of trouville--before it became a resort of fashion. in his own words he describes it as follows: "i took the steamer from havre, and two hours later was at honfleur; the next morning i was at trouville." to-day the fly-by-day tourist does the whole journey in a couple of hours--if he does not linger over the attractions of "les petits chevaux" or "trente et quarante," at honfleur's pretty casino. "you know the little town with its population of fisher-folk. it is one of the most picturesque in normandy. i stayed there a few days, exploring the neighbourhood, and in the evening i used to sit in the chimney-corner with my worthy hostess, madame oseraie. there i heard strange tales of adventures which had been enacted in calvados, loiret, and la manche." continuing, the author, evidently having become imbued with the local colour of the vicinity, describes, more or less superficially, perhaps, but still with vividness, if not minuteness, those treasure-chests of history, the towns and villages of normandy:--caen, lisieux, falaise, the cradle of the conqueror william, "the fertile plains" around pont audemer, havre, and alençon. normandy, too, was the _locale_ of the early life of gabriel lambert, the unappealing leading-man of that dramatic story of a counterfeiter's life, which bears the same title. dumas' first acquaintance with the character in real life,--if he had any real personality, as one is inclined to think he had,--was at toulon, where the unfortunate man was imprisoned and made to work in the galleys. in the course of the narrative the scene shifts from prisons, galleys, and chain-gangs, backward and forward, until we get the whole gamut of the criminal's life. gabriel, in the days of his early life at trouville, had acquired the art of skilled penmanship, and used it wherever he could for his own advantage, by fabricating the handwriting of others--and some honest work of a similar nature. finally the call of paris came strong upon him, and he set forth by pont l'evêque and rouen to the metropolis, where his downfall was speedily consummated, to the sorrow and resentment of his old friends of the little norman fishing-village, and more particularly to marie granger, his country sweetheart, who longed to follow him to paris, not suspecting the actual turn affairs had taken. in "the count of monte cristo," dumas again evinces his fondness for, and acquaintance with, the coast of normandy. it is a brief reference, to be sure, but it shows that dumas had some considerable liking for the sea, and a more or less minute knowledge of the coast of france. this is further evinced by the details into which he launches once and again, with reference to the littoral of the mediterranean, belle ile, and its surroundings, and the coasts of normandy, brittany, and the pas de calais. in "the count of monte cristo," dantès says to his companion, bertuccio: "'i am desirous of having an estate by the seaside in normandy--for instance, between havre and boulogne. you see, i give you a wide range. it will be absolutely necessary that the place you may select have a small harbour, creek, or bay, into which my vessel can enter and remain at anchor. she merely draws fifteen feet water. she must be kept in constant readiness to sail immediately i think proper to give the signal. make the requisite inquiries for a place of this description, and when you have met with an eligible spot, visit it, and if it possess the advantages desired, purchase it at once in your own name. the corvette must now, i think, be on her way to fécamp, must she not?'" with brittany, dumas is quite as familiar. in "le vicomte de bragelonne," he gives minute, though not wearisome, details of belle ile and the breton coast around about. aramis, it seems, had acquired belle ile, and had risen to high ecclesiastical rank, making his home thereon. [illustration: nÔtre dame de chartres] dumas' love and knowledge of gastronomy comes to the fore again here. when d'artagnan undertook his famous journey to belle ile, on the coast of brittany, as messenger of louis xiv., whom he called his sun, after he had bought that snuff-coloured _bidet_ which would have disgraced a corporal, and after he had shortened his name to agnan,--to complete his disguise,--he put in one night at la roche-bernard, "a tolerably important city at the mouth of the vilaine, and prepared to sup at a hotel." and he did sup; "off a teal and a _torteau_, and in order to wash down these two distinctive breton dishes, ordered some cider, which, the moment it touched his lips, he perceived to be more breton still." on the route from paris to the mouth of the loire, where d'artagnan departed for belle ile, is chartres. its cathedral de nôtre dame has not often appeared in fiction. in history and books of travel, and of artistic and archæological interest, its past has been vigorously played. dumas, in "la dame de monsoreau," has revived the miraculous legend which tradition has preserved. it recounts a ceremony which many will consider ludicrous, and yet others sacrilegious. dumas describes it thus: "the month of april had arrived. the great cathedral of chartres was hung with white, and the king was standing barefooted in the nave. the religious ceremonies, which were for the purpose of praying for an heir to the throne of france, were just finishing, when henri, in the midst of the general silence, heard what seemed to him a stifled laugh. he turned around to see if chicot were there, for he thought no one else would have dared to laugh at such a time. it was not, however, chicot who had laughed at the sight of the two chemises of the holy virgin, which were said to have such a prolific power, and which were just being drawn from their golden box; but it was a cavalier who had just stopped at the door of the church, and who was making his way with his muddy boots through the crowd of courtiers in their penitents' robes and sacks. seeing the king turn, he stopped for a moment, and henri, irritated at seeing him arrive thus, threw an angry glance at him. the newcomer, however, continued to advance until he reached the velvet chair of m. le duc d'anjou, by which he knelt down." * * * * * but a step from chartres, on the loire,--though orleans, the "city of the maid," comes between,--is blois. in "le vicomte de bragelonne," the last of the d'artagnan series, the action comes down to later times, to that of the young king louis xiv. in its opening lines its scene is laid in that wonderfully ornate and impressive château of blois, which so many have used as a background for all manner of writing. dumas, with his usual directness, wasting no words on mere description, and only considering it as an accessory to his romance, refers briefly to this magnificent building--the combined product of the houses whose arms bore the hedgehog and the salamander. "toward the middle of the month of may, , when the sun was fast absorbing the dew from the _ravenelles_ of the château of blois, a little cavalcade entered the city by the bridge, without producing any effect upon the passengers of the quai-side, except a movement of the tongue to express, in the purest french then spoken in france (touraine has ever spoken the purest tongue, as all know), 'there is monsieur returning from the hunt.'... it should have been a trifling source of pride to the city of blois that gaston of orleans had chosen it as his residence, and held his court in the ancient château of its states." it was in the castle of the states of blois that louis xiv. received that unexpected visit from "his majesty charles ii., king of england, scotland, and ireland," of which dumas writes in the second of the d'artagnan series. "'how strange it is you are here,' said louis. 'i only knew of your embarkation at brighthelmstone, and your landing in normandy.'... "blois was peaceful that morning of the royal arrival, at which announcement it was suddenly filled with all the tumult and the buzzing of a swarm of bees. in the lower city, scarce a hundred paces from the castle, is a sufficiently handsome street called the rue vieille, and an old and venerable edifice which, tradition says, was habited by a councillor of state, to whom queen catherine came, some say to visit and others to strangle." not alone is blois reminiscent of "les mousquetaires," but the numberless references in the series to langeais, chambord,--the châteaux and their domains,--bring to mind more forcibly than by innuendo merely that dumas himself must have had some great fondness for what has come to be the touring-ground of france _par excellence_. from "le vicomte de bragelonne," one quotes these few lines which, significantly, suggest much: "do you not remember, montalais, the woods of chaverney, and of chambord, and the numberless poplars of blois?" this describes the country concisely, but explicitly. beyond blois, beyond even tours, which is blois' next neighbour, passing down the loire, is angers. [illustration: castle of angers--chÂteau of blois] in "la dame de monsoreau," more commonly known in english translations as "chicot the jester," much of the scene is laid in anjou. to angers, with its wonderful fairylike castle, with its seventeen black-banded towers (recalling, also, that this is the "black angers" of shakespeare's "king john"), repaired the duc d'anjou, the brother of charles ix. and henri iii., who then reigned at paris. to this "secret residence" the duc came. dumas puts it thus: "'gentlemen!' cried the duke, 'i have come to throw myself into my good city of angers. at paris the most terrible dangers have menaced my life.'... the people then cried out, 'long live our seigneur!'" bussy, who had made the way clear for the duc, lived, says dumas, "in a tumble-down old house near the ramparts." the ducal palace was actually outside the castle walls, but the frowning battlement was relied upon to shelter royalty when occasion required, the suite quartering themselves in the gothic château, which is still to be seen in the débris-cluttered lumber-yard, to which the interior of the fortress has to-day descended. in other respects than the shocking care, or, rather, the lack of care, which is given to its interior, the castle of angers, with its battalion of _tours_, now without their turrets, its deep, machicolated walls, and its now dry _fosse_, presents in every way an awe-inspiring stronghold. beyond angers, toward the sea, is nantes, famous for the edict, and, in "the regent's daughter" of dumas, the massacre of the four breton conspirators. gaston, the hero of the tale, had ridden posthaste from paris to save his fellows. he was preceded, by two hours, by the order for their execution, and the reprieve which he held would be valueless did he arrive too late. "on reaching the gates of nantes his horse stumbled, but gaston did not lose his stirrups, pulled him up sharply, and, driving the spurs into his sides, he made him recover himself. "the night was dark, no one appeared upon the ramparts, the very sentinels were hidden in the gloom; it seemed like a deserted city. "but as he passed the gate a sentinel said something which gaston did not even hear. "he held on his way. "at the rue du château his horse stumbled and fell, this time to rise no more. "what mattered it to gaston now?--he had arrived.... "he passed right through the castle, when he perceived the esplanade, a scaffold, and a crowd. he tried to cry, but no one heard him; to wave his handkerchief, but no one saw him.... another mounts the scaffold, and, uttering a cry, gaston threw himself down below.... four men died who might have been saved had gaston but arrived five minutes before, and, by a remarkable contretemps, gaston himself shared the same fate." in "the regent's daughter," dumas describes the journey to nantes with great preciseness, though with no excess of detail. the third chapter opens thus: "three nights after that on which we have seen the regent, first at chelles, and then at meudon, a scene passed in the environs of nantes which cannot be omitted in this history; we will therefore exercise our privilege of transporting the reader to that place. "on the road to clisson, two or three miles from nantes,--near the convent known as the residence of abelard,--was a large dark house, surrounded by thick, stunted trees; hedges everywhere surrounded the enclosure outside the walls, hedges impervious to the sight, and only interrupted by a wicket gate. "this gate led into a garden, at the end of which was a wall, having a small, massive, and closed door. from a distance this grave and dismal residence appeared like a prison; it was, however, a convent, full of young augustines, subject to a rule lenient as compared with provincial customs, but rigid as compared with those of paris. "the house was inaccessible on three sides, but the fourth, which did not face the road, abutted on a large sheet of water; and ten feet above its surface were the windows of the refectory. "this little lake was carefully guarded, and was surrounded by high wooden palisades. a single iron gate opened into it, and at the same time gave a passage to the waters of a small rivulet which fed the lake, and the water had egress at the opposite end." from this point on, the action of "the regent's daughter" runs riotously rapid, until it finally culminates, so far as nantes is concerned, in the quintuple execution before the château, brought about by the five minutes' delay of gaston with the reprieve. * * * * * dumas' knowledge of and love of the mediterranean was great, and he knew its western shores intimately. in he resolved to visit all the shores of the mediterranean in a yacht, which he had had specially built for the purpose, called the _emma_. he arrived in sicily, however, at the moment of the garibaldian struggle against the king of italy, with the result that the heroic elements of that event so appealed to him, that he forewent the other more tranquil pleasure of continuing his voyage, and went over to the mainland. in "the count of monte cristo" is given one of dumas' best bits of descriptive writing. at any rate, it describes one of the aspects of the brilliantly blue mediterranean, which is only comparable to one's personal contemplation of its charms. it is apropos of the voyage to the island of monte cristo--which lies between elba and corsica, and has become fabled in the minds of present-day readers solely by dumas' efforts--that he wrote the following: "it was about six o'clock in the evening; an opal-coloured light, through which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, descended on the blue sea. the heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze arose, seeming like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning siesta of the south; a delicious zephyr played along the coasts of the mediterranean, and wafted from shore to shore the sweet perfume of plants, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea. "a light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from gibraltar to the dardanelles, and from tunis to venice. the motion resembled that of a swan with its wings opened toward the wind, gliding on the water. it advanced, at the same time, swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a glittering track. by degrees the sun disappeared behind the western horizon; but, as though to prove the truth of the fanciful ideas in heathen mythology, its indiscreet rays reappeared on the summit of each wave, seeming to reveal that the god of fire had just enfolded himself in the bosom of amphitrite, who in vain endeavoured to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle." of the island of monte cristo itself, dumas' description is equally gratifying. in the earlier chapters he gives it thus: "the isle of monte cristo loomed large in the horizon.... they were just abreast of mareciana, and beyond the flat but verdant isle of la pianosa. the peak of monte cristo, reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky.... about five o'clock in the evening the island was quite distinct, and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that clearness of the atmosphere which is peculiar to the light which the rays of the sun cast at its setting. "edmond gazed most earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the variety of twilight colours, from the brightest pink to the deepest blue; and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow became purple, and a mist passed over his eyes.... in spite of his usual command over himself, dantès could not restrain his impetuosity. he was the first who jumped on shore; and had he dared, he would, like lucius brutus, have 'kissed his mother earth.' it was dark, but at eleven o'clock the moon rose in the midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then, 'ascending high,' played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills of this second pelion. "the island was familiar to the crew of _la jeune amélie_--it was one of her halting-places. as to dantès, he had passed it on his voyages to and from the levant, but never touched at it." it is unquestionable that "the count of monte cristo" is the most popular and the best known of all dumas' works. there is a deal of action, of personality and characterization, and, above all, an ever-shifting panorama, which extends from the boulevards of marseilles to the faubourgs of paris, and from the island château d'if to the equally melancholy _allées_ of père la chaise, which m. de villefort, a true parisian, considered alone worthy of receiving the remains of a parisian family, as it was there only that they would be surrounded by worthy associates. all travellers for the east, _via_ the mediterranean, know well the ancient phoenician port of marseilles. one does not need even the words of dumas to recall its picturesqueness and importance--to-day as in ages past. still, the opening lines of "the count of monte cristo" do form a word-picture which few have equalled in the pages of romance; and there is not a word too much; nothing superfluous or extraneous. "on the th of february, , the watchtower of notre dame de la garde signalled the three-master, the _pharaon_, from smyrna, trieste, and naples. "as usual, a pilot put off immediately, and, rounding the château d'if, got on board the vessel between cape morgion and the isle of rion. "immediately, and according to custom, the platform of fort saint-jean was covered with lookers-on; it is always an event at marseilles for a ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the _pharaon_, had been built, rigged, and laden on the stocks of the old phocée, and belonged to an owner of the city. "the ship drew on: it had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic shock has made between the isle of calasareigne and the isle of jaros; had doubled pomègue, and approached the harbour under topsails, jib, and foresail, but so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which misfortune sends before it, asked one another what misfortune could have happened on board. however, those experienced in navigation saw plainly that, if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself, for she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully handled, the anchor ready to be dropped, the bowsprit-shrouds loose, and, beside the pilot, who was steering the _pharaon_ by the narrow entrance of the port marseilles, was a young man, who, with activity and vigilant eye, watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each direction of the pilot. "the vague disquietude which prevailed amongst the spectators had so much affected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the vessel in harbour, but, jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled alongside the _pharaon_, which he reached as she rounded the creek of la réserve." the process of coming into harbour at marseilles does not differ greatly to-day from the description given by dumas. new harbour works have been constructed, and sailing-ships have mostly given way to great steamers, but the channel winds and twists as of old under the lofty brow, capped by the sailors' church of notre dame de la garde, which is to-day a tawdry, bizarre shrine, as compared with the motive which inspired the devout to ascend its heights to pray for those who go down to the sea in ships. marseilles, of all cities of france, more even than bordeaux or lyons, is possessed of that individuality which stands out strong on the background of france--the land and the nation. in the commercial world its importance gives it a high rank, and its _affaires_ are regulated by no clues sent each morning by post or by telegraph from the world's other marts of trade. it has, moreover, in the canebière, one of the truly great streets of the world. dumas remarked it, and so, too, have many others, who know its gay cosmopolitan aspect at all the hours of day and night. from "the count of monte cristo," the following lines describe it justly and truly, and in a way that fits it admirably, in spite of the fact that dumas wrote of it as it was a hundred years ago: "the young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern, desiring to be put ashore at the canebière. the two rowers bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly as possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the narrow way which leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of the harbour to the quai d'orléans. "the ship-owner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him spring out on the quai and disappear in the midst of the throng, which, from five o'clock in the morning until nine o'clock at night, choke up this famous street of la canebière, of which the modern phocéens are so proud, and say, with all the gravity in the world, and with that accent which gives so much character to what is said, 'if paris had la canebière, paris would be a second marseilles.'" the château d'if, far more than the island of monte cristo itself, is the _locale_ which is mostly recalled with regard to the romance of "monte cristo." dumas has, of course, made melodramatic use of it; in fact, it seems almost as if he had built the romance around its own restricted _pied à terre_, but, nevertheless, it is the one element which we are pleased to call up as representative of the story when mention is made thereof. not a line, not a word, is misplaced in the chapters in which dumas treats of dantès' incarceration in his island prison. description does not crowd upon action or characterization, nor the reverse. "through the grating of the window of the carriage, dantès saw they were passing through the rue caisserie, and by the quai st. laurent and the rue taramis, to the port. they advanced toward a boat which a custom-house officer held by a chain near the quai. a shove sent the boat adrift, and the oarsman plied it rapidly toward the pilon. at a shout the chain that closes the port was lowered, and in a second they were outside the harbour.... they had passed the tête de more, and were now in front of the lighthouse and about to double the battery.... they had left the isle ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the right, and were now opposite the point des catalans. "'tell me where you are conducting me?' asked dantès of his guard. "'you are a native of marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know where you are going?' "'on my honour, i have no idea.' "'that is impossible.' "'i swear to you it is true. tell me, i entreat.' "'but my orders.' "'your orders do not forbid your telling me what i must know in ten minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. you see, i cannot escape, even if i intended.' "'unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbour, you must know.' "'i do not.' "'look around you, then.' dantès rose and looked forward, when he saw rise within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which stands the château d'if. this gloomy fortress, which has for more than three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to dantès like a scaffold to a malefactor. "'the château d'if?' cried he. 'what are we going there for?' the gendarme smiled. "'i am not going there to be imprisoned,' said dantès; 'it is only used for political prisoners. i have committed no crime. are there any magistrates or judges at the château d'if?' "'there are only,' said the gendarme, 'a governor, a garrison, turnkeys, and good thick walls. come, come, do not look so astonished, or you will make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good nature.' dantès pressed the gendarme's hand as though he would crush it. "'you think, then,' said he, 'that i am conducted to the château to be imprisoned there?' "'it is probable.'" the details of dantès' horrible confinement, at first in an upper cell, and later in a lower dungeon, where, as "no. ," he became the neighbour of the old abbé faria, "no. ," are well known of all lovers of dumas. the author does not weary one, and there are no lengthy descriptions dragged in to merely fill space. when dantès finally escapes from the château, after he had been imprisoned for fourteen years, dumas again launches into that concise, direct word-painting which proclaims him the master. "it was necessary for dantès to strike out to sea. ratonneau and pomègue are the nearest isles of all those that surround the château d'if; but ratonneau and pomègue are inhabited, together with the islet of daume; tiboulen or lemaire were the most secure. the isles of tiboulen and lemaire are a league from the château d'if.... "before him rose a mass of strangely formed rocks, that resembled nothing so much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent combustion. it was the isle of tiboulen.... "as he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed as if the whole of the heavens were opened, illumined the darkness. by its light, he saw the isle of lemaire and cape croiselle, a quarter of a league distant." in "the count of monte cristo," dumas makes a little journey up the valley of the rhône into provence. in the chapter entitled "the auberge of the pont du gard," he writes, in manner unmistakably familiar, of this land of the troubadours, the roses, and the beautiful women; for the women of arles--those world-famous arlesiennes--are the peers, in looks, of all the women of france. dumas writes of beaucaire, of bellegarde, of arles, and of aigues-mortes, but not very affectionately; indeed, he seems to think all provence "an arid, sterile lake," but he comes out strong on the beauty of the women of arles, and marvels how they can live in the vicinity of the devastating fevers of the camargue. the auberge of the pont du garde itself--the establishment kept by the old tailor, caderousse, whom dantès sought out after his escape from the château d'if--the author describes thus: "such of my readers as have made a pedestrian excursion to the south of france may perchance have noticed, midway between the town of beaucaire and the village of bellegarde, a small roadside inn, from the front of which hung, creaking and flapping in the wind, a sheet of tin covered with a caricature resemblance of the pont du gard. this modern place of entertainment stood on the left-hand side of the grand route, turning its back upon the rhône. it also boasted of what in languedoc is styled a garden, consisting of a small plot of ground, a full view of which might be obtained from a door immediately opposite the grand portal by which travellers were ushered in to partake of the hospitality of mine host of the pont du gard. this plaisance or garden, scorched up beneath the ardent sun of a latitude of thirty degrees, permitted nothing to thrive or scarcely live in its arid soil. a few dingy olives and stunted fig-trees struggled hard for existence, but their withered, dusty foliage abundantly proved how unequal was the conflict. between these sickly shrubs grew a scanty supply of garlic, tomatoes, and eschalots; while, lone and solitary, like a forgotten sentinel, a tall pine raised its melancholy head in one of the corners of this unattractive spot, and displayed its flexible stem and fan-shaped summit dried and cracked by the withering influence of the mistral, that scourge of provence." the great fair of beaucaire was, and is,--though beaucaire has become a decrepit, tumble-down river town on the rhône, with a ruined castle as its chief attraction,--renowned throughout france. it was here that the head of the house of morrel, fearing lest the report of his financial distress should get bruited abroad at marseilles, came to sell his wife's and daughter's jewels, and a portion of his plate. this fair of beaucaire attracted a great number of merchants of all branches of trade, who arrived by water and by road, lining the banks of the rhône from arles to beaucaire, and its transpontine neighbour, tarascon, which daudet has made famous. caderousse, the innkeeper, visited this fair, as we learn, "in company with a man who was evidently a stranger to the south of france; one of those merchants who come to sell jewelry at the fair of beaucaire, and who, during the month the fair lasts, and during which there is so great an influx of merchants and customers from all parts of europe, often have dealings to the amount of one hundred thousand to one hundred and fifty thousand francs (£ , to £ , )." * * * * * that dumas was a great traveller is well known and substantiated by the records he has left. when living at toulon in the spring of , as he himself tells us, he first came into possession of the facts which led to the construction of "gabriel lambert." there was doubtless much of truth in the tale, which appears not to be generally known to english readers, and it is more than probable that much of the incident was originally related to dumas by the "governor of the port." dumas was living at the time in a "small suburban house," within a stone's throw of fort lamalge, the prison, hard at work on his play of "captain paul"--though, as he says, he was greatly abstracted from work by the "contemplation of the blue mediterranean spangled with gold, the mountains that blind in their awful nakedness, and of the sky impressive in its depth and clearness." the result of it all was that, instead of working at "captain paul" (paul jones), he left off working at all, in the daytime,--no infrequent occurrence among authors,--and, through his acquaintance with the governor, evolved the story of the life-history of "gabriel lambert." * * * * * "murat" was the single-worded title given by dumas to what is perhaps the most subtle of the "crimes célèbres." he drew his figures, of course, from history, and from a comparatively near view-point, considering that but twenty-five years had elapsed since the death of his subject. marseilles, provence, hyères, toulon, and others of those charming towns and cities of the mediterranean shore, including also corsica, form the rapid itinerary of the first pages. for the action itself, it resembles nothing which has gone before, or which is so very horrible. it simply recounts the adventures and incidents in the life of the marshal of france which befel his later years, and which culminated in his decapitated head being brought before the king of naples as the only assurance which would satisfy him that murat was not an adventurer and intriguer. there is a pleasant little town in the midi of france by the name of cahors. it is a historic town as well; in fact, it was part of the dowry which henri de navarre was to receive when he married marguerite. the circumstance is recounted by dumas in "the forty-five guardsmen," and extends to some length in the most marvellously descriptive dialogue. "the poor henri de navarre," as dumas called him, "was to receive as his wife's dowry three hundred thousand golden crowns and some towns, among them cahors. "'a pretty town, _mordieu_!' "'i have claimed not the money, but cahors.' "'you would much like to hold cahors, sire?' "'doubtless; for, after all, what is my principality of béarn? a poor little place, clipped by the avarice of my mother-in-law and brother-in-law.' "'while cahors--' "'cahors would be my rampart, the safeguard of my religion.' "'well, sire, go into mourning for cahors; for, whether you break with madame marguerite or not, the king of france will never give it to you, and unless you take it--' "'oh, i would soon take it, if it was not so strong, and, above all, if i did not hate war.' "'cahors is impregnable, sire.' "'oh! impregnable! but if i had an army, which i have not--' "'listen, sire. we are not here to flatter each other. to take cahors, which is held by m. de vezin, one must be a hannibal or a cæsar; and your majesty--' "'well?' said henri, with a smile. "'has just said you do not like war.'... "'cahors is so well guarded, because it is the key of the south.'" chapter fifty-three of the above book recounts the siege itself,--as we know it in history,--but with all that added picturesqueness which dumas commanded. "'henri will not pay me his sister's dowry, and margot cries out for her dear cahors. one must do what one's wife wants, for peace's sake; therefore i am going to try to take cahors.'... "henri set off at full gallop, and chicot followed him. on arriving in front of his little army, henri raised his visor, and cried: "'out with the banner! out with the new banner!' "they drew forth the banner, which had the double scutcheon of navarre and bourbon; it was white, and had chains of gold on one side, and _fleurs-de-lis_ on the other. "again the cannon from cahors were fired, and the balls tore through a file of infantry near the king.... "'oh!' cried m. de turenne, 'the siege of the city is over, vezin.' and as he spoke he fired at him and wounded him in the arm.... "'you are wrong, turenne,' cried m. de vezin; 'there are twenty sieges in cahors; so, if one is over, there are nineteen to come.' "m. de vezin defended himself during five days and nights from street to street and from house to house. luckily for the rising fortunes of henri of navarre, he had counted too much on the walls and garrison of cahors, and had neglected to send to m. de biron.... "during these five days and nights, henri commanded like a captain and fought like a soldier, slept with his head on a stone, and awoke sword in hand. each day they conquered a street or a square, which each night the garrison tried to retake. on the fourth night the enemy seemed willing to give some rest to the protestant army. then it was henri who attacked in his turn. he forced an intrenched position, but it cost him seven hundred men. m. de turenne and nearly all the officers were wounded, but the king remained untouched." * * * * * the pyrenean city of pau is more than once referred to by dumas in the valois romances, as was but natural, considering that its ancient château was the _berceau_ of that prince of béarn who later married the intriguing marguerite, and became ultimately henri iv. this fine old structure--almost the only really splendid historical monument of the city--had for long been the residence of the kings of navarre; was rebuilt in the fourteenth century by the brilliant gaston phoebus; and enlarged and luxuriously embellished by the beautiful marguerite herself in the sixteenth century, after she had become _la femme de henri d'albert_, as her spouse was then known. as might be expected, dumas was exceedingly familiar with the suburban topography of paris, and made frequent use of it in his novels. it is in "the count of monte cristo," however, that this intimacy is best shown; possibly for the reason that therein he dealt with times less remote than those of the court romances of the "valois" and the "capets." when dantès comes to paris,--as the newly made count,--he forthwith desires to be ensconced in an establishment of his own. dumas recounts the incident thus: "'and the cards i ordered to be engraved as soon as you knew the number of the house?' "'m. le comte, it is done already. i have been myself to the best engraver of the palais royal, who did the plate in my presence. the first card struck off was taken, according to your orders, to m. le baron danglars, rue de la chaussée d'antin, no. .'... "as the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. he was a simple-looking lawyer's clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener. "'you are the notary empowered to sell the country-house that i wish to purchase, monsieur?' asked monte cristo. "'yes, m. le comte,' returned the notary. "'is the deed of sale ready?' "'yes, m. le comte.' "'have you brought it?' "'here it is.' "'very well; and where is this house that i purchase?' asked the count, carelessly, addressing himself half to bertuccio, half to the notary. the steward made a gesture that signified, 'i do not know.' the notary looked at the count with astonishment. "'what!' said he, 'does not m. le comte know where the house he purchases is situated?' "'no,' returned the count. "'m. le comte does not know it?' "'how should i know it? i have arrived from cadiz this morning. i have never before been at paris: and it is the first time i have ever even set my foot in france!' "'ah, that is different; the house you purchase is situated at auteuil, in the rue de la fontaine, no. .' at these words bertuccio turned pale. "'and where is auteuil?' asked the count. "'close here, monsieur,' replied the notary; 'a little beyond passy; a charming situation, in the heart of the bois de boulogne.' "'so near as that?' said the count. 'but that is not in the country. what made you choose a house at the gates of paris, m. bertuccio?' "'i?' cried the steward, with a strange expression. 'm. le comte did not charge me to purchase this house. if m. le comte will recollect--if he will think--' "'ah, true,' observed monte cristo; 'i recollect now. i read the advertisement in one of the papers, and was tempted by the false title, "a country-house."' "'it is not yet too late,' cried bertuccio, eagerly; 'and if your excellency will entrust me with the commission, i will find you a better at enghien, at fontenay-aux-roses, or at bellevue.' "'oh, no,' returned monte cristo, negligently; 'since i have this, i will keep it.' "'and you are quite right,' said the notary, who feared to lose his fee. 'it is a charming place, well supplied with spring-water and fine trees; a comfortable habitation, although abandoned for a long time; without reckoning the furniture, which, although old, is yet valuable, now that old things are so much sought after. i suppose m. le comte has the tastes of the day?'" whatever may have been dumas' prodigality with regard to money matters in his personal affairs, he was evidently a good traveller, in the sense that he knew how to plan a journey with the greatest economy. one sees evidences of this in the "count of monte cristo," where he describes the journey of madame de morcerf from paris to marseilles. "'i have made inquiries,' said albert, 'respecting the diligences and steamboats, and my calculations are made. you will take your place in the coupé to châlons. you see, mother, i treat you handsomely for thirty-five francs.' "albert then took a pen, and wrote: _frs._ coupé to châlons, thirty-five francs from châlons to lyons you will go on by the steamboat--six francs from lyons to avignon (still by steamboat), sixteen francs from avignon to marseilles, seven francs expenses on the road, about fifty francs ---- total "'let us put down ,' added albert, smiling. 'you see i am generous; am i not, mother?' "'but you, my poor child?' "'i! do you not see i reserve eighty francs for myself? a young man does not require luxuries; besides, i know what travelling is.' "'with a post-chaise and _valet de chambre_?'" the route is practicable even to-day, though probably not at the prices given, and one does not go by steamboat from châlons to lyons, though he may from lyons to avignon. chapter xviii. les pays Étrangers dumas frequently wandered afield for his _mise-en-scène_, and with varying success; from the "corsican brothers," which was remarkably true to its _locale_, and "la tulipe noire," which was equally so, if we allow for a certain perspective of time, to "le capitaine pamphile," which in parts, at least, is gross exaggeration or burlesque. once only, to any great extent, did he go to germany for his inspirations, and then only to german legend,--where so many others had been before,--and have since. in "otho the archer" is found a repetition of the knight and swan legend so familiar to all. it has been before--and since--a prolific source of supply to authors of all ranks and nationalities: goethe, schiller, hoffman, brentano, fouqué, scott, and others. the book first appeared in , before even "monte cristo" and "les trois mousquetaires" were published as _feuilletons_, and hence, whatever its merits may be, it is to be classed as one of his immature efforts, rather than as a piece of profound romancing. the story of adventure, of battle, and of love-making is all there, but his picture of the scenery and life of the middle ages on the rhine are, of course, as purely imaginary as is the romantic background of myth and legend. of all the works dealing with foreign lands,--or, at least, foreign to his pen,--dumas' "black tulip" will ever take a preëminent rank. therein are pictures of holland life and of the hollandaise which, like the pen-drawings of stevenson in "catriona," will live far more vividly in the minds of most readers than volumes of mere dissertation written by others. the story opens with a recounting of the tragedy of the brothers cornelius and jacobus de windt, which, though not differing greatly from historical fact, is as vivid and terrible an account of the persecutions of mortal man as any similar incident in romance itself, of whatever age and by whomever written. dumas was in amsterdam, in , at the coronation of william iii., where it has been said--by flotow, the composer--that the king remarked to dumas that none of the scenes of his romances had as yet been laid in the netherlands, and thereupon told him what was substantially the story of "la tulipe noire." this first appeared as the product of dumas' hand and brain in . this is perhaps more or less a legendary account of its inception; like many another of the reasons for being of dumas' romances, but it is sufficiently plausible and well authenticated to warrant acceptance, though it has been said, too, that it was to paul lacroix--"bibliophile jacob"--that dumas owed the idea of the tale. at all events, it is a charming pen-picture of holland; shows a wonderful love and knowledge of the national flower, the tulip, and is one of the most popular of all dumas' tales, if we except the three cycles of romances, whose scenes and incidents are based on the history of french court life. not for many years did the translators leave "la tulipe noire" unnoticed, and for over a half-century it has enjoyed a vogue which is at least comprehensible. its plot and characters are most ingeniously and dextrously handled, but its greatest charm is incident to the process of evolving the famous black tulip from among the indigenous varieties which, at the time of the scene of the novel, had not got beyond the brilliantly variegated yellows and reds. from the various stages of mauve, purple, brown, and, finally, something very nearly akin to black, the flowering bulb finally took form, as first presented to a wide-spread public by dumas. the celebrated alphonse karr, a devoted lover of flowers, took the trouble to make a "romancers' garden," composed of trees and flowers which contemporary novelists, finding the laws of nature too narrow for them, had described in their books. this imaginary garden owed to george sand a blue chrysanthemum, to victor hugo a bengal rose without thorns, to balzac a climbing azalea, to jules janin a blue pink, to madame de genlis a green rose, to eugene sue a variety of cactus growing in paris in the open air, to paul féval a variety of larch which retained its leaves during winter, to forgues a pretty little pink clematis which flourished around the windows in the latin quarter, to rolle a scented camellia, and to dumas the black tulip and a white lotus. the black tulip, it may be remarked, though unknown in dumas' day, has now become an accomplished fact. dumas, though not a botanist, had charming, if not very precise, notions about flowers,--as about animals,--and to him they doubtless said: "nous sommes les filles du feu secret, du feu qui circule dans les veines de la terre; nous sommes les filles de l'aurore et de la rosée, nous sommes les filles de l'air, nous sommes les filles de l'eau; mais nous sommes avant tout les filles du ciel." dumas wandered much farther afield than the land of his beloved valois. to italy, to spain, to algeria, to corsica, to germany, and even to russia. mostly he made use of his experiences in his books of travel, of which "les impressions du voyage" is the chief. who would read the narrative of the transactions which took place in russia's capital in the early nineteenth century, should turn to "les mémoires d'un maître d'armes," or "dix-huit mois à st. petersburgh." it presents a picture of the russian life of the time, in which--the critics agree--there is but slight disguise. its story--for it is confessedly fiction--turns upon the fortunes of a young subaltern, who played a considerable part in the conspiracy of , and, it has been said by a contemporary writer of the time, hardly any circumstance but the real name of the young man is disguised. it is in the main, or, at least, it has for its principal incident, the story of a political exile, and it is handled with dumas' vivid and consummate skill, which therein proves again that the mere romancist had a good deal of the historian about him. besides the _locale_ of "la tulipe noire," dumas takes the action of "the forty-five guardsmen" into the netherlands. françois, the duc d'anjou, had entered belgium and had been elected duc de brabant, sovereign prince of flanders. at this time it was supposed that elizabeth of england saw the opportunity of reuniting the calvinists of flanders and france with those of england, and so acquire a triple crown. then follows an account of the attack on antwerp, which resulted in final defeat of the french, and presents one of the most graphic descriptions of a battle to be found in the pages of dumas. the historic incident of the interview in duc françois' tent, between that worthy and the french admiral de joyeuse, is made much of by dumas, and presents a most picturesque account of this bloody battle. the topography of antwerp and the country around about is as graphic as a would-be painting. "'but,' cried the prince, 'i must settle my position in the country. i am duke of brabant and count of flanders, in name, and i must be so in reality. this william, who is gone i know not where, spoke to me of a kingdom. where is this kingdom?--in antwerp. where is he?--probably in antwerp also; therefore we must take antwerp, and we shall know how we stand.' "'oh! monseigneur, you know it now, or you are, in truth, a worse politician than i thought you. who counselled you to take antwerp?--the prince of orange. who disappeared at the moment of taking the field?--the prince of orange. who, while he made your highness duke of brabant, reserved for himself the lieutenant-generalship of the duchy?--the prince of orange. whose interest is it to ruin the spaniards by you, and you by the spaniards?--the prince of orange. who will replace you, who will succeed, if he does not do so already?--the prince of orange. oh! monseigneur, in following his counsels you have but annoyed the flemings. let a reverse come, and all those who do not dare to look you now in the face, will run after you like those timid dogs who run after those who fly.' "'what! you imagine that i can be beaten by wool-merchants and beer-drinkers?' "'these wool-merchants and these beer-drinkers have given plenty to do to philippe de valois, the emperor charles v., and philippe ii., who were three princes placed sufficiently high, monseigneur, for the comparison not to be disagreeable to you.'" in "pascal bruno," dumas launched into a story of sicilian brigandage, which has scarce been equalled, unless it were in his two other tales of similar purport--"cherubino et celestine," and "maître adam le calabrais." originally it formed one of a series which were published in one volume--in --under the title of "la salle d'armes, pauline, et pascal bruno." according to the "mémoires," a favourite rendezvous of dumas in paris, at this period, was grisier's fencing-room. there it was that the _maître d'armes_ handed him the manuscript entitled "eighteen months at st. petersburg,"--that remarkable account of a russian exile,--and it is there that dumas would have his readers to believe that he collected the materials for "pauline" and "murat." the great attraction of "the corsican brothers" lies not so much with corsica, the home of the _vendetta_, the land of napoleon, and latterly known politically as the me departement de france, as with the events which so closely and strenuously encircled the lives of the brothers de franchi in paris itself. corsican life and topography is limned, however, with a fidelity which has too often been lacking in dumas' description of foreign parts. perhaps, as has been said before, he extracted this information from others; but more likely--it seems to the writer--it came from his own intimate acquaintance with that island, as it is known that he was a visitor there in . if this surmise be correct, the tale was a long time in taking shape,--an unusually long time for dumas,--as the book did not appear until , the same year as the appearance of "monte cristo" in book form. it was dedicated to prosper merimée, whose "colomba" ranks as its equal as a thrilling tale of corsican life. it has been remarked that, curiously enough, in spite of the fact that the story has been so often dramatized and adapted for the stage,--and acted by persons of all shades and grades of ability,--dumas never thought well enough of it to have given it that turn himself. dumas' acquaintance with naples never produced any more lucid paragraphs descriptive of character, and the local colour and scenic effect besides, than in the few short pages of "les pêcheurs du filet." it comes, of course, as a result of dumas' rather extended sojourn in italy. when dumas actually did write scenic descriptions, they were exceedingly graphic,--though not verbose,--and exceedingly picturesque,--though not sentimental,--as witness the following lines which open the tale--though he does make use a little farther on of the now trite tag, "see naples and die." "every morning on awakening i was in the habit of resting my elbows on the window-sill and gazing far out over the limpid and sparkling mirror of the tyrrhenian sea.... at night the bay is so intensely blue that, under more favourable conditions, it resembles those leaden-hued lakes, such as avernus, the fucine lake, or lake agnano,--all in the neighbourhood of naples, which cover the craters of extinct volcanoes." the story gives further a wonderful pen-portrait of ladislas i. of hungary, of jerusalem, and of sicily, and of the barbaric torture of "the question," which was performed upon the aspiring lover of joanna of naples. rome figures chiefly in "the count of monte cristo," wherein half a dozen chapters are devoted to the "eternal city." here it is that monte cristo first meets albert de morcerf, son of one of that trio of enemies on whom the count has sworn revenge. de morcerf, enjoying the pleasures of the roman carnival, is captured by bandits, from whom he is rescued by the count, who, in saving the son, makes the first move of vengeance against the father. various interesting parts of rome are described and touched upon,--the teatro argentino, the colosseum, the plaza del popolo--scene of the public executions of that time,--the catacombs of san sebastian, and many others. the characteristic and picturesque manners and customs of the romans, from _noblesse_ to peasants, are set down here in vivid and graphic style; and it is clearly plain that when dumas sojourned in rome he "did as the romans do." dumas' familiarity with switzerland was no greater or no less than his knowledge of spain, of italy, of russia, or of corsica. in his volumes of travel, "impressions du voyage," are many charming bits of narrative which might well be extracted and elaborated into what is otherwise known as fiction. with regard to "pauline," this is exactly what did happen, or, rather, the relationship between the pauline of the novelette and the pauline of "la voyage en suisse" is one based upon a common parentage. switzerland early attracted dumas' attention. he took his first tour in the cantons in , partly as a means of convalescing from a severe illness, and partly because he was in danger of arrest for the too active part taken by him in the public funeral of general lamarque and the riots that followed. no sooner was dumas _en route_ than the leaves of his note-book were torn asunder and despatched forthwith to the then newly founded _revue des deux mondes_. at flüelen, that high alpine pass, the mysterious veiled pauline de meulien and her cavalier, alfred de n----, make their first appearance. one feels intuitively that here are the elements of a drama, of which the author will avail himself before long. the voyages continue, however, and the veiled lady fails to reappear until the end of the journey, when another transitory glimpse of her is had at pfeffers. this pauline's adventures evidently demanded more space than the travels could afford, and became ultimately a novelette. "pauline" is one of dumas' early attempts at fiction, and is told with originality, and a very considerable skill. nearly twenty years after "pauline" was written, dumas told us that he met the counterpart of the villain of the story, horace de beuzeval, who consigned the beautiful pauline to a living burial in the old abbey vault on the coast of normandy, near trouville. dumas' pictures of switzerland are more or less conventional; with him the story was the thing, and the minutiæ of stage setting but a side issue. * * * * * in "les crimes célèbres," dumas goes back to history, though he sticks to france, with the exception of those dealing with the borgias and mary stuart. the crimes of the borgias--and they were many--end the series, though they cover but the period - . the most unnatural and quite the most despicable being the throwing into the tiber by cæsar borgia the cadaver of his brother. rome, the popes, and italy in general form much of the venue, but the political history of france, spain, and austria enter largely into the movement of the chronicle, and such widely separated towns of france as perpignan, in the comté de roussillon in the south, and hesdin, etaples, and bethune in the north, all play their parts in the political treaties of the time. the end. appendix i. dumas' romances and historical studies classed in chronological order b.c. césar. b.c. gaule et france. a.d. acté. - les hommes de fer. pépin. charlemagne. guelfes et gibelins. praxède. ivanhoe. le prince de voleurs. robin hood. dom martins de freytas. - les médicis. - italiens et flamands. ange gaddi. la comtesse de salisbury. pierre le cruel. monseigneur gaston phoebus. le batard de mauléon. isabel de bavière. masaccio. frère philippe lippi. la pêche aux filets. le sire de giac. jehanne la pucelle. charles le téméraire. alexandre botticelli. - les stuarts. le pérugin. jean bellin. quintin metzys. - trois maîtres. - michel-ange. - titien. - raphaël. andré de mantegna. léonard da vinci. fra bartolomméo. sogliana. le pincturiccio. luca de cranach. baldassare peruzzi. giorgione. baccio bandinelli. andré del sarto. le salteador. jacques de pontormo. jean holbein. razzi. une nuit à florence. jules romain. ascanio. albert durer. les deux dianes. henri iv. le page du duc de savoie. l'horoscope. la reine margot. la dame de monsoreau. les quarante-cinq. louis xiii. et richelieu. - les drames de la mer. boutikoé. un courtesan. les trois mousquetaires. la colombe. - louis xiv. et son siècle. la princesse de monaco. guérard berck-heyden. vingt ans après. la guerre des femmes. le vicomte de bragelonne. françois miéris. la tulipe noire. la dame de volupté. mémoires d'une aveugle. les confessions de la marquise. les deux reines. - louis xv. et sa cour. - la régence. le chevalier d'harmental. une fille du régent. olympe de clèves. la maison de glace. - louis xvi. et la révolution. - mes mémoires. - napoléon. joseph balsamo. le capitaine marion. le capitaine paul. le collier de la reine. le docteur mystérieux. ingènue. ange pitou. le chateau d'eppstein. la comtesse de charny. la route de varennes. cécile. le chevalier de maison-rouge. la fille du marquis. blanche de beaulieu. le drame de ' . les blancs et les bleus. la junon. la san félice. emma lyonna. les compagnons de jéhu. souvenirs d'une favorite. mémoires de garibaldi. le capitaine richard. murat. le maitre d'armes. le kent. les louves de machecoul. - les morts vont vite. hégésippe moreau. le duc d'orléans. chateaubriand. la dernière année de marie dorval. béranger. eugène sue. alfred de musset. achille devéria. lefèvre-deumier. la duchesse d'orléans. les garibaldiens. la terreur prussienne. appendix ii. dumas' romances, sketches, and "nouvelles intimes" classed in chronological order isaac laquedem. sylvandire. le pasteur d'ashbourn. le testament de m. de chauvelin. le meneur de loups. la femme au collier de velours. jacques ortis. souvenirs d'antony. un cadet de famille. aventures de john davys. les mariages du père olifus. le trou de l'enfer. jane. le comte de monte-cristo. conscience l'innocent. le père la ruine. georges. les mohicans de paris. salvator. sultanetta. jacquot sans oreilles. catherine blum. la princesse flora. dieu dispose. la boule de neige. le capitaine pamphile. les drames galants. le fils du forçat. les mille et un fantômes. une vie d'artiste. pauline. fernande. gabriel lambert. amaury. les frères corses. le chasseur de sauvagini. black. parisiens et provinciaux. l'ile de feu. madame de chamblay. une aventure d'amour. appendix iii. dumas' travels classed in chronological order quinze jours au sinai. suisse. le midi de la france. une année à florence. la ville palmieri. le speronare. (sicile.) le capitaine arena. (sicile.) le corricolo. (naples.) excursions sur les bords du rhin. la vie au désert. (afrique méridionale.) l'arabie heureuse. de paris à cadix. le véloce (tanger, alger, tunis.) un gil blas en californie. un pays inconnu. (havane, brésil.) en russie. le caucase. les baleiniers. index abbaye de montmartre, . abbey of st. denis, , . abbey of st. genevieve, , , , . abelard and heloïse, . about, edmond, , . académie française, . aigues-mortes, , . alais, . alégres, d', . alençon, , . algiers, . alicante, . allée de la muette, . allée des cygnes, . alsace and lorraine, . "ambigu," the, . amsterdam, . "an englishman in paris" (vandam), , . "ange pitou," see works of dumas. angers, - . angers, castle of, . angers, david d', . anglès, count, . anjou, . anjou, duc d', . anne of austria, , , , . "anthony," see works of dumas. antwerp, . aramis, , , , , , , . aramitz, henry d', see aramis. arc de triomphe, . arc de triomphe du carrousel, . arc de triomphe d'etoile, , , . argenteuil, . arles, , . arnault, lucien, , . arras, , . artagnan, . artagnan, see d'artagnan. asnières, . athos, , , - , , . auber, . "au fidèle berger," . augennes, jacques d', . augennes, regnault d', . "au grand roi charlemagne," . aumale, d', . auteuil, . auvergne, . auxerre, . avedick, . avenel, georges, - . avenue de la grande armée, . avenue de l'opéra, , . avenue de villiers, . avignon, . balzac, , , , . barbés, . barbizon, . barras, . barrere, . bartholdi's "liberty," . bastille, the, , , , , , , , , , - , , , . bath, . batignolles, . batz, baron de, . batz de castlemore, charles de, see d'artagnan. baudry, , . bauville, theodore de, . bavaria, . beaucaire, - . beaufort, duke of, . beausire, . belgium, , , . bellegarde, . belle ile, - . belleville, . bellune, duc de, . béranger, , , . bercy, . bernhardt, sara, . berry, duchesse de, . bertuccio, . besançon, . bethune, . beuzeval, horace de, . biard, . "bibliothèque royale," , , , . bicêtre, . bigelow, john, . billot, father, , , . "black tulip," see works of dumas. _blackwood's magazine_, . blanc, louis, , . blanqui, . blois, , , - . blois, château de, , . bohemia, , . boieldieu, , . bois de boulogne, , , , , , . bois de meudon, . bois de vincennes, , , , . boissy, adrien de, , . bondy, . bordeaux, , , , . borgias, the, . boulevard des italiens, , , , , , . boulevard du prince eugène, . boulevard henri quatre, . boulevard magenta, , . boulevard malesherbes, , , . boulevard raspail, . boulevard sebastopol, , . boulevard st. denis, , . boulevard st. germain, , , , . boulevard st. martin, , , . boulogne, . bourges, . bourg, l'abbé, . bourgogne, . bourse, the, , . brabant, duc de, . brentano, . brest, , , . breteuil, de, . bridges: cahors, . lyons, . orthos, . st. bénezet d'avignon, . see under pont also. brillat-savarin, , . brinvilliers, marquise de, , . brionze, . brittany, , . broggi, paolo, . brown, sir thomas, . brozier, . brussels, , . "bruyere aux loups," . buckingham, . buckle, . bureau d'orleans, , , , , . burns, . bussy, . buttes chaumont, , . byron, . "cachot de marie antoinette," . caderousse, , . caen, . café de paris, , , . café des anglais, . café du roi, . café riche, . cagliostro, , . cahors, . cahors, bridge of, . calais, , , - , . calcutta, . calixtus ii., . cambacérès, delphine, . canebière, the, . cantal, . capetians, the, . "capitaine pamphile," see works of dumas. "capitaine paul" (paul jones), see works of dumas. carcassonne, . carlyle, . carmelite friary, , . "caserne napoleon," . caspian sea, the, . castle of angers, . castle of pierrefonds, . cathedral de nôtre dame (chartres), . cathedral of nôtre dame de rouen, . "catriona" (stephenson), . caucasus, . "causeries," see works of dumas. caussidière, marc, , . cavaignac, general, . ceinture railway, , . cenci, the, . chaffault, de, . châlet de monte cristo, see residences of dumas. châlons, . chambord, . chambre des députés, , , , . champs elysées, , , . changarnier, general, . chanlecy, charlotte anne de, . chantilly, , . charenton, . charlemagne, , . charles i., . charles vi., , . charles vii., . charles viii., . charles ix., , , , , , , , , . charles x., , . charles-le-téméraire, . charpillon, m., . chartres, , . chartres, cathedral de nôtre dame, . chartres, duc de (philippe d'orleans), . chateaubriand, , . château de blois, , . château d'if, , , , , . château de rambouillet, . château de rocca petrella, . château de vincennes, , . château of madrid, , . château neuf, , , . chateaurien, rené de, . châtelet du monte cristo, . chatillon-sur-seine, . chénier, andré, , . cherbourg, . "cherubino et celestine," see works of dumas. "cheval de bronze," . "chevalier d'harmental," see works of dumas. "chicot the jester" ("la dame de monsoreau"), see works of dumas. childebert, , . childérie, . chopin, . christine of sweden, . churches, see under Église. cimetière des innocents, , . cimetière père la chaise, see père la chaise. cinq-mars, . civil war, the, . claremont, . clément-thomas, gen., . clovis, . "clymnestre," . "coches d'eau," . coconnas, . coligny, . coligny, _fils_, . collège des quatre nations, , . "colomba," . colonne de juillet, . comédie française, . "_commission des monuments historiques_," . "_commission du vieux paris_," . commune, the, , , , , , . "compagnie générale des omnibus," . compiègne, , , , , , , - . "comtesse de charny," see works of dumas. conciergerie, , , , , , , . condé, , . conflans-charenton, . contades, count g. de, . conti, prince de, . corneille, . corot, , , . corsica, , , , . "corsican brothers," see works of dumas. cosne, . couloir st. hyacinthe, . courbevoie, . cour du justice, . "count of monte cristo," see works of dumas. cours la reine, . crépy-en-valois, , , , , , , , , . "crimes célèbres" ("celebrated crimes"), see works of dumas. cul-de-sac des marchands des chevaux, . "cyrano de bergerac," . dammartin, , , . damploux, . danglars, baron, , , . dantès, , , , , , , . darnley, . daubonne, . daudet, , . david, . "david copperfield," . d'alégres, the, . d'angers, david, . d'anjou, duc, . d'aramitz, henry, see aramis. d'artagnan, , - , , , , , , , , , - , , , , , . d'artagnan romances, , , , , , , , , , , , , . d'augennes, jacques, . d'augennes, regnault, . d'aumale, . de batz, baron, . de batz de castlemore, charles, see d'artagnan. de bauville, theodore, . de bellune, duc, . de berry, duchesse, . de beuzeval, horace, . de boissy, adrien, , . de brabant, duc, . de breteuil, . de brinvilliers, marquise, , . de chaffault, . de chanlecy, charlotte anne, . de chartres, duc (philippe d'orleans), . de chateaurien, rené, . de contades, count g., . de conti, prince, . d'enghien, duc, . d'estrées, gabrielle, , . de flesselles, . de france, henriette, . de franchi, , , , . de franchi, louis, . de genlis, madame, . de guise, cardinal, . de guise, duc, , , , , . de guise, duchesse, , . de jallais, amédée, . de joyeuse, admiral, . de la mole, . de la motte, madame, , , . de launay, . de leuven, adolphe, , , . de lesdequieres, duchesse, . de longueville, madame, . de marsillac, prince, . de mauge, marquis, . de maupassant, guy, . de medici, marie, , , . de medici, catherine, , , . de merle, . de meulien, pauline, . de montford, comtes, . de montmorenci, duc, . de montpensier, duc, . de morcerf, albert, . de morcerf, madame, . de musset, alfred, , , , . de nemours, m., . de nerval, gerard, . de nevers, duchesse, . d'orleans, louis, . de poissy, gérard, . de poitiers, diane, . de portu, jean, see porthos. de retz, cardinal, . de richelieu, see richelieu. de rohan, , . de sévigné, madame, , . de sillegue, colonel, . de sillegue d'athos, armand, see athos. de sorbonne, robert, . de ste. croix, gaudin, . de talleyrand, henri, . de treville, , , . de valois, see under valois. de vigny, . de villefort, , . de villemessant, . de volterre, ricciarelli, . de wardes, . de windt, cornelius, . de windt, jacobus, . de winter, lady, . debret, . decamps, . delacroix, , , , . delavigne, , . delrien, . demidoff, prince, . "dernier jour d'un condamné," . désaugiers, . desbordes-valmore, madame, . déscamps, gabriel, . desmoulins, camille, . dibdin, . dickens, charles, . "dictionnaire de cuisine," see works of dumas. dieppe, , . "director of evacuations at naples," , . "dix-huit mois à st. petersburgh," see works of dumas. don quixote, . doré, gustave, , , . douai, . dover, , . _drapeau blanc_, . ducercen, . ducis, . dujarrier-beauvallon, - . dumas: monuments to, see under monuments. residences of, see under residences. title of, see under title. travels of, see under travels. works of, see under works. dumas, general, marquis de la pailleterie, , , . dumas, _fils_, , , , , , , , , . duprez, . École des beaux arts, . École de droit, , , . École de médicine, . "École des viellards," . École militaire, . edict of nantes, . Église de la madeleine, , , , . Église de notre dame, , , , , , , . Église de st. gervais, . Église de st. merry, . Église de st. paul et st. louis, . Église st. etienne du mont, , , . Église st. eustache, . Église st. germain l'auxerrois, , , . Église st. innocents, , , . Église st. jacques, . Église st. roch, . Église st. severin, . Église st. sulpice, . "eighteen months at st. petersburg," . elba, , , . elizabeth, . elysée, the, , . enghien, duc d', . england, , . epinac, . ermenonville, . esplanade des invalides, . estaminet du divan, . estrées, gabrielle d', , . etaples, . "fabrique des romans," . falaise, . faubourg st. denis, . faubourg st. germain, , . faubourg st. honoré, . fernand, . ferry, gabriel, . féval, paul, . _figaro, the_, . flanders, . flaubert, gustave, . flesselles, de, . fleury, general, . florence, . fontainebleau, , , , , , , . fontaine des innocents, , , , . forêt de compiègne, , . forêt de l'aigue, . forgues, . fort de vincennes, . fort lamalge, . "forty-five guardsmen," see works of dumas. fosses de la bastille, . fouqué, . fouquet, , , , , . foy, general, , , . france, henriette de, . franchi, de, , , , . franchi, louis de, . francis, . françois i., - , , , , , . franco-prussian war, , , . fronde, . "gabriel lambert," see works of dumas. gaillardet, . gare de l'est, . gare du nord, . gare st. lazare, . garibaldi, . garnier, . gascony, . gaston of orleans, . gautier, , , , . gay, mme. delphine, . genlis, madame de, . "georges," see works of dumas. germany, , . girondins, the, . glinel, charles, . godot, . goethe, , . "golden lion," . gondeville, . gouffé, armand, . goujon, jean, , , . granger, marie, . grenelle, . grisier, , . "guido et génevra" (halévy), . guilbert, . guise, cardinal de, . guise, duc de, , , , , . guise, duchesse de, , . guizot, . halévy, , , . hamerton, philip gilbert, . hamilton, . "hamlet," . haramont, . hautes-pyrénées, . havre, , , , , , . henri i., . henri ii., , , , , . henri iii., , , , , . henri iv., , , , , , , , , , , , , , . henri v., . "henri iii. et sa cour," see works of dumas. "hernani," . herold, . hesdin, . "histoire de jules césar" (napoleon iii.), . "histoire des prisons de paris," . "history of civilization" (buckle), . hoffman, . honfleur, , . hôpital des petites maisons, . hôpital du st. jacques du haut pas, . hôtel boulainvilliers, . hôtel chevreuse, , , . hôtel d'artagnan, . hôtel de bourgogne, , . hôtel de choiseul, . hôtel de cluny, . hôtel de coligny, . hôtel de duc de guise, . hôtel de france, . hôtel des invalides, , , . "hôtel de la belle etoile," , . hôtel de la monnaie, , . hôtel de louvre, . hôtel de mercoeur, . hôtel des montmorencies, . hôtel des mousquetaires, , . hôtel des postes, . hôtel de soissons, . hôtel de venise, . hôtel de ville, , , , , , , . hôtel du vieux-augustins, . hôtel la trémouille, . hôtel longueville, . "hôtel picardie," . hôtel rambouillet, . hôtel richelieu, . hugo, victor, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . hugo, père, . huntley, . hyères, . ile de la cité, , , , , , , . ile st. louis, , . "impressions du voyage," see works of dumas. "inn of the beautiful peacock," . irving, washington, . island of monte cristo, . isle of france (mauritius), . italy, , . ivry, . jacquot, . jallais, amédée de, . james ii., . janin, jules, . jardin des plantes, , . "jeanne d'arc," see works of dumas. jean-sans-peur, . jerome, prince, . jerusalem, . jesuit college, . "jeune malade," . joanna of naples, . joigny, , . jourdain, marshal, . jouy, . joyeuse, admiral de, . "jugurtha," . jussac, . karr, alphonse, . "kean," see works of dumas. kipling, . kotzebue, . l'abbé metel de bois-robert, . la beauce, . la brie, . lachambeaudie, . lacenaire, . la chapelle, . la châtre, . "la chevrette," . la cité, , , , , , . "la compagne lafitte et caillard," . lacroix, paul, . "la dame aux camélias," . la dame aux camélias, see plessis, alphonsine, . "la dame de monsoreau" ("chicot the jester"), see works of dumas. ladislas i. of hungary, . "la feuille" (arnault), . _la france_, . lamartine, , , . lambert, gabriel, , . langeais, . "la pastissier française," . "la pâté d'italie," . _la presse_, . _la revue_, , . la rochelle, . la roquette, , . lassagne, . latin quarter, see quartier latin. "la tour de nesle," see works of dumas. launay, de, . la ville, , , . la villette, , , . lebrun, madame, . "le châtelet," . leclerc, captain, . "le collier de la reine" (the queen's necklace), see works of dumas. lecomte, general, . _le gaulois_, . legislative assembly, . _le livre_, . lemarquier, . lemercier, . _le mousquetaire_, . "le nord" railway, . _le peuple_, . lescot, pierre, , . lesdequieres, duchesse de, . "les françaises," . les grandes eaux, . les halles, , , . "les pêcheurs du filet," see works of dumas, . "l'est" railway, . les ternes, . "les trois mousquetaires," see works of dumas. "le stryge," . leuven, adolphe de, , , . _l'homme-libre_, . lille, , . "l'image de nôtre dame," , . limerick, . l'institut, . lisbon, . lisieux, . loire, the, , , , - . london, , , , , , , . london tower, . longé, . longueville, madame de, . "l'orleans" railway, , , . "l'ouest" railway, . louis i., . louis iv., . louis vii., , . louis viii., . louis xi., , . louis xii., , . louis xiii., , , , . louis xiv., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . louis xv., , , . louis xvi., , , . louis xviii., , , . louis-philippe, , , , , , , , , , , , , , . louvre, the, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , - , . loyola, ignatius, . lulli, . l'université, , , , , , . _lutèce_, . luxembourg, the, , , , , - , , - . luxembourg, gardens of the, , , . lycée henri quatre, . lyons, , , , , , . mackeat (maquet), augustus, - . madeleine, the (church), , , , . madelonnettes, the, . madrid, . madrid, château of, , . maestricht, . magazin st. thomas, . "_maison dumas et cie_," , . "maître adam le calabrais," see works of dumas. malmesbury, lord, . mandrin, pierre, . "man in the iron mask, the," , . mantes, , . marat, jean paul, . marcel, etienne, , . margot, . "marguerite de valois," see works of dumas. marie antoinette, , , . marne, . marrast, armand, . mars, mlle., . marseilles, , , , , - , , , . marsillac, prince de, . mattioli, . mauge, marquise de, . maupassant, guy de, . mauritius (isle of france), . mazarin, , , , , , . "mechanism of modern life," . medici, marie de, , , . medici, catherine de, , , . "meditations" (lamartine), . mediterranean, the, , , , . "mémoires," see works of dumas. "mémoires de m. d'artagnan," . "mémoires d'un maître d'armes," see works of dumas. ménilmontant, . mennesson, . mérimée, , , . merle, de, . merovée, . méryon, - , . "mes bêtes," see works of dumas. "messageries à cheval," . "messageries royale," . "metropolitain," . metz, . meulan, . meulien, pauline de, . meyerbeer, . michelangelo, . michelet, , , - . mignet, . millet, . minister of the interior, . mirabeau, . mohammed ali, . mole, de la, . molière, . mollé, mathieu, . monastère des feuillants, . monet, . monmouth, duke of, . monselet, charles, . monstrelet, . montargis, . "monte cristo," see works of dumas. monte cristo, island of, , . montez, lola, , . montford, comtes de, . montmartre, , , , , , , . montmartre, abbaye of, . montmorenci, duc de, . montpensier, duc de, . mont valerien, . monuments to dumas, , . morcerf, mme. de, . morcerf, albert de, . morrel, house of, . motte, mme. de la, , , . moulin rouge, . moulin de la galette, . mount of martyrs, . müller, . munier, georges, . murat, . "murat," see works of dumas. mürger, henri, . musée, cluny, . musset, alfred de, , , , . "mysteries of paris," . nadaud, gustave, . nancy, , . nantes, , - . nantes, edict of, . nanteuil, . naples, , . napoleon i., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . napoleon iii., , , , , , , , , - , , , , , . napoleon, jerome, . nemours, de, . nerval, gerard de, . netherlands, the, . nevers, duchesse de, . new york, , . nodier, charles, , , , . nogaret, . nogent, . noirtier, m., . normandy, , . notre dame, see under Église. notre dame de la garde (marseilles), . obelisk, the, . observatoire, the, , . odéon, the, , , . "odes et ballades" (hugo), . "oedipus," . "old mortality," . oliva, . oloron, . omnibus, companies: "compagnie générale des omnibus," . "la compagne lafitte et caillard," . "les françaises," . "messageries royales," . "messageries à cheval," . "opéra," the, , , , , , , . opéra comique, . oratoire, the, . orleans, , , , . orleans, house of, , . orthez, . orthon, . orthos, . orthos, bridge of, . "otho the archer," . ourcq (river), . pailleterie, marquis de la, see dumas, general. palais bourbon, . palais cardinal, , . palais de justice, , , . palais de la bourse, . palais de l'industrie, . palais de la révolution, . palais des arts, . palais des beaux arts, , , . palais des tournelles, . palais national, . palais royale, , , , , , , , , , , , , - , . panorama colbert, . panorama delorme, . panorama de l'opéra, . panorama du saumon, . panorama jouffroy, . panorama vivienne, . panthéon, the, , , , , , . paraclet, . parc monceau, . "paris-lyon et méditerranée" (p. l. m.) ry., , , . "pascal bruno," see works of dumas. passerelle, constantine, . passerelle de l'estacade, . passerelle st. louis, . passy, , . pau, . "pauline," see works of dumas. "paul jones" ("capitaine paul"), see works of dumas. pennell, joseph, . père la chaise, , , , , , . perpignan, . petit pont, . petits augustins, . pfeffers, . philippe-auguste, , , , . phoebus, gaston, . pierrefonds, , . pierrefonds, castle of, . picardie, . "pilon d'or," . pitou, louis ange, , , , . place dauphine, , . place de bourgogne, . place de la bastille, , , , , . place de la concorde, , , , , , . place de la croix-rouge, . place de la grève, , - , , , , . place de l'hôtel de ville, , . place de la madeleine, . place de la nation, . place de la révolution, . place de st. sulpice, , . place des victoires, . place des vosges, , , . place du carrousel, , , , . place du châtelet, , , . place du palais bourbon, . place du palais royal, . place du panthéon, . place malesherbes, , , , . place maubert, . place royale, , , , - . place st. antoine, . place vendome, , . plaine de st. denis, . plessis, alphonsine, (la dame aux camélias), . poe, e. a., , . poissy, gérard de, . poitiers, diane de, . pompeii, , , . pont alexandre, . pont au change, , , , . pont audemer, . pont aux doubles, . pont de l'archevêche, . pont d'arcole, . pont d'austerlitz, . pont de bercy, . pont de la cité, . pont des arts, , . pont de sèvres, . pont des invalides, . pont du carrousel, , , . pont du garde, . pont du pecq, , . pont l'evêque, . pont, le petit, . pont louis xv., . pont louis-philippe, , . pont maril, . pont napoléon, . pont neuf, , , , , . pont notre dame, . pont royal, , . pont st. michel, . pont tournelle, . porette, marguerite, . porte du canal de l'ourcq, . porte du temple, . porte marly, . porte st. antoine, . porte st. denis, , , . porte st. honoré, . porte st. martin, , , , . porthos, , , , , , . portu, jean de, see porthos. prison du grand châtelet, . proudhon, m., . provence, , . puits, . puys, , . quai de conti, , , . quai de la grève, , , , . quai de la megisserie, . quai de la monnai, . quai de l'arsenal, . quai de l'École, , . quai de l'horloge, , . quai de l'hôtel de ville, , . quai des augustins, . quai des ormes, . quai des orphelins, . quai d'orleans, . quai d'orsay, , . quai du louvre, , . quai voltaire, . quartier des infants-rouges, . quartier du marais, . quartier latin, , , . "quentin durward," . rachel, . railways: "ceinture," , . "l'est," . "le nord," . "l'orleans," , , . "l'ouest," , . "p. l. m." (paris-lyon et méditerranée), , , . rambouillet, , , , . ranke, . raspail, . ravaillac, . reade, charles, . "regulus," . reims, , . rempart des fosses, . renaissance, . residences of dumas, , , , , , , , , , , . restaurant du pavillon henri quatre, . "restoration," the, , , , . retz, cardinal de, . revolutions, the, , , , , , , , , - , , , , , . _revue des deux mondes_, . rhine, the, . rhône, , . richelieu, , , , , , , , . richelieu, maréchal, . rizzio, . roanne, . "robert le diable," . robespierre, . robsart, amy, . roche-bernard, . rochefort, . rohan, de, , . "roi d'yvetot" (béranger), . roland, madame, . rolle, . rollin, ledru, . rossini, . rostand, . rouen, , , , , . rougemont, . rousseau, . "royal tiger," . rubens, . rue beaubourg (le beau-bourg), . rue beaujolais, . rue bourtebourg (le bourg thibourg), . rue cassette, . rue castiglione, , . rue charlot, . rue coq-héron, - . rue d'amsterdam, . rue dauphine, . rue de bac, , . rue de bethusy, . rue de bons enfants, . rue de douai, . rue de faubourg st. denis, , . rue de grenelle, . rue de l'arbre-sec, , . rue de la chaussée d'antin, , . rue de la concorde, . rue de la harpe, . rue de lancry, . rue de la martellerie, . rue de lille, . rue de la paix, , . rue de l'université, . rue de rivoli, , , . rue des Écoles, . rue des fossoyeurs, , . rue des lombards, . rue des rosiers, . rue des vieux-augustins, . rue de tivoli, . rue de valois, . rue du chaume, . rue du helder, , , . rue du louvre, . rue du monte blanc, . rue du vieux-colombier, , . rue drouet, . rue ferou, . rue guenegard, . rue herold, . rue lafitte, . rue lepelletier, . rue louis le grand, . rue mathieu mollé, . rue pelletier, . rue pigalle, . rue rambuteau, . rue richelieu, , , , . rue roquette, . rue royal, . rue servandoni, . rue sourdière, . rue st. antoine, , , , . rue st. denis, . rue st. eleuthère, . rue st. honoré, , . rue st. lazare, . rue st. martin (le bourg st. martin), . rue st. roch, . rue taitbout, , . rue tiquetonne, , , . rue vaugirard, , , . rue vivienne, . rupert, prince, . russia, , . sabot, mother, . sainte chapelle, . saint foix, . salcède, . salon d'automne, . salons, . salpêtrière, the, . sand, george, , , , , . sand, karl ludwig, . saône, . sarcey, francisque, . sardou, . "saul," . schiller, . scotland, . scott, sir walter, , , , , . scribe, eugene, , , . sebastiani, general, . second empire, , , , , , . second republic, , . seine, the, , , , , , , - , - , , , , , , , . senlis, . sens, . sévigné, madame de, , . seville, . shakespeare, , . sicily, , . sillegue, colonel de, . "site d'italie" (corot), . smith, william, . "soir" (corot), . soissons, . soldain, . sorbonne, , , . sorbonne, robert de, . soulié, , , . soumet, . soyer, . spain, , , . st. bartholomew's night, , . st. beauvet, . st. bénezet d'avignon, . st. cloud, , . ste. croix, gaudin de, . st. denis, , . st. denis, abbey of, , . st. etienne-andrézieux, . ste. geneviève, , . ste. genevieve, abbey of , , , . st. germain, , , , , , , . st. germain, abbot of, . st. germain des prés, . st. germain-en-laye, , , - . st. germain l'auxerrois, . st. gratien, . st. luc, marquis, . st. mégrin, . st. michel, . st. vincent de paul, . st. victor, . st. waast, abbey of, . stendhal, . sterne, . stevenson, r. l., , . strasbourg (monument), , . strasbourg, . "stryge, the," . stuart, mary, . sue, eugène, , , . switzerland, , . "sword of the brave chevalier," . sylla, . sylvestre's, . taglioni, marie, , . talleyrand, henri de, . talma, , , , . tarascon, . tastu, mme. amable, . thackeray, . thames, . théâtre de la nation, . théâtre du palais royal, , . théâtre française, , , , , , . "théâtre historique," . théâtre italien, . theadlon, . théaulon, . "the conspirators," see works of dumas. "the queen's necklace," (le collier de la reine), see works of dumas. "the regent's daughter," see works of dumas. "the sorbonne," . "the taking of the bastille," see works of dumas. "the wandering jew," . "the wolf-leader," see works of dumas. thierry, edouard, , . thiers, , . "third republic," . titian, . title of dumas, , , . touchet, marie, , . toul, . toulon, , , , , , . toulouse, . "tour de jean-sans-peur," . tour de nesle, . tour de st. jacques la boucherie, . tour du bois, . tour eiffel, , . tours, . tour st. jacques, , , , . tower of london, . "travels," see works of dumas. travels of dumas, , - , , , , , , . "treasure island," . treville, de, , , . trianon, the, . trocadero, . trouville, , , . tuileries, the, , , , , , , , , , , , . turenne, , , . université, the, , . val-de-grace, the, . valenciennes, . valois, house of, , , , , . valois, marguerite de, , , , . valois romances, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . vandam, albert, , , , , , , , . van dyke, . vatel, . vermandois, count of, . vernet, . vernon, , . véron, doctor, , , , . versailles, , , - . vesinet, . "vicomte de bragelonne," see works of dumas. vidocq, . viennet, . vieux château, , , , . vigny, de, . villefort, de, , . villemessant, de, . villers-cotterets, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . vincennes, , . vincennes, château of, , . vincennes, fort of, . "vingt ans après" ("twenty years after"), see works of dumas. viollet-le-duc, , . vivières, . voltaire, , , , , . volterre, ricciarelli de, . wardes, de, . warsaw, . waterloo, . william iii., . william the conqueror, . windt, cornelius de, . windt, jacobus de, . windsor, . winter, lady de, . works of dumas: "ange pitou," . "antony," , . "black tulip" ("la tulipe noire"), , , - , . "capitaine pamphile," , , , . "capitaine paul" ("paul jones"), , . "causeries," , . "cherubino et celestine," . "chevalier d'harmental," . "chicot the jester" ("la dame de monsoreau"), , , , , , , , , , , , . "comtesse de charny," , , , , . "corsican brothers," , , , , . "count of monte cristo," , - , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . "crimes célèbres" ("celebrated crimes"), , , , , . "dictionnaire de cuisine," . "dix-huit mois à st. petersburgh," . "forty-five guardsmen," , , , . "gabriel lambert," , , , , . "georges," . "henri iii. et sa cour," , , . "impressions du voyage," , , , . "jeanne d'arc," . "kean," . "la tour de nesle," . "les pêcheurs du filet," . "les trois mousquetaires" ("the three musketeers"), , - , , , , , , , , , , , , . "maître adam le calabrais," . "marguerite de valois," , , , , , , , , , , , , . "mémoires," , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . "mémoires d'un maître d'armes," , . "mes bêtes," , . "murat," . "pascal bruno," . "pauline," , , , , , , . "the conspirators," , , . "the queen's necklace," ("le collier de la reine"), , , , , , , , , , , . "the regent's daughter," , , - . "the taking of the bastille," , , , , , , , , , . "the wolf-leader," , . "vicomte de bragelonne," , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . "vingt ans après" ("twenty years after"), , , , - , , , . zola, , , , , . transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. punctuation has been corrected without note. the following misprints have been corrected: "sordonne" corrected to "sorbonne" (page ) "be" corrected to "he" (page ) other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been retained from the original. errors in quotations, place names, and french passages have been retained from the original. _the inside story of the peace conference_ _by dr. e.j. dillon_ harper & brothers publishers _new york and london_ the inside story of the peace conference copyright , by harper & brothers printed in the united states of america published february, _to c.w. barron in memory of interesting conversations on historic occasions these pages are inscribed._ contents chap. page foreword ix i. the city of the conference ii. signs of the times iii. the delegates iv. censorship and secrecy v. aims and methods vi. the lesser states vii. poland's outlook in the future viii. italy ix. japan x. attitude toward russia xi. bolshevism xii. how bolshevism was fostered xiii. sidelights on the treaty xiv. the treaty with germany xv. the treaty with bulgaria xvi. the covenant and minorities foreword it is almost superfluous to say that this book does not claim to be a history, however summary, of the peace conference, seeing that such a work was made sheer impossible now and forever by the chief delegates themselves when they decided to dispense with records of their conversations and debates. it is only a sketch--a sketch of the problems which the war created or rendered pressing--of the conditions under which they cropped up; of the simplicist ways in which they were conceived by the distinguished politicians who volunteered to solve them; of the delegates' natural limitations and electioneering commitments and of the secret influences by which they were swayed; of the peoples' needs and expectations; of the unwonted procedure adopted by the conference and of the fateful consequences of its decisions to the world. in dealing with all those matters i aimed at impartiality, which is an unattainable ideal, but i trust that sincerity and detachment have brought me reasonably close to it. having no pet theories of my own to champion, my principal standard of judgment is derived from the law of causality and the rules of historical criticism. the fatal tactical mistake chargeable to the conference lay in its making the charter of the league of nations and the treaty of peace with the central powers interdependent. for the maxims that underlie the former are irreconcilable with those that should determine the latter, and the efforts to combine them must, among other untoward results, create a sharp opposition between the vital interests of the people of the united states and the apparent or transient interests of their associates. the outcome of this unnatural union will be to damage the cause of stable peace which it was devised to further. but the surest touchstone by which to test the capacity and the achievements of the world-legislators is their attitude toward russia in the political domain and toward the labor problem in the economic sphere. and in neither case does their action or inaction appear to have been the outcome of statesman-like ideas, or, indeed, of any higher consideration than that of evading the central issue and transmitting the problem to the league of nations. the results are manifest to all. the continuity of human progress depends at bottom upon labor, and it is becoming more and more doubtful whether the civilized races of mankind can be reckoned on to supply it for long on conditions akin to those which have in various forms prevailed ever since the institutions of ancient times and which alone render the present social structure viable. if this forecast should prove correct, the only alternative to a break disastrous in the continuity of civilization is the frank recognition of the principle that certain inferior races are destined to serve the cause of mankind in those capacities for which alone they are qualified and to readjust social institutions to this axiom. in the meanwhile the conference which ignored this problem of problems has transformed europe into a seething mass of mutually hostile states powerless to face the economic competition of their overseas rivals and has set the very elements of society in flux. e.j. dillon. the inside story of the peace conference i the city of the conference the choice of paris for the historic peace conference was an afterthought. the anglo-saxon governments first favored a neutral country as the most appropriate meeting-ground for the world's peace-makers. holland was mentioned only to be eliminated without discussion, so obvious and decisive were the objections. french switzerland came next in order, was actually fixed upon, and for a time held the field. lausanne was the city first suggested and nearly chosen. there was a good deal to be said for it on its own merits, and in its suburb, ouchy, the treaty had been drawn up which terminated the war between italy and turkey. but misgivings were expressed as to its capacity to receive and entertain the formidable peace armies without whose co-operation the machinery for stopping all wars could not well be fabricated. at last geneva was fixed upon, and so certain were influential delegates of the ratification of their choice by all the allies, that i felt justified in telegraphing to geneva to have a house hired for six months in that picturesque city. but the influential delegates had reckoned without the french, who in these matters were far and away the most influential. was it not in the hall of mirrors at versailles, they asked, that teuton militarism had received its most powerful impulse? and did not poetic justice, which was never so needed as in these evil days, ordain that the chartered destroyer who had first seen the light of day in that hall should also be destroyed there? was this not in accordance with the eternal fitness of things? whereupon the matter-of-fact anglo-saxon mind, unable to withstand the force of this argument and accustomed to give way on secondary matters, assented, and paris was accordingly fixed upon.... "paris herself again," tourists remarked, who had not been there since the fateful month when hostilities began--meaning that something of the wealth and luxury of bygone days was venturing to display itself anew as an afterglow of the epoch whose sun was setting behind banks of thunder-clouds. and there was a grain of truth in the remark. the ville lumière was crowded as it never had been before. but it was mostly strangers who were within her gates. in the throng of anglo-saxon warriors and cosmopolitan peace-lovers following the trailing skirts of destiny, one might with an effort discover a parisian now and again. but they were few and far between. they and their principal european guests made some feeble attempts to vie with the vienna of - in elegance and taste if not in pomp and splendor. but the general effect was marred by the element of the _nouveaux-riches_ and _nouveaux-pauvres_ which was prominent, if not predominant. a few of the great and would-be great ladies outbade one another in the effort to renew the luxury and revive the grace of the past. but the atmosphere was numbing, their exertions half-hearted, and the smile of youth and beauty was cold like the sheen of winter ice. the shadow of death hung over the institutions and survivals of the various civilizations and epochs which were being dissolved in the common melting-pot, and even the man in the street was conscious of its chilling influence. life in the capital grew agitated, fitful, superficial, unsatisfying. its gaiety was forced--something between a challenge to the destroyer and a sad farewell to the past and present. men were instinctively aware that the morrow was fraught with bitter surprises, and they deliberately adopted the maxim, "let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die." none of these people bore on their physiognomies the dignified impress of the olden time, barring a few aristocratic figures from the faubourg st.-germain, who looked as though they had only to don the perukes and the distinctive garb of the eighteenth century to sit down to table with voltaire and the marquise du châtelet. here and there, indeed, a coiffure, a toilet, the bearing, the gait, or the peculiar grace with which a robe was worn reminded one that this or that fair lady came of a family whose life-story in the days of yore was one of the tributaries to the broad stream of european history. but on closer acquaintanceship, especially at conversational tournaments, one discovered that nature, constant in her methods, distributes more gifts of beauty than of intellect. festive banquets, sinful suppers, long-spun-out lunches were as frequent and at times as lucullan as in the days of the regency. the outer, coarser attributes of luxury abounded in palatial restaurants, hotels, and private mansions; but the refinement, the grace, the brilliant conversation even of the paris of the third empire were seen to be subtle branches of a lost art. the people of the armistice were weary and apprehensive--weary of the war, weary of politics, weary of the worn-out framework of existence, and filled with a vague, nameless apprehension of the unknown. they feared that in the chaotic slough into which they had fallen they had not yet touched bottom. none the less, with the exception of fervent catholics and a number of earnest sectarians, there were few genuine seekers after anything essentially better. not only did the general atmosphere of paris undergo radical changes, together with its population, but the thoroughfares, many of them, officially changed their names since the outbreak of the war. the paris of the conference ceased to be the capital of france. it became a vast cosmopolitan caravanserai teeming with unwonted aspects of life and turmoil, filled with curious samples of the races, tribes, and tongues of four continents who came to watch and wait for the mysterious to-morrow. the intensity of life there was sheer oppressive; to the tumultuous striving of the living were added the silent influences of the dead. for it was also a trysting-place for the ghosts of sovereignties and states, militarisms and racial ambitions, which were permitted to wander at large until their brief twilight should be swallowed up in night. the dignified turk passionately pleaded for constantinople, and cast an imploring look on the lone armenian whose relatives he had massacred, and who was then waiting for political resurrection. persian delegates wandered about like souls in pain, waiting to be admitted through the portals of the conference paradise. beggared croesus passed famishing lucullus in the street, and once mighty viziers shivered under threadbare garments in the biting frost as they hurried over the crisp february snow. waning and waxing powers, vacant thrones, decaying dominations had, each of them, their accusers, special pleaders, and judges, in this multitudinous world-center on which tragedy, romance, and comedy rained down potent spells. for the conference city was also the clearing-house of the fates, where the accounts of a whole epoch, the deeds and misdeeds of an exhausted civilization, were to be balanced and squared. here strange yet familiar figures, survivals from the past, started up at every hand's turn and greeted one with smiles or sighs. men on whom i last set eyes when we were boys at school, playing football together in the field or preparing lessons in the school-room, would stop me in the street on their way to represent nations or peoples whose lives were out of chime, or to inaugurate the existence of new republics. one face i shall never forget. it was that of the self-made temporary dictator of a little country whose importance was dwindling to the dimensions of a footnote in the history of the century. i had been acquainted with him personally in the halcyon day of his transient glory. like his picturesque land, he won the immortality of a day, was courted and subsidized by competing states in turn, and then suddenly cast aside like a sucked orange. then he sank into the depths of squalor. he was eloquent, resourceful, imaginative, and brimful of the poetry of untruth. one day through the asphalt streets of paris he shuffled along in the procession of the doomed, with wan face and sunken eyes, wearing a tragically mean garb. and soon after i learned that he had vanished unwept into eternal oblivion. an arabian nights touch was imparted to the dissolving panorama by strange visitants from tartary and kurdistan, korea and aderbeijan, armenia, persia, and the hedjaz--men with patriarchal beards and scimitar-shaped noses, and others from desert and oasis, from samarkand and bokhara. turbans and fezzes, sugar-loaf hats and headgear resembling episcopal miters, old military uniforms devised for the embryonic armies of new states on the eve of perpetual peace, snowy-white burnooses, flowing mantles, and graceful garments like the roman toga, contributed to create an atmosphere of dreamy unreality in the city where the grimmest of realities were being faced and coped with. then came the men of wealth, of intellect, of industrial enterprise, and the seed-bearers of the ethical new ordering, members of economic committees from the united states, britain, italy, poland, russia, india, and japan, representatives of naphtha industries and far-off coal mines, pilgrims, fanatics, and charlatans from all climes, priests of all religions, preachers of every doctrine, who mingled with princes, field-marshals, statesmen, anarchists, builders-up, and pullers-down. all of them burned with desire to be near to the crucible in which the political and social systems of the world were to be melted and recast. every day, in my walks, in my apartment, or at restaurants, i met emissaries from lands and peoples whose very names had seldom been heard of before in the west. a delegation from the pont-euxine greeks called on me, and discoursed of their ancient cities of trebizond, samsoun, tripoli, kerassund, in which i resided many years ago, and informed me that they, too, desired to become welded into an independent greek republic, and had come to have their claims allowed. the albanians were represented by my old friend turkhan pasha, on the one hand, and by my friend essad pasha, on the other--the former desirous of italy's protection, the latter demanding complete independence. chinamen, japanese, koreans, hindus, kirghizes, lesghiens, circassians, mingrelians, buryats, malays, and negroes and negroids from africa and america were among the tribes and tongues forgathered in paris to watch the rebuilding of the political world system and to see where they "came in." one day i received a visit from an armenian deputation; its chief was described on his visiting-card as president of the armenian republic of the caucasus. when he was shown into my apartment in the hôtel vendôme, i recognized two of its members as old acquaintances with whom i had occasional intercourse in erzerum, kipri keui, and other places during the armenian massacres of the year . we had not met since then. they revived old memories, completed for me the life-stories of several of our common friends and acquaintances, and narrated interesting episodes of local history. and having requested my co-operation, the president and his colleagues left me and once more passed out of my life. another actor on the world-stage whom i had encountered more than once before was the "heroic" king of montenegro. he often crossed my path during the conference, and set me musing on the marvelous ups and downs of human existence. this potentate's life offers a rich field of research to the psychologist. i had watched it myself at various times and with curious results. for i had met him in various european capitals during the past thirty years, and before the time when tsar alexander iii publicly spoke of him as russia's only friend. king nikita owes such success in life as he can look back on with satisfaction to his adaptation of st. paul's maxim of being all things to all men. thus in st. petersburg he was a good russian, in vienna a patriotic austrian, in rome a sentimental italian. he was also a warrior, a poet after his own fashion, a money-getter, and a speculator on 'change. his alleged martial feats and his wily, diplomatic moves ever since the first balkan war abound in surprises, and would repay close investigation. the ease with which the austrians captured mount lovtchen and his capital made a lasting impression on those of his allies who were acquainted with the story, the consequences of which he could not foresee. what everybody seemed to know was that if the teutons had defeated the entente, king nikita's son mirko, who had settled down for the purpose in vienna, would have been set on the throne in place of his father by the austrians; whereas if the allies should win, the worldly-wise monarch would have retained his crown as their champion. but these well-laid plans went all agley. prince mirko died and king nikita was deposed. for a time he resided at a hotel, a few houses from me, and i passed him now and again as he was on his way to plead his lost cause before the distinguished wreckers of thrones and régimes. it seemed as though, in order to provide paris with a cosmopolitan population, the world was drained of its rulers, of its prosperous and luckless financiers, of its high and low adventurers, of its tribe of fortune-seekers, and its pushing men and women of every description. and the result was an odd blend of classes and individuals worthy, it may be, of the new democratic era, but unprecedented. it was welcomed as of good augury, for instance, that in the stately hôtel majestic, where the spokesmen of the british empire had their residence, monocled diplomatists mingled with spry typewriters, smart amanuenses, and even with bright-eyed chambermaids at the evening dances.[ ] the british premier himself occasionally witnessed the cheering spectacle with manifest pleasure. self-made statesmen, scions of fallen dynasties, ex-premiers, and ministers, who formerly swayed the fortunes of the world, whom one might have imagined _capaces imperii nisi imperassent_, were now the unnoticed inmates of unpretending hotels. ambassadors whose most trivial utterances had once been listened to with concentrated attention, sued days and weeks for an audience of the greater plenipotentiaries, and some of them sued in vain. russian diplomatists were refused permission to travel in france or were compelled to undergo more than average discomfort and delay there. more than once i sat down to lunch or dinner with brilliant commensals, one of whom was understood to have made away with a well-known personage in order to rid the state of a bad administrator, and another had, at a secret _vehmgericht_ in turkey, condemned a friend of mine, now a friend of his, to be assassinated. in paris, this temporary capital of the world, one felt the repercussion of every event, every incident of moment wheresoever it might have occurred. to reside there while the conference was sitting was to occupy a comfortable box in the vastest theater the mind of men has ever conceived. from this rare coign of vantage one could witness soul-gripping dramas of human history, the happenings of years being compressed within the limits of days. the revolution in portugal, the massacre of armenians, bulgaria's atrocities, the slaughter of the inhabitants of saratoff and odessa, the revolt of the koreans--all produced their effect in paris, where official and unofficial exponents of the aims and ambitions, religions and interests that unite or divide mankind were continually coming or going, working aboveground or burrowing beneath the surface. it was within a few miles of the place where i sat at table with the brilliant company alluded to above that a few individuals of two different nationalities, one of them bearing, it was said, a well-known name, hatched the plot that sent portugal's strong man, president sidonio paes, to his last account and plunged that ill-starred land into chaotic confusion. the plan was discovered by the portuguese military attaché, who warned the president himself and the war minister. but sidonio paes, quixotic and foolhardy, refused to take or brook precautions. a few weeks later the assassin, firing three shots, had no difficulty in taking aim, but none of them took effect. the reason was interesting: so determined were the conspirators to leave nothing to chance, they had steeped the cartridges in a poisonous preparation, whereby they injured the mechanism of the revolver, which, in consequence, hung fire. but the adversaries of the reform movement which the president had inaugurated again tried and planned another attempt, and sidonio paes, who would not be taught prudence, was duly shot, and his admirable work undone[ ] by a band of semi-bolshevists. less than six months later it was rumored that a number of specially prepared bombs from a certain european town had been sent to moscow for the speedy removal of lenin. the casual way in which these and kindred matters were talked of gave one the measure of the change that had come over the world since the outbreak of the war. there was nobody left in europe whose death, violent or peaceful, would have made much of an impression on the dulled sensibilities of the reading public. all values had changed, and that of human life had fallen low. to follow these swiftly passing episodes, occasionally glancing behind the scenes, during the pauses of the acts, and watch the unfolding of the world-drama, was thrillingly interesting. to note the dubious source, the chance occasion of a grandiose project of world policy, and to see it started on its shuffling course, was a revelation in politics and psychology, and reminded one of the saying mistakenly attributed to the swedish chancellor oxenstjern, "_quam parva sapientia regitur mundus_."[ ] the wire-pullers were not always the plenipotentiaries. among those were also outsiders of various conditions, sometimes of singular ambitions, who were generally free from conventional prejudices and conscientious scruples. as traveling to paris was greatly restricted by the governments of the world, many of these unofficial delegates had come in capacities widely differing from those in which they intended to act. i confess i was myself taken in by more than one of these secret emissaries, whom i was innocently instrumental in bringing into close touch with the human levers they had come to press. i actually went to the trouble of obtaining for one of them valuable data on a subject which did not interest him in the least, but which he pretended he had traveled several thousand miles to study. a zealous prelate, whose business was believed to have something to do with the future of a certain branch of the christian church in the east, in reality held a brief for a wholly different set of interests in the west. some of these envoys hoped to influence decisions of the conference, and they considered they had succeeded when they got their points of view brought to the favorable notice of certain of its delegates. what surprised me was the ease with which several of these interlopers moved about, although few of them spoke any language but their own. collectivities and religious and political associations, including that of the bolshevists, were represented in paris during the conference. i met one of the bolshevists, a bright youth, who was a veritable apostle. he occupied a post which, despite its apparent insignificance, put him occasionally in possession of useful information withheld from the public, which he was wont to communicate to his political friends. his knowledge of languages and his remarkable intelligence had probably attracted the notice of his superiors, who can have had no suspicion of his leanings, much less of his proselytizing activity. however this may have been, he knew a good deal of what was going on at the conference, and he occasionally had insight into documents of a certain interest. he was a seemingly honest and enthusiastic bolshevik, who spread the doctrine with apostolic zeal guided by the wisdom of the serpent. he was ever ready to comment on events, but before opening his mind fully to a stranger on the subject next to his heart, he usually felt his way, and only when he had grounds for believing that the fortress was not impregnable did he open his batteries. even among the initiated, few would suspect the rôle played by this young proselytizer within one of the strongholds of the conference, so naturally and unobtrusively was the work done. i may add that luckily he had no direct intercourse with the delegates. of all the collectivities whose interests were furthered at the conference, the jews had perhaps the most resourceful and certainly the most influential exponents. there were jews from palestine, from poland, russia, the ukraine, rumania, greece, britain, holland, and belgium; but the largest and most brilliant contingent was sent by the united states. their principal mission, with which every fair-minded man sympathized heartily, was to secure for their kindred in eastern europe rights equal to those of the populations in whose midst they reside.[ ] and to the credit of the poles, rumanians, and russians, who were to be constrained to remove all the existing disabilities, they enfranchised the hebrew elements spontaneously. but the western jews, who championed their eastern brothers, proceeded to demand a further concession which many of their own co-religionists hastened to disclaim as dangerous--a kind of autonomy which rumanian, polish, and russian statesmen, as well as many of their jewish fellow-subjects, regarded as tantamount to the creation of a state within the state. whether this estimate is true or erroneous, the concessions asked for were given, but the supplementary treaties insuring the protection of minorities are believed to have little chance of being executed, and may, it is feared, provoke manifestations of elemental passions in the countries in which they are to be applied. twice every day, before and after lunch, one met the "autocrats," the world's statesmen whose names were in every mouth--the wise men who would have been much wiser than they were if only they had credited their friends and opponents with a reasonable measure of political wisdom. these individuals, in bowler hats, sweeping past in sumptuous motors, as rarely seen on foot as roman cardinals, were the destroyers of thrones, the carvers of continents, the arbiters of empires, the fashioners of the new heaven and the new earth--or were they only the flies on the wheel of circumstance, to whom the world was unaccountably becoming a riddle? this commingling of civilizations and types brought together in paris by a set of unprecedented conditions was full of interest and instruction to the observer privileged to meet them at close quarters. the average observer, however, had little chance of conversing with them, for, as these foreigners had no common meeting-place, they kept mostly among their own folk. only now and again did three or four members of different races, when they chanced to speak some common language, get an opportunity of enjoying their leisure together. a friend of mine, a highly gifted frenchman of the fine old type, a descendant of talleyrand, who was born a hundred and fifty years too late, opened his hospitable house once a week to the élite of the world, and partially met the pressing demand. to the gaping tourist the ville lumière resembled nothing so much as a huge world fair, with enormous caravanserais, gigantic booths, gaudy merry-go-rounds, squalid taverns, and huge inns. every place of entertainment was crowded, and congregations patiently awaited their turn in the street, undeterred by rain or wind or snow, offering absurdly high prices for scant accommodation and disheartened at having their offers refused. extortion was rampant and profiteering went unpunished. foreigners, mainly american and british, could be seen wandering, portmanteau in hand, from post to pillar, anxiously seeking where to lay their heads, and made desperate by failure, fatigue, and nightfall. the cost of living which harassed the bulk of the people was fast becoming the stumbling-block of governments and the most powerful lever of revolutionaries. the chief of the peace armies resided in sumptuous hotels, furnished luxuriously in dubious taste, flooded after sundown with dazzling light, and filled by day with the buzz of idle chatter, the shuffling of feet, the banging of doors, and the ringing of bells. music and dancing enlivened the inmates when their day's toil was over and time had to be killed. thus, within, one could find anxious deliberation and warm debate; without, noisy revel and vulgar brawl. "fate's a fiddler; life's a dance." to few of those visitors did paris seem what it really was--a nest of golden dreams, a mist of memories, a seed-plot of hopes, a storehouse of time's menaces. the paris conference and the congress of vienna there were no solemn pageants, no impressive ceremonies, such as those that rejoiced the hearts of the viennese in - until the triumphal march of the allied troops. the vienna of congress days was transformed into a paradise of delights by a brilliant court which pushed hospitality to the point of lavishness. in the burg alone were two emperors, two empresses, four kings, one queen, two crown-princes, two archduchesses, and three princes. every day the emperor's table cost fifty thousand gulden--every congress day cost him ten times that sum. galaxies of europe's eminent personages flocked to the austrian capital, taking with them their ministers, secretaries, favorites, and "confidential agents." so eager were these world-reformers to enjoy themselves that the court did not go into mourning for queen marie caroline of naples, the last of marie theresa's daughters. her death was not even announced officially lest it should trouble the festivities of the jovial peace-makers! the paris of the conference, on the other hand, was democratic, with a strong infusion of plutocracy. it attempted no such brilliant display as that which flattered the senses or fired the imagination of the viennese. in mankind was simpler in its tastes and perhaps less esthetic. it is certain that the froth of contemporary frivolity had lost its sparkling whiteness and was grown turbid. in vienna, balls, banquets, theatricals, military reviews, followed one another in dizzy succession and enabled politicians and adventurers to carry on their intrigues and machinations unnoticed by all except the secret police. and, as the congress marked the close of one bloody campaign and ushered in another, one might aptly term it the interval between two tragedies. for a time it seemed as though this part of the likeness might become applicable to the conference of paris. moving from pleasure to politics, one found strong contrasts as well as surprising resemblances between the two peace-making assemblies, and, it was assumed, to the advantage of the paris conference. thus, at the austrian congress, the members, while seemingly united, were pulling hard against one another, each individual or group tugging in a different direction. the powers had been compelled by necessity to unite against a common enemy and, having worsted him on the battlefield, fell to squabbling among themselves in the council chamber as soon as they set about dividing the booty. in this respect the paris conference--the world was assured in the beginning--towered aloft above its historic predecessor. men who knew the facts declared repeatedly that the delegates to the quai d'orsay were just as unanimous, disinterested, and single-minded during the armistice as they were through the war. probably they were. another interesting point of comparison was supplied by the _dramatis personæ_? of both illustrious companies. they were nearly all representatives of old states, but there was one exception. the congress chief _mistrusted, feared, humored, and obeyed_ a relatively new power took part in the deliberations of the vienna congress, and, perhaps, because of its loftier intentions, introduced a jarring note into the concert of nations. russia was then a newcomer into the european councils; indeed she was hardly yet recognized as european. her gifted tsar, alexander i, was an idealist who wanted, not so much peace with the vanquished enemy as a complete reform of the ordering of the whole world, so that wars should thenceforward be abolished and the welfare of mankind be set developing like a sort of pacific _perpetuum mobile_. this blessed change, however, was to be compassed, not by the peoples or their representatives, but by the governments, led by himself and deliberating in secret. at the paris conference it was even so. this curious type of public worker--a mixture of the mystical and the practical--was the terror of the vienna delegates. he put spokes in everybody's wheel, behaved as the autocrat of the congress and felt as self-complacent as a saint. countess von thurheim wrote of him: "he mistrusted his environment and let himself be led by others. but he was thoroughly good and high-minded and sought after the weal, not merely of his own country, but of the whole world. _son coeur eût embrassé le bonheur du monde_." he realized in himself the dreams of the philosophers about love for mankind, but their utopias of human happiness were based upon the perfection both of subjects and of princes, and, as alexander could fulfil only one-half of these conditions, his work remained unfinished and the poor emperor died, a victim of his high-minded illusions.[ ] the other personages, metternich in particular, were greatly put out by alexander's presence. they labeled him a marplot who could not and would not enter into the spirit of their game, but they dared not offend him. without his brave troops they could not have been victorious and they did not know how soon they might need him again, for he represented a numerous and powerful people whose economic and military resources promised it in time the hegemony of the world. so, while they heartily disliked the chief of this new great country, they also feared and, therefore, humored him. they all felt that the enemy, although defeated and humbled, was not, perhaps, permanently disabled, and might, at any moment, rise, phoenix-like and soar aloft again. the great visionary was therefore fêted and lauded and raised to a dizzy pedestal by men who, in their hearts, set him down as a crank. his words were reverently repeated and his smiles recorded and remembered. hardly any one had the bad taste to remark that even this millennial philosopher in the statesman's armchair left unsightly flaws in his system for the welfare of man. thus, while favoring equality generally, he obstinately refused to concede it to one race, in fact, he would not hear of common fairness being meted out to that race. it was the polish people which was treated thus at the vienna congress, and, owing to him, poland's just claims were ignored, her indefeasible rights were violated, and the work of the peace-makers was botched.... happily, optimists said, the paris conference was organized on a wholly different basis. its members considered themselves mere servants of the public--stewards, who had to render an account of their stewardship and who therefore went in salutary fear of the electorate at home. this check was not felt by the plenipotentiaries in vienna. again, everything the paris delegates did was for the benefit of the masses, although most of it was done by stealth and unappreciated by them. the remarkable document which will forever be associated with the name of president wilson was the _clou_ of the conference. the league of nations scheme seemed destined to change fundamentally the relations of peoples toward one another, and the change was expected to begin immediately after the covenant had been voted, signed, and ratified. but it was not relished by any government except that of the united states, and it was in order to enable the delegates to devise such a wording of the covenant as would not bind them to an obnoxious principle or commit their electorates to any irksome sacrifice, that the peace treaty with germany and the liquidation of the war were postponed. this delay caused profound dissatisfaction in continental europe, but it had the incidental advantage of bringing home to the victorious nations the marvelous recuperative powers of the german race. it also gave time for the drafting of a compact so admirably tempered to the human weaknesses of the rival signatory nations, whose passions were curbed only by sheer exhaustion, that all their spokesmen saw their way to sign it. there was something almost genial in the simplicity of the means by which the eminent promoter of the covenant intended to reform the peoples of the world. he gave them credit for virtues which would have rendered the league unnecessary and displayed indulgence for passions which made its speedy realization hopeless, thus affording a _superfluous_ illustration of the truth that the one deadly evil to be shunned by those who would remain philanthropists is a practical knowledge of men, and of the truism that the statesman's bane is an inordinate fondness for abstract ideas. one of the decided triumphs of the paris peace conference over the vienna congress lay in the amazing speed with which it got through the difficult task of solving offhandedly some of the most formidable problems that ever exercised the wit of man. one of the paris journals contained the following remarkable announcement: "the actual time consumed in constituting the league of nations, which it is hoped will be the means of keeping peace in the world, was thirty hours. this doesn't seem possible, but it is true."[ ] how provokingly slowly the dawdlers of vienna moved in comparison may be read in the chronicles of that time. the peoples hoped and believed that the congress would perform its tasks in a short period, but it was only after nine months' gestation and sore travail that it finally brought forth its offspring--a mountain of acts which have been moldering in dust ever since. the wilsonian covenant, which bound together thirty-two states--a league intended to be incomparably more powerful than was the holy alliance--will take rank as the most rapid improvisation of its kind in diplomatic history. a comparison between the features common to the two international legislatures struck many observers as even more reassuring than the contrast between their differences. both were placed in like circumstances, faced with bewildering and fateful problems to which an exhausting war, just ended, had imparted sharp actuality. one of the delegates to the vienna congress wrote: "everything had to be recast and made new, the destinies of germany, italy, and poland settled, a solid groundwork laid for the future, and a commercial system to be outlined."[ ] might not those very words have been penned at any moment during the paris conference with equal relevance to its undertakings? or these: "however easily and gracefully the fine old french wit might turn the topics of the day, people felt vaguely beneath it all that these latter times were very far removed from the departed era and, in many respects, differed from it to an incomprehensible degree."[ ] and the veteran prince de ligne remarked to the comte de la garde: "from every side come cries of peace, justice, equilibrium, indemnity.... who will evolve order from this chaos and set a dam to the stream of claims?" how often have the same cries and queries been uttered in paris? when the first confidential talks began at the vienna congress, the same difficulties arose as were encountered over a century later in paris about the number of states that were entitled to have representatives there. at the outset, the four cabinet ministers of austria, russia, england, and prussia kept things to themselves, excluding vanquished france and the lesser powers. some time afterward, however, talleyrand, the spokesman of the worsted nation, accompanied by the portuguese minister, labrador, protested vehemently against the form and results of the deliberations. at one sitting passion rose to white heat and talleyrand spoke of quitting the congress altogether, whereupon a compromise was struck and eight nations received the right to be represented. in this way the committee of eight was formed.[ ] in paris discussion became to the full as lively, and on the first saturday, when the representatives of belgium, greece, poland, and the other small states delivered impassioned speeches against the attitude of the big five they were maladroitly answered by m. clemenceau, who relied, as the source from which emanated the superior right of the great powers, upon the twelve million soldiers they had placed in the field. it was unfortunate that force should thus confer privileges at a peace conference which was convoked to end the reign of force and privilege. in vienna it was different, but so were the times. many of the entries and comments of the chroniclers of read like extracts from newspapers of the first three months of . "about poland, they are fighting fiercely and, down to the present, with no decisive result," writes count carl von nostitz, a russian military observer.... "concerning germany and her future federative constitution, nothing has yet been done, absolutely nothing."[ ] here is a gloss written by countess elise von bernstorff, wife of the danish minister: "most comical was the mixture of the very different individuals who all fancied they had work to do at the congress ... one noticed noblemen and scholars who had never transacted any business before, but now looked extremely consequential and took on an imposing bearing, and professors who mentally set down their university chairs in the center of a listening congress, but soon turned peevish and wandered hither and thither, complaining that they could not, for the life of them, make out what was going on." again: "it would have been to the interest of all europe--rightly understood--to restore poland. this matter may be regarded as the most important of all. none other could touch so nearly the policy of all the powers represented,"[ ] wrote the bavarian premier, graf von montgelas, just as the entente press was writing in the year . the plenipotentiaries of the paris conference had for a short period what is termed a good press, and a rigorous censorship which never erred on the side of laxity, whereas those of the vienna congress were criticized without truth. for example, the population of vienna, we are told by bavaria's chief delegate, was disappointed when it discerned in those whom it was wont to worship as demigods, only mortals. "the condition of state affairs," writes von gentz, one of the clearest heads at the congress, "is weird, but it is not, as formerly, in consequence of the crushing weight that is hung around our necks, but by reason of the mediocrity and clumsiness of nearly all the workers."[ ] one consequence of this state of things was the constant upspringing of new and unforeseen problems, until, as time went on, the bewildered delegates were literally overwhelmed. "so many interests cross each other here," comments count carl von nostitz, "which the peoples want to have mooted at the long-wished-for league of nations, that they fall into the oddest shapes.... look wheresoever you will, you are faced with incongruity and confusion.... daily the claims increase as though more and more evil spirits were issuing forth from hell at the invocation of a sorcerer who has forgotten the spell by which to lay them."[ ] it was of the vienna congress that those words were written. in certain trivial details, too, the likeness between the two great peace assemblies is remarkable. for example, lord castlereagh, who represented england at vienna, had to return to london to meet parliament, thus inconveniencing the august assembly, as mr. wilson and mr. george were obliged to quit paris, with a like effect. before castlereagh left the scene of his labors, uncharitable judgments were passed on him for allowing home interests to predominate over his international activities. the destinies of poland and of germany, which were then about to become a confederation, occupied the forefront of interest at the congress as they did at the conference. a similarity is noticeable also in the state of europe generally, then and now. "the uncertain condition of all europe," writes a close observer in , "is appalling for the peoples: every country has mobilized ... and the luckless inhabitants are crushed by taxation. on every side people complain that this state of peace is worse than war ... individuals who despised napoleon say that under him the suffering was not greater ... every country is sapping its own prosperity, so that financial conditions, in lieu of improving since napoleon's collapse, are deteriorating every where."[ ] in , as in , the world pacifiers had their court painters, and isabey, the french portraitist, was as much run after as was sir william orpen in . in some respects, however, there was a difference. "isabey," said the prince de ligne, "is the congress become painter. come! his talk is as clever as his brush." but sir william orpen was so absorbed by his work that he never uttered a word during a sitting. the contemporaries of the paris conference were luckier than their forebears of the vienna congress--for they could behold the lifelike features of their benefactors in a cinema. "it is understood," wrote a paris journal, "that the necessity of preserving a permanent record of the personalities and proceedings at the peace conference has not been lost sight of. very shortly a series of cinematographic films of the principal delegates and of the commissions is to be made on behalf of the british government, so that, side by side with the treaty of paris, posterity will be able to study the physiognomy of the men who made it."[ ] in no case is it likely to forget them. so the great heart of paris, even to a greater degree than that of vienna over a hundred years ago, beat and throbbed to cosmic measures while its brain worked busily at national, provincial, and economic questions. side by side with the good cheer prevalent that kept the eminent lawgivers of the vienna congress in buoyant spirits went the cost of living, prohibitive outside the charmed circle in consequence of the high and rising prices. "every article," writes the comte de la garde, one of the chroniclers of the vienna congress, "but more especially fuel, soared to incredible heights. the austrian government found it necessary, in consequence, to allow all its officials supplements to their salaries and indemnities."[ ] in paris things were worse. greed and disorganization combined to make of the french capital a vast fleecing-machine. the sums of money expended by foreigners in france during all that time and a much longer period is said to have exceeded the revenue from foreign trade. there was hardly any coal, and even the wood fuel gave out now and again. butter was unknown. wine was bad and terribly dear. a public conveyance could not be obtained unless one paid "double, treble, and quintuple fares and a gratuity." the demand was great and the supply sometimes abundant, but the authorities contrived to keep the two apart systematically. the cost of living in no european country did the cost of living attain the height it reached in france in the year . not only luxuries and comforts, but some of life's necessaries, were beyond the reach of home-coming soldiers, and this was currently ascribed to the greed of merchants, the disorganization of transports, the strikes of workmen, and the supineness of the authorities, whose main care was to keep the nation tranquil by suppressing one kind of news, spreading another, and giving way to demands which could no longer be denied. there was another and more effectual cause: the war had deprived the world of twelve million workmen and a thousand milliard francs' worth of goods. but of this people took no account. the demobilized soldiers who for years had been well fed and relieved of solicitude for the morrow returned home, flushed with victory, proud of the commanding position which they had won in the state, and eager to reap the rewards of their sacrifices. but they were bitterly disillusioned. they expected a country fit for heroes to live in, and what awaited them was a condition of things to which only a defeated people could be asked to resign itself. the food to which the poilu had, for nearly five years, been accustomed at the front was become, since the armistice, the exclusive monopoly of the capitalist or the _nouveau-riche_ in the rear. to obtain a ration of sugar he or his wife had to stand in a long queue for hours, perhaps go away empty-handed and return on the following morning. when his sugar-card was eventually handed to him he had again to stand in line outside the grocer's door and, when his turn came to enter it, was frequently told that the supply was exhausted and would not be replenished for a week or longer. yet his newspaper informed him that there was plenty of colonial sugar, ready for shipment, but forbidden by the authorities to be imported into france. i met many poor people from the provinces and some resident in paris who for four years had not once eaten a morsel of sugar, although the well-to-do were always amply supplied. in many places even bread was lacking, while biscuits, shortbread, and fancy cakes, available at exorbitant prices, were exhibited in the shop windows. tokens of unbridled luxury and glaring evidences of wanton waste were flaunted daily and hourly in the faces of the humbled men who had saved the nation and wanted the nation to realize the fact. lucullan banquets, opulent lunches, all-night dances, high revels of an exotic character testified to the peculiar psychic temper as well as to the material prosperity of the passive elements of the community and stung the poilus to the quick. "but what justice," these asked, "can the living hope for, when the glorious dead are so soon forgotten?" for one ghastly detail remains to complete a picture to which boccaccio could hardly have done justice. "while all this wild dissipation was going on among the moneyed class in the capital the corpses of many gallant soldiers lay unburied and uncovered on the shell-plowed fields of battle near rheims, on the road to neuville-sur-margival and other places--sights pointed out to visitors to tickle their interest in the grim spectacle of war. in vain individuals expostulated and the press protested. as recently as may persons known to me--my english secretary was one--looked with the fascination of horror on the bodies of men who, when they breathed, were heroes. they lay there where they had fallen and agonized, and now, in the heat of the may sun, were moldering in dust away--a couple of hours' motor drive from paris...."[ ] the soldiers mused and brooded. since the war began they had undergone a great psychic transformation. stationed at the very center of a sustained fiery crisis, they lost their feeling of acquiescence in the established order and in the place of their own class therein. in the sight of death they had been stirred to their depths and volcanic fires were found burning there. resignation had thereupon made way for a rebellious mood and rebellion found sustenance everywhere. the poilu demobilized retained his military spirit, nay, he carried about with him the very atmosphere of the trenches. he had rid himself of the sentiment of fear and the faculty of reverence went with it. his outlook on the world had changed completely and his inner sense reversed the social order which he beheld, as the eye reverses the object it apprehends. respect for persons and institutions survived in relatively few instances the sacredness of life and the fear of death. he was impressed, too, with the all-importance of his class, which he had learned during the war to look upon as the atlas on whose shoulders rest the republic and its empire overseas. he had saved the state in war and he remained in peace-time its principal mainstay. with his value as measured by these priceless services he compared the low estimate put upon him by those who continued to identify themselves with the state--the over-fed, lazy, self-seeking money-getters who reserved to themselves the fruits of his toil. one can well imagine--i have actually heard--the poilus putting their case somewhat as follows: "so long as we filled the gap between the death-dealing teutons and our privileged compatriots we were well fed, warmly clad, made much of. during the war we were raised to the rank of pillars of the state, saviors of the nation, arbiters of the world's destinies. so long as we faced the enemy's guns nothing was too good for us. we had meat, white bread, eggs, wine, sugar in plenty. but, now that we have accomplished our task, we have fallen from our high estate and are expected to become pariahs anew. we are to work on for the old gang and the class from which it comes, until they plunge us into another war. for what? what is the reward for what we have achieved, what the incentive for what we are expected to accomplish? we cannot afford as much food as before the war, nor of the same quality. we are in want even of necessaries. is it for this that we have fought? a thousand times no. if we saved our nation we can also save our class. we have the will and the power. why should we not exert them?" the purpose of the section of the community to which these demobilized soldiers mainly belonged grew visibly definite as consciousness of their collective force grew and became keener. occasionally it manifested itself openly in symptomatic spurts. one dismal night, at a brilliant ball in a private mansion, a select company of both sexes, representatives of the world of rank and fashion, were enjoying themselves to their hearts' content, while their chauffeurs watched and waited outside in the cold, dark streets, chewing the cud of bitter reflections. between the hours of three and four in the morning the latter held an open-air meeting, and adopted a resolution which they carried out forthwith. a delegation was sent upstairs to give notice to the light-hearted guests that they must be down in their respective motors within ten minutes on pain of not finding any conveyances to take them home. the mutineers were nearly all private chauffeurs in the employ of the personages to whom they sent this indelicate ultimatum. the resourceful host, however, warded off the danger and placated the rebellious drivers by inviting them to an improvised little banquet of _pâtés de foie gras_, dry champagne, and other delicacies. the general temper of the proletariat remained unchanged. tales of rebellion still more disquieting were current in paris, which, whether true or false, were aids to a correct diagnosis of the situation. a dancing mania broke out during the armistice, which was not confined to the french capital. in berlin, rome, london, it aroused the indignation of those whose sympathy with the spiritual life of their respective nations was still a living force. it would seem, however, to be the natural reaction produced by a tremendous national calamity, under which the mainspring of the collective mind temporarily gives way and the psychical equilibrium is upset. disillusion, despondency, and contempt for the passions that lately stirred them drive the people to seek relief in the distractions of pleasures, among which dancing is perhaps one of the mildest. it was so in paris at the close of the long period of stress which ended with the rise of napoleon. dancing then went on uninterruptedly despite national calamities and private hardships. "luxury," said victor hugo, "is a necessity of great states and great civilizations, but there are moments when it must not be exhibited to the masses." there was never a conjuncture when the danger of such an exhibition was greater or more imminent than during the armistice on the continent--for it was the period of incubation preceding the outbreak of the most malignant social disease to which civilized communities are subject. the festivities and amusements in the higher circles of paris recall the glowing descriptions of the fret and fever of existence in the austrian capital during the historic vienna congress a hundred years ago. dancing became epidemic and shameless. in some salons the forms it took were repellent. one of my friends, the marquis x., invited to a dance at the house of a plutocrat, was so shocked by what he saw there that he left almost at once in disgust. madame machin, the favorite teacher of the choreographic art, gave lessons in the new modes of dancing, and her fee was three hundred francs a lesson. in a few weeks she netted, it is said, over one hundred thousand francs. the prince de ligne said of the vienna congress: "le congrès danse mais il ne marche pas." the french press uttered similar criticisms of the paris conference, when its delegates were leisurely picking up information about the countries whose affairs they were forgathered to settle. the following paragraph from a paris journal--one of many such--describes a characteristic scene: the domestic staff at the hôtel majestic, the headquarters of the british delegation at the peace conference, held a very successful dance on monday evening, attended by many members of the british mission and staff. the ballroom was a medley of plenipotentiaries and chambermaids, generals and orderlies, foreign office attachés and waitresses. all the latest forms of dancing were to be seen, including the jazz and the hesitation waltz, and, according to the opinion of experts, the dancing reached an unusually high standard of excellence. major lloyd george, one of the prime minister's sons, was among the dancers. mr. g.h. roberts, the food controller, made a very happy little speech to the hotel staff.[ ] the following extract is also worth quoting: a packed house applauded 'hullo, paris!' from the rise of the curtain to the finale at the new palace theater (in the rue mogador), paris, last night.... president wilson, mr. a.j. balfour, and lord derby all remained until the fall of the curtain at . ... and ... were given cordial cheers from the dispersing audience as they passed through the line of municipal guards, who presented arms as the distinguished visitors made their way to their motor-cars.[ ] juxtaposed with the grief, discontent, and physical hardships prevailing among large sections of the population which had provided most of the holocausts for the moloch of war, the ostentatious gaiety of the prosperous few might well seem a challenge. and so it was construed by the sullen lack-alls who prowled about the streets of paris and told one another that their turn would come soon. when the masses stare at the wealthy with the eyes one so often noticed during the eventful days of the armistice one may safely conclude, in the words of victor hugo, that "it is not thoughts that are harbored by those brains; it is events." by the laboring classes the round of festivities, the theatrical representations, the various negro and other foreign dances, and the less-refined pleasures of the world's blithest capital were watched with ill-concealed resentment. one often witnessed long lines of motor-cars driving up to a theater, fashionable restaurant, or concert-hall, through the opening portals of which could be caught a glimpse of the dazzling illumination within, while, a few yards farther off, queues of anemic men and women were waiting to be admitted to the shop where milk or eggs or fuel could be had at the relatively low prices fixed by the state. the scraps of conversation that reached one's ears were far from reassuring. i have met on the same afternoon the international world-regenerators, smiling, self-complacent, or preoccupied, flitting by in their motors to the quai d'orsay, and also quiet, determined-looking men, trudging along in the snow and slush, wending their way toward their labor conventicles, where they, too, were drafting laws for a new and strange era, and i voluntarily fell to gaging the distance that sundered the two movements, and asked myself which of the inchoate legislations would ultimately be accepted by the world. the question since then has been partially answered. as time passed, the high cost of living was universally ascribed, as we saw, to the insatiable greed of the middlemen and the sluggishness of the authorities, whose incapacity to organize and unwillingness to take responsibility increased and augured ill of the future of the country unless men of different type should in the meanwhile take the reins. practically nothing was done to ameliorate the carrying power of the railways, to utilize the waterways, to employ the countless lorries and motor-vans that were lying unused, to purchase, convey, and distribute the provisions which were at the disposal of the government. various ministerial departments would dispute as to which should take over consignments of meat or vegetables, and while reports, notes, and replies were being leisurely written and despatched, weeks or months rolled by, during which the foodstuffs became unfit for human consumption. in the middle of may, to take but one typical instance, , eases of lard and , cases of salt meat were left rotting in the docks at marseilles. in the storage magazines at murumas, , tons of salt meat were spoiled because it was nobody's business to remove and distribute them. eighteen refrigerator-cars loaded with chilled meat arrived in paris from havre in the month of june. when they were examined at the cold-storage station it was discovered that, the doors having been negligently left open, the contents of the cases had to be destroyed.[ ] from belgium , kilos of potatoes were received and allowed to lie so long at one of the stations that they went bad and had to be thrown away. when these and kindred facts were published, the authorities, who had long been silent, became apologetic, but remained throughout inactive. in other countries the conditions, if less accentuated, were similar. one of the dodges to which unscrupulous dealers resorted with impunity and profit was particularly ingenious. at the central markets, whenever any food is condemned, the public-health authorities seize it and pay the owner full value at the current market rates. the marketmen often turned this equitable arrangement to account by keeping back large quantities of excellent vegetables, for which the population was yearning, and when they rotted and had to be carted away, received their money value from the public health department, thus attaining their object, which was to lessen the supply and raise the prices on what they kept for sale.[ ] the consequence was that paris suffered from a continual dearth of vegetables and fruits. statistics published by the united states government showed the maximum increase in the cost of living in four countries as follows: france, per cent.; britain, per cent.; canada, per cent.; and the united states, per cent.[ ] but since these data were published prices continued to rise until, at the beginning of july, they had attained the same level as those of russia on the eve of the revolution there. in paris, lyons, marseilles, the prices of various kinds of fish, shell-fish, jams, apples, had gone up per cent., cabbage over per cent., and celeriac , per cent. anthracite coal, which in the year cost francs a ton, could not be purchased in for less than francs. the restaurants and hotels waged a veritable war of plunder on their guests, most of whom, besides the scandalous prices, which bore no reasonable relation to the cost of production, had to pay the government luxury tax of per cent, over and above. a well-known press correspondent, who entertained seven friends to a simple dinner in a modest restaurant, was charged francs, francs being set down for one chicken, and for three cocktails. the _maître d'hotel_, in response to the pressman's expostulations, assured him that these charges left the proprietor hardly any profit. as it chanced, however, the journalist had just been professionally investigating the cost of living, and had the data at his finger-ends. as he displayed his intimate knowledge to his host, and obviously knew where to look for redress, he had the satisfaction of obtaining a rebate of francs.[ ] nothing could well be more illuminating than the following curious picture contributed by a journal whose representative made a special inquiry into the whole question of the cost of living.[ ] "i was dining the other day at a restaurant of the bois de boulogne. there was a long queue of people waiting at the door, some sixty persons all told, mostly ladies, who pressed one another closely. from time to time a voice cried: 'two places,' whereupon a door was held opened, two patients entered, and then it was loudly slammed, smiting some of those who stood next to it. at last my turn came, and i went in. the guests were sitting so close to one another that they could not move their elbows. only the hands and fingers were free. there sat women half naked, and men whose voices and dress betrayed newly acquired wealth. not one of them questioned the bills which were presented. and what bills! the _hors d'oeuvre_, francs. fish, francs. a chicken, francs. three cigars, francs. the repast came to francs a person at the very lowest." another journalist commented upon this story as follows: "since the end of last june," he said, " , quintals of vegetables, the superfluous output of the palatinate, were offered to france at nominal prices. and the cost of vegetables here at home is painfully notorious. well, the deal was accepted by the competent commission in paris. everything was ready for despatching the consignment. the necessary trains were secured. all that was wanting was the approval of the french authorities, who were notified. their answer has not yet been given and already the vegetables are rotting in the magazines." the authorities pleaded the insufficiency of rolling stock, but the press revealed the hollowness of the excuse and the responsibility of those who put it forward, and showed that thousands of wagons, lorries, and motor-vans were idle, deteriorating in the open air. for instance, between cognac and jarnac the state railways had left about one thousand wagons unused, which were fast becoming unusable.[ ] and this was but one of many similar instances. it would be hard to find a parallel in history for the rapacity combined with unscrupulousness and ingenuity displayed during that fateful period by dishonest individuals, and left unpunished by the state. doubtless france was not the only country in which greed was insatiable and its manifestations disastrous. from other parts of the continent there also came bitter complaints of the ruthlessness of profiteers, and in italy their heartless vampirism contributed materially to the revolutionary outbreaks throughout that country in july. even britain was not exempt from the scourge. but the presence of whole armies of well-paid, easy-going foreign troops and officials on french soil stimulated greed by feeding it, and also their complaints occasionally bared it to the world. the impression it left on certain units of the american forces was deplorable. when united states soldiers who had long been stationed in a french town were transferred to germany, where charges were low, the revulsion of feeling among the straightforward, honest yankees was complete and embarrassing. and by way of keeping it within the bounds of political orthodoxy, they were informed that the germans had conspired to hoodwink them by selling at undercost prices, in order to turn them against the french. it was an insidious form of german propaganda! on the other hand, the experience of british and american warriors in france sometimes happened to be so unfortunate that many of them gave credence to the absurd and mischievous legend that their governments were made to pay rent for the trenches in which their troops fought and died, and even for the graves in which the slain were buried. an acquaintance of mine, an american delegate, wanted an abode to himself during the conference, and, having found one suitable for which fifteen to twenty-five thousand francs a year were deemed a fair rent, he inquired the price, and the proprietor, knowing that he had to do with a really wealthy american, answered, "a quarter of a million francs." subsequently the landlord sent to ask whether the distinguished visitor would take the place; but the answer he received ran, "no, i have too much self-respect." hotel prices in paris, beginning from december, , were prohibitive to all but the wealthy. yet they were raised several times during the conference. again, despite the high level they had reached by the beginning of july, they were actually quintupled in some hotels and doubled in many for about a week at the time of the peace celebrations. rents for flats and houses soared proportionately. one explanation of the fantastic rise in rents is characteristic. during the war and the armistice, the government--and not only the french government--proclaimed a moratorium, and no rents at all were paid, in consequence of which many house-owners were impoverished and others actually beggared. and it was with a view to recoup themselves for these losses that they fleeced their tenants, french and foreign, as soon as the opportunity presented itself. an amusing incident arising out of the moratorium came to light in the course of a lawsuit. an ingenious tenant, smitten with the passion of greed, not content with occupying his flat without paying rent, sublet it at a high figure to a man who paid him well and in advance, but by mischance set fire to the place and died. thereupon the _tenant_ demanded and received a considerable sum from the insurance company in which the defunct occupant had had to insure the flat and its contents. he then entered an action at law against the proprietor of the house for the value of the damage caused by the fire, and he won his case. the unfortunate owner was condemned to pay the sum claimed, and also the costs of the action.[ ] but he could not recover his rent. disorganization throughout france, and particularly in paris, verged on the border of chaos. every one felt its effects, but none so severely as the men who had won the war. the work of demobilization, which began soon after the armistice, but was early interrupted, proceeded at snail-pace. the homecoming soldiers sent hundreds of letters to the newspapers, complaining of the wearisome delays on the journey and the sharp privations which they were needlessly forced to endure. thus, whereas they took but twenty-eight hours to travel from hanover to cologne--the lines being german, and therefore relatively well organized--they were no less than a fortnight on the way between cologne and marseilles.[ ] during the german section of the journey they were kept warm, supplied with hot soup and coffee twice daily; but during the second half, which lasted fourteen days, they received no beverage, hot or cold. "the men were cared for much less than horses." that these poilus turned against the government and the class responsible for this gross neglect was hardly surprising. one of them wrote: "they [the authorities] are frightened of bolshevism. but we who have not got home, we all await its coming. i don't, of course, mean the real bolshevism, but even that kind which they paint in such repellent hues."[ ] the conditions of telegraphic and postal communications were on a par with everything else. there was no guarantee that a message paid for would even be sent by the telegraph-operators, or, if withheld, that the sender would be apprised of its suppression. the war arrangements were retained during the armistice. and they were superlatively bad. a committee appointed by the chamber of deputies to inquire into the matter officially, reported that,[ ] at the paris telegraph bureau alone, , despatches were held back every day-- , a day, or , , in four years! and from the capital alone. the majority of them were never delivered, and the others were distributed after great delay. the despatches which were retained were, in the main, thrown into a basket, and, when the accumulation had become too great, were destroyed. the control section never made any inquiry, and neither the senders nor those to whom the despatches were addressed were ever informed.[ ] even important messages of neutral ambassadors in rome and london fell under the ban. the recklessness of these censors, who ceased even to read what they destroyed, was such that they held up and made away with state orders transmitted by the great munitions factories, and one of these was constrained to close down because it was unable to obtain certain materials in time. the french ambassador in switzerland reported that, owing to these holocausts, important messages from that country, containing orders for the french national loan, never reached their destination, in consequence of which the french nation lost from ten to twenty million francs. and even the letters and telegrams that were actually passed were so carelessly handled that many of them were lost on the way or delayed until they became meaningless to the addressee. so, for instance, an official letter despatched by the minister of commerce to the minister of finance in paris was sent to calcutta, where the french consul-general came across it, and had it directed back to paris. the correspondent of the _echo de paris_, who was sent to switzerland by his journal, was forbidden by law to carry more than one thousand francs over the frontier, nor was the management of the journal permitted to forward to him more than two hundred francs at a time. and when a telegram was given up in paris, crediting him with two hundred francs, it was stopped by the censor. eleven days were let go by without informing the persons concerned. when the administrator of the journal questioned the chief censor, he declined responsibility, having had nothing to do with the matter, but he indicated the central telegraph control as the competent department. there, too, however, they were innocent, having never heard of the suppression. it took another day to elicit the fact that the economic section of the war ministry was alone answerable for the decision. the indefatigable manager of the _echo de paris_ applied to the department in question, but only to learn that it, too, was without any knowledge of what had happened, but it promised to find out. soon afterward it informed the zealous manager that the department which had given the order could only be the exchange commission of the ministry of finances. and during all the time the correspondent was in zurich without money to pay for telegrams or to settle his hotel and restaurant bills.[ ] the ministry of foreign affairs itself, in a report on the whole subject, characterized the section of telegraphic control as "an organ of confusion and disorder which has engendered extraordinary abuses, and risked compromising the government seriously."[ ] it did not merely risk, it actually went far to compromise the government and the entire governing class as well. it looked as though the rulers of france were still unconsciously guided by the maxim of richelieu, who wrote in his testament, "if the peoples were too comfortable there would be no keeping them to the rules of duty." the more urgent the need of resourcefulness and guidance, the greater were the listlessness and confusion. "there is neither unity of conduct," wrote a press organ of the masses, "nor co-ordination of the departments of war, public works, revictualing, transports. all these services commingle, overlap, clash, and paralyze one another. there is no method. thus, whereas france has coffee enough to last her a twelvemonth, she has not sufficient fuel for a week. scruples, too, are wanting, as are punishments; everywhere there is a speculator who offers his purse, and an official, a station-master, or a subaltern to stretch out his hand.... shortsightedness, disorder, waste, the frittering away of public moneys and irresponsibility: that is the balance...."[ ] that the spectacle of the country sinking in this administrative quagmire was not conducive to the maintenance of confidence in its ruling classes can well be imagined. on all sides voices were uplifted, not merely against the cabinet, whose members were assumed to be actuated by patriotic motives and guided by their own lights, but against the whole class from which they sprang, and not in france only, but throughout europe. nothing, it was argued, could be worse than what these leaders had brought upon the country, and a change from the bourgeoisie to the proletariat could not well be inaugurated at a more favorable conjuncture. in truth the bourgeoisie were often as impatient of the restraints and abuses as the homecoming poilu. the middle class during the armistice was subjected to some of the most galling restraints that only the war could justify. they were practically bereft of communications. to use the telegraph, the post, the cable, or the telephone was for the most part an exhibition of childish faith, which generally ended in the loss of time and money. this state of affairs called for an immediate and drastic remedy, for, so long as it persisted, it irritated those whom it condemned to avoidable hardship, and their name was legion. it was also part of an almost imperceptible revolutionary process similar to that which was going on in several other countries for transferring wealth and competency from one class to another and for goading into rebellion those who had nothing to lose by "violent change in the politico-social ordering." the government, whose powers were concentrated in the hands of m. clemenceau, had little time to attend to these grievances. for its main business was the re-establishment of peace. what it did not fully realize was the gravity of the risks involved. for it was on the cards that the utmost it could achieve at the conference toward the restoration of peace might be outweighed and nullified by the consequences of what it was leaving undone and unattempted at home. at no time during the armistice was any constructive policy elaborated in any of the allied countries. rhetorical exhortations to keep down expenditure marked the high-water level of ministerial endeavor there. the strikes called by the revolutionary organizations whose aim was the subversion of the regime under which those monstrosities flourished at last produced an effect on the parliament. one day in july the french chamber left the cabinet in a minority by proposing the following resolution: "the chamber, noting that the cost of living in belgium has diminished by a half and in england by a fourth since the armistice, while it has continually increased in france since that date, judges the government's economic policy by the results obtained and passes to the order of the day."[ ] shortly afterward the same chamber recanted and gave the cabinet a majority. in great britain, too, the house of commons put pressure on the government, which at last was forced to act. on the other hand, extravagance was systematically encouraged everywhere by the shortsighted measures which the authorities adopted and maintained as well as by the wanton waste promoted or tolerated by the incapacity of their representatives. in france the moratorium and immunity from taxation gave a fillip to recklessness. people who had hoarded their earnings before the war, now that they were dispensed from paying rent and relieved of fair taxes, paid out money ungrudgingly for luxuries and then struck for higher salaries and wages. even the deputies of the chamber, which did nothing to mitigate the evil complained of, manifested a desire to have their own salaries--six hundred pounds a year--augmented proportionately to the increased cost of living; but in view of the headstrong current of popular opinion against parliamentarism the government deemed it impolitic to raise the point at that conjuncture. most of the working-men's demands in france as in britain were granted, but the relief they promised was illusory, for prices still went up, leaving the recipients of the relief no better off. and as the wages payable for labor are limited, whereas prices may ascend to any height, the embittered laborer fancied he could better his lot by an appeal to the force which his organization wielded. the only complete solution of the problem, he was assured, was to be found in the supersession of the governing classes and the complete reconstruction of the social fabric on wholly new foundations.[ ] and some of the leaders rashly declared that they were unable to discern the elements of any other. footnotes: [ ] cf. _the daily mail_ (paris edition), march , . [ ] on december , . [ ] "with what little wisdom the world is governed." [ ] "mr. bernard richards, secretary of the delegation from the american jewish congress to the peace conference, expressed much satisfaction with the work done in paris for the protection of jewish rights and the furtherance of the interests of other minorities involved in the peace settlement." (_the new york herald_, july , .) how successful was the influence of the jewish community at the peace conference may be inferred from the following: "mr. henry h. rosenfelt, director of the american jewish relief committee, announces that all new york agencies engaged in jewish relief work will join in a united drive in new york in december to raise $ , , (£ , , ) to provide clothing, food, and medicines for the six million jews throughout eastern europe _as well as to make possible a comprehensive programme for their complete rehabilitation_.--american radio news service." cf. _the daily mail_, august , . [ ] countess lulu von thurheim, _my life_, - . german edition, munich, - . [ ] _the new york herald_ (paris edition), february , . [ ] grafen von montgelas, _denwürdigkeiten des bayrischen staatsministers maximilian._ see also dr. karl soll, _der wiener kongress_. [ ] varnhagen von ense. [ ] friedrich von gentz. [ ] dr. karl soll, _count carl von nostitz_. [ ] cf. dr. karl soll, _der wiener kongress_. [ ] dr. karl soll, _friedrich von gentz_. [ ] dr. karl soll, _count carl von nostitz_, p. . [ ] jean gabriel eynard--the representative of geneva. [ ] _the daily mail_ (paris edition), march , . [ ] count de la garde. [ ] cf. _le matin_, may , . a noteworthy example of the negligence of the authorities was narrated by this journal on the same day. to a wooden cross with an inscription recording that the grave was tenanted by "an unknown frenchman" was hung a disk containing his name and regiment! and here and there the skulls of heroes protruded from the grass, but the german tombs were piously looked after by boche prisoners. [ ] _the daily mail_ (continental edition), march , . [ ] _ibid._, april , . [ ] cf. _the new york herald_ (paris edition), june , . [ ] cf. _the new york herald_, june , . [ ] cf. _the new york herald_ (paris edition), april , . [ ] _le figaro_, june , . [ ] _l'humanité_, july , . [ ] _la democratie nouvelle_, june , . [ ] _le figaro_, march , . [ ] _l'humanité_, may , . [ ] _ ibid._ [ ] _le gaulois_, march , . _the new york herald_ (paris edition), march , . _l'echo de paris_, june , . [ ] _the new york herald_, march , . [ ] _l'echo de paris_, june , . [ ] _the new york herald_, march , . [ ] _l'humanité_, may , . [ ] on july , . cf. _matin, echo de paris, figaro_, july , . [ ] cf. _l'humanité_ (french syndicalist organ), july , . ii signs of their times society during the transitional stage through which it has for some years been passing underwent an unprecedented change the extent and intensity of which are as yet but imperfectly realized. its more striking characteristics were determined by the gradual decomposition of empires and kingdoms, the twilight of their gods, the drying up of their sources of spiritual energy, and the psychic derangement of communities and individuals by a long and fearful war. political principles, respect for authority and tradition, esteem for high moral worth, to say nothing of altruism and public spirit, either vanished or shrank to shadowy simulacra. in contemporary history currents and cross-currents, eddies and whirlpools, became so numerous and bewildering that it is not easy to determine the direction of the main stream. unsocial tendencies coexisted with collectivity of effort, both being used as weapons against the larger community and each being set down as a manifestation of democracy. against every kind of authority the world, or some of its influential sections, was up in revolt, and the emergence of the passions and aims of classes and individuals had freer play than ever before. to this consummation conservative governments, and later on their chiefs at the peace conference, systematically contributed with excellent intentions and efficacious measures. they implicitly denied, and acted on the denial, that a nation or a race, like an individual, has something distinctive, inherent, and enduring that may aptly be termed soul or character. they ignored the fact that all nations and races are not of the same age nor endowed with like faculties, some being young and helpless, others robust and virile, and a third category senescent and decrepit, and that there are some races which nature has wholly and permanently unfitted for service among the pioneers of progress. in consequence of these views, which i venture to think erroneous, they applied the same treatment to all states. just as president wilson, by striving to impose his pinched conception of democracy and his lofty ideas of political morality on mexico, had thrown that country into anarchy, the two anglo-saxon governments by enforcing their theories about the protection of minorities and other political conceptions in various states of europe helped to loosen the cement of the politico-social structure there. through these as well as other channels virulent poison penetrated to the marrow of the social organism. language itself, on which all human intercourse hinges, was twisted to suit unwholesome ambitions, further selfish interests, and obscure the vision of all those who wanted real reforms and unvarnished truth. during the war the armies were never told plainly what they were struggling for; officially they were said to be combating for justice, right, self-determination, the sacredness of treaties, and other abstract nouns to which the heroic soldiers never gave a thought and which a section of the civil population misinterpreted. indeed, so little were these shibboleths understood even by the most intelligent among the politicians who launched them that one half of the world still more or less conscientiously labors to establish their contraries and is anathematizing the other half for championing injustice, might, and unveracity--under various misnomers. anglo-saxondom, taking the lead of humanity, imitated the catholic states of by-past days, and began to impose on other peoples its own ideas, as well as its practices and institutions, as the best fitted to awaken their dormant energies and contribute to the social reconstruction of the world. in the interval, language, whether applied to history, journalism, or diplomacy, was perverted and words lost their former relations to the things connoted, and solemn promises were solemnly broken in the name of truth, right, or equity. for the new era of good faith, justice and morality was inaugurated, oddly enough, by a general tearing up of obligatory treaties and an ethical violation of the most binding compacts known to social man. this happened coincidently to be in keeping with the general insurgence against all checks and restraints, moral and social, for which the war is mainly answerable, and to be also in harmony with the regular supersession of right by might which characterizes the present epoch and with the disappearance of the sense of law. in a word, under the auspices of the amateur world-reformers, the tendency of bolshevism throve and spread--an instructive case of people serving the devil at the bidding of god's best friends. as in the days of the italian despots, every individual has the chance of rising to the highest position in many of the states, irrespective of his antecedents and no matter what blots may have tarnished his 'scutcheon. neither aristocratic descent, nor public spirit nor even a blameless past is now an indispensable condition of advancement. in germany the head of the republic is an honest saddler. in austria the chief of the government until recently was the assassin of a prime minister. the chief of the ukraine state was an ex-inmate of an asylum. trotzky, one of the russian duumvirs, is said to have a record which might of itself have justified his change of name from braunstein. bela kuhn, the semitic dictator of hungary, had the reputation of a thief before rising to the height of ruler of the magyars.... in a word, napoleon's ideal is at last realized, "la carrière est ouverte aux talents." among the peculiar traits of this evanescent epoch may be mentioned inaccessibility to the teaching of facts which run counter to cherished prejudices, aims, and interests. people draw from facts which they cannot dispute only the inferences which they desire. an amusing instance of this occurred in paris, where a syndicalist organ[ ] published an interesting and on the whole truthful account of the chaotic confusion, misery, and discontent prevailing in russia and of the brutal violence and foxy wiles of lenin. the dreary picture included the cost of living; the disorganization of transports; the terrible mortality caused by the after-effects of the war; the crowding of prisons, theaters, cinemas, and dancing-saloons; the eagerness of employers to keep their war prisoners employed while thousands of demobilized soldiers were roaming about the cities and villages vainly looking for work; the absence of personal liberty; the numerous arrests, and the relative popularity withal of the dictator. this popularity, it was explained, the press contributed to keep alive, especially since the abortive attempt made on his life, when the journals declared that he was indispensable for the time being to his country. he himself was described as a hard despot, ruthless as a tiger who strikes his fellow-workers numb and dumb with fear. "but he is under no illusions as to the real sentiments of the members of the soviet who back him, nor does he deign to conceal those which he entertains toward them.... whenever lenin himself is concerned justice is expeditious. some men will be delivered from prison after many years of preventive confinement without having been brought to trial, others who fired on kerensky will be kept untried for an indefinite period, whereas the brave russian patriot who aimed his revolver at lenin, and whom the french press so justly applauded, had only three weeks to wait for his condemnation to death." this article appearing in a syndicalist organ seemed an event. some journals summarized and commented it approvingly, until it was discovered to be a skit on the transient conditions in france, whereupon the "admirable _exposé_ based upon convincing evidence" and the "forcible arguments" became worthless.[ ] an object-lesson in the difficulty of legislating in anglo-saxon fashion for foreign countries and comprehending their psychology was furnished by two political trials which, taking place in paris during the conference, enabled the delegates to estimate the distance that separates the anglo-saxon from the continental mode of thought and action in such a fundamental problem as the administration of justice. raoul villain, the murderer of jean jaurès--france's most eminent statesman--was kept in prison for nearly five years without a trial. he had assassinated his victim in cold blood. he had confessed and justified the act. the eye-witnesses all agreed as to the facts. before the court, however, a long procession of ministers of state, politicians, historians, and professors defiled, narrating in detail the life-story, opinions, and strivings of the victim, who, in the eyes of a stranger, unacquainted with its methods, might have seemed to be the real culprit. the jury acquitted the prisoner. the other accused man was a flighty youth who had fired on the french premier and wounded him. he, however, had not long to wait for his trial. he was taken before the tribunal within three weeks of his arrest and was promptly condemned to die.[ ] thus the assassin was justified by the jury and the would-be assassin condemned to be shot. "suppose these trials had taken place in my country," remarked a delegate of an eastern state, "and that of the two condemned men one had been a member of the privileged minority, what an uproar the incident would have created in the united states and england! as it happened in western europe, it passed muster." how far removed some continental nations are from the anglo-saxons in their mode of contemplating and treating another momentous category of social problems may be seen from the circumstance that the great council in basel adopted a bill brought in by the socialist welti, authorizing the practice of abortion down to the third month, provided that the husband and wife are agreed, and in cases where there is no marriage provided it is the desire of the woman and that the operation is performed by a regular physician.[ ] another striking instance of the difference of conceptions between the anglo-saxon and continental peoples is contained in the following unsavory document, which the historian, whose business it is to flash the light of criticism upon the dark nooks of civilization, can neither ignore nor render into english. it embodies a significant decision taken by the general staff of the th brigade of the army of occupation[ ] and was issued on june , .[ ] signs of the times exploitation et police de la maison publique de mÜnchen-gladbach ( .) les deux femmes composant l'unique personnel de la maison publique de gladbach ( , gasthausstrasse), sont venues en délégation déclarer qu'elles ne pouvaient suffire à la nombreuse clientèle, qui envahit leur maison, devant laquelle stationneraient en permanence de nombreux groupes de clients affamés. elles déclarent que défalcation faite du service qu'elles doivent assurer à leurs abonnés belges et allemands, elles ne peuvent fournir à la division qu'un total de vingt entrées par jour ( pour chacune d'elle). l'établissement d'ailleurs ne travaille pas la nuit et observe strictement le repos dominical. d'autre part les ressources de la ville ne permettent pas, paraît-il, d'augmenter le personnel. dans ces conditions, en vue d'éviter tout désordre et de ne pas demander à ces femmes un travail audessus de leurs forces, les mesures suivantes seront prises: ( .) jours de travail: tous les jours de la semaine, sauf le dimanche. rendement maximum: chaque jour chaque femme reçoit hommes, soit pour les deux personnes, par semaine. heures d'ouverture: heures à heures. aucune réception n'aura lieu en dehors de ces heures. tarif: pour un séjour d'un quart heure (entrée et sortie de l'établissement comprises) ... marks. consommations: la maison ne vend aucune boisson. il n'y a pas de salle d'attente. les clients doivent donc se présenter par deux. ( .) rÉpartition: les jours de la semaine sont donnés: le lundi-- er bat. du et c.h.r. le mardi-- er bat. du et c.h.r. le mercredi-- e bat. du et c.h.r. le jeudi-- e bat. du et c.h.r. le vendredi-- e bat. du . le samedi-- e bat. du . ( .) dans chaque bataillon il sera établi le jour qui leur est fixé, tickets déposés aux bureaux des sergents-majeur à raison de par compagnie. les hommes désireux de rendre visite à l'établissement réclamerout au bureau de leur sergent-majeur, ticket qui leur donnera driot de priorité. the value of that document derives from its having been issued as an ordinary regulation, from its having been reproduced in a widely circulated journal of the capital without evolving comment, and from the strong light which it projects upon one of the darkest corners of the civilization which has been so often and so eloquently eulogized. manifestly the currents of the new moral life which the conference was to have set flowing are as yet somewhat weak, the new ideals are still remote and the foreshadowings of a nobler future are faint. another token of the change which is going forward in the world was reported from the far east, but passed almost unnoticed in europe. the chinese ministry of public instruction, by an edict of november , , officially introduced in all secondary schools a phonetic system of writing in place of the ideograms theretofore employed. this is undoubtedly an event of the highest importance in the history of culture, little though it may interest the western world to-day. at the same time, as a philologist by profession, i agree with a continental authority[ ] who holds that, owing to the monosyllabic character of the chinese language and to the further disadvantage that it lacks wholly or partly several consonants,[ ] it will be practically impossible, as the japanese have already found, to apply the new alphabet to the traditional literary idiom. neither can it be employed for the needs of education, journalism, of the administration, or for telegraphing. it will, however, be of great value for elementary instruction and for postal correspondence. it is also certain to develop and extend. but its main significance is twofold: as a sign of china's awakening and as an innovation, the certain effect of which will be to weaken national unity and extend regionalism at its expense. from this point of view the reform is portentous. another of the signs of the new times which calls for mention is the spread and militancy of the labor movement, to which the war and its concomitants gave a potent impulse. it is differentiated from all previous ferments by this, that it constitutes merely an episode in the universal insurgency of the masses, who are fast breaking through the thin social crust formed by the upper classes and are emerging rapidly above the surface. one of the most impressive illustrations of this general phenomenon is the rise of wages, which in paris has set the municipal street-sweepers above university professors, the former receiving from , to , francs a year, whereas the salary of the latter is some francs less.[ ] this general disturbance is the outcome of many causes, among which are the over-population of the world, the spread of education and of equal opportunity, the anonymity of industrial enterprises, scientific and unscientific theories, the specialization of labor and its depressing influence.[ ] these factors produced a labor organization which the railways, newspapers, and telegraph contributed to perfect and transform into a proletarian league, and now all progressive humanity is tending steadily and painfully to become one vast collectivity for producing and sharing on more equitable lines the means of living decently. this consummation is coming about with the fatality of a natural law, and the utmost the wisest of governments can do is to direct it through pacific channels and dislodge artificial obstacles in its course. one of the first reforms toward which labor is tending with more or less conscious effort is the abolition of the hereditary principle in the possession of wealth and influence and of the means of obtaining them. the division of labor in the past caused the dissociation of the so-called nobler avocations from manual work, and gradually those who followed higher pursuits grew into a sort of hereditary caste which bestowed relative immunity from the worst hardships of life's struggle and formed a ruling class. to-day the masses have their hands on the principal levers for shattering this top crust of the social sphere and seem resolved to press them. the problem for the solution of which they now menacingly clamor is the establishment of an approximately equitable principle for the redistribution of the world's resources--land, capital, industries, monopolies, mines, transports, and colonies. whether socialization--their favorite prescription--is the most effectual way of achieving this object may well be doubted, but must be thoroughly examined and discussed. the end once achieved, it is expected that mankind will have become one gigantic living entity, endowed with senses, nerves, heart, arteries, and all the organs necessary to operate and employ the forces and wealth of the planet. the process will be complex because the factors are numerous and of various orders, and for this reason few political thinkers have realized that its many phases are aspects of one phenomenon. that is also a partial explanation of the circumstance that at the conference the political questions were separated from the economic and treated by politicians as paramount, the others being relegated to the background. the labor legislation passed in paris reduced itself, therefore, to counsels of perfection. that the conference was incapable of solving a problem of this magnitude is self-evident. but the delegates could and should have referred it to an international parliament, fully representative of all the interests concerned. for the best way of distributing the necessaries and comforts of life, which have been acquired or created by manual toil, is a problem that can neither be ignored nor reasoned away. so long as it remains a problem it will be a source of intermittent trouble and disorder throughout the civilized world. the titles, which the classes heretofore privileged could invoke in favor of possession, are now being rapidly acquired by the workers, who in addition dispose of the force conferred by organization, numbers, and resolve. at the same time most of the stimuli and inventives to individual enterprise are being gradually weakened by legislation, which it would be absurd to condemn and dangerous to regard as a settlement. in the meanwhile productivity is falling off, while the demand for the products of labor is growing proportionately to the increase of population and culture. hitherto the laws of distribution were framed by the strong, who were few and utilized the many. to-day their relative positions have shifted; the many have waxed strong and are no longer minded to serve as instruments in the hands of a class, hereditary or selected. but the division of mankind into producers and utilizers has ever been the solid and durable mainstay of that type of civilization from which progressive nations are now fast moving away, and the laws and usages against which the proletariat is up in arms are but its organic expression. from the days of the building of the pyramids down to those of the digging of the panama canal the chasm between the two social orders remained open. the abolition of slavery changed but little in the arrangement--was, indeed, effected more in the interests of the old economics than in deference to any strong religious or moral sentiment. in substance the traditional ordering continued to exist in a form better adapted to the modified conditions. but the filling up of that chasm, which is now going forward, involves the overthrow of the system in its entirety, and the necessity of either rearing a wholly new structure, of which even the keen-sighted are unable to discern the outlines, or else the restoration of the old one on a somewhat different basis. and the only basis conceivable to-day is that which would start from the postulate that some races of men come into the world devoid of the capacity for any more useful part in the progress of mankind than that which was heretofore allotted to the proletariat. it cannot be gainsaid that there are races on the globe which are incapable of assimilating the higher forms of civilization, but which might well be made to render valuable services in the lower without either suffering injustice themselves or demoralizing others. and it seems nowise impossible that one day these reserves may be mobilized and systematically employed in virtue of the principle that the weal of the great progressive community necessitates such a distribution of parts as will set each organ to perform the functions for which it is best qualified. since the close of the war internationalism was in the air, and the labor movement intensified it. it stirred the thought and warmed the imagination alike of exploiters and exploited. reformers and pacifists yearned for it as a means of establishing a well-knit society of progressive and pacific peoples and setting a term to sanguinary wars. some financiers may have longed for it in a spirit analogous to that in which nero wished that the roman people had but one neck. and the conference chiefs seemed to have pictured it to themselves--if, indeed, they meditated such an abstract matter--in the guise of a _pax anglo-saxonica_, the distinctive feature of which would lie in the transfer to the two principal peoples--and not to a board representing all nations--of those attributes of sovereignty which the other states would be constrained to give up. of these three currents flowing in the direction of internationalism only one--that of finance--appears for the moment likely to reach its goal.... footnotes: [ ] _l'humanité,_ march and , . [ ] cf. _l'humanité_, april , . [ ] the sentence was subsequently commuted. [ ] _la gazette de lausanne_, may , . [ ] th division. [ ] it was reproduced by the french syndicalist organ, _l'humanité_ of july , . [ ] r. de saussure. cf. _journal de genève_, august , and also may , . [ ] d, r, t, l, g (partly) and p, except at the beginning of a word. [ ] cf. the french papers generally for the month of may--also _bonsoir_, july , . [ ] walther rathenau has dealt with this question in several of his recent pamphlets, which are not before me at the moment. iii the delegates the plenipotentiaries, who became the world's arbiters for a while, were truly representative men. but they mirrored forth not so much the souls of their respective peoples as the surface spirit that flitted over an evanescent epoch. they stood for national grandeur, territorial expansion, party interests, and even abstract ideas. exponents of a narrow section of the old order at its lowest ebb, they were in no sense heralds of the new. amid a labyrinth of ruins they had no clue to guide their footsteps, in which the peoples of the world were told to follow. only true political vision, breadth of judgment, thorough mastery of the elements of the situation, an instinct for discerning central issues, genuine concern for high principles of governance, and the rare moral courage that disregards popularity as a mainspring of action--could have fitted any set of legislators to tackle the complex and thorny problems that pressed for settlement and to effect the necessary preliminary changes. that the delegates of the principal powers were devoid of many of these qualities cannot fairly be made a subject of reproach. it was merely an accident. but it was as unfortunate as their honest conviction that they could accomplish the grandiose enterprise of remodeling the communities of the world without becoming conversant with their interests, acquainted with their needs, or even aware of their whereabouts. for their failure, which was inevitable, was also bound to be tragic, inasmuch as it must involve, not merely their own ambition to live in history as the makers of a new and regenerate era, but also the destinies of the nations and races which confidently looked up to them for the conditions of future pacific progress, nay, of normal existence. during the conference it was the fashion in most european countries to question the motives as well as to belittle the qualifications of the delegates. now that political passion has somewhat abated and the atmosphere is becoming lighter and clearer, one may without provoking contradiction pay a well-deserved tribute to their sincerity, high purpose, and quick response to the calls of public duty and moral sentiment. they were animated with the best intentions, not only for their respective countries, but for humanity as a whole. one and all they burned with the desire to go as far as feasible toward ending the era of destructive wars. steady, uninterrupted, pacific development was their common ideal, and they were prepared to give up all that they reasonably could to achieve it. it is my belief, for example, that if mr. wilson had persisted in making his league project the cornerstone of the new world structure and in applying his principles without favor, the italians would have accepted it almost without discussion, and the other states would have followed their example. all the delegates must have felt that the old order of things, having been shaken to pieces by the war and its concomitants, could not possibly survive, and they naturally desired to keep within evolutionary bounds the process of transition to the new system, thus accomplishing by policy what revolution would fain accomplish by violence. it was only when they came to define that policy with a view to its application that their unanimity was broken up and they split into two camps, the pacifists and the militarists, or the democrats and imperialists, as they have been roughly labeled. here, too, each member of the assembly worked with commendable single-mindedness, and under a sense of high responsibility, for that solution of the problem which to him seemed the most conducive to the general weal. and they wrestled heroically one with the other for what they held to be right and true relatively to the prevalent conditions. the circumstance that the cause and effects of this clash of opinions and sentiments were so widely at variance with early anticipations had its roots partly in their limited survey of the complex problem, and partly, too, in its overwhelming vastness and their own unfitness to cope with it. the delegates who aimed at disarmament and a society of pacific peoples made out as good a case--once their premises were admitted--as those who insisted upon guarantees, economic and territorial. everything depended, for the theory adopted, upon each individual's breadth of view, and for its realization upon the temper of the peoples and that of their neighbors. as under the given circumstances either solution was sure to encounter formidable opposition, which only a doughty spirit would dare to affront, compromise, offering a side-exit out of the quandary, was avidly taken. in this way the collective sagacities, working in materials the nature of which they hardly understood, brought forth strange products. some of the incongruities of the details, such, for instance, as the invitation to prinkipo, despatched anonymously, occasionally surpass satire, but their bewildered authors are entitled to the benefit of extenuating circumstances. on the momentous issue of a permanent peace based on mr. wilson's pristine concept of a league of nations, and in accordance with rigid principles applied equally to all the states, there was no discussion. in other words, it was tacitly agreed that the fourteen points should not form a bar to the vital postulates of any of the great powers. it was only on the subject of the lesser states and the equality of nations that the debates were intense, protracted, and for a long while fruitless. at times words flamed perilously high. for months the solutions of the adriatic, the austrian, turkish, and thracian problems hung in poignant suspense, the public looking on with diminishing interest and waxing dissatisfaction. the usual optimistic assurances that all would soon run smoothly and swiftly fell upon deaf ears. faith in the conference was melting away. the plight of the supreme council and the vain exhortations to believe in its efficiency reminded me of the following story. a french parish priest was once spiritually comforting a member of his flock who was tormented by doubts about the goodness of god as measured by the imperfection of his creation. having listened to a vivid account of the troubled soul's high expectation of its maker and of its deep disappointment at his work, the pious old curé said: "yes, my child. the world is indeed bad, as you say, and you are right to deplore it. but don't you think you may have formed to yourself an exaggerated idea of god?" an analogous reflection would not be out of place when passing judgment on the conference which implicitly arrogated to itself some of the highest attributes of the deity, and thus heightened the contrast between promise and achievement. certainly people expected much more from it than it could possibly give. but it was the delegates themselves who had aroused these expectations announcing the coming of a new epoch at their fiat. the peoples were publicly told by mr. lloyd george and several of his colleagues that the war of - would be the last. his "never again" became a winged phrase, and the more buoyant optimists expected to see over the palace of arbitration which was to be substituted for the battlefield, the inspiring inscription: "a la dernière des guerres, l'humanité reconnaissante."[ ] mr. wilson's vast project was still more attractive. mr. lloyd george is too well known in his capacity of british parliamentarian to need to be characterized. the splendid services he rendered the empire during the war, when even his defects proved occasionally helpful, will never be forgotten. typifying not only the aims, but also the methods, of the british people, he never seems to distrust his own counsels whencesoever they spring nor to lack the courage to change them in a twinkling. he stirred the soul of the nation in its darkest hour and communicated his own glowing faith in its star. during the vicissitudes of the world struggle he was the right man for the responsible post which he occupied, and i am proud of having been one of the first to work in my own modest way to have him placed there. but a good war-leader may be a poor peace-negotiator, and, as a matter of fact, there are few tasks concerned with the welfare of the nation which mr. lloyd george could not have tackled with incomparably greater chances of accomplishing it than that of remodeling the world. his antecedents were all against him. his lack of general equipment was prohibitive; even his inborn gifts were disqualifications. one need not pay too great heed to acrimonious colleagues who set him down as a word-weaving trimmer, between whose utterances and thoughts there is no organic nexus, who declines to take the initiative unless he sees adequate forces behind him ready to his to his support, who lacks the moral courage that serves as a parachute for a fall from popularity, but possesses in abundance that of taking at the flood the rising tide which balloon-like lifts its possessor high above his fellows. but judging him in the light of the historic events in which he played a prominent part, one cannot dismiss these criticisms as groundless. opportunism is an essential element of statecraft, which is the art of the possible. but there is a line beyond which it becomes shiftiness, and it would be rash to assert that mr. lloyd george is careful to keep on the right side of it. at the conference his conduct appeared to careful observers to be traced mainly by outside influences, and as these were various and changing the result was a zigzag. one day he would lay down a certain proposition as a dogma not to be modified, and before the week was out he would advance the contrary proposition and maintain that with equal warmth and doubtless with equal conviction. guided by no sound knowledge and devoid of the ballast of principle, he was tossed and driven hither and thither like a wreck on the ocean. mr. melville stone, the veteran american journalist, gave his countrymen his impression of the first british delegate. "mr. lloyd george," he said, "has a very keen sense of humor and a great power over the multitude, but with this he displays a startling indifference to, if not ignorance of, the larger affairs of nations." in the course of a walk mr. lloyd george expressed surprise when informed that in the united states the war-making power was invested in congress. "what!" exclaimed the premier, "you mean to tell me that the president of the united states cannot declare war? i never heard that before." later, when questions of national ambitions were being discussed, mr. lloyd george asked, "what is that place rumania is so anxious to get?" meaning transylvania.[ ] the stories current of his praiseworthy curiosity about the places which he was busy distributing to the peoples whose destinies he was forging would be highly amusing if the subject were only a private individual and his motive a desire for useful information, but on the representative of a great empire they shed a light in which the dignity of his country was necessarily affected and his own authority deplorably diminished. for moral authority at that conjuncture was the sheet anchor of the principal delegates. although without a program, mr. lloyd george would appear to have had an instinctive feeling, if not a reasoned belief, that in matters of general policy his safest course would be to keep pace with the president of the united states. for he took it for granted that mr. wilson's views were identical with those of the american people. one of his colleagues, endeavoring to dispel this illusion, said: "your province at this conference is to lead. your colleagues, including mr. wilson, will follow. you have the empire behind you. voice its aspirations. they coincide with those of the english-speaking peoples of the world. mr. wilson has lost his elections, therefore he does not stand for as much as you imagine. you have won your elections, so you are the spokesman of a vast community and the champion of a noble cause. you can knead the conference at your will. assert your will. but even if you decide to act in harmony with the united states, that does not mean subordinating british interests to the president's views, which are not those of the majority of his people." but mr. lloyd george, invincibly diffident--if diffidence it be--shrank from marching alone, and on certain questions which mattered much mr. wilson had his way. one day there was an animated discussion in the twilight of the paris conclave while the press was belauding the plenipotentiaries for their touching unanimity. the debate lay between the united states as voiced by mr. wilson and great britain as represented by mr. lloyd george. on the morrow, before the conversation was renewed, a colleague adjured the british premier to stand firm, urging that his contention of the previous day was just in the abstract and beneficial to the empire as well. mr. lloyd george bowed to the force of these motives, but yielded to the greater force of mr. wilson's resolve. "put it to the test," urged the colleague. "i dare not," was the rejoinder. "wilson won't brook it. already he threatens, if we do, to leave the conference and return home." "well then, let him. if he did, we should be none the worse off for his absence. but rest assured, he won't go. he cannot afford to return home empty-handed after his splendid promises to his countrymen and the world." mr. lloyd george insisted, however, and said, "but he will take his army away, too." "what!" exclaimed the tempter. "his army? well, i only ..." but it would serve no useful purpose to quote the vigorous answer in full. this odd mixture of exaggerated self-confidence, mismeasurement of forces, and pliability to external influences could not but be baleful in one of the leaders of an assembly composed, as was the paris conference, of men each with his own particular ax to grind and impressible only to high moral authority or overwhelming military force. it cannot be gainsaid that no one, not even his own familiars, could ever foresee the next move in mr. lloyd george's game of statecraft, and it is demonstrable that on several occasions he himself was so little aware of what he would do next that he actually advocated as indispensable measures diametrically opposed to those which he was to propound, defend, and carry a week or two later. a conversation which took place between him and one of his fellow-workers gives one the measure of his irresolution and fitfulness. "do tell me," said this collaborator, "why it is that you members of the supreme council are hurriedly changing to-day the decisions you came to after five months' study, which you say was time well spent?" "because of fresh information we have received in the meanwhile. we know more now than we knew then and the different data necessitate different treatment." "yes, but the conditions have not changed since the conference opened. surely they were the same in january as they are in june. is not that so?" "no doubt, no doubt, but we did not ascertain them before june, so we could not act upon them until now." with the leading delegates thus drifting and the pieces on the political chessboard bewilderingly disposed, outsiders came to look upon the conference as a lottery. unhappily, it was a lottery in which there were no mere blanks, but only prizes or heavy forfeits. to sum up: the first british delegate, essentially a man of expedients and shifts, was incapable of measuring more than an arc of the political circle at a time. a comprehensive survey of a complicated situation was beyond his reach. he relied upon imagination and intuition as substitutes for precise knowledge and technical skill. hence he himself could never be sure that his decision, however carefully worked out, would be final, seeing that in june facts might come to his cognizance with which five months' investigations had left him unacquainted. this incertitude about the elements of the problem intensified the ingrained hesitancy that had characterized his entire public career and warped his judgment effectually. the only approach to a guiding principle one can find in his work at the conference was the loosely held maxim that great britain's best policy was to stand in with the united states in all momentous issues and to identify mr. wilson with the united states for most purposes of the congress. within these limits mr. lloyd george was unyielding in fidelity to the cause of france, with which he merged that of civilization. m. clemenceau is the incarnation of the tireless spirit of destruction. pulling down has ever been his delight, and it is largely to his success in demolishing the defective work of rivals--and all human work is defective--that he owes the position of trust and responsibility to which the parliament raised him during the last phase of the war. physically strong, despite his advanced age, he is mentally brilliant and superficial, with a bias for paradox, epigram, and racy, unconventional phraseology. his action is impulsive. in the dreyfus days i saw a good deal of m. clemenceau in his editorial office, when he would unburden his soul to m.m. vaughan, the poet quillard, and others. later on i approached him while he was chief of the government on a delicate matter of international combined with national politics, on which i had been requested to sound him by a friendly government, and i found him, despite his developed and sobering sense of responsibility, whimsical, impulsive, and credulous as before. when i next talked with him he was the rebellious editor of _l'homme enchaîné_, whose corrosive strictures upon the government of the day were the terror of ministers and censors. soon afterward he himself became the wielder of the great national gagging-machine, and in the stringency with which he manipulated it he is said by his own countrymen to have outdone the government of the third empire. his _alter ego_, georges mandel, is endowed with qualities which supplement and correct those of his venerable chief. his grasp of detail is comprehensive and firm, his memory retentive, and his judgment bold and deliberate. a striking illustration of the audacity of his resolve was given in the early part of . marshal joffre sent a telegram to president wilson in washington, and because he had omitted to despatch it through the war ministry, m. mandel, who is a strict disciplinarian, proposed that he be placed under arrest. it was with difficulty that some public men moved him to leniency. m. clemenceau, the professional destroyer, who can boast that he overthrew eighteen cabinets, or nineteen if we include his own, was unquestionably the right man to carry on the war. he acquitted himself of the task superbly. his faith in the allies' victory was unwavering. he never doubted, never flagged, never was intimidated by obstacles nor wheedled by persons. once during the armistice, in may or june, when marshal foch expressed his displeasure that the premier should have issued military orders to troops under his command[ ] without first consulting him, he was on the point of dismissing the marshal and appointing general pétain to succeed him.[ ] whether the qualities which stood him in such good stead during the world struggle could be of equal, or indeed of much, avail in the general constructive work for which the conference was assembled is a question that needs only to be formulated. but in securing every advantage that could be conferred on his own country his influence on the delegates was decisive. m. clemenceau, who before the war was the intimate friend of austrian journalists, hated his country's enemies with undying hate. and he loved france passionately. i remember significant words of his, uttered at the end of the year to an enterprising young man who had founded a franco-german review in munich and craved his moral support. "is it possible," he exclaimed, "that it has already come to that? well, a nation is not conquered until it accepts defeat. whenever france gives up she will have deserved her humiliation." at the conference m. clemenceau moved every lever to deliver his country for all time from the danger of further invasions. and, being a realist, he counted only on military safeguards. at the league of nations he was wont to sneer until it dawned upon him that it might be forged into an effective weapon of national defense. and then he included it in the litany of abstract phrases about right, justice, and the self-determination of peoples which it became the fashion to raise to the inaccessible heights where those ideals are throned which are to be worshiped but not incarnated. the public somehow never took his conversion to wilsonianism seriously, neither did his political friends until the league bade fair to become serviceable in his country's hands. m. clemenceau's acquaintanceship with international politics was at once superior to that of the british premier and very slender. but his program at the conference was simple and coherent, because independent of geography and ethnography: france was to take germany's leading position in the world, to create powerful and devoted states in eastern europe, on whose co-operation she could reckon, and her allies were to do the needful in the way of providing due financial and economic assistance so as to enable her to address herself to the cultural problems associated with her new rôle. and he left nothing undone that seemed conducive to the attainment of that object. against mr. wilson he maneuvered to the extent which his adviser, m. tardieu, deemed safe, and one of his most daring speculations was on the president's journey to the states, during which m. clemenceau and his european colleagues hoped to get through a deal of work on their own lines and to present mr. wilson with the decisions ready for ratification on his return. but the stratagem was not merely apparent; it was bruited abroad with indiscreet details, whereupon the first american delegate on his return broke the tables of their laws--one of which separated the treaty from the covenant--and obliged them to begin anew. it is fair to add that m. clemenceau was no uncompromising partisan of the conquest of the left bank of the rhine, nor of colonial conquests. these currents took their rise elsewhere. "we don't want protesting deputies in the french parliament," he once remarked in the presence of the french minister of foreign affairs.[ ] offered the choice between a number of bridgeheads in germany and the military protection of the anglo-saxon peoples, he unhesitatingly decided for the latter, which had been offered to him by president wilson after the rejection of the rhine frontier. m. clemenceau, whose remarkable mental alacrity, self-esteem, and love of sharp repartee occasionally betrayed him into tactless sallies and epigrammatic retorts, deeply wounded the pride of more than one delegate of the lesser powers in a way which they deemed incompatible alike with circumspect statesmanship and the proverbial hospitality of his country. for he is incapable of resisting the temptation to launch a _bon mot_, however stinging. it would be ungenerous, however, to attach more importance to such quickly forgotten utterances than he meant them to carry. an instance of how he behaved toward the representatives of britain and france is worth recording, both as characterizing the man and as extenuating his offense against the delegates of the lesser powers. one morning[ ] m. clemenceau appeared at the conference door, and seemed taken aback by the large number of unfamiliar faces and figures behind mr. balfour, toward whom he sharply turned with the brusque interrogation: "who are those people behind you? are they english?" "yes, they are," was the answer. "well, what do they want here?" "they have come on the same errand as those who are now following you." thereupon the french premier, whirling round, beheld with astonishment and displeasure a band of frenchmen moving toward him, led by m. pichon, the minister of foreign affairs. in reply to his question as to the motive of their arrival, he was informed that they were all experts, who had been invited to give the conference the benefit of their views about the revictualing of hungary. "get out, all of you. you are not wanted here," he cried in a commanding voice. and they all moved away meekly, led by m. pichon, the minister of foreign affairs. their services proved to be unnecessary, for the result reached by the conference was negative. m. tardieu cannot be separated from his chief, with whom he worked untiringly, placing at his disposal his intimate knowledge of the nooks and crannies of professional and unprofessional diplomacy. he is one of the latest arrivals and most pushing workers in the sphere of the old world statecraft, affects yankee methods, and speaks english. for several years political editor of the _temps_, he obtained access to the state archives, and wrote a book on the agadir incident which was well received, and also a monograph on prince von bülow, became deputy, aimed at a ministerial portfolio, and was finally appointed head commissary to the united states. faced by difficulties there--mostly the specters of his own former utterances evoked by german adversaries--his progress at first was slow. he was accused of having approved some of the drastic methods--especially the u-boat campaign--which the germans subsequently employed, because in the year , when he was writing on the subject, france believed that she herself possessed the best submarines, and she meant to employ them. he was also challenged to deny that he had written, in august, , that in every war churches and monuments of art must suffer, and that "no army, whatever its nationality, can renounce this." he was further charged with having taken a kindly interest in air-war and bomb-dropping, and given it as his opinion that it would be absurd "to deprive of this advantage those who had made most progress in perfecting this weapon." but m. tardieu successfully exorcised these and other ghosts. and on his return from the united states he was charged with organizing a press bureau of his own, to supply american journalists with material for their cablegrams, while at the same time he collaborated with m. clemenceau in reorganizing the political communities of the world. it is only in the french chamber, of which he is a distinguished member, that m. tardieu failed to score a brilliant success. few men are prophets in their own country, and he is far from being an exception. at the conference, in its later phases, he found himself in frequent opposition to the chief of the italian delegation, signor tittoni. one of the many subjects on which they disagreed was the fate of german austria and the political structure and orientation of the independent communities which arose on the ruins of the dual monarchy. m. tardieu favored an arrangement which would bring these populations closely together and impart to the whole an anti-teutonic impress. if germany could not be broken up into a number of separate states, as in the days of her weakness, all the other european peoples in the territories concerned could, and should, be united against her, and at the least hindered from making common cause with her. the unification of germany he considered a grave danger, and he strove to create a countervailing state system. to the execution of this project there were formidable difficulties. for one thing, none of the peoples in question was distinctly anti-german. each one was for itself. again, they were not particularly enamoured of one another, nor were their interests always concordant, and to constrain them by force to unite would have been not to prevent but to cause future wars. a danubian federation--the concrete shape imagined for this new bulwark of european peace--did not commend itself to the italians, who had their own reasons for their opposition besides the wilsonian doctrine, which they invoked. if it be true, signor tittoni argues, that austria does not desire to be amalgamated with germany, why not allow her to exercise the right of self-determination accorded to other peoples? m. tardieu, on the other hand, not content with the prohibition to germany to unite with austria, proposed[ ] that in the treaty with austria this country should be obliged to repress the unionist movement in the population. this amendment was inveighed against by the italian delegation in the name of every principle professed and transgressed by the world-mending powers. even from the french point of view he declared it perilous, inasmuch as there was, and could be, no guarantee that a danubian confederation would not become a tool in germany's hands. two things struck me as characteristic of the principal plenipotentiaries: as a rule, they eschewed first-rate men as fellow-workers, one integer and several zeros being their favorite formula, and they took no account of the flight of time, planning as though an eternity were before them and then suddenly improvising as though afraid of being late for a train or a steamer. these peculiarities were baleful. the lesser states, having mainly first-class men to represent them, illustrated the law of compensation, which assigned many mediocrities to the great powers. the former were also the most strenuous toilers, for their task bristled with difficulties and abounded in startling surprises, and its accomplishment depended on the will of others. time and again they went over the ground with infinite care, counting and gaging the obstacles in their way, devising means to overcome them, and rehearsing the effort in advance. so much stress had been laid during the war on psychology, and such far-reaching consequences were being drawn from the germans' lack of it, that these public men made its cultivation their personal care. hence, besides tracing large-scale maps of provinces and comprehensive maps[ ] of the countries to be reconstituted, and ransacking history for arguments and precedents, they conscientiously ascertained the idiosyncrasies of their judges, in order to choose the surest ways to impress, convince, or persuade them. and it was instructive to see them try their hand at this new game. one and all gave assent to the axiom that moderation would impress the arbiters more favorably than greed, but not all of them wielded sufficient self-command to act upon it. the more resourceful delegates, whose tasks were especially redoubtable because they had to demand large provinces coveted by others, prepared the ground by visiting personally some of the more influential arbiters before these were officially appointed, forcibly laying their cases before them and praying for their advice. in reality they were striving to teach them elementary geography, history, and politics. the ulysses of the conference, m. venizelos, first pilgrimaged to london, saying: "if the foreign office is with greece, what matters it who is against her." he hastened to call on president wilson as soon as that statesman arrived in europe, and, to the surprise of many, the two remained a long time closeted together. "whatever did you talk about?" asked a colleague of the greek premier. "how did you keep wilson interested in your national claims all that time? you must have--" "oh no," interrupted the modest statesman. "i disposed of our claims succinctly enough. a matter of two minutes. not more. i asked him to dispense me from taking up his time with such complicated issues which he and his colleagues would have ample opportunity for studying. the rest of the time i was getting him to give me the benefit of his familiarity with the subject of the league of nations. and he was good enough to enumerate the reasons why it should be realized, and the way in which it must be worked. i was greatly impressed by what he said." "just fancy!" exclaimed a colleague, "wasting all that time in talking about a scheme which will never come to anything!" but m. venizelos knew that the time was not misspent. president wilson was at first nowise disposed to lend a favorable ear to the claims of greece, which he thought exorbitant, and down to the very last he gave his support to bulgaria against greece whole-heartedly. the cretan statesman passed many an hour of doubt and misgiving before he came within sight of his goal. but he contrived to win the president over to his way of envisaging many oriental questions. he is a past-master in practical psychology. the first experiments of m. venizelos, however, were not wholly encouraging. for all the care he lavished on the chief luminaries of the conference seemingly went to supplement their education and fill up a few of the geographical, historical, philological, ethnological, and political gaps in their early instruction rather than to guide them in their concrete decisions, which it was expected would be always left to the "commissions of experts." but the fruit which took long to mature ripened at last, and greece had many of her claims allowed. thus in reorganizing the communities of the world the personal factor played a predominant part. venizelos was, so to say, a fixed star in the firmament, and his light burned bright through every rift in the clouds. his moderation astonished friends and opponents. every one admired his _exposé_ of his case as a masterpiece. his statesman-like setting, in perspective, the readiness with which he put himself in the place of his competitor and struck up a fair compromise, endeared him to many, and his praises were in every one's mouth. his most critical hour--it lasted for months--struck when he found himself struggling with the president of the united states, who was for refusing the coast of thrace to greece and bestowing it on bulgaria. but with that dispute i deal in another place. of italy's two plenipotentiaries during the first five months one was the most supple and the other the most inflexible of her statesmen, signor orlando and baron sonnino. if her case was presented to the conference with less force than was attainable, the reasons are obvious. her delegates had a formal treaty on which they relied; to the attitude of their country from the outbreak of the war to its finish they rightly ascribed the possibility of the allies' victory, and they expected to see this priceless service recognized practically; the moderation and suppleness of signor orlando were neutralized by the uncompromising attitude of baron sonnino, and, lastly, the gaze of both statesmen was fixed upon territorial questions and sentimental aspirations to the neglect of economic interests vital to the state--in other words, they beheld the issues in wrong perspective. but one of the most popular figures among the delegates was signor orlando, whose eloquence and imagination gave him advantages which would have been increased a hundredfold if he might have employed his native language in the conclave. for he certainly displayed resourcefulness, humor, a historic sense, and the gift of molding the wills of men. but he was greatly hampered. some of his countrymen alleged that baron sonnino was his evil genius. one of the many sayings attributed to him during the conference turned upon the quarrels of some of the smaller peoples among themselves. "they are," the premier said, "like a lot of hens being held by the feet and carried to market. although all doomed to the same fate, they contrive to fight one another while awaiting it." after the fall of orlando's cabinet, m. tittoni repaired to paris as italy's chief delegate. his reputation as one of europe's principal statesmen was already firmly established; he had spent several years in paris as ambassador, and he and the late di san giuliano and giolitti were the men who broke with the central empires when these were about to precipitate the world war. in french nationalist circles signor tittoni had long been under a cloud, as the man of pro-german leanings. the suspicion--for it was nothing more--was unfounded. on the contrary, m. tittoni is known to have gone with the allies to the utmost length consistent with his sense of duty to his own country. to my knowledge he once gave advice which his italian colleagues and political friends and adversaries now bitterly regret was disregarded. the nature of that counsel will one day be disclosed.... of japan's delegates, the marquis saionji and baron makino, little need be said, seeing that their qualifications for their task were demonstrated by the results. mainly to statesmanship and skilful maneuvering japan is indebted for her success at the paris conference, where her cause was referred by mr. lloyd george and m. clemenceau to mr. wilson to deal with. the behavior of her representatives was an illuminating object-lesson in the worth of psychological tactics in practical politics. they hardly ever appeared in the footlights, remained constantly silent and observant, and were almost ignored by the press. but they kept their eyes fixed on the goal. their program was simple. amid the flitting shadows of political events they marched together with the allies, until these disagreed among themselves, and then they voted with great britain and the united states. occasionally they went farther and proposed measures for the lesser states which britain framed, but desired to second rather than propose. japan, at the conference, was a stanch collaborator of the two english-speaking principals until her own opportunity came, and then she threw all her hoarded energies into her cause, and by her firm resolve dispelled any opposition that mr. wilson may have intended to offer. one of the most striking episodes of the conference was the swift, silent, and successful campaign by which japan had her secret treaty with china hall-marked by the puritanical president of the united states, whose sense of morality could not brook the secret treaties concluded by italy and rumania with the greater and greatest powers of europe. again, it was with statesman-like sagacity that the japanese judged the russian situation and made the best of it--first, shortly before the invitation to prinkipo, and, later, before the celebrated eight questions were submitted to admiral kolchak. i was especially struck by an occurrence, trivial in appearance, which demonstrated the weight which they rightly attached to the psychological side of politics. everybody in paris remarked, and many vainly complained of, the indifference, or rather, unfriendliness, of which russians were the innocent victims. among the allied troops who marched under the arc de triomphe on july th there were rumanians, greeks, portuguese, and indians, but not a single russian. a russian general drove about in the forest of flags and banners that day looking eagerly for symbols of his own country, but for hours the quest was fruitless. at last, when passing the japanese embassy, he perceived, to his delight, an enormous russian flag waving majestically in the breeze, side by side with that of nippon. "i shed tears of joy," he told his friend that evening, "and i vowed that neither i nor my country would ever forget this touching mark of friendship." japanese public opinion criticized severely the failure of their delegates to obtain recognition of the equality of races or nations. this judgment seems unjust, for nothing that they could have done or said would have wrung from mr. wilson and mr. hughes their assent to the doctrine, nor, if they had been induced to proclaim it, would it have been practically applied. in general, the lawyers were the most successful in stating their cases. but one of the delegates of the lesser states who made the deepest impression on those of the greater was not a member of the bar. the head of the polish delegation, roman dmowski, a picturesque, forcible speaker, a close debater and resourceful pleader, who is never at a loss for an image, a comparison, an _argumentum ad hominem_, or a repartee, actually won over some of the arbiters who had at first leaned toward his opponents--a noteworthy feat if one realizes all that it meant in an assembly where potent influences were working against some of the demands of resuscitated poland. his speech in september on the future of eastern galicia was a veritable masterpiece. m. dmowski appeared at the conference under all the disadvantages that could be heaped upon a man who has incurred the resentment of the most powerful international body of modern times. he had the misfortune to have the jews of the world as his adversaries. his polish friends explained this hostility as follows. his ardent nationalist sentiments placed him in antagonism to every movement that ran counter to the progress of his country on nationalist lines. for he is above all things a pole and a patriot. and as the hebrew population of poland, disbelieving in the resurrection of that nation, had long since struck up a cordial understanding with the states that held it in bondage, the gifted author of a book on the _foundations of nationalism_, which went through four editions, was regarded by the hebrew elements of the population as an irreconcilable enemy. in truth, he was only the leader of a movement that was a historical necessity. one of the theses of the work was the necessity of cultivating an anti-german spirit in poland as the only antidote against the teuton virus introduced from berlin through economic and other channels. and as the polish jews, whose idiom is a corrupted german dialect and whose leanings are often teutonic, felt that the attack upon the whole was an attack on the part, they anathematized the author and held him up to universal obloquy. and there has been no reconciliation ever since. in the united states, where the jewish community is numerous and influential, m. dmowski found spokes in his wheel at every stage of his journey, and in paris, too, he had to full-front a tremendous opposition, open and covert. whatever unbiased people may think of this explanation and of his hostility to the germans and their agents, roman dmowski deservedly enjoys the reputation of a straightforward and loyal fighter for his country's cause, a man who scorns underhand machinations and proclaims aloud--perhaps too frankly--the principles for which he is fighting. polish jews who appeared in paris, some of them his bitterest antagonists, recognized the chivalrous way in which he conducts his electoral and other campaigns. among the delegates his practical acquaintanceship with east european polities entitled him to high rank. for he knows the world better than any living statesman, having traveled over europe, asia, and america. he undertook and successfully accomplished a delicate mission in the far east in the year , rendering valuable services to his country and to the cause of civilization. "m. dmowski's activity," his friends further assert, "is impassioned and unselfish. the ambition that inspires and nerves him is not of the personal sort, nor is his patriotism a ladder leading to place and power. polish patriotism occupies a category apart from that of other european peoples, and m. dmowski has typified it with rare fidelity and completeness. if wilsonianism had been realized, polish nationalism might have become an anachronism. to-day it is a large factor in european politics and is little understood in the west. m. dmowski lives for his country. her interests absorb his energies. he would probably agree with the historian paolo sarpi, who said, 'let us be venetians first and christians after.' of the two widely divergent currents into which the main stream of political thought and sentiment throughout the world is fast dividing itself, m. dmowski moves with the national away from the international championed by mr. wilson. the frequency with which the leading spirits of bolshevism turn out to be jews--to the dismay and disgust of the bulk of their own community--and the ingenuity they displayed in spreading their corrosive tenets in poland may not have been without effect upon the energy of m. dmowski's attitude toward the demand of the polish jews to be placed in the privileged position of wards of the league of nations. but the principle of the protection of minority--jewish or gentile--is assailable on grounds which have nothing to do with race or religion." some of the most interesting and characteristic incidents at the conference had the polish statesman for their principal actor, and to him poland owes some of the most solid and enduring benefits conferred on her at the conference. of a different temper is m. paderewski, who appeared in paris to plead his country's cause at a later stage of the labors of the conference. this eminent artist's energies were all blended into one harmonious whole, so that his meetings with the great plenipotentiaries were never disturbed by a jarring note. as soon as it was borne in upon him that their decisions were as irrevocable as decrees of fate, he bowed to them and treated the authors as olympians who had no choice but to utter the stern fiat. even when called upon to accept the obnoxious clause protecting religious and ethnic minorities against which his colleague had vainly fought, m. paderewski sunk political passion in reason and attuned himself to the helpful role of harmonizer. he held that it would have been worse than useless to do otherwise. he was grieved that his country must acquiesce in that decree, he regretted intensely the necessity which constrained such proven friends of poland as the four to pass what he considered a severe sentence on her; but he resigned himself gracefully to the inevitable and thanked fate's executioners for their personal sympathy. this attitude evoked praise and admiration from messrs. lloyd george and wilson, and the atmosphere of the conclave seemed permeated with a spirit that induced calm satisfaction and the joy of elevated thoughts. m. paderewski made a deep and favorable impression on the supreme council. belgium sent her most brilliant parliamentarian, m. hymans, as first plenipotentiary to the conference. he was assisted by the chief of the socialist party, m. vandervelde, and by an eminent authority on international law, m. van den heuvel. but for reasons which elude analysis, none of the three delegates hit it off with the duumvirate who were spinning the threads of the world's destinies. m. hymans, however, by his warmth, sincerity, and courage impressed the representatives of the lesser states, won their confidence, became their natural spokesman, and blazed out against all attempts--and they were numerous and deliberate--to ignore their existence. it was he who by his direct and eloquent protest took m. clemenceau off his guard and elicited the amazing utterance that the powers which could put twelve million soldiers in the field were the world's natural arbiters. in this way he cleared the atmosphere of the distorting mists of catchwords and shibboleths. how decisive a role internal politics played in the designation of plenipotentiaries to the conference was shown with exceptional clearness in the case of rumania. that country had no legislature. the constituent assembly, which had been dissolved owing to the german invasion, was followed by no fresh elections. the king, with whom the initiative thus rested, had reappointed m. bratiano chief of the government, and m. bratiano was naturally desirous of associating his own historic name with the aggrandizement of his country. but he also desired to secure the services of his political rival, m. take jonescu, whose reputation as a far-seeing statesman and as a successful negotiator is world-wide. among his qualifications are an acquaintanceship with european countries and their affairs and a rare facility for give and take which is of the essence of international politics. he can assume the initiative in _pourparlers_, however uncompromising the outlook; frame plausible proposals; conciliate his opponents by showing how thoroughly he understands and appreciates their point of view, and by these means he has often worked out seemingly hopeless negotiations to a satisfactory issue. m. clemenceau wrote of him, "c'est un grand européen."[ ] m. bratiano's bid for the services of his eminent opponent was coupled with the offer of certain portfolios in the cabinet to m. jonescu and to a number of his parliamentary supporters. while negotiations were slowly proceeding by telegraph, m. jonescu, who had already taken up his abode in paris, was assiduously weaving his plans. he began by assuming what everybody knew, that the powers would refuse to honor the secret treaty with france, britain, and russia, which assigned to rumania all the territories to which she had laid claim, and he proposed first striking up a compromise with the other interested states, then compacting rumania, jugoslavia, poland, czechoslovakia, and greece into a solid block, and asking the powers to approve and ratify the new league. truly it was a genial conception worthy of a broad-minded statesman. it aimed at a durable peace based on what he considered a fair settlement of claims satisfactory to all, and it would have lightened the burden of the big four. but whether it could have been realized by peoples moved by turbid passions and represented by trustees, some of whom were avowedly afraid to relinquish claims which they knew to be exorbitant, may well be doubted. but the issue was never put to the test. the two statesmen failed to agree on the cabinet question; m. jonescu kept aloof from office, and the post of second delegate fell to rumania's greatest diplomatist and philologist, m. mishu, who had for years admirably represented his country as minister in the british capital. from the outset m. bratiano's position was unenviable, because he based his country's case on the claims of the secret treaty, and to mr. wilson every secret treaty which he could effectually veto was anathema. between the two men, in lieu of a bond of union, there was only a strong force of mutual repulsion, which kept them permanently apart. they moved on different planes, spoke different languages, and rumania, in the person of her delegates, was treated like cinderella by her stepmother. the council of three kept them systematically in the dark about matters which it concerned them to know, negotiated over their heads, transmitted to bucharest injunctions which only they were competent to receive, insisted on their compromising to accept future decrees of the conference without an inkling as to their nature, and on their admitting the right of an alien institution--the league of nations--to intervene in favor of minorities against the legally constituted government of the country. m. bratiano, who in a trenchant speech inveighed against these claims of the great powers to take the governance of europe into their own hands, withdrew from the conference and laid his resignation in the hands of the king. one of the most remarkable debaters in this singular parliament, where self-satisfied ignorance and dullness of apprehension were so hard to pierce, was the youthful envoy of the czechoslovaks, m. benes. this politician, who before the conference came to an end was offered the honorable task of forming a new cabinet, which he wisely declined, displayed a masterly grasp of continental politics and a rare gift of identifying his country's aspirations with the postulates of a settled peace. a systematic thinker, he made a point of understanding his case at the outset. he would begin his _exposé_ by detaching himself from all national interests and starting from general assumptions recognized by the olympians, and would lead his hearers by easy stages to the conclusions which he wished them to draw from their own premises. and two of them, who had no great sympathy with his thesis, assured me that they could detect no logical flaw in his argument. moderation and sincerity were the virtues which he was most eager to exhibit, and they were unquestionably the best trump cards he could play. not only had he a firm grasp of facts and arguments, but he displayed a sense of measure and open-mindedness which enabled him to implant his views on the minds of his hearers. armenia's cause found a forcible and suasive pleader in boghos pasha, whose way of marshaling arguments in favor of a contention that was frowned upon by many commanded admiration. the armenians asked for a vast stretch of territory with outlets on the black sea and the mediterranean, but they were met with the objections that their total population was insignificant; that only in one province were they in a majority, and that their claim to cilicia clashed with one of the reserved rights of france. the ice, therefore, was somewhat thin in parts, but boghos pasha skated over it gracefully. his description of the armenian massacres was thrilling. altogether his _exposé_ was a masterpiece, and was appreciated by mr. wilson and m. clemenceau. the jugoslav delegates, mm. vesnitch and trumbitch, patriotic, tenacious, uncompromising, had an early opportunity of showing the stuff of which they were made. when they were told that the jugoslav state was not yet recognized and that the kingdom of serbia must content itself with two delegates, they lodged an indignant protest against both decisions, and refused to appear at the conference unless they were allowed an adequate number of representatives. thereupon the great powers compromised the matter by according them three, and with stealthy rage they submitted to the refusal of recognition. they were not again heard of until one day they proposed that their dispute with italy about fiume and the dalmatian coast should be solved by submitting it to president wilson for arbitration. the expedient was original. president wilson, people remembered, had had an animated talk on the subject with the italian premier, orlando, and it was known that he had set his face against italy's claim and against the secret treaty that recognized it. consequently the serbs were running no risk by challenging signor orlando to lay the matter before the american delegate. whether, all things considered, it was a wise move to make has been questioned. anyhow, the italian delegation declined the suggestion on a number of grounds which several delegates considered convincing. the conference, it urged, had been convoked precisely for the purpose of hearing and settling such disputes as theirs, and the conference consisted, not of one, but of many delegates, who collectively were better qualified to deal with such problems than any one man. europeans, too, could more fully appreciate the arguments, and the atmosphere through which the arguments should be contemplated, than the eminent american idealist, who had more than once had to modify his judgment on european matters. again, to remove the discussion from the international court might well be felt as a slight put upon the men who composed it. for why should their verdict be less worth soliciting than that of the president of the united states? true, italy's delegates were themselves judges in that tribunal, but the question to be tried was not a matter between two countries, but an issue of much wider import--namely, what frontiers accorded to the embryonic state of jugoslavia would be most conducive to the world's peace. and nobody, they held, could offer a more complete or trustworthy answer than they and their european colleagues, who were conversant with all the elements of the problem. besides--but this objection was not expressly formulated--had not mr. wilson already decided against italy? on these and other grounds, then, they decided to leave the matter to the conference. it was a delicate subject, and few onlookers cared to open their minds on its merits. albania was represented by an old friend of mine, the venerable turkhan pasha, who had been in diplomacy ever since the congress of berlin in the 'seventies of last century, and who looked like a modernized nestor. i made his acquaintance many years ago, when he was ambassador of turkey in st. petersburg. he was then a favorite everywhere in the russian capital as a conscientious ambassador, a charming talker, and a professional peace-maker, who wished well to everybody. the young turks having recalled him from st. petersburg, he soon afterward became grand vizier to the mbret of albania. far resonant events removed the mbret from the throne, turkhan pasha from the vizierate, and albania from the society of nations, and i next found my friend in switzerland ill in health, eating the bitter bread of exile, temporarily isolated from the world of politics and waiting for something to turn up. a few years more gave the allies an unexpectedly complete victory and brought back turkhan pasha to the outskirts of diplomacy and politics. he suddenly made his appearance at the paris conference as the representative of albania and the friend of italy. another albanian friend of mine, essad pasha, whose plans for the regeneration of his country differed widely from those of turkhan, was for a long while detained in saloniki. by dint of solicitations and protests, he at last obtained permission to repair to paris and lay his views before the conference, where he had a curious interview with mr. wilson. the president, having received from albanians in the united states many unsolicited judgments on the character and antecedents of essad pasha, had little faith in his fitness to introduce and popularize democratic institutions in albania. and he unburdened himself of these doubts to friends, who diffused the news. the pasha asked for an audience, and by dint of patience and perseverance his prayer was heard. five minutes before the appointed hour he was at the president's house, accompanied by his interpreter, a young albanian named stavro, who converses freely in french, greek, and turkish, besides his native language. but while in the antechamber essad, remembering that the american president speaks nothing but pure english, suggested that stavro should drive over to the hôtel crillon for an interpreter to translate from french. thereupon one of the secretaries stopped him, saying: "although he cannot speak french, the president understands it, so that a second interpreter will be unnecessary." essad then addressed mr. wilson in albanian, stavro translated his words into french, and the president listened in silence. it was the impression of those in the room that, at any rate, mr. wilson understood and appreciated the gist of the pasha's sharp criticism of italy's behavior. but, to be on the safe side, the president requested his visitor to set down on paper at his leisure everything he had said and to send it to him. president wilson president wilson, before assuming the redoubtable rôle of world arbiter, was hardly more than a name in europe, and it was not a synonym for statecraft. his ethical objections to the rule of huerta in mexico, his attempt to engraft democratic principles there, and the anarchy that came of it were matters of history. but the president of the nation to whose unbounded generosity and altruism the world owes a debt of gratitude that can only be acknowledged, not repaid, deservedly enjoyed a superlative measure of respect from his foreign colleagues, and the author of the project which was to link all nations together by ties of moral kinship was literally idolized by the masses. never has it fallen to my lot to see any mortal so enthusiastically, so spontaneously welcomed by the dejected peoples of the universe. his most casual utterances were caught up as oracles. he occupied a height so far aloft that the vicissitudes of everyday life and the contingencies of politics seemingly could not touch him. he was given credit for a rare degree of selflessness in his conceptions and actions and for a balance of judgment which no storms of passion could upset. so far as one could judge by innumerable symptoms, president wilson was confronted with an opportunity for good incomparably vaster than had ever before been within the reach of man. soon after the opening of the conference the shadowy outlines of his portrait began to fill in, slowly at first, and before three months had passed the general public beheld it fairly complete, with many of its natural lights and shades. the quality of an active politician is never more clearly brought out than when, raised to an eminent place, he is set an arduous feat in sight of the multitude. mr. wilson's task was manifestly congenial to him, for it was deliberately chosen by himself, and it comprised the most tremendous problems ever tackled by man born of woman. the means by which he set to work to solve them were startlingly simple: the regeneration of the human race was to be compassed by means of magisterial edicts secretly drafted and sternly imposed on the interested peoples, together with a new and not wholly appropriate nomenclature. in his own country, where he has bitter adversaries as well as devoted friends, mr. wilson was regarded by many as a composite being made up of preacher, teacher, and politician. to these diverse elements they refer the fervor and unction, the dogmatic tone, and the practised shrewdness that marked his words and acts. independent american opinion doubted his qualifications to be a leader. as a politician, they said, he had always followed the crowd. he had swum with the tide of public sentiment in cardinal matters, instead of stemming or canalizing and guiding it. deficient in courageous initiative, he had contented himself with merely executive functions. no new idea, no fresh policy, was associated with his name. his singular attitude on the mexican imbroglio had provoked the sharp criticism even of friends and the condemnation of political opponents. his utterances during the first stages of the world war, such as the statement that the american people were too proud to fight and had no concern with the causes and objects of the war,[ ] when contrasted with the opposite views which he propounded later on, were ascribed to quick political evolution--but were not taken as symptoms of a settled mind. he seemed a pacifist when his pride revolted at the idea of settling any intelligible question by an appeal to violence, and a semi-militarist when, having in his own opinion created a perfectly safe and bloodless peace guarantee in the shape of the league of nations, he agreed to safeguard it by a military compact which sapped its foundation. he owed his re-election for a second term partly, it was alleged, to the belief that during the first he had kept his country out of the war despite the endeavors of some of its eminent leaders to bring it in; yet when firmly seated in the saddle, he followed the leaders whom he had theretofore with-stood and obliged the nation to fight. as chief of the great country, his domestic critics add, which had just turned victory's scale in favor of the allies, mr. wilson saw a superb opportunity to hitch his wagon to a star, and now for the first time he made a determined bid for the leadership of the world. here the idealist showed himself at his best. but by the way of preparation he asked the nation at the elections to refuse their votes to his political opponents, despite the fact that they were loyally supporting his policy, and to return only men of his own party, and in order to silence their misgivings he declared that to elect republican senators would be to repudiate the administration of the president of the united states at a critical conjuncture. this was urged against him as the inexpiable sin. the electors, however, sent his political opponents to the senate, whereupon the president organized his historic visit to europe. it might have become a turning-point in the world's history had he transformed his authority and prestige into the driving-power requisite to embody his beneficent scheme. but he wasted the opportunity for lack of moral courage. thus far american criticism. but the peoples of europe ignored the estimates of the president made by his fellow-countrymen, who, as such, may be forgiven for failing to appreciate his apostleship, or set the full value on his humanitarian strivings. the war-weary masses judged him not by what he had achieved or attempted in the past, but by what he proposed to do in the future. and measured by this standard, his spiritual statue grew to legendary proportions. europe, when the president touched its shores, was as clay ready for the creative potter. never before were the nations so eager to follow a moses who would take them to the long-promised land where wars are prohibited and blockades unknown. and to their thinking he was that great leader. in france men bowed down before him with awe and affection. labor leaders in paris told me that they shed tears of joy in his presence, and that their comrades would go through fire and water to help him to realize his noble schemes.[ ] to the working classes in italy his name was a heavenly clarion at the sound of which the earth would be renewed. the germans regarded him and his humane doctrine as their sheet-anchor of safety. the fearless herr muehlon said, "if president wilson were to address the germans, and pronounce a severe sentence upon them, they would accept it with resignation and without a murmur and set to work at once." in german-austria his fame was that of a savior, and the mere mention of his name brought balm to the suffering and surcease of sorrow to the afflicted. a touching instance of this which occurred in the austrian capital, when narrated to the president, moved him to tears. there were some five or six thousand austrian children in the hospitals at vienna who, as christmas was drawing near, were sorely in need of medicaments and much else. the head of the american red cross took up their case and persuaded the americans in france to send two million dollars' worth of medicaments to vienna. these were duly despatched, and had got as far as berne, when the french authorities, having got wind of the matter, protested against this premature assistance to infant enemies on grounds which the other allies had to recognize as technically tenable, and the medicaments were ordered back to france from berne. thereupon doctor ferries, of the international red cross, became wild with indignation and laid the matter before the swiss government, which undertook to send some medicaments to the children, while the americans were endeavoring to move the french to allow at least some of the remedies to go through. the children in the hospitals, when told that they must wait, were bright and hopeful. "it will be all right," some of them exclaimed. "wilson is coming soon, and he will bring us everything." thus mr. wilson had become a transcendental hero to the european proletarians, who in their homely way adjusted his mental and moral attributes to their own ideal of the latter-day messiah. his legendary figure, half saint, half revolutionist, emerged from the transparent haze of faith, yearning, and ignorance, as in some ecstatic vision. in spite of his recorded acts and utterances the mythopeic faculty of the peoples had given itself free scope and created a messianic democrat destined to free the lower orders, as they were called, in each state from the shackles of capitalism, legalized thraldom, and crushing taxation, and each nation from sanguinary warfare. truly, no human being since the dawn of history has ever yet been favored with such a superb opportunity. mr. wilson might have made a gallant effort to lift society out of the deep grooves into which it had sunk, and dislodge the secular obstacles to the enfranchisement and transfiguration of the human race. at the lowest it was open to him to become the center of a countless multitude, the heart of their hearts, the incarnation of their noblest thought, on condition that he scorned the prudential motives of politicians, burst through the barriers of the old order, and deployed all his energies and his full will-power in the struggle against sordid interests and dense prejudice. but he was cowed by obstacles which his will lacked the strength to surmount, and instead of receiving his promptings from the everlasting ideals of mankind and the inspiriting audacities of his own highest nature and appealing to the peoples against their rulers, he felt constrained in the very interest of his cause to haggle and barter with the scribes and the pharisees, and ended by recording a pitiful answer to the most momentous problems couched in the impoverished phraseology of a political party. many of his political friends had advised the president not to visit europe lest the vast prestige and influence which he wielded from a distance should dwindle unutilized on close contact with the realists' crowd. even the war-god mars, when he descended into the ranks of the combatants on the trojan side, was wounded by a greek, and, screaming with pain, scurried back to olympus with paling halo. but mr. wilson decided to preside and to direct the fashioning of his project, and to give europe the benefit of his advice. he explained to congress that he had expressed the ideals of the country for which its soldiers had consciously fought, had had them accepted "as the substance of their own thoughts and purpose" by the statesmen of the associated governments, and now, he concluded: "i owe it to them to see to it, in so far as in me lies, that no false or mistaken interpretation is put upon them, and no possible effort omitted to realize them. it is now my duty to play my full part in making good what they offered their lives and blood to obtain. i can think of no call to service which could transcend this."[ ] no intention could well be more praiseworthy. soon after the _george washington_, flying the presidential flag, had steamed out of the bay on her way to europe, the united press received from its correspondent on board, who was attached to mr. wilson's person, a message which invigorated the hopes of the world and evoked warm outpourings of the seared soul of suffering man in gratitude toward the bringer of balm. it began thus: "the president sails for europe to uphold american ideals, and literally to fight for his fourteen points. the president, at the peace table, will insist on the freedom of the seas and a general disarmament.... the seas, he holds, ought to be guarded by the whole world." since then the world knows what to think of the literal fighting at the peace table. the freedom of the seas was never as much as alluded to at the peace table, for the announcement of mr. wilson's militant championship brought him a wireless message from london to the effect that that proposal, at all events, must be struck out of his program if he wished to do business with britain. and without a fight or a remonstrance the president struck it out. the fourteen points were not discussed at the conference.[ ] one may deplore, but one cannot misunderstand, what happened. mr. wilson, too, had his own fixed aim to attain: intent on associating his name with a grandiose humanitarian monument, he was resolved not to return to his country without some sort of a covenant of the new international life. he could not afford to go home empty-handed. therein lay his weakness and the source of his failure. for whenever his attitude toward the great powers was taken to mean, "unless you give me my covenant, you cannot have your treaty," the retort was ready: "without our treaty there will be no covenant." like dejoces, the first king of the medes, who, having built his palace at ecbatana, surrounded it with seven walls and permanently withdrew his person from the gaze of his subjects, mr. wilson in paris admitted to his presence only the authorized spokesmen of states and causes, and not all of these. he declined to receive persons who thought they had a claim to see him, and he received others who were believed to have none. during his sojourn in paris he took many important russian affairs in hand after having publicly stated that no peace could be stable so long as russia was torn by internal strife. and as familiarity with russian conditions was not one of his accomplishments, he presumably needed advice and help from those acquainted with them. now a large number of russians, representing all political parties and four governments, were in paris waiting to be consulted. but between january and may not one of them was ever asked for information or counsel. nay, more, those who respectfully solicited an audience were told to wait. in the meanwhile men unacquainted with the country and people were sent by mr. wilson to report on the situation, and to begin by obtaining the terms of an acceptable treaty from the bolshevik government. the first plenipotentiary of one of the principal lesser states was for months refused an audience, to the delight of his political adversaries, who made the most of the circumstance at home. an eminent diplomatist who possessed considerable claims to be vouchsafed an interview was put off from week to week, until at last, by dint of perseverance, as it seemed to him, the president consented to see him. the diplomatist, pleased at his success, informed a friend that the following wednesday would be the memorable day. "but are you not aware," asked the friend, "that on that day the president will be on the high seas on his way back to the united states?" he was not aware of it. but when he learned that the audience had been deliberately fixed for a day when mr. wilson would no longer be in france he felt aggrieved. in italy the president's progress was a veritable triumph. emperors and kings had roused no such enthusiasm. one might fancy him a deity unexpectedly discovered under the outward appearance of a mortal and now being honored as the god that he was by ecstatic worshipers. everything he did was well done, everything he said was nobly conceived and worthy of being treasured up. in these dispositions a few brief months wrought a vast difference. in this respect an instructive comparison might be made between tsar alexander i at the vienna congress and the president of the united states at the conference of paris. the russian monarch arrived in the austrian capital with the halo of a moses focusing the hopes of all the peoples of europe. his reputation for probity, public spirit, and lofty aspirations had won for him the good-will and the anticipatory blessings of war-weary nations. he, too, was a mystic, believed firmly in occult influences, so firmly indeed that he accepted the fitful guidance of an ecstatic lady whose intuition was supposed to transcend the sagacity of professional statesmen. and yet the holy alliance was the supreme outcome of his endeavors, as the league of nations was that of mr. wilson's. in lieu of universal peace all eastern europe was still warring and revolting in september and the general outlook was disquieting. the disheartening effect of the contrast between the promise and the achievement of the american statesman was felt throughout the world. but mr. wilson has the solace to know that people hardly ever reach their goal--though they sometimes advance fairly near to it. they either die on the way or else it changes or they do. it was doubtless a noble ambition that moved the prime ministers of the great powers and the chief of the north american republic to give their own service to the conference as heads of their respective missions. for they considered themselves to be the best equipped for the purpose, and they were certainly free from such prejudices as professional traditions and a confusing knowledge of details might be supposed to engender. but in almost every respect it was a grievous mistake and the source of others still more grievous. true, in his own particular sphere each of them had achieved what is nowadays termed greatness. as a war leader mr. lloyd george had been hastily classed with marlborough and chatham, m. clemenceau compared to danton, and mr. wilson set apart in a category to himself. but without questioning these journalistic certificates of fame one must admit that all three plenipotentiaries were essentially politicians, old parliamentary hands, and therefore expedient-mongers whose highest qualifications for their own profession were drawbacks which unfitted them for their self-assumed mission. of the concrete world which they set about reforming their knowledge was amazingly vague. "frogs in the pond," says the japanese proverb, "know naught of the ocean." there was, of course, nothing blameworthy in their unacquaintanceship with the issues, but only in the offhandedness with which they belittled its consequences. had they been conversant with the subject or gifted with deeper insight, many of the things which seemed particularly clear to them would have struck them as sheer inexplicable, and among these perhaps their own leadership of the world-parliament. what they lacked, however, might in some perceptible degree have been supplied by enlisting as their helpers men more happily endowed than themselves. but they deliberately chose mediocrities. it is a mark of genial spirits that they are well served, but the plenipotentiaries of the conference were not characterized by it. away in the background some of them had familiars or casual prompters to whose counsels they were wont to listen, but many of the adjoints who moved in the limelight of the world-stage were gritless and pithless. as the heads of the principal governments implicitly claimed to be the authorized spokesmen of the human race and endowed with unlimited powers, it is worth noting that this claim was boldly challenged by the peoples' organs in the press. nearly all the journals read by the masses objected from the first to the dictatorship of the group of premiers, mr. wilson being excepted. "the modern parasite," wrote a respectable democratic newspaper,[ ] "is the politician. of all the privileged beings who have ever governed us he is the worst. in that, however, there is nothing surprising ... he is not only amoral, but incompetent by definition. and it is this empty-headed individual who is intrusted with the task of settling problems with the very rudiments of which he is unacquainted." another french journal[ ] wrote: "in truth it is a misfortune that the leaders of the conference are cabinet chiefs, for each of them is obsessed by the carking cares of his domestic policy. besides, the paris conference takes on the likeness of a lyrical drama in which there are only tenors. now would even the most beautiful work in the world survive this excess of beauties?" the truth as revealed by subsequent facts would seem to be that each of the plenipotentiaries recognizing parliamentary success as the source of his power was obsessed by his own political problems and stimulated by his own immediate ends. as these ends, however incompatible with each other, were believed by each one to tend toward the general object, he worked zealously for their attainment. the consequences are notorious. m. clemenceau made france the hub of the universe. mr. lloyd george harbored schemes which naturally identified the welfare of mankind with the hegemony of the english-speaking races. signor orlando was inspired by the "sacred egotism" which had actuated all italian cabinets since italy entered the war, and president wilson was burning to associate his name and also that of his country with the vastest and noblest enterprise inscribed in the annals of history. and each one moved over his own favorite route toward his own goal. it was an apt illustration of the russian fable of the swan, the crab, and the pike being harnessed together in order to remove a load. the swan flew upward, the crab crawled backward, the pike made with all haste for the water, and the load remained where it was. a lesser but also a serious disadvantage of the delegation of government chiefs made itself felt in the procedure. embarrassing delays were occasioned by the unavoidable absences of the principal delegates whom pressure of domestic politics called to their respective capitals, as well as by their tactics, and their colleagues profited by their absence for the sake of the good cause. thus all paris, as we saw, was aware that the european chiefs, whose faith in wilsonian orthodoxy was still feeble at that time, were prepared to take advantage of the president's sojourn in washington to speed up business in their own sense and to confront him on his return with accomplished facts. but when, on his return, he beheld their handiwork he scrapped it, and a considerable loss of time ensued for which the world has since had to pay very heavily. again, when premier orlando was in rome after mr. wilson's appeal to the italian people, a series of measures was passed by the delegates in paris affecting italy, diminishing her importance at the conference, and modifying the accepted interpretation of the treaty of london. some of these decisions had to be canceled when the italians returned. these stratagems had an undesirable effect on the italians. not the least of the premiers' disabilities lay in the circumstance that they were the merest novices in international affairs. geography, ethnography, psychology, and political history were sealed books to them. like the rector of louvain university who told oliver goldsmith that, as he had become the head of that institution without knowing greek, he failed to see why it should be taught there, the chiefs of state, having attained the highest position in their respective countries without more than an inkling of international affairs, were unable to realize the importance of mastering them or the impossibility of repairing the omission as they went along. they displayed their contempt for professional diplomacy and this feeling was shared by many, but they extended that sentiment to certain diplomatic postulates which can in no case be dispensed with, because they are common to all professions. one of them is knowledge of the terms of the problems to be solved. no conjuncture could have been less favorable for an experiment based on this theory. the general situation made a demand on the delegates for special knowledge and experience, whereas the premiers and the president, although specialists in nothing, had to act as specialists in everything. traditional diplomacy would have shown some respect for the law of causality. it would have sent to the conference diplomatists more or less acquainted with the issues to be mooted and also with the mentality of the other negotiators, and it would have assigned to them a number of experts as advisers. it would have formed a plan similar to that proposed by the french authorities and rejected by the anglo-saxons. in this way at least the technical part of the task would have been tackled on right lines, the war would have been liquidated and normal relations quickly re-established among the belligerent states. it may be objected that this would have been a meager contribution to the new politico-social fabric. undoubtedly it would, but, however meager, it would have been a positive gain. possibly the first stone of a new world might have been laid once the ruins of the old were cleared away. but even this modest feat could not be achieved by amateurs working in desultory fashion and handicapped by their political parties at home. the resultant of their apparent co-operation was a sum in subtraction because dispersal or effort was unavoidably substituted for concentration. whether one contemplates them in the light of their public acts or through the prism of gossip, the figures cut by the delegates of the great powers were pathetic. giants in the parliamentary sphere, they shrank to the dimensions of dwarfs in the international. in matters of geography, ethnography, history, and international politics they were helplessly at sea, and the stories told of certain of their efforts to keep their heads above water while maintaining a simulacrum of dignity would have been amusing were the issues less momentous. "is it after upper or lower silesia that those greedy poles are hankering?" one premier is credibly reported to have asked some months after the polish delegation had propounded and defended its claims and he had had time to familiarize himself with them. "please point out to me dalmatia on the map," was another characteristic request, "and tell me what connection there is between it and fiume." one of the principal plenipotentiaries addressed a delegate who is an acquaintance of mine approximately as follows: "i cannot understand the spokesmen of the smaller states. to me they seem stark mad. they single out a strip of territory and for no intelligible reason flock round it like birds of prey round a corpse on the field of battle. take silesia, for example. the poles are clamoring for it as if the very existence of their country depended on their annexing it. the germans are still more crazy about it. but for their eagerness i suppose there is some solid foundation. but how in heaven's name do the armenians come to claim it? just think of it, the armenians! the world has gone mad. no wonder france has set her foot down and warned them off the ground. but what does france herself want with it? what is the clue to the mystery?" my acquaintance, in reply, pointed out as considerately as he could that silesia was the province for which poles and germans were contending, whereas the armenians were pleading for cilicia, which is farther east, and were, therefore, frowned upon by the french, who conceive that they have a civilizing mission there and men enough to accomplish it. it is characteristic of the epoch, and therefore worthy of the historian's attention, that not only the members of the conference, but also other leading statesmen of anglo-saxon countries, were wont to make a very little knowledge of peoples and countries go quite a far way. two examples may serve to familiarize the reader with the phenomenon and to moderate his surprise at the defects of the world-dictators in paris. one english-speaking statesman, dealing with the italian government[ ] and casting around for some effective way of helping the italian people out of their pitiable economic plight, fancied he hit upon a felicitous expedient, which he unfolded as follows. "i venture," he said, "to promise that if you will largely increase your cultivation of bananas the people of my country will take them all. no matter how great the quantities, our market will absorb them, and that will surely make a considerable addition to your balance on the right side." at first the italians believed he was joking. but finding that he really meant what he said, they ruthlessly revealed his idea to the nation under the heading, "italian bananas!" here is the other instance. during the war the polish people was undergoing unprecedented hardships. many of the poorer classes were literally perishing of hunger. a polish commission was sent to an english-speaking country to interest the government and people in the condition of the sufferers and obtain relief. the envoys had an interview with a secretary of state, who inquired to what port they intended to have the foodstuffs conveyed for distribution in the interior of poland. they answered: "we shall have them taken to dantzig. there is no other way." the statesman reflected a little and then said: "you may meet with difficulties. if you have them shipped to dantzig you must of course first obtain italy's permission. have you got it?" "no. we had not thought of that. in fact, we don't yet see why italy need be approached." "because it is italy who has command of the mediterranean, and if you want the transport taken to dantzig it is the italian government that you must ask!"[ ] the delegates picked up a good deal of miscellaneous information about the various countries whose future they were regulating, and to their credit it should be said that they put questions to their informants without a trace of false pride. one of the two chief delegates wending homeward from a sitting at which m. jules cambon had spoken a good deal about those polish districts which, although they contained a majority of germans, yet belonged of right to poland, asked the french delegate why he had made so many allusions to frederick the great. "what had frederick to do with poland?" he inquired. the answer was that the present german majority of the inhabitants was made up of colonists who had immigrated into the districts since the time of frederick the great and the partition of poland. "yes, i see," exclaimed the statesman, "but what had frederick the great to do with the partition of poland?" ... in the domain of ethnography there were also many pitfalls and accidents. during an official _exposé_ of the oriental situation before the supreme council, one of the great four, listening to a narrative of turkish misdeeds, heard that the kurds had tortured and killed a number of defenseless women, children, and old men. he at once interrupted the speaker with the query: "you now call them kurds. a few minutes ago you said they were turks. i take it that the kurds and the turks are the same people?" loath to embarrass one of the world's arbiters, the delegate respectfully replied, "yes, sir, they are about the same, but the worse of the two are the kurds."[ ] great britain's first delegate, with engaging candor sought to disarm criticism by frankly confessing in the house of commons that he had never before heard of teschen, about which such an extraordinary fuss was then being made, and by asking: "how many members of the house have ever heard of teschen? yet," he added significantly, "teschen very nearly produced an angry conflict between two allied states."[ ] the circumstance that an eminent parliamentarian had never heard of problems that agitate continental peoples is excusable. less so was his resolve, despite such a capital disqualification, to undertake the task of solving those problems single-handed, although conscious that the fate of whole peoples depended on his succeeding. it is no adequate justification to say that he could always fall back upon special commissions, of which there was no lack at the conference. unless he possessed a safe criterion by which to assess the value of the commissions' conclusions, he must needs himself decide the matter arbitrarily. and the delegates, having no such criterion, pronounced very arbitrary judgments on momentous issues. one instance of this turned upon poland's claims to certain territories incorporated in germany, which were referred to a special commission under the presidency of m. cambon. commissioners were sent to the country to study the matter on the spot, where they had received every facility for acquainting themselves with it. after some weeks the commission reported in favor of the polish claim with unanimity. but mr. lloyd george rejected their conclusions and insisted on having the report sent back to them for reconsideration. again the commissioners went over the familiar ground, but felt obliged to repeat their verdict anew. once more, however, the british premier demurred, and such was his tenacity that, despite mr. wilson's opposition, the final decision of the conference reversed that of the commission and non-suited the poles. by what line of argument, people naturally asked, did the first british delegate come to that conclusion? that he knew more about the matter than the special inter-allied commission is hardly to be supposed. indeed, nobody assumed that he was any better informed on that subject than about teschen. the explanation put in circulation by interested persons was that, like socrates, he had his own familiar demon to prompt him, who, like all such spirits, chose to flourish, like the violet, in the shade. that this source of light was accessible to the prime minister may, his apologists hold, one day prove a boon to the peoples whose fate was thus being spun in darkness and seemingly at haphazard. possibly. but in the meanwhile it was construed as an affront to their intelligence and a violation of the promise made to them of "open covenants openly arrived at." the press asked why the information requisite for the work had not been acquired in advance as these semi-mystical ways of obtaining it commended themselves to nobody. wholly mystical were the methods attributed to one or other of the men who were preparing the advent of the new era. for superstition of various kinds was supposed to be as well represented at the paris conference as at the congress of vienna. characteristic of the epoch was the gravity with which individuals otherwise well balanced exercised their ingenuity in finding out the true relation of the world's peace to certain lucky numbers. for several events connected with the conference the thirteenth day of the month was deliberately, and some occultists added felicitously, chosen. it was also noticed that an effort was made by all the delegates to have the allies' reply to the german counter-proposals presented on the day of destiny, friday, june th. when it miscarried a flutter was caused in the dovecotes of the illuminated. the failure was construed as an inauspicious omen and it caused the spirits of many to droop. the principal clairvoyante of paris, madame n----, who plumes herself on being the intermediary between the fates that rule and some of their earthly executors, was consulted on the subject, one knows not with what result.[ ] it was given out, however, as the solemn utterance of the oracle in vogue that mr. wilson's enterprise was weighted with original sin; he had made one false step before his arrival in europe, and that had put everything out of gear. by enacting fourteen commandments he had countered the magic charm of his lucky thirteen. one of the fourteen, it was soothsaid, must therefore be omitted--it might be, say, that of open covenants openly arrived at, or the freedom of the seas--in a word, any one so long as the mystic number thirteen remained intact. but should that be impossible, seeing that the fourteen points had already become house-hold words to all nations and peoples, then it behooved the president to number the last of his saving points a.[ ] this odd mixture of the real and the fanciful--a symptom, as the initiated believed, of a mood of fine spiritual exaltation--met with little sympathy among the impatient masses whose struggle for bare life was growing ever fiercer. stagnation held the business world, prices were rising to prohibitive heights, partly because of the dawdling of the world's conclave; hunger was stalking about the ruined villages of the northern departments of france, destructive wars were being waged in eastern europe, and thousands of christians were dying of hunger in bessarabia.[ ] epigrammatic strictures and winged words barbed with stinging satire indicated the feelings of the many. and the fact remains on record that streaks of the mysticism that buoyed up alexander i at the congress of vienna, and is supposed to have stimulated nicholas ii during the first world-parliament at the hague, were noticeable from time to time in the environment of the paris conference. the disclosure of these elements of superstition was distinctly harmful and might have been hindered easily by the system of secrecy and censorship which effectively concealed matters much less mischievous. the position of the plenipotentiaries was unenviable at best and they well deserve the benefit of extenuating circumstances. for not even a genius can efficiently tackle problems with the elements of which he lacks acquaintanceship, and the mass of facts which they had to deal with was sheer unmanageable. it was distressing to watch them during those eventful months groping and floundering through a labyrinth of obstacles with no ariadne clue to guide their tortuous course, and discovering that their task was more intricate than they had imagined. the ironic domination of temper and circumstance over the fitful exertions of men struggling with the partially realized difficulties of a false position led to many incongruities upon which it would be ungracious to dwell. one of them, however, which illustrates the situation, seems almost incredible. it is said to have occurred in january. according to the current narrative, soon after the arrival of president wilson in paris, he received from a french publicist named m.b. a long and interesting memorandum about the island of corsica, recounting the history, needs, and aspirations of the population as well as the various attempts they had made to regain their independence, and requesting him to employ his good offices at the conference to obtain for them complete autonomy. to this demand m.b. is said to have received a reply[ ] to the effect that the president "is persuaded that this question will form the subject of a thorough examination by the competent authorities of the conference" corsica, the birthplace of napoleon, and as much an integral part of france as the isle of man is of england, seeking to slacken the ties that link it to the republic and receiving a promise that the matter would be carefully considered by the delegates sounds more like a mystification than a sober statement of fact. the story was sent to the newspapers for publication, but the censor very wisely struck it out. these and kindred occurrences enable one better to appreciate the motives which prompted the delegates to shroud their conversations and tentative decisions in a decorous veil of secrecy. it is but fair to say that the enterprise to which they set their hands was the vastest that ever tempted lofty ambitions since the tower-builders of babel strove to bring heaven within reach of the earth. it transcended the capacity of the contemporary world's greatest men.[ ] it was a labor for a wonder-worker in the pristine days of heroes. but although to solve even the main problems without residue was beyond the reach of the most genial representatives of latter-day statecraft, it needed only clearness of conception, steadiness of purpose, and the proper adjustment of means to ends, to begin the work on the right lines and give it an impulse that might perhaps carry it to completion in the fullness of time. but even these postulates were wanting. the eminent parliamentarians failed to rise to the gentle height of average statecraft. they appeared in their new and august character of world-reformers with all the roots still clinging to them of the rank electoral soil from which they sprang. their words alone were redolent of idealism, their deeds were too often marred by pettifogging compromises or childish blunders--constructive phrases and destructive acts. not only had they no settled method of working, they lacked even a common proximate aim. for although they all employed the same phraseology when describing the objects for which their countries had fought and they themselves were ostensibly laboring, no two delegates attached the same ideas to the words they used. yet, instead of candidly avowing this root-defect and remedying it, they were content to stretch the euphemistic terms until these covered conflicting conceptions and gratified the ears of every hearer. thus, "open covenants openly arrived at" came to mean arbitrary ukases issued by a secret conclave, and "the self-determination of peoples" connoted implicit obedience to dictatorial decrees. the new result was a bewildering phantasmagoria. and yet it was professedly for the purpose of obviating such misunderstandings that mr. wilson had crossed the atlantic. having expressed in plain terms the ideals for which american soldiers had fought, and which became the substance of the thoughts and purposes of the associated statesmen, "i owe it to them," he had said, "to see to it, in so far as in me lies, that no false or mistaken interpretation is put upon them and no possible effort omitted to realize them." and that was the result achieved. no such juggling with words as went on at the conference had been witnessed since the days of medieval casuistry. new meanings were infused into old terms, rendering the help of "exegesis" indispensable. expressions like "territorial equilibrium" and "strategic frontiers" were stringently banished, and it is affirmed that president wilson would wince and his expression change at the bare mention of these obnoxious symbols of the effete ordering which it was part of his mission to do away with forever. and yet the things signified by those words were preserved withal under other names. nor could it well be otherwise. one can hardly conceive a durable state system in europe under the new any more than the old dispensation without something that corresponds to equilibrium. an architect who should boastingly discard the law of gravitation in favor of a different theory would stand little chance of being intrusted with the construction of a palace of peace. similarly, a statesman who, while proclaiming that the era of wars is not yet over, would deprive of strategic frontiers the pivotal states of europe which are most exposed to sudden attack would deserve to find few disciples and fewer clients. yet that was what mr. wilson aimed at and what some of his friends affirm he has achieved. his foreign colleagues re-echoed his dogmas after having emasculated them. it was instructive and unedifying to watch how each of the delegates, when his own country's turn came to be dealt with on the new lines, reversed his tactics and, sacrificing sound to substance, insisted on safeguards, relied on historic rights, invoked economic requirements, and appealed to common sense, but all the while loyally abjured "territorial equilibrium" and "strategic guarantees." hence the fierce struggles which mm. orlando, dmowski, bratiano, venizelos, and makino had to carry on with the chief of that state which is the least interested in european affairs in order to obtain all or part of the territories which they considered indispensable to the security and well-being of their respective countries. at the outset mr. wilson stood for an ideal europe of a wholly new and undefined type, which would have done away with the need for strategic frontiers. its contours were vague, for he had no clear mental picture of the concrete europe out of which it was to be fashioned. he spoke, indeed, and would fain have acted, as though the old continent were like a thinly inhabited territory of north america fifty years ago, unencumbered by awkward survivals of the past and capable of receiving any impress. he seemingly took no account of its history, its peoples, or their interests and strivings. history shared the fate of kolchak's government and the ukraine; it was not recognized by the delegates. what he brought to europe from america was an abstract idea, old and european, and at first his foreign colleagues treated it as such. some of them had actually sneered at it, others had damned it with faint praise, and now all of them honestly strove to save their own countries' vital interests from its disruptive action while helping to apply it to their neighbors. thus britain, who at that time had no territorial claims to put forward, had her sea-doctrine to uphold, and she upheld it resolutely. before he reached europe the president was notified in plain terms that his theory of the freedom of the seas would neither be entertained nor discussed. accordingly, he abandoned it without protest. it was then explained away as a journalistic misconception. that was the first toll paid by the american reformer in europe, and it spelled failure to his entire scheme, which was one and indivisible. it fell to my lot to record the payment of the tribute and the abandonment of that first of the fourteen commandments. the mystic thirteen remained. but soon afterward another went by the board. then there were twelve. and gradually the number dwindled. this recognition of hard realities was a bitter disappointment to all the friends of the spiritual and social renovation of the world. it was a spectacle for cynics. it rendered a frank return to the ancient system unavoidable and brought grist to the mill of the equilibrists. and yet the conclusion was shriked. but even the tough realities might have been made to yield a tolerable peace if they had been faced squarely. if the new conception could not be realized at once, the old one should have been taken back into favor provisionally until broader foundations could be laid, but it must be one thing or the other. from the political angle of vision at which the european delegates insisted on placing themselves, the old world way of tackling the various problems was alone admissible. their program was coherent and their reasoning strictly logical. the former included strategic frontiers and territorial equilibrium. doubtless this angle of vision was narrow, the survey it allowed was inadequate, and the results attainable ran the risk of being ultimately thrust aside by the indignant peoples. for the world problem was not wholly nor even mainly political. still, the method was intelligible and the ensuing combinations would have hung coherently together. they would have satisfied all those--and they were many--who believed that the second decade of the twentieth century differs in no essential respect from the first and that latter-day world problems may be solved by judicious territorial redistribution. but even that conception was not consistently acted on. deviations were permitted here and insisted upon there, only they were spoken of unctuously as sacrifices incumbent on the lesser states to the fourteen points. for the delegates set great store by their reputation for logic and coherency. whatever other charges against the conference might be tolerated, that of inconsistency was bitterly resented, especially by mr. wilson. for a long while he contended that he was as true to his fourteen points as is the needle to the pole. it was not until after his return to washington, in the summer, that he admitted the perturbations caused by magnetic currents--sympathy for france he termed them. the effort of imagination required to discern consistency in such of the council's decisions as became known from time to time was so far beyond the capacity of average outsiders that the ugly phrase "to make the world safe for hypocrisy" was early coined, uttered, and propagated. footnotes: [ ] cf. _le temps_, may , . it is an adaptation of the inscription over the pantheon, "aux grands hommes, la patrie reconnaissante." [ ] _the daily mail_, april , (paris edition). [ ] in germany. [ ] general pétain is said to have rejected the suggestion. [ ] cf. _bulletin des droits de l'homme_, ème année, p. . [ ] it was either friday, the th, or saturday, the th of july. [ ] at the end of august, . [ ] one delegate from a poor and friendless country had to take the maps of a rival state and retouch them in accordance with the ethnographical data, which he considered alone correct. [ ] _l'homme enchatné_, december , . [ ] "with its causes and objects we have no concern." speech delivered by mr. wilson before the league to enforce peace in washington on may , . [ ] the testimony of a leading french press organ is worth reproducing here: "la situation du président wilson dans nos démocraties est magnifique, souveraine et extrêmement périlleuse. on ne connaît pas d'hommes, dans les temps contemporains, ayant eu plus d'autorité et de puissance; la popularité lui a donné ce que le droit divin ne conférait pas toujours aux monarques héréditaires. en revanche et par le fait du choc en retour, sa responsabilité est supérieure à celle du prince le plus absolu. s'il réussit à organiser le monde d'après ses rêves, sa gloire dominera les plus hautes gloires; mais il faut dire hardiment que s'il échouait il plongerait le monde dans un chaos dont le bolchevisme russe ne nous offre qu'une faible image; et sa responsabilité devant la conscience humaine dépasserait ce que peut supporter un simple mortel. redoutable alternative!"--cf. _le figaro_, february , . [ ] from mr. wilson's address to congress read on december , . cf. _the times_, december , . [ ] cf. secretary lansing's evidence before the senate foreign relations committee, _the chicago tribune_, august , . [ ] _la démocratie nouvelle_, may , [ ] _le figaro_, march , . [ ] both of them occurred before the armistice, but during the war. [ ] for the accuracy of this and the preceding story i vouch absolutely. i have the names of persons, places, and authorities, which are superfluous here. [ ] the kurds are members of the great indo-european family to which the greeks, italians, celts, teutons, slavs, hindus, persians, and afghans belong, whereas the turks are a branch of a wholly different stock, the ural-altai group, of which the mongols, turks, tartars, finns, and magyars are members. [ ] april , . [ ] madame n---- showed a friend of mine an autograph letter which she claims to have received from one of her clients, "a world's famous man." i was several times invited to inspect it at the clairvoyante's abode, or at my own, if i preferred. [ ] articles on the subject appeared in the french press. to the best of my recollection there was one in _bonsoir_. [ ] the american red cross buried sixteen hundred of them in august, . _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] the reply, of which i possess what was given to me as a copy, is dated paris, january , , and is in french. [ ] imagine, for instance, the condition of mind into which the following day's work must have thrown the american statesman, beset as he was with political worries of his own. the extract quoted is taken from _the daily mail_ of april , (paris edition). president wilson had a busy day yesterday, as the following list of engagements shows: a.m. dr. wellington koo, to present the chinese delegation to the peace conference. . a.m. marquis de vogué had a delegation of seven others, representing the congrès français, to present their view as to the disposition of the left bank of the rhine. . a.m. assyrian and chaldean delegation, with a message from the assyrian-chaldean nation. . a.m. dalmatian delegation, to present to the president the result of the plebiscite of that part of dalmatia occupied by italians. _noon_. m. bucquet, chargé d'affaires of san marino, to convey the action of the grand council of san marino, conferring on the president honorary citizenship in the republic of san marino. . p.m. m. colonder, swiss minister of foreign affairs. . p.m. miss rose schneiderman and miss mary anderson, delegates of the national women's trade union league of the united states. . p.m. the patriarch of constantinople, the head of the orthodox eastern church. . p.m. essad pasha, delegate of albania, to present the claims of albania. p.m. m.m.l. coromilas, greek minister at rome, to pay his respects. _luncheon_. mr. newton d. baker, secretary for war. p.m. mr. herbert hoover. . p.m. m. bratiano, of the rumanian delegation. . p.m. dr. affonso costa, former portuguese minister, portuguese delegate to the peace conference. . p.m. boghos nubar pasha, president of the armenian national delegation, accompanied by m.a. aharoman and professor a. der hagopian, of robert college. . p.m. m. pasitch, of the serbian delegation. . p.m. mr. frank walsh, of the irish-american delegation. iv censorship and secrecy never was political veracity in europe at a lower ebb than during the peace conference. the blinding dust of half-truths cunningly mixed with falsehood and deliberately scattered with a lavish hand, obscured the vision of the people, who were expected to adopt or acquiesce in the judgments of their rulers on the various questions that arose. four and a half years of continuous and deliberate lying for victory had disembodied the spirit of veracity and good faith throughout the world of politics. facts were treated as plastic and capable of being shaped after this fashion or that, according to the aim of the speaker or writer. promises were made, not because the things promised were seen to be necessary or desirable, but merely in order to dispose the public favorably toward a policy or an expedient, or to create and maintain a certain frame of mind toward the enemies or the allies. at elections and in parliamentary discourses, undertakings were given, some of which were known to be impossible of fulfilment. thus the ministers in some of the allied countries bound themselves to compel the germans not only to pay full compensation for damage wantonly done, but also to defray the entire cost of the war. the notion that the enemy would thus make good all losses was manifestly preposterous. in a century the debt could not be wiped out, even though the teutonic people could be got to work steadily and selflessly for the purpose. for their productivity would be unavailing if their victorious adversaries were indisposed to admit the products to their markets. and not only were the governments unwilling, but some of the peoples announced their determination to boycott german wares on their own initiative. none the less the nations were for months buoyed up with the baleful delusion that all their war expenses would be refunded by the enemy.[ ] it was not the governments only, however, who, after having for over four years colored and refracted the truth, now continued to twist and invent "facts." the newspapers, with some honorable exceptions, buttressed them up and even outstripped them. plausible unveracity thus became a patriotic accomplishment and a recognized element of politics. parties and states employed it freely. fiction received the hall-mark of truth and fancies were current as facts. public men who had solemnly hazarded statements belied by subsequent events denied having ever uttered them. never before was the baleful theory that error is helpful so systematically applied as during the war and the armistice. if the falsehoods circulated and the true facts suppressed were to be collected and published in a volume, one would realize the depth to which the standard of intellectual and moral integrity was lowered.[ ] the censorship was retained by the great powers during the conference as a sort of soft cushion on which the self-constituted dispensers of fate comfortably reposed. in paris, where it was particularly severe and unreasoning, it protected the secret conclave from the harsh strictures of the outside world, concealing from the public, not only the incongruities of the conference, but also many of the warnings of contemporary history. in the opinion of unbiased frenchmen no such rigorous, systematic, and short-sighted repression of press liberty had been known since the third empire as was kept up under the rule of the great tribune whose public career had been one continuous campaign against every form of coercion. this twofold policy of secrecy on the part of the delegates and censorship on the part of the authorities proved incongruous as well as dangerous, for, upheld by the eminent statesmen who had laid down as part of the new gospel the principle of "open covenants openly arrived at," it furnished the world with a fairly correct standard by which to interpret the entire phraseology of the latter-day reformers. events showed that only by applying that criterion could the worth of their statements of fact and their promises of amelioration be gaged. and it soon became clear that most of their utterances like that about open covenants were to be construed according to the maxim of _lucus a non lucendo_. it was characteristic of the system that two american citizens were employed to read the cablegrams arriving from the united states to french newspapers. the object was the suppression of such messages as tended to throw doubt on the useful belief that the people of the great american republic were solid behind their president, ready to approve his decisions and acts, and that his cherished covenant, sure of ratification, would serve as a safe guarantee to all the states which the application of his various principles might leave strategically exposed. in this way many interesting items of intelligence from the united states were kept out of the newspapers, while others were mutilated and almost all were delayed. protests were unavailing. nor was it until several months were gone by that the french public became aware of the existence of a strong current of american opinion which favored a critical attitude toward mr. wilson's policy and justified misgivings as to the finality of his decisions. it was a sorry expedient and an unsuccessful one. on another occasion strenuous efforts are reported to have been made through the intermediary of president wilson to delay the publication in the united states of a cablegram to a journal there until the prime minister of britain should deliver a speech in the house of commons. an accident balked these exertions and the message appeared. publicity was none the less strongly advocated by the plenipotentiaries in their speeches and writings. these were as sign-posts pointing to roads along which they themselves were incapable of moving. by their own accounts they were inveterate enemies of secrecy and censorship. the president of the united states had publicly said that he "could not conceive of anything more hurtful than the creation of a system of censorship that would deprive the people of a free republic such as ours of their undeniable right to criticize public officials." m. clemenceau, who suffered more than most publicists from systematic repression, had changed the name of his newspaper from the _l'homme libre_ to _l'homme enchaîné_, and had passed a severe judgment on "those friends of liberty" (the government) who tempered freedom with preventive repression measured out according to the mood uppermost at the moment.[ ] but as soon as he himself became head of the government he changed his tactics and called his journal _l'homme libre_ again. in the chamber he announced that "publicity for the 'debates' of the conference was generally favored," but in practice he rendered the system of gagging the press a byword in europe. drawing his own line of demarcation between the permissible and the illicit, he informed the chamber that so long as the conference was engaged on its arduous work "it must not be said that the head of one government had put forward a proposal which was opposed by the head of another government."[ ] as though the disagreements, the bickerings, and the serious quarrels of the heads of the governments could long be concealed from the peoples whose spokesmen they were! that bargainings went on at the conference which a plain-dealing world ought to be apprised of is the conclusion which every unbiased outsider will draw from the singular expedients resorted to for the purpose of concealing them. before the foreign relations committee in washington, state-secretary lansing confessed that when, after the treaty had been signed, the french senate called for the minutes of the proceedings on the commission of the league of nations, president wilson telegraphed from washington to the peace commission requesting it to withhold them. he further admitted that the only written report of the discussions in existence was left in paris, outside the jurisdiction of the united states senate. when questioned as to whether, in view of this system of concealment, the president's promise of "open covenants openly arrived at" could be said to have been honestly redeemed, mr. lansing answered, "i consider that was carried out."[ ] it seems highly probable that in the same and only in the same sense will the treaty and the covenant be carried out in the spirit or the letter. during the fateful days of the conference preventive censorship was practised with a degree of rigor equaled only by its senselessness. as late as the month of june, the columns of the newspapers were checkered with blank spaces. "scarcely a newspaper in paris appears uncensored at present," one press organ wrote. "some papers protest, but protests are in vain."[ ] "practically not a word as to the nature of the peace terms that france regards as most vital to her existence appears in the french papers this morning," complained a journal at the time when even the germans were fully informed of what was being enacted. on one occasion _bonsoir_ was seized for expressing the view that the treaty embodied an anglo-saxon peace;[ ] on another for reproducing an interview with marshal foch that had already appeared in a widely circulated paris newspaper.[ ] by way of justifying another of these seizures the french censor alleged that an article in the paper was deemed uncomplimentary to mr. lloyd george. the editor replied in a letter to the british premier affirming that there was nothing in the article but what mr. lloyd george could and should be proud of. in fact, it only commended him "for having served the interests of his country most admirably and having had precedence given to them over all others." the letter concluded: "we are apprehensive that in the whole business there is but one thing truly uncomplimentary, and that is that the french censorship, for the purpose of strangling the french press, should employ your name, the name of him who abolished censorship many weeks ago."[ ] even when british journalists were dealing with matters as unlikely to cause trouble as a description of the historic proceedings at versailles at which the germans received the peace treaty, the censor held back their messages, from five o'clock in the afternoon till three the next morning.[ ] strange though it may seem, it was at first decided that no newspaper-men should be allowed to witness the formal handing of the treaty to the enemy delegates! for it was deemed advisable in the interests of the world that even that ceremonial should be secret.[ ] these singular methods were impressively illustrated and summarized in a cartoon representing mr. wilson as "the new wrestling champion," throwing down his adversary, the press, whose garb, composed of journals, was being scattered in scraps of paper to the floor, and under the picture was the legend: "it is forbidden to publish what marshal foch says. it is forbidden to publish what mr. george thinks. it is forbidden to publish the treaty of peace with germany. it is forbidden to publish what happened at ... and to make sure that nothing else will be published, the censor systematically delays the transmission of every telegram."[ ] in the chamber the government was adjured to suppress the institution of censorship once the treaty was signed by the germans, and ministers were reminded of the diatribes which they had pronounced against that institution in the years of their ambitions and strivings. in vain deputies described and deplored the process of demoralization that was being furthered by the methods of the government. "in the provinces as well as in the capital the journals that displease are seized, eavesdroppers listen to telephonic conversations, the secrets of private letters are violated. arrangements are made that certain telegrams shall arrive too late, and spies are delegated to the most private meetings. at a recent gathering of members of the national press, two spies were surprised, and another was discovered at the federation of the radical committees of the oise."[ ] but neither the signature of the treaty nor its ratification by germany occasioned the slightest modification in the system of restrictions. paris continued in a state of siege and the censors were the busiest bureaucrats in the capital. one undesirable result of this régime of keeping the public in the dark and indoctrinating it in the views always narrow, and sometimes mischievous, which the authorities desired it to hold, was that the absurdities which were allowed to appear with the hall-mark of censorship were often believed to emanate directly from the government. britons and americans versed in the books of the new testament were shocked or amused when told that the censor had allowed the following passage to appear in an eloquent speech delivered by the ex-premier, m. painlevé: "as hall caine, the great american poet, has put it, 'o death, where is thy sting? o grave, where is thy victory?'"[ ] every conceivable precaution was taken against the leakage of information respecting what was going on in the council of ten. notwithstanding this, the french papers contrived now and again, during the first couple of months, to publish scraps of news calculated to convey to the public a faint notion of the proceedings, until one day a nationalist organ boldly announced that the british premier had disagreed with the expert commission and with his own colleagues on the subject of dantzig and refused to give way. this paragraph irritated the british statesman, who made a scene at the next meeting of the council. "there is," he is reported to have exclaimed, "some one among us here who is unmindful of his obligations," and while uttering these and other much stronger words he eyed severely a certain mild individual who is said to have trembled all over during the philippic. he also launched out into a violent diatribe against various french journals which had criticized his views on poland and his method of carrying them in council, and he went so far as to threaten to have the conference transferred to a neutral country. in conclusion he demanded an investigation into the origin of the leakage of information and the adoption of severe disciplinary measures against the journalists who published the disclosures.[ ] thenceforward the council of ten was suspended and its place taken by a smaller and more secret conclave of five, four, or three, according as the state of the plenipotentiaries' health, the requirements of their home politics, or their relations among themselves caused one or two to quit paris temporarily. this measure insured relative secrecy, fostered rumors and gossip, and rendered criticism, whether helpful or captious, impossible. it also drove into outer darkness those allied states whose interests were described as limited, as though the interests of italy, whose delegate was nominally one of the privileged five, were not being treated as more limited still. but the point of this last criticism would be blunted if, as some french and italian observers alleged, the deliberate aim of the "representatives of the twelve million soldiers" was indeed to enable peace to be concluded and the world resettled congruously with the conceptions and in harmony with the interests of the anglo-saxon peoples. but the supposition is gratuitous. there was no such deliberate plan. after the establishment of the council of five, mr. lloyd george and mr. wilson made short work of the reports of the expert commissions whenever these put forward reasoned views differing from their own. in a word, they became the world's supreme and secret arbiters without ceasing to be the official champions of the freedom of the lesser states and of "open covenants openly arrived at." they constituted, so to say, the living synthesis of contradictories. the council of five then was a superlatively secret body. no secretaries were admitted to its gatherings and no official minutes of its proceedings were recorded. communications were never issued to the press. it resembled a gang of benevolent conspirators, whose debates and resolutions were swallowed up by darkness and mystery. even the most modest meeting of a provincial taxpayers' association keeps minutes of its discussions. the world parliament kept none. eschewing traditional usages, as became naïve shapers of the new world, and ignoring history, the five, four, or three shut themselves up in a room, talked informally and disconnectedly without a common principle, program, or method, and separated again without having reached a conclusion. it is said that when one put forth an idea, another would comment upon it, a third might demur, and that sometimes an appeal would be made to geography, history, or ethnography, and as the data were not immediately accessible either competent specialists were sent for or the conversation took another turn. they very naturally refused to allow these desultory proceedings to be put on record, the only concession which they granted to the curiosity of future generations being the fixation of their own physical features by photography and painting. when the sitting was over, therefore, no one could be held to aught that he had said; there was nothing to bind any of the individual delegates to the views he had expressed, nor was there anything to mark the line to which the council as a whole had advanced. each one was free to dictate to his secretary his recollections of what had gone on, but as these _précis_ were given from memory they necessarily differed one from the other on various important points. on the following morning, or a few days later, the world's workers would meet again, and either begin at the beginning, traveling over the same familiar field, or else break fresh ground. in this way in one day they are said to have skimmed the problems of spitzbergen, morocco, dantzig, and the feeding of the enemy populations, leaving each problem where they had found it. the moment the discussion of a contentious question approached a climax, the specter of disagreement deterred them from pursuing it to a conclusion, and they passed on quickly to some other question. and when, after months had been spent in these penelopean labors, definite decisions respecting the peace had to be taken lest the impatient people should rise up and wrest matters into their own hands, the delegates referred the various problems which they had been unable to solve to the wisdom and tact of the future league of nations. when misunderstandings arose as to what had been said or done it was the official translator, m. paul mantoux--one of the most brilliant representatives of jewry at the conference--who was wont to decide, his memory being reputed superlatively tenacious. in this way he attained the distinction of which his friends are justly proud, of being a living record--indeed, the sole available record--of what went on at the historic council. he was the recipient and is now the only repository of all the secrets of which the plenipotentiaries were so jealous, lest, being a kind of knowledge which is in verity power, it should be used one day for some dubious purpose. but m. mantoux enjoyed the esteem and confidence not only of mr. wilson, but also of the british prime minister, who, it was generally believed, drew from his entertaining narratives and shrewd appreciations whatever information he possessed about french politics and politicians. it was currently affirmed that, being a man of method and foresight, m. mantoux committed everything to writing for his own behoof. doubts, however, were entertained and publicly expressed as to whether affairs of this magnitude, involving the destinies of the world, should have been handled in such secret and unbusiness-like fashion. but on the supposition that the general outcome, if not the preconceived aim, of the policy of the anglo-saxon plenipotentiaries was to confer the beneficent hegemony of the world upon its peoples, there could, it was argued, be no real danger in the procedure followed. for, united, those nations have nothing to fear. although the translations were done rapidly, elegantly, and lucidly, allegations were made that they lost somewhat by undue compression and even by the process of toning down, of which the praiseworthy object was to spare delicate susceptibilities. for a limited number of delicate susceptibilities were treated considerately by the conference. a defective rendering made a curious impression on the hearers once, when a delegate said: "my country, unfortunately, is situated in the midst of states which are anything but peace-loving--in fact, the chief danger to the peace of europe emanates from them." m. mantoux's translation ran, "the country represented by m. x. unhappily presents the greatest danger to the peace of europe." on several occasions passages of the discourses of the plenipotentiaries underwent a certain transformation in the well-informed brain of m. mantoux before being done into another language. they were plunged, so to say, in the stream of history before their exposure to the light of day. this was especially the case with the remarks of the english-speaking delegates, some of whom were wont to make extensive use of the license taken by their great national poet in matters of geography and history. one of them, for example, when alluding to the ex-emperor franz josef and his successor, said: "it would be unjust to visit the sins of the father on the head of his innocent son. charles i should not be made to suffer for franz josef." m. mantoux rendered the sentence, "it would be unjust to visit the sins of the uncle on the innocent nephew," and m. clemenceau, with a merry twinkle in his eye, remarked to the ready interpreter, "you will lose your job if you go on making these wrong translations." but those details are interesting, if at all, only as means of eking out a mere sketch which can never become a complete and faithful picture. it was the desire of the eminent lawgivers that the source of the most beneficent reforms chronicled in history should be as well hidden as those of the greatest boon bestowed by providence upon man. and their motives appear to have been sound enough. the pains thus taken to create a haze between themselves and the peoples whose implicit confidence they were continuously craving constitute one of the most striking ethico-psychological phenomena of the conference. they demanded unreasoning faith as well as blind obedience. any statement, however startling, was expected to carry conviction once it bore the official hall-mark. take, for example, the demand made by the supreme four to bela kuhn to desist from his offensive against the slovaks. the press expressed surprise and disappointment that he, a bolshevist, should have been invited even hypothetically by the "deadly enemies of bolshevism" to delegate representatives to the paris conference from which the leaders of the russian constructive elements were excluded. thereupon the supreme four, which had taken the step in secret, had it denied categorically that such an invitation had been issued. the press was put up to state that, far from making such an undignified advance, the council had asserted its authority and peremptorily summoned the misdemeanant kuhn to withdraw his troops immediately from slovakia under heavy pains and penalties. subsequently, however, the official correspondence was published, when it was seen that the implicit invitation had really been issued and that the denial ran directly counter to fact. by this exposure the council of four, which still sued for the full confidence of their peoples, was somewhat embarrassed. this embarrassment was not allayed when what purported to be a correct explanation of their action was given out and privately circulated by a group which claimed to be initiated. it was summarized as follows: "the israelite, bela kuhn, who is leading hungary to destruction, has been heartened by the supreme council's indulgent message. people are at a loss to understand why, if the conference believes, as it has asserted, that bolshevism is the greatest scourge of latter-day humanity, it ordered the rumanian troops, when nearing budapest for the purpose of overthrowing it in that stronghold, first to halt, and then to withdraw.[ ] the clue to the mystery has at last been found in a secret arrangement between kuhn and a certain financial group concerning the banat. about this more will be said later. in one of my own cablegrams to the united states i wrote: "people are everywhere murmuring and whispering that beneath the surface of things powerful undercurrents are flowing which invisibly sway the policy of the secret council, and the public believes that this accounts for the sinister vacillation and delay of which it complains."[ ] in the fragmentary utterances of the governments and their press organs nobody placed the slightest confidence. their testimony was discredited in advance, on grounds which they were unable to weaken. the following example is at once amusing and instructive. the french parliamentary committee of the budget, having asked the government for communication of the section of the peace treaty dealing with finances, were told that their demand could not be entertained, every clause of the treaty being a state secret. the committee on foreign affairs made a like request, with the same results. the entire chamber next expressed a similar wish, which elicited a firm refusal. the french premier, it should be added, alleged a reason which was at least specious. "i should much like," he said, "to communicate to you the text you ask for, but i may not do so until it has been signed by the president of the republic. for such is the law as embodied in article of the constitution." now nobody believed that this was the true ground for his refusal. his explanation, however, was construed as a courteous conventionality, and as such was accepted. but once alleged, the fiction should have been respected, at any rate by its authors. it was not. a few weeks later the premier ordered the publication of the text of the treaty, although, in the meantime, it had not been signed by m. poincaré. "the excuse founded upon article was, therefore, a mere humbug," flippantly wrote an influential journal.[ ] an amusing joke, which tickled all paris was perpetrated shortly afterward. the editor of the _bonsoir_ imported six hundred copies of the forbidden treaty from switzerland, and sent them as a present to the deputies of the chamber, whereupon the parliamentary authorities posted up a notice informing all deputies who desired a copy to call at the questor's office, where they would receive it gratuitously as a present from the _bonsoir._ accordingly the deputies, including the speaker, deschanel, thronged to the questor's office. even solemn-faced ministers received a copy of the thick volume which i possessed ever since the day it was issued. another glaring instance of the lack of straightforwardness which vitiated the dealings of the conference with the public turned upon the bullitt mission to russia. mr. wilson, who in the depths of his heart seems to have cherished a vague fondness for the bolshevists there, which he sometimes manifested in utterances that startled the foreigners to whom they were addressed, despatched through colonel house some fellow-countrymen of his to moscow to ask for peace proposals which, according to the moscow government, were drafted by himself and messrs. house and lansing. mr. bullitt, however, who must know, affirms that the draft was written by mr. lloyd george's secretary, mr. philip kerr, and himself and presented to lenin by messrs. bullitt, steffins, and petit. if the terms of this document should prove acceptable the american envoys were empowered to promise that an official invitation to a new peace conference would be sent to them as well as to their opponents by april th. the conditions--eleven in number--with a few slight modifications in which the americans acquiesced--were accepted by the dictator, who was bound, however, not to permit their publication. the facts remained secret until mr. bullitt, thrown over by mr. wilson, who recoiled from taking the final and decisive step, resigned, and in a letter reproduced by the press set forth the reasons for his decision.[ ] now, vague reports that there was such a mission had found its way into the paris newspapers at a relatively early date. but an authoritative denial was published without delay. the statement, the public was assured, was without foundation. and the public believed the assurance, for it was confirmed authoritatively in england. sir samuel hoare, in the house of commons, asked for information about a report that "two americans have recently returned from russia bringing offers of peace from lenin," and received from mr. bonar law this noteworthy reply: "i have said already that there is not the shadow of foundation for this information, otherwise i would have known it. moreover, i have communicated with mr. lloyd george in paris, who also declares that he knows nothing about the matter."[ ] _e pur si muove_. mr. lloyd george knew nothing about president wilson's determination to have the covenant inserted in the peace treaty, even after the announcement was published to the world by the havas agency, and the confirmation given to pressmen by lord robert cecil. the system of reticence and concealment, coupled with the indifference of this or that delegation to questions in which it happened to take no special interest, led to these unseemly air-tight compartments. from this rank soil of secrecy, repression, and unveracity sprang noxious weeds. false reports and mendacious insinuations were launched, spread, and credited, impairing such prestige as the conference still enjoyed, while the fragmentary announcements ventured on now and again by the delegates, in sheer self-defense, were summarily dismissed as "eye-wash" for the public. for a time the disharmony between words and deeds passed unnoticed by the bulk of the masses, who were edified by the one and unacquainted with the other. but gradually the lack of consistency in policy and of manly straightforwardness and moral wholeness in method became apparent to all and produced untoward consequences. mr. wilson, whose authority and influence were supposed to be paramount, came in for the lion's share of criticism, except in the polish policy of the conference, which was traced to mr. lloyd george and his unofficial prompters. the american press was the most censorious of all. one american journal appearing in paris gave utterance to the following comments on the president's rôle:[ ] president wilson is conscious of his power of persuasion. that power enables him to say one thing, do another, describe the act as conforming to the idea, and, with act and idea in exact contradiction to each other, convince the people, not only that he has been consistent throughout, but that his act cannot be altered without peril to the nation and danger to the world. we do not know which mr. wilson to follow--the mr. wilson who says he will not do a thing or the mr. wilson who does that precise thing. a great many americans have one fixed idea. that idea is that the president is the only magnanimous, clear-visioned, broad-minded statesman in the united states, or the entire world, for that matter. when he uses his powers of persuasion americans become as the children of hamelin town. inasmuch as mr. wilson of the word and mr. wilson of the deed seem at times to be two distinct identities, some of his most enthusiastic supporters for the league of nations, being unfortunately gifted with memory and perception, are fairly standing on their heads in dismay. and yet mr. wilson himself was a victim of the policy of reticence and concealment to which the great powers were incurably addicted. at the time when they were moving heaven and earth to induce him to break with germany and enter the war, they withheld from him the existence of their secret treaties. possibly it may not be thought fair to apply the test of ethical fastidiousness to their method of bringing the united states to their side and to their unwillingness to run the risk of alienating the president. but it appears that until the close of hostility the secret was kept inviolate, nor was it until mr. wilson reached the shores of europe for the purpose of executing his project that he was faced with the huge obstacles to his scheme arising out of those far-reaching commitments. with this depressing revelation and the british _non possumus_ to his demand for the freedom of the seas, mr. wilson's practical difficulties began. it was probably on that occasion that he resolved, seeing that he could not obtain everything he wanted, to content himself with the best he could get. and that was not a society of peoples, but a rough approximation to the hegemony of the anglo-saxon nations. footnotes: [ ] the french minister of finances made this the cornerstone of his policy and declared that the indemnity to be paid by the vanquished teutons would enable him to set the finances of france on a permanently sound basis. in view of this expectation new taxation was eschewed. [ ] a selection of the untruths published in the french press during the war has been reproduced by the paris journal, _bonsoir_. it contains abundant pabulum for the cynic and valuable data for the psychologist. the example might be followed in great britain. the title is: "anthologie du bourrage de crâne." it began in the month of july, . [ ] cf. _the new york herald_ (paris edition), june , . [ ] cf. _the daily mail_ (paris edition), january , . [ ] cf. _the chicago tribune_, august , . [ ] cf. _the new york herald_ (paris edition), june , . [ ] cf. _bonsoir_, june , . [ ] on april th. [ ] _bonsoir_, june , . [ ] _the new york herald_, may . . [ ] _the new york herald_ (paris edition), may , . [ ] _the new york herald_, june , . [ ] cf. _le matin_, july , . the chief speakers alluded to were mm. renaudel, deshayes, lafont, paul meunier, vandame. [ ] _the new york herald_ (paris edition), april , . [ ] quoted in the paris _temps_ of march , . [ ] this explanation deals exclusively with the first advance of the rumanian army into hungary. [ ] cabled to _the public ledger_ of philadelphia, april , . [ ] _bonsoir_, june , . [ ] cf. _the daily news_, july , . _l'humanité_, july , . [ ] cf. _the new york herald_ (paris edition), april , . [ ] _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), july , . v aims and methods the policy of the anglo-saxon plenipotentiaries was never put into words. for that reason it has to be judged by their acts, despite the circumstance that these were determined by motives which varied greatly at different times, and so far as one can conjecture were not often practical corollaries of fundamental principles. from these acts one may draw a few conclusions which will enable us to reconstruct such policy as there was. one is that none of the sacrifices imposed upon the members of the league of nations was obligatory on the anglo-saxon peoples. these were beyond the reach of all the new canons which might clash with their interests or run counter to their aspirations. they were the givers and administrators of the saving law rather than its observers. consequently they were free to hold all that was theirs, however doubtful their title; nay, they were besought to accept a good deal more under the mandatory system, which was molded on their own methods of governance. it was especially taken for granted that the architects would be called to contribute naught to the new structure but their ideas, and that they need renounce none of their possessions, however shady its origin, however galling to the population its retention. it was in deference to this implicit doctrine that president wilson withdrew without protest or discussion his demand for the freedom of the seas, on which he had been wont to lay such stress. another way of putting the matter is this. the principal aim of the conference was to create conditions favorable to the progress of civilization on new lines. and the seed-bearers of true, as distinguished from spurious, civilization and culture being the anglo-saxons, it is the realization of their broad conceptions, the furtherance of their beneficent strivings, that are most conducive to that ulterior aim. the men of this race in the widest sense of the term are, therefore, so to say, independent ends in themselves, whereas the other peoples are to be utilized as means. hence the difference of treatment meted out to the two categories. in the latter were implicitly included italy and russia. unquestionably the influence of anglo-saxondom is eminently beneficial. it tends to bring the rights and the dignity as well as the duties of humanity into broad day. the farther it extends by natural growth, therefore, the better for the human race. the anglo-saxon mode of administering colonies, for instance, is exemplary, and for this reason was deemed worthy to receive the hall-mark of the conference as one of the institutions of the future league. but even benefits may be transformed into evils if imposed by force. that, in brief, would seem to be the clue--one can hardly speak of any systematic conception--to the unordered improvisations and incongruous decisions of the conference. i am not now concerned to discuss whether this unformulated maxim, which had strong roots that may not always have reached the realm of consciousness, calls for approval as an instrument of ethico-political progress or connotes an impoverishment of the aims originally propounded by mr. wilson. excellent reasons may be assigned why the two english-speaking statesmen proceeded without deliberation on these lines and no other. the matter might have been raised to a higher plane, but for that the delegates were not prepared. all that one need retain at present is the orientation of the supreme council, inasmuch as it imparts a sort of relative unity to seemingly heterogeneous acts. thus, although the conditions of the peace treaty in many respects ran directly counter to the provisions of the covenant, none the less the ultimate tendency of both was to converge in a distant point, which, when clearly discerned, will turn out to be the moral guidance of the world by anglo-saxondom as represented at any rate in the incipient stage by both its branches. thus the discussions among the members of the conference were in last analysis not contests about mere abstractions. beneath the high-sounding principles and far-resonant reforms which were propounded but not realized lurked concrete racial strivings which a patriotic temper and robust faith might easily identify with the highest interests of humanity. when the future historian defines, as he probably will, the main result of the conference's labors as a tendency to place the spiritual and political direction of the world in the hands of the anglo-saxon race, it is essential to a correct view of things that he should not regard this trend as the outcome of a deliberate concerted policy. it was anything but this. nobody who conversed with the statesmen before and during the conference could detect any sure tokens of such ultimate aims, nor, indeed, of a thorough understanding of the lesser problems to be settled. circumstance led, and the statesmen followed. the historian may term the process drift, and the humanitarian regret that such momentous issues should ever have been submitted to a body of uninformed politicians out of touch with the people for whose behoof they claimed to be legislating. to liquidate the war should have been the first, as it was the most urgent, task. but it was complicated, adjourned, and finally botched by interweaving it with a mutilated scheme for the complete readjustment of the politico-social forces of the planet. the result was a tangled skein of problems, most of them still unsolved, and some insoluble by governments alone. out of the confusion of clashing forces towered aloft the two dominant powers who command the economic resources of the world, and whose democratic institutions and internal ordering are unquestionably more conducive to the large humanitarian end than those of any other, and gradually their overlordship of the world began to assert itself. but this tendency was not the outcome of deliberate endeavor. each representative of those vast states was solicitous in the first place about the future of his own country, and then about the regeneration of the human race. one would like to be able to add that all were wholly inaccessible to the promptings of party interests and personal ambitions. planlessness naturally characterized the exertions of the anglo-saxon delegates from start to finish. it is a racial trait. their hosts, who were experts in the traditions of diplomacy, had before the opening of the conference prepared a plan for their behoof, which at the lowest estimate would have connoted a vast improvement on their own desultory way of proceeding. the french proposed to distribute all the preparatory work among eighteen commissions, leaving to the chief plenipotentiaries the requisite time to arrange preliminaries and become acquainted with the essential elements of the problems. but messrs. wilson and lloyd george are said to have preferred their informal conversations, involving the loss of three and a half months, during which no results were reached in paris, while turmoil, bloodshed, and hunger fed the smoldering fires of discontent throughout the world. the british premier, like his french colleague, was solicitous chiefly about making peace with the enemy and redeeming as far as possible his election pledges to his supporters. to that end everything else would appear to have been subordinated. to the ambitious project of a world reform he and m. clemenceau gave what was currently construed as a nominal assent, but for a long time they had no inkling of mr. wilson's intention to interweave the peace conditions with the covenant. so far, indeed, were they both from entertaining the notion that the two premiers expressly denied--and allowed their denial to be circulated in the press--that the two documents were or could be made mutually interdependent. m. pichon assured a group of journalists that no such intention was harbored.[ ] mr. lloyd george is understood to have gone farther and to have asked what degree of relevancy a covenant for the members of the league could be supposed to possess to a treaty concluded with a nation which for the time being was denied admission to that sodality. and as we saw, he was incurious enough not to read the narrative of what had been done by his own american colleagues even after the havas agency announced it. to president wilson, on the other hand, the league was the _magnum opus_ of his life. it was to be the crown of his political career, to mark the attainment of an end toward which all that was best in the human race had for centuries been consciously or unconsciously wending without moving perceptibly nearer. instinctively he must have felt that the laodicean support given to him by his colleagues would not carry him much farther and that their fervor would speedily evaporate once the conference broke up and their own special aims were definitely achieved or missed. with the shrewdness of an experienced politician he grasped the fact that if he was ever to present his covenant to the world clothed with the authority of the mightiest states, now was his opportunity. after the conference it would be too late. and the only contrivance by which he could surely reckon on success was to insert the covenant in the peace treaty and set before his colleagues an irresistible incentive for elaborating both at the same time. he had an additional motive for these tactics in the attitude of a section of his own countrymen. before starting for paris he had, as we saw, made an appeal to the electorate to return to the legislature only candidates of his own party to the exclusion of republicans, and the result fell out contrary to his expectations. thereupon the oppositional elements increased in numbers and displayed a marked combative disposition. even moderate republicans complained in terms akin to those employed by ex-president taft of mr. wilson's "partizan exclusion of republicans in dealing with the highly important matter of settling the results of the war. he solicited a commission in which the republicans had no representation and in which there were no prominent americans of any real experience and leadership of public opinion."[ ] the leaders of this opposition sharply watched the policy of the president at the conference and made no secret of their resolve to utilize any serious slip as a handle for revising or rejecting the outcome of his labors. seeing his cherished cause thus trembling in the scale, mr. wilson hit upon the expedient of linking the covenant with the peace treaty and making of the two an inseparable whole. he announced this determination in a forcible speech[ ] to his own countrymen, in which he said, "when the treaty comes back, gentlemen on this side will find the covenant not only in it, but so many threads of the treaty tied to the covenant that you cannot dissect the covenant from the treaty without destroying the whole vital structure." this scheme was denounced by mr. wilson's opponents as a trick, but the historian will remember it as a maneuver, which, however blameless or meritorious its motive, was fraught with lamentable consequences for all the peoples for whose interests the president was sincerely solicitous. to take but one example. the misgivings generated by the covenant delayed the ratification of the peace treaty by the united states senate, in consequence of which the turkish problem had to be postponed until the washington government was authorized to accept or compelled to refuse a mandate for the sultan's dominions, and in the meanwhile mass massacres of greeks and armenians were organized anew. a large section of the press and the majority of the delegates strongly condemned the interpolation of the covenant. what they demanded was first the conclusion of a solid peace and then the establishment of suitable international safeguards. for to be safeguarded, peace must first exist. "a suit of armor without the warrior inside is but a useless ornament," wrote one of the american journals.[ ] but the course advocated by mr. wilson was open to another direct and telling objection. peace between the belligerent adversaries was, in the circumstances, conceivable only on the old lines of strategic frontiers and military guaranties. the supreme council implied as much in its official reply to the criticisms offered by the austrians to the conditions imposed on them, making the admission that italy's new northern frontiers were determined by considerations of strategy. the plan for the governance of the world by a league of pacific peoples, on the other hand, postulated the abolition of war preparations, including strategic frontiers. consequently the more satisfactory the treaty the more unfavorable would be the outlook for the moral reconstitution of the family of nations, and _vice versa_. and to interlace the two would be to necessitate a compromise which would necessarily mar both. in effect the split among the delegates respecting their aims and interests led to a tacit understanding among the leaders on the basis of give-and-take, the french and british acquiescing in mr. wilson's measures for working out his covenant--the draft of which was contributed by the british--and the president, giving way to them on matters said to affect their countries' vital interests. how smoothly this method worked when great issues were not at stake may be inferred from the perfunctory way in which it was decided that the kaiser's trial should take place in london. a few days before the treaty was signed there was a pause in the proceedings of the supreme council during which the secretary was searching for a mislaid document. mr. lloyd george, looking up casually and without addressing any one in particular, remarked, "i suppose none of you has any objection to the kaiser being tried in london?" m. clemenceau shrugged his shoulders, mr. wilson raised his hand, and the matter was assumed to be settled. nothing more was said or written on the subject. but when the news was announced, after the president's departure from france, it took the other american delegates by surprise and they disclaimed all knowledge of any such decision. on inquiry, however, they learned that the venue had in truth been fixed in this offhand way.[ ] mr. wilson found it a hard task at first to obtain acceptance for his ill-defined tenets by france, who declined to accept the protection of his league of nations in lieu of strategic frontiers and military guaranties. insurmountable obstacles barred his way. the french government and people, while moved by decent respect for their american benefactors[ ] to assent to the establishment of a league, flatly refused to trust themselves to its protection against teuton aggression. but they were quite prepared to second mr. wilson's endeavors to oblige some of the other states to content themselves with the guaranties it offered, only, however, on condition that their own country was first safeguarded in the traditional way. territorial equilibrium and military protection were the imperative provisos on which they insisted. and as france was specially favored by mr. wilson on sentimental grounds which outweighed his doctrine, and as she was also considered indispensable to the anglo-saxon peoples as their continental executive, she had no difficulty in securing their support. on this point, too, therefore, the president found himself constrained to give way. and only did he abandon his humanitarian intentions and his strongest arguments to be lightly brushed aside, he actually recoiled so far into the camp of his opponents that he gave his approval to an indefensible clause in the treaty which would have handed over to france the german population of the saar as the equivalent of a certain sum in gold. coming from the world-reformer who, a short time before, had hurled the thunderbolts of his oratory against those who would barter human beings as chattels, this amazing compromise connoted a strange falling off. incidentally it was destructive of all faith in the spirit that had actuated his world-crusade. it also went far to convince unbiased observers that the only framework of ideas with decisive reference to which mr. wilson considered every project and every objection as it arose, was that which centered round his own goal--the establishment, if not of a league of nations cemented by brotherhood and fellowship, at least of the nearest approach to that which he could secure, even though it fell far short of the original design. these were the first-fruits of the interweaving of the covenant with the treaty. in view of this readiness to split differences and sacrifice principles to expediency it became impossible even to the least observant of mr. wilson's adherents in the old world to cling any longer to the belief that his cosmic policy was inspired by firm intellectual attachment to the sublime ideas of which he had made himself the eloquent exponent and had been expected to make himself the uncompromising champion. in every such surrender to the great powers, as in every stern enforcement of his principles on the lesser states, the same practical spirit of the professional politician visibly asserted itself. one can hardly acquit him of having lacked the moral courage to disregard the veto of interested statesmen and governments and to appeal directly to the peoples when the consequence of this attitude would have been the sacrifice of the makeshift of a covenant which he was ultimately content to accept as a substitute for the complete reinstatement of nations in their rights and dignity. the general tendency of the labors of the conference then was shaped by those two practical maxims, the immunity of the anglo-saxon peoples and of their french ally from the restrictions to be imposed by the new politico-social ordering in so far as these ran counter to their national interests, and the determination of the american president to get and accept such a league of nations as was feasible under extremely inauspicious conditions and to content himself with that. to this estimate exception may be taken on the ground that it underrates an effort which, however insufficient, was well meant and did at any rate point the way to a just resettlement of secular problems which the war had made pressing and that it fails to take account of the formidable obstacles encountered. the answer is, that like efforts had proceeded more than once before from rulers of men whose will, seeing that they were credited with possessing the requisite power, was assumed to be adequate to the accomplishment of their aim, and that they had led to nothing. the two tsars, alexander i at the congress of vienna, and nicholas ii at the first conference of the hague, are instructive instances. they also, like mr. wilson, it is assumed, would fain have inaugurated a golden age of international right and moral fellowship if verbal exhortations and arguments could have done it. the only kind of fresh attempt, which after the failure of those two experiments could fairly lay claim to universal sympathy, was one which should withdraw the proposed politico-social rearrangement from the domain alike of rhetoric and of empiricism and substitute a thorough systematic reform covering all the aspects of international intercourse, including all the civilized peoples on the globe, harmonizing the vital interests of these and setting up adequate machinery to deal with the needs of this enlarged and unified state system. and it would be fruitless to seek for this in mr. wilson's handiwork. indeed, it is hardly too much to affirm that empiricism and opportunism were among the principal characteristics of his policy in paris, and that the outcome was what it must be. disputes and delays being inevitable, the conference began its work at leisure and was forced to terminate it in hot haste. having spent months chaffering, making compromises, and unmaking them again while the peoples of the world were kept in painful suspense, all of them condemned to incur ruinous expenditure and some to wage sanguinary wars, the springs of industrial and commercial activity being kept sealed, the delegates, menaced by outbreaks, revolts, and mutinies, began, after months had been wasted, to speed up and get through their work without adequate deliberation. they imagined that they could make up for the errors of hesitancy and ignorance by moments of lightning-like improvisation. improvisation and haphazard conclusions were among their chronic failings. even in the early days of the conference they had promulgated decisions, the import and bearings of which they missed, and when possible they canceled them again. sometimes, however, the error committed was irreparable. the fate reserved for austria was a case in point. by some curious process of reasoning it was found to be not incompatible with the wilsonian doctrine that german-austria should be forbidden to throw in her lot with the german republic, this prohibition being in the interest of france, who could not brook a powerful united teuton state. the wishes of the austrian-germans and the principle of self-determination accordingly went for nothing. the representations of italy, who pleaded for that principle, were likewise brushed aside. but what the delegates appear to have overlooked was the decisive circumstance that they had already "on strategic grounds" assigned the brenner line to italy and together with it two hundred and twenty thousand tyrolese of german race living in a compact mass--although a much smaller alien element was deemed a bar to annexation in the case of poland. and what was more to the point, this allotment deprived tyrol of an independent economic existence, cutting it off from the southern valley and making it tributary to bavaria. mr. wilson, the public was credibly informed, "took this grave decision without having gone deeply into the matter, and he repents it bitterly. none the less, he can no longer go back."[ ] just as tyrol's loss of botzen and meran made it dependent on bavaria, so the severance of vienna from southern moravia--- the source of its cereal supplies, situated at a distance of only thirty-six miles--transformed the austrian capital into a head without a body. but on the eminent anatomists who were to perform a variety of unprecedented operations on other states, this spectacle had no deterrent effect. whenever a topic came up for discussion which could not be solved offhand, it was referred to a commission, and in many cases the commission was assisted by a mission which proceeded to the country concerned and within a few weeks returned with data which were assumed to supply materials enough for a decision, even though most of its members were unacquainted with the language of the people whose condition they had been studying. how quick of apprehension these envoys were supposed to be may be inferred from the task with which the american mission under general harbord was charged, and the space of time accorded him for achieving it. the members of this mission started from brest in the last decade of august for the caucasus, making a stay at constantinople on the way, and were due back in paris early in october. during the few intervening weeks "the mission," general harbord said, "will go into every phase of the situation, political, racial, economic, financial, and commercial. i shall also investigate highways, harbors, agricultural and mining conditions, the question of raising an armenian army, policing problems, and the raw materials of armenia."[ ] only specialists who have some practical acquaintanceship with the caucasus, its conditions, peoples, languages, and problems, can appreciate the herculean effort needed to tackle intelligently any one of the many subjects all of which this improvised commission under a military general undertook to master in four weeks. never was a chaotic world set right and reformed at such a bewildering pace. bad blood was caused by the distribution of places on the various commissions. the delegates of the lesser nations, deeming themselves badly treated, protested vehemently, and for a time passion ran high. squabbles of this nature, intensified by fierce discussions within the council, tidings of which reached the ears of the public outside, disheartened those who were anxious for the speedy restoration of normal conditions in a world that was fast decomposing. but the optimism of the three principal plenipotentiaries was beyond the reach of the most depressing stumbles and reverses. their buoyant temper may be gaged from mr. balfour's words, reported in the press: "it is true that there is a good deal of discussion going on, but there is no real discord about ideas or facts. we are agreed on the principal questions and there only remains to find the words that embody the agreements."[ ] these tidings were welcomed at the time, because whatever defects were ascribed to the distinguished statesmen of the conference by faultfinders, a lack of words was assuredly not among them. this cheery outlook on the future reminded me of the better grounded composure of pope pius ix during the stormy proceedings at the vatican council. a layman, having expressed his disquietude at the unruly behavior of the prelates, the pontiff replied that it had ever been thus at ecclesiastical councils. "at the outset," he went on to explain, "the members behave as men, wrangle and quarrel, and nothing that they say or do is worth much. that is the first act. the second is ushered in by the devil, who intensifies the disorder and muddles things bewilderingly. but happily there is always a third act in which the holy ghost descends and arranges everything for the best." the first two phases of the conference's proceedings bore a strong resemblance to the pope's description, but as, unlike ecclesiastical councils, it had no claim to infallibility, and therefore no third act, the consequences to the world were deplorable. the supreme council never knew how to deal with an emergency and every week unexpected incidents in the world outside were calling for prompt action. frequently it contradicted itself within the span of a few days, and sometimes at one and the same time its principal representatives found themselves in complete opposition to one another. to give but one example: in april m. clemenceau was asked whether he approved the project of relieving famine-stricken russia. his answer was affirmative, and he signed the document authorizing it. his colleagues, messrs. wilson, lloyd george, and orlando, followed suit, and the matter seemed to be settled definitely. but at the same time mr. hoover, who had been the ardent advocate of the plan, officially received a letter from the french minister of foreign affairs signifying the refusal of the french government to acquiesce in it.[ ] on another occasion[ ] the supreme council thought fit to despatch a mission to asia minor in order to ascertain the views of the populations of syria and mesopotamia on the régime best suited to them. france, whose secular relations with syria, where she maintains admirable educational establishments, are said to have endeared her to the population, objected to this expedient as superfluous and mischievous. superfluous because the francophil sentiments of the people are supposed to be beyond all doubt, and mischievous because plebiscites or substitutes for plebiscites could have only a bolshevizing effect on orientals. seemingly yielding to these considerations, the supreme council abandoned the scheme and the members of the mission made other plans.[ ] after several weeks' further reflection, however, the original idea was carried out, and the mission visited the east. the reader may be glad of a momentary glimpse of the interior of the historic assembly afforded by those who were privileged to play a part in it before it was transformed into a secret conclave of five, four, or three. within the doors of the chambers whence fateful decrees were issued to the four corners of the earth the delegates were seated, mostly according to their native languages, within earshot of the special pleaders. m. clemenceau, at the head of the table, has before him a delegate charged with conducting the case, say, of greece, poland, serbia, or czechslovakia. the delegate, standing in front of the stern but mobile premier, and encircled by other more or less attentive plenipotentiaries, looks like a nervous schoolboy appearing before exacting examiners, struggling with difficult questions and eager to answer them satisfactorily. suppose the first language spoken is french. as many of the plenipotentiaries do not understand it, they cannot be blamed for relaxing attention while it is being employed, and keeping up a desultory conversation among themselves in idiomatic english, which forms a running bass accompaniment to the voice, often finely modulated, of the orator. owing to this embarrassing language difficulty, as soon as a delegate pauses to take his breath, his arguments and appeals are done by m. mantoux into english, and then it is the turn of the french plenipotentiaries to indulge in a quiet chat until some question is put in english, which has forthwith to be rendered into french, after which the french reply is translated into english, and so on unendingly, each group resuming its interrupted conversations alternately. one delegate who passed several hours undergoing this ordeal said that he felt wholly out of sympathy with the atmosphere at the conference hall, adding: "while arguing or appealing to my country's arbiters i felt i was addressing only a minority of the distinguished judges, while the thoughts of the others were far away. and when the interpreter was rendering, quickly, mechanically, and summarily, my ideas without any of the explosive passion that shot them from my heart, i felt discouraged. but suddenly it dawned on me that no judgment would be uttered on the strength of anything that i had said or left unsaid. i remembered that everything would be referred to a commission, and from that to a sub-commission, then back again to the distinguished plenipotentiaries," another delegate remarked: "many years have elapsed since i passed my last examination, but it came back to me in all its vividness when i walked up to premier clemenceau and looked into his restless, flashing eyes. i said to myself: when last i was examined i was painfully conscious that my professors knew a lot more about the subject than i did, but now i am painfully aware that they know hardly anything at all and i am fervently desirous of teaching them. the task is arduous. it might, however, save time and labor if the delegates would receive our typewritten dissertations, read them quietly in their respective hotels, and endeavor to form a judgment on the data they supply. failing that, i should like at least to provide them with a criterion of truth, for after me will come an opponent who will flatly contradict me, and how can they sift truth from error when the winnow is wanting? it is hard to feel that one is in the presence of great satraps of destiny, but i made an act of faith in the possibilities of genial quantities lurking behind those everyday faces and of a sort of magic power of calling into being new relations of peace and fellowship between individual classes and peoples. it was an act of faith." if the members of the supreme council lacked the graces with which to draw their humbler colleagues and were incapable of according hospitality to any of the more or less revolutionary ideas floating in the air, they were also utterly powerless to enforce their behests in eastern europe against serious opposition. thus, although they kept considerable inter-allied forces in germany, they failed to impose their decrees there, notwithstanding the circumstance that germany was disorganized, nearly disarmed, and distracted by internal feuds. the conference gave way when germany refused to let the polish troops disembark at dantzig, although it had proclaimed its resolve to insist on their using that port. it allowed odessa to be evacuated and its inhabitants to be decimated by the bloodthirsty bolsheviki. it ordered the ukrainians and the poles to cease hostilities,[ ] but hostilities went on for months afterward. an american general was despatched to the warring peoples to put an end to the fighting, but he returned despondent, leaving things as he had found them. general smuts was sent to budapest to strike up an agreement with kuhn and the magyar bolshevists, but he, too, came back after a fruitless conversation. the supreme council's writ ran in none of those places. about march th the inter-allied commission gave erzberger twenty-four hours in which to ratify the convention between germany and poland and to carry out the conditions of the armistice. but erzberger declined to ratify it and the allies were unable or unwilling to impose their will on him. from this state of things the rumanian delegates drew the obvious corollary. exasperated by the treatment they received, they quitted the conference, pursued their own policy, occupied budapest, presented their own peace conditions to hungary, and relegated, with courteous phrases and a polite bow to the council, the directions elaborated for their guidance to the region of pious counsels. in these ways the well-meant and well-advertised endeavors to substitute a moral relationship of nations for the state of latent warfare known as the balance of power were steadily wasted. on the one side the subtle skill of old world diplomacy was toiling hard and successfully to revive under specious names its lost and failing causes, while on the other hand the new world policy, naïvely ignoring historical forces and secular prejudices, was boldly reaching out toward rough and ready modes of arranging things and taking no account of concrete circumstances. generous idealists were thus pitted against old diplomatic stagers and both secretly strove to conclude hastily driven bargains outside the council chamber with their opponents. as early as the first days of january i was present at some informal meetings where such transactions were being talked over, and i afterward gave it as my impression that "if things go forward as they are moving to-day the outcome will fall far short of reasonable expectations. the first striking difference between the transatlantic idealists and the old world politicians lies in their different ways of appreciating expeditiousness, on the one hand, and the bases of the european state-system, on the other hand. a statesman when dealing with urgent, especially revolutionary, emergencies should never take his eyes from the clock. the politicians in paris hardly ever take account of time or opportunity. the overseas reformers contend that the territorial and political balance of forces has utterly broken down and must be definitely scrapped in favor of a league of nations, and the diplomatists hold that the principle of equilibrium, far from having spent its force, still affords the only groundwork of international stability and requires to be further intensified."[ ] living in the very center of the busy world of destiny-weavers, who were generously, if unavailingly, devoting time and labor to the fabrication of machinery for the good government of the entire human race out of scanty and not wholly suitable materials, a historian in presence of the manifold conflicting forces at work would have found it difficult to survey them all and set the daily incidents and particular questions in correct perspective. the earnestness and good-will of the plenipotentiaries were highly praiseworthy and they themselves, as we saw, were most hopeful. nearly all the delegates were characterized by the spirit of compromise, so valuable in vulgar politics, but so perilous in embodying ideals. anxious to reach unanimous decisions even when unanimity was lacking, the principal statesmen boldly had recourse to ingenious formulas and provisional agreements, which each party might construe in its own way, and paid scant attention to what was going on outside. i wrote at the time:[ ] "but parallel with the conference and the daily lectures which its members are receiving on geography, ethnography, and history there are other councils at work, some publicly, others privately, which represent the vast masses who are in a greater hurry than the political world to have their urgent wants supplied. for they are the millions of europe's inhabitants who care little about strategic frontiers and much about life's necessaries which they find it increasingly difficult to obtain. only a visitor from a remote planet could fully realize the significance of the bewildering phenomena that meet one's gaze here every day without exciting wonder.... the sprightly people who form the rind of the politico-social world ... are wont to launch winged words and coin witty epigrams when characterizing what they irreverently term the efforts of the peace conference to square the circle; they contrast the noble intentions of the delegates with the grim realities of the workaday world, which appear to mock their praiseworthy exertions. they say that there never were so many wars as during the deliberations of these famous men of peace. hard fighting is going on in siberia; victories and defeats have just been reported from the caucasus; battles between bolshevists and peace-lovers are raging in esthonia; blood is flowing in streams in the ukraine; poles and czechs have only now signed an agreement to sheath swords until the conference announces its verdict; the poles and the germans, the poles and the ukrainians, the poles and the bolshevists, are still decimating each other's forces on territorial fragments of what was once russia, germany, or austria." sinister rumors were spread from time to time in paris, london, and elsewhere, which, wherever they were credited, tended to shake public confidence not only in the dealings of the supreme council with the smaller countries, but also in the nature of the occult influences that were believed to be occasionally causing its decisions to swerve from the orthodox direction. and these reports were believed by many even in conference circles. time and again i was visited by delegates complaining that this or that decision was or would be taken in response to the promptings not of land-grabbing governments, but of wealthy capitalists or enterprising captains of industry. "why do you suppose that there is so much talk now of an independent little state centering around klagenfurt?" one of them asked me. "i will tell you: for the sake of some avaricious capitalists. already arrangements are being pushed forward for the establishment of a bank of which most of the shares are to belong to x." another said: "dantzig is needed for politico-commercial reasons. therefore it will not be made part of poland.[ ] already conversations have begun with a view to giving the ownership of the wharves and various lucrative concessions to english-speaking pioneers of industry. if the city were polish no such liens could be held on it because the state would provide everything needful and exploit its resources." the part played in the banat republic by motives of a money-making character is described elsewhere. a friend and adviser of president wilson publicly affirmed that the fiume problem was twice on the point of being settled satisfactorily for all parties, when the representatives of commercial interests cleverly interposed their influence and prevented the scheme from going through in the conference. i met some individuals who had been sent on a secret mission to have certain subjects taken into consideration by the supreme council, and a man was introduced to me whose aim was to obtain through the conference a modification of financial legislation respecting the repayment of debts in a certain republic of south america. this optimist, however, returned as he had come and had nothing to show for his plans. the following significant passage appeared in a leading article in the principal american journal published in paris[ ] on the subject of the prinkipo project and the postponement of its execution: "from other sources it was learned that the doubts and delays in the matter are not due so much to the declination [_sic_] of several of the russian groups to participate in a conference with the bolshevists, but to the pulling against one another of the several interests represented by the allies. among the americans a certain very influential group backed by powerful financial interests which hold enormously rich oil, mining, railway, and timber concessions, obtained under the old régime, and which purposes obtaining further concessions, is strongly in favor of recognizing the bolshevists as a _de facto_ government. in consideration of the _visa_ of these old concessions by lenin and trotzky and the grant of new rights for the exploitation of rich mineral territory, they would be willing to finance the bolshevists to the tune of forty or fifty million dollars. and the bolshevists are surely in need of money. president wilson and his supporters, it is declared, are decidedly averse from this pretty scheme." that president wilson would naturally set his face against any such deliberate compromise between mammon and lofty ideals it was superfluous to affirm. he stood for a vast and beneficent reform and by exhorting the world to embody it in institutions awakened in some people--in the masses were already stirring--thoughts and feelings that might long have remained dormant. but beyond this he did not go. his tendencies, or, say, rather velleities--for they proved to be hardly more--were excellent, but he contrived no mechanism by which to convert them into institutions, and when pressed by gainsayers abandoned them. an economist of mark in france whose democratic principles are well known[ ] communicated to the french public the gist of certain curious documents in his possession. they let in an unpleasant light on some of the whippers-up of lucre at the expense of principle, who flocked around the dwelling-places of the great continent-carvers and lawgivers in paris. his article bears this repellent heading: "is it true that english and american financiers negotiated during the war in order to secure lucrative concessions from the bolsheviki? is it true that these concessions were granted to them on february , ? is it true that the allied governments played into their hands?"[ ] the facts alleged as warrants for these questions are briefly as follows: on february , , the soviet of the people's commissaries in moscow voted the bestowal of a concession for a railway linking ob-kotlass-saroka and kotlass-svanka, in a resolution which states "( ) that the project is feasible; ( ) that the transfer of the concession to representatives of foreign capital may be effected if production will be augmented thereby; ( ) that the execution of this scheme is indispensable; and ( ) that in order to accelerate this solution of the question the persons desirous of obtaining the concession shall be obliged to _produce proofs of their contact with allied_ and neutral enterprises, and of their capacity to financing the work and supply the materials requisite for the construction of the said line." on the other hand, it appears from an _official_ document bearing the date of june , , that a demand for the concession of this line was lodged by two individuals--the painter a.a. borissoff (who many years ago received from me a letter of introduction to president roosevelt asking him to patronize this gentleman's exhibition of paintings in the united states), and herr edvard hannevig. desirous of ascertaining whether these petitioners possessed the qualifications demanded, the bolshevist authorities made inquiries and received from the royal norwegian consulate at moscow a certificate[ ] setting forth that "citizen hannevig was a co-associate of the large banks hannevig situated in london and in america." consequently negotiations might go forward. the document adds: "in october borissoff and hannevig renewed their request, whereupon the journals _pravda_, _izevestia_, and _ekonomitsheskaya shizn_ discussed the subject with animation. at a sitting held on october th the project was approved with certain modifications, and on february , , the supreme soviet of national economy approved it anew." the magnitude of the concession may be inferred from the circumstance that one of its clauses conceded "_the exploitation of eight millions of forest land_ which even to-day, _despite existing conditions, can bring in a revenue of three hundred million rubles a year_." what it comes to, therefore, assuming that these official documents are as they seem, based on facts, is that from june th, that is to say during the war, the bolshevist government was petitioned to accord an important railway concession and also the exploitation of a forest capable of yielding three hundred million rubles a year to a russian citizen who alleged that he was acting on behalf of english and american capitalists, and that edvard hannevig, having proved that he was really the mandatory of these great allied financiers, the concession was first approved by two successive commissions[ ] and then definitely conferred by the soviet of the people's commissaries.[ ] the eminent author of the article proceeds to ask whether this can indeed be true; whether english and american capitalists petitioned the bolsheviki for vast concessions during the war; whether they obtained them while the conference was at its work and soldiers of their respective countries were fighting in russia against the bolsheviki who were bestowing them. "is it true," he makes bold to ask further, "that that is the explanation of the incredible friendliness displayed by the allied governments toward the bolshevist bandits with whom they were willing to strike up a compromise, whom they were minded to recognize by organizing a conference on the princes' island?... many times already rank-smelling whiffs of air have blown upon us; they suggested the belief that behind the peace conference there lurked not merely what people feared, but something still worse or an immense political panama. if this is not true, gentlemen, deny it. otherwise one day you will surely have an explosion."[ ] whether these grave innuendoes, together with the statement made by mr. george herron,[ ] the incident of the banat republic and the ultimatum respecting the oil-fields unofficially presented to the rumanians suffice to establish a _prima facie_ case may safely be left to the judgment of the public. the conscientious and impartial historian, however firm his faith in the probity of the men representing the powers, both of unlimited and limited interests, cannot pass them over in silence. one of the shrewdest delegates in paris, a man who allowed himself to be breathed upon freely by the old spirit of nationalism, but was capable withal of appreciating the passionate enthusiasm of others for a more altruistic dispensation, addressed me one evening as follows: "say what you will, the secret council is a council of two, and the covenant a charter conferred upon the english-speaking peoples for the government of the world. the design--if it be a design--may be excellent, but it is not relished by the other peoples. it is a less odious hegemony than that of imperialist germany would have been, but it is a hegemony and odious. surely in a quest of this kind after the most effectual means of overcoming the difficulties and obviating the dangers of international intercourse, more even than in the choice of a political régime, the principle of self-determination should be allowed free play. was that not to have been one of the choicest fruits of victory? but no; force is being set in motion, professedly for the good of all, but only as their good is understood by the 'all-powerful two.' and to all the others it is force and nothing more. is it to be wondered at that there are so many discontented people or that some of them are already casting about for an alternative to the anglo-saxon hegemony misnamed the society of nations?" it cannot be gainsaid that the two predominant partners behaved throughout as benevolent despots, to whom despotism came more easily than benevolence. as we saw, they kept their colleagues of the lesser states as much in the dark as the general public and claimed from them also implicit obedience to all their behests. they went farther and demanded unreasoning acquiescence in decisions to be taken in the future, and a promise of prompt acceptance of their injunctions--a pretension such as was never before put forward outside the catholic church, which, at any rate, claims infallibility. asked why he had not put up a better fight for one of the states of eastern europe, a sharp-tongued delegate irreverently made answer, "what more could you expect than i did, seeing that i was opposed by one colleague who looks upon himself as napoleon and by another who believes himself to be the messiah." among the many epigrammatic sayings current in paris about the conference, the most original was ascribed to the emir faissal, the son of the king of the hedjaz. asked what he thought of the world's areopagus, he is said to have answered: "it reminds me somewhat of one of the sights of my own country. my country, as you know, is the desert. caravans pass through it that may be likened to the armies of delegates and experts at the conference--caravans of great camels solemnly trudging along one after the other, each bearing its own load. they all move not whither they will, but whither they are led. for they have no choice. but between the two there is this difference: that whereas the big caravan in the desert has but one leader--a little ass--the conference in paris is led by two delegates who are the great ones of the earth." in effect, the leaders were two, and no one can say which of them had the upper hand. now it seemed to be the british premier, now the american president. the former scored the first victory, on the freedom of the seas, before the conference opened. the latter won the next, when mr. wilson firmly insisted on inserting the covenant in the treaty and finally overrode the objections of mr. lloyd george and m. clemenceau, who scouted the idea for a while as calculated to impair the value of both charters. there was also a moment when the two were reported to have had a serious disagreement and mr. lloyd george, having suddenly quitted paris for rustic seclusion, was likened to achilles sulking in his tent. but one of the two always gave way at the last moment, just as both had given way to m. clemenceau at the outset. when the difference between japan and china cropped up, for example, the other delegates made mr. wilson their spokesman. despite m. clemenceau's resolve that the public should not "be apprized that the head of one government had ever put forward a proposal which was opposed by the head of another government," it became known that they occasionally disagreed among themselves, were more than once on the point of separating, and that at best their unanimity was often of the verbal order, failing to take root in identity of views. to those who would fain predicate political tact or statesmanship of the men who thus undertook to set human progress on a new and ethical basis, the story of these bickerings, hasty improvisations, and amazing compromises is distressing. the incertitude and suspense that resulted were disconcerting. nobody ever knew what was coming. a subcommission might deliver a reasoned judgment on the question submitted to it, and this might be unanimously confirmed by the commission, but the four or three or two or even one could not merely quash the report, but also reverse the practical consequences that followed. this was done over and over again. and there were other performances still more amazing. when, for example, the polish problem became so pressing that it could not be safely postponed any longer, the first delegates were at their wits' ends. unable to agree on any of the solutions mooted, they conceived the idea of obtaining further data and a lead from a special commission. the commission was accordingly appointed. among its members were sir esmé howard, who has since become ambassador in rome, the american general kernan, and m. noulens, the ex-ambassador of france in petrograd. these envoys and their colleagues set out for poland to study the problem on the spot. they exerted themselves to the utmost to gather data for a serious judgment, and returned to paris after a sojourn of some two months, legitimately proud of the copious and well-sifted results of their research. and then they waited. days passed and weeks, but nobody took the slightest interest in the envoys. they were ignored. at last the chief of the commission, m. noulens, taking the initiative, wrote direct to m. clemenceau, informing him that the task intrusted to him and his colleagues had been achieved, and requesting to be permitted to make their report to the conference. the reply was an order dissolving the commission unheard. once when the relations between messrs. wilson and lloyd george were somewhat spiced by antagonism of purpose and incompatibility of methods, a political friend of the latter urged him to make a firm stand. but the british premier, feeling, perhaps, that there were too many unascertained elements in the matter, or identifying the president with the united states, drew back. more than once, too, when a certain delegate was stating his case with incisive emphasis mr. wilson, who was listening with attention and in silence, would suddenly ask, "is this an ultimatum?" the american president himself never shrank from presenting an ultimatum when sure of his ground and morally certain of victory. on one such occasion a proposal had been made to mr. lloyd george, who approved it whole-heartedly. but it failed to receive the _placet_ of the american statesman. thereupon the british premier was strongly urged to stand firm. but he recoiled, his plea being that he had received an ultimatum from his american colleague, who spoke of quitting france and withdrawing the american troops unless the point were conceded. and mr. wilson had his way. one might have thought that this success would hearten the president to other and greater achievements. but the leader who incarnated in his own person the highest strivings of the age, and who seemed destined to acquire pontifical ascendancy in a regenerated world, lacked the energy to hold his own when matters of greater moment and high principle were at stake. these battles waged within the walls of the palace on the quai d'orsay were discussed out-of-doors by an interested and watchful public, and the conviction was profound and widespread that the president, having set his hand to the plow so solemnly and publicly, and having promised a harvest of far-reaching reforms, would not look back, however intractable the ground and however meager the crop. but confronted with serious obstacles, he flinched from his task, and therein, to my thinking, lay his weakness. if he had come prepared to assert his personal responsibility, to unfold his scheme, to have it amply and publicly discussed, to reject pusillanimous compromise in the sphere of execution, and to appeal to the peoples of the world to help him to carry it out, the last phase of his policy would have been worthy of the first, and might conceivably have inaugurated the triumph of the ideas which the indolent and the men of little faith rejected as incapable of realization. to this hardy course, which would have challenged the approbation of all that is best in the world, there was an alternative: mr. wilson might have confessed that his judgment was at fault, mankind not being for the moment in a fitting mood to practise the new tenets, that a speedy peace with the enemy was the first and most pressing duty, and that a world-parliament should be convened for a later date to prepare the peoples of the universe for the new ordering. but he chose neither alternative. at first it was taken for granted that in the twilight of the conference hall he had fought valiantly for the principles which he had propounded as the groundwork of the new politico-social fabric, and that it was only when he found himself confronted with the insuperable antagonism of his colleagues of france and britain that he reluctantly receded from his position and resolved to show himself all the more unbending to the envoys of the lesser countries. but this assumption was refuted by state-secretary lansing, who admitted to the senate foreign relations committee that the president's fourteen points, which he had vowed to carry out, were not even discussed at the conference. the outcome of this attitude--one cannot term it a policy--was to leave the best of the ideas which he stood for in solution, to embitter every ally except france and britain, and to scatter explosives all over the world. to this dwarfing parliamentary view of world-policy mr. lloyd george likewise fell a victim. but his fault was not so glaring. for it should in fairness be remembered that it was not he who first preached the advent of the millennium. he had only given it a tardy and cold assent, qualified by an occasional sally of keen pleasantry. down to the last moment, as we saw, he not only was unaware that the covenant would be inserted in the peace treaty, but he was strongly of the opinion, as indeed were m. pichon and others, that the two instruments were incompatible. he also apparently inclined to the belief that spiritual and moral agencies, if not wholly impotent to bring about the requisite changes in the politico-social world, could not effect the transformation for a long while to come, and that in the interval it behooved the governments to fall back upon the old system of so-called equilibrium, which, after germany's collapse, meant an informal kind of anglo-saxon overlordship of the world and a _pax britannica_ in europe. as for his action at the conference, in so far as it did not directly affect the well-being of the british empire, which was his first and main care, one might describe it as one of general agreement with mr. wilson. he actually threw it into that formula when he said that whenever the interests of the british empire permitted he would like to find himself at one with the united states. it was on that occasion that the person addressed warned him against identifying the president with the people of the united states. in truth, it was difficult to follow the distinguished american idealist, because one seldom knew whither he would lead. neither, apparently, did he himself. some of his own countrymen in paris held that he had always been accustomed to follow, never to guide. certainly at the conference his practice was to meet the more powerful of his contradictors on their own ground and come to terms with them, so as to get at least a part of what he aimed at, and that he accepted, even when the instalment was accorded to him not as such, but as a final settlement. so far as one can judge by his public acts and by the admissions of state-secretary lansing, he cannot have seriously contemplated staking the success of his mission on the realization of his fourteen points. the manner in which he dealt with his covenant, with the french demand for concrete military guaranties and with secret treaties, all afford striking illustrations of his easy temper. before quitting paris for washington he had maintained that the covenant as drafted was satisfactory, nay, he contended that "not even a period could be changed in the agreement." the monroe doctrine, he held, needed no special stipulation. but as soon as senator lodge and others took issue with him on the subject, he shifted his position and hedged that doctrine round with defenses which cut off a whole continent from the purview of the league, which is nothing if not cosmic in its functions.[ ] again, there was to be no alliance. the french premier foretold that there would be one. mr. wilson, who was in england at the time, answered him in a speech declaring that the united states would enter into no alliance which did not include all the world: "no combination of power which is not a combination of all of us." well, since then he became a party to a kind of triple alliance and in the judgment of many observers it constitutes the main result of the conference. in the words of an american press organ: "clemenceau got virtually everything he asked. president wilson virtually dropped his own program, and adopted the french and british, both of them imperialistic."[ ] again, when the first commission of experts reported upon the frontiers of poland, the british premier objected to a section of the "corridor," on the ground that as certain districts contained a majority of germans their annexation would be a danger to the future peace and therefore to poland herself, and also on the ground that it would run counter to one of mr. wilson's fundamental points; the president, who at that time dissented from mr. lloyd george, rose and remarked that his principles must not be construed too literally. "when i said that poland must be restored, i meant that everything indispensable to her restoration must be accorded. therefore, if that should involve the incorporation of a number of germans in polish territory, it cannot be helped, for it is part of the restoration. poland must have access to the sea by the shortest route, and everything else which that implies." none the less, the british premier, whose attitude toward the claims of the poles was marked by a degree of definiteness and persistency which could hardly be anticipated in one who had never even heard of teschen before the year , maintained his objections with emphasis and insistence, until mr. wilson and m. clemenceau gave in. or take the president's way of dealing with the non-belligerent states. before leaving paris for washington, mr. wilson, officially questioned by one of his colleagues at an official sitting as to whether the neutrals would also sign the covenant, replied that only the allies would be admitted to affix their signatures. "don't you think it would be more conducive to the firm establishment of the league if the neutrals were also made parties to it now?" insisted the plenipotentiary. "no, i do not," answered the president. "i think that it would be conferring too much honor on them, and they don't deserve it." the delegate was unfavorably impressed by this reply. it seemed lacking in breadth of view. still, it was tenable on certain narrow, formal grounds. but what he could not digest was the eagerness with which mr. wilson, on his return from washington, abandoned his way of thinking and adopted the opposite view. toward the end of april the delegates and the world were surprised to learn that not only would spain be admitted to the orthodox fold, but that she would have a voice in the management of the flock with a seat in the council. the chief of the portuguese delegation[ ] at once delivered a trenchant protest against this abrupt departure from principle, and as a jurisconsult stigmatized the promotion of spain to a voice in the council as an irregularity, and then retired in high dudgeon. thus the grave reproach cannot be spared mr. wilson of having been weak, vague, and inconsistent with himself. he constituted himself the supreme judge of a series of intricate questions affecting the organization and tranquillity of the european continent, as he had previously done in the case of mexico, with the results we know. this authority was accorded to him--with certain reservations--in virtue of the exalted position which he held in a state disposing of vast financial and economic resources, shielded from some of the dangers that continually overhang european nations, and immune from the immediate consequences of the mistakes it might commit in international politics. for every continental people in europe is in some measure dependent on the good-will of the united states, and therefore anxious to deserve it by cultivating the most friendly relations with its chief. this predisposition on the part of his wards was an asset that could have been put to good account. it was a guaranty of a measure of success which would have satisfied a generous ambition; it would have enabled him to effect by a wise policy what revolution threatened to accomplish by violence, and to canalize and lead to fruitful fields the new-found strength of the proletarian masses. the compulsion of working with others is often a wholesome corrective. it helps one to realize the need of accommodating measures to people's needs. but mr. wilson deliberately segregated himself from the nations for whose behoof he was laboring, and from some of their authorized representatives. and yet the aspirations and conceptions of a large section of the masses differed very considerably from those of the two statesmen with whom he was in close collaboration. his avowed aims were at the opposite pole to those of his colleagues. to reconcile internationalism and nationalism was sheer impossible. yet instead of upholding his own, taking the peoples into his confidence, and sowing the good seed which would certainly have sprouted up in the fullness of time, he set himself, together with his colleagues, to weld contradictories and contributed to produce a synthesis composed of disembodied ideas, disintegrated communities, embittered nations, conflicting states, frenzied classes, and a seething mass of discontent throughout the world. mr. wilson has fared ill with his critics, who, when in quest of explanations of his changeful courses, sought for them, as is the wont of the average politician, in the least noble parts of human nature. in his case they felt especially repelled by his imperial aloofness, the secrecy of his deliberations, and the magisterial tone of his judgments, even when these were in flagrant contradiction with one another. obstinacy was also included among the traits which were commonly ascribed to him. as a matter of fact he was a very good listener, an intelligent questioner, and amenable to argument whenever he felt free to give practical effect to the conclusions. when this was not the case, arguments necessarily failed of their effect, and on these occasions considerations of expediency proved a lever sufficient to sway his decision. but, like his more distinguished colleagues, he had to rely upon counsel from outside, and in his case, as in theirs, the official adviser was not always identical with the real prompter. he, too, as we saw, set aside the findings of the commissions when they disagreed with his own. in a word, mr. wilson's fatal stumble was to have sacrificed essentials in order to score on issues of secondary moment; for while success enabled him to obtain his paper covenant from his co-delegates in paris, and to bring back tangible results to washington, it lost him the leadership of the world. the cost of this deplorable weakness to mankind can be estimated only after its worst effects have been added up and appraised. in matters affecting the destinies of the lesser states mr. wilson was firm as a rock. prom the position once taken up nothing could move him. their economic dependence on his own country rendered their arguments pointless and lent irresistible force to his injunctions. greece's dispute with bulgaria was a classic instance. the bulgars repaired to paris more as claimants in support of indefeasible rights than as vanquished enemies summoned to learn the conditions imposed on them by the nations which they had betrayed and assailed. victory alone could have justified their territorial pretensions; defeat made them grotesque. all at once, however, it was bruited abroad that president wilson had become bulgaria's intercessor and favored certain of her exorbitant claims. one of these was for the annexation of part of the coast of western thrace, together with a seaport at the expense of the greeks, the race which had resided on the seaboard for twenty-five hundred consecutive years. m. venizelos offered them instead one commercial outlet[ ] and special privileges in another, and the plenipotentiaries of great britain, france, and japan considered the offer adequate. but mr. wilson demurred. a commercial outlet through foreign territory, he said, might possibly be as good as a direct outlet through one's own territory in peace-time, but not in time of war, and, after all, one must bear in mind the needs of a country during hostilities. in the mouth of the champion of universal peace that was an unexpected argument. it had been employed by italy in favor of her claim to fiume. mr. wilson then met it by invoking the economic requirements of jugoslavia, and by declaring that the treaty was being devised for peace, not for war, that the league of nations would hinder wars, or at the very least supply the deficiencies of those states which had sacrificed strategical positions for humanitarian aims. but in the case of bulgaria he was taking what seems the opposite position and transgressing his own principle of nationality in order to maintain it. mr. wilson, pursuing his line of argument, further pointed out that the supreme council had not accepted as sufficient for poland an outlet through german territory, but had created the city-state of dantzig in order to confer a greater degree of security upon the polish republic. to that m. venizelos replied that there was no parity between the two instances. poland had no outlet to the sea except through dantzig, and could not, therefore, allow that one to remain in the hands of an unfriendly nation, whereas bulgaria already possessed two very commodious ports, varna and burgas, on the black sea, which becomes a free sea in virtue of the internationalization of the straits. the possession of a third outlet on the Ægean could not, therefore, be termed a vital question for his protégée. thus the comparison with poland was irrelevant. if poland, which is a very much greater state than bulgaria, can live and prosper with a single port, and that not her own--if rumania, which is also a much more numerous and powerful nation, can thrive with a single issue to the sea, by what line of argument, m. venizelos asked, can one prove that little bulgaria requires three or four exits, and that her need justifies the abandonment to her tender mercies of seven hundred and fifty thousand greeks and the violation of one of the fundamental principles underlying the new moral ordering. compliance with bulgaria's demand would prevent greece from including within her boundaries the three-quarters of a million greeks who have dwelt in thrace for twenty-five centuries, preserving their nationality intact through countless disasters and tremendous cataclysms. further, the greek premier, taking a leaf from wilson's book, turned to the aspect which the problem would assume in war-time. bulgaria, he argued, is essentially a continental state, whose defense does not depend upon naval strength, whereas greece contains an island population of nearly a million and a half and looks for protection against aggression chiefly to naval precautions. in case of war, bulgaria, if her claim to an issue on the Ægean were allowed, could with her submarines delay or hinder the transport and concentration in macedonia of greek forces from the islands and thus place greece in a position of dangerous inferiority. lastly, if greece's claims in thrace were rejected, she would have a population of , , souls outside her national boundaries--that is to say, more than one-third of the population which is within her state. would this be fair? of the total population of bulgarian and turkish thrace the turks and greeks together form per cent., the bulgars only per cent., and the latter nowhere in compact masses. moreover--and this ought to have clinched the matter--the hellenic population formed an absolute as well as a relative majority in the year . these arguments and various other considerations drawn from the inordinate ambitions, the savage cruelty,[ ] and the punic faith of the bulgars convinced the british, french, and japanese delegates of the soundness of greece's pleas, and they sided with m. venizelos. but mr. wilson clung to his idea with a tenacity which could not be justified by argument, and was concurrently explained by motives irrelevant to the merits of the case. whether the influence of bulgarophil american missionaries and strong religious leanings were at the root of his insistence, as was generally assumed, or whether other considerations weighed with him, is immaterial. and yet it is worth recording that a bulgarian journal[ ] announced with the permission of the governmental censor that the american missionaries in bulgaria and the professors of robert college of constantinople had so primed the american delegates at the conference on the question of thrace, and generally on the bulgarian problem, that all m. venizelos's pains to convince them of the justice of his contention would be lost labor."[ ] however this may be, mr. wilson's attitude was the subject of adverse comment throughout europe. his implied claim to legislate for the world and to take over its moral leadership earned for him the epithet of "dictator," and provoked such epigrammatic comments among his own countrymen and the french as this: "louis xiv said, 'i am the state!' mr. wilson, outdoing him, exclaimed, 'i am all the states!'" the necessity of winning over dissentient colleagues to his grandiose scheme of world reorganization and of satisfying their demands, which were of a nature to render that scheme abortive, was the most influential agency in impairing his energies and upsetting his plans. this remark assumes what unhappily seems a fact, that those plans were mainly mechanical. it is certain that they made no provision for directly influencing the masses, for giving them sympathetic guidance, and enabling them to suffuse with social sentiments the aspirations and strivings which were chiefly of the materialistic order, with a view to bringing about a spiritual transformation of the social basis. indeed we have no evidence that the need of such a transformation of the basis of political thought, which was still rooted in the old order, was grasped by any of those who set their hand to the legislative part of the work. these unfavorable impressions were general. almost every step subsequently taken by the conference confirmed them, and long before the treaty was presented to the germans, public confidence was gone in the ability of the supreme council to attain any of the moral victories over militarism, race-hatred, and secret intrigues which its leaders had encouraged the world to expect. "the leaders of the conference," wrote an influential press organ,[ ] "are under suspicion. they may not know it, but it is true. the suspicion is doubtless unjust, but it exists. what exists is a fact; and men who ignore facts are not statesmen. the only way to deal with facts is to face them. the more unpleasant they are the more they need to be faced. "some of the conference leaders are suspected of having, at various times and in various circumstances, thought more of their own personal and political positions and ambitions than of the rapid and practical making of peace. they are suspected, in a word, of a tendency to subordinate policy to politics. "in regard to some important matters they are suspected of having no policy. they are also suspected of unwillingness to listen to their own competent advisers, who could lay down for them a sound policy. some of them are even suspected of being under the spell of some benumbing influence that paralyzes their will and befogs their minds, when high resolve and clear visions are needful." another accusation of the same tenor was thus formulated: "in various degrees[ ] and with different qualities of guilt all the allied and associated leaders have dallied with dishonesty. while professing to seek naught save the welfare of mankind, they have harbored thoughts of self-interest. the result has been a progressive loss of faith in them by their own peoples severally, and by the allied, associated, and neutral peoples jointly. the tide of public trust in them has reached its lowest ebb." at the conference, as we saw, the president of the united states possessed what was practically a veto on nearly all matters which left the vital interests of britain and france intact. and he frequently exercised it. thus the dispute about the thracian settlement lay not between bulgaria and greece, nor between greece and the supreme council, but between greece and mr. wilson. in the quarrel over fiume and the dalmatian coast it was the same. when the shantung question came up for settlement it was mr. wilson alone who dealt with it, his colleagues, although bound by their promises to support japan, having made him their mouthpiece. the rigor he displayed in dealing with some of the smaller countries was in inverse ratio to the indulgence he practised toward the great powers. not only were they peremptorily bidden to obey without discussion the behests which had been brought to their cognizance, but they were ordered, as we saw, to promise to execute other injunctions which might be issued by the supreme council on certain matters in the future, the details of which were necessarily undetermined. in order to stifle any velleities of resistance on the part of their governments, they were notified that america's economic aid, of which they were in sore need, would depend on their docility. it is important to remember that it was the motive thus clearly presented that determined their formal assent to a policy which they deprecated. a russian statesman summed up the situation in the words: "it is an illustration of one of our sayings, 'whose bread i eat, his songs i sing.'" thus it was reported in july that an agreement come to by the financial group morgan with an italian syndicate for a yearly advance to italy of a large sum for the purchase of american food and raw stuffs was kept in abeyance until the italian delegation should accept such a solution of the adriatic problem as mr. wilson could approve. the russian and anti-bolshevists were in like manner compelled to give their assent to certain democratic dogmas and practices. it is also fair, however, to bear in mind that whatever one may think of the wisdom of the policy pursued by the president toward these peoples, the motives that actuated it were unquestionably admirable, and the end in view was their own welfare, as he understood it. it is all the more to be regretted that neither the arguments nor the example of the autocratic delegates were calculated to give these the slightest influence over the thought or the unfettered action of their unwilling wards. the arrangements carried out were entirely mechanical. in the course of time after the vital interests of britain, france, and japan had been disposed of, and only those of the "lesser states," in the more comprehensive sense of this term, remained, president wilson exercised supreme power, wielding it with firmness and encountering no gainsayer. thus the peace between italy and austria was put off from month to month because he--and only he--among the members of the supreme council rejected the various projects of an arrangement. into the merits of this dispute it would be unfruitful to enter. that there was much to be said for mr. wilson's contention, from the point of view of the league of nations, and also from that of the jugoslavs, will not be denied. that some of the main arguments to which he trusted his case were invalidated by the concessions which he had made to other countries was italy's contention, and it cannot be thrust aside as untenable. at last mr. wilson ventured on a step which challenged the attention and stirred the disquietude of his friends. he despatched a note[ ] to turkey, warning her that if the massacres of armenians were not discontinued he would withdraw the twelfth of his fourteen points, which provides for the maintenance of turkish sovereignty over undeniable turkish territories. the intention was excellent, but the necessary effects of his action were contrary to what the president can have aimed at. he had not consulted the conference on the important change which he was about to make respecting a point which was supposed to be part of the groundwork of the new ordering. this from the conference point of view was a momentous decision, which could be taken only with the consent of the supreme council. even as a mere threat it was worthless if it did not stand for the deliberate will of that body which the president had deemed it superfluous to consult. as it happened, the british authorities were just then organizing a body of gendarmes to police the turkish territories in question, and they were engaged in this work with the knowledge and approval of the supreme council. mr. wilson's announcement could therefore only be construed--and was construed--as the act of an authority superior to that of the council.[ ] the turks, who are shrewd observers, must have drawn the obvious conclusion from these divergent measures as to the degree of harmony prevailing among the allied and associated powers. m. clemenceau had a conversation on the subject with mr. polk, who explained that the note was informal and given verbally, and conveyed the idea only of one nation in connection with the armenian situation. this explanation, accepted by the french government, did not commend itself to public opinion, either in france or elsewhere. moreover, the french were struck by another aspect of this arbitrary exercise of supreme power. "president wilson," wrote an eminent french publicist, "throws himself into the attitude of a man who can bind and loose the turkish empire at the very moment when the senate appears opposed to accepting any mandate, european or asiatic, at the moment when mr. lansing declares to the congress that the government of which he is a member does not desire to accept any mandate. but is it not obvious that if mr. wilson sovereignly determines the lot of turkey he can be held in consequence to the performance of certain duties? we have often had to deplore the absence of policy common to the allies. but has each one of them, considered separately, at least a policy of its own? does it take action otherwise than at haphazard, yielding to the impulse of a general, a consul, or a missionary?"[ ] it soon became manifest even to the most obtuse that whenever the supreme council, following its leaders and working on such lines as these, terminated its labors, the ties between the political communities of europe would be just as flimsy as in the unregenerate days of secret diplomacy, secret alliances, and secret intrigues, unless in the meanwhile the peoples themselves intervened to render them stronger and more enduring. it would, however, be the height of unfairness to make mr. wilson alone answerable for this untoward ending to a far resonant beginning. he had been accused by the press of most countries of enwrapping personal ambition in the attractive covering of disinterestedness and altruism, just as many of his foreign colleagues were said to go in fear of the "malady of lost power." but charges of this nature overstep the bounds of legitimate criticism. motive is hardly ever visible, nor is it often deducible from deliberate action. if, for example, one were to infer from the vast territorial readjustments and the still vaster demands of the various belligerents at the conference, the motives that had determined them to enter the war, the conclusion--except in the case of the american people, whose disinterestedness is beyond the reach of cavil--would indeed be distressing. the president of the united states merited well of all nations by holding up to them an ideal for realization, and the mere announcement of his resolve to work for it imparted an appreciable if inadequate incentive to men of good-will. the task, however, was so gigantic that he cannot have gaged its magnitude, discerned the defects of the instruments, nor estimated aright the force of the hindrances before taking the world to witness that he would achieve it. even with the hearty co-operation of ardent colleagues and the adoption of a sound method he could hardly have hoped to do more than clear the ground--perhaps lay the foundation-stone--of the structure he dreamt of. but with the partners whom circumstance allotted him, and the gainsayers whom he had raised up and irritated in his own country, failure was a foregone conclusion from the first. the aims after which most of the european governments strove were sheer incompatible with his own. doubtless they all were solicitous about the general good, but their love for it was so general and so diluted with attachment to others' goods as to be hardly discernible. the reproach that can hardly be spared to mr. wilson, however, is that of pusillanimity. if his faith in the principles he had laid down for the guidance of nations were as intense as his eloquent words suggested, he would have spurned the offer of a sequence of high-sounding phrases in lieu of a resettlement of the world. and his appeal to the peoples would most probably have been heard. the beacon once lighted in paris would have been answered in almost every capital of the world. one promise he kept religiously: he did not return to washington without a paper covenant. is it more? is it merely a paradox to assert that as war was waged in order to make war impossible, so a peace was made that will render peace impossible? footnotes: [ ] in march. [ ] quoted by _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] delivered at the metropolitan opera house in new york on march , . [ ] _the new york herald_, march , (paris edition). [ ] cf. _the new york herald_, july , . [ ] the semi-official journals manifested a steady tendency to lean toward the republican opposition in the united states, down to the month of august, when the amendments proposed by various senators bade fair to jeopardize the treaties and render the promised military succor doubtful. [ ] _journal de genève_, may , . [ ] _the new york herald_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] cf. paris papers of february , , and _the public ledger_ (philadelphia), february , . [ ] cf. _l'echo de paris_, april , . [ ] in april, . [ ] about april , . [ ] on march , . [ ] cf. my cablegram published in _the public ledger_ (philadelphia), january , . [ ] cf. _the public ledger_ (philadelphia), february , . [ ] doctor bunke, councilor at the court of dantzig, endeavors in _the dantzig neueste nachrichten_ to prove that the problem of dantzig was solved exclusively in the interests of the naval powers, america and britain, who need it as a basis for their commerce with poland, russia, and germany. cf. also _le temps_, august , [ ] _the new york herald_ (paris edition), march , . [ ] lysis, author of _demain_, and many other remarkable studies of economic problems, and editor of _le démocratie nouvelle_, may , . [ ] for an account of analogous bargainings with bela kuhn, see the chapter on rumania. [ ] bearing the number . [ ] on october , , and february , [ ] on february , . [ ] _la démocratie nouvelle_, may , [ ] see his admirable article in _the new york herald_ (paris edition) of may , , from which the following extract is worth quoting: "i have said that certain great forces have steadily and occultly worked for a german peace. but i mean, in fact, one force--an international finance to which all other forces hostile to the freedom of nations and of the individual soul are contributory. the influence of this finance had permeated the conference, delaying the decisions as long as possible, increasing divisions between people and people, between class and class, between peace-makers and peace-makers, in order to achieve two definite ends, which two ends are one and the same. "the first end was so to manipulate the minds of the peace-makers, of their hordes of retainers and 'experts,' as to bring about, if possible, a peace that would not be destructive to industrial germany. the second end was so to delay the russian question, so to complicate and thwart every proposed solution, that, at last, either during or after the peace conference, a recognition of the bolshevist power as the _de facto_ government of russia would be the only possible solution." [ ] "what confidence can be commanded by men who, asserting one week that the ultimate of human wisdom has been attained in a document, confess the next week that the document is frail? when are we to believe that their confessions are at an end?"--_the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), july , . [ ] m. affonso costa, who shortly before had succeeded the minister of foreign affairs, m. monas egiz. [ ] dedeagatch. [ ] see _rapports et enquêtes de la commission interalliée sur les violations du droit des gens commises en macédoine orientale par les armées bulgares_. the conclusion of the report is one of the most terrible indictments ever drawn up by impartial investigators against what is practically a whole people. [ ] _zora_, august th. cf. _le temps_, august , . [ ] mr. charles house published a statement in the press of saloniki to the effect that the board of commissioners for foreign missions forbids missionaries to take an active part in politics. he added that if this injunction was transgressed--and in paris the current belief was that it had been--it would not be tolerated by the missionary board, nor recognized by the american government. [ ] _the daily mail_ (paris edition), march , . [ ] _the daily mail_ (paris edition), april , . [ ] somewhere between august and , . it was transmitted by admiral bristol, american member of the inter-allied inquiry mission at smyrna. [ ] cf. _l'echo de paris_, august , . article by pertinax. [ ] _l'echo de paris_, august , . article by pertinax. vi the lesser states before the anglo-saxon statesmen thus set themselves to rearrange the complex of interests, forces, policies, nationalities, rights, and claims which constituted the politico-social world of , they were expected to deal with all the allied and associated nations, without favor or prejudice, as members of one family. this expectation was not fulfilled. it may not have been warranted. from the various discussions and decisions of which we have knowledge, a number of delegates drew the inference that france was destined for obvious reasons to occupy the leading position in continental europe, under the protection of anglo-saxondom; and that a privileged status was to be conferred on the jews in eastern europe and in palestine, while the other states were to be in the leading-strings of the four. this view was not lightly expressed, however inadequately it may prove to have been then supported by facts. as to the desirability of forming this rude hierarchy of states, the principal plenipotentiaries were said to have been in general agreement, although responding to different motives. there was but one discordant voice--that of france--who was opposed to the various limitations set to poland's aggrandizement, and also to the clause placing the jews under the direct protection of the league of nations, and investing them with privileges in which the races among whom they reside are not allowed to participate. bulgaria had a position unique in her class, for she was luckier than most of her peers in having enlisted on her side the american delegation and mr. wilson as leading counsel and special pleader for her claim to an outlet to the Ægean sea. at the conference each state was dealt with according to its class. entirely above the new law, as we saw, stood its creators, the anglo-saxons. to all the others, including the french, the wilsonian doctrine was applied as fully as was compatible with its author's main object, the elaboration of an instrument which he could take back with him to the united states as the great world settlement. within these limits the president was evidently most anxious to apply his fourteen points, but he kept well within these. thus he would, perhaps, have been quite ready to insist on the abandonment by britain of her supremacy on the seas, on a radical change in the international status of egypt and ireland, and much else, had these innovations been compatible with his own special object. but they were not. he was apparently minded to test the matter by announcing his resolve to moot the problem of the freedom of the seas, but when admonished by the british government that it would not even brook its mention, he at once gave it up and, presumably drawing the obvious inference from this downright refusal, applied it to the irish, egyptian, and other issues, which were forthwith eliminated from the category of open or international problems. but france's insistent demand, on the other hand, for the rhine frontier met with an emphatic refusal.[ ] the social reformer is disheartened by the one-sided and inexorable way in which maxims proclaimed to be of universal application were restricted to the second-class nations. russia's case abounds in illustrations of this arbitrary, unjust, and impolitic pressure. the russians had been our allies. they had fought heroically at the time when the people of the united states were, according to their president, "too proud to fight." they were essential factors in the allies' victory, and consequently entitled to the advantages and immunities enjoyed by the western powers. in no case ought they to have been placed on the same level as our enemies, and in lieu of recompense condemned to punishment. and yet this latter conception of their deserts was not wholly new. soon after their defection, and when the allies were plunged in the depths of despondency, a current of opinion made itself felt among certain sections of the allied peoples tending to the conclusion of peace on the basis of compensations to germany, to be supplied by the cession of russian territory. this expedient was advocated by more than one statesman, and was making headway when fresh factors arose which bade fair to render it needless. at the paris conference the spirit of this conception may still have survived and prompted much that was done and much that was left unattempted. russia was under a cloud. if she was not classed as an enemy she was denied the consideration reserved for the allies and the neutrals. her integrity was a matter of indifference to her former friends; almost every people and nationality in the russian state which asked for independence found a ready hearing at the supreme council. and some of them before they had lodged any such claim were encouraged to lose no time in asking for separation. in one case a large sum of money and a mission were sent to "create the independent state of the ukraine," so impatient were peoples in the west to obtain a substitute for the russian ally whom they had lost in the east, and great was their consternation when their protégés misspent the funds and made common cause with the teutons. disorganized russia was in some ways a godsend to the world's administrators in paris. to the advocate of alliances, territorial equilibrium, and the old order of things it offered a facile means of acquiring new helpmates in the east by emancipating its various peoples in the name of right and justice. it held out to the capitalists who deplored the loss of their milliards a potential source whence part of that loss might be made good.[ ] to the zealots of the league of nations it offered an unresisting body on which all the requisite operations from amputation to trepanning might be performed without the use of anesthetics. the various border states of russia were thus quietly lopped off without even the foreknowledge, much less the assent, of the patient, and without any pretense at plebiscites. finland, esthonia, latvia, georgia were severed from the chaotic slav state offhandedly, and the warrant was the doctrine propounded by president wilson--that every people shall be free to choose its own mode of living and working. every people? surely not, remarked unbiased onlookers. the egyptians, the irish, the austrians, the persians, to name but four among many, are disqualified for the exercise of these indefeasible rights. perhaps with good reason? then modify the doctrine. why this difference of treatment? they queried. is it not because the supreme judge knows full well that great britain would not brook the discussion of the egyptian or the irish problem, and that france, in order to feel quite secure, must hinder the austrian-germans from coalescing with their brethren of the reich? but if britain and france have the right to veto every self-denying measure that smacks of disruption or may involve a sacrifice, why is russia bereft of it? if the principle involved be of any value at all, its application must be universal. to an equal all-round distribution of sacrifice the only alternative is the supremacy of force in the service of arbitrary rule. and to this force, accordingly, the supreme council had recourse. the only cases in which it seriously vindicated the rights of oppressed or dissatisfied peoples to self-determination against the will of the ruling race or nation were those in which that race or nation was powerless to resist. whenever britain or france's interests were deemed to be imperiled by the putting in force of any of the fourteen points, mr. wilson desisted from its application. thus it came about that russia was put on the same plane with germany and received similar, in some respects, indeed, sterner, treatment. the germans were at least permitted to file objections to the conditions imposed and to point out flaws in the arrangements drafted, and their representations sometimes achieved their end. it was otherwise with the russians. they were never consulted. and when their representatives in paris respectfully suggested that all such changes as might be decided upon by the great powers during their country's political disablement should be taken to be provisional and be referred for definite settlement to the future constituent assembly, the request was ignored. of psychological rather than political interest was mr. wilson's conscientious hesitation as to whether the nationalities which he was preparing to liberate were sufficiently advanced to be intrusted with self-government. as stated elsewhere, his first impulse would seem to have been to appoint mandatories to administer the territories severed from russia. the mandatory arrangement under the ubiquitous league is said to have been his own. presumably he afterward acquired the belief that the system might be wisely dispensed with in the case of some of russia's border states, for they soon afterward received promises of independence and implicitly of protection against future encroachments by a resuscitated russia. in this connection a scene is worth reproducing which was enacted at the peace table before the system of administering certain territories by proxy was fully elaborated. at one of the sittings the delegates set themselves to determine what countries should be thus governed,[ ] and it was understood that the mandatory system was to be reserved for the german colonies and certain provinces of the turkish empire. but in the course of the conversation mr. wilson casually made use of the expression, "the german colonies, the territories of the turkish empire and other territories." one of the delegates promptly put the question, "what other territories?" to which the president replied, unhesitatingly, "those of the late russian empire." then he added by way of explanation: "we are constantly receiving petitions from peoples who lived hitherto under the scepter of the tsars--caucasians, central asiatic peoples, and others--who refuse to be ruled any longer by the russians and yet are incapable of organizing viable independent states of their own. it is meet that the desires of these nations should be considered." at this the czech delegate, doctor kramarcz, flared up and exclaimed: "russia? cut up russia? but what about her integrity? is that to be sacrificed?" but his words died away without evoking a response. "was there no one," a russian afterward asked, "to remind those representatives of the great powers of their righteous wrath with germany when the brest-litovsk treaty was promulgated?" toward italy, who, unlike russia, was not treated as an enemy, but as relegated to the category of lesser states, the attitude of president wilson was exceptionally firm and uncompromising. on the subject of fiume and dalmatia he refused to yield an inch. in vain the italian delegation argued, appealed, and lowered its claims. mr. wilson was adamant. it is fair to admit that in no other way could he have contrived to get even a simulacrum of a league. unless the weak states were awed into submitting to sacrifices for the great aim which he had made his own, he must return to washington as the champion of a manifestly lost cause. on the other hand, it cannot be denied that his thesis was not destitute of arguments to support it. accordingly the deadlock went on for months, until the italian cabinet fell and people wearied of the adriatic problems. poland was another of the communities which had to bend before anglo-saxon will, represented in her case mainly by mr. lloyd george, not, however, without the somewhat tardy backing of his colleague from washington. it is important for the historian and the political student to observe that as the british premier was not credited with any profound or original ideas about the severing or soldering of east european territories, the authorship of the powerful and successful opposition to the allotting of dantzig to poland was rightly or wrongly ascribed not to him, but to what is euphemistically termed "international finance" lurking in the background, whose interest in poland was obviously keen, and whose influence on the supreme council, although less obvious, was believed to be far-reaching. the same explanation was currently suggested for the fixed resolve of mr. lloyd george not to assign upper silesia to poland without a plebiscite. his own account of the matter was that although the inhabitants were polish--they are as two to one compared with the germans--it was conceivable that they entertained leanings toward the germans, and might therefore desire to throw in their lot with these. when one compares this scrupulous respect for the likes and dislikes of the inhabitants of that province with the curt refusal of the same men at first to give ear to the ardent desire of the austrians to unite with the germans, or to abide by a plebiscite of the inhabitants of fiume or teschen, one is bewildered. the british premier's wish was opposed by the official body of experts appointed to report on the matter. its members had no misgivings. the territory, they said, belonged of right to poland, the great majority of its population was unquestionably polish, and the practical conclusion was that it should be handed over to the polish government as soon as feasible. thereupon the staff of the commission was changed and new members were substituted for the old.[ ] but that was not enough. the british premier still encountered such opposition among his foreign colleagues that it was only by dint of wordy warfare and stubbornness that he finally won his point. the stipulation for which the first british delegate toiled thus laboriously was that within a fortnight after the ratification of the treaty the german and polish forces should evacuate the districts in which the plebiscite was to be held, that the workmen's councils there should be dissolved, and that the league of nations should take over the government of the district so as to allow the population to give full expression to its will. but the league of nations did not exist and could not be constituted for a considerable time. it was therefore decided[ ] that some temporary substitute for the league should be formed at once, and the supreme council decided that inter-allied troops should occupy the districts. that was the first instalment of the price to be paid for the british premier's tenderness for plebiscites, which the expert commissions deprecated as unnecessary, and which, as events proved in this case, were harmful. in the meanwhile bolshevist--some said german--agents were stirring up the population by suasion and by terrorism until it finally began to ferment. thousands of working-men responded to the goad, "turned down" their tools and ceased work. thereupon the coal-fields of upper silesia, the production of which had already dropped by per cent, since the preceding november, ceased to produce anything. this consummation grieved the supreme council, which turned for help to the inter-allied armies. for the silesian coal-fields represented about one-third of germany's production, and both france and italy were looking to germany for part of their fuel-supply. the french press pertinently asked whether it would not have been cheaper, safer, and more efficacious to have forgone the plebiscite and relied on the polish troops from the outset.[ ] for, however ideal the intentions of mr. lloyd george may have been, the net result of his insistence on a plebiscite was to enable an ex-newspaper vender named hoersing, who had undertaken to prevent the detachment of upper silesia from germany, to set his machinery for agitation in motion and cause general unrest in the silesian and dombrova coal-mining districts. when the strike was declared the workmen, who are poles to a man, rejected all suggestions that they should refer their grievances to arbitration courts. for these tribunals were conducted by germans. the consequence of mr. lloyd george's spirited intervention was, in the words of an unbiased observer, to "raise the specters of starvation, freezing and bolshevism in eastern europe" during the ensuing winter--a heavy price to pay for pedantic adherence to the letter of an irrelevant ordinance, at a moment when the spirit of basic principles was being allowed to evaporate. rumania was chastened and qualified in severer fashion for admission to the sodality of nations until her delegates quitted the conference in disgust, struck out their own policy, and courteously ignored the great powers. then the supreme council changed its note for the moment and abandoned the position which it had taken up respecting the armistice with hungary, to revert to it shortly afterward.[ ] the joy with which the upshot of this revolt was hailed by all the lesser states was an evil omen. for their antipathy toward the supreme council had long before hardened into a sentiment much more intense, and any stick seemed good enough to break the rod of the self-constituted governors of the planet. the concrete result of this tinkering and cobbling could only be a ramshackle structure, built without any reference to the canons of political architecture. it was shaped neither by the fourteen points nor by the canons of the balance of power and territory. it was hardly more than an abortive attempt to make a synthesis of the two. created by force, it could be perpetuated only by force; but if symptoms are to be trusted, it is more likely to be broken up by force. as an american press organ remarked in august: "the council of five complains that no one now condescends to recognize the league of nations. even the small nations are buying war material, quite oblivious of the fact that there are to be no more wars, now that the league is there to prevent them. sweden is buying large supplies from germany, and spain is sending a commission to paris to negotiate for some of france's war equipment."[ ] belgium, too, was treated with scant consideration. the praise lavished on her courageous people during the war was apparently deemed an adequate recompense for the sacrifices she had made and the losses she endured. for the revision of the treaties of , indispensable to the economic development of the country, no diplomatic preparation was made down to may, and among the treaty clauses then drafted belgium's share of justice was so slight and insufficient that the unbiased press published sharp strictures on the forgetfulness or egotism of the supreme council. "the little that has leaked out of the decisions taken regarding the conditions which affect belgium," wrote one journal, "has caused not only bitter disappointment in belgium, but also indignation everywhere.... the allies having decided not to accord moral satisfaction to belgium (they chose geneva as the capital of the league of nations), it was perhaps to be expected that they would not accord her material satisfaction. and such expectations are being fulfilled. the limburg province, annexed to holland in , the province which gave the retreating enemy unlawful refuge in , a rank violation of dutch neutrality, is apparently not to be restored to belgium. even the right, vital to the safety and welfare of belgium, the right of unimpeded navigation of the scheldt between antwerp and the sea, has not yet been conceded. and the raw material that is indispensable if belgian industry is to be revived is withheld; the allies, however, are quite willing to flood the country with manufactured articles."[ ] and yet belgium's demands were extremely modest.[ ] they were formulated, not as the guerdon for her heroic defense of civilization, but as a plain corollary flowing direct from each and every principle officially recognized by the heads of the conference--right, nationality, legitimate guarantees, and economic requirements. tested by any or all of these accepted touchstones, everything asked for was reasonable and fair in itself, and seemingly indispensable to the durability of the new world-structure which the statesmen were endeavoring to raise on the ruins of the old. belgium's forlorn political and territorial plight embodied all the worst vices of the old balance of power stigmatized by president wilson: the mutilation of the country; the forcible separation of sections of its population from each other; the distribution of these lopped, ethnic fragments among alien states and dynasties; the control of her waterways handed over to commercial rivals; the transformation of cities and districts that were obviously destined to figure among her sources of national well-being and centers of culture into dead towns that paralyze her effort and hinder her progress. in a word, belgium had had no political existence for her own behoof. she was not an organic unit in the sodality of nations, but a mere cog in the mechanism of european equilibrium. ruined by the war, belgium was sorely tried by the peace conference. she complained of two open wounds which poisoned her existence, stunted her economic growth, and rendered her self-defense an impossibility: the vast gap of limburg on the east and the blocking of the scheldt on the west. the great national _réduit_, antwerp, cut off from the sea, inaccessible to succor in case of war, on the one side, and limburg opening to germany's armies the road through central belgium, on the other--these were the two standing dangers which it was hoped would be removed. how dangerous they are events had demonstrated. in october, , antwerp fell because holland had closed the scheldt and forbidden the entrance to warships and transports, and in november, , a german army of over seventy thousand men eluded pursuit by the allies by passing through dutch limburg, carrying with them vast war materials and booty. militarily belgium is exposed to mortal perils so long as the treaties which ordained this preposterous division of territories are maintained in vigor. economically, too, the consequences, especially of the status of the scheldt, are admittedly baleful. to holland the river is practically useless--indeed, the only advantage it could confer would be the power of impeding the growth and prosperity of antwerp for the benefit of its rival, rotterdam. all that the belgians desired there was the complete control of their national river, with the right of carrying out the works necessary to keep it navigable. a like demand was put forward for the canal of terneuzen, which links the city of ghent with the scheldt; and the suppression of the checks and hindrances to belgium's free communications with her hinterland--_i.e._, the basins of the meuse and the rhine. prom every point of view, including that of international law, the claims made were at once modest and grounded. but the supreme council had no time to devote to such subsidiary matters, and, like more momentous issues, they were adjourned. the belgian delegation did not ask that holland's territory should be curtailed. on the contrary, they would have welcomed its increase by the addition of territory inhabited by people of her own idiom, under german sway.[ ] but the dutch demurred, as denmark had done in the matter of the third schleswig zone, for fear of offending germany. and the supreme council acquiesced in the refusal. again, when issues were under discussion that turned upon the rhine country and affected belgian interests, her delegates were never consulted. they were systematically ignored by the conference. when the capital of the league of nations was to be chosen, their hopes that brussels would be deemed worthy of the honor were blasted by president wilson himself. one of the american delegates informed a foreign colleague "that the capital of the league must be situate in a tranquil country, must have a steady, settled population and a really good climate." "a good climate?" asked a continental statesman. "then why not choose monte carlo?" but the decision in favor of geneva was sent by courier from switzerland ready made to president wilson. the chief grounds which lent color to the belief that religious bias played a larger part in the conference's decisions than was apparent were the following: it was from geneva that the spirit of religious and political liberty first went forth to be incarnated among the various nations of the world. it is to john calvin, rather than to martin luther, that the birth of the scotch covenanters and of english puritanism is traceable. hence geneva is the parent of new england. so, too, it was rousseau--a true child of calvin--who was the author of america's declaration of independence. again, one of the first pacifists and advocates of international arbitration was born in geneva. john knox sat for two years at the feet of calvin. consequently the puritan revolution, the french revolution, and the american revolution all had their springs in geneva. these were the considerations which weighed with president wilson when he refused to fix his choice on brussels. in vain the belgians argued and pleaded, urging that if the conference were to vote for london, washington, or paris, they would receive the announcement with respectful acquiescence, but that among the lesser states they conceived that their country's claims were the best grounded. to the americans who objected that switzerland's mountains and lakes, being free from hateful war memories, offer more fitting surroundings for the capital of the league of peace than brussels, where vestiges of the odious struggle will long survive, they answered that they could only regret that belgium's resistance to the lawless invaders should be taken to disqualify her for the honor. it is worth while pursuing this matter a step farther. the federal council in berne having soon afterward officially recommended[ ] the nation to enter the league which guarantees it neutrality,[ ] an illuminating discussion ensued. and it was elicited that as there is an obligation imposed on all member-states to execute the decrees of the league for the coercion of rebellious fellow-members, it follows that in such cases switzerland, too, would be obliged to take an active part in the struggle between the league and the recalcitrant country. from military operations, however, switzerland is dispensed, but it would certainly be bound to adopt economic measures of pressure, and to this extent abandon its neutrality. now not only would that attitude be construed by the disobedient nation as unfriendly, and the usual consequences drawn from it, but as switzerland is freed from military co-operation, it follows that the league could not fix the headquarters of its military command in its own capital, geneva, as that would constitute a violation of swiss neutrality. and, if it did, switzerland would in self-defense be bound to oppose the decision! the belgians were discouraged by the disdainful demeanor and grudging disposition of the supreme council, and irritated by the arbitrariness of its decrees and the indefensible way in which it applied principles that were propounded as sacred. before restoring the diminutive cantons of eupen and malmedy to belgium, for example, mr. wilson insisted on ascertaining the will of the population by plebiscite. in itself the measure was reasonable, but the position of these little districts was substantially on all-fours with alsace-lorraine, which was restored to france without any such test. in fiume, also, the will of the inhabitants went for nothing, mr. wilson refusing to consult them. further, austria, whose people were known to favor union with germany, was systematically jockeyed into ruinous isolation. "now what, in the light of these conflicting judgments," asked the belgians, "is the true meaning of the principle of self-determination?" the only reply they received was that mr. wilson was right when he told his fellow-countrymen that his principles stood in need of interpretation, and that, as he was the sole authorized interpreter, his presence was required in europe. in money matters, too, the chief plenipotentiaries can hardly be acquitted of something akin to niggardliness toward the country which had saved theirs from a catastrophe. down to the month of may, , two and a half milliard francs was the maximum sum allotted to belgium by the supreme council. and for the work of restoring the devastated country, which the great powers had spontaneously promised to accomplish, it was alleged by experts to be wholly inadequate. other financial grievances were ignored--for a time. further, it was decided that germany should surrender her african colonies to the great powers; yet belgium, who contributed materially to their conquest, was not to be associated with them. irritated by this illiberality, the belgian delegation, having consulted with m. renkin, to whose judgment in these matters special weight attached, resolved to make a firm stand, and refused to sign the treaty unless at least certain modest financial, economic, and colonial claims, which ought to have been settled spontaneously, were accorded under pressure. and the supreme council, rather than be arraigned before the world on the charge of behaving unjustly as well as ungenerously toward belgium, ultimately gave way, leaving, however, an impression behind which seemed as indelible as it was profound.... the domination which is now being exercised by the principal powers over the remaining states of the world is fraught with consequences which were not foreseen, and have not yet been realized by those who established it. among the least momentous, but none the less real, is one to which belgium is exposed. hitherto there was a language problem in that heroic country which, being an internal controversy, could be settled without noteworthy perturbations by the good-will of the walloons and the flemings. the danger, which one fervently hopes will be warded off, consists in the possible transformation of that dispute into an international question, in consequence of possible accords of a military or economic nature. the subject is too delicate to be handled by a foreigner, and the belgian people are too practical and law-loving not to avoid unwary steps that might turn a linguistic problem into a racial issue. the supreme council soon came to be looked upon as the prototype of the future league, and in that light its action was sharply scrutinized by all whom the league concerned. foremost among these were the representatives of the lesser states, or, as they were termed, "states with limited interests." this band of patriots had pilgrimaged to paris full of hope for their respective countries, having drunk in avidly the unstinted praise and promises which had served as pabulum for their attachment to the allied cause during the war. but their illusions were short-lived. at one of their first meetings with the delegates of the great powers a storm burst which scattered their expectations to the winds. when the sky cleared it was discovered that from indispensable fellow-workers they had shrunk to dwarfish protégées, mere units of an inferior category, who were to be told what to do and would be constrained to do it thoroughly if not unmurmuringly. at the historic sitting of january th, the delegates of the lesser states protested energetically against the purely decorative part assigned to them at a conference in the decisions of which their peoples were so intensely interested. the canadian minister, having spoken of the "proposal" of the great powers, was immediately corrected by m. clemenceau, who brusquely said that it was not a proposal, but a decision, which was therefore definitive and final. thereupon the belgian delegate, m. hymans, delivered a masterly speech, pleading for genuine discussion in order to elucidate matters that so closely concerned them all, and he requested the conference to allow the smaller belligerent allies more than two delegates. their demand was curtly rejected by the french premier, who informed his hearers that the conference was the creation of the great powers, who intended to keep the direction of its labors in their own hands. he added significantly that the smaller nations' representatives would probably not have been invited at all if the special problem of the league of nations had not been mooted. nor should it be forgotten, he added, that the five great powers represented no less than twelve million fighting-men.... in conclusion, he told them that they had better get on with their work in lieu of wasting precious time in speechmaking. these words produced a profound and lasting effect, which, however, was hardly the kind intended by the french statesman. "conferential tsarism" was the term applied to this magisterial method by one of the offended delegates. he said to me on the morrow: "my reply to m. clemenceau was ready, but fear of impairing the prestige of the conference prevented me from uttering it. i could have emphasized the need for unanimity in the presence of vigilant enemies, ready to introduce a wedge into every fissure of the edifice we are constructing. i could have pointed out that, this being an assembly of nations which had waged war conjointly, there is no sound reason why its membership should be diluted with states which never drew the sword at all. i might have asked what has become of the doctrine preached when victory was still undecided, that a league of nations must repose upon a free consent of all sovereign states. and above all things else i could have inquired how it came to pass that the architect-in-chief of the society of nations which is to bestow a stable peace on mankind should invoke the argument of force, of militarism, against the pacific peoples who voluntarily made the supreme sacrifice for the cause of humanity and now only ask for a hearing. twelve million fighting-men is an argument to be employed against the teutons, not against the peace-loving, law-abiding peoples of europe. "premier clemenceau seemed to lay the blame for the waste of time on our shoulders, but the truth is that we were never admitted to the deliberations until yesterday; although two and one-half months have elapsed since the armistice was concluded, and although the progress made by these leading statesmen is manifestly limited, he grudged us forty-five minutes to give vent to our views and wishes. "the french tiger was admirable when crushing the enemies of civilization with his twelve million fighting-men; but gestures and actions which were appropriate to the battlefield become sources of jarring and discord when imported into a concert of peoples." much bitterness was generated by those high-handed tactics, whereupon certain slight concessions were made in order to placate the offended delegates; but, being doled out with a bad grace, they failed of the effect intended. belgium received three delegates instead of two, and jugoslavia three; but rumania, whose population was estimated at fourteen millions, was allowed but two. this inexplicable decision caused a fresh wound, which was kept continuously open by friction, although it might readily have been avoided. its consequences may be traced in rumania's singular relations to the supreme council before and after the fall of kuhn in hungary. but even those drastic methods might be deemed warranted if the policy enforced were, in truth, conducive to the welfare of the nations on whom it was imposed. but hastily improvised by one or two men, who had no claim to superior or even average knowledge of the problems involved, and who were constantly falling into egregious and costly errors, it was inevitable that their intervention should be resented as arbitrary and mischievous by the leaders of the interested nations whose acquaintanceship with those questions and with the interdependent issues was extensive and precise. this resentment, however, might have been not, indeed, neutralized, but somewhat mitigated, if the temper and spirit in which the duumvirate discharged its self-set functions had been free from hauteur and softened by modesty. but the magisterial wording in which its decisions were couched, the abruptness with which they were notified, and the threats that accompanied their imposition would have been repellent even were the authors endowed with infallibility. one of the delegates who unbosomed himself to me on the subject soon after the germans had signed the treaty remarked: "the big three are superlatively unsympathetic to most of the envoys from the lesser belligerent states. and it would be a wonder if it were otherwise, for they make no effort to hide their disdain for us. in fact, it is downright contempt. they never consult us. when we approach them they shove us aside as importunate intruders. they come to decisions unknown to us, and carry them out in secrecy, as though we were enemies or spies. if we protest or remonstrate, we are imperialists and ungrateful. "often we learn only from the newspapers the burdens or the restrictions that have been imposed on us." a couple of days previously m. clemenceau, in an unofficial reply to a question put by the rumanian delegation, directed them to consult the financial terms of the treaty with austria, forgetting that the delegates of the lesser states had not been allowed to receive or read those terms. although communicated to the austrians, they were carefully concealed from the rumanians, whom they also concerned. at the same time, the rumanian government was called upon to take and announce a decision which presupposed acquaintanceship with those conditions, whereupon the rumanian premier telegraphed from bucharest to paris to have them sent. but his _locum tenens_ did not possess a copy and had no right to demand one.[ ] incongruities of this character were frequent. one statesman in paris, who enjoys a world-wide reputation, dissented from those who sided with the lesser states. he looked at their protests and tactics from an angle of vision which the unbiased historian, however emphatically he may dissent from it, cannot ignore. he said: "all the smaller communities are greedy and insatiable. if the chiefs of the world powers had understood their temper and ascertained their aspirations in , much that has passed into history since then would never have taken place. during the war these miniature countries were courted, flattered, and promised the sun and the moon, earth and heaven, and all the glories therein. and now that these promises cannot be redeemed, they are wroth, and peevishly threaten the great states with disobedience and revolt. this, it is true, they could not do if the latter had not forfeited their authority and prestige by allowing their internal differences, hesitations, contradictions, and repentances to become manifest to all. to-day it is common knowledge that the great powers are amenable to very primitive incentives and deterrents. if in the beginning they had been united and said to their minor brethren: 'these are your frontiers. these your obligations,' the minor brethren would have bowed and acquiesced gratefully. in this way the boundary problems might have been settled to the satisfaction of all, for each new or enlarged state would have been treated as the recipient of a free gift from the world powers. but the plenipotentiaries went about their task in a different and unpractical fashion. they began by recognizing the new communities, and then they gave them representatives at the conference. this they did on the ground that the league of nations must first be founded, and that all well-behaved belligerents on the allied side have a right to be consulted upon that. and, finally, instead of keeping to their program and liquidating the war, they mingled the issues of peace with the clauses of the league and debated them simultaneously. in these debates they revealed their own internal differences, their hesitancy, and the weakness of their will. and the lesser states have taken advantage of that. the general results have been the postponement of peace, the physical exhaustion of the central empires, and the spread of bolshevism." it should not be forgotten that this mixture of the general and the particular of the old order and the new was objected to on other grounds. the italians, for example, urged that it changed the status of a large number of their adversaries into that of highly privileged allies. during the war they were enemies, before the peace discussions opened they had obtained forgiveness, after which they entered the conference as cherished friends. the italians had waged their war heroically against the austrians, who inflicted heavy losses on them. who were these austrians? they were composed of the various nationalities which made up the hapsburg monarchy, and in especial of men of slav speech. these soldiers, with notable exceptions, discharged their duty to the austrian emperor and state conscientiously, according to the terms of their oath. their disposition toward the italians was not a whit less hostile than was that of the common german man against the french and the english. why, then, argued the italians, accord them privileges over the ally who bore the brunt of the fight against them? why even treat the two as equals? it may be replied that the bulk of the people were indifferent and merely carried out orders. well, the same holds good of the average german, yet he is not being spoiled by the victorious world powers. but the croats and others suddenly became the favorite children of the conference, while the germans and teuton-austrians, who in the meanwhile had accepted and fulfilled president wilson's conditions for entry into the fellowship of nations, were not only punished heavily--which was perfectly just--but also disqualified for admission into the league, which was inconsistent. the root of all the incoherences complained of lay in the circumstance that the chiefs of the great powers had no program, no method; mr. wilson's pristine scheme would have enabled him to treat the gallant serbs and their croatian brethren as he desired. but he had failed to maintain it against opposition. on the other hand, the traditional method of the balance of power would have given italy all that she could reasonably ask for, but mr. wilson had partially destroyed it. nothing remained then but to have recourse to a _tertium quid_ which profoundly dissatisfied both parties and imperiled the peace of the world in days to come. and even this makeshift the eminent plenipotentiaries were unable to contrive single-handed. their notion of getting the work done was to transfer it to missions, commissions, and sub-commissions, and then to take action which, as often as not, ran counter to the recommendations of these selected agents. oddly enough, none of these bodies received adequate directions. to take a concrete example: a central commission was appointed to deal with the polish frontier problems, a second commission under m. jules cambon had to study the report on the polish delimitation question, but although often consulted, it was seldom listened to. then there was a third commission, which also did excellent work to very little purpose. now all the questions which formed the subjects of their inquiries might be approached from various sides. there were historical frontiers, ethnographical frontiers, political and strategical and linguistic frontiers. and this does not exhaust the list. among all these, then, the commissioners had to choose their field of investigation as the spirit moved them, without any guidance from the supreme council, which presumably did not know what it wanted. as an example of the council's unmethodical procedure, and of its slipshod way of tackling important work, the following brief sketch of a discussion which was intended to be decisive and final, but ended in mere waste of time, may be worth recording. the topic mooted was disarmament. the anglo-saxon plenipotentiaries, feeling that they owed it to their doctrines and their peoples to ease the military burdens of the latter and lessen temptations to acts of violence, favored a measure by which armaments should be reduced forthwith. the italian delegates had put forward the thesis, which was finally accepted, that if austria, for instance, was to be forbidden to keep more than a certain number of troops under arms, the prohibition should be extended to all the states of which austria had been composed, and that in all these cases the ratio between the population and the army should be identical. accordingly, the spokesmen of the various countries interested were summoned to take cognizance of the decision and intimate their readiness to conform to it. m. paderewski listened respectfully to the decree, and then remarked: "according to the accounts received from the french military authorities, germany still has three hundred and fifty thousand soldiers in silesia." "no," corrected m. clemenceau, "only three hundred thousand." "i accept the correction," replied the polish premier. "the difference, however, is of no importance to my contention, which is that according to the symptoms reported we poles may have to fight the germans and to wage the conflict single-handed. as you know, we have other military work on hand. i need only mention our strife with the bolsheviki. if we are deprived of effective means of self-defense, on the one hand, and told to expect no help from the allies, on the other hand, the consequence will be what every intelligent observer foresees. now three hundred thousand germans is no trifle to cope with. if we confront them with an inadequate force and are beaten, what then?" "undoubtedly," exclaimed m. clemenceau, "if the germans were victorious in the east of europe the allies would have lost the war. and that is a perspective not to be faced." m. bratiano spoke next. "we too," he said, "have to fight the bolsheviki on more than one front. this struggle is one of life and death to us. but it concerns, if only in a lesser degree, all europe, and we are rendering services to the great powers by the sacrifices we thus offer up. is it desirable, is it politic, to limit our forces without reference to these redoubtable tasks which await them? is it not incumbent on the powers to allow these states to grow to the dimensions required for the discharge of their functions?" "what you advance is true enough for the moment," objected m. clemenceau; "but you forget that our limitations are not to be applied at once. we fix a term after the expiry of which the strength of the armies will be reduced. we have taken all the circumstances into account." "are you prepared to affirm," queried the rumanian minister, "that you can estimate the time with sufficient precision to warrant our risking the existence of our country on your forecast?" "the danger will have completely disappeared," insisted the french premier, "by january, ." "i am truly glad to have this assurance," answered m. bratiano, "for i doubt not that you are quite certain of what you advance, else you would not stake the fate of your eastern allies on its correctness. but as we who have not been told the grounds on which you base this calculation are asked to manifest our faith in it by incurring the heaviest conceivable risks, would it be too much to suggest that the great powers should show their confidence in their own forecast by guaranteeing that if by the insurgence of unexpected events they proved to be mistaken and rumania were attacked, they would give us prompt and adequate military assistance?" to this appeal there was no affirmative response; whereupon m. bratiano concluded: "the limitation of armaments is highly desirable. no people is more eager for it than ours. but it has one limitation which must, i venture to think, be respected. so long as you have a restive or dubious neighbor, whose military forces are subjected neither to limitation nor control, you cannot divest yourself of your own means of self-defense. that is our view of the matter." months later the same difficulty cropped up anew, this time in a concrete form, and was dealt with by the supreme council in its characteristic manner. toward the end of august rumania's doings in hungary and her alleged designs on the banat alarmed and angered the delegates, whose authority was being flouted with impunity; and by way of summarily terminating the scandal and preventing unpleasant surprises m. clemenceau proposed that all further consignments of arms to rumania should cease. thereupon italy's chief representative, signor tittoni, offered an amendment. he deprecated, he said, any measure leveled specially against rumania, all the more that there existed already an enactment of the old council of four limiting the armaments of all the lesser states. the military council of versailles, having been charged with the study of this matter, had reached the conclusion that the great powers should not supply any of the governments with war material. signor tittoni was of the opinion, therefore, that those conclusions should now be enforced. the council thereupon agreed with the italian delegate, and passed a resolution to supply none of the lesser countries with war material. and a few minutes later it passed another resolution authorizing germany to cede part of her munitions and war material to czechoslovakia and some more to general yudenitch![ ] when the commissions to which all the complex problems had to be referred were being first created,[ ] the lesser states were allowed only five representatives on the financial and economic commissions, and were bidden to elect them. the nineteen delegates of these states protested on the ground that this arrangement would not give them sufficient weight in the councils by which their interests would be discussed. these malcontents were headed by senhor epistacio pessoa, the president-elect of the united states of brazil. the polish delegate, m. dmowski, addressing the meeting, suggested that they should not proceed to an election, the results of which might stand in no relation to the interests which the states represented had in matters of european finance, but that they should ask the great powers to appoint the delegates. to this the president-elect of brazil demurred, taking the ground that it would be undignified for the lesser states to submit to have their spokesman nominated by the greater. thereupon they elected five delegates, all of them from south american countries, to deal with european finance, leaving the europeans to choose five from among themselves. this would have given ten in all to the communities whose interests were described as limited, and was an affront to the great powers. this comedy was severely judged and its authors reprimanded by the heads of the conference, who, while quashing the elections, relented to the extent of promising that extra delegates might be appointed for the lesser nations later on. as a matter of fact, the number of commissions was of no real consequence, because on all momentous issues their findings, unless they harmonized with the decisions of the chief plenipotentiaries, were simply ignored. the curious attitude of the supreme council toward rumania may be contemplated from various angles of vision. but the safest coign of vantage from which to look at it is that formed by the facts. rumania's grievances were many, and they began at the opening of the conference, when she was refused more than two delegates as against the five attributed to each of the great powers and three each for serbia and belgium, whose populations are numerically inferior to hers. then her treaty with great britain, france, and russia, on the strength of which she entered the war, was upset by its more powerful signatories as soon as the frontier question was mooted at the conference. further, the existence of the rumanian delegation was generally ignored by the supreme council. thus, when the treaty with germany was presented to count von brockdorff-rantzau, a mere journalist[ ] at the conference possessed a complete copy, whereas the rumanian delegation, headed by the prime minister bratiano, had cognizance only of an incomplete summary. when the fragmentary treaty was drafted for austria, the rumanian delegation saw the text only on the evening before the presentation, and, noticing inacceptable clauses, formulated reservations. these reservations were apparently acquiesced in by the members of the supreme council. that, at any rate, was the impression of mm. bratiano and misu. but on the following day, catching a glimpse of the draft, they discovered that the obnoxious provisions had been left intact. then they lodged their reserves in writing, but to no purpose. one of the obligations imposed on rumania by the powers was a promise to accept in advance any and every measure that the supreme council might frame for the protection of minorities in the country, and for further restricting the sovereignty of the state in matters connected with the transit of allied goods. and, lastly, the rumanians complained that the action of the supreme council was creating a dangerous ferment in the dobrudja, and even in transylvania, where the saxon minority, which had willingly accepted rumanian sway, was beginning to agitate against it. in bessarabia the non-rumanian elements of the population were fiercely opposing the rumanians and invoking the support of the peace conference. the cardinal fact which, in the judgment of the rumanians, dominated the situation was the _quasi_ ultimatum presented to them in the spring, when they were summoned unofficially and privately to grant industrial concessions to a pushing body of financiers, or else to abide by the consequences, one of which, they were told, would be the loss of america's active assistance. they had elected to incur the threatened penalty after having carefully weighed the advantages and disadvantages of laying the matter before president wilson himself, and inquiring officially whether the action in question was--as they felt sure it must be--in contradiction with the president's east european policy. for it would be sad to think that abundant petroleum might have washed away many of the tribulations which the rumanians had afterward to endure, and that loans accepted on onerous conditions would, as was hinted, have softened the hearts of those who had it in their power to render the existence of the nation sour or sweet.[ ] "look out," exclaimed a rumanian to me. "you will see that we shall be spurned as laodiceans, or worse, before the conference is over." rumania's external situation was even more perilous than her domestic plight. situated between russia and hungary, she came more and more to resemble the iron between the hammer and the anvil. a well-combined move of the two anarchist states might have pulverized her. alive to the danger, her spokesmen in paris were anxious to guard against it, but the only hope they had at the moment was centered in the great powers, whose delegates at the conference were discharging the functions which the league of nations would be called on to fulfil whenever it became a real institution. and their past experience of the great powers' mode of action was not calculated to command their confidence. it was the great powers which, for their own behoof and without the slightest consideration for the interests of rumania, had constrained that country to declare war against the central empires[ ] and had made promises of effective support in the shape of russian troops, war material of every kind, officers, and heavy artillery. but neither the promises of help nor the assurances that germany's army of invasion would be immobilized were redeemed, and so far as one can now judge they ought never to have been made. for what actually came to pass--the invasion of the country by first-class german armies under mackensen--might easily have been foreseen, and was actually foretold.[ ] the entire country was put to sack, and everything of value that could be removed was carried off to hungary, germany, or austria. the allies lavished their verbal sympathies on the immolated nation, but did little else to succor it, and want and misery and disease played havoc with the people. after the armistice things became worse instead of better. the hungarians were permitted to violate the conditions and keep a powerful army out of all proportion to the area which they were destined to retain, and as the allies disposed of no countering force in eastern europe, their commands were scoffed at by the budapest cabinet. in the spring of the bolshevists of hungary waxed militant and threatened the peace of rumania, whose statesmen respectfully sued for permission to occupy certain commanding positions which would have enabled their armies to protect the land from invasion. but the duumviri in paris negatived the request. they fancied that they understood the situation better than the people on the spot. thereupon the bolshevists, ever ready for an opportunity, seized upon the opening afforded them by the supreme council, attacked the rumanians, and invaded their territory. nothing abashed, the two anglo-saxon statesmen comforted m. bratiano and his colleagues with the expression of their regret and the promise that tranquillity would not again be disturbed. the supreme council would see to that. but this promise, like those that preceded it, was broken. the rumanians went so far as to believe that the supreme council either had bolshevist leanings or underwent secret influences--perhaps unwittingly--the nature of which it was not easy to ascertain. in support of these theories they urged that when the rumanians were on the very point of annihilating the red troops of kuhn, it was the supreme council which interposed its authority to save them, and did save them effectually, when nothing else could have done it. that kuhn was on the point of collapsing was a matter of common knowledge. a radio-telegram flashed from budapest by one of his lieutenants contained this significant avowal: "he [kuhn] has announced that the hungarian forces are in flight. the troops which occupied a good position at the bridgehead of gomi have abandoned it, carrying with them the men who were doing their duty. in budapest preparations are going forward for equipping fifteen workmen's battalions." in other words, the downfall of bolshevism had begun. the rumanians were on the point of achieving it. their troops on the bank of the river tisza[ ] were preparing to march on budapest. and it was at that critical moment that the world-arbiters at the conference who had anathematized the bolshevists as the curse of civilization interposed their authority and called a halt. if they had solid grounds for intervening they were not avowed. m. clemenceau sent for m. bratiano and vetoed the march in peremptory terms which did scant justice to the services rendered and the sacrifices made by the rumanian state. secret arrangements, it was whispered, had been come to between agents of the powers and kuhn. at the time nobody quite understood the motive of the sudden change of disposition evinced by the allies toward the magyar bolshevists. for it was assumed that they still regarded the bolshevist leaders as outlaws. one explanation was that they objected to allow the rumanian army alone to occupy the hungarian capital. but that would not account for their neglect to despatch an inter-allied contingent to restore order in the city and country. for they remained absolutely inactive while kuhn's supporters were rallying and consolidating their scattered and demoralized forces, and they kept the rumanians from balking the bolshevist work of preparing another attack. as one of their french critics[ ] remarked, they dealt exclusively in negatives--some of them pernicious enough, whereas a positive policy was imperatively called for. to reconstruct a nation, not to say a ruined world, a series of contradictory vetoes is hardly sufficient. but another explanation of their attitude was offered which gained widespread acceptance. it will be unfolded presently. the dispersed bolshevist army, thus shielded, soon recovered its nerve, and, feeling secure on the rumanian front, where the allies held the invading troops immobilized, attacked the slovaks and overran their country. for bolshevism is by nature proselytizing. the prague cabinet was dismayed. the new-born czechoslovak state was shaken. a catastrophe might, as it seemed, ensue at any moment. rumania's troops were on the watch for the signal to resume their march, but it came not. the czechoslovaks were soliciting it prayerfully. but the weak-kneed plenipotentiaries in paris were minded to fight, if at all, with weapons taken from a different arsenal. in lieu of ordering the rumanian troops to march on budapest, they addressed themselves to the bolshevist leader, kuhn, summoned him to evacuate the slovak country, and volunteered the promise that they would compel the rumanians to withdraw. this amazing line of action was decided on by the secret council of three without the assent or foreknowledge of the nation to whose interests it ran counter and the head of whose government was rubbing shoulders with the plenipotentiaries every day. but m. bratiano's existence and that of his fellow-delegate was systematically ignored. it is not easy to fathom the motives that inspired this supercilious treatment of the spokesman of a nation which was sacrificing its sons in the service of the allies as well as its own. personal antipathy, however real, cannot be assumed without convincing grounds to have been the mainspring. but there was worse than the contemptuous treatment of a colleague who was also the chief minister of a friendly state. if an order was to be given to the rumanian government to recall its forces from the front which they occupied, elementary courtesy and political tact as well as plain common sense would have suggested its being communicated, in the first instance, to the chief of that government--who was then resident in paris--as head of his country's delegation to the conference. but that was not the course taken. the statesmen of the secret council had recourse to the radio, and, without consulting m. bratiano, despatched a message "to the government in bucharest" enjoining on it the withdrawal of the rumanian army. for they were minded scrupulously to redeem their promise to the bolshevists. one need not be a diplomatist to realize the amazement of "the rumanian government" on receiving this abrupt behest. the feelings of the premier, when informed of these underhand doings, can readily be imagined. and it is no secret that the temper of a large section of the rumanian people was attuned by these petty freaks to sentiments which boded no good to the cause for which the allies professed to be working. in september m. bratiano was reported as having stigmatized the policy adopted by the conference toward rumania as being of a "malicious and dangerous character."[ ] the frontier to which the troops were ordered to withdraw had, as we saw, just been assigned to rumania[ ] without the assent of her government, and with a degree of secrecy and arbitrariness that gave deep offense, not only to her official representatives, but also to those parliamentarians and politicians who from genuine attachment or for peace' sake were willing to go hand in hand with the entente. "if one may classify the tree by its fruits," exclaimed a rumanian statesman in my hearing, "the great three are unconscious bolshevists. they are undermining respect for authority, tradition, plain, straightforward dealing, and, in the case of rumania, are behaving as though their staple aim were to detach our nation from france and the entente. and this aim is not unattainable. the rumanian people were heart and soul with the french, but the bonds which were strong a short while ago are being weakened among an influential section of the people, to the regret of all rumanian patriots." the answer given by the "rumanian government in bucharest" to the peremptory order of the secret council was a reasoned refusal to comply. rumania, taught by terrible experience, declined to be led once more into deadly peril against her own better judgment. her statesmen, more intimately acquainted with the hungarians than were mr. lloyd george, mr. wilson, and m. clemenceau, required guaranties which could be supplied only by armed forces--rumanian or allied. unless and until hungary received a government chosen by the free will of the people and capable of offering guaranties of good conduct, the troops must remain where they were. for the line which they occupied at the moment could be defended with four divisions, whereas the new one could not be held by less than seven or eight. the council was therefore about to commit another fateful mistake, the consequences of which it was certain to shift to the shoulders of the pliant people. it was then that rumania's leaders kicked against the pricks. to return to the dispute between bucharest and paris: the rumanian government would have been willing to conform to the desire of the supreme council and withdraw its troops if the supreme council would only make good its assurance and guarantee rumania effectually from future attacks by the hungarians. the proviso was reasonable, and as a measure of self-defense imperative. the safeguard asked for was a contingent of allied force. but the two supreme councilors in paris dealt only in counters. all they had to offer to m. bratiano were verbal exhortations before the combat and lip-sympathy after defeat, and these the premier rejected. but here, as in the case of the poles, the representatives of the "allied and associated" powers insisted. they were profuse of promises, exhortations, and entreaties before passing to threats--of guaranties they said nothing--but the rumanian premier, turning a deaf ear to cajolery and intimidation, remained inflexible. for he was convinced that their advice was often vitiated by gross ignorance and not always inspired by disinterestedness, while the orders they issued were hardly more than the velleities of well-meaning gropers in the dark who lacked the means of executing them. the eminent plenipotentiaries, thus set at naught by a little state, ruminated on the embarrassing situation. in all such cases their practice had been to resign themselves to circumstances if they proved unable to bend circumstances to their schemes. it was thus that president wilson had behaved when british statesmen declined even to hear him on the subject of the freedom of the seas, when m. clemenceau refused to accept a peace that denied the saar valley and a pledge of military assistance to france, and when japan insisted on the retrocession of shantung. toward italy an attitude of firmness had been assumed, because owing to her economic dependence on britain and the united states she could not indulge in the luxury of nonconformity. hence the plenipotentiaries, and in particular mr. wilson, asserted their will inexorably and were painfully surprised that one of the lesser states had the audacity to defy it. the circumstance that after their triumph over italy the world's trustees were thus publicly flouted by a little state of eastern europe was gall and wormwood to them. it was also a menace to the cause with which they were identified. none the less, they accepted the inevitable for the moment, pitched their voices in a lower key, and decided to approve the rumanian thesis that neo-bolshevism in hungary must be no longer bolstered up,[ ] but be squashed vicariously. they accordingly invited the representatives of the three little countries on which the honor of waging these humanitarian wars in the anarchist east of europe was to be conferred, and sounded them as to their willingness to put their soldiers in the field, and how many as to the numbers available. m. bratiano offered eight divisions. the czechoslovaks did not relish the project, but after some delay and fencing around agreed to furnish a contingent, whereas the jugoslavs met the demand with a plain negative, which was afterward changed to acquiescence when the council promised to keep the italians from attacking them. as things turned out, none but the rumanians actually fought the hungarian reds. meanwhile the members of the american, british, and italian missions in hungary endeavored to reach a friendly agreement with the criminal gang in budapest. the plan of campaign decided on had marshal foch for its author. it was, therefore, business-like. he demanded a quarter of a million men,[ ] to which it was decided that rumania should contribute , , jugoslavia , , and czechoslovakia as many as she could conveniently afford. but the day before the preparations were to have begun,[ ] bela kuhn flung his troops[ ] against the rumanians with initial success, drove them across the tisza with considerable loss, took up commanding positions, and struck dismay into the members of the supreme council. the semitic dictator, with grim humor, explained to the crestfallen lawgivers, who were once more at fault, that a wanton breach of the peace was alien to his thoughts; that, on the contrary, his motive for action deserved high praise--it was to compel the rebellious rumanians to obey the behest of the conference and withdraw to their frontiers. the plenipotentiaries bore this gibe with dignity, and decided to have recourse once more to their favorite, and, indeed, only method--the despatch of exhortative telegrams. of more efficacious means they were destitute. this time their message, which lacked a definite address, was presumably intended for the anti-bolshevist population of hungary, whom it indirectly urged to overthrow the kuhn cabinet and receive the promised reward--namely, the privilege of entering into formal relations with the entente and signing the death-warrant of the magyar state. it is not easy to see how this solution alone could have enabled the supreme council to establish normal conditions and tranquillity in the land. but the duumvirate seemed utterly incapable of devising a coherent policy for central or eastern europe. even when hungary had a government friendly to the entente they never obtained any advantage from it. they had had no use for count karolyi. they had allowed things to slip and slide, and permitted--nay, helped--bolshevism to thrive, although they had brand-marked it as a virulent epidemic to be drastically stamped out. temper, education, and training disqualified them for seizing opportunity and pressing the levers that stood ready to their hand. in consequence of the vacillation of the two chiefs, who seldom stood firm in the face of difficulties, the members of the predatory gang which concealed its alien origin under magyar nationality and its criminal propensities[ ] under a political mask had been enabled to go on playing an odious comedy, to the disgust of sensible people and the detriment of the new and enlarged states of europe. for the cost of the supreme council's weakness had to be paid in blood and substance, little though the two delegates appeared to realize this. the extent to which the ruinous process was carried out would be incredible were it not established by historic facts and documents. the permanent agents of the powers in hungary,[ ] preferring conciliation to force, now exhorted the hungarians to rid themselves of kuhn and promised in return to expel the rumanians from hungarian territory once more and to have the blockade raised. at the close of july some magyars from austria met kuhn at a frontier station[ ] and strove to persuade him to withdraw quietly into obscurity, but he, confiding in the policy of the allies and his star, scouted the suggestion. it was at this juncture that the rumanians, pushing on to budapest, resolved, come what might, to put an end to the intolerable situation and to make a clean job of it once for all. and they succeeded. for rumania's initial military reverse[ ] was the result of a surprise attack by some eighty thousand men. but her troops rapidly regained their warlike spirit, recrossed the river tisza, shattered the neo-bolshevist regime, and reached the environs of budapest. by the st of august the lawless band that was ruining the country relinquished the reins of power, which were taken over at first by a socialist cabinet of which an influential french press organ wrote: "the names of the new ... commissaries of the people tell us nothing, because their bearers are unknown. but the endings of their names tell us that most of them are, like those of the preceding government, of jewish origin. never since the inauguration of official communism did budapest better deserve the appellation of judapest, which was assigned to it by the late m. lueger, chief of the christian socialists of vienna. that is an additional trait in common with the russian soviets."[ ] the rumanians presented a stiff ultimatum to the new hungarian cabinet. they were determined to safeguard their country and its neighbors from a repetition of the danger and of the sacrifices it entailed; in other words, to dictate the terms of a new armistice. the powers demurred and ordered them to content themselves with the old one concluded by the serbian voyevod mishitch and general henrys in november of the preceding year and violated subsequently by the magyars. but the objections to this course were many and unanswerable. in fact they were largely identical with the objections which the supreme council itself had offered to the polish-ukrainian armistice. and besides these there were others. for example, the rumanians had had no hand or part in drafting the old armistice. moreover it was clearly inapplicable to the fresh campaign which was waged and terminated nine months after it had been drawn up. experience had shown that it was inadequate to guarantee public tranquillity, for it had not hindered magyar attacks on the rumanians and czechoslovaks. the rumanians, therefore, now that they had worsted their adversaries, were resolved to disarm them and secure a real peace. they decided to leave fifteen thousand troops for the maintenance of internal order.[ ] rumania's insistence on the delivery of live-stock, corn, agricultural machinery, and rolling-stock for railways was, it was argued, necessitated by want and justified by equity. for it was no more than partial reparation for the immense losses wantonly inflicted on the nation by the magyars and their allies. until then no other amends had been made or even offered. the austrians, hungarians, and germans, during their two years' occupation of rumania, had seized and carried off from the latter country two million five hundred thousand tons of wheat and hundreds of thousands of head of cattle, besides vast quantities of clothing, wool, skins, and raw material, while thousands of rumanian homes were gutted and their contents taken away and sold in the central empires. factories were stripped of their machinery and the railways of their engines and wagons. when mackensen left there remained in rumania only fifty locomotives out of the twelve hundred which she possessed before the war. the material, therefore, that rumania removed from hungary during the first weeks of the occupation represented but a small part of the quantities of which she had been despoiled during the war. it was further urged that at the beginning the rumanian delegates would have contented themselves with reparation for losses wantonly inflicted and for the restitution of the property wrongfully taken from them by their enemies, on the lines on which france had obtained this offset. they had asked for this, but were informed that their request could not be complied with. they were not even permitted to send a representative to germany to point out to the inter-allied authorities the objects of which their nation had been robbed, as though the plunderers would voluntarily give up their ill-gotten stores! it was partly because of these restrictions that the rumanian authorities resolved to take what belonged to them without more ado. and they could not, they said, afford to wait, because they were expecting an attack by the russian bolsheviki and it behooved them to have done with one foe before taking on another. these explanations irritated in lieu of calming the supreme council. "possibly," wrote the well-informed _temps_, "rumania would have been better treated if she had closed with certain proposals of loans on crushing terms or complied with certain demands for oil concessions."[ ] possibly. but surely problems of justice, equity, and right ought never to have been mixed up with commercial and industrial interests, whether with the connivance or by the carelessness of the holders of a vast trust who needed and should have merited unlimited confidence. it is neither easy nor edifying to calculate the harm which transactions of this nature, whether completed or merely inchoate, are capable of inflicting on the great community for whose moral as well as material welfare the supreme council was laboring in darkness against so many obstacles of its own creation. is it surprising that the states which suffered most from these weaknesses of the potent delegates should have resented their misdirection and endeavored to help themselves as best they could? it may be blameworthy and anti-social, but it is unhappily natural and almost unavoidable. it is sincerely to be regretted that the art of stimulating the nations--about which the delegates were so solicitous--to enthusiastic readiness to accept the council as the "moral guide of the world" should have been exercised in such bungling fashion. the supreme council then feeling impelled to assert its dignity against the wilfulness of a small nation decided on ignoring alike the service and the disservice rendered by rumania's action. accordingly, it proceeded without reference to any of the recent events except the disappearance of the bolshevist gang. four generals were accordingly told off to take the conduct of hungarian affairs into their hands despite their ignorance of the actual conditions of the problem.[ ] they were ordered to disarm the magyars, to deliver up hungary's war material to the allies, of whom only the rumanians and the czechoslovaks had taken the field against the enemy since the conclusion of the armistice the year before, and they were also to exercise their authority over the rumanian victors and the serbs, both of whom occupied hungarian territory. the _temps_ significantly remarked that the supreme council, while not wishing to deal with any hungarian government but one qualified to represent the country, "seems particularly eager to see resumed the importation of foreign wares into hungary. certain persons appear to fear that rumania, by retaking from the magyars wagons and engines, might check the resumption of this traffic."[ ] what it all came to was that the great powers, who had left rumania to her fate when she was attacked by the magyars, intervened the moment the assailed nation, helping itself, got the better of its enemy, and then they resolved to balk it of the fruits of victory and of the safeguards it would fain have created for the future. it was to rely upon the supreme council once more, to take the broken reed for a solid staff. that the powers had something to urge in support of their interposition will not be denied. they rightly set forth that rumania was not hungary's only creditor. her neighbors also possessed claims that must be satisfied as far as feasible, and equity prompted the pooling of all available assets. this plea could not be refuted. but the credit which the pleaders ought to have enjoyed in the eyes of the rumanian nation was so completely sapped by their antecedents that no heed was paid to their reasoning, suasion, or promises. rumania, therefore, in requisitioning hungarian property was formally in the wrong. on the other hand, it should be borne in mind that she, like other nations, was exasperated by the high-handed action of the great powers, who proceeded as though her good-will and loyalty were of no consequence to the pacification of eastern europe. after due deliberation the supreme council agreed upon the wording of a conciliatory message, not to the rumanians, but to the magyars, to be despatched to lieutenant-colonel romanelli. the gist of it was the old refrain, "to carry out the terms of the armistice[ ] and respect the frontiers traced by the supreme council[ ] and we will protect you from the rumanians, who have no authority from us. we are sending forthwith an inter-allied military commission[ ] to superintend the disarmament and see that the rumanian troops withdraw." it cannot be denied that the rumanian conditions were drastic. but it should be remembered that the provocation amounted almost to justification. and as for the crime of disobedience, it will not be gainsaid that a large part of the responsibility fell on the shoulders of the lawgivers in paris, whose decrees, coming oracularly from olympian heights without reference to local or other concrete circumstances, inflicted heavy losses in blood and substance on the ill-starred people of rumania. and to make matters worse, rumania's official representatives at the conference had been not merely ignored, but reprimanded like naughty school-children by a harsh dominie and occasionally humiliated by men whose only excuse was nervous tenseness in consequence of overwork combined with morbid impatience at being contradicted in matters which they did not understand. other states had contemplated open rebellion against the big ferrule of the "bosses," and more than once the resolution was taken to go on strike unless certain concessions were accorded them. alone the rumanians executed their resolve. naturally the destiny-weavers of peoples and nations in paris were dismayed at the prospect and apprehensive lest the rumanians should end the war in their own way. they despatched three notes in quick succession to the bucharest government, one of which reads like a peevish indictment hastily drafted before the evidence had been sifted or even carefully read. it raked up many of the old accusations that had been leveled against the rumanians, tacked them on to the crime of insubordination, and without waiting for an answer--assuming, in fact, that there could be no satisfactory answer--summoned them to prove publicly by their acts that they accepted and were ready to execute in good faith the policy decided upon by the conference.[ ] that note seemed unnecessarily offensive and acted on the rumanians as a powerful irritant,[ ] besides exposing the active members of the supreme council to scathing criticism. the rumanians asked their entente friends in private to outline the policy which they were accused of countering, and were told in reply that it was beyond the power of the most ingenious hair-splitting casuist to define or describe. "as for us," wrote one of the stanchest supporters of the entente in french journalism, "who have followed with attention the labors and the utterances, written and oral, of the four, the five, the ten, of the supreme and superior councils, we have not yet succeeded in discovering what was the 'policy decided by the conference.' we have indeed heard or read countless discourses pronounced by the choir-masters. they abound in noble thought, in eloquent expositions, in protests, and in promises. but of aught that could be termed a policy we have not found a trace."[ ] this verdict will be indorsed by the historian. the rumanians seemed in no hurry to reply to the council's three notes. they were said to be too busy dealing out what they considered rough and ready justice to their enemies, and were impatient of the intervention of their "friends." they seized rolling-stock, cattle, agricultural implements, and other property of the kind that had been stolen from their own people and sent the booty home without much ado. work of this kind was certain to be accompanied by excesses and the conference received numerous protests from the aggrieved inhabitants. but on the whole rumania, at any rate during the first few weeks of the occupation, had the substantial sympathy of the largest and most influential section of the world's press. people declared that they were glad to see the haze of self-righteousness and cant at last dispelled by a whiff of wholesome egotism. from the outspoken comments of the most widely circulating journals in france and britain the dictators in paris, who were indignant that the counsels of the strong should carry so little weight in eastern europe, could acquaint themselves with the impression which their efforts at cosmic legislation were producing among the saner elements of mankind. in almost every language one could read words of encouragement to the recalcitrant rumanians for having boldly burst the irksome bonds in which the peoples of the world were being pinioned. "it is our view," wrote one firm adherent of the entente, "that having proved incapable of protecting the rumanians in their hour of danger, our alliance cannot to-day challenge the safeguards which they have won for themselves."[ ] "if liberty had her old influence," one read in another popular journal,[ ] "the great powers would not be bringing pressure to bear on rumania with the object of saving hungary from richly deserved punishment." "instead of nagging the rumanians," wrote an eminent french publicist, "they would do much better to keep the turks in hand. if the turks in despair, in order to win american sympathies, proclaim themselves socialists, syndicalists, or laborists, will president wilson permit them to renovate armenia and other places after the manner of jinghiz khan?"[ ] but what may have weighed with the supreme council far more than the disapproval of publicists were its own impotence, the undignified figure it was cutting, and the injury that was being done to the future league of nations by the impunity with which one of the lesser states could thus set at naught the decisions of its creators and treat them with almost the same disrespect which they themselves had displayed toward the rumanian delegates in paris. they saw that once their energetic representations were ignored by the bucharest government they were at the end of their means of influencing it. to compel obedience by force was for the time being out of the question. in these circumstances the only issue left them was to make a virtue of necessity and veer round to the rumanian point of view as unobtrusively as might be, so as to tide over the transient crisis. and that was the course which they finally struck out. matters soon came to the culminating point. the members of the allied military mission had received full powers to force the commanders of the troops of occupation to obey the decisions of the conference, and when they were confronted with m. diamandi, the ex-minister to petrograd, they issued their orders in the name of the supreme council. "we take orders here only from our own government, which is in bucharest," was the answer they received. the rumanians have a proverb which runs: "even a donkey will not fall twice into the same quicksand," and they may have quoted it to general gorton when refusing to follow the allies after their previous painful experience. then the mission telegraphed to paris for further instructions.[ ] in the meanwhile the rumanian government had sent its answer to the three notes of the council. and its tenor was firm and unyielding. undeterred by menaces, m. bratiano maintained that he had done the right thing in sending troops to budapest, imposing terms on hungary and re-establishing order. as a matter of fact he had rendered a sterling service to all europe, including france and britain. for if kuhn and his confederates had contrived to overrun rumania, the great powers would have been morally bound to hasten to the assistance of their defeated ally. the press was permitted to announce that the council of five was preparing to accept the rumanian position. the members of the allied military mission were informed that they were not empowered to give orders to the rumanians, but only to consult and negotiate with them, whereby all their tact and consideration were earnestly solicited. but the palliatives devised by the delegates were unavailing to heal the breach. after a while the council, having had no answer to its urgent notes, decided to send an ultimatum to rumania, calling on her to restore the rolling-stock which she had seized and to evacuate the hungarian capital. the terms of this document were described as harsh.[ ] happily, before it was despatched the council learned that the rumanian government had never received the communications nor seventy others forwarded by wireless during the same period. once more it had taken a decision without acquainting itself of the facts. thereupon a special messenger[ ] was sent to bucharest with a note "couched in stern terms," which, however, was "milder in tone" than the ultimatum. to go back for a moment to the elusive question of motive, which was not without influence on rumania's conduct. were the action and inaction of the plenipotentiaries merely the result of a lack of cohesion among their ideas? or was it that they were thinking mainly of the fleeting interests of the moment and unwilling to precipitate their conceptions of the future in the form of a constructive policy? the historian will do well to leave their motives to another tribunal and confine himself to facts, which even when carefully sifted are numerous and significant enough. during the progress of the events just sketched there were launched certain interesting accounts of what was going on below the surface, which had such impartial and well-informed vouchers that the chronicler of the conference cannot pass them over in silence. if true, as they appear to be, they warrant the belief that two distinct elements lay at the root of the secret council's dealings with rumania. one of them was their repugnance to her whole system of government, with its survivals of feudalism, anti-semitism, and conservatism. associated with this was, people alleged, a wish to provoke a radical and, as they thought, beneficent change in the entire régime by getting rid of its chiefs. this plan had been successfully tried against mm. orlando and sonnino in italy. their solicitude for this latter aim may have been whetted by a personal lack of sympathy for the rumanian delegates, with whom the anglo-saxon chiefs hardly ever conversed. it was no secret that the rumanian premier found it exceedingly difficult to obtain an audience of his colleague president wilson, from whom he finally parted almost as much a stranger as when he first arrived in paris. it may not be amiss to record an instance of the methods of the supreme council, for by putting himself in the place of the rumanian premier the reader may the more clearly understand his frame of mind toward that body. in june the troops of moritz (or bela) kuhn had inflicted a severe defeat on the czechoslavs. thereupon the secret council of four or five, whose shortsighted action was answerable for the reverse, decided to remonstrate with him. accordingly they requested him to desist from the offensive. only then did it occur to them that if he was to withdraw his armies behind the frontiers, he must be informed where these frontiers were. they had already been determined in secret by the three great statesmen, who carefully concealed them not merely from an inquisitive public, but also from the states concerned. the rumanian, jugoslav and czechoslovak delegates were, therefore, as much in the dark on the subject as were rank outsiders and enemies. but as soon as circumstances forced the hand of all the plenipotentiaries the secret had to be confided to them all.[ ] the hungarian dictator pleaded that if his troops had gone out of bounds it was because the frontiers were unknown to him. the czechoslovaks respectfully demurred to one of the boundaries along the river ipol which it was difficult to justify and easy to rectify. but the rumanian delegation, confronted with the map, met the decision with a frank protest. for it amounted to the abandonment of one of their three vital irreducible claims which they were not empowered to renounce. consequently they felt unable to acquiesce in it. but the supreme council insisted. the second delegate, m. misu, was in consequence obliged to start at once for bucharest to consult with the king and the cabinet and consider what action the circumstances called for. in the meantime, the entire question, and together with it some of the practical consequences involved by the tentative solution, remained in suspense. when certain clauses of the peace treaty, which, although they materially affected rumania, had been drafted without the knowledge of her plenipotentiaries, were quite ready, the rumanian premier was summoned to take cognizance of them. their tenor surprised and irritated him. as he felt unable to assent to them, and as the document was to be presented to the enemy in a day or two, he deemed it his duty to mention his objections at once. but hardly had he begun when m. clemenceau arose and exclaimed, "m. bratiano, you are here to listen, not to comment." stringent measures may have been considered useful and dictatorial methods indispensable in default of reasoning or suasion, but it was surely incumbent on those who employed them to choose a form which would deprive them of their sting or make them less personally painful. for whatever one may think of the wisdom of the policy adopted by the supreme council toward the unprivileged states, it would be difficult to justify the manner in which they imposed it. patience, tact, and suasion are indispensable requisites in men who assume the functions of leaders and guides, yet know that military force alone is inadequate to shape the future after their conception. the delegates could look only to moral power for the execution of their far-reaching plans, yet they spurned the means of acquiring it. the best construction one can put upon their action will represent it as the wrecking of the substance by the form. by establishing a situation of force throughout europe the council created and sanctioned the principle that it must be maintained by force. but the affronted nations did not stop at this mild criticism. they assailed the policy itself, cast suspicion on the disinterestedness of the motives that inspired it, and contributed thereby to generate an atmosphere of distrust in which the frail organism that was shortly to be called into being could not thrive. contemplated through this distorting medium, one set of delegates was taunted with aiming at a monopoly of imperialism and the other with rank hypocrisy. it is superfluous to remark that the idealism and lofty aims of the president of the united states were never questioned by the most reckless thersites. the heaviest charges brought against him were weakness of will, exaggerated self-esteem, impatience of contradiction, and a naive yearning for something concrete to take home with him, in the shape of a covenant of peoples. the reports circulating in the french capital respecting vast commercial enterprises about to be inaugurated by english-speaking peoples and about proposals that the governments of the countries interested should facilitate them, were destructive of the respect due to statesmen whose attachment to lofty ideals should have absorbed every other motive in their ethico-political activity. thus it was affirmed by responsible politicians that an official representative of an english-speaking country gave expression to the view, which he also attributed to his government, that henceforth his country should play a much larger part in the economic life of eastern europe than any other nation. this, he added, was a conscious aim which would be steadily pursued, and to the attainment of which he hoped the politicians and their people would contribute. so far this, it may be contended, was perfectly legitimate. but it was further affirmed, and not by idle quidnuncs, that one of rumania's prominent men had been informed that rumania could count on the good-will and financial assistance of the united states only if her premier gave an assurance that, besides the special privileges to be conferred on the jewish minority in his country, he would also grant industrial and commercial concessions to certain jewish groups and firms who reside and do business in the united states. and by way of taking time by the forelock one or more of these firms had already despatched representatives to rumania to study and, if possible, earmark the resources which they proposed to exploit. now, to expand the trade of one's country is a legitimate ambition, and to hold that jewish firms are the best qualified to develop the resources of rumania is a tenable position. but to mix up any commercial scheme with the ethical regeneration of europe is, to put it mildly, impolitic. however unimpeachable the motives of the promoter of such a project, it is certain to damage both causes which he has at heart. but the report does not leave the matter here. it goes on to state that a very definite proposal, smacking of an ultimatum, was finally presented, which set before the rumanians two alternatives from which they were to choose--either the concessions asked for, which would earn for them the financial assistance of the united states, or else no concessions and no help. at a conference, the object of which was the uplifting of the life of nations from the squalor of sordid ambitions backed by brutal force, to ideal aims and moral relationship, haggling and chaffering such as this seemed wholly out of place. it reminded one of "those that sold oxen and sheep and doves, and the changers of money sitting" in the temple of jerusalem who were one day driven out with "a scourge of small cords." the rumanians hoped that the hucksters in the latter-day temple of peace might be got rid of in a similar way; one of them suggested boldly asking president wilson himself to say what he thought of the policy underlying the disconcerting proposal.... the other alleged element of the supreme council's attitude needs no qualification. the mystery that enwrapped the orders from the conference which suddenly arrested the march of the rumanian and allied troops, when they were nearing budapest for the purpose of overthrowing bela kuhn, never perplexed those who claimed to possess trustworthy information about the goings-on between certain enterprising officers belonging some to the allied army of occupation and others to the hungarian forces. one of these transactions is alleged to have taken place between kuhn himself, who is naturally a shrewd observer and hard bargain-driver, and a certain financial group which for obvious reasons remained nameless. the object of the compact was the bestowal on the group of concessions in the banat in return for an undertaking that the bolshevist dictator would be left in power and subsequently honored by an invitation to the conference. the plenipotentiaries' command arresting the march against kuhn and their conditional promise to summon him to the conference, dovetail with this contract. these undeniable coincidences are humiliating. the nexus between them was discovered and announced before the stipulations were carried out. the banat had been an apple of discord ever since the close of hostilities. the country, inhabited chiefly by rumanians, but with a considerable admixture of magyar and saxon elements, is one of the richest unexploited regions in europe. its mines of gold, zinc, lead, coal, and iron offer an irresistible temptation to pushing capitalists and their governments, who feel further attracted by the credible announcement that it also possesses oil in quantities large enough to warrant exploitation. it was partly in order to possess herself of these abundant resources and create an accomplished fact that serbia, who also founded her claim on higher ground, laid hands on the administration of the banat. but the experiment was disappointing. the jugoslavs having failed to maintain themselves there, the bargain just sketched was entered into by officers of the hungarian and allied armies. for concession-hunters are not fastidious about the nationality or character of those who can bestow what they happen to be seeking. this stroke of jobbery had political consequences. that was inevitable. for so long as the banat remained in rumania or serbian hands it could not be alienated in favor of any foreign group. therefore secession from both those states was a preliminary condition to economic alienation. the task was bravely tackled. an "independent republic" was suddenly added to the states of europe. this amazing creation, which fitted in with the balkanizing craze of the moment, was the work of a few wire-pullers in which the easy-going inhabitants had neither hand nor part. indeed, they were hardly aware that the republic of the banat had been proclaimed. the amateur state-builders were obliging officers of the two armies, and behind them were speculators and concession-hunters. it was obvious that the new community, as it contained a very small population for an independent state, would require a protector. its sponsors, who had foreseen this, provided for it by promising to assign the humanitarian rôle of protectress of the banat republic to democratic france. and french agents were on the spot to approve the arrangement. thus far the story, of which i have given but the merest outline.[ ] in this compromising fashion then bela kuhn was left for the time being in undisturbed power, and none of his friends had any fear that he would be driven out by the allies so long as he contrived to hit it off with the hungarians. should these turn away from him, however, the cosmopolitan financiers, whose cardinal virtues are suppleness and adaptability, would readily work with his successor, whoever he might be. the few who knew of this quickening of high ideals with low intrigue were shocked by the light-hearted way in which under the ægis of the conference a discreditable pact was made with the "enemy of the human race," a grotesque régime foisted on a simple-minded people without consideration for the principle of self-determination, and the very existence of the czechoslovak republic imperiled. indeed, for a brief while it looked as though the bolshevist forces of the ukraine and russia would effect a junction with the troops of bela kuhn and shatter eastern europe to shreds. to such dangerous extent did the supreme council indirectly abet the bolshevist peace-breakers against the rumanians and czechoslovak allies. it was at this conjuncture that a rumanian friend remarked to me: "the apprehension which our people expressed to you some months ago when they rejected the demand for concessions has been verified by events. please remember that when striking the balance of accounts." the fact could not be blinked that in the camp of the allies there was a serious schism. the partizans of the supreme council accused the bucharest government of secession, and were accused in turn of having misled their rumanian partners, of having planned to exploit them economically, of having favored their bolshevist invaders, and pursued a policy of blackmail. the rights and wrongs of this quarrel had best be left to another tribunal. what can hardly be gainsaid is that in a general way the rumanians--and not these alone--were implicitly classed as people of a secondary category, who stood to gain by every measure for their good which the culture-bearers in paris might devise. these inferior nations were all incarnate anachronisms, relics of dark ages which had survived into an epoch of democracy and liberty, and it now behooved them to readjust themselves to that. their institutions must be modernized, their old world conceptions abandoned, and their people taught to imitate the progressive nations of the west. what the populations thought and felt on the subject was irrelevant, they being less qualified to judge what was good for them than their self-constituted guides and guardians. to the angry voices which their spokesmen uplifted no heed need be paid, and passive resistance could be overcome by coercion. this modified version of carlyle's doctrine would seem to be at the root of the supreme council's action toward the lesser nations generally and in especial toward rumania. poland and the supreme council this frequent misdirection by the supreme council, however one may explain it, created an electric state of the political atmosphere among all nations whose interests were set down or treated as "limited," and more than one of them, as we saw, contemplated striking out a policy of passive resistance. as a matter of fact some of them timidly adopted it more than once, almost always with success and invariably with impunity. it was thus that the czechoslovaks--the most docile of them all--disregarding the injunctions of the conference, took possession of contentious territory,[ ] and remained in possession of it for several months, and that the jugoslavs occupied a part of the district of klagenfurt and for a long time paid not the slightest heed to the order issued by the supreme council to evacuate it in favor of the austrians, and that the poles applied the same tactics to eastern galicia. the story of this last revolt is characteristic alike of the ignorance and of the weakness of the powers which had assumed the functions of world-administrators. during the hostilities between the ruthenians of galicia and the poles the council, taunted by the press with the numerous wars that were being waged while the world's peace-makers were chatting about cosmic politics in the twilight of the paris conclave, issued an imperative order that an armistice must be concluded at once. but the poles appealed to events, which swiftly settled the matter as they anticipated. neither the supreme council nor the agents it employed had a real grasp of the east european situation, or of the rôle deliberately assigned to poland by its french sponsors--that of superseding russia as a bulwark against germany in the east--or of the local conditions. their action, as was natural in these circumstances, was a sequence of gropings in the dark, of incongruous behests, exhortations, and prohibitions which discredited them in the eyes of those on whose trust and docility the success of their mission depended. consciousness of these disadvantages may have had much to do with the rigid secrecy which the delegates maintained before their desultory talks ripened into discussions. in the case of poland, as of rumania, the veil was opaque, and was never voluntarily lifted. one day[ ] the members of the polish delegation, eager to get an inkling of what had been arranged by the council of four about dantzig, requested m. clemenceau to apprize them at least of the upshot if not of the details. the french premier, who has a quizzing way and a keen sense of humor, replied, "on the th inst. you will learn the precise terms." but poland's representative insisted and pleaded suasively for a hint of what had been settled. the premier finally consented and said, "tell the general secretary of the conference, m. dutasta, from me, that he may make the desired communication to you." the delegate accordingly repaired to m. dutasta, preferred his request, and received this reply: "m. clemenceau may say what he likes. his words do not bind the conference. before i consider myself released from secrecy i must have the consent of all his colleagues as well. if you would kindly bring me their express authorization i will communicate the information you demand." that closed the incident. when the council finally agreed to a solution, the delegates were convoked to learn its nature and to make a vow of obedience to its decisions. during the first stage of the conference the representatives of the lesser states had sometimes been permitted to put questions and present objections. but later on even this privilege was withdrawn. the following description of what went on may serve as an illustration of the council's mode of procedure. one day the polish delegation was summoned before the special commission to discuss an armistice between the ruthenians of galicia and the polish republic. the late general botha, a shrewd observer, whose valuable experience of political affairs, having been confined to a country which had not much in common with eastern europe, could be of little help to him in solving the complex problems with which he was confronted, was handicapped from the outset. unacquainted with any languages but english and dutch, the general had to surmount the additional difficulty of carrying on the conversation through an interpreter. the form it took was somewhat as follows: "it is the wish of the supreme council," the chairman began, "that poland should conclude an armistice with the ruthenians, and under new conditions, the old ones having lost their force.[ ] are you prepared to submit your proposals?" "this is a military matter," replied the polish delegate, "and should be dealt with by experts. one of our most competent military authorities will arrive shortly in paris with full powers to treat with you on the subject. in the meantime, i agree that the old conditions are obsolete and must be changed. i can also mention three provisos without which no armistice is possible: ( ) the poles must be permitted to get into permanent contact with rumania. that involves their occupation of eastern galicia. the principal grounds for this demand are that our frontier includes that territory and that the rumanians are a law-abiding, pacific people whose interests never clash with ours and whose main enemy--bolshevism--is also ours. ( ) the allies shall purge the ukrainian army of the bolshevists, german and other dangerous elements that now pervade it and render peace impossible. ( ) the poles must have control of the oil-fields were it only because these are now being treated as military resources and the germans are receiving from galicia, which contains the only supplies now open to them, all the oil they require and are giving the ruthenians munitions in return, thus perpetuating a continuous state of warfare. you can realize that we are unwilling to have our oil-fields employed to supply our enemies with war material against ourselves." general botha asked, "would you be satisfied if, instead of occupying all eastern galicia at once in order to get into touch with the rumanians, the latter were to advance to meet you?" "quite. that would satisfy us as a provisional measure." "but now suppose that the supreme council rejects your three conditions--a probable contingency--- what course do you propose to take?" "in that case our action would be swayed by events, one of which is the hostility of the ruthenians, which would necessitate measures of self-defense and the use of our army. and that would bring back the whole issue to the point where it stands to-day."[ ] to the suggestions made by the polish delegate that the question of the armistice be referred to marshal foch, the answer was returned that the marshal's views carried no authority with the supreme council. general botha, thereupon adopting an emotional tone, said: "i have one last appeal to make to you. it behooves poland to lift the question from its present petty surroundings and set it in the larger frame of world issues. what we are aiming at is the overthrow of militarism and the cessation of bloodshed. as a civilized nation poland must surely see eye to eye with the supreme council how incumbent it is on the allies to put a stop to the misery that warfare has brought down on the world and is now inflicting on the populations of poland and eastern galicia." "truly," replied the polish delegate, "and so thoroughly does she realize it that it is repugnant to her to be satisfied with a sham peace, a mere pause during which a bloodier war may be organized. we want a settlement that really connotes peace, and our intimate knowledge of the circumstances enables us to distinguish between that and a mere truce. that is the ground of our insistence." "bear well in mind," insisted the boer general, "the friendly attitude of the great allies toward your country at a critical period of its history. they restored it. they meant and mean to help it to preserve its status. it behooves the poles to show their appreciation of this friendship in a practical way by deferring to their wishes. everything they ordain is for your good. realize that and carry out their schemes." "for their help we are and will remain grateful," was the answer, "and we will go as far toward meeting their wishes as is feasible without actually imperiling their contribution to the restoration of our state. but we cannot blink the facts that their views are sometimes mistaken and their power to realize them generally imaginary. they have made numerous and costly mistakes already, which they now frankly avow. if they persisted in their present plan they would be adding another to the list. and as to their power to help us positively, it is nil. their initial omission to send a formidable military force to poland was an irreparable blunder, for it left them without an executive in eastern europe, where they now can help none of their protégées against their respective enemies. poles, rumanians, jugoslavs are all left to themselves. from the allies they may expect inspiriting telegrams, but little else. in fact, the utmost they can do is to issue decrees that may or may not be obeyed. examples are many. they obtained for us by the armistice the right of disembarking troops at dantzig, and we were unspeakably grateful to them. but they failed to make the germans respect that right and we had to resign ourselves to abandon it. they ordered the ukrainians to cease their numerous attacks on us and we appreciated their thoughtfulness. but the order was disobeyed; we were assailed and had no one to look to for help but ourselves. still we are most thankful for all that they could do. but if we concluded the armistice which you are pleading for, this is what would happen: we should have the ruthenians arrayed against us on one side and the germans on the other. now if the ruthenians have brains, their forces will attack us at the same time as those of the germans do. that is sound tactics. but if their strength is only on paper, they will give admission to the bolsheviki. that is the twofold danger which you, in the name of the great powers, are unwillingly endeavoring to conjure up against us. if you admit its reality you cannot blame our reluctance to incur it. on the other hand, if you regard the peril as imaginary, you will draw the obvious consequences and pledge the word of the great powers that they will give us military assistance against it should it come?" if clear thinking and straightforward action has counted for anything, the matter would have been settled satisfactorily then and there. but the great powers operated less with argument than with more forcible stimuli. holding the economic and financial resources of the world in their hands, they sometimes merely toyed with reasoning and proceeded to coerce where they were unable to convince or persuade. one day the chief delegate of one of the states "with limited interests" said to me: "the unvarnished truth is that we are being coerced. there is no milder term to signify this procedure. thus we are told that unless we indorse the decrees of the powers, whose interests are unlimited like their assurance, they will withhold from us the supplies of food, raw materials, and money without which our national existence is inconceivable. necessarily we must give way, at any rate for the time being." those words sum up the relations of the lesser to the greater powers. in the case of poland the conversation ended thus--general botha, addressing the delegate, said: "if you disregard the injunctions of the big four, who cannot always lay before you the grounds of their policy, you run the risk of being left to your own devices. and you know what that means. think well before you decide!" just then, as it chanced, only a part of general haller's soldiers in france had been transported to their own country,[ ] and the poles were in mortal terror lest the work of conveying the remainder should be interrupted. this, then, was an implicit appeal to which they could not turn a wholly deaf ear. "well, what is it that the big four ask of us?" inquired the delegate. "the conclusion of an armistice with the ruthenians, also that poland--as one of the newly created states--should allow the free transit of all the allied goods through her territory." the delegate expressed a wish to be told why this measure should be restricted to the newly made states. the answer was because it was in the nature of an experiment and should, therefore, not be tried over too large an area. "there is also another little undertaking which you are requested to give--namely, that you will accept and act upon the future decisions of the commission whatever they may be." "without an inkling of their character?" "if you have confidence in us you need have no misgivings as to that." in spite of the deterrents the polish delegation at that interview met all these demands with a firm _non possumus_. it upheld the three conditions of the armistice, rejected the free transit proposal, and demurred to the demand for a promise to bow to all future decisions of a fallible commission. "when the polish dispute with the czechoslovaks was submitted to a commission we were not asked in advance to abide by its decision. why should a new rule be introduced now?" argued the polish delegates. and there the matter rested for a brief while. but the respite lasted only a few days, at the expiry of which an envoy called on the members of the polish delegation and reopened the discussion on new lines. he stated that he spoke on behalf of the big four, of whose views and intentions he was the authorized exponent. and doubtless he thought he was. but as a matter of fact the french government had no cognizance of his visit or mission or of the conversation to which it led. he presented arguments before having recourse to deterrents. poland's situation, he said, called for prudence. her secular enemy was germany, with whom it would be difficult, perhaps impossible, ever to cultivate such terms as would conciliate her permanently. all the more reason, therefore, to deserve and win the friendship of her other neighbors, in particular of the ruthenians. the polish plenipotentiary met the argument in the usual way, where upon the envoy exclaimed: "well, to make a long story short, i am here to say that the line of action traced out for your country emanates from the inflexible will of the great powers. to this you must bend. if it should lead to hostilities on the part of your neighbors you could, of course, rely on the help of your protectors. will this not satisfy you?" "if the protection were real it certainly would. but where is it? has it been vouchsafed at any moment since the armistice? have the allied governments an executive in eastern europe? are they likely to order their troops thither to assist any of their protégées? and if they issued such an order, would it be obeyed? they cannot protect us, as we know to our cost. that is why we are prepared, in our interests--also in theirs--to protect ourselves." this remarkable conversation was terminated by the announcement of the penalty of disobedience. "if you persist in refusing the proposals i have laid before you, i am to tell you that the great powers will withdraw their aid from your country and may even feel it to be their duty to modify the advantageous status which they had decided to confer upon it." to which this answer was returned: "for the assistance we are receiving we are and will ever be truly grateful. but in order to benefit by it the polish people must be a living organism and your proposals tend to reduce us to a state of suspended vitality. they also place us at the mercy of our numerous enemies, the greatest of whom is germany." but lucid intelligence, backed by unflagging will, was of no avail against the threat of famine. the poles had to give way. m. paderewski pledged his word to messrs. lloyd george and wilson that he would have an armistice concluded with the ruthenians of eastern galicia, and the duumvirs rightly placed implicit confidence in his word as in his moral rectitude. they also felt grateful to him for having facilitated their arduous task by accepting the inevitable. to my knowledge president wilson himself addressed a letter to him toward the end of april, thanking him cordially for the broad-minded way in which he had co-operated with the supreme council in its efforts to reconstitute his country on a solid basis. probably no other representative of a state "with limited interests" received such high mark of approval. m. paderewski left paris for warsaw, there to win over the cabinet. but in poland, where the authorities were face to face with the concrete elements of the problem, the premier found no support. neither the cabinet nor the diet nor the head of the state found it possible to redeem the promise made in their name. circumstance was stronger than the human will. m. paderewski resigned. the ruthenians delivered a timely attack on the poles, who counter-attacked, captured the towns of styra, tarnopol, stanislau, and occupied the enemy country right up to rumania, with which they desired to be in permanent contact. part of the ruthenian army crossed the czech frontier and was disarmed, the remainder melted away, and there remained no enemy with whom to conclude an armistice. for the "big four" this turn of events was a humiliation. the ruthenian army, whose interests they had so taken to heart, had suddenly ceased to exist, and the future danger which it represented to poland was seen to have been largely imaginary. their judgment was at fault and their power ineffectual. against m. paderewski's impotence they blazed with indignation. he had given way to their decision and promptly gone to warsaw to see it executed, yet the conditions were such that his words were treated as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal. the polish premier, it is true, had tendered his resignation in consequence, but it was refused--and even had it been accepted, what was the retirement of a minister as compared with the indignity put upon the world's lawgivers who represented power and interests which were alike unlimited? angry telegrams were flashed over the wires from paris to warsaw and the polish premier was summoned to appear in paris without delay. he duly returned, but no new move was made. the die was cast. a noteworthy event in latter-day polish history ensued upon that military victory over the ruthenians of eastern galicia. the ukrainian[ ] minister at vienna was despatched to request the poles to sign a unilateral treaty with them after the model of that which was arranged by the two anglo-saxon states in favor of france. the proposal was that the ukraine government would renounce all claims to eastern galicia and place their troops under the supreme command of the polish generalissimus, in return for which the poles should undertake to protect the ukrainians against all their enemies. this draft agreement, while under consideration in warsaw, was negatived by the polish delegates in paris, who saw no good reason why their people should bind themselves to fight russia one day for the independence of the ukraine. another inchoate state which made an offer of alliance to poland was esthonia, but its advances were declined on similar grounds. it is manifest, however, that in the new state system alliances are more in vogue than in the old, although they were to have been banished from it. throughout all the negotiations that turned upon the future status and the territorial frontiers of poland the british premier unswervingly stood out against the polish claims, just as the president of the united states inflexibly countered those of italy, and both united to negative those of the rumanians. whatever one may think of the merits of these controversies--and various opinions have been put forward with obvious sincerity--there can be but one judgment as to the spirit in which they were conducted. it was a dictatorial spirit, which was intolerant not merely of opposition, but of enlightened and constructive criticism. to the representatives of the countries concerned it seemed made up of bitter prejudice and fierce partizanship, imbibed, it was affirmed, from those unseen sources whence powerful and, it was thought, noxious currents flowed continuously toward the conference. for none of the affronted delegates credited with a knowledge of the subject either mr. lloyd george, who had never heard of teschen, or mr. wilson, whose survey of corsican politics was said to be so defective. and yet to the activity of men engaged like these in settling affairs of unprecedented magnitude it would be unfair to apply the ordinary tests of technical fastidiousness. their position as trustees of the world's greatest states, even though they lacked political imagination, knowledge, and experience, entitled them to the high consideration which they generally received. but it could not be expected to dazzle to blindness the eyes of superior men--and the delegates of the lesser states, venizelos, dmowski, and benes, were undoubtedly superior in most of the attributes of statesmanship. yet they were frequently snubbed and each one made to feel that he was the fifth wheel in the chariot of the conference. no sacred fame, says goethe, requires us to submit to contempt, and they winced under it. the big three lacked the happy way of doing things which goes with diplomatic tact and engaging manners, and the consequence was that not only were their arguments mistrusted, but even their good faith was, as we saw, momentarily subjected to doubt. "bitter prejudice, furious antipathy" were freely predicated of the two anglo-saxon statesmen, who were rashly accused of attempting by circuitous methods to deprive france of her new slav ally in eastern europe. sweeping recriminations of this character deserve notice only as indicating the spirit of discord--not to use a stronger term--prevailing at a conference which was professedly endeavoring to knit together the peoples of the planet in an organized society of good-fellowship. the delegates of the lesser states, to whom one should not look for impartial judgments, formulated some queer theories to explain the allies' unavowed policy and revealed a frame of mind in no wise conducive to the attainment of the ostensible ends of the conference. one delegate said to me: "i have no longer the faintest doubt that the firm purpose of the 'big two' is the establishment of the hegemony of the anglo-saxon peoples, which in the fullness of time may be transformed into the hegemony of the united states of north america. even france is in some respects their handmaid. already she is bound to them indissolubly. she is admittedly unable to hold her own without their protection. she will become more dependent on them as the years pass and germany, having put her house in order, regains her economic preponderance on the continent. this decline is due to the operation of a natural law which diplomacy may retard but cannot hinder. numbers will count in the future, and then france's rôle will be reduced. for this reason it is her interest that her new allies in eastern europe should be equipped with all the means of growing and keeping strong instead of being held in the leading-strings of the overlords. but perhaps this tutelage is reckoned one of those means?" against britain in especial the poles, as we saw, were wroth. they complained that whenever they advanced a claim they found her first delegate on their path barring their passage, and if mr. wilson chanced to be with them the british premier set himself to convert him to his way of thinking or voting. thus it was against mr. lloyd george that the eastern galician problem had had to be fought at every stage. at the outset the british premier refused galicia to poland categorically and purposed making it an entirely separate state under the league of nations. this design, of which he made no secret, inspired the insistence with which the armistice with the ruthenians of galicia was pressed. the polish delegates, one of them a man of incisive speech, left no stone unturned to thwart that part of the english scheme, and they finally succeeded. but their opponents contrived to drop a spoonful of tar in poland's pot of honey by ordering a plebiscite to take place in eastern galicia within ten or fifteen years. then came the question of the galician constitution. the poles proposed to confer on the ruthenians a restricted measure of home rule with authority to arrange in their own way educational and religious matters, local communications, and the means of encouraging industry and agriculture, besides giving them a proportionate number of seats in the state legislature in warsaw. but again the british delegates--experienced in problems of home rule--expressed their dissatisfaction and insisted on a parliament or diet for the ukraine invested with considerable authority over the affairs of the province. the poles next announced their intention to have a governor of eastern galicia appointed by the president of the polish republic, with a council to advise him. the british again amended the proposal and asked that the governor should be responsible to the galician parliament, but to this the poles demurred emphatically, and finally it was settled that only the members of his council should be responsible to the provincial legislature. the poles having suggested that military conscription should be applied to eastern galicia on the same terms as to the rest of poland, the british once more joined issue with them and demanded that no troops whatever should be levied in the province. the upshot of this dispute was that after much wrangling the british commission gave way to the poles, but made it a condition that the troops should not be employed outside the province. to this the poles made answer that the massing of so many soldiers on the rumanian frontier might reasonably be objected to by the rumanians--and so the amoebean word-game went on in the subcommission. in a word, when dealing with the eastern galician problem, mr. lloyd george played the part of an ardent champion of complete home rule. to sum up, the conference linked eastern galicia with poland, but made the bonds extremely tenuous, so that they might be severed at any moment without involving profound changes in either country, and by this arrangement, which introduced the provisional into the definitive, a broad field of operations was allotted to political agitation and revolt was encouraged to rear its crest. the province of upper silesia was asked for on grounds which the poles, at any rate, thought convincing. but mr. lloyd george, it was said, declared them insufficient. the subject was thrashed out one day in june when the polish delegates were summoned before their all-powerful colleagues to be told of certain alterations that had been recently introduced into the treaty which concerned them to know. they appeared before the council of five.[ ] president wilson, addressing the two delegates, spoke approximately as follows: "you claim silesia on the ground that its inhabitants are poles and we have given your demand careful consideration. but the germans tell us that the inhabitants, although polish by race, wish to remain under german rule as heretofore. that is a strong objection if founded on fact. at present we are unable to answer it. in fact, nobody can answer it with finality but the inhabitants themselves. therefore we must order a plebiscite among them." one of the polish delegates remarked: "if you had put the question to the inhabitants fifty years ago they would have expressed their wish to remain with the germans because at that time they were profoundly ignorant and their national sentiment was dormant. now it is otherwise. for since then many of them have been educated, and the majority are alive to the issue and will therefore declare for poland. and if any section of the territory should still prefer german sway to polish and their district in consequence of your plebiscite becomes german, the process of enlightenment which has already made such headway will none the less go on, and their children, conscious of their loss, will anathematize their fathers for having inflicted it. and then there will be trouble." mr. wilson retorted: "you are assuming more than is meet. the frontiers which we are tracing are provisional, not final. that is a consideration which ought to weigh with you. besides, the league of nations will intervene to improve what is imperfect." "o league of nations, what blunders are committed in thy name!" the delegate may have muttered to himself as he listened to the words meant to comfort him and his countrymen. much might have been urged against this proffered solace if the delegates had been in a captious mood. the league of nations had as yet no existence. if its will, intelligence, and power could indeed be reckoned upon with such confidence, how had it come to pass that its creators, britain and the united states, deemed them dubious enough to call for a reinforcement in the shape of a formal alliance for the protection of france? if this precautionary measure, which shatters the whole wilsonian system, was indispensable to one ally it was at least equally indispensable to another. and in the case of poland it was more urgent than in the case of france, because if germany were again to scheme a war of conquest the probability is infinitesimal that she would invade belgium or move forward on the western front. the line of least resistance, which is poland, would prove incomparably more attractive. and then? the absence of allied troops in eastern europe was one of the principal causes of the wars, tumults, and chaotic confusion that had made nervous people tremble for the fate of civilization in the interval between the conclusion of the armistice and the ratification of the treaty. in the future the absence of strongly situated allies there, if germany were to begin a fresh war, would be more fatal still, and the polish state might conceivably disappear before military aid from the allied governments could reach it. why should the safety of poland and to some extent the security of europe be made to depend upon what is at best a gambler's throw? but no counter-objections were offered. on the contrary, m. paderewski uttered the soft answer that turneth away wrath. he profoundly regretted the decision of the lawgivers, but, recognizing that it was immutable, bowed to it in the name of his country. he knew, he said, that the delegates were animated by very friendly feelings toward his country and he thanked them for their help. m. paderewski's colleague, the less malleable m. dmowski, is reported to have said: "it is my desire to be quite sincere with you, gentlemen. therefore i venture to submit that while you profess to have settled the matter on principle, you have not carried out that principle thoroughly. doubtless by inadvertence. thus there are places inhabited by a large majority of poles which you have allotted to germany on the ground that they are inhabited by germans. that is inconsistent." at this mr. lloyd george jumped up from his place and asked: "can you name any such places?" m. dmowski gave several names. "point them out to me on the map," insisted the british premier. they were pointed out on the map. twice president wilson asked the delegate to spell the name bomst for him.[ ] mr. lloyd george then said: "well, those are oversights that can be rectified." "oh yes," added mr. wilson, "we will see to that."[ ] m. dmowski also questioned the president about the plebiscite, and under whose auspices the voting would take place, and was told that there would be an inter-allied administration to superintend the arrangements and insure perfect freedom of voting. "through what agency will that administration work? is it through the officials?" "evidently," mr. wilson answered. "you are doubtless aware that they are germans?" "yes. but the administration will possess the right to dismiss those who prove unworthy of their confidence." "don't you think," insisted m. dmowski, "that it would be fairer to withdraw one half of the german bureaucrats and give their places to poles?" to which the president replied: "the administration will be thoroughly impartial and will adopt all suitable measures to render the voting free." there the matter ended. the two potentates in council, tackling the future status of lithuania, settled it in an offhand and singular fashion which at any rate bespoke their good intentions. the principle of self-determination, or what was facetiously termed the balkanization of europe, was at first applied to that territory and a semi-independent state created _in petto_ which was to contain eight million inhabitants and be linked with poland. certain obstacles were soon afterward encountered which had not been foreseen. one was that all the lithuanians number only two millions, or say at the most two millions and one hundred thousand. out of these even the supreme council could not make eight millions. in lithuania there are two and a half million poles, one and a half million jews, and the remainder are white russians.[ ] it was recognized that a community consisting of such disparate elements, situated where it now is, could hardly live and strive as an independent state. the lithuanian jews, however, were of a different way of thinking, and they opposed the polish claims with a degree of steadfastness and animation which wounded poland's national pride and left rankling sores behind. it is worth noting that the representatives of russia, who are supposed to clutch convulsively at all the states which once formed part of the tsardom, displayed a degree of political detachment in respect of lithuania which came as a pleasant surprise to many. the russian ambassador in paris, m. maklakoff, in a remarkable address before a learned assembly[ ] in the french capital, announced that russia was henceforward disinterested in the status of lithuania. that the poles were minded to deal very liberally with the lithuanians became evident during the conference. general pilsudski, on his own initiative, visited vilna and issued a proclamation to the lithuanians announcing that elections would be held, and asking them to make known their desires, which would be realized by the warsaw government. one of the many curious documents of the conference is an official missive signed by the general secretary, m. dutasta, and addressed to the first polish delegate, exhorting him to induce his government to come to terms with the lithuanian government, as behooves two neighboring states. unluckily for the soundness of that counsel there was no recognized lithuanian state or lithuanian government to come to terms with. as has been often enough pointed out, the actions and utterances of the two world-menders were so infelicitous as to lend color to the belief--shared by the representatives of a number of humiliated nations--that greed of new markets was at the bottom of what purported to be a policy of pure humanitarianism. some of the delegates were currently supposed to be the unwitting instruments of elusive capitalistic influences. possibly they would have been astonished were they told this: great britain was suspected of working for complete control of the baltic and its seaboard in order to oust the germans from the markets of that territory and to have potent levers for action in poland, germany, and russia. the achievement of that end would mean command of the baltic, which had theretofore been a german lake.[ ] it would also entail, it was said, the separation of dantzig from poland, and the attraction of the finns, esthonians, letts, and lithuanians from germany's orbit into that of great britain. in vain the friends of the delegates declared that economic interests were not the mainspring of their deliberate action and that nothing was further from their intention than to angle for a mandate for those countries. the conviction was deep-rooted in the minds of many that each of the great powers was playing for its own hand. that there was some apparent foundation for this assumption cannot, as we saw, be gainsaid. widely and unfavorably commented was the circumstance that in the heat of those discussions at the conference a man of confidence of the allies put this significant and impolitic question to one of the plenipotentiaries: "how would you take it if england were to receive a mandate for lithuania?" "the great powers," observed the most outspoken of the delegates of the lesser states, "are bandits, but as their operations are on a large scale they are entitled to another and more courteous name. their gaze is fascinated by markets, concessions, monopolies. they are now making preparations for a great haul. at this politicians cannot affect to be scandalized. for it has never been otherwise since men came together in ordered communities. but what is irritating and repellent is the perfume of altruism and philanthropy which permeates this decomposition. we are told that already they are purchasing the wharves of dantzig, making ready for 'big deals' in libau, riga, and reval, founding a bank in klagenfurt and negotiating for oil-wells in rumania. although deeply immersed in the ethics of politics, they have not lost sight of the worldly goods to be picked up and appropriated on the wearisome journey toward ideal goals. the atmosphere they have thus renewed is peculiarly favorable to the growth of cant, and tends to accelerate the process of moral and social dissolution. and the effects of this mephitic air may prove more durable than the contribution of its creators to the political reorganization of europe. if we compare the high functions which they might have fulfilled in relation to the vast needs and the unprecedented tendencies of the new age with those which they have unwittingly and deliberately performed as sophists of sentimental morality and destroyers of the wheat together with the tares, we shall have to deplore one of the rarest opportunities missed beyond retrieve." in this criticism there is a kernel of truth. the ethico-social currents to which the war gave rise had a profoundly moral aspect, and if rightly canalized might have fertilized many lands and have led to a new and healthy state-system. one indispensable condition, however, was that the peoples of the world should themselves be directly interested in the process, that they should be consulted and listened to, and helped or propelled into new grooves of thought and action. instead of that the delegates contented themselves with giving new names to old institutions and tendencies which stood condemned, and with teaching lawless disrespect for every check and restraint except such as they chose to acknowledge. they were powerful advocates for right and justice, democracy and publicity, but their definitions of these abstract nouns made plain-speaking people gasp. self-interest and material power were the idols which they set themselves to pull down, but the deities which they put in their places wore the same familiar looks as the idols, only they were differently colored. footnotes: [ ] in february, . [ ] the french minister of foreign affairs, m. pichon, undertook to recognize in principle the independence of esthonia, provided that esthonia would take over her part of the russian debt. [ ] in the first version of the covenant, article xix deals with this subject. in the revised version it is article xxi. [ ] cf. _l'echo de paris_, august , . [ ] in july, . [ ] _l'echo de paris_, august , . [ ] the armistice concluded with hungary was grossly violated by the hungarians and had lost its force. the rumanians, when occupying the country, demanded a new one, and drafted it. the supreme council at first demurred, and then desisted from dictation. but its attitude underwent further changes later. [ ] _the new york herald_, (paris ed.), august , . [ ] _ibid._, may , . [ ] i discussed belgium's demands in a series of special articles published in _the london daily telegraph_ and _the philadelphia public ledger_ in the months of january, february, and march, . [ ] in frisia and ghelderland. [ ] in august, . [ ] by article xxi of the covenant and article ccccxxxv of the treaty. [ ] i was in possession of a complete copy. [ ] cf. _corriere della sera_, august , . [ ] in february. [ ] cf. chapter, "censorship and secrecy." the writer of these pages was the journalist. [ ] _le temps_, july , . [ ] at the close of august, . [ ] i was one of those who at the time maintained that even in the allies' interests rumania ought not to enter the war at that conjuncture, and anticipation of that invasion was one of the reasons i adduced. [ ] also known by the german name of theiss. [ ] cf. _le temps_, july , . [ ] cf. _the daily mail_ (paris edition), september , . [ ] on june , . [ ] on july , , some days later, the decision was suspended, owing to the opinion of general bliss, who disagreed with foch. [ ] on july , . [ ] on july th. [ ] estimated at , . [ ] moritz kuhn, who altered his name to bela kuhn, was a vulgar criminal. expelled from school for larceny, he underwent several terms of imprisonment, and is alleged to have pilfered from a fellow-prisoner. even among some thieves there is no honor. [ ] italy was represented by lieutenant-colonel romanelli, who resided in budapest; britain, by col. sir thomas cunningham, who was in vienna, as was also prince livio borghese. later on the powers delegated generals to be members of a military mission to the hungarian capital. [ ] at bruck. [ ] on july th. [ ] _le journal des débats_, august , . [ ] this is a larger proportion than was left to the germans by the treaty of versailles. [ ] _le temps_, july , . [ ] it was the habitual practice of the conference to intrust missions abroad to generals who knew nothing whatever about the countries to which they were sent. [ ] _le temps_, august , . [ ] armistice of november , , which had become void. [ ] on june , . [ ] composed of four members, one each for britain, the united states, france, and italy. [ ] on july th. [ ] paris journals ascribed it to mr. balfour, although it does not bear the hall-mark of a diplomatist. [ ] _le journal des débats_, august , . [ ] pertinax in _l'echo de paris_, august , . [ ] _the new york herald_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] _le journal des débats_, august , . article by auguste gauvain. [ ] general gorton is the one who is said to have despatched the telegram. [ ] in the beginning of september, . [ ] the french government having prudently refused to furnish an envoy, the british chose sir george clark. [ ] on june , . [ ] the actors in this episode were not all officers and civil servants. they included some men in responsible positions. [ ] in teschen. [ ] on friday, april , . [ ] the rumanians, on the contrary, had been ordered to keep to the old conditions, although they, too, had lost their force. [ ] that is exactly what happened in the end. but the delegates would not believe it until it became an accomplished fact. [ ] about twenty-five thousand had already left france. [ ] the ruthenians, ukrainians, and little russians are racially the same people, just as those who speak german in northwestern germany, dutch in holland, and flemish in belgium are racially close kindred. the main distinctions between the members of each branch are political. [ ] the messrs. wilson, george, clemenceau, barons makino and sonnino. m. clemenceau was the nominal chairman, but in reality it was president wilson who conducted the proceedings. [ ] bomst is a canton in the former province (regierungs-besirk) of posen, with about sixty thousand inhabitants. [ ] minutes of this conversation exist. [ ] an interesting russian tribe, dwelling chiefly in the provinces of minsk and grodno (excepting the extreme south), a small part of suvalki, vilna (excepting the northwest corner), the entire provinces of vitebsk and moghileff, the west part of smolensk, and a few districts of tshernigoff. [ ] la société des Études politiques. the discourse in question was printed and published. [ ] in germany and russia the same view was generally taken of the motives that actuated the policy of the anglo-saxon peoples. the most elaborate attempt to demonstrate its correctness was made by cr. bunke, in _the dantziger neueste nachrichten_, already mentioned in this book. vii poland's outlook in the future casting a parting glance at poland as she looked when emerging from the conference in the leading-strings of the great western powers, after having escaped from the bolshevist dangers that compassed her round, we behold her about to begin her national existence as a semi-independent nation, beset with enemies domestic and foreign. for it would be an abuse of terms to affirm that poland, or, indeed, any of the lesser states, is fully independent in the old sense of the word. the special treaty imposed on her by the great two obliges her to accord free transit to allied goods and certain privileges to her jewish and other minorities; to accept the supervision and intervention of the league of nations, which the poles contend means in their case an anglo-saxon-jewish association; and, at the outset, at any rate, to recognize the french generalissimus as the supreme commander of her troops. poland's frontiers and general status ought, if the scheme of her french protectors had been executed, to have been accommodated to the peculiar functions which they destined her to fill in new europe. france's plan was to make of poland a wall between germany and russia. the marked tendency of the other two conference leaders was to transform it into a bridge between those two countries. and the outcome of the compromise between them has been to construct something which, without being either, combines all the disadvantages of both. it is a bridge for germany and a wall for bolshevist russia. that is the verdict of a large number of poles. although the europe of the future is to be a pacific and ethically constituted community, whose members will have their disputes and quarrels with one another settled by arbitration courts and other conciliatory tribunals, war and efficient preparation for it were none the less uppermost in the minds of the circumspect lawgivers. hence the anglo-saxon agreement to defend france against unprovoked aggression. hence, too, the solicitude displayed by the french to have the polish state, which is to be their mainstay in eastern europe, equipped with every territorial and other guaranty necessary to qualify it for the duties. but what the french government contrived to obtain for itself it failed to secure for its new slav ally. nay, oddly enough it voted with the anglo-saxon delegates for keeping all the lesser states under the tutelage of the league. the duumvirs, having made the requisite concessions to france, were resolved in poland's case to avoid a further recoil toward the condemned forms of the old system of equilibrium. hence the various plebiscites, home-rule charters, subdivisions of territory, and other evidences of a struggle for reform along the line of least resistance, as though in the unavoidable future conflict between timidly propounded theories and politico-social forces the former had any serious chance of surviving. in politics, as in coinage, it is the debased metal that ousts the gold from circulation. poland's situation is difficult; some people would call it precarious. she is surrounded by potential enemies abroad and at home--germans, russians, ukrainians, magyars, and jews. a considerable number of teutons are incorporated in her republic to-day, and also a large number of people of russian race. now, russia and germany, even if they renounce all designs of reconquering the territory which they misruled for such a long span of time, may feel tempted one day to recover their own kindred, and what they consider to be their own territory. and irredentism is one of the worst political plagues for all the three parties who usually suffer from it. if then germany and russia were to combine and attack poland, the consequences would be serious. that democratic germany would risk such a wild adventure in the near future is inconceivable. but history operates with long periods of time, and it behooves statesmanship to do likewise. a polish statesman would start from the assumption that, as russia and germany have for the time being ceased to be efficient members of the european state-system, a good understanding may be come to with both of them, and a close intimacy cultivated with one. resourcefulness and statecraft will be requisite to this consummation. for some russians are still uncompromising, and would fain take back a part of what the revolutionary wave swept out of their country's grasp, but circumstance bids fair to set free a potent moderating force in the near future. already it is incarnated in statesmen of the new type. in this connection it is instructive to pass in review the secret maneuvers by which the recognition of poland's independence was, so to say, extorted from a russian minister, who was reputed at the time to be a democrat of the democrats. as some governments have now become champions of publicity, i venture to hope that this disclosure will be as helpful to those whom it concerns as was the systematic suppression of my articles and telegrams during the space of four years.[ ] on the outbreak of the russian revolution poland's representatives in britain, who had been ceaselessly working for the restoration of their country, approached the british government with a request that the opportunity should be utilized at once, and the new democratic cabinet in petrograd requested to issue a proclamation recognizing the independence of poland. the reasons for this move having been propounded in detail, orally and in writing, the foreign secretary despatched at once a telegram to the ambassador in the russian capital, instructing him to lay the matter before the russian foreign minister and urge him to lose no time in establishing the claim of the polish provisional government to the sympathies of the world, and the redress of its wrongs by russia. sir george buchanan called on professor milyukoff, then minister of foreign affairs and president of the constitutional democratic party, and propounded to him the views of the british government, which agreed with those of france and italy, and hoped he would see his way to profit by the opportunity. the answer was prompt and definite, and within forty-eight hours of mr. balfour's despatch it reached the foreign office. the gist of it was that the minister of foreign affairs regretted his inability to deal with the problem at that conjuncture, owing to its great complexity and various bearings, and also because of his apprehension that the poles would demand the incorporation of russian lands in their reconstituted state. from this answer many conclusions might fairly be drawn respecting persons, parties, and principles on the surface of revolutionary russia. but to his credit, mr. balfour did not accept it as final. he again telegraphed to the british ambassador, instructing him to insist upon the recognition of poland, as the matter was urgent, and to exhort the provisional government to give in good time the desired proof of the democratic faith that is to save russia. sir george buchanan accomplished the task expeditiously. m. milyukoff gave way, drafted and issued the proclamation. mr. bonar law welcomed it in a felicitous speech in the house of commons,[ ] and the entente press lauded to the skies the generous spirit of the new russian government. the russian people and their leaders have traveled far since then, and have rid themselves of much useless ballast. as slavs the poles might have been naturally predisposed to live in amity with the russians, were it not for the specter of the past that stands between them. but now that russia is a democracy in fact as well as in name, this is much more feasible than it ever was before, and it is also indispensable to the russians. in the first place, it is possible that poland may have consolidated her forces before her mighty neighbor has recovered the status corresponding to her numbers and resources. if the present estimates are correct, and the frontiers, when definitely traced, leave poland a republic with some thirty-five million people, such is her extraordinary birth-rate and the territorial scope it has for development, that in the not far distant future her population may exceed that of france. assuming for the sake of argument that armies and other national defenses will count in politics as much as hitherto, poland's specific weight will then be considerable. she will have become not indeed a world power (to-day there are only two such), but a european great power whose friendship will be well worth acquiring. in the meanwhile polish statesmen--the poles have one in roman dmowski--may strike up a friendly accord with russia, abandoning definitely and formally all claims to so-called historic poland, disinteresting themselves in all the baltic problems which concern russia so closely, and envisaging the ukraine from a point of view that harmonizes with hers. and if the two peoples could thus find a common basis of friendly association, poland would have solved at least one of her sphinx questions. as for the internal development of the nation, it is seemingly hampered with as many hindrances as the international. it may be likened to the world after creation, bearing marks of the chaos of the eve. the german poles differ considerably from the austrian, while the russian poles are differentiated from both. the last-named still show traces of recent servitude in their everyday avocations. they lack the push and the energy of purpose so necessary nowadays in the struggle for life. the austrian poles in general are reputed to be likewise easy-going, lax, and more brilliant than solid, while their administrative qualities are said to be impaired by a leaning toward oriental methods of transacting business. the polish inhabitants of the provinces hitherto under germany are people of a different temperament. they have assimilated some of the best qualities of the teuton without sacrificing those which are inherent in men of their own race. a thorough grasp of detail and a gift for organization characterize their conceptions, and precision, thoroughness, and conscientiousness are predicated of their methods. if it be true that the first reform peremptorily called for in the new republic is an administrative purge, it follows that it can be most successfully accomplished with the whole-hearted co-operation of the german poles, whose superior education fits them to conform their schemes to the most urgent needs of the nation and the epoch. the next measure will be internal colonization. there are considerable tracts of land in what once was russian poland, the population of which, owing to the havoc of war, is abnormally sparse. some districts, like that of the pripet marshes, which even at the best of times had but five persons to the kilometer, are practically deserts. for the russian army, when retreating before the germans, drove before it a huge population computed at eight millions, who inhabited the territory to the east of brest-litovsk and northward between lida and minsk. of these eight millions many perished on the way. a large percentage of the survivors never returned.[ ] roughly speaking, a couple of millions (mostly poles and jews) went back to their ruined homes. now the poles, who are one of the most prolific races in europe, might be encouraged to settle on these thinly populated lands, which they could convert into ethnographically polish districts within a relatively short span of time. these, however, are merely the ideas of a friendly observer, whose opinion cannot lay claim to any weight. to-day poland's hope is not, as it has been hitherto, the nobleman, the professor, and the publicist, but the peasant. the members of this class are the nucleus of the new nation. it is from their midst that poland's future representatives in politics, arts, and science will be drawn. already the peasants are having their sons educated in high-schools and universities, of which the republic has a fair number well supplied with qualified teachers,[ ] and they are resolute adversaries of every movement tainted with bolshevism. thus the difficulties and dangers with which new poland will have to contend are redoubtable. but she stands a good chance of overcoming them and reaching the goal where lies her one hope of playing a noteworthy part in reorganized europe. the indispensable condition of success is that the current of opinion and sentiment in the country shall buoy up reforming statesmen. these must not only understand the requirements of the new epoch and be alive to the necessity of penetrating public opinion, but also possess the courage to place high social aims at the head of their life and career. statesmen of this temper are rare to-day, but poland possesses at least one of them. her resources warrant the conviction which her chiefs firmly entertain that she may in a relatively near future acquire the economic leadership of eastern europe, and in population, military strength, and area equal france. parenthetically it may be observed that the enthusiasm of the poles for british institutions and for intimate relations with great britain has perceptibly cooled. in the limitations to which she is now subjected, her more optimistic leaders discern the temporarily unavoidable condition of a beneficent process of working forward toward indefinite amelioration. their people's faith, that may one day raise the country above the highest summit of its past historical development, if it does not reconcile them to the present, may nerve them to the effort which shall realize that high consummation in the future. footnotes: [ ] most of my articles written during the last half of the war, and some during the armistice, were held back on grounds which were presumably patriotic. i share with those who were instrumental in keeping them from the public the moral portion of the reward which consists in the assumption that some high purpose was served by the suppression. [ ] on april , . [ ] mainly white russians. [ ] the poles have universities in cracow, warsaw, lvoff (lemberg), liublin, and will shortly open one in posen. one polish statesman entertains a novel and useful idea which will probably be tested in the university of posen. noticing that the greater the progress of technical knowledge the less is the advance made in the knowledge of men, which is perhaps the most pressing need of the new age, this statesman proposes to create a new type of university, where there would be two principal sections, one for the study of natural sciences and mathematics, and the other for the study of men, which would include biology, psychology, ethnography, sociology, philology, history, etc. viii italy of all the problems submitted to the conference, those raised by italy's demands may truly be said to have been among the easiest. whether placed in the light of the fourteen points or of the old system of the rights of the victors, they would fall into their places almost automatically. but the peace criteria were identical with neither of those principles. they consisted of several heterogeneous maxims which were invoked alternately, mr. wilson deciding which was applicable to the particular case under discussion. and from his judgment there was no appeal. it is of the essence of statesmanship to be able to put oneself in the place--one might almost say in the skin--of the foreign peoples and governments with which one is called upon to deal. but the feat is arduous and presupposes a variety of conditions which the president was unable to fulfil. his conception of europe, for example, was much too simple. it has been aptly likened to that of the american economist who once remarked to the manager of an english railway: "you britishers are handicapped by having to build your railway lines through cities and towns. we go to work diligently: we first construct the road and create the cities afterward." and mr. wilson happened just then to be in quest of a fulcrum on which to rest his idealistic lever. for he had already been driven by egotistic governments from several of his commanding positions, and people were gibingly asking whether the new political gospel was being preached only as a foil for backslidings. thus he abandoned the freedom of the seas ... on which he had taken a determined stand before the world. although he refused the rhine frontier to france, he had reluctantly given way to m. clemenceau in the matter of the saar valley, assenting to a monstrous arrangement by which the german inhabitants of that region were to be handed over to the french republic against their expressed will, as a set-off for a sum in gold which germany would certainly be unable to pay.[ ] he doubtless foresaw that he would also yield on the momentous issue of shantung and the chino-japanese secret treaty. in a word, some of his more important abstract tenets professed in words were being brushed aside when it came to acts, and his position was truly unenviable. naturally, therefore, he seized the first favorable occasion to apply them vigorously and unswervingly. this was supplied by the dispute between italy and jugoslavia, two nations which he held, so to say, in the hollow of his hand. the latter state, still in the making, depended for its frontiers entirely on the fiat of the american president backed by the premiers of britain and france. and of this backing mr. wilson was assured. italy, although more powerful militarily than jugoslavia, was likewise economically dependent upon the good-will of the two english-speaking communities, who were assured in advance of the support of the french republic. if, therefore, she could not be reasoned or cajoled into obeying the injunctions of the supreme council, she could easily be made malleable by other means. in her case, therefore, mr. wilson's ethical notions might be fearlessly applied. that this was the idea which underlay the president's policy is the obvious inference from the calm, unyielding way in which he treated the italian delegation. in this connection it should be borne in mind that there is no more important distinction between all former peace settlements and that of the paris conference than the unavowed but indubitable fact that the latter rests upon the hegemony of the english-speaking communities of the world, whereas the former were based upon the balance of power. so immense a change could not be effected without discreetly throwing out as useless ballast some of the highly prized dogmas of the accepted political creeds, even at the cost of impairing the solidarity of the latin races. this was effected incidentally. as a matter of fact, the french are not, properly speaking, a latin race, nor has their solidarity with italy or spain ever been a moving political force in recent times. italy's refusal to fight side by side with her teuton allies against france and her backers may conceivably be the result of racial affinities, but it has hardly ever been ascribed to that sentimental source. sentiment in politics is a myth. in any case, m. clemenceau discerned no pressing reason for making painful efforts to perpetuate the latin union, while solicitude for national interests hindered him from making costly concessions to it. naturally the cardinal innovation of which this was a corollary was never invoked as the ground for any of the exceptional measures adopted by the conference. and yet it was the motive for several, for although no allusion was made to the hegemony of anglo-saxondom, it was ever operative in the subconsciousness of the two plenipotentiaries. and in view of the omnipotence of these two nations, they temporarily sacrificed consistency to tactics, probably without conscientious qualms, and certainly without political misgivings. that would seem to be a partial explanation of the lengths to which the conference went in the direction of concessions to the great powers' imperialist demands. france asked to be recognized and treated as the personification of that civilization for which the allied peoples had fought. and for many reasons, which it would be superfluous to discuss here, a large part of her claim was allowed. this concession was attacked by many as connoting a departure from principle, but the deviation was more apparent than real, for under all the wrappings of idealistic catchwords lay the primeval doctrine of force. the only substantial difference between the old system and the new was to be found in the wielders of the force and the ends to which they intended to apply it. force remains the granite foundation of the new ordering, as it had been of the old. but its employment, it was believed, would be different in the future from what it had been in the past. concentrated in the hands of the english-speaking peoples, it would become so formidable a weapon that it need never be actually wielded. possession of overwhelmingly superior strength would suffice to enforce obedience to the decrees of its possessors, which always will, it is assumed, be inspired by equity. an actual trial of strength would be obviated, therefore, at least so long as the relative military and economic conditions of the world states underwent no sensible change. to this extent the war specter would be exorcised and trying abuses abolished. that those views were expressly formulated and thrown into the clauses of a secret program is unlikely. but it seems to be a fact that the general outlines of such a policy were conceived and tacitly adhered to. these outlines governed the action of the two world-arbiters, not only in the dictatorial decrees issued in the name of political idealism and its fourteen points, which were so bitterly resented as oppressive by italy, rumania, jugoslavia, poland, and greece, but likewise in those other concessions which scandalized the political puritans and gladdened the hearts of the french, the japanese, the jugoslavs, and the jews. the dictatorial decrees were inspired by the delegates' fundamental aims, the concessions by their tactical needs--the former, therefore, were meant to be permanent, the latter transient. all other explanations of the italian crisis, however well they may fit certain of its phases, are, when applied to the pith of the matter, beside the mark. even if it were true, as the dramatist, sem benelli, wrote, that "president wilson evidently considers our people as on the plane of an african colony, dominated by the will of a few ambitious men," that would not account for the tenacious determination with which the president held to his slighted theory. italy's position in europe was in many respects peculiar. men still living remember the time when her name was scarcely more than a geographical expression which gradually, during the last sixty years, came to connote a hard-working, sober, patriotic nation. only little by little did she recover her finest provinces and her capital, and even then her unity was not fully achieved. austria still held many of her sons, not only in the trentino, but also on the other shore of the adriatic. but for thirty years her desire to recover these lost children was paralyzed by international conditions. in her own interests, as well as in those of peace, she had become the third member of an alliance which constrained her to suppress her patriotic feelings and allowed her to bend all her energies to the prevention of a european conflict. when hostilities broke out, the attitude of the italian government was a matter of extreme moment to france and the entente. much, perhaps the fate of europe, depended on whether they would remain neutral or throw in their lot with the teutons. they chose the former alternative and literally saved the situation. the question of motive is wholly irrelevant. later on they were urged to move a step farther and take an active part against their former allies. but a powerful body of opinion and sentiment in the country was opposed to military co-operation, on the ground that the sum total of the results to be obtained by quiescence would exceed the guerdon of victory won by the side of the entente. the correctness of this estimate depended upon many incalculable factors, among which was the duration of the struggle. the consensus of opinion was that it would be brief, in which case the terms dangled before italy's eyes by the entente would, it was believed by the cabinet, greatly transcend those which the central powers were prepared to offer. anyhow they were accepted and the compact was negotiated, signed, and ratified by men whose idealism marred their practical sense, and whose policy of sacred egotism, resolute in words and feeble in action, merely impaired the good name of the government without bringing any corresponding compensation to the country. the world struggle lasted much longer than the statesmen had dared to anticipate; italy's obligations were greatly augmented by russia's defection, she had to bear the brunt of all, instead of a part of austria's forces, whereby the sacrifices demanded of her became proportionately heavier. altogether it is fair to say that the difficulties to be overcome and the hardships to be endured before the italian people reached their goal were and still are but imperfectly realized by their allies. for the obstacles were gigantic, the effort heroic; alone the results shrank to disappointing dimensions. the war over, italian statesmen confidently believed that those supererogatory exertions would be appropriately recognized by the allies. and this expectation quickly crystallized into territorial demands. the press which voiced them ruffled the temper of anglo-saxondom by clamoring for more than it was ever likely to concede, and buoyed up their own nation with illusory hopes, the non-fulfilment of which was certain to produce national discontent. curiously enough, both the government and the press laid the main stress upon territorial expansion, leaving economic advantages almost wholly out of account. it was at this conjuncture that mr. wilson made his appearance and threw all the pieces on the political chessboard into weird confusion. "you," he virtually said, "have been fighting for the dismemberment of your secular enemy, austria. well, she is now dismembered and you have full satisfaction. your frontiers shall be extended at her expense, but not at the expense of the new states which have arisen on her ruins. on the contrary, their rights will circumscribe your claims and limit your territorial aggrandizement. not only can you not have all the additional territory you covet, but i must refuse to allot even what has been guaranteed to you by your secret treaty. i refuse to recognize that because the united states government was no party to it, was, in fact, wholly unaware of it until recently. new circumstances have transformed it into a mere scrap of paper." this language was not understood by the italian people. for them the sacredness of treaties was a dogma not to be questioned, and least of all by the champion of right, justice, and good faith. they had welcomed the new order preached by the american statesman, but were unable to reconcile it with the tearing up of existing conventions, the repudiation of legal rights, the dissolution of alliances. in particular their treaty with france, britain, and russia had contributed materially to the victory over the common enemy, had in fact saved the allies. "it was italy's intervention," said the chief of the austrian general staff, conrad von hoetzendorff, "that brought about the disaster. without that the central empires would infallibly have won the war."[ ] and there is no reason to doubt his assertion. in truth italy had done all she had promised to the allies, and more. she had contributed materially to save france--wholly gratuitously. it was also her neutrality, which she could have bartered, but did not,[ ] that turned the scale at bucharest against the military intervention of rumania on the side of the teutons.[ ] and without the neutrality of both these countries at the outset of hostilities the course of the struggle and of european history would have been widely different from what they have been. and now that the allies had achieved their aim they were to refuse to perform their part of the compact in the name, too, of a moral principle from the operation of which three great powers were dispensed. that was the light in which the matter appeared to the unsophisticated mind of the average italian, and not to him alone. others accustomed to abstract reasoning asked whether the best preparation for the future régime of right and justice, and all that these imply, is to transgress existing rights and violate ordinary justice, and what difference there is between the demoralizing influence of this procedure and that of professional bolshevists. there was but one adequate answer to this objection, and it consisted in the whole-hearted and rigid application of the wilsonian tenets to all nations without exception. but even the author of these tenets did not venture to make it. the essence of the territorial question lay in the disposal of the eastern shore of the adriatic.[ ] the jugoslavs claimed all istria and dalmatia, and based their claim partly on the principle of nationalities and partly on the vital necessity of having outlets on that sea, and in particular fiume, the most important of them all, which they described as essentially croatian and indispensable as a port. the italian delegates, joining issue with the jugoslavs, and claiming a section of the seaboard and fiume, argued that the greatest part of the east adriatic shore would still remain croatian, together with all the ports of the croatian coast and others in southern dalmatia--in a word, twelve ports, including spalato and ragusa, and a thousand kilometers of seaboard. the jugoslavs met this assertion with the objection that the outlets in question were inaccessible, all except fiume and metkovitch. as for fiume,[ ] the italian delegates contended that although not promised to italy by the treaty of london, it was historically hers, because, having been for centuries an autonomous entity and having as such religiously preserved its italian character, its inhabitants had exercised their rights to manifest by plebiscite their desire to be united with the mother country. they further denied that it was indispensable to the jugoslavs because these would receive a dozen other ports and also because the traffic between croatia and fiume was represented by only per cent. of the whole, and even that of croatia, slavonia, and dalmatia combined by only per cent. further, italy would undertake to give all requisite export facilities in fiume to the jugoslavs. the latter traversed many of these statements, and in particular that which described fiume as a separate autonomous entity and as an essentially italian city. archives were ransacked by both parties, ancient documents produced, analyzed, condemned as forgeries or appealed to as authentic proofs, chance phrases were culled from various writers of bygone days and offered as evidence in support of each contention. thus the contest grew heated. it was further inflamed by the attitude of italy's allies, who appeared to her as either covertly unfriendly or at best lukewarm. m. clemenceau, who maintained during the peace negotiations the epithet "tiger" which he had earned long before, was alleged to have said in the course of one of those conversations which were misnamed private, "for italy to demand fiume is to ask for the moon."[ ] officially he took the side of mr. wilson, as did also the british premier, and italy's two allies signified but a cold assent to those other claims which were covered by their own treaty. but they made no secret of their desire to see that instrument wholly set aside. fiume they would not bestow on their ally, at least not unless she was prepared to offer an equivalent to the jugoslavs and to satisfy the president of the united states. this advocacy of the claims of the jugoslavs was bitterly resented by the italians. for centuries the two peoples had been rivals or enemies, and during the war the jugoslavs fought with fury against the italians. for italy the arch-enemy had ever been austria and austria was largely slav. "austria," they say, "was the official name given to the cruel enemy against whom we fought, but it was generally the croatians and other slavs whom our gallant soldiers found facing them, and it was they who were guilty of the misdeeds from which our armies suffered." official documents prove this.[ ] orders of the day issued by the austrian command eulogize "the serbo-croatian battalions who vied with the austro-german and hungarian soldiers in resisting the pitfalls dug by the enemy to cause them to swerve from their fidelity and take the road to treason.[ ] in the last battle which ended the existence of the austro-hungarian monarchy a large contingent of excellent croatian troops fought resolutely against the italian armies." in italy an impressive story is told which shows how this transformation of the enemy of yesterday into the ally of to-day sometimes worked out. the son of an italian citizen who was fighting as an aviator was killed toward the end of the war, in a duel fought in the air, by an austrian combatant. soon after the armistice was signed the sorrowing father repaired to the place where his son had fallen. he there found an ex-austrian officer, the lucky victor and slayer of his son, wearing in his buttonhole the jugoslav _cocarde_, who, advancing toward him with extended hand, uttered the greeting, "you and i are now allies."[ ] the historian may smile at the naïveté of this anecdote, but the statesman will acknowledge that it characterized the relations between the inhabitants of the new state and the italians. one can divine the feelings of these when they were exhorted to treat their ex-enemies as friends and allies. "is it surprising, then," the italians asked, "that we cannot suddenly conceive an ardent affection for the ruthless 'austrians' of whose cruelties we were bitterly complaining a few months back? is it strange that we cannot find it in our hearts to cut off a slice of italian territory and make it over to them as one of the fruits of--our victory over them? if italy had not first adopted neutrality and then joined the allies in the war there would be no jugoslavia to-day. are we now to pay for our altruism by sacrificing italian soil and italian souls to the secular enemies of our race?" in a word, the armistice transformed italy's enemy into a friend and ally for whose sake she was summoned to abandon some of the fruits of a hard-earned victory and a part of her secular aspirations. what, asked the italian delegates, would france answer if she were told that the prussians whom her matchless armies defeated must henceforth be looked upon as friends and endowed with some new colonies which would otherwise be hers? the italian dramatist sem benelli put the matter tersely: "the collapse of austria transforms itself therefore into a play of words, so much so that our people, who are much more precise because they languished under the austrian yoke and the austrian scourge, never call the austrians by this name; they call them always croatians, knowing well that the croatians and the slavs who constituted austria were our fiercest taskmasters and most cruel executioners. it is naïve to think that the ineradicable characteristics and tendencies of peoples can be modified by a change of name and a new flag." but there was another way of looking at the matter, and the allies, together with the jugoslavs, made the most of it. the slav character of the disputed territory was emphasized, the principle of nationality invoked, and the danger of incorporating an unfriendly foreign element which could not be assimilated was solemnly pointed out. but where sentiment actuates, reason is generally impotent. the policy of the italian government, like that of all other governments, was frankly nationalistic; whether it was also statesman-like may well be questioned--indeed the question has already been answered by some of italy's principal press organs in the negative.[ ] they accuse the cabinet of having deliberately let loose popular passions which it afterward vainly sought to allay, and the facts which they allege in support of the charge have never been denied. it was certainly to italy's best interests to strike up a friendly agreement with the new state, if that were feasible, and some of the men in whose hands her destinies rested, feeling their responsibility, made a laudable attempt to come to an understanding. signor orlando, whose sagacity is equal to his resourcefulness, was one. in london he had talked the subject over with the croatian leader, m. trumbic, and favored the movement toward reconciliation[ ] which baron sonnino, his colleague, as resolutely discouraged. a congress was accordingly held in rome[ ] and an accord projected. the reciprocal relations became amicable. the jugoslav committee in the italian capital congratulated signor orlando on the victory of the piave. but owing to various causes, especially to baron sonnino's opposition, these inchoate sentiments of neighborliness quickly lost their warmth and finally vanished. no trace of them remained at the paris conference, where the delegates of the two states did not converse together nor even salute one another. president wilson's visit to rome, where, to use an italian expression, he was welcomed by delirium, seemed to brighten italy's outlook on the future. much was afterward made by the president's enemies of the subsequent change toward him in the sentiments of the italian people. this is commonly ascribed to his failure to fulfil the expectations which his words or attitude aroused or warranted. nothing could well be more misleading. mr. wilson's position on the subject of italy's claims never changed, nor did he say or do aught that would justify a doubt as to what it was. in rome he spoke to the ministers in exactly the same terms as in paris at the conference. he apprized them in january of what he proposed to do in april and he even contemplated issuing a declaration of his italian policy at once. but he was earnestly requested by the ministers to keep his counsel to himself and to make no public allusion to it during his sojourn in italy.[ ] it was not his fault, therefore, if the italian people cherished illusory hopes. in paris signer orlando had an important encounter with mr. wilson,[ ] who told him plainly that the allotment of the northern frontiers traced for italy by the london treaty would be confirmed, while that of the territory on the eastern adriatic would be quashed. the division of the spoils of austria there must, he added, be made congruously with a map which he handed to the italian premier. it was proved on examination to be identical with one already published by the _new europe_.[ ] signor orlando glanced at the map and in courteous phraseology unfolded the reasons why he could not entertain the settlement proposed. he added that no italian parliament would ratify it. thereupon the president turned the discussion to politico-ethical lines, pointed out the harm which the annexation of an alien and unfriendly element could inflict upon italy, the great advantages which cordial relations with her slav neighbor would confer on her, and the ease with which she might gain the markets of the new state. a young and small nation like the jugoslavs would be grateful for an act of generosity and would repay it by lasting friendship--a return worth far more than the contentious territories. "ah, you don't know the jugoslavs, mr. president," exclaimed signor orlando. "if italy were to cede to them dalmatia, fiume, and eastern istria they would forthwith lay claim to trieste and pola and, after trieste and pola, to friuli and gorizia." after some further discussion mr. wilson said: "well, i am unable to reconcile with my principles the recognition of secret treaties, and as the two are incompatible i uphold the principles." "i, too," rejoined the italian premier, "condemn secret treaties in the future when the new principles will have begun to regulate international politics. as for those compacts which were concluded during the war they were all secret, not excluding those to which the united states was a party." the president demurred to this reservation. he conceived and put his case briefly as follows: italy, like her allies, had had it in her power to accept the fourteen points, reject them, or make reserves. britain and france had taken exception to those clauses which they were determined to reject, whereas italy signified her adhesion to them all. therefore she was bound by the principles underlying them and had forfeited the right to invoke a secret treaty. the settlement of the issues turning upon dalmatia, istria, fiume, and the islands must consequently be taken in hand without reference to the clauses of that instrument. examined on their merits and in the light of the new arrangements, italy's claims could not be upheld. it would be unfair to the jugoslavs who inhabit the whole country to cut them off from their own seaboard. nor would such a measure be helpful to italy herself, whose interest it was to form a homogeneous whole, consolidate her dominions, and prepare for the coming economic struggle for national well-being. the principle of nationality must, therefore, be allowed full play. as for fiume, even if the city were, as alleged, an independent entity and desirous of being incorporated in italy, one would still have to set against these facts jugoslavia's imperative need of an outlet to the sea. here the principle of economic necessity outweighs those of nationality and free determination. a country must live, and therefore be endowed with the wherewithal to support life. on these grounds, judgment should be entered for the jugoslavs. the italian premier's answer was equally clear, but he could not unburden his mind of it all. his government had, it was true, adhered to the fourteen points without reservation. but the assumptions on which it gave this undertaking were that it would not be used to upset past compacts, but would be reserved for future settlements; that even had it been otherwise the maxims in question should be deemed relevant in italy's case only if applied impartially to all states, and that the entire work of reorganization should rest on this ethical foundation. a régime of exceptions, with privileged and unprivileged nations, would obviously render the scheme futile and inacceptable. yet this was the system that was actually being introduced. if secret treaties were to be abrogated, then let the convention between japan and china be also put out of court and the dispute between them adjudicated upon its merits. if the fourteen points are binding, let the freedom of the seas be proclaimed. if equal rights are to be conferred upon all states, let the monroe doctrine be repealed. if disarmament is to become a reality, let britain and america cease to build warships. suppose for a moment that to-morrow brazil or chile were to complain of the conduct of the united states, the league of nations, in whose name mr. wilson speaks, would be hindered by the monroe doctrine from intervening, whereas britain and the united states in analogous conditions may intermeddle in the affairs of any of the lesser states. when ireland or egypt or india uplifts its voice against britain, it is but a voice in the desert which awakens no echo. if fiume were inhabited by american citizens who, with a like claim to be considered a separate entity, asked to be allowed to live under the stars and stripes, what would president wilson's attitude be then? would he turn a deaf ear to their prayer? surely not. why, in the case of italy, does he not do as he would be done by? what it all comes to is that the new ordering under the flag of equality is to consist of superior and inferior nations, of which the former, who speak english, are to possess unlimited power over the latter, to decide what is good for them and what is bad, what is licit and what is forbidden. and against their fiat there is to be no appeal. in a word, it is to be the hegemony of the anglo-saxon race. it is worth noting that signor orlando's arguments were all derived from the merits of the case, not from the terms or the force of the london treaty. fiume, he said, had besought italy to incorporate it, and had made this request before the armistice, at a moment when it was risky to proclaim attachments to the kingdom.[ ] the inhabitants had invoked mr. wilson's own words: "national aspirations must be respected.... self-determination is not a mere phrase." "peoples and provinces are not to be bartered about from sovereignty to sovereignty as if they were mere chattels and pawns in a game. every territorial settlement involved in this war must be made in the interest and for the benefit of the populations concerned, and not as a part of any adjustment for compromise of claims among rival states." and in his address at mount vernon the president had advocated a doctrine which is peculiarly applicable to fiume--_i.e._: "the settlement of every question, whether of territory, of sovereignty, of economic arrangement, or of political relationship, upon the basis of the free acceptance of that settlement by the people immediately concerned, and not upon the basis of material interest or advantage of any other nation or people which may desire a different settlement, for the sake of its own exterior influence or mastery."[ ] these maxims laid down by mr. wilson implicitly allot fiume to italy. finally as to the objection that italy's claims would entail the incorporation of a number of slavs, the answer was that the percentage was negligible as compared with the number of foreign elements annexed by other states. the poles, it was estimated, would have some per cent. of aliens, the czechs not less, rumania per cent., jugoslavia per cent., france per cent., and italy only per cent. in february the jugoslavs made a strategic move, which many admired as clever, and others blamed as unwise. they proposed that all differences between their country and italy should be submitted to mr. wilson's arbitration. considering that the president's mind was made up on the subject from the beginning, and that he had decided against italy, it was natural that the delegation in whose favor his decision was known to incline should be eager to get it accepted by their rivals. as neither side was ignorant of what the result of the arbitration would be, only one of the two could be expected to close with the offer, and the most it could hope by doing this was to embarrass the other. the italian answer was ingenious. their dispute, they said, was not with serbia, who alone was represented at the conference; it concerned croatia, who had no official standing there, and whose frontiers were not yet determined, but would in due time be traced by the conference, of which italy was a member. the decision would be arrived at after an exhaustive study, and its probable consequences to europe's peace would be duly considered. as extreme circumspection was imperative before formulating a verdict, five plenipotentiaries would seem better qualified than any one of them, even though he were the wisest of the group. to remove the question from the competency of the conference, which was expressly convoked to deal with such issues, and submit it to an individual, would be felt as a slight on the supreme council. and so the matter dropped. signor orlando knew that if he had adopted the suggestion and made mr. wilson arbiter, italy's hopes would have been promptly extinguished in the name of the fourteen points, and her example held up for all the lesser states to imitate. the president was, however, convinced that the italian people would have ratified the arrangement with alacrity. it is worth recording that he was so sure of his own hold on the italian masses that, when urging signor orlando to relinquish his demand for fiume and the dalmatian coast, he volunteered to provide him with a message written by himself to serve as the premier's justification. signor orlando was to read out this document in parliament in order to make it clear to the nation that the renunciation had been demanded by america, that it would most efficaciously promote italy's best interests, and should for that reason be ratified with alacrity. signor orlando, however, declined the certificate and things took their course. in paris the italian delegation made little headway. every one admired, esteemed, and felt drawn toward the first delegate, who, left to himself, would probably have secured for his country advantageous conditions, even though he might be unable to add fiume to those secured by the secret treaty. but he was not left to himself. he had to reckon with his minister of foreign affairs, who was as mute as an oyster and almost as unsociable. baron sonnino had his own policy, which was immutable, almost unutterable. at the conference he seemed unwilling to propound, much less to discuss it, even with those foreign colleagues on whose co-operation or approval its realization depended. he actually shunned delegates who would fain have talked over their common interests in a friendly, informal way, and whose business it was to strike up an agreement. in fact, results which could be secured only by persuading indifferent or hostile people and capturing their good-will he expected to attain by holding aloof from all and leading the life of a hermit, one might almost say of a misanthrope. one can imagine the feelings, if one may not reproduce the utterances, of english-speaking officials, whose legitimate desire for a free exchange of views with italy's official spokesman was thwarted by the idiosyncrasies of her own minister of foreign affairs. in allied circles baron sonnino was distinctly unpopular, and his unpopularity produced a marked effect on the cause he had at heart. he was wholly destitute of friends. he had, it is true, only two enemies, but they were himself and the foreign element who had to work with him. italy's cause was therefore inadequately served. several months' trial showed the unwisdom of baron sonnino's attitude, which tended to defeat his own policy. italy was paid back by her allies in her own coin, aloofness for aloofness. after she had declined the jugoslavs' ingenious proposal to refer their dispute to mr. wilson the three delegates[ ] agreed among themselves to postpone her special problems until peace was signed with germany, but signor orlando, having got wind of the matter, moved every lever to have them put into the forefront of the agenda. he went so far as to say that he would not sign the treaty unless his country's claims were first settled, because that document would make the league of nations--and therefore italy as a member of the league--the guarantor of other nations' territories, whereas she herself had no defined territories for others to guarantee. she would not undertake to defend the integrity of states which she had helped to create while her own frontiers were indefinite. but in the art of procrastination the triumvirate was unsurpassed, and, as the time drew near for presenting the treaty to germany, neither the adriatic, the colonial, the financial, nor the economic problems on which italy's future depended were settled or even broached. in the meanwhile the plenipotentiaries in secret council, of whom four or five were wont to deliberate and two to take decisions, had disagreed on the subject of fiume. mr. wilson was inexorable in his refusal to hand the city over to italy, and the various compromises devised by ingenious weavers of conflicting interests failed to rally the italian delegates, whose inspirer was the taciturn baron sonnino. the italian press, by insisting on fiume as a _sine qua non_ of italy's approval of the peace treaty and by announcing that it would undoubtedly be accorded, had made it practically impossible for the delegates to recede. the circumstance that the press was inspired by the government is immaterial to the issue. president wilson, who had been frequently told that a word from him to the peoples of europe would fire their enthusiasm and carry them whithersoever he wished, even against their own governments, now purposed wielding this unique power against italy's plenipotentiaries. as we saw, he would have done this during his sojourn in rome, but was dissuaded by baron sonnino. his intention now was to compel the delegates to go home and ascertain whether their inflexible attitude corresponded with that of their people and to draw the people into the camp of the "idealists." he virtually admitted this during his conversation with signor orlando. what he seems to have overlooked, however, is that there are time limits to every policy, and that only the same causes can be set in motion to produce the same results. in italy the president's name had a very different sound in april from the clarion-like tones it gave forth in january, and the secret of his popularity even then was the prevalent faith in his firm determination to bring about a peace of justice, irrespective of all separate interests, not merely a peace with indulgence for the strong and rigor for the weak. the time when mr. wilson might have summoned the peoples of europe to follow him had gone by irrevocably. it is worth noting that the american statesman's views about certain of italy's claims, although originally laid down with the usual emphasis as immutable, underwent considerable modifications which did not tend to reinforce his authority. thus at the outset he had proclaimed the necessity of dividing istria between the two claimant nations, but, on further reflection, he gave way in italy's favor, thus enabling signor orlando to make the point that even the president's solutions needed corrections. it is also a fact that when the italian premier insisted on having the adriatic problems definitely settled before the presentation of the treaty to the germans[ ] his colleagues of france and britain assured him that this reasonable request would be complied with. the circumstance that this promise was disregarded did not tend to smooth matters in the council of five. the decisive duel between signor orlando and mr. wilson was fought out in april, and the overt acts which subsequently marked their tense relations were but the practical consequences of that. on the historic day each one set forth his program with a _ne varietur_ attached, and the president of the united states gave utterance to an estimate of italian public opinion which astonished and pained the italian premier, who, having contributed to form it, deemed himself a more competent judge of its trend than his distinguished interlocutor. but mr. wilson not only refused to alter his judgment, but announced his intention to act upon it and issue an appeal to the italian nation. the gist of this document was known to m. clemenceau and mr. lloyd george. it has been alleged, and seems highly probable, that the british premier was throughout most anxious to bring about a workable compromise. proposals were therefore put forward respecting fiume and dalmatia, some of which were not inacceptable to the italians, who lodged counter-proposals about the others. on the fate of these counter-proposals everything depended. on april d i was at the hôtel edouard vii, the headquarters of the italian delegation, discussing the outlook and expecting to learn that some agreement had been reached. in an adjoining room the members of the delegation were sitting in conference on the burning subject, painfully aware that time pressed, that the damocles's sword of mr. wilson's declaration hung by a thread over their heads, and that a spirit of large compromise was indispensable. at three o'clock mr. lloyd george's secretary brought the reply of the council of three to italy's maximum of concessions. only one point remained in dispute, i was told, but that point hinged upon fiume, and, by a strange chance, it was not mentioned in the reply which the secretary had just handed in. the italian delegation at once telephoned to the british premier asking him to receive the marquis imperiali, who, calling shortly afterward, learned that fiume was to be a free city and exempt from control. it was when the marquis had just returned that i took leave of my hosts and received the assurance that i should be informed of the result. about half an hour later, on receipt of an urgent message, i hastened back to the italian headquarters, where consternation prevailed, and i learned that hardly had the delegates begun to discuss the contentious clause when a copy of the _temps_ was brought in, containing mr. wilson's appeal to the italian people "over the heads of the italian government." the publication fell like a powerful explosive. the public were at a loss to fit in mr. wilson's unprecedented action with that of his british and french colleagues. for if in the morning he sent his appeal to the newspapers, it was asked, why did he allow his italian colleagues to go on examining a proposal on which he manifestly assumed that they were no longer competent to treat? moreover a rational desire to settle italy's adriatic frontiers, it was observed, ought not to have lessened his concern about the larger issues which his unwonted procedure was bound to raise. and one of these was respect for authority, the loss of which was the taproot of bolshevism. signor orlando replied to the appeal in a trenchant letter which was at bottom a reasoned protest against the assumed infallibility of any individual and, in particular, of one who had already committed several radical errors of judgment. what the italian premier failed to note was the consciousness of overwhelming power and the will to use it which imparted its specific mark to the whole proceeding. had he realized this element, his subsequent tactics would perhaps have run on different lines. the suddenness with which the president carried out his purpose was afterward explained as the outcome of misinformation. in various italian cities, it had been reported to him, posters were appearing on the walls announcing that fiume had been annexed. moreover, it was added, there were excellent grounds for believing that at rome the italian cabinet was about to issue a decree incorporating it officially, whereby things would become more tangled than ever. some french journals gave credit to these allegations, and it may well be that mr. wilson, believing them, too, and wanting to be beforehand, took immediate action. this, however, is at most an explanation; it hardly justifies the precipitancy with which the italian plenipotentiaries were held up to the world as men who were misrepresenting their people. as a matter of fact careful inquiry showed that all those reports which are said to have alarmed the president were groundless. mr. wilson's sources of information respecting the countries on which he was sitting in judgment were often as little to be depended on as presumably were the decisions of the special commissions which he and mr. lloyd george so unceremoniously brushed aside. on the following morning signori orlando and sonnino called on the british premier in response to his urgent invitation. to their surprise they found mr. wilson and m. clemenceau also awaiting them, ready, as it might seem, to begin the discussion anew, curious in any case to observe the effect of the declaration. but the italian premier burned his boats without delay or hesitation. "you have challenged the authority of the italian government," he said, "and appealed to the italian people. be it so. it is now become my duty to seek out the representatives of my people in parliament and to call upon them to decide between mr. wilson and me." the president returned the only answer possible, "undoubtedly that is your duty." "i shall inform parliament then that we have allies incapable of agreeing among themselves on matters that concern us vitally." disquieted by the militant tone of the minister, mr. lloyd george uttered a suasive appeal for moderation, and expressed the hope that in his speech to the italian chamber, signor orlando would not forget to say that a satisfactory solution may yet be found. he would surely be incapable of jeopardizing the chances of such a desirable consummation. "i will make the people arbiters of the whole situation," the premier announced, "and in order to enable them to judge with full knowledge of the data, i herewith ask your permission to communicate my last memorandum to the council of four. it embodies the pith of the facts which it behooves the parliament to have before it. in the meantime, the italian government withdraws from the peace conference." on this the painful meeting terminated and the principal italian plenipotentiaries returned to rome. in france a section of the press sympathized with the italians, while the government, and in particular m. clemenceau, joined mr. wilson, who had promised to restore the sacredness of treaties[ ] in exhorting signor orlando to give up the treaty of london. the clash between mr. wilson and signor orlando and the departure of the italian plenipotentiaries coincided with the arrival of the germans in versailles, so that the allies were faced with the alternative of speeding up their desultory talks and improvising a definite solution or giving up all pretense at unanimity in the presence of the enemy. one important paris journal found fault with mr. wilson and his "encyclical," and protested emphatically against his way of filling every gap in his arrangements by wedging into it his league of nations. "can we harbor any illusion as to the net worth of the league of nations when the revised text of the covenant reveals it shrunken to the merest shadow, incapable of thought, will, action, or justice?... too often have we made sacrifices to the wilsonian doctrine."[ ] ... another press organ compared fiume to the saar valley and sympathized with italy, who, relying on the solidarity of her allies, expected to secure the city.[ ] while those wearisome word-battles--in which the personal element played an undue part--were being waged in the twilight of a secluded valhalla, the supreme economic council decided that the seized austrian vessels must be pooled among all the allies. when the untoward consequences of this decision were flashed upon the italians and the jugoslavs, the rupture between them was seen to be injurious to both and profitable to third parties. for if the austrian vessels were distributed among all the allied peoples, the share that would fall to those two would be of no account. now for the first time the adversaries bestirred themselves. but it was not their diplomatists who took the initiative. eager for their respective countries' share of the spoils of war, certain business men on both sides met,[ ] deliberated, and worked out an equitable accord which gave four-fifths of the tonnage to italy and the remainder to the jugoslavs, who otherwise would not have obtained a single ship.[ ] they next set about getting the resolution of the economic council repealed, and went on with their conversations.[ ] the american delegation was friendly, promised to plead for the repeal, and added that "if the accord could be extended to the adriatic problem mr. wilson would be delighted and would take upon himself to ratify it _even without the sanction of the conference_.[ ] encouraged by this promise, the delegates made the attempt, but as the italian premier had for some unavowed reason limited the intercourse of the negotiators to a single day, on the expiry of which he ordered the conversation to cease,[ ] they failed. two or three days later the delegates in question had quitted paris. what this exchange of views seems to have demonstrated to open-minded italians was that the jugoslavs, whose reputation for obstinacy was a dogma among all their adversaries and some of their friends, have chinks in their panoply through which reason and suasion may penetrate. when the italian withdrew from the conference he had ample reason for believing that in his absence peace could not be signed, and many thought that, by departing, he was giving mr. wilson a roland for his oliver. but this supposed tactical effect formed no part of orlando's deliberate plan. it was a coincidence to be utilized, nothing more. mr. wilson had left him no choice but to quit france and solicit the verdict of his countrymen. but mr. wilson's colleagues were aghast at the thought that the pact of london, by which none of the allies might conclude a separate peace, rendered it indispensable that italy's recalcitrant plenipotentiaries should be co-signatories, or at any rate consenting parties. about this interpretation of the pact there was not the slightest doubt. hence every one feared that the signing of the peace treaty would be postponed indefinitely because of the absence of the italian plenipotentiaries from the conference. that certainly was the belief of the remaining delegates. there was no doubt anywhere that the presence or the express assent of the italians was a _sine qua non_ of the legality of the treaty. it certainly was the conviction of the french press, and was borne out by the most eminent jurists throughout the world.[ ] that the italian delegates might refuse to sign, as signor orlando had threatened, until italy's affairs were arranged satisfactorily was taken for granted, and the remaining members of the inner council set to work to checkmate this potential maneuver and dispense with her co-operation. this aim was attained during the absence of the italian delegation by the decree that the signature of any three of the allied and associated governments would be deemed adequate. the legality and even the morality of this provision were challenged by many. but it may be maintained that the imperative nature of the task which confronted the conference demanded a chart of ideas and principles different from that by which old world diplomacy had been guided and that respect for the letter of a compact should not be allowed to destroy its spirit. there is much to be said for this contention, which was, however, rejected by italian jurists as destructive of the sacredness of treaties. they also urged that even if it were permissible to dash formal obstacles aside in order to clear the path for the furtherance of a good cause, it is also indispensable that the result should be compassed with the smallest feasible sacrifice of principle. hopes were accordingly entertained by the italian delegates that, on their return to paris, at least a formal declaration might be made that italy's signature was indispensable to the validity of the treaty. but they were not, perhaps could not, be fulfilled at that conjuncture. advantage was taken in other ways of the withdrawal of italy's representatives from the conference. for example, a clause of the treaty with germany dealing with reparations was altered to italy's detriment. another which turned upon austro-german relations was likewise modified. before the delegates left for rome it had been settled that germany should be bound over to respect austria's independence. this obligation was either superfluous, every state being obliged to respect the independence of every other, or else it had a cryptic meaning which would only reveal itself in the application of the clause. as soon as the conference was freed from the presence of the italians the formula was modified, and germany was plainly forbidden to unite with austria, even though austria should expressly desire amalgamation. as this enactment runs directly counter to the principle of self-determination, the italian minister crespi raised his voice in energetic protest against this and the financial changes,[ ] whereupon the triumvirs, giving way on the latter point, consented to restore the primitive text of the financial condition.[ ] germany is obliged to supply france with seven million tons of coal every year by way of restitution for damage done during the war. at the price of fifty francs a ton, the money value of this tribute would be three hundred and fifty million francs, of which italy would be entitled to receive per cent. but during the absence of the italian representatives a supplementary clause was inserted in the treaty[ ] conferring a special privilege on france which renders italy's claim of little or no value. it provides that germany shall deliver annually to france an amount of coal equal to the difference between the pre-war production of the mines of pas de calais and the nord, destroyed by the enemy, and the production of the mines of the same area during each of the coming years, the maximum limit to be twenty million tons. as this contribution takes precedence of all others, and as germany, owing to insufficiency of transports and other causes, will probably be unable to furnish it entirely, italy's claim is considered practically valueless. the reception of the delegates in rome was a triumph, their return to paris a humiliation. for things had been moving fast in the meanwhile, and their trend, as we said, was away from italy's goal. public opinion in their own country likewise began to veer round, and people asked whether they had adopted the right tactics, whether, in fine, they were the right men to represent their country at that crisis of its history. there was no gainsaying the fact that italy was completely isolated at the conference. she had sacrificed much and had garnered in relatively little. the jugoslavs had offered her an alliance--although this kind of partnership had originally been forbidden by the wilsonian discipline; the offer was rejected and she was now certain of their lasting enmity. venizelos had also made overtures to baron sonnino for an understanding, but they elicited no response, and italy's relations with greece lost whatever cordiality they might have had. between france and italy the threads of friendship which companionship in arms should have done much to strengthen were strained to the point of snapping. and worst, perhaps, of all, the italian delegates had approved the clause forbidding germany to unite with austria. that the fault did not lie wholly in the attitude of the allies is obvious. the italian delegates' lack of method, one might say of unity, was unquestionably a contributory cause of their failure to make perceptible headway at the conference. a curious and characteristic incident of the slipshod way in which the work was sometimes done occurred in connection with the disposal of the palace venezia, in rome, which had belonged to austria, but was expropriated by the italian government soon after the opening of hostilities. the heirs of the hapsburg crown put forward a claim to proprietary rights which was traversed by the italian government. as the dispute was to be laid before the conference, the roman cabinet invited a _juris consult_ versed in these matters to argue italy's case. he duly appeared, unfolded his claim congruously with the views of his government, but suddenly stopped short on observing the looks of astonishment on the faces of the delegates. it appears that on the preceding day another delegate of the economic conference, also an italian, had unfolded and defended the contrary thesis--namely, that austria's heirs had inherited her right to the palace of venezia.[ ] passing to more momentous matters, one may pertinently ask whether too much stress was not laid by the first italian delegation upon the national and sentimental sides of italy's interests, and too little on the others. among the great powers italy is most in need of raw materials. she is destitute of coal, iron, cotton, and naphtha. most of them are to be had in asia minor. they are indispensable conditions of modern life and progress. to demand a fair share of them as guerdon for having saved europe, and to put in her claim at a moment when europe was being reconstituted, could not have been construed as imperialism. the other allies had possessed most of those necessaries in abundance long before the war. they were adding to them now as the fruits of a victory which italy's sacrifices had made possible. why, then, should she be left unsatisfied? bitterly though the nation was disappointed by failure to have its territorial claims allowed, it became still more deeply grieved when it came to realize that much more important advantages might have been secured if these had been placed in the forefront of the nation's demands. emigration ground for italy's surplus population, which is rapidly increasing, coal and iron for her industries might perhaps have been obtained if the italian plan of campaign at the conference had been rightly conceived and skilfully executed. but this realistic aspect of italy's interests was almost wholly lost sight of during the waging of the heated and unfruitful contests for the possession of town and ports, which, although sacred symbols of italianism, could not add anything to the economic resources which will play such a predominant part in the future struggle for material well-being among the new and old states. there was a marked propensity among italy's leaders at home and in paris to consider each of the issues that concerned their country as though it stood alone, instead of envisaging italy's economic, financial, and military position after the war as an indivisible problem and proving that it behooved the allies in the interests of a european peace to solve it satisfactorily, and to provide compensation in one direction for inevitable gaps in the other. this, to my thinking, was the fundamental error of the italian and allied statesmen for which europe may have to suffer. that italy's policy cannot in the near future return to the lines on which it ran ever since the establishment of her national unity, whatever her allies may do or say, will hardly be gainsaid. interests are decisive factors of foreign policy, and the action of the great powers has determined italy's orientation. italy undoubtedly gained a great deal by the war, into which she entered mainly for the purpose of achieving her unity and securing strong frontiers. but she signed the peace treaty convinced that she had not succeeded in either purpose, and that her allies were answerable for her failure. it was certainly part of their policy to build up a strong state on her frontier out of a race which she regards as her adversary and to give it command of some of her strategic positions. and the overt bearing manner in which this policy was sometimes carried out left as much bitterness behind as the object it aimed at. it is alleged that the italian delegates were treated with an economy of consideration which bordered on something much worse, while the arguments officially invoked to non-suit them appeared to them in the light of bitter sarcasms. president wilson, they complained, ignored his far-resonant principle of self-determination when japan presented her claim for shantung, but refused to swerve from it when italy relied on her treaty rights in dalmatia. and when the inhabitants of fiume voted for union with the mother country, the president abandoned that principle and gave judgment for jugoslavia on other grounds. he was right, but disappointing, they observed, when he told his fellow-citizens that his presence in europe was indispensable in order to interpret his conceptions, for no other rational being could have construed them thus. the withdrawal of the italian delegates was construed as an act of insubordination, and punished as such. the marquis de viti de varche has since disclosed the fact that the allied governments forthwith reduced the credits accorded to italy during hostilities, whereupon hardships and distress were aggravated and the peasantry over a large area of the country suffered intensely.[ ] for italy is more dependent on her allies than ever, owing to the sacrifices which she offered up during the war, and she was made to feel her dependence painfully. the military assistance which they had received from her was fraught with financial and economic consequences which have not yet been realized by the unfortunate people who must endure them. italy at the close of hostilities was burdened with a foreign debt of twenty milliards of lire, an internal debt of fifty millards, and a paper circulation four times more than what it was in pre-war days.[ ] raw materials were exhausted, traffic and production were stagnant, navigation had almost ceased, and the expenditure of the state had risen to eleven milliards a year.[ ] according to the figures published by the statistical society of berne, the general rise in prices attributed to the war hit italy much harder than any of her allies.[ ] the consequences of this and other perturbations were sinister and immediate. the nation, bereft of what it had been taught to regard as its right, humiliated in the persons of its chiefs, subjected to foreign guidance, insufficiently clad, underfed, and with no tangible grounds for expecting speedy improvement, was seething with discontent. frequent strikes merely aggravated the general suffering, which finally led to riots, risings, and the shedding of blood. the economic, political, and moral crisis was unprecedented. the men who drew italy into the war were held up to public opprobrium because in the imagination of the people the victory had cost them more and brought them in less than neutrality would have done. one of the principal orators of the opposition, in a trenchant discourse in the italian parliament, said, "the salandra-sonnino cabinet led italy into the war blindfolded."[ ] after the return of the italian delegation to paris various fresh combinations were devised for the purpose of grappling with the adriatic problem. one commended itself to the italians as a possible basis for discussion. in principle it was accepted. a declaration to this effect was made by signor orlando and taken cognizance of by m. clemenceau, who undertook to lay the matter before mr. wilson, the sole arbitrator in italian affairs. he played the part of fate throughout. days went by after this without bringing any token that the triumvirate was interested in the adriatic. at last the italian premier reminded his french colleague that the latest proposal had been accepted in principle, and the italian plenipotentiaries were awaiting mr. wilson's pleasure in the matter. accordingly, m. clemenceau undertook to broach the matter to the american statesman without delay. the reply, which was promptly given, dismayed the italians. it was in the form of one of those interpretations which, becoming associated with mr. wilson's name, shook public confidence in certain of the statesman-like qualities with which he had at first been credited. the construction which he now put upon the mode of voting to be applied to fiume, including this city--in a large district inhabited by a majority of jugoslavs--imparted to the project as the italians had understood it a wholly new aspect. they accordingly declared it inacceptable. as after that there seemed to be nothing more for the italian premier to do in paris, he left, was soon afterward defeated in the chamber, and resigned together with his cabinet. the vote of the italian parliament, which appeared to the continental press in the light of a protest of the nation against the aims and the methods of the conference, closed for the time being the chapter of italy's endeavor to complete her unity, secure strong frontiers, and perpetuate her political partnership with france and her intimate relations with the entente. thenceforward the english-speaking states might influence her overt acts, compel submission to their behests, and generally exercise a sort of guardianship over her, because they are the dispensers of economic boons, but the union of hearts, the mutual trust, the cement supplied by common aims are lacking. one of the most telling arguments employed by president wilson to dissuade various states from claiming strategic positions, and in particular italy from insisting on the annexation of fiume and the dalmatian coast, was the effective protection which the league of nations would confer on them.[ ] strategical considerations would, it was urged, lose all their value in the new era, and territorial guaranties become meaningless and cumbersome survivals of a dead epoch. that was the principal weapon with which he had striven to parry the thrusts of m. clemenceau and the touchstone by which he tested the sincerity of all professions of faith in his cherished project of compacting the nations of the world in a vast league of peace-loving, law-abiding communities. but the faith of france's leaders differed little from unbelief. guaranties first and the protection of the league afterward was the french formula, around which many fierce battles royal were fought. in the end mr. wilson, having obtained the withdrawal of the demand for the rhine frontier, gave in, and the covenant was reinforced by a compact which in the last analysis is a military undertaking, a unilateral triple alliance, great britain and the united states undertaking to hasten to france's assistance should her territory be wantonly invaded by germany. the case thus provided for is extremely improbable. the expansion of germany, when the auspicious hour strikes, will presumably be inaugurated on wholly new lines, against which armies, even if they can be mobilized in time, will be of little avail. but if force were resorted to, it is almost certain to be used in the direction where the resistance is least--against france's ally, poland. this, however, is by the way. the point made by the italians was that the league of nations being thus admittedly powerless to discharge the functions which alone could render strategic frontiers unnecessary, can consequently no longer be relied upon as an adequate protection against the dangers which the possession of the strongholds she claimed on the adriatic would effectively displace. either the league, it was argued, can, as asserted, protect the countries which give up commanding positions to potential enemies, or it cannot. in the former hypothesis france's insistence on a military convention is mischievous and immoral--in the latter italy stands in as much need of the precautions devised as her neighbor. but her spokesmen were still plied with the threadbare arguments and bereft of the countervailing corrective. and faith in the efficacy of the league was sapped by the very men who were professedly seeking to spread it. the press of rome, turin, and milan pointed to the loyalty of the italian people, brought out, they said, in sharp relief by the discontent which the exclusive character of that triple military accord engendered among them. as kinsmen of the french it was natural for italians to expect that they would be invited to become a party to this league within the league. as loyal allies of britain and france they felt desirous of being admitted to the alliance. but they were excluded. nor was their exasperation allayed by the assurance of their press that this was no alliance, but a state of tutelage. an alliance, it was explained, is a compact by which two or more parties agree to render one another certain services under given conditions, whereas the convention in question is a one-sided undertaking on the part of britain and the united states to protect france if wantonly attacked, because she is unable efficaciously to protect herself. it is a benefaction. but this casuistry fell upon deaf ears. what the people felt was the disesteem--the term in vogue was stronger--in which they were held by the allies, whom they had saved perhaps from ruin. by slow degrees the sentiments of the italian nation underwent a disquieting change. all parties and classes united in stigmatizing the behavior of the allies in terms which even the literary eminence of the poet d'annunzio could not induce the censors to let pass. "the peace treaty," wrote italy's most influential journal, "and its correlate forbode for the near future the continental hegemony of france countersigned by the anglo-american alliance."[ ] another widely circulated and respected organ described the policy of the entente as a solvent of the social fabric, constructive in words, corrosive in acts, "mischievous if ever there was a mischievous policy. for while raising hopes and whetting appetites, it does nothing to satisfy them; on the contrary, it does much to disappoint them. in words--a struggle for liberty, for nations, for the equality of peoples and classes, for the well-being of all; in acts--the suppression of the most elementary and constitutional liberty, the overlordship of certain nations based on the humiliation of others, the division of peoples into exploiters and exploited--the sharpening of social differences--the destruction of collective wealth, and its accumulation in a few blood-stained hands, universal misery, and hunger."[ ] although it is well understood that italy's defeat at the conference was largely the handiwork of president wilson, the resentment of the italian nation chose for its immediate objects the representatives of france and britain. the american "associates" were strangers, here to-day and gone to-morrow, but the allies remain, and if their attitude toward italy, it was argued, had been different, if their loyalty had been real, she would have fared proportionately as well as they, whatever the american statesmen might have said or done. the italian press breathed fiery wrath against its french ally, who so often at the conference had met italy's solicitations with the odious word "impossible." even moderate organs of public opinion gave free vent to estimates of france's policy and anticipations of its consequences which disturbed the equanimity of european statesmen. "it is impossible," one of these journals wrote, "for france to become the absolute despot of europe without italy, much less against italy. what transcended the powers of richelieu, who was a lion and fox combined, and was beyond the reach of bonaparte, who was both an eagle and a serpent, cannot be achieved by "tiger" clemenceau in circumstances so much less favorable than those of yore. we, it is true, are isolated, but then france is not precisely embarrassed by the choice of friends." the peace was described as "franco-slav domination with its headquarters in prague, and a branch office in agram." m. clemenceau was openly charged with striving after the hegemony of the continent for his country by separating germany from austria and surrounding her with a ring of slav states--poland, jugoslavia, czechoslovakia, and perhaps the non-slav kingdom of rumania. all these states would be in the leading-strings of the french republic, and austria would be linked to it in a different guise. and in order to effect this resuscitation of the hapsburg state under the name of "danubian federation," mr. wilson, it was asserted, had authorized a deliberate violation of his own principle of self-determination, and refused to austria the right of adopting the régime which she preferred. it was, in truth, an odd compromise, these critics continued, for an idealist of the president's caliber, on whose every political action the scrutinizing gaze of the world was fixed. one could not account for it as a sacrifice made for a high ethical aim--one of those ends which, according to the old maxim, hallows the means. it seemed an open response to a secret instigation or impulse which was unconnected with any recognized or avowable principle. even the socialist organs swelled the chorus of the accusers. _avanti_ wrote, "we are socialists, yet we have never believed that the american president with his fourteen points entered into the war for the highest aims of humanity and for the rights of peoples, any more than we believe at present that his opposition to the aspirations of the italian state on the adriatic are inspired by motives of idealism."[ ] the fate of the disputed territories on the adriatic was to be the outcome of self-determination. poland's claims were to be left to the self-determination of the silesian and ruthenian populations. rumania was told that her suit must remain in abeyance until it could be tested by the same principle, which would be applied in the form of a plebiscite. for self-determination was the cornerstone of the league of nations, the holiest boon for which the progressive peoples of the world had been pouring out their life-blood and substance for nearly five years. but when italy invoked self-determination, she was promptly non-suited. when austria appealed to it she was put out of court. and to crown all, the world was assured that the fourteen points had been triumphantly upheld. this depravation of principles by the triumph of the little prudences of the hour spurred some of the more impulsive critics to ascribe it to influences less respectable than those to which it may fairly be attributed. the directing powers were hypersensitive to the oft-repeated charge of meddling in the internal affairs of other nations. they were never tired of protesting their abhorrence of anything that smacked of interference. among the numerous facts, however, which they could neither deny nor reconcile with their professions, the following was brought forward by the italians, who had a special interest to draw public attention to it. it had to do with the abortive attempt to restore the hapsburg monarchy in hungary as the first step toward the formation of a danubian federation. "it is certain," wrote the principal italian journal, "that the archduke joseph's _coup d'état_ did not take place, indeed (given the conditions in budapest) could not take place, without the entente's connivance. the official _communiqués_ of budapest and vienna, dated august th, recount on this point precise details which no one has hitherto troubled to deny. the peidl government was scarcely three days in power, and, therefore, was not in a position to deserve either trust or distrust, when the heads of the 'order-loving organizations' put forward, to justify the need of a new crisis, the complaints of the heads of the entente missions as to the anarchy prevailing in hungary and the urgency of finding 'some one' who could save the country from the abyss. then a commission repaired to alscuth, where it easily persuaded the archduke to come to budapest. here he at once visited all the heads of missions and spent the whole day in negotiations. '_as a result of negotiations with entente representatives, the archduke joseph undertook a solution of the crisis_.' he then called together the old state police and a volunteer army of eight thousand men. the rumanian garrison was kept ready. the peidl government naturally did not resist at all. at p.m. on august th all the entente missions held a meeting, _to which the archduke joseph and the new premier were invited_. general gorton presided. _the conference lasted two hours and reached an agreement on all questions. all the heads of missions assured the new government of their warmest support_."[ ] another case of unwarranted interference which stirred the italians to bitter resentment turned upon the obligation imposed on austria to renounce her right to unite with germany. "it is difficult to discern in the policy of the entente toward austria anything more respectable than obstinacy coupled with stupidity," wrote the same journal. "but there is something still worse. it is impossible not to feel indignant with a coalition which, after having triumphed in the name of the loftiest ideas ... treats german-austria no better than the holy alliance treated the petty states of italy. but the congress of vienna acted in harmony with the principle of legitimism which it avowed and professed, whereas the paris conference violates without scruple the canons by which it claims to be guided. "not a whit more decorous is the intervention of the supreme council in the internal affairs of germany--a state which, according to the spirit and the letter of the versailles treaty, is sovereign and not a protectorate. the conference was qualified to dictate peace terms to germany, but it wanders beyond the bounds of its competency when it construes those terms and arrogates to itself--on the strength of forced and equivocal interpretations--the right of imposing upon a nation which is neither militarily nor juridically an enemy a constitutional reform. whether germany violates the treaty by her constitution is a question which only a judicial finding of the league of nations can fairly determine."[ ] it would be impolitic to overlook and insincere to belittle the effects of this incoherency upon the relations between france and italy. public opinion in the peninsula characterized the attitude of prance as deliberately hostile. the italians at the conference eagerly scrutinized every act and word of their french colleagues, with a view to discovering grounds for dispelling this view. but the search is reported to have been worse than vain. it revealed data which, although susceptible of satisfactory explanations, would, if disclosed at that moment, have aggravated the feeling of bitterness against france, which was fast gathering. signor orlando had recourse to the censor to prevent indiscretions, but the intuition of the masses triumphed over repression, and the existing tenseness merged into resentment. the way in which italians accounted for m. clemenceau's attitude was this. although italy has ceased to be the important political factor she once was when the triple alliance was in being, she is still a strong continental power, capable of placing a more numerous army in the field than her republican sister, and her population continues to increase at a high rate. in a few years she will have outstripped her rival. france, too, has perhaps lost those elements of her power and prestige which she derived from her alliance with russia. again, the slav ex-ally, russia, may become the enemy of to-morrow. in view of these contingencies france must create a substitute for the rumanian and italian allies. and as these have been found in the new slav states, poland, czechoslovakia, and jugoslavia, she can afford to dispense with making painful sacrifices to keep italy in countenance. a trivial incident which affords a glimpse of the spirit prevailing between the two kindred peoples occurred at st.-germain-en-laye, where the austrian delegates were staying. they had been made much of in vienna by the envoy of the french republic there, m. allizé, whose mission it was to hinder austria from uniting with the reich. italy's policy was, on the contrary, to apply mr. wilson's principle of self-determination and allow the austrians to do as they pleased in that respect. a fervent advocate of the french orthodox doctrine--a publicist--repaired to the austrian headquarters at st.-germain for the purpose, it is supposed, of discussing the subject. now intercourse of any kind between private individuals and the enemy delegates was strictly forbidden, and when m. x. presented himself, the italian officer on duty refused him admission. he insisted. the officer was inexorable. then he produced a written permit signed by the secretary of the conference, m. dutasta. how and why this exception was made in his favor when the rule was supposed to admit of no exceptions was not disclosed. but the italian officer, equal to the occasion, took the ground that a military prohibition cannot be canceled by a civilian, and excluded the would-be visitor. the general trend of france's european policy was repugnant to italy. she looked on it as a well-laid scheme to assume a predominant rôle on the continent. that, she believed, was the ultimate purpose of the veto on the union of austria and germany, of the military arrangements with britain and the united states, and of much else that was obnoxious to italy. austria was to be reconstituted according to the federative plans of the late archduke franz ferdinand, to be made stronger than before as a counterpoise to italy, and to be at the beck and call of france. thus the friend, ally, sister of yesterday became the potential enemy of to-morrow. that was the refrain of most of the italian journals, and none intoned it more fervently than those which had been foremost in bringing their country into the war. one of these, a conservative organ of lombardy, wrote: "until yesterday, we might have considered that two paths lay open before us, that of an alliance with france and that of an independent policy. but we can think so no longer. to offer our friendship to-day to the people who have already chosen their own road and established their solidarity with our enemies of yesterday and to-morrow would not be to strike out a policy, but to decide on an unseemly surrender. it would be tantamount to reproducing in an aggravated form the situation we occupied in the alliance with germany. once again we should be engaged in a partnership of which one of the partners was in reality our enemy. france taking the place of germany, and jugoslavia that of austria, the situation of the old triple alliance would be not merely reproduced, but made worse in the reproduction, because the _triplice_ at least guaranteed us against a conflict which we had grounds for apprehending, whereas the new alliance would tie our hands for the sake of a little balkan state which, single-handed, we are well able to keep in its place. "we have had enough of a policy which has hitherto saddled us with all the burdens of the alliance without bestowing on us any advantage--which has constrained us to favor all the peoples whose expansion dovetailed with french schemes and to combat or neglect those others whose consolidation corresponded to our interests--which has led us to support a great poland and a great bohemia and to combat the ukraine, hungary, bulgaria, rumania, spain, to whose destinies the french, but not we, were indifferent."[ ] a press organ of bologna denounced the atrocious and ignominious sacrifice "which her allies imposed on italy by means of economic blackmailing and violence with a whip in one hand and a chunk of bread in the other."[ ] sharp comments were provoked by the heavy tax on strangers in tunisia imposed by the french government,[ ] on strangers, mostly italians, who theretofore had enjoyed the same rights as the french and tunisians. "suddenly," writes the principal italian journal, "and just when it was hoped that the common sacrifices they had made had strengthened the ties between the two nations, the governor of tunisia issued certain orders which endangered the interests of foreigners and the effects of which will be felt mainly by italians, of whom there are one hundred and twenty thousand in tunisia.[ ] first there came an order forbidding the use of any language but french in the schools. now the tax referred to in the house of lords gives the tunisian government power to levy an impost on the buying and selling of property in tunisia. the new tax, which is to be levied over and above pre-existing taxes, ranged from per cent. of the value when it is not assessed at a higher sum than one hundred thousand lire to per cent. when its estimated value is more than five hundred thousand lire." the article terminates with the remark that boycotting is hardly a suitable epilogue to a war waged for common ideals and interests. these manifestations irritated the french and were taken to indicate italy's defection. it was to no purpose that a few level-headed men pointed out that the french government was largely answerable for the state of mind complained of. "pertinax," in the _echo de paris_, wrote "that the alliance, in order to subsist and flourish, should have retained its character as an anti-german league, whereas it fell into the error of masking itself as a society of nations and arrogated to itself the right of bringing before its tribunal all the quarrels of the planet."[ ] italy's allies undoubtedly did much to forfeit her sympathies and turn her from the alliance. it was pointed out that when the french troops arrived in italy the bulletin of the italian command eulogized their efforts almost daily, but when the italian troops went to france, the _communiqués_ of the french command were most chary of allusions to their exploits, yet the italian army contributed more dead to the french front than did the french army to the italian front.[ ] at the peace conference, as we saw, when the terms with germany were being drafted, italy's problems were set aside on the grounds that there was no nexus between them. the allies' interests, which were dealt with as a whole during the war, were divided after the armistice into essential and secondary interests, and those of italy were relegated to the latter class. subsequently france, britain, and the united states, without the co-operation or foreknowledge of their italian friends, struck up an alliance from which they excluded italy, thereby vitiating the only arguments that could be invoked in favor of such a coalition. when peace was about to be signed they one-sidedly revoked the treaty which they had concluded in london, rendering the consent of all allies necessary to the validity of the document, and decreed that italy's abstention would make no difference. when the instrument was finally signed, mr. wilson returned to the united states, mr. lloyd george to england, and the marquis of saionji to japan, without having settled any of italy's problems. italy, her needs, her claims, and her policy thus appear as matters of little account to the great powers. naturally, the italian people were disappointed, and desirous of seeking new friends, the old ones having forsaken them. it would be difficult to exaggerate the consequences which this attitude of the allies toward italy may have on european politics generally. her most eminent statesman, signor tittoni, who succeeded baron sonnino, transcending his country's mortifications, exerted himself tactfully and not unsuccessfully to lubricate the mechanism of the alliance, to ease the dangerous friction and to restore the tone. and he seems to have accomplished in these respects everything which a sagacious statesman could do. but to arrest the operation of psychological laws is beyond the power of any individual. in order to appreciate the italian point of view, it is nowise necessary to approve the exaggerated claims put forward by her press in the spring of . it is enough to admit that in the light of the wilsonian doctrine they were not more incompatible with that doctrine than the claims made by other powers and accorded by the supreme council. to sum up, italy acquired the impression that association with her recent allies means for her not only sacrifices in their hour of need, but also further sacrifices in their hour of triumph. she became reluctantly convinced that they regard interests which she deems vital to herself as unconnected with their own. and that was unfortunate. if at some fateful conjuncture in the future her allies on their part should gather the impression that she has adjusted her policy to those interests which are so far removed from theirs, they will have themselves to blame. footnotes: [ ] this clause, which figured in the draft treaty, as presented to the germans, provoked such emphatic protests from all sides that it was struck out in the revised version. [ ] in an interview given to the correspondenz bureau of vienna by conrad von hoetzendorff. cf. _le temps_, july , . [ ] the prime minister, salandra, declared that to have made neutrality a matter of bargaining would have been to dishonor italy. [ ] king carol was holding a crown council at the time. bratiano had spoken against the king's proposal to throw in the country's lot with germany. carp was strongly for carrying out rumania's treaty obligations. some others hesitated, but before it could be put to the vote a telegram was brought in announcing italy's resolve to maintain neutrality. the upshot was rumania's refusal to follow her allies. [ ] on the eastern adriatic, the treaty of london allotted to italy the peninsula of istria, without fiume, most of dalmatia, exclusive of spalato, the chief dalmatian islands and the dodecannesus. [ ] the present population of fiume is computed at , souls, of whom , are italians, , slavs, and , magyars. [ ] another delegate is reported to have answered: "as we need italy's friendship, we should pay the moderate price asked and back her claim to have the moon." [ ] a number of orders of the day eulogizing individual slav officers and collective military entities were quoted by the advocates of italy's cause at the conference. [ ] official _communiqué_ of june , . [ ] _journal de genève_, april , . [ ] cf. _il corriere della sera_ and _il secolo_ of may , . [ ] in the senate he defended this attitude on march , , and expressed a desire to dispel the misunderstanding between the two peoples. [ ] in april, . [ ] this fact has since been made public by enrico ferri in a remarkable discourse pronounced in the parliament at rome (july , ). it was baron sonnino who deprecated the publication of any statement on the subject by president wilson. cf. _la stampa_, july , . [ ] on january , . [ ] it gave eastern friuli to italy, including gorizia, split istria into two parts, and assigned trieste and pola also to italy, but under such territorial conditions that they would be exposed to enemy projectiles in case of war. [ ] the national council of fiume issued its proclamation before it had become known that the battle of vittorio veneto was begun--_i.e._, october , . [ ] speech delivered at mount vernon on july , . [ ] of the united states, france, and great britain. [ ] between april th and th. [ ] in his address to the representatives of organized labor in january, . [ ] _l'echo de paris_, april , . [ ] _le gaulois_, april , . [ ] these meetings were held from march till april , . [ ] see marco borsa's article in _il secolo_, june , ; also _corriere della sera_, june , . [ ] from may to , . [ ] _il secolo_, june , . [ ] on april , . [ ] "can and will our allies treat our absence as a matter of no moment? can and will they violate the formal undertaking which forbids the belligerents to conclude a diplomatic peace?... the london declaration prohibits categorically the conclusion of any separate peace with any enemy state. france and england cannot sign peace with germany if italy does not sign it.... the situation is grave and abnormal, for our allies it is also grave and abnormal. italy is isolated, and nations, especially those of continental europe, which are not overrich, flee solitude as nature abhors a vacuum."--_corriere della sera_, april , . again: "'the treaty of london' restrains france and england from concluding peace without italy. and italy is minded not to conclude peace with germany before she herself has received satisfaction."--_journal de genève_, april , . [ ] on may , , at versailles. [ ] cf. _corriere della sera_, may , . [ ] annex w of the revised treaty. [ ] this incident was revealed by enrico ferri, in his remarkable speech in the italian parliament on july , . cf. _la stampa_, july , , page . [ ] cf. _the morning post_, july , . [ ] on july th the italian finance minister, in his financial statement, announced that the total cost of the war to italy would amount to one hundred milliard lire. he added, however, that her share of the german indemnity would wipe out her foreign debt, while a progressive tax on all but small fortunes would meet her internal obligations. cf. _corriere della sera_, july and , . [ ] cf. _avanti_, july , . [ ] shown in percentages, the rise in the cost of living was: united states, per cent.; england, per cent.; switzerland, per cent.; france, per cent.; italy, per cent. [ ] enrico ferri, on july , . cf. _la stampa_, july , . [ ] at a later date the president reiterated the grounds of his decision. in his columbus speech (september , ) he asserted that "italy desired fiume for strategic military reasons, which the league of nations would make unnecessary." (_the new york herald_ (paris edition), september , .) but the league did not render strategic precautions unnecessary to france. [ ] _corriere della sera_, may , . [ ] _la stampa_, july , . [ ] _avanti_, april , . cf. _le temps_, april , . [ ] _corriere della sera_, august , . [ ] _corriere della sera_, september , . [ ] quoted in _la stampa_ of july , . [ ] _ibidem_. [ ] _corriere d' italia_, june , . [ ] cf. _modern italy_, july , (page ). [ ] _echo de paris_, july , . [ ] cf. "an italian exposé," published by _the morning post_, july , . ix japan among the solutions of the burning questions which exercised the ingenuity and tested the good faith of the leading powers at the peace conference, none was more rapidly reached there, or more bitterly assailed outside, than those in which japan was specially interested. the storm that began to rage as soon as the supreme council's decision on the shantung issue became known did not soon subside. far from that, it threatened for a time to swell into a veritable hurricane. this problem, like most of those which were submitted to the forum of the conference, may be envisaged from either of two opposite angles of survey; from that of the future society of justice-loving nations, whose members are to forswear territorial aggrandizement, special economic privileges, and political sway in, or at the expense of, other countries; or from the traditional point of view, which has always prevailed in international politics and which cannot be better described than by signor salandra's well-known phrase "sacred egotism." viewed in the former light, japan's demand for shantung was undoubtedly as much a stride backward as were those of the united states and france for the monroe doctrine and the saar valley respectively. but as the three great powers had set the example, japan was resolved from the outset to rebel against any decree relegating her to the second-or third-class nations. the position of equality occupied by her government among the governments of other great powers did not extend to the japanese nation among the other nations. but her statesmen refused to admit this artificial inferiority as a reason for descending another step in the international hierarchy and they invoked the principle of which britain, france, and america had already taken advantage. the supreme council, like janus of old, possessed two faces, one altruistic and the other egotistic, and, also like that son of apollo, held a key in its right hand and a rod in its left. it applied to the various states, according to its own interest or convenience, the principles of the old or the new covenant, and would fain have dispossessed japan of the fruits of the campaign, and allotted to her the rôle of working without reward in the vineyard of the millennium, were it not that this policy was excluded by reasons of present expediency and previous commitments. the expediency was represented by president wilson's determination to obtain, before returning to washington, some kind of a compact that might be described as the constitution of the future society of nations, and by his belief that this instrument could not be obtained without japan's adherence, which was dependent on her demand for shantung being allowed. and the previous commitments were the secret compacts concluded by japan with britain, france, russia, and italy before the united states entered the war. nippon's rôle in the war and the circumstances that shaped it are scarcely realized by the general public. they have been purposely thrust in the background. and yet a knowledge of them is essential to those who wish to understand the significance of the dispute about shantung, which at bottom was the problem of japan's international status. before attempting to analyze them, however, it may not be amiss to remark that during the french press campaign conducted in the years - , with the object of determining the tokio cabinet to take part in the military operations in europe, the question of motive was discussed with a degree of tactlessness which it is difficult to account for. it was affirmed, for example, that the mikado's people would be overjoyed if the allied governments vouchsafed them the honor of participating in the great civilizing crusade against the central empires. that was proclaimed to be such an enviable privilege that to pay for it no sacrifice of men or money would be exorbitant. again, the degree to which germany is a menace to japan was another of the texts on which entente publicists relied to scare nippon into drastic action, as though she needed to be told by europeans where her vital interests lay, from what quarters they were jeopardized, and how they might be safeguarded most successfully. so much for the question of tact and form. japan has never accepted the doctrine of altruism in politics which her western allies have so zealously preached. until means have been devised and adopted for substituting moral for military force in the relations of state with state, the only reconstruction of the world in which the japanese can believe is that which is based upon treaties and the pledged word. that is the principle which underlies the general policy and the present strivings of our far eastern ally. one of the characteristic traits of all nippon's dealings with her neighbors is loyalty and trustworthiness. her intercourse with russia before and after the manchurian campaign offers a shining example of all the qualities which one would postulate in a true-hearted neighbor and a stanch and chivalrous ally. i had an opportunity of watching the development of the relations between the two governments for many years before they quarreled, and subsequently down to , and i can state that the praise lavished by the tsar's ministers on their japanese colleagues was well deserved. and for that reason it may be taken as an axiom that whatever developments the present situation may bring forth, the empire of nippon will carry out all its engagements with scrupulous exactitude, in the spirit as well as the letter. to be quite frank, then, the japanese are what we should term realists. consequently their foreign policy is inspired by the maxims which actuated all nations down to the year , and still move nearly all of them to-day. in fact, the only powers that have fully and authoritatively repudiated them as yet are bolshevist russia, and to a large extent the united states. holding thus to the old dispensation, japan entered the war in response to a definite demand made by the british government. the day before britain declared war against germany the british ambassador at tokio officially inquired whether his government could count upon the active co-operation of the mikado's forces in the campaign about to begin. on august th baron kato, having in the meanwhile consulted his colleagues, answered in the affirmative. three days later another communication reached tokio from london, requesting the _immediate_ co-operation of japan, and on the following day it was promised. the motive for this haste was credibly asserted to be britain's apprehension lest germany should transfer kiaochow to china, and reserve to herself, in virtue of article v of the convention of , the right of securing after the war "a more suitable territory" in the middle empire or republic. thereupon they began operations which were at first restricted to the china seas, but were afterward extended to the pacific and indian oceans, and finally to the mediterranean. the only task that fell to their lot on land was that of capturing kiaochow. but whatever they set their hands to they carried out thoroughly, and to the complete satisfaction of their european allies. for many years the people of nippon have been wending slowly, but with tireless perseverance and unerring instinct, toward their far-off goal, which to the unbiased historian will seem not merely legitimate but praiseworthy. their intercourse with russia was the story of one long laborious endeavor to found a common concern which should enable japan to make headway on her mission. russia was just the kind of partner whose co-operation was especially welcome, seeing that it could be had without the hitches and set-backs attached to that of most other great powers. the russians were never really intolerant in racial matters, nor dangerous in commercial rivalry. they intermarried freely with all the so-called inferior races and tribes in the tsardom, and put all on an equal footing before the law. twenty-three years ago i paid a visit to my friend general tomitch, the military governor of kars, and i found myself sitting at his table beside the prefect of the city, who was a mohammedan. the individual russian is generally free from racial prejudices; he has no sense of the "yellow peril," and no objection to receive the japanese as a comrade, a colleague, or a son-in-law. and the advances made by ito and others would have been reciprocated by witte and lamsdorff were it not that the tsar, interested in bezobrazoff's yalu venture, subordinated his policy to those vested interests, and compelled japan to fight. the master-idea of the policy of ito, with whom i had two interesting conversations on the subject, was to strike up a close friendship with the tsardom, based on community of durable interests, and to bespeak russia's help for the hour of storm and stress which one day might strike. the tsar's government was inspired by analogous motives. before the war was terminated i repaired to london on behalf of russia, in order to propose to the japanese government, in addition to the treaty of peace which was about to be discussed at portsmouth, an offensive and defensive alliance, and to ask that prince ito be sent as first plenipotentiary, invested with full powers to conclude such a treaty. m. izvolsky's policy toward japan, frank and statesman-like, had an offensive and a defensive alliance for its intended culmination, and the treaties and conventions which he actually concluded with viscount motono, in drafting which i played a modest part, amounted almost to this. the tsar's opposition to the concessions which represented russia's share of the compromise was a tremendous obstacle, which only the threat of the minister's resignation finally overcame. and izvolsky's energy and insistence hastened the conclusion of a treaty between them to maintain and respect the _status quo_ in manchuria, and, in case it was menaced, to concert with each other the measures they might deem necessary for the maintenance of the _status quo_. and it was no longer stipulated, as it had been before, that these measures must have a pacific character. they were prepared to go farther. and i may now reveal the fact that the treaty had a secret clause, providing for the action which russia afterward took in mongolia. these transactions one might term the first act of the international drama which is still proceeding. they indicate, if they did not shape, the mold in which the bronze of japan's political program was cast. it necessarily differed from other politics, although the maxims underlying it were the same. japan, having become a great power after her war with china, was slowly developing into a world power, and hoped to establish her claim to that position one day. it was against that day that she would fain have acquired a puissant and trustworthy ally, and she left nothing undone to deserve the whole-hearted support of russia. in the historic year of , many months before the storm-cloud broke, the war minister sukhomlinoff transferred nearly all the garrisons from siberia to europe, because he had had assurances from japan which warranted him in thus denuding the eastern border of troops. during the campaign, when the russian offensive broke down and the armies of the enemy were driving the tsar's troops like sheep before them, japan hastened to the assistance of her neighbor, to whom she threw open her military arsenals, and many private establishments as well. and when the petrograd cabinet was no longer able to meet the financial liabilities incurred, the mikado's advisers devised a generous arrangement on lines which brought both countries into still closer and more friendly relations. the most influential daily press organ in the tsardom, the _novoye vremya_, wrote: "the war with germany has supplied our asiatic neighbor with an opportunity of proving the sincerity of her friendly assurances. she behaves not merely like a good friend, but like a stanch military ally.... in the interests of the future tranquil development of japan a more active participation of the japanese is requisite in the war of the nations against the world-beast of prey. an alliance with russia for the attainment of this object would be an act of immense historic significance."[ ] ever since her entry into the community of progressive nations, japan's main aspiration and striving has been to play a leading and a civilizing part in the far east, and in especial to determine china by advice and organization to move into line with herself, adopt western methods and apply them to far-eastern aims. and this might well seem a legitimate as well as a profitable policy, and a task as noble as most or those to which the world is wont to pay a tribute of high praise. it appeared all the more licit that the powers of europe, with the exception of russia, had denied full political rights to the colored alien. he was placed in a category apart--an inferior class member of humanity. "in japan, and as yet in japan alone, do we find the asiatic welcoming european culture, in which, if a tree may fairly be judged by its fruit, is to be found the best prospect for the human personal liberty, in due combination with restraints of law sufficient to, but not in excess of, the requirements of the general welfare. in this particular distinctiveness of characteristic, which has thus differentiated the receptivity of the japanese from that of the continental asiatic, we may perhaps see the influence of the insular environment that has permitted and favored the evolution of a strong national personality; and in the same condition we may not err in finding a promise of power to preserve and to propagate, by example and by influence, among those akin to her, the new policy which she has adopted, and by which she has profited, affording to them the example which she herself has found in the development of eastern peoples."[ ] now that is exactly what the japanese aimed at accomplishing. they were desirous of contributing to the intellectual and moral advance of the chinese and other backward peoples of the far east, in the same way as france is laudably desirous of aiding the syrians, or great britain the persians. and what is more, japan undertook to uphold the principle of the open door, and generally to respect the legitimate interests of european peoples in the far east. but the white races had economic designs of their own on china, and one of the preliminary conditions of their execution was that japan's aspirations should be foiled. witte opened the campaign by inaugurating the process of peaceful penetration, but his remarkable efforts were neutralized and defeated by his own sovereign. the japanese, after the manchurian campaign, which they had done everything possible to avoid, contrived wholly to eliminate russian aggression from the far east. the feat was arduous and the masterly way in which it was tackled and achieved sheds a luster on japanese statesmanship as personified by viscount motono. the tsardom, in lieu of a potential enemy, was transformed into a stanch and powerful friend and ally, on whom nippon could, as she believed, rely against future aggressors. russia came to stand toward her in the same political relationship as toward france. japanese statesmen took the alliance with the tsardom as a solid and durable postulate of their foreign policy. all at once the tsardom fell to pieces like a house of cards, and the fragments that emerged from the ruins possessed neither the will nor the power to stand by their far eastern neighbors. the fruits of twelve years' statesmanship and heavy sacrifices were swept away by the russian revolution, and japan's diplomatic position was therefore worse beyond compare than that of the french republic in july, , because the latter was forthwith sustained by great britain and the united states, with such abundance of military and economic resources as made up in the long run for that of russia. japan, on the other hand, has as yet no substitute for her prostrate ally. she is still alone among powers some of whom decline to recognize her equality, while others are ready to thwart her policy and disable her for the coming race. the japanese are firm believers in the law of causality. where they desire to reap, there they first sow. they invariably strive to deal with a situation while there is still time to modify it, and they take pains to render the means adequate to the end. unlike the peoples of western europe and the united states, the japanese show a profound respect for the principles of authority and inequality, and reserve the higher functions in the community for men of the greatest ability and attainments. it is a fact, however, that individual liberty has made perceptible progress in the population, and is still growing, owing to the increase of economic well-being and the spread of general and technical education. but although socialism is likewise spreading fast, i feel inclined to think that in japan a high grade of instruction and of social development on latter-day lines will be found compatible with that extraordinary cohesiveness to which the race owes the position which it occupies among the communities of the world. the soul of the individual japanese may be said to float in an atmosphere of collectivity, which, while leaving his intellect intact, sways his sentiments and modifies his character by rendering him impressible to motives of an order which has the weal of the race for its object. japan has borrowed what seemed to her leaders to be the best of everything in foreign countries. they analyzed the military, political, and industrial successes of their friends and enemies, satisfactorily explained and duly fructified them. they use the school as the seed-plot of the state, and inculcate conceptions there which the entire community endeavors later on to embody in acts and institutions. and what the elementary school has begun, the intermediate, the technical, and the high schools develop and perfect, aided by the press, which is encouraged by the state. japan's ideal cannot be offhandedly condemned as immoral, pernicious, or illegitimate. its partizans pertinently invoke every principle which their allies applied to their own aims and strivings. and men of deeper insight than those who preside over the fortunes of the entente to-day recognize that europeans of high principles and discerning minds, who perceive the central issues, would, were they in the position of the japanese statesmen, likewise bend their energies to the achievement of the same aims. the japanese argue their case somewhat as follows: "we are determined to help china to put herself in line with ourselves, and to keep her from falling into anarchy. and no one can honestly deny our qualifications. we and they have very much in common, and we understand them as no anglo-saxon or other foreign people can. on the one hand our own past experience resembles that of the middle kingdom, and on the other our method of adapting ourselves to the new international conditions challenged and received the ungrudging admiration of a world disposed to be critical. the peking treaties of may, , between china and japan, and the pristine drafts of them which were modified before signature, enable the outsider to form a fairly accurate opinion of japan's economic and political program, which amounts to the application of a far eastern monroe doctrine. "what we seek to obtain in the far east is what the western powers have secured throughout the remainder of the globe: the right to contribute to the moral and intellectual progress of our backward neighbors, and to profit by our exertions. china needs the help which we are admittedly able to bestow. to our mission no cogent objection has ever been offered. no cabinet in tokio has ever looked upon the middle realm as a possible colony for the japanese. the notion is preposterous, seeing that china is already over-populated. what japan sorely needs are sources whence to draw coal and iron for industrial enterprise. she also needs cotton and leather." in truth, the ever-ready command of these raw materials at their sources, which must be neither remote nor subject to potential enemies, is indispensable to the success of japan's development. but for the moment the english-speaking nations have a veto upon them, in virtue of possession, and the embargo put by the united states government upon the export of steel during the war caused a profound emotion in nippon. for the shipbuilding works there had increased in number from nine before the war to twelve in , and to twenty-eight at the beginning of , with one hundred slips capable of producing six hundred thousand tons of net register. the effect of that embargo was to shut down between and per cent. of the shipbuilding works of the country, and to menace with extinction an industry which was bringing in immense profits. it was with these antecedents and aims that japan appeared before the conference in paris and asked, not for something which she lacked before, but merely for the confirmation of what she already possessed by treaty. it must be admitted that she had damaged her cause by the manner in which that treaty had been obtained. to say that she had intimidated the chinese, instead of coaxing them or bargaining with them, would be a truism. the fall of tsingtao gave her a favorable opportunity, and she used and misused it unjustifiably. the demands in themselves were open to discussion and, if one weighs all the circumstances, would not deserve a classification different from some of those--the protection of minorities or the transit proviso, for example--imposed by the greater on the lesser nations at the conference. but the mode in which they were pressed irritated the susceptible chinese and belied the professions made by the mikado's ministers. the secrecy, too, with which the tokio cabinet endeavored to surround them warranted the worst construction. yuan shi kai[ ] regarded the procedure as a deadly insult to himself and his country. and the circumstance that the japanese government failed either to foresee or to avoid this amazing psychological blunder lent color to the objections of those who questioned japan's qualifications for the mission she had set herself. the wound inflicted on china by that exhibition of insolence will not soon heal. how it reacted may be inferred from the strenuous and well-calculated opposition of the chinese delegation at the conference. nor was that all. in the summer of a free fight occurred between chinese and japanese soldiers in cheng-cha-tun, the rights and wrongs of which were, as is usual in such cases, obscure. but the okuma cabinet, assuming that the chinese were to blame, pounced upon the incident and made it the base of fresh demands to china,[ ] two of which were manifestly excessive. that china would be better off than she is or is otherwise likely to become under japanese guidance is in the highest degree probable. but in order that that guidance should be effective it must be accepted, and this can only be the consequence of such a policy of cordiality, patience, and magnanimity as was outlined by my friend, the late viscount motono.[ ] at the conference the policy of the japanese delegates was clear-cut and coherent. it may be summarized as follows: the japanese delegation decided to give its entire support to the allies in all matters concerning the future relations of germany and russia, western europe, the balkans, the african colonies, as well as financial indemnities and reparations. the fate of the samoan archipelago must be determined in accord with britain and the united states. new guinea should be allotted to australia. as the marshall, caroline, and ladrone islands, although of no intrinsic value, would constitute a danger in germany's hands, they should be taken over by japan. tsingtao and the port of kiaochow should belong to japan, as well as the tainan railway. japan would co-operate with the allies in maintaining order in siberia, but no power should arrogate to itself a preponderant voice in the matter of obtaining concessions or other interests there. lastly, the principle of the open door was to be upheld in china, japan being admittedly the power which is the most interested in the establishment and maintenance of peace in the far east. at the conference, when the kiaochow dispute came up for discussion, the japanese attitude, according to their anglo-saxon and french colleagues, was calm and dignified, their language courteous, their arguments were put with studied moderation, and their resolve to have their treaty rights recognized was inflexible. their case was simple enough, and under the old ordering unanswerable. the only question was whether it would be invalidated by the new dispensation. but as the united states had obtained recognition for its monroe doctrine, britain for the supremacy of the sea, and france for the occupation of the saar valley and the suspension of the right of self-determination in the case of austria, it was obvious that japan had abundant and cogent arguments for her demands, which were that the chinese territory once held by germany, and since wrested from that power by japan, be formally retroceded to japan, whose claim to it rested upon the right of conquest and also upon the faith of treaties which she had concluded with china. at the same time she expressly and spontaneously disclaimed the intention of keeping that territory for herself. baron makino said at the peace table: "the acquisition of territory belonging to one nation which it is the intention of the country acquiring it to exploit to its sole advantage is not conducive to amity or good-will." japan, although by the fortune of war germany's heir to kiaochow, did not purpose retaining it for the remaining term of the lease; she had, in fact, already promised to restore it to china. she maintained, however, that the conditions of retrocession should form the subject of a general settlement between tokio and peking. the chinese delegation, which worked vigorously and indefatigably and won over a considerable number of backers, argued that kiaochow had ceased to belong to germany on the day when china declared war on that state, inasmuch as all their treaties, including the lease of kiaochow, were abrogated by that declaration, and the ownership of every rood of chinese territory held by germany reverted in law to china, and should therefore be handed over to her, and not to japan. to this plea baron makino returned the answer that with the surrender of tsingtao to japan in [ ] the whole imperial german protectorates of shantung had passed to that power, china being still a neutral. consequently the entry of china into the war in could not affect the status of the province which already belonged to nippon by right of conquest. as a matter of alleged fact, this capture of the protectorates by the japanese had been specially desired by the british government, in order to prevent germany from ceding it to china. if that move meant anything, therefore, it meant that neither china nor germany had or could have any hold on the territory once it was captured by japan. further, this conquest was effected at the cost of vast sums of money and two thousand japanese lives. nor was that all. in the year [ ] china signed an agreement with japan, undertaking "to recognize all matters that may be agreed upon between the japanese government and the german government respecting the disposition of all the rights, interests, and concessions which, in virtue of treaties or otherwise, germany possesses _vis-à-vis_ china, in relation to the province of shantung." this treaty, the chinese delegates answered, was extorted by force. japan, having vainly sought to obtain it by negotiations that lasted nearly four months, finally presented an ultimatum,[ ] giving china forty-eight hours in which to accept it. she had no alternative. but at least she made it known to the world that she was being coerced. it was on the day on which that document was signed that the japanese representative in peking sent a spontaneous declaration to the chinese minister of foreign affairs, promising to return the leased territory to china on condition that all kiaochow be opened as a commercial port, that a japanese settlement be established, and also an international settlement, if the powers desired it, and that an arrangement be made beforehand between the chinese and japanese governments with regard to "the disposal of german public establishments and populations, and with regard to other conditions and procedures." the japanese further invoked another and later agreement, which was, they alleged, signed by the chinese without demur.[ ] this accord, coming after the entry of china into the war, was tantamount to the renunciation of any rights which china might have believed she possessed as a corollary of her belligerency. it also disposed, the japanese argued, of her contention that the territory in question is indispensable and vital to her--a contention which japan met with the promise to deliver it up--and which was invalidated by china's refusal to fight for it in the year . this latter argument was controverted by the chinese assertion that they were ready and willing to declare war against germany at the outset, but that their co-operation was refused by the entente, and subsequently by japan. this allegation is credible, if we remember the eagerness exhibited by the british government that japan should lose no time in co-operating with her allies, the representations made by the british ambassador to baron kato on the subject,[ ] and the alleged motive to prevent the retrocession of shantung to china by the german government. the arguments of china and japan were summarily put in the following questions by a delegate of each country: "yes or no, does kiaochow, whose population is exclusively chinese, form an integral part of the chinese state? yes or no, was kiaochow brutally occupied by the kaiser in the teeth of right and justice and to the detriment of the peace of the far east, and it may be of the world? yes or no, did japan enter the war against the aggressive imperialism of the german empire, and for the purpose of arranging a lasting peace in the far east? yes or no, was kiaochow captured by the english and japanese troops in with the sole object of destroying a dangerous naval base? yes or no, was china's co-operation against germany, which was advocated and offered by president yuan shi kai in august, , refused at the instigation of japan?"[ ] the japanese catechism ran thus: "yes or no, was kiaochow a german possession in the year ? yes or no, was the world, including the united states, a consenting party to the occupation of that province by the germans? why did china, who to-day insists that that port is indispensable to her, cede it to germany? why in did she make no effort to recover it, but leave this task to the japanese army? further, who can maintain that juridically the last war abolished _ipso facto_ all the cessions of territory previously effected? turkey formerly ceded cyprus to great britain. will it be argued that this cession is abrogated and that cyprus must return to turkey directly and unconditionally? the conference announced repeatedly that it took its stand on justice and the welfare of the peoples. it is in the name of the welfare of the peoples, as well as in the name of justice, that we assert our right to take over kiaochow. the harvest to him whose hands soweth the seed."[ ] if we add to all these conflicting data the circumstance that great britain, france, and russia had undertaken[ ] to support japan's demands at the conference, and that italy had promised to raise no objection, we shall have a tolerable notion of the various factors of the chino-japanese dispute, and of its bearings on the peace treaty and on the principles of the covenant. it was one of the many illustrations of the incompatibility of the treaty and the covenant, the respective scopes of which were radically and irreconcilably different. the supreme council had to adjudicate upon the matter from the point of view either of the treaty or of the covenant; as part of a vulgar bargain of the old, unregenerate days, or as an example of the self-renunciation of the new ethical system. the majority of the council was pledged to the former way of contemplating it, and, having already promulgated a number of decrees running counter to the covenant doctrine in favor of their own peoples, could not logically nor politically make an exception to the detriment of japan. what actually happened at the peace table is still a secret, and president wilson, who knows its nature, holds that it is in the best interests of humanity that it should so remain! the little that has as yet been disclosed comes mainly from state-secretary lansing's answers to the questions put by the senate foreign relations committee. america's second delegate, in answer to the questions with which he was there plied, affirmed that "president wilson alone approved the shantung decision, that the other members of the american delegation made no protest against it, and that president wilson alone knows whether japan has guaranteed to return shantung to china."[ ] another eminent american, who claims to have been present when president wilson's act was officially explained to the chinese delegates, states that the president, disclosing to them his motives, pleaded that political exigencies, the menace that japan would abandon the conference, and the rumor that england herself might withdraw, had constrained him to accept the shantung settlement in order to save the league.[ ] rumors appear to have played an undue part in the conference, influencing the judgment or the decisions of the supreme council. the reader will remember that it was a rumor to the effect that the italian government had already published a decree annexing fiume that is alleged to have precipitated the quarrel between mr. wilson and the first italian delegation. it is worth noting that the alleged menace that japan would quit the conference if her demands were rejected was not regarded by secretary lansing as serious. "could japan's signature to the league have been obtained without the shantung decision?" he was asked. "i think so," he answered. the decision caused tremendous excitement among the chinese and their numerous friends. at first they professed skepticism and maintained that there must be some misunderstanding, and finally they protested and refused to sign the treaty. one of the american journals published in paris wrote: "shantung was at least a moral explosion. it blew down the front of the temple, and now everybody can see that behind the front there was a very busy market. the morals were the morals of a horse trade. if the muezzin were loud and constant in his calls to prayer, it probably was to drown the sound of the dickering in the market. there is no longer any obligation upon this nation to accept the covenant as a moral document. it is not."[ ] all that may be perfectly true, but it sounds odd that the discovery should not have been made until japan's claim was admitted formally to take over shantung, after she had solemnly promised to restore it to china. the covenant was certainly transgressed long before this, and much more flagrantly than by president wilson's indorsement of japan's demand for the formal retrocession of shantung. but by those infractions nobody seemed scandalized. _quod licet jovi non licet bovi._ debts of gratitude had to be paid at the expense of the covenant, and people closed their eyes or their lips. it was not until the japanese asked for something which all her european allies considered to be her right that an outcry was raised and moral principles were invoked. the japanese press was nowise jubilant over the finding of the supreme council. the journals of all parties argued that their country was receiving no more than had already been guaranteed to it by china, and ratified by the allies before the peace conference met, and to have obtained what was already hers by rights of conquest and of treaties was anything but a triumph. what japan desired was to have herself recognized practically, not merely in theory, as the nation which is the most nearly interested in china, and therefore deserving of a special status there. in other words, she aimed at the proclamation of something in the nature of a far eastern doctrine analogous to that of monroe. as priority of interest had been conceded to her by the ishii-lansing agreement with the united states, it was in this sense that her press was fain to construe the clause respecting non-interference with "regional understandings." that policy is open. the principles underlying it, always tenable, were never more so than since the peace conference set the great powers to direct the lesser states. moreover, japan, it is argued, knows by experience that china has always been a temptation to the western peoples. they sent expeditions to fight her and divided her territory into zones of influence, although china was never guilty of an aggressive attitude toward them, as she was toward japan. they were actuated by land greed and all that that implies, and if china were abandoned to her own resources to-morrow she would surely fall a prey to her western protectors. in this connection they point to an incident which took place during the conference, when signor tittoni demanded that italy should receive the austrian concession in tientsin, which adjoins the italian concession. but viscount chinda protested and the demand was ruled out. to sum up, the broad maxim underlying japan's policy as defined by her own representatives is that in the resettlement of the world the principle adopted, whether the old or the new, shall be applied fairly and impartially at least to all the great powers. every world conflict has marked the close of one epoch and the opening of another. into the melting-pot on the fire kindled by the war many momentous problems have been flung, any one of which would have sufficed to bring about a new political, economic, and social constellation. japan's advance along the road of progress is one of these far-ranging innovations. she became a great power in the wars against china and russia, and is qualifying for the part of a world power to-day. and her statesmen affirm that in order to achieve her purpose she will recoil from no sacrifice except those of honor and of truth. footnotes: [ ] _novoye vremya_, june - , . [ ] cf. _the problem of asia_ (capt. a.t. mahan), pp. - . [ ] the late president of the chinese republic. [ ] these demands were ( ) an apology from the chinese authorities; ( ) an indemnity for the killed and wounded; ( ) the policing of certain districts of manchuria by the japanese; and ( ) the employment of japanese officers to train chinese troops in manchuria. [ ] minister of foreign affairs. he repudiated his predecessor's policy. [ ] november th. [ ] may , . [ ] on may , . [ ] on september , . [ ] on august , . [ ] cf. _le matin_, april , . [ ] _le matin_, april , . [ ] "his majesty's government accede with pleasure to the requests of the japanese government for assurances that they will support japan's claims in regard to the disposal of germany's rights in shantung, and possessions in islands north of the equator, on the occasion of a peace conference, it being understood that the japanese government will, in the event of a peace settlement, treat in the same spirit great britain's claims to german islands south of the equator." (signed) conyngham greene, british ambassador, tokio, february , . france gave a similar assurance in writing on march , , and the russian government had made a like declaration on february , . [ ] as a matter of fact, the entire world knew and knows that she had guaranteed the retrocession. baron makino declared it at the conference. cf. _the_ (london) _times_, february , ; also on may , ; and viscount uchida confirmed it on may , . it had also been stated in the japanese ultimatum to germany, august , , and repeated by viscount uchida at the beginning of august, . [ ] mr. thomas millard, some of whose letters were published by _the new york times_. cf. _le temps_, july , . [ ] _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . x attitude toward russia in their dealings with russia the principal plenipotentiaries consistently displayed the qualities and employed the standards, maxims, and methods which had stood them in good stead as parliamentary politicians. the betterment of the world was an idea which took a separate position in their minds, quite apart from the other political ideas with which they usually operated. overflowing with verbal altruism, they first made sure of the political and economic interests of their own countries, safeguarding or extending these sources of power, after which they proceeded to try their novel experiment on communities which they could coerce into obedience. hence the aversion and opposition which they encountered among all the nations which had to submit to the yoke, and more especially among the russians. russia's opposition, widespread and deep-rooted, is natural, and history will probably add that it was justified. it starts from the assumption, which there is no gainsaying, that the conference was convoked to make peace between the belligerents and that whatever territorial changes it might introduce must be restricted to the countries of the defeated peoples. from all "disannexations" not only the allies' territories, but those of neutrals, were to be exempted. repudiate this principle and the demands of ireland, egypt, india to the benefits of self-determination became unanswerable. belgium's claim to dutch limburg and other territorial oddments must likewise be allowed. indeed, the plea actually put forward against these was that the conference was incompetent to touch any territory actually possessed by either neutral or allied states. ireland, egypt, and dutch limburg were all domestic matters with which the conference had no concern. despite this fundamental principle russia, the whilom ally, without whose superhuman efforts and heroic sacrifices her partners would have been pulverized, was tacitly relegated to the category of hostile and defeated peoples, and many of her provinces lopped off arbitrarily and without appeal. none of her representatives was convoked or consulted on the subject, although all of them, bolshevist and anti-bolshevist, were at one in their resistance to foreign dictation. the conference repeatedly disclaimed any intention of meddling in the internal affairs of any other state, and the irish, the egyptian, and several other analogous problems were for the purposes of the conference included in this category. on what intelligible grounds, then, were the finnish, the lettish, the esthonian, the georgian, the ukrainian problems excluded from it? one cannot conceive a more flagrant violation of the sovereignty of a state than the severance and disposal of its territorial possessions against its will. it is a frankly hostile act, and as such was rightly limited by the conference to enemy countries. why, then, was it extended to the ex-ally? is it not clear that if reconstituted russia should regard the allied states as enemies and choose the potential enemies of these as its friends, it will be legitimately applying the principles laid down by the allies themselves? no expert in international law and no person of average common sense will seriously maintain that any of the decisions reached in paris are binding on the russia of the future. no problem which concerns two equal parties can be rightfully decided by only one of them. the conference which declared itself incompetent to impose on holland the cession to belgium even of a small strip of territory on one of the banks of the belgian river scheldt cannot be deemed authorized to sign away vast provinces that belonged to russia. here the plea of the self-determination of peoples possesses just as much or as little cogency as in the case of ireland and egypt. president wilson and mr. lloyd george had inaugurated their east european policy by publicly proclaiming that russia was the key to the world situation, and that the peace would be no peace so long as her hundred and fifty million inhabitants were left floundering in chaotic confusion, under the upas shade of bolshevism. they had also held out hopes to their great ex-ally of efficient help and practical counsel. and there ended what may be termed the constructive side of their conceptions. it was followed by no coherent action. discourses, promises, maneuvers, and counter-maneuvers were continuous and bewildering, but of systematic policy there was none. statesmanship in the higher sense of the word was absent from every decision the delegates took and from every suggestion they proffered. nor was it only by omission that they sinned. their invincible turn for circuitous methods, to which severer critics give a less sonorous name, was manifested _ad nauseam_. they worked out cunning little schemes which it was hard to distinguish from intrigues, and which, if they had not been foiled in time, would have made matters even worse than they are. from the outset the british government was for summoning bolshevist delegates to the conference. a note to this effect was sent by the london foreign office to the allied governments about a fortnight before the delegates began their work of making peace. but the suggestion was withdrawn at the instance of the french, who doubted whether the services of systematic lawbreakers would materially conduce to the establishment of a new society of law-abiding states. soon afterward another scheme cropped up, this time for the appointment of an inter-allied committee to watch over russia's destinies and serve as a sort of board of providence. the representatives of the anti-bolshevist governments resented this notion bitterly. they remarked that they could not be fairly asked to respect decisions imposed on them exactly as though they were vanquished enemies like the germans. the british and american delegates were swayed in their views mainly by the assumptions that all central russia was in the power of lenin; that his army was well disciplined and powerful; that he might contrive to hold the reins of government and maintain anarchism indefinitely, and that the so-called constructive elements were inclined toward reaction. in other words, the delegates accepted two sets of premises, from which they drew two wholly different sets of conclusions. now they felt impelled to act on the one, now on the other, but they could never make up their minds to carry out either. they agreed that bolshevism is a potent solvent of society, fraught with peril to all organized communities, yet they could not resolve to use joint action to extirpate it.[ ] they recognized that so long as it lasted there was no hope of establishing a community of nations, but they discarded military intervention on grounds of their own internal policy, and because it ran counter to the principle of self-determination. over against that principle, however, one had to set the circumstance that they were already intermeddling in russian affairs in archangel, murmansk, odessa, and elsewhere, and that they ended by creating a new state and government in northwestern russia, against which kolchak and denikin vehemently protested. in mitigation of judgment it is only fair to take into account the tremendous difficulties that faced them; their unfamiliarity with the russian problem; the want of a touchstone by which to test the overwhelming mass of conflicting information which poured in upon them; their constitutional lack of moral courage, and the circumstance that they were striving to reconcile contradictories. without chart or compass they drifted into strange and sterile courses, beginning with the prinkipo incident and ending with the written examination to which they naïvely subjected kolchak in order to legalize international relations, which could not truly be described as either war or peace. neither the causes of bolshevism in its morbid manifestations nor the unformulated ideas underlying whatever positive aspect it may be supposed to possess, nor the conditions governing its slow but perceptible evolution, were so much as glanced at, much less studied, by the statesmen who blithely set about dealing with it now by military force, now by economic pressure, and fitfully by tentative forbearance and hints to its leaders of forthcoming recognition. one cannot thus play fast and loose with the destinies of a community composed of one hundred and fifty million people whose members are but slackly linked together by a few tenuous social bonds, without forfeiting the right to offer them real guidance. and a blind man is a poor guide to those who can see. alone the americans were equipped with carefully tabulated statistics and huge masses of facts which they poured out as lavishly as coal-heavers hurl the contents of their sacks into the cellar. but they put them to no practical use. losing themselves in a labyrinth of details, they failed to get a comprehensive view of the whole. the other delegations lacked both data and general ideas. and all the allies were destitute of a powerful army in the east, and therefore of the means of asserting the authority which they assumed. they one and all dealt in vague theories and deceptive analogies, paying little heed to the ever-shifting necessities of time, place, and peoples, and indeed to the only conditions under which any new maxims could be fruitfully applied. and even such rules as they laid down were restricted and modified in accordance with their own countries' interests or their unavowed aims, without specific warrant or explanation. no account was taken of the historical needs or aspirations of the people for whom they were legislating, as though all nations were of the same age, capable of the same degree of culture, and impressible to identical motives. it never seemed to have crossed their minds that races and peoples, like individuals, have a soul, or that what is meat to one may be poison to another. one of the most ententophil and moderate press organs in france put the matter forcibly and plainly as follows: "the governments of washington and of london are aware that we are immutably attached to the alliance with them. but we owe them the truth. far too often they make a bad choice of the agents whose business it is to keep them informed, and they affect too much disdain for friendly suggestions which emanate from any other source. american agents, in particular, civil as well as military, explore europe much as their forebears 'prospected' the far west, and they look upon the most ancient nations of europe as iroquois, comanches, or aztecs. they are astounded at not finding everything on the old continent as in new york or chicago, and they set to work to reform europe according to the rules in force in oklahoma or colorado. now we venture respectfully to point out to them that methods differ with countries. in the united states the colonists were wont to set fire to the forests in order to clear and fertilize the land. certain american agents recommend the employment in europe of an analogous procedure in political matters. they rejoice to behold the russian and hungarian forests burst into flame. in lenin, trotzky, bela kuhn, they appreciate useful pioneers of the new civilization. we crave their permission to view these things from another side. in old europe one cannot set fire to the forests without at the same time burning villages and cities."[ ] before and during the armistice i was in almost constant touch with all russian parties within the country and without, and received detailed accounts of the changing conditions of the people, which, although conflicting in many details, enabled me to form a tolerably correct picture of the trend of things and to forecast what was coming. among other communications i received proposals from moscow with the request that i should present them to one of the british delegates, who was supposed to be then taking an active interest, or at any rate playing a prominent part, in the reconstruction of russia, less for her own sake than for that of the general peace. but as it chanced, the eminent statesman lacked the leisure to take cognizance of the proposal, the object of which was to hit upon such a _modus vivendi_ with russia as would enable her united peoples to enter upon a normal course of national existence without further delay. incidentally it would have put an end to certain conversations then going forward with a view to a friendly understanding between russia and germany. it would also, i had reason to believe, have divided the speculative bolshevist group from the extreme bloodthirsty faction, produced a complete schism in the party, and secured an armistice which would have prevented the allies' subsequent defeats at murmansk, archangel, and odessa. truth prompts me to add that these desirable by-results, although held out as inducements and characterized as readily attainable, were guaranteed only by the unofficial pledge of men whose good faith was notoriously doubtful. the document submitted to me is worth summarizing. it contained a lucid, many-sided, and plausible account of the russian situation. among other things, it was a confession of the enormity of the crimes perpetrated, on both sides, it said, which it ascribed largely to the brutalizing effects of the world war, waged under disastrous conditions unknown in other lands. myriads of practically unarmed men had been exposed during the campaign to wholesale slaughter, or left to die in slow agonies where they fell, or were killed off by famine and disease, for the triumph of a cause which they never understood, but had recently been told was that of foreign capitalists. in the demoralization that ensued all restraints fell away. the entire social fabric, from groundwork to summit, was rent, and society, convulsed with bestial passions, tore its own members to pieces. russia ran amuck among the nations. that was the height of war frenzy. since then, the document went on, passion had abated sensibly and a number of well-intentioned men who had been swept onward by the current were fast coming to their senses, while others were already sane, eager to stem it and anxious for moral sympathy from outside. from out of the revolutionary welter, the _exposé_ continued, certain hopeful phenomena had emerged symptomatic of a new spirit. conditions conducive to equality existed, although real equality was still a somewhat remote ideal. but the tendencies over the whole sphere of russian social, moral, and political life had undergone remarkable and invigorating changes in the direction of "reasonable democracy." many wholesome reforms had been attempted, and some were partially realized, especially in elementary instruction, which was being spread clumsily, no doubt, as yet, but extensively and equally, being absolutely gratuitous.[ ] various other so-called ameliorations were enumerated in this obviously partial _exposé_, which was followed by an apology for certain prominent individuals, who, having been swept off their feet by the revolutionary floods, would gladly get back to firm land and help to extricate the nation from the serbonian bog in which it was sinking. they admitted a share of the responsibility for having set in motion a vast juggernaut chariot, which, however, they had arrested, but hoped to expiate past errors by future zeal. at the same time they urged that it was not they who had demoralized the army or abolished the death penalty or thrown open the sluice-gates to anarchist floods. on the contrary, they claimed to have reorganized the national forces, reintroduced the severest discipline ever known, appointed experienced officers, and restored capital punishment. nor was it they, but their predecessors, they added, who had ruined the transport service of the country and caused the food scarcity. these individuals would, it was said, welcome peace and friendship with the entente, and give particularly favorable consideration to any proposal coming from the english-speaking peoples, in whom they were disposed to place confidence under certain simple conditions. the need for these conditions would not be gainsaid by the british and american governments if they recalled to mind the treatment which they had theretofore meted out to the russian people. at that moment no russian of any party regarded or could regard the allies without grounded suspicions, for while repudiating interference in domestic affairs, the french, americans, and british were striving hard to influence every party in russia, and were even believed to harbor designs on certain provinces, such as the caucasus and siberia. color was imparted to these misgivings by the circumstance that the allied governments were openly countenancing the dismemberment of the country by detaching non-russian and even russian elements from the main body. it behooved the allies to dissipate this mistrust by issuing a statement of their policy in unmistakable terms, repudiating schemes for territorial gains, renouncing interference in domestic affairs and complicity in the work of disintegrating the country. russia and her affairs must be left to russians, who would not grudge economic concessions as a reasonable _quid pro quo_. the proposal further insisted that the declaration of policy should be at once followed by the despatch of two or three well-known persons acquainted with russia and russian affairs, and enjoying the confidence of european peoples, to inquire into the conditions of the country and make an exhaustive report. this mission, it was added, need not be official, it might be intrusted to individuals unattached to any government. if a satisfactory answer to this proposal were returned within a fortnight, an armistice and suspension of the secret _pourparlers_ with germany would, i was told, have followed. that this compact would have led to a settlement of the russian problems is more than any one, however well informed, could vouch for, but i had some grounds for believing the move to be genuine and the promises overdone. no reasonable motive suggested itself for a vulgar hoax. moreover, the overture disclosed two important facts, one of which was known at the time only to the bolshevist government--namely, that secret _pourparlers_ were going forward between berlin and moscow for the purpose of arriving at a workable understanding between the two governments, and that the allied troops at odessa, archangel, and murmansk were in a wretched plight and in direr need of an armistice than the bolsheviki.[ ] i mentioned the matter summarily to one of the delegates, who evinced a certain interest in it and promised to discuss it at length later on with a view to action. another to whom i unfolded it later thought it would be well if i myself started, together with two or three others, for moscow, petrograd, ekaterinodar, and other places, and reported on the situation. but weeks went by and nothing was done.[ ] i had interesting talks with some influential delegates on the eve of the invitation issued to all _de facto_ governments of russia to forgather at prinkipo for a symposium. they admitted frankly at the time that they had no policy and were groping in the dark, and one of them held to the dogma that no light from outside was to be expected. they gave me the impression that underlying the impending summons was the conviction that bolshevism, divested of its frenzied manifestations, was a rough and ready government calumniously blackened by unscrupulous enemies, criminal perhaps in its outbursts, but suited in its feasible aims to the peculiar needs of a peculiar people, and therefore as worthy of being recognized as any of the others. it was urged that it had already lasted a considerable time without provoking a counter-movement worthy of the name; that the stories circulating about the horrors of which it was guilty were demonstrably exaggerated; that many of the bloody atrocities were to be ascribed to crazy individuals on both sides; that the witnesses against lenin were partial and untrustworthy; that something should be done without delay to solve a pressing problem, and that the conference could think of nothing better, nor, in fact, of any alternative. to me the principal scheme seemed a sinister mistake, both in form and in substance. in form, because it nullified the motives which determined the help given to the greeks, poles, and serbs, who were being urged to crush the bolshevists, and left the allies without good grounds for keeping their own troops in archangel, odessa, and northern russia to stop the onward march of bolshevism. some governments had publicly stigmatized the bolshevists as cutthroats; one had pledged itself never to have relations with them, but the prinkipo invitation bespoke a resolve to cancel these judgments and declarations and change their tack as an improvement on doing nothing at all. the scheme was also an error in substance, because the sole motive that could warrant it was the hope of reconciling the warring parties. and that hope was doomed to disappointment from the outset. according to the prinkipo project, which was attributed to president wilson,[ ] an invitation was to be issued to all organized groups exercising or attempting to exercise political authority or military control in siberia and northern russia, to send representatives to confer with the delegates of the allied and associated powers on prince's islands. it is difficult to discuss the expedient seriously. one feels like a member of the little people of yore, who are reported to have consulted an oracle to ascertain what they must do to keep from laughing during certain debates on public affairs. it exposed its ingenuous authors to the ridicule of the world and made it clear to the dullest apprehension that from that quarter, at any rate, the russian people, as a whole, must expect neither light nor leading, nor intelligent appreciation of their terrible plight. there is a sphere of influence in the human intellect between the reason and the imagination, the boundary line of which is shadowy. that sphere would seem to be the source whence some of the most extraordinary notions creep into the minds of men who have suddenly come into a position of power which they are not qualified to wield--the _nouveaux puissants_ of the world of politics. to the credit of the supreme council it never let offended dignity stand between itself and the triumph of any of the various causes which it successively took in hand. time and again it had been addressed by the russian bolshevist government in the most opprobrious terms, and accused not merely of clothing political expediency in the garb of spurious idealism, but of giving the fore place in political life to sordid interests, over which a cloak of humanitarianism had been deftly thrown. one official missive from the bolshevist government to president wilson is worth quoting from:[ ] "we should like to learn with more precision how you conceive the society of nations? when you insist on the independence of belgium, of serbia, of poland, you surely mean that the masses of the people are everywhere to take over the administration of the country. but it is odd that you did not also require the emancipation of ireland, of egypt, of india, and of the philippines.... "as we concluded peace with the german kaiser, for whom you have no more consideration than we have for you, so we are minded to make peace with you. we propose, therefore, the discussion, in concert with our allies, of the following questions: ( ) are the french and english governments ready to give up exacting the blood of the russian people if this people consent to pay them ransom and to compensate them in that way? ( ) if the answer is in the affirmative, what ransom would the allies want (railway concessions, gold mines, or territories)? "we also look forward to your telling us exactly whether the future society of nations will be a joint stock enterprise for the exploitation of russia, and in particular--as your french allies require--for forcing russia to refund the milliards which their bankers furnished to the tsarist government, or whether the society of nations will be something different...." as soon as the prinkipo motion was passed by the delegates i was informed by telephone, and i lost no time in communicating the tidings to russia's official representatives in paris. the plan astounded them. they could hardly believe that, while hopefully negotiating with the anti-bolshevists, the conference was desirous at the same time of opening _pourparlers_ with the leninists, between whom and them antagonism was not merely political, but personal and vindictive, like that of two albanians in a blood feud. i suggested that the scheme should be thwarted at its inception, and that for this purpose i should be authorized by the representatives of the four[ ] constructive governments in russia to make known their decision. i was accordingly empowered to announce to the world that they would categorically refuse to send any representatives to confer with the assassins of their kinsmen and the destroyers of their country, and that under no circumstances would they swerve from that attitude. having received the authorization, i cabled to the united states and britain that the projected meeting would come to naught, owing to the refusal of all constructive elements to agree to any compromise with the bolsheviki; that in the opinion of russia's representatives in paris the advance made by the plenipotentiaries would strengthen the bolshevist movement, render the civil war more merciless than before, and raise up formidable difficulties to the establishment of the league of nations. but the plenipotentiaries did not yet give up their cause as lost. by way of "saving their face," they unofficially approached the russian ministers in paris, whom they had not deigned to consult on the subject before making the plunge, and exhorted them to give at least a formal assent to the proposal, which would commit them to nothing and would enable them to withdraw without loss of dignity. they, on their part, undertook to smooth the road to the best of their ability. thus it would be unnecessary, they explained, for the ministers of the constructive governments or their substitutes to come into contact with the slayers of their kindred; they would occupy different wings of the hotel at prinkipo, and never meet their adversaries. the delegates would see to that. "then why should we go there at all if discussion be superfluous?" asked the russians. "because the allied governments desire to ascertain the condition of russia and your conception of the measures that would contribute to ameliorate it," was the reply. "prince's islands is not the right place to study the russian situation, nor is it reasonable to expect us to journey thither in order to tell subordinates, who have no knowledge of our country, what we can tell them and their principals in paris in greater detail and with confirmatory documents. moreover, the delegates you have appointed have no qualification to judge of russia's plight and potentialities. they know neither the country nor its language nor its people nor its politics, yet you want us to travel all the way to turkey to tell them what we think, in order that they should return from turkey to paris and report to your ministers what we said and what we could have unfolded directly to the ministers themselves long ago and are ready to propound to them to-day or to-morrow. "the project is puerile and your tactics are baleful. your ministers branded the bolshevists as criminals, and the french government publicly announced that it would enter into no relations with them. in spite of that, all the allied governments have now offered to enter into relations with them. now you admit that you made a slip, and you promise to correct it if only we consent to save your face and go on a wild-goose chase to prinkipo. but for us that journey would be a recantation of our principles. that is why we are unable to make it." the prinkipo incident, which began in the region of high politics, ended in comedy. a number of more or less witty epigrams were coined at the expense of the plenipotentiaries, the scheme, set in a stronger light than it was meant to endure, assumed a grotesque shape, and its promoters strove to consign it as best they could to oblivion. but the sphinx question of russia's future remained, and the penalties for failure to solve it aright waxed more and more deterrent. the supreme arbiters had cognizance of them, had, in fact, enumerated them when proclaiming the impossibility of establishing a durable peace or a solid league of nations as long as russia continued to be a prey to anarchy. but even with the prizes and penalties before their eyes to entice and spur them, they proved unequal to the task of devising an intelligent policy. fitful and incoherent, their efforts were either incapable of being realized or, when feasible, were mischievous. thus, by degrees, they hardened the great slav nation against the entente. the reader will be prepared to learn that the overtures made to the bolsheviki kindled the anger of the patriotic russians at home, who had been looking to the western nations for salvation and making veritable holocausts in order to merit it. every observer could perceive the repercussion of this sentiment in paris, and i received ample proofs of it from siberia. there the leaders and the population unhesitatingly turned for assistance to japan. for this there were excellent reasons. the only government which throughout the war knew its own mind and pursued a consistent and an intelligible policy toward russia was that of tokio. this point is worth making at a time when japan is regarded as a laodicean convert to the invigorating ideas of the western peoples, at heart a backslider and a potential schismatic. she is charged with making interest the mainspring of her action in her intercourse with other nations. the charge is true. only a candide would expect to see her moved by altruism and self-denial, in a company which penalizes these virtues. community of interests is the link that binds japan to britain. a like bond had subsisted between her and tsarist russia. i helped to create it. her statesmen, who have no taste for sonorous phraseology, did not think it necessary to give it a more fashionable name. this did not prevent the japanese from being chivalrously loyal to their allies under the strain of powerful temptations, true to the spirit and the letter of their engagements. but although they made no pretense to lofty purpose, their political maxims differ nowise from those of the great european states, whose territorial, economic, and military interests have been religiously safeguarded by the treaty of versailles. true, the statesmen of tokio shrink from the hybrid combination of two contradictions linked together by a sentimental fallacy. their unpopularity among anglo-saxons is the result of speculations about their future intentions; in other words, they are being punished, as certain of the delegates at the conference have been eulogized, not for what they actually did, but for what it is assumed they are desirous of achieving. toward russia they played the same game that their allies were playing there and in europe, only more frankly and systematically. they applied the two principal maxims which lie at the root of international politics to-day--_do ut des_, and the nation that is capable of leading others has the right and the duty to lead them. and they established a valuable reputation for fulfilling their compacts conscientiously. nippon, then, would have helped her russian neighbors, and she expected to be helped by them in return. have not the allies, she asked, compelled poland, czechoslovakia, and jugoslavia to pay them in cash for their emancipation? russians, who have no color prejudices, hit it off with the japanese, by whom they are liked in return. that the two peoples should feel drawn to each other politically is, therefore, natural, and that they will strike up economic agreements in the future seems to many inevitable and legitimate. one such agreement was on the point of being signed between them and the anti-bolshevists of omsk immediately after, and in consequence of, the allies' ill-considered invitation to lenin and trotzky to delegate representatives to prinkipo. this convention, i have reason to believe, was actually drafted, and was about to be signed. and the adverse influence that suddenly made itself felt and hindered the compact came not from russia, but from western europe. it would be unfruitful to dwell further on this matter here, beyond recording the belief of many russians that the zeal of the english-speaking peoples for the well-being of siberia, where they intend to maintain troops after having withdrawn them from europe, is the counter-move to japan's capacity and wish to co-operate with the population of that rich country. this assumption may be groundless, but it will surprise only those who fail to note how often the flag of principle is unfurled over economic interests. the delegates were not all discouraged by their discomfiture over the prinkipo project. some of them still hankered after an agreement with the bolshevists which would warrant them in including the russian problem among the tasks provisionally achieved. president wilson despatched secret envoys to moscow to strike up an accord with lenin,[ ] but although the terms which mr. bullitt obtained were those which had in advance been declared satisfactory, he drew back as soon as they were agreed to. and he assigned no reason for this change of attitude. whether the brightening of the prospects of kolchak and denikin had modified his judgment on the question of expediency must remain a matter of conjecture. it is hardly necessary, however, to point out once more that this sudden improvisation of schemes which were abandoned again at the last moment tended to lower the not particularly high estimate set by the ethnic wards of the anglo-saxon peoples on the moral guidance of their self-constituted guardians. an ardent champion of the allied nations in france wrote: "we have never had a russian policy which was all of one piece. we have never synthetized any but contradictory conceptions. this is so true that one may safely affirm that if russian patriotism has been sustained by our velleities of action, russian destructiveness has been encouraged by our velleities of desertion. we joined, so to say, both camps, and our velleities of desertion occasionally getting the upper hand of our velleities of action ... we carry out nothing."[ ] toward kolchak and denikin the attitude of the supreme council varied considerably. it was currently reported in paris that the admiral had had the misfortune to arouse the displeasure of the two conference chiefs by some casual manifestation of a frame of mind which was resented, perhaps a movement of independence, to which distance or the medium of transmission imparted a flavor of disrespect. anyhow, the russian leader was for some time under a cloud, which darkened the prospects of his cause. and as for denikin, he appeared to the other great delegate as a self-advertising braggart. these mental portraits were retouched as the fortune of war favored the pair. and their cause benefited correspondingly. to this improvement influences at work in london contributed materially. for the anti-bolshevist currents which made themselves felt in certain state departments in that capital, where there were several irreconcilable policies, were powerful and constant. by the month of may the conference had turned half-heartedly from lenin and trotzky to kolchak and denikin, but its mode of negotiating bore the mark peculiar to the diplomacy of the new era of "open covenants openly arrived at." the delegates in paris communicated with the two leaders in russia "over the heads" and without the knowledge of their authorized representatives in paris, just as they had issued peremptory orders to "the rumanian government at bucharest" over the heads of its chiefs, who were actually in the french capital. the proximate motives that determined several important decisions of the secret council, although of no political moment, are of sufficient psychological interest to warrant mention. they shed a light on the concreteness, directness, and simplicity of the workings of the statesmen's minds when engaged in transacting international business. for example, the particular moment for the recognition of new communities as states was fixed by wholly extrinsical circumstances. a food-distributer, for instance, or the secretary of a treasury, wanted a receipt for expenditure abroad from the people that benefited by it. as a document of this character presupposes the existence of a state and a government, the official dispenser of food or money was loath to go to the aid of any nation which was not a state or which lacked a properly constituted government. hence, in some cases the conference had to create both on the spur of the moment. thus the reason why finland's independence received the hall-mark of the powers when it did was because the united states government was generously preparing to give aid to the finns and had to get in return proper receipts signed by competent authorities representing the state.[ ] had it not been for this immediate need of valid receipts, the act of recognition might have been postponed in the same way as was the marking off of the frontiers. and like considerations led to like results in other cases. czechoslovakia's independence was formally recognized for the same reason, as one of its leading men frankly admitted. one of the serious worries of the conference chiefs in their dealings with russia was the lack of a recognized government there, qualified to sign receipts for advances of money and munitions. and as they could not resolve to accord recognition to any of the existing administrations, they hit upon the middle course, that of promoting the anti-bolshevists to the rank of a community, not, indeed, sovereign or independent, but deserving of every kind of assistance except the despatch of allied troops. assistance was already being given liberally, but the necessity was felt for justifying it formally. and the two delegates went to work as though they were hatching some dark and criminal plot. secretly despatching a message to admiral kolchak, they put a number of questions to him which he was not qualified to answer without first consulting his official advisers in paris. yet these advisers were not apprised by the secret council of what was being done. nay, more, the french foreign office was not notified. by the merest chance i got wind of the matter and published the official message.[ ] it summoned the admiral to bind himself to convene a constituent assembly as soon as he arrived in moscow; to hold free elections; to repudiate definitely the old régime and all that it implied; to recognize the independence of poland and finland, whose frontiers would be determined by the league of nations; to avail himself of the advice and co-operation of the league in coming to an understanding with the border states, and to acquiesce in the decision of the peace conference respecting the future status of bessarabia. kolchak's answer was described as clear when "decipherable," and to his credit, he frankly declined to forestall the will of the constituent assembly respecting those border states which owed their separate existence to the initiative of the victorious governments. but the secret council of the conference accepted his answer, and relied upon it as an adequate reason for continuing the assistance which they had been giving him theretofore. about the person of kolchak it ought to be superfluous to say more than that he is an upright citizen of energy and resolution, as patriotic as fabricius, as disinterested and unambitious as cincinnatus. to his credit account, which is considerable, stands his wonder-working faith in the recuperative forces of his country when its fortunes were at their lowest ebb. with buoyancy and confidence he set himself the task of rescuing his fellow-countrymen when it looked as hopeless as that of xenophon at cunaxa. he created an army out of nothing, induced his men by argument, suasion, and example to shake off the virus of indiscipline and sacrifice their individual judgment and will to the well-being of their fellows. he enjoined nothing upon others that he himself was not ready to undertake, and he exposed himself time and again to risks greater far than any general should deliberately incur. whether he succeeds or fails in his arduous enterprise, kolchak, by his preterhuman patience and sustained energy and courage, has deserved exceptionally well of his country, and could afford to ignore the current legends that depict him in the crying colors of a reactionary, even though they were accepted for the time by the most exalted among the great unversed in russian affairs. one may dissent from his policy and object to some of his lieutenants and to many of his partizans, but from the single-minded, patriotic soldier one cannot withhold a large meed of praise. kolchak's defects are mostly exaggerations of his qualities. his remarkable versatility is purchased at the price of fitfulness, his energy displays itself in spurts, and his impulsiveness impairs at times the successful execution of a plan which requires unflagging constancy. his judgment of men is sometimes at fault, but he would never hesitate to confer a high post upon any man who deserved it. he is democratic in the current sense of the word, but neither a doctrinaire nor a faddist. a disciplinarian and a magnetic personality withal, he charms as effectually as he commands his soldiers. he is enlightened enough, like the great western world-menders in their moments of theorizing, to discountenance secrecy and hole-and-corner agreements, and, what is still more praiseworthy, he is courageous enough to practise the doctrine. when the revolution broke out kolchak was at sebastopol. the telegram conveying the sensational tidings of the outbreak was kept secret by all military commanders--except himself. he unhesitatingly summoned the soldiers and sailors, apprised them of what had taken place, gave them an insight into the true meaning of the violent upheaval, and asked them to join with him in a heroic endeavor to influence the course of things, in the direction of order and consolidation. he gaged aright the significance of the revolution and the impossibility of confining it within any bounds, political, moral, or geographical. but he reasoned that a band of resolute patriots might contrive to wrest something for the country from the hands of fate. it was with this faith and hope that he set to work, and soon his valiant army, the reclaimed provinces, and the improved russian outlook were eloquent witnesses to his worth, whose testimony no legendary reports, however well received in the west, could weaken. how ingrained in the plenipotentiaries was their proneness for what, for want of a better word, may be termed conspirative and circuitous action may be inferred from the record of their official and unofficial conversations and acts. when holding converse with kolchak's authorized agents in paris they would lay down hard conditions, which were described as immutable; and yet when communicating with the admiral direct they would submit to him terms considerably less irksome, unknown to his paris advisers, thus mystifying both and occasioning friction between them. in many cases the contrast between the two sets of demands was disconcerting, and in all it tended to cause misunderstandings and complicate the relations between kolchak and his paris agents. but he continued to give his confidence to his representatives, although they were denied that of the delegates. it would, of course, be grossly unfair to impute anything like disingenuousness to plenipotentiaries engaged upon issues of this magnitude, but it was an unfortunate coincidence that they were known to regard some of the members of the russian council in paris with disfavor, and would have been glad to see them superseded. when nansen's project to feed the starving population of russia was first mooted, kolchak's ministers in paris were approached on the subject, and the allies' plan was propounded to them so defectively or vaguely as to give them the impression that the co-operation of the bolshevist government was part of the program. they were also allowed to think that during the work of feeding the people the despatch of munitions and other military necessaries to kolchak and his army would be discontinued. naturally, the scheme, weighted with these two accompaniments, was unacceptable to kolchak's representatives in paris. but, strange to say, in the official notification which the plenipotentiaries telegraphed at the same time to the admiral direct, neither of these obnoxious riders was included, so that the proposal assumed a different aspect. another example of these singular tactics is supplied by their _pourparlers_ with the admiral's delegates about the future international status of finland, whose help was then being solicited to free petrograd from the bolshevist yoke. the finns insisted on the preliminary recognition of their complete independence by the russians. kolchak's representatives shrank from bartering any territories which had belonged to the state on their own sole responsibility. none the less, as the subject was being theoretically threshed out in all its bearings, the members of the russian council in paris inquired of the allies whether the finns had at least renounced their pretensions to the province of karelia. but the spokesmen of the conference replied elusively, giving them no assurance that the claim had been relinquished. thereupon they naturally concluded that the finns either still maintained their demand or else had not yet modified their former decision on the matter, and they deemed it their duty to report in this sense to their chief. yet the plenipotentiaries, in their message on the subject to kolchak, which was sent about the same time, assured him that the annexation of karelia was no longer insisted upon, and that the finns would not again put forward the claim! one hardly knows what to think of tactics like these. in their talks with the spokesmen of certain border states of russia the official representatives of the three european powers at the conference employed language that gave rise to misunderstandings which may have untoward consequences in the future. one would like to believe that these misunderstandings were caused by mere slips of the tongue, which should not have been taken literally by those to whom they were addressed; but in the meanwhile they have become not only the source of high, possibly delusive, hopes, but the basis of elaborate policies. for example, esthonian and lettish ministers were given to understand that they would be permitted to send diplomatic legations to petrograd as soon as russia was reconstituted, a mode of intercourse which presupposes the full independence of all the countries concerned. a constitution was also drawn up for esthonia by one of the great powers, which started with the postulate that each people was to be its own master. consequently, the two nations in question were warranted in looking forward to receiving that complete independence. and if such was, indeed, the intention of the great powers, there is nothing further to be said on the score of straightforwardness or precision. but neither in the terms submitted to kolchak nor in those to which his paris agents were asked to give their assent was the independence of either country as much as hinted at.[ ] these may perhaps seem trivial details, but they enable us to estimate the methods and the organizing arts of the statesmen upon whose skill in resource and tact in dealing with their fellows depended the new synthesis of international life and ethics which they were engaged in realizing. it would be superfluous to investigate the effect upon the russians, or, indeed, upon any of the peoples represented in paris, of the secret council's conspirative deliberations and circuitous procedure, which were in such strong contrast to the "open covenants openly arrived at" to which in their public speeches they paid such high tribute. the main danger, which the allies redoubted from failure to restore tranquillity in russia, was that germany might accomplish it and, owing to her many advantages, might secure a privileged position in the country and use it as a stepping-stone to material prosperity, military strength, and political ascendancy. this feat she could accomplish against considerable odds. she would achieve it easily if the allies unwittingly helped her, as they were doing. unfortunately the allied governments had not much hope of succeeding. if they had been capable of elaborating a comprehensive plan, they no longer possessed the means of executing it. but they devised none. "the fact is," one of the conference leaders exclaimed, "we have no policy toward russia. neither do we possess adequate data for one." they strove to make good this capital omission by erecting a paper wall between germany and her great slav neighbor. the plan was simple. the teutons were to be compelled to disinterest themselves in the affairs of russia, with whose destinies their own are so closely bound up. but they soon realized that such a partition is useless as a breakwater against the tidal wave of teutondom, and germany is still destined to play the part of russia's steward and majordomo. how could it be otherwise? germany and russia are near neighbors. their economic relations have been continuous for ages, and the allies have made them indispensable in the future; russia is ear-marked as germany's best colony. the two peoples are become interdependent. the teuton will recognize the slav as an ally in economics, and will pay himself politically. who will now thwart or check this process? russia must live, and therefore buy and sell, barter and negotiate. can a parchment treaty hinder or invalidate her dealings? can it prevent an admixture of politics in commercial arrangements, seeing that they are but two aspects of one and the same transaction? it is worthy of note that a question which goes to the quick of the matter was never mooted. it is this: is it an essential element of the future ordering of the world that germany shall play no part whatever in its progress? is it to be assumed that she will always content herself with being treated as the incorrigible enemy of civilization? and, if not, what do all these checks and barriers amount to? in russia there are millions of germans conversant with the language, laws, and customs of the people. many of them have been settled there for generations. they are passionately attached to their race, and neither unfriendly nor useless to the country of their adoption. the trade, commerce, and industry of the european provinces are largely in their hands and in those of their forerunners and helpers, the jews. the russo-german and jewish middlemen in the country have their faces ever turned toward the fatherland. they are wont to buy and sell there. they always obtained their credit in berlin, dresden, or frankfurt. they acted as commercial travelers, agents, brokers, bankers, for russians and germans. they are constantly going and coming between the two countries. how are these myriads to be fettered permanently and kept from eking out a livelihood in the future on the lines traced by necessity or interest in the past? the russians, on their side, must live, and therefore buy and sell. has the conference or the league the right or power to dictate to them the persons or the people with whom alone they may have dealings? can it narrow the field of russia's political activities? some people flatter themselves that it can. in this case the league of nations must transform itself into an alliance for the suppression of the german race. burning indignation and moral reprobation were the sentiments aroused among the high-minded allies by the infamous treaty of brest-litovsk. for that mockery of a peace, even coming from an enemy, transcended the bounds of human vengeance. it was justly anathematized by all entente peoples as the loathsome creation of a frenzied people. but shortly afterward the entente governments themselves, their turn having come, wrought what russians of all parties regard as a political patchwork of variegated injustice more odious far, because its authors claimed to be considered as the devoted friends of their victims and the champions of right. whereas the brest-litovsk treaty provided for a federative slav state, with provincial diets and a federal parliament, the system substituted by the allies consisted in carving up russia into an ever-increasing number of separate states, some of which cannot live by themselves, in debarring the inhabitants from a voice in the matter, in creating a permanent agency for foreign intervention, and ignoring russia's right to reparation from the common enemy. the russians were not asked even informally to say what they thought or felt about what was being done. this province and that were successively lopped off in a lordly way by statesmen who aimed at being classed as impartial dispensers of justice and sowers of the seeds of peace, but were unacquainted with the conditions and eschewed investigation. here, at all events, the usual symptoms of hesitancy and procrastination were absent. swift resolve and thoroughness marked the disintegrating action by which they unwittingly prepared the battlefields of the future. nobody acquainted with russian psychology imagines that the feelings of a high-souled people can be transformed by gifts of food, money, or munitions made to some of their fellow-countrymen. how little likely russians are to barter ideal boons for material advantages may be gathered from an incident worth noting that occurred in the months of april and may, when the fall of the capital into the hands of the anti-bolshevists was confidently expected. at that time, as it chanced, the one thing necessary for their success against bolshevism was the capture of petrograd. if that city, which, despite its cosmopolitan character, still retained its importance as the center of political russia, could be wrested from the tenacious grasp of lenin and trotzky, the fall of the anarchist dictators was, people held, a foregone conclusion. the friends of kolchak accordingly pressed every lever to set the machinery in motion for the march against peter's city. and as, of all helpers, the finns and esthonians were admittedly the most efficacious, conversations were begun with their leaders. they were ready to drive a bargain, but it must be a hard and lucrative one. they would march on petrograd for a price. the principal condition which they laid down was the express and definite recognition of their complete independence within frontiers which it would be unfruitful here to discuss. the kolchak government was ready to treat with the finnish cabinet, as the _de facto_ government, and to recognize finland's present status for what it is in international law; but as they could not give what they did not possess, their recognition must, they explained, be like their own authority, provisional. a similar reply was made to the esthonians; to this those peoples demurred. the russians stood firm and the negotiations fell through. it is to be supposed that when they have recovered their former status they will prove more amenable to the blandishments of the allies than they were to the powerful bribe dangled before their eyes by the esthonians and the finns? but if the improvised arrangements entailing dismemberment which the great powers imposed on russia during her cataleptic trance are revised, as they may be, whenever she recovers consciousness and strength, what course will events then follow? if she seeks to regather under her wing some of the peoples whose complete independence the league of nations was so eager to guarantee, will that body respond to the appeal of these and fly to their assistance? russia, who has not been consulted, will not be as bound by the canons of the league, and one need not be a prophet to foretell the reluctance of western armies to wage another war in order to prevent territories, of which some of the plenipotentiaries may have heard as little as of teschen, becoming again integral parts of the slav state. europe may then see its political axis once more shifted and its outlook obscured. thus the system of equilibrium, which was theoretically abolished by the fourteen points, may be re-established by the hundred and one economico-political changes which russia's recovery will contribute to bring about. a decade is but a twinkling in the history of a nation. within a few years russia may once more be united. the army that will have achieved this feat will constitute a formidable weapon in the hands of the state that wields it. as everything, even military strength, is relative, and as the armies of the rest of europe will not be impatient to fight in the east, and will therefore count for considerably less than their numbers, there will be no real danger of an invasion. russia is a country easy to get into, but hard to get out of, and military success against its armies there would in verity be a victory without glory, annexation, indemnities, or other appreciable gains. it is hard to believe that the distinguished statesmen of the conference took these eventualities fully into account before attempting to reshape amorphous russia after their own vague ideal. but whether we assess their work by the standards of political science or of international ethics, or explain it as a series of well-meant expedients begotten by the practical logic of momentary convenience, we must confess that its gifted authors lacked a direct eye for the wayward tides of national and international movements; were, in fact, smitten by political blindness, and did the best they could in these distressing circumstances. footnotes: [ ] from whatever angle this russian business is viewed, the policy of the allies, if it can be dignified with that name, seems to be a compound of weakness, ineptitude, and shilly-shally."--cf. _the westminster gazette_, july , . [ ] cf. _journal des débats_, august , . article by m. auguste gauvain. [ ] there can be no doubt that the bolshevist government under lunatcharsky has made a point of furthering the arts, sciences, and elementary instruction. all reports from foreign travelers and from eminent russians--one of these my university fellow-student, now perpetual secretary of the academy--agree about this silver lining to a dark cloud. [ ] this latter fact was doubtless known to the british government, which decided as early as march to recall the british troops from northern russia. [ ] i published the facts in _the daily telegraph_, april , and _the public ledger_ of philadelphia, april , . [ ] colonel house is said to have dissociated himself from the president on this occasion. [ ] it was sent at the end of october, , and to my knowledge was not published in full. [ ] omsk, ekaterinodar, archangel, and the crimea. the last-named disappeared soon afterward. [ ] see chapter iv "censorship and secrecy," p. . [ ] pertinax in _l'echo de paris_, july , . [ ] this admission was made to a distinguished member of the diplomatic corps. [ ] in _the daily telegraph_, june , , and in _the public ledger_ of philadelphia. [ ] in july m. pichon told the esthonian delegates that france recognized the independence of their country in principle. but this declaration was not taken seriously, either by the russians or by the french. xi bolshevism what is bolshevism? a generic term that stands for a number of things which have little in common. it varies with the countries where it appears. in russia it is the despotism of an organized and unscrupulous group of men in a disorganized community. it might also be termed the frenzy of a few epileptics running amuck among a multitude of paralytics. it is not so much a political doctrine or a socialist theory as a psychic disease of a section of the community which cannot be cured without leaving permanent traces and perhaps modifying certain organic functions of the society affected. for some students at a distance who make abstraction from its methods--as a critic appreciating the performance of "hamlet" might make abstraction from the part of the prince of denmark--it is a modification of the theory of karl marx, the newest contribution to latter-day social science. in russia, at any rate, the general condition of society from which it sprang was characterized not by the advance of social science, but by a psychic disorder the germs of which, after a century of incubation, were brought to the final phase of development by the war. in its origins it is a pathological phenomenon. four and a half years of an unprecedented campaign which drained to exhaustion the financial and economic resources of the european belligerents upset the psychical equilibrium of large sections of their populations. goaded by hunger and disease to lawless action, and no longer held back by legal deterrents or moral checks, they followed the instinct of self-preservation to the extent of criminal lawlessness. familiarity with death and suffering dispelled the fear of human punishment, while numbness of the moral sense made them insensible to the less immediate restraints of a religious character. these phenomena are not unusual concomitants of protracted wars. history records numerous examples of the homecoming soldiery turning the weapons destined for the foreign foe against political parties or social classes in their own country. in other european communities for some time previously a tendency toward root-reaching and violent change was perceptible, but as the state retained its hold on the army it remained a tendency. in the case of russia--the country where the state, more than ordinarily artificial and ill-balanced, was correspondingly weak--fate had interpolated a blood-stained page of red and white terror in the years - . although fitful, unorganized, and abortive, that wild splutter was one of the foretokens of the impending cataclysm, and was recognized as such by the writer of these pages. during the foregoing quarter of a century he had watched with interest the sowing of the dragon's teeth from which was one day to spring up a race of armed and frenzied men. few observers, however, even in the tsardom, gaged the strength or foresaw the effects of the anarchist propaganda which was being carried on suasively and perseveringly, oftentimes unwittingly, in the nursery, the school, the church, the university, and with eminent success in the army and the navy. hence the widespread error that the russian revolution was preceded by no such era of preparation as that of the encylopedists in france. recently, however, publicists have gone to the other extreme and asserted that dostoyevsky, tolstoy, gorky, and a host of other russian writers were apostles of the tenets which have since received the name of bolshevism, and that it was they who prepared the russian upheaval just as it was the authors of the "encyclopedia" who prepared the french revolution. in this sweeping form the statement is misleading. russian literature during the reigns of the last three tsars--with few exceptions, like the writings of leskoff--was unquestionably a vehicle for the spread of revolutionary ideas. but it would be a gross exaggeration to assert that the end deliberately pursued was that form of anarchy which is known to-day as bolshevism, or, indeed, genuine anarchy in any form. tolstoy and gorky may be counted among the forerunners of bolshevism, but dostoyevsky, whom i was privileged to know, was one of its keenest antagonists. nor was it only anarchism that he combated. like leskoff, he was an inveterate enemy of political radicalism, and we university students bore him a grudge in consequence. in his masterly delineation[ ] of a group of "reformers," in particular of verkhovensky--whom psychic tendency, intellectual anarchy, and political crime bring under the category of bolshevists--he foreshadowed the logical conclusion, and likewise the political consummation, of the corrosive doctrines which in those days were associated with the name of bakunin. in the year - , when the upshot of the conflict between tsarism and the revolution was still doubtful, count witte and i often admired the marvelous intuition of the great novelist, whose gallery of portraits in the "devils" seemed to have become suddenly endowed with life, and to be conspiring, shooting, and bomb-throwing in the streets of moscow, petersburg, odessa, and tiflis. the seeds of social revolution sown by the novelists, essayists, and professional guides of the nation were forced by the wars of and into rapid germination. as far back as the year , in a work published over a pseudonym, the present writer described the rotten condition of the tsardom, and ventured to foretell its speedy collapse.[ ] the french historian michelet wrote with intuition marred by exaggeration and acerbity: "a barbarous force, a law-hating world, russia sucks and absorbs all the poison of europe and then gives it off in greater quantity and deadlier intensity. when we admit russia, we admit the cholera, dissolution, death. that is the meaning of russian propaganda. yesterday she said to us, 'i am christianity.' to-morrow she will say, 'i am socialism.' it is the revolting idea of a demagogy without an idea, a principle, a sentiment, of a people which would march toward the west with the gait of a blind man, having lost its soul and its will and killing at random, of a terrible automaton like a dead body which can still reach and slay. "it might commove europe and bespatter it with blood, but that would not hinder it from plunging itself into nothingness in the abysmal ooze of definite dissolution." russia, then, led by domiciled aliens without a fatherland, may be truly said to have been wending steadily toward the revolutionary vortex long before the outbreak of hostilities. her progress was continuous and perceptible. as far back as the year the late count witte and myself made a guess at the time-distance which the nation still had to traverse, assuming the rate of progress to be constant, before reaching the abyss. this, however, was mere guesswork, which one of the many possibilities--and in especial change in the speed-rate--might belie. in effect, events moved somewhat more quickly than we anticipated, and it was the world war and its appalling concomitants that precipitated the catastrophe. as circumstances willed it, certain layers of the people of central europe were also possessed by the revolutionary spirit at the close of the world war. in their case hunger, hardship, disease, and moral shock were the avenues along which it moved and reached them. this coincidence was fraught with results more impressive than serious. the governments of both these great peoples had long been the mainstays of monarchic tradition, military discipline, and the principle of authority. the teutons, steadily pursuing an ideal which lay at the opposite pole to anarchy, had risked every worldly and well-nigh every spiritual possession to realize it. it was the hegemony of the world. this aspiration transfigured, possessed, fanaticized them. teutondom became to them what islam is to mohammedans of every race, even when they shake off religion. they eschewed no means, however iniquitous, that seemed to lead to the goal. they ceased to be human in order to force europe to become german. offering up the elementary principles of morality on the altar of patriotism, they staked their all upon the single venture of the war. it was as the throw of a gambler playing for his soul with the evil one. yet the faith of these materialists waxed heroic withal, like their self-sacrifice. and in the fiery ardor of their enthusiasm, hard concrete facts were dissolved and set floating as illusions in the ambient mist. their wishes became thoughts and their fears were dispelled as fancies. they beheld only what they yearned for, and when at last they dropped from the dizzy height of their castles in cloudland their whole world, era, and ideal was shattered. unavailing remorse, impotent rage, spiritual and intense physical exhaustion completed their demoralization. the more harried and reckless among them became frenzied. turning first against their rulers, then against one another, they finally started upon a work of wanton destruction relieved by no creative idea. it was at this time-point that they endeavored to join hands with their tumultuous eastern neighbors, and that the one word "bolshevism" connoted the revolutionary wave that swept over some of the slav and german lands. but only for a moment. one may safely assert, as a general proposition, that the same undertaking, if the germans and the russians set their hands to it, becomes forthwith two separate enterprises, so different are the conceptions and methods of these two peoples. bolshevism was almost emptied of its contents by the germans, and little left of it but the empty shell. comparisons between the orgasms of collective madness which accompanied the russian welter, on the one hand, and the french revolution, on the other, are unfruitful and often misleading. it is true that at the outset those spasms of delirium were in both cases violent reactions against abuses grown well-nigh unbearable. it is also a fact that the revolutionists derived their preterhuman force from historic events which had either denuded those abuses of their secular protection or inspired their victims with wonder-working faith in their power to sweep them away. but after this initial stage the likeness vanishes. the french revolution, which extinguished feudalism as a system and the nobility as a privileged class, speedily ceased to be a mere dissolvent. in its latter phases it assumed a constructive character. incidentally it created much that was helpful in substance if not beautiful in form, and from the beginning it adopted a positive doctrine as old as christianity, but new in its application to the political sphere. thus, although it uprooted quantities of wheat together with the tares, its general effect was to prepare the ground for a new harvest. it had a distinctly social purpose, which it partially realized. nor should it be forgotten that in the psychological sphere it kindled a transient outburst of quasi-religious enthusiasm among its partizans, imbued them with apostolic zeal, inspired them with a marvelous spirit of self-abnegation, and nerved their arms to far-resonant exploits. and the forces which the revolution thus set free changed many of the forms of the european world, but without reshaping it after the image of the ideal. has the withering blight known as bolshevism any such redeeming traits to its credit account? the consensus of opinion down to the present moment gives an emphatic, if summary, answer in the negative. every region over which it swept is blocked with heaps of unsightly ruins, it has depreciated all moral values. it passed like a tornado, spending its energies in demolition. of construction hardly a trace has been discerned, even by indulgent explorers.[ ] one might liken it to a so-called possession by the spirit of evil, wont of yore to use the human organs as his own for words of folly and deeds of iniquity. bolshevism has operated uniformly as a quick solvent of the social organism. doubtless european society in sorely needed purging by drastic means, but only a fanatic would say that it deserved annihilation. it has been variously affirmed that the political leaven of these destructive ferments in eastern and central europe was wholesome. slavs and germans, it is argued, stung by the bankruptcy of their political systems, resolved to alter them on the lines of universal suffrage and its corollaries, but were carried farther than they meant to go. this mild judgment is based on a very partial survey of the phenomena. the improvement in question was the work, not of the bolshevists, but of their adversaries, the moderate reformers. and the political strivings of these had no organic nexus with the doctrine which emanated from the nethermost depths in which vengeful pariahs, outlaws, and benighted nihilists were floundering before suffocating in the ooze of anarchism. neither can one discern any degree of kinship between spartacists like eichhorn or lenin and moderate reformers as represented, say, by theodor wolff and boris savinkoff. the two pairs are sundered from each other by the distance that separates the social and the anti-social instinct. those are vulgar iconoclasts, these are would-be world-builders. that the russian, or, indeed, the german constitutional reformers should have hugged the delusion that while thrones were being hurled to the ground, and an epoch was passing away in violent convulsions, a few alterations in the electoral law would restore order and bring back normal conditions to the agonizing nations, is an instructive illustration of the blurred vision which characterizes contemporary statesmen. the anglo-saxon delegates at the conference were under a similar delusion when they undertook to regenerate the world by a series of merely political changes. no one who has followed attentively the work of the constitution-makers in weimar can have overlooked their readiness to adopt and assimilate the positive elements of a movement which was essentially destructive. in this respect they displayed a remarkable degree of open-mindedness and receptivity. they showed themselves avid of every contribution which they could glean from any source to the work of national reorganization, and even in teutonized bolshevism they apparently found helpful hints of timely innovations. one may safely hazard the prediction that these adaptations, however little they may be relished, are certain to spread to the western peoples, who will be constrained to accept them in the long run, and germany may end by becoming the economic leader of democratic europe. the law of politico-social interchange and assimilation underlying this phenomenon, had it been understood by the statesmen of the entente, might have rendered them less desirous of seeing the german organism tainted with the germs of dissolution. for what germany borrows from bolshevism to-day western europe will borrow from germany to-morrow. and foremost among the new institutions which the revolution will impose upon europe is that of the soviets, considerably modified in form and limited in functions. "in the conception of the soviet system," writes the most influential jewish-german organ in europe, "there is assuredly something serviceable, and it behooves us to familiarize ourselves therewith. psychologically, it rests upon the need felt by the working-man to be something more than a mere cog in the industrial mechanism. the first step would consist in conferring upon labor committees juridical functions consonant with latter-day requirements. these functions would extend beyond those exercised by the labor committees hitherto. how far they could go without rendering the industrial enterprise impossible is a matter for investigation.... this is not merely a wish of the extremists; it is a psychological requirement, and therefore it necessitates the establishment of a closer nexus between legislation and practical life which unhappily is become so complicated. and this need is not confined to the laboring class. it is universal. therefore, what is good for the one is meet for the other."[ ] the soviet system adapted to modern existence is one--and probably the sole--legacy of bolshevism to the new age. during the peace conference bolshevism played a large part in the world's affairs. by some of the eminent lawgivers there it was feared as a scourge; by others it was wielded as a weapon, and by a third set it was employed as a threat. whenever a delegate of one of the lesser states felt that he was losing ground at the peace table, and that his country's demands were about to be whittled down as extravagant, he would point significantly to certain "foretokens" of an outbreak of bolshevism in his country and class them as an inevitable consequence of the nation's disappointment. thus the representative of nearly every state which had a territorial program declared that that program must be carried out if bolshevism was to be averted there. "this or else bolshevism" was the peroration of many a delegate's _exposé_. more redoubtable than political discontent was the proselytizing activity of the leaders of the movement in russia. of the two pillars of bolshevism one is a russian, the other a jew, the former, ulianoff (better known as lenin), the brain; the other, braunstein (called trotzky), the arm of the sect. trotzky is an unscrupulous despot, in whose veins flows the poison of malignity. his element is cruelty, his special gift is organizing capacity. lenin is a utopian, whose fanaticism, although extensive, has well-defined limits. in certain things he disagrees profoundly with trotzky. he resembles a religious preacher in this, that he created a body of veritable disciples around himself. he might be likened to a pope with a college of international cardinals. thus he has french, british, german, austrian, czech, italian, danish, swedish, japanese, hindu, chinese, buryat, and many other followers, who are chiefs of proselytizing sections charged with the work of spreading the bolshevik evangel throughout the globe, and are working hard to discharge their duties. lenin, however, dissatisfied with the measures of success already attained, is constantly stimulating his disciples to more strenuous exertions. he shares with other sectarian chiefs who have played a prominent part in the world's history that indefinable quality which stirs emotional susceptibility and renders those who approach him more easily accessible to ideas toward which they began by manifesting repugnance. lenin is credibly reported to have made several converts among his western opponents. the plenipotentiaries, during the first four months, approached bolshevism from a single direction, unvaried by the events which it generated or the modifications which it underwent. they tested it solely by its accidental bearings on the one aim which they were intent on securing--a formal and provisional resettlement of europe capable of being presented to their respective parliaments as a fair achievement. with its real character, its manifold corollaries, its innovating tendencies over the social, political, and ethnical domain, they were for the time being unconcerned. without the slightest reference to any of these considerations they were ready to find a place for it in the new state system with which they hoped to endow the world. more than once they were on the point of giving it official recognition. there was no preliminary testing, sifting, or examining by these empiricists, who, finding bolshevism on their way, and discerning no facile means of dislodging or transforming it, signified their willingness under easy conditions to hallmark and incorporate it as one of the elements of the new ordering. from the crimes laid to its charge they were prepared to make abstraction. the barbarous methods to which it owed its very existence they were willing to consign to oblivion. and it was only a freak of circumstance that hindered this embodiment of despotism from beginning one of their accepted means of rendering the world safe for democracy. political students outside the conference, going farther into the matter, inquired whether there was any kernel of truth in the doctrines of lenin, any social or political advantage in the practices of braunstein (trotzky), and the conclusions which they reached were negative.[ ] but inquiries of this theoretical nature awakened no interest among the empiricists of the supreme council. for them bolshevism meant nothing more than a group of politicians, who directed, or misdirected, but certainly represented the bulk of the russian people, and who, if won over and gathered under the cloak of the conference, would facilitate its task and bear witness to its triumph. this inference, drawn by keen observers from many countries and parties, is borne out by the curious admissions and abortive acts of the principal plenipotentiaries themselves. in its milder manifestations on the social side russian bolshevism resembles communism, and may be described as a social revolution effected by depriving one set of people--the ruling and intelligent class--of power, property, and civil rights, putting another and less qualified section in their place, and maintaining the top-heavy structure by force ruthlessly employed. far-reaching though this change undoubtedly is, it has no nexus with marxism or kindred theories. its proximate causes were many: such, for example, as the breakdown of a tyrannical system of government, state indebtedness so vast that it swallowed up private capital, the depreciation of money, and the corresponding appreciation of labor. it is fair, therefore, to say that a rise in the cost of production and the temporary substitution of one class for another mark the extent to which political forces revolutionized the social fabric. beyond these limits they did not go. the notion had been widespread in most countries, and deep-rooted in russia, that a political upheaval would effect a root-reaching and lasting alteration in the forces of social development. it was adopted by lenin, a fanatic of the robespierre type, but far superior to robespierre in will-power, insight, resourcefulness, and sincerity, who, having seized the reins of power, made the experiment. it is no easy matter to analyze lenin's economic policy, because of the veil of mist that conceals so much of russian contemporary history. our sources are confined to the untrustworthy statements of a censored press and travelers' tales. but it is common knowledge that the bolshevist dictator requisitioned and "nationalized" the banks, took factories, workshops, and plants from their owners and handed them over to the workmen, deprived landed proprietors of their estates, and allowed peasants to appropriate them. it is in the matter of industry, however, that his experiment is most interesting as showing the practical value of marxism as a policy and the ability of the bolsheviki to deal with delicate social problems. the historic decree issued by the moscow government on the nationalization of industry after the opening experiment had broken down contains data enough to enable one to affirm that lenin himself judged marxism inapplicable even to russia, and left it where he had found it--among the ideals of a millennial future. that ukase ordered the gradual nationalization of all private industries with a capital of not less than one million rubles, but allowed the owners to enjoy the gratuitous usufruct of the concern, provided that they financed and carried it on as before. consequently, although in theory the business was transferred to the state, in reality the capitalist retained his place and his profits as under the old system. consequently, the principal aims of socialism, which are the distribution of the proceeds of industry among the community and the retention of a certain surplus by the state, were missed. in the bolshevist procedure the state is wholly eliminated except for the purpose of upholding a fiction. it receives nothing from the capitalist, not even a royalty. the slav is a dreamer whose sense of the real is often defective. he loses himself in vague generalities and pithless abstractions. thus, before opening a school he will spin out a theory of universal education, and then bemoan his lack of resources to realize it. true, many of the chiefs of the sect--for it is undoubtedly a sect when it is not a criminal conspiracy, and very often it is both--were not slavs, but jews, who, for the behoof of their kindred, dropped their semitic names and adopted sonorous slav substitutes. but they were most unscrupulous peculators, incapable of taking an interest in the scientific aspect of such matters, and hypnotized by the dreams of lucre which the opportunity evoked. one has only to call to mind some of the shabby transactions in which the semitic dictator of hungary, kuhn, or cohen, and braunstein (trotzky) of petrograd, took an active part. the former is said to have offered for sale the historic crown of st. stephen of hungary--which to him was but a plain gold headgear adorned with precious stones and a jeweled cross--to an old curiosity dealer of munich,[ ] and when solemnly protesting that he was living only for the soviet republic and was ready to die for it, he was actively engaged in smuggling out of hungary into switzerland fifty million kronen bonds, thirty-five kilograms of gold, and thirty chests filled with objects of value.[ ] his colleague szamuelly's plunder is a matter of history. to such adventurers as those science is a drug. they are primitive beings impressible mainly to concrete motives of the barest kind. the dupes of lenin were people of a different type. many of them fancied that the great political clash must inevitably result in an equally great and salutary social upheaval. this assumption has not been borne out by events. those fanatics fell into another error; they were in a hurry, and would fain have effected their great transformation as by the waving of a magician's wand. impatient of gradation, they scorned to traverse the distance between the point of departure and that of the goal, and by way of setting up the new social structure without delay, they rolled away all hindrances regardless of consequences. in this spirit of absolutism they abolished the services of the national debt, struck out the claims of russia's creditors to their capital or interest, and turned the shops and factories over to labor boards. that was the initial blunder which the ukase alluded to was subsequently issued to rectify. but it was too late. the equilibrium of the forces of production had been definitely upset and could no longer be righted. one of the basic postulates of profitable production is the equilibrium of all its essential factors--such as the laborer's wages, the cost of the machinery and the material, the administration. bring discord into the harmony and the entire mechanism is out of gear. the russian workman, who is at bottom an illiterate peasant with the old roots of serfdom still clinging to him, has seldom any bowels for his neighbor and none at all for his employer. "god himself commands us to despoil such gentry," is one of his sayings. he is in a hurry to enrich himself, and he cares about nothing else. nor can he realize that to beggar his neighbors is to impoverish himself. hence he always takes and never gives; as a peasant he destroys the forests, hewing trees and planting none, and robs the soil of its fertility. on analogous lines he would fain deal with the factories, exacting exorbitant wages that eat up all profit, and naïvely expecting the owner to go on paying them as though he were the trustee of a fund for enriching the greedy. the only people to profit by the system, and even they only transiently, were the manual laborers. the bulk of the skilled, intelligent, and educated artisans were held up to contempt and ostracized, or killed as an odious aristocracy. that, it has been aptly pointed out,[ ] is far removed from marxism. the marxist doctrine postulates the adhesion of intelligent workers to the social revolution, whereas the russian experimenters placed them in the same category as the capitalists, the aristocrats, and treated them accordingly. another marxist postulate not realized in russia was that before the state could profitably proceed to nationalization the country must have been in possession of a well-organized, smooth-running industrial mechanism. and this was possible only in those lands in which capitalism had had a long and successful innings, not in the great slav country of husbandmen. by way of glozing over these incongruities lenin's ukase proclaimed that the measures enacted were only provisional, and aimed at enabling russia to realize the great transformation by degrees. but the impression conveyed by the history of the social side of lenin's activity is that marxism, whether as understood by its author or as interpreted and twisted by its russian adherents, has been tried and found impracticable. one is further warranted in saying that neither the visionary workers who are moved by misdirected zeal for social improvement nor the theorists who are constantly on the lookout for new and stimulating ideas are likely to discover in russian bolshevism any aspect but the one alluded to above worthy of their serious consideration. a much deeper mark was made on the history of the century by its methods. compared with the soul-searing horrors let loose during the bolshevist fit of frenzy, the worst atrocities recorded of deputy carrier and his noyades during the french revolution were but the freaks of compassionate human beings. in bolshevist russia brutality assumed forms so monstrous that the modern man of the west shrinks from conjuring up a faint picture of them in imagination. tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands were done to death in hellish ways by the orders of men and of women. eyes were gouged out, ears hacked off, arms and legs torn from the body in presence of the victims' children or wives, whose agony was thus begun before their own turn came. men and women and infants were burned alive. chinese executioners were specially hired to inflict the awful torture of the "thousand slices."[ ] officers had their limbs broken and were left for hours in agonies. many victims are credibly reported to have been buried alive. history, from its earliest dawn down to the present day, has recorded nothing so profoundly revolting as the nameless cruelties in which these human fiends reveled. one gruesome picture of the less loathsome scenes enacted will live in history on a level with the _noyades_ of nantes. i have seen several moving descriptions of it in russian journals. the following account is from the pen of a french marine officer: "we have two armed cruisers outside odessa. a few weeks ago one of them, having an investigation to make, sent a diver down to the bottom. a few minutes passed and the alarm signal was heard. he was hauled up and quickly relieved of his accoutrements. he had fainted away. when he came to, his teeth were chattering and the only articulate sounds that could be got from him were the words: 'it is horrible! it is awful!' a second diver was then lowered, with the same procedure and a like result. finally a third was chosen, this time a sturdy lad of iron nerves, and sent down to the bottom of the sea. after the lapse of a few minutes the same thing happened as before, and the man was brought up. this time, however, there was no fainting fit to record. on the contrary, although pale with terror, he was able to state that he had beheld the sea-bed peopled with human bodies standing upright, which the swaying of the water, still sensible at this shallow depth, softly rocked as though they were monstrous algæ, their hair on end bristling vertically, and their arms raised toward the surface.... all these corpses, anchored to the bottom by the weight of stones, took on an appearance of eerie life resembling, one might say, a forest of trees moved from side to side by the wind and eager to welcome the diver come down among them.... there were, he added, old men, children numerous beyond count, so that one could but compare them to the trees of a forest."[ ] from published records it is known that the bolshevist thugs, when tired of using the rifle, the machine-gun, the cord, and the bayonet, expedited matters by drowning their victims by hundreds in the black sea, in the gulf of finland, and in the great rivers. submarine cemeteries was the name given to these last resting-places of some of russia's most high-minded sons and daughters.[ ] it is not in the french revolution that those deeds of wanton destruction and revolting cruelty which are indissolubly associated with bolshevism find a parallel, but in chinese history, which offers a striking and curious prefiguration of the leninist structure.[ ] toward the middle of the tenth century, when the empire was plunged in dire confusion, a mystical sect was formed there for the purpose of destroying by force every vestige of the traditional social fabric, and establishing a system of complete equality without any state organization whatever, after the manner advocated by leo tolstoy. some of the dicta of these sectarians have a decidedly bolshevist flavor. this, for example: "society rests upon law, property, religion, and force. but law is injustice and chicane; property is robbery and extortion; religion is untruth, and force is iniquity." in those days chinese political parties were at strife with each other, and none of them scorned any means, however brutal, to worst its adversaries, but for a long while they were divided among themselves and without a capable chief. at last the socialist party unexpectedly produced a leader, wang ngan shen, a man of parts, who possessed the gift of drawing and swaying the multitude. of agreeable presence, he was resourceful and unscrupulous, soon became popular, and even captivated the emperor, shen tsung, who appointed him minister. he then set about applying his tenets and realizing his dreams. wang ngan shen began by making commerce and trade a state monopoly, just as lenin had done, "in order," he explained, "to keep the poor from being devoured by the rich." the state was proclaimed the sole owner of all the wealth of the soil; agricultural overseers were despatched to each district to distribute the land among the peasants, each of these receiving as much as he and his family could cultivate. the peasant obtained also the seed, but this he was obliged to return to the state after the ingathering of the harvest. the power of the overseer went farther; it was he who determined what crops the husbandman might sow and who fixed day by day the price of every salable commodity in the district. as the state reserved to itself the right to buy all agricultural produce, it was bound in return to save up a part of the profits to be used for the benefit of the people in years of scarcity, and also at other times to be employed in works needed by the community. wang ngan shen also ordained that only the wealthy should pay taxes, the proceeds of which were to be employed in relieving the wants of the poor, the old, and the unemployed. the theory was smooth and attractive. for over thirty years those laws are said to have remained in force, at any rate on paper. to what extent they were carried out is problematical. probably a beginning was actually made, for during wang's tenure of office confusion was worse confounded than before, and misery more intense and widespread. the opposition to his régime increased, spread, and finally got the upper hand. wang ngan shen was banished, together with those of his partizans who refused to accept the return to the old system. such would appear to have been the first appearance of bolshevism recorded in history. another less complete parallel, not to the bolshevist theory, but to the plight of the country which it ruined, may be found in the chinese rebellion organized in the year by a peasant[ ] who, having become a christian, fancied himself called by god to regenerate his people. he accordingly got together a band of stout-hearted fellows whom he fanaticized, disciplined, and transformed into the nucleus of a strong army to which brigands, outlaws, and malcontents of every social layer afterward flocked. they overran the yangtse valley, invaded twelve of the richest provinces, seized six hundred cities and towns, and put an end to twenty million people in the space of twelve years by fire, sword, and famine.[ ] to this bloody expedition hung sew tseuen, a master of modern euphemism, gave the name of crusade of the great peace. for twelve years this "crusade" lasted, and it might have endured much longer had it not been for the help given by outsiders. it was there that "chinese" gordon won his laurels and accomplished a beneficent work. there were politicians at the conference who argued that russia, being in a position analogous to that of china in , ought, like her, to be helped by the great powers. it was, they held, quite as much in the interests of europe as in hers. but however forcible their arguments, they encountered an insurmountable obstacle in the fear entertained by the chiefs of the leading governments lest the extreme oppositional parties in their respective countries should make capital out of the move and turn them out of office. they invoked the interests of the cause of which they were the champions for declining to expose themselves to any such risk. it has been contended with warmth, and possibly with truth, that if at the outset the great powers had intervened they might with a comparatively small army have crushed bolshevism and re-established order in russia. on the other hand, it was objected that even heavy guns will not destroy ideas, and that the main ideas which supplied the revolutionary movement with vital force were too deeply rooted to have been extirpated by the most formidable foreign army. that is true. but these ideas were not especially characteristic of bolshevism. far from that, they were incompatible with it: the bestowal of land on the peasants, an equitable reform of the relations between workmen and employers, and the abolition of the hereditary principle in the distribution of everything that confers an unfair advantage on the individual or the class are certainly not postulates of lenin's party. it is a tenable proposition that timely military assistance would have enabled the constructive elements of russia to restore conditions of normal life, but the worth of timeliness was never realized by the heads of the governments who undertook to make laws for the world. they ignored the maxim that a statesman, when applying measures, must keep his eye on the clock, inasmuch as the remedy which would save a nation at one moment may hasten its ruin at another. the expedients and counter-expedients to which the conference had recourse in their fitful struggles with bolshevism were so many surprises to every one concerned, and were at times redolent of comedy. but what was levity and ignorance on the part of the delegates meant death, and worse than death, to tens of thousands of their protégées. in russia their agents zealously egged on the order-loving population to rise up against the bolsheviki and attack their strong positions, promising them immediate military help if they succeeded. but when, these exploits having been duly achieved, the agents were asked how soon the foreign reinforcements might be expected, they replied, calling for patience. after a time the bolsheviki assailed the temporary victors, generally defeated them, and then put a multitude of defenseless people to the sword. deplorable incidents of this nature, which are said to have occurred several times during the spring of , shook the credit of the allies, and kindled a feeling of just resentment among all classes of russians. footnotes: [ ] in the _biessy_ (devils). [ ] _russian characteristics_, by e.b. lanin (eblanin, a russian word which means native of dublin, eblana). [ ] educational reforms have been mentioned among its achievements and attributed to lunatcharsky. that he exerted himself to spread elementary instruction must be admitted. but this progress and the effective protection and encouragement which he has undoubtedly extended to arts and sciences would seem to exhaust the list of items in the credit account of the bolshevist régime. [ ] _frankfurter zeitung_, february , . [ ] a succinct but interesting study of this question appeared in the _handels-zeitung_ of the _berliner tageblatt_, over the signature of dr. felix pinner, july , . [ ] cf. _bonsoir_, july , . the price was not fixed, but the minimum was specified. it was one hundred thousand kronen. [ ] cf. _der tag_, vienna, august , . _l'echo de paris_, august , . [ ] by dr. f. pinner, h. vorst, and others. [ ] the condemned man is tied to a post or a cross, his mouth gagged, and the execution is made to last several hours. it usually begins with a slit on the forehead and the pulling down of the skin toward the chin. after the lapse of a certain time the nose is severed from the face. an interval follows, then an ear is lopped off, and so the devilish work goes on with long pauses. the skill of the executioner is displayed in the length of time during which the victim remains conscious. [ ] cf. _le figaro_, february , . [ ] i do not suggest that these crimes were ordered by lenin. but it will not be gainsaid that neither he nor his colleagues punished the mass murderers or even protested against their crimes. neither can it be maintained that massacres were confined to any one party. [ ] this pre-bolshevist movement is described in an interesting study on the socialist movement and systems, down to the year , by el. luzatto. cf. _der bund_, august , . [ ] hung sew tseuen. the rebellion lasted from to . [ ] the superb city of nankin, with its temples and porcelain towers, was destroyed. xii how bolshevism was fostered the allies, then, might have solved the bolshevist problem by making up their minds which of the two alternative politics--war against, or tolerance of, bolshevism--they preferred, and by taking suitable action in good time. if they had handled the russian tangle with skill and repaid a great sacrifice with a small one before it was yet too late, they might have hoped to harvest in abundant fruits in the fullness of time. but they belonged to the class of the undecided, whose members continually suffer from the absence of a middle word between yes and no, connoting what is neither positive nor negative. they let the opportunity slip. not only did they withhold timely succor to either side, but they visited some of the most loyal russians in western europe with the utmost rigor of coercion laws. they hounded them down as enemies. they cooped them up in cages as though they were teuton enemies. they encircled them with barbed wire. they kept many of them hungry and thirsty, deprived them of life's necessaries for days, and in some cases reduced the discontented--and who in their place would not be discontented?--to pick their food in dustbins among garbage and refuse. i have seen officers and men in france who had shed their blood joyfully for the entente cause gradually converted to bolshevism by the misdeeds of the allied authorities. in whose interests? with what helpful results? i watched the development of anti-ententism among those russians with painful interest, and in favorable conditions for observation, and i say without hesitation that rancor against the allies burns as vehemently and intensely among the anti-bolshevists as among their adversaries. "my country as a whole is bitterly hostile to her former allies," exclaimed an eminent russian, "for as soon as she had rendered them inestimable services, at the cost of her political existence, they turned their backs upon her as though her agony were no affair of theirs. to-day the nation is divided on many issues. dissensions and quarrels have riven and shattered it into shreds. but in one respect russia is still united--in the vehemence of her sentiment toward the allies, who first drained her life-blood and then abandoned her prostrate body to beasts of prey. some part of the hatred engendered might have been mitigated if representatives of the provisional russian government had been admitted to the conference. a statesman would have insisted upon opening at least this little safety-valve. it would have helped and could not have harmed the allies. it would have bound the russians to them. for russia's delegates, the men sent or empowered by kolchak and his colleagues to represent them, would have been the exponents of a helpless community hovering between life and death. they could and would have gone far toward conciliating the world-dictators, to whose least palatable decisions they might have hesitated to offer unbending opposition. and this acquiescence, however provisional, would have tended to relieve the allies of a sensible part of their load of responsibility. it would also have linked the russians, loosely, perhaps, but perceptibly, to the western powers. it would have imparted a settled ententophil direction to kolchak's policy, and communicated it to the nation. in short, it might have dispelled some of the storm-clouds that are gathering in the east of europe." but the allies, true to their wont of drifting, put off all decisive action, and let things slip and slide, for the germans to put in order. there were no russians, therefore, at the conference, and there lies no obligation on any political group or party in the anarchist slav state to hold to the allies. but it would be an error to imagine that they have a white sheet of paper on which to trace their line of action and write the names of france and britain as their future friends. they are filled with angry disgust against these two ex-allies, and of the two the feeling against france is especially intense.[ ] it is a truism to repeat in a different form what messrs. lloyd george and wilson repeatedly affirmed, but apparently without realizing what they said: that the peace which they regard as the crowning work of their lives deserves such value as it may possess from the assumption that russia, when she recovers from her cataleptic fit, will be the ally of the powers that have dismembered her. if this postulate should prove erroneous, germany may form an anti-allied league of a large number of nations which it would be invidious to enumerate here. but it is manifest that this consummation would imperil poland, czechoslovakia, and jugoslavia, and sweep away the last vestiges of the peace settlement. and although it would be rash to make a forecast of the policy which new russia will strike out, it would be impolitic to blink the conclusions toward which recent events significantly point. in april a russian statesman said to me: "the allied delegates are unconsciously thrusting from them the only means by which they can still render peace durable and a fellowship of the nations possible. unwittingly they are augmenting the forces of bolshevism and raising political enemies against themselves. consider how they are behaving toward us. recently a number of russian prisoners escaped from germany to holland, whereupon the allied representatives packed them off by force and against their will to dantzig, to be conveyed thence to libau, where they have become recruits of the bolshevist red guards. those men might have been usefully employed in the allied countries, to whose cause they were devoted, but so exasperated were they at their forcible removal to libau that many of them declared that they would join the bolshevist forces. "even our official representatives are seemingly included in the category of suspects. our minister in peking was refused the right of sending ciphered telegrams and our chargé d'affaires in a european capital suffered the same deprivation, while the bolshevist envoy enjoyed this diplomatic privilege. a councilor of embassy in one allied country was refused a passport visa for another until he declared that if the refusal were upheld he would return a high order which for extraordinary services he had received from the government whose embassy was vetoing his visa. on the national festival of a certain allied country the chargé d'affaires of russia was the only member of the diplomatic corps who received no official invitation." one day in january, when a crowd had gathered on the quai d'orsay, watching the delegates from the various countries--british, american, italian, japanese, rumanian, etc.--enter the stately palace to safeguard the interests of their respective countries and legislate for the human race, a russian officer passed, accompanied by an illiterate soldier who had seen hard service first under the grand duke nicholas, and then in a russian brigade in france. the soldier gazed wistfully at the palace, then, turning to the officer, asked, "are they letting any of our people in there?" the officer answered, evasively: "they are thinking it over. perhaps they will." whereupon his attendant blurted out: "thinking it over! what thinking is wanted? did we not fight for them till we were mowed down like grass? did not millions of russian bodies cover the fields, the roads, and the camps? did we not face the german great guns with only bayonets and sticks? have we done too little for them? what more could we have done to be allowed in there with the others? i fought since the war began, and was twice wounded. my five brothers were called up at the same time as myself, and all five have been killed, and now the russians are not wanted! the door is shut in our faces...." sooner or later russian anarchy, like that of china, will come to an end, and the leaders charged with the reconstitution of the country, if men of knowledge, patriotism, and character, will adopt a program conducive to the well-being of the nation. to what extent, one may ask, is its welfare compatible with the _status quo_ in eastern europe, which the allies, distracted by conflicting principles and fitful impulse, left or created and hope to perpetuate by means of a parchment instrument? the zeal with which the french authorities went to work to prevent the growth of bolshevism in their country, especially among the russians there, is beyond dispute. unhappily it proved inefficacious. indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that it defeated its object and produced the contrary effect. for attention was so completely absorbed by the aim that no consideration remained over for the means of attaining it. a few concrete examples will bring this home to the reader. the following narratives emanate from an eminent russian, who is devoted to the allies. there were scores of thousands of russian troops in france. most of them fought valiantly, others half-heartedly, and a few refused to fight at all. but instead of making distinctions the french authorities, moved by the instinct of self-preservation, and preferring prevention to cure, tarred them all with the same brush. "give a dog a bad name and hang him," says the proverb, and it was exemplified in the case of the russians, who soon came to be regarded as a _tertium quid_ between enemies of public order and suspicious neutrals. they were profoundly mistrusted. their officers were deprived of their authority over their own men and placed under the command of excellent french officers, who cannot be blamed for not understanding the temper of the slavs nor for rubbing them against the grain. the privates, seeing their superiors virtually degraded, concluded that they had forfeited their claim to respect, and treated them accordingly. that gave the death-blow to discipline. the officers, most of whom were devoted heart and soul to the cause of the allies, with which they had fondly identified their own, lost heart. after various attempts to get themselves reinstated, their feelings toward the nation, which was nowise to blame for the excessive zeal of its public servants, underwent a radical change. blazing indignation consumed whatever affection they had originally nurtured for the french, and in many cases also for the other allies, and they went home to communicate their animus to their countrymen. the soldiers, who now began to be taunted and vilipended as boches, threw all discipline to the winds and, feeling every hand raised against them, resolved to raise their hands against every man. these were the beginnings of the process of "bolshevization." this anti-russian spirit grew intenser as time lapsed. thousands of russian soldiers were sent out to work for private employers, not by the war ministry, but by the ministry of agriculture, under whom they were placed. they were fed and paid a wage which under normal circumstances should have contented them, for it was more than they used to receive in pre-war days in their own country. but the circumstances were not normal. side by side with them worked frenchmen, many of whom were unable physically to compete with the sturdy peasants from perm and vyatka. and when propagandists pointed out to them that the french worker was paid per cent. more, they brooded over the inequality and labeled it as they were told. for overwork, too, the rate of pay was still more unequal. one result of this differential treatment was the estrangement of the two races as represented by the two classes of workmen, and the growth of mutual dislike. but there was another. when they learned, as they did in time, that the employer was selling the produce of their labor at a profit of and per cent., they had no hesitation about repeating the formulas suggested to them by socialist propagandists: "we are working for bloodsuckers. the bourgeois must be exterminated." in this way bitterness against the allies and hatred of the capitalists were inculcated in tens of thousands of russians who a few months before were honest, simple-minded peasants and well-disciplined soldiers. many of these men, when they returned to their country, joined the red guards of bolshevism with spontaneous ardor. they needed no pressing. there was one young officer of the guards, in particular, named g----, who belonged to a very good family and was an exceptionally cultured gentleman. music was his recreation, and he was a virtuoso on the violin. in the war he had distinguished himself first on the russian front and then on the french. he had given of his best, for he was grievously wounded, had his left hand paralyzed, and lost his power of playing the violin forever. he received a high decoration from the french government. for the english nation he professed and displayed great affection, and in particular he revered king george, perhaps because of his physical resemblance to the tsar. and when king george was to visit paris he rejoiced exceedingly at the prospect of seeing him. orders were issued for the troops to come out and line the principal routes along which the monarch would pass. the french naturally had the best places, but the place de l'Étoile was reserved for the allied forces. g----, delighted, went to his superior officer and inquired where the russians were to stand. the general did not know, but promised to ascertain. accordingly he put the question to the french commander, who replied: "russian troops? there is no place for any russian troops." with tears in his eyes g---- recounted this episode, adding: "we, who fought and bled, and lost our lives or were crippled, had to swallow this humiliation, while poles and czechoslovaks, who had only just arrived from america in their brand-new uniforms, and had never been under fire, had places allotted to them in the pageant. is that fair to the troops without whose exploits there would have been no polish or czechoslovak officers, no french victory, no triumphal entry of king george v into paris?" footnote: [ ] it is right to say that during the summer months a considerable section of the anti-bolshevists modified their view of britain's policy, and expressed gratitude for the aid bestowed on kolchak, denikin, and yudenitch, without which their armies would have collapsed. xiii sidelights on the treaty from the opening of the conference fundamental differences sprang up which split the delegates into two main parties, of which one was solicitous mainly about the resettlement of the world and its future mainstay, the league of nations, and the other about the furtherance of national interests, which, it maintained, was equally indispensable to an enduring peace. the latter were ready to welcome the league on condition that it was utilized in the service of their national purposes, but not if it countered them. to bridge the chasm between the two was the task to which president wilson courageously set his hand. unluckily, by way of qualifying for the experiment, he receded from his own strong position, and having cut his moorings from one shove, failed to reach the other. his pristine idea was worthy of a world-leader; had, in fact, been entertained and advocated by some of the foremost spirits of modern times. he purposed bringing about conditions under which the pacific progress of the world might be safeguarded in a very large measure and for an indefinite time. but being very imperfectly acquainted with the concrete conditions of european and asiatic peoples--he had never before felt the pulsation of international life--his ideas about the ways and means were hazy, and his calculations bore no real reference to the elements of the problem. consequently, with what seemed a wide horizon and a generous ambition, his grasp was neither firm nor comprehensive enough for such a revolutionary undertaking. in no case could he make headway without the voluntary co-operation of the nations themselves, who in their own best interests might have submitted to heavy sacrifices, to which their leaders, whom he treated as true exponents of their will, refused their consent. but he scouted the notion of a world-parliament. whenever, therefore, contemplating a particular issue, not as an independent question in itself, but as an integral part of a larger problem, he made a suggestion seemingly tending toward the ultimate goal, his motion encountered resolute opposition in the face of which he frequently retreated. at the outset, on which so much depended, the peoples as distinguished from the governments appeared to be in general sympathy with his principal aim, and it seemed at the time that if appealed to on a clear issue they would have given him their whole-hearted support, provided always that, true to his own principles, he pressed these to the fullest extent and admitted no such invidious distinctions as privileged and unprivileged nations. this belief was confirmed by what i heard from men of mark, leaders of the labor people, and three prime ministers. they assured me that such an appeal would have evoked an enthusiastic response in their respective countries. convinced that the principles laid down by the president during the last phases of the war would go far to meet the exigencies of the conjuncture, i ventured to write on one of the occasions, when neither party would yield to the other: "the very least that mr. wilson might now do, if the deadlock continues, is to publish to the world the desirable objects which the united states are disinterestedly, if not always wisely, striving for, and leave the judgment to the peoples concerned."[ ] but he recoiled from the venture. perhaps it was already too late. in the judgment of many, his assent to the suppression of the problem of the freedom of the seas, however unavoidable as a tactical expedient, knelled the political world back to the unregenerate days of strategical frontiers, secret alliances, military preparations, financial burdens, and the balance of power. on that day, his grasp on the banner relaxing, it fell, to be raised, it may be, at some future time by the peoples whom he had aspired to lead. the contests which he waged after that first defeat had little prospect of success, and soon the pith and marrow of the issue completely disappeared. the utmost he could still hope for was a paper covenant--- which is a different thing from a genuine accord--to take home with him to washington. and this his colleagues did not grudge him. they were operating with a different cast of mind upon a wholly different set of ideas. their aims, which they pursued with no less energy and with greater perseverance than mr. wilson displayed, were national. some of them implicitly took the ground that germany, having plunged the world in war, would persist indefinitely in her nefarious machinations, and must, therefore, in the interests of general peace, be crippled militarily, financially, economically, and politically, for as long a time as possible, while her potential enemies must for the same reason be strengthened to the utmost at her expense, and that this condition of things must be upheld through the beneficent instrumentality of the league of nations. on these conflicting issues ceaseless contention went on from the start, yet for lack of a strong personality of sound, over-ruling judgment the contest dragged on without result. for months the demon of procrastination seemed to have possessed the souls of the principal delegates, and frustrated their professed intentions to get through the work expeditiously. even unforeseen incidents led to dangerous delay. every passing episode became a ground for postponing the vital issue, although each day lost increased the difficulties of achieving the principal object, which was the conclusion of peace. for example, the committee dealing with the question of reparations would reach a decision, say, that germany must pay a certain sum, which would entail a century of strenuous effort, accompanied with stringent thrift and self-denial; while the economic committee decided that her supply of raw material should be restricted within such narrow limits as to put such payment wholly out of her power. and this difference of view necessitated a postponement of the whole issue. mr. hughes, the premier of australia, commenting on this shilly-shallying, said with truth:[ ] "the minds of the people are grievously perturbed. the long delay, coupled with fears lest that the peace treaty, when it does come, should prove to be a peace unworthy, unsatisfactory, unenduring, has made the hearts of the people sick. we were told that the peace treaty would be ready in the coming week, but we look round and see half a world engaged in war, or preparation for war. bolshevism is spreading with the rapidity of a prairie fire. the allies have been forced to retreat from some of the most fertile parts of southern russia, and allied troops, mostly british, at murmansk and archangel are in grave danger of destruction. yet we were told that peace was at hand, and that the world was safe for liberty and democracy. it is not fine phrases about peace, liberty, and making the world safe for democracy that the world wants, but deeds. the peoples of the allied countries justifiably desire to be reassured by plain, comprehensible statements, instead of long-drawn-out negotiations and the thick veil of secrecy in which these were shrouded." it requires an effort to believe that procrastination was raised to the level of a theory by men whose experience of political affairs was regarded as a guarantee of the soundness of their judgment. yet it is an incontrovertible fact that dilatory tactics were seriously suggested as a policy at the conference. it was maintained that, far from running risks by postponing a settlement, the entente nations were, on the contrary, certain to find the ground better prepared the longer the day of reckoning was put off. germany, they contended, had recovered temporarily from the bolshevik fever, but the improvement was fleeting. the process of decomposition was becoming intenser day by day, although the symptoms were not always manifest. lack of industrial production, of foreign trade and sound finances, was gnawing at the vitals of the teuton republic. the army of unemployed and discontented was swelling. soon the sinister consequences of this stagnation would take the form of rebellions and revolts, followed by disintegration. and this conjunction would be the opportunity of the entente powers, who could then step in, present their bills, impose their restrictions, and knead the teuton dough into any shape they relished. then it would be feasible to prohibit the austrian-germans from ever entering the republic as a federated state. in a word, the allied governments need only command, and the teutons would hasten to obey. it is hardly credible that men of experience in foreign politics should build upon such insecure foundations as these. it is but fair to say the conference rejected this singular program in theory while unintentionally carrying it out. although everybody admitted that the liquidation of the world conflict followed by a return to normal conditions was the one thing that pressed for settlement, so intent were the plenipotentiaries on preventing wars among unborn generations that they continued to overlook the pressing needs of their contemporaries. it is at the beginning and end of an enterprise that the danger of failure is greatest, and it was the opening moves of the allies that proved baleful to their subsequent undertakings. germany, one would think, might have been deprived summarily of everything which was to be ultimately and justly taken from her, irrespective of its final destination. the first and most important operation being the severance of the provinces allotted to other peoples, their redistribution might safely have been left until afterward. and hardly less important was the despatch of an army to eastern europe. then germany, broken in spirit, with allied troops on both her fronts, between the two jaws of a vise, could not have said nay to the conditions. but this method presupposed a plan which unluckily did not exist. it assumed that the peace terms had been carefully considered in advance, whereas the allies prepared for war during hostilities, and for peace during the negotiations. and they went about this in a leisurely, lackadaisical way, whereas expedition was the key to success. as for a durable peace, involving general disarmament, it should have been outlined in a comprehensive program, which the delegates had not drawn up, and it would have become feasible only if the will to pursue it proceeded from principle, not from circumstances. in no case could it be accomplished without the knowledge and co-operation of the peoples themselves, nor within the time-limits fixed for the work of the conference. for the abolition of war and the creation of a new ordering, like human progress, is a long process. it admits of a variety of beginnings, but one can never be sure of the end, seeing that it presupposes a radical change in the temper of the peoples, one might almost say a remodeling of human nature. it can only be the effect of a variety of causes, mainly moral, operating over a long period of time. peace with germany was a matter for the governments concerned; the elimination of war could only be accomplished by the peoples. the one was in the main a political problem, the other social, economical, and ethical. mr. balfour asserted optimistically[ ] that the work of concluding peace with germany was a very simple matter. none the less it took the conference over five months to arrange it. so desperately slow was the progress of the supreme council that on the th day of the peace conference,[ ] two months after the germans had signed the conditions, not one additional treaty had been concluded, nay, none was even ready for signature. the italian plenipotentiary, signor tittoni, thereupon addressed his colleagues frankly on the subject and asked them whether they were not neglecting their primary duty, which was to conclude treaties with the various enemies who had ceased to fight in november of the previous year and were already waiting for over nine months to resume normal life, and whether the delegates were justified in seeking to discharge the functions of a supreme board for the government of all europe. he pointed out that nobody could hope to profit by the state of disorder and paralysis for which this procrastination was answerable, the economic effects making themselves felt sooner or later in every country. he added that the cost of the war had been calculated for every month, every week, every day, and that the total impressed every one profoundly; but that nobody had thought it worth his while to count up the atrocious cost of this incredibly slow peace and of the waste of wealth caused every week and month that it dragged on. italy, he lamented, felt this loss more keenly than her partners because her peace had not yet been concluded. he felt moved, therefore, he said, to tell them that the business of governing europe to which the conference had been attending all those months was not precisely the work for which it was convoked.[ ] this sharp and timely admonition was the preamble of a motion. the conference was just then about to separate for a "well-earned holiday," during which its members might renew their spent energies and return in october to resume their labors, the peoples in the meanwhile bearing the cost in blood and substance. the italian delegate objected to any such break and adjured them to remain at their posts. why, he asked, should ill-starred italy, which had already sustained so many and such painful losses, be condemned to sacrifice further enormous sums in order that the delegates who had been frittering away their time tackling irrelevant issues, and endeavoring to rule all europe, might have a rest? why should they interrupt the sessions before making peace with austria, with hungary, with bulgaria, with turkey, and enabling italy to return to normal life? why should time and opportunity be given to the turks and kurds for the massacre of armenian men, women, and children? this candid reminder is said to have had a sobering effect on the versatile delegates yearning for a holiday. the situation that evoked it will arouse the passing wonder of level-headed men. it is worth recording that such was the atmosphere of suspicion among the delegates that the motives for this holiday were believed by some to be less the need of repose than an unavowable desire to give time to the hapsburgs to recover the crown of st. stephen as the first step toward seizing that of austria.[ ] the austrians desired exemption from the obligation to make reparations and pay crushing taxes, and one of the delegates, with a leaning for that country, was not averse to the idea. as the states that arose on the ruins of the hapsburg monarchy were not considered enemies by the conference, it was suggested that austria herself should enjoy the same distinction. but the italian plenipotentiaries objected and signor tittoni asked, "will it perhaps be asserted that there was no enemy against whom we italians fought for three years and a half, losing half a million slain and incurring a debt of eighty thousand millions?" a french journal, touching on this austrian problem, wrote:[ ] "austria-hungary has been killed and now france is striving to raise it to life again. but italy is furiously opposed to everything that might lead to an understanding among the new states formed out of the old possessions of the hapsburgs. that, in fact, is why our transalpine allies were so favorable to the union of austria with germany. france on her side, whose one overruling thought is to reduce her vanquished enemy to the most complete impotence, france who is afraid of being afraid, will not tolerate an austria joined to the german federation." here the principle of self-determination went for nothing. before the conference had sat for a month it was angrily assailed by the peoples who had hoped so much from its love of justice--egyptians, koreans, irishmen from ireland and from america, albanians, frenchmen from mauritius and syria, moslems from aderbeidjan, persians, tartars, kirghizes, and a host of others, who have been aptly likened to the halt and maimed among the nations waiting round the diplomatic pool of siloam for the miracle of the moving of the waters that never came.[ ] these peoples had heard that a great and potent world-reformer had arisen whose mission it was to redress secular grievances and confer liberty upon oppressed nations, tribes, and tongues, and they sent their envoys to plead before him. and these wandered about the streets of paris seeking the intercession of delegates, ministers, and journalists who might obtain for them admission to the presence of the new messiah or his apostles. but all doors were closed to them. one of the petitioners whose language was vernacular english, as he was about to shake the dust of paris from his boots, quoting sydney smith, remarked: "they, too, are pharisees. they would do the good samaritan, but without the oil and twopence. how has it come to pass that the jews without an official delegate commanded the support--the militant support--of the supreme council, which did not hesitate to tyrannize eastern europe for their sake?" involuntarily the student of politics called to mind the report written to baron hager[ ] by one of his secret agents during the congress of vienna: "public opinion continues to be unfavorable to the congress. on all sides one hears it said that there is no harmony, that they are no longer solicitous about the re-establishment of order and justice, but are bent only on forcing one another's hands, each one grabbing as much as he can.... it is said that the congress will end because it must, but that it will leave things more entangled than it found them.... the peoples, who in consequence of the success, the sincerity, and the noble-mindedness of this superb coalition had conceived such esteem for their leaders and such attachment to them, and now perceive how they have forgotten what they solemnly promised--justice, order, peace founded on the equilibrium and legitimacy of their possessions--will end by losing their affection and withdrawing their confidence in their principles and their promises." those words, written a hundred and five years ago, might have been penned any day since the month of february, . the leading motive of the policy pursued by the supreme council and embodied in the treaty was aptly described at the time as the systematic protection of france against germany. hence the creation of the powerful barrier states, poland, czechoslovakia, jugoslavia, greater rumania, and greater greece. french nationalists pleaded for further precautions more comprehensive still. their contention was that france's economic, strategic, financial, and territorial welfare being the cornerstone of the future european edifice, every measure proposed at the conference, whether national or general, should be considered and shaped in accordance with that, and consequently that no possibility should be accorded to germany of rising again to a commanding position because, if she once recovered her ascendancy in any domain whatsoever, europe would inevitably be thrust anew into the horrors of war. territorially, therefore, the dismemberment of germany was obligatory; the annexation of the saar valley, together with its six hundred thousand teuton inhabitants, was necessary to france, and either the annexation of the left bank of the rhine or its transformation into a detached state to be occupied and administered by the french until germany pays the last farthing of the indemnity. further, austria must be deprived of the right of determining her own mode of existence and constrained to abandon the idea of becoming one of the federated states of the german republic, and, if possible, northern germany should be kept entirely separate from southern. the allies should divide the teutons in order to sway them. all germany's other frontiers should be delimitated in a like spirit. and at the same time the work of knitting together the peoples and nations of europe and forming them into a friendly sodality was to go forward without interruption. "how to promote our interests in the rhineland," wrote m. maurice barrès,[ ] "is a life-and-death question for us. we are going to carry to the rhine our military and, i hope, our economic frontier. the rest will follow in its own good time. the future will not fail to secure for us the acquiescence of the population of the rhineland, who will live freely under the protection of our arms, their faces turned toward paris." financially it was proposed that the teutons should be forced to indemnify france, belgium, and the other countries for all the damage they had inflicted upon them; to pay the entire cost of the war, as well as the pensions to widows, orphans, and the mutilated. and the military occupation of their country should be maintained until this huge debt is wholly wiped out. a nationalist organ,[ ] in a leading article, stated with brevity and clearness the prevailing view of germany's obligations. here is a characteristic passage: "she is rich, has reserves derived from many years of former prosperity; she can work to produce and repair all the evil she has done, rebuild all the ruins she has accumulated, and restore all the fortunes she has destroyed, however irksome the burden." after analyzing doctor helfferich's report published six years ago, the article concluded, "germany must pay; she disposes of the means because she is rich; if she refuses we must compel her without hesitation and without ruth." as france, whose cities and towns and very soil were ruined, could not be asked to restore these places at her own expense and tax herself drastically like her allies, the americans and british, the prior and privileged right to receive payment on her share of the indemnity should manifestly appertain to her. her allies and associates should, it was argued, accordingly waive their money claims until hers were satisfied in full. moreover, as france's future expenditure on her army of occupation, on the administration of her colonies and of the annexed territories, must necessarily absorb huge sums for years to come, which her citizens feel they ought not to be asked to contribute, and as her internal debt was already overwhelming, it is only meet and just that her wealthier partners should pool their war debts with hers and share their financial resources with her and all their other allies. this, it was argued, was an obvious corollary of the war alliance. economically, too, the germans, while permitted to resume their industrial occupations on a sufficiently large scale to enable them to earn the wherewithal to live and discharge their financial obligations, should be denied free scope to outstrip france, whose material prosperity is admittedly essential to the maintenance of general peace and the permanence of the new ordering. in this condition, it is further contended, our chivalrous ally was entitled to special consideration because of her low birth-rate, which is one of the mainsprings of her difficulties. this may permanently keep her population from rising above the level of forty million, whereas germany, by the middle of the century, will have reached the formidable total of eighty million, so that competition between them would not be on a footing of equality. hence the chances should be evenly balanced by the action of the conference, to be continued by the league. discriminating treatment was therefore a necessity. and it should be so introduced that france should be free to maintain a protective tariff, of which she had sore need for her foreign trade, without causing umbrage to her allies. for they could not gainsay that her position deserved special treatment. some of the anglo-saxon delegates took other ground, feeling unable to countenance the postulate underlying those demands, namely, that the teuton race was to be forever anathema. they looked far enough ahead to make due allowance for a future when conditions in europe will be very different from what they are to-day. the german race, they felt, being numerous and virile, will not die out and cannot be suppressed. and as it is also enterprising and resourceful it would be a mistake to render it permanently hostile by the allies overstepping the bounds of justice, because in this case neither national nor general interests would be furthered. you may hinder germany, they argued, from acquiring the hegemony of the world, but not from becoming the principal factor in european evolution. if thirty years hence the german population totals eighty million or more, will not their attitude and their sentiment toward their neighbors constitute an all-important element of european tranquillity and will not the trend of these be to a large extent the outcome of the allies' policy of to-day? the present, therefore, is the time for the delegates to deprive that sentiment of its venomous, anti-allied sting, not by renouncing any of their countries' rights, but by respecting those of others. that was the reasoning of those who believed that national striving should be subordinated to the general good, and that the present time and its aspirations should be considered in strict relation to the future of the whole community of nations. they further contended that while germany deserved to suffer condignly for the heinous crimes of unchaining the war and waging it ruthlessly, as many of her own people confessed, she should not be wholly crippled or enthralled in the hope that she would be rendered thereby impotent forever. such hope was vain. with her waxing strength her desire of vengeance would grow, and together with it the means of wreaking it. she might yet knead russia into such a shape as would make that slav people a serviceable instrument of revenge, and her endeavors might conceivably extend farther than russia. the one-sided resettlement of europe charged with explosives of such incalculable force would frustrate the most elaborate attempts to create not only a real league of nations, but even such a rough approximation toward one as might in time and under favorable circumstances develop into a trustworthy war preventive. they concluded that a league of nations would be worse than useless if transformed into a weapon to be wielded by one group of nations against another, or as an artificial makeshift for dispensing peoples from the observance of natural laws. at the same time all the governments of the allies were sincere and unanimous in their desire to do everything possible to show their appreciation of france's heroism, to recognize the vastness of her sacrifices, and to pay their debt of gratitude for her services to humanity. all were actuated by a resolve to contribute in the measure of the possible to compensate her for such losses as were still reparable and to safeguard her against the recurrence of the ordeal from which she had escaped terribly scathed. the only limits they admitted to this work of reparation were furnished by the aim itself and by the means of attaining it. thus messrs. wilson and lloyd george held that to incorporate in renovated france millions or even hundreds of thousands of germans would be to introduce into the political organism the germs of fell disease, and on this ground they firmly refused to sanction the rhine frontier, which the french were thus obliged to relinquish. the french delegates themselves admitted that if granted it could not be held without a powerful body of international troops ever at the beck and call of the republic, vigilantly keeping watch and ward on the banks of the rhine and with no reasonable prospect of a term to this servitude. for the real ground of this dependence upon foreign forces is the disproportion between the populations of germany and france and between the resources of the two nations. the ratio of the former is at present about six to four and it is growing perceptibly toward seven to four. the organizing capacity in commerce and industry is said to be even greater. if, therefore, france cannot stand alone to-day, still less could she stand alone in ten or fifteen years, and the necessity of protecting her against aggression, assuming that the german people does not become reconciled to its status of forced inferiority, would be more urgent and less practicable with the lapse of time. for, as we saw, it is largely a question of the birth-rate. and as neither the british nor the american people, deeply though they are attached to their gallant comrades in arms, would consent to this arrangement, which to them would be a burden and to the germans a standing provocation, their representatives were forced to the conclusion that it would be the height of folly to do aught that would give the teutons a convenient handle for a war of revenge. let there be no annexation of territory, they said, no incorporation of unwilling german citizens. the americans further argued that an indefinite occupation of german territory by a large body of international troops would be a direct encouragement to militarism. the indemnities for which the french yearned, and on which their responsible financiers counted, were large. the figures employed were astronomical. hundreds of milliards of francs were operated with by eminent publicists in an offhand manner that astonished the survivor of the expiring budgetary epoch and rejoiced the hearts of the western taxpayers. for it was not only journalists who wrote as though a stream of wealth were to be turned into these countries to fertilize industry and commerce there and enable them to keep well ahead of their pushing competitors. responsible ministers likewise hall-marked these forecasts with their approval. before the fortune of war had decided for the allies, the finances of france had sorely embarrassed the minister, m. klotz, of whom his chief, m. clemenceau, is reported to have said: "he is the only israelite i have ever known who is out of his element when dealing with money matters." before the armistice, m. klotz, when talking of the complex problem and sketching the outlook, exclaimed: "if we win the war, i undertake to make both ends meet, far though they now seem apart. for i will make the germans pay the entire cost of the war." after the armistice he repeated his promise and undertook not to levy fresh taxation. thus, despite fitful gleams of idealism, the atmosphere of the paris conclave grew heavy with interests, passions, and ambitions. only people in blinkers could miss the fact that the elastic formulas launched and interpreted by president wilson were being stretched to the snapping-point so as to cover two mutually incompatible policies. the chasm between his original prospects and those of his foreign associates they both conscientiously endeavored to ignore, and after a time they hit upon a _tertium quid_ between territorial equilibrium and a sterilized league tempered by the monroe doctrine and a military compact. this composite resultant carried with it the concentrated evils of one of these systems and was deprived of its redeeming features by the other. at a conjuncture in the world's affairs which postulated internationalism of the loftiest kind, the delegates increased and multiplied nations and states which they deprived of sovereignty and yoked to the first-class races. national ambitions took precedence of larger interests; racial hatred was raised to its highest power. in a word, the world's state system was so oddly pieced together that only economic exhaustion followed by a speedy return to militarism could insure for it a moderate duration. territorial self-sufficiency, military strength, and advantageous alliances were accordingly looked to as the mainstays of the new ordering, even by those who paid lip tribute to the wilsonian ideal. the ideal itself underwent a disfiguring change in the process of incarnation. the italians asked how the monroe doctrine could be reconciled with the charter of the league of nations, seeing that the league would be authorized to intervene in the domestic affairs of other member-states, and if necessary to despatch troops to keep germany, italy, and poland in order; whereas if the united states were guilty of tyrannical aggression against brazil, the argentine republic, or mexico, the league, paralyzed by that doctrine, must look on inactive. the germans, alleging capital defects in the wilsonian covenant, which was adjusted primarily to the allies' designs, went to paris prepared with a substitute which, it must in fairness be admitted, was considerably superior to that of their adversaries, and incidentally fraught with greater promise to themselves. it is superfluous to add that the continental view prevailed, but mr. wilson imagined that, while abandoning his principles in favor of britain, france, and bulgaria, he could readjust the balance by applying them with rigor to italy and exaggerating them when dealing with greece. he afterward communicated his reasons for this belief in a message published in washington.[ ] the alliance--he was understood to have been opposed to all partial alliances on principle--which guarantees military succor to france, he had signed, he said, in gratitude to that country, for he seriously doubted whether the american republic could have won its freedom against britain's opposition without the gallant and friendly aid of france. "we recently had the privilege of assisting in driving enemies, who also were enemies of the world, from her soil, but that does not pay our debt to her. nothing can pay such a debt." his critics retorted that that is a sentimental reason which might with equal force have been urged by france and britain in justification of their promises to italy and rumania, yet was rejected as irrelevant by mr. wilson in the name of a higher principle. the president of the united states, it was further urged, is a historian, and history tells him that the help given to his country against england neither came from the french people nor was actuated by sympathy for the american cause. it was the vindictive act of one of those kings whose functions mr. wilson is endeavoring to abolish. the monarch who helped the americans was merely utilizing a favorable opportunity for depriving with a minimum of effort his adversary of lucrative possessions. moreover, the debt which nothing can pay was already due when in the years - france was in imminent danger of being crushed by a ruthless enemy. but at that time mr. wilson owed his re-election largely to his refusal to extricate her from that peril. instead of calling to mind the debt that can never be repaid he merely announced that he could not understand what the belligerents were fighting for and that in any case france's grateful debtor was too proud to fight. the motive which finally brought the united states into the world war may be the noblest that ever yet actuated any state, but no student of history will allow that mr. wilson has correctly described it. the fact is that the french delegates and their supporters were consistent and, except in their demand for the rhine frontier, unbending. they drew up a program and saw that it was substantially carried out. they declared themselves quite ready to accept mr. wilson's project, but only on condition that their own was also realized, heedless of the incompatibility of the two. and mr. wilson felt constrained to make their position his own, otherwise he could not have obtained the covenant he yearned for. and yet he must have known that acquiescence in the demands put forward by m. clemenceau would lower the practical value of his covenant to that of a sheet of paper. a blunt american journal, commenting on the handiwork of the conference, gave utterance to views which while making no pretense to courtly phraseology are symptomatic of the way in which the average man thought and spoke of the covenant which emanated from the supreme council. "we are convinced," it said, "that the elder statesmen of europe, typified by clemenceau, consider it a hoax. clemenceau never before was so extremely bored by anything in his life as he was by the necessity of making a pious pretense in the covenant when what he wanted was the assurance of the triple alliance. he got that assurance, which, along with the french watch on the rhine, the french in the saar valley and in africa, with german money going into french coffers, makes him tolerably indulgent of the altruistic rhetoricians. "the english, the intelligent english, we know have their tongues in their cheeks. the italians are petulant imperialists, and japan doesn't care what happens to the league so long as japan says what shall happen in asia."[ ] peace was at last signed, not on the basis of the fourteen points nor yet entirely on the lines of territorial equilibrium, but on those of a compromise which, missing the advantages of each, combined many of the evils of both and of others which were generated by their conjunction, and laid the foundations of the new state fabric on quick-sands. that was at bottom the view to which italy, rumania, and greece gave utterance when complaining that their claims were being dealt with on the principle of self-denial, whereas those of france had been settled on the traditional basis of territorial guaranties and military alliances. further, the treaty failed to lay an ax to the roots of war, did, in fact, increase their number while purporting to destroy them. far from that: germs of future conflicts not only between the late belligerents, but also between the recent allies, were plentifully scattered and may sprout up in the fullness of time. the paris press expressed its satisfaction with france's share of the fruits of victory. for the provisions of the treaty went as far as any merely political arrangement could go to check the natural inequality, numerical, economical, industrial, and financial, between the teuton and french peoples. to many this problem seemed wholly insoluble, because its solution involved a suspension or a corrective of a law of nature. take the birth-rate in france, for example. before the war it had long been declining at a rate which alarmed thoughtful french patriots. and, according to official statistics, it is falling off still more rapidly to-day, whereas the increase in other countries is greater than ever before.[ ] thus, whereas in the year there were , births in the seine department, there were only , in . wet nurses, too, are disappearing. of these, in the year , in the same territory there were , , but in only . the mortality among foundlings rose from per cent. before the war to per cent. in the year .[ ] m. bertillon calculates that for france to increase merely at the same rate as other nations--not to recover the place among them which she has already lost, but only to keep her present one--she needs five hundred thousand more births than are registered at present. a statistical table which he drew up of the birth-rate of four european nations during five decades, beginning with the year , is unpleasant reading[ ] for the friends of that heroic and artistic people. france, containing in round numbers , , inhabitants, ought to increase annually by , . before the war the total number of births in germany was computed at one million nine hundred and fifty thousand, but hardly more than one million of the children born were viable.[ ] the general conclusion to be drawn from these figures and from the circumstances that the falling off in the french population still goes on unchecked, is disquieting for those who desire to see the french race continue to play the leading part in continental europe. one of the shrewdest observers in contemporary germany--himself a distinguished semite--commented on this decisive fact as follows:[ ] "within ten years germany will contain seventy million inhabitants, and in the torrent of her fecundity will drown anemic and exhausted france.... the french nation is dying of exhaustion. there is no reason, however, for the world to get alarmed ... for before the french will have vanished from the earth, other races, virile and healthy, will have come to their country to take their place." that is what is actually happening, and it is impressively borne in upon the visitor to various french cities by the vast number of exotic names over houses of business and in other ways. with this formidable obstacle, then, the three members of the supreme council strenuously coped by exercising to the fullest extent the power conferred on the victors over the vanquished. and the result of their combinations challenged and received the unstinted approval of all those numerous enemies of teutondom who believe the germans to be incapable of contributing materially to human progress, unless they are kept in leading-strings by one of the superior races. the treaty represents the potential realization of france's dream, achieved semi-miraculously by the very statesmen on whom the teutons were relying to dispel it. defeated, disarmed, incapable of military resistance, and devoid of friends, germany thought she could discern her sheet-anchor of salvation in the wilsonian gospel, and it was the preacher of this gospel himself who implicitly characterized her salvation as more difficult than the passage of a camel through the eye of a needle. the crimes perpetrated by the teutons were unquestionably heinous beyond words, and no punishment permitted by the human conscience is too drastic to atone for them. how long this punishment should endure, whether it should be inflicted on the entire people as well as on their leaders, and what form should be given to it, were among the questions confronting the secret council, and they implicitly answered them in the way we have seen. people who consider the answer adequate and justified give as their reason that it presupposes and attains a single object--the efficacious protection of france as the sentinel of civilization against an incorrigible arch-enemy. and in this they may be right. but if you enlarge the problem till it covers the moral fellowship of nations, and if you postulate that as a safeguard of future peace and neighborliness in the world, then the outcome of the treaty takes on a different coloring. between france and germany it creates a sea of bitterness which no rapturous exultation over the new ethical ordering can sweeten. the latter nation is assumed to be smitten with a fell moral disease, to which, however, the physicians of the conference have applied no moral remedy, but only measures of coercion, mostly powerful irritants. the reformed state of europe is consequently a state of latent war between two groups of nations, of which one is temporarily prostrate and both are naïvely exhorted to join hands and play a helpful part in an idyllic society of nations. this expectation is the delight of cynics and the despair of those serious reformers who are not interested politicians. heretofore the most inveterate optimists in politics were the revolutionaries. but they have since been outdone by the paris world-reformers, who tempt providence by calling on it to accomplish by a miracle an object which they have striven hard and successfully to render impossible by the ordinary operation of cause and effect. thus the covenant mars the treaty, and the treaty the covenant. in weimar and berlin the treaty was termed the death-sentence of germany, not only as an empire, but as an independent political community. henceforward her economic efforts, beyond a certain limit, will be struck with barrenness, her industry will be hindered from outstripping or overtaking that of the neighboring countries, and her population will be indirectly kept within definite bounds. for, instead of exporting manufactures, she will be obliged to export human beings, whose intellect and skill will be utilized by such rivals of her own race as vouchsafe to admit them. already before the conference was over they began to emigrate eastward. and those who remain at home will not be masters in their own house, for the doors will be open to various foreign commissions. the assumption upon which the treaty-framers proceeded is that the abominations committed by the german military and civil authorities were constructively the work of the entire nation, for whose reformation within a measurable period hope is vain. this view predominated among the ruling classes of the entente peoples with few exceptions. if it be correct, it seems superfluous to constrain the enemy to enter the league of law-abiding nations, which is to be cemented only by voluntary adherence and by genuine attachment to liberty, right, and justice. hence the covenant, by being inserted in the peace treaty, necessarily lost its value as an eirenicon, and became subsequent to that instrument, and seems likely to be used as an anti-german safeguard. but even then its efficacy is doubtful, and manifestly so; otherwise the reformers, who at the start set out to abolish alliances as recognized causes of war, would not have ended by setting up a new triple alliance, which involves military, naval, and aerial establishments, and the corresponding financial burdens inseparable from these. an alliance of this character, whatever one may think of its economic and financial aspects, runs counter to the spirit of the covenant, but was an obvious corollary of the allies' attitude as mirrored in the treaty. and the spirit of the treaty destroys the letter of the covenant. for the world is there implicitly divided into two camps--the friends and the enemies of liberty, right, and justice; and the main functions of the league as narrowed by the treaty will be to hinder or defeat the machinations of the enemies. moreover, the deliberate concessions made by the conference to such agencies of the old ordering as the grouping of two or three powers into defensive alliances bids fair to be extended in time. for the stress of circumstance is stronger than the will of man. at this rate the last state may be worse than the first. the world situation, thus formally modified, remained essentially unchanged, and will so endure until other forces are released. the league of nations forfeited its ideal character under the pressure of national interests, and became a coalition of victors against the vanquished. by the insertion of the covenant in the treaty the former became a means for the execution of the latter. for even mr. wilson, faced with realities and called to practical counsel, affectionately dismissed the high-souled speculative projects in which he delighted during his hours of contemplation. although the german delegates signed the treaty, no one can honestly say that he expects them to observe it longer than constraint presses, however solemn the obligations imposed. in the press organ of the most numerous and powerful political party in germany one might read in an article on the germans in bohemia annexed by czechoslovakia: "assuredly their destiny will not be determined for all time by the versailles peace of violence. it behooves the german nation to cherish its affection for its oppressed brethren, even though it be powerless to succor them immediately. what then can it do? italy has given it a marvelous lesson in the policy of irredentism, which she pursued in respect of the trentino and trieste."[ ] with the treaty as it stands, nationalist france of this generation has reason to be satisfied. one of its framers, himself a shrewd business man and politician, publicly set forth the grounds for this satisfaction.[ ] alsace and lorraine reunited to the metropolis, he explained, will assist france materially with an industrious population and enormous resources in the shape of mineral wealth and a fruitful soil. germany's former colonies, kamerun and togoland, are become french, and will doubtless offer a vast and attractive field for the expansion and prosperity of the french population. morocco, freed from german enterprise, can henceforth be developed by the french population alone and without let or hindrance, for the benefit of the natives and in the true sense of mr. wilson's humanitarian ordinances. the potash deposits, to which german agriculture largely owed its prosperity, will henceforward be utilized in the service of french agriculture. "in iron ore the wealth of france is doubled, and her productive capacity as regards pig-iron and steel immensely increased. her production of textiles is greater than before the war by about a third."[ ] in a word, a vast area of the planet inhabited by various peoples will look to the french people for everything that makes their collective life worth living. the sole arrangement which for a time caused heart-burnings in france was that respecting the sums of money which germany should have been made to pay to her victorious enemies. for the opinions on that subject held by the average man, and connived at or approved by the authorities, were wholly fantastic, just as were some of the expectations of other allied states. the french people differ from their neighbors in many respects--and in a marked way in money matters. they will sacrifice their lives rather than their substance. they will leave a national debt for their children and their children's children, instead of making a resolute effort to wipe it out or lessen it by amortization. in this respect the british, the americans, and also the germans differ from them. these peoples tax themselves freely, create sinking funds, and make heavy sacrifices to pay off their money obligations. this habit is ingrained. the contrary system is become second nature to the french, and one cannot change a nation's habits overnight. the education of the people might, however, have been undertaken during the war with considerable chances of satisfactory results. the government might have preached the necessity of relinquishing a percentage of the war gains to the state. it was done in britain and germany. the amount of money earned by individuals during the hostilities was enormous. a considerable percentage of it should have been requisitioned by the state, in view of the peace requirements and of the huge indebtedness which victory or defeat must inevitably bring in its train. but no minister had the courage necessary to brave the multitude and risk his share of popularity or tolerance. and so things were allowed to slide. the people were assured that victory would recompense their efforts, not only by positive territorial gains, but by relieving them of their new financial obligations. that was a sinister mistake. the truth is that the french nation, if defeated, would have paid any sum demanded. that was almost an axiom. it would and could have expected no ruth. but, victorious, it looked to the enemy for the means of refunding the cost of the war. the finance minister--m. klotz--often declared to private individuals that if the allies were victorious he would have all the new national debt wiped out by the enemy, and he assured the nation that milliards enough would be extracted from germany to balance the credit and debit accounts of the republic. and the people naturally believed its professional expert. thus it became a dogma that the teuton state was to provide all the cost of the war. in that illusion the nation lived and worked and spent money freely, nay, wasted it woefully. and yet m. klotz should have known better. for he was supplied with definite data to go upon. in october, , the french government, in doubt about the full significance of that one of mr. wilson's fourteen points which dealt with reparations, asked officially for explanations, and received from mr. lansing the answer by telegraph that it involved the making good by the enemy of all losses inflicted directly and lawlessly upon civilians, but none other. that surely was a plain answer and a just principle. but, in accordance with the practice of secrecy in vogue among allied european governments, the nation was not informed of these restrictive conditions, but was allowed to hug dangerous delusions. but the ministers knew them, and m. klotz was a minister. not only, however, did he not reveal what he knew, but he behaved as though his information was of a directly contrary tenor, and he also stated that germany must also refund the war indemnities of , capitalized down to november, , and he set down the sum at fifty milliards of francs. this procedure was not what reasonably might have been expected from the leader of a heroic nation stout-hearted enough to face unpleasant facts. some of the leading spirits in the country, despite the intensity of their feelings toward germany, disapproved this kind of bookkeeping, but m. klotz did not relinquish his method of keeping accounts. he drew up a bill against the teutons for one thousand and eighty-six milliards of francs. the germans at the conference maintained that if the wealth of their nation were realized and liquid, it would amount at most to four hundred milliards, but that to realize it would involve the stripping of the population of everything--of its forests, its mines, its railways, its factories, its cattle, its houses, its furniture, and its ready money. they further pleaded that the territorial clauses of the treaty deprived them of important resources, which would reduce their solvency to a greater degree than the allies realized. these clauses dispossessed the nation of per cent. of the total crops of cereals and potatoes. a further falling off in the quantities of food produced would result from the restrictions on the importation of raw materials for the manufacture of fertilizers. of her coal, germany was forfeiting about one-third; three-fourths of her iron ore was also being taken away from her; her total zinc production would be cut down by over three-fifths. add to this the enormous shortage of tonnage, machinery, and man-power, the total loss of her colonies, the shrinkage of available raw stuffs, and the depreciation of the mark. at the conference the americans maintained their ground. invoking the principle laid down by mr. wilson and clearly formulated by mr. lansing, they insisted that reparations should be claimed only for damage done to civilians directly and lawlessly. after a good deal of fencing, rendered necessary by the pledges given by european statesmen to their electors, it was decided that the criteria provided by that principle should be applied. but even with that limitation the sums claimed were huge. it was alleged by the germans that some of the demands were for amounts that exceeded the total national wealth of the country filing the claim. and as no formula could be devised that would satisfy all the claimants, it was resolved in principle that, although germany should be obliged to make good only certain classes of losses, the conference would set no limits to the sums for which she would thus be liable. at this juncture m. loucheur suggested that a minimum sum should be demanded of the enemy, leaving the details to be settled by a commission. and this was the solution which was finally adopted.[ ] it was received with protests and lamentations, which, however, soon made place for self-congratulations, official and private. the french minister of finances, for example, drew a bright picture in the chamber of the financial side of the treaty, so far as it affected his country: "within two years," he announced, "independently of the railway rolling stock, of agricultural materials and restitutions, we receive a part, still to be fixed, of the payment of twenty milliards of marks in gold; another share, also to be determined, of an emission of bonds amounting to forty milliard gold marks, bearing interest at the rate of per cent.; a third part, to be fixed, of german shipping and dyes; seven million tons of coal annually for a period of ten years, followed by diminishing quantities during the following years; the repayment of the expenses of occupation; the right of taking over a part of germany's interests in russia, in particular that of obtaining the payment of pre-war debts at the pre-war rate of exchange, likewise the maintenance of such contracts as we may desire to maintain in force and the return of alsace-lorraine free from all incumbrances. nor is that all. in morocco we have the right to liquidate german property, to transfer the shares that represent germany's interests in the bank of morocco, and finally the allotment under a french mandate of a portion of the german colonies free from incumbrances of any kind.... we shall receive four hundred and sixty-three milliard francs, payable in thirty-six years, without counting the restitutions which will have been effected. nor should it be forgotten that already we have received eight milliards' worth of securities stolen from french bearers. so do not consider the treaty as a misfortune for france."[ ] soon after the outburst of joy with which the ingathering of the fruits of france's victory was celebrated, clouds unexpectedly drifted athwart the cerulean blue of the political horizon, and dark shadows were flung across the allied countries. the second-and third-class nations fell out with the first-class powers. italy, for example, whose population is almost equal to that of her french sister, demanded compensation for the vast additions that were being made to france's extensive possessions. the grounds alleged were many. compensation had been promised by the secret treaty. the need for it was reinforced by the rejection of italy's claims in the adriatic. the italian people required, desired, and deserved a fair and fitting field for legitimate expansion. they are as numerous as the french, and have a large annual surplus population, which has to hew wood and draw water for foreign peoples. they are enterprising, industrious, thrifty, and hard workers. their country lacks some of the necessaries of material prosperity, such as coal, iron, and cotton. why should it not receive a territory rich in some of these products? why should a large contingent of italy's population have to go to the colonies of spain, france, and britain or to south american republics for a livelihood? the italian press asked whether the supreme council was bent on fulfilling the gospel dictum, "whosoever hath, to him shall be given...." one of the first demands made by italy was for the port and town of djibouti, which is under french sway. it was rejected, curtly and emphatically. other requests elicited plausible explanations why they could not be complied with. in a word, italy was treated as a poor and importunate relation, and was asked to console herself with the reflection that she was working in the vineyard of idealism. in vain eminent publicists in rome, turin, and milan pleaded their country's cause. adopting the principle which mr. wilson had applied to france and britain, they affirmed that even before the war france, with a larger population and fewer possessions, had shown that she was incapable of discharging the functions which she had voluntarily taken upon herself. tunis, they alleged, owed its growth and thriving condition to italian emigrants. with all the fresh additions to her territories, the population of the republic would be utterly inadequate to the task. to the supreme council this line of reasoning was distinctly unpalatable. nor did the italians further their cause when, by way of giving emphatic point to their reasoning, their press quoted that eminent frenchman, m. d'estournelles de constant, who wrote at that very moment: "france has too many colonies already--far more in asia, in africa, in america, in oceania than she can fructify. in this way she is immobilizing territories, continents, peoples, which nominally she takes over. and it is childish and imprudent to take barren possession of them, when other states allege their power to utilize them in the general interest. by acting in this manner, france, do what she may, is placing herself in opposition to the world's interests, and to those of the league of nations. in the long run it is a serious business. spain, portugal, and holland know this to their cost. do what she would, france was not able before the war to utilize all her immense colonial domain ... for lack of population. she will be still less able after the war...."[ ] the discussion grew dangerously animated. epigrams were coined and sent floating in the heavily charged air. a tactless comparison was made between the french nation and a _bon vivant_ of sixty-five who flatters himself that he can enjoy life's pleasures on the same scale as when he was only thirty. little arrows thus barbed with biting acid often make more enduring mischief than sledge-hammer blows. soon the estrangement between the two sister nations unhappily became wider and led to marked divergences in their respective policies, which seem fraught with grave consequences in the future. the italy of to-day is not the italy of may, . she now knows exactly where she stands. when she unsheathed her sword to fight against the allies of the state that declared a treaty to be but a scrap of paper, she was heartened by a solemn promise given in writing by her comrades in arms. but when she had accomplished her part of the contract, that document turned out to be little more than another scrap of paper. thus it was one of the piquant ironies of fate, italian publicists said, that the people who had mostly clamored against that doctrine were indirectly helping it to triumph. mr. wilson, unwittingly sapping public faith in written treaties, was held up as one of the many pictures in which the conference abounded of the delegates refuting their words by acts. the unbiased historian will readily admit that the secret treaties were profoundly immoral from the wilsonian angle of vision, but that the only way of canceling them was by a general principle rigidly upheld and impartially applied. and this the supreme council would not entertain. with her british ally, too, france had an unpleasant falling out about eastern affairs, and in especial about syria and persia. there was also a demand for the retrocession by britain of the island of mauritius, but it was not made officially, nor is it a subject for two such nations to quarrel over. the first rift in the lute was caused by the deposition of emir faisal respecting the desires of the arab population. this picturesque chief, the french press complained, had been too readily admitted to the conference and too respectfully listened to there, whereas the persian delegation tramped for months over the paris streets without once obtaining a hearing. the hedjaz, which had been independent from time immemorial, was formally recognized as a separate kingdom during the war, and the grand sheriff of mecca was suddenly raised to the throne in the european sense by france and britain. since then he was formally recognized by the five powers. his representatives in paris demanded the annexation of all the countries of arabic speech which were under turkish domination. these included not only mesopotamia, but also syria, on which france had long looked with loving eyes and respecting which there existed an accord between her and britain. the project community would represent a pan-arab federation of about eleven million souls, over which france would have no guardianship. and yet the written accord had never been annulled. palestine was excluded from this pan-arabian federation, and syria was to be consulted, and instead of being handed over to france, as m. clemenceau demanded, was to be allowed to declare its own wishes without any injunctions from the conference. mesopotamia would be autonomous under the league of nations, but a single mandatory was asked for by the king of the hedjaz for the entire eleven million inhabitants. the comments of the french press on britain's attitude, despite their studied reserve and conventional phraseology, bordered on recrimination and hinted at a possible cooling of friendship between the two nations, and in the course of the controversy the evil-omened word "fashoda" was pronounced. the french _temps's_ arguments were briefly these: the populations claimed occupy such a vast stretch of territory that the sovereignty of the hedjaz could hardly be more than nominal and symbolical. in fact, they cover an area of one-half of the ottoman empire. these different provinces would, in reality, be under the domination of the great power which was the real creator of this new kingdom, and the monarch of the hedjaz would be a mere stalking-horse of britain. this, it was urged, would not be independence, but a masked protectorate, and in the name of the higher principles must be prevented. syria must be handed over to france without consulting the population. the financial resources of the hedjaz are utterly inadequate for the administration of such a vast state as was being compacted. who, then, it was asked, would supply the indispensable funds? obviously britain, who had been providing the emir faisal with funds ever since his father donned the crown. if this political entity came into existence, it would generate continuous friction between france and britain, separate comrades in arms, delight a vigilant enemy, and violate a written compact which should be sacred. for these reasons it should be rejected and syria placed under the guardianship of france. the americans took the position that congruously with the high ethical principles which had guided the labors of the conference throughout, it was incumbent on its members, instead of bartering civilized peoples like chattels, to consult them as to their own aspirations. if it were true that the syrians were yearning to become the wards of france, there could be no reasonable objection on the part of the french delegates to agree to a plebiscite. but the french delegates declined to entertain the suggestion on the ground that syria's longing for french guidance was a notorious fact. after much discussion and vehement opposition on the part of the french delegates an inter-allied commission under mr. charles crane was sent to visit the countries in dispute and to report on the leanings of their populations. after having visited forty cities and towns and more than three hundred villages, and received over fifteen hundred delegations of natives, the commission reported that the majority of the people "prefer to maintain their independence," but do not object to live under the mandatory system for fifty years _provided the united states accepts_ the mandate. "syria desires to become a sovereign kingdom, and most of the population supports the emir faisal as king.[ ] the commission further ascertained that the syrians, "who are singularly enlightened as to the policies of the united states," invoked and relied upon a franco-british statement of policy[ ] which had been distributed broadcast throughout their country, "promising complete liberation from the turks and the establishment of free governments among the native population and recognition of these governments by france and britain."[ ] the result of the investigation by the inter-allied commission reminds one of the story of the two anglers who were discussing the merits of two different sauces for the trout which one of them had caught. as they were unable to agree they decided to refer the matter to the trout, who answered: "gentlemen, i do not wish to be eaten with any sauce. i desire to live and be free in my own element." "ah, now you are wandering from the question," exclaimed the two, who thereupon struck up a compromise on the subject of the sauce. the tone of this long-drawn-out controversy, especially in the press, was distinctly acrimonious. it became dangerously bitter when the french political world was apprised one day of the conclusion of a treaty between britain and persia as the outcome of secret negotiations between london and teheran. and excitement grew intenser when shortly afterward the authentic text of this agreement was disclosed. in france, italy, germany, russia, and the united states the press unanimously declared that persia's international status as determined by the new diplomatic instrument could best be described by the evil-sounding words "protectorate" and the violation of the mandatory system adopted by the conference. this startling development shed a strong light upon the new ordering of the world and its relation to the wilsonian gospel, complicated with secret negotiations, protectorates without mandates, and the one-sided abrogation of compacts. persia is one of the original members of the league of nations,[ ] and as such was entitled, the french argued, to a hearing at the conference. she had grievances that called for redress: her neutrality had been violated, many of her subjects had been put to death, and her titles to reparation were undeniable. president wilson, the comforter of small states and oppressed nationalities, having proclaimed that the weakest communities would command the same friendly treatment as the greatest, the persian delegates repaired to paris in the belief that this treatment would be accorded them. but there they were disillusioned. for them there was no admission. whether, if they had been heard and helped by the supreme council, they would have contrived to exist as an independent state is a question which cannot be discussed here. the point made by the french was that on its own showing the conference was morally bound to receive the persian delegation. the utmost it obtained was that the persian minister of foreign affairs, monalek, who was head of the delegation, had a private talk with president wilson, colonel house, and mr. lansing. these statesmen unhesitatingly promised to help persia to secure full sovereign rights, or at any rate to enable her delegates to unfold their country's case and file their protests before the conference. the delegates were comforted and felt sure of the success of their mission. they told the american plenipotentiaries that the united states would be persia's creditor for this help and that she would invite american financiers to put her money matters in order, american engineers to develop her mining industries, and the american oil firms to examine and exploit her petrol deposits.[ ] in a word, persia would be americanized. this naïve announcement of the rôle reserved for american benefactors in the land of the shah might have impressed certain commercial and financial interests in the united states, but was wholly alien to the only order of motives that could properly move the american plenipotentiaries to interpose in favor of their would-be wards. the promises made by messrs. wilson, house, and lansing came to nothing. for months the persian envoys lived in hope which was strengthened by the assurances of various members of the conference that the intervention of mr. wilson would infallibly prove successful. but events belied this forecast, whereupon the head of the persian delegation, after several months of hopes deferred, quitted france for constantinople, and his country's position among the nations was settled in detail by the new agreement. that position does undoubtedly resemble very closely egypt's status before the outbreak of the world war. and egypt's status could hardly be termed independence. henceforward great britain has a strong hold on the persian customs, the control of the waterways and carriage routes, the rights of railway construction, the oil-fields--these were ours before--the right to organize the army and direct the foreign policy of the kingdom. and it may fairly be argued that this arrangement may prove a greater blessing to the persians than the realization of their own ambitions. that, at any rate, is my own personal belief, which for many years i have held and expressed. none the less it runs diametrically counter to the letter and the spirit of wilsonianism, which is now seen to be a wall high enough to keep out the dwarf states, but which the giants can easily clear at a bound. against this violation of the new humanitarian doctrine french publicists flared up. the glaring character of the transgression revolted them, the plight of the persians touched them, and the right of self-determination strongly appealed to them. was it not largely for the assertion of that right that all the allied peoples had for five years been making unheard-of sacrifices? what would become of the league of nations if such secret and selfish doings were connived at? in a word, french sympathy for the victims of british hegemony waxed as strong as the british fellow-feeling for the syrians, who objected to be drawn into the orbit of the french. those sharp protests and earnest appeals, it may be noted, were the principal, perhaps the only, symptoms of tenderness for unprotected peoples which were evoked by the great ethical movement headed by the conference. the french further pointed out that the system of mandates had been specially created for countries as backward and helpless as persia was assumed to be, and that the only agency qualified to apply it was either the supreme council or the league of nations. the british press answered that no such humiliating assumption about the shah's people was being made, that the foreign office had distinctly disclaimed the intention of establishing a protectorate over persia, who is, and will remain, a sovereign and independent state. but these explanations failed to convince our indignant allies. they argued, from experience, that no trust was to be placed in those official assurances and euphemistic phrases which are generally belied by subsequent acts.[ ] they further lamented that the long and secret negotiations which were going forward in teheran while the persian delegation was wearily and vainly waiting in paris to be allowed to plead its country's cause before the great world-dictators was not a good example of loyalty to the new cosmic legislation. had not mr. wilson proclaimed that peoples were no longer to be bartered and swapped as chattels? here the italians and rumanians chimed in, reminding their kinsmen that it was the same american statesmen who in the peace conditions first presented to count brockdorff-rantzau made over the german population of the saar valley to france at the end of fifteen years as the fair equivalent of a sum of money payable in gold, and that france at any rate had raised no objection to the barter nor to the principle at the root of it. they reasoned that if the principle might be applied to one case it should be deemed equally applicable to the other, and that the only persons or states that could with propriety demur to the anglo-persian arrangements were those who themselves were not benefiting by similar transactions. at last the paris press, laying due weight on the alliance with britain, struck a new note. "it seems that these last persian bargainings offer a theme for conversations between our government and that of the allies," one influential journal wrote.[ ] at once the amicable suggestion was taken up by the british press. the idea was to join the syrian with the persian transactions and make french concessions on the other. this compromise would compose an ugly quarrel and settle everything for the best. for france's intentions toward the people of syria were, it was credibly asserted, to the full as disinterested and generous as those of britain toward persia, and if the syrians desired an english-speaking nation rather than the french to be their mentor, it was equally true that the persians wanted americans rather than british to superintend and accelerate their progress in civilization. but instead of harkening to the wishes of only one it would be better to ignore those of both. by this prudent compromise all the demands of right and justice, for which both governments were earnest sticklers, would thus be amply satisfied. our american associates were less easily appeased. in sooth there was nothing left wherewith to appease them. their press condemned the "protectorate" as a breach of the covenant. secretary lansing let it be known[ ] that the united states delegation had striven to obtain a hearing for the persians at the conference, but had "lost its fight." a persian, when apprized of this utterance, said: "when the united states delegation strove to hinder italy from annexing fiume and obtaining the territories promised her by a secret treaty, they accomplished their aim because they refused to give way. then they took care not to lose their fight. when they accepted a brief for the jews and imposed a jewish semi-state on rumania and poland, they were firm as the granite rock, and no amount of opposition, no future deterrents, made any impression on their will. accordingly, they had their way. but in the cause of persia they lost the fight, although logic, humanity, justice, and the ordinances solemnly accepted by the great powers were all on their side." ... one american press organ termed the anglo-persian accord "a coup which is a greater violation of the wilsonian fourteen points than the shantung award to japan, as it makes the whole of persia a mere protectorate for britain."[ ] generally speaking, illustrations of the meaning of non-intervention in the home affairs of other nations were numerous and somewhat perplexing. were it not that mr. wilson had come to europe for the express purpose of interpreting as well as enforcing his own doctrine, one would have been warranted in assuming that the supreme council was frequently travestying it. but as the president was himself one of the leading members of that council, whose decisions were unanimous, the utmost that one can take for granted is that he strove to impose his tenets on his intractable colleagues and "lost the fight." here is a striking instance of what would look to the average man very like intervention in the domestic politics of another nation--well-meant and, it may be, beneficent intervention--were it not that we are assured on the highest authority that it is nothing of the sort. it was devised as an expedient for getting outside help for the capture of petrograd by the anti-bolshevists. the end, therefore, was good, and the means seemed effectual to those who employed them. the kolchak-denikin party could, it was believed, have taken possession of that capital long before, by obtaining the military co-operation of the esthonians. but the price asked by these was the recognition of their complete independence by the non-bolshevist government in the name of all russia. kolchak, to his credit, refused to pay this price, seeing that he had no powers to do so, and only a dictator would sign away the territory by usurping the requisite authority. consequently the combined attack on petrograd was not undertaken. the admiral's refusal was justified by the circumstances that he was the spokesman only of a large section of the russian people, and that a thoroughly representative assembly must be consulted on the subject previous to action being taken. the military stagnation that ensued lasted for months. then one day the press brought the tidings that the difficulty was ingeniously overcome. this is the shape in which the intelligence was communicated to the world: "colonel marsh, of the british army, who is representing general gough, organized a republic in northwest russia at reval, august th, _within forty-five minutes_, general yudenitch being nominally the head of the new government, which is affiliated with the kolchak government. northwest russia opposes the esthonian government only in principle because it wants guaranties that the esthonians will not be the stepping-stone for some big power like germany to control the russian outlet through the baltic. if the esthonians give such guaranties, the northwestern russians are perfectly willing to let them become an independent state."[ ] here then was a "british colonel" who, in addition to his military duties, was, according to this account, willing and able to create an independent republic without any supreme council to assist him, whereas professional diplomatists and military men of other nations had been trying for months to found a rhine republic under dorten and had failed. nor did he, if the newspaper report be correct, waste much time at the business. from the moment of its inception until northwestern russia stood forth an independent state, promulgating and executing grave decisions in the sphere of international politics, only forty-five minutes are said to have elapsed. forty-five minutes by the clock. it was almost as quick a feat as the drafting of the covenant of nations. further, the resourceful statemaker forged a republic which was qualified to transfer sovereignly russian territory to unrecognized states without consulting the nation or obtaining authority from any one. more marvelous than any other detail, however, is the circumstance that he did his work so well that it never amounted to intervention.[ ] one cannot affect surprise if the distinction between this amazing exploit of diplomatico-military prestidigitation and intermeddling in the internal affairs of another nation prove too subtle for the mental grasp of the average unpolitical individual. it is practices like these which ultimately determine the worth of the treaties and the covenant which mr. wilson was content to take back with him to washington as the final outcome of what was to have been the most superb achievement of historic man. of the new ethical principles, of the generous renunciation of privileges, of the righting of secular wrongs, of the respect that was to be shown for the weak, which were to have cemented the union of peoples into one pacific if not blissful family, there remained but the memory. no such bitter draught of disappointment was swallowed by the nations since the world first had a political history. many of the resounding phrases that once foretokened a new era of peace, right, and equity were not merely emptied of their contents, but made to connote their opposites. freedom of the seas became supremacy of the seas, which may possibly turn out to be a blessed consummation for all concerned, but should not have been smuggled in under a gross misnomer. the abolition of war means, as british and american and french generals and admirals have since told their respective fellow-citizens, thorough preparations for the next war, which are not to be confined, as heretofore, to the so-called military states, but are to extend over all anglo-saxondom.[ ] "open covenants openly arrived at" signify secret conclaves and conspirative deliberations carried on in impenetrable secrecy which cannot be dispensed with even after the whole business has passed into history.[ ] the self-determination of peoples finds its limit in the rights of every great power to hold its subject nationalities in thrall on the ground that their reciprocal relations appertain to the domestic policy of the state. it means, further, the privilege of those who wield superior force to put irresistible pressure upon those who are weak, and the lever which it places in their hands for the purpose is to be known under the attractive name of the protection of minorities. abstention from interference in the home affairs of a neighboring community is made to cover intermeddling of the most irksome and humiliating character in matters which have no nexus with international law, for if they had, the rule would be applicable to all nations. the lesser peoples must harken to injunctions of the greater states respecting their mode of treating alien immigrants and must submit to the control of foreign bodies which are ignorant of the situation and its requirements. nor is it enough that those states should accord to the members of the jewish and other races all the rights which their own citizens enjoy--they must go farther and invest them with special privileges, and for this purpose renounce a portion of their sovereignty. they must likewise allow their more powerful allies to dictate to them their legislation on matters of transit and foreign commerce.[ ] for the great powers, however, this law of minorities was not written. they are above the law. their warrant is force. in a word, force is the trump card in the political game of the future as it was in that of the past. and m. clemenceau's reminder to the petty states at the opening of the conference that the wielders of twelve million troops are the masters of the situation was appropriate. thus the war which was provoked by the transformation of a solemn treaty into a scrap of paper was concluded by the presentation of two scraps of paper as a treaty and a covenant for the moral renovation of the world. footnotes: [ ] _the daily telegraph_, march , . [ ] in a speech delivered at a dinner given in paris on april , , by the commonwealth of australia to australian soldiers. [ ] in march, . [ ] august , . [ ] cf. _corriere delta sera_, august , . [ ] _ibidem_ (_corriere della sera_, august , ). [ ] _l'humanité,_ may , . [ ] _the nation_, august , . [ ] chief of the austrian police at vienna congress in the years - . [ ] in _l'echo de paris_, march , . cf. _the daily telegraph_, march th. [ ] _le gaulois_, march , . cf. _the daily telegraph_, march th. [ ] cf. _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] cf. _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , [ ] report of dr. jacques bertillon. cf. _l'information_, january , . [ ] cf. _le matin_, august , . : excess of births over deaths (yearly average).--cf. _l'information,_ january , : germany great britain italy france - , , , , - , , , , - , , , , - , , , , - , , , , [ ] professor l. marchand. cf. _la démocratie nouvelle_, april , . [ ] dr. walter rathenau, in a book entitled _the death of france_. i have not been able to procure a copy of this book. the extracts given above are taken from a statement published by m. brudenne in the _matin_ of february , . [ ] _germania_, august , . cf. _le temps_, september , . [ ] m. andré tardieu in a speech delivered on august , . cf. paris newspapers of following two days, and in particular _new york herald_, august th. [ ] cf. speech delivered by m. andré tardieu on august , . [ ] on this subject of reparations the _journal de genève_ published several interesting articles at various times, as, for example, on may , . [ ] speech of m. klotz in the chamber on september , . cf. _l'echo de paris_, september , . [ ] d'estournelles de constant. _bulletin des droits de l'homme_, may , . [ ] _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] issued on november , . [ ] see _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] an american senator uncharitably conjectured that she received this honorable distinction in order to contribute an additional vote to the british. [ ] cf. interview with a persian official, published in the paris edition of _the chicago tribune_, august , . [ ] "unfortunately, mr. lloyd george, who has stripped the foreign office of real power, has frequently given assurances of this nature, and his acts have always contradicted them. as a proof, his last interview with m. clemenceau will serve." cf. _l'echo de paris_, august , , article by pertinax. [ ] _le journal des débats_, august , . [ ] in washington on august , . [ ] _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] after the above was written, a french journal, the _echo de paris_ of september , , announced that general marsh declares that his agents acted without his instructions, but none the less it holds him responsible for this baltic policy. [ ] marshal douglas haig, lord french, the american pacifist, sydney baker, senator chamberlain, representative kahn, and a host of others have been preaching universal military training. the press, too, with considerable exceptions, favors the movement. "we want a democratized army, which represents all the nation, and it can be found only in universal service.... universal service is our best guaranty of peace." cf. _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] president wilson, when at the close of his conference with the senate committee on foreign relations--at the white house--asked how the united states had voted on the japanese resolution in favor of race equality, replied: "i am not sure of being free to answer the question, because it affects a large number of points that were discussed in paris, and in the interest of international harmony i think i had better not reply."--_the daily mail_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] in virtue of article lx of the treaty with austria. xiv the treaty with germany to discuss in detail the peace terms which after many months' desultory talk were finally presented to count brockdorff-rantzau would transcend the scope of these pages. like every other act of the supreme council, they may be viewed from one of two widely sundered angles of survey--either as the exercise by a victorious state of the power derived from victory over the vanquished enemy, or as one of the measures by which the peace of the world is to be enforced in the present and consolidated in the future. and from neither point of view can it command the approval of unbiased political students. at first the germans, and not they alone, expected that the conditions would be based on the fourteen points, while many of the allies took it for granted that they would be inspired by the resolve to cripple teutondom for all time. and for each of these anticipations there were good formal grounds. the only legitimate motive for interweaving the covenant with the treaty was to make of the latter a sort of corollary of the former and to moderate the instincts of vengeance by the promptings of higher interests. on this ground, and only on this, did the friends of far-ranging reform support mr. wilson in his contention that the two documents should be rendered mutually interdependent. reparation for the damage done in violation of international law and sound guaranties against its recurrence are of the essence of every peace treaty that follows a decisive victory. but reparation is seldom this and nothing more. the lower instincts of human nature, when dominant as they are during a bloody war and in the hour of victory, generally outweigh considerations not only of right, but also of enlightened egotism, leaving justice to merge into vengeance. and the fruits are treasured wrath and a secret resolve on the part of the vanquished to pay out his victor at the first opportunity. the war-loser of to-day aims at becoming the war-winner of to-morrow. and this frame of mind is incompatible with the temper needed for an era of moral fellowship such as mr. wilson was supposed to be intent on establishing. consequently, a peace treaty unmodified by the principles underlying the covenant is necessarily a negation of the main possibilities of a society of nations based upon right and a decisive argument against joining together the two instruments. the other kind of peace which mr. wilson was believed to have had at heart consisted not merely in the liquidation of the war, but in the uprooting of its permanent causes, in the renunciation by the various nations of sanguinary conflicts as a means of determining rival claims, and in such an amicable rearrangement of international relations as would keep such disputes from growing into dangerous quarrels. right, or as near an approximation to it as is attainable, would then take the place of violence, whereby military guaranties would become not only superfluous, but indicative of a spirit irreconcilable with the main purpose of the league. each nation would be entitled to equal opportunity within the limits assigned to it by nature and widened by its own mental and moral capacities. thus permanently to forbid a numerous, growing, and territorially cramped nation to possess overseas colonies for its superfluous population while overburdening others with possessions which they are unable to utilize, would constitute a negation of one of the basic principles of the new ordering. those were the grounds which seemed to warrant the belief that the treaty would be not only formally, but substantially and in its spirit an integral, part of the general settlement based on the fourteen points. this anticipation turned out to be a delusion. wilsonianism proved to be a very different system from that of the fourteen points, and its author played the part not only of an interpreter of his tenets, but also of a sort of political pope alone competent to annul the force of laws binding on all those whom he should refuse to dispense from their observance. he had to do with patriotic politicians permeated with the old ideas, desirous of providing in the peace terms for the next war and striving to secure the maximum of advantage over the foe presumptive, by dismembering his territory, depriving him of colonies, making him dependent on others for his supplies of raw stuffs, and artificially checking his natural growth. nearly all of them had principles to invoke in favor of their claims and some had nothing else. and it was these tendencies which mr. wilson sought to combine with the ethical ideals to be incarnated in the society of nations. now this was an impossible synthesis. the spirit of vindictiveness--for that was well represented at the conference--was to merge and lose itself in an outflow of magnanimity; precautions against a hated enemy were to be interwoven with implicit confidence in his generosity; a military occupation would provide against a sudden onslaught, while an approach to disarmament would bear witness to the absence of suspicion. thus poland would discharge the function of france's ally against the teutons in the east, but her frontiers were to leave her inefficiently protected against their future attacks from the west. germany was dismembered, yet she was credited with self-discipline and generosity enough to steel her against the temptation to profit by the opportunity of joining together again what france had dissevered. the league of nations was to be based upon mutual confidence and good fellowship, yet one of its most powerful future members was so distrusted as to be declared permanently unworthy to possess any overseas colonies. germany's territory in the saar valley is admittedly inhabited by germans, yet for fifteen years there is to be a foreign administration there, and at the end of it the people are to be asked whether they would like to cut the bonds that link them with their own state and place themselves under french sway, so that a premium is offered for french immigration into the saar valley. those are a few of the consequences of the mixture of the two irreconcilable principles. that germany richly deserved her punishment cannot be gainsaid. her crime was without precedent. some of its most sinister consequences are irremediable. whole sections of her people are still unconscious not only of the magnitude, but of the criminal character, of their misdeeds. none the less there is a future to be provided for, and one of the safest provisions is to influence the potential enemy's will for evil if his power cannot be paralyzed. and this the treaty failed to do. the germans, when they learned the conditions, discussed them angrily, and the keynote was refusal to sign the document. the financial clauses were stigmatized as masked slavery. the press urged that during the war less than one-tenth of france's territory had been occupied by their countrymen and that even of this only a fragment was in the zone of combat. the entire wealth of france, they alleged, had been estimated before the war at from three hundred and fifty milliard to four hundred milliard francs, consequently for the devastated provinces hardly more than one-twentieth of that sum could fairly be demanded as reparation, whereas the claim set forth was incomparably more. they objected to the loss of their colonies because the justification alleged--that they were disqualified to administer them because of their former cruelties toward the natives--was groundless, as the allies themselves had admitted implicitly by offering them the right of pre-emption in the case of the portuguese and other overseas possessions on the very eve of the war. but the most telling objections turned upon the clauses that dealt with the saar valley. its population is entirely german, yet the treaty-makers provided for its occupation by the french for a term of fifteen years and its transference to them if, after that term, the german government was unable to pay a certain sum in gold for the coal mines it contained. if that sum were not forthcoming the population and the district were to be handed over to france for all time, even though the former should vote unanimously for reunion with germany. count brockdorff-rantzau remarked in his note on the treaty "that in the history of modern times there is no other example of a civilized power obliging a state to abandon its people to foreign domination as an equivalent for a cash payment." one of the most influential press organs complained that the treaty "bartered german men, women, and children for coal; subjected some districts with a thoroughly german population to an obligatory plebiscite[ ] under interested supervision; severed others without any consultation from the fatherland; delivered over the proceeds of german industry to the greed of foreign capitalists for an indefinite period; ... spread over the whole country a network of alien commissions to be paid by the german nation; withdrew streams, rivers, railways, the air service, numerous industrial establishments, the entire economic system, from the sovereignty of the german state by means either of internationalization or financial control; conferred on foreign inspectors rights such as only the satraps of absolute monarchs in former ages were empowered to exercise; in a word, they put an end to the existence of the german nation as such. germany would become a colony of white slaves...."[ ] fortunately for the allies, the reproach of exchanging human beings for coal was seen by their leaders to be so damaging that they modified the odious clause that warranted it. even the comments of the friendly neutral press were extremely pungent. they found fault with the treaty on grounds which, unhappily, cannot be reasoned away. "why dissimulate it?" writes the foremost of these journals; "this peace is not what we were led to expect. it dislodges the old dangers, but creates new ones. alsace and lorraine are, it is true, no longer in german hands, but ... irredentism has only changed its camp. in germany put her faith in force because she herself wielded it. but crushed down under a peace which appears to violate the promises made to her, a peace which in her heart of hearts she will never accept, she will turn toward force anew. it will stand out as the great misfortune of this treaty that it has tainted the victory with a moral blight and caused the course of the german revolution to swerve.... the fundamental error of the instrument lies in the circumstance that it is a compromise between two incompatible frames of mind. it was feasible to restore peace to europe by pulling down germany definitely. but in order to accomplish this it would have been necessary to crush a people of seventy millions and to incapacitate them from rising to their feet again. peace could also have been secured by the sole force of right. but in this case germany would have had to be treated so considerately as to leave her no grievance to brood over. m. clemenceau hindered mr. wilson from displaying sufficient generosity to get the moral peace, and mr. wilson on his side prevented m. clemenceau from exercising severity enough to secure the material peace. and so the result, which it was easy to foresee, is a régime devoid of the real guaranties of durability."[ ] the judge of the french syndicalists was still more severe. "the versailles peace," exclaimed m. verfeuil, "is worse than the peace of brest-litovsk ... annexations, economic servitudes, overwhelming indemnities, and a caricature of the society of nations--these constitute the balance of the new policy,"[ ] the deputy marcel cachin said: "the allied armies fought to make this war the last. they fought for a just and lasting peace, but none of these boons has been bestowed on us. we are confronted with the failure of the policy of the one man in whom our party had put its confidence--president wilson. the peace conditions ... are inacceptable from various points of view, financial, territorial, economic, social, and human."[ ] it is in this treaty far more than in the covenant that the principles to which mr. wilson at first committed himself are in decisive issue. true, he was wont after every surrender he made during the conference to invoke the covenant and its concrete realization--the league of nations--as the corrective which would set everything right in the future. but the fact can hardly be blinked that it is the treaty and its effects that impress their character on the covenant and not the other way round. as an eminent swiss professor observed: "no league of nations would have hindered the belgian people in from separating from holland. can the future league of nations hinder germany from reconstituting its geographical unity? can it hinder the germans of bohemia from smiting the czech? can it prevent the magyars, who at present are scattered, from working for their reunion?"[ ] these potential disturbances are so many dangers to france. for if war should break out in eastern europe, is it to be supposed that the united states, the british colonies, or even britain herself will send troops to take part in it? hardly. suppose, for instance, that the austrians, who ardently desire to be merged in germany, proclaim their union with her, as i am convinced they will one day, does any statesman believe that democratic america will despatch troops to coerce them back? if the germans of bohemia secede from the czechoslovaks or the croats from the serbs, will british armies cross the sea to uphold the union which those peoples repudiate? and in the name of which of the fourteen points would they undertake the task? that of self-determination? france's interests, and hers alone, would be affected by such changes. and france would be left to fight single-handed. for what? it is interesting to note how the conditions imposed upon germany were appreciated by an influential body of mr. wilson's american partizans who had pinned their faith to his fourteen points. their view is expressed by their press organ as follows:[ ] "france remains the strongest power on the continent. with her military establishment intact she faces a germany without a general staff, without conscription, without universal military training, with a strictly limited amount of light artillery, with no air service, no fleet, with no domestic basis in raw materials for armament manufacture, with her whole western border fifty kilometers east of the rhine demilitarized. on top of this france has a system of military alliances with the new states that touch germany. on top of this she secured permanent representation in the council of the league, from which germany is excluded. on top of that economic terms which, while they cannot be fulfilled, do cripple the industrial life of her neighbor. with such a balance of forces france demands for herself a form of protection which neither belgium, nor poland, nor czechoslovakia, nor italy is granted." footnotes: [ ] one of the three districts of schleswig. a curious phenomenon was this zeal of the supreme council for denmark's interests, as compared with denmark's refusal to profit by it, the champions of self-determination urging the danes to demand a district, as danish, which the danes knew to be german! [ ] _das berliner tageblatt_, june , . [ ] _le journal de genève_, june , . [ ] cf. _l'echo de paris_, may , . [ ] _ibidem_. [ ] in a monograph entitled _plus jamais_. [ ] cf. _the new republic_, august , , p. . xv the treaty with bulgaria among all the strange products of the many-sided outbursts of the leading delegates' reconstructive activity, the treaty with bulgaria stands out in bold relief. it reveals the high-water mark reached by those secret, elusive, and decisive influences which swayed so many of the mysterious decisions adopted by the conference. as bulgaria disposed of an abundant source of those influences, her chastisement partakes of some of the characteristics of a reward. not only did she not fare as the treacherous enemy that she showed herself, but she emerged from the ordeal much better off than several of the victorious states. unlike serbia, rumania, france, and belgium, she escaped the horrors of a foreign invasion and she possessed and fructified all her resources down to the day when the armistice was concluded. her peasant population made huge profits during the campaign and her armies despoiled serbia, rumania, and greek macedonia and sent home enormous booty. in a word, she is richer and more prosperous than before she entered the arena against her protectors and former allies. for, owing to the intercession of her powerful friends, she was treated with a degree of indulgence which, although expected by all who were initiated into the secrets of "open diplomacy," scandalized those who were anxious that at least some simulacrum of justice should be maintained. germany was forced to sign a blank check which her enemies will one day fill in. austria was reduced to the status of a parasite living on the bounty of the great powers and denied the right of self-determination. even france, exhausted by five years' superhuman efforts, beholds with alarm her financial future entirely dependent upon the ability or inability of germany to pay the damages to which she was condemned. but the prussia of the balkans, owing to the intercession of influential anonymous friends, had no such consequences to deplore. although she contracted heavy debts toward germany, she was relieved of the effort to pay them. her financial obligations were first transferred[ ] to the allies and then magnanimously wiped out by these, who then limited all her liabilities for reparations to two and a quarter milliard francs. an inter-allied commission in sofia is to find and return the loot to its lawful owners, but it is to charge no indemnity for the damage done. nor will it contain representatives of the states whose property the bulgars abstracted. serbia is allowed neither indemnity nor reparation. she is to receive a share which the treaty neglected to fix of the two and a quarter milliard francs on a date which has also been left undetermined. she is not even to get back the herds of cattle of which the bulgars robbed her. the lawgivers in paris considered that justice would be met by obliging the bulgars to restore , head of cattle in lieu of the , , driven off, so that even if the ill-starred serbs should identify, say, one million more, they would have no right to enforce their claim.[ ] nor is that the only disconcerting detail in the treaty. the supreme council, which sanctioned the military occupation of a part of germany as a guaranty for the fulfilment of the peace conditions, dispenses bulgaria from any such irksome conditions. bulgaria's good faith appeared sufficient to the politicians who drafted the instrument. "for reasons which one hardly dares touch upon," writes an eminent french publicist,[ ] "several of the powers that constitute the famous world areopagus count on the future co-operation of bulgaria. we shrink in dismay from the perspective thus opened to our gaze."[ ] the territorial changes which the prussia of the balkans was condemned to undergo are neither very considerable nor unjust. rumania receives no bulgarian territory, the frontiers of remaining unaltered. serbia nets some on grounds which cannot be called in question, and a large part of thrace which is inhabited, not by bulgars, but mainly by greeks and turks, was taken from bulgaria, but allotted to no state in particular. the upshot of the treaty, as it appeared to most of the leading publicists on the continent of europe, was to leave bulgaria, whose cruelty and destructiveness are described by official and unofficial reports as unparalleled, in a position of economic superiority to serbia, greece, and rumania. and in the inter-allied commission bulgaria is to have a representative, while serbia, greece, and rumania, a part of whose stolen property the commission has to recover, will have none. a comparison between the indulgence lavished upon bulgaria and the severity displayed toward rumania is calculated to disconcert the stanchest friends of the supreme council. the rumanian government, in a dignified note to the conference, explained its refusal to sign the treaty with austria by enumerating a series of facts which amount to a scathing condemnation of the work of the supreme council. on the one hand the council pleaded the engagements entered into between japan and her european allies as a cogent motive for handing over shantung to japan. for treaties must be respected. and the argument is sound. on the other hand, they were bound by a similar treaty[ ] to give rumania the whole banat, the rumanian districts of hungary and the bukovina as far as the river pruth. but at the conference they repudiated this engagement. in they stipulated that if rumania entered the war they would co-operate with ample military forces. they failed to redeem their promise. and they further undertook that "rumania shall have the same rights as the allies in the peace preliminaries and negotiations and also in discussing the issues which shall be laid before the peace conference for its decisions." yet, as we saw, she was denied these rights, and her delegates were not informed of the subjects under discussion nor allowed to see the terms of peace, which were in the hands of the enemies, and were only twice admitted to the presence of the supreme council. it has been observed in various countries and by the allied and the neutral press that between the german view about the sacredness of treaties and that of the supreme council there is no substantial difference.[ ] comments of this nature are all the more distressing that they cannot be thrust aside as calumnious. again it will not be denied that rumania rendered inestimable services to the allies. she sacrificed three hundred thousand of her sons to their cause. her soil was invaded and her property stolen or ruined. yet she has been deprived of part of her sovereignty by the allies to whom she gave this help. the supreme council, not content with her law conferring equal rights on all her citizens, to whatever race or religion they may belong, ordered her to submit to the direction of a foreign board in everything concerning her minorities and demanded from her a promise of obedience in advance to their future decrees respecting her policy in matters of international trade and transit. these stipulations constitute a noteworthy curtailment of her sovereignty. that any set of public men should be carried by extrinsical motives thus far away from justice, fair play, and good faith would be a misfortune under any circumstances, but that at a conjuncture like the present it should befall the men who set up as the moral guides of mankind and wield the power to loosen the fabric of society is indeed a dire disaster. footnotes: [ ] in june, . [ ] the comments on these terms, published by m. gauvain in the _journal des débats_ (september , ), are well worth reading. [ ] m. auguste gauvain. [ ] _le journal des débats_, september , . [ ] concluded in the year . [ ] cf. _the daily mail_ (paris edition), september , . xvi the covenant and minorities in mr. wilson's scheme for the establishment of a society of nations there was nothing new but his pledge to have it realized. and that pledge has still to be redeemed under conditions which he himself has made much more unfavorable than they were. the idea itself--floating in the political atmosphere for ages--has come to seem less vague and unattainable since the days of kant. the only heads of states who had set themselves to embody it in institutions before president wilson took it up not only disappointed the peoples who believed in them, but discredited the idea itself. that a merely mechanical organization such as the american statesman seems to have had in mind, formed by parliamentary politicians deliberating in secret, could bind nations and peoples together in moral fellowship, is conceivable in the abstract. but if we turn to the reality, we shall find that in that direction nothing durable can be effected without a radical change in the ideas, aspirations, and temper of the leaders who speak for the nations to-day, and, indeed, in those of large sections of the nations themselves. for to organize society on those unfamiliar lines is to modify some of the deepest-rooted instincts of human nature. and that cannot be achieved overnight, certainly not in the span of thirty minutes, which sufficed for the drafting of the covenant. the bulk of mankind might not need to be converted, but whole classes must first be educated, and in some countries re-educated, which is perhaps still more difficult. mental and moral training must complement and reinforce each other, and each political unit be brought to realize that the interests of the vaster community take precedence over those of any part of it. and to impress these novel views upon the peoples of the world takes time. an indispensable condition of success is that the compact binding the members together must be entered into by the peoples, not merely by their governments. for it is upon the masses that the burden of the war lies heaviest. it is the bulk of the population that supplies the soldiers, the money, and the work for the belligerent states, and endures the hardships and makes the sacrifices requisite to sustain it. therefore, the peoples are primarily interested in the abolition of the old ordering and the forging of the new. moreover, as latter-day campaigns are waged with all the resources of the warring peoples, and as the possession of certain of these resources is often both the cause of the conflict and the objective of the aggressor, it follows that no mere political enactments will meet contemporary requirements. an association of nations renouncing the sword as a means of settling disputes must also reduce as far as possible the surface over which friction with its neighbors is likely to take place. and nowadays most of that surface is economic. the possession of raw materials is a more potent attraction than territorial aggrandizement. indeed, the latter is coveted mainly as a means of securing or safeguarding the former. on these and other grounds, in drawing up a charter for a society of nations, the political aspect should play but a subsidiary part. in paris it was the only aspect that counted for anything. a parliament of peoples, then, is the only organ that can impart viability to a society of nations worthy of the name. by joining the covenant with the peace treaty, and turning the former into an instrument for the execution of the latter, thus subordinating the ideal to the egotistical, mr. wilson deprived his plan of its sole justification, and for the time being buried it. the philosopher lichtenberg[ ] wrote, "one man brings forth a thought, another holds it over the baptismal font, the third begets offspring with it, the fourth stands at its deathbed, and the fifth buries it." mr. wilson has discharged the functions of gravedigger to the idea of a pacific society of nations, just as lenin has done to the system of marxism, the only difference being that marxism is as dead as a door-nail, whereas the society of nations may rise again. it was open, then, to the three principal delegates to insure the peace of the world by moral means or by force. having eschewed the former by adopting the doctrines of monroe, abandoning the freedom of the seas, and by according to france strategic frontiers and other privileges of the militarist order, they might have enlarged and systematized these concessions to expediency and forged an alliance of the three states or of two, and undertaken to keep peace on the planet against all marplots. i wrote at the time: "the delegates are becoming conscious of the existence of a ready-made league of nations in the shape of the anglo-saxon states, which, together with france, might hinder wars, promote good-fellowship, remold human destinies; and they are delighted thus to possess solid foundations on which a noble edifice can be raised in the fullness of time. tribunals will be created, with full powers to adjudge disputes; facilities will be accorded to litigious states, and even an obligation will be imposed to invoke their arbitration. and the sum total of these reforms will be known to contemporary annals as an inchoate league of nations. the delegates are already modestly disavowing the intention of realizing the ideal in all its parts. that must be left to coming generations; but what with the exhaustion of the peoples, their aversion from warfare, and the material obstacles to the renewal of hostilities in the near future, it is calculated that the peace will not soon be violated. whether more salient results will be attained or attempted by the conference nobody can foretell."[ ] this expedient, even had it been deliberately conceived and skilfully wrought out, would not have been an adequate solution of the world's difficulties, nor would it have commended itself to all the states concerned. but it would at least have been a temporary makeshift capable of being transmuted under favorable circumstances into something less material and more durable. but the amateur world-reformers could not make up their minds to choose either alternative. and the result is one of the most lamentable failures recorded in human history. i placed my own opinion on record at the time as frankly as the censorship which still existed for me would permit. i wrote: "what every delegate with sound political instinct will ask himself is, whether the league of nations will eliminate wars in future, and, if not, he will feel conscientiously bound to adopt other relatively sure means of providing against them, and these consist of alliances, strategic frontiers, and the permanent disablement of the potential enemy. on one or other of these alternative lines the resettlement must be devised. to combine them would be ruinous. now of what practical use is a league of nations devoid of supernational forces and faced by a numerous, virile, and united race, smarting under a sense of injustice, thirsting for the opportunities for development denied to it, but granted to nations which it despises as inferior? would a league of nations combine militarily against the gradual encroachments or sudden aggression of that power against its weaker neighbors? nobody is authorized to answer this question affirmatively. to-day the powers cannot agree to intervene against bolshevism, which they deem a scourge of the world, nor can they agree to tolerate it. "in these circumstances, what compelling motives can be laid before those delegates who are asked to dispense with strategic frontiers and rely upon a league of nations for their defense? take france's outlook. peace once concluded, she will be confronted with a secular enemy who numbers some seventy millions to her forty-five millions. in ten years the disproportion will be still greater. discontented russia is almost certain to be taken in hand by germany, befriended, reorganized, exploited, and enlisted as an ally."[ ] conscious of these reefs and shoals, the french government, which was at first contemptuous of the wilsonian scheme, discerned the use it might be put to as a military safeguard, and sought to convert it into that. "the french," wrote a francophil english journal published in paris, "would like the league to maintain what may be called a permanent military general staff. the duties of this organization would be to keep a hawklike eye on the misdemeanors, actual or threatened, of any state or group of states, and to be empowered with authority to call into instant action a great international military force for the frustration or suppression of such aggression. the french have frankly in mind the possibility that an unrepentant and unregenerate germany is the most likely menace not only to the security of france, but to the peace of the world in general."[ ] and other states cherished analogous hopes. the spirit of right and justice was to be evoked like the spirit that served aladdin, and to be compelled to enter the service of nationalism and militarism, and accomplish the task of armies. the paramount powers prescribed the sacrifices of sovereignty which membership of the league necessitated, and forthwith dispensed themselves from making them. the united states government maintained its monroe doctrine for america--nay, it went farther and identified its interests with the hay doctrine for the far east.[ ] it decided to construct a powerful navy for the defense of these political assets, and to give the youth of the country a semi-military training.[ ] defense presupposes attack. war, therefore, is not excluded--nay, it is admitted by the world-reformers, and preparations for it are indispensable. equally so are the burdens of taxation. but if liberty of defense be one of the rights of two or three powers, by what law is it confined to them and denied to the others? why should the other communities be constrained to remain open to attack? surely they, too, deserve to live and thrive, and make the most of their opportunities. now if in lieu of a misnamed league of nations we had an anglo-saxon board for the better government of the world, these unequal weights and measures would be intelligible on the principle that special obligations and responsibilities warrant exceptional rights. but no such plea can be advanced under an arrangement professing to be a society of free nations. all that can with truth be said is what m. clemenceau told the delegates of the lesser states at the opening of the conference--that the three great belligerents represent twelve million soldiers and that their supreme authority derives from that. the rôle of the other peoples is to listen to the behests of their guardians, and to accept and execute them without murmur. might is still a source of right. it is fair to say that the disclosure of the true base of the new ordering, as blurted out by m. clemenceau at that historic meeting, caused little surprise among the initiated. for there was no reason to assume that he, or, indeed, the bulk of the continental statesmen, were converts to a doctrine of which its own apostle accepted only those fragments which commended themselves to his country or his party. had not the french premier scoffed at the league in public as in private? had he not said in the chamber: "i do not believe that the society of nations constitutes the necessary conclusion of the present war. i will give you one of my reasons. it is this: if to-morrow you were to propose to me that germany should enter into this society i would not consent."[ ] "i am certain," wrote one of the ablest and most ardent champions of the league in france, senator d'estournelles de constant--"i am certain that he [m. clemenceau] made an effort against himself, against his entire past, against his whole life, against all his convictions, to serve the society of nations. and his minister of foreign affairs followed him."[ ] exactly. and as with m. clemenceau, so it was with the majority of european statesmen; most of them made strenuous and, one may add, successful efforts against their convictions. and the result was inevitable. "the governments," we read in the organ of syndicalists, who had supported mr. wilson as long as they believed him determined to redeem his promises--"the governments have acquiesced in the fourteen points.... hypocrisy. each one cherished mental reservations. virtue was exalted and vice practised. the poltroon eulogized heroism; the imperialist lauded the spirit of justice. for the past month we have been picking up ideas about the worth of the adhesions to the fourteen points, and never before has a more sinister or a more odious comedy been played. territorial demands have been heaved one upon the other; contempt of the rights of peoples--the only right that we can recognize--has been expressed in striking terms; the last restraints have vanished; the masks have fallen."[ ] from every country in europe the same judgment came pitched in varying keys. the italian press condemned the proceedings of the conference in language to the full as strong as that of the german or austrian journals. the _stampa_ affirmed that those who, like bissolati, were in the beginning for placing their trust in one of the two coteries at the conference were guilty of a fatal mistake. "the mistake lay in their belief in the ideal strivings of one of the parties, and in the horror with which the cupidity of the others was contemplated, whereas both of them were fighting for ... their interests.... in verity france was no less militarist or absolutist than germany, nor was england less avid than either. and the proof is enshrined in the peace treaties which have masked the results of their respective victories. _versailles is a brest-litovsk_, aggravated in the same proportion as the victory of the entente over germany, is more complete than was that of germany over russia. cupidity does not alter its character, even when it seeks to conceal itself under a phrugian cap rather than wear a helmet."[ ] m. clemenceau's opening utterance about the twelve million men, and the unlimited right which such formidable armies confer on their possessors to sit in judgment on the tribes and peoples of the planet, was the true keynote to the conference. after that the leading statesmen trimmed their ship, touched the rudder, and sailed toward downright absolutism. the effect of such utterances and acts on the minds of the peoples are distinctly mischievous. for they tend to obliterate the sense of public right, which is the main foundation of international intercourse among progressive nations. and already it had been shaken and weakened by the campaigns of the past fifty years, and in particular by the last war. in the relations of nation to nation there were certain principles--derivatives of ethics diluted with maxims of expediency--which kept the various governments from too flagrant breaches of faith. these checks were the only substitute for morality in politics. their highest power was connoted by the word europeanism, which stood for a supposed feeling of solidarity among all the peoples of the old continent, and for a certain respect for the treaties on which the state-system reposed. but it existed mainly among defeated nations when apprehensive of being isolated or chastised by their victors. none the less, the idea marked a certain advance toward an ethical bond of union. now this embryonic sense, together with respect for the binding force of a nation's plighted troth, were numbered by the demoralizing influence of the wars of the last fifty years. and one of the first and peremptory needs of the world was their restoration. this could be effected only by bringing the peoples, not merely of europe, but of the world, more closely together, by engrafting on them a feeling of close solidarity, and impressing them with the necessity of making common cause in the one struggle worth their while waging--resistance to the forces that militate against human welfare and progress. the feeling was widespread that the way to effect this was by some form of internationalism, by the broadening, deepening, and quickening all that was implied by europeanism, by co-ordinating the collective energies of all progressive peoples, and causing them to converge toward a common and worthy goal. for the working classes this conception in a restricted form had long possessed a commanding attraction. what they aimed at, however, was no more than the catholicity of labor. they fancied that after the passage of the tidal wave of destructiveness the ground was cleared of most of the obstacles which had encumbered it, and that the forward advance might begin forthwith. what they failed to take sufficiently into account was the _vis inertiæ_, the survival of the old spirit among the ruling orders whose members continued to live and move in the atmosphere of use and wont, and the spirit of hate and bitterness infused into all the political classes, to dispel which was a herculean task. it was exclusively to the leaders of those classes that mr. wilson confided the realization of the abstract idea of a society of nations, which he may at first have pictured to himself as a vast family conscious of common interests, bent on moral and material self-betterment, and willing to eschew such partial advantages as might hinder or retard the general progress. but, judging by his attitude and his action, he had no real acquaintance with the materials out of which it must be fashioned, no notion of the difficulties to be met, and no staying power to encounter and surmount them. and his first move entailed the failure of the scheme. as a matter of fact, mr. wilson came to the conference with a home-made charter for the society of nations, which, according to the evidence of mr. lansing, "was never pressed." the state secretary added that "the present league covenant is superior to the american plan." and as for the fourteen points, "they were not even discussed at the conference."[ ] suspecting as much, i wrote at the time:[ ] "the president has pinned himself down to no concrete scheme whatever. his method is electric, choosing what is helpful and beneficent in the projects of others, and endeavoring to obtain from the dissentients a renunciation of ideas belonging to the old national currents and adherence to the doctrines he deems salutary. it is, however, already clear that the highest ideal now attainable is not a league of nations as the masses understand it, which will abolish wars and likewise put an end to the costly preparations for them, but only a coalition of victorious nations, which may hope, by dint of economic inducements and deterrents, to draw the enemy peoples into its camp in the not too distant future. this result would fall very short of the expectations aroused by the far-resonant promises made at the outset; but even it will be unattainable without an international compact binding all the members of the coalition to make war simultaneously upon the nation or group of nations which ventures to break the peace. i am disposed to believe that nothing less than such an express covenant will be regarded by the continental powers of the entente as an adequate substitute for certain territorial readjustments which they otherwise consider essential to secure them from sudden attack. "whether such a condition would prevent future wars is a question that only experience can answer. personally, i am profoundly convinced, with mr. taft, that a genuine league of nations must have teeth in the guise of supernational, not international, forces. in these remarks i make abstraction from the larger question which wholly absorbs this--namely, whether the masses for whose behoof the lavish expenditure of time, energy, and ingenuity is undertaken, will accept a coalition of victorious governments against unregenerate peoples as a substitute for the society of nations as at first conceived." the supposed object of the league was the substitution of right for force, by debarring each individual state from employing violence against any of the others, and by the use of arbitration as a means of settling disputes. this entails the suppression of the right to declare war and to prepare for it, and, as a corollary, a system of deterrents to hinder, and of penalties to punish rebellion on the part of a community. that in those cases where the law is set at naught efficacious means should be available to enforce it will hardly be denied; but whether economic pressure would suffice in all cases is doubtful. to me it seems that without a supernational army, under the direct orders of the league, it might under conceivable circumstances become impossible to uphold the decisions of the tribunal, and that, on the other hand, the coexistence of such a military force with national armaments would condemn the undertaking to failure. an analysis of the covenant lies beyond the limits of my task, but it may not be amiss to point out a few of its inherent defects. one of the principal organs of the league will be the assembly and the council. the former, a very numerous and mainly political body, will necessarily be out of touch with the peoples, their needs and their aspirations. it will meet at most three or four times a year. and its members alone will be invested with all the power, which they will be chary of delegating. on the other hand, the council, consisting at first of nine members, will meet at least once a year. the members of both bodies will presumably be appointed by the governments,[ ] who will certainly not renounce their sovereignty in a matter that concerns them so closely. such a system may be wise and conducive to the highest aims, but it can hardly be termed democratic. the military powers who command twelve million soldiers will possess a majority in the council.[ ] the secretariat alone will be permanent, and will naturally be appointed by the great powers. instead of abolishing war, the conference described its abolition as beyond the power of man to compass. disarmament, which was to have been one of its main achievements, is eliminated from the covenant. as the war that was to have been the last will admittedly be followed by others, the delegates of the great powers worked conscientiously, as behooved patriotic statesmen, to obtain in advance all possible advantages for their respective countries by way of preparing for it. the new order, which in theory reposes upon right, justice, and moral fellowship, in reality depends upon powerful armies and navies. france must remain under arms, seeing that she has to keep watch on the rhine. britain and the united states are to go on building warships and aircraft, besides training their youth for the coming armageddon. the article of the covenant which lays it down that "the members of the league recognize that the maintenance of peace requires the reduction of national armaments to the lowest point consistent with national safety,"[ ] is, to use a russian simile, written on water with a fork. britain, france, and the united states are already agreed that they will combine to repel unprovoked aggression on the part of germany. that evidently signifies that they will hold themselves in readiness to fight, and will therefore make due preparation. this arrangement is a substitute for a supernational army, as though prevention were not better than cure; that it will prove efficacious in the long run very few believe. one clear-visioned frenchman writes: "the inefficacy of the organization aimed at by the conference constrains france to live in continual and increasing insecurity, owing to the falling off of her population."[ ] he adds: "it follows from this abortive expedient--if it is to remain definitive--that each member-state must protect itself, or come to terms with the more powerful ones, as in the past. consequently we are in presence of the maintenance of militarism and the régime of armaments."[ ] this writer goes farther and accuses mr. wilson of having played into the hands of britain. "president wilson," he affirms, "has more or less sacrificed to the english government the society of nations and the question of armaments, that of the colonies and that of the freedom of the seas...."[ ] this, however, is an over-statement. it was not for the sake of britain that the american statesman gave up so much; it was for the sake of saving something of the covenant. it was in the spirit of sir boyle roche, whose attachment to the british constitution was such that, to save a part of it, he was willing to sacrifice the whole. the arbitration of disputes is provided for by one of the articles of the covenant;[ ] but the parties may go to war three months later with a clear conscience and an appeal to right, justice, self-determination, and the usual abstract nouns. in a word, the directors of the conference disciplined their political intelligence on lines of self-hypnotization, along which common sense finds it impossible to follow them. there were also among the delegates men who thought and spoke in terms of reason and logic, but their voices evoked no echo. one of them summed up his criticism somewhat as follows: "during the war our professions of democratic principles were far resonant and emphatic. we were fighting for the nations of the world, especially for those who could not successfully fight for themselves. all the peoples, great and small, were exhorted to make the most painful sacrifices to enable their respective governments to conquer the enemy. victory unexpectedly smiled on us, and the peoples asked that those promises should be made good. naturally, expectations ran high. what has happened? the governments now answer in effect: 'we will promote your interests, but without your co-operation or assent. we will make the necessary arrangements in secret behind closed doors. the machinery we are devising will be a state machinery, not a popular one. all that we ask of you is implicit trust. you complain of our action in the past. you have good cause. you say that the same men are about to determine your future. again you are right. but when you affirm that we are sure to make the like mistakes, you are wrong, and we ask you to take our word for it. you complain that we are politicians who feel the weight of certain commitments and the fetters of obsolete traditions from which we cannot free ourselves; that we are mainly concerned to protect and further the interests of our respective countries, and that it is inconceivable we should devise an organization which looks above and beyond those interests. we ask you, are you willing, then, to abandon the heritage of our fathers to the foreigner?' "that the downtrodden peoples in austria and germany have been emancipated is a moral triumph. but why has the beneficent principle that is said to have inspired the deed been restricted in its application? why has the experiment been tried only in the enemies' countries? or are things quite in order everywhere else? is there no injustice in other quarters of the globe? are there no complaints? if there be, why are they ignored? is it because all acts of oppression are to be perpetuated which do not take place in the enemy's land? what about ireland and about a dozen other countries and peoples? are they skeletons not to be touched? "by debarring the masses from participation in a grandiose scheme, the success of which depends upon their assent, the governments are indirectly but surely encouraging secret combined opposition, and in some cases bolshevism. the masses resent being treated as children after having been appealed to as arbiters and rescuers. for four and a half years it was they who bore the brunt of the war, they who sacrificed their sons and their substance. in the future it is they to whom the states will look for the further sacrifices in blood and treasure which will be necessary in the struggles which they evidently anticipate. well, some of them refuse these sacrifices in advance. they challenge the right of the governments to retain the power of making war and peace. that power they are working to get into their own hands and to wield in their own way, or at any rate to have a say in its exercise. and in order to secure it, some sections of the peoples are making common cause with the socialist revolutionaries, while others have gone the length of bolshevism. and that is a serious danger. the agitation now going on among the people, therefore, starts with a grievance. the masses have many other grievances besides the one just sketched--the survivals of the feudal age, the privileges of class, the inequality of opportunity. and the kernel formed by these is the element of truth and equity which imparts force to all those underground movements, and enables them to subsist and extend. error is never dangerous by itself; it is only when it has an admixture of truth that it becomes powerful for evil. and it seems a thousand pities that the governments, whose own interests are at stake, as well as those of the communities they govern, should go out of their way to provide an explosive element for bolshevism and its less sinister variants." the league was treated as a living organism before it existed. all the problems which the supreme councilors found insoluble were reserved for its judgment. arduous functions were allotted to it before it had organs to discharge them. formidable tasks were imposed upon it before the means of achieving them were devised. it is an institution so elusive and elastic that the french regard it as capable of being used as a handy instrument for coercing the teutons, who, in turn, look upon it as a means of recovering their place in the world; the japanese hope it may become a bridge leading to racial equality, and the governments which devised it are bent on employing it as a lever for their own politico-economic aims, which they identify with the progress of the human race. how the peoples look upon it the future will show. on the monroe doctrine in connection with the league of nations the less said the soonest mended. but one cannot well say less than this: that any real society of peoples such as mr. wilson first conceived and advocated is as incompatible with "regional understandings like the monroe doctrine" as are the maintenance of national armaments and the bartering of populations. it is immaterial whether one concludes that a society of nations is therefore impossible in the present conjuncture or that all those survivals of the old state system are obsolescent and should be abolished. the two are unquestionably irreconcilable. it would be a mistake to infer from the unanimity with which mr. wilson's covenant was finally accepted that it expressed the delegates' genuine conceptions or sentiments. mr. bullitt, one of the expert advisers to the american peace delegation, testified before the senate committee in washington that state-secretary lansing remarked to him: "i consider the league of nations at present as entirely useless. the great powers have simply gone ahead and arranged the world to suit themselves. england and france, in particular, have gotten out of the treaty everything they wanted. the league of nations can do nothing to alter any unjust clauses of the treaty except by the unanimous consent of the league members. the great powers will never consent to changes in the interests of weaker peoples."[ ] this opinion which mr. bullitt ascribed to mr. lansing was, to my knowledge, that of a large number of the representatives of the nations at the conference. among them all i have met very few who had a good word to say of the scheme, and of the few one had helped to formulate it, another had assisted him. and the unfavorable judgments of the remainder were delivered after the covenant was signed. one of those leaders, in conversation with several other delegates and myself, exclaimed one day: "the league of nations indeed! it is an absurdity. who among thinking men believes in its reality?" "i do," answered his neighbor; "but, like the devils, i believe and tremble. i hold that it is a corrosive poison which destroys much that is good and will further much that is bad." a statesman who was not a delegate demurred. "in my opinion," he said, "it is a response to a demand put forward by the peoples of the globe, and because of this origin something good will ultimately come of it. unquestionably it is very defective, but in time it may be--nay, must be--changed for the better." the first speaker replied: "if you imagine that the league will help continental peoples, you are, i am convinced, mistaken. it took the united states three years to go to the help of britain and france. how long do you suppose it will take her to mobilize and despatch troops to succor poland, rumania, or czechoslovakia? i am acquainted with british colonial public opinion and sentiment--too often misunderstood by foreigners--and i can tell you that they are misconstrued by those who fancy that they would determine action of that kind. if england tells the colonies that she needs their help, they will come, because their people are flesh of her flesh and blood of her blood, and also because they depend for their defense upon her navy, and if she were to go under they would go under, too. but the continental nations have no such claims upon the british colonies, which would not be in a hurry to make sacrifices in order to satisfy their appetites or their passions." the second speaker then said: "it is possible, but nowise certain, that the future league may help to settle these disputes which professional diplomatists would have arranged, and in the old way, but it will not affect those others which are the real causes of wars. if a nation believes it can further its vital interest by breaking the peace, the league cannot stop it. how could it? it lacks the means. there will be no army ready. it would have to create one. even now, when such an army, powerful and victorious, is in the field, the league--for the supreme council is that and more--cannot get its orders obeyed. how then will its behest be treated when it has no troops at its beck and call? it is redrawing the map of central and eastern europe, and is very satisfied with its work. but, as we know, the peoples of those countries look upon its map as a sheet of paper covered with lines and blotches of color to which no reality corresponds." the constitution of the league was termed by mr. wilson a covenant, a word redolent of biblical and puritanical times, which accorded well with the motives that decided him to prefer geneva to brussels as the seat of the league, and to adopt other measures of a supposed political character. the first draft of this document was, as we saw, completed in the incredibly short space of some thirty hours, so as to enable the president to take it with him to washington. as the ententophil _echo de paris_ remarked, "by a fixed date the merchandise has to be consigned on board the _george washington_."[ ] the discussions that took place after the president's return from the united states were animated, interesting, and symptomatic. in april the commission had several sittings, at which various amendments and alterations were proposed, some of which would cut deep into international relations, while others were of slight moment and gave rise to amusing sallies. one day the proposal was mooted that each member-state should be free to secede on giving two years' notice. m. larnaude, who viewed membership as something sacramentally inalienable, seemed shocked, as though the suggestion bordered on sacrilege, and wondered how any government should feel tempted to take such a step. signor orlando was of a different opinion. "however precious the privilege of membership may be," he said, "it would be a comfort always to know that you could divest yourself of it at will. i am shut up in my room all day working. i do not go into the open air any oftener than a prisoner might. but i console myself with the thought that i can go out whenever i take it into my head. and i am sure a similar reflection on membership of the league would be equally soothing. i am in favor of the motion." the center of interest during the drafting of the covenant lay in the clause proclaiming the equality of religions, which mr. wilson was bent on having passed at all costs, if not in one form, then in another. this is one example of the occasional visibility of the religious thread which ran through a good deal of his personal work at the conference. for it is a fact--not yet realized even by the delegates themselves--that distinctly religious motives inspired much that was done by the conference on what seemed political or social grounds. the strategy adopted by the eminent american statesman to have his stipulation accepted proceeded in this case on the lines of a humanitarian resolve to put an end to sanguinary wars rather than on those which the average reformer, bent on cultural progress, would have traced. actuality was imparted to this simple and yet thorny topic by a concrete proposal which the president made one day. what he is reported to have said is briefly this: "as the treatment of religious confessions has been in the past, and may again in the future be, a cause of sanguinary wars, it seems desirable that a clause should be introduced into the covenant establishing absolute liberty for creeds and confessions." "on what, mr. president," asked the first polish delegate, "do you found your assertion that wars are still brought about by the differential treatment meted out to religions? does contemporary history bear out this statement? and, if not, what likelihood is there that religious inequality will precipitate sanguinary conflicts in the future?" to this pointed question mr. wilson is said to have made the characteristic reply that he considered it expedient to assume this nexus between religious inequality and war as the safest way of bringing the matter forward. if he were to proceed on any other lines, he added, there would be truth and force in the objection which would doubtless be raised, that the conference was intruding upon the domestic affairs of sovereign states. as that charge would damage the cause, it must be rebutted in advance. and for this purpose he deemed it prudent to approach the subject from the side he had chosen. this reply was listened to in silence and unfavorably commented upon later. the alleged relation between such religious inequality as has survived into the twentieth century and such wars as are waged nowadays is so obviously fictitious that one can hardly understand the line of reasoning that led to its assumption, or the effect which the fiction could be supposed to have on the minds of those legislators who might be opposed to the measure on the ground that it involved undue interference in the internal affairs of sovereign states. the motion was referred to a commission, which in due time presented a report. mr. wilson was absent when the report came up for discussion, his place being taken by colonel house. the atmosphere was chilly, only a couple of the delegates being disposed to support the clause--rumania's representative, m. diamandi, was one, and another was baron makino, whose help colonel house would gladly have dispensed with, so inacceptable was the condition it carried with it. baron makino said that he entirely agreed with colonel house and the american delegates. the equality of religious confessions was not merely desirable, but necessary to the smooth working of a society of nations such as they were engaged in establishing. he held, however, that it should be extended to races, that extension being also a corollary of the principle underlying the new international ordering. he would therefore move the insertion of a clause proclaiming the equality of races and religions. at this colonel house looked pensive. nearly all the other opinions were hostile to colonel house's motion. the reasons alleged by each of the dissenting lawgivers were interesting. lord robert cecil surprised many of his colleagues by informing them that in england the catholics, who are fairly treated as things are, could not possibly be set on a footing of perfect equality with their protestant fellow-citizens, because the constitution forbids it. nor could the british people be asked to alter their constitution. he gave as instances of the slight inequality at present enforced the circumstance that no catholic can ascend the throne as monarch, nor sit on the woolsack as lord chancellor in the upper house. m. larnaude, speaking in the name of france, stated that his country had passed through a sequence of embarrassments caused by legislation on the relations between the catholics and the state, and that the introduction of a clause enacting perfect equality might revive controversies which were happily losing their sharpness. he considered it, therefore, inadvisable to settle this delicate matter by inserting the proposed declaration in the covenant. belgium's first delegate, m. hymans, pointed out that the objection taken by his government was of a different but equally cogent character. there was reason to apprehend that the flemings might avail themselves of the equality clause to raise awkward issues and to sow seeds of dissension. on those grounds he would like to see the proposal waived. signor orlando half seriously, half jokingly, reminded his colleagues that none of their countries had, like his, a pope in their capital. the italian government must, therefore, proceed in religious matters with the greatest circumspection, and could not lightly assent to any measure capable of being manipulated to the detriment of the public interest. hence he was unable to give the motion his support. it was finally suggested that both proposals be withdrawn. to this colonel house demurred, on the ground that president wilson, who was unavoidably absent, attached very great weight to the declaration, to which he hoped the delegates would give their most favorable consideration. one of the members then rose and said, "in that case we had better postpone the voting until mr. wilson can attend." this suggestion was adopted. when the matter came up for discussion at a subsequent sitting, the japanese substituted "nations" for "races." in the meantime the usual arts of parliamentary emergency were practised outside the conference to induce the japanese to withdraw their proposal altogether. they were told that to accept or refuse it would be to damage the cause of the future league without furthering their own. but the marquis saionji and baron makino refused to yield an inch of their ground. a conversation then took place between the premier of australia, on the one side, and baron makino and viscount chinda, on the other, with a view to their reaching a compromise. for mr. hughes was understood to be the leader of those who opposed any declaration of racial equality. the japanese statesmen showed him their amendment, and asked him whether he could suggest a modification that would satisfy himself and them. the answer was in the negative. to the arguments of the japanese delegates the australian premier is understood to have replied: "i am willing to admit the equality of the japanese as a nation, and also of individuals man to man. but i do not admit the consequence that we should throw open our country to them. it is not that we hold them to be inferior to ourselves, but simply that we do not want them. economically they are a perturbing factor, because they accept wages much below the minimum for which our people are willing to work. neither do they blend well with our people. hence we do not want them to marry our women. those are my reasons. we mean no offense. our restrictive legislation is not aimed specially at the japanese. british subjects in india are affected by it in exactly the same way. it is impossible that we should formulate any modifications of your amendment, because there is no modification conceivable that would satisfy us both." the japanese delegates were understood to say that they would maintain their motion, and that unless it passed they would not sign the document. mr. hughes retorted that if it should pass he would refuse to sign. finally the australian premier asked baron makino whether he would be satisfied with the following qualifying proviso: "this affirmation of the principle of equality is not to be applied to immigration or nationalization." baron makino and viscount chinda both answered in the negative and withdrew. the final act[ ] is described by eye-witnesses as follows. congruously with the order of the day, president wilson having moved that the city of geneva be selected as the capital of the future league, obtained a majority, whereupon he announced that the motion had passed. then came the burning question of the equality of nations.[ ] the polish delegate arose and opposed it on the formal ground that nothing ought to be inserted in the preamble which was not dealt with also in the body of the covenant, as otherwise it would be no more than an isolated theory devoid of organic connection with the whole. the japanese delegates delivered speeches of cogent argument and impressive debating power. baron makino made out a very strong case for the equality of nations. viscount chinda followed in a trenchant discourse, which was highly appreciated by his hearers, nearly all of whom recognized the justice of the japanese claim. the japanese delegates refused to be dazzled by the circumstances that japan was to be represented on the executive council as one of the five great powers, and that the rejection of the proposed amendment could not therefore be construed as a diminution of her prestige. this consideration, they retorted, was wholly irrelevant to the question whether or no the nations were to be recognized as equal. they ended by refusing to withdraw their modified amendment and calling for a vote. the result was a majority for the amendment. mr. wilson thereupon announced that a majority was insufficient to justify its adoption, and that nothing less than absolute unanimity could be regarded as adequate. at this a delegate objected: "mr. wilson, you have just accepted a majority for your own motion respecting geneva; on what grounds, may i ask, do you refuse to abide by a majority vote on the amendment of the japanese delegation?" "the two cases are different," was the reply. "on the subject of the seat of the league unanimity is unattainable." this closed the official discussion. some time later, it is asserted, the rumanians, who had supported mr. wilson's motion on religious equality, were approached on the subject, and informed that it would be agreeable to the american delegates to have the original proposal brought up once more. such a motion, it was added, would come with especial propriety from the rumanians, who, in the person of m. diamandi, had advocated it from the outset. but the rumanian delegates hesitated, pleading the invincible opposition of the japanese. they were assured, however, that the japanese would no longer discountenance it. thereupon they broached the matter to lord robert cecil, but he, with his wonted caution, replied that it was a delicate subject to handle, especially after the experience they had already had. as for himself, he would rather leave the initiative to others. could the rumanian delegates not open their minds to colonel house, who took the amendment so much to heart? they acted on this suggestion and called on colonel house. he, too, however, declared that it was a momentous as well as a thorny topic, and for that reason had best be referred to the head of the american delegation. president wilson, having originated the amendment, was the person most qualified to take direct action. it is further affirmed that they sounded the president as to the advisability of mooting the question anew, but that he declined to face another vote, and the matter was dropped for good--in that form. it was publicly asserted later on that the japanese decided to abide by the rejection of their amendment and to sign the covenant as the result of a bargain on the shantung dispute. this report, however, was pulverized by the japanese delegation, which pointed out that the introduction of the racial clause was decided upon before the delegates left japan, and when no difficulties were anticipated respecting japan's claim to have that province ceded to her by germany, and that the discussion on the amendment terminated on april th, consequently before the kiaochow issue came up for discussion. as a matter of fact, the japanese publicly announced their intention to adhere to the league of nations two days[ ] before a decision was reached respecting their claims to kiaochow. this adverse note on mr. wilson's pet scheme to have religious equality proclaimed as a means of hindering sanguinary wars brought to its climax the reaction of the conference against what it regarded as a systematic endeavor to establish the overlordship of the anglo-saxon peoples in the world. the plea that wars may be provoked by such religious inequality as still survives was so unreal that it awakened a twofold suspicion in the minds of many of mr. wilson's colleagues. most of them believed that a pretext was being sought to enable the leading powers to intervene in the domestic concerns of all the other states, so as to keep them firmly in hand, and use them as means to their own ends. and these ends were looked upon as anything but disinterested. unhappily this conviction was subsequently strengthened by certain of the measures decreed by the supreme council between april and the close of the conference. the misgivings of other delegates turned upon a matter which at first sight may appear so far removed from any of the pressing issues of the twentieth century as to seem wholly imaginary. they feared that a religious--some would call it racial--bias lay at the root of mr. wilson's policy. it may seem amazing to some readers, but it is none the less a fact that a considerable number of delegates believed that the real influences behind the anglo-saxon peoples were semitic. they confronted the president's proposal on the subject of religious inequality, and, in particular, the odd motive alleged for it, with the measures for the protection of minorities which he subsequently imposed on the lesser states, and which had for their keynote to satisfy the jewish elements in eastern europe. and they concluded that the sequence of expedients framed and enforced in this direction were inspired by the jews, assembled in paris for the purpose of realizing their carefully thought-out program, which they succeeded in having substantially executed. however right or wrong these delegates may have been, it would be a dangerous mistake to ignore their views, seeing that they have since become one of the permanent elements of the situation. the formula into which this policy was thrown by the members of the conference, whose countries it affected, and who regarded it as fatal to the peace of eastern europe, was this: "henceforth the world will be governed by the anglo-saxon peoples, who, in turn, are swayed by their jewish elements." it is difficult to convey an adequate notion of the warmth of feeling--one might almost call it the heat of passion--which this supposed discovery generated. the applications of the theory to many of the puzzles of the past were countless and ingenious. the illustrations of the manner in which the policy was pursued, and the cajolery and threats which were said to have been employed in order to insure its success, covered the whole history of the conference, and presented it through a new and possibly distorted medium. the morbid suspicions current may have been the natural vein of men who had passed a great part of their lives in petty racial struggles; but according to common account, it was abundantly nurtured at the conference by the lack of reserve and moderation displayed by some of the promoters of the minority clauses who were deficient in the sense of measure. what the eastern delegates said was briefly this: "the tide in our countries was flowing rapidly in favor of the jews. all the east european governments which had theretofore wronged them were uttering their _mea culpa_, and had solemnly promised to turn over a new leaf. nay, they had already turned it. we, for example, altered our legislation in order to meet by anticipation the legitimate wishes of the conference and the pressing demands of the jews. we did quite enough to obviate decrees which might impair our sovereignty or lessen our prestige. poland and rumania issued laws establishing absolute equality between the jews and their own nationals. all discrimination had ceased. immigrant hebrews from russia received the full rights of citizenship and became entitled to fill any office in the state. in a word, all the old disabilities were abolished and the fervent prayer of east european governments was that the jewish members of their respective communities should be gradually assimilated to the natives and become patriotic citizens like them. it was a new ideal. it accorded to the jews everything they had asked for. it would enable them to show themselves as the french, italian, and belgian jews had shown themselves, efficient citizens of their adopted countries. "but in the flush of their triumph, the jews, or rather their spokesmen at the conference, were not satisfied with equality. what they demanded was inequality to the detriment of the races whose hospitality they were enjoying and to their own supposed advantage. they were to have the same rights as the rumanians, the poles, and the other peoples among whom they lived, but they were also to have a good deal more. their religious autonomy was placed under the protection of an alien body, the league, which is but another name for the powers which have reserved to themselves the governance of the world. the method is to oblige each of the lesser states to bestow on each minority the same rights as the majority enjoys, and also certain privileges over and above. the instrument imposing this obligation is a formal treaty with the great powers which the poles, rumanians, and other small states were summoned to sign. it contains twenty-one articles. the first part of the document deals with minorities generally, the latter with the jewish elements. the second clause of the polish treaty enacts that every individual who habitually resided in poland on august , , becomes a citizen forthwith. this is simple. is it also satisfactory? many frenchmen and poles doubt it, as we do ourselves. on august st numerous german and austrian agents and spies, many of them hebrews, resided habitually in poland. moreover, the foreign jewish elements there, which have immigrated from russia, having lost--like everybody else before the war--the expectation of seeing polish independence ever restored, had definitely thrown in their lot with the enemies of poland. now to put into the hands of such enemies constitutional weapons is already a sacrifice and a risk. the jews in vilna recently voted solidly against the incorporation of that city in poland.[ ] are they to be treated as loyal polish citizens? we have conceded the point unreservedly. but to give them autonomy over and above, to create a state within the state, and enable its subjects to call in foreign powers at every hand's turn, against the lawfully constituted authorities--that is an expedient which does not commend itself to the newly emancipated peoples." the rumanian premier bratiano, whose conspicuous services to the allied cause entitled him to a respectful hearing, delivered a powerful speech[ ] before the delegates assembled in plenary session on this question of protecting ethnic and religious minorities. he covered ground unsurveyed by the framers of the special treaties, and his sincere tone lent weight to his arguments. starting from the postulate that the strength of latter-day states depends upon the widest participation of all the elements of the population in the government of the country, he admitted the peremptory necessity of abolishing invidious distinctions between the various elements of the population there, ethnic or religious. so far, he was at one with the spokesmen of the great powers. rumania, however, had already accomplished this by the decree enabling her jews to acquire full citizenship by expressing the mere desire according to a simple formula. this act confers the full rights of rumanian citizens upon eight hundred thousand jews. the jewish press of bucharest had already given utterance to its entire satisfaction. if, however, the jews are now to be placed in a special category, differentiated and kept apart from their fellow-citizens by having autonomous institutions, by the maintenance of the german-yiddish dialect, which keeps alive the teuton anti-rumanian spirit, and by being authorized to regard the rumanian state as an inferior tribunal, from which an appeal always lies to a foreign body--the government of the great powers--this would be the most invidious of all distinctions, and calculated to render the assimilation of the german-yiddish-speaking jews to their rumanian fellow-citizens a sheer impossibility. the majority and the minority would then be systematically and definitely estranged from each other; and, seeing this, the elemental instincts of the masses might suddenly assume untoward forms, which the treaty, if ratified, would be unavailing to prevent. but, however baneful for the population, foreign protection is incomparably worse for the state, because it tends to destroy the cement that holds the government and people together, and ultimately to bring about disintegration. a classic example of this process of disruption is russia's well-meant protection of the persecuted christians in turkey. in this case the motive was admirable, the necessity imperative, but the result was the dismemberment of turkey and other changes, some of which one would like to forget. the delegation of czechoslovakia, jugoslavia, and poland upheld m. bratiano's contentions in brief, pithy speeches. president wilson's lengthy rejoinder, delivered with more than ordinary sweetness, deprecated m. bratiano's comparison of the allies' proposed intervention with russia's protection of the christians of turkey, and represented the measure as emanating from the purest kindness. he said that the great powers were now bestowing national existence or extensive territories upon the interested states, actually guaranteeing their frontiers, and therefore making themselves responsible for permanent tranquillity there. but the treatment of the minorities, he added, unless fair and considerate, might produce the gravest troubles and even precipitate wars. therefore it behooved the powers in the interests of all europe, as of each of its individual members, to secure harmonious relations, and, at any rate, to remove all manifest obstacles to their establishment. "we guarantee your frontiers and your territories. that means that we will send over arms, ships, and men, in case of necessity. therefore we possess the right and recognize the duty to hinder the survival of a set of deplorable conditions which would render this intervention unavoidable." to this line of reasoning m. bratiano made answer that all the helpful maxims of good government are of universal application, and, therefore, if this protection of minorities were, indeed, indispensable or desirable, it should not be restricted to the countries of eastern europe, but should be extended to all without exception. for it is inadmissible that two categories of states should be artificially created, one endowed with full sovereignty and the other with half-sovereignty. such an arrangement would destroy the equality which should lie at the base of a genuine league of nations. but the powers had made up their minds, and the special treaties were imposed on the unwilling governments. thereupon the rumanian premier withdrew from the conference, and neither his cabinet nor that of the jugoslavs signed the treaty with austria at st.-germain. what happened after that is a matter of history. few politicians are conscious of the magnitude of the issue concealed by the involved diplomatic phraseology of the obnoxious treaties, or of the dangers to which their enactment will expose the minorities which they were framed to protect, the countries whose hospitality those minorities enjoy, and possibly other lands, which for the time being are seemingly immune from all such perilous race problems. the calculable, to say nothing of the unascertained, elements of the question might well cause responsible statesmen to be satisfied with the feasible. the jewish elements in europe, for centuries abominably oppressed, were justified in utilizing to the fullest the opportunity presented by the resettlement of the world in order to secure equality of treatment. and it must be admitted that their organization is marvelous. for years i championed their cause in russia, and paid the penalty under the governments of alexander ii and iii.[ ] the sympathy of every unbiased man, to whatever race or religion he may belong, will naturally go out to a race or a nation which is trodden underfoot, as were the ill-starred jews of russia ever since the partition of poland. but equality one would have thought sufficient to meet the grievance. full equality without reservation. that was the view taken by numerous jews in poland and rumania, several of whom called on me in paris and urged me to give public utterance to their hopes that the conference would rest satisfied with equality and to their fear of the consequences of an attempt to establish a privileged status. why this position should exist only in eastern europe and not elsewhere, why it should not be extended to other races with larger minorities in other countries, are questions to which a satisfactory response could be given only by farther-reaching and fateful changes in the legislation of the world. one of the statesmen of eastern europe made a forcible appeal to have the minority clauses withdrawn. he took the ground that the principal aim pursued in conferring full rights on the jews who dwell among us is to remove the obstacles that prevent them from becoming true and loyal citizens of the state, as their kindred are in france, italy, britain, and elsewhere. "if it is reasonable," he said, "that they should demand all the rights possessed by their rumanian and polish fellow-subjects, it is equally fair that they should take over and fulfil the correlate duties, as does the remainder of the population. for the gradual assimilation of all the ethnic elements of the community is our ideal, as it is the ideal of the french, english, italian, and other states. "isolation and particularism are the negative of that ideal, and operate like a piece of iron or wood in the human body which produces ulceration and gangrene. all our institutions should therefore be calculated to encourage assimilation. if we adopt the opposite policy, we inevitably alienate the privileged from the unprivileged sections of the community, generate enmity between them, cause endless worries to the administration and paralyze in advance our best-intentioned endeavors to fuse the various ethnic ingredients of the nation into a homogeneous whole. "this argument applies as fully to the other national fragments in our midst as to the jews. it is manifest, therefore, that the one certain result of the minority clause will be to impose domestic enemies on each of the states that submits to it, and that it can commend itself only to those who approve the maxim, _divide et impera_. "it also entails the noteworthy diminution of the sovereignty of the state. we are to be liable to be haled before a foreign tribunal whenever one of our minorities formulates a complaint against us.[ ] how easily, nay, how wickedly such complaints were filed of late may be inferred from the heartrending accounts of pogroms in poland, which have since been shown by the allies' own confidential envoys to be utterly fictitious. again, with whom are we to make the obnoxious stipulations? with the league of nations? no. we are to bind ourselves toward the great powers, who themselves have their minorities which complain in vain of being continually coerced. ireland, egypt, and the negroes are three striking examples. none of their delegates were admitted to the conference. if the principle which those great powers seek to enforce be worth anything, it should be applied indiscriminately to all minorities, not restricted to those of the smaller states, who already have difficulties enough to contend against." the trend of continental opinion was decidedly opposed to this policy of continuous control and periodic intervention. it would be unfruitful to quote the sharp criticisms of the status of the negroes in the united states.[ ] but it will not be amiss to cite the views of two moderate french publicists who have ever been among the most fervent advocates of the allied cause. their comments deal with one of the articles[ ] of the special minority treaty which poland has had to sign. it runs thus: "jews shall not be compelled to perform any act which constitutes a violation of their sabbath, nor shall they be placed under any disability by reason of their refusal to attend courts of law or to perform any legal business on their sabbath. this provision, however, shall not exempt jews from such obligations as shall be imposed upon all other polish citizens for the necessary purposes of military service, national defense, or the preservation of public order. "poland declares her intention to refrain from ordering or permitting elections, whether general or local, to be held on a saturday, nor will registration for electoral or other purposes be compelled to be performed on a saturday." m. gauvain writes: "one may put the question, why respect for the sabbath is so peremptorily imposed when sunday is ignored among several of the allied powers. in france christians are not dispensed from appearing on sundays before the assize courts. besides, poland is further obliged not to order or authorize elections on a saturday. what precautions these are in favor of the jewish religion as compared with the legislation of many allied states which have no such ordinances in favor of catholicism! is the same procedure to be adopted toward the moslems? shall we behold the famous mussulmans of india, so opportunely drawn from the shade by mr. montagu, demanding the insertion of clauses to protect islam? will the zionists impose their dogmas in palestine? is the life of a nation to be suspended two, three, or four days a week in order that religious laws may be observed? catholicism has adapted itself in practice to laic legislation and to the exigencies of modern life. it may well seem that judaism in poland could do likewise. in rumania, the jews met with no obstacle to the exercise of their religion. indeed, they had contrived in the localities to the north of moldavia, where they formed a majority, to impose their own customs on the rest of the population. jewish guardians of toll-bridges are known to have barred the passage of these bridges on saturdays, because, on the one hand, their religion forbade them to accept money on that day, and, on the other hand, they could allow no one to pass without paying. the big four might have given their attention to matters more useful or more pressing than enforcing respect for the sabbath. "it is comprehensible that m. bratiano should have refused to accept in advance the conditions which the four or the five may dictate in favor of ethnic and religious minorities. rumania before the war was a free country governed congruously with the most modern principles. the restrictions which she had enacted respecting foreigners in general, and which were on the point of being repealed, did not exceed those which the united states and the dominion of australia still apply with remarkable tenacity. why should the cabinets of london and washington take so much to heart the lot of ethnic and religious minorities in certain european countries while they themselves refuse to admit in the covenant of the society of nations the principle of the equality of races? their conduct is awakening among the states 'whose interests are limited' the belief that they are the victims of an arbitrary policy. and that is not without danger."[ ] another eminent frenchman, m. denis cochin, who until quite recently was a cabinet minister, wrote: "the conference, by imposing laws in favor of minorities, has uselessly and unjustly offended our allies. these laws oblige them to respect the usages of the jews, to maintain schools for them.... i have spent a large part of my career in demanding for french catholics exactly that which the conference imposes elsewhere. the catholics pay taxes in money and taxes in blood. and yet there is no budget for those schools in which their religion is taught; no liberty for those schoolmasters who wear the ecclesiastical habit. i have seen a doctor in letters, fellow of the university, driven from his class because he was a marist brother and did not choose to repudiate the vocation of his youth. he died of grief. i have seen young priests, after the long, laborious preparation necessary before they could take part in the competition for a university fellowship, thrust aside at the last moment and debarred from the competition because they wore the garb of priests. yet a year later they were soldiers. i have seen father schell presented unanimously by the institute and the professional corps as worthy to receive a chair at the collège de france, and refused by the minister. yet i hereby affirm that if foreigners, even though they were allies, even friends, were to meddle with imposing on us the abrogation of these iniquitous laws, my protest would be uplifted against them, together with that of m. combes.[ ] i would exclaim, like sganarelle's wife, 'and what if i wish to be beaten?' i hold tyranny in horror, but i hold foreign intervention in greater horror still. let us combat bad laws with all our strength, but among ourselves."[ ] the minority treaties tend to transform each of the states on which it is imposed into a miniature balkans, to keep europe in continuous turmoil and hinder the growth of the new and creative ideas from which alone one could expect that union of collective energy with individual freedom which is essential to peace and progress. modern history affords no more striking example of the force of abstract bias over the teachings of experience than this amateur legislation which is scattering seeds of mischief and conflict throughout europe. * * * * * casting a final glance at the results of the conference, it would be ungracious not to welcome as a precious boon the destruction of prussian militarism, a consummation which we owe to the heroism of the armies rather than to the sagacity of the lawgivers in paris. the restoration of a polish state and the creation or extension of the other free communities at the expense of the central empires are also most welcome changes, which, however, ought never to have been marred by the disruptive wedge of the minority legislation. again, although the league is a mill whose sails uselessly revolve, because it has no corn to grind, the mere fact that the necessity of internationalism was solemnly proclaimed as the central idea of the new ordering, and that an effort, however feeble, was put forth to realize it in the shape of a covenant of social and moral fellowship, marks an advance from which there can be no retrogression. actuality was thereby imparted to the idea, which is destined to remain in the forefront of contemporary politics until the peoples themselves embody it in viable institutions. what the delegates failed to realize is the truth that a program of a league is not a league. on the debit side much might be added to what has already been said. the important fact to bear in mind--which in itself calls for neither praise nor blame--is that the world-parliament was at bottom an anglo-saxon assembly whose language, political conceptions, self-esteem, and disregard of everything foreign were essentially english. when speaking, the faces of the principal delegates were turned toward the future, and when acting they looked toward the past. as a thoroughly english press organ, when alluding to the league of nations, puts it: "we have done homage to that entrancing ideal by spatchcocking the convention into the treaty. there it remains as a finger-post to point the way to a new heaven on earth. but we observe that the treaty itself is a good old eighteenth-century piece, drawing its inspiration from mundane and practical considerations, and paying a good deal more than lip service to the principle of the balance of power."[ ] that is a fair estimate of the work achieved by the delegates. but they sinned in their way of doing it. if they had deliberately and professedly aimed at these results, and had led the world to look for none other, most of the criticisms to which they have rendered themselves open would be pointless. but they raised hopes which they refused to realize, they weakened if they did not destroy faith in public treaties, they intensified distrust and race hatred throughout the world, they poured strong dissolvents upon every state on the european continent, and they stirred up fierce passions in russia, and then left that ill-starred nation a prey to unprecedented anarchy. in a word, they gathered up all the widely scattered explosives of imperialism, nationalism, and internationalism, and, having added to their destructiveness, passed them on to the peoples of the world as represented by the league of nations. some of them deplored the mess in which they were leaving the nations, without, however, admitting the causal nexus between it and their own achievements. general smuts, before quitting paris for south africa, frankly admitted that the peace treaty will not give us the real peace which the peoples hoped for, and that peace-making would not begin until after the signing of the treaty. the _echo de paris_ wrote: "as for us, we never believed in the society of nations."[ ] and again: "the society of nations is now but a bladder, and nobody would venture to describe it as a lantern."[ ] the bolshevist dictator lenin termed it "an organization to loot the world."[ ] the allies themselves are at sixes and sevens. the french are suspicious of the british. a large section of the american people is profoundly dissatisfied with the part played by the english and the french at the conference; italy is stung to the quick by the treatment she received from france, britain, and the united states; rumania loathes the very names of those for whom she staked her all and sacrificed so much; in poland and belgium the english have lost the consideration which they enjoyed before the conference; the greeks are wroth with the american delegates; the majority of russians literally execrate their ex-allies and turn to the germans and the japanese. "the resettlement of central europe," writes an american journal,[ ] "is not being made for the tranquillity of the liberated principles, but for the purposes of the great powers, among whom france is the active, and america and britain the passive, partners. in germany its purpose is the permanent elimination of the german nation as a factor in european politics.... we cannot save europe by playing the sinister game now being played. there is no peace, no order, no security in it.... what it can do is to aggravate the mischief and intensify the schisms." a distinguished american, who is a consistent friend of england,[ ] in a review article affirmed that the proposed league of nations is slowly undermining the anglo-american entente. "there is in america a growing sense of irritation that she should be forever entangled in the spider-web of european politics." ... and if the senate in the supposed interests of peace should ratify the league, he adds, "in my judgment no greater harm could result to anglo-american unity than such reluctant consent."[ ] some of mr. wilson's fellow-countrymen who gave him their whole-hearted support when he undertook to establish a régime of right and justice sum up the result of his labors in paris as follows:[ ] "his solemn warning against special alliances emerged as a special alliance with britain and france. his repeated condemnations of secret treaties emerges as a recognition that 'they could not honorably be brushed aside,' even though they conflicted with equally binding public engagements entered into after they had been written. openly arrived at covenants were not openly arrived at. the removal, so far as possible, of all economic barriers was applied to german barriers, and accompanied by the blockade of a people with whom we have never been at war. the adequate guaranties to be given and taken as respects armaments were taken from germany and given to no one. the 'unhampered and unembarrassed opportunity for the independent determination of her own political development' promised to russia, and defined as the 'acid test,' has been worked out by mr. wilson and others to a point where so cautious a man as mr. asquith says he regards it with 'bewilderment and apprehension.' the righting of the wrong done in emerges as a concealed annexation of the boundary of . the 'clearly recognizable lines of nationality' which italy was to obtain has been wheedled into annexations which have moved viscount bryce to denounce them. 'the freest opportunity of autonomous development' promised the peoples of austria-hungary failed to define the austrians as peoples...." whatever the tests one applies to the work of the conference--ethical, social, or political--they reveal it as a factor eminently calculated to sap high interests, to weaken the moral nerve of the present generation, to fan the flames of national and racial hatred, to dig an abyss between the classes and the masses, and to throw open the sluice-gates to the inrush of the waves of anarchist internationalities. truth, justice, equity, and liberty have been twisted and pressed into the service of economico-political boards. in the united states the people who prided themselves on their aloofness are already fighting over european interests. in europe every nation's hand is raised against its neighbors, and every people's hand against its ruling class. every government is making its policy subservient to the needs of the future war which is universally looked upon as an unavoidable outcome of the versailles peace. imperialism and militarism are striking roots in soil where they were hitherto unknown. in a word, prussianism, instead of being destroyed, has been openly adopted by its ostensible enemies, and the huge sacrifices offered up by the heroic armies of the foremost nations are being misused to give one half of the world just cause to rise up against the other half. the end footnotes: [ ] a contemporary of goethe. his works were republished by herzog in the year . [ ] _the daily telegraph_, january , . [ ] _the daily telegraph_, january , . [ ] _the daily mail_ (paris edition), february , . [ ] state-secretary hay addressed a note to the powers in september, , setting forth america's attitude toward china. it is known as the doctrine of the "open door." in a subsequent note (july , ) he enlarged its scope and promulgated the integrity of china. but russia ignored it and flew her flag over the chinese customs in newchwang. it was japan who, on that occasion, asserted and enforced the doctrine without outside help. [ ] general march intimated, when testifying before the house military committee, that president wilson approved of universal training, indorsing the war department's army program.--_new york herald_ (paris edition). [ ] _bulletin des droits de l'homme_, no. , may , . [ ] _journal officiel_, november , . [ ] _le populaire_, february , . [ ] _la stampa_, june , . cf. _l'humanité,_ june , . [ ] cf. _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), august , . [ ] in _the daily telegraph_, february , . [ ] the covenant leaves the mode of recruiting them undetermined. [ ] article iv. [ ] article viii. [ ] m. d'estournelles de constant, _bulletin des droits de l'homme_, may , , p. . [ ] _ibid._ [ ] _ibid._, p. . [ ] article xii. [ ] cf. _the new york herald_ (paris edition), september , . [ ] _l'echo de paris_, february , . [ ] on april , . [ ] the wording of the final japanese amendment was: "by the endorsement of the principle of equality of nations and just treatment of their nationals." [ ] on april , . [ ] the jewish coalition in vilna inscribed on its program the union of vilna with russia.... there was an overwhelming majority in favor of its retention by poland.--_le temps_, september , . the election took place on september th. [ ] on saturday, may , . [ ] i published several series of articles in _the daily telegraph_, _the fortnightly review_, and other english as well as american periodicals, and a long chapter in my book entitled _russian characteristics_. [ ] "poland agrees that any member of the council of the league of nations shall have the right to bring to the attention of the council any infraction, or _any danger of infraction_, of any of these obligations, and that the council may thereupon take such action and give such direction as it may deem proper and effective in the circumstances."--article xii of the special treaty with poland. [ ] cf. _la gazette de lausanne_, april , . [ ] article xi of the special treaty, _l'etoile belge_, august , . [ ] _le journal des débats_, july , . [ ] m. emile combes was the author of the laws which banished religious congregations from france. [ ] _le figaro_, august , . _l'echo de paris_, august , . [ ] _the morning post_, july , . [ ] _l'echo de paris_, april , . [ ] _ibid._, april , . [ ] _the chicago tribune_ (paris edition), september , . [ ] _the new republic_, august , . [ ] mr. james b. beck. [ ] _the north american review_, june, . [ ] cf. _the new republic_, august , , pp. , . none a chair on the boulevard by leonard merrick with an introduction by a. neil lyons contents i the tragedy of a comic song ii tricotrin entertains iii the fatal florozonde iv the opportunity of petitpas v the cafÉ of the broken heart vi the dress clothes of monsieur pomponnet vii the suicides in the rue sombre viii the conspiracy for claudine ix the doll in the pink silk dress x the last effect xi an invitation to dinner xii the judgment of paris xiii the fairy poodle xiv little-flower-of-the-wood xv a miracle in montmartre xvi the danger of being a twin xvii hercules and aphrodite xviii "pardon, you are mademoiselle girard!" xix how tricotrin saw london xx the infidelity of monsieur noulens introduction these disjointed thoughts about one of leonard merrick's most articulate books must begin with a personal confession. for many years i walked about this earth avoiding the works of leonard merrick, as other men might have avoided an onion. this insane aversion was created in my mind chiefly by admirers of what is called the "cheerful" note in fiction. such people are completely agreed in pronouncing mr. merrick to be a pessimistic writer. i hate pessimistic writers. years ago, when i was of an age when the mind responds acutely to exterior impressions, some well-meaning uncle, or other fool, gave me a pessimistic book to read. this was a work of fiction which the british public had hailed as a masterpiece of humour. it represented, with an utter fury of pessimism, the spiritual inadequacies of--but why go into details. now, i have to confess that for a long time i did mr. merrick the extraordinary injustice of believing him to be the author of that popular masterpiece. the mistake, though intellectually unpardonable, may perhaps be condoned on other grounds. by virtue of that process of thought which we call the "association of ideas," i naturally connected mr. merrick with this work of super-pessimism; my friends being so confirmed in their belief that he was a super-pessimist. but by virtue of a fortunate accident, i at last got the truth about mr. merrick. this event arose from the action of a right-minded butcher, who, having exhausted his stock of _the pigeon-fancier's gazette_, sent me my weekly supply of dog-bones wrapped about with leonard merrick. these dog-bones happened to reach my house at a moment when no other kind of literary nutriment was to be had. having nothing better to read i read the dog-bone wrappers. thus, by dog-bones, was i brought to merrick: the most jolly, amusing, and optimistic of all spiritual friends. the book to which these utterances are prefixed is to my mind one of the few _really_ amusing books which have been published in england during my lifetime. but, then, i think that all of mr. merrick's books are amusing: even his "earnest" books, such as _the actor-manager, when love flies out o' the window_, or _the position of peggy harper_. it is, of course, true that such novels as these are unlikely to be found congenial by those persons who derive entertainment from fiction like my uncle's present. on the other hand, there are people in the world with a capacity for being amused by psychological inquiry. to such people i would say: "don't miss merrick." the extraordinary cheerfulness of mr. merrick's philosophy is a fact which will impress itself upon all folk who are able to take a really cheerful view of life. all of mr. merrick's sermons--i do not hesitate to call his novels "sermons," because no decent novel can be anything else--all his sermons, i say, point to this conclusion: that people who go out deliberately to look for happiness, to kick for it, and fight for it, or who try to buy it with money, will miss happiness; this being a state of heart--a mere outgrowth, more often to be found by a careless and self-forgetful vagrant than by the deliberate and self-conscious seeker. a cheerful doctrine this. not only cheerful, but self-evidently true. how right it is, and how cheerful it is, to think that while philosophers and clergymen strut about this world looking out, and smelling out, for its prime experiences, more careless and less celebrated men are continually finding such things, without effort, without care, in irregular and unconsecrated places. in novel after novel, mr. merrick has preached the same good-humoured, cheerful doctrine: the doctrine of anti-fat. he asks us to believe--he _makes_ us believe--that a man (or woman) is not merely virtuous, but merely sane, who exchanges the fats of fulfilment for the little lean pleasures of honourable hope and high endeavour. oh wise, oh witty mr. merrick! mr. merrick has not, to my knowledge, written one novel in which his hero is represented as having achieved complacency. mr. merrick's heroes all undergo the very human experience of "hitting a snag." they are none of them represented as _enjoying_ this experience; but none of them whimper and none of them "rat." if anybody could prove to me that mr. merrick had ever invented a hero who submitted tamely to tame success, to fat prosperity; or who had stepped, were it ever so lightly, into the dirty morass of accepted comfort, then would i cheerfully admit to anybody that leonard merrick is a pessimistic writer. but until this proof be forthcoming, i stick to my opinion: i stick to the conviction that mr. merrick is the gayest, cheer fullest, and most courageous of living humorists. this opinion is a general opinion, applicable to mr. merrick's general work. this morning, however, i am asked to narrow my field of view: to contemplate not so much mr. merrick at large as mr. merrick in particular: to look at mr. merrick in his relationship to this one particular book: _a chair on the boulevard_. now, if i say, as i have said, that mr. merrick is cheerful in his capacity of solemn novelist, what am i to say of mr. merrick in his lighter aspect, that of a writer of _feuilletons?_ addressing myself to an imaginary audience of magazine enthusiasts, i ask them to tell me whether, judged even by comparison with their favourite fiction, some of the stories to be found in this volume are not exquisitely amusing? the first story in the book--that which mr. merrick calls "the tragedy of a comic song"--is in my view the funniest story of this century: but i don't ask or expect the magazine enthusiast to share this view or to endorse that judgment. "the tragedy of a comic song" is essentially one of those productions in which the reader is expected to collaborate. the author has deliberately contrived certain voids of narrative; and his reader is expected to populate these anecdotal wastes. this is asking more than it is fair to ask of a magazine enthusiast. no genuine magazine reader cares for the elusive or allusive style in fiction. "the tragedy of a comic song" won't do for bouverie street, however well and completely it may do for me. but there are other stories in this book. there is that screaming farce called "the suicides in the rue sombre." now, then, you magazine zealots, speak up and tell me truly: is there anything too difficult for you in this? if so, the psychology of what is called "public taste" becomes a subject not suited to public discussion. the foregoing remarks and considerations apply equally to such stories as "the dress clothes of m. pomponnet" and "tricotrin entertains." there are other stories which delight me, as, for example, "little- flower-of-the-wood": but this jerks us back again to the essential mr. merrick: he who demands collaboration. there are, again, other stories, and yet others; but to write down all their titles here would be merely to transcribe the index page of the book. neither the reader nor i can afford to waste our time like that. i have said nothing about the technical qualities of mr. merrick's work. i don't intend to do so. it has long been a conceit of mine to believe that professional vendors of letterpress should reserve their mutual discussions of technique for technical occasions, such as those when men of like mind and occupation sit at table, with a bottle between them. i am convinced that mr. merrick is a very great and gifted man, deeply skilled in his profession. i can bring forth arguments and proofs to support this conviction; but i fail utterly to see why i should do so. to people who have a sense of that which is sincere and fresh in fiction, these facts will be apparent. to them my arguments and illustrations would be profitless. as for those honest persons to whom the excellencies of merrick are not apparent, i can only think that nothing which i or any other man could say would render them obvious. "happiness is in ourselves," as the vicar remarked to the donkey who was pulling the lawn-mower. good luck, leonard merrick, and good cheer! i shout my greeting to you across the ripples of that inky lake which is our common fishery. a. neil lyons. a chair on the boulevard the tragedy of a comic song i like to monopolise a table in a restaurant, unless a friend is with me, so i resented the young man's presence. besides, he had a melancholy face. if it hadn't been for the piano-organ, i don't suppose i should have spoken to him. as the organ that was afflicting lisle street began to volley a comic song of a day that was dead, he started. "that tune!" he murmured in french. if i did not deceive myself, tears sprang to his eyes. i was curious. certainly, on both sides of the channel, we had long ago had more than enough of the tune--no self-respecting organ-grinder rattled it now. that the young frenchman should wince at the tune i understood. but that he should weep! i smiled sympathetically. "we suffered from it over here as well," i remarked. "i did not know," he said, in english that reproved my french, "it was sung in london also--'partant pour le moulin'?" "under another name," i told him, "it was an epidemic." clearly, the organ had stirred distressing memories in him, for though we fell to chatting, i could see that he neither talked nor dined with any relish. as luck would have it, too, the instrument of torture resumed its répertoire well within hearing, and when "partant pour le moulin" was reached again, he clasped his head. "you find it so painful?" i inquired. "painful?" he exclaimed. "monsieur, it is my 'istory, that comic tune! it is to me romance, tragedy, ruin. will you hear? wait! i shall range my ideas. listen:" * * * * * it is paris, at montmartre--we are before the door of a laundress. a girl approaches. her gaze is troubled, she frowns a little. what ails her? i shall tell you: the laundress has refused to deliver her washing until her bill is paid. and the girl cannot pay it--not till saturday-- and she has need of things to put on. it is a moment of anxiety. she opens the door. some minutes pass. the girl reappears, holding under her arm a little parcel. good! she has triumphed. in coming out she sees a young man, pale, abstracted, who stands before the shop. he does not attempt to enter. he stands motionless, regarding the window with an air forlorn. "ah," she says to herself, "here is another customer who cannot pay his bill!" but wait a little. after 'alf an hour what happens? she sees the young man again! this time he stands before a modest restaurant. does he go in? no, again no! he regards the window sorrowfully. he sighs. the dejection of his attitude would melt a stone. "poor boy," she thought; "he cannot pay for a dinner either!" the affair is not finished. how the summer day is beautiful--she will do some footing! figure yourself that once more she perceives the young man. now it is before the mont-de-piété, the pawnbroker's. she watches him attentively. here, at least, he will enter, she does not doubt. she is wrong. it is the same thing--he regards, he laments, he turns away! "oh, mon dieu," she said. "nothing remains to him to pawn even!" it is too strong! she addressed him: "monsieur!" but, when she has said "monsieur," there is the question how she shall continue. now the young man regards the girl instead of the pawnbroker's. her features are pretty--or "pretty well"; her costume has been made by herself, but it is not bad; and she has chic--above all she has chic. he asks: "what can i have the pleasure to do for you?" remark that she is bohemian, and he also. the conversation was like this: "monsieur, three times this morning i have seen you. it was impossible that i resist speaking. you have grief?" "frightful!" he said. "perhaps," she added timidly, "you have hunger also?" "a hunger insupportable, mademoiselle!" "i myself am extremely hard up, monsieur, but will you permit that i offer you what i can?" "angel!" the young man exclaimed. "there must be wings under your coat. but i beg of you not to fly yet. i shall tell you the reason of my grief. if you will do me the honour to seat yourself at the café opposite, we shall be able to talk more pleasantly." this appeared strange enough, this invitation from a young man who she had supposed was starving; but wait a little! her amazement increased when, to pay for the wine he had ordered, her companion threw on to the table a bank-note with a gesture absolutely careless. she was in danger of distrusting her eyes. "is it a dream?" she cried. "is it a vision from the _thousand and one nights_, or is it really a bank-note?" "mademoiselle, it is the mess of pottage," the young man answered gloomily. "it is the cause of my sadness: for that miserable money, and more that is to come, i have sold my birthright." she was on a ship--no, what is it, your expression?--"at sea"! "i am a poet," he explained; "but perhaps you may not know my work; i am not celebrated. i am tricotrin, mademoiselle--gustave tricotrin, at your feet! for years i have written, aided by ambition, and an uncle who manufactures silk in lyons. well, the time is arrived when he is monstrous, this uncle. he says to me, 'gustave, this cannot last--you make no living, you make nothing but debts. (my tragedies he ignores.) either you must be a poet who makes money, or you must be a partner who makes silk,' how could i defy him?--he holds the purse. it was unavoidable that i stooped. he has given me a sum to satisfy my creditors, and monday i depart for lyons. in the meantime, i take tender farewells of the familiar scenes i shall perhaps never behold again." "how i have been mistaken!" she exclaimed. and then: "but the hunger you confessed?" "of the soul, mademoiselle," said the poet--"the most bitter!" "and you have no difficulties with the laundress?" "none," he groaned. "but in the bright days of poverty that have fled for ever, i have had many difficulties with her. this morning i reconstituted the situation--i imagined myself without a sou, and without a collar." "the little restaurant," she questioned, "where i saw you dining on the odour?" "i figured fondly to myself that i was ravenous and that i dared not enter. it was sublime." "the mont-de-piété?" "there imagination restored to me the vanished moments when i have mounted with suspense, and my least deplorable suit of clothes." his emotion was profound. "it is my youth to which i am bidding adieu!" he cried. "it is more than that--it is my aspirations and my renown!" "but you have said that you have no renown," she reminded him. "so much the more painful," said the young man; "the hussy we could not win is always the fairest--i part from renown even more despairingly than from youth." she felt an amusement, an interest. but soon it was the turn of him to feel an interest--the interest that had consequences so important, so 'eart-breaking, so _fatales_! he had demanded of her, most naturally, her history, and this she related to him in a style dramatic. myself, i have not the style dramatic, though i avow to you i admire that. "we are in a provincial town," she said to the young man, "we are in rouen--the workroom of a modiste. have no embarrassment, monsieur tricotrin, you, at least, are invisible to the girls who sew! they sew all day and talk little--already they are _tristes_, resigned. among them sits one who is different--one passionate, ambitious--a girl who burns to be _divette_, singer, who is devoured by longings for applause, fashion, wealth. she has made the acquaintance of a little pastrycook. he has become fascinated, they are affianced. in a month she will be married." the young man, tricotrin, well understood that the girl she described was herself. "what does she consider while she sits sewing?" she continued. "that the pastrycook loves her, that he is generous, that she will do her most to be to him a good wife? not at all. far from that! she considers, on the contrary, that she was a fool to promise him; she considers how she shall escape--from him, from rouen, from her ennui-- she seeks to fly to paris. alas! she has no money, not a franc. and she sews--always she sews in the dull room--and her spirit rebels." "good!" said the poet. "it is a capital first instalment." "the time goes on. there remains only a week to the marriage morning. the little home is prepared, the little pastrycook is full of joy. _alors_, one evening they go out; for her the sole attraction in the town is the hall of varieties. yes, it is third class, it is not great things; however, it is the only one in rouen. he purchases two tickets. what a misfortune--it is the last temptation to her! they stroll back; she takes his arm--under the moon, under the stars; but she sees only the lamps of paris!--she sees only that he can say nothing she cares to hear!" "ah, unhappy man!" murmured the poet. "they sit at a café table, and he talks, the fiancé, of the bliss that is to come to them. she attends to not a word, not a syllable. while she smiles, she questions herself, frenzied, how she can escape. she has commanded a _sirop_. as she lifts her glass to the syphon, her gaze falls on the ring she wears--the ring of their betrothal. 'to the future, cher ange!' says the fiancé. 'to the future, vieux chéri!' she says. and she laughs in her heart--for she resolves to sell the ring!" tricotrin had become absolutely enthralled. "she obtained for the ring forty-five francs the next day--and for the little pastrycook all is finished. she wrote him a letter--'good-bye.' he has lost his reason. mad with despair, he has flung himself before an electric car, and is killed.... it is strange," she added to the poet, who regarded her with consternation, "that i did not think sooner of the ring that was always on my finger, n'est-ce-pas? it may be that never before had i felt so furious an impulse to desert him. it may be also--that there was no ring and no pastrycook!" and she broke into peals of laughter. "ah, mon dieu," exclaimed the young man, "but you are enchanting! let us go to breakfast--you are the kindred soul i have looked for all my life. by-the-bye, i may as well know your name?" then, monsieur, this poor girl who had trembled before her laundress, she told him a name which was going, in a while, to crowd the ambassadeurs and be famous through all paris--a name which was to mean caprices, folly, extravagance the most wilful and reckless. she answered--and it said nothing yet--"my name is paulette fleury." * * * * * the piano-organ stopped short, as if it knew the frenchman had reached a crisis in his narrative. he folded his arms and nodded impressively. "voilà! monsieur, i 'ave introduced you to paulette fleury! it was her beginning." he offered me a cigarette, and frowned, lost in thought, at the lady who was chopping bread behind the counter. "listen," he resumed. * * * * * they have breakfasted; they have fed the sparrows around their chairs, and they have strolled under the green trees in the sunshine. she was singing then at a little café-concert the most obscure. it is arranged, before they part, that in the evening he shall go to applaud her. he had a friend, young also, a composer, named nicolas pitou. i cannot express to you the devotion that existed between them. pitou was employed at a publisher's, but the publisher paid him not much better than his art. the comrades have shared everything: the loans from the mont-de-piété, the attic, and the dreams. in montmartre it was said "tricotrin and pitou" as one says "orestes and pylades." it is beautiful such affection, hein? listen! tricotrin has recounted to his friend his meeting with paulette, and when the hour for the concert is arrived, pitou accompanied him. the musician, however, was, perhaps, the more sedate. he has gone with little expectation; his interest was not high. what a surprise he has had! he has found her an actress--an artist to the ends of the fingers. tricotrin was astonished also. the two friends, the poet and the composer, said "mon dieu!" they regarded the one the other. they said "mon dieu!" again. soon pitou has requested of tricotrin an introduction. it is agreed. tricotrin has presented his friend, and invited the _chanteuse_ to drink a bock--a glass of beer.... a propos, you take a liqueur, monsieur, yes? what liqueur you take? sst, garçon!... well, you conjecture, no doubt, what i shall say? before the bock was finished, they were in love with her--both! at the door of her lodging, paulette has given to each a pressure of the hand, and said gently, "till to-morrow." "i worship her!" tricotrin told pitou. "i have found my ideal!" pitou answered tricotrin. it is superb, such friendship, hein? in the mind of the poet who had accomplished tragedies majestic--in the mind of the composer, the most classical in montmartre--there had been born a new ambition: it was to write a comic song for paulette fleury! it appears to you droll, perhaps? monsieur, to her lover, the humblest _divette_ is more than patti. in all the world there can be no joy so thrilling as to hear the music of one's brain sung by the woman one adores--unless it be to hear the woman one adores give forth one's verse. i believe it has been accepted as a fact, this; nevertheless it is true. yes, already the idea had come to them, and paulette was well pleased when they told her of it. oh, she knew they loved her, both, and with both she coquetted. but with their intention she did not coquet; as to that she was in earnest. every day they discussed it with enthusiasm-- they were to write a song that should make for her a furore. what happened? i shall tell you. monday, when tricotrin was to depart for lyons, he informed his uncle that he will not go. no less than that! his uncle was furious--i do not blame him--but naturally tricotrin has argued, "if i am to create for paulette her great chance, i must remain in paris to study paulette! i cannot create in an atmosphere of commerce. i require the montmartrois, the boulevards, the inspiration of her presence." isn't it? and pitou--whose very soul had been enraptured in his leisure by a fugue he was composing--pitou would have no more of it. he allowed the fugue to grow dusty, while day and night he thought always of refrains that ran "_zim-la-zim-la zim-boum-boum!_" constantly they conferred, the comrades. they told the one the other how they loved her; and then they beat their heads, and besought of providence a fine idea for the comic song. it was their thought supreme. the silk manufacturer has washed his 'ands of tricotrin, but he has not cared--there remained to him still one of the bank-notes. as for pitou, who neglected everything except to find his melody for paulette, the publisher has given him the sack. their acquaintances ridiculed the sacrifices made for her. but, monsieur, when a man loves truly, to make a sacrifice for the woman is to make a present to himself. nevertheless i avow to you that they fretted because of her coquetry. one hour it seemed that pitou had gained her heart; the next her encouragement has been all to tricotrin. sometimes they have said to her: "paulette, it is true we are as orestes and pylades, but there can be only one king of eden at the time. is it orestes, or pylades that you mean to crown?" then she would laugh and reply: "how can i say? i like you both so much i can never make up my mind which to like best." it was not satisfactory. and always she added. "in the meantime, where is the song?" ah, the song, that song, how they have sought it!--on the butte, and in the bois, and round the halles. often they have tramped paris till daybreak, meditating the great chance for paulette. and at last the poet has discovered it: for each verse a different phase of life, but through it all, the pursuit of gaiety, the fever of the dance--the gaiety of youth, the gaiety of dotage, the gaiety of despair! it should be the song of the pleasure-seekers--the voices of paris when the lamps are lit. monsieur, if we sat 'ere in the restaurant until it closed, i could not describe to you how passionately tricotrin, the devoted tricotrin, worked for her. he has studied her without cease; he has studied her attitudes, her expressions. he has taken his lyric as if it were material and cut it to her figure; he has taken it as if it were plaster, and moulded it upon her mannerisms. there was not a _moue_ that she made, not a pretty trick that she had, not a word that she liked to sing for which he did not provide an opportunity. at the last line, when the pen fell from his fingers, he shouted to pitou, "comrade, be brave--i have won her!" and pitou? monsieur, if we sat 'ere till they prepared the tables for déjeuner to-morrow, i could not describe to you how passionately pitou, the devoted pitou, worked that she might have a grand popularity by his music. at dawn, when he has found that _strepitoso_ passage, which is the hurrying of the feet, he wakened the poet and cried, "mon ami, i pity you--she is mine!" it was the souls of two men when it was finished, that comic song they made for her! it was the song the organ has ground out--"partant pour le moulin." and then they rehearsed it, the three of them, over and over, inventing always new effects. and then the night for the song is arrived. it has rained all day, and they have walked together in the rain--the singer, and the men who loved her, both--to the little café-concert where she would appear. they tremble in the room, among the crowd, pitou and tricotrin; they are agitated. there are others who sing--it says nothing to them. in the room, in the future, there is only paulette! it is very hot in the café-concert, and there is too much noise. at last they ask her: "is she nervous?" she shakes her head: "mais non!" she smiles to them. attend! it is her turn. ouf; but it is hot in the café-concert, and there is too much noise! she mounts the platform. the audience are careless; it continues, the jingle of the glasses, the hum of talk. she begins. beneath the table tricotrin has gripped the hand of pitou. wait! regard the crowd that look at her! the glasses are silent, now, hein? the talk has stopped. to a great actress is come her chance. there is _not_ too much noise in the café-concert! but, when she finished! what an uproar! never will she forget it. a thousand times she has told the story, how it was written--the song-- and how it made her famous. before two weeks she was the attraction of the ambassadeurs, and all paris has raved of paulette fleury. tricotrin and pitou were mad with joy. certainly paris did not rave of pitou nor tricotrin--there have not been many that remembered who wrote the song; and it earned no money for them, either, because it was hers --the gift of their love. still, they were enraptured. to both of them she owed equally, and more than ever it was a question which would be the happy man. listen! when they are gone to call on her one afternoon she was not at 'ome. what had happened? i shall tell you. there was a noodle, rich-- what you call a "johnnie in the stalls"--who became infatuated with her at the ambassadeurs. he whistled "partant pour le moulin" all the days, and went to hear it all the nights. well, she was not at 'ome because she had married him. absolutely they were married! her lovers have been told it at the door. what a moment! figure yourself what they have suffered, both! they had worshipped her, they had made sacrifices for her, they had created for her her grand success; and, as a consequence of that song, she was the wife of the "johnnie in the stalls"! * * * * * far down the street, but yet distinct, the organ revived the tune again. my frenchman shuddered, and got up. "i cannot support it," he murmured. "you understand? the associations are too pathetic." "they must be harrowing," i said. "before you go, there is one thing i should like to ask you, if i may. have i had the honour of meeting monsieur tricotrin, or monsieur pitou?" he stroked his hat, and gazed at me in sad surprise. "ah, but neither, monsieur," he groaned. "the associations are much more 'arrowing than that--i was the 'johnnie in the stalls'!" tricotrin entertains one night when pitou went home, an unaccustomed perfume floated to meet him on the stairs. he climbed them in amazement. "if we lived in an age of miracles i should conclude that tricotrin was smoking a cigar," he said to himself. "what can it be?" the pair occupied a garret in the rue des trois frères at this time, where their window, in sore need of repairs, commanded an unrivalled view of the dirty steps descending to the passage des abbesses. to-night, behold tricotrin pacing the garret with dignity, between his lips an havannah that could have cost no less than a franc. the composer rubbed his eyes. "have they made you an academician?" he stammered. "or has your uncle, the silk manufacturer, died and left you his business?" "my friend," replied the poet, "prepare yourself forthwith for 'a new and powerful serial of the most absorbing interest'! i am no longer the young man who went out this evening--i am a celebrity." "i thought," said the composer, "that it couldn't be you when i saw the cigar." "figure yourself," continued tricotrin, "that at nine o'clock i was wandering on the grand boulevard with a thirst that could have consumed a brewery. i might mention that i had also empty pockets, but--" "it would be to pad the powerful serial shamelessly," said pitou: "there are things that one takes for granted." "at the corner of the place de l'opera a fellow passed me whom i knew and yet did not know; i could not recall where it was we had met. i turned and followed him, racking my brains the while. suddenly i remembered--" "pardon me," interrupted the composer, "but i have read _bel-ami_ myself. oh, it is quite evident that you are a celebrity--you have already forgotten how to be original!" "there is a resemblance, it is true," admitted tricotrin. "however, maupassant had no copyright in the place de l'opera. i say that i remembered the man; i had known him when he was in the advertisement business in lyons. well, we have supped together; he is in a position to do me a service--he will ask an editor to publish an interview with me!" "an interview?" exclaimed pitou. "you are to be interviewed? ah, no, my poor friend, too much meat has unhinged your reason! go to sleep--you will be hungry and sane again to-morrow." "it will startle some of them, hein? 'gustave tricotrin at home'--in the illustrated edition of _le demi-mot?_" "illustrated?" gasped pitou. he looked round the attic. "did i understand you to say 'illustrated'?" "well, well," said tricotrin, "we shall move the beds! and, when the concierge nods, perhaps we can borrow the palm from the portals. with a palm and an amiable photographer, an air of splendour is easily arrived at. i should like a screen--we will raise one from a studio in the rue ravignan. mon dieu! with a palm and a screen i foresee the most opulent effects. 'a corner of the study'--we can put the screen in front of the washhand-stand, and litter the table with manuscripts--you will admit that we have a sufficiency of manuscripts?--no one will know that they have all been rejected. also, a painter in the rue ravignan might lend us a few of his failures--'before you go, let me show you my pictures,' said monsieur tricotrin: 'i am an ardent collector'!" in montmartre the sight of two "types" shifting household gods makes no sensation--the sails of the remaining windmills still revolve. on the day that it had its likeness taken, the attic was temporarily transformed. at least a score of unappreciated masterpieces concealed the dilapidation of the walls; the broken window was decorated with an eastern fabric that had been a cherished "property" of half the ateliers in paris; the poet himself--with the palm drooping gracefully above his head--mused in a massive chair, in which solomon had been pronouncing judgment until : , when the poet had called for it. the appearance of exhaustion observed by admirers of the poet's portrait was due to the chair's appalling weight. as he staggered under it up the steps of the passage des abbesses, the young man had feared he would expire on the threshold of his fame. however, the photographer proved as resourceful as could be desired, and perhaps the most striking feature of the illustration was the spaciousness of the apartment in which monsieur tricotrin was presented to readers of _le demi-mot._ the name of the thoroughfare was not obtruded. with what pride was that issue of the journal regarded in the rue des trois frères! "aha!" cried tricotrin, who in moments persuaded himself that he really occupied such noble quarters, "those who repudiated me in the days of my struggles will be a little repentant now, hein? stone heart will discover that i was not wrong in relying on my genius!" "i assume," said pitou, "that 'stone heart' is your newest pet-name for the silk-manufacturing uncle?" "you catch my meaning precisely. i propose to send a copy of the paper to lyons, with the interview artistically bordered by laurels; i cannot draw laurels myself, but there are plenty of persons who can. we will find someone to do it when we palter with starvation at the café du bel avenir this evening--or perhaps we had better fast at the lucullus junior, instead; there is occasionally some ink in the bottle there. i shall put the address in the margin--my uncle will not know where it is, and on the grounds of euphony i have no fault to find with it. it would not surprise me if i received an affectionate letter and a bank-note in reply--the perversity of human nature delights in generosities to the prosperous." "it is a fact," said pitou. "that human nature!" "who knows?--he may even renew the allowance that he used to make me!" "upon my word, more unlikely things have happened," pitou conceded. "mon dieu, nicolas, we shall again have enough to eat!" "ah, visionary!" exclaimed pitou; "are there no bounds to your imagination?" now, the perversity to which the poet referred did inspire monsieur rigaud, of lyons, to loosen his purse-strings. he wrote that he rejoiced to learn that gustave was beginning to make his way, and enclosed a present of two hundred and fifty francs. more, after an avuncular preamble which the poet skipped--having a literary hatred of digression in the works of others--he even hinted that the allowance might be resumed. what a banquet there was in bohemia! how the glasses jingled afterwards in la lune rousse, and oh, the beautiful hats that germaine and marcelle displayed on the next fine sunday! even when the last ripples of the splash were stilled, the comrades swaggered gallantly on the boulevard rochechouart, for by any post might not the first instalment of that allowance arrive? weeks passed; and tricotrin began to say, "it looks to me as if we needed another interview!" and then came a letter which was no less cordial than its predecessor, but which stunned the unfortunate recipient like a warrant for his execution. monsieur rigaud stated that business would bring him to paris on the following evening and that he anticipated the pleasure of visiting his nephew; he trusted that his dear gustave would meet him at the station. the poet and composer stared at each other with bloodless faces. "you must call at his hotel instead," faltered pitou at last. "but you may be sure he will wish to see my elegant abode." "'it is in the hands of the decorators. how unfortunate!'" "he would propose to offer them suggestions; he is a born suggester." "'fever is raging in the house--a most infectious fever'; we will ask a medical student to give us one." "it would not explain my lodging in a slum meanwhile." "well, let us admit that there is nothing to be done; you will have to own up!" "are you insane? it is improvident youths like you, who come to lament their wasted lives. if i could receive him this once as he expects to be received, we cannot doubt that it would mean an income of two thousand francs to me. prosperity dangles before us--shall i fail to clutch it? mon dieu, what a catastrophe, his coming to paris! why cannot he conduct his business in lyons? is there not enough money in the city of lyons to satisfy him? o grasper! what greed! nicolas, my more than brother, if it were night when i took him to a sumptuous apartment, he might not notice the name of the street--i could talk brilliantly as we turned the corner. also i could scintillate as i led him away. he would never know that it was not the rue des trois frères." "you are right," agreed pitou; "but which is the pauper in our social circle whose sumptuous apartment you propose to acquire?" "one must consider," said tricotrin. "obviously, i am compelled to entertain in somebody's; fortunately, i have two days to find it in. i shall now go forth!" it was a genial morning, and the first person he accosted in the rue ravignan was goujaud, painting in the patch of garden before the studios. "tell me, goujaud," exclaimed the poet, "have you any gilded acquaintance who would permit me the use of his apartment for two hours to-morrow evening?" goujaud reflected for some seconds, with his head to one side. "i have never done anything so fine as this before," he observed; "regard the atmosphere of it!" "it is execrable!" replied tricotrin, and went next door to flamant. "my old one," he explained, "i have urgent need of a regal apartment for two hours to-morrow--have you a wealthy friend who would accommodate me?" "you may beautify your bedroom with all my possessions," returned flamant heartily. "i have a stuffed parrot that is most decorative, but i have not a friend that is wealthy." "you express yourself like a first course for the foreigner," said tricotrin, much annoyed. "devil take your stuffed parrot!" the heat of the sun increased towards midday, and drops began to trickle under the young man's hat. by four o'clock he had called upon sixty-two persons, exclusive of sanquereau, whom he had been unable to wake. he bethought himself of lajeunie, the novelist; but lajeunie could offer him nothing more serviceable than a pass for the elysée- montmartre. "now how is it possible that i spend my life among such imbeciles?" groaned the unhappy poet; "one offers me a parrot, and another a pass for a dancing-hall! can i assure my uncle, who is a married man, and produces silk in vast quantities, that i reside in a dancing-hall? besides, we know those passes--they are available only for ladies." "it is true that you could not get in by it," assented lajeunie, "but i give it to you freely. take it, my poor fellow! though it may appear inadequate to the occasion, who knows but what it will prove to be the basis of a fortune?" "you are as crazy as the stories you write," said tricotrin, "still, it can go in my pocket." and he made, exhausted, for a bench in the place dancourt, where he apostrophised his fate. thus occupied, he fell asleep; and presently a young woman sauntered from the sidewalk across the square. in the shady little place dancourt is the little white theatre montmartre, and she first perused the play-bill, and then contemplated the sleeping poet. it may have been that she found something attractive in his bearing, or it may have been that ragamuffins sprawled elsewhere; but, having determined to wait awhile, she selected the bench on which he reposed, and forthwith woke him. "now this is nice!" he exclaimed, realising his lapse with a start. "oh, monsieur!" said she, blushing. "pardon; i referred to my having dozed when every moment is of consequence," he explained. "and yet," he went on ruefully, "upon my soul, i cannot conjecture where i shall go next!" her response was so sympathetic that it tempted him to remain a little longer, and in five minutes she was recounting her own perplexities. it transpired that she was a lady's-maid with a holiday, and the problem before her was whether to spend her money on a theatre, or on a ball. "now that is a question which is disposed of instantly," said tricotrin, "you shall spend your money on a theatre, and go to a ball as well." and out fluttered the pink pass presented to him by lajeunie. the girl's tongue was as lively as her gratitude. she was, she told him, maid to the famous colette aubray, who had gone unattended that afternoon to visit the owner of a villa in the country, where she would stay until the next day but one. "so you see, monsieur, we poor servants are left alone in the flat to amuse ourselves as best we can!" "mon dieu!" ejaculated tricotrin, and added mentally, "it was decidedly the good kind fairies that pointed to this bench!" he proceeded to pay the young woman such ardent attentions that she assumed he meant to accompany her to the ball, and her disappointment was extreme when he had to own that the state of his finances forbade it. "all i can suggest, my dear léonie," he concluded, "is that i shall be your escort when you leave. it is abominable that you must have other partners in the meantime, but i feel that you will be constant to me in your thoughts. i shall have much to tell you--i shall whisper a secret in your ear; for, incredible as it may sound, my sweet child, you alone in paris have the power to save me!" "oh, monsieur!" faltered the admiring lady's-maid, "it has always been my great ambition to save a young man, especially a young man who used such lovely language. i am sure, by the way you talk, that you must be a poet!" "extraordinary," mused tricotrin, "that all the world recognises me as a poet, excepting when it reads my poetry!" and this led him to reflect that he must sell some of it, in order to provide refreshment for léonie before he begged her aid. accordingly, he arranged to meet her when the ball finished, and limped back to the attic, where he made up a choice assortment of his wares. he had resolved to try the office of _le demi-mot;_ but his reception there was cold. "you should not presume on our good nature," demurred the editor; "only last month we had an article on you, saying that you were highly talented, and now you ask us to publish your work besides. there must be a limit to such things." he examined the collection, nevertheless, with a depreciatory countenance, and offered ten francs for three of the finest specimens. "from _le demi-mot_ i would counsel you to accept low terms," he said, with engaging interest, "on account of the prestige you, derive from appearing in it." "in truth it is a noble thing, prestige," admitted tricotrin; "but, monsieur, i have never known a man able to make a meal of it when he was starving, or to warm himself before it when he was without a fire. still--though it is a jumble-sale price--let them go!" "payment will be made in due course," said the editor, and became immersed in correspondence. tricotrin paled to the lips, and the next five minutes were terrible; indeed, he did not doubt that he would have to limp elsewhere. at last he cried, "well, let us say seven francs, cash! seven francs in one's fist are worth ten in due course." and thus the bargain was concluded. "it was well for hercules that none of his labours was the extraction of payment from an editor!" panted the poet on the doorstep. but he was now enabled to fête the lady's-maid in grand style, and--not to be outdone in generosity--she placed mademoiselle aubray's flat at his disposal directly he asked for it. "you have accomplished a miracle!" averred pitou, in the small hours, when he heard the news. tricotrin waved a careless hand. "to a man of resource all things are possible!" he murmured. the next evening the silk manufacturer was warmly embraced on the platform, and not a little surprised to learn that his nephew expected a visit at once. however, the young man's consternation was so profound when objections were made that, in the end, they were withdrawn. tricotrin directed the driver after monsieur rigaud was in the cab, and, on their reaching the courtyard, there was léonie, all frills, ready to carry the handbag. "your servant?" inquired monsieur rigaud, with some disapproval, as they went upstairs; "she is rather fancifully dressed, hein?" "is it so?" answered tricotrin. "perhaps a bachelor is not sufficiently observant in these matters. still, she is an attentive domestic. take off your things, my dear uncle, and make yourself at home. what joy it gives me to see you here!" "mon dieu," exclaimed the silk manufacturer, looking about him, "you have a place fit for a prince! it must have cost a pretty penny." "between ourselves," said tricotrin, "i often reproach myself for what i spent on it; i could make very good use to-day of some of the money i squandered." "what curtains!" murmured monsieur rigaud, fingering the silk enraptured. "the quality is superb! what may they have charged you for these curtains?" "it was years ago--upon my word i do not remember," drawled tricotrin, who had no idea whether he ought to say five hundred francs, or five thousand. "also, you must not think i have bought everything you see-- many of the pictures and bronzes are presents from admirers of my work. it is gratifying, hein?" "i--i--to confess the truth, we had not heard of your triumphs," admitted monsieur rigaud; "i did not dream you were so successful." "ah, it is in a very modest way," tricotrin replied. "i am not a millionaire, i assure you! on the contrary, it is often difficult to make both ends meet--although," he added hurriedly, "i live with the utmost economy, my uncle. the days of my thoughtlessness are past. a man should save, a man should provide for the future." at this moment he was astonished to see léonie open the door and announce that dinner was served. she had been even better than her word. "dinner?" cried monsieur rigaud. "ah, now i understand why you were so dejected when i would not come!" "bah, it will be a very simple meal," said his nephew, "but after a journey one must eat. let us go in." he was turning the wrong way, but léonie's eye saved him. "come," he proceeded, taking his seat, "some soup--some good soup! what will you drink, my uncle?" "on the sideboard i see champagne," chuckled monsieur rigaud; "you treat the old man well, you rogue!" "hah," said tricotrin, who had not observed it, "the cellar, i own, is an extravagance of mine! alone, i drink only mineral waters, or a little claret, much diluted; but to my dearest friends i must give the dearest wines. léonie, champagne!" it was a capital dinner, and the cigars and cigarettes that léonie put on the table with the coffee were of the highest excellence. agreeable conversation whiled away some hours, and tricotrin began to look for his uncle to get up. but it was raining smartly, and monsieur rigaud was reluctant to bestir himself. another hour lagged by, and at last tricotrin faltered: "i fear i must beg you to excuse me for leaving you, my uncle; it is most annoying, but i am compelled to go out. the fact is, i have consented to collaborate with capus, and he is so eccentric, this dear alfred--we shall be at work all night." "go, my good gustave," said his uncle readily; "and, as i am very tired, if you have no objection, i will occupy your bed." tricotrin's jaw dropped, and it was by a supreme effort that he stammered how pleased the arrangement would make him. to intensify the fix, leonie and the cook had disappeared--doubtless to the mansarde in which they slept--and he was left to cope with the catastrophe alone. however, having switched on the lights, he conducted the elderly gentleman to an enticing apartment. he wished him an affectionate "good-night," and after promising to wake him early, made for home, leaving the manufacturer sleepily surveying the room's imperial splendour. "what magnificence!" soliloquised monsieur rigaud. "what toilet articles!" he got into bed. "what a coverlet--there must be twenty thousand francs on top of me!" he had not slumbered under them long when he was aroused by such a commotion that he feared for the action of his heart. blinking in the glare, he perceived léonie in scanty attire, distracted on her knees-- and, by the bedside, a beautiful lady in a travelling cloak, raging with the air of a lioness. "go away!" quavered the manufacturer. "what is the meaning of this intrusion?" "intrusion?" raved the lady. "that is what you will explain, monsieur! how comes it that you are in my bed?" "yours?" ejaculated monsieur rigaud. "what is it you say? you are making a grave error, for which you will apologise, madame!" "ah, hold me back," pleaded the lady, throwing up her eyes, "hold me back or i shall assault him!" she flung to leonie. "wretched girl, you shall pay for this! not content with lavishing my champagne and my friend's cigars on your lover, you must put him to recuperate in my room!" "oh!" gasped the manufacturer, and hid his head under the priceless coverlet. "such an imputation is unpardonable," he roared, reappearing. "i am monsieur rigaud, of lyons; the flat belongs to my nephew, monsieur tricotrin; i request you to retire!" "imbecile!" screamed the lady; "the flat belongs to _me_--colette aubray. and your presence may ruin me--i expect a visitor on most important business! he has not my self-control; if he finds you here he will most certainly send you a challenge. he is the best swordsman in paris! i advise you to believe me, for you have just five minutes to save your life!" "monsieur," wailed léonie, "you have been deceived!" and, between her sobs, she confessed the circumstances, which he heard with the greatest difficulty, owing to the chattering of his teeth. the rain was descending in cataracts when monsieur rigaud got outside, but though the trams and the trains had both stopped running, and cabs were as dear as radium, his fury was so tempestuous that nothing could deter him from reaching the poet's real abode. his attack on the front door warned tricotrin and pitou what had happened, and they raised themselves, blanched, from their pillows, to receive his curses. it was impossible to reason with him, and he launched the most frightful denunciation at his nephew for an hour, when the abatement of the downpour permitted him to depart. more, at noon, who should arrive but leonie in tears! she had been dismissed from her employment, and came to beg the poet to intercede for her. "what calamities!" groaned tricotrin. "how fruitless are man's noblest endeavours without the favouring breeze! i shall drown myself at eight o'clock. however, i will readily plead for you first, if your mistress will receive me." by the maid's advice he presented himself late in the day, and when he had cooled his heels in the salon for some time, a lady entered, who was of such ravishing appearance that his head swam. "monsieur tricotrin?" she inquired haughtily. "i have heard your name from your uncle, monsieur. are you here to visit my servant?" "mademoiselle," he faltered, "i am here to throw myself on your mercy. at eight o'clock i have decided to commit suicide, for i am ruined. the only hope left me is to win your pardon before i die." "i suppose your uncle has disowned you?" she said. "naturally! it was a pretty situation to put him in. how would you care to be in it yourself?" "alas, mademoiselle," sighed tricotrin, "there are situations to which a poor poet may not aspire!" after regarding him silently she exclaimed, "i cannot understand what a boy with eyes like yours saw in léonie?" "merely good nature and a means to an end, believe me! if you would ease my last moments, reinstate her in your service. do not let me drown with the knowledge that another is suffering for my fault! mademoiselle, i entreat you--take her back!" "and why should i ease your last moments?" she demurred. "because i have no right to ask it; because i have no defence for my sin towards you; because you would be justified in trampling on me--and to pardon would be sublime!" "you are very eloquent for my maid," returned the lady. he shook his head. "ah, no--i fear i am pleading for myself. for, if you reinstate the girl, it will prove that you forgive the man--and i want your forgiveness so much!" he fell at her feet. "does your engagement for eight o'clock press, monsieur?" murmured the lady, smiling. "if you could dine here again to-night, i might relent by degrees." "and she is adorable!" he told pitou. "i passed the most delicious evening of my life!" "it is fortunate," observed pitou, "for that, and your uncle's undying enmity, are all you have obtained by your imposture. remember that the evening cost two thousand francs a year!" "ah, misanthrope," cried tricotrin radiantly, "there must be a crumpled roseleaf in every eden!" the fatal florozonde before pitou, the composer, left for the hague, he called on théophile de fronsac, the poet. _la voix parisienne_ had lately appointed de fronsac to its staff, on condition that he contributed no poetry. "good-evening," said de fronsac. "mon dieu! what shall i write about?" "write about my music," said pitou, whose compositions had been rejected in every arrondissement of paris. "let us talk sanely," demurred de fronsac. "my causerie is half a column short. tell me something interesting." "woman!" replied pitou. de fronsac flicked his cigarette ash. "you remind me," he said, "how much i need a love affair; my sensibilities should be stimulated. to continue to write with fervour i require to adore again." "it is very easy to adore," observed pitou. "not at forty," lamented the other; "especially to a man in class a. don't forget, my young friend, that i have loved and been loved persistently for twenty-three years. i cannot adore a repetition, and it is impossible for me to discover a new type." "all of which i understand," said pitou, "excepting 'class a.'" "there are three kinds of men," explained the poet. "class a are the men to whom women inevitably surrender. class b consists of those whom they trust by instinct and confide in on the second day; these men acquire an extensive knowledge of the sex--but they always fall short of winning the women for themselves. class c women think of merely as 'the others'--they do not count; eventually they marry, and try to persuade their wives that they were devils of fellows when they were young. however, such reflections will not assist me to finish my causerie, for i wrote them all last week." "talking of women," remarked pitou, "a little blonde has come to live opposite our lodging. so far we have only bowed from our windows, but i have christened her 'lynette,' and tricotrin has made a poem about her. it is pathetic. the last verse--the others are not written yet--goes: "'o window i watched in the days that are dead, are you watched by a lover to-day? are glimpses caught now of another blonde head by a youth who lives over the way? does _she_ repeat words that lynette's lips have said-- and does _he_ say what _i_ used to say?'" "what is the answer?" asked de fronsac. "is it a conundrum? in any case it is a poor substitute for a half a column of prose in _la voix_. how on earth am i to arrive at the bottom of the page? if i am short in my copy, i shall be short in my rent; if i am short in my rent, i shall be put out of doors; if i am put out of doors, i shall die of exposure. and much good it will do me that they erect a statue to me in the next generation! upon my word, i would stand a dinner--at the two-franc place where you may eat all you can hold--if you could give me a subject." "it happens," said pitou, "that i can give you a very strange one. as i am going to a foreign land, i have been to the country to bid farewell to my parents; i came across an extraordinary girl." "one who disliked presents?" inquired de fronsac. "i am not jesting. she is a dancer in a travelling circus. the flare and the drum wooed me one night, and i went in. as a circus, well, you may imagine--a tent in a fair. my fauteuil was a plank, and the orchestra surpassed the worst tortures of the inquisition. and then, after the decrepit horses, and a mangy lion, a girl came into the ring, with the most marvellous eyes i have ever seen in a human face. they are green eyes, with golden lights in them." "really?" murmured the poet. "i have never been loved by a girl who had green eyes with golden lights in them." "i am glad you have never been loved by this one," returned the composer gravely; "she has a curious history. all her lovers, without exception, have committed suicide." "what?" said de fronsac, staring. "it is very queer. one of them had just inherited a hundred thousand francs--he hanged himself. another, an author from italy, took poison, while all rome was reading his novel. to be infatuated by her is harmless enough, but to win her is invariably fatal within a few weeks. some time ago she attached herself to one of the troupe, and soon afterwards he discovered she was deceiving him. he resolved to shoot her. he pointed a pistol at her breast. she simply laughed--and _looked at him_. he turned the pistol on himself, and blew his brains out!" de fronsac had already written: "here is the extraordinary history of a girl whom i discovered in a fair." the next moment: "but you repeat a rumour," he objected. "_la voix parisienne_ has a reputation; odd as the fact may appear to you, people read it. if this is published in _la voix_ it will attract attention. soon she will be promoted from a tent in a fair to a stage in paris. well, what happens? you tell me she is beautiful, so she will have hundreds of admirers. among the hundreds there will be one she favours. and then? unless he committed suicide in a few weeks, the paper would be proved a liar. i should not be able to sleep of nights for fear he would not kill himself." "my dear," exclaimed pitou with emotion, "would i add to your anxieties? rather than you should be disturbed by anybody's living, let us dismiss the subject, and the dinner, and talk of my new symphony. on the other hand, i fail to see that the paper's reputation is your affair--it is not your wife; and i am more than usually empty to-day." "your argument is sound," said de fronsac. "besides, the editor refuses my poetry." and he wrote without cessation for ten minutes. the two-franc table-d'hôte excelled itself that evening, and pitou did ample justice to the menu. behold how capricious is the jade, fame! the poet whose verses had left him obscure, accomplished in ten minutes a paragraph that fascinated all paris. on the morrow people pointed it out to one another; the morning after, other journals referred to it; in the afternoon the editor of _la voix parisienne_ was importuned with questions. no one believed the story to be true, but not a soul could help wondering if it might be so. when a day or two had passed, pitou received from de fronsac a note which ran: "send to me at once, i entreat thee, the name of that girl, and say where she can be found. the managers of three variety theatres of the first class have sought me out and are eager to engage her." "decidedly," said pitou, "i have mistaken my vocation--i ought to have been a novelist!" and he replied: "the girl whose eyes suggested the story to me is called on the programmes 'florozonde.' for the rest, i know nothing, except that thou didst offer a dinner and i was hungry." however, when he had written this, he destroyed it. "though i am unappreciated myself, and shall probably conclude in the morgue," he mused, "that is no excuse for my withholding prosperity from others. doubtless the poor girl would rejoice to appear at three variety theatres of the first class, or even at one of them." he answered simply: "her name is 'florozonde'; she will be found in a circus at chartres"-- and nearly suffocated with laughter. then a little later the papers announced that mlle. florozonde--whose love by a strange series of coincidences had always proved fatal--would be seen at la coupole. posters bearing the name of "florozonde"--yellow on black--invaded the boulevards. her portrait caused crowds to assemble, and "that girl who, they say, deals death, that florozonde!" was to be heard as constantly as ragtime. by now pitou was at the hague, his necessities having driven him into the employment of a parisian who had opened a shop there for the sale of music and french pianos. when he read the paris papers, pitou trembled so violently that the onlookers thought he must have ague. hilarity struggled with envy in his breast. "ma foi!" he would say to himself, "it seems that my destiny is to create successes for others. here am i, exiled, and condemned to play cadenzas all day in a piano warehouse, while she whom i invented, dances jubilant in paris. i do not doubt that she breakfasts at armenonville, and dines at paillard's." and it was a fact that florozonde was the fashion. as regards her eyes, at any rate, the young man had not exaggerated more than was to be forgiven in an artist; her eyes were superb, supernatural; and now that the spangled finery of a fair was replaced by the most triumphant of audacities--now that a circus band had been exchanged for the orchestra of la coupole--she danced as she had not danced before. you say that a gorgeous costume cannot improve a woman's dancing? let a woman realise that you improve her appearance, and you improve everything that she can do! nevertheless one does not pretend that it was owing to her talent, or her costume, or the weird melody proposed by the chef d'orchestre, that she became the rage. not at all. that was due to her reputation. sceptics might smile and murmur the french for "rats!" but, again, nobody could say positively that the tragedies had not occurred. and above all, there were the eyes--it was conceded that a woman with eyes like that _ought_ to be abnormal. la coupole was thronged every night, and the stage doorkeeper grew rich, so numerous were the daring spirits, coquetting with death, who tendered notes inviting the fatal one to supper. somehow the suppers were rather dreary. the cause may have been that the guest was handicapped by circumstances--to be good company without discarding the fatal air was extremely difficult; also the cause may have been that the daring spirits felt their courage forsake them in a tête-à-tête; but it is certain that once when florozonde drove home in the small hours to the tattered aunt who lived on her, she exclaimed violently that, "all this silly fake was giving her the hump, and that she wished she were 'on the road' again, with a jolly good fellow who was not afraid of her!" then the tattered aunt cooed to her, reminding her that little ducklings had run to her already roasted, and adding that she (the tattered aunt) had never heard of equal luck in all the years she had been in the show business. "ah, zut!" cried florozonde. "it does not please me to be treated as if i had scarlet fever. if i lean towards a man, he turns pale." "life is good," said her aunt philosophically, "and men have no wish to die for the sake of an embrace--remember your reputation! ii faut souffrir pour être fatale. look at your salary, sweetie--and you have had nothing to do but hold your tongue! ah, was anything ever heard like it? a miracle of le bon dieu!" "it was monsieur de fronsac, the journalist, who started it," said florozonde. "i supposed he had made it up, to give me a lift; but, ma foi, i think _he_ half believes it, too! what can have put it in his head? i have a mind to ask him the next time he comes behind." "what a madness!" exclaimed the old woman; "you might queer your pitch! never, never perform a trick with a confederate when you can work alone; that is one of the first rules of life. if he thinks it is true, so much the better. now get to bed, lovey, and think of pleasant things--what did you have for supper?" florozonde was correct in her surmise--de fronsac did half believe it, and de fronsac was accordingly much perturbed. consider his dilemma! the nature of his pursuits had demanded a love affair, and he had endeavoured conscientiously to comply, for the man was nothing if not an artist. but, as he had said to pitou, he had loved so much, and so many, that the thing was practically impossible for him, he was like the pastrycook's boy who is habituated and bilious. then suddenly a new type, which he had despaired of finding, was displayed. his curiosity awoke; and, fascinated in the first instance by her ghastly reputation, he was fascinated gradually by her physical charms. again he found himself enslaved by a woman--and the woman, who owed her fame to his services, was clearly appreciative. but he had a strong objection to committing suicide. his eagerness for her love was only equalled by his dread of what might happen if she gave it to him. alternately he yearned, and shuddered, on monday he cried, "idiot, to be frightened by such blague!" and on tuesday he told himself, "all the same, there may be something in it!" it was thus tortured that he paid his respects to florozonde at the theatre on the evening after she complained to her aunt. she was in her dressing-room, making ready to go. "you have danced divinely," he said to her. "there is no longer a programme at la coupole--there is only 'florozonde.'" she smiled the mysterious smile that she was cultivating. "what have you been doing with yourself, monsieur? i have not seen you all the week." de fronsac sighed expressively. "at my age one has the wisdom to avoid temptation." "may it not be rather unkind to temptation?" she suggested, raising her marvellous eyes. de fronsac drew a step back. "also i have had a great deal to do," he added formally; "i am a busy man. for example, much as i should like to converse with you now.--" but his resolution forsook him and he was unable to say that he had looked in only for a minute. "much as you would like to converse with me--?" questioned florozonde. "i ought, by rights, to be seated at my desk," he concluded lamely. "i am pleased that you are not seated at your desk," she said. "because?" murmured de fronsac, with unspeakable emotions. "because i have never thanked you enough for your interest in me, and i want to tell you that i remember." she gave him her hand. he held it, battling with terror. "mademoiselle," he returned tremulously, "when i wrote the causerie you refer to, my interest in you was purely the interest of a journalist, so for that i do not deserve your thanks. but since i have had the honour to meet you i have experienced an interest altogether different; the interest of a man, of a--a--" here his teeth chattered, and he paused. "of a what?" she asked softly, with a dreamy air. "of a friend," he muttered. a gust of fear had made the "friend" an iceberg. but her clasp tightened. "i am glad," she said. "ah, you have been good to me, monsieur! and if, in spite of everything, i am sometimes sad, i am, at least, never ungrateful." "you are sad?" faltered the vacillating victim. "why?" her bosom rose. "is success all a woman wants?" "ah!" exclaimed de fronsac, in an impassioned quaver, "is that not life? to all of us there is the unattainable--to you, to me!" "to you?" she murmured. her eyes were transcendental. admiration and alarm tore him in halves. "in truth," he gasped, "i am the most miserable of men! what is genius, what is fame, when one is lonely and unloved?" she moved impetuously closer--so close that the perfume of her hair intoxicated him. his heart seemed to knock against his ribs, and he felt the perspiration burst out on his brow. for an instant he hesitated--on the edge of his grave, he thought. then he dropped her hand, and backed from her. "but why should i bore you with my griefs?" he stammered. "au revoir, mademoiselle!" outside the stage door he gave thanks for his self-control. also, pale with the crisis, he registered an oath not to approach her again. meanwhile the expatriated pitou had remained disconsolate. though the people at the hague spoke french, they said foreign things to him in it. he missed montmartre--the interests of home. while he waxed eloquent to customers on the tone of pianos, or the excellence of rival composers' melodies, he was envying florozonde in paris. florozonde, whom he had created, obsessed the young man. in the evening he read about her at van der pyl's; on sundays, when the train carried him to drink beer at scheveningen, he read about her in the kurhaus. and then the unexpected happened. in this way: pitou was discharged. few things could have surprised him more, and, to tell the truth, few things could have troubled him less. "it is better to starve in paris than grow fat in holland," he observed. he jingled his capital in his trouser-pocket, in fancy savoured his dinner cooking at the café du bel avenir, and sped from the piano shop as if it had been on fire. the clock pointed to a quarter to six as nicolas pitou, composer, emerged from the gare du nord, and lightly swinging the valise that contained his wardrobe, proceeded to the rue des trois frères. never had it looked dirtier, or sweeter. he threw himself on tricotrin's neck; embraced the concierge--which took her breath away, since she was ill-favoured and most disagreeable; fared sumptuously for one franc fifty at the café du bel avenir--where he narrated adventures abroad that surpassed de rougemont's; and went to la coupole. and there, jostled by the crowd, the poor fellow looked across the theatre at the triumphant woman he had invented--and fell in love with her. one would have said there was more than the width of a theatre between them--one would have said the distance was interminable. who in the audience could suspect that florozonde would have been unknown but for a boy in the promenoir? yes, he fell in love--with her beauty, her grace--perhaps also with the circumstances. the theatre rang with plaudits; the curtain hid her; and he went out, dizzy with romance. he could not hope to speak to her to-night, but he was curious to see her when she left. he decided that on the morrow he would call upon de fronsac, whom she doubtless knew now, and ask him for an introduction. promising himself this, he reached the stage door--where de fronsac, with trembling limbs, stood giving thanks for his self-control. "my friend!" cried pitou enthusiastically, "how rejoiced i am to meet you!" and nearly wrung his hand off. "aïe! gently!" expostulated de fronsac, writhing. "aïe, aïe! i did not know you loved me so much. so you are back from sweden, hein?" "yes. i have not been there, but why should we argue about geography? what were you doing as i came up--reciting your poems? by the way, i have a favour to ask; i want you to introduce me to florozonde." "never!" answered the poet firmly; "i have too much affection for you-- i have just resolved not to see her again myself. besides, i thought you knew her in the circus?" "i never spoke to her there--i simply admired her from the plank. come, take me inside, and present me!" "it is impossible," persisted de fronsac; "i tell you i will not venture near her any more. also, she is coming out--that is her coupé that you see waiting." she came out as he spoke, and, affecting not to recognise him, moved rapidly towards the carriage. but this would not do for pitou at all. "mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, sweeping his hat nearly to the pavement. "yes, well?" she said sharply, turning. "i have just begged my friend de fronsac to present me to you, and he feared you might not pardon his presumption. may i implore you to pardon mine?" she smiled. there was the instant in which neither the man nor the woman knows who will speak next, nor what is to be said--the instant on which destinies hang. pitou seized it. "mademoiselle, i returned to france only this evening. all the journey my thought was--to see you as soon as i arrived!" "your friend," she said, with a scornful glance towards de fronsac, who sauntered gracefully away, "would warn you that you are rash." "i am not afraid of his warning." "are you not afraid of _me_?" "afraid only that you will banish me too soon." "mon dieu! then you must be the bravest man in paris," she said. "at any rate i am the luckiest for the moment." it was a delightful change to florozonde to meet a man who was not alarmed by her; and it pleased her to show de fronsac that his cowardice had not left her inconsolable. she laughed loud enough for him to hear. "i ought not to be affording you the luck," she answered. "i have friends waiting for me at the café de paris." "i expected some such blow," said pitou. "and how can i suppose you will disappoint your friends in order to sup with me at the café du bel avenir instead?" "the café du--?" she was puzzled. "bel avenir." "i do not know it." "nor would your coachman. we should walk there--and our supper would cost three francs, wine included." "is it an invitation?" "it is a prayer." "who are you?" "my name is nicolas pitou," "of paris?" "of bohemia." "what do you do in it?" "hunger, and make music." "unsuccessful?" "not to-night!" "take me to the bel avenir," she said, and sent the carriage away. de fronsac, looking back as they departed, was distressed to see the young man risking his life. at the bel avenir their entrance made a sensation. she removed her cloak, and pitou arranged it over two chairs. then she threw her gloves out of the way, in the bread-basket; and the waiter and the proprietress, and all the family, did homage to her toilette. "who would have supposed?" she smiled, and her smile forgot to be mysterious. "that the restaurant would be so proud?" "that i should be supping with you in it! tell me, you had no hope of this on your journey? it was true about your journey, hein?" "ah, really! no, how could i hope? i went round after your dance simply to see you closer; and then i met de fronsac, and then--" "and then you were very cheeky. answer! why do i interest you? because of what they say of me?" "not altogether." "what else?" "because you are so beautiful. answer! why did you come to supper with me? to annoy some other fellow?" "not altogether." "what else?" "because you were not frightened of me. are you sure you are not frightened? oh, remember, remember your horrible fate if i should like you too much!" "it would be a thumping advertisement for you," said pitou. "let me urge you to try to secure it." "reckless boy!" she laughed, "pour out some more wine. ah, it is good, this! it is like old times. the strings of onions on the dear, dirty walls, and the serviettes that are so nice and damp! it was in restaurants like this, if my salary was paid, i used to sup on fête days." "and if it was not paid?" "i supped in imagination. my dear, i have had a cigarette for a supper, and the grass for a bed. i have tramped by the caravan while the stars faded, and breakfasted on the drum in the tent. and you--on a bench in the champs elysées, hein?" "it has occurred." "and you watched the sun rise, and made music, and wished _you_ could rise, too? i must hear your music some day. you shall write me a dance. is it agreed?" "the contract is already stamped," said pitou. "i am glad i met you--it is the best supper i have had in paris. why are you calculating the expenses on the back of the bill of fare?" "i am not. i am composing your dance," said pitou. "don't speak for a minute, it will be sublime! also it will be a souvenir when you have gone." but she did not go for a long while. it was late when they left the café du bel avenir, still talking--and there was always more to say. by this time pitou did not merely love her beauty--he adored the woman. as for florozonde, she no longer merely loved his courage--she approved the man. listen: he was young, fervid, and an artist; his proposal was made before they reached her doorstep, and she consented! their attachment was the talk of the town, and everybody waited to hear that pitou had killed himself. his name was widely known at last. but weeks and months went by; florozonde's protracted season came to an end; and still he looked radiantly well. pitou was the most unpopular man in paris. in the rue dauphine, one day, he met de fronsac. "so you are still alive!" snarled the poet. "never better," declared pitou. "it turns out," he added confidentially, "there was nothing in that story--it was all fudge." "evidently! i must congratulate you," said de fronsac, looking bomb-shells. the opportunity of petitpas in bordeaux, on the st of december, monsieur petitpas, a clerk with bohemian yearnings, packed his portmanteau for a week's holiday. in paris, on the same date, monsieur tricotrin, poet and pauper, was commissioned by the editor of _le demi-mot_ to convert a rough translation into literary french. these two disparate incidents were destined by fate--always mysterious in her workings--to be united in a narrative for the present volume. three evenings later the poet's concierge climbed the stairs and rapped peremptorily at the door. "well?" cried tricotrin, raising bloodshot eyes from the manuscript; "who disturbs me now? come in!" "i have come in," panted madame dubois, who had not waited for his invitation, "and i am here to tell you, monsieur, that you cannot be allowed to groan in this agonised fashion. your lamentations can be heard even in the basement." "is it in my agreement, madame, that i shall not groan if i am so disposed?" inquired the poet haughtily. "there are things tacitly understood. it is enough that you are in arrears with your rent, without your doing your best to drive away the other tenants. for two days they have all complained that it would be less disturbing to reside in a hospital." "well, they have my permission to remove there," said tricotrin. "now that the matter is settled, let me get on with my work!" and with the groan of a soul in hades, he perused another line. "there you go again!" expostulated the woman angrily, "it is not to be endured, monsieur. what is the matter with you, for goodness' sake?" "with me, madame, there is nothing the matter; the fault lies with an infernal spanish novel. a misguided editor has commissioned me to rewrite it from a translation made by a foreigner. how can i avoid groans when i read his rot? miranda exclaims, 'may heaven confound you, bandit!' and the fiancé of the ingénue addresses her as 'angel of this house!'" "well, at least groan quietly," begged the concierge; "do not bellow your sufferings to the cellar." "to oblige you i will be as spartan as i can," agreed tricotrin. "now i have lost my place in the masterpiece. ah, here we are! 'i feel she brings bad tidings--she wears a disastrous mien.' it is sprightly dialogue! if the hundred and fifty francs were not essential to keep a roof over my head, i would send the editor a challenge for offering me the job." perspiration bespangled the young man's brow as he continued his task. when another hour had worn by he thirsted to do the foreign translator a bodily injury, and so intense was his exasperation that, by way of interlude, he placed the manuscript on the floor and jumped on it. but the climax was reached in chapter xxvii; under the provocation of the love scene in chapter xxvii frenzy mastered him, and with a yell of torture he hurled the whole novel through the window, and burst into hysterical tears. the novel, which was of considerable bulk, descended on the landlord, who was just approaching the house to collect his dues. "what does it mean," gasped monsieur gouge, when he had recovered his equilibrium, and his hat; "what does it mean that i cannot approach my own property without being assaulted with a ton of paper? who has dared to throw such a thing from a window?" "monsieur," stammered the concierge, "i do not doubt that it was the top-floor poet; he has been behaving like a lunatic for days." "aha, the top-floor poet?" snorted monsieur gouge. "i shall soon dispose of _him_!" and tricotrin's tears were scarcely dried when _bang_ came another knock at his door. "so, monsieur," exclaimed the landlord, with fine satire, "your poems are of small account, it appears, since you use them as missiles? the value you put upon your scribbling does not encourage me to wait for my rent!" "mine?" faltered tricotrin, casting an indignant glance at the muddy manuscript restored to him; "you accuse _me_ of having perpetrated that atrocity? oh, this is too much! i have a reputation to preserve, monsieur, and i swear by all the immortals that it was no work of mine." "did you not throw it?" "throw it? yes, assuredly i threw it. but i did not write it." "morbleu! what do i care who wrote it?" roared monsieur gouge, purple with spleen. "does its authorship improve the condition of my hat? my grievance is its arrival on my head, not its literary quality. let me tell you that you expose yourself to actions at law, pitching weights like this from a respectable house into a public street." "i should plead insanity," said tricotrin; "twenty-seven chapters of that novel, translated into a spaniard's french, would suffice to people an asylum. nevertheless, if it arrived on your hat, i owe you an apology." "you also owe me two hundred francs!" shouted the other, "and i have shown you more patience than you deserve. well, my folly is finished! you settle up, or you get out, right off!" "have you reflected that it is christmas eve--do we live in a melodrama, that i should wander homeless on christmas eve? seriously, you cannot expect a man of taste to lend himself to so hackneyed a situation? besides, i share this apartment with the composer monsieur nicolas pitou. consider how poignant he would find the room's associations if he returned to dwell here alone!" "monsieur pitou will not be admitted when he returns--there is not a pin to choose between the pair of you. you hand me the two hundred francs, or you go this minute--and i shall detain your wardrobe till you pay. where is it?" "it is divided between my person and a shelf at the pawnbroker's," explained the poet; "but i have a soiled collar in the left-hand corner drawer. however, i can offer you more valuable security for this trifling debt than you would dare to ask; the bureau is full of pearls --metrical, but beyond price. i beg your tenderest care of them, especially my tragedy in seven acts. do not play jinks with the contents of that bureau, or posterity will gibbet you and the name of 'gouge' will one day be execrated throughout france. garbage, farewell!" "here, take your shaving paper with you!" cried monsieur gouge, flinging the spanish novel down the stairs. and the next moment the man of letters stood dejected on the pavement, with the fatal manuscript under his arm. "ah, miranda, miranda, thou little knowest what mischief thou hast done!" he murmured, unconsciously plagiarising. "she brought bad tidings indeed, with her disastrous mien," he added. "what is to become of me now?" the moon, to which he had naturally addressed this query, made no answer; and, fingering the sou in his trouser-pocket, he trudged in the direction of the rue ravignan. "the situation would look well in print," he reflected, "but the load under my arm should, dramatically, be a bundle of my own poems. doubtless the matter will be put right by my biographer. i wonder if i can get half a bed from goujaud?" encouraged by the thought of the painter's hospitality, he proceeded to the studio; but he was informed in sour tones that monsieur goujaud would not sleep there that night. "so much the better," he remarked, "for i can have all his bed, instead of half of it! believe me, i shall put you to no trouble, madame." "i believe it fully," answered the woman, "for you will not come inside--not monsieur goujaud, nor you, nor any other of his vagabond friends. so, there!" "ah, is that how the wind blows--the fellow has not paid his rent?" said tricotrin. "how disgraceful of him, to be sure! fortunately sanquereau lives in the next house." he pulled the bell there forthwith, and the peal had scarcely sounded when sanquereau rushed to the door, crying, "welcome, my beautiful!" "mon dieu, what worthless acquaintances i possess!" moaned the unhappy poet. "since you are expecting your beautiful i need not go into details." "what on earth did you want?" muttered sanquereau, crestfallen. "i came to tell you the latest stop press news--goujaud's landlord has turned him out and i have no bed to lie on. au revoir!" after another apostrophe to the heavens, "that inane moon, which makes no response, is beginning to get on my nerves," he soliloquised. "let me see now! there is certainly master criqueboeuf, but it is a long journey to the quartier latin, and when i get there his social engagements may annoy me as keenly as sanquereau's. it appears to me i am likely to try the open-air cure to-night. in the meanwhile i may as well find miranda a seat and think things over." accordingly he bent his steps to the place dancourt, and having deposited the incubus beside him, stretched his limbs on a bench beneath a tree. his attitude, and his luxuriant locks, to say nothing of his melancholy aspect, rendered him a noticeable figure in the little square, and monsieur petitpas, from bordeaux, under the awning of the café opposite, stood regarding him with enthusiasm. "upon my word of honour," mused petitpas, rubbing his hands, "i believe i see a genius in the dumps! at last i behold the paris of my dreams. if i have read my murger to any purpose, i am on the verge of an epoch. what a delightful adventure!" taking out his marylands, petitpas sauntered towards the bench with a great show of carelessness, and made a pretence of feeling in his pockets for a match. "tschut!" he exclaimed; then, affecting to observe tricotrin for the first time, "may i beg you to oblige me with a light, monsieur?" he asked deferentially. a puff of wind provided an excuse for sitting down to guard the flame; and the next moment the genius had accepted a cigarette, and acknowledged that the weather was mild for the time of year. excitement thrilled petitpas. how often, after business hours, he had perused his well-thumbed copy of _la vie de bohème_ and in fancy consorted with the gay descendants of rodolphe and marcel; how often he had regretted secretly that he, himself, did not woo a muse and jest at want in a garret, instead of totting up figures, and eating three meals a day in comfort! and now positively one of the fascinating beings of his imagination lolled by his side! the little clerk on a holiday longed to play the generous comrade. in his purse he had a couple of louis, designed for sight-seeing, and, with a rush of emotion, he pictured himself squandering five or six francs in half an hour and startling the artist by his prodigality. "if i am not mistaken, i have the honour to address an author, monsieur?" he ventured. "your instincts have not misled you," replied the poet; "i am tricotrin, monsieur--gustave tricotrin. the name, however, is to be found, as yet, on no statues." "my own name," said the clerk, "is adolphe petitpas. i am a stranger in paris, and i count myself fortunate indeed to have made monsieur tricotrin's acquaintance so soon." "he expresses himself with some discretion, this person," reflected tricotrin. "and his cigarette was certainly providential!" "to meet an author has always been an ambition of mine," petitpas continued; "i dare to say that i have the artistic temperament, though circumstances have condemned me to commercial pursuits. you have no idea how enviable the literary life appears to me, monsieur!" "its privileges are perhaps more monotonous than you suppose," drawled the homeless poet. "also, i had to work for many years before i attained my present position." "this noble book, for instance," began the clerk, laying a reverent hand on the abominable manuscript. "hein?" exclaimed its victim, starting. "to have written this noble book must be a joy compared with which my own prosperity is valueless." "the damned thing is no work of mine," cried tricotrin; "and if we are to avoid a quarrel, i will ask you not to accuse me of it! a joy, indeed? in that block of drivel you view the cause of my deepest misfortunes." "a thousand apologies!" stammered his companion; "my inference was hasty. but what you say interests me beyond words. this manuscript, of seeming innocence, is the cause of misfortunes? may i crave an enormous favour; may i beg you to regard me as a friend and give me your confidence?" "i see no reason why i should refuse it," answered tricotrin, on whom the boast of "prosperity" had made a deep impression. "you must know, then, that this ineptitude, inflicted on me by an eccentric editor for translation, drove me to madness, and not an hour ago i cast it from my window in disgust. it is a novel entirely devoid of taste and tact, and it had the clumsiness to alight on my landlord's head. being a man of small nature, he retaliated by demanding his rent." "which it was not convenient to pay?" interrupted petitpas, all the pages of _la vie de bohème_ playing leapfrog through his brain. "i regret to bore you by so trite a situation. 'which it was not convenient to pay'! indeed, i was not responsible for all of it, for i occupied the room with a composer named pitou. well, you can construct the next scene without a collaborator; the landlord has a speech, and the tragedy is entitled 'tricotrin in quest of a home.'" "what of the composer?" inquired the delighted clerk; "what has become of monsieur pitou?" "monsieur pitou was not on in that act. the part of pitou will attain prominence when he returns and finds himself locked out." "but, my dear monsieur tricotrin, in such an extremity you should have sought the services of a friend." "i had that inspiration myself; i sought a painter called goujaud. and observe how careless is reality in the matter of coincidences! i learnt from his concierge that precisely the same thing had befallen monsieur goujaud. he, too, is christmassing alfresco." "mon dieu," faltered the clerk, "how it rejoices me that i have met you! all my life i have looked forward to encountering a genius in such a fix." "alas!" sighed tricotrin, with a pensive smile, "to the genius the fix is less spicy. without a supper--" "without a supper!" crowed petitpas. "without a bed--" "without a bed!" babbled petitpas, enravished. "with nothing but a pen and the sacred fire, one may be forgiven sadness." "not so, not so," shouted petitpas, smacking him on the back. "you are omitting _me_ from your list of assets! listen, i am staying at an hotel. you cannot decline to accord me the honour of welcoming you there as my guest for the night. hang the expense! i am no longer in business, i am a bohemian, like yourself; some supper, a bed, and a little breakfast will not ruin me. what do you say, monsieur?" "i say, drop the 'monsieur,' old chap," responded tricotrin. "your suggestions for the tragedy are cordially accepted. i have never known a collaborator to improve a plot so much. and understand this: i feel more earnestly than i speak; henceforth we are pals, you and i." "brothers!" cried petitpas, in ecstasy. "you shall hear all about a novel that i have projected for years. i should like to have your opinion of it." "i shall be enchanted," said tricotrin, his jaw dropping. "you must introduce me to your circle--the painters, and the models, and the actresses. your friends shall be _my_ friends in future." "don't doubt it! when i tell them what a brick you are, they will be proud to know you." "no ceremony, mind!" "not a bit. you shall be another chum. already i feel as if we had been confidants in our cradles." "it is the same with me. how true it is that kindred spirits recognise each other in an instant. what is environment? bah! a man may be a bohemian and an artist although his occupations are commercial?" "perfectly! i nearly pined amid commercial occupations myself." "what an extraordinary coincidence! ah, that is the last bond between us! you can realise my most complex moods, you can penetrate to the most distant suburbs of my soul! gustave, if i had been free to choose my career, i should have become a famous man." "my poor adolphe! still, prosperity is not an unmixed evil. you must seek compensation in your wealth," murmured the poet, who began to think that one might pay too high a price for a bed. "oh--er--to be sure!" said the little clerk, reminded that he was pledged to a larger outlay than he had originally proposed. "that is to say, i am not precisely 'wealthy.'" he saw his pocket-money during the trip much curtailed, and rather wished that his impulse had been less expansive. "a snug income is no stigma, whether one derives it from parnassus or the bourse," continued tricotrin. "hold! who is that i see, slouching over there? as i live, it's pitou, the composer, whose dilemma i told you of!" "another?" quavered the clerk, dismayed. "hé, nicolas! turn your symphonic gaze this way! 'tis i, gustave!" "ah, mon vieux!" exclaimed the young musician joyfully; "i was wondering what your fate might be. i have only just come from the house. madame dubois refused me admission; she informed me that you had been firing spanish novels at gouge's head. why spanish? is the spanish variety deadlier? so the villain has had the effrontery to turn us out?" "let me make your affinities known to each other," said tricotrin. "my brother nicolas--my brother adolphe. brother adolphe has received a scenario of the tragedy already, and he has a knack of inventing brilliant 'curtains.'" behind pitou's back he winked at petitpas, as if to say, "he little suspects what a surprise you have in store for him!" "oh--er--i am grieved to hear of your trouble, monsieur pitou," said petitpas feebly. "what? 'grieved'? come, that isn't all about it!" cried tricotrin, who attributed his restraint to nothing but diffidence. in an undertone he added, "don't be nervous, dear boy. your invitation won't offend him in the least!" petitpas breathed heavily. he aspired to prove himself a true bohemian, but his heart quailed at the thought of such expense. two suppers, two beds, and two little breakfasts as a supplement to his bill would be no joke. it was with a very poor grace that he stammered at last, "i hope you will allow me to suggest a way out, monsieur pitou? a room at my hotel seems to dispose of the difficulty." "hem?" exclaimed pitou. "is that room a mirage, or are you serious?" "'serious'?" echoed tricotrin. "he is as serious as an english adaptation of a french farce." he went on, under his breath, "you mustn't judge him by his manner, i can see that he has turned a little shy. believe me, he is the king of trumps." "well, upon my word i shall be delighted, monsieur," responded pitou. "it was evidently the good kind fairies that led me to the place dancourt. i would ask you to step over the way and have a bock, but my finances forbid." "your finances need cause no drought--adolphe will be paymaster!" declared tricotrin gaily, shouldering his manuscript. "come, let us adjourn and give the réveillon its due!" petitpas suppressed a moan. "by all means," he assented; "i was about to propose it myself. i am a real bohemian, you know, and think nothing of ordering several bocks at once." "are you sure he is all you say?" whispered pitou to tricotrin, with misgiving. "a shade embarrassed, that is all," pronounced the poet. and then, as the trio moved arm-in-arm toward the café, a second solitary figure emerged from the obscurity of the square. "bless my soul!" ejaculated tricotrin; "am i mistaken, or--look, look, adolphe! i would bet ten to one in sonnets that it is goujaud, the painter, whose plight i mentioned to you!" "yet another?" gasped petitpas, panic-stricken. "sst! hé, goujaud! come here, you vagrant, and be entertaining!" "well met, you fellows!" sighed goujaud. "where are you off to?" "we are going to give miranda a drink," said the poet; "she is drier than ever. let there be no strangers--my brother adolphe, my brother théodose! what is your secret woe, théo? your face is as long as this spaniard's novel, adolphe, have you a recipe in your pocket for the hump?" "perhaps monsieur goujaud will join us in a glass of beer?" said petitpas very coldly. "there are more unlikely things than that!" affirmed the painter; and when the café was entered, he swallowed his bock like one who has a void to fill. "the fact is," he confided to the group, "i was about to celebrate the réveillon on a bench. that insolent landlord of mine has kicked me out." "and you will not get inside," said tricotrin, "'not you, nor i, nor any other of your vagabond friends. so there!' i had the privilege of conversing with your concierge earlier in the evening." "ah, then, you know all about it. well, now that i have run across you, you can give me a shakedown in your attic. good business!" "i discern only one drawback to the scheme," said pitou; "we haven't any attic. it must be something in the air--all the landlords seem to have the same complaint." "but if you decide in the bench's favour, after all, you may pillow your curls on miranda," put in tricotrin. "she would be exhilarating company for him, adolphe, hein? what do you think?" he murmured aside, "give him a dig in the ribs and say, 'you silly ass, _i_ can fix you up all right!' that's the way we issue invitations in montmartre." the clerk's countenance was livid; his tongue stuck to his front teeth. at last, wrenching the words out, he groaned, "if monsieur goujaud will accept my hospitality, i shall be charmed!" he was not without a hope that his frigid bearing would beget a refusal. "ah, my dear old chap!" shouted goujaud without an instant's hesitation, "consider it done!" and now there were to be three suppers, three beds, and three little breakfasts, distorting the account! petitpas sipped his bock faintly, affecting not to notice that his guests' glasses had been emptied. with all his soul he repented the impulse that had led to his predicament. amid the throes of his mental arithmetic he recognised that he had been deceived in himself, that he had no abiding passion for bohemia. how much more pleasing than to board and lodge this disreputable collection would have been the daily round of amusements that he had planned! even now--he caught his breath--even now it was not too late; he might pay for the drinks and escape! why shouldn't he run away? "gentlemen," cried petitpas, "i shall go and fetch a cab for us all. make yourselves comfortable till i come back!" when the café closed, messieurs tricotrin, goujaud, and pitou crept forlornly across the square and disposed themselves for slumber on the bench. "well, there is this to be said," yawned the poet, "if the little bounder had kept his word, it would have been an extraordinary conclusion to our adventures--as persons of literary discretion, we can hardly regret that a story did not end so improbably.... my children, miranda, good-night--and a merry christmas!" the cafÉ of the broken heart on the last day of the year, towards the dinner-hour, a young and attractive woman, whose costume proclaimed her a widow, entered the café of the broken heart. that modest restaurant is situated near the cemetery of mont-martre. the lady, quoting from an announcement over the window, requested the proprietor to conduct her to the "apartment reserved for those desirous of weeping alone." the proprietor's shoulders became apologetic. "a thousand regrets, madame," he murmured; "the weeping alone apartment is at present occupied." this visibly annoyed the customer. "it is the second anniversary of my bereavement," she complained, "and already i have wept here twice. the woe of an habituée should find a welcome!" her reproof, still more her air of being well-to-do, had an effect on brochat. he looked at his wife, and his wife said hesitatingly: "perhaps the young man would consent to oblige madame if you asked him nicely. after all, he engaged the room for seven o'clock, and it is not yet half-past six." "that is true," said brochat. "alors, i shall see what can be arranged! i beg that madame will put herself to the trouble of sitting down while i make the biggest endeavours." but he returned after a few minutes to declare that the young man's sorrow was so profound that no reply could be extracted from him. the lady showed signs of temper. "has this person the monopoly of sorrowing on your premises?" she demanded. "whom does he lament? surely the loss of a husband should give me prior claim?" "i cannot rightly say whom the gentleman laments," stammered brochat; "the circumstances are, in fact, somewhat unusual. i would mention, however, that the apartment is a spacious one, as madame doubtless recalls, and no further mourners are expected for half an hour. if in the meantime madame would be so amiable as to weep in the young man's presence, i can assure her that she would find him too stricken to stare." the widow considered. "well," she said, after the pause, "if you can guarantee his abstraction, so be it! it is a matter of conscience with me to behave in precisely the same way each year, and, rather than miss my meditations there altogether, i am willing to make the best of him." brochat, having taken her order for refreshments--for which he always charged slightly higher prices on the first floor--preceded her up the stairs. the single gas-flame that had been kindled in the room was very low, and the lady received but a momentary impression of a man's figure bowed over a white table. she chose a chair at once with her back towards him, and resting her brow on her forefinger, disposed herself for desolation. it may have been that the stranger's proximity told on her nerves, or it may have been that time had done something to heal the wound. whatever the cause, the frame of mind that she invited was slow in arriving, and when the bouillon and biscottes appeared she was not averse from trifling with them. meanwhile, for any sound that he had made, the young man might have been as defunct as henri iv; but as she took her second sip, a groan of such violence escaped him that she nearly upset her cup. his abandonment of despair seemed to reflect upon her own insensibility; and, partly to raise herself in his esteem, the lady a moment later uttered a long-drawn, wistful sigh. no sooner had she done so, however, than she deeply regretted the indiscretion, for it stimulated the young man to a howl positively harrowing. an impatient movement of her graceful shoulders protested against these demonstrations, but as she had her back to him, she could not tell whether he observed her. stealing a glance, she discovered that his face was buried in his hands, and that the white table seemed to be laid for ten covers. scrutiny revealed ten bottles of wine around it, the neck of each bottle embellished with a large crape bow. curiosity now held the lady wide-eyed, and, as luck would have it, the young man, at this moment, raised his head. "i trust that my agony does not disturb you, madame?" he inquired, meeting her gaze with some embarrassment. "i must confess, monsieur," said she, "that you have been carrying it rather far." he accepted the rebuke humbly. "if you divined the intensity of my sufferings, you would be lenient," he murmured. "nevertheless, it was dishonest of me to moan so bitterly before seven o'clock, when my claim to the room legally begins. i entreat your pardon." "it is accorded freely," said the lady, mollified by his penitence. "she would be a poor mourner who quarrelled with the affliction of another." again she indulged in a plaintive sigh, and this time the young man's response was tactfully harmonious. "life is a vale of tears, madame," he remarked, with more solicitude than originality. "you may indeed say so, monsieur," she assented. "to have lost one who was beloved--" "it must be a heavy blow; i can imagine it!" he had made a curious answer. she stared at him, perplexed. "you can 'imagine' it?" "very well." "but you yourself have experienced such a loss, monsieur?" faltered the widow nervously. had trouble unhinged his brain? "no," said the young man; "to speak by the clock, my own loss has not yet occurred." a brief silence fell, during which she cast uneasy glances towards the door. he added, as if anxious that she should do him justice: "but i would not have you consider my lamentations premature." "how true it is," breathed the lady, "that in this world no human soul can wholly comprehend another!" "mine is a very painful history," he warned her, taking the hint; "yet if it will serve to divert your mind from your own misfortune, i shall be honoured to confide it to you. stay, the tenth invitation, which an accident prevented my dispatching, would explain the circumstances tersely: but i much fear that the room is too dark for you to decipher all the subtleties. have i your permission to turn up the gas?" "do so, by all means, monsieur," said the lady graciously. and the light displayed to her, first, as personable a young man as she could have desired to see; second, an imposing card, which was inscribed as follows: monsieur achille flamant, artist, forewarns you of the death of his career the interment will take place at the café of the broken heart on december st. _valedictory n.b.--a sympathetic costume victuals will be appreciated. p.m._ "i would call your attention to the border of cypress, and to the tomb in the corner," said the young man, with melancholy pride. "you may also look favourably on the figure with the shovel, which, of course, depicts me in the act of burying my hopes. it is a symbolic touch that no hope is visible." "it is a very artistic production altogether," said the widow, dissembling her astonishment. "so you are a painter, monsieur flamant?" "again speaking by the clock, i am a painter," he concurred; "but at midnight i shall no longer be in a position to say so--in the morning i am pledged to the life commercial. you will not marvel at my misery when i inform you that the existence of achille flamant, the artist, will terminate in five hours and twenty odd minutes!" "well, i am commercial myself," she said. "i am madame aurore, the beauty specialist, of the rue baba. do not think me wanting in the finer emotions, but i assure you that a lucrative establishment is not a calamity." "madame aurore," demurred the painter, with a bow, "your own business is but a sister art. in your atelier, the saffron of a bad complexion blooms to the fairness of a rose, and the bunch of a lumpy figure is modelled to the grace of galatea. with me it will be a different pair of shoes; i shall be condemned to perch on a stool in the office of a wine-merchant, and invoice vintages which my thirty francs a week will not allow me to drink. no comparison can be drawn between your lot and my little." "certainly i should not like to perch," she confessed. "would you rejoice at the thirty francs a week?" "well, and the thirty francs a week are also poignant. but you may rise, monsieur; who shall foretell the future? once i had to make both ends meet with less to coax them than the salary you mention. even when my poor husband was taken from me--heigho!" she raised a miniature handkerchief delicately to her eyes--"when i was left alone in the world, monsieur, my affairs were greatly involved--i had practically nothing but my resolve to succeed." "and the witchery of your personal attractions, madame," said the painter politely. "ah!" a pensive smile rewarded him. "the business was still in its infancy, monsieur; yet to-day i have the smartest clientèle in paris. i might remove to the rue de la paix to-morrow if i pleased. but, i say, why should i do that? i say, why a reckless rental for the sake of a fashionable address, when the fashionable men and women come to me where i am?" "you show profound judgment, madame," said flamant. "why, indeed!" "and you, too, will show good judgment, i am convinced," continued madame aurore, regarding him with approval. "you have an air of intellect. if your eyebrows were elongated a fraction towards the temples--an improvement that might be effected easily enough by regular use of my persian pomade--you would acquire the appearance of a born conqueror." "alas," sighed flamant, "my finances forbid my profiting by the tip!" "monsieur, you wrong me," murmured the specialist reproachfully. "i was speaking with no professional intent. on the contrary, if you will permit me, i shall take joy in forwarding a pot to you gratis." "is it possible?" cried flamant: "you would really do this for me? you feel for my sufferings so much?" "indeed, i regret that i cannot persuade you to reduce the sufferings," she replied. "but tell me why you have selected the vocation of a wine-merchant's clerk." "fate, not i, has determined my cul-de-sac in life," rejoined her companion. "it is like this: my father, who lacks an artistic soul, consented to my becoming a painter only upon the understanding that i should gain the prix de rome and pursue my studies in italy free of any expense to him. this being arranged, he agreed to make me a minute allowance in the meanwhile. by a concatenation of catastrophes upon which it is unnecessary to dwell, the beaux-arts did not accord the prize to me; and, at the end of last year, my parent reminded me of our compact, with a vigour which nothing but the relationship prevents my describing as 'inhuman'. he insisted that i must bid farewell to aspiration and renounce the brush of an artist for the quill of a clerk! distraught, i flung myself upon my knees. i implored him to reconsider. my tribulation would have moved a rock--it even moved his heart!" "he showed you mercy?" "he allowed me a respite." "it was for twelve months?" "precisely. what rapid intuitions you have!--if i could remain in paris, we should become great friends. he allowed me twelve months' respite. if, at the end of that time, art was still inadequate to supply my board and lodging, it was covenanted that, without any more ado, i should resign myself to clerical employment at nantes. the merchant there is a friend of the family, and had offered to demonstrate his friendship by paying me too little to live on. enfin, fame has continued coy. the year expires to-night. i have begged a few comrades to attend a valedictory dinner--and at the stroke of midnight, despairing i depart!" "is there a train?" "i do not depart from paris till after breakfast to-morrow; but at midnight i depart from myself, i depart psychologically--the achille flamant of the hitherto will be no more." "i understand," said madame aurore, moved. "as you say, in my own way i am an artist, too, there is a bond between us. poor fellow, it is indeed a crisis in your life!... who put the crape bows on the bottles? they are badly tied. shall i tie them properly for you?" "it would be a sweet service," said flamant, "and i should be grateful. how gentle you are to me--pomade, bows, nothing is too much for you!" "you must give me your nantes address," she said, "and i will post the pot without fail." "i shall always keep it," he vowed--"not the pomade, but the pot--as a souvenir. will you write a few lines to me at the same time?" her gaze was averted; she toyed with her spoon. "the directions will be on the label," she said timidly. "it was not of my eyebrows i was thinking," murmured the man. "what should i say? the latest quotation for artificial lashes, or a development in dimple culture, would hardly be engrossing to you." "i am inclined to believe that anything that concerned you would engross me." "it would be so unconventional," she objected dreamily. "to send a brief message of encouragement? have we not talked like confidants?" "that is queerer still." "i admit it. just now i was unaware of your existence, and suddenly you dominate my thoughts. how do you work these miracles, madame? do you know that i have an enormous favour to crave of you?" "what, another one?" "actually! is it not audacious of me? yet for a man on the verge of parting from his identity, i venture to hope that you will strain a point." "the circumstances are in the man's favour," she owned. "nevertheless, much depends on what the point is." "well, i ask nothing less than that you accept the invitation on the card that you examined; i beg you to soothe my last hours by remaining to dine." "oh, but really," she exclaimed. "i am afraid--" "you cannot urge that you are required at your atelier so late. and as to any social engagement, i do not hesitate to affirm that my approaching death in life puts forth the stronger claim." "on me? when all is said, a new acquaintance!" "what is time?" demanded the painter. and she was not prepared with a reply. "your comrades will be strangers to me," she argued. "it is a fact that now i wish they were not coming," acknowledged the host; "but they are young men of the loftiest genius, and some day it may provide a piquant anecdote to relate how you met them all in the period of their obscurity." "my friend," she said, hurt, "if i consented, it would not be to garner anecdotes." "ah, a million regrets!" he cried; "i spoke foolishly." "it was tactless." "yes--i am a man. do you forgive?" "yes--i am a woman. well, i must take my bonnet off!" "oh, you are not a woman, but an angel! what beautiful hair you have! and your hands, how i should love to paint them!" "i have painted them, myself--with many preparations. my hands have known labour, believe me; they have washed up plates and dishes, and often the dishes had provided little to eat." "poor girl! one would never suspect that you had struggled like that." "how feelingly you say it! there have been few to show me sympathy. oh, i assure you, my life has been a hard one; it is a hard one now, in spite of my success. constantly, when customers moan before my mirrors, i envy them, if they did but know it. i think: 'yes, you have a double chin, and your eyes have lost their fire, and nasty curly little veins are spoiling the pallor of your nose; but you have the affection of husband and child, while _i_ have nothing but fees.' what is my destiny? to hear great-grandmothers grumble because i cannot give them back their girlhood for a thousand francs! to devote myself to making other women beloved, while _i_ remain loveless in my shop!" "honestly, my heart aches for you. if i might presume to advise, i would say, 'do not allow the business to absorb your youth--you were meant to be worshipped.' and yet, while i recommend it, i hate to think of another man worshipping you." "why should you care, my dear? but there is no likelihood of that; i am far too busy to seek worshippers. a propos an idea has just occurred to me which might be advantageous to us both. if you could inform your father that you would be able to earn rather more next year by remaining in paris than by going to nantes, would it be satisfactory?" "satisfactory?" ejaculated flamant. "it would be ecstatic! but how shall i acquire such information?" "would you like to paint a couple of portraits of me?" "i should like to paint a thousand." "my establishment is not a picture-gallery. listen. i offer you a commission for two portraits: one, present day, let us say, moderately attractive--" "i decline to libel you." "o, flatterer! the other, depicting my faded aspect before i discovered the priceless secrets of the treatment that i practise in the rue baba. i shall hang them both in the reception-room. i must look at least a decade older in the 'before' than in the 'after,' and it must, of course, present the appearance of having been painted some years ago. that can be faked?" "perfectly." "you accept?" "i embrace your feet. you have saved my life; you have preserved my hopefulness, you have restored my youth!" "it is my profession to preserve and restore." "ah, mon dieu!" gasped flamant in a paroxysm of adoration. "aurore, i can no longer refrain from avowing that--" at this instant the door opened, and there entered solemnly nine young men, garbed in such habiliments of woe as had never before been seen perambulating, even on the figures of undertakers. the foremost bore a wreath of immortelles, which he laid in devout silence on the dinner-table. "permit me," said flamant, recovering himself by a stupendous effort: "monsieur tricotrin, the poet--madame aurore." "enchanted!" said the poet, in lugubrious tones. "i have a heavy cold, thank you, owing to my having passed the early hours of christmas day on a bench, in default of a bed. it is superfluous to inquire as to the health of madame." "monsieur goujaud, a colleague." "overjoyed!" responded goujaud, with a violent sneeze. "goujaud was with me," said tricotrin. "monsieur pitou, the composer." "i ab hodoured. i trust badabe is dot dervous of gerbs? there is nothing to fear," said pitou. "so was pitou!" added tricotrin. "monsieur sanquereau, the sculptor; monsieur lajeunie, the novelist," continued the host. but before he could present the rest of the company, brochat was respectfully intimating to the widow that her position in the weeping alone apartment was now untenable. he was immediately commanded to lay another cover. "madame and comrades," declaimed tricotrin, unrolling a voluminous manuscript, as they took their seats around the pot-au-feu, "i have composed for this piteous occasion a brief poem!" "i must beseech your pardon," stammered flamant, rising in deep confusion; "i have nine apologies to tender. gentlemen, this touching wreath for the tomb of my career finds the tomb unready. these affecting garments which you have hired at, i fear, ruinous expense, should be exchanged for bunting; that immortal poem with which our friend would favour us has been suddenly deprived of all its point." "explain! explain!" volleyed from nine throats. "i shall still read it," insisted tricotrin, "it is good." "the lady--nay, the goddess--whom you behold, has showered commissions, and for one year more i shall still be in your midst. brothers in art, brothers in heart, i ask you to charge your glasses, and let your voices ring. the toast is, 'madame aurore and her gift of the new year!'" "madame aurore and her gift of the new year!" shrieked the nine young men, springing to their feet. "in a year much may happen," said the lady tremulously. and when they had all sat down again, flamant was thrilled to find her hand in his beneath the table. the dress clothes of monsieur pomponnet it was thanks to touquet that she was able to look so chic--the little baggage!--yet of all her suitors touquet was the one she favoured least. he was the costumier at the corner of the rue des martyrs, and made a very fair thing of the second-hand clothes. it was to touquet's that the tradesmen of the quarter turned as a matter of course to hire dress-suits for their nuptials; it was in the well-cleaned satins of touquet that the brides' mothers and the lady guests cut such imposing figures when they were photographed after the wedding breakfasts; it was even touquet who sometimes supplied a gown to one or another of the humble actresses at the théâtre montmartre, and received a couple of free tickets in addition to his fee. i tell you that touquet was not a person to be sneezed at, though he had passed the first flush of youth, and was never an adonis. besides, who was she, this little lisette, who had the impudence to flout him? a girl in a florist's, if you can believe me, with no particular beauty herself, and not a son by way of dot! and yet--one must confess it--she turned a head as swiftly as she made a "buttonhole"; and pomponnet, the pastrycook, was paying court to her, too--to say nothing of the homage of messieurs tricotrin, the poet, and goujaud, the painter, and lajeunie, the novelist. you would never have guessed that her wages were only twenty francs a week, as you watched her waltz with tricotrin at the ball on saturday evening, or as you saw her enter pomponnet's shop, when the shutters were drawn, to feast on his strawberry tarts. her costumes were the cynosure of the boulevard rochechouart! and they were all due to touquet, touquet the infatuated, who lent the fine feathers to her for the sake of a glance, or a pressure of the hand--and wept on his counter afterwards while he wondered whose arms might be embracing her in the costumes that he had cleaned and pressed with so much care. often he swore that his folly should end--that she should be affianced to him, or go shabby; but, lo! in a day or two she would make her appearance again, to coax for the loan of a smart blouse, or "that hat with the giant rose and the ostrich plume"--and touquet would be as weak as ever. judge, then, of his despair when he heard that she had agreed to marry pomponnet! she told him the news with the air of an amiable gossip when she came to return a ball-dress that she had borrowed. "enfin," she said--perched on the counter, and swinging her remorseless feet--"it is arranged; i desert the flowers for the pastry, and become the mistress of a shop. i shall have to beg from my good friend monsieur touquet no more--not at all! i shall be his client, like the rest. it will be better, hein?" touquet groaned. "you know well, lisette," he answered, "that it has been a joy to me to place the stock at your disposal, even though it was to make you more attractive in the eyes of other men. everything here that you have worn possesses a charm to me. i fondle the garments when you bring them back; i take them down from the pegs and dream over them. truly! there is no limit to my weakness, for often when a client proposes to hire a frock that you have had, i cannot bear that she should profane it, and i say that it is engaged." "you dear, kind monsieur touquet," murmured the coquette; "how agreeable you are!" "i have always hoped for the day when the stock would be all your own, lisette. and by-and-by we might have removed to a better position-- even down the hill. who knows? we might have opened a business in the madeleine quarter. that would suit you better than a little cake-shop up a side street? and i would have risked it for you--i know how you incline to fashion. when i have taken you to a theatre, did you choose the montmartre--where we might have gone for nothing--or the moncey? not you!--that might do for other girls. _you_ have always demanded the theatres of the grand boulevard; a cup of coffee at the café de la paix is more to your taste than a bottle of beer and hard-boiled eggs at the nimble rabbit. heaven knows i trust you will be happy, but i cannot persuade myself that this pomponnet shares your ambitions; with his slum and his stale pastry he is quite content." "it is not stale," she said. "well, we will pass his pastry--though, word of honour, i bought some there last week that might have been baked before the commune; but to recur to his soul, is it an affinity?" "affinities are always hard up," she pouted. "zut!" exclaimed touquet; "now your mind is running on that monsieur tricotrin--by 'affinities' i do not mean hungry poets. why not have entrusted your happiness to _me_? i adore you, i have told you a thousand times that i adore you. lisette, consider before it is too late! you cannot love this--this obscure baker?" she gave a shrug. "it is a fact that devotion has not robbed me of my appetite," she confessed. "but what would you have? his business goes far better than you imagine--i have seen his books; and anyhow, my sentiment for you is friendship, and no more." "to the devil with friendship!" cried the unhappy wardrobe-dealer; "did i dress you like the empress joséphine for friendship?" "do not mock yourself of it," she said reprovingly; "remember that 'friendship is a beautiful flower, of which esteem is the stem.'" and, having thrown the adage to him, coupled with a glance that drove him to distraction, the little flirt jumped off the counter and was gone. much more reluctantly she contemplated parting with him whom the costumier had described as a "hungry poet"; but matrimony did not enter the poet's scheme of things, nor for that matter had she ever regarded him as a possible parti. yet a woman may give her fancy where her reason refuses to follow, and when she imparted her news to tricotrin there was no smile on her lips. "we shall not go to balls any more, old dear," she said. "monsieur pomponnet has proposed marriage to me--and i settle down." "heartless girl," exclaimed the young man, with tears in his eyes. "so much for woman's constancy!" "mon dieu," she faltered, "did you then love me, gustave--really?" "i do not know," said tricotrin, "but since i am to lose you, i prefer to think so. ah, do not grieve for me--fortunately, there is always the seine! and first i shall pour my misery into song; and in years to come, fair daughters at your side will read the deathless poem, little dreaming that the lisette i sang to is their mother. some time--long after i am in my grave, when france has honoured me at last--you may stand before a statue that bears my name, and think, 'he loved me, and i broke his heart!'" "oh," she whimpered, "rather than break your heart i--i might break the engagement! i might consider again, gustave." "no, no," returned tricotrin, "i will not reproach myself with the thought that i have marred your life; i will leave you free. besides, as i say, i am not certain that i should want you so much but for the fact that i have lost you. after all, you will not appreciate the poem that immortalises you, and if i lived, many of your remarks about it would doubtless infuriate me." "why shall i not appreciate it? am i so stupid?" "it is not that you are stupid, my soul," he explained; "it is that i am transcendentally clever. to understand the virtues of my work one must have sipped from all the flowers of literature. 'there is to be found in it racine, voltaire, flaubert, renan--and always gustave tricotrin,' as lemaître has written. he wrote, '--and always anatole france,' but i paraphrase him slightly. so you are going to marry pomponnet? mon dieu, when i have any sous in my pocket, i will ruin myself, for the rapture of regretting you among the pastry!" "i thought," she said, a little mortified, "that you were going to drown yourself?" "am i not to write my lament to you? i must eat while i write it--why not pastry? also, when i am penniless and starving, you may sometimes, in your prosperity--and yet, perhaps, it is too much to ask?" "give you tick, do you mean, dear? but yes, gustave; how can you doubt that i will do that? in memory of--" "in memory of the love that has been, you will permit me to run up a small score for cakes, will you not, lisette?" "i will, indeed!" she promised. "but, but--oh, it's quite true, i should never understand you! a minute ago you made me think of you in the morgue, and now you make me think of you in the cake-shop. what are you laughing at?" "i laugh, like figaro," said tricotrin, "that i may not be obliged to weep. when are you going to throw yourself away, my little lisette? has my accursed rival induced you to fix a date?' "we are to be married in a fortnight's time," she said. "and if you could undertake to be sensible, i would ask alphonse to invite you to the breakfast." "in a fortnight's time hunger and a hopeless passion will probably have made an end of me," replied the poet; "however, if i survive, the breakfast will certainly be welcome. where is it to be held? i can recommend a restaurant that is especially fine at such affairs, and most moderate. 'photographs of the party are taken gratuitously in the jardin d'acclimatation, and pianos are at the disposal of the ladies'; i quote from the menu--i study it in the window every time i pass. there are wedding breakfasts from six to twelve francs per head. at six francs, the party have their choice of two soups and three hors d'oeuvres. then comes 'poisson'--i fear it may be whiting--filet de boeuf with tomates farcies, bouchées à la reine, chicken, pigeons, salad, two vegetables, an ice, assorted fruits, and biscuits. the wines are madeira, a bottle of mâcon to each person, a bottle of bordeaux among four persons, and a bottle of champagne among ten persons. also coffee and liqueurs. at six francs a head! it is good, hein? at seven francs there is a bottle of champagne among every eight persons-- pomponnet will, of course, do as he thinks best. at eight francs, a bottle is provided for every six persons. i have too much delicacy to make suggestions, but should he be willing to soar to twelve francs a head, i might eat enough to last a week--and of such quality! the soups would then be bisque d'écrevisse and consommé rachel. rissoles de foies gras would appear. asparagus 'in branches,' and compote of peaches flavoured with maraschino would be included. also, in the twelve-franc breakfast, the champagne begins to have a human name on the label!" now, it is not certain how much of this information lisette repeated to pomponnet, but pomponnet, having a will of his own, refused to entertain monsieur tricotrin at any price at all. more-over, he found it unconventional that she should desire the poet's company, considering the attentions that he had paid her; and she was forced to listen, with an air of humility which she was far from feeling, to a lecture on the responsibilities of her new position. "i am not a jealous man," said the pastrycook, who was as jealous a man as ever baked a pie; "but it would be discreet that you dropped this acquaintance now that we are engaged. i know well that you have never taken the addresses of such a fellow seriously, and that it is only in the goodness of your heart you wish to present him with a blow-out. nevertheless, the betrothal of a man in my circumstances is much remarked; all the daughters of the hairdresser next door have had their hopes of me--indeed, there is scarcely a neighbour who is not chagrined at the turn events have taken--and the world would be only too glad of an excuse to call me 'fool.' pomponnet's wife must be above suspicion. you will remember that a little lightness of conduct which might be forgiven in the employée of the florist would be unseemly in my fiancée. no more conversation with monsieur tricotrin, lisette! some dignity--some coldness in the bow when you pass him. the boulevard will observe it, it will be approved." "you, of course, know best, my dear alphonse," she returned meekly; "i am only an inexperienced girl, and i am thankful to have your advice to guide me. but let me say that never, never has there been any 'lightness of conduct,' to distress you. monsieur tricotrin and i have been merely friends. if i have gone to a ball with him sometimes--and i acknowledge that has happened--it has been because nobody more to my taste has offered to take me." she had ground her little teeth under the infliction of his homily, and it was only by dint of thinking hard of his profits that she abstained from retorting that he might marry all the daughters of the hairdresser and go to uganda. however, during the next week or so, she did not chance to meet the poet on the boulevard; and since she wished to conquer her tenderness for him, one cannot doubt that all would have been well but for the editor of _l'echo de la butte._ by a freak of fate, the editor of _l'echo de la butte_ was moved to invite monsieur tricotrin to an affair of ceremony two days previous to the wedding. what followed? naturally tricotrin must present himself in evening dress. naturally, also, he must go to touquet's to hire the suit. "regard," said the costumier, "here is a suit that i have just acquired. monsieur will observe that it is of the most distinguished cut--quite in the latest fashion. i will whisper to monsieur that it comes to me through the valet of the comte de st.-nom-la-bretèche- forêt-de-marly." "mon dieu!" said tricotrin, "let me try it on!" and he was so gratified by his appearance in it that he barely winced at the thought of the expense. "i am improving my position," he soliloquised; "if i have not precisely inherited the mantle of victor hugo, i have, at any rate, hired the dress-suit of the comte de st.-nom-la-bretèche-forêt-de- marly!" never had a more impressive spectacle been witnessed in montmartre than tricotrin's departure from his latest lodging shortly after six o'clock. wearing a shirt of pitou's, flamant's patent-leather boots, and a white tie contributed by goujaud, the young man sallied forth with the deportment of the count himself. only one thing more did he desire, a flower for his buttonhole--and lisette remained in her situation until the morrow! what more natural, finally, than that he should hie him to the florist's? it was the first time that she had seen her lover in evening dress, and sentiment overpowered her as he entered. "thou!" she murmured, paling. on the poet, too, the influence of the clothes was very strong; attired like a jeune premier, he craved with all the dramatic instinct of his nature for a love scene; and, instead of fulfilling his intention to beg for a rosebud at cost price, he gazed at her soulfully and breathed "lisette!" "so we have met again!" she said. "the world is small," returned the poet, ignoring the fact that he had come to the shop. "and am i yet remembered?" "it is not likely i should forget you in a few days," she said, more practically; "i didn't forget about the breakfast, either, but alphonse put his foot down." "pig!" said the poet. "and yet it may be better so! how could i eat in such an hour?" "however, you are not disconsolate this evening?" she suggested. "mais vrai! what a swell you are!" "flûte! some fashionable assembly that will bore me beyond endurance," he sighed. "with you alone, lisette, have i known true happiness--the train rides on summer nights that were joyous because we loved; the simple meals that were sweetened by your smile!" "ah, gustave!" she said. "wait, i must give you a flower for your coat!" "i shall keep it all my life!" vowed tricotrin. "tell me, little one--i dare not stay now, because my host lives a long way off--but this evening, could you not meet me once again? for the last time, to say farewell? i have nearly two francs fifty, and we might go to supper, if you agree." it was arranged before he took leave of her that she should meet him outside the _débit_ at the corner of the rue de sontay at eleven o'clock, and sup with him there, in a locality where she was unlikely to be recognised. rash enough, this conduct, for a young woman who was to be married to another man on the next day but one! but a greater imprudence was to follow. they supped, they sentimentalised, and when they parted in the champs elysées and the moonshine, she gave him from her bosom a little rose-coloured envelope that contained nothing less than a lock of her hair. the poet placed it tenderly in his waistcoat pocket; and, after he had wept, and quoted poetry to the stars, forgot it. he began to wish that he had not mixed his liquors quite so impartially; and, on the morrow, when he woke, he was mindful of nothing more grievous than a splitting headache. now touquet, who could not sleep of nights because the pastrycook was going to marry lisette, made a practice of examining the pockets of all garments returned to him, with an eye to stray sous; and when he proceeded to examine the pockets of the dress-suit returned by monsieur tricotrin, what befell but that he drew forth a rose-tinted envelope containing a tress of hair, and inscribed, "to gustave, from lisette. adieu." and the editor who invited monsieur tricotrin had never heard of lisette; never heard of pomponnet; did not know that such a person as touquet existed; yet the editorial caprice had manipulated destinies. how powerful are editors! how complicated is life! but a truce to philosophy--let us deal with the emotions of the soul! the shop reeled before touquet. all the good and the bad in his character battled tumultuously. in one moment he aspired to be generous and restore to lisette the evidence of her guilt; in the next he sank to the base thought of displaying it to pomponnet and breaking off the match. the discovery fired his brain. no longer was he a nonentity, the odd man out--chance had transformed him to the master of the situation. full well he knew that there would be no nuptials next day were pomponnet aware of his fiancée's perfidy; it needed but to go to him and say, "monsieur, my sense of duty compels me to inform you--." how easy it would be! he laughed hysterically. but lisette would never pardon such a meanness--she would always despise and hate him! he would have torn her from his rival's arms, it was true, yet his own would still be empty. "ah, lisette, lisette!" groaned the wretched man; and, swept to evil by the force of passion, he cudgelled his mind to devise some piece of trickery, some diabolical artifice, by which the incriminating token might be placed in the pastrycook's hands as if by accident. and while he pondered--his "whole soul a chaos"--in that hour pomponnet entered to hire a dress-suit for his wedding! touquet raised his head, blanched to the lips. "regard," he said, with a forced calm terrible to behold; "here is a suit that i have just acquired. monsieur will observe that it is of the most distinguished cut--quite in the latest fashion. i will whisper to monsieur that it comes to me through the valet of the comte de st. nom- la-bretéche-forét-de-marly." and, unseen by the guileless bridegroom, he slipped the damning proof into a pocket of the trousers, where his knowledge of the pastrycook's attitudes assured him that it was even more certain to be found than in the waistcoat. "mon dieu!" said the other, duly impressed by the suit's pedigree; "let me try it on.... the coat is rather tight," he complained, "but it has undeniably an air." "no more than one client has worn it," gasped the wardrobe dealer haggardly: _"monsieur gustave tricotrin, the poet, who hired it last night!_ the suit is practically new; i have no other in the establishment to compare with it. listen, monsieur pomponnet! to an old client like yourself, i will be liberal; wear it this evening for an hour in your home--if you find it not to your figure, there will be time to make another selection before the ceremony to-morrow. you shall have this on trial, i will make no extra charge." such munificence was bound to have its effect, and five minutes later touquet's plot had progressed. but the tension had been frightful; the door had scarcely closed when he sank into a chair, trembling in every limb, and for the rest of the day he attended to his business like one moving in a trance. meanwhile, the unsuspecting pomponnet reviewed the arrangement with considerable satisfaction; and when he came to attire himself, after the cake-shop was shut, his reflected image pleased him so well that he was tempted to stroll abroad. he decided to call on his betrothed, and to exhibit himself a little on the boulevard. accordingly, he put some money in the pocket of the waistcoat, oiled his silk hat, to give it an additional lustre, and sallied forth in high good-humour. "how splendid you look, my dear alphonse!" exclaimed lisette, little dreaming it was the same suit that she had approved on tricotrin the previous evening. her innocent admiration was agreeable to pomponnet; he patted her on the cheek. "in truth," he said carelessly, "i had forgotten that i had it on! but i was so impatient for to-morrow, my pet angel, that i could not remain alone and i had to come to see you." they were talking on her doorstep, for she had no apartment in which it would have been _convenable_ to entertain him, and it appeared to him that the terrace of a café would be more congenial. "run upstairs and make your toilette, my loving duck," he suggested, "and i shall take you out for a tasse. while you are getting ready, i will smoke a cigar." and he drew his cigar-case from the breast-pocket of the coat, and took a match-box from the pocket where he had put his cash. it was a balmy evening, sweet with the odour of spring, and the streets were full of life. as he promenaded with her on the boulevard, pomponnet did not fail to remark the attention commanded by his costume. he strutted proudly, and when they reached the café and took their seats, he gave his order with the authority of the president. "ah!" he remarked, "it is good here, hein?" and then, stretching his legs, he thrust both his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "_comment?_" he murmured. "what have i found?... now is not this amusing--i swear it is a billet-doux!" he bent, chuckling, to the light--and bounded in his chair with an oath that turned a dozen heads towards them. "traitress," roared pomponnet, "miserable traitress! it is _your_ name! it is your _writing_! it is your _hair_! do not deny it; give me your head--it matches to a shade! jezebel, last night you met monsieur tricotrin--you have deceived me!" lisette, who had jumped as high as he in recognising the envelope, sat like one paralysed now. her tongue refused to move. for an instant, the catastrophe seemed to her of supernatural agency--it was as if a miracle had happened, as she saw her fiancé produce her lover's keepsake. all she could stammer at last was: "let us go away--pay for the coffee!" "i will not pay," shouted monsieur pomponnet. "pay for it yourself, jade--i have done with you!" and, leaving her spellbound at the table, he strode from the terrace like a madman before the waiters could stop him. oh, of course, he was well known at the café, and they did not detain lisette, but it was a most ignominious position for a young woman. and there was no wedding next day, and everybody knew why. the little coquette, who had mocked suitors by the dozen, was jilted almost on the threshold of the mairie. she smacked tricotrin's face in the morning, but her humiliation was so acute that it demanded the salve of immediate marriage; and at the moment she could think of no one better than touquet. so touquet won her after all. and though by this time she may guess how he accomplished it, he will tell you--word of honour!--that never, never has he had occasion for regret. the suicides in the rue sombre having bought the rope, tournicquot wondered where he should hang himself. the lath-and-plaster ceiling of his room might decline to support him, and while the streets were populous a lamp-post was out of the question. as he hesitated on the kerb, he reflected that a pan of charcoal would have been more convenient after all; but the coil of rope in the doorway of a shop had lured his fancy, and now it would be laughable to throw it away. tournicquot was much averse from being laughed at in private life-- perhaps because fate had willed that he should be laughed at so much in his public capacity. could he have had his way, indeed, tournicquot would have been a great tragedian, instead of a little droll, whose portraits, with a bright red nose and a scarlet wig, grimaced on the hoardings; and he resolved that, at any rate, the element of humour should not mar his suicide. as to the motive for his death, it was as romantic as his heart desired. he adored "la belle lucèrce," the fascinating snake charmer, and somewhere in the background the artiste had a husband. little the audience suspected the passion that devoured their grotesque comedian while he cut his capers and turned love to ridicule; little they divined the pathos of a situation which condemned him behind the scenes to whisper the most sentimental assurances of devotion when disfigured by a flaming wig and a nose that was daubed vermilion! how nearly it has been said, one half of the world does not know how the other half loves! but such incongruities would distress tournicquot no more--to-day he was to die; he had worn his chessboard trousers and his little green coat for the last time! for the last time had the relentless virtue of lucrèce driven him to despair! when he was discovered inanimate, hanging to a beam, nothing comic about him, perhaps the world would admit that his soul had been solemn, though his "line of business" had been funny; perhaps lucrèce would even drop warm tears on his tomb! it was early in the evening. dusk was gathering over paris, the promise of dinner was in the breeze. the white glare of electric globes began to flood the streets; and before the cafés, waiters bustled among the tables, bearing the vermouth and absinthe of the hour. instinctively shunning the more frequented thoroughfares, tournicquot crossed the boulevard des batignolles, and wandered, lost in reverie, along the melancholy continuation of the rue de rome until he perceived that he had reached a neighbourhood unknown to him--that he stood at the corner of a street which bore the name "rue sombre." opposite, one of the houses was being rebuilt, and as he gazed at it--this skeleton of a home in which the workmen's hammers were silenced for the night-- tournicquot recognised that his journey was at an end. here, he could not doubt that he would find the last, grim hospitality that he sought. the house had no door to bar his entrance, but--as if in omen--above the gap where a door had been, the sinister number " " was still to be discerned. he cast a glance over his shoulder, and, grasping the rope with a firm hand, crept inside. it was dark within, so dark that at first he could discern nothing but the gleam of bare walls. he stole along the passage, and, mounting a flight of steps, on which his feet sprung mournful echoes, proceeded stealthily towards an apartment on the first floor. at this point the darkness became impenetrable, for the _volets_ had been closed, and in order to make his arrangements, it was necessary that he should have a light. he paused, fumbling in his pocket; and then, with his next step, blundered against a body, which swung from the contact, like a human being suspended in mid-air. tournicquot leapt backwards in terror. a cold sweat bespangled him, and for some seconds he shook so violently that he was unable to strike a match. at last, when he accomplished it, he beheld a man, apparently dead, hanging by a rope in the doorway. "ah, mon dieu!" gasped tournicquot. and the thudding of his heart seemed to resound through the deserted house. humanity impelled him to rescue the poor wretch, if it was still to be done. shuddering, he whipped out his knife, and sawed at the cord desperately. the cord was stout, and the blade of the knife but small; an eternity seemed to pass while he sawed in the darkness. presently one of the strands gave way. he set his teeth and pressed harder, and harder yet. suddenly the rope yielded and the body fell to the ground. tournicquot threw himself beside it, tearing open the collar, and using frantic efforts to restore animation. there was no result. he persevered, but the body lay perfectly inert. he began to reflect that it was his duty to inform the police of the discovery, and he asked himself how he should account for his presence on the scene. just as he was considering this, he felt the stir of life. as if by a miracle the man groaned. "courage, my poor fellow!" panted tournicquot. "courage--all is well!" the man groaned again; and after an appalling silence, during which tournicquot began to tremble for his fate anew, asked feebly, "where am i?" "you would have hanged yourself," explained tournicquot. "thanks to heaven, i arrived in time to save your life!" in the darkness they could not see each other, but he felt for the man's hand and pressed it warmly. to his consternation, he received, for response, a thump in the chest. "morbleu, what an infernal cheek!" croaked the man. "so you have cut me down? you meddlesome idiot, by what right did you poke your nose into my affairs, hein?" dismay held tournicquot dumb. "hein?" wheezed the man; "what concern was it of yours, if you please? never in my life before have i met with such a piece of presumption!" "my poor friend," stammered tournicquot, "you do not know what you say --you are not yourself! by-and-by you will be grateful, you will fall on your knees and bless me." "by-and-by i shall punch you in the eye," returned the man, "just as soon as i am feeling better! what have you done to my collar, too? i declare you have played the devil with me!" his annoyance rose. "who are you, and what are you doing here, anyhow? you are a trespasser--i shall give you in charge." "come, come," said tournicquot, conciliatingly, "if your misfortunes are more than you can bear, i regret that i was obliged to save you; but, after all, there is no need to make such a grievance of it--you can hang yourself another day." "and why should i be put to the trouble twice?" grumbled the other. "do you figure yourself that it is agreeable to hang? i passed a very bad time, i can assure you. if you had experienced it, you would not talk so lightly about 'another day.' the more i think of your impudent interference, the more it vexes me. and how dark it is! get up and light the candle--it gives me the hump here." "i have no candle, i have no candle," babbled tournicquot; "i do not carry candles in my pocket." "there is a bit on the mantelpiece," replied the man angrily; "i saw it when i came in. go and feel for it--hunt about! do not keep me lying here in the dark--the least you can do is to make me as comfortable as you can." tournicquot, not a little perturbed by the threat of assault, groped obediently; but the room appeared to be of the dimensions of a park, and he arrived at the candle stump only after a prolonged excursion. the flame revealed to him a man of about his own age, who leant against the wall regarding him with indignant eyes. revealed also was the coil of rope that the comedian had brought for his own use; and the man pointed to it. "what is that? it was not here just now." "it belongs to me," admitted tournicquot, nervously. "i see that it belongs to you. why do you visit an empty house with a coil of rope, hein? i should like to understand that ... upon my life, you were here on the same business as myself! now if this does not pass all forbearance! you come to commit suicide, and yet you have the effrontery to put a stop to mine!" "well," exclaimed tournicquot, "i obeyed an impulse of pity! it is true that i came to destroy myself, for i am the most miserable of men; but i was so much affected by the sight of your sufferings that temporarily i forgot my own." "that is a lie, for i was not suffering--i was not conscious when you came in. however, you have some pretty moments in front of you, so we will say no more! when you feel yourself drop, it will be diabolical, i promise you; the hair stands erect on the head, and each spot of blood in the veins congeals to a separate icicle! it is true that the drop itself is swift, but the clutch of the rope, as you kick in the air, is hardly less atrocious. do not be encouraged by the delusion that the matter is instantaneous. time mocks you, and a second holds the sensations of a quarter of an hour. what has forced you to it? we need not stand on ceremony with each other, hein?" "i have resolved to die because life is torture," said tournicquot, on whom these details had made an unfavourable impression. "the same with me! a woman, of course?" "yes," sighed tournicquot, "a woman!" "is there no other remedy? cannot you desert her?" "desert her? i pine for her embrace!" "hein?" "she will not have anything to do with me." "_comment?_ then it is love with you?" "what else? an eternal passion!" "oh, mon dieu, i took it for granted you were married! but this is droll. _you_ would die because you cannot get hold of a woman, and _i_ because i cannot get rid of one. we should talk, we two. can you give me a cigarette?" "with pleasure, monsieur," responded tournicquot, producing a packet. "i, also, will take one--my last!" "if i expressed myself hastily just now," said his companion, refastening his collar, "i shall apologise--no doubt your interference was well meant, though i do not pretend to approve it. let us dismiss the incident; you have behaved tactlessly, and i, on my side, have perhaps resented your error with too much warmth. well, it is finished! while the candle burns, let us exchange more amicable views. is my cravat straight? it astonishes me to hear that love can drive a man to such despair. i, too, have loved, but never to the length of the rope. there are plenty of women in paris--if one has no heart, there is always another. i am far from proposing to frustrate your project, holding as i do that a man's suicide is an intimate matter in which 'rescue' is a name given by busybodies to a gross impertinence; but as you have not begun the job, i will confess that i think you are being rash." "i have considered," replied tournicquot, "i have considered attentively. there is no alternative, i assure you." "i would make another attempt to persuade the lady--i swear i would make another attempt! you are not a bad-looking fellow. what is her objection to you?" "it is not that she objects to me--on the contrary. but she is a woman of high principle, and she has a husband who is devoted to her--she will not break his heart. it is like that." "young?" "no more than thirty." "and beautiful?" "with a beauty like an angel's! she has a dimple in her right cheek when she smiles that drives one to distraction." "myself, i have no weakness for dimples; but every man to his taste-- there is no arguing about these things. what a combination--young, lovely, virtuous! and i make you a bet the oaf of a husband does not appreciate her! is it not always so? now _i_--but of course i married foolishly, i married an artiste. if i had my time again i would choose in preference any sempstress. the artistes are for applause, for bouquets, for little dinners, but not for marriage." "i cannot agree with you," said tournicquot, with some hauteur, "your experience may have been unfortunate, but the theatre contains women quite as noble as any other sphere. in proof of it, the lady i adore is an artiste herself!" "really--is it so? would it be indiscreet to ask her name?" "there are things that one does not tell." "but as a matter of interest? there is nothing derogatory to her in what you say--quite the reverse." "true! well, the reason for reticence is removed. she is known as 'la belle lucrèce.'" "_hein?"_ ejaculated the other, jumping. "what ails you?" "she is my wife!" "your wife? impossible!" "i tell you i am married to her--she is 'madame béguinet.'" "mon dieu!" faltered tournicquot, aghast; "what have i done!" "so?... you are her lover?" "never has she encouraged me--recall what i said! there are no grounds for jealousy--am i not about to die because she spurns me? i swear to you--" "you mistake my emotion--why should i be jealous? not at all--i am only amazed. she thinks i am devoted to her? ho, ho! not at all! you see my 'devotion' by the fact that i am about to hang myself rather than live with her. and _you_, you cannot bear to live because you adore her! actually, you adore her! is it not inexplicable? oh, there is certainly the finger of providence in this meeting!... wait, we must discuss--we should come to each other's aid!... give me another cigarette." some seconds passed while they smoked in silent meditation. "listen," resumed monsieur béguinet; "in order to clear up this complication, a perfect candour is required on both sides. alors, as to your views, is it that you aspire to marry madame? i do not wish to appear exigent, but in the position that i occupy you will realise that it is my duty to make the most favourable arrangements for her that i can. now open your heart to me; speak frankly!" "it is difficult for me to express myself without restraint to you, monsieur," said tournicquot, "because circumstances cause me to regard you as a grievance. to answer you with all the delicacy possible, i will say that if i had cut you down five minutes later, life would be a fairer thing to me." "good," said monsieur béguinet, "we make progress! your income? does it suffice to support her in the style to which she is accustomed? what may your occupation be?" "i am in madame's own profession--i, too, am an artiste." "so much the more congenial! i foresee a joyous union. come, we go famously! your line of business--snakes, ventriloquism, performing- rabbits, what is it?" "my name is 'tournicquot,'" responded the comedian, with dignity. "all is said!" "a-ah! is it so? now i understand why your voice has been puzzling me! monsieur tournicquot, i am enchanted to make your acquaintance. i declare the matter arranges itself! i shall tell you what we will do. hitherto i have had no choice between residing with madame and committing suicide, because my affairs have not prospered, and--though my pride has revolted--her salary has been essential for my maintenance. now the happy medium jumps to the eyes; for you, for me, for her the bright sunshine streams! i shall efface myself; i shall go to a distant spot--say, monte carlo--and you shall make me a snug allowance. have no misgiving; crown her with blossoms, lead her to the altar, and rest tranquil--i shall never reappear. do not figure yourself that i shall enter like the villain at the amibigu and menace the blissful home. not at all! i myself may even re-marry, who knows? indeed, should you offer me an allowance adequate for a family man, i will undertake to re-marry--i have always inclined towards speculation. that will shut my mouth, hein? i could threaten nothing, even if i had a base nature, for i, also, shall have committed bigamy. suicide, bigamy, i would commit _anything_ rather than live with lucrèce!" "but madame's consent must be gained," demurred tournicquot; "you overlook the fact that madame must consent. it is a fact that i do not understand why she should have any consideration for you, but if she continues to harp upon her 'duty,' what then?" "do you not tell me that her only objection to your suit has been her fear that she would break my heart? what an hallucination! i shall approach the subject with tact, with the utmost delicacy. i shall intimate to her that to ensure her happiness i am willing to sacrifice myself. should she hesitate, i shall demand to sacrifice myself! rest assured that if she regards you with the favour that you believe, your troubles are at an end--the barrier removes itself, and you join hands.... the candle is going out! shall we depart?" "i perceive no reason why we should remain; in truth, we might have got out of it sooner." "you are right! a café will be more cheerful. suppose we take a bottle of wine together; how does it strike you? if you insist, i will be your guest; if not--" "ah, monsieur, you will allow me the pleasure," murmured tournicquot. "well, well," said beguinet, "you must have your way!... your rope you have no use for, hein--we shall leave it?" "but certainly! why should i burden myself?" "the occasion has passed, true. good! come, my comrade, let us descend!" who shall read the future? awhile ago they had been strangers, neither intending to quit the house alive; now the pair issued from it jauntily, arm in arm. both were in high spirits, and by the time the lamps of a café gave them welcome, and the wine gurgled gaily into the glasses, they pledged each other with a sentiment no less than fraternal. "how i rejoice that i have met you!" exclaimed béguinet. "to your marriage, mon vieux; to your joy! fill up, again a glass!--there are plenty of bottles in the cellar. mon dieu, you are my preserver--i must embrace you. never till now have i felt such affection for a man. this evening all was black to me; i despaired, my heart was as heavy as a cannon-ball--and suddenly the world is bright. roses bloom before my feet, and the little larks are singing in the sky. i dance, i skip. how beautiful, how sublime is friendship!--better than riches, than youth, than the love of woman: riches melt, youth flies, woman snores. but friendship is--again a glass! it goes well, this wine. "let us have a lobster! i swear i have an appetite; they make one peckish, these suicides, n'est-ce pas? i shall not be formal--if you consider it your treat, you shall pay. a lobster and another bottle! at your expense, or mine?" "ah, the bill all in one!" declared tourniequot. "well, well," said béguinet, "you must have your way! what a happy man i am! already i feel twenty years younger. you would not believe what i have suffered. my agonies would fill a book. really. by nature i am domesticated; but my home is impossible--i shudder when i enter it. it is only in a restaurant that i see a clean table-cloth. absolutely. i pig. all lucrèce thinks about is frivolity." "no, no," protested tournicquot; "to that i cannot agree." "what do you know? you 'cannot agree'! you have seen her when she is laced in her stage costume, when she prinks and prattles, with the paint, and the powder, and her best corset on. it is i who am 'behind the scenes,' mon ami, not you. i see her dirty peignoir and her curl rags. at four o'clock in the afternoon. every day. you 'cannot agree'!" "curl rags?" faltered tournicquot. "but certainly! i tell you i am of a gentle disposition, i am most tolerant of women's failings; it says much that i would have hanged myself rather than remain with a woman. her untidiness is not all; her toilette at home revolts my sensibilities, but--well, one cannot have everything, and her salary is substantial; i have closed my eyes to the curl rags. however, snakes are more serious." "snakes?" ejaculated tournicquot. "naturally! the beasts must live, do they not support us? but 'everything in its place' is my own motto; the motto of my wife--'all over the place.' her serpents have shortened my life, word of honour!-- they wander where they will. i never lay my head beside those curl rags of hers without anticipating a cobra-decapello under the bolster. it is not everybody's money. lucrèce has no objection to them; well, it is very courageous--very fortunate, since snakes are her profession--but _i_, i was not brought up to snakes; i am not at my ease in a zoölogical gardens." "it is natural." "is it not? i desire to explain myself to you, you understand; are we not as brothers? oh, i realise well that when one loves a woman one always thinks that the faults are the husband's: believe me i have had much to justify my attitude. snakes, dirt, furies, what a ménage!" "furies?" gasped tournicquot. "i am an honest man," affirmed béguinet draining another bumper; "i shall not say to you 'i have no blemish, i am perfect,' not at all. without doubt, i have occasionally expressed myself to lucrèce with more candour than courtesy. such things happen. but"--he refilled his glass, and sighed pathetically--"but to every citizen, whatever his position--whether his affairs may have prospered or not--his wife owes respect. hein? she should not throw the ragoút at him. she should not menace him with snakes." he wept. "my friend, you will admit that it is not _gentil_ to coerce a husband with deadly reptiles?" tournicquot had turned very pale. he signed to the waiter for the bill, and when it was discharged, sat regarding his companion with round eyes, at last, clearing his throat, he said nervously: "after all, do you know--now one comes to think it over--i am not sure, upon my honour, that our arrangement is feasible?" "what?" exclaimed béguinet, with a violent start. "not feasible? how is that, pray? because i have opened my heart to you, do you back out? oh, what treachery! never will i believe you could be capable of it!" "however, it is a fact. on consideration, i shall not rob you of her." "base fellow! you take advantage of my confidence. a contract is a contract!" "no," stammered tournicquot, "i shall be a man and live my love down. monsieur, i have the honour to wish you 'good-night.'" "hé, stop!" cried béguinet, infuriated. "what then is to become of _me_? insolent poltroon--you have even destroyed my rope!" the conspiracy for claudine "once," remarked tricotrin, pitching his pen in the air, "there were four suitors for the most beautiful of her sex. the first young man was a musician, and he shut himself in his garret to compose a divine melody, to be dedicated to her. the second lover was a chemist, who experimented day and night to discover a unique perfume that she alone might use. the third, who was a floriculturist, aspired constantly among his bulbs to create a silver rose, that should immortalise the lady's name." "and the fourth," inquired pitou, "what did the fourth suitor do?" "the fourth suitor waited for her every afternoon in the sunshine, while the others were at work, and married her with great éclat. the moral of which is that, instead of cracking my head to make a sonnet to claudine, i shall be wise to put on my hat and go to meet her." "i rejoice that the dénoûment is arrived at," pitou returned, "but it would be even more absorbing if i had previously heard of claudine." "miserable dullard!" cried the poet; "do you tell me that you have not previously heard of claudine? she is the only woman i have ever loved." "a--ah," rejoined pitou; "certainly, i have heard of her a thousand times--only she has never been called 'claudine' before." "let us keep to the point," said tricotrin. "claudine represents the devotion of a lifetime. i think seriously of writing a tragedy for her to appear in." "i shall undertake to weep copiously at it if you present me with a pass," affirmed pitou. "she is an actress, then, this claudine? at what theatre is she blazing--the montmartre?" "how often i find occasion to lament that your imagination is no larger than the quartier! claudine is not of montmartre at all, at all. my poor friend, have you never heard that there are theatres on the grand boulevard?" "ah, so you betake yourself to haunts of fashion? now i begin to understand why you have become so prodigal with the blacking; for some time i have had the intention of reproaching you with your shoes--our finances are not equal to such lustre." "ah, when one truly loves, money is no object!" said tricotrin. "however, if it is time misspent to write a sonnet to her, it is even more unprofitable to pass the evening justifying one's shoes." and, picking up his hat, the poet ran down the stairs, and made his way as fast as his legs would carry him to the comédie moderne. he arrived at the stage-door with no more than three minutes to spare, and disposing himself in a graceful attitude, waited for mademoiselle claudine hilairet to come out. it might have been observed that his confidence deserted him while he waited, for although it was perfectly true that he adored her, he had omitted to add that the passion was not mutual. he was conscious that the lady might resent his presence on the door-step; and, in fact, when she appeared, she said nothing more tender than-- "mon dieu, again you! what do you want?" "how can you ask?" sighed the poet. "i came to walk home with you lest an electric train should knock you down at one of the crossings. what a magnificent performance you have given this evening! superb!" "were you in the theatre?" "in spirit. my spirit, which no official can exclude, is present every night, though sordid considerations force me to remain corporally in my attic. transported by admiration, i even burst into frantic applause there. how perfect is the sympathy between our souls!" "listen, my little one," she said. "i am sorry for your relatives, if you have any--your condition must be a great grief to them. but, all the same, i cannot have you dangling after me and talking this bosh. what do you suppose can come of it?" "fame shall come of it," averred the poet, "fame for us both! do not figure yourself that i am a dreamer. not at all! i am practical, a man of affairs. are you content with your position in the comédie moderne? no, you are not. you occupy a subordinate position; you play the rôle of a waiting-maid, which is quite unworthy of your genius, and understudy the ingénue, who is a portly matron in robust health. the opportunity to distinguish yourself appears to you as remote as mars. do i romance, or is it true?" "it is true," she said. "well?" "well, i propose to alter all this--i! i have the intention of writing a great tragedy, and when it is accepted, i shall stipulate that you, and you alone, shall thrill paris as my heroine. when the work of my brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the theatre echoes with our names, i shall fall at your feet, and you will murmur, 'gustave--i love thee!'" "why does not your mother do something?" she asked. "is there nobody to place you where you might be cured? a tragedy? imbecile, i am comédienne to the finger-tips! what should i do with your tragedy, even if it were at the français itself?" "you are right," said tricotrin; "i shall turn out a brilliant comedy instead. and when the work of my brain has raised you to the pinnacle for which you were born, when the theatre echoes with our names--" she interrupted him by a peal of laughter which disconcerted him hardly less than her annoyance. "it is impossible to be angry with you long," she declared, "you are too comic. also, as a friend, i do not object to you violently. come, i advise you to be content with what you can have, instead of crying for the moon!" "well, i am not unwilling to make shift with it in the meantime," returned tricotrin; "but friendship is a poor substitute for the heavens--and we shall see what we shall see. tell me now, they mean to revive _la curieuse_ at the comédie, i hear--what part in it have you been assigned?" "ah," exclaimed mademoiselle hilairet, "is it not always the same thing? i dust the same decayed furniture with the same feather brush, and i say 'yes,' and 'no,' and 'here is a letter, madame.' that is all." "i swear it is infamous!" cried the poet. "it amazes me that they fail to perceive that your gifts are buried. one would suppose that managers would know better than to condemn a great artiste to perform such ignominious roles. the critics also! why do not the critics call attention to an outrage which continues year by year? it appears to me that i shall have to use my influence with the press." and so serious was the tone in which he made this boast, that the fair claudine began to wonder if she had after all underrated the position of her out-at- elbows gallant. "your influence?" she questioned, with an eager smile. "have you influence with the critics, then?" "we shall see what we shall see," repeated tricotrin, significantly. "i am not unknown in paris, and i have your cause at heart--i may make a star of you yet. but while we are on the subject of astronomy, one question! when my services have transformed you to a star, shall i still be compelled to cry for the moon?" mademoiselle hilairet's tones quivered with emotion--as she murmured how grateful to him she would be, and it was understood, when he took leave of her, that if he indeed accomplished his design, his suit would be no longer hopeless. the poet pressed her hand ardently, and turned homeward in high feather; and it was not until he had trudged a mile or so that the rapture in his soul began to subside under the remembrance that he had been talking through his hat. "in fact," he admitted to pitou when the garret was reached, "my imagination took wings unto itself; i am committed to a task beside which the labours of hercules were child's play. the question now arises how this thing, of which i spoke so confidently, is to be effected. what do you suggest?" "i suggest that you allow me to sleep," replied pitou, "for i shall feel less hungry then." "your suggestion will not advance us," demurred tricotrin. "we shall, on the contrary, examine the situation in all its bearings. listen! claudine is to enact the waiting-maid in _la curieuse,_ which will be revived at the comédie moderne in a fortnight's time; she will dust the empire furniture, and say 'yes' and 'no' with all the intellect and animation for which those monosyllables provide an opening. have you grasped the synopsis so far? good! on the strength of this performance, it has to be stated by the foremost dramatic critic in paris that she is an actress of genius. now, how is it to be done? how shall we induce labaregue to write of her with an outburst of enthusiasm in _la voix_?" "labaregue?" faltered pitou. "i declare the audacity of your notion wakes me up!" "capital," said tricotrin, "we are making progress already! yes, we must have labaregue--it has never been my custom to do things by halves. dramatically, of course, i should hold a compromising paper of labaregue's. i should say, 'monsieur, the price of this document is an act of justice to mademoiselle claudine hilairet. it is agreed? good! sit down--you will write from my dictation!'" "however--" said pitou. "however--i anticipate your objection--i do not hold such a paper. therefore, that scene is cut. well, let us find another! where is your fertility of resource? mon dieu! why should i speak to him at all?" "i do not figure myself that you will speak to him, you will never get the chance." "precisely my own suspicion. what follows? instead of wasting my time seeking an interview which would not be granted--" "and which would lead to nothing even if it were granted!" "and which would lead to nothing even if it were granted, as you point out; instead of doing this, it is evident that i must write labaregue's criticism myself!" "hein?" ejaculated pitou, sitting up in bed. "i confess that i do not perceive yet how it is to be managed, but obviously it is the only course. _i_ must write what is to be said, and _la voix_ must believe that it has been written by labaregue. come, we are getting on famously--we have now decided what we are to avoid!" "by d'artagnan, athos, porthos, and aramis," cried pitou, "this will be the doughtiest adventure in which we have engaged!" "you are right, it is an adventure worthy of our steel ... pens! we shall enlighten the public, crown an artiste, and win her heart by way of reward--that is to say, _i_ shall win her heart by way of reward. what your own share of the booty will be i do not recognize, but i promise you, at least, a generous half of the dangers." "my comrade," murmured pitou; "ever loyal! but do you not think that _la voix_ will smell a rat? what about the handwriting?" "it is a weak point which had already presented itself to me. could i have constructed the situation to my liking, labaregue would have the custom to type-write his notices; however, as he is so inconsiderate as to knock them off in the café de l'europe, he has not that custom, and we must adapt ourselves to the circumstances that exist. the probability is that a criticism delivered by the accredited messenger, and signed with the familiar 'j.l.' will be passed without question; the difference in the handwriting may be attributed to an amanuensis. when the great man writes his next notice, i shall make it my business to be taking a bock in the café de l'europe, in order that i may observe closely what happens. there is to be a répétition générale at the vaudeville on monday night--on monday night, therefore, i hope to advise you of our plan of campaign. now do not speak to me any more--i am about to compose a eulogy on claudine, for which labaregue will, in due course, receive the credit." the poet fell asleep at last, murmuring dithyrambic phrases; and if you suppose that in the soberness of daylight he renounced his harebrained project, it is certain that you have never lived with tricotrin in montmartre. no, indeed, he did not renounce it. on monday night--or rather in the small hours of tuesday morning--he awoke pitou with enthusiasm. "mon vieux," he exclaimed, "the evening has been well spent! i have observed, and i have reflected. when he quitted the vaudeville, labaregue entered the café de l'europe, seated himself at his favourite table, and wrote without cessation for half an hour. when his critique was finished, he placed it in an envelope, and commanded his supper. all this time i, sipping a bock leisurely, accorded to his actions a scrutiny worthy of the secret police. presently a lad from the office of _la voix_ appeared; he approached labaregue, received the envelope, and departed. at this point, my bock was finished; i paid for it and sauntered out, keeping the boy well in view. his route to the office lay through a dozen streets which were all deserted at so late an hour; but i remarked one that was even more forbidding than the rest--a mere alley that seemed positively to have been designed for our purpose. our course is clear--we shall attack him in the rue des cendres." "really?" inquired pitou, somewhat startled. "but really! we will not shed his blood; we will make him turn out his pockets, and then, disgusted by the smallness of the swag, toss it back to him with a flip on the ear. needless to say that when he escapes, he will be the bearer of _my_ criticism, not of labaregue's. he will have been too frightened to remark the exchange." "it is not bad, your plan." "it is an inspiration. but to render it absolutely safe, we must have an accomplice." "why, is he so powerful, your boy?" "no, mon ami, the boy is not so powerful, but the alley has two ends--i do not desire to be arrested while i am giving a lifelike representation of an apache. i think we will admit lajeunie to our scheme--as a novelist he should appreciate the situation. if lajeunie keeps guard at one end of the alley, while you stand at the other, i can do the business without risk of being interrupted and removed to gaol." "it is true. as a danger signal, i shall whistle the first bars of my fugue." "good! and we will arrange a signal with lajeunie also. mon dieu! will not claudine be amazed next day? i shall not breathe a word to her in the meantime; i shall let her open _la voix_ without expectation; and then--ah, what joy will be hers! 'the success of the evening was made by the actress who took the role of the maidservant, and who had perhaps six words to utter. but with what vivacity, with what esprit were they delivered! every gesture, every sparkle of the eyes, betokened the comedienne. for myself, i ceased to regard the fatuous ingénue, i forgot the presence of the famous leading lady; i watched absorbed the facial play of this maidservant, whose brains and beauty, i predict, will speedily bring paris to her feet'!" "is that what you mean to write?" "i shall improve upon it. i am constantly improving--that is why the notice is still unfinished. it hampers me that i must compose in the strain of labaregue himself, instead of allowing my eloquence to soar. by the way, we had better speak to lajeunie on the subject soon, lest he should pretend that he has another engagement for that night; he is a good boy, lajeunie, but he always pretends that he has engagements in fashionable circles." the pair went to him the following day, and when they had climbed to his garret, found the young literary man in bed. "it shocks me," said pitou, "to perceive that you rise so late, lajeunie; why are you not dashing off chapters of a romance?" "mon dieu!" replied lajeunie, "i was making studies among the beau monde until a late hour last night at a reception; and, to complete my fatigue, it was impossible to get a cab when i left." "naturally; it happens to everybody when he lacks a cab-fare," said tricotrin. "now tell me, have you any invitation from a duchess for next thursday evening?" "thursday, thursday?" repeated lajeunie thoughtfully. "no, i believe that i am free for thursday." "now, that is fortunate!" exclaimed tricotrin. "well, we want you to join us on that evening, my friend." "indeed, we should be most disappointed if you could not," put in pitou. "certainly; i shall have much pleasure," said lajeunie. "is it a supper?" "no," said tricotrin, "it is a robbery. i shall explain. doubtless you know the name of 'mademoiselle claudine hilairet'?" "i have never heard it in my life. is she in society?" "society? she is in the comédie moderne. she is a great actress, but-- like us all--unrecognised." "my heart bleeds for her. another comrade!" "i was sure i could depend upon your sympathy. well, on thursday night they will revive _la curieuse_ at the comédie, and i myself propose to write labaregue's critique of the performance. do you tumble?" "it is a gallant action. yes, i grasp the climax, but at present i do not perceive how the plot is to be constructed." "labaregue's notices are dispatched by messenger," began pitou. "from the café de l'europe," added tricotrin. "so much i know," said lajeunie. "i shall attack the messenger, and make a slight exchange of manuscripts," tricotrin went on. "a blunder!" proclaimed lajeunie; "you show a lack of invention. now be guided by me, because i am a novelist and i understand these things. the messenger is an escaped convict, and you say to him, 'i know your secret. you do my bidding, or you go back to the galleys; i shall give you three minutes to decide!' you stand before him, stern, dominant, inexorable--your watch in your hand." "it is at the pawn-shop." "well, well, of course it is; since when have you joined the realists? somebody else's watch--or a clock. are there no clocks in paris? you say, 'i shall give you until the clock strikes the hour.' that is even more literary--you obtain the solemn note of the clock to mark the crisis." "but there is no convict," demurred tricotrin; "there are clocks, but there is no convict." "no convict? the messenger is not a convict?" "not at all--he is an apple-cheeked boy." "oh, it is a rotten plot," said lajeunie; "i shall not collaborate in it!" "consider!" cried tricotrin; "do not throw away the chance of a lifetime, think what i offer you--you shall hang about the end of a dark alley, and whistle if anybody comes. how literary again is that! you may develop it into a novel that will make you celebrated. pitou will be at the other end. i and the apple-cheeked boy who is to die-- that is to say, to be duped--will occupy the centre of the stage--i mean the middle of the alley. and on the morrow, when all paris rings with the fame of claudine hilairet, i, who adore her, shall have won her heart!" "humph," said lajeunie. "well, since the synopsis has a happy ending, i consent. but i make one condition--i must wear a crêpe mask. without a crêpe mask i perceive no thrill in my rôle." "madness!" objected pitou. "now listen to _me_--i am serious-minded, and do not commit follies, like you fellows. crêpe masks are not being worn this season. believe me, if you loiter at a street corner with a crêpe mask on, some passer-by will regard you, he may even wonder what you are doing there. it might ruin the whole job." "pitou is right," announced tricotrin, after profound consideration. "well, then," said lajeunie, "_you_ must wear a crêpe mask! put it on when you attack the boy. i have always had a passion for crêpe masks, and this is the first opportunity that i find to gratify it. i insist that somebody wears a crêpe mask, or i wash my hands of the conspiracy." "agreed! in the alley it will do no harm; indeed it will prevent the boy identifying me. good, on thursday night then! in the meantime we shall rehearse the crime assiduously, and you and pitou can practise your whistles." with what diligence did the poet write each day now! how lovingly he selected his superlatives! never in the history of the press had such ardent care been lavished on a criticism--truly it was not until thursday afternoon that he was satisfied that he could do no more. he put the pages in his pocket, and, too impatient even to be hungry, roamed about the quartier, reciting to himself the most hyperbolic of his periods. and dusk gathered over paris, and the lights sprang out, and the tense hours crept away. it was precisely half-past eleven when the three conspirators arrived at the doors of the comédie moderne, and lingered near by until the audience poured forth. labaregue was among the first to appear. he paused on the steps to take a cigarette, and stepped briskly into the noise and glitter of the boulevard. the young men followed, exchanging feverish glances. soon the glow of the café de l'europe was visible. the critic entered, made a sign to a waiter, and seated himself gravely at a table. many persons gazed at him with interest. to those who did not know, habitués whispered, "there is labaregue--see, he comes to write his criticism on the revival of _la curieuse_!" labaregue affected unconsciousness of all this, but secretly he lapped it up. occasionally he passed his hand across his brow with a gesture profoundly intellectual. few there remarked that at brief intervals three shabby young men strolled in, who betrayed no knowledge of one another, and merely called for bocks. none suspected that these humble customers plotted to consign the celebrity's criticism to the flames. without a sign of recognition, taciturn and impassive, the three young men waited, their eyes bent upon the critic's movements. by-and-by labaregue thrust his "copy" into an envelope that was provided. some moments afterwards one of the young men asked another waiter for the materials to write a letter. the paper he crumpled in his pocket; in the envelope he placed the forged critique. a quarter of an hour passed. then a youth of about sixteen hurried in and made his way to labaregue's table. at this instant lajeunie rose and left. as the youth received the "copy," tricotrin also sauntered out. when the youth again reached the door, it was just swinging behind pitou. the conspirators were now in the right order--lajeunie pressing forward, tricotrin keeping pace with the boy, pitou a few yards in the rear. the boy proceeded swiftly. it was late, and even the boulevard showed few pedestrians now; in the side streets the quietude was unbroken. tricotrin whipped on his mask at the opening of the passage. when the messenger was half-way through it, the attack was made suddenly, with determination. "fat one," exclaimed the poet, "i starve--give me five francs!" "_comment?_" stammered the youth, jumping; "i haven't five francs, i!" "give me all you have--empty your pockets, let me see! if you obey, i shall not harm you; if you resist, you are a dead boy!" the youth produced, with trepidation, a sou, half a cigarette, a piece of string, a murderous clasp knife, a young lady's photograph, and labaregue's notice. the next moment the exchange of manuscripts had been deftly accomplished. "devil take your rubbish," cried the apache; "i want none of it--there! be off, or i shall shoot you for wasting my time." the whole affair had occupied less than a minute; and the three adventurers skipped to montmartre rejoicing. and how glorious was their jubilation in the hour when they opened _la voix_ and read tricotrin's pronouncement over the initials "j.l."! there it was, printed word for word--the leading lady was dismissed with a line, the ingénue received a sneer, and for the rest, the column was a panegyric of the waiting-maid! the triumph of the waiting-maid was unprecedented and supreme. certainly, when labaregue saw the paper, he flung round to the office furious. but _la voix_ did not desire people to know that it had been taken in; so the matter was hushed up, and labaregue went about pretending that he actually thought all those fine things of the waiting-maid. the only misfortune was that when tricotrin called victoriously upon claudine, to clasp her in his arms, he found her in hysterics on the sofa--and it transpired that she had not represented the waiting-maid after all. on the contrary, she had at the last moment been promoted to the part of the ingénue, while the waiting-maid had been played by a little actress whom she much disliked. "it is cruel, it is monstrous, it is heartrending!" gasped tricotrin, when he grasped the enormity of his failure; "but, light of my life, why should you blame _me_ for this villainy of labaregue's?" "i do not know," she said; "however, you bore me, you and your 'influence with the press.' get out!" the doll in the pink silk dress how can i write the fourth act with this ridiculous thing posed among my papers? what thing? it is a doll in a pink silk dress--an elaborate doll that walks, and talks, and warbles snatches from the operas. a terrible lot it cost! why does an old dramatist keep a doll on his study table? i do not keep it there. it came in a box from the boulevard an hour ago, and i took it from its wrappings to admire its accomplishments again--and ever since it has been reminding me that women are strange beings. yes, women are strange, and this toy sets me thinking of one woman in particular: that woman who sued, supplicated for my help, and then, when she had all my interest--confound the doll; here is the incident, just as it happened! it happened when all paris flocked to see my plays and "paul de varenne" was a name to conjure with. fashions change. to-day i am a little out of the running, perhaps; younger men have shot forward. in those days i was still supreme, i was master of the stage. listen! it was a spring morning, and i was lolling at my study window, scenting the lilac in the air. maximin, my secretary, came in and said: "mademoiselle jeanne laurent asks if she can see you, monsieur." "who is mademoiselle jeanne laurent?" i inquired. "she is an actress begging for an engagement, monsieur." "i regret that i am exceedingly busy. tell her to write." "the lady has already written a thousand times," he mentioned, going. "'jeanne laurent' has been one of the most constant contributors to our waste-paper basket." "then tell her that i regret i can do nothing for her. mon dieu! is it imagined that i have no other occupation than to interview nonentities? by the way, how is it you have bothered me about her, why this unusual embassy? i suppose she is pretty, hein?" "yes, monsieur." "and young?" "yes, monsieur." i wavered. let us say my sympathy was stirred. but perhaps the lilac was responsible--lilac and a pretty girl seem to me a natural combination, like coffee and a cigarette. "send her in!" i said. i sat at the table and picked up a pen. "monsieur de varenne--" she paused nervously on the threshold. maximin was a fool, she was not "pretty"; she was either plain, or beautiful. to my mind, she had beauty, and if she hadn't been an actress come to pester me for a part i should have foreseen a very pleasant quarter of an hour. "i can spare you only a moment, mademoiselle," i said, ruffling blank paper. "it is most kind of you to spare me that." i liked her voice too. "be seated," i said more graciously. "monsieur, i have come to implore you to do something for me. i am breaking my heart in the profession for want of a helping hand. will you be generous and give me a chance?" "my dear mademoiselle--er--laurent," i said, "i sympathise with your difficulties, and i thoroughly understand them, but i have no engagement to offer you--i am not a manager." she smiled bitterly. "you are de varenne--a word from you would 'make' me!" i was wondering what her age was. about eight-and-twenty, i thought, but alternately she looked much younger and much older. "you exaggerate my influence--like every other artist that i consent to see. hundreds have sat in that chair and cried that i could 'make' them. it is all bosh. be reasonable! i cannot 'make' anybody." "you could cast me for a part in paris. you are 'not a manager,' but any manager will engage a woman that you recommend. oh, i know that hundreds appeal to you, i know that i am only one of a crowd; but, monsieur, think what it means to me! without help, i shall go on knocking at the stage doors of paris and never get inside; i shall go on writing to the paris managers and never get an answer. without help i shall go on eating my heart out in the provinces till i am old and tired and done for!" her earnestness touched me. i had heard the same tale so often that i was sick of hearing it, but this woman's earnestness touched me. if i had had a small part vacant, i would have tried her in it. "again," i said, "as a dramatist i fully understand the difficulties of an actress's career; but you, as an actress, do not understand a dramatist's. there is no piece of mine going into rehearsal now, therefore i have no opening for you, myself; and it is impossible for me to write to a manager or a brother author, advising him to entrust a part, even the humblest, to a lady of whose capabilities i know nothing." "i am not applying for a humble part," she answered quietly. "hein?" "my line is lead." i stared at her pale face, speechless; the audacity of the reply took my breath away. "you are mad," i said, rising. "i sound so to you, monsieur?" "stark, staring mad. you bewail that you are at the foot of the ladder, and at the same instant you stipulate that i shall lift you at a bound to the top. either you are a lunatic, or you are an amateur." she, too, rose--resigned to her dismissal, it seemed. then, suddenly, with a gesture that was a veritable abandonment of despair, she laughed. "that's it, i am an amateur!" she rejoined passionately. "i will tell you the kind of 'amateur' i am, monsieur de varenne! i was learning my business in a fit-up when i was six years old--yes, i was playing parts on the road when happier children were playing games in nurseries. i was thrust on for lead when i was a gawk of fifteen, and had to wrestle with half a dozen roles in a week, and was beaten if i failed to make my points. i have supered to stars, not to earn the few francs i got by it, for by that time the fit-ups paid me better, but that i might observe, and improve my method. i have waited in the rain, for hours, at the doors of the milliners and modistes, that i might note how great ladies stepped from their carriages and spoke to their footmen--and when i snatched a lesson from their aristocratic tones i was in heaven, though my feet ached and the rain soaked my wretched clothes. i have played good women and bad women, beggars and queens, ingénues and hags. i was born and bred on the stage, have suffered and starved on it. it is my life and my destiny." she sobbed. "an 'amateur'!" i could not let her go like that. she interested me strongly; somehow i believed in her. i strode to and fro, considering. "sit down again," i said. "i will do this for you: i will go to the country to see your performance. when is your next show?" "i have nothing in view." "bigre! well, the next time you are playing, write to me." "you will have forgotten all about me," she urged feverishly, "or your interest will have faded, or fate will prevent your coming." "why do you say so?" "something tells me. you will help me now, or you will never help me-- my chance is to-day! monsieur, i entreat you--" "to-day i can do nothing at all, because i have not seen you act." "i could recite to you." "zut!" "i could rehearse on trial." "and if you made a mess of it? a nice fool i should look, after fighting to get you in!" a servant interrupted us to tell me that my old friend de lavardens was downstairs. and now i did a foolish thing. when i intimated to mademoiselle jeanne laurent that our interview must conclude, she begged so hard to be allowed to speak to me again after my visitor went, that i consented to her waiting. why? i had already said all that i had to say, and infinitely more than i had contemplated. perhaps she impressed me more powerfully than i realised; perhaps it was sheer compassion, for she had an invincible instinct that if i sent her away at this juncture, she would never hear from me any more. i had her shown into the next room, and received general de lavardens in the study. since his retirement from the army, de lavardens had lived in his chateau at st. wandrille, in the neighbourhood of caudebec-en-caux, and we had met infrequently of late. but we had been at college together; i had entered on my military service in the same regiment as he; and we had once been comrades. i was glad to see him. "how are you, my dear fellow? i didn't know you were in paris." "i have been here twenty-four hours," he said. "i have looked you up at the first opportunity. now am i a nuisance? be frank! i told the servant that if you were at work you weren't to be disturbed. don't humbug about it; if i am in the way, say so!" "you are not in the way a bit," i declared. "put your hat and cane down. what's the news? how is georges?" "georges" was captain de lavardens, his son, a young man with good looks, and brains, an officer for whom people predicted a brilliant future. "georges is all right," he said hesitatingly. "he is dining with me to-night. i want you to come, too, if you can. are you free?" "to-night? yes, certainly; i shall be delighted." "that was one of the reasons i came round--to ask you to join us." he glanced towards the table again. "are you sure you are not in a hurry to get back to that?" "have a cigar, and don't be a fool. what have you got to say for yourself? why are you on the spree here?" "i came up to see georges," he said. "as a matter of fact, my dear chap, i am devilish worried." "not about georges?" i asked, surprised. he grunted. "about georges." "really? i'm very sorry." "yes. i wanted to talk to you about it. you may be able to give me a tip. georges--the boy i hoped so much for"--his gruff voice quivered-- "is infatuated with an actress." "georges?" "what do you say to that?" "are you certain it is true?" "true? he makes no secret of it. that isn't all. the idiot wants to marry her!" "georges wants to marry an actress?" "voilà!" "my dear old friend!" i stammered. "isn't it amazing? one thinks one knows the character of one's own son, hein? and then, suddenly, a boy--a boy? a man! georges will soon be thirty--a man one is proud of, who is distinguishing himself in his profession, he loses his head about some creature of the theatre and proposes to mar his whole career." "as for that, it might not mar it," i said. "we are not in england, in france gentlemen do not choose their wives from the stage! i can speak freely to you; you move among these people because your writing has taken you among them, but you are not of their breed," "have you reasoned with him?" "reasoned? yes." "what did he say?" "prepare to be amused. he said that 'unfortunately, the lady did not love him'!" "what? then there is no danger?" "do you mean to say that it takes you in? you may be sure her 'reluctance' is policy, she thinks it wise to disguise her eagerness to hook him. he told me plainly that he would not rest till he had won her. it is a nice position! the honour of the family is safe only till this adventuress consents, _consents_ to accept his hand! what can i do? i can retard the marriage by refusing my permission, but i cannot prevent it, if he summons me.... of course, if i could arrange matters with her, i would do it like a shot--at any price!" "who is she?" "a nobody; he tells me she is quite obscure, i don't suppose you have ever heard of her. but i thought you might make inquiries for me, that you might ascertain whether she is the sort of woman we could settle with?" "i will do all i can, you may depend. where is she--in paris?" "yes, just now." "what's her name?" "jeanne laurent." my mouth fell open: "hein?" "do you know her?" "she is there!" "what?" "in the next room. she just called on business." "mon dieu! that's queer!" "it's lucky. it was the first time i had ever met her." "what's she like?" "have you never seen her? you shall do so in a minute. she came to beg me to advance her professionally, she wants my help. this ought to save you some money, my friend. we'll have her in! i shall tell her who you are." "how shall i talk to her?" "leave it to me." i crossed the landing, and opened the salon door. the room was littered with the illustrated journals, but she was not diverting herself with any of them--she was sitting before a copy of _la joconde_, striving to reproduce on her own face the enigma of the smile: i had discovered an actress who never missed an opportunity. "please come here." she followed me back, and my friend stood scowling at her. "this gentleman is general de lavardens," i said. she bowed--slightly, perfectly. that bow acknowledged de lavardens' presence, and rebuked the manner of my introduction, with all the dignity of the patricians whom she had studied in the rain. "mademoiselle, when my servant announced that the general was downstairs you heard the name. you did not tell me that you knew his son." "dame, non, monsieur!" she murmured. "and when you implored me to assist you, you did not tell me that you aspired to a marriage that would compel you to leave the stage. i never waste my influence. good-morning!" "i do not aspire to the marriage," she faltered, pale as death. "rubbish, i know all about it. of course, it is your aim to marry him sooner or later, and of course he will make it a condition that you cease to act. well, i have no time to help a woman who is playing the fool! that's all about it. i needn't detain you." "i have refused to marry him," she gasped. "on my honour! you can ask him. it is a fact." "but you see him still," broke in de lavardens wrathfully; "he is with you every day! that is a fact, too, isn't it? if your refusal is sincere, why are you not consistent? why do you want him at your side?" "because, monsieur," she answered, "i am weak enough to miss him when he goes." "ah! you admit it. you profess to be in love with him?" "no, monsieur," she dissented thoughtfully, "i am not in love with him --and my refusal has been quite sincere, incredible as it may seem that a woman like myself rejects a man like him. i could never make a marriage that would mean death to my ambition. i could not sacrifice my art--the stage is too dear to me for that. so it is evident that i am not in love with him, for when a woman loves, the man is dearer to her than all else." de lavardens grunted. i knew his grunts: there was some apology in this one. "the position is not fair to my son," he demurred. "you show good sense in what you say--you are an artist, you are quite right to devote yourself to your career; but you reject and encourage him at the same time. if he married you it would be disastrous--to you, and to him; you would ruin his life, and spoil your own. enfin, give him a chance to forget you! send him away. what do you want to keep seeing him for?" she sighed. "it is wrong of me, i own!" "it is highly unnatural," said i. "no, monsieur; it is far from being unnatural, and i will tell you why --he is the only man i have ever known, in all my vagabond life, who realised that a struggling actress might have the soul of a gentlewoman. before i met him, i had never heard a man speak to me with courtesy, excepting on the stage; i had never known a man to take my hand respectfully when he was not performing behind the footlights.... i met him first in the country; i was playing the queen in _ruy blas_, and the manager brought him to me in the wings. in everything he said and did he was different from others. we were friends for months before he told me that he loved me. his friendship has been the gift of god, to brighten my miserable lot. never to see him any more would be awful to me!" i perceived that if she was not in love with him she was so dangerously near to it that a trifle might turn the scale. de lavardens had the same thought. his glance at me was apprehensive. "however, you acknowledge that you are behaving badly!" i exclaimed. "it is all right for _you_, friendship is enough for you, and you pursue your career. but for _him_, it is different; he seeks your love, and he neglects his duties. for him to spend his life sighing for you would be monstrous, and for him to marry you would be fatal. if you like him so much, be just to him, set him free! tell him that he is not to visit you any more." "he does not visit me; he has never been inside my lodging." "well, that he is not to write there--that there are to be no more dinners, drives, bouquets!" "and i do not let him squander money on me. i am not that kind of woman." "we do not accuse you, mademoiselle. on the contrary, we appeal to your good heart. be considerate, be brave! say good-bye to him!" "you are asking me to suffer cruelly," she moaned. "it is for your friend's benefit. also, the more you suffer, the better you will act. every actress should suffer." "monsieur, i have served my apprenticeship to pain." "there are other things than friendship--you have your prospects to think about." "what prospects?" she flashed back. "well, i cannot speak definitely to-day, as you know; but you would not find me unappreciative." de lavardens grunted again--emotionally, this time. i checked him with a frown. "what use would it be for me to refuse to see him?" she objected chokily. "when i am playing anywhere, _he_ can always see _me_. i cannot kill his love by denying myself his companionship. besides, he would not accept the dismissal. one night, when i left the theatre, i should find him waiting there again." this was unpalatably true. "if a clever woman desires to dismiss a man, she can dismiss him thoroughly, especially a clever actress," i said. "you could talk to him in such a fashion that he would have no wish to meet you again. such things have been done." "what? you want me to teach him to despise me?" "much better if he did!" "to turn his esteem to scorn, hein?" "it would be a generous action." "to falsify and degrade myself?" "for your hero's good!" "i will not do it!" she flamed. "you demand too much. what have _you_ done for _me_ that i should sacrifice myself to please you? i entreat your help, and you give me empty phrases; i cry that i despair this morning, and you answer that by-and-by, some time, in the vague future, you will remember that i exist. i shall not do this for you--i keep my friend!" "your rhetoric has no weight with me," i said. "i do not pretend that i have a claim on you. in such circumstances a noble woman would take the course i suggest, not for my sake, not for the sake of general de lavardens, but for the sake of the man himself. you will 'keep your friend'? bien! but you will do so because you are indifferent to his welfare and too selfish to release him." she covered her face. there were tears on it. the general and i exchanged glances again. i went on: "you charge me with giving you only empty phrases. that is undeserved. i said all that was possible, and i meant what i said. i could not pledge myself to put you into anything without knowing what you are capable of doing; but, if you retain my good will, i repeat that i will attend your next performance." "and then?" she queried. "then--if i think well of it--you shall have a good part." "lead?" "bigre! i cannot say that. a good part, in paris!" "it is a promise?" "emphatically--if i think well of your performance." "of my next--the very next part i play?" "of the very next part you play." she paused, reflecting. the pause lasted so long that it began to seem to my suspense as if none of us would ever speak again. i took a cigarette, and offered the box, in silence, to de lavardens. he shook his head without turning it to me, his gaze was riveted on the woman. "all right," she groaned, "i agree!" "ah! good girl!" "all you require is that captain de lavardens shall no longer seek me for his wife. is that it?" "that's it." "very well. i know what would repel him--it shall be done to-night. but you, gentlemen, will have to make the opportunity for me; you will have to bring him to my place--both of you. you can find some reason for proposing it? tonight at nine o'clock. he knows the address." she moved weakly to the door. de lavardens took three strides and grasped her hands. "mademoiselle," he stuttered, "i have no words to speak my gratitude. i am a father, and i love my son, but--mon dieu! if--if things had been different, upon my soul, i should have been proud to call you my daughter-in-law!" oh, how she could bow, that woman--the eloquence of her ill-fed form! "au revoir, gentlemen," she said. phew! we dropped into chairs. "paul," he grunted at me, "we have been a pair of brutes!" "i know it. but you feel much relieved?" "i feel another man. what is she going to say to him? i wish it were over. _i_ should find it devilish difficult to propose going to see her, you know! it will have to be _your_ suggestion. and supposing he won't take us?" "he will take us right enough," i declared, "and rejoice at the chance. hourra! hourra! hourra!" i sprang up and clapped him on the back. "my friend, if that woman had thrown herself away on georges it might have been a national calamity." "what?" he roared, purpling. "oh, no slight to georges! i think--i think--i am afraid to say what i think, i am afraid to think it!" i paced the room, struggling to control myself. "only, once in a blue moon, jules, there is a woman born of the people with a gift that is a blessing, and a curse--and her genius makes an epoch, and her name makes theatrical history. and if a lover of the stage like me discovers such a woman, you stodgy old soldier, and blazes her genius in his work, he feels like cheops, chephrenus, and asychis rearing the pyramids for immortality!" my excitement startled him. "you believe she is a genius? really?" "i dare not believe," i panted. "i refuse to let myself believe, for i have never seen blue moons. but--but--i wonder!" we dined at voisin's. it had been arranged that he should make some allusion to the courtship; and i said to georges, "i hope you don't mind your father having mentioned the subject to me--we are old friends, you know?" the topic was led up to very easily. it was apparent that georges thought the world of her. i admired the way he spoke. it was quiet and earnest. as i feigned partial sympathy with his matrimonial hopes, i own that i felt a judas. "i, too, am an artist," i said. "to me social distinctions naturally seem somewhat less important than they do to your father." "indeed, monsieur," he answered gravely, "mademoiselle laurent is worthy of homage. if she were willing to accept me, every man who knew her character would think me fortunate. her education has not qualified her to debate with professors, and she has no knowledge of society small-talk, but she is intelligent, and refined, and good." it was child's play. a sudden notion, over the liqueurs: "take us to see her! come along, mon ami!" astonishment (amateurish); persuasion (masterly); georges's diffidence to intrude, but his obvious delight at the thought of the favourable impression she would create. he had "never called there yet--it would be very unconventional at such an hour?" "zut, among artists! my card will be a passport, i assure you." poor fellow, the trap made short work of him! at half-past eight we were all rattling to the left bank in a cab. the cab stopped before a dilapidated house in an unsavoury street. i knew that the aspect of her home went to his heart. "mademoiselle laurent has won no prize in her profession," he observed, "and she is an honest girl." well said! in the dim passage a neglected child directed us to the fourth floor. on the fourth floor a slattern, who replied at last to our persistent tapping, told us shortly that mademoiselle was out. i realised that we had committed the error of being before our time; and the woman, evidently unprepared for our visit, did not suggest our going in. it seemed bad stage-management. "will it be long before mademoiselle is back?" i inquired, annoyed. "mais non." "we will wait," i said, and we were admitted sulkily to a room, of which the conspicuous features were a malodorous lamp, and a brandy- bottle. i had taken the old drab for a landlady rather the worse for liquor, but, more amiably, she remarked now: "it's a pity jeanne didn't know you were coming." at the familiar "jeanne" i saw georges start. "mademoiselle is a friend of yours?" i asked, dismayed. "a friend? she is my daughter." she sat down. by design the girl was out! the thought flashed on me. it flashed on me that she had plotted for her lover to learn what a mother-in-law he would have. the revelation must appal him. i stole a look--his face was blanched. the general drew a deep breath, and nodded to himself. the nod said plainly, "he is saved. thank god!" "will you take a little drop while you are waiting, gentlemen?" "nothing for us, thank you." she drank alone, and seemed to forget that we were present. none of us spoke. i began to wonder if we need remain. then, drinking, she grew garrulous. it was of jeanne she talked. she gave us her maternal views, and incidentally betrayed infamies of her own career. i am a man of the world, but i shuddered at that woman. the suitor who could have risked making her child his wife would have been demented, or sublime. and while she maundered on, gulping from her glass, and chuckling at her jests, the ghastliness of it was that, in the gutter face before us, i could trace a likeness to jeanne; i think georges must have traced it, too. the menace of heredity was horrible. we were listening to jeanne wrecked, jeanne thirty years older--jeanne as she might become! ciel! to choose a bride with this blood in her--a bride from the dregs! "let us go, georges," i murmured. "courage! you will forget her. we'll be off." he was livid. i saw that he could bear no more. but the creature overheard, and in those bleary eyes intelligence awoke. "what? hold on!" she stammered. "is one of you the toff that wants to marry her? ah!... i've been letting on finely, haven't i? it was a plant, was it? you've come here ferreting and spying?" she turned towards me in a fury: "you!" certainly i had made a comment from time to time, but i could not see why she should single me out for her attack. she lurched towards me savagely. her face was thrust into mine. and then, so low that only i could hear, and like another woman, she breathed a question: "can i act?" jeanne herself! every nerve in me jumped. the next instant she was back in her part, railing at georges. i took a card from my case, and scribbled six words. "when your daughter comes in, give her that!" i said. i had scribbled: "i write you a star rôle!" she gathered the message at a glance, and i swear that the moroseness of her gaze was not lightened by so much as a gleam. she was representing a character; the actress sustained the character even while she read words that were to raise her from privation to renown. "not that i care if i _have_ queered her chance," she snarled. "a good job, too, the selfish cat! i've got nothing to thank her for. serve her right if you do give her the go-by, my jackanapes, _i_ don't blame you!" "madame laurent," georges answered sternly, and his answer vibrated through the room, "i have never admired, pitied, or loved jeanne so much as now that i know that she has been--motherless." all three of us stood stone-still. the first to move was she. i saw what was going to happen. she burst out crying. "it's i, jeanne!--i love you! i thought i loved the theatre best--i was wrong." instinctively she let my card fall to the ground. "forgive me-- i did it for your sake, too. it was cruel, i am ashamed. oh, my own, if my love will not disgrace you, take me for your wife! in all the world there is no woman who will love you better--in all my heart there is no room for anything but you!" they were in each other's arms. de lavardens, whom the proclamation of identity had electrified, dragged me outside. the big fool was blubbering with sentiment. "this is frightful," he grunted. "atrocious!" said i. "but she is a woman in a million." "she is a great actress," i said reverently. "i could never approve the marriage," he faltered. "what do you think?" "out of the question! i have no sympathy with either of them." "you humbug! why, there is a tear running down your nose!" "there are two running down yours," i snapped; "a general should know better." and why has the doll in the pink silk dress recalled this to me? well, you see, to-morrow will be new year's day and the doll is a gift for my godchild--and the name of my godchild's mother is "jeanne de lavardens." oh, i have nothing to say against her as a mother, the children idolise her! i admit that she has conquered the general, and that georges is the proudest husband in france. but when i think of the parts i could have written for her, of the lustre the stage has lost, when i reflect that, just to be divinely happy, the woman deliberately declined a worldwide fame--morbleu! i can never forgive her for it, never--the darling! the last effect jean bourjac was old and lazy. why should he work any more? in his little cottage he was content enough. if the place was not precisely gay, could he not reach paris for a small sum? and if he had no neighbours to chat with across the wall, weren't there his flowers to tend in the garden? occasionally--because one cannot shake off the interests of a lifetime--he indulged in an evening at the folies- bergère, or olympia, curious to witness some illusion that had made a hit. at such times old bourjac would chuckle and wag his head sagely, for he saw no illusions now to compare with those invented by himself when he was in the business. and there were many persons who admitted that he had been supreme in his line. at the folies-bergère he was often recognised and addressed as "maître." one summer evening, when old bourjac sat reading _le journal_, margot, the housekeeper, who had grown deaf and ancient in his service, announced a stranger. she was a girl with a delicate oval face, and eyes like an angel's. "monsieur bourjac," she began, as if reciting a speech that she had studied, "i have come out here to beg a favour of you. i thirst for a career behind the footlights. alas! i cannot sing, or dance, or act. there is only one chance for me--to possess an illusion that shall take paris by storm. i am told that there is nothing produced to-day fit to hold a candle to the former 'miracles bourjac.' will you help me? will you design for me the most wonderful illusion of your life?" "mademoiselle," said bourjac, with a shrug, "i have retired." "i implore you!" she urged. "but i have not finished; i am poor, i am employed at a milliner's, i could not pay down a single franc. my offer is a share of my salary as a star. i am mad for the stage. it is not the money that i crave for, but the applause. i would not grudge you even half my salary! oh, monsieur, it is in your power to lift me from despair into paradise. say you consent." bourjac mused. her offer was very funny; if she had been of the ordinary type, he would have sent her packing, with a few commercial home-truths. excitement had brought a flush to the oval face, her glorious eyes awoke in him emotions which he had believed extinct. she was so captivating that he cast about him for phrases to prolong the interview. though he could not agree, he didn't want her to go yet. and when she did rise at last, he murmured, "well, well, see me again and we will talk about it. i have no wish to be hard, you understand." her name was laure. she was in love with a conjurer, a common, flashy fellow, who gave his mediocre exhibitions of legerdemain at such places as le jardin extérieur, and had recently come to lodge at her mother's. she aspired to marry him, but did not dare to expect it. her homage was very palpable, and monsieur eugéne legrand, who had no matrimonial intentions, would often wish that the old woman did not keep such a sharp eye upon her. needless to say, bourjac's semi-promise sent her home enraptured. she had gone to him on impulse, without giving her courage time to take flight; now, in looking back, she wondered at her audacity, and that she had gained so much as she had. "i have no wish to be hard," he had said. oh, the old rascal admired her hugely! if she coaxed enough, he would end by giving in. what thumping luck! she determined to call upon him again on sunday, and to look her best. bourjac, however, did not succumb on sunday. fascinating as he found her, he squirmed at the prospect of the task demanded of him. his workshop in the garden had been closed so long that rats had begun to regard it as their playroom; the more he contemplated resuming his profession, the less inclined he felt to do it. she paid him many visits and he became deeply infatuated with her; yet he continued to maintain that he was past such an undertaking--that she had applied to him too late. then, one day, after she had flown into a passion, and wept, and been mollified, he said hesitatingly: "i confess that an idea for an illusion has occurred to me, but i do not pledge myself to execute it. i should call it 'a life.' an empty cabinet is examined; it is supported by four columns--there is no stage trap, no obscurity, no black velvet curtain concealed in the dark, to screen the operations; the cabinet is raised high above the ground, and the lights are full up. you understand?" some of the inventor's enthusiasm had crept into his voice. "you understand?" "go on," she said, holding her breath. "listen. the door of the cabinet is slammed, and in letters of fire there appears on it, 'scene i.' instantly it flies open again and discloses a baby. the baby moves, it wails--in fine, it is alive. slam! letters of fire, 'scene ii.' instantly the baby has vanished; in its place is a beautiful girl--you! you smile triumphantly at your reflection in a mirror, your path is strewn with roses, the world is at your feet. slam! 'scene iii.' in a moment twenty years have passed; your hair is grey, you are matronly, stout, your face is no longer oval; yet unmistakably it is you yourself, the same woman. slam! 'scene iv.' you are enfeebled, a crone, toothless, tottering on a stick. once more! it is the last effect--the door flies open and reveals a skeleton." "you can make this?" she questioned. "i could make it if i chose," he answered. "will you?" "it depends." "on what?" "on you!" "take any share you want," she cried. "i will sign anything you like! after all, would not the success be due to you?" "so you begin to see that?" said the old man drily. "but, i repeat, it depends! in spite of everything, you may think my terms too high." "what do you want me to do?" she stammered. "marry me!" said bourjac. he did not inquire if she had any affection for him; he knew that if she said "yes" it would be a lie. but he adored this girl, who, of a truth, had nothing but her beauty to recommend her, and he persuaded himself that his devotion would evoke tenderness in her by degrees. she found the price high indeed. not only was she young enough to be his granddaughter--she had given her fancy to another man. immediately she could not consent. when she took leave of him, it was understood that she would think the offer over; and she went home and let legrand hear that bourjac had proposed for her hand. if, by any chance, the news piqued legrand into doing likewise--? but legrand said nothing to the point. though he was a little chagrined by the intelligence, it never even entered his mind to attempt to cut the inventor out. how should it? she was certainly an attractive girl, but as to marrying her--he thought bourjac a fool. as for himself, if he married at all, it would be an artist who was drawing a big salary and who would be able to provide him with some of the good things of life. "i pray you will be very happy, mademoiselle," he said, putting on a sentimental air. so, after she had cried with mortification, laure promised to be old bourjac's wife. a few weeks later they were married; and in that lonely little cottage she would have been bored to death but for the tawdry future that she foresaw. the man's dream of awakening her tenderness was speedily dispelled; he had been accepted as the means to an end, and he was held fast to the compact. she grudged him every hour in which he idled by her side. driven from her arms by her impatience, old bourjac would toil patiently in the workroom: planning, failing--surmounting obstacles atom by atom, for the sake of a woman whose sole interest in his existence was his progress with the illusion that was to gratify her vanity. he worshipped her still. if he had not worshipped her, he would sooner or later have renounced the scheme as impracticable; only his love for her supported him in the teeth of the impediments that arose. of these she heard nothing. for one reason, her interest was so purely selfish that she had not even wished to learn how the cabinet was to be constructed. "all those figures gave her a headache," she declared. for another, when early in the winter he had owned himself at a deadlock, she had sneered at him as a duffer who was unable to fulfil his boasts. old bourjac never forgot that--his reputation was very dear to him--he did not speak to her of his difficulties again. but they often talked of the success she was to achieve. she liked to go into a corner of the parlour and rehearse the entrance that she would make to acknowledge the applause. "it will be the great moment," she would say, "when i reappear as myself and bow." "no, it will be expected; that will not surprise anybody," bourjac would insist. "the climax, the last effect, will be the skeleton!" it was the skeleton that caused him the most anxious thought of all. in order to compass it, he almost feared that he would be compelled to sacrifice one of the preceding scenes. the babe, the girl, the matron, the crone, for all these his mechanism provided; but the skeleton, the "last effect," baffled his ingenuity. laure began to think his task eternal. ever since the wedding, she had dilated proudly to her mother and legrand on her approaching début, and it angered her that she could never say when the début was to be. now that there need be no question of his marrying her, legrand's manner towards her had become more marked. she went to the house often. one afternoon, when she rang, the door was opened by him; he explained that the old woman was out marketing. laure waited in the kitchen, and the conjurer sat on the table, talking to her. "how goes the illusion?" he asked. "oh, big!" she said. "it's going to knock them, i can tell you!" her laugh was rather derisive. "it's a rum world; the shop-girl will become an artist, with a show that draws all paris. we expect to open at the folies-bergère." she knew that legrand could never aspire to an engagement at the folies-bergère as long as he lived. "i hope you will make a hit," he said, understanding her resentment perfectly. "you did not foresee me a star turn, hein?" he gave a shrug. "how could i foresee? if you had not married bourjac, of course it would not have happened?" "i suppose not," she murmured. she was sorry he realised that; she would have liked him to feel that she might have had the illusion anyhow, and been a woman worth his winning. "indeed," added legrand pensively, rolling a cigarette, "you have done a great deal to obtain a success. it is not every girl who would go to such lengths." "what?" she coloured indignantly. "i mean it is not every girl who would break the heart of a man who loved her." they looked in each other's eyes for a moment. then she turned her head scornfully away. "why do you talk rot to me? do you take me for a kid?" he decided that a pained silence would be most effective. "if you cared about me, why didn't you say so?" she flashed, putting the very question he had hoped for. "because my position prevented it," he sighed. "i could not propose, a poor devil like me! do i lodge in an attic from choice? but you are the only woman i ever wanted for my wife." after a pause, she said softly, "i never knew you cared." "i shall never care for anybody else," he answered. and then her mother came in with the vegetables. it is easy to believe what one wishes, and she wished to believe legrand's protestations. she began to pity herself profoundly, feeling that she had thrown away the substance for the shadow. in the sentimentality to which she yielded, even the prospect of being a star turn failed to console her; and during the next few weeks she invented reasons for visiting at her mother's more frequently than ever. after these visits, legrand used to smirk to himself in his attic. he reflected that the turn would, probably, earn a substantial salary for a long time to come. if he persuaded her to run away with him when the show had been produced, it would be no bad stroke of business for him! accordingly, in their conversations, he advised her to insist on the illusion being her absolute property. "one can never tell what may occur," he would say. "if the managers arranged with bourjac, not with you, you would always be dependent on your husband's whims for your engagements." and, affecting unconsciousness of his real meaning, the woman would reply, "that's true; yes, i suppose it would be best--yes, i shall have all the engagements made with _me_." but by degrees even such pretences were dropped between them; they spoke plainly. he had the audacity to declare that it tortured him to think of her in old bourjac's house--old bourjac who plodded all day to minister to her caprice! she, no less shameless, acknowledged that her loneliness there was almost unendurable. so legrand used to call upon her, to cheer her solitude, and while bourjac laboured in the workroom, the lovers lolled in the parlour, and talked of the future they would enjoy together when his job was done. "see, monsieur--your luncheon!" mumbled margot, carrying a tray into the workroom on his busiest days. "and madame, has madame her luncheon?" shouted bourjac. margot was very deaf indeed. "madame entertains monsieur legrand again," returned the housekeeper, who was not blind as well. bourjac understood the hint, and more than once he remonstrated with his wife. but she looked in his eyes and laughed suspicion out of him for the time: "eugène was an old friend, whom she had known from childhood! enfin, if jean objected, she would certainly tell him not to come so often. it was very ridiculous, however!" and afterwards she said to legrand, "we must put up with him in the meanwhile; be patient, darling! we shall not have to worry about what he thinks much longer." then, as if to incense her more, bourjac was attacked by rheumatism before the winter finished; he could move only with the greatest difficulty, and took to his bed. day after day he lay there, and she fumed at the sight of him, passive under the blankets, while his work was at a standstill. more than ever the dullness got on her nerves now, especially as legrand had avoided the house altogether since the complaint about the frequency of his visits. he was about to leave paris to fulfil some engagements in the provinces. it occurred to her that it would be a delightful change to accompany him for a week. she had formerly had an aunt living in rouen, and she told bourjac that she had been invited to stay with her for a few days. bourjac made no objection. only, as she hummed gaily over her packing, he turned his old face to the wall to hide his tears. her luggage was dispatched in advance, and by legrand's counsel, it was labelled at the last minute with an assumed name. if he could have done so without appearing indifferent to her society, legrand would have dissuaded her from indulging in the trip, for he had resolved now to be most circumspect until the illusion was inalienably her own. as it was, he took all the precautions possible. they would travel separately; he was to depart in the evening, and laure would follow by the next train. when she arrived, he would be awaiting her. with the removal of her trunk, her spirits rose higher still. but the day passed slowly. at dusk she sauntered about the sitting-room, wishing that it were time for her to start. she had not seen legrand since the previous afternoon, when they had met at a café to settle the final details. when the clock struck again, she reckoned that he must be nearly at his destination; perhaps he was there already, pacing the room as she paced this one? she laughed. not a tinge of remorse discoloured the pleasure of her outlook--her "au revoir" to her husband was quite careless. the average woman who sins longs to tear out her conscience for marring moments which would otherwise be perfect. this woman had absolutely no conscience. the shortest route to the station was by the garden gate; as she raised the latch, she was amazed to see legrand hurriedly approaching. "thank goodness, i have caught you!" he exclaimed--"i nearly went round to the front." "what has happened?" "nothing serious; i am not going, that is all--they have changed my date. the matter has been uncertain all day, or i would have let you know earlier. it is lucky i was in time to prevent your starting." she was dumb with disappointment. "it is a nuisance about your luggage," he went on; "we must telegraph about it. don't look so down in the mouth--we shall have our trip next week instead." "what am i to say to jean--he will think it so strange? i have said good-bye to him." "oh, you can find an excuse--you 'missed your train.' come out for half an hour, and we can talk." his glance fell on the workroom. "is that fastened up?" "i don't know. do you want to see what he has done?" "i may as well." he had never had an opportunity before--bourjac had always been in there. "no, it isn't locked," she said; "come on then! wait till i have shut it after us before you strike a match--margot might see the light." a rat darted across their feet as they lit the lamp, and he dropped the matchbox. "ugh!" "the beastly things!" she shivered, "make haste!" on the floor stood a cabinet that was not unlike a gloomy wardrobe in its outward aspect. legrand examined it curiously. "too massive," he remarked. "it will cost a fortune for carriage--and where are the columns i heard of?" he stepped inside and sounded the walls. "humph, of course i see his idea. the fake is a very old one, but it is always effective." really, he knew nothing about it, but as he was a conjurer, she accepted him as an authority. "show me! is there room for us both?" she said, getting in after him. and as she got in, the door slammed. instantaneously they were in darkness, black as pitch, jammed close together. their four hands flew all over the door at once, but they could touch no handle. the next moment, some revolving apparatus that had been set in motion, flung them off their feet. round and round it swirled, striking against their bodies and their faces. they grovelled to escape it, but in that awful darkness their efforts were futile; they could not even see its shape. "stop it!" she gasped. "i don't know how," he panted. after a few seconds the whir grew fainter, the gyrations stopped automatically. she wiped the blood from her face, and burst into hysterical weeping. the man, cursing horribly, rapped to find the spring that she must have pressed as she entered. it seemed to them both that there could be no spot he did not rap a thousand times, but the door never budged. his curses ceased; he crouched by her, snorting with fear. "what shall we do?" she muttered. he did not answer her. "eugène, let us stamp! perhaps the spring is in the floor." still he paid no heed--he was husbanding his breath. when a minute had passed, she felt his chest distend, and a scream broke from him-- "_help!_" "mon dieu!" she clutched him, panic-stricken. "we mustn't be found here, it would ruin everything. feel for the spring! eugène, feel for the spring, don't call!" "_help!_" "don't you understand? jean will guess--it will be the end of my hopes, i shall have no career!" "i have myself to think about!" he whimpered. and pushing away her arms, he screamed again and again. but there was no one to hear him, no neighbours, no one passing in the fields--none but old bourjac, and deaf margot, beyond earshot, in the house. the cabinet was, of course, ventilated, and the danger was, not suffocation, but that they would be jammed here while they slowly starved to death. soon her terror of the fate grew all-powerful in the woman, and, though she loathed him for having been the first to call, she, too, shrieked constantly for help now. by turns, legrand would yell, distraught, and heave himself helplessly against the door--they were so huddled that he could bring no force to bear upon it. in their black, pent prison, like a coffin on end the night held a hundred hours. the matchbox lay outside, where it had fallen, and though they could hear his watch ticking in his pocket, they were unable to look at it. after the watch stopped, they lost their sense of time altogether; they disputed what day of the week it was. * * * * * their voices had been worn to whispers now; they croaked for help. in the workroom, the rats missed the remains of old bourjac's luncheons; the rats squeaked ravenously.... as she strove to scream, with the voice that was barely audible, she felt that she could resign herself to death were she but alone. she could not stir a limb nor draw a breath apart from the man. she craved at last less ardently for life than for space--the relief of escaping, even for a single moment, from the oppression of contact. it became horrible, the contact, as revolting as if she had never loved him. the ceaseless contact maddened her. the quaking of his body, the clamminess of his flesh, the smell of his person, poisoning the darkness, seemed to her the eternities of hell. * * * * * bourjac lay awaiting his wife's return for more than a fortnight. then he sent for her mother, and learnt that the "aunt in rouen" had been buried nearly three years. the old man was silent. "it is a coincidence," added the visitor hesitatingly, "that monsieur legrand has also disappeared. people are always ringing my bell to inquire where he is." as soon as he was able to rise, bourjac left for paris; and, as the shortest route to the station was by the garden gate, he passed the workroom on his way. he nodded, thinking of the time that he had wasted there, but he did not go inside--he was too impatient to find laure, and, incidentally, to shoot legrand. though his quest failed, he never went back to the cottage; he could not have borne to live in it now. he tried to let it, but the little house was not everybody's money, and it stood empty for many years; indeed, before it was reoccupied bourjac was dead and forgotten. when the new owners planned their renovations, they had the curiosity to open a mildewed cabinet in an outhouse, and uttered a cry of dismay. not until then was the "last effect" attained; but there were two skeletons, instead of one. an invitation to dinner the creators of eau d'enfer invited designs for a poster calling the attention of the world to their liqueur's incomparable qualities. it occurred to théodose goujaud that this was a first-class opportunity to demonstrate his genius. for an article with such a glistening name it was obvious that a poster must be flamboyant--one could not advertise a "water of hell" by a picture of a village maiden plucking cowslips--and goujaud passed wakeful nights devising a sketch worthy of the subject. he decided at last upon a radiant brunette sharing a bottle of the liqueur with his satanic majesty while she sat on his knee. but where was the girl to be found? though his acquaintance with the models of paris was extensive, he could think of none with a face to satisfy him. one girl's arms wreathed themselves before his mind, another girl's feet were desirable, but the face, which was of supreme importance, eluded his most frenzied search. "mon dieu," groaned goujaud, "here i am projecting a poster that would conquer paris, and my scheme is frustrated by the fact that nature fails to produce women equal to the heights of my art! it is such misfortunes as this that support the morgue." "i recommend you to travel," said tricotrin; "a tour in the east might yield your heart's desire." "it's a valuable suggestion," rejoined goujaud; "i should like a couple of new shirts also, but i lack the money to acquire them." "well," said tricotrin, "the ball of the willing hand is nearer. try that!" goujaud looked puzzled. "the ball of the willing hand?" he repeated; "i do not know any ball of the willing hand." "is it possible?" cried the poet; "where do you live? why, the willing hand, my recluse, is the most fascinating resort in paris. i have been familiar with it for fully a week. it is a bal de barrière where the criminal classes enjoy their brief leisure. every saturday night they frisk. the cut-throats' quadrille is a particularly sprightly measure, and the damsels there are often striking." "and their escorts, too--if one of the willing hands planted a knife in my back, there would be no sprightliness about _me!_" "in the interests of art one must submit to a little annoyance. come, if you are conscientious i will introduce you to the place, and give you a few hints. for example, the company have a prejudice against collars, and, assuming for a moment that you possessed more than a franc, you would do well to leave the surplus at home." goujaud expanded his chest. "as a matter of fact," he announced languidly, "i possess five hundred francs." and so dignified was his air that tricotrin came near to believing him. "you possess five hundred francs? you? how? no, such things do not occur! besides, you mentioned a moment since that you were short of shirts." "it is true that i am short of shirts, but, nevertheless, i have five hundred francs in my pocket. it is like this. my father, who is not artistic, has always desired to see me renounce my profession and sink to commerce. well, i was at the point of yielding--man cannot live by hope alone, and my pictures were strangely unappreciated. then, while consent trembled on my lips, up popped this eau d'enfer! i saw my opportunity, i recognised that, of all men in paris, i was the best qualified to execute the poster. you may divine the sequel? i addressed my father with burning eloquence, i persuaded him to supply me with the means to wield my brush for a few months longer. if my poster succeeds, i become a celebrity. if it fails, i become a pétrole merchant. this summer decides my fate. in the meanwhile i am a capitalist; but it would be madness for me to purchase shirts, for i shall require every son to support existence until the poster is acclaimed." "you have a practical head!" exclaimed tricotrin admiringly; "i foresee that you will go far. let us trust that the willing hand will prove the ante-chamber to your immortality." "i have no faith in your willing hand," demurred the painter; "the criminal classes are not keen on sitting for their portraits--the process has unpleasant associations to them. think again! i can spare half an hour this morning. evolve a further inspiration on the subject!" "do you imagine i have nothing to do but to provide you with a model? my time is fully occupied; i am engaged upon a mystical play, which is to be called _the spinster's prayer or the goblin child's mother_, and take paris by storm. a propos--yes, now i come to think of it, there is something in _comoedia_ there that might suit you." "my preserver!" returned goujaud. "what is it?" tricotrin picked the paper up and read: wanted: a hundred ladies for the stage.--beauty more essential than talent. no dilapidations need apply. _agence_ lavalette, rue baba, thursday, to . "mon dieu! now you are beginning to talk," said goujaud. "a hundred! one among them should be suitable, hein? but, all the same--" he hesitated. "'twelve to five'! it will be a shade monotonous standing on a doorstep from twelve to five, especially if the rain streams." "do you expect a cleopatra to call at your attic, or to send an eighty horse-power automobile, that you may cast your eye over her? anyhow, there may be a café opposite; you can order a bock on the terrace, and make it last." "you are right. i shall go and inspect the spot at once. a hundred beauties! i declare the advertisement might have been framed to meet my wants. how fortunate that you chanced to see it! to-morrow evening you shall hear the result--dine with me at the bel avenir at eight o'clock. for one occasion i undertake to go a buster, i should be lacking in gratitude if i neglected to stuff you to the brim." "oh, my dear chap!" said tricotrin. "the invitation is a godsend, i have not viewed the inside of a restaurant for a week. while our pal pitou is banqueting with his progenitors in chartres, _i_ have even exhausted my influence with the fishmonger--i did not so much as see my way to a nocturnal herring in the garret. mind you are not late. i shall come prepared to do justice to your hospitality, i promise you." "right, cocky!" said the artist. and he set forth, in high spirits, to investigate the rue baba. he was gratified to discover a café in convenient proximity to the office. and twelve o'clock had not sounded next day when he took a seat at one of the little white-topped tables, his gaze bent attentively upon the agent's step. for the earliest arrival he had not long to wait. a dumpy girl with an enormous nose approached, swinging her _sac à main_. she cast a complacent glance at the name on the door, opened the bag, whipped out a powder-puff, and vanished. "morbleu!" thought the painter. "if she is a fair sample, i have squandered the price of a bock!" he remained in a state of depression for two or three minutes, and then the girl reappeared, evidently in a very bad temper. "ah!" he mused, rubbing his hands. "monsieur lavalette is plainly a person of his word. no beauty, no engagement! this is going to be all right, where is the next applicant? a sip to venus!" venus, however, did not irradiate the street yet. the second young woman was too short in the back, and at sight of her features he shook his head despondently. "no good, my dear," he said to himself. "little as you suspect it, there is a disappointment for you inside, word of honour! within three minutes, i shall behold you again." and, sure enough, she made her exit promptly, looking as angry as the other. "i am becoming a dramatic prophet!" soliloquised goujaud; "if i had nothing more vital to do, i might win drinks, betting on their chances, with the proprietor of the café. however, i grow impatient for the bevy of beauty--it is a long time on the road." as if in obedience to his demand, girls now began to trip into the rue baba so rapidly that he was kept busy regarding them. by twos, and threes, and in quartettes they tripped--tall girls, little girls, plain girls, pretty girls, girls shabby, and girls chic. but though many of them would have made agreeable partners at a dance, there was none who possessed the necessary qualifications for the girl on satan's knee. he rolled a cigarette, and blew a pessimistic puff. "another day lost!" groaned goujaud. "all is over, i feel it. posterity will never praise my poster, the clutch of commerce is upon me--already the smell of the pétrole is in my nostrils!" and scarcely had he said it when his senses reeled. for, stepping from a cab, disdainfully, imperially, was his ideal. her hair, revealing the lobes of the daintiest ears that ever listened to confessions of love, had the gleam of purple grapes. her eyes were a mystery, her mouth was a flower, her neck was an intoxication. so violently was the artist affected that, during several moments, he forgot his motive for being there. to be privileged merely to contemplate her was an ecstasy. while he sat transfixed with admiration, her dainty foot graced the agent's step, and she entered. goujaud caught his breath, and rose. the cab had been discharged. dared he speak to her when she came out? it would be a different thing altogether from speaking to the kind of girl that he had foreseen. but to miss such a model for lack of nerve, that would be the regret of a lifetime! now the prospect of the poster overwhelmed him, and he felt that he would risk any rebuff, commit any madness to induce her to "sit." the estimate that he had, by this time, formed of monsieur lavalette's taste convinced him that her return would not be yet. he sauntered to and fro, composing a preliminary and winning phrase. what was his surprise, after a very few seconds, to see that she had come out already, and was hastening away! he overtook her in a dozen strides, and with a bow that was eloquent of his homage, exclaimed: "mademoiselle!" "hein?" she said, turning. "oh, it's all right--there are too many people there; i've changed my mind, i shan't wait." he understood that she took him for a minion of the agent's, and he hesitated whether to correct her mistake immediately. however, candour seemed the better course. "i do not bring a message from monsieur lavalette, mademoiselle," he explained. "no?" "no." "what then?" "i have ventured to address you on my own account--on a matter of the most urgent importance." "i have no small change," she said curtly, making to pass. "mademoiselle!" his outraged dignity was superb. "you mistake me first for an office-boy, and then for a beggar. i am a man of means, though my costume may be unconventional. my name is théodosc goujaud." her bow intimated that the name was not significant; but her exquisite eyes had softened at the reference to his means. "for weeks i have been seeking a face for a picture that i have conceived," he went on; "a face of such peculiar beauty that i despaired of finding it! i had the joy to see you enter the agency, and i waited, trembling with the prayer that i might persuade you to come to my aid. mademoiselle, will you do me the honour to allow me to reproduce the magic of your features on my canvas? i entreat it of you in the sacred name of art!" during this appeal, the lady's demeanour had softened more still. a faint smile hovered on her lips; her gaze was half gratified, half amused. "oh, you're a painter?" she said; "you want me to sit to you for the salon? i don't know, i'm sure." "it is not precisely for the salon," he acknowledged. "but i am absorbed by the scheme--it will be the crown of my career. i will explain. it is a long story. if--if we could sit down?" "where?" "there appears to be a café close to the agency," said goujaud timidly. "oh!" she dismissed the café's pretensions with her eyebrows. "you are right," he stammered. "now that i look at it again, i see that it is quite a common place. well, will you permit me to walk a little way with you?" "we will go to breakfast at armenonville, if you like," she said graciously, "where you can explain to me at your leisure." it seemed to goujaud that his heart dropped into his stomach and turned to a cannon-ball there. armenonville? what would such a breakfast cost? perhaps a couple of louis? never in his life had he contemplated breakfasting at armenonville. she smiled, as if taking his consent for granted. her loveliness and air of fashion confused him dreadfully. and if he made excuses, there would be no poster! oh, he must seize the chance at any price! "oh course--i shall be enchanted," he mumbled. and before he half realised that the unprecedented thing had happened they were rattling away, side by side in a fiacre. it was astounding, it was breathless, it was an episode out of a novel! but goujaud felt too sick, in thinking of the appalling expense, to enjoy his sudden glory. accustomed to a couple of louis providing meals for three weeks, he was stupefied by the imminence of scattering the sum in a brief half-hour. even the cab fare weighed upon him; he not infrequently envied the occupants of omnibuses. it was clear that the lady herself was no stranger to the restaurant. while he blinked bewildered on the threshold, she was referring to her "pet table," and calling a waiter "jules." the menu was a fresh embarrassment to the bohemian, but she, and the deferential waiter, relieved him of that speedily, and in five minutes an epicurean luncheon had been ordered, and he was gulping champagne. it revived his spirits. since he had tumbled into the adventure of his life, by all means let him savour the full flavour of it! his companion's smiles had become more frequent, her eyes were more transcendental still. "how funnily things happen!" she remarked presently. "i had not the least idea of calling on lavalette when i got up this morning. if i had not had a tiff with somebody, and decided to go on the stage to spite him, i should never have met you." "oh, you are not on the stage yet, then?" "no. but i have often thought about it, and the quarrel determined me. so i jumped into a cab, drove off, and then--well, there was such a crowd of girls there, and they looked so vulgar; i changed my mind." "can an angel quarrel?" demanded goujaud sentimentally. "i cannot imagine you saying an angry word to anyone." "oh!" she laughed. "can't i, though! i'm a regular demon when i'm cross. people shouldn't vex me." "certainly not," he agreed. "and no one but a brute would do so. besides, some women are attractive even in a rage. on the whole, i think i should like to see you in a rage with _me_, providing always that you 'made it up' as nicely as i should wish." "do you fancy that i could?" she asked, looking at the table-cloth. "my head swims, in fancying!" her laughter rippled again, and her fascination was so intense that the poor fellow could scarcely taste a mouthful of his unique repast. "talk to me," she commanded, "sensibly i mean! where do you live?" "i am living in the rue ravignan." "the rue ravignan? where is that?" "montmartre." "oh, really?" she seemed chilled. "it is not a very nice quarter in the daytime, is it?" "my studio suits me," murmured goujaud, perceiving his fall in her esteem. "for that reason i am reluctant to remove. an artist becomes very much attached to his studio. and what do i care for fashion, i? you may judge by my coat!" "you're eccentric, aren't you?" "hitherto i have lived only for art. but now i begin to realise that there may be something more potent and absorbing still." "what is that?" "love!" added goujaud, feeling himself the embodiment of all the heroes of romance. "oh?" her glance mocked, encouraged. "i am dying to hear about your picture, though! what is the subject?" "it is not exactly what you mean by a 'picture.'" he fiddled with his glass. "it is, in fact, a poster that i project." "a poster?" she exclaimed. "and you ask _me_ to--oh, no, i couldn't possibly!" "mademoiselle!" "i really don't think i could. a poster? ah, no!" "to save me!" he implored. "because my whole life depends on your decision!" "how can a poster matter so much to you? the proposal is absurd." she regarded her pêche melba with a frown. "if you think of becoming an actress, remember what a splendid advertisement it would be!" he urged feverishly. "oh, flûte!" but she had wavered at that. "all paris would flock to your debut. they would go saying, 'can she be as beautiful as her portrait?' and they would come back saying, 'she is lovelier still!' let me give you some more wine." "no more; i'll have coffee, and a grand marnier--red." "doubtless the more expensive colour!" reflected goujaud. but the time had passed for dwelling on minor troubles. "listen," he resumed; "i shall tell you my history. you will then realise to what an abyss of despair your refusal will plunge me--to what effulgent heights i may be raised by your consent. you cannot be marble! my father--" "indeed, i am not marble," she put in. "i am instinct with sensibility --it is my great weakness." "so much the better. be weak to _me_. my father--" "oh, let us get out of this first!" she suggested, "you can talk to me as we drive." and the attentive jules presented the discreetly folded bill. for fully thirty seconds the pavilion d'armenonville swirled round the unfortunate painter so violently that he felt as if he were on a roundabout at a fair. he feared that the siren must hear the pounding of his heart. to think that he had dreaded paying two louis! two louis? why, it would have been a bagatelle! speechlessly he laid a fortune on the salver. with a culminating burst of recklessness he waved four francs towards jules, and remarked that that personage eyed the tip with cold displeasure. "what a lucrative career, a waiter's!" moaned the artist; "he turns up his nose at four francs!" well, he had speculated too heavily to accept defeat now! bracing himself for the effort, goujaud besought the lady's help with such a flood of blandishment during the drive that more than once she seemed at the point of yielding. only one difficult detail had he withheld-- that he wished to pose her on the knee of mephistopheles--and to propitiate her further, before breaking the news, he stopped the cab at a florist's. she was so good-humoured and tractable after the florist had pillaged him that he could scarcely be callous when she showed him that she had split her glove. but, to this day, he protests that, until the glove-shop had been entered, it never occurred to him that it would be necessary to present her with more than one pair. as they came out-- goujaud moving beside her like a man in a trance--she gave a faint start. "mon dieu!" she muttered. "there's my friend--he has seen us--i must speak to him, or he will think i am doing wrong. wait a minute!" and a dandy, with a monocle, was, indeed, casting very supercilious glances at the painter. at eight o'clock that evening, monsieur tricotrin, with a prodigious appetite, sat in the café du bel avenir, awaiting the arrival of his host. when impatience was mastering him, there arrived, instead, a petit bleu. the impecunious poet took it from the proprietress, paling, and read: "i discovered my ideal--she ruined, and then deserted me! to-morrow there will be a painter the less, and a petrole merchant the more. pardon my non-appearance--i am spending my last sous on this message." "monsieur will give his order now?" inquired the proprietress. "er--thank you, i do not dine to-night," said tricotrin. the judgment of paris in the summer of the memorable year ----, but the date doesn't matter, robichon and quinquart both paid court to mademoiselle brouette, mademoiselle brouette was a captivating actress, robichon and quinquart were the most comic of comedians, and all three were members of the théâtre suprême. robichon was such an idol of the public's that they used to laugh before he uttered the first word of his rôle; and quinquart was so vastly popular that his silence threw the audience into convulsions. professional rivalry apart, the two were good friends, although they were suitors for the same lady, and this was doubtless due to the fact that the lady favoured the robust robichon no more than she favoured the skinny quinquart. she flirted with them equally, she approved them equally--and at last, when each of them had plagued her beyond endurance, she promised in a pet that she would marry the one that was the better actor. tiens! not a player on the stage, not a critic on the press could quite make up his mind which the better actor was. only suzanne brouette could have said anything so tantalising. "but how shall we decide the point, suzanne?" stammered robichon helplessly. "whose pronouncement will you accept?" "how can the question be settled?" queried quinquart, dismayed. "who shall be the judge?" "paris shall be the judge," affirmed suzanne. "we are the servants of the public--i will take the public's word!" of course she was as pretty as a picture, or she couldn't have done these things. then poor quinquart withdrew, plunged in reverie. so did robichon. quinquart reflected that she had been talking through her expensive hat. robichon was of the same opinion. the public lauded them both, was no less generous to one than to the other--to wait for the judgment of paris appeared equivalent to postponing the matter _sine die_. no way out presented itself to quinquart. none occurred to robichon. "mon vieux," said the latter, as they sat on the terrace of their favourite café a day or two before the annual vacation, "let us discuss this amicably. have a cigarette! you are an actor, therefore you consider yourself more talented than i. i, too, am an actor, therefore i regard you as less gifted than myself. so much for our artistic standpoints! but we are also men of the world, and it must be obvious to both of us that we might go on being funny until we reached our death-beds without demonstrating the supremacy of either. enfin, our only hope lies in versatility--the conqueror must distinguish himself in a solemn part!" he viewed the other with complacence, for the quaint quinquart had been designed for a droll by nature. "right!" said quinquart. he contemplated his colleague with satisfaction, for it was impossible to fancy the fat robichon in tragedy. "i perceive only one drawback to the plan," continued robichon, "the management will never consent to accord us a chance. is it not always so in the theatre? one succeeds in a certain line of business and one must be resigned to play that line as long as one lives. if my earliest success had been scored as a villain of melodrama, it would be believed that i was competent to enact nothing but villains of melodrama; it happened that i made a hit as a comedian, wherefore nobody will credit that i am capable of anything but being comic." "same here!" concurred quinquart. "well, then, what do you propose?" robichon mused. "since we shall not be allowed to do ourselves justice on the stage, we must find an opportunity off it!" "a private performance? good! yet, if it is a private performance, how is paris to be the judge?" "ah," murmured robichon, "that is certainly a stumbling-block." they sipped their apéritifs moodily. many heads were turned towards the little table where they sat. "there are quinquart and robichon, how amusing they always are!" said passers-by, little guessing the anxiety at the laughter-makers' hearts. "what's to be done?" sighed quinquart at last. robichon shrugged his fat shoulders, with a frown. both were too absorbed to notice that, after a glance of recognition, one of the pedestrians had paused, and was still regarding them irresolutely. he was a tall, burly man, habited in rusty black, and the next moment, as if finding courage, he stepped forward and spoke: "gentlemen, i ask pardon for the liberty i take--impulse urges me to seek your professional advice! i am in a position to pay a moderate fee. will you permit me to explain myself?" "monsieur," returned robichon, "we are in deep consideration of our latest parts. we shall be pleased to give you our attention at some other time." "alas!" persisted the newcomer, "with me time presses. i, too, am considering my latest part--and it will be the only speaking part i have ever played, though i have been 'appearing' for twenty years." "what? you have been a super for twenty years?" said quinquart, with a grimace. "no, monsieur," replied the stranger grimly. "i have been the public executioner; and i am going to lecture on the horrors of the post i have resigned." the two comedians stared at him aghast. across the sunlit terrace seemed to have fallen the black shadow of the guillotine. "i am jacques roux," the man went on, "i am 'trying it on the dog' at appeville-sous-bois next week, and i have what you gentlemen call 'stage fright'--i, who never knew what nervousness meant before! is it not queer? as often as i rehearse walking on to the platform, i feel myself to be all arms and legs--i don't know what to do with them. formerly, i scarcely remembered my arms and legs; but, of course, my attention used to be engaged by the other fellow's head. well, it struck me that you might consent to give me a few hints in deportment. probably one lesson would suffice." "sit down," said robichon. "why did you abandon your official position?" "because i awakened to the truth," roux answered. "i no longer agree with capital punishment: it is a crime that should be abolished." "the scruples of conscience, hein?" "that is it." "fine!" said robichon. "what dramatic lines such a lecture might contain! and of what is it to consist?" "it is to consist of the history of my life--my youth, my poverty, my experiences as executioner, and my remorse." "magnificent!" said robichon. "the spectres of your victims pursue you even to the platform. your voice fails you, your eyes start from your head in terror. you gasp for mercy--and imagination splashes your outstretched hands with gore. the audience thrill, women swoon, strong men are breathless with emotion." suddenly he smote the table with his big fist, and little quinquart nearly fell off his chair, for he divined the inspiration of his rival. "listen!" cried robichon, "are you known at appeville-sous-bois?" "my name is known, yes." "bah! i mean are you known personally, have you acquaintances there?" "oh, no. but why?" "there will be nobody to recognize you?" "it is very unlikely in such a place." "what do you estimate that your profits will amount to?" "it is only a small hall, and the prices are very cheap. perhaps two hundred and fifty francs." "and you are nervous, you would like to postpone your début?" "i should not be sorry, i admit. but, again, why?" "i will tell you why--i offer you five hundred francs to let me take your place!" "monsieur!" "is it a bargain?" "i do not understand!" "i have a whim to figure in a solemn part. you can explain next day that you missed your train--that you were ill, there are a dozen explanations that can be made; you will not be supposed to know that i personated you--the responsibility for that is mine. what do you say?" "it is worth double the money," demurred the man. "not a bit of it! all the press will shout the story of my practical joke--paris will be astounded that i, robichon, lectured as jacques roux and curdled an audience's blood. millions will speak of your intended lecture tour who otherwise would never have heard of it. i am giving you the grandest advertisement, and paying you for it, besides. enfin, i will throw a deportment lesson in! is it agreed?" "agreed, monsieur!" said roux. oh, the trepidation of quinquart! who could eclipse robichon if his performance of the part equalled his conception of it? at the theatre that evening quinquart followed suzanne about the wings pathetically. he was garbed like a buffoon, but he felt like romeo. the throng that applauded his capers were far from suspecting the romantic longings under his magenta wig. for the first time in his life he was thankful that the author hadn't given him more to do. and, oh, the excitement of robichon! he was to put his powers to a tremendous test, and if he made the effect that he anticipated he had no fear of quinquart's going one better. suzanne, to whom he whispered his project proudly, announced an intention of being present to "see the fun." quinquart also promised to be there. robichon sat up all night preparing his lecture. if you wish to know whether suzanne rejoiced at the prospect of his winning her, history is not definite on the point; but some chroniclers assert that at this period she made more than usual of quinquart, who had developed a hump as big as the panthéon. and they all went to appeville-sous-bois. though no one in the town was likely to know the features of the executioner, it was to be remembered that people there might know the actor's, and robichon had made up to resemble roux as closely as possible. arriving at the humble hall, he was greeted by the lessee, heard that a "good house" was expected, and smoked a cigarette in the retiring-room while the audience assembled. at eight o'clock the lessee reappeared. "all is ready, monsieur roux," he said. robichon rose. he saw suzanne and quinquart in the third row, and was tempted to wink at them. "ladies and gentlemen--" all eyes were riveted on him as he began; even the voice of the "executioner" exercised a morbid fascination over the crowd. the men nudged their neighbours appreciatively, and women gazed at him, half horrified, half charmed. the opening of his address was quiet enough--there was even a humorous element in it, as he narrated imaginary experiences of his boyhood. people tittered, and then glanced at one another with an apologetic air, as if shocked at such a monster's daring to amuse them. suzanne whispered to quinquart: "too cheerful; he hasn't struck the right note." quinquart whispered back gloomily: "wait; he may be playing for the contrast!" and quinquart's assumption was correct. gradually the cheerfulness faded from the speaker's voice, the humorous incidents were past. gruesome, hideous, grew the anecdotes, the hall shivered. necks were craned, and white faces twitched suspensively. he dwelt on the agonies of the condemned, he recited crimes in detail, he mirrored the last moments before the blade fell. he shrieked his remorse, his lacerating remorse. "i am a murderer," he sobbed; and in the hall one might have heard a pin drop. there was no applause when he finished--that set the seal on his success; he bowed and withdrew amid tense silence. still none moved in the hall, until, with a rush, the representatives of the press sped forth to proclaim jacques roux an unparalleled sensation. the triumph of robichon! how generous were the congratulations of quinquart, and how sweet the admiring tributes of suzanne! and there was another compliment to come--nothing less than a card from the marquis de thevenin, requesting an interview at his home. "ah!" exclaimed robichon, enravished, "an invitation from a noble! that proves the effect i made, hein?" "who may he be?" inquired quinquart. "i never heard of the marquis de thevenin!" "it is immaterial whether you have heard of him," replied robichon. "he is a marquis, and he desires to converse with me! it is an honour that one must appreciate. i shall assuredly go." and, being a bit of a snob, he sought a fiacre in high feather. the drive was short, and when the cab stopped he was distinctly taken aback to perceive the unpretentious aspect of the nobleman's abode. it was, indeed, nothing better than a lodging. a peasant admitted him, and the room to which he was ushered boasted no warmer hospitality than a couple of candles and a decanter of wine. however, the sconces were massive silver. monsieur le marquis, he was informed, had been suddenly compelled to summon his physician, and begged that monsieur roux would allow him a few minutes' grace. robichon ardently admired the candlesticks, but began to think he might have supped more cozily with suzanne. it was a long time before the door opened. the marquis de thevenin was old--so old that he seemed to be falling to pieces as he tottered forward. his skin was yellow and shrivelled, his mouth sunken, his hair sparse and grey; and from this weird face peered strange eyes--the eyes of a fanatic. "monsieur, i owe you many apologies for my delay," he wheezed. "my unaccustomed exertion this evening fatigued me, and on my return from the hall i found it necessary to see my doctor. your lecture was wonderful, monsieur roux--most interesting and instructive; i shall never forget it." robichon bowed his acknowledgments. "sit down, monsieur roux, do not stand! let me offer you some wine. i am forbidden to touch it myself. i am a poor host, but my age must be my excuse." "to be the guest of monsieur le marquis," murmured robichon, "is a privilege, an honour, which--er--" "ah," sighed the marquis. "i shall very soon be in the republic where all men are really equals and the only masters are the worms. my reason for requesting you to come was to speak of your unfortunate experiences--of a certain unfortunate experience in particular. you referred in your lecture to the execution of one called 'victor lesueur.' he died game, hein?" "as plucky a soul as i ever dispatched!" said robichon, savouring the burgundy. "ah! not a tremor? he strode to the guillotine like a man?" "like a hero!" said robichon, who knew nothing about him. "that was fine," said the marquis; "that was as it should be! you have never known a prisoner to die more bravely?" there was a note of pride in his voice that was unmistakable. "i shall always recall his courage with respect," declared robichon, mystified. "did you respect it at the time?" "pardon, monsieur le marquis?" "i inquire if you respected it at the time; did you spare him all needless suffering?" "there is no suffering," said robichon. "so swift is the knife that--" the host made a gesture of impatience. "i refer to mental suffering. cannot you realise the emotions of an innocent man condemned to a shameful death!" "innocent! as for that, they all say that they are innocent." "i do not doubt it. victor, however, spoke the truth. i know it. he was my son." "your son?" faltered robichon, aghast. "my only son--the only soul i loved on earth. yes; he was innocent, monsieur roux. and it was you who butchered him--he died by your hands." "i--i was but the instrument of the law," stammered robichon. "i was not responsible for his fate, myself." "you have given a masterly lecture, monsieur roux," said the marquis musingly; "i find myself in agreement with all that you said in it-- you are his murderer,' i hope the wine is to your taste, monsieur roux? do not spare it!" "the wine?" gasped the actor. he started to his feet, trembling--he understood. "it is poisoned," said the old man calmly, "in an hour you will be dead." "great heavens!" moaned robichon. already he was conscious of a strange sensation--his blood was chilled, his limbs were weighted, there were shadows before his eyes. "ah, i have no fear of you!" continued the other; "i am feeble, i could not defend myself; but your violence would avail you nothing. fight, or faint, as you please--you are doomed." for some seconds they stared at each other dumbly--the actor paralysed by terror, the host wearing the smile of a lunatic. and then the "lunatic" slowly peeled court-plaster from his teeth, and removed features, and lifted a wig. * * * * * and when the whole story was published, a delighted paris awarded the palm to quinquart without a dissentient voice, for while robichon had duped an audience, quinquart had duped robichon himself. robichon bought the silver candlesticks, which had been hired for the occasion, and he presented them to quinquart and suzanne on their wedding-day. the fairy poodle they were called the "two children" because they were so unpractical; even in bohemia, where practicality is the last virtue to flourish, their improvidence was surprising; but really they were not children at all--they had been married for three years, though to watch their billing and cooing, you would have supposed them to be bride and bridegroom. julian and juliette had fallen in love and run to the mairie as joyously as if chateaubriands were to be gathered from the boughs in the jardin des buttes-chaumont; and since then their home had been the studio under the slates, where they were often penniless. indeed, if it had not been for the intermittent mercies of madame cochard, the concierge, they would have starved under the slates. however, they were sure that the pictures which julien painted would some day make him celebrated, and that the fairy-tales which juliette weaved would some day be as famous as hans andersen's. so they laughed, and painted and scribbled, and spent their money on bonbons, instead of saving it for bread; and when they had no dinner, they would kiss each other, and say "there is a good time coming," and they were called the "two children," as you know. but even the patience of madame cochard was taxed when juliette brought back the poodle. she found him--a strayed, muddy, unhappy little poodle--in the rue de rivoli one wet afternoon in november, and what more natural than that she should immediately bear him home, and propose to give him a bath, and adopt him? it was the most natural thing in the world, since she was juliette, yet this madame cochard, who objected to a dog on her stairs as violently as if it were a tiger, was furious. "is it not enough," she cried, "that you are the worst tenants in the house, you two--that you are always behindhand with your rent, and that i must fill your mouths out of my own purse? is a concierge an angel from heaven, do you think, that you expect her to provide also for lost dogs?" "dear, kind madame cochard," cooed juliette, "you will learn to love the little creature as if it were your own child! see how trustfully he regards you!" "it is a fact," added julien; "he seems to take to her already! it is astonishing how quickly a dog recognises a good heart." "good heart, or not," exclaimed the concierge, "it is to be understood that i do not consent to this outrage. the poodle shall not remain!" "be discreet," urged juliette. "i entreat you to be discreet, for your own sake; if you must have the whole truth, he is a fairy poodle!" "what do you say?" ejaculated madame cochard. "he is a fairy poodle, and if we treat him ungenerously, we shall suffer. remember the history of the lodgers, the concierge, and the pug!" "i have never heard of such a history," returned madame cochard; "and i do not believe that there ever was one." "she has never heard the history of the lodgers, the concierge, and the pug!" cried juliette. "oh, then listen, madame! once upon a time there were two lodgers, a young man and his wife, and they were so poor that often they depended on the tenderness of the concierge to supply them with a dinner." "did they also throw away their good money on bonbons and flowers?" asked madame cochard, trying her utmost to look severe. "it is possible," admitted juliette, who was perched on the table, with the dirty little animal in her lap, "for though they are our hero and heroine, i cannot pretend that they were very wise. well, this concierge, who suffered badly from lumbago and stairs, had sometimes a bit of temper, so you may figure yourself what a fuss she raised when the poor lodgers brought home a friendless pug to add to their embarrassments. however--" "there is no 'however,'" persisted madame cochard; "she raises a fuss, and that is all about it!" "pardon, dear madame," put in julien, "you confuse the cases; we are now concerned with the veracious history of the pug, not the uncertain future of the poodle." "quite so," said juliette. "she raised a terrible fuss and declared that the pug should go, but finally she melted to it and made it welcome. and then, what do you suppose happened? why, it turned out to be an enchanted prince, who rewarded them all with wealth and happiness. the young man's pictures were immediately accepted by the salon--did i mention that he was an artist? the young woman's stories-- did i tell you that she wrote stories?--became so much the fashion that her head swam with joy; and the concierge--the dear, kind concierge-- was changed into a beautiful princess, and never had to walk up any stairs again as long as she lived. thus we see that one should never forbid lodgers to adopt a dog!" "thus we see that they do well to call you a pair of 'children,'" replied madame cochard, "that is what we see! well, well, keep the dog, since you are so much bent on it; only i warn you that if it gives me trouble, it will be sausages in no time! i advise you to wash it without delay, for a more deplorable little beast i never saw." julien and juliette set to work with delight, and after he was bathed and dry, the alteration in the dog was quite astonishing. although he did not precisely turn into a prince, he turned into a poodle of the most fashionable aspect. obviously an aristocrat among poodles, a poodle of high estate. the metamorphosis was so striking that a new fear assailed his rescuers, the fear that it might be dishonest of them to retain him--probably some great lady was disconsolate at his loss! sure enough! a few days later, when sanquereau called upon them, he said: "by the way, did i not hear that you had found a poodle, my children? doubtless it is the poodle for which they advertise. see!" and he produced a copy of a journal in which "a handsome reward" was promised for the restoration of an animal which resembled their protégé to a tuft. the description was too accurate for the children to deceive themselves, and that afternoon juliette carried the dog to a magnificent house which was nothing less than the residence of the comtesse de grand ecusson. she was left standing in a noble hall while a flunkey bore the dog away. then another flunkey bade her follow him upstairs; and in a salon which was finer than anything that juliette had ever met with outside the pages of a novel, the countess was reclining on a couch with the poodle in her arms. "i am so grateful to you for the recovery of my darling," said the great lady; "my distress has been insupportable. ah, naughty, naughty racine!" she made a pretence of chastising the poodle on the nose. "i can understand it, madame," said juliette, much embarrassed. "where did you find him? and has he been well fed, well taken care of? i hope he has not been sleeping in a draught?" "oh, indeed, madame, he has been nourished like a beloved child. doubtless, not so delicately as with madame, but--" "it was most kind of you," said the lady. "i count myself blessed that my little racine fell into such good hands. now as to the reward, what sum would you think sufficient?" juliette looked shy. "i thank you, madame, but we could not accept anything," she faltered. "what?" exclaimed the countess, raising her eyebrows in surprise, "you cannot accept anything? how is that?" "well," said juliette, "it would be base to accept money for a simple act of honesty. it is true that we did not wish to part with the dog-- we had grown to love him--but, as to our receiving payment for giving him up, that is impossible." the countess laughed merrily. "what a funny child you are! and, who are 'we'--you and your parents?" "oh no," said juliette; "my parents are in heaven, madame; but i am married." "your husband must be in heaven, too!" said the countess, who was a charming woman. "ah," demurred juliette, "but although i have a warm heart, i have also a healthy appetite, and he is not rich; he is a painter." "i must go to see his pictures some day," replied the comtesse de grand ecusson. "give me the address--and believe that i am extremely grateful to you!" it need not be said that juliette skipped home on air after this interview. the hint of such patronage opened the gates of paradise to her, and the prospect was equally dazzling to julien. for fully a week they talked of nothing but a visit from the comtesse de grand ecusson, having no suspicion that fine ladies often forgot their pretty promises as quickly as they made them. and the week, and a fortnight, and a month passed, and at last the expectation faded; they ceased to indulge their fancies of a carriage- and-pair dashing into the street with a lady bountiful. and what was much more serious, madame cochard ceased to indulge their follies. the truth was that she had never pardoned the girl for refusing to accept the proffered reward; the delicacy that prompted the refusal was beyond her comprehension, and now that the pair were in arrears with their rent again, she put no bridle on her tongue. "it appears to me that it would have been more honourable to accept money for a poodle than to owe money to a landlord," she grunted. "it must be perfectly understood that if the sum is not forthcoming on the first of january, you will have to get out. i have received my instructions, and i shall obey them. on the first day of january, my children, you pay, or you go! le bon dieu alone knows what will become of you, but that is no affair of mine. i expect you will die like the babes in the wood, for you are no more fit to make a living than a cow is fit to fly." "dear madame cochard," they answered, peacefully, "why distress yourself about us? the first of january is more than a week distant; in a week we may sell a picture, or some fairy tales--in a week many things may happen!" and they sunned themselves on the boulevard the same afternoon with as much serenity as if they had been millionaires. nevertheless, they did not sell a picture or some fairy tales in the week that followed--and the first of january dawned with relentless punctuality, as we all remember. in the early morning, when madame cochard made her ascent to the attic --her arms folded inexorably, the glare of a creditor in her eye--she found that juliette had already been out. (if you can believe me, she had been out to waste her last two francs on an absurd tie for julien!) "eh bien," demanded the concierge sternly, "where is your husband? i am here, as arranged, for the rent; no doubt he has it ready on the mantelpiece for me?" "he is not in," answered juliette coaxingly, "and i am sorry to say we have had disappointments. the fact is there is something wrong with the construction of a story of which i had immense hopes--it needs letting out at the waist, and a tuck put in at the hem. when i have made the alterations, i am sure it will fit some journal elegantly." "all this passes forbearance!" exclaimed madame cochard. "well, you have thoroughly understood, and all is said--you will vacate your lodging by evening! so much grace i give you; but at six o'clock you depart promptly, or you will be ejected! and do not reckon on me to send any meal up here during the day, for you will not get so much as a crust. what is it that you have been buying there?" "it is a little gift for julien; i rose early to choose it before he woke, and surprise him; but when i returned he was out." "a gift?" cried the concierge. "you have no money to buy food, and you buy a gift for your husband! what for?" "what for?" repeated juliette wonderingly. "why, because it is new year's day! and that reminds me--i wish you the compliments of the season, madame; may you enjoy many happy years!" "kind words pay no bills," snapped the concierge. "i have been lenient far too long--i have my own reputation to consider with the landlord. by six o'clock, bear in mind!" and then, to complete her resentment, what should happen but that julien entered bearing a bouquet! to see julien present juliette with the roses, and to watch juliette enchant julien with the preposterous tie, was as charming a little comedy of improvidence as you would be likely to meet with in a lifetime. "mon dieu!" gasped madame cochard, purple with indignation, "it is, indeed, well that you are leaving here, monsieur--a madhouse is the fitting address for you! you have nothing to eat and you buy roses for your wife! what for?" "what for?" echoed julien, astonished. "why, because it is new year's day! and i take the opportunity to wish you the compliments of the season, madame--may your future be as bright as juliette's eyes!" "by six o'clock!" reiterated the concierge, who was so exasperated that she could barely articulate. "by six o'clock you will be out of the place!" and to relieve her feelings, she slammed the door with such violence that half a dozen canvases fell to the floor. "well, this is a nice thing," remarked julien, when she had gone. "it looks to me, mignonne, as if we shall sleep in the bois, with the moon for an eiderdown." "at least you shall have a comfy pillow, sweetheart," cried juliette, drawing his head to her breast. "my angel, there is none so soft in the elysée, and as we have nothing for déjeuner in the cupboard, i propose that we breakfast now on kisses." "ah, julien!" whispered the girl, as she folded him in her arms. "ah, juliette!" it was as if they had been married that morning. "and yet," continued the young man, releasing her at last, "to own the truth, your kisses are not satisfying as a menu; they are the choicest of hors d'oeuvres--they leave one hungry for more." they were still making love when sanquereau burst in to wish them a happy new year. "how goes it, my children?" he cried. "you look like a honeymoon, i swear! am i in the way, or may i breakfast with you?" "you are not in the way, mon vieux," returned julien; "but i shall not invite you to breakfast with me, because my repast consists of juliette's lips." "mon dieu!" said sanquereau. "so you are broke? well, in my chequered career i have breakfasted on much worse fare than yours." at this reply, juliette blushed with all the bashfulness of a bride, and julien endeavoured to assume the air of a man of the world. "tell me," he said; "we are in difficulties about the rent--have you by chance a louis that you could lend me?" sanquereau turned out his pockets, like the good fellow he was, but he could produce no more than a sou. "what a bother!" he cried. "i would lend you a louis if i had it as readily as a cigarette-paper, but you see how i am situated. on my honour, it rends my heart to have to refuse." "you are a gallant comrade," said julien, much touched. "come back and sup with us this evening, and we will open the new year with a festivity!" "hein? but there will be no supper," faltered juliette. "that's true," said julien; "there will be no supper--i was forgetting. still--who knows? there is plenty of time; i shall have an idea. perhaps i may be able to borrow something from tricotrin." "i shall be enchanted," responded sanquereau; "depend on my arrival! if i am not mistaken, i recognize tricotrin's voice on the stairs." his ears had not deceived him; tricotrin appeared with pitou at this very moment. "greeting, my children!" they cried. "how wags the world? may the new year bring you laurels and lucre!" "to you also, dear gustave and nicolas," cried the children. "may your poems and your music ignite the seine, and may sanquereau rise to eminence and make statues of you both!" "in the meantime," added sanquereau, "can either of you put your hands on a few francs? there is a fine opening for them here." "a difference of opinion exists between ourselves and the landlord," julien explained; "we consider that he should wait for his rent, and he holds a different view. if you could lend us fifteen francs, we might effect a compromise." the poet and the composer displayed the lining of their pockets as freely as the sculptor had done, but their capital proved to be a sou less than his own. tears sprang to their eyes as they confessed their inability to be of use, "we are in despair," they groaned. "my good, kind friends," exclaimed julien, "your sympathy is a noble gift in itself! join us in a little supper this evening in celebration of the date." "we shall be delighted," declared tricotrin and pitou. "but--but--" stammered juliette again, "where is it to come from, this supper--and where shall we be by supper-time?" "well, our address is on the lap of the gods," admitted julien, "but while there is life there is hope. possibly i may obtain a loan from lajeunie." not many minutes had passed before lajeunie also paid a visit to the attic, "aha," cried the unsuccessful novelist, as he perceived the company, "well met! my children, my brothers, may your rewards equal your deserts this year--may france do honour to your genius!" "and may lajeunie be crowned the new balzac," shouted the assembly; "may his abode be in the champs elysées, and his name in the mouth of all the world!" but, extraordinary as it appears, lajeunie proved to be as impecunious as the rest there; and he was so much distressed that julien, deeply moved, said: "come back to supper, lajeunie, we will drink toasts to the muses!" and now there were four guests invited to the impracticable supper, and when the children were left alone they clapped their hands at the prospect. "how merry we shall be!" julien exclaimed; "and awhile ago we talked of passing the night in the bois! it only shows you that one can never tell what an hour may bring forth." "yes, yes," assented juliette blithely. "and as for the supper--" "we shall not require it till nine o'clock at the earliest." "and now it is no more than midday. why, there is an eternity for things to arrange themselves!" "just so. the sky may rain truffles in such an interval," said the painter. and they drew their chairs closer to the fire, and pretended to each other that they were not hungry. the hours crept past, and the sunshine waned, and snow began to flutter over paris. but no truffles fell. by degrees the fire burnt low, and died. to beg for more fuel was impossible, and juliette shivered a little. "you are cold, sweetheart," sighed julien. "i will fetch a blanket from the bed and wrap you in it." "no," she murmured, "wrap me in your arms--it will be better." darker and darker grew the garret, and faster and faster fell the snow. "i have a fancy," said juliette, breaking a long silence, "that it is the hour in which a fairy should appear to us. let us look to see if she is coming!" they peered from the window, but in the twilight no fairy was to be discerned; only an "old clo'" man was visible, trudging on his round. "i declare," cried julien, "he is the next best thing to your fairy! i will sell my summer suit and my velvet jacket. what do i want of a velvet jacket? coffee and eggs will be much more cheerful." "and i," vowed juliette, "can spare my best hat easily--indeed, it is an encumbrance. if we make madame cochard a small peace-offering she may allow us to remain until the morning." "what a grand idea! we shall provide ourselves with a night's shelter and the means to entertain our friends as well hasten to collect our wardrobe, mignonette, while i crack my throat to make him hear. hé, hé!" at the repeated cries the "old clo'" man lifted his gaze to the fifth- floor window at last, and in a few minutes julien and juliette were kneeling on the boards above a pile of garments, which they raised one by one for his inspection. "regard, monsieur," said julien, "this elegant summer suit! it is almost as good as new. i begin to hesitate to part with it. what shall we say for this elegant summer suit?" the dealer fingered it disdainfully. "show me boots," he suggested; "we can do business in boots." "alas!" replied julien, "the only boots that i possess are on my feet. we will again admire the suit. what do you estimate it at--ten francs?" "are you insane? are you a lunatic?" returned the dealer. "to a reckless man it might be worth ten sous. let us talk of boots!" "i cannot go barefoot," expostulated julien. "juliette, my heart, do you happen to possess a second pair of boots?" juliette shook her head forlornly. "but i have a hat with daisies in it," she said. "observe, monsieur, the delicate tints of the buds! how like to nature, how exquisite they are! they make one dream of courtship in the woods. i will take five francs for it." "from me i swear you will not take them!" said the "old clo'" man. "boots," he pleaded; "for the love of god, boots!" "morbleu, what a passion for boots you have!" moaned the unhappy painter; "they obsess you, they warp your judgment. can you think of nothing in the world but boots? look, we come to the gem of the exhibition--a velvet jacket! a jacket like this confers an air of greatness, one could not feel the pinch of poverty in such a jacket. it is, i confess, a little white at the elbows, but such high lights are very effective. and observe the texture--as soft as a darling's cheek!" the other turned it about with indifferent hands, and the children began to realise that he would prove no substitute for a fairy after all. then, while they watched him with sinking hearts, the door was suddenly opened, and the concierge tottered on the threshold. "monsieur, madame!" she panted, with such respect that they stared at each other. "eh bien?" "a visitor!" she leant against the wall, overwhelmed. "who is it?" "madame, la comtesse de grand ecusson!" actually! the countess had kept her word after all, and now she rustled in, before the "old clo'" man could be banished. white as a virgin canvas, julien staggered forward to receive her, a pair of trousers, which he was too agitated to remember, dangling under his arm. "madame, this honour!" he stammered; and, making a piteous effort to disguise his beggary, "one's wardrobe accumulates so that, really, in a small ménage, one has no room to--" "i have suffered from the inconvenience myself, monsieur," said the countess graciously. "your charming wife was so kind as to invite me to view your work; and see--my little racine has come to wish his preservers a happy new year!" and, on the honour of an historian, he brought one! before they left she had given a commission for his portrait at a thousand francs, and purchased two landscapes, for which a thousand francs more would be paid on the morrow. when sanquereau, and lajeunie, and tricotrin, and pitou arrived, expecting the worst, they were amazed to discover the children waltzing round the attic to the music of their own voices. what _hurras_ rang out when the explanation was forthcoming; what loans were promised to the guests, and what a gay quadrille was danced! it was not until the last figure had concluded that julien and juliette recognised that, although they would be wealthy in the morning, they were still penniless that night. "hélas! but we have no supper after all," groaned julien. "pardon, it is here, monsieur!" shouted madame cochard, who entered behind a kingly feast. "_comment_, shall the artist honoured by madame la comtesse de grand ecusson have no supper? pot-au-feu, monsieur; leg of mutton, monsieur; little tarts, monsieur; dessert, monsieur; and for each person a bottle of good wine!" and the justice that was done to it, and the laughter that pealed under the slates! the children didn't forget that it was all due to the dog. juliette raised her glass radiantly. "gentlemen," she cried, "i ask you to drink to the fairy poodle!" little-flower-of-the-wood janiaud used to lie abed all day, and drink absinthe all night. when he contrived to write his poetry is a mystery. but he did write it, and he might have written other things, too, if he had had the will. it was often said that his paramount duty was to publish a history of modern paris, for the man was an encyclopaedia of unsuspected facts. since he can never publish it now, however, i am free to tell the story of the café du bon vieux temps as he told it to an english editor and me one night on the terrace of the café itself. it befell thus: when we entered that shabby little montmartre restaurant, janiaud chanced to be seated, at a table in a corner, sipping his favourite stimulant. he was deplorably dirty and suggested a scarecrow, and the english editor looked nervous when i offered an introduction. still, janiaud was janiaud. the offer was accepted, and janiaud discoursed in his native tongue. at midnight the editor ordered supper. being unfamiliar with the café du bon vieux temps in those days, i said that i would drink beer. janiaud smiled sardonically, and the waiter surprised us with the information that beer could not be supplied. "what?" "after midnight, nothing but champagne," he answered. "really? well, let us go somewhere else," i proposed. but the editor would not hear of that. he had a princely soul, and, besides, he was "doing paris." "all the same, what does it mean?" he inquired of janiaud. janiaud blew smoke rings. "it is the rule. during the evening the bock-drinker is welcomed here as elsewhere; but at midnight--well, you will see what you will see!" and we saw very soon. the bourgeoisie of montmartre had straggled out while we talked, and in a little while the restaurant was crowded with a rackety crew who had driven up in cabs. everybody but ourselves was in evening-dress. where the coppers had been counted carefully, gold was scattered. a space was cleared for dancing, and mademoiselle nan joliquette obliged the company with her latest comic song. the editor was interested. "it is a queer change, though! has it always been like this?" "ask janiaud," i said; _i_ don't know." "oh, not at all," replied janiaud; "no, indeed, it was not always like this! it used to be as quiet at midnight as at any other hour. but it became celebrated as a supper-place; and now it is quite the thing for the ardent spirits, with money, to come and kick up their heels here until five in the morning." "curious, how such customs originate," remarked the editor. "here we have a restaurant which is out of the way, which is the reverse of luxurious, and which, for all that, seems to be a gold mine to the proprietor. look at him! look at his white waistcoat and his massive watch-chain, his air of prosperity." "how did he come to rake it in like this, janiaud--you know everything?" i said. the poet stroked his beard, and glanced at his empty glass. the editor raised a bottle. "i cannot talk on clicquot," demurred janiaud. "if you insist, i will take another absinthe--they will allow it, in the circumstances. sst, adolphe!" the waiter whisked over to us. "monsieur pays for champagne, but i prefer absinthe. there is no law against that, hein?" adolphe smiled tolerantly. "shall we sit outside?" suggested the editor. "what do you think? it's getting rather riotous in here, isn't it?" so we moved on to the terrace, and waited while janiaud prepared his poison. "it is a coincidence that you have asked me for the history of the bon vieux temps tonight," he began, after a gulp; "if you had asked for it two days earlier, the climax would have been missing. the story completed itself yesterday, and i happened to be here and saw the end. "listen: dupont--the proprietor whom monsieur has just admired--used to be chef to a family on the boulevard haussmann. he had a very fair salary, and probably he would have remained in the situation till now but for the fact that he fell in love with the parlourmaid. she was a sprightly little flirt, with ambitions, and she accepted him only on condition that they should withdraw from domestic service and start a business of their own. dupont was of a cautious temperament; he would have preferred that they should jog along with some family in the capacities of chef and housekeeper. still, he consented; and, with what they had saved between them, they took over this little restaurant-- where monsieur the editor has treated me with such regal magnificence. it was not they who christened it--it was called the café du bon vieux temps already; how it obtained its name is also very interesting, but i have always avoided digressions in my work--that is one of the first principles of the literary art." he swallowed some more absinthe. "they took the establishment over, and they conducted it on the lines of their predecessor--they provided a déjeuner at one franc fifty, and a dinner at two francs. these are side-shows of the bon vieux temps to-day, but, in the period of which i speak, they were all that it had to say for itself--they were its foundation-stone, and its cupola. when i had two francs to spare, i used to dine here myself. "well, the profits were not dazzling. and after marriage the little parlourmaid developed extravagant tastes. she had a passion for theatres. i, janiaud, have nothing to say against theatres, excepting that the managers have never put on my dramas, but in the wife of a struggling restaurateur a craze for playgoing is not to be encouraged. monsieur will agree? also, madame had a fondness for dress. she did little behind the counter but display new ribbons and trinkets. she was very stupid at giving change--and always made the mistake on the wrong side for dupont. at last he had to employ a cousin of his own as dame- de-comptoir. the expenses had increased, and the returns remained the same. in fine, dupont was in difficulties; the bon vieux temps was on its last legs. "listen: there was at that time a dancer called 'little-flower-of-the- wood'; she was very chic, very popular. she had her appartement in the avenue wagram, she drove to the stage-doors in her coupé, her photographs were sold like confetti at a carnival. well, one afternoon, when dupont's reflections were oscillating between the bankruptcy court and the morgue, he was stupefied to receive a message from her--she bade him reserve a table for herself and some friends for supper that night! "dupont could scarcely credit his ears. he told his wife that a practical joker must be larking with him. he declared that he would take no notice of the message, that he was not such an ass to be duped by it. finally, he proposed to telegraph to little-flower-of-the-wood, inquiring if it was genuine. "monsieur, as an editor, will have observed that a woman who is incapable in the daily affairs of life, may reveal astounding force in an emergency? it was so in this case. madame put her foot down; she showed unsuspected commercial aptitude. she firmly forbade dupont to do anything of the sort! "'what?' she exclaimed. 'you will telegraph to her, inquiring? never in this life! you might as well advise her frankly not to come. what would such a question mean? that you do not think the place is good enough for her! well, if _you_ do not think so, neither will _she_-- she will decide that she had a foolish impulse and stay away! "'mon dieu! do you dream that a woman accustomed to the café de paris would choose to sup in an obscure little restaurant like ours?' said dupont, fuming. 'do you dream that i am going to buy partridges, and peaches, and wines, and heaven knows what other delicacies, in the dark? do you dream that i am going to ruin myself while every instinct in me protests? it would be the act of a madman!' "'my little cabbage,' returned madame, 'we are so near to ruin as we are, that a step nearer is of small importance. if little-flower-of- the-wood should come, it might be the turning-point in our fortunes-- people would hear of it, the bon vieux temps might become renowned. yes, we shall buy partridges, and peaches--and bonbons, and flowers also, and we shall hire a piano! and if our good angel should indeed send her to us, i swear she shall pass as pleasant an evening as if she had gone to maxim's or the abbaye! "bien! she convinced him. for the rest of the day the place was in a state of frenzy. never before had such a repast been seen in its kitchen, never before had he cooked with such loving care, even when he had been preparing a dinner of ceremony on the boulevard haussmann. madame herself ran out to arrange for the piano. the floor was swept. the waiter was put into a clean shirt. dupont shed tears of excitement in his saucepans. "he served the two-franc dinner that evening with eyes that watched nothing but the clock. all his consciousness now was absorbed by the question whether the dancer would come or not. the dinner passed somehow--it is to be assumed that the customers grumbled, but in his suspense dupont regarded them with indifference. the hours crept by. it was a quarter to twelve--twelve o'clock. he trembled behind the counter as if with ague. now it was time that she was here! his face was blanched, his teeth chattered in his head. what if he had been hoaxed after all? half-past twelve! the sweat ran down him. terror gripped his heart. a vision of all the partridges wasted convulsed his soul. hark! a carriage stopped. he tottered forward. the door opened-- she had come! "women are strange. little-flower-of-the-wood, who yawned her pretty head off at armenonville, was enraptured with the bon vieux temps. the rest of the party took their tone from her, and everything was pronounced 'fun,' the coarse linen, the dirty ceiling, the admiring stares of the bock-drinkers. the lady herself declared that she had 'never enjoyed a supper so much in her life,' and the waiter--it was not adolphe then--was dumfounded by a louis tip. "figure yourself the exultation of madame! 'ah,' she chuckled, when they shut up shop at sunrise, 'what did i tell you, my little cabbage?' monsieur, as an editor, will have observed that a woman who reveals astounding force in an emergency may triumph pettily when the emergency is over? "'it remains to be seen whether they will come any more, however,' said dupont. 'let us go to bed. mon dieu, how sleepy i am!' it was the first occasion that the bon vieux temps had been open after two o'clock in the morning. "it was the first occasion, and for some days they feared it might be the last. but no, the dancer came again! a few eccentrics who came with her flattered themselves on having made a 'discovery.' they boasted of it. gradually the name of the bon vieux temps became known. by the time that little-flower-of-the-wood had had enough, there was a supper clientèle without her. folly is infectious, and in paris there are always people catching a fresh craze. dupont began to put up his prices, and levied a charge on the waiter for the privilege of waiting at supper. the rest of the history is more grave ... _comment_, monsieur? since you insist--again an absinthe!" janiaud paused, and ran his dirty fingers through his hair. "this man can talk!" said the editor, in an undertone. "gentlemen," resumed the poet, "two years passed. little-flower-of-the- wood was on the italian riviera. the italian riviera was awake again after the heat of the summer--the little town that had dozed for many months began to stir. almost every day now she saw new faces on the promenade; the sky was gentler, the sea was fairer. and she sat loathing it all, craving to escape from it to the bleak streets of paris. "two winters before, she had been told, 'your lungs will stand no more of the pranks you have been playing. you must go south, and keep early hours, or--' the shrug said the rest. and she had sold some of her diamonds and obeyed. of course, it was an awful nuisance, but she must put up with it for a winter in order to get well. as soon as she was well, she would go back, and take another engagement. she had promised herself to be dancing again by may. "but when may had come, she was no better. and travelling was expensive, and all places were alike to her since she was forbidden to return to paris. she, had disposed of more jewellery, and looked forward to the autumn. and in the autumn she had looked forward to the spring. so it had gone on. "at first, while letters came to her sometimes, telling her how she was missed, the banishment had been alleviated; later, in her loneliness, it had grown frightful. monsieur, her soul--that little soul that pleasure had held dumb--cried out, under misfortune, like a homeless child for its mother. her longing took her by the throat, and the doctor had difficulty in dissuading her from going to meet death by the first train. she did not suspect that she was doomed in any case; he thought it kinder to deceive her. he had preached 'patience, mademoiselle, a little patience!' and she had wrung her hands, but yielded--sustained by the hope of a future that she was never to know. "by this time the last of her jewels was sold, and most of the money had been spent. the fact alarmed her when she dwelt upon it, but she did not dwell upon it very often--in the career of little-flower-of- the-wood, so many financial crises had been righted at the last moment. no, although there was nobody now to whom she could turn for help, it was not anxiety that bowed her; the thoughts by which she was stricken, as she sauntered feebly on the eternal promenade, were that in paris they no longer talked of her, and that her prettiness had passed away. she was forgotten, ugly! the tragedy of her exile was that. "now it was that she found out the truth--she learnt that there was no chance of her recovering. she made no reproaches for the lies that had been told her; she recognized that they had been well meant. all she said was, 'i am glad that it is not too late; i may see paris still before the curtain tumbles--i shall go at once.' "not many months of life remained to her, but they were more numerous than her louis. it was an unfamiliar paris that she returned to! she had quitted the paris of the frivolous and fêted; she came back to the paris of the outcast poor. the world that she had remembered gave her no welcome--she peered through its shut windows, friendless in the streets. "gentlemen, last night all the customers had gone from the little café du bon vieux temps but a woman in a shabby opera-cloak--a woman with tragic eyes, and half a lung. she sat fingering her glass of beer absently, though the clock over the desk pointed to a quarter to midnight, and at midnight beer-drinkers are no longer desired in the bon vieux temps. but she was a stranger; it was concluded that she didn't know. "adolphe approached to enlighten her; 'madame wishes to order supper?' he asked. "the stranger shook her head. "'madame will have champagne?' "'don't bother me!' said the woman. "adolphe nodded toward the bock contemptuously. 'after midnight, only champagne is served here,' he said; 'it is the rule of the house,' "'a fig for the rule!' scoffed the woman; 'i am going to stop.' "adolphe retired and sought the _patron_, and dupont advanced to her with dignity. "'madame is plainly ignorant of our arrangements,' he began; 'at twelve o'clock one cannot remain here for the cost of a bock--the restaurant becomes very gay,' "'so i believe,' she said; 'i want to see the gaiety,' "'it also becomes expensive. i will explain. during the evening we serve a dinner at two francs for our clients in the neighbourhood--and until twelve o'clock one may order bocks, or what one wishes, at strictly moderate prices. but at twelve o'clock there is a change; we have quite a different class of trade. the world that amuses itself arrives here to sup and to dance. as a supper-house, the bori vieux temps is known to all paris.' "'one lives and learns!' said the woman, ironically; 'but i--know more about the bon vieux temps than you seem to think. i can tell you the history of its success.' "'madame?' dupont regarded her with haughty eyes. "'three years ago, monsieur, there was no "different class of trade" at twelve o'clock, and no champagne. the dinners at two francs for your clients in the neighbourhood were all that you aspired to. you did the cooking yourself in those days, and you did not sport a white waistcoat and a gold watch-chain.' "'these things have nothing to do with it. you will comply with the rule, or you must go. all is said!' "'one night little-flower-of-the- wood had a whim to sup here,' continued the woman as if he had not spoken. 'she had passed the place in her carriage and fancied its name, or its flowerpot--or she wanted to do something new. anyhow, she had the whim! i see you have the telephone behind the desk, monsieur--your little restaurant was not on the telephone when she wished to reserve a table that night; she had to reserve it by a messenger.' "'well, well?' said dupont, impatiently. "'but you were a shrewd man; you saw your luck and leapt at it--and when she entered with her party, you received her like a queen. you had even hired a piano, you said, in case little-flower-of-the-wood might wish to play. i notice that a piano is in the corner now--no doubt you soon saved the money to buy one.' "'how do you know all this, you?' dupont's gaze was curious. "'her freak pleased her, and she came again and again--and others came, just to see her here. then you recognized that your clients from the neighbourhood were out of place among the spendthrifts, who yielded more profit in a night than all the two-franc dinners in a month; you said, "at twelve o'clock there shall be no more bocks, only champagne!" i had made your restaurant famous--and you introduced the great rule that you now command me to obey.' "'you? you are little-flower-of-the-wood?' "'yes, it was i who did it for you,' she said quietly. 'and the restaurant flourished after little-flower-of-the-wood had faded. well, to-night i want to spend an hour here again, for the sake of what i used to be. time brings changes, you understand, and i cannot conform with the great rule.' she opened the opera-cloak, trembling, and he saw that beneath it little-flower-of-the-wood was in rags. "'i am very poor and ill,' she went on. 'i have been away in the south for more than two years; they told me i ought to stop there, but i had to see paris once more! what does it matter? i shall finish here a little sooner, that is all. i lodge close by, in a garret. the garret is very dirty, but i hear the muisc from the bal tabarin across the way. i like that--i persuade myself i am living the happy life i used to have. when i am tossing sleepless, i hear the noise and laughter of the crowd coming out, and blow kisses to them in the dark. you see, although one is forgotten, one cannot forget. i pray that their laughter will come up to me right at the end, before i die.' "'you cannot afford to enter tabarin's?' faltered dupont; 'you are so stony as that?' "'so stony as that!' she said. 'and i repeat that to-night i want to pass an hour in the midst of the life i loved. monsieur, remember how you came to make your rule! break it for me once! let me stay here to-night for a bock!' "dupont is a restaurateur, but he is also a man. he took both her hands, and the waiters were astonished to perceive that the _patron_ was crying. "'my child,' he stammered, 'you will sup here as my guest.' "adolphe set before her champagne that she sipped feverishly, and a supper that she was too ill to eat. and cabs came rattling from the boulevard with boisterous men and women who no longer recalled her name--and with other 'little-flowers-of-the-wood,' who had sprung up since her day. "the woman who used to reign there sat among them looking back, until the last jest was bandied, and the last bottle was drained. then she bade her host 'good-bye,' and crawled home--to the garret where she 'heard the music of the ball'; the garret where she 'prayed that the laughter would come up to her right at the end, before she died.'" janiaud finished the absinthe, and lurched to his feet. "that's all." "great scott," said the editor, "i wish he could write in english! but --but it's very pitiable, she may starve there; something ought to be done.... can you tell us where she is living, monsieur?" the poet shrugged his shoulders. "is there no satisfying you? you asked me for the history of the bon vieux temps, and there are things that even i do not know. however, i have done my best. i cannot say where the lady is living, but i can tell you where she was born." he pointed, with a drunken laugh, to his glass: "there!" a miracle in montmartre lajeunie, the luckless novelist, went to pitou, the unrecognized composer, saying, "i have a superb scenario for a revue. let us join forces! i promise you we shall make a fortune; we shall exchange our attics for first floors of fashion, and be wealthy enough to wear sable overcoats and panama hats at the same time." in ordinary circumstances, of course, pitou would have collaborated only with tricotrin, but tricotrin was just then engrossed by a tragedy in blank verse and seven acts, and he said to them, "make a fortune together by all means, my comrades; i should be unreasonable if i raised objections to having rich friends." accordingly the pair worked like heroes of biography, and, after vicissitudes innumerable, _patatras_ was practically accepted at la coupole. the manager even hinted that fifi blondette might be seen in the leading part. la coupole, and blondette! pitou and lajeunie could scarcely credit their ears. to be sure, she was no actress, and her voice was rather unpleasant, and she would probably want everything rewritten fifteen times before it satisfied her; but she was a beautiful woman and all paris paid to look at her when she graced a stage; and she had just ruined prince czernowitz, which gave her name an additional value. "upon my word," gasped pitou, "our luck seems as incredible, my dear lajeunie, as the plot of any of your novels! come and have a drink!" "i feel like rodolphe at the end of _la vie de bohème_," he confided to tricotrin in their garret one winter's night, as they went supper-less to their beds. "now that the days of privation are past, i recall them with something like regret. the shock of the laundress's totals, the meagre dinners at the bel avenir, these things have a fascination now that i part from them. i do not wish to sound ungrateful, but i cannot help wondering if my millions will impair the taste of life to me." "to me they will make it taste much better," said tricotrin, "for i shall have somebody to borrow money from, and i shall get enough blankets. _brrr_! how cold i am! besides, you need not lose touch with montmartre because you are celebrated--you can invite us all to your magnificent abode. also, you can dine at the bel avenir still, if sentiment pulls you that way." "i shall certainly dine there," averred pitou. "and i shall buy a house for my parents, with a peacock and some deer on the lawn. at the same time, a triumph is not without its pathos. i see my return to the bel avenir, the old affections in my heart, the old greetings on my lips-- and i see the fellows constrained and formal in my presence. i see madame apologising for the cuisine, instead of reminding me that my credit is exhausted, and the waiter polishing my glass, instead of indicating the cheapest item on the menu. such changes hurt!" he was much moved. "a fortune is not everything," he sighed, forgetting that his pockets were as empty as his stomach. "poverty yielded joys which i no longer know." the poet embraced him with emotion. "i rejoice to find that fame has not spoilt your nature," he cried; and he, too, forgot the empty pockets, and that the contract from la coupole had yet to come. "yes, we had hard times together, you and i, and i am still a nobody, but we shall be chums as long as we live. i feel that you can unbosom yourself to me, the poor bohemian, more freely than to any immortal with whom you hobnob in scenes of splendour." "oh indeed, indeed!" assented pitou, weeping. "you are as dear to me now as in the days of our struggles; i should curse my affluence if it made you doubt that! good-night, my brother; god bless you." he lay between the ragged sheets; and half an hour crept by. "gustave!" "well?" said tricotrin, looking towards the other bed. "not asleep yet?" "i cannot sleep--hunger is gnawing at me." "ah, what a relentless realist is this hunger," complained the poet, "how it destroys one's illusions!" "is there nothing to eat in the cupboard?" "not a crumb--i am ravenous myself. but i recall a broken cigarette in my waistcoat pocket; let us cut it in halves!" they strove, shivering, to appease their pangs by slow whiffs of a caporal, and while they supped in this unsatisfactory fashion, there came an impetuous knocking at the street door. "it must be that la coupole has sent you a sack of gold to go on with!" tricotrin opined. "put your head out and see." "it is lajeunie," announced the composer, withdrawing from the window with chattering teeth. "what the devil can he want? i suppose i must go down and let him in." "perhaps we can get some more cigarettes from him," said tricotrin; "it might have been worse." but when the novelist appeared, the first thing he stammered was, "give me a cigarette, one of you fellows, or i shall die!" "well, then, dictate your last wishes to us!" returned pitou. "do you come here under the impression that the house is a tobacconist's? what is the matter with you, what is up?" "for three hours," snuffled lajeunie, who looked half frozen and kept shuddering violently, "for three hours i have been pacing the streets, questioning whether i should break the news to you to-night or not. in one moment i told myself that it would be better to withhold it till the morning; in the next i felt that you had a right to hear it without delay. hour after hour, in the snow, i turned the matter over in my mind, and--" "mon dieu!" exclaimed pitou, "is this an interminable serial at so much a column? come to the point!" lajeunie beat his breast. "i am distracted," he faltered, "i am no longer master of myself. listen! it occurred to me this evening that i might do worse than pay a visit to la coupole and inquire if a date was fixed yet for the rehearsals to begin. well, i went! for a long time i could obtain no interview, i could obtain no appointment--the messenger came back with evasive answers. i am naturally quick at smelling a rat --i have the detective's instinct--and i felt that there was something wrong. my heart began to fail me." "for mercy's sake," groaned his unhappy collaborator, "explode the bomb and bury my fragments! enough of these literary introductions. did you see the manager, or didn't you?" "i did see the miscreant, the bandit-king, i saw him in the street. for i was not to be put off--i waited till he came out. well, my friend, to compress the tragedy into one act, our hope is shattered-- _patatras_ is again refused!" "oh, heavens!" moaned pitou, and fell back upon the mattress as white as death. "what explanation did he make?" cried tricotrin; "what is the reason?" "the reason is that blondette is an imbecile--she finds the part 'unworthy of her talents.' a part on which i have lavished all the wealth of my invention--she finds it beneath her, she said she would 'break her contract rather than play it.' well, blondette is the trump-card of his season--he would throw over the whole of the academy sooner than lose blondette. since she objects to figuring in _patatras, patatras_ is waste-paper to him. alas! who would be an author? i would rather shovel coke, or cut corns for a living. he himself admitted that there was no fault to find with the revue, but, 'you know well, monsieur, that we must humour blondette!' i asked him if he would try to bring her to her senses, but it seems that there have been a dozen discussions already--he is sick of the subject. now it is settled--our manuscript will be banged back at us and we may rip!" "oh, my mother!" moaned pitou. "oh, the peacock and the deer!" "what's that you say?" asked lajeunie. "are you positive that you haven't got a cigarette anywhere?" "i am positive that i have nothing," proclaimed pitou vehemently, "nothing in life but a broken heart! oh, you did quite right to come to me, but now leave me--leave me to perish. i have no words, i am stricken. the next time you see me it will be in the morgue. mon dieu, that beautiful wretch, that creature without conscience, or a note in her voice--by a shrug of her elegant shoulders she condemns me to the seine!" "ah, do not give way!" exclaimed tricotrin, leaping out of bed. "courage, my poor fellow, courage! are there not other managers in paris?" "there are--and _patatras_ has been refused by them. la coupole was our last chance, and it has collapsed. we have no more to expect-- it is all over. is it not so, lajeunie?" "all over," sobbed lajeunie, bowing his head on the washhand-stand. "_patatras_ is dead!" then for some seconds the only sound to be heard in the attic was the laboured breathing of the three young men's despair. at last tricotrin, drawing himself upright in his tattered nightshirt, said, with a gesture of dignity, "well, the case may justify me--in the present situation it appears to me that i have the right to use my influence with blondette!" a signal from mars could not have caused a more profound sensation. pitou and lajeunie regarded him with open mouths. "your influence?" echoed pitou: "your influence? i was not aware that you had ever met her." "no," rejoined the poet darkly; "i have not met her. but there are circumstances in my life which entitle me to demand a service of this triumphant woman. do not question me, my friends--what i shall say to her must remain a secret even from you. i declare, however, that nobody has a stronger claim on her than gustave tricotrin, the poor penny-a- liner whom she does not know!" the sudden intervention--to say nothing of its literary flavour--so excited the collaborators that they nearly wrung his hands off: and lajeunie, who recognised a promising beginning for another serial, was athirst for further hints. "she has perhaps committed a murder, that fair fiend?" he inquired rapturously. "perhaps," replied tricotrin. "in that case she dare refuse you nothing." "why not, since i have never heard of it?" "i was only jesting," said the novelist. "in sober earnest, i conjecture that you are married to her, like athos to miladi. as you stand there, with that grave air, you strongly resemble athos." "nevertheless, athos did not marry a woman to whom he had not spoken, and i repeat that i have never spoken to blondette in my life." "well," said lajeunie, "i have too much respect for your wishes to show any curiosity. besides, by an expert the mystery is to be divined-- before the story opens, you rendered her some silent aid, and your name will remind her of a great heroism?" "i have never rendered her any aid at all," demurred tricotrin, "and there is not the slightest reason to suppose that she has ever heard my name. but again, i have an incontestable right to demand a service of her, and for the sake of the affection i bear you both, i shall go and do it." "when tricotrin thinks that he is living in _the three musketeers_ it is useless to try to pump him," said pitou; "let us content ourselves with what we are told! is it not enough? our fate is in blondette's hands, and he is in a position to ask a favour of her. what more can we want?" but he could not resist putting a question on his own account after lajeunie had skipped downstairs. "gustave, why did you never mention to me that you knew blondette?" "morbleu! how often must i say that i do _not_ know her?" "well--how shall i express it?--that some episode in your career gave you a claim on her consideration?" "because, by doing so, i should have both violated a confidence, and re-opened a wound which still burns," said tricotrin, more like athos than ever. "only the urgency of your need, my comrade, could induce me to take the course that i project. now let me sleep, for to-morrow i must have all my wits!" it was, however, five o'clock already, and before either of them had slept long, the street was clattering with feet on their way to the laundries, and vendors of delicacies were bawling suggestions for appetising breakfasts. "not only do the shouts of these monsters disturb my slumber, but they taunt my starvation!" yawned the poet. "yet, now i come to think of it, i have an appointment with a man who has sworn to lend me a franc, so perhaps i had better get up before he is likely to have spent it. i shall call upon blondette in the afternoon, when she returns from her drive. what is your own programme?" "my first attempt will be at a crèmerie in the rue st. rustique, where i am inclined to think i may get credit for milk and a roll if i swagger." "capital," said tricotrin; "things are looking up with us both! and if i raise the franc, there will be ten sous for you to squander on a recherché luncheon. meet me in the place dancourt in an hour's time. so long!" never had mademoiselle blondette looked more captivating than when her carriage brought her back that day. she wore--but why particularise? suffice it, that she had just been photographed. as she stepped to the pavement she was surprised by the obeisance of a shabby young man, who said in courtly tones, "mademoiselle, may i beg the honour of an interview? i came from la coupole." having bestowed a glance of annoyance on him, she invited him to ascend the stairs, and a minute later tricotrin was privileged to watch her take off her hat before the mirror. "well?" she inquired, "what's the trouble there now; what do they want?" "so far as i know, mademoiselle," returned the intruder deferentially, "they want nothing but your beauty and your genius; but i myself want infinitely more--i want your attention and your pity. let me explain without delay that i do not represent the management, and that when i said i came from la coupole i should have added that i did not come from the interior." "Ça, par exemple!" she said sharply. "who are you, then?" "i am tricotrin, mademoiselle--gustave tricotrin, at your feet. i have two comrades, the parents of _patatras_; you have refused to play in it, and i fear they will destroy themselves. i come to beg you to save their lives." "monsieur," exclaimed the lady, and her eyes were brilliant with temper, "all that i have to say about _patatras_ i have said! the part gave me the hump." "and yet," continued the suppliant firmly, "i hope to induce you to accept it. i am an author myself, and i assure you that it teems with opportunities that you may have overlooked in a casual reading." "it is stupid!" "as you would play it, i predict that it would make an epoch." "and the music is no good." "if i may venture to differ from you, the music is haunting--the composer is my lifelong friend." "i appreciate the argument," she said, with fine irony. "but you will scarcely expect me to play a part that i don't like in order to please you!" "frankly, that is just what i do expect," replied the poet. "i think you will consent for my sake." "oh, really? for _your_ sake? would you mind mentioning why, before you go?" "because, mademoiselle," said tricotrin, folding his arms, "in years gone by, you ruined me!" "mon dieu!" she gasped, and she did not doubt that she was in the presence of a lunatic. "do not rush to the bell!" he begged. "if it will allay your panic, i will open the door and address you from the landing. i am not insane, i solemnly assert that i am one of the men who have had the honour of being ruined by you." "i have never seen you in my life before!" "i know it. i even admit that i attach no blame to you in the matter. nevertheless, you cost me two thousand five hundred and forty-three francs, and--as you may judge by my costume--i do not own the crédit lyonnais. if you will deign to hear my story, i guarantee that it will convince you. do you permit me to proceed?" the beauty nodded wonderingly, and the shabby young man continued in the following words: "as i have said, i am an author; i shall 'live' by my poetry, but i exist by my prose--in fact, i turn my pen to whatever promises a dinner, be it a sonnet to the spring, or a testimonial to a hair restorer. one summer, when dinners had been even more elusive than usual, i conceived the idea of calling attention to my talents by means of an advertisement. in reply, i received a note bidding me be on the third step of the madeleine at four o'clock the following day, and my correspondent proved to be a gentleman whose elegant apparel proclaimed him a parisian of the boulevard. "'you are monsieur gustave tricotrin?' he inquired. "'i have that misfortune, monsieur,' said i. we adjourned to a café, and after a preliminary chat, from which he deduced that i was a person of discretion, he made me a proposal. "he said, 'monsieur tricotrin, it is evident that you and i were designed to improve each other's condition; _your_ dilemma is that, being unknown, you cannot dispose of your stories--_mine_ is that, being known so well, i am asked for more stories than i can possibly write, i suggest that you shall write some for me. _i_ will sign them, they will be paid for in accordance with my usual terms, and you shall receive a generous share of the swag. i need not impress upon you that i am speaking in the strictest confidence, and that you must never breathe a word about our partnership, even to the wife of your bosom.' "'monsieur,' i returned, 'i have no wife to breathe to, and my bosom is unsurpassed as a receptacle for secrets,' "'good,' he said. 'well, without beating about the bush, i will tell you who i am.' he then uttered a name that made me jump, and before we parted it was arranged that i should supply him with a tale immediately as a specimen of my abilities. "this tale, which i accomplished the same evening, pleased him so well that he forthwith gave me an order for two more. i can create a plot almost as rapidly as a debt, and before long i had delivered manuscripts to him in such wholesale quantities that if i had been paid cash for them, i should have been in a position to paint the butte the richest shade of red. it was his custom, however, to make excuses and payments on account, and as we were capital friends by now, i never demurred. "well, things went on in this fashion until one day he hinted to me that i had provided him with enough manuscripts to last him for two years; his study was lumbered with evidence of my talent, and his market, after all, was not unlimited. he owed me then close upon three thousand francs, and it was agreed that he should wipe the debt out by weekly instalments. enfin, i was content enough--i foresaw an ample income for two years to come, and renewed leisure to win immortality by my epics. i trust that my narrative does not fatigue you, mademoiselle?" "what has it all to do with me, however?" asked the lady. "you shall hear. though the heroine comes on late, she brings the house down when she enters. for a few weeks my patron fulfilled his compact with tolerable punctuality, but i never failed to notice when we met that he was a prey to some terrible grief. at last, when he had reduced the sum to two thousand five hundred and forty-three francs--the figures will be found graven on my heart--he confided in me, he made me a strange request; he exclaimed: "'tricotrin, i am the most miserable of men!' "'poor fellow!' i responded. 'it is, of course, a woman?' "'precisely,' he answered. 'i adore her. her beauty is incomparable, her fascinations are unparalleled, her intelligence is unique. she has only one blemish--she is mercenary.' "'after all, perfection would be tedious,' i said. "'you are a man of sensibility, you understand!' he cried. 'her tastes have been a considerable strain on my resources, and in consequence my affairs have become involved. now that i am in difficulties, she is giving me the chuck. i have implored and besought, i have worn myself out in appeals, but her firmness is as striking as her other gifts. there remains only one chance for me--a letter so impassioned that it shall awake her pity. _i_, as i tell you, am exhausted; i can no longer plead, no longer phrase, i am a wreck! will you, as a friend, as a poet, compose such a letter and give it to me to copy?' "could i hesitate? i drove my pen for him till daybreak. all the yearnings of my own nature, all the romance of my fiery youth, i poured out in this appeal to a siren whom i had never seen, and whose name i did not know. i was distraught, pathetic, humorous, and sublime by turns. subtle gleams of wit flashed artistically across the lurid landscape of despair. i reminded her of scenes of happiness--vaguely, because i had no details to elaborate; the reminiscences, however, were so touching that i came near to believing in them. mindful of her solitary blemish, i referred to 'embarrassments now almost at an end'; and so profoundly did i affect myself, that while i wrote that i was weeping, it was really true. well, when i saw the gentleman again he embraced me like a brother. 'your letter was a masterpiece,' he told me; 'it has done the trick!' "mademoiselle, i do not wish to say who he was, and as you have known many celebrities, and had many love-letters, you may not guess. but the woman was you! and if i had been a better business man, i should have written less movingly, for i recognised, even during my inspiration, that it was against my interests to reunite him to you. i was an artist; i thrilled your heart, i restored you to his arms--and you had the two thousand five hundred and forty-three francs that would otherwise have come to me! never could i extract another sou from him!" as tricotrin concluded his painful history, mademoiselle blondette seemed so much amused that he feared she had entirely missed its pathos. but his misgiving was relieved when she spoke. "it seems to me i have been expensive to you, monsieur," she said; "and you have certainly had nothing for your money. since this revue--which i own that i have merely glanced at--is the apple of your eye, i promise to read it with more attention." * * * * * a month later _patatras_ was produced at la coupole after all, and no one applauded its performance more enthusiastically than the poet, who subsequently went to supper arm-in-arm with its creators. "mon vieux," said the elated pair, "we will not ask again by what means you accomplished this miracle, but let it teach you a lesson! tonight's experience proves that nothing is beyond your power if you resolve to succeed!" "it proves," replied tricotrin, "that blondette's first impression was correct, for, between ourselves, my children, _patatras_ is no shakes." nevertheless, lajeunie and pitou wore laurels in montmartre; and one is happy to say that their fees raised the young collaborators from privation to prosperity--thanks to blondette's attractions--for nearly three weeks. the danger of being a twin my confessions must begin when i was four years old and recovering from swollen glands. as i grew well, my twin-brother, grégoire, who was some minutes younger, was put to bed with the same complaint. "what a misfortune," exclaimed our mother, "that silvestre is no sooner convalescent than grégoire falls ill!" the doctor answered: "it astonishes me, madame lapalme, that you were not prepared for it--since the children are twins, the thing was to be foreseen; when the elder throws the malady off, the younger naturally contracts it. among twins it is nearly always so." and it always proved to be so with grégoire and me. no sooner did i throw off whooping-cough than grégoire began to whoop, though i was at home at vernon and he was staying with our grandmother at tours. if i had to be taken to a dentist, grégoire would soon afterwards be howling with toothache; as often as i indulged in the pleasures of the table grégoire had a bilious attack. the influence i exercised upon him was so remarkable that once when my bicycle ran away with me and broke my arm, our mother consulted three medical men as to whether grégoire's bicycle was bound to run away with him too. indeed, my brother was distinctly apprehensive of it himself. of course, the medical men explained that he was susceptible to any abnormal physical or mental condition of mine, not to the vagaries of my bicycle. "as an example, madame, if the elder of two twins were killed in a railway accident, it would be no reason for thinking that an accident must befall a train by which the younger travelled. what sympathy can there be between locomotives? but if the elder were to die by his own hand, there is a strong probability that the younger would commit suicide also." however, i have not died by my own hand, so grégoire has had nothing to reproach me for on that score. as to other grounds--well, there is much to be said on both sides! to speak truly, that beautiful devotion for which twins are so celebrated in drama and romance has never existed between my brother and myself. nor was this my fault. i was of a highly sensitive disposition, and from my earliest years it was impressed upon me that grégoire regarded me in the light of a grievance, i could not help having illnesses, yet he would upbraid me for taking them. then, too, he was always our mother's favourite, and instead of there being caresses and condolence for me when i was indisposed, there was nothing but grief for the indisposition that i was about to cause grégoire. this wounded me. again at college. i shall not pretend that i was a bookworm, or that i shared grégoire's ambitions; on the contrary, the world beyond the walls looked such a jolly place to me that the mere sight of a classroom would sometimes fill me with abhorrence. but, mon dieu! if other fellows were wild occasionally, they accepted the penalties, and the affair was finished; on me rested a responsibility--my wildness was communicated to grégoire. scarcely had i resigned myself to dull routine again when grégoire, the industrious, would find himself unable to study a page, and commit freaks for which he rebuked me most sternly. i swear that my chief remembrance of my college days is grégoire addressing pompous homilies to me, in this fashion, when he was in disgrace with the authorities: "i ask you to remember, silvestre, that you have not only your own welfare to consider--you have mine! i am here to qualify myself for an earnest career. be good enough not to put obstacles in my path. your levity impels me to distractions which i condemn even while i yield to them. i perceive a weakness in your nature that fills me with misgivings for my future; if you do not learn to resist temptation, to what errors may i not be driven later on--to what outbreaks of frivolity will you not condemn me when we are men?" well, it is no part of my confession to whitewash myself his misgivings were realised! so far as i had any serious aspirations at all, i aspired to be a painter, and, after combating my family's objections, i entered an art school in paris. grégoire, on the other hand, was destined for the law. during the next few years we met infrequently, but that my brother continued to be affected by any unusual conditions of my body and mind i knew by his letters, which seldom failed to contain expostulations and entreaties. if he could have had his way, indeed, i believe he would have shut me in a monastery. upon my word, i was not without consideration for him, but what would you have? i think some sympathy was due to me also. regard the situation with my eyes! i was young, popular, an artist; my life was no more frivolous than the lives of others of my set; yet, in lieu of being free, like them, to call the tune and dance the measure, i was burdened with a heavier responsibility than weighs upon the shoulders of any paterfamilias. let me but drink a bottle too much, and grégoire, the grave, would subsequently manifest all the symptoms of intoxication. let me but lose my head about a petticoat, and grégoire, the righteous, would soon be running after a girl instead of attending to his work. i had a conscience--thoughts of the trouble that i was brewing for grégoire would come between me and the petticoat and rob it of its charms; his abominable susceptibility to my caprices marred half my pleasures for me. once when i sat distrait, bowed by such reflections, a woman exclaimed, "what's the matter with you? one would think you had a family!" "well," i said, "i have a twin!" and i went away. she was a pretty woman, too! do you suppose that maître lapalme--he was maître lapalme by then, this egregious grégoire--do you suppose that he wrote to bless me for my sacrifice? not at all! of my heroisms he knew nothing--he was conscious only of my lapses. to read his letters one would have imagined that i was a reprobate, a creature without honour or remorse. i quote from one of them--it is a specimen of them all. can you blame me if i had no love for this correspondent? my brother, the circumstances of our birth:-- your attention is directed to my preceding communications on this subject. i desire to protest against the revelry from which you recovered either on the th or th inst. on the afternoon of the latter date, while engaged in a conference of the first magnitude, i was seized with an overwhelming desire to dance a quadrille at a public ball. i found it impossible to concentrate my attention on the case concerning which i was consulted; i could no longer express myself with lucidity. outwardly sedate, reliable, i sat at my desk dizzied by such visions as pursued st. anthony to his cell. no sooner was i free than i fled from vernon, dined in paris, bought a false beard, and plunged wildly into the vortex of a dancing-hall. scoundrel! this is past pardon! my sensibilities revolt, and my prudence shudders. who shall say but that one night i may be recognised? who can foretell to what blackmail you may expose me? i, maitre lapalme, forbid your profligacies, which devolve upon me; i forbid--etc. such admissions my brother sent to me in a disguised hand, and unsigned; perhaps he feared that his blackmailer might prove to be myself! typewriting was not yet general in france. our mother still lived at vernon, where she contemplated her favourite son's success with the profoundest pride. occasionally i spent a few days with her; sometimes even more, for she always pressed me to remain. i think she pressed me to remain, not from any pleasure in my society, but because she knew that while i was at home i could commit no actions that would corrupt grégoire. one summer, when i visited her, i met mademoiselle leuillet. mademoiselle leuillet was the daughter of a widower, a neighbour. i remembered that when our servant first announced her, i thought, "what a nuisance; how bored i am going to be!" and then she came in, and in an instant i was spellbound. i am tempted to describe berthe leuillet to you as she entered our salon that afternoon in a white frock, with a basket of roses in her little hands, but i know very well that no description of a girl ever painted her to anybody yet. suffice it that she was beautiful as an angel, that her voice was like the music of the spheres--more than all, that one felt all the time, "how good she is, how good, how good!" i suppose the impression that she made upon me was plainly to be seen, for when she had gone, my mother remarked, "you did not say much. are you always so silent in girls' company?" "no," i answered; "i do not often meet such girls." but afterwards i often met berthe leuillet. never since i was a boy had i stayed at vernon for so long as now; never had i repented so bitterly as now the error of my ways. i loved, and it seemed to me sometimes that my attachment was reciprocated, yet my position forbade me to go to monsieur leuillet and ask boldly for his daughter's hand. while i had remained obscure, painters of my acquaintance, whose talent was no more remarkable than my own, had raised themselves from bohemia into prosperity. i abused myself, i acknowledged that i was an idler, a good-for-nothing, i declared that the punishment that had overtaken me was no more than i deserved. and then--well, then i owned to berthe that i loved her! deliberately, of course, i should not have done this before seeking her father's permission, but it happened in the hour of our "good-bye", and i was suffering too deeply to subdue the impulse. i owned that i loved her--and when i left for paris we were secretly engaged. mon dieu! now i worked indeed! to win this girl for my own, to show myself worthy of her innocent faith, supplied me with the most powerful incentive in life. in the quarter they regarded me first with ridicule, then with wonder, and, finally, with respect. for my enthusiasm did not fade. "he has turned over a new leaf," they said, "he means to be famous!" it was understood. no more excursions for silvestre, no more junketings and recklessness! in the morning as soon as the sky was light i was at my easel; in the evening i studied, i sketched, i wrote to berthe, and re-read her letters. i was another man--my ideal of happiness was now a wife and home. for a year i lived this new life. i progressed. men--men whose approval was a cachet--began to speak of me as one with a future. in the salon a picture of mine made something of a stir. how i rejoiced, how grateful and sanguine i was! all paris sang "berthe" to me; the criticisms in the papers, the felicitations of my friends, the praise of the public, all meant berthe--berthe with her arms about me, berthe on my breast. i said that it was not too soon for me to speak now; i had proved my mettle, and, though i foresaw that her father would ask more before he gave his consent, i was, at least, justified in avowing myself. i telegraphed to my mother to expect me; i packed my portmanteau with trembling hands, and threw myself into a cab. on the way to the station, i noticed the window of a florist; i bade the driver stop, and ran in to bear off some lilies for berthe. the shop was so full of wonderful flowers that, once among them, i found some difficulty in making my choice. hence i missed the train--and returned to my studio, incensed by the delay. a letter for me had just been delivered. it told me that on the previous morning berthe had married my brother. i could have welcomed a pistol-shot--my world rocked. berthe lost, false, gregoire's wife, i reiterated it, i said it over and over, i was stricken by it--and yet i could not realise that actually it had happened. it seemed too treacherous, too horrible to be true. oh, i made certain of it later, believe me!--i was no hero of a "great serial," to accept such intelligence without proof. i assured myself of her perfidy, and burnt her love-letters one by one; tore her photographs into shreds--strove also to tear her image from my heart. ah, that mocked me, that i could not tear! a year before i should have rushed to the cafés for forgetfulness, but now, as the shock subsided, i turned feverishly to work. i told myself that she had wrecked my peace, my faith in women, that i hated and despised her; but i swore that she should not have the triumph of wrecking my career, too. i said that my art still remained to me--that i would find oblivion in my art. brave words! but one does not recover from such blows so easily. for months i persisted, denying myself the smallest respite, clinging to a resolution which proved vainer daily. were art to be mastered by dogged endeavour, i should have conquered; but alas! though i could compel myself to paint, i could not compel myself to paint well. it was the perception of this fact that shattered me at last. i had fought temptation for half a year, worked with my teeth clenched, worked against nature, worked while my pulses beat and clamoured for the draughts of dissipation, which promised a speedier release. i had wooed art, not as art's lover, but as a tortured soul may turn to one woman in the desperate hope of subduing his passion for another--and art would yield nothing to a suitor who approached like that; i recognised that my work had been wasted, that the struggle had been useless--i broke down! i need say little of the months that followed--it would be a record of degradations, and remorse; alternately, i fell, and was ashamed. there were days when i never left the house, when i was repulsive to myself; i shuddered at the horrors that i had committed. no saint has loved virtue better than i did during those long, sick days of self-disgust; no man was ever more sure of defying such hideous temptations if they recurred. as my lassitude passed, i would take up my brushes and feel confident for an hour, or for a week. and then temptation would creep on me once more--humming in my ears, and tingling in my veins. and temptation had lost its loathsomeness now--it looked again attractive. it was a siren, it dizzied my conscience, and stupefied my common sense. back to the mire! one afternoon when i returned to my rooms, from which i had been absent since the previous day, i heard from the concierge that a visitor awaited me. i climbed the stairs without anticipation. my thoughts were sluggish, my limbs leaden, my eyes heavy and bloodshot. twilight had gathered, and as i entered i discerned merely the figure of a woman. then she advanced--and all hell seemed to leap flaring to my heart. my visitor was berthe. i think nearly a minute must have passed while we looked speechlessly in each other's face--hers convulsed by entreaty, mine dark with hate. "have you no word for me?" she whispered. "permit me to offer my congratulations on your marriage, madame," i said; "i have had no earlier opportunity." "forgive me," she gasped. "i have come to beseech your forgiveness! can you not forget the wrong i did you?" "do i look as if i had forgotten?" "i was inconstant, cruel, i cannot excuse myself. but, o silvestre, in the name of the love you once bore me, have pity on us! reform, abjure your evil courses! do not, i implore you, condemn my husband to this abyss of depravity, do not wreck my married life!" now i understood what had procured me the honour of a visit from this woman, and i triumphed devilishly that i was the elder twin. "madame," i answered, "i think that i owe you no explanations, but i shall say this: the evil courses that you deplore were adopted, not vindictively, but in the effort to numb the agony that you had made me suffer. you but reap as you have sown." "reform!" she sobbed. she sank on her knees before me. "silvestre, in mercy to us, reform!" "i will never reform," i said inflexibly. "i will grow more abandoned day by day--my past faults shall shine as merits compared with the atrocities that are to come. false girl, monster of selfishness, you are dragging me to the gutter, and your only grief is that _he_ must share my shame! you have blackened my soul, and you have no regret but that my iniquities must react on _him!_ by the shock that stunned him in the first flush of your honeymoon, you know what i experienced when i received the news of your deceit; by the anguish of repentance that overtakes him after each of his orgies, which revolt you, you know that i was capable of being a nobler man. the degradation that you behold is your own work. you have made me bad, and you must bear the consequences--you cannot make me good now to save your husband!" humbled and despairing, she left me. i repeat that it is no part of my confession to palliate my guilt. the sight of her had served merely to inflame my resentment--and it was at this stage that i began deliberately to contemplate revenge. but not the one that i had threatened. ah, no! i bethought myself of a vengeance more complete than that. what, after all, were these escapades of his that were followed by contrition, that saw him again and again a penitent at her feet? there should be no more of such trifles; she should be tortured with the torture that she had dealt to me--i would make him _adore another woman_ with all his heart and brain! it was difficult, for first i must adore, and tire of another woman myself--as my own passion faded, his would be born. i swore, however, that i would compass it, that i would worship some woman for a year-- two years, as long as possible. he would be at peace in the meantime, but the longer my enslavement lasted, the longer berthe would suffer when her punishment began. for some weeks now i worked again, to provide myself with money. i bought new clothes and made myself presentable. when my appearance accorded better with my plan, i paraded paris, seeking the woman to adore. you may think paris is full of adorable women? well, so contrary is human nature, that never had i felt such indifference towards the sex as during that tedious quest--never had a pair of brilliant eyes, or a well-turned neck appealed to me so little. after a month, my search seemed hopeless; i had viewed women by the thousand, but not one with whom i could persuade myself that i might fall violently in love. how true it is that only the unforeseen comes to pass! there was a model, one louise, whose fortune was her back, and who had long bored me by an evident tenderness. one day, this louise, usually so constrained in my presence, appeared in high spirits, and mentioned that she was going to be married. the change in her demeanour interested me; for the first time, i perceived that the attractions of louise were not limited to her back. a little piqued, i invited her to dine with me. if she had said "yes," doubtless that would have been the end of my interest; but she refused. before i parted from her, i made an appointment for her to sit to me the next morning. "so you are going to be married, louise?" i said carelessly, as i set the palette. "in truth!" she answered. "no regrets?" "what regrets could i have? he is a very pretty boy, and well-to-do, believe me!" "and _i_ am not a pretty boy, nor well-to-do, hein?" "ah, zut!" she laughed, "you do not care for me." "is it so?" i said. "what would you say if i told you that i did care?" "i should say that you told me too late, monsieur," she replied, with a shrug, "are you ready for me to pose?" and this changed woman turned her peerless back on me without a scruple. a little mortified, i attended strictly to business for the rest of the morning. but i found myself, on the following day, waiting for her with impatience. "and when is the event to take place?" i inquired, more eagerly than i chose to acknowledge. this was by no means the sort of enchantress that i had been seeking, you understand. "in the spring," she said. "look at the ring he has given to me, monsieur; is it not beautiful?" i remarked that louise's hands were very well shaped; and, indeed, happiness had brought a certain charm to her face. "do you know, louise, that i am sorry that you are going to marry?" i exclaimed. "oh, get out!" she laughed, pushing me away. "it is no good your talking nonsense to me now, don't flatter yourself!" pouchin, the sculptor, happened to come in at that moment. "sapristi!" he shouted; "what changes are to be seen! the nose of our brave silvestre is out of joint now that we are affianced, hein?" she joined in his laughter against me, and i picked up my brush again in a vile humour. well, as i have said, she was not the kind of woman that i had contemplated, but these things arrange themselves--i became seriously enamoured of her. and, recognising that fate works with her own instruments, i did not struggle. for months i was at louise's heels; i was the sport of her whims, and her slights, sometimes even of her insults. i actually made her an offer of marriage, at which she snapped her white fingers with a grimace--and the more she flouted me, the more fascinated i grew. in that rapturous hour when her insolent eyes softened to sentiment, when her mocking mouth melted to a kiss, i was in paradise. my ecstasy was so supreme that i forgot to triumph at my approaching vengeance. so i married louise; and yesterday was the twentieth anniversary of our wedding. berthe? to speak the truth, my plot against her was frustrated by an accident. you see, before i could communicate my passion to grégoire i had to recover from it, and--this invincible louise!--i have not recovered from it yet. there are days when she turns her remarkable back on me now--generally when i am idle--but, mon dieu! the moments when she turns her lips are worth working for. therefore, berthe has been all the time quite happy with the good grégoire--and, since i possess louise, upon my word of honour i do not mind! hercules and aphrodite mademoiselle clairette used to say that if a danseuse could not throw a glance to the conductor of the band without the juggler being jealous, the variety profession was coming to a pretty pass. she also remarked that for a girl to entrust her life's happiness to a jealous man would be an act of lunacy. and then "little flouflou, the juggling genius," who was dying to marry her, would suffer tortures. he tried hard to conquer his failing, but it must be owned that clairette's glances were very expressive, and that she distributed them indiscriminately. at chartres, one night, he was so upset that he missed the umbrella, and the cigar, and the hat one after another, and instead of condoling with him when he came off the stage, all she said was "butter-fingers!" "promise to be my wife," he would entreat: "it is not knowing where i am that gives me the pip. if you consented, i should be as right as rain--your word is better to me than any management's contract. i trust you--it is only myself that i doubt; every time you look at a man i wonder, 'am i up to that chap's mark? is my turn as clever as his? isn't it likely he will cut me out with her?' if you only belonged to me i should never be jealous again as long as i lived. straight!" and clairette would answer firmly, "poor boy, you couldn't help it--you are made like that. there'd be ructions every week; i should be for ever in hot water. i like you very much, flouflou, but i'm not going to play the giddy goat. chuck it!" nevertheless, he continued to worship her--from her tawdry tiara to her tinselled shoes--and everybody was sure that it would be a match one day. that is to say, everybody was sure of it until the strong man had joined the troupe. hercule was advertised as "the great paris star." holding himself very erect, he strutted, in his latticed foot-gear, with stiff little steps, and inflated lungs, to the footlights, and tore chains to pieces as easily as other persons tear bills. he lay down and supported a posse of mere mortals, and a van-load of "properties" on his chest, and regained his feet with a skip and a smirk. he--but his achievements are well known. preceding these feats of force, was a feature of his entertainment which hercule enjoyed inordinately. he stood on a pedestal and struck attitudes to show the splendour of his physique. wearing only a girdle of tiger-skin, and bathed in limelight, he felt himself to be as glorious as a god. the applause was a nightly intoxication to him. he lived for it. all day he looked forward to the moment when he could mount the pedestal again and make his biceps jump, and exhibit the magnificence of his highly developed back to hundreds of wondering eyes. no woman was ever vainer of her form than was hercule of his. no woman ever contemplated her charms more tenderly than hercule regarded his muscles. the latter half of his "turn" was fatiguing, but to posture in the limelight, while the audience stared open-mouthed and admired his nakedness, that was fine, it was dominion, it was bliss. hercule had never experienced a great passion--the passion of vanity excepted--never waited in the rain at a street corner for a coquette who did not come, nor sighed, like the juggler, under the window of a girl who flouted his declarations. he had but permitted homage to be rendered to him. so when he fell in love with clairette, he didn't know what to make of it. for clairette, sprightly as she was, did not encourage hercule. he at once attracted and repelled her. when he rent chains, and poised prodigious weights above his head, she thrilled at his prowess, but the next time he attitudinised in the tiger-skin she turned up her nose. she recognised something feminine in the giant. instinct told her that by disposition the strong man was less manly than little flouflou, whom he could have swung like an indian club. no, hercule didn't know what to make of it. it was a new and painful thing to find himself the victim instead of the conqueror. for once in his career, he hung about the wings wistfully, seeking a sign of approval. for once he displayed his majestic figure on the pedestal blankly conscious of being viewed by a woman whom he failed to impress. "what do you think of my turn?" he questioned at last. "oh, i have seen worse," was all she granted. the giant winced. "i am the strongest man in the world," he proclaimed. "i have never met a strong man who wasn't!" said she. "but there is someone stronger than i am," he owned humbly. (hercule humble!) "do you know what you have done to me, clairette? you have made a fool of me, my dear." "don't be so cheeky," she returned. "who gave you leave to call me 'clairette,' and 'my dear'? a little more politeness, if you please, monsieur!" and she cut the conversation short as unceremoniously as if he had been a super. those who have seen hercule only in his "act"--who think of him superb, supreme--may find it difficult to credit the statement, but, honestly, the great star used to trot at her heels like a poodle. and she was not a beauty by any means, with her impudent nose, and her mouth that was too big to defy criticism. perhaps it was her carriage that fascinated him, the grace of her slender figure, which he could have snapped as a child snaps jumbles. perhaps it was those eyes which unwittingly promised more than she gave. perhaps, above all, it was her indifference. yes, on consideration, it must have been her indifferent air, the novelty of being scorned, that made him a slave. but, of course, she was more flattered by his bondage than she showed. every night he planted himself in the prompt-entrance to watch her dance and clap his powerful hands in adulation. she could not be insensible to the compliment, though her smiles were oftenest for flouflou, who planted himself, adulating, on the opposite side. _adagio! allegretto! vivace!_ unperceived by the audience, the gaze of the two men would meet across the stage with misgiving. each feared the other's attentions to her, each wished with all his heart that the other would get the sack; they glared at each other horribly. and, meanwhile, the orchestra played its sweetest, and clairette pirouetted her best, and the public, approving the obvious, saw nothing of the intensity of the situation. imagine the emotions of the little juggler, jealous by temperament, jealous even without cause, now that he beheld a giant laying siege to her affections! and then, on a certain evening, clairette threw but two smiles to flouflou, and three to hercule. the truth is that she did not attach so much significance to the smiles as did the opponents who counted them. but that accident was momentous. the strong man made her a burning offer of marriage within half an hour; and next, the juggler made her furious reproaches. now she had rejected the strong man--and, coming when they did, the juggler's reproaches had a totally different effect from the one that he had intended. so far from exciting her sympathy towards him, they accentuated her compassion for hercule. how stricken he had been by her refusal! she could not help remembering his despair as he sat huddled on a hamper, a giant that she had crushed. flouflou was a thankless little pig, she reflected, for, as a matter of fact, he had had a good deal to do with her decision. she had deserved a better reward than to be abused by him! yes, her sentiments towards hercule were newly tender, and an event of the next night intensified them. it was hercule's custom, in every town that the constellation visited, to issue a challenge. he pledged himself to present a "purse of gold"--it contained a ten-franc piece-- to any eight men who vanquished him in a tug-of-war. the spectacle was always an immense success--the eight yokels straining, and tumbling over one another, while hercule, wearing a masterful smile, kept his ten francs intact. a tug-of-war had been arranged for the night following, and by every law of prudence, hercule should have abstained from the bottle during the day. but he did not. his misery sent discretion headlong to the winds. every time that he groaned for the danseuse he took another drink, and when the time came for him to go to the show, the giant was as drunk as a lord. the force of habit enabled him to fulfil some of his stereotyped performance, he emerged from that without disgrace; but when the eight brawny competitors lumbered on to the boards, his heart sank. the other artists winked at one another appreciatively, and the manager hopped with apprehension. sure enough, the hero's legs made strange trips to-night. the sixteen arms pulled him, not only over the chalk line, but all over the stage. they played havoc with him. and then the manager had to go on and make a speech, besides, because the "purse of gold" aroused dissatisfaction. the fiasco was hideous. "ah, clairette," moaned the strong man, pitifully, "it was all through you!" elsewhere a strong man had put forth that plea, and the other lady had been inexorable. but clairette faltered. "through me?" she murmured, with emotion. "i'm no boozer," muttered hercule, whom the disaster had sobered. "if i took too much today, it was because i had got such a hump." "but why be mashed on me, hercule?" she said; "why not think of me as a pal?" "you're talking silly," grunted hercule. "perhaps so," she confessed. "but i'm awfully sorry the turn went so rotten." "don't kid!" "why should i kid about it?" "if you really meant it, you would take back what you said yesterday." "oh!" the gesture was dismayed. "you see! what's the good of gassing? as soon as i ask anything of you, you dry up. bah! i daresay you will guy me just as much as all the rest, i know you!" "if you weren't in trouble, i'd give you a thick ear for that," she said. "you ungrateful brute!" she turned haughtily away, "clairette!" "oh, rats!" "don't get the needle! i'm off my rocker to-night." "ah! that's all right, cully!" her hand was swift. "i've been there myself." "clairette!" he caught her close. "here, what are you at?" she cried. "drop it!" "clairette! say 'yes.' i'm loony about you. there's a duck! i'll be a daisy of a husband. won't you?" "oh, i--i don't know," she stammered. and thus were they betrothed. to express what flouflou felt would be but to harrow the reader's sensibilities. what he said, rendered into english, was: "i'd rather you had given me the go-by for any cove in the crowd than that swine!" they were in the ladies' dressing-room. "the two bonbons" had not finished their duet, and he was alone with her for a moment. she was pinning a switch into her back hair, in front of the scrap of looking- glass against the mildewed wall. "you don't do yourself any good with me flouflou, by calling hercule names," she replied icily. "so he is!" "oh, you are jealous of him," she retorted. "of course i am jealous of him," owned flouflou; "you can't rile me by saying that. didn't i love you first? and a lump better than _he_ does." "now you're talking through your hat!" "you usedn't to take any truck of him, yourself, at the beginning. he only got round you because he was drunk and queered his business. i have been drunk, too--you didn't say you'd marry _me_. it's not in him to love any girl for long--he's too sweet on himself." "look here," she exclaimed. "i've had enough. hook it! and don't you speak to me any more. understand?" she put the hairpins aside, and began to whitewash her hands and arms. "that's the straight tip," said flouflou, brokenly; "i'm off. well, i wish you luck, old dear!" "running him down to me like that! a dirty trick, i call it." "i never meant to, straight; i--sorry, clairette." he lingered at the door. "i suppose i shall have to say 'madame' soon?" "footle," she murmured, moved. "you've not got your knife into me, have you, clairette? i didn't mean to be a beast. i'd have gone to hell for you, that's all, and i wish i was dead." "silly kid!" she faltered, blinking. and then "the two bonbons" came back to doff their costumes, and he was turned out. never had hercule been so puffed up. his knowledge of the juggler's sufferings made the victory more rapturous still. no longer did flouflou stand opposite-prompt to watch clairette's dance; no longer did he loiter about the passages after the curtain was down, on the chance of being permitted to escort her to her doorstep. such privileges were the strong man's alone. she was affianced to him! at the swelling thought, his chest became brobdingnagian. his bounce in company was now colossal; and it afforded the troupe a popular entertainment to see him drop to servility in her presence. her frown was sufficient to reduce him to a cringe. they called him the "quick- change artist." but hercule scarcely minded cringing to her; at all events he scarcely minded it in a tête-à-tête; she was unique. he would have run to her whistle, and fawned at her kick. she had agreed to marry him in a few weeks' time, and his head swam at the prospect. visions of the future dazzled him. when he saw her to her home after the performance, he used to talk of the joint engagements they would get by-and-by--"not in snide shows like this, but in first-class halls"--and of how tremendously happy they were going to be. and then clairette would stifle a sigh and say, "oh, yes, of course!" and try to persuade herself that she had no regrets. meanwhile the constellation had not been playing to such good business as the manager had anticipated. he had done a bold thing in obtaining hercule--who, if not so famous as the posters pretended, was at least a couple of rungs above the other humble mountebanks--and the box-office ought to have yielded better results. monsieur blond was anxious. he asked himself what the public wanted. simultaneously he pondered the idea of a further attraction, and perspired at the thought of further expense. at this time the "living statuary" turn was the latest craze in the variety halls of fashion, and one day poor blond, casting an expert eye on his danseuse, questioned why she should not be billed, a town or two ahead, as "aphrodite, the animated statue, direct from paris." to question was to act. the weather was mild, and, though clairette experienced pangs of modesty when she learnt that the statue's "costume" was to be applied with a sponge, she could not assert that she would be in danger of taking a chill. besides, her salary was to be raised a trifle. blond rehearsed her assiduously (madame blond in attendance), and, to his joy, she displayed a remarkable gift for adopting the poses, as "the bather" she promised to be entrancing, and, until she wobbled, her "nymph at the fountain" was a pure delight. moreover, thanks to her accomplishments as a dancer, she did not wobble very badly. all the same, when the date of her debut arrived, she was extremely nervous. elated by his inspiration. blond had for once been prodigal with the printing and on her way to the stage door, it seemed to her that the name of "aphrodite" flamed from every hoarding in the place. hercule met her with encouraging words, but the ordeal was not one that she wished to discuss with him, and he took leave of her very much afraid that she would break down. what was his astonishment to hear her greeted with salvos of applause! blond's enterprise had undoubtedly done the trick. the little hall rocked with enthusiasm, and, cloaked in a voluminous garment, "aphrodite" had to bow her acknowledgments again and again. when the time came for hercule's own postures, they fell, by comparison, quite flat. "ciel!" she babbled, on the homeward walk; "who would have supposed that i should go so strong? if i knock them like this next week too, i shall make blond spring a bit more!" she looked towards her lover for congratulations; so far he had been rather unsatisfactory. "oh, well," he mumbled, "it was a very good audience, you know, i never saw a more generous house--you can't expect to catch on like it anywhere else." his tone puzzled her. though she was quite alive to the weaknesses of her profession, she could not believe that her triumph could give umbrage to her fiancé. hercule, her adorer, to be annoyed because she had received more "hands" than _he_ had? oh, it was mean of her to fancy such a thing! but she was conscious that he had never wished her "pleasant dreams" so briefly as he did that night, and the strong man, on his side, was conscious of a strange depression. he could not shake it off. the next evening, too, he felt it. wherever he went, he heard praises of her proportions. the dancing girl had, in fact, proved to be beautifully formed, and it could not be disputed that "aphrodite" had wiped "hercules" out. her success was repeated in every town. morosely now did he make his biceps jump, and exhibit the splendours of his back-- his poses commanded no more than half the admiration evoked by hers. his muscles had been eclipsed by her graces. her body had outvied his own! oh, she was dear to him, but he was an "artiste"! there are trials that an artiste cannot bear. he hesitated to refer to the subject, but when he nursed her on his lap, he thought what a great fool the public was to prefer this ordinary woman to a marvellous man. he derived less rapture from nursing her. he eyed her critically. his devotion was cankered by resentment. and each evening the resentment deepened. and each evening it forced him to the wings against his will. he stood watching, though every burst of approval wrung his heart. soured, and sexless, he watched her. an intense jealousy of the slim nude figure posturing in the limelight took possession of him. it had robbed him of his plaudits! he grew to hate it, to loathe the white loveliness that had dethroned him. it was no longer the figure of a mistress that he viewed, but the figure of a rival. if he had dared, he would have hissed her. finally, he found it impossible to address her with civility. and clairette married flouflou, after all. "clairette," said flouflou on the day they were engaged, "if you don't chuck the statuary turn, i know that one night i shall massacre the audience! won't you give it up for me, peach?" "so you are beginning your ructions already?" laughed clairette, "i told you what a handful you would be. oh, well then, just as you like, old dear!--in this business a girl may meet with a worse kind of jealousy than yours." "pardon, you are mademoiselle girard!" a newsvendor passed along the terrace of the café d'harcourt bawling _la voix parisienne_. the frenchman at my table made a gesture of aversion. our eyes met; i said: "you do not like _la voix?_" he answered with intensity: "i loathe it." "what's its offence?" the wastrel frowned; he fiddled with his frayed and filthy collar. "you revive painful associations; you ask me for a humiliating story," he murmured--and regarded his empty glass. i can take a hint as well as most people. he prepared his poison reflectively, "i will tell you all," he said. one autumn the editor of _la voix_ announced to the assistant-editor: "i have a great idea for booming the paper." the assistant-editor gazed at him respectfully. "i propose to prove, in the public interest, the difficulty of tracing a missing person. i shall instruct a member of the staff to disappear. i shall publish his description, and his portrait; and i shall offer a prize to the first stranger who identifies him." the assistant-editor had tact and he did not reply that the idea had already been worked in london with a disappearing lady. he replied: "what an original scheme!" "it might be even more effective that the disappearing person should be a lady," added the chief, like one inspired. "that," cried the assistant-editor, "is the top brick of genius!" so the editor reviewed the brief list of his lady contributors, and sent for mademoiselle girard. his choice fell upon mademoiselle girard for two reasons. first, she was not facially remarkable--a smudgy portrait of her would look much like a smudgy portrait of anybody else. second, she was not widely known in paris, being at the beginning of her career; in fact she was so inexperienced that hitherto she had been entrusted only with criticism. however, the young woman had all her buttons on; and after he had talked to her, she said cheerfully: "without a chaperon i should be conspicuous, and without a fat purse i should be handicapped. so it is understood that i am to provide myself with a suitable companion, and to draw upon the office for expenses?" "mademoiselle," returned the editor, "the purpose of the paper is to portray a drama of life, not to emulate an opera bouffe. i shall explain more fully. please figure to yourself that you are a young girl in an unhappy home. let us suppose that a stepmother is at fault. you feel that you can submit to her oppression no longer--you resolve to be free, or to end your troubles in the seine. weeping, you pack your modest handbag; you cast a last, lingering look at the oil painting of your own dear mother who is with the angels in the drawing-room; that is to say, of your own dear mother in the drawing-room, who is with the angels. it still hangs there--your father has insisted on it. unheard, you steal from the house; the mysterious city of paris stretches before your friendless feet. can you engage a chaperon? can you draw upon an office for expenses? the idea is laughable. you have saved, at a liberal computation, forty francs; it is necessary for you to find employment without delay. but what happens? your father is distracted by your loss, the thought of the perils that beset you frenzies him; he invokes the aid of the police. well, the object of our experiment is to demonstrate that, in spite of an advertised reward, in spite of a published portrait, in spite of the public's zeal itself, you will be passed on the boulevards and in the slums by myriads of unsuspecting eyes for weeks." the girl inquired, much less blithely: "how long is this experiment to continue?" "it will continue until you are identified, of course. the longer the period, the more triumphant our demonstration." "and i am to have no more than forty francs to exist on all the time? monsieur, the job does not call to me." "you are young and you fail to grasp the value of your opportunity," said the editor, with paternal tolerance. "from such an assignment you will derive experiences that will be of the highest benefit to your future. rejoice, my child! very soon i shall give you final instructions." * * * * * the frenchman lifted his glass, which was again empty. "i trust my voice does not begin to grate upon you?" he asked solicitously. "much talking affects my uvula." i made a trite inquiry. he answered that, since i was so pressing, he would! "listen," he resumed, after a sip. * * * * * i am not in a position to say whether the young lady humoured the editor by rejoicing, but she obeyed him by going forth. her portrait was duly published, _la volx_ professed ignorance of her whereabouts from the moment that she left the rue louis-le-grand, and a prize of two thousand francs was to reward the first stranger who said to her, "pardon, you are mademoiselle girard!" in every issue the public were urged towards more strenuous efforts to discover her, and all paris bought the paper, with amusement, to learn if she was found yet. at the beginning of the week, misgivings were ingeniously hinted as to her fate. on the tenth day the editor printed a letter (which he had written himself), hotly condemning him for exposing a poor girl to danger. it was signed "an indignant parent," and teemed with the most stimulating suggestions. copies of _la voix_ were as prevalent as gingerbread pigs at a fair. when a fortnight had passed, the prize was increased to three thousand francs, and many young men resigned less promising occupations, such as authorship and the fine arts, in order to devote themselves exclusively to the search. personally, i had something else to do. i am an author, as you may have divined by the rhythm of my impromptu phrases, but it happened at that time that a play of mine had been accepted at the grand guignol, subject to an additional thrill being introduced, and i preferred pondering for a thrill in my garret to hunting for a pin in a haystack, enfin, i completed the drama to the management's satisfaction, and received a comely little cheque in payment. it was the first cheque that i had seen for years! i danced with joy, i paid for a shampoo, i committed no end of follies. how good is life when one is rich--immediately one joins the optimists! i feared the future no longer; i was hungry, and i let my appetite do as it liked with me. i lodged in montmartre, and it was my custom to eat at the unpretentious bel avenir, when i ate at all; but that morning my mood demanded something resplendent. rumours had reached me of a certain café eclatant, where for one-franc-fifty one might breakfast on five epicurean courses amid palms and plush. i said i would go the pace, i adventured the café eclatant. the interior realised my most sanguine expectations. the room would have done no discredit to the grand boulevard. i was so much exhilarated, that i ordered a half bottle of barsac, though i noted that here it cost ten sous more than at the bel avenir, and i prepared to enjoy the unwonted extravagance of my repast to the concluding crumb. monsieur, there are events in life of which it is difficult to speak without bitterness. when i recall the disappointment of that déjeuner at the café eclatant, my heart swells with rage. the soup was slush, the fish tasted like washing, the meat was rags. dessert consisted of wizened grapes; the one thing fit to eat was the cheese. as i meditated on the sum i had squandered, i could have cried with mortification, and, to make matters more pathetic still, i was as hungry as ever. i sat seeking some caustic epigram to wither the dame- de-comptoir; and presently the door opened and another victim entered. her face was pale and interesting. i saw, by her hesitation, that the place was strange to her. an accomplice of the chief brigand pounced on her immediately, and bore her to a table opposite. the misguided girl was about to waste one-franc-fifty. i felt that i owed a duty to her in this crisis. the moment called for instant action; before she could decide between slush and hors d'oeuvres, i pulled an envelope from my pocket, scribbled a warning, and expressed it to her by the robber who had brought my bill. i had written, "the déjeuner is dreadful. escape!" it reached her in the nick of time. she read the wrong side of the envelope first, and was evidently puzzled. then she turned it over. a look of surprise, a look of thankfulness, rendered her still more fascinating. i perceived that she was inventing an excuse--that she pretended to have forgotten something. she rose hastily and went out. my barsac was finished--shocking bad tipple it was for the money!--and now i, too, got up and left. when i issued into the street, i found her waiting for me. "i think you are the knight to whom my gratitude is due, monsieur?" she murmured graciously. "mademoiselle, you magnify the importance of my service," said i. "it was a gallant deed," she insisted. "you have saved me from a great misfortune--perhaps greater than you understand. my finances are at their lowest ebb, and to have beggared myself for an impossible meal would have been no joke. thanks to you, i may still breakfast satisfactorily somewhere else. is it treating you like baedeker's guide to the continent if i ask you to recommend a restaurant?" "upon my word, i doubt if you can do better than the bel avenir," i said. "a moment ago i was lacerated with regret that i had not gone there. but there is a silver lining to every hash-house, and my choice of the eclatant has procured me the glory of your greeting." she averted her gaze with a faint smile. she had certainly charm. admiration and hunger prompted me to further recklessness. i said: "this five-course swindle has left me ravenous, and i am bound for the avenir myself. may i beg for the rapture of your company there?" "monsieur, you overwhelm me with chivalries," she replied; "i shall be enchanted." and, five minutes later, the incognita and i were polishing off smoked herring and potato salad, like people who had no time to lose. "do you generally come here?" she asked, when we had leisure. "infrequently--no oftener than i have a franc in my pocket. but details of my fasts would form a poor recital, and i make a capital listener." "you also make a capital luncheon," she remarked. "do not prevaricate," i said severely. "i am consumed with impatience to hear the history of your life. be merciful and communicative." "well, i am young, fair, accomplished, and of an amiable disposition," she began, leaning her elbows on the table. "these things are obvious. come to confidences! what is your profession?" "by profession i am a clairvoyante and palmist," she announced. i gave her my hand at once, and i was in two minds about giving her my heart. "proceed," i told her; "reveal my destiny!" her air was profoundly mystical. "in the days of your youth," she proclaimed, "your line of authorship is crossed by many rejections." "oh, i am an author, hein? that's a fine thing in guesses!" "it is written!" she affirmed, still scrutinising my palm. "your dramatic lines are--er--countless; some of them are good. i see danger; you should beware of--i cannot distinguish!" she clasped her brow and shivered. "ah, i have it! you should beware of hackneyed situations." "so the drama is 'written,' too, is it?" "it is written, and i discern that it is already accepted," she said. "for at the juncture where the eclatant is eclipsed by the café du bel avenir, there is a distinct manifestation of cash." "marvellous!" i exclaimed. "and will the sybil explain why she surmised that i was a dramatic author?" "even so!" she boasted. "you wrote your message to me on an envelope from the dramatic authors' society, what do you think of my palmistry?" "i cannot say that i think it is your career. you are more likely an author yourself, or an actress, or a journalist. perhaps you are mademoiselle girard. mon dieu! what a piece of luck for me if i found mademoiselle girard!" "and what a piece of luck for her!" "why for her?" "well, she cannot be having a rollicking time. it would not break her heart to be found, one may be certain." "in that case," i said, "she has only to give some one the tip." "oh, that would be dishonourable--she has a duty to fulfil to _la voix_, she must wait till she is identified. and, remember, there must be no half measures--the young man must have the intuition to say firmly, 'pardon, you are mademoiselle girard!'" her earnest gaze met mine for an instant. "as a matter of fact," i said, "i do not see how anyone can be expected to identify her in the street. the portrait shows her without a hat, and a hat makes a tremendous difference." she sighed. "what is your trouble?" i asked. "man!" "man? tell me his address, that i may slay him." "the whole sex. its impenetrable stupidity. if mademoiselle girard is ever recognised it will be by a woman. man has no instinct." "may one inquire the cause of these flattering reflections?" her laughter pealed. "let us talk of something else!" she commanded. "when does your play come out, monsieur thibaud hippolyte duboc? you see i learnt your name, too." "you have all the advantages," i complained. "will you take a second cup of coffee, mademoiselle--er--?" "no, thank you, monsieur," she said. "well, will you take a liqueur, mademoiselle--er--?" "mademoiselle er will not take a liqueur either," she pouted. "well, will you take a walk?" in the end we took an omnibus, and then we proceeded to the buttes- chaumont--and very agreeable i found it there. we chose a seat in the shade, and i began to feel that i had known her all my life. more precisely, perhaps, i began to feel that i wished to know her all my life. a little breeze was whispering through the boughs, and she lifted her face to it gratefully. "how delicious," she said. "i should like to take off my hat." "do, then!" "shall i?" "why not?" she pulled the pins out slowly, and laid the hat aside, and raised her eyes to me, smiling. "well?" she murmured. "you are beautiful." "is that all?" "what more would you have me say?" the glare of sunshine mellowed while we talked; clocks struck unheeded by me. it amazed me at last, to discover how long she had held me captive. still, i knew nothing of her affairs, excepting that she was hard up--that, by comparison, i was temporarily prosperous. i did not even know where she meant to go when we moved, nor did it appear necessary to inquire yet, for the sentiment in her tones assured me that she would dismiss me with no heartless haste. two men came strolling past the bench, and one of them stared at her so impudently that i burned with indignation. after looking duels at him, i turned to her, to deprecate his rudeness. judge of my dismay when i perceived that she was shuddering with emotion! jealousy blackened the gardens to me. "who is that man?" i exclaimed. "i don't know," she faltered. "you don't know? but you are trembling?" "am i?" "i ask you who he is? how he dared to look at you like that?" "am i responsible for the way a loafer looks?" "you are responsible for your agitation; i ask you to explain it!" "and by what right, after all?" "by what right? wretched, false-hearted girl! has our communion for hours given me no rights? am i a frenchman or a flounder? answer; you are condemning me to tortures! why did you tremble under that man's eyes?" "i was afraid," she stammered. "afraid?" "afraid that he had recognised me." "mon dieu! of what are you guilty?" "i am not guilty." "of what are you accused?" "i can tell you nothing," she gasped. "you shall tell me all!" i swore. "in the name of my love i demand it of you. speak! why did you fear his recognition?" her head drooped pitifully. "because i wanted _you_ to recognise me first!" for a tense moment i gazed at her bewildered. in the next, i cursed myself for a fool--i blushed for my suspicions, my obtuseness--i sought dizzily the words, the prescribed words that i must speak. "pardon," i shouted, "you are mademoiselle girard!" she sobbed. "what have i done?" "you have done a great and generous thing! i am humbled before you. i bless you. i don't know how i could have been such a dolt as not to guess!" "oh, how i wish you had guessed! you have been so kind to me, i longed for you to guess! and now i have betrayed a trust. i have been a bad journalist." "you have been a good friend. courage! no one will ever hear what has happened. and, anyhow, it is all the same to the paper whether the prize is paid to me, or to somebody else." "yes," she admitted. "that is true. oh, when that man turned round and looked at me, i thought your chance had gone! i made sure it was all over! well"--she forced a smile--"it is no use my being sorry, is it? mademoiselle girard is 'found'!" "but you must not be sorry," i said. "come, a disagreeable job is finished! and you have the additional satisfaction of knowing the money goes to a fellow you don't altogether dislike. what do i have to do about it, hein?" "you must telegraph to _la voix_ at once that you have identified me. then, in the morning you should go to the office. i can depend upon you, can't i? you will never give me away to a living soul?" "word of honour!" i vowed. "what do you take me for? do tell me you don't regret! there's a dear. tell me you don't regret." she threw back her head dauntlessly. "no," she said, "i don't regret. only, in justice to me, remember that i was treacherous in order to do a turn to you, not to escape my own discomforts. to be candid, i believe that i wish we had met in two or three weeks' time, instead of to-day!" "why that?" "in two or three weeks' time the prize was to be raised to five thousand francs, to keep up the excitement." "ciel!" i cried. "five thousand francs? do you know that positively?" "oh, yes!" she nodded. "it is arranged." five thousand francs would have been a fortune to me. neither of us spoke for some seconds. then, continuing my thoughts aloud, i said: "after all, why should i telegraph at once? what is to prevent _my_ waiting the two or three weeks?" "oh, to allow you to do that would be scandalous of me," she demurred; "i should be actually swindling _la voix_." "_la voix_ will obtain a magnificent advertisement for its outlay, which is all that it desires," i argued; "the boom will be worth five thousand francs to _la voix_, there is no question of swindling. five thousand francs is a sum with which one might--" "it can't be done," she persisted. "to a man in my position," i said, "five thousand francs--" "it is impossible for another reason! as i told you, i am at the end of my resources. i rose this morning, praying that i should be identified. my landlady has turned me out, and i have no more than the price of one meal to go on with." "you goose!" i laughed. "and if i were going to net five thousand francs by your tip three weeks hence, don't you suppose it would be good enough for me to pay your expenses in the meanwhile?" she was silent again. i understood that her conscience was a more formidable drawback than her penury. monsieur, i said that you had asked me for a humiliating story--that i had poignant memories connected with _la voix_. here is one of them: i set myself to override her scruples--to render this girl false to her employers. many men might have done so without remorse. but not a man like me; i am naturally high-minded, of the most sensitive honour. even when i conquered at last, i could not triumph. far from it. i blamed the force of circumstances furiously for compelling me to sacrifice my principles to my purse. i am no adventurer, hein? enfin, the problem now was, where was i to hide her? her portmanteau she had deposited at a railway station. should we have it removed to another bedroom, or to a pension de famille? both plans were open to objections--a bedroom would necessitate her still challenging discovery in restaurants; and at a pension de famille she would run risks on the premises. a pretty kettle of fish if someone spotted her while i was holding for the rise! we debated the point exhaustively. and, having yielded, she displayed keen intelligence in arranging for the best. finally she declared: "of the two things, a pension de famille is to be preferred. install me there as your sister! remember that people picture me a wanderer and alone; therefore, a lady who is introduced by her brother is in small danger of being recognized as mademoiselle girard." she was right, i perceived it. we found an excellent house, where i was unknown. i presented her as "mademoiselle henriette delafosse, my sister." and, to be on the safe side, i engaged a private sitting-room for her, explaining that she was somewhat neurasthenic. good! i waited breathless now for every edition of _la voix_, thinking that her price might advance even sooner. but she closed at three thousand francs daily. girard stood firm, but there was no upward tendency. every afternoon i called on her. she talked about that conscience of hers again sometimes, and it did not prove quite so delightful as i had expected, when i paid a visit. especially when i paid a bill as well. monsieur, my disposition is most liberal. but when i had been mulcted in the second bill, i confess that i became a trifle downcast. i had prepared myself to nourish the girl wholesomely, as befitted the circumstances, but i had said nothing of vin supérieur, and i noted that she had been asking for it as if it were cider in normandy. the list of extras in those bills gave me the jumps, and the charges made for scented soap were nothing short of an outrage. well, there was but one more week to bear now, and during the week i allowed her to revel. this, though i was approaching embarrassments _re_ the rent of my own attic! how strange is life! who shall foretell the future? i had wrestled with my self-respect, i had nursed an investment which promised stupendous profits were i capable of carrying my scheme to a callous conclusion. but could i do it? did i claim the prize, which had already cost me so much? monsieur, you are a man of the world, a judge of character: i ask you, did i claim the prize, or did i not? he threw himself back in the chair, and toyed significantly with his empty glass. i regarded him, his irresolute mouth, his receding chin, his unquenchable thirst for absinthe. i regarded him and i paid him no compliments. i said: "you claimed the prize." "you have made a bloomer," he answered. "i did not claim it. the prize was claimed by the wife of a piano-tuner, who had discovered mademoiselle girard employed in the artificial flower department of the printemps. i read the bloodcurdling news at nine o'clock on a friday evening; and at : , when i hurled myself, panic-stricken, into the pension de famille, the impostor who had tricked me out of three weeks' board and lodging had already done a bolt. i have never had the joy of meeting her since." how tricotkin saw london one day tricotrin had eighty francs, and he said to pitou, who was no less prosperous, "good-bye to follies, for we have arrived at an epoch in our careers! do not let us waste our substance on trivial pleasures, or paying the landlord--let us make it a provision for our future!" "i rejoice to hear you speak for once like a business-man," returned pitou. "do you recommend gilt-edged securities, or an investment in land?" "i would suggest, rather, that we apply our riches to some educational purpose, such as travel," explained the poet, producing a railway company's handbill. "by this means we shall enlarge our minds, and somebody has pretended that 'knowledge is power'--it must have been the principal of a school. it is not for nothing that we have l'entente cordiale--you may now spend a sunday in london at about the cost of one of madeleine's hats." "these london sunday baits may be a plot of the english government to exterminate us; i have read that none but english people can survive a sunday in london." "no, it is not that, for we are offered the choice of a town called 'eastbourne,' listen, they tell me that in london the price of cigarettes is so much lower than with us that, to a bold smuggler, the trip is a veritable economy. matches too! matches are so cheap in england that the practice of stealing them from café tables has not been introduced." "well, your synopsis will be considered, and reported on in due course," announced the composer, after a pause; "but at the moment of going to press we would rather buy a hat for madeleine." and as madeleine also thought that this would be better for him, it was decided that tricotrin should set forth alone. his departure for a foreign country was a solemn event. a small party of the montmartrois had marched with him to the station, and more than once, in view of their anxious faces, the young man acknowledged mentally that he was committed to a harebrained scheme. "heaven protect thee, my comrade!" faltered pitou. "is thy vocabulary safely in thy pocket? remember that 'un bock' is 'glass of beer.'" "here is a small packet of chocolate," murmured lajeunie, embracing him; "in england, nothing to eat can be obtained on sunday, and chocolate is very sustaining." "and listen!" shouted sanquereau; "on no account take off thy hat to strangers, nor laugh in the streets; the first is 'mad' over there, and the second is 'immoral.' may le bon dieu have thee in his keeping! we count the hours till thy return!" then the train sped out into the night, and the poet realised that home and friends were left behind. he would have been less than a poet if, in the first few minutes, the pathos of the situation had not gripped him by the throat. vague, elusive fancies stirred his brain; he remembered the franc that he owed at the café du bel avenir, and wondered if madame would speak gently of him were he lost at sea. tender memories of past loves dimmed his eyes, and he reflected how poignant it would be to perish before the papers would give him any obituary notices. regarding his fellow passengers, he lamented that none of them was a beautiful girl, for it was an occasion on which woman's sympathy would have been sweet; indeed he proceeded to invent some of the things that they might have said to each other. inwardly he was still resenting the faces of his travelling companions when the train reached dieppe. "it is material for my biography," he soliloquised, as he crept down the gangway. "few who saw the young man step firmly on to the good ship's deck conjectured the emotions that tore his heart; few recognised him to be tricotrin, whose work was at that date practically unknown.'" but as a matter of fact he did arouse conjectures of a kind, for when the boat moved from the quay, he could not resist the opportunity to murmur, "my france, farewell!" with an appropriate gesture. his repose during the night was fitful, and when victoria was reached at last, he was conscious of some bodily fatigue. however, his mind was never slow to receive impressions, and at the sight of the scaffolding, he whipped out his note-book on the platform. he wrote, "the english are extraordinarily prompt of action. one day it was discerned that la gare victoria was capable of improvement--no sooner was the fact detected than an army of contractors was feverishly enlarging it." pleased that his journey was already yielding such good results, the poet lit a caporal, and sauntered through the yard. though the sky promised a fine sunday, his view of london at this early hour was not inspiriting. he loitered blankly, debating which way to wander. presently the outlook brightened--he observed a very dainty pair of shoes and ankles coming through the station doors. fearing that the face might be unworthy of them, he did not venture to raise his gaze until the girl had nearly reached the gate, but when he took the risk, he was rewarded by the discovery that her features were as piquant as her feet. she came towards him slowly, and now he remarked that she had a grudge against fate; her pretty lips were compressed, her beautiful eyes gloomy with grievance, the fairness of her brow was darkened by a frown. "well," mused tricotrin, "though the object of my visit is educational, the exigencies of my situation clearly compel me to ask this young lady to direct me somewhere. can i summon up enough english before she has passed?" it was a trying moment, for already she was nearly abreast of him. forgetful of sanquereau's instructions, as well as of most of the phrases that had been committed to memory, the poet swept off his hat, and stammered, "mees, i beg your pardon!" she turned the aggrieved eyes to him inquiringly. although she had paused, she made no answer. was his accent so atrocious as all that? for a second they regarded each other dumbly, while a blush of embarrassment mantled the young man's cheeks. then, with a little gesture of apology, the girl said in french-- "i do not speak english, monsieur." "oh, le bon dieu be praised!" cried tricotrin, for all the world as if he had been back on the boulevard rochechouart. "i was dazed with travel, or i should have recognized you were a frenchwoman. did you, too, leave paris last night, mademoiselle?" "ah, no," said the girl pensively. "i have been in london for months. i hoped to meet a friend who wrote that she would arrive this morning, but,"--she sighed--"she has not come!" "she will arrive to-night instead, no doubt; i should have no anxiety. you may be certain she will arrive to-night, and this contretemps will be forgotten." she pouted. "i was looking forward so much to seeing her! to a stranger who cannot speak the language, london is as triste as a tomb. today, i was to have had a companion, and now--" "indeed, i sympathise with you," replied tricotrin. "but is it really so--london is what you say? you alarm me. i am here absolutely alone. where, then, shall i go this morning?" "there are churches," she said, after some reflection. "and besides?" "w-e-ll, there are other churches." "of course, such things can be seen in paris also," demurred tricotrin. "it is not essential to go abroad to say one's prayers. if i may take the liberty of applying to you, in which direction would you recommend me to turn my steps? for example, where is soho--is it too far for a walk?" "no, monsieur, it is not very far--it is the quarter in which i lodge." "and do you return there now?" he asked eagerly. "what else is there for me to do? my friend has not come, and--" "mademoiselle," exclaimed the poet, "i entreat you to have mercy on a compatriot! permit me, at least, to seek soho in your company--do not, i implore you, leave me homeless and helpless in a strange land! i notice an eccentric vehicle which instinct whispers is an english 'hansom.' for years i have aspired to drive in an english hansom once. it is in your power to fulfil my dream with effulgence. will you consent to instruct the acrobat who is performing with a whip, and to take a seat in the english hansom beside me?" "monsieur," responded the pretty girl graciously, "i shall be charmed;" and, romantic as the incident appears, the next minute they were driving along victoria street together. "the good kind fairies have certainly taken me under their wings," declared tricotrin, as he admired his companion's profile. "it was worth enduring the pangs of exile, to meet with such kindness as you have shown me." "i am afraid you will speedily pronounce the fairies fickle," said she, "for our drive will soon be over, and you will find soho no fairyland." "how comes it that your place of residence is so unsuitable to you, mademoiselle?" "i lodge in the neighbourhood of the coiffeur's where i am employed, monsieur--where i handle the tails and transformations. our specialty is artificial eyelashes; the attachment is quite invisible--and the result absolutely ravishing! no," she added hurriedly; "i am not wearing a pair myself, these are quite natural, word of honour! but we undertake to impart to any eyes the gaze soulful, or the twinkle coquettish, as the customer desires--as an artist, i assure you that these expressions are due, less to the eyes themselves than to the shade, and especially the curve, of the lashes. many a woman has entered our saloon entirely insignificant, and turned the heads of all the men in the street when she left." "you interest me profoundly," said tricotrin, "at the same time, i shall never know in future whether i am inspired by a woman's eyes, or the skill of her coiffeur. i say 'in future.' i entertain no doubt as to the source of my sensations now." she rewarded him for this by a glance that dizzied him, and soon afterwards the hansom came to a standstill amid an overpowering odour of cheese. "we have arrived!" she proclaimed; "so it is now that we part, monsieur. for me there is the little lodging--for you the enormous london. it is soho--wander where you will! there are restaurants hereabouts where one may find coffee and rolls at a modest price. accept my thanks for your escort, and let us say bonjour." "are the restaurants so unsavoury that you decline to honour them?" he questioned. "_comment?"_ "will you not bear me company? or, better still, will you not let me command a coffee-pot for two to be sent to your apartment, and invite me to rest after my voyage?" she hesitated. "my apartment is very humble," she said, "and--well, i have never done a thing like that! it would not be correct. what would you think of me if i consented?" "i will think all that you would have me think," vowed tricotrin. "come, take pity on me! ask me in, and afterwards we will admire the sights of london together. where can the coffee-pot be ordered?" "as for that," she said, "there is no necessity--i have a little breakfast for two already prepared. enfin, it is understood--we are to be good comrades, and nothing more? will you give yourself the trouble of entering, monsieur?" the bedroom to which they mounted was shabby, but far from unattractive. the mantelshelf was brightened with flowers, a piano was squeezed into a corner, and tricotrin had scarcely put aside his hat when he was greeted by the odour of coffee as excellent as was ever served in the café de la régence. "if this is london," he cried, "i have no fault to find with it! i own it is abominably selfish of me, but i cannot bring myself to regret that your friend failed to arrive this morning; indeed, i shudder to think what would have become of me if we had not met. will you mention the name that is to figure in my benisons?" "my name is rosalie durand, monsieur." "and mine is gustave tricotrin, mademoiselle--always your slave. i do not doubt that in paris, at this moment, there are men who picture me tramping the pavement, desolate. not one of them but would envy me from his heart if he could see my situation!" "it might have fallen out worse, i admit," said the girl. "my own day was at the point of being dull to tears--and here i am chattering as if i hadn't a grief in the world! let me persuade you to take another croissant!" "fervently i wish that appearances were not deceptive!" said tricotrin, who required little persuasion. "is it indiscreet to inquire to what griefs you allude? upon my word, your position appears a very pretty one! where do those dainty shoes pinch you?" "they are not easy on foreign soil, monsieur. when i reflect that you go back to-night, that to-morrow you will be again in paris, i could gnash my teeth with jealousy." "but, ma foi!" returned tricotrin, "to a girl of brains, like yourself, paris is always open. are there no customers for eyelashes in france? why condemn yourself to gnash with jealousy when there is a living to be earned at home?" "there are several reasons," she said; "for one thing, i am an extravagant little hussy and haven't saved enough for a ticket." "i have heard no reason yet! at the moment my pocket is nicely lined-- you might return with me this evening," "are you mad by any chance?" she laughed. "it seems to me the natural course." "well, i should not be free to go like that, even if i took your money. i am a business woman, you see, who does not sacrifice her interests to her sentiment. what is your own career, monsieur tricotrin?" "i am a poet, and when i am back in paris i shall write verse about you. it shall be an impression of london--the great city as it reveals itself to a stranger whose eyes are dazzled by the girl he loves." "forbidden ground!" she cried, admonishing him with a finger. "no dazzle!" "i apologise," said tricotrin; "you shall find me a poet of my word. why, i declare," he exclaimed, glancing from the window, "it has begun to rain!" "well, fortunately, we have plenty of time; there is all day for our excursion and we can wait for the weather to improve. if you do not object to smoking while i sing, monsieur, i propose a little music to go on with." and it turned out that this singular assistant of a hairdresser had a very sympathetic voice, and no contemptible repertoire. although the sky had now broken its promise shamefully and the downpour continued, tricotrin found nothing to complain of. by midday one would have said that they had been comrades for years. by luncheon both had ceased even to regard the rain. and before evening approached, they had confided to each other their histories from the day of their birth. ascertaining that the basement boasted a smudgy servant girl, who was to be dispatched for entrées and sauterne, tricotrin drew up the menu of a magnificent dinner as the climax. it was conceded that at this repast he should be the host; and having placed him on oath behind a screen, rosalie proceeded to make an elaborate toilette in honour of his entertainment. determined, as he had said, to prove himself a poet of his word, the young man remained behind the screen as motionless as a waxwork, but the temptation to peep was tremendous, and at the whispering of a silk petticoat he was unable to repress a groan. "what ails you?" she demanded, the whispering suspended. "i merely expire with impatience to meet you again." "monsieur, i am hastening to the trysting-place, and my costume will be suitable to the occasion, believe me!" "in that case, if you are not quick, you will have to wear crape. however, proceed, i can suffer with the best of them.... are you certain that i can be of no assistance? i feel selfish, idling here like this. besides, since i am able to see--" "see?" she screamed. "--see no reason why you should refuse my aid, my plight is worse still. what are you doing now?" "my hair," she announced. "surely it would not be improper for me to view a head of hair?" "perhaps not, monsieur; but my head is on my shoulders--which makes a difference." "mademoiselle," sighed tricotrin, "never have i known a young lady whose head was on her shoulders more tightly. may i crave one indulgence? my imprisonment would be less painful for a cigarette, and i cannot reach the matches--will you consent to pass them round the screen?" "it is against the rules. but i will consent to throw them over the top. catch! why don't you say 'thank you'?" "because your unjust suspicion killed me; i now need nothing but immortelles, and at dinner i will compose my epitaph. if i am not mistaken, i already smell the soup on the stairs." and the soup had scarcely entered when his guest presented herself. paquin and the fairy godmother would have approved her gown; as to her coiffure, if her employer could have seen it, he would have wanted to put her in his window. tricotrin gave her his arm with stupefaction. "upon my word," he faltered, "you awe me. i am now overwhelmed with embarrassment that i had the temerity to tease you while you dressed. and what shall i say of the host who is churl enough to welcome you in such a shabby coat?" the cork went pop, their tongues went nineteen to the dozen, and the time went so rapidly that a little clock on the chest of drawers became a positive killjoy. "by all the laws of dramatic effect," remarked the poet, as they trifled with the almonds and raisins, "you will now divulge that the fashionable lady before me is no 'rosalie durand,' of a hairdresser's shop, but madame la comtesse de thrilling mystery. every novel reader would be aware that at this stage you will demand some dangerous service of me, and that i shall forthwith risk my life and win your love." "bien sûr! that is how it ought to be," she agreed. "is it impossible?" "that i can be a countess?" "well, we will waive the 'countess'; and for that matter i will not insist on risking my life; but what about the love?" "without the rest," she demurred, "the situation would be too commonplace. when i can tell you that i am a countess i will say also that i love you; to-night i am rosalie durand, a friend. by the way, now i come to think of it, i shall be all that you have seen in london!" "why, i declare, so you will!" exclaimed tricotrin. "really this is a nice thing! i come to england for the benefit of my education--and when it is almost time for me to return, i find that i have spent the whole of the day in a room." "but you have, at least, had a unique experience in it?" she queried with a whimsical smile. "well, yes; my journey has certainly yielded an adventure that none of my acquaintances would credit! do you laugh at me?" "far from it; by-and-by i may even spare a tear for you--if you do not spoil the day by being clumsy at the end." "ah, rosalie," cried the susceptible poet, "how can i bear the parting? what is france without you? i am no longer a frenchman--my true home is now england! my heart will hunger for it, my thoughts will stretch themselves to it across the sea; banished to montmartre, i shall mourn daily for the white cliffs of albion, for soho, and for you!" "i, too, shall remember," she murmured. "but perhaps one of these days you will come to england again?" "if the fare could be paid with devotion, i would come every sunday, but how can i hope to amass enough money? such things do not happen twice. no, i will not deceive myself--this is our farewell. see!" he rose, and turned the little clock with its face to the wall. "when that clock strikes, i must go to catch my train--in the meantime we will ignore the march of time. farewells, tears, regrets, let us forget that they exist--let us drink the last glass together gaily, mignonne!" they pledged each other with brave smiles, hand in hand. and now their chatter became fast and furious, to drown the clock's impatient tick. the clockwork wheezed and whirred. "'tis going to part us," shouted tricotrin; "laugh, laugh, beloved, so that we may not hear!" "kiss me," she cried; "while the hour sounds, you shall hold me in your arms!" "heaven," gasped the young man, as the too brief embrace concluded, "how i wish it had been striking midnight!" the next moment came the separation. he descended the stairs; at the window she waved her hand to him. and in the darkness of an "english hansom" the poet covered his face and wept. * * * * * "from our hearts we rejoice to have thee safely back!" they chorused in montmartre. "and what didst thou see in london?" "oh, mon dieu, what noble sights!" exclaimed tricotrin. "the lor' maire blazes with jewels like the shah of persia; and compared with peeccadeelly, the champs elysées are no wider than a hatband. vive l'entente! positively my brain whirls with all the splendours of london i have seen!" the infidelity of monsieur noulens whenever they talk of him, whom i will call "noulens"--of his novels, his method, the eccentricities of his talent--someone is sure to say, "but what comrades, he and his wife!"--you are certain to hear it. and as often as i hear it myself, i think of what he told me that evening --i remember the shock i had. at the beginning, i had expected little. when i went in, his wife said, "i fear he will be poor company; he has to write a short story for _la voix,_ and cannot find a theme--he has been beating his brains all day." so far, from anticipating emotions, i had proposed dining there another night instead, but she would not allow me to leave. "something you say may suggest a theme to him," she declared, "and he can write or dictate the story in an hour, when you have gone." so i stayed, and after dinner he lay on the sofa, bewailing the fate that had made him an author. the salon communicated with his study, and through the open door he had the invitation of his writing-table--the little sheaf of paper that she had put in readiness for him, the lighted lamp, the pile of cigarettes. i knew that she hoped the view would stimulate him, but it was soon apparent that he had ceased to think of a story altogether. he spoke of one of the latest murders in paris, one sensational enough for the paris press to report a murder prominently--of a conference at the université des annales, of the artistry of esther lekain, of everything except his work. then, in the hall, the telephone bell rang, and madame noulens rose to receive the message. "allô! allô!" she did not come back. there was a pause, and presently he murmured: "i wonder if a stranger has been moved to telephone a plot to me?" "what?" i said. "it sounds mad, hein? but it once happened--on just such a night as this, when my mind was just as blank. really! out of the silence a woman told me a beautiful story. of course, i never used it, nor do i know if she made use of it herself; but i have never forgotten. for years i could not hear a telephone bell without trembling. even now, when i am working late, i find myself hoping for her voice." "the story was so wonderful as that?" he threw a glance into the study, as if to assure himself that his wife had not entered it from the hall. "can you believe that a man may learn to love--tenderly and truly love --a woman he has never met?" he asked me. "i don't think i understand you." "there has been only one woman in my life who was all in all to me," he said--"and i never saw her." how was i to answer? i looked at him. "after all, what is there incredible in it?" he demanded. "do we give our love to a face, or to a temperament? i swear to you that i could not have known that woman's temperament more intimately if we had made our confidences in each other's arms. i knew everything of her, except the trifles which a stranger learns in the moment of being presented-- her height, her complexion, her name, whether she was married or single. no, those things i never knew. but her tastes, her sympathies, her soul, these, the secret truths of the woman, were as familiar to me as to herself." he hesitated. "i am in a difficulty. if i seem to disparage my wife, i shall be a cad; if i let you think we have been as happy together as people imagine, you will not understand the importance of what i am going to tell you. i will say this: before our honeymoon was over, i bored her fearfully. while we were engaged, i had talked to her of my illusions about herself; when we were married, i talked to her of my convictions about my art. the change appalled her. she was chilled, crushed, dumfounded. i looked to her to share my interests. for response, she yawned--and wept. "oh, her tears! her hourly tears! the tears that drowned my love! "the philosopher is made, not born; in the first few years i rebelled furiously. i wanted a companion, a confidant, and i had never felt so desperately alone. "we had a flat in the rue de sontay then, and the telephone was in my workroom. one night late, as i sat brooding there, the bell startled me; and a voice--a woman's voice, said: "'i am so lonely; i want to talk to you before i sleep.' "i cannot describe the strangeness of that appeal, reaching me so suddenly out of the distance. i knew that it was a mistake, of course, but it was as if, away in the city, some nameless soul had echoed the cry in my own heart. i obeyed an impulse; i said: "'i, too, am very lonely--i believe i have been waiting for you.' "there was a pause, and then she asked, dismayed: "'who are you?' "'not the man you thought,' i told her. 'but a very wistful one.' "i heard soft laughter, 'how absurd!' she murmured. "'be merciful,' i went on; 'we are both sad, and fate clearly intends us to console each other. it cannot compromise you, for i do not even know who you are. stay and talk to me for five minutes.' "'what do you ask me to talk about?' "'oh, the subject to interest us both--yourself.' "after a moment she answered, 'i am shaking my head.' "'it is very unfeeling of you,' i said. 'and i have not even the compensation of seeing you do it.' "imagine another pause, and then her voice in my ear again: "'i will tell you what i can do for you--i can tell you a story.' "'the truth would please me more,' i owned. 'still, if my choice must be made between your story and your silence, i certainly choose the story.' "'i applaud your taste,' she said. 'are you comfortable--are you sitting down?' "i sat down, smiling. 'madame--' "she did not reply. "then, 'mademoiselle--' "again no answer. "'well, say at least if i have your permission to smoke while i listen to you?' "she laughed: 'you carry courtesy far!' "'how far?' i asked quickly. "but she would not even hint from what neighbourhood she was speaking to me. 'attend!' she commanded--and began: "'it is a story of two lovers,' she said, 'paul and rosamonde. they were to have married, but rosamonde died too soon. when she was dying, she gave him a curl of the beautiful brown hair that he used to kiss. "au revoir, dear love," she whispered; "it will be very stupid in heaven until you come. remember that i am waiting for you and be faithful. if your love for me fades, you will see that curl of mine fade too." "'every day through the winter paul strewed flowers on her tomb, and sobbed. and in the spring he strewed flowers and sighed. and in the summer he paid that flowers might be strewn there for him. sometimes, when he looked at the dead girl's hair, he thought that it was paler than it had been, but, as he looked at it seldom now, he could easily persuade himself that he was mistaken. "'then he met a woman who made him happy again; and the wind chased the withered flowers from rosamonde's grave and left it bare. one day paul's wife found a little packet that lay forgotten in his desk. she opened it jealously, before he could prevent her. paul feared that the sight would give her pain, and watched her with anxious eyes. but in a moment she was laughing. "what an idiot i am," she exclaimed--"i was afraid that it was the hair of some girl you had loved!" the curl was snow-white.' "her fantastic tale," continued noulens, "which was told with an earnestness that i cannot reproduce, impressed me very much. i did not offer any criticism, i did not pay her any compliment; i said simply: "'who are you?' "'that,' she warned me, 'is a question that you must not ask. well, are you still bored?' "'no.' "'interested, a little?' "'very much so.' "'i, too, am feeling happier than i did. and now, bonsoir!' "'wait,' i begged. 'tell me when i shall speak to you again.' "she hesitated; and i assure you that i had never waited for a woman's answer with more suspense while i held her hand, than i waited for the answer of this woman whom i could not see. 'to-morrow?' i urged. 'in the morning?' "'in the morning it would be difficult.' "'the afternoon?' "'in the afternoon it would be impossible,' "'then the evening--at the same hour?' "'perhaps,' she faltered--'if i am free.' "'my number,' i told her, 'is five-four-two, one-nine. can you write it now?' "'i have written it.' "'please repeat, so that there may be no mistake.' "'five-four-two, one-nine. correct?' "'correct. i am grateful.' "'good-night.' "'good-night. sleep well.' "you may suppose that on the morrow i remembered the incident with a smile, that i ridiculed the emotion it had roused in me? you would be wrong. i recalled it more and more curiously: i found myself looking forward to the appointment with an eagerness that was astonishing. we had talked for about twenty minutes, hidden from each other--half paris, perhaps, dividing us; i had nothing more tangible to expect this evening. yet i experienced all the sensations of a man who waits for an interview, for an embrace. what did it mean? i was bewildered. the possibility of love at first sight i understood; but might the spirit also recognise an affinity by telephone? "there is a phrase in feuilletons that had always irritated me--'to his impatience it seemed that the clock had stopped.' it had always struck me as absurd. since that evening i have never condemned the phrase, for honestly, i thought more than once that the clock had stopped. by-and-by, to increase the tension, my wife, who seldom entered my workroom, opened the door. she found me idle, and was moved to converse with me. mon dieu! now that the hour approached at last, my wife was present, with the air of having settled herself for the night! "the hands of the clock moved on--and always faster now. if she remained till the bell rang, what was i to do? to answer that i had 'someone with me' would be intelligible to the lady, but it would sound suspicious to my wife. to answer that i was 'busy' would sound innocent to my wife, but it would be insulting to the lady. to disregard the bell altogether would be to let my wife go to the telephone herself! i tell you i perspired. "under providence, our cook rescued me. there came a timid knock, and then the figure of the cook, her eyes inflamed, her head swathed in some extraordinary garment. she had a raging toothache--would madame have the kindness to give her a little cognac? the ailments of the cook always arouse in human nature more solicitude than the ailments of any other servant. my wife's sympathy was active--i was saved! "the door had scarcely closed when _tr-rr-r-ng_ the signal came. "'good-evening,' from the voice. 'so you are here to meet me.' "'good-evening,' i said. 'i would willingly go further to meet you,' "'be thankful that the rendez-vous was your flat--listen to the rain! come, own that you congratulated yourself when it began! "luckily i can be gallant without getting wet," you thought. really, i am most considerate--you keep a dry skin, you waste no time in reaching me, and you need not even trouble to change your coat.' "'it sounds very cosy,' i admitted, 'but there is one drawback to it all--i do not see you.' "'that may be more considerate of me still! i may be reluctant to banish your illusions. isn't it probable that i am elderly--or, at least plain? i may even be a lady novelist, with ink on her fingers. by-the-bye, monsieur, i have been rereading one of your books since last night.' "'oh, you know my name now? i am gratified to have become more than a telephonic address to you. may i ask if we have ever met?' "'we never spoke till last night, but i have seen you often,' "'you, at any rate, can have no illusions to be banished. what a relief! i have endeavoured to talk as if i had a romantic bearing; now that you know how i look, i can be myself.' "'i await your next words with terror,' she said. 'what shock is in store for me? speak gently.' "'well, speaking gently, i am very glad that you were put on to the wrong number last night. at the same time, i feel a constraint, a difficulty; i cannot talk to you frankly, cannot be serious--it is as if i showed my face while you were masked.' "'yes, it is true--i understand,' she said. 'and even if i were to swear that i was not unworthy of your frankness, you would still be doubtful of me, i suppose?' "'madame--' "'oh, it is natural! i know very well how i must appear to you,' she exclaimed; 'a coquette, with a new pastime--a vulgar coquette, besides, who tries to pique your interest by an air of mystery. believe me, monsieur, i am forbidden to unmask. think lightly of me if you must--i have no right to complain--but believe as much as that! i do not give you my name, simply because i may not.' "'madame,' i replied, 'so far from wishing to force your confidences, i assure you that i will never inquire who you are, never try to find out.' "'and you will talk frankly, unconstrainedly, all the same?' "'ah, you are too illogical to be elderly and plain,' i demurred. 'you resolve to remain a stranger to me, and i bow to your decision; but, on the other hand, a man makes confidences only to his friends.' "there was a long pause; and when i heard the voice again, it trembled: "'adieu, monsieur.' "'adieu, madame,' i said. "no sooner had she gone than i would have given almost anything to bring her back. for a long while i sat praying that she would ring again. i watched the telephone as if it had been her window, the door of her home--something that could yield her to my view. during the next few days i grudged every minute that i was absent from the room--i took my meals in it. never had i had the air of working so indefatigably, and in truth i did not write a line, 'i suppose you have begun a new romance?' said my wife. in my soul i feared that i had finished it!" noulens sighed; he clasped his hands on his head. the dark hair, the thin, restless fingers were all that i could see of him where i sat. some seconds passed; i wondered whether there would be time for me to hear the rest before his wife returned. * * * * * "in my soul i feared that i had finished it," he repeated. "extraordinary as it appears, i was in love with a woman i had never seen. each time that bell sounded, my heart seemed to try to choke me. it had been my grievance, since we had the telephone installed, that we heard nothing of it excepting that we had to make another payment for its use; but now, by a maddening coincidence, everybody that i had ever met took to ringing me up about trifles and agitating me twenty times a day. "at last, one night--when expectation was almost dead--she called to me again. oh, but her voice was humble! my friend, it is piteous when we love a woman, to hear her humbled. i longed to take her hands, to fold my arms about her. i abased myself, that she might regain her pride. she heard how i had missed and sorrowed for her; i owned that she was dear to me. "and then began a companionship--strange as you may find the word-- which was the sweetest my life has held. we talked together daily. this woman, whose whereabouts, whose face, whose name were all unknown to me, became the confidant of my disappointments and my hopes. if i worked well, my thoughts would be, 'tonight i shall have good news to give her;' if i worked ill--'never mind, by-and-by she will encourage me!' there was not a page in my next novel that i did not read to her; never a doubt beset me in which i did not turn for her sympathy and advice. "'well, how have you got on?' "'oh, i am so troubled this evening, dear!' "'poor fellow! tell me all about it. i tried to come to you sooner, but i couldn't get away.' "like that! we talked as if she were really with me. my life was no longer desolate--the indifference in my home no longer grieved me. all the interest, the love, the inspiration i had hungered for, was given to me now by a woman who remained invisible." noulens paused again. in the pause i got up to light a cigarette, and-- i shall never forget it--i saw the bowed figure of his wife beyond the study door! it was only a glimpse i had, but the glimpse was enough to make my heart stand still--she leant over the table, her face hidden by her hand. i tried to warn, to signal to him--he did not see me. i felt that i could do nothing, nothing at all, without doubling her humiliation by the knowledge that i had witnessed it. if he would only look at me! "listen," he went on rapidly. "i was happy, i was young again--and there was a night when she said to me, 'it is for the last time.' "six words! but for a moment i had no breath, no life, to answer them. "'speak!' she cried out. 'you are frightening me!' "'what has happened?' i stammered. 'trust me, i implore you!' "i heard her sobbing--and minutes seemed to pass. it was horrible. i thought my heart would burst while i shuddered at her sobs--the sobbing of a woman i could not reach. "'i can tell you nothing,' she said, when she was calmer; 'only that we are speaking together for the last time.' "'but why--why? is it that you are leaving france?' "'i cannot tell you,' she repeated. 'i have had to swear that to myself.' "oh, i raved to her! i was desperate. i tried to wring her name from her then--i besought her to confess where she was hidden. the space between us frenzied me. it was frightful, it was like a nightmare, that struggle to tear the truth from a woman whom i could not clasp or see. "'my dear,' she said, 'there are some things that are beyond human power. they are not merely difficult, or unwise, or mad--they are impossible. _you_ have begged the impossible of _me_. you will never hear me again, it is far from likely we shall ever meet--and if one day we do, you will not even know that it is i. but i love you. i should like to think that you believe it, for i love you very dearly. now say good-bye to me. my arms are round your neck, dear heart--i kiss you on the lips.' "it was the end. she was lost. a moment before, i had felt her presence in my senses; now i stood in an empty room, mocked by a futile apparatus. my friend, if you have ever yearned to see a woman whose whereabouts you did not know--ever exhausted yourself tramping some district in the hope of finding her--you may realise what i feel; for remember that by comparison your task was easy--i am even ignorant of this woman's arrondissement and appearance. she left me helpless. the telephone had given her--the telephone had taken her away. all that remained to me was the mechanism on a table." * * * * * noulens turned on the couch at last--and, turning, he could not fail to see his wife. i was spellbound. "'mechanism on a table,' he repeated, with a prodigious yawn of relief. 'that is all, my own.'" "good!" said madame noulens cheerily. she bustled in, fluttering pages of shorthand. "but, old angel, the tale of paul and rosamonde is thrown away--it is an extravagance, telling two stories for the price of one!" "my treasure, thou knowest i invented it months ago and couldn't make it long enough for it to be of any use." "true. well, we will be liberal, then--we will include it." she noticed my amazement. "what ails our friend?" noulens gave a guffaw. "i fear our friend did not recognize that i was dictating to you. by-the-bye, it was fortunate someone rang us up just now--that started my plot for me! who was it?" "it was _la voix_" she laughed, "inquiring if the story would be done in time!" * * * * * yes, indeed, they are comrades!--you are certain to hear it. and as often as i hear it myself, i think of what he told me that evening--i remember how he took me in. contributions from the museum of history and technology: paper elevator systems of the eiffel tower, _robert m. vogel_ preparatory work for the tower the tower's structural rationale elevator development before the tower the tower's elevators epilogue elevator systems of the eiffel tower, by robert m. vogel _this article traces the evolution of the powered passenger elevator from its initial development in the mid- th century to the installation of the three separate elevator systems in the eiffel tower in . the design of the tower's elevators involved problems of capacity, length of rise, and safety far greater than any previously encountered in the field; and the equipment that resulted was the first capable of meeting the conditions of vertical transportation found in the just emerging skyscraper._ the author: _robert m. vogel is associate curator of mechanical and civil engineering, united states national museum, smithsonian institution._ the , -foot tower that formed the focal point and central feature of the universal exposition of at paris has become one of the best known of man's works. it was among the most outstanding technological achievements of an age which was itself remarkable for such achievements. second to the interest shown in the tower's structural aspects was the interest in its mechanical organs. of these, the most exceptional were the three separate elevator systems by which the upper levels were made accessible to the exposition visitors. the design of these systems involved problems far greater than had been encountered in previous elevator work anywhere in the world. the basis of these difficulties was the amplification of the two conditions that were the normal determinants in elevator design--passenger capacity and height of rise. in addition, there was the problem, totally new, of fitting elevator shafts to the curvature of the tower's legs. the study of the various solutions to these problems presents a concise view of the capabilities of the elevator art just prior to the beginning of the most recent phase of its development, marked by the entry of electricity into the field. the great confidence of the tower's builder in his own engineering ability can be fully appreciated, however, only when notice is taken of one exceptional way in which the project differed from works of earlier periods as well as from contemporary ones. in almost every case, these other works had evolved, in a natural and progressive way, from a fundamental concept firmly based upon precedent. this was true of such notable structures of the time as the brooklyn bridge and, to a lesser extent, the forth bridge. for the design of his tower, there was virtually no experience in structural history from which eiffel could draw other than a series of high piers that his own firm had designed earlier for railway bridges. it was these designs that led eiffel to consider the practicality of iron structures of extreme height. [illustration: figure .--the eiffel tower at the time of the universal exposition of at paris. (from _la nature_, june , , vol. , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--gustave eiffel ( - ). (from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , frontispiece.)] there was, it is true, some inspiration to be found in the paper projects of several earlier designers--themselves inspired by that compulsion which throughout history seems to have driven men to attempt the erection of magnificently high structures. one such inspiration was a proposal made in by the celebrated but eccentric welsh engineer richard trevithick to erect a , -foot, conical, cast-iron tower (fig. ) to celebrate the passing of the reform bill. of particular interest in light of the present discussion was trevithick's plan to raise visitors to the summit on a piston, driven upward within the structure's hollow central tube by compressed air. it probably is fortunate for trevithick's reputation that his plan died shortly after this and the project was forgotten. one project of genuine promise was a tower proposed by the eminent american engineering firm of clarke, reeves & company to be erected at the centennial exhibition at philadelphia in . at the time, this firm was perhaps the leading designer and erector of iron structures in the united states, having executed such works as the girard avenue bridge over the schuylkill at fairmount park, and most of new york's early elevated railway system. the company's proposal (fig. ) for a , -foot shaft of wrought-iron columns braced by a continuous web of diagonals was based upon sound theoretical knowledge and practical experience. nevertheless, the natural hesitation that the fair's sponsors apparently felt in the face of so heroic a scheme could not be overcome, and this project also remained a vision. preparatory work for the tower in the year , the eiffel firm, which also had an extensive background of experience in structural engineering, undertook a series of investigations of tall metallic piers based upon its recent experiences with several lofty railway viaducts and bridges. the most spectacular of these was the famous garabit viaduct ( - ), which carries a railroad some feet above the valley of the truyere in southern france. while the -foot height of the viaduct's two greatest piers was not startling even at that period, the studies proved that piers of far greater height were entirely feasible in iron construction. this led to the design of a -foot pier, which, although never incorporated into a bridge, may be said to have been the direct basis for the eiffel tower. preliminary studies for a -meter tower were made with the fair immediately in mind. with an assurance born of positive knowledge, eiffel in june of approached the exposition commissioners with the project. there can be no doubt that only the singular respect with which eiffel was regarded not only by his profession but by the entire nation motivated the commission to approve a plan which, in the hands of a figure of less stature, would have been considered grossly impractical. between this time and commencement of the tower's construction at the end of january , there arose one of the most persistently annoying of the numerous difficulties, both structural and social, which confronted eiffel as the project advanced. in the wake of the initial enthusiasm--on the part of the fair's commission inspired by the desire to create a monument to french technological achievement, and on the part of the majority of frenchmen by the stirring of their imagination at the magnitude of the structure--there grew a rising movement of disfavor. the nucleus was, not surprisingly, formed mainly of the intelligentsia, but objections were made by prominent frenchmen in all walks of life. the most interesting point to be noted in a retrospection of this often violent opposition was that, although the tower's every aspect was attacked, there was remarkably little criticism of its structural feasibility, either by the engineering profession or, as seems traditionally to be the case with bold and unprecedented undertakings, by large numbers of the technically uninformed laity. true, there was an undercurrent of what might be characterized as unease by many property owners in the structure's shadow, but the most obstinate element of resistance was that which deplored the tower as a mechanistic intrusion upon the architectural and natural beauties of paris. this resistance voiced its fury in a flood of special newspaper editions, petitions, and manifestos signed by such lights of the fine and literary arts as de maupassant, gounod, dumas _fils_, and others. the eloquence of one article, which appeared in several paris papers in february , was typical: we protest in the name of french taste and the national art culture against the erection of a staggering tower, like a gigantic kitchen chimney dominating paris, eclipsing by its barbarous mass notre dame, the sainte-chapelle, the tower of st. jacques, the dôme des invalides, the arc de triomphe, humiliating these monuments by an act of madness.[ ] further, a prediction was made that the entire city would become dishonored by the odious shadow of the odious column of bolted sheet iron. it is impossible to determine what influence these outcries might have had on the project had they been organized sooner. but inasmuch as the commission had, in november , provided , , francs for its commencement, the work had been fairly launched by the time the protestations became loud enough to threaten and they were ineffectual. upon completion, many of the most vigorous protestants became as vigorous in their praise of the tower, but a hard core of critics continued for several years to circulate petitions advocating its demolition by the government. one of these critics, it was said--probably apocryphally--took an office on the first platform, that being the only place in paris from which the tower could not be seen. [illustration: figure .--trevithick's proposed cast-iron tower ( ) would have been , feet high, feet in diameter at the base, feet at the top, and surmounted by a colossal statue. (from f. dye, _popular engineering_, london, , p. .)] the tower's structural rationale during the previously mentioned studies of high piers undertaken by the eiffel firm, it was established that as the base width of these piers increased in proportion to their height, the diagonal bracing connecting the vertical members, necessary for rigidity, became so long as to be subject to high flexural stresses from wind and columnar loading. to resist these stresses, the bracing required extremely large sections which greatly increased the surface of the structure exposed to the wind, and was, moreover, decidedly uneconomical. to overcome this difficulty, the principle which became the basic design concept of the tower was developed. the material which would otherwise have been used for the continuous lattice of diagonal bracing was concentrated in the four corner columns of the tower, and these verticals were connected only at two widely separated points by the deep bands of trussing which formed the first and second platforms. a slight curvature inward was given to the main piers to further widen the base and increase the stability of the structure. at a point slightly above the second platform, the four members converged to the extent that conventional bracing became more economical, and they were joined. [illustration: figure .--the proposed , -foot iron tower designed by clarke, reeves & co. for the centennial exhibition of at philadelphia. (from _scientific american_, jan. , , vol. , p. .)] that this theory was successful not only practically, but visually, is evident from the resulting work. the curve of the legs and the openings beneath the two lower platforms are primarily responsible for the tower's graceful beauty as well as for its structural soundness. the design of the tower was not actually the work of eiffel himself but of two of his chief engineers, emile nouguier ( -?) and maurice koechlin ( - )--the men who had conducted the high pier studies--and the architect stéphen sauvestre ( -?). in the planning of the foundations, extreme care was used to ensure adequate footing, but in spite of the tower's light weight in proportion to its bulk, and the low earth pressure it exerted, uneven pier settlement with resultant leaning of the tower was considered a dangerous possibility.[ ] to compensate for this eventuality, a device was used whose ingenious directness justifies a brief description. in the base of each of the columns forming the four main legs was incorporated an opening into which an -ton hydraulic press could be placed, capable of raising the member slightly. a thin steel shim could then be inserted to make the necessary correction (fig. ). the system was used only during construction to overcome minor erection discrepancies. in order to appreciate fully the problem which confronted the tower's designers and sponsors when they turned to the problem of making its observation areas accessible to the fair's visitors, it is first necessary to investigate briefly the contemporary state of elevator art. elevator development before the tower while power-driven hoists and elevators in many forms had been used since the early years of the th century, the ever-present possibility of breakage of the hoisting rope restricted their use almost entirely to the handling of goods in mills and warehouses.[ ] not until the invention of a device which would positively prevent this was there much basis for work on other elements of the system. the first workable mechanism to prevent the car from dropping to the bottom of the hoistway in event of rope failure was the product of elisha g. otis ( - ), a mechanic of yonkers, new york. the invention was made more or less as a matter of course along with the other machinery for a new mattress factory of which otis was master mechanic. [illustration: figure .--correcting erection discrepancies by raising pier member--with hydraulic press and hand pump--and inserting shims. (from _la nature_, feb. , , vol. , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--the promenade beneath the eiffel tower, . (from _la nature_, nov. , , vol. , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--teagle elevator in an english mill about . power was taken from the line shafting. (from _pictorial gallery of arts_, volume of useful arts, london, n.d. [ca. ].)] the importance of this invention soon became evident to otis, and he introduced his device to the public three years later during the second season of the new york crystal palace exhibition, in . here he would demonstrate dramatically the perfect safety of his elevator by cutting the hoisting rope of a suspended platform on which he himself stood, uttering the immortal words which have come to be inseparably associated with the history of the elevator--"all safe, gentlemen!"[ ] the invention achieved popularity slowly, but did find increasing favor in manufactories throughout the eastern united states. the significance of otis' early work in this field lay strictly in the safety features of his elevators rather than in the hoisting equipment. his earliest systems were operated by machinery similar to that of the teagle elevator in which the hoisting drum was driven from the mill shafting by simple fast and loose pulleys with crossed and straight belts to raise, lower, and stop. this scheme, already common at the time, was itself a direct improvement on the ancient hand-powered drum hoist. the first complete elevator machine in the united states, constructed in , was a complex and inefficient contrivance built around an oscillating-cylinder steam engine. the advantages of an elevator system independent of the mill drive quickly became apparent, and by improved steam elevator machines were being produced in some quantity, but almost exclusively for freight service. it is not clear when the first elevator was installed explicitly for passenger service, but it was probably in , when otis placed one in a store on broadway at broome street in new york. in the decade following the civil war, tall buildings had just begun to emerge; and, although the skylines of the world's great cities were still dominated by church spires, there was increasing activity in the development of elevator apparatus adapted to the transportation of people as well as of merchandise. operators of hotels and stores gradually became aware of the commercial advantages to be gained by elevating their patrons even one or two floors above the ground, by machinery. the steam engine formed the foundation of the early elevator industry, but as building heights increased it was gradually replaced by hydraulic, and ultimately by electrical, systems. the steam elevator the progression from an elevator machine powered by the line shafting of a mill to one in which the power source was independent would appear a simple and direct one. nevertheless, it was about years after the introduction of the powered elevator before it became common to couple elevator machines directly to separate engines. the multiple belt and pulley transmission system was at first retained, but it soon became evident that a more satisfactory service resulted from stopping and reversing the engine itself, using a single fixed belt to connect the engine and winding mechanism. interestingly, the same pattern was followed years later when the first attempts were made to apply the electric motor to elevator drive. [illustration: figure .--in the typical steam elevator machine two vertical cylinders were situated either above or below the crankshaft, and a small pulley was keyed to the crankshaft. in a light-duty machine, the power was transmitted by flatbelt from the small pulley to a larger one mounted directly on the drum. in heavy-duty machines, spur gearing was interposed between the large secondary pulley and the winding drum. (photo courtesy of otis elevator company.)] [illustration: figure .--several manufacturers built steam machines in which a gear on the drum shaft meshed directly with a worm on the crankshaft. this arrangement eliminated the belt, and, since the drum could not drive the engine through the worm gearing, no brake was necessary for holding the load. (courtesy of otis elevator company.)] by the steam elevator machine had attained its ultimate form, which, except for a number of minor refinements, was to remain unchanged until the type became completely obsolete toward the end of the century. by the last quarter of the century, a continuous series of improvements in the valving, control systems, and safety features of the steam machine had made possible an elevator able to compete with the subsequently appearing hydraulic systems for freight and low-rise passenger service insofar as smoothness, control, and lifting power were concerned. however, steam machinery began to fail in this competition as the increasing height of buildings rapidly extended the demands of speed and length of rise. the limitation in rise constituted the most serious shortcoming of the steam elevator (figs. - ), an inherent defect that did not exist in the various hydraulic systems. [illustration: figure .--components of the steam passenger elevator at the time of its peak development and use ( ). (from _the first one hundred years_, otis elevator company, .)] since the only practical way in which the power of a steam engine could be applied to the haulage of elevator cables was through a rotational system, the cables invariably were wound on a drum. the travel or rise of the car was therefore limited by the cable capacity of the winding drum. as building heights increased, drums became necessarily longer and larger until they grew so cumbersome as to impose a serious limitation upon further upward growth. a drum machine rarely could be used for a lift of more than feet.[ ] another organic difficulty existing in drum machines was the dangerous possibility of the car--or the counterweight, whose cables often wound on the drum--being drawn past the normal top limit and into the upper supporting works. only safety stops could prevent such an occurrence if the operator failed to stop the car at the top or bottom of the shaft, and even these were not always effective. hydraulic machines were not susceptible to this danger, the piston or plunger being arrested by the ends of the cylinder at the extremes of travel. the hydraulic elevator the rope-geared hydraulic elevator, which was eventually to become known as the "standard of the industry," is generally thought to have evolved directly from an invention of the english engineer sir william armstrong ( - ) of ordnance fame. in he developed a water-powered crane, utilizing the hydraulic head available from a reservoir on a hill feet above. the system was not basically different from the simple hydraulic press so well known at the time. water, admitted to a horizontal cylinder, displaced a piston and rod to which a sheave was attached. around the sheave passed a loop of chain, one end of which was fixed, the other running over guide sheaves and terminating at the crane arm with a lifting hook. as the piston was pressed into the cylinder, the free end of the chain was drawn up at triple the piston speed, raising the load. the effect was simply that of a -to- tackle, with the effort and load elements reversed. simple valves controlled admission and exhaust of the water. (see fig. .) [illustration: figure .--armstrong's hydraulic crane. the main cylinder was inclined, permitting gravity to assist in overhauling the hook. the small cylinder rotated the crane. (from john h. jallings, _elevators_, chicago, , p. .)] the success of this system initiated a sizable industry in england, and the hydraulic crane, with many modifications, was in common use there for many years. such cranes were introduced in the united states in about but never became popular; they did, however, have a profound influence on the elevator art, forming the basis of the third generic type to achieve widespread use in this country. the ease of translation from the armstrong crane to an elevator system could hardly have been more evident, only two alterations of consequence being necessary in the passage. a guided platform or car was substituted for the hook; and the control valves were connected to a stationary endless rope that was accessible to an operator on the car. the rope-geared hydraulic system (fig. ) appeared in mature form in about . however, before it had become the "standard elevator" through a process of refinement, another system was introduced which merits notice if for no other reason than that its popularity for some years seems remarkable in view of its preposterously unsafe design. patented by cyrus w. baldwin of boston in january , this system was termed the hydro-atmospheric elevator, but more commonly known as the water-balance elevator (fig. ). it employed water not under pressure but simply as mass under the influence of gravity. the elevator car's supporting cables ran over sheaves at the top of the shaft to a large iron bucket, which traveled in a closed tube or well adjacent to and the same length as the shaft. to raise the car, the operator caused a valve to open, filling the bucket with water from a roof tank. when the weight of water was sufficient to overbalance the loaded car, the bucket descended, raising the car. on its ascent the car was stopped at intermediate floors by a strong brake that gripped the guides. upon reaching the top, the operator was able to open a valve in the bucket, now at the bottom of its travel, and discharge its contents into a basement tank, to be pumped back to the roof. no longer counterbalanced, the car could descend, its speed controlled solely by the brake. the great popularity of this novel system apparently was due to its smooth operation, high speed, simplicity, and economy of operation. managed by a skillful operator, it was capable of speeds far greater than other systems could then achieve--up to a frightening , feet per minute.[ ] [illustration: figure .--final development of the baldwin-hale water balance elevator, . the brake, kept applied by powerful springs, was released only by steady pressure on a lever. there were two additional controls--the continuous rope that opened the cistern valve to fill the bucket, and a second lever to open the valve of the bucket to empty it. (from _united states railroad and mining register_, apr. , , vol. , p. .)] in addition to the element of potential danger from careless operation or failure of the brake, the baldwin system was extremely expensive to install as a result of the second shaft, which of course was required to be more or less watertight. much of the water-balance elevator's development and refinement was done by william e. hale of chicago, who also made most of the installations. the system has, therefore, come to bear his name more commonly than baldwin's. the popularity of the water-balance system waned after only a few years, being eclipsed by more rational systems. hale eventually abandoned it and became the western agent for otis--by this time prominent in the field--and subsequently was influential in development of the hydraulic elevator. the rope-geared system of hydraulic elevator operation was so basically simple that by it had been embraced by virtually all manufacturers. however, for years most builders continued to maintain a line of steam and belt driven machines for freight service. inspired by the rapid increase of taller and taller buildings, there was a concentrated effort, heightened by severe competition, to refine the basic system. [illustration: figure .--vertical cylinder, rope-geared hydraulic elevator with : gear ratio and rope control (about ). for higher rises and speeds, ratios of up to : were used, and the endless rope was replaced by a lever. (courtesy of otis elevator company.)] by the late 's a vast number of improvements in detail had appeared, and this form of elevator was considered to be almost without defect. it was safe. absence of a drum enabled the car to be carried by a number of cables rather than by one or two, and rendered overtravel impossible. it was fast. control devices had received probably the most attention by engineers and were as perfect and sensitive as was possible with mechanical means. cars with lever control could be run at the high speeds required for high buildings, yet they could be stopped with a smoothness and precision unattainable earlier with systems in which the valves were controlled by an endless rope, worked by the operator. it was almost completely silent, and when the cylinder was placed vertically in a well near the shaft, practically no valuable floor space was occupied. but most important, the length of rise was unlimited because no drum was used. as greater rises were required, the multiplication of the ropes and sheaves was simply increased, raising the piston-car travel ratio and permitting the cylinder to remain of manageable length. the ratio was often as high as or to , the car moving or feet to the piston's . in addition to its principal advantages, the hydraulic elevator could be operated directly from municipal water mains in the many cities where there was sufficient pressure, thus eliminating a large investment in tanks, pumps and boilers (fig. ). by far the greatest development in this specialized branch of mechanical engineering occurred in the united states. the comparative position of american practice, which will be demonstrated farther on, is indicated by the fact that otis brothers and other large elevator concerns in the united states were able to establish offices in many of the major cities of europe and compete very successfully with local firms in spite of the higher costs due to shipment. this also demonstrates the extent of error in the oft-heard statement that the skyscraper was the direct result of the elevator's invention. there is no question that continued elevator improvement was an essential factor in the rapid increase of building heights. however, consideration of the situation in european cities, where buildings of over stories were (and still are) rare in spite of the availability of similar elevator techniques, points to the fundamental matter of tradition. the european city simply did not develop with the lack of judicial restraint which characterized metropolitan growth in the united states. the american tendency to confine mercantile activity to the smallest possible area resulted in excessive land values, which drove buildings skyward. the elevator followed, or, at most, kept pace with, the development of higher buildings. [illustration: figure .--in the various hydraulic systems, a pump was required if pressure from water mains was insufficient to operate the elevator directly. there was either a gravity tank on the roof or a pressure tank in the basement. (from thomas e. brown, jr., "the american passenger elevator," _engineering magazine_ (new york), june , vol. , p. .)] european elevator development--notwithstanding the number of american rope-geared hydraulic machines sold in europe in the years or so preceding the paris fair of --was confined mainly to variations on the direct plunger type, which was first used in english factories in the 's. the plunger elevator (fig. ), an even closer derivative of the hydraulic press than armstrong's crane, was nothing more than a platform on the upper end of a vertical plunger that rose from a cylinder as water was forced in. there were two reasons for this european practice. the first and most apparent was the rarity of tall buildings. the drilling of a well to receive the cylinder was thus a matter of little difficulty. this well had to be equivalent in depth to the elevator rise. the second reason was an innate european distrust of cable-hung elevator systems in any form, an attitude that will be discussed more fully farther on. the electric elevator at the time the eiffel tower elevators were under consideration, water under pressure was, from a practical standpoint, the only agent capable of fulfilling the power and control requirements of this particularly severe service. steam, as previously mentioned, had already been found wanting in several respects. electricity, on the other hand, seemed to hold promise for almost every field of human endeavor. by the electric motor had behind it a - or -year history of active development. frank j. sprague had already placed in successful operation a sizable electric trolley-car system, and was manufacturing motors of up to horsepower in commercial quantity. lighting generators were being produced in sizes far greater. there were, nevertheless, many obstacles preventing the translation of this progress into machinery capable of hauling large groups of people a vertical distance of , feet with unquestionable dependability. the first application of electricity to elevator propulsion was an experiment of the distinguished german electrician werner von siemens, who, in , constructed a car that successfully climbed a rack by means of a motor and worm gearing beneath its deck (figs. , )--again, the characteristic european distrust of cable suspension. however, the effect of this success on subsequent development was negligible. significant use of electricity in this field occurred somewhat later, and in a manner parallel to that by which steam was first applied to the elevator--the driving of mechanical (belt driven) elevator machines by individual motors. slightly later came another application of the "conversion" type. this was the simple substitution of electrically driven pumps (fig. ) for steam pumps in hydraulic installations. it will be recalled that pumps were necessary in cases where water main pressure was insufficient to operate the elevator directly. in both of these cases the operational demands on the motor were of course identical to those on the prime movers which they replaced; no reversal of direction was necessary, the speed was constant, and the load was nearly constant. furthermore, the load could be applied to the motor gradually through automatic relief valves on the pump and in the mechanical machines by slippage as the belt was shifted from the loose to the fast pulleys. the ultimate simplicity in control resulted from permitting the motor to run continuously, drawing current only in proportion to its loading. the direct-current motor of the 's was easily capable of such service, and it was widely used in this way. [illustration: figure .--rope-geared hydraulic freight elevator using a horizontal cylinder (about ). (from a lane & bodley illustrated catalog of hydraulic elevators, cincinnati, n.d.)] [illustration: figure .--english direct plunger hydraulic elevator (about ). (from f. dye, _popular engineering_, london, , p. .)] adaptation of the motor to the direct drive of an elevator machine was quite another matter, the difficulties being largely those of control. at this time the only practical means of starting a motor under load was by introducing resistance into the circuit and cutting it out in a series of steps as the speed picked up; precisely the method used to start traction motors. in the early attempts to couple the motor directly to the winding drum through worm gearing, this "notching up" was transmitted to the car as a jerking motion, disagreeable to passengers and hard on machinery. furthermore, the controller contacts had a short life because of the arcing which resulted from heavy starting currents. in all, such systems were unsatisfactory and generally unreliable, and were held in disfavor by both elevator experts and owners. [illustration: figure .--siemens' electric rack-climbing elevator of . (from werner von siemens, _gesammelte abhandlungen und vorträge_, berlin, , pl. .)] there was, moreover, little inducement to overcome the problem of control and other minor problems because of a more serious difficulty which had persisted since the days of steam. this was the matter of the drum and its attendant limitations. the motor's action being rotatory, the winding drum was the only practical way in which to apply its motive power to hoisting. this single fact shut electricity almost completely out of any large-scale elevator business until after the turn of the century. true, there was a certain amount of development, after about , of the electric worm-drive drum machine for slow-speed, low-rise service (fig. ). but the first installation of this type that was considered practically successful--in that it was in continuous use for a long period--was not made until ,[ ] the year in which the eiffel tower was completed. pertinent is the one nearly successful attempt which was made to approach the high-rise problem electrically. in , charles r. pratt, an elevator engineer of montclair, new jersey, invented a machine based on the horizontal cylinder rope-geared hydraulic elevator, in which the two sets of sheaves were drawn apart by a screw and traveling nut. the screw was revolved directly by a sprague motor, the system being known as the sprague-pratt. while a number of installations were made, the machine was subject to several serious mechanical faults and passed out of use around . generally, electricity as a practical workable power for elevators seemed to hold little promise in .[ ] [illustration: figure .--motor and drive mechanism of siemens' elevator. (from alfred r. urbanitzky, _electricity in the service of man_, london, , p. .)] [illustration: _morse, williams & co._, builders of passenger and freight elevators. electric elevator. write us for circulars and prices. main office and works, frankford avenue, philadelphia. new york office, liberty street. new haven " church street. pittsburg " fourth avenue. boston office pearl street. baltimore " builders' exchange. scranton " spruce street. figure .--the electric elevator in its earliest commercial form ( ), with the motor connected directly to the load. by this time, incandescent lighting circuits in large cities were sufficiently extensive to make such installations practical. however, capacity and lift were severely limited by weaknesses of the control system and the necessity of using a drum. (from _electrical world_, jan. , , vol. , p. xcvii.)] [illustration: miller's patent life and labor-saving screw hoisting machine, for the use of stores, hotels, warehouses, factories, sugar refineries, packing houses, mills, docks, mines, &c. manufactured by campbell, whittier & co., roxbury, mass. _sole agents for the new england states._ the above engraving illustrates a very superior hoisting machine, designed for _store and warehouse hoisting_. it is very simple in its construction, compact, durable, and not liable to get out of order. an examination of the engraving will convince any one who has any knowledge of machinery, that the screw is the only safe principle on which to construct a hoisting machine or elevator. figure .--advertisement for the miller screw-hoisting machine, about (see p. ). from flyer in the united states national museum.] [illustration: figure .--the first widespread use of electricity in the elevator field was to drive belt-type mechanical machines and the pumps of hydraulic systems (see p. ) as shown here. (from _electrical world_, jan. , , vol. , p. .)] the tower's elevators a great part of the eiffel tower's worth and its _raison d'être_ lay in the overwhelming visual power by which it was to symbolize to a world audience the scientific, artistic, and, above all, the technical achievements of the french republic. another consideration, in eiffel's opinion, was its great potential value as a scientific observatory. at its summit grand experiments and observations would be possible in such fields as meteorology and astronomy. in this respect it was welcomed as a tremendous improvement over the balloon and steam winch that had been featured in this service at the paris exposition. experiments were also to be conducted on the electrical illumination of cities from great heights. the great strategic value of the tower as an observation post also was recognized. but from the beginning, sight was never lost of the structure's great value as an unprecedented public attraction, and its systematic exploitation in this manner played a part in its planning, second perhaps only to the basic design. the conveyance of multitudes of visitors to the tower's first or main platform and a somewhat lesser number to the summit was a technical problem whose seriousness eiffel must certainly have been aware of at the project's onset. while a few visitors could be expected to walk to the first or possibly second stage, feet above the ground, the main means of transport obviously had to be elevators. indeed, the two aspects of the tower with which the exposition commissioners were most deeply concerned were the adequate grounding of lightning and the provision of a reliable system of elevators, which they insisted be unconditionally safe. to study the elevator problem, eiffel retained a man named backmann who was considered an expert on the subject. apparently backmann originally was to design the complete system, but he was to prove inadequate to the task. as his few schemes are studied it becomes increasingly difficult to imagine by what qualifications he was regarded as either an elevator expert or designer by eiffel and the commission. his proposals appear, with one exception, to have been decidedly retrogressive, and, further, to incorporate the most undesirable features of those earlier systems he chose to borrow from. nothing has been discovered regarding his work, if any, on elevators for the lower section of the tower. realizing the difficulty of this aspect of the problem, he may not have attempted its solution, and confined his work to the upper half where the structure permitted a straight, vertical run. [illustration: figure .--various levels of the eiffel tower. (adapted from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , pl. .)] the backmann design for the upper elevators was based upon a principle which had been attractive to many inventors in the mid- th century period of elevator development--that of "screwing the car up" by means of a threaded element and a nut, either of which might be rotated and the other remain stationary. the analogy to a nut and bolt made the scheme an obvious one at that early time, but its inherent complexity soon became equally evident and it never achieved practical success. backmann projected two cylindrical cars that traveled in parallel shafts and balanced one another from opposite ends of common cables that passed over a sheave in the upperworks. around the inside of each shaft extended a spiral track upon which ran rollers attached to revolving frames underneath the cars. when the frames were made to revolve, the rollers, running around the track, would raise or lower one car, the other traveling in the opposite direction (fig. ). [illustration: figure .--backmann's proposed helicoidal elevator for the upper section of the eiffel tower. the cars were to be self-powered by electric motors. note similarity to the miller system (fig. ). (adapted from _the engineer_ (london), aug. , , vol. , p. .)] in the plan as first presented, a ground-based steam engine drove the frames and rollers through an endless fly rope--traveling at high speed presumably to permit it to be of small diameter and still transmit a reasonable amount of power--which engaged pulleys on the cars. the design was remarkably similar to that of the miller patent screw hoisting machine, which had had a brief life in the united states around . the miller system (see p. ) used a flat belt rather than a rope (fig. ). this plan was quickly rejected, probably because of anticipated difficulties with the rope transmission.[ ] backmann's second proposal, actually approved by the commission, incorporated the only--although highly significant--innovation evident in his designs. for the rope transmission, electric motors were substituted, one in each car to drive the roller frame directly. with this modification, the plan does not seem quite as unreasonable, and would probably have worked. however, it would certainly have lacked the necessary durability and would have been extremely expensive. the commission discarded the whole scheme about the middle of , giving two reasons for its action: ( ) the novelty of the system and the attendant possibility of stoppages which might seriously interrupt the "exploitation of the tower," and ( ) fear that the rollers running around the tracks would cause excessive noise and vibration. both reasons seem quite incredible when the backmann system is compared to one of those actually used--the roux, described below--which obviously must have been subject to identical failings, and on a far greater scale. more likely there existed an unspoken distrust of electric propulsion. that the backmann system should have been given serious consideration at all reflects the uncertainty surrounding the entire matter of providing elevator service of such unusual nature. had the eiffel tower been erected only years later, the situation would have been simply one of selection. as it was, eiffel and the commissioners were governed not by what they wanted but largely by what was available. the otis system the curvature of the tower's legs imposed a problem unique in elevator design, and it caused great annoyance to eiffel, the fair's commission, and all others concerned. since a vertical shaftway anywhere within the open area beneath the first platform was esthetically unthinkable, the elevators could be placed only in the inclined legs. the problem of reaching the first platform was not serious. the legs were wide enough and their curvature so slight in this lower portion as to permit them to contain a straight run of track, and the service could have been designed along the lines of an ordinary inclined railway. it was estimated that the great majority of visitors would go only to this level, attracted by the several international restaurants, bars and other features located there. two elevators to operate only that far were contracted for with no difficulty--one to be placed in the east leg and one in the west. to transport people to the second platform was an altogether different problem. since there was to be a single run from the ground, it would have been necessary to form the elevator guides either with a constant curvature, approximating that of the legs, or with a series of straight chords connected by short segmental curves of small radius. eiffel planned initially to use the first method, but the second was adopted ultimately, probably as being the simpler because only two straight lengths of run were found to be necessary. bids were invited for two elevators on this basis--one each for the north and south legs. here the unprecedented character of the matter became evident--there was not a firm in france willing to undertake the work. the american elevator company, the european branch of otis brothers & company, did submit a proposal through its paris office, otis ascenseur cie., but the commission was compelled to reject it because a clause in the fair's charter prohibited the use of any foreign material in the construction of the tower. furthermore, there was a strong prejudice against foreign contractors, which, because of the general background of disfavor surrounding the project during its early stages, was an element worth serious consideration by the commission. the bidding time was extended, and many attempts were made to attract a native design but none was forthcoming. as time grew short, it became imperative to resolve the matter, and the commission, in desperation, awarded the contract to otis in july for the amount of $ , .[ ] a curious footnote to the affair appeared much later in the form of a published interview[ ] with w. frank hall, otis' paris representative: "yes," said mr. hall, "this is the first elevator of its kind. our people for thirty-eight years have been doing this work, and have constructed thousands of elevators vertically, and many on an incline, but never one to strike a radius of feet for a distance of over feet. it has required a great amount of preparatory study and we have worked on it for three years." "that was before you got the contract?" "quite so, but we knew that, although the french authorities were very reluctant to give away this piece of work, they would be bound to come to us, and so we were preparing for them." such supreme confidence must have rapidly evaporated as events progressed. despite the invaluable advertising to be derived from an installation of such distinction, the otises would probably have defaulted had they foreseen the difficulties which preceded completion of the work. [illustration: figure .--general arrangement of otis elevator system in eiffel tower. (from _the engineer_ (london), july , , vol. , p. .)] the proposed system (fig. ) was based fundamentally upon otis' standard hydraulic elevator, but it was recognizable only in basic operating principle (fig. ). tracks of regular rail section replaced the guides because of the incline, and the double-decked cabin (fig. ) ran on small flanged wheels. this much of the apparatus was really not unlike that of an ordinary inclined railway. motive power was provided by the customary hydraulic cylinder (fig. ), set on an angle roughly equal to the incline of the lower section of run. balancing the cabin's dead weight was a counterpoise carriage (fig. ) loaded with pig iron that traveled on a second set of rails beneath the main track. like the driving system, the counterweight was rope-geared, to , so that its travel was about feet to the cabin's feet. [illustration: figure .--schematic diagram of the rigging of the otis system. (adapted from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , p. .)] everything about the system was on a scale far heavier than found in the normal elevator of the type. the cylinder, of -inch bore, was feet long. rather than a simple nest of pulleys, the piston rods pulled a large guided carriage or "chariot" bearing six movable sheaves (fig. ). corresponding were five stationary sheaves, the whole reeved to form an immense -purchase tackle. the car, attached to the free ends of the cables, was hauled up as the piston drew the two sheave assemblies apart. in examining the system, it is difficult to determine what single element in its design might have caused such a problem as to have been beyond the engineering ability of a french firm, and to have caused such concern to a large, well-established american organization of otis' wide elevator and inclined railway experience. indeed, when the french system--which served the first platform from the east and west legs--is examined, it appears curious that a national technology capable of producing a machine at such a level of complexity should have been unable to deal easily with the entire matter. this can be plausibly explained only on the basis of europe's previously mentioned lack of experience with rope-geared and other cable-hung elevator systems. the difficulty attending otis' work, usually true in the case of all innovations, lay unquestionably in the multitudes of details--many of them, of course, invisible when only the successfully working end product is observed. more than a matter of detail was the commission's demand for perfect safety, which precipitated a situation typical of many confronting otis during the entire work. otis had wished to coordinate the entire design process through mr. hall, with technical matters handled by mail. nevertheless, at eiffel's insistence, and with some inconvenience, in the company dispatched the project's engineer, thomas e. brown, jr., to paris for a direct consultation. mild conflict over minor details ensued, but a gross difference of opinion arose ultimately between the american and french engineers over the safety of the system. the disagreement threatened to halt the entire project. in common with all elevators in which the car hangs by cables, the prime consideration here was a means of arresting the cabin should the cables fail. as originally presented to eiffel, the plans indicated an elaborate modification of the standard otis safety device--itself a direct derivative of e. g. otis' original. if any one of the six hoisting cables broke or stretched unduly, or if their tension slackened for any reason, powerful leaf springs were released causing brake shoes to grip the rails. the essential feature of the design was the car's arrest by friction between its grippers and the rails so that the stopping action was gradual, not sudden as in the elevator safety. during proof trials of the safety, made prior to the fair's opening by cutting away a set of temporary hoisting cables, the cabin would fall about feet before being halted. [illustration: figure .--section through the otis power cylinder. (adapted from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , pl. .)] [illustration: figure .--details of the counterweight carriage in the otis system. (from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , pl. { }.)] although highly efficient and of unquestionable security, this safety device was considered an insufficient safeguard by eiffel, who, speaking in the name of the commission, demanded the application of a device known as the rack and pinion safety that was used to some extent on european cog railways. the commissioners not only considered this system more reliable but felt that one of its features was a necessity: a device that permitted the car to be lowered by hand, even after failure of all the hoisting cables. the serious shortcomings of the rack and pinion were its great noisiness and the limitation it imposed on hoisting speed. both disadvantages were due to the constant engagement of a pinion on the car with a continuous rack set between the rails. the meeting ended in an impasse, with brown unwilling to approve the objectionable apparatus and able only to return to new york and lay the matter before his company. while eiffel's attitude in the matter may appear highly unreasonable, it must be said that during a subsequent meeting between brown and koechlin, the french engineer implied that a mutual antagonism had arisen between the tower's creator and the commission. thus, since his own judgment must have had little influence with the commissioners at that time, eiffel was compelled to specify what he well knew were excessive safety provisions. this decision placed otis brothers in a decidedly uncomfortable position, at the mercy of the commission. w. e. hale, promoter of the water balance elevator--who by then had a strong voice in otis' affairs--expressed the seriousness of the matter in a letter to the company's president, charles r. otis, following receipt of brown's report on the paris conference. referring to the controversial cogwheel, hale wrote ... if this must be arranged so that the car is effected [sic] in its operation by constant contact with the rack and pinion ... so as to communicate the noise and jar, and unpleasant motion which such an arrangement always produces, i should favor giving up the whole matter rather than allying ourselves with any such abortion.... we would be the laughing stock of the world, for putting up such a contrivance. this difficult situation apparently was the product of a somewhat general contract phrased in terms of service to be provided rather than of specific equipment to be used. this is not unusual, but it did leave open to later dispute such ambiguous clauses as "adequate safety devices are to be provided." although faced with the loss not only of all previously expended design work but also of an advertisement of international consequence, the company apparently concurred with hale and so advised paris. unfortunately, there are no otis records to reveal the subsequent transactions, but we may assume that otis' threat of withdrawal prevailed, coupled as it was with eiffel's confidence in the american equipment. the system went into operation as originally designed, free of the odious rack and pinion. that, unfortunately, was not the final disagreement. before the fair's opening in may , the relationship was strained so drastically that a mutually satisfactory conclusion to the project must indeed have seemed hopeless. the numerous minor structural modifications of the tower legs found necessary as construction progressed had necessitated certain equivalent alteration to the otis design insofar as its dependency upon the framework was affected. consequently, work on the machinery was set back by some months. eiffel was informed that although everything was guaranteed to be in full operation by opening day on may , the contractual deadline of january could not possibly be met. eiffel, now unquestionably acting on his own volition, responded by cable, refusing all payment. charles otis' reply, a classic of indignation, disclosed to eiffel the jeopardy in which his impetuosity had placed the success of the entire project: after all else we have borne and suffered and achieved in your behalf, we regard this as a trifle too much; and we do not hesitate to declare, in the strongest terms possible to the english language, that we will not put up with it ... and, if there is to be war, under the existing circumstances, propose that at least part of it shall be fought on american ground. if mr. eiffel shall, on the contrary, treat us as we believe we are entitled to be treated, under the circumstances, and his confidence in our integrity to serve him well shall be restored in season to admit of the completion of this work at the time wanted, well and good; but it must be done at once ... otherwise we shall ship no more work from this side, and mr. eiffel must charge to himself the consequences of his own acts. this message apparently had the desired effect and the matter was somehow resolved, as the machinery was in full operation when the exposition opened. the installation must have had immense promotional value for otis brothers, particularly in its contrast to the somewhat anomalous french system. this contrast evidently was visible to the technically unsophisticated as well as to visiting engineers. several newspapers reported that the otis elevators were one of the best american exhibits at the fair. in spite of their large over-all scale and the complication of the basic pattern imposed by the unique situation, the otis elevators performed well and justified the original judgment and confidence which had prompted eiffel to fight for their installation. aside from the obvious advantage of simplicity when compared to the french machines, their operation was relatively quiet, and fast. the double car, traveling at feet per minute, carried persons, all seated because of the change of inclination. the main valve or distributor that controlled the flow of water to and from the driving cylinder was operated from the car by cables. the hydraulic head necessary to produce pressure within the cylinder was obtained from a large open reservoir on the second platform. after being exhausted from the cylinder, the water was pumped back up by two girard pumps (fig. ) in the engine room at the base of the tower's south leg. the system of roux, combaluzier and lepape there can be little doubt that the french elevators placed in the east and west piers to carry visitors to the first stage of the tower had the important secondary function of saving face. that an engineer of eiffel's mechanical perception would have permitted their use, unless compelled to do so by the exposition commission, is unthinkable. whatever the attitudes of the commissioners may have been, it must be said--recalling the backmann system--that they did not fear innovation. the machinery installed by the firm of roux, combaluzier and lepape was novel in every respect, but it was a product of misguided ingenuity and set no precedent. the system, never duplicated, was conceived, born, lived a brief and not overly creditable life, and died, entirely within the tower. basis of the french system was an endless chain of short, rigid, articulated links (fig. ), to one point of which the car was attached. as the chain moved, the car was raised or lowered. recalling the european distrust of suspended elevators, it is interesting to note that the car was pushed up by the links below, not drawn by those above, thus the active links were in compression. to prevent buckling of the column, the chain was enclosed in a conduit (fig. ). excessive friction was prevented by a pair of small rollers at each of the knuckle joints between the links. the system was, in fact, a duplicate one, with a chain on either side of the car. at the bottom of the run the chains passed around huge sprocket wheels, . feet in diameter, with pockets on their peripheries to engage the joints. smaller wheels at the top guided the chains. if by some motive force the wheel (fig. ) were turned counterclockwise, the lower half of the chain would be driven upward, carrying the car with it. slots on the inside faces of the lower guide trunks permitted passage of the connection between the car and chain. lead weights on certain links of the chains' upper or return sections counterbalanced most of the car's dead weight. [illustration: figure .--plan and section of the otis system's movable pulley assembly, or chariot. piston rods are at left. (adapted from _the engineer_ (london), july , , vol. , p. .)] two horizontal cylinders rotated the driving sprockets through a mechanism whose effect was similar to the rope-gearing of the standard hydraulic elevator, but which might be described as chain gearing. the cylinders were of the pushing rather than the pulling type used in the otis system; that is, the pressure was introduced behind the plungers, driving them out. to the ends of the plungers were fixed smooth-faced sheaves, over which were looped heavy quadruple-link pitch chains, one end of each being solidly attached to the machine base. the free ends ran under the cylinder and made another half-wrap around small sprockets keyed to the main drive shaft. as the plungers were forced outward, the free ends of the chain moved in the opposite direction, at twice the velocity and linear displacement of the plungers. the drive sprockets were thereby revolved, driving up the car. descent was made simply by permitting the cylinders to exhaust, the car dropping of its own weight. the over-all gear or ratio of the system was the multiplication due to the double purchase of the plunger sheaves times the ratio of the chain and drive sprocket diameters: ( . / . ) or about : . to drive the car feet to the first platform of the tower the plungers traveled only about . feet. to penetrate the inventive rationale behind this strange machine is not difficult. aware of the fundamental dictum of absolute safety before all else, the roux engineers turned logically to the safest known elevator type--the direct plunger. this type of elevator, being well suited to low rises, formed the main body of european practice at the time, and in this fact lay the further attraction of a system firmly based on tradition. since the piers between the ground and first platform could accommodate a straight, although inclined run, the solution might obviously have been to use an inclined, direct plunger. the only difficulty would have been that of drilling a -foot, inclined well for the cylinder. while a difficult problem, it would not have been insurmountable. what then was the reason for using a design vastly more complex? the only reasonable answer that presents itself is that the designers, working in a period before the otis bid had been accepted, were attempting to evolve an apparatus capable of the complete service to the second platform. the use of a rigid direct plunger thus precluded, it became necessary to transpose the basic idea in order to adapt it to the curvature of the tower leg, and at the same time retain its inherent quality of safety. continuing the conceptual sequence, the idea of a plunger made in some manner flexible apparently suggested itself, becoming the heart of the roux machines. [illustration: figure .--section through cabin of the otis elevator. note the pivoted floor-sections. as the car traveled, these floor-sections were leveled by the operator to compensate for the change of inclination; however, they were soon removed because they interfered with the loading and unloading of passengers. (from _la nature_, may , , vol. , p. .)] here then was a design exhibiting strange contrast. it was on the one hand completely novel, devised expressly for this trying service; yet on the other hand it was derived from and fundamentally based on a thoroughly traditional system. if nothing else, it was safe beyond question. in eiffel's own words, the roux lifts "not only were safe, but appeared safe; a most desirable feature in lifts traveling to such heights and carrying the general public."[ ] the system's shortcomings could hardly be more evident. friction resulting from the more than joints in the flexible pistons, each carrying two rollers, plus that from the pitch chains must have been immense. the noise created by such multiplicity of parts can only be imagined. capacity was equivalent to that of the otis system. about people could be carried in the double-deck cabin, some standing. the speed, however, was only feet per minute, understandably low. if it had been the initial intention of the designers to operate their cars to the second platform, they must shortly have become aware of the impracticability of this plan, caused by an inherent characteristic of the apparatus. as long as the compressive force acted along the longitudinal axis of the links, there was no lateral resultant and the only load on the small rollers was that due to the dead weight of the link itself. however, if a curve had been introduced in the guide channels to increase the incline of the upper run, as done by otis, the force on those links traversing the bend would have been eccentric--assuming the car to be in the upper section, above the bend. the difference between the two sections (based upon the otis system) was ° ' minus ° ', or ° ', the tangent of which equals . . forty-three percent of the unbalanced weight of the car and load would then have borne upon the, say, sets of rollers on the curve. the immense frictional load thus added to the entire system would certainly have made it dismally inefficient, if not actually unworkable. in spite of eiffel's public remarks regarding the safety of the roux machinery, in private he did not trouble to conceal his doubts. otis' representative, hall, discussing this toward the end of brown's previously mentioned report, probably presented a fairly accurate picture of the situation. his comments were based on conversations with eiffel and koechlin: mr. gibson, mr. hanning [who were other otis employees] and myself came to the unanimous conclusion that mr. eiffel had been forced to order those other machines, from outside parties, against his own judgment: and that he was very much in doubt as to their being a practical success--and was, therefore, all the more anxious to put in our machines (which he did have faith in) ... and if the others ate up coal in proportions greatly in excess of ours, he would have it to say ... "gentlemen, these are my choice of elevators, those are yours &c." there was a published interview ... in which eiffel stated ... that he was to meet some american gentlemen the following day, who were to provide him with elevators--grand elevators, i think he said.... [illustration: figure .--upperworks and passenger platforms of the otis system at second level. (from _la nature_, aug. , , vol. , p. .)] the roux and the otis systems both drew their water supply from the same tanks; also, each system used similar distributing valves (fig. ) operated from the cars. although no reports have been found of actual controlled tests comparing the efficiencies of the otis and roux systems, a general quantitative comparison may be made from the balance figures given for each (p. ), where it is seen that , pounds of excess tractive effort were allowed to overcome the friction of the otis machinery against , pounds for the roux. the edoux system the section of the tower presenting the least difficulty to elevator installation was that above the juncture of the four legs--from the second platform to the third, or observation, enclosure. there was no question that french equipment could perform this service. the run being perfectly straight and vertical, the only unusual demand upon contemporary elevator technology was the length of rise-- feet. the system ultimately selected (fig. ) appealed to the commission largely because of a similar one that had been installed in one tower of the famous trocadero[ ] and which had been operating successfully for years. it was the direct plunger system of leon edoux, and was, for the time, far more rationally contrived than backmann's helicoidal system. edoux, an old schoolmate of eiffel's, had built thousands of elevators in france and was possibly the country's most successful inventor and manufacturer in the field. it is likely that he did not attempt to obtain the contract for the elevator equipment in the tower legs, as his experience was based almost entirely on plunger systems, a type, as we have seen, not readily adaptable to that situation. what is puzzling was the failure of the commission's members to recognize sooner edoux's obvious ability to provide equipment for the upper run. it may have been due to their inexplicable confidence in backmann. [illustration: figure .--the french girard pumps that supplied the otis and roux systems. (from _la nature_, oct. , , vol. , p. .)] the direct plunger elevator was the only type in which european practice was in advance of american practice at this time. not until the beginning of the th century, when hydraulic systems were forced into competition with electrical systems, was the direct plunger elevator improved in america to the extent of being practically capable of high rises and speeds. another reason for its early disfavor in the united states was the necessity for drilling an expensive plunger well equal in length to the rise.[ ] as mentioned, the most serious problem confronting edoux was the extremely high rise of feet. the trocadero elevator, then the highest plunger machine in the world, traveled only about feet. a secondary difficulty was the esthetic undesirability of permitting a plunger cylinder to project downward a distance equal to such a rise, which would have carried it directly into the center of the open area beneath the first platform (fig. ). both problems were met by an ingenious modification of the basic system. the run was divided into two equal sections, each of feet, and two cars were used. one operated from the bottom of the run at the second platform level to an intermediate platform half-way up, while the other operated from this point to the observation platform near the top of the tower. the two sections were of course parallel, but offset. a central guide, on the tower's center-line, running the entire feet served both cars, with shorter guides on either side--one for the upper and one for the lower run. thus, each car traveled only half the total distance. the two cars were connected, as in the backmann system, by steel cables running over sheaves at the top, balancing each other and eliminating the need for counterweights. two driving rams were used. by being placed beneath the upper car, their cylinders extended downward only the feet to the second platform and so did not project beyond the confines of the system itself.[ ] in making the upward or downward trip, the passengers had to change from one car to the other at the intermediate platform, where the two met and parted (fig. ). this transfer was the only undesirable feature of what was, on the whole, a thoroughly efficient and well designed work of elevator engineering. [illustration: figure .--the otis distributor, with valves shown in motionless, neutral position. since the main valve at all times was subjected to the full operating pressure, it was necessary to drive this valve with a servo piston. the control cable operated only the servo piston's valve. (adapted from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--general arrangement of the roux combaluzier and lepape elevator.] [illustration: figure .--roux, combaluzier and lepape machinery and cabin at the tower's base. (from _la nature_, aug. , , vol. , p. .)] in operation, water was admitted to the two cylinders from a tank on the third platform. the resultant hydraulic head was sufficient to force out the rams and raise the upper car. as the rams and car rose, the rising water level in the cylinders caused a progressive reduction of the available head. this negative effect was further heightened by the fact that, as the rams moved upward, less and less of their length was buoyed by the water within the cylinders, increasing their effective weight. these two factors were, however, exactly compensated for by the lengthening of the cables on the other side of the pulleys as the lower car descended. perfect balance of the system's dead load for any position of the cabins was, therefore, a quality inherent in its design. however, there were two extreme conditions of live loading which required consideration: the lower car full and the upper empty, or vice versa. to permit the upper car to descend under the first condition, the plungers were made sufficiently heavy, by the addition of cast iron at their lower ends, to overbalance the weight of a capacity load in the lower car. the second condition demanded simply that the system be powerful enough to lift the unbalanced weight of the plungers plus the weight of passengers in the upper car. as in the other systems, safety was a matter of prime importance. in this case, the element of risk lay in the possibility of the suspended car falling. the upper car, resting on the rams, was virtually free of such danger. here again the influence of backmann was felt--a brake of his design was applied (fig. ). it was, true to form, a throwback, similar safety devices having proven unsuccessful much earlier. attached to the lower car were two helically threaded vertical rollers, working within the hollow guides. corresponding helical ribs in the guides rotated the rollers as the car moved. if the car speed exceeded a set limit, the increased resistance offered by the apparatus drove the rollers up into friction cups, slowing or stopping the car. [illustration: figure .--detail of links in the roux system. (from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--section of guide trunks in the roux system. (from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , p. .)] the device was considered ineffectual by edoux and eiffel, who were aware that the ultimate safety of the system resulted from the use of supporting cables far heavier than necessary. there were four such cables, with a total sectional area of . square inches. the total maximum load to which the cables might be subjected was about , pounds, producing a stress of about , pounds per square inch compared to a breaking stress of , pounds per square inch--a safety factor of ![ ] [illustration: figure .--schematic diagram of the edoux system. (adapted from gustave eiffel, _la tour de trois cents mètres_, paris, , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--vertical section through lower (suspended) edoux car, showing backmann helicoidal safety brake. (adapted from gustave eiffel, _la tour eiffel en _, paris, , p. .)] a curiosity in connection with the edoux system was the use of worthington (american) pumps (fig. ) to carry the water exhausted from the cylinders back to the supply tanks. no record has been found that might explain why this particular exception was made to the "foreign materials" stipulation. this exception is even more strange in view of otis' futile request for the same pumps and the fact that any number of native machines must have been available. it is possible that edoux's personal influence was sufficient to overcome the authority of the regulation. [illustration: figure .--passengers changing cars on edoux elevator at intermediate platform. (from _la nature_, may , , vol. , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--worthington tandem compound steam pumps, at base of the tower's south pier, supplied water for the edoux system. the tank was at feet, but suction was taken from the top of the cylinders at feet; therefore, the pumps worked against a head of only about feet. (from _la nature_, oct. , , vol. , p. .)] [illustration: figure .--recent view of lower car of the edoux system, showing slotted cylindrical guides that enclose the cables.] epilogue in , after the customary -year period, paris again prepared for an international exposition, about years too early to take advantage of the great progress made by the electric elevator. when the roux machines, the weakest element in the eiffel tower system, were replaced at this time, it was by other hydraulics. built by the well known french engineering organization of fives-lilles, the new machines were the ultimate in power, control, and general excellence of operation. as in the otis system, the cars ran all the way to the second platform. the fives-lilles equipment reflected the advance of european elevator engineering in this short time. the machines were rope-geared and incorporated the elegant feature of self-leveling cabins which compensated for the varying track inclination. for the fair, the otis elevator in the south pier was also removed and a wide stairway to the first platform built in its place. in , years after backmann's startling proposal to use electricity for his system, the remaining otis elevator was replaced by a small electric one. this innovation was reluctantly introduced solely for the purpose of accommodating visitors in the winter when the hydraulic systems were shut down due to freezing weather. the electric elevator had a short life, being removed in when the number of winter visitors increased far beyond its capacity. however, the two hydraulic systems were modified to operate in freezing temperatures--presumably by the simple expedient of adding an antifreezing chemical to the water--and operation was placed on a year-round basis. today the two fives-lilles hydraulic systems remain in full use; and visitors reach the tower's summit by edoux's elevator (fig. ), which is all that remains of the original installation. balance of the three elevator systems _the otis system_ negative effect weight of cabin: , lb. × sin ° ' (incline of upper run) , lb. live load: persons @ lb. = , × sin ° ' , ------ -- , lb. positive effect counterweight: , × sin ° ' (incline of lower run) ------------------------------------------ (rope gear ratio) , lb. weight of piston and chariot: , × sin ° ' ------------------ (ratio) , power: p.s.i. × , sq. in. (piston area) ---------------------------------------- (ratio) , , lb. excess to overcome friction , lb. _the roux, combaluzier and lepape system_ negative effect weight of cabin: , × sin ° ' , lb. live load: persons @ lb. = , × sin ° ' , ------ -- , lb. positive effect counterweight: , × sin ° ' , power: p.s.i. × (pistons) × , . sq. in. (piston area) ------------------------------------------ (ratio) , , lb. ------ ---------- excess to overcome friction , lb. _the edoux system_ negative effect unbalanced weight of plungers (necessary to raise full lower car and weight of cables on lower side) , lb. live load: persons @ lb. , ------ -- , lb. positive effect power: . p.s.i. × (plungers) × sq. in. (plunger area) , lb. ---------- excess to overcome friction , lb. footnotes: [ ] translated from jean a. keim, _la tour eiffel_, paris, . [ ] the foundation footings exerted a pressure on the earth of about pounds per square foot, roughly one-sixth that of the washington monument, then the highest structure in the world. [ ] a type of elevator known as the "teagle" was in use in some multistory english factories by about . from its description, this elevator appears to have been primarily for the use of passengers, but it unquestionably carried freight as well. the machine shown in figure had, with the exception of a car safety, all the features of later systems driven from line shafting--counterweight, control from the car, and reversal by straight and crossed belts. [ ] the otis safety, of which a modified form is still used, consisted essentially of a leaf wagon spring, on the car frame, kept strained by the tension of the hoisting cables. if these gave way, the spring, released, drove dogs into continuous racks on the vertical guides, holding the car or platform in place. [ ] a notable exception was the elevator in the washington monument. installed in for raising materials during the structure's final period of erection and afterwards converted to passenger service, it was for many years the highest-rise elevator in the world (about feet), and was certainly among the slowest, having a speed of feet per minute. [ ] today, although not limited by the machinery, speeds are set at a maximum of about , feet per minute. if higher speeds were used, an impractically long express run would be necessary for starting and stopping in order to prevent an acceleration so rapid as to be uncomfortable to passengers and a strain on the equipment. [ ] two machines, by otis, in the demarest building, fifth avenue and d street, new york. they were in use for over years. [ ] although the eventually successful application of electric power to the elevator did not occur until , and therefore goes beyond the chronological scope of this discussion, it was of such importance insofar as current practice is concerned as to be worthy of brief mention. in that year the first gearless traction machine was installed by otis in a chicago theatre. as the name implies, the cables were not wrapped on a drum but passed, from the car, over a grooved sheave directly on the motor shaft, the other ends being attached to the counterweights. the result was a system of beautiful simplicity, capable of any rise and speed with no proportionate increase in the number or size of its parts, and free from any possibility of car or weights being drawn into the machinery. this system is still the only one used for rises of over feet or so. by the time of its introduction, motor controls had been improved to the point of complete practicability. [ ] mechanical transmission of power by wire rope was a well developed practice at this time, involving in many instances high powers and distances up to a mile. to attempt this system in the eiffel tower, crowded with structural work, machinery and people, was another matter. [ ] according to otis elevator company, the final price, because of extras, was $ , . [ ] in _pall mall gazette_, as quoted in _the engineering and building record and the sanitary engineer_, may , , vol. , p. . [ ] from speech at annual summer meeting of institution of mechanical engineers, paris, . quoted in _engineering_, july , , vol. , p. . [ ] located near the tower, built for the paris fair of . [ ] improved oil-well drilling techniques were influential in the intense but short burst of popularity enjoyed by direct plunger systems in the united states between and . in new york, many such systems of -foot rise, and one of feet, were installed. [ ] an obvious question arises here: what prevents a plunger or feet long and no more than inches in diameter from buckling under its compressive loading? the answer is simply that most of this length is not in compression but in tension. the edoux rams, when fully extended, virtually hung from the upper car, sustained by the weight of feet of cable on the other side of the sheaves. as the upper car descended this effect diminished, but as the rams moved back into the cylinders their unsupported length was correspondingly reduced. [ ] m. a. ansaloni, "the lifts in the eiffel tower," quoted in _engineering_, july , , vol. , p. . the strength of steel when drawn into wire is increased tremendously. breaking stresses of , p.s.i. were not particularly high at the time. special cables with breaking stresses of up to , p.s.i. were available. transcriber's notes: passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. the original was printed in two columns per page. illustrations have been moved to the nearest paragraph break. the following misprints have been corrected: "trevethick's" corrected to "trevithick's" (page ) "then" corrected to "than" (page ) "smiliar" corrected to "similar" (page ) foreword in presenting this engaging rogue to my readers, i feel that i owe them, if not an apology, at least an explanation for this attempt at enlisting sympathy in favour of a man who has little to recommend him save his own unconscious humour. in very truth my good friend ratichon is an unblushing liar, thief, a forger--anything you will; his vanity is past belief, his scruples are non-existent. how he escaped a convict settlement it is difficult to imagine, and hard to realize that he died--presumably some years after the event recorded in the last chapter of his autobiography--a respected member of the community, honoured by that same society which should have raised a punitive hand against him. yet this i believe to be the case. at any rate, in spite of close research in the police records of the period, i can find no mention of hector ratichon. "heureux le peuple qui n'a pas d'histoire" applies, therefore, to him, and we must take it that fate and his own sorely troubled country dealt lightly with him. which brings me back to my attempt at an explanation. if fate dealt kindly, why not we? since time immemorial there have been worse scoundrels unhung than hector ratichon, and he has the saving grace-- which few possess--of unruffled geniality. buffeted by fate, sometimes starving, always thirsty, he never complains; and there is all through his autobiography what we might call an "ah, well!" attitude about his outlook on life. because of this, and because his very fatuity makes us smile, i feel that he deserves forgiveness and even a certain amount of recognition. the fragmentary notes, which i have only very slightly modified, came into my hands by a happy chance one dull post-war november morning in paris, when rain, sleet and the north wind drove me for shelter under the arcades of the odéon, and a kindly vendor of miscellaneous printed matter and mouldy mss. allowed me to rummage amongst a load of old papers which he was about to consign to the rubbish heap. i imagine that the notes were set down by the actual person to whom the genial hector ratichon recounted the most conspicuous events of his chequered career, and as i turned over the torn and musty pages, which hung together by scraps of mouldy thread, i could not help feeling the humour--aye! and the pathos--of that drabby side of old paris which was being revealed to me through the medium of this rogue's adventures. and even as, holding the fragments in my hand, i walked home that morning through the rain something of that same quaint personality seemed once more to haunt the dank and dreary streets of the once dazzling ville lumière. i seemed to see the shabby bottle-green coat, the nankeen pantaloons, the down-at-heel shoes of this "confidant of kings"; i could hear his unctuous, self-satisfied laugh, and sensed his furtive footstep whene'er a gendarme came into view. i saw his ruddy, shiny face beaming at me through the sleet and the rain as, like a veritable squire of dames, he minced his steps upon the boulevard, or, like a reckless smuggler, affronted the grave dangers of mountain fastnesses upon the juras; and i was quite glad to think that a life so full of unconscious humour had not been cut short upon the gallows. and i thought kindly of him, for he had made me smile. there is nothing fine about him, nothing romantic; nothing in his actions to cause a single thrill to the nerves of the most unsophisticated reader. therefore, i apologize in that i have not held him up to a just obloquy because of his crimes, and i ask indulgence for his turpitudes because of the laughter which they provoke. emmuska orczy. _paris, _. castles in the air chapter i a roland for his oliver . my name is ratichon--hector ratichon, at your service, and i make so bold as to say that not even my worst enemy would think of minimizing the value of my services to the state. for twenty years now have i placed my powers at the disposal of my country: i have served the republic, and was confidential agent to citizen robespierre; i have served the empire, and was secret factotum to our great napoléon; i have served king louis--with a brief interval of one hundred days-- for the past two years, and i can only repeat that no one, in the whole of france, has been so useful or so zealous in tracking criminals, nosing out conspiracies, or denouncing traitors as i have been. and yet you see me a poor man to this day: there has been a persistently malignant fate which has worked against me all these years, and would--but for a happy circumstance of which i hope anon to tell you--have left me just as i was, in the matter of fortune, when i first came to paris and set up in business as a volunteer police agent at no. rue daunou. my apartment in those days consisted of an antechamber, an outer office where, if need be, a dozen clients might sit, waiting their turn to place their troubles, difficulties, anxieties before the acutest brain in france, and an inner room wherein that same acute brain--mine, my dear sir--was wont to ponder and scheme. that apartment was not luxuriously furnished--furniture being very dear in those days--but there were a couple of chairs and a table in the outer office, and a cupboard wherein i kept the frugal repast which served me during the course of a long and laborious day. in the inner office there were more chairs and another table, littered with papers: letters and packets all tied up with pink tape (which cost three sous the metre), and bundles of letters from hundreds of clients, from the highest and the lowest in the land, you understand, people who wrote to me and confided in me to-day as kings and emperors had done in the past. in the antechamber there was a chair-bedstead for theodore to sleep on when i required him to remain in town, and a chair on which he could sit. and, of course, there was theodore! ah! my dear sir, of him i can hardly speak without feeling choked with the magnitude of my emotion. a noble indignation makes me dumb. theodore, sir, has ever been the cruel thorn that times out of number hath wounded my over-sensitive heart. think of it! i had picked him out of the gutter! no! no! i do not mean this figuratively! i mean that, actually and in the flesh, i took him up by the collar of his tattered coat and dragged him out of the gutter in the rue blanche, where he was grubbing for trifles out of the slime and mud. he was frozen, sir, and starved--yes, starved! in the intervals of picking filth up out of the mud he held out a hand blue with cold to the passers-by and occasionally picked up a sou. when i found him in that pitiable condition he had exactly twenty centimes between him and absolute starvation. and i, sir hector ratichon, the confidant of two kings, three autocrats and an emperor, took that man to my bosom--fed him, clothed him, housed him, gave him the post of secretary in my intricate, delicate, immensely important business--and i did this, sir, at a salary which, in comparison with his twenty centimes, must have seemed a princely one to him. his duties were light. he was under no obligation to serve me or to be at his post before seven o'clock in the morning, and all that he had to do then was to sweep out the three rooms, fetch water from the well in the courtyard below, light the fire in the iron stove which stood in my inner office, shell the haricots for his own mess of pottage, and put them to boil. during the day his duties were lighter still. he had to run errands for me, open the door to prospective clients, show them into the outer office, explain to them that his master was engaged on affairs relating to the kingdom of france, and generally prove himself efficient, useful and loyal--all of which qualities he assured me, my dear sir, he possessed to the fullest degree. and i believed him, sir; i nurtured the scorpion in my over-sensitive bosom! i promised him ten per cent. on all the profits of my business, and all the remnants from my own humble repasts--bread, the skins of luscious sausages, the bones from savoury cutlets, the gravy from the tasty carrots and onions. you would have thought that his gratitude would become boundless, that he would almost worship the benefactor who had poured at his feet the full cornucopia of comfort and luxury. not so! that man, sir, was a snake in the grass--a serpent--a crocodile! even now that i have entirely severed my connexion with that ingrate, i seem to feel the wounds, like dagger-thrusts, which he dealt me with so callous a hand. but i have done with him--done, i tell you! how could i do otherwise than to send him back to the gutter from whence i should never have dragged him? my goodness, he repaid with an ingratitude so black that you, sir, when you hear the full story of his treachery, will exclaim aghast. ah, you shall judge! his perfidy commenced less than a week after i had given him my third best pantaloons and three sous to get his hair cut, thus making a man of him. and yet, you would scarcely believe it, in the matter of the secret documents he behaved toward me like a veritable judas! listen, my dear sir. i told you, i believe, that i had my office in the rue daunou. you understand that i had to receive my clients--many of whom were of exalted rank---in a fashionable quarter of paris. but i actually lodged in passy--being fond of country pursuits and addicted to fresh air--in a humble hostelry under the sign of the "grey cat"; and here, too, theodore had a bed. he would walk to the office a couple of hours before i myself started on the way, and i was wont to arrive as soon after ten o'clock of a morning as i could do conveniently. on this memorable occasion of which i am about to tell you--it was during the autumn of --i had come to the office unusually early, and had just hung my hat and coat in the outer room, and taken my seat at my desk in the inner office, there to collect my thoughts in preparation for the grave events which the day might bring forth, when, suddenly, an ill-dressed, dour-looking individual entered the room without so much as saying, "by your leave," and after having pushed theodore--who stood by like a lout--most unceremoniously to one side. before i had time to recover from my surprise at this unseemly intrusion, the uncouth individual thrust theodore roughly out of the room, slammed the door in his face, and having satisfied himself that he was alone with me and that the door was too solid to allow of successful eavesdropping, he dragged the best chair forward--the one, sir, which i reserve for lady visitors. he threw his leg across it, and, sitting astride, he leaned his elbows over the back and glowered at me as if he meant to frighten me. "my name is charles saurez," he said abruptly, "and i want your assistance in a matter which requires discretion, ingenuity and alertness. can i have it?" i was about to make a dignified reply when he literally threw the next words at me: "name your price, and i will pay it!" he said. what could i do, save to raise my shoulders in token that the matter of money was one of supreme indifference to me, and my eyebrows in a manner of doubt that m. charles saurez had the means wherewith to repay my valuable services? by way of a rejoinder he took out from the inner pocket of his coat a greasy letter-case, and with his exceedingly grimy fingers extracted therefrom some twenty banknotes, which a hasty glance on my part revealed as representing a couple of hundred francs. "i will give you this as a retaining fee," he said, "if you will undertake the work i want you to do; and i will double the amount when you have carried the work out successfully." four hundred francs! it was not lavish, it was perhaps not altogether the price i would have named, but it was very good, these hard times. you understand? we were all very poor in france in that year of which i speak. i am always quite straightforward when i am dealing with a client who means business. i pushed aside the litter of papers in front of me, leaned my elbows upon my desk, rested my chin in my hands, and said briefly: "m. charles saurez, i listen!" he drew his chair a little closer and dropped his voice almost to a whisper. "you know the chancellerie of the ministry of foreign affairs?" he asked. "perfectly," i replied. "you know m. de marsan's private office? he is chief secretary to m. de talleyrand." "no," i said, "but i can find out." "it is on the first floor, immediately facing the service staircase, and at the end of the long passage which leads to the main staircase." "easy to find, then," i remarked. "quite. at this hour and until twelve o'clock, m. de marsan will be occupied in copying a document which i desire to possess. at eleven o'clock precisely there will be a noisy disturbance in the corridor which leads to the main staircase. m. de marsan, in all probability, will come out of his room to see what the disturbance is about. will you undertake to be ready at that precise moment to make a dash from the service staircase into the room to seize the document, which no doubt will be lying on the top of the desk, and bring it to an address which i am about to give you?" "it is risky," i mused. "very," he retorted drily, "or i'd do it myself, and not pay you four hundred francs for your trouble." "trouble!" i exclaimed, with withering sarcasm. "trouble, you call it? if i am caught, it means penal servitude--new caledonia, perhaps--" "exactly," he said, with the same irritating calmness; "and if you succeed it means four hundred francs. take it or leave it, as you please, but be quick about it. i have no time to waste; it is past nine o'clock already, and if you won't do the work, someone else will." for a few seconds longer i hesitated. schemes, both varied and wild, rushed through my active brain: refuse to take this risk, and denounce the plot to the police; refuse it, and run to warn m. de marsan; refuse it, and-- i had little time for reflection. my uncouth client was standing, as it were, with a pistol to my throat--with a pistol and four hundred francs! the police might perhaps give me half a louis for my pains, or they might possibly remember an unpleasant little incident in connexion with the forgery of some treasury bonds which they have never succeeded in bringing home to me--one never knows! m. de marsan might throw me a franc, and think himself generous at that! all things considered, then, when m. charles saurez suddenly said, "well?" with marked impatience, i replied, "agreed," and within five minutes i had two hundred francs in my pocket, with the prospect of two hundred more during the next four and twenty hours. i was to have a free hand in conducting my own share of the business, and m. charles saurez was to call for the document at my lodgings at passy on the following morning at nine o'clock. . i flatter myself that i conducted the business with remarkable skill. at precisely ten minutes to eleven i rang at the chancellerie of the ministry for foreign affairs. i was dressed as a respectable commissionnaire, and i carried a letter and a small parcel addressed to m. de marsan. "first floor," said the concierge curtly, as soon as he had glanced at the superscription on the letter. "door faces top of the service stairs." i mounted and took my stand some ten steps below the landing, keeping the door of m. de marsan's room well in sight. just as the bells of notre dame boomed the hour i heard what sounded like a furious altercation somewhere in the corridor just above me. there was much shouting, then one or two cries of "murder!" followed by others of "what is it?" and "what in the name of ------ is all this infernal row about?" doors were opened and banged, there was a general running and rushing along that corridor, and the next minute the door in front of me was opened also, and a young man came out, pen in hand, and shouting just like everybody else: "what the ------ is all this infernal row about?" "murder, help!" came from the distant end of the corridor, and m. de marsan--undoubtedly it was he--did what any other young man under the like circumstances would have done: he ran to see what was happening and to lend a hand in it, if need be. i saw his slim figure disappearing down the corridor at the very moment that i slipped into his room. one glance upon the desk sufficed: there lay the large official-looking document, with the royal signature affixed thereto, and close beside it the copy which m. de marsan had only half finished--the ink on it was still wet. hesitation, sir, would have been fatal. i did not hesitate; not one instant. three seconds had scarcely elapsed before i picked up the document, together with m. de marsan's half-finished copy of the same, and a few loose sheets of chancellerie paper which i thought might be useful. then i slipped the lot inside my blouse. the bogus letter and parcel i left behind me, and within two minutes of my entry into the room i was descending the service staircase quite unconcernedly, and had gone past the concierge's lodge without being challenged. how thankful i was to breathe once more the pure air of heaven. i had spent an exceedingly agitated five minutes, and even now my anxiety was not altogether at rest. i dared not walk too fast lest i attracted attention, and yet i wanted to put the river, the pont neuf, and a half dozen streets between me and the chancellerie of the ministry of foreign affairs. no one who has not gone through such an exciting adventure as i have just recorded can conceive what were my feelings of relief and of satisfaction when i at last found myself quietly mounting the stairs which led to my office on the top floor of no. rue daunou. . now, i had not said anything to theodore about this affair. it was certainly arranged between us when he entered my service as confidential clerk and doorkeeper that in lieu of wages, which i could not afford to pay him, he would share my meals with me and have a bed at my expense in the same house at passy where i lodged; moreover, i would always give him a fair percentage on the profits which i derived from my business. the arrangement suited him very well. i told you that i picked him out of the gutter, and i heard subsequently that he had gone through many an unpleasant skirmish with the police in his day, and if i did not employ him no one else would. after all, he did earn a more or less honest living by serving me. but in this instance, since i had not even asked for his assistance, i felt that, considering the risks of new caledonia and a convict ship which i had taken, a paltry four hundred francs could not by any stretch of the imagination rank as a "profit" in a business--and theodore was not really entitled to a percentage, was he? so when i returned i crossed the ante-chamber and walked past him with my accustomed dignity; nor did he offer any comment on my get-up. i often affected a disguise in those days, even when i was not engaged in business, and the dress and get-up of a respectable commissionnaire was a favourite one with me. as soon as i had changed i sent him out to make purchases for our luncheon--five sous' worth of stale bread, and ten sous' worth of liver sausage, of which he was inordinately fond. he would take the opportunity on the way of getting moderately drunk on as many glasses of absinthe as he could afford. i saw him go out of the outer door, and then i set to work to examine the precious document. well, one glance was sufficient for me to realize its incalculable value! nothing more or less than a treaty of alliance between king louis xviii of france and the king of prussia in connexion with certain schemes of naval construction. i did not understand the whole diplomatic verbiage, but it was pretty clear to my unsophisticated mind that this treaty had been entered into in secret by the two monarchs, and that it was intended to prejudice the interests both of denmark and of russia in the baltic sea. i also realized that both the governments of denmark and russia would no doubt pay a very considerable sum for the merest glance at this document, and that my client of this morning was certainly a secret service agent--otherwise a spy--of one of those two countries, who did not choose to take the very severe risks which i had taken this morning, but who would, on the other hand, reap the full reward of the daring coup, whilst i was to be content with four hundred francs! now, i am a man of deliberation as well as of action, and at this juncture--feeling that theodore was still safely out of the way--i thought the whole matter over quietly, and then took what precautions i thought fit for the furthering of my own interests. to begin with, i set to work to make a copy of the treaty on my own account. i have brought the study of calligraphy to a magnificent degree of perfection, and the writing on the document was easy enough to imitate, as was also the signature of our gracious king louis and of m. de talleyrand, who had countersigned it. if you remember, i had picked up two or three loose sheets of paper off m. de marsan's desk; these bore the arms of the chancellerie of foreign affairs stamped upon them, and were in every way identical with that on which the original document had been drafted. when i had finished my work i flattered myself that not the greatest calligraphic expert could have detected the slightest difference between the original and the copy which i had made. the work took me a long time. when at last i folded up the papers and slipped them once more inside my blouse it was close upon two. i wondered why theodore had not returned with our luncheon, but on going to the little anteroom which divides my office from the outer door, great was my astonishment to see him lolling there on the rickety chair which he affectioned, and half asleep. i had some difficulty in rousing him. apparently he had got rather drunk while he was out, and had then returned and slept some of his booze off, without thinking that i might be hungry and needing my luncheon. "why didn't you let me know you had come back?" i asked curtly, for indeed i was very cross with him. "i thought you were busy," he replied, with what i thought looked like a leer. i have never really cared for theodore, you understand. however, i partook of our modest luncheon with him in perfect amity and brotherly love, but my mind was busy all the time. i began to wonder if theodore suspected something; if so, i knew that i could not trust him. he would try and ferret things out, and then demand a share in my hard-earned emoluments to which he was really not entitled. i did not feel safe with that bulky packet of papers on me, and i felt that theodore's bleary eyes were perpetually fixed upon the bulge in the left-hand side of my coat. at one moment he looked so strange that i thought he meant to knock me down. so my mind was quickly made up. after luncheon i would go down to my lodgings at passy, and i knew of a snug little hiding-place in my room there where the precious documents would be quite safe until such time as i was to hand them--or one of them--to m. charles saurez. this plan i put into execution, and with remarkable ingenuity too. while theodore was busy clearing up the debris of our luncheon, i not only gave him the slip, but as i went out i took the precaution of locking the outer door after me, and taking the key away in my pocket. i thus made sure that theodore could not follow me. i then walked to passy--a matter of two kilometres--and by four o'clock i had the satisfaction of stowing the papers safely away under one of the tiles in the flooring of my room, and then pulling the strip of carpet in front of my bed snugly over the hiding-place. theodore's attic, where he slept, was at the top of the house, whilst my room was on the ground floor, and so i felt that i could now go back quite comfortably to my office in the hope that more remunerative work and more lavish clients would come my way before nightfall. . it was a little after five o'clock when i once more turned the key in the outer door of my rooms in the rue daunou. theodore did not seem in the least to resent having been locked in for two hours. i think he must have been asleep most of the time. certainly i heard a good deal of shuffling when first i reached the landing outside the door; but when i actually walked into the apartment with an air of quiet unconcern theodore was sprawling on the chair-bedstead, with eyes closed, a nose the colour of beetroot, and emitting sounds through his thin, cracked lips which i could not, sir, describe graphically in your presence. i took no notice of him, however, even though, as i walked past him, i saw that he opened one bleary eye and watched my every movement. i went straight into my private room and shut the door after me. and here, i assure you, my dear sir, i literally fell into my favourite chair, overcome with emotion and excitement. think what i had gone through! the events of the last few hours would have turned any brain less keen, less daring than that of hector ratichon. and here was i, alone at last, face to face with the future. what a future, my dear sir! fate was smiling on me at last. at last i was destined to reap a rich reward for all the skill, the energy, the devotion, which up to this hour i had placed at the service of my country and my king--or my emperor, as the case might be--without thought of my own advantage. here was i now in possession of a document--two documents--each one of which was worth at least a thousand francs to persons whom i could easily approach. one thousand francs! was i dreaming? five thousand would certainly be paid by the government whose agent m. charles saurez admittedly was for one glance at that secret treaty which would be so prejudicial to their political interests; whilst m. de marsan himself would gladly pay another five thousand for the satisfaction of placing the precious document intact before his powerful and irascible uncle. ten thousand francs! how few were possessed of such a sum in these days! how much could be done with it! i would not give up business altogether, of course, but with my new capital i would extend it and, there was a certain little house, close to chantilly, a house with a few acres of kitchen garden and some fruit trees, the possession of which would render me happier than any king. . . . i would marry! oh, yes! i would certainly marry--found a family. i was still young, my dear sir, and passably good looking. in fact there was a certain young widow, comely and amiable, who lived not far from passy, who had on more than one occasion given me to understand that i was more than passably good looking. i had always been susceptible where the fair sex was concerned, and now . . . oh, now! i could pick and choose! the comely widow had a small fortune of her own, and there were others! . . . thus i dreamed on for the better part of an hour, until, soon after six o'clock, there was a knock at the outer door and i heard theodore's shuffling footsteps crossing the small anteroom. there was some muttered conversation, and presently my door was opened and theodore's ugly face was thrust into the room. "a lady to see you," he said curtly. then, he dropped his voice, smacked his lips, and winked with one eye. "very pretty," he whispered, "but has a young man with her whom she calls arthur. shall i send them in?" i then and there made up my mind that i would get rid of theodore now that i could afford to get a proper servant. my business would in future be greatly extended; it would become very important, and i was beginning to detest theodore. but i said "show the lady in!" with becoming dignity, and a few moments later a beautiful woman entered my room. i was vaguely conscious that a creature of my own sex walked in behind her, but of him i took no notice. i rose to greet the lady and invited her to sit down, but i had the annoyance of seeing the personage whom deliberately she called "arthur" coming familiarly forward and leaning over the back of her chair. i hated him. he was short and stout and florid, with an impertinent-looking moustache, and hair that was very smooth and oily save for two tight curls, which looked like the horns of a young goat, on each side of the centre parting. i hated him cordially, and had to control my feelings not to show him the contempt which i felt for his fatuousness and his air of self-complacency. fortunately the beautiful being was the first to address me, and thus i was able to ignore the very presence of the detestable man. "you are m. ratichon, i believe," she said in a voice that was dulcet and adorably tremulous, like the voice of some sweet, shy young thing in the presence of genius and power. "hector ratichon," i replied calmly. "entirely at your service, mademoiselle." then i added, with gentle, encouraging kindliness, "mademoiselle...?" "my name is geoffroy," she replied, "madeleine geoffroy." she raised her eyes--such eyes, my dear sir!--of a tender, luscious grey, fringed with lashes and dewy with tears. i met her glance. something in my own eyes must have spoken with mute eloquence of my distress, for she went on quickly and with a sweet smile. "and this," she said, pointing to her companion, "is my brother, arthur geoffroy." an exclamation of joyful surprise broke from my lips, and i beamed and smiled on m. arthur, begged him to be seated, which he refused, and finally i myself sat down behind my desk. i now looked with unmixed benevolence on both my clients, and then perceived that the lady's exquisite face bore unmistakable signs of recent sorrow. "and now, mademoiselle," i said, as soon as i had taken up a position indicative of attention and of encouragement, "will you deign to tell me how i can have the honour to serve you?" "monsieur," she began in a voice that trembled with emotion, "i have come to you in the midst of the greatest distress that any human being has ever been called upon to bear. it was by the merest accident that i heard of you. i have been to the police; they cannot--will not--act without i furnish them with certain information which it is not in my power to give them. then when i was half distraught with despair, a kindly agent there spoke to me of you. he said that you were attached to the police as a voluntary agent, and that they sometimes put work in your way which did not happen to be within their own scope. he also said that sometimes you were successful." "nearly always, mademoiselle," i broke in firmly and with much dignity. "once more i beg of you to tell me in what way i may have the honour to serve you." "it is not for herself, monsieur," here interposed m. arthur, whilst a blush suffused mlle. geoffroy's lovely face, "that my sister desires to consult you, but for her fiancé m. de marsan, who is very ill indeed, hovering, in fact, between life and death. he could not come in person. the matter is one that demands the most profound secrecy." "you may rely on my discretion, monsieur," i murmured, without showing, i flatter myself, the slightest trace of that astonishment which, at mention of m. de marsan's name, had nearly rendered me speechless. "m. de marsan came to see me in utmost distress, monsieur," resumed the lovely creature. "he had no one in whom he could--or rather dared--confide. he is in the chancellerie for foreign affairs. his uncle m. de talleyrand thinks a great deal of him and often entrusts him with very delicate work. this morning he gave m. de marsan a valuable paper to copy--a paper, monsieur, the importance of which it were impossible to overestimate. the very safety of this country, the honour of our king, are involved in it. i cannot tell you its exact contents, and it is because i would not tell more about it to the police that they would not help me in any way, and referred me to you. how could they, said the chief commissary to me, run after a document the contents of which they did not even know? but you will be satisfied with what i have told you, will you not, my dear m. ratichon?" she continued, with a pathetic quiver in her voice and a look of appeal in her eyes which st. anthony himself could not have resisted, "and help me to regain possession of that paper, the final loss of which would cost m. de marsan his life." to say that my feeling of elation of a while ago had turned to one of supreme beatitude would be to put it very mildly indeed. to think that here was this lovely being in tears before me, and that it lay in my power to dry those tears with a word and to bring a smile round those perfect lips, literally made my mouth water in anticipation--for i am sure that you will have guessed, just as i did in a moment, that the valuable document of which this adorable being was speaking, was snugly hidden away under the flooring of my room in passy. i hated that unknown de marsan. i hated this arthur who leaned so familiarly over her chair, but i had the power to render her a service beside which their lesser claims on her regard would pale. however, i am not the man to act on impulse, even at a moment like this. i wanted to think the whole matter over first, and . . . well . . . i had made up my mind to demand five thousand francs when i handed the document over to my first client to-morrow morning. at any rate, for the moment i acted--if i may say so--with great circumspection and dignity. "i must presume, mademoiselle," i said in my most business-like manner, "that the document you speak of has been stolen." "stolen, monsieur," she assented whilst the tears once more gathered in her eyes, "and m. de marsan now lies at death's door with a terrible attack of brain fever, brought on by shock when he discovered the loss." "how and when was it stolen?" i asked. "some time during the morning," she replied. "m. de talleyrand gave the document to m. de marsan at nine o'clock, telling him that he wanted the copy by midday. m. de marsan set to work at once, laboured uninterruptedly until about eleven o'clock, when a loud altercation, followed by cries of 'murder!' and of 'help!' and proceeding from the corridor outside his door, caused him to run out of the room in order to see what was happening. the altercation turned out to be between two men who had pushed their way into the building by the main staircase, and who became very abusive to the gendarme who ordered them out. the men were not hurt; nevertheless they screamed as if they were being murdered. they took to their heels quickly enough, and i don't know what has become of them, but . . ." "but," i concluded blandly, "whilst m. de marsan was out of the room the precious document was stolen." "it was, monsieur," exclaimed mlle. geoffroy piteously. "you will find it for us . . . will you not?" then she added more calmly: "my brother and i are offering ten thousand francs reward for the recovery of the document." i did not fall off my chair, but i closed my eyes. the vision which the lovely lady's words had conjured up dazzled me. "mademoiselle," i said with solemn dignity, "i pledge you my word of honour that i will find the document for you and lay it at your feet or die in your service. give me twenty hours, during which i will move heaven and earth to discover the thief. i will go at once to the chancellerie and collect what evidence i can. i have worked under m. de robespierre, mademoiselle, under the great napoléon, and under the illustrious fouché! i have never been known to fail, once i have set my mind upon a task." "in that case you will earn your ten thousand francs, my friend," said the odious arthur drily, "and my sister and m. de marsan will still be your debtors. are there any questions you would like to ask before we go?" "none," i said loftily, choosing to ignore his sneering manner. "if mademoiselle deigns to present herself here to-morrow at two o'clock i will have news to communicate to her." you will admit that i carried off the situation in a becoming manner. both mademoiselle and arthur geoffroy gave me a few more details in connexion with the affair. to these details i listened with well simulated interest. of course, they did not know that there were no details in connexion with this affair that i did not know already. my heart was actually dancing within my bosom. the future was so entrancing that the present appeared like a dream; the lovely being before me seemed like an angel, an emissary from above come to tell me of the happiness which was in store for me. the house near chantilly--the little widow--the kitchen garden--the magic words went on hammering in my brain. i longed now to be rid of my visitors, to be alone once more, so as to think out the epilogue of this glorious adventure. ten thousand francs was the reward offered me by this adorable creature! well, then, why should not m. charles saurez, on his side, pay me another ten thousand for the same document, which was absolutely undistinguishable from the first? ten thousand, instead of two hundred which he had the audacity to offer me! seven o'clock had struck before i finally bowed my clients out of the room. theodore had gone. the lazy lout would never stay as much as five minutes after his appointed time, so i had to show the adorable creature and her fat brother out of the premises myself. but i did not mind that. i flatter myself that i can always carry off an awkward situation in a dignified manner. a brief allusion to the inefficiency of present-day servants, a jocose comment on my own simplicity of habits, and the deed was done. m. arthur geoffroy and mademoiselle madeleine his sister were half-way down the stairs. a quarter of an hour later i was once more out in the streets of paris. it was a beautiful, balmy night. i had two hundred francs in my pocket and there was a magnificent prospect of twenty thousand francs before me! i could afford some slight extravagance. i had dinner at one of the fashionable restaurants on the quay, and i remained some time out on the terrace sipping my coffee and liqueur, dreaming dreams such as i had never dreamed before. at ten o'clock i was once more on my way to passy. . when i turned the corner of the street and came is sight of the squalid house where i lodged, i felt like a being from another world. twenty thousand francs--a fortune!--was waiting for me inside those dingy walls. yes, twenty thousand, for by now i had fully made up my mind. i had two documents concealed beneath the floor of my bedroom--one so like the other that none could tell them apart. one of these i would restore to the lovely being who had offered me ten thousand francs for it, and the other i would sell to my first and uncouth client for another ten thousand francs! four hundred! bah! ten thousand shall you pay for the treaty, my friend of the danish or russian secret service! ten thousand!--it is worth that to you! in that happy frame of mind i reached the front door of my dingy abode. imagine my surprise on being confronted with two agents of police, each with fixed bayonet, who refused to let me pass. "but i lodge here," i said. "your name?" queried one of the men. "hector ratichon," i replied. whereupon they gave me leave to enter. it was very mysterious. my heart beat furiously. fear for the safety of my precious papers held me in a death-like grip. i ran straight to my room, locked the door after me, and pulled the curtains together in front of the window. then, with hands that trembled as if with ague, i pulled aside the strip of carpet which concealed the hiding-place of what meant a fortune to me. i nearly fainted with joy; the papers were there--quite safely. i took them out and replaced them inside my coat. then i ran up to see if theodore was in. i found him in bed. he told me that he had left the office whilst my visitors were still with me, as he felt terribly sick. he had been greatly upset when, about an hour ago, the maid-of-all-work had informed him that the police were in the house, that they would allow no one--except the persons lodging in the house--to enter it, and no one, once in, would be allowed to leave. how long these orders would hold good theodore did not know. i left him moaning and groaning and declaring that he felt very ill, and i went in quest of information. the corporal in command of the gendarmes was exceedingly curt with me at first, but after a time he unbent and condescended to tell me that my landlord had been denounced for permitting a bonapartiste club to hold its sittings in his house. so far so good. such denunciations were very frequent these days, and often ended unpleasantly for those concerned, but the affair had obviously nothing to do with me. i felt that i could breathe again. but there was still the matter of the consigne. if no one, save the persons who lodged in the house, would be allowed to enter it, how would m. charles saurez contrive to call for the stolen document and, incidentally, to hand me over the ten thousand francs i was hoping for? and if no one, once inside the house, would be allowed to leave it, how could i meet mlle. geoffroy to-morrow at two o'clock in my office and receive ten thousand francs from her in exchange for the precious paper? moreover the longer the police stayed in this house and poked their noses about in affairs that concerned hardworking citizens like myself--why--the greater the risk would be of the matter of the stolen document coming to light. it was positively maddening. i never undressed that night, but just lay down on my bed, thinking. the house was very still at times, but at others i could hear the tramp of the police agents up and down the stairs and also outside my window. the latter gave on a small, dilapidated back garden which had a wooden fence at the end of it. beyond it were some market gardens belonging to a m. lorraine. it did not take me very long to realize that that way lay my fortune of twenty thousand francs. but for the moment i remained very still. my plan was already made. at about midnight i went to the window and opened it cautiously. i had heard no noise from that direction for some time, and i bent my ear to listen. not a sound! either the sentry was asleep, or he had gone on his round, and for a few moments the way was free. without a moment's hesitation i swung my leg over the sill. still no sound. my heart beat so fast that i could almost hear it. the night was very dark. a thin mist-like drizzle was falling; in fact the weather conditions were absolutely perfect for my purpose. with utmost wariness i allowed myself to drop from the window-ledge on to the soft ground below. if i was caught by the sentry i had my answer ready: i was going to meet my sweetheart at the end of the garden. it is an excuse which always meets with the sympathy of every true-hearted frenchman. the sentry would, of course, order me back to my room, but i doubt if he would ill-use me; the denunciation was against the landlord, not against me. still not a sound. i could have danced with joy. five minutes more and i would be across the garden and over that wooden fence, and once more on my way to fortune. my fall from the window had been light, as my room was on the ground floor; but i had fallen on my knees, and now, as i picked myself up, i looked up, and it seemed to me as if i saw theodore's ugly face at his attic window. certainly there was a light there, and i may have been mistaken as to theodore's face being visible. the very next second the light was extinguished and i was left in doubt. but i did not pause to think. in a moment i was across the garden, my hands gripped the top of the wooden fence, i hoisted myself up--with some difficulty, i confess--but at last i succeeded. i threw my leg over and gently dropped down on the other side. then suddenly two rough arms encircled my waist, and before i could attempt to free myself a cloth was thrown over my head, and i was lifted up and carried away, half suffocated and like an insentient bundle. when the cloth was removed from my face i was half sitting, half lying, in an arm-chair in a strange room which was lighted by an oil lamp that hung from the ceiling above. in front of me stood m. arthur geoffroy and that beast theodore. m. arthur geoffroy was coolly folding up the two valuable papers for the possession of which i had risked a convict ship and new caledonia, and which would have meant affluence for me for many days to come. it was theodore who had removed the cloth from my face. as soon as i had recovered my breath i made a rush for him, for i wanted to strangle him. but m. arthur geoffroy was too quick and too strong for me. he pushed me back into the chair. "easy, easy, m. ratichon," he said pleasantly; "do not vent your wrath upon this good fellow. believe me, though his actions may have deprived you of a few thousand francs, they have also saved you from lasting and biting remorse. this document, which you stole from m. de marsan and so ingeniously duplicated, involved the honour of our king and our country, as well as the life of an innocent man. my sister's fiancé would never have survived the loss of the document which had been entrusted to his honour." "i would have returned it to mademoiselle to-morrow," i murmured. "only one copy of it, i think," he retorted; "the other you would have sold to whichever spy of the danish or russian governments happened to have employed you in this discreditable business." "how did you know?" i said involuntarily. "through a very simple process of reasoning, my good m. ratichon," he replied blandly. "you are a very clever man, no doubt, but the cleverest of us is at times apt to make a mistake. you made two, and i profited by them. firstly, after my sister and i left you this afternoon, you never made the slightest pretence of making inquiries or collecting information about the mysterious theft of the document. i kept an eye on you throughout the evening. you left your office and strolled for a while on the quays; you had an excellent dinner at the restaurant des anglais; then you settled down to your coffee and liqueur. well, my good m. ratichon, obviously you would have been more active in the matter if you had not known exactly where and when and how to lay your hands upon the document, for the recovery of which my sister had offered you ten thousand francs." i groaned. i had not been quite so circumspect as i ought to have been, but who would have thought-- "i have had something to do with police work in my day," continued m. geoffroy blandly, "though not of late years; but my knowledge of their methods is not altogether rusty and my powers of observation are not yet dulled. during my sister's visit to you this afternoon i noticed the blouse and cap of a commissionnaire lying in a bundle in a corner of your room. now, though m. de marsan has been in a burning fever since he discovered his loss, he kept just sufficient presence of mind at the moment to say nothing about that loss to any of the chancellerie officials, but to go straight home to his apartments in the rue royale and to send for my sister and for me. when we came to him he was already partly delirious, but he pointed to a parcel and a letter which he had brought away from his office. the parcel proved to be an empty box and the letter a blank sheet of paper; but the most casual inquiry of the concierge at the chancellerie elicited the fact that a commissionaire had brought these things in the course of the morning. that was your second mistake, my good m. ratichon; not a very grave one, perhaps, but i have been in the police, and somehow, the moment i caught sight of that blouse and cap in your office, i could not help connecting it with the commissionnaire who had brought a bogus parcel and letter to my future brother-in-law a few minutes before that mysterious and unexplained altercation took place in the corridor." again i groaned. i felt as a child in the hands of that horrid creature who seemed to be dissecting all the thoughts which had run riot through my mind these past twenty hours. "it was all very simple, my good m. ratichon," now concluded my tormentor still quite amiably. "another time you will have to be more careful, will you not? you will also have to bestow more confidence upon your partner or servant. directly i had seen that commissionnaire's blouse and cap, i set to work to make friends with m. theodore. when my sister and i left your office in the rue daunou, we found him waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs. five francs loosened his tongue: he suspected that you were up to some game in which you did not mean him to have a share; he also told us that you had spent two hours in laborious writing, and that you and he both lodged at a dilapidated little inn, called the 'grey cat,' in passy. i think he was rather disappointed that we did not shower more questions, and therefore more emoluments, upon him. well, after i had denounced this house to the police as a bonapartiste club, and saw it put under the usual consigne, i bribed the corporal of the gendarmerie in charge of it to let me have theodore's company for the little job i had in hand, and also to clear the back garden of sentries so as to give you a chance and the desire to escape. all the rest you know. money will do many things, my good m. ratichon, and you see how simple it all was. it would have been still more simple if the stolen document had not been such an important one that the very existence of it must be kept a secret even from the police. so i could not have you shadowed and arrested as a thief in the usual manner! however, i have the document and its ingenious copy, which is all that matters. would to god," he added with a suppressed curse, "that i could get hold equally easily of the secret service agent to whom you, a frenchman, were going to sell the honour of your country!" then it was that--though broken in spirit and burning with thoughts of the punishment i would mete out to theodore--my full faculties returned to me, and i queried abruptly: "what would you give to get him?" "five hundred francs," he replied without hesitation. "can you find him?" "make it a thousand," i retorted, "and you shall have him." "how?" "will you give me five hundred francs now," i insisted, "and another five hundred when you have the man, and i will tell you?" "agreed," he said impatiently. but i was not to be played with by him again. i waited in silence until he had taken a pocket-book from the inside of his coat and counted out five hundred francs, which he kept in his hand. "now--" he commanded. "the man," i then announced calmly, "will call on me for the document at my lodgings at the hostelry of the 'grey cat' to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." "good," rejoined m. geoffroy. "we shall be there." he made no demur about giving me the five hundred francs, but half my pleasure in receiving them vanished when i saw theodore's bleary eyes fixed ravenously upon them. "another five hundred francs," m. geoffroy went on quietly, "will be yours as soon as the spy is in our hands." i did get that further five hundred of course, for m. charles saurez was punctual to the minute, and m. geoffroy was there with the police to apprehend him. but to think that i might have had twenty thousand--! and i had to give theodore fifty francs on the transaction, as he threatened me with the police when i talked of giving him the sack. but we were quite good friends again after that until-- but you shall judge. chapter ii a fool's paradise . ah! my dear sir, i cannot tell you how poor we all were in france in that year of grace --so poor, indeed, that a dish of roast pork was looked upon as a feast, and a new gown for the wife an unheard-of luxury. the war had ruined everyone. twenty-two years! and hopeless humiliation and defeat at the end of it. the emperor handed over to the english; a bourbon sitting on the throne of france; crowds of foreign soldiers still lording it all over the country--until the country had paid its debts to her foreign invaders, and thousands of our own men still straggling home through germany and belgium--the remnants of napoléon's grand army--ex-prisoners of war, or scattered units who had found their weary way home at last, shoeless, coatless, half starved and perished from cold and privations, unfit for housework, for agriculture, or for industry, fit only to follow their fallen hero, as they had done through a quarter of a century, to victory and to death. with me, sir, business in paris was almost at a standstill. i, who had been the confidential agent of two kings, three democrats and one emperor; i, who had held diplomatic threads in my hands which had caused thrones to totter and tyrants to quake, and who had brought more criminals and intriguers to book than any other man alive--i now sat in my office in the rue daunou day after day with never a client to darken my doors, even whilst crime and political intrigue were more rife in paris than they had been in the most corrupt days of the revolution and the consulate. i told you, i think, that i had forgiven theodore his abominable treachery in connexion with the secret naval treaty, and we were the best of friends--that is, outwardly, of course. within my inmost heart i felt, sir, that i could never again trust that shameless traitor--that i had in very truth nurtured a serpent in my bosom. but i am proverbially tender-hearted. you will believe me or not, i simply could not turn that vermin out into the street. he deserved it! oh, even he would have admitted when he was quite sober, which was not often, that i had every right to give him the sack, to send him back to the gutter whence he had come, there to grub once more for scraps of filth and to stretch a half-frozen hand to the charity of the passers by. but i did not do it, sir. no, i did not do it. i kept him on at the office as my confidential servant; i gave him all the crumbs that fell from mine own table, and he helped himself to the rest. i made as little difference as i could in my intercourse with him. i continued to treat him almost as an equal. the only difference i did make in our mode of life was that i no longer gave him bed and board at the hostelry where i lodged in passy, but placed the chair-bedstead in the anteroom of the office permanently at his disposal, and allowed him five sous a day for his breakfast. but owing to the scarcity of business that now came my way, theodore had little or nothing to do, and he was in very truth eating his head off, and with that, grumble, grumble all the time, threatening to leave me, if you please, to leave my service for more remunerative occupation. as if anyone else would dream of employing such an out-at-elbows mudlark--a jail-bird, sir, if you'll believe me. thus the spring of came along. spring, sir, with its beauty and its promises, and the thoughts of love which come eternally in the minds of those who have not yet wholly done with youth. love, sir! i dreamed of it on those long, weary afternoons in april, after i had consumed my scanty repast, and whilst theodore in the anteroom was snoring like a hog. at even, when tired out and thirsty, i would sit for a while outside a humble café on the outer boulevards, i watched the amorous couples wander past me on their way to happiness. at night i could not sleep, and bitter were my thoughts, my revilings against a cruel fate that had condemned me--a man with so sensitive a heart and so generous a nature--to the sorrows of perpetual solitude. that, sir, was my mood, when on a never-to-be-forgotten afternoon toward the end of april, i sat mooning disconsolately in my private room and a timid rat-tat at the outer door of the apartment roused theodore from his brutish slumbers. i heard him shuffling up to the door, and i hurriedly put my necktie straight and smoothed my hair, which had become disordered despite the fact that i had only indulged in a very abstemious déjeuner. when i said that the knock at my door was in the nature of a timid rat-rat i did not perhaps describe it quite accurately. it was timid, if you will understand me, and yet bold, as coming from one who might hesitate to enter and nevertheless feels assured of welcome. obviously a client, i thought. effectively, sir, the next moment my eyes were gladdened by the sight of a lovely woman, beautifully dressed, young, charming, smiling but to hide her anxiety, trustful, and certainly wealthy. the moment she stepped into the room i knew that she was wealthy; there was an air of assurance about her which only those are able to assume who are not pestered with creditors. she wore two beautiful diamond rings upon her hands outside her perfectly fitting glove, and her bonnet was adorned with flowers so exquisitely fashioned that a butterfly would have been deceived and would have perched on it with delight. her shoes were of the finest kid, shiny at the toes like tiny mirrors, whilst her dainty ankles were framed in the filmy lace frills of her pantalets. within the wide brim of her bonnet her exquisite face appeared like a rosebud nestling in a basket. she smiled when i rose to greet her, gave me a look that sent my susceptible heart a-flutter and caused me to wish that i had not taken that bottle-green coat of mine to the mont de piété only last week. i offered her a seat, which she took, arranging her skirts about her with inimitable grace. "one moment," i added, as soon as she was seated, "and i am entirely at your service." i took up pen and paper--an unfinished letter which i always keep handy for the purpose--and wrote rapidly. it always looks well for a lawyer or an _agent confidentiel_ to keep a client waiting for a moment or two while he attends to the enormous pressure of correspondence which, if allowed to accumulate for five minutes, would immediately overwhelm him. i signed and folded the letter, threw it with a nonchalant air into a basket filled to the brim with others of equal importance, buried my face in my hands for a few seconds as if to collect my thoughts, and finally said: "and now, mademoiselle, will you deign to tell me what procures me the honour of your visit?" the lovely creature had watched my movements with obvious impatience, a frown upon her exquisite brow. but now she plunged straightway into her story. "monsieur," she said with that pretty, determined air which became her so well, "my name is estelle bachelier. i am an orphan, an heiress, and have need of help and advice. i did not know to whom to apply. until three months ago i was poor and had to earn my living by working in a milliner's shop in the rue st. honoré. the concierge in the house where i used to lodge is my only friend, but she cannot help me for reasons which will presently be made clear to you. she told me, however, that she had a nephew named theodore, who was clerk to m. ratichon, advocate and confidential agent. she gave me your address; and as i knew no one else i determined to come and consult you." i flatter myself, that though my countenance is exceptionally mobile, i possess marvellous powers for keeping it impassive when necessity arises. in this instance, at mention of theodore's name, i showed neither surprise nor indignation. yet you will readily understand that i felt both. here was that man, once more revealed as a traitor. theodore had an aunt of whom he had never as much as breathed a word. he had an aunt, and that aunt a concierge--_ipso facto_, if i may so express it, a woman of some substance, who, no doubt, would often have been only too pleased to extend hospitality to the man who had so signally befriended her nephew; a woman, sir, who was undoubtedly possessed of savings which both reason and gratitude would cause her to invest in an old-established and substantial business run by a trustworthy and capable man, such, for instance, as the bureau of a confidential agent in a good quarter of paris, which, with the help of a little capital, could be rendered highly lucrative and beneficial to all those, concerned. i determined then and there to give theodore a piece of my mind and to insist upon an introduction to his aunt. after which i begged the beautiful creature to proceed. "my father, monsieur," she continued, "died three months ago, in england, whither he had emigrated when i was a mere child, leaving my poor mother to struggle along for a livelihood as best she could. my mother died last year, monsieur, and i have hard a hard life; and now it seems that my father made a fortune in england and left it all to me." i was greatly interested in her story. "the first intimation i had of it, monsieur, was three months ago, when i had a letter from an english lawyer in london telling me that my father, jean paul bachelier--that was his name, monsieur--had died out there and made a will leaving all his money, about one hundred thousand francs, to me." "yes, yes!" i murmured, for my throat felt parched and my eyes dim. hundred thousand francs! ye gods! "it seems," she proceeded demurely, "that my father put it in his will that the english lawyers were to pay me the interest on the money until i married or reached the age of twenty-one. then the whole of the money was to be handed over to me." i had to steady myself against the table or i would have fallen over backwards! this godlike creature, to whom the sum of one hundred thousand francs was to be paid over when she married, had come to me for help and advice! the thought sent my brain reeling! i am so imaginative! "proceed, mademoiselle, i pray you," i contrived to say with dignified calm. "well, monsieur, as i don't know a word of english, i took the letter to mr. farewell, who is the english traveller for madame cécile, the milliner for whom i worked. he is a kind, affable gentleman and was most helpful to me. he was, as a matter of fact, just going over to england the very next day. he offered to go and see the english lawyers for me, and to bring me back all particulars of my dear father's death and of my unexpected fortune." "and," said i, for she had paused a moment, "did mr. farewell go to england on your behalf?" "yes, monsieur. he went and returned about a fortnight later. he had seen the english lawyers, who confirmed all the good news which was contained in their letter. they took, it seems, a great fancy to mr. farewell, and told him that since i was obviously too young to live alone and needed a guardian to look after my interests, they would appoint him my guardian, and suggested that i should make my home with him until i was married or had attained the age of twenty-one. mr. farewell told me that though this arrangement might be somewhat inconvenient in his bachelor establishment, he had been unable to resist the entreaties of the english lawyers, who felt that no one was more fitted for such onerous duties than himself, seeing that he was english and so obviously my friend." "the scoundrel! the blackguard!" i exclaimed in an unguarded outburst of fury. . . . "your pardon, mademoiselle," i added more calmly, seeing that the lovely creature was gazing at me with eyes full of astonishment not unmixed with distrust, "i am anticipating. am i to understand, then, that you have made your home with this mr. farewell?" "yes, monsieur, at number sixty-five rue des pyramides." "is he a married man?" i asked casually. "he is a widower, monsieur." "middle-aged?" "quite elderly, monsieur." i could have screamed with joy. i was not yet forty myself. "why!" she added gaily, "he is thinking of retiring from business--he is, as i said, a commercial traveller--in favour of his nephew, m. adrien cazalès." once more i had to steady myself against the table. the room swam round me. one hundred thousand francs!--a lovely creature!--an unscrupulous widower!--an equally dangerous young nephew. i rose and tottered to the window. i flung it wide open--a thing i never do save at moments of acute crises. the breath of fresh air did me good. i returned to my desk, and was able once more to assume my habitual dignity and presence of mind. "in all this, mademoiselle," i said in my best professional manner, "i do not gather how i can be of service to you." "i am coming to that, monsieur," she resumed after a slight moment of hesitation, even as an exquisite blush suffused her damask cheeks. "you must know that at first i was very happy in the house of my new guardian. he was exceedingly kind to me, though there were times already when i fancied . . ." she hesitated--more markedly this time--and the blush became deeper on her cheeks. i groaned aloud. "surely he is too old," i suggested. "much too old," she assented emphatically. once more i would have screamed with joy had not a sharp pang, like a dagger-thrust, shot through my heart. "but the nephew, eh?" i said as jocosely, as indifferently as i could. "young m. cazalès? what?" "oh!" she replied with perfect indifference. "i hardly ever see him." unfortunately it were not seemly for an avocat and the _agent confidentiel_ of half the courts of europe to execute the measures of a polka in the presence of a client, or i would indeed have jumped up and danced with glee. the happy thoughts were hammering away in my mind: "the old one is much too old--the young one she never sees!" and i could have knelt down and kissed the hem of her gown for the exquisite indifference with which she had uttered those magic words: "oh! i hardly ever see him!"--words which converted my brightest hopes into glowing possibilities. but, as it was, i held my emotions marvellously in check, and with perfect sang-froid once more asked the beauteous creature how i could be of service to her in her need. "of late, monsieur," she said, as she raised a pair of limpid, candid blue eyes to mine, "my position in mr. farewell's house has become intolerable. he pursues me with his attentions, and he has become insanely jealous. he will not allow me to speak to anyone, and has even forbidden m. cazalès, his own nephew, the house. not that i care about that," she added with an expressive shrug of the shoulders. "he has forbidden m. cazalès the house," rang like a paean in my ear. "not that she cares about that! tra la, la, la, la, la!" what i actually contrived to say with a measured and judicial air was: "if you deign to entrust me with the conduct of your affairs, i would at once communicate with the english lawyers in your name and suggest to them the advisability of appointing another guardian. . . . i would suggest, for instance . . . er . . . that i . . ." "how can you do that, monsieur?" she broke in somewhat impatiently, "seeing that i cannot possibly tell you who these lawyers are?" "eh?" i queried, gasping. "i neither know their names nor their residence in england." once more i gasped. "will you explain?" i murmured. "it seems, monsieur, that while my dear mother lived she always refused to take a single sou from my father, who had so basely deserted her. of course, she did not know that he was making a fortune over in england, nor that he was making diligent inquiries as to her whereabouts when he felt that he was going to die. thus, he discovered that she had died the previous year and that i was working in the atelier of madame cécile, the well-known milliner. when the english lawyers wrote to me at that address they, of course, said that they would require all my papers of identification before they paid any money over to me, and so, when mr. farewell went over to england, he took all my papers with him and . . ." she burst into tears and exclaimed piteously: "oh! i have nothing now, monsieur--nothing to prove who i am! mr. farewell took everything, even the original letter which the english lawyers wrote to me." "farewell," i urged, "can be forced by the law to give all your papers up to you." "oh! i have nothing now, monsieur--he threatened to destroy all my papers unless i promised to become his wife! and i haven't the least idea how and where to find the english lawyers. i don't remember either their name or their address; and if i did, how could i prove my identity to their satisfaction? i don't know a soul in paris save a few irresponsible millinery apprentices and madame cécile, who, no doubt, is hand in glove with mr. farewell. i am all alone in the world and friendless. . . . i have come to you, monsieur, in my distress . . . and you will help me, will you not?" she looked more adorable in grief than she had ever done before. to tell you that at this moment visions floated in my mind, before which dante's visions of paradise would seem pale and tame, were but to put it mildly. i was literally soaring in heaven. for you see i am a man of intellect and of action. no sooner do i see possibilities before me than my brain soars in an empyrean whilst conceiving daring plans for my body's permanent abode in elysium. at this present moment, for instance--to name but a few of the beatific visions which literally dazzled me with their radiance--i could see my fair client as a lovely and blushing bride by my side, even whilst messieurs x. and x., the two still unknown english lawyers, handed me a heavy bag which bore the legend "one hundred thousand francs." i could see . . . but i had not the time now to dwell on these ravishing dreams. the beauteous creature was waiting for my decision. she had placed her fate in my hands; i placed my hand on my heart. "mademoiselle," i said solemnly, "i will be your adviser and your friend. give me but a few days' grace, every hour, every minute of which i will spend in your service. at the end of that time i will not only have learned the name and address of the english lawyers, but i will have communicated with them on your behalf, and all your papers proving your identity will be in your hands. then we can come to a decision with regard to a happier and more comfortable home for you. in the meanwhile i entreat you to do nothing that may precipitate mr. farewell's actions. do not encourage his advances, but do not repulse them, and above all keep me well informed of everything that goes on in his house." she spoke a few words of touching gratitude, then she rose, and with a gesture of exquisite grace she extracted a hundred-franc note from her reticule and placed it upon my desk. "mademoiselle," i protested with splendid dignity, "i have done nothing as yet." "ah! but you will, monsieur," she entreated in accents that completed my subjugation to her charms. "besides, you do not know me! how could i expect you to work for me and not to know if, in the end, i should repay you for all your trouble? i pray you to take this small sum without demur. mr. farewell keeps me well supplied with pocket money. there will be another hundred for you when you place the papers in my hands." i bowed to her, and, having once more assured her of my unswerving loyalty to her interests, i accompanied her to the door, and anon saw her graceful figure slowly descend the stairs and then disappear along the corridor. then i went back to my room, and was only just in time to catch theodore calmly pocketing the hundred-franc note which my fair client had left on the table. i secured the note and i didn't give him a black eye, for it was no use putting him in a bad temper when there was so much to do. . that very same evening i interviewed the concierge at no. rue des pyramides. from him i learned that mr. farewell lived on a very small income on the top floor of the house, that his household consisted of a housekeeper who cooked and did the work of the apartment for him, and an odd-job man who came every morning to clean boots, knives, draw water and carry up fuel from below. i also learned that there was a good deal of gossip in the house anent the presence in mr. farewell's bachelor establishment of a young and beautiful girl, whom he tried to keep a virtual prisoner under his eye. the next morning, dressed in a shabby blouse, alpaca cap, and trousers frayed out round the ankles, i--hector ratichon, the confidant of kings--was lounging under the porte-cochere of no. rue des pyramides. i was watching the movements of a man, similarly attired to myself, as he crossed and recrossed the courtyard to draw water from the well or to fetch wood from one of the sheds, and then disappeared up the main staircase. a casual, tactful inquiry of the concierge assured me that that man was indeed in the employ of mr. farewell. i waited as patiently and inconspicuously as i could, and at ten o'clock i saw that my man had obviously finished his work for the morning and had finally come down the stairs ready to go home. i followed him. i will not speak of the long halt in the cabaret du chien noir, where he spent an hour and a half in the company of his friends, playing dominoes and drinking eau-de-vie whilst i had perforce to cool my heels outside. suffice it to say that i did follow him to his house just behind the fish-market, and that half an hour later, tired out but triumphant, having knocked at his door, i was admitted into the squalid room which he occupied. he surveyed me with obvious mistrust, but i soon reassured him. "my friend mr. farewell has recommended you to me," i said with my usual affability. "i was telling him just awhile ago that i needed a man to look after my office in the rue daunou of a morning, and he told me that in you i would find just the man i wanted." "hm!" grunted the fellow, very sullenly i thought. "i work for farewell in the mornings. why should he recommend me to you? am i not giving satisfaction?" "perfect satisfaction," i rejoined urbanely; "that is just the point. mr. farewell desires to do you a good turn seeing that i offered to pay you twenty sous for your morning's work instead of the ten which you are getting from him." i saw his eyes glisten at mention of the twenty sous. "i'd best go and tell him then that i am taking on your work," he said; and his tone was no longer sullen now. "quite unnecessary," i rejoined. "i arranged everything with mr. farewell before i came to you. he has already found someone else to do his work, and i shall want you to be at my office by seven o'clock to-morrow morning. and," i added, for i am always cautious and judicious, and i now placed a piece of silver in his hand, "here are the first twenty sous on account." he took the money and promptly became very civil, even obsequious. he not only accompanied me to the door, but all the way down the stairs, and assured me all the time that he would do his best to give me entire satisfaction. i left my address with him, and sure enough, he turned up at the office the next morning at seven o'clock precisely. theodore had had my orders to direct him in his work, and i was left free to enact the second scene of the moving drama in which i was determined to play the hero and to ring down the curtain to the sound of the wedding bells. . i took on the work of odd-job man at rue des pyramides. yes, i! even i, who had sat in the private room of an emperor discussing the destinies of europe. but with a beautiful bride and one hundred thousand francs as my goal i would have worked in a coal mine or on the galleys for such a guerdon. the task, i must tell you, was terribly irksome to a man of my sensibilities, endowed with an active mind and a vivid imagination. the dreary monotony of fetching water and fuel from below and polishing the boots of that arch-scoundrel farewell would have made a less stout spirit quail. i had, of course, seen through the scoundrel's game at once. he had rendered estelle quite helpless by keeping all her papers of identification and by withholding from her all the letters which, no doubt, the english lawyers wrote to her from time to time. thus she was entirely in his power. but, thank heaven! only momentarily, for i, hector ratichon, argus-eyed, was on the watch. now and then the monotony of my existence and the hardship of my task were relieved by a brief glimpse of estelle or a smile of understanding from her lips; now and then she would contrive to murmur as she brushed past me while i was polishing the scoundrel's study floor, "any luck yet?" and this quiet understanding between us gave me courage to go on with my task. after three days i had conclusively made up my mind that mr. farewell kept his valuable papers in the drawer of the bureau in the study. after that i always kept a lump of wax ready for use in my pocket. on the fifth day i was very nearly caught trying to take an impression of the lock of the bureau drawer. on the seventh i succeeded, and took the impression over to a locksmith i knew of, and gave him an order to have a key made to fit it immediately. on the ninth day i had the key. then commenced a series of disappointments and of unprofitable days which would have daunted one less bold and less determined. i don't think that farewell ever suspected me, but it is a fact that never once did he leave me alone in his study whilst i was at work there polishing the oak floor. and in the meanwhile i could see how he was pursuing my beautiful estelle with his unwelcome attentions. at times i feared that he meant to abduct her; his was a powerful personality and she seemed like a little bird fighting against the fascination of a serpent. latterly, too, an air of discouragement seemed to dwell upon her lovely face. i was half distraught with anxiety, and once or twice, whilst i knelt upon the hard floor, scrubbing and polishing as if my life depended on it, whilst he--the unscrupulous scoundrel--sat calmly at his desk, reading or writing, i used to feel as if the next moment i must attack him with my scrubbing-brush and knock him down senseless whilst i ransacked his drawers. my horror of anything approaching violence saved me from so foolish a step. then it was that in the hour of my blackest despair a flash of genius pierced through the darkness of my misery. for some days now madame dupont, farewell's housekeeper, had been exceedingly affable to me. every morning now, when i came to work, there was a cup of hot coffee waiting for me, and, when i left, a small parcel of something appetizing for me to take away. "hallo!" i said to myself one day, when, over a cup of coffee, i caught sight of her small, piggy eyes leering at me with an unmistakable expression of admiration. "does salvation lie where i least expected it?" for the moment i did nothing more than wink at the fat old thing, but the next morning i had my arm round her waist--a metre and a quarter, sir, where it was tied in the middle--and had imprinted a kiss upon her glossy cheek. what that love-making cost me i cannot attempt to describe. once estelle came into the kitchen when i was staggering under a load of a hundred kilos sitting on my knee. the reproachful glance which she cast at me filled my soul with unspeakable sorrow. but i was working for her dear sake; working that i might win her in the end. a week later mr. farewell was absent from home for the evening. estelle had retired to her room, and i was a welcome visitor in the kitchen, where madame dupont had laid out a regular feast for me. i had brought a couple of bottles of champagne with me and, what with the unaccustomed drink and the ogling and love-making to which i treated her, a hundred kilos of foolish womanhood was soon hopelessly addled and incapable. i managed to drag her to the sofa, where she remained quite still, with a beatific smile upon her podgy face, her eyes swimming in happy tears. i had not a moment to lose. the very next minute i was in the study and with a steady hand was opening the drawers of the bureau and turning over the letters and papers which i found therein. suddenly an exclamation of triumph escaped my lips. i held a packet in my hand on which was written in a clear hand: "the papers of mlle. estelle bachelier." a brief examination of the packet sufficed. it consisted of a number of letters written in english, which language i only partially understand, but they all bore the same signature, "john pike and sons, solicitors," and the address was at the top, " cornhill, london." it also contained my estelle's birth certificate, her mother's marriage certificate, and her police registration card. i was rapt in the contemplation of my own ingenuity in having thus brilliantly attained my goal, when a stealthy noise in the next room roused me from my trance and brought up vividly to my mind the awful risks which i was running at this moment. i turned like an animal at bay to see estelle's beautiful face peeping at me through the half-open door. "hist!" she whispered. "have you got the papers?" i waved the packet triumphantly. she, excited and adorable, stepped briskly into the room. "let me see," she murmured excitedly. but i, emboldened by success, cried gaily: "not till i have received compensation for all that i have done and endured." "compensation?" "in the shape of a kiss." oh! i won't say that she threw herself in my arms then and there. no, no! she demurred. all young girls, it seems, demur under the circumstances; but she was adorable, coy and tender in turns, pouting and coaxing, and playing like a kitten till she had taken the papers from me and, with a woman's natural curiosity, had turned the english letters over and over, even though she could not read a word of them. then, sir, in the midst of her innocent frolic and at the very moment when i was on the point of snatching the kiss which she had so tantalizingly denied me, we heard the opening and closing of the front door. mr. farewell had come home, and there was no other egress from the study save the sitting-room, which in its turn had no other egress but the door leading into the very passage where even now mr. farewell was standing, hanging up his hat and cloak on the rack. . we stood hand in hand--estelle and i--fronting the door through which mr. farewell would presently appear. "to-night we fly together," i declared. "where to?" she whispered. "can you go to the woman at your former lodgings?" "yes!" "then i will take you there to-night. to-morrow we will be married before the procureur du roi; in the evening we leave for england." "yes, yes!" she murmured. "when he comes in i'll engage him in conversation," i continued hurriedly. "you make a dash for the door and run downstairs as fast as you can. i'll follow as quickly as may be and meet you under the porte-cochere." she had only just time to nod assent when the door which gave on the sitting-room was pushed open, and farewell, unconscious at first of our presence, stepped quietly into the room. "estelle," he cried, more puzzled than angry when he suddenly caught sight of us both, "what are you doing here with that lout?" i was trembling with excitement--not fear, of course, though farewell was a powerful-looking man, a head taller than i was. i stepped boldly forward, covering the adored one with my body. "the lout," i said with calm dignity, "has frustrated the machinations of a knave. to-morrow i go to england in order to place mademoiselle estelle bachelier under the protection of her legal guardians, messieurs pike and sons, solicitors, of london." he gave a cry of rage, and before i could retire to some safe entrenchment behind the table or the sofa, he was upon me like a mad dog. he had me by the throat, and i had rolled backwards down on to the floor, with him on the top of me, squeezing the breath out of me till i verily thought that my last hour had come. estelle had run out of the room like a startled hare. this, of course, was in accordance with my instructions to her, but i could not help wishing then that she had been less obedient and somewhat more helpful. as it was, i was beginning to feel a mere worm in the grip of that savage scoundrel, whose face i could perceive just above me, distorted with passion, whilst hoarse ejaculations escaped his trembling lips: "you meddlesome fool! you oaf! you toad! this for your interference!" he added as he gave me a vigorous punch on the head. i felt my senses reeling. my head was swimming, my eyes no longer could see distinctly. it seemed as if an unbearable pressure upon my chest would finally squeeze the last breath out of my body. i was trying to remember the prayers i used to murmur at my mother's knee, for verily i thought that i was dying, when suddenly, through my fading senses, came the sound of a long, hoarse cry, whilst the floor was shaken as with an earthquake. the next moment the pressure on my chest seemed to relax. i could hear farewell's voice uttering language such as it would be impossible for me to put on record; and through it all hoarse and convulsive cries of: "you shan't hurt him--you limb of satan, you!" gradually strength returned to me. i could see as well as hear, and what i saw filled me with wonder and with pride. wonder at ma'ame dupont's pluck! pride in that her love for me had given such power to her mighty arms! aroused from her slumbers by the sound of the scuffle, she had run to the study, only to find me in deadly peril of my life. without a second's hesitation she had rushed on farewell, seized him by the collar, pulled him away from me, and then thrown the whole weight of her hundred kilos upon him, rendering him helpless. ah, woman! lovely, selfless woman! my heart a prey to remorse, in that i could not remain in order to thank my plucky deliverer, i nevertheless finally struggled to my feet and fled from the apartment and down the stairs, never drawing breath till i felt estelle's hand resting confidingly upon my arm. . i took her to the house where she used to lodge, and placed her under the care of the kind concierge who was theodore's aunt. then i, too, went home, determined to get a good night's rest. the morning would be a busy one for me. there would be the special licence to get, the cure of st. jacques to interview, the religious ceremony to arrange for, and the places to book on the stagecoach for boulogne _en route_ for england--and fortune. i was supremely happy and slept the sleep of the just. i was up betimes and started on my round of business at eight o'clock the next morning. i was a little troubled about money, because when i had paid for the licence and given to the cure the required fee for the religious service and ceremony, i had only five francs left out of the hundred which the adored one had given me. however, i booked the seats on the stage-coach and determined to trust to luck. once estelle was my wife, all money care would be at an end, since no power on earth could stand between me and the hundred thousand francs, the happy goal for which i had so ably striven. the marriage ceremony was fixed for eleven o'clock, and it was just upon ten when, at last, with a light heart and springy step, i ran up the dingy staircase which led to the adored one's apartments. i knocked at the door. it was opened by a young man, who with a smile courteously bade me enter. i felt a little bewildered--and slightly annoyed. my estelle should not receive visits from young men at this hour. i pushed past the intruder in the passage and walked boldly into the room beyond. estelle was sitting upon the sofa, her eyes bright, her mouth smiling, a dimple in each cheek. i approached her with outstretched arms, but she paid no heed to me, and turned to the young man, who had followed me into the room. "adrien," she said, "this is kind m. ratichon, who at risk of his life obtained for us all my papers of identification and also the valuable name and address of the english lawyers." "monsieur," added the young man as he extended his hand to me, "estelle and i will remain eternally your debtors." i struck at the hand which he had so impudently held out to me and turned to estelle with my usual dignified calm, but with wrath expressed in every line of my face. "estelle," i said, "what is the meaning of this?" "oh," she retorted with one of her provoking smiles, "you must not call me estelle, you know, or adrien will smack your face. we are indeed grateful to you, my good m. ratichon," she continued more seriously, "and though i only promised you another hundred francs when your work for me was completed, my husband and i have decided to give you a thousand francs in view of the risks which you ran on our behalf." "your husband!" i stammered. "i was married to m. adrien cazalès a month ago," she said, "but we had perforce to keep our marriage a secret, because mr. farewell once vowed to me that unless i became his wife he would destroy all my papers of identification, and then--even if i ever succeeded in discovering who were the english lawyers who had charge of my father's money--i could never prove it to them that i and no one else was entitled to it. but for you, dear m. ratichon," added the cruel and shameless one, "i should indeed never have succeeded." in the midst of this overwhelming cataclysm i am proud to say that i retained mastery over my rage and contrived to say with perfect calm: "but why have deceived me, mademoiselle? why have kept your marriage a secret from me? was i not toiling and working and risking my life for you?" "and would you have worked quite so enthusiastically for me," queried the false one archly, "if i had told you everything?" i groaned. perhaps she was right. i don't know. i took the thousand francs and never saw m. and mme. cazalès again. but i met ma'ame dupont by accident soon after. she has left mr. farewell's service. she still weighs one hundred kilos. i often call on her of an evening. ah, well! chapter iii on the brink . you would have thought that after the shameful way in which theodore treated me in the matter of the secret treaty that i would then and there have turned him out of doors, sent him back to grub for scraps out of the gutter, and hardened my heart once and for all against that snake in the grass whom i had nurtured in my bosom. but, as no doubt you have remarked ere this, i have been burdened by nature with an over-sensitive heart. it is a burden, my dear sir, and though i have suffered inexpressibly under it, i nevertheless agree with the english poet, george crabbe, whose works i have read with a great deal of pleasure and profit in the original tongue, and who avers in one of his inimitable "tales" that it is "better to love amiss than nothing to have loved." not that i loved theodore, you understand? but he and i had shared so many ups and downs together of late that i was loath to think of him as reduced to begging his bread in the streets. then i kept him by me, for i thought that he might at times be useful to me in my business. i kept him to my hurt, as you will presently see. in those days--i am now speaking of the time immediately following the restoration of our beloved king louis xviii to the throne of his forbears--parisian society was, as it were, divided into two distinct categories: those who had become impoverished by the revolution and the wars of the empire, and those who had made their fortunes thereby. among the former was m. le marquis de firmin-latour, a handsome young officer of cavalry; and among the latter was one mauruss mosenstein, a usurer of the jewish persuasion, whose wealth was reputed in millions, and who had a handsome daughter biblically named rachel, who a year ago had become madame la marquise de firmin-latour. from the first moment that this brilliant young couple appeared upon the firmament of parisian society i took a keen interest in all their doings. in those days, you understand, it was in the essence of my business to know as much as possible of the private affairs of people in their position, and instinct had at once told me that in the case of m. le marquis de firmin-latour such knowledge might prove very remunerative. thus i very soon found out that m. le marquis had not a single louis of his own to bless himself with, and that it was papa mosenstein's millions that kept up the young people's magnificent establishment in the rue de grammont. i also found out that mme. la marquise was some dozen years older than monsieur, and that she had been a widow when she married him. there were rumours that her first marriage had not been a happy one. the husband, m. le compte de naquet, had been a gambler and a spendthrift, and had dissipated as much of his wife's fortune as he could lay his hands on, until one day he went off on a voyage to america, or goodness knows where, and was never heard of again. mme. la comtesse, as she then was, did not grieve over her loss; indeed, she returned to the bosom of her family, and her father--a shrewd usurer, who had amassed an enormous fortune during the wars--succeeded, with the aid of his apparently bottomless moneybags, in having his first son-in-law declared deceased by royal decree, so as to enable the beautiful rachel to contract another, yet more brilliant alliance, as far as name and lineage were concerned, with the marquis de firmin-latour. indeed, i learned that the worthy israelite's one passion was the social advancement of his daughter, whom he worshipped. so, as soon as the marriage was consummated and the young people were home from their honeymoon, he fitted up for their use the most extravagantly sumptuous apartment paris had ever seen. nothing seemed too good or too luxurious for mme. la marquise de firmin-latour. he desired her to cut a brilliant figure in paris society--nay, to be the ville lumiere's brightest and most particular star. after the town house he bought a chateau in the country, horses and carriages, which he placed at the disposal of the young couple; he kept up an army of servants for them, and replenished their cellars with the choicest wines. he threw money about for diamonds and pearls which his daughter wore, and paid all his son-in-law's tailors' and shirt-makers' bills. but always the money was his, you understand? the house in paris was his, so was the chateau on the loire; he lent them to his daughter. he lent her the diamonds, and the carriages, and the boxes at the opera and the français. but here his generosity ended. he had been deceived in his daughter's first husband; some of the money which he had given her had gone to pay the gambling debts of an unscrupulous spendthrift. he was determined that this should not occur again. a man might spend his wife's money--indeed, the law placed most of it at his disposal in those days--but he could not touch or mortgage one sou that belonged to his father-in-law. and, strangely enough, mme. la marquise de firmin-latour acquiesced and aided her father in his determination. whether it was the jewish blood in her, or merely obedience to old mosenstein's whim, it were impossible to say. certain it is that out of the lavish pin-money which her father gave her as a free gift from time to time, she only doled out a meagre allowance to her husband, and although she had everything she wanted, m. le marquis on his side had often less than twenty francs in his pocket. a very humiliating position, you will admit, sir, for a dashing young cavalry officer. often have i seen him gnawing his finger-nails with rage when, at the end of a copious dinner in one of the fashionable restaurants--where i myself was engaged in a business capacity to keep an eye on possibly light-fingered customers--it would be mme. la marquise who paid the bill, even gave the pourboire to the waiter. at such times my heart would be filled with pity for his misfortunes, and, in my own proud and lofty independence, i felt that i did not envy him his wife's millions. of course, he borrowed from every usurer in the city for as long as they would lend him any money; but now he was up to his eyes in debt, and there was not a jew inside france who would have lent him one hundred francs. you see, his precarious position was as well known as were his extravagant tastes and the obstinate parsimoniousness of m. mosenstein. but such men as m. le marquis de firmin-latour, you understand, sir, are destined by nature first and by fortuitous circumstances afterwards to become the clients of men of ability like myself. i knew that sooner or later the elegant young soldier would be forced to seek the advice of someone wiser than himself, for indeed his present situation could not last much longer. it would soon be "sink" with him, for he could no longer "swim." and i was determined that when that time came he should turn to me as the drowning man turns to the straw. so where m. le marquis went in public i went, when possible. i was biding my time, and wisely too, as you will judge. . then one day our eyes met: not in a fashionable restaurant, i may tell you, but in a discreet one situated on the slopes of montmartre. i was there alone, sipping a cup of coffee after a frugal dinner. i had drifted in there chiefly because i had quite accidentally caught sight of m. le marquis de firmin-latour walking arm-in-arm up the rue lepic with a lady who was both youthful and charming--a well-known dancer at the opera. presently i saw him turn into that discreet little restaurant, where, in very truth, it was not likely that mme. la marquise would follow him. but i did. what made me do it, i cannot say; but for some time now it had been my wish to make the personal acquaintance of m. de firmin-latour, and i lost no opportunity which might help me to attain this desire. somehow the man interested me. his social and financial position was peculiar, you will admit, and here, methought, was the beginning of an adventure which might prove the turning-point in his career and . . . my opportunity. i was not wrong, as you will presently see. whilst silently eating my simple dinner, i watched m. de firmin-latour. he had started the evening by being very gay; he had ordered champagne and a succulent meal, and chatted light-heartedly with his companion, until presently three young women, flashily dressed, made noisy irruption into the restaurant. m. de firmin-latour's friend hailed them, introduced them to him, and soon he was host, not to one lady, but to four, and instead of two dinners he had to order five, and more champagne, and then dessert--peaches, strawberries, bonbons, liqueurs, flowers, and what not, until i could see that the bill which presently he would be called upon to pay would amount to far more than his quarterly allowance from mme. la marquise, far more, presumably, than he had in his pocket at the present moment. my brain works with marvellous rapidity, as you know. already i had made up my mind to see the little comedy through to the end, and i watched with a good deal of interest and some pity the clouds of anxiety gathering over m. de firmin-latour's brow. the dinner party lasted some considerable time; then the inevitable cataclysm occurred. the ladies were busy chattering and rouging their lips when the bill was presented. they affected to see and hear nothing: it is a way ladies have when dinner has to be paid for; but i saw and heard everything. the waiter stood by, silent and obsequious at first, whilst m. le marquis hunted through all his pockets. then there was some whispered colloquy, and the waiter's attitude lost something of its correct dignity. after that the proprietor was called, and the whispered colloquy degenerated into altercation, whilst the ladies--not at all unaware of the situation--giggled amongst themselves. finally, m. le marquis offered a promissory note, which was refused. then it was that our eyes met. m. de firmin-latour had flushed to the roots of his hair. his situation was indeed desperate, and my opportunity had come. with consummate sang-froid, i advanced towards the agitated group composed of m. le marquis, the proprietor, and the head waiter. i glanced at the bill, the cause of all this turmoil, which reposed on a metal salver in the head waiter's hand, and with a brief: "if m. le marquis will allow me . . ." i produced my pocket-book. the bill was for nine hundred francs. at first m. le marquis thought that i was about to pay it--and so did the proprietor of the establishment, who made a movement as if he would lie down on the floor and lick my boots. but not so. to begin with, i did not happen to possess nine hundred francs, and if i did, i should not have been fool enough to lend them to this young scapegrace. no! what i did was to extract from my notebook a card, one of a series which i always keep by me in case of an emergency like the present one. it bore the legend: "comte hercule de montjoie, secrétaire particulier de m. le duc d'otrante," and below it the address, "palais du commissariat de police, quai d'orsay." this card i presented with a graceful flourish of the arm to the proprietor of the establishment, whilst i said with that lofty self-assurance which is one of my finest attributes and which i have never seen equalled: "m. le marquis is my friend. i will be guarantee for this trifling amount." the proprietor and head waiter stammered excuses. private secretary of m. le duc d'otrante! think of it! it is not often that such personages deign to frequent the .restaurants of montmartre. m. le marquis, on the other hand, looked completely bewildered, whilst i, taking advantage of the situation, seized him familiarly by the arm, and leading him toward the door, i said with condescending urbanity: "one word with you, my dear marquis. it is so long since we have met." i bowed to the ladies. "mesdames," i said, and was gratified to see that they followed my dramatic exit with eyes of appreciation and of wonder. the proprietor himself offered me my hat, and a moment or two later m. de firmin-latour and i were out together in the rue lepic. "my dear comte," he said as soon as he had recovered his breath, "how can i think you? . . ." "not now, monsieur, not now," i replied. "you have only just time to make your way as quickly as you can back to your palace in the rue de grammont before our friend the proprietor discovers the several mistakes which he has made in the past few minutes and vents his wrath upon your fair guests." "you are right," he rejoined lightly. "but i will have the pleasure to call on you to-morrow at the palais du commissariat." "do no such thing, monsieur le marquis," i retorted with a pleasant laugh. "you would not find me there." "but--" he stammered. "but," i broke in with my wonted business-like and persuasive manner, "if you think that i have conducted this delicate affair for you with tact and discretion, then, in your own interest i should advise you to call on me at my private office, no. rue daunou. hector ratichon, at your service." he appeared more bewildered than ever. "rue daunou," he murmured. "ratichon!" "private inquiry and confidential agent," i rejoined. "my brains are at your service should you desire to extricate yourself from the humiliating financial position in which it has been my good luck to find you, and yours to meet with me." with that i left him, sir, to walk away or stay as he pleased. as for me, i went quickly down the street. i felt that the situation was absolutely perfect; to have spoken another word might have spoilt it. moreover, there was no knowing how soon the proprietor of that humble hostelry would begin to have doubts as to the identity of the private secretary of m. le duc d'otrante. so i was best out of the way. . the very next day m. le marquis de firmin-latour called upon me at my office in the rue daunou. theodore let him in, and the first thing that struck me about him was his curt, haughty manner and the look of disdain wherewith he regarded the humble appointments of my business premises. he himself was magnificently dressed, i may tell you. his bottle-green coat was of the finest cloth and the most perfect cut i had ever seen. his kerseymere pantaloons fitted him without a wrinkle. he wore gloves, he carried a muff of priceless zibeline, and in his cravat there was a diamond the size of a broad bean. he also carried a malacca cane, which he deposited upon my desk, and a gold-rimmed spy-glass which, with a gesture of supreme affectation, he raised to his eye. "now, m. hector ratichon," he said abruptly, "perhaps you will be good enough to explain." i had risen when he entered. but now i sat down again and coolly pointed to the best chair in the room. "will you give yourself the trouble to sit down, m. le marquis?" i riposted blandly. he called me names--rude names! but i took no notice of that . . . and he sat down. "now!" he said once more. "what is it you desire to know, m. le marquis?" i queried. "why you interfered in my affairs last night?" "do you complain?" i asked. "no," he admitted reluctantly, "but i don't understand your object." "my object was to serve you then," i rejoined quietly, "and later." "what do you mean by 'later'?" "to-day," i replied, "to-morrow; whenever your present position becomes absolutely unendurable." "it is that now," he said with a savage oath. "i thought as much," was my curt comment. "and do you mean to assert," he went on more earnestly, "that you can find a way out of it?" "if you desire it--yes!" i said. "how?" he drew his chair nearer to my desk, and i leaned forward, with my elbows on the table, the finger-tips of one hand in contact with those of the other. "let us begin by reviewing the situation, shall we, monsieur?" i began. "if you wish," he said curtly. "you are a gentleman of refined, not to say luxurious tastes, who finds himself absolutely without means to gratify them. is that so?" he nodded. "you have a wife and a father-in-law who, whilst lavishing costly treasures upon you, leave you in a humiliating dependence on them for actual money." again he nodded approvingly. "human nature," i continued with gentle indulgence, "being what it is, you pine after what you do not possess--namely, money. houses, equipages, servants, even good food and wine, are nothing to you beside that earnest desire for money that you can call your own, and which, if only you had it, you could spend at your pleasure." "to the point, man, to the point!" he broke in impatiently. "one moment, m. le marquis, and i have done. but first of all, with your permission, shall we also review the assets in your life which we will have to use in order to arrive at the gratification of your earnest wish?" "assets? what do you mean?" "the means to our end. you want money; we must find the means to get it for you." "i begin to understand," he said, and drew his chair another inch or two closer to me. "firstly, m. le marquis," i resumed, and now my voice had become earnest and incisive, "firstly you have a wife, then you have a father-in-law whose wealth is beyond the dreams of humble people like myself, and whose one great passion in life is the social position of the daughter whom he worships. now," i added, and with the tip of my little finger i touched the sleeve of my aristocratic client, "here at once is your first asset. get at the money-bags of papa by threatening the social position of his daughter." whereupon my young gentleman jumped to his feet and swore and abused me for a mudlark and a muckworm and i don't know what. he seized his malacca cane and threatened me with it, and asked me how the devil i dared thus to speak of mme. la marquise de firmin-latour. he cursed, and he stormed and he raved of his sixteen quarterings and of my loutishness. he did everything in fact except walk out of the room. i let him go on quite quietly. it was part of his programme, and we had to go through the performance. as soon as he gave me the chance of putting in a word edgeways i rejoined quietly: "we are not going to hurt madame la marquise, monsieur; and if you do not want the money, let us say no more about it." whereupon he calmed down; after a while he sat down again, this time with his cane between his knees and its ivory knob between his teeth. "go on," he said curtly. nor did he interrupt me again whilst i expounded my scheme to him--one that, mind you, i had evolved during the night, knowing well that i should receive his visit during the day; and i flatter myself that no finer scheme for the bleeding of a parsimonious usurer was ever devised by any man. if it succeeded--and there was no reason why it should not--m. de firmin-latour would pocket a cool half-million, whilst i, sir, the brain that had devised the whole scheme, pronounced myself satisfied with the paltry emolument of one hundred thousand francs, out of which, remember, i should have to give theodore a considerable sum. we talked it all over, m. le marquis and i, the whole afternoon. i may tell you at once that he was positively delighted with the plan, and then and there gave me one hundred francs out of his own meagre purse for my preliminary expenses. the next morning we began work. i had begged m. le marquis to find the means of bringing me a few scraps of the late m. le comte de naquet's--madame la marquise's first husband--handwriting. this, fortunately, he was able to do. they were a few valueless notes penned at different times by the deceased gentleman and which, luckily for us all, madame had not thought it worth while to keep under lock and key. i think i told you before, did i not? what a marvellous expert i am in every kind of calligraphy, and soon i had a letter ready which was to represent the first fire in the exciting war which we were about to wage against an obstinate lady and a parsimonious usurer. my identity securely hidden under the disguise of a commissionnaire, i took that letter to mme. la marquise de firmin-latour's sumptuous abode in the rue de grammont. m. le marquis, you understand, had in the meanwhile been thoroughly primed in the rôle which he was to play; as for theodore, i thought it best for the moment to dispense with his aid. the success of our first skirmish surpassed our expectations. ten minutes after the letter had been taken upstairs to mme. la marquise, one of the maids, on going past her mistress's door, was startled to hear cries and moans proceeding from madame's room. she entered and found madame lying on the sofa, her face buried in the cushions, and sobbing and screaming in a truly terrifying manner. the maid applied the usual restoratives, and after a while madame became more calm and at once very curtly ordered the maid out of the room. m. le marquis, on being apprised of this mysterious happening, was much distressed; he hurried to his wife's apartments, and was as gentle and loving with her as he had been in the early days of their honeymoon. but throughout the whole of that evening, and, indeed, for the next two days, all the explanation that he could get from madame herself was that she had a headache and that the letter which she had received that afternoon was of no consequence and had nothing to do with her migraine. but clearly the beautiful rachel was extraordinarily agitated. at night she did not sleep, but would pace up and down her apartments in a state bordering on frenzy, which of course caused m. le marquis a great deal of anxiety and of sorrow. finally, on the friday morning it seemed as if madame could contain herself no longer. she threw herself into her husband's arms and blurted out the whole truth. m. le comte de naquet, her first husband, who had been declared drowned at sea, and therefore officially deceased by royal decree, was not dead at all. madame had received a letter from him wherein he told her that he had indeed suffered shipwreck, then untold misery on a desert island for three years, until he had been rescued by a passing vessel, and finally been able, since he was destitute, to work his way back to france and to paris. here he had lived for the past few months as best he could, trying to collect together a little money so as to render himself presentable before his wife, whom he had never ceased to love. inquiries discreetly conducted had revealed the terrible truth, that madame had been faithless to him, had light-heartedly assumed the death of her husband, and had contracted what was nothing less than a bigamous marriage. now he, m. de naquet, standing on his rights as rachel mosenstein's only lawful husband, demanded that she should return to him, and as a prelude to a permanent and amicable understanding, she was to call at three o'clock precisely on the following friday at no. rue daunou, where their reconciliation and reunion was to take place. the letter announcing this terrible news and making this preposterous demand she now placed in the hands of m. le marquis, who at first was horrified and thunderstruck, and appeared quite unable to deal with the situation or to tender advice. for madame it meant complete social ruin, of course, and she herself declared that she would never survive such a scandal. her tears and her misery made the loving heart of m. le marquis bleed in sympathy. he did all he could to console and comfort the lady, whom, alas! he could no longer look upon as his wife. then, gradually, both he and she became more composed. it was necessary above all things to make sure that madame was not being victimized by an impostor, and for this purpose m. le marquis generously offered himself as a disinterested friend and adviser. he offered to go himself to the rue daunou at the hour appointed and to do his best to induce m. le comte de naquet--if indeed he existed--to forgo his rights on the lady who had so innocently taken on the name and hand of m. le marquis de firmin-latour. somewhat more calm, but still unconsoled, the beautiful rachel accepted this generous offer. i believe that she even found five thousand francs in her privy purse which was to be offered to m. de naquet in exchange for a promise never to worry mme. la marquise again with his presence. but this i have never been able to ascertain with any finality. certain it is that when at three o'clock on that same afternoon m. de firmin-latour presented himself at my office, he did not offer me a share in any five thousand francs, though he spoke to me about the money, adding that he thought it would look well if he were to give it back to madame, and to tell her that m. de naquet had rejected so paltry a sum with disdain. i thought such a move unnecessary, and we argued about it rather warmly, and in the end he went away, as i say, without offering me any share in the emolument. whether he did put his project into execution or not i never knew. he told me that he did. after that there followed for me, sir, many days, nay, weeks, of anxiety and of strenuous work. mme. la marquise received several more letters from the supposititious m. de naquet, any one of which would have landed me, sir, in a vessel bound for new caledonia. the discarded husband became more and more insistent as time went on, and finally sent an ultimatum to madame saying that he was tired of perpetual interviews with m. le marquis de firmin-latour, whose right to interfere in the matter he now wholly denied, and that he was quite determined to claim his lawful wife before the whole world. madame la marquise, in the meanwhile, had passed from one fit of hysterics into another. she denied her door to everyone and lived in the strictest seclusion in her beautiful apartment of the rue de grammont. fortunately this all occurred in the early autumn, when the absence of such a society star from fashionable gatherings was not as noticeable as it otherwise would have been. but clearly we were working up for the climax, which occurred in the way i am about to relate. . ah, my dear sir, when after all these years i think of my adventure with that abominable marquis, righteous and noble indignation almost strikes me dumb. to think that with my own hands and brains i literally put half a million into that man's pocket, and that he repaid me with the basest ingratitude, almost makes me lose my faith in human nature. theodore, of course, i could punish, and did so adequately; and where my chastisement failed, fate herself put the finishing touch. but m. de firmin-latour . . .! however, you shall judge for yourself. as i told you, we now made ready for the climax; and that climax, sir, i can only describe as positively gorgeous. we began by presuming that mme. la marquise had now grown tired of incessant demands for interviews and small doles of money, and that she would be willing to offer a considerable sum to her first and only lawful husband in exchange for a firm guarantee that he would never trouble her again as long as she lived. we fixed the sum at half a million francs, and the guarantee was to take the form of a deed duly executed by a notary of repute and signed by the supposititious comte de naquet. a letter embodying the demand and offering the guarantee was thereupon duly sent to mme. la marquise, and she, after the usual attack of hysterics, duly confided the matter to m. de firmin-latour. the consultation between husband and wife on the deplorable subject was touching in the extreme; and i will give that abominable marquis credit for playing his rôle in a masterly manner. at first he declared to his dear rachel that he did not know what to suggest, for in truth she had nothing like half a million on which she could lay her hands. to speak of this awful pending scandal to papa mosenstein was not to be thought of. he was capable of repudiating the daughter altogether who was bringing such obloquy upon herself and would henceforth be of no use to him as a society star. as for himself in this terrible emergency, he, of course, had less than nothing, or his entire fortune would be placed--if he had one--at the feet of his beloved rachel. to think that he was on the point of losing her was more than he could bear, and the idea that she would soon become the talk of every gossip-monger in society, and mayhap be put in prison for bigamy, wellnigh drove him crazy. what could be done in this awful perplexity he for one could not think, unless indeed his dear rachel were willing to part with some of her jewellery; but no! he could not think of allowing her to make such a sacrifice. whereupon madame, like a drowning man, or rather woman, catching at a straw, bethought her of her emeralds. they were historic gems, once the property of the empress marie-thérèse, and had been given to her on her second marriage by her adoring father. no, no! she would never miss them; she seldom wore them, for they were heavy and more valuable than elegant, and she was quite sure that at the mont de piété they would lend her five hundred thousand francs on them. then gradually they could be redeemed before papa had become aware of their temporary disappearance. madame would save the money out of the liberal allowance she received from him for pin-money. anything, anything was preferable to this awful doom which hung over her head. but even so m. le marquis demurred. the thought of his proud and fashionable rachel going to the mont de piété to pawn her own jewels was not to be thought of. she would be seen, recognized, and the scandal would be as bad and worse than anything that loomed on the black horizon of her fate at this hour. what was to be done? what was to be done? then m. le marquis had a brilliant idea. he knew of a man, a very reliable, trustworthy man, attorney-at-law by profession, and therefore a man of repute, who was often obliged in the exercise of his profession to don various disguises when tracking criminals in the outlying quarters of paris. m. le marquis, putting all pride and dignity nobly aside in the interests of his adored rachel, would borrow one of these disguises and himself go to the mont de piété with the emeralds, obtain the five hundred thousand francs, and remit them to the man whom he hated most in all the world, in exchange for the aforementioned guarantee. madame la marquise, overcome with gratitude, threw herself, in the midst of a flood of tears, into the arms of the man whom she no longer dared to call her husband, and so the matter was settled for the moment. m. le marquis undertook to have the deed of guarantee drafted by the same notary of repute whom he knew, and, if madame approved of it, the emeralds would then be converted into money, and the interview with m. le comte de naquet fixed for wednesday, october th, at some convenient place, subsequently to be determined on--in all probability at the bureau of that same ubiquitous attorney-at-law, m. hector ratichon, at rue daunon. all was going on excellently well, as you observe. i duly drafted the deed, and m. de firmin-latour showed it to madame for her approval. it was so simply and so comprehensively worded that she expressed herself thoroughly satisfied with it, whereupon m. le marquis asked her to write to her shameful persecutor in order to fix the date and hour for the exchange of the money against the deed duly signed and witnessed. m. le marquis had always been the intermediary for her letters, you understand, and for the small sums of money which she had sent from time to time to the factitious m. de naquet; now he was to be entrusted with the final negotiations which, though at a heavy cost, would bring security and happiness once more in the sumptuous palace of the rue de grammont. then it was that the first little hitch occurred. mme. la marquise--whether prompted thereto by a faint breath of suspicion, or merely by natural curiosity--altered her mind about the appointment. she decided that m. le marquis, having pledged the emeralds, should bring the money to her, and she herself would go to the bureau of m. hector ratichon in the rue daunou, there to meet m. de naquet, whom she had not seen for seven years, but who had once been very dear to her, and herself fling in his face the five hundred thousand francs, the price of his silence and of her peace of mind. at once, as you perceive, the situation became delicate. to have demurred, or uttered more than a casual word of objection, would in the case of m. le marquis have been highly impolitic. he felt that at once, the moment he raised his voice in protest: and when madame declared herself determined he immediately gave up arguing the point. the trouble was that we had so very little time wherein to formulate new plans. monsieur was to go the very next morning to the mont de piété to negotiate the emeralds, and the interview with the fabulous m. de naquet was to take place a couple of hours later; and it was now three o'clock in the afternoon. as soon as m. de firmin-latour was able to leave his wife, he came round to my office. he appeared completely at his wits' end, not knowing what to do. "if my wife," he said, "insists on a personal interview with de naquet, who does not exist, our entire scheme falls to the ground. nay, worse! for i shall be driven to concoct some impossible explanation for the non-appearance of that worthy, and heaven only knows if i shall succeed in wholly allaying my wife's suspicions. "ah!" he added with a sigh, "it is doubly hard to have seen fortune so near one's reach and then to see it dashed away at one fell swoop by the relentless hand of fate." not one word, you observe, of gratitude to me or of recognition of the subtle mind that had planned and devised the whole scheme. but, sir, it is at the hour of supreme crises like the present one that hector ratichon's genius soars up to the empyrean. it became great, sir; nothing short of great; and even the marvellous schemes of the italian macchiavelli paled before the ingenuity which i now displayed. half an hour's reflection had sufficed. i had made my plans, and i had measured the full length of the terrible risks which i ran. among these new caledonia was the least. but i chose to take the risks, sir; my genius could not stoop to measuring the costs of its flight. while m. de firmin-latour alternately raved and lamented i had already planned and contrived. as i say, we had very little time: a few hours wherein to render ourselves worthy of fortune's smiles. and this is what i planned. you tell me that you were not in paris during the year of which i speak. if you had been, you would surely recollect the sensation caused throughout the entire city by the disappearance of m. le marquis de firmin-latour, one of the most dashing young officers in society and one of its acknowledged leaders. it was the th day of october. m. le marquis had breakfasted in the company of madame at nine o'clock. a couple of hours later he went out, saying he would be home for déjeuner. madame clearly expected him, for his place was laid, and she ordered the déjeuner to be kept back over an hour in anticipation of his return. but he did not come. the afternoon wore on and he did not come. madame sat down at two o'clock to déjeuner alone. she told the major-domo that m. le marquis was detained in town and might not be home for some time. but the major-domo declared that madame's voice, as she told him this, sounded tearful and forced, and that she ate practically nothing, refusing one succulent dish after another. the staff of servants was thus kept on tenterhooks all day, and when the shadows of evening began to draw in, the theory was started in the kitchen that m. le marquis had either met with an accident or been foully murdered. no one, however, dared speak of this to madame la marquise, who had locked herself up in her room in the early part of the afternoon, and since then had refused to see anyone. the major-domo was now at his wits' end. he felt that in a measure the responsibility of the household rested upon his shoulders. indeed he would have taken it upon himself to apprise m. mauruss mosenstein of the terrible happenings, only that the worthy gentleman was absent from paris just then. mme. la marquise remained shut up in her room until past eight o'clock. then she ordered dinner to be served and made pretence of sitting down to it; but again the major-domo declared that she ate nothing, whilst subsequently the confidential maid who had undressed her vowed that madame had spent the whole night walking up and down the room. thus two agonizing days went by; agonizing they were to everybody. madame la marquise became more and more agitated, more and more hysterical as time went on, and the servants could not help but notice this, even though she made light of the whole affair, and desperate efforts to control herself. the heads of her household, the major-domo, the confidential maid, the chef de cuisine, did venture to drop a hint or two as to the possibility of an accident or of foul play, and the desirability of consulting the police; but madame would not hear a word of it; she became very angry at the suggestion, and declared that she was perfectly well aware of m. le marquis's whereabouts, that he was well and would return home almost immediately. as was only natural, tongues presently began to wag. soon it was common talk in paris that m. le marquis de firmin-latour had disappeared from his home and that madame was trying to put a bold face upon the occurrence. there were surmises and there was gossip-- oh! interminable and long-winded gossip! minute circumstances in connexion with m. le marquis's private life and mme. la marquise's affairs were freely discussed in the cafés, the clubs and restaurants, and as no one knew the facts of the case, surmises soon became very wild. on the third day of m. le marquis's disappearance papa mosenstein returned to paris from vichy, where he had just completed his annual cure. he arrived at rue de grammont at three o'clock in the afternoon, demanded to see mme. la marquise at once, and then remained closeted with her in her apartment for over an hour. after which he sent for the inspector of police of the section, with the result that that very same evening m. le marquis de firmin-latour was found locked up in an humble apartment on the top floor of a house in the rue daunou, not ten minutes' walk from his own house. when the police--acting on information supplied to them by m. mauruss mosenstein--forced their way into that apartment, they were horrified to find m. le marquis de firmin-latour there, tied hand and foot with cords to a chair, his likely calls for help smothered by a woollen shawl wound loosely round the lower part of his face. he was half dead with inanition, and was conveyed speechless and helpless to his home in the rue de grammont, there, presumably, to be nursed back to health by madame his wife. . now in all this matter, i ask you, sir, who ran the greatest risk? why, i--hector ratichon, of course--hector ratichon, in whose apartment m. de firmin-latour was discovered in a position bordering on absolute inanition. and the proof of this is, that that selfsame night i was arrested at my lodgings at passy, and charged with robbery and attempted murder. it was a terrible predicament for a respectable citizen, a man of integrity and reputation, in which to find himself; but papa mosenstein was both tenacious and vindictive. his daughter, driven to desperation at last, and terrified that m. le marquis had indeed been foully murdered by m. de naquet, had made a clean breast of the whole affair to her father, and he in his turn had put the minions of the law in full possession of all the facts; and since m. le comte de naquet had vanished, leaving no manner of trace or clue of his person behind him, the police, needing a victim, fell back on an innocent man. fortunately, sir, that innocence clear as crystal soon shines through every calumny. but this was not before i had suffered terrible indignities and all the tortures which base ingratitude can inflict upon a sensitive heart. such ingratitude as i am about to relate to you has never been equalled on this earth, and even after all these years, sir, you see me overcome with emotion at the remembrance of it all. i was under arrest, remember, on a terribly serious charge, but, conscious of mine own innocence and of my unanswerable system of defence, i bore the preliminary examination by the juge d'instruc-tion with exemplary dignity and patience. i knew, you see, that at my very first confrontation with my supposed victim the latter would at once say: "ah! but no! this is not the man who assaulted me." our plan, which so far had been overwhelmingly successful, had been this. on the morning of the tenth, m. de firmin-latour having pawned the emeralds, and obtained the money for them, was to deposit that money in his own name at the bank of raynal frères and then at once go to the office in the rue daunou. there he would be met by theodore, who would bind him comfortably but securely to a chair, put a shawl around his mouth and finally lock the door on him. theodore would then go to his mother's and there remain quietly until i needed his services again. it had been thought inadvisable for me to be seen that morning anywhere in the neighbourhood of the rue daunou, but that perfidious reptile theodore ran no risks in doing what he was told. to begin with he is a past master in the art of worming himself in and out of a house without being seen, and in this case it was his business to exercise a double measure of caution. and secondly, if by some unlucky chance the police did subsequently connect him with the crime, there was i, his employer, a man of integrity and repute, prepared to swear that the man had been in my company at the other end of paris all the while that m. le marquis de firmin-latour was, by special arrangement, making use of my office in the rue daunou, which i had lent him for purposes of business. finally it was agreed between us that when m. le marquis would presently be questioned by the police as to the appearance of the man who had assaulted and robbed him, he would describe him as tall and blond, almost like an angliche in countenance. now i possess--as you see, sir--all the finest characteristics of the latin race, whilst theodore looks like nothing on earth, save perhaps a cross between a rat and a monkey. i wish you to realize, therefore, that no one ran any risks in this affair excepting myself. i, as the proprietor of the apartment where the assault was actually supposed to have taken place, did run a very grave risk, because i could never have proved an alibi. theodore was such a disreputable mudlark that his testimony on my behalf would have been valueless. but with sublime sacrifice i accepted these risks, and you will presently see, sir, how i was repaid for my selflessness. i pined in a lonely prison-cell while these two limbs of satan concocted a plot to rob me of my share in our mutual undertaking. well, sir, the day came when i was taken from my prison-cell for the purpose of being confronted with the man whom i was accused of having assaulted. as you will imagine, i was perfectly calm. according to our plan the confrontation would be the means of setting me free at once. i was conveyed to the house in the rue de grammont, and here i was kept waiting for some little time while the juge d'instruction went in to prepare m. le marquis, who was still far from well. then i was introduced into the sick-room. i looked about me with the perfect composure of an innocent man about to be vindicated, and calmly gazed on the face of the sick man who was sitting up in his magnificent bed, propped up with pillows. i met his glance firmly whilst m. le juge d'instruction placed the question to him in a solemn and earnest tone: "m. le marquis de firmin-latour, will you look at the prisoner before you and tell us whether you recognize in him the man who assaulted you?" and that perfidious marquis, sir, raised his eyes and looked me squarely--yes! squarely--in the face and said with incredible assurance: "yes, monsieur le juge, that is the man! i recognize him." to me it seemed then as if a thunderbolt had crashed through the ceiling and exploded at my feet. i was like one stunned and dazed; the black ingratitude, the abominable treachery, completely deprived me of speech. i felt choked, as if some poisonous effluvia--the poison, sir, of that man's infamy--had got into my throat. that state of inertia lasted, i believe, less than a second; the next i had uttered a hoarse cry of noble indignation. "you vampire, you!" i exclaimed. "you viper! you . . ." i would have thrown myself on him and strangled him with glee, but that the minions of the law had me by the arms and dragged me away out of the hateful presence of that traitor, despite my objurgations and my protestations of innocence. imagine my feelings when i found myself once more in a prison-cell, my heart filled with unspeakable bitterness against that perfidious judas. can you wonder that it took me some time before i could collect my thoughts sufficiently to review my situation, which no doubt to the villain himself who had just played me this abominable trick must have seemed desperate indeed? ah! i could see it all, of course! he wanted to> see me sent to new caledonia, whilst he enjoyed the fruits of his unpardonable backsliding. in order to retain the miserable hundred thousand francs which he had promised me he did not hesitate to plunge up to the neck in this heinous conspiracy. yes, conspiracy! for the very next day, when i was once more hailed before the juge d'instruction, another confrontation awaited me: this time with that scurvy rogue theodore. he had been suborned by m. le marquis to turn against the hand that fed him. what price he was paid for this judas trick i shall never know, and all that i do know is that he actually swore before the juge d'instruction that m. le marquis de firmin-latour called at my office in the late forenoon of the tenth of october; that i then ordered him--theodore--to go out to get his dinner first, and then to go all the way over to neuilly with a message to someone who turned out to be non-existent. he went on to assert that when he returned at six o'clock in the afternoon he found the office door locked, and i--his employer--presumably gone. this at first greatly upset him, because he was supposed to sleep on the premises, but seeing that there was nothing for it but to accept the inevitable, he went round to his mother's rooms at the back of the fish-market and remained there ever since, waiting to hear from me. that, sir, was the tissue of lies which that jailbird had concocted for my undoing, knowing well that i could not disprove them because it had been my task on that eventful morning to keep an eye on m. le marquis whilst he went to the mont de piété first, and then to mm. raynal frères, the bankers where he deposited the money. for this purpose i had been obliged to don a disguise, which i had not discarded till later in the day, and thus was unable to disprove satisfactorily the monstrous lies told by that perjurer. ah! i can see that sympathy for my unmerited misfortunes has filled your eyes with tears. no doubt in your heart you feel that my situation at that hour was indeed desperate, and that i--hector ratichon, the confidant of kings, the benefactor of the oppressed--did spend the next few years of my life in a penal settlement, where those arch-malefactors themselves should have been. but no, sir! fate may be a fickle jade, rogues may appear triumphant, but not for long, sir, not for long! it is brains that conquer in the end . . . brains backed by righteousness and by justice. whether i had actually foreseen the treachery of those two rattlesnakes, or whether my habitual caution and acumen alone prompted me to take those measures of precaution of which i am about to tell you, i cannot truthfully remember. certain it is that i did take those precautions which ultimately proved to be the means of compensating me for most that i had suffered. it had been a part of the original plan that, on the day immediately following the tenth of october, i, in my own capacity as hector ratichon, who had been absent from my office for twenty-four hours, would arrive there in the morning, find the place locked, force an entrance into the apartment, and there find m. le marquis in his pitiable plight. after which i would, of course, immediately notify the police of the mysterious occurrence. that had been the rôle which i had intended to play. m. le marquis approved of it and had professed himself quite willing to endure a twenty-four-hours' martyrdom for the sake of half a million francs. but, as i have just had the honour to tell you, something which i will not attempt to explain prompted me at the last moment to modify my plan in one little respect. i thought it too soon to go back to the rue daunou within twenty-four hours of our well-contrived coup, and i did not altogether care for the idea of going myself to the police in order to explain to them that i had found a man gagged and bound in my office. the less one has to do with these minions of the law the better. mind you, i had envisaged the possibility of being accused of assault and robbery, but i did not wish to take, as it were, the very first steps myself in that direction. you might call this a matter of sentiment or of prudence, as you wish. so i waited until the evening of the second day before i got the key from theodore. then before the concierge at rue daunou had closed the porte-cochere for the night, i slipped into the house unobserved, ran up the stairs to my office and entered the apartment. i struck a light and made my way to the inner room where the wretched marquis hung in the chair like a bundle of rags. i called to him, but he made no movement. as i had anticipated, he had fainted for want of food. of course, i was very sorry for him, for his plight was pitiable, but he was playing for high stakes, and a little starvation does no man any harm. in his case there was half a million at the end of his brief martyrdom, which could, at worst, only last another twenty-four hours. i reckoned that mme. la marquise could not keep the secret of her husband's possible whereabouts longer than that, and in any event i was determined that, despite all risks, i would go myself to the police on the following day. in the meanwhile, since i was here and since m. le marquis was unconscious, i proceeded then and there to take the precaution which prudence had dictated, and without which, seeing this man's treachery and theodore's villainy, i should undoubtedly have ended my days as a convict. what i did was to search m. le marquis's pockets for anything that might subsequently prove useful to me. i had no definite idea in the matter, you understand; but i had vague notions of finding the bankers' receipt for the half-million francs. well, i did not find that, but i did find the receipt from the mont de piété for a parure of emeralds on which half a million francs had been lent. this i carefully put away in my waistcoat pocket, but as there was nothing else i wished to do just then i extinguished the light and made my way cautiously out of the apartment and out of the house. no one had seen me enter or go out, and m. le marquis had not stirred while i went through his pockets. . that, sir, was the precaution which i had taken in order to safeguard myself against the machinations of traitors. and see how right i was; see how hopeless would have been my plight at this hour when theodore, too, turned against me like the veritable viper that he was. i never really knew when and under what conditions the infamous bargain was struck which was intended to deprive me of my honour and of my liberty, nor do i know what emolument theodore was to receive for his treachery. presumably the two miscreants arranged it all some time during that memorable morning of the tenth even whilst i was risking my life in their service. as for m. de firmin-latour, that worker of iniquity who, in order to save a paltry hundred thousand francs from the hoard which i had helped him to acquire, did not hesitate to commit such an abominable crime, he did not long remain in the enjoyment of his wealth or of his peace of mind. the very next day i made certain statements before m. le juge d'instruction with regard to m. mauruss mosenstein, which caused the former to summon the worthy israelite to his bureau, there to be confronted with me. i had nothing more to lose, since those execrable rogues had already, as it were, tightened the rope about my neck, but i had a great deal to gain--revenge above all, and perhaps the gratitude of m. mosenstein for opening his eyes to the rascality of his son-in-law. in a stream of eloquent words which could not fail to carry conviction, i gave then and there in the bureau of the juge d'instruction my version of the events of the past few weeks, from the moment when m. le marquis de firmin-latour came to consult me on the subject of his wife's first husband, until the hour when he tried to fasten an abominable crime upon me. i told how i had been deceived by my own employé, theodore, a man whom i had rescued out of the gutter and loaded with gifts, how by dint of a clever disguise which would have deceived his own mother he had assumed the appearance and personality of m. le comte de naquet, first and only lawful lord of the beautiful rachel mosenstein. i told of the interviews in my office, my earnest desire to put an end to this abominable blackmailing by informing the police of the whole affair. i told of the false m. de naquet's threats to create a gigantic scandal which would forever ruin the social position of the so-called marquis de firmin-latour. i told of m. le marquis's agonized entreaties, his prayers, supplications, that i would do nothing in the matter for the sake of an innocent lady who had already grievously suffered. i spoke of my doubts, my scruples, my desire to do what was just and what was right. a noble expose of the situation, sir, you will admit. it left me hot and breathless. i mopped my head with a handkerchief and sank back, gasping, in the arms of the minions of the law. the juge d'instruction ordered my removal, not back to my prison-cell but into his own ante-room, where i presently collapsed upon a very uncomfortable bench and endured the additional humiliation of having a glass of water held to my lips. water! when i had asked for a drink of wine as my throat felt parched after that lengthy effort at oratory. however, there i sat and waited patiently whilst, no doubt, m. le juge d'instruction and the noble israelite were comparing notes as to their impression of my marvellous speech. i had not long to wait. less than ten minutes later i was once more summoned into the presence of m. le juge; and this time the minions of the law were ordered to remain in the antechamber. i thought this was of good augury; and i waited to hear m. le juge give forth the order that would at once set me free. but it was m. mosenstein who first addressed me, and in very truth surprise rendered me momentarily dumb when he did it thus: "now then, you consummate rascal, when you have given up the receipt of the mont de piété which you stole out of m. le marquis's pocket you may go and carry on your rogueries elsewhere and call yourself mightily lucky to have escaped so lightly." i assure you, sir, that a feather would have knocked me down. the coarse insult, the wanton injustice, had deprived me of the use of my limbs and of my speech. then the juge d'instruction proceeded dryly: "now then, ratichon, you have heard what m. mauruss mosenstein has been good enough to say to you. he did it with my approval and consent. i am prepared to give an _ordonnance de non-lieu_ in your favour which will have the effect of at once setting you free if you will restore to this gentleman here the mont de piété receipt which you appear to have stolen." "sir," i said with consummate dignity in the face of this reiterated taunt, "i have stolen nothing--" m. le juge's hand was already on the bell-pull. "then," he said coolly, "i can ring for the gendarmes to take you back to the cells, and you will stand your trial for blackmail, theft, assault and robbery." i put up my hand with an elegant and perfectly calm gesture. "your pardon, m. le juge," i said with the gentle resignation of undeserved martyrdom, "i was about to say that when i re-visited my rooms in the rue daunou after a three days' absence, and found the police in possession, i picked up on the floor of my private room a white paper which on subsequent examination proved to be a receipt from the mont de piété for some valuable gems, and made out in the name of m. le marquis de firmin-latour." "what have you done with it, you abominable knave?" the irascible old usurer rejoined roughly, and i regret to say that he grasped his malacca cane with ominous violence. but i was not to be thus easily intimidated. "ah! voilà, m. le juge," i said with a shrug of the shoulders. "i have mislaid it. i do not know where it is." "if you do not find it," mosenstein went on savagely, "you will find yourself on a convict ship before long." "in which case, no doubt," i retorted with suave urbanity, "the police will search my rooms where i lodge, and they will find the receipt from the mont de piété, which i had mislaid. and then the gossip will be all over paris that mme. la marquise de firmin-latour had to pawn her jewels in order to satisfy the exigencies of her first and only lawful husband who has since mysteriously disappeared; and some people will vow that he never came back from the antipodes, whilst others--by far the most numerous--will shrug their shoulders and sigh: 'one never knows!' which will be exceedingly unpleasant for mme. la marquise." both m. mauruss mosenstein and the juge d'instruc-tion said a great deal more that afternoon. i may say that their attitude towards me and the language that they used were positively scandalous. but i had become now the master of the situation and i could afford to ignore their insults. in the end everything was settled quite amicably. i agreed to dispose of the receipt from the mont de piété to m. mauruss mosenstein for the sum of two hundred francs, and for another hundred i would indicate to him the banking house where his precious son-in-law had deposited the half-million francs obtained for the emeralds. this latter information i would indeed have offered him gratuitously had he but known with what immense pleasure i thus put a spoke in that knavish marquis's wheel of fortune. the worthy israelite further agreed to pay me an annuity of two hundred francs so long as i kept silent upon the entire subject of mme. la marquise's first husband and of m. le marquis's rôle in the mysterious affair of the rue daunou. for thus was the affair classed amongst the police records. no one outside the chief actors of the drama and m. le juge d'instruction ever knew the true history of how a dashing young cavalry officer came to be assaulted and left to starve for three days in the humble apartment of an attorney-at-law of undisputed repute. and no one outside the private bureau of m. le juge d'instruction ever knew what it cost the wealthy m. mosenstein to have the whole affair "classed" and hushed up. as for me, i had three hundred francs as payment for work which i had risked my neck and my reputation to accomplish. three hundred instead of the hundred thousand which i had so richly deserved: that, and a paltry two hundred francs a year, which was to cease the moment that as much as a rumour of the whole affair was breathed in public. as if i could help people talking! but m. le marquis did not enjoy the fruits of his villainy, and i had again the satisfaction of seeing him gnaw his finger-nails with rage whenever the lovely rachel paid for his dinner at fashionable restaurants. indeed papa mosenstein tightened the strings of his money-bags even more securely than he had done in the past. under threats of prosecution for theft and i know not what, he forced his son-in-law to disgorge that half-million which he had so pleasantly tucked away in the banking house of raynal frères, and i was indeed thankful that prudence had, on that memorable morning, suggested to me the advisability of dogging the marquis's footsteps. i doubt not but what he knew whence had come the thunderbolt which had crushed his last hopes of an independent fortune, and no doubt too he does not cherish feelings of good will towards me. but this eventuality leaves me cold. he has only himself to thank for his misfortune. everything would have gone well but for his treachery. we would have become affluent, he and i and theodore. theodore has gone to live with his mother, who has a fish-stall in the halles; she gives him three sous a day for washing down the stall and selling the fish when it has become too odorous for the ordinary customers. and he might have had five hundred francs for himself and remained my confidential clerk. chapter iv carissimo . you must not think for a moment, my dear sir, that i was ever actually deceived in theodore. was it likely that i, who am by temperament and habit accustomed to read human visages like a book, was it likely, i say, that i would fail to see craftiness in those pale, shifty eyes, deceit in the weak, slobbering mouth, intemperance in the whole aspect of the shrunken, slouchy figure which i had, for my subsequent sorrow, so generously rescued from starvation? generous? i was more than generous to him. they say that the poor are the friends of the poor, and i told you how poor we were in those days! ah! but poor! my dear sir, you have no conception! meat in paris in the autumn of was francs the kilo, and milk franc the quarter litre, not to mention eggs and butter, which were delicacies far beyond the reach of cultured, well-born people like myself. and yet throughout that trying year i fed theodore--yes, i fed him. he used to share onion pie with me whenever i partook of it, and he had haricot soup every day, into which i allowed him to boil the skins of all the sausages and the luscious bones of all the cutlets of which i happened to partake. then think what he cost me in drink! never could i leave a half or quarter bottle of wine but he would finish it; his impudent fingers made light of every lock and key. i dared not allow as much as a sou to rest in the pocket of my coat but he would ferret it out the moment i hung the coat up in the outer room and my back was turned for a few seconds. after a while i was forced--yes, i, sir, who have spoken on terms of equality with kings--i was forced to go out and make my own purchases in the neighbouring provision shops. and why? because if i sent theodore and gave him a few sous wherewith to make these purchases, he would spend the money at the nearest cabaret in getting drunk on absinthe. he robbed me, sir, shamefully, despite the fact that he had ten per cent, commission on all the profits of the firm. i gave him twenty francs out of the money which i had earned at the sweat of my brow in the service of estelle bachelier. twenty francs, sir! reckoning two hundred francs as business profit on the affair, a generous provision you will admit! and yet he taunted me with having received a thousand. this was mere guesswork, of course, and i took no notice of his taunts: did the brains that conceived the business deserve no payment? was my labour to be counted as dross?--the humiliation, the blows which i had to endure while he sat in hoggish content, eating and sleeping without thought for the morrow? after which he calmly pocketed the twenty francs to earn which he had not raised one finger, and then demanded more. no, no, my dear sir, you will believe me or not, that man could not go straight. times out of count he would try and deceive me, despite the fact that, once or twice, he very nearly came hopelessly to grief in the attempt. now, just to give you an instance. about this time paris was in the grip of a gang of dog-thieves as unscrupulous and heartless as they were daring. can you wonder at it? with that awful penury about and a number of expensive "tou-tous" running about the streets under the very noses of the indigent proletariat? the ladies of the aristocracy and of the wealthy bourgeoisie had imbibed this craze for lap-dogs during their sojourn in england at the time of the emigration, and being women of the latin race and of undisciplined temperament, they were just then carrying their craze to excess. as i was saying, this indulgence led to wholesale thieving. tou-tous were abstracted from their adoring mistresses with marvellous adroitness; whereupon two or three days would elapse while the adoring mistress wept buckets full of tears and set the police of m. fouché, duc d'otrante, by the ears in search of her pet. the next act in the tragi-comedy would be an anonymous demand for money--varying in amount in accordance with the known or supposed wealth of the lady--and an equally anonymous threat of dire vengeance upon the tou-tou if the police were put upon the track of the thieves. you will ask me, no doubt, what all this had to do with theodore. well! i will tell you. you must know that of late he had become extraordinarily haughty and independent. i could not keep him to his work. his duties were to sweep the office--he did not do it; to light the fires--i had to light them myself every morning; to remain in the anteroom and show clients in--he was never at his post. in fact he was never there when i did want him: morning, noon and night he was out--gadding about and coming home, sir, only to eat and sleep. i was seriously thinking of giving him the sack. and then one day he disappeared! yes, sir, disappeared completely as if the earth had swallowed him up. one morning--it was in the beginning of december and the cold was biting--i arrived at the office and found that his chair-bed which stood in the antechamber had not been slept in; in fact that it had not been made up overnight. in the cupboard i found the remnants of an onion pie, half a sausage, and a quarter of a litre of wine, which proved conclusively that he had not been in to supper. at first i was not greatly disturbed in my mind. i had found out quite recently that theodore had some sort of a squalid home of his own somewhere behind the fish-market, together with an old and wholly disreputable mother who plied him with drink whenever he spent an evening with her and either he or she had a franc in their pocket. still, after these bouts spent in the bosom of his family he usually returned to sleep them off at my expense in my office. i had unfortunately very little to do that day, so in the late afternoon, not having seen anything of theodore all day, i turned my steps toward the house behind the fish-market where lived the mother of that ungrateful wretch. the woman's surprise when i inquired after her precious son was undoubtedly genuine. her lamentations and crocodile tears certainly were not. she reeked of alcohol, and the one room which she inhabited was indescribably filthy. i offered her half a franc if she gave me authentic news of theodore, knowing well that for that sum she would have sold him to the devil. but very obviously she knew nothing of his whereabouts, and i soon made haste to shake the dirt of her abode from my heels. i had become vaguely anxious. i wondered if he had been murdered somewhere down a back street, and if i should miss him very much. i did not think that i would. moreover, no one could have any object in murdering theodore. in his own stupid way he was harmless enough, and he certainly was not possessed of anything worth stealing. i myself was not over-fond of the man--but i should not have bothered to murder him. still, i was undoubtedly anxious, and slept but little that night thinking of the wretch. when the following morning i arrived at my office and still could see no trace of him, i had serious thoughts of putting the law in motion on his behalf. just then, however, an incident occurred which drove all thoughts of such an insignificant personage as theodore from my mind. i had just finished tidying up the office when there came a peremptory ring at the outer door, repeated at intervals of twenty seconds or so. it meant giving a hasty glance all round to see that no fragments of onion pie or of cheap claret lingered in unsuspected places, and it meant my going, myself, to open the door to my impatient visitor. i did it, sir, and then at the door i stood transfixed. i had seen many beautiful women in my day--great ladies of the court, brilliant ladies of the consulate, the directorate and the empire--but never in my life had i seen such an exquisite and resplendent apparition as the one which now sailed through the antechamber of my humble abode. sir, hector ratichon's heart has ever been susceptible to the charms of beauty in distress. this lovely being, sir, who now at my invitation entered my office and sank with perfect grace into the arm-chair, was in obvious distress. tears hung on the fringe of her dark lashes, and the gossamer-like handkerchief which she held in her dainty hand was nothing but a wet rag. she gave herself exactly two minutes wherein to compose herself, after which she dried her eyes and turned the full artillery of her bewitching glance upon me. "monsieur ratichon," she began, even before i had taken my accustomed place at my desk and assumed that engaging smile which inspires confidence even in the most timorous; "monsieur ratichon, they tell me that you are so clever, and--oh! i am in such trouble." "madame," i rejoined with noble simplicity, "you may trust me to do the impossible in order to be of service to you." admirably put, you will admit. i have always been counted a master of appropriate diction, and i had been quick enough to note the plain band of gold which encircled the third finger of her dainty left hand, flanked though it was by a multiplicity of diamond, pearl and other jewelled rings. "you are kind, monsieur ratichon," resumed the beauteous creature more calmly. "but indeed you will require all the ingenuity of your resourceful brain in order to help me in this matter. i am struggling in the grip of a relentless fate which, if you do not help me, will leave me broken-hearted." "command me, madame," i riposted quietly. from out the daintiest of reticules the fair lady now extracted a very greasy and very dirty bit of paper, and handed it to me with the brief request: "read this, i pray you, my good m. ratichon." i took the paper. it was a clumsily worded, ill-written, ill-spelt demand for five thousand francs, failing which sum the thing which madame had lost would forthwith be destroyed. i looked up, puzzled, at my fair client. "my darling carissimo, my dear m. ratichon," she said in reply to my mute query. "carissimo?" i stammered, yet further intrigued. "my darling pet, a valuable creature, the companion of my lonely hours," she rejoined, once more bursting into tears. "if i lose him, my heart will inevitably break." i understood at last. "madame has lost her dog?" i asked. she nodded. "it has been stolen by one of those expert dog thieves, who then levy blackmail on the unfortunate owner?" again she nodded in assent. i read the dirty, almost illegible scrawl through more carefully this time. it was a clumsy notification addressed to mme. la comtesse de nolé de st. pris to the effect that her tou-tou was for the moment safe, and would be restored to the arms of his fond mistress provided the sum of five thousand francs was deposited in the hands of the bearer of the missive. minute directions were then given as to where and how the money was to be deposited. mme. la comtesse de nolé was, on the third day from this at six o'clock in the evening precisely, to go in person and alone to the angle of the rue guénégaud and the rue mazarine, at the rear of the institut. there two men would meet her, one of whom would have carissimo in his arms; to the other she must hand over the money, whereupon the pet would at once be handed back to her. but if she failed to keep this appointment, or if in the meanwhile she made the slightest attempt to trace the writer of the missive or to lay a trap for his capture by the police, carissimo would at once meet with a summary death. these were the usual tactics of experienced dog thieves, only that in this case the demand was certainly exorbitant. five thousand francs! but even so . . . i cast a rapid and comprehensive glance on the brilliant apparition before me--the jewelled rings, the diamonds in the shell-like ears, the priceless fur coat--and with an expressive shrug of the shoulders i handed the dirty scrap of paper back to its fair recipient. "alas, madame," i said, taking care that she should not guess how much it cost me to give her such advice, "i am afraid that in such cases there is nothing to be done. if you wish to save your pet you will have to pay. . ." "ah! but, monsieur," she exclaimed tearfully, "you don't understand. carissimo is all the world to me, and this is not the first time, nor yet the second, that he has been stolen from me. three times, my good m. ratichon, three times has he been stolen, and three times have i received such peremptory demands for money for his safe return; and every time the demand has been more and more exorbitant. less than a month ago m. le comte paid three thousand francs for his recovery." "monsieur le comte?" i queried. "my husband, sir," she replied, with an exquisite air of hauteur. "m. le comte de nolé de st. pris." "ah, then," i continued calmly, "i fear me that monsieur de nolé de st. pris will have to pay again." "but he won't!" she now cried out in a voice broken with sobs, and incontinently once more saturated her gossamer handkerchief with her tears. "then i see nothing for it, madame," i rejoined, much against my will with a slight touch of impatience, "i see nothing for it but that yourself . . ." "ah! but, monsieur," she retorted, with a sigh that would have melted a heart of stone, "that is just my difficulty. i cannot pay . . ." "madame," i protested. "oh! if i had money of my own," she continued, with an adorable gesture of impatience, "i would not worry. mais voilà: i have not a silver franc of my own to bless myself with. m. le comte is over generous. he pays all my bills without a murmur--he pays my dressmaker, my furrier; he loads me with gifts and dispenses charity on a lavish scale in my name. i have horses, carriages, servants--everything i can possibly want and more, but i never have more than a few hundred francs to dispose of. up to now i have never for a moment felt the want of money. to-day, when carissimo is being lost to me, i feel the entire horror of my position." "but surely, madame," i urged, "m. le comte . . ." "no, monsieur," she replied. "m. le comte has flatly refused this time to pay these abominable thieves for the recovery of carissimo. he upbraids himself for having yielded to their demands on the three previous occasions. he calls these demands blackmailing, and vows that to give them money again is to encourage them in their nefarious practices. oh! he has been cruel to me, cruel!--for the first time in my life, monsieur, my husband has made me unhappy, and if i lose my darling now i shall indeed be broken-hearted." i was silent for a moment or two. i was beginning to wonder what part i should be expected to play in the tragedy which was being unfolded before me by this lovely and impecunious creature. "madame la comtesse," i suggested tentatively, after a while, "your jewellery . . . you must have a vast number which you seldom wear . . . five thousand francs is soon made up. . . ." you see, sir, my hopes of a really good remunerative business had by now dwindled down to vanishing point. all that was left of them was a vague idea that the beautiful comtesse would perhaps employ me as an intermediary for the sale of some of her jewellery, in which case . . . but already her next words disillusioned me even on that point. "no, monsieur," she said; "what would be the use? through one of the usual perverse tricks of fate, m. le comte would be sure to inquire after the very piece of jewellery of which i had so disposed, and moreover . . ." "moreover--yes, mme. la comtesse?" "moreover, my husband is right," she concluded decisively. "if i give in to those thieves to-day and pay them five thousand francs, they would only set to work to steal carissimo again and demand ten thousand francs from me another time." i was silent. what could i say? her argument was indeed unanswerable. "no, my good m. ratichon," she said very determinedly after a while. "i have quite decided that you must confound those thieves. they have given me three days' grace, as you see in their abominable letter. if after three days the money is not forthcoming, and if in the meanwhile i dare to set a trap for them or in any way communicate with the police, my darling carissimo will be killed and my heart be broken." "madame la comtesse," i entreated, for of a truth i could not bear to see her cry again. "you must bring carissimo back to me, m. ratichon," she continued peremptorily, "before those awful three days have elapsed." "i swear that i will," i rejoined solemnly; but i must admit that i did it entirely on the spur of the moment, for of a truth i saw no prospect whatever of being able to accomplish what she desired. "without my paying a single louis to those execrable thieves," the exquisite creature went on peremptorily, "it shall be done, madame la comtesse." "and let me tell you," she now added, with the sweetest and archest of smiles, "that if you succeed in this, m. le comte de nolé de st. pris will gladly pay you the five thousand francs which he refuses to give to those miscreants." five thousand francs! a mist swam before my eyes, "mais, madame la comtesse . . ." i stammered. "oh!" she added, with an adorable uptilting of her little chin, "i am not promising what i cannot fulfil. m. le comte de nolé only said this morning, apropos of dog thieves, that he would gladly give ten thousand francs to anyone who succeeded in ridding society of such pests." i could have knelt down on the hard floor, sir, and . . . "well then, madame," was my ready rejoinder, "why not ten thousand francs to me?" she bit her coral lips . . . but she also smiled. i could see that my personality and my manners had greatly impressed her. "i will only be responsible for the first five thousand," she said lightly. "but, for the rest, i can confidently assure you that you will not find a miser in m. le comte de nolé de st. pris." i could have knelt down on the hard floor, sir, and kissed her exquisitely shod feet. five thousand francs certain! perhaps ten! a fortune, sir, in those days! one that would keep me in comfort--nay, affluence, until something else turned up. i was swimming in the empyrean and only came rudely to earth when i recollected that i should have to give theodore something for his share of the business. ah! fortunately that for the moment he was comfortably out of the way! thoughts that perhaps he had been murdered after all once more coursed through my brain: not unpleasantly, i'll admit. i would not have raised a finger to hurt the fellow, even though he had treated me with the basest ingratitude and treachery; but if someone else took the trouble to remove him, why indeed should i quarrel with fate? back i came swiftly to the happy present. the lovely creature was showing me a beautifully painted miniature of carissimo, a king charles spaniel of no common type. this she suggested that i should keep by me for the present for purposes of identification. after this we had to go into the details of the circumstances under which she had lost her pet. she had been for a walk with him, it seems, along the quai voltaire, and was returning home by the side of the river, when suddenly a number of workmen in blouses and peaked caps came trooping out of a side street and obstructed her progress. she had carissimo on the lead, and she at once admitted to me that at first she never thought of connecting this pushing and jostling rabble with any possible theft. she held her ground for awhile, facing the crowd: for a few moments she was right in the midst of it, and just then she felt the dog straining at the lead. she turned round at once with the intention of picking him up, when to her horror she saw that there was only a bundle of something weighty at the end of the lead, and that the dog had disappeared. the whole incident occurred, the lovely creature declared, within the space of thirty seconds; the next instant the crowd had scattered in several directions, the men running and laughing as they went. mme. la comtesse was left standing alone on the quay. not a passer-by in sight, and the only gendarme visible, a long way down the quai, had his back turned toward her. nevertheless she ran and hied him, and presently he turned and, realizing that something was amiss, he too ran to meet her. he listened to her story, swore lustily, but shrugged his shoulders in token that the tale did not surprise him and that but little could be done. nevertheless he at once summoned those of his colleagues who were on duty in the neighbourhood, and one of them went off immediately to notify the theft at the nearest commissariat of police. after which they all proceeded to a comprehensive scouring of the many tortuous sidestreets of the quartier; but, needless to say, there was no sign of carissimo or of his abductors. that night my lovely client went home distracted. the following evening, when, broken-hearted, she wandered down the quays living over again the agonizing moments during which she lost her pet, a workman in a blue blouse, with a peaked cap pulled well over his eyes, lurched up against her and thrust into her hand the missive which she had just shown me. he then disappeared into the night, and she had only the vaguest possible recollection of his appearance. that, sir, was the substance of the story which the lovely creature told me in a voice oft choked with tears. i questioned her very closely and in my most impressive professional manner as to the identity of any one man among the crowd who might have attracted her attention, but all that she could tell me was that she had a vague impression of a wizened hunchback with evil face, shaggy red beard and hair, and a black patch covering the left eye. . not much data to go on, you will, i think, admit, and i can assure you, sir, that had i not possessed that unbounded belief in myself which is the true hall-mark of genius, i would at the outset have felt profoundly discouraged. as it was, i found just the right words of consolation and of hope wherewith to bow my brilliant client out of my humble apartments, and then to settle down to deep and considered meditation. nothing, sir, is so conducive to thought as a long, brisk walk through the crowded streets of paris. so i brushed my coat, put on my hat at a becoming angle, and started on my way. i walked as far as suresnes, and i thought. after that, feeling fatigued, i sat on the terrace of the café bourbon, overlooking the river. there i sipped my coffee and thought. i walked back into paris in the evening, and still thought, and thought, and thought. after that i had some dinner, washed down by an agreeable bottle of wine--did i mention that the lovely creature had given me a hundred francs on account?--then i went for a stroll along the quai voltaire, and i may safely say that there is not a single side and tortuous street in its vicinity that i did not explore from end to end during the course of that never to be forgotten evening. but still my mind remained in a chaotic condition. i had not succeeded in forming any plan. what a quandary, sir! oh! what a quandary! here was i, hector ratichon, the confidant of kings, the right hand of two emperors, set to the task of stealing a dog--for that is what i should have to do--from an unscrupulous gang of thieves whose identity, abode and methods were alike unknown to me. truly, sir, you will own that this was a herculean task. vaguely my thoughts reverted to theodore. he might have been of good counsel, for he knew more about thieves than i did, but the ungrateful wretch was out of the way on the one occasion when he might have been of use to me who had done so much for him. indeed, my reason told me that i need not trouble my head about theodore. he had vanished; that he would come back presently was, of course, an indubitable fact; people like theodore never vanish completely. he would come back and demand i know not what, his share, perhaps, in a business which was so promising even if it was still so vague. five thousand francs! a round sum! if i gave theodore five hundred the sum would at once appear meagre, unimportant. four thousand five hundred francs!--it did not even _sound_ well to my mind. so i took care that theodore vanished from my mental vision as completely as he had done for the last two days from my ken, and as there was nothing more that could be done that evening, i turned my weary footsteps toward my lodgings at passy. all that night, sir, i lay wakeful and tossing in my bed, alternately fuming and rejecting plans for the attainment of that golden goal--the recovery of mme. de nolé's pet dog. and the whole of the next day i spent in vain quest. i visited every haunt of ill-fame known to me within the city. i walked about with a pistol in my belt, a hunk of bread and cheese in my pocket, and slowly growing despair in my heart. in the evening mme. la comtesse de nolé called for news of carissimo, and i could give her none. she cried, sir, and implored, and her tears and entreaties got on to my nerves until i felt ready to fall into hysterics. one more day and all my chances of a bright and wealthy future would have vanished. unless the money was forthcoming on the morrow, the dog would be destroyed, and with him my every hope of that five thousand francs. and though she still irradiated charm and luxury from her entire lovely person, i begged her not to come to the office again, and promised that as soon as i had any news to impart i would at once present myself at her house in the faubourg st. germain. that night i never slept one wink. think of it, sir! the next few hours were destined to see me either a prosperous man for many days to come, or a miserable, helpless, disappointed wretch. at eight o'clock i was at my office. still no news of theodore. i could now no longer dismiss him from my mind. something had happened to him, i could have no doubt. this anxiety, added to the other more serious one, drove me to a state bordering on frenzy. i hardly knew what i was doing. i wandered all day up and down the quai voltaire, and the quai des grands augustins, and in and around the tortuous streets till i was dog-tired, distracted, half crazy. i went to the morgue, thinking to find there theodore's dead body, and found myself vaguely looking for the mutilated corpse of carissimo. indeed, after a while theodore and carissimo became so inextricably mixed up in my mind that i could not have told you if i was seeking for the one or for the other and if mme. la comtesse de nolé was now waiting to clasp her pet dog or my man-of-all-work to her exquisite bosom. she in the meanwhile had received a second, yet more peremptory, missive through the same channel as the previous one. a grimy deformed man, with ginger-coloured hair, and wearing a black patch over one eye, had been seen by one of the servants lolling down the street where madame lived, and subsequently the concierge discovered that an exceedingly dirty scrap of paper had been thrust under the door of his lodge. the writer of the epistle demanded that mme. la comtesse should stand in person at six o'clock that same evening at the corner of the rue guénégaud, behind the institut de france. two men, each wearing a blue blouse and peaked cap, would meet her there. she must hand over the money to one of them, whilst the other would have carissimo in his arms. the missive closed with the usual threats that if the police were mixed up in the affair, or the money not forthcoming, carissimo would be destroyed. six o'clock was the hour fixed by these abominable thieves for the final doom of carissimo. it was now close on five. in a little more than an hour my last hope of five or ten thousand francs and a smile of gratitude from a pair of lovely lips would have gone, never again to return. a great access of righteous rage seized upon me. i determined that those miserable thieves, whoever they were, should suffer for the disappointment which i was now enduring. if i was to lose five thousand francs, they at least should not be left free to pursue their evil ways. i would communicate with the police; the police should meet the miscreants at the corner of the rue guénégaud. carissimo would die; his lovely mistress would be brokenhearted. i would be left to mourn yet another illusion of a possible fortune, but they would suffer in gaol or in new caledonia the consequences of all their misdeeds. fortified by this resolution, i turned my weary footsteps in the direction of the gendarmerie where i intended to lodge my denunciation of those abominable thieves and blackmailers. the night was dark, the streets ill-lighted, the air bitterly cold. a thin drizzle, half rain, half snow, was descending, chilling me to the bone. i was walking rapidly along the river bank with my coat collar pulled up to my ears, and still instinctively peering up every narrow street which debouches on the quay. then suddenly i spied theodore. he was coming down the rue beaune, slouching along with head bent in his usual way. he appeared to be carrying something, not exactly heavy, but cumbersome, under his left arm. within the next few minutes he would have been face to face with me, for i had come to a halt at the angle of the street, determined to have it out with the rascal then and there in spite of the cold and in spite of my anxiety about carissimo. all of a sudden he raised his head and saw me, and in a second he turned on his heel and began to run up the street in the direction whence he had come. at once i gave chase. i ran after him--and then, sir, he came for a second within the circle of light projected by a street lanthorn. but in that one second i had seen that which turned my frozen blood into liquid lava--a tail, sir!--a dog's tail, fluffy and curly, projecting from beneath that recreant's left arm. a dog, sir! a dog! carissimo! the darling of mme. la comtesse de nolé's heart! carissimo, the recovery of whom would mean five thousand francs into my pocket! carissimo! i knew it! for me there existed but one dog in all the world; one dog and one spawn of the devil, one arch-traitor, one limb of satan! theodore! how he had come by carissimo i had not time to con-conjecture. i called to him. i called his accursed name, using appellations which fell far short of those which he deserved. but the louder i called the faster he ran, and i, breathless, panting, ran after him, determined to run him to earth, fearful lest i should lose him in the darkness of the night. all down the rue beaune we ran, and already i could hear behind me the heavy and more leisured tramp of a couple of gendarmes who in their turn had started to give chase. i tell you, sir, the sound lent wings to my feet. a chance--a last chance--was being offered me by a benevolent fate to earn that five thousand francs, the keystone to my future fortune. if i had the strength to seize and hold theodore until the gendarmes came up, and before he had time to do away with the dog, the five thousand francs could still be mine. so i ran, sir, as i had never run before; the beads of perspiration poured down from my forehead; the breath came stertorous and hot from my heaving breast. then suddenly theodore disappeared! disappeared, sir, as if the earth had swallowed him up! a second ago i had seen him dimly, yet distinctly through the veil of snow and rain ahead of me, running with that unmistakable shuffling gait of his, hugging the dog closely under his arm. i had seen him--another effort and i might have touched him!--now the long and deserted street lay dark and mysterious before me, and behind me i could hear the measured tramp of the gendarmes and their peremptory call of "halt, in the name of the king!" but not in vain, sir, am i called hector ratichon; not in vain have kings and emperors reposed confidence in my valour and my presence of mind. in less time than it takes to relate i had already marked with my eye the very spot--down the street--where i had last seen theodore. i hurried forward and saw at once that my surmise had been correct. at that very spot, sir, there was a low doorway which gave on a dark and dank passage. the door itself was open. i did not hesitate. my life stood in the balance but i did not falter. i might be affronting within the next second or two a gang of desperate thieves, but i did not quake. i turned into that doorway, sir; the next moment i felt a stunning blow between my eyes. i just remember calling out with all the strength of my lungs: "police! gendarmes! a moi!" then nothing more. . i woke with the consciousness of violent wordy warfare carried on around me. i was lying on the ground, and the first things i saw were three or four pairs of feet standing close together. gradually out of the confused hubbub a few sentences struck my reawakened senses. "the man is drunk." "i won't have him inside the house." "i tell you this is a respectable house." this from a shrill feminine voice. "we've never had the law inside our doors before." by this time i had succeeded in raising myself on my elbow, and, by the dim light of a hanging lamp somewhere down the passage, i was pretty well able to take stock of my surroundings. the half-dozen bedroom candlesticks on a table up against the wall, the row of keys hanging on hooks fixed to a board above, the glass partition with the words "concierge" and "réception" painted across it, all told me that this was one of those small, mostly squalid and disreputable lodging houses or hotels in which this quarter of paris still abounds. the two gendarmes who had been running after me were arguing the matter of my presence here with the proprietor of the place and with the concierge. i struggled to my feet. whereupon for the space of a solid two minutes i had to bear as calmly as i could the abuse and vituperation which the feminine proprietor of this "respectable house" chose to hurl at my unfortunate head. after which i obtained a hearing from the bewildered minions of the law. to them i gave as brief and succinct a narrative as i could of the events of the past three days. the theft of carissimo--the disappearance of theodore--my meeting him a while ago, with the dog under his arm--his second disappearance, this time within the doorway of this "respectable abode," and finally the blow which alone had prevented me from running the abominable thief to earth. the gendarmes at first were incredulous. i could see that they were still under the belief that my excitement was due to over-indulgence in alcoholic liquor, whilst madame the proprietress called me an abominable liar for daring to suggest that she harboured thieves within her doors. then suddenly, as if in vindication of my character, there came from a floor above the sound of a loud, shrill bark. "carissimo!" i cried triumphantly. then i added in a rapid whisper, "mme. la comtesse de nolé is rich. she spoke of a big reward for the recovery of her pet." these happy words had the effect of stimulating the zeal of the gendarmes. madame the proprietress grew somewhat confused and incoherent, and finally blurted it out that one of her lodgers--a highly respectable gentleman--did keep a dog, but that there was no crime in that surely. "one of your lodgers?" queried the representative of the law. "when did he come?" "about three days ago," she replied sullenly. "what room does he occupy?" "number twenty-five on the third floor." "he came with his dog?" i interposed quickly, "a spaniel?" "yes." "and your lodger, is he an ugly, slouchy creature--with hooked nose, bleary eyes and shaggy yellow hair?" but to this she vouchsafed no reply. already the matter had passed out of my hands. one of the gendarmes prepared to go upstairs and bade me follow him, whilst he ordered his comrade to remain below and on no account to allow anyone to enter or leave the house. the proprietress and concierge were warned that if they interfered with the due execution of the law they would be severely dealt with; after which we went upstairs. for a while, as we ascended, we could hear the dog barking furiously, then, presently, just as we reached the upper landing, we heard a loud curse, a scramble, and then a piteous whine quickly smothered. my very heart stood still. the next moment, however, the gendarme had kicked open the door of no. , and i followed him into the room. the place looked dirty and squalid in the extreme--just the sort of place i should have expected theodore to haunt. it was almost bare save for a table in the centre, a couple of rickety chairs, a broken-down bedstead and an iron stove in the corner. on the table a tallow candle was spluttering and throwing a very feeble circle of light around. at first glance i thought that the room was empty, then suddenly i heard another violent expletive and became aware of a man sitting close beside the iron stove. he turned to stare at us as we entered, but to my surprise it was not theodore's ugly face which confronted us. the man sitting there alone in the room where i had expected to see theodore and carissimo had a shaggy beard of an undoubted ginger hue. he had on a blue blouse and a peaked cap; beneath his cap his lank hair protruded more decided in colour even than his beard. his head was sunk between his shoulders, and right across his face, from the left eyebrow over the cheek and as far as his ear, he had a hideous crimson scar, which told up vividly against the ghastly pallor of his face. but there was no sign of theodore! at first my friend the gendarme was quite urbane. he asked very politely to see monsieur's pet dog. monsieur denied all knowledge of a dog, which denial only tended to establish his own guilt and the veracity of mine own narrative. the gendarme thereupon became more peremptory and the man promptly lost his temper. i, in the meanwhile, was glancing round the room and soon spied a wall cupboard which had obviously been deliberately screened by the bedstead. while my companion was bringing the whole majesty of the law to bear upon the miscreant's denegations i calmly dragged the bedstead aside and opened the cupboard door. an ejaculation from my quivering throat brought the gendarme to my side. crouching in the dark recess of the wall cupboard was carissimo--not dead, thank goodness! but literally shaking with terror. i pulled him out as gently as i could, for he was so frightened that he growled and snapped viciously at me. i handed him to the gendarme, for by the side of carissimo i had seen something which literally froze my blood within my veins. it was theodore's hat and coat, which he had been wearing when i chased him to this house of mystery and of ill-fame, and wrapped together with it was a rag all smeared with blood, whilst the same hideous stains were now distinctly visible on the door of the cupboard itself. i turned to the gendarme, who at once confronted the abominable malefactor with the obvious proofs of a horrible crime. but the depraved wretch stood by, sir, perfectly calm and with a cynicism in his whole bearing which i had never before seen equalled! "i know nothing about that coat," he asserted with a shrug of the shoulders, "nor about the dog." the gendarme by this time was purple with fury. "not know anything about the dog?" he exclaimed in a voice choked with righteous indignation. "why, he . . . he barked!" but this indisputable fact in no way disconcerted the miscreant. "i heard a dog yapping," he said with consummate impudence, "but i thought he was in the next room. no wonder," he added coolly, "since he was in a wall cupboard." "a wall cupboard," the gendarme rejoined triumphantly, "situated in the very room which you occupy at this moment." "that is a mistake, my friend," the cynical wretch retorted, undaunted. "i do not occupy this room. i do not lodge in this hotel at all." "then how came you to be here?" "i came on a visit to a friend who happened to be out when i arrived. i found a pleasant fire here, and i sat down to warm myself. your noisy and unwarranted irruption into this room has so bewildered me that i no longer know whether i am standing on my head or on my heels." "we'll show you soon enough what you are standing on, my fine fellow," the gendarme riposted with breezy, cheerfulness. "allons!" i must say that the pampered minion of the law arose splendidly to the occasion. he seized the miscreant by the arm and took him downstairs, there to confront him with the proprietress of the establishment, while i--with marvellous presence of mind--took possession of carissimo and hid him as best i could beneath my coat. in the hall below a surprise and a disappointment were in store for me. i had reached the bottom of the stairs when the shrill feminine accents of mme. the proprietress struck unpleasantly on my ear. "no! no! i tell you!" she was saying. "this man is not my lodger. he never came here with a dog. there," she added volubly, and pointing an unwashed finger at carissimo who was struggling and growling in my arms, "there is the dog. a gentleman brought him with him last wednesday, when he inquired if he could have a room here for a few nights. number twenty-five happened to be vacant, and i have no objection to dogs. i let the gentleman have the room, and he paid me twenty sous in advance when he took possession and told me he would keep the room three nights." "the gentleman? what gentleman?" the gendarme queried, rather inanely i thought. "my lodger," the woman replied. "he is out for the moment, but he will be back presently i make no doubt. the dog is his. . . ." "what is he like?" the minion of the law queried abruptly. "who? the dog?" she retorted impudently. "no, no! your lodger." once more the unwashed finger went up and pointed straight at me. "he described him well enough just now; thin and slouchy in his ways. he has lank, yellow hair, a nose perpetually crimson--with the cold no doubt--and pale, watery eyes. . . ." "theodore," i exclaimed mentally. bewildered, the gendarme pointed to his prisoner. "but this man . . . ?" he queried. "why," the proprietress replied. "i have seen monsieur twice, or was it three times? he would visit number twenty-five now and then." i will not weary you with further accounts of the close examination to which the representative of the law subjected the personnel of the squalid hotel. the concierge and the man of all work did indeed confirm what the proprietress said, and whilst my friend the gendarme --puzzled and floundering--was scratching his head in complete bewilderment, i thought that the opportunity had come for me to slip quietly out by the still open door and make my way as fast as i could to the sumptuous abode in the faubourg st. germain, where the gratitude of mme. de nolé, together with five thousand francs, were even now awaiting me. after madame the proprietress had identified carissimo, i had once more carefully concealed him under my coat. i was ready to seize my opportunity, after which i would be free to deal with the matter of theodore's amazing disappearance. unfortunately just at this moment the little brute gave a yap, and the minion of the law at once interposed and took possession of him. "the dog belongs to the police now, sir," he said sternly. the fatuous jobbernowl wanted his share of the reward, you see. . having been forced thus to give up carissimo, and with him all my hopes of a really substantial fortune, i was determined to make the red-polled miscreant suffer for my disappointment, and the minions of the law sweat in the exercise of their duty. i demanded theodore! my friend, my comrade, my right hand! i had seen him not ten minutes ago, carrying in his arms this very dog, whom i had subsequently found inside a wall cupboard beside a blood-stained coat. where was theodore? pointing an avenging finger at the red-headed reprobate, i boldly accused him of having murdered my friend with a view to robbing him of the reward offered for the recovery of the dog. this brought a new train of thought into the wooden pates of the gendarmes. a quartet of them had by this time assembled within the respectable precincts of the hôtel des cadets. one of them--senior to the others--at once dispatched a younger comrade to the nearest commissary of police for advice and assistance. then he ordered us all into the room pompously labelled "réception," and there proceeded once more to interrogate us all, making copious notes in his leather-bound book all the time, whilst i, moaning and lamenting the loss of my faithful friend and man of all work, loudly demanded the punishment of his assassin. theodore's coat, his hat, the blood-stained rag, had all been brought down from no. and laid out upon the table ready for the inspection of m. the commissary of police. that gentleman arrived with two private agents, armed with full powers and wrapped in the magnificent imperturbability of the law. the gendarme had already put him _au fait_ of the events, and as soon as he was seated behind the table upon which reposed the "pièces de conviction," he in his turn proceeded to interrogate the ginger-pated miscreant. but strive how he might, m. the commissary elicited no further information from him than that which we all already possessed. the man gave his name as aristide nicolet. he had no fixed abode. he had come to visit his friend who lodged in no. in the hôtel des cadets. not finding him at home he had sat by the fire and had waited for him. he knew absolutely nothing of the dog and absolutely nothing of the whereabouts of theodore. "we'll soon see about that!" asserted m. the commissary. he ordered a perquisition of every room and every corner of the hotel, madame the proprietress loudly lamenting that she and her respectable house would henceforth be disgraced for ever. but the thieves--whoever they were--were clever. not a trace of any illicit practice was found on the premises--and not a trace of theodore. had he indeed been murdered? the thought now had taken root in my mind. for the moment i had even forgotten carissimo and my vanished five thousand francs. well, sir! aristide nicolet was marched off to the depot--still protesting his innocence. the next day he was confronted with mme. la comtesse de nolé, who could not say more than that he might have formed part of the gang who had jostled her on the quai voltaire, whilst the servant who had taken the missive from him failed to recognize him. carissimo was restored to the arms of his loving mistress, but the reward for his recovery had to be shared between the police and myself: three thousand francs going to the police who apprehended the thief, and two thousand to me who had put them on the track. it was not a fortune, sir, but i had to be satisfied. but in the meanwhile the disappearance of theodore had remained an unfathomable mystery. no amount of questionings and cross-questionings, no amount of confrontations and perquisitions, had brought any new matter to light. aristide nicolet persisted in his statements, as did the proprietress and the concierge of the hôtel des cadets in theirs. theodore had undoubtedly occupied room no. in the hotel during the three days while i was racking my brain as to what had become of him. i equally undoubtedly saw him for a few moments running up the rue beaune with carissimo's tail projecting beneath his coat. then he entered the open doorway of the hotel, and henceforth his whereabouts remained a baffling mystery. beyond his coat and hat, the stained rag and the dog himself, there was not the faintest indication of what became of him after that. the concierge vowed that he did not enter the hotel--aristide nicolet vowed that he did not enter no. . but then the dog was in the cupboard, and so were the hat and coat; and even the police were bound to admit that in the short space of time between my last glimpse of theodore and the gendarme's entry into room it would be impossible for the most experienced criminal on earth to murder a man, conceal every trace of the crime, and so to dispose of the body as to baffle the most minute inquiry and the most exhaustive search. sometimes when i thought the whole matter out i felt that i was growing crazy. . thus about a week or ten days went by and i had just come reluctantly to the conclusion that there must be some truth in the old mediaeval legends which tell us that the devil runs away with his elect from time to time, when i received a summons from m. the commissary of police to present myself at his bureau. he was pleasant and urbane as usual, but to my anxious query after theodore he only gave me the old reply: "no trace of him can be found." then he added: "we must therefore take it for granted, my good m. ratichon, that your man of all work is--of his own free will--keeping out of the way. the murder theory is untenable; we have had to abandon it. the total disappearance of the body is an unanswerable argument against it. would you care to offer a reward for information leading to the recovery of your missing friend?" i hesitated. i certainly was not prepared to pay anyone for finding theodore. "think it over, my good m. ratichon," rejoined m. le commissaire pleasantly. "but in the meanwhile i must tell you that we have decided to set aristide nicolet free. there is not a particle of evidence against him either in the matter of the dog or of that of your friend. mme. de nolé's servants cannot swear to his identity, whilst you have sworn that you last saw the dog in your man's arms. that being so, i feel that we have no right to detain an innocent man." well, sir, what could i say? i knew well enough that there was not a tittle of solid evidence against the man nicolet, nor had i the power to move the police of his majesty the king from their decision. in my heart of hearts i had the firm conviction that the ginger-polled ruffian knew all about carissimo and all about the present whereabouts of that rascal theodore. but what could i say, sir? what could i do? i went home that night to my lodgings at passy more perplexed than ever i had been in my life before. the next morning i arrived at my office soon after nine. the problem had presented itself to me during the night of finding a new man of all work who would serve me on the same terms as that ungrateful wretch theodore. i mounted the stairs with a heavy step and opened the outer door of my apartment with my private key; and then, sir, i assure you that for one brief moment i felt that my knees were giving way under me and that i should presently measure my full length on the floor. there, sitting at the table in my private room, was theodore. he had donned one of the many suits of clothes which i always kept at the office for purposes of my business, and he was calmly consuming a luscious sausage which was to have been part of my dinner today, and finishing a half-bottle of my best bordeaux. he appeared wholly unconscious of his enormities, and when i taxed him with his villainies and plied him with peremptory questions he met me with a dogged silence and a sulky attitude which i have never seen equalled in all my life. he flatly denied that he had ever walked the streets of paris with a dog under his arm, or that i had ever chased him up the rue beaune. he denied ever having lodged in the hôtel des cadets, or been acquainted with its proprietress, or with a red-polled, hunchback miscreant named aristide nicolet. he denied that the coat and hat found in room no. were his; in fact, he denied everything, and with an impudence, sir, which was past belief. but he put the crown to his insolence when he finally demanded two hundred francs from me: his share in the sum paid to me by mme. de nolé for the recovery of her dog. he demanded this, sir, in the name of justice and of equity, and even brandished our partnership contract in my face. i was so irate at his audacity, so disgusted that presently i felt that i could not bear the sight of him any longer. i turned my back on him and walked out of my own private room, leaving him there still munching my sausage and drinking my bordeaux. i was going through the antechamber with a view to going out into the street for a little fresh air when something in the aspect of the chair-bedstead on which that abominable brute theodore had apparently spent the night attracted my attention. i turned over one of the cushions, and with a cry of rage which i took no pains to suppress i seized upon what i found lying beneath: a blue linen blouse, sir, a peaked cap, a ginger-coloured wig and beard! the villain! the abominable mountebank! the wretch! the . . . i was wellnigh choking with wrath. with the damning pieces of conviction in my hand, i rushed back into the inner room. already my cry of indignation had aroused the vampire from his orgy. he stood before me sheepish, grinning, and taunted me, sir--taunted me for my blindness in not recognizing him under the disguise of the so-called aristide nicolet. it was a disguise which he had kept by him in case of an emergency when first he decided to start business as a dog thief. carissimo had been his first serious venture and but for my interference it would have been a wholly successful one. he had worked the whole thing out with marvellous cleverness, being greatly assisted by madame sand, the proprietress of the hôtel des cadets, who was a friend of his mother's. the lady, it seems, carried on a lucrative business of the same sort herself, and she undertook to furnish him with the necessary confederates for the carrying out of his plan. the proceeds of the affair were to be shared equally between himself and madame; the confederates, who helped to jostle mme. de nolé whilst her dog was being stolen, were to receive five francs each for their trouble. when he met me at the corner of the rue beaune he was on his way to the rue guénégaud, hoping to exchange carissimo for five thousand francs. when he met me, however, he felt that the best thing to do for the moment was to seek safety in flight. he had only just time to run back to the hotel to warn mme. sand of my approach and beg her to detain me at any cost. then he flew up the stairs, changed into his disguise, carissimo barking all the time furiously. whilst he was trying to pacify the dog, the latter bit him severely in the arm, drawing a good deal of blood--the crimson scar across his face was a last happy inspiration which put the finishing touch to his disguise and to the hoodwinking of the police and of me. he had only just time to staunch the blood from his arm and to thrust his own clothes and carissimo into the wall cupboard when the gendarme and i burst in upon him. i could only gasp. for one brief moment the thought rushed through my mind that i would denounce him to the police for . . . for . . . but that was just the trouble. of what could i accuse him? of murdering himself or of stealing mme. de nolé's dog? the commissary would hardly listen to such a tale . . . and it would make me seem ridiculous. . . . so i gave theodore the soundest thrashing he ever had in his life, and fifty francs to keep his mouth shut. but did i not tell you that he was a monster of ingratitude? chapter v the toys . you are right, sir, i very seldom speak of my halcyon days--those days when the greatest monarch the world has ever known honoured me with his intimacy and confidence. i had my office in the rue st. roch then, at the top of a house just by the church, and not a stone's throw from the palace, and i can tell you, sir, that in those days ministers of state, foreign ambassadors, aye! and members of his majesty's household, were up and down my staircase at all hours of the day. i had not yet met theodore then, and fate was wont to smile on me. as for m. le duc d'otrante, minister of police, he would send to me or for me whenever an intricate case required special acumen, resourcefulness and secrecy. thus in the matter of the english files--have i told you of it before? no? well, then, you shall hear. those were the days, sir, when the emperor's berlin decrees were going to sweep the world clear of english commerce and of english enterprise. it was not a case of paying heavy duty on english goods, or a still heavier fine if you smuggled; it was total prohibition, and hanging if you were caught bringing so much as a metre of bradford cloth or half a dozen sheffield files into the country. but you know how it is, sir: the more strict the law the more ready are certain lawless human creatures to break it. never was smuggling so rife as it was in those days--i am speaking now of or --never was it so daring or smugglers so reckless. m. le duc d'otrante had his hands full, i can tell you. it had become a matter for the secret police; the coastguard or customs officials were no longer able to deal with it. then one day hypolite leroux came to see me. i knew the man well--a keen sleuthhound if ever there was one--and well did he deserve his name, for he was as red as a fox. "ratichon," he said to me, without preamble, as soon as he had seated himself opposite to me, and i had placed half a bottle of good bordeaux and a couple of glasses on the table. "i want your help in the matter of these english files. we have done all that we can in our department. m. le duc has doubled the customs personnel on the swiss frontier, the coastguard is both keen and efficient, and yet we know that at the present moment there are thousands of english files used in this country, even inside his majesty's own armament works. m. le duc d'otrante is determined to put an end to the scandal. he has offered a big reward for information which will lead to the conviction of one or more of the chief culprits, and i am determined to get that reward--with your help, if you will give it." "what is the reward?" i asked simply. "five thousand francs," he replied. "your knowledge of english and italian is what caused me to offer you a share in this splendid enterprise--" "it's no good lying to me, leroux," i broke in quietly, "if we are going to work amicably together." he swore. "the reward is ten thousand francs." i made the shot at a venture, knowing my man well. "i swear that it is not," he asserted hotly. "swear again," i retorted, "for i'll not deal with you for less than five thousand." he did swear again and protested loudly. but i was firm. "have another glass of wine," i said. after which he gave in. the affair was bound to be risky. smugglers of english goods were determined and desperate men who were playing for high stakes and risking their necks on the board. in all matters of smuggling a knowledge of foreign languages was an invaluable asset. i spoke italian well and knew some english. i knew my worth. we both drank a glass of cognac and sealed our bond then and there. after which leroux drew his chair closer to my desk. "listen, then," he said. "you know the firm of fournier frères, in the rue colbert?" "by name, of course. cutlers and surgical instrument makers by appointment to his majesty. what about them?" "m. le duc has had his eyes on them for some time." "fournier frères!" i ejaculated. "impossible! a more reputable firm does not exist in france." "i know, i know," he rejoined impatiently. "and yet it is a curious fact that m. aristide fournier, the junior partner, has lately bought for himself a house at st. claude." "at st. claude?" i ejaculated. "yes," he responded dryly. "very near to gex, what?" i shrugged my shoulders, for indeed the circumstances did appear somewhat strange. do you know gex, my dear sir? ah, it is a curious and romantic spot. it has possibilities, both natural and political, which appear to have been expressly devised for the benefit of the smuggling fraternity. nestling in the midst of the jura mountains, it is outside the customs zone of the empire. so you see the possibilities, do you not? gex soon became the picturesque warehouse of every conceivable kind of contraband goods. on one side of it there was the swiss frontier, and the swiss government was always willing to close one eye in the matter of customs provided its palm was sufficiently greased by the light-fingered gentry. no difficulty, therefore, as you see, in getting contraband goods--even english ones--as far as gex. here they could be kept hidden until a fitting opportunity occurred for smuggling them into france, opportunities for which the jura, with their narrow defiles and difficult mountain paths, afforded magnificent scope. st. claude, of which leroux had just spoken as the place where m. aristide fournier had recently bought himself a house, is in france, only a few kilometres from the neutral zone of gex. it seemed a strange spot to choose for a wealthy and fashionable member of parisian bourgeois society, i was bound to admit. "but," i mused, "one cannot go to gex without a permit from the police." "not by road," leroux assented. "but you will own that there are means available to men who are young and vigorous like m. fournier, who moreover, i understand, is an accomplished mountaineer. you know gex, of course?" i had crossed the jura once, in my youth, but was not very intimately familiar with the district. leroux had a carefully drawn-out map of it in his pocket; this he laid out before me. "these two roads," he began, tracing the windings of a couple of thin red lines on the map with the point of his finger, "are the only two made ones that lead in and out of the district. here is the valserine," he went on, pointing to a blue line, "which flows from north to south, and both the roads wind over bridges that span the river close to our frontier. the french customs stations are on our side of those bridges. but, besides those two roads, the frontier can, of course, be crossed by one or other of the innumerable mountain tracks which are only accessible to pedestrians or mules. that is where our customs officials are powerless, for the tracks are precipitous and offer unlimited cover to those who know every inch of the ground. several of them lead directly into st. claude, at some considerable distance from the customs stations, and it is these tracks which are being used by m. aristide fournier for the felonious purpose of trading with the enemy--on this i would stake my life. but i mean to be even with him, and if i get the help which i require from you, i am convinced that i can lay him by the heels." "i am your man," i concluded simply. "very well," he resumed. "are you prepared to journey with me to gex?" "when do you start?" "to-day." "i shall be ready." he gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. "then listen to my plan," he said. "we'll journey together as far as st. claude; from there you will push on to gex, and take up your abode in the city, styling yourself an interpreter. this will give you the opportunity of mixing with some of the smuggling fraternity, and it will be your duty to keep both your eyes and ears open. i, on the other hand, will take up my quarters at mijoux, the french customs station, which is on the frontier, about half a dozen kilometres from gex. every day i'll arrange to meet you, either at the latter place or somewhere half-way, and hear what news you may have to tell me. and mind, ratichon," he added sternly, "it means running straight, or the reward will slip through our fingers." i chose to ignore the coarse insinuation, and only riposted quietly: "i must have money on account. i am a poor man, and will be out of pocket by the transaction from the hour i start for gex to that when you pay me my fair share of the reward." by way of a reply he took out a case from his pocket. i saw that it was bulging over with banknotes, which confirmed me in my conviction both that he was actually an emissary of the minister of police and that i could have demanded an additional thousand francs without fear of losing the business. "i'll give you five hundred on account," he said as he licked his ugly thumb preparatory to counting out the money before me. "make it a thousand," i retorted; "and call it 'additional,' not 'on account.'" he tried to argue. "i am not keen on the business," i said with calm dignity, "so if you think that i am asking too much--there are others, no doubt, who would do the work for less." it was a bold move. but it succeeded. leroux laughed and shrugged his shoulders. then he counted out ten hundred-franc notes and laid them out upon the desk. but before i could touch them he laid his large bony hands over the lot and, looking me straight between the eyes, he said with earnest significance: "english files are worth as much as twenty francs apiece in the market." "i know." "fournier frères would not take the risks which they are doing for a consignment of less than ten thousand." "i doubt if they would," i rejoined blandly. "it will be your business to find out how and when the smugglers propose to get their next consignment over the frontier." "exactly." "and to communicate any information you may have obtained to me." "and to keep an eye on the valuable cargo, of course?" i concluded. "yes," he said roughly, "an eye. but hands off, understand, my good ratichon, or there'll be trouble." he did not wait to hear my indignant protest. he had risen to his feet, and had already turned to go. now he stretched his great coarse hand out to me. "all in good part, eh?" i took his hand. he meant no harm, did old leroux. he was just a common, vulgar fellow who did not know a gentleman when he saw one. and we parted the best of friends. . a week later i was at gex. at st. claude i had parted from leroux, and then hired a chaise to take me to my destination. it was a matter of fifteen kilometres by road over the frontier of the customs zone and through the most superb scenery i had ever seen in my life. we drove through narrow gorges, on each side of which the mountain heights rose rugged and precipitous to incalculable altitudes above. from time to time only did i get peeps of almost imperceptible tracks along the declivities, tracks on which it seemed as if goats alone could obtain a footing. once--hundreds of feet above me--i spied a couple of mules descending what seemed like a sheer perpendicular path down the mountain side. the animals appeared to be heavily laden, and i marvelled what forbidden goods lay hidden within their packs and whether in the days that were to come i too should be called upon to risk my life on those declivities following in the footsteps of the reckless and desperate criminals whom it was my duty to pursue. i confess that at the thought, and with those pictures of grim nature before me, i felt an unpleasant shiver coursing down my spine. nothing of importance occurred during the first fortnight of my sojourn at gex. i was installed in moderately comfortable, furnished rooms in the heart of the city, close to the church and market square. in one of my front windows, situated on the ground floor, i had placed a card bearing the inscription: "aristide barrot, interpreter," and below, "anglais, allemand, italien." i had even had a few clients--conversations between the local police and some poor wretches caught in the act of smuggling a few yards of swiss silk or a couple of cream cheeses over the french frontier, and sent back to gex to be dealt with by the local authorities. leroux had found lodgings at mijoux, and twice daily he walked over to gex to consult with me. we met, mornings and evenings, at the café restaurant of the crâne chauve, an obscure little tavern situated on the outskirts of the city. he was waxing impatient at what he called my supineness, for indeed so far i had had nothing to report. there was no sign of m. aristide fournier. no one in gex appeared to know anything about him, though the proprietor of the principal hotel in the town did recollect having had a visitor of that name once or twice during the past year. but, of course, during this early stage of my stay in the town it was impossible for me to believe anything that i was told. i had not yet succeeded in winning the confidence of the inhabitants, and it was soon pretty evident to me that the whole countryside was engaged in the perilous industry of smuggling. everyone from the mayor downwards did a bit of a deal now and again in contraband goods. in ordinary cases it only meant fines if one was caught, or perhaps imprisonment for repeated offenses. but four or five days after my arrival at gex i saw three fellows handed over to the police of the department. they had been caught in the act of trying to ford the valserine with half a dozen pack-mules laden with english cloth. they were hanged at st. claude two days later. i can assure you, sir, that the news of this summary administration of justice sent another cold shiver down my spine, and i marvelled if indeed leroux's surmises were correct and if a respectable tradesman like aristide fournier would take such terrible risks even for the sake of heavy gains. i had been in gex just a fortnight when the weather, which hitherto had been splendid, turned to squalls and storms. we were then in the second week of september. a torrential rain had fallen the whole of one day, during which i had only been out in order to meet leroux, as usual, at the café du crâne chauve. i had just come home from our evening meeting--it was then ten o'clock--and i was preparing to go comfortably to bed, when i was startled by a violent ring at the front-door bell. i had only just time to wonder if this belated visitor desired to see me or my worthy landlady, mme. bournon, when her heavy footsteps resounded along the passage. the next moment i heard my name spoken peremptorily by a harsh voice, and mme. bournon's reply that m. aristide barrot was indeed within. a few seconds later she ushered my nocturnal visitor into my room. he was wrapped in a dark mantle from head to foot, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat pulled right over his eyes. he did not remove either as he addressed me without further preamble. "you are an interpreter, sir?" he queried, speaking very rapidly and in sharp commanding tones. "at your service," i replied. "my name is ernest berty. i want you to come with me at once to my house. i require your services as intermediary between myself and some men who have come to see me on business. these men whom i wish you to see are russians," he added, i fancied as an afterthought, "but they speak english fluently." i suppose that i looked just as i felt--somewhat dubious owing to the lateness of the hour and the darkness of the night, not to speak of the abominable weather, for he continued with marked impatience: "it is imperative that you should come at once. though my house is at some little distance from here, i have a chaise outside which will also bring you back, and," he added significantly, "i will pay you whatever you demand." "it is very late," i demurred, "the weather--" "your fee, man!" he broke in roughly, "and let's get on!" "five hundred francs," i said at a venture. "come!" was his curt reply. "i will give you the money as we drive along." i wished i had made it a thousand; apparently my services were worth a great deal to him. however, i picked up my mantle and my hat, and within a few seconds was ready to go. i shouted up to mme. bournon that i would not be home for a couple of hours, but that as i had my key i need not disturb her when i returned. once outside the door i almost regretted my ready acquiescence in this nocturnal adventure. the rain was beating down unmercifully, and at first i saw no sign of a vehicle; but in answer to my visitor's sharp command i followed him down the street as far as the market square, at the corner of which i spied the dim outline of a carriage and a couple of horses. without wasting too many words, m. ernest berty bundled me into the carriage, and very soon we were on the way. the night was impenetrably dark and the chaise more than ordinarily rickety. i had but little opportunity to ascertain which way we were going. a small lanthorn fixed opposite to me in the interior of the carriage, and flickering incessantly before my eyes, made it still more impossible for me to see anything outside the narrow window. my companion sat beside me, silent and absorbed. after a while i ventured to ask him which way we were driving. "through the town," he replied curtly. "my house is just outside divonne." now, divonne is, as i knew, quite close to the swiss frontier. it is a matter of seven or eight kilometres--an hour's drive at the very least in this supremely uncomfortable vehicle. i tried to induce further conversation, but made no headway against my companion's taciturnity. however, i had little cause for complaint in another direction. after the first quarter of an hour, and when we had left the cobblestones of the city behind us, he drew a bundle of notes from his pocket, and by the flickering light of the lanthorn he counted out ten fifty-franc notes and handed them without another word to me. the drive was unspeakably wearisome; but after a while i suppose that the monotonous rumbling of the wheels and the incessant patter of the rain against the window-panes lulled me into a kind of torpor. certain it is that presently--much sooner than i had anticipated--the chaise drew up with a jerk, and i was roused to full consciousness by hearing m. berty's voice saying curtly: "here we are! come with me!" i was stiff, sir, and i was shivering--not so much with cold as with excitement. you will readily understand that all my faculties were now on the qui vive. somehow or other during the wearisome drive by the side of my close-tongued companion my mind had fastened on the certitude that my adventure of this night bore a close connexion to the firm of fournier frères and to the english files which were causing so many sleepless nights to m. le duc d'otrante, minister of police. but nothing in my manner, as i stepped out of the carriage under the porch of the house which loomed dark and massive out of the surrounding gloom, betrayed anything of what i felt. outwardly i was just a worthy bourgeois, an interpreter by profession, and delighted at the remunerative work so opportunely put in my way. the house itself appeared lonely as well as dark. m. berty led the way across a narrow passage, at the end of which there was a door which he pushed open, saying in his usual abrupt manner: "go in there and wait. i'll send for you directly." then he closed the door on me, and i heard his footsteps recrossing the corridor and presently ascending some stairs. i was left alone in a small, sparsely furnished room, dimly lighted by an oil lamp which hung down from the ceiling. there was a table in the middle of the room, a square of carpet on the floor, and a couple of chairs beside a small iron stove. i noticed that the single window was closely shuttered and barred. i sat down and waited. at first the silence around me was only broken by the pattering of the rain against the shutters and the soughing of the wind down the iron chimney pipe, but after a little while my senses, which by this time had become super-acute, were conscious of various noises within the house itself: footsteps overhead, a confused murmur of voices, and anon the unmistakable sound of a female voice raised as if in entreaty or in complaint. somehow a vague feeling of alarm possessed itself of my nervous system. i began to realise my position--alone, a stranger in a house as to whose situation i had not the remotest idea, and among a set of men who, if my surmises were correct, were nothing less than a gang of determined and dangerous criminals. the voices, especially the female one, were now sounding more clear. i tiptoed to the door, and very gently opened it. there was indeed no mistaking the tone of desperate pleading which came from some room above and through & woman's lips. i even caught the words: "oh, don't! oh, don't! not again!" repeated at intervals with pitiable insistence. mastering my not unnatural anxiety, i opened the door a little farther and slipped out into the passage, all my instincts of chivalry towards beauty in distress aroused by those piteous cries. forgetful of every possible danger and of all prudence, i had already darted down the corridor, determined to do my duty as a gentleman as soon as i had ascertained whence had come those cries of anguish, when i heard the frou-frou of skirts and a rapid patter of small feet down the stairs. the next moment a radiant vision, all white muslin, fair curls and the scent of violets, descended on me from above, a soft hand closed over mine and drew me, unresisting, back into the room from whence i had just come. bewildered, i gazed on the winsome apparition before me, and beheld a young girl, slender as a lily, dressed in a soft, clinging gown which made her appear more slender still, her fair hair arranged in a tangle of unruly curls round the dainty oval of her face. she was exquisite, sir! and the slenderness of her! you cannot imagine it! she looked like a young sapling bending to the gale. but what cut me to the heart was the look of terror and of misery in her face. she clasped her hands together and the tears gathered in her eyes. "go, sir, go at once!" she murmured under her breath, speaking very rapidly. "do not waste a minute, i beg of you! as you value your life, go before it is too late!" "but, mademoiselle," i stammered; for indeed her words and appearance had roused all my worst fears, but also all my instincts of the sleuth-hound scenting his quarry. "don't argue, i beg of you," continued the lovely creature, who indeed seemed the prey of overwhelming emotions--fear, horror, pity. "when he comes back do not let him find you here. i'll explain, i'll know what to say, only i entreat you--go!" sir, i have many faults, but cowardice does not happen to be one of them, and the more the angel pleaded the more determined was i to see this business through. i was, of course, quite convinced by now that i was on the track of m. aristide fournier and the english files, and i was not going to let five thousand francs and the gratitude of the minister of police slip through my fingers so easily. "mademoiselle," i rejoined as calmly as i could, "let me assure you that though your anxiety for me is like manna to a starving man, i have no fears for my own safety. i have come here in the capacity of a humble interpreter; i certainly am not worth putting out of the way. moreover, i have been paid for my services, and these i will render to my employer to the best of my capabilities." "ah, but you don't know," she retorted, not departing one jot from her attitude of terror and of entreaty, "you don't understand. this house, monsieur," she added in a hoarse whisper, "is nothing but a den of criminals wherein no honest man or woman is safe." "pardon, mademoiselle," i riposted as lightly and as gallantly as i could, "i see before me the living proof that angels, at any rate, dwell therein." "alas! sir," she rejoined, with a heart-rending sigh, "if you mean me, i am only to be pitied. my dear mother and i are naught but slaves to the will of my brother, who uses us as tools for his nefarious ends." "but . . ." i stammered, horrified beyond speech at the vista of villainy which her words had opened up before me. "my mother, sir," she said simply, "is old and ailing; she is dying of anguish at sight of her son's misdeeds. i would not, could not leave her, yet i would give my life to see her free from that miscreant's clutches!" my whole soul was stirred to its depths by the intensity of passion which rang through this delicate creature's words. what weird and awesome mystery of iniquity and of crime lay hid, i wondered, between these walls? in what tragedy had i thus accidentally become involved while fulfilling my prosaic duty in the interest of his majesty's exchequer? as in a flash it suddenly came to me that perhaps i could serve both this lovely creature and the emperor better by going out of the house now, and lying hidden all the night through somewhere in its vicinity until in daylight i could locate its exact situation. then i could communicate with leroux at once and procure the apprehension of this berty--or fournier--who apparently was a desperate criminal. already a bold plan was taking shape in my brain, and with my mind's eye i had measured the distance which separated me from the front door and safety when, in the distance, i heard heavy footsteps slowly descending the stairs. i looked at my lovely companion, and saw her eyes gradually dilating with increased horror. she gave a smothered cry, pressed her handkerchief to her lips, then she murmured hoarsely, "too late!" and fled precipitately from the room, leaving me a prey to mingled emotions such as i had never experienced before. . a moment or two later m. ernest berty, or whatever his real name may have been, entered the room. whether he had encountered his exquisite sister on the corridor or the stairs, i could not tell; his face, in the dim light of the hanging lamp, looked impenetrable and sinister. "this way, m. barrot," he said curtly. just for one brief moment the thought occurred to me to throw myself upon him with my whole weight--which was considerable--and make a wild dash for the front door. but it was more than probable that i should be intercepted and brought back, after which no doubt i would be an object of suspicion to these rascals and my life would not be worth an hour's purchase. with the young girl's warnings ringing in my ears, i felt that my one chance of safety and of circumventing these criminals lay in my seeming ingenuousness and complete guileless-ness. i assumed a perfect professional manner and followed my companion up the stairs. he ushered me into a room just above the one where i had been waiting up to now. three men dressed in rough clothes were sitting at a table on which stood a couple of tankards and four empty pewter mugs. my employer offered me a glass of ale, which i declined. then we got to work. at the first words which m. berty uttered i knew that all my surmises had been correct. whether he himself was m. aristide fournier, or another partner of that firm, or some other rascal engaged in nefarious doings, i could not know; certain it was that through the medium of cipher words and phrases which he thought were unintelligible to me, and which he ordered me to interpret into english, he was giving directions to the three men with regard to the convoying of contraband cargo over the frontier. there was much talk of "toys" and "babies"--the latter were to take a walk in the mountains and to avoid the "thorns"; the "toys" were to be securely fastened and well protected against water. it was obviously a case of mules and of the goods, the "thorns" being the customs officials. by the time that we had finished i was absolutely convinced in my mind that the cargo was one of english files or razors, for it was evidently extraordinarily valuable and not at all bulky, seeing that two "babies" were to carry all the "toys" for a considerable distance. the men, too, were obviously english. i tried the few words of russian that i knew on them, and their faces remained perfectly blank. yes, indeed, i was on the track of m. aristide fournier, and of one of the most important hauls of enemy goods which had ever been made in france. not only that. i had also before me one of the most brutish criminals it had ever been my misfortune to come across. a bully, a fiend of cruelty. in very truth my fertile brain was seething with plans for eventually laying that abominable ruffian by the heels: hanging would be a merciful punishment for such a miscreant. yes, indeed, five thousand francs--a goodly sum in those days, sir--was practically assured me. but over and above mere lucre there was the certainty that in a few days' time i should see the light of gratitude shining out of a pair of lustrous blue eyes, and a winning smile chasing away the look of fear and of sorrow from the sweetest face i had seen for many a day. despite the turmoil that was raging in my brain, however, i flatter myself that my manner with the rascals remained consistently calm, businesslike, indifferent to all save to the work in hand. the soi-disant ernest berty spoke invariably in french, either dictating his orders or seeking information, and i made verbal translation into english of all that he said. the séance lasted close upon an hour, and presently i gathered that the affair was terminated and that i could consider myself dismissed. i was about to take my leave, having apparently completed my work, when m. ernest berty called me back with a curt command. "one moment, m. barrot," he said. "at monsieur's service," i responded blandly. "as you see," he continued, "these fellows do not know a word of french. all along the way which they will have to traverse they will meet friendly outposts, who will report to them on the condition of the roads and warn them of any danger that might be ahead. their ignorance of our language may be a source of infinite peril to them. they need an interpreter to accompany them over the mountains." he paused for a moment or two, then added abruptly: "would you care to go? the matter is important," he went on quietly, "and i am willing to pay you. it means a couple of nights' journey--a halt in the mountains during the day--and there will be ten thousand francs for you if the 'toys' reach st. claude safely." i suppose that something in my face betrayed the eagerness which i felt. here was indeed the finger of providence pointing to the best means of undoing this abominable criminal. not that i intended to risk my neck for any ten thousand francs he chose to offer me, but as the trusted guide of his ingenuous "babies" i could convoy them--not to st. claude, as he blandly believed, but straight into the arms of leroux and the customs officials. "then that is understood," he said in his usual dictatorial manner, taking my consent for granted. "ten thousand francs. and you will accompany these gentlemen and their 'babies' as far as st. claude?" "i am a poor man, sir," i responded meekly. "of course you are," he broke in roughly. then from a number of papers which lay upon the table, he selected one which he held out to me. "do you know st. cergues?" he asked. "yes," i replied. "it is a short walk from gex." "this," he added, pointing to a paper which i had taken from him, "is a plan of the village and of the pass of cergues close by. study it carefully. at some point some way up the pass, which i have marked with a cross, i and my men with the 'babies' will be waiting for you to-morrow evening at eight o'clock. you cannot possibly fail to find the spot, for the plan is very accurate and very minute, and it is less than five hundred metres from the last house at the entrance of the pass. i shall escort the men until then, and hand them over into your charge for the mountain journey. is that clear?" "perfectly." "very well, then; you may go. the carriage is outside the door. you know your way." he dismissed me with a curt nod, and the next two minutes saw me outside this house of mystery and installed inside the ramshackle vehicle on my way back to my lodgings. i was worn out with fatigue and excitement, and i imagine that i slept most of the way. certain it is that the journey home was not nearly so long as the outward one had been. the rain was still coming down heavily, but i cared nothing about the weather, nothing about fatigue. my path to fame and fortune had been made easier for me than in my wildest dreams i would have dared to hope. in the morning i would see leroux and make final arrangements for the capture of those impudent smugglers, and i thought the best way would be for him to meet me and the "babies" and the "toys" at the very outset of our journey, as i did not greatly relish the idea of crossing lonely and dangerous mountain paths in the company of these ruffians. i reached home without adventure. the vehicle drew up just outside my lodgings, and i was about to alight when my eyes were attracted by something white which lay on the front seat of the carriage, conspicuously placed so that the light from the inside lanthorn fell full upon it. i had been too tired and too dazed, i suppose, to notice the thing before, but now, on closer inspection, i saw that it was a note, and that it was addressed to me: "m. aristide barrot, interpreter," and below my name were the words: "very urgent." i took the note feeling a thrill of excitement running through my veins at its touch. i alighted, and the vehicle immediately disappeared into the night. i had only caught one glimpse of the horses, and none at all of the coachman. then i went straight into my room, and by the light of the table lamp i unfolded and read the mysterious note. it bore no signature, but at the first words i knew that the writer was none other than the lovely young creature who had appeared to me like an angel of innocence in the midst of that den of thieves. * * * * * "monsieur," she had written in a hand which had clearly been trembling with agitation, "you are good, you are kind; i entreat you to be merciful. my dear mother, whom i worship, is sick with terror and misery. she will die if she remains any longer under the sway of that inhuman monster who, alas! is my own brother. and if i lose her i shall die, too, for i should no longer have anyone to stand between me and his cruelties. "my dear mother has some relations living at st. claude. she would have gone to them before now, but my brother keeps us both virtual prisoners here, and we have no means of arranging for such a perilous journey for ourselves. now, by the most extraordinary stroke of good fortune, my brother will be absent all day to-morrow and the following night. my dear mother and i feel that god himself is showing us the way to our release. "will you, can you help us, dear m. barrot? mother and i will be at gex to-morrow at one hour after sundown. we will lie perdu in the little taverne du roi de rome, where, if you come to us, you will find us waiting anxiously. if you can do nothing to help us, we must return broken-hearted to our hated prison; but something in my heart tells me that you can help us. all that we want is a vehicle of some sort and the escort of a brave man like yourself as far as st. claude, where our relatives will thank you on their knees for your kindness and generosity to two helpless, miserable, unprotected women, and i will kiss your hands in unbounded gratitude and devotion." * * * * * it were impossible, monsieur, to tell you of the varied emotions which filled my heart when i had perused that heart-rending appeal. all my instincts of chivalry were aroused. i was determined to do my duty to these helpless ladies as a man and as a gallant knight. even before i finally went to bed i had settled in my mind what i meant to do. fortunately it was quite possible for me to reconcile my duties to my emperor and those which i owed to myself in the matter of the reward for the apprehension of the smugglers, with my burning desire to be the saviour and protector of the lovely creature whose beauty had inflamed my impressionable heart, and to have my hands kissed by her in gratitude and devotion. the next morning leroux and i were deep in our plans, whilst we sipped our coffee outside the crâne chauve. he was beside himself with joy and excitement at the prospective haul, which would, of course, redound enormously to his credit, even though the success of the whole undertaking would be due to my acumen, my resourcefulness and my pluck. fortunately i found him not only ready but eager to render me what assistance he could in the matter of the two ladies who had thrown themselves so entirely on my protection. "we might get valuable information out of them," he remarked. "in the excess of their gratitude they may betray many more secrets and nefarious doings of the firm of fournier frères." "which further proves," i remarked, "how deeply you and monsieur le ministre of police are indebted to me over this affair." he did not argue the point. indeed, we were both of us far too much excited to waste words in useless bickerings. our plans for the evening were fairly simple. we both pored over the map which fournier-berty had given me, until we felt that we could reach blindfolded the spot which had been marked with a cross. we then arranged that leroux should betake himself thither with a strong posse of gendarmes during the day, and lie hidden in the vicinity until such time as i myself appeared upon the scene, identified my friends of the night before, parleyed with them for a minute or two, and finally retired, leaving the law in all its majesty, as represented by leroux, to deal with the rascals. in the meantime i also mapped out for myself my own share in this night's adventurous work. i had hired a vehicle to take me as far as st. cergues; here i intended to leave it at the local inn, and then proceed on foot up the mountain pass to the appointed spot. as soon as i had seen the smugglers safely in the hands of leroux and the gendarmes, i would make my way back to st. cergues as rapidly as i could, step into my vehicle, drive like the wind back to gex, and place myself at the disposal of my fair angel and her afflicted mother. leroux promised me that at the customs station on the french frontier the officials would look after me and the ladies, and that a pair of fresh horses would be ready to take us straight on to st. claude, which, if all was well, we could then reach by daybreak. having settled all these matters we parted company, he to arrange his own affairs with the commissary of police and the customs officials, and i to await with as much patience as i could the hour when i could start for st. cergues. . the night--just as i anticipated--promised to be very dark. a thin drizzle, which wetted the unfortunate pedestrian to the marrow, had replaced the torrential rain of the previous day. twilight was closing in very fast. in the late autumn afternoon i drove to st. cergues, after which i left the chaise in the village and boldly started to walk up the mountain pass. i had studied the map so carefully that i was quite sure of my way, but though my appointment with the rascals was for eight o'clock, i wished to reach the appointed spot before the last flicker of grey light had disappeared from the sky. soon i had left the last house well behind me. boldly i plunged into the narrow path. the loneliness of the place was indescribable. every step which i took on the stony track seemed to rouse the echoes of the grim heights which rose precipitously on either side of me, and in my mind i felt aghast at the extraordinary courage of those men who--like aristide fournier and his gang--chose to affront such obvious and manifold dangers as these frowning mountain regions held for them for the sake of paltry lucre. i had walked, according to my reckoning, just upon five hundred metres through the gorge, when on ahead i perceived the flicker of lights which appeared to be moving to and fro. the silence and loneliness no longer seemed to be absolute. a few metres from where i was men were living and breathing, plotting and planning, unconscious of the net which the unerring hand of a skilful fowler had drawn round them and their misdeeds. the next moment i was challenged by a peremptory "halt!" recognition followed. m. ernest berty, or aristide fournier, whichever he was, acknowledged with a few words my punctuality, whilst through the gloom i took rapid stock of his little party. i saw the vague outline of three men and a couple of mules which appeared to be heavily laden. they were assembled on a flat piece of ground which appeared like a roofless cavern carved out of the mountain side. the walls of rock around them afforded them both cover and refuge. they seemed in no hurry to start. they had the long night before them, so one of them remarked in english. however, presently m. fournier-berty gave the signal for the start to be made, he himself preparing to take leave of his men. just at that moment my ears caught the welcome sound of the tramping of feet, and before any of the rascals there could realise what was happening, their way was barred by leroux and his gendarmes, who loudly gave the order, "hands up, in the name of the emperor!" i was only conscious of a confused murmur of voices, of the click of firearms, of words of command passing to and fro, and of several violent oaths uttered in the not unfamiliar voice of m. aristide fournier. but already i had spied leroux. i only exchanged a few words with him, for indeed my share of the evening's work was done as far as he was concerned, and i made haste to retrace my steps through the darkness and the rain along the lonely mountain path toward the goal where chivalry and manly ardour beckoned to me from afar. i found my vehicle waiting for me at st. cergues, and by the promise of an additional pourboire, i succeeded in making the driver whip up his horses to some purpose. less than an hour later we drew up at gex outside the little inn, pretentiously called le roi de rome. on alighting i was met by the proprietress who, in answer to my inquiry after two ladies who had arrived that afternoon, at once conducted me upstairs. already my mind was busy conjuring up visions of the fair lady of yester-eve. the landlady threw open a door and ushered me into a small room which reeked of stale food and damp clothes. i stepped in and found myself face to face with a large and exceedingly ugly old woman who rose with difficulty from the sofa as i entered. "m. aristide barrot," she said as soon as the landlady had closed the door behind me. "at your service, madame," i stammered. "but--" i was indeed almost aghast. never in my life had i seen anything so grotesque as this woman. to begin with she was more than ordinarily stout and unwieldy--indeed, she appeared like a veritable mountain of flesh; but what was so disturbing to my mind was that she was nothing but a hideous caricature of her lovely daughter, whose dainty features she grotesquely recalled. her face was seamed and wrinkled, her white hair was plastered down above her yellow forehead. she wore an old-fashioned bonnet tied under her chin, and her huge bulk was draped in a large-patterned cashmere shawl. "you expected to see my dear daughter beside me, my good m. barrot," she said after a while speaking with remarkable gentleness and dignity. "i confess, madame--" i murmured. "ah! the darling has sacrificed herself for my sake. we found to-day that though my son was out of the way, he had set his abominable servants to watch over us. soon we realized that we could not both get away. it meant one of us staying behind to act the part of unconcern and to throw dust in the eyes of our jailers. my daughter--ah! she is an angel, monsieur--feared that the disappointment and my son's cruelty, when he returned on the morrow and found that he had been tricked, would seriously endanger my life. she decided that i must go and that she would remain." "but, madame--" i protested. "i know, monsieur," she rejoined with the same calm dignity which already had commanded my respect, "i know that you think me a selfish old woman; but my angèle--she is an angel, of a truth!--made all the arrangements, and i could not help but obey her. but have no fears for her safety, monsieur. my son would not dare lay hands on her as often as he has done on me. angèle will be brave, and our relations at st. claude will, directly we arrive, make arrangements to go and fetch her and bring her back to me. my brother is an influential man; he would never have allowed my son to martyrize me and angèle had he known what we have had to endure." of course i could not then tell her that all her fears for herself and the lovely angèle could now be laid to rest. her ruffianly son was even now being conveyed by leroux and his gendarmes to the frontier, where the law would take its course. i was indeed not sorry for him. i was not sorry to think that he would end his evil life upon the guillotine or the gallows. i was only grieved for angèle who would spend a night and a day, perhaps more, in agonized suspense, knowing nothing of the events which at one great swoop would free her and her beloved mother from the tyranny of a hated brother and send him to expiate his crimes. not only did i grieve, sir, for the tender victim of that man's brutality, but i trembled for her safety. i did not know what minions or confederates fournier-berty had left in the lonely house yonder, or under what orders they were in case he did not return from his nocturnal expedition. indeed for the moment i felt so agitated at thought of that beautiful angel's peril that i looked down with anger and scorn at the fat old woman who ought to have remained beside her daughter to comfort and to shield her. i was on the point of telling her everything, and dragging her back to her post of duty which she should never have relinquished. fortunately my sense of what i owed to my own professional dignity prevented my taking such a step. it was clearly not for me to argue. my first duty was to stand by this helpless woman in distress, who had been committed to my charge, and to convey her safely to st. claude. after which i could see to it that mademoiselle angèle was brought along too as quickly as influential relatives could contrive. in the meanwhile i derived some consolation from the thought that at any rate for the next four and twenty hours the lovely creature would be safe. no news of the arrest of aristide fournier could possibly reach the lonely house until i myself could return thither and take her under my protection. so i said nothing; but with perfect gallantry, just as if fat mme. fournier had been a young and beautiful woman, i begged her to give herself the trouble of mounting into the carriage which was waiting for her. it took time and trouble, sir, to hoist that mass of solid flesh into the vehicle, and the driver grumbled not a little at the unexpected weight. however, his horses were powerful, wiry, mountain ponies, and we made headway through the darkness and along the smooth, departmental road at moderate speed. i may say that it was a miserably uncomfortable journey for me, sitting, as i was forced to do, on the narrow front seat of the carriage, without support for my head or room for my legs. but madame's bulk filled the whole of the back seat, and it never seemed to enter her head that i too might like the use of a cushion. however, even the worst moments and the weariest journeys must come to an end, and we reached the frontier in the small hours of the morning. here we found the customs officials ready to render us any service we might require. leroux had not failed to order the fresh relay of horses, and whilst these were being put to, the polite officers of the station gave madame and myself some excellent coffee. beyond the formal: "madame has nothing to declare for his majesty's customs?" and my companion's equally formal: "nothing, monsieur, except my personal belongings," they did not ply us with questions, and after half an hour's halt we again proceeded on our way. we reached st. claude at daybreak, and following madame's directions, the driver pulled up in front of a large house in the avenue du jura. again there was the same difficulty in hoisting the unwieldy lady out of the vehicle, but this time, in response to my vigorous pull at the outside bell, the concierge and another man came out of the house, and very respectfully they approached madame and conveyed her into the house. while they did so she apparently gave them some directions about myself, for anon the concierge returned, and with extreme politeness told me that madame fournier greatly hoped that i would stay in st. claude a day or two as she had the desire to see me again very soon. she also honoured me with an invitation to dine with her that same evening at seven of the clock. this was the first time, i noticed, that the name fournier was actually used in connexion with any of the people with whom i had become so dramatically involved. not that i had ever doubted the identity of the ruffianly ernest berty; still it was very satisfactory to have my surmises confirmed. i concluded that the fine house in the avenue du jura belonged to mme. fournier's brother, and i vaguely wondered who he was. the invitation to dinner had certainly been given in her name, and the servants had received her with a show of respect which suggested that she was more than a guest in her brother's house. be that as it may, i betook myself for the nonce to the hôtel des moines in the centre of the town and killed time for the rest of the day as best i could. for one thing i needed rest after the emotions and the fatigue of the past forty-eight hours. remember, sir, i had not slept for two nights and had spent the last eight hours on the narrow front seat of a jolting chaise. so i had a good rest in the afternoon, and at seven o'clock i presented myself once more at the house in the avenue du jura. my intention was to retire early to bed after spending an agreeable evening with the family, who would no doubt overwhelm me with their gratitude, and at daybreak i would drive back to gex after i had heard all the latest news from leroux. i confess that it was with a pardonable feeling of agitation that i tugged at the wrought-iron bell-pull on the perron of the magnificent mansion in the avenue du jura. to begin with i felt somewhat rueful at having to appear before ladies at this hour in my travelling clothes, and then, you will admit, sir, that it was a somewhat awkward predicament for a man of highly sensitive temperament to meet on terms of equality a refined if stout lady whose son he had just helped to send to the gallows. fortunately there was no likelihood of mme. fournier being as yet aware of this unpleasant fact: even if she did know at this hour that her son's illicit adventure had come to grief, she could not possibly in her mind connect me with his ill-fortune. so i allowed the sumptuous valet to take my hat and coat and i followed him with as calm a demeanour as i could assume up the richly carpeted stairs. obviously the relatives of mme. fournier were more than well to do. everything in the house showed evidences of luxury, not to say wealth. i was ushered into an elegant salon wherein every corner showed traces of dainty feminine hands. there were embroidered silk cushions upon the sofa, lace covers upon the tables, whilst a work basket, filled with a riot of many coloured silks, stood invitingly open. and through the apartment, sir, a scent of violets lingered and caressed my nostrils, reminding me of a beauteous creature in distress whom it had been my good fortune to succour. i had waited less than five minutes when i heard a swift, elastic step approaching through the next room, and a second or so later, before i had time to take up an appropriate posture, the door was thrown open and the exquisite vision of my waking dreams--the beautiful angèle-- stood smiling before me. "mademoiselle," i stammered somewhat clumsily, for of a truth i was hardly able to recover my breath, and surprise had well nigh robbed me of speech, "how comes it that you are here?" she only smiled in reply, the most adorable smile i had ever seen on any human face, so full of joy, of mischief--aye, of triumph, was it. i asked after madame. again she smiled, and said madame was in her room, resting from the fatigues of her journey. i had scarce recovered from my initial surprise when another--more complete still--confronted me. this was the appearance of monsieur aristide fournier, whom i had fondly imagined already expiating his crimes in a frontier prison, but who now entered, also smiling, also extremely pleasant, who greeted me as if we were lifelong friends, and who then--i scarce could believe my eyes--placed his arm affectionately round his sister's waist, while she turned her sweet face up to his and gave him a fond--nay, a loving look. a loving look to him who was a brute and a bully and a miscreant amenable to the gallows! true his appearance was completely changed: his eyes were bright and kindly, his mouth continued to smile, his manner was urbane in the extreme when he finally introduced himself to me as: "aristide fournier, my dear monsieur ratichon, at your service." he knew my name, he knew who i was! whilst i . . . i had to pass my hand once or twice over my forehead and to close and reopen my eyes several times, for, of a truth, it all seemed like a dream. i tried to stammer out a question or two, but i could only gasp, and the lovely angèle appeared highly amused at my distress. "let us dine," she said gaily, "after which you may ask as many questions as you like." in very truth i was in no mood for dinner. puzzlement and anxiety appeared to grip me by the throat and to choke me. it was all very well for the beautiful creature to laugh and to make merry. she had cruelly deceived me, played upon the chords of my sensitive heart for purposes which no doubt would presently be made clear, but in the meanwhile since the smuggling of the english files had been successful--as it apparently was--what had become of leroux and his gendarmes? what tragedy had been enacted in the narrow gorge of st. cergues, and what, oh! what had become of my hopes of that five thousand francs for the apprehension of the smugglers, promised me by leroux? can you wonder that for the moment the very thought of dinner was abhorrent to me? but only for the moment. the next a sumptuous valet had thrown open the folding-doors, and down the vista of the stately apartment i perceived a table richly laden with china and glass and silver, whilst a distinctly savoury odour was wafted to my nostrils. "we will not answer a single question," the fair angèle reiterated with adorable determination, "until after we have dined." what, sir, would you have done in my place? i believe that never until this hour had hector ratichon reached to such a sublimity of manner. i bowed with perfect dignity in token of obedience to the fair creature, sir; then without a word i offered her my arm. she placed her hand upon it, and i conducted her to the dining-room, whilst aristide fournier, who at this hour should have been on a fair way to being hanged, followed in our wake. ah! it seemed indeed a lovely dream: one that lasted through an excellent and copious dinner, and which turned to delightful reality when, over a final glass of succulent madeira, monsieur aristide fournier slowly counted out one hundred notes, worth one hundred francs each, and presented these to me with a gracious nod. "your fee, monsieur," he said, "and allow me to say that never have i paid out so large a sum with such a willing hand." "but i have done nothing," i murmured from out the depths of my bewilderment. mademoiselle angèle and monsieur fournier looked at one another, and, no doubt, i presented a very comical spectacle; for both of them burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "indeed, monsieur," quoth monsieur fournier as soon as he could speak coherently, "you have done everything that you set out to do and done it with perfect chivalry. you conveyed 'the toys' safely over the frontier as far as st. claude." "but how?" i stammered, "how?" again mademoiselle angèle laughed, and through the ripples of her laughter came her merry words: "maman was very fat, was she not, my good monsieur ratichon? did you not think she was extraordinarily like me?" i caught the glance in her eyes, and they were literally glowing with mischief. then all of a sudden i understood. she had impersonated a fat mother, covered her lovely face with lines, worn a disfiguring wig and an antiquated bonnet, and round her slender figure she had tucked away thousands of packages of english files. i could only gasp. astonishment, not to say admiration, at her pluck literally took my breath away. "but, monsieur berty?" i murmured, my mind in a turmoil, my thoughts running riot through my brain. "the englishmen, the mules, the packs?" "monsieur berty, as you see, stands before you now in the person of monsieur fournier," she replied. "the englishmen were three faithful servants who threw dust not only in your eyes, my dear m. ratichon, but in those of the customs officials, while the packs contained harmless personal luggage which was taken by your friend and his gendarmes to the customs station at mijoux, and there, after much swearing, equally solemnly released with many apologies to m. fournier, who was allowed to proceed unmolested on his way, and who arrived here safely this afternoon, whilst maman divested herself of her fat and once more became the slender mme. aristide fournier, at your service." she bobbed me a dainty curtsy, and i could only try and hide the pain which this last cruel stab had inflicted on my heart. so she was not "mademoiselle" after all, and henceforth it would even be wrong to indulge in dreams of her. but the ten thousand francs crackled pleasantly in my breast pocket, and when i finally took leave of monsieur aristide fournier and his charming wife, i was an exceedingly happy man. but leroux never forgave me. of what he suspected me i do not know, or if he suspected me at all. he certainly must have known about fat maman from the customs officials who had given us coffee at mijoux. but he never mentioned the subject to me at all, nor has he spoken to me since that memorable night. to one of his colleagues he once said that no words in his vocabulary could possibly be adequate to express his feelings. chapter vi honour among ------ . ah, my dear sir, it is easy enough to despise our profession, but believe me that all the finer qualities--those of loyalty and of truth--are essential, not only to us, but to our subordinates, if we are to succeed in making even a small competence out of it. now let me give you an instance. here was i, hector ratichon, settled in paris in that eventful year which saw the new order of things finally swept aside and the old order resume its triumphant sway, which saw us all, including our god-given king louis xviii, as poor as the proverbial church mice and as eager for a bit of comfort and luxury as a hungry dog is for a bone; the year which saw the army disbanded and hordes of unemployed and unemployable men wandering disconsolate and half starved through the country seeking in vain for some means of livelihood, while the allied troops, well fed and well clothed, stalked about as if the sacred soil of france was so much dirt under their feet; the year, my dear sir, during which more intrigues were hatched and more plots concocted than in any previous century in the whole history of france. we were all trying to make money, since there was so precious little of it about. those of us who had brains succeeded, and then not always. now, i had brains--i do not boast of them; they are a gift from heaven--but i had them, and good looks, too, and a general air of strength, coupled with refinement, which was bound to appeal to anyone needing help and advice, and willing to pay for both, and yet--but you shall judge. you know my office in the rue daunou, you have been in it--plainly furnished; but, as i said, these were not days of luxury. there was an antechamber, too, where that traitor, blackmailer and thief, theodore, my confidential clerk in those days, lodged at my expense and kept importunate clients at bay for what was undoubtedly a liberal salary--ten per cent, on all the profits of the business--and yet he was always complaining, the ungrateful, avaricious brute! well, sir, on that day in september--it was the tenth, i remember-- , i must confess that i was feeling exceedingly dejected. not one client for the last three weeks, half a franc in my pocket, and nothing but a small quarter of strasburg patty in the larder. theodore had eaten most of it, and i had just sent him out to buy two sous' worth of stale bread wherewith to finish the remainder. but after that? you will admit, sir, that a less buoyant spirit would not have remained so long undaunted. i was just cursing that lout theodore inwardly, for he had been gone half an hour, and i strongly suspected him of having spent my two sous on a glass of absinthe, when there was a ring at the door, and i, hector ratichon, the confidant of kings and intimate counsellor of half the aristocracy in the kingdom, was forced to go and open the door just like a common lackey. but here the sight which greeted my eyes fully compensated me for the temporary humiliation, for on the threshold stood a gentleman who had wealth written plainly upon his fine clothes, upon the dainty linen at his throat and wrists, upon the quality of his rich satin necktie and the perfect set of his fine cloth pantaloons, which were of an exquisite shade of dove-grey. when, then, the apparition spoke, inquiring with just a sufficiency of aristocratic hauteur whether m. hector ratichon were in, you cannot be surprised, my dear sir, that my dejection fell from me like a cast-off mantle and that all my usual urbanity of manner returned to me as i informed the elegant gentleman that m. ratichon was even now standing before him, and begged him to take the trouble to pass through into my office. this he did, and i placed a chair in position for him. he sat down, having previously dusted the chair with a graceful sweep of his lace-edged handkerchief. then he raised a gold-rimmed eyeglass to his right eye with a superlatively elegant gesture, and surveyed me critically for a moment or two ere he said: "i am told, my good m. ratichon, that you are a trustworthy fellow, and one who is willing to undertake a delicate piece of business for a moderate honorarium." except for the fact that i did not like the word "moderate," i was enchanted with him. "rumour for once has not lied, monsieur," i replied in my most attractive manner. "well," he rejoined--i won't say curtly, but with businesslike brevity, "for all purposes connected with the affair which i desire to treat with you my name, as far as you are concerned, shall be jean duval. understand?" "perfectly, monsieur le marquis," i replied with a bland smile. it was a wild guess, but i don't think that i underestimated my new client's rank, for he did not wince. "you know mlle. mars?" he queried. "the actress?" i replied. "perfectly." "she is playing in _le rêve_ at the theatre royal just now." "she is." "in the first and third acts of the play she wears a gold bracelet set with large green stones." "i noticed it the other night. i had a seat in the parterre, i may say." "i want that bracelet," broke in the soi-disant jean duval unceremoniously. "the stones are false, the gold strass. i admire mlle. mars immensely. i dislike seeing her wearing false jewellery. i wish to have the bracelet copied in real stones, and to present it to her as a surprise on the occasion of the twenty-fifth performance of _le rêve_. it will cost me a king's ransom, and her, for the time being, an infinite amount of anxiety. she sets great store by the valueless trinket solely because of the merit of its design, and i want its disappearance to have every semblance of a theft. all the greater will be the lovely creature's pleasure when, at my hands, she will receive an infinitely precious jewel the exact counterpart in all save its intrinsic value of the trifle which she had thought lost." it all sounded deliciously romantic. a flavour of the past century--before the endless war and abysmal poverty had killed all chivalry in us--clung to this proposed transaction. there was nothing of the roturier, nothing of a jean duval, in this polished man of the world who had thought out this subtle scheme for ingratiating himself in the eyes of his lady fair. i murmured an appropriate phrase, placing my services entirely at m. le marquis's disposal, and once more he broke in on my polished diction with that brusquerie which betrayed the man accustomed to be silently obeyed. "mlle. mars wears the bracelet," he said, "during the third act of _le rêve_. at the end of the act she enters her dressing-room, and her maid helps her to change her dress. during this entr'acte mademoiselle with her own hands puts by all the jewellery which she has to wear during the more gorgeous scenes of the play. in the last act--the finale of the tragedy--she appears in a plain stuff gown, whilst all her jewellery reposes in the small iron safe in her dressing-room. it is while mademoiselle is on the stage during the last act that i want you to enter her dressing-room and to extract the bracelet out of the safe for me." "i, m. le marquis?" i stammered. "i, to steal a--" "firstly, m.--er--er--ratichon, or whatever your confounded name may be," interposed my client with inimitable hauteur, "understand that my name is jean duval, and if you forget this again i shall be under the necessity of laying my cane across your shoulders and incidentally to take my business elsewhere. secondly, let me tell you that your affectations of outraged probity are lost on me, seeing that i know all about the stolen treaty which--" "enough, m. jean duval," i said with a dignity equal, if not greater, than his own; "do not, i pray you, misunderstand me. i am ready to do you service. but if you will deign to explain how i am to break open an iron safe inside a crowded building and extract therefrom a trinket, without being caught in the act and locked up for house-breaking and theft, i shall be eternally your debtor." "the extracting of the trinket is your affair," he rejoined dryly. "i will give you five hundred francs if you bring the bracelet to me within fourteen days." "but--" i stammered again. "your task will not be such a difficult one after all. i will give you the duplicate key of the safe." he dived into the breast pocket of his coat, and drew from it a somewhat large and clumsy key, which he placed upon my desk. "i managed to get that easily enough," he said nonchalantly, "a couple of nights ago, when i had the honour of visiting mademoiselle in her dressing-room. a piece of wax in my hand, mademoiselle's momentary absorption in her reflection while her maid was doing her hair, and the impression of the original key was in my possession. but between taking a model of the key and the actual theft of the bracelet out of the safe there is a wide gulf which a gentleman cannot bridge over. therefore, i choose to employ you, m.--er--er--ratichon, to complete the transaction for me." "for five hundred francs?" i queried blandly. "it is a fair sum," he argued. "make it a thousand," i rejoined firmly, "and you shall have the bracelet within fourteen days." he paused a moment in order to reflect; his steel-grey eyes, cool and disdainful, were fixed searchingly on my face. i pride myself on the way that i bear that kind of scrutiny, so even now i looked bland and withal purposeful and capable. "very well," he said, after a few moments, and he rose from his chair as he spoke; "it shall be a thousand francs, m.--er--er--ratichon, and i will hand over the money to you in exchange for the bracelet--but it must be done within fourteen days, remember." i tried to induce him to give me a small sum on account. i was about to take terrible risks, remember; housebreaking, larceny, theft--call it what you will, it meant the _police correctionelle_ and a couple of years in new orleans for sure. he finally gave me fifty francs, and once more threatened to take his business elsewhere, so i had to accept and to look as urbane and dignified as i could. he was out of the office and about to descend the stairs when a thought struck me. "where and how can i communicate with m. jean duval," i asked, "when my work is done?" "i will call here," he replied, "at ten o'clock of every morning that follows a performance of _le rêve_. we can complete our transaction then across your office desk." the next moment he was gone. theodore passed him on the stairs and asked me, with one of his impertinent leers, whether we had a new client and what we might expect from him. i shrugged my shoulders. "a new client!" i said disdainfully. "bah! vague promises of a couple of louis for finding out if madame his wife sees more of a certain captain of the guards than monsieur the husband cares about." theodore sniffed. he always sniffs when financial matters are on the tapis. "anything on account?" he queried. "a paltry ten francs," i replied, "and i may as well give you your share of it now." i tossed a franc to him across the desk. by the terms of my contract with him, you understand, he was entitled to ten per cent, of every profit accruing from the business in lieu of wages, but in this instance do you not think that i was justified in looking on one franc now, and perhaps twenty when the transaction was completed, as a more than just honorarium for his share in it? was i not taking all the risks in this delicate business? would it be fair for me to give him a hundred francs for sitting quietly in the office or sipping absinthe at a neighbouring bar whilst i risked new orleans--not to speak of the gallows? he gave me a strange look as he picked up the silver franc, spat on it for luck, bit it with his great yellow teeth to ascertain if it were counterfeit or genuine, and finally slipped it into his pocket, and shuffled out of the office whistling through his teeth. an abominably low, deceitful creature, that theodore, you will see anon. but i won't anticipate. . the next performance of _le rêve_ was announced for the following evening, and i started on my campaign. as you may imagine, it did not prove an easy matter. to obtain access through the stage-door to the back of the theatre was one thing--a franc to the doorkeeper had done the trick--to mingle with the scene-shifters, to talk with the supers, to take off my hat with every form of deep respect to the principals had been equally simple. i had even succeeded in placing a bouquet on the dressing-table of the great tragedienne on my second visit to the theatre. her dressing-room door had been left ajar during that memorable fourth act which was to see the consummation of my labours. i had the bouquet in my hand, having brought it expressly for that purpose. i pushed open the door, and found myself face to face with a young though somewhat forbidding damsel, who peremptorily demanded what my business might be. in order to minimise the risk of subsequent trouble, i had assumed the disguise of a middle-aged angliche--red side-whiskers, florid complexion, a ginger-coloured wig plastered rigidly over the ears towards the temples, high stock collar, nankeen pantaloons, a patch over one eye and an eyeglass fixed in the other. my own sainted mother would never have known me. with becoming diffidence i explained in broken french that my deep though respectful admiration of mlle. mars had prompted me to lay a floral tribute at her feet. i desired nothing more. the damsel eyed me coldly, though at the moment i was looking quite my best, diffident yet courteous, a perfect gentleman of the old regime. then she took the bouquet from me and put it down on the dressing-table. i fancied that she smiled, not unkindly, and i ventured to pass the time of day. she replied not altogether disapprovingly. she sat down by the dressing-table and took up some needlework which she had obviously thrown aside on my arrival. close by, on the floor, was a solid iron chest with huge ornamental hinges and a large escutcheon over the lock. it stood about a foot high and perhaps a couple of feet long. there was nothing else in the room that suggested a receptacle for jewellery; this, therefore, was obviously the safe which contained the bracelet. at the self-same second my eyes alighted on a large and clumsy-looking key which lay upon the dressing-table, and my hand at once wandered instinctively to the pocket of my coat and closed convulsively on the duplicate one which the soi-disant jean duval had given me. i talked eloquently for a while. the damsel answered in monosyllables, but she sat unmoved at needlework, and after ten minutes or so i was forced to beat a retreat. i returned to the charge at the next performance of _le rêve_, this time with a box of bonbons for the maid instead of the bouquet for the mistress. the damsel was quite amenable to a little conversation, quite willing that i should dally in her company. she munched the bonbons and coquetted a little with me. but she went on stolidly with her needlework, and i could see that nothing would move her out of that room, where she had obviously been left in charge. then i bethought me of theodore. i realised that i could not carry this affair through successfully without his help. so i gave him a further five francs--as i said to him it was out of my own savings--and i assured him that a certain m. jean duval had promised me a couple of hundred francs when the business which he had entrusted to me was satisfactorily concluded. it was for this business--so i explained--that i required his help, and he seemed quite satisfied. his task was, of course, a very easy one. what a contrast to the risk i was about to run! twenty-five francs, my dear sir, just for knocking at the door of mlle. mars' dressing-room during the fourth act, whilst i was engaged in conversation with the attractive guardian of the iron safe, and to say in well-assumed, breathless tones: "mademoiselle mars has been taken suddenly unwell on the stage. will her maid go to her at once?" it was some little distance from the dressing-room to the wings--down a flight of ill-lighted stone stairs which demanded cautious ascent and descent. theodore had orders to obstruct the maid during her progress as much as he could without rousing her suspicions. i reckoned that she would be fully three minutes going, questioning, finding out that the whole thing was a hoax, and running back to the dressing-room--three minutes in which to open the chest, extract the bracelet and, incidentally, anything else of value there might be close to my hand. well, i had thought of that eventuality, too; one must think of everything, you know--that is where genius comes in. then, if possible, relock the safe, so that the maid, on her return, would find everything apparently in order and would not, perhaps, raise the alarm until i was safely out of the theatre. it could be done--oh, yes, it could be done--with a minute to spare! and to-morrow at ten o'clock m. jean duval would appear, and i would not part with the bracelet until a thousand francs had passed from his pocket into mine. i must get theodore out of the house, by the way, before the arrival of m. duval. a thousand francs! i had not seen a thousand francs all at once for years. what a dinner i would have tomorrow! there was a certain little restaurant in the rue des pipots where they concocted a cassolette of goose liver and pork chops with haricot beans which . . . ! i only tell you that. how i got through the rest of that day i cannot tell you. the evening found me--quite an habitué now--behind the stage of the theatre royal, nodding to one or two acquaintances, most of the people looking on me with grave respect and talking of me as the eccentric milor. i was supposed to be pining for an introduction to the great tragedienne, who, very exclusive as usual, had so far given me the cold shoulder. ten minutes after the rise of the curtain on the fourth act i was in the dressing-room, presenting the maid with a gold locket which i had bought from a cheapjack's barrow for five and twenty francs--almost the last of the fifty which i had received from m. duval on account. the damsel was eyeing the locket somewhat disdainfully and giving me grudging thanks for it when there came a hurried knock at the door. the next moment theodore poked his ugly face into the room. he, too, had taken the precaution of assuming an excellent disguise--peaked cap set aslant over one eye, grimy face, the blouse of a scene-shifter. "mlle. mars," he gasped breathlessly; "she has been taken ill--on the stage--very suddenly. she is in the wings--asking for her maid. they think she will faint." the damsel rose, visibly frightened. "i'll come at once," she said, and without the slightest flurry she picked up the key of the safe and slipped it into her pocket. i fancied that she gave me a look as she did this. oh, she was a pearl among abigails! then she pointed unceremoniously to the door. "milor!" was all she said, but of course i understood. i had no idea that english milors could be thus treated by pert maidens. but what cared i for social amenities just then? my hand had closed over the duplicate key of the safe, and i walked out of the room in the wake of the damsel. theodore had disappeared. once in the passage, the girl started to run. a second or two later i heard the patter of her high-heeled shoes down the stone stairs. i had not a moment to lose. to slip back into the dressing-room was but an instant's work. the next i was kneeling in front of the chest. the key fitted the lock accurately; one turn, and the lid flew open. the chest was filled with a miscellaneous collection of theatrical properties all lying loose--showy necklaces, chains, pendants, all of them obviously false; but lying beneath them, and partially hidden by the meretricious ornaments, were one or two boxes covered with velvet such as jewellers use. my keen eyes noted these at once. i was indeed in luck! for the moment, however, my hand fastened on a leather case which reposed on the top in one corner, and which very obviously, from its shape, contained a bracelet. my hands did not tremble, though i was quivering with excitement. i opened the case. there, indeed, was the bracelet--the large green stones, the magnificent gold setting, the whole jewel dazzlingly beautiful. if it were real--the thought flashed through my mind--it would be indeed priceless. i closed the case and put it on the dressing-table beside me. i had at least another minute to spare--sixty seconds wherein to dive for those velvet-covered boxes which-- my hand was on one of them when a slight noise caused me suddenly to turn and to look behind me. it all happened as quickly as a flash of lightning. i just saw a man disappearing through the door. one glance at the dressing-table showed me the whole extent of my misfortune. the case containing the bracelet had gone, and at that precise moment i heard a commotion from the direction of the stairs and a woman screaming at the top of her voice: "thief! stop thief!" then, sir, i brought upon the perilous situation that presence of mind for which the name of hector ratichon will for ever remain famous. without a single flurried movement, i slipped one of the velvet-covered cases which i still had in my hand into the breast pocket of my coat, i closed down the lid of the iron chest and locked it with the duplicate key, and i went out of the room, closing the door behind me. the passage was dark. the damsel was running up the stairs with a couple of stage hands behind her. she was explaining to them volubly, and to the accompaniment of sundry half-hysterical little cries, the infamous hoax to which she had fallen a victim. you might think, sir, that here was i caught like a rat in a trap, and with that velvet-covered case in my breast pocket by way of damning evidence against me! not at all, sir! not at all! not so is hector ratichon, the keenest secret agent france has ever known, the confidant of kings, brought to earth by an untoward move of fate. even before the damsel and the stage hands had reached the top of the stairs and turned into the corridor, which was on my left, i had slipped round noiselessly to my right and found shelter in a narrow doorway, where i was screened by the surrounding darkness and by a projection of the frame. while the three of them made straight for mademoiselle's dressing-room, and spent some considerable time there in uttering varied ejaculations when they found the place and the chest to all appearances untouched, i slipped out of my hiding-place, sped rapidly along the corridor, and was soon half-way down the stairs. here my habitual composure in the face of danger stood me in good stead. it enabled me to walk composedly and not too hurriedly through the crowd behind the scenes--supers, scene-shifters, principals, none of whom seemed to be aware as yet of the hoax practised on mademoiselle mars' maid; and i reckon that i was out of the stage door exactly five minutes after theodore had called the damsel away. but i was minus the bracelet, and in my mind there was the firm conviction that that traitor theodore had played me one of his abominable tricks. as i said, the whole thing had occurred as quickly as a flash of lightning, but even so my keen, experienced eyes had retained the impression of a peaked cap and the corner of a blue blouse as they disappeared through the dressing-room door. . tact, wariness and strength were all required, you must admit, in order to deal with the present delicate situation. i was speeding along the rue de richelieu on my way to my office. my intention was to spend the night there, where i had a chair-bedstead on which i had oft before slept soundly after a day's hard work, and anyhow it was too late to go to my lodgings at passy at this hour. moreover, theodore slept in the antechamber of the office, and i was more firmly convinced than ever that it was he who had stolen the bracelet. "blackleg! thief! traitor!" i mused. "but thou hast not done with hector ratichon yet." in the meanwhile i bethought me of the velvet-covered box in my breast pocket, and of the ginger-coloured hair and whiskers that i was still wearing, and which might prove an unpleasant "piece de conviction" in case the police were after the stolen bracelet. with a view to examining the one and getting rid of the other, i turned into the square louvois, which, as usual, was very dark and wholly deserted. here i took off my wig and whiskers and threw them over the railings into the garden. then i drew the velvet-covered box from my pocket, opened it, and groped for its contents. imagine my feelings, my dear sir, when i realised that the case was empty! fate was indeed against me that night. i had been fooled and cheated by a traitor, and had risked new orleans and worse for an empty box. for a moment i must confess that i lost that imperturbable sang-froid which is the admiration of all my friends, and with a genuine oath i flung the case over the railings in the wake of the milor's hair and whiskers. then i hurried home. theodore had not returned. he did not come in until the small hours of the morning, and then he was in a state that i can only describe, with your permission, as hoggish. he could hardly speak. i had him at my mercy. neither tact nor wariness was required for the moment. i stripped him to his skin; he only laughed like an imbecile. his eyes had a horrid squint in them; he was hideous. i found five francs in one of his pockets, but neither in his clothes nor on his person did i find the bracelet. "what have you done with it?" i cried, for by this time i was maddened with rage. "i don't know what you are talking about!" he stammered thickly, as he tottered towards his bed. "give me back my five francs, you thief!" the brutish creature finally blurted out ere he fell into a hog-like sleep. . desperate evils need desperate remedies. i spent the rest of the night thinking hard. by the time that dawn was breaking my mind was made up. theodore's stertorous breathing assured me that he was still insentient. i was muscular in those days, and he a meagre, attenuated, drink-sodden creature. i lifted him out of his bed in the antechamber and carried him into mine in the office. i found a coil of rope, and strapped him tightly in the chair-bedstead so that he could not move. i tied a scarf round his mouth so that he could not scream. then, at six o'clock, when the humbler eating-houses begin to take down their shutters, i went out. i had theodore's five francs in my pocket, and i was desperately hungry. i spent ten sous on a cup of coffee and a plate of fried onions and haricot beans, and three francs on a savoury pie, highly flavoured with garlic, and a quarter-bottle of excellent cognac. i drank the coffee and ate the onions and the beans, and i took the pie and cognac home. i placed a table close to the chair-bedstead and on it i disposed the pie and the cognac in such a manner that the moment theodore woke his eyes were bound to alight on them. then i waited. i absolutely ached to have a taste of that pie myself, it smelt so good, but i waited. theodore woke at nine o'clock. he struggled like a fool, but he still appeared half dazed. no doubt he thought that he was dreaming. then i sat down on the edge of the bed and cut myself off a large piece of the pie. i ate it with marked relish in front of theodore, whose eyes nearly started out of their sockets. then i brewed myself a cup of coffee. the mingled odour of coffee and garlic filled the room. it was delicious. i thought that theodore would have a fit. the veins stood out on his forehead and a kind of gurgle came from behind the scarf round his mouth. then i told him he could partake of the pie and coffee if he told me what he had done with the bracelet. he shook his head furiously, and i left the pie, the cognac and the coffee on the table before him and went into the antechamber, closing the office door behind me, and leaving him to meditate on his treachery. what i wanted to avoid above everything was the traitor meeting m. jean duval. he had the bracelet--of that i was as convinced as that i was alive. but what could he do with a piece of false jewellery? he could not dispose of it, save to a vendor of theatrical properties, who no doubt was well acquainted with the trinket and would not give more than a couple of francs for what was obviously stolen property. after all, i had promised theodore twenty francs; he would not be such a fool as to sell that birthright for a mess of pottage and the sole pleasure of doing me a bad turn. there was no doubt in my mind that he had put the thing away somewhere in what he considered a safe place pending a reward being offered by mlle. mars for the recovery of the bracelet. the more i thought of this the more convinced i was that that was, indeed, his proposed plan of action--oh, how i loathed the blackleg!--and mine henceforth would be to dog his every footstep and never let him out of my sight until i forced him to disgorge his ill-gotten booty. at ten o'clock m. jean duval arrived, as was his wont, supercilious and brusque as usual. i was just explaining to him that i hoped to have excellent news for him after the next performance of _le rêve_ when there was a peremptory ring at the bell. i went to open the door, and there stood a police inspector in uniform with a sheaf of papers in his hand. now, i am not over-fond of our paris police; they poke their noses in where they are least wanted. their incompetence favours the machinations of rogues and frustrates the innocent ambitions of the just. however, in this instance the inspector looked amiable enough, though his manner, i must say, was, as usual, unpleasantly curt. "here, ratichon," he said, "there has been an impudent theft of a valuable bracelet out of mademoiselle mars' dressing-room at the theatre royal last night. you and your mate frequent all sorts of places of ill-fame; you may hear something of the affair." i chose to ignore the insult, and the inspector detached a paper from the sheaf which he held and threw it across the table to me. "there is a reward of two thousand five hundred francs," he said, "for the recovery of the bracelet. you will find on that paper an accurate description of the jewel. it contains the celebrated maroni emerald, presented to the ex-emperor by the sultan, and given by him to mlle. mars." whereupon he turned unceremoniously on his heel and went, leaving me face to face with the man who had so shamefully tried to swindle me. i turned, and resting my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand, i looked mutely on the soi-disant jean duval and equally mutely pointed with an accusing finger to the description of the famous bracelet which he had declared to me was merely strass and base metal. but he had the impudence to turn on me before i could utter a syllable. "where is the bracelet?" he demanded. "you consummate liar, you! where is it? you stole it last night! what have you done with it?" "i extracted, at your request," i replied with as much dignity as i could command, "a piece of theatrical jewellery, which you stated to me to be worthless, out of an iron chest, the key of which you placed in my hands. i . . ." "enough of this rubbish!" he broke in roughly. "you have the bracelet. give it me now, or . . ." he broke off and looked somewhat alarmed in the direction of the office door, from the other side of which there had just come a loud crash, followed by loud, if unintelligible, vituperation. what had happened i could not guess; all that i could do was to carry off the situation as boldly as i dared. "you shall have the bracelet, sir," i said in my most suave manner. "you shall have it, but not unless you will pay me three thousand francs for it. i can get two thousand five hundred by taking it straight to mlle. mars." "and be taken up by the police for stealing it," he retorted. "how will you explain its being in your possession?" i did not blanch. "that is my affair," i replied. "will you give me three thousand francs for it? it is worth sixty thousand francs to a clever thief like you." "you hound!" he cried, livid with rage, and raised his cane as if he would strike me. "aye, it was cleverly done, m. jean duval, whoever you may be. i know that the gentleman-thief is a modern product of the old regime, but i did not know that the fraternity could show such a fine specimen as yourself. pay hector ratichon a thousand francs for stealing a bracelet for you worth sixty! indeed, m. jean duval, you deserved to succeed!" again he shook his cane at me. "if you touch me," i declared boldly, "i shall take the bracelet at once to mlle. mars." he bit his lip and made a great effort to pull himself together. "i haven't three thousand francs by me," he said. "go, fetch the money," i retorted, "and i'll fetch the bracelet." he demurred for a while, but i was firm, and after he had threatened to thrash me, to knock me down, and to denounce me to the police, he gave in and went to fetch the money. . when i remembered theodore--theodore, whom only a thin partition wall had separated from the full knowledge of the value of his ill-gotten treasure!--i could have torn my hair out by the roots with the magnitude of my rage. he, the traitor, the blackleg, was about to triumph, where i, hector ratichon, had failed! he had but to take the bracelet to mlle. mars himself and obtain the munificent reward whilst i, after i had taken so many risks and used all the brains and tact wherewith nature had endowed me, would be left with the meagre remnants of the fifty francs which m. jean duval had so grudgingly thrown to me. twenty-five francs for a gold locket, ten francs for a bouquet, another ten for bonbons, and five for gratuities to the stage-doorkeeper! make the calculation, my good sir, and see what i had left. if it had not been for the five francs which i had found in theodore's pocket last night, i would at this moment not only have been breakfastless, but also absolutely penniless. as it was, my final hope--and that a meagre one--was to arouse one spark of honesty in the breast of the arch-traitor, and either by cajolery or threats, to induce him to share his ill-gotten spoils with me. i had left him snoring and strapped to the chair-bedstead, and when i opened the office door i was marvelling in my mind whether i could really bear to see him dying slowly of starvation with that savoury pie tantalizingly under his nose. the crash which i had heard a few minutes ago prepared me for a change of scene. even so, i confess that the sight which i beheld glued me to the threshold. there sat theodore at the table, finishing the last morsel of pie, whilst the chair-bedstead lay in a tangled heap upon the floor. i cannot tell you how nasty he was to me about the whole thing, although i showed myself at once ready to forgive him all his lies and his treachery, and was at great pains to explain to him how i had given up my own bed and strapped him into it solely for the benefit of his health, seeing that at the moment he was threatened with delirium tremens. he would not listen to reason or to the most elementary dictates of friendship. having poured the vials of his bilious temper over my devoted head, he became as perverse and as obstinate as a mule. with the most consummate impudence i ever beheld in any human being, he flatly denied all knowledge of the bracelet. whilst i talked he stalked past me into the ante-chamber, where he at once busied himself in collecting all his goods and chattels. these he stuffed into his pockets until he appeared to be bulging all over his ugly-body; then he went to the door ready to go out. on the threshold he turned and gave me a supercilious glance over his shoulder. "take note, my good ratichon," he said, "that our partnership is dissolved as from to-morrow, the twentieth day of september." "as from this moment, you infernal scoundrel!" i cried. but he did not pause to listen, and slammed the door in my face. for two or three minutes i remained quite still, whilst i heard the shuffling footsteps slowly descending the corridor. then i followed him, quietly, surreptitiously, as a fox will follow its prey. he never turned round once, but obviously he knew that he was being followed. i will not weary you, my dear sir, with the details of the dance which he led me in and about paris during the whole of that memorable day. never a morsel passed my lips from breakfast to long after sundown. he tried every trick known to the profession to throw me off the scent. but i stuck to him like a leech. when he sauntered i sauntered; when he ran i ran; when he glued his nose to the window of an eating house i halted under a doorway close by; when he went to sleep on a bench in the luxembourg gardens i watched over him as a mother over a babe. towards evening--it was an hour after sunset and the street-lamps were just being lighted--he must have thought that he had at last got rid of me; for, after looking carefully behind him, he suddenly started to walk much faster and with an amount of determination which he had lacked hitherto. i marvelled if he was not making for the rue daunou, where was situated the squalid tavern of ill-fame which he was wont to frequent. i was not mistaken. i tracked the traitor to the corner of the street, and saw him disappear beneath the doorway of the taverne des trois tigres. i resolved to follow. i had money in my pocket--about twenty-five sous--and i was mightily thirsty. i started to run down the street, when suddenly theodore came rushing back out of the tavern, hatless and breathless, and before i succeeded in dodging him he fell into my arms. "my money!" he said hoarsely. "i must have my money at once! you thief! you . . ." once again my presence of mind stood me in good stead. "pull yourself together, theodore," i said with much dignity, "and do not make a scene in the open street." but theodore was not at all prepared to pull himself together. he was livid with rage. "i had five francs in my pocket last night!" he cried. "you have stolen them, you abominable rascal!" "and you stole from me a bracelet worth three thousand francs to the firm," i retorted. "give me that bracelet and you shall have your money back." "i can't," he blurted out desperately. "how do you mean, you can't?" i exclaimed, whilst a horrible fear like an icy claw suddenly gripped at my heart. "you haven't lost it, have you?" "worse!" he cried, and fell up against me in semi-unconsciousness. i shook him violently. i bellowed in his ear, and suddenly, after that one moment of apparent unconsciousness, he became, not only wide awake, but as strong as a lion and as furious as a bull. we closed in on one another. he hammered at me with his fists, calling me every kind of injurious name he could think of, and i had need of all my strength to ward off his attacks. for a few moments no one took much notice of us. fracas and quarrels outside the drinking-houses in the mean streets of paris were so frequent these days that the police did not trouble much about them. but after a while theodore became so violent that i was forced to call vigorously for help. i thought he meant to murder me. people came rushing out of the tavern, and someone very officiously started whistling for the gendarmes. this had the effect of bringing theodore to his senses. he calmed down visibly, and before the crowd had had time to collect round us we had both sauntered off, walking in apparent amity side by side down the street. but at the first corner theodore halted, and this time he confined himself to gripping me by the arm with one hand whilst with the other he grasped one of the buttons of my coat. "that five francs," he said in a hoarse, half-choked voice. "i must have that five francs! can't you see that i can't have that bracelet till i have my five francs wherewith to redeem it?" "to redeem it!" i gasped. i was indeed glad then that he held me by the arm, for it seemed to me as if i was falling down a yawning abyss which had opened at my feet. "yes," said theodore, and his voice sounded as if it came from a great distance and through cotton-wool, "i knew that you would be after that bracelet like a famished hyena after a bone, so i tied it securely inside the pocket of the blouse i was wearing, and left this with legros, the landlord of the trois tigres. it was a good blouse; he lent me five francs on it. of course, he knew nothing about the bracelet then. but he only lends money to clients in this manner on the condition that it is repaid within twenty-four hours. i have got to pay him back before eight o'clock this evening or he will dispose of the blouse as he thinks best. it is close on eight o'clock now. give me back my five francs, you confounded thief, before legros has time to discover the bracelet! we'll share the reward, i promise you. faith of an honest man. you liar, you cheat, you--" what was the use of talking? i had not got five francs. i had spent ten sous in getting myself some breakfast, and three francs in a savoury pie flavoured with garlic and in a quarter of a bottle of cognac. i groaned aloud. i had exactly twenty-five sous left. we went back to the tavern hoping against hope that legros had not yet turned out the pockets of the blouse, and that we might induce him, by threat or cajolery or the usurious interest of twenty-five sous, to grant his client a further twenty-four hours wherein to redeem the pledge. one glance at the interior of the tavern, however, told us that all our hopes were in vain. legros, the landlord, was even then turning the blouse over and over, whilst his hideous hag of a wife was talking to the police inspector, who was showing her the paper that announced the offer of two thousand five hundred francs for the recovery of a valuable bracelet, the property of mlle. mars, the distinguished tragedienne. we only waited one minute with our noses glued against the windows of the trois tigres, just long enough to see legros extracting the leather case from the pocket of the blouse, just long enough to hear the police inspector saying peremptorily: "you, legros, ought to be able to let the police know who stole the bracelet. you must know who left that blouse with you last night." then we both fled incontinently down the street. now, sir, was i not right when i said that honour and loyalty are the essential qualities in our profession? if theodore had not been such a liar and such a traitor, he and i, between us, would have been richer by three thousand francs that day. chapter vii an over-sensitive heart . no doubt, sir, that you have noticed during the course of our conversations that nature has endowed me with an over-sensitive heart. i feel keenly, sir, very keenly. blows dealt me by fate, or, as has been more often the case, by the cruel and treacherous hand of man, touch me on the raw. i suffer acutely. i am highly strung. i am one of those rare beings whom nature pre-ordained for love and for happiness. i am an ideal family man. what? you did not know that i was married? indeed, sir, i am. and though madame ratichon does not perhaps fulfil all my ideals of exquisite womanhood, nevertheless she has been an able and willing helpmate during these last years of comparative prosperity. yes, you see me fairly prosperous now. my industry, my genius--if i may so express myself--found their reward at last. you will be the first to acknowledge--you, the confidant of my life's history--that that reward was fully deserved. i worked for it, toiled and thought and struggled, up to the last; and had fate been just, rather than grudging, i should have attained that ideal which would have filled my cup of happiness to the brim. but, anyway, the episode connected with my marriage did mark the close of my professional career, and is therefore worthy of record. since that day, sir--a happy one for me, a blissful one for mme. ratichon--i have been able, thanks to the foresight of an all-wise providence, to gratify my bucolic tastes. i live now, sir, amidst my flowers, with my dog and my canary and mme. ratichon, smiling with kindly indulgence on the struggles and the blunders of my younger colleagues, oft consulted by them in matters that require special tact and discretion. i sit and dream now beneath the shade of a vine-clad arbour of those glorious days of long ago, when kings and emperors placed the destiny of their inheritance in my hands, when autocrats and dictators came to me for assistance and advice, and the name of hector ratichon stood for everything that was most astute and most discreet. and if at times a gentle sigh of regret escapes my lips, mme. ratichon--whose thinness is ever my despair, for i admire comeliness, sir, as being more womanly--mme. ratichon, i say, comes to me with the gladsome news that dinner is served; and though she is not all that i could wish in the matter of the culinary arts, yet she can fry a cutlet passably, and one of her brothers is a wholesale wine merchant of excellent reputation. it was soon after my connexion with that abominable marquis de firmin-latour that i first made the acquaintance of the present mme. ratichon, under somewhat peculiar circumstances. i remember it was on the first day of april in the year that m. rochez--fernand rochez was his exact name--came to see me at my office in the rue daunou, and the date proved propitious, as you will presently see. how m. rochez came to know of my gifts and powers, i cannot tell you. he never would say. he had heard of me through a friend, was all that he vouchsafed to say. theodore had shown him in. ah! have i not mentioned the fact that i had forgiven theodore his lies and his treachery, and taken him back to my bosom and to my board? my sensitive heart had again got the better of my prudence, and theodore was installed once more in the antechamber of my apartments in the rue daunou, and was, as heretofore, sharing with me all the good things that i could afford. so there he was on duty on that fateful first of april which was destined to be the turning-point of my destiny. and he showed m. de rochez in. at once i knew my man--the type, i mean. immaculately dressed, scented and befrilled, haughty of manner and nonchalant of speech, m. rochez had the word "adventurer" writ all over his well-groomed person. he was young, good-looking, his nails were beautifully polished, his pantaloons fitted him without a wrinkle. these were of a soft putty shade; his coat was bottle-green, and his hat of the latest modish shape. a perfect exquisite, in fact. and he came to the point without much preamble. "m.--er--ratichon," he said, "i have heard of you through a friend, who tells me that you are the most unscrupulous scoundrel he has ever come across." "sir--!" i began, rising from my seat in indignant protest at the coarse insult. but with an authoritative gesture he checked the flow of my indignation. "no comedy, i pray you, sir," he said. "we are not at the theatre molière, but, i presume, in an office where business is transacted both briefly and with discretion." "at your service, monsieur," i replied. "then listen, will you?" he went on curtly, "and pray do not interrupt. only speak in answer to a question from me." i bowed my head in silence. thus must the proud suffer when they happen to be sparsely endowed with riches. "you have no doubt heard of mlle. goldberg," m. rochez continued after a moment's pause, "the lovely daughter of the rich usurer in the rue des médecins." i had heard of mlle. goldberg. her beauty and her father's wealth were reported to be fabulous. i indicated my knowledge of the beautiful lady by a mute inclination of the head. "i love mlle. goldberg," my client resumed, "and i have reason for the belief that i am not altogether indifferent to her. glances, you understand, from eyes as expressive as those of the exquisite jewess speak more eloquently than words." he had forbidden me to speak, so i could only express concurrence in the sentiments which he expressed by a slight elevation of my left eyebrow. "i am determined to win the affections of mlle. goldberg," m. rochez went on glibly, "and equally am i determined to make her my wife." "a very natural determination," i remarked involuntarily. "my only trouble with regard to pressing my court is the fact that my lovely leah is never allowed outside her father's house, save in his company or that of his sister--an old maid of dour mien and sour disposition, who acts the part of a duenna with dog-like tenacity. over and over again have i tried to approach the lady of my heart, only to be repelled or roughly rebuked for my insolence by her irascible old aunt." "you are not the first lover, sir," i remarked drily, "who hath seen obstacles thus thrown in his way, and--" "one moment, m.--er--ratichon," he broke in sharply. "i have not finished. i will not attempt to describe my feelings to you. i have been writhing--yes, writhing!--in face of those obstacles of which you speak so lightly, and for a long time i have been cudgelling my brains as to the possible means whereby i might approach my divinity unchecked. then one day i bethought me of you--" "of me, sir?" i ejaculated, sorely puzzled. "why of me?" "none of my friends," he replied nonchalantly, "would care to undertake so scrubby a task as i would assign to you." "i pray you to be more explicit," i retorted with unimpaired dignity. once more he paused. obviously he was a born mountebank, and he calculated all his effects to a nicety. "you, m.--er--ratichon," he said curtly at last, "will have to take the duenna off my hands." i was beginning to understand. so i let him prattle on the while my busy brain was already at work evolving the means to render this man service, which in its turn i expected to be amply repaid. thus i cannot repeat exactly all that he said, for i was only listening with half an ear. but the substance of it all was this: i was to pose as the friend of m. fernand rochez, and engage the attention of mlle. goldberg senior the while he paid his court to the lovely leah. it was not a repellent task altogether, because m. rochez's suggestion opened a vista of pleasant parties at open-air cafés, with foaming tankards of beer, on warm afternoons the while the young people sipped sirops and fed on love. my newly found friend was pleased to admit that my personality and appearance would render my courtship of the elderly duenna a comparatively easy one. she would soon, he declared, fall a victim to my charms. after which the question of remuneration came in, and over this we did not altogether agree. ultimately i decided to accept an advance of two hundred francs and a new suit of clothes, which i at once declared was indispensable under the circumstances, seeing that in my well-worn coat i might have the appearance of a fortune-hunter in the eyes of the suspicious old dame. within my mind i envisaged the possibility of touching m. rochez for a further two hundred francs if and when opportunity arose. . the formal introduction took place on the boulevards one fine afternoon shortly after that. mlle. leah was walking under the trees with her duenna when we--m. rochez and i--came face to face with them. my friend raised his hat, and i did likewise. mademoiselle leah blushed and the ogre frowned. sir, she was an ogre!--bony and angular and hook-nosed, with thin lips that closed with a snap, and cold grey eyes that sent a shiver down your spine! rochez introduced me to her, and i made myself exceedingly agreeable to her, while my friend succeeded in exchanging two or three whispered words with his inamorata. but we did not get very far that day. mlle. goldberg senior soon marched her lovely charge away. ah, sir, she was lovely indeed! and in my heart i not only envied rochez his good fortune but i also felt how entirely unworthy he was of it. nor did the beautiful leah give me the impression of being quite so deeply struck with his charms as he would have had me believe. indeed, it struck me during those few minutes that i stood dutifully talking to her duenna that the fair young jewess cast more than one approving glance in my direction. be that as it may, the progress of our respective courtships, now that the ice was broken, took on a more decided turn. at first it only amounted to meetings on the boulevards and a cursory greeting, but soon mlle. goldberg senior, delighted with my conversation, would deliberately turn to walk with me under the trees the while fernand rochez followed by the side of his adored. a week later the ladies accepted my friend's offer to sit under the awning of the café bourbon and to sip sirops, whilst we indulged in tankards of foaming "blondes." within a fortnight, sir--i may say it without boasting--i had mlle. goldberg senior in the hollow of my hand. on the boulevards, as soon as she caught sight of me, her dour face would be wreathed in smiles, a row of large yellow teeth would appear between her thin lips, and her cold, grey eyes would soften with a glance of welcome which more than ever sent a cold shudder down my spine. while we four were together, either promenading or sitting at open-air cafés in the cool of the evening, the old duenna had eyes and ears only for me, and if my friend rochez did not get on with his own courtship as fast as he would have wished the fault rested entirely with him. for he did _not_ get on with his courtship, and that was a fact. the fair leah was very sweet, very coy, greatly amused, i fancy, at her aunt's obvious infatuation for me, and not a little flattered at the handsome m. rochez's attentions to herself. but there it all ended. and whenever i questioned rochez on the subject, he flew into a temper and consigned all middle-aged jewesses to perdition, and all the lovely and young ones to a comfortable kind of hades to which he alone amongst the male sex would have access. from which i gathered that i was not wrong in my surmises, that the fair leah had been smitten by my personality and my appearance rather than by those of my friend, and that he was suffering the pangs of an insane jealousy. this, of course, he never would admit. all that he told me one day was that leah, with the characteristic timidity of her race, refused to marry him unless she could obtain her father's consent to the union. old goldberg, duly approached on the matter, flatly forbade his daughter to have anything further to do with that fortune-hunter, that parasite, that beggarly pick-thank--such, sir, were but a few complimentary epithets which he hurled with great volubility at his daughter's absent suitor. it was from mlle. goldberg, senior, that my friend and i had the details of that stormy interview between father and daughter; after which, she declared that interviews between the lovers would necessarily become very difficult of arrangement. from which you will gather that the worthy soul, though she was as ugly as sin, was by this time on the side of the angels. indeed, she was more than that. she professed herself willing to aid and abet them in every way she could. this rochez confided to me, together with his assurance that he was determined to take his fate into his own hands and, since the beautiful leah would not come to him of her own accord, to carry her off by force. ah, my dear sir, those were romantic days, you must remember! days when men placed the possession of the woman they loved above every treasure, every consideration upon earth. ah, romance! romance, sir, was the breath of our nostrils, the blood in our veins! imagine how readily we all fell in with my friend's plans. i, of course, was the moving spirit in it all; mine was the genius which was destined to turn gilded romance into grim reality. yes, grim! for you shall see! . . . mlle. goldberg, senior, who appropriately enough was named sarah, gave us the clue how to proceed, after which my genius worked alone. you must know that old goldberg's house in the rue des médecins--a large apartment house in which he occupied a few rooms on the ground floor behind his shop--backed on to a small uncultivated garden which ended in a tall brick wall, the meeting-place of all the felines in the neighbourhood, and in which there was a small postern gate, now disused. this gate gave on a narrow cul-de-sac--grandiloquently named passage corneille--which was flanked on the opposite side by the tall boundary wall of an adjacent convent. that cul-de-sac was marked out from the very first in my mind as our objective. around and about it, as it were, did i build the edifice of my schemes, aided by the ever-willing sarah. the old maid threw herself into the affair with zest, planning and contriving like a veritable strategist; and i must admit that she was full of resource and invention. we were now in mid-may and enjoying a spell of hot summer weather. this gave the inventive sarah the excuse for using the back garden as a place wherein to sit in the cool of the evening in the company of her niece. ah, you see the whole thing now at a glance, do you not? the postern gate, the murky night, the daring lover, the struggling maiden, the willing accomplices. the actors were all there, ready for the curtain to be rung up on the palpitating drama. then it was that a brilliant idea came into my brain. it was born on the very day that i realized with indisputable certainty that the lovely leah was not in reality in love with rochez. he fatuously believed that she was ready to fall into his arms, that only maidenly timidity held her back, and that the moment she had been snatched from her father's house and found herself in the arms of her adoring lover, she would turn to him in the very fullness of love and confidence. but i knew better. i had caught a look now and again--an undefinable glance, which told me the whole pitiable tale. she did not love rochez; and in the drama which we were preparing to enact the curtain would fall on his rapture and her unhappiness. ah, sir! imagine what my feelings were when i realized this! this fair girl, against whom we were all conspiring like so many traitors, was still ignorant of the fatal brink on which she stood. she chatted and coquetted and smiled, little dreaming that in a very few days her happiness would be wrecked and she would be linked for life to a man whom she could never love. rochez's idea, of course, was primarily to get hold of her fortune. i had already ascertained for him, through the ever-willing sarah, that this fortune came from leah's grandfather, who had left a sum of two hundred thousand francs on trust for her children, she to enjoy the income for her life. there certainly was a clause in the will whereby the girl would forfeit that fortune if she married without her father's consent; but according to rochez's plans this could scarcely be withheld once she had been taken forcibly away from home, held in durance, and with her reputation hopelessly compromised. she could then pose as an injured victim, throw herself at her father's feet, and beg him to give that consent without which she would for ever remain an outcast of society, a pariah amongst her kind. a pretty piece of villainous combination, you will own! and i, sir, was to lend a hand in this abomination!--nay, i was to be the chief villain in the drama! it was i who, even now, was spending the hours of the night, when i might have been dreaming sentimental dreams, in oiling the lock of the postern gate which was to give us access into papa goldberg's garden. it was i who, under cover of darkness and guided by that old jade sarah, was to sneak into that garden on the appointed night and forcibly seize the unsuspecting maiden and carry her to the carriage which rochez would have in readiness for her. you see what a coward he was! it was a criminal offence in those days, punishable with deportation to new caledonia, to abduct a young lady from her parents' house; and rochez left me the dirty work to do in case the girl screamed and attracted the police. now you will tell me if i was not justified in doing what i did, and i will abide by your judgment. i was to take all the risks, remember!--new caledonia, the police, the odium attached to so foul a deed; and do you know for what? for a paltry thousand francs, which with much difficulty i had induced rochez--nay, forced him!--to hand over to me in anticipation of what i was about to accomplish for his sake. a thousand francs! did this miserliness not characterize the man? was it to such a scrubby knave that i, at risk of my life and of my honour, would hand over that jewel amongst women, that pearl above price?--a lady with a personal fortune amounting to two hundred thousand francs? no, sir; i would not! then and there i vowed that i would not! mine were to be all the risks; then mine should be the reward! what rochez meant to do, that i could too, and with far greater reason. the lovely leah did at times frown on fernand; but she invariably smiled on me. she would fall into my arms far more readily than into his, and papa goldberg would be equally forced to give his consent to her marriage with me as with that self-seeking carpet-knight whom he abhorred. needless to say, i kept my own counsel, and did not speak of my project even to sarah. to all appearances i was to be the mere tool in this affair, the unfortunate cat employed to snatch the roast chestnuts out of the fire for the gratification of a mealy-mouthed monkey. . the appointed day and hour were at hand. fernand rochez had engaged a barouche which was to take him and his lovely victim to a little house at auteuil, which he had rented for the purpose. there the lovers were to lie perdu until such time as papa goldberg had relented and the marriage could be duly solemnized in the synagogue of the rue des halles. sarah had offered in the meanwhile to do all that in her power lay to soften the old man's heart and to bring about the happy conclusion of the romantic adventure. for the latter we had chosen the night of may rd. it was a moonless night, and the passage corneille, from whence i was to operate, was most usefully dark. sarah goldberg had, according to convention, left the postern gate on the latch, and at ten o'clock precisely i made my way up the cul-de-sac and cautiously turned the handle of the door. i confess that my heart beat somewhat uncomfortably in my bosom. i had left rochez and his barouche in the rue des pipots, about a hundred metres from the angle of the passage corneille, and it was along those hundred metres of a not altogether unfrequented street that he expected me presently to carry a possibly screaming and struggling burden in the very teeth of a gendarmerie always on the look-out for exciting captures. no, sir; that was not to be! and it was with a resolute if beating heart that i presently felt the postern gate yielding to the pressure of my hand. the neighbouring church clock of st. sulpice had just finished striking ten. i pushed open the gate and tip-toed across the threshold. in the garden the boughs of a dilapidated old ash tree were soughing in the wind above my head, whilst from the top of the boundary wall the yarring and yowling of beasts of the feline species grated unpleasantly on my ear. i could not see my hand before my eyes, and had just stretched it out in order to guide my footsteps when it was seized with a kindly yet firm pressure, whilst a voice murmured softly: "hush!" "who is it?" i whispered in response. "it is i--sarah!" the voice replied. "everything is all right, but leah is unsuspecting. i am sure that if she suspected anything she would not set foot outside the door." "what shall we do?" i asked. "wait here a moment quietly," sarah rejoined, speaking in a rapid whisper, "under cover of this wall. within the next few minutes leah will come out of the house. i have left my knitting upon a garden chair, and i will ask her to run out and fetch it. that will be your opportunity. the chair is in the angle of the wall, there," she added, pointing to her right, "not three paces from where you are standing now. leah has a white dress on. she will have to stoop in order to pick up the knitting. i have taken the precaution to entangle the wool in the leg of the chair, so she will be some few seconds entirely at your mercy. have you a shawl?" i had, of course, provided myself with one. a shawl is always a necessary adjunct to such adventures. breathlessly, silently, i intimated to my kind accomplice that i would obey her behests and that i was prepared for every eventuality. the next moment her hold upon my hand relaxed, she gave another quickly-whispered "hush!" and disappeared into the night. for a second or two after that my ear caught the soft sound of her retreating footsteps, then nothing more. to say that i felt anxious and ill at ease was but to put it mildly. i was face to face with an adventure which might cost me at least five years' acute discomfort in new caledonia, but which might also bring me as rich a reward as could befall any man of modest ambitions: a lovely wife and a comfortable fortune. my whole life seemed to be hanging on a thread, and my overwrought senses seemed almost to catch the sound of the spinning-wheel of fate weaving the web of my destiny. a moment or two later i again caught the distinct sound of a gentle footfall upon the soft earth. my eyes by now were somewhat accustomed to the gloom. it was very dark, you understand; but through the darkness i saw something white moving slowly toward me. then my heart thumped more furiously than ever before. i dared not breathe. i saw the lovely leah approaching, or, rather, i felt her approach, for it was too dark to see. she moved in the direction which sarah had indicated to me as being the place where stood the garden chair with the knitting upon it. i grasped the shawl. i was ready. another few seconds of agonising suspense went by. the fair leah had ceased to move. undoubtedly she was engaged in disentangling the wool from the leg of the chair. that was my opportunity. more stealthy than any cat, i tiptoed toward the chair--and, indeed, at that moment i blessed the sudden yowl set up by some feline in its wrath which rent the still night air and effectually drowned any sound which i might make. there, not three paces away from me, was the dim outline of the young girl's form vaguely discernible in the gloom--a white mass, almost motionless, against a background of inky blackness. with a quick intaking of my breath i sprang forward, the shawl outspread in my hand, and with a quick dexterous gesture i threw it over her head, and the next second had her, faintly struggling, in my arms. she was as light as a feather, and i was as strong as a giant. think of it, sir! there was i, alone in the darkness, holding in my arms, together with a lovely form, a fortune of two hundred thousand francs! of that fool fernand rochez i did not trouble to think. he had a barouche waiting _up_ the rue des pipots, a hundred metres from the corner of the passage corneille, but i had a chaise and pair of horses waiting _down_ that same street, and that now was my objective. yes, sir! i had arranged the whole thing! but i had done it for mine own advantage, not for that of the miserly friend who had been too great a coward to risk his own skin for the sake of his beloved. the guerdon was mine, and i was determined this time that no traitor or ingrate should filch from me the reward of my labours. with the thousand francs which rochez had given me for my services i had engaged the chaise and horses, paid the coachman lavishly, and secured a cosy little apartment for my future wife in a pleasant hostelry i knew of at suresnes. i had taken the precaution to leave the wicket-gate on the latch. with my foot i pushed it open, and, keeping well under the cover of the tall convent wall, i ran swiftly to the corner of the rue des pipots. here i paused a moment. through the silence of the night my ear caught the faint sound of horses snorting and harness jingling in the distance, both sides from where i stood; but of gendarmes or passers-by there was no sign. gathering up the full measure of my courage and holding my precious burden closer to my heart, i ran quickly down the street. within the next few seconds i had the seemingly inanimate maiden safely deposited in the inside of the barouche and myself sitting by her side. the driver cracked his whip, and whilst i, happy but exhausted, was mopping my streaming forehead the chaise rattled gaily along the uneven pavements of the great city in the direction of suresnes. what that fool rochez was doing i could not definitely ascertain. i looked through the vasistas of the coach, but could see nothing in pursuit of us. then i turned my full attention to my lovely companion. it was pitch dark inside the carriage, you understand; only from time to time, as we drove past an overhanging street lanthorn, i caught a glimpse of that priceless bundle beside me, which lay there so still and so snug, still wrapped up in the shawl. with cautious, loving fingers i undid its folds. under cover of the darkness the sweet and modest creature, released of her bonds, turned for an instant to me, and for a few, very few, happy seconds i held her in my arms. "have no fear, fair one," i murmured in her ear. "it is i, hector ratichon, who adores you and who cannot live without you! forgive me for this seeming violence, which was prompted by an undying passion, and remember that to me you are as sacred as a divinity until the happy hour when i can proclaim you to the world as my beloved wife!" i pressed her against my heart, and my lips imprinted a delicate kiss upon her forehead. after which, with chaste decorum, she once more turned away from me, covered her face and head with the shawl, and drew back into the remote corner of the carriage, where she remained, silent and absorbed, no doubt, in the contemplation of her happiness. i respected her silence, and i, too, fell to meditating upon my good fortune. here was i, sir, within sight of a haven wherein i could live through the twilight of my days in comfort and in peace, a beautiful young wife, a modest fortune! i had never in my wildest dreams envisaged a fate more fair. the little house at chantilly which i coveted, the plot of garden, the espalier peaches--all, all would be mine now! it seemed indeed too good to be true! the very next moment i was rudely awakened from those golden dreams by a loud clatter, and stern voices shouting the ominous word, "halt!" the carriage drew up with such a jerk that i was flung off my seat against the front window and my nose seriously bruised. a faint cry of terror came from the precious bundle beside me. "have no fear, my beloved," i whispered hurriedly. "your own hector will protect you!" already the door of the carriage had been violently torn open; the next moment a gruff voice called out peremptorily: "by order of the chief commissary of police!" i was dumbfounded. in what manner had the chief commissary of police been already apprised of this affair? the whole thing was, of course, a swift and vengeful blow dealt to me by that cowardly rochez. but how, in the name of thunder, had he got to work so quickly? but, of course, there was no time now for reflection. the gruff voice was going on more peremptorily and more insistently: "is hector ratichon here?" i was dumb. my throat had closed up, and i could not have uttered a sound to save my life. the police had even got my name quite straight! "now then, ratichon," that same irascible voice continued, "get out of there! in the name of the law i charge you with the abduction of a defenceless female, and my orders are to bring you forthwith before the chief commissary of police." then it was, sir, that bliss once more re-entered my soul. i had just felt a small hand pressing something crisp into mine, whilst a soft voice whispered in my ear: "give him this, and tell him to let you go in peace. say that i am mademoiselle goldberg, your promised wife." the feel of that crackling note in my hand at once restored my courage. covering the lovely creature beside me with a protecting arm, i replied boldly to the minion of the law. "this lady," i said, "is my affianced wife. you, sir gendarme, are overstepping your powers. i demand that you let us proceed in peace." "my orders are--" the gendarme resumed; but already my sensitive ear had detected a faint wavering in the gruffness of his voice. the hectoring tone had gone out of it. i could not see him, of course, but somehow i felt that his attitude had become less arrogant and his glance more shifty. "this gentleman has spoken the truth," now came in soft, dulcet tones from under the shawl that wrapped the head of my beloved. "i am mlle. goldberg, m. le gendarme, and i am travelling with m. hector ratichon entirely of my own free will, since i have promised him that i would be his wife." "ah!" the gendarme ejaculated, obviously mollified. "if mademoiselle is the fiancée of monsieur, and is acting of her own free will--" "it is not for you to interfere, eh, my friend?" i broke in jocosely. "you will now let us proceed in peace, and for your trouble you will no doubt accept this token of my consideration." and, groping in the darkness, i found the rough hand of the gendarme, and speedily pressed into it the crisp note which my adored one had given to me. "ah!" he said, with very obvious gratification. "if monsieur ratichon will assure me that mademoiselle here is indeed his affianced wife, then indeed it is not a case of abduction, and--" "abduction!" i retorted, flaring up in righteous indignation. "who dares to use the word in connexion with this lovely lady? mademoiselle goldberg, i swear, will be madame ratichon within the next four and twenty hours. and the sooner you, sir gendarme, allow us to proceed on our way the less pain will you cause to this distressed and virtuous damsel." this settled the whole affair quite comfortably. the gendarme shut the carriage door with a bang, and at my request gave the order to the driver to proceed. the latter once again cracked his whip, and once again the cumbrous vehicle, after an awkward lurch, rattled on its way along the cobblestones of the sleeping city. once more i was alone with the priceless treasure by my side--alone and happy--more happy, i might say, than i had been before. had not my adored one openly acknowledged her love for me and her desire to stand with me at the hymeneal altar? to put it vulgarly--though vulgarity in every form is repellent to me--she had burnt her boats. she had allowed her name to be coupled with mine in the presence of the minions of the law. what, after that, could her father do but give his consent to a union which alone would save his only child's reputation from the cruelty of waggish tongues? no doubt, sir, that i was happy. true, that when the uncouth gendarme finally slammed to the door of our carriage and we restarted on our way, my ears had been unpleasantly tickled by the sound of prolonged and ribald laughter--laughter which sounded strangely and unpleasantly familiar. but after a few seconds' serious reflection i dismissed the matter from my thoughts. if, as indeed i gravely suspected, it was fernand rochez who had striven thus to put a spoke in the wheel of my good fortune, he would certainly not have laughed when i drove triumphantly away with my conquered bride by my side. and, of course, my ears _must_ have deceived me when they caught the sound of a girl's merry laugh mingling with the more ribald one of the man. . i have paused purposely, sir, ere i embark upon the narration of the final stage of this, my life's adventure. the chaise was bowling along the banks of the river toward suresnes. presently the driver struck to his right and plunged into the fastnesses of the bois de boulogne. for a while, therefore, we were in utter darkness. my lovely companion neither moved nor spoke. somewhere in the far distance a church clock struck eleven. one whole hour had gone by since first i had embarked on this great undertaking. i was excited, feverish. the beautiful leah's silence and tranquillity grated upon my nerves. i could not understand how she could remain there so placid when her whole life's happiness had so suddenly, so unexpectedly, been assured. i became more and more fidgety as time went on. soon i felt that i could no longer hold myself in proper control. being of an impulsive disposition, this tranquil acceptance of so great a joy became presently intolerable, and, unable to restrain my ardour any longer, i seized that passive bundle of loveliness in my arms. "have no fear," i murmured once again, as i pressed her to my heart. but my admonition was obviously unnecessary. the beautiful leah showed not the slightest sign of fear. she rested her head against my shoulder and put one arm around my neck. i was in raptures. just then the vehicle swung out of the bois and once more rattled upon the cobblestones. this time we were nearing suresnes. a vague light, emanating from the lanthorns at the bridge-head, was already faintly visible ahead of us. soon it grew brighter. the next moment we passed immediately beneath the lanthorns. the interior of the carriage was flooded with light . . . and, sir, i gave a gasp of unadulterated dismay! the being whom i held in my arms, whose face was even at that moment raised up to my own, was not the lovely leah! it was sarah, sir! sarah goldberg, the dour, angular aunt, whose yellow teeth gleamed for one brief moment through her thin lips as she threw me one of those glances of amorous welcome which invariably sent a cold shiver down my spine. sarah goldberg! i scarce could believe my eyes, and for a moment did indeed think that the elusive, swiftly-vanished light of the bridge-head lanthorns had played my excited senses a weird and cruel trick. but no! the very next second proved my disillusionment. sarah spoke to me! she spoke to me and laughed! ah, she was happy, sir! happy in that she had completely and irrevocably tricked me! that traitor fernand rochez was up to the neck in the plot which had saddled me for ever with an ugly, elderly wife of dour mien and no fortune, while he and the lovely leah were spinning the threads of perfect love at the other end of paris and laughing their fill at my discomfiture. think, sir, what i suffered during those few brief minutes while the coach lurched through the narrow streets of suresnes, and i had perforce to listen to the protestations of undying love from this unprepossessing female! that love, she vowed, was her excuse, and everything, she asserted, was fair in love and war. she knew that after rochez had attained his heart's desire and carried off the lady of his choice--which he had successfully done half an hour before i myself made my way up the passage corneille--i would pass out of her life for ever. this she could not endure. life at once would become intolerable. and, aided and abetted by rochez and leah, she had planned and contrived my mystification and won me by foul means, since she could not do so by fair; and it seemed as if her volubility then was the forecast of what my life with her would be in the future. talk! talk! talk! she never ceased! she told me the whole story of the abominable conspiracy against my liberty. her brother, m. goldberg, she explained, had determined upon remarriage. she, sarah, felt that henceforth she would be in the way of everybody; she would have no home. leah married to rochez; a new and young mme. goldberg ruling in the old house of the rue des médecins! ah, it was unthinkable! and i, sir--i, hector ratichon--had, it appears, by my polite manners and prepossessing ways, induced this dour old maid to believe that she was not altogether indifferent to me. ah, how i cursed my own charms, when i realised whither they had led me! it seems that it was that fickle jade leah who first imagined the whole execrable plot. rochez was to entrust me with the task of carrying off his beloved, and thus i would be tricked in the darkness into abducting mlle. goldberg senior from her home. then some friends of rochez arranged to play the comedy of false gendarmes, and again i was tricked into acknowledging sarah as my affianced wife before independent witnesses. after that i could no longer repudiate mine honourable intentions, for if i did, then i should be arraigned before the law on a criminal charge of abduction. in this comedy of false gendarmes rochez himself and the heartless leah had joined with zest and laughed over my discomfiture, whilst the friends who played their rôles to such perfection had a paltry hundred francs each as the price of this infamous trick. now my doom was sealed, and all that was left for me to do was to think disconsolately over my future. i did bitterly reproach sarah for her treachery and tried to still her protestations of love by pointing out to her that i had absolutely no fortune, and could only offer her a life of squalor, not to say of what. but this she knew, and vowed that penury by my side would make her happier than luxury beside any other man. ah, sir, 'tis given to few men to arouse such selfless passion in a woman's heart, and it hath oft been my dream in the past one day thus to be adored for myself alone! but for the moment i was too deeply angered to listen placidly to sarah's vows of undying affection. my nerves were irritated by her fulsome adulation; indeed, i could not bear the sight of her nor yet the sound of her voice. you may imagine how thankful i was when the chaise came at last to a halt outside the humble little hostelry where i had engaged the room which i had so fondly hoped would have been occupied by the lovely and fickle leah. i bundled mlle. goldberg senior into the house, and here again i had to endure galling mortification in the shape of sidelong glances cast at me and my future bride by the landlord of the hostelry and his ill-bred daughter. when i engaged the room i had very foolishly told them that it would be occupied by a lovely lady who had consented to be my wife, and that she would remain here in happy seclusion until such time as all arrangements for our wedding were complete. the humiliation of these vulgar people's irony seemed like the last straw which overweighed my forbearance. the room and pension i had already paid two days in advance, so i had nothing more to say either to the ribald landlord or to mlle. goldberg senior. i was bitterly angered against her, and refused her the solace of a kindly look or of an encouraging pressure from my hand, even though she waited for both with the pathetic patience of an old spaniel. i re-entered the coach, which was to take me back to mine own humble lodgings in passy. here at least i was alone--alone with my gloomy thoughts. my heart was full of wrath against the woman who had so basely tricked me, and i viewed with dismay amounting almost to despair the prospect of spending the rest of my life in her company. that night i slept but little, nor yet the following night, or the night after that. those days i spent in seclusion, thankful for my solitude. twice each day did mlle. goldberg come to my lodgings. in the foolish past i had somewhat injudiciously acquainted her of where i lived. now she came and asked to be allowed to see me, but invariably did i refuse thus to gratify her. i felt that time alone would perhaps soften my feelings a little towards her. in the meanwhile i must commend her discretion and delicacy of procedure. she did not in any way attempt to molest me. when she was told by theodore--whom i employed during the day to guard me against unwelcome visitors--that i refused to see her, she invariably went away without demur, nor did she refer in any way, either with adjurations or threats, to the impending wedding. indeed, sir, she was a lady of vast discretion. on the third day, however, i received a visit from m. goldberg himself. i could not refuse to see him. indeed, he would not be denied, but roughly pushed theodore aside, who tried to hinder him. he had come armed with a riding-whip, and nothing but mine own innate dignity saved me from outrage. he came, sir, with a marriage licence for his sister and me in one pocket and with a denunciation to the police against me for abduction in another. he gave me the choice. what could i do, sir? i was like a helpless babe in the hands of unscrupulous brigands! the marriage licence was for the following day--at the mairie of the eighth arrondissement first, and in the synagogue of the rue des halles afterwards. i chose the marriage licence. what could i do, sir? i was helpless! of my wedding day i have but a dim recollection. it was all hustle and bustle; from the mairie to the synagogue, and thence to the house of m. goldberg in the rue des médecins. i must say that the old usurer received me and my bride with marked amiability. he was, i gathered, genuinely pleased that his sister had found happiness and a home by the side of an honourable man, seeing that he himself was on the point of contracting a fresh alliance with a jewish lady of unsurpassed loveliness. of rochez and leah we saw nothing that day, and from one or two words which m. goldberg let fall i concluded that he was greatly angered against his daughter because of her marriage with a fortune-hunting adventurer, who, he weirdly hinted, had already found quick and exemplary punishment for his crime. i was sincerely glad to hear this, even though i could not get m. goldberg to explain in what that exemplary punishment consisted. the climax came at six o'clock of that eventful afternoon, at the hour when i, with the newly-enthroned mme. ratichon on my arm, was about to take leave of m. goldberg. i must admit that at that moment my heart was overflowing with bitterness. i had been led like a lamb to the slaughter; i had been made to look foolish and absurd in the midst of this israelite community which i despised; i was saddled for the rest of my life with an unprepossessing elderly wife, who could do naught for me but share the penury, the hard crusts, the onion pies with me and theodore. the only advantage i might ever derive from her was that she would darn my stockings, sew the buttons on my vests, and goffer the frills of my shirts! was this not enough to turn any man's naturally sweet disposition to gall? no doubt my mobile face betrayed something of the bitterness of my thoughts, for m. goldberg at one moment slapped me vigorously on the back and bade me be of good cheer, as things were not so bad as i imagined. i was on the point of asking him what he meant when i saw another gentleman advancing toward me. his face, which was sallow and oily, bore a kind of obsequious smile; his clothes were of rusty black, and his features were markedly jewish in character. he had some law papers under his arm, and he was perpetually rubbing his thin, bony hands together as if he were for ever washing them. "monsieur hector ratichon," he said unctuously, "it is with much gratification that i bring you the joyful news." joyful news!--to me! ah, sir, the words struck at first with cruel irony upon mine ear. but not so a second later, for the jewish gentleman went on speaking, and what he said appeared to my reeling senses like songs of angels from paradise. at first i could not grasp his full meaning. a moment ago i had been in the depths of despair, and now--now--a whole vista of beatitude opened out before me! what the worthy israelite said was that, by the terms of grandpapa goldberg's will, if leah married without her father's consent, one-half of the fortune destined for her would revert to her aunt, sarah goldberg, now madame hector ratichon. can you wonder that i could scarce believe my ears? one-half that fortune meant that a hundred thousand francs would now become mine! m. goldberg had already made it very clear to his daughter and to rochez that he would never give his consent to their marriage, and, as this was now consummated, they had already forfeited one-half of the grandfather's fortune in favour of my sarah. that was the exemplary punishment which they were to suffer for their folly. but their folly--aye! and their treachery--had become my joy. in this moment of heavenly rapture i was speechless, but i turned to sarah with loving arms outstretched, and the next instant she nestled against my heart like a joyful if elderly bird. what is said of a people, sir, is also true of the individual. happy he who hath no history. since that never-to-be-forgotten hour my life has run its simple, uneventful course here in this quiet corner of our beautiful france, with my pony and my dog and my chickens, and mme. ratichon to minister to my creature comforts. i bought this little property, sir, soon after my marriage, and my office in the rue daunou knows me no more. you like the house, sir? ah, yes! and the garden? . . . after déjeuner you must see my prize chickens. theodore will show them to you. you did not know theodore was here? well, yes! he lives with us. madame ratichon finds him useful about the house, and, not being used to luxuries, he is on the whole pleasantly contented. ah, here comes madame ratichon to tell us that the déjeuner is served! this way, sir, under the porch. . . . after you! the end her majesty's minister, by william le queux. ________________________________________________________________________ ________________________________________________________________________ her majesty's minister, by william le queux. chapter one. his excellency. "then, plainly speaking, the whole thing remains a mystery?" "absolutely," i responded. "all my efforts have unfortunately failed." "and you entertain no suspicion of anyone?" "none whatever." "not of that woman yolande--or whatever her name is?" "certainly not of her," i answered quickly. "she would assist us, if necessary." "why are you so sure of that? she has only been in paris a week." "because i happen to know her." "you know her!" exclaimed his excellency, unclasping his thin white hands and leaning across his big writing-table--a habit of his when suddenly interested. "is she a personal friend of yours?" i hesitated for a moment; then replied in the affirmative. "where did you know her?" he inquired quickly, fixing me with that sharp pair of black eyes that shone behind the zone of soft light shed by the green-shaded reading-lamp upon the table. he was sitting in the shadow, his thin, refined face ashen grey, his hair almost white. the one spot of colour was the fine star of knight grand cross of the bath glittering on the breast of his braided diplomatic uniform. lord barmouth, british ambassador to the french republic, had just returned from the president's reception at the elysee, and had summoned me for consultation. "well," i responded, "i knew her in rome, among other places." "h'm, i thought as much," he remarked in a dry, dubious tone. "i don't like her, ingram--i don't like her;" and i knew by the impatient snap of the ambassador's fingers that something had displeased him. "you've seen her, then?" "yes," he answered in an ambiguous tone, taking up a quill and making what appeared to be geometrical designs upon his blotting-pad. "she's good-looking--uncommonly good-looking; but i mistrust her." "it is part of our creed to mistrust a pretty woman," i remarked with a smile; for, as everyone knows, the fair sex plays a prominent part in the diplomacy of europe. "but what cause have you for suspicion?" he was silent for a moment; then he said: "you were not at the ball at the austrian embassy the night before last, i believe?" "no, i was not back from london in time," i replied. "was she there?" "yes. she was dancing with hartmann, and they were speaking of you. i was chatting with olsoufieff, and distinctly overheard your name mentioned." "with hartmann!" i repeated. "that's curious. he is scarcely a friend of ours." "i consider the circumstance suspicious, judged by the light of recent events," he said. "remember that the cause of our piece of ill-fortune still remains a mystery, and the stroke of diplomacy that we intended to effect as a coup against our enemies has, by the dastardly betrayal of our secret, placed us in a very unenviable position. this untoward incident has entirely checkmated us." "i fully realise our critical position," i said seriously, "and i have done my utmost to discover the truth. kaye has been active night and day." "nevertheless, i fear that at downing street they will say hard things of us, ingram;" and her majesty's representative sighed heavily, resting his weary head upon his hand. the ambassador's office was indeed a very thankless one, while my own position as second secretary of the paris embassy was a post not to be envied, even though it is popularly supposed to be one of the plums of the diplomatic service. with paris full of spies endeavouring to discover our secrets and divine our instructions from downing street, and the cabinet noir ever at work upon our correspondence, it behoved us to be always on the alert, and to have resort to all manner of ingenious subterfuges in order to combat our persistent enemies. the war-cloud hangs over europe always. the mine is laid, and the slightest spark may fire it. the duty of the diplomatist is to intrigue so as to prevent that spark. it is the intrigue that is difficult, for counter-plots are met with everywhere. the power of england is feared; hence her isolation. those who live at home at ease think little of the small band of englishmen in each of the capitals who, living ever upon the edge of a volcano, are straining every nerve to preserve the peace of europe. how often the stability of empires trembles in the balance the british public little dreams. "the european situation" is a stock heading in the london newspapers, but fortunately the journalists never know the secrets of our embassies, otherwise the world would very often be scared. many a time in my own diplomatic career in rome, in brussels, and in vienna, had i remained awake at night, fearing on the morrow a declaration of war; yet the chiefs under whom i have worked--those honest, upright, valiant servants of queen and country--had skilfully evaded the threatened danger, and europe remained in ignorance of how terribly near it had been to the clash of arms. that night, as i sat with the chief, a trusted servant of her majesty, in his handsome private room in the embassy, i knew that war was in the air. the responsibility resting upon him was of a sort to involve the prestige of the queen's empire and the lives of thousands of her valiant sons. an ill-advised despatch, a hasty word, or an injudicious attitude would inevitably mean the disastrous explosion so long feared--the great european war that prophets have been predicting ever since the downfall of the french empire. paris that july night was stifling. to us the tension of the day had been terrible. the catastrophe so long feared seemed now upon us. there was a breathless calm in the air outside, foreboding a storm. "has kaye absolutely nothing to report?" asked his excellency, at last breaking the silence. "he returned from madrid at nine o'clock to-night. his journey there was futile." "ah!" exclaimed his excellency, whose thin lips closed tightly again. through the years that i had served under him in rome and afterwards in paris i had never before seen him outwardly betray the slightest apprehension. so skilled was he as a diplomatist that his sangfroid was always perfect. his motto--one that he had often impressed upon me--was that the british lion should always remain fearless of his enemies. but now, for the first time, he was plainly agitated, dreading that war might result. "get me out the special cipher-book," he said hoarsely at last. "i must telephone to downing street." in obedience i rose, opened with the key upon my chain the big safe, and took out the small morocco-bound volume containing the secret cipher by means of which his excellency could communicate with her majesty's secretary of state for foreign affairs--a book supplied only to ambassadors themselves; and, because it is kept locked, its contents are never seen even by the staff of an embassy. his excellency unlocked it with his own key, took up his quill, and after searching here and there through the pages, commenced writing a bewildering row of letters and numerals intermingled, while in the meantime i had gone to the telephone instrument at the opposite end of the room and "rung up" london, until there came an answering voice from one of the night staff of the foreign office. "hulloa! i'm ingram, of the paris embassy. who are you?" i asked. in response came a password by which i knew i was actually speaking with downing street. "is the marquess in london, or at alderhurst, to-night?" "alderhurst. he left town this afternoon." "then put me on there for an important despatch." "all right," was the response; and some five minutes later the tiny bell rang, with an inquiry from the private secretary of the great statesman as to what i wanted. i answered; then, his excellency having risen and handed me the slip of official paper on which he had printed the cipher figures heavily with his quill, i prefaced the message by the usual formal announcement: "from lord barmouth, paris, to the most noble the marquess of malvern, london. july th, : a.m." then in continuation i read slowly and distinctly each letter and numeral, the secretary at alderhurst afterwards repeating the whole message, so that there should be no possibility of mistake. nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed, during which time his excellency, with his hands behind his back, paced feverishly up and down the room. of the nature of that despatch i was in utter ignorance, but from his manner it was evident that the problem was one vital to the interests of the british empire. by night, as well as by day, those responsible for the maintenance of the prestige of england as the first empire of the world are always active. how little the public knows of the stealthy, treacherous ways of modern diplomacy, of the armies of spies seeking always to plot and counter-plot, of the base subterfuges employed by certain noted foreign diplomatists, or of the steady perseverance of the queen's representatives at the courts of europe! and how little, i fear, they care! to most people the diplomatic career is synonymous with an easy occupation in which the wearing of a uniform and the attendance at brilliant functions are the greatest inconveniences. the newspapers flippantly criticise our actions in leading articles, and declare that our diplomacy is utterly worthless beside that of germany, russia, or france. those who write, as well as those who read, never reflect that our chief duty is to foil the provocations offered to us by the powers who are anxious for war. every british ambassador at a foreign court had been told from the lips of his beloved sovereign--now, alas! deceased--that he must prevent war. that instruction was to him as sacred as a religion. "the president talked for twenty minutes to-night with de wolkenstein," observed his excellency, halting suddenly and facing me. "i wonder if they know anything in vienna?" "i think not," i replied. "i met count berchtold in the grand cafe purposely this evening, and he made no mention of anything to lead me to believe that the secret was out in that direction." "if it is out, then it has been circulated by our friends in the rue de lille," he said, meaning the german embassy. "perhaps," i responded. "but i hardly think that count de hindenburg would care to imperil his position by so doing. he would rather endeavour to assist us in this affair, because the interests of england and germany are entirely mutual in this matter." "i tell you, ingram," he cried angrily--"i tell you that this dastardly piece of trickery is some woman's work!" as he spoke, the door suddenly opened, and there burst into the room a tall girlish figure in a pretty toilette of turquoise chiffon, wearing an open cape of handsome brocade about her shoulders. "o father!" she cried merrily, "we've had such an awfully good time at the baroness's!" then, next instant, astonished by his words, she drew back in quick surprise. "what trickery is a woman's work?" she asked, glancing inquiringly at me. "nothing, my dear," his excellency hastened to reply, placing his thin hand tenderly upon her shoulder--"nothing, at least, that concerns you." "but you are not well!" she cried in alarm. then, turning to me, said: "look, mr. ingram, how pale he is!" "your father is rather overburdened by important business," i replied. her face assumed a puzzled expression. sibyl, the pretty, dark-haired daughter of lord barmouth, was acknowledged on all sides to be more than usually beautiful, and was the pet of diplomatic paris. with her mother she went everywhere in that dazzling vortex of gaiety, in which the diplomatist accredited to france is bound to move. ah! that glare and glitter, that constant whirl, that never-ceasing music! how weary i was of it all, and how it jarred upon me! and why? well, to speak the truth, i myself had an affair of the heart, and my thoughts were always far from those brilliant spectacles in which i was merely an official in a braided uniform. "what has occurred, mr. ingram?" asked the ambassador's daughter anxiously. "father is certainly not himself to-night." "another political complication," i responded; "that is all." "sibyl, my dear," exclaimed her father, gently taking her hand, "you know that i forbid any inquiries to be made into matters which must be secret, even from you." "i came to tell you all about the ball," she said, pouting. "i was introduced to a most pleasant man named wolf, and danced with him several times." "wolf!" i cried quickly. "rodolphe wolf?" "that was his name. he was dark, about forty, with a small pointed black beard. do you know him?" "wolf!" i repeated; then, suddenly recovering from the surprise she had caused me by uttering that name, i answered carelessly: "perhaps it may be the same man i knew slightly some years ago." "we had awfully good fun. he is so amusing, but seems quite a stranger in paris." i smiled inwardly. rodolphe wolf a stranger in paris! the thought was amusing. "and what was your conversation about?" i inquired of her, smiling pleasantly the while. "you want to know whether he flirted with me, mr. ingram?" she laughed mischievously. "i know you of old. it really isn't fair." "he said nothing to you about your father, or about the composition of his staff?" i inquired eagerly. "nothing." "and you did not mention my name?" i asked anxiously. "no. why? you talk as though you don't want him to know you are in paris." "you have exactly guessed my desire," i replied. "if you meet him again, kindly oblige me by saying nothing." "do not utter a word regarding matters here at the embassy, sibyl," added her father seriously. "you understand?" "of course not. i'm a diplomat's daughter, and can keep a secret when necessary. but tell me, father," she added, "who is the woman of whom you were speaking when i came in?" "it is our affair, my dear--entirely our affair," he said in a hard voice. "it is nothing you need trouble your head over. i'm glad you've enjoyed the ball. say good-night, and leave us." "but you look quite ill," she said with concern in her voice, stroking his heated forehead with her hand. "cannot i get you something?" "nothing, dear." she was a charming type of english girl, smart, accomplished, and utterly devoted to her father. that she delighted in mild flirtations here and there in the cosmopolitan circle in which she moved i was well aware, and we were such old friends that i often chaffed her about her fickleness. but that night she had met rodolphe wolf, of all men. the fact was strange, to say the least. "shall i send harding to you?" she asked, standing there in the shadow, the diamond star in her well-dressed hair alone catching the light and gleaming with a thousand fires. the star was a parting gift to her by queen margherita of italy, with whom she had been an especial favourite while her father was ambassador in rome. "no," answered his excellency. "please say good-night, dear, and leave us." then he bent, kissed her tenderly on the brow, and dismissed her. "well," she laughed poutingly, "if i am ordered off, i suppose i must go. i'm a striking example of the obedient daughter. good-night, mr. ingram." and as i held open the door for her to pass out, she added mischievously: "i'll leave you to talk together over the shortcomings of my sex;" and laughing gaily she disappeared down the corridor. chapter two. two enigmas. "who is this wolf?" the ambassador inquired quickly, as soon as i had closed the door. "i don't seem to recollect the name." "i have a suspicion," i responded. "when it is established i will explain." "an alias--eh?" "i think so," i said. "your daughter should be warned against him. they had better not meet." "i will see to that," he said, and the next instant the telephone-bell rang loudly, announcing the response from alderhurst. in a moment we were both at the instrument. then with the receiver at my car i inquired who was there. "durnford, alderhurst," was the response. "are you ingram?" i replied in the affirmative, adding the word without the receipt of which no cipher despatch is ever sent by telephone, lest some trickery should be attempted. "take down, then," came the secretary's voice from the other side of the channel. "from the marquess of malvern, to his excellency, lord barmouth, paris. july th, : a.m.;" and then followed a long row of ciphers, each of which i carefully wrote down upon the paper before me, reading it through aloud, in order that he might compare it with his copy. then, when the voice from alderhurst gave the word "end," i hung up the receiver and gave the paper into his excellency's eager hands. those puzzling lines of letters and numerals were secret instructions from the ruler of england's destiny, who had been called from his bed to decide one of the most critical problems of statesmanship. truly the position of the british minister for foreign affairs is no enviable one. the responsibility is the heaviest weighing upon any one man in the whole world. his excellency seated himself quickly at his table, and with the aid of a second book which i handed him from the safe proceeded to decipher the chief's despatch. with his pen he placed the equivalent beneath each cipher, and as he did so i saw that his countenance fell. he went pale as death. "ah!" he gasped, when he had finished the arrangement and had read the deciphered message through. "it is exactly as i feared. never in the course of my career as ambassador has such a serious complication arisen--_never_!" i was silent. what, indeed, could i say? i well knew that he was not the man to betray the slightest emotion without good reason. for a moment he sat there, resting his brow upon his hand, staring blankly at the paper i had given him. the nature of his secret instructions i knew not. his utter despair was sufficient to convince me, however, that a catastrophe was inevitable. only the low ticking of the clock upon the high mantelshelf broke the painful silence. the representative of her majesty--one of england's most skilled and trusted diplomats--sighed heavily, for he knew too well how black was the outlook at that moment--how, indeed, because of our mysterious betrayal, our enemies had triumphed, and how, at the other embassies, that very night the downfall of england's power was being discussed. "all this is a woman's doing, i tell you!" he cried, striking the table fiercely, rising and pacing the room. "we must discover the truth--we must, you hear?" "i am making every possible effort," i answered; adding, "i think i have hitherto shown myself worthy of your confidence?" "certainly, ingram," he hastened to assure me. "without you here i should not dare to act as i have done. i know that nothing escapes you. your shrewdness is equal to that of old sterk, the chief of police in vienna." "you are too complimentary," i said; "i have merely done my duty." "but if we could only get at the truth in this affair!" "at present it is an absolute mystery. only two persons were aware of the secret. you knew it, and i also knew it. and yet it is out-- indeed, the very terms of the agreement are known!" suddenly halting, he pushed open the window, and looked out upon the hot, overcast night. paris was still bright with her myriad electric lights, and the glaring cafes on the boulevards were still as busy as during the hour of the absinthe. the city of pleasure never sleeps. he leaned over the balcony, gasping for air; but in an instant i was behind him, saying: "someone may be watching outside. is it really wise for you to be seen?" "no," he answered. "you're right, ingram;" and he turned back and closed the long windows opening upon the balcony. "a bold front must be maintained through all." he walked to his table, took up the despatch, and, striking a vesta, ignited it, holding it until it was completely consumed. then he cast the blackened tinder into the grate, growing in a single instant calm again. "you are right, ingram," he repeated rather hoarsely. "our enemies must not obtain any inkling that we know the truth, if we are to effect a successful counter-plot. in this affair i detect the hand of a woman. is not that your opinion?" "i must admit that it is," i responded. "i believe there is a female spy somewhere." "but who is she?" he cried anxiously. "ah!" i said, "we have yet to discover her name." "it is not yolande?" he asked dubiously. "no. of that i feel quite certain." "but you are certain of nothing else?" "all the rest is, i regret, an absolute mystery." there was no disguising the fact that the information which by very mysterious means had leaked out from the embassy had created the most intense excitement in certain other foreign embassies in paris. kaye, the chief of our secret service in the french capital--a shrewd fellow, whose capacity for learning which way the diplomatic wind was blowing was little short of marvellous--had come to me at midnight to report that the spanish ambassador was exchanging frequent despatches with madrid. that statement was sufficient to show the enemy's hand. for fully six months france had been scheming to obtain a naval station in the mediterranean, and the point she coveted was ceuta, on the moorish coast, opposite gibraltar. knowledge of this caused us to exercise the most delicate diplomacy in order to thwart the conspiracy to aim a blow against england's naval power in the mediterranean. a week ago i had been in london, and the marquess of malvern himself had given me a crossed despatch to convey to my chief in paris. this had contained certain instructions in cipher, which, on my return, i had helped to translate into english. then the despatch was burnt by his excellency, and we alone knew its contents. from the moment i received it in the marquess's private room at the foreign office, until the moment when i handed it over to lord barmouth in paris with its five great seals intact, it had never left the pouch of chamois-leather which, when travelling with despatches, i always wore around my waist, next my skin. for spies to have obtained a copy of it was impossible. i had seen it written, and had likewise seen it destroyed. it was not likely either that the british ambassador had himself exposed his secret instructions in a matter of such delicacy, where the greatest finesse and the most skilful diplomacy were necessary; and equally certain was it that i myself had not uttered a single word. the secret instructions showed marvellous foresight, as did all the actions of the great statesman in whose hands rested the prestige of england among the powers. they were briefly to show with great delicacy to the spanish ambassador that his government, having regard to existing relations, had no right to sell ceuta to any power, and that if any attempt were made by any other government to establish a naval station there, england would oppose it to the utmost, even to the extent of hostilities. yet somehow, by means that formed a most puzzling enigma, these secret instructions had become instantly known to france; and even before lord barmouth could obtain an interview with the marquis leon y castillo, the french minister of foreign affairs had called at the embassy in the boulevard de courcelles, and had apparently arranged a line of action. thus england had been checkmated, and in all probability the sale of that most important strategic point in the mediterranean had already been effected. kaye had been to madrid, and his inquiries in the spanish capital tended to confirm this theory. truly we were in evil case. so decisive had been his excellency's instructions that if he did not now vigorously protest and threaten a cessation of diplomatic negotiations it would exhibit such weakness as the british government must never show. that motto of lord malvern's, "to be strong is to avert war; to be weak is to invite it," is ever foremost in the mind of each representative of her majesty at a foreign court. yet lord barmouth's dilemma was, indeed, a serious one. he had declared the exposure of our secret due to some woman's scheming, and suspected one person--the pretty yolande de foville. his suspicion of her caused me a good deal of reflection; and as i walked along the boulevard to my bachelor apartment au troisieme, i pondered seriously. what, i wondered, had caused him to think ill of her? if she had danced with hartmann, this action was surely not enough to condemn her. yet why, i wondered, had she mentioned myself? and why, indeed, was rodolphe wolf, of all men, in paris? no, i did not like the aspect of things in the least. the night was absolutely breathless, and the asphalt of the boulevard seemed to reflect back into one's face the heat of the sun that had blazed upon it during the day. i removed my hat, and walked with it in my hand, my brain awhirl. the spies of france had effected a coup against us, and within twenty-four hours europe might, i knew, be convulsed by a declaration of war. here and there the cafes were still open, but few customers were inside. a pair of drunken roysterers staggered past me singing that catchy song of the less fashionable boulevards: "dansons la ronde des marmites de paris, ohe! les souris! les rongeuses de monde! faisons sauter avec nous nos michets et nos marlous. dansons la ronde! paris est a nous!" with that single exception all was silent. from half-past three till four in the morning is the quietest period that the city of pleasure experiences. she is dormant only one half-hour in the whole twenty-four. yolande was suspected of being a spy! the thought seemed absolutely absurd. she was belgian, it was true, and there is somehow always a prejudice against belgian women in paris, due perhaps to the fact that although they speak french with an accent, they are often perfect linguists. but for yolande to be actually a spy--why, the thing was ridiculous! arrived at my own rooms, i found mackenzie, my old scotch manservant, awaiting me. "mr. kaye called, sir, half an hour ago," he said. "he could not wait, for he was leaving paris." "leaving paris?" i echoed, for the ubiquitous chief of the secret service had only come back from madrid a few hours before. "yes, sir. he left you a note;" and my well-trained man drew a letter from his pocket. he always kept my letters upon his person, in order that any callers might not pry into them during my absence. i tore open the note eagerly, and read the few scribbled lines. next instant the paper almost fell from my fingers. i held my breath, scarcely believing my own eyes. yet the writing was plain enough, and was as follows: "_within the past hour i have ascertained that your friend yolande de foville is a secret agent. keep strict watch upon her. i have left instructions that if she leaves paris she is to be followed. i go to berlin at once to make inquiries, and am leaving by the : train this morning. i have the address you gave, and the particulars concerning her. shall return as soon as possible_. "k." i crushed the note in my hand, and, walking on into my sitting-room, gulped down some brandy. everything had conspired against me. when i had given kaye those details concerning my charming little friend three years ago, i had never dreamed that he would register them and afterwards use them in an endeavour to fasten upon her a charge of being a spy. yet he was actually on his way to berlin, and any attempt upon my part to hinder him would only be misconstrued into a treasonable endeavour to shield her. upon the table before me stood her photograph in a silver frame, looking out at me. i took it up. those eyes were so innocent that i could not bring myself to believe that any evil lurked in them. surely she would not attempt to harm me? such an action was absolutely contrary to any woman's nature. yolande! the sound of that name brought back to me a sweet, tender memory of the past. i sighed as the recollection of that bygone day arose within me, and flung myself down into an easy-chair to smoke and to think. in the blue ascending rings from my cigarette her face seemed to smile at me with those red parted lips and merry eyes, clear and azure as a child's. how charming and chic she had once appeared to me in those days when we had first met--in those days before i had known edith austin, my absent well-beloved! her portrait, too, was there--the picture of a woman, sweet, tender, grave-faced, of similar age perhaps, but whose peerless beauty was typically english and devoid of any artificiality. i took it up and touched it reverently with my lips. i loved the original of that photograph with all the strength of my being, hoping always that some day ere long i might ask her to become my wife. some there are who hold the theory that to all diplomatists, ambassadors excepted, wives are an unnecessary encumbrance. i admit that there is much to be said in favour of the celibate state as the ideal existence for the secretary or attache, who is bound, more or less, to make himself agreeable to the many cosmopolitan ladies who make up the diplomatic circle, and sometimes even to flirt with them, when occasion requires. yet after fifteen years or so beneath the shadows of the various thrones of europe, a man tires of the life, and longs for the one sweet woman whom he can trust and love. in this i was no exception. i loved edith austin with all my heart and all my soul; and she, i felt assured, reciprocated my affection. it is part of the diplomatist's creed to be on good terms with all and sundry of the feminine butterflies who hover about the embassies, no matter what their age or nationality. hence it was that five years ago, while stationed at brussels, i had become attracted by yolande de foville. once, long before i met edith, i fancied myself in love with her. her father, count de foville, was aide-de-camp to king leopold, and with her mother she moved in the best society in paris and brussels. on several occasions i had been invited for the boar hunting at the great gloomy old chateau at houffalize, in the ardennes forest, where the powerful de fovilles had been seigneurs through five centuries. it was a dull, snowbound, dreary place in winter, bare and chill, furnished in ancient style, and situated thirty miles from the nearest railway, in the midst of a flat forest country. it was, therefore, not surprising that on the death of the count, yolande and her mother should prefer to leave belgium and travel in england and italy, spending the winter at rome or at monte carlo, the spring in paris, and summer in one or other of the fashionable french watering-places. during three years we had been excellent friends, and after i had been promoted from brussels to the embassy in rome, she came with her mother and spent the spring in the eternal city, with the result that our firm friendship became even firmer. i am fain to admit that our flirtation was of the kind called desperate, and that it had ended in love. and a week ago she had suddenly arrived in paris at the smart little flat in the rue de courcelles, which her mother had possessed for years, but now so seldom occupied. her arrival was unexpected, and i had only known of it from giraud, the military attache at the belgian legation, a friend of my brussels days, whom i met in the cafe de paris one evening after the opera, and who had said suddenly: "do you, my dear ingram, know that a little friend of yours has arrived in paris?" "who?" i inquired eagerly. "yolande," was the response. "you used to be her cavalier in brussels in the old days. have you forgotten her?" his announcement surprised me. since my friendship with edith had grown to be a grand passion, i had exchanged no correspondence with yolande. indeed, the last i had heard of her was that she and the countess were at cairo spending the winter. to tell the truth i was rather glad that she had not sought me out, for i had no wish to renew her acquaintance, now that i had found a woman in england whom i meant to try to win for my wife. yet as i looked back at the past through the haze of my cigarette-smoke i was compelled to admit that i had spent some charming hours by her side, dancing at those brilliant balls in brussels or driving in that pretty wood so beloved of the bruxellois, the bois de la cambre. many were the incidents that came back to me as i sat there pondering. nevertheless, in the storehouse of memory i found nothing half sweet enough to tempt me from my love for edith. the denunciation of the pretty yolande as a spy staggered belief; yet the chief himself, as well as kaye, was convinced, and the latter was already on his way to the north to prosecute inquiries. what, i wondered, had really aroused their suspicions? as his excellency had not seen kaye since his return from madrid, they could not have exchanged views. it seemed my duty to call and see her, to renew the acquaintance that i so strongly desired to end, and, indeed, to continue the flirtation of bygone days with a view to discovering the truth. was it fair? was it just? i hesitated to call upon her, half fearful lest her charm and natural chic should again attract me towards her. nevertheless, it was my duty, as servant of my sovereign, to attempt to discover england's secret enemies. chapter three. yolande. the remainder of that night i spent in restless agitation, and at the embassy early next morning showed his excellency the note that kaye had left for me. "you must see her, ingram," he said briefly. "you must obtain her secret from her." "but i cannot believe that she is a secret agent!" i declared. "we were friends, and she surely would not seek to injure me?" "trust nobody, my dear ingram," answered the grave-eyed old man. "you know how unreliable women are where diplomacy is concerned. remember the incident of the princess ghelarducci in rome." my lips compressed themselves. he referred to a matter which, for me, was anything but a pleasant recollection. the princess, after learning our intentions regarding abyssinia, had openly betrayed us; and i had very foolishly thought her my friend. "i shall call on her this afternoon," i answered briefly. "the worst of it is that my action will lead her to think that i desire to renew the acquaintance." "h'm, i see," observed his excellency quickly, for his shrewdness had detected the truth. "you were once in love with her--eh?" i nodded. "then don't allow her to think that your love has cooled," he urged. "act diplomatically in this matter, and strive to get at the truth." "and deceive her?" "deception is permissible if she is a spy." "but she is not a spy," i declared quickly. "that remains to be seen!" he snapped. he then turned on his heel and passed into an adjoining room. at three o'clock i presented my card at the flat in the rue de courcelles, and was admitted to a cosy little salon, where the persiennes were closed to keep out the blazing july sun, and the subdued light was welcome after the glare of the streets. scarcely, however, had my eyes become accustomed to the semi-darkness, when the door suddenly opened, and i found myself face to face with the woman i had loved a few years ago. "gerald! you!" she cried in english, with that pretty accent which had always struck me as so charming. our hands clasped. i looked into her face and saw that in the two years which had elapsed she had grown even more beautiful. in a cool white dress of soft, clinging muslin, which, although simply made, bore the unmistakable stamp of a couturiere of the first order, she stood before me, my hand in hers, in silence. "so you have come to me?" she said in a strained voice. "you have come, at last?" "you did not let me know you were in paris," i protested. "giraud told you four days ago," she responded, "and you could not spare a single half-hour for me until to-day!" she added in a tone of reproach. "besides, i wrote to you from cairo, and you never replied." "forgive me," i urged--"forgive me, yolande. it is really my fault." "because you have forgotten me," she said huskily. "here, in paris, you have so many distractions that memories of our old days in brussels and at houffalize have all been swept away. come, admit that what i say is the truth." "i shall admit nothing of the kind, yolande," i answered, with diplomatic caution. "i only admit my surprise at finding you here in july. why, there is nobody here except our unfortunate selves at the embassies. the boulevards are given over to the perspiring british tourist in knickerbockers and the usual week-end trippers who `do' the city in a char-a-banc." she laughed for the first time, and seated herself upon a large settee covered with yellow silk, motioning me to a chair near her. "it is true," she said. "paris is not at all pleasant just now. we are only here for frocks. in a week we go to marienbad. and you--how are you?" and she surveyed me with her head held slightly aside in that piquante manner i knew so well. "the same," i laughed--"ever the same." "not the same to me," she hastened to protest. "i might make a similar charge against yourself," i said. "remember, you did not tell me you were in paris." "because i thought you would know it quickly enough. i wanted, if possible, to meet you accidentally and surprise you. i went to the ball at the german embassy, but you were not there." "i was in london," i explained briefly, my thoughts reverting to the allegation against her and the unhesitating action of the wary kaye in travelling direct to berlin. if there was any man in europe who could clear up a mystery it was the indefatigable chief of the british secret service. he lived in paris ostensibly as an english lawyer, with offices in the boulevard des italiens, next the cafe americain. hence his sudden journeys hither and thither were believed to be undertaken in the interests of various clients. but although he had an irish solicitor, o'brien by name, to attend to the inquiries of any chance clients, the amount of legal business carried on in those offices was really nil. the place was, in fact, the headquarters of the british secret service on the continent. "i, too, was in england a year ago," she said. "we were invited to a house-party up in scotland. mother was bored, but i had great fun. an english home seems somehow so much jollier than the houses where one visits in any other country. you know how i love the english!" "is that meant as a compliment?" i laughed. "of course," she answered. "but english diplomatists are just as grave as those of any other nation. your people are always full of all sorts of horrid secrets and things." she referred to the old days in brussels, for she knew well the difficulties under which our diplomacy had been conducted there, owing to the eternal questions involving egypt and the congo. but i laughed lightly. i did not intend that she should suspect the real motive of my call. evidently she knew nothing of my love for edith austin, or she would have referred to it. fortunately i had been able to keep it a secret from all. "and you are actually leaving us in a week?" i observed, for want of something else to say. "i hear that marienbad is crowded this season." "we are going to visit my uncle, prince stolberg, who has a villa there." then i asked her of our mutual friends in brussels, and she in return retailed to me all the latest gossip concerning them. as she sat there in the subdued light, her white dress, relieved by a touch of turquoise at the wrists and waist, she presented a picture graceful, delicate, and altogether charming. i reasoned with myself as she went on chattering. no; it was not surprising that i had once fallen in love with her. she was more french than belgian, for the days of her girlhood had been passed mostly in france; her christian name was french, and in manner she possessed all that smartness and chic peculiar to the parisienne. mentally i compared her with edith, but next instant laughed within myself. such comparison was impossible. their styles were as different as were their nationalities. beside edith, my well-beloved, the beauty of this fair-haired, gesticulating girl paled entirely, and became insipid. the englishwoman who held me beneath the spell of her soft and truthful eyes was without a peer. still, yolande amused me with her chatter. the reader will forgive me this admission, for in calling there i was only acting a part. i was endeavouring in the interests of my country to find out whether there was any truth in the allegation recently made against her by my friend. of a sudden a thought crossed my mind, and i asked: "have you met many acquaintances since you've been in paris?" "only hartmann and some of the people at the legation," she responded. "we are just going to five o'clock with the princess olsoufieff this afternoon." "there is an old friend of yours just arrived," i said. "have you met him?" "an old friend?" she echoed in surprise. "man or woman?" "a man," i answered. "rodolphe wolf." "rodolphe wolf!" she gasped, starting up, the colour dying from her lips in an instant. "rodolphe wolf in paris--impossible!" "he was at the baroness de chalencon's last night," i said quite calmly, watching her face the while. her sudden fear and surprise made plain a fact of which i had not before been aware--namely, that there was something more than a casual link between them. years ago, when in brussels, i had suspected wolf of being a secret agent, and the fact that she was closely acquainted with him appeared to prove that my chiefs suspicion was not unfounded. she had risen. her hands were trembling, and although she strove desperately to betray to me no outward sign of agitation, she was compelled to support herself by clutching the small table at her side. her countenance was blanched to the lips. she presented the appearance of one haunted by some terrible dread. "wolf!" she gasped again, as though speaking to herself. then, turning to me, she stretched forth both her hands, and, looking earnestly into my eyes, cried in wild desperation: "gerald, save me! for the sake of our love of the old days, save me!" "from what?" i cried, jumping up and catching her by both hands. "tell me, yolande. if i can assist you i certainly will. why are you so distressed?" she was silent, with one trembling hand pressed upon her heart, as though to stay its wild, tumultuous beating. "no," she said in a hoarse whisper, "it is useless--all useless." "but if you are in distress i can surely help you," i said. "alas! you cannot," she answered in despair. "you do not know--you cannot understand." "why not tell me? confide in me," i urged. "no," she replied. "i am very foolish--forgive me;" and she tried to smile. "the news that wolf is here has upset you," i said. "why?" "he has escaped." "from where?" "from prison." i was silent. i knew not what to say. this declaration of hers was strange. it was startling news to me that rodolphe wolf had been in prison. "you have asked me to save you," i said, reverting to her wild supplication. "i will do so willingly if you only tell me how." "it is impossible," she said in a broken voice, shaking her head mournfully. "by what you have told me i am forewarned." a deep sigh escaped her, and i saw that her fingers worked restlessly in the palms of her hands. she was desperate. "can i do absolutely nothing?" i asked in a tone of sympathy, placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder. "nothing," she answered in a hoarse whisper. "i am not fit to talk further. let us say good-bye." "then you prefer that i should leave you?" "yes," she said, holding out her hand. "forgive me for this, but i want to go to my own room to think. what you have told me has upset me." "tell me plainly--you fear that man?" she nodded in the affirmative. "and you will not allow me either to advise or to assist you?" "no," she said hoarsely. "go, gerald. leave me! when we meet again i shall be calmer than i am now." her face was deathly pale; her eyes had a distinct look of terror in them. "very well," i answered when again she had urged me to leave her; "if you insist, i will go. but remember that if i can be of service, yolande, i am ready at once to render you assistance. good-bye," and i pressed her hand in sympathy. she burst into tears. "farewell," she faltered. then i turned, and, bowing, went forth into the glaring sunshine of the boulevard. she had virtually admitted a close acquaintance with a man upon whom distinct suspicion rested, and her actions had been those of a guilty woman. my thoughts were full of that interview and its painful ending as i walked back towards the embassy. chapter four. a curious story. there was war in the air. at the embassy we could not conceal from ourselves the seriousness of the situation. from hour to hour we were living in dread lest diplomatic negotiations should be broken off with the french republic. we had discovered what seemed very much like a conspiracy against england, and as an energetic protest it appeared quite possible that the marquess of malvern might order my chief to leave paris. this would mean a rupture of diplomatic relations, and in all probability war. never in the history of modern europe had there been a day so critical as that blazing, well-remembered one in mid-july. there were ugly rumours of complications in the transvaal. the fate of certain nations trembled in the balance. in every capital diplomatists were active, some striving to force war, others endeavouring to prevent it. a diplomatist's life is assuredly no sinecure. the british public, as i have said before, little dreams of the constant anxiety and terrible tension which are parts of the daily life of its faithful servants abroad. on my return to the embassy i found that some important despatches had been brought from london by anderson, the foreign service messenger. he was sitting in my room smoking a cigarette, and awaiting me in order to obtain the receipt for his despatch-box. a tall, round-faced, merry man of middle age, he was an especial favourite in all the embassies as far as teheran. a thorough cosmopolitan and man of the world, he had resigned his commission in the scots greys to become one of that half-dozen of the greyhounds of europe known as queen's messengers. "well, anderson," i exclaimed, shaking his hand on entering, "what's the news from downing street?" "oh, nothing very fresh," he laughed, sinking back in his chair again, and passing me over the receipt for signature. "old tuite, of the treaty department, has retired on his pension this week. that's about all that's new. the chief, however, seems busy. i'm loaded with despatches." "where for?" "vienna and constantinople. i leave by the orient express in an hour's time," he answered, with a glance at his watch. "then you're getting over a little ground just now?" i laughed. "a little ground!" he echoed. "well, i've been two trips to petersburg this month, twice here to paris, and once to vienna. i've only slept one night in london since the st." "you're a bit sick of it, i should think," i observed, looking at the round face lit up by its pair of merry grey eyes. he was an easy-going fellow; his good-humour never seemed ruffled. "oh, it agrees with me," he laughed lightly. "i don't care as long as i get the monthly run to teheran now and then. that's a bit of a change, you know, after these everlasting railways, with their stuffy sleeping-cars and abominable arrangements for giving a man indigestion." i examined the box to see that the seals affixed in downing street were intact, then signed the receipt and handed it back to him. of the corps of queen's messengers--nicknamed "the greyhounds" because of the badge which each wears suspended round his neck and concealed beneath his cravat, a silver greyhound surmounted by the royal arms-- captain jack anderson was the most popular. a welcome guest at every embassy or legation, he was on friendly terms with the whole staff, from the ambassador himself down to the hall-porter, and he carried the gossip of the embassies to and fro across europe. from him we all gathered news of our old colleagues in other capitals--of their joys and their sorrows, their difficulties and their junketings. his baggage being by international courtesy free from customs' examination, he oft-times carried with him a new frock for an ambassador's wife or daughter--a service which always put him high in the good graces of the feminine portion of the diplomatic circle. "kaye seems bobbing about pretty much," he observed, handing me his cigarette-case. anderson's cigarettes were well known for their excellence, for he purchased them at a shop in petersburg, and often distributed a box in one or other of the embassies. "i met him a week ago on board the calais boat, and two days later i came across him in the buffet down at bale. he was, however, as close as an oyster." "of course. it isn't likely that he'd talk very much," i remarked. "his profession is to know everything, and at the same time to affect ignorance. he went to berlin last night." "we had breakfast together in the early morning at bale, and he questioned me closely about a friend of yours." "who?" "a lady--mademoiselle de foville. you remember her in brussels, don't you?" "mademoiselle de foville!" i echoed. the denunciation of her as a secret agent instantly flashed through my mind. "yes, you were extremely friendly with her in brussels," he went on. "don't you recollect that you introduced me to her one evening at an al-fresco concert in the vauxhall gardens, where we sat together for quite a long time chatting?" "i remember distinctly," i responded. every detail of that balmy summer night in those gaily illuminated gardens came back to me in that moment. i loved yolande in those long-past days. "and what did kaye want to know regarding her?" "he asked me whether i had ever met her, and i told him that you had once introduced us." "well?" "oh, nothing much else. he remarked how very charming she was--a verdict in which we both agreed. have you seen her lately?" i hesitated for a moment. "yes, she's here, in paris." he bent forward quickly, regarding me curiously. "that's strange. how long has she been here?" he inquired with a rather puzzled look. "only a few days. i did not know that she was here till yesterday," i replied with affected carelessness. "ah, i thought she could not have been here long." "why?" "because only a week ago she travelled in the same compartment as myself between berlin and cologne." "and did you claim acquaintance with her?" i inquired quickly. "no. she had a companion with her--a pimply-faced, ugly johnnie, whom i took to be a german. they spoke in german all the time." could it be, i wondered, that yolande and her companion had travelled with anderson with some evil intent? "didn't you speak to them?" "the man tried to open a conversation with me, but i pretended to be italian, without any knowledge of german or english, so he didn't get very far. to affect italian is generally a sure game, for so few people speak it in comparison with those who know other continental languages." "you wanted to overhear their conversation--eh?" "i wanted to ascertain what their game was," answered the queen's messenger. "they eyed my despatch-box very curiously; and it was to me an extremely suspicious circumstance that although they joined the train at berlin they did not enter my compartment until an hour later, when the express stopped to change engines." "you were alone?" "yes, and it was at night," he answered, adding: "to me it was also a curious circumstance that only three days afterwards kaye should become so deeply interested in her. i had never seen her from that night in brussels until we had met in the train, but i've a good memory for faces. i can swear i was not mistaken." "you speak as though you suspected her," i said, looking straight into his ruddy countenance, which had grown unusually serious while we had been speaking. "well, to tell the truth, i did suspect her," he responded. "i didn't half like the look of the man. he was well-dressed, but as you know i've always a sharp eye where my fellow-travellers are concerned, and i felt certain that there was something shady about him. they shifted about all night, and were constantly watching to see whether i had gone to sleep. but all their watching was without reward. jack anderson never sleeps while he has a crossed despatch upon him;" and he blew a cloud of smoke upward from his lips. "but surely you don't think that their intention was to steal your despatches?" i cried. "they were welcome to the whole collection in the box," he laughed. "they were only consular reports and necessary evils of that sort. what they wanted was the crossed despatch from berlin that i had in my belt next my skin." "they made no attempt to get at it?" "yes, they did. that's just where my suspicion was proved." "how?" i asked breathlessly, bending eagerly towards him. "well, as you know, i always carry among my wraps a little cushion covered with black satin. experience has taught me that that cushion has saved me many an aching head and stiff neck when on long journeys. so i placed it behind my head, and through the night read a novel by the dim, uncertain light. about two o'clock in the morning we ran into hanover, and i got out to get a drink. when i returned, however, and placed the cushion behind my head, i felt a slight dampness upon it. in an instant suspicion seized me. some liquid had been sprinkled upon it in my absence. my two fellow-travellers, wrapped in their rugs, were apparently sleeping. at once i resolved to act with caution, and, turning my cheek towards the pillow, smelt it. there was a curious odour, sweet and subtle, like some new perfume. i had suspected chloroform, but it was certainly not that. yet almost the instant after i had inhaled it a curious and unaccountable drowsiness seized me. then i knew the truth. they had plotted to render me insensible and afterwards steal the despatch! i struggled against this feeling of weariness, and, rising to my feet, buttoned my overcoat as though i were chilly. this action allowed the cushion to fall away from my head, and, again re-seating myself, i made a feint of being interested in my book; but in reality my head was awhirl, and in the pocket of my ulster i had my hand upon my revolver, ready to use it should that pimply-faced ruffian attempt violence. the pair commenced to shift about uneasily in their seats, and i could see that their failure had considerably disconcerted them." "you gave them no idea that you had discovered their intentions?" "none whatever. i was anxious to see how they would act after being foiled." "well, what did they do?" "they exchanged glances of annoyance, but spoke no word. they were silent for over an hour, during which time it occurred to me to move the cushion farther from me, in case the evaporation of the mysterious liquid should cause insensibility. i was determined that your pretty little friend's companion should be the first to be thus affected. the feeling of drowsiness, however, wore off, and at cologne the pair, after chatting in german regarding the train to venlo, bustled about hastily and descended. they had no baggage, and went into the buffet to breakfast." "you, of course, continued your journey?" "yes, to ostend and london." "it seems as though you had rather a narrow escape," i observed thoughtfully. "it was a daring attempt to get at that despatch," he remarked with some warmth. "depend upon it, my dear ingram, that woman is a spy. i know she's a friend of yours, but i can't help saying just what i think." "but i can't believe it!" i declared. "indeed, i won't believe it!" i added vehemently. "as you like," he said coldly, with a slight shrug of his broad shoulders. "i've told you the plain truth as to what occurred." "she's wealthy, and of one of the best families in belgium. there is no necessity whatever for her to be in the pay of any foreign government," i protested. "we have nothing to do with her reasons," he said. "all we know is that she and her companion tried to drug me in order to get at the despatch." "you have no idea, i suppose, of the contents of the despatch in question?" i inquired. "none, except that when i gave it into the chief's own hands in his private room at downing street, he appeared to be very much surprised by its contents, and at once wrote a reply, with which i posted back to berlin by the same night's mail from charing cross." "then it was upon a matter of importance?" "i judged it to be of extreme importance. yolande de foville was evidently well aware that i had the despatch in my belt." "you had never before seen this man who accompanied her?" "never. but now he has made one attempt it is quite probable he may make another. i'm on the look-out for him again." "and the cushion? have you discovered what they placed upon it?" "i left it in london with dr. bond, the analyst, at somerset house. he's trying to discover the liquid used. i hope he will be successful, for the stuff was so potent that i have no desire for it again to be sprinkled upon my belongings." "they were at least ingenious," i exclaimed, amazed at this extraordinary story, which seemed to prove so conclusively the truth of kaye's denunciation. yet i could not believe that yolande, my charming little friend, in whom i had in the old days reposed so many confidences, and by whose side i had lingered through many idle hours in the bois or in that almost endless forest around her feudal home, was actually a spy. the suggestion seemed too absurd. nevertheless, kaye was not a man to make unfounded charges, nor was anderson given to relating that which was untrue. truth to tell, this story of his held me absolutely dumbfounded. i recollected my conversation with her an hour ago, and the strange effect my announcement that wolf was in paris had made upon her. she had implored me to save her. why? a silence fell between us. i was preoccupied by my own thoughts. but a few moments later the queen's messenger again glanced at his watch, and, rising, said: "i must be off, or i shan't catch the orient. any message for them down at constantinople?" "no," i responded, gripping his strong hand in farewell. "take care of yourself, and don't let any of those confounded spies get at you again." "trust me, my dear fellow," he laughed, and lighting another cigarette he went forth on his long journey to the east as airily as though he were strolling down to get a cocktail at henry's. when he had gone i sat for a long time thinking. a remembrance of the mad love of those days that had gone came back to me, sweet, charming memories of that half-forgotten time when yolande was my ideal, and when her lips met mine in tender, passionate caresses. ah! how fondly i had loved her in those days! but with an effort i at last arose, and, casting all those reflections behind me with a sigh, broke the seals of the despatch-box, and, seating myself at the big writing-table, commenced to examine them with a view to ascertaining their contents. there were several important papers, and very soon i became absorbed in them. nearly an hour later there came a sudden rap at the door, and one of the english footmen entered, saying: "there is a man below, sir, who wishes to see you at once on important business. he says he is valet-de-chambre of the countess de foville." "of the countess de foville!" i echoed, much surprised. i at once ordered him to be shown upstairs, and a few moments later a tall, thin-faced, clean-shaven frenchman entered. "m'sieur ingram?" he inquired breathlessly in french, evidently in a state of great agitation. "yes," i said. "what is your message?" "i have been sent by madame la comtesse to ask you to be good enough to come to her at once. a most distressing incident has occurred." "what has occurred?" i demanded quickly. "ah, m'sieur, it is terrible!" he cried with much gallic gesticulation. "poor mademoiselle yolande! she is asking to see you. she says she must speak with you, m'sieur." "with me?" "yes, m'sieur. do not let us lose a single instant, or it may be too late. ah! my poor young mistress! poor mademoiselle! it is terrible-- terrible!" chapter five. la comtesse. the countess, a handsome, well-preserved woman of middle age, slightly inclined to embonpoint, met me on the threshold, and in silence grasped my hand. from the window she had apparently watched me alight from the fiacre, and had rushed forth to meet me. that something unusual had occurred was plain from the paleness of her countenance and the look of despair in her eyes. we had been excellent friends in brussels in bygone days, for she had favoured my suit and had constantly invited me to her pretty home in the boulevard de waterloo or to the great old chateau in the ardennes. a glance was sufficient to show me that she had grown considerably older, and that her face, although it still bore distinct traces of a faded beauty, was now worn and haggard. she was essentially a grande dame of the old regime, now fast disappearing from our ken, but at no time could she be considered a great hostess. she was somewhat intransigent, a woman of strong prejudices, usually well justified, and incapable of pretence or shams. but the law of kindliness was ever on her tongue, and she contented herself with giving those of whom she disapproved a wide berth. she was dressed plainly in black, with a single wisp of lace at the throat--a costume unusual for her. in brussels her handsome toilettes, obtained from paris, had always been admired. although matronly, like the majority of belgian women, she was extremely chic, with an almost girlish waist, and at whatever hour one called one always found her dressed with extreme taste and elegance. i must, however, admit that her appearance surprised me. her hair had grown greyer, and she seemed as though utterly negligent of her personal appearance. "madame!" i exclaimed in alarm as our hands met, "tell me what has occurred." "ah, m'sieur," she cried in french, "i am in despair, and have sent for you! you can help me--if you will." "in what manner?" i inquired breathlessly. "yolande!" she gasped, in a choking voice. "yolande!" i echoed. "what has happened to her? your man will tell me nothing." "he has orders to say nothing," she explained, leading the way into the elegant salon. "now tell me," she said, looking at me very earnestly, "i am in sheer desperation, as you may see, or i would not presume to question you. will you forgive me if i do?" "most certainly," i responded. "then before we go further i will put my question to you," she said in a strange voice. "do you love yolande?" such direct inquiry certainly took me by complete surprise. i stood looking at her for a few seconds absolutely open-mouthed. "why ask me that?" i inquired, puzzled. "tell me what has happened to her." "i can tell you nothing until you have answered my question," she replied quite calmly. i saw from her countenance that she was desperate. "i think, madame, that when we were together in brussels my actions must have betrayed to you--a woman--the state of my heart towards your daughter," i said. "i do not seek to deny that at that time i loved her more fondly than i could ever love again, and--" "then you do not love her still?" she cried, interrupting me. "allow me to conclude," i went on, speaking quite calmly, for i saw in this curious question of hers some mysterious motive. "i loved her while in brussels, and for two years hoped to make her my wife." "and then you grew tired of her?" the countess asked, in a tone that was almost a sneer in itself. "it is always the same with you diplomatists. the women of every capital amuse you, but on your promotion you bow your adieux and seek fresh fields to conquer." "i think you misjudge me," i protested, rather annoyed at her words. "i loved yolande. when i admit this, i also admit that, like other men whose calling it is to lounge in the principal salons of europe, i had not escaped the fascination exercised by other eyes than hers. but to me she was all the world. surely, madame, you remember the days at houffalize? you cannot disguise from yourself that i really loved her then?" "but all that is of the past," she said seriously, her white hands clasped before her. "briefly, you no longer entertain any love for her. is not that so?" i hesitated. my position was a difficult one. i was a diplomatist, and could speak untruths artistically when occasion required, but she had cornered me. "madame has guessed the truth," i answered at last. "ah!" she cried hoarsely, "i thought as much. you have found some other woman whom you prefer?" i nodded assent. it was useless to lead her to believe what was not the truth. yolande was of course charming in many ways; but when i thought of edith i saw that comparison was impossible. "and you have no further thought of her?" she asked. "as far as marriage is concerned, no," i responded. "nevertheless, i still regard her as an intimate friend. i was here only two or three hours ago chatting with her." "you!" she cried, glaring at me strangely. "you were here--to-day?" "yes," i replied. "i thought she would certainly tell you of my visit." "she told me nothing. i was quite unaware of it. i was out, and the servants told me that a gentlemen had called in my absence." "i gave a card," i replied. "it is no doubt in the hall." "no, it is not. it has been destroyed." "why?" i asked. "for some mysterious reason known to yolande." then, turning quickly again to me, she placed her hand upon my arm in deep earnestness, saying: "tell me, is your love for her absolutely and entirely dead--so dead that you would not care to perform her a service?" anderson's strange and startling story flashed through my mind. i made no reply. "remember the affection you once bore her," she urged. "i am a woman, m'sieur, and i presume to remind you of it." i needed no reminder. the recollection of those sweet idyllic days was still fresh as ever in my memory. ah! in those brief sunny hours i had fondly believed that our love would last always. it is ever the same. youth is ever foolish. "i should have loved her now," i answered at last, "were it not for one fact." there was a mystery which had ended our love, and i saw now an opportunity of clearing it up. "to what fact do you refer?" "to the reason of our parting." "the reason!" echoed the countess. "i have no idea whatever of the reason. what was it?" i held my breath. would it be just to tell her the truth? i wondered. i reflected for a moment, then in a calm voice answered: "because i discovered that her heart was not wholly mine." she regarded me with undisguised amazement. "do you mean that yolande had another lover?" "no!" i cried with sudden resolve. "this conversation is not fair to her. it is all finished. she has forgotten, and we are both happy." "happy!" cried the countess hoarsely. "you are, alas! mistaken. poor yolande has been the most unhappy girl in all the world. she has never ceased to think of you." "then i regret, madame," i responded. "if you really regret," she answered, "then your love for her is not altogether dead." she spoke the truth. at this point i may as well confide to you, my reader, the fact that i still regarded my charming little friend of those careless days of buoyant youth with a feeling very nearly akin to love. i recollected the painful circumstances which led to our parting. my memory drifted back to that well-remembered, breathless summer's evening when, while walking with her along the white highway near her home, i charged her with friendliness towards a man whose reputation in brussels was none of the best; of her tearful protests, of my all-consuming jealousy, of her subsequent dignity, and of our parting. after that i had applied to the foreign office to be transferred, and a month later found myself in rome. perhaps, after all, my jealousy might have been utterly unfounded. sometimes i had thought i had treated her harshly, for, truth to tell, i had never obtained absolute proof that this man was more than a mere acquaintance. indeed, i think it was this fact, or just a slight twinge of conscience, that caused a suspicion of the old love i once bore her to remain within me. it was not just to edith--that i knew; yet notwithstanding the denunciations of both kaye and anderson, i could not altogether crush her from my heart. to wholly forget the woman for whom one has entertained the grand passion is often most difficult, sometimes, indeed, impossible of accomplishment. visions of some sweet face with its pouting and ready lips will arise, constantly keeping the past ever present, and recalling a day one would fain forget. thus it was with me--just as it has been with thousands of others. "no," i admitted truthfully and honestly at last, "my love for yolande is perhaps not altogether dead." "then you will render me a service?" she cried quickly. "say that you will--for her sake!--for the sake of the great love you once bore her!" "of what nature is this service you desire?" i asked, determined to act with caution, for the startling stories i had heard had aroused within me considerable suspicion. "i desire your silence regarding an absolute secret," she answered in a hoarse half-whisper. "what secret?" "a secret concerning yolande," she responded. "will you, for her sake, render us assistance, and at the same time preserve absolute secrecy as to what you may see or learn here to-day?" "i will promise if you wish, madame, that no word shall pass my lips," i said. "but as to assistance, i cannot promise until i am aware of the nature of the service demanded of me." "of course," she exclaimed, with a faint attempt at a smile. my words had apparently reassured her, for she instantly became calmer, as though relying upon me for help. "then as you give me your promise upon your honour to say nothing, you shall know the truth. come with me." she led the way down the long corridor, and turning to the left suddenly opened the door of a large and handsome bed-chamber, the wooden sun-blinds of which were closed to keep out the crimson glow of the sunset. the room was a fine one with big crystal mirrors and a shining toilette-service in silver, but upon the bed with its yellow silk hangings lay a female form fully dressed, but white-faced and motionless. in the dim half-light i could just distinguish the features as those of yolande. "what has occurred?" i cried in a hoarse whisper, dashing towards the bedside and bending down to look upon the face that had once held me in fascination. "we do not know," answered the trembling woman at my side. "it is all a mystery." i stretched forth my hand and touched her cheek. it was icy cold. in those few moments my eyes had become accustomed to the dim light of the darkened room, and i detected the change that had taken place in the girl's countenance. her eyes were closed, her lips blanched, her fair hair, escaped from its pins, fell in a sheen of gold upon the lace-edged pillow. i held my breath. the awful truth was distinctly apparent. i placed my hand upon her heart, the bodice of her dress being already unloosened. then a few seconds later i drew back, standing rigid and aghast. "why, she's dead!" i gasped. "yes," the countess said, covering her face with her hands and bursting into tears. "my poor yolande! she is dead--_dead_!" the discovery appalled me. only a couple of hours before we had chatted together, and she seemed in the best of health and spirits, just as in the old days, until i had made the announcement of wolf's presence in paris. the effect of that statement upon her had apparently been electrical. why, i knew not. had she not implored me to save her? this in itself was sufficient to show that she held him in deadly fear. again i bent in order to make further examination, but saw the unmistakable mark of death upon her countenance. the lower jaw had dropped, the checks were cold, and the silver hand-mirror which i had snatched from the table and held at her mouth was unclouded. there was no movement--no life. yolande, my well-beloved of those long-past days, was dead. i stood there at the bedside like a man in a dream. so swiftly had she been struck down that the terrible truth seemed impossible of realisation. the countess, standing beside me, sobbed bitterly. truly the scene in that darkened chamber was a strange and impressive one. never before in my whole life had i been in the presence of the dead. "yolande--yolande!" i called, touching her cheek in an effort to awaken her, for i could not believe that she was actually dead. but there was no response. those blanched lips and the coldness of those cheeks told their own tale. she had passed to that land which lies beyond the range of human vision. how long i stood there i cannot tell. my thoughts were inexpressibly sad ones, and the discovery had utterly upset me, so that i scarcely knew what i said or did. the blow of thus finding her lifeless crushed me. the affair was mysterious, to say the least of it. of a sudden, however, the sobs of the grief-stricken countess aroused me to a sense of my responsibility, and taking her hand i led her from the bedside into an adjoining room. "how has this terrible catastrophe occurred?" i demanded of her breathlessly. "only two hours ago she was well and happy." "you mean when you saw her?" she said. "what was the object of your call?" "to see her," i responded. "and yet you parted ill friends in brussels?" she observed in a tone of distinct suspicion. "you had some motive in calling. what was it?" i hesitated. i could not tell her that i suspected her daughter to be a spy. "in order to assure her of my continued good friendship." she smiled, rather superciliously i thought. "but how did the terrible affair occur?" "we have no idea," answered the countess brokenly. "she was found lying upon the floor of the salon within a quarter of an hour of the departure of her visitor, who proved to be yourself. jean, the valet-de-chambre, on entering, discovered her lying there, quite dead." "astounding!" i gasped. "she was in perfect health when i left her." she shook her head sorrowfully, and her voice, choking with grief, declared: "my child has been killed--murdered!" "murdered! impossible!" i cried. "but she has," she declared. "i am absolutely positive of it!" chapter six. a piece of plain paper. "what medical examination has been made?" i demanded. "none," responded the countess. "my poor child is dead, and no doctor can render her assistance. medical aid is unavailing." "but do you mean to say that on making this discovery you did not think it necessary to send for a doctor?" i cried incredulously. "i did not send for one--i sent for you," was her response. "but we must call a doctor at once," i urged. "if you have suspicion of foul play we should surely know if there is any wound, or any injury to account for death." "i did not consider it necessary. no doctor can return her to me," she wailed. "i sent for you because i believed that you would render me assistance in this terrible affair." "most certainly i will," i replied. "but in our own interests we must send for a medical man, and if it is found to be actually a case of foul play, for the police. i'll send a line to doctor deane, an englishman whom i know, who is generally called in to see anybody at the embassy who chances to be ill. he is a good fellow, and his discretion may be relied upon." so saying, i scribbled a line on the back of a card, and told the man to take a cab down to the rue du havre, where the doctor occupied rooms over a hosier's shop a stone's throw from the bustling gare st. lazare. a very curious mystery was evidently connected with this startling discovery, and i was anxious that my friend, dick deane, one of my old chums of rugby days, should assist me in clearing it up. the countess de foville, whose calmness had been so remarkable while speaking with me before we entered the death-chamber, had now given way to a flood of emotion. she sank back into her chair, and, burying her face in her hands, cried bitterly. i tried to obtain some further information from her, but all that escaped her was: "my poor yolande! my poor daughter!" finding that my endeavours to console her were futile, i went forth and made inquiries of the three frightened maidservants regarding what had occurred. one of them, a dark-eyed frenchwoman in frilled cap, whom i had seen on my previous visit, said, in answer to my questions: "jean discovered the poor mademoiselle in the petit salon about a quarter of an hour after m'sieur had left. she was lying upon her face near the window, quite rigid. he shouted; we all rushed in, and on examining her found that she was already dead." "but was there no sign of a struggle?" i inquired, leading the way to the room indicated. "the room was just as m'sieur sees it now," she answered, with a wave of her hand. i glanced around, but as far as i could distinguish it was exactly as i had left it. "there was no mark of violence--nothing to show that mademoiselle had been the victim of foul play?" "nothing, m'sieur." could it have been a case of suicide? i wondered. yolande's words before i had taken leave of her were desponding, and almost led me to believe that she had taken her life rather than face the man wolf who had so suddenly arrived in paris--the man who exercised upon her some mysterious influence, the nature of which i could not guess. "it was not more than fifteen minutes after i had left, you say?" i inquired. "no, m'sieur, not more." "mademoiselle had no other visitor?" "no, m'sieur. of that we are all certain." "and the countess, where was she during the time i was here?" "she was out driving. she did not return till about five minutes after we had made the terrible discovery." "and how did madame act?" "she ordered us to carry poor mademoiselle to her room. poor madame! she bore the blow with wonderful fortitude." that remark caused me to prick up my ears. "i don't quite understand," i said. "did she not give way to tears?" "no, m'sieur; she shed no tears, but sat erect, motionless as a statue. she appeared unable to realise that poor mademoiselle was actually dead. at last she rang, and sent jean to you." "you are absolutely certain that mademoiselle had no visit or after i left?" "absolutely." "it would, moreover, not be possible for anyone to enter or leave without your knowledge?" i suggested. "m'sieur understands me perfectly. mademoiselle must have fallen to the floor lifeless immediately after i had let you out. she made no sound, and had jean not entered with her letters, which the concierge had brought, my poor young mistress might be lying there now." the average frenchwoman of the lower class is always dramatic wherever a domestic calamity is concerned, and this worthy bonne was no exception. she punctuated all her remarks with references to the sacred personages of the roman catholic religion. "you haven't searched the room, i suppose?" "no, m'sieur. madame gave orders that nothing was to be touched." this reply was eminently satisfactory. i glanced again around the place, now dim in the falling twilight, and ordered her to throw back the sun-shutters. the woman went to the window and opened them, admitting a flood of mellow light, the last crimson of the glorious afterglow. up from the boulevard came the dull roar of the traffic, mingling with the sound of distant bells ringing the ave maria. the bonne--an alsatian, from her accent--crossed herself from force of habit, and retreated towards the door. "you may go," i said. "i will remain here until the doctor arrives." "bien, m'sieur," answered the woman, disappearing and closing the door after her. my object in dismissing her was to make a thorough search of the apartment, in order to discover whether any of yolande's private possessions were there. she had been denounced by kaye and anderson as a spy, and it occurred to me that i might possibly discover the truth. but she was dead. the painful fact seemed absolutely incredible. the room was not a large one, but well furnished, with considerable taste and elegance. there was the broad, silk-covered couch, upon which yolande had sat in the full possession of health and spirits only a couple of hours before; the skin rug, upon which her tiny foot had been stretched so coquettishly; the small table, by which she had stood supporting herself after i had made the fatal announcement that wolf was in paris. as i stood there the whole of that strangely dramatic scene occurred to me. yet she was dead--dead! she had died with her secret in her heart. at any moment dick deane might arrive, but i desired to be the first to make an examination of the room, and with that object crossed to the little escritoire of inlaid olive-wood, one of those rather gimcrack pieces of furniture manufactured along the ligurian coast for unsuspecting winter visitors. it was the only piece of incongruous furniture in the room, all the rest being genuine louis quatorze. one or two letters bearing conspicuous coats-of-arms were lying there, but all were notes of a private nature from one or other of her friends. one was an invitation to vichy from the baronne deland, wife of the great paris financier; another, signed "rose," spoke of the gaiety of cairo and the dances at shepheard's during the past winter; while a third, also in french, and bearing no signature, made an appointment to meet her in the english tea-shop in the rue royale on the following day at five o'clock. that note, written upon plain paper of business appearance, had apparently been left by hand. who, i wondered, was the person who had made that appointment? to me the writing seemed disguised, and probably, owing to the thickness of the up-strokes, had been penned by a male hand. there was a mistake in the orthography, too, the word "plaisir" being written "plasir." this showed plainly that no frenchman had written it. i placed the letter in my pocket, and, encouraged by it, continued my investigations. in the tiny letter-rack was a note which the unfortunate girl had written immediately before being struck down. it was addressed to "baronne maillac, chateau des grands sablons, seine et marne." the little escritoire contained four small drawers; the contents of each i carefully scrutinised. they were, however, mostly private letters of a social character--some from persons whom i knew well in society. suddenly, from the bottom of one of the smaller drawers, i drew forth several sheets of plain octavo paper of a pale yellow shade. there were, perhaps, half-a-dozen sheets, carefully wrapped in a sheet of plain blue foolscap. i opened them, and, holding one up to the light, examined the water-mark. next instant the truth was plain. that paper was the official paper used in french government offices for written reports. how came it in her possession, if the accusation against her were untrue? i held it in my hand, glaring at it in bewilderment. sheet by sheet i examined it, but there was no writing upon it. apparently it was her reserve store of paper, to be used as wanted. in the french ministry of foreign affairs everything is methodical, especially the preparation of the dossiers. a certain dossier had once fallen into kaye's hands, and it contained sheets of exactly similar paper to that which i held in my hand. eagerly i continued my search, striving to discover some writing which might lead me to a knowledge of the truth, but i found nothing. i had completed an examination of the whole of the contents of the drawers, when it occurred to me that there might be some other drawer concealed there. years ago i had been offered an escritoire of this pattern in genoa, and the sun-tanned fellow who endeavoured to induce me to purchase it had shown behind the centre drawer in the table a cunningly contrived cavity where private correspondence might be concealed. therefore i drew out the drawer, sounded the interior at the back, and, finding it hollow, searched about for the spring by which it might be opened. at last i found it, and next moment drew forth a bundle of letters. they were bound with a blue ribbon that time had faded. i glanced at the superscription of the uppermost, and a thrill of sympathy went through me. those carefully preserved letters were my own--letters full of love and tenderness, which i had written in the days that were dead. i stood holding them in my hand, my heart full of the past. in this narrative, my reader, it is my intention to conceal nothing, but to relate to you the whole, undisguised truth, even though this chapter of england's secret history presents a seemingly improbable combination of strange facts and circumstances. therefore i will not hide from you the truth that in those moments, as i drew forth one of the letters i had written long ago and read it through, sweet and tender memories crowded upon me, and in my eyes stood blinding tears. i may be forgiven for this, i think, when it is remembered how fondly i had once loved yolande, before that fatal day when jealousy had consumed me, and i had turned my back upon her as a woman false and worthless. letter after letter i read, each bringing back to me sad memories of those days, when in the calm sunset hour we had wandered by the riverside hand in hand like children, each supremely content in each other's love, fondly believing that our mad passion would last always. in all the world she had been, to me, incomparable. the centre of admiration at those brilliant balls at the royal palace at brussels, the most admired of all the trim and comely girls who rode at morning in the bois, the merriest of those who picnicked in the forest round about the ancient chateau, the sweetest, the most tender, and the most pure of all the women i knew--yolande in those days had been mine. there, in my hand, i held the letter which i had written from scotland when on leave for the shooting, asking if she loved me sufficiently to become my wife. to that letter i well remembered her reply--indeed, i knew it verbatim; a tender letter, full of honest love and straightforward admission--a letter such as only a pure and good woman could have penned. yes, she wrote that she loved me dearly, and would be my wife. and yet it was all of the past. all had ended. i sighed bitterly--how bitterly, mere words cannot describe. you, reader, be you man or woman, can you fully realise how deeply i felt at that moment, how utterly desolate the world then seemed to me? those letters i slowly replaced in the cavity and closed it. then, as i turned away, my eyes fell upon the photographs standing upon a small whatnot close by the escritoire. they were of persons whom i did not know--all strangers, save one. this was a cabinet portrait in a heavy silver frame, and as i took it up to scrutinise it more closely a cry involuntarily escaped my lips. the picture was a three-quarter length representation of a black-bearded, keen-eyed man, standing with his hands thrust idly in his pockets, and smoking a cigarette. there was no mistaking those features. it was the photograph of the man the discovery of whose presence in paris had produced such an extraordinary effect upon her-- rodolphe wolf. chapter seven. by a thread. i was still standing by the window, holding the photograph in my hand, and gazing upon it in wonder, when dick deane was shown in. "what's the matter, old chap? are you the man in possession here?" he asked breezily, gripping me by the hand. he was a fair, merry-faced fellow of thirty-five, rather good-looking, smartly dressed in black frock-coat of professional cut, and wearing a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez. he had been born in paris, and had spent the greater part of his life there, except during the years when he was at school with me before going to edinburgh, where he took his degree. then he had returned to paris, taken his french degree, and had soon risen to be one of the fashionable doctors in the french capital. he was an especial favourite in the salons, and, like every good-looking doctor, a favourite with the ladies. "i'm not in possession," i answered. "a very serious affair has happened here, and we want your assistance." in an instant he became grave, for i suppose my tone showed him that i was in no humour for joking. "what's the nature of the affair?" he asked. "death," i replied seriously. "a lady here--a friend of mine--has died mysteriously." "a mystery--eh?" he exclaimed, instantly interested. "tell me about it." "this place," i replied, "belongs to the countess de foville, a lady whom i knew well when i was at the brussels embassy, and it is her daughter yolande who has been found dead in this room this evening." "yolande de foville!" he repeated, with knit brows. "she was a friend of yours once, if i mistake not?" he added, looking me straight in the face. "yes, dick, she was," i responded. "i told you of her long ago." "you loved her once?" "yes," i answered with difficulty, "i loved her once." "and how did the unfortunate affair occur?" he asked, folding his arms and leaning back against a chair. "tell me the whole story." "i called here this afternoon, and spent half an hour or so with her," i said. "then i left and returned straight to the embassy--" "you left her here?" he inquired, interrupting. "yes, in this very room. but it seems that a quarter of an hour later one of the servants entered and discovered her lying upon the door, dead." "curious!" he ejaculated. "has a medical man seen her?" "no. the countess sent for me as being one of her daughter's most intimate friends, and i, in turn, sent for you." "where is the poor young lady?" "in her room at the end of the corridor," i answered hoarsely. "is there any suspicion of murder?" "apparently none whatever. she had no visitor after i left." "and no suspicion of suicide?" he asked, with a sharp look. "did you part friends?" "perfectly so," i responded. "as to suicide, she had no reason, as far as anyone knows, to make an attempt upon her life." he gave vent to an expression which sounded to me much like a grunt of dissatisfaction. "now, be perfectly frank with me, gerald," he said, suddenly turning to me and placing his hand upon my shoulder. "you loved her very dearly once--was that not so?" i nodded. "i well remember it," he went on. "i quite recollect how, on one occasion, you came over to london, and while dining together at jimmy's you told me of your infatuation, and showed me her photograph. do you remember the night when you told me of your engagement to her?" "perfectly." "and as time went on you suddenly dropped her--for what reason i know not. we are pals, but i have never attempted to pry into your affairs. if she really loved you, it must have been a hard blow for her when she heard that you had forsaken her for edith austin." "you reproach me," i said. "but you do not know the whole truth, my dear fellow. i discovered that yolande possessed a second lover." he nodded slowly, with pursed lips. "and that was the reason of your parting?" "yes." "the sole reason?" "the sole reason." "and you have no suspicion that she may have committed suicide because of her love for you? such things are not uncommon, remember, with girls of a certain temperament." "if she has committed suicide, it is not on my account," i responded in a hard voice. "i did not express that opinion," he hastened to protest. "before we discuss the matter further it will be best for me to see her. death may have been due to natural causes, for aught we know." i stood motionless. his suggestion that my sweetheart of the old days had committed suicide because i had forsaken her was a startling one. surely that could not be so? "come," my friend said, "let us lose no time. which is the room?" i led him along the corridor, and opened the door of the chamber in which she was lying so cold and still. the light of the afterglow fell full upon her, tipping her auburn hair with crimson and illuminating her face with a warm radiance that gave her back the appearance of life. but it was only for a few moments. the slanting ray was lost, and the pallor of that beautiful countenance became marked against the gold of her wondrous hair. in silence i stood at the foot of the bed watching my friend, who was now busy with his examination. he opened her eyes and closed them again, felt her heart, raised her arms, and examined her mouth, uttering no word. his serious face wore a look as though he were infinitely puzzled. one after the other he examined the palms of her hands long and carefully, then, bending until his eyes were close to her face, he examined her lips, brow, and the whole surface of her cheeks. upon her neck, below the left ear, was a mark to which he returned time after time, as though not satisfied as to its cause. upon her lower lip, too, was a slight yellow discoloration, which he examined several times, comparing it with the mark upon the neck. he was unable to account for either. "curious!" he ejaculated. "very curious indeed!" "what is curious?" i inquired eagerly. "those marks," he answered, indicating them with his finger. "they are very puzzling. i've never seen such marks before." "do they point to foul play?" i inquired, feeling suspicious that she had by some mysterious means fallen the victim of an assassin. "well, no," he responded, after some hesitation; "that is not my opinion." "then what is your opinion?" "at present i have none. i can have none until i make a thorough examination. there are certainly no outward marks of violence." "we need not inform the police, i suppose?" "not at present," he replied, his eyes still fixed upon the blanched face of the woman who had once been all the world to me. i raised her dead hand, and upon it imprinted a last fervent kiss. it was cold and clammy to my lips. in that hour all my old love for her had returned, and my heart had become filled with an intense bitterness and desolation. i had thought that all my love for her was dead, and that edith austin, the calm, sweet woman far away in an english county, who wrote to me daily from her quiet home deep in the woodlands, had taken her place. but our meeting and its tragic sequel had, i admit, aroused within me a deep sympathy, which had, within an hour, developed into that great and tender love of old. with men this return to the old love is of no infrequent occurrence, but with women it seldom happens. perhaps this is because man is more fickle and more easily influenced by woman's voice, woman's glances, and woman's tears. the reader will probably accuse me of injustice and of fickleness of heart. well, i cannot deny it; indeed, i seek to deny nothing in this narrative of strange facts and diplomatic wiles, but would only ask of those who read to withhold their verdict until they have ascertained the truth yet to be revealed, and have read to the conclusion, this strange chapter of the secret history of a nation. my friend the doctor was holding one hand, while i imprinted a last kiss upon the other. a lump was in my throat, my eyes were filled with tears, my thoughts were all of the past, my anguish of heart unspeakable. that small chill hand with the cold, glittering ring--one that i had given her in brussels long ago--seemed to be the only reality in all that hideous phantasmagoria of events. "do not despair," murmured the kind voice of my old friend, standing opposite me on the other side of the bed. "you loved her once, but it is all over--surely it is!" "no, dick!" i answered brokenly. "i thought i did not love her. i have held her from me these three years--until now." "ah!" he sighed, "i understand. man always longs for the unattainable." "yes, always," i responded. in that moment the memory of the day when we had parted arose gaunt and ghost-like. i had wronged her; i felt confident that i had. all came back to me now--that cruel, scandalous denunciation i had uttered in the heat of my mad jealousy--the false tale which had struck her dumb by its circumstantial accuracy. ah! how bitter it all was, now that punishment was upon me! i remembered how, in the hour of my worldly triumph and of her highest hope--at the very moment when she had spoken words of greater affection to me than she had ever used before--i had made the charge against her, and she had fallen back with her young heart crushed within her. my ring was there, still glittering mockingly upon her dead hand. by the unfounded charge i had made against her i had sinned. my sin at that moment arose from its grave, and barred the way for ever to all hope--to all happiness. the summer twilight was stealing on apace, and in the silence of the room there sounded the roar of life from the boulevard below. men were crying _le soir_ with strident voices, and all paris was on its way to dine, and afterwards to enjoy itself in idleness upon the terraces of the cafes or at those al-fresco variety performances in the avenue des champs elysees, where the entrance fee includes a consommation. deane still held my old love's hand, bending in the dim light until his eyes were close to it, watching intently. but i took no notice, for my eyes were fixed upon that face that had held me in such fascination, and had been so admired at those brilliant receptions given by king leopold and the countess of flanders. the doctor stretched forth his hand, and of a sudden switched on the electric light. the next instant i was startled by his loud ejaculation of surprise. "thank god!" he cried. "she's not dead, after all!" "not dead!" i gasped, unable fully to realise his meaning. "no," he answered breathlessly. "but we must not lose a single instant." and i saw that with a lancet he had made an incision in her delicate wrist, and there was blood there. "she is in a state of catalepsy, and we must do all in our power to bring her round." "but do you think you can?" i cried. "i hope so." "do your best, dick," i implored. "save her, for my sake." "rely upon me," he answered calmly, adding: "run along to number in the boulevard--the corner house on the right--and bring doctor trepard at once. he lives au troisieme. tell him that i sent you, and that the matter is one of life or death." he scribbled some words on a card, and, giving it me, added: "tell him to bring this. meanwhile, i will commence artificial respiration. go!" "but do you think she will really recover?" i demanded. "i can't tell. we have already lost so much time. i had no idea of the truth. it has surprised me just as it has surprised you. this moment is not one for words, but for actions. don't lose an instant." thus urged, i snatched up my hat and tore along the boulevard like a madman. without difficulty i found trepard's appartement, and on being admitted found him a grave-faced, rather stout old frenchman, who, on the instant i mentioned dick's name and gave him the card with the words upon it, naming some drugs he required, went into an adjoining room, and fetched a phial of tiny red pillules, which he held up to the light. then he put on his hat, and descended with me to the street. a fiacre was passing, which we took, and five minutes later we were standing together in the room where yolande was lying. "this is a most curious case, my dear trepard," began dick, speaking in french--"a case of coma, which i have mistaken for death;" and, continuing, he briefly explained how the patient had been found in a state so closely resembling death that he himself had been deceived. the old frenchman placed his hand upon her heart, and, withdrawing it, said: "she's breathing now." "breathing!" i echoed. "then she is recovering!" "yes, old fellow," dick replied, "she is recovering--at least we hope we shall save her." then, turning to his colleague, he raised her hand and pointed to the finger-nails, asking: "do you notice anything there?" the other, adjusting his pince-nez, bent and examined, them one by one. "yes," he answered at last. "a slight purple discoloration at the base of the nails." "and upon the lower lip does anything strike you as peculiar?" "a yellow mark," he answered, after carefully inspecting the spot indicated. "and there?" deane asked, touching the mark upon the neck. "very strange!" ejaculated the elder man. "it is a most unusual case." "yes. have you brought the hydrated peroxide of iron?" for answer the frenchman produced the tiny tube, saying: "then you suspect poison?" "most certainly," he replied; and, taking a glass, he placed a single pillule in it, dissolving it in water, which he afterwards forced between the grey lips of my unconscious love. afterwards he glanced at his watch, observing: "we must give another in fifteen minutes." then, drawing a chair to the bedside, he seated himself, holding her wrist and watching her countenance for any change that might take place there. "have you no idea of the nature of the poison?" i inquired eagerly. "none," he responded. "ask me no questions now. when we have brought her round will be time enough. it should be sufficient for you to know that she is not dead. why not leave us for the present? go and break the good news to the countess." "you wish to be alone?" "yes. this is a serious matter. leave us undisturbed, and on no pretext allow her mother to enter here." thus urged, and feeling reassured by their statement that she still lived and that the pulsations of her heart were already quite perceptible, i left the room, noiselessly closing the door after me, and sought the countess in the small blue boudoir to which she had returned plunged in grief and dark despair. she was seated in a chair, motionless and statuesque, staring straight before her. the blow had utterly crushed her, for she was entirely devoted to her only daughter now that her husband was dead. i well knew how deep was her affection for yolande, and how tender was her maternal love. the room was in semi-darkness, for she had not risen to turn on the light. as i entered i did so with her permission, saying quietly: "madame, i come to you with a message." "from whom?" she asked in a hard mechanical voice. "from my friend deane, the english doctor whom i have summoned. yolande still lives!" "she lives!" she cried, springing to her feet in an instant. "you are deceiving me!" "i am not, madame," i reassured her, smiling. "your daughter is still breathing, and is increasing in strength perceptibly. the doctors say that she will probably recover." "thank god!" she gasped, her thin white hands clasped before her. "i pray that he may give her back to me. i will go to her." but i held her back, explaining that both the medical men had expressed a wish to remain there alone. "but what caused that appearance so akin to death?" she asked quickly. "at present they cannot tell," i responded. "some deleterious substance is suspected, but until she has returned to consciousness and can give us some details of her sudden attack we can determine nothing." "but she will recover, m'sieur?" the countess asked. "are you certain?" "the chances are in her favour, the doctors say. they have given her a drug to counteract the effect of the poison." "poison! was she poisoned?" gasped the countess. "poison is suspected," i answered quietly. "but calm yourself, madame. the truth will be discovered in due course." "i care nothing so long as yolande is given back to me!" the distressed woman cried. "was it your english friend who discovered the truth?" "yes," i replied. "he is one of the cleverest men in paris." "and to him my poor yolande will owe her life?" "yes, to him." "and to you also, m'sieur? you have done your utmost for us, and i thank you warmly for it all." "madame," i said earnestly, "i have done only what a man should do. you sought my assistance, and i have given it, because--" "because of what?" she inquired sharply the instant i paused. "because i once loved her," i responded with perfect frankness. a sigh escaped her, and her hand sought my arm. "i was young once, m'sieur," she said in that calm, refined voice which had long ago always sounded so much to me like that of my own dead mother. "i understand your feeling--i understand perfectly. it is only my poor daughter who does not understand. she knows that you have forsaken her--that is all." it was upon my tongue to lay bare to her the secret of my heart's longings, yet i hesitated. i remembered that calm, serious, sweet-faced woman on the other side of the english channel, far from the glare and glitter of life as i knew it--the fevered life which the diplomat in paris is forced to lead. i remembered my troth to edith, and my conscience pricked me. "could it be possible," i reflected, "that yolande was really in the pay of a government hostile to england?" kaye was already nearing berlin with the intention of searching out her actions and exposing her as a spy, while anderson had already denounced her as having been a party to an attempt to secure the secret which he had carried from berlin to downing street. with a mother's solicitude the countess could for some time only speak of yolande's mysterious attack; but at last, in order to prosecute my inquiries further, i observed, during a lull in the conversation: "at the baroness de chalencon's last night a friend of yours inquired about you, madame." "a friend? who?" "a man named wolf--rodolphe wolf." the next instant i saw that the mention of that name affected the mother no less markedly than it had affected the daughter. her face blanched; her eyes opened wide in fear, and her glance became in a moment suspicious. with marvellous self-possession she, however, pretended ignorance. "wolf?" she repeated. "i do not remember the name. possibly he is some person we have met while travelling." "yolande knew him, i believe, in brussels," i remarked. "he appeared to be acquainted with you." "my daughter's friends are not always mine," she remarked coldly, with that cleverness which only a woman of the world can possess, and at once returned to the discussion of yolande and the probability of her recovery. this puzzled me. i felt somehow convinced that she knew the truth. she had some distinct object in endeavouring to seal my lips. what it was, however, i could not determine. she was expressing a fervent hope that her daughter would recover, and pacing the room, impatient to go to her bedside, when, of a sudden, dick opened the door, and, putting his head inside, addressed me, saying: "can i speak with you a moment, ingram?" she dashed to the door in eagerness, but after a word of introduction from myself, he informed her that yolande had not sufficiently recovered to be disturbed. "perfect quiet is absolutely necessary, madame," he urged. "your daughter, i am pleased to tell you, will live; but she must be kept absolutely quiet. i cannot allow you to approach her on any pretext whatsoever." "she will not die, will she?" the woman implored distractedly. "no," he replied, in a voice somewhat strained, i thought, "she will not die. of that you may rest assured." then turning to me, he beckoned, and i followed him out of the room. chapter eight. the old love. "i don't like that woman, old fellow," were the first words dick uttered when we were alone in the room in which yolande had been found. "why not?" i asked, rather surprised. "the countess de foville is always charming." he shrugged his shoulders, saying: "one sometimes has strange and unaccountable prejudices, you know. this is one of mine." "and yolande," i asked, "what of her?" "she's better. but it was fortunate i made the discovery just when i did, or she would no doubt have passed away. i never saw an appearance so closely resembling death in all my experience; in fact, i'd have staked my professional reputation that there was no spark of life." "but what was the cause of it all?" i demanded. "you surely know the reason?" "no, we cannot yet tell," he answered. "the marks puzzle us. that mark on her lower lip is the most peculiar and unaccountable. at present we can say nothing." "then why did you call me out?" "because i want to consult you," he replied. "the fact is, that in this affair there is a strong element of mystery which i don't like at all. and, moreover, the few seconds during which i've seen the countess have plainly impressed upon me the belief that either she has had something to do with it, or else that she knows the truth." i nodded. this was exactly my own theory. "do you think yolande has been the victim of foul play?" i inquired a moment later. "that's my suspicion," he responded. "but only she herself can tell us the truth." "you really think, then, that a dastardly attempt has been made upon her life?" i cried incredulously. "personally, i think there can be no doubt." "but by whom? no one called here after my departure." "it is that mystery which we must elucidate," he said. "all i fear is, however, that she may render us no assistance." "why?" "because it is a mystery, and in all probability she will endeavour to preserve the secret. she must not see the countess before we question her." "is she yet conscious?" i asked in eagerness. "yes; but at present we must put no question to her." "thank heaven!" i gasped. then i added, fervently grasping my friend's hand: "you cannot realise, dick, what great consolation this is to me!" "i know, my dear fellow--i know," he answered sympathetically. "but may i speak to you as a friend? you won't be offended at anything i am about to say, will you?" "offended?--certainly not. our friendship is too firm for that, dick. what is it you wish to say?" i saw that he was uneasy, and was surprised at his sudden gravity. "well," he said, after a moment's hesitation, "you'll forgive me for saying so, but i don't think that in this affair you've told me exactly the truth." "what do you mean?" i inquired quickly. "i mean that when you parted from her this afternoon you were not altogether good friends." "you are mistaken," i assured him. "we were as good friends as ever before." "no high words passed between you?" "none." "and nothing that you told her caused her any sudden grief? are you quite certain of this?" he asked, looking at me very fixedly through his glasses. "i made one observation which certainly caused her surprise," i admitted. "nothing else." "was it only surprise?" he asked very calmly. "surprise mingled with fear." "ah!" he ejaculated, as though obtaining some intelligence by this admission of mine. "and may i not know the nature of the information you gave her?" "no, dick," i responded. "it is a secret--her secret." he was silent. "you refuse to tell me?" he said disappointedly. "i am unable," i replied. "and if i judge rightly, it is this secret which has parted you?" "no, it is not," i answered. "that's the most curious part of the whole affair. the very existence of the secret has brought us together again." "you mean that you have forsaken edith and returned to her?" he observed, raising his brows slightly in surprise. "no; don't put it in that way," i implored. "i have not yet forsaken edith." he smiled, just a trifle superciliously, i thought. "and the countess is also in possession of this mysterious secret--eh?" "of that i am not at all certain," i replied. he sniffed in distinct suspicion that what i had told him was not the truth. at the same instant, however, the countess entered and demanded to know the condition of her child. "she is much better, madame," he answered. "perfect quiet is, however, necessary, and constant observation of the temperature. to-morrow, or the day after, you may, i think, see her." "not till then!" she cried. "i cannot wait so long." "but it is necessary. your daughter's life hangs upon a single thread." she was silenced, for she saw that argument was useless. a few minutes later jean entered with a message from trepard asking dick and myself to consult with him. we therefore left the countess again, and passed along the corridor to the room in which my love of long ago was lying. as we entered she lifted her hand slowly to me in sign of recognition, and in an instant i was at her side. "yolande!" i cried, taking her hand, so different now that death had been defeated by life. "yolande! my darling," i burst forth involuntarily, "you have come back to me!" a sweet, glad smile spread over her beautiful face, leaving an expression of calm and perfect contentment, as in a low, uncertain voice, as though of one speaking afar off, she asked: "gerald, is it actually you?" "yes," i said, "of course it is. these two gentlemen are doctors," i added. "this is my old friend deane; and the other is doctor trepard, of whom i daresay you have heard." she nodded to them both in acknowledgment of their kind expressions; then in a few low words inquired what had happened to her. she seemed in utter ignorance of it all. "you were found lying on the floor of the little salon soon after i left, and they thought you were dead," i explained. "cannot you tell us how it occurred?" a puzzled expression settled upon her face, as though she were trying to remember. "i recollect nothing," she declared. "but you surely remember how you were attacked?" i urged. "attacked!" she echoed in surprise. "no one attacked me." "i did not mean that," i answered, rather puzzled at her quick protest. "i meant that you were probably aware of the symptoms which preceded your unconsciousness." "i felt a strange dizziness and a curious tightness in the throat and chest. that is all i remember. all became blank until i opened my eyes again and found myself lying here, with these two gentlemen standing at my side. the duration of my unconsciousness did not appear to me longer than a few minutes." "then mademoiselle has no idea of the cause of her strange illness?" inquired deane in french. "none whatever, m'sieur." "tell us one fact," he urged. "during the time which elapsed between your parting with m'sieur ingram and your sudden unconsciousness, did anyone enter the room?" "no one; of that i am absolutely certain." "how were you occupied during that time?" "i was writing a letter." "and before you rose did you feel the curious giddiness?" "no, not until after i stood up. i tried to shout and attract help, but could not. then i reached to press the bell, but stumbled forward, and the next instant i was lost in what seemed to be a dense fog." "curious!" ejaculated trepard, who stood by with folded arms, eagerly listening to every word--"very curious!" "did you feel any strange sensation on the left side of your neck beneath the ear, or upon your lower lip?" inquired deane earnestly. she reflected for a moment, then said: "now that i remember, there was a curious numbness of my lip." "followed immediately by unconsciousness?" "yes, almost immediately." the doctors exchanged glances, which showed that the mark upon the lip was the chief enigma of the situation. trepard glanced at his watch, dissolved yet another pillule of hydrated peroxide of iron, and handed her the draught to swallow. the antidote had acted almost like magic. "you are absolutely certain that no person entered the room after ingram had left?" repeated deane, as though not yet satisfied. "absolutely." dick deane turned his eyes full upon me, and i divined his thoughts. he was reflecting upon the conversation held between us before we entered that room. he was endeavouring to worm from her some clue to her secret. "my mother knows that i am recovering?" she went on. "if she does not, please tell her. she has been so distressed of late that this must have been the crowning blow to her." "i have told madame your mother everything," i said. "do not be uneasy on her account." "ah," she sighed, "how i regret that we came to paris! i regret it all, gerald, save that you and i have met again;" and she stretched out her hand until it came into contact with my coat-button, with which she toyed like a child. "and this meeting has really given you satisfaction?" i whispered to her, heedless of the presence of the others. "not only satisfaction," she answered, so softly that i alone could catch her words, and looking into my face with that expression of passionate affection which can never be simulated; "it has given back to me a desire for happiness, for life, for love." there were tears in those wonderful blue eyes, and her small hand trembled within my grasp. my heart at that moment was too full for mere words. true, i loved her with a mad fondness that i had never before entertained for any woman; yet, nevertheless, a hideous shadow arose between us, shutting her off from me for ever--the shadow of her secret--the secret that she, my well-beloved, was actually a spy. chapter nine. at the elysee. having reassured myself of yolande's recovery, i was compelled to rush off, slip into uniform, and attend a dinner at the elysee. the function was a brilliant affair, as are all the official junketings of the french president. at the right of the head of the republic, who was distinguishable by his crimson sash, sat the countess tornelli, with the wife of the united states ambassador on his left. the president's wife--who wore a superb gown of corn-coloured miroir velvet, richly embroidered and inlaid with venetian lace, a veritable triumph of the rue de la paix--had on her right the papal nuncio, monsignor lerenzelli, the doyen of the diplomatic corps, while on her left was my chief, lord barmouth. the seat next me was allotted to his daughter sibyl, who looked charming in rose chiffon. during dinner she chatted merrily, describing a charity bazaar which she had attended that afternoon accompanied by her mother. on the other side of her sat count berchtold, the secretary of the austrian embassy, who was, i shrewdly suspected, one of her most devoted admirers. she was charming--a typical, smart english girl; and i think that i was proved to be an exception among men by reason of the fact that i did not flirt with her. indeed, we were excellent friends, and my long acquaintance with her gave me a prescriptive right to a kind of brotherly solicitude for her welfare. times without number i had chaffed her about her little affairs of the heart, and as many times she had turned my criticisms against myself by her witty repartee. she could be exceedingly sarcastic when occasion required; but there had always been a perfect understanding between us, and no remark was ever distorted into an insult. dinner was followed by a brilliant reception. the great salon des fetes, which only a year before was hung with funeral wreaths, owing to the death of the previous president, resounded with that peculiar hum made up of all the intonations of conversation and discreet laughter rolled together against the sustained buzzing of the orchestra a short distance away. the scene was one of glittering magnificence. everyone knew everyone else. through the crowd of uniforms--which always give an official reception at the elysee the appearance of a bal travesti--i passed monsieur casimir perrier, former president of the republic; monsieur paul deschanel, the lion of the hour; monsieur benjamin-constant, always a prominent figure; prince roland bonaparte, smiling and bowing; the duchess d'auerstadt, with her magnificent jewels; and damat, the dapper grand chancellor of the legion of honour. all diplomatic paris was there, chattering, laughing, whispering, and plotting. around me sounded a veritable babel of tongues, but no part of the function interested me. from time to time i saluted a man i knew, or bent over a woman's hand; but my thoughts were of the one woman who had so suddenly and so forcibly returned into my life. the representatives of the powers of europe were all present, and as they passed me by, each in his bright uniform, his orders flashing on his breast and a woman on his arm, i asked myself which of them was actually the employer of my well-beloved. the startling events of the day had upset me. had it been possible i would have left and returned to my rooms for a quiet smoke and for calm reflection. but my duty required my presence there; hence i remained, strolling slowly around the great crowded salon with its myriad lights and profuse floral decorations, until i suddenly encountered the wizen-faced, toothless old baronne de chalencon, whose salon was one of the most popular in paris, and with whom i was on excellent terms. "ah! my dear m'sieur ingram!" she cried, holding forth her thin, bony hand laden with jewels. "you look tired. why? no one here to-night who interests you--eh?" "no one save yourself, baronne," i responded, bending over her hand. "flatterer!" she laughed. "if i were forty years younger i might accept that as a compliment. but at my age--well, it is really cruel of you." "intelligence is more interesting to a diplomat than a pretty face," i responded quickly. "and there is certainly no more intelligent woman in all paris than the baronne de chalencon." she bowed stiffly, and her wrinkled face, which bore visible traces of poudre orchidee and touches of the hare's-foot, puckered up into a simpering smile. "well, and what else?" she asked. "these speeches you have apparently prepared for some pretty woman you expected to meet here to-night, but, since she has not kept the appointment, you are practising them upon me." "no," i said, "i really protest against that, baronne. a woman is never too old for a man to pay her compliments." we had strolled into a cool ante-room, and were sitting together upon one of the many seats placed beneath clumps of palms and flowers, the only light being from a hundred tiny electric lamps hung overhead in the trees. the perfect arrangement of those ante-rooms of the salle des fetes on the nights of the official receptions is always noteworthy, and after the heat, music, and babel of tongues in the grand salon it was cool, quiet, and refreshing there. by holding her regular salon, where everybody who was anybody made it a point to be seen, the baronne had acquired in paris a unique position. her fine house in the avenue des champs elysees was the centre of a smart and fashionable set, and she herself made a point of being versed in all the latest gossip and scandal of the french capital. she scandalised nobody, nor did she seek to throw mud at her enemies. she merely repeated what was whispered to her; hence a chat with her was always interesting to one who, like myself, was paid to keep his ears open and report from time to time the direction of the political wind. tournier, the french minister of foreign affairs, and his wife were her most intimate friends; hence she was frequently aware of facts which were of considerable importance to us. indeed, once or twice her friendliness for myself had caused her to drop hints which had been of the greatest use to lord barmouth in the conduct of his difficult diplomacy at that time when the boulevard journals were screaming against england and the filthy prints were caricaturing her majesty, with intent to insult. even the _figaro_--the moderate organ of the french foreign office--had lost its self-control in the storm of abuse following the fashoda incident, and had libelled and maligned "les english." i therefore seized the opportunity for a chat with the wizen-faced old lady, who seemed in a particularly good-humour, and deftly turned the conversation into the political channel. "now, tell me, baronne," i said, after we had been chatting some little time, and i had learnt more than one important fact regarding the intentions of tournier, "what is your opinion regarding the occupation of ceuta?" she glanced at me quickly, as though surprised that i should be aware of what she had believed to be an entire secret. "of ceuta?" she echoed. "and what do you at your embassy know regarding it?" "we've heard a good deal," i laughed. "no doubt you've heard a good deal that is untrue," the clever old lady replied, her powdered face again puckering into a smile. "do you want to know my honest opinion?" she added. "yes, i do." "well," she went on, "i attach very little importance to the rumours of a projected sale or lease of ceuta to us. i might tell you in confidence," she went on, dropping her voice, "that from some words i overheard at the garden-party at de wolkenstein's i have come to a firm conclusion that, although during the next few years important changes will be made upon the map of the world, ceuta will remain spanish. my country will never menace yours in the mediterranean at that point. a ministry might be found in madrid to consider the question of its disposal, but the spanish people would rise in revolution before they would consent. spain is very poor, but very proud. having lost so many of her foreign possessions, she will hold more strongly than ever to ceuta. there you have the whole situation in a nutshell." "then the report that it is actually sold to france is untrue?" i asked eagerly. "a mere report i believe it to be." "but spain's financial indebtedness to france might prove an element of danger when europe justifies lord beaconsfield's prediction and rushes into war over morocco?" "ah, my dear m'sieur ingram, i do not agree with the prediction of your great statesman," the old lady said vehemently. "it is not in that direction in which lies the danger of war, but at the other end of the mediterranean." somehow i suspected her of a deliberate intention to mislead me in this matter. she was a shrewd woman, who only disclosed her secrets when it was to her own interests or the interests of her friends at the ministry of foreign affairs to do so. in paris there is a vast network of french intrigue, and it behoves the diplomatist always to be wary lest he should fall into the pitfalls so cunningly prepared for him. the dividing line between truth and untruth is always so very difficult to define in modern diplomacy. it is when the european situation seems most secure that the match is sufficiently near to fire the mine. fortunate it is that the public, quick to accept anything that appears in the daily journals, can be placed in a sense of false security by articles inspired by one or other of the embassies interested. if it were not so, european panics would certainly be of frequent occurrence. my chief sauntered by, chatting with his close personal friend, prince olsoufieff, the russian ambassador, who looked a truly striking figure in his white uniform, with the cross of st. andrew glittering at his throat. the latter, as he passed, exclaimed confidentially in russian to my chief, who understood that language, having been first secretary of embassy in petersburg earlier in his career: "da, ya po-ni-mai-u. ya sam napishu." ("yes, i understand. i will write for you myself.") keen antagonists in diplomacy though they very often were, yet in private life a firm friendship existed between the pair--a friendship dating from the days when the one had been british attache in petersburg and the other had occupied a position in the russian ministry of foreign affairs--that large grey building facing the winter palace. "the lion and the bear strolling together," laughed the toothless old baronne, after they had passed. "olsoufieff is a charming man, but he never accepts my invitations. i cannot tell why. i don't fancy he considers me his friend." "sibyl was at your reception the other evening," i remarked suddenly. "she told me she met a man who was a stranger in paris. his name, i think she said, was wolf--rodolphe wolf. who is he?" "he was introduced by de wolkenstein, the austrian ambassador," she replied quickly. "i did not know him." "have you never met him before?" i asked, looking sharply into her eyes. "once, i think, but i am not certain," she said, with a palpable effort to evade my question. i smiled. "come, madame," i said good-humouredly, "you know rodolphe wolf quite as well as i do. when you last met, his name was not wolf. is not that so?" "well," she answered, "now that you put it in that manner i may as well admit that your suggestion is correct." "and what is the object of his sudden visit to paris?" "i cannot make out," she replied in a more confidential tone. "as i tell you, de wolkenstein introduced him, but, as m'sieur knows, i am very quick to detect a face that i have once seen, and i recognised him in an instant." "sibyl told me that he had a long chat with her, and she described him as a most charming fellow." "ah, no doubt! i suspected him and watched. it was evident that he came to my salon in order to meet her." "to meet sibyl! why?" "that i cannot tell." "but i think, baronne, we may be both agreed upon one point." "and that is?" "that the man who now calls himself rodolphe wolf is here in paris with some secret motive." "i am entirely in accord, m'sieur--quite. some steps must at once be taken to ascertain that man's motives." "it seems curious that he should have been introduced for the purpose of meeting sibyl. what information did he want from her?" "how can we tell? you know better than myself whether she ever knows any secrets of the embassy." "she knows nothing,--of that i am absolutely convinced," i responded. "her father is devoted to her; but, nevertheless, he is one of those strict diplomatists who do not believe in trusting women with secrets." "yet wolf had a distinct object in making a good impression upon her," she said reflectively. "no doubt. as soon as she returned she began to talk of him." and next instant i recollected the strange effect the news of his arrival in paris had had upon yolande, and the curiously tragic event which had subsequently occurred. all was puzzling--all inscrutable. a silence fell between us. i was revolving in my mind whether i should ask this wizen-faced old leader of society a further question. with sudden resolve i turned to her again and asked: "o baronne, i had quite forgotten. do you chance to know the countess de foville, of brussels? they have a chateau down in the ardennes, and move in the best set in belgium?" "de foville? de foville?" she repeated. "what, do you mean the mother of that little witch yolande?" "yes. but why do you call her a witch?" i demanded, with feigned laughter. "why?" cried the old woman, the expression of her face growing dark with displeasure. "well, i do not know whether she is a friend of yours, but all i can tell you is that should she be, the best course for you to pursue is to cut her acquaintance." "what do you mean?" i gasped. "i mean exactly what i have said." "but i don't understand," i cried. "be more frank with me," i implored. "no," she answered in that hard voice, by which i knew that mention of yolande's name had displeased her. "remember that we are friends, and that sometimes we have interests in common. therefore, take this piece of advice from an old woman who knows." "knows what?" "knows that your friendship with the pretty yolande is dangerous-- extremely dangerous." chapter ten. confession. next day, when the manservant asked me into the tiny boudoir in the rue de courcelles, i found yolande, in a pretty tea-gown of cream silk adorned with lace and ribbons, seated in an armchair in an attitude of weariness. the sun-shutters were closed, as on the previous day, for the heat in paris that july was insufferable, and in the dim light her wan figure looked very fair and fragile. the qualities which imparted to her a distinct individuality were the beautiful combination of the pastoral with the elegant--of simplicity with elevation--of spirit with sweetness. she gave vent to a cry of gladness as i entered, rose, and stretching out her hands in welcome, drew a seat for me close to her. i looked at her standing before me in her warm, breathing, human loveliness. "you are better, yolande? ah! how glad i am!" i commenced. "last night i believed that you were dead." "and if i had died would it really have mattered so very much to you?" she asked in a low, intense voice. "you have forgotten me for three whole years until now." "i know--i know!" i cried. "forgive me." "i have already forgiven," she said, allowing her hand still to remain in mine. "but i have been thinking to-day--thinking ever so much." her voice was weak and faltering, and i saw that she was not herself. "thinking of what?" "of you. i have been wondering whether, if i had died, you would have sometimes remembered me?" "remembered you?" i said earnestly. "why, of course, dearest. why do you speak in such a melancholy tone?" "because--well, because i am unhappy, gerald!" she cried, bursting into sudden tears. "ah! you do not know how i suffer--you can never know!" i bent and stroked her hair, that beautiful red-gold hair that i had so often heard admired in the great salons in brussels. it had been bound but lightly by her maid, and was secured by a blue ribbon. she had apologised for receiving me thus, but declared that her head ached, and it was easier so. doctor deane had called twice that morning, and had pronounced her entirely out of danger. "but why are you suffering?" i asked, caressing her and striving to charm away her tears. "cannot you confide in me?" she shook her head in despair, and her body was shaken by a convulsive sob. "surely there is confidence between us?" i urged. "do you not remember that day long ago when we walked one evening in the sunset hand-in-hand, as was our wont, along the river-path towards la roche? do you not remember how you told me that in future you would have no single secret from me?" "yes," she answered hoarsely, with an effort, "i recollect." "then you intend to break your promise to me?" i whispered earnestly. "surely you will not do this, yolande? you will not hide from me the cause of all this bitterness of yours?" she was silent. her breast, beneath its lace, rose quickly and fell again. her tear-filled eyes were fixed upon the carpet. "i would not break my promise," she said at last, clasping my hand convulsively and lifting her eyes to mine; "but, alas! it is now imperative." "why imperative?" "i must suffer alone," she responded gloomily, shaking her head. her countenance was as pale as her gown, and she shivered as though she were cold, although the noonday heat was suffocating. "because you refuse to tell me anything or allow me to assist you?" i said. "this is not in accordance with the promise made and sealed by your lips on that evening long ago." "nor have your actions been in accordance with your own promise," she said slowly and distinctly. "to what do you refer?" "you told me that you loved me, gerald," she said in a deep voice, suddenly grown calm. "you swore by all you held most sacred that i was all the world to you, and that no one should come between us. yet past events have shown that you have forgotten those words of yours on the day when we idled in the bois beneath the trees. you, too, remember that day, do you not--the day when our lips met for the first time, and we both believed our path would in future be strewn with flowers? ah!" she sighed, "and what an awakening life has been to me since then!" "we parted because of your refusal to satisfy me as to the real state of your feelings towards the man who was my enemy," i said rather warmly. "but was it justifiable?" she asked in a tone of deep reproach and mingled sweetness. her blue eyes looked full upon me--those eyes that had held me in such fascination in the golden days of youth. "has any single fact which you have since discovered verified your suspicions? tell me truthfully;" and she leaned towards me in an attitude of deepest earnestness. "no," i answered honestly, "i cannot say that my suspicions have ever been verified." "and because of that you have returned to me when it is too late." "too late!" i cried. "what do you mean?" "exactly what i have said. you have come back to me when it is too late." "you speak in enigmas, yolande. why not be more explicit?" her pale lips trembled, her eyes were brimming with tears, her chilly hand quivered in mine. she did not speak for some moments, but at last said in a low, tremulous voice half choked by emotion: "once you loved me, gerald,--of that i feel confident; and i reciprocated your affection, god knows! our love was, perhaps, curious, inasmuch as you were english and i was of a different creed and held different ideas from those which you considered right. it is always the same with a man and woman of different nationality--there must be a give-and-take principle between them. between us, however, there was perfect confidence until, by a strange combination of circumstances--by a stroke of the sword of fate--that incident occurred which led to our estrangement." she paused, her blanched lips shut tight. "well?" i asked, "i am all attention. why is it too late now for me to make reparation for the past?" i loved her with all my soul. i was heedless of those words of the old baronne, of anderson's suspicions, and kaye's denunciation. even if she were a spy, i adored her. the fire of that old love had swept upon me, and i could not hold back, even though her touch might be as that of a leper and her lips venomous. "reparation is impossible," she answered hoarsely. "is not that sufficient?" "no, it is not sufficient," i answered clearly. "i will not be put off by such an answer." "it were better," she cried--"better that i had died yesterday than suffer like this. you rescued me from death only to torture me." her words aroused within me a distinct suspicion that her strange illness had been brought to pass because, using some mysterious means, she had made an attempt against her own life. i believed that she had suffered, and was still suffering, from the effects of some poison, the exact nature of which neither deane nor trepard could as yet determine. "i do not seek to torture you, dearest," i protested. "far from it. i merely want to know the truth, in order that i may share your unhappiness, as your betrothed ought to do." "but you are not my betrothed." "i was once." "but not now. you taunt me with breaking that promise which i made three years ago, yet you yourself it was who played me false--who left me for your prim, strait-laced english miss!" in an instant the truth was plain. she was aware that i had transferred my affections to edith! someone had told her--no doubt with a good many embellishments, or perhaps some scandalous story. in the salons through which we of the diplomatic circle are compelled to move, women's tongues are ever at work match-making and mischief-making. on the continent love and politics run always hand-in-hand. that is the reason why the most notorious of the demi-monde in paris, in vienna, and in berlin are the secret agents of their respective governments; and many are the honest men innocently denounced through jealousy and kindred causes. a false declaration of one or other of these unscrupulous spies has before now caused the downfall of a ministry or the disgrace of a noble and patriotic politician. "i know to whom you refer," i said, with bowed head, after a moment's pause. "it is currently reported that i love her. i have loved her. i do not seek to deny it. when a man sustains such a blow as i sustained before we parted, he often rushes to another woman for consolation. the influence of that second woman often prevents him from going to the bad altogether. it has been so in my case." "and you love her now?" she cried, the fire of fierce jealousy in her eyes. "you cannot deny it!" "i do deny it," i cried. "true, until yesterday i held her in esteem, even in affection; but it is not so now. all my love for you, yolande, has returned to me. our parting has rendered you dearer and sweeter to me than ever." "i cannot believe it," she exclaimed falteringly. "i swear that it is so. in all my life, although am compelled to treat women with courtesy and sometimes to affect flirtation, because of my profession as a diplomatist, i have loved only one woman--yourself;" and i raised her chilly hand to my lips, kissing it fervently. mine was no mere caprice at that moment. with an all-consuming passion i loved her, and was prepared on her account to make any sacrifice she demanded. let the reader remember what had already been told me, and reflect that, like many another man, i loved madly, and was heedless of any consequences that might follow. in this particular i was not alone. thousands before me had been allured to their ruin by a woman's eyes, just as thousands of brave women's hearts have been broken and their lives wrecked by men's false oaths of fidelity. i have heard wiseacres say that the woman only suffers in such cases; the man never. whether that rule proves always true will be shown in this strange story of my own love. she drew her hand away slowly, but forcibly, saying: "you cannot love two women. already you have shown a preference for a wife of your own people." "it is all over between us," i protested. "mine was a mere passing fancy, engendered, i think, by the loneliness i suffered when i lost you." "ah," (she smiled sadly), "that is all very well! a woman, when once played false by the man she loves and trusts, is never the same--_never_!" "then am i to understand, yolande, that you refuse to pardon me, or to accept my affection?" "i have already pardoned you," she faltered; "but to accept the love you once withdrew from me without just reason is, i regret to say, impossible." "you speak coldly, as though you were refusing a mere invitation to dinner, or something of no greater importance," i protested. "i offer you my whole heart, my love--nay, my life;" and i held her hand again, looking straight into those wonderful eyes, now so calm, so serious, that my gaze wavered before them. slowly she shook her head, and her trembling breast rose and fell again. "ours was a foolish infatuation," she answered with an effort. "it is best that we should both of us forget." "forget!" i cried. "but i can never forget you, yolande. you are my love. you are all the world to me." her eyes were grave, and i saw that tears stood in them. "no," she protested quietly; "do not say that. i cannot be any more to you than other women whom you meet daily. besides, i know well that in the diplomatic service marriage is a serious drawback to any save an ambassador." "when a man is in love as i am with you, dearest, he throws all thoughts of his career to the winds; personal interests are naught where true love is concerned." "you must not--nay, you shall not--wreck your future on my account," she declared in a low, intense voice. "it is not just either to yourself or to the englishwoman who loves you." "why do you taunt me with that, yolande?" i asked reproachfully. "i do not love her. i have never truly loved her. i was lonely after you had gone out of my life, and she was amusing,--that was all." "and now you find me equally amusing--eh?" she remarked, with just a touch of bitter sarcasm. "why should you be jealous of her?" i asked. "you might just as well be jealous of sibyl, lord barmouth's daughter." "with the latter you are certainly on terms of most intimate friendship," she answered with a smile. "i really wonder that i did not object to her in the days long ago." "ah!" i laughed, "you certainly had no cause. it is true that we have been good friends ever since the day when she arrived home from the convent-school at bruges, a prim young miss with her hair tied up with ribbon. thrown constantly together, as we were, i became her male confidant and intimate friend; hence my licence to give her counsel in many matters and sometimes to criticise those actions of which i don't approve." "then if that is so, you care a little for her--just a little? now admit it." "i don't admit anything of the kind," i answered frankly. "for five years we have been constantly together; and times without number, at lady barmouth's request, i have acted as her escort here and there, until she looks upon me as a kind of necessary appendage who has a right to chaff her about her flirtations and annoy her by judicious sarcasm. i don't entertain one single spark of love for her. in brief, she has developed into an essentially smart girl, in the true sense of the word, and by reason of our constant companionship knows that to attempt a flirtation with me would result in a most dismal failure. i accused her once, not long ago, of having designs upon my heart, whereupon she replied that to accomplish such a thing would be about as easy as to win the affection of the bronze neptune in the garden-fountain of the embassy." "you have been seen together a great deal of late?" "who told you so?" "a friend who knows you both." then she added: "from my information i hear that last season you danced so much with her and were so constantly at her side that people were talking of a match between you." "ridiculous!" i exclaimed. "of course gossips are always too ready to jump to ill-formed conclusions. as one of the staff of the embassy, and her most intimate male friend, it was only courtesy to take her beneath my care. when she had no other partner and wanted to dance, then she sometimes asked me. i think she did it to annoy me, for she knew that i was never fond of dancing." "do you remember the countess of flanders' balls at brussels--how we danced together?" she remarked. "remember them!" i echoed. "they were in the golden days when everything seemed to our eyes couleur de rose--the days when our love was perfect." she sighed again, but no word escaped her. she was, i knew, reflecting upon those blissful days and nights when we met here and there at all hours and at all the best houses in brussels, dining, lunching, dancing, and gossiping--together always. "will you not resolve to forget the past, yolande?" i asked fervently, taking her hand in mine again. "come, tell me that you will--that you will not hold me aloof like this? i cannot bear it--indeed i can't, for i love you;" and i bent until my lips touched her finger-tips. "i cannot!" she cried at last, with an effort rising and firmly withdrawing her hand from my grasp. "you cannot? why?" i demanded, taken somewhat aback by her sudden attitude of determination. "i will not allow you to ruin yourself, gerald, on my account," she declared in a very low but calm voice. "but why should my love for you prove my ruin?" i cried madly. "the truth is that you do not love me. why not admit it at once?" "you are in error," she hastened to protest. "i do love you. i love you to-day with the same fond affection as i entertained for you until that day--fatal to me--when you turned your back upon me and left me. but, alas! we can never now be the same to one another as we were then." she paused for a moment to regain breath; then, pale-faced, with eyes filled with tears, she gripped my arm frantically, crying: "gerald, my love, hear me! these are my last words, but i pronounce them--i make confession--so that you may understand the barrier that now lies between us." "well," i said, "speak--tell me!" "ah!" she cried hoarsely, covering her face with her hands, "you wring this confession from me. i am the most unhappy girl in all the world. would that i were dead that it was all ended! if i did not love you, gerald, i should deceive you, and leave you to discover the truth after our marriage. but i cannot--i cannot! even though we shall part to-day for ever, i have resolved to be frank with you because i still have one single spark of honesty left within my heart!" "i don't understand," i exclaimed. "tell me." "then listen," she said in a hard, unnatural voice, after a few moments of hesitation. "when we were lovers in the old days i was, as you know, a pure, honest, upright woman, with thoughts only for my god and for yourself. but i am that no longer. i am unworthy your love, gerald. i am unfit to be your wife, and can never be--never!" and she threw herself upon the couch near by and burst into a flood of tears, while i stood there rigid as a statue. chapter eleven. deane speaks his mind. an hour later i was seated in my room at the embassy staring blankly at the blotting-pad before me, utterly perplexed and bewildered. i loved yolande--nay, she was my idol; nevertheless she had firmly refused to allow me to resume my place at her side. at one moment it seemed to me as though she had actually made a sacrifice for my sake; yet at another i could not help regarding both her and her mother with distinct suspicion. my love's strange words were in themselves a sufficient self-condemnation. her service as a political agent had been secured by one or other of the powers--france, i suspected; and, to put it plainly, she was a spy! this knowledge had come upon me like a thunderbolt. of all the women i had known and least suspected of endeavouring to learn the secrets of our diplomacy, yolande was certainly the chief. the events which had culminated in her accepting this odious office were veiled in mystery. why had she done this? who had tempted her or forced her to it? those tears of hers, when she had made confession, were the tears of a woman in the depths of despair and degradation, and i, loving her so fondly, could not but allow my heart to go forth in sympathy. there was an affinity between us that i knew might some day prove fatal. but we had parted. she had announced her intention of leaving paris, accompanied by her mother, on the morrow, and had begged and implored that i would never seek her again. "i shall take care to evade you," she had said. "to-day we meet for the last time. we must each go our own way and strive our hardest to forget." ah! to forget would, i knew, be impossible. when a man has loved as ardently and intensely as i loved yolande, memories cling to him and are carried to the grave. you, reader, have loved in those half-forgotten days of long ago, and even now, with age creeping on, and, perchance, with grey hairs showing, sometimes give a passing thought to that fair one who in youth's golden days was your all in all. the sound of a song, the momentary perfume from a woman's chiffons as she passes, the sight of some long-forgotten scene, stirs the memory and recalls those hours of love and laziness when the world was so very pleasant and seemed to have been made for you alone. you recollect her sweet smile, her calm, womanly influence, her full red lips, and the fervency of her kisses. the tender memory to-day is sweet, even though it be tinged with bitterness, for you wonder whom she has married, and how she has fared; you wonder, too, if you will ever meet again, or whether she is already dead. the most charming reflection permitted to man is the memory of a half-forgotten love. i had been a fool. this bitter truth was forced upon me as i sat there ruminating. i had cast aside that patience and discretion which i, as a diplomatist, had carefully cultivated, and had actually contemplated marriage with a woman who had been denounced by kaye as a secret agent. my own peril had been a grave one indeed, and as i reflected i began to wonder how it was that i should have so completely lost my self-control. true, indeed, it is that love is blind. i drew forth a sheet of note-paper and penned her a long, fervent letter, expressing a hope that some day we might meet again, and declaring that my affection for her would last for ever. what mad words i wrote i almost forget. all i know is that even then i could not hold back, so deep and intense was my love for her, so completely did she hold me beneath the spell of her beauty. i tried to put the letter aside for calmer reflection, but could not. my pen ran on, recording the eloquence of my heart. then, scaling it, i addressed it, rang for the messenger of the embassy, and gave him instructions to take it to her. "there is no answer, m'sieur?" the man inquired. "none," i answered. then the door closed again, and i was alone. yes, i saw now how great and all-consuming was my love for this woman who was a spy, and who had actually confessed herself worthless. fate had indeed played me a sorry trick at this, the greatest crisis of my life. some ten minutes later harding entered, saying: "doctor deane has called, and wishes to see you, sir." i at once gave orders for his admission, and in a few moments he came across the thick pile carpet with hand outstretched. "hulloa, ingram, old chap!" he cried, glancing at me in quick surprise, "what's the matter? you don't look yourself." "oh, nothing," i answered with ill-feigned carelessness. "a bit worried, that's all." "worried over mademoiselle--eh?" he asked, fixing me with his keen eyes. i nodded in the affirmative. "ah, i guessed as much," he replied, with a sigh, placing his hat on the table and flinging himself into a chair. "mind if i smoke? i've been busy all day, and am dying for a weed." "smoke? why, of course," i answered, pushing my cigars and some matches before him. i took one also, thinking that it might soothe my nerves, and when we had lit up he leaned back in his chair, and, looking at me curiously through the smoke, asked at last: "what has occurred between you? mademoiselle is leaving paris to-morrow." "how did you know?" "i called half an hour ago, and found both her and the countess making preparations for a hasty departure. have you quarrelled again?" "no, there is no quarrel between us," i answered gravely. "on the contrary, there is a perfect understanding." an incredulous smile crossed his features. "well," he said, "i don't know, after all, what right i have to interfere in your private affairs at all, old chap, but if i might be allowed to make an observation i should say that there is some very extraordinary mystery surrounding both the countess and her daughter." "you don't like the countess?" "no, i don't. i conceived a violent prejudice against her on the first occasion that i saw her. that prejudice has already ripened into--well, i was about to say hatred." "why?" "well, i called upon them this afternoon with an object, and found the countess determined to place impediments in my way." "what was your object?" "i wished to satisfy myself of a certain fact." "of what fact?" i inquired with quick suspicion. "of the cause of her daughter's sudden attack last night." "and what did you find?" i asked eagerly. "i discovered a rather curious circumstance," he said. "you will remember telling me that when you searched the room you found she had written a letter almost immediately before her mysterious attack. well, when i had a look round that room later i saw the letter sealed in its envelope and addressed to the baroness maillac, at grands sablons, lying in the little letter-rack, and took possession of it, in the faint hope that it might direct me to some clue as to the cause of her curious condition. you will remember, too, the curious, unaccountable mark upon her lip. i wished to see that mark again. i examined it, but against the wish of the countess, who appeared to regard me with considerable animosity." "what was in the letter? you opened it, of course?" "yes, i opened it, but the note inside was of no interest whatever. nevertheless, i had my suspicions, and have proved them to be well grounded." "what have you proved?" "briefly this: the mark upon mademoiselle's lip caused me to suspect poisoning; yet it was apparent that she had not attempted suicide, but that the poison, whatever its nature, had entered the tiny crack in the lip by accident. i therefore came to the conclusion that her lip had come into contact with some baneful substance immediately prior to her attack, and when you mentioned the writing of the letter it appeared to me that the gum upon the envelope might be the channel by which the poison was conveyed to the mouth. the greater part of the night i spent in dissolving the gum and making experiments with the solutions thus obtained." "and what did you discover?" "i discovered the presence of a most powerful specific irritant poison. i used mitscherlich's method of detection, and although i cannot yet actually determine the poison with which the gum on the envelope had been impregnated, i proved its terrible effect by experiments. a rabbit inoculated with a single drop of the solution died, in fourteen seconds, of complete paralysis of the muscles, while a drop placed on a piece of meat and given to a cat proved fatal within one minute." "then there was poison on the envelope?" i gasped, astounded. "yes, but only upon that particular envelope. while left alone in the room awaiting mademoiselle, i secured four other of the same envelopes from the stationary rack on her escritoire. these i took home at once, made solutions, and tested them upon rabbits without effect. this proved that one envelope alone was poisoned." "then she was actually poisoned?" i said, surprised at his ingenuity and careful investigation. "undoubtedly so. the most curious feature is the mysterious character of the poison. at first i suspected strychnia; but as that attacks the sensitive portion of the spinal nervous system, and the symptoms were so totally different, i was compelled to abandon that theory, as also another i formed--namely, that the paralysis of the motor nerves might be due to curare. after some hours of study and experiment, however, i found that the poison was one extremely difficult of detection when absorbed into the system--that its symptoms were none of those ordinarily attributed to irritant poisons by tanner and the other toxicologists--that it was a poison not commonly known, if, indeed, known at all." "then you think that yolande was the victim of a deliberate attempt upon her life?" "of that i am absolutely convinced. having taken possession of the letter, i could not well mention it or make inquiries regarding it. i thought it would be best to leave such inquiries to you, who are her intimate friend. i went there to-day in order to satisfy myself regarding the mark on the lip, and also to secure some of the other envelopes. both of these objects i fortunately accomplished, and have succeeded in establishing the fact that she was poisoned in a most ingenious and secret manner by some person who is evidently no novice in the use of that most deadly and mysterious substance." "but whom do you suspect?" he blew a cloud of smoke from his lips, and, with his eyes fixed upon the panelled ceiling, answered: "ah! that's the enigma." "well," i said, after a pause, "you seem so hostile towards the countess, i'm wondering if you suspect her?" "i can't very well, even though there are several curious circumstances which seem to point in that direction. the great fact in favour of her innocence is that she sent for you. therefore i should like to obtain more direct evidence before actually condemning her. some of the circumstances are distinctly suspicious, even damning, yet others go far to prove the exact contrary." "but i can't see what object she could have in getting rid of her daughter," i observed, much puzzled by this extraordinary theory. "unless she feared some awkward revelations which yolande might make in a moment of desperation. to me there is still a good deal of mystery surrounding both mother and daughter." "i quite agree, dick. but do you think it possible that a mother could deliberately attempt to kill her daughter by such dastardly means? i don't." "such a thing is not unknown in the annals of crime," he answered, knocking the ash slowly from his cigar. "you see, it is practically plain that yolande is in possession of some secret, and has grown nervous and melancholy. of the nature of that secret we have no idea. if it were disclosed it might seriously affect the countess; hence it would be to the latter's advantage if her daughter's lips were sealed." "but, my dear fellow, i know the countess well. she's one of the most charming of women, and utterly devoted to yolande. your suggestion seems incredible." "how incredible it appears to you is of no import, my dear ingram," he answered calmly. "you asked me to investigate the strange affair for you, and i've done so to the best of my ability. i found that the young lady had been poisoned, in a most secret and ingenious manner, by someone well acquainted with the use of the unknown drug. that the envelope was carefully prepared is quite plain, but by whom it is impossible to say--" "not by her mother," i declared, interrupting him. "i can't believe that." "it is for you to discover that. you can ask her a little later about the letter, without giving her any clue to the fact that i have secured it. she must remain under the impression that the letter was duly posted by one of the servants." "but she is leaving paris," i said. "you can see her this evening and make the necessary inquiries, surely?" "no," i responded. "i shall not see her again." "then it is true, as i've already suggested, that you've quarrelled?" "no," i declared, "we have agreed to part again--that's all." he was silent for a moment, contemplating the end of his cigar. then he observed: "well, if i may be permitted to say so, old fellow, i think you've chosen a very wise course. you, in your official position, ought not to be mixed up with any mystery of this sort." "i know, dick--i know quite well," i responded hastily. "you, however, do not love a woman as i love yolande." "love be hanged!" he cried, laughing. "love is like the influenza-- painful while it lasts, but easily forgotten." "this matter is too serious for joking," i said, a trifle annoyed by his flippancy. "ah, i've heard that story once or twice before! it is astonishing what a difference a month makes in the course of the malady. take my tip, old chap, and think no more of her. depend upon it, your charming yolande with the pretty hair, that used to be admired so much in brussels, is not worth the position of wife to a good fellow like you." "that's all very well," i sighed. "i know i was a fool to have called upon her, but i was compelled." "what compelled you?" "a circumstance over which i had no control," i answered, for i did not intend to explain to him the accusation made against her by kaye. "and you at once fell in love with her again? ah! such meetings are always extremely dangerous." "yes; that is only too true. i know i have been foolish, and now must suffer." "rubbish!" he cried. "why, my dear fellow, edith loves you, and is perfectly devoted to you. she is charming, pretty, smart, with all the qualities necessary for the wife of a successful diplomatist. some day, when you get your promotion, you will be gazetted minister to one or other of the south american republics, and with her as your wife you'll be perfectly happy." "you seem to have already carved out my future for me, dick." "i've only prophesied the ordinary course of things." "i shall, i feel certain, never marry edith," i answered, shaking my head. "it is entirely out of the question." "well, we shall see. a man hardly ever marries his first love, you know. there always seems an evil fortune connected with first loves." "how coldly philosophical you are, dick! is it because you've never been in love?" "never been in love?" he echoed. "why, my dear old fellow, i've been in love a hundred times, but it's never been sufficiently serious to cause me to pop the question. i'm quite catholic in my tastes, you see. i'm fond of women as a sex." what he said was perfectly true. he was a popular favourite among the english colony in paris, and was an inveterate diner-out. indeed, his well-set-up figure was constantly to be seen at all smart gatherings, and i had overheard many a dainty parisienne whisper nice things about him behind her fan. "you'll find a pair of eyes fascinating you one of these days, never fear," i said. "then it will be my turn to smile." "smile away, old chap; you'll never offend me. we are too old friends for that." chapter twelve. the english tea-shop. there was a rap at the door, and harding entered with a telegram addressed to me. i tore open the flimsy blue paper, and saw that it was in cipher from berlin. the sender, i knew, was kaye. "what's up?" my friend asked. "some affair of state?" "yes," i answered mechanically, as i went across to the safe, and took out the decipher-book which gave the key to the cipher used by members of the secret service. by its aid i had quickly transcribed the message, which read: "_suspicions regarding yolande de foville proved beyond doubt. she is a french agent employed indirectly by the quai d'orsay. am returning to-night. in the meantime instruct osborne to keep strict observation upon her movements_. "_k_." "anything serious?" asked deane, watching my face. i held my breath, and managed to recover my self-possession. "no," i answered, "nothing of any grave importance. i sit here to deal with a strange variety of public business, ranging from despatches from home down to vice-consul's worries." "we are not at war yet," he laughed, "and we trust to you diplomatists to keep us out of it." i smiled, rather sadly i think. little did my friend dream how near we actually were to hostilities with france. but in the school of diplomacy the first lesson taught is that of absolute secrecy; hence i told him nothing. to be patient, to preserve silence, to be able to give to an untruth the exact appearance of the truth, and to act a lie so as to deceive those with the most acute intelligence on earth, are qualifications absolutely necessary--together, of course, with the stipulated private income of four hundred a year--for the success of the rising diplomatist. "we are trying to keep england out of war," i said. "indeed, that is the principal object of our existence. were it not for the efforts of lord barmouth, we should have been at war with the republic long ago. why, scarcely a week passes but the political situation changes, and we find ourselves, just as the french also find themselves, sitting on the edge of the proverbial volcano. then, by careful adjustment and marvellous tact and finesse, matters are arranged, and once more the ships of state sail together again into smooth waters. only ourselves, in this embassy, are really alive to the heavy responsibilities resting on the shoulders of our trusted chief. many a sleepless night he passes in his own room opposite, i can assure you." "and yet he is always merry and good-humoured, as though he hadn't a single care in the world." "ah, that is owing to his long training as a diplomatist. he shows no outward sign of anxiety, for that would betray weakness or vacillation of policy. an ambassador's face should never be an index to his thoughts." he tossed his cigar-end away and rose, asking: "where are you feeding to-night? can you dine with me at ledoyen's--or at the cafe de paris, if you prefer it?" "sorry i can't, old chap," i responded. "the chief and i have a dinner engagement at the austrian embassy. i'd much rather be with you; for, as you know, i'm tired to death of official functions." "you're bound to attend them, i suppose?" "yes, worse luck," i replied. "to be a diplomatist one must, like a lord mayor, possess an ostrich's digestion." "well, good-bye, old chap. sorry, you can't come," he said, smiling. "but do buck up! i don't want to have you as a patient, you know. take my advice, and just forget your pretty charmer. she's leaving to-morrow, and there's no reason on earth why you should meet again." "but about that letter?" i suggested. "we surely ought to clear up the mystery?" "let it pass," he urged. "don't call there again, but simply forget her. remember, you have edith." his words recalled to me the fact that i had received a letter from her that morning, and that it was still in my pocket unopened. "yes, i know," i exclaimed rather impatiently. "i shall, of course, try to forget. but i fear that i shall never succeed--never!" "take my advice and forget it all," he cried cheerfully, clapping me on the back. "good-bye." we clasped hands in a firm grip of friendship. then he walked out, and i was left alone. i went to the window, and looked down into the roadway. it was a blazing afternoon, and the streets seemed deserted. all paris was at trouville, dieppe, or arcachon, or drinking the more or less palatable waters in auvergne. paris in july is always more empty than is london in that month, and it is certainly many degrees hotter, even though the plashing fountains of the place de la concorde may give one a pleasant feeling of refreshment in passing, and the trees of the boulevards shed a welcome shade not found in the dusty streets of dear old grimy london. as i stood gazing aimlessly out of the window, it suddenly occurred to me that i had still in my pocket the letter which i had found on yolande's little writing-table--the letter making an appointment for five o'clock that day. i glanced at my watch, and found it was already half-past four. then, taking out the note, i carefully read it through, and, after a few moments' debate within myself, determined to stroll round and ascertain who it was who wished so particularly to speak with her. i do not think, now that i reflect calmly, that this determination was prompted by any feeling of jealousy, but rather by a strong desire to discover the truth regarding her connection with the quai d'orsay. anyhow, i brushed my hair, settled my cravat, replaced the decipher-book in the safe, and, taking my hat, strolled out into the blazing afternoon. would she herself keep the appointment, i wondered? surely not! she was too busy making preparations for a hasty departure. nevertheless, she might have sent a message to her mysterious correspondent regretting her inability to be present. anyhow, i was determined to watch and ascertain for myself. the english tea-shop in the rue royale is known, i daresay, to a good many of my lady readers who go shopping in the madeleine quarter, bargain-hunting in the louvre, or strolling about the grand boulevards watching parisian life in all its many phases. tea such as that to which english people are accustomed is difficult to obtain in paris hotels. it usually turns out to be slightly discoloured hot water, served in a teapot upon the spout of which hangs a more or less useless strainer. with the addition of sugar and milk, the beverage becomes both weak to the eye and nauseous to the palate, while in the bill at a first-class hotel the unfortunate visitor finds himself charged two francs for "one tea simple." the english shop in the rue royale, known to the englishman in paris as the "bun-shop," is like henry's, or the american bar at the chatham, where presides the ubiquitous johnnie with the small moustache, one of the institutions of the english colony. it is a rendezvous for the ladies, just as the chatham bar is crowded at four o'clock by englishmen resident in the gay capital, with a sprinkling of those misguided and decadent paris youths who term themselves orleanists and play at political conspiracy. the "bun-shop" is generally full from four to five, be it summer or winter. in the season it is patronised largely by chic parisiennes and their male encumbrances, generally laden with small parcels; while in summer the british tourists in their blouses and short tailor-made skirts, which serve alike for the boulevards and the alps, seem to scent it out and make it their habitual house of call. when i strolled in, the crowd at the little tables mostly hailed from those essentially british hotels in the rue caumartin. being a britisher, i naturally hesitate to criticise the get-up of the tourist to paris. but it is always a matter of speculation to those of us who live abroad why our compatriot, who would not be seen in a golf-cap in the strand or piccadilly, invariably sports one when he patronises the boulevards, and conducts himself, when in what he calls "gay paree," in a fashion which often makes one think that he has left his manners behind in england together with his silk hat. the fair-faced english girl in cotton blouse and straw hat is always a common object in the "bun-shop," and on this afternoon she was predominant, and the chatter in english was general. i found one of the little tables free, and, discovering an illustrated paper, sat with it before me, making an examination of each little group visible from my seat. not a single person, however, excited my suspicion. apparently no one was waiting, save a girl in black, a parisienne evidently, who, being joined presently by a gentleman, finished her tea and went forth. the clock showed it to be already five, and as i sat sipping my cup and feigning to read the _graphic_, i became more and more convinced that yolande, finding herself unable to keep the appointment, had sent an excuse. about me sounded the gossip which one always hears among the feminine tourists in paris: the criticisms of the louvre museum, the eulogies of the "lovely things" in the rue de la paix, and the delight at wonderful bargains obtained at the bon marche. it is always the same. the tide of tourists is never-ceasing; and the impression which paris makes upon the englishman or englishwoman is always exactly similar. those who spend a fortnight in the city of pleasure always believe life there to be a round of gaiety punctuated by fetes de nuit with moulin rouge attractions. these idolaters should live a year in paris, when they would soon discover that the french capital quickly becomes far more monotonous than their own much-abused london. the hands of the clock moved very slowly, and by degrees i got through the whole of the cup-marked illustrated literature of the establishment. many of the merry gossips had risen and departed, and at half-past five only two little groups remained. at length a smart victoria stopped before the door, and a dark, rather handsome, middle-aged, elegantly dressed woman descended, and, entering, took a seat. her style was not english, that was certain; and by the fact that she took lemon with her tea i judged her to be russian, although she addressed the waiter with an accent purely parisian. her footman stood at the door with the carriage-rug over his arm. from the inquisitive expression of her face i judged it to be the first time she had visited the tea-shop. could she be waiting for yolande? i made a close examination of her face, and saw that although she was just a trifle made-up, as are most parisiennes, she was nevertheless good-looking. she sipped her tea leisurely, nibbled a biscuit, and was readjusting her veil by twisting it beneath her chin, when suddenly the silhouette of a figure appeared in the open doorway. i glanced up quickly over the top of my piper, and in an instant recognised the new-comer, who looked very smart in his well-cut frock-coat, silk hat, and light grey suede gloves. he hesitated for an instant on the threshold and glanced swiftly around. no sooner had his eyes fallen upon the woman sitting there than he turned instantly, went out, and was next moment lost to sight. the man who had stood in the doorway during that brief moment, and who had apparently retreated owing to the presence of the woman whose carriage was awaiting her, was none other than the individual whose arrival in paris was so inexplicable--the man known as rodolphe wolf. chapter thirteen. the spy's report. so swiftly did the figure disappear from the doorway of the patisserie that i doubt whether the elegant woman there seated had been aware of his presence. she was sitting with her face half turned from the door, and, unless by means of the mirror, she could not possibly have witnessed his sudden hesitation and disappearance. that he intended entering there, and had been prevented by her presence, was manifest. he had no desire to be seen by her, that was quite evident. again it seemed as though yolande's mysterious correspondent was actually this man, whose presence in paris had caused her so much anxiety. a sudden impulse led me to go forth and keep watch upon his movements, and as i passed out i took note of the fine equipage, and saw that upon the harness was a duke's coronet, beneath which was a cipher so intricate that i could not unravel it. the woman within was evidently some notability, but a foreigner; otherwise i should have recognised her, knowing as i did, by sight, all smart paris. her attitude, seated at that little table sipping her tea and lemon, was so calm that i felt assured she was not there for the purpose of meeting yolande, but only for rest and a cup of that refreshing decoction so dear to the feminine palate. nevertheless, i was puzzled to know who she was, and why her presence had had such a terrifying effect upon the man who had come and fled like a shadow. i hurried along in the direction he had taken, down to the place de la concorde. whether he had really detected my presence or not i was undecided. i believed and hoped not. i had had a paper before my face at the moment of his appearance, and it had seemed to me that when his eyes fell upon the lady sipping her tea, he did not pause to make further investigation. i was looking for him eagerly among the hurrying foot-passengers, when, just as i turned the corner by the grey wall of the ministry of marine, i saw his thin, tall figure cross the road and mount upon the imperiale of one of the omnibuses going towards the bastille. at the same moment a second omnibus passed, travelling in the same direction, down the rue de rivoli, and without hesitation i jumped upon it, and, also mounting the imperiale, was thus able to follow him without much risk of detection. i kept my eyes upon his glossy silk hat some distance ahead as we travelled along the fine, broad thoroughfare, past the continental, the tuileries gardens, the louvre, and the quaint old tour st. jacques, until both vehicles pulled up at the corner of the wide place de l'hotel de ville, where he descended. i quickly ran down the steps, and, sauntering along with affected carelessness, followed him across the place and along to the quai des celestins, where he suddenly halted, glanced quickly around as though desiring to escape observation, and then entered an uninviting-looking door of one of those rickety dwellings which are among the most ancient and most unwholesome in paris. the door he entered seemed to be the private entrance to a dingy little shop that sold fishing-tackle, wicker eel-traps, and such-like necessities for the angler. the manner in which he entered was distinctly suspicious, but i congratulated myself that, while he had not detected me, i had run him to earth. he was a smart, rather foppish man of military appearance, though somewhat foreign-looking; thin-faced, black-haired, with a small, black, pointed beard, and a pair of cold grey eyes, sharp and penetrating; an erect, rather imposing, figure, which if once seen impressed itself upon one. outwardly he bore the stamp of good breeding and superiority, and he now called himself rodolphe wolf. it was strange--very strange. i noted the house he had entered, then, turning, walked slowly along the rue st. paul, and so regained the upper end of the rue de rivoli; and as i strolled along my thoughts were indeed complex ones. sight of that man recalled a chapter of my life which i had hoped was sealed for ever. of all men in the world he was the very last i should have dreamed of meeting. but as he had not detected me, for the present i possessed the advantage. that thin, superior-looking man who had strolled so airily along the quai, smart in his silk hat and pearl-grey gloves, and carrying his cane with such a jaunty air, was a man whose name had once been known throughout europe--a man, indeed, of world-wide notoriety. in those days, however, he did not call himself rodolphe wolf. he had changed his name, it was true, but he could never succeed in changing his personality. besides, the name he used had given me, who alone knew his secret, a clue to his identity. when sibyl had mentioned the name and described him as a chance acquaintance at the baronne's, i felt convinced as to the truth. yolande, too, seemed aware of his change of name, for so sudden had been my announcement that he was in paris that she had been completely taken by surprise, and had made no attempt to declare herself ignorant of my meaning. at the corner of the caserne, in the rue de rivoli, i sprang into a fiacre, and told the man to drive to the cafe de la paix, where, seated upon one of the little wicker chairs in the warm sunset, i drank my mazagran and allowed my thoughts to run back to the time when this man had played so important a part in my life. all those strange circumstances came back to me as vividly as though they had happened but yesterday. he had once been my friend, but now he was my bitterest enemy. count rodolphe d'egloffstein-wolfsburg, or as he now preferred to be called, rodolphe wolf, was in paris. he had returned as though from the grave, and was apparently living in seclusion in an exceedingly unfashionable apartment over the fishing-tackle shop beside the seine. it was over two years since report had declared him to be dead, and i had congratulated myself upon an escape from what had seemed an inevitable disaster; yet that report was false. he was alive, and i had no doubt that he meant mischief. yet why did yolande fear him? this fact puzzled me. they had been acquainted in the old days, it was true, but what cause she had to hate him i could not discern. something had passed between them of which i had remained in ignorance. strange, too, that the austrian ambassador should introduce him at the baroness's reception! with what motive? i wondered. surely he must know from the diplomatic list that i was now in paris, and that at any sign of hostility on his part i should expose him and explain the whole truth. he was playing a dangerous game, whatever it was; and i, too, felt myself to be in deadly peril. i sat there trying to review the situation with calmness, but could see no solution of the problem. the truth was that, believing him to be dead, i had given no heed to that sealed chapter of my history, and now the ghastly truth had fallen upon me as a thunderbolt. sibyl had met and liked him. she had in her ignorance declared d'egloffstein-wolfsburg to be a charming fellow. there was a touch of grim humour in the situation. fate seems sometimes to conspire against us. at such times it is no use kicking against the pricks. the proper course is to accept misfortune with the largest amount of good-humour possible in the circumstances, and just to treat one's sorrows lightly until they pass. this is, i am aware, counsel excellent in kind, but extremely difficult to follow. at that moment i felt crushed beneath the weight of sudden misfortune. all my future seemed dark and hopeless, without a single ray of happiness. the mystery surrounding yolande's actions, the suspicion resting upon the countess of having made a dastardly attempt upon her daughter's life, the manner in which knowledge of our secret despatch had been obtained and our diplomatic efforts thereby checkmated, and the reason of the sudden appearance in paris of my most bitter enemy, formed a problem which, maddening in its complexity, appeared to admit of no solution. two men of my acquaintance came up and shook my hand in passing, but what words i uttered i have no idea. my thoughts were, at that hour, when the place de l'opera was bathed in the crimson afterglow, far away from the busy whirl of central paris, away in that peaceful forest glade where took place that incident by which i so narrowly escaped with my life. the whole scene came before me now. i remembered every detail of that night long ago. bah! my cigar tasted bitter, and i flung it across the pavement into the gutter. would that i could have put from me all recollection as easily as i cast that remnant away! alas! i knew that such a course was impossible. the ghost of the past had arisen to overshadow the future. next day at noon i sat with the ambassador in his private room discussing the political outlook. he had exchanged telegraphic despatches with downing street during the morning, and i knew from the deciphers which i had made that never in the course of my career as a diplomatist had the european situation been so critical. try how we would in madrid, in berlin, and in vienna, we could obtain absolutely no confirmation of our suspicions that ceuta had been sold by spain to france. at the first rumours of the impending sale of this strategic point the machinery of our secret service in the various capitals had been set to work, and under the ubiquitous kaye no stone had been left unturned in order to get at the real truth of this grave menace to england's power in the mediterranean. his excellency, leaning back in his favourite cane chair, was grave and thoughtful, for again he had declared: "all this is owing to those confounded spies! here, in paris, nothing can be conducted fairly and above-board. i really don't know, ingram, what will be the outcome." "do you consider the situation so very critical, then?" i asked. "critical? i certainly do. it is more than critical. with this scurrilous press against us, popular feeling so extremely antagonistic towards england, and the difficulties in the transvaal, only a single spark is required to produce an explosion. you know what that would mean?" "the long-predicted european war?" he nodded, and his grey face grew greyer. i had never seen him more gloomy than at that moment. while we were talking, harding rapped at the door and asked: "will your excellency see mr. grew?" the ambassador turned quickly, exchanged a glance with me, and answered at once in the affirmative. for two persons his excellency was at all times unengaged--for kaye and for his trusted assistant, samuel grew. a few moments later a rather under-sized, bald-headed, gentlemanly little man entered and seated himself, at the chief's invitation. he was well-dressed, round-faced, with longish grey whiskers, and in his manner was the air of a thorough cosmopolitan, with just a trifle of the bon viveur. "well, grew," inquired his excellency, "anything fresh?" "i have come to report to your excellency upon my visit to ceuta." "what!" the ambassador exclaimed in astonishment. "have you actually been there and returned?" "certainly," the other answered, smiling. "i can move swiftly when necessary. i was in barcelona when i received my telegraphic instructions, and set out at once." "well, tell us the result of your observations," urged lord barmouth, instantly interested. "i went down to algeciras, and crossed to the much-discussed penal settlement by boat. before i could do so, i was compelled to get a permit from the commander of the algeciras garrison, and only then was allowed to board the steamship, whose every nut, screw, and chain was screaming for a little oil, whose hands stretched themselves on deck in the sun and left the work to the captain and his engineer, while they sang songs and smoked cigarettes. there were very few passengers, mostly women, who sang until the steamer cut across the straits in the teeth of the wind; then they ceased to sing and commenced to pray. in little more than two hours we were just off ceuta--a long, straggling spanish town, the convict station high up on the eastern hill, with stone-work fortifications, that would hardly endure three hours' attention from modern guns, down to the water's edge, and beyond, to the west, well-cultivated fields full of young wheat or barley. arrived on shore, i was summoned to a shed, where a severe official in uniform examined my papers, recorded my age and other details in a book, returned the passport, and told me that if i wished to leave ceuta at any time i must go to the commandant and get his written permission to do so. later on, the native who showed me the way to the governor's house made an explanation that was less satisfactory than he intended. `you see, senor,' he said, `we have a great many convicts here, and they are very like you. i mean to say,' he went on, feeling that he had not expressed himself happily, `that they are often dressed to look like gentlemen.' i then changed the conversation." "and how about the fortifications?" his excellency inquired. "i have full plans and photographs of them," answered the member of the secret service. "the photographs are on films, as yet undeveloped, and i at once posted them to an address in bale, so as to get rid of them from my possession. the plans, on tissue paper, i have here in my walking-stick," he added, smiling grimly and holding up to our view his rather battered ebony cane with a silver knob. "aren't you afraid of anyone prying into that?" i asked. "not at all. the knob is removable, as you see," and he unscrewed it, revealing a small cavity with a compass set in the top. "but no one ever suspects the ferrule. there is a hidden spring in it;" and, inverting the stick, he opened the ferrule, disclosing a small cavity in which reposed some tiny pieces of tissue closely resembling rolled cigarette papers. it is against the british principles of openness and fairness to employ secret agents; but in these days, when spies abound everywhere and the whole of europe is a vast network of political intrigue, we cannot afford to sit inactive and remain in contented ignorance. "you will make a full report later, with photographs and plans, i presume?" his excellency suggested. "yes. but knowing the importance of the matter i came straight to make a verbal report to your excellency. i arrived in paris only an hour ago. at present ceuta does not impress the eye of the person who knows something of england's fortified stations. gibraltar stands on guard across the water, presenting nothing but a towering, bare rock, honeycombed with hidden batteries, to which all ceuta lies exposed. while gibraltar is of solid rock, the vegetation round and in ceuta hints at a more mixed material, and an immense amount of money would be required to make fortifications that would fulfil all modern requirements. the expenditure might work wonders, for the town has the sea on all sides, and could be completely isolated by flooding the strip of land that fronts the bay. the present garrison consists of five thousand soldiers, including a regiment of moors, who in point of physique are the best men in the place. ceuta itself is rather a pretty town, so thoroughly spanish that the few moors and arabs met in the streets are objects of interest. the houses are small, and often built round the cool patios dear to southern spain. the balconies stretch so far across the streets that groups of girls sit all day, except in the hours of noon, chatting with their neighbours across the way." "and what does your visit lead you to conclude?" inquired his excellency, all attention to this statement of the well-trained secret agent. "i am of opinion that the present condition of ceuta need inspire no uneasiness. our latest and heaviest guns completely command the town; and if, in an hour of universal commotion, the unexpected happened, and spain gave up her possession, very long and expensive work would be required to render the position tenable." "and have you made arrangements for further information?" asked lord barmouth. "yes. we shall be at once informed of any fortification of ceuta conducted at a cost out of proportion to spanish resources--say at the expense and on behalf of a power that would hope to acquire it suddenly." "good," observed the chief in a tone of approval. "i congratulate you, mr. grew, upon your smartness in this affair. but you have not told me whether you discovered any french agents there?" "none. i went in the guise of a frenchman, with a french passport, and searched for any compatriots, but found none whom i could suspect." "well," responded the ambassador, rising, as a sign that the audience was at an end, "it behoves us to be constantly on the alert in face of the network of french intrigue that threatens england in the land of the moors, and consequently at one end of the mediterranean." then the keen, bald-headed, little man, highly pleased by the chief's word of commendation, bowed and withdrew, taking with him the precious walking-stick in which were concealed the plans of the spanish fortifications. his excellency sighed when the man had gone, and after a pause exclaimed seriously: "i can't help regarding the affair, ingram, as something more than a political ballon d'essai. the silence of our friends both in the boulevard de courcelles and the rue de lille is very ominous." chapter fourteen. smart paris. on the following afternoon, as lord barmouth had some business with the minister of foreign affairs over at the quai d'orsay, i accompanied lady barmouth and sibyl to a rather queer function. it was a unique opportunity offered to visit in detail one of the most attractive palaces in la ville lumiere; to while away a few hours very agreeably with a well-chosen variety entertainment presented by some of the most popular artists on the paris stage; and to aid a philanthropic enterprise, l'oeuvre sociale, conceived, i suppose, in a compassionate love of humanity and carried on in a touching spirit of self-abnegation. the palace was that of prince roland bonaparte, in the avenue d'jena. through the galleries, salons, and magnificent library the crush was enormous. the afternoon was hot and the atmosphere stifling; nevertheless, in the cause of charity we of the diplomatic circle must always be en evidence, even though we would rather be away from the crowd in the country or by the sea. it was evident when we arrived that the visit to the hotel was one of the great attractions of the fete, for many lady visitors, especially the american contingent, examined and admired the handsome staircase, with its green marble columns, its vast collection of pictures, sculpture, bronzes, tapestries, and curiosities, the salons filled with souvenirs of the first empire and of the imperial family, and the incomparable library--that of louis xiv--in exquisitely carved wood. we mounted to the vestibule on the first floor, where a concert-room had been fitted up, and there with difficulty found seats among the crowded audience. aristide bruant himself was concluding one of his popular songs of the street: la moral' de c'tte oraison-la, c'est qu' les p'tit's fill's qu'a pas d' papa, doiv'nt jamais aller a l'ecole, a batignolles, and bowed himself off amid thunders of applause. as a paris singer has not to submit his lines to a paternal county council, they are frequently a trifle more free than those to which english audiences are in the habit of listening. nevertheless, it must be remembered that this charity function was a very smart affair, all the best-known people remaining in paris being present. after bruant, an outburst of applause greeted the renowned spanish dancer, la belle otero, who danced and sang, followed by pastourelles of the eighteenth century, romances by florian and marie antoinette, and songs by paulus. lastly, there bounded upon the stage eugenie buffet, the "chanteuse des rues," together with her troupe. she sang that weird song of paris life so popular at the cafes, called "a la villette," commencing: il avait pas encor' vingt ans, i' connaissait pas ses parents, on l'app'lait toto laripette, a la villette. il etait un peu sans facon, mais c'etait un joli garcon: c'etait l'pus beau, c'etait l'pus chouette, a la villette. the audience had heard much of the song, but few of those present had ever ventured into the insignificant cafe where she sang it nightly. consequently there was distinct novelty in it. she sang it through, to the accompaniment of her street musicians, until she came to the final verse: la dernier' fois que je l'ai vu, il avait l'torse a moitie nu, et le cou pris dans la lunette, a la roquette. then, with a sudden outburst of enthusiasm, the whole audience threw hundreds of sous and francs to the singer. sibyl, seated beside me, her ladyship having found a seat with the baronne de chalencon some distance away, turned to me, saying: "the air is simply suffocating here. shall we go?" "certainly," i answered, glad myself to escape from the semi-asphyxiation. we rose and passed out together. on the stairs we met prince roland, delighted with the success of the entertainment, ascending, with, as usual, hat on the back of his head and hands in pockets. "ah, mon cher ingram!" he cried, greeting us. "and you are here with mademoiselle?" sibyl congratulated him upon his great success, whereupon he answered, with a broad smile: "it seems, mademoiselle, that my hotel is not large enough for charity." and he passed on, leaving us to laugh at his rather witty mot. in paris everyone knows the prince, for he is one of the central figures in society. below we encountered the baronne de nouilles, who with madame bornier was sharing the feminine literary honours of paris at the moment. the baronne's poems were well known, especially "il n'y a plus d'iles bienheureuses." she greeted us merrily, for sibyl was her especial favourite. she was still quite young, dark, slim, and distinguished-looking. in addition to much originality and charm in her manner of writing, she possessed an insight into, and a power to judge, human nature in its many varied aspects which had been pronounced by the critics to be remarkable. she was very graceful, with auburn hair and a face such as burne-jones loved to paint. indeed, she had sat for the faces of several of that artist's more recent pictures. "what!" she cried, "you, too, find the crush too great? and i also. i am returning home. come with me, both of you, and have a quiet cup of tea. i will explain to her ladyship;" and walking quickly across to where sibyl's mother was standing, she uttered a few words to the ambassador's wife. then we all three entered her landau and drove to her house. the baronne was, as all paris knows, in every way an artist, wealthy, chic, and philanthropic to a degree. her house was, i found, a dream of exquisite taste. when we entered, sibyl turned to me, saying: "these white carpets and delicate hangings make one tremble at the thought of dirty feet or smutty fingers!" and they certainly did. the effects everywhere were highly artistic-- more striking, i think, than i had ever seen in any private house. her refined taste and rare turn of--mind were shown in every corner of that delightful house, so delicate and restful in every detail. the salon in which tea was served was all white--soft white velvet hangings, white carpet, white wood furniture, and a little gallery also in white. along the dado-line, in white wood, were painted butterflies in pale opal shades, frail symbols of the flitting gaieties of life. we had been chatting some little time, and the conversation between the ambassador's daughter and the poetess had turned upon frocks, as it so often does between women devoted to la mode. they were discussing the toilette of madame de yturbe, one of the prettiest women in paris, and the tendency of late towards the empire and directoire periods in dress, when i asked a question to which i had often failed to get a satisfactory answer. "who is really the smartest--the parisienne, or the american woman, in paris?" "ah, m'sieur!" cried the merry little baronne, holding up her hands, "the americans run us so very close in the matter of dress nowadays that i really do not know. indeed, many americans are in my opinion more chic than the vraie parisienne." "well," observed sibyl rather philosophically, "there is, i think, more independence and individuality in the american woman's manner of putting on her clothes. the french woman--forgive me, baronne--accepts her frock just as it comes from the dressmaker, and looks more or less as though she has just stepped out of a bandbox. but the american knows better what suits her in the first place, and in putting on her clothes adapts them, by a judicious touch here and there, to her own particular style and taste." "i thoroughly agree," observed the baronne. "we have been actually beaten on our own ground by the americans. it is curious, but nevertheless true, that we french women are being left behind in the mode, as we have been left behind in the laws. here, in france, we are twenty years or so behind the age in regard to the laws affecting women." "i don't understand," observed sibyl. "well, in brief, our modern intellectual young man in paris is all for woman's rights. in england you have long been aware that to educate and gradually emancipate the women-folk is one of the most important points in modern progress; but though the feministe movement in france has been actively pushed by a small minority during the last few years, we in paris have only just heard of your so-called new woman." "and do you believe, baronne, that the movement will progress?" i inquired. "ah! it is difficult to say, m'sieur," she answered, with a slight shrug of her well-formed shoulders. "when the reformers' ideal has once been placed in the category of practical politics it will probably be accorded a welcome and given a deferential attention which has scarcely been vouchsafed to it on your side of the pas de calais. at present, as you know, a married woman in france has no right to her own earnings. they belong to the husband. a man can actually imprison his wife for two years if discovered with a lover; while a woman who has been wronged is not allowed the recherche de la paternite. in short, you english respect your womenkind, and are a free and enlightened people in comparison with us. here, `liberte, egalite, fraternite,' are words which apply solely to the masculine sex." we both laughed, but the baronne was quite serious, and from her subsequent observations it was patent that i had accidentally touched upon one of her pet subjects. to confess the truth, i became rather bored by her violent arguments in favour of the emancipation of women, for when a voluble frenchwoman argues, it is difficult to get in a word edgewise. presently she exclaimed: "a couple of days ago i had a visit from an old friend who inquired whether i knew you--the comtesse de foville. she has left paris." "yes," i said, "i think she has. her visit has been only a brief one. they have gone for their cure at marienbad, i believe." "very brief. she wrote telling me that she and yolande would remain in paris at least a month, and yet they've not been here a week!" "is this the same yolande whom you knew in brussels?" asked sibyl, turning to me with a glance of surprise. "yes," i answered in a hard voice. why, i wondered, had this woman brought up a subject so distasteful to me? "you were her cavalier in brussels, so i've heard," observed the ambassador's daughter. "i was still at college in those days, i suppose. but is it really true that your flirtations were something dreadful?" "who told you so?" i inquired, in a tone which affected to scout such an idea. "mother said so the other day. she told me that everyone in brussels knew you had fallen violently in love with her, and prophesied marriage, until one day you suddenly applied for a change of post, and left her. they whispered that it was owing to a quarrel." "well," i said with a sad smile, "you are really awfully frank." "just as you are with me. you're always chaffing me about my partners at dances, and making all sorts of rude remarks. now, when i have a chance to retaliate, it isn't to be supposed that i shall let it slip." "certainly not," i laughed. "now describe all my shortcomings, and make a long list of them. it will be entertaining to the baronne, who dearly loves to hear a little private history." "now, m'sieur, that is really too bad," the other protested. "you englishmen are always so very cynical." "we find it very necessary for our existence, i assure you, madame." "just as yolande was once necessary for your existence--eh?" she added mischievously, as they both laughed in chorus at my discomfiture. "well, and if i admit it?" "if you admit it you will perhaps set our minds at rest as to the reason of her sudden departure from paris yesterday," exclaimed the baronne, with a strange expression upon her face, as though she knew more than she would admit. "i have no idea of the reason. they have gone for their cure at marienbad, i believe." madame smiled, pushing a little tendril of her auburn hair from off her brow. "you believe!" she echoed. "are you not certain?" "no, i'm not certain. they left hurriedly. that is all i know." "and all you care?" asked sibyl, regarding me very gravely. "and all i care," i added. "what a courteous cavalier!" exclaimed madame, laughing. then she added: "i've known yolande and her mother for quite a number of years. yolande is a most charming girl." "i've heard that she is now engaged," i observed, resolved upon a ruse. "giraud, of the belgian embassy, told me the other day that she was to marry some german--i think he is--named wolf. do you know him?" "wolf!" ejaculated the baronne, her fine eyes fixed upon me with a strange look, as though in a moment she had become paralysed by some sudden fear. the next instant, however, with a woman's marvellous self-possession, she made shift to answer: "no, the name is quite unfamiliar to me." "why," cried sibyl suddenly, "that was the name of the dark-bearded man who was so charming to me at the de chalencon's the other night. is he the same?" "yes," i said. "his character, however, is none of the best. i would only warn you to have nothing whatever to do with him--that's all." "he was awfully kind to me the other evening," she protested. "well," i replied earnestly, "but you and i are friends of old standing, and i consider that i have a right to give you warning when it seems to be necessary." "and is one actually needed regarding rodolphe wolf?" asked the baronne, evidently much puzzled, for she undoubtedly knew him, even though she had declared her ignorance of his existence. "yes," i said, "he is a person to be avoided. more, i cannot tell you." chapter fifteen. across the channel. a week went by, but the war-cloud still hung heavily upon the political horizon. at my direction grew, assisted by other members of the secret service, had searched high and low in paris for rodolphe wolf; but in vain. after entering that dingy old house on the quai, he had suddenly and unaccountably disappeared. the fishing-tackle shop was not, as i had believed, his headquarters, but he had evidently only made a visit there, and had afterwards left paris suddenly, at almost the same time as the countess de foville and yolande. the ladies had also completely eluded us. they were not in marienbad, for inquiries had been made in that town without result. i was in daily expectation of kaye's return to paris; but he did not arrive, and i had heard nothing of his whereabouts. the astute secret agent had a habit of being lost to us for weeks, and of then returning with some important piece of information; not infrequently with a copy of some diplomatic document by means of which our chief was able to foil the machinations of england's enemies. nevertheless, in view of the curious events which had occurred, i was anxious to learn what facts he might have ascertained in berlin regarding yolande. lady barmouth was receiving in the grand salon of the embassy one afternoon, the fine apartment being full to overflowing with the usual chattering cosmopolitan men and women who circle about from one embassy to another, when i suddenly encountered my friend captain giraud, the belgian military attache. he had been absent on leave for several days, and had only just returned to paris. "i've been to brussels," he exclaimed, after we had exchanged greetings. "a cousin of mine has been married, and i went to the feasting." "and now you have the usual attack of liver, i suppose?" "yes," he laughed. "i'm feeling a little bit seedy after all the merry-making. but, by the way, you knew my cousin, julie montbazon? she was often a guest of the countess de foville at the chateau." "of course i remember her. she was tall, fair-haired, and spoke english extremely well," i said. "the same. well, she has married the son of tanchot, the banker, of antwerp--an excellent match." "and the countess and yolande, what news of them?" "they are in paris, are they not?" "no, they left suddenly some days ago." "well, they are not to be blamed," he said, smiling. "no one stays in paris during this heat if they can possibly avoid it. yolande told me she was going to marienbad." "she told me so, too. but they have altered their plans, it seems." "oh! so you have met again?" he cried, opening his eyes widely. "i thought your friendship had ended long ago?" "so it had." "then it has been resumed?" "no, it has not," i replied. "are you certain?" he inquired, with sudden earnestness. he had been one of my most intimate friends in brussels in the old days, and knew well the secret of our broken engagement. "quite certain." "and they have left for some destination unknown to you?" "yes." "but why did you seek her again, my dear ingram? it was scarcely wise, was it?" "wisdom has to be thrown to the winds in certain circumstances," i answered. "i was in this instance compelled to see her." "compelled?" he echoed, puzzled. "then you did not call upon her of your own free will?" "no. i called, but against my own inclination." "and are you absolutely certain, mon cher ingram, that all is broken off between you--that you have no lingering thought of her?" "quite. why?" he paused, as though in doubt as to what reply he should make to my question. "because," he said slowly, at last--"well, because if my information is correct, her character has changed since you parted." what could he know? his words implied that he was aware of the truth regarding her. "i don't quite understand you," i said eagerly. "be more explicit." "unfortunately i cannot," he answered. "why?" "because i never condemn a woman, either upon hearsay or upon suspicion." a couple of merry fellows, attaches of the russian embassy, strolled up, and we were therefore compelled to drop the subject. their chief, they told us, was about to leave paris for his country house in brittany--a fact interesting to lord barmouth, as showing that the political atmosphere was clearing. one ominous sign of the storm had been the persistent presence of all the ambassadors in paris at a time when usually they are in the country or by the sea. the representative of the czar was the first to move, and now without doubt all the other representatives of the powers would be only too glad to follow his example, for the month was august, and the heat in paris was almost overpowering enough to be described as tropical. in the diplomatic circle abroad the most accomplished, the merriest, the most courteous, and the best linguists are always the russians. although we at the british embassy were sometimes in opposition to their policy, nevertheless count olsoufieff, the russian ambassador, was one of lord barmouth's most intimate friends, and from the respected chiefs downwards there existed the greatest cordiality and good feeling between the staff of the two embassies, notwithstanding all that certain journalists might write to the contrary. volkouski and korniloff, the two attaches, were easy-going cosmopolitans, upon whose shoulders the cares of life seemed to sit lightly, and very often we dined and spent pleasant evenings together. we were gossiping together, discussing a titbit of amusing paris scandal which volkouski had picked up at a dinner on the previous night, and was now relating, when suddenly harding approached me. "his excellency would like to see you at once in his private room, sir." i excused myself, having heard the denouement of the story and laughed over it, and then mounted the grand staircase to the room in which my own chief was standing with his hands behind his back, gazing thoughtfully out of the window. as i entered and closed the door, he turned to me saying: "the political wind has changed to-day, ingram, and although the mystery regarding ceuta remains the same, the outlook is decidedly brighter. i had a chat with de wolkenstein and olsoufieff over at the quai d'orsay an hour ago, and the result makes it plain that the tension is fast disappearing." "olsoufieff leaves for brittany to-morrow," i said. "he told me so," answered the ambassador. "yet with regard to ceuta i have learned a very important fact, which i must send by despatch to the marquess. anderson, however, left for rome to-day, and we have no messenger. you, therefore, must carry it to london by the night service this evening. if you object, vivian can be sent." "i'll go with pleasure," i responded, glad of an opportunity of spending a day, and perhaps even a couple of days, in town. we who are condemned to exile abroad love our dear old london. "then if you will get out the cipher-book i'll write the despatch." i unlocked the safe, handed him the book, and then stood by, watching as he reduced the draft despatch which he had already written to the puzzling array of letters and numerals. the operation of transcribing into cipher always occupies considerable time, for perfect accuracy is necessary, otherwise disastrous complications might ensue. at last, however, his excellency concluded, appended his signature, and took from a drawer in his big writing-table a large envelope bearing a formidable red cross. despatches placed in those envelopes are for the eye of the principal secretary of state for foreign affairs alone, and are always carried by the royal messengers in the chamois-leather belt worn next their skin. they are essentially private communications, which british ambassadors are enabled to make with the great statesman who, untiring by night and by day, controls england's destinies. the messengers carry the ordinary despatches to and fro across europe in their despatch-boxes, but what is known in the foreign office as a "crossed despatch" must be carried on the person of the messenger, and must be delivered into the actual hand of the person to whom it is addressed. when the communication was placed in its envelope, duly secured by the five seals of the ambassador's private seal--a fine-cut amethyst attached to his plain watch-guard of black silk ribbon--he handed it to me to lock in the safe until my departure. this i did, and after receiving some further verbal instructions went to my rooms to prepare for the journey. i dined early, called at the embassy for the despatch, which i placed in my waist-belt, and left the gare du nord just as the summer twilight had deepened into dusk. i was alone in the compartment on that tedious journey by amiens to calais. the night service between paris and london never holds out a very inviting prospect, for there is little comfort for travellers as compared with the saloon carriages of the chemin de fer du nord and the fine buffet cars of the wagon lit company which run in the day service between the two greatest capitals of the world. the boats by the night service, too, are not all that can be desired, especially if a strong breeze is blowing. but on arrival at calais on the night in question all was calm; and although the boat was one of the oldest on the service, nevertheless, not the most delicate among the lady passengers had occasion to seek the seclusion of a cabin or claim the services of the portly, white-capped stewardess. in the bright moonbeams of that summer's night i sat on deck smoking and thinking. what, i wondered, did giraud know concerning yolande? it was evident that as my friend he had my interests at heart, and wished to warn me against further association with her, even though he had done it clumsily and without the tact one would have expected of a man so well schooled in diplomacy. i remembered how at one time he was frequently a guest at the chateau of houffalize; indeed, we had been invited there at the same time on several occasions for shooting and wild-boar hunting in the ardennes forest. yes, it seemed apparent that he knew the truth, that yolande was actually a secret agent. but she had disappeared. perhaps, after all, it was as well. i had no desire that kaye and his smart detectives should hunt her through europe, unless it could be actually proved that through her the secret of our policy towards spain with regard to ceuta had been betrayed to those powers which were ever at work to undermine british prestige. but how could she possibly have obtained the secret? that was the crux of the whole situation. the despatch from the marquess of malvern to lord barmouth had been a crossed one, and it had never left the person of the foreign service messenger until placed in my chief's hands with the seals intact. the mystery was absolutely inscrutable. the moonbeams, reflected by the dancing waters, and the many lights of dover harbour as we approached it, combined to produce an almost fairy-like picture. indeed, in all my experience of the channel i had never known a more perfectly calm and brilliant night, for the sea was almost like a lake, and on board the passengers were promenading as they chatted and laughed, pleasantly surprised to find the passage such an enjoyable one. but as i lolled in my deck-chair, my eyes fixed upon the silver track of the moonbeams, a figure suddenly passed along the deck between my vision and the sea. there were a good many passengers, for a p&o steamer had come in at marseilles, and about a couple of hundred travellers from the far east were hurrying homeward. every moment they were passing and repassing me; therefore i cannot tell what it was that attracted my attention to that particular silhouette dark against the silvery sea. i only saw it during a single second, for next instant it had passed and become lost in the crowd of promenaders on deck. it was that of a woman of middle height, wearing a long travelling-cloak heavily lined with fur and a small sealskin toque. the fur collar of her coat was turned up around her neck, and thus hid the greater part of her face; indeed, i saw little of her countenance, for it was only a grey blotch in the shadow; yet her dark eyes had glanced at me inquiringly, as though she wished to mark well my appearance. her height and gait struck me as somewhat unusual. i had seen some person before closely resembling her, but could not remember the occasion. she had passed me by like a shadow, yet somehow a strange conviction had in an instant seized me. that woman had followed me from paris. she had stood on the platform of the gare du nord watching me while i had walked up and down awaiting the departure of the train. i rose and searched the deck from end to end, but could not rediscover her. i went below, wandering along the gangway, past the engines, where sometimes passengers seek shelter from the chill winds, but she was not there. as far as i dared, i peered into the ladies' cabin, but saw no one resembling her. in every part of the vessel i searched, but she had disappeared as though by magic. indeed, a quarter of an hour later i was questioning myself as to whether i had really seen that figure or whether it had been merely a chimera of my excited imagination. but there was no doubt that a tall, well-dressed woman had passed me and had peered into my face; and equally certain was it that, apparently fearing detection, she had disappeared and hidden herself somehow. upon a vessel at night there are many dark corners where one can escape observation; besides, the most likely spot for a hiding-place was one or other of the private deck-cabins. try as i would, i could not rid myself of the recollection of that face. now that i reflected, i remembered that when i saw her on the railway-platform i noticed she was dark-eyed, with a thin, elongated, rather striking, careworn face; a figure almost tragic in expression, yet evidently that of a woman of the world her nationality was difficult to distinguish, but by her tailor-made travelling-dress and her rather severe style, i had put her down as english. her glance in the semi-darkness had, however, been a curious one, and the reason was rendered the more puzzling by her sudden disappearance. as we reached the pier at dover i stationed myself at the gangway, and closely scrutinised every person who went ashore, waiting there until the last passenger had left. but no one resembling her appeared. she seemed to have vanished from the boat like a shadow. i went ashore, and ran from end to end of both trains, the chatham and dover and south eastern, but could not find her. then, entering a compartment in the latter train, i travelled to charing cross, much puzzled by the incident. i could not doubt but that this thin-faced woman had followed me for some mysterious purpose. chapter sixteen. dawn. when in the early morning i drove into downing street and entered the office of the chief of the night staff, i was informed that the marquess of malvern was in town; therefore i drove on to belgrave square. the prime minister's house was a large, old-fashioned, substantial-looking mansion, devoid of any outward show or embellishment, and with very little attempt at ornamentation in the interior. everything was solid and good, but long out of date. the gimcrack painted deal abominations, miscalled art-furniture, had not been invented in the day when the town house of the great family had been renovated in honour of the marriage of the fourth marquess, the present prime minister's grandfather, and very little had been altered by the two generations who had succeeded him. the time-mellowed stability of the place was one of its greatest charms. the footman led me upstairs through the great reception-room which every foreign diplomatist in london knows so well, where the furniture was at present hidden beneath holland shrouds, and down a long corridor, till we found the valet, who, in obedience to the strict orders of his master, went and awakened him. the marquess, attentive to the affairs of state by night as well as by day, was always awakened on the arrival of a crossed despatch from any of britain's representatives at the foreign courts. "his lordship will see you in his dressing-room in a few moments, sir," the valet said when he returned, as he ushered me into a small room close at hand. i had sat there before on previous occasions when i had been the bearer of secret reports from my chief. i had only to wait a few moments, and the great statesman--a tall, thin, grave-faced gentleman, wrapped in his dressing-gown, opened the door and stood before me. "good-morning, mr. ingram!" he exclaimed affably; for to all the staff of the foreign office, from ambassador down to the lower-grade clerk, the marquess was equally courteous, and often gave a word of encouraging approval from his own lips. many times had he been heard to say, "each of us work for our country's good. there must be neither jealousy nor pride among us." the esprit de corps in the foreign office is well known. i bowed, apologised for disturbing him at that early hour--it was half-past five--and handed him the despatch. "you've been travelling while i've been sleeping," laughed the director of england's foreign policy, taking the envelope and examining the seals to assure himself they were intact. then he scrawled his signature upon the receipt which i handed him, tore open the envelope, and glanced at the cipher. "have you any idea of the contents of this?" he inquired. "no, it is secret. lord barmouth wrote it himself." "then kindly come this way;" and he led me down a long corridor to a large room at the end--his library. from the safe he took his decipher-book, and after a few minutes had transcribed the despatch into plain english. i saw from his face that what he read was somewhat displeasing, and also that he was considerably surprised by the news it contained. he re-read the lines he had written, twisting his watch-guard nervously within his thin white fingers. then he said: "it seems, ingram, that you have some extremely difficult diplomacy in paris just now--extremely difficult and often annoying?" "yes," i said, "there are several problems of late that have required great tact and finesse. but we at the embassy have the utmost confidence in our chief." "lord barmouth is a man of whom england may justly be proud. would that there were many more like him in our service!" said the prime minister. "kindly ask him to keep me posted constantly regarding the progress of the matter he has just reported. it is serious, and may necessitate some drastic change of policy. it is for that reason that i wish to be kept informed." "do you require me to return to my post to-day?" "certainly not," he replied quickly. "now you are in england you may remain a couple of days or so, if you wish. i am well aware how all of you long for a day or two at home." i thanked his lordship; and then, after a short and pleasant chat upon the political situation in paris and the mystery regarding ceuta, i went out, mounted into my cab, and drove down to the st. james' club, where i made myself tidy, and breakfasted. when i had finished my second cup of tea and glanced through the morning paper, eight o'clock was striking. i rose, went to the window, and looked out upon piccadilly, bright and brilliant in the morning sun. with hands in my pockets i stood debating whether i should act upon a suggestion that had been constantly in my mind ever since leaving paris. should i take edith by surprise, and go down to visit her? the fact that the marquess had given me leave so readily showed that the outlook had become clearer, notwithstanding the fact that my chief had transmitted, for the eye of the foreign minister only, the secret despatch of which i had been the bearer. at that early hour there was no one in the club, yet as i wandered through those well-remembered rooms my mind became filled with pleasant recollections of merry hours spent there in the days before my duty compelled me to become an exile abroad. i thought of yolande, and tried to decide whether or no i really loved her. a vision of her face arose before my eyes, but with a strenuous effort i succeeded in shutting it out. all was of the past. besides, had not kaye proved her to be a secret agent, or, to put it plainly, a spy? daily, hourly, i had struggled with my conscience. in the performance of what was plainly my duty i had visited her, and had nearly fallen into the trap she had so cunningly baited, for she no doubt intended, after all, to become my wife; and in this she was acting, i felt confident, in concert with that man who was my bitterest enemy--the man who now called himself rodolphe wolf. no, i had treated edith unfairly, and therefore resolved to run down to norfolk and visit her. with that object, an hour later i left london for great ryburgh, the small village where she delighted to live reposeful days in company with her maiden aunt, miss henrietta foskett. in due course i arrived by the express at fakenham, drove in a fly to the quiet little village, and descended before the large, low, roomy old house with mullioned windows and tall chimneys, which lay back from the village street behind a garden filled with those old-world, sweet-smelling flowers so much beloved by our grandmothers. i walked up the garden-path, knocked, and was admitted by the neat maid, ann, who for fifteen years had been in miss foskett's service. it has always seemed to me that except by their immediate heirs, maiden aunts are often nearly forgotten among a bustling younger generation always striving and toiling. they are left to dust their own china and sharply to superintend the morals and manners of their general servant, save when the holiday-times of the year come round, when their country houses are more apt to recur to their relatives' minds; their periodical letters, in the delicate pointed italian hand, essential in the days of their youth as the hall-mark of gentility, are then more eagerly replied to, for aunt jane's or aunt maria's proffered hospitality will generally furnish an economical change of air. edith's case was not an unusual one. her father, a wealthy landowner in northumberland, had died in her youth, while five years ago, just before she left college at st. leonard's, her mother, who was constantly ailing, also succumbed. she was left entirely alone; but she had succeeded to a handsome income, derived from property in the city of newcastle. her aunt henrietta, her mother's only surviving sister, had constituted herself her guardian. miss foskett had been able through stress and change to cling to the old house--the old place, once so full, from which so many had gone out to return no more. i knew that interior well. there was a haunting sense of pathos in those old rooms, and the ancient furniture was arranged in unyielding precision. when ann ushered me into the musty-smelling drawing-room, i glanced round and shuddered. aunt henrietta's rules were the household rules of her mother before her, and she severely reprobated the domestic slackness and craving for mere comfort and luxury of the present generation. her lace curtains, carefully dressed, were hung up, and fires banished from all her fireplaces, on the first of may. untimely frost and snow had no power to move the prim old wool-work screen, glazed and framed, that hid the steel bars of the grate; the simpering ladies, in their faded blue and scarlet dresses, looked unsympathetically at the light carpet, the white curtains, the anti-macassared armchairs, the round table with books, miniatures, and a flowering plant, whatever the state of the thermometer. through the windows a pleasant vista was presented across a well-kept lawn with broad pasture-lands beyond, and the spire of testerton church rising in the distance behind the belt of trees. while i sat there awaiting edith, who was no doubt amazed at the announcement of my presence, and was now rearranging her hair, as women will, i glanced up at the feeble watercolours and chalk drawings traced by the hand of "dear aunt fanny, who had a wonderful talent for drawing." it occurred to me that fanny's great-nieces, with perhaps less artistic excuse, now studied at the slade, copied at the national gallery, and lived in flats with some feminine friend on tea and pickles. such girls give lunches and teas to stray bachelors, and own a latchkey. but such doings could hardly be thought of among fanny's muddled trees and impossible sunsets, with fanny's pictured eyes smiling sweetly, if a trifle inanely, from behind her bunches of fair, hanging curls, at grandmother's mild face and folded hands on the opposite wall. notwithstanding the inartistic character of the place, there was everywhere a tranquillity and an old-world charm. through the open window came the scent of the flowers, the hum of insects in the noonday sun, and the call of the birds. how different was the life there from my own turbulent existence in the glare and glitter of the gayest circle in paris! i sighed, and longed for quiet and rest at home in dear old rural england. suddenly the door opened, and aunt henrietta, a prim, shrunken, thin-faced old lady in stiff black silk, and wearing a cap of cream lace, came forward to greet me. "why, you have taken us entirely by surprise, mr. ingram!" she said in her high-pitched voice. "when ann told me that it was you, i would scarcely believe her. we thought you were in paris." "i had to come to london on business, so i thought i would run down to see how you all are," i answered. "i hope my visit is not inconvenient?" "oh no," answered the old lady. "i've told edith, and she will be down in a moment. she's been worrying for the past week because she has received no letter from you." "well, i've come personally, miss foskett," i laughed. "i hope my presence will partly make up for my failure as a correspondent." her grey, wizened face puckered into a smile. i knew that she had not altogether approved of edith becoming engaged to me. but her niece was of age, mistress of her fortune, and, i shrewdly suspected, contributed handsomely towards the expenses of that small, prim household. although aunt hetty was of a somewhat trenchant type, and shook her head over the wilful vagaries of a world that had outgrown her philosophy of life, yet she still preserved a motherly instinct of patient love for all mankind. she was, in common with most maiden aunts, a great church-goer and firm supporter of the parish clergy of great ryburgh; but in parochial matters i believe she was more dreaded than loved for the uncompromising force of her doctrine and demeanour. she was severe on the faults and failings of her inferiors, and apt to discriminate in her almsgiving. frequent curtseys and a little adroit flattery from "the poor" were a surer road to her purse than morose merit, however great. the old lady straightened out an antimacassar that chanced to be a trifle awry, then, spreading out her skirts slowly, seated herself, and began to relate to me gossip concerning people whom i knew in the neighbourhood--the squire, the doctor, the parson, and other local worthies, all of whom, taken together, made up her quiet little world. at last the door opened again, and next instant, as i sprang up, i became conscious of a fair vision in a simple white gown standing before me. the touch of her soft, tiny hand, the love-glance of those beautiful eyes, the glad smile of welcome, the music of that voice, came upon me as a sudden revelation. her perfect type of english loveliness became disclosed to me for the first time. she was absolutely incomparable, although never before that moment had i realised the truth. but in that instant i became aware that she held me irrevocably beneath her spell. i took her hand, and our eyes met. my gaze wavered beneath hers, and what words i uttered in response to her greeting i cannot tell. all that i knew was that i was unworthy of her love. chapter seventeen. edith austin. for a time our conversation was somewhat stilted. then aunt hetty rose suddenly, with a loud rustling of her stiff silks, made the excuse that she had to speak with the servants, and discreetly left the room. the instant the door had closed, edith moved towards me, and we became locked in one another's arms. she was full of inexpressible sweetness and perfect grace. the passion that had at once taken possession of her soul had the force, the rapidity, the resistless violence of the torrent; but she was herself as "moving delicate," as fair, as soft, as flexible as the willow that bends over it, whose light leaves tremble even with the motion of the current which hurries beneath them. love lit within my breast a clear fire that burned to my heart's very core. edith could scarce speak, so overjoyed was she at my visit; but at last, as i pressed her to me, and rained kisses upon her brow, she said, looking up at me with a glance of reproach: "you have not written to me for ten whole days, gerald! why was that? last night i sent you a telegram asking if you were ill." "forgive me, dearest," i urged. "this last week i've been extremely busy. there have been serious political complications, and, in addition, i've had a perfect crowd of engagements which duty compelled me to attend." "you go and enjoy yourself at all sorts of gay receptions and great dinners, and forget me," she declared, pouting prettily. "i never forget you, edith," i answered. "don't say that. you are ever in my thoughts, even though sometimes i may be too much occupied to write." "do you assert then that for the past ten days you have absolutely not had five minutes in which to send me news of yourself?" she cried in a tone of doubt. "well, perhaps i had better admit that i've been neglectful," i said, altering my tactics. "but, you see, i knew that i should come here to-day, so i thought to take you by surprise. are you pleased to see me?" "pleased!" she echoed, raising her lips to mine. "why, of course i am! you seem always so far away, and i always fear--" and she paused without concluding her sentence. "well, what do you fear?" "i fear that amid all that whirl of pleasure in paris, and amid all those smart women you must meet daily, you will forget me." "i shall never do that," i answered reassuringly. she was silent for a moment. her countenance had assumed a very grave expression. "ah," she said, with a slight sigh, "you do not know how i sometimes suffer, gerald. i am always fearing that some other woman may rob me of you." "no, no, dearest," i answered, laughing. "never contemplate that, for such a theft is not possible. remember that my duty in a foreign capital is to represent my country at the various social functions, and to endeavour to promote good feeling wherever i can. a diplomatist who is not popular with the women never rises to the post of ambassador. to be gallant is essential, however one may despise and detest the crowd of voluble females upon whom one must dance attendance." "i often sit here and picture you in your smart diplomatic uniform flirting with some pretty foreign woman in a dimly lit arbour or conservatory," she observed, still very grave. "my life is so very quiet and uneventful in comparison with yours;" and she sighed. "the charge against me of flirtation is entirely unfounded," i declared, holding her hand and looking earnestly into her clear eyes, now filled with tears. "it is true that sometimes, for purposes connected with our diplomacy, i chat merrily with some grande dame in an endeavour to pick up information regarding the latest change in the political wind; but with me the art of pleasing women is a profession, as it is with every man in the diplomatic service." "i know," she said in a strained tone. "and in those hours of pleasure you forget me. is not that so?" "i do not forget a certain summer evening up in scotland when we walked out after dinner and strolled together down by the rippling burn," i said in a low voice, pressing her closer to me. "i do not forget what words i uttered then, nor do i forget your response--that you loved me, darling." "but there are others, more attractive than myself, whom you must meet constantly at those brilliant receptions of which i read in the newspapers," she cried, bursting into tears. "they are foreign women," i declared, "and i hate them all." "ah," she cried in a tremulous voice, "if i could only believe what you tell me is the truth!" "it is the truth, dearest," i said, kissing her tears away. "we are parted; but the quiet, even life you live here is far happier and more healthful than one passed in the stifling atmosphere of politics and perfume in which i am compelled to exist. the ladies' newspapers tell you of the various entertainments in paris, and describe the gay toilettes and all that kind of thing; but those journals say nothing of the unfortunate diplomatists who are compelled to ruin their digestions and wreck their constitutions by late hours in the service of their country." she was silent, and i felt her hand trembling in mine. i looked upon her fair face, and lovingly stroked the dark tendrils of hair from her brow. what she had said had aroused within me some qualms of conscience; but, loving her, i strove to reassure her of my perfect and unwavering fidelity. women, however, are difficult to deceive. they possess a marvellous instinct where love is concerned, and are able to read their lover's heart at a glance. no diplomatist, however expert in the art of prevarication, can ever hope to mislead a woman who is in love. "i often doubt, gerald, whether you really love me as truly as you have declared," she said in a low tone, at last. "perhaps it is because you are absent, and i think of you so much and wonder so often what you are doing." "my absence is compulsory," i answered, adding earnestly: "i love you, edith, however much you may doubt my protestations." "ah!" she answered, smiling through her tears. "if i could only believe that what you say is true! but it is said that you people at the embassies never speak the truth." "to you, dearest, i speak the truth when i say that i love no other woman save yourself. you are mine--you are all the world to me." "and yet you have neglected to write to me for ten whole days! the man who really loves is not so forgetful of the object of his affections." she was piqued at my neglect. such was the simplicity, the truth, and the loveliness of her character that at first i had not been aware of its complexity, its depth, and its variety. the intensity of passion, the singleness of purpose, and the sweetly confiding nature presented a combination which came near to defying analysis. i now saw in her attitude at this moment the struggle of love against evil destinies and a thorny world; the pain, the anguish, the terror, the despair, and the pang unutterable of parted affection. my heart went out to her. "but i thought you had forgiven," i said seriously. "i have come myself to spend a few hours with you. i have come here to repeat my love;" and, bending, i kissed the slim, delicate little hand i held. but she withdrew it quickly; for there was a sudden movement outside in the hall, and aunt hetty entered fussily with the news that luncheon was waiting, and that she had ordered an extra cover to be laid for me. the dining-room was just as antiquated as the musty drawing-room, and just as inartistic, save that the oak beams in the low ceiling were mellowed by age and the dark panelling presented a more cosy appearance than the awful green and red wall-paper of the state apartment. i knew miss foskett's cuisine of old, and seated myself at table with some misgiving. true to my expectation, the meal proved a terribly formal one, with aunt hetty seated at the head of the table directing ann by movements of her eyebrows, talking but little except to intersperse some remarks sarcastic or condemnatory; while to us were served several extremely indigestible specimens of english culinary art. aunt henrietta, a strict observer of all the conventionalities, was never tired of referring to the exemplary youth of her day; but above all she had, in the course of her lonely life, developed the keenest and most obtrusive nose for a lie. she was one of those who would, uninvited, join in a casual conversation and ask the luckless conversationalist to verify his statements with chapter and verse. she would stop in the streets and challenge with soul-searching doubts the remark that it was a "fine day." aristophanes invented an adjective to describe this ancient and modern product; it is a long word, but it describes her: [a classical greek phrase], which, being interpreted, is, "early-prowling-base-informing-sad-litigious-plaguey." she was fond of picking one up in a quotation if one changed a mere "yet" for a "but"; and would nag all round until she had silenced the conversation. knowing her peculiarities, i hazarded but few remarks at table, and carefully avoided making any distinct statement, lest she should pounce upon it. at last, with a feeling of oppression relieved, we rose, not, however, before aunt hetty had invited me to remain the night, and i had accepted. i should be compelled, i knew, to leave charing cross by the night mail on the morrow, much as i desired to remain a few days in that rural retreat beside the woman i loved. for an hour or so we idled together beneath the trees in the quaint old garden, where edith had caused the gardener to swing the hammock i had sent her from paris. when the sun began to lose its power she put on her large flop hat of leghorn straw trimmed with poppies, and we strolled together through the quiet village, between its rows of homely cottages, many of them covered with creepers and flowering plants, until we came to the winding wensum river, which we followed by the footpath lined with poplars, past the old mill, and away into the country. hand-in-hand we wandered, neither uttering a word for some little time, both of us too full of our own thoughts. suddenly, in guist wood, where the stream with its cooling music wound among the polished stems of the beeches, with the sunshine glinting down upon them through the veil of leaves, we halted, standing ankle deep in soft moss and nodding wild-flowers. her beauty and her silence had struck a new, intolerable conviction of guilt into my heart. she turned her flawless face to mine as though with firm resolve, and then in a hoarse, strained voice told me plainly that her love for me was all a mistake. "a mistake that you love me, edith!" i repeated, holding both her hands tightly in mine, and looking straight into her clear, dark, fathomless eyes. "yes," she insisted. her colour went, and her eyes fell away from mine. "then why have you so changed?" i asked quickly. "i have always, since that evening beside the burn, regarded you as my affianced wife." she closed her lips tightly, and i saw that tears welled in her eyes. "my happy dream is over," she said bitterly, "and the awakening has come." "no," i cried, "you cannot say that, edith. you do not mean it, i'm sure! remember the early days of our love, and recollect that my affection for you is as strong now as then--indeed, stronger to-day than it has ever been." she was silent. in that moment my new-found happiness of those days in scotland all came back to me. i remembered that summer-time of long lingering beneath the shadowy glades of the glen; of moonlight wanderings along the lanes, of love-trysts under the rising sun, by rose-garlanded and dew-spangled hedgerows. ah! many had been the vows we had plighted in the deep heart of scottish hills during those golden summer days, and many were the lovers' kisses taken and given under the influences of those long balmy evenings, when merely to idle was to be instinct with the soul of passion and of poetry. "i remember those days," she answered. "they were the dawning days of our love. no afterglow of passion can ever give back the subtle charm of those sweet hours of unspoken joy. but it is all past, gerald, and there is now a breach between us." "what do you mean?" i asked anxiously. "i do not understand." "i have already told you," she answered in a hard voice. "you love another woman more than you love me. ah, gerald! you cannot know how i have suffered these past months, ever since the truth gradually became apparent. all through these summer days i have wandered about the country alone, revisiting our old haunts where we had lingered and talked when you were here twelve months ago. years seem to have passed over my head since that day in june when you last stood here and held my hand in yours. but now you have slipped slowly from me. i have drunk deeply of the cup of knowledge, and life's cruellest teachings have been branded upon my heart." "but why?" i cried. "i cannot see that you have any cause whatever for sadness. true, we are compelled to be apart for the present, but it will not be so always. your life is, i know, a rather monotonous one, but soon all will be changed--when you are my wife." "ah," she sighed, "i shall never be that--never!" "why not?" "because i see--i see now," she faltered, "that i am not fitted to become a diplomatist's wife. i have no tact, no smartness, no experience of the kind that is so absolutely necessary for the wife and helpmate of a man who is rising to distinction. i should only be a burden. you will find some other woman more brilliant, more chic, and thoroughly versed in all the ways of society. you must marry her;" and with a woman's weakness she burst into tears. "no, no!" i cried, kissing her upon the brow and drawing her closely to me in an effort to comfort her. "who has been putting such ideas into your mind, darling? who has told you that love can be curbed, trained, and controlled? love does not stop to question right or wrong; it is spontaneous, irresponsible, and born of itself in one's heart. and i love you," i whispered into her ear. she was silenced, as a true woman must always be by her lover's voice, no matter how specious may be his protestations; for there is no argument that can withstand the magic of the lover's touch or the light in the eyes of the man a woman loves, and the glamour of low, caressing words that steal their way to her innermost heart. "are you sure, quite sure, that you really love me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself for my sake?" she faltered through her tears. "sacrifice myself!" i echoed. "it is no sacrifice, darling. we love each other, and in future the course of our lives must be along the same path, no matter what may be the obstacles." "i wish i could think so," she said; while a faint smile, sweet and tender as the sunshine of may, gleamed for a moment about her eyes and lips. the heart of a woman who loves is the most complex and subtle thing on earth; and often when most she protests, she most longs to be faithless to the spirit of her own protestation. i looked at her now fully and firmly. there was, i think, terror in my eyes--the terror of losing her, which her last words had suddenly conjured up. "but cannot i convince you?" i cried. "will you not accept what i tell you as the truth, darling? will you not believe that i love you still?" i stooped, and taking her fair face in my hands, tenderly kissed her brow, just as i had kissed her in the days when our love had dawned. "i have tried," she answered bitterly, "but cannot. alas! it is a woman's part to suffer;" and her breast heaved slowly and fell again. how pathetic were her great dark eyes, how attractive was the delicate face with its refined outline, how tenderly seductive those tremulous lips which no man had kissed save myself! that she suffered an agony of heart because of the suspicion that i no longer loved her truly was more than plain. it became her creed--the creed of the martyr and the enthusiast, which comes to some women by nature with the air they breathe, and is an accentuation of one of the finest instincts of human nature. "but you shall not suffer thus, my darling!" i cried. "you shall not, for i love you truly, honestly, and well. you shall be my wife. you have already promised, and you shall not draw back, for i love you--i love you!" chapter eighteen. by day and by night. she put up both her small white hands as though to stay the torrent of passionate words which i poured forth; but i grasped her wrists and held her to me until i had told her all the longings of my soul. what she had said had caused me a stab of unutterable pain, for my conscience was pricked by the knowledge that i had for a brief moment forsaken her in favour of yolande. but she could not know the real truth. it was only by her woman's natural intuition that she held me in suspicion, believing that by my neglect to write i had proved myself attracted by some member of that crowd of feminine butterflies who flit through the embassies, showing their bright colours and dazzling effects. at last she lifted her face, and in a low, faltering voice said: "i do not wish that we should part, gerald. i have no one but you." "and god knows--god knows, darling, i have no one but you!" i cried brokenly; and as i uttered these words she cast her arms about my neck, clinging to me, sobbing, with her face lying close against my breast. "my darling--my own darling!" was all i could murmur as i kissed away the tears that rained down her checks. i could say nothing more definite than that. "you will not be false, will you?" she implored at last. "you will not break your promise, will you?" "i will never do that, dearest," i assured her. "i love you, upon my word of honour as a man. i have loved you ever since that day when we first met at the house-party up in scotland--the night of my arrival when you sat opposite me at dinner. do you remember?" "yes," she answered, smiling, "i remember. my love for you, gerald, has never wavered for one single instant." "then why should you be unhappy?" i asked. "i really cannot tell," she answered. she turned her face, and i saw that there was a shadow across it, as though the sunshine of her life had gone behind a bank of cloud. "all i can compare this strange foreboding to is the shadow of an unknown danger which seems of late to have arisen, and to stand in a wall of impenetrable blackness between us." "no, no!" i hastened to urge, "the sweet idyll of our blameless love must be preserved. that fancy of yours is only a vague, unfounded one." she shook her head dubiously. "it is always with me. during my long, solitary wanderings here i think of you, and then it arises to overshadow me and crush out all my happiness," she said in a tone of sorrow. "your life is dismal and lonely here," i said. "you've become nervous and melancholy. why not have a change? persuade your aunt to bring you to paris, or, if not, to some place near, where we may meet often." "no," she replied in a harsh tone. "my presence in paris is not wanted. you are better without me. you must leave england again to-morrow--and you must forget." "forget!" i gasped. "why?" "it is best to do so," she faltered with emotion. "i am unfitted to become your wife." "but you shall--you must!" i cried. "you have already given me your promise. you will not desert me now!" she made no response. i pressed her again for an answer, but she maintained silence. her attitude was one of firm resolve, and gave me the distinct impression that she had gained some knowledge of the reason of our brief estrangement. "tell me the reason of your sudden disbelief in my declarations," i urged, looking earnestly into her eyes. "surely i have given you no cause to regard our love as a mere irresponsible flirtation?" "i have no reason to disbelieve you, gerald," she answered seriously; "yet i recognise the impossibility of our marriage." "why is it impossible? we are both controllers of our own actions. you will not remain here with your aunt all your days?" "we may marry, but we should not be happy, i feel certain." "why?" "because if i were your wife i could not bear to think you were out each night dancing attendance upon a crowd of foreign women at the various functions which you are in duty bound to attend." i smiled at her argument. ignorant of the world and its ways, and knowing nothing of society beyond that gossiping little circle of tea-drinkers and tennis-players which had its centre in the town of fakenham, and had as leader the portly wife of the estimable incumbent, she saw herself neglected among the brilliant crowd in paris as described by the so-called "society" papers. i hastened to reassure her, and as we strolled on through the wood and, following the meandering of the river, emerged upon the broad grass-lands before sennowe hall, i used every argument of which i was capable in order to dispel her absurd apprehensions. my protestations of love i repeated a hundred times, striving to impress upon her that i was actually in earnest; but she repelled me always, until of a sudden i halted beneath the willows, and, placing my arm around her slim waist, narrowly girdled by its crimson ribbon, i drew her again to me, saying: "tell me, edith, plainly, whether or no you love me. these cold words of yours have struck me to the heart, and i feel somehow that in my absence you have found some other man who has your gratitude, your respect, and your love." she raised her hand, as though to stay the flow of my words. "no, no!" i went on passionately. "you must hear me, for you seem to be gradually slipping away from me. you must hear me! cast away this cold sweetness that is enough to madden any man. give me a right to your love; give me a right to it! you cannot be indifferent to such a love as mine unless you love someone else." "stop!" she cried, moved by a sudden generous impulse. "i love no one else but you." "and you admit that you still love me? you will be the same to me as before?" i cried eagerly. "if you will swear that there is no thought of another woman in your heart," she answered seriously. a pang of conscience smote me; but inwardly i reassured myself that all the fascination of yolande had been dispelled and that my love was free. "i swear," i said; then slowly i bent until our lips touched. hers met mine in a fierce, passionate caress, and by that i knew our compact was sealed. "i admit," she said, "that my instinct, if it were instinct, was wrong. you have, after all, proved yourself loyal to me." "and i shall remain so, darling," i assured her, kissing her again upon the brow. "for the present you must be content to remain with your aunt; but nevertheless, try to persuade her to come to paris. then we can spend many happy days together." "she hates the continent and foreigners," answered my love with a brightening smile. "i fear i can never persuade her to move from here. she went to switzerland twenty years ago, and has never ceased condemning foreign travel." "if she will not come, then why not engage a chaperon? you surely know some pleasant woman who would be pleased to have a holiday jaunt." "well," she answered dubiously, "i'll try, but i fear aunt hetty will never hear of it." "the life in the profound stillness of that house and the rigid seclusion from all worldly enjoyment are producing an ill effect upon your health, darling," i said presently. "you must have a change. it is imperative." but she only sighed, smiled rather sadly, and answered in a low voice: "the quietness of life here is nothing to me, as long as i am confident that your love for me is just the same as it was when you first told me the secret of your heart." "it is," i assured her--"it is, darling. i love you--and you alone." there was an instant's hesitation, and then her arms stole gently to my neck, and her lips were pressed to the cheek i bent to them, but only for a second; then my lips were upon hers, clinging to them softly, passionately; and in those moments of ecstasy i drew my soul's life from that sweet mouth. heedless of time, we stood there in each other's embrace, repeating our vows of love and devotion, until the sun went down behind the low hills beyond raynham, and the broad pastures were flooded by the purple glow of the dying day. happy and content in each other's affection, we were careless of the past, and recked not of the future. edith loved me, and i wished for naught else in all the world. now as i sit committing this strange story of my life--this confidential chapter in the modern history of europe--to paper, i recall every detail of those hours we spent down by the riverside, and contrast it with the curious events which followed--events which were so strange as to be inexplicable until the ghastly truth became revealed. but i loved, and my affection was reciprocated. that surely was sufficient, for i knew that i had gained the purest, most beautiful, and sweetest woman i had ever met. at last the fading sunlight impressed upon us the fact that the dinner-hour was approaching; and, knowing miss foskett's punctuality at meals, we were compelled to strike along the footpath over dunham hill, and take the shortest cut across the fields through the little hamlet of gateley, and thence by a grass-grown by-road back to great ryburgh, where we arrived just as the gong sounded. when we re-entered the dining-room, aunt hetty glanced at us keenly, as though she wished to make some sarcastic comment upon our long absence; but our pleasant demeanour apparently silenced her, and she contented herself by taking her seat at table and inquiring of me if i had had a pleasant walk, and whether i found the country agreeable after the dusty boulevards of paris. "of course," i answered, "i always find england charming, and i'm very frequently homesick, living as i do among foreigners always. but why don't you come abroad for a month or so, and bring edith?" "abroad!" screamed the old lady, holding up her hands. "never! i went to lucerne once, and found it horrible." "but that was some years ago, was it not? if you went now, you would find that travelling has greatly improved, with a through sleeping-car from calais to basle; hotels excellent, and food quite as good as you can obtain in england. during the past few years hotel-keepers on the continent have awakened to the fact that if they wish to be prosperous they must cater for english visitors." "oh, do let us go abroad, aunt!" urged edith. "i should so much enjoy it!" "paris in summer is worse than london, i've heard, my dear," answered miss foskett, in her high-pitched tone. "but there are many pretty places within easy reach of the capital," i remarked. "edith speaks french; therefore you need have no hesitation on that score." "no," said the old lady decisively, "we shall not move from ryburgh this summer, but perhaps next winter--" "ah!" cried edith joyously. "yes, capital! let us go abroad next winter, to the riviera, or somewhere where it's warm. it would be delightful to escape all the rain and cold, and eat one's christmas dinner in the sunshine. you know the south, gerald? what place do you recommend?" "well," i said, "any place along the riviera except, perhaps, monte carlo." "monte carlo!" echoed aunt hetty. "that wicked place! i hope i shall never see it. mr. harbur told us in his sermon the other sunday about the frightful gambling there, and how people hanged themselves on the trees in the garden. please don't talk of such places, edith." "but, aunt, there are many beautiful resorts in the neighbourhood," her niece protested. "all along the coast there are towns where the english go to avoid the winter, such as cannes, nice, mentone, and san remo." "well," responded miss foskett with some asperity, "we need not discuss in august what we shall do in december. ryburgh is quite pleasant enough for me. when i was your age i employed my time with embroidery and wool-work, and never troubled my head about foreign travel. but nowadays," she added with a sigh, "i really don't know what young people are coming to." "we've advanced with the times, and they've emancipated women in england," responded edith mischievously, glancing merrily across at me. miss foskett drew herself up primly, and declared that she hoped her niece would never become one of "those dreadful creatures who ape the manners of men;" to which my love replied that liberty of action was the source of all happiness. fearing that this beginning might end in a heated argument, i managed to turn the conversation into a different channel. "if all we read in the newspapers is true, it would seem," observed aunt hetty presently, "that you diplomatists have a most difficult task in paris." "all is not true," i laughed. "much of what you read exists only in the minds of those imaginative gentlemen called paris correspondents." "i suppose," remarked edith, smiling, "that it is impossible for either a diplomatist or a journalist to tell the truth always." "truth, no doubt, is all very well in its place, and now and then in diplomacy, but only a sparing use should be made of it as a rule," i answered. "but there should be no waste. only those should be allowed to handle it who can use it with discretion, and who will ladle it out with caution." "mr. ingram, i am surprised!" interrupted miss foskett, scandalised. "it is our creed," i went on, "that truth should be always spoken in a dead or foreign language, no home-truths being for a moment tolerated. now think what a happy land this england of ours would be if only we were not so wedded to the bare, cold truth! suppose for its own good purposes our government has thought right to make a hasty dash for the back seats in the international scrimmage, and to adhere to them with all the tenacity of a limpet, why, for all that, should the opposition journals blurt out the fact for our humiliation, when by a few deft scratches of the pen the leader-writer might easily make us believe that no back seat had ever in any circumstances been occupied by britain, and that the nose of the lion had never been pulled out of any hole into which it had once been inserted? the itch for truth is, judged from a diplomatists point of view, responsible for the ruin of our policy towards our enemies." "shocking, mr. ingram! i'm surprised to find that you hold such views," said miss foskett in a soured tone; while edith laughed merrily, declaring that she fully agreed with my argument, much to her aunt's discomfiture. the old lady loved the harsh truth as propounded by the precisionist. and so the dinner proceeded, each of us vying with the other to dispel aunt hetty's deep-seated prejudices and narrow-minded views of the world and its ways. coffee was served in the drawing-room, where edith went to the piano and sang in her sweet contralto several of my favourite songs, after which, at an early hour, as was usual with the household at ryburgh, we all retired. to sleep so quickly after dinner was to me impossible; therefore, on gaining my room, i lit a cigar, and, taking a novel from my bag, sat reading. the book proved interesting; and time had passed unnoticed, until of a sudden my attention was attracted by the sound of low voices. i listened, glancing at the clock, and noticed that it was nearly two in the morning. a suspicion of burglars at once flashed across my mind. i blew out my candles, so as not to attract attention, noiselessly opened the wooden shutters before my window, and cautiously gazed out. the lawn, garden, and wide sweep of country beyond lay bathed in the bright moonlight, and at first i distinguished no one. peering down, however, until i could see the path running in the shadow just below my window, i distinguished two figures with hands clasped, as though in parting. i looked again, scarce believing my own eyes. but i was not mistaken. one figure was that of a woman, her dark cloak open at the throat, revealing her white dress beneath; while the other was the tall dark figure of a man in a long black overcoat, the collar of which was turned up as though to conceal his features. even though they stood together in the dark shadow, the astounding truth was plain to me. the woman who had kept that midnight assignation was edith austin, my well-beloved. my heart stood still. chapter nineteen. whispered words. the revelation held me rigid. i stood there, peering down, watching their movements, and straining my ears to catch the whispered words. as i feared to open the window lest the noise should attract them, i could do no more than remain a spectator of edith's perfidy. to me it seemed as though she had been walking with him, and he had accompanied her back to the house. as he held her hand, he was bending, whispering some earnest words into her ear. she did not attempt to withdraw; indeed, it was apparent that she was not unwilling. the conclusion to be made was that they were lovers. reader, can you imagine my feelings at this astounding discovery? only six hours before we had stood beside the river, and she had vowed that for no man save myself had she any place in her heart; yet with my own eyes i was watching her while she believed me sleeping in calm ignorance of her movements. that she had been walking with him was apparent, because of the shawl she wore wrapped about her head; while the fact that the stranger carried a stout stick showed that he had walked, or was about to walk, a considerable distance. because his hat was drawn over his brow and his coat collar turned up, i could not see his features. to me, as he stood there, he appeared to be slightly round-shouldered, but, nevertheless, a strongly built fellow, seemingly rather above the average height. how long she had been absent from the house i could not tell. her light step across the lawn had not attracted my attention. only his low, gruff voice on their return had caused me to listen. there was a french window near where they were standing, and it was evident that by means of this she had secretly left the house. across the moon there drifted a strip of fleecy cloud, hiding the lawn and garden for a few moments; then suddenly all became brilliant again, and, looking down, i saw that she had moved, and was unconsciously in the full white light. i caught sight of her countenance, so that her identity became undeniable. he was urging her to speak, but she remained silent. again and again he whispered into her ear, but she shook her head. at last she spoke. i heard what she said, for i had contrived to raise the sash an inch or two. "very well, i promise," she said. "he leaves to-morrow." "and you will not fail?" asked the gruff voice of her clandestine companion. "no. adieu!" and as i watched i saw his dark figure striding away in the full moonlight across the lawn. he did not glance back, but went straight over to the belt of elms on the left, and a few minutes later was lost to view, while the woman i loved had apparently re-entered the house by the dining-room window, and was creeping silently to her room. the one thought that gripped my heart and froze my senses was that edith was false to me. she had a lover whom she met at dead of night and with whom she had a perfect understanding. she had made him a promise, the fulfilment of which was to take place when i had left. had such things been told to me i would not have believed them, but i had seen with my own eyes and heard with my own ears. the truth was too terribly plain. edith, the one woman in the world whom i had believed to be pure, honest, and upright, was false to me. i saw it all as i reclosed the shutters, relit the candles in their old silver sconces, and paced that ancient bed-chamber. the reason of her attempt to evade me and to withdraw her promise of marriage was only too apparent. she, the woman whom i loved and in whom i had put all my faith, had a lover. as i reflected upon our conversation of that afternoon i saw in her uneasiness and her responses a self-condemnation. she dreaded lest i should discover the secret within her breast--the secret that, after all, she did not love me. the dark silhouette of that man standing forth in the brilliant light of the moon was photographed indelibly upon my memory. his outline struck me as that of a man of shabby attire, and i felt certain the hat drawn down upon his face was battered and worn. indeed, i had a distinct conviction that he was some low-born lout from the neighbourhood--a conviction aroused, i think, by her announcement that i was to leave on the morrow. she would have freedom of action then, i reflected bitterly. and her promise? what, i wondered, had she promised? the fellow had evidently been persuading her until she had at last given him her pledge. his gait was that of a man who knew the place well, the swinging step of one used to walking easily in rough places. his stick, too, was a rough ash, such as a town-bred lover would never carry, while his voice had, i felt certain, just a tinge of the norfolk accent in it. that they should meet at dead of night in that clandestine manner was surely sufficiently suspicious, but those words i had overheard sounded ever in my ears as i paced from end to end of that old room with its sombre, almost funereal, hangings. a great bitterness fell upon my heart. the woman whom i really loved had played me false; and yet, when i reflected, i could not help admitting that perhaps, after all, i deserved this punishment. i had wavered from her and gone back to my old love, it was true. but i loved edith well and truly, whatever might have been the fascination of the smart, gesticulating, foreign beauty. she was mine in heart and mine alone. all my belief in woman's affection or devotion had, in that instant, been dispelled. the truth had fallen upon me as a crushing blow, which staggered me, wrecking all my hopes and plans for the future. i tossed my things heedlessly into my bag, in readiness for early departure in the morning. i had been a fool, i knew. i was ever a fool where women were concerned. in the old days in brussels my affection for yolande had been strong and impetuous, burning with all the ardour of a first love; yet the awakening had come, and i had tardily discovered that she had played me false. and in edith's case, although i entertained towards her such a real and deep affection as a man only extends to a woman once in his lifetime, unfaithfulness had once again been my reward. i flung away my cigar. my agony of heart was too acute to be accurately described in words. you, my reader, who may have experienced the sudden breaking of your most cherished idol, can only rightly understand the chagrin, the intense bitterness, the spiritual desolation of that night watch. my candles were as nearly as possible burnt out. at length i took my hat, and, creeping noiselessly downstairs, passed through the dining-room, and let myself out by the window which edith had entered. the first grey of dawn was spreading, and a sudden desire for fresh air had seized me. i felt stifled in that old room with its gloomy furniture and hangings. with the cool wind of early morning fanning my heated temples, i struck straight across the lawn in the direction taken by the mysterious lover. for some distance i traversed the boundary of the grounds, until i discovered a break in the oak fence, and, passing through it, found myself out upon the broad, undulating meadows which stretched away to the beacon hill and the tiny hamlet of toftrees, noted for its ancient hall and quaint church steeple. heedless of where my footsteps led me, i went straight on, my mind full of the discovery i had made, my heart overflowing. away to my left, from behind the low dark hills, the sky became flushed with the crimson light of dawn; but all was still save the distant crowing of a cock and the howl of a dog in the far distance. behind me the bell of ryburgh church solemnly chimed the hour, followed by other bells at greater distances. then all was quiet again save for the soft rustling of the trees. the morning air was delicious, with a sweet fragrance everywhere. suddenly, leaping a fence, i found myself upon the old coach-road that ran over the hills to lynn, and continued along it without thought of distance or destination. i passed a carter with his team, and he wished me good-morning. his words aroused me, and i saw that i was nearing an unfamiliar village. "what place is this?" i inquired. "it's harpley, sir." i thanked him and went my way. i had never heard of the place before; but as i entered it the first rays of sunlight shot across the hills, and it certainly looked picturesque and typically english in the light of the dawn. i must have walked fully eight miles, and, being tired and thirsty, i noticed at the entrance of the village a small inn, upon which was the sign the houghton arms. the door stood open, and a burly man, evidently the landlord, was busy chopping wood in an outhouse at the side. "nice mornin', sir," he observed, looking up at me, probably astonished to see anyone who was not a labourer astir at such an early hour. i returned his greeting, and inquired whether it was too early for a cup of tea and a rest. "not at all, sir," he answered, laying down his axe and conducting me within. the place, in common with all village hostelries, smelt strongly of the combined fumes of shag and stale beer. village innkeepers have a habit of polishing their well-seasoned furniture with sour beer; hence the odour, which, to the patrons of such places, seems appetising. the perfume is to them as the hors d'oeuvre. the man, having shown me into a little parlour behind the tap-room, called loudly to "jenny," who turned out to be his wife. after this i had not long to wait before a pot of tea and a couple of poached eggs were at my disposal. they were a homely pair, these two, full of local chatter. harpley, the man informed me, was nine and a half miles from great ryburgh, and i saw by his manner that he was much exercised in his mind to know whence i had come and the reason for my being about at such an hour. the rural busybody was extremely inquisitive, but i did not permit his bucolic diplomacy to triumph. while i drank the tea and ate the eggs the landlord stood leaning against the door-lintel with his arms folded, garrulously displaying his norfolk brogue. he evidently regarded me as one of those summer visitors from london who stay at the farmhouses, where hypocrisy terms them "paying guests," and i allowed him to adhere to his opinion. i learned from him that at six o'clock there was a train from massingham station, half a mile away, which would convey me direct to fakenham. this i resolved to take, for i could then return to miss foskett's by a quarter to seven. a map of the county was hanging on the wall, and i had risen to look at the spot to which the landlord was pointing, when a footstep sounded in the narrow passage, and, turning, i caught sight of the dark figure of a man making his way out. the hat, the black overcoat, the figure, all were familiar. his head was turned away from me, so that i could not see his features, but in an instant i recognised him. he was edith's mysterious lover! chapter twenty. from downing street to paris. i sprang quickly to the door, and looked down the passage out into the village street; but he had already made his exit. by the time i had reached the porch of the inn he was already striding quickly along the dusty highway. he turned to glance back, and i perceived that he was thin-faced, with high cheekbones and a small black beard. he was carrying his thick stick jauntily, and walking smartly, with an easy gait which at that moment struck me as being distinctly military. "who is that man?" i inquired eagerly of the landlord, who stood beside me, evidently surprised at my sudden rush towards the door. "a stranger, sir. i don't know who he is." "when did he arrive?" "he came by the last train to massingham last night, sir, and had a bed here. my missis, however, didn't like the looks of 'im." "why?" "well, i don't exactly know. there was something about him a bit peculiar. besides, he went out before one o'clock, and didn't return till an hour ago. then he went up, washed, had a cup o' tea in his room, paid, and now he's gone." "rather peculiar behaviour, isn't it?" i suggested, hoping to find some clue to his identity from what this man might tell me. "did he have no luggage?" "none. he seemed a bit down on his luck. his clothes were very shabby, and he evidently hadn't had a clean collar for a week." then the opinion i had formed of him--namely, that he was shabby genteel--was correct. "you're certain you've never seen him before?" "quite certain," he replied. at that moment his wife entered, and, addressing her, he said: "we're talking of that stranger who's just gone, missus. his movements were a bit suspicious, weren't they?" "yes. why he should want to go out half the night wandering about the neighbourhood i can't make out, unless he were a burglar or something o' that sort," the woman answered, adding: "i shouldn't be at all surprised to hear that one of the houses about here has been broken into. anyhow, we'd know him again among a thousand." "what kind of man was he?" "tall and dark, with a beard, and a pair of eyes that seemed to look you through. he spoke all right, but i've my doubts as to whether he wasn't a foreigner." "a foreigner!" i echoed quickly, interested. "what made you suspect that?" "i really can't tell. i had a suspicion of it the first moment i saw him. he pronounced his `r's' rather curiously. his clothes seemed to be of foreign cut, and his boots, although worn out, were unusually long and narrow. i brushed 'em this morning, and saw on the tabs a foreign name. i think it was `firenze,' or something like that." i reflected for an instant. the word "firenze" was italian for florence, the town where the boots had evidently been made. therefore the mysterious stranger might be italian. "you didn't actually detect anything foreign in his style of speaking?" "he didn't speak much. he seemed very glum and thoughtful. i sent him up some toast with his tea, but he hasn't touched it." "he didn't say where he was going?" "not a word. when he arrived he only explained that he had come by the last train from lynn, and that he wanted a bed--that's all. i should think by the look of him that he's gone on tramp." my first impulse was to follow him; but on reflection i saw that by doing so i should in all probability lose my train, and to dog the fellow's footsteps would, after all, be of no benefit now that i knew the truth of edith's perfidy. so i stood there chatting, discussing the stranger, and wondering who he could be. "he's up to no good, that i feel certain," declared the landlord's wife. "there's something about him that aroused my suspicion at once last night. i can't, however, explain what it was. but a man don't prowl about all night to admire the moon." and thus i waited until it was time to catch the train; then, wishing the innkeeper and his wife good-morning, left them and strolled in the morning sunlight to the station, arriving at fakenham shortly before seven. i took the short cut through starmoor wood to ryburgh, and, finding miss foskett's maid polishing the door-handle, entered and went upstairs. upon the toilet-table was a telegram, which the maid said had just arrived, and on opening it i found a message from the foreign office, which had been forwarded from the club, asking me to call at the earliest possible moment, and to be prepared to return to my post by the afternoon service from charing cross. i knew what that implied. the marquess desired me to bear a secret despatch to my chief. i washed, tidied myself after my dusty walk, strapped my bag, and with a feeling of regret that i was compelled to meet my false love again face to face before departure, i descended the stairs. she was awaiting me, looking cool and fresh in her white gown, with a bunch of fresh roses she had plucked from the garden in her breast. she smiled gladly, and stretched forth her hand as though i were all the world to her. what admirable actresses some women are! her affected sweetness that yesterday had so charmed me now sickened me. the scales had fallen from my eyes, and i was angry with myself that i had ever allowed myself to lose control of my feelings and love her. she was false--false! that one thought alone ran in my mind as she laughed merrily. "why, gerald, wherever have you been? a telegram came for you by special messenger from fakenham at half-past six, and when ann knocked at your door she found you were out. and you went out by the dining-room window, too." "yes," i said, not without a touch of sarcasm, "i felt that i wanted fresh air, so i went for a stroll." "you are an early bird," she answered. "did you go far?" "no, not very far. only down the lynn road a little way." "i always thought that you people in paris never got up till your dejeuner at eleven?" "i'm an exception," i said shortly. "i prefer the morning air in the country to lying in bed." "and the telegram? is it anything particular?" "yes," i answered. "i must leave at once. i am summoned to downing street, and must leave london this afternoon." "what! return to paris at once?" "yes," i replied. "it is an order from the chief. there's a train to london at : , i think. i must not fail to catch that." i had not kissed her, and i saw that she was somewhat puzzled by my coolness. did the fact that i had let myself out by the dining-room window give her any clue to the reason why i had chosen that mode of egress? "i thought you would remain here with us at least to-day," she pouted. "that's the worst of diplomacy. you never seem to know what you may do next." we were standing alone in the dining-room, where breakfast was already laid and the copper kettle was hissing above the spirit-lamp. as aunt hetty had not entered, it was upon the tip of my tongue to charge edith with that clandestine meeting; yet if i did so, i reflected, a scene would certainly be created. aunt hetty would first be scandalised and afterwards wax indignant, while my departure would doubtless be fraught with considerable unpleasantness. therefore i resolved to keep my anger within my heart, and on my return to paris to write a letter of explanation to this smiling, bright-faced woman who had thus played me false. "you cannot tell how wretched i am at the thought of your departure, gerald," she said, her dark eyes suddenly grave and serious. "each time we part i always fear that we shall not meet again." i smiled, rather bitterly, i think, and uttered some weak platitude without appearing to be much interested. then with a quick movement she took my hand, but next instant was compelled to drop it, for miss foskett entered suddenly, and, after an explanation of my unexpected call by telegram, we seated ourselves and breakfasted. as the woman i had so dearly loved sat opposite me i saw that she was strangely nervous and agitated, and that she was eager to question me; but with feigned indifference i chatted and laughed with the punctilious old spinster until the boy brought round the pony-trap and it was time for me to depart for fakenham, where i could join the express for london. edith drove me to the station, but, the boy being with us, she could say nothing confidential until we were walking together upon the platform. then, looking at me in strange eagerness, she suddenly asked: "gerald, tell me why you are so cold towards me this morning? you were so different yesterday. have i displeased you?" "yes," i said in a hard voice, "you have." "how?" she gasped, laying her gloved hand upon my arm and stopping short. i was silent. should i tell her, or should i say nothing about my knowledge of her perfidy? "why do you not speak?" she urged. "surely if i have caused you pain i ought to know the reason!" "you know the reason," i answered in a mechanical voice, regarding her coldly. "no, i do not." "in this matter it is entirely unnecessary to lie to me, edith," i said; "i am aware of the truth." "the truth? what truth?" "that you do not love me," i said hoarsely. at that instant the train rushed into the station, and my voice was almost drowned by the noise of the escaping steam. as i thought she deserved to suffer, i was not sorry for the interruption. "gerald!" she cried, gripping me by the hand, "what are you saying? what have i done?" "it is enough," i answered, my voice broken by emotion, which i could no longer suppress, for my heart was at that moment bursting with grief. "good-bye;" and turning, i raised my hat and stepped into the empty compartment, in which a porter had placed my bag. in an instant she was leaning in at the doorway, imploring me to tell her the truth. but i evaded her questions. the guard came and closed the door. "gerald!" she cried, bursting into tears, "tell me why you treat me thus when i love you so dearly! it is cruel! you cannot guess how deeply i have suffered these two hours! will you not kiss me once before you go?" and she raised her white face to the window with an imploring expression. "no," i said, "i cannot, edith." "you refuse to kiss me this once--for the last time?" she wailed. "yes," i answered in a strained voice. "if you desire to know the reason of this refusal you will discover it when you reflect upon your actions of last night." "what!" she gasped, pale to the lips. "_you saw him_!" "yes," i answered gravely, "i saw him." then the train moved off, leaving her standing there pale and rigid; and without further glance at the blanched but beautiful face which only twelve hours ago i had believed to be the open countenance of the purest and sweetest woman on earth, i flung myself back into the corner, plunged in my own bitter reflections. i had told her the ghastly truth, and we had parted. edith austin, whom i had hoped to make my wife, was lost to me for ever. at midday i wearily ascended the great marble staircase at the foreign office, those stairs which every diplomatist in london climbs, and in the corridor met boyd, one of the marquess's private secretaries, who informed me that a meeting of the cabinet was being held, and that his lordship had left instructions that i was to wait until he returned, when he would give me a despatch to carry at once to paris. so, accompanied by boyd and my friend thorne, of the treaty department, i strolled along parliament street and lunched at the ship, that old coffee-house frequented by foreign office and other officials. in the days before i received my appointment abroad i used to lunch there regularly, and as i entered i found many of my old colleagues at the tables. after an hour i returned to downing street, and went up to the foreign secretary's private room. he was seated at his great table at the farther end of the sombre, green-painted apartment, the windows of which looked down upon the silent courtyard, where the cooing pigeons strut undisturbed. upon his grey, refined face was an intensely anxious look, and by the nervous manner in which he toyed with his quill as he acknowledged my salutation i knew that the subject discussed by the cabinet had been a momentous one. the meeting had been specially and unexpectedly convened, and i had heard below that during its sitting several despatches had been exchanged over the private wire to windsor, facts which in themselves were sufficient to show that some complication had arisen, and that the lines of british policy had been discussed and submitted to the sovereign for approbation. "you are returning to paris this afternoon, mr. ingram?" said the marquess. "i am just writing a private despatch to lord barmouth, which must be placed in his hands at the earliest possible moment. the instructions contained in it are secret--you understand?" "i shall deliver it, i hope, before eleven o'clock this evening," i said. "good," he answered approvingly; and while i walked to the window and looked out upon the courtyard, the great statesman continued tracing the cipher upon the large sheet of blue despatch-paper with his creaking quill. i glanced at a newspaper to while away the time, until presently one of the secretaries entered, prepared the taper and wax, and i watched the marquess affix the five seals upon the envelope, impressing his own arms with the large old fob seal which he wore upon his watch-guard. he affixed the last seal, held the envelope for a few moments in order that the wax should set, then handed it to me, saying: "remember, ingram, none of our friends across the channel must be allowed to get sight of this. it is entirely confidential. please ask lord barmouth to telephone me to-night an acknowledgment of its safe receipt." "certainly," i answered, placing it in my pocket. i then bowed, and wished the minister good-day. "good-day," he said, smiling pleasantly, "and a pleasant journey to you, ingram." then i withdrew, and drove in a cab to the club. arrived there, i placed the despatch in my belt next my skin, and, taking my bag, went down to charing cross and caught the tidal train. the journey was uneventful, the passage smooth, and about eleven o'clock that night i mounted the stairs of the embassy in paris, and went to his lordship's private room. he was alone, enjoying a final cigar before turning in, and was surprised at my sudden return. i quickly explained the reason, and taking off my belt in his presence handed him the despatch. having assured himself that the seals were all intact, he broke them, and, taking it at once to the bureau, i got for him the key of the private cipher used only for the confidential despatches, written by the hand of the prime minister to the representatives abroad. then, standing underneath the tall lamp, the ambassador slowly deciphered it. what he read caused him serious reflection, judging from the manner in which his countenance changed. then, taking a match from his pocket, he crossed to the grate, lit the paper at the corner, and held it until it was all consumed. the nature of that confidential communication none knew save the cabinet in london and the ambassador himself. that it was extremely important was certain, and i felt confident that some decision had been arrived at which would materially affect the european situation. after telephoning an acknowledgment of the despatch to downing street, we returned together to the smoke-room, where i drank a whisky and soda, and then, lighting a cigar, left the embassy and drove to my own rooms, wearied out after the journey. at noon next day, when i went round to the rue du faubourg st. honore, harding, the footman, met me in the hall, saying: "his excellency has just telephoned to you. he wishes to see you immediately." i went straight to his private room, and found him seated with kaye, the lynx-eyed chief of the secret service. the ambassador's face was pale as death, and his voice trembled as he hoarsely acknowledged my salutation. "ingram," he said in a low tone, motioning me to close the door, "we have been betrayed!" "betrayed? how?" i gasped. "a copy of the despatch you brought me last night reached the quai d'orsay at two o'clock this morning. our secret agent there has handed a copy of it to mr. kaye. the wording of the instructions, as sent to me by the marquess, is exact. here it is;" and he held towards me a sheet of that pale yellow paper used in the french foreign office, upon which a transcription of the despatch had been hurriedly traced in pencil. i glanced at it, then stood speechless. the secret despatch had never left my possession. the theft was utterly incredible. chapter twenty one. the sister arts. "but it is absolutely impossible that the despatch has been copied!" i cried, addressing his excellency, when at last i found tongue. "i saw it written myself, and it never left my belt until i took it out here in your presence!" "well," interposed kaye grimly, turning to lord barmouth, "that it has really been copied is quite plain, for you have the copy in your hand. it was telegraphed to the quai d'orsay from calais at half-past one o'clock this morning, and that copy reached my hands at four, half an hour after i had returned from berlin. our secret agent in the french foreign office happily lost no time in making us acquainted with our loss." "fortunately for us," remarked the ambassador, pacing the floor from end to end. "had we remained in ignorance that the secret of our policy was out, we might have found ourselves in a very awkward predicament. but how could the despatch possibly have been copied, when no other eyes have seen it except those of the marquess and myself? the thing is incredible!" "ah! that's the question," observed kaye. "the french system of espionage has very nearly approached perfection. even though it be against our grain, as englishmen, to employ spies ourselves, yet it is daily becoming more necessary. every nation in the world has its elaborate secret service; therefore, england must not sleep and allow other nations to undermine her prestige." "i cannot imagine how it is possible that our enemies could have obtained sight of the despatch, even for an instant," i said. "the only other person in the chief's room at downing street while he was writing was boyd, who helped him seal it. i then took it, drove in a cab to the club, and there placed it in my belt beneath my clothes. it never left my person until, in the smoking-room here, i took it out and handed it to his excellency." "the telegram was despatched from the maritime station at calais by some person who signed his name as `gaston.' he is evidently known to our friends at the quai d'orsay." there was a brief and painful pause. such a catastrophe staggered belief. surely the spies of france did not use the roentgen rays in order to read the letters carried on one's person! it would almost appear as though they did. "fate seems entirely against us, ingram," observed lord barmouth, breaking the silence at last. "in every effort we are thwarted by these scoundrelly spies. our most secret instructions leak out in a way that is absolutely unaccountable. indeed, the position has now become so critical that i dread to contemplate the result. in the matter of ceuta we had an illustration of the marvellous astuteness of our enemies, while to-day here is an example much more alarming. and further, we must send home a despatch acknowledging ourselves checkmated. our position is an ignominious one--most ignominious," he added vehemently. "if i were at fault i would willingly bear any blame attaching to my actions," i said in a tone of protest; "but as far as i am aware i am utterly blameless in this matter." "i do not seek to fix any culpability upon you, ingram," his lordship hastened to assure me. "while serving under me you have always done your duty with a thoroughness and tact worthy of the british diplomatist. all i can say is that it is excessively unfortunate for us all, and for the nation at large. those instructions there, as you will see, are of the highest importance at this juncture; but we are now quite unable to act because our secret intentions have become common property. they will probably be in the _figaro_ to-morrow." "the whole affair is at present a complete enigma," observed kaye, who, turning to me, added: "if you cannot give us any clue whatever, i can't see what can be done." "i can give you absolutely no clue," i answered, utterly bewildered by this amazing turn of events. "all i know is what i have just related." the chief of the secret service turned his eyes full upon me, and asked slowly: "you have, for instance, held no further communication with mademoiselle de foville?" mention of that name caused me to start. all came back to me--how that the ambassador had suspected her, and kaye himself had declared that she was a spy. "she left paris before i went to london. i have no idea of her whereabouts." "you do not suspect that she was in london at the same time as yourself?" he asked. "i mean, you saw nothing of her?" "absolutely nothing." "and on the several occasions when you called upon her in the rue de courcelles you gave her no idea of the policy which his excellency was pursuing? i know you visited her several times, for, suspecting her, i had placed a watch upon her movements." "i told her absolutely nothing," i answered, annoyed that this man should think fit to spy upon me. "strange," he said thoughtfully. "now that is really very strange, because her subsequent actions would appear to give colour to the theory that she learnt from you some secret which she was strenuously endeavouring to obtain." "i don't quite follow you." "well, i have ascertained that the french ambassador in berlin has been receiving full reports of the progress of our actions regarding ceuta." "from her?" i asked quickly. "not exactly from her, but through her." "then that woman is actually a spy!" cried his excellency. "without the slightest doubt," responded kaye. "my inquiries in berlin and brussels have substantiated our suspicions. she is one of the smartest secret agents in europe." "i know that she is a friend of wolf's, but what proof have you that she has any connection with the ministry of foreign affairs?" "i have obtained proof--absolute proof," he answered. "in what manner?" "by inquiries i made in berlin. she is well known in the wilhelmstrasse. she was compelled to fly from germany because it leaked out that she was a french spy." "cannot you give me any further explanation?" i urged. "i am much interested, as she was once my intimate friend." "yes," interposed the ambassador, "unfortunately so. it was once rumoured, ingram, that you actually intended to marry her." "or rather," observed kaye, "she intended, for her own purposes, to marry mr. ingram, i think." i pursed my lips, but made no response. my reflections at that moment were bitter enough without these observations from my friends. "but do you suspect that she has had a hand in our latest betrayal?" i inquired a few minutes later. "you have just alleged that she is in the french service. if so, it hardly seems credible that she would give her information to the french ambassador in berlin." "on that point i am not yet absolutely certain," kaye responded. "i am, however, quite convinced that the exposure of our plans regarding ceuta filtered to the french through their embassy in berlin." "then, contrary to supposition, de hindenburg, the german ambassador here, may be assisting france against us?" i said in surprise. "it seems much like it. our inquiries all tend towards that theory. the german ambassador has of late had almost daily interviews with the minister of foreign affairs. these are generally believed to be in connection with the samoan difficulty or the transvaal; but without doubt the chief subject of discussion has been the formation of a plan whereby to checkmate our policy towards spain in the matter of ceuta." "well, up to the present they have done so," the ambassador admitted, turning sharply upon his heel from the window, out of which he had been gazing moodily. "we appear to be arriving at a most critical stage, for what with the constant anglophobe feeling here, the vile attacks of the paris press, the disgusting caricatures of her majesty and her subjects, and the army of spies surrounding us on every side, honest, straightforward diplomacy--the diplomacy which should preserve the peace of europe--is well-nigh impossible. in all my career in the service i never knew a blacker outlook than at this moment--never, never!" "the complications that have arisen are due entirely to spies," i remarked. "they are due, it appears, mainly to your friend, yolande de foville," he said in a harsh voice. "we have to thank that interesting young lady for rendering all our diplomacy in that direction abortive." "you had suspicion of her the other day?" i exclaimed. "what caused you to suspect her?" "drummond knew her in brussels, and mentioned her." "as a secret agent?" "yes, as a secret agent. he warned me to be wary of her." "well," i said, "i, who knew her most intimately years ago, never suspected it for one single instant." "ah, ingram," the ambassador answered, a smile crossing his serious, hard-set face, "you were in love with her. a man in love never believes that his idol is of mere clay." a sigh escaped me. his words were indeed true. a thought of edith flashed across my mind. the face of that woman who was false to me rose before my vision, but i swept it aside. all was over between us. diplomacy and flirtation are sister arts, but diplomacy and love never run hand-in-hand. i had quaffed the cup of life, with all its infinite joys and agonies, in one intoxicating draught. kaye rose at last and departed, promising to leave no stone unturned in his efforts to discover how the contents of the secret despatch had been obtained by the ministry of foreign affairs; and then, at the ambassador's dictation, i wrote a despatch to london explaining to the marquess the reason why his instructions could not be acted upon. thus were we compelled to acknowledge our defeat. below, in the hall, i met sibyl dressed smartly, ready to go out. "what!" she exclaimed, laughing, "you are back again! why, i thought you would be at least a week in london. did you bring that lace for me?" "yes," i answered, "i have it round at my rooms. i'll send it you this afternoon." "why are you back so soon?" she inquired, holding out her hand, so that i might button her glove. "was london too hot?" "the heat was insufferable. besides, we have much to attend to just now." "poor father!" she exclaimed, looking up at me. "he seems terribly worried. tell me, mr. ingram, what has happened? i feel sure that some catastrophe has taken place." "oh, nothing," i reassured her. "your father is a little anxious regarding some negotiations, that is all." "but you will go to the elysee to-night, won't you?" "to-night! what is it to-night?" "why, the grand ball," she answered. "which means a new frock for you--eh?" i laughed. "of course," she replied. "you will come, won't you?" "i fear i'm ever so much too tired for dancing," i responded, feeling in no humour for the crowded gaiety of the president's ball. "but you must," she declared--"to please me. i want you to dance with me." "well," i said with reluctance, "i suppose i dare not be so ungallant as to refuse you." "that's good," she laughed. "now, as a reward, i'll drive you down to the boulevard. the victoria is outside. where will you go?" i reflected a moment, then told her i was on my way to my chambers. "very well," she replied, "i'll drop you there. i have to go down to the rue de la paix." "to the couturiere, of course?" "yes," she said, with that merry twinkle in her dark eyes, "you've guessed it the first time. it's a charming gown; but i know father will pull a wry face when he finds the bill on his table." "but you can stand any amount of wry faces as long as you get pretty dresses, can't you?" i laughed, handing her into the carriage and taking a seat beside her. then she opened her sunshade and lolled back with an air of indolence and luxury as we drove along together. chapter twenty two. perfume and politics. upon my table a letter was lying. the handwriting i recognised instantly as edith's, and not without a feeling of anger and impatience i tore it open in expectation. long and rambling, it upbraided me for leaving her without a single reassuring word, and declared that my refusal to kiss her at parting had filled her heart with a bitter and uncontrollable grief. as i read, memories of those midnight hours, of my walk to that distant village, and of my meeting with that shabby lover crowded upon me, and the impassioned words she had written made no impression upon me. i had steeled my heart against her. she had played me false, and i could never forgive. "_i know i have been foolish, gerald_," she wrote, "_but you misjudge me because of an indiscretion. you believe that the man with whom you saw me last night was my lover; yet you left me without allowing me to make any explanation. is this right? is it just? you know how well i love you, and that without you my life is but a hopeless blank. can you, knowing that i love you thus, believe me capable of such duplicity as you suspect? i feel that you cannot. i feel that when you come to consider calmly all the circumstances you will find in your own honest heart one grain of pity and sympathy for the one woman who loves you so dearly. write to me, for i cannot live without a word from you, because i love no other man but you_?" i crushed the letter in my hand, then slowly tore it into fragments. i had no confidence in her protestations--none. my dream of love was over. we often hear it remarked that those who are themselves perfectly true and artless are in this world the more easily and frequently deceived. i have always held this to be a commonplace fallacy, for we shall ever find that truth is as undeceived as it is undeceiving, and that those who are true to themselves and others may now and then be mistaken, or, in particular instances, duped by the intervention of some other affection or quality of the mind; but that they are generally free from illusion, and are seldom imposed upon in the long run by the show of things and by the superficies of any character. there was a curious contradiction in edith's character, arising from the contrast between her natural disposition and the situation in which she was placed, which corroborated my doubts. her simplicity of language, her admission of an "indiscretion," the inflexible resolution with which she asserted her right, her soft resignation to unkindness and wrong, and her warmth of temper breaking through the meekness of a spirit subdued by a deep sense of religion,--all these qualities, opposed yet harmonising, helped to increase my distrust of her. to me that letter seemed full of a dexterous sophistry exerted in order to ward off my accusations. her remorse was without repentance; it arose from the pang of a wounded conscience, the recoil of the violated feelings of nature, the torture of self-condemnation. the fragments of the letter i tossed into the waste-paper basket, and, putting on my hat, went down to the grand cafe to idle away an hour among friends accustomed to make the place a rendezvous in the afternoon. on entering, i found deane sitting at a table alone, his carriage awaiting him at the door. he was having a hasty drink during his round of visits, and hailed me lustily. "sit down a moment, ingram," he cried. "i want to see you." "what about?" i inquired, lighting the cigarette he handed me. "about that curious incident in the rue de courcelles--mademoiselle de foville's strange attack." "well, what of it?" i asked eagerly. "strangely enough a man, who proved to be an englishman giving himself the name of payne, was brought to the hotel dieu three nights ago in what appeared to be a cataleptic state. he had, it seemed, been found by the police lying on the pavement in the boulevard st. germain, and was at first believed to be dead. some letters in english being found upon him, i was called, and upon examination discovered exactly the same symptoms as those which mademoiselle your friend had displayed. i was enabled, therefore, to administer an antidote, and within twelve hours the man had sufficiently recovered to take his discharge. the case has excited the greatest possible interest at the hospital, for i had previously submitted a portion of the solution obtained from the envelope which mademoiselle had used to professor ferrari, of florence, the greatest authority on toxicology in the world, and he had declared it to be an entirely unknown, but most potent, poison." "who was the englishman? did he tell you nothing?" "no. unfortunately the hospital authorities allowed him to leave before i deemed it wise to question him. i read the letters found upon him, however; but they conveyed nothing, except that he had been recently living somewhere in the neighbourhood of hackney." "then you have no idea of the manner in which the poison was administered?" i said, disappointed. "his right hand was rather swollen, from which i concluded that he had accidentally touched some object impregnated with the fatal compound." "you don't know its composition yet?" "no. ferrari is trying to discover it, but at present has failed. the fact of a second person suffering from it is in itself very mysterious. i intended to call upon you this evening and tell you all about it." "the affair is extraordinary," i admitted. "i wonder whether the same person who made the attempt upon yolande's life is responsible for the attempt upon the englishman? what can be the motive?" "ah! that's impossible to tell. all we know is that some unknown person in paris has in his or her possession a deadly compound capable of producing catalepsy and subsequent death in a manner most swift and secret. in order to ascertain whether any other person is attacked in the same manner, i have sent letters to the direction of all the hospitals in paris explaining the case, and asking that if any similar cases are brought to them for treatment, i may be at once communicated with." "an excellent precaution," i said. "by that means we shall be able to watch the progress of the mysterious criminal." "you have heard nothing from mademoiselle yolande?" "nothing," i said. "hers was a curious case," he remarked. "but the man payne's was equally strange. it appears that he made no statement to either police or hospital authorities before he left. he only said that he was walking along the boulevard and suddenly fell to the ground insensible." "you think he had some motive in preserving silence?" i inquired quickly. "yes, i feel sure of it. i only wish i could rediscover him. they were foolish to allow him to take his discharge before giving me an opportunity of concluding my investigations. it was simply owing to professional jealousy. english medical men are not liked in paris hospitals. but i must be off," he said, rising. "good-bye." then he went out, and, entering his carriage, drove away. volkouski, the russian attache, was sitting close by, and i crossed to him, greeting him merrily. he was a good fellow--a thorough cosmopolitan, who had been trained in the smartest school of diplomacy-- namely, the embassy in london, which is presided over by that prince among diplomatists, monsieur de staal. whatever may be said regarding the relations between russia and england as nations, it cannot be denied that in the european capitals the staffs of the embassies of both powers are always on terms of real friendship. i make no excuse for repeating this. the mutual courtesy of the representatives of the two nations is not, as in the case of those of france, germany, and austria, mere diplomatic manoeuvring, but in most instances a sound understanding and a deep personal regard. england, russia, and italy have interests in common, hence their representatives fraternise, even though certain journals may create all sorts of absurd scares regarding what they are pleased to term the "aggressive policy of russia." this is a stock journalistic expression, as meaningless as it is absurd. we who are "in the know" at the embassies smile when we read those alarmist articles, purporting to give all sorts of wild plans, which exist only in the imagination of the leader-writer. there is, indeed, one london journal known in the russian embassies on the continent as _the daily abuser_, because of its intensely russophobe tone. fortunately nobody takes it seriously. i chatted with volkouski, sipping a mazagran the while. he was, i found, full of projects for his leave. his chief had already left paris, and he himself was going home to moscow for a month. every diplomatist on service abroad gets homesick after a time, and looks forward to his leave with the same pleasurable anticipation of the schoolboy going for his summer holidays. to escape from the shadow of a throne or the ceaseless chatter of an over-democratic republic is always a happy moment for the wearied attache or worried secretary of embassy. one longs for a respite from the glare and glitter of the official world of uniforms and court etiquette, and looks forward to rambles in the country in flannels and without a collar, to lazy afternoons upon the river, or after-luncheon naps in a hammock beneath a tree. to the tired diplomatist, sick of formalities, and with the stifling dust of the ballroom over his heart, the expression "en campagne" conveys so very much. shortly before midnight i stepped from a fiacre and ascended the broad steps of the elysee. tired as i was of the ceaseless whirl of the city of pleasure, it nevertheless amused me to fix the physiognomy of the great official fetes. they are inevitably banales, of course; but there is always a piquancy of detail and of contrast that is interesting. if one wishes to see what a mixed crowd is like, there is no better illustration than the flocks of guests at the elysee balls. ah! what a crowd it was that night! what dresses! what a public! i know, of course, that it can never be otherwise under the present democratic regime. one man, who came on foot and whose boots were muddy, forgot to turn down the tucked-up ends of his trousers. people were walking about with their hands in their pockets, jostling each other without a word of excuse. many were touching the furniture, and feeling the curtains and tapestry with that sans-gene which so disgusted gambetta with his former friends. you could see that they were determined not to appear astonished at anything, and that, after all, they were at home in the elysee. they were of the detestable breed of cafe politicians, of loud-voiced orators at party meetings, of successful carpet-baggers, who render the ideas of equality and fraternity at times insufferable. before the buffet these fellows displayed themselves as goujats--cads-- plain and simple. they grabbed for sandwiches, for biscuits, for glasses of champagne across the shoulders of ladies in front of them, or even elbowed them aside to get to the front row--and stop there. in the smoking-room the boxes of cigars were gone in the twinkling of an eye. one man struck his match on the wall. with these odd guests about it is not surprising that the budget writes off a certain sum every year for articles that have disappeared from the buffets. whew! the heat there was insufferable! in my search for sibyl i passed through the antechamber. the footmen wore new livery. i saw none of those restaurant waiters who used, in the time of ce pauvre monsieur faure, to be employed at twenty francs the evening, supper included. yes, things had slightly improved, but the crush was terrific. i made my way to the salon des aides-de-camp, that historic chamber where, in the armchairs still furnishing the room, on the night of the coup d'etat, sat, a prey to mortal anxiety, morny, persigny, saint arnaud, pietri, rouher, king jerome, and the prince president. the japanese military attache, walking before me, mixed himself up somehow with his sabre, and fell. this contretemps was greeted, as at a theatre, with laughter. someone cried, "oh, la la!" as if the stumble were a very clever bit of clowning indeed. the unhappy japanese looked as if he wished the floor would swallow him. i struggled up and paid my respects to the president, who was standing in the centre of the salon. smiling, affable, displaying a simplicity that was real and unaffected, and yet devoid of mere familiarity, his bow and hand-shake were perfect. he struck the right note. i was impressed, moreover, by his sense of proportion. a little more cordiality, and he would cease to be chief of the state. a little more solemnity, and he would be stilted. it is a little hard to convey the distinction; but imagine, on the one hand, a host who wants to make you forget his official position, and on the other a president of the republic who is determined to be a good host. for well-bred people there is always a well-defined shade of difference between these two; and the president was the latter. while turning away i suddenly came face to face with monsieur mollard, the chef-adjoint of the protocol, who greeted me affably and commenced to tell me the latest story of general de galliffet, minister of war. "it is amusing," he laughed. "you must hear it, m'sieur ingram. the general arrived at his club, the union, last night, and for some reason or another his former friends were more than usually cold in their treatment of him. after saying a bonjour to one and the other of them, and receiving a curt reply here and a snub there, the minister of war realised this. but he took their coolness coolly. with his back to the fireplace he said quietly, by way of bringing home to his friends the absurdity of their attitude: `you may come near me. je ne sens pas mauvais--i don't smell bad. you see, there was no cabinet to-day!' is it not excellent?" i smiled. it was a purely french joke. mollard was always full of droll stories. every diplomatist in paris knew him as the keeper of the elysee traditions, as guardian of its unwritten law by inheritance, his father having been, under other presidencies, the official known as introducteur des ambassadeurs. when a question of precedence puzzled the plebeian bigwigs at the quai d'orsay--the foreign office--it was monsieur mollard who would run to the archives to look it up. nature had not, however, endowed him with a demeanour befitting his office, for he wore his uniform as awkwardly as a middle-aged volunteer officer, and looked more like a clerk than a chamberlain. but when he spoke he dragged on the mute syllables as french actors are taught to do in delivering racine. he put three "l's" in "excellence" and four "r's" in "protocol." for the rest, he was a good fellow, much liked in the diplomatic circle, although many jokes had from time to time been played at his expense. presently, after we had been talking for a few moments, i inquired whether he had seen sibyl. "ah, no! i regret, m'sieur," he answered. "but a lady who is sitting over in the salon diplomatique has just inquired of me whether you are present." "a lady? what is her name?" "i know her by sight, but cannot recall her name," he responded. "she is a grande dame, however." "young or old?" "young. you will find her in the salon talking with count tornelli, the italian ambassador. you will easily recognise her. she is wearing a costume of black, trimmed with silver. she told me that she desired to speak with you particularly, and that i was to tell you of her presence." "but you don't know her?" i laughed. "go and see," he answered. "you probably know her;" and, smiling, he turned away. my curiosity being aroused, i struggled through the throng until i reached the spot indicated. only the diplomatic corps and distinguished guests were allowed there, and the other guests, huddled together before the open door, were pointing out well-known personages. i looked in, and in a moment saw before me the striking figure in black and silver. no second glance was needed to recognise who she was. for a moment i stood in hesitation; then, with a sudden resolve, entered, and, walking straight up, bowed low before her. chapter twenty three. princess leonie. "princess," i said, "permit me to offer my felicitations on your return to paris. this is indeed an unexpected pleasure." "ah, m'sieur ingram!" she cried in charming english, holding forth her white-gloved hand, "at last! i have been hunting for you all the evening. all paris is here, and the crush is terrible. yes, you see i am back again." the italian ambassador had risen, bowed, and turned to speak to another acquaintance; therefore, with her sanction, i dropped into his place. "and are you pleased to return?" i inquired, glancing at her beautiful and refined face, which seemed to me just a trifle more careworn than when i had last met her eighteen months ago. "ah!" she answered, "i am always pleased to come back to france. i went to america for a few months, you know; thence to vienna, and for nearly a year have been living at home." "at rudolstadt?" she nodded. "well," i said, "it was really too bad of you to hide your existence from your friends in that manner. everyone has been wondering for months what had become of you. surely you found rudolstadt very dull after life here?" "i did," she sighed, causing the magnificent diamonds at her throat to sparkle with a thousand fires. "but i have departed from my hermitage again, you see. now, sit here and tell me all that has happened during my absence. then if you are good, i will, as a reward, give you just one waltz." "very well," i laughed. "remember that i shall hold you to your bargain;" and then i commenced to gossip about the movements of people she had known when, two years before, she had been the most admired woman in paris. the princess leonie-rose-eugenie von leutenberg was, according to the _almanach de gotha_--that red, squat little volume so dreaded by the ladies--only thirty years of age, and was certainly extremely good-looking. her pale, half-tragic beauty was sufficient to arrest attention anywhere. her noble features were well-moulded and regular, her eyes of a clear grey, and her hair of flaxen fairness, while her bearing was ever that of a daughter of the greatest of the austrian houses. her goodness of heart, her gracefulness, her conversational esprit, and her genuine parisian chic had rendered her popular everywhere; while, as with the duchesse de berri, one strong point of her beauty was her charming little foot, which two years ago had been declared to be the loveliest foot in france, or, in paris, simply "le pied de la princesse." her shoes and hosiery were perfect marvels of fineness and neatness, and when she walked, or rather glided, along the avenue des acacias, the other promenaders formed long rows on each side to behold and admire le pied de la princesse. i had heard it declared, too, with mysterious smiles, how le pied de la princesse had been seen more than once at the masked balls at the opera, and many an amusing little story had gone the round, and many a piquant tale had been told of how the princess had been recognised here and there by the extreme smallness of her foot. one was that for a wager she had disguised herself as a work-girl with a bandbox on her arm, and, attended by her valet, likewise disguised, appeared before the hotel de ville awaiting an omnibus. the vehicle stopped, and the conductor exclaimed in an indifferent tone, "entrez, mademoiselle," without taking any further notice. then, however, his wandering eye caught sight of a pair of tiny feet, and, looking into her face in surprise, he enthusiastically exclaimed: "ah! ah! le pied de la princesse!" and doffed his hat respectfully. the princess lost her wager, but was in no little measure proud of the conquest which her foot had won over the plain omnibus-conductor. her life had been a somewhat tragic one. the only daughter of prince kinsky von wchinitz und tettau, the seigneur of wchinitz, in bohemia, leonie had, when scarcely out of her teens, been forced to marry the old prince othon von leutenberg, a man forty years her senior. the marriage proved an exceedingly unhappy one, for he treated her brutally, and after five years of a wretched existence, during which she bore herself with great patience and forbearance, the prince died of alcoholism in berlin, and her release brought her into possession of an enormous fortune, together with the mansion of the leutenbergs in the frieung at vienna, one of the finest in the austrian capital, the castle and extensive estates in schwazbourg-rudolstadt, that had belonged to the family from feudal days, as well as the hotel in the avenue du bois de boulogne, and the beautiful chateau de chantoiseau, deep in the forest of fontainebleau. she was very charming, and there was an air of sadness in her beauty that made her the more interesting. we were friends of long standing. indeed, i had known her in the days when i was junior attache and fancied myself in love with every woman. i had admired her, and a firm friendship existed between us, although i think i can say honestly that i had never fallen in love with her. more than once, when those false and scandalous tales had been whispered about her--as they are whispered about every pretty woman in paris--i had constituted myself her champion, and challenged her traducers to prove their words. as we sat there chatting, watching the gaily uniformed corps diplomatique, and bowing ever and anon as some man or woman came up to congratulate her on her return to paris, she told me of the dreariness of her life in the gloomy, ancestral castle of rudolstadt, and how, finding it unendurable at last, she had suddenly resolved to spend the remainder of the summer at chantoiseau. "i have been there already a fortnight, and everything is in order," she said. "i am inviting quite a number of people. you must come also." "but i scarcely think it is possible for me to be absent from paris just now," i answered in hesitation. "i will take no refusal," she said decisively. "i will talk to lord barmouth to-night before i leave. me never refuses me anything. besides, in two hours you can always be at the embassy. you will remember, the last time you were my guest, how easy you found the journey to and from paris. why, you often used to leave in the morning and return at night. no, you cannot refuse." "i must consult his excellency before accepting," i replied. "in the meantime, princess, i thank you for your kind invitation." "princess?" she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows. "why not leonie? i was leonie to you always in the days gone by. is there any reason why you should be so distant now? unless--" and she paused. "unless what?" i inquired, looking at her swiftly. "unless you have a really serious affair of the heart," she said. "i have none," i answered promptly, suppressing a sigh with difficulty. "then do not use my title. i hate my friends to call me princess. recollect that to you i am always leonie." "very well," i laughed, for she was full of quaint caprice. i had pleasant recollections of my last visit to the chateau, and hoped that if the theft of the instructions contained in the despatch i had brought from london produced no serious international complication, i should obtain leave to join her house-party, which was certain to be a smart and merry one. she told me the names of some she had invited. among those known to me were the baroness de chalencon, count de hindenburg, the german ambassador, and his wife, and count de wolkenstein, austrian ambassador, as well as several other men and women of the smartest set in paris. "you will be a real benefactress," i laughed. "everyone here is stifled; while dieppe is too crowded; aix, with its eternal villa des fleurs, is insupportable; and both royat and vichy are full to overflowing." "ah, mon cher gerald!" cried the princess, lifting her small hands, "it is your english tourists who have spoilt all our summer resorts. if one has no place of one's own in which to spend the summer nowadays, one must herd with the holders of tourist tickets and hotel coupons." i admitted that what she said was in a great measure true. society, as the grande dame knows it, is being expelled by the tourists from the places which until a year or two ago were expensive and exclusive. even the riviera is fast becoming a cheap winter resort, for nice now deserves to be called the margate of the continent. having arranged that i should do my best to accept her invitation, our conversation drifted to politics, art, and the drama. she seemed in utter ignorance of recent events, except such as she had read about in the newspapers. "i know nothing," she laughed. "news reaches rudolstadt tardily, and then only by the journals; and you know how unreliable they are. how i've longed time after time to spend an evening in paris to hear all the gossip! it is charming, i assure you, to be back here again." "but for what reason did you shut yourself up for so long?" i asked. "it surely is not like you!" she grew grave in an instant, and appeared to hesitate. her lips closed tightly, and there was a hard expression at the corners of her well-shaped mouth. "i had my reasons--strong ones." "what were they?" "well, i was tired of it all." "leonie," i said, looking at her seriously, "pray forgive me, but you do not intend to tell me the truth. you were tired of it years ago, when the prince was alive." "that was so," she answered, with a glance of triumph; "and i went home to my father and shut myself up at wchinitz." "but you must have had some stronger motive in burying yourself again as you have recently done. you did not write to a soul, and no one knew where you were. you simply dropped out; and you had some reason for doing so, otherwise you would have told the truth to your most intimate friends." "you are annoyed that i should have left you without a word--eh?" she asked. "well, i will apologise now." "no apology is necessary," i answered. "it is only because we are such good friends that i venture to speak thus. i feel confident that you have sustained some great sorrow. you are, somehow, not the same as you were in paris two years ago; now, tell me--" "ah! do not talk of it!" she cried huskily, rising to her feet. "let us drop the subject. promise me, gerald, not to mention it again, for i confess to you that it is too painful--much too painful. i promised you a waltz. come, let us dance." thus bidden, i rose, and she, twisting her skirts deftly in her hand, leaned lightly upon my arm as i conducted her to the great ballroom. a very few moments later we glided together into the whirling, dazzling crowd. "you will not speak of that again, gerald?" she urged in a hoarse whisper, looking earnestly up to my face, as her head came near my shoulder. "promise me." "if it is your wish, leonie," i responded, puzzled, "i will ask no further question." chapter twenty four. in the forest of fontainebleau. sixty kilometres from paris, just off that straight and noble highway that runs through the heart of the magnificent forest, and passes through the old-world town of fontainebleau--where napoleon signed his abdication--through the mediaeval, crumbling gates of moret, and away far south to lyons, rises the fine old chateau of chantoiseau. half-way between the clean little village of by, standing in the midst of its well-kept vineyards, and the river-hamlet of thomery, it occupies a commanding position on the summit of a cliff, where far below winds the seine, on past valvins and samois, until it becomes lost like a silver thread among the dark woodlands in the direction of paris. the position of the splendid old place is superb. from its windows can be obtained a view of the great forest stretching away to the horizon on the left, while to the right is the valley of the seine, and across the river spread the smiling vineyards with their white walls--the vineyards of champagne. the house, a long, rambling place with circular towers, has been historical for many centuries. once the property of madame la pompadour, in the days when the splendours of the palace of fontainebleau were world-renowned, a latter-day interest also attaches to it, inasmuch as it was the headquarters of the german crown prince during the advance of the prussians upon paris. its grounds, sloping down, enclose part of the forest itself; therefore, during the blazing days of august one lives actually in the woods. the forest is an enormous one, and even to-day there still remain many parts unexplored, where the wolf and wild boar retreat in summer, and where even that most ubiquitous forester, the viper-hunter--the man whose profession it is to kill vipers and sell them at the local mairie--has never penetrated. in the whole of the great forest, however, no spot is more charming or more picturesque than that in which the chateau is situated. it is not a show-place, like barbison or the gorges de franchard, but entirely rural and secluded--on the one side the open valley, on the other the dark forest, where in the tunnel-like alleys the trees meet overhead, and where the shady highroads to the painter colony at marlotte and to bois-le-roi are perfect paradises for the cyclist. chantoiseau itself is not a village, not even a hamlet, only a big old-fashioned cottage in which the forest-guards live. above it, on the high ground beyond, stands the fine old chateau. many of those who read my story have driven or cycled in the forest, and many have no doubt given the great old place a passing glance before plunging deep into those leafy glades that lead to fontainebleau. if when you have driven past you have inquired of your cocher, "who lives there?" he has probably only shrugged his shoulders and replied: "servants only. madame la princesse, alas! seldom comes," and you have gone on your way, as many others have done, wondering why such a beautiful old place should be neglected by its owner. one hot evening at sundown, about three weeks after the president's ball, i strolled slowly beside the princess down the hill, entering the forest by that well-kept cross-road which leads by the carrefour de la croix de montmorin straight to the pretty village of montigny on the loing. contrary to expectation, no immediate result had accrued from the mysterious theft of the secret instructions to lord barmouth; hence i had obtained leave and accepted my hostess's invitation, although i was compelled to spend two days each week at the embassy, going up to paris in the morning and returning by the six o'clock express from the gare de lyon. that some result of the exposure of our policy must certainly make itself felt we knew quite well, but at present the political atmosphere seemed clearer, and by the fact that several of the ambassadors had left paris considerable confidence had been established. yet in those sultry august days the war-cloud still hung over europe and the representative of her majesty was compelled, as he ever is, to exercise the greatest tact and the utmost finesse in order to preserve peace with honour. truly, the office of british ambassador in paris is no sinecure, for upon him rests much of the responsibility of england's position in europe and her prestige among nations, while to him is entrusted the difficult duty of negotiating amicably with a nation openly and avowedly hostile to british interests and british prosperity. those summer days, so sunny, happy, and pleasant, in the forest depths at chantoiseau, were, nevertheless, perplexing ones for the rulers of europe. the stifling air was the oppression before the storm. i had more than once chatted in the billiard-room with my fellow guests, the german and austrian ambassadors, and both had agreed that the outlook was serious, and that the storm-cloud was upon the political horizon. but life at the chateau was full of enjoyment. the princess, a born hostess, knew exactly whom to invite, and her house-parties were always congenial gatherings. there was riding, cycling, tennis, boating, billiards; indeed, something to suit all tastes, while she contented herself with looking on and seeing that all her guests enjoyed themselves. a riding-party had gone over to montigny, and after tea the princess had suggested that i should accompany her for a stroll down into the forest to meet them. she was dressed simply in a washing-dress of pale blue linen, and wore a sailor-hat, so that with her fair hair bound tightly she presented quite an english appearance, save perhaps for her figure and gait, both of which were eminently foreign. the feet that all paris had admired two years ago were encased in stout walking-boots, and she carried a light cane, walking with all the suppleness of youth. soon we left the full glory of the mellow sunset flooding the seine valley, and entered the forest road where the high trees met and interlaced above, and where the golden light, filtering through the screen of foliage, illuminated here and there the deeper shadows, struck straight upon the brilliant green of the bracken, married with the greyness on the lichen-covered trunks, and kissed the leaves with golden lips. birds were twittering farewells to the day, and here and there a red-brown squirrel, startled by our presence, darted from bough to bough with tail erect, while on each side of the road was a carpet of moss and wild-flowers. the sweet odour of the woods greeted our nostrils, and we inhaled it in a deep draught, for that gloomy shade was delightfully cool and refreshing after the blazing heat of the stifling day. as i had been compelled to attend to some official correspondence, i had not joined the riding-party. the princess had given some half-dozen of us tea in the hall, and, while the others had gone off to play tennis, she and i had been left alone. suddenly, as we walked along in the coolness, she turned to me, saying in a tone of reproach: "gerald, you have hidden from me the true seriousness of the situation at your embassy. why?" "well," i answered, facing her in surprise, "we do not generally discuss our fears, you know. others might profit by the knowledge." "but surely you might have confided in me?" she said gravely. "then de wolkenstein has told you?" "he has told me nothing," she answered. "but i am, nevertheless, aware of all that has come to pass. i know, too, that since my absence at rudolstadt you have fallen in love." "well?" i inquired. she shrugged her well-formed shoulders as if to indicate that such a thing was beyond her comprehension. "is it a disaster, do you think?" i asked. "you yourself should know that," she replied in a strained tone. "it seems, however, that you do not exercise your usual discretion in your love-affairs." "what do you mean, leonie?" i demanded quickly, halting and looking at her. who, i wondered, had told her the truth? to which of my loves did she refer--the spy or the traitress? "i mean exactly what i have said," she answered quite calmly. "if you had confided in me i might perhaps have used my influence in preventing the inevitable." "the inevitable!" i echoed. "what is that?" "a combination of the powers against england," she replied quickly. "as you know well enough, gerald, i have facilities for learning much that is hidden from even your accredited representatives. therefore, i tell you this, that at this moment there is a plan arranged to upset british diplomacy in all four capitals and to ruin british prestige. it is a bold plan, and i alone outside the conspirators am aware of it. if carried out, england must either declare war or lose her place as the first nation in the world. recollect these words of mine, for i am not joking at this moment. to-day is the blackest that europe has ever known." she had halted in the path, and spoke with an earnestness that held me bewildered. "a conspiracy against us!" i gasped. "what is it? tell me of it?" "no," she answered. "at present i cannot. suffice it for you to know that i alone am aware of the truth, and that i alone, if i so desire, can thwart their plans and turn their own weapons against them." "you can?" i cried. "you will do it! tell me the truth--for my sake. i have been foolish, i know, leonie; but tell me. if it is really serious, no time must be lost." "serious?" she echoed. "it is so serious that i doubt whether the present month will pass before war is declared." "by england?" "yes. your country will be forced into a conflict which must prove disastrous. the plan is the most clever and most dastardly ever conceived by your enemies, and this time no diplomatic efforts will succeed in staving off the tragedy, depend upon it." "are both wolkenstein and de hindenburg aware of the plot?" "i presume so. i have watched carefully, but have, however, discovered nothing to lead me to believe that they understand how near europe is to an armed conflict." "then your information is not from wolkenstein?" "no, from a higher source." "from your emperor?" she nodded. "then this accounts for your sudden reappearance among us?" i said. "you may put my presence down to that, if you wish," she replied. "but promise me, on your word of honour, that you will not breathe a single word to a soul--not even to lord barmouth." "if you impose silence upon me, leonie, it shall be as you wish. but you have just said that you can assist me. how?" "i can do so--if i choose," she responded thoughtfully, drawing the profile of a man's face in the dust with the ferrule of her walking-stick. "you speak strangely," i said--"almost as though you do not intend to do me this service. surely you will not withhold from me intelligence which might enable me to rescue my country from the machination of its enemies?" "and why, pray, should i betray my own country in order to save yours?" she asked in a cold tone. i was nonplussed. for a moment i could not reply. at last, however, i answered in a low, earnest tone: "because we are friends, leonie." "mere friendship does not warrant one turning traitor," she replied. "but austria is not the prime mover of this conspiracy," i said. "the rulers of another nation have formed the plot. tell me which of the powers is responsible?" "no," she answered with a slight hauteur. "as you have thought fit to preserve certain secrets from me, i shall keep this knowledge to myself." "what secrets have i withheld from you?" i inquired, dismayed. "secrets concerning your private affairs." i knew well that she referred to my passion for yolande. for a moment i hesitated, until words rose to my lips and i answered: "surely my private affairs are of little interest to you! why should i trouble you with them?" "because we are friends, are we not?" she said, looking straight into my face with those fine eyes which half europe had admired when le pied de la princesse had been the catchword of paris. "most certainly, leonie," i agreed. "and i hope that our friendship will last always." "it cannot if you refuse to confide in me and sometimes to seek my advice." "but you, in your position, going hither and thither, with hosts of friends around you, can feel no real interest in my doings?" i protested. "friends!" she echoed in a voice of sarcasm. "do you call these people friends? my guests at this moment are not friends. because of my position--because i am popular, and it is considered chic to stay at chantoiseau--because i have money, and am able to amuse them, they come to me, the men to bow over my hand, and the women to call me their `dear princess.' bah! they are not friends. the diplomatic set come because it is a pleasant mode of passing a few weeks of summer, while still within hail of paris; and the others--well, they are merely the entourage which every fashionable woman unconsciously gathers about her." "then among them all you have no friend?" again she turned her fine eyes upon me, and in a low but distinct tone declared: "only yourself, gerald." "i hope, leonie, that i shall always prove myself worthy of your friendship," i answered, impressed by her sudden seriousness. her face had grown pale, and she had uttered those words with all possible earnestness. then we walked on together in the silence of the darkening gloom of the forest. the ruddy light of the dying day struggled through the foliage, the birds had ceased their song, and the stillness of night had already fallen. we were each full of our own thoughts, and neither uttered a word. suddenly she halted again, and, gripping my arm, looked up into my face. i started, for upon her pale countenance i saw a look of desperation such as i had never before seen there. "gerald!" she cried hoarsely, "why do you treat me like this? you cannot tell how i suffer, or you would have pity upon me! surely you cannot disguise from yourself the truth, even though your coldness forces me to tell you with my own lips. you know well my position--that of a woman drifting here and there, open to the calumnies of my enemies and the scandalous tales invented by so-called friends; a woman who has borne great trials and who is still, alas! unhappy! of my honesty you yourself shall judge. you have heard whispers regarding my doings-- escapades they have been called--and possibly you have given them credence. if you have, i cannot help it. there are persons around us always who delight in besmirching a woman's reputation, especially if she has the misfortune to be born of princely family. but i tell you that all the tales you have heard are false. i--" suddenly she covered her face with her hands; the words seemed to choke her, and she burst into tears. "no, no, leonie!" i said with deep sympathy, bending down to whisper in her ear and taking her hand in mine. "no one believes in those foul calumnies. your honour is too well known." "you do not believe them--you will never believe them, will you?" she asked quickly through her tears. "of course not. i have denied them many times when they have been repeated to me." "ah!" she cried, "i know you are always generous to a woman, gerald." then again a long silence fell between us. presently, with a sudden impulse, she raised her tear-stained face to mine, and with a look of fierce desperation in her eyes implored: "gerald, will you not give me one single word? will you still remain cold and indifferent?" as she said this, her breast rose and fell in agitation. i drew back, wondering at her beseeching attitude. "no, no!" she cried. "do not put me from you, gerald! i cannot bear it--indeed i can't! you must have recognised the truth long ago--" and she paused. then, lowering her voice until it was only a hoarse whisper, she added, "the truth that i love you!" i looked at her in blank amazement, scarce knowing what to reply. i had admired her just as half paris had admired her, but i certainly had never felt a spark of deep affection for her. "ah!" she went on, reading my heart in an instant, "you despise me for this confession. but i cannot help it. i love you, gerald, as i have never before loved a man. in return for your love i can offer you nothing--nothing save one thing," she added in a strange, mechanical voice, almost as though speaking to herself. "in return for your love i can save your country from the grievous peril in which it is now placed." she offered me her secret in return for my love! the thing was incomprehensible. i stood there dumbfounded. "this is a moment of foolishness, leonie. we are both at fault," i said, as soon as i again found tongue. "think of the difference in our stations--you a princess, and i a poor diplomatist! i am your friend, and hope to remain so always--but not your lover." "but i love you!" she cried fiercely, raising her blanched and pitiful face until her lips met mine. the passion of love was in her heart. "you may despise me, gerald; you may cast me from you; you may hate me; but in the end you will love me just as intensely as i love you. to endeavour to escape me is useless. since the die is cast, let us make the compact now, as i have already suggested. i have confessed to you openly. i am yours, and i implore of you to give me your love in return. you are mine, gerald--mine only!" chapter twenty five. england's enemies. late that night, after the princess and most of her guests had retired, i entered the billiard-room to get my cigarette-case, which i had left there while playing pool earlier in the evening, and on opening the door found the two ambassadors wolkenstein and hindenburg seated together in the long lounge-chairs in earnest conversation. they were speaking in german, and as i entered i overheard the words "in such a manner as to crush the english power on the sea." they were uttered by the german representative, and were certainly ominous. it was apparent that both men were aware of the gigantic conspiracy of which the princess had told me--the plot which aimed at the downfall of our nation. i could see, too, that my sudden entry had disconcerted them, for they both moved uneasily and glanced quickly at each other as though fearing i had overheard some part of what had passed between them. then wolkenstein with skilful tact cried in french: "ah, my dear ingram! we thought we alone were the late birds to-night. come here and chat;" and at the same time he pulled forward one of the long cane chairs, into which, thus bidden, i sank. what, i wondered, had been the exchange of view's between these two noted diplomatists? the faces of both were sphinx-like. our talk at first dealt with nothing more important than the journey across the forest to barbison which our hostess had arranged for the morrow. i knew, however, that the conversation held before my entrance had been about the european situation. those men were england's enemies. my impulse was to rise abruptly and leave them; but it is always the diplomatist's duty to remain cool, and watch, even though he may be compelled to hobnob with the bitterest opponents of his native land. therefore i remained, and, concealing my antipathy, lit a cigar and lay back in my chair, carelessly gossiping about the usual trivialities which form the subject of house-party chatter. "the princess looked rather pale to-night, i thought," exclaimed count de hindenburg suddenly. "she seemed quite worried." "with a chateau full of guests the life of a hostess is not always devoid of care," i remarked, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. i alone knew the reason of her paleness and anxiety, and was eager to ascertain what deductions these two shrewd men had made. "to me," observed the representative of the emperor francis joseph, "it seemed as though the princess had been shedding tears. didn't you notice that her eyes were just a trifle swollen?" and, turning to me, he added: "she scarcely spoke to you at dinner. are you the culprit, ingram?" both men laughed. "certainly not," i denied. "madame has a touch of nerves, i suppose-- that's all. such a malady is common among women." "she looked quite worn out by fatigue," declared wolkenstein. "because she is never still a single moment in the day. her thoughts are always for her guests--how to amuse them and to give them a pleasant time. it was the same two years ago," i said. "remarkable woman--quite remarkable!" exclaimed de hindenburg. "she had sufficient trouble with the rheumatic old prince to turn any woman's hair grey; but, on the contrary, she seems now to become younger every day. she's still one of the prettiest women in europe." "everyone admits that, of course," i said. they exchanged glances, and i fancied that these looks were unusually significant. a flood of recollections of the sunset hour in the forest surged within my mind--how i had striven with firmness to release myself, and how i had been forced to turn away and leave the princess. in that deep gloom, when the rosy afterglow was fading and the light within the leafy glade so dim that all objects were indistinct, i had seen her wild passion in all its magnificence. her eyes had burned with the fierce, all-consuming fire of love, her cheeks were white and cold, and her words as reckless as they were passionate. she had charged me with entertaining affection for some other woman--a woman unworthy of my love, she had said with distinct meaning, as though she knew the duplicity of yolande; and she had sworn an oath with clenched hands to compel me to reciprocate her passion. the scene between us was one of unreason and of folly. she had been overwhelmed by the impulse of the moment, and i had bowed and left her, my heart full of conflicting emotions, my head reeling. she had suddenly twisted her soft arms about my neck and clung to me, whispering her love and declaring that i was cruel, cold, with a heart like adamant. but i had flung her off, and we had not met until two hours later, when i sat at her right hand at dinner, during which she had scarcely addressed a single word to me. my companions had, of course, noticed this, and appeared to have cleverly guessed my refusal to accept the offer of the princess. they little knew the terms upon which she had attempted to make a compact with me--that she was ready to betray them in return for my love. i smoked on in silence and in wonder. the situation certainly presented a problem which i was utterly unable to solve. that the affections of such a woman as the princess von leutenberg were not to be trifled with i knew well, for women of her temperament are capable of anything when once they love with a fierce, uncontrollable, reckless passion such as she had seen fit to display that evening in the deep silence of the forest. her proposition had, indeed, been a startling one. she had offered me the secret of the plot in return for my love! with my two companions i chatted on until nearly two o'clock; then we separated, and i passed through the long oak corridors to my room. upon the dressing-table i found a note lying. it was sealed with black wax, with the leutenberg arms. i tore it open. it gave out an odour of fresh violets, and i saw instantly that the handwriting was leonie's. "_i have been foolish in my confession to you, gerald_," she wrote in french. "_but my heart was so full that i could conceal the truth no longer. i saw from your manner at dinner to-night that you despise me, and intend to hold me at a distance as an unwelcome woman who has flung herself into your arms. but i cannot help it. the misfortune--nay, the curse upon me--is that i love you. would to heaven that i did not! because of you i have forgotten eatery thing--my duty to myself as a woman, my duty to my family as one of a noble house, my duty to my country, my duty to my creator. when i left paris long ago, i crossed the atlantic, resolved to forget you; but all was in vain. i returned to rudolstadt and shut myself up in retirement, striving to wean myself from the mad passion which had arisen within me. all, however, was futile, and at last i broke the bonds and returned to paris. a month has gone by, and now i have told you the truth; i have confessed. to-morrow morning at eleven i shall walk alone through the forest, along the road that leads to by. my offer to you--an offer made, i admit, in desperation--still stands. if you accept it you will be enabled to save your country from her enemies, and we shall both find peace and happiness; if not, then the plot will be carried out, and at least one woman's life will be wrecked--the solitary and unhappy woman who writes these lines and whose name is leonie_." she had written that letter calmly and coolly, for the handwriting showed no haste. evidently she had penned it in the seclusion of her chamber, and suzanne, her maid, had placed it upon my dressing-table. i stood with the letter in my hand. my eyes caught my own reflection in the long silver-framed mirror, and i was struck by the haggard, anxious expression upon my own countenance. my personal appearance startled me. well i knew the character of this pale and beautiful woman whom all paris had admired. the impression she gave everyone was that of perpetual and irreconcilable contrast. i had long ago recognised her high mental accomplishments, her unequalled grace, her woman's wit and woman's wiles, her almost irresistible allurements, her moments of classic grandeur, her storms of temper, her vivacity of imagination, her petulant caprice, her tenderness and her truth, her childish susceptibility to flattery, her magnificent spirit, and her princely pride. she had dazzled my faculties, perplexed my judgment, bewildered and bewitched my fancy. i was conscious of a kind of fascination against which my moral sense rebelled. with all her perverseness, egotism, and caprice, she, nevertheless, i knew, mingled a capacity for warm affection and kindly feeling, or, rather, what one might call a constitutional good-nature, and was lavishly generous to her favourites and dependants. she was a princess in every sense of the word, her right royal wilfulness and impatience often fathering the strangest caprice. there were actually moments when she seemed desirous of picking a quarrel with such immensities as time and space, and, with the air of a lioness at bay, regarded those who dared to remember what she chose to forget. she had given me but little time to decide. to-morrow at eleven she would slip away from her guests and await me in that long, tunnel-like passage leading through the forest to the ancient town of moret, at the confluence of the willow-lined loing with the broad seine. its walls and gates, dating from the time of charlemagne, still remain, and right in the heart of the little town stands the square old donjon keep, now ivy-grown and with its moat full of a profusion of sweet-smelling tea-roses. i could save england if, in return for her secret, i gave her my love. has any man ever found himself in similar perplexity? calmly i reasoned with myself, turning again to her letter, and feeling convinced that this sudden passion of hers was but a momentary caprice. no woman, if she were cool and reasonable, would have acted as she had done, for she must have recognised that the difference in our stations rendered marriage impossible. my duty to my country was to learn the truth about this gigantic conspiracy; yet, at the same time, my duty towards myself and towards the princess was to leave chantoiseau at once and forget all that had occurred. signs had not been wanting in paris during the past few days to corroborate what she had told me regarding the conspiracy of certain powers against the prestige of their hated rival england. there was a lull in diplomatic affairs that was ominous; a distinctly oppressive atmosphere which foreboded a storm. far into the night i sat thinking, trying to devise some plan by which i could obtain knowledge of her secret without committing myself. but i could find none--absolutely none. at early morning, before the others were astir, i took a stroll down the hill to where the clear seine wound beneath the chalk cliff. the larks were soaring high, filling the air with their song. the boatmen going down-stream shouted wittily to each other between their hands, and the bronzed villagers on their way to work in the vineyards chanted merrily the latest popular airs. life is easy and prosperous among the peasantry around the fontainebleau forest. in those clean white villages of the department of seine et marne there is little, if any, poverty. i wandered through the pretty, flower-embowered village of thomery, and, crossing the river by the long iron bridge, entered the smiling little hamlet of champagne--a quaint and comely group of small cottages, where lived the vineyard-workers. this hamlet is famous for miles round because of a particularly venomous breed of vipers which infest the sun-kissed lands in its neighbourhood. although only six o'clock, the prosperous little place was already busy, and as i wandered through the village, past the grey old church, and along the wide, well-kept road beside the river, i smiled to think that the name of that old-world place was known everywhere from piccadilly to peru, and was synonymous with wealth, luxury, and riotous living. heedless as to where i went, so deeply engaged was i in conflicting feelings and in trying to determine whether i should keep that appointment on the footpath to moret, at last i found myself in samoreau, where, crossing by the ferry, i returned to the forest, and at eight o'clock was back again, idling with several of the guests on the lawn in front of the chateau. after drinking my coffee, i sat in the window of one of the petit salons that overlooked the valley and took up a pen, meaning to write to my hostess, for i had resolved to send her a note of regret, and return at once to paris. i could remain there no longer. scarcely had i taken the note-paper from the escritoire, when the baroness de chalencon entered, fussy as usual and full of the excursion to barbison. "leonie tells me you are not accompanying us," she cried in french. "i've been searching for you everywhere. why, my dear gerald, you must come." "i regret, baronne, that i can't," i answered. "i have to go to paris by the midday train." "how horribly unsociable you are!" she exclaimed. "surely you can postpone your journey to paris! wolkenstein and the others have declared that we can't do without you." "express to them my regrets," i said. "but to-day it is utterly impossible. i must be at the embassy this afternoon. i have important business there." "well, i suppose if you failed to put in an appearance, a crisis in europe would not result, would it?" she observed with a touch of grim irony. "at the rue de lille or the rue de varenne," she added, meaning the german and austrian embassies, "they take things far more easily than you do. that's the worst of you english--you are always so very enthusiastic and so painfully businesslike." "i am compelled to do my duty," i answered briefly. "most certainly," answered the baroness. "but you might surely be sociable as well! this is not like you, m'sieur ingram." "i must apologise, baronne," i said. "but, believe me, it is impossible for me to go to barbison to-day. i have urgent correspondence here to attend to, and afterwards i must run up to paris." when she saw that i was firm, she reluctantly left me, saying as she disappeared through the door: "i really don't know what is coming to you. you are not at all the light and soul of the summer picnics, as you once used to be." "i'm growing old," i shouted with a laugh. she halted, turned back, and, putting her head inside the room again, retorted in a low, distinct voice: "or have fallen in love--which is it?" i treated her suggestion with ridicule, and in the end she retired, laughing merrily, for at heart she was a pleasant woman, with whom i was always on excellent terms of friendship. then i sat down again to write, hoping to remain undisturbed. but although i held the pen poised in my hand i could think of no excuse. three carriages drew up before the chateau, the coachmen wearing those handsome scarlet vests, conical hats, and many gold buttons, which together represent the mode in fontainebleau and at monte carlo; and the guests, a merry, laughing, chattering crowd, mounted into the vehicles. big picnic baskets, with the gilt tops of champagne bottles peeping out, were placed in a light cart to follow the excursionists, and two of the guests--men from vienna--mounted the horses held by the grooms. then, when all was ready, the whips cracked, there was a loud shouting of farewells to the hostess, who stood directing her servants, and the whole party moved off and away to the leafy forest lying below. i looked down from the window, and saw the princess standing on the drive--a sweet, girlish figure in her white dress, her slim waist girdled with blue, and her fair hair bound tightly beneath her sailor-hat. she scarcely looked more than nineteen as she stood there in the morning sunlight, smiling and waving her little hand to her departing guests. she glanced up suddenly, and i drew back from the window to escape observation. so gentle so tender, so fair was she. and yet i feared her--just as i feared myself. chapter twenty six. a woman's heart. reader, i do not know what influence it was that overcame me in that breathless hour of perplexity and indecision: whether it was the fascination of her beauty; whether it was owing to the fact that i unconsciously entertained some affection for her; or whether it was because my sense of duty to my country urged me to endeavour to learn the secret of the conspiracy formed against her by the powers of europe. to-day, as i sit here writing down this strange chapter of secret diplomacy, i cannot decide which of these three influences caused me to throw my instinctive caution to the winds and keep the appointment in the leafy forest glade that led through the beeches to veneux nadon and on to quiet old moret. instinctively i felt myself in danger--that if i allowed myself to become fascinated by this capricious, impulsive woman, it would mean ruin to us both. yet her beauty was renowned through europe, and the illustrated papers seemed to vie with each other in publishing her new portraits. her confession to me had been sufficient to turn the head of any man. nevertheless, with a fixed determination not to allow myself to fall beneath the fascination of those wonderful eyes, i strolled down the forest-path and awaited her coming. soon she approached, walking over the mossy ground noiselessly, save for the quick swish of her skirts; and then with a glad cry of welcome, she grasped my hand. "ah!" she exclaimed, a slight flush mounting to her delicate, well-moulded cheeks, "you received my note last night, gerald? can you forgive me? i am a woman, and should not have written so." "forgive!" i repeated. "of course i forgive you anything, leonie." "you think none the worse of me for it?" she urged, speaking rapidly in french. "indeed, i allowed my pen to run away, and now i regret it." i breathed more freely. her attitude was that of a woman who, conscious of error, now wished it to be forgotten. "to regret is quite unnecessary," i assured her in a low voice of sympathy. "we are all of us human, and sometimes we err." silence fell between us for a few moments. it struck me that she was striving strenuously to preserve her self-restraint. "you will destroy that letter, promise me," she urged, looking piercingly into my face. "it was foolish--very foolish--of me to write it." "i have done so," i answered, although, truth to tell, it still remained in my pocket. "and you will not despise me because in an hour of foolishness i confessed my love for you?" "i shall never despise you, leonie," i answered. "we have always been good friends, but never lovers. the latter we never shall be." she looked at me quickly, with a strange expression. "never?" she asked, in a tone so low that i could scarcely catch the word. "never," i responded. her laces stirred as her breast rose and fell, and i saw that she herself was endeavouring to evade my query, although at the same time her heart was full of the same impetuous passion which had so much amazed me on the previous night. i had spoken plainly, and my single word, uttered firmly, had crushed her. it occurred to me that i had made a mistake. i had not acted diplomatically. i knew, alas! that i was, and always had been, a terrible blunderer in regard to women's affections. some men are unlucky in their love-affairs. i was one of them. we walked slowly together side by side for some distance, neither uttering a word. at last i halted again, and, taking her hand, bent earnestly to her, saying: "now, leonie, let us put aside any sentimentality and talk reasonably." "ah!" she said, her eyes flashing quickly, "you do not love me. put aside sentiment indeed! how can i put it aside?" "but a moment ago you suggested that we should forget what passed between us yesterday." "i did so in order to test you--to see whether you had a spark of affection for me in your heart. but the bare, cold truth is now exposed. you have not!" her face was ashen, and her magnificent eyes had a strange look in them. "could you respect me and count me your friend, leonie, if i feigned an affection which did not really exist within me?" i asked. "reason with yourself for a moment. had i been unscrupulous towards you i might yesterday have told you that i reciprocated your affection, and--" "and you do not?" she cried. "tell me the truth plainly, once and for all." "you offered me in exchange for my love a secret which would enable me to defeat the enemies of my country, and probably cause my advancement in the diplomatic service. you offered me the greatest temptation possible." "no;" she said, putting up her hand, "do not use the word temptation." "i will call it inducement, then. well, this inducement was strong enough to persuade me to break the bond of friendship between us, and to cause me to occupy a false position. but i have hesitated, because--" "because you do not love me," she said quickly, interrupting me. "no, leonie," i protested. "between us it is hard to define the exact line where friendship ends and love begins. our own discretion should be able to define it. tell me, which do you prefer--a firm friend--or a false lover?" "you are too coldly philosophical," she answered. "i only put it to you from a common-sense standpoint." "and which position is to be preferred?" she asked. "your own, as that of a diplomatist with a paltry fifty thousand francs or so a year, and compelled to worry yourself over every trifling action of those who represent the courts of your enemies; or that of my husband, with an income that would place you far above the necessity of allowing your brain to be worried by everyday trifles?" she paused, and her lips trembled. then with a sudden desperate passion she went on: "people say that i am good-looking, and my mirror tells me so; yet you, the man i love, can see in me no beauty that is attractive. to you i am simply a smart woman who is at the same time a princess--that is all." "i am no flatterer, leonie," i cried quickly. "but as regards personal beauty you are superb, incomparable. remember what vian said when he painted your portrait for the salon--that you were the only woman he had ever painted whose features together made a perfect type of beauty." "ah! you remember that!" she said, smiling with momentary satisfaction. "i thought you had forgotten it. i fear that my beauty is not what it was five years ago." "you are the same to-day as when we first met and were introduced. it was at longchamps. do you remember?" "remember? i recollect every incident of that day," she answered. "you have been ever in my mind since." "as a friend, i hope." "no, as a lover." "impossible," i declared. "do reason for an instant, leonie. at this moment i am proud to count myself among your most intimate personal friends, but love between us would only result in disaster. if we married, the difference in our stations would be as irksome to you as to me; and if i did not love you, the link would only cause us both unhappiness, and, in a year or two, estrangement." "only if you did not love me. if you loved me it would be different." "you would still be a princess and i a struggling diplomatist." "it would make no difference. our love would be the same," she answered passionately. "ah, gerald, you cannot tell how very lonely my life is without a single person to care for me! i think i am the most melancholy woman in all the world. true, i have wealth, position, and good looks, the three things that the world believes necessary for the well-being of women; but i lack one--the most necessary of them all--the affection of the man i love." "i can't help it, leonie!" i cried. "indeed, it is not my fault that my friendship does not overstep the bounds. some day it may, but i tell you frankly and honestly that at present it does not. i am your friend, earnest and devoted to you--a friend such as few women have, perhaps. were i not actually your friend i should now, at this moment, become selfish, feign love, and thus become your bitterest enemy." "you are cold as ice," she answered hoarsely, in a low tone of disappointment. her countenance fell, as though she were utterly crushed by my straightforward declaration. "no, you misunderstand," i replied, taking her hand tenderly in mine, and speaking very earnestly. "to-day the romance that exists within the breast of every woman is stirred within you, and causes you to utter the same words as you did at sixteen, when your first love was, in your eyes, a veritable god. you will recall those days--days when youth was golden, and when the world seemed a world of unceasing sunshine and of roses without thorns. but you, like myself, have obtained knowledge of what life really is, and have become callous to so much that used to impress and influence us in those long-past days. we have surely both of us taught ourselves to pause and to reason." she hung her head in silence, as if she w'ere a scolded child, her looks fixed upon the ground. "my refusal to mislead you into a belief that i love you is as painful to me as it is to you, leonie," i went on, still holding her hand in mine. "i would do anything rather than cause you a moment's trouble and unhappiness, but i am determined that i will not play you false. these are plain, hard words, i know; but some day you will thank me for them-- you will thank me for refusing to entice you into a marriage which could only bring unhappiness to both of us." "i shall never thank you for breaking my heart," she said in a sad voice, looking up at me. "you cannot know how i suffer, or you would never treat me thus!" "the truth is always hardest to speak," i answered, adding, in an attempt to console her: "let us end it all, and return to our old style of friendship." "i cannot!" she said, shaking her head--"i cannot!" and she burst into tears. i stood beside her in the forest-path, helpless and perplexed. was it possible, i wondered, that the plot of the powers against england existed only in her imagination, and that she had invented it in order to use it as a lever to gain my affections? she was a clever, resourceful woman--that i knew; but never during the course of our friendship had i found her guilty of double-dealing or of attempting to deceive me in any way whatever. more than once, when she reigned in paris as queen of society, she had whispered to me secrets that had been of the greatest use to us at the embassy; and once, owing to her, we had been forearmed against a dastardly attempt on the part of an enemy to assist the boers to defy us. a niece of the emperor of austria, she was received at the various courts of europe, and visited several of the reigning sovereigns; therefore, she was always full of such tittle-tattle as is ever busy among those who live beneath the shadow of a throne, and was far better informed as to political affairs than many of the ambassadors; yet withal she was eminently cautious and discreet, and, if she wished, could be as silent as the grave. nevertheless, although signs were many that the war-cloud had again arisen and was once more hanging heavily over europe, i could not bring myself to believe that the plot now hatched was quite as serious as she made it out to be. the world of diplomacy in paris is full of mares' nests, and alarms are almost of daily occurrence. when events do not conspire to create them, then those ingenious gentlemen, the paris correspondents of the great journals, sit down and invent them. the centre of diplomatic europe is paris, which is also the centre of the canards, those ingeniously concocted stories which so often throw half europe into alarm, and for which the sensational journalists alone are responsible. "come, leonie," i said tenderly at last, "this is no time for tears. i regret exceedingly that this interview is so painful, but it is my duty towards you as a man and as your friend to be firm in preventing you from taking a step which after a short time you would bitterly repent." "if you become my husband i shall never repent!" she cried. "you are the only man i have ever loved. i did not love the prince as i love you! i know," she added, panting--"i know how unseemly it is that i, a woman, should utter these words; but my heart is full, and my pent-up feelings are now revenging themselves for their long imprisonment." i felt myself wavering. this woman who had thrown herself into my arms, was wealthy beyond the wildest dreams of avarice, world-renowned for her beauty and high intellect--a woman altogether worthy and noble. each moment her powers of fascination grew stronger, and i felt that, after all, i was treating her affection with slight regard, for i was now convinced that her love was no mere caprice or sudden passion. yet, after all, my belief in woman's honesty and purity had been shaken by the discovery that yolande was a spy and that edith, after all her protestations, had a secret lover. these two facts caused me, i think, to regard the princess with some suspicion, although at the same time i could not disguise from myself the truth that her emotion was real and her passion genuine. "your confession is but the confession of an honest woman, leonie," i said with tenderness. "but what has passed between us must be forgotten. you tempt me to assume a position that i could not maintain. think for a moment. is it right? is it just either to yourself or to me?" "will you not accept the offer i made you yesterday?" she asked in the tone of one desperate, her eyes fixed upon mine in fierce earnestness. "will you not learn the secret and save your country from ignominy?" i held my breath, and my eyes fixed themselves on hers. her tear-stained face was blanched to the lips. "no, leonie," i answered. "anxious as i am to save england from the net which her unscrupulous enemies have spread for her, i refuse to do so at the cost of your happiness." "and that decision is irrevocable?" she asked, with a quick look of menace. "it is irrevocable," i replied. "yes, i know," she said in a hoarse whisper--"because another woman holds you in her toils! well, we shall see!" and she laughed bitterly, the swift fire of jealousy flashing for an instant in the brilliant eyes that half europe had delighted to praise. "i love you," she continued, "and some day you will love me. meanwhile, my secret is my own." chapter twenty seven. the unexpected. a fortnight passed uneventfully. after that morning walk with the princess i left chantoiseau and returned to paris. my presence at the chateau after what had passed between us was as dangerous to her as to me. i wrote her a letter of farewell and went back to the capital that same afternoon. in response, she had sent me a wildly worded note by a manservant, in which she declared that the reason i cast aside her love was because of the attractions of some other woman. this letter, together with the letter she had sent to my room, i kept locked in a drawer in the little den which served me as study and smoking-room. now that they were safe under lock and key, i resolved to forget their curious and romantic history. but the one matter uppermost in my mind was the alleged plot by the powers against england. as i had given the princess my word of honour not to mention it to a soul, i was unable to consult lord barmouth, and was compelled to wait and watch for signs that the conspiracy was in progress. those days were full of fevered anxiety. his excellency was absent in the country, and the duties of the embassy devolved upon myself. the facts that the german ambassador had travelled suddenly to berlin to consult the minister of foreign affairs, and that urgent despatches were being exchanged daily between the austrian embassy and vienna, seemed to me to establish the truth of leonie's statement. i met my friends volkouski and korniloff, the russian attaches, in the grand cafe one evening, and we spent an hour together over our consommation down at the alcazar, in the champs elysees; but they apparently knew nothing, or, if they did, naturally hesitated to expose their secret. hither and thither i sought for evidence, and with my suspicions aroused found confirmation of the princess's story in every diplomatic action. the german emperor made a speech in berlin in which, with many references to his grandfather and the fatherland, he assured europe that never in recent history had peace been so firmly established among nations; and both from rome and st. petersburg came news of unusual inactivity. that calm foreboded a storm. as those hot, anxious days went slowly past i strove to form some theory as to the manner in which the conspiracy had been arranged and as to the persons chiefly responsible, but could find none. had not leonie plainly told me that this dastardly plot among jealous nations aimed directly at the undermining of the british power, the ruin of england's prestige, and the destruction of her supremacy on the sea? i, as a diplomatist, knew too well the vulnerability of our empire. we have patriotism, it is true, for the sons of england will ever shed the last drop of their blood in the defence of their beloved country; but something more than patriotism is now necessary for successful defence. in these days, when europe is daily arming and small republics, backed by certain of the powers, amuse themselves by twisting the lion's tail, an efficient british army is necessary, as well as a navy that must be stronger than that of the rest of the world. we at the embassies know how, by descending to methods which we as englishmen scorn to use, our enemies are often able to outwit and checkmate us; and we know also that in england foreign spies are allowed to come and go at will, and that the interesting gentlemen whom we welcome are gradually elaborating their plans for the invasion of our shores. many there are who laugh at the idea of an invasion of england, but every diplomatist in europe knows well that the problem is discussed in every military centre on the continent, and that in certain quarters strategists have drawn up plans by which the catastrophe can undoubtedly be accomplished. therefore, in spite of the sneers of those who rest upon a false belief in their insular security, we should be in a condition not only to defend, but to defy--a condition which, to our sorrow, does not at present exist. the princess had offered me such information as would enable me to crush the conspiracy against us, and i had refused her terms. sometimes, as i sat alone in my room thinking, i felt that i had made a mistake, and that i ought, in the interests of my country, to have accepted. then, at others, i felt glad that i had had the courage to refuse her conditions, and to leave her as i had done. as she had learned the truth from the emperor francis joseph of austria, the secret must be known in the court circle at vienna. yet unfortunately it was impossible for me to go there, and equally impossible, after giving my word of honour to leonie, to explain my fears to kaye and allow the secret service to make inquiries. i knew from many signs that catastrophe was imminent, but was utterly powerless to avert it. reader, place yourself for a single moment in my position--your own honour at stake on the one hand, and that of your country on the other. it seemed base to speak, base to keep silence. i shall not easily forget what i suffered during this period of anxious inactivity. the weeks went by, lord barmouth came back sun-tanned and jovial, and all the other representatives of the european courts returned one by one after their summer leave. parisians, driven away by wet weather, deserted the plages, the chateaux, and the various inland watering-places; and from dieppe and trouville, arcachon and luchon, vichy and aix, royat and contrexeville the crowds of mothers and daughters, with a sprinkling of fathers, came gaily back to their favourite boulevards, their favourite magasins, and their favourite cafes. paris was herself again--for the winds were cold, the leaves in the boulevards were falling in showers, and the wet pavements were rendered disagreeable on account of them. one afternoon towards the end of november i entered my little flat with my latchkey, and walked straight into my sitting-room, when, to my surprise, a beautiful girl rose from the chair in which she had been sitting, and, without speaking a word, held out her hand. "you--edith!" i gasped, utterly taken aback. "yes," she said in a strained voice. "will you not welcome me? your man said he expected you every moment, and asked me to await you. i ought not to have come here, to your chambers, i know, but being in paris i could not resist." "i never dreamed that you were here. is your aunt with you?" "yes," she replied. "i have at last managed to persuade her to winter on the italian riviera." "where?" "at san remo. our vicar at ryburgh stayed there for a month last winter, and gave us a most glowing account of it. judging from the photographs, it must be a most delightful place--quite an earthly paradise for those wishing to avoid the english frost and fogs. do you know it?" "yes," i answered, seating myself in a chair opposite her. "i've been there once. it is, as you anticipate, perfectly charming. you will no doubt enjoy yourself immensely." her lips compressed, and her eyes were fixed upon mine. "i shall, i fear, not have much enjoyment," she sighed sadly. "why?" "you know why well enough," she answered in a tone of bitter reproach. "because we are parted," i said. "well, edith, i, too, regret it. but need we discuss that incident further? we are still friends, and i am glad that you have not passed through paris without sparing an hour to call upon me." "but it is to discuss it that i came here," she protested quickly. her rich fur cape had slipped from her shoulders and lay behind her in my big armchair. in her black tailor-made gown and her elegant hat, which bore the unmistakable stamp of having been purchased since her arrival in paris, she looked smart and attractive. her pure, open face was exquisite to behold, even though a trifle thinner and paler than on that summer's day when we had wandered by the river and she had pledged her love to me. but as she sat before me toying with her bracelet, from which a dozen little charms were hanging, the remembrance of her base deception flashed through my brain. i held her in suspicion--and suspicion of this kind is the seed of hatred. "i cannot see what there is to discuss," i answered coldly, at the same time ringing and ordering tea for her. "nor can i see," i added, "what good there is in reopening a chapter in our lives which ought to be for ever closed." "no, gerald," she cried, "don't say that! those words break my heart. it is not closed. you do not understand." "to speak of it only causes pain to both of us," i said. "cannot you visit me as a friend and resolve not to discuss the unfortunate affair?" "no," she declared quickly, "i cannot. i have come to you to-day, gerald, to explain and to ask your forgiveness. my aunt is confined to her room with a headache, and i have managed to slip away from the hotel and come to you here." "well?" i asked rather coldly. i confess that her visit annoyed me, for i saw in her attitude a desire to make such explanations as would satisfy me; but, taught by experience, i was resolved to accept no word from her as the truth. she had deceived me once; and although she was the only woman i had really loved honestly and well, her wiles and fascinations had no longer any power over me. "gerald," she exclaimed, as she rose suddenly, crossed the space between us, and, after placing her arms about my neck, sank upon her knees at my side, "i ask your forgiveness." she spoke in a manner the most intense; and i saw how nervous and anxious she was. yes, she had altered considerably since that day at ryburgh when we had strolled together in the sunset and i had told her of my love, her features were sharper, paler, and more refined. grief had left its imprint upon that sweet, pure countenance, which had always reminded me so vividly of van dyck's "madonna" in the pitti at florence. do you know it? you will find it--a small picture too often unnoticed, only a foot square, hung low down in the saloon of the painters. it shows a marvellously beautiful face, perfect in its contour, graced by a sweet and childlike mouth with the true cupid's bow, and with eyes dark and searching. this perfect type of beauty so markedly resembled edith that its photograph might almost be accepted as a portrait of her. there, on her knees, she twice besought my forgiveness. but i remained silent. to forgive was impossible, i knew; nevertheless, i had no desire to cause her pain. her face told me that she had already suffered sufficiently in the months that had elapsed since i had bidden her farewell at the little railway-station in rural england. "speak!" she cried. "tell me, gerald, that you love no one else beside myself--that--that you will forgive me!" turning to her, i grasped her hand, and, looking straight into those eyes which i had once believed to be so full of truth, honesty, and affection, i answered earnestly: "i love no woman on earth except yourself, edith. but to forgive is quite impossible." "no!" she cried wildly--"no! you cannot be cold and callous if you really love me. see! here at your feet i beseech of you to allow me to prove my innocence and show my love for you!" "i once believed implicitly in you, edith," i said very gravely, still holding her hand; "but the discovery that you met your lover clandestinely beneath the very window of my room has so shaken my confidence that it is utterly impossible for you ever to re-establish it." "but he is not my lover!" she protested, her blanched face upturned to mine. "i swear he is not; nor has he ever been." "i have no proof of your declaration," i answered, shaking my head dubiously. "except my oath," she gasped in desperation. "cannot you accept that? i swear by all i hold most sacred," she cried, lifting her head and raising her face to heaven--"i swear that i entertain no spark of affection for that man, and that he has never been my lover!" "then who is he?" i demanded. "what is his name?" chapter twenty eight. on the crooked way. she held her breath. her hand trembled within my grasp. then, after a moment, she faltered: "he is not my lover. is not my declaration sufficient?" "no, it is not," i responded harshly. "if he is nothing to you, as you allege, then why did you meet him secretly at night, and make an appointment to meet again after i had left ryburgh?" "because i was forced to--because--" "because you have allowed that shabby adventurer to love you!" i interrupted. "because you have played me false!" "i deny it!" she protested, a gleam of defiance flashing for an instant in her eyes. "i have never played you false, gerald. the charge against me is utterly false and unfounded." "then perhaps you will explain this wandering visitor's business with you." "i would tell you all--all that has passed between us, but i dare not. my every action is watched, and if i breathed a single word to you he would know; and then--" "and what would happen then, pray?" i asked with some surprise, for i now saw that she entertained a deadly fear of her midnight visitor; it was evident that he held some mysterious power over her. "the result would be disastrous," she replied in a mechanical tone of voice. "in what way?" "not only would it upset all the plans i have formed, but would in all probability be the cause of my own ruin--perhaps even of my suicide," she added. "i don't understand you, edith," i said, turning again to her, in the hope that she would confide in me. "how would it cause your ruin? if you hesitate to tell me the truth, then it is certain that you fear some exposure." "you are quite right," she answered, meeting my gaze unflinchingly; "i do fear exposure." "then you admit your guilt? you admit that what i have alleged is the actual truth?" "i do not, for a single instant. the charge is false, and without the slightest foundation," she asserted. "you saw me speaking with him, you may have overheard our conversation, and you no doubt believe that he is my lover. but i tell you he is not." "his movements were mysterious," i said dubiously. "i followed him." "you followed him!" she gasped, all colour leaving her face in an instant. "you actually followed him! where did he go?" she spoke as though she feared that i had discovered the truth as to his identity and calling. "to a village some little distance away," i replied ambiguously; "and i there discovered one or two things which increased my interest in him." "what did you discover? tell me," she urged, grasping my hand anxiously. "what i discovered only led me still further to the belief that he held you within his power." "i have already admitted that," she exclaimed. "i am perfectly frank in that respect." "and you will not tell me the reason? if you refuse to be open and straightforward with me, there surely can be no love between us. confidence is the first step towards the union of man with woman." "i will tell you the reason," she replied in a strange voice, almost as though she were speaking to herself. "it is because a secret exists between us." "ah!" i cried, "i thought so. the secret of a love-affair--eh?" "it concerns a love-affair, it is true, but not our own." "oh, now this is interesting!" i cried with bitter sarcasm. "you are bound to each other because of your common knowledge of the love-affair of a third person. that is curious, to say the least of it. no," i added, "i'm afraid, edith, i cannot accept such a remarkable explanation, notwithstanding the ingenuity displayed in its construction." "in other words, you insinuate that i am lying to you!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing with indignation. "i do not use the term `lying,'" i said with a smile; "the word `prevarication' is more applicable. a woman never lies." "you are not treating me seriously," she complained quickly. "i have come here to tell you all that i can, and--" "and you have told me practically nothing," i interposed. "i have told you all that i dare at present," she answered. "some day, ere long, i hope to be in a position to make full confession to you, and then you will fully understand my action and appreciate the extreme difficulty and deadly peril in which i find myself at this moment." "you admit that you have a confession to make?" "of course i admit it. i wronged you when i met that man on the very night you were a guest beneath our roof. it is but just that you should know the whole of the ghastly truth." "that is what i am endeavouring to obtain from you," i said. "i want to know who that shabby fellow was, and why he took such pains to keep his presence in great ryburgh a secret." "he had some good reason, i presume," she replied. "do you declare that you know absolutely nothing of his movements?" i inquired. "i know but little of them." "how long have you been acquainted?" "two years--perhaps a little longer." "and has he visited you often?" "no, at infrequent intervals." "always at night?" "always." "he evidently is a shrewd fellow, who does not wish his presence in that chattering little village to be known," i said with a laugh. then i added: "you went for moonlight rambles with him, i suppose?" "he wished to talk with me, and on such occasions we took one or other of the paths across the fields." "very interesting," i said. "and all this time you were causing me to believe that you were mine alone! are you surprised at my refusal to forgive?" "i should be if i were guilty of playing you false," she answered with slight haughtiness, as though my words wounded her self-respect. "if you were not guilty you would never endeavour to conceal your lover's name, as you are now doing!" i exclaimed. "it is because i dare not tell you," she replied, with a look of desperation on her face. "were i to utter a word in explanation of the true state of affairs, all would be over, and both you and i would suffer." "how should i suffer?" i asked with some interest. "the affair is much more curious and complicated than you imagine," she said. "knowledge of the truth could only bring ruin upon you." "rubbish!" i cried roughly, starting up. "what have i to fear?" "no, gerald," she implored, gripping my hand tightly, "do not treat this matter with indifference. it is, i tell you, a grave one for both of us." "in what way?" "ah," she sighed, "if only i might tell you! if only i dared!" "if you love me as you did on that evening when we wandered beside the river, you would brave all these mythical dangers and tell me the truth, edith," i said, bending towards her in a persuasive manner. "but, as i have explained, i cannot. i will not--for your sake!" "how can knowledge of it possibly affect me?" i cried. she paused for a moment and then answered: "there are certain hidden influences at work, of which you, gerald, have no suspicion. i alone am aware of the truth. cannot you place sufficient confidence in me--in the woman who loves you--to leave the matter in my hands? surely our interests are mutual!" "i have, i regret, no confidence," i said bluntly. "ah! because you are jealous," she replied quite calmly. "well, that is but natural in the circumstances. you discovered _him_, and you believe him to be my lover. nevertheless, your jealousy should not lead you into any rash action which might wreck your life." "you speak as though you are anxious with regard to my personal safety. what have i to fear?" "you have to fear the machinations of unscrupulous enemies," she said anxiously. "you are living in ignorance of the peril that daily threatens you, and i--who love you so well--am unable to give you a single hint which might warn you of the pitfall so cunningly concealed." there was an earnestness in her tone which struck me as curious. what could she, a girl living in a quiet country village in england, know about "the machinations of unscrupulous enemies?" she spoke as though well versed in the diplomatic plots of paris, even as though she would corroborate what the princess had alleged. it was odd, and caused me much reflection. what could she possibly know? "it is only fair to me that you should warn me of the peril," i said at last. "hush!" she whispered, looking round the room in fear; "the very walls have ears. if it were believed that i had spoken to you of this, a catastrophe, terrible and complete, would ensue." "really, edith," i said, "you speak in enigmas. i don't know what to believe." "believe in me," she answered in a deep, earnest voice. "believe in my truth and purity as you did before, for i protest that never for a single instant have i forgotten the vows i made to you." "ah," i said very sadly, "if i could only believe that you really love me, how happy i should be! but as it is, i fear this to be quite impossible." "no," she wailed, tears welling in her eyes. "surely the sight of that man unknown to you has not destroyed all your belief in woman's honesty and affection? you must, deep down in your heart, see that i love you firmly and well. you cannot be so blind, gerald, as to believe that here, to-day, i am playing you false! ah! if you only knew!" she sighed. "if you only knew all that i am suffering, you would pity me, and you would take me in your embrace as once you used to do, and kiss me on the lips as a sign of your forgiveness. i can suffer," she went on brokenly--"i can endure the awful anxiety and tribulation for your sake; i can cheerfully bear the jeers of men and the insults of women, but i cannot bear your coldness to me, because i love you, and because you once declared that you were mine." "this estrangement has arisen between us through your own fault," i answered. just at this moment my man rapped smartly at the door, and edith rose quickly from her knees before he entered with the tea. the little silver service was a quaint relic of the queen anne period, which had long been in my family, and which was always admired by the brilliant parisiennes who often did me the honour of taking a cup of english tea-- not, of course, because they liked the beverage, but because to drink it is nowadays considered chic. my man told me that a messenger had called from the embassy, and i left the room for a few moments to see him. but edith disregarded the fact that tea had been brought. the instant i returned and the door had closed again, she came across to me, saying: "it was not my fault, gerald; it was _his_. he compelled me to meet him." "for what reason?" "he wished me to render him a service." "of what character?" "that i cannot explain." "you of course acquiesced?" "no, i refused." "and yet the fact that you met him against your will shows in itself that you were in his power," i remarked. "how was it that you could refuse?" she was silent a moment, standing before me wan and pale in her black dress, her gloved hands clasped before her. "i defied him," she answered simply. "well?" i inquired. "well, that is the reason why i live in dread of a catastrophe." "answer me this question, yes or no. your mysterious visitor was a foreigner?" i recollected what the innkeeper's wife had told me--namely, that the word "firenze" was on the tabs of his boots. "yes," she answered in a half-whisper. "an italian?" "how did you know that?" she gasped in quick surprise. "from my own inquiries," i answered. "but do take my advice," she cried earnestly, her hand upon my arm. "make no further inquiries regarding him; otherwise i may be suspected and all my plans will be frustrated." "what plans?" "plans i have made for our mutual protection," she whispered. "if you knew all the details you would not be surprised at my anxiety that you should remain inactive and leave all to me. i am but a woman; nevertheless, i am at least loyal to you, the man i love. forgive me," she implored, raising her white, pained face to mine--"forgive me, gerald, i beg and pray of you. have confidence in me, and i will some day, ere long, prove to you that i am, after all, worthy of your love." "forgiveness is easy, but forgetfulness difficult," i said, taking her hand and looking straight into the dark splendour of those soft eyes. after the shrill-tongued, voluble foreign women by whom i was ever surrounded, this sweet english girl breathed peace and paradise to my wearied heart. "but you will forgive me?" she implored in deep earnestness. "say that you will!" her attitude impressed upon me forcibly the conviction that, after all, she really loved me. nevertheless, the whole affair seemed so mysterious and perplexing that i found it difficult to regard her motives with unquestioning faith. "yes," i said at length, "i forgive you, edith. but until you can explain all the mystery, i tell you frankly that i cannot entertain full confidence in you." "you will, however, leave me to carry out the plan i have formed?" she urged anxiously. "if you wish." "and if i am denounced by one or other of my enemies, you will not believe that denunciation before i am at liberty to expose to you the whole truth? promise me that--do!" "very well," i responded, "it shall be as you wish." then as those words left my lips she sprang forward with a loud cry of joy, and, throwing her arms about my neck, kissed me wildly in joy, saying: "you shall never regret this decision, gerald, never--_never_!" for fully an hour we sat together, our tea untouched, so preoccupied were we with the burden of our hearts; then, declaring that aunt hetty would miss her, she reluctantly rose. when i had put her cape round her shoulders, we went downstairs together, i having promised to accompany her in a fiacre as far as the grand hotel. just as we were about to step into the street, i encountered kaye, who evidently wished to have a word with me. as he raised his hat, i noticed how intently he was examining my companion's face; then he passed us and entered the wide hall leading to the stairs. a moment later, however, he turned suddenly, and said: "excuse me, mr. ingram, might i speak with you for one moment? i see you are going out." "certainly," i answered; and after excusing myself to edith i moved off a few paces with him. the words he uttered were spoken in a whisper. they startled me: "have a care, mr. ingram," he said meaningly. "we know that woman!" chapter twenty nine. kaye is puzzled. having seen edith as far as the grand hotel, i re-entered the fiacre and at once drove back to my own rooms, where i found the chief of the secret service awaiting me. "what do you mean by saying that you know that lady?" i inquired breathlessly. "simply that we know her, that's all," he replied, with an air of mystery. "look here, kaye," i said, "just tell me plainly and straightforwardly what you know regarding her?" "she's a person to be avoided, that's all." "to be avoided!" i echoed. "why, surely she has no connection with the persons you are watching? she lives in norfolk, in a little country village, and scarcely ever comes abroad." "i know it," he answered with his sphinx-like smile. "she lives at great ryburgh, near fakenham, is in possession of a fair income, and has a maiden aunt as companion." "how did you know that?" i demanded in surprise. "it is our duty to know all who are the enemies of england." "and is she an enemy?" "most certainly," he replied. "i can't believe it, kaye!" i cried, aghast. "i won't believe it! first you tell me that yolande de foville is a spy, and now you denounce edith austin." "i only tell you the truth," he answered, leaning against the table and folding his arms. "then as you know so much about her, you probably know our relationship," i said, rather annoyed that this ubiquitous man, whose proclivities for fathoming a secret were prodigious, should have watched her. "i am quite well aware of it, mr. ingram," he responded; "and if i might be allowed to advise you, i should end it at once. it is dangerous." "why?" "because she is playing you false." "how do you know that?" "by the same means that i know she is working against us--and against you. if you knew the facts they would astound you. even i, with all my experience of the ways of felons and spies, was dumbfounded when i learnt the truth." "but can't you see that it's ridiculous to ask me to cast her aside without giving me any plain and ample reason?" "the reason is certainly sufficient," he replied. "what is it?" "you visited her at ryburgh some months ago, and suspected her of having a secret lover. is not that so?" "extraordinary!" i gasped. "how did you know that? you set your spies upon me!" i added angrily. "no, not upon you," he said. "she was already under observation." "why?" "because of some suspicion that had been aroused regarding the ceuta incident." "nonsense!" i cried, unable to believe his allegation. "what possible connection could she have with that?" "a rather intimate one, judging from the result of our inquiries." "in what manner?" "well, as a secret agent." "in the employ of whom?" "of france." "of france?" i echoed. "impossible!" "my dear mr. ingram," he protested, "i'm not in the habit of misleading you or of making statements which i can't substantiate. i repeat that miss edith austin, the lady who has been here with you this afternoon, is a french agent." "i can't believe it!" i gasped, utterly staggered. "why, she's a simple, charming english girl, leading a quiet life in that sleepy little village, and scarcely seeing anybody for weeks together." "exactly. i don't deny that. but as her affection for you is prompted by ulterior motives--pray pardon me for saying so--you should be forewarned; and this is the more desirable in view of the fact which you yourself discovered." "what fact?" "that she has a secret lover." "ah!" i cried eagerly. "tell me, who is he?" "an italian named bertini--paolo bertini." "bertini," i repeated, the name sounding somewhat familiar. "surely i've heard that name before!" "of course. you remember, when you were in brussels, the bold attempt he made one afternoon in your room at the embassy?" "ah! i remember. why, of course! and is he actually the same man?" in an instant i recalled the face of edith's midnight visitor, and recollected where i had seen it on a previous occasion. kaye's words brought back to me in that moment an incident which showed plainly the dastardly tricks of the foreign spies who constantly hover about every legation or embassy on the continent. one afternoon, years ago, in brussels, a well-dressed, gentlemanly man called to see his excellency, and was shown into my room. half an hour before, a foreign office messenger had arrived from london with despatches, and i was busily engaged in deciphering them when the servant showed in the stranger. the latter, who introduced himself as a shipowner of antwerp, was seated near my table, and was talking to me about a complaint he had recently lodged against one of our consuls, when suddenly he stopped, turned pale, and fell back in a faint. i sprang up, and, rushing out of the room, went to get a glass of water. fortunately i had on thin shoes, and the carpet in the corridor was so thick that my feet fell noiselessly. judge of my surprise when, on my return, i saw my visitor standing in a perfect state of health with one of the deciphered despatches pinned against the wall and a camera in his hand! he had actually photographed it during my absence. without an instant's hesitation i sprang upon him from behind, wrenched the camera from his hand, shouted for help, and held him until some of the servants came, when he was taken in charge by the police. after a short trial, during which it was proved that he was one of the cleverest spies employed by france, he was sentenced to six months' imprisonment for attempted theft, while the camera, together with the photographic films, was returned to us. the latter, on being developed, proved extremely interesting and very valuable, for not only did we find the photograph of our own despatch, but those of three other secret documents taken in the italian embassy in brussels. and it was this artful adventurer who had become edith's lover. she, young and inexperienced, had no doubt fallen his victim. she had become enmeshed in the net he had spread for her, and was the subordinate by means of whom he intended to operate further against us. "what you tell me, kaye, really staggers belief," i said after a pause. "that man is absolutely unscrupulous." "he's one of the most ingenious of all the army of secret agents. indeed, i have a suspicion that he is the chief of the french spies operating in england. his intimate acquaintance with your friend miss austin shows conclusively that he is contemplating a big coup." had this matter, i wondered, any connection with the gigantic conspiracy of which the princess had told me? my promise of secrecy given to her prevented me from mentioning it to kaye. only a few weeks ago the _figaro_ had announced that her highness the princess leonie von leutenberg had left the chateau de chantoiseau, and had returned to her mansion in the frieung, in vienna. she had left france without sending me a word. "what connection had this man bertini with the exposure of the ceuta negotiations?" i inquired. "he got to know of them by some means--how, i can't tell. it is an absolute enigma." "and that despatch i brought from london, the exact contents of which were known a few hours after my return here, what of that?" "through him, i feel assured," answered the clever man before me. "i only returned from london three days ago. i went myself to make inquiries." "and what did you find?" "he carries on the business of a jeweller, and has a small shop half-way up the edgware road, one of those cheap brummagem places that sell earrings and brooches for servant-girls. he poses as quite a respectable shopkeeper, and employs an englishman as manager. the signor, it appears, has many friends in london, and when they call to see him they are always shown to his private room over the shop. i also learnt that your visitor of to-day has called upon him there." "are you sure?" i cried quickly. "are you absolutely certain of that?" "i gave her description and name to the manager, who said he recollected her calling there twice about three weeks ago. once his master was not in, but on the second occasion she had an interview with him. it has more than once struck me as curious that this fellow bertini should have been near you on the day of the mysterious theft of the contents of that despatch. you don't think that he followed you from ryburgh to london?" "i can't tell. if he did, i had no suspicion of it. and besides, not a soul except the chief could have possibly obtained sight of that despatch. i saw it written, saw it sealed, and it never left my possession for a single instant." "she did not accompany you to london?" he asked half-suspiciously. "certainly not," i said. then i told him all that occurred on that well-remembered night, and how i had wandered in the early morning over the country-side to the village inn where for a moment i saw the italian. "then he evidently saw and recognised you there!" kaye exclaimed quickly. "in all probability he followed you to london. that the copy of the despatch was transmitted to paris by him is certain." "and with regard to the ceuta incident?" "in that, i believe, he made yolande de foville his agent. undoubtedly it was through her ingenuity that lord barmouth's instructions leaked out." "but how could she possibly have known them?" i demanded. "remember, you have denounced her as a spy, but as yet have given me no proof whatever." "you have sufficient proof in the fact that she fled in alarm from paris, i should think." "but i understood from you that she was in the german service. if so, she would certainly never ally herself with bertini!" "he might, on the other hand, ally himself with her," remarked the secret agent shrewdly. "it would be distinctly to his advantage if he could obtain her aid, for by means of her he could ascertain various facts which might be considered extremely valuable at the quai d'orsay." "it is all astounding!" i declared, puzzled. "half the women one knows here seem to be secret agents. paris is just now a veritable hotbed of diplomatic intrigue." "i quite agree; and it all tends to show that never, in the history of europe, has there been a blacker outlook than to-day." i was silent. what he said was only too true; and, further, the mysterious exposure of the secret instructions contained in the despatch i had brought from london had thwarted english diplomacy throughout europe, and tied the hands of all our ambassadors at the various courts. signs everywhere convinced me that the statement of the princess was actually true, and that we were on the brink of a war in which the whole of europe would be involved. russia alone remained inactive. it is the fashion of journalists who know nothing of the inner life of the diplomatic circle, and of alarmist writers who build up political theories for themselves, to abuse russia and russian methods. we have been told for the past half-century that russia means to seize india, merely because she has taken steps to colonise her enormous asiatic possessions. why, a russian ambassador in any one of the capitals may hardly pare his nails without a sensational article in the press appearing next day. all this is very amusing; for the truth is, russia does not intend to be aggressive, nor does she want war. peaceful expansion of her commerce and the development of siberia are her aims; and if certain journalists insist on exhibiting to us the war bogey, it is because they have never been in russia, and know absolutely nothing of the conduct of muscovite diplomacy. this, it must be confessed, is, next to that of the vatican, the second best in the world; but it is never aggressive; as every genuine diplomatist will hasten to admit. indeed, if the truth were told, there have been times in recent years when only the firmness of russia and the peaceful policy of the czar have averted war! it is the journalist, nearly always the journalist, who creates the european scares! because of this state of affairs, we at the embassies are compelled to be always on our guard against those ubiquitous writers who vie with one another in obtaining interviews. the present situation was, however, no journalistic canard, but a stern and perilous reality. the tension of the acute crisis, which had been increasing ever since the ceuta incident, was terrible. everywhere in diplomacy there was a spirit of reserve, which showed that the amity of nations was strained to its utmost limit. war might be declared upon england at any moment. chapter thirty. knights of industry. after kaye had left, i sat for a long time pondering over his words. the assertion that edith was a spy helping paolo bertini staggered me. at first i could not believe it, but what he had told me left no room for doubt. i recalled the man's face as he had passed down the inn passage and out into the village street, and with the clue that kaye had furnished recognised him. without doubt all that the chief of the secret service had told me was true, for had not edith herself refused to disclose the man's name or the character of their friendship? had she not at the same time acknowledged that he held power over her, invisible but complete, and that the betrayal of her secret would mean her ruin--perhaps even her death? i saw it all now, as i sat deep in doubt and perplexity. edith was staying at the grand. should i call upon her aunt, and dine with them? my first impulse was to do this, for i felt anxious to obtain from her some further proof of her actual association with this adventurer; but, on reflection, i saw that such a course was not commendable, inasmuch as by calling i should perhaps arouse aunt hetty's suspicion that her niece had visited me. therefore, i resolved to send a petit bleu to miss foskett, stating that i had seen her name in the visitors' list and hoped to do myself the pleasure of calling on the following day after dejeuner. this formality, which i at once proceeded to put in operation, would, i knew, greatly please the punctilious old spinster. that evening i dined at the brasserie nationale, in the avenue de l'opera, an establishment german in style, but one widely patronised of late. among other things, it is famous for its wonderful hors d'oeuvres; the wines, too, are always excellent and the cuisine not expensive. below is a beer-hall, always crowded during afternoon and evening; but above, in a salon decorated in the ancient german style, one finds a crowd of gaily dressed diners, parisian in all respects. the foreign tourist happily never goes there, for he patronises the gazal, a little farther along the avenue, where the dinner is prix-fixe, "two francs fifty, vin compris." at the tables sat several persons whom i knew, for it chanced to be a premiere at the opera, and all paris was dining in the vicinity. mariani, a well-known journalist on the staff of the _figaro_, lounged in and took a seat with me. he was a thin-faced, middle-aged man of typical parisian appearance. he had only that afternoon returned from brussels, and presently, when we began to speak of the political situation, he paused with his wine-glass in his hand, saying, in that precise manner which was his chief characteristic: "the _patrie_, the _libre parole_, the _gaulois_, the _petit journal_, and the _autorite_ repeat that war with england is inevitable; that it is always there, ready to break out at any hour of any day. their object is clear: it is revenge for the high court trials. they have realised that, despite all its efforts, they cannot overthrow the republic in times of peace. they must, then, have war. and these miserables are preparing it in order to overthrow the republic! they prepare war with england not only because they hate england, as a free country, but because they know that war with england would be a naval sedan. unless the republicans abandon their blindness and their torpor, they will let the republic and france be lost by means of these miserables." i agreed with him, but breathed a trifle more freely, for the _figaro_ was the organ of the french government, and he was always well-informed. nevertheless, it appeared that he had no idea of the exact direction of the political wind. near midnight, having attended a reception given by a smart englishwoman, the wife of a peer resident in paris, i was strolling along the avenue de neuilly on my way home. the night was cold but bright, and there were many people still about. a garde-de-ville, in his short cape, stood like a statue on the kerb at the porte maillott; the electric globes illuminated the rond point brightly, and a couple of harmless roysterers of the lower class lurched past me, singing the latest patriotic jingle of the cafes, a song inspired by the prevalent anglophobia in paris. they were singing the last verse: sous les eclats de la foudre on vit tomber, noir de poudre, le dernier de ces vaillants, il cria: vive la france! et l'echo repondit: france!... en avant!... serrez vos rangs!... i paused for a moment to glance at them. truly the public spirit in paris was everywhere anti-english. fashoda had never been forgotten, and out of our difficulties with the transvaal much capital was being made by the rabid organs of the press. then i walked on until, at the corner of the avenue de la grande armee and the rue des acacias, i suddenly became aware of two men walking slowly in front of me in earnest conversation. they were speaking in italian, a language which i knew well, and it was a sentence i overheard which attracted my attention and caused me to glance at them. both were shabbily attired, and presented the signs of those hungry night-birds who creep forth at set of sun and slink about the boulevards. one wore a grey, soft felt hat stuck a trifle askew, as if its owner aimed at a rakish appearance, while the other wore a crumpled silk hat with a flat brim, the headgear typically parisian. together, walking arm-in-arm, absorbed in their conversation, they passed beneath the big electric lamp which lit the street-refuge, and as the light fell upon them i drew back quickly in order to escape observation. those words in italian had attracted me, and i now saw in front of me the two men whom i most desired to meet. the man who wore the high silk hat was none other than rodolphe wolf, while the other was that ingenious adventurer whom i had discovered at ryburgh, paolo bertini. they strolled along in a casual manner, as though well aware that out of doors they could talk freely. the fact that they spoke in italian proved their desire to escape eavesdroppers. at the moment of recognition i had drawn back and allowed them to advance some distance in front; then, lounging along slowly, i followed them across the avenue des termes, up the narrow rue poncelet, and, traversing the avenue wagram, passed through a number of small streets until they suddenly halted before a small and uninviting-looking little cafe in the rue legendre, a few doors from the mairie of batignolles. i was surprised to discover that wolf was actually in paris, while the presence of bertini seemed to bear out all that kaye had told me earlier in the evening. during the walk the italian had pulled from his pocket a paper, which he handed to his companion, who stood for a moment beneath a street lamp reading it. then he laughed lightly, folded it, and handed it back with an air of satisfaction. as neither of the interesting pair had once turned back, i had followed them entirely unnoticed. fortunately for me i was wearing a new overcoat, the astrakhan collar of which was turned up, the wind being chilly, so that my features were half-concealed. but the shabby appearance of the pair was in itself suspicious. wolf had always been something of a fop, and it was scarcely possible that if he were a secret agent he could have fallen upon evil days. i glanced at their boots. those worn by bertini were good ones of russet leather, while those of his companion were a smart pair of "patents." this fact told me that for some unknown reason they had assumed the garb of loungers rapidly, and had not had time to change their boots. they had been, or were going, to some place where to be dressed well would arouse undue attention. that seemed certain. i was standing back in the shadow of a doorway watching them, when suddenly, after some consultation, as it seemed, they entered the little cafe. it was a frowsy, dirty place, at the window of which hung faded red blinds, much stained and fly-blown. from where i stood i could see that the ceiling, once white, was brown and discoloured by the gas, and the gilt decorations blackened and smoke-begrimed. it was called the cafe de l'etoile. dare i enter and risk detection? now that i had discovered them i intended to watch and find out where they were staying, so that kaye and his staff might keep them under observation. the reason for their presence in paris was without doubt a sinister one. of all the men in the whole world who were my enemies the man wolf was the bitterest; and next to him was this dark-faced italian, with whom he had been walking so confidentially arm-in-arm. as i stood in hesitation, an ill-dressed, unkempt fellow reeled out of the cafe, singing in a husky voice a vagabond song. his hat was askew, and he beat time with his finger: qu' ca peut vous faire ou qu' nous allons? ca vous r'garde pas, que j' suppose. d'abord, j'allons ou qu' nous voulons... ... ou qu' vous voulez... c'est la mem' chose. vous etes d' ceux qu'ont des etats? ben! que qu' vous voulez qu' ca nous foute? des etats!... j'en connaissons pas... nous, not' metier, c'est d'marcher su' la route. i strolled past the place and peered inside. a quick scrutiny sufficed to show that the two men were not visible; therefore, i concluded that they were at a table close behind the door. thrice i passed and repassed, until i became convinced of the fact. the red blinds were drawn, and, although the door was half open, i could not, from the pavement, see who was sitting at the table behind it. in paris, however, it is often a trick of those who lounge in cafes and desire to pass unnoticed to sit close behind the door with their backs to it, thus occupying a position which does not in the least expose them to passers-by. presently, emboldened by the fact that the little place seemed sleepy and half-deserted, i lit a cigarette, and, slipping into the doorway, stood with my ears open to catch every sound. yes, they were there, as i had supposed. i heard words in italian spoken rather low and confidentially. i distinctly heard my own name mentioned, together with that of the princess von leutenberg. wolf it was who spoke of her sneeringly. "i've seen her of late in vienna," he laughed. "retirement at rudolstadt did not suit her." "is there any truth in what is said regarding the reason of her stay at chantoiseau?" "certainly," replied wolf. "serious for her--eh?" remarked his companion. "very. she will be taught a lesson," was the response. "and at the british embassy, what do they know?" asked bertini. "they are, as usual, utterly unsuspecting, and will remain so until the mine explodes. we have laid it cleverly this time, and it cannot fail." "i wonder whether the princess told ingram anything while he was a guest at chantoiseau?" asked bertini. "she dare not. but what of the english girl? it is said she loves him." "no," replied the italian quickly, "i have her completely in my power. she cannot utter a word." "she's a useful agent, i suppose?" "yes, at times. a girl of her character and appearance is never suspected." "and of yolande? she was in london a month ago assisting me. where is she now?" "in rome, i think; but i am not certain," was the response. "some little time ago i met lord barmouth's daughter, with a view to bringing them together as friends, for by so doing i saw that we might gain some valuable information," wolf said. "the project, however, unfortunately failed, because of ingram." "may an accident occur to him!" exclaimed bertini, using an italian oath. "he stands in our way at all times. i have not forgotten how cleverly he tricked me in brussels and obtained the negatives of half a dozen documents from other embassies." "he is more dangerous to our plans than kaye and the whole british secret service put together," wolf remarked. i could hear that, by way of emphasis, he struck the table heavily as he spoke these words. "if we could only contrive to suppress him!" "ah, but how?" a silence fell between the pair. "in some countries," remarked wolf in a low voice, "he would die suddenly. here, in paris, it would be dangerous." these men were actually plotting to take my life; i stood there motionless, my ears strained to catch every word, my feet rooted to the spot. "why so dangerous?" asked the italian. "because the english girl might betray us, or, failing her, there is the princess." "the princess! bah!" ejaculated bertini. "she would never utter a syllable. she has too much to gain by silence." "but the girl austin? what of her?" "i admit that she might instantly give us away if one of these days her lover was found mysteriously dead. nevertheless, if the situation becomes acute, well, we must resort to a desperate remedy, that's all." i smiled within myself. happily i had overheard this extremely interesting conversation, and should now be on my guard against both spies and assassins. it was lucky for me that they feared edith; otherwise murder would have been a mere nothing to them. that they were not discussing an impossibility i well knew, for during my career as a diplomatist i had known of at least half a dozen cases where persons had been found dead under mysterious circumstances; and also that the crime of murder had actually been brought home to the members of the secret service of the various powers. they are unscrupulous gentlemen, these spies, and hesitate at nothing in their feverish desire to do the bidding of their masters and obtain the rewards so temptingly offered to them. the men dropped their voices so low that for a few minutes i could distinguish nothing, while another vulgar-looking, ruffianly fellow opened the door suddenly and emerged. as long as i heard their voices in consultation i felt secure from discovery. i determined to remain there in the doorway calmly smoking, as though awaiting the arrival of a friend. "and how is everything at feltham?" i heard wolf inquire presently. "all works splendidly. everything is complete." to what did they refer? i wondered. where was feltham? and what were the arrangements which worked so satisfactorily? again the italian spoke, laughing low and contentedly, but i could not catch what he said, for my attention at that moment was distracted by the approach of a fiacre, which pulled up before the door of the cafe. the hood was up, and within the vehicle i saw the figure of a woman, who at once descended, and, as i moved into the shadow, walked straight into the place with the air of one who had entered there before. she was well-dressed in a dark tailor-made gown, and wore a close-fitting hat with a veil. she passed me by within a few feet, but, standing as i was in the deep shadow beyond the lamps of the cab, which, no doubt, dazzled her, she did not recognise me. but no second glance was necessary to tell me that the woman who had come there at midnight to meet the two spies was their associate and assistant, edith austin. chapter thirty one. the red ass. when the woman who had declared her love for me had entered the uninviting-looking place i slipped back to my old position, but was prevented from listening too openly for fear of awakening the curiosity of the cocher who was awaiting her. i heard them greet her in english; then both rose, and all three passed through the cafe to a room beyond, apparently the apartment of the proprietor. hence i was unable to discover the reason of her visit there. as no purpose could be served by remaining longer in the doorway, i lit another cigarette with an appearance of carelessness and strolled away down the narrow street as far as the avenue de clichy, returning presently on the opposite side of the roadway, and waiting in patience for the conspirators to leave the cafe. i congratulated myself upon my good-fortune in not being detected, and was resolved to watch further the doings of the spies. i only wished that kaye or grew were with me, in order to follow up at once the clue i had thus obtained. the word "feltham" was to me extremely puzzling. that chance remark doubtless referred to a matter brimming over with interest. what were the "arrangements" that worked so well and were so complete? truly, the conspiracy of the powers against great britain, alleged by leonie, was a gigantic one. each hour brought home to me more forcibly the terrible truth that we were living upon the very edge of a volcano, whose eruption might be expected at any moment. for fully half an hour i strolled up and down, always keeping a careful watch upon the cafe with the faded blinds, until suddenly edith emerged, followed by her two companions. bertini handed her into her cab, and i heard him order the cocher to drive to the grand hotel. then, as they stood on the kerb, with their hats in their hands, she bowed and was driven rapidly off, while they turned and walked together in the opposite direction, passing down the avenue to the boulevard de clichy, and thence along to the place blanche, past that paradise of the british tourist, the moulin rouge. the four illuminated arms of the red windmill were still revolving, and the night-birds of paris in their gay plumage were entering and leaving, for the so-called "life" at that haunt of terpsichore modernised and debased does not begin until long after midnight. i never glance in at those open doors without sighing for my compatriots; and usually fall to reflecting upon the reason why so many english fathers of families, who at home would not dream of going to a music-hall, so frequently drift there with their wives, and often with their daughters. it is a curious feature of paris life, absurdly artificial, and almost entirely supported by my unthinking compatriots, who go there because to have been there is synonymous with having seen the gay life of the french capital. alas! that the british tourist is so gullible, for the students who dance there in velvet berets and paint-besmirched coats are no students at all, while the pretty grisette, his companion, is merely a dancing-girl, in a befitting frock, paid by the management to pose as a mock bohemienne. the moulin rouge is no more the centre of gay paris than is maskelyne's entertainment the centre of gay london. presently, having gained the rue de maubeuge, the spies entered that bohemian cafe, where a charming air of chez soi and good-fellowship always pervades--the cafe of the red ass. it has a small and unassuming front, except that the windows are profusely decorated with painted flowers and figures, while a red ass looks down from over the narrow door. it is furnished more like an old curiosity-shop than a cafe, and has its particular clientele of bohemians, who come to puff their long pipes, that hang in racks, and recount their hopes, aspirations, achievements, and failures, when not shouting some rollicking chorus. the place was filled with litterateurs of the quarter, and a celebration was in progress, one of their number having succeeded in finding a publisher for a volume of his poetry. hence i was enabled to follow the pair unnoticed. they had, i found, seated themselves at a table with two rather small, ferret-eyed men, who had apparently been awaiting them. then all four entered into an earnest discussion over their bocks, while i sat on the opposite side of the place, pretending to be interested in the _soir_, but watching them as a cat a mouse. the nature of their conversation was manifestly secret, for all four looked round furtively from time to time, as though suspicious lest someone should overhear. wolf was relating some fact which apparently created a great impression upon the men whom he and bertini had met. whatever it was he told them, it created evident surprise. bertini rolled a cigarette in silence, lit it slowly, and sat back, blowing clouds of smoke into the air. loud chatter and laughter and the rattle of saucers upon the tables sounded everywhere, mingled with the constant click of shuffled dominoes and the shouts of the rushing waiters calling their orders. the red ass always awakens from its lethargy at midnight, just as do the cafe americain and the showy establishments on the boulevard des italiens. the short, middle-aged frenchman who had been speaking pulled a blue paper from his pocket, and gave it to wolf for examination. from its folding and size i perceived that it was a telegram. all this time the attitude of the italian was that of a man who wished to affect an air of supreme carelessness. more bocks were ordered, pen and paper were brought by the waiter, and a reply to the telegraphic message was written by the frenchman, not, however, without some discussion, in which bertini took part. the actions of these men showed that some further conspiracy was in progress, but what it was i was naturally unable to guess. i only knew that the two men whom i had followed were the most desperate, ingenious, and unscrupulous spies in europe. after nearly an hour, during which time i exhausted all the periodical literature provided by the management of the establishment, all four rose and went out. the two frenchmen made their adieux, and the pair whose movements had so interested me walked slowly down to the place de l'opera until they gained the narrow rue des petits champs, a thoroughfare that intersects the rue de la paix and the avenue de l'opera. at the end of this, not far from the palais royal, they turned suddenly into a dark alley, which led into a large courtyard, in which i soon discovered a small, fifth-rate hotel, evidently their temporary quarters. i waited in the vicinity for nearly half an hour, until the concierge put out the lights and bolted the door; then i returned to the avenue, hailed a fiacre, and drove home just as the clocks were chiming three. my vigil had been a long and tedious one, and when i entered my rooms i sank into a chair utterly worn out. i had, however, learnt several facts of supreme interest, not the least being the discovery of wolf's headquarters. i got my man to ring up kaye on the telephone, and presently gave him the information, suggesting that he should send one of his assistants to the rue des petits champs to keep the spies under observation. my statement filled him with feverish activity, for within half an hour he was seated with me in my room, and i was explaining all that had come to pass. "excellent!" he exclaimed. "they will not evade us now we know where they are. there is something fresh in the wind, without a doubt. we must discover what it is." then he went to the telephone, rang up one of his assistants who lived out at passy, and gave him some instructions, together with the address of the obscure hotel to which i had followed the pair of rogues. far into the night we sat discussing the situation. as far as he knew, the ceuta negotiations were at a standstill. all that was known in madrid was that the spanish government had offered to sell that strategic position to france, and that the latter had accepted. beyond this we had no further information, save that a complete tracing of the plans for the fortification of the place, which had been prepared in the french war office, had found its way into our embassy, where, as may be imagined, it had a cordial welcome. it had been purchased by kaye from one of the draughtsmen, and showed plainly with what thoroughness it was proposed to fortify the place in opposition to our defences at gibraltar. with its usual ingenuity the french government, through its mouthpiece, the _figaro_, had inspired an article alleging that ceuta was about to be bought by russia, in order, of course, to create alarm in england, where the periodical russian bogey would at once be brought forward. but to us at the embassy, who knew the truth, the _figaro_ article proved farcical reading. during the past two or three days cipher telegraphie despatches had been constantly exchanged between the quai d'orsay and the various european embassies, and there had been many other signs of unusual diplomatic activity on the part of the republic. at last the chief of the secret service drained his glass, and, rising, left me to snatch a couple of hours' sleep before my next day's duties at the embassy. when i arose next morning i had occasion to go to the small writing-table in my sitting-room to obtain some note-paper, but was surprised to find the contents of the drawer in great disorder, as though they had been hastily overturned. i called my man and questioned him, but he declared he knew nothing of it and that no one had entered my room. i frequently left the key in the drawer, as i had done when last i unlocked it. whoever had searched that drawer had evidently looked for some private papers. i at once hastily set to work to rearrange them and find out whether any were missing. before five minutes had passed the truth became plain. a sealed envelope, in which i had placed the letter the princess had written me offering her secret in exchange for my love, had been stolen. in an instant it flashed upon me that i had spoken of it to her as being destroyed. but it had now passed into the hands of our enemies! dark and mysterious are the ways of modern diplomacy as practised in the capitals of europe, but this dastardly theft was not far from being the most daring and mysterious of any i had known. carefully i examined each of the papers. as far as i could discover, the only one missing was the letter of the princess. who could have stolen it? the only stranger who had entered the room was edith, and i remembered that on the previous afternoon she had waited there alone before my arrival. it was a strange thought, but it impressed itself upon me as a key to the truth. surely she had not visited me for the sole purpose of stealing the letter which leonie had sent to my room on that well-remembered night at chantoiseau? i could not believe her capable of such duplicity, unless perchance it were prompted by jealousy. she might have heard of our acquaintance through one or other of those spies, her associates, and forthwith resolved on revenge. in any case the loss of the letter placed the princess in an exceedingly serious position, and compromised her honour. when i entered my room at the embassy i found lord barmouth and sibyl together. she was persuading him to allow her to accept an invitation to visit some relatives in the north of england, for she was tired of paris, she declared. when i entered he dismissed her, saying that he wished to talk with me privately. "ingram, something extremely serious is in the wind," he said, when the door had closed and we were alone. his face was pale and showed traces of sleeplessness. "i was at de wolkenstein's reception last night, and overheard a conversation between berchtold and de hindenburg. there is a conspiracy against us!" "in what manner?" i asked, surprised that he should have become aware of it. "the intercepting of those secret instructions which you brought from london some months ago is part of it; the ceuta affair is another portion; and it appears, as far as i can gather, that the powers, with the exception of russia and italy, have formed a gigantic plot against us to provoke war." "to provoke war!" i echoed. "what details do you know?" "olsoufieff, who, as you know, is my personal friend, dropped a hint which we may take as a warning. he told me he had reason to believe that the secret service of both france and germany had of late made several successful coups against us, and that the interests of those two nations had been considerably promoted thereby." "he told you nothing further?" "he could not be more explicit," replied his excellency. "russia, who, according to the press, is our hereditary enemy, is in reality our friend. if every monarch loved unity and concord as well as the czar, the peace of europe would to-morrow be assured. yet diplomatic usages prevented olsoufieff from betraying his confreres in their diplomacy, even though he is my intimate friend." "and how are we to act?" i asked. "the theft of the contents of that despatch was certainly most astonishing. how it was accomplished is an inscrutable mystery." "sibyl has been endeavouring to assist us," answered the ambassador. "she, too, was at the reception last night, and kept eyes and ears open. she heard that both wolf and that scoundrel bertini are in paris in company. surely that bodes no good!" "i was watching the pair until nearly three o'clock this morning," i explained. "at present kaye has the matter in hand;" and then i proceeded to explain all the occurrences of the previous night and those that befell in the early hours of the morning. i told him of edith, of my visit to her at ryburgh, of her call upon me, and of my subsequent discovery of her at that low cafe near the station of batignolles. "extraordinary!" he exclaimed in wonder, when i had finished. "then this woman who declared that she loved you is, although an english girl living in a rural norfolk village, actually a french spy? the ramifications of the secret service of our enemies are indeed amazing. the plot which has for its object the downfall of england is the most gigantic and at the same time the most ingenious and carefully planned of any known in modern history. save for the little rift in the veil of secrecy, through which we have fortunately detected the danger, it is absolutely perfect." chapter thirty two. betrayal. winter came, grey, cold, and cheerless, in paris. the war that had broken out in the transvaal dragged on, and the european outlook grew daily darker and more lowering. occasionally i had received letters from edith in bordighera, telling me how pleasant life was there amid the sunshine and the palms after the leafless dreariness of an english winter. she, however, never once mentioned the man bertini. her letters were still affectionate, despite the fact that my replies were very cold and distant. i entertained a distinct suspicion that she it was who had stolen the compromising letter of the princess. in addition to this, her midnight visit to that pair of adventurers in the cafe had incensed me. for this reason her letters to me were unwelcome, and i answered them in quite an indifferent spirit. there was a wound in my heart that never could be healed. edith austin, it was proved, was the associate of two of the most unscrupulous adventurers in europe. in paris matters were extremely critical. lord barmouth had been to downing street to have an interview with the marquess, the latter refusing further to trust his secret instructions to any messenger; yet though not a word had been written and though the interview had taken place in the foreign secretary's private room, where the doors are double, thus preventing any sound from reaching the corridor, the exact nature of his excellency's instructions was actually known at the quai d'orsay. the thing was incomprehensible; it rendered our diplomacy utterly powerless, forewarning the french of our policy and giving them a weapon to use against us. the mystery was impenetrable. yet the truth was only too evident. within four days of the interview taking place in london, kaye brought to the embassy a copy of a cipher telegram handed in at the waterloo station telegraph-office, and received by the french foreign office, giving practically every detail of the verbal instructions received by the ambassador. the way in which the truth had leaked out staggered belief. the marquess, on receiving the despatch from our embassy, was at first disinclined to believe that such a thing could be possible, but i myself next day carried the copy of the spy's telegram to london and placed it in his hands. it was in mid-february, and the channel passage had been about as bad as it possibly could be. he read the telegram with its decipher, and stood utterly bewildered. "absolutely nothing seems safe from the scoundrels!" he cried angrily. "how they have obtained this is a complete mystery. no one was present, for i myself took every precaution. while this goes on we are powerless--utterly powerless. in order to render our diplomacy abortive the french are spreading the secret of our policy broadcast in every capital. the thing is monstrous, and can only be done with the object of creating war." "every negotiation which england has had with the transvaal since the commencement of the war is known at the quai d'orsay, as you will have noticed from the reports we have sent from the embassy," i said. "indeed, the news of the declaration of war by president kruger was known to the french government within half an hour of its receipt by our colonial office." "it may have been sent to paris direct from pretoria," answered the great statesman, frowning in his perplexity. "but our reply was known in paris hours before it was officially issued. the decision of our cabinet was known at the quai d'orsay before the meeting actually broke up," i remarked. "i know, ingram--i know," answered the marquess. "unfortunately for us, this was indeed the case. the mystery of how they obtain their intelligence is absolutely inscrutable." we sat together for a long time in deep discussion. from his agitated manner and the unusual greyness of his fine, intelligent face, i knew that this man, upon whose shoulders rested the responsibility for england's security at the most critical moment when the greater part of her army was in south africa, was in fear of some terrible disaster. that england, with her land forces in the transvaal, was vulnerable was known not only to every diplomatist, but also to the man in the street in every foreign capital. now that lord barmouth had discovered the existence of the great plot against us, of which the defiant attitude of the transvaal was part, active inquiries had been made all over the continent to discover its character, and it had been ascertained that it was the intention of certain powers to intervene in favour of the boers, and thus cause a general rupture with great britain. the plans had been carefully laid. the boers, backed by france, austria, and germany, had fought well, but british pertinacity and pluck, under lord roberts, had won their way to the relief of ladysmith and the occupation of bloemfontein. with joubert dead, with cronje captured at paardeberg, the majuba stigma had been wiped out. besides, pretoria had been occupied. now the continental powers, having planned to league themselves against us, were awaiting their opportunity to intervene, cause a rupture, and declare war against us on the slightest pretext. it was this matter that we were discussing. "the plan has been fostered for two years past," the marquess declared. "the hostility of the french press was part of the programme; the disgusting caricatures in the _rire_ inflamed the anglophobes against us, and this--" and he took up a copy of the _monde illustre_, consisting wholly of a lurid forecast of the "downfall of england" profusely illustrated,--"this, coming at such a moment, is more than mischievous. it will fan the too vigorous flames of french detestation of england, and increase the craving in france for war. i have read it, and it is apparently written to show how vulnerable our country is at this moment. i am not one who fears the downfall of our country; but should a war unhappily result, it would be a great calamity for europe, and for france and the republic most of all." "it is an odd thing," i remarked, "that just as this pleasing brochure appears france should decide to mobilise four army corps in the coming autumn. all these corps are to be assembled in the north-west, close to the sea, and ready for a move if an opportunity comes. this is, i grant, not the first time that such a step has been taken, but it certainly requires to be met by ample precaution." "yes," he answered gravely, beating a tattoo upon his writing-pad with his quill. "it is not pleasant to reflect that, owing to the savings on the shipbuilding vote during the past three years, our navy is not in a condition to warrant a feeling of security. battleships and destroyers are hopelessly in arrears. an addition to our destroyer fleet--the best preventive of invasion--should be made without delay, as a simple precaution; for the risks are great with our army absent, as it will still be in august, in south africa." "in paris," i said, "we have been asked by the representatives of the powers to believe that we have nothing to fear from a deliberate war policy on the part of the governments of germany, france, and austria. they are all engaged in enterprises of far-reaching importance, which would be injured almost beyond recovery by war. germany, de hindenburg has pointed out, has entered with an unparalleled degree of enthusiasm into the struggle for industrial supremacy, with america and great britain as her only dangerous rivals." "to blind us to the truth," observed the great minister, smiling. "the _libre parole_ inadvertently exposed the french secret when two months ago it declared that the bogey of british power had been flaunted in the face of the civilised world once too often, and a small but resolute nation had accepted the challenge. england, that outspoken sheet declared, has claimed to be predominant everywhere. the nations are tired of her pretensions, it insisted, and as soon as diplomacy has been forced to act in accordance with public opinion, there will be an end to this tyranny of the seas. the french forget," he added, "that it is not always safe to try to take advantage of a nation hardened by recent warfare. a country is sometimes more remarkable for military power at the end than at the beginning of a campaign." "it appears to me," i remarked, "that kruger demands peace upon impossible conditions, in order to be able to say that england has refused to discuss peace, that she is quite intractable, and that she is, therefore, responsible for the bloodshed which will continue." "most certainly kruger's peace proposals are part of the continental plot. he knows well enough how to play upon human simplicity and at the same time to assist his friends," observed the great statesman who controlled england's destinies. "but," he urged, "we must do one thing, ingram. we must stop our policy leaking out as it does. this has already nearly landed us into war over the ceuta incident, and must be a constant menace to us. kaye, who was over a few days ago, told me that you had discovered certain persons who were evidently spies. what do you know of them?" i told him all that i had discovered, omitting of course all reference to edith and my love for her, as well as the fact that the princess had offered me details of the plot upon terms which i had been unable to accept. "strive to keep them well under observation and discover the source of their information," he said. "by doing this you will in a great measure frustrate the plans of our enemies, and afterwards our diplomacy can checkmate them. but while all our intentions are known our diplomacy must of necessity be rendered futile. you know these people, ingram, and with you rests a very great responsibility." "i have all along striven to do my duty," i answered. "i have made effort after effort in order to obtain the truth, but up to the present all has been in vain." "continue," he urged, looking at me with those grave, serious eyes, beneath the calm gaze of which many a foreign diplomatist at the court of st. james had trembled. "by perseverance and with the help of the secret service you may one day be successful. then we will unite all the peaceful forces of england in order to break up this dastardly conspiracy. it shall be done!" he cried angrily, striking the table with his clenched fist. "my country shall never fall a victim to this cunningly devised plot of messieurs les anglophobes--never!" the very thought had set fire to his indignation, he rose, and paced the room with a flush upon his ashen checks. "i trust you, ingram, just as i have always trusted you in the past," he said, turning suddenly on his heel towards me. "you have a clever and trustworthy chief in lord barmouth, a man fully fitted to occupy the place i hold in the british government; therefore, strain every nerve to thwart the machinations of our enemies. otherwise there must be war before the year is out--_there must be_!" "i shall do my utmost, rely upon me," i answered. "it shall not be because of my want of enterprise that this base system of espionage is allowed to continue." "good," he said, offering me his hand. "return to paris to-night, resume your inquiries, and remember that in this affair you may be the means of saving your country from a war long and disastrous. there is a conspiracy against our beloved lady the queen. that in itself is sufficient incentive to arouse to action any man in the foreign office. remember it always while working at this inscrutable mystery." i took his thin, bony hand, and he gripped mine warmly. the secret of the great statesman's popularity with all his staff, from ambassador down to fourth-grade clerk, was his personal contact with them, his readiness to consult and advise, and his unfailing friendship and courtesy. i promised him that i would continue to do my utmost to discover the truth. then, taking my leave, i went out and down the great staircase into downing street, where the dark afternoon was rendered the more cheerless by the rain falling heavily; and the solitary policeman in his dripping cape touched his hat respectfully as i passed. the outlook in every way was certainly a most dismal and oppressive one. in obedience to the marquess' command, i returned to paris by the night mail from charing cross. during that journey i reflected deeply upon the best course to pursue in solving the problem. but the enigma was difficult, and its solution beyond the efforts even of the ubiquitous kaye and his associates. if i obtained leave of absence, and went down to the riviera, was it at all probable that i could learn some clue from edith? i was doubtful. ever since that night, three months ago, when i had followed the spies to that obscure hotel in the rue des petits champs, they had been shadowed, and their doings reported. wolf had been to brussels and to berlin, while bertini had returned to london; but their actions, although sometimes suspicious, had never supplied us with the clue we wanted. bertini was at that moment, according to the reports of the special section at scotland yard, whose speciality it is to watch suspected secret agents in england, living in comfort at the midland hotel at st. pancras station. he usually passed his evenings with a few of his compatriots, playing dominoes at the cafe royal or the cafe monaco. wolf, on the other hand, was travelling hither and thither visiting various people, all of whom were noted in the elaborate system of espionage which was now being exercised upon them. after a week in paris i consulted lord barmouth, and he agreed that it would be wise for me to travel to bordighera and make a final attempt to obtain some fact from the woman whom i had once hoped to make my wife. truth to tell, i made up my mind to travel south with great reluctance, for so false and untrue had she been that i had long ago resolved within myself never again to see her. but it was a matter of necessity that we should no longer remain in ignorance of the source of the information which constantly leaked out to our enemies; hence, one evening i busied myself in assisting mackenzie to pack my bag. while doing so the electric bell rang suddenly, and when my servant returned from answering the summons, he announced a visitor, saying: "a lady has called to see you, sir--the princess von leutenberg." "the princess!" i gasped in surprise. then, wondering what could be the nature of her business with me at that hour, i smoothed down my hair before the glass, drew a long breath (for i expected a scene), and entered the room into which she had been shown. "leonie--you!" i cried in surprise. her rich sables were unclasped at the throat, and when she rose quickly they fell from her, displaying her finely moulded white neck and arms, shining like alabaster in contrast to her low-cut corsage of black chiffon. her face was blanched to the lips, the slim, gloved hand she gave me trembled, and her beautiful eyes, usually so brilliant and sparkling, had a look of haunting fear in them. "gerald!" she whispered hoarsely, as if fearful lest she might be overheard, "my secret is out! i am ruined--_ruined_! and through you! you have betrayed me to my enemies--you, the man i love!" chapter thirty three. which contains a surprise. "betrayed you, leonie!" i echoed. "i have not betrayed you!" "but you have!" she declared angrily, her eyes flashing upon me. "you have broken your oath to me." "i have broken no oath," i answered calmly; adding, "let us sit down and talk quietly." "talk quietly!" she cried, speaking rapidly in french. "do you think i can talk quietly with ruin staring me in the face?" "in what manner does ruin threaten you?" i inquired, placing my hand upon her arm in an effort to calm her. she was terribly agitated, i could see, and her anger knew no bounds, although she was striving strenuously to suppress it. "you have betrayed my secret--the secret of my love for you!" she cried. "that letter which you promised me to destroy is in the hands of my bitterest enemy." "forgive me, leonie," i cried quickly. "the letter was mysteriously stolen from that writing-table there. how, i know not." "cannot you even guess who is the thief?" i hesitated. the only person i suspected was edith, who had been the solitary occupant of that room while she waited for me. it was after her departure that i found the drawer in confusion and the letter missing. "i have suspicion," i replied with some hesitation, "yet i feel assured it is unfounded." "of whom?" "of a friend." "a friend of yours?" she exclaimed quickly. "therefore, an enemy of mine. it is a woman. come, admit it." "i admit nothing," i answered with a forced smile, my diplomatic instinct instantly asserting itself. "is it a woman, or is it not?" she demanded. "i am not compelled to answer that question, leonie," i remarked in a quiet voice. "but having betrayed me--or rather having allowed me to be betrayed--it is surely only manly of you to endeavour to make amends!" she cried reproachfully. "even if you do not love me sufficiently to make me your wife, that is hardly a reason why you should expose me to my enemies." "i have not done so wilfully," i declared. "as the letter has been stolen by an enemy, i feel sure that the suspicion resting upon my friend is unfounded." "but if the thief is a woman and she loves you, she would naturally be my enemy, and seek to overthrow me," argued the princess logically. "it is my fault," i said. "i regret the incident, and seek your forgiveness, leonie. i had no idea that spies and thieves surrounded me, as apparently they do, or i would have destroyed it instead of keeping it as a cherished relic of one of the few romantic incidents of my life." "you w'ere very foolish to keep it, just as it was foolish of me to have written it," she observed. "cannot you see how compromised i am by it? i have offered to betray to you a secret of state, a secret known only to kings, emperors, and their immediate advisers, in return for your love. i am self-condemned," she added wildly. "but into whose hands has the letter passed?" i inquired, now quite convinced of the extreme gravity of the situation. "into the possession of a man who is my most bitter enemy in all the world. ah, you don't know, gerald, how i am suffering!" she placed her hand upon her brow, and stood rigid and motionless. "why?" "because this man, with the evidence of my treason in his possession, is endeavouring to force me into a hateful bondage. to save myself," she added hoarsely, "i must obey, or else--" "or else what?" i inquired, looking at her in astonishment. "or else escape exposure and ruin by another method, more swift and more to be trusted." "i don't understand you. what do you mean?" "suicide," she answered in a low, hard voice, regarding me coldly, with a truly desperate look in her eyes. "come, come, leonie," i said quickly, "to talk like that is absurd." "no, it is not in the least absurd," she protested, a heavy, serious look upon her face. "like yourself, i am the victim of a vile conspiracy. this man has long sought to entrap me, and has, alas! now succeeded." "for what reason?" she remained silent, as though doubting whether to tell me the whole truth. in a few moments, however, she made a sudden resolve. "because he wishes to marry me," she answered briefly. "and by holding this letter as a menace he now seeks to force you into a marriage that is distasteful?" "distasteful!" she echoed. "i hate and detest him! rather than marry him i would prefer suicide." "why?" "because if i do not accept his conditions for the return of that letter he will expose me," she answered in despair. "has he threatened this?" "yes." "and what is your response?" "i have refused, gerald. even though he were not so hateful i could not marry him, because i love you." she was trembling with agitation, and tears stood in her fine eyes. "love for me is out of the question, leonie," i answered kindly, yet firmly. "now that you find yourself in this critical situation it is for us both to strive to frustrate this enemy of yours. it is my duty to assist you." "ah, you cannot!" she said in a tone of utter despair. "the power he holds over me by possessing the written evidence of my treason--my offer to betray to you the secret of my emperor--is complete, and he is well aware of it. he demands marriage with me, or he will ruin me, and brand me as a traitress to my country and my emperor." "this man is, of course, now aware of what passed between us during my visit at chantoiseau?" i said. "he knows everything," she answered. "i was living quietly at rudolstadt, and endeavouring to forget you, when of a sudden, a fortnight ago, there came to the castle a stranger, who sent in his card sealed in an envelope. my servants regarded him with some suspicion, and well they might, for when i opened the envelope and took out the card i knew that at last the blow had fallen. he had dared to come and seek me there." "you saw him?" "yes, he demanded an interview. we had not met for nearly two years, yet he approached me with a declaration of love upon his lips. i laughed at him, but presently he held me dumb by producing from his pocket the compromising letter. he began by pointing out how easily he could ruin me socially, and prove me to be a traitress. he made an end by offering to place the letter unreservedly in my hands on the day i became his wife." "he had declared his love to you before?" "yes, two years ago. but i knew him too well, and hated him too thoroughly, to take a favourable view of his ridiculous declaration." "and this man?" i asked. "who is he?" "he was once in the employ of my father, prince kinsky von wchinitz, and was administrator of the estates at wchinitz and tettau, in bohemia. immediately my husband died and the feudal estates of schwazbourg passed into my possession, as well as those of my late father, this man pressed his claim. he first endeavoured to pay court to me; then, on finding i was cold to his attentions, he became threatening, and i was compelled to discharge him. afterwards he drifted away, became a chevalier d'industrie, and at last, because of my refusal to hear his repeated declarations of affection, he made a dastardly attempt upon my life." "he tried to kill you?" i exclaimed incredulously. "yes," she responded. "had it not been for the timely intervention of a stranger--a person whom i did not see--he would have murdered me." "through jealousy?" "yes, through jealousy." "and this fellow's name?" i asked, my anger rising at the thought of a discharged employe thus holding leonie in his power, and, despite the fact that he had made an attempt upon her life, badgering her to marry him. "is there any reason why i should not know it?" there was a brief silence. she hesitated to tell me, and not until i had pressed her several times to disclose to me his name would she answer. "the man who is seeking to drive me to destruction and to suicide is," she replied reluctantly, "an adventurer of the worst type--a man who is seeking to make a wealthy marriage at the expense of a woman whom he holds in his power, and whom he can ruin at any moment if he chooses." "his name? tell me." "his name is count rodolphe d'egloffstein-wolfsburg." i held my breath, utterly amazed by this disclosure. "the man known as rodolphe wolf?" i cried--"the adventurer who fell into the hands of the police at st. petersburg, and served nine months' imprisonment as a rogue and vagabond?" "what! you know him?" she demanded in surprise. "is he a friend of yours?" "a friend!" i echoed. "no, not a friend by any means. an enemy, and a bitter one." "then he is mutually our enemy?" she declared. "most certainly," i answered, adding, "what you have just told me, leonie, reveals to me the truth regarding several incidents which have been hitherto unaccountable. was wolf actually in your father's employ?" "yes, for years. he was the younger son of old count leopold d'egloffstein-wolfsburg, whose small estate joined that of tettau, and, after a wild career in vienna and paris, returned home a ne'er-do-well. my father, in order to give him another chance in life, gave him control of a portion of the estates, and, finding him shrewd and clever at management, ultimately made him administrator of the whole, which position he filled up to the time when, after my husband's death, i discharged him on account of dishonesty and of the constant annoyance to which i was subjected by him. when he left me he vowed that one day i should become his wife, and it seems that in order to gain that end he has been scheming ever since." "he is a spy in the french secret service," i observed thoughtfully, for strange reflections were running through my mind at that instant. "i have heard so," she answered. "but that is not actually proved, is it?" "absolutely." "is it possible that he himself stole the letter from your desk there? has he ever been here?" "never, to my knowledge. he would never dare to enter here," i replied. "no, that letter was stolen by one of his accomplices." "a woman?" "yes, i think it was a woman." "a woman whom you love, or have loved, gerald? come now, be perfectly frank with me." "you guess aright," i answered, remembering that as far as i was aware she knew nothing of the existence of edith austin. a dark look crossed her features. "then if that woman knew the contents of the letter she had a motive of jealousy," argued the princess. "she may have had. at any rate i have suspicion that, acting under wolf's instructions, she abstracted the letter and handed it to him without previous knowledge of what it contained." "no, i scarcely think that. wolf would tell her that i loved you and was her rival in your affections, in order to incense her against me. what is her name?" i kept silence for a moment, reflecting upon the wisdom of telling her the truth at that juncture. at last i resolved that, as our interests were mutual, there should be no secrets between us. "she is english, and her name is austin--edith austin." "edith austin!" she cried in dismay. "and you love her?--you love _that woman_?" "why do you speak of her in that manner?" i demanded. "austin--austin?" she repeated. "it is certainly not the first time i have heard that name. certainly her reputation is not above suspicion. and you actually love her, gerald?" she added in a blank tone of reproach. "is it really possible that you love her?" "why?" "because bertini--who was once in the austrian service, and is now a secret agent of the french--told me in vienna not long ago that one of the most successful french agents in england was a young girl named edith austin. she must be the same. i know bertini well, although he is not at all a desirable acquaintance. and you love this girl--you, in your responsible position at the embassy? is it not extremely dangerous?" i admitted that it was, but expressed disinclination to discuss the matter further, feeling that the more we talked of it the deeper would be the pain i caused to the handsome and desperate woman before me. "you told me just now that wolf once made an attempt upon your life," i said presently. "these words of yours have given me a clue to an incident which has to me long been a mystery." "how?" "listen, and i'll tell you. one day in late autumn two years ago i alighted at the little station of montigny, on the line to montargis, in order to ride through the forest of fontainebleau to bois-le-roi, and return thence to paris by rail. i am fond of the forest, and when i can snatch a day, sometimes go for a healthy spin through it, either riding, cycling, or on foot. having lunched at the little inn at marlotte, where my mare was stabled, i started off on the road which, as you know well, leads through the wild rocks of the gorge aux loups to the carrefour de la croix du grand maitre in the heart of the forest, and thence away to the town of fontainebleau. the afternoon was gloomy and lowering, and darkness crept on much more quickly than i had anticipated. it had rained earlier in the day, and the roads were wet and muddy, while the wind that had sprung up moaned dismally through the half-bare trees, rendering the ride anything but a cheerful one. "by six o'clock it was already quite dark, and i was still in the centre of the forest, galloping along a narrow by-way which i knew would bring me out upon the main road to paris. the mare's hoofs were falling softly upon the carpet of rain-sodden leaves when of a sudden i heard a woman's cry of distress in the darkness close to me. a man's voice sounded, speaking in german, and next instant there was the flash of a revolver and a loud report. the light gave me a clue, and, pulling up, i swung myself from my saddle and without hesitation rushed to the woman's assistance. i slipped my own revolver from my pocket and sprang upon the man who had fired, while at the same instant the woman wrested herself from the assassin's grasp. by means of the white shawl she wore about her head i saw her disappearing quickly through the undergrowth. with a fierce oath the man turned upon me, and, as we struggled, endeavoured to get the muzzle of his weapon beneath my chin. i felt the cold steel against my jaw, and next instant he pulled the trigger. my face was scorched by the flash, but happily the bullet went harmlessly past my cheek. i had dropped my own weapon early in the encounter, and now saw that the only way in which i could save my life was to beat the fellow's head against a tree until he became insensible. this i succeeded in doing, tripping him suddenly, forcing him down, and beating his skull against a tree-stump until he lay there motionless as a log. then i took his weapon from him, and, striking a match, bent down to see his face. to my astonishment i found that he was a man i had known slightly several years before--the man who holds you within his power-- rodolphe wolf." "and the woman who so narrowly escaped death--indeed, whose life was saved by your timely aid--is the woman who loves you--myself!" she cried. "i never dreamed, until your words just now gave me a clue to the truth, that you were actually the unknown woman who escaped from the hands of the assassin," i said. for answer she grasped my hand warmly and looked straight into my eyes, though she did not utter a single word. chapter thirty four. at bordighera. bordighera, that charming, well-sheltered little town which, lying well back in its picturesque bay on the italian riviera, has during the past year or so come quickly into fashionable prominence, is at its best towards the end of february. it is not by any means a large place. the quaint old town is perched upon a conical hill with queer ladder-like streets, so narrow that no vehicles can pass up them. there are strong stone arches to support the houses against possible earthquakes. the streets are dark, sometimes mere tunnels, as is so frequent in those neighbouring rock villages, sasso, dolceacqua, apricale, and the rest, the reason being that they were built in the days when the moorish pirates made constant raids along that coast, and the houses were clustered together for mutual protection against those dreaded raiders. but below the ancient town, bordighera has spread along the seashore and into the olive-woods. in february, when in england all is bare and cheerless, the gardens of the handsome hotels and the big white villas on the hillsides are ablaze with flowers, the air is heavy with the perfume of the heliotrope, growing in great bushes, and the sweet scent of the carnations, grown in fields for covent garden and the flower-market outside the madeleine. the tourist in knickerbockers, with his camera over his shoulder, never goes to bordighera, for to the uninitiated it is far too dull. there is no casino, as at nice, no jetty, no cafes with al-fresco music, no tables out upon the pavement; and, truth to tell, such attractions are not required. the people who winter at bordighera represent the most distinguished coterie in europe. they are not of the snobbish crowd who frequent san remo, and they do their best to avoid attracting into their midst the undesirable crowd from monte carlo, or the cookites from nice. life in bordighera from november until the end of april is essentially charming. the people who winter there regularly--english, germans, russians, belgians, and italians--all know each other, and nearly every evening there are brilliant entertainments, at which princes, dukes, marquesses, and counts attend as thickly as blackberries grace the hedgeside in autumn. the big hotels give dances weekly, to which everyone in society is welcome. in fact, life in bordighera is very similar to that in a pleasant country town in england, but with the difference that it is purely cosmopolitan, without any distinction of caste. emperors, kings, grand-dukes, and reigning princes are all patrons of the place, and it certainly stands unique in the whole world both for its natural beauties and for its unpretentiousness. there is no artificial charm, as at nice, san remo, monte carlo, or cannes. the easy-going people of bordighera are well aware that the charm of their clean, white little town lies in its natural beauty and quaint old-world picturesqueness; hence, although the health and comfort of their foreign visitors are studied, no attempt is made to give it a false air of garishness and gaiety. when at noon, two days after the princess's visit to me, i stepped from the sleeping-car that had brought me down from paris, and, entering a fiacre, drove up to the hotel angst, i turned back and saw before me a sunny panorama of turquoise sea and purple mountains, which compelled me to pause in rapt admiration. the grey-green of the olives, the brighter foliage of the oranges with the yellow fruit gleaming in the green, the high feathery palms waving in the zephyr, the flowers of every hue, the dazzlingly white town, and its background of grey inaccessible crags, snow-tipped here and there, behind apricale, combined to make up a picture unique and superb. i had been in bordighera once before, but this second impression in no way destroyed the former. on several previous occasions i had spent a month or so in the south at monte carlo, mentone, and nice, but i must admit that i preferred king's road at brighton to the promenade des anglais at nice. mentone i disliked because of its bath-chair invalids, san remo because of its snobbery; and monte carlo, with all its jargon of the play, the eternal casino, the band outside the cafe de paris, the clatter at ciro's, and the various pasteboard attractions, was to me only tolerable for a week. bordighera, with better climate and a native population exceedingly well-disposed towards the english, possesses distinct advantages over them all, although it never advertises itself on railway-station hoardings, like nice or san remo, by means of posters in which the sea is the colour of washing-blue. as i had not advised edith of my coming, it being my intention to surprise her, it was not until after the dressing-bell had rung for dinner that evening that i went below. i watched her descend the staircase, a neat figure in cream, with corsage slightly decollete, and with pink carnations in her hair. then i approached her in the great hall and held out my hand. she drew back in amazement. the next moment she welcomed me warmly, evidently under the impression that i had come there in order to forgive. aunt hetty, looking quite spruce in black satin, and wearing a gay cap and an emerald brooch, came downstairs a few minutes later, and, after a brief explanation, we followed the others in to the table-d'hote. as early arrivals, they had places near the head of the table, while mine was far down, near the end. therefore, not until the meal was over, and we sat in rocking-chairs in the hall listening to the music, was i able to chat to her, and then nothing confidential could pass between us because of the other guests seated around, the men smoking and gossiping, and the women enjoying the lazy post-prandial hour before the arrival of the english mail with the two-days-old letters and newspapers. after a long talk with her, mostly upon trivialities, i retired that night with a distinct impression that somehow my presence there was unwelcome. she had told me that they did not intend to remain much longer in bordighera, and that they would either go on to rome or back to england. i felt convinced that this decision had been suddenly arrived at since my advent. on the following morning, after my coffee, i went forth for a stroll into the long high-street of the town, where, in the window of the british vice-consulate, was placed a board bearing a number of telegrams. i paused, finding that they gave the latest news of the war in the transvaal, which was telegraphed from london twice daily. as i did so, another passer-by paused and eagerly peered into the window beside me. he was a shabbily dressed italian, smoking a long, rank toscano, and as i turned away from the board my eyes fell suddenly upon his face. it was paolo bertini. our recognition was mutual, and i saw in an instant that he became confused. he moved away, but i walked beside him. "why are you here?" i inquired in french with some warmth. "i may put to you the same question," he answered defiantly, his dark eyes flashing upon me with an evil gleam. "remember," i said, "you have been already condemned as a french spy, although you are an italian. they are not fond of french spies here, on the frontier." "what do you mean?" he cried, turning upon me quickly. "is that a threat?" "it is," i answered boldly. "we have met now, and you must answer to me for several things." "for what?" "for your recent actions as a spy." "you are extremely polite--like all the english," he said sneeringly. we had turned back and were walking in the direction of the hotel again. "in this matter politeness is not necessary--only plain speaking," i said. "first, i may tell you, for your own information, that i know well your methods and all about your assistance to your accomplice wolf. every action of yours during these past three months has been watched, and the truth is now known." his face went pale, but his nerve never deserted him. even though i myself had once given him into the hands of the police, he was still the same scheming, desperate spy as he had ever been. "well," he laughed, "if you know the truth i hope it interests you. you had best go back to paris and not seek to interfere with me." "i came here for a purpose," i told him plainly, "and that purpose was to find you and hand you over to the police as a french secret agent. in france you are secure, but here you will discover that your countrymen are not so well-disposed towards a traitor." "i have no fear of arrest," he replied. "do your worst, caro mio. you cannot harm me." "very well," i answered, "we shall see." he glanced at me quickly with an evil look. if he had dared he would have struck me down with the poignard which he kept always concealed in his belt. but he was a coward, i knew; therefore, i felt safe while among the crowd of gaily dressed promenaders who were enjoying the morning sunshine. if he made an attempt upon me, it would be in secret, not in the open. "shall i tell you why you are here?" he asked. "you have come to bordighera to follow edith austin--just as i did." "and if so, what then?" "return to paris. she is mine." "she shall never be!" i cried furiously. "you, a spy, a coward, and a traitor, hold her within your power, and are forcing her to become your catspaw. i know it all. i saw you that night at ryburgh. i followed you. i made inquiries of her, and learned the truth." "what!" he cried, "she told you--she has dared to give me away?" "i know all," i answered firmly, "and your doom is imprisonment on the island of gorgona for the remainder of your life." "you exposed me once!" he cried in anger. "i have not forgotten it. we shall be quits one day." "we shall be quits this very day," i asserted hotly. "ah!" he laughed defiantly, "that remains to be seen. you are jealous of edith austin," he added with a supercilious sneer. "she is your victim!" i cried, "and i have resolved to rescue her." "because you think she is pure and honest, and that she loves you? but very soon you will discover your mistake." "do you make an imputation against her honour?" i demanded fiercely. he shrugged his shoulders meaningly, his face broadening into an evil grin. "you are a coward in addition to being a spy and a traitor!" i declared. "you would even endeavour to besmirch a woman's fair name." "fair name!" he laughed insultingly. "love like yours, amico mio, is always blind. you english are always so amusingly simple." "come," i said, halting suddenly when we had arrived at the small garden in the centre of which the band-stand is placed. as we were some distance away from the promenaders, we could not be overheard. "enough has passed between us. i tell you plainly that it is my intention to end all this and to apply for your arrest as a spy." "and supposing i do not allow myself to be arrested? suppose i cross the frontier at once?" "a telegram to the police at ventimiglia will prevent you," i answered quite calmly. "you see that city guard yonder?" i said, pointing to a man in uniform standing not far off upon the kerb. "i have only now to demand your arrest, and you will never again enjoy freedom your whole life long." "but you don't think i should be such a fool as to allow myself to be taken, do you?" he said, his air of defiance still perfect. he went on chewing the end of his virginia. "your description is too well known. you will not be at liberty a single hour after i make my statement to the prefect." then i paused, and, looking straight into his evil face, added, "there is, however, yet another way." "how?" "a way in which you may avoid arrest--the only way." "explain," he said. "this is very interesting." "by being perfectly frank with me," i replied, "and by making explanation of your work of espionage in london." "you will never know that," he replied quickly. "cause my arrest if you wish, but upon the incidents of the past year my lips are sealed, because i know that you can never secure my conviction in italy." "then you still defy me, and refuse to explain anything?" it was my endeavour to obtain from him the secret of how despatches had so frequently been stolen. "i will explain nothing," he declared firmly. "you have no evidence upon which to convict me." "very well," i answered slowly and distinctly, "we shall see. you apparently forget that within your photographic camera, which so fortunately fell into my hands, was an undeveloped negative of an important diplomatic document having reference to italy's position in regard to the triple alliance, which you photographed in the italian embassy in brussels and intended to hand to your employers in paris? i have a print of it here, in my pocket-book, and i think it will be of considerable interest both to the italian police and the italian government." his jaw dropped, and the light went out of his dark, sallow countenance. i saw that if ever the spirit of murder was in this scoundrel's heart it was there at that moment. chapter thirty five. in which edith speaks plainly. after luncheon, when miss foskett, as was usual, ascended to her room to take her afternoon nap, edith managed to escape and accompany me for a walk. the hotel was crowded with visitors, mostly english, who had come south in search of sunshine. the battle of flowers was to be fought that day. the little place was gay with flags, the pavements covered with confetti, and there was everywhere that air of gaiety and irresponsibility that carnival lends to every italian town. in carnival bordighera is at her best, and the fun of the festa is fast and furious, without the rough horseplay and pellets of lime indulged in at nice. edith had, however, seen the battle of flowers at nice in the previous week, having gone over there for the day. as this was so, we resolved to climb the hill behind the town and wander through the grey olive-woods, away from the boisterous merrymakers. up a steep road on the outskirts of the town in the direction of sunny ospedaletti we climbed, and thence by a mule-track we ascended zig-zag until we entered the beautiful olive-groves. seen through the grey-green trees with their twisted trunks, the panorama spread before us was truly wonderful, the whole line of rugged coast being in view for miles on either hand, the brown, bare rocks standing out in sharp contrast to the deep sapphire of the glassy sea. although february, it was like a may day in england, the air flower-scented and balmy, the sun so warm that to walk in overcoats or wraps was impossible. "well," i said at length, when we had halted a second time to turn back and admire the view, "you are displeased with me, edith? why am i so unwelcome?" "you are not unwelcome," she declared quickly. "i am certainly not displeased." "i begin to think that during the months you've been here you have forgotten those words you uttered to me in paris, just as you forgot your vow made to me beneath the willows at ryburgh." "i have forgotten nothing," she protested. "this is cruel of you, gerald, to reproach me thus." "you told me then that you reciprocated my affection, yet you allow this man bertini to follow you everywhere. he is here." "here?" she gasped in alarm, her face pale in an instant. "are you certain?" "i have seen and spoken with him this morning." i did not tell her the nature of our conversation, or how i had given him twelve hours in which to decide whether he preferred to reveal the truth or take the consequences of arrest; neither did i tell her that i had called at the police-office and that the spy was already under close observation, the police believing him to be an undesirable visitor from monte carlo. "you've spoken with him? what did he tell you?" "very little of consequence. i know that you are his victim, and i am seeking to release you from the thraldom," i answered gravely. "ah!" she cried wistfully, "if you only could! if you only could, then i should commence a new life and be happy! the awful suspense is killing me." "suspense of what?" she was silent for a moment. "i fear his threats," she faltered. "i know he would have no compunction whatever in causing my ruin when i am no longer of further use to him." "now, tell me plainly and honestly, edith," i asked, looking straight into her white, anxious face. "do you love him?" "love him!" she echoed wildly. "why, i hate him! have i not already told you so?" "but he loves you." "of that i am not certain. if he does, it is through no fault whatever of mine. i detest and hate him!" "will you not tell me how he managed to obtain this irresistible power over you? can you not help me in my search for the truth?" "i must not speak; i dare not, gerald," she answered in a hoarse whisper, as though the very thought of exposure filled her with alarm. "you fear his revenge?" she nodded, adding in a low tone, "he knows my secret." "and i, your lover, do not," i observed reproachfully. "well," i continued, "answer me truly one question. tell me whether, when you called upon me on the last occasion in paris, you stole a letter from my desk--a letter from the princess von leutenberg?" "from the woman who loves you?" she cried huskily. "yes, i did." "and you stole it at bertini's instigation? he told you where it would be found, the colour of the envelope, and the coronet and cipher upon it, did he not?" she nodded in the affirmative. "and that same night you met him in a small cafe at batignolles, and handed him the letter? he was with his accomplice, rodolphe wolf." "it is just as you say," she answered. "but how did you know this?" "because i myself watched you," i answered. "that letter was stolen to be used against the princess." "and if it is, what then? that woman who offered to betray her country in return for your love is my rival!" she cried fiercely. "the theft of that letter was committed with quite another motive," i replied. "that adventurer wolf desires to marry the princess, and with his accomplice has made you his catspaw to obtain the letter, and thus compel her to marry him. if she refuses, he threatens to denounce her." "has he actually threatened this?" she cried in surprise. "i never dreamt that such was his motive." "she is in paris, suffering from this scoundrel's tyranny. as the man is an adventurer and spy, marriage between them is out of the question." she turned to me, and, looking into my eyes, earnestly demanded: "tell me, gerald, do you love her, as they told me that you do? you visited her at chantoiseau, and it is said that you often went long walks in the forest together. besides, in paris you met often at various receptions and dances." "true," i admitted. "we met often, and i have more than once been her guest at the chateau; but as to loving her, such an idea has never entered my head. she is a smart and attractive woman, like many others in the circle in which i am compelled to move; but i swear to you, by all i hold most sacred, that i never loved her in the past, and that to-day is as yesterday." "she loves you. that letter is sufficient proof of it." "it was written in a moment of madness," i assured her. "she regretted it a few hours afterwards, and asked me to destroy it. the fault is entirely my own, for i neglected to carry out her wish. by my own culpable negligence she is placed in this position." "yes," she replied. "forgive me, gerald; i acted under compulsion, as i have always been compelled to act." "certainly i forgive," i answered. "but will it not be humane conduct on your part to rescue the princess from this terrible doom? wolf wishes to marry her for her money alone, and will force this step upon her if we can find no means to save her." she paused. hitherto she had been jealous of leonie, but now, upon my assurance that i had no love for her, i saw that she inclined towards mercy. "if i could," she said at last, "i would assist her. but i cannot see that it is possible." "you can do so by explaining your own position to me," i said. "despicable though it may seem, the ghastly truth is, that you are actually a spy in the service of france. if you do not seek to clear yourself now, you may be condemned with your accomplices wolf, bertini, and yolande de foville." "that woman!" she cried quickly. "it was she who plotted against you." "then you have met her!" i exclaimed, surprised at this revelation. i had never believed that they had met. "yes," edith replied, "i met her in london; and while dining one night at the carlton with wolf and bertini she told me how she had misled you into the belief that she loved you passionately, in order to obtain from you certain official information which had been of the greatest use to them at the quai d'orsay. she little dreamed that i knew you and loved you, and the three of them laughed heartily over what they called your gullibility." i pursed my lips, for i now saw that woman's motive in responding to my declaration of love long ago. at the time i would not believe the whispered condemnation of the countess and her daughter as secret agents, but of late the truth had been shown me all too plainly. "and did she mention an incident last year in paris as the result of which she nearly lost her life?" i inquired. "yes; she told us a long story of how a mysterious attempt had been made to poison her in her own apartment in paris by some subtle poison being placed upon the gum of the envelopes in her escritoire. she wrote a letter, and licked the envelope in order to seal it, when she was seized suddenly by excruciating pains, followed by coma and a state so nearly resembling death that even the doctors were at first deceived. only by an antidote administered by an english doctor--a friend of yours, i believe--was her life saved. because of your efforts she had, she said, been seized by remorse, and ceased to mislead you further, because of the debt of gratitude she owed you." "very kind indeed of her," i laughed. a silence fell between us. we were both looking seaward, far away over the great expanse of clear bright blue, to where a distant steamer was leaving a trail of smoke upon the horizon. down in the carnation-gardens some girls were singing an old italian folk-song while they cut and packed the flowers for the london market; at our feet were violets everywhere. "can you tell me absolutely nothing, in order to lead me to a knowledge of the truth, edith?" i asked again. "remember that our love and our future depend upon you alone. at present you are a spy, liable to arrest as a traitress." "i know--i know!" she cried, bursting into a flood of tears. "it was not my fault. i could not help it. i was compelled--compelled!" "you are aware of the channels through which knowledge of our diplomatic secrets have been obtained by our enemies. will you not make amends by telling me the truth?" i asked in a low, persuasive, earnest tone, my arm about her slim waist. "i dare not!" she sobbed--"i dare not! they would kill me, as they have sworn to do if i betrayed them!" during the hour that followed, as we wandered together among the olives, i ascertained a few unimportant facts from her--facts which threw considerable light upon the ingenuity of the spies with whom she had been compelled to ally herself. but upon the secret of how their great coups had been accomplished her lips were sealed. i gave her to understand that bertini was now within an ace of arrest, and that in less than an hour he would, if i willed it, be inside the prefecture, charged with treason against his own government; but in such terror did she hold him that even my assertion that his power over her had ended did not induce her to disclose anything. at first it had seemed to me almost impossible that she, living in the country with the strictly prim and proper miss foskett, could at the same time be a member of the secret service of our enemies. but i had witnessed her midnight meeting with bertini, and that had convinced me. "and if you cause his arrest," she exclaimed reflectively, as we descended the mule-path on our return, "what will be the result?" "the only result will be, as far as i can tell at present, that his evil influence over you will be ended, and you will be free." "no," she responded, sighing, "there are the others. his arrest would only bring their wrath upon me, for they would believe that i had betrayed them." "they are spies and enemies of our country and our queen, edith," i urged. "to betray them is your duty as an englishwoman." "to disclose their secret would mean to me a swift and terrible death," she answered. i saw that all my efforts at persuasion were unavailing. as we retraced our steps the silence between us was a sad and painful one. "you do not love me sufficiently to sacrifice all for my sake, edith," i said at last gravely; "otherwise you would help me to unravel the mystery." we were just descending a narrow winding path to the high road as i spoke, and she halted suddenly in indecision. "i do love you, gerald," she cried with sudden resolution. she flung her arms about my neck; she buried her face upon my shoulder; she burst again into tears. "i love you--i have never loved any man except yourself!" she declared passionately, lifting her face to me until our lips met. "then will you not make this sacrifice, if you really love me so well?" i asked. "will you not tell me the truth, and allow me to be your champion?" she hesitated, and i saw the terrible struggle going on within her. "yes," she cried hoarsely at last, "i will--i will! and if they kill me, you will at least know that i loved you, gerald--that i loved you deeply and dearly!" "i am convinced of that, darling," i said. "but in this affair your interests are my own. tell me the truth, and give me freedom of action. if you will, we may yet overthrow our enemies." for a few moments she did not speak, but sobbed convulsively upon my breast. then, suddenly holding her breath, she raised her tear-stained face to mine. at last, her love for me conquering all else, she said in a low whisper, as though fearful lest someone should overhear: "go to the little village of feltham, near london, the next station to twickenham, and find cypress cottage. you will discover the secret there." feltham! it was the place mentioned by wolf when i had listened to that conversation in the dingy little cafe at batignolles. "what is there?" i inquired quickly. "what secret does the cottage contain?" "have a care in approaching the place. obtain the assistance of the police--surround it--search it--and see." "is there sufficient evidence there to justify the spy's arrest?" "certainly. go and ascertain for yourself. i have betrayed their secret--that is enough. if their revenge falls upon me, then i am content to bear it, gerald, for your sake. tell me, however, that you have forgiven me all the past; that you will believe no word of any vile scandal that may be uttered against me by that pair of adventurers. promise me," she cried in deep earnestness. "i will believe nothing without proof," i answered, kissing her fondly. "i love you to-day, darling, just as passionately as i did when first we met long ago. i start for london by the calais express at six to-night, and will at once follow your directions." "and bertini, what of him?" she asked in alarm. "he is here, in bordighera, for an evil purpose, without a doubt. if he knows, i shall be in deadly peril." "have no fear," i assured her. "before i leave he will be in the hands of the police. my plans are already matured." we walked back through the orange-grove down to the hotel hand-in-hand, both resolved to act firmly and fearlessly. as we walked along we seldom spoke with our lips; but our hearts discovered a beautiful language in the silence; and used it. i loved her and she had proved her affection for me. the betrayal of their secret made it plain that after all she was really mine; for she had now defied her enemies and had placed her life in deadly jeopardy for my sake. chapter thirty six. the secret. the village of feltham is a sleepy little place standing in the centre of a bare, flat country half-way between twickenham and staines. it is still quite a rural spot, even though only a league outside the twelve-mile radius. when i alighted from the train which had brought me down from waterloo on the third day after leaving the sunshine of the mediterranean, a cold cast wind was blowing, and the platform was covered with finely powdered snow. i had as companions three plain-clothes officers from scotland yard, one of whom was inspector chick of the special political branch of the criminal investigation department. application for assistance to the commissioner had quickly been responded to, and outside the station we were met by the local plain-clothes constable of the t division, who had been informed by telegraph of our advent. on my arrival in london that morning i had received a telegram from the police at bordighera stating that paolo bertini was already under arrest. we at once inquired the whereabouts of cypress cottage, and the local officer explained that it was a lonely house, situated nearly three miles away across the plain beyond ashford, towards the valley of the thames. we therefore obtained a wagonette at the station inn, and were very soon driving in company over the snow-covered road towards the spot indicated. about a mile beyond ashford village chick, who directed the operations, ordered the coachman to stop, and he and i descended. in the distance we could see outlined against the gloomy, snow-laden sky a small, whitewashed cottage, standing where the road we were traversing made a junction with the high road between staines and kingston. this the local constable pointed out as our goal. it was a truly lonely place of residence, for there seemed no other house within a radius of several miles. chick, nimble of wit and resourceful, decided that we both should approach the place on foot, investigate, and endeavour to enter upon some pretext, while our three companions, at the moment of our entry, should drive up, leave the wagonette, and surround the place. as soon as we had arranged our plan of operations, i buttoned my coat and strode on beside the inspector, who now took from his hip pocket a police-revolver and placed it in readiness in the outside pocket of his overcoat. with what resistance we might meet, or what was to be the nature of our discovery, we knew not. the revelation made by edith was, to say the least of it, one of the strangest in my experience. at last, after trudging through the snow, which lay thickly upon that road, we reached the cottage, a rather ill-kept place of about six rooms, and walked up the pathway to the door. that it was inhabited was shown by the smoke ascending from one of the chimneys and the stunted geraniums which screened the windows on the inside. chick knocked at the door, but for some anxious moments no response was made to his summons. both of us listened attentively, and distinctly heard the shuffling of feet within, accompanied by an ominous whispering and the low growl of a dog, which was apparently being ordered to remain quiet. "i hope these good people are not out," chick exclaimed in a loud voice, with a meaning look. "it's evident we've lost our way." his words were heard by those within, and apparently at once disarmed suspicion, for in a few seconds the door was thrown open, and a tall, bony-faced woman of middle age confronted us with a look of inquiry. she was grey-haired, with a face which bore evident signs of the burdens of life. "i'm very sorry to trouble you," explained the inspector. "but we have unfortunately lost our way. we are strangers here. could you direct us to the road to littleton?" "certainly, gentlemen," she answered. "take the road along here to the left, and the littleton road is the first on the left again. you can't mistake it. there's a sign-post up." scarcely had the woman finished her sentence, however, before chick pushed her aside and entered the place, i following close behind. the height of the woman was uncommon, and it occurred to me that she was the mysterious female who had watched me on the calais boat some months before. she gave a warning shout, and an ugly bulldog, released from the room beyond, came bounding fiercely upon us. quick as thought chick drew his revolver and shot the brute dead. the woman screamed "murder!" so well-timed was our raid that at this very moment we heard outside the shouts of our companions, telling us that they had surrounded the place. those moments were full of wild excitement. from one room to another we dashed quickly, but discovered absolutely nothing to arouse any suspicions until we started to ascend the narrow flight of stairs, when, on doing so, we were suddenly confronted by the dark figure of a man standing at the head, with a revolver pointed straight at us. he spoke no word, but i was amazed to recognise him as the man who had once before made a dastardly attempt upon my life--rodolphe wolf! then i knew that that cottage, as edith had declared, contained the key to the mystery. "if you attempt to come up here, i shall shoot!" cried the spy in english. "i call upon you, in the name of the law, to surrender as my prisoner," responded chick firmly in his loud, ringing voice. "i don't know your name, but i arrest you all the same." "his name is wolf," i explained breathlessly. "he is rodolphe wolf, the french spy!" it seemed that then for the first time did the fellow recognise me, for, peering down, he cried: "it is you--you! gerald ingram!" "yes," i answered. "your secret is out! we know the truth! surrender!" "never!" he shouted, standing at bay. "advance a step, and i'll shoot you both dead." "the place is surrounded. you cannot escape," chick replied. "i am an officer of metropolitan police, and command you to lay down your weapon." but he refused, and we both saw that to ascend that narrow staircase in face of his revolver was a very risky proceeding. a dozen times chick repeated the demand, but the adventurer was nothing daunted. the secret, if anywhere, was in that room, and he was evidently determined to guard it with his life. of a sudden the inspector, handing me the revolver, whispered to me to remain there, covering wolf so as to prevent his escape, and assured me that he would return instantly. he rushed outside, but returned to my side in a few moments. the vituperation which rodolphe wolf heaped upon me i need not repeat. suffice it to say that during the few minutes which elapsed while we faced one another in that narrow way, each unable to move, he invoked upon my head all the curses of the evil one, vowing a revenge swift and terrible, not only upon myself, but also upon leonie and edith. with a suddenness that startled all of us, however, there was a loud crashing of glass in the room behind him, and, thus taken by surprise, he turned to see how it had been caused. in an instant chick had sprung up the stairs, and we were both upon him. the spy fired his revolver, but at random, and the bullet pierced the ceiling. the inspector closed with him in deadly embrace, and a second later was assisted by one of the detectives, who had broken the window and entered the room by a ladder. the fellow still held his weapon in a desperate grasp, and, having succeeded in pinning chick against the wall, raised the revolver to his face. at that instant the other officer threw himself upon the pair. wolf's revolver exploded, but the bullet, instead of entering chick's head, penetrated the spy's own neck, close behind the ear. "dieu!" he shrieked, "i'm shot! i've shot myself!" and as his grip relaxed, the two detectives allowed him to stagger and fall back upon the ground. in endeavouring to murder the inspector he had inflicted a fatal wound upon himself. chick, who had had such a narrow escape from death, only brushed his clothes here and there, and remarked with a smile: "that was pretty tough, sir, wasn't it?" then, ordering his assistant to look after the wounded prisoner, we both searched the room. at first we saw nothing to account for wolf resisting our progress so desperately. it was a bare place, with a couple of tables, a chair or two, and a few papers that had been strewn about in the struggle. i picked up some. they were copies of the _figaro_, the _libre parole_, and the _petit journal_. but in a corner by the fireplace, i saw a twisted heap of pale-green paper, like ribbon, and a moment later found beneath the table a broken telegraph-receiver. on taking it up i saw upon the small brass plate the words "general post office," while near it lay the other portions of the apparatus, which was one of those which print upon the paper ribbon, and are worked by clockwork. "hulloa!" cried chick, crossing the room and bending over the instrument, "what's that?" "a telegraph-receiver," i replied, at the same moment examining the ceiling of the room and at once discovering two loose ends of wires suspended from a corner. the instrument had evidently been torn hurriedly from the wires, and an unsuccessful effort made to destroy it and remove all traces of its existence. wolf, however, had not had time to accomplish his object. while the wounded man lay groaning, we all proceeded to make further search, and the result of our investigations proved startling indeed. we found that from the room there ran two wires outside, which, after being buried in the garden and along a field on the left, emerged beside one of the telegraph-posts on the main road, and joined one of the lines running to london. at first we did not realise the extreme importance of our discovery, but from the telegraph-tape found in the room and the deciphers of official despatches which we discovered locked in a cupboard, the amazing truth was disclosed. the wire so ingeniously tapped was the queen's private wire, which ran from windsor castle, along the road through staines and kingston, to the foreign office, and over which her majesty constantly exchanged views and gave instructions to the secretary of state for foreign affairs and others of her ministers. in that comfortless room we found transcripts of all kinds of official despatches and confidential messages, which, although sent in cipher over the wire, had been deciphered by the spies, who had unfortunately also obtained a copy of the secret code in use. the interchanges of views included much that concerned england's attitude in the boer war, then still in progress, and had without doubt been communicated to the boers through their continental agents. not a single secret of state was safe from those emissaries of our enemies. thus it was that before the suggestions or instructions of our sovereign reached downing street, they were in the possession of those who aimed at our downfall, for every message transmitted between windsor and downing street, every decision of the sovereign or of the cabinet, passed through that inoffensive-looking little instrument, and was registered upon the pale-green snake-like tape before it reached its destination. a thorough search of the place revealed a perfect system of receiving and deciphering the despatches, all of which had been carefully registered by number in a book and the copies sent to the quai d'orsay. hence it was, of course, that the knowledge of england's decision regarding the attitude to be adopted towards the transvaal and of our policy in reference to ceuta, had been obtained before the marquess had even written his despatch; while the secret instructions which i myself had carried from downing street to paris had actually been known to the spies before the chief had put his pen to paper. they did not seek to secure the despatches, because they were always in possession of the decisions and line of our diplomacy beforehand. having taken possession of the whole of the papers, some of which i was amazed to discover were in edith's handwriting, we removed the whole into the wagonette, placed a constable in charge of the cottage, and ordered the wounded man's removal to the cottage hospital at staines, as being the nearest institution where he could be treated. that same evening i had a long interview with the marquess at his private house, and, assisted by chick, showed him the papers secured as the result of our investigations. afterwards, when he had gone through them, i related to him the whole story, concealing nothing. while i sat recounting the incidents a telegram arrived for the inspector, to whom it had been forwarded from scotland yard. it was an official police message stating that the prisoner wolf had died in the hospital at half-past six, having made no statement. her majesty's minister heard me through, listening with breathless interest, and when i had concluded bestowed upon both of us many complimentary words. "both your queen and your country owe a debt of gratitude to you, ingram; for by dint of care and perseverance you have rescued us from our secret enemies," he said. "rest assured that your claim to distinction as an englishman will not be forgotten." that night i sent a telegram from charing cross announcing to leonie the death of the spy, which to her meant freedom. the same wire also carried a second message of comfort to edith, with the promise that i would leave london for bordighera on the following morning. then, entering the telephone-box, i had a long conversation with lord barmouth, explaining to him the truth, and receiving his heartiest congratulations and best wishes for my happiness on my marriage with edith austin, who, he declared, had saved england's prestige. chapter thirty seven. conclusion. two days later i was again seated with edith under the olives on the sunny hillside behind bordighera. i had told her all that had happened, explained what we had discovered in that upper room at cypress cottage, and demanded to know the reason why some of the copies of those messages were in her own handwriting. our hands were clasped in fervent affection, and now, fearing not the revenge of either wolf or bertini, she revealed to me the plain and ghastly truth in regard to her connection with that band of unscrupulous spies who had sought to bring about england's downfall. "i first knew paolo bertini when i was at school at st. leonards, six years ago. he was then our italian master, and we girls admired him, and were one and all enamoured of our teacher, as school-girls so often are. he and i became good friends, and one day he urged me to steal from another girl's locker a letter addressed to her by her father, a high official at the war office. he wished to see it, and i gave it to him in ignorance that the real reason was that he desired the signature for purposes of forgery. i knew it afterwards, but he threatened if i exposed him that he would denounce me as a thief. from that moment he held me in his power, gradually drawing me into the net he so carefully spread in order to secure my assistance in his nefarious schemes of espionage in conjunction with rodolphe wolf. although she knew that upon leaving school i should be comparatively wealthy, my aunt, who, as you know, is eccentric, insisted that i should be taught some means of earning my own livelihood. at bertini's demand i chose telegraphy, and when i became proficient the wires from windsor were tapped, and i was compelled to act as telegraphist in that lonely, unsuspicious-looking cottage, which became the headquarters of french spies in england. my many compulsory visits to london often aroused my aunt's suspicion, but i always managed to receive convenient invitations from relatives or old schoolfellows, until at last i succeeded in convincing her that all was well. ah!" she added, her bright, honest eyes turned away over the broad mediterranean, where the sun was going down in golden glory behind the dark purple rock of ventimiglia, "i have suffered, gerald, quite as bitterly as yourself. i was held in that man's power irrevocably, unable to extricate myself from the bond, unable to give you the least intimation of the evil influences always working against you, unable to accept your love. from the moment when, as a school-girl, i stole that letter, until to-day, my enemies implicated me more and more deeply, until to draw back became utterly impossible. i was their catspaw--held to them by fear of exposure and imprisonment, or even of death, if i disclosed their secret." "i understand it all now, darling. all is plain, and our estrangement has only rendered our love the more perfect." "you are generous to forgive, gerald," she answered in a low, faltering tone. "but i swear it was not my fault. in my ignorance of the world and its ways i took one false step long ago while still at school, and then could not draw back. i became a traitress and a spy!" "and what of yolande de foville?" i inquired. "she was one of us, and in the service of france," my love replied. "like myself, she also was held in bondage. she wished to marry the young count de hochberg, an aide-de-camp of the emperor william; but bertini, who was in love with her, refused to allow her. it was because of jealousy that he made the ingenious attempt upon her life by the same means that he did later upon an englishman in paris, named payne, who recognised him and suspected him of espionage. he is in possession of the knowledge of some subtle alkaloid poison, which he once boasted in my hearing to be even more deadly than the indian bikh poison, and unknown in the science of toxicology." "and where is yolande now?" "in rome. having obtained some secret of bertini's past, and a knowledge of his attempt upon her life, she defied him, and, freeing herself from the secret service, married de hochberg only a fortnight ago. she is spending her honeymoon in southern italy." "she is married!" i exclaimed, surprised. "yes. her declarations of love for you were all false, made at the instigation of those schemers, wolf and bertini, who intended that she should worm from you certain diplomatic secrets. she hated her position, but, like myself, was powerless and compelled to submit." "to you alone, my love, is due the breaking-up of this ingenious band of spies, and the frustrating of the great conspiracy against england, which has, it seems, been fostered and aided by certain of the powers." "and have you really perfect confidence in my honour and purity, gerald?" she asked again, looking at me dubiously. "i love you, darling," i answered, bending down once more to kiss her beautiful mouth; "and that my confidence in you remains unshaken and is the same to-day as it was long ago in scotland when i first declared my love, will be shown by our marriage, which nothing can now prevent. we are about to come into our kingdom." "but that letter," she faltered, still dubious--"that letter of the princess!" "i do not love her, dearest. i have never loved her," i declared earnestly. "i am yours, and yours alone." she turned quickly, kissing me fondly, and shedding tears of joy. we were both free at last, and that peaceful hour of our new-found happiness was full of that ecstasy which comes to man and woman only once in a lifetime, at the moment when two hearts first beat in unison. but why need i dwell upon the supreme happiness of that calm and glorious evening high up above the tideless sea, except to say that it was then each read the other's heart openly and truly; then that we discovered how best to interchange a perfect and fadeless affection. and you ask how this strange romance of an englishman in his sovereign's service ended? well, edith became my own queen within two months. we were married in london, and since my promotion and transfer to the embassy at st. petersburg our lives have been idyllic in their happiness. edith likes the russian capital, where everyone is so hospitable and the fetes are never-ending. i also prefer it to the artificiality and glare of paris which is to me a city of bitter memories. as for the princess, she is one of edith's warmest friends. she was married four months ago to prince stroganoff, a charming russian whom everyone knows in moscow and the capital, and who lives at the great stroganoff palace in st. petersburg, where we are frequent visitors lord barmouth's failing health compelled him to retire from the diplomatic service after the lamented death of her majesty, and he is now living in london once more, after so many years of compulsory exile; while the _world_, a few weeks ago, announced sibyl's engagement to the hon. jack willoughby, who is well known as a rising politician and member for one of the metropolitan boroughs. her ladyship has written to me, declaring it to be a most excellent match. bertini, the spy and traitor, having been condemned by the military court in milan to imprisonment for life, is at this moment languishing in the convict prison at orbetello. assuredly europe is well rid of such an ingenious and unscrupulous scoundrel. nothing appeared in the english newspapers regarding wolf's death, beyond the statement that he had committed suicide rather than suffer arrest. for what reason the police raided cypress cottage never leaked out. it was kept a close secret, in order that the discovery of the headquarters of the french spies should not create undue public alarm. hence all of the foregoing incidents long remained a secret chapter of england's history; and the gigantic conspiracy on the part of our nation's enemies is here related for the first time by one who was himself a principal actor in the stirring drama of diplomacy, and who has been fortunate enough to secure peace, happiness, and the love of a gentle and happy woman. the end. file was produced from images generously made available by cornell university digital collections) a diplomatic woman by huan mee harper & brothers new york and london m d c c c c copyright, , by sands & co. _all rights reserved._ contents the russian cipher le diable the abducted ambassador prince ferdinand's entanglement a deal with china monsieur rochÉ's defeat the russian cipher "saints defend us!" i pettishly exclaimed. "is there no one in the world with an atom of brains? i don't want to go as 'night' or 'morning,' nor as 'marguerite' or 'pierrette,' or 'madame la pompadour'; i want something original!" and i stamped my foot to give emphasis to the remark. "shall it be as 'carmen,' madame?" i sank into a chair in dismay. "carmen!" this was the creature's idea of originality. it was too ludicrous for anger. i laughed, and then, as i raised my eyes to madame virot's indignantly bewildered countenance, my glance fell upon a dress in a wardrobe behind her, and i pointed to it in a flutter of excitement. "some one has originality, after all," i cried. "what does that dress represent?" "an ice palace, madame." "_mon dieu!_ it is superb." "_mais oui, madame, c'est magnifique, c'est un miracle_," and then, carried away with enthusiasm, she brought it forth and dilated upon it. a pale green dress, covered with a shimmering, sparkling net-work that looked like frost itself. "you see, madame, the head-dress forms the snowy pinnacle of the tower, and the _eau de nil_ embroidered skirt follows the frosted outlines of the building, which is a _fac-simile_ of the ice palace raised last winter upon the neva. an emerald satin mask, with tiny crystal icicles hanging from the edge, in place of the usual fringe of lace, completes the costume." "i must have it," i cried; "it is incomparable." "it is sold, madame." "i will pay double." "impossible!" "treble!" "i would willingly give it to madame, as it pleases her fancy, but i cannot; it was designed according to sketches sent to me." "tush!" i impatiently exclaimed; "make a duplicate." "it is impossible, madame, for the dress is for the same _bal masqué_ that you will attend." "and for whom?" i superciliously queried, for i was beside myself with vexation. "some nobody who has secured a card by chance, and wishes to be thought a princess in disguise, eh?" "i make for no such people," madame virot exclaimed, with a reflection of my own annoyance. "the dress is for the countess zarfine. if madame will suggest something else--" i turned my eyes from the dress that tormented me, and racked my brains for something that should excel its splendor, but the idea came not, and with a contemptuous glare i faced the inoffensive milliner, who had tried to please me for years, and had never more than half succeeded. "to be original nowadays," i said, indifferently, "is, after all, so commonplace, that to be commonplace is to be original. i will go as 'carmen.'" the daintiness of my epigram pleased me so well that i was almost content, yet as i drove towards le bois the desire for the costume came upon me again, and i was disconsolate. for it was no ordinary _bal masqué_, where everything was to be pretence, from the characters represented to the fable that the dancers knew not one another. it was all to be real, and no dissimulation. there was to be no unmasking time, but every one was to be _incognito_ from the beginning to the end. it was rumored that even our host and hostess would drive up to their own house and enter amid the throng. no one was to know any one, and yet every one was to know every one; no master of the ceremonies, no host and hostess, no introductions or formal presentations. the fact that one was there was an official stamp upon one's passport of reputation. it was a bohemian idea worthy of her who had brought it to paris--the countess zarfine, wife of the russian ambassador, and since, perforce, i must be masked, i would have dazzled by art instead of nature; yet it was not to be, and i grew peevish as i nursed my discomfiture. my landau pulled up as we entered the gates, and monsieur roché, the premier, from whom i had received in the past many diplomatic commissions, raised his hat and extended his hand. "madame, the gods love me." "monsieur, you are too modest; you should have used the feminine." "i wanted to see you more than any other woman in paris," he answered, "and therefore i repeat--'the gods love me.'" "'those whom the gods love,' monsieur--" and i smiled, for i would have given worlds to quarrel with some one, and preferably my best of friends. "'die young,' eh?" he chuckled. "well, the danger for me is past." and then, without waiting for an invitation, he calmly stepped into the carriage and seated himself beside me. here was, indeed, candor too wonderful for words, and i gazed reprovingly upon him. "you must help me, _ma chère_," he said, gravely. "it is no pleasantry, but a serious matter--one that touches my reputation nearly." "well, _mon ami_?" "you know our relationship with russia?" "the pretty girl with inviting graces to a gallant who hesitates." "precisely," he answered, in a tone of appreciation at my simile; "but the pretty girl's love-letters are being opened." "humiliating." "more than that," he cried, impetuously; "detrimental to me. three times in the past month has the most secret cipher of the government been changed, because identical with the receipt of our message by russia its import has become public property in the capitals of europe." "then, ineffectually changed," i observed. "utterly. i have just left count zarfine, the russian ambassador, and he has dared to imply, in almost undiplomatic language, that his government suspects us of trifling. _mon dieu!_" monsieur roché cried in an awe-stricken voice; "trifling with russia!" "who holds this cipher?" "myself and count zarfine. when it is changed the new cipher is sent to st. petersburg by him direct to the minister, and the documents by me, through the diplomatic departments. we have varied the cipher three times, we have sent different messengers each time, but the result has always been the same. the world learned the message at once, and we are fast becoming the laughing-stock of europe, for the pretty girl is ready to offer so much for alliance." "and the count could not help you, _mon ami_?" "he was brusque almost to rudeness, but his wife--" "ah, monsieur, his wife, what of her?" i asked, with a smile, for i well knew the fascinations of the countess zarfine. "she knows, as i know," monsieur answered, "that, as in france, so in russia, there are powerful influences against this alliance." he lowered his voice and continued impressively, "influences so powerful that it might be possible for them to obtain our secret papers, open them, read them, and then reseal them and pass them on to their destination." "but that would be useless without the key to the cipher, _mon ami_." "that is stolen in paris." "ah! from whom?" "the count himself, and despatched at once to those awaiting it." "childlike in its simplicity," i murmured, with a world of satire. "the countess is a wonderful woman," he admitted, and then continued: "you see how easy it is. these people can gain access to the documents passing between france and russia, but not to the key of the cipher--that is stolen here." "and, of course, the thief is known already," i cried, disdainfully. "almost," he replied, with the first flash of enthusiasm he had manifested--"almost. on wednesday we shall catch him in the very act. of one thing we are certain. he moves in diplomatic circles, and knows that our final proposal will be made to russia by the end of the week. on wednesday morning i hand the new cipher to the count, at night he despatches it, but in the hours that intervene the countess will discover the thief. she suspects one of her husband's secretaries." "you have enlisted a new and powerful ally, monsieur," with a jealous tremor in my voice. "tut, tut," he answered, mildly; "you are the ally i must have, for, frankly, i do not believe a word the countess says." "then the saints be praised," i ejaculated; "you are not the simpleton that i feared you were. but you go too far, _mon ami_, for all is true excepting one thing, the name of the spy, and that is--" "let us be diplomatic," he interrupted, "until we are sure. take the missing quantity x." "why not z?" i replied, and then i own i started with slight surprise at the coincidence, for the countess herself cantered up to the side of the carriage, and i took her proffered hand. "i do not believe in z," monsieur roché cried, raising his voice a little. "zero cannot win the race, notwithstanding her distance allowance;" and then he looked up and bowed to the countess zarfine. "i did not suspect diplomacy found recreation in horse-racing, monsieur," she exclaimed, with an arch smile. "age has its follies as well as youth," he answered, and then leaned anxiously towards her and whispered, "any news?" "what can there be until then?" she asked. "on the night of the day chosen i shall know. at the _bal masqué_ i will tell you his name." monsieur roché looked the picture of despair, and then, with a gesture as though the whole world had been lost to him, spoke in an undertone to the countess, said something that i judged by a dainty frown she did not favor; but in an instant the cloud had passed, and she smiled again, and answered, "as you will." yet to me it still seemed that she was being forced into some action she would not have elected of her own free choice. then monsieur roché, still a little embarrassed, turned to me. "a message--a written message--is to be conveyed to me at the _bal masqué_; i cannot be there, and"--how charmingly he was confused--"will you receive it for me?" "and take it at once to le quai d'orsay," the countess interjected. "bring it myself?" i cried, in simulated surprise. "yes," monsieur answered, and tactfully continued, "i am shamed at the greatness of the favor i ask, but it is vital." "very well," i reluctantly consented. "if that be so i will do it;" and he murmured his thanks. "at midnight i shall pass the head of the staircase and slip a note into your hand," the countess exclaimed; "that will be the message." "but we are all _incognito_," i observed, with my most ingenuous smile. "you will easily recognize me--i shall represent the 'franco-russe alliance,'" she answered, with the ready lie of a russian. "the national emblems and the national colors--the double eagle and the _fleur-de-lis_. and you?" "the 'lost provinces,'" i replied, meeting lie with diplomatic evasion. the look of annoyance still slumbered in the depths of her dark eyes, and i thought, too, there was the glint of a dawning suspicion; but it was swiftly chased away as she turned with a jest to monsieur roché, and after the interchange of a few pleasantries, nodded gayly to us both and rode off. "you are well matched in one thing," monsieur roché suavely remarked, as he watched her retreating figure, "your originality of costume." "and in another," i replied; "the fact that neither will wear what she has said she will." the dear man's eyebrows shot upward in bewilderment. "she will represent 'an ice palace' i, 'carmen.'" he looked at me for a moment in undisguised admiration, and then sank back and whispered with contented appreciation, "_mon dieu!_ you are a wonderful woman." "and a fortunate one," i replied, "to win the approbation of so accomplished a diplomat." "_ma chère_," he murmured, "men are diplomats by education, women by intuition. it is civilization against nature." "the dresses we have mentioned," i continued, "will probably be worn by our maids, leaving the countess zarfine at liberty to carry out her work, and me free to frustrate her; for i am certain now that it is she who reveals the cipher. had i not known the costume she really intends to wear i should have devoted the night to watching the 'franco-russe alliance.' as it is, my maid, the 'lost provinces,' will do that for the sake of diplomatic appearances, the countess will be deceived, and i shall be free. so i require another card for the carnival--get it secretly for me." "success is assured," he cried, enthusiastically. "not so fast, _mon ami_. she already suspects me--i could see it in her eyes--and therefore you must act with consummate tact; you must delay the delivery of the key on some pretence until an hour before the ball, and so render it impossible for it to be revealed to any one except at the carnival. then i know when it will be done--directly i have left." "after you have left?" he cried, in bewilderment. "after my maid has left with the countess zarfine's message for you." "ah," he sighed, and there was a world of admiration in the utterance of that monosyllable, but a moment after, his face became grave again, as he suggested, "perhaps the key may be given in such a way that you cannot prevent it--another note, for instance, skilfully passed from hand to hand." "i think not. she would not risk anything so liable to be discovered. besides, she suspects; and more," i continued, "does not the whole idea of this _bal masqué_ proclaim the lady's love for the theatrical? no, _mon ami_, the cipher will be given in such a manner that if a man watched her actions every minute of the night he would see nothing, but a woman might see much." monsieur smiled again, complaisantly. "then, too, if i fail, it is not ruin," i said, "for the documents will not be despatched until you have heard from me. if i succeed, the evidence against her will be strong enough to give you all the proofs you need." "but--" "no more suppositions, _mon ami_; you weary me." "you're the cleverest woman in paris," he said, with a glance of warm admiration, as he alighted and stood by my carriage. "and you, for one who has left youth behind, are the most gallant man in france," i answered, with a glow of merriment, for i already counted my mission as accomplished. "left youth behind," he murmured, despondingly. "you said so,_ mon ami_." "it was in an undiplomatic moment." "therefore true, and your tongue, at least, is still youthful. _au revoir_, monsieur." * * * * * thérèse created a sensation. there are women even among my chosen acquaintances who insist upon their maids being stiff, and, if possible, ugly. perhaps they fear the comparison which i am too satisfied with myself to be concerned about, and on that night i was thankful that my choice had fallen upon a girl who could so admirably play the part i had selected for her, one whom i need not fear, by some vulgar _gaucherie_, would spoil my plans or endanger my success. thérèse created a sensation, and, as she entered, the audacity of her costume drew all eyes towards her. her pretty auburn curls were surmounted by the "cap of liberty," draped in crape; her skirt was of the palest yellow silk, with the outlines of our "lost provinces" in black; while, symbolical of the day we prayed for, the arms of france were more than half eclipsing those of germany. for a moment there was the silence of admiration as she entered, and then a hum of applause burst into a shout as each loyal heart caught the symbolical meaning of the fading colors of the german arms, almost hidden by the simple sweetness of our own dear _fleur-de-lis_, and patriotic voices cried, "_vive belle alsace! vive, vive lorraine!_" and thérèse bore the sensation as i would have done myself. i turned a diamond half-hoop on my finger, reflecting it was the last time i could do so, for to-morrow it should be hers. strictly obedient to my instructions, she danced but little, always following, with some ostentation of persistence, the movements of a lady who had attracted passing attention--the embodiment of the "franco-russe alliance." it was a quaint sport we favored--the maid watching the maid. midnight struck, and from a secluded corner i saw the note passed to thérèse, who quietly descended the steps, mingled for a moment in the kaleidoscopic throng, and so departed. then i added a new gown to the diamond ring, for what other girl could have left a carnival where she was the belle because she had been told to do so? like a modern cinderella, she left it all, and yet, wiser than the damsel of the fairy tale, left before she was discovered, and i, a commonplace "carmen"--for i remember there were three of us--now felt the decisive moment had arrived. a man had been watching thérèse as she descended the staircase, and i touched him lightly upon the arm. "the provinces are lost, monsieur," i said, softly. "be content with operatic spain," and i hummed a melody of bizet's. "you, madame?" he cried, as he recognized my voice. "yes, i." "i thought she who just left was you," he said, as though anxious to explain the attention he had devoted to thérèse. "and i, monsieur, know my friends too well to be deceived by a masquerade," i answered, and, of a truth, i believe that there must have been a tell-tale trace of sentiment in my tones. and why not? even a pretty widow may have sentimental moments at times when her dearest friend is near at hand. he looked straight into my eyes as though he would read my inmost thoughts. "do you mean that?" "i mean this, gaspard, _mon cher ami_. i want you to do me a favor. indeed, before the night is out there may be many favors i need to ask, and i want you to grant them all." "then they must be renamed," he answered, "not favors, but pleasures." "see," i cried, "that woman dressed in the frosted green gown--intended, i should think, to represent an ice palace?" "yes." "do you know who she is?" "no; who can say?" he replied, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "i must be near her for the rest of the night--i want to watch her." the countess zarfine was walking slowly across the ballroom, her hand resting upon the arm of a tall man in the dress of an exquisite of the period of louis xiv., and, quickly grasping my meaning, gaspard strolled aimlessly in the same direction, carrying on an animated conversation with me all the while, which raised him greatly in my estimation as a budding diplomat. "they are going to sit upon the balcony," i found an instant to whisper, and we followed them, my nerves thrilling with delight as i realized the strength of my position, for now the countess would feel herself secure, thinking that i had departed. she was seated upon a basket-chair upon the balcony overlooking the champs elysées, talking, in a voice that challenged criticism, of the new play at the renaissance, and gaspard skilfully led me to a seat facing them, and took one by my side. and then the clever boy entered with zest into the bohemian conceit of the _bal masqué_, for without a word of introduction he joined in their conversation, and in an instant we were a quartette discussing the frivolities of life. gradually an idle group grew round us--flattering gallants who protested with glowing compliments "that it was too cruel of their hostess to hide all the lovely faces of paris behind silken masks." "it must be because she is jealous," the countess cried, with a smile that showed for an instant the gleam of her teeth; "she fears the contrast." but then--for men, despite their deceit, are strangely truthful sometimes--no one dared to dispute the beauty of his hostess, and her eyes gleamed with gratified pride as her sneer was left unsupported in the silence--yet perhaps they were suspicious. "still, messieurs," she exclaimed, with a ripple of laughter, "since our faces are hidden, our freedom is greater--we may be more bohemian." and in an instant she produced a gold case, and, extracting a cigarette, placed it with a gesture of impudence between her lips. "those who love me join with me," she continued, handing the case to the surrounding group. it seemed to me that there was a falseness in this ingenuous mood that sat but ill upon one so contemptuously proud. in an instant the blue smoke curled in the air from half a dozen cigarettes. "'carmen,'" she cried, reproachfully, with a glance at me, "you who should have led the way still hesitate," and she extended the case, and carefully lighted the cigarette for me from her own. "and you, monsieur," with a glance at the man who had been her companion from the ballroom. "it was a privilege i had never anticipated, and so came unprepared." "then she who grants permission supplies the means of enjoyment. take two, or three, or four, or what you will; their fragrance may be even greater in the morning." there was an intonation in the last words that struck me with a sense of hidden meaning, and as the man carelessly took several, and, after lighting one, slipped the remainder into his pocket, the truth burst upon me in a flash--the key to the cipher had been passed. on each cigarette paper was the key. i held it between my fingers half consumed, and those around were obligingly burning the others before her eyes, save for that man whom i knew still had three in his possession. what a thoughtless fool i had been, i who held all i needed in my grasp had myself destroyed it. the cigarette had burned down to my fingers. i was compelled to drop it, and he trod it to dust beneath his foot. but he still had three. with an _abandon_ worthy of "carmen" herself i turned my fascinations upon him; with a swift glance at gaspard, who instantly comprehended, i sent him to the side of the countess, and she, nothing loath to be the centre of a group of admirers, elated because her mission was over, encouraged them, and kept them from her with the arts of one born to coquetry. the saints be praised, all men are young--or, at least, feel they are--when a pretty woman smiles upon them. he was what a diplomat would have called middle-aged, but--saints be praised--i am a pretty woman. "you are the incarnation of 'carmen' herself," he whispered, as we found ourselves excluded from the group surrounding the countess. "_merci_, monsieur, you flatter me--it is the dress attracts you." "no; it is the sparkle of your eyes behind that envious mask, the grace of each gesture, the soul of music in your voice, the poetry in every motion that proclaims you the ideal 'carmen.'" "save for one thing: a cigarette, _s'il vous plait_, monsieur," and i extended my hand. slowly, even as though he realized that he was being drawn into a trap, he took one of them from his pocket and hesitatingly handed it to me. half suspiciously, half in a fashion of tenderness, he held a match to the cigarette, and then, almost before the paper had caught, it dropped through my fingers to the ground; and i, with a laugh at my carelessness, placed my heel upon it and edged it beneath my skirt. my shoe pressed upon it lightly, my lips smiled apologetically, yet murmured, "_merci_, monsieur," as i awaited another to replace it. i saw his features tighten as his eyes followed my movements, yet what could he do? realizing that i had discovered him, and i could not but feel that he knew it, he gave me another, and i lighted it. for a second we measured glances, and i knew that he fathomed my plans as truly as i did his. "you are a clever little devil!" he said, with almost a touch of appreciation. "monsieur!" "you have my cigarette under your shoe, but what of that? in a minute i shall offer you my arm, you will take it, we shall go to the ballroom and dance the cotillion." "you are sure?" "perfectly. i have only to raise my voice and say 'the air is cool,' and the countess will understand; she will rejoin us, and that being so, a lady cannot search for a half-burned cigarette. you have the desire of your quest within your reach, and yet as far removed as the north is from the south." i looked disdainfully at him and calmly smoked. "you are too clever to waste yourself upon such pettiness," he whispered. "in russia i would find you a sphere worthy of your talents, and make you a duchess." "i fail to understand, monsieur." he leaned forward until his eyes looked straight into mine, and spoke with deliberate emphasis. "i am going to stoop and take from under your chair a cigarette, and you must perforce permit me." "why?" "because if you attempted to resist i should prevent it. see, i slowly stoop to regain my own." he bent as he spoke, and then, as the inspiration flashed upon me, my hands went swiftly to my throat, and with a sudden clutch i snapped my necklace, and a shower of pearls scattered upon the balcony. "my pearls!" i cried in dismay, and brushing past him to save them as they fell, i picked up the cigarette from beneath my skirt and looked mockingly into his face. "you are a clever little devil!" he said, with chagrined appreciation. i smiled, for the key to the cipher was safe in my possession. but men count for nothing in such matters, for men can even hold admiration for a victorious enemy--here there was a woman to deal with. while the gallants who had clustered around the countess were collecting my truant pearls, she walked across and glared into my face with eyes that blazed with fury. in passion she tore the mask from her face, and so, because she was pleased to confess herself, i accepted the challenge and removed mine. she forgot her civilization, her breeding, her position, everything, and dropped back into the barbarous language of her ancestors. "if i only had you in russia!" she gasped, her lips almost touching my ear. "i'd have you flogged for this; i'd have your lying tongue torn out, and those shoulders you're so proud of branded 'spy,' god! if i had you in russia!" "and yet," i murmured, "methinks these charms of russia must be enjoyed by you alone, and swiftly, too, for surely--his excellency will resign at once." "god!" she cried, "if i had you in russia!" i turned away, but stole a backward glance at her as she stood, her whole body trembling, her fingers clutching the balustrade to support her quivering figure, and then he came forward and handed me my pearls. it was the third time he had said it, and there was a crescendo of meaning in the phrase he whispered: "you are a clever little devil!" le diable we were a gathering of diplomacy, science, and beauty. monsieur roché, the premier, the first, monsieur vicenne, the minister of marine, the second, and it was i who completed the trio. "i have offered five million francs!" monsieur vicenne exclaimed, with a gesture as though he had mentioned the total of the treasury of the republic. "but that is not so very much, monsieur," i ventured to suggest, "if the invention be all that is pretended for it." "five million francs!" he ejaculated again, with wide-opened eyes, until i feared that his eyebrows would altogether disappear into his bushy hair. "it is the method of calculating that is at fault," i said. "five million francs. it sounds stupendous; but what is it? in napoleons, merely two hundred and fifty thousand; in english sovereigns, only two hundred thousand. what do you really estimate the invention to be worth?" "it is priceless. _mon dieu!_ imagine." the dear man always spoke in this staccato manner. "a boat--a submarine boat. sixty knots an hour. _mon dieu!_ if we--if france could possess it. england! bah!" he snapped his fingers disdainfully. "and all for five million francs?" "i would pay ten. _nom de diable!_ fifteen--twenty." "ah!" i smiled. monsieur roché laid his long fingers upon my arm. "a commission, eh, _ma chère_?" "mercy, no! what do i know of such affairs?" "twenty million francs. _mon dieu!_ if you could buy for ten, sell for twenty--eh?" sharply interjected monsieur vicenne. monsieur roché tapped him upon the shoulder, somewhat irritably. "madame is the loveliest woman in paris," he observed. the minister of marine interrupted. "you talk commonplaces," he cried. "tell me next that the sun is shining." and i was constrained to rise and bow my acknowledgments for the twin compliment. "but she is one of the richest," monsieur roché continued. "money can be no inducement." "to serve france?" monsieur vicenne hazarded. "and the love of adventure," i added. "monsieur, i will do my best. if i am successful, i will claim as my reward that the first boat built upon this invention shall be named after me." "_l'incomparable_," suggested m. vicenne. "_merci, monsieur, mais non, 'l'aide._'" i had started on my journey before i had seriously considered what a mad-brained scheme i had taken in hand. i, who knew nothing of such things, was about to attempt to persuade where the whole diplomatic tact of french administrators had failed. i was to be a bidder for this wonderful boat that had startled the world; appearing to-day at ostend, to-morrow a thousand miles away, and all the power in the hands of a man who was deaf to entreaty, impervious to persuasion. the experts of the navy had pleaded to be allowed to inspect the boat. his answer had been, "keep level with it, and watch." "keep level, and watch"--it was a pleasant satire. england's latest toy, the _turbina_, steamed only thirty-four knots an hour, and there were those who swore that this submarine boat at times got near to sixty. still the die was cast. i was to obtain, somehow, an interview with the inventor, who was so unlike others of his species that he invented for his own satisfaction, and not to sell his discovery. i was to offer whatever i liked. and if, as was probable, he refused, try and induce him to take me for a cruise, and learn what i could as fortune favored me. it was as foolish a scheme for them to suggest as for me to undertake; but everything about the vessel was so secret and mysterious, that even if i could bring back the vaguest idea of how this craft was propelled it would be of inestimable value. it was to the wild coast of normandy that i was speeding, clad in a rusty black gown and a still rustier mantle that libelled nature in the manner it distorted me; and the day was as wild and boisterous as i could wish for the first act of the play, comedy, or tragedy, as fate decreed. the gray eve was fading to a dirty twilight, and inky clouds scurried across the gloomy sky, as i alighted some four kilometres from the chateau de lorme, and, setting my face resolutely to the wind, started to walk the distance. the wind, howling and biting from the sea, brought with it merciless sheets of hail and sleety rain; and after the first ten minutes i realized that i could get no wetter, and so i mechanically battled onward, my wretched, ill-shapen garments streaming with water, and flapping miserably around me. saints! what a walk! a dozen times i was for relinquishing the whole thing and turning back in despair, but something kept me struggling on until more than half the distance had been traversed, and then it was better to press forward than to return. on and on, the sharp hailstones stinging my cheeks, until i felt it must be seclusion for a month before i dared appear in paris again, and then a turn of the road brought me before a house standing on the edge of the cliff, an enormous mansion shrouded in blackness, and apparently deserted. night had fallen, and everywhere was darkness and solitude. an avenue of trees led to the door, and while i walked under their shelter i had an opportunity of gaining my breath before i grasped the heavy iron knocker, and, with determined hand, knocked until the house seemed to shake with the echoes. "well?" at last came a gruff shout above my head. "well, what is it?" "i want shelter," i cried, irritably, and not with feigned annoyance, for i was shivering with the damp and cold, and wished i had never left paris. "this is not an inn." "no, but it's a house," i cried, defiantly. "i must have shelter. i can pay for it." a man's voice chuckled--what a mirthless chuckle it was!--the window was banged down with a thud, and i had seized the knocker to hammer again, when the entrance-hall blazed into light, and the door was opened. a gust of wind threw me forward, and as i recovered myself and stepped across the threshold i caught my breath in amazement, for i, who have viewed the mansions of the greatest, never before beheld such barbaric splendor. it was an entrance-hall fit for the palace of a prince, and lighted with enormous clusters of incandescent lamps. my wretched rain-soaked dress was making pools upon the parquetry, and i moved to a rug and surveyed my host, who was as striking as his surroundings--a tall, thin individual, with long, gray, straggling hair that hung round his shoulders, and a wild, unkempt beard. his eyes, which flashed fiercely, and seemed to read one through and through, were overhung by heavy, jet-black eyebrows. he looked the very embodiment of eugene sue's wanderer, and yet he was politeness personified, for his eyes did not turn to the pools upon the polished floor, nor to the wet trail i had made with my bedraggled skirt. "i am favored, madame," he said, bowing, with a thin, transparent hand upon his breast. "and i am cold and wet and hungry," i answered, prosaically, for i was determined to be in no wise awed by these unexpected surroundings. "three evils so easily remedied that it is scarcely worth designating them even as evils," he replied; and then, with another bow, escorted me up the staircase into a spacious corridor, were he opened a door, and stood aside for me to enter. "i have so many guests to-night," he murmured, apologetically, "that i fear i cannot treat you as i would wish; but you will find all your needs supplied in the dressing-room beyond." he paused in the doorway. "there is only hunger left now," he exclaimed, with another chuckle, "and dinner is at eight. may i expect you in the reception-room a few minutes before that hour?" "with pleasure," i answered. "and, monsieur, you have my gratitude." he shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly, and then, with a momentary glance at my costume, waved his hand towards the adjoining room. "you will dress to meet my guests, madame, and look your best, for you will meet the greatest men the world has ever seen." with that he chuckled again, closed the door, and left me; while i shot the bolt behind him, and stood--i confess it--and laughed--laughed a long peal of merriment. the greatest men of the world visiting here. it was too droll. but i was in the house of the inventor of _le diable_, received as his honored guest. already i had been startled and surprised, and i wondered what the next few hours might hold in store for me. a shiver brought me back to realities. i passed into the adjoining room, a dressing-room lined with wardrobes, containing gowns and feminine adornments, before which even my own treasures from the rue de la paix were insignificant. through curtains beyond was the bath-room, with every dainty requisite that a woman of fashion could desire. in an hour i was ready to do honor to my host and his famous guests. i missed thérèse. but who could look anything but bewitching in the magnificent creations at my disposal? i passed from my apartment into the lengthy corridor, noticing that on either side, with the doors flung open, were suites of rooms similar to my own. my gown was, perhaps, an inch shorter than i could have wished, but in every other respect it was perfection, hanging loosely from the low-cut shoulders to the hem, except for an elaborate silver filigree belt that caught in its silken folds at the waist, and i felt confident that, no matter whom i might meet, i had no reason to be ashamed of my appearance. i descended the stairs, and should have wandered about the building, impelled by natural curiosity; but i caught sight of monsieur standing alone in the middle of a spacious room upon my left, and so i entered and walked towards him, feeling a keen satisfaction in my improved appearance as my train rustled across the floor. "you have kept us all waiting," he cried, with evident annoyance in his tone. i glanced round in astonishment, for there was no one save our two selves in the great apartment. "i will present you to my guests, madame----?" and he paused interrogatively. "lerestelle," i exclaimed, still bewildered. and then he took me by the hand, and we made the tour of the room. truly, as he said, his guests were the greatest ones of the earth; truly my host was hopelessly mad, for no reception-room that the world has ever known has been filled with such a gathering. and truly, too, he and i were alone. living and dead, these imaginary creatures of his disordered brain were massed together in hopeless confusion. he flung a witticism at madame de staël, a cynicism at voltaire, a quotation from "fédora" at sardou, and a line from a sonnet at alfred de musset. and i bowed to the empty chairs, and humored this weird pleasantry. we reached the climax when my host presented me to napoleon bonaparte, and i could scarcely restrain the hysteric laughter which was dangerously near escaping. but relief came as he introduced me to the last imaginary guest of all, the present minister of marine, my friend monsieur vicenne. there seemed a certain irony in the fact that the man upon whose behalf i had braved this dwelling should have been, in the crazed mind of my host, included with his illustrious guests. he left me beside my friend, and i sank into a chair, with a vague uneasiness that i could not dispel, a feeling of restless horror that deepened, as monsieur, like an ideal host, sauntered from one chair to another, chatting lightly to these impalpable creatures of his imagination; laughing at some jest with this one, and anon leaning towards another, as though interchanging a whispered confidence. i felt i was growing hysterical: a moment longer and i should have shrieked. the strain was becoming too great, the horror at being alone with such a man too much; but a gong boomed without, and he, with some imaginary beauty leaning upon his arm, passed from the room, while i sauntered behind, and far behind, too, for i was fearful of the order of precedence. it was a relief to find that we two were not absolutely alone in the house. i was conducted to a seat near my host in the dining-room by a liveried man-servant, while a dozen more stood around the table. noiselessly they moved about the spacious apartment, apparently attending to the wants of the shadowy guests, at that long table set for a score. the soup was brought, and placed not only before my host and myself, but in front of every empty chair. the wine was poured into every glass, and as each course was finished, so were the untouched plates removed and others brought. it would have been nearly ludicrous, but for the deadly dreariness of the scene, the ghostly grimness of the picture, the all-pervading nervous atmosphere of the impending unknown. i gazed at the vacant seats, until i could almost fancy an illustrious company filling them; not the witty, animated throng that he could see, but a gathering of chattering skeletons, that grinned and gibed at me over the flower-decked and silver-laden damask. and all the while he merrily smiled and jested--smiled at this beauty whom only his eyes could see, laughed at that jest which only his ears could hear. nerves, i have always proudly averred, i know not, but now i caught at the table to rise and flee from the room, when he fixed his eyes upon my face, and turned confidentially towards me. then he raised his glass and pledged his guests. "_a vôtre santé, madame_," he murmured to me. "_a la vôtre, monsieur._" as he set down his glass he placed his long, bony finger upon my arm. "do you know why they're all here?" he chuckled. "ah, to try and steal my invention--my boat, _le diable_." here, at last, was a gleam of sense, a scrap of rational talk, and it came to me like cold water to the fainting. "what boat?" i asked, and my brain seemed to quicken to life again. "ah! ah! what boat?" he said, with a grim chuckle; "what boat?--_le diable_. you're the only innocent one here, and i will madden them all by allowing you to see it. i'll show it to her, monsieur vicenne," he cried, glaring fiercely at the empty chair beside me, "but not to you, no, not to any of you," he almost shouted, with a sharp look right down the table. "when?" i exclaimed, scarcely able to hide my anxiety. "never!" he screamed, with a flash of rage. "you want to rob me, like the rest of them; you're all thieves!" he cried, banging his fist upon the table, till the glasses rang again, "a crowd of hypocritical, thieving knaves," and then as suddenly as he blazed forth he calmed down, and resumed his meal in silence, while i, perceiving that he had forgotten me, with the rest of his guests, stepped from my seat, and stole quietly from the room. i have no shame in confessing that my self-control lasted but to the foot of the staircase, and then, like a frightened child, i caught my skirt in my hands, and flew up the stairs, and along the corridor, never halting until i was back in my room again, with the door securely locked. to pass the night in such a house was impossible, and i unfastened the casement windows to see if the storm had spent itself. with a vicious howl the wind tore them from my grasp and flung them back with a crash, while the hail and rain streamed in, deadening the delicate tints of the carpet. to leave was worse than to stay. i could not face such a night, and, exerting all my strength, i fastened the windows again, and turned with a nervous gasp as someone knocked upon the door. it was only a servant with my coffee upon a silver tray, which he placed upon a fancy oriental stand, saying that monsieur would excuse me. he seemed inclined to say more had i permitted, but one cannot question the servants of one's host. i thanked him, and he bowed and left. i had thought of sitting through the night, but the slight indulgence of a spoonful of cognac in my coffee restored my brain to reason, while the fatigue of my journey and the excitement of the evening had worn me to death. i munched a few wafers, for i had scarcely eaten more than the spectral guests, and then crept contentedly between the scented sheets, and it seemed but an instant before the room was bathed in sunshine. the night had passed. what a blessing is the sunlight! sleep had completely revived me, and in more borrowed plumes i walked from my room, all intent upon my mission, and with a fixed determination that i would succeed; and then another surprise awaited me, for the dainty breakfast was only set for two, and my host courteously greeted me, and talked as a sane man upon every-day commonplaces. only once during the meal he relapsed, and then he leaned towards me and chuckled. "they've all gone!" he cried; "they come suddenly at times, and try and steal my boat, but they never see it, and then, when they realize they never will, they leave altogether. sometimes they stay a whole week," he continued, in a whisper, "and threaten me all the time, until i fear i shall go mad, but last night, after you had left, i told them boldly what i thought of them, and silently, one by one, they crept away." "you promised me that i should see the boat?" i said, softly. "it is a lie," he cried, with a blaze of fury. "very well, it's a lie," i answered, coldly, with simulated scorn. for an instant he remained silent, and then, with a grave smile, he craved forgiveness. "if i promised, i will keep my word," he said, quietly. "i will trust you; you shall see what no one in this world has seen, because i know you are an honorable woman, and will not betray my secret." "thank you," i said, devoting more attention to my cutlet than i had ever given to a count, "but if you would rather not--" "i never break my word," he responded. "come to this room at five o'clock to-morrow morning, and you shall breakfast off the isle of wight at nine," and with that he rose from the table, and, courteously bowing to me, strolled from the apartment. the day passed swiftly, for i was absorbed in pleasant thoughts at my own good fortune. that i could win him to sell his invention i doubted greatly, but that i should be able to gain some insight into the mechanism of the boat during the promised cruise, i felt assured. the momentary thought that he was going to trust his secret with me because he believed me an honorable woman, did uncomfortably occur to me, but i dispelled it with disdain. what right, i asked myself, had a man to keep such an invention to himself, when it would be a crowning laurel to the glory of france? throughout the day my heart was high with elation, but as darkness fell my spirits drooped too, for i recollected the events of the previous night, and speculated on the wisdom, or want of wisdom, of a cruise beneath the sea with a man who, to say the least of it, was distinctly eccentric. yet he was sane enough now, and i would not waver from my purpose with success so near to my grasp. my fears were groundless. i dined alone, retired at ten, and slept peacefully until a quarter to five, when i rose, and, swiftly dressing, threw a long warm cloak over my arm, and descended the staircase. the early morning was fine, but cold; no sign was yet apparent of the approaching dawn, and only an indigo sky, dotted with sparkling stars, was visible, as i passed the windows in the corridor. my host, enveloped in a thick ulster, stood awaiting me in the morning-room, and with a cheery smile he apologized for the hour of our start, and opening a bottle of champagne, poured out for me a glassful. "to our cruise." "to our cruise," i responded, touching his glass with mine. "ready?" he asked. "quite," i answered, with rather a white smile, for i was cold, and, i own, a trifle nervous. he took a lantern from the table and led the way, while i followed him along the entrance hall and down a steep flight of steps. "you see, i guard my secret well," he said, unlocking an iron door at the end of what seemed to be a cellar, and then carefully fastening it behind us; "you are the first living soul to see my boat." with the utmost care he guided me along the narrow passage, warning me of every inequality in the ground, and casting the light, so that i might walk with ease, until we reached a roughhewn flight of steps, seemingly cut from the native rock, that disappeared into the blackness beneath our feet, and there i instinctively paused and drew back. "it is not tempting to a woman," he murmured, apologetically; "but the house stands on the cliff, and we are descending to the caves below." down, down, ever down we went, until i lost count of distance; but at last the steps ceased, and we stood upon a narrow platform of slippery stone, and i could hear the sweesh of the sea against the sides of the cave. he flashed the light around. we were standing upon a ledge, about four feet above the water, and on every side were wet and greasy rocks; the roof above us was hidden in densest gloom, and at our feet lay the boat! "my secret is safe, eh?" he cried, and the echoes flung back, "eh? eh? eh?" with a flood of chuckling scorn. "even at low water," he continued, "the entrance to this cavern is hidden; only you and i, who move beneath the sea, can go to and fro." he turned the rays of the lamp upon the boat, which lay quietly rocking in the water, a boat which seemed but little different from others of its style; the usual build of submarine vessels, cigar-shaped, with a conning-tower of steel, studded with thick glass port-holes, and a man-hole next to it. monsieur handed the lamp to me, and i kept its light fixed upon the vessel, while he strode across the deck, and, unscrewing the circular trap, passed into the interior. in an instant the conning-tower blazed with light, throwing brilliant beams from each of the round windows that looked like eyes staring into vacancy, and then, after what seemed an eternity, he appeared again, and beckoned me to come aboard. for an instant i hesitated, but he walked towards me, and helped me across the sloping deck, down the man-hole, and into the cabin below. in one glance i perceived the luxury of the interior, a small saloon, tapering off slightly at one end, upholstered in amber satin, save at the smaller end, where, upon a polished switchboard, was a group of strange handles of brass and ebony. just in front of them a high seat was placed, which seemed arranged so that the whole of the handles were within the reach of a single operator, whose eyes would be on a level with the windows of the conning-tower. to the right was a steering-wheel, and to the left a compass. i turned to my companion; he was busy adjusting the screws of the man-hole, and then, when all was finished to his satisfaction, he came towards me, and led me to the group of handles. "it is your cruise, madame," he said, with a smile, "therefore you shall be the captain. draw down the handle on the right." i pulled it sharply downward, and felt the boat sink under my feet--we were beneath the water. "up!" he cried, and i obeyed him, and instantly the vessel's descent was arrested. "the handle next to it," he said, "an inch down," and as i moved it the boat sprang forward, while he stood by my side, his eyes fixed on the compass, and his hand upon the wheel, now giving a turn to the left, and now to the right. "we are clear of the cave," he cried, after a moment, "and in the open sea." then, with a glance at the clock, he continued: "it has taken longer than usual to get away. let _le diable_ show his power, if you would breakfast where i promised. pull down that handle, madame, as far as it will go." grasping it firmly, i obeyed him, and as i did so the boat bounded forward with such speed and suddenness that i should have fallen had he not caught me by the arm. "too sudden!" he cried, with his usual chuckle. "you must not drive even the devil too furiously." i seated myself on a lounge, while he remained at the wheel, his eyes alternating between the compass and a chart. presently he became blurred to me, for i had risen unconscionably early, and the motion of the boat, after the first plunge, was conducive to slumber, so that i sank back and knew no more until i felt a touch upon my arm and found him bending over me. "in a quarter of an hour you will breakfast," he said. "_merci, monsieur_," i answered; "i am hungry." "this boat is my coffin," he suddenly ejaculated, looking me straight in the face. "that is why i will sell it to no one." i nodded, and tried to smile in spite of my terror at this sudden change in his manner and the fierceness with which he gripped my wrist. "when i am tired of life i shall drive into the midst of the atlantic, sink _le diable_ to the lowest ocean depths, and die." "yes, when you are tired of life," i answered. "and who knows when that may be!" he cried. "perhaps to-day, perhaps to-morrow," and he chuckled in a mirthless fashion. i gazed at him and shivered, but in a few moments his frenzy passed, and, taking my hand, he led me towards the mechanism that controlled the boat, and pointed to the clock. "in ten minutes more we shall be there," he cried. "how do these handles work the boat?" i asked, gently, with my mind upon my mission. "where is the actual machinery?" "that is my secret!" he shouted. "pull." and he placed my fingers on another handle. obedient to the touch the vessel slowed, and then stopped. again he placed my fingers upon a lever. "hold it," he cried; and then suddenly he switched out the light, and we were in densest blackness. "raise it gently; give me your hand." he drew me back with him, and i waited nervously in the darkness, until a faint, ghostly light flickered through the glass before me. a deep green grew lighter and lighter, until at last the sunlight streamed full in my eyes and the foam-flecked sea danced before me, with the roofs of a town, backed by english hills, beyond it. it was ventnor, and we had reached the spot that he had promised. then we breakfasted, and all through the meal, while the morning sunshine streamed through the circular windows, i wondered how i was to tempt the secret from him. of what use was it for me to return to my friends and say i had cruised in the boat, that it was controlled by a series of handles, and that was all i knew? as well not have ventured at all. "now show me what guides the boat," i exclaimed, in my most ingenuous voice, as he rose from the meal and moved towards the tower. "these handles," he answered. "see!" the sunlight vanished, the opalescent green of the sea grew darker and darker, and then blackness enshrouded all. there was not a sound save the click of the wheel as he moved it, and then the boat sprang forward again. then, in the darkness, he seized my arm and drew me towards him. "there are no works," he whispered, "no mechanism at all. all the power is in my brain--_i_ drive it, _i_ control it." i laughed a nervous laugh. "you are droll, monsieur." "and you're a fool!" he shouted, wildly. "it's my brain, i tell you, that controls it all." i wrenched myself free, and he switched on the light again, and then gave a shriek that froze my blood. i turned with a start, and my flesh prickled as i saw him standing with madness blazing in his eyes, his attenuated hand extended, pointing to the far end of the cabin. "who is that?" he gasped. "there is no one here but ourselves," i cried, trembling with apprehension. "you lie! look there, and there, and there," and his bony finger pointed to every corner of the saloon. "and there, and there! _nom de diable!_ they are all here!" "who are here?" i cried, with a weak attempt at bravado. "they are; those who have tried to rob me of my secret--those whom you met at dinner. ah!" he turned swiftly and moved slowly towards me, his body half bent, like a wild animal about to spring upon its prey. "ah!" he hissed again. "those you met at dinner. those you conspired to bring upon the boat to rob me." "you're mad!" i shrieked, my courage utterly deserting me. "mad!" he raved, pointing about the cabin and grimacing at the imaginary intruders. "it's you who are mad. all of you, for you've come to your death. and you're in your coffin now!" i had gradually crept as far from him as the limited space would allow, but he still advanced with a stealthy tread; and then, when only a few inches separated us, and i hid my face in my trembling hands, i realized that he had halted. he turned, and, with a bound, made for the switchboard and stopped the boat, pulled the lever right down, and then, snatching a heavy wrench from the side, hammered with the fury of a maniac, until the brass and ebony splintered to fragments, and the handles were snapped off and lay on the floor. i could feel the vessel sinking rapidly beneath my feet, and he stood grinning hideously, until a slight jar showed that we could descend no farther. "we are at the bottom of the sea," he chuckled, "and no power on earth can move us." with two blows he demolished the compass and steering-gear, and then, with a shriek of laughter, stood and viewed the wreckage. and, dazed and bewildered, deprived of power of speech or movement, i sank back on a seat, the words ringing in my ears, "at the bottom of the sea, and no power on earth can move us." how long we remained so who can say? for my senses were numbed. i kept no count of time, and was only aroused to consciousness as i saw him, with the wrench still in his hand, creeping towards me again. i shut my eyes, knowing his purpose, and yet in apathy whether he struck or not. after what seemed ages i opened them, and he had only advanced one step. as i waited, so quietly, so slowly, that i could scarce see any movement, he made another step, and i found myself calculating how many more would be needful, and how long would be the time before he was near enough to strike. suddenly, as i watched him, the boat gave a lurch, as though the ground had slipped from beneath it, casting me upon the floor; while he, flinging up his hands to save himself, missed his footing, and fell backwards with a crash, his head striking the jagged edges of the shattered brass-work. i saw him lying there senseless, and then saw no more, for when i recovered the electric light was spent, and the cabin was in densest darkness. the boat seemed to have righted itself, for the floor was level again, but the air had grown hot and stifling. not a sound broke the stillness, unless it was the beating of my heart. there was naught but silence and inky blackness--the silence of the tomb, the loneliness of death. the air seemed to grow more close and stifling, and my breath came in quick, short gasps. better any death than this gradual suffocation. if i could only let the water into the boat, and so die swiftly, it would be easier. and so i crawled across the floor. once i touched him, and drew away; but by his side i found a wrench, and in the darkness i groped on, till i found the steps to the tower and felt for the glass. poor vanity! the reigning passion with us all. i turned my head, so that the flying splinters of glass should not cut my face, and brought the wrench with all my force against the window. it resisted stoutly. but again and again i struck, until at last, with a crash, it flew outwards. and then, in that fraction of a second, so strong is the love of life, i wished i had held my hand. but there came no torrent of water, only a rush of cold air, and i realized that i was on the surface of the ocean--realized that when the madman fell backwards upon the shattered switchboard he must have moved the lever. but night had fallen again, and so i had not known it. trembling the more now that there was hope of escape, i climbed on deck and waited for the dawn. and with the first faint streaks upon the eastern horizon came rescue, for a french cruiser had seen us, and steamed down like the wind to examine _le diable_. yet, with it all, the madman kept his secret--and his coffin. when the boat from the cruiser was but a yard away i glanced through the open man-hole, and saw that he was moving across the cabin below, and as i stepped upon the gunwale of the launch _le diable_ sank like a stone from beneath my feet. the abducted ambassador "monsieur roché," thérèse murmured, and held a card before me. "i have already told you i will receive no one," i answered, with more than usual tartness, for the afternoon was warm, and the thought of my evening's engagements made me feel that life was unendurable. "it is a matter of most urgent importance," she so far forgot herself as to urge, and i could scarcely restrain a smile, for through my maid's prim black gown i almost fancied i could hear the rustle of the note that had tempted her to impertinence. was it not enough that i had said i was not receiving? and one would assume not, for she still stood there, and the day was too warm to scold her. but she was an excellent girl, the perfection of maids. to this day i have never met one who could dress my hair as she could, nor one who could understand my peculiar--my dearest friends say exasperating--temper so admirably, and so my heart softened, and, with merely an uplifting of the eyebrows, to show that i noted her persistence, i said i would receive monsieur roché. and well i made a virtue of necessity, for he was one who knew not refusal. i turned poor virtue into my necessity, as all did whom monsieur roché asked to favor him. "one would even risk madame's anger for the happiness of seeing her," he murmured, as he took my hand; for, though he held the reputation of one not admiring the sweeter sex, a better gallant for turning a compliment, a more skilful adept in the epigram of flattery, this jaded world has never viewed. "it is a trying hour for calling, monsieur, unless the reason be most urgent." "it is most urgent," he gravely assented, as he placed a slender forefinger upon my shoulder. "_ma chère_," he continued, softly, "you are the cleverest woman in paris." "i should have better liked the compliment had you said the prettiest," i answered, demurely. "tut, tut! the whole world tells you that. why proclaim the obvious? i prefer to be original, and pronounce you the cleverest." "with an object, monsieur, _n'est ce pas_?" "with a very great object, madame--the desire for your assistance." monsieur roché leaned impressively towards me. "have you heard the strange news," he asked, "that is being whispered in diplomatic paris?" "there are many strange things whispered in diplomatic paris," i responded. "truly; but this is unprecedented. sir edward rivington, the english ambassador, has been abducted." "yes. it was mentioned to me by a particularly uninteresting gallant at last night's reception; but"--i shrugged my shoulders--"it is too absurd." "and therefore the more likely to be true! in fact, i know that it is true and also that it is false." "an enigma, monsieur?" "listen. the story is that a closed carriage called for sir edward two nights ago. he left the embassy, saying he would return in an hour. he has not been seen since, and paris is growing perturbed at this unwarrantable violation of international courtesy. that is the story. but the facts are that sir edward has tricked france, has purposely promulgated this mystery, and has departed on a secret mission to england." "i can see no reason for such ridiculous procedure. _perfide anglais_ is only a boulevard cry when there is no domestic sensation to occupy the green hour." "tush!" monsieur roché impatiently interrupted. _ma foi_, how impatient these diplomats are! "france was in active negotiation with england, and also with italy, upon the same point. what it was matters nothing." "you are reticent, monsieur." "it is sufficient that it discloses that england was not wholly in our thoughts. now, by an unpardonable blunder, sir edward received among his own certain other papers intended for signor faliero." "france was playing a difficult game, monsieur." "a delicate and diplomatic one, madame." "and has failed." "been tricked," he hotly retorted. "the superscription upon the cover was plainly to the italian ambassador, and sir edward knew that even english diplomacy or intrigue could not be stretched to the fine point of not at once returning the packet. he knew that we should immediately demand it, if necessary, and that restitution could not be withheld. the documents were handed to sir edward himself by one of my secretaries, who is now open to accept a fresh appointment, and a couple of hours later, when the error was discovered, i was met with this melodramatic fable of abduction." "but what is to be gained by such a fabrication? surely sir edward could say he had gone to england, if he wished to." "what is gained," monsieur roché answered, incisively, "is a strong hold upon us, we never knowing whether the papers have been inspected or not. when he returns he will, no doubt, send the packet to me, apparently untouched, and we can only assume that england is cognizant of its contents. we shall be compelled to maintain the negotiations now in progress, and all the time sir edward rivington will smile, and placidly await a _coup d'état_. it is maddening, simply maddening. _mon dieu!_ it binds us hand and foot." "i do not agree with your theories, monsieur," i said, calmly. "sir edward rivington is an englishman, and, as a nation, they are honorable." "tush! sir edward is a diplomat, and the code of honor is different. his aim is to serve his country. should i hesitate to take advantage of such an opportunity for france?" "you are unscrupulous, monsieur." "for what," he cried, "do we all pay millions of francs a year? secret service: such information as that which sir edward has had placed in his hands by chance. is it reasonable that he would be such a child as to neglect a stroke of policy sufficient to render his country's position impregnable?" "if all this be as you say, monsieur, then the damage is done, and beyond repair." "utterly. there is, however, one favor i would ask of you. to actually, indisputably, know that sir edward rivington has been to england will at least make me sure of my ground. it will be a difficult task, one worthy of the cleverest woman, the prettiest widow in paris." and, even in his worry of mind, he smiled as he paid me the double compliment. "ask where you will in london, and they will tell you he is still in paris. a man would fail miserably, a woman's intuition will succeed." i pondered over the position. love for a little excitement, something to relieve the ennui of a solitary existence, had induced me to undertake many little diplomatic services for my friend monsieur roché, but in all there had been something of the glamour of romance. this seemed more the task of a secret agency, or even the quai de l'horloge itself. what so simple as to discover if a man so well known in paris as sir edward rivington had crossed the channel? and yet, if things were as monsieur roché asserted, what infinite pains would be taken to conceal the visit! looked at from that point of view, the mission appeared more fitting to my disposition, and i accepted. why is it ever the fashion to speak of london as a city of smoke and gloom? paris is not all champs-elysées. we have our sunlight and our shadow; and london, sublime in its rugged beauty of stability, common alike to the city and the people, has the same; while parliament street, under the bright spring sunshine, might have been one of the boulevards of beloved paris itself. a far-seeing providence must surely have intended women to shine in diplomacy, for men are so impressionable, and some women so fascinating, that the victory is assured before the struggle commences. and because of this i refused to be satisfied with any of those zealous and most polite officials and secretaries, and ultimately, because i, too, am at times fascinating, found myself in the presence of one of the rulers of the state, whose name in france was as well known as those of our own politicians. he received me graciously, and waited. "at a reception in paris," i said, after a moment, "i had the honor of meeting your ambassador, sir edward rivington; the greater honor of giving certain information, to him that was of service." monsieur seemed to freeze a little. secret service is necessary, but its agents, be they even pretty women, do not command more than the coldest respect. "there were further matters which he deemed it desirable i should obtain details of, and as he was leaving suddenly for london upon a special mission, i was instructed to follow him, and, insisting upon seeing you in person, obtain his address, as it was not general knowledge that he had left paris." monsieur looked at me curiously. he seemed debating in his mind whether he should tell me. "you are under a strange misapprehension," he said, at length, leaning back in his chair and interlacing his fingers. "it is impossible that such can exist," i interrupted. "those were my instructions from sir edward himself." "then he must have changed his plans," monsieur continued, blandly. "assuredly he is not in london now, and, so far as i am aware, has not left paris; certainly on no business that could bring him to the foreign office. we have our official messengers for such duties. sir edward would not come himself." "i understood the matter was too secret--" "i am afraid you have been deceived," he answered, with a quiet smile of amusement; "i can give you no address but the british embassy, paris, and that must be well known to you already." the interview was ended, and as i left i carried with me the conviction that the conversation had been marked by such an absence of diplomacy on his part that it must be truthful, and sir edward rivington had not come to england. yet i determined that i would stay in london, at all events until i had something more to show for my efforts--what, i knew not; and while i strolled, the gods came to my rescue. my dearest friend, gaspard levivé, stood, hat in hand, before me. "madame, the fates are kinder to me than i deserve." "perhaps they have a better knowledge of your merit than you possess yourself," i responded, with an upward glance. "are you staying in london?" "until this evening only. my friend, sir edward rivington, has done me the honor to ask me to be his second. i have accepted, and return to paris." i stopped in bewilderment. "sir edward rivington, the english ambassador?" i said, hurriedly. "yes," he answered, with a smile. "it does not sound english, does it? but here is his letter: 'at le duc d'eautine's chateau to-morrow morning. i rely upon your honor to hold this secret, and, as you are in london, to deliver, yourself, the enclosed envelope at the foreign office.'" "_mon dieu!_" i cried, excitedly. "_mon cher_, you have not delivered it yet; you have it still?" "i am on my way," he replied. "then you will not. you will hold it back; bring it to paris, and give it to monsieur roché." "it is impossible!" he exclaimed, glancing at me in surprise. "it is not. if you deliver this you will ruin france! for the love of france, pause!" "i will not be a traitor to a friend who trusts me, even for the love of france," he answered. "i have been asked to deliver this letter; how, then, can i carry it to monsieur roché? no, not for the love of france!" "then, gaspard, for me!" i said, turning my eyes upon him. "do this for me. prove your protestations have not been idle. do this for me." his face flushed crimson, and then grew pale and gray, until, in but a few seconds, he seemed to have become death-like before my eyes. "why do you ask this'?" he asked, icily. "for the sake of france," i repeated. and then, like the lifting of a veil, i saw things clearly, realized that i was tempting him, whom i loved to call my dearest friend, to disgrace; realized that it was not for love of france, but for love of victory, and monsieur roché's praises. gaspard seemed to hesitate, and i trembled lest he should consent. "not even for your sake can i do this," he answered, slowly; and my heart quickened at the proof that he was as true as i believed him; yet, because i am a woman, i must perforce feign some slight resentment that he would not yield me what i wished he should not. "then leave your papers," i said, after a cold pause, "and escort me to paris." "you mean it?" he cried, his eyes brightening again. "yes, i mean it," i calmly replied; "one cannot break long friendships for the sake of a difference of opinion. leave your papers, _mon cher_, and then rejoin me." "i asked a favor yesterday," i said, as we drew near to paris, "i ask another to-day. i want to accompany you to le duc d'eautine's." gaspard raised his eyebrows in surprise. "it is an affair of honor," he protested. "you know what you ask is impossible, unheard of." "again?" i pettishly ejaculated. "but you must see it yourself," he urged, with a half-amused smile. "how can you be present?" "with the consent of the principals," i retorted. "be my escort to versailles, and then i will release you." "as you will," he laughed; "but may i not know your reason?" "the merest curiosity, _mon ami_. you, having been absent from paris, have not heard our latest sensation. sir edward rivington was abducted nearly a week ago, and you and i are two of the very few who know where he is." "impossible!" "may be, but true. he has been abducted, and only we know by whom, and where he is to be found. monsieur roché, your chief, never believed in the rumor of abduction. he set it down as a subterfuge to delay the return of certain private papers intended for, no matter whom, that had fallen into sir edward's hands. those papers, _mon cher_, that you delivered yesterday. the ones that concerned my visit to london. it might have been a wonderful thing for you, gaspard, if you had not delivered them, but i did not mention your own interests." "no interests of my own," he cried, laying his hand upon mine, "could have weighed like the heart-burning desire to serve you. there is nothing, that my honor would allow, that i would not do to win your faintest gratitude, and then count myself all too richly rewarded. nothing i would not do--" but fortunately we steamed into the gare du nord; gaspard's poetic moment was ruined by a descent from the dizzy heights of sentiment to the commonplace confusion of an arrival platform, and, with a diplomat's smile at the inevitable, he accepted the position. what creatures of impulse the sex we prefer must be. in a four hours' journey from calais to paris he must needs choose the last seventy seconds for serious conversation, in order to be interrupted at the instant when i was most attentive. and how those supreme moments, when lost, seem to be lost forever! commonplaces, commonplaces, small talk and frivolity from paris on to versailles, from versailles to the chateau of le duc d'eautine. i felt quite serious when he was speaking just before we arrived in paris; but had he attempted to resume the subject i should have smiled, and he, wise in diplomacy beyond his years, realized the position, and accepted it. our carriage drove into the park of the chateau, and, leaving the main drive, stopped, in a few minutes, where, in the shade of a magnificent cedar, a group of men were standing, evidently awaiting it. le duc d'eautine, monsieur faudé, his bosom friend, and sir edward rivington, the lost ambassador, all seemingly charmed with one another's company, and only a suspicious-looking case, leaning against the tree, spoiled the harmony of the gathering. it is a thing i have since almost boasted of. i am the only woman who has ever caused that paragon of courtesy, le duc d'eautine, to lose his temper and forget all etiquette. "_sapristi!_" he gasped, as i alighted--"what pleasantry is this, madame? and you, monsieur," he continued, fiercely, turning upon my poor gaspard--"you, monsieur, explain this intrusion, or--" "tut, tut, _mon cher_ duc," i mildly interjected, "i come as a service to you, one of my oldest friends." "i need no service, madame." "you need great service, _mon enfant_," i retorted, reprovingly, for my twenty-seven years afforded me vast superiority over his twenty-five. "you need great service. what is this foolish escapade of abducting the representative of england, and compelling him to fight a duel in your own park before he regains his freedom? what is--" "it is an affair of my own, madame," he interrupted. "an affair of your own," i cried, with a suspicion of anger in my tones. "it is an affair of the nation, of france, when you lure an englishman, an ambassador, to your house, and force him into a duel." "i force him to nothing," he said, as we walked aside. "he has been my guest--" "tut! paris knows he has disappeared; you lured him away, and you now hold him a prisoner here until he fights this duel, _n'est ce pas_?" "i do not contradict. i but defend my honor; sir edward rivington spoke of me indiscreetly. he alluded to me before my friends as a mere boy; he ridiculed my duels, laughed at our code of honor, mocked at what he described the satisfaction of a scratch, and scoffed as only an englishman can. a man who has never stood before the sword of his enemy. i challenged him; he laughed, and turned aside with the sneer that englishmen had neither time nor inclination for such pleasantries. he spoke of his duty to his own country, and, in a word, covered himself with the invulnerability of his official position. he, at the embassy, was in england, not in france. i removed him from his embassy. in the grounds of my chateau he is in france, and not in england. in france, where a man avenges insults with his sword." "excellent! but if you wound him?" "be assured, madame, i shall not. i shall not wound him, nor shall he touch me, but he shall learn that duelling in france is not child's play. i will tire him until he realizes that, and then disarm him; and my sense of honor will be satisfied when he finds his ridicule recoils upon himself." "and if he wound you?" he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "then i will apologize to him, and grant my swordsmanship is but a sport for children." "may i speak with your prisoner?" "with my guest, madame." "as you will. then with your guest." he bowed, and he and his friend drew back as i walked towards the english ambassador. "paris is more than anxious concerning you, sir edward." "if paris meant yourself, madame," he responded, "i could bless my imprisonment." "then you call it imprisonment?" "englishmen have a manner of calling things by their right names," he suavely observed. "and you propose to--" "fight," he drawled. "i really don't care about it, but there's a medium in all things, you know. not but what he's been most obliging. except that i'm imprisoned till i give him what he calls satisfaction, i've been very comfortable. even allowed, on my word of honor not to communicate the peculiar circumstances, to send my private despatches to england." i shuddered as i thought of those despatches. truth to tell, in the excitement of the situation, they and monsieur roché's distress had left my memory. "but if you wound or kill him, sir edward?" "i shall do neither." "but, if he--" i paused, and sir edward gravely shook his head. "not the faintest chance in the world," he said. "i shall tire him out, and disarm him, thus abundantly proving my theory that these affairs of honor in france are arranged with the minimum of inconvenience to either party." i could not repress a smile; there was such a wealth of humor in this duel, where neither party intended to injure the other. "it is merely an exhibition of swordsmanship, sir edward?" "merely that, madame." "then i may remain?" "it might be disconcerting to your friend." "but if he permit?" "then to me it will be an honor." but the duke was less easy to win. it was impossible, unheard of, and yet, while he spoke he wavered, and graced his consent with a whisper that i was the tournament's queen. "on guard, messieurs!" like a flash the swords crossed, and the duel commenced. there was an uplifting of the eyebrows on the part of the duke, as the trick which had disarmed many an opponent was skilfully met, a tightening of the lips by sir edward as a similar attempt of his own was as easily frustrated. it was a duel that set my blood tingling with excitement, as pass after pass was parried, thrust after thrust was turned aside, and neither man gained a point, neither man lost an inch, until it seemed that equals had met, and who was victor would never be determined; that to be vanquished would be almost as great an honor as to vanquish. the duke slipped as he parried a thrust, and i thought that the unexpected had happened; but, like lightning, the englishman's rapier was drawn back, and his adversary acknowledged the courtesy and skill which had saved his life with a bow worthy of himself. an hour passed, and still the combat waged. i wearied of the eternal "on guard, messieurs!" it seemed so fruitless that two such masters of fence should strive for empty victory. "on guard, messieurs!" sir edward rivington was hesitating, and stood with the dawn of a smile upon his face. "on guard, messieurs! _s'il vous plait._" the ambassador shook his head, and, throwing down his sword, advanced, with hand extended to his adversary. "i tender you my apologies," he said, gravely. "i admit i spoke triflingly of french duelling. i admit that i sneered at several of your own affairs of honor. i confess that i regarded them as child's play, not knowing then, as i do now, that you are a sublime master of the art of swordsmanship, and could have killed every man who stood before you." "every man, save yourself, sir edward!" the duke exclaimed, with a slight smile of satisfaction. "you were playing, as i was, for the disarm." "and neither of us succeeded. frankly, for the first time in my life i have met my equal. strange that he should be one of the nation that discountenances the use of the rapier." "you will accept my unconditional withdrawal," sir edward continued. "nay, more, if you desire it, it shall be more openly proclaimed." for answer le duc d'eautine handed his sword to his second, and took sir edward's outstretched hand in both of his. "sir edward rivington," he exclaimed, "i am too honored. say no more. my greatest pride is that i have won the respect of england's ambassador; my greatest honor that i have gained the friendship of a splendid swordsman." these and many other high-flown compliments, dear to our nation, passed between them and between their seconds, until it seemed we must all have floated back to olden times, to the stately days of the louis--so anxious was each man to pay courtly compliments to the other. _mon dieu!_ what changeable mortals, what creatures of impulse men are; and yet they say that we women are wavering and fickle! "you will be my guest, _mon ami_, for just another day?" the duke hazarded, doubtfully, it must be confessed. "my dear friend," replied the ambassador, "don't you think that you have delayed the course of diplomatic relations sufficiently long? i expect you will get into disgrace for this attack upon my sacred person, as it is," and he broke into a merry laugh. "i have made one true friend," returned the duke, seriously; "what matter the means? should i find it necessary to suddenly quit france, i shall carry with me the honor of counting yourself among those whom i hold nearest to my heart." "quit france! all nonsense," brusquely interjected sir edward. "put your best team to a coach, and i'll drive you all back to paris; then, for a moment, the urgency of state affairs, _et après_, in a poor way you will permit me to return your hospitality. at seven, _mes amis_, at the 'bristol.'" sir edward rivington must have been a past master of all the arts. as he handled his rapier perfectly, so he drove the four-in-hand; and, doubtless, in all other things he was equally admirable. these english are so thorough. and of a truth he was certainly charming in conversation, for i, who sat beside him, can vouch for it. "will the budding flowers of diplomatic relations have withered owing to your absence, sir edward?" i ventured to ask as we drove through st. cloud. "no; i do not think so," he answered, with a laugh. "but, seriously, it is a little troublesome. they must have been retarded somewhat, and i shall possibly be blamed for taking a brief holiday at such an important moment." "then you will call it a holiday?" he looked at me with a slight elevation of the eyebrows. "naturally!" "you are more than generous, sir edward." "tut, tut! but still, things may be a trifle unpleasant. for instance, an hour before le duc d'eautine's pressing invitation that i should become his guest arrived, i received a bundle of official papers from your premier, monsieur roché, and, not realizing that i was going to take a holiday, placed them at once in my safe, where they now repose, untouched and unlocked at." "untouched and unlocked at!" i cried, my blood tingling with delight at the kindness of the fates. "yes; it sounds undiplomatic, does it not?" "are we driving direct to the embassy?" "why not? it will destroy the ridiculous rumor of abduction." "then, sir edward, as a distinct favor to me, will you not at once open the bundle and give to me, in order that i may myself return it to my friend, monsieur roché, a document placed there by error, which is not addressed to you?" "certainly," he replied, flicking the leaders with his whip. "i should have returned it under any conditions, but, since you wish it, i will do so through you." i sighed a sigh of deep contentment. "you will make me ever your debtor," i murmured. "not at all. but is this the reason of your visit to versailles?" he inquired after a moment, with a strange little smile. "suppose you exchange a little small talk with your other friends, and not devote all your attention to me," i suggested, in a tone of mild reproof. and, generously discreet, sir edward obeyed my desires, till we rolled into paris, i passing the while in thinking what a fortunate thing it was that gaspard had not given way to my temptations and purloined his excellency's private despatches. prince ferdinand's entanglement monsieur roché waltzed divinely, and so thoroughly original was that charming man that he never once made allusion to either the crush or the heat. yet they were both insufferable. we strolled into the conservatory, and, taking my fan from my hand, he gently waved it before me, keeping time to the distant strains of the waltz, which we preferred to sit out. "to be beautiful and accomplished," he murmured, as he seated himself beside me, "is no excuse for idleness when a woman is also brilliant." i recognized the prelude to a commission, and became attentive, for i was _ennui_ of the tiring pleasures that make up the daily routine of the existence of a woman of fashion. "it is different from the english affair," he whispered, reflectively. "and so it need be!" i replied, a little testily, for gaspard levivé and i had been somewhat ill at ease with each other since we journeyed _tête-à-tête_ from london to paris. "it is what a woman's soul craves for--romance." "a commission from monsieur le premier, and yet romantic," i cried, with a laugh. "monsieur fears to plead his own cause, and would send a persuasive ambassador, _n'est ce pa_?" "one as skilful in tact and diplomacy as she is in herself perfection," the flatterer answered; and then, "it is not a service to myself," he added, somewhat stiffly, for my bachelor friend was sensitive on these little matters, and rather prided himself on a flattering unction that he laid to his soul, that no woman in paris--but i wander, for as he spoke i took my fan abruptly from his hand, and gazed severely right through his perplexed face into the ballroom beyond. "i fail to understand," i said, stonily. "a commission from some one else? are my services, then, at the command of any one who condescends to require them?" he put out his hand deprecatingly. "i imagined," i said, fluttering my fan viciously, "that i dealt with diplomats who regarded my service as much their secret as my own;" and i spoke with warmth, for i felt i had deserved better of him than this. from my heart i loved these commissions for the excitement they afforded me, and not for mere gain; for what was that to me? my most hazardous adventure brought me the souvenir i chose--a plain gold bangle engraved with the date; my most romantic, a diamond necklace worthy of an empress. monsieur roché stayed the fan that i was fluttering wildly in my indignation, and gently took my fingers in his own. "why is a woman the sternest critic--the harshest judge of her best friends?" he asked. "you are an accomplished woman, a clever woman, a beautiful woman, and yet--" "simply a woman," i interjected. "and therefore as lacking in reason as all others of your sex, and as prone to jump at erroneous conclusions. no one in the world knows of what you call your secret service save those whom you have met and defeated, and they would be the last to proclaim it." i felt miserably repentant--what creatures of impulse even the cleverest of women are!--so, smiling upon him, i handed back the fan. "the vanquished must deliver up his sword," i cried. "i own i was in the wrong, so take a woman's weapon as a sign." "my dearest friend is in paris," he said, as he slowly waved the ostrich-plumes, "and in great trouble." i glanced interestedly towards him as he continued: "prince humbert of elvirna is the man; the trouble, prince ferdinand, his son; the cause, as usual, a woman." "cheap cynicism but poorly becomes a man of intellect, much less a diplomat, monsieur." "then i will amend the phrase," he answered, contritely, "and say the cause, a woman, and leave 'as usual' out." "it is strange that man, who owes all that is the better part of his life to woman, should so often make her the object of his sneers," i observed. "strange, save that he so often owes all that is the worst," he answered, with a passing shade of irritation. "this young fool, this man, who must marry for the good of the tiny kingdom which will be his own some day, has chosen--" "to follow his own affections," i interrupted, with a smile. "tush! he has chosen to become enamored of the _passée_ charms of a third-rate actress--an adventuress searching for youthful fools with simple hearts and simple brains who cannot discriminate between nature and art, and would never credit the brightness of their siren's eyes was due to belladonna." "he will get over it, _mon cher_. even you, i doubt not, have had your weaknesses." monsieur scowled at my covert allusion, but ignored it. "do you think that this wretched play-actress will give him an opportunity until it is too late?" he asked. "he now lives in arcadia, wanders from morn till eve in leafy woods, whispering sentimental folly and admiring sunsets, living only in the light of his goddess's eyes, cooing with this soiled dove, while his father vainly implores for his return to reason and to duty." "and the remedy, _mon cher_?" "yourself." "i scarcely comprehend." "the boy is only infatuated. infatuation gives way to greater temptation. he would fall madly in love with the first fresh, pretty face he saw." "thank you, monsieur!" i cried, with mock indignation, and, rising, i courtesied to the ground before the perplexed gaze of my friend, who shivered at his blunder. he twisted his mustache with energy, but did not speak; and i, regaining possession of my fan, waved it with an air of lofty scorn, and tried to keep back the smile that, despite my efforts, was breaking round the curves of my lips. "let us be serious, and quite frank with each other," he said at length. "i want you to go for a week to the solitudes of the forest of lecrese, in the kingdom of elvirna, and, winning this young headstrong from his folly, add yet another service to those which have made me eternally your debtor. show him--it will be so easy!--what poor theatrical blandishments are possessed by this play-actress when compared with the wit and sparkle of a brilliant woman--what faded beauty when nature challenges art. surely it is to your taste, for is it not romantic?" "it is romantic," i acquiesced. "but let us, as you say, be frank. pursue the story further. suppose the cure prove efficacious--what then? is there one greater than i who in turn will win him from me? one more beautiful, more accomplished, more fascinating, who will say, 'again, most simple youth, you are mistaken. behold! i am the only woman worthy of your love.'" the diplomatist chuckled. "if," he said, "i thought there could be one possessing such unheard-of charms, i would not dare to say so--but there is no one! i simply ask you to destroy this wretched entanglement, and then, if the fates decree that he must surrender utterly to your beauty, so be it. it is better for a man to break his heart for love of a good woman than have it broken by a false one. it is a romance with endless possibilities. do you consent?" i reflected. it was a peculiar mission, and, moreover, one in which failure would be such a crushing blow to vanity, that my only refuge would be a convent. what if i set myself to fascinate a man and--failed! yet there was such a glamour of excitement with it. to match myself against this adventuress, to fight for a man's honor, to triumph for the right. all men's eyes confessed me beautiful. impartially i had scanned myself, posed as my harshest critic--and a woman can be her own severest critic if she will--and i too had finished by saying, however reluctantly, "yes, _ma chère_, you really are rather pretty." there was something exhilarating in the thought that here was the opportunity to prove myself right or wrong, and men truthful or mere flatterers. "i consent," i cried, "on two conditions: that, success or failure, prince humbert does not meet me in my character study, and that i am allowed absolute freedom of action, whatever course i take." "agreed on all things, and i thank you." we rose, and i placed my hand upon his arm. "modesty is woman's sweetest charm," he remarked, and i gazed into his face, vainly striving to fathom the meaning of an observation so apropos of nothing. "why mention failure?" he continued, and we returned to the ballroom. * * * * * the woods of lecrese, bathed in the glowing fire of an audacious sunset, were enough to awaken sentimental yearnings in the breast of one even more worldly than i. a long, undulating road swept far into the purple distance, losing itself among the trees that interlaced above; on either side a cool vista of virgin greensward spread from the carriage-drive, only relieved by the crimson splashes of the fallen leaves that foretold the coming autumn, and yet not so severely as to make one dread the winter. all was solitude and peace. a dangerous hour, and a dangerous place, i told myself, for a foolish youth and a designing woman. i stopped the carriage, and stepped out on to the roadway. "knock out the axle-pin," i cried, "and throw it into that thicket; then take a horse each, and ride for assistance." i spoke in the same tone as i might have ordered my coffee, but who, save my own servants, would have carried out such inane orders without an implied protest? "go to the blacksmith in the first village you come to." so they left me, and i, like the lost princess of a fairy-tale, stood by my broken-down carriage, and awaited the prince, for i knew he must ride this way, and it pleased me that we thus should meet. a glance in the mirror of my travelling-case stilled any doubts i might have had. i was free from the dust of travel; indeed, i had driven but five kilometres that it might be so. an ostrich-feather-trimmed cloak of silver gray suited me to perfection, and the evening light, with just the fading glow in the sky, was most becoming. presently the cantering of a horse upon the road told me of the approach of him whom i awaited. i wearily rested my head upon my hand, and leaned against the carriage, and so absorbed did i become in my woman's thoughts as to what manner of man he would be, that it was his voice that roused me to the knowledge of his presence. i glanced upward, and he pleased me well. a man rather above the average height, well knit and athletic, with clear-cut, sensitive features, a slight mustache, a kindly look of good-temper in his frank, blue eyes, and a cap set jauntily upon the side of his head of curling hair. scarcely the man, i thought, to be the easy dupe of a vulgar adventuress; but the world is so strange. he vaulted lightly from his horse, and, cap in hand, walked towards me; and i saw the look that i have seen in the eyes of other men come into his. he did not crave pardon for speaking. he came as a man of the world to a woman in distress; came and counted there could be no offence. "you have had an accident," he said; "can i be of service to you?" "it is nothing," i answered, with a swift glance into his eyes; "my servants have gone to seek a blacksmith, or a coach-builder." "the nearest is twenty kilometres away: we are far from civilization at lecrese; you cannot wait until they return." "and the nearest village?" "five kilometres." i gazed around in some perplexity up to the sky, where the rosy tints were fading from the fleecy clouds, and then back into his face for inspiration. "if you are riding that way," i said, "i will ask you to send me a carriage from there." he laughed a merry, good-tempered laugh, as though a child had asked for the moon, and again reminded me of our distance from civilization. "can you walk five kilometres?" he asked, with such a serious look upon his face that i smiled with amusement. "of course," i answered; "do you take me for an old woman?" "no," he cried, with boyish emphasis; "only i thought, perhaps--" "perhaps i was one of those poor creatures to whom exertion is purgatory. show me the road, please." "it is the one i am taking myself." "which, although an interesting announcement, scarcely suffices to indicate the direction," i murmured. "i mean, if you will permit, we will walk together." "for the moment, at least," i cried, "circumstances have made the highway our joint property: then let us share companionship for mutual benefit;" and i drew my cloak about my shoulders, while he, laughing a strange little laugh, as though he scarcely understood me, swung his horse's bridle on his arm, and we strolled along together. what need to recount what happened upon that walk, for have i not said that it was a dangerous place for a foolish youth and a designing woman? what need either to speak of other days when we met by chance again, and i saw a glow of pleasure in his face; what need to speak of his moments of gloom, when, even as we talked, the light went out of his eyes; and i, who have felt the pulse of love so often that i know its every beat, told myself that he was wondering how he was to break with the other woman, the one whom i had never met. and i, too, felt ill at ease; the country is so different from the capital. in the life that i had lived, to-night's dangerous _tête-à-tête_ was forgotten in the rush of to-morrow's engagements, but here it was different; i yearned for finality, and a release from a position that was becoming embarrassing. deprived of the company of my cavalier, i walked alone in the woods of lecrese, priding myself that victory was mine, and in yet a few days i might say to him that i journeyed to paris in full confidence that he would follow me. then, in the silence of the sultry afternoon, i heard his voice, and another in reply, that told me that if i chose to play the eavesdropper i might behold my rival, the actress; and i did choose, because i was upon a diplomatic mission, and--because i am a woman. through a cluster of bushes i gently forced my way, sighing as a jealous thorn caught me and ripped a strip from my silken mantle; and then, drawing the branches upon one side, i looked into the glade, where she was resting upon the trunk of a fallen tree. he sat by her side--and--angels defend us!--held her hand. though it be against my desires, the truth is the truth. she was not painted, neither was she old, or even plain, and, worst of all, as she sat listening to him there was a look upon her face that spoke faithfully to me that she loved him. and he looked back at her with the reflection of the same light within his eyes. yet, what a clever little adventuress she was. i laughed scornfully to myself as they continued their conversation. "what are these distinctions that the world calls difference of class?" she said, in a thoughtful voice. "who has ordained that this man and that woman shall marry because they are on the same social scale?" "why talk of such things?" he answered. "how can it affect us? i am a poor student--" "and i a poorer girl," she interrupted, "on a visit all too brief." "on a visit that must last forever. i worship you, and you love me." "i have not said so," she murmured, so softly that i could scarcely catch the words. "your eyes have told me; you will not sacrifice our love." "oh, if i were only a man," she said, placing both hands upon his shoulders. "what, then, my love?" and he would have embraced her. "nothing," she answered, and the look in her eyes restrained him. "let us go." they passed on together, and i could not but smile at the manner in which the wretched little flirt pretended to keep him from her, and yet with every action strengthened the chain that bound him. then as they moved onward i discreetly followed, for i had fixed in my mind that i would spoil this rustic love-making, and show her that i knew her for what she was. not a poor girl, as she was pleased to term herself, but a common actress from some booth of montmartre, a skilled adventuress, who had set herself to delude a foolish boy, knowing what was to be gained thereby. and in truth he was a foolish boy, a most annoying one, a most deceitful one, for i had made no progress when i had counted all was won. he left her at the gate of a tiny cottage, and, as soon as the bend in the road had hidden him from view, i walked through the garden, and, lifting the latch, boldly entered. mademoiselle had removed her hat, and stood resting her head against the latticed window, gazing up the path that he had taken. she turned as i entered, and stood looking towards me, and yet not with so very much wonderment, for suddenly she broke into a smile. "you have entered to rest a while," she said. "you are welcome; we are not altogether strangers, for i have heard so much of you." "heard of me?" i queried, rather sharply, for this girl seemed to have the manners of such as myself. "certainly," she replied, still smiling; "you are the _grand dame_ whose carriage broke down, and who is so charmed with the rustic delights of lecrese that she prolongs her stay indefinitely," and there was a tinge of becoming satire in her voice. "how do you know that?" "you are the only one who would walk in the woods in a costume fit only for driving in the bois de boulogne," she answered, and i flushed with annoyance, for she looked so cool, while i was hot with the glowing of the sun and the burning of my temper. "we cannot all pretend to rustic innocence, mademoiselle." "nor succeed, if we did, madame," she retorted, and then the flash of anger left her face. "you will forgive me," she cried, taking my hand. "i forget myself; you will rest and take tea with me." i would have bargained my soul for a cup of tea, but i ignored the offer, and continued, "i have come to speak with you on a matter of importance." "be seated," she answered, coldly, and she, too, sat and waited. she plagued me because of her calmness and dignity, the air of superiority she assumed towards me. "don't you think this farce has been played long enough, mademoiselle?" i asked, scornfully, and she merely raised her eyebrows, and maintained her unruffled composure. "this arcadian love-making," i cried, reddening with vexation, "this whispering of paradise, this thistle-down entanglement. don't you think it is time to say good-bye?" "quite," she answered, with supreme contempt. "good-bye," and she returned to the window. then something--who can follow the subtle changes that occur in a woman's heart?--something came into mine, and instead of anger i felt a pang of pity for the girl who so disdained me. i walked towards her, and laid my hand upon her arm. "you know it must be so," i said. "yes, it must be so." "he is of one world and you of another." "you know that?" she said, in surprise. "yes, i know who you are, and who he is. your words in the wood an hour since were romance, and romance is out of date. it is impossible. your paths lie asunder: you must take yours, and leave him his." i had placed my arm around her shoulder, and somehow the contempt i felt for this play-actress had vanished, and my eyes were misty as she turned hers towards me. then in a second she was crying softly in my arms. "you will say good-bye," i whispered. "yes," she answered, her face still hidden, "i will say good-bye." "to-day?" "yes, to-day--within an hour he will return, and then, with courage taken into both my hands, i will say good-bye. i have been sadly foolish, and now i will break his heart because i wasted wisdom until too late." i did not tell her that men's hearts, and the hearts of princes in particular, do not break so easily. neither did i say that the heart that fluttered against my own was nearer breaking than his would ever be, but i kissed her again, and so we waited until we heard his highness's whistle, as he approached the gate, and, gaining no response, walked up to the door and knocked. "come in," i cried, for her permission was so choked that it could not reach him, and he entered and stood gazing in annoyed bewilderment. "you, madame?" "i, monsieur." "what does this mean?" she walked across and took his hand, holding it tightly between both her own. "only this, dear," she whispered, "we have had our dream, and now the awakening comes. it was all my fault, and you must leave me, and forget we ever met--but, no, do not forget; remember me as the wickedest woman whom you have ever known. the one who falsely won your love, and then spurned it, and left you with only a bitter knowledge of the evil of the world." "you mean that you have fooled me, and do not love me?" he said, stonily. "yes, i have fooled you," she answered, and she seemed to shrink beneath the lie that her love told her would teach him the sooner to forget. "and you do not love me?" he repeated, his face growing gray in the glowing sunlight. "i do not love you," she answered, and the boy believed her. "good-bye," he said; "shall i murmur my gratitude for the few hours of happiness in my fool's paradise?" then, while the sneers still hovered around his lips, while i counted all was ended, she flung her arms around him, and drew his head down, until his cheek touched hers. "not so, my own," she sobbed, "not so; we must part, but not like this. i cannot live if you should think me so worthless. we must part; you must go one way and i the other, but i love you, dear, i love you." "mademoiselle," i cried, sharply, "this is mere childishness, this is the weakest folly;" and she, with her eyes glistening, turned again from him, and answered, wearily: "yes, 'tis folly, 'tis madness--good-bye." "no," he cried, wildly, "you shall not go!" "she must--she shall," i answered, angrily. "are you bereft of reason that you would so disgrace yourself--your state?" "it is no disgrace to marry the noblest woman this world has seen," he retorted, hotly, and i admired him for the blaze of passion in his eyes. "you speak like a child," i cried. "she says good-bye because she knows that you must part. prince ferdinand of elvirna cannot wed a nobody." "prince ferdinand!" she gasped, and, stepping back a pace, gazed through her tears into his face. "eh! prince ferdinand," he answered, in scorn, "and curse the day that made me so. i am no struggling student. curse the day that made me prince, i say! curse the day!" "prince ferdinand," she repeated, and i thought the girl must be bewitched, for she smiled. i caught him by the arm and drew him towards me, for i could see by the look on her face that she was no scheming adventuress. "if there be disgrace," i cried, witheringly, "it is yours. you came with deceit and falsehood. you won her heart, pretending to be such as she, no better in the world's eyes, and no worse." "were i prince a thousand times over, and a thousand times on that," he answered, softly, "i would give it all for her." "happily, there must be two to the bargain, and she is too true a woman to hold you, when she knows it means your social ruin." "on the contrary, madame; now i know he is what he is i will marry him." her face was wreathed in smiles, smiles that had chased away the mist of sorrow's tears, and i shuddered as i realized that i had brought about the very end that i came to prevent. "you will marry him?" i gasped. "_oui_, madame," she replied, and courtesied to the ground. "you know me. are we not what the world calls eligibles?" i could only gaze in bewilderment. "tell the prince who i am," she cried, with a roguish laugh; and then, as i still stood silent, she courtesied again to the ground before him. "rené, only daughter of the compte de pontiers, may it please your highness," she murmured. he would have taken her to his arms in a rush of delight, but she ceremoniously waved him back. "present us with all due form and etiquette, madame." it was a strange introduction, for three times did they bow with court formality to each other, and then the rustic lovers came to life again, and he clasped her in his arms. "if you knew he was such an exalted personage, and knew me not to be a poor actress upon a visit, as i pretended," rené cried, turning towards me, "why did you insist that i must break away from happiness because of my position? surely we are what our world calls eligibles?" and while i, in a generous instant, would have confessed the whole truth, a flush came over her face. "my father must never know of this foolish masquerade," she said, gravely. "you never met prince ferdinand until two minutes since," i answered. "is it not so? we will say that his highness's infatuation for an actress died the natural death of most infatuations; and then, a little later, make known his coming alliance with no less a lady than rené, daughter of the compte de pontiers." so ended prince ferdinand's entanglement. so ended my romantic mission that was such a successful failure; and now sometimes when i admire that diamond necklace i wonder if an accusation might not be formulated against me for obtaining jewels under false pretences. and yet--why? a deal with china for the moment the exhilarating fascination of "le pole nord" had absolutely enthralled the heart of feminine paris. to skate for an hour and then sit and sip one's coffee, to hold an informal reception among one's own particular enemies, or to flirt with one's dearest friends for the remainder of the afternoon, was now the amusement upon which society had set its approving hall-mark, and for once in the way the craze that fashionable paris had smiled upon was something in the nature of pleasure, and not a task. it was delight to glide across the ice to the strains of that excellent orchestra; it was premature paradise to know that one's tailor-made gown, edged with fur to maintain an illusive suggestion of winter, need not await a frost before it could pique one's bosom companion; it was new life to feel one's blood tingling with the glow of health and new elation; to realize that one had successfully mastered the intricacies of double grape-vines and canadian eights; and it was fashionable, for did not the duchess de maussapet, the countess venezia, and all others we poor women have been taught to imitate, grace the assembly almost every afternoon? we had danced a quadrille upon the ice, and as the final bars died away my eyes met those of my diplomatic friend monsieur roché, as he leaned against a pillar, and there was a look upon his face, a peculiar gesture as he bowed to me, that told me why so staid a man had joined the frivolities of "le pole nord." yet it went against my heart to dismiss my companion, for he was the most handsome instructor that "le pole nord" possessed, an apollo in his fur-trimmed jacket and jaunty cap, and all my feminine friends were dying to skate with him. it went against my heart to give him up to a woman who would only bore him. he sighed as he unfastened my skates, and i sighed too, and walked to where monsieur roché was waiting. and the poor man did look so absurd in his silk hat and conventional frock-coat compared with my late companion; but that man was now skating with a woman i detested, and i promptly dismissed him from my thoughts. "i have looked everywhere for you," monsieur roché exclaimed, as he took my hand. "there is only one place where i could be, monsieur, and that is here. to be away from 'le pole nord' at this time of the day is to be out of the world. would you care to cultivate the art with my assistance?" "i wish for your guidance over something even more slippery than ice," he answered, as we seated ourselves upon a lounge. "well?" "you know that we are entertaining an envoy from china, who presumably tours the world on a voyage of pleasure and enlightenment." "his excellency hun sun?" "precisely." monsieur roché leaned towards me until his lips almost touched my ear. "this journey of pleasure is a subterfuge. the ambassador comes from china to france." "and the object of his visit?" "to gain a pledge from france for defensive, or even offensive, protection." i pursed my lips, for who in the world did not know that england and russia would have to be reckoned with? "there are powers in china," monsieur roché continued, "who have offered such inducements to tempt this protective alliance that we cannot resist them. who those powers may be, whether the emperor himself or those who do not love him, concerns you nothing. hun sun came to me and gave the message by word of mouth, but because of the secrecy which must be maintained in such a matter, no writing was to pass between france and china which, if by any chance intercepted, could be brought up against"--monsieur roché paused--"those who had sent him." "we civilized nations are far behind the heathen in diplomacy," i murmured. "far behind," he acquiesced. "many a man would be happier if he had never learned to write. there was to be no writing between us that could incriminate. hun sun gave me the message, asked for a witness, and before that witness, who was gaspard levivé, my chief secretary, handed me a small gold seal. if france agreed, our answer was to be a mere interchange of diplomatic courtesies, sealed with that seal, and all would be understood." "it seems over-elaborated and cumbersome caution, _mon ami_, for surely the man trusted to bring the message could be trusted to take the answer." "except that as it is he can never know the answer, _ma chère_. however, it is not the methods of this diplomacy that i wished to consult you upon, but this: when his excellency handed me the seal, i placed it upon the table by my side; five minutes afterwards he left, and when i turned to the table it was gone, and no one but ourselves had been near it. by 'ourselves' i mean hun sun, myself, and gaspard levivé. there seems to be no possible reason for his excellency to steal what he need not have delivered; there would be no sense in my concealing what no one need know i have received, and so--" "there is only gaspard?" i sharply interjected, and i felt my pulses throb with indignation, for who knew better than i, since the affair of the abducted ambassador, that the man i was honored in calling my dearest friend was as true as any who served our country. "there is only gaspard," monsieur repeated. "then you insinuate that your secretary, my friend, has stolen the seal?" i cried, angrily. "i insinuate nothing," he answered. "i come to you, because you have solved many difficult problems, to help me in this." "and i refuse, monsieur. you are a poor diplomat to attempt to gain a woman's sympathy by attacking one whom she esteems and admires." "i think not, for i have already aroused your deepest interest in my unfortunate position." "indeed!" "certainly; because one is implicated whom," monsieur roché glanced into my face and smiled, "you esteem and admire." "i repeat that you are a poor diplomat," i cried, angrily, "and i will prove it. because you have chosen to insult my friend, because you have chosen to insinuate that he is a traitor and a thief, i renounce my position. i refuse this commission and all others, and i have the honor to wish you good-day and good-bye. now, monsieur, have i proved that you are a poor diplomat? a child in what you count yourself a master?" i had risen, and stood looking down upon him, and i felt there was a tinge of scorn and perhaps contempt in my glance, but he took my hand and gently drew me down to the lounge beside him. "you have only proved," he said, "what a woman's true regard is worth. _mon dieu!_ how could any man be a traitor whom you have placed so high in your esteem?" "then i have misunderstood you," i quickly answered. "i take back to myself all that i have said. i become a penitent, i accept this and all other commissions, and think you, monsieur, absolutely the best and nicest man in paris." he looked at me with almost a twinkle in his eyes, and then, "am i not a good diplomat?" he mildly interjected. "you are a most unscrupulous politician," i answered. "you never suspected gaspard?" "never. i was merely quickening your interest in the position. am i not a good diplomat?" "you're the most irritating middle-aged man in france." my companion shrugged his shoulders, smiled for a moment, and then leaned towards me. "i did not steal it, and gaspard did not." he raised his eyebrows. "hun sun stole it himself." "precisely my own opinion," monsieur roché murmured, appreciatively. "he, although a chosen envoy to france, is against us. he was bound to deliver his message, but in the same instant he rendered it futile. we cannot own that we have lost the seal, and without it we cannot accept." "and your object in seeking me at such an hour is to ask me to regain the seal?" "yes, _ma chère_, you are the one woman in the world who is brilliant enough to do it, because--" "not so much sugar, if you please, monsieur. thank you;" and i took my cup from his hand, leaving him to apply my remark in its double sense, and smiled with satisfaction because i noticed that paul was cutting figures and flourishes in solitude. i knew that empty-headed woman would bore him. "but i may count upon your assistance?" monsieur le premier plaintively interjected. "to regain the seal is utterly impossible," i quietly answered. "impossible?" "altogether. the man who could rob you before your very eyes is too clever to allow himself to be robbed in turn. i do not care for missions without a hope of success. there is but one thing you can do: bribe hun sun to come over to the side of france." "unfortunately, hun sun has departed for the land where bribery is unknown." i sat forward in my seat in amazement; even monsieur's diplomatic manner of putting it did not completely hide his meaning. "when did it happen?" "late last night. he returned from his appointment with me to his suite at l'imperatrice hôtel, and, after transacting some business with his secretary ling wen, retired for the night, and forever. living diplomats mourn a talented man, who has gone to join the politicians who have preceded him--or, at least, some of them." "and that being so, _mon ami_, i undertake the mission. you may make your plans, for i promise you shall have the seal within twenty-four hours--unless," i added, "it was never taken to the hotel." "you mean it?" he cried, a flush of pleasure chasing the sallow lines of worry from his face. "in spite of cheap masculine cynicism, _mon cher_, a woman sometimes means what she says. i think i can regain it for you. where is the--" "the body was removed secretly in the early morning to the chinese embassy." "and no one knows of his excellency's death?" "outside those pledged to silence, no one." "let me see," i murmured, reflectively; "his secretary's name is--?" "ling wen, with, say, twenty odd additions." "ling wen will be sufficient. at seven o'clock to-night, monsieur, you will send an imperative message that you must see ling wen at once, and--no, that is all you need do. you will not skate? then, _mon ami, au revoir_." it was ten minutes past seven when my _coupé_, drew up at the door of l'imperatrice hôtel, and i requested to be conducted to the apartments of his excellency hun sun; and i felt pleased with myself, for my much-tried milliner had obliterated volumes of misdeeds with a gown and cloak that were perfection. a shade of perplexity gathered upon the face of the waiter as he heard my request, and that perplexity was deepened in the features of monsieur le manager, when he was called and listened to my desire. "his excellency hun sun had only just departed." i had serious thoughts of recommending that man to monsieur roché as an uncultivated diplomat. "and"--he seemed prepared to sink into the ground at the humiliation of disappointing me--"his excellency's secretary, ling wen, had also just been called away." "it did not matter; i would wait;" and because my own countrymen can refuse a pretty woman nothing, i gained my point, and was conducted by the gentleman himself to the suite of the envoy, to await, as he again so diplomatically put it, "the one who should first return." there were three rooms--a reception-room, a bedroom, and a study--and i trembled with excitement as i realized that the object of my visit, the stolen seal, was somewhere in those rooms, and in a few minutes i might be passing out of the hotel, and all would be over. an obliging bunch of keys lay invitingly upon the study table, and rapidly i opened drawer after drawer in that apartment and the bedroom, and became more and more irritated, as my search proved ever fruitless. the reception-room only was left, and my vexation evaporated in a laugh of approaching triumph, as i realized that a cunning man would hide what he had to hide in the most open room, and not in the most private. there was only an ormolu writing-table with fancy drawers that refused to yield to the persuasion of my keys, but a broad-bladed oriental knife tempted me, and, thrusting it into the edge, i pressed upon it, and forced the front from the drawer. it came with a sharp snap, and a quiet chuckle caused me to turn with a start. his excellency's secretary, ling wen, was sitting in a chair, his hands upon his knees, smiling blandly at me. i did not speak. for the first time in my life i could not find the right words to say, but could only gaze into the face of ling wen, who sat there, his long fingers spread out over the knees of his yellow, embroidered silk robe. i glanced at the clock. i had been at work over an hour. "you are searching for something," he said, quietly--"pray continue;" and the invitation was too gracious not to be accepted. i swept the contents of the drawer upon the carpet. there were only a few bundles of official-looking papers. i pushed them aside with my shoe and frowned in annoyance. "so it is not a paper you seek, madame?" ling wen suavely murmured. "that is good." "it is a trifle," i nervously answered; "a trinket that i mislaid when i stayed here last." ling wen, with his hand upon his chin, nodded; but i did not like the nod, for with it oozed a smile that seemed more a compliment to my readiness of invention than belief in my veracity. "a trinket?" he said, rising from his seat, his sharp, narrow eyes directed full upon me. "one i valued greatly, your excellency." "women are ever careless of what they value most," he answered; "allow me to help you." and then i could not restrain a half-cry of annoyance, for he commenced his search where i should have done an hour ago; and taking a sèvres vase from the mantel-piece, turned it upside down, and something glittering in the light rolled out upon the carpet. it was the seal i sought, a large ruby cut with a monogram and mounted in filigree gold. "you have found it," he said, with a guileless smile, as i picked it up. "i can never thank you sufficiently," i replied, and then, as he shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly, i, in the elation of my victory, bestowed my most dazzling smile upon him and begged him to forgive my unceremonious intrusion. "you ask too much," he replied, with a glance that made me feel how well i was suited by my gown--"you ask too much, madame; my privilege must be ever to remember it." the seal was in my hand as he gently placed my cloak around my shoulders, in my left hand as he raised my right to his lips, still there as he bowed again and again to me, and i walked towards the door, tried it, and found it locked. "the door is locked!" i cried, sharply. "exactly," he murmured, blandly; "the door is locked." i walked across the room again, and, throwing back my cloak from my shoulders, sank upon a lounge, while he seated himself opposite me, and, with his hands again spread out upon his knees, watched and waited for me to speak; but i would not, and presently he broke the silence. "i caught sight of that trinket when it dropped," he said, smoothly, "and it seemed to me that i have seen it once before in the possession of my master, his excellency hun sun." "well?" i demanded, spitefully, for it was bitter to see my victory dwindling to failure, to know that i had been frustrated, and my boast to monsieur roché was idle. "well, what then?" "that being so, i ask to examine it more closely." "and if i refuse, your excellency," i sneered. "even the chinese, i presume, do not use force to a woman." "even the french," he answered, "do not, i presume, permit barefaced theft." "i tell you the trinket is mine, and that should be sufficient. if you knew me you dare not doubt my word." "you are but a grudging courtier of your own charms," he answered, with a ceremonious bow. "who could once see madame lerestelle and ever forget her?" i placed the seal upon a moorish stool by my side, and he nodded approvingly. "let us consider the matter from a diplomatic point of view, your excellency." "i have the most profound respect for diplomacy, madame, for i am ignorant even of its rudiments." the idea that first came to me when monsieur roché recounted the incident had grown in my mind until it became fixed as the truth. i determined to force this bland heathen into submission, or at least acquiescence. "ling wen." "madame." i leaned impressively towards him and sank my voice to a whisper. "why did you remove hun sun?" only a slight in-drawing of the lips followed my question, a twitch for the fraction of a second passed over his expressionless features. "you are aware, then, that his excellency is dead?" "yes. why did you murder him?" "this is childish, madame, and outside the point at issue." "neither the one nor the other, ling wen, for because i know this you are going to hand me that seal and conduct me to my carriage." "you will be pleased to prove it, madame." "undoubtedly. hun sun was sent with a message to be delivered by word of mouth to france. a message that dare not be written." ling wen nodded ever so slightly. "it may be so, madame; i do not know." "a man who knew what hun sun did was too dangerous to be allowed to return to china, for he might hold even the emperor himself within the hollow of his hand." "i follow your reasoning, madame; it is excellent." "the life of a man in china is always counted as insignificant. is it not so, ling wen?" "who could be so ungallant as to contradict you?" he suavely responded. "hun sun was sent with the message, and you, ling wen, were to kill him when he had delivered it." "well, madame?" "because i know this, you will give me the seal and conduct me to my carriage." ling wen shook his head. "no, madame, the price is too high for a series of deductions, clever though they be. his excellency died from natural causes." "you are sure the physicians will say so?" "their opinion will not be asked. the french government cannot insult our illustrious dead. hun sun is dead. that is sufficient." "but because of the part you have played, ling wen, i demand the seal as the price of my silence." he rose from his seat and paced the room, and when he spoke again his voice, for a chinaman, had grown strangely incisive. "i should not be swayed by a threat, madame, but if i can grant you a favor, i will." "call it by which name you please," i cried, seeing signs of his wavering. "why do you want the seal?" "are you for france or russia, ling wen?" "i am for china," he answered, quietly; "even a heathen has patriotism. why do you want the seal?" i sat and pondered. how much must i tell him, and how much hold back? i looked anxiously at the seal as it lay upon the stool, and he interpreted my glance. "for the moment," he said, "it is on neutral ground, and shall remain so until we have diplomatically solved the problem." i still hesitated; but there was no other way, and so perforce i took the only one open to me. "it is to seal an alliance between france and china." "ah!" he smiled with delight, nodded his head approvingly, and spread out his long fingers, as though he warmed them at a fire. i took new courage to my heart. "hun sun delivered it to monsieur roché, and the instant after purloined it and rendered his mission futile. hun sun was in the pay of russia." "ss's the dog!" ling wen hissed; "i always suspected it. the dog!" "but you, ling wen, will make amends for the deed of this traitor?" "gladly," he cried; "the neutrality is broken." he bent over, took the seal in his fingers, and i extended my hand to receive it. "you are as clever as you are beautiful," he said, "and deserve to succeed, but unfortunately you cannot." he dropped the seal into the open pocket of his loose silk robe. "what do you mean?" i cried, starting in passionate amazement from my seat. "you have much to learn, madame, before you become a skilled diplomat; you are too trustful, too confiding, and, as others of your lovely sex, you talk too much. i, too, am in the pay of russia." i drew my breath through my closed teeth, and clinched my hands, for i could have killed him as he stood and blandly smiled. i had been tricked and fooled. i had failed, and worse than failed, for i had dealt an irreparable blow at my own country. "you play a rash game, ling wen," i cried, with cold rage. "but a successful one, madame." "france's representations to peking will secure your disgrace for the part you have played in this affair." "tush! france can make no representations with his excellency hun sun's mission unanswered." "we can at least show how we have been cajoled." "and if it were believed, the desire of china for alliance with a power which had proved so stupid would vanish; but it would not be believed; they would say you were scheming for delay. you had better take defeat with a pleasant grace." i smothered my rage, and smiled a thin smile. "very well, ling wen," i answered; "i will learn diplomacy from you, and put a good face upon the matter." "it is the truest wisdom to accept the inevitable with complacency," he murmured. "you may see me to my carriage." "i would that our ambitions were the same," he said, as he unlocked and opened the door. "i am humiliated in refusing you." "where there are victors there must be vanquished," i answered, as one who spoke a platitude, for i was disheartened and wretched at my failure. he took my hand, and raised it to his lips. "_au revoir_, madame." "perhaps france can pay more than russia, ling wen?" and i looked at him inquiringly. "no country can pay better than russia for secret service, madame," he answered; and then a dull sparkle came into his narrow eyes, and he pushed the door to, and laid his hand upon my arm. "sit down," he said, and i walked with him, my eyes cast down upon the carpet, fearful lest he should see the triumph glowing in them; with a grain of fortune, the victory yet was mine. the inspiration came to me, clear as the noonday sun, when he opened the door for me to leave. i trembled lest he should detect the new color rising in my cheeks, and with my glance still cast down, i took my seat again, and waited. he stood beside me, and rested his long, thin fingers lightly on my shoulder. "no country can pay better than russia for secret service, madame," he repeated, with emphasis. "it is not to be thought of," i answered, hesitatingly. "think what russia would pay for your services, you in the heart of the secrets of diplomatic france." "not sufficient to destroy my patriotism," i said, lest it should seem that i yielded too easily. "the ardor of one's patriotism regulates one's price," he responded. "think what would they not pay you." "tush!" i cried; "this is foolishness. you wish to tempt me to place myself in your power, for fear i may yet prove dangerous. what authority do you possess to make promises for russia? it is childish; i will go." i moved to rise from my seat, but he restrained me. "you are a clever woman," he said, "and that is why i would have you on our side. i tell you frankly that your value would be incalculable to russia--to the russian party in china. on behalf of russia, i can make the payment whatever you desire." "it is difficult to believe, _mon ami_," i replied, with a laugh, and i looked him in the face now, for a little excitement was pardonable. "the protestations you made earlier in the evening have proved too false to inspire confidence." "that may be so," he exclaimed, with a quiet chuckle, "but if i can show you an official document of the russian government proclaiming me what i say i am, giving me such powers as i say i possess, what then?" "then we will discuss the position diplomatically," i answered. "where is the paper?" "in the adjoining room," he said, and again i bent my eyes upon the ground. "it is made jointly to hun sun and myself. we were the two great russian allies in china, and we, by strange coincidence, were chosen to deliver this message to france. your deduction that i killed hun sun, although clever, is wrong. the emperor of china does not guard his secrets quite so barbarously. hun sun was advanced in years, and died a natural death." "then let me see this paper and i will believe you, and perhaps--" he smiled and turned away from me, and i rose from my seat. "i will bring it to you." "we are not allies yet, ling wen, and i do not trust you. i will come." "as you will," he answered. "i admire your caution, for it tells me how invaluable you will be to us;" and with a bow he crossed the room, and held the door of the inner apartment open for me to enter. i half advanced, paused irresolute, and then drew back. "you may precede me," i said. "i will again be candid. i do not trust you;" and i stood aside for him to pass, and took the handle of the door, which opened towards me, in my left hand. he laughed quietly again, and turned and faced me. "an excess of caution is bad diplomacy, madame," he said, "for it creates suspicion. if i did not know how impossible it was, i should think you still had designs upon the seal." with another soft chuckle he passed on and entered the doorway; and then like a flash, the instant his back was turned, i caught his silk embroidered robe in my right hand, and with my left flung to the door and locked it. there was a guttural exclamation from within as he tried to tear his gown free, but my glance fell upon the oriental knife that i had used before, and, holding the silk in my hand, with a slash i cut it through, and the seal, which lay in the corner of the deep pocket, was again in my possession. ling wen was beating furiously upon the panels, so i took the precaution of locking the outer door as i departed, and descended the stairs, elated with a feeling of supreme contentment, for was not my promise to monsieur roché amply and well fulfilled? monsieur rochÉ's defeat "_mon ami_, you jest!" "i never jest," monsieur roché snappishly replied. "before the week is through paris will have a sensation, the ministry will be defeated--more than defeated, disgraced. i have been deceived, miserably betrayed, and by the man i trusted most. a friend of yours, madame--gaspard levivé." "it is not true," i cried; and the blood mounted to my cheeks in anger, for truly gaspard levivé was a friend of mine, one whom i delighted to call my greatest friend. "it is only too true," monsieur roché gravely answered. "i am disgraced, and the young fool is ruined. at least not ruined," he bitterly continued: "doubtless he will be rewarded by the new ministry." "if this be the prelude to a commission, monsieur, i refuse it." "there is no commission, madame; the day is hopelessly lost. i have been betrayed by my own secretary." we had met crossing the place de la concorde, and had stayed talking by the luxor obelisk, and now i deliberately obscured monsieur roché with my sunshade, and gazed up the vista of the champs-elysées to the arc de triomphe. suddenly i turned, closed my parasol with a vicious snap, and looked angrily into his face. "i accept the commission, monsieur; tell me all." he placed his hand upon my arm. "you are angry, _ma chère_, and so am i. you are wounded, and i am also. let it pass; there is no commission." "some mystery," i cried. "no mystery and no solution; all is too wretchedly clear. you are anxious to defend gaspard, so am i; but it is useless; he stands self-condemned, and we had best forget his very existence." "tell me," i said, stonily. "he has stolen a document from my safe and sold it to those who can, who will, use it to disgrace and overthrow me." "it is false." "a month ago france was insulted--deliberately insulted in such a manner that it became almost a declaration of war. it was equivalent to a challenge for war, and yet one that we dare not take up. war to france would mean ruin. she would inevitably lose, and sink to the condition of a second-rate power." "well!" "we decided we could not go to war. we must diplomatically ignore the slur, at least until we were more prepared; but it was a matter for france, and not for the ministry alone. if our course of action became known, it might be the first step towards revolution. there was no help for it, and i privately conferred with the head of the opposition, my greatest political enemy, monsieur desormes." "one of the most unscrupulous men in france." "one of the greatest diplomats." "the terms are frequently synonymous, monsieur. proceed." "wonderful to relate, he was with us. war was impossible--we dare not declare it, we must accept the distasteful position--but i insisted that his support of that policy should be given me in writing, that he should bind himself to an adhesion to our views, so that he could not withdraw; and he agreed, and wrote a confidential document in which he declared that he stood firm with us for peace. that document has been stolen from my safe by gaspard levivé, and returned to desormes, who now laughs in my face, sneeringly announcing that he will publicly charge my ministry with degrading france in the eyes of europe, and crush us." "you go too fast, monsieur; why stolen by gaspard levivé?" "because he for a few hours had the key of my safe in his possession. it is he or i." "i would sooner suspect you, monsieur." "last night i left my keys with him. this morning before i arrived he had a mysterious visitor, a woman--" "well, monsieur, what of that?" "when i opened the safe the letter was gone, and a blank sheet of paper substituted; that is all." "and his explanation?" "he refuses any. declines even to say who the visitor was, or why she called." "i see no case against him," i said, soberly, but my heart was chilling because of this unknown woman. "that is not all," monsieur roché continued, "for i know who she was--the countess renazé, the closest friend of mlle. desormes, one of the most bewitching women in paris, beautiful enough to tempt any man from his duty. i found this handkerchief with her monogram and crest in his room." "good-day, monsieur." "good-bye, _ma chère_; we've both made a mistake--good-bye." i did not want to talk with my diplomatic friend; i did not want to talk with any one. i left him, and walked towards the boulevard des capucines, the words ringing in my ears, "we've both made a mistake." i hated myself, i hated diplomats, and i wondered if i was so wretched because gaspard was false to france or because he had been false to me. then as i strolled, a little scene came back to my mind that i had witnessed that morning upon the platform of the gare du nord. the countess renazé was departing for london. i could see her now as she leaned from the carriage window. so it could not be she who had called upon gaspard, and monsieur roché's reasoning was at fault in that particular. why not in more than that; why not in all? but my next thought condemned gaspard almost beyond appeal, for i remembered that, as the train started, the countess dropped her lace handkerchief from between her fingers, and, too late to hand it back, her friend, mlle. desormes, the daughter of monsieur roché's enemy, picked it up. it was she who had called upon gaspard immediately afterwards, and had coaxed or tricked him into delivering the paper to her; and i, who would have given all to prove gaspard's innocence, had found evidence to condemn him even more strongly. i stopped in sudden surprise, for the man whom i would have avoided stood before me. "you have heard i am ruined and disgraced," he said, for he could not but perceive the constraint in my manner. "i have just left monsieur roché. how could you be so mad?" his lips twitched even as though my words came as a shock to him. "i thought one woman would believe me. i was on my way to ask for your assistance." "assistance is impossible, monsieur, with half-hearted confidences. a lady called upon you, and you refuse her name." "monsieur roché discovered that it was the countess renazé." "it was mlle. desormes," i said, coldly. gaspard's face turned even a shade paler, and his eyes fell before my gaze. "you know that?" he said, in astonishment. "yes; why did you not tell monsieur roché?" "because there are circumstances in which explanation may be counted as half-confession." "indeed." "i was appalled at the accusation, and such an admission must have stamped my guilt. think, the daughter of the very man who had tricked us, monsieur roché's implacable enemy. it was impossible, and so i kept silent." "it was a criminal silence, a worse falsehood than a spoken untruth. why did she call?" gaspard flushed, and after a moment's pause spoke in a voice that was hesitating and constrained. "i had promised to lend her a government book upon the island of martinique." and then--for i could scarce restrain a smile--it was so ridiculous for one of the belles of paris to take to the study of official reports; he hotly continued: "now you see why i did not tell monsieur roché the truth, for even you do not believe it. it seems too childish, too ridiculous." "it seems too childish to be false, _mon ami_," i answered; "but are you sure there was not some little--what shall i say when a beautiful woman and a clever man are concerned?--some little--" "you need say nothing, aidë," he answered, looking me straight in the face; "you know there was not." and my heart seemed to suddenly grow so light that i forgot the serious business that troubled us. "well, _mon cher_ gaspard, i think it is a mistake; a promising diplomat ought to have tendencies towards matrimony, because it is so respectable." "only let me get this wretched problem solved, aidë, and then i will give you a commission to find me a wife. but i am hard to please," he laughed. "she must be the most beautiful woman in paris, the most brilliant, and the most accomplished." i think there must have been just a tinge of heightened color in my cheeks, and we were both smiling, forgetful of misfortune; but i had promised to find this paragon, and so i lightly laid my hand on his, and murmured, "gaspard, _mon cher_, she is the very woman you shall marry." i believe it was in his thoughts to say more, but i stopped him. "let us get back to serious realities," i said. "mlle. desormes called upon you ostensibly for the yellow book that you promised to lend her. was she left alone in your room?" "for five minutes, perhaps, while i went to fetch it." "and your room communicates with that of monsieur roché?" "yes." "then it is simplicity itself; in that five minutes she stole the paper." "it is not simplicity itself aidë; far from it. last night i locked the safe. monsieur roché went early, and left the key with me, and i saw the letter there when placing other documents in the safe. this morning before he arrived i unlocked it, took some papers out, and locked it again, and monsieur roché found it so when he arrived. so it is impossible to believe that mlle. desormes could have accomplished the theft." "it seems impossible, gaspard, because we do not know the method." "there is but one key, and that did not leave my possession. the packet was to all intents and purposes intact this morning, the seal monsieur roché stamped upon it a month ago unbroken, but the contents had been stolen." "she may have substituted a counterfeit for the original," i answered. "it is a favorite trick with a woman," and i smiled as i recollected a similar affair that had occurred between ourselves. "and forged monsieur roché's private seal?" "my dear gaspard," i cried, irritably, "what is the use of adopting this supercilious air of obstruction? papers are not spirited from steel safes. it must have been stolen, and it is for us to discover how, and regain it." "i only seek to show how inexplicable the thing is," he answered. "in detail, yes, but on the broad principle it is as plain as sunlight. why should monsieur roché open the packet to-day?" "because of monsieur desormes's insolent threats of exposure and disgrace." "ah! now see, _mon ami_, how easy it becomes. a paper which incriminates monsieur desormes, which proclaims in his own writing his complicity in the policy adopted by the present ministry, was in monsieur roché's safe. this morning his daughter calls upon you on a preposterously transparent errand. she, one of the beauties of paris, desires the loan of the recently issued report on martinique; that necessitates your leaving her, and when she is gone, the paper is missing." "the inference, on the broad principle, is that she stole it." "then that is the inference upon which we will base our work, _mon ami_." "so you do not credit that in me she had a willing accomplice?" "should i be walking with you this afternoon if i did?" i said. "only one thing i am sure about, and that is that mlle. desormes, in some inexplicable manner, stole that paper this morning, and must have it still. i am going to her at once, and next time we meet, _mon ami_, i will hand it back to you." "you seem confident, aidë." "and that is victory half accomplished,_ mon cher; au revoir_." ten minutes later i entered the court-yard of one of the mansions of the boulevard haussmann, and requested to see mlle. desormes. we were slight acquaintances, and already i counted that i had forced her to obey me, and to submit, for, although a very pretty and charming girl, she was too young and too inexperienced to be a match for a woman who was fighting for the good name of the man--but why confuse sentiment with diplomacy? mlle. desormes received me in her boudoir with a smile of welcome, and thrust down amid the cushions of her chair, only half-concealed, was that eternal book on martinique. "have you seen your father to-day, mademoiselle?" i asked, quietly, after a few moments' chat upon commonplaces. "no," she cried, with a start, and then hastily added, "has anything happened to him?" "nothing," i replied, reassuringly; "but have you communicated with him to-day?" "no," she answered. "why do you ask?" "because i desire to know," i enigmatically responded, and i could not but admire the clever look of perplexity upon her face. "as you have not done so, the matter is more easily arranged." "what matter, madame?" "this, mademoiselle. you called at le quai d'orsay this morning and brought something away with you that you ought not to have done. now the position is simple. you will give it to me, and no more will be said. if you do not, i shall compel you." "compel!" she cried, with a glint of spirit in her eyes. "compel, madame." "compel, mademoiselle." for an instant she seemed inclined to resent my emphatic demand, but with a careless shrug of the shoulders she turned to me again, and handed me that wretched book on martinique. i only drew my breath and gazed at her, my temper rising dangerously as i realized the utter uselessness of the course i had taken with this woman. a sudden surprise, because i had judged her young and inexperienced. "i will not question your right, madame," she cried, with a fine touch of scorn. "you say you have come for that book, and i have given it to you. shall we now say _au revoir_?" "you must be deeply interested in martinique," i viciously exclaimed; and she flushed until the color spread all over her cheeks, even invaded with a warm tint the whiteness of her neck, and yet, like a school-girl, she hung her head, and answered nothing. "when the pretty women of paris take to the study of government reports," i continued, with a sneer, endeavoring to irritate her until she spoke hastily, and perhaps gave me my opportunity, "there must indeed be other reasons in the background. martinique doubtless possesses unique attractions for you, mademoiselle." "this is shameful," she cried, springing passionately to her feet, "and from you, madame lerestelle, one whom i have always admired." "tush!" i cried, impatiently; and i too rose and faced her. "why did you call upon monsieur levivé this morning? only for a book on martinique--only that?" she gazed into my eyes with a strange look of surprise, and then her lips twitched for a second, and as she held her forefinger up to me she had the effrontery to smile in my face. "_ma chérie_," she cried, with a laugh; "you're jealous." "mademoiselle!" "tut, tut!" she cried. "now don't deny it, because it is the only possible excuse for the way you have been talking to me. but a woman can easily excuse jealousy when she is not in love with the same man." i was numbed with indignation at the manner in which this _ingénue_ played with me, and she had had the audacity to place her arm around my waist. "confidence for confidence, _ma chère_," she murmured. "my father discovered that monsieur decassé and i loved each other, and had him transferred to martinique, and," she looked up into my face, "even dry official reports of the progress of the island are interesting to me, because the man i love is there, and may even have written them." diplomacy vanished. i felt as helpless as a child in the hands of this innocent, whose ready tongue found such excuses, and with a spasm of rage i caught her by the wrist. "let us finesse no more, mademoiselle," i cried, sharply, "for the time is gone. i care for martinique as much as you do, and you know what i have called for as well as i. not this yellow book you brought away as an excuse, but the paper missing from monsieur roché's room. will you give me that or not?" "i do not understand you," she quietly replied. "give me that document which you, at your father's instigation, stole this morning." she drew herself away, and her slight, girlish figure seemed to grow in dignity before me. "how dare you?" she said. "how dare you?" "i dare anything, when you have ruined the man i love. give me that paper?" "you are mad!" "mad or not, mademoiselle, i do not leave this house--" "monsieur desormes desires to see you in his study, mademoiselle." the servant withdrew, and i turned again to her. "and now," i cried, and my blood throbbed hotly in my veins, "now you will still say you know nothing of this theft?" "i say nothing now," she scornfully retorted. "you shall come with me and hear what i have to say." she walked almost unconcernedly towards the door, and then turned and faced me. "follow me, madame lerestelle," she cried, and in bitter tones added, "and follow me closely, lest a day should come when you will assert i gave my father the clew of what he should speak to you." and, with no qualms of conscience, i followed her, and so closely that we entered monsieur desormes's study together. he was what those who are foreigners to us would describe as "the typical frenchman." though his years must have been fifty, he looked scarcely forty, and his upright military carriage, his dark mustache waxed to dagger points, and close-cropped hair, made him appear even younger still. he was what his appearance proclaimed him, an urbane, clever, and unscrupulous diplomat. he rose and graciously bowed to me, even as though i were an expected guest. "your visit is a pleasure as illimitable in its delight as in its surprise, madame," he softly murmured. "yet a most unfitting moment for pedantic compliments," mlle. desormes warmly interjected; and i marvelled at the rage that still blazed within her eyes. "i called on monsieur levivé at the quai d'orsay this morning," she continued, turning sharply upon her father; "why i did so concerns but you and me alone. to-day a paper has been stolen from monsieur roché's room, which adjoins monsieur levivé's, and i am charged with the theft." monsieur desormes's eyebrows shot upward. "you?" he ejaculated. "i," she answered, in cold passion. "i am accused of this theft. my name is linked with that of monsieur levivé, as the one who tempted him to dishonor. my name--can you realize the stigma, monsieur?" "i can realize no connection of circumstances," he replied, contemptuously, and she crossed the room, and, laying her hand upon his desk, looked him full in the face. "it seems that this paper incriminated you," she exclaimed; and i saw that then he started. "it is a paper that pledged you to support, or, at any rate, not to oppose, the ministry, monsieur," i interrupted; "and it has been stolen." "i am aware of that, madame. i decided that it was better for france not to keep that pledge." "but not better for me," mademoiselle cried, "and i am even before france." "it is your own folly that has caused you to be suspected," he responded. "it is the devices that men call dishonesty and statesmen diplomacy," she answered; and he put his arm around her waist and drew her back until she was seated upon the edge of his chair. "pretty little girls must not use cynical epigrams," he said, softly, as one petting a spoiled child. "now, come, what is it you want?" "i want nothing," she burst out, indignantly, "but i demand justice. i demand to be freed from this insinuation of theft. i do not ask, i demand, that monsieur levivé, who is innocent, shall be relieved from suspicion, and you shall confess how you have stolen this paper." "purloined, _ma petite_," he exclaimed, as he playfully pinched her ear. "stolen," she doggedly repeated. "stolen, not caring whom you ruined, man or woman." "tut, tut; what an undiplomatic little girl she is," he laughed, with a wonderful depth of fondness in his tone; and then he rose, and, after pacing the room for a minute, turned to me. "madame lerestelle," he exclaimed, "i am known in political life as the most unscrupulous man in france; that is the reputation i have won, and the one i live to retain. as a man, i admire monsieur roché; as a politician, i despise him. i consider that his theories are imbecilic, his policy meaningless, and his ministry an insult to the country--" "monsieur, i differ--" "madame, i respect you the more. you are a friend of monsieur roché's, but, because i think what i do think, i will annihilate him. because i work for the glory of france, and not for my own ends, i have stooped to pledge my written word only to steal it back." "diplomacy," mademoiselle murmured, with a world of scorn, and he shook his head reprovingly, then placed his hand quietly upon her arm. "but my daughter shall not be suspected of connivance with me, and still more, no innocent man shall suffer. monsieur levivé is incapable of betraying a trust. even you, madame," and he shot a meaning glance at me, "could not persuade him to break his faith, and you know it." i bowed my head, and wondered how it was monsieur desormes was not universally admired. "he shall not be disgraced; no shadow of a slur shall rest upon him, for i, madame, will write an explanation that shall satisfy monsieur roché, and you shall give it to him yourself." i bowed my thanks, and he sat down at his desk, and, drawing a sheet of official paper towards him, rapidly covered it and handed it to me. it commenced with the usual courtesies which we have such an innate liking for addressing one another with, and then the letter continued: "because others who are innocent, monsieur, have been suspected, i am prepared to place in your possession the name of the man and his method. his name is--" the writing finished there, and i held out my hand for the second sheet, which he had completed while i read. "you will not ask it, madame?" monsieur desormes suggested. "as you will, monsieur. i have your word that your letter will entirely free those who are innocent from suspicion?" "you have the word of a--" "diplomat?" mademoiselle interrupted, with her anger still smouldering. "of a frenchman," monsieur finished, as he folded the sheets and sealed the envelope. "and now," he continued, as he addressed it to monsieur roché and handed it to me, "there is a favor i must crave of you. i am an implacable enemy, but, i hope, not a false friend. you must give me twenty-four hours, so that the plans i have matured may not be frustrated." "i scarcely comprehend, monsieur." "if a man has been an enemy to monsieur roché, and an ally with me, i must protect him." "that is your only object?" "you have my word, madame." "then you have mine, monsieur. this letter shall not be delivered until to-morrow evening." he raised my fingers to his lips with a smile of satisfaction, and i, having whispered to mademoiselle that after all it was scarcely worth while mentioning martinique, and gained a smile of mingled thanks and forgiveness, departed, satisfied with the success of my mission, and happy in the knowledge that i had played for the highest stakes that it had been my lot to know--played and won. there are boulevard cynics who would declare that, being a woman, i must be miserable because i did not know the name of the thief or the miraculous method he employed. others, more cynical still, who would say that i cared nothing, because i counted upon coaxing all from _mon cher_ gaspard; but it would be false. i cared nothing for him who had stolen; my thoughts were all with him whose honor i had saved. for that reason i grudged the delay, but, tried more sorely than ever in my life before, it was not until the following night, enclosed with a note of my own, that i sent monsieur desormes's confession to monsieur roché. and as i sat after it had gone, still free from curiosity as to the thief, still proud of my success for gaspard's sake, the thought, for the first time, came that the premier was also deeply indebted to me, for his ministry was saved. i paid fastidious attention to my toilet, for one dared not look anything but one's best at madame de voussêt's receptions, and gaspard was such a frequent visitor. yet i never looked worse to my own mind, and all the satisfaction seemed to be with thérèse. "_mais oui! madame, c'est superb_," she cried, with an exaggerated gesture of admiration; and although she possessed many faults, i never had to chide her for lack of truthfulness. "monsieur roché, madame," she announced a moment later, and i said i would receive him in my boudoir, feeling gratified that he should not be lacking in the swift expression of his thanks. yet when i greeted him he seemed perplexed, and taking the packet i had sent him from his pocket, he read aloud my own note: "the enclosed letter from monsieur desormes will explain the theft of the paper, and prove the innocence of gaspard, whom you so unjustly accused." i nodded. "do you know the contents of monsieur desormes's letter, madame?" "partially. 'because others who are innocent, monsieur, have been suspected, i am prepared to place in your possession the name of the man.' that is what monsieur desormes wrote." monsieur roché gravely shook his head and handed the letter to me, and i took it with a chill at my heart, dreading that i had been deceived. i opened the envelope and withdrew two sheets of paper--blank. save at the bottom of the second sheet, where--as a sign of the writing which in the day that had passed had faded, just legible--could be discerned "sormes." that was all that was left of the words that a day before covered the sheet. the end of the man's signature. the rest had vanished. i pointed it out to monsieur roché, and the perplexity upon his face grew to startled surprise as he caught my meaning glance. "the last time i saw those sheets, monsieur, they were covered with writing." "ah!" "monsieur desormes has been as good as his word; he has saved an innocent man from ruin. his pledge to you was written with this same ink, and faded away a few hours afterwards, leaving only the blank sheet. he has been as good as his word." "and as good as his intent," monsieur roché responded. "he will overthrow the ministry. but for you, _ma chère_, this is a night of glowing and thrilling victory. allow me to see you to your carriage." the end by thomas a. janvier in the sargasso sea. a novel. a particularly good story of adventure.... the appeal to the red blood in a man's veins is persistent, and the book is full of that vivid color which mr. janvier's style enables him to suggest by picturesque phrase. the movement is incessant.--_philadelphia press._ those who like wild romance will enjoy the book from start to finish.--_chicago inter-ocean._ the aztec treasure-house. a romance of contemporaneous antiquity. illustrated by frederic remington. this powerful story may well be ranked among the wonder books. no story-reader should miss it, for it is different from anything he has ever read.--_christian at work_, n. y. the uncle of an angel, and other stories. janvier stands in the first rank as a writer of short stories, and a new volume coming from him is sure to meet with success. in the present instance it well deserves to, for the stories it contains, from the one which gives it its title to the last between the covers, are among his best.--_christian at work_, n. y. in old new york. with maps and illustrations. mr. janvier has presented his material with an artist's eye for effect, making a most happily conceived and skilfully executed historical monograph.--_advance_, chicago. the odd number series the gulistan: being the rose-garden of shaikh sa'di. translated by sir edwin arnold. the new god. by richard voss. translated by mary a. robinson. the green book. by maurus jókai. translated by mrs. waugh. black diamonds. by maurus jókai. translated by frances a. gerard. doÑa perfecta. by b. pérez galdós. translated by mary j. serrano. parisian points of view. by ludovic halévy. translated by e. v. b. matthews. dame care. by hermann sudermann. translated by bertha overbeck. tales of two countries. by alexander kielland. translated by william archer. ten tales by franÇois coppÉe. translated by walter learned. illustrated. modern ghosts. by guy de maupassant and others. translated. the house by the medlar-tree. by giovanni veroa. translated by mary a. craig. pastels in prose. translated by stuart merrill. illustrated by h. w. mcvickar. marÍa: a south american romance. by jorge isaacs. translated by rollo ogden. the odd number. tales by guy de maupassant. translated by jonathan sturges. by richard harding davis a year from a reporter's note-book. illustrated by r. caton woodville, t. de thulstrup, and frederic remington, and from photographs taken by the author. three gringos in venezuela and central america. illustrated. about paris. illustrated by c. d. gibson. the princess aline. illustrated by c. d. gibson. the exiles, and other stories. illustrated. van bibber, and others. illustrated by c. d. gibson. the west from a car-window. illustrated by frederic remington. our english cousins. illustrated. the rulers of the mediterranean. illustrated. mr. davis has eyes to see, is not a bit afraid to tell what he sees, and is essentially good natured.... mr. davis's faculty of appreciation and enjoyment is fresh and strong: he makes vivid pictures.--_outlook_, n. y. richard harding davis never writes a short story that he does not prove himself a master of the art.--_chicago times._ by ruth mcenery stuart moriah's mourning, and other half-hour sketches. illustrated. in simpkinsville. character tales. illustrated. solomon crow's christmas pockets, and other tales. illustrated. carlotta's intended, and other tales. illustrated. a golden wedding, and other tales. illustrated. the story of babette: a little creole girl. mrs. stuart is one of some half-dozen american writers who are doing the best that is being done for english literature at the present time. her range of dialect is extraordinary; but, after all, it is not the dialect that constitutes the chief value of her work. that will be found in its genuineness, lighted up as it is by superior intelligence and imagination and delightful humor.--_chicago tribune._ mrs. stuart is a genuine humorist.--_n. y. mail and express._ few surpass mrs. stuart in dialect studies of negro life and character.--_detroit free press._ by a. conan doyle the refugees. a tale of two continents. illustrated. the white company. illustrated. micah clarke. illustrated. the adventures of sherlock holmes. illustrated. contents: a scandal in bohemia, the red-headed league, a case of identity, the boscombe valley mystery, the five orange pips, the man with the twisted lip, the blue carbuncle, the speckled band, the engineer's thumb, the noble bachelor, the beryl coronet, the copper beeches. memoirs of sherlock holmes. illustrated. contents: silver blaze, the yellow face, the stock-broker's clerk, the "gloria scott," the musgrave ritual, the reigate puzzle, the crooked man, the resident patient, the greek interpreter, the navy treaty, the final problem. the parasite. a story. illustrated. the great shadow. by lilian bell the instinct of step-fatherhood. stories. the spirit of fun is found to a greater or less degree in all of the sketches, but at times the fun borders on the tragic so closely that the dividing line between laughter and tears almost fades out of sight.--_brooklyn eagle._ from a girl's point of view. the author is so good-humored, quaint, and clever that she has not left a dull page in her book.--_saturday evening gazette_, boston. a little sister to the wilderness. a novel. new edition. written from the heart and with rare sympathy.... the writer has a natural and fluent style, and her dialect has the double excellence of being novel and scanty. the scenes are picturesque and diversified.--_churchman_, n.y. the under side of things. a novel. with a portrait of the author. this is a tenderly beautiful story.... this book is miss bell's best effort, and most in the line of what we hope to see her proceed in, dainty and keen and bright, and always full of the fine warmth and tenderness of splendid womanhood.--_interior_, chicago. the love affairs of an old maid. so much sense, sentiment, and humor are not often united in a single volume.--_observer_, n.y. [illustration: "he pressed the handsome chalked hand in his own and then to his lips in a very un-english way."] fair margaret _a portrait_ by f. marion crawford author of "saracinesca," "sant' ilario," "whosoever shall offend," etc., etc. _with illustrations by horace t. carpenter_ new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, , by f. marion crawford. copyright, , by the macmillan company. set up and electrotyped. published november, . reprinted november, december, ; april, ; july, september, ; july, ; february, twice, . _thirty-seventh thousand_ norwood press j. s. cushing & co.--berwick & smith co norwood, mass., u.s.a. fair margaret chapter i 'i am a realist,' said mr. edmund lushington, as if that explained everything. 'we could hardly expect to agree,' he added. it sounded very much as if he had said: 'as you are not a realist, my poor young lady, i can of course hardly expect you to know anything.' margaret donne looked at him quietly and smiled. she was not very sensitive to other people's opinions; few idealists are, for they generally think more of their ideas than of themselves. mr. lushington had said that he could not agree with her, that was all, and she was quite indifferent. she had known that he would not share her opinion, when the discussion had begun, for he never did, and she was glad of it. she also knew that her smile irritated him, for he did not resemble her in the very least. he was slightly aggressive, as shy persons often are: and yet, like a good many men who profess 'realism,' brutal frankness and a sweeping disbelief of everything not 'scientifically' true, mr. lushington was almost morbidly sensitive to the opinion of others. criticism hurt him; indifference wounded him to the quick; ridicule made him writhe. he was a fair man with a healthy skin, and his eyes were blue; but they had a particularly disagreeable trick of looking at one suddenly for an instant, with a little pinching of the lids, and a slight glitter, turning away again in a displeased way, as if he had expected to be insulted, and was sure that the speaker was slighting him, at the very least. he often blushed when he said something sharp. he wished he were dark, because dark men could say biting things without blushing, and pale, because he felt that it was not interesting to be pink and white. his hair, too, was smoother and softer than he could have wished it. he had tried experiments with his beard and moustache, and had finally made up his mind to let both grow, but he still looked hopelessly neat. when he pushed his hair back from his forehead with a devastating gesture it simply became untidy, as if he had forgotten to brush it. at last he had accepted his fate, and he resigned himself to what he considered his physical disadvantages, but no one would ever know how he had studied the photographs of the big men in the front of things, trying to detect in them some single feature to which his own bore a faint resemblance. hitherto he had failed. yet he was 'somebody,' and perhaps it means more to be somebody nowadays, in the howling fight for place and acknowledgment, than it meant in the latter part of the nineteenth century. how easy life was in the early eighties, compared with this, how mild were the ways of nations, how primitive, pure and upright the dealings of financiers in that day of pristine virtue and pastoral simplicity! it was all very well to be an idealist then, mr. lushington sometimes said to margaret; the world was young, then; there was time for everything, then; there was room for everybody, then; even the seasons were different, then! at least, all old people say so, and it can hardly be supposed that all persons over fifty years of age belong to a secret and powerful association of liars, organised and banded together to deceive the young. mr. lushington was somebody, even at the beginning of this truthful little tale, and that was some time ago; and if anything about him could have really irritated margaret donne, it was that she could not understand the reason of his undeniable importance. the people who succeed in life, and in the arts and professions, are not always the pleasantest people, nor even the nicest. miss donne had found this out before she was twenty, and she was two years older now. she had learned a good many other things more or less connected with human nature, and more or less useful to a young woman in her position. she remembered two or three of those comparatively recent discoveries as she smiled at mr. lushington and observed that her smile annoyed him. not that margaret was cruel or fond of giving pain for the sake of seeing suffering; but she could be both when she was roused to defend her beliefs, her ideals, or even her tastes. the cool ferocity of some young women is awful. judith, jael, delilah, and athaliah were not mythical. is there a man who has not wakened from dreams, to find that the woman he trusted has stolen his strength or is just about to hammer the great nail home through his temples? margaret donne was not actually cruel to her fellow-creatures. she was not one of those modern persons who feel sick at the sight of a half-starved horse dragging a heavy load, but will turn a man's life into a temporary hell without changing colour. such as these give women a bad name among men. margaret was merely defending herself, for mr. lushington sometimes drove her to extremities; his very shyness was so aggressive, that she could not pity him, even when she saw him blush painfully, and noticed the slight dew which an attack of social timidity brought to his smooth forehead. she had excellent nerves, and was not at all timid; if anything, she thought herself a little too self-possessed, and was slightly ashamed of it, fancying it unwomanly. she had a great fear of ever being that, and with mr. lushington, who seemed to take it for granted that she ought to think as men do, and was to be blamed for thinking otherwise, she took especial pains to claim a woman's privileges at every turn. 'i cannot imagine,' he said presently, 'how any intelligent person can really believe in such arrant mythology.' 'but i make no pretension of "intelligence",' murmured margaret donne. 'that is absurd,' retorted mr. lushington, with a half-furtive, half-angry glance. 'you know you are clever.' margaret knew it, of course, and she smiled again. the young man did not need to see her to be sure how she looked at that moment, for he knew her face well. it had fixed itself in the front of his memories some time ago, and he had not succeeded in bringing any other image there to drive it away. perhaps he had not tried as hard as he supposed. it was not such a very striking face either, at first sight. the features were not perfect, by any means, and they were certainly not greek. anacreon would not have compared margaret's complexion to roses mixed with milk, but he might have thought of cream tinged with peach-bloom, and it would have been called a beautiful skin anywhere. margaret had rather light brown eyes, but when she was interested in anything the pupils widened so much as to make them look very dark. then the lids would stay quite motionless for a long time, and the colour would fade a little from her whole face; but sometimes, just then, she would bite her lower lip, and that spoiled what some people would have called the intenseness of her expression. it is true that her teeth were beyond criticism and her lips were fresh and creamy red--but mr. lushington wished she would not do it. the muses are never represented 'biting their lips'; and in his moments of enthusiasm he liked to think that margaret was his muse. she had thick brown hair that waved naturally, but made no little curls and baby ringlets, such as some young women have, or make. the line of her hair along her forehead and temples, though curved, was rather severe. she had been fair when a little girl, but had grown darker after she was fifteen. when she thought of it, she rather liked her own face, for she was not everlastingly trying to be some one else. it was a satisfactory face, on the whole, she thought, perfectly natural and frank, and healthy. no doubt it would have been nice to be as beautiful as a madame de villeneuve, or a comtesse de castiglione, but as that was quite impossible, it was easy to be satisfied with what she had in the way of looks and not to envy the insolent radiance of the fair beauties, or the tragic splendour of the dark ones. besides, great beauty has disadvantages; it attracts attention at the wrong moment, it makes travelling troublesome, it is obtrusive and hinders a woman from doing exactly what she pleases. it is celebrity, and therefore a target for every photographing tourist and newspaper man. and then, to lose it, as one must, is a kind of suffering which no male can quite understand. every great beauty feels that she is to be unjustly condemned to death between forty and fifty, and that every day of her life brings her nearer to ignominious public execution; and though beauties manage to last longer, yet is their strength but sorrow and weakness, depending largely on the hairdresser, the dentist, the dressmaker and other functions of the unknown quantities _x_ and _y_, as the mathematicians say. the emperor tiberius is reported to have said that if a man does not know what is good for him when he is forty years old, he must be either a fool or a physician. similarly, a woman who does not know her own good points at twenty is either very foolish, or a raving beauty--or a saint. perhaps women can be all three; it is not safe to assert anything positively about them. margaret donne was clever, she was a good girl but not a saint, and she was a little more than fairly good-looking. that was all, and she knew her good points. if she was not perpetually showing them to advantage, she at least realised what they were and that she might some day have to make the most of them. they were her complexion, her mouth and her figure; and she was clever, if cleverness be a 'point' in a human being, which is doubtful. it is not considered one in a puppy. mr. lushington discouraged the familiarity of men who called him plain 'lushington.' when they were older than he, he felt that they were patronising him; if they were younger, he thought them distinctly cheeky. occasionally he fell in with a relation, or an old schoolfellow, who addressed him as 'ned,' or even as 'eddie,' this made him utterly miserable; in the language of johnson, when mr. lushington was called 'eddie,' he was convolved with agony--especially if a third person chanced to be present. margaret sometimes wondered whether she should ever be in a position to use that weapon. there was a possibility of it, depending on her own choice. in fact, there were two possibilities, for she could marry him if she pleased, or she could make an intimate friend of him, and they might then call each other by their christian names. at the present time she knew him so well that she avoided using his name altogether, and he called her 'miss margaret' when he was pleased, and 'miss donne' when he was not. 'it is a pity you think me clever,' she said demurely, after a little pause. 'why?' he inquired severely. 'the idea makes you so uncomfortable,' margaret answered. 'if i were just a nice dull girl, you would only have to lay down the law, and i should have to accept it. or else you would not feel obliged to talk to me at all, which would be simpler.' 'much,' said lushington, with some acerbity. 'so much simpler, that i wonder why you do not follow the line of least resistance!' a short silence came after this suggestion, and margaret turned over the pages of her book as if making up her mind where to begin reading. this was not quite a pretence, for lushington had told her that it was a book she ought to read, which it was her intellectual duty to read, and which would develop her reasoning faculties. by way of encouragement he had added that she would probably not like it. on that point she agreed with him readily. to people who read much, every new book has a personality, features and an expression, attractive, dull, or repulsive, like most human beings one meets for the first time. this particular book had a particularly priggish expression, like lushington's yellow shoes, which were too good and too new, and which he was examining with apparent earnestness. to tell the truth he did not see them, for he was wondering whether the blush of annoyance he felt was unusually visible. the result of thinking about it was that it deepened to scarlet at once. 'you look hot,' observed margaret, with an exasperating smile. 'not at all,' answered lushington, feeling as if she had rubbed his cheeks with red pepper. 'i suppose i am sunburnt.' tiny beads of perspiration were gathering on his forehead, and he knew by her smile that she saw them. it would have been delightful to walk into the pond just then, yellow shoes and all. he told himself that he was edmund lushington, the distinguished critic and reviewer, before whom authors trembled and were afraid. it was absurd that he should feel too hot because a mere girl had said something smart and disagreeable. in fact, what she had said was little short of an impertinence, in his opinion. the fool who does not know that he looks a fool is happy. the fool who is conscious of looking one undergoes real pain. but of all the miserable victims of shyness, the one most to be pitied is the sensitive, gifted man who is perfectly aware that he looks silly while rightly conscious that he is not. margaret donne watched lushington, and knew that she was amply revenged. he would call her 'miss donne' presently, and say something about the weather, as if they had never met before. she paid no more attention to him for some time, and began to read bits of the new book, here and there, where one page looked a little less dull than the rest. meanwhile lushington smoked thoughtfully, and the unwelcome blush subsided. he glanced sideways at margaret's face two or three times, as if he were going to speak, but said nothing, and sent a small cloud straight out before him, with a rather vicious blowing, as if he were trying to make the smoke express his feelings. margaret knew that trick of his very well. lushington was an aggressive smoker, and with every puff he seemed to say: 'there! take that! i told you so!' margaret did not look up from her book, for she knew that he would speak before long; and so it happened. 'miss donne,' he began, with unnecessary coldness, and then stopped short. 'yes?' margaret answered, with mild interrogation. 'oh!' ejaculated mr. lushington, as if surprised that she should reply at all. 'i thought you were reading.' 'i was.' she let the new book shut itself, as she lifted her hand from the open pages. 'i did not mean to interrupt you,' said the young man stiffly. no answer occurred to margaret at once, so she waited, gently drumming on the closed book with her loosely gloved fingers. 'i suppose you think i'm an awful idiot,' observed mr. lushington, with unexpected and quite unnecessary energy. 'dear me! this is so very sudden! awful--idiot? let me see.' her absurd gravity was even more exasperating than her smile. lushington threw away his cigarette angrily. 'you know what i mean,' he cried, getting red again. 'don't be horrid!' 'then don't be silly,' retorted margaret. 'there! i knew you thought so!' 'perhaps i do, sometimes,' the girl answered, more seriously. 'but i don't mind it at all. if you care to know, i think you are often much more human when you are--well--"silly," than when you are being clever. 'and i suppose you would like me better if i were always silly?' margaret shook her head and laughed softly, but said nothing. she was thinking that it was good to be alive, and that it was the spring, and that the life was stirring in her, as it stirred amongst the young leaves overhead and in the shooting grasses and budding flowers, and in the hearts of the nesting birds in the oaks and elms. just then it mattered very little to margaret whether the man who was talking to her made himself out to be silly or clever. she felt herself much nearer to the simple breathing and growing of all nature than to the silliness or cleverness of any fellow-creature. her lips parted a little and she drew in the air again and again, slowly and quietly, as if she could drink it, and live on its sweet taste, and never want food or other drink again, though she was not an ethereal young person, but only a perfectly healthy and natural girl. she was not tired, yet somehow she felt that she was resting body, soul and heart, for a little while, after growing up and before beginning what was to be her life. lushington was perfectly healthy, too, but he was not simple, and was often not quite natural. he had real troubles and artificial ways of treating them. he had also been in the thick of the big fight for several years, he had tasted the wine of success and the vinegar of failure, the sticky honey of flattery and some nasty little pills prepared with malignant art by brother critics. with his faults and weaknesses and absurd sensitiveness, he had in him the stuff that wins battles with glory, or loses them with honour, promising to fight again. he was complex. he was rarely quite sure what he felt, though he could express with precision whatever he thought he was feeling at any moment. 'how complicated you are!' he exclaimed, when margaret laughed. 'i was just thinking how simple i am compared with you,' she answered serenely; 'i mean, when you talk,' she added. 'thank you for the distinction! "oliver goldsmith, for shortness called noll, who writes like an angel but talks like poor poll." that sort of thing, i suppose?' 'i did not say that you write like an angel,' answered margaret, in a tone of reflection. 'you do not talk like one,' observed mr. lushington bitterly. 'are you going to paris to-day?' he inquired after a pause; and he looked at his watch. 'no. i had my lesson yesterday. but i am going in to-morrow.' lushington knew that she had only two lessons a week, and wondered why she was going to paris on the following day. but he was offended and would not ask questions; moreover he did not at all approve of her studying singing as a profession, and she knew that he did not. his disapproval did not disturb her, though she should have liked him to admire her voice because he was really a good judge, and praise from him would be worth having. he often said sharp things that he did not mean, but on the other hand, when he said that anything was good, he always meant that it was first-rate. she wondered where he had learned so much about music. after all, she knew very little of his life, and as he never said anything about his family she was inclined to think that he had no relations and that he came of people anything but aristocratic. he had worked his way to the front by sheer talent and energy, and she had the good sense to think better of him for that, and not less well of him for his reticence. mrs. rushmore knew no more about lushington's family than margaret. the latter was spending the spring in versailles with the elderly american widow, and the successful young writer had been asked to stop a week with them. mrs. rushmore did not care a straw about the family connections of celebrities, and she knew by experience that it was generally better not to ask questions about them, as the answers might place one in an awkward position. she had always acted on the principle that a real lion needs no pedigree, and belongs by right to the higher animals. lushington was a real lion, though he was a young one. his roar was a passport, and his bite was dangerous. why make unnecessary inquiries about his parents? they were probably dead, and, socially, they had never been alive, since society had never heard of them. it was quite possible, mrs. rushmore said, that his name was not his own, for she had met two or three celebrities who had deliberately taken names to which they did not pretend any legal claim, but which sounded better than their own. he had been at versailles to stay a few days during the previous spring, and margaret had seen him several times in the interval, and they had occasionally exchanged letters. she was quite well aware that he was in love with her, and she liked him enough not to discourage him. to marry him would be quite another question, though she did not look upon it as impossible. before all, she intended to wait until her own position was clearly defined. for the present she did not know whether she had inherited a large fortune, or was practically a penniless orphan living on the charity of her friend mrs. rushmore; and several months might pass before this vital question was solved. mrs. rushmore believed that margaret would get the money, or a large part of it; margaret did not, and in the meantime she was doing her best to cultivate her voice in order to support herself by singing. her father had been english, a distinguished student and critical scholar, holding a professorship of which the income, together with what he received from writing learned articles in the serious reviews, had sufficed for himself, his wife and his only child. at his death he had left little except his books, his highly honourable reputation and a small life insurance. he had married an american whose father had been rich at the time, but had subsequently lost all he possessed by an unfortunate investment, depending upon an invention, which had afterwards become enormously valuable. finding himself driven to extremities and on the verge of failure, he had been glad to make over his whole interest to a distant relative, who assumed his liabilities as well as his chances of success. utterly ruined, save in reputation, he had bravely accepted a salaried post, had worked himself to death in eighteen months and had died universally respected by his friends and as poor as job. his daughter, mrs. donne, had felt her position keenly. she was a sensitive woman, she had married a poor man for love, expecting to make him rich; and instead, she was now far poorer than he. he, on his part, never bestowed a thought on the matter. he was simple and unselfish and he loved her simply and unselfishly. she died of a fever at forty-two and her death killed him. two years later, margaret donne was alone in the world. mrs. rushmore had known margaret's american grandmother and had been mrs. donne's best friend. she had grave doubts as to the conditions on which the whole interest in the invention had been ceded to old alvah moon, the californian millionaire, and, after consulting her own lawyers in new york, she had insisted upon bringing suit against him, in margaret donne's name, but at her own risk, for the recovery of an equitable share of the fortune. a tenth part of it would have made the girl rich, but there were great difficulties in the way of obtaining evidence as to an implied agreement, and alvah moon was as hard as bedrock. while the suit was going on, mrs. rushmore insisted that margaret should live with her, and margaret was glad to accept her protection and hospitality, for she felt that the obligation was not all on her own side. mrs. rushmore was childless, a widow and very dependent on companionship for such enjoyment as she could get out of her existence. she had few resources as she grew older, for she did not read much and had no especial tastes. the presence of such a girl as margaret was a godsend in many ways, and she looked forward with something like terror to the not distant time when she should be left alone again, unless she could induce one of her nieces to live with her. but that would not be easy; they did not want her money, nor anything she could give them, and they thought her dull. her life would be very empty and sad, then. she had never been vain, and she was well aware that such people as mr. edmund lushington could not be easily induced to come and spend a fortnight with her if margaret were not in the house. besides, she loved the girl for her own sake. it was very pleasant to delude herself with the idea that margaret was almost her daughter, and she wished she could adopt her; but margaret was far too independent to accept such an arrangement, and mrs. rushmore had the common-sense to guess that if the girl were bound to her in any way a sort of restraint would follow which would be disagreeable to both in the end. if there could be a bond, it must be one which margaret should not feel, nor even guess, and such a relation as that seemed to be an impossibility. margaret was not the sort of girl to accept anything from an unknown giver, and if the suit failed it would be out of the question to make her believe that she had inherited property from an unsuspected source. mrs. rushmore, in her generosity, would have liked to practise some such affectionate deception, and she would try almost anything, however hopeless, rather than let margaret be a professional singer. the american woman was not puritanical; she had lived too much in europe for that and had met many clever people, not to say men of much more than mere talent, who had made big marks on their times. but she had been brought up in the narrow life of old new york, when old new york still survived, as a tradition if not as a fact, in a score or two of families; and one of the prejudices she had inherited early was that there is a mysterious immorality in the practice of the fine arts, whereas an equally mysterious morality is inherent in business. painters and sculptors, great actors and great singers without end had sat at her table and she was always interested in their talk and often attracted by their personalities; yet in her heart she knew that she connected them all vaguely with undefined wickedness, just as she associated the idea of virtuous uprightness with all american and english business men. next to a clergyman, she unconsciously looked upon an american banker as the most strictly moral type of man; and though her hair was grey and she knew a vast deal about this wicked world, she still felt a painful little shock when her favourite newspaper informed her that a banker or a clergyman had turned aside out of the paths of righteousness, as they occasionally do, just like human beings. she felt a similar disagreeable thrill when she thought of margaret singing in public to earn a living. prejudices are moral corns; anything that touches one makes it ache more or less, but the pain is always of the same kind. you cannot get a pleasurable sensation out of a corn. yet margaret was working at her music, with persevering regularity, quite convinced that she must soon support herself unhelped and quite sure that her voice was her only means to that end. singing was her only accomplishment, and she therefore supposed that the gift, such as it was, must be her only talent. she was modest about it, for the very reason that she believed it was what she did best, and she was patient because she knew that she must do it well before she could hope to live by it. most successful singers had appeared in public before reaching her age, yet she was only two and twenty, and a year or two could make no great difference. nevertheless, she was more anxious than she would have admitted, and she had persuaded her teacher to let her sing to madame bonanni, the celebrated lyric soprano, whose opinion would be worth having, and perhaps final. the great singer had the reputation of being very good-natured in such cases and was on friendly terms with margaret's teacher, the latter being a retired prima donna. margaret felt sure of a fair hearing, therefore, and it was for this trial that she was going to the city on the following morning. neither she nor lushington spoke for a long time after she had given him the information. she took up her book again, but she read without paying any attention to the words, for the recollection of what was coming had brought back all her anxiety about her future life. it would be a dreadful thing if madame bonanni should tell her frankly that she had no real talent and had better give it up. the great artist would say what she thought, without wasting time or sympathy; that was why margaret was going to her. women do not flatter women unless they have something to gain, whereas men often flatter them for the mere pleasure of seeing them smile, which is an innocent pastime in itself, though the consequences are sometimes disastrous. edmund lushington had at first been wondering why margaret was going to paris the next day, then he had inwardly framed several ingenious questions which he might ask her; and then, as he thought of her, he had forgotten himself at last, and had momentarily escaped from the terrible and morbid obligation of putting his thoughts into unspoken words, which is one of the torments that pursue men of letters when they are tired, or annoyed, or distressed. he had forgotten his troubles, too, whatever they were, and could listen to the music spring was making in the trees, without feeling that he might be forced to describe it. just then margaret raised her eyes from her book and saw his face, and he did not know that she was looking at him. for the first time since she had met him she understood a little of his real nature, and guessed the reason why he could write so well. he was a man of heart. she knew it now, in spite of his faults, his shyness, his ridiculous over-sensitiveness, his detestable way of blurting out cutting speeches, his icy criticism of things he did not like. it was a revelation. she wondered what he would say if he spoke just then. but at that moment mrs. rushmore appeared on the lawn, an imposing and rather formal figure in black and violet, against the curtain of honeysuckle that hung down over the verandah. chapter ii margaret went alone to the house of the famous singer, for her teacher knew by experience that it was better not to be present on such occasions. margaret had not even a maid with her, for except in some queer neighbourhoods paris is as safe as any city in the world, and it never occurred to her that she could need protection at her age. if she should ever have any annoyance she could call a policeman, but she had a firm and well-founded conviction that if a young woman looked straight before her and held her head up as if she could take care of herself, no one would ever molest her, from london to pekin. it was not very far from her teacher's rooms in the boulevard malesherbes to the pretty little house madame bonanni had built for herself in the avenue hoche; so margaret walked. it is the pleasantest way of getting about paris on a may morning, when one has not to go a long distance. paris has changed terribly of late years, but there are moments when all her old brilliancy comes back, when the air is again full of the intoxicating effervescence of life, when the well-remembered conviction comes over one that in paris the main object of every man's and every woman's existence is to make love, to amuse and to be amused. terrible things have happened, it is true; blood has run like rain through the streets; and great works are created, great books are written, and art has here her workshop and her temple, her craftsmen and her high priests. the parisians have a right to take themselves seriously; but we cannot--we graver, grimmer men of rougher race. do what they will, we can never quite believe that genius can really hew and toil all day and laugh all night; we can never get rid of the idea that there must be some vast delusion about paris, some great stage trick, some hugely clever deception by which a quicksand is made to seem like bedrock, and a stone pavement like a river of quicksilver. the great cities all have faces. if all the people who live in each city could be photographed exactly one over the other, the result would be the general expression of that city's face. new york would be discontented and eager; london would be stolidly glum and healthy, with a little surliness; berlin would be supercilious, overbearing; rome would be gravely resentful; and so on; but paris would be gay, incredulous, frivolous, pretty and impudent. the reality may be gone, or may have changed, but the look is in her face still when the light of a may morning shines on it. what should we get, if we could blend into one picture the english descriptions of paris left us by thackeray, sala, du maurier? would it not show us that face as it is still, when we see it in spring? and drawn by loving hands too, obeying the eyes of genius. an empty square in berlin suggests a possible regimental parade, in london a mass meeting; in paris it is a playground waiting for the parisians to come out and enjoy themselves after their manner, like pretty moths and dragon-flies in the sun. but there is another side to it. more than any city in the world, paris has a dual nature. like janus, she has two faces; like endymion, half her life is spent with the gods, half with the powers of darkness. she has her sweet may mornings, but she has her hideous nights when the north wind blows and the streets are of glass. she has her life of art and beauty, and taste and delight, but she has her fevers of blood and fury, her awful reactions of raw brutality, her hidden sores of strange crime. of all cities, paris is the most refined, the most progressive in the highest way, the most delicately sensitive; of all cities, too, when the spasm is on her, she is the most mediæval in her violence, her lust for blood, her horrible 'inhumanity to man'--burns might have written those unforgettable lines of her. margaret was not thinking of these things as she took her way through the parc monceau, not because it was nearer but because she loved the old trees, and the contrast between the green peace within its gates and the intense life outside. she was nearer than she had perhaps ever been to fright, just then, and yet would not for the world have turned back, nor even slackened her pace. in five minutes she would be ringing the bell at madame bonanni's door. she had heard the prima donna several times but had never met her. she knew that she was no longer young, though her great voice was marvellously fresh and elastic. there were men, of that unpleasant type that is quite sure of everything, who recalled her first appearance and said that she could not be less than fifty years old. as a matter of fact, she was just forty-eight, and made no secret of it. margaret had learned this from her own singing teacher, but that was all she knew about madame bonanni, when she stopped at the closed door of the carriage entrance and rang the bell. she did not know whether she was to meet a juliet, an elsa, a marguerite or a tosca. she remembered a large woman with heavy arms, in various magnificent costumes and a variety of superb wigs, with a lime-light complexion that was always the same. the rest was music. that, with a choice selection of absurdly impossible anecdotes, is as much as most people ever know about a great singer or a great actress. margaret had been spared the anecdotes, because most of them were not fit for her to hear, but she had more than once heard fastidious ladies speak of madame bonanni as 'that dreadful woman.' no one, however, denied that she was a great artist, and that was the only consideration in margaret's present need. she rang the bell and glanced at the big window over the entrance. it had a complicated arrangement of folding green blinds, which were half open, and a grey awning with a red border. she wondered whether it was the window of the singer's own especial room. the house was different from those next it, though she could hardly tell where the difference lay. she thought that if she had not known the number she should have instinctively picked out this house, amongst all the others in that part of the avenue hoche, as the one in which the prima donna or an actress must be living; and as she stood waiting, a very simple and well-bred figure of a young lady, she felt that on the other side of the door there was a whole world of which she knew nothing, which was not at all like her own world, which was going to offend something in her, and which it was nevertheless her duty to enter. she was in that state of mind in which a nun breathes an ejaculatory prayer against the wiles of satan, and a delicately nurtured girl thinks of her mother. her heart hardly beat any faster than usual, though she was sure that one of the great moments of her life was at hand; but she drew her skirt round her a little closer, and pursed her lips together a little more tightly, and was very glad to feel that nobody could mistake her for anything but a lady. chapter iii the servant who opened the door smiled. he was a man of thirty-five, or thereabouts, with cheerful blue eyes, a brown moustache and pink cheeks. he wore a blue cotton apron and had a feather duster in his hand; and he smiled very pleasantly. 'madame bonanni said she would see me this morning,' margaret explained. 'what name, if you please?' the man asked, contemplating her with approval. 'miss donne.' 'very well. but madame is in her bath,' observed the servant, showing no inclination to let margaret pass. 'mademoiselle would do better to come another day.' 'but madame bonanni has given me an appointment.' 'it is possible,' the man replied, still smiling calmly. 'i have come to sing to her,' margaret said, with a little impatience. 'ah--then it is different!' he positively beamed. 'then mademoiselle is a musician? who would have thought it?' margaret was not quite sure who would have thought it, but she thought the servant decidedly familiar. at that moment he stood aside for her to pass, shut the front door after her and led the way to the short flight of steps that gave access to the house from the carriage entrance. 'this way, mademoiselle. if mademoiselle will be good enough to wait, i will inform madame.' 'please don't disturb her! you said she was in her bath.' 'oh, that has no importance!' the man cried cheerfully, and disappeared at once. margaret looked about her, but if she had been blind she would have been aware that she was in a place quite unlike any she had ever been in before. the air had an indescribable odour that was almost a taste; it smelt of houbigant, greek tobacco, persian carpets, women's clothes, liqueur and late hours; and it was not good to breathe--except, perhaps, for people used to the air of the theatre. margaret at first saw nothing particular to sit upon, and stood still. it was a big room, with two very large windows on one side, a massive chimney-piece at the end opposite the door, and facing the windows the most enormous divan margaret had ever seen. over this a great canopy was stretched, a sort of silk awning of which the corners were stretched out and held up by more or less mediæval lances. the divan itself was so high that an ordinary person would have to climb upon it, and it was completely covered by a wild confusion of cushions of all colours, thrown upon it and piled up, and tumbling off, as if a homeric pillow fight had just been fought upon it by several scores of vigorous school-girls. the room was plethoric with artistic objects, some good, some bad, some atrocious, but all recalling the singer's past triumphs, and all jumbled together, on tables, easels, pedestals, brackets and shelves with much less taste than an average dealer in antiquities would have shown in arranging his wares. there was not even light enough to see them distinctly, for the terrifically heavy and expensive genoa velvet curtains produced a sort of dingy twilight. moreover the persian carpet was so extremely thick that margaret almost turned her ankle as she made a step upon it. as she knew that she must probably wait some time she looked for a seat. there were a few light chairs here and there, but they were occupied by various objects; on one a framed oil-painting was waiting till a place could be found for it, on another there was a bandbox, on a third lay some sort of garment that might be an opera-cloak or a tea-gown, or a theatrical dress, a little silver tray with the remains of black coffee and an empty liqueur glass stood upon a fourth chair, and margaret's searching eye discovered a fifth, with nothing on it, pushed away in a corner. she took hold of it by the back, to bring it forward a little, and the gilt cross-bar came off in her hand. she stuck the piece on again as well as she could, and as she did not like to disturb any of the things she stood still, in the middle of the room, wondering vaguely whether madame bonanni's visitors usually sat down, and if so, on what. suddenly her eyes fell upon a piano, standing behind several easels that almost completely hid it. a piano usually has a stool, and margaret made her way between the easels and the little oriental tables, and the plants, and the general confusion, towards the keyboard. she was not disappointed; there was a stool, and she sat down at last. the air was oppressive and she wished herself out in the pare monceau, in the may morning. the time seemed endless. by sheer force of habit she slowly turned on the revolving stool and touched the keys; then she struck a few chords softly, and the sound of the perfect instrument gave her pleasure. she played something, trying to make as little noise as possible so long as she remembered where she was, but presently she forgot herself, her lips parted and she was singing, as people do who sing naturally. she sang the waltz song in the first act of gounod's _romeo and juliet_, and after the first few bars she had altogether forgotten that she was not at home, with her own piano, or else standing behind her teacher's shoulder in the boulevard malesherbes. now there are not many singers living who can sing the waltz song and accompany themselves without making a terrible mess of the music; but margaret did it well, and much more than well, for she was not only a singer with a beautiful voice but a true musician. there was not a quaver or hesitation in her singing from beginning to end, nor a false note in the accompaniment. when she had finished, her lips closed and she went on playing the music of the scene that follows. she had not gone on a dozen bars, however, when a head appeared suddenly round the corner of a picture on an easel. 'ah, bah!' exclaimed the head, in an accent of great surprise. its thick dark-brown hair was all towzled and standing on end, its brown eyes were opened very wide in astonishment, and it was showing magnificently strong teeth, a little discoloured. margaret sprang to her feet with an apology for having forgotten herself, but the head laughed and came forward, bringing with it a large body wrapped in an enormous gown of white turkish towelling, evidently held together by the invisible hands within. margaret thought of the statue of balzac. [illustration: "margaret sprang to her feet with an apology."] 'i thought it was caravita,' said madame bonanni. 'we are great friends you know. i sometimes find her waiting for me. but who in the world are you?' 'margaret donne.' 'ah, bah!' exclaimed the great singer again, the two syllables being apparently her only means of expressing surprise. 'but i told your servant----' margaret began. 'why have you not made your _début_?' cried madame bonanni, interrupting her, and shaking her disordered locks as if in protest. 'you have millions in your throat! why do you come here? to ask advice? to let me hear you sing? let the public hear you! what are you waiting for? to-morrow you will be old! and all singers are young. how old do you think i am? forty-five, perhaps, because it is printed so! not a bit of it! a prima donna is never over thirty, never, never, never! imagine juliet over thirty, or lucia! pah! the idea is horrible! fortunately, all tenors are fat. a juliet of thirty may love a fat romeo, but at forty it would be disgusting, positively disgusting! i am sick at the mere thought.' margaret stood up, resting one hand on the corner of the piano and smiling at the torrent of speech. yet all the time, while madame bonanni was saying things that sounded absurd enough, the young girl was conscious that the handsome brown eyes were studying her quietly and perhaps not unwisely. 'i am twenty-two,' she said by way of answer. 'i made my _début_ when i was twenty,' answered the prima donna. 'but then,' she added, as if in explanation, 'i was married before i was seventeen.' 'indeed!' margaret exclaimed politely. 'yes. he died. let us sing! i always want to sing when i come out of my bath. do you know the duo at the beginning of the fourth act? yes? good. i will sing romeo. oh yes, i can sing the tenor part--it is very high for a man. sit down. imagine that you admire me and that the lark is trying to imitate the nightingale so that we need not part. we have not heard it yet. the man is beginning to turn up the dawn outside the window behind us, but we do not see it. we are perfectly happy. now, begin!' the chords sounded softly, the two voices blended, rose and fell and died away. the elder woman's rich lower tones imitated a tenor voice well enough to give margaret the little illusion she needed, and her overflowing happiness did the rest. she sang as she had not sung before. 'i wish to embrace you!' cried madame bonanni, when they had finished. and forthwith margaret felt herself enveloped in the turkish bath-gown, and entangled in the towzled hair and held by a pair of tremendously strong white arms; and being thus helpless, she experienced a kindly but portentous kiss on each cheek; after which she was set at liberty. 'you are a real musician, too!' madame bonanni said with genuine admiration. 'you can play anything, as well as sing. i hope you will never hear me play. it is awful. i could empty any theatre instantly, if there were a fire, merely by playing a little!' she laughed heartily at her little joke, for like many great singers she was half a child and half a genius, and endowed with the huge vitality that alone makes an opera singer's life possible. 'i would give my playing to have your voice,' margaret said. 'you would be cheated in your bargain,' observed madame bonanni. 'let me look at you. have you a big chest and a thick throat? what are your arms like? if you have a voice and talent, strength is everything! young girls come and sing to me so prettily, so sweetly! they want to be singers! singers, my dear, with chests like paper dolls and throats like plucked spring chickens! bah! they are good for nothing, they catch cold, they give a little croak and they die. strength is everything. let me see your throat! no! you will never croak! you will never die. and your arms? look at mine. yes, yours will be like mine, some day.' margaret hoped not, for madame bonanni seemed to be a very big woman, though she still managed to look human as juliet. perhaps that was because the tenors were all fat. again a hand emerged from the thick white folds and grasped margaret's arm firmly above the elbow, as a trainer feels an athlete's biceps. 'good, good! very good!' cried madame bonanni approvingly. 'it is a pity you are a lady! you are a lady, aren't you?' margaret smiled. 'i am a peasant,' the singer answered without the least affectation. 'i always say that it takes five generations of life in the fields to make a voice. but you are english, i suppose. yes? all english live out of doors. if they had a proper climate they would all sing, but they have to keep their mouths shut all the time, to keep out the rain, and the fog, and the smoke of their chimneys. it is incredible, how little they open their mouths! come and sit down. we will have a little talk.' margaret thought her new friend had managed to talk a good deal already. madame bonanni slipped between the easels and pedestals with surprising ease and lightness, and made for the divan. margaret now saw that a stool was half concealed by a fallen pillow, so that the singer used it in order to climb up. in a moment she had settled herself comfortably, supported on all sides by the huge cushions. margaret fancied she looked like a big snowball with a human head. 'why don't you sit down, my dear?' inquired madame bonanni blandly. 'yes, but where?' asked margaret with a little laugh. 'here! climb up beside me on the divan.' 'i'm not used to it!' margaret laughed. 'it looks awfully hot.' 'then take a chair. oh, the things? throw them on the floor. somebody will pick them up. people are always sending me perfectly useless things. look at that picture! did you ever see such a daub? i'll burn it! no. i'll give it to the missionaries. they take everything one gives them, for the african babies. ah!' madame bonanni shrieked suddenly, seized a big cushion and held it up as a screen before her. she looked towards the door, and margaret, looking in the same direction, saw an over-dressed man of thirty-five standing on the threshold. 'go away!' screamed madame bonanni. 'logotheti! go away, i say! don't you see that i'm not dressed?' 'i see nothing but cushions,' answered the new-comer, showing very white teeth and speaking with a thick accent margaret had never heard. 'ah! so much the better!' returned madame bonanni with sudden calm. 'what do you want?' 'you did me the honour to ask me to breakfast,' said logotheti, coming forward a few steps. 'to breakfast! never! you are dreaming!' she paused an instant. 'yes, i believe i did. what difference does it make? go and get your breakfast somewhere else!' 'oh no!' protested the visitor, who had been examining margaret's face and figure. 'i can wait any length of time, but i shall keep you to your bargain, dear lady.' 'you are detestable! well, then you must go and look out of the window while i get down.' 'with pleasure,' logotheti answered, meaning exactly what he said, and turning his back after a deliberate look at margaret. madame bonanni worked herself to the edge of the divan, with a curious sidelong movement, got one of her feet upon the stool and slipped down, till she stood on the floor. then she gathered the folds of her bathing-gown to her and ran to the door with astonishing agility, for so large a person. margaret was not sure what she should do, and began to follow her, hoping to exchange a few words with her before going away. at the door, madame bonanni suddenly draped herself in the dark velvet curtain, stuck her head out and looked back. 'of course you will stay to breakfast, my dear!' she called out, 'logotheti! i present you to miss--miss--oh, the name doesn't matter! i present you!' 'i'm afraid i cannot----' margaret began to say, not knowing how long she might be left alone with logotheti. but madame bonanni had already unfurled the curtain and fled. logotheti bowed gravely to margaret, cleared the things off one of the chairs and offered it to her. his manner was as respectful with her as it had been familiar with the singer, and she felt at once that he understood her position. 'thank you,' she said quietly, as she seated herself. he cleared another chair and sat down at a little distance. she glanced at him furtively and saw that he was a very dark man of rather long features; that his eyes were almond-shaped, like those of many orientals; that he had a heavy jaw and a large mouth with lips that were broad rather than thick, and hardly at all concealed by a small black moustache which was trained to lie very flat to his face, and turned up at the ends; that his short hair was worn brush fashion, without a parting; that he had olive brown hands with strong fingers, on one of which he wore an enormous turquoise in a ring; that his clothes were evidently the result of english workmanship misguided by a very un-english taste; and finally that he was well-built and looked strong. she wondered very much what his nationality might be, for his accent had told her that he was not french. after a little pause he turned his head quietly and spoke to her. 'our friend's introduction was a little vague,' he said. 'my name is constantine logotheti. i am a greek of constantinople by birth, or what we call a fanariote there. i live in paris and i occupy myself with what we call "finance" here. in other words, i spend an hour or two every day at the bourse. if i had anything to recommend me, i should say so at once, but i believe there is nothing.' 'thank you!' margaret laughed a little at the words. 'you are very frank. madame bonanni could not remember my name, as she has never seen me before to-day. i am miss donne; i am studying to be an opera-singer, and i came here for advice. i am english. i believe that is all.' they looked at each other and smiled. margaret was certainly not prepossessed in the man's favour at first sight. she detested over-dressed men, men who wore turquoise rings, and men who had oily voices; but it was perfectly clear to her that logotheti was a man of the world, who knew a lady when he met one, no matter where, and meant to behave with her precisely as if he had been introduced to her in mrs. rushmore's drawing-room. 'it is my turn to thank you,' he said, acknowledging with a little bow the favour she had conferred in telling him who she was. 'i fancy you have not yet seen much of theatrical people, off the stage. have you?' no,' answered margaret. 'why do you ask?' 'i wonder whether you will like them when you do,' said logotheti. 'i never thought of it. is madame bonanni a good type of them?' 'no,' logotheti answered, after a moment's reflection. 'i don't think she is. none of the great ones are. they all have something original, personal, dominating, about them. that is the reason why they are great. i was thinking of the average singer you will have to do with if you really sing in opera. as for madame bonanni, she has a heart of pure gold. we are old friends, and i know her well.' 'i can quite believe that she is kind-hearted,' margaret answered. but don't you think, perhaps, that she is just a little too much so?' 'how do you mean?' 'that she might be too kind to tell a beginner just what she really thinks?' 'no, indeed.' logotheti laughed at the idea. 'you would not think so if you knew how many poor girls she sends away in tears because she tells them the honest truth, that they have neither voice nor talent, and will fail miserably if they go on. that is real kindness after all! have you sung to her?' 'yes,' answered margaret. 'may i ask what she said? i know her so well that i can perhaps be of use to you. sometimes, for instance, she says nothing at all. that means that there may be a chance of success but that she herself is not sure.' 'she kissed me on both cheeks,' margaret said with a laugh, 'and she talked about my _début_.' 'then i should advise you to make your _début_ at once,' logotheti answered. 'she means that you will have a very great success.' 'do you really think so?' asked margaret, much pleased. 'i know it,' he replied with conviction. 'that woman is utterly incapable of saying anything she does not think, but she sometimes gives her opinion with horrible brutality.' 'i rather like that.' 'do you?' 'yes. it is good medicine.' 'then you have only been a spectator, and never the patient!' logotheti laughed. 'perhaps. tell me all about madame bonanni.' 'all about her?' logotheti smiled oddly. 'well, she is a great artist, perhaps the greatest living soprano, though she is getting old. you can see that. let me see, what else? she is very frank, i have told you that. and she is charitable. she gives away a great deal. she has a great many friends, of whom i call myself one, and we are all sincerely attached to her. i cannot think of anything else to tell you about her.' 'she said she was born a peasant,' observed margaret who wished to hear more. 'oh yes!' logotheti laughed. 'there is no doubt of that! besides, she is proud of it.' 'she was married at seventeen, too.' 'they all marry,' answered logotheti vaguely, 'and their husbands disappear, by some law of nature we do not understand--absorbed into the elements, evaporated, drawn up into the clouds like moisture. one might write an interesting essay on the husbands of prima donnas and great actresses. what becomes of them? we know whence they come, for they are often impecunious gentlemen, but where do they go? there must be a limbo for them, somewhere, a place of departed husbands. possibly they are all in lunatic asylums. the greater the singer, or the actress, the more certain it is that she has been married and that her husband has disappeared! it is very mysterious.' 'very!' margaret was rather amused by his talk. 'have you lived long in paris?' he asked, suddenly changing the subject. 'we live in versailles. i come in for my lessons.' without asking many direct questions logotheti managed to find out a good deal about margaret during the next quarter of an hour. she was not suspicious of a man who showed no inclination to be familiar or to make blatant compliments to her, and she told him that her father and mother were dead and that she lived with mrs. rushmore and saw many interesting people, most of whom he seemed to know. he, on his part, told her many things about versailles which she did not know, and she soon saw that he was a man of varied tastes and wide information. she wondered why he wore such a big turquoise ring and why he had such a wonderful waistcoat, such a superlative tie, such an amazing shirt and such a frightfully expensive pin. but it was not the first time in her life that she had met an otherwise intelligent man who made the mistake of over-dressing, and her first prejudice against him began to disappear. she even admitted to herself that he had a certain charm of manner which she liked, a mingling of reserve and frankness, or repose and strength, the qualities which appeal so strongly to most women. if only his voice had not that disagreeable oiliness! after all, that was what she liked least. he spoke french with wonderful fluency, but he abstained from making the tiresome compliments which so many frenchmen reel off even at first acquaintance. he had really beautiful almond-shaped eyes, but he never once turned them to her with that languishing look which young men with almond eyes seem to think quite irresistible. surely, all this was in his favour. after being gone about half an hour, madame bonanni came back, her juno-like figure clad in a very pale green tea-gown, very open at the throat, and her thick hair was smoothed in great curved surfaces which were certainly supported by cushions underneath them. her solid arms were bare to the elbows, and the green sleeves hung almost to her feet. her face was rouged and there were artificial shadows under her eyes. round her neck she wore a single string of pearls as big as olives, and her fingers were covered with all sorts of rings. 'now you may look at me,' she said, with a gay laugh. 'i see a star of the first magnitude,' logotheti answered gravely. margaret bit her lip to keep from laughing, but madame bonanni laughed herself, very good-naturedly, though she understood. 'i detest this man!' she cried, turning to margaret. 'i don't know why i ask him to breakfast.' 'because you cannot live without me, i suppose,' suggested logotheti. 'i hate greeks!' screamed the prima donna, still laughing. 'why are you a greek?' 'doubtless by a mistake of my father's, dear lady; quite unpardonable since you are displeased! if he had lived, he certainly would have rectified it to please you, but the turks killed him when i was a baby in arms; and that was before you were born.' 'of course it was,' answered madame bonanni, who must have been just about to be married at that time. 'but that is no reason why we should stand here starving to death while you chatter.' thereupon she put her arm through margaret's and led her away at a brisk pace, logotheti following at a little distance and contemplating the young girl's moving figure with the satisfaction that only an oriental feels in youthful womanly beauty. it was long since he had seen any sight that pleased him as well, for his artistic sense was fastidious in the highest degree where the things of daily life were not concerned. he might indeed wear waistcoats that inspired terror and jewellery that dazzled the ordinary eye, but there were few men in paris who were better judges of a picture, a statue, an intaglio, or a woman. in a few moments the three were seated at a carved and polished table overloaded with silver and cut glass, one on each side of madame bonanni. three other places were set, but no one appeared to fill them. the cheerful servant with the moustache was arrayed in a neat frock coat and a white satin tie, and he smiled perpetually. 'i adore plover's eggs!' cried madame bonanni, as he set a plate before her containing three tiny porcelain bowls, in each of which a little boiled plover's egg lay buried in jelly. it was evident that she was speaking the truth, for they disappeared in an instant, and were followed by a bisque of shrimps of the most creamy composition. 'it is my passion!' she said. she took her spoon in her hand, but appeared to hesitate, for she glanced first at margaret, then down at her green tea-gown, and then at margaret again. at last she seemed to make up her mind, and quickly unfolding the damask napkin she tied it round her neck in a solid knot. the stiff points stood out on each side behind her ears. she emitted a sigh of satisfaction and went to work at the soup. margaret pretended to see nothing and made an indifferent remark to logotheti. madame bonanni made a good deal of noise, finally tipping up her plate and scraping out the contents to the last drop. 'ah!' she exclaimed with immense satisfaction. 'that was good!' 'perfect,' assented logotheti, who ate delicately and noiselessly, as orientals do. 'delicious!' said margaret, who was hungry. 'i taught my cook the real way to make it,' madame bonanni said. 'i am a good cook, a very good cook! i always did the cooking at home before i came to paris to study, because my mother was not able to stand long. one of the farm horses had kicked her and broken her leg and she was always lame after that. well?' she asked suddenly turning to the cheerful servant. 'is that all we are to have to-day? i am dying of hunger!' a marvellous salmon trout made its appearance a moment later. 'oh yes!' exclaimed the prima donna. 'i am fond of eating! you may laugh at me if you like, logotheti. i am perfectly indifferent!' and she was. she did all sorts of things that surprised margaret, and when a dish of ortolans with a rich brown sauce was put before her, she deliberately discarded her knife and fork altogether and ate with her hands. by way of terminating the operation, she stuck every finger of each hand into her mouth as far as it would go, licked all ten thoroughly, and then looked at them critically before drying them on her napkin. by this time margaret was past being surprised at anything. 'logotheti says that in the east they all eat with their fingers,' the singer observed. 'it is much cleaner,' logotheti answered imperturbably. margaret uttered an involuntary exclamation of surprise. 'of course it is!' he exclaimed. 'i know who washes my fingers. i don't know who washes the forks, nor who used them last. if one stopped to think about it, one would never use a fork or a spoon that was not one's own or washed by oneself. i am sure that every sort of disease is caught from other people's forks and spoons.' 'what a horrible idea!' exclaimed margaret with disgust. 'i shall never want to eat at a hotel or a restaurant again.' 'you will forget it,' replied logotheti reassuringly. 'civilisation makes us forget a great many little things of the sort, i assure you!' 'but is there no way of protecting oneself?' margaret asked. 'it is absurd!' cried madame bonanni. 'i don't believe in germs and microbes and such silly things! if they exist we are full of them, and i have no doubt they do us good.' 'it would be just as easy to boil the forks and spoons for ten minutes in clean water, after they are washed,' observed logotheti. 'but after all, fingers are safer.' 'things taste better with fingers,' said madame bonanni thoughtfully. 'in the east,' logotheti answered, 'people pour water on their hands after each course. why don't you try that?' 'i wash my hands afterwards; it is less trouble.' logotheti laughed, but margaret was disgusted, and did not even smile. madame bonanni's proceedings had made an impression on her which it would be hard to forget, and she sat silent for a while, not tasting what followed. 'logotheti,' said madame bonanni later, with her mouth full of strawberries and cream, 'you must do something for me.' 'an investment, dear lady? i suppose you want some of the bonds of the new electric road, don't you? they are not to be had, but of course you shall have them at once. or else you have decided to give your whole fortune to an eccentric charity. is that it?' 'no,' answered the singer, swallowing. 'this charming young lady--what is your name, my dear? i have forgotten it twenty times this morning!' 'donne. margaret donne.' 'this charming miss donne sings, logotheti.' 'so i gathered while we were talking.' 'no, you didn't! you gathered no such thing! she told you that she took lessons, perhaps. but i tell you that she sings. it is quite different.' madame bonanni pushed away her plate, planted her large white elbows on the table and looked thoughtfully at margaret. logotheti looked at the young girl, too, for he knew very well what his old friend meant by the simple statement, slightly emphasised. 'ah!' he ejaculated. 'i understand. i am at your service.' 'what is it?' asked margaret, blushing a little and turning from one to the other. 'logotheti knows everybody,' answered madame bonanni. 'he is rich, immensely rich, fabulously rich, my dear. he is in the "high finance," in fact. it is disgusting, how rich he is, but it is sometimes useful. he wants a theatre, a newspaper; he buys it and does what he likes with it. it makes no difference to him, for he always sells it again for more than he gave for it, and besides, it amuses him. you would not think it, but logotheti is often dreadfully bored.' 'very often,' assented the greek, 'but never when i am with you.' 'ah, bah! you say that! but why should i care? you always do what i want.' 'invariably.' 'and out of pure friendship, too.' 'the purest!' logotheti uttered the two words with profound conviction. 'i never could induce this creature to make love to me,' cried madame bonanni, turning to margaret with a laugh. 'it is incredible! and yet i love him--almost as well as plover's eggs! it is true that if he made love to me, i should have him turned out of the house. but that makes no difference. it is one of the disappointments of my life that he doesn't!' 'what i admire next to your genius, is your logic, dear lady,' said logotheti. 'precisely. now before you have your coffee you will give me your word of honour that miss donne shall have a triumph and an ovation at her _début_, and an engagement to sing next season at the opéra.' 'really----' margaret tried to protest. 'you know nothing about business,' interrupted madame bonanni. 'you are nothing but a child! these things are done in this way. logotheti, give me your word of honour.' 'are you sure of the voice?' asked the greek quietly. 'as sure as i am of my own.' 'very well. i give you my word. it is done.' 'good. i hate you, logotheti, because you are so cautious, but you always do what you promise. you may have your coffee now! what name are you going to take, my dear?' she asked, turning to margaret, who felt very uncomfortable. 'the name is very important, you know, even when one has your genius.' 'my genius!' exclaimed the young girl in confusion. 'i know what i am talking about,' answered madame bonanni in a matter-of-fact tone. 'you will get up on the morning of your _début_ as little miss donne, nobody! you will go to bed as the great new soprano, famous! that is what you will do. now don't talk, but let me give you a name, and we will drink your health to it in a drop of that old white chartreuse. you like that old white chartreuse, logotheti. you shall have none till you have found a name for miss donne.' 'may i not keep my own?' margaret asked timidly. 'no. it is an absurd name for the stage, my dear. all the people would make jokes about it. of course you must be either italian, or french, or german, or hungarian, or spanish. there is no great italian soprano just now. i advise you to be an italian. you are signorina--signorina what? logotheti, do make haste! you know italian.' 'may i ask where you were born, miss donne?' inquired logotheti. 'in oxford. but what has that to do with it?' 'translate into italian: ox, "bove," ford, "guado." no, that won't do' 'certainly not!' cried madame bonanni. 'guado--guano! fancy! try again. think of a pretty italian name. it must be very easy! take an historical name, the name of a great family. those people never object.' 'cordova is a fine name,' observed logotheti. 'she may just as well be spanish, after all. margarita da cordova. that sounds rather well.' 'yes. do you like it, my dear?' asked madame bonanni. 'but i don't know a word of spanish----' 'what in the world has that to do with it? it is a good name. you may have your chartreuse, logotheti. margarita da cordova, the great spanish soprano! your health! you were born in the little town of boveguado in andalusia.' 'your father was the famous contrabandier ramon da cordova, who sang like an angel and played the guitar better than any one in spain.' 'was there ever such a man?' 'no, of course not! and besides, he was stabbed in a love affair when you were a baby, so that it does not matter. you ought to be able to make something out of that for the papers, logotheti. carmen, don't you know? heavens, how romantic!' margaret had a vague idea that she was dreaming, that madame bonanni and logotheti were not real people, and that she was going to waken in a few minutes. the heavy, middle-aged woman with the good-natured face and the painted cheeks could not possibly be the tragic juliet, the terrible tosca, the poor, mad, fluttering lucia, whose marvellous voice had so often thrilled the young girl to the heart, in paris and in london. it was either a dream or a cruel deception. her own words sounded far away and unsteady when she was at last allowed to speak. 'i am sure i cannot sing in public in less than a year,' she said. 'you are very kind, but you are exaggerating my talent. i could never get through the whole opera well enough.' madame bonanni looked at her curiously for a moment, not at all certain that she was in earnest; but she saw that margaret meant what she said. there was no mistaking the troubled look in the girl's eyes. 'i suppose you are not afraid to come here and sing before an impresario and three or four musicians, are you?' inquired the singer. 'no!' cried margaret. 'but that is different.' 'did you think that any manager would engage you, even for one night, merely on my word, my child? you will have to show what you can do. but i can tell you one thing, little miss donne!' a great, good-natured laugh rolled out before madame bonanni proceeded to state the one thing she could tell. 'when you have sung the waltz song in _romeo and juliet_, and the duo in the fifth act, to four or five of the men who make a living out of us artists, you will be surprised at what happens afterwards! those people will not risk their money for your handsome eyes, my dear! and they know their business, don't they, logotheti?' he answered by speaking directly to margaret. 'i think,' he said quietly, 'that you can have confidence in madame bonanni's opinion.' 'listen to me,' said the prima donna--suddenly, and for some unknown reason, rubbing all the rouge off her right cheek with the corner of her napkin and then inspecting curiously the colour that adhered to the linen--'listen to me! i sing day after to-morrow, for the last time before going to london. come to my dressing-room after the second act. i will have schreiermeyer there, and we will make an appointment for the next day, and settle the matter at once. it's understood, isn't it?' margaret was delighted, for logotheti's quiet words had reassured her a little. madame bonanni rose suddenly, untying her napkin from her neck as she got up, and throwing it on the floor behind her. before she had reached the door she yawned portentously. 'i always go to sleep when i have eaten,' she said. 'find a cab for little miss donne, logotheti--for the famous señorita da cordova!' she laughed sleepily, and waved her hand to margaret. 'i don't know how to thank you,' the young girl began, but before she got any further madame bonanni had disappeared. a few moments later margaret and logotheti were in the street. the noonday air was warm and bright and she drew in deep breaths of it, as she had done in the morning. logotheti looked at her from under the brim of his panama hat. 'we shall find a cab in a minute,' he said, in an indifferent tone. 'yes.' they walked a few steps in silence. 'i hope you don't really mean to do what madame bonanni asked of you,' margaret said, rather awkwardly. 'i mean, about my _début_, if it really comes off.' logotheti laughed lightly. 'she always talks in that way,' he said. 'she thinks i can do anything, but as a matter of fact i have no influence to speak of, and money has nothing to do with an artist's success. i shall certainly be there on your first night, and you will not object to my splitting my gloves in applauding you?' 'oh no!' margaret laughed, too. 'you are welcome to do that! there is a cab.' she held up her parasol to attract the driver's attention, and logotheti made a few steps forward and called him. 'where shall i tell the man to take you?' logotheti asked, as she got in. 'to the saint lazare station, please. thank you very much!' she smiled pleasantly and nodded as she drove away. he stood still a moment on the pavement, looking after her, and then turned in the opposite direction, lighting a cigarette as he walked. he was a greek, and an educated one, and as he sauntered along on the shady side of the avenue hoche, the cigarette twitched oddly in his mouth, as if he were talking to himself. from four and twenty centuries away, in the most modern city of the world, broken lines of an ode of anacreon came ringing to his ears, and his lips formed the words noiselessly: 'i wish i were the zone that lies warm to thy breast, and feels its sighs ... oh, anything that touches thee! nay, sandals for those fairy feet ...' that, at least, is the english for it, according to thomas moore. chapter iv margaret was not quite sure how she could find her way to madame bonanni's dressing-room at the opéra, but she had no intention of missing the appointment. the most natural and easy way of managing matters would be to ask her teacher to go with her, and she could then spend the night at the latter's house. she accordingly stopped there before she went to the station. the elderly artist burst into tears on hearing the result of the interview with madame bonanni, and fell upon margaret's neck. 'i knew it,' she said. 'i was sure of it, but i did not dare to tell you so!' margaret was very happy, but she was a little nervous about her frock and wondered whether tears stained, as sea water does. the old singer was of a very different type from madame bonanni, and had never enjoyed such supremacy as the latter, even for a few months. but she had been admired for her perfect method, her good acting, and her agreeable voice, and for having made the most of what nature had given her; and when she had retired from the stage comparatively young, as the wife of the excellent monsieur durand, she had already acquired a great reputation as a model for young singers, and she soon consented to give lessons. unfortunately, monsieur durand had made ducks and drakes of her earnings in a few years, by carefully mis-investing every penny she possessed; but as he had then lost no time in destroying himself by the over-use of antidotes to despair, such as absinthe, his widow had soon re-established the equilibrium of her finances by hard work and was at the present time one of the most famous teachers of singers for the stage. madame durand was a neapolitan by birth and had been known to modest fame on the stage as signora de rosa, that being her real name; for italian singers seem to be the only ones who do not care for high-sounding pseudonyms. she was a voluble little person, over-flowing with easy feeling which made her momentarily intensely happy, miserable, or angry, as the case might be. whichever it might be, she generally shed abundant tears. margaret went back to versailles feeling very happy, but determined to say nothing of what had happened except to mrs. rushmore, who need only know that madame bonanni had spoken in an encouraging way and wished to see her at the theatre. for the girl herself found it hard to believe half of what the prima donna had told her, and was far from believing that she was on the eve of signing her first engagement. madame bonanni had breakfasted at half-past eleven, but mrs. rushmore lunched at half-past one, and margaret found her at table with lushington and three or four other people who had dropped in. there was an english officer who had got his victoria cross in south africa and was on his way to india, with a few days to spare by the way; there was a middle-aged french portrait-painter who had caressing ways and an immense reputation; there was a woman of the world whose husband was an austrian and was in the diplomatic service; and there was a young archæologist just from crete, who foregathered with lushington. they were at the end of luncheon when margaret came in, they were sipping fine wine from very thin glasses, they were all saying their second-best things, because each one was afraid that if he said his very best before dinner one of the others would steal it; and mrs. rushmore was in her element. margaret came in with her hat on and sat down in her place, which was opposite mrs. rushmore. the men subsided again into their chairs and looked at her. lushington was next to her, but she smiled at the others first, nodding quietly and answering their greetings. 'you seem pleased,' lushington said, when he saw that she would hear him. 'do i?' she smiled again. 'that sort of answer always means a secret,' lushington replied. 'happiness for one, don't you know?' 'by the way,' asked the english officer on her other side, 'was not your father the famous army coach?' 'no,' margaret replied. 'i'm often asked that.' 'what is an army coach?' inquired the french painter, who spoke some english. 'is it not an ambulance? but i do not understand.' mrs. rushmore began to explain in an undertone. 'miss donne's father was an oxford don,' observed lushington, rather stiffly. at this quite unintentional pun the french painter laughed so much that every one turned and looked at him. he had once painted a famous man in oxford, and knew what a don was. 'make the next one in greek,' said margaret to lushington, with a smile. 'there are some very bad puns in aristophanes,' observed the archæologist thoughtfully. 'why don't you go to crete?' he inquired very suddenly of mrs. rushmore. mrs. rushmore, who did not happen to have heard of the recent discoveries yet, felt a little as if the young man had asked her why she did not go to jericho. but she concealed her feelings, being quite sure that no offence to her dignity was meant. 'it is so far,' she answered with a vague smile. 'it's a beastly hole,' observed the soldier. 'i was there when that row was going on.' 'the discoveries have all been made since then,' answered the archæologist, who could think of nothing else. 'you have no idea what those paintings are,' he continued, talking to the table. 'i have been there several weeks and i'm going back next month. logotheti is going to take a party of us in his big yacht.' 'who is logotheti?' inquired margaret, with great calm. 'a financier,' put in lushington. 'a millionaire,' said the artist. 'i have painted his portrait.' 'he seems to be interested in discoveries,' margaret said to the archæologist. 'i suppose you know him very well?' 'oh yes! he is a most interesting person, a greek of constantinople by birth, but a real greek at heart, who knows his own literature, and loves his country, and spends immense sums in helping archæology. he really cares for nothing but art! finance amuses him now and then for a while, and he has been tremendously lucky. they consider him one of the important men in the money market, don't they?' the question was directed to the french artist. 'certainly they do!' replied the latter, with alacrity. 'i have painted his portrait.' 'i should like to know him,' said mrs. rushmore. 'he is quite delightful,' the woman of the world chimed in. 'quite the most amusing man i know!' 'you know him, too?' mrs. rushmore asked. 'everybody knows logotheti!' answered the other. 'you must really bring him,' said mrs. rushmore, in a general way, to everybody. 'i am sure he will be enchanted!' cried the archæologist. 'i am dining with him to-night, and if you will allow me i'll bring him to-morrow afternoon.' 'you seem very sure that he will come,' margaret said. 'but why should he not? every one is glad to come to mrs. rushmore's house.' this was an unanswerable form of complimentary argument. margaret reflected on that strange law by which, when we have just heard for the first time of a fact or a person, we are sure to come across it, or him, again, within the next twenty-four hours. she did not believe that logotheti could be found at short notice and introduced to new acquaintances so easily as the young scholar seemed to think; but she made up her mind, if he came at all, that she would prevent him from talking about their meeting at madame bonanni's, which she wished to avoid mentioning for the present. that would be easy enough, for a man of his tact would understand the slightest sign, and behave as if he had not met her before. in the afternoon she was alone with lushington again. he was not at all in an aggressive mood; indeed, he seemed rather depressed. they walked slowly under the oaks and elms. 'what is the matter?' margaret asked gently, after a silence. 'i have been thinking a great deal about you,' he answered. 'the thought seems to make you sad!' margaret laughed, for she was very happy. 'yes. it does,' he answered, with a sigh that certainly was not affected. 'but why?' she asked, growing grave at once. 'there is no reason why i should not tell you. after all, we know each other too well to apologise for saying what we think. don't we?' 'i hope so,' margaret answered, wondering what he was going to say. 'but then,' said lushington disconsolately, 'i am perfectly sure that nothing i can say can have the slightest effect.' 'who knows?' the young girl's lids drooped a little and then opened again. 'you know.' he spoke gravely and with regret. she tried to laugh. 'i wish i did! but what is it? there can be no harm in saying it!' 'you have made up your mind to be an opera-singer,' lushington answered. 'you have a beautiful voice, you have talent, you have been well taught. you will succeed.' he had never said as much as that about her singing, and she was pleased. after many months of patient work, the acknowledgment of it seemed to be all coming in one day. 'you talk as if you were quite sure.' 'yes. you will succeed. but there is another side to it. shall you think me priggish and call me disagreeable if i tell you that it is no life for a woman brought up like you?' margaret had just acquired some insight into the existence of the class she meant to join, though by no means into the worst phase of it. she was sure that if she closed her eyes she should see madame bonanni vividly before her, and hear her talking to logotheti, and smell the heavy air of the big room. she felt that she could not call lushington a prig. 'i think i know what you mean,' she answered. 'but surely, an artist can lead her own life, especially if she is successful.' 'no,' lushington answered, 'she cannot. that's just it.' 'how do you know?' margaret asked, incredulously. 'i do know,' he said with emphasis. 'i assure you that i know. i have seen a great deal of operatic people. a few, and they are not generally the great ones, try to lead their own lives, as you put it, but they either don't succeed at all or else they make themselves so disagreeable to their fellow artists that life becomes a burden.' 'if they don't succeed, it's because they have no strength of character,' margaret answered, 'and if they make themselves disagreeable, it's because they have no tact!' 'that settles it!' lushington laughed drily. 'i had better not say anything more.' 'i did not mean to cut you short. i beg your pardon. please go on, please!' she turned to him as she said the last words, and there was in the word 'please' that one tone of hers which he could never resist. it is said that even lifeless things, like bridges and towers, are subject by nature to the vibration of a sympathetic note, and that the greatest buildings in the world would tremble, and shake, and rock and fall in ruins if that single musical sound were steadily produced near to them. we men cannot pretend to be harder of hearing and feeling than stocks and stones. the woman who loves, whether she herself knows it or not, has her call, that we answer as the wood-bird answers his mate, her sympathetic word and note at which we vibrate to our heart's core. when margaret said 'please' in a certain way, lushington's free will seemed to retire from him suddenly, to contemplate his weakness from a little distance. when she said 'please go on,' he went on, and not only said what he had meant to say but a great deal more, too. 'it would bore you to know all about my existence,' he began, 'but as a critic and otherwise i happen to have been often in contact with theatrical people, especially opera-singers. i have at least one--er--one very dear friend amongst them. 'a man?' suggested margaret. 'no. a woman--of a certain age. as i see her very often, i naturally see other singers, especially as she is very much liked by them. i only tell you that to explain why i know so much about them; and if i want to explain at all, it's only because i like you so much, and because i suppose that what i like most about you, next to yourself, is just that something which my dear old friend can never have. do you understand?' lushington was certainly very shy as a rule, and most people would have said that he was very cold; but margaret suddenly felt that there was a true and deep emotion behind his plain speech. 'you have been very fond of her,' she said gently. he flushed almost before she had finished speaking; but he could not have been angry, for he smiled. 'yes, i have always been very fond of her,' he answered, after a scarcely perceptible pause, 'and i always shall be. but she is old enough to be my mother.' 'i'm glad if it's really a friendship,' said margaret; 'and only a friendship,' she added. he turned his eyes to her rather slowly. 'i believe you really are glad,' he answered. 'thank you. i'm very fond of you. i can't help it. i suppose i love you, and i have no business to--and sometimes you say things that touch me. that's all. after this rather inexplicable speech he relapsed into silence. but there are silences of all sorts, as there is speech of all sorts. there are silences that set one's teeth on edge--it is always a relief to break them; and there are silences that are gentler, kinder, sweeter, more loving, more eloquent than any words, and which it is always a wrench to interrupt. of these was the pause that followed now; but margaret was asking herself what he meant by saying that he had no right to love her. 'do you know what the hardest thing in my life is?' lushington asked, suddenly rousing himself. 'it is the certainty that my friend can never have been and never can be at all like you in everything that appeals to me most. but it would be still worse--oh, infinitely worse!--to see you grow like her, by living amongst the same people. you will suffer if you do, and you will suffer if you cannot. that is why i dread the idea of your going on the stage.' 'but i really think i shall not change so much as you think, if i do,' margaret said. 'you don't know the life,' lushington answered rather sadly. 'all i can do is to tell you that it is not fit for you, or that you are not fit for it, because you are not by nature what most of them are, and please god you never will be.' he spoke very earnestly, and another little silence followed, during which the two walked on. 'please notice that i have not called you a prig for saying that,' said margaret at last. 'and i have not thought you one either,' she added, before he could answer. 'you're very nice!' lushington tried to laugh, but it was rather a failure. 'but of course you've no business to think me nice, have you?' 'none whatever.' 'why not?' it was not even curiosity, nor an idle inclination to flirt that made margaret ask the question at last. she had never felt so strongly drawn to him as now. he looked at her quietly, and answered without the least hesitation or shyness. 'i've no business to be in love with you, because i'm a fraud,' he said. 'a fraud! you? what in the world do you mean?' margaret was thoroughly surprised. this gifted, shy, youthful man who had fought his way to the front by his own talent and hard work, was of all people she knew the one with whom she least connected any idea of deception. he only nodded and looked at her. 'a fraud!' she exclaimed again. 'i suppose it's some sort of false modesty that makes you say that! you know that you are a very successful writer and that you have earned your success. why do you try to make out----' 'i'm not trying to make out anything. i tell you the plain truth. i'm a fraud.' 'nonsense!' margaret was almost angry at his persistence. 'i would not tell you, if i did not care for you so much,' he answered. 'but as i do, and as you seem to like me a little, i should be an awful cad if i kept you in the dark any longer. you won't publish it on the housetops. i'm not edmund lushington at all.' 'you are not edmund lushington, the critic?' margaret's mouth opened in surprise. 'i'm the critic all right,' he answered, with a faint smile. 'i'm the man that writes, the man you've heard of. but i'm not lushington. it's an assumed name.' 'oh!' margaret seemed relieved. 'is that all? many people who write take other names.' 'but they are not generally known by them to their friends,' lushington observed. 'that's where the fraud comes in, in my case. a man may sign his book judas iscariot or peter the great if he likes, provided he's known as mr. smith at home, if that's his real name.' 'is your real name smith?' margaret asked. 'is that why you changed it?' lushington could not help smiling. 'no. if i had been called smith, i would have stuck to it. smith is a very good, honest name. most of the people who originally came by it made armour and were more or less artists. no! i wish i were a smith, indeed i do! the name is frequent, not common, that's all.' margaret was puzzled, and looked at his face, as if she were thinking out the problem. 'no,' she said suddenly, and with decision. 'you are not a jew. that's impossible!' 'i'm not a jew.' he laughed this time. 'but i know several very interesting jews, and i don't dislike them at all. i really should not mind being called solomon isaacs! i would not have changed the name either.' 'you might have been called isidore guggenheimer,' margaret suggested, smiling. 'well--that! for purposes of literature, it would not be practical.' 'you forget that you have not told me your real name yet. you see, if i should ever happen to think of you again, i'd rather not think of you under a pseudonym, unless it were in connection with your books.' 'that's the only way in which you are likely to think of me,' he answered. 'but if you really want to know, my first name is thomas, diminutive tom--plain tom.' 'i like that much better than edmund,' said margaret, who had simple tastes. 'is the other one as nice?' 'i don't know what you might think of it,' lushington answered. 'it is neither common nor uncommon, and not at all striking, but i cannot tell you what it is. i'm sorry to make a mystery of it, for my father was nobody in particular, and i was nobody in particular until i was heard of as lushington, the critic. and i've been lushington so long that i'm used to it. i was called so at school and at oxford.' 'as long ago as that!' margaret again seemed relieved. 'yes. oh, i've done nothing disgraceful, nor my father either! it's not that. i cannot possibly explain, but it's the reason why i'm a fraud--as far as you are concerned.' 'only as far as i am concerned?' 'nobody else happens to matter. mrs. rushmore receives all sorts of interesting people, many of whom have played tricks with their names. why should she care? why should anybody care? we have all done the things we are known for, and we are not in love with mrs. rushmore, though she is a very agreeable woman! she wouldn't care to call me tom, would she?' 'i don't know,' margaret answered with a laugh. 'she might!' 'at all events, it's not necessary to tell her,' said lushington. 'no. but suppose that i should not care to call you tom either, and yet should wish to call you something, don't you know? that might happen.' lushington did not answer at once, and margaret was a little displeased, for she had said more than she had ever meant to say to show him what she was beginning to feel. she held her head rather high as they walked on under the great trees, and her eyes sparkled coldly now and then. she had known for a long time that he loved her, and to-day he had told her so, almost roughly; and for some time, also, she had understood that she was growing fond of him. but now that she held out her hand, metaphorically, he would not take it. 'i don't want to know your secret, if it is as important as that,' she said at last. 'a man who hides his real name so carefully must have some very good reason for doing it.' she emphasised the words almost cruelly and looked straight before her, and her eyes sparkled again. his lips parted to make a quick retort, but he checked himself, and then spoke quietly. 'i have never done anything i am ashamed of,' he said. 'i don't think it's very nice to do what you are doing now,' margaret retorted, coolly. 'it doesn't inspire confidence, you know.' 'can't we part without quarrelling?' 'oh, certainly! do you mean to go away?' 'you leave me no choice. shall we turn back to the house? it will soon be over. i can leave before dinner. it will be easy to find an excuse.' 'yes! those proofs you have been talking of lately--your publishers--anything will do!' margaret was thoroughly angry with him and with herself by this time, and he was deeply hurt, and they turned and walked stiffly, with their noses in the air, as if they never meant to speak to each other again. 'it's very odd!' margaret observed at last, as if she had made a discovery. 'what is very odd?' 'i never liked you as much as i did a quarter of an hour ago, and i never disliked you as much as i do now! do you understand that?' 'yes. you make it very clear. i never heard any thing put more plainly.' 'i'm glad of that. but it's very funny. i detest you just now, and yet, if you go away at once, i know i shall be sorry. on the whole, do you know?--you had better not leave to-night.' lushington turned sharply on her. 'are you playing with me?' he asked, in an angry tone. 'no,' she answered with exasperating coolness, 'i don't think i am. only, you are two people, you see. it confuses me. you are mr. lushington, and then, the next minute, you're--tom. i hate mr. lushington. i believe i always did. i wish i might never see him again.' 'oh indeed! how about tom?' 'tom is rather bearable than otherwise,' margaret answered, laughing again. 'he knows that i think so, too, and it's no reason why he should be always trying to keep out of the way!' 'he has no right to be in the way.' 'then he ought never to have come here. but since he has, i would rather have him stay.' when she had thus explained herself with perfect frankness and made known her wishes, margaret seemed to think that there was nothing more to be said. but lushington thought otherwise. 'why do you hate mr. lushington?' he asked. 'because he is a fraud,' margaret answered. 'as you have just told me that he is, you cannot possibly deny it, and you can't quarrel with me for not liking him. so there!' all her good-humour had come back, the cold sparkle in her eyes had turned into afternoon sunshine, and she swung her closed parasol gently on one finger by its hook as she walked, nodding her head just perceptibly as if keeping time with it. she expected an answer, a laugh perhaps, or a retort; but nothing came. she glanced sideways at lushington, thinking to meet his eyes, but they were watching the ground as he walked, a yard before his feet. she turned her head and looked at his face, and she realised that it was a little drawn, and had grown suddenly pale, and that there were dark shadows under his eyes which she had never seen before. the healthy, shy, rather too youthful mask was gone, and in its place she saw the features of a mature man who was quietly suffering a great deal. she fancied that he must often look as he did now, when he was alone. 'could any one do anything to make it easier for you?' she asked softly, after a moment. he looked up quickly in surprise, and then shook his head, without speaking. 'because, if i could help you, i would,' she added. 'thank you. i know you would,' he spoke with real gratitude, and the colour began to come back to his face. 'you see, it's not a thing that can be changed, or helped, or bettered. it's a condition from which i cannot escape, and i've got to live in it. it would have been easier if i had never met you, my dear miss donne!' he straightened himself and put on something of the formality that had become a habit with him, as it easily does with shy men who feel much. 'please don't call me miss donne,' margaret said, very low. 'margaret----' he paused on the syllables, as he almost whispered them. 'no!' he said, suddenly, as if angry with himself. 'that's silly! don't make me do such things, please, or i shall hate myself! nothing in the world can ever change what is, and i shall never have the right to put out my hand and ask you to marry me. the best we can do is to say good-bye, and i'll try to keep out of your way. help me to do that, for it's the only help you can ever give me!' 'i don't believe it,' margaret answered. 'we can always be friends, if we cannot be anything else.' lushington shook his head incredulously, but said nothing. 'why not?' margaret asked, clinging to her idea. 'why can't we like each other, be very, very fond of each other, and meet often, and each help the other in life? i don't want to know your secret. i won't even call you tom, as i want to, and you shall be as stiff and formal with me as you please. what do such things matter, if we really care? if we really trust one another, and know it? the main thing is to know, to be absolutely sure. why do you wish to go away, just when i've found out how much i want you to stay? it's not right, and it's not kind! indeed it's not!' they had been walking very slowly, and now she stood still and faced him, waiting for his answer. he looked steadily into her eyes as he spoke. 'i don't think i can stay,' he said slowly. 'you can't tear love up by the roots and plant it in a pot and call it friendship. if you try, something will happen. excuse me if the simile sounds lyric, but i don't happen to think of a better one, on the spur of the moment. i'll behave all right before the others, but i had better go away to-morrow morning. the thing will only get worse if i keep on seeing you.' margaret heard the short, awkward sentences and knew what they cost him. she looked down and stuck the bright metal tip of her parasol into the thin dry mud of the macadamised road, grinding it in slowly, half round and half back, with both hands, and unconsciously wondering what made the earth so hard just in that place. 'i wish i were a man!' she said all at once, and the parasol bent dangerously as she gave it a particularly vicious twist, leaning upon it at the same time. 'it would certainly simplify matters for me, if you were,' said lushington coldly. she looked up with a hurt expression. 'oh, please don't go back to that way of talking!' she said. 'it's bad enough, as it is! don't you see how hard i am trying?' 'i'm sorry,' lushington said. 'don't pay any attention to what i say. i'm all over the place.' he mumbled the words and turned away from her as he stood. she watched him, and desisted from digging holes in the ground. then, as he did not look at her again she put out one hand rather shyly and touched his sleeve. 'look at me,' she said. 'what is this for? what are we making ourselves miserable about? we care for each other a great deal, much more than i had any idea of this morning. why should we say good-bye? i don't believe it's at all necessary, after all. you have got some silly, quixotic idea into your head, i'm sure. tell me what it is, and let me judge for myself!' 'i can't,' he answered, in evident distress. 'you may find out what it is some day, but i cannot tell you. it's the one thing i couldn't say to anybody alive. if i did, i should deserve to be kicked out of decent society for ever!' she saw the look of suffering in his face again, and she felt as if she were going to cry, out of sympathy. 'of course,' she faltered, 'if it would be--what you call dishonourable--to tell----' 'yes. it would be dishonourable to tell.' there was a little silence. 'all i can hope,' he continued presently, 'is that you won't believe it's anything i've done myself.' 'indeed, indeed i don't. i never could!' she held out her hand and he took it gladly, and kept it in his for a moment; then he dropped it of his own accord, before she had made the least motion to take it back. they walked on without speaking again for a long time, and without wishing to speak. when they were in sight of mrs. rushmore's gate margaret broke the silence at last. 'do you mean to take an early train to-morrow morning?' she asked. 'nine o'clock, i think,' he answered. there was another little pause, and again margaret spoke, but very low, this time. 'i shall be in the garden at half-past eight--to say good-bye.' 'yes,' lushington answered. 'thank you,' he added after a moment. they were side by side, very near together as they walked, and her left hand hung down close to his right. he caught her fingers suddenly, and they pressed his, and parted from them instantly. chapter v little madame durand-de rosa took margaret behind the scenes just before the second act of _romeo and juliet_ was over. the famous teacher of singing was a privileged person at the opéra, and the man who kept the side door of communication between the house and the stage bowed low as he opened for her and margaret. things are well managed in the great opera-houses nowadays, and it is not easy to get behind when anything is going on. the young girl felt a new sensation of awe and excitement. it was the first time she had ever found herself on the working side of the vast machinery of artistic pleasure, and her first impression was that she had been torn from an artificial paradise and was being dragged through an artificial inferno. huge and unfamiliar objects loomed about her in the deep shadows; men with pale faces, in working clothes, stood motionless at their posts, listening and watching; others lurked in corners, dressed in mediæval costumes that glittered in the dark. between the flies, margaret caught glimpses of the darkened stage, and the sound of the orchestra reached her as if muffled, while the tenor's voice sounded very loud, though he was singing softly. on a rough bit of platform six feet above the stage, stood madame bonanni in white satin, apparently laced to a point between life and death, her hands holding the two sides of the latticed door that opened upon the balcony. in a loft on the stage left a man was working a lime-light moon behind a sheet of blue glass in a frame; the chorus of old retainers in grey stood huddled together in semi-darkness by a fly, listening to the tenor and waiting to hear madame bonanni's note when she should come out. [illustration: "the young girl felt a new sensation of awe and excitement."] margaret would have waited too, but her teacher hurried her along, holding her by the hand and checking her when they came to any obstacle which the girl's unpractised eyes might not have seen in time. to the older woman it was all as familiar as her own sitting-room, for her life had been spent in the midst of it; to margaret it was all strange, and awe-inspiring, and a little frightening. it was to be her own life, too, before long. in a few months, or perhaps a few weeks, she, too, would be standing on a platform, like madame bonanni, waiting to go out into the lime-light, waiting to be heard by two thousand people. she wondered whether she should be frightened, whether by any possibility her voice would stick in her throat at the great moment and suddenly croak out a hideous false note, and end her career then and there. her heart beat fast at the thought, even now, and she pressed her teacher's guiding hand nervously; and yet, as the music reached her ears, she longed to be standing in madame bonanni's place with only a latticed balcony door between her and the great public. she was not thinking of lushington now, though she had thought all day of his face when she had met him for one moment under the trees, yesterday morning, and had felt that something was gone from her life which she was to miss for a long time. that was all forgotten in what she felt at the present moment, in the wild quivering longing to be in front, the centre of the great illusion, singing as she knew that she could sing, as she had never sung before. madame de rosa led her quickly down a dark corridor and a moment later she found herself in a dazzling blaze of light, in the prima donna's dressing-room. the ceiling was low, the walls were white, and innumerable electric lamps, with no shades, filled the place with a blinding glare. it all looked bare and uncomfortable, and very untidy. there was a toilet-table, covered with little pots of grease and paint, and well-worn pads and hare's-feet, and vast stores of hairpins, besides a quantity of rings and jewels of great value, all lying together in bowls in the midst of the confusion. a tall mirror stood on one side, with wing mirrors on hinges, and bunches of lamps that could be moved about. on one of the walls half-a-dozen theatrical gowns and cloaks hung limply from pegs. two large trunks were open and empty not far from the door. the air was hot and hard to breathe, and smelt of many things. there were three people in the room when the two visitors entered; there was a very tall maid with an appallingly cadaverous face and shiny black hair, and there was a short fat maid who grinned and showed good teeth at madame de rosa. both wore black and had white aprons, and both were perspiring profusely. the third person was an elderly man in evening dress, who rose and shook hands with the retired singer, and bowed to margaret. he seemed to be a very quiet, unobtrusive man, who was nevertheless perfectly at his ease, and he somehow conveyed the impression that he must be always dressed for the evening, in a perfectly new coat, a brand-new shirt, a white waistcoat never worn before, and a made tie. perhaps it was the made tie that introduced a certain disquieting element in his otherwise highly correct appearance. he wore his faded fair hair very short, and his greyish yellow beard was trimmed in a point. his fat hands were incased in tight white gloves. his pale eyes looked quietly through his glasses and made one think of the eyes of a big fish in an aquarium when it swims up and pushes its nose against the plate-glass front of the tank to look at visitors. the eyes examined margaret attentively. 'monsieur schreiermeyer, this is miss donne, my pupil,' said madame de rosa. 'enchanted,' mumbled the manager. he continued to scrutinise the young girl's face, and he looked so much like a doctor that she felt as if he were going to feel her pulse and tell her to put out her tongue. at the thought, she smiled pleasantly. 'hum!' schreiermeyer grunted softly, almost musically, in fact. perhaps this was a good sign, for little madame de rosa beamed. margaret looked about for an empty chair, but there never seemed to be any in a room used by madame bonanni. there was one indeed, but schreiermeyer had appropriated it, and sat down upon it again with perfect calm. 'sit down,' he said, as he did so himself. 'yes,' answered margaret sweetly, and remained standing. suddenly he seemed to realise that she could not, and that the maids were not inclined to offer her a seat. his face and figure were transfigured in an instant, one fat, gloved hand shot out with extended forefinger in a gesture of command and his pale eyes flashed through his glasses, and glared furiously at the maids. 'clear two chairs!' he shouted in a voice of thunder. margaret started in surprise and protest. 'but the things are all ready----' objected the cadaverous maid. 'damn the things!' yelled schreiermeyer. 'clear two chairs at once!' he seemed, on the verge of a white apoplexy, though he did not move from his seat. the cadaverous maid lifted an embroidered bodice from one of the chairs and laid it in one of the black trunks; she looked like a female undertaker laying a dead baby in its coffin. the fat maid showed all her teeth and laughed at schreiermeyer and cleared the other chair, and brought up both together for the two ladies. 'give yourselves the trouble to be seated,' said schreiermeyer, in a tone so soft that it would not have disturbed a sleeping child. as soon as he was obeyed he became quite quiet and unobtrusive again, the furious glare faded from his eyes, and the white kid hand returned to rest upon its fellow. 'how good you are!' cried madame de rosa gratefully, as she sat down on the cane chair. 'hum!' grunted schreiermeyer, musically, as if he agreed with her. 'miss donne has a good soprano,' the teacher ventured to say after a time. 'ah?' ejaculated the manager in a tone of very indifferent interrogation. there was a little pause. 'lyric,' observed madame de rosa, breaking the silence. another pause. schreiermeyer seemed not to have heard, and neither moved nor looked at the two. 'lyric?' he inquired, suddenly, but with extreme softness. 'lyric,' repeated madame de rosa, leaning forward a little, and fanning herself violently. another pause. 'thank god!' exclaimed schreiermeyer, without moving, but so very devoutly that margaret stared at him in surprise. madame de rosa knew that this also was an excellent sign; she looked at margaret and nodded energetically. whatever schreiermeyer might mean by returning devout thanks to his maker at that moment, the retired singer was perfectly sure that he knew his business. he was probably in need of a lyric soprano for the next season, and that might lead to an immediate engagement for margaret. 'how hot it is!' the latter complained, in an undertone. 'there is no air at all here!' the maids were mopping their faces with their handkerchiefs, and madame de rosa's fan was positively whirring. schreiermeyer seemed quite indifferent to the temperature. he must nevertheless have been reflecting on margaret's last remark when he slowly turned to her after a silence of nearly a minute. 'have you a good action of the heart?' he inquired, precisely as a doctor might have done. 'i don't know.' margaret smiled. 'i don't know anything about my heart.' 'then it is good,' said the manager. 'it ought to be, for you have a magnificent skin. do you eat well and sleep well, always?' 'perfectly. may i ask if you are a doctor?' madame de rosa made furious signs to margaret. a very faint smile flitted over the manager's quiet face. 'some people call me an executioner,' he answered, 'because i kill the weak ones.' 'i am not afraid of work.' margaret laughed. 'no. you will grow fat if you sing. you will grow very fat.' he spoke thoughtfully. 'after you are forty,' he added, as if by way of consolation. 'i hope not!' cried the young girl. 'yes, you will. it is the outward sign of success in the profession. singers who grow thin lose their voices.' 'i never grew very fat,' said madame de rosa, in a tone of regret. 'precisely, my darling,' answered schreiermeyer. 'therefore you retired.' margaret was a little surprised that he should call her teacher 'my darling,' and that the good lady should seem to think it quite natural, but her reflections on obesity and the manners of theatrical people were interrupted, though not by any means arrested for the night, by the clattering sound of high-heeled shoes in the corridor. the act was over, and madame bonanni was coming back from the stage. in a moment she was in the doorway, and as she entered the room she unmasked a third maid who followed her with a cloak. she saw margaret first, as the latter rose to meet her. margaret felt as if the world itself were putting huge arms round her and kissing her on both cheeks. the embrace was of terrific power, and a certain amount of grease paint came off. 'little miss donne,' cried the prima donna, relaxing her hold on margaret's waist but instantly seizing her by the wrist and turning her round sharply, like a dressmaker's doll on a pivot, 'that is schreiermeyer! the great schreiermeyer! the terrible schreiermeyer! you see him before you, my child! tremble! every one trembles before schreiermeyer!' the manager had risen, but was perfectly imperturbable and silent. he did not even grunt. madame bonanni dropped margaret's wrist and shrugged her juno-like shoulders. 'schreiermeyer,' she said, as if she had forgotten all about margaret, 'if that lime-light man plays the moon in my eyes again i shall come out on the balcony with blue goggles. you shall hear the public then! it is perfectly outrageous! i am probably blind for life!' she winked her big painted eyelids vigorously as if trying whether she could see at all. margaret was looking at her, not sure that it was not all a dream, and wondering how it was possible that such a face and figure could still produce illusions of youth and grace when seen from the other side of the footlights. yet margaret herself had felt the illusion only a quarter of an hour ago. the paint on madame bonanni's face was a thick mask of grease, pigments and powder; the wig was the most evident wig that ever was; the figure seemed of gigantic girth compared with the woman's height, though that was by no means small; the eye lids were positively unwieldy with paint and the lashes looked like very thick black horsehairs stuck in with glue, in rows. she shook her solid fist at schreiermeyer and blinked violently again. 'it is outrageous!' she cried again. 'do you understand?' 'perfectly.' 'schreiermeyer!' screamed madame bonanni. 'if you take no more notice of my complaints than that i refuse to finish the opera. i will not sing the rest of it! find somebody else to go on. i am going home! undress me!' she cried, turning to the three perspiring maids, not one of whom moved an inch at her summons. 'oh, you won't? you are afraid of him? ah, bah! i am not. schreiermeyer, i refuse to go on; i absolutely refuse. go away! i am going to undress.' thereupon she tore off her brown wig with a single movement and threw it across the room. it struck the wall with a thud and fell upon the floor, a limp and shapeless mass. the cadaverous maid instantly picked it up and began smoothing it. madame bonanni's own dark hair stood on end, giving her a decidedly wild look. schreiermeyer smiled perceptibly. 'miss donne will go on and sing the rest of the opera with pleasure, i have no doubt,' he said, gently, looking at margaret. the girl's heart stood still for an instant at this sudden proposal, before she realised that the manager was not in earnest. 'of course she can sing it!' chimed in madame de rosa, understanding perfectly. 'but our dear friend is much too kind to disappoint the parisian public,' she added, turning to the prima donna and speaking soothingly. 'nothing can move that man!' cried madame bonanni, in a helpless tone. 'nothing but the sound of your marvellous voice, my angel artist,' said schreiermeyer. 'that always makes me weep, especially in the last act of this opera.' margaret could not fancy the manager blubbering, though she had more than once seen people in front with their handkerchiefs to their eyes during the scene in the tomb. 'put my wig on,' said madame bonanni to the cadaverous maid, and she sat down in front of the toilet-table. 'we must talk business at once,' she continued, suddenly speaking with the utmost calm. 'the appointment is at my house, at ten o'clock to-morrow morning, schreiermeyer. miss donne will sing for us. bring a pianist and the minister of fine arts if you can get him.' 'i have not the minister of fine arts in my pocket, dearest lady,' observed the manager, 'but i will try. why do you name such a very early hour?' 'because i breakfast at eleven. tell the minister that the king is coming too. that will bring him. all ministers are snobs.' 'the king?' repeated margaret in surprise, and somewhat aghast. 'he is in paris,' explained madame bonanni carelessly. 'he's an old friend of mine, and we dined together last night. i told him about you and he said he would come if he could but you never can count on those people.' margaret was too timid to ask what king madame bonanni was talking of, but she supposed her teacher would tell her in due time; and, after all, he might not come. margaret hoped that he would, however, for she had never spoken to a royalty in her life and thought it would be very amusing to see a real, live king in the prima donna's eccentric surroundings. 'i shall turn you all out when you have heard her sing,' continued madame bonanni. you and i will lunch quite alone, my dear, and talk things over. there is one good point in schreiermeyer's character. he never flatters unless he wants something. if he tells you that you sing well, it means an engagement next year. if he says you sing divinely, your _début_ will be next week, or as soon as you can rehearse with a company.' she touched up her cheeks with a hare's-foot while she talked. 'so that is settled,' she said, turning sharp round on the stool, which creaked loudly. 'go home and go to bed, my children, unless you want to hear poor old bonanni sing the rest of this stupid opera!' she laughed, at herself perhaps; but suddenly in the tones margaret heard a far-off suggestion of sadness that went to her heart very strangely. the singer turned her back again and seemed to pay no more attention to her visitors. margaret came close to her, to say goodbye, and to thank her for all she was doing. the great artist looked up quietly into the young girl's eyes for a moment, and laid a hand on hers very kindly. 'good-night, little miss donne,' she said, so low that the others could not hear distinctly. 'it is the setting sun that bids you good-night, child--you, the dawn and the sun of to-morrow!' margaret pressed the kind hand, and a moment later her teacher was hurrying her back through the dark wilderness of the stage to the brilliant house beyond. schreiermeyer had already disappeared without so much as a word. chapter vi mrs. rushmore had not been at all surprised at lushington's sudden departure. she was accustomed to the habits of lions and was well aware that they must be allowed to come and go exactly as they please if you wish them to eat out of your hand from time to time; and when the eminent young critic announced rather suddenly that he must leave early the next morning the good lady only said that she was sorry, and that she hoped he would come back soon. sham lions love to talk about themselves, and to excite curiosity, but real ones resent questions about their doings as they would resent a direct insult. mrs. rushmore knew that, too. she was really sorry to lose him, however, and had counted on his staying at least a week longer. she liked him herself, and she saw that margaret liked him very much; and it was more moral in a nice girl to like an englishman than a foreigner, just as it would be still more moral of her to prefer an american to an englishman, according to mrs. rushmore's scale of nationalities. next to what was moral, she was fond of lions, who are often persons without any morals whatsoever. but lushington seemed to fill both requirements. he was a highly moral lion. she was quite sure that he did not drink, did not gamble, and did not secretly worship ashtaroth; and he never told her naughty stories. therefore she was very sorry when he was gone. at the present juncture, however, she was in considerable anxiety about margaret. she did not know one note from another, but she had heard all the greatest singers of the last thirty years, in all the greatest opera-houses from bayreuth to new york, and it horrified her to be obliged to admit that margaret's singing sounded dreadfully like the best. the girl meant to sing in opera, and if she could really do it well it would be quite impossible to hinder her, as she had no means of support and could not be blamed for refusing to live on charity. everything was combining to make an artist of her, for the chances of winning the suit brought on her behalf were growing as slender as the seven lean kine. it was characteristic of margaret that she had kept to herself most of what madame bonanni had told her, but mrs. rushmore knew the girl well, and guessed from her face that there was much more behind. the appointment at the theatre confirmed this surmise, and when margaret telegraphed the next day that she was going to stay in town until the afternoon, with madame de rosa, there was no longer any room for doubt. as for poor lushington, margaret had told him nothing at all, and her visit to madame bonanni had been a secret between herself and mrs. rushmore. logotheti had not made his appearance after all, but the young archæologist had brought assurances that the financier would be honoured, charmed and otherwise delighted to be presented to mrs. rushmore within a day or two, if convenient to her. so it happened that logotheti made his first visit after lushington had left versailles. the latter went away in a very disconsolate frame of mind, and disappeared into paris. it is not always wise to follow a discouraged man into the retirement of a shabby room in a quiet hotel on the left bank of the seine, and it is never amusing. psychology in fiction seems to mean the rather fruitless study of what the novelist himself thinks he might feel if he ever got himself into one of those dreadful scrapes which it is a part of his art to invent outright, or to steal from the lives of men and women he has known or heard of. people who can analyse their own feelings are never feeling enough to hurt them much; a medical student could not take his scalpel and calmly dissect out his own nerves. you may try to analyse pain and pleasure when they are past, but nothing is more strangely and hopelessly undefined than the memory of a great grief, and no analysis of pleasure can lead to anything but the desire for more. the only real psychologists have been the great lyric poets, before they have emerged from the gloom of youth. the outward signs of lushington's condition were few and not such as would have seemed dramatic to an acquaintance. when he was in his room at the hotel in the rue des saints pères, he got an old briar pipe out of his bag, filled it and lit it, and stood for nearly a quarter of an hour at the window, smoking thoughtfully with his hands in his pockets. the subtle analyst, observing that the street is narrow and dull and presents nothing of interest, jumps to the conclusion that lushington is thinking while he looks out of the window. perhaps he is. the next thing to be done is to unpack his bag and place his dressing things in order on the toilet-table. they are simple things, but mostly made expressly for him, of oxidised silver, with his initials in plain block letters; and each object has a neat sole leather case of its own, so that they can be thrown pell-mell into a bag and jumbled up together without being scratched. but lushington takes them out of their cases and disposes them on the table with mathematical precision, smoking vigorously all the time. this done, he unpacks his valise, his shirt-case and other belongings, in the most systematic way possible, looks through the things he left in the room when he went to versailles, to see that everything is in order, and at last rings for the servant to take away the clothes and shoes that need cleaning. the subtle analyst would argue from all this that lushington was one of those painfully orderly persons, who are made positively nervous by the sight of a hair-brush lying askew, or a tie dropped on the floor. it was at most true that he had acquired a set of artificially precise habits to which he clung most tenaciously, and which certainly harmonised with the natural appearance of neatness that had formerly been his despair. why he had taken so much trouble to become orderly was his own business. possibly he had got tired of that state of life in which it is impossible to find anything in less than half an hour when one wants it in half a minute. at all events, he had taken pains to acquire orderliness, and, for reasons which will appear hereafter, it is worth while to note the fact. when everything was arranged to his satisfaction, he sat down in the most comfortable chair in the room, filled another of the three wooden pipes that now lay side by side on the writing-table, and continued to smoke as if his welfare depended on consuming a certain quantity of tobacco in a given time. he must have had a sound heart and a strong head, for he did not desist from his occupation for many hours, though he had not eaten anything particular at breakfast, at mrs. rushmore's, and nothing at all since. the afternoon was wearing on when he knocked the ashes out of his pipe very carefully, laid it in its place, rose from his seat and uttered a single profane ejaculation. 'damn!' having said this, he said no more, for indeed, if taken literally, there could be nothing more to be said. the malediction, however, was directed against nothing particular, and certainly against no person living or dead; it only applied to the aggregate of the awkward circumstances in which he found himself, and as he was alone he felt quite sure of not being misunderstood. he did not even take a servant with him when he travelled, though he had an excellent scotchman for a valet, who could do a great variety of useful things, besides holding his tongue, which is one of the finest qualities in the world, in man or dog. and he also had a dog in london, a particularly rough irish terrier called tim; but as tim would have been quarantined every time he came home it was practically impossible to bring him to the continent. it will be seen, therefore, that lushington was really quite alone in the quiet hotel in the rue des saints pères. he might have had company enough if he had wanted it, for he knew many men of letters in paris and was himself known to them, which is another thing. they liked him, too, in their own peculiar way of liking their foreign colleagues. most of them, without affectation and in perfect good faith, are convinced that there never was, is not, and never can be any literature equal to the french except that of edgar poe; but they feel that it would be rude and tactless of them to let us know that they think so. they are the most agreeable men in the world, as a whole, and considering what they really think of us--rightly or wrongly, but honestly--the courtesy and consideration they show us are worthy of true gentlemen. the most modest among ourselves seem a little arrogant and self-asserting in comparison with them. they praise us, sometimes, and not faintly either; but their criticism of us compares us with each other, not with them. the very highest eulogy they can bestow on anything we do is to say that it is 'truly french,' but they never quite believe it and they cannot understand why that is perhaps the very compliment that pleases us least, though we may have the greatest admiration for their national genius. with all our vanity, should we ever expect to please a french writer by telling him that his work was 'truly english'? lushington liked a good many of his french colleagues in literature, and had at least one friend among them, a young man of vast learning and exquisite taste, who was almost an invalid. for a moment, he thought of going to see this particular one amongst them all, but he realised all at once that he did not wish to see any one at all that day. he went out and wandered towards the quai voltaire, and smelt the seine and nosed an old book here and there at the stalls. later he went and ate something in an eating-house on the outskirts of the latin quarter, and then went back to his hotel, smoked several more pipes by the open window, and went to bed. that was the first day, and the second was very like it, so that it is not necessary to describe it in detail in order to produce an impression of profound dulness in the reader's mind. lushington's hair continued to be as preternaturally smooth as before, his beard was as glossy and his complexion as blooming and child-like, and yet the look of pain that margaret had seen in his face was there most of the time during those two days. but in the evening he crossed the river and went to hear _romeo and juliet_, for he knew that it was the last night on which madame bonanni would sing before she left for the london season. he sat in the second row of the orchestra stalls, and never moved from his seat during the long performance. no secret intuition told him that margaret was in the house, and that if he stood up and looked round after the second act he might see her and madame de rosa going out and coming back again and sitting at the end of a back row. he did not want to see any one he knew, and the surest way of avoiding acquaintances was to sit perfectly still while most people went out between the acts. his face only betrayed that the music pleased him, by turning a shade paler now and then; at the places he liked best, he shut his eyes, as if he did not care to see madame bonanni or the fat tenor. she sang very beautifully that night, especially after the second act, and lushington thought he had hardly ever heard so much real feeling in her marvellous voice. afterwards he walked home, and he heard it all the way, and for an hour after he had gone to bed, when he fell asleep at last, and dreamt that he himself had turned into a very fat tenor and was singing romeo, but the juliet was margaret donne instead of madame bonanni, and though she sang like an angel, she was evidently disgusted by his looks; which was very painful indeed, and made him sing quite out of tune and perspire terribly. 'you look hot,' said margaret-juliet, with cruel distinctness, just as he was trying to throw the most intense pathos into the words, ''tis not the lark, it is the nightingale!' perhaps dreaming nonsense is also a subject for the inquiries of psychology. at the moment the poor man's imaginary sufferings were positively frightful, and he awoke with a gasp. he had always secretly dreaded growing fat, he had always felt a horror of anything like singing or speaking in public, and the only thing in the world he really feared was the possibility of being ridiculous in margaret's eyes. of course the ingenious demon of his dreams found a way of applying all these three torments at once, and it was like being saved from sudden death to wake up in the dark and smell the stale smoke of the pipe he had enjoyed before putting out his light. then he fell asleep again and did not awake till morning, being naturally a very good sleeper. it was raining when he got up, and he looked out disconsolately upon the dull street. it seemed to him that if it was going to rain in paris he might as well go back to london, where he had plenty to do, and he began to consider which train he should take, revolving the advantages and disadvantages of reaching london early in the evening or late at night. he knew the different time-tables by heart. but it stopped raining while he was dressing, and the sun came out, and a bird began to sing somewhere at a window high above the street, and it was suddenly spring again. it was a great thing to be alone in spring. if he went back to london he must see people he knew, and dine with people he hardly knew at all, and be asked out by others whom he had not even met, because he was the distinguished critic, flattered and feared and asked to dinner by everybody who had a seventh cousin in danger of literary judgment. he belonged to the flock of dramatic lions and must herd with them, eat with them and roar with them, for the greater glory of london society and his native country generally. under ordinary circumstances such an existence was bearable and at times delightful, but just now he wanted to roar in the wilderness and assert his leonine right of roaming in desolate places not less than two geographical degrees east of pall mall. he went out at last and strolled towards the bridge, and across it and much farther, but not aimlessly, for though he did not always take the shortest way, he kept mainly in the same direction till he came to the avenue hoche. at the end of the street he stopped and looked at his watch. it was five minutes to eleven. looking along the pavement in front of him his eye was attracted by the striped awning that distinguished madame bonanni's house from the others on the same side, and he noticed an extremely smart brougham that stood just before the door. the handsome black horse stood perfectly motionless in the morning sunshine, the stony-faced english coachman sat perfectly motionless on the box, looking straight between the horse's ears; he wore a plain black livery that fitted to perfection and there was no cockade on his polished hat. no turnout could have been simpler and yet none could have looked more overpoweringly smart. lushington suddenly turned on his heel and walked off in the opposite direction, as if he were not pleased, but he had not gone fifty yards when he heard the brougham behind him, and in a few seconds it passed him at a sharp pace. he caught sight of the elderly man inside--a tremendous profile over a huge fair beard that was half grey, one large and rather watery blue eye behind a single eyeglass with a broad black ribbon, a gardenia in the button-hole of a smart grey coat, a cloud of cigarette smoke, one very large and aristocratic hand, with a plain gold ring, holding the cigarette and resting on the edge of the window. he smelt the smoke after the brougham had passed, and he recognised the fact that it was superlatively fragrant. he turned back again in a few moments and saw that three men were just coming out of madame bonanni's house. one was schreiermeyer, whom he knew, and one looked like a poor musician. the third was the minister of fine arts, whom he did not know but recognised. the minister and the pianist walked one on each side of schreiermeyer, and were talking excitedly, but the manager looked at neither of them and never turned his head. they went down the avenue hoche away from lushington, who walked very slowly and looked at his watch twice before he reached madame bonanni's door. there he stopped, rang and was admitted without question, as if he were in the habit of coming and going as he pleased. he apparently took it for granted that the prima donna must be alone and already at her late breakfast, but he was stopped by the smiling servant who came out of the dining-room, arrayed as usual in a frock coat and a white satin tie. 'i will inform madame,' he said. 'is there any one there?' asked lushington, evidently not pleased. the servant shrugged his shoulders in a deprecatory way, and his smile became rather compassionate. 'one young person to breakfast,' he said, 'a musician'. 'oh, very well.' lushington's brow cleared. the servant left him and went in again. a screen was so placed as to mask the interior of the dining-room when the door was open. within, madame bonanni and margaret were seated at table. encouraged by circumstances the prima donna had on this occasion tied her napkin round her neck as soon as she had sat down; the inevitable plovers' eggs had already been demolished, and she was at work on a creamy purée soup of the most exquisite pale green colour. it was clear that she had not lost a moment in getting to her meal after the men had left. margaret was eating too, but though there was fresh colour in her cheeks her eyes had a startled look each time she looked up, as if something very unusual had happened. the servant whispered something in madame bonanni's ear. she seemed to hesitate a moment, and glanced at margaret before making up her mind. then she nodded to the man without saying a word, and went on eating her soup. a few seconds later lushington entered. margaret faced the door and their eyes met. madame bonanni dropped her spoon into her plate with a clang and uttered a scream of delight, as if she had not known perfectly well that lushington was coming. 'what luck!' she cried. 'little miss donne, this is my son!' margaret's jaw dropped in sheer amazement. 'your son? mr. lushington is your son?' 'yes. ah, my child!' she cried, springing up and kissing lushington on both cheeks with resounding affection. 'what a joy it is to see you!' lushington was rather pale as he laid his hand quietly on madame bonanni's. 'i have the pleasure of knowing miss donne already, mother,' he said steadily, 'but she did not know that i was your son. she is a little surprised.' 'yes,' answered margaret, faintly, 'a little.' 'ah, you know each other?' madame bonanni seemed delighted. 'so much the better! miss donne will keep our little secret, i am sure. besides she has another name, too. she is señorita margarita da cordova from to-day. sit down, my darling child! you are starving! i know you are starving! angelo!' she screamed at the smiling servant, 'why do you stand there staring like a stuffed codfish? bring more plovers' eggs!' angelo smiled as sweetly as ever and disappeared for an instant. madame bonanni took lushington by the shoulders, as if he had been a little boy, made him sit down in the vacant place beside her, unfolded the napkin herself, spread it upon his knees, patted both his cheeks and kissed the top of his head, precisely as she had done when he was six years old. margaret looked on in dumb surprise, and poor lushington turned red to the roots of his hair. 'you have no idea what a dear child he is,' she said to margaret, as she sat herself down in her own chair again. 'he has been my passion ever since he was born! my dear, you never saw such a beautiful baby as he was! he was all pink and white, like a little sugar angel, and he had dimples everywhere--everywhere, my dear!' she repeated with suggestive emphasis. 'i don't doubt it,' said margaret, biting her lips and looking at her plate. by this time the plovers' eggs had come for lushington and he was glad of anything to do with his hands. 'my mother can never believe that i am grown up,' he said, with much more self-possession than margaret had expected; and suddenly he raised his eyes and looked steadily and quietly at her across the table. it must have cost him something of an effort, for his colour came and went quickly. margaret knew what he was suffering and her respect for him increased a hundredfold in those few minutes, because he did not betray the least irritation in his tone or manner. his mother evidently worshipped him, but her way of showing it was such as must be horribly uncomfortable to a man of his retiring character and sensitive taste. he might easily have been forgiven if he had shown that it hurt him, as well it might. whatever reason he and madame bonanni might have had for changing his name, he was brave enough not to be falsely ashamed of her, in the presence of the woman he loved. 'you see,' margaret said, looking at him, but speaking to the prima donna, 'mr. lushington has been stopping with us at versailles for a good while, but i did not tell him that i had been to see you, and he never even said that he knew you, though he often spoke of your singing.' 'did he?' asked madame bonanni with intense anxiety. 'what did he say? did he say that i was growing old and ought to give up the stage?' 'mother!' exclaimed lushington reproachfully. 'he never said anything of the kind!' cried margaret, taking his part with energy. 'because he always says just what he thinks,' explained madame bonanni, who seemed relieved. 'and the worst part of it is that he knows,' she added, thoughtfully. 'i do not pretend to understand what he writes, but i would take his opinion about music rather than anyone's. you wretched little boy!' she cried, turning on lushington suddenly. 'how you frightened me!' 'i frightened you? how?' 'i was sure that you had told everybody that i was growing old! how could you? my darling child, how could you be so unkind? oh, you have no heart!' 'but he never said so!' cried margaret vehemently and feeling as if she were in a madhouse. 'he has told me again and again that you are still the greatest lyric soprano living----' 'angelo,' said madame bonanni, with perfect calm, 'change my plate.' margaret glanced at lushington, who seemed to think it all quite natural. he was eating little bits of thin toast thoughtfully, and from time to time he looked at his mother with a gentle expression. but he did not meet margaret's glance. 'you never sang better in your life than you did last night, mother,' he observed. the prima donna's face glowed with pleasure, and as she turned her big eyes to his margaret saw in them a look of such loving tenderness as she had rarely seen in her life. 'i saw you, my dear,' said madame bonanni to her son. 'you were in the second row of the stalls. i sang for you last night, for i thought you looked sad and lonely.' lushington laid his hand on hers for a moment. 'thank you,' he said simply. there was a short silence, which was unusual when the prima donna was present. margaret had recovered from her first surprise, and had understood that madame bonanni adored her son and that he felt real affection for her, though he suffered a good deal from the manner in which hers showed itself. if lushington had fancied that he might fall in margaret's estimation through her discovery of his birth, he was much mistaken. his patience and perfect simplicity did more to make her love him than anything he had done before. she had learned his secret, or a great part of it, and she understood him now, and the reason why he had changed his name, and she felt that he had behaved very well to her in going away, though she wished that he had boldly taken her into his confidence before leaving mrs. rushmore's. but she did not know all, though she was neither too young nor too innocent to guess a part of the truth. few young women of twenty-two years are. madame bonanni's career as an artist had been a long series of triumphs, but her past as a woman had been variegated, of the sort for which the french have invented a number of picturesquely descriptive expressions, such as 'leading the life of punch,' 'throwing one's cap over the windmills,' and other much less elegant phrases. margaret saw that lushington was not ashamed of his mother, as his mother; but she knew instinctively that his mother's past was a shame which he felt always and to the quick. madame bonanni ate a good deal before she spoke again, feeling, perhaps, that she had lost time. 'schreiermeyer says she sings divinely,' she said at last, looking at lushington and then nodding at margaret. 'you know what that means.' 'london?' inquired lushington, who knew the manager. 'london next year, and an appearance this season if any one breaks down. meanwhile he signs for her _début_ in belgium and a three months' tour. twenty-four performances in three operas, fifty thousand francs.' 'i congratulate you,' said lushington, looking at margaret and trying to seem pleased. 'you seem to think it is too little,' observed madame bonanni. 'little?' cried margaret. 'it's a fortune!' 'you may talk of a fortune when you get three hundred pounds a night,' said lushington. 'but it is a good beginning. i wonder that schreiermeyer agreed to it so easily.' 'easily!' madame bonanni laughed. 'i wish you had been there, my dear boy! he kicked and screamed, and we called him bad names. the king told him he was a dirty little jew, which he is not, poor man, but it had a very good effect.' 'oh!' lushington did not seem surprised at the royal personage's reported language. 'then it was the king who passed me in that smart brougham? i thought so.' 'yes,' answered madame bonanni rather brusquely, and she became very busy with some little birds. 'it's funny,' margaret said to lushington. 'one always imagines a king with a crown and a sort of ermine dressing-gown, and a sceptre like the lord mayor's mace! of course it's perfectly ridiculous, isn't it?' 'i believe his majesty possesses those things,' answered lushington, as if he did not like the subject. 'he looked and talked much more like an old friend than anything else,' margaret went on, remembering that madame bonanni had used the same expression before schreiermeyer. to her surprise and sudden discomfiture neither of the two paid the least attention to her remark. 'what train shall you take, mother?' asked lushington so abruptly upon margaret's speech that she understood her mistake. though she had guessed something, it had somehow not occurred to her to connect the royal personage with madame bonanni's past; but now she scarcely dared to glance at lushington. when she did, he seemed to be avoiding her eyes again, and she saw the old look of pain in his face, though he was talking about the timetables and the turbine channel-boat. 'you must come over to london and see me before your _début_, my dear,' madame bonanni said, breaking off the discussion of trains and turning to margaret. 'that is, if schreiermeyer will let you,' she added. 'you will have to do exactly what he tells you, now, and he is always right. he will be a father to you, now that he is going to make money out of you.' 'will he call me his "darling"?' inquired margaret, with a shade of anxiety. 'of course he will! and when you sing well he will kiss you on both cheeks.' 'indeed he won't!' cried margaret, turning red. madame bonanni laughed heartily, but lushington looked annoyed. 'my dear, why not?' asked the prima donna. 'everybody kisses us artists, when we have a triumph, and we kiss everybody! the author, the manager, the dressmaker and the stage carpenter, besides all our old friends! what difference can it make? it means nothing.' 'but it's such an unpleasant idea!' margaret objected. 'of course,' returned madame bonanni, licking her fingers between the words, 'there are artists who ride the high horse and insist on being treated like duchesses. the other artists hate them, and real society laughs at them. it is far better to be simple, and kiss everybody. it costs so little and it gives them so much pleasure, as rachel said of her lovers!' 'it was sophie arnould,' said lushington, correcting her mistake. 'was it? i don't care. i say it, and that is enough. besides i hate children who are always setting their parents right! it's my own fault, because i was so anxious to have you well educated. if i had brought you up as i was brought up, you would never have left me! as it is'--she turned to margaret with suddenly flashing eyes--'do you know, my dear? that atrocious little wretch will never take a penny from me, from me, his own mother! ah, it is villainous! he is perfectly heartless! he denies me the only pleasure i wish for. even when he was at school, at eton, my dear, at the great english school, you know, he worked like a poor boy and won scholarships--money! is it not disgusting? and at oxford he lived on that money and won more! and then he worked, and worked at those terrible books, and wrote for the abominable press, and never would let me give him anything. ah, you ungrateful little boy! she seemed perfectly furious with him and shook her fist in his face; but the next moment she laughed and patted his cheek with her fat hand. 'and to say that i am proud of him!' she said, beaming with motherly smiles. 'proud of him, my dear, you don't know! he is beating them all, as he always did! at the school, at the university, he was always the best! he used to get what they call firsts and double firsts every week!' margaret could not help laughing, and even lushington smiled in his agony. 'it was splendid,' said the young girl, looking at him. 'did you really get a double first?' lushington nodded. 'one?' screamed madame bonanni. 'twenty, i tell you! a hundred----' 'no, no, mother,' interrupted lushington. no one can get more than one.' 'ah, did i not tell you?' cried the prima donna, triumphantly. 'there is only one, and he got it! what did i tell you? how can you expect me not to be proud of him?' 'you ought to be,' answered margaret, very much in earnest, and for the first time lushington saw in her eyes the light of absolutely unreserved admiration. it was not for the double first at oxford that she gave it. there had been a moment when it had hurt her to think that he probably accepted a good deal of luxury in his existence out of his mother's abundant fortune, but it was gone now. even as a schoolboy he had guessed whence at least a part of that wealth really came, and had refused to touch a penny of it. but lushington felt as if he were being combed with red-hot needles from head to foot, and the perspiration stood on his forehead. it would have filled him with shame to mop it with his handkerchief and yet he felt that in another moment it would run down. the awful circumstances of his dream came vividly back to him, and he could positively hear margaret telling him that he looked hot, so loud that the whole house could understand what she said. but at this point something almost worse happened. madame bonanni's motherly but eagle eye detected the tiny beads on his brow. with a cry of distress she sprang to her feet and began to wipe them away with the corner of her napkin that was tied round her neck, talking all the time. 'my darling!' she cried. 'i always forget that you feel hot when i feel cold! angelo, open everything--the windows, the doors! why do you stand there like a dressed-up doll in a tailor's window? don't you see that he is going to have a fit?' 'mother, mother! please don't!' protested the unfortunate lushington, who was now as red as a beet. but madame bonanni took the lower end of her napkin by the corners, as if it had been an apron, and fanned him furiously, though he put up his hands and cried for mercy. 'he is always too hot,' she said, suddenly desisting and sitting down again. 'he always was, even when he was a baby.' she was now at work on a very complicated salad. 'but then,' she went on, speaking between mouthfuls, 'i used to lay him down in the middle of my big bed, with nothing on but his little shirt, and he would kick and crow until he was quite cool.' again margaret bit her lip, but this time it was of no use, and after a conscientious effort to be quiet she broke into irrepressible laughter. in a moment lushington laughed too, and presently he felt quite cool and comfortable again, feeling that after all he had been ridiculous only when he was a baby. 'we used to call him tommy,' said madame bonanni, putting away her plate and laying her knife and fork upon it crosswise. 'poor little tommy! how long ago that was! after his father died i changed his name, you know, and then it seemed as if little tommy were dead too.' there was visible moisture in the big dark eyes for an instant. margaret felt sorry for the strange, contradictory creature, half child, half genius, and all mother. 'my husband's name was goodyear,' continued the prima donna thoughtfully. 'you will find it in all biographies of me.' 'goodyear,' margaret repeated, looking at lushington. 'what a nice name! i like it.' 'you understand,' madame bonanni went on, explaining. '"goodyear," "buon anno," "bonanno," "bonanni"; that is how it is made up. it's a good name for the stage, is it not?' 'yes. but why did you change it at all for your son?' madame bonanni shrugged her large shoulders, glanced furtively at lushington, and then looked at margaret. 'it was better,' she said. 'fruit, angelo!' 'can i be of any use to you in getting off, mother?' asked lushington. margaret felt that she had made another mistake, and looked at her plate. 'no, my angel,' said madame bonanni, answering her son's question, and eating hothouse grapes; 'you cannot help me in the least, my sweet. i know you would if you could, dear child! but you will come and dine with me quietly at the carlton on sunday at half-past eight, just you and i. i promise you that no one shall be there, not even logotheti--though you do not mind him so much.' 'not in the least,' lushington answered, with a smile which margaret thought a little contemptuous. 'all the same, i would much rather be alone with you.' 'do you wonder that i love him?' asked madame bonanni, turning to margaret. 'no, i don't wonder in the least,' answered the young girl, with such decision that lushington looked up suddenly, as if to thank her. the ordeal was over at last, and the prima donna rose with a yawn of satisfaction. 'i am going to turn you out,' she said. 'you know i cannot live without my nap.' she kissed margaret first, and then her son, each on both cheeks, but it was clear that she could hardly keep her eyes open, and she left margaret and lushington standing together, exactly as she had left the young girl with logotheti on the first occasion. their eyes met for an instant and then lushington got his hat and stick and opened the door for margaret to go out. 'shall i call a cab for you?' he asked. 'no, thank you. i'll walk a little way first, and then drive to the station.' when they were in the street, lushington stood still. 'you believe that it was an accident, don't you?' he asked. 'i mean my coming to-day.' 'of course! shall we walk on?' he could not refuse, and he felt that he was not standing by his resolution; yet the circumstances were changed, since she now knew his secret, and was warned. they had gone twenty steps before she spoke. 'you might have trusted me,' she said. 'i should think you would understand why i did not tell you,' he answered rather bitterly. she opened her parasol so impatiently that it made an ominous little noise as if it were cracking. 'i do understand,' she said, almost harshly, as she held it up against the sun. 'and yet you complain because i did not tell you,' said lushington in a puzzled tone. 'it's you who don't understand!' margaret retorted. 'no. i don't.' 'i'm sorry.' they went on a little way in silence, walking rather slowly. she was angry with herself for being irritated by him, just when she admired him more than ever before, and perhaps loved him better; though love has nothing to do with admiration except to kindle it sometimes, just when it is least deserved. now it takes generous people longer to recover from a fit of anger against themselves than against their neighbours, and in a few moments margaret began to feel very unhappy, though all her original irritation against lushington had subsided. she now wished, in her contrition, that he would say something disagreeable; but he did not. he merely changed the subject, speaking quite naturally. 'so it is all decided,' he said, 'and you are to make your _début_.' 'yes,' she answered, with a sort of eagerness to be friendly again. 'i'm a professional from to-day, with a stage name, a prey to critics, reporters and photographers--just like your mother, except that she is a very great artist and i am a very little one.' it was not very skilfully done, but lushington was grateful for what she meant by it, and for saying 'your mother' instead of 'madame bonanni.' 'i think you will be great, too,' he said, 'and before very long. there is no young soprano on the stage now, who has half your voice or half your talent.' margaret coloured with pleasure, though she could not quite believe what he told her. but he glanced at her and felt sure that he was right. she had voice and talent, he knew, but even with both some singers fail; she had the splendid vitality, the boundless health and the look of irresistible success, which only the great ones have. she was not a classic beauty, but she would be magnificent on the stage. there was a short silence, before she spoke. 'two days ago,' she said, 'i did not think we would meet again so soon.' 'part again so soon, you ought to say,' he answered. 'it is nothing but that, after all.' she bit her lip. 'must we?' she asked, almost unconsciously. 'yes. don't make it harder than it is. let's get it over. there's a cab.' he held up his stick and signalled to the cabman, who touched his horse and moved towards them. margaret stood still, with a half-frightened look, and spoke in a low voice. 'tom, if you leave me, i won't answer for myself!' 'i will. good-bye--god bless you!' the cab stopped beside them, as he held out his hand. she took it silently and he made her get in. a moment later she was driving away at a smart pace, sitting bolt upright and looking straight before her, her lips pressed tight together, while lushington walked briskly in the opposite direction. it had all happened in a moment, in a sort of despairing hurry. chapter vii constantine logotheti had at least two reasons for not going out to versailles as soon as mrs. rushmore signified her desire to know him. in the first place he was 'somebody,' and an important part of being 'somebody' is to keep the fact well before the eyes of other people. he was altogether too great a personage to be at the beck and call of every one who wanted to know him. secondly, he did not wish margaret to think that he was running after her, for the very good reason that he meant to do so with the least possible delay. lushington, who was really both sensitive and imaginative, used to tell margaret that he was a realist. logotheti, who was by nature, talent and education a thorough materialist, loved to believe that he possessed both a rich imagination and the gift of true sentiment. margaret had delighted him at first sight, though he was hard to please, and though she was not a great beauty. she appealed directly to that love of life for its own sake which was always the strength, the genius and the snare of the greek people, and which is not extinct in their modern descendants. logotheti certainly had plenty of it, and his first impression, when he had met margaret donne, was that he had met his natural mate. there was nothing in the very least psychological about the sensation, and yet it was not the result of a purely physical attraction. it brought with it a satisfaction of artistic taste that was an unmarred pleasure in itself. true art has gone much further in deifying humanity than in humanising divinity. the hermes of olympia is a man made into a god; no christian artist has ever done a tenth as well in presenting the image of god made man. when imagination soars towards an invisible world it loses love of life as it flies higher, till it ends in glorifying death as the only means of reaching heaven; and in doing that it has often descended to a gross realism that would have revolted the greeks--to the materialism of anatomical preparations that make one think of the dissecting-room, if one has ever been there. love of genuine art is the best sort of love of life, and the really great artists have always been tremendously vital creatures. so-called artistic people who are sickly or merely under-vitalised generally go astray after strange gods; or, at the best, they admire works of art for the sake of certain pleasing, or sad, or even unhealthy associations which these call up. logotheti came of a race which, through being temporarily isolated from modern progress, has not grown old with it. for it seems pretty sure that progress means, with many other things, the survival of the unfit and the transmission of unfitness to a generation of old babies; but where men are not disinfected, sterilised, fed on preserved carrion and treated with hypodermics from the cradle to the grave, the good old law of nature holds its own and the weak ones die young, while the strong fight for life and are very much alive while they live. such people, when transplanted from what we call a half-barbarous state to live amongst us, never feel as we do, and when they are roused to action their deeds are not of the sort which our wives, our mothers-in-law and the clergy expect us to approve. it does not follow that they are villains, though they may occasionally kill some one in a fit of anger, or carry off by force the women they fall in love with; for such doings probably seem quite natural in their own country, and after all they cannot be expected to know more about right and wrong than their papas and mammas taught them when they were little things. the object of this long-winded digression is not to excite sympathy on behalf of logotheti, but to forestall surprise at some of the things he did when he had convinced himself that of all the women he had ever met, margaret donne was the one that suited him best, and that she must be his at any cost and at any risk. the conviction was almost formed at the first meeting, and took full possession of him when he met her again, and she seemed glad to see him. by this time she had no reason for concealing from mrs. rushmore that she had seen him at madame bonanni's, and she held out her hand with a frank smile. it was on a sunday afternoon and there were a number of lions on the lawn, and half a dozen women of the world. logotheti seemed to know more than half the people present, which is rather unusual in paris, and most of them treated him with the rather fawning deference accorded by society to the superior claims of wealth over good blood. the greek smiled pleasantly and reflected that the nobility of the fanar, which goes back to the byzantine empire, is as good as any in france, and even less virtuous. he by no means despised his wealth, and he continually employed his excellent faculties in multiplying it; but in his semi-barbarous heart he was an aristocrat and was quietly amused when people whose real names seemed to have been selected from a list of rhine wines took titles which emanated from the vatican, or when plain monsieur dubois turned himself into 'le comte du bois de vincennes'. yet since few people seemed to know anything about leo the isaurian, under whom his direct ancestor had held office as treasurer and had eventually had his eyes put out for his pains, logotheti was quite willing to be treated with deference for the sake of the more tangible advantages of present fortune. in mrs. rushmore's garden of celebrities, he at once took his place as a rare bird. he crossed the lawn beside margaret, indeed, with the air and assurance of a magnificent peacock. he was perhaps a shade less over-dressed than when she had seen him last, but there was an astonishing lustre about everything he wore, and even his almond-shaped eyes were bright almost to vulgarity; but though he tired the sight, as a peacock does in the sun, it was impossible not to watch him. 'what a handsome man logotheti is!' exclaimed a roumanian poetess, who was there. 'what an awful cad!' observed a fastidious young american to the english officer who was still on his way to india, and was very comfortable at mrs. rushmore's. the englishman looked at logotheti attentively for nearly half a minute before he answered. 'no,' he said quietly. 'that man is not a cad, he is simply a rich oriental, dressed up in european clothes. i've met that sort before, and they are sometimes nasty customers. that fellow is as strong as a horse and as quick as a cat.' meanwhile the greek and margaret reached a seat near the little pond and sat down. she did not know that he had watched every one of her movements with as much delight as if psyche, made whole and alive, had been walking beside him. he had not seemed to look at her at all, and he did not begin the conversation by making her compliments. 'i should have left a card on mrs. rushmore the day after i met you,' he began in a rather apologetic tone, 'but i was not quite sure that she knew about your visit to our friend, and she might have asked who i was and where you had met me. besides, as she is an american, she would have thought i was trying to scrape acquaintance.' 'hardly that. but you did quite right,' margaret answered. 'thank you.' he was tactful. she leaned back a little in the corner of the seat and looked at him with an air of curiosity, wondering why everything he had said and done so far had pleased her so much better than his appearance. she was always expecting him to say something blatant or to do something vulgar, mainly because he wore such phenomenal ties and such gorgeous pins. to-day he displayed a ruby of astonishing size and startling colour. she was sure that it must be real, because he was so rich, but she had never known that rubies could be so big except in a fairy story. the tie was knitted of the palest mauve, shot with green and gold threads. 'i have seen schreiermeyer,' he said. 'is there to be any secret about your _début_?' 'none whatever! but i have said nothing about it, and none of the people here seem to have found it out yet.' 'so much the better. in everything connected with the theatre i believe it is a mistake to try and excite interest before the event. what is said beforehand is rarely said afterwards. you can be sure that schreiermeyer will say nothing till the time comes, and if madame bonanni talks about you to her friends in london, nobody will believe she is in earnest.' 'but she is so outspoken,' margaret objected. 'yes, but no one could possibly understand that a prima donna just on the edge of decline could possibly wish to advertise a rising light. it is hardly human!' 'i think she is the most good-natured woman i ever knew,' said margaret with conviction. 'she has a heart of gold. her only trouble in life is that she has too much of it! there is enough for everybody. she has always had far too much for one.' logotheti smiled at his own expression. 'perhaps that is better than having no heart at all,' margaret answered, not quite realising how the words might have been misunderstood. 'the heart is a convenient and elastic organ,' observed logotheti. 'it does almost everything. it sinks, it swells, it falls, it leaps, it stands still, it quivers, it gets into one's throat and it breaks; but it goes on beating all the time with more or less regularity, just as the violin clown scrapes his fiddle while he turns somersaults, sticks out his tongue, sits down with frightful suddenness and tumbles in and out of his white hat.' he talked to amuse her and occupy her while he looked at her, studying her lines, as a yacht expert studies those of a new and beautiful model; yet he knew so well how to glance and look away, and glance again, that she was not at all aware of what he was really doing. she laughed a little at what he said. 'where did you learn to speak english so well?' she asked. 'languages do not count nowadays,' he answered carelessly. 'any levantine in smyrna can speak a dozen, like a native. have you never been in the east?' 'no.' 'should you like to go to greece?' 'of course i should.' 'then come! i am going to take a party in my yacht next month. it will give me the greatest pleasure if you and mrs. rushmore will come with us.' margaret laughed. 'you forget that i am a real artist, with a real engagement!' she answered. 'yes, i forgot that. i wanted to! i can make schreiermeyer forget it, too, if you will come. i'll hypnotise him. will you authorise me?' he smiled pleasantly but his long eyes were quite grave. margaret supposed that it would be absurd to suspect anything but chaff in his proposal, and yet she felt an odd conviction that he meant what he said. only vain women are easily mistaken about such things. margaret turned the point with another little laugh. 'if you put him to sleep he will hibernate, like a dormouse,' she said. 'it will take a whole year to wake him up!' 'i don't think so, but what if it did?' 'i should be a year older, and i am not too young as it is! i'm twenty-two.' 'it's only in constantinople that they are so particular about age,' laughed the greek. 'after seventeen the price goes down very fast.' 'really?' margaret was amused. 'what do you suppose i should be worth in turkey?' logotheti looked at her gravely and seemed to be estimating her value. 'if you were seventeen, you would be worth a good thousand pounds,' he said presently, 'and at least three hundred more for your singing.' 'is that all, for my voice?' she could not help laughing. 'and at twenty-two, what should i sell for?' 'i doubt whether any one would give much more than eight hundred for you,' answered logotheti with perfect gravity. 'that's a big price, you know. in persia they give less. i knew a persian ambassador, for instance, who got a very handsome wife for four hundred and fifty.' 'are you in earnest?' asked margaret. 'do you mean to say that you could just go out and buy yourself a wife in the market in constantinople?' 'i could not, because i am a christian. the market exists in a quiet place where europeans never find it. you see all the circassians in turkey live by stealing horses and selling their daughters. they are a noble race, the circassians! the girls are brought up with the idea, and they rarely dislike it at all.' 'i never heard of such things!' 'no. the east is very interesting. will you come? i'll take you wherever you like. we will leave the archæologists in crete and go on to constantinople. it will be the most beautiful season on the bosphorus, you know, and after that we will go along the southern shore of the black sea to samsoun, and kerasund, and trebizond, and round by the crimea. there are wonderful towns on the shores of the black sea which hardly any european ever sees. i'm sure you would like them, just as i do.' 'i am sure i should.' 'you love beautiful things, don't you?' 'yes--though i don't pretend to be a judge.' 'i do. and when i see anything that really pleases me, i always try to get it; and if i succeed, nothing in the world will induce me to part with it. i'm a miser about the things i like. i keep them in safe places, and it gives me pleasure to look at them when i'm alone.' 'that's not very generous. you might give others a little pleasure, too, now and then.' 'so few people know what is good! some of us greeks have the instinct in our blood still, and we recognise it in a few men and women we meet--you are one, for instance. as soon as i saw you the first time, i was quite sure that we should think alike about a great many things. do you mind my saying as much as that, at a second meeting?' 'not if you think it is true,' she answered with a smile. 'why should i?' 'it might sound as if i were trying to make out that we have some natural bond of sympathy,' said logotheti. 'that's a favourite way of opening the game, you know. "do you like carrots? so do i"--a bond, at once! "do you go in, when it rains? i always do"--second bond. "we must be sympathetic to each other! do you smile when you are pleased? of course! we are exactly alike, and our hearts beat in unison!" that's the sort of thing.' he amused her; perhaps she was easily amused now, because she had been feeling rather depressed all the morning. women are subject to such harmless self-contradictions. 'i love to be out in the rain, and i don't like carrots!' she answered. 'there are evidently things about which our hearts don't beat in unison at all!' 'if people agreed about everything, what would become of conversation, lawyers and standing armies? but i meant to suggest that we might possibly like each other if we met often.' 'i daresay.' 'i have begun,' said logotheti lightly, but again his long eyes were grave. 'begun what?' 'i have begun by liking you. you don't object, do you?' 'oh no! i like to be liked--by everybody!' margaret laughed again, and watched him. 'it only remains for you to like everybody yourself. will you kindly include me?' 'yes, in a general way, as a neighbour, in the biblical sense, you know. are you english enough to understand that expression?' 'i happen to have read the story of the good samaritan in greek,' logotheti answered. 'since you are willing that we should be neighbours, "in the biblical sense," you cannot blame me for saying that i love my neighbour as myself.' once more her instinct told her that the words were meant less carelessly than they were spoken, though she could not possibly seem to take them in earnest. yet her curiosity was aroused, as he intended that it should be. 'i remember that the samaritan loved his neighbour, "in the biblical sense," at first sight,' he said, with a quick glance. 'but those were biblical times, you know!' 'men have not changed much since then. we can still love at first sight, i assure you, even after we have seen a good deal of the world. it depends on meeting the right woman, and on nothing else. do you suppose that if the naples psyche, or the syracuse venus, or the venus of milo, or the victory of samothrace suddenly appeared in paris or london, all the men would not lose their heads about her--at first sight? of course they would!' 'if you expect to have such neighbours as those--"in the biblical sense"----' 'i have one,' said logotheti, 'and that's enough.' margaret had received many compliments of a more or less complicated nature, but she did not remember that any one had yet compared her to two venuses, the psyche and the samothrace nikê in a single breath. 'that's nonsense!' she exclaimed, blushing a little, and not at all indignant. 'no,' logotheti answered, imperturbably. 'besides, neither the victory nor the venus of syracuse has a head, so i am at liberty to suppose yours on their shoulders. take the victory. you move exactly as she seems to be moving, for she is not flying at all, you know, though she has wings. the wings are only a symbol. the greeks knew perfectly well that a winged human being could not fly straight without a feathered tail two or three yards long!' 'how absurd!' 'that you should move like the victory? not at all. the reason why i love my neighbour as myself is that my neighbour is the most absolutely satisfactory being, from an artistic point of view. i don't often make compliments.' 'they are astonishing when you do!' 'perhaps. but i was going on to say that what satisfies my love of the beautiful, can only be what satisfies my love of life itself, which is enormous.' 'in other words,' said margaret, wondering how he would go on, 'i am your ideal!' 'do you know what an "ideal" is?' 'yes--well--no!' she hesitated. 'perhaps i could not define it exactly.' 'a man's ideal is what he wants, and nothing else in the world.' margaret was not sure whether she should resent the speech a little, or let it pass. for an instant they looked at each other in silence. then she made up her mind to laugh. 'do you know that you are going ahead at a frightful pace?' she asked. 'why should i waste time? my time is my life. it's all i have. any fool can make money when he has wasted it and really wants more, but no power in heaven or earth can give me back an hour thrown away, an hour of what might have been.' 'i'm sure you must have learnt that in an english sunday school! it's a highly moral and practical sentiment! but what becomes of the imagination?' 'oh, that's the other side,' logotheti answered, laughing. 'never do to-day what you can put off till to-morrow, for if you do you'll lose all the pleasure of anticipating it! and the anticipation is much more delightful than the reality, so you must never realise your dream, if you mean to be happy--and all that sort of thing! but if reality knocks at my door while i am asleep and dreaming, and if i don't wake up to let it in, it may never take the trouble to knock again, you know, and i shall be left dreaming. i don't know about the sunday school maxim being moral in all cases, but it's certainly very practical. i wish you would follow it and come with me to the east--you and mrs. rushmore.' 'you mean that if i don't, you'll never ask me again, i suppose?' 'no. that was not what i meant.' he looked steadily into her eyes till she turned her head away. 'what i meant was that you might be induced to give up the idea of the stage.' 'and as an inducement to throw up my engagement and sacrifice a career that may turn out well--you have told me so!--you offer me a trip to constantinople!' 'you shall keep the yacht as a memento of the cruise. she's not a bad vessel.' 'what should i do with a steam yacht?' 'oh, you would have to take the owner with her,' logotheti answered airily. 'eh?' margaret stared at him in amazement. 'yes. don't be surprised. i'm quite in earnest. i never lose time, you know.' 'i should think not! do you know that this is only our second meeting?' 'exactly,' replied the greek coolly. 'of course, i might have asked you the first time we met, when we were standing together on the pavement outside madame bonanni's door. i thought of it, but i was afraid it might strike you as sudden.' 'a little!' 'yes. but a second meeting is different. you must admit that i have had plenty of time to think it over and to know my own mind.' 'in two meetings?' 'yes. surely you know that in france young people are often engaged to be married when they have never seen each other at all.' 'that is arranged for them by their parents,' objected margaret. 'whereas we can arrange the matter for ourselves,' logotheti said. 'it's more dignified, and far more independent. isn't it?' 'i suppose so--i hardly know.' 'oh yes, it is! you cannot deny it. besides we have no parents and we are not children. you may think me hasty, but you cannot possibly be offended.' 'i'm not, but i think you are quite mad--unless you are joking.' 'mad, because i love you?' asked logotheti, lowering his voice and looking at her. 'but how is it possible? we hardly know each other!' margaret was beginning to feel uncomfortable. 'never mind; it is possible, since it is so. of course, i cannot expect you to feel as i do, so soon, but i want to be before any one else.' margaret was silent, and her expression changed as she listened to his low and earnest tones. 'i don't want to believe there is any one else,' he went on. 'i don't believe it, not even if you tell me there is. but you would not tell me, i suppose.' she turned her eyes full upon him and spoke as low as he, but a little unsteadily. 'there is some one else,' she said slowly. logotheti's lips moved, but she could not hear what he said, and almost as soon as she had spoken he looked down at the grass. there was no visible change in his face, and though she watched him for a few seconds, she did not think his hold tightened on his stick or that his brows contracted. she was somewhat relieved at this, for she was inclined to conclude that he had not been in earnest at all, and had idly asked her to marry him just to see whether he could surprise her into saying anything foolish. yet this idea did not please her either. if there is anything a woman resents, it is that a man should pretend to be in love with her, in order to laugh at her in his sleeve. margaret rose during the silence that followed. logotheti sat still for a moment, as if he had not noticed her, and then he got up suddenly, and glanced at her with a careless smile. 'i wish you good luck,' he said lightly. 'thank you,' she answered. 'one can never have too much of it!' 'never. get a talisman, a charm, a "jadoo." you will need something of the sort in your career. a black opal is the best, but if you choose that you must get it yourself, you must buy it, find it, or steal it. otherwise it will have no effect!' they moved away from the place where they had sat, and they joined the others. but after they had separated margaret looked more than once at logotheti, as if her eyes were drawn to him against her will, and she was annoyed to find that he was watching her. she had thought of lushington often that day, and now she wished with all her heart that he were beside her, standing between her and something she could not define but which she dreaded just because she could not imagine what it was, though it was certainly connected with logotheti and with what he had said. she changed her mind about the greek half-a-dozen times in an hour, but after each change the conviction grew on her that he had meant not only what he had said, but much more. his eyes were not like other men's eyes at all, when they looked at her, though they were so very quiet and steady; they were the eyes of another race which she did not know, and they saw the world as her own people did not see it, nor as frenchmen, nor as italians, nor germans, nor as any people she had met. they had seen sights she could never see, in countries where the law, if there was any, took it for granted that men would risk their lives for what they wanted. she, who was not easily frightened, suddenly felt the fear of the unknown, and the unknown was somehow embodied in logotheti. she did not show what she felt when he strolled up to her to say good-bye, but through her glove she felt that his hand was stone cold, and as he said the half-dozen conventional words that were necessary she was sure that he smiled strangely, even mysteriously, as if such phrases as 'i hope to see you again before long,' and 'such a heavenly afternoon,' would cloak the deadly purposes of a diabolical design. margaret was alone with mrs. rushmore for a few minutes before dinner. 'well?' mrs. rushmore uttered the single word in an ejaculatory and interrogative tone, as only a certain number of old-fashioned americans can. spoken in that peculiar way it can mean a good deal, for it can convey suspicion, or approval or disapproval and any degree of acquaintance with the circumstances concerned, from almost total ignorance to the knowledge of everything except the result of the latest development. on the present occasion mrs. rushmore meant that she had watched margaret and logotheti and had guessed approximately what had passed--that she thought the matter decidedly interesting, and wished to know all about it. but margaret was not anxious to understand, if indeed her english ear detected all the hidden meaning of the monosyllable. 'there were a good many people, weren't there?' she observed with a sort of query, meant to lead the conversation in that direction. mrs. rushmore would not be thrown off the scent. 'my dear,' she said severely, 'he proposed to you on that bench. don't deny it.' 'good gracious!' exclaimed margaret, taken by surprise. 'don't deny it,' repeated mrs. rushmore. 'i had only met him once before to-day,' said margaret. 'it's all the same,' retorted mrs. rushmore with an approach to asperity. 'he proposed to you. don't deny it. i say, don't deny it.' 'i haven't denied it,' answered margaret. 'i only hoped that you had not noticed anything. he must be perfectly mad. why in the world should he want to marry me?' 'all greeks,' said mrs. rushmore, 'are very designing.' margaret smiled at the expression. 'i should have said that monsieur logotheti was hasty,' she answered. 'my dear,' said mrs. rushmore with conviction, 'this man is an adventurer. you may say what you like, he is an adventurer. i am sure that ruby he wears is worth at least twenty thousand dollars. you may say what you like; i am sure of it.' 'but i don't say anything,' margaret protested. 'i daresay it is.' 'i know it is,' retorted mrs. rushmore with cold emphasis. 'what business has a man to wear such jewellery? he's an adventurer, and nothing else.' 'he's one of the richest men in paris for all that,' observed margaret. 'there!' exclaimed mrs. rushmore. 'now you're defending him! i told you so!' 'i don't quite see----' 'of course not. you're much too young to understand such things. the wretch has designs on you. i don't care what you say, my dear, he has designs.' in mrs. rushmore's estimation she could say nothing worse of any human being than that. 'what sort of "designs"?' inquired margaret, somewhat amused. 'in the first place, he wants to marry you. you admit that he does. my dear margaret, it's bad enough that you should talk in your cold-blooded way of going on the stage, but that you should ever marry a greek! good heavens, child! what do you think i am made of? and then you ask me what designs the man has. it's not to be believed!' 'i must be very dull,' said margaret in a patient tone, 'but i don't understand.' 'i do,' retorted mrs. rushmore with severity, 'and that's enough! wasn't i your dear mother's best friend? haven't i been a good friend to you?' 'indeed you have!' cried margaret very gratefully. 'well then,' explained mrs. rushmore, 'i don't see that there is anything more to be said. it follows that the man is either an agent of that wicked old alvah moon----' 'why?' asked margaret, opening her eyes. 'or else,' continued mrs. rushmore with crushing logic, 'he means to live on you when you've made your fortune by singing. it must be one or the other, and if it isn't the one, it's certainly the other. certainly it is! you may say what you like. so that's settled, and i've warned you. you can't afford to despise your old friend's warning, margaret--indeed you can't.' 'but i've no idea of marrying the man,' said margaret helplessly. 'of course not! but i should like to say, my child, that whatever you do, i won't leave you to your fate. you may be sure of that. if nothing else would serve i'd go on the stage myself! i owe it to your mother.' margaret wondered in what capacity mrs. rushmore would exhibit herself to the astounded public if she carried out her threat. chapter viii if mrs. rushmore's logic was faulty and the language of her argument vague, her instinct was keen enough and had not altogether misled her. logotheti was neither a secret agent of the wicked alvah moon who had robbed margaret of her fortune, nor had he the remotest idea of making margaret support him in luxurious idleness in case she made a success. but if, when a young and not over-scrupulous oriental has been refused by an english girl, he does not abandon the idea of marrying her, but calmly considers the possibilities of making her marry him against her will, he may be described as having 'designs' upon her, then logotheti was undeniably a very 'designing' person, and mrs. rushmore was not nearly so far wrong as margaret thought her. whether it was at all likely that he might succeed, was another matter, but he possessed both the qualities and the weapons which sometimes ensure success in the most unpromising undertakings. he was tenacious, astute and cool, he was very rich, he was very much in love and he had no scruples worth mentioning; moreover, if he failed, he belonged to a country from which it is extremely hard to obtain the extradition of persons who have elsewhere taken the name of the law in vain. it is with a feeling of national pride and security that the true-born greek takes sanctuary beneath the shadow of the acropolis. he had played his first card boldly, but not recklessly, to find out how matters stood. he had been the target of too many matrimonial aims not to know that even such a girl as margaret donne might be suddenly dazzled and tempted by the offer of his hand and fortune, and might throw over the possibilities of a stage career for the certainties of an enormously rich marriage. but he had not counted on that at all, and had really set margaret much higher in his estimation than to suppose that she would marry him out of hand for his money; he had reckoned only on finding out whether he had a rival, and in this he had succeeded, to an extent which he had not anticipated, and the result was not very promising. there had been no possibility of mistaking margaret's tone and manner when she had confessed that there was 'some one else.' on reflection he had to admit that margaret had not been dazzled by his offer, though she had seemed surprised. she had either been accustomed to the idea of unlimited money, because mrs. rushmore was rich, or else she did not know its value. it came to the same thing in the end. orientals very generally act on the perfectly simple theory that nine people out of ten are to be imposed upon by the mere display of what money can buy, and that if you show them the real thing they will be tempted by it. it is not pleasant to think how often they are right; and though logotheti had made no impression on margaret with his magnificent ruby and his casual offer of a yacht as a present, he did not reproach himself with having made a mistake. he had simply tried what he considered the usual method of influencing a woman, and as it had failed he had eliminated it from the arsenal of his weapons. that was all. he had found out at once that it was of no use, and as he hated to waste time he was not dissatisfied with the result of his day's work. like most men who have lived much in paris he cared nothing at all for the ordinary round of dissipated amusement which carries foreigners and even young frenchmen off their feet like a cyclone, depositing them afterwards in strange places and in a damaged condition. it was long since he had dined 'in joyous company,' frequented the lobby of the ballet or found himself at dawn among the survivors of an indiscriminate orgy. men who know paris well may not have improved upon their original selves as to moral character, but they have almost always acquired the priceless art of refined enjoyment; and this is even more true now than in the noisy days of the second empire. in paris senseless dissipation is mostly the pursuit of the young, who know no better, or of much older men who have never risen above the animal state, and who sink with age into half-idiotic bestiality. logotheti had never been counted amongst the former, and was in no danger of ending his days in the ranks of the latter. he was much too fond of real enjoyment to be dissipated. most orientals are. he spent the evening alone in an inner room to which no mere acquaintance and very few of his friends had ever been admitted. his rule was that when he was there he was not to be disturbed on any account. 'but if the house should take fire?' a new man-servant inquired on receiving these instructions. 'the fire-engines will put it out,' logotheti answered. 'it is none of my business. i will not be disturbed.' 'very good, sir. but if the house should burn down before they come?' 'then i should advise you to go away. but be careful not to disturb me.' 'very good, sir. and if'--the man's voice took a confidential tone--'if any lady should ask for you, sir?' 'tell her that to the best of your knowledge i am dead. if she faints, call a cab.' 'very good, sir.' thereupon the new man-servant had entered upon his functions, satisfied that his master was an original character, if not quite mad. but there was no secret about the room itself, as far as could be seen, and it was regularly swept and dusted like other rooms. the door was never locked except when logotheti was within, and the room contained no hidden treasures, nor any piece of furniture in which such things might have been concealed. there was nothing peculiar about the construction of the place, except that the three windows were high above the ground like those of a painter's studio, and could be opened or shut, or shaded, by means of cords and chains. there were also heavy curtains, such as are never seen in studios, which could be drawn completely across the windows. in a less civilised country logotheti's servants might have supposed that he retired to this solitude to practise necromancy or study astrology, or to celebrate the black mass. but his matter-of-fact frenchmen merely said that he was 'an original'; they even said so with a certain pride, as if there might be bad copies of him extant somewhere, which they despised. one man, who had an epileptic aunt, suggested that logotheti probably had fits, and disappeared into the inner room in order to have them alone; but this theory did not find favour, though it was supported, as the man pointed out, by the fact that the double doors of the room were heavily padded, and that the whole place seemed to be sound-proof, as indeed it was. on the other hand there was nothing about the furniture within that could give colour to the supposition, which was consequently laughed at in the servants' hall. monsieur was simply 'an original'; that was enough to explain everything, and his order as to being left undisturbed was the more strictly obeyed because it would apparently be impossible to disturb him with anything less than artillery. it is a curious fact that when servants have decided that their masters are eccentric they soon cease to take any notice of their doings, except to laugh at them now and then when more eccentric than usual. it being once established that logotheti was an original he might have kept his private room full of bengal tigers for all the servants hall would have cared, provided the beasts did not get about the house. it was a 'good place,' for he was generous, and there were perquisites; therefore he might do anything he pleased, so long as he paid--as indeed most of us might in this modern world, if we were able and willing to pay the price. on this particular evening logotheti dined at home alone, chiefly on a very simple greek pilaff, turkish preserved rose leaves and cream cheese, which might strike a parisian as strange fare, unless he were a gourmet of the very highest order. having sipped a couple of small glasses of very old samos wine, logotheti ordered lights and coffee in his private room, told the servants not to disturb him, went in and locked the outer door. then he gave a sigh of satisfaction and sat down, as if he had reached the end of a day's journey. he tasted his coffee, and kicked off first one of his gleaming patent leather slippers and then the other, and drew up his feet under him on the broad leather seat, and drank more coffee, and lit a big cigarette; after which he sat almost motionless for at least half an hour, looking most of the time at a statue which occupied the principal place in the middle of the room. now and then he half closed his eyes, and then opened them again suddenly, with an evident sense of pleasure. he had the air of a man completely satisfied with his surroundings, his sensations and his thoughts. there was something almost buddha-like in his attitude, in his perfect calm, in the expression of his quiet almond eyes; even the european clothes he wore did not greatly hinder the illusion. just then he did not look at all the sort of person to do anything sudden or violent, to pitch order to the dogs and tear the law to pieces, to kill anything that stood in his way as coolly as he would kill a mosquito, or to lay violent hands on what he wanted if he was hindered from taking it peacefully. neither does a wild-cat look very dangerous when it is dozing. on the rare occasions when he allowed any one but his servants to enter that room, he said that the statue was a copy, which he had caused to be very carefully made after an original found in lesbos and secretly carried off by a high turkish official, who kept it in his house and never spoke of it. this accounted for its being quite unknown to the artistic world. he called attention to the fact that it was really a facsimile, rather than a copy, and he seemed pleased at the perfect reproduction of the injured points, which were few, and of the stains, which were faint and not unpleasing. but he never showed it to an artist or an expert critic. 'a mere copy,' he would say, with a shrug of his shoulders. 'nothing that would interest any one who really knows about such things.' a very perfect copy, a very marvellous copy, surely; one that might stand in the vatican, with the torso, or in the louvre, beside the venus of milo, or in the british museum, opposite the pericles, or in olympia itself, facing the hermes, the greatest of all, and yet never be taken for anything but the work of a supreme master's own hands. but constantine logotheti shrugged his shoulders and said it was a mere copy, nothing but a clever facsimile, carved and chipped and stained by a couple of italian marble-cutters, whose business it was to manufacture antiquities for the american market and whom any one could engage to work in any part of the world for twenty francs a day and their expenses. yes, those italian workmen were clever fellows, logotheti admitted. but everything could be counterfeited now, as everybody knew, and his only merit lay in having ordered this particular counterfeit instead of having been deceived by it. as logotheti sat there in the quiet light, looking at it, the word 'copy' sounded in his memory, as he had often spoken it, and a peaceful smile played upon his broad oriental lips. the 'copy' had cost human lives, and he had almost paid for it with his own, in his haste to have it for himself, and only for himself. his eyes were half-closed again, and he saw outlines of strong ragged men staggering down to a lonely cove at night, with their marble burden, and he heard the autumn gale howling among the rocks, and the soft thud of the baled statue as it was laid in the bottom of the little fishing craft; and then, because the men feared the weather, he was in the boat himself, shaming them by his courage, loosing the sail, bending furiously to one of the long sweeps, yelling, cheering, cursing, promising endless gold, then baling with mad energy as the water swirled up and poured over the canvas bulwark that greek boats carry, and still wildly urging the fishermen to keep her up; and then, the end, a sweep broken and foul of the next, a rower falling headlong on the man in front of him, confusion in the dark, the crazy boat broached to in the breaking sea, filling, fuller, now quite full and sinking, the raging hell of men fighting for their lives amongst broken oars, and tangled rigging and floating bottom-boards; one voice less, two less, a smashing sea and then no voices at all, no boat, no men, no anything but the howling wind and the driving spray, and he himself, logotheti, gripping a spar, one of those long booms the fishermen carry for running, half-drowned again and again, but gripping still, and drifting with the storm past the awful death of sharp black rocks and pounding seas, into the calm lee beyond. and then, a week later, on a still october night, his great yacht lying where the boat had sunk, with diver and crane and hoisting gear, and submarine light; and at last, the thing itself brought up from ten fathoms deep with noise of chain and steam winch, and swung in on deck, the water-worn baling dropping from it and soon torn off, to show the precious marble perfect still. and then--'full speed ahead' and west by north, straight for the malta channel. logotheti's personal reminiscences were not exactly dull, and the vivid recollection of struggles and danger and visible death made the peace of his solitude more profound; the priceless thing he had fought for was alive in the stillness with the supernatural life of the ever beautiful; his fingers pressed an ebony key in the table beside him and the marble turned very slowly and steadily and noiselessly on the low base, seeming to let her shadowy eyes linger on him as she looked back over the curve of her shoulder. again his fingers moved, and the motion ceased, obedient to the hidden mechanism; and so, as he sat still, the goddess moved this way and that, facing him at his will, or looking back, or turning quite away, as if ashamed to meet his gaze, being clothed only in warm light and dreamy shadows, then once more confronting him in the pride of a beauty too faultless to fear a man's bold eyes. he leaned against his cushions, and sipped his coffee now and then, and let the thin blue smoke make clouds of lace between him and the very slowly moving marble, for he knew what little things help great illusions, or destroy them. nothing was lacking. the dark blue pavement, combed like rippling water and shot with silver that cast back broken reflections, was the sea itself; snowy gauze wrapped loosely round the base was breaking foam; the tinted walls, the morning sky of greece; the goddess, aphrodite, sea-born, too human to be quite divine, too heavenly to be only a living woman. and she was his; his not only for the dangers he had faced to have her, but his because he was a greek, because his heart beat with a strain of the ancient sculptor's blood; because his treasure was the goddess of his far forefathers, who had made her in the image of the loveliness they adored; because he worshipped her himself, more than half heathenly; but doubly his now, because his imagination had found her likeness in the outer world, clothed, breathing and alive, and created for him only. he leaned against his cushions, and lines of the old poetry rose to his lips, and the words came aloud. he loved the sound when he was alone, the vital rush of it, and the voluptuous pause and the soft, lingering cadence before it rose again. in the music of each separate verse there was the whole episode of man's love and woman's, the illusion and the image, the image and the maddening, leaping, all-satisfying, softly-subsiding reality. it was no wonder that he would not allow anything to disturb him in that inner sanctuary of rare delight. his bodily nature, his imagination, his deep knowledge and love of his own hellenic poets, his almost adoration of the beautiful, all that was his real self, placed him far outside the pale that confines the world of common men as the sheepfold pens in the flock. it was late in the night when he rose from his seat at last, extinguished the lights himself and left the room, with a regretful look on his face; for, after his manner, he had been very happy in his solitude, if indeed he had been alone where his treasure reigned. he went downstairs, for the sanctuary was high up in the house, and he found his man dozing in a chair in the vestibule at the door of his dressing-room. the valet rose to his feet instantly, took a little salver from the small table beside him, and held it out to logotheti. 'a telegram, sir,' he said. logotheti carelessly tore the end off the blue cover and glanced at the contents. can buy moon. cable offer and limit. logotheti looked at his watch and made a short calculation which convinced him that no time would really be lost in buying the moon if he did not answer the telegram till the next morning. then he went to bed and read himself to sleep with musurus' greek translation of dante's _inferno_. chapter ix on the following day margaret received a note from schreiermeyer informing her in the briefest terms and in doubtful french that he had concluded the arrangements for her to make her _début_ in the part of marguerite, in a belgian city, in exactly a month, and requiring that she should attend the next rehearsal of _faust_ at the opéra in paris, where _faust_ is almost a perpetual performance and yet seems to need rehearsing from time to time. she showed the letter to mrs. rushmore, who sighed wearily after reading it, and said nothing. but there was a little more colour in margaret's cheek, and her eyes sparkled at the prospect of making a beginning at last. mrs. rushmore took up her newspaper again with an air of sorrowful disapproval, but presently she started uncomfortably and looked at margaret. 'oh!' she exclaimed, and sighed once more. 'what is it?' asked the young girl. 'it must be true, for it's in the _herald_.' 'what?' mrs. rushmore read the following paragraph:-- we hear on the best authority that a new star is about to dazzle the operatic stage. monsieur schreiermeyer has announced to a select circle of friends that it will be visible in the theatrical heaven on the night of june , in the character of marguerite and in the person of a surprisingly beautiful young spanish soprano, the señorita margarita da cordova, whose romantic story as daughter to a contrabandista of andalusia and granddaughter to the celebrated bullfighter ramon and---- 'oh, my dear! this is too shameful! i told you so!' mrs. rushmore's elderly cheeks were positively scarlet as she stared at the print. margaret observed the unwonted phenomenon with surprise. 'i don't see anything so appallingly improper in that,' she observed. 'you don't see! no, my child, you don't! i trust you never may. indeed if i can prevent it, you never shall. disgusting! vile!' and the good lady read the rest of the paragraph to herself, holding up the paper so as to hide her modest blushes. 'my dear, what a story!' she cried at last. 'it positively makes me creep!' 'this is very tantalising,' said margaret. 'i suppose it has to do with my imaginary ancestry in andalusia.' 'i should think it had! where do they get such things, i wonder? a bishop, my dear--oh no, really! it would make a pirate blush! can you tell me what good this kind of thing can do?' 'advertisement,' margaret answered coolly. 'it's intended to excite interest in me before i appear, you know. don't they do it in america?' 'never!' cried mrs. rushmore with solemn emphasis. 'apart from its being all a perfectly gratuitous falsehood.' 'gratuitous? perhaps schreiermeyer paid to have it put in.' 'then i never wish to see him, margaret, never! do you understand! i think i shall bring an action against him. at all events i shall take legal advice. this cannot be allowed to go uncontradicted. if i were you, i would sit down and write to the paper this very minute, and tell the editor that you are a respectable english girl. you are, i'm sure!' 'i hope so! but what has respectability to do with art?' 'a great deal, my dear,' answered mrs. rushmore wisely. 'you may say what you like, there is a vast difference between being respectable and disreputable--perfectly vast! it's of no use to deny it, because you can't.' 'nobody can.' 'there now, i told you so! i must say, child, you are getting some very strange ideas from your new acquaintances. if these are the principles you mean to adopt, i am sorry for you, very sorry!' margaret did not seem very sorry for herself, however, for she went off at this point, singing the 'jewel song' in _faust_ at the top of her voice, and wishing with all her heart that she were already behind the footlights with the orchestra at her feet. two days later, mrs. rushmore received a cable message from new york which surprised her almost as much as the paragraph about margaret had. alvah moon has sold invention for cash to anonymous new york syndicate who offer to compromise suit. cable instructions naming sum you will accept, if disposed to deal. now mrs. rushmore was a wise woman, as well as a good one, though her ability to express her thoughts in concise language was insignificant. she had long known that the issue of the suit she had brought was doubtful, and that as it was one which could be appealed to the supreme court of the united states, it might drag on for a long time; so that the possibility of a compromise was very welcome, and she at once remembered that half a loaf is better than no bread, especially when the loaf is of hearty dimensions and easily divided. what she could not understand was that any one should have been willing to pay alvah moon the sum he must have asked, while his interest was still in litigation, and that, after buying that interest, the purchasers should propose a compromise when they might have prolonged the suit for some time, with a fair chance of winning it in the end. but that did not matter. more than once since mrs. rushmore had taken up the case her lawyers had advised her to drop it and submit to losing what she had already spent on the suit, and of late her own misgivings had increased. the prospect of obtaining a considerable sum for margaret, at the very moment when the girl had made up her mind to support herself as a singer, was in itself very tempting; and as it presented itself just when the horrors of an artistic career had been brought clearly before mrs. rushmore's mind by the newspaper paragraph, she did not hesitate a moment. margaret was in paris that morning, at her first rehearsal, and could not come back till the afternoon; but after all it would be of no use to consult her, as she was so infatuated with the idea of singing in public that she would very probably be almost disappointed by her good fortune. mrs. rushmore read the message three times, and then went out under the trees to consider her answer, carrying the bit of paper in her hand as if she did not know by heart the words written on it. for once, she had no guests, and for the first time she was glad of it. she walked slowly up and down, and as it was a warm morning, still and overcast, she fanned herself with the telegram in a very futile way, and watched the flies skimming over the water of the little pond, and repeated her inward question to herself many times. mrs. rushmore never thought anything out. when she was in doubt, she asked herself the same question, 'what had i better do?' or, 'what will he or she do next?' over and over again, with a frantic determination to be logical. and suddenly, sooner or later, the answer flashed upon her in a sort of accidental way as if it were not looking for her, and so completely outran all power of expression that she could not put it into words at all, though she could act upon it well enough. the odd part of it all was that these accidental revelations rarely misled her. they were like fragments of a former world of excellent common-sense that had gone to pieces, which she now and then encountered like meteors in her own orbit. when she had walked up and down for a quarter of an hour one of these aeroliths of reason shot across the field of her mental sight, and she understood that one of two things must have occurred. either alvah moon had lost confidence in his chances and had sold the invention to some greenhorn for anything he could get; or else some one else had been so deeply interested in the affair as to risk a great deal of money in it. mrs. rushmore's gleam of intelligence was a comet; but her comet had two tails, which was very confusing. her meditations were disturbed by the noise of a big motor car, approaching the house from a distance, and heralding its advance with a steadily rising whizz and a series of most unearthly toots. motor cars often passed the house and ran down the boulevard st. antoine at frightful speed, for the beautiful road is generally clear; but something, perhaps a small meteor again, warned her that this one was going to stop at the gate and demand admittance for itself. thereupon mrs. rushmore looked at her fingers; for she kept up an extensive correspondence, in the course of which she often inked them. for forty years she had asked herself why she, who prided herself on her fastidious neatness, should have been predestined and condemned to have inky fingers like an untidy school-girl, and she had spent time and money in search of an ink that would wash off easily and completely, without the necessity of flaying her hands with pumice stone and chemicals. when suddenly aware of the approach of an unexpected visitor, she always looked at her fingers. the thing came nearer, roared, sputtered, tooted and was silent. in the silence mrs. rushmore heard the tinkle of the gate bell and in a few moments she saw logotheti coming towards her across the lawn. she was not particularly pleased to see him. 'i am afraid,' she said rather stiffly, 'that miss donne is out.' in a not altogether well-spent life logotheti had seen many things; but he was not accustomed to american chaperons, whose amazing humility always takes it for granted that no man under forty can possibly call upon them except for the sake of seeing the young woman in their charge. logotheti looked vaguely surprised. 'indeed?' he answered, with a little interrogation as though he found it hard to be astonished, but wished to be obliging. 'that is rather fortunate,' he continued, 'for i was hoping to find you alone.' 'me?' mrs. rushmore unbent a little and smiled rather grimly. 'yes. if i had not been so anxious to see you at once, i should have written or telegraphed to ask for a few minutes alone with you. but i could not afford to waste time.' he spoke so gravely that she immediately suspected him of dark designs. perhaps he was going to propose to her, since margaret had refused him. she remembered instances of adventurers who had actually married widows of sixty for their money. she compressed her lips. she would be firm with him; he should have a piece of her mind. 'i am alone,' she said severely, a little as if warning him not to take liberties. 'my errand concerns a matter in which we have common interests at stake,' he said. mrs. rushmore sat down on a garden chair, and pointed to the bench, on which he took his seat. 'i cannot imagine what interests you mean,' she said, with dignity. 'pray explain. if you refer to miss donne, i may as well inform you with perfect frankness that it is of no use.' logotheti smiled and shook his head gently, keeping his eyes on mrs. rushmore's face, all of which she took to mean incredulity on his part. 'you may say what you like,' she said. 'it's of no use.' when mrs. rushmore declared that you might say what you liked, she was in earnest, but her visitor was not familiar with the expression. 'nevertheless,' he said, in a soothing way, 'my errand concerns miss donne.' 'well then,' said mrs. rushmore, 'don't! that's all i have to say, and it's my last word. she doesn't care for you. i don't want to be unkind, but i daresay you have made yourself think all sorts of things.' she felt that this was a great concession, to a greek and an adventurer. 'excuse me,' said logotheti quietly, 'but we are talking at cross purposes. what i have to say concerns miss donne's financial interests--her fortune, if you like to call it so.' mrs. rushmore's suspicions were immediately confirmed. 'she has none,' said she, with a snap as if she were shutting up a safe with a spring lock. 'that depends on what you call a fortune,' answered the greek coolly. 'in paris most people would think it quite enough. it is true that it is in litigation.' 'i really cannot see how that can interest you,' said mrs. rushmore in an offended tone. 'it interests me a good deal. i have come to see you in order to propose that you should compromise the suit about that invention.' mrs. rushmore drew herself up against the straight back of the garden chair and glared at him in polite wrath. 'you will pardon my saying that i consider your interferences very much out of place, sir,' she said. 'but you will forgive me, dear madam, for differing with you,' said logotheti with the utmost blandness. 'this business concerns me quite as much as miss donne.' 'you?' mrs. rushmore was amazed. 'i fancy you have heard that mr. alvah moon has sold the invention to a new york syndicate.' 'yes--but----' 'i am the syndicate.' 'you!' the good lady was breathless with astonishment. 'i cannot believe it,' she gasped. logotheti's hand went to his inner breast pocket. 'should you like to see the telegrams?' he asked quietly. 'here they are. my agent's cable to me, my instructions to him, his acknowledgment, his cable saying that the affair is closed and the money paid. they are all here. pray look at them.' mrs. rushmore looked at the papers, for she was cautious, even when surprised. there was no denying the evidence he showed her. her hands fell upon her knees and she stared at him. 'so you have got control of all that margaret can ever hope to have of her own,' she said blankly, at last. 'why have you done it?' logotheti smiled as he put the flimsy bits of paper into his pocket again. 'purely as a matter of business,' he answered. 'i shall make money by it, though i have paid mr. moon a large sum, and expect to make a heavy payment to you if we agree to compromise the old suit, which, as you have seen by the telegrams, i have assumed with my eyes open. now, my dear mrs. rushmore, shall we talk business? i am very anxious to oblige you, and i am not fond of bargaining. i propose to pay a lump sum on condition that you withdraw the suit at once. you pay your lawyers and i pay those employed by mr. moon. now, what sum do you think would be fair? that is the question. please understand that it is you who will be doing me a favour, not i who offer to do you a service. as i understand it, you never claimed of mr. moon the whole value of the invention. it was a suit in equity brought on the ground that mr. moon had paid a derisory price for what he got, in other words--but is mr. moon a personal friend of yours, apart from his business?' 'a friend!' cried mrs. rushmore in horror. 'goodness gracious, no!' 'very well,' continued logotheti. 'then we will say that he cheated miss donne's maternal grandfather--is that the relationship? yes. very good. i propose to hand over to you the sum out of which miss donne's maternal grandfather was cheated. if you will tell me just how much it was, allowing a fair interest, i will write you a cheque. i think i have a blank one here.' he produced a miniature card-case of pale blue morocco, which exactly matched his tie, and drew from it a blank cheque carefully folded to about the size of two postage stamps. 'dear me!' exclaimed mrs. rushmore. 'dear me! this is very sudden!' 'you must have made up your mind a long time ago as to what miss donne's share should be worth,' suggested logotheti, smoothing the cheque on his knee. mrs. rushmore hesitated. 'but you have already paid much more to senator moon,' she said. 'that is my affair,' answered the greek. 'i have my own views about the value of the invention, and i have no time to lose. what shall we say, mrs. rushmore.' 'i wish margaret were here,' said the good lady vaguely. 'i'm very glad she is not. now, tell me what i am to write, please.' he produced a fountain pen and was already writing the date. the pen was evidently one specially made to suit his tastes, for it was of gold, the elaborate chasing was picked out with small rubies and a large brilliant was set in the end of the cap. mrs. rushmore could not help looking at it, and in her prim way she wondered how any man who was not an adventurer or a sort of glorified commercial traveller could carry such a thing. there was an unpleasant fascination in the mere look of it, and she watched it move instead of answering. 'yes?' said logotheti, looking up interrogatively. 'what shall we say?' 'i--i honestly don't know what to say,' mrs. rushmore answered, really confused by the suddenness of the man's proposal. i suppose--no--you must let me consult my lawyer.' 'i am sorry,' said logotheti, 'but i cannot afford to waste so much time. allow me to be your man of business. how much were you suing mr. moon for?' 'half a million dollars,' answered mrs. rushmore. 'have you been paying your lawyer, or was he to get a percentage on the sum recovered?' 'i have paid him about seventeen thousand, so far.' 'for doing nothing. i should like to be your lawyer! i suppose three thousand more will satisfy him? yes, that will make it a round twenty thousand. that leaves your claim worth four hundred and eighty thousand dollars, does it not?' 'yes, certainly.' 'which at four-eighty-four is--' he looked at the ceiling for ten seconds--'ninety-nine thousand one hundred and eleven pounds, two shillings and twopence halfpenny--within a fraction. is that it? my mental arithmetic is generally pretty fair.' 'i've no doubt that the calculation is correct,' said mrs. rushmore, 'only it seems to me--let me see--i'm a little confused--but it seems to me that if i had won the suit for half a million, the lawyer's expenses would have come out of that.' 'they do come out of it,' answered logotheti blandly. 'that is why you don't get half a million.' 'yes,' insisted mrs. rushmore, who was not easily misled about money, 'certainly. but as it is, after i have received the four hundred and eighty thousand, i shall still have to deduct the twenty thousand for the lawyers before handing it over to margaret, who would only get four hundred and sixty. excuse me, perhaps you don't understand.' 'yes, yes! i do.' logotheti smiled pleasantly. 'it was very stupid of me, wasn't it? i'm always doing things like that!' as indeed financiers are, for arithmetical obliquity about money is caused by having too much or too little of it, and the people who lose to both sides are generally the comparatively honest ones who have enough. it certainly did not occur to logotheti that he had tried to do margaret donne out of four thousand pounds; he would have been only too delighted to give her ten times the sum if she would have accepted it, and so far as profit went the whole transaction was for her benefit, and he might lose heavily by it. but in actual dealing he was constitutionally unable to resist the impulse to get the better of the person with whom he dealt. and on her side, mrs. rushmore, though generous to a fault, was by nature incapable of allowing money to slip through her fingers without reason. so the two were well matched, being both born financiers, and logotheti respected mrs. rushmore for detecting his little 'mistake,' and she recognised in him a real 'man of business' because he had made it. 'let us call it a half million dollars, then,' he said, with a smile. 'at four-eighty-four, that is'--again he looked at the ceiling for ten seconds--'that is one hundred and three thousand three hundred and five pounds fifteen shillings fivepence halfpenny, nearly. is that it? shall we say that, mrs. rushmore.' 'how quickly you do it!' exclaimed the lady in admiration. 'i wish i could do that! oh yes, i have no doubt it is quite correct. you couldn't do it on paper, could you? you see it doesn't matter so much about the halfpenny, but if there were a little slip in the thousands, you know--it would make quite a difference----' she paused significantly. logotheti quietly pulled his cuff over his hand, produced a pencil instead of his fountain pen, and proceeded to divide five hundred thousand by four hundred and eighty-four to three places of decimals. 'fifteen and fivepence halfpenny,' he said, when he had turned the fraction into shillings and pence, 'and the pounds are just what i said.' 'do you mean to say that you did all that in your head in ten seconds?' asked mrs. rushmore, with renewed admiration. 'oh no,' he answered. 'we have much shorter ways of reckoning money in the east, but you could not understand that. you are quite satisfied that this is right?' 'oh, certainly!' mrs. rushmore could no more have divided five hundred thousand by four hundred and eighty-four to three places of decimals than she could have composed _parsifal_, but her doubts were satisfied by its having been done 'on paper.' logotheti put away his jewelled pencil, took out his jewelled fountain pen again, spread the cheque on the seat of the bench beside him and filled it in for the amount, including the halfpenny. he handed it to her, holding it by the corner. 'it's wet,' he observed. 'it's drawn on the bank of england. it will be necessary for you to sign a statement to the effect that you withdraw the suit and that miss donne's claim is fully satisfied. she will have to sign that too. i'll send you the paper. if you have any doubts,' he smiled, 'you need not return it until the cheque has been cashed.' that was precisely what mrs. rushmore intended to do, but she protested politely that she had no doubt whatever on the score of the cheque, looking all the time at the big figures written out in logotheti's remarkably clear handwriting. only the signature was perfectly illegible. he noticed her curiosity about it. 'i always sign my cheques in greek,' he observed 'it is not so easy to imitate.' he rose and held out his hand. 'i suppose i ought to thank you on margaret's behalf,' said mrs. rushmore, as she took it. 'she will be so sorry not to have seen you.' 'it was much easier to do business without her. and as for that, there is no reason for telling her anything about the transaction. you need only say that a syndicate has bought out alvah moon and has compromised the old suit by a cash payment. i am not at all anxious to have her know that i have had a hand in the matter--in fact, i had rather that she shouldn't, if you don't object.' mrs. rushmore looked hard at him. she had not even thought of refusing his offer, which would save margaret a considerable fortune by a stroke of a pen; but she had taken it for granted that what might easily be made to pass for an act of magnificent liberality was intended to produce a profound impression on margaret's feelings. the elder woman was shrewd enough to guess that the greek would not lose money in the end, but she went much too far in suspecting him of anything so vulgar as playing on the girl's gratitude. she looked at him keenly. 'do you mean that?' she asked, almost incredulously. his quiet almond eyes gazed into hers with the trustful simplicity of a child's. 'yes,' he answered. 'this is purely a matter of business, in which i am consulting nothing but my own interests. i should have acted precisely in the same way if i had never had the pleasure of knowing either of you. if it chances that i have been of service to miss donne, so much the better, but there is no reason why she should ever know it, so far as i am concerned. i would rather she should not. she might fancy that i had acted from other motives.' 'very well,' mrs. rushmore answered; 'then i shall not tell her.' nevertheless, when the motor car had tooted and puffed itself away to paris and mrs. rushmore still sat in her straight-backed garden chair holding the cheque in her hand, she thought it all very strange and unaccountable; and the only explanation that occurred to her was that the invention must be worth far more than she had supposed. this was not altogether a pleasant reflection either, as it made her inclined to reproach herself for not having driven a hard bargain with logotheti. 'but after all,' she said to herself, 'if half a million is not a fortune, it's a competence, even nowadays, and i suppose the man isn't an adventurer after all--at least, not if his cheque is good.' in her complicated frame of mind she felt a distinct sense of disappointment at the thought that her judgment had been at fault, and that the greek was not a blackleg, as she had decided that he ought to be. chapter x logotheti's motor car was built to combine the greatest comfort and the greatest speed which can be made compatible. it was not meant for sport, though it could easily beat most things on the road, for though the greek lived a good deal among sporting men and often did what they did, he was not one himself. it was not in his nature to regard any sport as an object to be pursued for its own sake. only the english take that view naturally, and, of late years, some frenchmen. all other europeans look upon sport as pastime which is very well when there is nothing else to do, but not at all comparable with love-making, or gambling, for the amusement it affords. they take the view of the late shah of persia, who explained why he would not go to the derby by saying that he had always known that one horse could run faster than another, but that it was a matter of perfect indifference to him which that one horse might be. in the same way logotheti did not care to possess the fastest motor car in europe, provided that he could be comfortable in one which was a great deal faster than the majority. moreover, though he was by no means timid, he never went in search of danger merely for the sake of its pleasant excitement. possibly he was too natural and too primitive to think useless danger attractive; but if danger stood between him and anything he wanted very much, he could be as reckless as an irishman or a cossack--which is saying all there is to be said. the motor tooted and whizzed itself from mrs. rushmore's gate to the stage entrance of the opéra in something like thirty minutes without the slightest strain, and could have covered the distance in much less time if necessary. logotheti found schreiermeyer sitting alone in the dusk, in the stalls. half the footlights and one row of border lights illuminated the stage, and a fat man in very light grey clothes, a vast white waistcoat and a pot hat was singing 'salut demeure' in a nasal half-voice to the tail of the commendatore's white horse, from _don juan_. the monumental animal had apparently stopped to investigate an egyptian palm tree which happened to grow near the spot usually occupied by marguerite's cottage. the tenor had his hands in his pockets, his hat was rather on the back of his head, and he looked extremely bored. so did schreiermeyer when logotheti sat down beside him. he turned his round glasses to the newcomer with a slight expression of recognition which was not perceptible at all in the gloom, and then he looked at the stage again, without a word. the tenor had heard somebody moving in the house, and he stuck a single glass in his eye and peered over the footlights into the abyss, thinking the last comer might be a woman, in which case he would perhaps have condescended to sing a little louder and better. a number of people were loafing on the stage, standing up or sitting on the wooden steps of somebody's enchanted palace, but logotheti could not see margaret amongst them. the conductor of the orchestra rapped sharply on his desk, the music ceased suddenly and he glared down at an unseen offender. 'd sharp!' he said, as if he were swearing at the man. 'i believe they hire their band from the deaf and dumb asylum,' observed the tenor very audibly, but looking vaguely at the plaster tail of the horse. some of the young women at the back of the stage giggled obsequiously at this piece of graceful wit, but the orchestra manifested its indignation by hissing. thereupon the director rapped on his desk more noisily than ever. '_da capo_,' he said, and the bows began to scrape and quiver again. the tenor only hummed his part now, picking bits of straw out of the plaster tail and examining them with evident interest. 'is miss donne here?' logotheti inquired of schreiermeyer. the impresario nodded indifferently, without looking round. 'i wish you had chosen _rigoletto_ for her _début_,' said the greek. 'the part of gilda is much better suited to her voice, take my word for it.' 'what do you know about it?' asked schreiermeyer, smiling faintly, just enough to save the rude question from being almost insulting. 'when gounod began _faust_ he was in love with a lady with a deep voice,' answered logotheti, 'but when he was near the end he was in love with one who had a high voice. the consequence is that marguerite's part ranges over nearly three octaves, and is frightfully trying, particularly for a beginner.' 'bosh!' ejaculated the impresario, though he knew it was quite true. he looked at the stage again, as if logotheti did not exist. 'oh, very well,' said the latter carelessly. 'it probably won't matter much, as they say that miss donne is going to throw up her engagement, and give up going on the stage.' he had produced an effect at last, for schreiermeyer's jaw dropped as he turned quickly. 'eh? what? who says she is not going to sing? what?' 'i dare say it is nothing but gossip,' logotheti answered coolly. 'you seem excited.' 'excited? eh? some one has heard her sing and has offered her more! you shall tell me who it is!' he gripped logotheti's arm with fingers that felt like talons. 'tell me quickly!' he cried. 'i will offer her more, more than anybody can! tell me quickly.' 'take care, you are spoiling my cuff,' said logotheti. 'i know nothing about it, beyond that piece of gossip. of course you are aware that she is a lady. somebody may have left her a fortune, you know. her only reason for singing was that she was poor.' 'nonsense!' cried schreiermeyer, with a sort of suppressed yell. 'it is all bosh! somebody has offered her more money, and you know who it is! you shall tell me!' he was in a violent passion by this time, or seemed to be. 'you come here, suggesting and interfering with my prima donnas! you are in league, damn you! damn you, you are a conspiracy!' his face was as white as paper, his queer eyes blazed through his glasses, and his features were disfigured with rage. he showed his teeth and hissed like a wildcat; his nervous fingers fastened themselves upon logotheti's arm. but logotheti gazed at him with a look of amusement in his quiet eyes, and laughed softly. 'if i were conspiring against you, you would not guess it, my friend,' he observed in a gentle tone. 'and you will never get anything out of me by threatening, you know.' schreiermeyer's face relaxed instantly into an expression of disappointment, and he looked wearily at the stage again. 'no, it is of no use,' he answered in a melancholy tone. 'you are phlegmatic.' 'perfectly,' logotheti assented. 'if i were you, i would put her on in _rigoletto_.' 'does she know the part?' schreiermeyer asked, as calmly as if nothing had happened. 'ask madame de rosa,' suggested the greek. 'i see her on the stage.' 'i will. there is truth in what you say about _faust_. the part is trying.' 'you told me it was bosh,' logotheti observed with a smile. 'i had forgotten that you are such a phlegmatic man, when i said that,' answered schreiermeyer with the frankness of a conjurer who admits that his trick has been guessed. they had been talking as if nothing were going on, but now the conductor turned to them, and gave a signal for silence, which was taken up by all the people on the stage. 'sh--sh--sh--sh--' it came from all directions. 'here comes cordova,' observed schreiermeyer in a low tone. margaret appeared, wearing an extremely becoming hat, and poked her head round the white horse's tail, which represented the door of her cottage as to position. the tenor, who had nothing to do and was supposed to be off, at once turned himself into a stage faust, so far as expression went, but his white waistcoat and pot hat hindered the illusion so much that margaret smiled. she sang the 'king of thule,' and every one listened in profound silence. when she had finished, schreiermeyer and logotheti turned their heads slowly, by a common instinct, looked at each other a moment and nodded gravely. then logotheti rose rather suddenly. 'what's the matter?' asked the impresario. but the greek had disappeared in the gloom of the house and schreiermeyer merely shrugged his shoulders when he saw that his question had not been heard. it would have been perfectly impossible for him to understand that logotheti, who was so 'phlegmatic,' could not bear the disturbing sight of the white waistcoat and the hat while margaret was singing the lovely music and looking, logotheti thought, as she had never looked before. he went behind, and sat down in a corner where he could hear without seeing what was going on; he lent himself altogether to the delight of margaret's voice, and dreamt that she was singing only for him in some vast and remote place where they were quite alone together. the rehearsal went on by fits and starts; some scenes were repeated, others were left out; at intervals the conductor rapped his desk nervously and abused somebody, or spoke with great affability to margaret, or with the familiarity of long acquaintance to one of the other singers. logotheti did not notice these interruptions, for his sensitiveness was not of the sort that suffers by anything which must be and therefore should be; it was only the unnecessary that disturbed him--the tenor's white waistcoat and dangling gold chain. while margaret was singing, the illusion was perfect; the rest was a blank, provided that nothing offended his eyes. the end was almost reached at last. there was a pause. 'will you try the trio to-day?' inquired the conductor of margaret. 'or are you tired?' 'tired?' margaret laughed. 'go on, please.' now marguerite's part in the trio, where she sings 'anges pures,' repeating the refrain three times and each time in a higher key, is one of the most sustained high pieces ever written for a woman's voice; and logotheti, listening, suddenly shut out his illusions and turned himself into a musical critic, or at least into a judge of singing. not a note quavered, from first to last; there was not one sound that was not as true as pure gold, to the very end, not one tone that was forced, either, in spite of the almost fantastic pitch of the last passage. it is not often that everybody applauds a singer at a rehearsal of _faust_, which has been sung to death for five-and-forty years; but as the trio ended, and the drums rolled the long knell, there was a shout of genuine enthusiasm from the little company on the stage. 'vive la cordova! vive la diva!' yelled the tenor, and he threw up his pot hat almost to the border lights, quite forgetting to be indifferent. 'brava, la cordova!' boomed the bass, with a tremendous roar. 'brava, brava, brava!' shouted all the lesser people at the back of the stage. little madame de rosa was in hysterics of joy, and embraced everybody and everything in her way till she came to margaret and reached the climax of embracing in a perfect storm of tears. by this time the tenor and bass were kissing margaret's gloved hands with fervour and every one was pressing round her. logotheti had come forward and stood a little aloof, waiting for the excitement to subside. margaret, surrounded as she was, did not see him at once, and he watched her quietly. she was the least bit pale and her eyes were very bright indeed. she was smiling rather vaguely, he thought, though she was trying to thank everybody for being so pleased, and logotheti fancied she was looking for somebody who was not there, probably for the mysterious 'some one else,' whose existence she had confessed a few days earlier. presently she seemed to feel that he was looking at her, for she turned her head to him and met his eyes. he came forward at once, and the others made way for him a little, for most of them knew him by sight as the famous financier, though he rarely condescended to come behind the scenes at a rehearsal, or indeed at any other time. margaret held out her hand, and logotheti had just begun to say a few rather conventional words of congratulation when schreiermeyer rushed up with his hat on, pushing everybody aside without ceremony till he seized margaret's wrist and would apparently have dragged her away by main force if she had not gone with him willingly. 'ill-mannered brute!' exclaimed logotheti in such a tone that schreiermeyer must certainly have heard the words, though he did not even turn his head. 'i must speak to you at once,' he was saying to margaret, very hurriedly, as he led her away. 'it is all bosh, nonsense, stupid stuff, i tell you! rubbish!' 'what is rubbish?' asked margaret in surprise, just as they reached the other side of the stage. 'my singing?' 'stuff! you sing well enough. you know it too, you know it quite well! good. are you satisfied with the contract we signed?' 'perfectly,' answered margaret, more and more surprised at his manner. 'ah, very good. because, i tell you, if you are not pleased, it is just the same. i will make you stick to it, whether you like it or not. understand?' margaret drew herself up, and looked at him coldly. 'if i carry out my contract,' she said, 'it will be because i signed my name to it, not because you can force me to do anything against my will.' schreiermeyer turned a little pale and glared through his glasses. 'ah, you are proud, eh? you say to yourself, "first i am a lady, and then i am a singer that is going to be a prima donna." but the law is on my side. the law will give me heavy damages, enormous damages, if you fail to appear according to contract. you think because you have money in your throat somebody will pay me my damages if you go to somebody else. you don't know the law, my lady! i can get an injunction to prevent you from singing anywhere in europe, pending suit. the other man will have to pay me before you can open your beautiful mouth to let the money out! just remember that! you take my advice. you be an artist first and a lady afterwards when you have plenty of time, and you stick to old schreiermeyer, and he'll stick to you. no nonsense, now, no stupid stuff! eh?' 'i haven't the slightest idea what you are driving at,' said margaret. 'i have made an agreement with you, and unless i lose my voice during the next month i shall sing wherever you expect me to.' 'all right, because if you don't, i'll make you dance from here to jerusalem,' answered schreiermeyer, glaring again. 'do you know that you are quite the rudest and most brutal person i ever met?' inquired margaret, raising her eyebrows. but schreiermeyer now smiled in the most pleasant manner possible, ceased glaring, spread out his palms and put his head on one side as he answered her, apparently much pleased by her estimate of him. 'ah, you are not phlegmatic, like logotheti! we shall be good friends. i shall be rude to you when i am in a rage, and tell you the truth, and you shall call me many bad names. then we shall be perfectly good friends. you will say, "bah! it is only old schreiermeyer!" and i shall say, "pshaw! cordova may call me a brute, but she is the greatest soprano in the world, what does it matter?" do you see? we are going to be good friends!' it was impossible not to laugh at his way of putting it; impossible, too, not to feel that behind his strange manner, his brutal speeches and his serio-comic rage there was the character of a man who would keep his word and who expected others to do the same. there might even be lurking somewhere in him a streak of generosity. 'good friends?' he repeated, with an interrogation. 'yes, good friends,' margaret answered, taking his hand frankly and still smiling. 'i like you,' said schreiermeyer, looking at her with sudden thoughtfulness, as if he had just discovered something. and then without a word he turned on his heel and disappeared as quickly as he had come, his head sinking between his shoulders till the collar of the snuff-coloured overcoat he wore in spite of the warm weather was almost up to the brim of his hat behind. logotheti and little madame de rosa came up to margaret at once. the other singers were already filing out, eager to get into the fresh air. 'the signora,' said logotheti, 'says she will come and lunch with me. will you come too? i daresay we shall find something ready, and then, if you like, i'll run you out to mrs. rushmore's in the motor car.' margaret hesitated a moment, and looked from one to the other. she was very hungry, and the prospect of a luxurious luncheon was much more alluring than that of the rather scrappy sort of meal she had expected to get at a bouillon duval. as 'miss donne,' a fortnight ago, she would certainly not have thought of going to logotheti's house, except with mrs. rushmore; but as the proposal tempted her she found it easy to tell herself that since she was a real artist she could go where she pleased, that people would gossip about her wherever she went, and that what she did was nobody's business. and surely, for an artist, madame de rosa was a chaperon of sufficient weight. moreover, margaret was curious to see the place where the man lived. he interested her in spite of herself, and since lushington had insisted on going off, though she had begged him to stay, she felt just a little reckless. 'do come!' said logotheti. the two words were spoken in just the right tone, neither as if his life depended on her answer, nor as if he were asking her to do something just a little risky, which would be amusing; but quite naturally, as if he would be really glad should she accept, but by no means overwhelmed with despair if she refused. 'thank you,' she answered. 'it's very nice of you to ask us. i'll come.' logotheti smiled pleasantly, but looked away, perhaps not caring that she should see his eyes, even in the uncertain light. the three hastened to leave the theatre, for the stage was already full of workmen, the egyptian palm was moving in one direction, the commendatore's white horse was joggling away uneasily in another, and the steps of somebody's enchanted palace were being dragged forward into place. all was noise, dust and apparent confusion. margaret expected that logotheti's house would somehow correspond with his own outward appearance and would be architecturally over-dressed, inside and out, but in this she was greatly mistaken. it was evidently a new house, in a quarter where many houses were new and where some were not in the most perfect taste, though none were monstrosities. it was not exceptionally big, and was certainly not showy; on the whole, it had the unmistakable air of having been built by a good architect, of the very best materials and in a way to last as long as hewn stone can. such beauty as it had lay in its proportions and not in any sort of ornament, for it was in fact rather plainer than most of its neighbours in the boulevard péreire. the big door opened noiselessly just as the car came up, but logotheti, who drove himself, did not turn in. 'it's rather a tight fit,' he explained, as he stopped by the curbstone. he gave his hand to margaret to get down. as her foot touched the pavement a man who was walking very fast, with his head down, made a step to one side, to get out of the way, and then, recognising her and the greek, lifted his hat hastily and would have passed on. she started with an exclamation of surprise, for it was lushington, whom she had supposed to be in london. logotheti spoke first, calling to him in english. 'hollo! lushington--i say!' lushington stopped instantly and turned half round, with an exclamation intended to express an imaginary surprise, for he had recognised all three at first sight. 'oh!' he exclaimed coldly. 'is that you? how are you?' margaret offered her hand as he did not put out his. she was a little surprised to see that he did not change colour when he took it, as he always used to do when they met; he did not seem in the least shy, now, and there was a hard look in his eyes. 'all right?' he said, with a cool interrogation, and he turned to logotheti before margaret could give any answer. 'come in and lunch, my dear fellow,' said the greek affably. 'i never lunch--thanks all the same.' he moved to go on, nodding a good-bye. 'are you here for long?' asked margaret, forcing him to stop again. 'that depends on what you call long. i leave this evening.' 'i should call that a very short time!' margaret tried to laugh a little, with a lingering hope that he might unbend. 'it's quite long enough for me, thank you,' he answered roughly. 'good-bye!' he lifted his hat again and walked off very fast. margaret's face fell, and logotheti saw the change of expression. 'he's an awfully good fellow in spite of his shyness,' he said quietly. 'i wish we could have made him stay.' 'yes,' margaret answered, in a preoccupied tone. she was wondering whether logotheti had guessed that there had been anything between her and lushington. logotheti ushered his guests in under the main entrance. 'do you know mr. lushington well?' she asked. 'yes, in a way. i once published a little book, and he wrote a very nice article about it in a london review. you did not know i was a man of letters, did you?' logotheti laughed quietly. 'my book was not very long--only about a hundred pages, i think. but lushington made out that it wasn't all rubbish, and i was always grateful to him.' 'what was your book about?' asked margaret, as they entered the house. 'oh, nothing that would interest you--the pronunciation of greek. will you take off your hat?' at every step, at every turn, margaret realised how much she had been mistaken in thinking that anything in logotheti's house could be in bad taste. there was perfect harmony everywhere, and a great deal of simplicity. the man alone offended her eye a little, the man himself, with his resplendent tie, his jewellery and his patent leather shoes; and even so, it was only the outward man, in so far as she could not help seeing him and contrasting his appearance with his surroundings. for he was as tactful and quiet, and as modest about himself as ever; he did not exhibit the conquering air which many men would have found it impossible not to assume under the circumstances; he showed himself just as anxious to please little madame de rosa as margaret herself, and talked to both indiscriminately. if margaret at first felt that she was doing something a little eccentric, not to say compromising, in accepting the invitation, the sensation had completely worn off before luncheon was half over, and she was as much at her ease as she could have been in mrs. rushmore's own house. she felt as if she had known logotheti all her life, as if she understood him thoroughly and was not displeased that he should understand her. they went into the next room for coffee. 'you used to like my zara maraschino,' said logotheti to madame de rosa. he took a decanter from a large case, filled a good-sized liqueur glass for her and set it beside her cup. 'it is the most delicious thing in the world,' cried the little woman, sipping it eagerly. 'may i not have some, too?' asked margaret. 'not on any account,' answered logotheti, putting the decanter back on the other side. 'it's very bad for the voice, you know.' 'i never heard that,' said madame de rosa, laughing. 'i adore it! but as my singing days are over it does not matter at all. oh, how good it is!' she sipped it again and again, with all sorts of little cries and sighs of satisfaction. logotheti and margaret looked on, smiling at her childish delight. 'do you think i might have a little more?' she asked, presently. 'only half a glass!' logotheti filled the glass again, though she laughingly protested that half a glass was all she wanted. but he took none himself. margaret saw a picture at the other end of the room which attracted her attention, and she rose to go and look at it. logotheti followed her, but madame de rosa, who had established her small person in the most comfortable arm-chair in the room, was too much interested in the maraschino to move. margaret stood in silence before the painting for a few moments, and logotheti waited for her to speak, watching her as he always did when she was not looking. 'what is it?' she asked, at last. 'it's quite beautiful, but i don't understand it.' 'nor do i, in the least,' answered logotheti. 'i found it in italy two years ago. it's what they call an encaustic painting, like the muse of cortona, probably of the time of tiberius. it is painted on a slab of slate three inches thick, and burnt in by a process that is lost. you might put it into the fire and leave it there without doing it any harm. that much i know, for i found it built into a baker's oven. but i can tell you no more about it. i have some pretty good things here, but this is quite my best picture. it is very like somebody, too--uncommonly like! do you see the resemblance?' 'no. i suppose i don't know the person.' logotheti laughed and took up a little mirror set in an old spanish frame. 'look at yourself,' he said. 'the picture is the image of you.' 'of me?' margaret took the glass, and her cheek flushed a little as she looked at herself and then at the picture, and realised that the likeness was not imaginary. 'in future,' said logotheti, 'i shall tell people that it is a portrait of you.' 'of me? oh please, no!' cried margaret anxiously, and blushing deeper. 'don't!' logotheti laughed. 'did you think i was in earnest?' he asked. the painting represented the head and shoulders of a woman--perhaps of a goddess, though it had that strangely living look about the eyes and mouth which belongs to all good portraits that are like the originals. the woman's head was thrown back, her deep-set eyes were looking up with an expression of strange longing, the rich hair flowed down over her bare neck, where one beautiful hand caught it and seemed to press the tangled locks upon her heart. the picture's beauty was the beauty of life, for the features were not technically faultless. the lips glowed with burning breath, the twining hair was alive and elastic, the after-light of a profound and secret pleasure lingered in the liquid eyes, blending with the shadow of pain just past but passionately desired again. margaret gazed at the painting a few seconds, for it fascinated her against her will. then she laid down the small looking-glass and turned away rather abruptly. 'i don't like to look at it,' she said, avoiding logotheti's eyes. 'i think it must be time to be going,' she added. 'mrs. rushmore will be wondering where i am.' she went back across the room a little way with logotheti by her side. suddenly he stopped and laughed softly. 'by jove!' he exclaimed under his breath, pointing to the arm-chair in which madame de rosa was sitting. 'she's fast asleep!' she was sleeping as peacefully as a cat after a meal, half curled up in the big chair, her head turned to one side and her cheek buried in a cushion of rhodes tapestry. margaret stood and looked at her with curiosity and some amusement. 'she's not generally a very sleepy person,' said the young girl. 'the emotions of your first rehearsal have tired her out,' said logotheti. 'they don't seem to have affected you at all,' he added. 'shall we wake her?' margaret hesitated, and then bent down and touched the sleeping woman's arm gently, and called her by name in a low tone; but without the slightest result. 'she must be very tired,' margaret said in a tone of sympathy. 'after all, it's not so very late. we had better let her sleep a few minutes longer, poor thing.' logotheti bent his head gravely. 'we'll make up the time with the motor in going to versailles,' he said. by unspoken consent, they moved away and sat down at some distance from madame de rosa's chair, at the end of the room opposite to the picture. logotheti did not speak at once, but sat leaning forward, his wrists resting on his knees, his hands hanging down limply, his eyes bent on the carpet. as she sat, margaret could see the top of his head; there was a sort of fascination about his preternaturally glossy black hair, and the faultless parting made it look like the wig on a barber's doll. she thought of lushington and idly wondered whether she was always to be admired by men with phenomenally smooth hair. 'what are you thinking of?' logotheti asked, looking up suddenly and smiling as he met her eyes. she laughed low. 'i was wondering how you kept your hair so smooth!' she answered. 'i should look like a savage if i did not,' he said. 'my only chance of seeming civilised is to overdo the outward fashions of civilisation. if i wore rough clothes like an englishman, and did not smooth my hair and let my man do all sorts of things to my moustache to keep it flat, i should look like a pirate. and if i looked like a greek pirate you would have hesitated about coming to lunch with me to-day. do you see? there is a method in my bad taste.' margaret looked at him a moment and then laughed again. 'so that's it, is it? how ingenious! do you know that i have wondered at the way you dress, ever since i met you?' 'i'm flattered. but think a moment. i daresay you wonder why i wear a lot of jewellery, too. of course it's in bad taste. i quite agree with you. but the world is often nearer to first principles than you realise. a man who wears a ruby in his tie worth ten thousand pounds is not suspected of wanting to get other people's money as soon as he makes acquaintance. on the contrary, they are much more likely to try to get his, and are rather inclined to think him a fool for showing that he has so much. it is always an advantage to be thought a fool when one is not. if one is clever it is much better to have it believed that one is merely lucky. in business everybody likes lucky people, but every one avoids a clever man. it is one of the elements of success to remember that!' 'you won't easily persuade any one that you are a foolish person,' said margaret. 'it would be much harder if i did not take pains,' he answered gravely. 'now you know my secret, but don't betray me.' 'not for worlds!' they both laughed a little, and their eyes met. 'but just now, i'm in a very awkward position about that,' logotheti continued. i cannot afford to sacrifice my reputation as a lucky fool, and yet i want you to think me a marvel of cleverness, good taste and perfection in every way.' 'is that all?' asked margaret, more and more amused. 'almost all. you see i know perfectly well that i cannot surprise you into falling in love with me---- yes, she's sound asleep! the ideal chaperon, isn't she?' 'i don't know,' margaret answered lightly, and she glanced at madame de rosa, as if she thought of waking her. 'excuse me, you do; for if i were "some one else" you would be delighted that she should be asleep. but that's not the question. as i cannot surprise you into--there's no harm in saying it!--into loving me, i'm driven to use what they call the "arts of persuasion"! but in order to persuade, it's necessary to inspire confidence. do you understand?' 'vaguely!' 'have i succeeded at all?' his voice changed suddenly as he asked the question. 'i don't know why i should distrust you, i'm sure,' margaret answered gravely. 'you are certainly very outspoken,' she continued more lightly, as if wishing to keep the conversation from growing serious. 'in fact, i never knew anything like your frankness!' 'i'm in earnest, and i don't wish to leave the least doubt in your mind. you are the first woman i have ever met whom i wanted to marry, and you are likely to be the last. i'm not a boy and i know the world as you can never know it, even if you insist upon going on the stage. i'm not amazingly young, for i'm five-and-thirty, and i suppose i have had as large a share of what the world holds as most rich men. that is my position. until i met you, i thought i had really had everything. when i knew you i found that i had never had the only thing worth having at all.' he spoke quietly, without the least affectation of feeling, or the smallest apparent attempt to make an impression upon her; but it was impossible not to believe that he was speaking the truth. margaret was silent, and looked steadily at an imaginary point in the distance. 'so far,' he said, in the same tone, 'i have always got what i wanted. i don't mean to say,' he continued quickly, as she made a movement, 'that i expected you to accept me when i asked you to marry me, at our second meeting. i was sure you would not. i merely put in a claim--that was all.' margaret turned a little and rested her elbow on the back of her chair, facing him. 'and i told you there was some one else. do you understand clearly? i am frank, too. i love another man, and he loves me.' 'and you are going to be married, i suppose?' said logotheti, his lids contracting a very little. 'i hope so. some day.' 'ah! there is an obstacle. i see. a question of fortune, i daresay?' 'no.' her tone was meant to discourage further questioning, and she moved in her seat and looked away again. 'that man does not love you,' logotheti said. 'if he did, nothing could hinder your marriage, since he knows that you are willing.' 'there may be a reason you don't understand,' margaret answered reluctantly. 'a man who loves does not reason. a man who wants a certain woman wants nothing else, any more than a man who is dying of thirst can want anything but drink. he must have it or die, and nothing can keep him from it if he sees it.' there was a shade of more energy in his tone now, though he still spoke quietly enough. margaret was silent again, possibly because the same thought had crossed her own mind during the last few days, and even an hour ago, when she had met lushington at the door. since she was willing to marry him, in spite of his birth, could he be in earnest as long as he hesitated? she wished that he might have said what logotheti was saying now, instead of reasoning with her about a point of honour. 'when people think themselves in love and hesitate,' logotheti continued, almost speaking her own thoughts aloud, 'it is because something else in them is stronger than love, or quite as strong.' 'there may be honour,' said margaret, defending lushington in her mind, out of sheer loyalty. 'there ought to be, sometimes, but it is more in the nature of real love to tear honour to pieces than to be torn in pieces for it. i'm not defending such things, i'm only stating a fact. more men have betrayed their country for love than have sacrificed love to save their country!' 'that's not a very noble view of love!' 'if you were passionately in love with a man, should you like him to sacrifice you in order to save his country, especially if his country were not yours? if it were your own, you might be as patriotic as he and you would associate yourself with him in the salvation of your own people. but that would not be a fair case. the question is whether, in a matter that concerns him only and not yourself, you would set his honour higher than his love for you and let yourself be sacrificed, without feeling that if he had loved you as you would like to be loved he would forfeit his honour rather than give you up.' 'that's a dreadfully hard question to answer!' margaret smiled. 'it is only hard to answer, because you are conscious of a convention called honour which man expects you to set above everything. very good. a couple of thousand years hence there will be some other convention in its place called by another name; but love will be precisely the same passion that it is now, because it's purely human and not subject to any conventions when it is real--any more than you can make the circulation of your blood conventional or the beating of your heart, or hunger, or thirst, or sleepiness, instead of being natural as they all are.' 'you're a materialist,' said margaret, finding nothing else to say. 'i don't think so, but whatever i am, i'm in earnest, and i don't pretend to be anything but human.' he stopped and looked straight into margaret's eyes; and somehow she did not turn away, for there was nothing in his that she was afraid to meet. just then she would rather have tried to stare him out of countenance than look for one minute at the woman's face in the picture, which he said was so like her. she did not remember that in all her life anything had so strangely disturbed her as that likeness. she had seen pictures and statues by the score in exhibitions and public places, which should have offended her maiden modesty far more. what was there in that one painting that could offend at all? a woman's head thrown back, a woman's hand pressing her hair to her breast--it ended there, and that was all; and what was that, compared with the acres of raw nudity that crowd the walls of the salon every year. logotheti said that he was 'human,' and she felt it was true, in the sense that he was a 'primitive,' or an 'elementary being,' as some people would say. the fact that he had all the profound astuteness of the true oriental did not conflict with this in the least. the astuteness of the asiatic, and of the greek of asia, is an instinct like that of the wild animal; talent alone is 'human' in any true sense, but instinct is animal, even in men, whether it shows itself in matters of money-getting or matters of taste. yet somehow margaret was beginning to be attracted by the man. he had never shown the least lack of respect, or of what mrs. rushmore would have called 'refinement,' and he had done nothing which even distantly resembled taking a liberty. he spoke quietly, and even gently, and his eyes did not gloat upon her face and figure as some men's eyes did. even as to the picture, he had not led her to see it, for she had gone up to it herself, drawn to it against her will, and he had only told the truth in saying that it was like her. yet he was very much in love with her, she was sure, and most of the men she had met would not have behaved as well as he did, under the rather unusual circumstances. for little madame de rosa had been sleeping so soundly that she might as well not have been in the room at all. behind all he did and said, she felt his almost primitive sincerity, and the elementary strength of the passion she had inspired. no woman can feel that and not be flattered, and few, being flattered by a man's love, can resist the temptation to play with it. women are more alike than men are; some of the nature of the worst of them is latent in the very best, and in the very worst there are little treasures of gentleness and faith that can ransom the poor soul at last. 'i am in earnest, indeed i am,' logotheti repeated, looking at margaret still. 'yes,' she answered, 'i am sure you are.' there was something in her tone that acquiesced, that almost approved, and he felt that these were the first words of encouragement she had vouchsafed him. a portentous yawn from madame de rosa made them both turn round. she was stretching herself like a cat when it wakes, and looking about her with blinking eyes, as if trying to remember where she was. then she saw margaret, smiled at her spasmodically, and yawned again. 'i must have been asleep,' she said, and she laughed rather foolishly. 'only for a few minutes,' answered logotheti in a reassuring tone. margaret rose and came up to her, followed by the greek. 'it's most extraordinary!' cried madame de rosa. 'i never go to sleep like that! do you think it could possibly have been the maraschino?' 'no indeed!' logotheti laughed carelessly. 'you were tired, after the rehearsal.' he put the decanter back into the large liqueur case from which he had taken it, shut down the lid, locked it and put the key in his pocket. madame de rosa watched him in silence, but margaret paid no attention to what he was doing, for she was accustomed to see mrs. rushmore do the same thing. the taste of servants for liqueur and cigars is quite irreproachable; they always take the best there is. a few minutes later the three were on their way to versailles, and before long logotheti put margaret down at mrs. rushmore's gate, starting to take madame de rosa back to paris, as soon as the girl had gone in. neither of them said much on the way, and the motor stopped again in the boulevard malesherbes. madame de rosa thanked logotheti, with an odd little smile of intelligence. 'take care!' she said, as they parted, and her beady little black eyes looked sharply at him. 'why?' he asked, with perfect calm, but his lids were slightly contracted. madame de rosa shook her finger at him, laughed and ran in, leaving him standing on the pavement. chapter xi great singers and, generally, all good singers, are perfectly healthy animals with solid nerves, in which respect they differ from other artists, with hardly an exception. they have good appetites, they sleep soundly, they are not oppressed by morbid anticipations of failure nor by the horrible reaction that follows a great artistic effort of any kind except singing. without a large gift of calm physical strength they could not possibly do the physical work required of them, and as they possess the gift they have also the characteristics that go with it and help to preserve it. it does not follow that they have no feelings; but it does follow that their feelings are natural and healthy, when those of other musicians are apt to be frightfully morbid. a great deal of nonsense has been thought and written about the famous malibran, because alfred de musset was moved to write of her as if she were a consumptive and devoured by the flame of genius. malibran was a genius, but she was no more consumptive than hercules. she died of internal injuries caused by a fall from a horse. margaret donne, when she was about to go on the stage as margarita da cordova, was a perfectly normal young woman; which does not mean that she felt no anxiety about her approaching _début_, but only that her actual diffidence as to the result did not keep her awake or spoil her appetite, though it made her rather more quiet and thoughtful than usual, because so very much depended on success. at least, she had thought so when logotheti had set her down at the gate. five minutes later that aspect of the matter had changed. mrs. rushmore met her at the door of the morning room and gathered her in with a large embrace. 'my dear child!' cried the good lady. 'my dear child!' this was indefinite, but margaret felt that something more was coming, of a nature which mrs. rushmore considered fortunate in the extreme, and in a short time she had learned the news, but with no mention of logotheti's name. six months earlier margaret would have rejoiced at her good fortune. yesterday she might still have hesitated about keeping the engagement she had signed with schreiermeyer; but between yesterday and to-day there was her first rehearsal, there was the echo of that little round of real applause from fellow-artists, there was the sound of her own voice, high and true, singing 'anges pures'; and there was the smell of the stage, with its indescribable attraction. to have gone back now would have been to gainsay every instinct and every aspiration she felt. she told mrs. rushmore this, as quietly as she could. 'you're quite mad,' said mrs. rushmore. 'you may say what you please. i maintain that you are quite mad.' 'i can't help it,' margaret answered without a smile. 'i began by wishing to do it to earn my living, if i could, but as it turns out, i have a great voice. i believe i have one of the great voices of the day. i'm born to sing, and i should sing if you told me i had millions. i feel it now, and i am not boasting in the least. ask schreiermeyer, if you like.' 'who is that person with the queer name?' inquired mrs. rushmore severely. 'he's one of the big managers--the one who has engaged me.' 'engaged fiddlesticks!' commented mrs. rushmore, with contempt. 'i say you are quite mad. if not, how do you account for your wishing to go on the stage?' margaret was thinking how she could account for it, when mrs. rushmore went on. 'i'll have a specialist out this afternoon to look at you,' she said. 'you're not sane. i wonder who the best man is.' the last sentence was spoken in an undertone of reflection. 'nonsense!' exclaimed margaret emphatically, and adding to the emphasis by taking off her hat and throwing her head back, shaking it a little as if she wished her hair were down. mrs. rushmore turned upon her with the moral dignity of five generations of puritan ancestors. 'do you mean to say that after all i've done to get you this money, you are going to give me up to be an actress?' she demanded with scorn. 'that you're going to give up your best friends, and your position as a lady, and the chance of making a respectable marriage, not to mention your immortal soul, just for the pleasure of showing yourself every night half-dressed to every commercial traveller in europe? it's disgraceful. i don't care what you say. you're insane. you shan't do it!' at this view of the case margaret's forehead flushed a little. 'you talk as if i were going to be a music-hall singer,' she said. 'that's where you'll end!' retorted mrs. rushmore, without the slightest regard for facts. 'that's where they all end! there, or in the divorce courts--or both! it's the same thing!' she concluded triumphantly. 'i never heard a divorce court compared to a music-hall,' observed margaret. 'you know exactly what i mean,' answered mrs. rushmore angrily. 'don't take me up at every word! contradicting isn't reasoning. anybody can contradict.' 'and besides,' continued margaret, growing cooler as the other grew warm, 'one cannot be divorced till one has been married.' 'oh, you'll marry soon enough!' cried mrs. rushmore, infuriated by her calm. 'you'll marry an adventurer with dyed moustaches and a sham title, who'll steal your money and beat you! and though i am your dear mother's best friend, margaret, i'm bound to say that it will serve you right. it's useless to deny it. it will serve you right.' 'it would certainly serve me right if i married the individual with the dyed moustaches,' said margaret, smiling in spite of herself. 'i'm glad you agree with me at last. it shows that you're not so perfectly mad as you seemed. if you had gone on as you were talking at first i should certainly have had a mad doctor to examine you. as it is, i don't believe you're fit to have all that money. you mean well, i daresay. but you have no sense. none at all.' margaret laughed and took the opportunity of the lull in the battle to escape to her own room. a moment later mrs. rushmore followed her and knocked at the door. 'i'm sure you've had nothing to eat all day,' she called out anxiously, before margaret could answer. margaret opened and put her head out, to explain that she had lunched, but she did not say where. 'oh, very well!' answered mrs. rushmore, unwilling to show that her anger had subsided so soon. 'that's all i wanted to know.' like most anglo-saxons, she vaguely connected regular meals with morality. when margaret was alone she realised that she was more disturbed by lushington's unexpected appearance at logotheti's door than she had thought it possible to be. at the time, she had been surprised to see him and a little hurt by his manner, but she had attributed the latter to his natural shyness. now that she could think quietly about the meeting, she remembered his eyes and the look of cold resentment she had seen in them for the first time since she had known him. he had no right to be angry with her for lunching with logotheti, she was quite sure. he had parted from her, giving her to understand that they were to meet as little as possible in future. how could he possibly claim to criticise her actions after that? a few days ago, she would have married him, if he had not insisted that it was impossible. she was not sure that she would marry him now, if he came back. he had looked as if he meant to interfere in her life, after refusing to share it. no woman will tolerate that. yet she was disturbed, and a little sad, now that the day was over. logotheti had found words for a thought that had passed through her mind, it was true; if lushington loved her, how could he make an obstacle of what she had been so ready to overlook? the greek's direct speeches had appealed to her, while he had been at her side. but now, she wished with all her heart that lushington would appear to ask her questions, and let her answer them. she had a most unreasonable impression that she had somehow angered him, and wronged herself in his eyes. she would not ask herself whether she loved him still, or whether she had really loved him at all, but she longed to see him. he had said that he was leaving again in the evening, but perhaps he would think better of it and come out to see her. she even thought of writing to him, for she knew his london address. he lived in bolton street, piccadilly, and she remembered his telling her that his windows looked upon a blank brick wall opposite, in which he sought inspiration and sometimes found it. sometimes, he had said, he saw her face there. then she remembered the last hour they had spent together at madame bonanni's, and the quiet dignity and courage of his behaviour under circumstances that might almost have driven a sensitive man out of his senses. she thought of him a great deal that afternoon, and the result of her thoughts was that she resolved not to go to logotheti's house again, though she had a vague idea that such a resolution should not be connected with lushington, if she meant to respect her own independence. but when she had reached this complicated state of mind, both lushington and logotheti took themselves suddenly out of the sphere of her meditations, and she was standing once more on the half-lighted stage, singing 'anges pures' into the abyss of the dark and empty house. the evening post brought margaret three notes from paris. one, in bad french, was from schreiermeyer, to say that he had changed his mind, that she was to make her _début_ in _rigoletto_ instead of in _faust_, and that a rehearsal of the former opera was called for the next day but one at eleven o'clock, at which, by kindness of the director of the opéra, she would be allowed to sing the part of gilda. when she read this, her face fell, and she felt a sharp little disappointment. she had already fancied herself marguerite, the fair-haired gretchen, mass-book in hand and eyes cast down, and then at the spinning-wheel, and in the church, and in the prison, and it was an effort of imagination to turn herself into the italian duke's gilda, murdered to save her lover and dragged away in the sack--probably by proxy! the next note was from logotheti, who begged her to use his motor car for going in to her rehearsals. the chauffeur would bring it to mrs. rushmore's gate, the day after to-morrow, in plenty of time. the note was in french and ended with the assurance of 'most respectful homage.' when she had read it she stared rather vacantly into the corner of her room for a few seconds, and then tossed the bit of paper into the basket under her writing-table. the third letter was from lushington. she had recognised the small scholarly handwriting and had purposely laid it aside to read last. it was rather stiffly worded, and it contained a somewhat unnecessary and not very contrite apology for having seemed rude that morning in answering her question so roughly and in hurrying away. he had not much else to say, except that he was going back at once to his london lodgings in bolton street--a hint that if margaret wished to write to him he was to be found there. she bit her lip and frowned. the note was useless and tactless as well. if he had wished to please her he might have written a word of greeting, as if nothing had happened, just to say that he wished he could have seen her for a few minutes. it would have been so easy to do that instead of sending a superfluous apology for having been rude on purpose! she read the note again and grew angry over it. it was so gratuitous! if he really meant to avoid her always, he need not have written at all. 'superfluous' was the word; it was superfluous. she tore the letter into little bits and threw them into the basket; and then, by an afterthought, she fished up logotheti's note, which she had not torn, and read it again. at all events, he was a man of the world and could cover two pages of note-paper without saying anything that could irritate a woman. like everything he said, what he wrote was just right. he did not protest that he could not use his motor car himself, and he did not apologise for taking the liberty of offering her the use of it; he did not even ask for an answer, as if he were trying to draw her into writing to him. the car would be at the gate, and he would be glad if she could use it; meaning that if she did not want it she could send it away. there was not the least shade of familiarity in the phrases. 'respectful homage' was certainly not 'familiar.' just because he did not ask for an answer, he should have one! she took up her pen and began. when she had written three or four lines to thank him, she found herself going on to say more, and she told him of the change in regard to her _début_, and asked if he knew why it was made so suddenly. she explained why she preferred _faust_ to _rigoletto_, and all at once she saw that she had filled a sheet and must either break off abruptly or take another. she finished the note hastily and signed her name. when it was done she remembered that she had not told him anything about the money which had unexpectedly come to her, and she hesitated a moment; but she decided that it was none of his business, and almost wondered why she had thought of telling him anything so entirely personal. she sealed the letter, stamped it and sent it to be posted. then she sat down at her piano to look over _rigoletto_, whistling her part softly while she played, in order to save her voice, and in a few minutes she had forgotten logotheti, schreiermeyer and lushington. chapter xii madame bonanni sat in the spring sunshine by the closed window of her sitting-room in london; she was thankful that there was any sunshine at all, and by keeping the window shut and wrapping herself in furs she produced the illusion that it was warming her. the room was not very large and a good deal of space was taken up by a grand piano, a good deal more by the big table and the heavy furniture, and the rest by madame bonanni herself. her bulk was considerably increased by the white furs, from which only her head emerged; and as her face was made up for the day with rather more paint than she wore in paris, on the ground that london is a darker city, the effect of the whole was highly artificial and disconcerting. one might have compared the huge bundle of white to an enormous egg out of which a large and very animated middle-aged fowl was just hatching. lushington was seated before the open piano, but had turned half away from it on the stool and was looking quietly at his mother. his face had an expression of listless weariness which was not natural to him. madame bonanni moved just then and the outer fur slipped a little from its place. lushington rose at once and arranged it again. 'will you have anything else over you, mother?' he asked. 'no, my child. i am warm at last. your english sun is like stage lime-light. it shines, and shines, and does no good! the man turns it off, and london is pitch dark! nothing warms one here but eating five times a day and wearing a fur coat all the time. but i am growing old. why do you say i am not? it is foolish.' 'your voice is as perfect as ever,' said lushington. 'my voice, my voice! what did you expect? that it would crack, or that i should sing false? ungrateful boy! how can you say such things of your mother? but i am growing old. soon i shall make the effect on the public of a grandmother in baby's clothes. do you think i am blind? they will say, "poor old bonanni, she remembers thiers!" they might as well say at once that i remember the second empire! it is infamous! have people no heart? but why do i go on singing, my dear? tell me that! why do i go on?' 'because you sing as well as ever,' suggested lushington gently. 'it is no reason why i should work as hard as ever! why should i go on earning money, money, money? yes, i know! they come to hear me, they crowd the house, they pay, they clap their hands when i sing the mad scene in _lucia_, or juliet's waltz song, or the crescendo trills in the _huguenots_! but i am old, my dear!' 'nonsense!' interjected lushington in an encouraging tone. 'do you know why i am sure of it? it is this. i do not care any more. it is all the same to me, what they do. i do not care whether they come or not, or whether they applaud, or hiss, or stamp on the floor. why should i care? i have had it all so often. i have seen the people standing on the seats all over the theatre and yelling, and often in foreign countries they have taken the horses from my carriage and dragged it themselves. i have had everything. why should i care for it? and i do not want money. i have too much already.' 'you certainly have enough, mother.' 'it is your fault that i have too much,' she said, in sudden anger. 'you have no heart; you are a cruel, ungrateful boy! is there anything i have not done to make you happy, ever since you were a baby? look at your position! you are a celebrated writer, a critic! other writers are green with jealousy and fear of you! and why? because i made up my mind that you should be a great man, and sent you to school and the university instead of keeping you to myself, at home, always pressed against my heart! is not that the greatest sacrifice that a mother can make, to send her child to college, to be left alone herself, always wondering whether he is catching cold and is getting enough to eat, and is not being led away by wicked little boys? ah, you do not know! you can never be a mother!' this was unanswerable, but lushington really looked sorry for her, as if it were his fault. 'and what have you given me in return for it all? how have you repaid me for the days of anxiety and nights of fever all the time when you were at those terrible studies? i ask you that! how have you rewarded me? you will not take money from me. i go on making more and more, and you will not spend it. oh, it is not to be believed! i shall die of grief!' madame bonanni put one fat hand out from under the furs, and pressed a podgy finger to each eyelid in succession by way of stopping the very genuine tears that threatened her rouged cheeks with watery destruction. 'mother, please don't!' cried lushington, in helpless distress. 'you know that i can't take money from you!' 'oh, i know, i know! that is the worst of it--i know! it is not because you are proud of earning your own living, it's because you're ashamed of me!' lushington rose again, and began to walk up and down, bending his head and glancing at her now and then. 'why will you always go back to that question?' he asked, and his tone showed how much he resented it. 'you cannot unlive your life. don't make me say more than that, for you don't know how it hurts to say that much. indeed you don't!' he went to the closed window and looked out, turning away from her. she stretched out her hand and pulled at his coat timidly, as a dog pulls his master's clothes to attract his attention. he turned his head a little. 'i've tried to live differently, tom,' she said. 'of late years i've tried.' her voice was low and unsteady. 'i know it,' he said just above a whisper, and he turned to the window-pane again. 'can't you forgive me, tom?' she asked pitifully. 'won't you take some of the money--only what i made by singing?' he shook his head without looking round, for it would have hurt him to see her eyes just then. 'i have enough, mother,' he answered. 'i make as much as i need.' 'you will need much more when you marry.' 'i shall never marry.' 'you will marry little miss donne,' said madame bonanni, after a moment's pause. lushington turned sharply now, and leaned back against the glass. 'no,' he answered, with sudden hardness, 'i can't ask miss donne to be my wife. no man in my position could have the right. you understand what i mean, and heaven knows i don't wish to pain you, mother--i'd give anything not to! why do you talk of these things?' 'because i feel that you're unhappy, tom, and i know that i am--and there must be some way out of it. after all, my dear--now don't be angry!--miss donne is a good girl--she's all that i wish i had been--but after all, she's going to be an opera-singer. you are the son of an artist and i don't see why any artist should not marry you. the public believes we are all bad, whether we are or not.' 'i'm not thinking of the public,' lushington answered. 'i don't care a straw what the world says. if i had been offered my choice i would not have changed my name at all.' 'but then, my dear, what in the world are you thinking of?' asked the prima donna, evidently surprised by what he said. 'if the girl loves you, do you suppose she will care what i've done?' 'but i care!' cried lushington with sudden vehemence. 'i care, for her sake!' madame bonanni's hand had disappeared within the furs again, after she had ascertained that the two tears were not going to run down her cheeks. her large face wore the expression of a coloured sphinx, and there was something egyptian about the immobility of her eyes and her painted eyebrows. no one could have guessed from her look whether she were going to cry or laugh the next time she spoke. lushington walked up and down the room without glancing at her. 'do you think----' she began, and broke off as he stopped to listen. 'what?' he inquired, standing still. 'would it make it any better if--if i married again?' she asked the question with hesitation. 'how? i don't understand.' 'they always say that marriage is so respectable,' madame bonanni answered, in a matter-of-fact tone. 'i don't know why, i'm sure, but everybody seems to think it is, and if it would help matters--i mean, if miss donne would consider that a respectable marriage with a solid, middle-class man would settle the question, i suppose i could manage it. i could always divorce, you know, if it became unbearable!' 'yes,' lushington answered. 'marriage is the first step to the divorce court. for heaven's sake, don't talk in this way! i've made up my mind that i cannot marry, and that ends it. let it alone. we each know what the other thinks, and we are each trying to make the best of what can't be undone. talking about it can do no good. nothing can. it's the inevitable, and so the least said about it, the better. sometimes you say that i am ungrateful, mother, but i'm not, you don't mean it seriously. if i've made my own way, it is because you started me right, by making me work instead of bringing me up at your apron-strings, to live on your money. you did it so well, too, that you cannot undo it, now that you would like to make me rich. why aren't you proud of that, mother? it's the best thing you ever did in your life--god bless you! and yet you say i'm ungrateful!' at this, there was a convulsion of the white furs; madame bonanni suddenly emerged, erect, massive and seething with motherly emotion; throwing her arms round her son she pressed him to her with a strength and vehemence that might have suffocated a weaker man. as it was, lushington was speechless in her embrace for several seconds, while she uttered more or less incoherent cries of joy. 'my child! my own darling tommy! oh, you make me so happy!' lushington let her print many heavy kisses on his cheeks, and he gently patted her shoulder with his free hand. he was very patient and affectionate, considering the frightful dilemma with regard to her in which he had lived all his life; for, as his mother, he loved her, but as a woman, he knew that he could never respect her, whatever she might do to retrieve her past. he could find excuses for the life she had led, but they were only palliatives that momentarily soothed the rankling sore in his heart, which nothing could heal. in his own world of literature and work and publicity, he had a name of his own, not without honour, and respected by every one. but to himself, to the few trusted persons who knew his secret, above all to margaret donne, he was the son of that 'bonanni woman,' who had been the spoilt plaything of royalty and semi-royalty from london to st. petersburg, whose lovers had been legion and her caprices as the sand on the sea-shore. there were times when lushington could not bear to see her, and kept away from her, or even left the city in which they were together. there were days when the natural bond drew him to her, and when he realised that, with countless faults, she had been to him a far better mother than most men are blessed with. and now, poor thing, she was grateful to the verge of tears for his one word of blessing that seemed to wipe out all the rest. she wished that when her hour came, she might hear him say again 'god bless you,' and then die. she let him go, and sat down amongst her furs, with a deep sigh of satisfaction. 'i've made up my mind what to do,' she said, almost as if she were talking to herself. 'i'm tired of it all, tom, and i'm losing my good looks and my figure. if this goes on, i shall soon be ridiculous. you would not like your mother to be ridiculous, would you?' 'certainly not!' 'no, my angel! be good if you can; if you can't be good, be bad; but never be ridiculous! oh, never, never! i could not bear that. so i shall leave the stage, quietly, without any farewell. i shall cancel my engagements when i have finished singing here. the doctors will swear to anything. what are they for? i was never ill in my life, but they shall say i am ill now. what is it that every one has nowadays--the appendix? i will have the appendix. the doctors shall swear that i have it well. so i shall leave the stage with a good reason, and pay no forfeit for cancelling the contracts. that is business. then i will be a nun.' 'eh?' ejaculated lushington, staring at her. 'yes, i will be a nun,' continued madame bonanni unmoved. 'i will go into religion. when your mother is a nun, my child, i presume that the church will protect her, and no one will dare to say anything against her. then you can marry or not, as you please, but you will no longer be ashamed of your mother! i shall be a blue nun with a white bonnet and a black veil, and i shall call myself sister juliet, because that has been my great part, and the name will remind me of old times. don't you think "sister juliet" sounds very well? and dark blue is becoming to me--i always said so.' 'yes--yes,' answered lushington in an uncertain tone and biting his lip. 'i cannot do more than that for you, my treasure,' said his mother, a touch of real human sadness in her voice. 'you will not take the miserable money--but perhaps you will take the sacrifice, if i shut myself up in a convent and wear a hair shirt, and feed sick babies, and eat cabbage. how could any one say a word against me then? and you will be happy, tom. that is all i ask.' 'i shall not be happy, if you make yourself miserable, mother,' said lushington, smiling. 'miserable? ah, well, i daresay there will not be cabbage every day,' answered madame bonanni thoughtfully. 'and i like fish. fortunately, i am fond of fish. the simplest, you know. only a fried sole with a meunière sauce. bah! when i talk of eating you never believe i am in earnest. go away, my beloved child! go and write to little miss donne that she may have all my engagements, because i am entering religion. you shall see! she will marry you in a week. go over to paris and talk to her. she is crying her eyes out for you, and that is bad for the voice. it relaxes the vocal cords frightfully. i always have to gargle for half-an-hour if i have been crying and am going to sing.' through all her rambling talk, half earnest and half absurd, lushington detected the signs of a coming change. he did not think she would leave the stage so suddenly as she said she would; he assuredly did not believe that she would ever 'enter religion'; but he saw for the first time that she was tired of the life she had led, that she felt herself growing old and longed for rest and quiet. she had lived as very few live, to satisfy every ambition and satiate every passion to the full, and now, with advancing years, she had not the one great bad passion of old age, which is avarice, as an incentive for prolonging her career. in its place, on the contrary, stood her one redeeming virtue, that abundant generosity which had made her welcome margaret donne's great talent with honest enthusiasm, and which had been like a providence to hundreds, perhaps to thousands of unknown men, women and children ever since she had gained the means of helping the poor and distressed. but it had been part of her nature to hide that. logotheti, who managed most of her business, knew more about her charities than her own son, and the world knew next to nothing at all. chapter xiii when lushington had run over to paris the day before the conversation just recorded, he had entertained a vague notion of going out to versailles in the afternoon; for he felt that all had not been said between himself and margaret and that their last parting in the street had not been really final. the fact was that he merely yielded to the tormenting desire to see her again, if for only a few minutes and in the presence of mrs. rushmore. but the meeting in the boulevard péreire had chilled him like a stream of cold water poured down his back; than which homely simile there is none more true. he had fancied her very grave and even a little sad, going quietly to her rehearsals with a maid, or even with mrs. rushmore, speaking to no one at the theatre and returning at once to versailles to reflect on the vicissitudes to which human affections are subject. he had come upon her suddenly and unawares, in a very smart frock and a superlatively becoming hat, smiling gaily, just stepping out of a magnificent white motor car, resting her hand familiarly on that of the most successful young financier in paris, whose conquests among women of the world were a byword, and chaperoned by a flighty little neapolitan teacher of singing. truly, if some one had deliberately rubbed the back of his neck with a large lump of ice on that warm spring day, the chill could not have been more effectual. morally speaking, lushington caught a bad cold, which 'struck in,' as old people used to say. he might have explained to himself that as he had insisted upon parting from margaret for ever, and against her will, her subsequent doings were none of his business. but he was half an englishman by birth and altogether one by bringing up, and he therefore could not admit that she should be apparently enjoying herself, while he was gloomily brooding over the misfortunes that put her beyond his reach. the fable of the dog in the manger must have been composed to describe us anglo-saxons. it is sufficient that we be hindered from getting what we want, even by our own sense of honour; we are forthwith ready to sacrifice life and limb to prevent any other man from getting it. the magnanimity of our renunciation is only to be compared with our tenacity in asserting our claim to what we have renounced. even our charities usually have strings to them on which our hold never relaxes, in case we should want them back. lushington had never trusted logotheti, but since his instinct and the force of circumstances had told him that the greek was making love to margaret and that margaret liked his society, he hated the man in a most unchristian manner, and few things would have given the usually peaceable man of letters such unmitigated satisfaction as to see the shining white motor car blow up and scatter his rival's arms and legs to the thirty-two points of the compass. logotheti, on the other hand, was as yet unaware that lushington was the 'some one else' of whom margaret had spoken twice with evident feeling. the consequence was that when the englishman began to give himself the bitter satisfaction of watching logotheti, the latter was very far from suspecting such a thing, and took no pains at all to hide his doings; and lushington established himself in paris and watched him, in his coming and going, and nursed his jealousy into hatred and his hatred into action. he would not have stooped to employ any one in such work, for that would have seemed like an insult to margaret, and a piece of cowardice into the bargain. the time would come when the astute greek would discover that he was followed, and lushington had no intention of putting some one else in his shoes when that time came; on the contrary, he looked forward with all a real englishman's cool self-confidence to the explanation that must take place some day. but he wished to remain undiscovered as long as possible. he had gone back to his old rooms in the hôtel des saints pères, but in order to disappear more effectually from his acquaintances he took a lodging, and walked to it, after sending on his belongings. on his way he stopped at a quiet barber's shop and had his beard and moustache shaved off. after that it was not likely that any of his acquaintances would recognise him, but he took further steps towards completing his disguise by making radical and painful changes in his dress. he bought ready-made french clothes, he put on a pair of square kid boots with elastic sides and patent leather tips, he wore a soft silk cravat artificially tied in a bow knot with wide and floating ends, and he purchased a french silk hat with a broad and curving brim. having satisfied himself that the effect was good, he laid in a stock of similar articles, and further adorned his appearance with a pair of tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles, and a green umbrella. for possibly cool or rainy weather he provided himself with a coffee-coloured overcoat that had a velvet collar and tails reaching almost to the ground. when he had been younger lushington had tried in vain to ruffle his naturally excessive neatness, but he now realised that he had only lacked the courage to make a thorough change. in his present costume he ran no risk of being taken for a smart english lounger, nor for a french dandy. the effect of forgetting to shave, too, was frightful, for in forty-eight hours his fair face was covered with shiny bristles that had a positively metallic look. though he was so unlike his mother in most ways, he must have inherited a little of the theatrical instinct from her, for he wore his disguise as easily as if he had always been used to it. he also had the advantage of speaking french like a native, though possibly with a very slight southern accent caught from his mother, who originally came from provence. as for his name, it was useless to assume another, for paris is full of parisians of foreign descent, whose names are english, german, polish and italian; and in a really great city no one takes the least notice of a man unless he does something to attract attention. besides, lushington had no idea of disappearing from his own world, or of cutting himself off from his regular correspondents. he had not any fixed plan, for he was not sure what he wanted; he only knew that he hated and distrusted logotheti, and that while he could not forgive margaret for liking the greek's society, he meant, in an undetermined way, to save her from destruction. probably, if he had attempted to put his thoughts into words, he could have got no further than mrs. rushmore, who suspected logotheti of designs, and at the root of his growing suspicion he would have found the fine old anglo-saxon prejudice that a woman might as well trust herself to don juan, an italian count, or beelzebub, as to the offspring of cadmus or danaus. englishmen have indolent minds and active bodies, as a rule, but on the other hand, when they are really roused, no people in the world are capable of greater mental concentration and energy. they are therefore not good detectives as a rule, but there are few better when they are deeply and selfishly interested in the result. incidentally, lushington meant to do his utmost to prevent margaret from going on the stage, and he would have been much surprised to learn that in this respect he was logotheti's ally, instead of his enemy, against margaret's fixed determination. if there was to be a struggle, therefore, it was to be a three-cornered one, in which the two men would be pitted against each other, and both together against the resolution of the woman they both loved. unfortunately for lushington, he had begun by withdrawing from margaret's surroundings and had made way for his adversary. meanwhile logotheti made the running. he had offered margaret his motor car for coming in to her rehearsals, and a chauffeur appeared with it in good time, masked, coated and gloved in the approved fashion. margaret supposed that logotheti meant to ask her to luncheon again with madame de rosa, and she made up her mind to refuse, for no particular reason except that she did not wish to seem too willing to do whatever he proposed. mrs. rushmore thought it bad enough that she should accept the offer of the motor car, but was beginning to understand that the machine had quite irresistible temptations for all persons under fifty. she was even a little shocked that margaret should go alone to paris under the sole protection of the chauffeur, though she would have thought it infinitely worse if logotheti himself had appeared. the man held the door open for margaret to get in, when she came out upon the step with mrs. rushmore, who seemed anxious to keep an eye on her as long as possible; as if she could project an influence of propriety, a sort of astral chaperonage, that would follow the girl to the city. she detained her at the last minute, holding her by the elbow. the chauffeur stood impassive with his hand on the door, while she delivered herself of her final opinion in english, which of course he could not understand. 'i must say that your sudden intimacy with this suspicious greek is most extraordinary,' she said. 'don't you think there is just a little prejudice in your opinion of him?' asked margaret sweetly. 'no,' answered mrs. rushmore with firmness, 'i don't, and i think it very strange that a clever girl like you should be so easily taken in by a foreigner. much worse than a foreigner, my dear! a greek is almost as bad as a turk, and we all know what turks are! fancy a decent young woman trusting herself alone with a turk! i declare, it's not to be believed! your dear mother's daughter too! you'll end in a harem, margaret, mark my word.' 'and be sewn up in a sack and thrown into the bosphorus,' laughed margaret, trying to get away. 'such things have happened before now,' said mrs. rushmore gloomily. 'greeks don't have harems,' margaret objected. 'don't catch cold,' said mrs. rushmore, by way of refuting margaret's argument. 'it looks as if it might rain.' the morning was still and soft and overcast, and the air was full of the scent of the flowers and leaves, and fresh-clipped grass. the small birds chirped rather plaintively from the trees on the lawn, or stood about the edge of the little pond apparently expecting something to happen, hopping down to the water occasionally, looking down at the reflections in it and then hopping back again with a dissatisfied air; and they muffled themselves up in their feathers as if they meant to go to sleep, and then suddenly spread their wings out, without flying, and scraped the grass with them. the elms were quite green already, and the oaks were pushing out thousands of bright emerald leaves. there is a day in every spring when the maiden year reaches full girlhood, and pauses on the verge of woman's estate, to wonder at the mysterious longings that disquiet all her being, and at the unknown music that sings through her waking dreams. margaret sat in the motor car wrapped in a wide thin cloak and covering her mouth lest the rush of air should affect her voice; but the quick motion was pleasant, and she felt all the illusion of accomplishing something worth doing, merely because she was spinning along at breakneck speed. somehow, too, the still air and the smell of the flowers had made her restless that morning before starting, and the rapid movement soothed her. if she had been offered her choice just then, she would perhaps have been on horseback for a gallop across country, but the motor car was certainly the next best thing to that. for some minutes the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road ahead and both hands on the steering-gear. then one hand moved, the speed of the car slackened suddenly, and the man turned and spoke over the back of his seat. 'i hope you'll forgive me,' he said in english. margaret started and sat up straight, for the voice was logotheti's. the huge goggles, the protecting curtain over half the face, the wide-visored cap and the turned-up coat collar, had disguised him beyond all recognition. even his usually smooth black moustache was ruffled out of shape, and hid his characteristic mouth. margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise, not quite sure whether she ought to smile or frown. 'i thought mrs. rushmore would not like it, if i came for you myself,' he continued, looking at her through his goggles. 'i'm sure she wouldn't,' margaret assented readily. 'in point of fact,' logotheti continued, with a grin, 'she expressed her opinion of me with extraordinary directness. suspicious greek! worse than a foreigner! as bad as a turk! the unprincipled owner of a harem! it's really true that eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves! i never tried it before, and it served me right.' 'you cannot say that i said anything against you,' laughed margaret. 'i took your defence.' 'not with enthusiasm.' logotheti joined in her laugh. 'you thought there might be just a little prejudice in her opinion and you told her that greeks don't have harems. yes--yes--i suppose that might be called defending an absent friend.' the car was moving very slowly now. 'if i had known it was you, i would have called you all sorts of names,' margaret answered. 'should you mind taking that thing off your face for a moment? i don't like talking to a mask, and you may be some one else after all.' 'no,' said logotheti, 'i'm not "some one else".' he emphasised the words that had become familiar to them both. 'i wish i were! but if i take off my glasses and cap, you will be frightened, for my hair is not smooth and i'm sure i look like a greek pirate!' 'i should like to see one, and i shall not be frightened.' he pulled off his cap and glasses, and faced her. she stared at him in surprise, for she was not sure that she should have recognised him. his thick black hair stuck up all over his head like a crest, his heavy eyebrows were as bushy as an animal's fur and his rough and bristling moustache lent his large mouth and massive jaws a look approaching to ferocity. the whole effect was rather startling, and margaret opened her eyes wide in astonishment. logotheti smiled. 'now you understand why i smooth my hair and dress like a tailor's manikin,' he said quietly. 'it's enough to cow a mob, isn't it?' 'do you know, i'm not sure that i don't like you better so. you're more natural!' 'you're evidently not timid,' he answered, amused. 'but you can fancy the effect on mrs. rushmore's nerves, if she had seen me.' 'i should not have dared to come with you. as it is----' she hesitated. 'oh, as it is, you cannot help yourself,' logotheti said. 'you can't get out and walk.' 'i could get out when you have to stop at the petrol station; and i assure you that i can refuse to come with you again!' 'of course you can. but you won't.' 'why not?' 'because you're much too sensible. have i offended you, or frightened you? what have i done to displease you?' 'nothing--but----' she laughed and shook her head as she broke off. 'i haven't even asked you to marry me to-day! i should think that i was taking an unfair advantage, if i did, since i could easily carry you off just now. the car will run sixty miles at a stretch without any trouble at all, and i don't suppose you would risk your neck to jump, merely for the sake of getting away from me, would you?' 'not if you behaved properly,' margaret answered. 'and then,' logotheti continued, 'i could put her at full speed and say, "if you won't swear to marry me, i'll give myself the satisfaction of being killed with you at the very next bridge we come to!" most women would rather marry a man than be smashed to atoms with him, even if he looks like a pirate.' 'possibly!' 'but that would be unfair. besides, an oath taken under compulsion is not binding. i should have to find some other way.' 'shall we go on?' margaret asked. 'i shall be late for the rehearsal.' 'give it up,' suggested logotheti calmly. 'we'll spend the morning at st. cloud. much pleasanter than tiring yourself out in that wretched theatre! i want to talk to you.' 'you can talk to me when i am not singing.' 'no. singing will distract your attention, and you won't listen to what i tell you. you have no idea what delightful things i can say when i try!' 'i wonder!' margaret laughed lightly. 'you might begin trying while you take me to paris. we haven't run a mile in the last ten minutes, and it's getting late.' 'unless you are always a little late nobody will respect you. i'll go a little faster, just to prove to you that you can do anything you like with me, even against my judgment. let me put on my glasses first.' at that moment a man met them on a bicycle, and passed at a leisurely pace. there was not much traffic on the versailles road at that hour, and margaret let her eyes rest idly on the man, who merely glanced at her and looked ahead again. logotheti had taken off his cap in order to adjust his goggles and shield. when the bicycle had gone by he laughed. 'there goes a typical french bookworm, bicycling to get an appetite,' he observed. 'i wonder why a certain type of frenchman always wears kid boots with square patent leather toes, and a lavallière tie, and spectacles with tortoise-shell rims!' 'if he could see you as you generally are,' answered margaret, 'he would probably wonder why a certain type of foreigner plasters his hair down and covers himself with diamonds and rubies! do go a little faster, it's getting later every moment.' 'it always does.' 'especially when one doesn't wish it to! please go on!' 'say at once that i've bored you to death.' he put the car at half-speed. 'no. you don't bore me at all, but i want to get to the theatre.' 'to please you, i am going there--for no other reason. i'll do anything in the world to give you pleasure. i only wish you would do the smallest thing for me!' 'what, for instance? perhaps i may do some very little thing. you'll get nothing if you don't ask for it!' 'some people take without asking. greek pirates always do, you know! but i can't drive at this rate and talk over my shoulder.' the way was clear and for several minutes he ran at full speed, keeping his eyes on the road. margaret turned sideways and kept behind him as much as possible, shielding her face and mouth from the tremendous draught. she had told the truth when she had said that he did not bore her. the whole thing had a savour of adventure in it, and it amused her to think how shocked mrs. rushmore would have been if she had guessed that the chauffeur was logotheti himself. there was something in the man's coolness that attracted her very much, for though there was no danger on the present occasion, she felt that if there had been any, he would have been just as indifferent to it if it stood in the way of his seeing her alone. poor lushington had always been so intensely proper, so morbidly afraid of compromising her, and above all, so deadly in earnest! she did not quite like to admit that the greek was altogether in earnest, too, and that she was just a little afraid of him; still less that her unacknowledged fear gave her rather a pleasant sensation. but it was quite true that she had liked him better than before, from the moment when he had pulled off his cap and glasses and shown his face as nature had made it. however he might appear hereafter when she met him, she would always think of him as she had seen him then. most women are much more influenced by strength in a man than by anything which can reasonably be called beauty. actually and metaphorically every woman would rather be roughly carried off her feet by something she cannot resist than be abjectly worshipped and flattered; yet worship and flattery, though second-best, are much better than the terribly superior and instructive affection which the born prig bestows upon his idol with the air of granting a favour on moral grounds. men, on the other hand, detest being carried away, almost as much as being led. the woman who lets a man guess that she is trying to influence him is lost, and generally forfeits for ever any real influence she may have had. the only sort of cleverness which is distinctly womanly is that which leads a man to do with energy, enthusiasm and devotion the very thing which he has always assured everybody that he will not think of doing. the old-fashioned way of making a pig go to market is to pull his tail steadily in the opposite direction. if you do that, nothing can save him from his fate; for he will drag you off your feet in his effort to do what he does not want to do at all; and there is more 'psychology' in that plain fact than in volumes of subtle analysis. chapter xiv lushington's first discovery was not calculated to soothe his feelings. it had come about simply enough. he had bicycled in the boulevard péreire, keeping an eye on logotheti's house from a distance, and had seen the motor car waiting before the door, in charge of the chauffeur. a man had come out, dressed precisely like the latter, had got in and had gone off, apparently in no hurry, while the original chauffeur went into the house, presumably to wait. it had been easy enough to keep the machine in sight till it was fairly out on the road to versailles, after which lushington had felt tolerably sure that by going slowly he should meet it coming back and probably bringing margaret. as has been seen, this was what happened, and, as chance favoured him, he passed the motor before logotheti had covered his face again. he was not likely to forget that face either, and it had done more to reveal to him his adversary's true character than any number of meetings in society. for once he had seen the real logotheti, as margaret had. he had ridden on till they were out of sight and had then turned back, in no very amiable frame of mind. he understood very well that logotheti had made great progress in a few days; he even took it for granted that margaret had expected him that morning, and approved of the disguise; for it was nothing else, after all. if the world, and therefore mrs. rushmore, had been meant to know that logotheti was acting as his own chauffeur, margaret would have been sitting beside him in front. instead, she was behind him, in the body of the car, and had evidently been talking with him over the back of the seat. the big machine, too, was moving at a snail's pace, clearly in order that they might talk at leisure. in other words, logotheti had arranged a secret meeting with margaret, with her consent; and that could only mean one thing. the greek had gained enough influence over her to make her do almost anything he liked. it was not a pleasant discovery, but it was an important one, and lushington thought over the best means of following it up. he almost choked with anger as he reflected that if matters went on at this rate, margaret would soon be going to logotheti's house without even the nominal protection afforded by little madame de rosa. he rode back by the way he had taken outward and passed the greek's house. the motor car was not there, which was a relief, on the whole. he went on as far as the opéra, for he knew from his mother that margaret's rehearsals were taking place there, by the kindness of the director, who was on very friendly terms with schreiermeyer. but the motor was not to be seen. logotheti, who could hardly have entered disguised as his own chauffeur, and who would not leave the machine unguarded in the street, had possibly left margaret at the door and gone away. lushington got off his bicycle and went in under the covered way to the stage door. in answer to his questions, the keeper told him that mademoiselle da cordova was rehearsing, and would probably not come out for at least two hours. lushington asked the man whether he had seen logotheti. no, he had not; he knew monsieur logotheti very well; he knew all the subscribers, and particularly all those who were members of the 'high finance.' besides, every one in paris knew monsieur logotheti by sight; every one knew him as well as the column in the place vendôme. he had not been seen that morning. the doorkeeper, who had absolutely nothing to do just at that hour, was willing to talk; but he had nothing of importance to say. monsieur logotheti came sometimes to rehearsals. a few days ago he and mademoiselle da cordova had left the theatre together. the keeper smiled, and ventured to suppose that mademoiselle da cordova was 'protected' by the 'financier.' lushington flushed angrily and went away. it had come already, then; what the man had said this morning, he would say to-morrow and the next day, to any one who cared to listen, including the second-class reporters who go to underlings for information; margaret's name was already coupled with that of a millionaire who was supposed to protect her. ten days ago, she had been unassailable, a 'lady'--lushington did not particularly like the word--a young english girl of honourable birth, protected by no less a personage than mrs. rushmore, and defended from calumny by that very powerful organisation for mutual defence under all circumstances, which calls itself society, which wields most of the capital of the world, rewards its humble friends with its patronage and generally kills or ruins its enemies. that was ten days ago. now, the 'lady' had become an 'artist,' and was public property. the stage doorkeeper of a theatre could smilingly suggest that she was the property of a financier, and no one had a right to hit him between the eyes for saying so. lushington had been strongly tempted to do that, but he had instantly foreseen the consequences; he would have been arrested for an unprovoked assault, the man would have told his story, the papers would have repeated it with lively comments, and margaret's name would have been dragged through the mud of a newspaper scandal. so lushington put his hands in his pockets and went away, which was by far the wisest thing he could do. he set himself resolutely to think out a plan of action, but like many men of tolerably fertile imagination he was at a loss for any expedient in the presence of urgent need. he could watch logotheti and margaret, and they would not easily recognise him, but he was fain to admit that he had nothing to gain by spying on them. he had seen enough and heard enough already to convince him that margaret had allowed herself to be led into a situation very dangerous for her good name, to say the least. it did not occur to him that logotheti wished to marry her, still less that he meant to hinder her from singing in public. he could not help thinking of the very worst motives, and he attributed them all to the greek. the mild english man of letters was momentarily turned into an avenging demon, breathing wrath and destruction upon his adversary. the most extravagant and reckless crimes looked comparatively easy just then, and very tempting. he thought of getting into logotheti's cellar with enough dynamite to blow the house, its owner and himself to atoms, not to speak of half the boulevard péreire. he fancied himself pounding logotheti's face quite out of shape with his fists, riddling him with revolver bullets, running him through in all directions with duelling swords, tearing him in pieces with wild horses and hanging him out of his own front window. these vivacious actions all looked possible and delightful to lushington as he walked up and down his little sitting-room. then came the cold shower-bath of returning common-sense. he sat down, filled a pipe and lit it. 'i'm an awful ass,' he said aloud to himself, in a reproachful tone. he wished that some spirit voice would contradict him, but in the absence of any supernatural intervention the statement remained unrefuted. the worst of it was that he had always thought himself clever, and in his critical writings he had sneered in a superior way at the inventions of contemporary novelists. just then, he would have given his reputation for the talents of the hero in a common detective story. but his mind refused to work in that way, and he watched with growing discouragement the little clouds of smoke that floated upwards to the whitewashed ceiling without leaving the least shadow of a serviceable idea behind them. he looked disconsolately at the square patent leather toes of his shoes, very dusty from bicycling, and he sadly passed his hand over his smooth-shaven chin; the curious creases in his ready-made trousers, so conspicuously in the wrong place, depressed him still further, and the sight of his broad-brimmed hat, lying on the table, enhanced the melancholy of his reflections. the disguise was admirable, undoubtedly, but it had only helped him to see with his eyes what he had already seen in imagination, and so far as he could guess, it was not likely to help him one step further. at that very moment margaret was probably seated at logotheti's table, without even madame de rosa to chaperon her, and logotheti's men-servants were exchanging opinions about her outside the door. lushington nearly bit through the mouthpiece of his pipe as he thought of that, knowing that he was powerless to interfere. the same thing might go on for a month, and he could not stop it; then margaret would make her _début_, and the case would be more hopeless than ever. the truth was that after launching himself as a disguised detective, he found himself barred from going any further than merely watching his enemy, simply because he was incapable of stooping to a detective's methods of work. he would as soon have lost his hand as have written an anonymous letter or deliberately inveigled logotheti into a trap, and while he was so carefully concealing himself he longed in reality for open fight, and felt that he had made himself ridiculous in his own eyes. yet he hesitated to put on his own english clothes and go about as usual, for he had to pass the porter's window on the stairs every time he went out or came in, and such a sudden change in his appearance would certainly make the porter suspect that he was engaged in some nefarious business. porters are powerful personages in parisian lodging-houses, and this one would probably inform the police that he had a suspicious lodger; after which lushington would be watched in his turn and would very probably have trouble. these reflections made him feel more ridiculous than ever. now it very often happens that when a man, even of considerable intelligence, has made up his mind to do something which at first seemed very clever, but which, by degrees, turns out to be quite useless, if not altogether foolish, he perseveres in his course with mule-like obstinacy. he has taken endless trouble to prepare the means, he has thought it all out so nicely, only omitting to reach the conclusion! it would be a pity to go back, it would be useless to desist, since everything has been so well prepared. something is sure to come of it, if he only sticks to his original plan, and any result must be better than allowing events to go their way. therefore, when the clouds that curled up from lushington's pipe failed to shape themselves into a vision both wise and prophetic, and left absolutely no new idea behind when they vanished, he came to the conclusion that his first scheme was a very good one after all, and that he had better abide by the square-toed, spring-side boots and the rest of his admirable disguise, until something happened. then he would seize the opportunity and act decisively; he was not at all sure how he should act, but he secretly hoped that the action in question might be of the nature of a fight with something or somebody. there are many quiet and shy men who would really rather fight than do anything else, though they will rarely admit it, even to themselves. returning to his plan of watching logotheti, lushington argued rightly that the trip in the motor car would be repeated the very next time that margaret had a rehearsal, and that the car would therefore leave the house in the boulevard péreire at about the same time, every two or three days, but never on two days consecutively. when there was no rehearsal, margaret would not come into town. when that was the case it would be easy to watch the house in versailles. lushington was not quite sure what he expected to see, but he would watch it all the same. perhaps, on those days, logotheti would appear undisguised and call. but what lushington was most anxious to find out was whether margaret had been to the house again. he wished he had waited near the opéra to see where she went when she came out, or in the boulevard péreire, instead of coming back to his lodgings in a bad temper after his interview with the stage doorkeeper. he looked out of the window and saw that it was raining. that made it sure that margaret would not go back to versailles in the motor car, but in the meantime she might very possibly be at logotheti's, at luncheon. he glanced at his watch, and a few minutes later he was on his bicycle again, an outlandish figure in his long-tailed, coffee-coloured overcoat and soft student's hat. he hitched up the tails as well as he could and sat on them, to keep them out of the mud, and he pulled the hat well down to keep the rain off his big spectacles and his nose. his own mother would certainly not have recognised him. he spent a melancholy hour, riding up and down in the wet between the place péreire and the place wagram, till he wished with all his heart that he might never again set eyes on the statue of alphonse de neuville. half the time, too, he was obliged to look back every moment in order to watch logotheti's door, lest he should miss what he was waiting so patiently to see. the rain was cold, too, and persistent as it can be in paris, even in spring. his gloves were pulpy and jellified, his spring-side kid boots felt as if he were taking a foot bath of cold glue, and some insidious drops of cold water were trickling down his back. the broad street was almost deserted, and when he met any one he wished it were altogether so. yet he wondered why a man as rich as logotheti should have built his house there. at last his patience was rewarded. a brougham drove up past him at a smart pace, stopped before the door and waited. he turned back and wheeled round, crossing and re-crossing the street, so as to keep behind the carriage. as it was impossible to continue this singular exercise without attracting the attention of a policeman who came in sight just then, he rode on towards the batignolles station. just then, when his back was turned, he heard the door of the brougham sharply shut, and as he quickly turned again he saw the carriage driving off in the opposite direction. it was driving fast, but he overtook it in a couple of minutes and passed close to the window, which was half up, against the rain. he almost looked in as he went by, and suddenly he met logotheti's almond eyes, looking straight at him, with an air of recognition. he bent his head, swerved away from the brougham and took the first turning out of the wide street. but he had seen that the greek was alone in his carriage. margaret had not lunched at the house in the boulevard péreire. during the next few days lushington did not lead a life of idle repose; in fact, he did not remember that he had ever taken so much exercise since his oxford days. on an average he must have bicycled twenty or thirty miles between breakfast and dinner, which is not bad work for a literary man accustomed to spend most of his time at his writing-table and the rest in society. unknown to himself, he was fast becoming one of the sights on the versailles road, and the men at the octroi station grinned when he went by, and called him the crazy professor. more than once he met the motor, bringing margaret to town or taking her back, and though he did not again chance upon it when logotheti was without his glasses and shield, he felt tolerably sure that he was the chauffeur, and margaret was always alone in the body of the car. twice he was quite certain that the two were talking when he saw them in the distance coming towards him, but when they passed him margaret was leaning back quietly in her place, and the chauffeur merely glanced at him and then kept his eyes on the road. margaret looked at him and smiled faintly, as if in spite of herself, most probably at his appearance. he ascertained also that after one more rehearsal at the opéra, margaret did not go there again. the newspapers informed him very soon that schreiermeyer had got his own company together and had borrowed the stage of an obscure theatre in the outskirts of paris for the purpose of rehearsing. it had been an advantage for the young prima donna to sing two or three times with the great orchestra of the opéra, but the arrangement could of course not continue. margaret's _début_ was to take place in july in a belgian town. lushington was certain that margaret had been at least once again to logotheti's house with madame de rosa, but he did not believe that she had stayed to luncheon, for she had not remained in the house much over half-an-hour. during all this time he made no attempt to communicate with her, and was uncomfortably aware that logotheti was having it all his own way. he yielded to a morbid impulse in watching the two, since no good could come of it for himself or margaret. almost every time he went out on the versailles road he knew that he should see them together before he came back, and he knew equally well that he could do nothing to separate them. he wondered what it was that attracted such a woman as margaret donne to such a man, and with a humility which his friends and enemies would have been far from suspecting in him he honestly tried to compare himself with logotheti, and to define the points in which the latter had the advantage of him. very naturally, he failed to discover them. in spite of what philosophers tell us, most of us know ourselves pretty well. the conclusive and irrefutable proof of this is that we always know when we are not telling, or showing, the truth about ourselves, as, for instance, when we are boasting or attributing to ourselves some gift, some knowledge, or some power which we really do not possess. we also know perfectly well when our impulses are good and when they are bad, and can guess approximately how much courage we have in reserve for doing the one, and how far our natural cowardice will incline us to do the other. but we know very little indeed about other people, and almost always judge them by ourselves, because we have no other convenient standard. a great many men are influenced in the same general way by the big things in life, but one scarcely ever finds two men who are similarly affected by the little things from which all great results proceed. mark antony lost the world for a woman, but it was for a woman that tallien overthrew robespierre and saved france. so lushington's comparison came to nothing at all, and he was no nearer to a solution of his problem than before. then came the unexpected, and it furnished him with a surprisingly simple means of comparing himself with his rival in the eyes of margaret herself. there are several roads from paris to versailles, as every one knows, leaving the city on opposite sides of the seine. hitherto logotheti had always taken the one that leads to the right bank, along the avenue de versailles to the porte st. cloud. another follows the left bank by bas meudon, but the most pleasant road goes through the woods fausses reposes. one morning, when he knew that there was to be a rehearsal, lushington bicycled out by the usual way without meeting the motor car. it naturally occurred to him that logotheti must have returned by another road. whether he would bring margaret out again by the same way or not, was of course uncertain, but lushington resolved to try the fausses reposes on the chance of meeting the car, after waiting in versailles as long as he thought the rehearsal might last. he set out again about half-past one. the road is in parts much more lonely than the others, especially in the woods, and is much less straight; there are sharp turns to the right and left in several places. lushington did not know the road very well and hesitated more than once, going slowly and fast by turns, and at the end of half-an-hour he felt almost sure that he had either lost his way or that logotheti was coming back by another route. chapter xv margaret knew by this time that logotheti was really very much in love; she was equally sure that she was not, and that when she encouraged him she was yielding to a rather complicated temptation that presented elements of amusement and of mild danger. in plain english, she was playing with the man, though she guessed that he was not the kind of man who would allow himself to be played with very long. there are not many young women who could resist such a temptation under the circumstances, and small blame to them. margaret had done nothing to attract the greek and was too unsophisticated to understand the nature of her involuntary influence over him. he was still young, he was unlike other men and he was enormously rich; a little familiarity with him had taught her that there was nothing vulgar about him below the surface, and he treated her with all the respect she could exact when she chose to put herself in his power. the consequence was that as she felt nothing herself she sometimes could not resist making little experiments, just to see how far he would run on the chain by which she held him. besides, she was flattered by his devotion. it was not a noble game that she was playing with him, but in real life very few young men and women of two-and-twenty are 'noble' all the time. a good many never are at all; and margaret had at least the excuse that the victim of her charms was no simple sensitive soul with morbid instincts of suicide, like the poor youth who cut his throat for lady clara vere de vere, but a healthy millionaire of five-and-thirty who enjoyed the reputation of having seen everything and done most things in a not particularly well-spent life. besides, she ran a risk, and knew it. the victim might turn at any moment, and perhaps rend her. sometimes there was a quick glance in the almond-shaped eyes which sent a little thrill of not altogether unpleasant fear through her. she had seen a woman put her head into a wild beast's mouth, and she knew that the woman was never quite sure of getting it out again. that was part of the game, and the woman probably enjoyed the sensation and the doubt, since playing for one's life is much more exciting than playing for one's money. margaret began to understand the lion-tamer's sensations, and not being timid she almost wished that her lion would show his teeth. she gave herself the luxury of wondering what form his wrath would take when he was tired of being played with. he was already approaching that point, on the day when lushington was looking out for him on the road through the fausses reposes woods. when they were well away from the city, he slackened his speed as usual and began to talk. 'i wish,' he said, 'that you would sometimes be in earnest. won't you try?' 'you might not like it,' margaret answered, carelessly. 'for my part, i sometimes wish that you were not quite so much in earnest yourself!' 'do i bore you?' 'no. you never bore me, but you make me feel wicked, and that is very disagreeable. it is inconsiderate of you to give me the impression that i am a sort of lorelei, coolly luring you to your destruction! besides, you would not be so easily destroyed, after all. you are able to take care of yourself, i fancy.' 'yes. i think my heart will be the last of me to break.' he laughed and looked at her. 'but that is no reason why you should try to twist my arms and legs off, as boys do to beetles.' 'i wish i could catch a boy doing it!' 'you may catch a woman at it any day. they do to men what boys do to insects. cruelty to insects or animals? abominable! shocking! there is the society, there are fines, there is prison, to punish it! cruelty to human beings? bah! they have souls! what does it matter, if they suffer? suffering purifies the spirit for a better life!' 'nonsense!' 'that is easily said. but it was on that principle that philip burned the jews, and they did not think it was nonsense. the beetles don't think it funny to be pulled to pieces, either. i don't. a large class of us don't, and yet you women have been doing it ever since eve made a fool and a sinner of the only man who happened to be in the world just then. he was her husband, which was an excuse, but that's of no consequence to the argument.' 'perhaps not, but the argument, as you call it, doesn't prove anything in particular, except that you are calling me names!' margaret laughed again. 'after all,' she went on, 'i do the best i can to be--what shall i say?--the contrary of disagreeable! you ask me to let you take me to my rehearsals, and i come day after day, risking something, because you are disguised. i don't risk much, perhaps--mrs. rushmore's disapproval. but that is something, for she has been very, very good to me and i wouldn't lose her good opinion for a great deal. and you ask me to lunch with you, and i come--at least, i've been twice to your house, and i've lunched once. really, if you are not satisfied, you're hard to please! we've hardly known each other a month.' 'during which time i've never had but one idea. don't raise your beautiful eyebrows as if you didn't understand!' he spoke very gently and smiled, though she could not see that. 'you've no idea how funny that is!' laughed margaret. 'what?' 'if you could see yourself, and hear yourself at the same time! with those goggles, and your leather cap and all the rest, you look like the frog footman in _little alice_--or the dragon in _siegfried_! it does very well as long as you are disagreeable, but when you speak softly and throw intense expression into your voice'--she mimicked his tone--'it's really too funny, you know! it's just as if fafnir were to begin singing "una furtiva lacrima" in a voice like caruso's! siegfried would go into convulsions of laughter, instead of slitting the dragon's throat.' 'i wasn't trying to be picturesque just then,' answered logotheti, quite unmoved by the chaff. 'i was only expressing my idea. i've known you about a month. the second time we met, i asked you to marry me, and i've asked you several times since. as you can't attribute any interested motive to my determination----' 'eh?' 'i said, to my determination----' 'determination? how that sounds!' 'it sounds very like what i mean,' answered logotheti, in an indifferent tone. 'but really, how can you "determine" to marry me, if i won't agree?' 'i'll make you,' he replied with perfect calm. 'that sounds like a threat,' said margaret, her voice hardening a little, though she tried to speak lightly. 'a threat implies that the thing to be done to the person threatened is painful or at least disagreeable. doesn't it? i'm only a greek, of course, and i don't pretend to know english well! i wish you would sometimes correct my mistakes. it would be so kind of you!' 'you know english quite as well as i do,' margaret answered. 'your definition is perfect.' 'oh! then would it be painful, or disagreeable to you, to marry me?' margaret laughed, but hesitated a moment. 'it's always disagreeable to be made to do anything against one's will,' she answered. 'i'm sorry,' said logotheti coolly, 'but it can't be helped.' she was not quite sure how it would be best to meet this uncompromising statement, and she thought it wiser to laugh again, though she felt quite sure that at the moment there was that quick gleam in his eyes, behind the goggles, which had more than once frightened her a little. but he was looking at the road again, and a moment later he had put the car at full speed along a level stretch. that meant that the conversation was at an end for a little while. then an accident happened. a straight rush up an easy incline towards a turning ahead, and the deep note of the horn; round the corner to the right, close in; the flash of a bicycle coming down on the wrong side, and swerving desperately; a little brittle smashing of steel; then a man sprawling on his face in the road as the motor car flew on. logotheti kept his eyes on the road, one hand went down to the levers and the machine sprang forward at forty miles an hour. 'stop!' cried margaret. 'stop! you've killed him!' full speed. fifty miles an hour now, on another level stretch beyond the turn. no sign of intelligence from logotheti. both hands on the wheel. 'stop, i say!' margaret's voice rang out clear and furious. logotheti's hands did not move. margaret knew what to do. she had often been in motor cars and had driven a little herself. she was strong and perfectly fearless. before logotheti saw what she was going to do, she was beside him, she had thrown herself across him and had got at the brake and levers. he was too much surprised to make any resistance; he probably would not have tried to hinder her in any case, as he could not have done so without using his strength. the car was stopped in a few seconds; he had intuitively steered it until it stood still. 'how ridiculous!' he exclaimed. 'as if one ever stopped for such a thing!' margaret's eyes flashed angrily and her answer came short and sharp. 'turn back at once,' she said, and she sat down beside him on the front seat. he obeyed, for he could do nothing else. in running away from the accident, he had simply done what most chauffeurs do under the circumstances. his experience told him that the man was not killed, though he had lain motionless in the road for a few moments. logotheti had seen perfectly well that the car had struck the hind wheel of the bicycle without touching the man's body. moreover, the man had been on the wrong side of the road, and it was his fault that he had been run into. logotheti had not meant to give him a chance to make out a case. but now he turned back, obedient to margaret's command. before she had stopped the car it had run nearly a mile from the scene of the accident. when it reached the spot again, coming back at a more moderate pace, nearly five minutes had elapsed. she found the man leaning against the rail fence that followed the outer curve of the turning. it was the man they had so often met on the other road, in his square-toed kid boots and ill-fitting clothes; it was edmund lushington, with his soft student's hat off, and his face a good deal scratched by the smashing of his tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles. they had been tied behind with a black string, and the rims of them, broken in two, hung from his ears. his nose was bleeding profusely, as he leaned against the fence, holding his head down. he was covered with mud, his clothes were torn, and he was as miserable, damaged and undignified a piece of man as ever dreaded being taken at disadvantage by the idol of his affections. he would have made a pact with the powers of evil for a friendly wall or a clump of trees when he saw the car coming back. there was nothing but the fence. the car stopped close beside him. he held his handkerchief to his nose, covering half his face as he looked up. 'are you hurt, monsieur?' margaret asked anxiously in french. 'on the contrary, mademoiselle,' lushington answered through the handkerchief, and it sounded as if he had a bad cold in the head. 'i am afraid----' margaret began, and then stopped suddenly, staring at him. 'you were on the wrong side of the road, monsieur,' said logotheti in an assertive tone. 'perfectly,' assented lushington, holding his nose and turning half away. 'then it was your fault,' observed logotheti. 'precisely,' admitted the other. 'pray don't stop. it's of no consequence!' but he had betrayed himself unconsciously, in the most natural way. his spectacles were gone, and by covering the lower part of his face with his handkerchief he had entirely concealed the very great change made by shaving his beard and moustache. while he and logotheti had been speaking, margaret had scrutinised his features and had made sure of the truth. then she believed that she would have recognised him by his voice alone. between the emotion that followed the accident and the extreme anxiety his position caused him, the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. margaret smiled maliciously, for she remembered how often they had passed him on the road, and realised in an instant that he had disguised himself to watch her doings. he should pay for that. 'you look hot,' she observed in english, fixing her eyes on him severely. he blushed to the roots of his hair, though he had been rather pale. logotheti, whose only preoccupation hitherto had been to get away as soon as possible, now stared at him, too. margaret's tone and her sudden change to the use of english did the rest. he recognised lushington, but remembered that he himself was completely disguised in his chauffeur's dress and mask; so he said nothing. lushington writhed under margaret's eyes for a moment; but then his english courage and coolness suddenly returned, the colour subsided from his face and his expression hardened, as far as the necessary handkerchief permitted her to see it. 'yes,' he said, 'i'm lushington. i can only repeat that the accident happened by my fault. i'm used to taking the left side in england and i lost my head. monsieur logotheti need not have run away, for it would never have occurred to me to make a complaint.' he looked straight at logotheti's goggles as he spoke, and margaret began to feel uncomfortable. 'i supposed that you had recognised me,' observed the greek coldly. 'that is, no doubt, why you have taken the trouble to disguise yourself and watch me of late.' 'that was the reason,' answered lushington, facing his adversary, but conscious that the necessity for holding his nose put him at a disadvantage as to his dignity. 'it was very well done,' said the greek with gravity. 'i should never have known you.' 'your own disguise is admirable,' answered the englishman, with cool politeness. 'if i had not seen you without your mask the other day i should not have recognised you.' 'shall we go on?' inquired logotheti, turning to margaret. 'no,' she answered, rather sharply. 'are you hurt?' she inquired, looking at lushington again. he was busy with his nose, which he had neglected for a few moments. he shook his head. 'i won't leave him here in this state,' margaret said to logotheti. the greek made a gesture of indifference, but said nothing. meanwhile lushington got so far as to be able to speak again. 'please go on,' he said. 'i can take care of myself, thank you. there are no bones broken.' logotheti inwardly regretted that his adversary had not broken his neck, but he had tact enough to see that he must take margaret's side or risk losing favour in her eyes. 'i really don't see how we can leave you here,' he said to lushington. 'your bicycle is smashed. i had not realised that. i'll put what's left of it into the car.' he jumped out as he spoke, and before lushington could hinder him he had hold of the broken wheel. but lushington followed quickly, and while he held his nose with his left hand, he grabbed the bicycle with the other. it looked as if the two were going to try which could pull harder. 'let it alone, please,' said lushington, speaking with difficulty. 'no, no'! protested logotheti politely, for he wished to please margaret. 'you must really let me put it in.' 'not at all!' retorted lushington. 'i'll walk it to chaville.' 'but i assure you, you can't!' retorted the greek. 'your hind wheel is broken to bits! it won't go round. you would have to carry it!' and he gently pulled with both hands. 'then i'll throw the beastly thing away!' answered lushington, who did not relinquish his hold. 'it's of no consequence!' 'on the contrary,' objected logotheti, still pulling, 'i know about those things. it can be made a very good bicycle again for next to nothing.' 'all the better for the beggar who finds it!' cried the englishman. 'throw it over the fence!' 'you english are so extravagant,' said the greek in a tone of polite reproach, but not relinquishing his hold. 'possibly, but it's my own bicycle, and i prefer to throw it away.' margaret had watched the contest in silence. she now stepped out of the car, came up to the two men and laid her hands on the object of contention. logotheti let go instantly, but lushington did not. 'this is ridiculous,' said margaret. 'give it to me!' lushington had no choice, and besides, he needed his right hand for his nose, which was getting the better of him again. he let go, and margaret lifted the bicycle into the body of the car herself, though logotheti tried to help her. 'now, get in,' she said to lushington. 'we'll take you as far at the chaville station.' 'thank you,' he answered. 'i am quite able to walk.' he presented such a lamentable appearance that he would have hesitated to get into the car with margaret even if they had been on good terms. he was in that state of mind in which a man wishes that he might vanish into the earth like korah and his company, or at least take to his heels without ceremony and run away. logotheti had put up his glasses and shield, over the visor of his cap, and was watching his rival's discomfiture with a polite smile of pity. lushington mentally compared him to judas iscariot. 'let me point out,' said the greek, that if you won't accept a seat with us, we, on our part, are much too anxious for your safety to leave you here in the road. you must have been badly shaken, besides being cut. if you insist upon walking, we'll keep beside you in the car. then if you faint, we can pick you up.' 'yes,' assented margaret, with a touch of malice, 'that is very sensible.' lushington was almost choking. 'do let me give you another handkerchief,' said logotheti, sympathetically. 'i always carry a supply when i'm motoring--they are so useful. yours is quite spoilt.' a forcible expression rose to lushington's lips, but he checked it, and at the same time he wondered whether anybody he knew had ever been caught in such a detestable situation. but anglo-saxons generally perform their greatest feats of arms when they are driven into a corner or have launched themselves in some perfectly hopeless undertaking. it takes a lucknow or a balaclava to show what they are really made of. lushington was in a corner now; his temper rose and he turned upon his tormentors. at the same time, perhaps under the influence of his emotion, his nose stopped bleeding. it was scratched and purple from the fall, but he found another handkerchief of his own and did what he could to improve his appearance. his shoulders and his jaw squared themselves as he began to speak and his eyes were rather hard and bright. 'look here,' he said, facing logotheti, 'we don't owe each other anything, i think, so this sort of thing had better stop. you've been going about in disguise with miss donne, and i have been making myself look like some one else in order to watch you. we've found each other out and i don't fancy that we're likely to be very friendly after this. so the best thing we can do is to part quietly and go in opposite directions. don't you think so?' the last question was addressed to margaret. but instead of answering at once she looked down and pushed some little lumps of dry mud about with the toe of her shoe, as if she were trying to place them in a symmetrical figure. it is a trick some young women have when they are in doubt. lushington turned to logotheti again and waited for an answer. now logotheti did not care a straw for lushington, and cared very little, on the whole, whether the latter watched him or not; but he was extremely anxious to please margaret and play the part of generosity in her eyes. 'i'm very sorry if anything i've said has offended you,' he said in a smooth tone, answering lushington. 'the fact is, it's all rather funny, isn't it? yes, just so! i'm making the best apology i can for having been a little amused. i hope we part good friends, mr. lushington? that is, if you still insist on walking.' margaret looked up while he was speaking and nodded her approbation of the speech, which was very well conceived and left lushington no loophole through which to spy offence. but he responded coldly to the advance. 'there is no reason whatever for apologising,' he said. 'it's the instinct of humanity to laugh at a man who tumbles down in the street. the object of our artificial modern civilisation is, however, to cloak that sort of instinct as far as possible. good morning.' after delivering this parthian shot he turned away with the evident intention of going off on foot. none of the three had noticed the sound of horses' feet and a light carriage approaching from the direction of versailles. a phaeton came along at a smart pace and drew up beside the motor. margaret uttered an exclamation of surprise, and the two men stared with something approaching to horror. it was mrs. rushmore, who had presumably taken a fancy for an airing as the day had turned out very fine. the coachman and groom had both seen margaret and supposed that something had happened to the car. before the carriage had stopped mrs. rushmore had recognised margaret too, and was leaning out sideways, uttering loud exclamations of anxiety. 'my dear child!' she cried. 'good heavens! an accident! these dreadful automobiles! i knew it would happen!' portly though she was, she was standing beside margaret in an instant, clasping her in a motherly embrace and panting for breath. it was evidently too late for logotheti to draw his glasses and shield over his face, or for lushington to escape. each stood stock-still, wondering how long it would be before mrs. rushmore recognised him, and trying to think what she would say when she did. for one moment, it seemed as if nothing were going to happen, for mrs. rushmore was too much preoccupied on margaret's account to take the slightest notice of either of the others. 'are you quite sure you're not hurt?' she inquired anxiously, while she scrutinised margaret's blushing face. 'get into the carriage with me at once, my dear, and we'll drive home. you must go to bed at once! there's nothing so exhausting as a shock to the nerves! camomile tea, my dear! good old-fashioned camomile tea, you know! there's nothing like it! clotilde makes it to perfection, and she shall rub you thoroughly! get in, child! get in!' quick to see the advantage of such a sudden escape, margaret was actually getting into the carriage, when mrs. rushmore, who was kindness itself, remembered the two men and turned to logotheti. 'i will leave you my groom to help,' she said, in her stiff french. then her eyes fell on lushington's blood-stained face, and in the same instant it flashed upon her that the other man was logotheti. her jaw dropped in astonishment. 'why--good gracious--how's this? why--it's monsieur logotheti himself! but you'--she turned to lushington again 'you can't be mr. lushington--good lord--yes, you are, and in those clothes, too. and--what have you done to your face?' as her surprise increased she became speechless, while the two men bowed and smiled as pleasantly as they could under the circumstances. 'yes, i'm lushington,' said the englishman. 'i used to wear a beard.' 'my chauffeur was taken ill suddenly,' said the greek without a blush, 'and as miss donne was anxious to get home i thought there would be no great harm if i drove the car out myself. i had hoped to find you in so that i might explain how it had happened, for, of course, miss donne was a little--what shall i say?--a little----' he hesitated, having hoped that margaret would help him out. after waiting two or three seconds, mrs. rushmore turned on her. 'margaret, what were you?' she asked with severity. 'i insist upon knowing what you were.' 'i'm sure i don't know,' margaret answered, trying to speak easily, as if it did not matter much. 'it was very kind of monsieur logotheti, at all events, and i'm much obliged to him.' 'oh, and pray, what has happened to mr. lushington?' inquired mrs. rushmore. 'i was on the wrong side of the road, and the car knocked me off my bicycle,' added lushington. 'they kindly stopped to pick me up. they thought i was hurt.' 'well--you are,' said mrs. rushmore. 'why don't you get into the automobile and let monsieur logotheti take you home?' as it was not easy to explain why he preferred walking in his battered condition, lushington said nothing. mrs. rushmore turned to her groom, who was english. 'william,' she said, 'you must have a clothes-brush.' william had one concealed in some mysterious place under the box. 'clean mr. lushington, william,' said the good lady. [illustration: "'clean mr. lushington, william,' said the good lady."] 'oh, thank you--no--thanks very much,' protested lushington. but william, having been told to clean him, proceeded to do so, gently and systematically, beginning at his neck and proceeding thence with bold curving strokes of the brush, as if he were grooming a horse. instinctively lushington turned slowly round on his heels, while he submitted to the operation, and the others looked on. they had ample time to note the singular cut of his clothes. 'he used to be always so well dressed!' said mrs. rushmore to margaret in an audible whisper. lushington winced visibly, but as he was not supposed to hear the words he said nothing. william had worked down to the knees of his trousers, which he grasped firmly in one hand while he vigorously brushed the cloth with the other. 'that will do, thank you,' said lushington, trying to draw back one captive leg. but william was inexorable and there was no escape from his hold. he was an englishman, and was therefore thorough; he was a servant, and he therefore thoroughly enjoyed the humour of seeing his betters in a pickle. 'and now, my dear,' said mrs. rushmore to margaret, 'get in and i'll take you home. you can explain everything on the way. that's enough, william. put away your brush.' margaret had no choice, since fate had intervened. 'i'm very much obliged to you,' she said, nodding to logotheti; 'and i hope you'll be none the worse,' she added, smiling at lushington. mrs. rushmore bent her head with dignified disapproval, first to one and then to the other, and got into the carriage as if she were mounting the steps of a throne. she further manifested her displeasure at the whole affair by looking straight before her at the buttons on the back of the coachman's coat after she had taken her seat. margaret got in lightly after her and she scarcely glanced at logotheti as the carriage turned; but her eyes lingered a little with an expression that was almost sad as she met lushington's. she was conscious of a reaction of feeling; she was sorry that she had helped to make him suffer, that she had been amused by his damaged condition and by his general discomfiture. he had made her respect him in spite of herself, just when she had thought that she could never respect him again; and suddenly the deep sympathy for him welled up, which she had taken for love, and which was as near to love as anything her heart had yet felt for a man. she knew, too, that it was really her heart, and nothing else, where he was concerned. she was human, she was young, she was more alive than ordinary women, as great singers generally are, and logotheti's ruthless masculine vitality stirred her and drew her to him in a way she did not quite like. his presence disturbed her oddly and she was a little ashamed of liking the sensation, for she knew quite well that such feelings had nothing to do with what she called her real self. she might have hated him and even despised him, but she could never have been indifferent when he was close to her. sometimes the mere touch of his hand at meeting or parting thrilled her and made her feel as if she were going to blush. but she was never really in sympathy with him as she was with lushington. 'and now, margaret,' said mrs. rushmore after a silence that had lasted a full minute, 'i insist on knowing what all this means.' margaret inwardly admitted that mrs. rushmore had some right to insist, but she was a little doubtful herself about the meaning of what had happened. if it meant anything, it meant that she had been flirting rather rashly and had got into a scrape. she wondered what the two men were saying now that they were alone together, and she turned her head to look over the back of the phaeton, but a turn of the road already hid the motor car from view. meanwhile mrs. rushmore's face showed that she still insisted, and margaret had to say something. as she was a truthful person it was not easy to decide what to say, and while she was hesitating mrs. rushmore expressed herself again. 'margaret,' said she, 'i'm surprised at you. it makes no difference what you say. i'm surprised.' the words were spoken with a slow and melancholy intonation that might have indicated anything but astonishment. 'yes,' margaret remarked rather desperately, 'i don't wonder. i suppose i've been flirting outrageously with them both. but i really could not foresee that one would run over the other and that you would appear just at that moment, could i? i'm helpless. i've nothing to say. you must have flirted when you were young. try to remember what it was like, and make allowance for human weakness!' she laughed nervously and glanced nervously at her companion, but mrs. rushmore's face was like iron. 'mr. rushmore,' said the latter, alluding to her departed husband, 'would not have understood such conduct.' margaret thought this was very probable, judging from the likenesses of the late ransom rushmore which she had seen. there was one in particular, an engraving of him when he had been president of some big company, which had always filled her with a vague uneasiness. in her thoughts she called him the 'commercial missionary,' and was glad for his sake and her own that he was safe in heaven, with no present prospect of getting out. 'i'm sorry,' she said, without much contrition. 'i mean,' she went on, correcting herself, and with more feeling, 'i'm sorry i've done anything that you don't like, for you've been ever so good to me.' 'so have other people,' answered the elder woman with an air of mystery and reproof. 'oh yes! i know! everybody has been very kind--especially madame bonanni.' 'should you be surprised to hear that the individual who bought out mr. moon and made you independent, did it from purely personal motives?' margaret turned to her quickly in great surprise. 'what do you mean? i thought it was a company. you said so.' 'in business, one man can be a company, if he owns all the stock,' said mrs. rushmore, sententiously. 'i don't understand those things,' margaret answered, impatient to know the truth. 'who was it?' 'i hardly think i ought to tell you, my dear. i promised not to. but i will allow you to guess. that's quite different from telling, and i think you ought to know, because you are under great obligations to him.' 'you don't mean to say----' margaret stopped, and the blood rose slowly in her face. 'you may ask me if it was one of those two gentlemen we have just left in the road,' said mrs. rushmore. 'but mind, i'm not telling you!' 'monsieur logotheti!' margaret leaned back and bit her lip. 'you've made the discovery yourself, margaret. remember that i've told you nothing. i promised not to, but i thought you ought to know.' 'it's an outrage!' cried margaret, breaking out. 'how did you dare to take money from him for me?' mrs. rushmore seemed really surprised now, though she did not say she was. 'my dear!' she exclaimed, 'you would not have had me refuse, would you? money is money, you know.' the good lady's inherited respect for the stuff was discernible in her tone. 'money!' margaret repeated the word with profound contempt and a good deal of anger. 'yes, my dear,' retorted mrs. rushmore severely. 'yes, money. it is because your father and mother spoke of it in that silly, contemptuous way that they died so poor. and now that you've got it, take my advice and don't turn up your nose at it.' 'do you suppose i'll keep it, now that i know where it comes from? i'll give it back to him to-day!' 'no, you won't,' answered mrs. rushmore, with the conviction of certainty. 'i tell you i will!' margaret cried. 'i could not sleep to-night if i knew that i had money in my possession that was given me--given me like a gift--by a man who wants to marry me! ugh! it's disgusting!' 'margaret, this is ridiculous. monsieur logotheti came to see me and explained the whole matter. he said that he had made a very good bargain and expected to realise a large sum by the transaction. do you suppose that such a good man of business would think of making any one a present of a hundred thousand pounds? you must be mad! a hundred thousand pounds is a great deal of money, margaret. remember that.' 'so much the better for him! i shall give it back to him at once!' mrs. rushmore smiled. 'you can't,' she said. 'you've never even asked me where it is, and while you are out of your mind, i shall certainly not tell you. you seem to forget that when i undertook to bring suit against alvah moon you gave me a general power of attorney to manage your affairs. i shall do whatever is best for you.' 'i don't understand business,' margaret answered, 'but i'm sure you have no power to force monsieur logotheti's money upon me. i won't take it.' 'you have taken it and i have given a receipt for it, my dear, so it's of no use to talk nonsense. the best thing you can do is to give up this silly idea of going on the stage, and just live like a lady, on your income.' 'and marry my benefactor, i suppose!' margaret's eyes flashed. 'that's what he wants--what you all want--to keep me from singing! he thought that if he made me independent, i would give it up, and you encouraged him! i see it now. as for the money itself, until i really have it in my hands it's not mine; but just as soon as it is i'll give it back to him, and i'll tell him so to-day.' the carriage rolled through the pretty woods of fausses reposes, and the sweet spring breeze fanned margaret's cheeks in the shade. but she felt fever in her blood and her heart beat fast and angrily as if it were a conscious creature imprisoned in a cage. she was angry with herself and with every one else, with logotheti, with mrs. rushmore, with poor lushington for making such a fool of himself just when she was prepared to like him better than ever. she was sure that she had good cause to hate every one, and she hated accordingly, with a good will. she wished that she might never spend another hour under mrs. rushmore's roof, that she might never see logotheti again, that she were launched in her artistic career, free at last and responsible to no one for her actions, her words or her thoughts. but mrs. rushmore began to think that she had made a mistake in letting her know too soon who had bought out alvah moon, and she wondered vaguely why she had betrayed the secret, trying to account for her action on the ground of some reasonably thought-out argument, which was quite impossible, of course. so they both maintained a rather hostile silence during the rest of the homeward drive. chapter xvi until the carriage was out of sight, logotheti and lushington stood still where margaret had left them. then lushington looked at his adversary coolly for about four seconds, stuck his hands into his pockets, turned his back and deliberately walked off without a word. logotheti was so little prepared for such an abrupt closure that he stood looking after the englishman in surprise till the latter had made a dozen steps. 'i say!' said the greek, calling after him then and affecting an exceedingly english tone. 'i say, you know! this won't do.' lushington stopped, turned on his heel and faced him from a distance. 'what won't do?' he asked coolly. seeing that he came no nearer, logotheti went forward a little. 'you admitted just now that you had been playing the spy,' said the greek, whose temper was getting beyond his control, now that the women were gone. 'yes,' said lushington, 'i've been watching you.' 'i said spying,' answered logotheti; 'i used the word "spy." do you understand?' 'perfectly.' 'you don't seem to. i'm insulting you. i mean to insult you.' 'oh!' a faint smile crossed the englishman's face. 'you want me to send you a couple of friends and fight a duel with you? i won't do anything so silly. as i told you before miss donne, we don't owe each other anything to speak of, so we may as well part without calling each other bad names.' 'if that is your view of it, you had better keep out of my way in future.' he laid his hand on the car to get in as he spoke. lushington's face hardened. 'i shall not take any pains to do that,' he answered. 'on the contrary, if you go on doing what you have been doing of late, you'll find me very much in your way.' logotheti turned upon him savagely. 'do you want to marry miss donne yourself?' he asked. lushington, who was perfectly cool now that no woman was present, was struck by the words, which contained a fair question, though the tone was angry and aggressive. 'no,' he answered quietly. 'do you?' logotheti stared at him. 'what the devil did you dare to think that i meant?' he asked. 'it would give me the greatest satisfaction to break your bones for asking that!' lushington came a step nearer, his hands in his pockets, though his eyes were rather bright. 'you may try if you like,' he said. 'but i've something more to say, and i don't think we need fall to fisticuffs on the highroad like a couple of bargees. i've misunderstood you. if you are going to marry miss donne, i shall keep out of your way altogether. i made a mistake, because you haven't the reputation of a saint, and when a man of your fortune runs after a young singer it's not usually with the idea of marrying her. i'm glad i was wrong.' logotheti was too good a judge of men to fancy that lushington was in the least afraid of him, or that he spoke from any motive but a fair and firm conviction; and the greek himself, with many faults, was too brave not to be generous. he turned again to get into the car. 'i believe you english take it for granted that every foreigner is a born scoundrel,' he said with something like a laugh. 'to tell the truth,' lushington answered, 'i believe we do. but we are willing to admit that we can be mistaken. good morning.' he walked away, and this time logotheti did not stop him, but got in and started the car in the opposite direction without looking back. he was conscious of wishing that he might kill the cool englishman, and though his expression betrayed nothing but annoyance a little colour rose and settled on his cheek-bones; and that bodes no good in the faces of dark men when they are naturally pale. he reached home, and it was there still; he changed his clothes, and yet it was not gone; he drank a cup of coffee and smoked a big cigar, and the faint red spots were still there, though he seemed absorbed in the book he was reading. it was not his short interview with lushington which had so much moved him, though it had been the first disturbing cause. in men whose nature, physical and moral, harks back to the savage ancestor, to the pirate of northern or southern seas, to the bedouin of the desert, to the tartar of bokhara or the suliote of albania, the least bit of a quarrel stirs up all the blood at once, and the mere thought of a fight rouses every masculine passion. the silent scotchman, the stately arab, the courtly turk are far nearer to the fanatic than the quick-tempered frenchman or the fiery italian. for a long time constantine logotheti had been playing at civilisation, at civilised living and especially at the more or less gentle diversion of civilised love-making; but he was suddenly tired of it all, because it had never been quite natural to him, and he grew bodily hungry and thirsty for what he wanted. the round flushed spots on his cheeks were the outward signs of something very like a fever which had seized him within the last two hours. until then he would hardly have believed that his magnificent artificial calm could break down, and that he could wish to get his hands on another man's throat, or take by force the woman he loved, and drag her away to his own lawless east. he wondered now why he had not fallen upon lushington and tried to kill him in the road. he wondered why, when margaret had been safe in the motor car, he had not put the machine at full speed for havre, where his yacht was lying. his artificial civilisation had hindered him of course! it would not check him now, if lushington were within arm's length, or if margaret were in his power. it would be very bad for any one to come between him and what he wanted so much, just then, that his throat was dry and he could hear his heart beating as he sat in his chair. he sat there a long time because he was not sure what he might do if he allowed himself the liberty of crossing the room. if he did that, he might write a note, or go to the telephone, or ring for his secretary, or do one of fifty little things whereby the train of the inevitable may be started in the doubtful moments of life. it did not occur to him that he was not the arbiter of his actions in that moment, free to choose between good and evil, which he, perhaps, called by other names just then. he probably could not have remembered a moment in his whole life at which he had not believed himself the master of his own future, with full power to do this, or that, or to leave it undone. and now he was quite sure that he was choosing the part of wisdom in resisting the strong temptation to do something rash, which made it a physical effort to sit still and keep his eyes on his book. he held the volume firmly with both hands as if he were clinging to something fixed which secured him from being made to move against his will. one of fate's most amusing tricks is to let us work with might and main to help her on, while she makes us believe that we are straining every nerve and muscle to force her back. if logotheti had not insisted on sitting still that afternoon nothing might have happened. if he had gone out, or if he had shut himself up with his statue, beyond the reach of visitors, his destiny might have been changed, and one of the most important events of his life might never have come to pass. but he sat still with his book, firm as a rock, sure of himself, convinced that he was doing the best thing, proud of his strength of mind and his obstinacy, perfectly pharisaical in his contempt of human weakness, persuaded that no power in earth or heaven could force him to do or say anything against his mature judgment. he sat in his deep chair near a window that was half open, his legs stretched straight out before him, his flashing patent leather feet crossed in a manner which showed off the most fantastically over-embroidered silk socks, tightly drawn over his lean but solid ankles. from the wall behind him the strange face in the encaustic painting watched him with drooping lids and dewy lips that seemed to quiver; the ancient woman, ever young, looked as if she knew that he was thinking of her and that he would not turn round to see her because she was so like margaret donne. his back was to the picture, but his face was to the door. it opened softly, he looked up from his book and margaret was before him, coming quickly forward. for an instant he did not move, for he was taken unawares. behind her, by the door, a man-servant gesticulated apologies--the lady had pushed by him before he had been able to announce her. then another figure appeared, hurrying after margaret; it was little madame de rosa, out of breath. logotheti got up now, and when he was on his feet, margaret was already close to him. she was pale and her eyes were bright, and when she spoke he felt the warmth of her breath in his face. he held out his hand mechanically, but he hardly noticed that she did not take it. 'i want to speak to you alone,' she said. madame de rosa evidently understood that nothing more was expected of her for the present, and she sat down and made herself comfortable. 'will you come with me?' logotheti asked, controlling his voice. margaret nodded; he led the way and they left the room together. just outside the door there was a small lift. he turned up the electric light, and margaret stepped in; then he followed and worked the lift himself. in the narrow space there was barely room for two; logotheti felt a throbbing in his temples and the red spots on his cheek-bones grew darker. he could hear and almost feel margaret's slightest movement as she stood close behind him while he faced the shut door of the machine. he did not know why she had come, he did not guess why she wished to be alone with him, but that was what she had asked, and he was taking her where they would really be alone together; and it was not his fault. why had she come? when a terrible accident happens to a man, the memory of all his life may pass before his eyes in the interval of a second or two. i once knew a man who fell from the flying trapeze in a circus in berlin, struck on one of the ropes to which the safety net was laced and broke most of his bones. he told me that he had never before understood the meaning of eternity, but that ever afterwards, for him, it meant the time that had passed after he had missed his hold and before he struck and was unconscious. he could associate nothing else with the word. logotheti remembered, as long as he lived, the interminable interval between margaret's request to see him alone, and the noiseless closing of the sound-proof door when they had entered the upper room, where aphrodite stood in the midst and the soft light fell from high windows that were half-shaded. even then, though her anger was hot and her thoughts were chasing one another furiously, margaret could not repress an exclamation of surprise when she first saw the statue facing her in its bare beauty, like a living thing. logotheti laid one hand very lightly upon her arm, and was going to say something, but she sprang back from his touch as if it burnt her. the colour deepened in his dark cheeks and his eyes seemed brighter and nearer together. when a woman comes to a man's house and asks to be alone with him, she need not play horror because the tips of his fingers rest on her sleeve for a moment. why did she come? margaret spoke first. 'how did you dare to settle money on me?' she asked, standing back from him. logotheti understood for the first time that she was angry with him, and that her anger had brought her to his house. the fact did not impress him much, though he wished she were in a better temper. the sound of her voice was sweet to him whatever she said. 'oh?' he ejaculated with a sort of thoughtful interrogation. 'has she told you? she had agreed to say nothing about it. how very annoying!' his sudden calm was exasperating, for margaret did not know him well enough to see that below the surface his blood was boiling. she tapped the blue tiled floor sharply with the toe of her shoe. 'it's outrageous!' she said with energy. 'i quite agree with you. won't you sit down?' logotheti looked at the divan. margaret half sat upon the arm of a big leathern chair. 'oh, you agree with me? will you please explain?' 'i mean, it is outrageous that mrs. rushmore should have told you----' 'you're quibbling!' margaret broke in angrily. 'you know very well what i mean. it's an outrage that a man should put a woman under an enormous obligation in spite of herself, without her even knowing it!' logotheti had seated himself where he could watch her; the fashion of dress was close-fitting; his eyes followed the graceful lines of her figure. if she had not come to drive him mad, why did she take an attitude which of all others is becoming to well-made women and fatal to all the rest? 'i'm sorry,' said logotheti, rather absently and as if her anger did not affect him in the least, if he even noticed it. 'i happened to want the invention for a company in which i am interested. you stood in the way of my having the whole thing, so i was obliged to buy you out. i'm very sorry that it happened to be you, and that mrs. rushmore could not keep the fact to herself. i knew you wouldn't be pleased if you ever found it out.' 'i don't believe a word of what you are telling me,' margaret answered. 'really not?' logotheti seemed momentarily interested. 'that's generally the way when one speaks the truth,' he added, more carelessly again. 'nobody believes it.' his eyes caressed her as he spoke. he was not thinking much of what he said. 'i've come here to make you take back the money,' margaret said. 'i won't keep it another day.' 'have you come all the way from versailles again to say that?' asked logotheti, laughing. again, as she sat on the arm of the big chair, she tapped the dark blue tiles with the toe of her shoe. the slight movement transmitted itself through her whole figure, and for an instant each beautiful line and curve quivered and was very slightly modified. logotheti saw and drew his breath sharply between his teeth. 'yes,' margaret was saying impatiently. 'when mrs. rushmore had told me the truth, i walked to the station and took the first train. i only stopped to get madame de rosa.' 'she is not a very powerful ally,' observed logotheti. 'she is probably asleep in her arm-chair in the drawing-room by this time. are you still angry with me? yes, i believe you are. please forgive me. i had not the least idea of offending you, because i trusted that old---- i mean, because i was so sure that mrs. rushmore would never tell.' 'never mind mrs. rushmore,' margaret said. 'what i will not forgive you is that you made me take your money without my knowing it. i've been flirting with you--yes, i confess it! i'm not perfection, and you're rather amusing sometimes----' 'you are adorable!' logotheti put in, as a sort of murmuring parenthesis. 'don't talk nonsense,' margaret answered. 'i mean that whatever i may have said to you i've never given you the right to make me a present of a hundred thousand pounds. it's the most unparalleled piece of impertinence i ever heard of.' 'but i've not made you a present of anything. i bought what was yours without letting you know, that's all.' 'then give me back what is mine and take your money again.' 'hm!' logotheti smiled. 'that would be very like going into a business partnership with me. do you wish to do that?' 'what do you mean?' 'you see, i'm the whole company at present. but if you come in with a third of the stock to your credit, we shall be partners, to all intents and purposes. we shall have meetings of the board of directors, just you and i, and we shall decide what to do. it will be rather a queer sort of board, for of course i shall always do exactly what you wish, but it's not impossible that we may make money together. well--on the whole i have no particular objection to selling you exactly the amount of stock i bought from you the other day. that's the shape the transaction takes. i'll do any thing to please you, but i'm quite willing you should know that i am doing you a favour, as business men would look at it.' 'a favour!' margaret slipped from the arm of the chair as she spoke and stood upright and made a step towards him. 'do you think i'm a child to believe such nonsense?' 'in matters of business all women are children. with the possible exception of mrs. rushmore,' he added in a tone of reflection. 'besides, this is not nonsense.' 'it is!' cried margaret. 'it is absurd to try and make me believe that a mere claim set up on the chance of getting something should have turned out to be worth so much. it has cost mrs. rushmore i don't know how much in lawsuits, and no one ever really believed in it. she fought for it out of pure kindness of heart, and even the lawyers said she was very foolish to go on----' 'will you listen to me?' asked logotheti, interrupting her. 'i've not much to say, but it's rather convincing. you probably admit that the invention is valuable, and that alvah moon has made money by it.' 'i should think he had, the old thief!' 'very well. i happened to want that invention. i've bought several at different times and have founded companies and sold them. that's a part of finance, which is a form of game. you deal yourself a hand and then play it. i made up my mind to play with this particular invention. i know much more about it than you do; in fact, i understand it thoroughly. i cabled to my agent in america to buy it, if he could, and he succeeded. now please tell me whether you think mrs. rushmore, acting for you, would have withdrawn the suit after the property had changed hands, merely because i've dined in her house.' 'no,' margaret was forced to admit. 'no, she would have gone on.' 'precisely. now i don't want property of that kind, about which there is constant litigation. the credit of such property is injured by the talk there always is about lawsuits. so i went to mrs. rushmore and asked her what she thought your claim was worth, and she told me, and i gave her a cheque for the money, and she has given me a full release, as your attorney. if it had been her claim, or madame de rosa's or any one else's, i should have done exactly the same thing. will you tell me how i could have acted otherwise in order to get the property into my hands free of all chance of dispute? was there any other way?' margaret was silent, for she could find no answer. 'there was one other way,' logotheti continued. 'i could have proposed that you should go into partnership with me, which is what you yourself are proposing now. but in the eyes of the world i confess that might look intimate, to say the least of it. don't you think so too?' 'you're the most plausible person i ever listened to!' margaret almost laughed, though her anger had not subsided. 'will you leave things as they are and forget all about this business? what has been done cannot possibly be undone now. won't you separate me from it in your thoughts? you can, if you try. you know, i'm two people in one. so are you. i'm logotheti the financier, and i'm logotheti the man. you are margaret donne, and you are señorita da cordova, on the very eve of being famous--and then, i think you are some thing else which i don't quite understand, but which is like my fate, for i cannot escape from you, whether i see you, or only dream of you.' margaret was silent, and looked at the aphrodite while she sat on the arm of the big chair. she might have breathed a little faster if she had known that the two doors through which she had entered, and which had closed so silently and surely after her, were as sound-proof as six feet of earth. she would not have been afraid, for she was fearless and confident, but her heart would have beaten a little more quickly at the thought that she was out of hearing of the world, and in the presence of a man whose eyes looked at her strangely and whose cheeks were darkly flushed, who was a good deal nearer to the primitive human animal than most men are, and in whom the main force of nature was awake and hungry. 'i don't want you to make love to me just now,' she said, swinging her foot a little as she sat. 'you've done something that has hurt me very much, and has made me almost wish that i might never see you again after this time. i wish you could find a way of undoing it--i'm sure there is a way.' unconsciously wise, she had checked his pulse for a moment, and she looked at him calmly and shook her head. with a sudden and impatient movement he rose, turned away from her and began to walk up and down at a little distance, his head bent and his hands behind him. though the air in the high room was pure, it was still and hot, for the late spring afternoon had turned sultry all at once; the fluid of a near storm was fast condensing to the point of explosion. the man felt the tension more than the woman just then. it acted on his state, and made it almost unbearable. his hands were locked behind him and his fingers twisted each other till they changed colour. he moved with the short, noiseless steps of a young wild animal measuring its cage, up and down, up and down, without pause. 'it's this,' margaret continued, much more gently than she had meant to speak, 'i don't quite believe you. i'm almost sure you thought that i would give up the stage if i had enough money to live on without my work.' 'yes, i did.' he stopped as if in anger and the words came sharply; but he was not angry. 'you see!' margaret answered triumphantly. 'i knew it! what becomes of your story about the company now?' she rose also and began to walk. the big leathern arm-chair was between them; he leaned his elbows on the back of it and watched her, and compared her hungrily with the aphrodite. 'all i have told you is true,' he said. 'the business happened to serve two purposes, that's all. at least, i thought it would, and it was a pleasure to help you without your knowing it. why should i be sorry? that money might as well come to you through me as through anybody else. you're angry with me. why? because i'm too fond of you? it cannot reasonably be about the money any more--the wretched money! if you can't keep the filthy stuff--if it won't prevent you from going on the stage after all--why then, give it away! throw it away! lose it, if you can. but don't come to me with it, for it's the price of a thing i bought in the way of business and which i won't give up, nor take as a gift from anybody.' he spoke in such a harsh tone now that she paused in her short walk and met his eyes, to see what he meant, over and above what he was saying. she stood in front of the chair; he was leaning over the back of it, with his hands together; one hand was slowly kneading the closed fist, and the veins stood out on both. his voice was hoarse but rather low, like that of a man who wants water. the light in the room had a yellowish tinge now, and the window showed a dull glare where there had been blue sky before. the lurid light got into logotheti's eyes, and was ready to flash while margaret looked at him. the marble aphrodite took a creamy, living tint, and the little shadows that modelled her quivered and deepened. all at once margaret knew that there was danger. she could not have told how she knew it, nor just what the danger was, but she raised her fair head suddenly, as the stag does when the scent of the hounds comes down the breeze. watching her, he saw and understood, and his hands left each other and closed tightly upon the back of the chair. 'will you take me back to madame de rosa, please?' margaret asked, and her voice did not shake. before he could answer, a flash of lightning filled the room, vivid as flame, and almost purple; it flared and danced two or three times before it went out. if logotheti spoke at all, his words were drowned in the crash that shook the house and rolled away over the city. his eyes never moved from margaret's face; she felt that his gaze was fastened on her lips, as if he would have drawn them to meet his own. she was not exactly afraid, but she knew that she must get away from him, for he was stronger than she, and he was like a man going mad. that was what she would have called it. and it seemed to her that one of two things was going to happen. either she would let his lips reach hers, without resisting, or else she would try to kill him when he came near her. she did not know which she should do. she was in herself two people; the one was a human woman, tempted by the mysterious sympathy of flesh and blood; the other self was a startled maiden caught in a trap and at bay, without escape. with the great peal of thunder the aphrodite trembled from head to foot, twice, as the vibration ran down the walls of the house to the very foundations and then came up again and died away, like the second shock of an earthquake. the statue trembled as if it were alive and afraid. with a glance, margaret measured the distance which separated her from the door, but it was too far. there were half-a-dozen steps, and logotheti was much nearer to her than that, even allowing that he must get past the chair to reach her. now he moved a little and it was too late to try. he was beside the chair instead of behind it; but then he stopped and came no further yet, while he spoke to her. 'why did you come?' he asked in a low tone. 'you might have guessed that it wasn't quite safe!' it was almost as if he were speaking to himself. she kept her eyes on him, and tried to back away towards the door so slowly that he should not notice it. but he smiled and his lids drooped. 'you could not open the door if you reached it,' he said. 'you said that you wanted to speak with me alone. we are alone here--quite alone. no one can hear, even if you scream. no one can get in. why did you say you wanted to be alone with me, if you were not in earnest? why do you risk playing with a man who is crazy about you, and has everything in the world except you, and would throw it all away to have you? and now that you are here of your own accord, why should i let you go?' the speech was rough, but there was a sudden caress in his voice with the last words, and he had scarcely spoken them when another flash of lightning filled the room with a maddening purple light. before the peal broke, logotheti held margaret by the wrists, and spoke close to her face, very fast. 'i will not let you go. i love you, and i will not let you go.' the thunder burst, and roared and echoed away, while he drew her nearer, looking for the woman in her eyes, too mad to know that she did not feel what he felt. he touched her now; he could feel her breathings, fast and frightened, and the quiver that ran through her limbs. he held her, but without hurting her in the least--she could turn her wrists loosely in the bonds he made of his fingers. yet she could not get away from him and he drew her closer. she threw her head back from his face, and tried to speak. 'please--please, let me go.' 'no. i love you.' he drew her till she was pressed against him, and he held her hands in his behind her waist. the air was clearing with a furious rush of rain, and her courage was not all gone yet. she looked up to the high windows, as one about to die might look up from the scaffold, and there was a streak of clear blue sky between the driving clouds. it was as if hope looked through, out of heaven, at the girl driven to bay. margaret did not try to use her strength, for she knew it was useless against his. but she held her head back and spoke slowly. 'for your mother's sake,' she said, low and clear, her eyes on his. for one moment his grasp tightened and his white teeth caught his lower lip; but his look was changing slowly. 'for her sake,' margaret said, 'as you would have kept harm from her----' his hold relaxed, and he turned away. there was good in him still; he had loved his mother. he turned deliberately, till he could see neither margaret nor the aphrodite, and he leaned heavily on the table, with bent head, resting the weight of his body on the palms of his hands, and remaining quite motionless for some time. he heard her go towards the door. without looking round he slowly shook his head. 'don't be afraid of me,' he said, in a low voice. 'it's all over, now. i'll let you out in a moment.' 'yes.' she waited quietly by the door, which she did not understand how to open. presently he moved a little, and his head sank lower between his shoulders; then he spoke again, but still without turning towards her. 'i'm sorry,' he said. 'i did not know i could be such a brute. forgive me, will you?' as usual, when he was very much in earnest, there was something rudely abrupt about his speech. 'it was my fault,' margaret answered from the door. 'i should not have come.' even after her escape, something about him still pleased her. the maiden that had been brought to bay was scarcely safe, before the human woman began to be drawn to him again by that sympathy of flesh and blood that had nearly cost her more than life. but margaret revolted against it now, as soon as she knew what it was that made her speak kindly. 'i'm not afraid of you,' she said, almost coldly, 'but i want you to let me out, please.' he straightened himself and turned slowly to her. the dark red colour was gone from his cheeks, he was suddenly pale and haggard, and if he had not been really young, he would have looked old; as it was, his face was drawn and pinched as if by sharp physical suffering. he drew two or three quick, deep breaths as he came towards her. he stood beside her a moment, and then without a word, he unfastened the door. it swung inwards and stood open. margaret saw that it was thickly padded to prevent any sound from passing, and that there was another padded door beyond it which she had not noticed when she had entered. he understood her look of doubt. 'that one is open now,' he said. 'it locks and unlocks itself as i shut or open the inner door.' he was willing to let her see how completely she had been cut off from the outer world; and she realised the truth and shuddered. 'good-bye,' she said, abruptly, as if he were not to go downstairs with her, and she made a step to pass him. he thrust his arm out across the way, resting his head against the door-post. she started, almost nervously, and then stood still again and looked at him. 'no,' he said, 'i shall not try to keep you, and the door is open. but please don't say good-bye like that, as if we were not going to meet soon.' 'it's not good for us to be alone together,' she said. the words came by instinct, and acknowledged a weakness in herself. after she had spoken, she was very sorry. his drawn face softened. 'that's why i forgive you,' she said, with sudden frankness, and a blush reddened her cheeks under the fawn-coloured veil she had drawn down again. he took her hand, against her will and almost violently, but in an instant his own was gentle again. 'margaret!' his voice had a thrill in it. 'no,' she answered, but not roughly now, and scarcely trying to free herself. 'no. i don't love you in the least. that is why i won't marry you. there's something that draws me to you against my will sometimes--yes, i know that! but i hate it, and i'm afraid of it. it's not what i like in you, it's what i like least. it's something like hypnotism, i'm sure. i'm ashamed of it, because it is what has made me flirt with you. yes, i have! i've flirted outrageously, except that i've always told you that i never would marry you. i've been truthful in that, at all events.' 'do you think i reproach you?' 'you might have, this morning. now we have each something to reproach the other. we will forgive and say good-bye for a while. when we meet again, that something i'm afraid of will be gone--perhaps--then everything will be different. now, good-bye.' he had held her hand all the time while she had been speaking. she pressed his now, with an impulse of frank loyalty, and dropped it suddenly. 'do you mean that i may not even come and see you?' he asked. 'not till after my _début_,' answered margaret in a decided tone, for she felt that she dominated him at last. 'you don't want me to be a singer and i cannot help feeling your opposition. it disturbs me, as the time comes near. of course i can't hinder you from being there on the first night----' 'no indeed!' 'and when you've heard me, and seen gilda's head come out of the sack, and when the curtain has gone down on rigoletto's despair--why, then you may come behind and congratulate me, especially if i've made a failure! till then i don't want to see you, please!' 'i cannot wait so long. it is nearly three weeks.' margaret stood up very straight in the doorway, already past him and free to go out. 'since i am willing to forgive you for losing your head just now,' she said, 'it's for me to decide whether you may ever see me again, and if so when, and where. i've been very good to you. now i am going.' it seemed to him that she had grown all at once in strength and individuality till there was nothing for him to do but to submit. this was an illusion, no doubt; she was just what she had always been, and what he had always judged her, a gifted young woman, rather inclined to flirt and easily guided in any direction, whose exuberant animal vitality might pass for strong character in the eyes of an inexperienced innocent like lushington, but could not deceive an old hand like logotheti for a moment. nevertheless, when she had spoken her last words and was leading the way out of the room, logotheti felt a little like a small boy who has had his ears boxed for being too cheeky, which is a sensation not at all pleasant or natural to an old hand. as he took her down in the little lift, he vaguely wondered whether he had ever thought of her till now except as an animated work of art; comparable in beauty with his encaustic painting or his dearly loved aphrodite; worth more than either of them as a possible possession, as life is worth more than stone, and endowed with a divine voice; but having neither soul, intelligence, nor will to speak of, nor any original power of ruling others, still less of resisting a systematic and prolonged attack. the change had come quickly. logotheti thought of beautiful beings of old, disguised as yielding, mortal women, who had visited the men they loved on earth and had by and by revealed themselves as true and puissant goddesses, moving in a sphere of rosy light, and speaking only to command. logotheti took her down in the lift and they went back into the big room where they had left madame de rosa. they found her looking out of the window. books did not interest her, nor pictures either, there was no piano in the room and the maraschino was locked up. so there was nothing to do but to look out of the window. as the two came in she turned sharply to them, with her head on one side, as birds do, and her intelligent little eyes sparkled. she was a good little woman herself, and believed in heaven and salvation, but she had no particular belief in man and none at all in woman. on the other hand, she had a very keen scent for the truth in love affairs, and in logotheti's subdued expression she instantly detected sure signs of discomfiture, which were fully confirmed by margaret's serene and superior manner. men sometimes follow women into a room with such an air of submission that one almost looks for the string by which they are led. madame de rosa nodded her approval to margaret in a rather officious manner, much as if she were congratulating her pupil on having soundly beaten an unruly and dangerous dog. 'well done,' the nod said. 'beat him again, the very next time he does it!' but margaret either did not understand at all, or did not care for madame de rosa's approbation, for she returned no answering glance of intelligence. 'i hope,' she said, 'that i have not kept you too long.' the former prima donna looked at a tiny watch set in diamonds, the gift of a great tenor whom she had taught. 'not at all,' she said. 'it's not twenty minutes since we came.' she put the watch to her ear and listened. nine women out of ten are generally in doubt as to whether their watches have not just stopped. 'yes,' she said. 'it is going.' logotheti remembered how long the seconds had seemed while he was taking margaret up in the lift, and it seemed as if hours had passed since then. 'good-bye,' said margaret, holding out one hand and passing the other through madame de rosa's arm to lead her away. 'good-bye,' logotheti answered. 'of course,' he continued, 'you must please remember that if i can be of any use in making investments for you, you have only to send me your commands. i am at your service for anything connected with the money market.' 'thank you,' said margaret, ambiguously, as to the tone in which the words were spoken, but with a quick glance of approval. he had meant his speech for madame de rosa, who had probably been told that margaret came to see him on a matter of business. but it was quite unnecessary. the little neapolitan woman could judge of the state of a love affair at any moment with a certainty as unerring as that of a great cook who can tell by a mere glance what stage of development the finest sauce has reached. she supported logotheti's fiction, however, without a smile. 'ah, my dear,' she said, 'always consult him, if he will help you! bonanni owes half her fortune to his judgment, and i could certainly not live as i do if he had not given me his advice and kind assistance.' 'you exaggerate, dear lady,' said logotheti, opening the door for them, and following them into the hall. 'not in the least,' laughed madame de rosa, 'though i am sure that cordova is quite able to take care of herself and is much too proud to owe you anything.' she often called margaret by her stage name, as artists do among themselves, but it jarred disagreeably on logotheti's ear. 'you are right in that,' he said, rather coldly, as a footman appeared and opened the outer door. 'miss donne'--he emphasised the name a little--'will probably not need any help from me. but if she should, i am her very humble servant.' 'thank you,' margaret said, in the same ambiguous tone as before. thereupon she and madame de rosa nodded to him and left him bowing on his doorstep. they walked away in the direction of the batignolles station. when they had heard the door of the house shut, madame de rosa spoke. 'you are splendid, my dear,' she said with admiration. 'but take care! to play with logotheti is like balancing a volcano on the tip of your nose while you juggle with the world, the flesh and the devil--you know what i mean--the man who keeps a cannon-ball, an empty bottle and a bit of paper all going at once with one hand. i am afraid logotheti will do something unexpected, to upset all our plans.' 'he had better not!' answered margaret, drooping her lids; and her eyes flashed, and her handsome lips pouted a little. chapter xvii margaret, it is sad to relate, was much less concerned about the two men who were in love with her than is considered becoming in a woman of heart. she confessed to herself, without excess of penitence, that she had flirted abominably with them both, she consoled her conscience with the reflection that they were both alive and apparently very well, and she put all her strength, which was great, into preparing for her _début_. men never love so energetically and persuasively as when they are fighting every day for life, honour or fame, and are already on the road to victory; but a woman's passion, though true and lasting, may be momentarily quite overshadowed by the anticipation of a new hat or of a social battle of uncertain issue. how much more, then, by the near approach of such an event as a first appearance on the stage! logotheti bribed the doorkeeper at the small theatre where margaret was rehearsing. whenever there was a rehearsal he was there before her, quite out of sight in the back of a lower box, and he did not go away until he was quite sure that she had left. he knew women well enough to be certain that if anything could make margaret wish to see him it would be his own strict observance of her request not to show himself; and in the meantime he enjoyed some moments of keen delight in watching her and listening to her. he felt something of the selfish pleasure which filled that king of bavaria who had a performance of _lohengrin_ given for himself alone. but the pleasure was not unmixed, nor was the delight unclouded. even schreiermeyer had given up coming to the rehearsals, for he was now sure of margaret's success and had passed on to other business. in the dim stalls there appeared only the shabby relations and rather gorgeous friends of the other members of the company. there was the young painter who loved the leading girl of the chorus, there was the wholesale upholsterer who admired the contralto, and a little apart there was the middle-aged great lady who entertained a romantic and expensive passion for the tenor. the tenor was a young italian, who was something between a third-rate poet and a spoilt child when he was in love and was as cynical as macchiavelli when he was not, which was the case at present, at least so far as the middle-aged woman of the world was concerned. his friends could always tell the state of his affections by the way he sang in _rigoletto_. when he was hopelessly in love himself, he sang 'la donna è mobile' with tears in his voice, as if his heart were breaking; when, on the contrary, he knew that some unhappy female was hopelessly in love with him, he sang it with a sort of laugh that was diabolically irritating. at the present time he seemed to be in an intermediate state, for he sometimes sang it in the one way and sometimes in the other, to the despair of the poor foolish lady in the stalls. the truth was that at irregular intervals he felt that he was in love with margaret. leading singers are very rarely attracted by each other. perhaps that is because they receive such a vast amount of adulation which pleases them better, and of course there have been famous instances of the contrary, such as mario and grisi. as a rule singers do not meet much except at the theatre; it is only during rehearsals that they have a chance of talking, and then, as everybody knows, they show the worst side of themselves and are often in a very bad temper indeed. margaret had not reached that stage yet, for she had met with no disappointments and could not complain of her manager, and moreover she was not at all above learning what she could from her fellow-artists. she was therefore popular with them in spite of the fact that she was a lady born. they overlooked that, because she could sing, and the tenor only remembered it when he tried to patronise her a little. he had often sung with melba, and she did this or that, and he had sung with bonanni and knew exactly how she sang the difficult passages, and he reeled off the precepts and practice of half-a-dozen other lyric sopranos, giving margaret to understand that he was willing and able to teach her a good deal. but she only smiled kindly, and did precisely what madame de rosa told her to do, seeing that the little neapolitan had taught most of them what they knew. it was clear that margaret could not be patronised, and the other members of the company liked her the better for it, because the tenor patronised them all and gave them to understand that they were rather small fry compared with a man who could hold the high c and walk off the stage with it. from the darkness of his lower box logotheti looked on and approved of margaret's behaviour. at the same time he abstracted himself from her life and saw how she lived with respect to other men and women, and a great change began to take place in his feelings, one of those changes which are sometimes salutary because they may hinder an act of folly, but which humiliate a man in his own eyes, in proportion as they are unexpected, and tend to contradict something which he has believed to be beyond all doubt. to many men the loss of a noble illusion feels like a loss of strength in themselves, perhaps because such men can never keep an ideal before them without making an unconscious effort against the material tendency of their natures. the change in logotheti during the next three weeks was profound; and it was humiliating because it deprived him all at once of a sort of power over himself which had grown up with his love for margaret and depended on that for its nourishment and life; a power which had perhaps not been an original force at all, but only a chivalrous willingness to do her will instead of his own. he looked on and did not betray his presence, and she, on her side, began to wonder at his prolonged obedience. more than once she felt a sudden conviction that he must be near, and he saw how she peered into the gloom of the empty house as if looking for some one she expected. it was only natural, and no theory of telepathy was needed to explain it. she had so often seen him there in reality! but he would not show himself now, for he was determined that she should send for him; if she did not, he could wait for her _début_; and little by little, as he kept to his determination and only saw her from a distance in the frame of the stage, the woman who had dominated him in a moment when he was beside himself with passion, became once more an animated work of art which he unconsciously compared with his aphrodite and his ancient picture, and which he coveted as a possession. it did not at first occur to him that margaret had really changed since he had met her, and not exactly in the way he might have wished. instead of showing any inclination to give up the stage, as he had hoped that she might, she seemed more and more in love with her future career. when he had first met her he had made the acquaintance of a strikingly good-looking english girl, born and brought up a lady, full of talent and enthusiasm for her art, but as yet absolutely ignorant of professional artistic life and still in a state of mind in which some sides of it were sure to be disagreeable to her, if not absolutely repulsive. hidden in his box, and watching her as well as listening to her, he gradually realised the change, and he remembered many facts which should have prepared him for it. he recollected, for instance, her perfect coolness and self-possession with madame bonanni, so absolutely different from the paralysing shyness, the visible fright and the pitiful helplessness at the moment of trial, which he had more than once seen in young girls who came to madame bonanni for advice. they had good voices, too, those poor trembling candidates; many of them had talent of a certain order; but it was not the real thing, there was not the real strength behind it, there was not the absolute self-reliance to steady it; above all, there was not the tremendous physical organisation which every great singer possesses. but margaret had all that; in other words, she had every gift that makes a first-rate professional on the stage, and as the life became familiar to her, those gifts, suddenly called into play, exerted their influence directly upon her character and manner. she was born to be a professional artist, to face the public and make it applaud her, to believe in her own talent, to help herself, to trust to her nerves and to defend herself with cool courage in moments of danger. this was assuredly not the girl with whom logotheti had fallen in love at first sight, whom he, as well as lushington, had believed far too refined and delicately brought up to be happy in the surroundings of a stage life, and much too sensitive to bear such familiarity as being addressed as 'cordova,' without any prefix, by an italian tenor singer whose father had kept a butcher's shop in turin. no doubt, the refinement, the sensitiveness, the delicacy of manner were all there still, for such things do not disappear out of a woman in a few days; but they belonged chiefly to one side of a nature that had two very distinct sides. there was the 'lady' side, and there was the 'actress' side; and unfortunately, thought logotheti, there was now no longer the slightest doubt as to which was the stronger. margaret donne was already a memory; the reality was 'cordova,' who was going to have a fabulous success and would soon be one of the most successful lyric sopranos of her time. 'cordova' was a splendid creature, she was a good girl, she had a hundred fine qualities not always found together in a great prima donna; but no power in the world could ever make her margaret donne again. logotheti watched her and once or twice he sighed; for he knew that he no longer wished to marry her. it is not in the nature of orientals to let their wives exhibit themselves to the public, and in most ways the prejudices of a well-born greek of constantinople are just as strong as those of a mohammedan turk. as an artistic possession, 'cordova' was as desirable as ever in logotheti's eyes; but she was no longer at all desirable as a wife. the greek, in spite of the lawless strain in him, was an aristocrat to the marrow of his very solid bones. an aristocrat, doubtless, in the eastern sense, proud of his own long descent, but perfectly indifferent to any such matter as a noble pedigree in the choice of a wife; quite capable, if he had not chanced to be born a christian, of taking to himself, even by purchase, the jealously-guarded daughter of a circassian horse-thief, or of a georgian cut-throat, a girl brought up in seclusion for sale, like a valuable thoroughbred; but a man who revolted at the thought of marrying a woman who could show herself upon the stage, and for money, who could sing for money, and for the applause of a couple of thousand people, nine-tenths of whom he would never have allowed to enter his house. he was jealous of what he really loved. to him, it would have been a real and keen suffering to see his marble aphrodite set up in a hall of the louvre, to be admired in her naked perfection by every passing tourist, criticised and compared with famous living models by loose-talking art students, and furtively examined by prurient and disapproving old maids from distant countries. he prized her, and he had risked his life, not to mention the just anger of a government, to get possession of her. if he could feel so much for a piece of marble, it was not likely that he should feel less keenly where the woman he loved was concerned; and circumstance for circumstance, point for point, it was much worse that margaret donne should stand and sing behind the footlights, for money, and disguise herself as a man in the last act of _rigoletto_, than that the aphrodite should go to the louvre and take her place with the borghese gladiator, the venus of milo and the victory of samothrace. it was true that he would have given much to possess one of those other treasures, too, but even then it would not have been like possessing the aphrodite. the other statues had been public property and had faced the public gaze for many years; but he had found his treasure for himself, buried safe in the earth since ages ago, and he had brought her thence directly to that upper room where few eyes but his own had ever seen her. perhaps he was a little mad on this point, for strong natures that hark back to primitive types often seem a little mad to us. but at the root of his madness there was that which no man need be ashamed of, for it has been the very foundation of human society--the right of every husband to keep the mother of his children from the world in his own home. for human society existed before the ten commandments, and a large part of it seems tolerably able to survive without them even now; but no nation has ever come to any good or greatness, since the world began, unless its men have kept their wives from other men. yet nature is not mocked, and woman is a match for man; she first drove him to invent divorce for his self-defence, and see, it is a two-edged sword in her own hands and is turned against him! no strong nation, beginning its life and history, ever questioned the husband's right to kill the unfaithful wife; no old and corrupt race has ever failed to make it easy for a wife to have many husbands--including those of her friends. logotheti belonged to the primitives. as he had once laughingly explained to margaret, his people had dropped out of civilisation during a good many centuries; they had absorbed a good deal of wild blood in that time, and, scientifically speaking, had reverted to their type; and now that he had chosen to mingle in the throng of the moderns, whose fathers had lost no time in the race, while his own had remained stationary, he found himself different from other people, stronger than they, bolder and much more lawless, but also infinitely more responsive to the creations of art and the facts of life, as well as to the finer fictions of his imagination and the simple cravings of his very masculine being. men who are especially gifted almost always seem exaggerated to average society, either because, like logotheti, they feel more, want more and get more than other men, by sheer all-round exuberance of life and energy, or else because, as in many great poets, some one faculty is almost missing, which would have balanced the rest, so that in its absence the others work at incredible speed and tension, wear themselves out in half a lifetime and leave immortal records of their brief activity. there had been a time when margaret had appealed only to logotheti's artistic perceptions; at their second meeting he had asked her to marry him because he felt sure that until he could make her his permanent possession, he could never again know what it was to be satisfied. there had been a moment when she had risen in his estimation from an artistic treasure to the dignity of an ideal, and had dominated him, even when the human animal in him was most furiously roused. again, and lastly, the time had come when, by watching her unseen, instead of spending hours with her every day, by abstracting himself from her life instead of trying to take part in it, he had lost his hold upon his ideal for ever, and had been cruelly robbed of what for a few short days he had held most dear. moreover, after the ideal had withered and fallen, there remained something of which the man felt ashamed, though it was what had seemed most natural before the higher thought had sprung up full-grown in a day, and had blossomed, and perished. it was simply this. margaret was as much as ever the artistic treasure he coveted, and he was tormented by the fear lest some one else should get possession of her before him. he remembered the sleepless nights he had spent while his marble aphrodite had lain above ground, before he was ready to carry her off, the unspeakable anxiety lest she should be found and taken from him, the terror of losing her which had driven him to make the attempt in the teeth of weather which his craft had not been fit to face; and he remembered, too, that the short time while she had lain at the bottom of the bay had not passed without real dread lest by a miracle another should find her and steal her. he felt that same sensation now, as he watched margaret from a distance; some one would find her, some one would marry her, some one would take her away and own her, body and soul, and cheat him of what had been within his grasp and all but his; and yet he was ashamed, because he no longer wanted her for his wife, but only as a possession--as achilles wanted briseis and was wroth when she was taken from him. he felt shame at the thought, because he had already honoured her in his imagination as his wife, and because to dream of her as anything as near, yet less in honour, was a sort of dishonour to himself. let the subtle analyst make what he can of that; it is the truth. but possibly the truth about a man very unlike his fellow-men is not worth analysing, since it cannot lead to any useful generality; and if analysis is not to be useful, of what use can it possibly be? it would be more to the purpose to analyse the character of margaret, for instance, who represents a certain class of artists, or of madame bonanni who is an arch-type, or of poor edmund lushington, a literary englishman, who was just then very unhappy and very sorry for himself. margaret and lushington, and the elderly prima donna, and even mrs. rushmore, are all much more like you and me than constantine logotheti, the greek financier of artistic tastes, watching the woman he covets, from the depths of his lower box during rehearsal. he watched, and he coveted; and presently he fell to thinking of the wonderful things which money can do, when it is skilfully used; and he fell to scheming and plotting, and laying deep plans; and moreover he recalled the days when margaret had first appeared to him as an animated work of art, and he remembered why he had persuaded schreiermeyer to change the opera from _faust_ to _rigoletto_. he had regretted the change later, when she had risen to the higher place in his heart, because it required her to wear a man's disguise in the last act; but now that she was again in his eyes what she had been at first, he was glad he had made the suggestion, and that the manager had taken his advice, for there was something in that last act which should serve him when the time came. chapter xviii after the adventure on the versailles road, lushington eschewed disguises, changed his lodgings again and appeared in clothes that fitted him. it was a great relief to look like a human being and a gentleman, even at the cost of calling himself an ass for having tried to look like something else. there was but one difficulty in the way of resuming his former appearance, and that lay in the loss of his beard, which would take some time to grow again, while its growth would involve retirement from civilisation during several weeks. but he reflected that it was fashionable to be clean-shaven, and that, in point of appearance, all that is fashionable is right, though plato would have declared it to be removed in the third degree from truth. a week after the accident he went out to versailles in the morning. mrs. rushmore had a headache and margaret received him. she smiled as she took his hand, and she looked hard at his face, as if to be sure that it was he, after all. the absence of the gleaming fair beard made a great difference. 'i think i like you better without it,' she said, at last. 'your face has more character!' 'it's the inevitable,' answered lushington, 'so i'm glad you are pleased.' 'come out,' she said, turning to the door. 'it always seems more natural to talk to you on the lawn, and the bench is still there.' he felt like an exile come home. nothing was changed, except that margaret was gentler and seemed more glad to see him than formerly. he wondered how that could be, seeing that he had made himself so very ridiculous; for he was not experienced enough to know that a woman's sense of humour is very different from that of a man she likes, when she herself has been concerned in the circumstances that have made him an object of ridicule to others. then her face grows grave, her eyes harden, and her head goes up. 'i cannot see that there is anything to laugh at,' she says very coldly, to the disagreeable people who are poking fun at the poor man. at these signs, the disagreeable people generally desist and retire to whisper in a corner. lushington followed margaret out. as they passed through the hall, she took an old garden hat from the table and fastened it upon her head with the pin that had been left stuck in it. it was done almost with a single motion and without even glancing at the mirror which hung above the hall table. lushington watched her, but not as logotheti would have done, in artistic admiration of the graceful movement and perfect balance. the englishman, who called himself a realist, was admiring the ideal qualities with which he had long ago invested the real woman. as he watched her, his imagination clothed her handsome reality with a semi-divine mantle of glory; for him she could never be anything but margaret donne, let her call herself cordova or anything else, let her sing in _rigoletto_ or in any other opera. 'it was nice of you to come,' she said, as they reached the bench near the pond. 'i wanted to see you.' 'and i wanted you to see me,' lushington laughed a little, remembering how she had seen him the last time, after his fall, in very bad clothes and much damaged, particularly as to his nose. 'you certainly look more civilised,' margaret said. 'did logotheti tell you anything about what happened after you left us?' asked lushington, suddenly. margaret's face lost its expression for a moment. it was exactly as if, while sitting in the full sunshine, a little cloud had blown across the sun, taking the golden light out of her face. 'i have not seen monsieur logotheti since that day,' she said. it was not necessary to tell lushington that she had seen the greek once again on the same afternoon. her companion seemed surprised. 'that's strange,' he said. 'i supposed you saw him--no, i beg your pardon, i've no right to suppose anything about you. please forgive me.' 'what did you suppose?' asked margaret in a rather imperative tone. 'we are likely to meet so seldom that i may as well tell you what happened,' answered lushington, with more decision than he had formerly been wont to show. 'i'd just as soon have you know, if you don't mind.' margaret leaned back in her seat, and pulled the garden hat over her eyes. it was warm, and she could see the gnats in the strong light reflected from the pond. 'he asked me if i wanted to marry you,' lushington continued. 'i said that such a thing was impossible. then he gave me to understand that he did.' he paused, but as if he had more to say. 'what did you answer?' asked margaret. 'i said i would keep out of the way, since he was in earnest.' 'oh!' margaret uttered the ejaculation in a tone that might have meant anything, and she watched the gnats darting hither and thither in the sunshine. 'i did right, didn't i?' asked lushington after a long pause. 'you meant to,' said margaret almost roughly. 'i suppose it's the same thing. you're always so terribly honourable!' her humour changed suddenly, and there was a shade of contempt in her voice. she had been very glad to see him a few moments earlier, but now she wished he would go. she was perhaps just then in the temper to be won, though she did not know it, and she unconsciously wished that lushington would take hold of her and almost hurt her, as logotheti had done, instead of being so dreadfully anxious to be told that he had done right a week ago. 'you don't care a straw for logotheti,' he said, so suddenly that she started a little. 'i don't know why you should,' he added, as she said nothing, 'but i had got the impression that you did.' 'there are days--i mean,' she corrected herself, 'there have been days, when i have liked him very much--more, it seems to me, than i ever liked you, though in quite a different way.' 'there will be more such days,' lushington answered. 'i hope not.' margaret spoke almost as if to herself and very low, turning her head away. lushington heard the words, however, and was surprised. 'has anything happened?' he asked quickly, and quite without reflection. again she answered in a low tone, unfamiliar to him. 'yes. something has happened.' then neither spoke for some time. when margaret broke the silence at last, there was a little defiance in her voice, a touch of recklessness in her manner, as new to lushington as her low, absent-minded tone had been when she had last spoken. 'it was only natural, i suppose,' she laughed, a little sharply. 'i'm too good for one and not good enough for the other! it would be really interesting to know just how good one ought to be--when one is an artist!' 'what do you mean?' asked lushington, not understanding at all. 'my dear child!' she laughed again, and both the words and the laugh jarred on lushington, as being a little unlike her--she had never addressed him in that way before. 'you don't really suppose that i am going to explain, do you? you made up your mind that i was much too fine a lady to marry the son of a singer--much too good for you, in fact--though i would have married you just then!' 'just then!' lushington repeated the words sadly. 'certainly not now,' answered margaret viciously. 'you would come to your senses in a week with a start, to find your idol in a very shaky and moth-eaten state. i'm horribly human, after all! i admit it!' 'what is the matter with you?' asked lushington, rather sharply. 'what has become of you?' he asked, as she gave him no answer. 'where are you, the real you? i saw you when i came, and you brought me out on the lawn, and it was going to be so nice, just as it used to be; and now, on a sudden, you are gone, and there is some one i don't know in your place.' margaret laughed, leaned back in her chair and looked at the pond. 'some one you don't know?' she repeated, with a question. 'yes.' 'i wonder!' she laughed again. 'it must be that,' she said presently. 'it cannot be anything else.' 'what?' 'it must be "cordova." don't you think so? i know just what you mean--i feel it, i hear it in my voice when i speak, i see it in the glass when i look at myself. but not always. it comes and it goes, it has its hours. sometimes i'm it when i wake up suddenly in the night, and sometimes i'm margaret donne, whom you used to like. and i'm sure of something else. shall i tell you? one of these days margaret donne will go away and never come back, and there will be only cordova left, and then i suppose i shall go to the bad. they all do, you know.' lushington did know, and made an odd movement and bent himself, as if something sharp had run into him unawares, and he turned his face away, to hide the look of pain which he could not control. margaret had hardly spoken the cruel words when she realised what she had done. 'oh, i'm so sorry!' she cried, in dreadful distress, and the voice came from her heart and was quite her own again. in her genuine pain for him, she took his hand in both her own, and drew it to her and looked into his eyes. 'it's all right,' he answered. 'you did not mean it. don't distress yourself.' there were tears in her eyes now, but they were not going to overflow. she dropped his hands. 'how splendidly good and generous you are!' margaret cried. 'there's nobody like you, after all!' lushington forgot his pain in the pleasure he felt at this outburst. 'but why?' he asked, not very clear as to her reasons for praising him. 'it was the same thing the other day,' she said, 'when we upset you on the versailles road. you were in a bad way; i don't think i remember ever seeing a man in a worse plight! i couldn't help laughing a little.' 'no,' said lushington, 'i suppose you couldn't.' 'you had your revenge afterwards, though you did not know it,' margaret answered. 'what sort of revenge?' 'monsieur logotheti was detestable. it would have given me the greatest satisfaction to have stuck hat-pins into him, ever so many of them, as thick as the quills on a porcupine!' lushington laughed, in a colourless way. 'as you say, i was revenged,' he answered. 'oh, that wasn't it!' she laughed, too. 'not at all! besides, you knew that! you were perfectly well aware that you had the heroic part, all through.' 'indeed, i wasn't aware of it at all! i felt most awfully small, i assure you.' 'that's because you're not a woman,' observed margaret thoughtfully. 'no,' she went on, after a short pause, during which lushington found nothing to say, 'the revenge you had was much more complete. i don't think i'll tell you what it was. you might think----' she broke off abruptly, and drew the big garden hat even further over her eyes. lushington watched her mouth, as he could see so little of the rest of her face, but the lips were shut and motionless, with rather a set look, as if she meant to keep a secret. 'if you don't tell me, i suppose i'm free to think what i please,' lushington answered. 'i might even think that you were seized with remorse for being so extremely horrid and that you went home and drenched a number of pillows with your tears.' he laughed lightly. margaret was silent for a moment, but she slowly nodded and drummed a five-fingered exercise on her knee with her right hand. 'i cried like a baby,' she said suddenly, with a little snort of dissatisfaction. 'not really?' lushington was profoundly surprised, before he was flattered. 'yes. i hope you're satisfied? was i not right in saying that you were revenged?' 'you have more heart than you like to show,' he answered. 'thank you for caring so much! it was nice of you.' 'i don't believe it was what you mean by "heart" at all,' said margaret. 'i don't pretend to have much, and what there is of it is not a bit of the "faithful squaw" kind. i cried that night about you, exactly as i might have cried over a poor lame horse, if somebody had kicked it uphill and i had been brute enough to laugh at its pain!' 'hm!' ejaculated lushington. 'pity, i suppose?' 'not a bit of it. how rude you are! i should have pitied you at the time, then. but i didn't, not the least bit. i laughed at you. afterwards i cried because i had been such a beast as to laugh, and i wished that somebody would come and beat me! i assure you, it was entirely out of disgust with myself that i cried, and not in the least out of pity for you!' 'i'm delighted to hear it,' said lushington. 'in the first place, i should be sorry to have been the direct means of bringing you to tears; secondly, i hate to be pitied; and thirdly, it's a much more difficult thing to make a woman disgusted with herself than it is to excite her compassion by playing lame horse or sick puppy!' margaret looked at him from under the brim of her hat, throwing her head far back so as to do so. then they both laughed a little, and lushington felt happy for a moment; but margaret did not know what she felt, if indeed she felt anything at all, beyond a momentary satisfaction in the society of a man she really liked very much, whom she had once believed she loved, and whom she might still have been willing to marry if she had not been at the point of beginning her public career, and if he had asked her, and if--but there were altogether too many conditions, and for the moment matrimony was out of sight. 'i like you very much,' she said, suddenly thoughtful. 'i've seen you act like a hero, and you always act like a gentleman. one cannot say that of many men. if i were not such a wicked flirt, i suppose i should be in love with you, as i was that day when you left here. i'm glad i'm not! do you know that it's frightfully humiliating to want to marry a man, and to have him object, no matter why?' lushington said something, but he felt that again the real margaret had slipped away out of sight for a while, leaving somebody else in her place. whenever it happened, he felt a little painful sensation of choking, like a man who is suddenly deprived of air; until he looked at her and saw that she was outwardly herself. then he adjusted the halo of ideality upon the artist again, and continued to love margaret donne with all his heart. chapter xix there is a certain kind, or perhaps it is only a certain degree, of theatrical reputation, which makes its coming felt in all sorts of ways, like a change in the weather. the rise of literary men to fame is almost always a surprise to themselves, their families, and their former instructors. especially the latter, who know much more than the young novelist does, but have never been able to do anything with their knowledge, hold up their shrivelled, or podgy, or gouty old hands in sorrow, declaring that the success of a boy who was such a dolt, such a good-for-nothing, such a conceited jackanapes at school, only shows what the judgment of the public is worth, and how very low its standard has fallen. but the great public does not think much of decayed schoolmasters at best, and is never surprised that a young man should succeed, for the very simple reason that if he did not, some other young man certainly would; and to those who do not know the colour of the author's hair and eyes, the difference between mr. brown, mr. jones, and mr. robinson, in private life, must be purely a matter of imagination. but theatrical reputation is a different matter, and its rise affects the professional barometer beforehand. the people who train great singers and great actors know what they are about and foresee the result, as no publisher can foresee it with regard to a new writer. there is a right way and a wrong way of singing, one must sing in tune unless one sings out of tune, there are standards of comparison in the persons of the great singers who are still at their best. it is not easy to be mistaken, where so much is a matter of certainty and so little depends on chance, and the facts become known very easily. the first-rate second-rate artists, climbing laboriously in the wake of the real first-rates, and wishing that these would die and get out of the way, feel a hopeless sinking at the heart as they hear behind them the rush of another coming genius. the tired critics sleep less soundly in the front row of the stalls, the fine and frivolous ladies who come to the opera to talk the whole evening are told that for once they will have to be silent, the reporters put on little playful airs of mystery to say that they have been allowed to assist at a marvellous rehearsal or have been admitted to see the future diva putting on her cloak after a final interview with schreiermeyer, whose attitude before her is described as being that of the donor of the picture in an old italian altar-piece. and all this is not mere advertisement; much of it is, in fact, nothing of the sort, and is not even suggested by schreiermeyer, for he knows perfectly well that one performance will place his new star very nearly at her true value before the public, who will flock to hear her and take infinite pains to find out where and when she is going to sing the next time. it is just the outward, healthy stir that goes before certain kinds of theatrical success, and which is quite impossible where most other arts are concerned; perhaps--i suggest it with apologies to all living prima donnas and first tenors--the higher the art, the less can success be predicted. was ever a great painter, a great sculptor or a great poet 'announced'? on the other hand, was there ever a great singer who was not appreciated till after death? the public probably did not hear the name of margaret donne till much later, and then, with considerable indifference, but long before margarita da cordova made her _début_, her name was repeated, with more or less mistakes and eccentricities of pronunciation, from mouth to mouth, in london and paris, and was even mentioned in st. petersburg, berlin and new york. every one connected with the musical world, even if only as a regular spectator, felt that something extraordinary was coming. madame bonanni wrote to margaret that she wished to see her, and would come over to paris expressly, if margaret would only telegraph. she would come out to versailles, she would make the acquaintance of that charming mrs. rushmore. margaret wondered what would happen if the two women met, and what mutual effect they would produce upon each other, but her knowledge of mrs. rushmore made her doubt whether such a meeting were desirable. instead of telegraphing to madame bonanni, she wrote her answer, proposing to go to the prima donna's house. but madame bonanni was impatient, and as no telegram came when she expected one, she did not wait for a possible letter. to margaret's dismay and stupefaction, she appeared at versailles about luncheon time, arrayed with less good taste than the lilies of the field, but yet in a manner to outdo solomon in all his glory, and she was conveyed in a perfectly new motor car. when margaret, looking on from beyond the pond, saw her descend from the machine, she could not help thinking of a dreadful fresco she had once seen on the ceiling of an italian villa, representing a very florid, double-chinned, powerful eighteenth-century juno apparently in the act of getting down into the room from her car, to the great inconvenience of every one below. the english servant who opened the door was in distress of mind when he saw her, for since he had served in mrs. rushmore's very proper household he had never seen anything like madame bonanni as she stood there asking for miss donne, and evidently not in a mood to be patient. he was very much inclined to tell her that she had mistaken the house, and to shut the door in her face. there were people coming to luncheon, and it was just possible that she might be one of them; but if she was not, and if the others came and found such a person there, how truly awful it would be! thus the footman reflected as he stood in the doorway, listening to madame bonanni's voluble french speech. as she paused for a moment, he heard some one on the stairs. it was mrs. rushmore herself. he recognised her step and turned sharp round on his heels, still filling the door but exposing his broad back to the visitor. 'very odd person asking to see miss donne, ma'am,' he said in low and hurried tones. 'shall i say "not at home," ma'am?' 'by all means "not at home," james,' said mrs. rushmore. james had not miscalculated his breadth, as to the door, but his height as compared with that of the odd person outside. she put her head over his shoulder and looked in at mrs. rushmore. 'may i please come in?' she asked in comprehensible english. 'i am bonanni, the singer, and i want to see miss donne. i've come from london to--please? yes?' 'goodness gracious!' cried mrs. rushmore. 'let the lady in at once, james!' james disappeared, somehow, and the artist came into the darkened hall, and met mrs. rushmore. the latter did not often meet a woman much bigger than herself, and actually felt small when she held out her hand. madame bonanni seemed to fill the little hall of the french cottage, and mrs. rushmore felt as if she were in danger of being turned out of it to make room. 'margaret is in the garden,' she said. 'i am so pleased to meet you, madame bonanni! i hope you'll stay to lunch. do come in, and i'll send for her. james!' all this was said while the two large hands were mildly shaking one another; mrs. rushmore was not easily startled by the sudden appearance of lions--or lionesses--and was conscious of being tolerably consecutive in her speech. it was not madame bonanni's greatness that had taken her by surprise, but her size and momentum. the prima donna answered in french. 'you understand? of course! thank you! then i will speak in my own language. i will go out to miss donne, if you permit. luncheon? ah, if i could! but i have just eaten. i am sure you have so many good things! little miss donne--ah! here she is!' at this point margaret came in, pulling off the old garden hat she had worn when lushington had come to see her. she was surprised that the prima donna did not throw her arms round her and kiss her, but the artist had judged mrs. rushmore in a flash and behaved with almost english gravity as she took margaret's hand. 'i have come to paris expressly to see you,' she said. 'let me introduce you to mrs. rushmore,' said margaret. 'it is done,' said madame bonanni, making a little stage courtesy at the elder woman. 'i broke into the house like a burglar, and found a charming hostess waiting to arrest me with the kindest invitation to luncheon!' 'what a delightful way of putting it!' cried mrs. rushmore, much pleased. margaret felt that madame bonanni was showing a side of her nature which she had not yet seen. it had never occurred to the girl that the singer could make pretty society speeches. but madame bonanni had seen many things in her time. margaret carried her off to her own room, after a few words more, for it was clear that her visitor had something private to say, and had come all the way from london to say it, apparently out of pure friendship. her manner changed again when they were alone. by force of habit the big woman sat down on the piano-stool and turned over the music that was open on the instrument, and she seemed to pay no heed to what margaret said. margaret was thanking her for her visit, arranging the blinds, asking her if there was enough air, for the day was hot, inquiring about the weather in london, moving about the room with each little speech, and with the evident desire to start the conversation so as to find out why madame bonanni had come. but the singer turned over the pages obstinately, looked up rather coldly at margaret now and then, and once or twice whistled a few bars of _rigoletto_ in a way that would have been decidedly rude, had it not been perfectly clear that she did not know what she was doing, and was really trying to make up her mind how to begin. margaret understood, and presently let her alone, and just sat down on a chair at the corner of the piano with a bit of work, and waited to see what would happen. 'i thought it might help you a little if i ran through the opera with you,' said madame bonanni, after a long time. 'i have sung it very often.' but as she spoke she shut the score on the piano rather sharply, as if she had changed her mind. margaret looked up quickly in surprise and dropped her work in her lap. 'you did not come all the way from london for that?' she asked, in a voice full of gratitude and wonder. there was a moment's pause, during which the singer looked uneasy. 'no,' she said, 'i didn't. i never could lie very well--i can't at all to-day! but i would have come, only for that, if i had thought you needed it. that is the truth.' 'how good you are!' margaret cried. 'good!' the singer's hand covered her big eyes for a moment and her elbow rested on the edge of the piano desk. there was a very sad note in the single word she had spoken, a note of despair not far off; but margaret did not understand. 'what is the matter?' she asked, leaning forward, and laying one hand gently on madame bonanni's wrist. 'why do you speak like that?' 'do you think you would have been any better, in my place?' the question came in a harsh tone, suddenly, as if it broke through some opposing medium, the hand dropped from the brow, and the big dark eyes gazed into margaret's almost fiercely. still the girl did not understand. 'better? i? in what way? tell me what it is, if something is distressing you. let me help you, if i can. you know i will, with all my heart.' 'yes, i know.' madame bonanni's voice sank again. 'but how can you? the trouble is older than you are. there is one thing--yes--there is one thing, if you could say it truly! it would help me a little if you could say it--and yet--no--i'm not sure--if you did, it would only show that you have more heart than he has.' 'who?' margaret vaguely guessed the truth. 'who? tom--my son! "edmund lushington," who feels that he cannot ask a respectable girl to marry him because his mother has been a wicked woman.' the big woman shook from head to foot as she spoke. margaret was pained and her fingers tightened nervously on the other's wrist. 'oh, please don't!' she cried. 'please don't!' 'he's right,' answered madame bonanni, hanging her large head and shaking it despairingly. 'of course, he's right, and it's true! but, oh!--she looked up again, suddenly--'oh, how much more right it must be for a man to forgive his mother, no matter what she has done!' margaret's fingers glided from the wrist they held, to the large hand, and pressed it sympathetically, but she could not find anything to say which would do. the friendly pressure, however, evidently meant enough to the distressed woman. 'thank you, dear,' she said gratefully. 'you're very good to me. i know you mean it, too. only, you're not placed as he is. if you were my daughter, you would think as he thinks--you would not live under my roof! perhaps you would not even see me when we met in the street! you would look the other way!' margaret could not have told, for her life, what she would have done, but she was far too kind-hearted not to protest. 'indeed i wouldn't!' she cried, with so much energy that madame bonanni believed her. 'no matter what i had done?' asked she pathetically eager for the assurance. 'you'd have been my mother just the same,' answered margaret softly. as the girl spoke, she felt a little sharp revolt in her heart against what she had said, at the mere thought of associating the word 'mother' with madame bonanni. there was nothing at all psychological in that, and it would hardly bear analysing even by a professional dissector of character. it was just the natural feeling, in a natural girl, whose mother had been honest and good. but madame bonanni only heard the kind words. 'yes,' she answered, 'i should have been your mother, just the same. but i couldn't have been a better mother to you than i've been to tom. i couldn't, indeed!' 'no,' margaret said, in the same gentle tone as before, 'you've been very good to him.' 'yes! i have! he knows it, and he does not deny it!' madame bonanni suddenly sat up quite straight and squeezed margaret's hands by way of emphasis. 'but he does not care,' she went on, her anger rising a little. 'not he! he would rather that i should have been any sort of miserable little proper middle-class woman, if i could only have been technically "virtuous"! if i had been that, i might have beaten him to an omelette every day when he was a boy, and tormented him like a gadfly when he was a man! he would have preferred it--oh, by far! that is the logic of men, my dear, their irrefutable logic that they are always talking about and facing us down with! the miserable little animal! i will give up loving him, i will hate him, as he deserves, i will tell him to go to peru, where he will never see his wicked old mother again! then he will be sorry, he will wish he were dead, but i shall not go to him, never, never, never!' she spoke the last words with tremendous energy, and a low echo of her voice came back out of the open piano from the strings. she clenched her fist and shook it at an imaginary lushington in space, and for a moment her face wore a look of medean menace. margaret might have smiled, if she had not felt that the strange creature was really and truly suffering, in her own way, to the borders of distraction. then, suddenly, the great frame was convulsed again and quivered from head to foot. 'i'm going to cry,' she announced, in rather shaky tones. and she cried. she slipped from the piano-stool to the floor, upon her knees, and her heavy arms fell upon the keys with a crashing discord, and her face buried itself in the large depths of one bent elbow, quite regardless of damage to paquin's masterpiece of a summer sleeve; and with huge sobs the tears welled up and overflowed, taking everything they found in their way, including paint, and washing all down between the ivory keys of margaret's piano. margaret saw that there was nothing to be done. at first she tried to soothe her as best she could, standing over her, and laying a hand gently on her shoulder; but madame bonanni shook it off with a sort of convulsive shudder, as a big carthorse gets rid of a fly that has settled on a part of his back inaccessible to his tail. then margaret desisted, knowing that the fit must go on to its natural end, and that it was hopeless to try and stop it sooner. women are very practical with each other in crying matters, but it is bad for us men if we treat them in the same sensible way under the identical circumstances. margaret sat down again in her chair, and instead of taking up her work, she leaned forward towards the weeping woman, to be ready with a word of sympathy as soon as it could be of any use. she watched the heavy head, the strong and coarse dark hair, the large animal construction of the neck and shoulders, the massive hands, discoloured now with straining upon themselves; nothing escaped her, as she quietly waited for the sobbing to cease; and though she felt the peasant nature there, close to her, in all its rugged strength, yet she felt, too, that with certain differences of outward refinement, it was not unlike her own. her own hair, for instance, was much finer; but then, fair hair is generally finer than dark. her own hands were smaller than madame bonanni's; but then, they had never been used to manual labour when she had been a girl. and as for the rest of her, she knew that madame bonanni had been reckoned a beauty in her day, such a beauty that very great and even royal personages indeed had done extremely foolish things to please her; and that very beauty had been in part the cause of those very tears the poor woman was shedding now. margaret was quite sensible enough to admit that she herself, after a quarter of a century of stage life, might turn into very much the same type of woman. while waiting to be sympathetic at the right moment, therefore, she studied madame bonanni's appearance with profound and melancholy interest. she had never had such a good chance. the convulsive sobbing grew regular, then more slow, then merely intermittent, and then it stopped altogether. but before she lifted her face from the hollow of her elbow, madame bonanni felt about for something with her other hand; and margaret, being a woman, knew that she wanted her handkerchief before showing her face, and picked it up and gave it to her. a man would probably have taken the groping fingers and pressed them, or kissed them, probably supposing that to be what was wanted, and thereby much retarding the progress of events. madame bonanni pushed up the handkerchief between her face and her elbow and moved it about, with a vague idea of equalising her colour in one general tint, then blew her nose, and then sprang to her feet at once, with that wonderful elasticity which was always so surprising in her sudden movements. moreover, she got up turning her face away from margaret, and made for the nearest mirror. 'lord!' she exclaimed, laconically, as she looked at herself and realised the full extent of the damage done. 'wouldn't you like to wash your face?' asked margaret, following her at a discreet distance. 'my dear,' answered madame bonanni, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone, 'it's awful, of course, but there's nothing else to be done!' 'come into my dressing-room.' 'if i were at home, i should take a bath and dress over a--a--a----' one last most unexpected sob half choked her and then made her cough, till she stamped her foot with anger. 'bah!' she cried with contempt when she got her breath. 'if i had often made myself look like such a monster, i should have been a perfectly good woman! the men would have run from me like mice from a barn on fire! have you got any of that vienna liquid soap, my dear!' margaret had the liquid soap, as it chanced, and in a few moments she was busily occupied in helping madame bonanni to restore her appearance. though long, the process was only partially successful, from the latter's own point of view. having washed away all that had been, she produced a gold box from the bag she wore at her side. the box was divided into three compartments containing respectively rouge, white powder and a miniature puff for applying both, which she proceeded to do abundantly, sitting at margaret's toilet-table and talking while she worked. she had made more confusion in the small dressing-room in five minutes than margaret could have made in dressing twice over. paint-stained towels strewed the floor, chairs were upset, soap and water was splashed everywhere. now she started afresh, by rubbing plentiful daubs of rouge into her dark cheeks. 'but why do you put on so much?' margaret asked in wonder. 'my dear, i'm an actress,' said madame bonanni. 'i'm not ashamed of my profession! if i didn't paint, people would say i was trying to pass myself off for a lady! besides, now that i have cried, nothing but powder will hide it. look at my nose, my dear--just look at my nose! little miss donne'--she turned upon margaret with sudden, tragic energy--'don't ever let that wretched boy know that i cried about him! eh? never! promise you won't!' 'no, indeed! you may trust me. why should i tell?' 'but it doesn't matter. tell him if you like. i don't care. my life is over now, and there is no reason why i should care about anything, is there?' 'what do you mean by saying that your life is over?' margaret asked. madame bonanni's head fell upon the edge of the table and she looked at herself in the glass for some moments before she answered. 'i have left the stage,' she said, very quietly. 'left the stage? for good?' margaret was amazed. 'yes. i was not going to have any farewells or last appearances. those things are only done to make money. schreiermeyer was very nice about it. he agreed to cancel the rest of my engagements in a friendly way.' 'but why? why have you done it?' asked margaret, still bewildered by the news. madame bonanni had done one cheek and half the other. she leaned back in the comfortable chair before the glass and looked at herself again, not at all at the effect of her work, but at her eyes, as if she were searching for something. 'there is not room for you and me,' she said, presently. 'i don't understand,' margaret answered. 'not room? where?' 'on the stage. i have been the great lyric soprano a long time. next month you will be the great lyric soprano--there is not room----' 'nonsense!' margaret broke in. 'i shall never be what you are----' 'not what i was, perhaps, because this is another age. taste and teaching and the art itself--all have changed. but you are young, fresh, untouched, unheard--all, you have it all, as i had once. you are not the artist i am, but you will be one day, and meanwhile you have all i have no more. if i had stayed on the stage, we should have been rivals next season. they would have said: "cordova has a better voice, but bonanni is still the greater artist." do you see?' 'yes. and why should you not be pleased at that?' asked margaret. 'or why should not i be quite satisfied, and more than satisfied?' 'i wasn't thinking of us,' said madame bonanni, looking up to margaret's face with an expression that was almost beautiful, in spite of the daubs of paint and the disarranged hair. 'i was thinking of him.' margaret began to guess, and her lip quivered a moment, for she was touched. 'yes,' she said. 'i think i see.' 'he loves you,' said madame bonanni, still looking at her. 'i have guessed it. it is very hard for me to get him to like me a little, and he would not forgive me if the really good critics said i was a better artist than you. that would be one thing more against me, my dear, and he has so many things against me already! so i have given it up. why should i go on singing, now? he does not care any more. when he has once heard you he will never want to come again and sit in the middle of the theatre all alone in the audience just to hear me, as he often did. then i sang my best. i never sang as i have sung for him, when i have caught sight of his face in the audience. no, not for kings. i used to go and look through the curtain before it went up, if i thought he was there. and it was just to hear me that he came, just for the artistic pleasure! he never came to my dressing-room, for that destroyed the illusion. but now he will go and hear you, and it would make him very bitter against me if any one said i sang better. do you understand?' 'yes. i understand.' margaret bent her head a little and looked down, wondering and puzzled, yet believing. 'at least i can do that for him.' madame bonanni sighed, looking into the glass again. 'i cannot undo my life, but i need not seem to him to be a hindrance in yours.' it was impossible to receive such a confidence without being deeply touched, and margaret's own voice shook a little as she answered. 'there have not been many mothers like you since the world began,' she said. 'i will tell you!' the singer turned half round in her chair with one of her sudden movements. 'if i had known that i was going to be so fond of him--and oh, my dear, if i could have guessed that he would care so much!--i would have led a different life! i would have left the stage if i could not. oh, don't think it is so easy to be good! but it's possible! one can--one could, if one only knew--for the sake of some one whom one loves very dearly!' 'of course it is!' answered margaret, with all the heavenly self-confidence of untried virtue. madame bonanni looked at her with a peculiar expression. there was a little pity in the look, and great doubt, a shade of amusement, perhaps, and a great longing envy through it all. 'of course?' she repeated, in a thoughtful way. 'did you mean "of course it is possible--and easy," my dear? the tone of your voice made me think that was what you meant. yes--you meant that, and you have a right to mean it, but you don't know. that's the great difference--you don't know! you haven't begun as i did. you're a lady, a real lady, brought up amongst ladies from your childhood. but that's not what will keep you good! it's not your refinement, nor your good manners, nor your white hands that never milked a cow, or swept a stable, or hoed the weeds out from between the vines in summer. that was my work till i was seventeen. and my mother was a good woman, my dear, just as good as yours, though she was only a peasant of provence. how do i know it? if she had not been good, my father would have killed her, of course. that was our custom. and he was good, in his way, too, and kind. he always told me that if i went wrong he would shoot me--and when the english artist came and lodged in our house for the summer and made love to me, my father explained everything to him also. so poor goodyear saw that he must marry me, and we were married, before i was eighteen. he took me away to paris, and tried to make a lady of me, and he had me taught to sing, because he loved my voice. do you see? that was how it all happened--and still i was good, as good as you are! yes--"of course," as you say! it was easy enough!' 'he died young, didn't he?' margaret asked quietly. she had seated herself on the corner of the toilet-table to listen, while madame bonanni leaned back in the low chair and looked at herself, sometimes absently, sometimes with pity. 'yes,' she answered. 'he died very soon and left me nothing but tommy and my voice. poor goodyear! he painted very badly, he never sold anything, and his father starved him because he had married me. it was far better that he should die of pneumonia than of hunger, for that would certainly have been the end of it. 'and you went on the stage at once?' margaret asked, wishing to hear more. madame bonanni shrugged her shoulders and leaned forward to the looking-glass. 'i had a fortune in my throat,' she said, daubing rouge on the cheek that was only half done. 'i had been well taught in those years, and there were plenty of managers only too anxious to offer me their protection--managers and other people, too. what could i do?' she shrugged her shoulders again, and laughed a little harshly as she gave a half-shy glance at margaret. the latter was not a child, but a grown woman of two-and-twenty. she answered gravely. 'with your voice and talent, i don't see why you needed any protection, as you call it.' madame bonanni laughed again. 'no? you don't see? all the better, little miss donne, all the better for you that you have never been made to see, and perhaps you never will now. i hope not. but i tell you that in paris, or in london, or berlin, or petersburg you may have the voice and talent of malibran, grisi and patti all in one, but if you are not "protected" you will never get any further than leading chorus-girl, and perhaps not so far!' 'no one has protected me,' said margaret, 'and i've got a good engagement.' the prima donna stared at her for a moment in surprise, and then went on making up her face. the girl had talent, genius, perhaps, but she must be oddly simple if she did not realise that she owed her engagement altogether to the woman who was talking to her. was margaret going to take that position from the first? madame bonanni wondered. was she going to deliberately ignore that she had been taken up bodily, as it were, and carried through the short cut to celebrity? or was it just the simple, stupid, innocent vanity that so often goes with great gifts, making their possessors quite sure that they can never owe the least part of their success to any help received from any one else? whatever it might be, madame bonanni was not the woman to remind margaret of what had happened. she only smiled a little and put on more powder. 'i'm not defending my life, my dear,' she said, quietly, after a little pause. 'of what use would that be, now that the best part of it is over--or the worst part? i'm not even asking for your sympathy, am i?' her voice was suddenly bitter. 'i only care for one human being in the world--i think i never cared for any other, since he was born! does that make my life worse? it does, doesn't it? in the name of heaven, child,' she broke out fiercely and angrily, without the least warning, 'was no woman ever flattered into playing at love? not even by a king? am i the only living woman that has been carried off her feet by royalty? it wasn't only the king, of course--i don't pretend it was--there were others. but that's what tom will never forgive me--the money and the jewels! what could i do? throw them in his face, scream outraged virtue and cry that he was offending me, when he had nothing more to ask, and i was half drunk with pride and vanity and amusement, because he was really in love? tell some great lady, your duchess, your princess, to do that sort of thing--if you think she will! don't ask it of a provence girl who has milked the cows and hoed the vines, and then suddenly has half europe at her feet, and a king into the bargain! there was only one thing in the world that could have saved me then--it would have been to know that tom would never forgive me. and he was only a little boy--how could i guess?' she looked up almost wildly into margaret's eyes, and then bent down, resting her forehead upon her hands, on the edge of the table. 'don't be afraid,' she said, 'i'm not going to cry again--never again, i think! it's over and finished, with the other things!' she remained in the same position nearly a minute, and then sat up quite straight before the glass, as if nothing had happened, and powdered her cheeks again. margaret sat still on the corner of the table, not at all sure of what she had better say or do. she only hoped that madame bonanni would not ask her whether she cared for lushington and would marry him, supposing that his scruples could be overcome, and she had a strong suspicion that it was to ask this that madame bonanni had come to see her. it would be rather hard to answer, margaret knew, and she turned over words and expressions in her mind. she might have spared herself the trouble, for nothing could have been further from her companion's thoughts just then. the dramatic moment had passed and margaret had scarcely noticed it, beyond being very much surprised at the news it had brought her of the great singer's retiring from the stage. perhaps, too, margaret was a little inclined to doubt whether madame bonanni would abide by her resolution in the future, though she was perfectly in earnest at present. 'i shall be at your first night,' said the prima donna, finishing her operations at last, and carefully shutting her little gold box. 'if you have a dress rehearsal, i'll be at that, too.' 'thank you,' margaret answered. 'yes--there is to be a dress rehearsal on sunday. schreiermeyer insists on it for me. he's afraid i shall have stage fright because i'm so cool now, i suppose.' she laughed, contentedly and perfectly sure of herself. 'the only thing i don't like is being brought on in the sack to sing that last scene.' 'eh?' madame bonanni stared in surprise. 'the sack,' margaret repeated. 'the last scene. don't you know?' 'i know--but it's always left out. nobody has sung that for years. it's a chorus-girl who is brought on in the bag, and when rigoletto sees her face he screams and the curtain goes down. you don't mean to say that schreiermeyer wants you to do the whole scene? 'yes. we've rehearsed it ever so often. i thought it was strange, too. he says that if it does not please people at the dress rehearsal, we can leave it out on the real night.' 'i never heard of anything so ridiculous in my life!' madame bonanni was evidently displeased. she had once done the 'sack' scene herself to satisfy the caprice of a foreign sovereign who wished to see the effect of it, and she had a vivid and disagreeable recollection of being half dragged, half carried, inside a brown canvas bag, and then put down rather roughly; and then, of not knowing at what part of the stage she was, while she listened to rigoletto's voice; and of the strong, dusty smell of the canvas, that choked her, so that she wanted to cough and sneeze when rigoletto tore open the bag and let her head out; and then, of having to sing in a very uncomfortable position; and, altogether, of a most disagreeable quarter of an hour just at the very time when she should have been getting her wig and paint off in her dressing-room. moreover, the scene was a failure, as it always has been wherever it has been tried. she told margaret this. 'at all events,' she concluded, 'you won't have to do it on the real night.' they were in the larger room again. but for the decided damage done to her sleeve by her tears, madame bonanni had restored her outward appearance tolerably well. she stood at the corner of the piano, resting one hand upon it. 'i'm sorry for you, my dear,' she said cheerfully, 'because i've given you so much trouble, but i'm glad i cried as much as i wanted to. it's horribly bad for the voice and complexion, but nothing really refreshes one so much. i felt as if my heart were going to break when i got here.' 'and now?' margaret smiled, standing beside the elderly woman and idly turning over the music on the desk of the instrument. 'i suppose it has broken,' madame bonanni answered. 'at all events, i don't feel it any more. no--really--i don't! he may go to peru, if he likes--i hope he will, the ungrateful little beast! i'll never think of him again! when you have made your _début_, i'm going to live in the country. there's plenty to do there! bonanni shall milk cows again and hoe the furrows between the vines this summer! bonanni shall go back to provence and be an old peasant woman, where she was once a peasant girl, and married the english painter. do you think i've forgotten the language, or the songs?' one instant's pause, and the singer's great voice broke out in the small room with a volume of sound so tremendous that it seemed as if it would rend the walls and the ceiling. it was an ancient provençal song that she sang, in long-drawn cadences with strange falls and wild intervals, the natural music of an ancient, gifted people. it was very short, for she only sang one stanza of it, and in less than a minute it was finished and she was silent again. but her big dark eyes, still swollen and bloodshot, were looking out to a distance far beyond the green trees she saw through the open window. margaret, who had listened, repeated the wild melody very softly, and sounded each note of it without the words, as if she wished to remember it always; and a nearer sight came back to the elder woman's eyes as she listened to the true notes that never faltered, and were as pure as sounding silver, and as smooth as velvet and as rich as gold. it was a little thing, but one of those little things that only a born great singer could have done faultlessly at the first attempt; and madame bonanni listened with rare delight. then she laughed, as happily as if she had no heartaches in the world. 'little miss donne, little miss donne!' she cried, shaking a fat finger, 'you will turn many heads before long! you shall come to my cottage in the autumn, when we have the vintage, and there you will find old bonanni looking after the work in a ragged straw hat, with no paint on her cheeks. and in the evening we will sit upon the door-step together, and you shall tell me how the heads turned round and round, and i will teach you all the old songs of provence. will you come?' 'indeed, i will,' margaret answered, smiling. 'i would cross europe to see you--you have been so good to me. do you know? i want you to forgive me for what i said in the dressing-room about my engagement. i remember how you looked when i said it, and now i know that you did not understand. of course i owe it all to you--but that isn't what you meant by--"protection"?' the prima donna's expression changed again, and grew hard and almost sullen. 'never mind that,' she said, roughly. 'i wasn't thinking of that. i didn't notice what you said.' she turned her back to margaret, walked to the window and stood there looking out while she put on her gloves. but margaret was humble, in spite of the rudeness. 'i'm sorry,' she said, following a little way. 'i'm very sorry--i----' madame bonanni did not even turn her head to listen. margaret did not try to say anything more, but broke off and waited patiently. then the elder woman turned quickly and fiercely, buttoning the last button of her glove. 'if my own son has done much worse to me, why should i care what any one else can do?' she asked. but margaret was obstinate in her humility and would not be put off. she took one of madame bonanni's hands and made her look at her. 'i would not say or do anything that could hurt you for all the world,' said margaret, very earnestly. 'i won't let you go away thinking that i could, and angry with me. don't you believe me?' there was no resisting the tone and the look, and madame bonanni was not able to be angry long. her large mouth widened slowly in a bright smile, and the next moment she threw her arms round margaret and kissed her on both cheeks. 'bah!' she cried, 'i didn't think i could still be so fond of anybody, since that wretched boy of mine broke my heart! it's ridiculous, but i really believe there's nothing i wouldn't do for you, child!' she was heartily in earnest, though she little guessed what she was going to do for margaret within a few days. but margaret, who was really grateful, was nevertheless glad that there was apparently nothing more that madame bonanni could do. she was not quite sure that the great singer's retirement would prove final; and on cool reflection she found it hard to believe that the motive for it was the one the latter alleged, and which had so touched her at first that it had brought tears to her eyes. the anglo-saxon woman could not help looking at the latin woman with a little apprehension and a good deal of scepticism. chapter xx the stage was set for the introduction to the first act of _rigoletto_, the curtain was down, the lights were already up in the house and a good many people were in their seats or standing about and chatting quietly. it was a hot afternoon in july, and high up in the gallery the summer sunshine streamed through an open window full upon the blazing lights of the central chandelier, a straight, square beam of yellow gold thrown across a white fire, and clearly seen through it. it was still afternoon when the dress rehearsal began, but the night would have come when it ended. there is always a pleasant latitude about dress rehearsals, even when the piece is old and there is no new stage machinery to be tried. while the play or the opera is actually going on, everything works quickly as in a real performance, but between the acts, or even between one scene and another, there is a tendency on the part of the actors and the invited public to treat the whole affair as a party of pleasure. doors of communication are opened which would otherwise be shut, people wander about the house, looking for their friends, and if there is plenty of room they change seats now and then. many of the people are extremely shabby, others are preternaturally smart; if it is in the daytime everybody wears street clothes and the women rarely take off their hats. it is only at the evening dress rehearsals of important new pieces at the great paris theatres that the house presents its usual appearance, but then there have been already three or four real dress rehearsals at which the necessary work has been done. the theatre at which margaret was making her _début_ was a large one in a belgian city, a big modern house, to all appearance, and really fitted with the usual modern machinery which has completely changed the working of the stage since electricity was introduced. but the building itself was old and was full of queer nooks at the back, and passages and shafts long disused; and it had two stage entrances, one of which was now kept locked, while the other had the usual swinging doors guarded by a sharp-eyed doorkeeper who knew and remembered several thousand faces of actors, singers, authors, painters, and carpenters, and of other privileged persons from princes and bankers to dressmakers' girls who had, or had once had, the right to enter by the stage door. the two entrances were on opposite sides of the building. the one no longer in use led out to a dark, vaulted passage or alley wide enough for a carriage to enter; and formerly the carriages of the leading singers had driven up by that way, entering at one end and going out at the other, but the side that had formerly led to the square before the theatre was now built up, and contained a small shop having a back door in the dark alley, and only the other exit remained, and it opened upon an unfrequented street behind the theatre. the dressing-rooms had been disposed with respect to this old entrance, and their position had never been changed. it had been convenient for the prima donna to be able to reach her carriage after the performance without crossing the stage; whereas, as things were now arranged, she had a long distance to go. the new stage door had been made within the last ten years, so that every one who had known the theatre longer than that was well aware of the existence of the old one, though few people knew that it could still be opened on emergency, as in case of fire, and that it was also used for bringing in the unusually big boxes in which some of the great singers sent their dresses. the dressing-rooms opened upon a wide but ill-lighted corridor which led from the stage near the back on the left; the last dressing-room was the largest and was always the prima donna's. just beyond it a door closed the end of the passage, leading to the doorkeeper's former vestibule, which was now never lighted, and beyond that a short flight of steps led down to the locked outer door, on the level of the street. in the same corridor there were of course other dressing-rooms which were not all used in _rigoletto_, an opera which has only two principal women's parts; whereas in the _huguenots_, for instance, the rooms would all have been full, there would have been a number of maids about and more lights. in _rigoletto_, too, the contralto does not even come to the theatre to dress until the opera is more than half over, as she is only on in the third act. the contessa and giovanna do not count, as they have so little to do. this short explanation of the topography of the building is necessary in order to understand clearly what happened on that memorable afternoon and evening. margaret donne was in her dressing-room, quite unaware that anything was going to occur beyond the first great ordeal of singing to a full house, a matter which was of itself enough to fill the day and to bring even margaret's solid nerves to a state of tension which she had not anticipated. the bravest and coolest men have felt their hearts beating faster just before facing cold steel or going into battle, and almost all of them have felt something else too, which has nothing to do with the heart, and which i can only compare to what many women suffer from when there is going to be a thunderstorm--an indescribable physical restlessness and bodily irritation which make it irksome to stay long in one position and impossible to think consecutively and reasonably about ordinary matters. there is no sport like fighting with real weapons, with the certainty that life itself is depending at every instant on one's own hand and eye. no other game of skill or hazard can compare with that. it is chess, played for life and death, with an element of chance which chess has not; your foot may slip, your eye may be dazzled by a ray of light or a sudden reflection, or if you are not a first-rate player you may miscalculate your distance by four inches, which, in steel, is exactly enough; or if the weapons are fire-arms you may aim a little too high or too low, or the other man may, and that little will mean the difference between time and eternity. but in the scale of emotion and excitement the theatre comes next to fighting, whether you be the author of the play or opera to be given for the first time before the greatest and most critical audience in the world, or the actor, or actress, or singer, who has not yet been heard or seen and of whom wonders are expected on the great night. margaret had not believed it true, though she had often heard it, and now she was amazed at the strangeness of the physical sensation which came over her and grew till it was almost intolerable. it was not fright, for she longed for the moment of appearing; it was not ordinary nervousness, for she felt that she was as steady as a rock, and now and then, when she tried a few notes, to 'limber' her voice, it was steady, too, and exactly what it always was. yet she felt as if some tremendous, unseen shape of strength had hold of her and were pressing her to itself; and then again, she was sure that she was going to see something unreal in her brightly-lighted, whitewashed dressing-room, and that if she did see it, she should be frightened. but she saw nothing; nothing but the dresses she was to wear, the handsome court gown of the second act, the limp purple silk tights, the doublet, long cloak and spurred boots of the third, all laid out carefully in their newness, on the small sofa and the chairs. she saw madame bonanni's cadaverous maid, too, standing motionless and ready if wanted, and looking at her with a sort of inscrutable curiosity; for the retired prima donna had insisted upon doing margaret the signal service of passing on to her one of the most accomplished theatrical dressers in europe. a woman who had made madame bonanni look like juliet or lucia could make margarita da cordova look a goddess from olympus; and she did, from the theatrical point of view. but margaret was not yet used to seeing herself in the glass when her face was made up, beautifully though it was done, and she kept away from the two mirrors as much as she could while she slowly paced the well-worn carpet, moving her shoulders now and then, and her arms, as if to make sure that she was at ease in her stage clothes. there was no one in the room but she and the maid. she had particularly asked schreiermeyer not to come and see her till the end of the second act, and madame bonanni stayed away of her own accord, rather to margaret's surprise, but greatly to her relief. at the last minute mrs. rushmore had refused to come at all, and had stayed in france, in a state of excitement and almost terror which made her very unlike herself, and would have rendered her a most disturbing companion. she could not see it, she said. the daughter of her old friend should always be welcome in her house, but mrs. rushmore could not face the theatre, to see margaret come on in the last scene booted and spurred like a man. that was more than she could bear. you might say what you liked, but she would never see margaret on the stage, never, never! and so she would keep her old illusions about the girl, and it would be easier to welcome her when she came on a visit. margaret must have a chaperon of course, but she must hire one of those respectable-looking stage mothers who are always to be had when young actresses need them. it would have broken her old friend's heart to see her daughter chaperoned by a 'stage mother,' but it could not be helped. that much protection was necessary. she had burst into a very painful fit of crying when margaret had left her, and had really suffered more than at any time since the death of the departed mr. rushmore. logotheti had given no sign of life, and margaret had neither seen him nor heard from him since the eventful day when she had last spoken to him in his own house. he would not even come this evening, she was sure. he had either given her up altogether, or he had amused himself by obeying her to the letter; in which case he would not present himself till after the real performance, which was to take place on the next day but one. he might have written a note, or sent a telegram, she thought; but on the whole she cared very little. if she thought of any one but herself at that moment she thought of lushington and wished she might see him again between the acts. he had called in the afternoon, and had been very quiet and sympathetic. she had feared that even at the last he would make a scene and entreat her to change her mind, and give up the idea of the stage, at any cost. but instead, he now seemed resigned to her future career, talked cheerfully and predicted unbounded success. she had received very many letters and telegrams from other friends, and some of them lay in a heap on the dressing-table. the greater part were from people who had known her at mrs. rushmore's, and who did not look upon her attempt as anything more than the caprice of a gifted amateur. society always finds it hard to believe that one of its own can leave it and turn professional. it was like margaret to prefer solitude just then. people who trust themselves would generally rather be alone just before a great event in their lives, and margaret trusted herself a good deal more than she trusted any one else. nevertheless, she began to feel that unless something happened soon, the nameless, indescribable pressure she felt would become unbearable, and as she walked the shabby carpet, her step accented itself to a little tramp, like a marching step. the cadaverous maid looked on with curiosity and said nothing. in her long career she had never dressed a _débutante_, and she had heard that _débutantes_ sometimes behaved oddly before going on. besides, she knew something which margaret did not know; for when she had come down to the theatre in the morning with the luggage, she had met madame bonanni in the dressing-room, and her late mistress had given her a piece of information and some very precise instructions. a moment came when margaret felt that she could no longer bear the close atmosphere of the small room and the curious eyes of the cadaverous maid, watching her as she walked up and down. madame bonanni would have made the woman go out or even stand with her face to the wall, but margaret had not yet lost that aristocratic sense of consideration for servants which plato ascribes to pride. instead of turning the maid out, margaret suddenly opened the door wide and stood on the threshold, breathing with relief the not very sweet air that came down the corridor from the stage. it came laden with a compound odour of ropes, dusty scenery, mouldy flour paste and cotton velvet furniture, the whole very hot and far from aromatic, but at that moment as refreshing as a sea-breeze to the impatient singer. the smell had already acquired associations for her during the long weeks of rehearsal, and she liked it; for it meant the stage, and music, and the sound of her own beautiful voice, high and clear above the rest. lushington might think of her when spring violets were near him, logotheti might associate with her the intoxicating perfumes of the east, but margaret's favourite scent was already that strange compound of smells which meets the nostrils nowhere in the world except behind the scenes. i have often wondered why the strong draught that comes from the back when the curtain is up does not blow the smell into the house, to the great annoyance of the audience; but it does not. perhaps, like everything else behind the curtain, it is not real, after all; or perhaps it has a very high specific gravity, and would stay behind even if all the air passed out, preferring the vacuum which nature abhors--nothing would seem too absurd to account for the phenomenon. it did not occur to margaret to wonder that there should be a draught at all, at the end of a closed corridor. she stood on the threshold, resting one hand on the door-post and looking towards the stage. in the distance she could see it, somewhere in the neighbourhood of what is technically described as l , where a group of courtiers and court ladies were standing ready to go on in the introduction. the border lights were up already, margaret could see that, and just then she heard the warning signal to be ready to raise the curtain, and the first distant notes of the orchestra reached her ears. she breathed a sigh of relief. the long-wished-for ordeal had begun at last, and the tension of her nerves relaxed. the sensation was strangely delicious and quite new to her; the quiet and solitude of the dressing-room would not be disagreeable now, nor the steady gaze of the sallow-faced maid. she turned half round to step back, and in so doing faced the end of the corridor. she had not the slightest idea of what was beyond the door she saw there, and which she had not noticed before, but she saw that it was now not quite shut, and that it moved slowly on its hinges as if it had been more open until that moment. so far as she knew there was no reason why it should be closed, but a little natural curiosity moved her to go and see what there was on the other side of it. it was not three steps from her own door, yet when she reached it, it was tightly closed, and when she took hold of the handle of the latch it resisted the effort she made to open it, though she had not heard the key turn in the lock. this seemed strange, but being under the influence of a much stronger excitement than she herself realised, she turned back without thinking seriously of it, being willing to believe that her sight had deceived her, where the light was so dim, and that the door had not been really open at all. her eyes met those of the maid, who had evidently come to the threshold of the dressing-room to watch her. 'i thought that door was open,' she said, as if in answer to a question. the woman said nothing, but passed her quickly and went and tried the lock herself. though she was so very thin, she was strong, as bony people often are. she tried the handle with both hands, turned it, though with much difficulty, and pulled suddenly with all her might. the door yielded a little at first--not more than half an inch perhaps--but then it closed itself again with a strength far greater than she could resist. she shrugged her shoulders as she desisted and came back. 'it is a disused door,' she said. 'it will not open.' her tone was so indifferent that margaret paid little attention to the words, and turned away to listen to the music which reached her from the stage. the curtain was up now, and the courtiers were dancing, up stage; she could see a few of them pass and repass; then she heard the little round of applause that greeted the duke's appearance as he went forward to begin his scene with borsa. he had many friends in the invited audience, and was moreover one of the popular light tenors of the day. doubtless, the elderly woman of the world who worshipped him was there in her glory, in a stage-box, ready to split her gloves when he should sing 'la donna è mobile.' margaret knew that the wholesale upholsterer who admired the contralto was not far off, for she had seen a man bringing in flowers for her, and no one else would have sent them to her for a mere dress rehearsal. margaret was so well used to the opera that the time passed quickly after the duke had begun his scene. the silent maid approached her with a hare's-foot and a saucer, to put a finishing touch on her face, to which she submitted with indifference, listening all the time to the music that came to her through the open door. there was time yet, but she was not impatient any more; the opera had begun and she was a part of it already, before she had set her foot upon the stage, before she had seen, for the first time, the full house before her, instead of the yawning emptiness. it would be dark when she went on, for gilda's first entrance is in the night scene in the courtyard, but it would not be empty, and perhaps it would not be silent either. it was quite likely that a little encouraging applause for the young _débutante_ would be heard. margaret smiled to herself as she thought of that. she would make them applaud her in real earnest before the curtain went down, not by way of good-natured encouragement, but whether they would or not. she was very sure of herself, and the cadaverous maid watched her with curiosity and admiration, wondering very much whether such pride might not go before a fall, and end in a violent stage fright. but then, the object of the dress rehearsal was to guard against the consequences of such a misfortune. if margaret could not sing a note at first, it would not matter to-day, but it would certainly matter a good deal the day after to-morrow. when the end of the introduction was near, margaret turned back into the room and sat down before the toilet-table to wait. she heard her maid shut the door, and the loud music of the full orchestra and chorus immediately sounded very faint and far away. when she looked round, she saw that the maid had gone out and that she was quite alone. in ten minutes the scenery would be changed; five minutes after that, and her career would have definitely begun. she folded her whitened hands, leaned back thoughtfully and looked into her own eyes reflected in the mirror. the world knows very little about the great moments in artists' lives. it sees the young prima donna step upon the stage for the first time, smiling in the paint that perhaps hides her deadly pallor. she is so pretty, so fresh, so ready to sing! perhaps she looks even beautiful; at all events, she is radiant, and looks perfectly happy. the world easily fancies that she has just left her nearest and dearest, her mother, her sisters, in the flies; that they have come with her to the boundary of the play-king's kingdom, and are waiting to lead her back to real life when she shall have finished her part in the pretty illusion. the reality is different. sometimes it is a sad and poor reality, rarely it is tragic; most often it is sordid, uninteresting, matter-of-fact, possibly vulgar; it is almost surely very much simpler than romantic people would wish it to be. as likely as not, the young prima donna is all alone just before going on, as margaret was, looking at herself in the glass--this last, for one thing, is a certainty; and she is either badly frightened or very calm, for there is no such thing as being 'only a little' frightened the first time. that condition sometimes comes afterwards and may last through life. but pity those whose courage fails them the first time, for there is no more awful sensation for a man or woman in perfect health than to stand alone before a great audience, and suddenly to forget words, music, everything, and to see the faces of the people in the house turned upside down, and the chandelier swinging round like a wind mill while all the other lights tumble into it, and to notice with horror that the big stage is pitching and rolling like the most miserable little steamer that ever went to sea; and to feel that if one cannot remember one's part, one's head will certainly fly off at the neck and join the hideous dance of jumbled heads and lights and stalls and boxes in the general chaos. margaret, however, deserved no pity on that afternoon, for she was not in the least afraid of anything, except that the courtiers who were to carry her off at the end of her first scene might be clumsy, or that the sack in the last act would be dusty inside and make her sneeze. but as for that, she was willing that the ending should be a failure, as madame bonanni said it must be, for she did not mean to do it again if she could possibly help it. she was not afraid, but she was not so very calm as she fancied she was, for afterwards, even on that very evening, she found it impossible to remember anything that happened from the moment when the sallow maid entered the dressing-room again, closely followed by the call-boy, who knocked on the open door and spoke her stage name, until she found herself well out on the stage, in rigoletto's arms, uttering the girlish cry which begins gilda's part. the three notes, not very high, not very loud, were drowned in the applause that roared at her from the house. it was so loud, so unexpected, that she was startled for a moment, and remained with one arm on the barytone's shoulder looking rather shyly across the lowered footlights and over the director's head. he had already laid down his baton to wait. 'you must acknowledge that, and i must begin over again,' said the barytone, so loud that margaret fancied every one must hear him. he moved back a little when he had spoken and left her in the middle of the stage. she drew herself up, bent her head, smiled, and made a little courtesy, all as naturally as if she had never done anything else. thereupon the clapping grew louder for one instant, and then ceased as suddenly as it had begun. the director raised his baton and looked at her, rigoletto came forward once more calling to her, and she fell into his arms again with her little cry. there was no sound from the house now, and the silence was so intense that she could easily fancy herself at an ordinary rehearsal, with only a dozen or fifteen people looking on out of the darkness. but she was thinking of nothing now. she was out of the world, in the play-king's palace, herself a part, and a principal part, of an illusion, an imaginary personage in one of the dreams that great old verdi had dreamt long ago, in his early manhood. her lips parted and her matchless voice floated out of its own accord, filling the darkened air; she moved, but she did not know it, though every motion had been studied for weeks; she sung as few have ever sung, but it was to her as if some one else were singing while she listened and made no effort. the duet is long, as margaret had often thought when studying it, but now she was almost startled because it seemed to her so soon that she found herself once more embracing rigoletto and uttering a very high note at the same time. very vaguely she wondered whether the far-off person who had been singing for her had not left out something, and if so, why there had been no hitch. then came the thunder of applause again, not in greeting now, but in praise of her, long-drawn, tremendous, rising and bursting and falling, like the breakers on an ocean beach. 'brava! brava!' yelled rigoletto in her ear; but she could hardly hear him for the noise. she pressed his hand almost affectionately as she courtesied to the audience. if she could have thought at all, she would have remembered how madame bonanni had once told her that in moments of great success everybody embraces everybody else on the stage. but she could not think of anything. she was not frightened, but she was dazed; she felt the tide of triumph rising round her heart, and upwards towards her throat, like something real that was going to choke her with delight. the time while she had been singing had seemed short; the seconds during which the applause lasted seemed very long, but the roar sounded sweeter than anything had ever sounded to her before that day. it ceased presently, and margaret heard from the house that deep-drawn breath just after the applause ended, which tells that an audience is in haste for more and is anticipating interest or pleasure. the conductor's baton rose again and margaret sang her little scene with the maid, and the few bars of soliloquy that follow, and presently she was launched in the great duet with the duke, who had stolen forward to throw himself and his high note at her feet with such an air of real devotion, that the elderly woman of the world who admired him felt herself turning green with jealousy in the gloom of her box, and almost cried out at him. he took his full share of the tremendous applause that broke out at the end, almost before the lovers had sung the last note of their parts, but the public made it clear enough that most of it was for margaret, by yelling out, 'brava, la cordova!' again and again. the tenor was led off through the house by the maid at last, and margaret was left to sing 'caro nome' alone. whatever may be said of _rigoletto_ as a composition--and out of italy it was looked upon as a failure at first--it is certainly an opera which of all others gives a lyric soprano a chance of showing what she can do at her first appearance. by this time margaret was beyond the possibility of failure; she had at first sung almost unconsciously, under the influence of a glorious excitement like a beautiful dream, but she was now thoroughly aware of what she was doing and sang the intricate music of the aria with a judgment, a discrimination and a perfectly controlled taste which appealed to the real critics much more than all that had gone before. but the applause, though loud, was short, and hardly delayed margaret's exit ten seconds. a moment later she was seen on the terrace with her lamp. madame bonanni had listened with profound attention to every note that margaret sang. she was quietly dressed in a costume of very dark stuff, she wore a veil, and few people would have recognised the dark, pale face of the middle-aged woman now that it was no longer painted. she leaned back in her box alone, watching the stage and calling up a vision of herself, from long ago, singing for the first time in the same house. for she had made her _début_ in that very theatre, as many great singers have done. it was all changed, the house, the decorations, the stage entrance, but those same walls were standing which had echoed to her young voice, the same roof was overhead, and all her artist's lifetime was gone by. as margaret disappeared at last, softly repeating her lover's name, while the conspirators began to fill the stage, the door of the box opened quietly, and lushington came and sat down close behind his mother. 'well?' she said, only half turning her head, for she knew it was he. 'what do you think?' 'you know what i think, mother,' he answered. 'you did not want her to do it.' 'i've changed my mind,' said lushington. 'it's the real thing. it would be a sin to keep it off the stage.' madame bonanni nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing. a knock was heard at the door of the box. lushington got up and opened, and the dark figure of the cadaverous maid appeared in the dim light. before she had spoken, madame bonanni was close to her. 'they are in the chorus,' said the maid in a low voice, 'and there is some one behind the door, waiting. i think it will be now.' that was all lushington heard, but it was quite enough to awaken his curiosity. who was in the chorus? behind which door was some one waiting? what was to happen 'now'? madame bonanni reflected a moment before she answered. 'they won't try it now,' she said, at last, very confidently. the maid shrugged her thin shoulders, as if to say that she declined to take any responsibility in the matter, and did not otherwise care much. 'do exactly as i told you,' madame bonanni said. 'if anything goes wrong, it will be my fault, not yours.' 'very good, madame,' answered the maid. she went away, and madame bonanni returned to her seat in the front of the box, without any apparent intention of explaining matters to lushington. 'what is happening?' he asked after a few moments. 'can i be of any use?' 'not yet,' answered his mother. 'but you may be, by and by. i shall want you to take a message to her.' 'to miss donne? when?' 'have you ever been behind in this theatre? do you know your way about?' 'yes. what am i to do?' madame bonanni did not answer at once. she was scrutinising the faces of the courtiers on the darkened stage, and wishing very much that there were more light. 'schreiermeyer is doing things handsomely,' lushington observed. 'he has really given us a good allowance of conspirators.' 'there are four more than usual,' said madame bonanni, who had counted the chorus. 'they make a very good show,' lushington observed indifferently. 'but i did not think they made much noise in the introduction, when they were expected to.' 'perhaps,' suggested madame bonanni, 'the four supernumeraries are dummies, put on to fill up.' just then the chorus was explaining at great length, as choruses in operas often do, that it was absolutely necessary not to make the least noise, while rigoletto stood at the foot of the ladder, pretending neither to hear them nor to know, in the supposed total darkness, that his eyes were bandaged. 'have you seen logotheti?' asked lushington. 'not yet, but i shall certainly see him before it's over. i'm sure that he is somewhere in the house.' 'he came over from paris in his motor car,' lushington said. 'i know he did.' there was no reason why she should not know that logotheti had come in his car, but lushington thought she seemed annoyed that the words should have slipped out. her eyes were still fixed intently on the stage. she rose to her feet suddenly, as if she had seen something that startled her. 'wait for me!' she said almost sharply, as she passed her son. she was gone in an instant, and lushington leaned back in his seat, indifferent to what was going on, since margaret had disappeared from the stage. as for his mother's unexpected departure, he never was surprised at anything she did, and whatever she did, she generally did without warning, with a rush, as if some one's life depended on it. he fancied that her practised eye had noticed something that did not please her in the stage management, and that she had hurried away to give her opinion. but she had only gone behind to meet margaret as she was carried off the stage with a handkerchief tied over her mouth. she knew very nearly at what point to wait, and the four big men in costume who came off almost at a run, carrying margaret between them, nearly ran into madame bonanni, whom they certainly did not expect to find there. when she was in the way, in a narrow place, it was quite hopeless to try and pass her. the four men, still carrying margaret, stopped, but looked bewildered, as if they did not know what to do, and did not set her down. madame bonanni sprang at them and almost took her bodily from their arms, tearing the handkerchief from her mouth just in time to let her utter the cry for help which is heard from behind the scenes. it was answered instantly by the courtiers shout of triumph, in which the four men who had carried off gilda did not join. margaret gave one more cry, and instantly madame bonanni led her quickly away towards her dressing-room, a little shaken and in a very bad temper with the men who had carried her. 'i knew they would be clumsy!' she said. 'so did i,' answered her friend. 'that is why i came round to meet you.' they entered the dim corridor together, and an instant later they both heard the sharp click of a door hastily closed at the other end. it was not the door of margaret's dressing-room, for that was wide open and the light from within fell across the dark paved floor, nor was it the door of the contralto's room, for that was ajar when they passed it. she had not come in to dress yet. 'that door does not shut well,' margaret said, indifferently. 'no,' answered madame bonanni, in a rather preoccupied tone. 'where is your maid?' the cadaverous maid came up very quickly from behind, overtaking them with margaret's grey linen duster. 'they did not carry mademoiselle out at the usual fly,' she said. 'i was waiting there.' 'they were abominably clumsy,' margaret said, still very much annoyed. 'they almost hurt me, and somebody had the impertinence to double-knot the handkerchief after i had arranged it! i'll send for schreiermeyer at once, i think! if i hadn't solid nerves a thing like that might ruin my _début_!' the maid smiled discreetly. the dress rehearsal for margaret's _début_ was not half over yet, but she had already the dominating tone of the successful prima donna, and talked of sending at once for the redoubtable manager, as if she were talking about scolding the call-boy. and the maid knew very well that if sent for schreiermeyer would come and behave with relative meekness, because he had a prospective share in the fortune which was in the cordova's throat. but madame bonanni was in favour of temporising. 'don't send for him, my dear,' she said. 'getting angry is very bad for the voice, and your duet with rigoletto in the next act is always trying. they were in the dressing-room now, all three women, and the door was shut. 'is it all right?' margaret asked, sitting down and looking into the glass. 'am i doing well?' 'you don't need me to tell you that! you are magnificent! divine! no one ever began so well as you, not even i, my dear, not even i myself!' this was said with great emphasis. nothing, perhaps, could have surprised madame bonanni more than that any one should sing better at the beginning than she had sung herself; but having once admitted the fact she was quite willing that margaret should know it, and be made happy. 'you're the best friend that ever was!' cried margaret, springing up; and for the first time in their acquaintance she threw her arms round the elder woman's neck and kissed her--hitherto the attack, if i may call it so, had always come from madame bonanni, and had been sustained by margaret. 'yes,' said madame bonanni, 'i'm your best friend now, but in a couple of days you will have your choice of the whole world! now dress, for i'm going away, and though it's only a rehearsal, it's of no use to keep people waiting.' margaret looked at her and for the first time realised the change in her appearance, the quiet colours of her dress, the absence of paint on her cheeks, the moderation of the hat. yet on that very morning margaret had seen her still in all her glory when she had arrived from paris. one woman always knows when another notices her dress. women have a sixth sense for clothes. 'yes, my dear,' madame bonanni said, as soon as she was aware that margaret had seen the change, 'i did not wish to come to your _début_ looking like an advertisement of my former greatness, so i put on this. tom likes it. he thinks that i look almost like a human being in it!' 'that's complimentary of him!' laughed margaret. 'oh, he wouldn't say such a thing, but i see it is just what he thinks. perhaps i'll send him to you with a message, by and by, before you get into your sack, while the storm is going on. if i do, it will be because it's very important, and whatever he says comes directly from me.' 'very well,' margaret said quietly. 'i shall always take your advice, though i hate that last scene.' 'i'm beginning to think that it may be more effective than we thought,' answered madame bonanni, with a little laugh. 'good-bye, my dear.' 'won't you come and dine with me afterwards?' asked margaret, who had begun to change her dress. 'there will only be madame de rosa. you know she could not get here in time for the rehearsal, but she is coming before nine o'clock.' 'no, dear. i cannot dine with you to-night. i've made an engagement i can't break. but do you mean to say that anything could keep de rosa in paris this afternoon?' madame bonanni was very much surprised, for she knew that the excellent teacher almost worshipped her pupil. 'yes,' said margaret. 'she wrote me that monsieur logotheti had some papers for her to sign to-day before a notary, and that somehow if she did not stay and sign them she would lose most of what she has.' 'that's ingenious!' exclaimed madame bonanni, with a laugh. 'ingenious?' margaret did not understand. 'do you mean that madame de rosa has invented the story?' 'no, no!' cried the other. 'i mean it was ingenious of fate, you know--to make such a thing happen just to-day.' 'oh, very!' assented margaret carelessly, and rather wishing that madame bonanni would go away, for though she was turning into a professional artist at an almost alarming rate, she was not yet hardened in regard to little things and preferred to be alone with her maid while she was dressing. but madame bonanni had no intention of staying, and now went away rather abruptly, after nodding to her old maid, unseen by margaret, as if there were some understanding between them, for the woman answered the signal with an unmistakable look of intelligence. in the corridor madame bonanni met the contralto taking a temporary leave of the wholesale upholsterer at the door of her dressing-room, a black-browed, bony young italian woman with the face of a medea, whose boast it was that with her voice and figure she could pass for a man when she pleased. madame bonanni greeted her and stopped a moment. 'please do not think i have only just come to the theatre,' said the italian. 'i have been listening to her in the house, though i have heard her so often at rehearsals.' 'well?' asked the elder woman. 'what do you think of it?' 'it is the voice of an angel--and then, she is handsome, too! but----' 'but what?' 'she is a statue,' answered the contralto in a tone of mingled pity and contempt. 'she has no heart.' 'they say that of most lyric sopranos,' laughed madame bonanni. 'i never heard it said of you! you have a heart as big as the world!' the italian made a circle of her two arms, to convey an idea of the size of the prima donna's heart, while the wholesale upholsterer, who had a good eye, compared the measurement with that lady's waist. 'you bring the tears to my eyes when you sing,' continued the contralto, 'but cordova is different. she only makes me hate her because she has such a splendid voice!' 'don't hate her, my dear,' said madame bonanni gently. 'she's a friend of mine. and as for the heart, child, it's like a loaf of bread! you must break it to get anything out of it, and if you never break it at all it dries up into a sort of little wooden cannon-ball! cordova will break hers, some day, and then you will all say that she is a great artist!' thereupon madame bonanni kissed the contralto affectionately, as she kissed most people, nodded and smiled to the wholesale upholsterer, and went on her way to cross the stage and get back to her box. she found lushington there when she opened the door, looking as if he had not moved since she had left him. he rose as she entered, and then sat down beside her. 'have you any money with you?' she asked, suddenly. 'yes. how much do you want?' 'i don't want any for myself. tom, do something for me. go out and buy the biggest woman's cloak you can find. the shops are all open still. get something that will come down to my feet, and cover me up entirely. we are nearly of the same height, and you can measure it on yourself.' 'all right,' said lushington, who was well used to his mother's caprices. 'and, tom,' she called, as he was going to the door, 'get a closed carriage and bring it to the stage entrance when you come back. and be quick, my darling child! you must be back in half-an-hour, or you won't hear the duet.' 'it won't take half an hour to buy a cloak,' answered lushington. 'oh, i forgot--it must have a hood that will quite cover my head--i mean without my hat, of course!' 'very well--a big hood. i understand. anything else?' 'no. now run, sweet child!' lushington went out to do the errand, and madame bonanni drew back into the shadow of the box, for the lights were up in the house between the acts. she sat quite still, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand, and her elbow on her knee, thinking. there was a knock at the door; she sprang to her feet and opened, and found a shabby woman, who looked like a rather slatternly servant, standing outside with the box-opener, who had shown her where to find the prima donna. the shabby woman gave her a dingy piece of paper folded and addressed hurriedly in pencil, in logotheti's familiar handwriting. she spread out the half-sheet and read the contents twice over, looked hard at the messenger and then looked at the note again. 'who gave you this? who sent you?' she asked. 'you are madame bonanni, are you not?' inquired the woman, instead of answering. 'of course i am! i want to know who sent you to me.' 'the note is for you, madame, is it not?' asked the woman, by way of reply. 'yes, certainly! can't you answer my question?' madame bonanni was beginning to be angry. 'i will take the answer to the note, if there is one,' answered the other, coolly. madame bonanni was on the point of flying into a rage, but she apparently thought better of it. the contents of the note might be true after all. she read it again. dear lady (it said), i am the victim of the most absurd and annoying mistake. i have been arrested for schirmer, the betting man who murdered his mother-in-law and escaped from paris yesterday. they will not let me communicate with any one till to-morrow morning and i have had great trouble in getting this line to you. for heaven's sake bring schreiermeyer and anybody else you can find, to identify me, as soon as possible. i am locked up in a cell in the police station of the third arrondissement.---- yours ever, c. logotheti. madame bonanni looked at the woman again. 'did you see the gentleman?' she asked. 'what gentleman?' 'the gentleman who is in prison!' 'what prison?' asked the woman with dogged stupidity. 'you're a perfect idiot!' cried madame bonanni, and she slammed the door of the box in the woman's face, and bolted it inside. she sat down and read the note a fourth time. there was no doubt as to its being really from logotheti. she laughed to herself. 'more ingenious than ever!' she said, half aloud. a timid knock at the door of the box. she rose with evident annoyance, and opened again, to meet the respectable old box-opener, a grey-haired woman of fifty-five. 'please, madame, is the woman to go away? she seems to be waiting for something.' 'tell her to go to all the devils!' answered madame bonanni, furious. 'no--don't!' she cried. 'where is she? come here, you!' she called, seeing the woman at a little distance. 'do you know what you are doing? you are trying to help schirmer, the murderer, to escape. if you are not careful you will be in prison yourself before morning! that is the answer! now go, and take care that you are not caught!' the woman, who was certainly not over-intelligent, stared hard at madame bonanni for a moment, and then turned, with a cry of terror, and fled along the circular passage. 'you should not let in such suspicious-looking people,' said madame bonanni to the box-opener in a severe tone. the poor soul began an apology, but madame bonanni did not stop to listen, and entered the box again, shutting the door behind her. the curtain went up before lushington came back, but the prima donna did not look at the stage and scarcely heard the tenor's lament, the chorus and the rest. she seemed quite lost in her thoughts. then lushington appeared with a big dark cloak on his arm. 'will this do, mother?' he asked. she stood up and made him put it over her. it had a hood, as she had wished, which quite covered her head and would cover her face, too, if she wished not to be recognised. 'it's just what i wanted,' she said. 'hang it on the hook by the door, and sit down. gilda will be on in a minute.' lushington obeyed, and if he wondered a little at first why his mother should want a big cloak on a suffocating evening in july, he soon forgot all about it in listening to margaret's duet with rigoletto. his mother sat perfectly motionless in her seat, her eyes closed, following every note. at the end of the short act, the applause became almost riotous, and if margaret had appeared before the curtain she would have had an ovation. but in the first place, it was only a rehearsal, after all, and secondly there was no one to call her back after she had gone to her dressing-room to dress for the last act. she heard the distant roar, however, and felt the tide of triumph rising still higher round her heart. if she had been used to her cadaverous maid, too, she would have seen that the woman's manner was growing more deferential each time she saw her. success was certain, now, a great and memorable success, which would be proclaimed throughout the world in a very few days. the new star was rising fast, and it was the sallow-faced maid's business to serve stars and no others. for the first scene of the last act gilda puts on a gown over her man's riding-dress; and when rigoletto sends her off, she has only to drop the skirt, draw on the long boots and throw her riding-cloak round her to come on for the last scene. of course the prima donna is obliged to come back to her dressing-room to make even this slight change. madame bonanni was speaking earnestly to lushington in an undertone during the interval before the last act, and as he listened to what she said his face became very grave, and his lips set themselves together in a look which his mother knew well enough. the act proceeded, and margaret's complete triumph became more and more a matter of certainty. she sang with infinite grace and tenderness that part in the quartet which is intended to express the operatic broken heart, while the duke, the professional murderer, and maddalena are laughing and talking inside the inn. that sort of thing does not appeal much to our modern taste, but margaret did what she could to make it touching, and was rewarded with round upon round of applause. lushington rose quietly at this point, slipped on his thin overcoat, took his hat and the big cloak he had bought, nodded to his mother and left the box. a few moments later she rose and followed him. in due time margaret reappeared in her man's dress, but almost completely wrapped in the traditional riding mantle. rigoletto is off when gilda comes on alone at this point, outside the inn, and the stage gradually darkens while the storm rises. when the trio is over and gilda enters the ruined inn, the darkness is such, even behind the scenes, that one may easily lose one's way and it is hard to recognise any one. margaret disappeared, and hurried off, expecting to meet her maid with the sack ready for the final scene. to her surprise a man was standing waiting for her. she could not see his face at all, but she knew it was lushington who whispered in her ear as he wrapped her in the big cloak he carried. he spoke fast and decidedly. 'that is why the door at the end of the corridor is open to-night,' he concluded. 'i give you my word that it's true. now come with me.' margaret had told lushington not very long ago that he always acted like a gentleman and sometimes like a hero, and she had meant it. after all, the opera was over now, and it was only a rehearsal. if there was no sack scene, no one would be surprised, and there was no time to hesitate not an instant. she slipped her arm through lushington's, and drawing the hood almost over her eyes with her free hand and the cloak completely round her, she went where he led her. certainly in all the history of the opera no prima donna ever left the stage and the theatre in such a hurry after her first appearance. one minute had hardly elapsed in all after she had disappeared into the ruined inn, before she found herself driving at a smart pace in a closed carriage, with lushington sitting bolt upright beside her like a policeman in charge of his prisoner. it was not yet quite dark when the brougham stopped at the door of margaret's hotel, and the porter who opened the carriage looked curiously at her riding boot and spurred heel as she got out under the covered way. she and lushington had not exchanged a word during the short drive. he went up in the lift with her and saw her to the door of her apartment. then he stood still, with his hat off, holding out his hand to say good-bye. 'no,' said margaret, 'come in. i don't care what the people think!' he followed her into her sitting-room, and she shut the door, and turned up the electric light. when he saw her standing in the full glare of the lamps, she had thrown back her hood; she wore a wig with short tangled hair as part of her man's disguise, and her face was heavily powdered over the paint in order to produce the ghastly pallor which indicates a broken heart on the stage. the heavily-blackened lashes made her eyes seem very dark, while her lips were still a deep crimson. she held her head high, and a little thrown back, and there was something wild and almost fantastic about her looks as she stood there, that made lushington think of one of hoffmann's tales. she held out her whitened hand to him; and when he took it he felt the chalk on it, and it was no longer to him the hand of margaret donne, but the hand of the cordova, the great soprano. 'it's of no use,' she said. 'something always brings us together. i believe it's our fate. thank you for what you've just done. thank you--tom, with all my heart!' and suddenly the voice was margaret's, and rang true and kind. for had he not saved her, and her career, too, perhaps? she could not but be grateful, and forget her other triumphant self for a moment. there was no knowing where that mad greek might have taken her if she had gone near the door in the corridor again; it would have been somewhere out of europe, to some lawless eastern country whence she could never have got back to civilisation again. 'you must thank my mother,' lushington answered quietly. 'it was she who found out the danger and told me what to do. but i'm glad you're safe from that brute!' he pressed the handsome, chalked hand in his own and then to his lips when he had spoken, in a very un-english way; for, after all, he was the son of madame bonanni, the french singer, and only half an anglo-saxon. * * * * * the last thing madame bonanni remembered, before a strangely sweet and delicious perfume had overpowered her senses, was that she had congratulated herself on not having believed that logotheti was really in prison, arrested by a mistake. how hugely ingenious he had been, she thought, in trying to get poor margaret's best friends out of the way! but at that point, while she felt herself being carried along in the sack as swiftly and lightly as if she had been a mere child, she suddenly fell asleep. she never had any idea how long she was unconscious, but she afterwards calculated that it must have been between twenty minutes and half an hour, and she came to herself just as she felt that she was being laid in a comfortable position on a luxuriously cushioned sofa. she heard heavy retreating footsteps, and then she felt that a hand was undoing the mouth of the sack above her head. 'dearest lady,' said a deep voice, with a sort of oily, anticipative gentleness in it, 'can you forgive me my little stratagem?' the voice spoke very softly, as if the speaker were not at all sure that she was awake; but when she heard it, madame bonanni started, for it was certainly not the voice of constantine logotheti, though it was strangely familiar to her. the sack was drawn down from her face quickly and skilfully. at the same time some slight sound from the door of the room made the man look half round. in the softly lighted room, against the pale silk hangings, madame bonanni saw a tremendous profile over a huge fair beard that was half grey, and one large and rather watery blue eye behind a single eyeglass with a broad black riband. before the possessor of these features turned to look at her, she uttered a loud exclamation of amazement. logotheti was really in prison, after all. instantly the watery blue eyes met her own. then the eyeglass dropped from its place, the jaw fell, with a wag of the fair beard, and a look of stony astonishment and blank disappointment came into all the great features, while madame bonanni broke into a peal of perfectly uncontrollable laughter. and with the big-hearted woman's laugh ends the first part of this history. the end famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. library size. printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. the shuttle, by frances hodgson burnett with inlay cover in colors by clarence f. underwood. this great international romance relates the story of an american girl who, in rescuing her sister from the ruins of her marriage to an englishman of title, displays splendid qualities of courage, tact and restraint. as a study of american womanhood of modern times, the character of bettina vanderpoel stands alone in literature. as a love story, the account of her experience is magnificent. the masterly handling, the glowing style of the book, give it a literary rank to which very few modern novels have attained. the making of a marchioness, by frances hodgson burnett illustrated with half tone engravings by charles d. williams. with initial letters, tail-pieces, decorative borders. beautifully printed, and daintily bound, and boxed. a delightful novel in the author's most charming vein. the scene is laid in an english country house, where an amiable english nobleman is the centre of matrimonial interest on the part of both the english and americans present. graceful, sprightly, almost delicious in its dialogue and action. it is a book about which one is tempted to write ecstatically. the methods of lady walderhurst, by francis hodgson burnett a companion volume to "the making of marchioness." with illustrations by charles d. williams, and with initial letters, tail-pieces, and borders, by a. k. womrath. beautifully printed and daintily bound, and boxed. "the methods of lady walderhurst" is a delightful story which combines the sweetness of "the making of a marchioness," with the dramatic qualities of "a lady of quality." lady walderhurst is one of the most charming characters in modern fiction. vayenne, by percy brebner with illustrations by e. fuhr. this romance like the author's _the princess maritza_ is charged to the brim with adventure. sword play, bloodshed, justice grown the multitude, sacrifice, and romance, mingle in dramatic episodes that are born, flourish, and pass away on every page. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. library size. printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked beauty and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. a six-cylinder courtship, by edw. salisbury field with a color frontispiece by harrison fisher, and illustrations by clarence f. underwood, decorated pages and end sheets. harrison fisher head in colors on cover. boxed. a story of cleverness. it is a jolly good romance of love at first sight that will be read with undoubted pleasure. automobiling figures in the story which is told with light, bright touches, while a happy gift of humor permeates it all. "the book is full of interesting folks. the patois of the garage is used with full comic and realistic effect, and effervescently, culminating in the usual happy finish."--_st. louis mirror._ at the foot of the rainbow, by gene stratton-porter author of "freckles" with illustrations in color by oliver kemp, decorations by ralph fletcher seymour and inlay cover in colors. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love; the friendship that gives freely without return, and the love that seeks first the happiness of the object. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. judith of the cumberlands, by alice macgowan with illustrations in colors, and inlay cover by george wright. no one can fail to enjoy this moving tale with its lovely and ardent heroine, its frank, fearless hero, its glowing love passages, and its variety of characters, captivating or engaging humorous or saturnine, villains, rascals, and men of good will. a tale strong and interesting in plot, faithful and vivid as a picture of wild mountain life, and in its characterization full of warmth and glow. a million a minute, by hudson douglas with illustrations by will grefe. has the catchiest of titles, and it is a ripping good tale from chapter i to finis--no weighty problems to be solved, but just a fine running story, full of exciting incidents, that never seemed strained or improbable. it is a dainty love yarn involving three men and a girl. there is not a dull or trite situation in the book. * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. library size. printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. conjuror's house, by stewart edward white dramatized under the title of "the call of the north." illustrated from photographs of scenes from the play. _conjuror's house_ is a hudson bay trading port where the fur trading company tolerated no rivalry. trespassers were sentenced to "la longue traverse"--which meant official death. how ned trent entered the territory, took _la longue traverse_, and the journey down the river of life with the factor's only daughter is admirably told. it is a warm, vivid, and dramatic story, and depicts the tenderness and mystery of a woman's heart. arizona nights, by stewart edward white. with illustrations by n. c. wyeth, and beautiful inlay cover. a series of spirited tales emphasizing some phase of the life of the ranch, plains and desert, and all, taken together, forming a single sharply-cut picture of life in the far southwest. all the tonic of the west is in this masterpiece of stewart edward white. the mystery, by stewart edward white and samuel hopkins adams with illustrations by will crawford. for breathless interest, concentrated excitement and extraordinarily good storytelling on all counts, no more completely satisfying romance has appeared for years. it has been voted the best story of its kind since _treasure island_. light-fingered gentry. by david graham phillips with illustrations. mr. phillips has chosen the inside workings of the great insurance companies as his field of battle; the salons of the great fifth avenue mansions as the antechambers of his field of intrigue; and the two things which every natural, big man desires, love and success, as the goal of his leading character. the book is full of practical philosophy, which makes it worth careful reading. the second generation, by david graham phillips with illustrations by fletcher c. ramson, and inlay cover. "it is a story that proves how, in some cases, the greatest harm a rich man may do his children, is to leave them his money. a strong, wholsome story of contemporary american life--thoughtful, well-conceived and admirably written; forceful, sincere, and true; and intensely interesting."--_boston herald._ * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york famous copyright books in popular priced editions re-issues of the great literary successes of the time. library size. printed on excellent paper--most of them with illustrations of marked beauty--and handsomely bound in cloth. price, cents a volume, postpaid. new chronicles of rebecca, by kate douglas wiggin with illustrations by f. c. yohn. additional episodes in the girlhood of the delightful little heroine at riverboro which were not included in the story of "rebecca of sunnybrook farm," and they are as characteristic and delightful as any part of that famous story. rebecca is as distinct a creation in the second volume as in the first. the silver butterfly, by mrs. wilson woodrow with illustrations in colors by howard chandler christy. a story of love and mystery, full of color, charm, and vivacity, dealing with a south american mine, rich beyond dreams, and of a new york maiden, beyond dreams beautiful--both known as the silver butterfly. well named is _the silver butterfly_! there could not be a better symbol of the darting swiftness, the eager love plot, the elusive mystery and the flashing wit. beatrix of clare, by john reed scott with illustrations by clarence f. underwood. a spirited and irresistibly attractive historical romance of the fifteenth century, boldly conceived and skilfully carried out. in the hero and heroine mr. scott has created a pair whose mingled emotions and alternating hopes and fears will find a welcome in many lovers of the present hour. beatrix is a fascinating daughter of eve. a little brother of the rich, by joseph medill patterson frontispiece by hazel martyn trudeau, and illustrations by walter dean goldbeck. tells the story of the idle rich, and is a vivid and truthful picture of society and stage life written by one who is himself a conspicuous member of the western millionaire class. full of grim satire, caustic wit and flashing epigrams. "is sensational to a degree in its theme, daring in its treatment, lashing society as it was never scourged before."--_new york sun._ * * * * * grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york provided by the internet archive bohemian paris of to-day by w. c. morrow from notes by edouard cucuel illustrated by edouard cucuel second edition philadelphia & london j. b. lippincott company [illustration: ] [illustration: ] [illustration: ] introduction this volume is written to show the life of the students in the paris of to-day. it has an additional interest in opening to inspection certain phases of bohemian life in paris that are shared both by the students and the public, but that are generally unfamiliar to visitors to that wonderful city, and even to a very large part of the city's population itself. it depicts the under-side of such life as the students find,--the loose, unconventional life of the humbler strugglers in literature and art, with no attempt to spare its salient features, its poverty and picturesqueness, and its lack of adherence to generally accepted standards of morals and conduct. as is told in the article describing that incomparably brilliant spectacle, the ball of the four arts, extreme care is taken to exclude the public and admit only artists and students, all of whom must be properly accredited and fully identified. it is well understood that such a spectacle would not be suitable for any but artists and students. it is given solely for their benefit, and with the high aim, fully justified by the experience of the masters who direct the students, that the event, with its marvellous brilliancy, its splendid artistic effects, and its freedom and abandon, has a stimulating and broadening effect of the greatest value to art. the artists and students see in these annual spectacles only grace, beauty, and majesty; their training in the studios, where they learn to regard models merely as tools of their craft, fits them, and them alone, for the wholesome enjoyment of the great ball. it is a student that presents the insight which this volume gives into the life of the students and other bohemians of paris. it is set forth with the frankness of a student. coming from such a source, and having such treatment, it will have a special charm and value for the wise. the students are the pets of paris. they lend to the city a picturesqueness that no other city enjoys. so long as they avoid riots aimed at a government that may now and then offend their sense of right, their ways of living, their escapades, their noisy and joyous manifestations of healthy young animal life, are good-naturedly overlooked. underneath such a life there lies, concealed from casual view, another life that they lead,--one of hard work, of hope, of aspiration, and often of pinching poverty and cruel self-denial. the stress upon them, of many kinds, is great. the utter absence of an effort to reorganize their lives upon conventional lines is from a philosophical belief that if they fail to pass unscathed through it all, they lack the fine, strong metal from which worthy artists are made. the stranger in paris will here find opened to him places in which he may study for himself the bohemian life of the city in all its careless disregard of conventions. the cafés, cabarets, and dance-halls herein described and illustrated have a charm that wholesome, well-balanced minds will enjoy. the drawings for the illustrations were all made from the actual scenes that they depict; they partake of the engaging frankness of the text and of its purpose to show bohemian life in the paris of to-day without any effort at concealment. w. c. m. bohemian paris our studio we were in wonderful paris at last--bishop and i--after a memorable passage full of interest from new york to havre. years of hard work were ahead of us, for bishop would be an artist and i a sculptor. [illustration: ] for two weeks we had been lodging temporarily in the top of a comfortable little hotel, called the grand something (most of the parisian hotels are grand), the window of which commanded a superb view of the great city, the vaudeville playhouse of the world. _pour la première fois_ the dazzle and glitter had burst upon us, confusing first, but now assuming form and coherence. if we and incomprehensible at could have had each a dozen eyes instead of two, or less greed to see and more patience to learn! day by day we had put off the inevitable evil of finding a studio. every night found us in the cheapest seats of some theatre, and often we lolled on the terraces of the café de la paix, watching the pretty girls as they passed, their silken skirts saucily pulled up, revealing dainty laces and ankles. from the slippery floor of the louvre galleries we had studied the masterpieces of david, rubens, rembrandt, and the rest; had visited the panthéon, the musée cluny; had climbed the eiffel tower, and traversed the bois de boulogne and the champs-elysées. then came the search for a studio and the settling to work. it would be famous to have a little home of our very own, where we could have little dinners of our very own cooking! it is with a shudder that i recall those eleven days of ceaseless studio-hunting. we dragged ourselves through miles of quartier latin streets, and up hundreds of flights of polished waxed stairs, behind puffing concierges in carpet slippers, the puffing changing to grumbling, as, dissatisfied, the concierges followed us down the stairs. the quartier abounds with placards reading, "_atelier d'artiste à louer!_" the rentals ranged from two hundred to two thousand francs a year, and the sizes from cigar-boxes to barns. but there was always something lacking. on the eleventh day we found a suitable place on the sixth (top) floor of a quaint old house in a passage off the _rue st.- andré-des-arts_. there were overhead and side lights, and from the window a noble view of paris over the house-tops. [illustration: ] a room of fair size joined the studio, and from its vine-laced window we could look into the houses across the court, and down to the bottom of the court as well. the studio walls were delightfully dirty and low in tone, and were covered with sketches and cartoons in oil and charcoal. the price was eight hundred francs a year, and from the concierge's eloquent catalogue of its charms it seemed a great bargain. the walls settled our fate,--we took the studio. it was one thing to agree on the price and another to settle the details. our french was ailing, and the concierge's french was--concierges' french. bishop found that his pet theory that french should be spoken with the hands, head, and shoulders carried weak spots which a concierge could discover; and then, being somewhat mercurial, he began floundering in a mixture of french and english words and french and american gestures, ending in despair with the observation that the concierge was a d------ fool. at the end of an hour we had learned that we must sign an iron-bound, government-stamped contract, agreeing to occupy the studio for not less than one year, to give six months' notice of our leaving, and to pay three months' rental in advance, besides the taxes for one year on all the doors and windows, and ten francs or more to the concierge. this was all finally settled. as there was no running water in the rooms (such a luxury being unknown here), we had to supply our needs from a clumsy old iron pump in the court, and employ six flights of stairs in the process. then the studio had to be furnished, and there came endless battles with the furniture dealers in the neighborhood, who kept their stock replenished from the goods of bankrupt artists and suspended ménages. [illustration: ] these _marchands de meubles_ are a wily race, but bishop pursued a plan in dealing with them that worked admirably. he would enter a shop and price an article that we wanted, and then throw up his hands in horror and leave the place as though it were haunted with a plague. the dealer would always come tumbling after him and offer him the article for a half or a third of the former price. in this way bishop bought chairs, tables, a large easel, beds, a studio stove, book-shelves, linen, drapings, water pitchers and buckets, dishes, cooking utensils, and many other things, the cost of the whole being less than one hundred and fifty francs,--and thus we were established. the studio became quite a snug and hospitable retreat, in spite of the alarming arrangement that bishop adopted, "to help the composition of the room." his favorite cast, the unknown woman, occupied the place of honor over his couch, where he could see it the first thing in the morning, when the dawn, stealing through the skylight, brought out those strange and subtle features which he swore inspired him from day to day. my room was filled with brilliant posters by chéret and mucha and steinlen,--they were too bold and showy for the low tone of bishop's studio. it all made a pretty picture,--the dizzy posters, the solemn trunks, the books, the bed with its gaudy print coverings, and the little crooked-pane window hung with bright green vines that ran thither from a box in the window of an adjoining apartment. and it was all completed by the bright faces of three pretty seamstresses, who sat sewing every day at their window across the passage. under our housekeeping agreement bishop was made cook, and i chambermaid and water-carrier. it was bishop's duty to obey the alarm clock at six every morning and light the fire, while i went down for water at the pump, and for milk at the stand beside the court entrance, where fat madame gioté sold _café-au-lait_ and _lait froid ou chaud_, from a _sou_'s worth up. then, after breakfast, i did the chamber work while bishop washed the dishes. bishop could make for breakfast the most delicious coffee and flapjacks and omelette in the whole of paris. by eight o'clock all was in order; bishop was smoking his pipe and singing "down on the farm" while working on his life study, and i was off to my modelling in clay. bishop soon had the hearts of all the shop-keepers in the neighborhood. the baker's dimple-cheeked daughter never worried if the scales hung a little in his favor, at the boucherie he was served with the choicest cuts of meat, and the fried-potato women called him "_mon fils_" and fried a fresh lot of potatoes for him. even madame tonneau, the _marchande de tabac_, saw that he had the freshest packages in the shop. often, when i was returning home at night, i encountered him making cheerily for the studio, bearing bread by the yard, his pockets bulging with other material for dinner. ah, he was a wonderful cook, and we had marvellous appetites! so famous did he soon become that the models (the lady ones, of course) were eager to dine _avec nous_; and when they did they helped to set the table, they sewed buttons on our clothes, and they made themselves agreeable and perfectly at home with that charming grace which is so peculiarly french. ah, those were jolly times! the court, or, more properly, _le passage_, on which our window looked was a narrow little thoroughfare leading from the rue st.-andré-des-arts to the boulevard st.-germain. it bore little traffic, but was a busy way withal. it had iron-workers' shops, where hot iron was beaten into artistic lamps, grills, and bed-frames; a tinsmith's shop; a blanchisserie, where our shirts were made white and smooth by the pretty blanchisseuses singing all day over their work; a wine-cellar, whose barrels were eternally blocking one end of the passage; an embossed picture-card factory, where twoscore women, with little hammers and steel dies, beat pictures into cards; a furniture shop, where everything old and artistic was sold, the hôtel du passage, and a bookbinder's shop. each of the eight buildings facing the passage was ruled by a formidable concierge, who had her dark little living apartments near the entrances. these are the despots of the court, and their function is to make life miserable for their lodgers. when they are not doing that they are eternally scrubbing and polishing. they are all married. m. mayé, _le mari de notre concierge_, is a tailor. he sits at the window and mends and sews all day long, or acts as concierge when his wife is away. the husband of the concierge next door is a sergeant de ville at night, but in the early mornings as, in a soiled blouse, he empties ash-cans, he looks very unlike the personage dressed at night in a neat blue uniform and wearing a short sword another concierge's husband _fait des courses_--runs errands--for sufficient pay. [illustration: ] should you fail to clean your boots on the mat, and thus soil the glossy stairs, have a care!--a concierge's tongue has inherited the warlike characteristics of the caesars. rugs and carpets must not be shaken out of the windows after nine o'clock. ashes and other refuse must be thrown into the big bin of the house not later than seven. sharp at eleven in the evening the lights are extinguished and the doors locked for the night; and then all revelry must immediately cease. should you arrive _en retard_,--that is, after eleven,--you must ring the bell violently until the despot, generally after listening for an hour to the bell, unlocks the catch from her couch. then when you close the door and pass her lodge you must call out your name. if you are out often or till very late, be prepared for a lecture on the crime of breaking the rest of hard-working concierges. after the day's work the concierges draw their chairs out into the court and gossip about their tenants. the nearer the roof the lodger the less the respect he commands. would he not live on a lower floor if he were able? and then, the top floor gives small tips! it is noticeable that the entresol and premiers étages are clean and highly polished, and that the cleanliness and polish diminish steadily toward the top, where they almost disappear. ah, _les concierges!_ but what would paris be without them? directly beneath us an elderly couple have apartments. every morning at five the old gentleman starts french oaths rattling through the court by beating his rugs out of his window. at six he rouses the ire of a widow below him by watering his plants and incidentally drenching her bird- cages. not long ago she rose in violent rebellion, and he hurled a flower pot at her protruding head. it smashed on her window-sill; she screamed "murder!" and the whole court was in an uproar. the concierges and the old gentleman's pacific wife finally restored order--till the next morning. next, to my room are an elderly lady and her sweet, sad-faced daughter. they are very quiet and dignified, and rarely fraternize with their neighbors. it is their vine that creeps over to my window, and it is carefully tended by the daughter. and all the doves and sparrows of the court come regularly to eat out of her hand, and a lively chatter they have over it. the ladies are the widow and daughter of a once prosperous stock-broker on the bourse, whom an unlucky turn of the wheel drove to poverty and suicide. the three seamstresses over the way are the sunshine of the court. they are not so busy sewing and singing but that they find time to send arch glances toward our window, and their blushes and smiles when bishop sends them sketches of them that he has made from memory are more than remunerative. a young scotch student from glasgow, named cameron, has a studio adjoining ours. he is a fine, jovial fellow, and we usually assist him to dispose of his excellent brew of tea at five o'clock. every thursday evening there was given a musical chez lui, in which bishop and i assisted with mandolin and guitar, while cameron played the flute. for these occasions cameron donned his breeks and kilt, and danced the sword-dance round two table-knives crossed. the american songs strike him as being strange and incomprehensible. he cannot understand the negro dialect, and wonders if america is filled with negroes and cotton plantations; but he is always delighted with bishop's "down on the farm." [illustration: ] life begins at five o'clock in our court. the old gentleman beats his rugs, the milk-bottles rattle, the bread-carts rumble, madame gioté opens her milkstand, and the concierges drag the ash-cans out into the court, where a drove of rag-pickers fall upon them. these gleaners are a queer lot. individuals and families pursue the quest, each with a distinct purpose. one will seek nothing but bones, glass, and crockery; another sifts the ashes for coal; another takes only paper and rags; another old shoes and hats; and so on, from can to can, none interfering with any of the others. the dogs are the first at the bins. they are regularly organized in working squads, travelling in fours and fives. they are quite adept at digging through the refuse for food, and they rarely quarrel; and they never leave one bin for another until they have searched it thoroughly. the swish of water and a coarse brush broom announces the big, strong woman who sweeps the gutters of the rue st.-andré-des-arts. with broad sweeps of the broom she spreads the water over half the street and back into the gutter, making the worn yellow stones shine. she is coarsely clad and wears black sabots; and god knows how she can swear when the gleaners scatter the refuse into the gutter! the long wail of the fish-and-mussel woman, "_j'ai des beaux maquereaux, des moules, poissons à frire, à frire!_" as she pushes her cart, means seven o'clock. the day now really begins. water-pails are clanging and sabots are clicking on the stones. the wine people set up a rumble by cleaning their casks with chains and water. the anvils of the iron-workers are ringing, and there comes the tink-tink-tink of the little hammers in the embossed-picture factory. the lumbering garbage-cart arrives to bear away the ash-bins, the lead-horse shaking his head to ring the bell on his neck in announcement of the approach. street-venders and hawkers of various comestibles, each with his or her quaint musical cry, come in numbers. "_j'ai des beaux choux-fleurs! o, comme ils sont beaux!_" the fruit- and potato-women come after, and then the chair-menders. these market-women are early risers. they are at the great halles centrales at four o'clock to bargain for their wares; and besides good lungs they have a marvellous shrewdness, born of long dealings with french housewives. always near eight may be heard, "_du mouron pour les petits oiseaux!_" and all the birds in the court, familiar with the cry, pipe up for their chickweed. "_voilà le bon fromage à la crème pour trois sous!_" cries a keen-faced little woman, her three-wheeled cart loaded with cream cheeses; and she gives a soup-plate full of them, with cream poured generously over, and as she pockets the money says, "_voilà! ce que c'est bon avec des confitures!_" cream cheeses and prayer! on sunday mornings during the spring and summer the goat's-milk vender, blowing a reed-pipe, invades the passage with his living milk-cans,--a flock of eight hairy goats that know the route as well as he, and they are always willing to be milked when a customer offers a bowl. the tripe-man with his wares and bell is the last of the food-sellers of the day. the window-glass repairer, "_vitrier!_" passes at nine, and then the beggars and strolling musicians and singers put in an appearance. in the afternoon the old-clo' man comes hobbling under his load of cast-off clothes, crying, "_marchand d'habits!_" of which you can catch only "'_chand d'habits!_" and the barrel-buyer, "marchand de tonneaux!" the most musical of them all is the porcelain-mender, who cries, "_voici le raccommodeur de porcelaines, faïence, cristal, poseur de robinets!_" and then plays a fragment of a hunting-song. [illustration: ] the beggars and musicians also have regular routes and fixed hours. cold and stormy days are welcomed by them, for then pity lends activity to- sous. a piratical old beggar has his stand near the entrance to the court, where he kneels on the stones, his faithful mongrel dog beside him. he occasionally poses for the artists when times are dull, but he prefers begging,--it is easier and more remunerative. three times a week we are treated to some really good singing by a blind old man, evidently an artist in his day. when the familiar sound of his guitar is heard all noises in the passage cease, and all windows are opened to hear. he sings arias from the operas. his little old wife gathers up the sous that ring on the flags. sometimes a strolling troupe of two actors and three musicians makes its appearance, and invariably plays to a full house. there are droves of sham singers who do not sing at all, but give mournful howls and tell their woes to deaf windows. one of them, a tattered woman with two babies, refused to pose for bishop, although he offered her five francs for the afternoon. her babies never grow older or bigger as the years pass. we all know when anybody in the passage is going to take a bath. there are no bath-tubs in these old houses, but that difficulty is surmounted by a bathing establishment on the boulevard st.-michel. it sends around a cart bearing a tank of hot water and a zinc tub. the man who pulls the cart carries the tub to the room, and fills it by carrying up the water in buckets. then he remains below until the bath is finished, to regain his tub and collect a franc. since we have been here the court entrance has been once draped in mourning. at the head of the casket of old madame courtoise, who lived across the way, stood a stately crucifix, and candles burned, and there were mourners and yellow bead wreaths. a quiet sadness sat upon the court, and the people spoke in whispers only. and there have been two weddings,--one at the blanchisserie, where the master's daughter was married to a young mechanic from the iron shop. there were glorious times at the laundry that night, for the whole court was present. it was four in the morning when the party broke up, and then our shirts were two days late. thus ran the first months of the four years of our student life in paris; in its domestic aspects it was typical of all that followed. we soon became members of the american art association, and gradually made friends in charming french homes. then there was the strange bohemian life lying outside as well as within the students' pale, and into the spirit of it all we found our way. it is to the bohemian, not the social, life of paris that these papers are devoted--a life both picturesque and pathetic, filled with the oddest contrasts and incongruities, with much suffering but more content, and spectacular and fascinating in all its phases. no one can have seen and known paris without a study of this its living, struggling artistic side, so strange, so remote from the commonplace world surging and roaring unheeded about it. on new year's day we had an overwhelming number of callers. first came the concierge, who cleaned our door-knob and wished us a prosperous and bonne année. she got ten francs,--we did not know what was coming. the chic little blanchisseuse called next with our linen. that meant two francs. then came in succession two telegraph boys, the facteur, or postman, who presented us with a cheap calendar, and another postman, who delivers only second-class mail. they got a franc each. then the _marchand de charbon_'s boy called with a clean face and received fifty centimes, and everybody else with whom we had had dealings; and our offerings had a steadily diminishing value. we could well bear all this, however, in view of the great day, but a week old, when we had celebrated christmas. bishop prepared a dinner fit for a king, giving the greater part of his time for a week to preparations for the great event. besides a great many french dishes, we had turkey and goose, cooked for us at the rôtisserie near by, and soup, oysters, american pastries, and a big, blazing plum-pudding. we and our guests (there were eight in all) donned full dress for the occasion, and a bonne, hired for the evening, brought on the surprises one after another. but why should not it have been a glorious evening high up among the chimney-pots of old paris? for did we not drink to the loved ones in a distant land, and were not our guests the prettiest among the pretty toilers of our court? [illustration: ] the École des beaux-arts it is about the fifteenth of october, after the long summer vacation, that the doors of the great École des beaux-arts are thrown open. [illustration: ] the first week, called "_la semaine des nouveaux_," is devoted to the initiation and hazing of the new students, who come mostly from foreign countries and the french provinces. these festivities can never be forgotten--by the _nouveaux_. [illustration: ] bishop had condescendingly decided to become _un élève de gérôme_--with some misgivings, for bishop had developed ideas of a large and free american art, while gérôme was hard and academic. one day he gathered up some of his best drawings and studies (which he regarded as masterpieces) and, climbing to the impériale of a clichy 'bus, rode over to montmartre, where gérôme had his private studio. he was politely ushered in by a manservant, and conducted to the door of the master's studio through a hall and gallery filled with wonderful marble groups. gérôme himself opened the door, and bishop found himself in the great man's workshop. for a moment bishop stood dazed in the middle of the splendid room, with its great sculptures and paintings, some still unfinished, and a famous collection of barbaric arms and costumes. a beautiful model was posing upon a rug. but most impressive of all was the white-haired master, regarding him with a thoughtful and searching, but kindly, glance. bishop presently found a tongue with which to stammer out his mission,--he would be a pupil of the great gérôme. the old man smiled, and, bidding his model retire, inspected carefully the array of drawings that bishop spread at his feet,--gérôme must have evidence of some ability for the magic of his brain and touch to develop. "_sont pas mal, mon ami_," he said, after he had studied all the drawings; "_non, pas mal_." bishop's heart bounded,--his work was not bad! "_vous êtes américain?_" continued the master. "_c'est un pays que j'aimerais bien visiter si le temps ne me manquait pas_." thus he chatted on, putting bishop more and more at his ease. he talked of america and the promising future that she has for art; then he went into his little office, and, asking bishop's name, filled out the blank that made him a happy pupil of gérôme. he handed it to bishop with this parting-advice, spoken with great earnestness: "_il faut travailler, mon ami--travailler! pour arriver, travailler toujours, sérieusement, bien entendu!_" bishop was so proud and happy that he ran all the way up the six flights of stairs to our floor, burst into the studio, and executed a war-dance that would have shamed an apache, stepping into his paint-box and nearly destroying his sacred unknown. that night we had a glorious supper, with des escargots to start with. early on the fifteenth of october, with his head erect and hope filling his soul, bishop started for the beaux-arts, which was in the rue bonaparte, quite near. that night he returned wise and saddened. he had bought a new easel and two rush-bottomed tabourets, which every new student must provide, and, loaded with these, he made for the ecole. gathered at the big gates was a great crowd of models of all sorts, men, women, and children, fat, lean, and of all possible sizes. in the court- yard, behind the gates, was a mob of long-haired students, who had a year or more ago passed the initiatory ordeal and become ancients. their business now was to yell chaff at the arriving nouveaux. the concierge conducted bishop up-stairs to the administration, where he joined a long line of other nouveaux waiting for the opening of the office at ten o'clock. then he produced his papers and was enrolled as a student of the ecole. it is only in this government school of the four arts that the typical bohemian students of paris may be found, including the genuine type of french student, with his long hair, his whiskers, his latin quarter "plug" hat, his cape, blouse, wide corduroy trousers, sash, expansive necktie, and immense cane. the ecole preserves this type more effectually than the other schools, such as julian's and colarossi's, where most of the students are foreigners in conventional dress. among the others who entered gérôme's atelier at the same time that bishop did was a turk named haidor (fresh from the ottoman capital), a hungarian, a siamese, an american from the plains of nebraska, and five frenchmen from the provinces. they all tried to speak french and be agreeable as they entered the atelier together. at the door stood a gardien, whose principal business is to mark absentees and suppress riots. then they passed to the gentle mercies of the reception committee and the _massier_ within. the _massier_ is a student who manages the studio, models, and _masse_ money. this one, a large fellow with golden whiskers (size and strength are valuable elements of the massier's efficiency), demanded twenty-five francs from each of the new-comers,--this being the _masse_ money, to pay for fixtures, turpentine, soap, and clean towels, _et pour payer à boire_. the turk refused to pay, protesting that he had but thirty francs to last him the month; but menacing stools and sticks opened his purse; his punishment was to come later. after the money had been collected from all the nouveaux the entire atelier of over sixty students, dressed in working blouses and old coats, formed in line, and with deafening shouts of "_a boire! à boire!_" placed the _nouveaux_ in front to carry the class banner, and thus marched out into the _rue bonaparte_ to the _café des deux magots_, singing songs fit only for the studio. their singing, shouting, and ridiculous capers drew a great crowd. at the café they created consternation with their shouting and howling until the arrival of great bowls of "_grog américain_," cigarettes, and _gâteaux_. rousing cheers were given to a marriage-party across the place st.-germain. the turk was forced to do a turkish dance on a table and sing turkish songs, and to submit to merciless ridicule. the timid little siamese also had to do a turn, as did bishop and w------, the american from nebraska, who had been a cowboy at home. after yelling themselves hoarse and nearly wrecking the café, the students marched back in a disorderly mob to the ecole. then the real trouble began. the gardien having conveniently disappeared, the students closed and barricaded the door. "_a poil! à poil!_" they yelled, dancing frantically about the frightened nouveaux; "_à poil les sales nouveaux! à poil!_" they seized the turk and stripped him, despite his desperate resistance; then they tied his hands behind him and with paint and brushes decorated his body in the most fantastic designs that they could conceive. his oaths were frightful. he cursed them in the name of allah, and swore to have the blood of all frenchmen for desecrating the sacred person of a moslem. he called them dogs of infidels and christians. but all this was in turkish, and the students enjoyed it immensely. "_en broche!_" they yelled, after they had made him a spectacle with the brushes; "_en broche! il faut le mettre en broche!_" this was quickly done. they forced the turk to his haunches, bound his wrists in front of his upraised knees, thrust a long pole between his elbows and knees, and thus bore him round the atelier at the head of a singing procession. four times they went round; then they placed the helpless m. haidor on the model-stand for future reference. the bad french that the victim occasionally mixed with his tirade indicated the fearful damnation that he was doubtless dealing out in turkish. a circle was then formed about him, and a solemn silence fell upon the crowd. a frenchman named joncierge, head of the reception committee, stepped forth, and in slow and impressive speech announced that it was one of the requirements of the atelier gérôme to brand all nouveaux over the heart with the name of the atelier, and that the branding of the turk would now proceed. upon hearing this, m. haidor emitted a fearful howl. but he was turned to face the red-hot studio stove and watch the branding-iron slowly redden in the coals. during this interval the students sang the national song, and followed it with a funeral march. behind the turk's back a second poker was being painted to resemble a red-hot one. the hot poker was taken from the fire, and its usefulness tested by burning a string with it. haidor grew deathly pale. an intense silence sat upon the atelier as the iron was brought near the helpless young man. in a moment, with wonderful cleverness, the painted poker was substituted for the hot one and placed quickly against his breast. when the cold iron touched him he roared like a maddened bull, and rolled quivering and moaning upon the floor. the students were frantic with delight. it was some time before haidor could realize that he was not burned to a crisp. he was then taken across the atelier and hoisted to a narrow shelf fifteen feet from the floor, where he was left to compose himself and enjoy the tortures of the other nouveaux. he dared not move, however, lest he fall; and because he refused to take anything in good- nature, but glared hatred and vengeance down at them, they pelted him at intervals with water-soaked sponges. the hungarian and one of the french nouveaux were next seized and stripped. then they were ordered to fight a duel, in this fashion: they were made to mount two stools about four feet apart. the hungarian was handed a long paint-brush dripping with prussian blue, and the frenchman a similar brush soaked with crimson lake. then the battle began. each hesitated to splash the other at first, but as they warmed to their work under the shouting of the committee they went in with a will. when the frenchman had received a broad splash on the mouth in return for a chest decoration of his adversary, his blood rose, and then the serious work began. [illustration: ] both quickly lost their temper. when they were unwillingly made to desist the product of their labors was startling, though not beautiful. then they were rubbed down vigorously with turpentine and soiled towels, and were given a franc each for a bath, because they had behaved so handsomely. bishop came next. he had made up his mind to stand the initiation philosophically, whatever it might be, but when he was ordered to strip he became apprehensive and then angry. nothing so delights the students as for a _nouveau_ to lose his temper. bishop squared off to face the whole atelier, and looked ugly. the students silently deployed on three sides, and with a yell rushed in, but not before three of them had gone down under his fists did they pin him to the floor and strip him. while bishop was thus being prepared, the nebraskan was being dealt with. he had the wisdom not to lose his temper, and that made his resistance all the more formidable. laughing all the time, he nevertheless dodged, tripped, wrestled, threw stools, and did so many other astonishing and baffling things that the students, though able to have conquered him in the end, were glad to make terms with him. in this arrangement he compelled them to include bishop. as a result, those two mounted the model throne naked, and sang together and danced a jig, all so cleverly that the frenchmen were frantic with delight, and welcomed them as _des bons amis_. the amazing readiness and capability of the american fist bring endless delight and perennial surprise to the french. [illustration: ] the rest of the nouveaux were variously treated. some, after being stripped, were grotesquely decorated with designs and pictures not suitable for general inspection. others were made to sing, to recite, or to act scenes from familiar plays, or, in default of that, to improvise scenes, some of which were exceedingly funny. others, attached to a rope depending from the ceiling, were swung at a perilous rate across the atelier, dodging easels in their flight. at half-past twelve the sport was over. the barricade was removed, the turk's clothes hidden, the turk left howling on his shelf, and the atelier abandoned. the next morning there was trouble. the director was furious, and threatened to close the atelier for a month, because the turk had not been discovered until five o'clock, when his hoarse howls attracted the attention of the gardien of the fires. his trousers and one shoe could not be found. it was three months before haidor appeared at the atelier again, and then everything had been forgotten. bishop was made miserable during the ensuing week. he would find himself roasting over paper fires kindled under his stool. paint was smeared upon his easel to stain his hands. his painting was altered and entirely re-designed in his absence. strong-smelling cheeses were placed in the lining of his "plug" hat. his stool-legs were so loosened that when he sat down he struck the floor with a crash. his painting-blouse was richly decorated inside and out with shocking coats of arms that would not wash out. one day he discovered that he had been painting for a whole hour with currant jelly from a tube that he thought contained laque. then, being a _nouveau_, he could never get a good position in which to draw from the model. every monday morning a new model is posed for the week, and the students select places according to the length of time they have been attending. the nouveaux have to take what is left. and they must be servants to the ancients,--run out for tobacco, get soap and clean towels, clean paint-brushes, and keep the studio in order. with the sculptors and architects it is worse. the sculptors must sweep the dirty, clay-grimed floor regularly, fetch clean water, mix the clay and keep it fresh and moist, and on saturdays, when the week's work is finished, must break up the forty or more clay figures, and restore them to clay for next week's operations. the architects must build heavy wooden frames, mount the projects and drawings, and cart them about paris to the different exhibition rooms. at the end of a year the _nouveau_ drops his hated title and becomes a proud ancient, to bully to his heart's content, as those before him. mondays and wednesdays are criticism days, for then m. gérôme comes down and goes over the work of his pupils. he is very early and punctual, never arriving later than half-past eight, usually before half the students are awake. the moment he enters all noises cease, and all seem desperately hard at work, although a moment before the place may have been in an uproar. gérôme plumps down upon the man nearest to him, and then visits each of his _élèves_, storming and scolding mercilessly when his pupils have failed to follow his instructions. as soon as a student's criticism is finished he rises and follows the master to hear the other criticisms, so that toward the close the procession is large. [illustration: ] bishop's first criticism took him all aback. "_comment!_" gasped the master, gazing at the canvas in horror. "_qu'est-ce que vous avez fait?_" he sternly demanded, glaring at the luckless student, who, in order to cultivate a striking individuality, was painting the model in broad, thick dashes of color. gérôme glanced at bishop's palette, and saw a complete absence of black upon it. "_comment, vous n'avez pas de noir?_" he roared. "_c'est très important, la partie matérielle! vous ne m'écoutez pas, mon ami,---je parle dans le désert! vous n'avez pas d'aspect général, mon ami,_" and much more, while bishop sat cold to the marrow. the students, crowded about, enjoyed his discomfiture immensely, and, behind gérôme's back, laughed in their sleeves and made faces at bishop. but many others suffered, and bishop had his inning with them. all during gérôme's tour of inspection the model must maintain his pose, however difficult and exhausting. often he is kept on a fearful strain for two hours. after the criticism the boys show gérôme sketches and studies that they have made outside the ecole, and it is in discussing them that his geniality and kindliness appear. gérôme imperiously demands two things,--that his pupils, before starting to paint, lay on a red or yellow tone, and that they keep their brushes scrupulously clean. woe to him who disobeys! after he leaves with a cheery "_bon jour, messieurs!_" pandemonium breaks loose, if the day be saturday. easels, stools, and studies are mowed down as by a whirlwind, yells shake the building, the model is released, a tattoo is beaten on the sheet-iron stove-guard, everything else capable of making a noise is brought into service, and either the model is made to do the _danse du ventre_ or a _nouveau_ is hazed. the models--what stories are there! every monday morning from ten to twenty present themselves, male and female, for inspection in _puris naturalibus_ before the critical gaze of the students of the different ateliers. one after another they mount the throne and assume such academic poses of their own choosing as they imagine will display their points to the best advantage. the students then vote upon them, for and against, by raising the hand. the massier, standing beside the model, announces the result, and, if the vote is favorable, enrols the model for a certain week to come. there is intense rivalry among the models. strange to say, most of the male models in the schools of paris are from italy, the southern part especially. as a rule, they have very good figures. they begin posing at the age of five or six, and follow the business until old age retires them. crowds of them are at the gates of the beaux-arts early on monday mornings. in the voting, a child may be preferred to his seniors, and yet the rate of payment is the same,--thirty francs a week. [illustration: ] many of the older models are quite proud of their profession, spending idle hours in studying the attitudes of figures in great paintings and in sculptures in the louvre or the luxembourg, and adopting these poses when exhibiting themselves to artists; but the trick is worthless. few of the women models remain long in the profession. posing is hard and fatiguing work, and the students are merciless in their criticisms of any defects of figure that the models may have,--the french are born critics. during the many years that i have studied and worked in paris i have seen scores of models begin their profession with a serious determination to make it their life-work. [illustration: ] they would appear regularly at the different ateliers for about two years, and would be gratified to observe endless reproductions of their graces in the prize rows on the studio walls. then their appearance would be less and less regular, and they would finally disappear altogether--whither? some become contented companions of students and artists, but the cafés along the _boul' mich'_, the cabarets of montmartre, and the dance-halls of the moulin rouge and the bal bullier have their own story to tell. some are happily married; for instance, one, noted for her beauty of face and figure, is the wife of a new york millionaire. but she was clever as well as beautiful, and few models are that. most of them are ordinaire, living the easy life of bohemian paris, and having little knowledge of _le monde propre._ but, oh, how they all love dress! and therein lies most of the story. when marcelle or hélène appears, all of a sudden, radiant in silks and creamy lace petticoats, and sweeps proudly into the crowded studios, flushed and happy, and hears the dear compliments that the students heap upon her, we know that thirty francs a week could not have changed the gray grub into a gorgeous butterfly. "_c'est mon amant qui m'a fait cadeau,_" marcelle will explain, deeming some explanation necessary. there is none to dispute you, marcelle. this vast whirlpool has seized many another like you, and will seize many another more. and to poor marcelle it seems so small a price to pay to become one of the grand ladies of paris, with their dazzling jewels and rich clothes! an odd whim may overtake one here and there. one young demoiselle, beautiful as a girl and successful as a model a year ago, may now be seen nightly at the _cabaret du soleil d'or_, frowsy and languishing, in keeping with the spirit of her confrères there, singing her famous "_le petit caporal_" to thunderous applause, and happy with the love, squalor, dirt, and hunger that she finds with the luckless poet whose fortunes she shares. it was not a matter of clothes with her. it is a short and easy step from the studio to the _café_. at the studio it is all little money, hard posing, dulness, and poor clothes; at the _cafés_ are the brilliant lights, showy clothes, tinkling money, clinking glasses, popping corks, unrestrained abandon, and midnight suppers. and the studios and the _cafés_ are but adjoining apartments, one may say, in the great house of bohemia. the studio is the introduction to the _café_; the _café_ is the burst of sunshine after the dreariness of the studio; and marcelle determines that for once she will bask in the warmth and glow.... ah, what a jolly night it was, and a louis d'or in her purse besides! marcelle's face was pretty--and new. she is late at the studio next morning, and is sleepy and cross. the students grumble. the room is stifling, and its gray walls seem ready to crush her. it is so tiresome, so stupid--and only thirty francs a week! bah!... marcelle appears no more. all the great painters have their exclusive model or models, paying them a permanent salary. these favored ones move in a special circle, into which the ordinaire may not enter, unless she becomes the favorite of some grand homme. they are never seen at the academies, and rarely or never pose in the schools, unless it was there they began their career. perhaps the most famous of the models of paris was sarah brown, whose wild and exciting life has been the talk of the world. her beautiful figure and glorious golden hair opened to her the whole field of modeldom. offers for her services as model were more numerous than she could accept, and the prices that she received were very high. she was the mistress of one great painter after another, and she lived and reigned like a queen. impulsive, headstrong, passionate, she would do the most reckless things. she would desert an artist in the middle of his masterpiece and come down to the studio to pose for the students at thirty francs a week. gorgeously apparelled, she would glide into a studio, overturn all the easels that she could reach, and then shriek with laughter over the havoc and consternation that she had created. the students would greet her with shouts and form a circle about her, while she would banteringly call them her friends. then she would jump upon the throne, dispossess the model there, and give a dance or make a speech, knocking off every hat that her parasol could reach. but no one could resist sarah. she came up to the _atelier gérôme_ one morning and demanded une semaine de femme. the _massier_ booked her for the following week. she arrived promptly on time and was posed. wednesday a whim seized her to wear her plumed hat and silk stockings. "_c'est beaucoup plus chic_," she naively explained. when gérôme entered the studio and saw her posing thus she smiled saucily at him, but he turned in a rage and left the studio without a word. thursday she tired of the pose and took one to please herself, donning a skirt. of course protests were useless, so the students had to recommence their work. the remainder of the week she sat upon the throne in full costume, refusing to pose. she amused herself with smoking cigarettes and keeping the _nouveaux_ running errands for her. it was she who was the cause of the students' riot in ,--a riot that came near ending in a revolution. it was all because she appeared at le bal des quat'z' arts in a costume altogether too simple and natural to suit the prefect of police, who punished her. she was always at the salon on receiving-day, and shocked the occupants of the liveried carriages on the champs-elysées with her dancing. in fact, she was always at the head of everything extraordinary and sensational among the bohemians of paris. but she aged rapidly under her wild life. her figure lost its grace, her lovers deserted her, and after her dethronement as queen of bohemia, broken-hearted and poor, she put an end to her wretched life,--and paris laughed. the breaking in of a new girl model is a joy that the students never permit themselves to miss. among the many demoiselles who come every monday morning are usually one or two that are new. the new one is accompanied by two or more of her girl friends, who give her encouragement at the terrible moment when she disrobes. as there are no dressing-rooms, there can be no privacy. the students gather about and watch the proceedings with great interest, and make whatever remarks their deviltry can suggest. this is the supreme test; all the efforts of the attendant girls are required to hold the new one to her purpose. when finally, after an inconceivable struggle with her shame, the girl plunges ahead in reckless haste to finish the job, the students applaud her roundly. [illustration: ] but more torture awaits her. frightened, trembling, blushing furiously, she ascends the throne, and innocently assumes the most awkward and ridiculous poses, forgetting in that terrible moment the poses that she had learned so well under the tutelage of her friends. it is then that the fiendishness of the students rises to its greatest height. dazed and numb, she hardly comprehends the ordeal through which she is now put. the students have adopted a grave and serious bearing, and solemnly ask her to assume the most outlandish and ungraceful poses. then come long and mock-earnest arguments about her figure, these arguments having been carefully learned and rehearsed beforehand. one claims that her waist is too long and her legs too heavy; another hotly takes the opposite view. then they put her through the most absurd evolutions to prove their points. at last she is made to don her hat and stockings; and the students form a ring about her and dance and shout until she is ready to faint. of course the studio has a ringleader in all this deviltry,--all studios have. joncierge is head of all the mischief in our atelier. there is no end to his ingenuity in devising new means of torture and fun. his personations are marvellous. when he imitates bernhardt, réjane, or calvé, no work can be done in the studio. gérôme himself is one of his favorite victims. but joncierge cannot remain long in one school; the authorities pass him on as soon as they find that he is really hindering the work of the students. one day, at julian's, he took the class skeleton, and with a cord let the rattling, quivering thing down into the rue du dragon, and frightened the passers out of their wits. as his father is chef d'orchestre at the grand opéra, joncierge junior learns all the operas and convulses us with imitations of the singers. [illustration: ] another character in the studio is le jeune siffert, only twenty-three, and one of the cleverest of the coming french painters. recently he nearly won the prix de rome. his specialty is the imitation of the cries of domestic fowls and animals, and of street venders. gérôme calls him "mon fils," and constantly implores him to be serious. i don't see why. then there is fiola, a young giant from brittany, with a wonderful facility at drawing. he will suddenly break into a roar, and for an hour sing one verse of a brittany chant, driving the other students mad. fournier is a little curly-headed fellow from the south, near valence, and wears corduroy trousers tucked into top-boots. his greatest delight is in plaguing the nouveaux. his favorite joke, if the day is dark, is to send a nouveau to the different ateliers of the ecole in search of "le grand réflecteur." the nouveau, thinking that it is a device for increasing the light, starts out bravely, and presently returns with a large, heavy box, which, upon its being opened, is found to be filled with bricks. then fournier is happy. taton is the butt of the atelier. he is an ingénu, and falls into any trap set for him. whenever anything is missing, all pounce upon taton, and he is very unhappy. haidor, the turk, suspicious and sullen, also is a butt. caricatures of him abundantly adorn the walls, together with the turkish crescent, and turkish ladies executing the _danse du ventre_. caricatures of all kinds cover the walls of the atelier, and some are magnificent, being spared the vandalism that spares nothing else. one, especially good, represents kenyon cox, who studied here. w------, the student from nebraska, created a sensation by appearing one day in the full regalia of a cowboy, including two immense revolvers, a knife, and a lariat depending from his belt. with the lariat he astonished and dismayed the dodging frenchmen by lassoing them at will, though they exercised their greatest running and dodging agility to escape. they wanted to know if all americans went about thus heeled in america. there is something uncanny about the little siamese. he is exceedingly quiet and works unceasingly. one day, when the common spirit of mischief was unusually strong among the boys, the bolder ones began to hint at fun in the direction of the siamese. he quietly shifted a pair of brass knuckles from some pocket to a more convenient one, and although it was done so unostentatiously, the act was observed. he was not disturbed, and has been left strictly alone ever since. one day the italian students took the whole atelier down to a little restaurant on the quai des grands-augustins and cooked them an excellent italian dinner, with chianti to wash it down. two italian street-singers furnished the music, and mademoiselle la modèle danced as only a model can. [illustration: ] taking pictures to the salon ever since new year's, when bishop began his great composition for the salon, our life at the studio had been sadly disarranged; for bishop had so completely buried himself in his work that i was compelled to combine the functions of cook with those of chambermaid. [illustration: ] this double work, with increasing pressure from my modelling, required longer hours at night and shorter hours in the morning. but i was satisfied, for this was to be bishop's masterpiece, and i knew from the marvellous labor and spirit that he put into the work that something good would result. the name of his great effort was "the suicide." it was like him to choose so grisly a subject, for he had a lawless nature and rebelled against the commonplace. ghastly subjects had always fascinated him. from the very beginning of our domestic partnership he had shown a taste for grim and forbidding things. often, upon returning home, i had found him making sketches of armless beggars, twisted cripples, and hunchbacks, and, worse than all, disease-marked vagabonds. a skull-faced mortal in the last stages of consumption was a joy to him. it was useless for me to protest that he was failing to find the best in him by developing his unwholesome tastes. "wait," he would answer patiently; "the thing that has suffering and character, that is out of the ordinary, it is the thing that will strike and live." the suicide was a young woman gowned in black; she was poised in the act of plunging into the seine; a babe was tightly clutched to her breast; and behind the unspeakable anguish in her eyes was a hungry hope, a veiled assurance of the peace to come. it fascinated and haunted me beyond all expression. it was infinitely sad, tragic, and terrible, for it reached with a sure touch to the very lowest depth of human agony. the scene was the dead of night, and only the dark towers of notre-dame broke the even blackness of the sky, save for a faint glow that touched the lower stretches from the distant lamps of the city. in the darkness only the face of the suicide was illuminated, and that but dimly, though sufficiently to disclose the wonderfully complex emotions that crowded upon her soul. this illumination came from three ghastly green lights on the water below. the whole tone of the picture was a black, sombre green. that was all after the painting had been finished. the making of it is a story by itself. from the first week in january to the first week in march the studio was a junk-shop of the most uncanny sort. in order to pose his model in the act of plunging into the river, bishop had rigged up a tackle, which, depending from the ceiling, caught the model at the waist, after the manner of a fire-escape belt, and thus half suspended her. he secured his green tone and night effect by covering nearly all the skylight and the window with green tissue-paper, besides covering the floor and walls with green rugs and draperies. the model behaved very well in her unusual pose, but the babe--that was the rub. the model did not happen to possess one, and bishop had not yet learned the difficulties attending the procuring and posing of infants. in the first place, he found scores of babes, but not a mother, however poor, willing to permit her babe to be used as a model, and a model for so gruesome a situation. but after he had almost begun to despair, and had well advanced with his woman model, an italian woman came one day and informed him that she could get an infant from a friend of her sister's, if he would pay her one franc a day for the use of it. bishop eagerly made the bargain. then a new series of troubles began. the babe objected most emphatically to the arrangement. it refused to nestle in the arms of a strange woman about to plunge into eternity, and the strange woman had no knack at all in soothing the infant's outraged feelings. besides, the model was unable to meet the youngster's frequent demands for what it was accustomed to have, and the mother, who was engaged elsewhere, had to be drummed up at exasperatingly frequent intervals. all this told upon both bishop and francinette, the model, and they took turns in swearing at the unruly brat, bishop in english and francinette in french. neither knew how to swear in italian, or things might have been different. i happened in upon these scenes once in a while, and my enjoyment so exasperated bishop that he threw paint- tubes, bottles, and everything else at me that he could reach, and once or twice locked me out of the studio, compelling me to kick my shins in the cold street for hours at a time. on such occasions i would stand in the court looking up at our window, expecting momentarily that the babe would come flying down from that direction. when bishop was not sketching and painting he was working up his inspiration; and that was worst of all. his great effort was to get himself into a suicidal mood. he would sit for hours on the floor, his face between his knees, imagining all sorts of wrongs and slights that the heartless world had put upon him. his husband had beaten him and gone off with another woman; he had tried with all his woman-heart to bear the cross; hunger came to pinch and torture him; he sought work, failed to find it; sought charity, failed to find that; his babe clutched at his empty breasts and cried piteously for food; his heart broken, all hope gone, even god forgetting him, he thought of the dark, silent river, the great cold river, that has brought everlasting peace to countless thousands of suffering young mothers like him; he went to the river; he looked back upon the faint glow of the city's lights in the distance; he cast his glance up to the grim towers of notre-dame, standing cold and pitiless against the blacker sky; he looked down upon the black seine, the great writhing python, so willing to swallow him up; he clutched his babe to his breast, gasped a prayer.... at other times he would haunt the morgue and study the faces of those who had died by felo-de-se; he would visit the hospitals and study the dying; he would watch the actions and read the disordered thoughts of lunatics; he would steal along the banks; of the river on dark nights and study the silent mystery and tragedy of it, and the lights that gave shape to its terrors. in the end i grew afraid of him. but all things have an end. bishop's great work was finished in the first days of march. slowly, but surely, his native exuberance of spirits returned. he would eat and sleep like a rational being. his eyes lost their haunted look, and his cheeks filled out and again took on their healthy hue. and then he invited his friends and some critics to inspect his composition, and gave a great supper in celebration of the completion of his task. very generous praise was given him. among the critics and masters came gérôme and laurens at his earnest supplication, and it was good to see their delight and surprise, and to note that they had no fault to find,--was not the picture finished, and would not criticism from them at this juncture have hurt the boy without accomplishing any good? well, the painting secured honorable mention in the exhibition, and five years later the french government completed the artist's happiness by buying one of his pictures for the luxembourg gallery. but about the picture: the canvas was eight by ten feet, and a frame had to be procured for it. now, frames are expensive, and bishop had impoverished himself for material and model hire. so he employed a carpenter in the court to make a frame of thick pine boards, which we painted a deep black, with a gold cornice. the whole cost was twenty- five francs. next day we hired a good-sized _voiture-à-bras_ at eight sous an hour, and proceeded to get the tableau down to the court. it was a devilish job, for the ceilings were low and the stairs narrow and crooked. the old gentleman below us was nearly decapitated by poking his head out of his door at an inopportune moment, and the lady below him almost wiped the still wet babe from the canvas with her gown as she tried to squeeze past. the entire court turned out to wish bishop good success. the last day on which pictures are admitted to the salon, there to await the merciless decision of the judges, is a memorable one. in sumptuous studios, in wretched garrets; amid affluence, amid scenes of squalor and hunger, artists of all kinds and degrees have been squeezing thousands of tubes and daubing thousands of canvases in preparation for the great day. from every corner of paris, from every quarter of france and europe, the canvases come pouring into the salon. every conceivable idea, fad, and folly is represented in the collection, and most of them are poor; but in each and every one a fond hope centres, an ambition is staked. strange as it may seem, most of these pictures are worked upon until the very last day; indeed, many of them are snatched unfinished from their easels, to receive the finishing touches in the dust and confusion and deafening noise of the great hall where they are all dumped like so much merchandise. we saw one artist who, not having finished his picture, was putting on the final touches as it was borne ahead of him along the street on the back of a commissionnaire. [illustration: ] and all this accounts for the endless smearing everywhere noticeable, and for the frantic endeavors of the artists to repair the damage at the last moment. one great obstacle to poor artists is the rigid rule requiring that all tableaux shall be framed. these frames are costly. as a result, some artists paint pictures of the same size year after year, so that the same frame may be used for all, and others resort to such makeshifts as bishop was compelled to employ. but these makeshifts must be artistically done, or the canvases are ignored by the judges. these efforts give rise to many startling effects. it was not very long, after an easy pull over the boulevard st.-germain, before we crossed the seine at the pont de la concorde, traversed the place de la concorde, and turned into the champs-elysées, where, not far away, loomed the palais des beaux-arts, in which the salon is annually held in march. the avenue des champs-elysées, crowded as it usually is in the afternoons, was now jammed with cabs, omnibuses, hand-carts, and all sorts of moving vans, mingling with the fashionable carriages on their way to the bois. the proletarian vehicles contained art,--art by the ton. the upper decks of the omnibuses were crowded with artists carrying their pictures because they could not afford more than the three-sous fare. and such an assortment of artists! there were some in affluent circumstances, who rolled along voluptuously in cabs on an expenditure of thirty-five francs, holding their precious tableaux and luxuriantly smoking cigarettes. [illustration: ] the commissionnaires had a great day of it. they are the ones usually seen asleep on the street corners, where, when awake, they varnish boots or bear loads by means of a contrivance on their backs. on this day every one of them in paris was loaded down with pictures. many were the hard-up students, like bishop, tugging hand-carts, or pairing to carry by hand pictures too large to be borne by a single person. and great fun they got out of it all. opposite the palais de glace was a perfect sea of vehicles, artists, porters, and policemen, all inextricably tangled up, all shouting or groaning, and wet pictures suffering. one artist nearly had a fit when he saw a full moon wiped off his beautiful landscape, and he would have killed the guilty porter had not the students interfered. portraits of handsome ladies with smudged noses and smeared eyes were common. expensive gold frames lost large sections of their corners. but still they were pouring in. with infinite patience and skill bishop gradually worked his _voiture-à- bras_ through the maze, and soon his masterpiece was in the crushing mass at the wide entrance to the salon. there it was seized and rushed along, and bishop received in return a slip of paper bearing a number. while within the building we reconnoitred. amid the confusion of howling inspectors, straining porters bearing heavy pictures, carpenters erecting partitions, and a dust-laden atmosphere, numerous artists were working with furious haste upon their unfinished productions. some were perched upon ladders, others squatted upon the floor, and one had his model posing nude to the waist; she was indifferent to the attention that she received. thoughtful mistresses stood affectionately beside their artist amants, furnishing them with delicate edibles and lighting cigarettes for them. some of the pictures were so large that they were brought in rolled up. one artist had made himself into a carpenter to mount his mammoth picture. frightful and impossible paintings were numerous, but the painter of each expected a _première médaille d'honneur_. it was nearing six o'clock, the closing hour. chic demoiselle artistes came dashing up in cabs, bringing with them, to insure safe delivery, their everlasting still-life subjects. shortly before six the work in the building was suspended by a commotion outside. it was a contingent of students from the beaux-arts marching up the champs-elysées, yelling and dancing like maniacs and shaking their heavy sticks, the irresistible sarah brown leading as drum-maior. she was gorgeously arrayed in the most costly silks and laces, and looked a dashing amazon. then, as always, she was perfectly happy with her beloved _étudiants_, who worshipped her as a goddess. she halted them in front of the building, where they formed a circle round her, and there, as director of ceremonies, she required them to sing chansons, dance, make comic speeches, and "blaguer" the arriving artists. the last van was unloaded; the great doors closed with a bang, and the stirring day was ended. all the students, even the porters, then joined hands and went singing, howling, and skipping down the champs-elysées, and wishing one another success at the coming exhibition. at the place de la concorde we met a wild-eyed artist running frantically toward the salon with his belated picture. the howls of encouragement that greeted him lent swifter wings to his legs. the pictures finally installed, a jury composed of france's greatest masters pass upon them. the endless procession of paintings is passed before them; the raising of their hands means approval, silence means condemnation; and upon those simple acts depends the happiness or despair of thousands. but depression does not long persist, and the judgment is generally accepted in the end as just and valuable. for the students, in great part, flock to the country on sketching tours, for which arrangements had been already made; and there the most deeply depressed spirits must revive and the habit of work and hope come into play. year after year the same artists strive for recognition at the salon; and finally, when they fail at that, they reflect that there is a great world outside of the salon, where conscientious effort is acceptable. and, after all, a medal at the salon is not the only reward that life has to offer. and then, it is not always good for a student to be successful from the start. just as his social environment in paris tries his strength and determines the presence or absence of qualities that are as useful to a successful career as special artistic qualifications, so the trial by fire in the salon exhibitions hardens and toughens him for the serious work of his life ahead. too early success has ruined more artists than it has helped. it is interesting also to observe that, as a rule, the students who eventually secure the highest places in art are those whose difficulties have been greatest. the lad with the pluck to live on a crust in a garret, and work and study under conditions of poverty and self-denial that would break any but the stoutest heart, is the one from whom to expect renown in the years to come. ah, old paris is the harshest but wisest of mothers! "_h! ah! vive les quat'z' arts! au molin rouge--en route!_" the lamplit streets of paris as cab after cab and bus after 'bus went thundering across town toward montmartre, heavily freighted with brilliantly costumed revellers of les quat'z' arts. parisians ran from their dinner- tables to the windows and balconies, blasé boulevardiers paused in their evening stroll or looked up from their papers at the _café_-tables, waiters and swearing cabbies and yelling newsboys stopped in the midst of their various duties, and all knowingly shook their heads, "_ah, ce sont les quat'z' arts!_"? for to-night was the great annual ball of the artists, when all artistic paris crawls from its mysterious depths to revel in a splendid carnival possible only to the arts. every spring, after the pictures have been sent to the salon, and before the students have scattered for the summer vacation, the artists of paris and the members of all the ateliers of the four arts--painting, sculpture, architecture, and engraving--combine their forces in producing a spectacle of regal splendor, seen nowhere else in the world; and long are the weeks and hard the work and vast the ingenuity devoted to preparations,--the designing of costumes and the building of gorgeous floats. during the last three weeks the _élèves_ of the _atelier gérôme_ abandoned their studies, forgot all about the concours and the prix de rome, and devoted all their energies to the construction of a colossal figure of gérôme's great war goddess, "bel-lona." it was a huge task, but the students worked it out with a will. yards of sackcloth, rags, old coats, paint rags, besides pine timbers, broken easels and stools, endless wire and rope, went into the making of the goddess's frame, and this was covered with plaster of paris dexterously moulded into shape. then it was properly tinted and painted and mounted on a chariot of gold. a grecian frieze of galloping horses, mounted, the clever work of siffert, was emblazoned on the sides of the chariot. and what a wreck the atelier was after all was finished! _sacré nom d'un chien!_ how the gardiens must have sworn when cleaning-day came round! the ateliers in the ecole are all rivals, and each had been secretly preparing its coup with which to capture the grand prix at the bal. the great day came at last. the students of our atelier were perfectly satisfied with their handiwork, and the massier made all happy by ordering a retreat to the café des deux magots, where success to the goddess was drunk in steaming "grog américain." then bellona began her perilous journey across paris to montmartre and the moulin rouge. [illustration: ] this was not an easy task, as she was fifteen feet high; signs and lamp- posts suffered, and sleepy cab-horses danced as their terrified gaze beheld the giant goddess with her uplifted sword. crowds watched the progress of bellona on the avenue de l'opéra, drawn by half a hundred students yelling the national hymn. the pull up the steep slope of montmartre was heavy, but in less than two hours from the start at the ecole the goddess was safely housed in the depths of the moulin rouge, there to await her triumphs of the night. bishop, besides doing his share in the preparation of the figure, had the equally serious task of devising a costume for his own use at the ball. it was not until the very last day that he made his final decision,--to go as a roman orator. our supply of linen was meagre, but our only two clean bed-sheets and a few towels were sufficient, and two kind american ladies who were studying music and who lived near the old church of st. sulpice did the fitting of a toga. the soles of a pair of slippers from which bishop cut the tops served as sandals, and some studio properties in the way of oriental bracelets completed his costume. i was transformed into an apache indian by a generous rubbing into my skin of burnt sienna and cadmium, which i was weeks in getting rid of; a blanket and some chicken-feathers finished my array. our friend cameron, next door, went in his scotch kilts. after supper we entered the boul' mich' and proceeded to the café de la source, where the students of the _atelier gérôme_ were to rendezvous. [illustration: ] the boul' was a spectacle that night. time had rolled back the curtain of centuries; ancient cemeteries had yielded up their dead; and living ghosts of the ages packed all the gay _café_s. history from the time of adam had sent forth its traditions, and eves rubbed elbows with ballet- girls. there was never a jollier night in the history of the quartier latin. we found the café de la source already crowded by the gérôme contingent and their models and mistresses, all en costume and bubbling with merriment and mischief. it was ten o'clock before all the students had arrived. then we formed in procession, and yelled and danced past all the _café_s on the boul' mich' to the luxembourg palace and the théâtre de l'odéon, to take the 'buses of the montmartre line. these we quickly seized and overloaded in violation of the law, and then, dashing down the quiet streets of the rive gauche, headed for montmartre, making a noise to rouse the dead. as we neared the place blanche we found the little streets merging from different quarters crowded with people in costume, some walking and others crowding almost innumerable vehicles, and the balconies and portes-cochères packed with spectators. the place blanche fronts the moulin rouge, and it was crowded and brilliantly lighted. the façade of the moulin rouge was a blaze of electric lights and colored lanterns, and the revolving wings of the mill flamed across the sky. it was a perfect night. the stars shone, the air was warm and pleasant, and the trees were tipped with the glistening clean foliage of early spring. the bright _café_s fronting the place were crowded with gay revellers. the poets of bohemia were there, and gayly attired cocottes assisted them in their fun at the _café_ tables, extending far out into the boulevard under the trees. at one corner was gérôme's private studio, high up in the top of the house, and standing on the balcony was gérôme himself, enjoying the brilliant scene below. as the bal des quat'z' arts is not open to the public, and as none but accredited members of the four arts are admitted, the greatest precautions are taken to prevent the intrusion of outsiders; and wonderful is the ingenuity exercised to outwit the authorities. inside the vestibule of the moulin was erected a tribune (a long bar), behind which sat the massiers of the different studios of paris, all in striking costumes. it was their task not only to identify the holders of tickets, but also to pass on the suitability of the costumes of such as were otherwise eligible to admittance. the costumes must all have conspicuous merit and be thoroughly artistic. nothing black, no dominos, none in civilian dress, may pass. many and loud were the protestations that rang through the vestibule as one after another was turned back and firmly conducted to the door. once past the implacable tribunes, we entered a dazzling fairy-land, a dream of rich color and reckless abandon. from gorgeous kings and queens to wild savages, all were there; courtiers in silk, naked gladiators, nymphs with paint for clothing,--all were there; and the air was heavy with the perfume of roses. shouts, laughter, the silvery clinking of glasses, a whirling mass of life and color, a bewildering kaleidoscope, a maze of tangled visions in the soft yellow haze that filled the vast hall. there was no thought of the hardness and sordidness of life, no dream of the morrow. it was a wonderful witchery that sat upon every soul there. this splendid picture was framed by a wall of lodges, each sumptuously decorated and hung with banners, tableaux, and greens, each representing a particular atelier and adorned in harmony with the dominant ideals of their masters. the lodge of the _atelier gérôme_ was arranged to represent a grecian temple; all the decorations and accessories were pure grecian, cleverly imitated by the master's devoted pupils. that of the atelier cormon repre sented a huge caravan of the prehistoric big- muscled men that appeal so strongly to cormon; large skeletons of extinct animals, giant ferns, skins, and stone implements were scattered about, while the students of cormon's atelier, almost naked, with bushy hair and clothed in skins, completed the picture. and so it was with all the lodges, each typifying a special subject, and carrying it out with perfect fidelity to the minutest detail. the event of the evening was the grand cortège; this, scheduled for one o'clock, was awaited with eager expectancy, for with it would come the test of supremacy,--the awarding of the prize for the best. for this was the great art centre of the world, and this night was the one in which its rivalries would strain the farthest reach of skill. meanwhile, the great hall swarmed with life and blazed with color and echoed with the din of merry voices. friends recognized one another with great difficulty. and there was gérôme himself at last, gaudily gowned in the rich green costume of a chinese mandarin, his white moustache dyed black, and his white locks hidden beneath a black skull-cap topped with a bobbing appendage. and there also was jean paul laurens, in the costume of a norman, the younger laurens as charlemagne. léandre, the caricaturist, was irresistible as a caricature of queen victoria. puech, the sculptor, made a graceful courtier of the marie antoinette régime. willett was a roman emperor. will dodge was loaded with the crown, silks, and jewels of a byzantine emperor. louis loeb was a desperate tartar bandit. castaigne made a hit as an italian jurist. steinlen, grasset, forain, rodin,--in fact, nearly all the renowned painters, sculptors, and illustrators of paris were there; and besides them were the countless students and models. [illustration: ] "la cavalcade! le grand cortège!" rose the cry above the crashing of the band and the noise of the revellers; and then all the dancing stopped. emerging from the gardens through the open glass door, bringing with it a pleasant blast of the cool night air, was the vanguard of the great procession. the orchestra struck up the "victor's march," and a great cry of welcome rang out. first came a band of yelling indians dancing in, waving their spears and tomahawks, and so cleaving a way for the parade. a great roar filled the glass-domed hall when the first float appeared. it was daring and unique, but a masterpiece. borne upon the shoulders of indians, who were naked but for skins about their loins, their bodies stained a dark brown and striped with paint, was a gorgeous bed of fresh flowers and trailing vines; and reclining in this bed were four of the models of paris, lying on their backs, head to head, their legs upraised to support a circular tablet of gold. [illustration: ] upon this, high in air, proud and superb, was the great susanne in all her peerless beauty of face and form,--simply that and nothing more. a sparkling crown of jewels glowed in her reddish golden hair; a flashing girdle of electric lights encircled her slender waist, bringing out the marvellous whiteness of her skin, and with delicate shadows and tones modelling the superb contour of her figure. she looked a goddess--and knew it. the crowd upon whom she looked down stood for a while spell- bound, and then, with a waving of arms and flags, came a great shout, "susanne! susanne! la belle susanne!" susanne only smiled. was she not the queen of the models of paris? then came bellona! gérôme, when he conceived and executed the idea embodied in this wonderful figure, concentrated his efforts to produce a most terrifying, fear-inspiring image typifying the horrors of war. the straining goddess, poised upon her toes to her full height, her face uplifted, her head thrust forward, with staring eyes and screaming mouth, her short two-edged sword in position for a sweeping blow, her glittering round shield and her coat of mail, a huge angry python darting its tongue and raising its green length from the folds of her drapery,--all this terrible figure, reproduced with marvellous fidelity and magnified tenfold, overwhelmed the thousands upon whom it glowered. surrounding the golden chariot was a guard of roman and greek gladiators, emperors, warriors, and statesmen. from the staring eyes of bellona flashed green fire, whose uncanny shafts pierced the yellow haze of the ball-room. under a storm of cheers bellona went on her way past the tribune of the judges. [illustration: ] following bellona came a beautiful reproduction of gérôme's classical "tanagra," which adorns the sculpture gallery of the luxembourg. the figure was charmingly personated by marcelle, a lithe, slim, graceful model of immature years, who was a rage in the studios. gérôme himself applauded the grace of her pose as she swept past his point of vantage in the gallery. [illustration: ] behind tanagra came w------, also of the atelier gérôme, dressed as an apache warrior and mounted on a bucking broncho. he was an american, from nebraska, where he was a cowboy before he became famous as a sculptor. he received a rousing welcome from his fellow-artists. the atelier cormon came next,--a magnificent lot of brawny fellows clothed in skins, and bearing an immense litter made of tree branches bound with thongs and weighted down with strong naked women and children of a prehistoric age. it was a reproduction of cormon's masterpiece in the luxembourg gallery, and was one of the most impressive compositions in the whole parade. then came the works of the many other studios, all strong and effective, but none so fine as the three first. the atelier pascal, of architecture, made a sensation by appearing as egyptian mummies, each mummy dragging an egyptian coffin covered with ancient inscriptions and characters and containing a parisian model, all too alive and sensuous to personate the ancient dead. another atelier strove hard for the prize with eggs of heroic size, from which as many girls, as chicks, were breaking their way to freedom. after the grand cortège had paraded the hall several times it disbanded, and the ball proceeded with renewed enthusiasm. the tribune, wherein the wise judges sat, was a large and artistic affair, built up before the gallery of the orchestra and flanked by broad steps leading to its summit. it was topped with the imperial escutcheon of rome--battle-axes bound in fagots--and bore the legend, "_mort aux tyrants_," in bold letters. beneath was a row of ghastly, bloody severed heads,--those of dead tyrants. the variety and originality of the costumes were bewildering. one frenchman went as a tombstone, his back, representing a headstone, containing a suitable inscription and bearing wreaths of immortelles and colored beads. another, from the atelier bon-nat, went simply as a stink, nothing more, nothing less, but it was potent. he had saturated his skin with the juice of onions and garlic, and there was never any mistaking his proximity. many were the gay bacchantes wearing merely a bunch of grapes in their hair and a grape-leaf. at intervals during the evening the crowd would suddenly gather and form a large circle, many deep, some climbing upon the backs of others the better to see, those in front squatting or lying upon the floor to accommodate the mass behind them. the formation of these circles was the signal for the _danse du ventre_.* * the danse du ventre (literally, belly-dance) is of turkish origin, and was introduced to paris by turkish women from egypt. afterward these women exhibited it in the midway plaisance of the columbian exposition, chicago, and then at the california midwinter exposition, san francisco. as danced by turkish women it consists of astonishing control and movements of the abdominal and chest muscles (hence its other name, muscle-dance), varied with more or less graceful steps and gyrations, with adjuncts, such as castanets, scarfs, etc., and the seemingly perilous use of swords. such clothing is worn as least obscures the play of the muscles. it is danced to a particular turkish air, monotonously repeated by an orchestra of male turkish musicians, with turkish instruments, and the dance is done solus. a dance closely analogous to it, though of a wholly independent origin, is the hula-hula of the hawaiian women; but the hula-hula lacks the grace, dash, and abandon of the turkish dance. the danse du ventre, as danced by french and american women who have "picked it up," is very different from that of the turkish women--different both in form and meaning. whatever of suggestiveness it may be supposed to carry is, in the adaptation, grossly exaggerated, and whatever of grace and special muscular skill, evidently acquired by turkish women only from long and thorough drill, is eliminated. w. c. m. [illustration: ] the name of some favorite model would be yelled, and the orchestra would strike up the familiar oriental strain. and there was always a model to respond. then the regular dancing would be resumed until another circle was formed and another favorite goddess of the four arts would be called out. it was three o'clock when supper was announced by the appearance of two hundred white-aproned waiters carrying scores of tables, chairs, and hampers of plate and glassware. the guests fell to with a will and assisted in spreading and setting the tables; almost in a moment the vast hall was a field of snow pricked out with the brilliant costumes of the revellers. then came a frightful din of pounding on the tables for the supper. again marched in the two hundred waiters, loaded with cases of champagne, plates of creamy soup, roasts, salads, cheeses, creams, cakes, ices,--a feast of bacchus, indeed. the banquet was enjoyed with bohemian abandon. the twelve wise judges of the tribune now gravely announced their award of prizes, and each announcement was received with ringing applause. the _atelier gérôme_ received first prize,--fifty bottles of champagne, which were immediately taken possession of. the other ateliers received smaller prizes, as their merits deserved, and all were satisfied and happy. the banquet was resumed. now here was susanne, not content with her triumph of the early evening, springing upon one of the central tables, sending the crockery and glassware crashing to the floor with her dainty foot, and serenely surveying the crowd as it greeted her tumultuously, and, seizing a bottle of champagne, sending its foaming contents over as wide a circle of revellers as her strength could reach, laughing in pure glee over her feat, and then bathing her own white body with the contents of another bottle that she poured over herself. a superb bacchante she made! a general salute of popping corks and clinking glasses greeted her, and she acknowledged the compliment with the danse du ventre. susanne was so sure of the adoration and affection of the ateliers! her dance was a challenge to every other model in the chamber. one after another, and often several at a time, they mounted the tables, spurned the crockery to the floor, and gave the danse du ventre. the moulin was indeed a wild scene of joyous abandonment, and from an artistic point of view grand, a luminous point in the history of modern times. here were the life, the color, the grace of the living picture, with a noble background of surrounding temples, altars, statues,--a wonderful spectacle, that artists can understand and appreciate. [illustration: the feast wore merrily through the small hours until the cold blue dawn began to pale the lights in the ceiling. strangely beautiful was this color effect, as the blue stole downward through the thick yellow glamour of the hall, quickening the merry-makers with a new and uncanny light, putting them out of place, and warning them thence. but still the ball went rolling on. though the floor was slippery with wine and dangerous from broken glass, dancing and the cutting of capers proceeded without abatement. the favorite danse du ventre and songs and speeches filled the night to the end of the ball, and then the big orchestra, with a great flourish, played the "victor's march." this was the signal for the final procession. the vast concourse of students and artists poured forth into the cool, sweet morning air, and the bal was at an end. paris was asleep, that early april morning, save for the street-sweepers and the milkmaids and the concierges. but the place blanche was very much awake. the morning air was new wine in stale veins, and it banished fatigue. "_en cavalcade! en cavalcade!_" was the cry; and in cavalcade it was. a great procession of all the costumers was formed, to march ensemble across paris to the quartier latin. even the proud bellona was dragged along in the rear, towering as high as the lower wings of the now motionless red windmill. she seemed to partake in the revelry, for she swayed and staggered in an alarming fashion as she plunged recklessly down the steeps of montmartre. [illustration: ] the deserted rue blanche re-echoed the wild yells and songs of the revellers and the rattling of the string of cabs in the rear. the rows of heaped ash-cans that lined the way were overturned one after another, and the oaths and threatening brooms of the outraged concierges went for nothing. even the poor diligent rag- and bone-pickers were not spared; their filled sacks, carrying the result of their whole night's hunt, were taken from them and emptied. a string of carts heavily laden with stone was captured near the rue lafayette, the drivers deposed, and the big horses sent plunging through paris, driven by roman charioteers, and making more noise than a company of artillery. when the place de l'opéra was reached a thousand revellers swarmed up the broad stairs of the grand opéra like colored ants, climbed upon the lamp-posts and candelabra, and clustered all over the groups of statuary adorning the magnificent façade. the band took up a position in the centre and played furiously, while the artists danced ring-around-a- rosy, to the amazement of the drowsy residents of the neighborhood. the cavalcade then re-formed and marched down the avenue de l'opéra toward the louvre, where it encountered a large squad of street-sweepers washing the avenue. in an instant the squad had been routed, and the revellers, taking the hose and brooms, fell to and cleaned an entire block, making it shine as it had never shone before. cabs were captured, the drivers decorated with roman helmets and swords, and dances executed on the tops of the vehicles. one character, with enormous india-rubber shoes, took delight in permitting cabs to run over his feet, while he emitted howls of agony that turned the hair of the drivers white. [illustration: ] as the immense cavalcade filed through the narrow arches of the louvre court-yard it looked like a mediaeval army returning to its citadel after a victorious campaign; the hundreds of battle-flags, spears, and battle-axes were given a fine setting by the noble architecture of the pavillon de rohan. within the court of the louvre was drawn up a regiment of the garde municipale, going through the morning drill; and they looked quite formidable with their evolutions and bayonet charges. but when the mob of greek and roman warriors flung themselves bodily upon the ranks of the guard, ousted the officers, and assumed command, there was consternation. [illustration: ] all the rigid military dignity of the scene disappeared, and the drill was turned into such a farce as the old louvre had never seen before. the officers, furious at first, could not resist the spirit of pure fun that filled the mob, and took their revenge by kissing the models and making them dance. the girls had already done their share of the conquering by pinning flowers to military coats and coyly putting pretty lips where they were in danger. even the tall electric-light masts in the court were scaled by adventurous students, who attached brilliant flags, banners, and crests to the mast-heads far above the crowd. to the unspeakable relief of the officers, the march was then resumed. the pont du carrousel was the next object of assault; here was performed the solemn ceremony of the annual sacrifice of the quat'z' arts to the river seine. the mighty bellona was the sacrifice. she was trundled to the centre of the bridge and drawn close to the parapet, while the disciples of the four arts gathered about with uncovered heads. the first bright flashes of the morning sun, sweeping over the towers of notre-dame, tipped bellona's upraised sword with flame. the band played a funeral march. prayers were said, and the national hymn was sung; then bellona was sent tottering and crashing over the parapet, and with a mighty plunge she sank beneath the waters of the seine. a vast shout rang through the crisp morning air. far below, poor bellona rose in stately despair, and then slowly sank forever. the parade formed again and proceeded to the beaux-arts, the last point of attack. up the narrow rue bonaparte went singing the tired procession; the gates of the ecole opened to admit it, cabs and all, and the doors were shut again. then in the historic court-yard of the government school, surrounded by remnants of the beautiful architecture of once stately chateaux and palaces, and encircled by graceful corinthian columns, the students gave a repetition of the grand ball at the moulin rouge. a strange and incongruous sight it was in the brilliant sunshine, and the neighboring windows and balconies were packed with onlookers. but by halfpast seven every trace of the bal des quat'z' arts had disappeared,--the great procession had melted away to the haunts of bohemia. [illustration: ] boulevard saint-michel [illustration: ] of course the proper name for the great thoroughfare of the quartier latin is the boulevard saint-michel, but the boulevardiers call it the boul' mich', just as the students call the quatre arts the quat'z' arts, because it is easier to say. the boul' mich' is the student's highway to relaxation. mention of it at once recalls whirling visions of brilliant _café_s, with their clattering of saucers and glasses, the shouting of their white-aproned garçons, their hordes of gay and wicked damsels dressed in the costliest and most fashionable gowns, and a multitude of riotous students howling class songs and dancing and parading to the different _café_s as only students can. this is the head-quarters of the bohemians of real bohemia, whose poets haunt the dim and quaint cabarets and read their compositions to admiring friends; of flower-girls who offer you un petit bouquet, seulement dix centimes, and pin it into your button-hole before you can refuse; of turks in picturesque native costume selling sweetmeats; of the cane man loaded down with immense sticks; of the stems a yard long; of beggars, gutter-snipes, hot-chestnut venders, ped- lers, singers, actors, students, and all manner of queer characters. [illustration: ] the life of the boul' mich' begins at the panthéon, where repose the remains of france's great men, and ends at the seine, where the gray gothic towers and the gargoyles of notre-dame look down disdainfully upon the giddy traffic below. the eastern side of the boul' is lined with _café_s, cabarets, and brasseries. this is historic ground, for where now is the old hôtel cluny are still to be seen the ruins of roman baths, and not a great distance hence are the partly uncovered ruins of a roman arena, with its tiers of stone seats and its dens. the tomb of cardinal richelieu is in the beautiful old chapel of the sorbonne, within sound of the wickedest _café_ in paris, the café d'harcourt. [illustration: ] in the immediate vicinity are to be found the quaint jumbled buildings of old paris, but they are fast disappearing. and the quartier abounds in the world's greatest schools and colleges of the arts and sciences. it was often our wont on saturday evenings to saunter along the boul', and sometimes to visit the _café_s. to bishop particularly it was always a revelation and a delight, and he was forever studying and sketching the types that he found there. he was intimately acquainted in all the _café_s along the line, and with the mysterious rendezvous in the dark and narrow side streets. american beverages are to be had at many of the _café_s on the boul',--a recent and very successful experiment. the idea has captured the fancy of the parisians, so that "_bars américains_," which furnish cocktails and sours, are numerous in the _café_s. imagine a parisian serenely sucking a manhattan through a straw, and standing up at that! the boul' mich' is at its glory on saturday nights, for the students have done their week's work, and the morrow is sunday. nearly everybody goes to the bal bullier. this is separated from the crowded boul' mich' by several squares of respectable dwelling-houses and shops, and a dearth of _café_s prevails thereabout. at the upper end of the luxembourg is a long stone wall brilliantly bedecked with lamps set in clusters,--the same wall against which maréchal ney was shot (a striking monument across the way recalls the incident). at one end of this yellow wall is an arched entrée, resplendent with the glow of many rows of electric lights and lamps, which reveal the colored bas-reliefs of dancing students and gri-settes that adorn the portal. near by stands a row of voitures, and others are continually dashing up and depositing latin-quarter swells with hair parted behind and combed forward toward the ears, and dazzling visions of the demi-monde in lace, silks, and gauze. and there is a constantly arriving stream of students and gaudily dressed women on foot. big gardes municipaux stand at the door like stone images as the crowd surges past. [illustration: ] to-night is one-franc night. an accommodating lady at the box-office hands us each a broad card, and another, au vestiaire, takes our coats and hats and charges us fifty centimes for the honor. descending the broad flight of softly carpeted red stairs, a brilliant, tumultuous, roaring vision bursts upon us, for it is between the dances, and the visitors are laughing and talking and drinking. the ball-room opens into a generous garden filled with trees and shrubbery ingeniously devised to assure many a secluded nook, and steaming garçons are flying hither and thither serving foaming bocks and colored syrups to nymphs in bicycle bloomers, longhaired students under tam o'shanters, and the swells peculiar to le quartier latin. "_ah! monsieur beeshop, comment vas tu?_" "_tiens! le voilà, beeshop!_" "_ah, mon ange!_" and other affectionate greetings made bishop start guiltily, and then he discovered hélène and marcelle, two saucy little models who had posed at the École. there also was fannie, formerly (before she drifted to the _café_s) our blanchisseuse, leaning heavily upon the arm of son amant, who, a butcher-boy during the day, was now arrayed in a cutaway coat and other things to match, including a red cravat that fannie herself had tied; but he wore no cuffs. many other acquaintances presented themselves to bishop, somewhat to his embarrassment. one, quite a swell member of the demi-monde, for a moment deserted her infatuated companion, a gigantic martinique negro, gorgeously apparelled, and ran up to tease bishop to paint her portrait à l'oil, and also to engage him for la prochaine valse. [illustration: ] the musicians were now playing a schottische, but large circles would be formed here and there in the hall, where clever exhibitions of fancy dancing would be given by students and by fashionably gowned damsels with a penchant for displaying their lingerie and hosiery. the front of the band-stand was the favorite place for this. here four dashing young women were raising a whirlwind of lingerie and slippers, while the crowd applauded and tossed sous at their feet. next to us stood a fat, cheery-faced little man, bearing the unmistakable stamp of an american tourist. his hands were in his pockets, his silk hat was tipped back, and his beaming red face and bulging eyes showed the intensity of his enjoyment. without the slightest warning the slippered foot of one of these dancers found his shining tile and sent it bounding across the floor. for a moment the american was dazed by the suddenness and unearthly neatness of the feat; then he emitted a whoop of wonder and admiration, and in english exclaimed,--"you gol-darned bunch of french skirts--say, you're all right, you are, marie! bet you can't do it again!" he confided to bishop that his name was pugson and that he was from cincinnati. "why," he exclaimed, joyously, "paris is the top of the earth! you artists are an enviable lot, living over here all the time and painting-- gad! look at her!" and he was pushing his way through the crowd to get a better view of an uncommonly startling dancer, who was at the moment an indeterminate fluffy bunch of skirts, linen, and hosiery. ah, what tales he will tell of paris when he returns to cincinnati, and how he will be accused of exaggerating! the four girls forming the centre of attraction were now doing all manner of astonishing things possible only to parisian feminine anatomy. in another circle near by was johnson, the american architect, stirring enthusiastic applause as he hopped about, indian fashion, with a little brunette whose face was hidden in the shadow of her immense hat, her hair en bandeau, à la de mérode. could this really be the quiet johnson of the ecole, who but a week ago had been showing his mother and charming sister over paris? and there, too, was his close friend, walden, of michigan, leading a heavy blonde to the dance! there were others whom we knew. the little siamese was flirting desperately with a vision in white standing near his friend, a japanese, who, in turn, was listening to the cooing of a clinging bloomer girl. even haidor, the turk, was there, but he was alone in the gallery. many sober fellows whom i had met at the studio were there, but they were sober now only in the sense that they were not drunk. and there were law students, too, in velveteen caps and jackets, and students in the sciences, and students in music, and négligé poets, littérateurs, and artists, and every model and cocotte who could furnish her back sufficiently well to pass the censorship of the severe critic at the door. if she be attractively dressed, she may enter free; if not, she may not enter at all. [illustration: ] the gayety increased as the hours lengthened; the dancing was livelier, the shouting was more vociferous, skirts swirled more freely, and thin glasses fell crashing to the floor. it was pleasanter out in the cool garden, for it was dreadfully hard to keep from dancing inside. the soft gleam of the colored lamps and lanterns was soothing, and the music was softened down to an echo. the broken rays of the lanterns embedded in the foliage laid bright patterns on the showy silks of the women, and the garçons made no noise as they flitted swiftly through the mazes of shrubbery. at one end of the garden, surrounded by an hilarious group, were four wooden rocking-horses worked on springs. 'astride of two of these were an army officer and his companion, a bloomer girl, who persistently twisted her ankles round her horse's head. the two others were ridden by a poet and a jauntily attired gri-sette. the four were as gleeful as children. [illustration: ] a flash-light photographer did a driving trade at a franc a flash, and there were a shooting-gallery, a fortune-teller, sou-in-the-slot machines, and wooden figures of negroes with pads on their other ends, by punching which we might see how hard we could hit. we are back in the ball-room again,--it is hard to keep out. the gayety is at its height, the bal bullier is in full swing. the tables are piled high with saucers, and the garçons are bringing more. the room is warm and suffocating, the dancing and flirting faster than ever. now and then a line is formed to "crack the whip," and woe betide anything that comes in its way! [illustration: ] our genial, generous new friend from cincinnati was living the most glorious hour of his life. he had not been satisfied until he found and captured the saucy little wretch who had sent his hat spinning across the room; so now she was anchored to him, and he was giving exhibitions of american grace and agility that would have amazed his friends at home. for obviously he was a person of consequence there. when he saw us his face beamed with triumph, and he proudly introduced us to his mignonette-scented conquest, mad-dem-mo-zel madeleine (which he pronounced madelyne), "the queen of the latin quarter. but blamed if i can talk the blooming lingo!" he exclaimed, ruefully. "you translate for me, won't you?" he appealed to bishop, and bishop complied. in paying compliments thus transmitted to madeleine he displayed an adeptness that likely would have astounded his good spouse, who at that moment was slumbering in a respectable part of paris. but the big black martinique negroes,--they haunted and dominated everything, and the demimonde fell down and worshipped them. they are students of law and medicine, and are sent hither from the french colonies by the government, or come on their private means. [illustration: ] they are all heavy swells, as only negroes can be; their well-fitted clothes are of the finest and most showy material; they wear shining silk hats, white waistcoats, white "spats," patent leathers, and very light kid gloves, not to mention a load of massive jewelry. the girls flutter about them in bevies, like doves to be fed. at exactly a quarter-past midnight the band played the last piece, the lights began to go out, and the bal bullier was closed. out into the boulevard surged the heated crowd, shouting, singing, and cutting capers as they headed for the boul' mich', there to continue the revelries of which the bal bullier was only the beginning. "a la taverne du panthéon!" "au café lorrain!" "au café d'harcourt!" were the cries that range through the streets, mingled with the singing of half a thousand people. [illustration: ] in this mob we again encountered our american acquaintance with his prize, and as he was bent on seeing all that he could of paris, he begged us to see him through, explaining that money was no object with him, though delicately adding that our friends must make so many calls upon our hospitality as to prove a burden at times. he had only two days more in paris, and the hours were precious, and "we will do things up in style," he declared buoyantly. he did. bishop's arm was securely held by a little lassie all in soft creamy silks. she spoke engleesh, and demurely asked bishop if "we will go to ze _café_ ensemble, n'est-ce-pas?" and bishop had not the heart to eject her from the party. and so five of us went skipping along with the rest, mr. pugson swearing by all the gods that paris was the top of the earth! when we reached the lower end of the jardin du luxembourg, at the old palais, the bright glow of the _café_s, with their warm stained windows and lighthearted throngs, stretched away before us. ah, le boul' mich' never sleeps! there are still the laughing grisettes, the singing and dancing students, the kiosks all aglow; the marchand de marrons is roasting his chestnuts over a charcoal brazier, sending out a savory aroma; the swarthy turk is offering his wares with a princely grace; the flower-girls flit about with freshly cut carnations, violets, and maréchal niel roses,--"this joli bouquet for your sweetheart," they plead so plaintively; the pipe man plies his trade; the cane man mobs us, and the sellers of the last editions of the papers cry their wares. [illustration: ] an old pedler works in and out among the _café_ tables with a little basket of olives, deux pour un sou. the crawfish seller, with his little red écrevisses neatly arranged on a platter; italian boys in white blouses bearing baskets filled with plaster casts of works of the old masters gewgaw pedlers,--they are still all busily at work, each adding his mite to the din. the _café_s are packed, both inside and out, but the favorite seats are those on the sidewalk under the awnings. [illustration: ] we halted at the café d'harcourt. here the crowd was thickest, the sidewalk a solid mass of humanity; and the noise and the waiters as they yelled their orders, they were there. and des femmes--how many! the café d'harcourt is the head-quarters of these wonderful creations of clothes, paint, wicked eyes, and graceful carriage. we worked our way into the interior. here the crowd was almost as dense as without, but a chance offered us a vacant table; no sooner had we captured it than we were compelled to retreat, because of a battle that two excited demoiselles were having at an adjoining table. in another part of the room there was singing of "les sergents sont des brave gens," and in the middle of the floor a petite cocotte, her hat rakishly pulled down over her eyes, was doing a dance very gracefully, her white legs gleaming above the short socks that she wore, and a shockingly high kick punctuating the performance at intervals. [illustration: ] at other tables were seated students with their friends and mistresses, playing dominoes or recounting their petites histoires. one table drew much attention by reason of a contest in drinking between two seasoned habitués, one a martinique negro and the other a delicate blond poet. the negro won, but that was only because his purse was the longer. every consommation is served with a saucer, upon which is marked the price of the drink, and the score is thus footed à la fin de ces joies. there are some heavy accounts to be settled with the garçons. "_ah! voilà beeshop!" "tiens! mon vieux!" "comment vas-tu?_" clamored a half-dozen of bishop's feminine acquaintances, as they surrounded our table, overwhelming us with their conflicting perfumes. [illustration: ] these denizens of the boul' have an easy way of making acquaintances, but they are so bright and mischievous withal that no offence can be taken; and they may have a stack of saucers to be paid for. among the many _café_ frequenters of this class fully half know a few words of english, italian, german, and even russian, and are so quick of perception that they can identify a foreigner at a glance. consequently our table was instantly a target, principally on account of mr. pugson, whose nationality emanated from his every pore. [illustration: ] "ah, milord, how do you do? i spik engleesh a few. es eet not verra a beautiful night?" is what he got. "you are si charmant, monsieur!" protested another, stroking bishop's valasquez beard; and then, archly and coaxingly, "_qu'est-ce que vous m'offrez, monsieur? payez-moi un bock?_ yes?" mr. pugson made the garçons start. he ordered "everything and the best in the house" (in english); but it was the lordliness of his manner that told, as he leaned back in his chair and smoked his londrès and eyed madeleine with intense satisfaction. in the eyes of the beholders that action gave him the unmistakable stamp of an american millionaire. "tell you, boys," he puffed, "i'm not going to forget paree in a hurry." and mademoiselle madeleine, how she revelled! mr. pugson bought her everything that the venders had to sell, besides, for himself, a wretched plaster cast of a dancing-girl that he declared was "dead swell." "i'll take it home and startle the natives," he added; but he didn't, as we shall see later. then he bought three big canes as souvenirs for friends, besides a bicycle lamp, a mammoth pipe, and other things. a hungry-looking sketch artist who presented himself was engaged on the spot to execute mr. pugson's portrait, which he made so flattering as to receive five francs instead of one, his price. at a neighboring table occupied by a group of students was bi-bi-dans- la-purée, one of the most famous characters of the quartier and montmartre. with hilarious laughter the students were having fun with bi-bi by pouring the contents of their soup-plates and drinking-glasses down his back and upon his sparsely covered head; but what made them laugh more was bi-bi's wonderful skill in pulling grotesque faces. in that line he was an artist. his cavernous eyes and large, loose mouth did marvellous things, from the ridiculous to the terrible; and he could literally laugh from ear to ear. poor bi-bi-dans-la-purée! [illustration: ] he had been a constant companion of the great verlaine, but was that no more, since verlaine had died and left him utterly alone. you may see him any day wandering aimlessly about the quartier, wholly oblivious to the world about him, and dreaming doubtless of the great dead poet of the slums, who had loved him. here comes old madame carrot, a weazened little hunchback, anywhere between sixty and a hundred years of age. she is nearly blind, and her tattered clothes hang in strips from her wreck of a form. a few thin strands of gray hair are all that cover her head. "_bon soir, mère carrot! ma petite mignonne, viens donc qu'on t'embrasse! où sont tes ailes?_" and other mocking jests greet her as she creeps among the tables. but mère carrot scorns to beg: she would earn her money. look! with a shadowy remnant of grace she picks up the hem of her ragged skirt, and with a heart-breaking smile that discloses her toothless gums, she skips about in a dance that sends her audience into shrieks of laughter, and no end of sous are flung at her feet. she will sing, too, and caricature herself, and make pitiful attempts at high kicking and anything else that she is called upon to do for the sous that the students throw so recklessly. there are those who say that she is rich. in the rear end of the _café_ the demoiselle who had anchored herself to the martinique negro at the bal bullier was on a table kicking the negro's hat, which he held at arm's length while he stood on a chair. "_plus haut! plus haut encore!_" she cried; but each time, as he kept raising it, she tipped it with her dainty slipper; and then, with a magnificent bound, she dislodged with her toe one of the chandelier globes, which went crashing with a great noise to the floor; and then she plunged down and sought refuge in her adorer's arms. the night's excitement has reached its height now. there is a dizzy whirl of skirts, feathers, "plug" hats, and silken stockings; and there is dancing on the tables, with a smashing of glass, while lumps of sugar soaked in cognac are thrown about. a single-file march round the room is started, each dragging a chair and all singing, "_oh, la pauvre fille, elle est malade!_" mr. pugson, tightly clutching his canes and his dancing-girl, joins the procession, his shiny hat reposing on the pretty head of mademoiselle madeleine. but his heart almost breaks with regret because he cannot speak french. i began to remonstrate with bishop for his own unseemly levity, but the gloved hand of mademoiselle madeleine was laid on my lips, and her own red lips protested, "_taisez-vous donc! c'est absolument inexcusable de nous faire des sermons en ce moment! en avant!_" and we went. it was two o'clock, and the _café_s were closing, under the municipal regulation to do so at that hour, and the boul' was swarming with revellers turned out of doors. at the corner of the rue racine stands a small boulangerie, where some of the revellers were beating on the iron shutters and crying, "_voilà du bon fromage au lait!_" impatient at the tardiness of the fat baker in opening his shop; for the odor of hot rolls and croissants came up through the iron gratings of the kitchen, and the big cans of fresh milk at the door gave further comforting assurances. lumbering slowly down the boul' were ponderous carts piled high with vegetables, on their way to the great markets of paris, the halles centrales. the drivers, half asleep on the top, were greeted with demands for transportation, and a lively bidding for passengers arose among them. they charged five sous a head, or as much more as they could get, and soon the carts were carrying as many passengers as could find a safe perch on the heaped vegetables. "_aux halles! aux halles! nous allons aux halles! oh, la, la, comme ils sont bons, les choux et les potirons!_" were the cries as the carts lumbered on toward the markets. mr. pugson had positively refused to accept our resignation, and stoutly reminded us of our promise to see him through. so our party arranged with a masculine woman in a man's coat on payment of a franc a head, and we clambered upon her neatly piled load of carrots. mr. pugson, becoming impatient at the slow progress of the big normandy horses, began to pelt them with carrots. the market-woman protested vigorously at this waste of her property, and told mr. pugson that she would charge him two sous apiece for each subsequent carrot. he seized upon the bargain with true american readiness, and then flung carrots to his heart's content, the driver meanwhile keeping count in a loud and menacing voice. it was a new source of fun for the irrepressible and endlessly jovial american. along the now quiet boulevard the carts trundled in a string. all at once there burst from them all an eruption of song and laughter, which brought out numerous gendarmes from the shadows. but when they saw the crowd they said nothing but "_les étudiants_," and retreated to the shadows. as we were crossing the pont-au-change, opposite the place du châtelet, with its graceful column touched by the shimmering lights of the seine, and dominated by the towers of notre-dame, mr. pugson, in trying to hurl two carrots at once, incautiously released his hold upon the dancing- girl, which incontinently rolled off the vegetables and was shattered into a thousand fragments on the pavement of the bridge--along with mr. pugson's heart. after a moment of silent misery he started to throw the whole load of carrots into the river, but he quickly regained command of himself. for the first time, however, his wonderful spirits were dampened, and he was as moody and cross as a child, refusing to be comforted even by madeleine's cooing voice. the number of carts that we now encountered converging from many quarters warned us that we were very near the markets. then rose the subdued noise that night-workers make. there seemed to be no end of the laden carts. the great halles then came into view, with their cold glare of electric lights, and thousands of people moving about with baskets upon their backs, unloading the vegetable carts and piling the contents along the streets. the thoroughfares were literally walled and fortressed with carrots, cabbages, pumpkins, and the like, piled in neat rows as high as our heads for square after square. is it possible for paris to consume all of this in a day? every few yards were fat women seated before steaming cans of hot potage and _café_ noir, with rows of generous white bowls, which they would fill for a sou. not alone were the market workers here, for it seemed as though the boul' mich' had merely taken an adjournment after the law had closed its portals and turned it out of doors. the workers were silent and busy, but largely interspersed among them were the demi-mondaines and the singing and dancing students of the quartier, all as full of life and deviltry as ever. it was with these tireless revellers that the soup- and coffee-women did their most thriving business, for fun brings a good appetite, and the soup and coffee were good; but better still was this unconventional, lawless, defiant way of taking them. mr. pugson's spirits regained their vivacity under the spell, and he was so enthusiastic that he wanted to buy out one of the pleasant-faced fat women; we had to drag him bodily away to avert the catastrophe. in the side streets leading away from the markets are _café_s and restaurants almost without number, and they are open toute la nuit, to accommodate the market people, having a special permit to do so; but as they are open to all, the revellers from all parts of paris assemble there after they have been turned out of the boulevard _café_s at two o'clock. it is not an uncommon thing early of a sunday morning to see crowds of merry-makers from a bal masqué finishing the night here, all in costume, dancing and playing ring-around-a-rosy among the stacks of vegetables and the unheeding market people. indeed, it is quite a common thing to end one's night's frivolity at the halles and their _café_s, and take the first 'buses home in the early morning. the contingent from the boul' mich', after assisting the market people to unload, and indulging in all sorts of pranks, invaded the élite _café_s, among them the _café barrette, au veau qui tête, au chien qui fume, and le caveau du cercle._ [illustration: ] at this last-named place, singing and recitations with music were in order, a small platform at one end of the room being reserved for the piano and the performers. part of the audience were in masquerade costume, having come from a ball at montmartre, and they lustily joined the choruses. prices are gilt-edged here,--a franc a drink, and not less than ten sous to the garçon. the contrast between the fluffy and silk-gowned demi-mondaines and the dirty, roughly clad market people was very striking at the café barrette. there the women sit in graceful poses, or saunter about and give evidence of their style, silk gowns, india laces, and handsome furs, greeting each new-comer with pleas for a sandwich or a bock; they are always hungry and thirsty, but they get a commission on all sales that they promote. a small string orchestra gave lively music, and took up collections between performances. the array of gilt-framed mirrors heightened the brilliancy of the place, already sufficiently aglow with many electric lights. the café barrette is the last stand of the gaudy women of the boulevards. with the first gray gleam of dawn they pass with the night to which they belong. it was with sincere feeling that mr. pugson bade us good-by at five o'clock that morning as he jumped into a cab to join his good spouse at the hôtel continental; but he bore triumphantly with him some sketches of the showy women at the café barrette, which bishop had made. as for madeleine, so tremendously liberal had she found mr. pugson that her protestations of affection for him were voluble and earnest. she pressed her card upon him and made him swear that he would find her again. after we had bidden her good-night, mr. pugson drew the card from his pocket, and thoughtfully remarked, as he tore it to pieces,--"i don't think it is prudent to carry such things in your pocket." [ ] bohemian cafÉs [illustration: ] very often, instead of having dinner at the studio, we saunter over to the maison dar-blay, passing the wall of the dismal cimetière du montparnasse on the way. the maison darblay is in the little rue de la gaieté, which, though only a block in length, is undoubtedly the liveliest thoroughfare in the quartier. that is because it serves as a funnel between the avenue du maine and five streets that converge into it at the upper end. particularly in the early evening the little street is crowded with people returning from their work. all sorts of boutiques are packed into this minute thoroughfare,---jewelry-shops, pork-shops, kitchens (where they cook what you bring while you wait on the sidewalk), theatres, _cafés chantants_, fried-potato stalls, snail merchants, moving vegetable- and fruit-markets, and everything else. in the middle of the block, on the western side, between a millinery- shop and a butcher-shop, stands the maison darblay, famous for its beans and its patrons. a modest white front, curtained windows, and a row of milk-cans give little hint of the charms of the interior. upon entering we encounter the vast m. darblay seated behind a tiny counter, upon which are heaped a pile of freshly ironed napkins, parcels of chocolate, a big dish of apple-sauce, rows of bottles containing bitters that work miracles with ailing appetites, and the tip-box. reflecting m. darblay's beamy back and the clock on the opposite wall (which is always fifteen minutes fast) hangs a long mirror resplendent in heavy gilt frame; it is the pride of the establishment, and affords comfort to the actresses when they adjust their hats and veils upon leaving. [illustration: ] m. darblay is manager of the establishment, and when it is reflected that he weighs two hundred and sixty pounds, it may be imagined what accurate adjustments he has to make in fitting himself behind the small counter. when a boarder finishes his meal he goes to m. darblay and tells him what he has had, including napkin and bread, and m. darblay scores it all down on a slate with chalk and foots it up. after the bill is paid, the tip-box is supposed by a current fiction to receive two sous for marie and augustine, the buxom breton maidens who serve the tables; but so rarely does the fiction materialize that, when the rattle of coins is heard in the box, the boarders all look up wonderingly to see the possible millionaire that has appeared among them, and marie and augustine shout at the top of their voices, "merci bien, monsieur!" [illustration: ] at the opposite end of the room, in full view, is the cuisine, with its big range and ruddy fires. here madame darblay reigns queen, her genial, motherly red face and bright eyes beaming a welcome to all. she is from lausanne, on lake geneva, switzerland, and the independent blood of her race rarely fails its offices when m. darblay incautiously seeks to interfere with her duties and prerogatives, for he retreats under an appalling volley of french from his otherwise genial spouse; on such occasions he seeks his own corner as rapidly as he can manage his bulk to that purpose. she is a famous cook. the memory of her poulets rôtis and juicy gigots will last forever. but greatest of all are her haricots blancs, cooked au beurre; it is at the shrine of her beans that her devoted followers worship. and her wonderful wisdom! she knows intuitively if you are out of sorts or have an uncertain appetite, and without a hint she will prepare a delicacy that no epicure could resist. she knows every little whim and peculiarity of her boarders, and caters to them accordingly. the steaks and chops are bought at the shop next door just when they are ordered, and are always fresh. there are eight marble-top tables lining the two walls, and each table is held sacred to its proper occupants, and likewise are the numbered hooks and napkins. an invasion of these preserves is a breech of etiquette intolerable in bohemia. even the white cat is an essential part of the establishment, for it purringly welcomes the patrons and chases out stray dogs. situated as it is, in a group of three theatres and several _café_s chantants, it is the rendezvous of the actors and actresses of the neighborhood. they hold the three tables but one from the kitchen, on one side, and they are a jolly crowd, the actresses particularly. [illustration: ] they are a part of the quartier and echo its spirit. although full of mischief and fun, the actresses would never be suspected of singing the naughty songs that so delight the gallery gods and so often wring a murmur of protest from the pit. there are ten who dine here, but from their incessant chatter and laughter you would think them twenty. on friday evenings, when the songs and plays are changed, they rehearse their pieces at dinner. [illustration: ] bishop is openly fond of mademoiselle brunerye, a sparkling little brunette singer, who scolds him tragically for drawing horrible caricatures of her when he sits before the footlights to hear her sing. but it is always she that begins the trouble at the theatre. if bishop is there, she is sure to see him and to interpolate something in her song about "_mon amant américain_," and sing it pointedly at him, to the amusement of the audience and his great discomfiture; and so he retorts with the caricatures. upon entering the restaurant the actresses remove their hats and wraps and make themselves perfectly at home. they are the life of darblay's; we couldn't possibly spare them. one of the actors is a great swell,--m. fontaine, leading man at the théâtre du montparnasse, opposite. [illustration: ] his salary is a hundred francs a week; this makes the smaller actors look up to him, and enables him to wear a very long coat, besides gloves, patent-leather shoes, and a shiny top-hat. he occupies the place of honor, and marie smiles when she serves him, and gives him a good measure of wine. he rewards this attention by depositing two sous in the tip-box every friday night. then there are m. marius, m. zecca, and m. dufauj who make people scream with laughter at the gaieté, and m. coppée, the heavy villain of the terrible eyes in "les deux gosses," and mademoiselle walzy, whose dark eyes sparkle mischief as she peeps over her glass, and mademoiselle minion, who kicks shockingly high to accentuate her songs, and eight other actresses just as saucy and pretty. the students of the quartier practically take charge of the theatres on saturday nights, and as they are very free with their expressions of approval or disapproval, the faces of the stage-people wear an anxious look at the restaurant on that evening. the students will throw the whole theatre into an uproar with hisses that drive an actor off the stage, or applause, recalls, and the throwing of two-sous bouquets and kisses to an actress who has made a hit. promptly at six-forty-five every night the venerable m. corneau enters darblay's, bringing a copy of _le journal_. he is extremely methodical, so that any interruption of his established routine upsets him badly. one evening he found a stranger in his seat, occupying the identical chair that had been sacred to his use every evening for six years. m. corneau was so astonished that he hung his hat on the wrong hook, stepped on the cat's tail, sulked in a corner, and refused to eat until his seat had been vacated, and then he looked as though he wished it could be fumigated. he has a very simple meal. one evening he invited me--a rare distinction--to his room, which was in the top floor of one of those quaint old buildings in the rue du moulin de beurre. it could then be seen what a devoted scientist and student he was. his room was packed with books, chemicals, mineral specimens, and scientific instruments. he was very genial, and brewed excellent tea over an alcohol-stove of his own manufacture. twenty years ago he was a professor at the ecole des mines, where he had served many years; but he had now grown too old for that, and was living his quiet, studious, laborious life on a meagre pension. at one table sit a sculptor, an artist, and a blind musician and his wife. the sculptor is slender, delicate, and nervous, and is continually rolling and smoking cigarettes. his blond hair falls in ringlets over his collar, and he looks more the poet than the sculptor, for he is dreamy and distrait, and seems to be looking within himself rather than upon the world about him. augustine serves him with an absinthe pernod au sucre, which he slowly sips while he smokes several cigarettes before he is ready for his dinner. [illustration: ] the artist is his opposite,--a big, bluff, hearty fellow, loud of voice and full of life. and he is successful, for he has received a medal and several honorable mentions at the salon des champs-Élysées, and has a fine twilight effect in the luxembourg gallery. after dinner he and m. darblay play piquet for the coffee, and m. darblay is generally loser. [illustration: ] the blind musician is a kindly old man with a benevolent face and a jovial spirit. he is the head professor of music at the institution des aveugles, on the boulevard des invalides. his wife is very attentive to him, taking his hat and cane, tucking his napkin under his chin, placing the dishes where he knows how to find them, and reading the papers to him. he knows where everybody sits, and he addresses each by name, and passes many brisk sallies about the room. one poet is vivacious, not at all like the dreamy species to which he belongs. true, he wears long hair and a quartier latin "plug," but his eyes are not vague, and he is immensely fond of madame darblay's beans, of which he has been known to stow away five platefuls at a meal. often he brings in a copy of _gil bias_, containing a poem by himself in the middle of the page and with illustrations by steinlen. a strange, solitary figure used to sit in one corner, speaking to no one, and never ordering more than a bowl of chocolate and two sous of bread. it was known merely that he was an hungarian and an artist, and from his patched and frayed clothes and meagre fare it was surmised that he was poor. but he had a wonderful face. want was plainly stamped upon it, but behind it shone a determination and a hope that nothing could repress. there was not a soul among the boarders but that would have been glad to assist in easing whatever burden sat upon him, and no doubt it was his suspicion of that fact and his dread of its manifestation that made him hold absolutely aloof. madame darblay once or twice made efforts to get nearer to him, but he gently and firmly repulsed her. he was a pitiable figure, but his pride was invincible, and with eyes looking straight forward, he held up his head and walked like a king. he came and went as a shadow. none knew where he had a room. there were many stories and conjectures about him, but he wrapped his mantle of mystery and solitude about him and was wholly inaccessible. it was clear to see that he lived in another world,--a world of hopes, filled with bright images of peace and renown. after a time his seat became vacant, and i shall presently tell how it happened. these will suffice as types of the maison darblay, though i might mention old m. decamp, eighty-four years of age, and as hearty and jovial a man as one would care to see. in his younger days he had been an actor, having had a fame during the empire of napoléon iii. and there were a professor of languages, who gave lessons at fifteen sous an hour, a journalist of the _figaro_, and two pretty milliner girls from the shop next door. the great event at the maison darblay came not long ago, when m. darblay's two charming daughters had a double wedding, each with a comfortable dot, for m. darblay had grown quite rich out of his restaurant, owning several new houses. the girls were married twice,--once at the mairie on the rue gassendi, and again at the eglise st. pierre, on the avenue du maine. then came the great wedding-dinner at the maison darblay, to which all the boarders were invited. the tables were all connected, so as to make two long rows. the bridal-party were seated at the end next the kitchen, and the front door was locked to exclude strangers. m. darblay was elegant in a new dress suit and white shirt, but his tailor, in trying to give him a trim figure, made the situation embarrassing, as m. darblay's girth steadily increased during the progress of the banquet. he made a very fine speech, which was uproariously cheered. [illustration: ] madame darblay was remarkably handsome in a red satin gown, and bore so distinguished an air, and looked so transformed from her usual kitchen appearance, that we could only marvel and admire. then came the kissing of the brides, a duty that was performed most heartily. madame darblay was very happy and proud, and her dinner was a triumph to have lived for. bishop sat opposite the wicked mademoiselle brunerye, and he and she made violent love, and behaved with conspicuous lack of dignity. m. fontaine, the great, had one of the chic milliners for partner. old m. decamp told some racy stories of the old régime. when the coffee and liqueurs came on, the big artist brought out a guitar and the poet a mandolin, and we had music. then the poet read a poem that he had written for the occasion. the actresses sang their sprightliest songs. mademoiselle brunerye sang "_Ça fait toujours plaisir_" to bishop. m. fontaine gave in a dramatic manner a scene from "_les deux gosses_," the heavy villain assisting, the cook's aprons and towels serving to make the costumes. bishop sang "down on the farm." in short, it was a splendid evening in bohemia, of a kind that bohemians enjoy and know how to make the most of. [illustration: ] there was one silent guest, the strange young hungarian artist. he ate with a ravenous appetite, openly and unashamed. after he had had his fill (and madame darblay saw to it that he found his plate always replenished), he smiled occasionally at the bright sallies of the other guests, but for the most part he sat constrained, and would speak only when addressed,--he protested that his french was too imperfect. it was so evident that he wished to escape notice entirely that no serious effort was made to draw him out. that was a hard winter. a few weeks after the wedding the hungarian's visits to the maison dar-blay suddenly ceased. the haunted look had been deepening in his eyes, his gaunt cheeks had grown thinner, and he looked like a hunted man. after his disappearance the gendarmes came to the restaurant to make inquiries about him. bishop and i were present. they wanted to know if the young man had any friends there. we told them that we would be his friends. "then you will take charge of his body?" they asked. we followed them to the rue perceval, where they turned us over to the concierge of an old building. she was very glad we had come, as the lad seemed not to have had a friend in the world. she led us up to the sixth floor, and then pointed to a ladder leading up to the roof. we ascended it, and found a box built on the roof. it gave a splendid view of paris. the door of the box was closed. we opened it, and the young artist lay before us dead. there were two articles of furniture in the room. one was the bare mattress on the floor, upon which he lay, and the other was an old dresser, from which some of the drawers were missing. the young man lay drawn up, fully dressed, his coat-collar turned up about his ears. thus he had fallen asleep, and thus hunger and cold had slain him as he slept. there was one thing else in the room, all besides, including the stove and the bed-covering, having gone for the purchase of painting material. it was an unfinished oil-painting of the crucifixion. had he lived to finish it, i am sure it would have made him famous, if for nothing else than the wonderful expression of agony in the saviour's face, an agony infinitely worse than the physical pain of the crucifixion could have produced. there was still one thing more,--a white rat that was, hunting industriously for food, nibbling desiccated cheese-rinds that it found on the shelves against the wall. it had been the artist's one friend and companion in life. and all that, too, is a part of life in bohemian paris. on the rue marie, not far from the gare montparnasse, is the "club," a small and artistically dirty wine-shop and restaurant, patronized by a select crowd of musketeers of the brush. the warm, dark tones of the anciently papered walls are hidden beneath a cloud of oil sketches, charcoal drawings, and caricatures of everything and everybody that the fancies of the bohemians could devise. madame annaie is mistress of the establishment, and her cook, m. annaie, wears his cap rakishly on one side, and attends to his business; and he makes very good potages and rôtis, considering the small prices that are charged. yet even the prices, though the main attraction, are paid with difficulty by a majority of the habitués, who sometimes fall months in arrears. madame annaie keeps a big book of accounts. of the members of the club, four are americans, two spaniards, one an italian, one a welshman, one a pole, one a turk, one a swiss, and the rest french,--just fifteen in all, and all sculptors and painters except one of the americans, who is correspondent of a new york paper. at seven o'clock every evening the roll is called by the pole, who acts as president, secretary, and treasurer of the club. a fine of two sous is imposed for every absence; this goes to the "smoker" fund. joanskouie, the multiple officer, has not many burdensome duties, but even these few are a severe tax upon his highly nervous temperament. besides collecting the fines he must gather up also the dues, which are a franc a month. all the members are black-listed, including the president himself, and the names of the delinquents are posted on the wall. the marble-top tables are black with pencil sketches done at the expense of giles, the welshman, who is the butt of the club. he is a very tall and amazingly lean welshman, with a bewhiskered face, a hooked nose, and a frightful accent when he speaks either english or french. he is an animal sculptor, but leaves his art carefully alone. he is very clever at drawing horses, dogs, and funny cows all over the walls; but he is so droll and stupid, so incredibly stupid, that "giles" is the byword of the club. every month he receives a remittance of two hundred and fifty francs, and immediately starts out to get the full worth of it in the kinds of enjoyment that he finds on the boul' mich', where regularly once a month he is a great favorite with the feminine habitués of the _café_s. when his funds run low, he lies perdu till mid-day; then he appears at madame annaie's, heavy-eyed and stupid, staying until midnight. sometimes he varies this routine by visiting his friends at their studios, where he is made to pose in ridiculous attitudes. the "smoker" is held on the last saturday night of each month, and all the members are present. long clay pipes are provided, and a big bowl of steaming punch, highly seasoned, comes from madame annaie's kitchen. mutually laudatory speeches and toasts, playing musical instruments, and singing songs are in order. the spaniard, with castanets, skilfully executes the fandango on a table. bishop does the danse du ventre. joncierge gives marvellous imitations of sarah bernhardt and other celebrities, including giles, whose drawl and stupidity he makes irresistibly funny. nor do gérôme, bouguereau, and benjamin constant escape his mimicry. haidor, the turk, drawls a turkish song all out of tune, and is rapturously encored. the swiss and the italian render a terrific duo from "aida," and the spaniards sing the "bullfighters' song" superbly. sketches are dashed off continually. they are so clever that it is a pity madame annaie has to wipe them from the tables. on thanksgiving-day the americans gave the club a thanksgiving dinner. it was a great mystery and novelty to the other members, but they enjoyed it hugely. the turkeys were found without much trouble, but the whole city had to be searched for cranberries. at last they were found in a small grocery-shop in the american quarter, on the avenue wagram. bishop superintended the cooking, m. annaie serving as first assistant. how m. annaie stared when he beheld the queer american mixtures that bishop was concocting! "mon dieu! not sugar with meat!" he cried, aghast, seeing bishop serve the turkey with cranberry sauce. a dozen delicious pumpkin-pies that formed part of the menu staggered the old cook. the italian cooked a pot of macaroni with mushroom sauce, and it was superb. "the hole in the wall" eminently deserves its name. it is on the boulevard du montparnasse, within two blocks of the bal bullier. a small iron sign projecting over the door depicts two students looking down at the passers-by over bowls of coffee, rolls also being shown. it was painted by an austrian student in payment of a month's board. the hole is a tiny place, just sufficiently large for its two tables and eight stools, fat madame morel, the proprietress, and a miniature zinc bar filled with absinthe and cognac bottles and drinking glasses. the ceiling is so low that you must bend should you be very tall, for overhead is the sleeping-room of madame morel and her niece; it is reached by a small spiral stair. [illustration: ] a narrow slit in the floor against the wall, where the napkin-box hangs, leads down to the dark little kitchen. it is a tight squeeze for madame morel to serve her customers, but she has infinite patience and geniality, and discharges her numerous duties and bears her hardships with unfailing good-nature. it is no easy task to cook a halfdozen orders at once, wait on the tables, run out to the butcher-shop for a chop or a steak, and take in the cash. but she does all this, and much more, having no assistant. the old concierge next door, madame mariolde, runs in to help her occasionally, when she can spare a moment from her own multifarious duties. madame morel's toil-worn hands are not bien propre, but she has a kind heart. for seven years she has lived in this little hole, and during that time has never been farther away than to the grocery-shop on the opposite corner. her niece leaves at seven o'clock in the morning to sew all day on the other side of town, returning at eight at night, tired and listless, but always with a half-sad smile. so we see little of her. many nights i have seen her come in drenched and cold, her faded straw hat limp and askew, and her dark hair clinging to her wet face. for she has walked in the rain all the way from the avenue de l'opéra, unable to afford omnibus fare. she usually earns from two to two and half francs a day, sewing twelve hours. the most interesting of the frequenters of the hole is a slav from trieste, on the adriatic. he is a genius in his way, and full of energy and business sense. his vocation is that of a "lightning-sketch artist," performing at the theatres. he has travelled all over america and europe, and is thoroughly hardened to the ways of the world. whenever he runs out of money he goes up to the rue de la gaieté and gives exhibitions for a week or two at one of the theatres there, receiving from fifty to sixty francs a week. the students all go to see him, and make such a noise and throw so many bouquets (which he returns for the next night) that the theatrical managers, thinking he is a great drawing-card, generally raise his salary as an inducement to make him prolong his stay when he threatens to leave. but he is too thoroughly a bohemian to remain long in a place. last week he suddenly was taken with a desire to visit vienna. soon after he had gone four pretty parisiennes called and wanted to know what had become of their amant. d------, another of the habitués of the hole, is a german musical student. strangers would likely think him mentally deranged, so odd is his conduct. [illustration: ] he has two other peculiarities,--extreme sensitiveness and indefatigable industry. he brings his shabby violin-case every evening, takes out his violin after dinner, and at once becomes wholly absorbed in his practice. if he would play something more sprightly and pleasing the other habitués of the hole would not object; but he insists on practising the dreariest, heaviest, and most wearing exercises, the most difficult études, and the finest compositions of the masters. all this is more than the others can bear with patience always; so they wound his sensibilities by throwing bread and napkin-rings at him. i hen he retires to the kitchen, where, sitting on the cooler end of the range, he practises diligently under madame morel's benevolent protection. this is all because he has never found a concierge willing to permit him to study in his room, so tireless is his industry. if i do not mistake, this strange young man will be heard from some day. then there is w------, a student in sculpture, with exceptionally fine talent. he had been an american cowboy, and no trooper could swear more eloquently. he has been making headway, for the salon has given him honorable mention for a strong bronze group of fighting tigers. his social specialty is poker-playing, and he has brought the entire hole under the spell of that magic game. herr prell, from munich, takes delight in torturing the other habitués with accounts of dissections, as he is a medical student at the académie de médecine. the swede, who drinks fourteen absinthes a day, throws stools at herr prell, and tries in other ways to make him fight; but herr prell only laughs, and gives another turn of the dissection-screw. the glee club is one of the features of the hole. it sings every night, but its supreme effort comes when one of the patrons of the hole departs for home. on such occasions the departing comrade has to stand the dinner for all, after which, with its speeches and toasts, he is escorted to the railway station with great éclat, and given a hearty farewell, the glee club singing the parting song at the station. bishop is leading tenor of the glee club. le cabaret du soleil d'or it is only the name of the cabaret of the golden sun that suggests the glorious luminary of day. and yet it is really brilliant in its own queer way, though that brilliancy shines when all else in paris is dark and dead,--at night, and in the latest hours of the night at that. [illustration: ] my acquaintance with the golden sun began one foggy night in a cold november, under the guidance of bishop. lured by the fascinations of nocturnal life in the quartier latin, and by its opportunities for the study of life in its strangest phases, bishop had become an habitual nighthawk, leaving the studio nearly every evening about ten o'clock, after he had read a few hours from treasured books gleaned from the stalls along the river, to prowl about with a sketchbook, in quest of queer characters and queer places, where strange lives were lived in the dark half of the day. his knowledge of obscure retreats and their peculiar habitués seemed unlimited. and what an infinite study they offer! the tourist, "doing" bohemian paris as he would the famous art galleries, or notre-dame, or the madeleine, or the _café_s on the boulevards, may, under the guidance of a wise and discerning student, visit one after another of these out-of-the-way resorts where the endless tragedy of human life is working out its mysteries; he may see that one place is dirtier or noisier than another, that the men and women are better dressed and livelier here than there, that the crowd is bigger, or the lights brighter; but he cannot see, except in their meaningless outer aspects, those subtle differences which constitute the heart of the matter. in distance it is not far from the moulin rouge to the cabaret du soleil d'or, but in descending from the dazzling brilliancy and frothy abandon of the red mill to the smoke and grime of the golden sun, we drop from the summit of the tour eiffel to the rat-holes under the bridges of the seine; and yet it is in such as the cabaret of the golden sun that the true student finds the deeper, the more lastingly charming, the strangely saddening spell that lends to the wonderful quartier latin its distinctive character and everlasting fascination. though bishop spoke to me very little of his midnight adventures, i being very busy with my own work, i began to have grave apprehensions on the score of his tastes in that direction; for during the afternoons ridiculous-looking, long-haired, but gentlemannered persons in shabby attire, well-seasoned with the aroma of absinthe and cigarettes, would favor our studio with a call, undoubtedly at bishop's invitation. they brought with them black portfolios or rolls of paper tied with black string, containing verses,--their masterpieces, which were to startle paris, or new songs, which, god favoring, were to be sung at la scala or the ambassadeurs, and thus bring them immortal fame and put abundant fat upon their lean ribs! ah, the deathless hope that makes hunger a welcome companion here! bishop would cleverly entertain these aspiring geniuses with shop talk concerning literature and music, and he had a charming way of dwelling upon the finish and subtlety of their work and comparing it with that of the masters. it usually ended with their posing for him in different attitudes of his suggesting. why waste money on professional models? as bishop's acquaintances became more numerous among this class, we finally set aside tuesday afternoons for their reception. then they would come in generous numbers and enjoy themselves unreservedly with our cognac and biscuits. but ah, the rare pleasures of those afternoons,--as much for the good it did us to see their thin blood warmed with brandy and food as for their delightful entertainment of us and one another. the studio was warm and cheerful on the night when bishop invited me to accompany him out. i had been at work, and presently, when i had finished, i flung myself on the divan for a rest and a smoke, and then became aware of bishop's presence. he was comfortably ensconced in the steamer-chair, propped up with pillows. "aren't you going out to-night?" i inquired. "why, yes. let's see the time. a little after eleven. that's good. you are finished, aren't you? now, if you want a little recreation and wish to see one of the queerest places in paris, come with me." i looked out the window. a cold, dreary night it was. the chimney-pots were dimmed by the thick mist, and the street lamps shone murkily far below. it was a saddening, soaking, dripping night, still, melancholy, and depressing,--the kind of night that lends a strange zest to in-door enjoyment, as though it were a duty to keep the mist and the dreariness out of the house and the heart. but the studio had worn me out, and i was eager to escape from its pleasant coziness. and this was a saturday night, which means something, even in paris. to-morrow there would be rest. so i cheerfully assented. we donned our heaviest top-coats and mufflers, crammed the stove full of coal, and then sallied out into the dripping fog. oh, but it was cold and dismal in the streets! the mist was no longer the obscuring, suggestive, mysterious factor that it had been when seen from the window, but was now a tangible and formidable thing, with a manifest purpose. it struck through our wraps as though they had been cheesecloth. it had swept the streets clear, for not a soul was to be seen except a couple of sergents de ville, all hooded in capes, and a cab that came rattling through the murk with horses a-steam. occasionally a flux of warm light from some _café_ would melt a tunnel through the monotonous opaque haze, but the empty chairs and tables upon the sidewalks facing the _café_s offered no invitation. [illustration: ] in front of one of these _café_s, in a sheltered corner made by a glass screen, sat a solitary young woman, dressed stylishly in black, the light catching one of her dainty slippers perched coquettishly upon a foot-rest. a large black hat, tilted wickedly down over her face, cast her eyes in deep shadow and lent her that air of alluring mystery which the women of her class know so well how to cultivate. her neck and chin were buried deep in the collar of her sealskin cape. a gleam of limp white gauze at her throat lent a pleasing relief to the monotone of her attire. upon the table in front of her stood an empty glass and two saucers. as we passed she peered at us from beneath her big hat, and smiled coquettishly, revealing glistening white teeth. the atmosphere of loneliness and desolation that encompassed her gave a singularly pathetic character to her vigil. thus she sat, a picture for an artist, a text for a moralist, pretty, dainty, abandoned. it happened not to be her fortune that her loneliness should be relieved by us.... but other men might be coming afterwards.... all this at a glance through the cold november fog. as we proceeded up the boul' mich' the _café_s grew more numerous and passers-by more frequent, but all these were silent and in a hurry, prodded on by the nipping cold fangs of the night. among the tables outside the _café d'harcourt_ crouched and prowled an old man, bundled in ill-fitting rags, searching for remnants of cigars and cigarettes on the sanded sidewalk. from his glittering eyes, full of suspicion, he turned an angry glance upon us as we paused a moment to observe him, and growled,--"_allons, tu n' peux donc pas laisser un pauv' malheureux?_" bishop tossed him a sou, which he greedily snatched without a word of thanks. [illustration: ] at the corner, under the gas-lamps, stood shivering newspaper venders trying to sell their few remaining copies of la dernière édition de la presse. buyers were scarce. we had now reached the place st.-michel and the left bank of the river. we turned to the right, following the river wall toward notre-dame, whose towers were not discernible through the fog. here there was an unbounded wilderness of desolation and solitude. the black seine flowed silently past dark masses that were resolved into big canal-boats, with their sickly green lights reflected in the writhing ink of the river. notre-dame now pushed its massive bulk through the fog, but its towers were lost in the sky. near by a few dim lights shone forth through the slatted windows of the morgue. but its lights never go out. and how significantly close to the river it stands! peering under the arches of the bridges, we found some of the social dregs that sleep there with the rats. it was not difficult to imagine the pretty girl in black whom we had passed coming at last through dissipation and wrinkles and broken health to take refuge with the rats under the bridges, and it is a short step thence to the black waters of the river; and that the scheme of the tragedy might be perfect in all its parts, adjustments, and relations, behold the morgue so near, with its lights that never go out, and boatmen so skilled in dragging the river! and the old man who was gathering the refuse and waste of smokers, it was not impossible that he should find himself taking this route when his joints had grown stiffer, though it would more likely end under the bridges. the streets are very narrow and crooked around notre-dame, and their emanations are as various as the capacity of the human nose for evil odors. the lamps, stuck into the walls of the houses, only make the terrors of such a night more formidable; for while one may feel a certain security in absolute darkness, the shadows to which the lamps lend life have a baffling elusiveness and weirdness, and a habit of movement that makes one instinctively dodge. but that is all the trick of the wind. however that may be, it is wonderful how much more vividly one remembers on such a night the stories of the murders, suicides, and other crimes that lend a particular grewsomeness to the vicinity of the morgue and notre-dame. we again turned to the right, into a narrow, dirty street,--the rue du haut-pavé,--whose windings brought us into a similar street,--the rue galande. bishop halted in front of a low arched door-way, which blazed sombrely in its coat of blood-red paint. a twisted gas-lamp, demoralized and askew, depended overhead, and upon the glass enclosing it was painted, with artistic flourishes,--"au soleil d'or." this was the cabaret of the golden sun,--all unconscious of the mockery of its name, another of those whimsical disjointings in which the shadowy side of paris is so prolific. from the interior of the luminary came faintly the notes of a song, with piano accompaniment. the archway opened into a small court paved with ill-fitted flint blocks. at the farther end of it another gas-lamp flickered at the head of a flight of stairs leading underground. as we approached the steps a woman sprang from the shadow, and with a cry, half of fear and half of anger, fled to the street. at that moment memories of the cosiness of our studio became doubly enticing,--one cannot always approach unfamiliar underground paris with perfect courage. but bishop's coolness was reassuring. he had already descended the steps, and there was nothing left for me but to follow. at the foot of the stairs were half-glass doors curtained with cheap red cloth. a warm, thick, suffocating gust of air, heavy with the fumes of beer, wine, and tobacco, assailed our cold faces as we pushed open the doors and entered the room. for a moment it was difficult to see clearly, so dense was the smoke. it was packed against the ceiling like a bank of fog, diminishing in density downward, and shot through with long banner-like streamers of smoke freshly emitted. the human atmosphere of the place could not be caught at once. a stranger would not have known for the moment whether he was with thieves or artists. but very soon its distinctive spirit made its presence and character manifest. the room--which was not a large one--was well filled with an assortment of those queer and interesting people some of whom bishop had entertained at the studio, only here their characteristics were more pronounced, for they were in their natural element, depressed and hampered by no constraints except of their own devising. a great many were women, although it could be seen at a glance that they were not of the nymphs who flitted among the glittering _café_s, gowned in delicate laces and sheeny sculptured silks, the essence of mignonette pervading their environment. no; these were different. [illustration: ] here one finds, not the student life of paris, but its most unconventional bohemian life. here, in this underground rendezvous, a dirty old hole about twenty feet below the street level, gather nightly the happy-go-lucky poets, musicians, and singers for whom the great busy world has no use, and who, in their unrelaxing poverty, live in the tobacco clouds of their own construction, caring nothing for social canons, obeyers of the civil law because of their scorn of meanness, injustice, and crime, suffering unceasingly for the poorest comforts of life, ambitious without energy, hopeful without effort, cheerful under the direst pressure of need, kindly, simple, proud, and pitiful. all were seated at little round tables, as are the habitués of the _café_s, and their attention was directed upon a slim young fellow with curling yellow hair and a faint moustache, who was singing, leaning meanwhile upon a piano that stood on a low platform in one corner of the room. their attention was respectful, delicate, sympathetic, and, as might be supposed, brought out the best in the lad. it was evident that he had not long been a member of the sacred circle. his voice was a smooth, velvety tenor, and under proper instruction might have been useful to its possessor as a means of earning a livelihood. but it was clear that he had already fallen under the spell of the associations to which accident or his inclination had brought him; and this meant that henceforth he would live in this strange no-world of dreams, hopes, sufferings, and idleness, and that likely he would in time come to gather cigar-stumps on the sanded pavement of the café d'harcourt, and after that sleep with the rats under the bridges of the seine. at this moment, however, he lived in the clouds; he breathed and glowed with the spirit of shiftless, proud, starving bohemianism as it is lived in paris, benignantly disdainful of the great moiling, money-grubbing world that roared around him, and perhaps already the adoration of some girl of poetic or artistic tastes and aspirations, who was serving him as only the church gives a woman the right. there was time to look about while he was singing, though that was difficult, so strange and pathetic a picture he made. the walls of the room were dirty and bare, though relieved at rare intervals by sketches and signs. the light came from three gas-burners, and was reflected by a long mirror at one end of the room. no attention had been paid to our entrance, except by the garçon, a heavy-set, bull-necked fellow, who, with a sign, bade us make no noise. when the song had finished the audience broke into uproarious applause, shouting, "_bravo, mon vieux!" "bien fait, marquis!_" and the clapping of hands and beating of glasses on the marble-topped tables and pounding of canes on the floor made a mighty din. the young singer, his cheeks glowing and his eyes blazing, modestly rolled up his music and sought his seat. we were now piloted to seats by the garçon, who, when we had settled ourselves, demanded to know what we would drink. "_deux bocks!_" he yelled across the room. "_deux bocks!_" came echoing back from the counter, where a fat woman presided--knitting. several long-haired littérateurs--friends of bishop's--came up and saluted him and shook his hand, all with a certain elegance and dignity. he, in turn, introduced me, and the conversation at once turned to art, music, and poetry. whatever the sensational news of the day, whatever the crisis in the cabinet, whatever anything might have been that was stirring the people in the great outside commonplace world, these men and women gave it no heed whatever. what was the gross, hard, eager world to them? did not the glories of the golden sun lend sufficient warmth to their hearts, and were not their vague aspirations and idle hopes ample stimulants to their minds and spirits? they quickly found a responsive mood in us, and this so delighted them that they ordered the drinks. the presiding genius at the piano was a whitehaired, spiritual-looking man, whose snowy locks gave the only indication of his age; for his face was filled with the eternal youthfulness of a careless and contented heart. his slender, delicate fingers told of his temperament, his thin cheeks of his poverty, and his splendid dreamy eyes of the separate life that he lived. standing on the platform beside him was a man of a very different type. it was' the pianist's function to be merely a musician; but the other man--the musical director--was one from whom judgment, decision, and authority were required. therefore he was large, powerful, and big- stomached, and had a pumpkin head, and fat, baggy eyes that shone through narrow slits. he now stepped forward and rang a little bell, upon which all talking was instantly hushed. "_mesdames et messieurs_," he said, in a large, capable voice, "_j'ai l'honneur de vous annoncer que madame louise leroux, nous lira ses dernières oeuvres--une faveur que nous apprécierons tous_." [illustration: ] a young woman--about twenty-three, i should judge--arose from one of the tables where she had been sitting talking with an insipid-looking gentleman adorned with a blond moustache and vacant, staring-eyes; he wore a heavy coat trimmed with astrachan collar and cuffs, which, being open at the throat, revealed the absence of a shirt from his body. a latin quarter top-hat was pushed back on his head, and his long, greasy hair hung down over his collar. madame leroux smiled affectionately at him as she daintily flicked the ashes from her cigarette and laid it upon the table, and moistened her thin red lips with a yellow liqueur from her glass. he responded with a condescending jerk of his head, and, diving into one of the inner pockets of his coat, brought forth a roll of paper, which she took. a great clapping of hands and loud cries of her name greeted her as she stepped upon the platform, but it was clearly to be seen from her indifferent air that she had been long accustomed to this attention. the big musical director again rang his bell. "_il était une fois,_" she said, simply. the pianist fingered the keys softly, and she began to recite. [illustration: ] the room was as still as a chapel. every one listened in profound absorption; even the stolid bull-necked waiter leaned against the wall, his gaze fastened upon her with respectful interest. she spoke slowly, in a low, sweet tone, the soft accompaniment of the piano following the rhythm of her voice with wonderful effectiveness. she seemed to forget her surroundings,--the hot, close room, crowded with shabby, eccentric geniuses who lived from hand to mouth, the poverty that evidently was her lot,--even her lover, who sat watching her with a cold, critical, half-disdainful air, making notes upon a slip of paper, now nodding his head approvingly, now frowning, when pleased or displeased with her performance. she was a rare picture as she thus stood and recited, a charming swing to her trim figure, half reclining upon the piano, her black hair falling loosely and caressing her forehead and casting her dark eyes in deeper shadow, and all her soul going forth in the low, soft, subdued passion of her verses. she reminded one greatly of bernhardt, and might have been as great. during her whole rendering of this beautiful and pathetic tale of "other times" she scarcely moved, save for some slight gesture that suggested worlds. how well the lines suited her own history and condition only she could have told. who was she? what had she been? surely this strange woman, hardly more than a mere girl, capable of such feelings and of rendering them with so subtle force and beauty, had lived another life,- -no one knew, no one cared. loud shouts of admiration and long applause rang through the room as she slowly and with infinite tenderness uttered the last line with bowed head and a choking voice. she stood for a moment while the room thundered, and then the noise seemed to recall her, to drag her back from some haunting memory to the squalor of her present condition, and then her eyes eagerly sought the gentleman of the fur-collared coat. it was an anxious glance that she cast upon him. he carelessly nodded once or twice, and she instantly became transfigured. the melancholy of her eyes and the wretched dejection of her pose disappeared, and her sad face lit up with a beaming, happy smile. she was starting to return to him, all the woman in her awaking to affection and a yearning for the refuge of his love, when the vociferous cries of the crowd for an encore, and the waving of her lover's hand as a signal for her to comply, sent her back on guard to the piano again. her smile was very sweet and her voice full of trippling melody when she now recited a gay little ballad,--also her own composition,--"_amours joyeux_,"--in so entirely different a spirit that it was almost impossible to believe her the same mortal. every fibre of her being participated in the rollicking abandon of the piece, and her eyes were flooded with the mellow radiance of supreme love satisfied and victorious. upon regaining her seat she was immediately surrounded by a praise- giving crowd, who shook hands with her and heartily congratulated her; but it was clear that she could think only of him of the fur collar, and that no word of praise or blame would weigh with her the smallest fraction of a feather's weight unless this one man uttered it. she disengaged her hand from her crowding admirers and deftly donned her little white alpine hat, all the while looking into the face of the one man who could break her heart or send her to heaven. he sat looking at his boot, indifferent, bored. presently he looked up into her anxious eyes, gazed at her a moment, and then leaned forward and spoke a word. it sent her to heaven. her face all aglow and her eyes shining with happiness, she called the garçon, paid for the four saucers upon the table, and left the room upon the arm of her lover. "how she does adore that dog!" exclaimed my friend the musician. "what does he do?" i asked. "do?" he echoed. "nothing. it is she who does all. without her he would starve. he is a writer of some ability, but too much of a socialist to work seriously. in her eyes he is the greatest writer in the world. she would sacrifice everything to please him. without him her life would fall into a complete blank, and her recklessness would quickly send her into the lowermost ranks. when a woman like that loves, she loves--ah, _les femmes sont difficiles à comprendre!_" my friend sighed, burying his moustaches in a foaming bock. individual definition grew clearer as i became more and more accustomed to the place and its habitués. it seemed that nearly all of them were absinthe-drinkers, and that they drank a great deal,--all they could get, i was made to understand. they care little about their dress and the other accessories of their personal appearance, though here and there they exhibit the oddest finery, into whose possession they fall by means which casual investigation could not discover, and which is singularly out of harmony with the other articles of their attire and with the environment which they choose. as a rule, the men wear their hair very long and in heavy, shaggy masses over their ears and faces. they continually roll and smoke cigarettes, though there are many pipes, and big ones at that. but though they constitute a strange crowd, there is about them a distinct air of refinement, a certain dignity and pride that never fail, and withal a gentleness that renders any approach to ruffianism impossible. the women take a little more pride in their appearance than the men. even in their carelessness and seeming indifference there abides with nearly all of them the power to lend themselves some single touch of grace that is wonderfully redeeming, and that is infinitely finer and more elusive than the showy daintiness of the women of the _café_s. as a rule, these bohemians all sleep during the day, as that is the best way to keep warm; at night they can find warmth in the cabarets. in the afternoon they may write a few lines, which they sell in some way for a pittance, wherewithal to buy them a meal and a night's vigil in one of these resorts. this is the life of lower bohemia plain and simple,--not the life of the students, but of the misfit geniuses who drift, who have neither place nor part in the world, who live from hand to mouth, and who shudder when the morgue is mentioned,--and it is so near, and its lights never go out! they are merely protestants against the formalism of life, rebels against its necessities. they seek no following, they desire to exercise no influence. they lead their vacant lives without the slightest restraint, bear their poverty without a murmur, and go to their dreary end without a sigh. these are the true bohemians of paris. other visitors came into the soleil d'or and sought seats among their friends at the tables, while others kept leaving, bound for other rendezvous, many staying just sufficiently long to hear a song or two. they were all of the same class, very negligently and poorly attired, some displaying their odd pieces of finery with an exquisite assumption of unconsciousness on its account, as though they were millionaires and cared nothing for such trivial things. and the whimsical incongruities of it! if one wore a shining tile he either had no shirt (or perhaps a very badly soiled one), or wore a frayed coat and disreputable shoes. in fact, no complete respectable dress made its appearance in the room that night, though each visitor had his distinctive specialty,--one a burnished top hat, another a gorgeous cravat, another a rich velvet jacket, and so on. but they all wore their hair as long as it would grow. that is the bohemian mark. the little bell again rang, and the heavy director announced that "monsieur léon décarmeau will sing one of his newest songs." monsieur léon décarmeau was a lean, half-starved appearing man of about forty, whose eyes were sunk deep in his head, and whose sharp cheek-bones protruded prominently. on the bridge of his thin, angular nose set a pair of "pince-nez," attached by a broad black cord, which he kept fingering nervously as he sang. his song was entitled "fleurs et pensées," and he threw himself into it with a broad and passionate eagerness that heavily strained the barrier between melodrama and burlesque. his glance sought the ceiling in a frenzied quest of imaginary nymphs, his arms swayed as he tenderly caressed imaginary flowers of sweet love and drank in their intoxicating perfume instead of the hot, tobacco-rife smoke of the room. his voice was drawn out in tremendous sighs full of tears, and his chest heaved like a blacksmith's bellows. but when he had ceased he was most generously applauded and praised. during the intervals between the songs and recitations the room was noisy with laughter, talking, and the clinking of glasses. the one garçon was industriously serving boissons and yelling orders to the bar, where the fat woman sat industriously knitting, heedless, as might have been expected of the keeper of the cave of adullam, and awakening to activity only when the stentorian yells of the garçon's orders rose above the din of the establishment. absinthe and beer formed the principal beverages, though, as a rule, absinthe was taken only just before a meal, and then it served as an appetizer,--a sharpener of hunger to these who had so little wherewithal to satisfy the hunger that unaided nature created! the mystery of the means by which these lighthearted bohemians sustained their precarious existence was not revealed to me; yet here they sat, and laughed, and talked, and recited the poetry of their own manufacture, and sang their songs, and drank, and smoked their big pipes, and rolled cigarettes incessantly, happy enough in the hour of their lives, bringing hither none of the pains and pangs and numbing evidences of their struggles. and there was no touch of the sordid in the composite picture that they made, and a certain tinge of intellectual refinement, a certain spirituality that seemed to raise them infinitely above the plane of the lowly strugglers who won their honest bread by honest labor, shone about them as a halo. their dark hours, no doubt, came with the daylight, and in these meetings at the cabaret they found an agreeable way in which to while away the dismal interval that burdened their lives when they were not asleep; for the cabaret was warm and bright, warmer and brighter than their own wretched little rooms au cinquième,--and coal and candles are expensive luxuries! here, if their productions haply could not find a larger and more remunerative audience, they could at least be heard,--by a few, it is true, but a most appreciative few, and that is something of value equal to bread. and then, who could tell but what fame might unexpectedly crown them in the end? it has happened thus. "but why worry?" asked the musician. "'laugh, and the world laughs with you. if we do not live a long life, it is at least a jolly one,' is our motto and certainly they gave it most faithful allegiance." i learned from bishop that the musical director received three francs a night for his services. should singers happen to be lacking, or should the evening be dull for other reason, he himself must sing and recite; for the tension of the soleil d'or must be kept forever taut. the old white-haired pianist received two francs a night, and each of these contributors to the gayety of the place was given a drink gratis. so there was at least some recompense besides the essential one of appreciation from the audience. glasses clinked merrily, and poets and composers flitted about the room to chat with their contemporaries. a sketch artist, deftly drawing the portrait of a baritone's jolly little mistress, was surrounded by a bantering group, that passed keen, intelligent, and good-natured criticism on the work as it rapidly grew under his hands. the whitehaired pianist sat puffing at his cigarette and looking over some music with a rather pretty young woman who had written popular songs of la villette. the opening of the doors and the straggling entrance of three men sent an instant hush throughout the room. "verlaine!" whispered the musician to me. it was indeed the great poet of the slums,--the epitome and idol of bohemian paris, the famous man whose verses had rung throughout the length and breadth of the city, the one man who, knowing the heart and soul of the stragglers who found light and warmth in such places as the soleil d'or, had the brains and grace to set the strange picture adequately before the wondering world. the musical director, as well as a number of others in the place, stepped forward, and with touching deference and tenderness greeted the remarkable man and his two companions. it was easy to pick out verlaine without relying upon the special distinction with which he was greeted. he had the oddest slanting eyes, a small, stubby nose, and wiry whiskers, and his massive forehead heavily overhung his queerly shaped eyes. he was all muffled up to the chin; wore a badly soiled hat and a shabby dark coat. under one arm he carried a small black portfolio. [illustration: ] several of the women ran to him and kissed him on both cheeks, which salutations he heartily returned, with interest. one of his companions was monsieur bi-bi-dans-la-purée--so he was called, though seemingly he might have been in anything as well as soup. he was an exceedingly interesting figure. his sunken, drawn, smooth- shaven face gave terrible evidence of the excessive use of absinthe. a large hooked nose overshadowed a wide, loose mouth that hung down at the corners, and served to set forth in startling relief the sickly leaden color of his face. when he spoke, a few straggling teeth gleamed unpleasantly. he wore no overcoat, and his jacket hung open, disclosing a half-opened shirt that exposed his bare breast. his frayed trousers dragged the ground at his heels. but his eyes were the most terrible part of him; they shone with the wild, restless light of a madman, and their gaze was generally flitting and distrait, acknowledging no acquaintances. afterwards, when verlaine was dead, i often saw monsieur bi-bi-dansla-purée on the street, looking most desolate, a roll of white manuscript in his hand, his coat and shirt wide open, exposing his naked breast to the biting cold wind. he seemed to be living altogether in another world, and gazed about him with the same unseeing vacant stare that so startled me that night in the soleil d'or. when verlaine and his companions were seated--by displacing the artist--the recitations and songs recommenced; and it was noticeable that they were rendered with augmented spirit, that the famous poet of the slums might be duly impressed with the capabilities and hospitable intentions of his entertainers; for now all performed for verlaine, not for one another. the distinguished visitor had removed his slouch hat, revealing the wonderful oblong dome of his bald head, which shone like the soleil d'or; and many were the kisses reverently and affectionately bestowed upon that glistening eminence by the poet's numerous female admirers in the throng. a reckless-looking young woman, with a black hat drawn down over her eyes, and wearing glasses, was now reciting. her hands were gloved in black, but the finger-tips were worn through,--a fact which she made all the more evident by a peculiar gesture of the fingers. as the small hours grew larger these gay bohemians waxed gayer and livelier. formalities were gradually abandoned, and the constraint of dignity and reserve slowly melted under the mellowing influences of the place. ceremonious observances were dropped one by one; and whereas there had been the most respectful and insistent silence throughout the songs, now all joined heartily in the choruses, making the dim lights dance in the exuberance of the enjoyment. i had earnestly hoped that verlaine, splendid as was his dignity, might thaw under the gathering warmth of the hour, but beyond listening respectfully, applauding moderately, and returning the greetings that were given him, he held aloof from the influence of the occasion, and after draining his glass and bidding good-night to his many friends, with his two companions he made off to another rendezvous. monsieur le directeur came over to our table and asked bishop to favor the audience with a "_chanson américaine_." this rather staggered my modest friend, but he finally yielded to entreaties. the director rang his little bell again and announced that "monsieur beeshup" would sing a song _à l'américaine_. this was received with uproarious shouts by all, and several left their seats and escorted bishop to the platform. i wondered what on earth he would sing. the accompanist, after a little coaching from bishop, assailed the chords, and bishop began drawling out his old favorite, "down on the farm." he did it nobly, too, giving the accompanist occasion for labor in finding the more difficult harmonies. the hearers, though they did not understand a word of the ditty, and therefore lost the whole of its pathos, nevertheless listened with curious interest and respect, though with evident veiled amusement. many quick ears caught the refrain. at first there came an exceedingly soft chorus from the room, and it gradually rose until the whole crowd had thrown itself into the spirit of the melody, and swelled it to a mighty volume. bishop led the singers, beating time with his right arm, his left thumb meanwhile hooked in the arm-hole of his waistcoat. "_bravo! bravo, beeshup! bis!_" they yelled, when it was finished, and then the room rang with a salvo of hand-clappings in unison: - -- - - -- - - - - -- - - - - -- -- -- !! a great ovation greeted him as he marched with glowing cheeks to his seat, and those who knew him crowded round him for a hand-shake. the musician asked him if he would sing the song in private for him, that he might write down the melody, to which bishop agreed, on condition that the musician pose for him. bishop had a singularly sharp eye for opportunities. the sketch artist sauntered over and sat down at our table to have a chat with bishop. he was a singular fellow. his manner was smoothed by a fine and delicate courtesy, bespeaking a careful rearing, whose effects his loose life and promiscuous associations could not obliterate. his age was about thirty-two, though he looked much older,--this being due in part to his hard life and in other part to the heavy whiskers that he wore. an absurd little round felt hat sat precariously on his riotous mane, and i was in constant apprehension lest it should fall off every time he shook his head. over his shoulders was a blue cape covering a once white shirt that was devoid of a collar. his fingers were all black with the crayon that he had used in sketching. he said that he had already earned twelve sous that evening, making portraits at six sous a head! but there was not so much money to be made in a place like this as in the big _café_s,--the frequenters were too poor. [illustration: ] i asked him where he had studied and learned his art, for it could be easily seen that he had had some training; his portraits were not half bad, and showed a knowledge of drawing. he thereupon told me his story. he had come to paris thirteen years before from nantes, brittany, to study art. his father kept a small grocery and provision-shop in nantes, and lived in meagre circumstances. the son having discovered what his father deemed a remarkable talent for drawing when a boy, the father sent him to paris, with an allowance of a hundred francs a month, and he had to deny himself severely to furnish it. when the young man arrived at paris he studied diligently at the ecole des beaux-arts for a while, and became acquainted with many of the students and models. he soon found the easy life of the _café_s, with the models for companions, more fascinating than the dull grind of the school. it was much pleasanter to enjoy the gayety of the nights and sleep all day than drone and labor at his easel. as his small allowance did not permit of extravagance, he fell deeply into debt, and gave more heed to absinthe than his meals,--it is cheaper, more alluring, and brings an exhilaration that sharpens wit and equips the soul with wings. for a whole year the father was in total ignorance of his son's conduct, but one day a friend, who had seen the young man in paris, laid the ugly story in his father's ear. this so enraged the father that he instantly stopped the remittances and disowned his son. all appeals for money, all promises to reform, were in vain, and so the young madcap was forced to look about for a means of subsistence. and thus it was that he drifted into the occupation of a sketch artist, making portraits in the _café_s all night and sleeping in daytime. this brought him a scant living. but there was his mistress, marcelle, always faithful to him. she worked during the day at sewing, and shared her small earnings with him. all went fairly well during the summer, but in winter the days were short, marcelle's earnings were reduced, and the weather was bitter cold. still, it was not so bad as it might be, he protested; but underneath his easy flippancy i imagined i caught a shadow,--a flitting sense of the hollowness and misery and hopelessness and shame of it all. but i am not certain of that. he had but gone the way of many and many another, and others now are following in his footsteps, deluding self-denying parents, and setting foot in the road which, so broad and shining at the beginning, narrows and darkens as it leads nearer and nearer to the rat- holes under the bridges of the seine, and to the grim house whose lights forever shine at night under the shadow of notre-dame. had monsieur a cigarette to spare? monsieur had, and monsieur thought that the thanks for it were out of all proportion to its value; but they were totally eclipsed by the praises of monsieur's wonderful generosity in paying for a glass of absinthe and sugar for the man who made faces at six sous apiece. the quiet but none the less high tension of the place, the noise of the singing, the rattling of glasses and saucers, the stifling foul air of the room, filled me with weariness and threatened me with nausea. things had moved in a constant whirl all night, and now it was nearly four o'clock. how much longer will this last? "till five o'clock," answered the musician; then all the lights go out, and the place is closed; and our friends seek their cold, cheerless rooms, to sleep far into the afternoon. we paid for our saucers, and after parting adieux left in company with the musician and the aesthetic poet. how deliciously sharp and refreshing was the cold, biting air as we stepped out into the night! it seemed as though i had been breathing molasses. the fog was thicker than ever, and the night was colder. the two twisted gas-lamps were no longer burning as we crossed the slippery stone-paved court and ascended to the narrow street. the musician wrapped a gray muffler about his throat and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. the poet had no top-coat, but he buttoned his thin jacket tightly about him, and shivered. "shall we have some lait chaud and a croissant?" inquired the musician. yes, anything hot would be good, even milk; but where could we get it? "ah, you shall see!" we had not gone far when it gave me a start to recognize a figure that we had seen in the boul' mich' on our way to the soleil d'or. it was that of an outcast of the boulevards, now slinking through the shadows toward the river. we had been accosted by him in front of one of the brilliant _café_s, as, trembling and rubbing his hands, a picture of hopeless dejection and misery, and in a quavering voice he begged us to buy him a drink of brandy. [illustration: ] it probably saved him from an attack of delirium tremens that night, but here he was drifting, with a singular fatality, toward the river and the morgue. now, that his day's work of begging was done, all his jackal watchfulness had disappeared, and an inner vision seemed to look forth from his bleared eyes as their gaze strained straight and dull toward the black river. it may have been a mere fancy, but the expression in his eyes reminded me strongly of similar things that i had seen on the slabs in the morgue. we crossed the rue du haut-pavé again to the river wall, and arrived at the bridge leading back of notre-dame and past the morgue. on the farther end of the bridge, propped against the parapet, was a small stand, upon a corner of which a dim lamp was burning. in front were a number of milk-cans, and on a small counter were a row of thick white bowls and a basket of croissants. inside, upon a small stove, red with heat, were two kettles from which issued clouds of steam bearing an odor of boiling milk. a stout woman, her face so well wrapped in a shawl that only the end of her red nose was visible, greeted us,--"_bon jour, messieurs. en voulez-vous du bon lait bien chaud?_" she poured out four bowls of steaming milk, and gave us each a roll. for this luxury we paid three sous each; and a feast it was, for the shivering poet, at least, for he licked the hot bowl clean and ate the very crumbs of his croissant. as we were bound for widely separated quarters, our bohemian friends bade us an affectionate good-night, and were soon swallowed up in the gloom. we turned towards home and the boul' mich'. all the _café_s were closed and dark, but the boulevard was alive with canal-boatmen, street- sweepers, and rumbling vegetable- and milk-carts. the streets were being washed clean of all evidences of the previous day's life and turmoil, and the great city was creeping forth from its lair to begin another. [illustration: ] the cafÉ procope in the short, busy little street, the rue de l'ancienne-comédie, which runs from the boulevard st. germain, in a line from the théâtre national de l'odéon and connecting with the rue mazarin, its continuation, the heavy dome of the institut looming at its end, is to be found probably the most famous _café_ in paris, for in its day it has been the rendezvous of the most noted french littérateurs, politicians, and savants. what is more, the procope was the first _café_ established in paris, originating the appellation "_café_" to a place where coffee is served, for it was here that coffee was introduced to france as an after-dinner comforter. that was when the famous _café_ was in its glory. some of the great celebrities who made it famous have been dead for nearly two hundred years, though its greatest fame came a century afterwards; and now the _café_, no longer glorious as it was when the old théâtre français stood opposite, reposes in a quiet street far from the noise and glitter and life of the boulevards, and lives on the splendid memories that crowd it. other _café_s by the thousand have sprung into existence, and the word has spread to coffee saloons and restaurants throughout christendom; and the ancient rive droite nurses the history and relics of the golden days of its glory, alone in a quiet street, surrounded by tightly shut shops, and the calm of a sleeping village. still, it retains many of its ancient characteristics and much of the old-time quaintness peculiar to itself and setting it wholly apart, and it is yet the rendezvous of littérateurs and artists, who, if not so famous as the great men in whose seats they sit, play a considerable rôle in the life of modern paris. the front of the _café_ is a neat little terrace off the street, screened by a fanciful net-work of vines and shrubbery that spring from green painted boxes and that conceal cosey little tables and corners placed behind them. instead of the usual showy plate-windows, one still finds the quaint old window-panes, very small carreaux, kept highly polished by the tireless garçon apprentice. tacked to the white pillars are numerous copies of _le procope_, a weekly journal published by théo, the proprietor of the _café_. its contributors are the authors, journalists, and poets who frequent the _café_, and it publishes a number of portraits besides, and some spirited drawings. it is devoted in part to the history of the _café_ and of the celebrities who have made it famous, and publishes portraits of them, from voltaire to paul verlaine. this same journal was published here over two hundred years ago, in , and it was the means then by which the patrons of the establishment kept in closer touch with their contemporaries and the spirit of the time. théo is proprietor and business manager, as well as editor. [illustration: ] the following two poems will give an idea of the grace of the matter contained in le procope: À une espagnole au loin, quand, l'oil rêveur et d'ennuis l'âme pleine, je suivrai sur les flots le vol des alcyons chaque soir surgira dans les derniers rayons le profil triste et doux d'ida, de ma sirène. la figure et de lys et d'iris transparente, ressortira plus blanche en l'ombre des cheveux profonds comme un mystère et troublants et mes yeux boiront dans l'idéal sa caresse enivrante. et je rechercherai l'énigme du sourire railleur ou de pitié qui luisait dans ses yeux en des paillettes d'or sous ses beaux cils ombreux.... et je retomberai dans la tristesse... et dire qu'un seul mot me rendrait et la vie et l'espoir: belle, mon rendez-vous n'est-il point pour ce soir? l birr. petite chanson dÉsolÉe je suis seul dans la grande ville où nul n'a fêté mon retour, cour vide, et cerveau qui vacille, sans projet, sans but, sans amour je suis seul dans la grande ville. le dos voûté, les bras ballants, je marche au hasard dans la foule a longs pas lourds et nonchalants, on me pousse, heurte, refoule, le dos voûté, les bras ballants. je suis accablé de silence, de ce silence intérieur, tel un brouillard subtil et dense, qui tombe à plis lourds sur le cour, je suis accablé de silence. ah! quand viendront les jours heureux, quand viendra la chère attendue qu'espère mon cour amoureux, qu'implore mon âme éperdue, ah! quand viendront les jours heureux! achille segard. here is a particularly charming little poem, written in the musical french of two or three centuries ago: un bayser sur vostre lèvre fraîche et rose, ma mye, ah! laissiez-moi poser cette tant bonne et doulce chose, un bayser. telle une fleur au jour éclose, le vois vostre teint se roser; si ie vous redonnois,--ie n'ose, un bayser. laissiez-moi vous prendre, inhumaine, a chascun iour de la sepmaine un bayser. trop tôt viendront vieil aage et peine! lors n'aurez plus, l'eussiez-vous reine, un bayser. maistre guillaume. the modern gas illumination of the _café_, in contrast to the fashion of brilliant lighting that prevails in the showy _café_s of the boulevards, must nevertheless be a great advance on the ancient way that it had of being lighted with crude oil lamps and candelabra. but the dim illumination is in perfect keeping with the other appointments of the place, which are dark, sombre, and funereal. the interior of the procope is as dark as a finely colored old meerschaum pipe. the woodwork, the chairs, and the tables are deeply stained by time, the contrasting white marble tops of the tables suggesting gravestones; and with all these go the deeply discolored walls and the many ancient paintings,--even the caisse, behind which sits madame théo, dozing over her knitting. this caisse is a wonderful piece of furniture in itself, of some rich dark wood, beautifully carved and decorated. madame théo is in black, her head resting against the frame of an old crayon portrait of voltaire on the wall behind her. a fat and comfortable black cat is asleep in the midst of rows of white saucers and snowy napkins. the only garçon, except the garçon apprentice, is sitting in a corner drowsing over an evening paper, but ever ready to answer the quiet calls of the customers. for in the matter of noise and frivolity the café procope is wholly unlike the boulevard _café_s. an atmosphere of refined and elegant suppression pervades the place; the roystering spirit that haunts the boulevards stops at the portals of the procope. here all is peace and tranquillity, and that is why it is the haunt of many earnest and aspiring poets and authors; for hither they may bring their portfolios in peace and security, and here they may work upon their manuscripts, knowing that their neighbors are similarly engrossed and that intrusion is not to be feared. and then, too, are they not sitting on the same chairs and writing at the same tables that have been occupied by some of the greatest men in all the brilliant history of france? is not this the place in which greatness had budded and blossomed in the centuries gone? are not these ancient walls the same that echoed the wit, badinage, and laughter of the masters? and there are the portraits of the great themselves, looking down benignly and encouragingly upon the young strugglers striving to follow in their footsteps, and into the ghostly mirrors, damaged by time and now sending back only ghosts of shadows, they look as the great had looked before them. it is here, therefore, that many of the modern geniuses of france have drawn their inspiration, shaking off the endless turmoil of the noisy and bustling world, living with the works and memories of the ancient dead, and working out their destiny under the magic spell that hovers about the place. it is for this reason that the habitués are jealous of the intrusion of the curious and worldly. in this quiet and secure retreat they feel no impinging of the wearing and crippling world that roars and surges through the busy streets and boulevards. [illustration: ] m. théo de bellefond is the full name of the proprietor, but he is commonly known as m. théo. he is a jolly little man, with an ambitious round stomach, a benevolent face covered with a vandyke beard, and a shining bald head. a large flowing black cravat, tied into an artistic négligé bow, hides his shirt. m. théo came into possession of the procope in , a fact duly recorded on a door panel, along with the names of over a score of the celebrities who have made the procope their place of rest, refection, and social enjoyment. m. procope was a journalist in his day, but now the ambition that moves him is to restore the ancient glory of the procope; to make it again the centre of french brains and power in letters, art, and politics. to this end he exerts all his journalistic tact, a fact clearly shown by the able manner in which he conducts his journal, _le procope_. he has worked out the history of the _café_, and has at the ends of his fingers the life- stories of its famous patrons. the café procope was founded in by françois procope, where it now stands. opposite was the comédie française, which also was opened that year. the _café_ soon became the rendezvous of all who aspired to greatness in art, letters, philosophy, and politics. it was here that voltaire, in his eighty-second year, while attending the rehearsals of his play, "irène," descended from his chaise-à-porteur at the door of the café procope, and drank the coffee which the _café_ had made fashionable. it was here also that he became reconciled to piron, after an estrangement of more than twenty years. ste.-foix made trouble here one day about a cup of chocolate. a duel with the proprietor of the _café_ was the immediate result, and after it ste.-foix, badly wounded, exclaimed, "nevertheless, monsieur, your sword-thrust does not prevent my saying that a very sickly déjeuner is une tasse de chocolat!" jean-jacques rousseau, after the successful representation of "le devin de village," was carried in triumph to the procope by condorcet, who, with jean-jacques on his shoulders, made a tour of the crowded _café_, yelling, "vive la musique française!" diderot was fond of sitting in a corner and manufacturing paradoxes and materialistic dissertations to provoke the lieutenant of police, who would note everything he said and report it to the chief of police. the lieutenant, ambitious though stupid, one night told his chief that diderot had said one never saw souls; to which the chief returned, "m. diderot se trompe. l'âme est un esprit, et m. diderot est plein d'esprit." danton delighted in playing chess in a quiet corner with a strong adversary in the person of marat. many other famous revolutionists assembled here, among them fabre d'eglantine, robespierre, d'holbach, mirabeau, camille desmoulins. it was here that camille desmoulins was to be strangled by the reactionists in the revolution; it was here that the first bonnet rouge was donned. the massacre of december, , was here- planned, and the killing began at the very doors of the _café_. madame roland, lucille desmoulins, and the wife of danton met here on the ioth of august, the day of the fall of the monarchy, when bells rang and cannon thundered. it was later that bonaparte, then quite young and living in the quai conti, in the building which the american art association now occupies, left his hat at the procope as security for payment for a drink, he having left his purse at home. in short, the old _café_ of the rue des fossés-st.-ger-main (its old name) was famous as the meeting-place of celebrities. legendre, the great geometrician, came hither. one remembers the verses of masset: "je joue aux dominos quelquefois chez procope." here gambetta made speeches to the reactionist politicians and journalists. he engaged in more than one prise de bec with le père coquille, friend of veuillot. coquille always made sprightly and spirited replies when gambetta roared, thundered, and swore. since then have followed days of calm. in later times paul verlaine was a frequenter of the procope, where he would sit in his favorite place in the little rear salon at voltaire's table. this little salon, in the rear of the _café_, is held sacred, for its chair and table are the ones that voltaire used to occupy. the table is on one side of the small room. on the walls are many interesting sketches in oil by well-known french artists, and there are fine ceiling decorations; but all these are seen with difficulty, so dim is the light in the room. since voltaire's time this table has become an object of curiosity and veneration. when celebrated habitués of the _café_ died this table was used as an altar, upon which for a time reposed the bust of the decedent before crêpe-covered lanterns. during the revolution hébert jumped upon this table, which had been placed before the door of the _café_, and harangued the crowd gathered there, exciting them to such a pitch that they snatched the newspapers from the hands of the news-venders. in a moment of passionate appeal he brought down his heavy boot-heel upon the marble with such force as to split it. in the _café_ are three doors that are decorated in a very interesting fashion. on the panels of one, well preserved in spite of the numerous transformations through which the establishment has gone, m. théo conceived the happy idea of inscribing in gold letters the names of the illustrious who have visited the _café_ since its founding. many of the panels of the avails are taken with full-length portraits by thomas, representing, among others, voltaire, rousseau, robespierre, diderot, danton and marat playing chess, mirabeau, and gambetta. there are smaller sketches by corot, d'aubigny, vallon, courbet, willette, and roedel. some of them are not fine specimens of art. m. théo is a devoted collector of rare books and engravings. his library, which contains many very rare engravings of the eighteenth century and more than one book of priceless value, is open to his intimate friends only, with whom he loves to ramble through his treasures and find interesting data of his _café_. le moulin de la galette bishop had been industriously at work upon a large black-and-white drawing. the subject was a ball-room scene,--of evident low degree, judging from the abandon of the whirling figures and the queer types that were depicted. white lace skirts were sweeping high in air, revealing black-stockinged ankles and gauzy lingerie in a way unknown to the monde propre. [illustration: ] in contrast to the grace and abandon of the female figures were the coarseness and clumsiness of their male partners. the work was nearly finished, but bishop professed to be dissatisfied with the foreground architecture and with the drawing of a hand belonging to one of the male dancers. after boring me at length with a speech on the necessity of having a model for that hand, he sheepishly asked me if i would pose for the elusive member. it was then that curiosity prompted me to inquire where he had found the original of this remarkable scene. "_mon enfant sculpteur_," he replied, with the patronizing air of a man of the world, "this is the moulin de la galette." "and where is that?" i asked. "i will show you to-morrow night, if you agree." to-morrow would be sunday. when it had passed and the evening was come, and after we had enjoyed two courses of madame darblay's juicy gigots and irresistible beans, with the incomparable sauce afforded by the presence of the sunny actresses who were there, we walked over to the boulevard st.-jacques and waited for the montmartre 'bus to come along. these small, ancient omnibuses are different from the other vehicles of that breed in paris, in that instead of having a narrow curved stairway at the rear leading up to the impériale, there are but three or four iron foot-rests against the outside of the rear wall, with an iron rod on either side to cling to in mounting. now, the traveller who would reach the impériale must be something of either an acrobat or a sailor, because, first, as these 'buses do not stop, a running leap has to be made for the ladder, and, second, because of the pitching and rolling of the lumbering vehicle, the catching and climbing are not easy. if you carry a cane or a parcel, it must be held in the teeth until the ascent is made, for both hands have all they can do in the ladder exercise. the gleam of the red lamp coming down the street prepared us for a test of our agility. as only one could mount the ladder at a time, and as i was the first to attack the feat, bishop had to run behind for nearly a block before i could give him the right of way up the ladder. the conductor registered deux sur l'impériale as we swung to the top and took seats forward, just behind the driver. ladies and fat gentlemen are rarely, or never, found riding on the impériale of the montmartre line. we wrapped up in our big warm coats and lay back smoking three-sous cigars (always three-sous ones on sunday), and as the driver cracked his whip and the heavy machine went rolling along, we enjoyed the wonderful treat of seeing gay paris of a sunday night from the top of an omnibus. there is hardly anything more delightful, particularly from the top of a st. jacques-montmartre 'bus, which generally avoids the broad, brilliant streets and goes rolling and swaying through the narrow, crooked streets of old paris. here there is hardly room for such a vehicle to pass, and one is anxious lest one's feet sweep off the gas-lamps that fly past. an intimate view of the domestic life of paris presents itself likewise, for, being on a level with the second story windows, you have flitting visions of the parisian ménage in all its freedom and variety. at this time of the evening the windows are wide open and the dinner-tables are spread near them, for a view of the street below. on, on we rumbled, through seemingly interminable miles of crooked streets, over the gay boul' mich', and the place st.-michel; across the river, which reflected the myriads of lights along its walls and bridges; past the halles, the greatest marketplace in the world; past the grand boulevards, a confusing glitter of colors and lights; past the folies-bergère, where flaming posters announced loie fuller in the throes of a fire dance; and at last to the steep grade of montmartre. here a third horse was added to the pair, and slowly we were dragged up the slope. at the boulevard clichy we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of a terrific uproar; bells, steam-whistles, hand-organs, bands of music, drums, and calliopes made the bedlam. the streets were blocked with moving masses of laughing people, and the scene was gayly illuminated by rows of lamps overhead and on hundreds of stands, merry-go-rounds, theatres, circuses, museums, and all kinds of catchpenny attractions that lined the boulevard. for this was the fête de clichy. far down the street, almost hidden by a curve, could be seen the illuminated arms of the moulin rouge slowly revolving through the night. still on and up crawled the 'bus, now in the very heart of montmartre, through the lively, crowded, bright streets on the great hill of paris. here are hot-chestnut venders at the corners; fried-potato women, serving crisp brown chips; street hawkers, with their heavy push-carts; song-sellers, singing the songs that they sell, to make purchasers familiar with the airs; flower-girls; gaudy shops; bright restaurants and noisy _café_s,--all constituting that distinctive quarter of paris, montmartre. at last the summit of the hill was made, and the panting horses must have been glad that it was all down-hill ahead. bishop gave the signal to alight a block before the desired street was reached, for by the time we could touch the ground the 'bus had covered that distance on the down run. bishop led the way up a dim little street,--the rue muller, i noticed on the wall. it was very steep, and at last ended at the bottom of a flight of stone steps that seemed to run into the sky. their length was marked by lamps glowing one above another in long rows. it was hard work climbing to the top. the top at last! we seemed to be among the clouds. far below us lay the great shining city, spreading away into distance; and although it was night, the light of a full moon and untold thousands of lamps in the streets and buildings below enabled us easily to pick out the great thoroughfares and the more familiar structures. there was the opéra, there the panthéon, there notre-dame, there st.-sulpice, there the invalides, and, uplifted to emulate the eminence on which we stood, the tour eiffel, its revolving searchlight at the apex shining like an immense meteor or comet with its misty trail stretching out over the city. the roar of life faintly reached our ears from the vast throbbing plain, where millions of human mysteries were acting out their tragedies. the scene was vast, wonderful, entrancing. far above us still a maze of rafters, beams, and scaffolding fretted the sky,--the skeleton of that beautiful but unfinished church of the sacré- cour, crowning the very summit of montmartre. there seemed to be no life here, for not a soul did we meet, and not a light shone except that of the moon. bishop guided me through a maze of steep stony passages, between the walls of dark gardens, turning now to the right, again to the left, through archways and courts; and i wondered how he could remember them all. before i could fully comprehend our position we were confronted by two black, gaunt, uncanny objects with long outstretched arms that cut across the sky like giant skeleton sentinels forbidding our farther advance. but the sounds of lively music and the glow of rows of white-globed lamps quickly banished the illusion and advertised the fact that we were in a very material and sensual world, for they announced the moulin de la galette at the foot of the passage. the spectres against the sky were only very, very old windmills, relics of the time, three centuries gone, when windmills crowded the summit of montmartre to catch all the winds that blew. now they stand, stark, dead, silent, and decaying; their stately revolutions are no more; and the skeleton frames of their fans look down on a marvellous contrast, the intensely real life of the galette. [illustration: ] we fell in line with many others at the ticket office, and paid the fifty centimes admission fee (ladies twenty-five centimes). we were relieved of our hats and canes by a stout old woman in the vestiaire, who claimed two sous from each. following the up-hill passage of the entrance, the walls of which are painted with flowers and garden scenes, we entered the great ball-room. what a brilliant scene of life and light!--at first a blur of sound, light, and movement, then gradually resolving into the simple elements composing it. the floor was covered with dancers, and the girls were making a generous display of graceful anatomy. a large band at the farther end of the room, on an inclined stand, was the vortex of the din. the promenade encircling the hall was crowded with hatless laughing girls and smooth-faced boys wearing caps or flat-brimmed low-crowned hats; their trousers fitted tight at the knees, and their heads were closely cropped. these were strolling in groups, or watching the dancers, or sitting at the rows of wooden tables drinking. all within the vast hall had gone to enjoy their sunday night as much as possible. to most of the girls this was the one night in the week when, not tired out from the drudgery of hard work, they could throw aside all cares and live in the way for which their cramped and meagre souls yearned. this is a rendezvous for the humble workers of the city, where they may dress as best they can, exchange their petites histoires, and abandon themselves to the luxury of the dance; for they are mostly shop-girls, and blanchisseuses, and the like, who, when work fails them, have to hover about the dark streets at night, that prosperous-looking passers-by may be tempted by the pleading of their dark saucy eyes, or be lured by them to some quiet spot where their lovers lie in wait with a lithe and competent black slung-shot. no mercy for the hapless bourgeois then! for the dear henris and jacques and louises must have their sous for the comforts of life, as well as the necessities, and such luxuries as tobacco and drink must be considered; and if the money wherewith all this may be bought is not produced by marcelle or hélène or marie, she will get a beating for her slothfulness or lack of skill, and will be driven into the street with a hurting back to try again. and so henri, jacques, or louis basks in the sun, and smokes cigarettes with never a care, except that of making his devoted little mistress perform her duties, knowing well how to retain her affection by selfishness and brutality. this night, however, all that was forgotten. it was the one free, happy night of the week, the night of abandon and the dance, of laughter, drinking, and jollity, for which one and all had longed for a whole impatient and dreary week; and henri, jacques, and louis could spend on drinks with other of their feminine acquaintances the sous that their mistresses had provided. the band played lustily; the lights shone; the room was filled with laughter,--let the dance go on! stationed in different parts of the room were the big soldiers of the garde municipale, in their picturesque uniform so familiar to all the theatre-goers of paris. they were here to preserve order, for the dancers belong to an inflammable class, and a blaze may spring up at any moment. equally valuable as a repressing force was a burly, thick- necked, powerful man who strolled hither and thither, his glance everywhere and always veiling a threat. he wore a large badge that proclaimed him the master of ceremonies. true, he was that, which was something, but he was a great deal more,--a most astonishingly prompt and capable bouncer. the male frequenters of the place were evidently in mortal terror of him, for his commanding size and threatening manner, and his superbly developed muscles, contrasted strikingly with the cringing manner and weak bodies of henri and his kind; and should he look their way with a momentary steadiness of glance and poise of figure, their conversation would instantly cease, and they would slink away. we seated ourselves at a vacant table that commanded a sweeping view of the floor and the promenade. a seedy-looking garçon worked his way through the crowd and took our order for beer; and mean, stale beer it was. but we did not care for that. bishop was all afire with enjoyment of the scene, for, he protested, the place was infinitely rich in types and character,--the identical types that the great steinlen loves to draw. and here is an interesting thing: the girls all were of that chic and petite order so peculiar to certain classes of parisian women, some hardly so high as bishop's shoulder, which is itself not very high; and though they looked so small, they were fully developed young women, though many of them were under twenty. they wore no hats, and for the most part, unlike their gorgeous sisters of the boulevard _café_s, they were dressed plainly, wearing black or colored waists and skirts. but ah!--and here the unapproachable instinct-skill of the french-woman shows itself,--on these same waists and skirts were placed here and there, but always just where they ought to be, bows and ribbons; and it was they that worked the miracle of grace and style. and the girls had a certain beauty, a beauty peculiar to their class,--not exactly beauty, but pleasing features, healthy color, and, best of all and explaining all, an archness of expression, a touch of sauciness, that did for their faces what the bows and ribbons did for their gowns. [illustration: ] near us a large door opened into the garden of the moulin; it was filled with trees and benches and tables, and amidst the dark foliage glowed colored chinese lanterns, which sifted a soft light upon the revellers assembled beneath them in the cool evening air. on one side of the garden stretched paris far down and away, and on the other side blazed the moulin de la galette through the windows. a waltz was now being danced. strange to say, it was the one dismal feature of the evening, and that was because the french do not know how to dance it, "reversing" being unknown. and there was an odd variety of ways in which the men held their partners and the dancers each other. some grasped each other tightly about the waist with both arms, or similarly about the necks or shoulders, and looked straight into each other's face without a smile or an occasional word. it was all done in deadly earnest, as a serious work. it was in the quadrille that the fun came, when the girls varied the usual order by pointing their toes toward the chandeliers with a swish of white skirts that made the by- standers cry, "encore, marcelle!" the men, yearning for a share of the applause, cut up all sorts of antics and capers, using their arms and legs with incredible agility, making grotesque faces, and wearing hideous false noses and piratical moustaches. securing a partner for a dance was the easiest thing possible. any girl was eligible,--simply the asking, the assent, and away they went. bishop's pencil kept moving rapidly as he caught fleeting notes of faces, dresses, attitudes--everything--for his unfinished piece at the studio. a number of promenaders, attracted by his sketching, stopped to watch him. that dance was now finished, and the dancers separated wherever they stopped, and turned away to seek their separate friends; there was no waste of time in escorting the girls to seats, for that is not fashionable at montmartre. the girls came flocking about bishop, curious over his work, and completely shut out his view. "oh!" exclaimed one saucy petite blonde, "let me see my portrait! i saw you sketching me during the dance." "_et moi,--moi aussi!_" cried the others, until bishop, overwhelmed, surrendered his book for the inspection of bright, eager eyes. "has not monsieur a cigarette?" archly asked a girl with a decided nez retroussé. "_oui_," i answered, handing her a packet, from which with exquisite, unconscious daintiness she selected one. the whole bevy then made a similar request, and we were soon enveloped in a blue haze. "_vous ferez mon portrait, n'est-ce-pas?_" begged a dark-eyed beauty of bishop, in a smooth, pleasant voice. she had a striking appearance. a mass of rebellious black hair strove persistently to fall over her oval face, and when she would neglect to push it back her eyes, dark and melancholy, shone through its tangle with a singular wild lustre. her skin was dark, almost swarthy, but it was touched with a fine rosy glow of health and youth. her features were perfect; the nose was slightly romanesque, the chin firm, the lips red and sensuous. when she drew our attention with her request she was standing before us in a rigid, half- defiant, half-commanding posture; but when she quickly added, "i will pose for you,--see?" and sat down beside me, opposite bishop, her striking native grace asserted itself, for from a statue of bronze she suddenly became all warmth and softness, every line in her perfect, lithe figure showing her eagerness, and eloquent with coaxing. it was clear that bishop was deeply impressed by the striking picture that she made; it was her beautiful wild head that fascinated him most. "no, i am first," insisted a little vixen, hard-featured and determined. "_jamais de la vie!" "c'est moi!_" protested others, with such fire that i feared there would be trouble. the turmoil had the effect of withdrawing bishop's attention momentarily from the beautiful tigress beside me. he smiled in bewilderment. he would be happy to draw them all, but---- at last he pacified them by proposing to take them in turn, provided they would be patient and not bother him. to this they poutingly agreed; and bishop, paying no more attention to the girl beside me, rapidly dashed off sketch after sketch of the other girls. exclamations of surprise, delight, or indignation greeted each of the portraits as it was passed round. bishop was seeking "character," and as he was to retain the portraits, he made no efforts at flattery. all this time the dark-eyed one had sat in perfect silence and stillness beside me, watching bishop in wonder. she had forgotten her hair, and was gazing through it with more than her eyes as his pencil worked rapidly. i studied her as well as i could as she sat all heedless of my existence. her lips slightly curved at the corners into a faint suggestion of a smile, but as bishop's work kept on and the other girls monopolized him, the lips gradually hardened. the shadow of her chin fell upon her smooth throat, not darkening it too much for me to observe that significant movements within it indicated a struggle with her self- control. bishop was now sketching a girl, the others having run off to dance; they would return in their order. the girl beside me said to me, in a low voice, without looking at me,--"_monsieur est anglais?_" "no," i answered. "ah! américain?" "yes." "and your friend?" nodding toward bishop. "american also." "is he----" but she suddenly checked herself with odd abruptness, and then quickly asked, with a shallow pretence of eager interest, "is america far from paris?" and so she continued to quiz me rather vacantly concerning a great country of whose whereabouts she had not the slightest idea. then she was silent, and i imagined that she was gathering herself for some supreme effort. suddenly she turned her marvellous eyes full toward me, swept the wild hair from her face, looked almost fiercely at me a moment, and, rigid from head to foot, asked, half angrily, and then held her breath for the answer,--"is he married?" the question was asked so suddenly and so strangely, and with so commanding a manner, that i had not a moment to consider the wisdom of lying. "no," i answered. she sank back into her chair with a deep breath, all softness and grace again, and her wild hair fell back over her face. she had lost all interest in the ball. while her companions were enjoying themselves in the dance, she sat motionless and silent beside me, watching bishop. an uncomfortable feeling had taken possession of me. presently i abruptly asked her why she did not dance. she started. "dance?" she replied. she looked over the hall, and an expression of scorn and disgust came into her face. "not with that espèce de voyous," she vehemently added; and then she turned to watch bishop again. i now noticed for the first time that a group of the human vampires, standing apart at a little distance, were watching us closely and talking in low tones among themselves. my attention had been drawn to them by a defiant look that the girl had shot at them. one of them was particularly repulsive. he was rather larger and stronger than the others. his garb was that of his species,--tight trousers, a négligé shirt, and a rakish cap being its distinguishing articles. he stood with his hands in his pockets and his head thrust forward. he had the low, brutal face of his kind. it was now pale with rage. i asked the girl what her name was. "hélène," she answered, simply. her other name? oh, just hélène. sometimes it was hélène crespin, for crespin was her lover's name. all this with perfect frankness. "where is he?" i asked. "_c'est lui avec la casquette_," she answered, indicating the brute whom i have just described, but i had expected that. "i hate him now!" she vehemently added. no, she had neither father nor mother; had no recollection of parents. sometimes she worked in a printing shop in the rue victor massé when extra hands were needed. after the girl who had been posing was dismissed another took her place; then another, and another, and others; and still others were waiting. the girl beside me had been watching these proceedings with increasing impatience. some of the girls were so delighted that they threw their arms round bishop's neck and kissed him. others called him endearing names. at last it was evident that the dark girl could bear it no longer. she had been growing harder and harder, more and more restless. i continued to watch her narrowly,--she had forgotten my existence. gradually the natural rich color in her cheeks deepened, her eyes blazed through the tangled hair, her lips were set. suddenly, after a girl had been more demonstrative than the others, she rose and confronted bishop. all this time he had not even looked at her, and that, while making me uneasy, had made her furious. we three were alone. true, we were observed by many, for invasions by foreigners were very rare at the moulin de la galette, and we were objects of interest on that account; and the sketching by bishop had sent our fame throughout the hall. in a low, quiet voice the girl said to bishop, as he looked up at her wonderingly,--"you promised to draw mine long ago." i had never seen my friend more embarrassed than he was at that moment. he stumbled over his excuses, and then asked her to pose to suit her fancy. he did it very gently, and the effect was magical. she sank into her chair and assumed the indolently graceful pose that she had unconsciously taken when she first seated herself. bishop gazed at her in silence a long time before he began the sketch; and then he worked with a sure and rapid hand. after it was finished he handed it to her. instantly she was transfigured. she stared at the picture in wonder and delight, her lips parted, her chest hardly moving from her nearly suppressed breathing. "do i look like that?" she asked, suspiciously. indeed, it was an exquisite little piece of work, for bishop had idealized the girl and made a beautiful portrait. "did you not see me draw it while looking at you?" he replied, somewhat disingenuously. "will you give it to me?" she asked, eagerly. "certainly." "and will you sign your name to it?" bishop cheerfully complied. then she took it, kissed it, and pressed it to her bosom; and then, leaning forward, and speaking with a richness and depth of voice that she had not betrayed before, and in the deepest earnestness, said,--"_je vous aime!_" bishop, staggered by this forthright declaration of affection, blushed violently and looked very foolish. but he rallied and assured her that her love was reciprocated, for who, he asked, could resist so beautiful a face, so warm a heart? if he had only known, if i could only have told him! the girl sank back in her chair with a quizzical, doubting smile that showed perfect white teeth and changed to bright dimples the suggestion of a smile that fluttered at her mouth-corners. she carefully folded the sketch and daintily tucked it away in her bosom. bishop had now quitted work,--hélène had seen to that. she had moved her chair close to his, and, looking him straight in the eyes, was rattling away in the untranslatable argot of montmartre. it is not the argot of the slums, nor that of the thieves, nor that of the students, but that of montmartre; and there are no ways of expressing it intelligibly in english. presently she became more serious, and with all the coaxing and pleading of which her ardent, impetuous nature was capable, she begged,-- "let me be your model. _je suis bien faite_, and you can teach me to pose. you will be kind to me. i have a good figure. i will do everything, everything for you! i will take care of the studio. i will cook, i will bring you everything, everything you want. you will let me live with you. i will love no one else. you will never be sorry nor ashamed. if you will only----" that is the best translation i can give; it is certainly what she meant, though it indicates nothing of the impetuosity, the abandon, the eagerness, the warmth, the savage beauty that shone from her as she spoke. bishop rose to the occasion. he sprang to his feet. "i must dance after that!" he exclaimed, catching her up, laughing, and dragging her upon the floor. he could dance superbly. a waltz was being played, and it was being danced in the stiff and stupid way of the people. very soon bishop and hélène began to attract general attention, for never before had montmartre seen a waltz danced like that. he reversed, and glided, and threw into the queen of dances all the grace and freedom that it demands. at first hélène was puzzled and bewildered; but she was agile both of mind and body, and under bishop's sure guidance she put them to excellent use. rapidly she caught the grace and spirit of the waltz, and danced with a verve that she had never known before. swiftly and gracefully they skimmed the length of the great hall, then back, and wherever they went the dancers watched them with astonishment and delight, and gradually abandoned their own ungraceful efforts, partly in shame, partly in admiration, and partly with a desire to learn how the miracle was done. gradually the floor was wholly abandoned except for these two, and all eyes watched them. hélène was happy and radiant beyond all ways of telling. her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkled, her lithe figure developed all the ease, grace, and suppleness of a cat. some muttered expressions of contempt spoken near me caused me to listen without turning round. they were meant for my ears, but i gave no heed. i knew well enough from whom they came,--crespin and his friends. and i realized that we were in for it. true, there were the big guards and there was the capable bouncer, and they would glance my way now and then, seemingly to let crespin know that all was understood and that it must be hands off with him. there was no danger here, but afterwards--the waltz came to an end, and the two were vigorously applauded. this was a critical moment, but bishop handled it adroitly. he conducted hélène to a seat remote from our table, bowed low, and left her, and came over to me. i told him of my fears, but he laughed. he had got rid of hélène with perfect address, and perhaps she was nursing an angry and aching heart after her glorious triumph; perhaps bishop had whispered to her something of the danger and suggested that they have nothing more to do with each other that evening. [illustration: ] presently i saw her start and look round. crespin was behind her, livid with rage. she promptly rose and followed him into the garden. bishop had not seen the movement. we were near the door leading into the garden, and by turning a little i could see the couple outside, not far away. crespin was standing with a bullying air, and was evidently cursing her. she had tossed back her hair and was looking him defiantly in the face. i saw her lips move in speech. instantly the ruffian dealt her a violent blow upon the chest, and she staggered back against a tree, which prevented her falling. "come, let us stop that," i said to bishop. "hélène's lover is beating her in the garden." bishop sprang to his feet and followed me. as he glanced out the window at the couple, whom i pointed out, he saw crespin approach the dazed girl and deal her a terrible blow in the mouth, and he saw the blood that followed the blow. we arrived in the garden as a crowd was gathering. bishop pushed his way ahead and was about to spring upon the brute, when hélène saw him. with a supreme effort she leaped forward, thrust bishop aside with a command to mind his own affairs, threw herself into her lover's arms, and kissed him, smearing his face with her blood. he glared at us, triumphant. the guards arrived, and hélène and her lover disappeared among the trees in the darkness. "oh, another unfaithful cocotte!" laughed one in the crowd, explaining to the guards; and they returned to their drinking and dancing, remarking, "beat a woman, and she will love you." they had all missed the heroism and devotion of hélène's interference. it was to keep a knife out of the body of the man she loved that she smeared her lover's face with her blood. we saw her no more. we returned to the hall and strolled round the promenade, for we needed that to become calm again. and the girls mobbed bishop, for he had passed out the word that he wanted a model, and that he would pay a franc an hour. a franc an hour! and so they mobbed him. was not that more than they could hope to earn by a whole day's hard work? yes, they would all pose gladly, but only in costume, bien entendu! so bishop was busy taking down the names of marcelle, lorette, elise, marie, and the rest, with the names of the queer and unheard-of streets in which they lived, mostly in the quarters of montmartre and the batignolles. the can-can was now raging on the floor, and the tired garçons were dodging about with their glassladen trays. dancing, making love, throwing lumps of sugar, the revellers enjoyed themselves. we left. the moon cast gaunt shadows across the streets from the old windmills and the trees. we struck out briskly, intending to catch the last st.-jacques 'bus home, and with that purpose we threaded the maze of steep passages and streets on our way to the rue muller. upon reaching the top of the hill, behind the great skeleton of the sacred heart, where all was silent and still as the grave, we suddenly discovered the shadowy figures of men slipping out from a dark little street. we knew what it meant. with a common impulse we sprang forward, for it was now a run for our lives. i had recognized crespin in the lead. with headlong speed we dashed down the steep incline, swinging our canes to check an attack in the rear. we had dodged out of our proper way to the rue muller, and now it was a matter of speed, endurance, and luck to reach blindly some street where life and protection might be found. a man clutched my coat. i beat him off with my stick, but the skirt of my coat was hanging loose, nearly ripped off. a cord went whizzing past me and caught bishop's hat, but he went sturdily on bareheaded. stones flew past us, and presently one caught me a terrific, sickening blow in the back. i did not fall, but i staggered in my flight, for a strange heaviness came into my legs, and my head soon began to ache violently. crespin was desperately active. i could hear him panting heavily as he gained upon us. his long shadow, cast by the moon, showed that he was about to spring upon bishop. i swung my cane blindly, but with all my might, and it fell upon his head and laid him low; but he quickly scrambled to his feet again. the ruffians were now upon us,--they were better used to the hill than we. "separate!" gasped bishop. "it is our only chance." at the next corner we suddenly swung apart, taking opposite directions. i plunged on alone, glad to hear for a time that footfalls were following,--they meant that the pursuit had not concentrated on bishop. but after a while i realized that i was no longer pursued. i stopped and listened. there was no sound. weak and trembling, with an aching back and a splitting head, i sat down in a door-way and rested. that luxury was quickly interrupted by my reflecting that possibly bishop had been overtaken; and i knew what that would mean. i ran back up the hill as rapidly as my weakness and trembling and pain permitted. at last i found myself at the corner where we had separated. there was no sound from any direction. i could only hope for the best and search and listen blindly through this puzzle of streets and passages. presently i realized that i was near the fortifications of paris, close to st. ouen,--that is to say, at the other end of paris from the quartier latin, which was eight miles away. there was nothing to do but walk home. it was nearly four o'clock when i arrived. and there was bishop in bed, nursing a big lump on his head, made by a flying stone. he had reached a street where a gendarme was, and that meant safety; and then he had taken a cab for home, where he was looking very ridiculous poulticing his lump and making himself sick fretting about me. [illustration: ] a night on montmarte [illustration: ] near the end of a recent december bishop received a note signed "a. herbert thomp-kins," written at the hôtel de l'athénée, saying that the writer was in paris for four days with his wife before proceeding to vienna to join some friends. it closed by asking, "could you call at the hotel this evening, say at seven?" this note created great excitement at our studio early one morning, the facteur having climbed six flights of stairs (it being near to new year) to deliver it; for mr. thompkins was one of bishop's warmest friends in america. his unexpected arrival in paris at this unseasonable time of the year was indeed a surprise, but a most agreeable one. so bishop spent the whole of the afternoon in creasing his best trousers, ransacking our trunks for a clean collar to wear with my blue-fronted shirt, polishing his top-hat, and getting his velasquez whiskers trimmed and perfumed at the coiffeur's. it was not every day that friends of mr. thompkins's type made their appearance in paris. bishop, after hours spent in absorbing mental work, at last disclosed his plan to me. of course he would not permit me to keep out of the party, and besides, he needed my advice. [illustration: ] here was mr. thompkins in paris, and unless he were wisely guided he would leave without seeing the city,--except those parts and phases of it that tourists cannot keep from stumbling over. it would be both a duty and a pleasure to introduce him to certain things of which he might otherwise die in ignorance, to the eternal undevelopment of his soul. but here was the rub: would mr. thompkins care to be so radically different here for one night--just one night--from what he was at home? i could not see how any harm could come to mr. thompkins or any one else with sense, nor how bishop could possibly entertain him in anyway that would be disagreeable to a man of brains. but bishop was evidently keeping something back. for that matter, he never did explain it, and i have not bothered about inferences. what mr. thompkins was at home i do not know. true, he was very much confused and embarrassed a number of times during the evening, but one thing i know,--he enjoyed himself immensely. and that makes me say that no matter what he was at home, he was a gentleman and philosopher while exploring an outlandish phase of parisian bohemian life that night under our guidance. he had a prim, precise way of talking, and was delightfully innocent and unworldly. my! it would have been a sin for him to miss what he saw that night. so i told bishop very emphatically that no matter what mr. thompkins was at home, nobody who knew him was likely to see him in paris at that time of the year, and that it was bishop's duty as a friend to initiate him. bishop was very happy over my advice; but when he insisted that we should take a cab for the evening's outing, i sternly reminded him of the bruises that our funds would receive on new year's, and thus curbed his extravagance. he surrendered with a pang, for after all his preparation he felt like a duke, and for that night, while entertaining his friend, he wanted to be a duke, not a grubbing student. we met mr. thompkins at the hotel, and i found him a delightful man, with a pleasant sparkle of the eye and a certain stiffness of bearing. it was his intention to have us dine with him, but bishop gently took him in hand, and gradually gave him to understand that on this night in a lifetime he was in the hands of his friends, to do as they said, and to ask no questions. mr. thompkins looked a little puzzled, a little apprehensive, and withal not unwilling to be sacrificed. the first thing we did was to introduce mr. thompkins to a quiet restaurant famous for its coquilles st.-jacques; it is in the old palais royal. this is the dinner that bishop ordered: huîtres portugaises. sauterne. médoc. consommé. coquilles st.-jacques. macaroni à la milanaise. filet de bouf. pommes nouvelles sautées. crème petit suisse. eclairs. café. mr. thompkins's enjoyment of the meal was as generous as his praise of bishop's skill in ordering it, and he declared that the wines particularly were a rare treat. by the time that dinner had been finished he was enthusiastic about paris. he said that it was a wonderful city, and that he was entirely at our disposal for the night. "i suppose, gentlemen," he suggested, "that you are going to invite me to the opera. now, i have no objections to that, and i am sure i shall be delighted,--it is only one evening in a lifetime, perhaps. but i shall insist that you go as my guests." bishop laughed merrily, and slapped his friend on the back in a way that i never should have employed with a man of so much dignity. "the opera, old man!" cried bishop. "why, you blessed idiot, you act like a tourist! the opera! you can go there any time. to-night we shall see paris!" and he laughed again. "the opera!" he repeated. "oh, my! you can fall over the opera whenever you please. this is an opportunity for a tour of discovery." mr. thompkins laughed with equal heartiness, and declared that nothing would delight him more than to be an explorer--for one night in a lifetime. "the boul' mich' or montmartre?" bishop whispered to me. "montmartre," i replied; "heaven, death, hell, and bruant." never had the avenue de l'opéra appeared so brilliant and lively as on that cold, crisp december night, as we strolled towards the boulevards. its thousands of lights, its dashing equipages with the jingling harness of horses drawing handsome women and men to the opéra, its swiftly moving cabs and heavy 'buses rolling over the smooth wooden pavement, the shouts of drivers and the cracking of whips, the throngs of gay people enjoying the holiday attractions, the endless rows of gaudy booths lining the street, the flood of light and color everywhere, the cuirassiers of the garde municipale mounted on superb horses standing motionless in the place de l'opéra, their long boots and steel breastplates and helmets glistening,--these all had their place,--while the broad stairs of the opéra were crowded with beautifully gowned women and fashionable men pouring in to hear sibyl sanderson sing in "samson and delilah,"--all this made a wonderful picture of life and beauty, of color, motion, vivacity, and enjoyment. above the entrance to the opéra red marble columns reflected the yellow light of the gilded foyer and of the yellow blaze from the café de la paix across the way. we mounted a montmartre 'bus and were pulled up the hill to the boul' clichy, the main artery of that strange bohemian mountain with its eccentric, fantastic, and morbid attractions. before us, in the place blanche, stood the great moulin rouge, the long skeleton arms of the red mill marked with red electric lights and slowly sweeping across the heavens, while fanciful figures of students and dancing girls looked out the windows of the mill, and a great crowd of lively, chatting, laughing people were pushing their way toward the entrance of this famous dance- hall of paris. mr. thompkins, entranced before the brilliant spectacle, asked somewhat hesitatingly if we might enter; but bishop, wise in the ways of montmartre, replied,--"not yet. it is only a little after nine, and the moulin does not get wide awake for some hours yet. we have no time to waste while waiting for that. we shall first visit heaven." [illustration: ] mr. thompkins looked surprised, but made no response. presently we reached the gilded gates of le cabaret du ciel. they were bathed in a cold blue light from above. angels, gold-lined clouds, saints, sacred palms and plants, and other paraphernalia suggestive of the approach to st. peter's domain, filled all the available space about the entrée. a bold white placard, "_bock, i franc_," was displayed in the midst of it all. dolorous church music sounded within, and the heavens were unrolled as a scroll in all their tinsel splendor as we entered to the bidding of an angel. flitting about the room were many more angels, all in white robes and with sandals on their feet, and all wearing gauzy wings swaying from their shoulder-blades and brass halos above their yellow wigs. these were the waiters, the garçons of heaven, ready to take orders for drinks. one of these, with the face of a heavy villain in a melodrama and a beard a week old, roared unmelodiously,--"the greetings of heaven to thee, brothers! eternal bliss and happiness are for thee. mayst thou never swerve from its golden paths! breathe thou its sacred purity and renovating exaltation. prepare to meet thy great creator--and don't forget the garçon!" a very long table covered with white extended the whole length of the chilly room, and seated at it, drinking, were scores of candidates for angelship,--mortals like ourselves. men and women were they, and though noisy and vivacious, they indulged in nothing like the abandon of the boul' mich' _café_s. gilded vases and candelabra, together with foamy bocks, somewhat relieved the dead whiteness of the table. the ceiling was an impressionistic rendering of blue sky, fleecy clouds, and stars, and the walls were made to represent the noble enclosure and golden gates of paradise. [illustration: ] "brothers, your orders! command me, thy servant!" growled a ferocious angel at our elbows, with his accent de la villette, and his brass halo a trifle askew. mr. thompkins had been very quiet, for he was wonder in the flesh, and perhaps there was some distress in his lace, but there was courage also. the suddenness of the angel's assault visibly disconcerted him,--he did not know what to order. finally he decided on a verre de chartreuse, green. bishop and i ordered bocks. "two sparkling draughts of heaven's own brew and one star-dazzler!" yelled our angel. "thy will be done," came the response from a hidden bar. obscured by great masses of clouds, through whose intervals shone golden stars, an organ continually rumbled sacred music, which had a depressing rather than a solemn effect, and even the draughts of heaven's own brew and the star-dazzler failed to dissipate the gloom. suddenly, without the slightest warning, the head of st. peter, whiskers and all, appeared in a hole in the sky, and presently all of him emerged, even to his ponderous keys clanging at his girdle. he gazed solemnly down upon the crowd at the tables and thoughtfully scratched his left wing. from behind a dark cloud he brought forth a vessel of white crockery (which was not a wash-bowl) containing (ostensibly) holy water. after several mysterious signs and passes with his bony hands he generously sprinkled the sinners below with a brush dipped in the water; and then, with a parting blessing, he slowly faded into mist. "did you ever? well, well, i declare!" exclaimed mr. thompkins, breathlessly. [illustration: ] the royal cortège of the kingdom of heaven was now forming at one end of the room before a shrine, whereon an immense golden pig sat sedately on his haunches, looking friendly and jovial, his loose skin and fat jowls hanging in folds. lighted candles sputtered about his golden sides. as the participants in the pageant, all attachés of the place, formed for the procession, each bowed reverently and crossed himself before the huge porker. a small man, dressed in a loose black gown and black skull- cap, evidently made up for dante, whom he resembled, officiated as master of ceremonies. he mounted a golden pulpit, and delivered, in a loud, rasping voice, a tedious discourse on heaven and allied things. he dwelt on the attractions of heaven as a perpetual summer resort, an unbroken round of pleasures in variety, where sweet strains of angelic music (indicating the wheezy organ), together with unlimited stores of heaven's own sparkling fire of life, at a franc a bock, and beautiful goldenhaired cherubs, of la villette's finest, lent grace and perfection to the scheme. [illustration: ] the parade then began its tour about the room, dante, carrying a staff surmounted by a golden bull, serving as drum-major. angel musicians, playing upon sacred lyres and harps, followed in his wake, but the dolorous organ made the more noise. behind the lyre angels came a number of the notables whom dante immortalized,--at least, we judged that they were so intended. the angel garçons closed the cortège, their gauzy wings and brass halos bobbing in a stately fashion as they strode along. the angel garçons now sauntered up and gave us each a ticket admitting us to the angel-room and the other delights of the inner heaven. "youarre eengleesh?" he asked. "yes? ah, theece eengleesh arre verra genereauz," eyeing his fifty-centime tip with a questioning shrug. "can you not make me un franc? ah, eet ees dam cold in theece laigs," pointing to his calves, which were encased in diaphanous pink tights. he got his franc. dante announced in his rasping voice that those mortals wishing to become angels should proceed up to the angel-room. all advanced and ascended the inclined passage-way leading into the blue. at the farther end of the passage sat old st. peter, solemn and shivering, for it was draughty there among the clouds. he collected our tickets, gave the password admitting us to the inner precincts, and resented bishop's attempts to pluck a feather from his wings. we entered a large room, all a glamour of gold and silver. the walls were studded with blazing nuggets, colored canvas rocks, and electric lights. we took seats on wooden benches fronting a cleft in the rocks, and waited. soon the chamber in which we sat became perfectly dark, the cleft before us shining with a dim bluish light. the cleft then came to life with a bevy of female angels floating through the limited ethereal space, and smiling down upon us mortals. one of the lady angel's tights bagged at the knees, and another's wings were not on straight; but this did not interfere with her flight, any more than did the stationary position of the wings of all. but it was all very easily and gracefully done, swooping down, soaring, and swinging in circles like so many great eagles. they seemed to discover something of unusual interest in mr. thompkins, for they singled him out to throw kisses at him. this made him blush and fidget, but a word from bishop reassured him,--it was only once in a lifetime! after these angels had gyrated for some time, the head angel of the angel-room requested those who desired to become angels to step forward. a number responded, among them some of the naughty dancing-girls of the moulin rouge. they were conducted through a concealed door, and presently we beheld them soaring in the empyrean just as happy and serene as though they were used to being angels. it was a marvel to see wings so frail transport with so much ease a very stout young woman from the audience, and their being fully clothed did not seem to make any difference. mr. thompkins had sat in a singularly contemplative mood after the real angels had quit torturing him, and surprised us beyond measure by promptly responding to a second call for those aspiring to angelhood. he disappeared with another batch from the moulin rouge, and soon afterwards we saw him floating like an airship. he even wore his hat. to his disgust and chagrin, however, one of the concert-hall angels persisted in flying in front of him and making violent love to him. this brought forth tumultuous applause and laughter, which completed mr. thompkins's misery. at this juncture the blue cleft became dark, the angel-room burst into light, and soon mr. thompkins rejoined us. as we filed out into the passage father time stood with long whiskers and scythe, greeted us with profound bows, and promised that his scythe would spare us for many happy years did we but drop sous into his hour- glass. there was no conversation among us when we emerged upon the boulevard, for mr. thompkins was in a retrospective frame of mind. bishop embraced the opportunity to lead us up the boulevard clichy to the place pigalle. as we neared the place we saw on the opposite side of the street two flickering iron lanterns that threw a ghastly green light down upon the barred dead-black shutters of the building, and caught the faces of the passers-by with sickly rays that took out all the life and transformed them into the semblance of corpses. across the top of the closed black entrance were large white letters, reading simply: "_cafe du néant_" the entrance was heavily draped with black cerements, having white trimmings,--such as hang before the houses of the dead in paris. here patrolled a solitary croque-mort, or hired pall-bearer, his black cape drawn closely about him, the green light reflected by his glazed top- hat. a more dismal and forbidding place it would be difficult to imagine. mr. thompkins paled a little when he discovered that this was our destination,--this grisly caricature of eternal nothingness,--and hesitated at the threshold. without a word bishop firmly took his arm and entered. the lonely croque-mort drew apart the heavy curtain and admitted us into a black hole that proved later to be a room. the chamber was dimly lighted with wax tapers, and a large chandelier intricately devised of human skulls and arms, with funeral candles held in their fleshless fingers, gave its small quota of light. large, heavy, wooden coffins, resting on biers, were ranged about the room in an order suggesting the recent happening of a frightful catastrophe. the walls were decorated with skulls and bones, skeletons in grotesque attitudes, battle-pictures, and guillotines in action. death, carnage, assassination were the dominant note, set in black hangings and illuminated with mottoes on death. a half-dozen voices droned this in a low monotone: "enter, mortals of this sinful world, enter into the mists and shadows of eternity. select your biers, to the right, to the left; fit yourselves comfortably to them, and repose in the solemnity and tranquillity of death; and may god have mercy on your souls!" a number of persons who had preceded us had already pre-empted their coffins, and were sitting beside them awaiting developments and enjoying their consommations, using the coffins for their real purpose,--tables for holding drinking-glasses. alongside the glasses were slender tapers by which the visitors might see one another. [illustration: ] there seemed to be no mechanical imperfection in the illusion of a charnel-house; we imagined that even chemistry had contributed its resources, for there seemed distinctly to be the odor appropriate to such a place. we found a vacant coffin in the vault, seated ourselves at it on rush- bottomed stools, and awaited further developments. [illustration: ] another croque-mort--a garçon he was--came up through the gloom to take our orders. he was dressed completely in the professional garb of a hearse-follower, including claw-hammer coat, full-dress front, glazed tile, and oval silver badge. he droned,--"_bon soir, macchabées! * buvez les crachats d'asthmatiques, voilà des sueurs froides d'agonisants. prenez donc des certificats de décès, seulement vingt sous. c'est pas cher et c'est artistique!_" * this word (also maccabe, argot macabit) is given in paris by sailors to cadavers found floating in the river. bishop said that he would be pleased with a lowly bock. mr. thompkins chose cherries à l'eau-de-vie, and i, une menthe. "one microbe of asiatic cholera from the last corpse, one leg of a lively cancer, and one sample of our consumption germ!" moaned the creature toward a black hole at the farther end of the room. some women among the visitors tittered, others shuddered, and mr. thompkins broke out in a cold sweat on his brow, while a curious accompaniment of anger shone in his eyes. our sleepy pallbearer soon loomed through the darkness with our deadly microbes, and waked the echoes in the hollow casket upon which he set the glasses with a thump. "drink, macchabées!" he wailed: "drink these noxious potions, which contain the vilest and deadliest poisons!" "the villain!" gasped mr. thompkins; "it is horrible, disgusting, filthy!" the tapers flickered feebly on the coffins, and the white skulls grinned at him mockingly from their sable background. bishop exhausted all his tactics in trying to induce mr. thompkins to taste his bran-died cherries, but that gentleman positively refused,--he seemed unable to banish the idea that they were laden with disease germs. after we had been seated here for some time, getting no consolation from the utter absence of spirit and levity among the other guests, and enjoying only the dismay and trepidation of new and strange arrivals, a rather good-looking young fellow, dressed in a black clerical coat, came through a dark door and began to address the assembled patrons. his voice was smooth, his manner solemn and impressive, as he delivered a well-worded discourse on death. he spoke of it as the gate through which we must all make our exit from this world,--of the gloom, the loneliness, the utter sense of helplessness and desolation. as he warmed to his subject he enlarged upon the follies that hasten the advent of death, and spoke of the relentless certainty and the incredible variety of ways in which the reaper claims his victims. then he passed on to the terrors of actual dissolution, the tortures of the body, the rending of the soul, the unimaginable agonies that sensibilities rendered acutely susceptible at this extremity are called upon to endure. it required good nerves to listen to that, for the man was perfect in his rôle. from matters of individual interest in death he passed to death in its larger aspects. he pointed to a large and striking battle scene, in which the combatants had come to hand-to-hand fighting, and were butchering one another in a mad lust for blood. suddenly the picture began to glow, the light bringing out its ghastly details with hideous distinctness. then as suddenly it faded away, and where fighting men had been there were skeletons writhing and struggling in a deadly embrace. a similar effect was produced with a painting giving a wonderfully realistic representation of an execution by the guillotine. the bleeding trunk of the victim lying upon the flap-board dissolved, the flesh slowly disappearing, leaving only the white bones. another picture, representing a brilliant dance-hall filled with happy revellers, slowly merged into a grotesque dance of skeletons; and thus it was with the other pictures about the room. all this being done, the master of ceremonies, in lugubrious tones, invited us to enter the chambre de la mort. all the visitors rose, and, bearing each a taper, passed in single file into a narrow, dark passage faintly illuminated with sickly green lights, the young man in clerical garb acting as pilot. the cross effects of green and yellow lights on the faces of the groping procession were more startling than picturesque. the way was lined with bones, skulls, and fragments of human bodies. [illustration: ] "o macchabées, nous sommes devant la porte de la chambre de la mort!" wailed an unearthly voice from the farther end of the passage as we advanced. then before us appeared a solitary figure standing beneath a green lamp. the figure was completely shrouded in black, only the eyes being visible, and they shone through holes in the pointed cowl. from the folds of the gown it brought forth a massive iron key attached to a chain, and, approaching a door seemingly made of iron and heavily studded with spikes and crossed with bars, inserted and turned the key; the bolts moved with a harsh, grating noise, and the door of the chamber of death swung slowly open. "o macchabées, enter into eternity, whence none ever return!" cried the new, strange voice. the walls of the room were a dead and unrelieved black. at one side two tall candles were burning, but their feeble light was insufficient even to disclose the presence of the black walls of the chamber or indicate that anything but unending blackness extended heavenward. there was not a thing to catch and reflect a single ray of the light and thus become visible in the blackness. between the two candles was an upright opening in the wall; it was of the shape of a coffin. we were seated upon rows of small black caskets resting on the floor in front of the candles. there was hardly a whisper among the visitors. the black-hooded figure passed silently out of view and vanished in the darkness. presently a pale, greenish-white illumination began to light up the coffin-shaped hole in the wall, clearly marking its outline against the black. within this space there stood a coffin upright, in which a pretty young woman, robed in a white shroud, fitted snugly. soon it was evident that she was very much alive, for she smiled and looked at us saucily. but that was not for long. from the depths came a dismal wail: "o macchabée, beautiful, breathing mortal, pulsating with the warmth and richness of life, thou art now in the grasp of death! compose thy soul for the end!" her face slowly became white and rigid; her eyes sank; her lips tightened across her teeth; her cheeks took on the hollowness of death,-- she was dead. but it did not end with that. from white the face slowly grew livid... then purplish black.... the eyes visibly shrank into their greenish-yellow sockets.... slowly the hair fell away.... the nose melted away into a purple putrid spot. the whole face became a semi- liquid mass of corruption. presently all this had disappeared, and a gleaming skull shone where so recently had been the handsome face of a woman; naked teeth grinned inanely and savagely where rosy lips had so recently smiled. even the shroud had gradually disappeared, and an entire skeleton stood revealed in the coffin. the wail again rang through the silent vault: "ah, ah, macchabée! thou hast reached the last stage of dissolution, so dreadful to mortals. the work that follows death is complete. but despair not, for death is not the end of all. the power is given to those who merit it, not only to return to life, but to return in any form and station preferred to the old. so return if thou deservedst and desirest." [illustration: ] with a slowness equal to that of the dissolution, the bones became covered with flesh and cerements, and all the ghastly steps were reproduced reversed. gradually the sparkle of the eyes began to shine through the gloom; but when the reformation was completed, behold! there was no longer the handsome and smiling young woman, but the sleek, rotund body, ruddy cheeks, and self-conscious look of a banker. it was not until this touch of comedy relieved the strain that the rigidity with which mr. thompkins had sat between us began to relax, and a smile played over his face,--a bewildered, but none the less a pleasant, smile. the prosperous banker stepped forth, sleek and tangible, and haughtily strode away before our eyes, passing through the audience into the darkness. again was the coffin-shaped hole in the wall dark and empty. he of the black gown and pointed hood now emerged through an invisible door, and asked if there was any one in the audience who desired to pass through the experience that they had just witnessed. this created a suppressed commotion; each peered into the face of his neighbor to find one with courage sufficient for the ordeal. bishop suggested to mr. thompkins in a whisper that he submit himself, but that gentleman very peremptorily declined. then, after a pause, bishop stepped forth and announced that he was prepared to die. he was asked solemnly by the doleful person if he was ready to accept all the consequences of his decision. he replied that he was. then he disappeared through the black wall, and presently appeared in the greenish-white light of the open coffin. there he composed himself as he imagined a corpse ought, crossed his hands upon his breast, suffered the white shroud to be drawn about him, and awaited results,--after he had made a rueful grimace that threw the first gleam of suppressed merriment through the oppressed audience. he passed through all the ghastly stages that the former occupant of the coffin had experienced, and returned in proper person to life and to his seat beside mr. thompkins, the audience applauding softly. a mysterious figure in black waylaid the crowd as it filed out. he held an inverted skull, into which we were expected to drop sous through the natural opening there, and it was with the feeling of relief from a heavy weight that we departed and turned our backs on the green lights at the entrance. what a wonderful contrast! here we were in the free, wide, noisy, brilliant world again. here again were the crowds, the venders, saucy grisettes with their bright smiles, shining teeth, and alluring glances. here again were the bustling _café_s, the music, the lights, the life, and above all the giant arms of the moulin rouge sweeping the sky. "now," quietly remarked bishop, "having passed through death, we will explore hell." mr. thompkins seemed too weak, or unresisting, or apathetic to protest. his face betrayed a queer mixture of emotions, part suffering, part revulsion, part a sort of desperate eagerness for more. [illustration: ] we passed through a large, hideous, fanged, open mouth in an enormous face from which shone eyes of blazing crimson. curiously enough, it adjoined heaven, whose cool blue lights contrasted strikingly with the fierce ruddiness of hell. red-hot bars and gratings through which flaming coals gleamed appeared in the walls within the red mouth. a placard announced that should the temperature of this inferno make one thirsty, innumerable bocks might be had at sixty-five centimes each. a little red imp guarded the throat of the monster into whose mouth we had walked; he was cutting extraordinary capers, and made a great show of stirring the fires. the red imp opened the imitation heavy metal door for our passage to the interior, crying,--"ah, ah, ah! still they come! oh, how they will roast!" then he looked keenly at mr. thompkins. it was interesting to note how that gentleman was always singled out by these shrewd students of humanity. this particular one added with great gusto, as he narrowly studied mr. thompkins, "hist! ye infernal whelps; stir well the coals and heat red the prods, for this is where we take our revenge on earthly saintliness!" "enter and be damned,--the evil one awaits you!" growled a chorus of rough voices as we hesitated before the scene confronting us. near us was suspended a caldron over a fire, and hopping within it were half a dozen devil musis dans, male and female, playing a selection from "faust" on stringed instruments, while red imps stood by, prodding with red-hot irons those who lagged in their performance. crevices in the walls of this room ran with streams of molten gold and silver, and here and there were caverns lit up by smouldering fires from which thick smoke issued, and vapors emitting the odors of a volcano. flames would suddenly burst from clefts in the rocks, and thunder rolled through the caverns. red imps were everywhere, darting about noiselessly, some carrying beverages for the thirsty lost souls, others stirring the fires or turning somersaults. everything was in a high state of motion. numerous red tables stood against the fiery walls; at these sat the visitors. mr. thompkins seated himself at one of them. instantly it became aglow with a mysterious light, which kept flaring up and disappearing in an erratic fashion; flames darted from the walls, fires crackled and roared. one of the imps came to take our order; it was for three coffees, black, with cognac; and this is how he shrieked the order: "three seething bumpers of molten sins, with a dash of brimstone intensifier!" then, when he had brought it, "this will season your intestines, and render them invulnerable, for a time at least, to the tortures of the melted iron that will be soon poured down your throats." the glasses glowed with a phosphorescent light. "three francs seventy- five, please, not counting me. make it four francs. thank you well. remember that though hell is hot, there are cold drinks if you want them." presently satan himself strode into the cavern, gorgeous in his imperial robe of red, decked with blazing jewels, and brandishing a sword from which fire flashed. his black moustaches were waxed into sharp points, and turned rakishly upward above lips upon which a sneering grin appeared. thus he leered at the new arrivals in his domain. his appearance lent new zest to the activity of the imps and musicians, and all cowered under his glance. suddenly he burst into a shrieking laugh that gave one a creepy feeling. it rattled through the cavern with a startling effect as he strode up and down. it was a triumphant, cruel, merciless laugh. all at once he paused in front of a demure young parisienne seated at a table with her escort, and, eying her keenly, broke into this speech: "ah, you! why do you tremble? how many men have you sent hither to damnation with those beautiful eyes, those rosy, tempting lips? ah, for all that, you have found a sufficient hell on earth. but you," he added, turning fiercely upon her escort, "you will have the finest, the most exquisite tortures that await the damned. for what? for being a fool. it is folly more than crime that hell punishes, for crime is a disease and folly a sin. you fool! for thus hanging upon the witching glance and oily words of a woman you have filled all hell with fuel for your roasting. you will suffer such tortures as only the fool invites, such tortures only as are adequate to punish folly. prepare for the inconceivable, the unimaginable, the things that even the king of hell dare not mention lest the whole structure of damnation totter and crumble to dust." the man winced, and queer wrinkles came into the corners of his mouth. then satan happened to discover mr. thompkins, who shrank visibly under the scorching gaze. satan made a low, mocking bow. "you do me great honor, sir," he declared, unctuously. "you may have been expecting to avoid me, but reflect upon what you would have missed! we have many notables here, and you will have charming society. they do not include pickpockets and thieves, nor any others of the weak, stunted, crippled, and halting. you will find that most of your companions are distinguished gentlemen of learning and ability, who, knowing their duty, failed to perform it. you will be in excellent company, sir," he concluded, with another low bow. then, suddenly turning and sweeping the room with a gesture, he commanded, "to the hot room, all of you!" while he swung his sword, from which flashes of lightning trailed and thunder rumbled. we were led to the end of a passage, where a red-hot iron door barred further progress. "oh, oh, within there!" roared satan. "open the portal of the hot chamber, that these fresh arrivals may be introduced to the real temperature of hell!" [illustration: ] after numerous signals and mysterious passes the door swung open, and we entered. it was not so very hot after all. the chamber resembled the other, except that a small stage occupied one end. a large green snake crawled out upon this, and suddenly it was transformed into a red devil with exceedingly long, thin legs, encased in tights that were ripped in places. he gave some wonderful contortion feats. a poor little white pierrot came on and assisted the red devil in black art performances. by this time we discovered that in spite of the halfmolten condition of the rock-walls, the room was disagreeably chilly. and that ended our experience in hell. bishop then led us to the closed, dark front of a house in front of which stood a suspicious-looking man, who eyed us contemptuously. bishop told him that we should like to enter. the man assented with a growl. he beat upon the door with a stick; a little wicket opened, and a villanous face peered out at us. "what do you want?" came from it in gruff tones. "to enter, of course," responded bishop. "are they, all right, do you think?" asked the face of the sentinel. "i think they are harmless," was the answer. several bolts and locks grated, and the stubborn door opened. "enter, you vile specimens of human folly!" hissed the inside guard as we passed within. "d------all three of you!" we had no sooner found ourselves inside than this same person, a short, stout man, with long hair and a powerful frame, and the face of a cutthroat, struck a table with the heavy stick that he carried, and roared to us,--"sit down!" mr. thompkins involuntarily cowered, but he gathered himself up and went with us to seats at the nearest table. while we were doing this the habitués of the place greeted us with this song, sung in chorus: "oh, là là! c'te gueule-- c'te binette. oh, là là, c'te gueule, qu'il a." "what are they saying?" asked mr. thompkins; but bishop spared him by explaining that it was only the latest song. [illustration: ] the room had a low ceiling crossed by heavy beams. wrought-iron gas lamps gave a gloomy light upon the dark, time-browned color of the place. the beams were loaded with dust, cobwebs, and stains, the result of years of smoke and accumulation. upon the walls were dozens of drawings by steinlen, illustrating the poems of low life written by the proprietor of the _café_; for we were in the den of the famous aristide bruant, the poet of the gutter,--verlaine had a higher place as the poet of the slums. there were also drawings by chéret, willett, and others, and some clever sketches in oil; the whole effect was artistic. in one corner was an old fireplace, rich in carvings of grotesque heads and figures, grilled iron-work, and shining copper vessels. the general impression was of a mediaeval gun-room. near the fireplace, upon a low platform, was a piano; grouped about it were four typical bohemians of lower bohemia; they wore loads of hair; their faces had a dissipated look, their fingers were heavily stained by cigarettes; they wore beards and négligé black cravats. these were all minor poets, and they took their turn in singing or reciting their own compositions, afterwards making a tour of the crowded tables with a tin cup and collecting the sous upon which they lived, and roundly cursing those who refused to contribute. bishop was so delighted with the pictures on the walls that he proceeded to examine them, but the bully with the stick thundered,--"sit down!" and shook his bludgeon menacingly. bishop sat down. then the brute swaggered up to us and demanded,--"what the devil do you want to drink, anyway? speak up quick!" when he had brought the drinks he gruffly demanded, "pay up!" upon receiving the customary tip he frowned, glared at us with a threatening manner, and growled, "humph! _c'est pas beaucoup!_" and swept the money into his pocket. "goodness! this is an awful place!" exclaimed mr. thompkins under his breath. he seemed to fear being brained at any moment. retreat had been rendered impossible by the locking of the door. we were prisoners at the will of our jailer, and so were all the others. the great bruant himself sat with a party of congenial bohemians at a table near the piano and fireplace; they were drinking bocks and smoking cigarettes and long-stemmed pipes. on the wall behind them was a rack holding the pipes of the habitués of the _café_, mostly broken and well browned. each pipe was owned by a particular bohemian, and each had its special place in the rack. the other tables held a general assortment of lesser bohemians and sight-seers, all cowed and silent under the domination of the bawling ruffian with the stick. whenever he smiled (which was rare, a perpetual frown having creased a deep furrow between his eyes) they smiled also, in great relief, and hung upon every word that his occasional lapses into an approach to good nature permitted him to utter. the poets and singers howled their productions in rasping voices, and put a strain upon the strength of the piano; and the minor bohemians applauded them heartily and envied them their distinction. in the midst of this performance there came a knock upon the door. the bully walked up to the wicket, peered out, and admitted an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a lady, evidently his wife. these the habitués greeted with the following song: "tout les clients sont des cochons-- la faridon, la faridon donne. et surtout les ceux qui s'en vont-- la faridon, la faridon donne." the gentleman, somewhat abashed by this reception, hesitated a moment, then sought seats. the two had hardly seated themselves when the burly ruffian with the stick began to recite a villanous poem reflecting upon the chastity of married women, emphasizing it with atrocious side remarks. the gentleman sprang from his seat in a rage and advanced threateningly upon the brute, who stood leering at him and taking a firmer hold upon his stick; but the visitor's wife caught the outraged man by the arm and restrained him. a wordy war ensued (for the gentleman was a frenchman), in which the choicest argot of montmartre and la villette was exhausted by the ruffian. he closed by shouting,--"you were not invited to enter here. you asked the privilege of entering; your wish was granted. if you don't like it here, get out!" the gentleman flung down a franc upon the table, the bolts were withdrawn, and he and his wife passed out while the roysterers sang,-- tout les clients sont des cochons," etc., amid the laughter of the smaller bohemians. aristide bruant now rose from his table and strode to the centre of the room. a perfect silence fell. he is rather a small man, slender, and of delicate build; he has a thin, sallow face, with piercing black eyes, prominent cheek-bones, and long raven-black hair falling over his shoulders from beneath a broad black slouch hat down over his eyes. his unbuttoned coat showed a red flannel shirt open at the throat; a broad sash was about his waist; his trousers were tucked into top-boots,--the ensemble reminding one of buffalo bill. he glared sullenly round upon the people, and then sprang lightly upon a table. from that perch he recited one of his poems, selected from his book of songs and monologues. it does not bear reproduction here. for that matter, being written in the argot of montmartre, it could hardly be understood even by french scholars unfamiliar with montmartre. happily mr. thompkins understood not a word of it, smiling perfunctorily out of politeness while bruant was uttering things that might have shocked the most hardened parisians. there were several young women present, and while bruant was reciting they ogled him with genuine adoration. the other poets hung reverently upon his every word. a mighty burst of applause greeted the finish of the recitation; but bruant slouched indifferently to his seat, ignoring the ovation. the bully with the stick immediately stopped the noise by yelling, "silence!" this he followed up with the contribution-cup for the benefit of the idol of montmartre. with the cup he brought the volume of bruant's poems from which he had given the recitation,--a cheaply printed pamphlet. no one dared refuse to buy, and no change was returned. was not this the great aristide bruant, the immortal of montmartre? [illustration: ] he was followed by other poets with songs and the banging of the piano. we presently rose to leave, but the bully shouted,--"sit down! how dare you insult the young poet who is now singing?" we submissively resumed our seats. after a while, in a lull, we respectfully rose again, and the bully, shouting, "get out!" unbarred the door and we were free. mr. thompkins was more deeply puzzled than he had been before that night. he could not understand that such a resort, where one is bullied and insulted, could secure patronage. "but this is paris, mr. thompkins," explained bishop, somewhat vaguely; "and this particular part of paris is montmartre." midnight was now close at hand, but montmartre was in the height of its gayety. students, bohemians, and cocottes were skipping and singing along the boulevard,--singing the songs of bruant. the _café_s were crowded, the theatres and concert halls only in the middle of their programmes. cabs were dashing about, some stopping at the moulin rouge, others at the elysée montmartre, still others picking up fares for more distant attractions. bishop halted in front of a quiet-looking house with curtained windows, and bluntly asked mr. thompkins if he would like to go to church. mr. thompkins caught his breath, and an odd, guilty look came into his face. but before he could make reply bishop was leading the way within. the interior of the place certainly looked like a church,--it was fitted to have that significance. the cold, gray stone walls rose to a vaulted gothic ceiling; gothic pillars and arches and carved wood completed the architectural effect; statues of saints appeared in niches, some surmounted by halos of lighted candles; and there were banners bearing scriptural mottoes. [illustration: ] the heavy oaken tables on the floor were provided with stiff, high- backed pulpit-chairs, beautiful in color and carving, and of a gothic type, the whole scene suggesting a transept of notre-dame. mr. thomp- kins had reverently removed his hat. it was not long afterward that he quietly replaced it on his head. no notice was taken by us of these movements. at the farther end, where the church altar belonged, was indeed a handsomely carved altar. above it sprang a graceful arch, bearing a canopy beautifully painted in blue, with yellow stars. in the centre was a painting of christ upon the cross. the altar was the bar, or caisse, of this queer _café_, and behind it sat the proprietress, quietly knitting and waiting to fill orders for drinks. the walls of the _café_ were almost entirely covered with framed drawings by rodel; all were portraits of well-known bohemians of montmartre in characteristic attitudes,--the star patrons of this rendezvous. many women figured among them, all bohemian to the bone. [illustration: ] this was the café du conservatoire, famous for its celebrities, the poets of bohemian paris, among whom marcel legay is eminent. it was evident that the habitués of the conservatoire were of a much higher order than those whom we had seen elsewhere. [illustration: ] they looked more prosperous, were more amiable, and acted more as other people. true, there was much long hair, for that is a disease hard to shake off; but when it did occur, it was well combed and oiled. and there were many flat-brimmed "plug" hats, as well as collars,--clean ones, too, an exceptional thing in bohemia, laundering being expensive. but the poverty-haunted bohemians in the soleil d'or are more picturesque. that, however, is in the latin quarter: anything exceptional may be expected at montmartre. when we had finished our coffee we approached the patronne behind the bar, and bought billets for the salle des poètes at two francs each. this was a large room crowded with enraptured listeners to legay, who was at that moment rendering his song. les cloches. "les cloches catholiques, du haut de leur beffroi, voyaient avec effroi la résurrection des grandes républiques. les cloches rêvaient, en quatre-vingt onze, les cloches de bronze rêvaient." legay had quite a distinguished appearance as he stood singing before the piano. he wore a generously cut frock-coat, and his waistcoat exposed a spacious show of white shirt-front. [illustration: ] his long hair was carefully brushed back, his moustaches neatly waxed; altogether he was dainty and jaunty, and the ladies in the room made no concealment of their adoration. the accompanist was a picturesque character. he was forty-five or fifty years of age; he had long white hair and a drooping moustache, and his heavy protruding eyes were suffused with tears evoked by the pathos of the song. while he gazed up into the singer's face with tear-filled eyes he was in another life, another world, where there was nothing but music and poetry unalloyed to constitute his heaven. for legay sang charmingly, with an art and a feeling that were never obtrusive; and his audience was aesthetic. when he had finished he was cheered without stint, and he clearly showed how much the attention pleased him. [illustration: ] his song was only one of the numbers on a very interesting programme. this was the training school of the young poets and song-writers of upper bohemia; this was where they made their début and met the test of that discriminating criticism which decided them to advance upon the world or conceal themselves for yet a while from its cruel glare; and were they not but repeating the ordeal of the ancient greeks, out of which so many noble things passed into literature? these critics were as frank with their disapproval as generous with their acceptance. among those who sang were gustave corbet, marius geffroy, eugene lemercier, xavier privas, delarbre, and henri brallet, men as yet unknown, but likely to make a mark under the training, inspiration, and severe checks of the café du conservatoire. one of the goals for which these writers strive, and one that, if they win it, means to them recognition, is to have their poems published in _gil blas_, with illustrations by the peerless steinlen, as are the works of legay, and also of bruant, le terrible. marcel legay is a familiar figure on the boulevards, where his dainty person is often seen after nightfall, hurrying to one or another of his haunts, with a small roll of music under his arm, and his fluffy hair streaming over his shoulders. on certain nights of every week he sings over in the latin quarter, at the cabaret des noctambules, rue champollion, near the chapel of the sorbonne. the other singers that night at the café du conservatoire each affected his peculiar style of habit, gesture, and pose that he deemed most fetching. the entire programme was of songs: hence the name, café du conservatoire. after we had deft, bishop bought some brevas cigars; thus fortified, we headed for the moulin rouge. it was evident that mr. thompkins had reserved his enthusiasm for the great dance-hall of montmartre,--le moulin rouge,--with its women of the half world, its giddiness, its glare, its noise, its naughtiness. [illustration: ] here at last we should find all absence of restraint, posing, sordidness, self-consciousness, and appeals to abnormal appetites. mr. thompkins visibly brightened as we ascended the incline of the entrance and came within the influence of the life and abandon of the place. indeed, it must have seemed like fairy-land to him. the soft glow of hundreds of lights fell upon the crowds in the ball-room and balconies, with their shifting streams of color from the moving figures of dancing women in showy gowns and saucy hats, and its many chatting, laughing, joyous groups at the tables along the passage and the balconies, enjoying merry little suppers and varied consommations that kept scores of garçons continually on the move. a placard announced american bar; american and english drinks--as bald and unashamed as that. here on high stools, american free-lunch fashion, ranged along the bar, were english and american tourists and french dandies sipping manhattan cocktails with a cherry, brandy-and-soda, tom-and-jerry, and the rest. along the walls hung vivid paintings of some of the famous dancing-girls of the moulin, their saucy faces half hidden in clouds of lacy white skirts. high up on a pretty balcony at the end of the huge ball-room were the musicians, enjoying their cigarettes and bocks between pieces. a small stage occupied the opposite end of the room, where a light vaudeville performance had been given; but that was all over now, and attention centred in the tables and the dancing. the moulin rouge resembles very much the bul-lier; but at the moulin the cocottes are much more dashing and gaudy than over in the quartier, because the inspector at the door of the moulin maintains a more exacting standard on the score of the toilettes of the women whom he admits free of charge. women, women, women! there seemed no end of them; and each was arrayed to the full limit of her means. and there were french dandies in long-white melton coats that were very tight at the waist, and that bore large brown-velvet collars; their hair, parted behind, was brushed toward their ears; they strolled about the place in numbers, twirling their moustaches and ogling the girls. and there were french army officers, martinique negroes, longhaired students and montmartre poets, artists, actors, and many three-days-in-paris english tourists wearing knickerbockers and golf-caps, and always smoking bulldog pipes. there were also two parties of american men with their wives and daughters, and they enjoyed the spectacle with the natural fulness and responsiveness of their soil. for the moulin is really now but a great show place; it has been discovered by the outside world, and, unlike the other quaint places mentioned in this paper, has suffered the change that such contact inevitably imparts. it is no longer the queer old moulin, genuinely, spontaneously bohemian. but the stranger would hardly realize that; and so to mr. thompkins it seemed the brilliant and showy side of bohemian paris. by reason of its change in character it has less interest than the real bohemian paris that the real bohemians know, enjoy, and jealously guard. many light-footed young women were amusing circles of on-lookers with spirited dancing and reckless high-kicking; and, being adepts in their peculiar art, were so flashing and illusory that an attempt to analyze their movements brought only bewilderment. no bones seemed to hamper their swiftness and elasticity. the flash of a black stocking would instantly dissolve into a fleecy cloud of lace, and the whirling air was a cyclone; and there upon the floor sat the dancer in the "split," looking up with a merry laugh, flushed cheeks, and sparkling eyes, twinkling from the shadow of a twisted toque; then over her would sweep a whirlwind of other dancers, and identities would become inextricably confused. an odd-looking man, with a sad face and marvellously long, thin legs in tights, did incredible things with those members; he was merely a long spring without bones, joints, or hinges. his cadaverous face and glittering black eyes, above which rose a top-hat that never moved from place, completed the oddity of his appearance. he is always there in the thickest of the dancing, and his salary is three francs a night. we suddenly discovered mr. thompkins in a most embarrassing situation. a bewitching chemical blonde of the clinging type had discovered and appropriated him; she melted all over him, and poured a stream of bad english into his ear. she was so very, very thirsty, she pleaded, and monsieur was so charming, so much a gentleman,--he was beautiful, too. oh, monsieur would not be so unkind as to remove the soft, plump arm from round his neck,--surely it did not hurt monsieur, for was it not warm and plump, and was not that a pretty dimple in the elbow, and another even prettier in the shoulder? if monsieur were not so charming and gracious the ladies would never, never fall in love with him like this. and oh, monsieur, the place was so warm, and dancing makes one so thirsty! mr. thompkins's face was a picture of shame and despair, and i have never seen a more comical expression than that with which he looked appealingly to us for help. suppose some one in the hall should happen to recognize him! of course there was only one thing to do. mademoiselle blanche's thirst was of that awful kind which only shipwrecked sailors, travellers lost in a desert, and _café_ dancing-girls can understand. and so four glasses of beer were ordered. it was beautiful to see the grace and celerity with which mademoiselle blanche disposed of hers, the passionate eagerness with which she pressed a long kiss upon mr. thompkins's unwilling lips, and the promptness with which she then picked up his glass, drained it while she looked at him mischievously over the rim, kissed him again, and fled. mr. thompkins sat speechless, his face blazing, his whole expression indescribably foolish. he vigorously wiped his lips with his handkerchief, and was not himself again for half an hour. innumerable bright little comedies were unconsciously played in all parts of the room, and they were even more interesting than the antics of the dancers. we presently strolled into the garden of the moulin, where a performance is given in the summer. there stood a great white sheet-iron elephant, remindful of coney island. in one of the legs was a small door, from which a winding stair led into the body of the beast. the entrance fee was fifty centimes, the ticket-office at the top of the stair. it was a small room inside the elephant, and there was a small stage in the end of it, upon which three young women were exercising their abdominal muscles in the danse du ventre. mr. thompkins, dismayed at this, would have fled had not bishop captured him and hauled him back to a conspicuous seat, where the dancing-girls, quickly finding him, proceeded to make their work as extravagant as possible, throwing him wicked glances meanwhile, and manifestly enjoying his embarrassment. of course the dancers came round presently for offerings of sous. we returned to the dance-hall, for it was now closing-up time, and in order to feel a touch of kinship with america, drank a gin fizz at the american bar, though it seemed to be a novelty to mr. thompkins. the streets were alive with the revellers who had been turned out by the closing of the _café_s, dancehalls, and theatres, and the cries of cabbies rose above the din of laughter and chatter among the crowds. but the night was not yet quite finished. said bishop,--"we shall now have coffee at the red ass." that was below the place pigalle, quite a walk down to the rue de maubeuge, through that suddenly quiet centre of artists' studios and dignified residences. at last we reached l'Âne rouage,--the red ass. it has a small and unassuming front, except that the window-panes are profusely decorated with painted flowers and figures, and a red ass peers down over the narrow door. l'Âne rouge has no special distinction, save its artistic interior and the fanciful sketches on its walls. it is furnished with heavy dark tables and chairs, and iron grilled into beautiful scrolls and chandeliers,--like the famous chat noir, near by. in fact, l'Âne rouge resembles an old curiosity shop more than anything else, for it is filled with all imaginable kinds of antiques, blackened by age and smoke, and in perfect harmony. it, too, has its particular clientèle of bohemians, who come to puff their long pipes that hang in racks, and recount their hopes, aspirations, achievements, and failures, occasionally breaking into song. for this they bring forth their mandolins and guitars, and sing sentimental ditties of their own composition. there is a charming air of chez soi at the red ass; a spirit of good-fellowship pervades it; and then, the _café_ is small, cosey, and comfortable, as well as artistic. [illustration: ] it was in a lively commotion when we crossed the threshold, the place being filled with littérateurs of the quarter. a celebration was in progress,--one of their number had just succeeded in finding a publisher for two volumes of his poetry. it was a notable event, and the lucky bohemian, flushed with money, had settled his debts and was now treating his friends. although we were strangers to him, he cordially invited us to share the hospitality of the occasion, and there was great applause when bishop presented him with a brevas cigar. "_bravo, les anglais! ce sont des bons types, ceux-là!_" and then they sang in chorus, a happy, careless, jolly crowd. there was a small, thin young sketch artist making crayon portraits of the successful poet and selling them to the poet's friends for fifty centimes apiece,--with the poet's autograph, too. in response to a call for une chanson anglaise, bishop sang "down on the farm" as he had never sung it before, his shining top-hat pushed back upon his curly hair, his jovial face beaming. at its conclusion he proposed a toast to the successful poet, and it was drunk standing and with a mighty shout. we looked in at the cabaret des quat'z' arts,--a bright and showy place, but hardly more suggestive of student bohemianism than the other fine _café_s of the boulevards. and thus ended a night on montmartre. we left mr. thompkins at his hotel. i think he was more than satisfied, but he was too bewildered and tired to say much about it. montmartre presents the extravagant side of parisian bohemianism. if there is a thing to be mocked, a convention to be outraged, an idol to be destroyed, montmartre will find the way. but it has a taint of sordidness that the real bohemianism of the old latin quarter lacks,--for it is not the bohemianism of the students. and it is vulgar. for all that, in its rude, reckless, and brazen way it is singularly picturesque. it is not likely that mr. thompkins will say much about it when he goes home, but he will be able to say a great deal in a general way about the harm of ridiculing sacred things and turning reverence into a laugh. [illustration: ] moving in the quartier latin the quartier latin takes on unwonted life about the fifteenth of july, when the artists and students change their places of abode under the resistless pressure of a nomadic spirit. [illustration: ] studios are generally taken for terms ranging from three months to a year, and the terms generally expire in july. the artists who do not change their residence then go into the country, and that means moving their effects. it is a familiar fact that artists do not generally occupy a high position in the financial world. consequently they are a very practical lot, attending to their own domestic duties (including washing when times are hard), and doing their own moving when july comes; but this is not a very elaborate undertaking, the worse of them for that. one day in july bishop and i sat in our window overlooking the court, and observed the comedy of a a student moving no one thinks student in the throes of moving. the old building at the end of our court was a favorite abiding-place for artists. evidently, on this day, a young artist or art student was _en déménagement_, for his household goods were being dragged down the stairs and piled in the court preparatory to a journey in a small hand-cart standing by. he was cheerfully assisted by a number of his friends and his devoted companion, a pretty little grisette. there were eight of them in all, and their laughter and shouts indicated the royal fun they were having. the cart was one of those voitures à bras that are kept for hire at a neighboring location de voitures à bras at six sous an hour. in order to get locomotion out of it you have to hitch yourself in the harness that accompanies it, and pull the vehicle yourself; and that is no end of fun, because your friends are helping and singing all the way. into this vehicle they placed a rickety old divan and a very much dilapidated mattress; then came half a sack of coal, a tiny, rusty, round studio stove with interminable yards of battered and soot-filled pipe, a pine table, two rush-bottomed chairs, and a big box filled with clattering dishes, kettles, pots, and pans. on top of this came a thick roll of dusty, faded, threadbare hangings and rugs, and the meagre wardrobes of the artist and the grisette; then a number of hat-boxes, after which mademoiselle looked with great solicitude. last of all came bulky portfolios filled with the artist's work, a large number of canvases that were mostly studies of mademoiselle au naturel, with such accessories as easel, paint-boxes, and the like, and the linen and bedding. the fat old concierge stood grumbling near by, for the ropes were being tied over the load, and she was anxiously waiting for her _dernier adieu_, or parting tip, that it is the custom to give upon surrendering the key. but tips are sometimes hard to give, and bohemian etiquette does not regard them with general favor. after the load had been made snug, the artist approached the concierge, doffed his cap, bowed low, and then in a most impressively ceremonious manner handed her the key, avowed that it broke his heart to leave her, and commended her to god. that was all. there seems to be a special providence attending upon the vocabulary of concierges in their hour of need. the shrill, condemnatory, interminable vocalization of this concierge's wrath indicated specific abilities of exceptional power. but the artist paid no attention. he hung his coat and "plug" hat on the inverted table-leg, got between the shafts, hitched himself in the harness, and sailed out of the court, his friends swarming around and assisting him to drag the toppling cart away. and this they did with a mighty will, yelling and singing with a vigor that wholly obliterated the concierge's noise. the little grisette closed the procession, bearing in one hand a lamp and in the other a fragile bust. and so the merry party started, possibly for the other end of paris,--the greater the distance the more the fun. they all knew that when the voiture had been unloaded and all had fallen to and assisted the young couple in straightening out their new home, there would be a jolly celebration in the nearest _café_ at the moving artist's expense. so the start was made fairly and smoothly; but the enthusiasm of the crowd was so high and the little vehicle was so top-heavy, that at the end of the passage the comedy seemed about to merge into a tragedy. it was announced to all the court in the shrill voice of the concierge, who exultingly screamed,--"the stove has fallen out! and the coal! the things are falling all over the street! oh, you villain!" to the movers themselves it was merely an incident that added to the fun and zest of the enterprise. [illustration: ] my plans carried me to concarneau, and bishop's took him to italy, where i would join him after a while. and a royal time we had in our several ways. the autumn found us fresh and eager for our studies in paris again, and so we returned to hunt a studio and establish ourselves in new quarters. we had stored our goods with a kind american friend; and as we had neither the desire nor the financial ability to violate the traditions of the quartier, we greatly scandalized him and his charming family by appearing one day with a crowd of students and a voiture à bras before his house and taking our effects away in the traditional fashion. of course our friend would have gladly paid for the transport of our belongings in a more respectable fashion; but where would have been the fun in that? i am pleased to say that with true american adaptiveness he joined the singing and yelling crowd, and danced a jig to our playing in our new quarters after a generous brew of punch had done its share in the jollity of the event. [illustration: ] ah, dear old paris! wonderful, bewildering paris! alluring, enchanting paris! our student years are now just ended, and paris is already so crowded with workers who cannot bear to leave it that we must seek our fortune in other and duller parts of the world. but paris has ineradicably impressed itself upon us. we have lived its life; we have been a part of its throbbing, working, achieving individuality. what we take away will be of imperishable value, the salt and leaven of our hopes and efforts forever. the end the azure rose _a novel_ by reginald wright kauffman author of "jim," "the house of bondage," "the mark of the beast," "our navy at work," etc. new york the macaulay company copyright, by the macaulay co. [illustration: "oh!" she cried. "i had just come in and i thought--i thought it was my room."] for my friend and secretary, lance-corporal arnold robson, no. , "c" company, sixth battalion, yorkshire regiment--"the green howards"-- who, leading his squad, died for his country at suvla bay, gallipoli, st august, , aged twenty. preface a novel about paris that is not about the war requires even now, i am told, some word of explanation. mine is brief: this story was conceived before the war began. i came to the task of putting it into its final shape after nine months passed between the western front and a paris war-torn and war-darkened, both physically and spiritually. yet, though i had found the old familiar places, and the ever young and ever familiar people, wounded and sad, i did not long have to seek for the parisian bravery in pain and the parisian smile shining, rainbowlike, through the tears. nothing can conquer france and nothing can lastingly hurt paris. they are, as a famous wit said of our own so different boston, a state of mind. had the german succeeded in the autumn of or the spring of , france would have remained, and paris. what used to happen in the land of love and the city of lights will happen there again and be always happening, so that my story is at once a retrospect and a prophecy. realizing these things, i have found it a pleasure to make this book. a book without problems and without horrors, its sole purpose is to give to the reader some of that pleasure which went to its making. wars come and go; but for every man the door opposite stands open beside the seine, the hurdy-gurdy plays "annie laurie" in the street of the valley of grace and--a lady of the rose is waiting. r. w. k. _columbia, penna._, christmas day, . contents chapter page i. in which, if not love, at least anger, laughs at locksmiths ii. providing the gentle reader with a card of admission to the nest of the two doves iii. in which a fool and his money are soon parted iv. a damsel in distress v. which tells how cartaret returned to the rue du val-de-grâce, and what he found there vi. cartaret sets up housekeeping vii. of domestic economy, of day-dreams, and of a far country and its sovereign lady viii. chiefly concerning strawberries ix. being the true report of a chaperoned déjeuner x. an account of an empty purse and a full heart, in the course of which the author barely escapes telling a very old story xi. tells how cartaret's fortune turned twice in a few hours and how he found one thing and lost another xii. narrating how cartaret began his quest of the rose xiii. further adventures of an amateur botanist xiv. something or other about traditions xv. in which cartaret takes part in the revival of an ancient custom xvi. and last out of ashes paris as i knew her in the days ere this-- paris, when i threw her many a careless kiss-- paris of my pleasure, bright of eye and brow, town of squandered treasure-- where's that paris now? song had shunned her traces, care was on her track: all my young girls' faces pale in folds of black! half the hearts were broken, all the mirth was fled; scarce a vow was spoken, save above the dead.... oh, but there's a spirit sorrow cannot kill! even now i hear it swear the great "i will!" paris, at your portal taps the ancient truth, laughing and immortal: never-conquered youth! r. w. k. the azure rose chapter i in which, if not love, at least anger, laughs at locksmiths je ne connais point la nature des anges, parce que je ne suis qu'homme; il n'y a que les théologiens qui la connaissent.--voltaire: _dictionnaire philosophique_. he did not know why he headed toward his own room--it could hold nothing that he guessed of to welcome him, except further tokens of the dejection and misery he carried in his heart--but thither he went, and, as he drew nearer, his step quickened. by the time that he entered the rue du val de grâce, he was moving at something close upon a run. he hurried up the rising stairs and into the dark hall, and, as he did so, was possessed by the sense that somebody had as hurriedly ascended just ahead of him. the door to his room was never locked, and now he flung it wide. the last of the afterglow had all but faded from the sky, and only the faintest twilight, a rose-pink twilight, came into the studio. rose-pink: he thought of that at once and thought, too, that these sky-roses had a sweeter scent than the roses of earth, for there was about this once-familiar place an odor more delicate and tender than any he had ever known before. it was dim, illusive; it was like a musical poem in an unknown tongue, and yet, unlike french scents and hot-house flowers, it subtly suggested open spaces and mountain-peaks. cartaret had a quick vision of sunlight upon snow-crests. he wondered how such a perfume could find its way through the narrow, dirty streets of the latin quarter and into his poor room. and then, in the dim light, he saw a figure standing there. cartaret stopped short. an hour ago he had left the place empty. now, when he so wanted solitude, it had been invaded. there was an intruder. it was---- yes, the lord have mercy on him, it was a girl! "who's there?" demanded cartaret. he was so startled that he asked the question in english and with his native american accent. the next moment, he was more startled when the strange girl answered him in english, though an english oddly precise. "it is i," she said. "it is i," was what she said first, and, as she said it, cartaret noted that her voice was a wonderfully soft contralto. what she next said was uttered as he further discovered himself to her by an involuntary movement that brought him within the rear window's shaft of afterglow. it was: "what are you doing here?" she spoke with patent amazement, and there were, between the words, four perceptible pauses. what was he doing there? what was _she_? what light there was came from behind her: he could not at all make out her features; he had only her voice to go by--only her voice and her manner of regal possession--and with neither was he acquainted. good heavens, hadn't he a right to come unannounced into the one place in paris that he might still call his own? it surely _was_ his own. he looked distractedly about him. "i thought," said cartaret, "that this was my room." his glance, bewildered as it was, nevertheless assured him that he had not been mistaken. his accustomed eye detected everything that the twilight might hide from the eye of a stranger. here was all his student-litter. here were the good photographs of good pictures, bought second-hand; the bad copies of good pictures, made by cartaret himself during long mornings in the louvre, where impudent tourists, staring at his work, jolted his elbow and craned their necks beside his cheek; there were the plaster-casts on brackets--casts of antiques more mutilated than the antiques themselves; and here, too, were the rows of lost endeavors in the shape of discarded canvases banked on the floor along the walls and sometimes jutting far out into the room. two or three chairs were scattered about, one with a broken leg--he remembered the party at which it was broken; across from the fire-place was cartaret's bed that a tarnished oriental cover (made in lyons) converted by day into a divan; and close beside the rear window, flanked by the table on which he mixed his colors, stood, almost at the elbow of this imperious intruder, cartaret's own easel with a virgin canvas in position, waiting to receive the successor to that picture which he had sold for a song a few hours ago. what was he doing here, indeed! he liked that. and she was still at it: "how dare you think so?" she persisted. the slight pauses between her words lent them more weight than, even in his ears, they otherwise would have possessed. she came a step nearer, and cartaret saw that she was breathing quickly and that the bit of lace above her heart rose and fell irregularly. "how dare you?" she repeated. she was close enough now for him to decide that she was quite the most striking girl he had ever seen. her figure, without a touch of exaggeration, was full and yet lithe: it moved with the grace of the athlete. her skin was rosy and white--the rose of health and the clear cream of sane living. it was, however, her manner that had led cartaret first to doubt his own senses, and then to doubt hers. this girl spoke like a queen resenting a next-to-impossible familiarity. he had half a mind to leave the place and allow her to discover her own mistake, the nature of which--his room ran the length of the old house and half its width, being separated from a similar room by only a dark and draughty hallway--now suddenly revealed itself to him. he seriously considered leaving her alone to the advent of her humiliation. then he looked at her again. her hair, in sharp contrast to the tint of her face, was a shining blue-black; though her features were almost classical in their regularity, her mouth was generous and sensitive, and, under even black brows and through long, curling lashes, her eyes shone frank and blue. cartaret decided to remain. "you are an artist?" he inquired. "leave this room!" she stamped a little foot. "leave this room instantly!" cartaret stooped to one of the canvases that were piled against the wall nearest him. he turned its face to her. "and this is some of your work?" he asked. he had meant to be only light and amusing, but when he saw the effect of his action, he cursed himself for a heavy-witted fool: the girl glanced first at the picture and then wildly about her. she had at last realized her mistake. "oh!" she cried. her delicate hands went to her face. "i had just come in and i thought--i thought it was _my_ room!" he registered a memorandum to kick himself as soon as she had gone. he moved awkwardly forward, still between her and the door. "it's all right," he said. "everybody drops in here at one time or another, and i never lock my door." "but you do not understand!" she was still speaking through her unjeweled fingers: "sir, we moved into this house only this morning. i went out for the first time ten minutes since. my maid did not want me to go, but i would do it. our room--i understand now that our room is the other one: the one across the hallway. but i came back hurriedly, a little frightened by the streets, and i turned--oh-h!" she ended, "i must go--i must go immediately!" she dropped her hands and darted forward, turning to her right. cartaret lost his head: he turned to his right. each saw the mistake and sought the left; then darted to the right again. "let me pass!" commanded the girl. cartaret, inwardly condemning his stupidity, suddenly backed. he backed into the half open door; it shut behind him with a sharp snap. "i'm not dancing," he said. "i know it looks like it, but i'm not--truly." "then stand aside and let me pass." he stood aside. "certainly," said he; "that is what i was trying to do." with her head high, she walked by him to the door and turned the knob: the door would not open. than the scorn that she turned upon him then, he had never seen anything more magnificent--or more beautiful. "what is this?" she asked. he did not know. "it's probably stuck," he suggested. she was beginning to terrify him. "if you'll allow me----" he bent to the knob, his hand just brushing hers, which was quickly withdrawn. he pulled: the door would not give. he took the knob in both hands and raised it: no success. he bore all his weight down upon the knob: the door remained shut. he looked up at her attempting the smile of apology, but her eyes, as soon as they encountered his, were raised to a calm regard of the panel above his head. cartaret's gaze returned to the door and, presently, encountered the old deadlatch that antedated his tenancy and that he had never once used: it was a deadlatch of a type antiquated even in the latin quarter, tough and enduring; years ago it had been pushed back and held open by a small catch; the knob whereby it was originally worked from inside the room had been broken off; and now the catch had slipped, the spring-bolt had shot home and, the knob being broken, the girl and cartaret were as much prisoners in the room as if the lock had been on the other side of the door. the american broke into a nervous laugh. "what now?" asked the girl, her eyes hard. "we're caught," said cartaret. she could only repeat the word: "caught?" "yes. i'm sorry. it was my stupidity; i suppose i jolted the door rather hard when i bumped into it, doing that tango just now. anyhow, this old lock's sprung into action and we're fastened in." the girl looked at him sharply. a difficult red climbed her cheeks. "open that door," she ordered. "but i can't--not right away. i'll have to try to----" "open that door instantly." "but i tell you i can't. don't you see?" he pointed to the offending deadlatch. in embarrassed sentences, he explained the situation. she did not appear to listen. she had the air of one who has prejudged a case. "you are trying to keep me in this room," she said. her tone was steady, and her eyes were brave; but it was evident that she quite believed her statement. cartaret colored in his turn. "nonsense," said he. "then open the door." "i tell you the lock has slipped." "if that is so, use your key." "i haven't any key," protested cartaret. "and even if i had----" "you have no key to your own room?" she raised her eyes scornfully. "i understood you to say very positively that i was trespassing in _your_ room." "great scott!" cried cartaret. "of course it's my room. you make me wish it wasn't, but it is. it is my room, but you can see for yourself there's no keyhole to the confounded lock on this side of the door, and never was. look here." again he pointed to the deadlatch: "if you'll only come a little nearer and look----" "thank you," she said. "i shall remain where i am." she had put her hand among the lace over her breast; now the hand, withdrawn, held an unsheathed knife. "and if you come one step nearer to me," she calmly concluded, "i will kill you." it was the sole dream-touch needed to perfect his sense of the entire episode's unreality. in his poor room, a princess that he had never seen before--that, surely, he was not seeing now!--some royal figure out of a lost hellenic tragedy; her breast visibly cumbered by the heavy air of modern paris, her wonderful eyes burning with the cold fire of resolution, she told him that she would kill him if he approached her. and she would do it; she would kill him with less compunction than she would feel in crushing an offending moth! cartaret had instinctively jumped at the first flash of the weapon. now his laughter returned. a vision could not be impeded by a sprung lock. "but you're not here," he said. she did not shift by so much as a hairbreadth her position of defense, yet, ever so slightly, her eyes widened. "and i'm not, either," he persisted. "don't you see? things like this don't happen. one of us is asleep and dreaming--and i must be that one." plainly she did not follow him, but his laughter had been so boyishly innocent as to make her patently doubtful of her own assumption. he crowded that advantage. "honestly," he said, "i didn't mean any harm----" "you at least place yourself in a strange position," the girl interrupted, though the hand that held the knife was lowered to her side. "but if you really doubt me," he continued, "and don't want to wait until i pick this lock, let me call from the window and get somebody in the street to send up the concierge." "the street?" she evidently did not like this idea. "no, not the street. why do you not ring for him?" cartaret's gesture included the four walls of the room: "there's no bell." still a little suspicious of him, her blue eyes scanned the room to confirm his statement. "then why not call him from the window in the back?" "because his quarters are at the front of the house, and he wouldn't hear." "would no one hear?" "there's nobody in the garden at this time of day. you had really better let me call to the first person that goes along the street. somebody is always going along, you know." he made two strides toward the front window. "come back!" he turned to find her with her face scarlet. she had raised the knife. "break the lock," she said. "but that will take time." "break the lock." "all right; only why don't you want me to call for help?" "and humiliate me still further?" one small foot, cased in an absurdly light patent-leather slipper with a flashing buckle, tapped the floor angrily. "i have been foolish, and your folly has made me more foolish, but i will not have it known to all the world _how_ foolish i have been. break the lock at once--now--immediately." cartaret divined that this was eminently a time for silence: she was alive, she was real, and she was human. he opened a drawer in the table, dived under the divan, plunged behind a curtain in one corner, and at last found a shaky hammer and a nicked chisel with which he returned to the locked door. "i'm not much of a carpenter," he said, by way of preparatory apology. the girl said nothing. he was angry at himself for having appeared to such heavy disadvantage. consequently, he was unsteady. his first blow missed. his strength turned to mere violence, and he showered futile blows upon the butt of the chisel. then a misdirected blow hit the thumb of his left hand. he swore softly and, having sworn, heard her laugh. he looked up: the knife had disappeared. he was pleased at the change to merriment that her face discovered; but, as he looked, he realized that her mirth was launched against his efforts, and he was pleased no longer. his rage directed itself from him to her. "i'm sorry you don't approve," he said sulkily. "for my part, i am quite willing to stop, i assure you." if an imperious person may be said to have tossed her head, then it should here be said that this imperious person now tossed hers. "now, shall i go to the window and yell into the street?" he savagely inquired. her high-tilted chin, her crimsoned cheeks and the studiously managed lack of expression in her eyes were proofs that she had heard him. nevertheless, she persisted in her disregard of his suggestion. cartaret's mood became more ugly. he resolved to make her pay attention. "i'll do it," he said, and turned away from the door. that brought the answer. she looked at him in angry horror. "and make us the laughing-stock of the neighborhood?" she cried. "is it not enough that you have shut me in here, that you have insulted me, that----" "insulted you?" he stood with the hammer in one hand and the chisel in the other, a rather unromantic figure of protest. "i never did anything of the sort." he made a flourish and dropped the hammer. when he picked it up, he saw that she stood there, looking over his bent head, with eyes sternly kept serene; but he saw also that her cheeks remained aglow and that her breath came short. "i never did anything of the sort," he went on. "how could i?" "how could you?" she clenched her hands. "i don't mean that." he could have bitten out his tongue. he floundered in a marsh of confusion. "i mean--i mean--oh, i don't know what i mean, except that i beg you to believe i am incapable of the impudence you charge! i came in here and found the most beautiful woman----" she recoiled. "you speak so to me?" it was out: he had to go ahead now. he did not at all recognize himself: this was not american; it was wholly gallic. "i can't help it," he said, "you are." "go to work," said the girl. "but i want you to understand----" two tears, twin diamonds of mortification, shone in her blue eyes. "you have humiliated me, and mortified me, and insulted me!" she persisted. her white throat swallowed the chagrin, and anger returned to take its place. "if you are what you pretend to be, you will go back to your work of opening that door. if i were the strong man that you are, i should have broken it open long ago." she had a handsome ferocity. cartaret put one broad shoulder to the door and both hands to the knob. there was a tremendous wrenching and splitting: the door swung open. he turned and bowed. "it's open," he said. to his amazement, her mood had entirely changed. whether his action had served as proof of his declared sincerity, or whether her brief reflection on his words had itself served him this good turn, he could not guess; but he saw now that her eyes had softened and that her underlip quivered. "good afternoon," said cartaret. "good-by," said she. she moved toward the door, then stopped. "i hope that you will pardon me," she said, and she spoke as if she were not accustomed to asking pardon. "i have been too quick and very foolish. you must know that i am new to paris--new to france--new to cities--and that i have heard strange stories of parisians and of the men of the large towns." cartaret was more than mollified, but he took a grip upon his emotions and resolved to pursue this advantage. "at least," he said, "you should have seen that i was your own sort." "my own--my own sort?" she did not seem to comprehend. "well, of your own class, then." this girl had an impish faculty for making him say things that sounded priggish: "you should have seen i was of your own class." again her eyes widened. then she tossed her head and laughed a little silvery laugh. he fancied the laugh disdainful, and thought so the more when she seemed to detect his suspicion and tried to allay it by an alteration of tone. "i mean exactly that," he said. she bit her red lip, and cartaret noted that her teeth were even and white. "forgive me," she begged. she put out her hand so frankly that he would have forgiven her anything. he took the hand and, as it nestled softer than any satin in his, he felt his heart hammer in his breast. "forgive me," she was repeating. "i hope _you'll_ forgive _me_," he muttered. "at any rate, you can't forget me: you'll have to remember me as the greatest boor you ever met." she shook her head. "it was i that was foolish." "oh, but it wasn't! i----" he stopped, for her eyes had fallen from his and rested on their clasped hands. he released her instantly. "good-by," she said again. "good---- but surely i'm to see you once in a while!" "i do not know." "why, we're neighbors! you can't mean that you won't let me----" "i do not know," she said. "good-by." she went out, drawing-to the shattered door behind her. cartaret leaned against the panel and listened shamelessly. he heard her cross the hall and open the door to the opposite room; he heard her suspiciously greeted by another voice--a voice that he gladly recognized as feminine--and in a language that was wholly unfamiliar to him: a language that sounded somehow oriental. then he heard the other door shut, and he turned to the comfortless gloom of his own quarters. he sat down on the bed. he had forgotten a riotous dinner that was to have been his final parisian folly, forgotten his poverty, forgotten his day of disappointment and his desire to go back to ohio and the law. he remembered only the events of the last quarter-hour and the girl that had made them what they were. as he sat there, there seemed to come again into the silent room the perfume he had noticed when he returned. it seemed to float in on the twilight, still dimly pink behind the roofs of the gray houses along the boul' miche': subtle, haunting, an odor more delicate and tender than any he had ever known before. he raised his head. he saw something white lying on the floor--lying where, a few moments since, he had stood. he went forward and picked it up. it was a flower like a rose--a white rose--but unlike any rose of which cartaret had any knowledge. it was small, but perfect, its pure petals gathered tight against its heart, and from its heart came the perfume that had seemed to him like a musical poem in an unknown tongue. for a second time cartaret had that quick vision of the sunlight upon snow-crests and the virgin sheen of unattainable mountain tops.... chapter ii providing the gentle reader with a card of admission to the nest of the two doves dans ces questions de crédit, il faut toujours frapper l'imagination. l'idée de génie, c'est de prendre dans la poche des gens l'argent qui n'y est pas encore.--zola: _l'argent_. until just before the appearance of charlie cartaret's rosy vision, this had been a day of darkness and wet. rain--a dull, hopeless, february rain--fell with implacable monotony. it descended in fine spray, as if too lazy to hurry, yet too spiteful to stop. it made all paris miserable; but, as is the way with parisian rains, it was a great deal wetter on the left bank of the seine than on the right. no rain--not even in those happy times before the great war--ever washed the left bank clean, and this one only made it a marsh. a curtain of fog fell sheer between the isle de la cité and the quai des augustins; the twin towers of st. sulpice staggered up into a pall of fog and were lost in it. the gray houses hunched their shoulders, lowered their heads, drew their mansard hats and gabled caps over their noses and stood like rows of patient horses at a cabstand under the gray downpour. now and again a real cab scuttled along the streets, its skinny beast clop-clopping over the wooden paving, or slipping among the cobbled ways, its driver hidden under a mountainous pile of woolen great-coat and rubber cape. even the taxis lacked the proud air with which they habitually splash pedestrians, and such pedestrians as business forced upon the early afternoon thoroughfares went with heads bowed like the houses' and umbrellas leveled like flying-jibs. in front of the little café des deux colombes, the two marble-topped tables which occupied its scant frontage on the rue jacob were deserted by all save their four iron-backed chairs with wet seats and their twin water-bottles into which, with mathematical precision, water dropped from a pair of holes in the sagging canvas overhead. inside, however, there were lighted gas-jets, the proprietor and the proprietor's wife--presumably the pair of doves for whom the café was named--and a man that was trying to look like a customer. gaston françois louis pasbeaucoup had an apron tied about his middle, and, standing before the intended patron's table, leaned what weight he had--it was not much--upon his finger-tips. his mustache was fierce enough to grace the upper lip of a deputy from the bouches-du-rhône and generous enough to spare many a contribution to the _plat-du-jour_; but his mustache was the only large thing about him--always excepting madame his wife, who was ever somewhere about him and who was just now, two hundred and twenty pounds of evidence to the good food of the deux colombes, stuffed into a wire cage at one end of the bar, and bulging out of it, her eyebrows meeting over her pug-nose and the heap of hair leaping from her head nearly to the ceiling, while her lips and fingers were busy adding the bills from _déjeuner_. "it would greatly pleasure me to accommodate monsieur," pasbeaucoup was whispering, "but monsieur must know that already----" the sentence ended in a deprecating glance over the speaker's shoulder in the general direction of mighty madame. "already? already what then?" demanded the intending customer. he was lounging on the wall-seat behind his table, and he had an aristocratic air surprisingly at variance with his garments. his black jacket shone too highly at the elbows, and its short sleeves betrayed an unnecessary length of red wrist. his black boots gasped for repair; a soft black hat, pushed to the back of his black hair, still dripped from an unprotected voyage along the rainy street, and his neckcloth, which was also long and soft and black, showed a spot or two not put there by its makers. these were patently matters beyond their owner's command and beneath the dignity of his attention. against them one was compelled to set a manner truly lofty, which was enhanced by a pair of burning, deep-placed eyes, a thin white face and, sprouting from either side of his lower jaw, near the chin, two wisps of ebon whisker. he frowned majestically, and he smoked a caporal cigarette as if it were a havana cigar. "already what?" he loudly repeated. "if it is possible! i patronize your cabbage of a café for five years, and now you put me off with your alreadys!" pasbeaucoup, his fingers still resting on the table, danced in embarrassment and rolled his eyes in a manner that plainly enough warned monsieur not to let his voice reach the caged lady. "i was but about to say that monsieur already owes us the trifling sum of----" "_sixty francs, twenty-five!_" the tone that announced these fateful numerals was so tremendous a contralto as to be really bass. it came from the wire cage and belonged to madame. pasbeaucoup sank into the nearest chair. he spread out his hands in a gesture that eloquently said: "now you've done it! i can't shield you any longer!" the debtor, albeit he was still a young man, did not appear unduly impressed. the table was across his knees, but he rose as far as it would permit and removed his hat with a flourish that sent a spray of water directly over madame's monument of hair. disregarding the blatant fact that she was quite the most remarkable feature of the room, he vowed that he had not observed her upon entering, was desolated because of his oversight and ravished now to have the pleasure of once more beholding her in all her accustomed grace and charm. madame shrugged her shoulders higher than the walls of the cage. "sixty francs, twenty-five," she said, without looking up from her task. ah, yes: his little account. monsieur recalled that: there was a little account; but, so truly as his name was seraphin and his passion art, what a marvelous head madame had for figures. it was of an exactitude magnificent! when he paused, madame said: "sixty francs, twenty-five." "but surely, madame----" seraphin dieudonné was politely amazed; he did not desire to credit her with an impoliteness, and yet she seemed to imply that, unless he paid this absurdly little sum, there might be some delay in serving him in this so excellent establishment. "_c'est ça_," said madame. "the delay will be entire." "incomprehensible!" seraphin put a bony hand to his heart. "do you not know--all the world of the _quartier_ knows--that i have, madame, but three days' work more upon my _magnum opus_--a week at the utmost--and that then it can sell for not a sou less than fifteen thousand francs?" madame's face never changed expression when she talked; it always seemed set at the only angle that would balance her monument of hair. she now said: "what all the world of the _quartier_ knows is that your last _magnum opus_ you sold to that simpleton fourget in the rue st. andré des arts; that even from him you could squeeze but a hundred francs for it; and that he has not yet been able to find a customer." at first seraphin seemed slow to credit the scorn that madame was at such pains to reveal. he made one valiant effort to overlook it, and failed; then he made an effort no less valiant to meet her with the ridiculous majesty in which he habitually draped himself. it was as if, unable to make her believe in him, he at least wanted her to believe that his long struggle with poverty and an indifferent public had served only to increase his confidence in his own genius and to rear between him and the world a wall through which the arrows of the scornful could hardly pass. but this attempt succeeded no more than its predecessor: as he half stood, half bent before this landlady of a fifth-rate café, a tardy pink crept up his white face and painted the skin over his cheek-bones; his eyelids fluttered, and his mouth worked. the man was hungry. "madeleine!" whispered pasbeaucoup, compassion for the debtor almost overcoming fear of the wife. seraphin wet his lips. "madame----" he began. "sixty francs, twenty-five," said madame. "_ca y est!_" as she said it, the door of the deux colombes opened and another patron, at once evidently a more welcome patron, presented himself. he was a plump little man with hands that were thinly at contrast with the rest of him. he was fairly well dressed, but far better fed, and so contented with his lot as to have no eye for the evident lot of seraphin. he was maurice houdon, who had decided some day to be a great composer and who meanwhile overcharged a few english and american pupils for lessons on the piano and borrowed money from any that would trust him. he stormed dieudonné, leaned over the intervening table and embraced him. "my dear friend!" he cried, his arms outflung, his fingers rattling rapid arpeggios upon invisible pianos. "you are indeed well found. i have news--such news!" he thrust back his head and warbled a laugh worthy of the mad-scene in _lucia_. "listen well." again he embraced the unresisting seraphin. "this night we dine here; we make a collation--a symposium: we feed both our bodies and our souls. i shall sit at the head of the table in the little room on the first floor, and you will sit at the foot. armand garnier will read his new poem; devignes will sing my latest song; philippe varachon and you will discourse on your arts; and i--perhaps i shall let you persuade me to play the fugue that i go to write for the death of the president: it is all but ready against the day that a president chooses to die." but seraphin's thoughts were fixed on the food for the body. "you make no jest with me, maurice?" "jest with you? i jest with you? no, my friend. i do not jest when i invite a guest to dine with me." "i comprehend," said dieudonné; "but who is to be the host?" at that question, pasbeaucoup rose from his chair, and madame, his wife, tried to thrust her nose, which was too short to reach, through the bars of her cage. the composer struck a chord on his breast and bowed. "true: the host," said he. "i had forgotten. i have found a veritable patron of my art. he has had the room above mine for two years, and i did not once before suspect him. he is an american of the united states." madame's contralto shook her prison bars: "there is no american that can appreciate art." "true, madame," admitted houdon, bowing profoundly; "there is no american that can appreciate art, and there is no american millionaire that can help patronizing it." "eh, he is a millionaire, then, this american?" demanded madame, audibly mollified. "he has that honor." "and his name?"--madame wanted to make a memorandum of that name. houdon struck another chord. it was as if he were sounding a fanfare for the entrance of his hero. "charles cartaret." he pronounced the first name in the french fashion and the second name "cartarette." seraphin's reply to this announcement rather spoiled its effect. he laughed, and his laughter was high and mocking. "cartaret!" he cried. "charlie cartaret! but i know him well." "eh?"--the composer was reproachful--"and you never presented him to me?" "it never happened that you were by." "my faith! why should i be? am i not houdon? you should have brought him to me. is it that you at the same time consider yourself my friend and do not bring to me your millionaire?" seraphin's laughter waxed. "but he is not my millionaire: he is your millionaire only. i know well that he is as poor as we are." the musician's imaginary melody ceased: one could almost hear it cease. he gazed at seraphin as he might have gazed at a madman. "but that room rents for a hundred francs a month!" "he is in debt for it." "and his name is that of a rich american well known." "an uncle who does not like him." "and he has offered to provide this collation." seraphin shrugged. "m. cartaret's credit," said he, with a glance at madame, "seems to be better than mine. i tell you he is only a young art-student, enough genteel, and the relation of a man enough rich, but for himself--poof!--he is one of us." chapter iii in which a fool and his money are soon parted money's the still sweet-singing nightingale.--herrick: _hesperides_. seraphin dieudonné told the truth: at that moment charlie cartaret--for all this, remember, preceded the coming of the vision--at that moment cartaret was seated in his room in the rue du val-de-grâce, wondering how he was to find his next month's rent. his trouble was that he had just sold a picture, for the first time in his life, and, having sold it, he had rashly engaged to celebrate that good fortune by a feast which would leave him with only enough to buy meals for the ensuing three weeks. he was a rather fine-looking, upstanding young fellow of a type essentially american. in the days, not long distant, when the goal at the other end of the gridiron had been the only goal of his ambition, he had put hard muscles on his hardy frame; later he had learned to shoot in arizona; and he even now would have looked more at home along broadway or halsted street than he did in the rue st. jacques or the boulevard st. michel. he was tow-haired and brown-eyed and clean-shaven; he was generally hopeful, which is another way of saying that he was still upon the flowered slope of twenty-five. cartaret had inherited his excellent constitution, but his family all suffered from one disease: the disease of too much money on the wrong side of the house. when oil was found in ohio, it was found in land belonging to his father's brother, but charlie's father remained a poor lawyer to the end of his days. uncle jack had children of his own and a deserved reputation for holding on to his pennies. he sent his niece to a finishing-school, where she could be properly prepared for that state of life to which it had not pleased heaven to call her, and he sent his nephew to college. when the former child was finished, he found her a place as companion to an ancient widow in toledo and dismissed her from his thoughts; when charlie was through with college--which is to say, when the faculty was through with him for endeavoring to plant a fraternity in a plot of academic soil that forbade the seed of greek-letter societies--he asked him what he intended to do now--and asked it in a tone that plainly meant: "what further disgrace are you planning to bring upon our name?" charlie replied that he wanted to be an artist. "i might have guessed it," said his uncle. "how long'll it take?" young cartaret, knowing something about art, had not the slightest idea. "well," said the by-product of petroleum, "if you've got to be an artist, be one as far away from new york as you can. they say paris is the best place to learn the business." "it is one of the best places," said charlie. the elder cartaret wrote a check. "take a boat to-morrow," he ordered. "i'll pay your board and tuition for two years: that's time enough to learn any business. after two years you'll have to make out for yourself." so charlie had worked hard for two years. that period ended a week ago, and his uncle's checks ended with it. he had stayed on and hoped. to-day he had carried a picture through the rain to seraphin's benefactor, the dealer fourget; and the soft-hearted fourget had bought it. cartaret, on his return, met houdon in the lower hall and before the american was well aware of it, he was pledged to the feast of which maurice was bragging to dieudonné. charlie dug into his pocket and fished out all that was in it: a matter of two hundred and ten francs. he counted it twice over. "no use," he said. "i can't make it any larger. i wonder if i ought to take a smaller room." certainly there was more room here than he wanted, but he had grown to love the place: even then, when he had still to see it in the rose-pink twilight of romance, in the afterglow that was a dawn--even then, before the apparition of the strange lady--he loved it as his sort of man must love the scenes of those struggles which have left him poor. its front windows opened upon the street full of student-life and gossip, its rear windows looked on a little garden that was pretty with the concierge's flowers all summer long and merry with the laughter of the concierge's children on every fair day the whole year round. the light was good enough, the location excellent; the service was no worse than the service in any similar house in paris. "but i have been a fool," said cartaret. he looked again at his money, and then he looked again about the room. the difference between a fool and a mere dilettante in folly is this: that the latter knows his folly as he indulges it, whereas the former recognizes it, if ever, only too late. "if i'd been able to study for only one year more," he said. it was the wail of retrospection that, sooner or later, every man, each in his own way and according to his chances and his character for seizing them, is bound to utter. it was what we all say and what, in saying, we each think unique. happy he that says it, and means it, in time to profit! "yes," said cartaret, "i've been a fool. but i won't be a quitter," he added. "i'll go and order that dinner." thus charles cartaret in the afternoon. he had put on a battered, broad-brimmed hat of soft black felt, which was picturesquely out of place above his american features, and a still more battered english rain-coat, which did not at all belong with the hat, and, thus fortified against the rain, he hurried into the hall. as he closed the door of his studio behind him, he fancied that he heard a sound from the room across from his own, and so stood listening, his hand upon the knob. "that's queer," he reflected. "i thought that room was still to let." he listened a moment longer, but the sound, if sound there had been, was not repeated, so he pulled his hat-brim over his eyes and descended to the street. the rain had lessened, but the fog held on, and the thoroughfares were wet and dismal. cartaret cut down the rue du val-de-grâce to the avenue de luxembourg and through the gardens with their dripping statues and around the museum, whence he crossed to the sheltered way between those bookstalls that cling like ivy to the walls of the odéon, and so, by the steep descent of the rue de tournon and the rue de seine, came to the rue jacob and the café des deux colombes. seraphin and maurice were still there. they received him as their separate natures dictated, the former with a restrained dignity, the latter with the dignity of a monarch so secure of his title that he can afford to condescend to an air of democracy. seraphin bowed; maurice embraced and, embracing, tapped the diatonic scale along cartaret's vertebræ. pasbeaucoup, in trembling obedience to a cryptic nod from the caged madame, hovered in the background. "i have come," said cartaret, whose french was the easy and inaccurate french of the american art-student, "to order that dinner." he half turned to pasbeaucoup, but houdon was before him. "it is done," announced the musician, as if announcing a favor performed. "i have relieved you of that tedium. we are to begin with an _hors-d'oeuvre_ of anchovies and----" madame had again nodded, this time less cryptically and more violently, at her husband, and pasbeaucoup, between twin terrors, timidly suggested: "monsieur cartaret comprehends that it is only because of the so high cost of necessities that it is necessary for us to request----" he stopped there, but the voice from the cage boomed courageously: "the payment in advance!" "a custom of the establishment," explained houdon grandly, but shooting a venomous glance in the direction of madame. seraphin came quietly from behind his table and, slipping a thin arm through cartaret's, drew him, to the speechless amazement of the other participants in this scene, toward the farthest corner of the café. "my friend," he whispered, "you must not do it." "eh?" said cartaret. "why not? it's a queer thing to be asked, but why shouldn't i do it?" seraphin hesitated. then, regaining the conquest over self, he put his lips so close to the american's ear that the frenchman's wagging wisps of whisker tickled his auditor's cheek. "this houdon is but a pleasant _coquin_," he confided. "he will suck from you the last sou's worth of your blood." cartaret smiled grimly. "he won't get a fortune by it," he said. "that is why i do not wish him to do it: i know well that you cannot afford these little dissipations. i do not wish to see my friend swindled by false friendship. houdon is a good boy, but, name of a name, he has the conscience of a pig!" "all right," said cartaret suddenly, for seraphin was appealing to a sense of economy still fresh enough to be sensitive, "since he's ordered the dinner, we'll let him pay for it." "alas," declared dieudonné, sadly shaking his long hair, "poor maurice has not the money." "oh!"--a gleam of gratitude lighted cartaret's blue eyes--"then you are proposing that you do it?" "my friend," inquired seraphin, flinging out his arms as a man flings out his arms to invite a search of his pockets, "you know me: how can i?" cartaret blushed at his ineptitude. he knew dieudonné well enough to have been aware of his poverty and liked him well enough to be tender toward it. "but," he nevertheless pardonably inquired, "if that's the way the thing stands, who's to pay? one of the other guests?" "we are all of the same financial ability." "then i don't see----" "nor do i. and"--seraphin's high resolution clattered suddenly about his ears--"after all, the dinner has been ordered, and i am very hungry. my friend," he concluded with a happy return of his dignity, "at least i have done you this service: you will buy the dinner, but you will not both buy it and be deceived." cartaret turned, with a smile no longer grim, to the others. "seraphin," he said, "has persuaded me. madame, _l'addition_, if you please." pasbeaucoup trotted to the cage, bringing back to cartaret the long slip of paper that madame had ready for him. cartaret glanced at only the total and, though he flushed a little, paid without comment. "and now," suggested houdon, "now let us play a little game of dominoes." seraphin, from the musician's shoulder, frowned hard at cartaret, but cartaret was in no mood to heed the warning. he was angry at himself for his extravagance and decided that, having been such a fool as to fling away a great deal of his money, he might now as well be a greater fool and fling it all away. besides, he might be able to win from houdon, and, even if houdon could not pay, there would be the satisfaction of revenge. so he sat down at one of the marble-topped tables and began, with a great clatter, to shuffle the dominoes that obsequious pasbeaucoup hurriedly fetched. within two hours, seraphin was head over ears in the musician's debt, and the american was paying into houdon's palm all but about ten francs of the money that he had so recently earned. he rose smilingly. "you do not go?" inquired houdon. cartaret nodded. "but the dinner?" "don't you worry; i'll be back for that--i don't know when i'll get another." "then permit me," houdon condescended, "to order a bock. for the three of us." he generously included the hungry seraphin. "come, we shall drink to your better fortune next time." but cartaret excused himself. he said that he had an engagement with a dealer, which was not true, and which was understood to be false, and he went into the street. the last of the rain, unnoticed during cartaret's fevered play, had passed, and a red february sun was setting across the seine, behind the higher ground that lies between l'etoile and the place du trocadero. the river was hidden by the point of land that ends in the quai d'orsay, but, as cartaret crossed the broad rue de vaugirard, he could see the golden afterglow and, silhouetted against it, the high filaments of the eiffel tower. what an ass he had been, he bitterly reflected, as he passed again through the luxembourg gardens, where now the statues glistened in the fading light of the dying afternoon. what a mad ass! if a single stroke of almost pathetically small good luck made such a fool of him, it was as well that his uncle and not his father had come into a fortune. his thought went back with a new tenderness to his father and to his own and his sister cora's early life in that small ohio town. he had hated the dull routine and narrow conventionality of the place. there the most daring romance of youth had been to walk with the daughter of a neighbor along the shaded streets in the summer evenings, and to hang over the gate to the front yard of the house in which she lived, tremblingly hinting at a delicious tenderness, which one never dared more adequately to express, until a threatening parental voice called the girl to shelter. his life, since those days, had been more stirring, and sometimes more to be regretted; but he had loved it and thought it absurd sentiment on cora's part to insist that their tiny income go to keeping up the little property--the three-story brick house and wide front and back-yard along main street--which had been their home. yet now he felt, and was half ashamed of feeling, a strong desire to go back there, a pull at his heartstrings for a return to all that he was once so anxious to quit forever. he wondered if it could be possible that he was tired of paris. he even wondered if it were possible that he could not be a successful artist--he had never wanted to be a rich one--whether the sensible course would not be to go home and study law while there was yet time.... and then---- then, in the rose-pink twilight, the beginning of the dream wonderful: that scent of the roses from the sky; that quick memory of sunlight upon snow-crests; that first revelation of the celestial lady transfiguring the earthly commonplace of his room! chapter iv a damsel in distress ... adowne they prayd him sit, and gave him for to feed. --spenser: _faerie queene_. charlie cartaret would have told you--indeed, he frequently did tell his friends--that the mere fact of a man being an artist was no proof that he lacked in the uncommon sense commonly known as common. cartaret was quite insistent upon this and, as evidence in favor of his contention, he was accustomed to point to c. cartaret, esq. he, said cartaret, was at once an artist and a practical man: it was wholly impossible, for instance, to imagine him capable of any silly romance. nevertheless, when left alone in his room by the departure of the lady on that february evening, he sat for a long time with the strange rose between his fingers and a strange look in his eyes. he regarded the rose until the last ray of light had altogether faded from the west. only then did he recall that he had invited sundry persons to dine with him at the café des deux colombes, and when he had made ready to go to them, the rose was still in his reluctant hand. cartaret looked about him stealthily. he had been in the room for some hours and he should have been thoroughly aware that he was alone in it; but he looked, as all guilty men do, to right and left to make sure. then, like a naughty child, he turned his back to the street-window. he stood thus a bare instant, yet in that instant his hand first raised something toward his lips, and then bestowed that same something somewhere inside his waistcoat, a considerable distance from his heart, but directly over the rib beneath which ill-informed people believe the heart to be. this accomplished, he exhibited a rigorously practical face to the room and swaggered out of it, ostentatiously humming a misogynistic drinking-song: "there's nothing, friend, 'twixt you and me except the best of company. (there's just one bock 'twixt you and me, and i'll catch up full soon!) what woman's lips compare to this: this sturdy seidel's frothy kiss----" armand garnier, one of the men that were to dine with cartaret to-night, had written the words of which this is a free translation, and houdon had composed the air--he composed it impromptu for devignes over an absinthe, after laboring upon it in secret for an entire week--but cartaret, when he reached the note that stood for the last word here given, came to an abrupt stop; he was facing the door of the room opposite his own. he continued facing it for quite a minute, but he heard nothing. "m. refrogné," he said, when he thrust his head into the concierge's box downstairs, "if--er--if anybody should inquire for me this evening, you will please tell them that i am dining at the café des deux colombes." nothing could be seen in the concierge's box, but from it came a grunt that might have been either assent or dissent. "yes," said cartaret, "in the rue jacob." again the ambiguous grunt. "exactly," cartaret agreed; "the café des deux colombes, in the rue jacob, close by the rue bonaparte. you--you're quite sure you won't forget?" the grunt changed to an ugly chuckle, and, after the chuckle, an ugly voice said: "monsieur expects something unusual: he expects an evening visitor?" "confound it, no!" snapped cartaret. he had been wildly hoping that perhaps the girl might need some aid or direction that evening and might seek it of him. "not at all," he pursued, "but you see----" "how then?" inquired the voice. cartaret's hand went to his pocket and drew forth one of the few franc-pieces that remained there. "just, please, remember what i've said," he requested. in the darkness of the box into which it was extended, his hand was grasped by a larger and rougher hand, and the franc was deftly extracted. "_merci, monsieur._" a barely appreciable softening of the tone encouraged cartaret. he balanced himself from foot to foot and asked: "those people--the ones, you understand, that have rented the room opposite mine?" refrogné understood but truly. "well--in short, who are they, monsieur?" "who knows?" asked refrogné in the darkness. cartaret could feel him shrug. "i rather thought you might," he ventured. the darkness was silent; a good concierge answers questions, not general statements. "where--don't you know where they come from?" there was speech once more. refrogné, it said, neither knew nor cared. in the rue du val de grâce people continually came and went--all manner of people from all manner of places--so long as they paid their rent, it was no concern of refrogné's. for all the information that he possessed, the two people of whom monsieur inquired might be natives of cochin-china. mademoiselle evidently wanted to be an artist, as scores of other young women, and madame, her guardian and sole companion, evidently wanted mademoiselle to be nothing at all. there were but two of them, thank god! the younger spoke much french with an accent terrible; the elder understood french, but spoke only some pig of a language that no civilized man could comprehend. that was all that refrogné had to tell. cartaret went on toward the scene of his dinner-party. he wished he did not have to go. on the other hand, he was sure he had thrown refrogné a franc to no purpose: the lady of the rose was little likely to seek him! he found the evening cold and his rain-coat inadequate. he began humming the drinking-song again. they were singing it outright, in a full chorus, when he entered the little room on the first floor of the café des deux colombes. the table was already spread, the feast already started. the unventilated room was flooded with light and full of the steam of hot viands. maurice houdon, his red cheeks shining, his black mustache stiffly waxed, sat at the head of the table as he had promised to do, performing the honors with a regal grace and playing imaginary themes with every flourish of address to every guest: a different theme for each. on his right was a vacant place, the sole apparent reference to the host of the evening; on his left, armand garnier, the poet, very thin and cadaverous, with long dank locks and tangled beard, his skin waxen, his lantern-jaw emitting no words, but working lustily upon the food. next to cartaret's place bobbed the pear-shaped devignes, leading the chorus, as became the only professional singer in the company. across from him was philippe varachon, the sculptor, whose nose always reminded cartaret of an antique and long lost bit of statuary, badly damaged in exhumation; and at the foot seraphin was seated, the first to note cartaret's arrival and the only one to apologize for not having delayed the dinner. he got up immediately, and his whiskers tickled the american's cheek with the whisper: "it was ready to serve, and madame swore that it would perish. my faith, what would you?" pasbeaucoup was darting among the guests, wiping fresh plates with a napkin and his dripping forehead with his bare hand. cartaret felt certain that the little man would soon confuse the functions of the two. "ah-h-h!" cried houdon. he rose from his place and endeavored to restore order by beating with a fork upon an empty tumbler, as an orchestral conductor taps his baton--at the same time nodding fiercely at pasbeaucoup to refill the tumbler with red wine. he was the sole member of the company not long known to their host, but he said: "messieurs, i have the happiness to present to you our distinguished american fellow-student, m. charles cartar_ette_. be seated among us, m. cartarette," he graciously added; "pray be seated." cartaret sat down in the place kindly reserved for him, and the interruption of his appearance was so politely forgotten that he wished he had not been such a fool as to make it. the song was resumed. it was not until the salad was served and pasbeaucoup had retired below-stairs to assist in preparing the coffee, that houdon turned again to cartaret and executed what was clearly to be the cartaret theme. "we had despaired of your arrival, monsieur," said he. cartaret said he had observed signs of something of the sort. "truly," nodded houdon. his tongue rolled a ball of salad into his cheek and out of the track of speech. "doubtless you had the one living excuse, however." "i don't follow you," said cartaret. houdon leered. his fingers performed on the table-cloth something that might have been the _motif_ of isolde. "i have heard," said he, "your american proverb that there are but two adequate excuses for tardiness at dinner--death and a lady--and i am charmed, monsieur, to observe that you are altogether alive." if cartaret's glance indicated that he would like to throttle the composer, cartaret's glance did not misinterpret. "we won't discuss that, if you please," said he. but houdon was incapable of understanding such glances in such a connection. he tapped for the attention of his orchestra and got it. "messieurs," he announced, "our good friend of the america of the north has been having an adventure." everybody looked at cartaret and everybody smiled. "delicious," squeaked varachon through his broken nose. "superb," trilled the pear-shaped singer devignes. garnier's lantern-jaws went on eating. seraphin dieudonné caught cartaret's glance imploringly and then shifted, in ineffectual warning, to houdon. "but that was only what was to be expected, my children," the musician continued. "what can we poor frenchmen look for when a blond hercules of an american comes, rich and handsome, to our dear paris? only to-day i observed, renting an abode in the house that monsieur and i have the honor to share, a young mademoiselle, the most gracious and beautiful, accompanied by a _tuteur_, the most ferocious; and i noted well that they went to inhabit the room but across the landing from that of m. cartarette. behold all! at once i said to myself: 'alas, how long will it be before this confiding----'" he stopped short and looked at cartaret, for cartaret had grasped the performing hand of the composer and, in a steady grip, forced it quietly to the table. "i tell you," said cartaret, gently, "that i don't care to have you talk in this strain." "how then?" blustered the amazed musician. "if you go on," cartaret warned him, "you will have to go on from the floor; i'll knock you there." "maurice!" cried seraphin, rising from his chair. "messieurs!" piped devignes. varachon growled at houdon, and garnier reached for a water-bottle as the handiest weapon of defense. houdon and cartaret were facing each other, erect, each waiting for the other to make a further move, the former red, the latter white, with anger. there followed that flashing pause of quiet which is the precursor of battle. the battle, however, was not forthcoming. instead, through the silence, there came a roar of voices that diverted the attention of even the chief combatants. it was a roar of voices from the café below: a heavy rumble that was unmistakably madame's and a clatter of unintelligible shrieks and demands that were feminine but unclassifiable. now one voice shouted and next the other. then the two joined in a mighty explosion, and little pasbeaucoup was shot up the stairs and among the diners as if he were the first rock from the crater of an emptying volcano. he staggered against the table and jolted the water-bottle out of the poet's hand. "name of a name!" he gasped. "she is a veritable tigress, that woman there!" they had no time then to inquire whom he referred to, though they knew that, however justly he might think it, he would never, even in terror like the present, say such a thing of his wife. the words were no sooner free of his lips than a larger rock was vomited from the volcano, and a still larger, the largest rock of the three, came immediately after. everybody was afoot now. they saw that pasbeaucoup cowered against the wall in a fear terrible because it was greater than his fear for madame; they saw that madame, who was the third rock, was clinging to the apron-strings of another woman, who was rock number two, and they saw that this other woman was a stocky figure, who carried in her hand a curious, wide head-dress, and who wore a parti-colored apron that began over her ample breasts and ended by brushing against her equally ample boots, and a black skirt of simple stuff and extravagant puffs, surmounted by a short-skirted blouse or basque of the same material. her face was round and wrinkled like a last winter's apple on the kitchen-shelf; but her eyes shone red, her hands beat the air vigorously, and from her lips poured a lusty torrent of sounds that might have been protestations, appeals or curses, yet were certainly, considered as words, nothing that any one present had ever heard before. she ran forward; madame ran forward. the stranger shouldered madame; madame dragged her back. the stranger cried out more of her alien phrases; madame shouted french denunciations. the gallic diners formed a grinning circle, eager to lose no detail of the sort of wrangle that a frenchman loves best to watch: a wrangle between women. cartaret made his way through the ring and put his hand on the stranger's shoulder. she seemed to understand, and relapsed into quiet, attentive but alert. "now," said cartaret, "one at a time, please. madame, what is the trouble?" "trouble?" roared madame. her face did not change expression, but she held her arms akimbo, pug-nose and strong chin poked defiantly at the strange interloper. "you may well say it, trouble!" she put her position strongly and at length. she had been in the _caisse_, with no one of the world in the café, when, crying barbarous threats incomprehensible, this she-bandit, this--this _anarchiste infâme_, had burst in from the street, disrupting the peace of the deux colombes and endangering its well-known quiet reputation with the police. that was the gist of it. when it was delivered, cartaret faced the stranger. "and you, madame?" he asked, in french. the stranger strode forward as a pugilist steps from his corner for the round that he expects to win the fight for him. she clapped her wide head-dress upon her head, where it settled itself with a rakish tilt. "holy pipe!" cried houdon. "in that i recognize her. it is the ferocious _tuteur_!" cartaret's interest became tense. "what did you want here?" he urged, still speaking french. the stranger said, twice over, something that sounded like "kar-kar-tay." "she is mad," squeaked varachon. "she is worse; she is german," vowed madame. cartaret raised his hand to silence these contentions. "do you understand me?" he urged. the wide head-dress flapped a vehement assent. "but you can't answer?" the head-dress fluttered a negative, and the mouth mumbled a negative in a french so thick, hesitant and broken as to be infinitely less expressive than the shake of the head. cartaret remembered what the concierge refrogné had told him. to the circle of curious people he explained: "she can understand a little french, but she cannot speak it." madame snorted. "why then does she come to this place so respectable if she cannot talk like a christian?" "because," said cartaret, "she evidently thought she would be intelligently treated." it was clear to him that she would not have come had her need not been desperate. he made another effort to discover her nationality. "who of you speaks something besides french?" he asked of the company. not madame; not seraphin or houdon: they were ardent parisians and of course knew no language but their own. as for garnier, as a french poet and a native of the pure-tongued tours, he would not have soiled his lips with any other speech had he known another. varachon, it turned out, was from the jura, and had picked up a little swiss-german during a youthful _liaison_ at pontarlier. he tried it now, but the stranger only shook her head-dress at him. "she knows no german," said varachon. "such german!" sniffed houdon. "chut! this proves rather that she knows it too well," grumbled madame. "she but wishes to conceal it; probably she is a german spy." devignes said he knew italian, and he did seem to know a sort of opera-italian, but it, too, was useless. cartaret had an inspiration. "spanish!" he suggested. "does any one know any spanish?" pasbeaucoup did; he knew two or three phrases--chiefly relating to prices on the menu of the deux colombes--but to him also the awful woman only shook her head in ignorance. cartaret took up the french again. "can you not tell me what you want here?" he pleaded. "kar-kar-tay," said the stranger. "ah!" cried seraphin, clapping his hands. "does not houdon say that she makes her abode in the same house that you make yours? she seeks you, monsieur. 'kar-kar-tay,' it is her manner of endeavoring to say cartar_ette_." at the sound of that name, the stranger nodded hard. "_oui, oui!_" she cried. she understood that her chief inquisitor was cartaret, and it was indeed cartaret that she sought. she flung herself on her knees to him. when he hurriedly raised her, she caught at the skirt of his coat and nearly pulled it from him in an attempt to drag him to the stairs. cartaret looked sharply at houdon. the musician having been so recently saved from the wrath of his host, was momentarily discreet: he hid his smile behind one of the thin bands that contrasted so sharply with his plump cheeks. "messieurs," said cartaret, "i am going with this lady." they all edged forward. "and i am going alone," added the american. "i wish you good-night." "you will be knifed in the street," said madame. her tone implied: "and it will serve you right." none of the others seemed to mind his going; the wrangle over, they were ready for their coffee and liqueurs. houdon was frankly relieved. only seraphin protested. "and you will leave your dinner unfinished?" he cried. cartaret was taking his hat and rain-coat from the row of pegs on the wall where, among the other guests', he had hung them when he entered. he nodded his answer to seraphin's query. "leave your dinner?" said seraphin. "but my god, it is paid for!" "good-night," said cartaret, and was plunged down the stairs by the strangely-garbed woman tugging at his hand. chapter v which tells how cartaret returned to the rue du val-de-grÂce, and what he found there la timidité est un grand péché contre l'amour.--anatole france: _la rotisserie de la reine pédauque_. if that strange old woman in the rakish head-dress was in a hurry, cartaret, you may be sure, was in no mood for tarrying by the way. he left the café des deux colombes, picturing the girl of the rose desperately ill, and he was resolved not only to be the first to come to her aid, but to have none of the restaurant's suspicious company for a companion. then, no sooner had he passed through the empty room on the ground-floor of mme. pasbeaucoup's establishment and gone a few steps toward the rue de seine, than he began to fear that perhaps the house to which he was apparently being conducted--the girl's house and his own--had taken fire; or that the cause of the duenna's mission was some like misfortune which would be better remedied, so far as the girl's interests were concerned, if there were more rescuers than one. "what is the matter?" he begged his guide to inform him, as they hurried through the darkened streets. his guide lifted both hands to her face. "is mademoiselle ill?" the duenna shook her head in an emphatic negative. "the place isn't on fire?" his tone was one of petition, as if, should he pray hard enough, she might avert the catastrophe he now dreaded; or as if, by touching her sympathies, he could release some hidden spring of intelligible speech. the old woman, however, only shook her head again and hurried on. cartaret was glad to find that she possessed an agility impossible for a city-bred woman of her apparent age, and he was still more relieved when they reached their lodging-house and discovered it in apparently the same condition as that in which he had left it. their ascent of the stairs was like a race--a race ending in a dead-heat. at the landing, cartaret turned, of course, toward his neighbor's door; to his amazement, the old woman pulled him to his own. he opened it and struck a match: the room was empty. he held the match until it burnt his fingers. the old woman pushed him toward his table, on which stood a battered lamp. she pointed to the lamp. "but your mistress?" asked cartaret. the duenna pointed to the lamp. "shall i light it?" she nodded. he lit the lamp. the flame grew until it illuminated a small circle about the table. "now what?" cartaret inquired. again that odd gesture toward the nose and mouth. "i don't understand," said cartaret. she picked up the lamp and made as if to search the floor for something. then she held out the lamp to him. "oh"--it began to dawn on cartaret--"you've lost something?" "_oui, oui!_" he took the lamp, and they both fell on their knees. together they began a minute inspection of the dusty floor. cartaret's mind was more easy now: at least his lady suffered no physical distress. "it's like a sort of religious ceremony," muttered the american, as, foot by foot, they crawled and groped over the grimy boards.... "was it money you lost?" he inquired. no, it was not money. the search continued. cartaret crawled under the divan, while the duenna held the cover high to admit the light. he blackened his hands in the fire-place and transferred a little of the soot to his few extra clothes that hung behind the corner curtain--but only a little; most of the soot preferred his hands. "i never knew before that the room was so large," he gasped. they had covered two-thirds of the floor-space when a new thought struck him. still crouching on his knees, he once more tried his companion. "i can't find it," he said; "but i'd give a good deal to know what i'm looking for. what were you doing in here when you lost it, anyway?" she shook her head, with her hand on her breast. then she pointed to the door and nodded. "you mean your mistress lost it?" "_oui._" "well, then, let's get her. she can tell me what i'm after." he half rose; but the woman seized his arm. she broke into loud sounds, patently protestations. "nonsense," said cartaret. "why not? come on; i'll knock at her door." the duenna would not have her mistress disturbed. the ancient voice rose to a shriek. "but i say yes." the shriek grew louder. with amazing strength, the old woman forced his unsuspecting body back to its former position; she came near to jolting the lamp from his hand. it was then that cartaret heard a lesser noise behind them: a voice, the low sweet voice of the rose-lady, asked, in the duenna's strange tongue, a question from the doorway. cartaret turned his head. she was standing there in the dim light, a sort of kimono gathered about her, her sandaled feet peeping from its lower folds, the lovely arm that held the curious dressing-gown in place bare to the elbow. she was smiling at the answer that her guardian had already given her; cartaret thought her even more beautiful than when he had seen her before. the duenna had scuttled forward on her knees and, amid a series of cries, was pressing the hem of the kimono to her lips. the girl's free hand was raising the petitioner. "i am sorry that you have been disturbed by chitta," she was saying. cartaret understood then that he was addressed. moreover, he became conscious that he was by no means at his best on his knees, with his clothes even more rumpled than usual, his hands black and, probably, his face no better. he scrambled to his feet. "it's been no trouble," he said awkwardly. "i should say that it had been a good deal," said the girl. "chitta is so very superstitious. did you find it?" "no," said cartaret. "at least i don't think so." the girl puckered her pretty brow. "i mean," explained cartaret, coming nearer, but thankful that he had left the lamp on the floor behind him, whence its light would least reveal his soiled hands and face--"i mean that i haven't the least idea what i was looking for." the girl burst into rippling laughter. "not the least," pursued the emboldened american. "you see, i left word with refrogné--that's the concierge--that i was dining with some friends at the deux colombes--that's a café--when i went out; and i suppose she--i mean your--your maid, isn't it?--made him understand that she--i mean your maid again--wanted me--you know, i don't generally leave word; but this time i thought that perhaps you--i mean she--or, anyhow, i had an idea----" he knew that he was making a fool of himself, so he was glad when she came serenely to his assistance and gallantly shifted the difficulty to her own shoulders. "it was too bad of chitta to take you away from your dinner." chitta had slunk into the shadows, but cartaret could descry her glaring at him. "that was of no consequence," he said; he had forgotten what the dinner cost him. "but, sir, for a reason of so great an absurdity!" she put one hand on the table and leaned on it. "i must tell you that there is in my country a superstition----" she hesitated. cartaret, his heart leaping, leaned forward. "what is your country, mademoiselle?" he asked. she did not seem to hear that. she went on: "it is really a superstition so much absurd that i am slow to speak to you of it. they believe, our peasants, that it brings good luck when they take it with them across our borders; that only it can ensure their return, and that, if it is lost, they will never come back to their home-land." her blue eyes met his gaze. "they, sir, love their home-land." cartaret was certain that the land which could produce this presence, at once so human and so spiritual, was well worth loving. he wanted to say so, but another glance at her serene face checked any impulse that might seem impertinent. "i, too, love my country, although i am not superstitious," the girl pursued, "so i had brought it with me from my country. i brought it with me to paris, and i lost it. we go early to sleep, the people of my race; i had not missed it when i went to bed; but then chitta missed it; and i told her that i thought that i had perhaps dropped it here. she ran before i could recall her--and i fell straightway asleep. she tells me that she had seen you go out, sir, and that she went to the concierge, as you supposed, to discover where you had gone, for she thought, she says, that your door was locked." the corners of the girl's mouth quivered in a smile. "i trust that she would not have trespassed when you were gone, even if your door _was_ open. until i heard her shriek but now, i had no idea that she would pursue you. i regret for your sake that she disturbed you, but i also regret for her sake that it was not found." cartaret had guessed the answer to his question before he asked it. his cheeks burned for the consequences, but he put the query: "what was lost?" he inquired. "ah, i thought that i had said it: a flower." "a--a rose?" the hand that held her kimono pressed a little closer to her breast. "then you have found it?" mountain-peaks and glaciers in the sun: cartaret, being a practical man, was distinctly aware of not wanting her to know the present whereabouts of that flower. he fenced for time. "was it a rose?" he repeated. "yes," she said, "the azure rose." "what?" perhaps, after all, he was wrong. "i've never heard of a blue rose." "it is not blue," she said; "we call it the azure rose as you, sir, would say the rose of azure, or the rose of heaven. we call it the azure rose because it grows only in our own land, where the mountains are blue, and only high, high up on those mountains, near to the blue of the sky. it is a white rose." "yes. of course," said cartaret. "a white rose." he stood uncertainly before her. for a reason that he would have hesitated long to define, he hated to part with that rose; for a reason concerning which he was quite clear, he did not want to produce it there and then. "you have it?" asked the girl. "er--do you want it?" countered cartaret. a shade of impatience crossed her face. she tried to master it. "i gather from your speech that you, sir, are american, not english. you are the first american that ever i have met, and i do not seem well to understand the motives of all that you say, although i do understand perfectly the words. you ask do i want this rose. but of course i want it! have i not asked for it? i want it because chitta will be distressed if we lose it, but also i want it for myself, to whom it belongs, since it is a souvenir already dear to me." her face was alight. cartaret looked at it; then his glance fell. "i'm sorry," he said. "i didn't mean to offend you. i'm forever putting my foot in things." "you have trodden on my rose?" her voice discovered her dismay. "no, no! i wouldn't--i couldn't. i meant that i was always making mistakes. this afternoon, for instance--and now----" to the rescue of his embarrassment came the thought that indeed he obviously could not tread on the rose, unless he were a contortionist, because the rose was---- among the smudges of black, his cheeks burned a hot red. he thrust a hand between his shirt and waistcoat and produced the coveted flower: a snow-rose in the center of his grimy palm. again the perfume, subtle, haunting. again the pure mountain-peaks. again the music of a poem in a tongue unknown.... at first he did not dare to look at her; he kept his gaze lowered. had he looked, he would have seen her wide eyes startle, then change to amusement, and then to a doubting tenderness. he felt her delicate fingers touch his palm and he thrilled at the touch as she recaptured her rose. he did not see that, in welcome to the returned prodigal, she started to raise to her own lips those petals, gathered so tight against the flower's heart, which he had lately kissed. when at last he glanced up, she had recovered her poise and was again looking like some sculptured artemis that had wandered into his lonely room from the gardens of the luxembourg. then he saw a much more prosaic thing. he saw the hand that held the rose and saw it discolored. "will you ever forgive me?" he cried. "you've been leaning on my table, and i mix my paints on it!" the speech was not precisely pellucid, but she followed his eyes to the hand and understood. "the fault was mine," she said. cartaret was searching among the tubes and bottles on the table. he searched so nervously that he knocked some of them to the floor. "if you'll just wait a minute." he found the bottle he wanted. "and if you don't mind the turpentine.... it smells terribly, but it will evaporate soon, and it cleans you up before you know it." he lifted one of the rags that lay about, and then another. he discarded both as much too soiled, hesitated, ran to the curtained corner and returned with a clean towel. she had hidden the flower. she extended her hand. "do you mind?" he asked. "do i object? no. you are kind." he took the smudged hand--took it with a hand that trembled--and bent his smudged face so close to it that she must have felt his breath beating on it, hot and quick. he made two dabs with the end of the towel. chitta, whom they had both sadly neglected, pounced upon them from her lair among the shadows. she seized the hand and, jabbering fifty words in the time for two, pushed cartaret from his work. "i'm not going to hurt anybody," said cartaret. "do, please, get away." the girl laughed. "chitta trusts no foreigners," she explained. she spoke to chitta, but chitta, glowering at cartaret, shook her head and grumbled. "i do not any more desire to order her about," said the girl to cartaret. "already this evening i have wounded her feelings, i fear. she says she will allow none but herself to minister to me. you, sir, will forgive her? after all, it is her duty." cartaret inwardly cursed chitta's fidelity. what he said was: "of course." he knew that just here he might say something gallant, and that he would think of that something an hour hence; but he could not think of it now. the girl touched the turpentine bottle. "and may we take it to our room?" "eh? oh, certainly," said cartaret. she held out her hand, the palm lowered. "good-night," she said. cartaret's heart bounded: this time she had not said "good-by." he seized the hand. chitta growled, and he released it with a conventional handshake. the girl smiled. "ah, yes," she said; "this afternoon it puzzled me, but now i recollect: you americans, sir, shake one's hand, do you not?" she was gone, and glowering chitta with her, before he could answer. cartaret stood where she had left him, his brows knitted. he heard chitta double-lock the door to their rooms. he was thinking thoughts that his brain was not accustomed to. it was some time before they became more familiar. then he gasped: "i wonder if my face is dirty!" he took the lamp and sought the sole mirror that his room boasted. his face was dirty. "damn!" said cartaret. down in the narrow street, an uncertain chorus was singing: "there's nothing, friend, 'twixt you and me except the best of company. (there's just one bock 'twixt you and me, and i'll catch up full soon!) what woman's lips compare to this: this sturdy seidel's frothy kiss----" his guests were coming to seek him. they had remembered him at last. cartaret's mind, however, was busy with other matters. he had not thought of the gallant thing that he might have said to the girl, but he had thought of something equally surprising. "gee whiz!" he cried. "i understand now--it's probably the custom of her country: she expected me to kiss her hand. kiss her hand--and i missed the chance!" chapter vi cartaret sets up housekeeping que de femmes il y a dans une femme! et c'est bien heureux.--dumas, fils: _la dame aux perles_. cartaret did not see the lady of the rose next day, though his work suffered sadly through the worker's jumping from before his easel at the slightest sound on the landing, running to his door, and sometimes himself going to the hall and standing there for many minutes, trying, and not succeeding, to look as if he had just come in, or were just going out, on business of the first importance. he concluded, for the hundredth time, that he was a fool; but he persevered in his folly. he asked himself why he should feel such an odd interest in an unknown girl practically alone in paris; but he found no satisfactory answer. he declared that it was madness in him to suppose that she could want ever to see him again, and madness to suppose that a penniless failure had anything to gain by seeing her; but he continued to try. on the night following the first day of his watch, cartaret went to bed disappointed and slept heavily. on the second night he went to bed worried, and dreamed of scaling a terrible mountain in quest of a flower, and of falling into a hideous chasm just as the flower turned into a beautiful woman and smiled at him. on the third night, he surrendered to acute alarm and believed that he did not sleep at all. the morning of the fourth day found him knocking on the panel of that magic door opposite. chitta opened the door a crack, growled, and shut it in his face. "i wonder," reflected cartaret, "what would be the best means of killing this old woman. i wonder if the hyena would eat candy sent her by mail." he had been watching, all the previous day, for the lady of the rose to go out, and she did not leave her room. now it occurred to him to watch for chitta's exit on a forage foray and to renew his attack during her absence. this he accomplished. from a front window, he had no sooner seen the duenna swing into the rue du val de grâce, with her head-dress bobbing and a shopping-net on her arm, than he was again knocking at the door across the landing. he knew now, did cartaret, that, on whatever landing of life he had lived, there was always that door opposite, the handle of which he had never dared to turn, the key to which he had never yet found. he knew, on this morning--a clear, windy morning, for march had come in like a lion--that, for the door of every heart in the world, or high or low, or cruel or tender, there is a heart opposite with a door not inaccessible. the pale yellow sun sang of it: marvelous door opposite!--it seemed to sing--how, when they pass that portal, the commonplace becomes the unusual and reality is turned into romance. lead becomes silver then, and copper--gold. magical door opposite! all the possibilities of life--aye, and what is better, all life's impossibilities--are behind you, and all life's fears and hopes before. all our young dreams, our mature ambitions, our old regrets, curl in incense from our brains and struggle to pass that keyhole. unhappy he for whom the door never opens; more unhappy, often, he for whom it does open; but most unhappy he who never sees that it is there: the door across the landing. cartaret knocked as if he were knocking at the gate of paradise, and, perhaps again as if he were knocking at the gate of paradise, he got no answer. he knocked a second time and heard the rustle of a woman's skirt. "who is there?"--she spoke in french now, but he would have known her voice had she talked the language of grand street. "cartaret," he answered. she opened the door. a ray of light beat its way through a grimy window in the hall to welcome her--cartaret was sure that no light had passed that window for years and years--and rested on the beauty of her pure face, her calm eyes, her blue-black hair. "good morning," said the lady of the rose. it sounded wonderful to him. when _he_ replied "good morning"--and could think of nothing else to say--the phrase sounded less remarkable. she waited a moment. she looked a little doubtful. she said: "you perhaps wanted chitta?" were her eyes laughing? her lips were serious, but he was uncertain of her eyes. "certainly not," said he. "oh, you wanted me?" "yes!" said cartaret, and blushed at the vehemence of the monosyllable. "why?" for what, indeed, had he come there? he vividly realized that he should have prepared some excuse; but, having prepared none, he could offer only the truth--or so much of it as seemed expedient. "i wanted to see if you were all right," he said. "but certainly," she smiled. "i thank you, sir; but, yes, i am--all right." she said no more; cartaret felt as if he could never speak again. however, speak he must. "well, you know," he said, "i hadn't seen you anywhere about, and i was rather worried." "chitta takes of me the best care." "yes, but, you see, i didn't know and i--oh, yes: i wanted to see whether that turpentine worked." "the turpentine!" all suspicion of amusement fled her eyes: she was contrite. "i comprehend. how careless of chitta not at once to have returned it to you." turpentine! what a nectar for romance! cartaret made a face that could not have been worse had he swallowed some of the liquid. he tried to protest, but she did not heed him. instead, she left him standing there while she went to hunt for that accursed bottle. in five minutes she had found it, returned it, thanked him and sent him back to his own room, no further advanced in her acquaintance than when he knocked at her door. she had laughed at him. he returned fiercely to his work, convinced that she had been laughing at him all the while. very well: what did he care? he would forget her. he concentrated all his thoughts upon the idea of forgetting the lady of the rose. in order to assist his purpose, he set a new canvas on his easel and fell to work to make a portrait of her as she should be and was not. the contrast would help him, and the plan was cheap, because it needed no model. by the next afternoon he had completed the portrait of a beautiful woman with a white rose at her throat. it was quite his best piece of work, and an excellent likeness of the girl in the room opposite. he saw that it was a likeness and thought of painting it out, but it would be a pity to destroy his best work, so he merely put it aside. he decided to paint a purely imaginative figure. he squeezed out some paints, almost at haphazard, and began painting in that mood. after forty-eight hours of this sort of thing, he had produced another picture of the same woman in another pose. in more ways than one, cartaret's position was growing desperate. his money was almost gone. he must paint something that fourget, or some equally kind-hearted dealer, would buy, and these two portraits he would not offer for sale. telling himself that it was only to end his obsession, he tried twice again to see the lady of the rose, who was now going out daily to some master's class, and each time he gained nothing by his attempt. first, she would not answer his knock, though he could hear her moving about and knew that she must have heard him crossing the hall from his own room and be aware of her caller's identity. on the next occasion, he waited for her at the corner of the boul' miche' when he knew that she would be returning from the class, and was greeted by nothing save a formal bow. so he had to force himself to pot-boilers by sheer determination, and finally turned out something that then seemed poor enough for fourget to like. houdon came in and found him putting on the finishing touches. the plump musician, frightened by his impudence, had stopped below at his own room on the night of the dinner when the revelers at last came to seek their host. now it appeared that he was anxious to apologize. he advanced with the dignity befitting a monarch kindly disposed, and his gesturing hands beat the score of the kettle-drums for the march of the priests in _aïda_. "my very dear cartarette!" cried houdon. "ah, but it is good again to see you! i so regretted myself not to ascend with our friends to call upon you the evening of our little collation." he sought to dismiss the subject with a run on the invisible piano and the words: "but i was slightly indisposed: without doubt our good comrades informed you that i was slightly indisposed. i am very sensitive, and these communions of high thought are too much for my delicate nerves." his good comrades had told cartaret that houdon was very drunk; but cartaret decided that to continue his quarrel would be an insult to its cause. after all, he reflected, this was houdon's conception of an apology. cartaret looked at the composer, who was a walking symbol of good feeding and iron nerves, and replied: "don't bother to mention it." houdon seized both of cartaret's hands and pressed them fondly. "my friend," said houdon magnanimously, "we shall permit ourselves to say no more about it. what sings your sublime poet, henri wadsworth longchap? 'i shall allow the decomposed past to bury her dead.'--or do i mistake: was it whitman, _hein_?" he gestured his way to cartaret's easel, much as if the air were water and he were swimming there. he praised extravagantly the picture that cartaret now knew to be bad. finally he began to potter about the room with a pretense of admiring the place and looking at its other canvases, but all the while conveying the feeling that he was apprising the financial status of its occupant. cartaret saw him drawing nearer and nearer to the two canvases that, their faces toward the wall, bore the likeness of the lady of the rose. "i am just going out," said cartaret. he hurried to his visitor and took the fellow's arm. "i must take that picture on the easel to the rue st. andré des arts. will you come along?" houdon seemed suspicious of this sudden friendliness. he cast a curious glance at the canvases he had been about to examine, but his choice was obviously hobson's. "gladly," he flourished. "to my _cher ami_ fourget, is it? but i know him well. perhaps my influence may assist you." "perhaps," said cartaret. he doubted it, but he hoped that something would assist him. he held the picture, still wet of course, exposed for all the world of the quarter to see, hurried houdon past the landing and could have sworn that the composer's eyes lingered at the sacred door. "but it is an infamy," said houdon, when they had walked as far down the boul' miche' as the musée cluny--"it is an infamy to sell at once such a superb work to such a little cow of a dealer. why then?" "because i must," said cartaret. houdon laughed and wagged his head. "no, no," said he; "you deceive others: not houdon. i know well the disguised prince. come"--he looked up and down the boulevard st. germain before he ventured to cross it--"trust your friend houdon, my dear cartarette." "i am quite honest with you." "bah! have your own way, then. pursue your fancy of self-support for a time. it is noble, that. but think not that i am deceived. me, houdon: i know. name of an oil-well, you should send this masterpiece to the salon!" but just at the corner of the rue st. andré des arts, the great composer thought that he saw ahead of him a friend with whom he had a pressing engagement of five minutes. he excused himself with such a wealth of detail that cartaret was convinced of the slightness of the fourget acquaintanceship, which houdon had not again referred to. "i shall be finished and waiting at this corner long ere you return," vowed houdon. "go, my friend, and if that little dealer pays you one third of what your picture is worth, my faith, he will bankrupt himself." so cartaret went on alone, and was presently glad that he was unaccompanied. for fourget would not buy the picture. it was a silly sketch of a pretty boy pulling to tatters the petals of a rose, and the gray-haired dealer, although he had kindly eyes under his bristling eyebrows, behind his glistening spectacles, shook his head. "i am sorry," he said: so many of these hopeful young fellows brought him their loved work, and he had so often, but never untruthfully, to say that he was sorry. "i am very sorry, but this is not the real you, monsieur. the values--you know better than that. the composition--it is unworthy of you, m. cartarette." cartaret was in no mood to try elsewhere. he wanted to fling the thing into the seine. he certainly did not want houdon to see him return with it. might he leave it with fourget? perhaps some customer might see and care for it? no, fourget had his reputation to sustain; but there was that rascal lepoittevin across the street---- cartaret went to the rascal, a most amiable man, who would buy no more than would fourget. he was willing, however, to have the picture left there on the bare chance of picking up a sale--and a commission--and there cartaret left it. houdon wormed the truth out of him as easily as if cartaret had come back carrying the picture under his arm: the young american was too disconsolate to hide his chagrin. houdon was at first incredulous and then overcome; he asked his dear friend to purchase brandy for the two of them at the café pantheon: such treatment of a veritable masterpiece was too much for his sensitive nerves. with some difficulty, cartaret got rid of the composer. on a bench in the luxembourg gardens, he took account of his resources. they were shockingly slender and, if they were to last him any time at all, he must exercise the most stringent economy. he must buy no more brandy for musical geniuses. indeed, he must buy no more café dinners for himself.... it struck him, as a happy thought, that he might save a little if he lived on such cold solids as he could buy at the fruit-stand and _pâtisseries_ and such liquids as he might warm in a tin-cup over his lamp. better men than he was had lived thus in the quarter, and cartaret, as the thought took shape, rather enjoyed the prospect: it made him feel as if he were another martyr to art, or as if--though he was not clear as to the logic of this--he were another martyr to love. he considered going to père la chaise and putting violets on the tomb of héloise and abelard; but he decided that he could not afford the tram-fare, and he was already too tired to walk, so he made his scanty purchases instead, and had rather a good time doing it. he passed chitta on his way up the stairs to his room, with his arms full of edibles, and he thought that she frowned disapproval. he supposed she would tell her mistress scornfully, and he hoped that her mistress would understand and pity him. he got a board and nailed it to the sill of one of the rear windows. on that he stored his food and, contemplating it, felt like a successful housekeeper. chapter vii of domestic economy, of day-dreams, and of a far country and its sovereign lady l'indiscrétion d'un de ces amis officieux qui ne sauraient garder inédite la nouvelle susceptible de vous causer un chagrin.--murger: _scènes de la vie de bohème_. you would have said that it behooved a man in charlie cartaret's situation to devote his evenings to a consideration of its difficulties and his days to hard work; but cartaret, though he did, as you will see, try to work, devoted the first evening of his new régime to thoughts that, if they affected his situation at all, tended only to complicate it. he thought, as he had so much of late, and as he was to think so much more in the future, of the lady of the rose. who was she? whence did she come? what was this native land of hers that she professed to love so well? and, if she did love it so well, why had she left it and come to paris with a companion that appeared to be some strange compromise between guardian and servant? he wondered if she were some revolutionary exile: paris was always full of revolutionary exiles. he wondered if she were a rightful heiress, dispossessed of a foreign title. perhaps she was the lovely pretender to a throne. in that mysterious home of hers, she must have possessed some exalted position, or the right to it, for chitta had kneeled to her on the dusty floor of this studio, and the lady's manner, he now recalled, was the manner of one accustomed to command. her beauty was of a type that he had read of as irish--the beauty of fair skin, hair black and eyes of deepest blue; but the speech was the english of a woman born to another tongue. what was her native speech? both her french and her english were innocent of alien accent--he had heard at least a phrase or two of the former--yet both had a precision that betrayed them as not her own and both had a foreign-born construction. her frequent use of the word "sir" in addressing him was sufficiently peculiar. she employed the word not as one that speaks frequently to a superior, but rather as if she were used to it in a formal language, or a grade of life, in which it was a common courtesy. it was something more usual than the french "monsieur," even more usual than the spanish "señor." cartaret leaned from a window. the air was still keen, but the night was clear. the rue du val de grâce was deserted, its houses dark and silent. overhead, in the narrow ribbon of indigo sky, hung a pallid moon: a disk of yellow glass. what indeed was she, this lady of the rose? he pictured as hers a distant country of deep valleys full of clamoring streams and high mountains where white roses grew. he pictured her as that country's sovereign. yet the rose which she treasured had not yet faded on the day of her arrival: she could not come from anywhere so far away. he was cold. he closed the window, shivering. he was ridiculous: why, he had been in danger of falling in love with a woman of whom he knew nothing! he did not even know her name.... * * * * * the passage of slow-footed time helped him, however, not at all. he would sit for hours, idle before his easel, listening for her light step on the stair and afraid to go to meet her when at last he heard it, for he was desperately poor now, and poverty was making him the coward that it will sooner or later make any man. he had antagonized the concierge by preparing his own coffee in the morning instead of continuing to pay mme. refrogné for it. when he had something to cook, he cooked badly; but there were days when he had nothing, and lived on pastry and bricks of chocolate, and others when it seemed to him that such supplies as he could buy and store on that shelf outside the window were oddly short-lived. for a while he called daily at the shop of m. lepoittevin, but that absurd picture of a boy tearing a rose would not sell, and cartaret soon grew ashamed of calling there; fourget he would not face. he managed at first to dispose of one or two sketches and so kept barely alive, yet, as the days went by, his luck dwindled and his greatest energy was expended in keeping up a proud pretense of comfort to his friends of the quarter. pear-shaped devignes was easy to deceive: the opera-singer lived too well to want to believe that anybody in the world could starve. garnier, the cadaverous poet, saved trouble, indulging his dislike of other people's poverty by remaining away from it; but seraphin, who came often and sat about the studio in a silence wholly uncharacteristic, was difficult. houdon, finally, was frequent and expensive: he always foraged about what he called cartaret's "tempting window-buffet," but he regarded the condition of affairs as the passing foible of a young man temporarily wearied by the pleasures of wealth. "ah," he snorted one day when he had come in with varachon, "you fail wholly to deceive me, cartarette. you say you are not well-to-do so that we shall think that you are not, but i know, i! had you not your own income, you would try to sell more pictures, and your pictures are superb. they would fetch a pretty sum. believe not that because i have a great musical genius i have no eye for painting. i know good painting. all arts are one, my brother." he jabbed cartaret's empty stomach and, whistling a theme and twisting his little mustache, went to the window and took a huge bite of the last apple there. cartaret watched the composer toss half the apple into the concierge's garden. varachon, the sculptor, grunted through his broken nose. "your work is bad," he whispered to cartaret--"very bad. you require a long rest. go to nice for a month." the weeks passed. cartaret was underfed and discouraged. he was too discouraged now to attempt to renew his acquaintance with the lady of the rose. he was pale and thin, and this from reasons wholly physical. meanwhile, through the scented dawns, april was coming up to that city in which april is most beautiful and most seductive. from the spicy mediterranean coasts, along the valley of the rhone, love was dancing upon paris with laughing spring for his partner. already the trees had blossomed between the place de la concorde and the rond point, and out in the bois the birds were singing to their mates. one morning, when cartaret, with unsteady hand, drew back his curtain, _rouge-gorges_ were calling from the concierge's garden, and seemed to be calling to him. "seize hold of love!" they chorused in that garden. "life is short; time flies, and love flies with it. love will pass you by. take it, take it, take it, while there still is time! like us, it is a bird that flies, but, unlike us, it never more returns. it is a rose that withers--a white rose: take it while it blooms. take it, though it leave you soon; take it, though it scratch your fingers. take it, take it, take it now!" on that day the annual siege of paris ended, the city fell before her invaders, and by the time that cartaret went into the streets, the army of occupation was in possession. the luxembourg gardens, the very benches along the boul' miche' were full of lovers: he could not stir from the house without encountering them. from it, however, he had to go: the spring called him with a sad seductiveness that he could no longer resist. he wandered aimlessly, trying the impossible: trying to keep his eyes from the couples that also wandered, but wandered hand in hand, and trying to keep his thoughts from roses and the lady of the rose. he found himself before one of the riverside bookstalls, fingering an old book, leather-bound. the text, he realized, was english, or what once was so: it was a volume of maundeville, and cartaret was reading: "betwene the cytee and the chirche of bethlehem is the felde floridus; that is to seyne, the field florsched. for als moche as a fayre mayden was blamed with wrong ... for whiche cause sche was demed to the dethe, and to be brent in that place, to the which she was ladd. and, as the fyre began to brenne about hire, she made her preyeres to oure lord, that als wissely as sche was not gylty ... that he would help hire, and make it to be knowen to alle men of his mercyfulle grace. and, whanne sche had thus seyd, sche entered into the fuyer; and anon was the fuyer quenched and oute, and the brondes that weren brennynge becomen white roseres, full of roses; and theise werein the first roseres and roses, both white and rede, that ever ony man saughe. and thus was this mayden saved by the grace of god." ... all that week--while the contents of his window-sideboard dwindled, he was sure, faster than he ate from it--he had tried to forget everything by painting heavily at pot-boilers. he had begun with the aim of earning enough to resume his studies; he had continued with the hope of getting together enough to keep alive--in paris. and yet, fleeing from that bookstall, he was fool enough to walk all the way to les halles, to walk into les halles, and to stop, fascinated by a counter laden with boxes of strawberries, odorous and red, the smallest box of which was beyond the limits of his economy. that was bad enough--it was absurd that his will should voluntarily play the barmecide for the torture of his unrewarded shacabac of a stomach--but worse, without fault of his own, was yet to follow this mere aggravation of his baser appetites. spring and paris are an irresistible combination on the side of folly, and that evening another sign of them presented itself: there was a burst of music; a hurdy-gurdy was playing in the rue du val de grâce, and cartaret, from his window, listened eagerly. it has been intimated from the best of sources that all love lives on music, and it is the common experience that when any love cannot get the best music, it takes what it can get: "her brow is like the snaw-drift; her throat is like the swan; her face it is the fairest that e'er the sun shone on-- that e'er the sun shone on-- and dark blue is her e'e----" that french hurdy-gurdy was playing "annie laurie," and, since the lonely artist's heart ached to hear the old, familiar melody, when the bearded grinder looked aloft, cartaret drew a coin from his pocket. anxious to pay for his pain, as the human kind always is, he tossed his last franc to that vendor of emotions in the twilit street. he was drunk at last with the wine that his own misery distilled. he abandoned himself to the admission that he was in love: he abandoned himself to his dream of the lady of the rose. seraphin, in a wonderful new suit of clothes, found him thus the next morning--it was a friday--and found him accordingly resentful of intrusion. cartaret was sitting before an empty easel, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes looking vacantly through the posts of the easel. "good-day," said seraphin. cartaret said "good-day" as if it were a form of insult. seraphin's hands tugged at his two wisps of whisker. "you are not well, _hein_?" "i was never better in my life," snapped cartaret, turning upon his friend a face that was peaked and drawn. the frenchman came timidly nearer. "my friend," he said, "i have completed my _magnum opus_. it has not sold quite so well as i hoped, not of course one thousandth of its value. that is this spanish cow of a world. but i have three hundred francs. if you need----" "go away," said cartaret, looking at his empty easel. "can't you see i'm trying to begin work?" seraphin himself had suffered. his dignity was not offended: he kept it for only his creditors and other foes. he guessed that cartaret was at last penniless, and he guessed rightly. "come, my friend," he began; "none shall know. will you not be so kind as to let me----" cartaret got up and, for all his weakness, gripped the frenchman's hand until dieudonné nearly screamed. "i'm a beast, seraphin!" said cartaret. "i'm a beast to treat a friendly offer this way. forgive me. it's just that i feel a bit rocky this morning. i drank too much champagne last night. i do thank you, seraphin. you're a good fellow, the best of the lot, and a sight better than i am. but i'm not hard up; really i'm not. i'm poor, but i'm not a sou poorer than i was this time last year." it was a magnificent lie. seraphin could only shrug, pretend to believe it, and go away. cartaret scarcely heeded the departure. he had relapsed into his day-dream. he took from against the wall the two portraits that he had painted of the lady of the rose and hung them, now here, now there, trying them in various lights. there were at least ten more sketches of her by this time, and these, too, he hung in first one light and then another. he studied them and tried to be critical, and forgot to be. his thoughts of her never took the shape of conscious words--he loved her too much to attempt to praise her--but, as he looked at his endeavors to portray her, his mind was busy with his memories of all that loveliness--and passed from memories to day-dreams. he saw her as something that might fade before his touch. he saw her as a princess, incognito, learning his plight, buying his pictures secretly, and, when she came to her throne, letting him serve her and worship from afar. and then he saw her even as a galatea possible of miraculous awakening. why not? her eyes were the clear eyes of a woman that has never yet loved, but they were also, he felt, the eyes of one of those rare women who, when they love once, love forever. cartaret dared, in his thoughts, to lift the heavy plaits of her blue-black hair and, with trembling fingers, again to touch that hand at the recollection of touching which his own hand tingled. why not, indeed? already a stranger thing had happened in his meeting her. until that year he had not guessed at her existence; oceans divided them; the barriers of alien race and alien speech were raised high between them, and all of these things had been in vain. the existence was revealed, the ocean was crossed, the bar of sundering speech was down. he was here, close beside her, as if every event of his life had been intended to bring him. through blind ways and up ascents misunderstood, unattracted by the many and lonely among the crowd, he had, somehow, always been making his way toward--her. thus cartaret dreamed while seraphin made a hurried journey to the rue st. andré des arts and the shop of m. fourget. "but no, but no, but no!" fourget's bushy brows met in a frown. "it is out of the question. something has happened to the boy. he can no longer paint." oh, well, at least monsieur could go to the boy's rooms and see what he had there. "no. am i then a silly philanthropist?" seraphin tried to produce his false dignity. what he brought out was something genuine. "i ask it from the heart," he pleaded. "do not i, my god, know what it is to be hungry?" "hungry?" said the dealer. "hungry! the boy has an uncle famously rich. what is an uncle for? hungry? you make _une bêtise_. hungry." he called his clerk and took up his hat. "i will not go," he vowed. "hungry, _par example_!" "truly you will not," smiled seraphin. "and do not tell him that i sent you: he is proud." * * * * * the sound of the door opening interrupted cartaret's dream. he turned, a little sheepish, wholly annoyed. spectacled fourget stood there, looking very severe. "i was passing by," he explained. "i have not come to purchase anything, but i grow old: i was tired and i climbed your stairs to rest." it was too late to hide those portraits. cartaret could only place for fourget a chair with its back to them. "what have you been doing?" asked the dealer. he swung 'round toward the portraits. "don't look at them!" said cartaret. "they're merely sketches." but fourget had already looked. he was on his feet. he was bobbing from one to the other, his lean hands adjusting his glasses, his shoulders stooped, his nose thrust out. he was uttering little cries of approval. "but this is good! it is good, then. this is first-rate. this is of an excellence!" "they're not for sale," said cartaret. "_hein?_" fourget wheeled. "if they are not for sale, they are for what, then?" "they--they are merely sketches, i tell you. i was trying my hand at a new method; but i find there is nothing in it." fourget was unbuttoning his short frock-coat. he was reaching for his wallet. "i tell you there is everything in it. there is the sure touch in it, the clear vision, the sympathy. there is reputation in it. in fine, there is money." he had the wallet out as he concluded. cartaret shook his head. "oh," said fourget, the dealer in him partially overcoming the lover of art, "not much as yet; not a great deal of money. you have still a long way to go; but you have found the road, monsieur, and i want to help you on your journey. come, now." he nodded to the first portrait. "what do you ask for that?" "i don't want to sell it." "poof! we shall not haggle. tell fourget what you had thought of asking. do not be modest. tell me--and i will give you half." he kept it up as long as he could; he tried at last to buy the least of the preliminary sketches of the rose-lady; he offered what, to cartaret, were dazzling prices; but cartaret was not to be shaken: these experiments were not for sale. fourget was first disappointed, then puzzled. his enthusiasm had been genuine; but could it be possible that dieudonné was mistaken? was cartaret not starving? the old man was beginning to button his coat when a new idea struck him. "who was your model?" he asked abruptly. "i--i had none," cartaret stammered. "ah!"--fourget peered hard at him through those glistening spectacles. "you painted them from memory?" "yes." cartaret felt his face redden. "from imagination, i mean." then fourget understood. perhaps he had merely the typical frenchman's love of romance, which ceases only with the typical frenchman's life; or perhaps he remembered his own youth in besançon, when he, too, had wanted to be an artist and when, among the vines on the hillside, little rosalie smiled at him and kissed his ambition away--little rosalie poullot, dust and ashes these twenty years in the cimetière du mont parnasse.... he turned to a pile of pot-boilers. he took one almost at random. "this one," he said, "i should like to buy it." it was the worst pot-boiler of the lot. before the portraits, it was hopeless. cartaret half understood. "no," he said; "you don't really want it." seraphin had been right: the young man was proud. "how then?" demanded fourget. "this also did you paint not-to-sell?" "i painted it to sell," said cartaret miserably, "but it doesn't deserve selling--perhaps just because i did paint it to sell." to his surprise, fourget came to him and put an arm on his shoulder, a withered hand patting the american's back. "ah, if but some more-famous artists felt as you do! come; let me have it. that is very well. i shall sell it to a fool. many fools are my patrons. how else could i live? there is not enough good art to meet all demands, or there are not enough demands to meet all good art. who shall say? suffice it there are demands of sorts. daily i thank the good god for his fools...." cartaret went to les halles and bought a large box of strawberries. * * * * * he had put them carefully on his window-shelf and covered them with a copy of a last week's _matin_--being an american, he of course read the _matin_--for he was resolved that, now he again had a little money, these strawberries should be his final extravagance and should be treasured accordingly--he had just anchored the paper against the gentle spring breeze when he became aware that he had another visitor. standing by his table, much as she had stood there on the night of his second sight of her, was the lady of the rose. cartaret thought that his eyes were playing him tricks. he rubbed his eyes. "it is i," she said. he thought that again he could detect the perfume of the azure rose. he again thought that he could see white mountain-tops in the sun. he could have sworn that, in the street, a hurdy-gurdy was playing: "her brow is like the snaw-drift; her throat is like the swan----" "i came in," she was saying, "to see how you were. i should have sent chitta, but she was so long coming back from an errand." "thank you," he said--he was not yet certain of himself--"i'm quite well. but i'm very glad you called." "yet you, sir, look pale, and your friend"--her forehead puckered--"told me that you had been ill." "my friend?" he spoke as if he had none in the world, though now he knew better. "yes: such a pleasant old gentleman with gray hair and glasses. as i came in half an hour ago, i met him on the stairs." "fourget!" "was that his name? he seemed most anxious about you." "he is my friend." "i like him," said the lady of the rose. "then you understand him. i didn't understand him--till this morning. he is an art-dealer: those that he won't buy from think him hard; the friends of those that he buys from think him a fool." although he had reassured her of his health, she seemed charmingly willing to linger. really, she was looking at cartaret's haggard cheeks with a wonderful sympathy. "so he bought from you?" cartaret nodded. "only i hope _you_ won't think him a fool," he said. "i shall consider," she laughed. "i must first see some of your work, sir." she came farther into the room. she moved with an easy dignity, her advance into the light displaying the lines of her gracile figure, the turn of her head discovering the young curve of her throat; her eyes, as they moved about his studio, were clear and starry. in the presence of their original, cartaret had forgotten the portraits. now she saw them and turned scarlet. it was a time for no more pride on the part of the painter: already, head high in air, she had turned to go. it was a time for honest dealing. cartaret barred her way. "forgive me!" he cried. "won't you please forgive me?" she tried to pass him without a word. "but listen. only listen a minute! you didn't think--oh, you didn't think i'd sold him one of those? they were on the wall when he came in, and i couldn't get them away in time. i'd put them up--well, i'd put them up there because i--because i couldn't see you, so i wanted to see them." his voice trembled; he looked ill now: she hesitated. "what right had you, sir, to paint them?" "i don't know. i hadn't any. of course, i hadn't any! but i wouldn't have sold them to the luxembourg." what was it that fourget had told her when he met her on the stair?--"mademoiselle, you will pardon an old man: that young cartarette cannot paint pot-boilers, and in consequence he starves. for more things than money, mademoiselle. but because he cannot paint pot-boilers and get money, he starves literally."--her heart smote her now, but she could not refrain from saying: "perhaps the luxembourg did not offer--in the person of m. fourget?" the last vestige of his pride left cartaret. "he wanted to buy those portraits," he said. "i know that my action loses by the telling of it whatever virtue it might have had, but i'd rather have that happen than have you think what you've been thinking. he offered me more for them than for all my other pictures together, but i couldn't sell." it was a mood not to be denied: she forgave him. "but you, sir, must take them all down," she said, "and you must promise to paint no more of them." he would have promised anything: he promised this, and he had an immediate reward. "to-morrow," she asked, "perhaps you will eat _déjeuner_ with chitta and me?" would he! he did not know that she invited him because of fourget's use of the phrase "starving literally." he accepted, declaring that he would never more call friday unlucky. "at eleven o'clock?" she asked. "at eleven," he bowed. when she was gone, cartaret went again to the window that looked on the concierge's garden. the robins were still singing: "seize hold of love! it is a rose--a white rose. take it--take it--take it now!" chapter viii chiefly concerning strawberries theft in its simplicity--however sharp and rude, yet if frankly done, and bravely--does not corrupt men's souls; and they can, in a foolish, but quite vital and faithful way, keep the feast of the virgin mary in the midst of it.--ruskin: _fors clavigera_. it was quite true that he had resolved to be careful of the money that old fourget had paid him for the pot-boiler. he still meant to be careful of it. but he was to be a guest at _déjeuner_ next morning, and a man must not breakfast with a princess and wear a costume that is really shockingly shabby. cartaret therefore set about devising some means of bettering his wardrobe. his impulse was to buy a new suit of clothes, as seraphin had done when he sold his picture. seraphin, however, had received a good deal more money than cartaret, and cartaret was really in earnest about his economies: when he had spent half the afternoon in the shops, and found that most of the ready-made suits there exposed for sale would cost him the bulk of his new capital, he decided to sponge his present suit, sew on a few buttons and then sleep with it under his mattress by way of pressing it. a new necktie was, nevertheless, imperative: he had been absent-mindedly wiping his brushes on the old, and it would not do to smell more of turpentine than the exigencies of his suit made necessary; the scent of turpentine is not appetizing. if you have never been in love, you may suppose that the selection of so small a thing as a necktie is trivial; otherwise, you will know that there are occasions when it is no light matter, and you will then understand why cartaret found it positively portentous. the first score of neckties that he looked at were impossible; so were the second. in the third he found one that would perhaps just do, and this he had laid aside for him while he went on to another shop. he went to several other shops. whereas he had at first found too few possibilities, he was now embarrassed by too many. there was a flowing marine-blue affair with white _fleur-de-lys_ that he thought would do well for seraphin and that he considered for a moment on his own account. he went back to the first shop and so through the lot again. in the end, his american fear of anything bright conquered, and he bought a gray "four-in-hand" that might have been made in philadelphia. on his return he went to the window to see how his strawberries were doing. he remembered the anecdote about the good cleric, who said that doubtless god could have made a better berry, but that doubtless god never did. cartaret wondered if it would be an impertinence to offer his strawberries to the lady of the rose. they were gone. he went down the stairs in two jumps. he thrust his head into the concierge's cavern. "who's been to my room?" he shouted. he was still weak, but anger lent him strength. refrogné growled. "tell me!" insisted cartaret. "how should i know?" the concierge countered. "it's your business to know. you're responsible. who's come in and gone out since i went out?" "nobody." "there must have been somebody! somebody has been to my room and stolen something." thefts are not so far removed from the sphere of a concierge's natural activities as unduly to excite him. "to rob it is not necessary that one come in from without," said he. "you charge a tenant?" "i charge nobody. it is you that charge, monsieur. i did not know that you possessed to be stolen. a thief of a tenant? but certainly. one cannot inquire the business of one's tenants. what house is without a little thief?" "i believe you did it!" said cartaret. refrogné whistled, in the darkness, a bar of "margarita." houdon was passing by. he made suave enquiries. "but not refrogné," he assured cartaret. "you do an injustice to a worthy man, my dear friend. besides, what is a box of strawberries to you?" cartaret felt that he was in danger of making a mountain of a molehill; he had the morbid fear, common to his countrymen, of appearing ridiculous. it occurred to him that it would not have been beyond houdon to appropriate the berries, if he had happened into the room and found its master absent; but to bother further was to be once more absurd. "i don't suppose it does matter," he said; "but my supplies have been going pretty fast lately, and if i was to catch the thief, i'd hammer the life out of him." "magnificent!" gurgled houdon as he passed gesturing into the street. cartaret returned toward his room. the dusk had fallen and, if he had not known the way so well, he would have had trouble in finding it. he was tired, too, and so he went slowly. that he also went softly he did not realize until he gently pushed open the door to his quarters. a shadowy figure was silhouetted against the window out of which cartaret kept his supplies, and the figure seemed to have some of them in its hands. cartaret's anger was still hot. now it flamed to a sudden fury. he did not pause to consider the personality, or even the garb, of the thief. he saw nothing, thought nothing, save that he was being robbed. he charged the dim figure; tackled it as he once tackled runners on the football-field; fell with it much as he had fallen with those runners in the days of old--except that he fell among a hail of food-stuffs--and then found himself tragically holding to the floor the duenna chitta. it was a terrible thing, this battle with a frightened woman. cartaret tried to rise, but she gripped him fast. his amazement first, and next his mortification, would have left him nerveless, but chitta was fighting like a tigress. his face was scratched and one finger bitten, before he could hold her quiet enough to say, in slow french: "i did not know that it was you. you are welcome to what you want. i am going to let you go. don't struggle. i shan't hurt you. get up." he thanked heaven that she understood at least a little of the language. shaken, he got to his own feet; but chitta, instead of rising, surprisingly knelt at his. she spouted a long speech of infinite emotion. she wept. she clasped and unclasped her hands. she pointed to the room of her mistress; then to her mouth, and then rubbed that portion of her figure over the spot where the appetite is appeased. "do you mean," gasped cartaret--"do you mean that you and your mistress"--this was terrible!--"have been poor?" chitta had come to the room without her head-dress, and the subsequent battle had sent her hair in dank coils about her shoulders. she nodded; the shaken coils were like so many serpents. "and that she has been hungry?--hungry?" a violent negative. chitta bobbed toward cartaret's rifled stores and then toward the street, as if to include other stores in the same circle of depredation. she was also plainly indignant at the idea that she would permit her mistress to be hungry. "oh," said cartaret, "i see! you are a consistent thief." this time chitta's nod was a proud one; but she pointed again to the other room and shook her head violently; then to herself and nodded once more. words could not more plainly have said that, although she had been supplementing her provisions by petty thefts, her employer knew nothing about them. and she must not be told. again chitta began to bob and moan and weep. she pointed across the hallway, put a finger to her lips, shook her old head and finally held out her clasped hands in supplication. cartaret emptied his pockets. he wished he had not been so extravagant as to buy that necktie. he handed to chitta all the money left from the price that fourget had paid him, to the last five-centime piece. "take this," he said, "and be sure you don't ever let your mistress know where it came from. i shan't tell anybody about you. when you want more, come direct to me." he knew that he could paint marketable pot-boilers now. she wanted to kiss his hand, but he hurried from the woman and left her groveling behind him.... "m. refrogné," he said to the concierge, "i owe you an apology. i am sorry for the way i spoke to you a while ago. i have found those strawberries." "bah!" said refrogné. he added, when cartaret had passed: "in his stomach, most likely." slowly the horror of having had to use physical force against a woman left cartaret. he started for a long walk and thought many things. he thought, as he trudged at last across l'etoile, how the april starshine was turning the arc de triomphe to silver, and how the lovers on the benches at the junction of the rue lauriston and the avenue kléber made napoleon's arch in praise of war a monument to softer passions. he thought, as he strolled from the avenue d'eylan and across the place victor hugo, how the heart of that poet, whose statue here represented him as so much the politician, must grow warm when, as now, boys and girls passed arm in arm about the pediment. the night bore jonquils in her hands and wore a spray of wisteria in her hair. brocaded ghosts of the old régime must be pacing a stately measure at ranelagh, and all the elves of spring were dancing in the bois. the princess was poor. that brought her nearer to him: it gave him a chance to help her. cartaret found it hard to be sorry that she was poor. chapter ix being the true report of a chaperoned dÉjeuner for she hath breathed celestial air, and heavenly food hath been her fare, and heavenly thought and feelings give her face that heavenly grace. --southey: _the curse of kehama_. sometimes a mattress is doubtless as efficient a means of pressing one's clothes as any other means, but doubtless always a good deal depends upon the mattress. by way of general rules, it may be laid down, for instance, that the mattress employed must not be too thin, must not be stuffed with a material so gregarious as to gather together in lumpy communities, and must not sag in the middle. cartaret's mattress failed to meet these fundamental requirements, and when he made his careful toilet on the morning that he was to take _déjeuner_ at the room across the landing, he became uneasily aware that his clothes betrayed certain evidences of what had happened to them. he had been up half a dozen times in the night to rearrange the garments, in fear of just such a misfortune; but his activities were badly repaid; the front of the suit bore a series of peculiar wrinkles, rather like the complicated hatchments on an ancient family's escutcheon; he could not see how, when the coat was on him, its back looked, and he was afraid to speculate. with his mirror now hung high and now standing on the floor, he practiced before it until he happily discovered that the wrinkles could be given a more or less reasonable excuse if he could only remember to adopt and assume a mildly pre-raphaelite bearing. something else that his glass showed him gave him more anxiety and appeared beyond concealment: chitta's claws had left two long scratches across his right cheek. he had no powder and no money to buy any. he did think of trying a touch of his own paint, but he feared that oils were not suited to the purpose and would only make the wound more noticeable. he would simply have to let it go. he had wakened with the first ray of sunlight that set the birds to singing in the garden, and, chitta's fall of the previous evening having spilled his coffee and devastated his supplies, he was forced to go without a _petit déjeuner_. he found a little tobacco in one of his coat-pockets and smoked that until the bells of st. sulpice, after an unconscionable delay, rang the glad hour for which he waited. chitta opened the door to his knock, and he was at once aware of her mistress standing, in white, behind her; but the old duenna was aware of it too and ordered herself accordingly. chitta bowed low enough to appease the watchful lady of the rose, but chitta's eyes, as she lowered them, glowered at him suspiciously. it was clear that she by no means joined in the welcome that the lady immediately accorded him. the lady, in clinging muslin and with a black lace scarf of delicate workmanship draped over her black hair, gave him her hand, and this time cartaret was not slow to kiss it. the action was one to which he was scarcely accustomed, and he hesitated between the fear of being discourteously brief about it and the fear of being discourteously long. he could be certain only of how cool and firm her hand was and, as he looked up from it, how pink and fresh her cheeks. it was then that the lady saw the scratches. "oh, but you have had an accident!" she cried. cartaret's hand went to his face. he looked at chitta: chitta's returning glance was something between an appeal and a threat, but a trifle nearer the latter. "i had a little fall," said cartaret, "and i was scratched in falling." the room was bare, but clean and pleasant, fresh from the constant application of chitta's mop and broom, fresher from the spring breeze that came in through the front windows, and freshest from the presence of the lady of the rose. two curtained corners seemed to contain beds. at the rear, behind a screen, there must have been a gas-stove where chitta could soon be heard at work upon the breakfast. what furniture there was bore every evidence of being parisian, purchased in the quarter; there was none to indicate the nationality of the tenants; and the bright little table, at which cartaret was presently seated so comfortably as to forget the necessity of the pre-raphaelite pose, was parisian too. "you must speak french," smiled the lady--how very white her teeth were, and how very red her lips!--as she looked at him across the coffee-urn: "that is the sole condition that, sir, i impose upon you." "willingly," said cartaret, in the language thus imposed; "but why, when you speak english so well?" "because"--the lady was half serious about it--"i had to promise chitta that, under threat of her leaving paris; and if she left paris, i should of course have to leave it, too. french she understands a little, as you know, but not english, and"--the lady's pink deepened--"she says that english is the one language of which she cannot even guess the meaning when she hears it, because english is the one language that can be spoken with the lips only, and spoken as if the speaker's face were a mask." he said he should have thought that chitta would pick it up from her. "why," he said, "it comes so readily to you: you answered in it instinctively that time when i first saw you. don't you remember?" "i remember. i was very frightened. perhaps i used it when you did because we had an english governess at my home and speak it much in the family. we speak it when we do not want the servants to understand, and so we have kept it from chitta." she was pouring the coffee. "tell me truly: do i indeed speak it well?" "excellently. of course you are a little precise." "how precise?" "well, you said, that time, 'it is i'; we generally say 'it's me'--like the french, you understand." if princesses could pout, he would have said that she pouted. "but i was right." "not entirely. you weren't colloquial." "i was correct," she insisted. "'it is i' is correct. my grammar says that the verb 'to be' takes the same case after it as before it. if the americans say something else, they do not speak good english." cartaret laughed. "the english say it, too." "then," said the lady with an emphatic nod, "the english also." it was a simple breakfast, but excellently cooked, and cartaret had come to it with a healthy hunger. chitta was present only in the capacity of servant; but managed to be constantly within earshot and generally to have hostess and guest under her supervision. he felt her eyes upon him when she brought in the highly-seasoned omelette, when she replenished the coffee; frequently he even caught her peeping around the screen that hid the stove. it was a marvel that she could cook so well, since she was forever deserting her post. she made cartaret blush with the memory of his gift to her; she made him feel that his gift had only increased her distrust; when he fell to talking about himself, he made light of his poverty, so that, should chitta's evident scruples against him ever lead her to betray what he had done, the lady might not feel that he had sacrificed too much in giving so little. nevertheless, cartaret was in no mood for complaint: he was sitting opposite his princess and was happy. he told her of his life in america, of football and of broadway. it is a rare thing for a lover to speak of his sister, but cartaret even mentioned cora. "is she afraid of you, monsieur?" asked the lady. "i can't imagine cora being afraid of any mere man." "ah," said the lady; "then the american brothers are different from brothers in my country. i have a brother. i think he is the handsomest and bravest man in the world, and i love him. but i fear him too. i fear him very much." "your own brother?" the lady was giving cartaret some more omelette. cartaret, holding his ready plate, saw her glance toward the rear of the room and saw her meet the eyes of chitta, whose face was thrust around the screen. "yes," said the lady. it struck cartaret that she dropped her brother rather quickly. she talked of other things. "your name," she said, "is english: the concierge gave it me. it is english, is it not?" she had made enquiries about him, then: cartaret liked that. "my people were english, long ago," he answered. he grew bold. he had been a fool not to make enquiries about her, but now he would make them at first hand. "i don't know your name," he said. he saw her glance again toward the rear of the room, but when he looked he saw nobody. the lady was saying: "urola." it helped him very little. he said; "that sounds spanish." instantly her head went up. there was blue fire in her eyes as she answered: "i have not one drop of spanish blood; not one." he had meant no offense, yet it was clear that he came dangerously near one. he made haste to apologize. "you do not understand," she said, smiling a little. "in my country we hate the spaniard." "what is your country?" it was the most natural of questions--he had put it once before--yet he had now no sooner uttered it than he felt that he had committed another indiscretion. this time, when she glanced at the rear of the room, he distinctly saw chitta's head disappearing behind the screen. "it is a far country," said mlle. urola. "it is a wild country. we have no opportunities to study art in my country. so i came to paris." after that there was nothing for him to do but to be interested in her studies, and of them she told him willingly enough. she was very ambitious; she worked hard, but she made, she said, little progress. "the people that have no feeling for any art i pity," she said; "but, oh, i pity more those who want to be some sort of artist and cannot be! the desire without the talent, that kills." chitta was coming back, bearing aloft a fresh dish. she bore it with an air more haughty than any she had yet assumed. directing at cartaret a glance of pride and scorn, she set before her mistress--cartaret's strawberries. the lady clapped her pretty hands. she laughed with delight. "this," she said, "is a surprise! i had not known that we were to have strawberries. it is so like chitta. she is so kind and thoughtful, monsieur. always she has for me some surprise like this." "it is a surprise," said cartaret. "i'm sure i'll enjoy it." she served the berries while chitta stalked away. "i find," confessed the lady in english, "that they are not so good below as they seemed on the top. you will not object?" oh, no: cartaret wouldn't object. "i suppose," said mlle. urola, "that i should reprimand her, for their quality is"--she frowned at the berries--"inferior; but i have not the heart. not for the whole world could i hurt her feelings. she is both so kind and so proud, and she is such a marvel of economy. you, sir, would not guess how well she makes me fare upon how small an expense." after breakfast, she showed him some examples of her work. it had delicacy and feeling. an unprejudiced critic would have said that she had much to learn in the way of technique, but to cartaret every one of her sketches was a marvel. "this," she said, again in english, as she produced a drawing from the bottom of her bundle, "does not compare with what you did, sir, but it is not the work of a flatterer, since it is my own work. it is i." it was a rapid sketch of herself and it was, as she had said, the work of no flatterer. "i like that least of all," declared cartaret, in the language to which she had returned; but he wanted her to forget those portraits he had made. he caught, consequently, at trifles. "why don't you say 'it's me'?" he asked. she clasped her hands behind her and stood looking up at him with her chin tilted and her unconscious lips close to his. "i say what is right, sir," she challenged. he laughed, but shook his head. "i know better," said he. "no," she said. she was smiling, but serious. "it is i that am right. and even if i learned that i were wrong, i would now not change. it would be a surrender to you." cartaret found his color high. his mind was putting into her words a meaning he was afraid she might see that he put there. "not to me," he said. "yes, yes, to you!" surrender! what a troublesome word she was using! the chin went higher; the lips came nearer. "a complete surrender, sir." quickly she stepped back. if she had read his face rightly, her face gave no hint of it, but she was at once her former self. "and that i will never do," she said, reverting to french. it was cartaret's turn to want to change the subject. he did it awkwardly. "have you been in the bois?" he asked. no, she had not been in the bois. she loved nature too well to care for artificial scenery. "but the bois is the sort of art that improves on nature," he protested; "at least, so the parisian will tell you; and, really, it is beautiful now. you ought to see it. i was there last night." "you go alone into the bois in the night? is not that dangerous?" he could not tell whether she was mocking him. he said: "it isn't dangerous in the afternoons, at any rate. let me take you there." she hesitated. chitta was clattering dishes in the improvised kitchen. "perhaps," said the lady. cartaret's heart bounded. "now?" he asked. the dishes clattered mightily. "how prompt you are!" she laughed. "no, not now. i have my lessons." "to-morrow, then?" "perhaps," said the lady of the rose. "perhaps----" cartaret's face brightened. "that is," explained his hostess, "if you will not try to teach me english, sir." chapter x an account of an empty purse and a full heart, in the course of which the author barely escapes telling a very old story c'est état bizarre de folie tendre qui fait que nous n'avons plus de pensée que pour des actes d'adoration. on devient véritablement un possédé que hante une femme, et rien n'existe plus pour nous à côté d'elle.--de maupassant: _un soir_. the lady's "perhaps" meant "yes," it seemed, for, when cartaret called for her the next day, he found her ready to go to the bois, and not the lady only: hovering severely in the immediate background, like a thunder-cloud over a spring landscape, was chitta, wrapped in a shawl of marvelous lace, doubtless from her own country, and crowned with a brilliant bonnet unmistakably procured at some second-hand shop off the rue st. jacques. the lady noticed his expression of bewilderment and appeared a little annoyed by it. "of course," she said, "chitta accompanies us." cartaret had to submit. "certainly," said he. he proposed a taxi-cab to the bois--he had visited the mont de piété--but the lady would not hear of it; she was used to walking; she was a good walker; she liked to walk. "but it's miles," cartaret protested. "it is nothing," said she. her utmost concession was to go by tram to the _arc_. it was a beautiful day in the bois, with half of paris there: carriages from the faubourg st. germain, motors of the smart set, hired conveyances full of tourists. the trees were a tender green; the footways crowded by the parisian bourgeois, making a day of it with his family. slim officers walked, in black jackets and red trousers, the calves of their legs compressed in patent-leather riding-leggings; women of the half-world showed brilliant toilettes that had been copied by ladies of the _haut monde_, who, driven past, wore them not quite so well. grotesquely clipped french poodles rode in the carriages, and belgian police-dogs in the automobiles; thin-nosed collies frolicked after their masters; here and there a tailless english sheep-dog waddled by, or a russian boar-hound paced sedately; children played on the grass and dashed across the paths with a suddenness that threatened the safety of the adult pedestrians. cartaret led the way into the less frequented portions of the great park beyond the lac inférieur. the lady was pleasantly beside him, chitta unpleasantly at his heels. "don't you admit it's worth coming to see?" he began in english. "when i was here, under the stars, the other night----" "you must speak french," the lady smilingly interrupted. "you must remember my promise to chitta." cartaret ground his teeth. he spoke thereafter in french, but he lowered his voice so as to be sure that chitta could not understand him. "i was thinking then that you ought to see it." he took his courage in both hands. "i was wishing very much that you were with me." his brown eyes sought hers steadily. "may i tell you all that i was wishing?" "not now," she said. her tone was conventional enough, but in her face he read--and he was sure that she had meant him to read--a something deeper. he put it to her flatly: "when?" she was looking now at the fresh green leaves above them. when she looked down, she was still smiling, but her smile was wistful. "when dreams come true, perhaps," she said. "do dreams ever come true in the american united states, monsieur?" the spell of the spring was dangerously upon them both. cartaret's breath came quickly. "i wish--i wish that you were franker with me," he said. "but am i ever anything except frank?" "you're--i know i haven't any right to expect your confidence: you scarcely know me. but why won't you tell me even where you come from and who you are?" "you know my name." "i know a part of it." "my little name is--it is vitoria." "v-i-t-t-o-r-i-a?" he spelled. "yes, but with one 't,'" the lady said. "vitoria urola," he repeated. she raised her even brows. "oh, yes; of course," said she. somehow it struck him that its sound was scarcely familiar to her: "do i pronounce it badly?" "no, no: you are quite correct." "but not quite to be trusted?" she looked at him doubtfully. she looked at chitta and gave her a quick order that sent the duenna reluctantly ahead of them. then the lady put her gloved hand on cartaret's arm. "i want you to be my friend," she said. "i am your friend," he protested: "that is what i want you to believe. that is why i ask you to be frank with me. i want you to tell me just enough to let me help--to let me protect you. if you are in danger, i want----" "you might be my danger." "i?" she bowed assent. "no, do not ask me why. i shall not tell you. i shall never tell you--no more," she smiled, "than i shall ever say for you 'it's me.' it is very kind of you to want to be my friend. i am alone here in paris, except for poor chitta, and i shall be glad if you will be my friend; but it will not be very easy." "it would be hard to be anything else." "not for you: you are too curious. my friend must let me be just what i am here. all that i was before i came to paris, all that i may be after i leave it, he must ask nothing about." cartaret looked long into her eyes. "all right," he said at last. "i am glad to have that much. and--thank you." he stuck to his side of their agreement; not only during that afternoon in the bois, but during the days that followed. he worked hard. he turned out one really good picture, and he turned out many successful pot-boilers. he would not impose these on fourget, because old fourget had already been too kind to him; but lepoittevin wanted such stuff, and cartaret let him have it. cartaret worked gladly now, because he was, however little she might guess it, working for vitoria. he had left for himself precisely enough to keep him alive, but every third or fourth day he would have the happiness of slipping a little silver into chitta's horny palm: chitta came readily to the habit of waiting for him on the stair. he grew happier day by day, and looked--as who does not?--the better for it. he sought out seraphin and varachon; he bought brandy for houdon; went to hear devignes sing, and once he had armand garnier to luncheon. he rewarded the hurdy-gurdy so splendidly that it was a nightly visitor to the rue du val de grâce: the entire street was whistling "annie laurie." seraphin guessed the truth. "ah, my friend," he nodded, "that foolish one, houdon, says that you have again decided to spend of your income: _i_ know that you are somehow making largess with your heart." cartaret took frequent walks with vitoria, chitta always two feet behind, never closer, but never farther away. often he saw the lady to her classes, more frequently they walked to the ile saint louis, or between the old houses of the rue des francs bourgeois; to the jardin des plantes, or into the cours de dragon or st. germain des prés: chitta's unsophisticated mind should have been improved by a thorough knowledge of picturesque paris. he was guilty of trying to elude the guardian--guilty of some rather shabby tricks in that direction--and he suffered the more in conscience because they were almost uniformly unsuccessful. more than once, however, he reached a state of exaltation in which he forgot chitta, cared nothing about chitta, and then he felt nearer heaven. on one such occasion he was actually nearer than the site usually ascribed to the celestial city. with vitoria and her guardian he had climbed--it was at his own malign suggestion--to montmartre and, since chitta feared the funicular, had toiled up the last steep ascent into notre dame de sacre coeur. chitta's piety--or her exhaustion--kept her long upon her knees in that byzantine nave, and the lady and cartaret had a likely flying-start up the stairs to the tower. cartaret possessed the wit to say nothing, but he noticed that vitoria's blue eyes shone with a light of adventure, which tacitly approved of the escapade, and that her step was as quick as his own when chitta's slower step, heavy breathing and muttered imprecations became audible below them. "i'm sure the old girl will have to rest on the way up, for all her spryness," thought cartaret. "if we can only hold this pace, we ought to have five minutes alone on the ramparts." they had quite five minutes and, no other sight-seers being about, they were quite alone. below them, under a faintly blue haze, paris lay like an outspread map, with here and there a church steeple rising above the level of the page. the roof of the opéra, the gilt dome of napoleon's tomb and the pointing finger of the tour eiffel were immediately individualized, but all the rest of the city merged into a common maze about the curving seine with the red sun setting beyond the ile de puteaux. vitoria leaned on the rampart. she was panting a little from her climb; her cheeks were flushed, and her whole face glowing. "it is as if we were gods on some star," she said, "looking down upon a world that is strange to us." she was speaking in english. cartaret bent closer. pledges of mere friendship ceased, for the moment, to appear of primary importance: he wanted, suddenly, to make the most of a little time. "am i never to see you alone?" he asked. she forsook the view of paris to give him a second's glance. there was something roguish in it. "chitta," she said, "has not yet arrived." he felt himself a poor hand at love-making. its language was upon his tongue--perhaps the slower now because he so much meant what he wanted to say. his jaw set, the lines at his mouth deepened. "i've never thought much," he blundered, "about some of the things that most fellows think a lot about. i mean i've never--at least not till lately--thought much about love and--" he choked on the word--"and marriage; but----" she cut him short. her speech was slow and deliberate. her eyes were on his, and in them he saw something at once firm and sad. "nor i, my friend," she was saying: "it is a subject that i am forbidden to think about." if she conveyed a command, he disobeyed it. "then," he said, "i wish you'd think about it now." "i am forbidden to think about it," she continued, "and i do not think about it because i shall not marry any one--at least not any one that--that i----" her voice dropped into silence. she turned from him to the sunset over the gray city. cartaret's exaltation left him more suddenly than it had come. "any one that you care for?" he asked in a lowered tone. still facing the city, she bowed assent. "but, in heaven's name, whom else should you marry except somebody that you care for?" she did not answer. "look here," urged cartaret, "you--you're not engaged, are you?" she faced him then, still with that something at once firm and sad in her fine eyes. "no," she said; but he must have shown a little of the hope he found in that monosyllable, for she went on: "yet i shall never marry any one that i care for. that is all that i may tell you--my _friend_." as a hurrying tug puffs up to the liner that it is to tow safely into port, chitta puffed up to her mistress. she met a cartaret, could she have guessed it, as hopeless as she wanted him to be. he did his best to put from him all desire to unravel the mystery, and for some days he was again content to remain vitoria's unquestioning friend. she had told him that she could not marry him: nothing could have been plainer. what more could he gain by further enquiry? did she mean that she loved somebody else whom she could not marry? or did she mean that she loved, but could not marry--_him_? cartaret highly resolved to take what good the gods provided: to remain her friend; to work on, in secret, for her comfort, and to be as happy as he could in so much of her companionship as she permitted him. he would never tell her that he loved her. and then, very early on an evening in may, destiny, who had been somnolent under the soft influence of spring, awoke and once more took a hand in cartaret's affairs and those of the lady of the rose. cartaret had just returned from a mission to lepoittevin's shop and, having there disposed of a particularly bad picture, had put money in his purse: chitta was waiting on the stairs and accepted the bulk of his earnings with her usual bad grace. he went into his studio, leaving the door ajar. the cool breeze of the spring twilight fluttered the curtains; it bore upward the laughter of the concierge's children, playing at diavolo in the garden; it brought the fainter notes of the hurdy-gurdy, grinding out its music somewhere farther down the street. somebody was tapping at the door. "who is it?" he called. "it's--_i_," came the answer, with the least perceptible pause before the pronoun. "may i come in?" "do," he said, and rose. before he could reach the door, vitoria had entered, closing it carefully behind her. he could see that she was in her student's blouse; tendrils of her hair, slightly disarrayed, curled about the nape of her white neck; her delicate nostrils were extended and her manner strangely quiet. "this is good of you," he gratefully began. "i didn't expect----" "what is this that you have been doing?" her tone, though low, was hasty. cartaret bewilderedly realized that she was angry. before he could reply, she had repeated her question: "sir, what is this that you have been doing?" "i don't understand." he had drawn away from her, his face unmistakably expressive of his puzzled pain. "you have been---- oh, that i should live to say it!--you have been giving money to my maid." he drew back farther now. he was detected; he was ashamed. "yes," he confessed; "i thought--you see, she gave me to understand that you were--were poor." "none of my family has ever taken charity of any man!" "charity?" he did not dare to look at her, but he knew just how high she was holding her head and just how her eyes were flashing. "it wasn't that. believe me--please believe me when i say it wasn't that. it never struck me in that way." he was on the point of telling her how he had caught chitta red-handed in a theft, and how this had led to his enlightenment; but he realized in time that such an explanation would only deepen the wound that he had inflicted on the lady's pride. "i merely thought," he concluded, "that it was one comrade--one neighbor--helping another." "how much have you given that wretched woman?" "i haven't the least idea." "you must know!" she stamped her foot. "or are you, after all, one of those rich americans that do not have to count their money, and that are proud of insulting the people of older and poorer countries by flinging it at them?" it was a bitter thing to say. he received it with head still bent, and his answer was scarcely a whisper: "i am not quite rich." "then count. recollect yourself, sir, and count. tell me, and you shall be repaid. within three days you shall be repaid." it never occurred to him further to humiliate her by seeking sympathy through a reference to his own poverty. he looked up. in her clenched hands and parted lips, in her hot eyes and face, he saw the tokens of the blow that he had dealt her. he came toward her with outstretched hands, petitioning. "can't you guess why i did this?" he asked her. his amazement, even his sorrow, left him. in their place was only the sublimation of a worthy tenderness, the masterfulness of a firm resolve. his face was tense. "listen," he said: "i don't want you to answer me; i wouldn't say this if i were going to allow you to make any reply. i don't want pity; i don't deserve it. anything else i wouldn't ask, because i don't deserve anything else, either, and don't hope for it. i just want to make my action clear to you. perhaps i should have done for any neighbor what i did for--what little i have been doing; i trust so; i don't know. but the reason i did it in this case was a reason that i've never had in all my life before. remember, i'm hopeless and i shan't let you reply to me: i did this because"--his unswerving glance was on hers now--"because i love you." but she did reply. at first she seemed unable to credit him, but then her face became scarlet and her eyes blazed. "love me! and you do this? yes, sir, insult me by contributing--and through my servant--to my support! if i had not come back unexpectedly but now and found her counting more silver than i knew she could by right possess--if i had not frightened her into a confession--it might have gone on for months." the lady stopped abruptly. "how long _has_ it been going on?" "i tell you that i have no idea." "but once, sir, was enough! you insult me with your money, and when i ask you why you do it, you answer that you love me. love!" she uttered the concluding word with an intensity of scorn that lashed him. she turned to go, but, as on the occasion of their first meeting, he stepped forward and barred the way. "you have no right to put that construction on what i say. our points of view are different." "yes--thank the holy saints they _are_ different!" "i shall try to understand yours; i beg you to try to understand mine." their eyes met again. in his it was impossible for her not to read the truth. slowly she lowered hers. "in my country," she said, more softly now, but still proudly, "love is another sort of thing. in my country i should have said: 'if you respect me, sir, you perhaps love me; if you do not respect me, it is out of the question that you should love me.'" "respect you?" this was a challenge to his love that he could not leave unanswered. his voice rose fresh and clear. he was no longer under the necessity of seeking words: they leaped, living, to his lips. "respect you? good god, i've been worshiping the very thought of you from the first glimpse of you i ever had. this miserable room has been a holy place to me because you have twice been in it. it's been a holy place, because, from the moment i first found you here, it has been a place where i dreamed of you. night and day i've dreamed of you; and yet have i ever once knowingly done you any harm, trespassed or presumed on your kindness? i've seen no pure morning without thinking of you, no beautiful sunset without remembering you; you've been the harmony of every bar of music, of every bird-song, that i've heard. when you were gone, the world was empty for me; when i was with you, all the rest of the world was nothing, and less than nothing. respect you? why, i should have cut off my right hand before i let you even guess what you've discovered to-day!" as he spoke, her whole attitude altered. her hands were still clenched at her sides, but clenched now in another emotion. "is--is this true?" she asked. her voice was very low. "it is true," he answered. "and yet"--she seemed to be not so much addressing him as trying to quiet an accuser in her own heart--"i never spoke one word that could give you any hope." "not one," he gravely assented. "i never asked for hope; i don't expect it now." "and it is--it is really true?" she murmured. again he spoke in answer to what she seemed rather to address to her own heart: "because you found out what i'd done, i wanted you to know why i'd done it--and no more. if you hadn't found out about chitta, i would never have told you--this." she tried to smile, but something caught the smile and broke it. with a sudden movement, she raised her white hands to her burning face. "oh," she whispered, "why did you tell me? why?" "because you accused me, because----" he could not stand there and see her suffer. "i've been a brute," he said; "i've been a bungling brute." "no, no!" she refused to hear him. he drew her hands from before her face and revealed it, the underlip indrawn, the blue eyes swimming in hushed tears, all humbled in a wistful appeal. "a brute!" he repeated. "no, you are not!" her fingers closed on his. "you are splendid; you are fine; you are all that i--that i ever----" "vitoria!" out in the rue du val de grâce that rattletrap french hurdy-gurdy struck up "annie laurie." it played badly; its time was uncertain and its conception of the tune was questionable; yet cartaret thought that, save for her voice, he had never heard diviner melody. she was looking up at him, her hands clasped in his over his pounding heart, her eyes like altar-fires, her lips sacrosanct, and, wreathing her upturned face, seeming to float upon the twilight, hovered, fresh from sunlit mountain-crests of virgin snow, the subtle and haunting perfume that was like a poem in a tongue unknown: the perfume of the azure rose. "vitoria!" he began again. "you don't mean that you--that you----" she interrupted him with a sharp cry. she freed her hands. she went by him to the door. her voice, as she paused there, was broken, but brave: "you do not understand. how could you? and i cannot tell you. only--only it must be 'good-by.' often i have wondered how love would come to me, and whether he would come singing, as he comes to most, or with a sword, as he comes to some." she opened the door and stepped across the threshold. she was closing it upon herself when she spoke, but she held it open and kept her eyes on cartaret until she ended. "i know now, my beloved: he has come with a sword." chapter xi tells how cartaret's fortune turned twice in a few hours and how he found one thing and lost another a man is rich in proportion to the things he can afford to let alone.--thoreau: _walden_. a great deal has been said, to not much purpose, about the vagaries of the feminine heart; but its masculine counterpart is equally mysterious. the seat of charlie cartaret's emotions furnishes a case in point. cartaret had resolved never to tell vitoria that he loved her, and he told her. similarly, when he told her, he sought to make it clear to her, quite sincerely, that he nursed no hope of winning her for his wife, and, now that she was gone, hope took possession of his breast and brought with it determination. why not? had she not amazingly confessed her love for him? that left him, as he saw it, no reason for abnegation; it made sacrifice wrong for them both. the secret difficulty at which she hinted became something that it was now as much his duty, as it was his highest desire, to remove. for the rest, though he could now no more than previously consider offering her a union with a man condemned to a lifelong poverty, there remained for him no task save the simple one of acquiring affluence. what could seem easier--for a young man in love? the more he thought about it, the more obvious his course became. during all his boyhood, art had been his single passion; during all his residence in paris he had flung the best that was in him upon the altar of his artistic ambition; but now, without a single pang of regret, he resolved to give up art forever. he would see vitoria on the morrow and come to a practical understanding with her: was he not always a practical man? then he would reopen negotiation with his uncle and ask for a place in the elder cartaret's business. perhaps it would not even be necessary for him to return to america: he had the brilliant idea that his uncle's business--which was to say, the great monopoly of which his uncle's holdings were a small part--had never been properly "pushed" in france, and that charles cartaret was the man of all men to push it. the mystery that dear vitoria made of some private obstacle? that, of course, was but the exaggeration of a sensitive girl; it was the long effect of some parental command or childish vow. he had only to wrest from her the statement of it in order to prove it so. it was some unpractical fancy wholly beneath the regard of a practical, and now wholly assured, man of affairs. by way of beginning a conservative business-career, charlie went to the front window and, as he had done one day not long since, emptied his pockets for the delight of the hurdy-gurdy grinder. then, singing under his breath, and inwardly blessing every pair of lovers that he passed, he went out for a long walk in the twilight. he walked along the quai d'orsay, beside which the crowded little passenger-steamers were tearing the silver waters of the seine; crossed the white pont de l'alma; struck through the trocadero gardens, and so, by the rue de passy and the shaded avenue ingrez, came to the railway bridge, crossed it and strolled along the allée des fortifications. he walked until the night overtook him, and only then turned back through auteuil and over the pont grenelle toward home. alike in the perfumed shadows beneath the trees and under the yellow lamps of the boulevard de mont parnasse, he walked upon the clouds of resolution. the city that has in her tender keeping the dust of many lovers, cradled him and drew him forward. her soft breath fanned his cheek, her sweet voice whispered in his ears: "trust me and obey me! did i not know and shelter gabrielle d'estrées and her royal suitor? have i not had a care for de musset and for heine? in that walled garden over there, balzac dreamed of mme. hanska. along this street chopin wandered with george sand." that whisper followed him to his room, still thrilling with vitoria's visit. it charmed him into a wonderful sense of her nearness, into a belief that he was keeping ward over her as long as he sat by his windows and watched the stars go down and the pink dawn climb the eastern sky. it lulled him at last to sleep with his head upon his arms and his arms upon the mottled table. he overslept. it must have been nearly noon when he woke, and then he was wakened only by a pounding at the door of his room. fat mme. refrogné had brought him a cable-message. when she had gone, he opened it, surprised at once by its extravagant length. it was from cora; a modern miracle had happened: there was oil in the black keeping of the plot of ground that only sentiment had so long bade them retain in the little ohio town. cartaret was rich.... * * * * * when the first force of the shock was over, when he could realize, in some small measure, what that message meant to him, cartaret's earliest thought was of the lady of the rose. holding the bit of paper as tightly as if it were itself his riches and wanted to fly away on the wings that had brought it, he staggered, like a drunken man, to the door of the room opposite. he knocked, but received no answer. a clock struck mid-day. vitoria had probably gone to her class, and chitta to her marketing. a mad impulse to spread the good news possessed him. it was as if telling the news were recording a deed that there was only a brief time to record: he must do it at once in order to secure title. he knew that his friends, if they were in funds, would soon be gathered at the café des deux colombes. when he passed the rue st. andré des arts, he remembered fourget. cartaret was ashamed that his memory had been so tardy. fourget had helped him in his heavy need; fourget should be the first to know of his affluence.... the old dealer, his bushy brows drawn tight together, his spectacles gleaming, was trying to say "no" to a lad with a picture under his arm--a crestfallen lad that was a stranger to cartaret. "let me see the picture," said cartaret, without further preface. he put out a ready hand. the boy blushed. cartaret had been abrupt and did not present the appearance of a possible purchaser. "if you please," urged cartaret. "i may care to buy." fourget gaped. the boy turned up his canvas--an execrable daub. "i'll buy that," said cartaret. "are you mad?" asked fourget. "bring back that picture to m. fourget in half an hour," pursued the heedless american, "and he will give you for it two hundred francs that he will have lent me and that i shall have left with him." he pushed the stammering lad out of the shop and turned to fourget. "are you drunk?" asked the dealer, changing the form of his suspicions. "fourget," cried cartaret, clapping his friend on the back, "i shall never be hungry again--never--never--never! look at that." he produced the precious cable-message. "that piece of paper will feed me all my life long. it will buy me houses, horses, motors, steamship-tickets. it looks like paper, fourget." he spread it under fourget's nose. "but it isn't; it's a dozen suits of clothes a year; it's a watch-and-chain, a diamond scarf-pin (if i'd wear one!); it's a yacht. it's an oil-well, fourget--and a godsend!" fourget took it in his blue-veined hands. his hands trembled. "oh, i forgot," said cartaret. "it is in english. let me translate." he translated. when charlie looked up from his reading, he found fourget busily engaged in polishing his spectacles. perhaps the old man's eyes were weak and could not bear to be without their glasses: they certainly were moist. "i do not see so well as i once saw," the dealer was explaining: his voice was very gruff indeed. "you are wholly certain that this is no trick which one plays upon you?" cartaret was wholly certain. fourget made a valiant attempt at expressing his congratulations in a mere anglo-saxon handshake. he found it quite inadequate, and this annoyed him. "the world," he growled, "loses a possibly fair artist and gets an idle millionaire." "you get a new shop," vowed cartaret. "don't shake your head! i'll make it a business proposition: i've had enough trouble by being suspected of charity. i'm going to buy an interest, and i shan't want my money sunk in anything dark and unsanitary." fourget shook his gray head again. "thank you with all my heart, my friend," he said; "but no. this little shop meets my little needs and will last out my little remaining days. i would not leave it for the largest establishment on the boulevards." they talked until cartaret again bethought him of the café in the rue jacob. "but you will lend me the two hundred francs," he asked, "and give it to that boy for his picture?" how much a boy that boy seemed now: he was just the boy that cartaret had been in the long ago time that was yesterday! "since you insist; but truly, my dear monsieur, myself i was about to weaken and purchase the terrible thing when you interrupted and saved me." ... the money from seraphin's latest _magnum opus_ not being yet exhausted, seraphin's friends were lunching at the café des deux colombes, with little pasbeaucoup fluttering between them and the kitchen, and madame, expressionless under her mountain of hair, stuffed into the wire cage and bulging out of it. the company rose when they espied cartaret, the cadaverous poet garnier picking up his plate of roast chicken so as not to lose, in his welcoming, time that might be given to eating. cartaret felt at first somewhat ashamed before them. he felt the contrast between his changed fortunes and their fortunes unchanged. at last, however, the truth escaped him, and then he felt more ashamed than ever, so unenvious were the congratulations that they poured upon him. devignes' round belly shook with delight. garnier even stopped eating. "now you may have the leisure for serious work, which," squeaked varachon through his broken nose, "your art has so badly needed." seraphin said nothing, but put his hand on cartaret's shoulder and gripped it hard. houdon embraced the fortunate one. "did i not always tell you?" he demanded of seraphin. "did i not say he was a disguised millionaire?" "but he has but now got his money," seraphin protested. "poof!" said houdon, dismissing the argument with a trill upon his invisible piano. "la-la-la!" "without doubt to mark the event you will give a dinner?" suggested garnier. "without doubt," said houdon. cartaret said that he would give a dinner that very evening if pasbeaucoup would strain the median laws of the establishment so far as to trust him for a few days, and pasbeaucoup, receiving the necessary nod from madame, said that they would be but too happy to trust m. cartarette for any sum and for any length of time that he might choose to name. so cartaret left them for a few hours and went back to his room at the earliest possible moment for finding vitoria returned from her class. this time he not only knocked: he tried, in his haste, the knob of the door, and the door, swinging open, revealed an empty room, stripped of even its furniture. he nearly fell downstairs to the cave of refrogné. "where are they?" he demanded. had monsieur again been missing strawberries? where were what? "where is mlle. urola--where are the occupants of the room across from mine?" cartaret's frenzied tones implied that he would hold the concierge personally responsible for whatever might have happened to his neighbors. "likely they are occupying some other room by this time," growled refrogné. "i was unaware that they were such great friends of monsieur." "they are. where are they?" "in that case, they must have told monsieur of their contemplated departure." "do you mean they've moved to another room in this house?" "but no." "then where have they gone?" they had gone away. they had paid their bill honestly, even the rent for the unconsumed portion of the month, and gone away. that was all it was an honest concierge's business to know. "when did they go?" "early this morning." "didn't they leave any address?" "none. why should they? mademoiselle never received letters." cartaret could bear no more. even the man that hauled away the furniture had only taken it to the shop from which it had been leased. refrogné had seen the two women get into a cab with their scanty luggage and had heard them order themselves driven to the gare d'orsay. that was the end of the trail.... * * * * * cartaret climbed to his own room. thrust under the door, where he had missed it in the rush of his hopeful exit that morning, was an envelope. it did not hold the expected note of explanation. it held only a pressed rose, yellow now, and dry and odorless. chapter xii narrating how cartaret began his quest of the rose the power of herbs can other harms remove, and find a cure for every ill, but love. --gray: _elegy i_. for a great while cartaret remained as a man stunned. it was only very slowly that there came to him the full realization of his loss, and then it came with all the agony with which a return to life is said to come to one narrowly saved from death by drowning. blindly his brain bashed itself against the mysterious wall of vitoria's flight. why had she gone? where had she gone? why had she left no word? a thousand times that day these unanswerable questions whirled through his dizzy consciousness. had he offended her? he had explained his one offense, and she had given no sign of having taken any other hurt. was she indeed a revolutionist from some strange country, summoned away, without a moment's warning, by the inner council of her party? revolutionist conspirators did not go to art-classes and do not walk only under the chaperonage of an ancient duenna. was she, then, that claimant to power that he had once imagined her, now gone to seize her rights? things of that sort did not, cartaret knew, occur in these prosy days. then why had she gone, and where, and why had she left no word for him? again these dreary questions began their circle. less than twenty-four hours ago, he had thought that money would resolve all his troubles. money! fervently he wished himself poor again--poor again, as yesterday, with her across the landing in the room opposite. somehow, he did not forget his friends and the dinner he had promised them. he went to the deux colombes and ordered the dinner. "say to them, pasbeaucoup," he gave instructions, "that i am indisposed and shall not be able to dine with them. say that we shall all dine together some other night--very soon i hope. say that i am sorry." he was bitter now against all the world. "what will they care, as long as they have the dinner?" he reflected. pasbeaucoup cared. he expressed great concern for monsieur's health. "that," thought cartaret, "is because i'm rich. a month or two ago and they wouldn't trust me: they'd have let me starve." he went back to his desolate room and to his dreary questioning. he was there, with his head in his hands, when seraphin found him. seraphin's suit was still new, and it was evident that he had dressed carefully his twin wisps of whisker in honor of cartaret's celebration. the frenchman's face was grave. "why aren't you dining?" sneered cartaret. seraphin passed by the sneer. "they told me that you were ill," he said, simply. "and you came to see if it was true?" "i came to see if i could be of any assistance." ("ah," ran cartaret's unjust thoughts, "it's very evident you're rich now, charlie!") "nobody else came with you," he said. seraphin hesitated. he twirled his soft hat in his hands. "they thought--all but houdon, who still persists that you have been rich always--they thought that, now that you were rich, you might prefer other society." "_you_ didn't think it?" "i did not." it was said so frankly that even cartaret's present mood could not resist its sincerity. charlie frowned and put both his hands on seraphin's shoulders. "dieudonné," he said, "i'm in trouble." "i feared it." "not money-trouble." "i feared that it was not money-trouble." "you understood?" "i guessed. you have been so happy of late, while you were so poor, that to absent yourself from this gayety when you were rich----" an expressive gesture finished the sentence. "besides," added seraphin, "one cannot be happy long, and when you told me that you had money, i feared that you would lose something else." cartaret wrung the hand of his friend. "go back," he said. "go back and tell them that it's not pride. tell them it's illness. i _am_ ill. it was good of you to come here, but there's nothing you can do just now. to-morrow, or next day, perhaps i can talk to you about it. perhaps. but not now. i couldn't talk to any one now. good-night." he sat down again--sat silent for many hours after he had heard seraphin's footsteps die away down the stairs. he heard the hurdy-gurdy and thought that he could not bear it. he heard the other lodgers return. he heard the strange sounds--the creaking boards, the complaining stairway, the whispering of curtains--which are the night-sounds of every house. in the ear of his mind, he heard the voices of his distant guests: "what woman's lips compare to this: this sturdy seidel's frothy kiss?----" because he grew afraid of the ghosts of doubt that haunt the darkness, he lighted his lamp; but for a long time the ghosts remained. this was the very room in which he had told her that he loved her; this desert place was once the garden in which he had said that little of what was so much. she had stood by that table (so shabby now!) and made it a wonderful thing. she had touched that curtain; her fingers, at parting, had held that rattling handle of the shattered door. he half thought that the door might open and reveal her, even now. memory joined hands with love to make her poignantly present. her lightest word, her least action: his mind retained them and rehearsed them every one. the music of her laughter, the melody of her grace, wove spells in the lamplit room; but they ceased as she had ceased; they left the song unfinished, they stopped in the middle of a bar. he wondered whether it must always remain unfinished, this allegro of love in what, without it, would be the dull biographic symphony of his life; whether he would grow to be an old man with no memories but broken memories to warm his heart; and whether even this memory would become as the mere memory of a beautiful portrait seen in youth, a ghirlandaio's or a guido reni's work, some other man's vision, a part of the whole world's rich heritage, a portion of the eternal riddle of existence. "so short a time ago," crooned the ghosts--"and doubtless she has already forgotten you. you have but touched her hands: how could you hope that you had touched her heart? she will be happy, though she knows that you are unhappy; glad, though you are desolate. you gave her your dreams to keep, your hopes, your faith in love and womankind: and this is what she did with them! they are withered like that rose." he had put the yellow thing against his heart, where once he had put it when it was fresh and pure. he drew it out now and looked at it. what did it mean--that message of the rose? that, as she had once treasured the flower, so now she would treasure in its place her memory of him? "it means," chanted the ghosts, "that her friendship is as dead as this dry flower!" did it? he would make one trial more. vivid as was her face in his mind, he brought to the lamp his pictures of her. she had liked those pictures; in spite of herself, she had shown him that she liked them---- (the ghosts were crooning: "though you had the brush of diego velasquez, she would not heed you now!") had he painted her--he had tried to--as she should have been? or had he painted her as she really was? he searched the pictures. her eyes seemed to look at him with a long farewell in their blue-black depths, the parted lips to tremble on a sob. a light was born in the canvas--the reflected light of his own high faith revived. whatever separated them, it was by no will of hers. no, there was no ghost in all the fields of night that he would listen to again: in that pictured face there was as much of pride as there was of beauty, but there was nothing of either cruelty or deceit. yes, he had only touched her hand, but certainly hand had never yet touched hand as his touched hers. he was sure of it and sure of her. a short acquaintance--it had been long enough to prove her. a few broken words in the twilight--they were volumes. the merest breath of feeling--it would last them to their graves. he would move earth and heaven to find vitoria: the wine of that resolution rang in his ears and fired his heart. the sun, coming up over the panthéon in a glory of red and gold, sent into cartaret's room a shining messenger of royal encouragement before whose sword the ghosts forever fled. the lover was almost gay again: here was new service for her; here, for him, was work, the best surcease of sorrow. he felt like an athlete trained to the minute and crouching for the starter's pistol-shot. he believed in vitoria! he believed in her, and so he could not doubt his own ability to discover her in the face of all hardships and to win her against all odds; he believed in her and in himself, and so he could not doubt god. he understood something of the difficulties that presented themselves. he knew scarcely anything of the woman whom he sought; his only clews were her name and the name of the rose; he must first find to what country those names belonged, and to find that country he might have to seek through all the world. he could not ask help of the police; he would not summon to his assistance those vile rats who call themselves private-detectives. it was a task for himself alone; it was a task that must occupy his every working-hour; but it was a task that he would accomplish. a second cable-message interrupted him at his ablutions. it was from his uncle, and it read: "cora wires me received no reply from you. do you accept trust's offer stated in her cable? advise you say yes. better come home and attend to business." this brought cartaret to the realization that he was in a paradoxical position: he was a penniless millionaire. he went to fourget's and borrowed some money. thence he went to the cable-office in the avenue de l'opera. there had been, he now recalled, an offer--a really dazzling offer--mentioned in his sister's message; but more practical matters had driven it from his mind. he therefore sent his uncle this: "i accept trust's offer. advise cora to agree. don't worry: new york's not the only place for business. there's business in paris--lots of it." his uncle had been very annoying: charlie should have been at work at the bibliothèque nationale a full half-hour ago. he had resolved to begin with the floral clew. he went there immediately and asked what books they had about flowers; they told him that they had many thousand. cartaret narrowed his field; he said what he wanted was a book on roses, and he was told that he might choose any of hundreds that were at hand. in despair, he ordered brought to him any one that began with an "a"; he would work through the alphabet. by closing-time he had reached "ac." he hurried out into the fresh breeze that blew down through the public square and the narrow rue colbert, and so cut across to the cable-office. he wanted to send a message mentioning a little matter he had forgotten that morning. as it happened, the operator had just received a message for charlie. it was again from his uncle, and said that the sale would be consummated early next day. there was about it a brevity more severe than even cables require: the elder cartaret patently disapproved of the communication that his nephew had sent him. still, the sale seemed to be assured, and that was the main thing, so charlie put the word "five" in place of the word "one" in the message he was drafting, and sent it off: "cable me five thousand." he interrupted his library-researches the next day to make a sporadic raid upon florist-shops along the boulevards, but found no florist that had ever heard of the azure rose. the answer to his latest cable-message came the next day at noon. he had resumed his search at the bibliothèque and instructed the cable-clerk to hold all messages until he should call for them. he called for this at lunch-time: "sale completed, thanks to power-of-attorney you left me when sailing. do you mean dollars?" cartaret groaned at this procrastination. "and my uncle brags of his american hustle!" he cried. he filed his reply: "of course i meant dollars. what did you suppose i meant? francs? pounds sterling? i mean dollars. hurry!" "be sure to put in the punctuation marks," he admonished the pretty clerk. he dashed back to the library. during the next hundred and twenty hours, he divided his time between botanical researches and one side of the following cable-conversation: "come home." "can't." "why?" "busy." "how?" "botanizing. but if you don't send me immediately that little bit of all that belongs to me, i'll knock off work to find out the reason why." the money arrived just as his credit in short-credit paris was everywhere close to the breaking-point, and just as he gave up hope of ever finding what he wanted at the great library, where he had driven every sub and deputy librarian to the brink of insanity. money, however, brings resourcefulness: cartaret then remembered the jardin des plantes, where he had once been with vitoria. no official knew anything about the azure rose, but an old gardener (cartaret was trying them all) gave him hope. he was a little gascon, that gardener, with white hair and blue eyes, and his long labor had bent him forward, as if the earth in which he worked had one day laid hold of his shoulders and never since let go. "i had a brother once who was a _fainéant_ and so a great traveler. he spoke of such a rose," the gascon nodded; "but i cannot remember what it was that he told me." "here are five francs to help you remember," said cartaret. the old man took the money and thanked him. "but i cannot remember what my brother told me," he said, "except that the rose was found nowhere but in the basque provinces of spain." ... a half-hour later cartaret had bought his traveling-kit, which included a forty-five caliber automatic revolver. forty minutes later he had paid refrogné ten months' rent in advance, together with a twenty-five franc tip, and directed that his room be held against his return. an hour later he was sheepishly handing seraphin a bulky package, evidently containing certain canvases, and saying to him: "these are something i wouldn't leave about and couldn't bring myself to store, and you're--well, i think you'll understand." at twelve o'clock that night, from an opened window in his compartment of a sleeping-car on a southward-speeding _train de luxe_, cartaret was looking up at the yellow stars somewhere about tours. "good-night, vitoria!" he was whispering. "good-night, and--god keep you!" he was a very practical man. chapter xiii further adventures of an amateur botanist the happiness of the good old times is a mere dream in every age; but to keep on the laws of the old times, in preserving to reform, in reforming to preserve, is the true life of a free people.--freeman: _the norman conquest_. "vitoria," explained the guard, whom cartaret inveigled into conversation next morning, "is the capital of the province of alava." "eh?" said cartaret. "then there's more than one vitoria, my friend. if i'd only studied geography when i was at school, it might have saved me a week now." he tried to make talk with a hatless englishman in tweeds, who was smoking a briar-pipe in the corridor. "vitoria," said the englishman, "is one of the places where wellington beat the french under joseph buonaparte and jourdan, in the peninsular war." "didn't the spanish help?" asked cartaret. "they thought they did," said the englishman. cartaret had had small time in paris to learn anything about the strange people and the strange country for which he was bound; but, had he had weeks for study, he would have learned little more. centuries had availed almost nothing to the scholars that sought to explain them. the origin of their race and language still unknown, the basques, proud and wild, free and self-sufficient, have held to themselves their sea and mountain-fortresses from the dawn of recorded history. the successive tides of the suavi, the franks and the goths have swept through those rugged valleys, and left the basque unmixed and untainted. from the days of the roman legions to those of the napoleonic armies, he has withstood the onslaughts of every conqueror of western europe, unconquered and unchanged. the rivers of his legends draw direct from the source of all legends; the boundary of his customs is as unalterable as the foundation of his pyrenees. the engines of imperial slaughter, the steady blows of progress, the erosion of time itself, have left him as they found him: the serene despair of the philologist, the sphynx of ethnology, the riddle of the races of mankind. cartaret picked up the scanty threads of the basques' known chronicle. he learned that these celtiberi had preserved an independence which outlasted the western empire, gave no more than a nominal allegiance to leovigild, to wamba and to charlemagne, cast their fortunes with the moors at roncesvalles and, in the eleventh century, formed a free confederation of three separate republics under a ruler of their own blood and choice, whose tenure was dependent upon constitutional guarantees and whose power was wholly executive. even the yoke of spain, hated as it was, had failed materially to affect this form of government and could be justly regarded as little save a name. the three provinces--the vascongadas as they were called: the sea-coast viscaza and guipuzcoa and the inland alava--retained their ancient identity. somewhere among their swift rivers and well-nigh inaccessible mountains must be the house of her whom he sought. because of the name that she had given him, cartaret headed now for vitoria. twice he had to change his train, each time for a worse. from bayonne he crossed the spanish border at hendaya, whence the railway, after running west along the rocky coast of the bay of biscay, turned southward toward the heights about tolosa. all afternoon the scenery was varied and romantic. the hard-clay soil, cultivated with painful care by young giants and graceful amazons, gave place to pine-forests, to tree-cloaked hills, to mountains dark with mystery. twilight fell, then night. cartaret could now see nothing of the landscape through which he was jolted, but, from the puffing of the engine, the slow advance, the frightful swinging about curves, it was clear to him that he was being hauled, in a series of half-circles, up long and steep ascents. "what station is this?" he asked a french-speaking guard that passed his window at a stop where the air was cool and sweet with the odor of pine. the lantern showed only a good-natured face in a world of darkness. "ormaiztegua, monsieur," said the guard. "what?" said cartaret. "say it slow, please, and say it plainly: i am a stranger and of tender years." the guard repeated that outlandish name. "and now which way do we go?" cartaret inquired. "north again to zumarraga." "north again?" repeated cartaret. "look here: i'm in a hurry. isn't there any more direct route to vitoria?" "evidently monsieur does not know the pyrenees." from zumarraga, the train bent yet again southward, out of guipuzcoa across the navarra line. "aren't we late?" asked cartaret. "but a little," the guard reassured him: "scarcely two hours." at last, when they had climbed that precipitous spur of the pyrenees which forms the northern wall of alava; after they had stopped once to harness an extra locomotive, and stopped again to unharness it; after they had descended again, ascended again and once more descended--this last time for what seemed but a little way--the train came to the end of this stage of cartaret's journey. he alighted on a smoky platform only partially illuminated by more smoky lamps and had himself driven to the hotel that the first accessible cabby recommended. vitoria is a curious city of nearly , inhabitants, situated on a hill overlooking the plain of alava. cartaret, waking with the sun, could see from his window the campillo, the oldest portion of the town, crowning the hill-crest, an almost deserted jumble of ruined walls and ancient towers, surrounded by public-gardens and topped by the twelfth-century cathedral of st. mary, the effect of its gothic arches sadly lessened by ugly modern additions to the pile. below, the vitoria antigua clung to the hillside, a maze of narrow, twisting streets; and still lower lay the new town, a place of wide thoroughfares and shady walks, among which was cartaret's hotel. he breakfasted early and, having no leisure for sight-seeing, asked his way to the city's administrative-offices. he passed rows of hardware-factories, wine and wool warehouses, paper-mills and tanneries, wide yards in which rows of earthenware lay drying, and plazas where the horse and mule trade flourished, and so came at last to the arcaded market-place opposite which was the building that he was in search of; the offices were not yet open for the day. he sat down to wait at a table under an awning and before a café that faced the market. the market was full of country-folk, men and women, all of great height and splendid physique, and cartaret saw at once that the latter wore the same sort of peculiar head-dress that, in paris, had distinguished chitta. a loquacious waiter, wholly unintelligible, was accosting him. cartaret, guessing that he was expected to pay for his chair with an order for drink, made signs to fit that conjecture, and the waiter brought him a flask of the native _chacoli_. it was a poor wine, and cartaret did not care for it, but he sat on, pretending to, watching the white municipal building and looking, from time to time, at the farmers from the market who passed into the café and out of it. he half expected to see chitta among their womenfolk: chitta, of whom he would so lately have said that he never wanted to see her again! the farmers all gravely bowed to him, and cartaret, of course, bowed in return. finally it occurred to him that he might get news from one of them and so, one by one, he would stop them with an inquiry as to whether they spoke french. a dozen failures were convincing him of his folly, when their result was ruined by the appearance of a rosy-cheeked young man in a wide hat and swathed legs, who appeared to be more prosperous than his neighbors and who replied to cartaret in a french that the american could understand. "then do sit down and have a drink with me," urged cartaret. "i'm a stranger here and i'd be greatly obliged to you if you would." the young man agreed. he explained complacently that the folk of alava, though invariably hospitable, generally distrusted strangers, but that he had had advantages, having been sent to the jesuit school in st. jean pied-de-port. he was the one chance in a thousand: he knew something of what cartaret wanted to learn. had he ever heard of a rose, a white rose, called the azure rose? had he not heard! it was one of the foolish superstitions of the folk of northern alava, that rose. his own mother, being from the north--god rest her soul--had not been exempt: when he was sent into france to school, she had pinned an azure rose against his heart in order to insure his return home. "then it grows in the north?" "for the most part, yes, monsieur, and even there it is something rare: that, without doubt, is why it is esteemed so dearly by the common folk. it grows only near the snows, the high snows. there are but few white peaks there, and on them a few such roses. the country beyond alegria is the place of all places for them. if monsieur wants to find the azure rose, he should go to the wild country beyond alegria." "do you know that country?" asked cartaret. the young man shrugged. he ought to know it: he had been brought up there. but it was no place for strangers; it was very wild. "i wonder," said cartaret, hope shining in his brown eyes--"i wonder if you ever heard of a family there by the name of urola?" the farmer shook his head. urola? no, he had never heard of urola. but stay: there was the great family, the ethenard-eskurola d'alegria. eskurola was somewhat like urola; indeed, urola was part of eskurola. perhaps, monsieur---- cartaret was leaning far over the table. "is there," he asked, "a young lady in that family named vitoria?" the farmer reflected. "there was one daughter," he said; "a little girl when i was a lad. she was the lady dolorez. she had, however, many names: people of great houses among us have many names, monsieur, and vitoria is not uncommonly among them. vitoria? yes, i think she was also called vitoria." "did she speak english?" "it was likely, monsieur." nearly all of the ethenard-eskurolas spoke english, because one of their so numerous ancestors was the great don miguel ricardo d'alava, general under the duke of wellington, who valued him above all his generals in that spanish campaign. since then there had always been english teachers for the children of the house. so much was common knowledge. it was enough for cartaret. within the hour he was summoning the proprietor of his hotel to his assistance in arranging for an expedition to alegria. the hotel proprietor stroked a beard so bristling as to threaten his caressing fingers. "it is a wild country," he remarked. "that's what they all say," returned cartaret. "when does the next train leave for it?" "there is no train. alegria is a little town in the high cantabrian mountains, far from any train." "then come along downtown and help me buy a horse," said cartaret. "i saw a lot of likely-looking ones this morning." "but, monsieur," expostulated the hotel proprietor, "nobody between here and alegria speaks french. nobody in alegria speaks french--and you do not speak _eskura_." "what's that?" "it is how we basques name our own tongue." "well, i don't care. get me a guide." "i fear i cannot, monsieur. the country people do not want alava to become the prey of tourists, and they will be slow to allow a stranger." "have you got a road-map?" yes, the proprietor had a road-map--of sorts. it looked faulty, and cartaret found later that it was more faulty than it looked; but he resolved to make it do, and that afternoon found him in the saddle of a lean and hardy mare, ten miles on his way. he had brought with him a pair of english riding-breeches and leggings--purchased in paris for no other reason than that he had the money and used to love to ride--his reduced equipment was in saddle-bags, and the road-map in his handiest pocket. he put up at a little inn that night and rode hard, east by south, all the next day. he rode through fertile valleys where the fields were already yellow with wheat and barley. he came upon patches of indian corn that made him think of the country about his own ohio home, and upon flax-fields and fields of hemp. his way lay steadily upward, and in the hills he met with iron-banks and some lead and copper mines. queerly costumed peasants herded sheep and goats along the roadside; but nobody that cartaret addressed could understand a word of his speech. the road-map was bad, indeed: twice he lost his way by consulting it and once, he thought, by failing to consult it. a road that the map informed him would lead straight to alegria ended in a marble-quarry. cartaret accosted the only workman in sight. "alegria?" he asked. the man pointed back the way that cartaret had come. he followed the direction thus indicated and took a turning that he had missed before. he passed through a countryside of small plains. then he began to climb again and left these for stretches of bare heath and hills covered with furze. from one hilltop he looked ahead to a vast pile of mountains crowned by two white peaks that shone in the sun like the lances of a celestial guard. the farms were less and less in size and farther and farther apart--tiny farms cultivated with antique implements. apple-orchards appeared and disappeared, and then, quite suddenly, the hills became mountains, their bases covered by great forests of straight chestnut-trees, gigantic oaks and stately bushes whose limbs met in a dark canopy above the rider's head. at his approach, rabbits scurried, white tails erect, across the road; from one rare clearing a flock of partridges whirred skyward, and once, in the distance, he saw a grazing herd of wild deer. late in the afternoon, he came to a wide plateau, surrounded on three sides with mountain-peaks. there was a lake in the center, with a few cottages scattered along its shores, and at one end of the lake a high-gabled, wide-eaved inn, in front of which a short man, dark and wiry and unlike the people of that country, lounged in the sun. he proved to be the innkeeper, a native of navarre, and, to cartaret's delight, spoke french. "yes," he nodded, "i learned it years ago from a french servant that they used to have at the castle in the old lord's time." "i've come from vitoria," cartaret explained. "can you tell me how far it is to alegria?" "if you have come from vitoria," was the suspicious answer, "you must have taken the wrong road and come around alegria. alegria is a score of miles behind you." cartaret swore softly at that road-map. he was tired and stiff, however, and so he dismounted and let the landlord attend to his mare and bring him, at the inn-porch, some black bread and cheese and a small pitcher of _zaragua_, the native cider. "these are a strange people here," he said as the landlord took a chair opposite. the landlord shook his swarthy head. "i do not speak ill of them," said he. his tone implied that such a course would be unwise. "they call themselves," he went on after a ruminative pause, "the direct descendants of those celtiberi whom the old romans could never conquer, and i can well believe it of them. however, i know nothing: the lord at the castle knows." "they don't like the spaniards?" asked cartaret. "they hate us," said the innkeeper. "why?" "i do not know. perhaps because spain rules them--so much as any power could. but i know nothing: the lord at the castle knows." "what's his name?" the question fell thoughtlessly from the lips of the american, but he had no sooner uttered it than he surmised its answer: "the don ricardo ethenard-eskurola d'alegria." cartaret produced a gold-piece and spun it on the rude table before him. "an important man, isn't he?" the innkeeper was eyeing the money, but his reply was cautious: "how--'important'?" "rich?" "the old lord lost much when there was the great rising for don carlos. but an ethenard-eskurola does not need riches." "then he's lucky. how does that happen?" "because his family is the most ancient and powerful in all the vascongadas. there is no family older in spain, nor any prouder." it was plainly one subject of which this alien was permitted to know something. "they have been lords of this land since before the time that men made chronicles. the papers in the castle go back to the fifteenth century--to the time when _eskura_ was first turned into an alphabet. they were at roncesvalles; they made pilgrimages to jerusalem and fought in the crusades. one of them was lord-lieutenant of jerusalem when godfrey de bouillon was its king. there was an ethenard-eskurola at la isla de los faisanes when the french louis xi arranged there with our henry the marriage of the duc de guienne. always they have been lords and over-lords--always." "i see," said cartaret. "and the present lord lives near here at the castle?" "as all his fathers lived before him. at their place and in their manner. what they did, he does; what they believed, he believes. monsieur, even the ancient basque traditions of hospitality are there a law infringeable. were you his bitterest blood-enemy and knocked at the castle-gate for a night's shelter, he himself, ricardo d'alegria, would greet you and wait upon you, and keep you safe until morning." "and then shoot my head off?" suggested cartaret. the innkeeper smiled: "i know nothing; but the lord at the castle knows." "i suppose he hasn't a drop of any blood but basque blood in him?" "monsieur, there is but one way in which a foreigner may marry even the humblest basque, and that is by some act that saves the basque's entire line. thus even the humblest. as for the grandee at the castle, if i so much as asked him that question, so proud is he of his nationality and family that likely he would kill me." "he must be a pleasant neighbor," said the american. "he lives alone?" "with his servants. he has, of course, many servants." "he is not married?" still eyeing the gold-piece, the landlord answered: "no. there was something, once, long ago, that men say--but i know nothing. the don ricardo is the last of his house. unless he marries, the eskurolas will cease. however, he will marry." "you seem certain of it." "naturally, monsieur. he will marry in order that the eskurolas do not cease." "yes-s-s." cartaret hesitated before his next question. "so he's alone up there? i mean--i mean there's no other member of his family with him now?" instantly the innkeeper's face became blank. "i know nothing----" he began. "but the lord at the castle knows!" interrupted cartaret. "i said it first that time. the lord at the castle must know everything." "he does," said the landlord simply. cartaret rose. he pushed the gold-piece across the table. "that sentiment earns it," said he. "bring my mare, please. and you might point out the way to this castle. i've a mind to run up there." the innkeeper looked at him oddly, but, when the mare had been brought around, pointed a lean brown finger across the lake toward the mountains that ended in twin white peaks: the peaks that cartaret had seen a few hours since and that now seemed to him to be the crests of which he had dreamed when first he saw the azure rose. "the road leads from the head of the lake, monsieur," said the innkeeper: "you cannot lose your way." cartaret followed the instructions thus conveyed. after three miles' riding, a curved ascent had shut the lake and the cottages from view, had shut from view every trace of human habitation. he rode among scenery that, save for the grassy bridle-path, was as wild as if it had never before been known of man. it was a ravishing country, a fairy-country of blue skies and fleecy clouds; of acicular summits and sharp-edged crags; of mist-hung valleys shimmering in the sun; of black chasms dizzily bridged by scarlet-flowered vines. the road ran along the edges of precipices and wreathed the gray outcropping rock; thick ropes of honeysuckle festooned the limbs of ancient trees and perfumed all the air. here a blue cliff hid its distant face behind a bridal-veil of descending spray, broken by a dozen rainbows; there, down the terrifying depths of a vertical wall, roared a white and mighty cataract. the traveler's ears began to listen for the song of the hamadryad from the branches of the oak; his eyes to seek the flashing limbs of a frightened nymph; here if anywhere the gods of the elder-revelation still held sway. evening, which comes so suddenly in the cantabrians, was falling before the luxuriant verdure lessened and he came to a break in the forest. below him, billow upon billow, the foothills fell away in rolling waves of green. above, the jagged circle of the horizon was a line of salient summits and tapering spires of every tint of blue--turquoise, indigo, mauve--mounting up and up like the seats in a titanic amphitheater, to the royal purple of the sky. cartaret had turned in his saddle to look at the magnificent panorama. now, turning forward, he saw, rising ahead of him--ten miles or more ahead, but so gigantic as to seem bending directly above him and tottering to crush him and the world at his feet--one of the peaks that the innkeeper had indicated. it was a mountain piled upon the mountains, a sheer mountain of naked chalcedonous rock, rising to a snow-topped pinnacle; and, at its foot, almost at the extreme edge of the timber-line, a broad, muricated natural gallery, stood a vast gothic pile, a somber, rambling mass of wall and tower: the castle of the eskurolas. almost as cartaret looked, the sun went down behind that peak and wrapped the way in utter darkness. the traveler regarded with something like dismay the last faint glow that vanished from the west. "so sorry you had to go," he said, addressing the departed lord of day. he tried to look about him. "a nice fix i'm in," he added. he attempted to ride on in the dark, but, remembering the precipices, dared not touch rein. he thought of trusting to the instinct of the mare, but that soon failed him: the animal came to a full stop. the stillness grew profound, the night impenetrable. then, suddenly, there was a wild cacophony from the forest on his left. it shook the air and set the echoes clanging from cliff to cavern. the mare reared and snorted. lights danced among the trees; the lights became leaping flames; the noise was identifiable as the clatter of dogs and the shouts of men. cartaret subdued his mare just as a torch-bearing party of picturesquely-garbed hunters plunged into the road directly in front of him and came, at sight of him, to a stand. in the flickering light from a trio of burning pine-knots, the sight was enough strange. there were six men in all: three of them, in peasant costume, bearing aloft the torches, and two more, similarly dressed, holding leashes at which huge boar-hounds tugged. a pair of torch-bearers carried a large bough from the shoulder of one to the shoulder of the other, and suspended feet upward from this bough--bending with the weight--was a great, gray-black boar, its woolly hair red with blood, the coarse bristles standing erect like a comb along its spine, its two enormous tusks prism-shaped and shining like prisms in the light from the pine-knots. a deep bass voice issued a challenge in _eskura_. it came from the sixth member of the party, unmistakably in command. he was one of the biggest men cartaret had ever seen. he must have stood six-feet-six in his boots and was proportionately broad, deep-chested and long-armed. in one hand he held an old-fashioned boar-spear--its blade was red--as a sportsman that scorns the safety of a boar-hunt with a modern rifle. the torchlight, flickering over his tanned and bearded face, showed features handsome and aquiline, fashioned with a severe nobility. instead of a hat, a scarf of red silk was wrapped about his black curls and knotted at one side. his eyes, under eagle-brows, were fierce and gray. cartaret instinctively recalled his early ideas of a dark wotan in the _nibelungen-lied_. the american dismounted. he said, in english: "you are the don ricardo ethenard-eskurola?" he had guessed rightly: the big man bowed assent. "i'm an american," explained cartaret. "the innkeeper down in the valley told me your castle was near here, so i thought that this was you. i'm rather caught here by the darkness. i wonder if----" he noted eskurola's eye and did not like it. "i wonder if there's another inn--one somewhere near here." the basque frowned. for a moment he said nothing. when he did speak it was in the slow, but precise, english that cartaret had first heard from the lips of the lady of the rose. "you, sir, are upon my land----" "i'm very sorry," said cartaret. "and," continued don ricardo, "i could not permit to go to a mere inn any gentleman whom darkness has overtaken upon the land of the eskurolas. it is true: on my land merely, you are not my guest; according to our customs, i am permitted to fight a duel, if need arises, with a gentleman that is on my land." he smiled: he had, in the torchlight, a fearsome smile. "but on my land, you are in the way of becoming my guest. will you be so good as to accompany me to my poor house and accept such entertainment as my best can give you?" cartaret accepted, and, in the act, thought the acceptance too ready. "pray remount," urged eskurola. but cartaret said that he would walk with his host, and so the still trembling mare was given to an unencumbered torch-bearer to lead, and, by the light of the pine-knots, the party began its ten-mile climb. the night air, at that altitude, was keen even in summer, and the way was dark. the american had an uneasy sense that he was often toiling along the edges of invisible abysses, and once or twice, from the forest, he heard the scurry of a fox and saw the green eyes of a lynx. he tried to make conversation and, to his surprise, found himself courteously met more than half way. "i know very little of this part of spain," he said: "nothing, in fact, except what i've learned in the past few days and what the innkeeper down there told me." "we basques do not call this a part of spain," eskurola corrected him in a voice patently striving to be gentle; "and the innkeeper knows little. he is but a poor thing from navarre." "yes," cartaret agreed; "the staple of his talk was the statement that he knew nothing at all." eskurola smiled. "that is the truth," said he. he went on to speak freely enough of his own people. he explained something of their almost mongolian language: its genderless nouns; its countless diminutives; its endless compounds formed by mere juxtaposition and elision; its staggering array of affixes to supply all ordinary grammatical distinctions, doing away with our need of periphrasis and making the ending of a word determine its number and person and mood, the case and number of the object, and even the rank, sex and number of the persons addressed. he talked with a modesty so formed as really to show his high pride in everything that was basque. when cartaret pressed him, he told, with only a pretense of doubt in his voice, how the celtiberi considered themselves descendants of the ocean-engulfed atalantes, and former owners of all the spanish peninsula. even now, he insisted, they were the sole power over themselves from the bold coast-line of vizcaya to the borders of navarre and had so been long before sancho the wise was forced to grant them a _fuero_. they had always named their own governors and fixed their own taxes by republican methods. the sign of the vascongadas, the three interlaced hands with the motto _iruracacabat_, signified three-in-one, because delegates from their three parliaments met each year to care for the common interests of all; but there was no written pact between them: the basques were people of honor. spain? don ricardo disliked its mention. st. mary of salvaterra! the basque parliaments named a deputation that negotiated with representatives of the escorial and preserved basque liberties and law. if madrid called that sovereignty, it was welcome to the term. "we remain untouched by spain," he said, "and untouched by the world. our legends are still grecian, our customs are what the english call 'iron-clad.' basque blood is basque and so remains. it never mixes. it could mix in only one contingency." cartaret was glad that the darkness hid his flushed cheek as he answered: "i have recently heard of that contingency." "it never occurs," said eskurola quickly, "because the basque always chooses not to permit himself to be saved. it is a traditional law among us as strong as that against the disgrace of suicide." their feet were sounding over a bridge: the bridge, as cartaret reflected, to the castle's moat. through the light of the torches, the great gray walls of the pile climbed above him and disappeared into the night. a studded door, with mighty heaving of bolts, swung open before them, and they passed through into a vaulted gateway. the pine-knots cast dancing shadows on the stones. into what medieval world was he being admitted? did vitoria indeed inhabit it? and if she did, what difficulties and dangers must he overcome before ever he could take her thence? don ricardo was speaking. "i welcome you to my poor home," he said. cartaret's heart beat high. he was ready for any difficulty, for any danger.... with a solemn boom the great gate swung shut behind him. he felt that it had shut out the twentieth century. chapter xiv something or other about traditions ... since we must part, down right with happy day; burdens well borne are light. --donne: _eleg. xiii_. cartaret was lighted by his host himself to a bedroom high up in the castle and deep within it--a bedroom big enough and dreary enough to hold all the ghosts of spain. an old man-servant brought him a supper calculated to stay the hunger of a shipwrecked merchant-crew. he lay down in a great four-poster bed both canopied and curtained, and, in spite of his weariness, he tossed for hours, wondering whether vitoria was also somewhere within those grim walls and what course he was to pursue in regard to her. the same uncertainty gripped him when breakfast was brought to his bedside in the early morning. was this, after all, vitoria's home; and if it was, had she returned to it? supposing an affirmative answer to these questions, what was he to say to her brother? so far, thank heaven, don ricardo, though he had once or twice looked queerly at the american, had been too polite to make awkward inquiries, but such inquiries were so natural that they were bound soon to be made; and cartaret could not remain forever an unexplained and self-invited guest in the castle of his almost involuntary host. the guest recalled all that he had heard of the national and family pride and traditions of the eskurolas, and only his native hopefulness sustained him. he found his own way down twisting stairs and into a vast court-yard across which servants were passing. the great gate was open, and he stepped through it toward the battlemented terrace that he saw beyond. his first shock was there. the bridge that he had crossed the night before was indeed a drawbridge and did indeed span the castle-moat, but the bridge was unrailed and that moat was a terrible thing. it was no pit of twenty or thirty feet dug by the hand of man. the terrace to which the castle clung was separated from that to which climbed the steep approach by a natural chasm of at least twelve yards across, with sheer sides, like those of a glacial crevasse, shooting downwards into black invisibility and echoing upward the thunderous rush of unseen waters. leaning on the weather-worn wall that climbed along the edge of this precipice and guarded a broad promenade between it and the castle, cartaret looked with a new sensation at the marvelous scene about him. behind rose the frowning castle, a maze of parapets and towers, built against that naked, snow-capped, chalcedonous peak. in front, falling away through a hundred gradations of green, a riot of luxuriant vegetation, lay the now apparently uninhabited country through which he had ridden, and beyond this, circling it like the teeth of the celestial dragon that the chinese believe is to swallow the sun, rose row on row of bare mountains, ridges and pinnacles blue and gray. a hand fell on cartaret's shoulder. he turned to find don ricardo standing beside him. the giant gave every appearance of having been up and about for hours, and, despite his bulk, he had approached his guest unheard. "i trust that you, sir, have slept well in my poor house." cartaret replied that he had slept like a top. "and that you could eat of the little breakfast which my servants provided?" "i made a wonderful breakfast," said cartaret. "it is good, sir. if you can bear with my house, it is yours for so long as you care to honor it with your presence." cartaret knew that this must be only an exaggerated fashion of speech, but he chose to take it literally. "that's very good of you," he said. "i haven't ridden for years and i'm rather done up. if you really don't mind, i think i will rest here over another night." don ricardo seemed unprepared for this, but he checked a frown and bowed gravely. "a year would be too short for me," he vowed. they fell to talking, the host now trying to turn the conversation into the valley, the guest holding it fast to the castle-heights. "it is a beautiful place," said cartaret; "i don't know when i've seen anything to compare with it; and yet i should think you'd find it rather lonely." "not lonely, sir," said the basque. "the hunting in the valley is a compensation. for example, where you see those oaks about the curve of that river, i hunted, not ten days ago, a wolf as large as those for which my ancestors paid the wolf-money." "still," cartaret persisted, "you do live here quite alone, don't you?" he knew that he was impudent, and he felt that only his host's reverence for the laws of hospitality prevented an open resentment. nevertheless, cartaret was bound to find out what he could, and this time he was rewarded. "there is good enough to live with me," said don ricardo stiffly, "my lady sister, the doña dolorez eulalia vitoria." he looked out across the chasm. cartaret caught his breath. there was an awkward pause. then, glancing up, he saw, coming toward them along the terrace, the figure of a woman-servant that seemed startlingly familiar. it was chitta. she was bent, no doubt, on some household errand to her master, whose face was luckily turned away--luckily because, when she caught sight of cartaret, her jaw dropped and her knees gave under her. cartaret had just time to knit his brows with the most forbidding scowl he could assume. the old woman clasped her hands in what was plainly a prayer to him to be silent concerning all knowledge of her and her mistress. a moment more, and don ricardo was giving her orders in the basque tongue. "our servants," he said apologetically when she had gone, "are faithful, but stupid." his gray eyes peered at cartaret searchingly. "very stupid, sir," he added. "for instance, you, sir, know something of our customs; you know that centuries-old tradition--the best of laws--makes it the worst of social crimes for a basque to marry any save a basque----" he stopped short, holding cartaret with his eyes. cartaret nodded. "very well, sir," ricardo continued: "one time a lady of our house--it was years upon years ago, when wellington and the english were here--fell in love, or thought that she did, with a british officer. for an englishman, his degree was high, but had he been the english king it would have served him nothing among us. knowing of course that the head of our house would never consent to such a marriage, this lady commanded her most loyal servant to assist in an elopement. now, the basque servant must obey her mistress, but also the basque servant must protect the honor of the house that she has the privilege to serve. this one sought to do both things. she assisted in the elopement and brought the lady to the english camp. then, thus having been faithful to one duty, she was faithful to the other: before the wedding, she killed both her mistress and herself." he turned quickly. "sir, i have pressing duties in the valley, and you are too weary to ride with me: my poor house is at your disposal." cartaret leaned against the parapet and, when his host was out of earshot, whistled softly. "what a delightful _raconteur_," he mused. "i wonder if he meant me to draw any special moral from that bit of family-history." he waited until, a quarter of an hour later, he saw don ricardo and two servants ride across the drawbridge and wind their way toward the valley. he waited until the green forest engulfed them. what he was going to do might be questionable conduct in a guest, but there was no time to waste over nice points of etiquette. he was going to find vitoria. he started for the court-yard. his plan was to accost the first servant that he encountered and mention chitta's name, but this trouble was saved him. in the shadowy gateway, he found chitta crouching. she glanced to right and left, saw that they were unobserved, passed beyond a narrow door that opened into the gate, and led cartaret up a spiral stone staircase to the entrance of a circular room in one of the twin gate-towers. there she turned and left him alone with vitoria. in the center of that bare room, standing beside one of the bowmen's windows that commanded the approach to the castle, the lady of the rose awaited him. for an instant, he scarcely recognized her. she was gowned in a single-piece basque dress of embroidered silk, closely fitted about her full lithe figure to below the hips, the skirt widening and hanging loosely about her slim ankles. a black silk scarf, in sharp contrast to the embroidery, was sewn to the dress and drawn tightly over the right shoulder, across the bust, and then draped beneath the left hip. but the glory of her blue-black hair was as he had first seen it in the twilight of his far-off studio; the creamy whiteness of her cheeks was just touched with pink, and her blue eyes, under curling lashes, seemed at first the frank eyes that he loved. "vitoria!" he cried. she drew back. she raised one hand, its pink palm toward him. "you should not have done this," she said in a rapid whisper. "how did you find me? how did you come here?" her voice was kind, but steady. cartaret stood still. this he had not looked for. his cheeks were flushed, and the lines about his mouth deepened, as they always did at moments of crisis, and made his face very firm. "does it matter how?" he asked. "not all the width of the world could have kept me away. there's something i've got to know and know instantly." "but you should not have come, and you must go immediately! listen--no, listen to me now! i am not vitoria urola in these mountains; whether i want it or not, i have to be the doña dolorez ethenard-eskurola. that would perhaps sound amusing in the rue du val de grâce; here it is a serious matter: the most serious matter in this little mountain-world. you will have to listen to me." cartaret folded his arms. "go on," he said. "last winter," she continued, her face challenging his, "i had a time of rebellion against all these things amongst which i had been brought up. i had never been farther away from this place than alegria, but i had had french and english governesses, and i read books and dreamed dreams. i loved to paint; i thought that i could learn to be a real artist, but i knew that my brother would think that a shame in an eskurola and would never permit his unmarried sister to go to a foreign city to study. nevertheless, i was hungry for the great world outside--for the real world--and so i took poor chitta, gathered what jewels were my own and not family-jewels, and ran away." she looked from the window to the road that led into the valley; but the road was still deserted. "chitta sold the jewels," she presently went on. "they brought very little; but to me, who had never used money, it seemed much. we went to paris: i and chitta, who, because she had often been so far as vitoria before, became as much my guardian as she was my servant--and i was long afraid to go but a little distance in the streets without her: the streets terrified me, and, after one fright, she made me promise to go nowhere without her. so we took the room that you know of. we were used to regarding my brother as all-powerful; we feared that he would find us. therefore, we would let no one know who we were or whence we came. now that is over." her voice trembled a little. she made a hopeless gesture. "it is all over, and we have come back to our own people." she raised her head proudly; she had regained her self-control: to cartaret, she seemed to have regained an ancient pride. "i have learned that i must be what i was born to be." he squared his jaw. "a slave to your brother's will," he said. "a creature," she answered with steady gaze--"a creature of the will of god." "but this is nonsense!" he came forward. "this sort of thing may have been all very well in the fourteenth century; but we're living in the twentieth, and it doesn't go now. oh,"--he flung out a hand--"i know all about your old laws and traditions! i dare say they're extremely quaint and all that, and i dare say there was a time when they had some reason in them; but that time isn't this time, and i refuse to hear any more about them. i won't let them interfere with me." she flashed crimson. "you speak for yourself, sir: permit me to speak for myself." his answer was to seize her hands. "let me go!" she ordered. "i'll never let you go," said he. "let me go. you are a brave man to restrain a woman! shall i call a servant?" she struggled fiercely, panting. "i've got to make you understand me," he protested, holding fast her hands. "i didn't mean any harm to your traditions or your customs. whatever you love i'll try to love too--just so long as it doesn't hurt you. but _this_ does hurt you. tell me one thing: why did you leave paris? what was it made you change your mind?" he saw in her face the signs of an effort to disregard the demand. "tell me why you left paris," he repeated. her eyes wavered. the lids fluttered. "that night," she began in an uneven tone, "i gave you to understand, that night----" "you gave me to understand that you loved me." he said it fearlessly, and, on the edge of a sob, she fearlessly answered him. she had ceased to struggle. her hands lay still and cold in his. "i told you that love had brought me a sword." "you've changed. what has changed you?" "i have not changed. i have only come back to these unchangeable mountains, to this unchanging castle, to the ancient laws and customs of my people--their ancient and unalterable laws. i had to come back to them," she said, "because i realized that it was not in me to be false to all that my fathers have for centuries been true to." cartaret leaned forward. he could not believe that this was her only reason; he could not understand that the sway of any custom can be so powerful. he held her hands tighter. his eyes searched her quailing eyes. "do you love me? that's all i want to know, and i'll attend to everything else. i've no time for sparring. i've got to know if you love me. i've got to know that, right here and now." she shook her head. "don't!" she whispered. "do you love me?" he relentlessly persisted. "to love in paris is one thing: here i may not love." "you may not--but _do_ you?" "don't. please don't. oh!"--her red lips parted, her breath came fast--"if love were all----" "it _is_ all!" he declared. he slipped both her cold hands into his right hand and put his freed arm about her waist. "vitoria," he whispered, drawing her to him, "it _is_ all. it's all that matters, all that counts. it can mock all custom and defy all law. i love you, vitoria." slowly her eyes closed; slowly she sank against his arm; slowly her head drooped backward, and slowly he bent toward its parted, unresisting lips---- "and love's the one thing in the world worth living and dying for." at that word, she came to sudden life. with one wrench, she had darted from his arms. instantly she had recovered self-control. "no, no, no!" she cried. "go away! there is danger here. oh, go away!" the suddenness of her action shattered his delirium. he read in her words only her reply to the question that he had put to her. impossible as it would have seemed a moment since, that negative meant a catastrophic denial of any love for him. he glanced at the old walls that surrounded them--at all the expressions of a remorseless self in which he could have no part. he felt, with a sudden certainty, that these things were of her, and she of them--that what she meant by her distinction between herself in paris and this other self here was the vast difference between a byzantine empress breaking plebeian hearts in the alleys of her capital and that same woman on her throne, passionless and raised above the reach of men's desires. the most modest of young fellows is always a little vain, and his vanity is always wounded; it is ever seeking hurts, anxious to suffer: cartaret was no exception to human rules. he told his heart that vitoria's words meant but one thing: she had entertained herself with him during an incognito escapade and, now that the escapade was finished, wanted no reminders. a byzantine empress? this was worse: the empress gave, if only to take away. what vitoria must mean was that even her momentary softening toward him on this spot was no more than momentary. she was saying that, having had her amusement by making him love her, she was now returned to her proper station, where to love her was to insult her. he had been her plaything, and now she was tired of it. "very well," he said, "if you think my love is worth so little. if you can't brave one miserable medieval superstition for it, then i've got the answer to what i asked you, and you're right: i'd better go." he turned to the narrow door at the head of the spiral stairs. "i know," he said, as if to the stone walls about them, "that i'm not worth much sacrifice; but my love has been worth a sacrifice. some day you'll understand what my love might have meant. some day, when you're old, you'll look from one of these windows out over these valleys and mountains and think of what could have happened--what there was once, just this one time, one chance for." he half faced her. "other men will love you, many of them. they'll love your happiness and grace and beauty as well, i dare say, as i do and always will. but you'll remember one man that loved your soul; you'll remember me----" vitoria was swaying dizzily. her recaptured self-command visibly wavered. she leaned against the rough wall. he leaped toward her, but she had the strength left to warn him away. "no, no, no!" she repeated. "i do not----" she raised her hands to the vaulted roof. by a tremendous effort she became again mistress of herself--and of him. "why will you not understand? i do not love you. go!" at that moment a cry rang out. it was a cry from the gateway. it was the cry of chitta, who came bounding into the narrow room and hurled herself at her mistress's feet. before any one of the trio could speak, there was the clatter of a galloping horse on the road, the thunder of hoofs over the drawbridge above that frightful chasm. "go!" shrieked vitoria. "will you never go? do you not understand what this means? do you not know who is coming here?" chitta set up a loud wail. "i don't care who's coming here," said cartaret. "if there's any danger----" vitoria leaped over the prostrate servant and began pushing cartaret away. "i hate you!" she cried. "do you hear that? _i hate you!_ now will you go?" he looked at her, and his face hardened. "i'll go," he said. he turned away. "my brother!" gasped vitoria. don ricardo came in at the door of the tower-room. chapter xv in which cartaret takes part in the revival of an ancient custom la vieille humanité porte encore dans ses entrailles la brutalité primitive; un anthropoïde féroce survit en chacun de nous.--opinions à répandre. for a moment none moved. there was chitta, groveling on the stone floor of the circular room, her face hidden in her hands; there was vitoria, her arms outstretched, struck rigid in the act of repulsing cartaret; and there were the two men--the american white, but determined and unafraid; the basque with a dull red spreading on his tanned cheeks--facing each other as pugilists, entering the ring, face each other at pause during the fleeting instant before they begin to circle for an opening. cartaret, with the eye that, in times of high emotion, takes account of even trivial detail, noted how don ricardo, who had been forced to stoop in order to pass the doorway, gradually straightened himself with a slow, unconscious expansion of the muscles such as a tiger might employ. vitoria was the first to speak: she lowered her arms and turned upon her brother a glance of which the pride proved that her self-possession was regained. she spoke in english, though whether for cartaret's comprehension, for the servant's mystification, or as an added gibe at ricardo, the american was unable to determine. "you came unannounced, brother," she said. "i am not accustomed to such entrances." the red deepened over don ricardo's high cheek-bones, but he bit his lip and seemed to bite down his rage. "these are not your apartments, doña dolorez," he said, adopting, with visible repugnance, the language she employed. "and i am the head of your house." he bent his gray eyes on cartaret. "be so good as to come with me, sir," he said. he stood aside from the door. "i follow after my guest." cartaret's heart had place only for the last words that vitoria had said to him. he would not look at her again, and he cared little what might happen to himself, so long as he could draw this irate brother after him and away from the endangered women. vitoria had said that she hated him: well, he would do what he could to save her, and then leave alava forever. he passed through the door.... "he is my guest," he heard don ricardo saying. "an eskurola remembers the laws of hospitality." cartaret went on to the court-yard. there his host followed him. "will you come to my offices?" he asked. he walked across to the north wing of the castle and into a large room that looked upon the terrace. the ceiling was a mass of blackened rafters; the walls, wainscoted in oak, were hung with ancient arms and armor, with the antlers of deer and the stuffed heads of tusked boar, and with some rags of long-faded tapestry. there was a yawning fire-place at one end, between high bookshelves filled with leather-bound folios, and, near one of the windows, stood an open seventeenth century desk massed with dusty papers. eskurola waved his guest to a stiff-backed chair. cartaret, seeing that don ricardo intended to remain standing, merely stood beside it. "sir," began the basque, "you have said that you are a stranger to our country and its ways. it is my duty to enlighten you in regard to some details." he towered nearly half a foot above cartaret. the nostrils of his beaked nose quivered above his bristling beard, but he kept his voice rigorously to the conversational pitch. cartaret, however, was in no mood to hear any more exposition of vascongada manners and customs. he had had enough of them. "there's no need of that," he said. "if i've done anything i shouldn't have done, i'm sorry. but i want you to understand that i'm to blame: _i'm_ to blame--and nobody else." eskurola went on as if cartaret had not spoken: "it is not our custom to present to our ladies such casual strangers as happen to ask shelter of us; nor is it the custom of our ladies to permit such presentations, still less to seek them. of that last fact, i say but one word more: the doña dolorez has been lately from home, and i fear that her contact with the outer world has temporarily dulled the edge of her native sensitiveness." "look here," said cartaret, his hands clenched, "if you mean to imply----" "sir!" the basque's eyes snapped. "i speak of my sister." "all right then. but you'd better be told a few facts, too. paris isn't alava. i met the doña dolorez in paris. we were neighbors. what could be more natural, then, than that, when i came here----" "ah-h-h!" eskurola softly interrupted. in the meshes of his beard, his red lips were smiling unpleasantly. "so that was it! how stupid of me not to have guessed before, sir. i was sure that there had been in paris something beside art." cartaret's impulse was to fly at the man's throat. his reason, determined to protect the woman that cared no more for him, dictated another course. "i wanted," he said quietly, "to make your sister my wife." the effect of this statement was twofold. at first a violent anger shook the basque, and the veins stood out in ridges along his neck and at his temples, below the red cloth bound about his head. then, as quickly, the anger passed and was succeeded by a look reminiscent, almost tender. "you know that no alien can marry one of our people," he said. "you know that now." cartaret thought again of vitoria's parting word to him. "i know it _now_," he said. "you are my guest," eskurola pursued. "i shall tell you something. you have seen me only as what must seem to you a strange and hard man--perhaps a fierce and cruel man. i am the head of my ancient house; on me there depends not only its honor, but also its continuance. sir, i exact of my relatives no less than i have already exacted of myself." cartaret looked at him in amazement. could it be possible that there had ever been in this medieval mind anything but ruthless pride of race? "years ago--but not so many years ago as you, sir, might suppose--there came to this house a young lady. she came here as a governess for my sister, but she was a lady, a person of birth. also, she spoke your language." he paused, and then went on in a still gentler voice. "sir, because of her, your language, barbarous as it is, has always been dear to me, and yet, still because of her, i have ever since wanted not to speak it." cartaret looked at the floor. even though this confession of a past weakness was voluntary, it seemed somehow unfair to watch, during it, the man whose pride was so strong. "and you sent her away?" he found himself asking. "she went when her work was finished. she went without knowing." cartaret raised his eyes. there was no false assumption in the man upon whom they rested: it was impossible to believe that, seeing him thus, a woman would not love him. "i'll go," said cartaret. eskurola's words had assured him of vitoria's safety. "i'll go now." "i would not drive you away. you have said that you would be my guest for another night; you may remain as long as you care to remain." "i'll go," cartaret repeated. "it isn't you that's driving me. will you please send up to my room for my saddle-bags, and have my mare brought around?" don ricardo bowed. he went out. cartaret stood for some time on the spot where he had been standing throughout the talk with his host. he was thinking of his ruined hopes and of the woman that had ruined them. once he asked himself what had so changed her; but, when he could find no answer to that question, he asked what the cause could matter, since the effect was so apparent. he walked to a window. he could see that part of the terrace which lay between the gate and the drawbridge, but he saw no sign of his mare. what could eskurola be doing? he seemed, whatever it was, to be a long time about it. the oaken door of the room opened and closed with a bang. don ricardo stood before it. the dull red had returned to his cheeks. "sir," said he, "i have just been having another word with the doña dolorez: she informs me that you have had the impertinence to tell her that you love her." cartaret laughed bitterly. "in _my_ country," he said, "when a man wants to marry a woman it is customary to say something of that kind." "you are in alava, sir, and you speak of a member of my family." "i was in paris then." "but this morning--just now?" eskurola came a step forward. "i won't talk any more about it," said cartaret. "please have my mare brought around at once." "no," eskurola replied: "you shall talk no more about it. mr. cartaret, you must fight me." the american could not believe his ears. he recollected that when the continental speaks of fighting he does not refer to mere pugilism. "you're crazy," said cartaret. "i don't want to fight you." "so soon as you have passed that gate, you will be my guest no longer. what, sir, you may then want will not matter. you will have to fight me." cartaret sat down. he crossed his legs and looked up at his host. "is this your little way of persuading me to stay awhile?" he asked. "you cannot go too soon to please me." "then perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me what it's all about." eskurola's giant figure bent forward. his eyes blazed down in cartaret's face. "you came into this place, the place of my people, under false pretenses. i made you welcome; you were my guest, sir. yet you used your opportunities to insult my sister." cartaret got slowly to his feet. he knew the probable consequences of what he was about to say, but, never shifting his gaze from the basque's, he said it quietly: "that's a lie." don ricardo leaped backward. it was doubtless the first time in his life that such a phrase had been addressed to him, and he received it as he might have received a blow. both in mind and body, he staggered. "my sister has told me----" he began. "i don't want to hear any more, señor. i've said all that i have to say." cartaret thrust his hands into the pockets of his riding-breeches and, turning his back on eskurola, looked out of the window. "now," the basque was saying, as his mental balance reasserted itself--"now we must indeed fight." cartaret himself was thinking rapidly and by no means clearly. to say that dueling was not an american custom would avail him nothing--would be interpreted as cowardice; to fight with a man bred as don ricardo was evidently bred would be to walk out to death. cartaret looked at the panorama of the mountains. well, why not death? less than an hour ago his whole life had been mined, had been sent crashing about his head. the only thing that he cared for in life was taken from him: vitoria had herself declared that she hated him. nor that alone--the thought burned in his brain: she had told this wild brother of hers that he, cartaret, had insulted her; she had incited eskurola to battle--perhaps to save herself, perhaps to salve some strange basque conception of honor or pride. so be it; cartaret could render her one more service--the last: if he allowed himself to be killed by this half-savage who so serenely thought that he was better than all the rest of the world, don ricardo's wounded honor would be healed, and vitoria--now evidently herself in danger or revengeful--would be either safe or pacified. the twentieth century had never entered these mountains, and cartaret, entering them, had left his own modernity behind. "all right," said he, "since you're so confounded hungry for it, i'll fight you. anything to oblige." he looked about to find eskurola bowing gratefully: the man's eyes seemed to be selecting the spot on their enemy's body at which to inflict the fatal wound. "i am glad, sir, that you see reason," said don ricardo. "i'm not sure that i see reason," said cartaret, "but i'm going to fight you." "i do not suppose that you can use a rapier, mr. cartaret?" it was clear that not to understand the rapier was to be not quite a gentleman; but cartaret made the confession. "not that it matters," he reflected. "but you can shoot?" cartaret remembered the boyish days when he had taken prizes for his marksmanship with a revolver. it was the one folly of his youth that he had continued, and he found a certain satisfaction (so much did eskurola's pride impress him) in admitting this, albeit he did not mean to use the accomplishment now. "i carry this with me," said he, producing his automatic revolver. don ricardo scarcely glanced at it. "that is not the weapon for a marksman," he said. "nevertheless, let me see what you can do. none will be disturbed; these walls are sound-proof." he took a gold coin, an alfonso, from his pocket and flung it into the air. "shoot!" he commanded. cartaret had expected nothing of the sort. he fired and missed. the report roared through the room; the acrid taste of the powder filled the air. eskurola caught the descending coin in his hand. cartaret saw that his failure had annoyed don ricardo, and this in its turn annoyed the american. "i didn't know you were going to try me," he said, "and i'm not used to marking up the ceilings of my friends' houses. try again." the basque, without comment, flung up the alfonso a second time, and a second time cartaret fired. eskurola reached for the coin as before, but this time it flew off at an angle and struck the farther wall. when they picked it up, they found that it had been hit close to the edge of the disk. "not the center," said don ricardo. "indeed?" said cartaret. what sort of shot would please the man? "suppose you try." eskurola explained that he was not accustomed to such a revolver, but he would not shirk the challenge; and there was no need for him to shirk it: when cartaret recovered the alfonso after don ricardo had shot, there was a mark full in its middle. "so much for his spanish majesty," said the basque, as he glanced at the mark made by his bullet in the face upon the coin. "we shall use dueling-pistols. i have them here." he went to the desk. cartaret had no doubt that eskurola had them there: he probably had a rack and thumbscrews handy below-stairs. "we shall have to dispense with the formality of a surgeon," don ricardo was saying. "it doesn't look as if one would be needed," cartaret smiled; "and it doesn't look as if we were to have seconds, either." the basque turned sharply. "we are the only gentlemen within miles, and we cannot have servants for witnesses. moreover, an eskurola needs no seconds, either of his choosing to watch his safety, or of his enemy's to suspect his honor." he pressed a spring, released a secret drawer in the desk and found what he was seeking: a box of polished mahogany. opening the lid, he beckoned to cartaret. there, on a purple velvet lining, lay a beautifully kept pair of dueling-pistols, muzzle-loaders of the eighteenth century pattern and of about . caliber, their long octagonal barrels of shining dark blue steel, their curved butts of ivory handsomely inlaid with a moorish design in gold. "listen," said eskurola, "as we are to have no seconds, i shall write a line to exculpate you in case you survive me. then"--his gray eyes shone; he seemed to take a satisfaction that was close to delight in arranging these lethal details--"also as we are to have no seconds to give a signal, we shall have but one true shot between us. certainly. are we not men, we two? and we have proved ourselves marksmen. you cannot doubt me, but i have a man that speaks french, so that you shall see that i do not trick you, sir." he went to the door and called into the court-yard. presently there answered him a man whom cartaret recognized as one of those who, the night before, held the dogs in leash. "murillo gomez," said eskurola, in a french more labored than his english, "in five minutes this gentleman and i shall want the terrace to ourselves. you will close the gate when we go out. you will remain on this side of it, and you will permit none to pass. answer me in french." the servant's face showed no surprise. "_oui, señor_," he said. "now you will take these pistols and bring them back without delay. in the armory you will load one with powder and shot, the other with powder only. neither this gentleman nor i must know which is which. you understand?" the servant's face was still impassive. "_oui, señor._" "go then. also see that the doña dolorez remains in her own apartments. and hurry." the servant disappeared with the pistols. eskurola, apologizing gravely, went to the desk and wrote--apparently the lines of which he had spoken. he sanded them, folded the paper, lit a candle and sealed the missive with an engraved jade ring that he wore on the little finger of his left hand. "this is your first duel, sir?" he said to cartaret. he said it much as an englishman at luncheon might ask an american guest whether he had ever eaten turbot. "yes," said cartaret. "well, you may have what the gamblers of london call 'beginner's luck.'" the servant knocked at the door. "will you be so good as to take the pistols?" asked don ricardo in english of cartaret. "it appears better if i do not speak with him. thank you. and please to tell him in french that he may have your mare and saddle-bags ready in the gateway within five minutes, in case you should want them." cartaret obeyed. eskurola again held the door for his guest to pass. "after you, sir," he said. they crossed the court-yard leisurely and shoulder to shoulder, for all the world as if they were two friends going out to enjoy the view. any one observing them from the windows, had there been any one, would have said that don ricardo was pointing out to cartaret the beauties of the scene. in reality he was saying: "with your agreement, we shall fix the distance at ten paces, and i shall step it. there is no choice for light, and the wind is at rest. therefore, there being no person to count for us, i shall ask you to toss a coin again, this time that i may call it: if i fail to do so, you fire first; if i succeed, i fire first. permit me to advise you, sir, that, if you are unaccustomed to the hair-trigger, it is as well that you be careful lest you lose your shot." eskurola's manners were apparently never so polished as when he was about to kill or be killed. he measured off the ground and marked the stand for each, always asking cartaret's opinion. he stood while cartaret again tossed a glittering gold-piece in the air. "tails!" cried don ricardo. "i always prefer," he explained, "to see this king with his face in the dust. let us look at him together, so that there will be no mistake." the piece lay with its face to the terrace. "i win," said eskurola. "i shoot first. it is bad to begin well." cartaret smiled. with such a marksman as this basque to shoot at one, the speech became the merest pleasantry. there was only the question of the choice of the pistol, and as to that---- "if you will open the box, i shall choose," eskurola was saying. evidently the choice was also to go to the winner of the toss. cartaret was certain this would not have been the case if the toss had gone otherwise. "i must touch neither until i have chosen, although the additional powder in the blank pistol tends toward making their weight equal." mechanically cartaret opened the mahogany box. don ricardo scarcely glanced at the pair of beautiful and deadly weapons lying on the purple velvet: he took the one farther from him. "pray remember the hair-trigger," he continued: "you might easily wound yourself. now, if you please: to our places." each man took off his hat and coat and stood at his post in his white shirt, his feet together, his right side fronting his enemy, his pistol pointing downwards from the hand against his right thigh. "are you ready, sir?" asked eskurola. for a flashing instant cartaret wanted to scream with hysterical laughter: the whole proceeding seemed so archaic, so grotesque, so useless. then he thought of how little he had to lose and of whom he might serve in losing that little.... "ready, señor," he said. if only she could, for only that last moment, love him! that last moment, for he made no doubt of the end of this adventure. the basque had been too punctilious in all his arrangements: from the first cartaret had been sure that don ricardo and the french-speaking servant had played this tragic farce before, and that the master so arranged matters as easily to choose the one pistol that held death in its mouth. to convict him was impossible, and, were it possible, would be but to strike a fatal blow at the honor of that family which vitoria held so dear. how false his vanity had played him! what was he that a goddess should not cease to love him when she chose? enough and more that she had loved him once; an ultimate blessing could she love him a moment more. but once again, then: but that one instant! to see her pitiful eyes upon him, to hear her pure lips whisper the last good-by like music in his dying ears! he saw the arm of his enemy slowly--slowly--rising, without speed and without hesitation, as the paw of a great cat rises to strike, but with a claw of shining steel. cartaret would look his last on the scene that her eyes had known when she was a child, that her eyes would know long after his--so soon now!--were closed forever. it was mid-morning; the golden sun was half-way to the zenith. at cartaret's left, above the walls, the turrets and towers of the gothic castle, rose the sheer front of that sheer chalcedonous peak. its top was crowned with the dazzling and eternal snow; its face was waxen, almost translucent; its outcroppings of crypto-crystalline quartz, multi-toned by the wind and rain of centuries, caught the sunlight and flamed in every gradation of blue and yellow, of onyx, carnelian and sard. to the right lay the wide and peaceful valley, mass after mass of foliage, silver-green and emerald, and, above that, the ridges of the vast, scabrous amphitheater: beetling peaks of gray, dark pectinated cones, fusiform apexes, dancing lancets and swords' points, a hundred beetling crags and darting spires under a turquoise sky. (eskurola's arm was rising ... rising....) her face came before his eyes; not the face of the woman that sent him from the tower-room, but the face of the girl that had parted from him in his shabby studio: the frame of blue-black hair, the clear cheek touched with healthy pink, the red lips and white teeth, the level brows, the curling lashes and the frank violet eyes.... into his own eyes came a mist; it blotted out the landscape. he dragged his glance back to his executioner. he must meet death face forward. a horrid fear beset him that he had been tardy in this--had seemed ever so little to waver. but eskurola had observed no faltering, and had not faltered: his arm still crept upward. it must all have happened in the twinkling of an eye, then: that impulse toward mad laughter, that thought of what he had suffered, that realization of the landscape, even the memory of her face--the lady of the rose. don ricardo's arm had just risen a trifle above his shoulder and then come back to its level.... it would come now--the flash, the quick pang that would outstrip and shut out the very sound of the explosion--come now and be over. the man was taking an aim, careful, deadly.... but if everything else had been quick, this was an eternity. cartaret could feel the basque's eye, he could see that the leveled pistol-barrel covered his throat directly below the ear. he wanted to shout out to eskurola to shoot; to say, "you've got me!" he ground his teeth to enforce his tongue to silence. and still he waited. good god, would the man never fire? don ricardo was lowering his pistol, and his pistol was smoking. he had fired. moreover, he had aimed truly. but he had chosen his weapon honorably--it was the one that did not hold a bullet. cartaret was dazed, but knew instantly what to do. as if it was the performance of an act long since subconsciously decided upon, he raised his own pistol slowly--the death-laden pistol--and shot straight up into the air.... the smoke was still circling about the american's head when he saw eskurola striding toward him. the basque's face was a study of humiliation and dismay. "what is this?" he demanded. "after i have tried to kill you, you do not kill me? you refuse to kill me? you inflict the greatest insult and the only one that i cannot resent?" cartaret threw down his pistol: it frightened him now. "i don't know whether it's an insult to let you live or not," he said, "and i don't care a damn. where's my mare?" he went to the gate. it was opened by the french-speaking servant, wide-eyed now, but with his curiosity inarticulate. cartaret mounted. his hand trembled as he gathered up the reins. he was angry at this and at the comedy that fate had made of his attempted heroism. was there ever before, he reflected, a duel the two principals of which were angry because they survived? eskurola was standing at the edge of the unrailed drawbridge that crossed the precipitous abyss. it was evident even to cartaret that the basque was still too amazed to think, much less speak, coherently; that something beyond his comprehension had occurred; that a phenomenon hitherto unknown had wrecked his cosmos. "sir," he began, "will you not return first into the castle and there----" "if you don't get out of my way," said cartaret, "i'll ride you into this chasm!" don ricardo drew dumbly aside, and cartaret rode on. with vitoria relentless and unattainable, abjured by the woman he had loved, robbed even of the chance to give his life for her, he was riding anywhere to get away from alava, was fleeing from his sense of loss and failure. he rode as fast as the steep descent permitted, and only once, at a sharp twist of the way, a full mile down the mountain, did he allow himself to turn in his saddle and look back. there was eskurola, a silhouette against the gray walls. behind him rose the castle of his fathers, and back of it the great peak towered, through a hundred flashing colors, to its shining crown of eternal snow. chapter xvi and last it must be a very dear and intimate reality for which people will be content to give up a dream.--hawthorne: _the marble faun_. summer held paris in his arms when cartaret returned there--held her, wearied from the dance with spring, in his warm arms, and was rocking her to sleep. romance had crowded commerce from the boulevards; poets wrote their verses at the marble-topped tables along the awninged pavements; the lesser streets were lovers' lanes. for cartaret had not hurried. once the pyrenees were behind him, he felt growing upon him a dread of any return to the city in which he had first met and loved the lady of the rose; and only the necessity of settling his affairs there--of collecting his few possessions, paying two or three remaining bills and bidding a last good-by to his friends--drew him forward. he lingered at one town after the other, caring nothing for what he saw, but hating the thought of even a week in a paris without her. vaguely he had decided to return to america, though what of interest life could hold there, or anywhere, for him he could not imagine: some dull business routine, most likely--for he would never paint again--and the duller the better. thus he wasted a fortnight along the loire and among the chateaux of touraine and found himself at last leaving his train in the gare d'orsay at the end of a summer afternoon. he made for his own room with the objectless hurry of a native american, his feet keeping time to a remembered stanza of andrew lang: "in dreams she grows not older the lands of dream among, though all the world wax colder, though all the songs be sung; in dreams doth he behold her still fair and kind and young." taciturn refrogné seemed no more surprised to see him than if he had gone out but an hour since: the trade of the parisian concierge slays surprise early. "a letter for monsieur," said refrogné. cartaret took it from the grimy paw that was extended out of the concierge's cave. he went on up the stairs. the door of the magic room opposite--in all probability commonplace enough now--stood slightly ajar, and cartaret felt a new pang as he glanced at it. he passed on to his own room. his own room! it was precisely as he had seen it last--a little dustier, and far more dreary, but with no other change. the table at which she had leaned, the easel on which he had painted those portraits of her, were just as when he had left them. he went to the window at which he used to store the provisions that chitta looted, and there he opened the envelope refrogné had given him. it contained only one piece of paper: a spanish draft on the comptoir général for a hundred and twenty francs, and on the back, in a labored english script, was written: "for repayment of the sum advanced to my servant, chitta grekekora. "ricardo b. f. r. ethenard-eskurola (d'alegria)." a limb of wisteria had climbed to the window and hung a cluster of its purple flowers on the sill. below, refrogné's lilacs were in full bloom, and the laughter of refrogné's children rose from among them as piercing sweet as the scent of the flowers. cartaret took a match from his pocket, struck it and set the bit of paper aflame. he held it until the flame burnt his fingers, crushed it in his palm and watched the ashes circle slowly downward toward the lilac-trees. the sun had set and, as cartaret walked aimlessly toward the front windows, the long shadows of the twilight were deepening from wall to wall. summer was in all the air. so much the same! he leaned forward and looked down into the silent rue du val-de-grâce. he was thinking how she had once stood where he was leaning now; thinking how he had leaned there so often, looking for her return up that narrow thoroughfare, waiting for the sound of her light footfall on the stair. so much the same, indeed: the unchanged street outside, the unchanged room within; the room in which he had found her on that february night. here she had admitted that she loved him, and here she had said the good-by that he would not understand--a few short weeks ago. and now he was back--back after having heard her repudiate him, back after losing her forever. fate works everywhere, but her favorite workshop is paris. something was moving in the deepest shadow in the room--the shadow about the doorway. blue-black hair and long-lashed eyes of violet, lips of red and cheeks of white and pink; the incredible was realized, the miracle had happened: vitoria was here. he was beside her in a single bound. he thought that he cried her name aloud; in reality, his lips moved without speech. "wait," she said. she drew away from him; but the statues of the greek gods in the luxembourg gardens must have felt the thrill in the evening air as she faced him. she was looking at him bravely with only the least tremor of her lips. "do you--do you still love me?" she asked. her voice was like a violin; her words dazed him. "love you? i--i can't tell you how much--i--haven't the words to say----" he seized the hand with which she had checked him and kissed its unjeweled fingers. "what is it?... why did you say you hated me?... what has brought you back?... is is true? is it _true_?" from refrogné's garden came the last good-night-song of the birds. "love you? why, from the day i left you--no, from that night i found you here, i've thought nothing but vitoria, dreamed nothing but vitoria----" now incoherent and afraid, then with hectic eloquence and finally with a complete abandon, he poured out his soul in libation to her. with the first word of it, she saw that she was forgiven. "i came," she said, "to--to tell you this: you know now that i ran away from paris because i loved you and knew that i could not marry you; but you do not know why i said that terrible thing which i said in the tower-room. i was afraid of what my brother might do to you. that is why i would not take your kisses. to try to make you leave before he found you, i said what first came to my mind as likely to drive you away. i said it at what fearful cost! i blasphemed against my love for you." cartaret was recovering himself. love gives all, but it demands everything. "your brother said that i had offered you some insult. he said you'd told him so. i thought you'd told him that in order to make him all the angrier against me." "ever since chitta and i returned to our home, he had been suspecting," she said. "he would not forgive me for going away. chitta he tortured, but she told him nothing. me, he kept almost a prisoner. when you came, i knew that he would soon guess what was true, so i sent for you that morning to send you away, and when that failed and he found us together, i told him that we loved each other, because i hoped that he would spare the man i loved, even though he would never let me--let me marry that man. i should have known him too well to think that, but i was too afraid to reason--too afraid for your sake. he was so proud that he would not repeat it to you as i said it to him: he repeated it in the way least hateful to him--and after you had gone, i found that all i had done served only to make him try to kill you. of this i knew nothing until hours later. then--then----" the birds had ceased their song, but the scent of the lilacs still rose from the garden. "don't you understand now?" she asked, her cheeks crimson in the fading light. "i guessed you did not understand then; but don't you understand now?" he stood bewildered. she had to go through with it. "my brother had to live--you made him live. to kill himself is the worst disgrace that a basque can put upon his family. besides, the thing was done; you had fired into the air; nothing that he might do would undo that. at the bridge he tried to tell you so, but you rode by. you know--my brother told it you--that one reason which allows a foreigner to marry a basque. we eskurolas pay our debts; to let you go a creditor for that was to put a stain upon our house indelibly. i would have accepted the disgrace and made my brother continue to accept it, had you not now said that you still loved me; but you have said it. oh, do--do, please, understand!" she stamped her foot. "my brother is the last man of our name. in saving him, you saved the house of eskurola." cartaret was seized by the same impulse toward hysteria that had seized him when he first faced don ricardo's pistol. "was _that_ what he tried to say at the bridge? what a fool i was not to listen! if i had all the world to give, i'd give it to you!" he tried to seize her hand again, but she drew it away. "and so," she said, with a crooked smile and a flaming face, "since you say that you love me, i--i have to pay the just debt of my house and save its honor--i must marry you whether i love you or not." he looked at her with fear renewed. "then you _have_ changed?" he asked. suddenly she put her own right hand to her lips and kissed the fingers on which his lips had rested. "you have all the world," she said.... "give it me." he found both of her hands this time, but still she kept him from her. the scent of the lilacs mingled with another scent--a scent that made him see again the tall cantabrians.... suddenly he realized that she was wearing her student-blouse. "you've been here--when did you come back to paris?" "a week ago." "to this house?" "of _course_ i am living in this house as before, and with your friend chitta. you know that i could not have lived anywhere else in paris. i _couldn't_. so i took the old room--the dear little old room--again." "_before_ you knew that i still loved you!" she hung her head. "but i'll surely never let you go this time." he held her hands fast as if fearing that she might escape him. "no custom--no law--no force could take you now. tell me: would you have wanted to go back?" she freed herself. that newer perfume filled the purple twilight: the pure perfume of the azure rose that the wandering basque carries with him abroad to bring him safely home. she drew the rose from beneath her blouse and held it out to him. cartaret kissed it. she took it back, kissed it too, went to the nearest window and, tearing the flower petal from petal, dropped it into the paris street. "no," she said softly when she had turned to him again, "do not kiss me yet. i want you first to understand me. i do love my own country, but i cannot stay in it forever. i was being smothered there by all the dust of those dead centuries; i was being slowly crushed by the iron weight of their old customs and their old laws--all horribly alive when they should have been long ago in their graves. there was nothing around me that was not old: old walls and towers, ancient tapestries and arms, musty rooms, yellowed manuscripts. the age of the place, it seemed to become a soul-in-itself. it seemed to get a consciousness and to hate me because i was not as it was. there was nothing that was not old--and i was young." as she remembered it, her face grew almost sulky. "even if it had not been for you, i believe i should have come away again. i was so angry at it all that i could even have put on a paquin gown--if i had had a paquin gown!--and worn it at dinner in the big dining-hall of my ancestors." he understood. he realized--none better--the hunger and thirst for paris: for the lights of the boulevards, the clatter of the dominoes on the café-tables, the procession of carriages and motors along the champs Élysées, the very cries and hurry of the rue st. honoré by day or the boul' miche' by night. nevertheless, he had lately been an american headed for america, and so he said: "just wait till you see broadway!" vitoria smiled, but she remained serious. "i wanted you to know that--first," she said: "to know that i came away this second time in large part because of you, but not wholly." "i think," said cartaret, "that i can manage to forgive that." "and then--there is something else. you saw my brother in a great castle and on a great estate, but he is not rich, and i am very poor." cartaret laughed. "was that what was on your mind? my dear, _i'm_ rich--i'm frightfully rich!" "rich?" her tone was all incredulity. "it happened the day you left paris. oh, i know i ought to have told you at the castle, but i forgot it. you see, there was so little time to talk to you and so many more important things to say." he told her all about it while the dusk slowly deepened. chitta should have a salary for remaining in a cottage that he would give her in alava and never leaving it. he would give his friends that dinner now--houdon and devignes, varachon and garnier--a dinner of celebration at which the host would be present and to which even gaston françois louis pasbeaucoup and the elephantine madame would sit down. there would be bushels of strawberries. seraphin would be pensioned for life, so that he might paint only the pictures that his heart demanded, and fourget--yes, cartaret would embrace dear old fourget like a true gaul. in the luxembourg gardens the statues of the old gods smiled and held their peace. "you--you can study too," said cartaret. "you can have the best art-masters in the world, and you shall have them." but vitoria shook her head. "there," she said, "is another confession and the last. i was the more ready to leave paris when i ran away from you, because i was disheartened: the master had told me that i could never learn, and so i was afraid to face you." "then _i'll_ never paint again," vowed cartaret. "pictures? i was successful only when i painted pictures of you, and why should i paint them when i have you?" she looked at him gravely. "i am glad," she said, "that you are rich, but i am also glad that we have both been poor--together. oh,"--she looked about the familiar room,--"it needs but one thing more: if only the street-organ were playing that scotch song that it used to play!" "if it only were!" he agreed. "however, we can't have everything, can we?" but lovers, if they only want it enough, can have everything, and, somehow, the hurdy-gurdy did, just at that moment, begin to play "annie laurie" as it used to do, out in the rue du val-de-grâce. cartaret led her toward the darkened window, but stopped half-way across the room. "i will try to deserve you," he said. "i _will_ make myself what you want me to be." "you _are_ that," she answered, her face raised toward his. "all that i ask is to have you with me always as you are now." the clear contralto of her voice ran like a refrain to the simple air of the ballad. "i want you with me when you are unhappy, so that i may comfort you; when you are ill, so that i may nurse you; when you are glad, so that i may be glad because you are. i want to know you in every mood: i want to belong to you." high over the gleaming roofs, the moon, a disk of yellow glass, swung out upon the indigo sky and peeped in at that window. one silver beam enveloped her. it bathed her lithe, firm figure; it touched her pure face, her scarlet lips; it made a refulgent glory of her hair, and, out of it, the splendor of her wonderful eyes was for him. "soon," he whispered, "in the chapel of ste. jeanne d'arc at the church of st. germain des prés." "good-night," she said.... "good-night, my love." she raised her white hands to him and drew one step nearer. then she yielded herself to his arms and, as they closed, strong and tight, about her, her own arms circled his neck. the scent of the azure rose returned with her lips: a vision of mountain-peaks and sunlight upon crests of snow, a perfume sweeter than the scent of any rose in any garden, a poem in a language that cartaret at last could understand. her lips met his.... "oh," he whispered, "sweetheart, is it really, really you?" 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these are preserved as printed. minor punctuation errors have been repaired. both rue du val-de-grâce and rue du val de grâce are used; these are preserved as printed. hyphenation usage has otherwise been made consistent. there are also some inconsistencies in capitalisation of french street and place names, and these are preserved as printed. the following typographic errors have been repaired: page --carteret amended to cartaret--"... whose nose always reminded cartaret of an antique and long lost bit of statuary, ..." page --deaux amended to deux--"he left the café des deux colombes, ..." page --drawn amended to dawn--""oh"--it began to dawn on cartaret ..." page --good-bye amended to good-by--"... this time she had not said "good-by."" page --saraient amended to sauraient--"l'indiscrétion d'un de ces amis officieux qui ne sauraient ..." page --peeked amended to peaked--"... turning upon his friend a face that was peaked and drawn." page --unprejudicd amended to unprejudiced--"an unprejudiced critic would have said ..." page --eifel amended to eiffel--"... and the pointing finger of the tour eiffel ..." page --demusset amended to de musset--"have i not had a care for de musset and for heine?" page --cataret amended to cartaret--"... a crestfallen lad that was a stranger to cartaret." page --elf amended to self--"... at all the expressions of a remorseless self ..." page --mich' amended to miche'--"... of the rue st. honoré by day or the boul' miche' by night." none none none none none none none none none none none in the days of my youth. a novel. by amelia b. edwards [illustration] caxton press of sherman & co., philadelphia. chapter i. my birthplace and parentage. dolce sentier, colle, che mi piacesti, ov'ancor per usanza amor mi mena! petrarch. sweet, secluded, shady saxonholme! i doubt if our whole england contains another hamlet so quaint, so picturesquely irregular, so thoroughly national in all its rustic characteristics. it lies in a warm hollow environed by hills. woods, parks and young plantations clothe every height and slope for miles around, whilst here and there, peeping down through green vistas, or towering above undulating seas of summer foliage, stands many a fine old country mansion, turreted and gabled, and built of that warm red brick that seems to hold the light of the sunset long after it has faded from the rest of the landscape. a silver thread of streamlet, swift but shallow, runs noisily through the meadows beside the town and loses itself in the chad, about a mile and a half farther eastward. many a picturesque old wooden bridge, many a foaming weir and ruinous water-mill with weedy wheel, may be found scattered up and down the wooded banks of this little river chad; while to the brook, which we call the gipstream, attaches a vague tradition of trout. the hamlet itself is clean and old-fashioned, consisting of one long, straggling street, and a few tributary lanes and passages. the houses some few years back were mostly long and low-fronted, with projecting upper stories, and diamond-paned bay-windows bowered in with myrtle and clematis; but modern improvements have done much of late to sweep away these antique tenements, and a fine new suburb of italian and gothic villas has sprung up, between the town and the railway station. besides this, we have a new church in the mediæval style, rich in gilding and colors and thirteenth-century brass-work; and a new cemetery, laid out like a pleasure-garden; and a new school-house, where the children are taught upon a system with a foreign name; and a mechanics' institute, where london professors come down at long intervals to expound popular science, and where agriculturists meet to discuss popular grievances. at the other extremity of the town, down by girdlestone grange, an old moated residence where the squire's family have resided these four centuries past, we are full fifty years behind our modern neighbors. here stands our famous old "king's-head inn," a well-known place of resort so early as the reign of elizabeth. the great oak beside the porch is as old as the house itself; and on the windows of a little disused parlor overlooking the garden may still be seen the names of sedley, rochester and other wits of the restoration. they scrawled those autographs after dinner, most likely, with their diamond rings, and went reeling afterwards, arm-in-arm, along the village street, singing and swearing, and eager for adventures--as gentlemen were wont to be in those famous old times when they drank the king's health more freely than was good for their own. not far from the "king's head," and almost hidden by the trees which divide it from the road, stands an ancient charitable institution called the college--quadrangular, mullion-windowed, many-gabled, and colonized by some twenty aged people of both sexes. at the back of the college, adjoining a space of waste ground and some ruined cloisters, lies the churchyard, in the midst of which, surrounded by solemn yews and mouldering tombs, stands the priory church. it is a rare old church, founded, according to the county history, in the reign of edward the confessor, and entered with a full description in domesday book. its sculptured monuments and precious brasses, its norman crypt, carved stalls and tattered banners drooping over faded scutcheons, tell all of generations long gone by, of noble families extinct, of gallant deeds forgotten, of knights and ladies remembered only by the names above their graves. amongst these, some two or three modest tablets record the passing away of several generations of my own predecessors--obscure professional men for the most part, of whom some few became soldiers and died abroad. in close proximity to the church stands the vicarage, once the priory; a quaint old rambling building, surrounded by magnificent old trees. here for long centuries, a tribe of rooks have held undisputed possession, filling the boughs with their nests and the air with their voices, and, like genuine lords of the soil, descending at their own grave will and pleasure upon the adjacent lands. picturesque and mediæval as all these old buildings and old associations help to make us, we of saxonholme pretend to something more. we claim to be, not only picturesque but historic. nay, more than this--we are classical. we were founded by the romans. a great roman road, well known to antiquaries, passed transversely through the old churchyard. roman coins and relics, and fragments of tesselated pavement, have been found in and about the town. roman camps may be traced on most of the heights around. above all, we are said to be indebted to the romans for that inestimable breed of poultry in right of which we have for years carried off the leading prizes at every poultry-show in the county, and have even been enabled to make head against the exaggerated pretensions of modern cochin-china interlopers. such, briefly sketched, is my native saxonholme. born beneath the shade of its towering trees and overhanging eaves, brought up to reverence its antiquities, and educated in the love of its natural beauties, what wonder that i cling to it with every fibre of my heart, and even when affecting to smile at my own fond prejudice, continue to believe it the loveliest peacefulest nook in rural england? my father's name was john arbuthnot. sprung from the arbuthnots of montrose, we claim to derive from a common ancestor with the celebrated author of "martinus scriblerus." indeed, the first of our name who settled at saxonholme was one james arbuthnot, son to a certain nonjuring parson arbuthnot, who lived and died abroad, and was own brother to that famous wit, physician and courtier whose genius, my father was wont to say, conferred a higher distinction upon our branch of the family than did those royal letters-patent whereby the elder stock was ennobled by his most gracious majesty king george the fourth, on the occasion of his visit to edinburgh in . from this james arbuthnot (who, being born and bred at st. omer, and married, moreover, to a french wife, was himself half a frenchman) we saxonholme arbuthnots were the direct descendants. our french ancestress, according to the family tradition, was of no very exalted origin, being in fact the only daughter and heiress of one monsieur tartine, perruquier in chief at the court of versailles. but what this lady wanted in birth, she made up in fortune, and the modest estate which her husband purchased with her dowry came down to us unimpaired through five generations. in the substantial and somewhat foreign-looking red-brick house which he built (also, doubtless, with madame's louis d'ors) we, his successors, had lived and died ever since. his portrait, together with the portraits of his wife, son, and grandson, hung on the dining-room walls; and of the quaint old spindle-legged chairs and tables that had adorned our best rooms from time immemorial, some were supposed to date as far back as the first founding and furnishing of the house. it is almost needless to say that the son of the non-juror and his immediate posterity were staunch jacobites, one and all. i am not aware that they ever risked or suffered anything for the cause; but they were not therefore the less vehement. many were the signs and tokens of that dead-and-gone political faith which these loyal arbuthnots left behind them. in the bed-rooms there hung prints of king james the second at the battle of the boyne; of the royal martyr with his plumed hat, lace collar, and melancholy fatal face; of the old and young pretenders; of the princess louisa teresia, and of the cardinal york. in the library were to be found all kinds of books relating to the career of that unhappy family: "ye tragicall history of ye stuarts, ;" "memoirs of king james ii., writ by his own hand;" "la stuartide," an unfinished epic in the french language by one jean de schelandre; "the fate of majesty exemplified in the barbarous and disloyal treatment (by traitorous and undutiful subjects) of the kings and queens of the royal house of stuart," genealogies of the stuarts in english, french and latin; a fine copy of "eikon basilike," bound in old red morocco, with the royal arms stamped upon the cover; and many other volumes on the same subject, the names of which (although as a boy i was wont to pore over their contents with profound awe and sympathy) i have now for the most part forgotten. most persons, i suppose, have observed how the example of a successful ancestor is apt to determine the pursuits of his descendants down to the third and fourth generations, inclining the lads of this house to the sea, and of that to the bar, according as the great man of the family achieved his honors on shipboard, or climbed his way to the woolsack. the arbuthnots offered no exception to this very natural law of selection. they could not help remembering how the famous doctor had excelled in literature as in medicine; how he had been not only physician in ordinary to queen anne and prince george of denmark, but a satirist and pamphleteer, a wit and the friend of wits--of such wits as pope and swift, harley and bolingbroke. hence they took, as it were instinctively, to physic and the _belles lettres_, and were never without a doctor or an author in the family. my father, however, like the great martinus scriblerus, was both doctor and author. and he was a john arbuthnot. and to carry the resemblance still further, he was gifted with a vein of rough epigrammatic humor, in which it pleased his independence to indulge without much respect of persons, times, or places. his tongue, indeed, cost him some friends and gained him some enemies; but i am not sure that it diminished his popularity as a physician. people compared him to abernethy, whereby he was secretly flattered. some even went so far as to argue that only a very clever man could afford to be a bear; and i must say that he pushed this conclusion to its farthest limit, showing his temper alike to rich and poor upon no provocation whatever. he cared little, to be sure, for his connection. he loved the profession theoretically, and from a scientific point of view; but he disliked the drudgery of country practice, and stood in no need of its hardly-earned profits. yet he was a man who so loved to indulge his humor, no matter at what cost, that i doubt whether he would have been more courteous had his bread depended on it. as it was, he practised and grumbled, snarled at his patients, quarrelled with the rich, bestowed his time and money liberally upon the poor, and amused his leisure by writing for a variety of scientific periodicals, both english and foreign. our home stood at the corner of a lane towards the eastern extremity of the town, commanding a view of the squire's park, and a glimpse of the mill-pool and meadows in the valley beyond. this lane led up to barnard's green, a breezy space of high, uneven ground dedicated to fairs, cricket matches, and travelling circuses, whence the noisy music of brass bands, and the echoes of alternate laughter and applause, were wafted past our windows in the summer evenings. we had a large garden at the back, and a stable up the lane; and though the house was but one story in height, it covered a considerable space of ground, and contained more rooms than we ever had occasion to use. thus it happened that since my mother's death, which took place when i was a very little boy, many doors on the upper floor were kept locked, to the undue development of my natural inquisitiveness by day, and my mortal terror when sent to bed at night. in one of these her portrait still hung above the mantelpiece, and her harp stood in its accustomed corner. in another, which was once her bedroom, everything was left as in her lifetime, her clothes yet hanging in the wardrobe, her dressing-case standing upon the toilet, her favorite book upon the table beside the bed. these things, told to me by the servants with much mystery, took a powerful hold upon my childish imagination. i trembled as i passed the closed doors at dusk, and listened fearfully outside when daylight gave me courage to linger near them. something of my mother's presence, i fancied, must yet dwell within--something in her shape still wander from room to room in the dim moonlight, and echo back the sighing of the night winds. alas! i could not remember her. now and then, as if recalled by a dream, some broken and shadowy images of a pale face and a slender hand floated vaguely through my mind; but faded even as i strove to realize them. sometimes, too, when i was falling off to sleep in my little bed, or making out pictures in the fire on a winter evening, strange fragments of old rhymes seemed to come back upon me, mingled with the tones of a soft voice and the haunting of a long-forgotten melody. but these, after all, were yearnings more of the heart than the memory:-- "i felt a mother-want about the world. and still went seeking." to return to my description of my early home:--the two rooms on either side of the hall, facing the road, were appropriated by my father for his surgery and consulting-room; while the two corresponding rooms at the back were fitted up as our general reception-room, and my father's bed-room. in the former of these, and in the weedy old garden upon which it opened, were passed all the days of my boyhood. it was my father's good-will and pleasure to undertake the sole charge of my education. fain would i have gone like other lads of my age to public school and college; but on this point, as on most others, he was inflexible. himself an obscure physician in a remote country town, he brought me up with no other view than to be his own successor. the profession was not to my liking. somewhat contemplative and nervous by nature, there were few pursuits for which i was less fitted. i knew this, but dared not oppose him. loving study for its own sake, and trusting to the future for some lucky turn of destiny, i yielded to that which seemed inevitable, and strove to make the best of it. thus it came to pass that i lived a quiet, hard-working home life, while other boys of my age were going through the joyous experience of school, and chose my companions from the dusty shelves of some three or four gigantic book-cases, instead of from the class and the playground. not that i regret it. i believe, on the contrary, that a boy may have worse companions than books and busts, employments less healthy than the study of anatomy, and amusements more pernicious than shakespeare and horace. thank heaven! i escaped all such; and if, as i have been told, my boyhood was unboyish, and my youth prematurely cultivated, i am content to have been spared the dangers in exchange for the pleasures of a public school. i do not, however, pretend to say that i did not sometimes pine for the recreations common to my age. well do i remember the manifold attractions of barnard's green. what longing glances i used to steal towards the boisterous cricketers, when going gravely forth upon a botanical walk with my father! with what eager curiosity have i not lingered many a time before the entrance to a forbidden booth, and scanned the scenic advertisement of a travelling show! alas! how the charms of study paled before those intervals of brief but bitter temptation! what, then, was pathology compared to the pig-faced lady, or the materia medica to smith's mexican circus, patronized by all the sovereigns of europe? but my father was inexorable. he held that such places were, to use his own words, "opened by swindlers for the ruin of fools," and from one never-to-be-forgotten hour, when he caught me in the very act of taking out my penny-worth at a portable peep-show, he bound me over by a solemn promise (sealed by a whipping) never to repeat the offence under any provocation or pretext whatsoever. i was a tiny fellow in pinafores when this happened, but having once pledged my word, i kept it faithfully through all the studious years that lay between six and sixteen. at sixteen an immense crisis occurred in my life. i fell in love. i had been in love several times before--chiefly with the elder pupils at the miss andrews' establishment; and once (but that was when i was very young indeed) with the cook. this, however, was a much more romantic and desperate affair. the lady was a columbine by profession, and as beautiful as an angel. she came down to our neighborhood with a strolling company, and performed every evening, in a temporary theatre on the green, for nearly three weeks. i used to steal out after dinner when my father was taking his nap, and run the whole way, that i might be in time to see the object of my adoration walking up and down the platform outside the booth before the performances commenced. this incomparable creature wore a blue petticoat spangled with tinfoil, and a wreath of faded poppies. her age might have been about forty. i thought her the loveliest of created beings. i wrote sonnets to her--dozens of them--intending to leave them at the theatre door, but never finding the courage to do it. i made up bouquets for her, over and over again, chosen from the best flowers in our neglected garden; but invariably with the same result. i hated the harlequin who presumed to put his arm about her waist. i envied the clown, whom she condescended to address as mr. merriman. in short, i was so desperately in love that i even tried to lie awake at night and lose my appetite; but, i am ashamed to own, failed signally in both endeavors. at length i wrote to her. i can even now recall passages out of that passionate epistle. i well remember how it took me a whole morning to write it; how i crammed it with quotations from horace; and how i fondly compared her to most of the mythological divinities. i then copied it out on pale pink paper, folded it in the form of a heart, and directed it to miss angelina lascelles, and left it, about dusk, with the money-taker at the pit door. i signed myself, if i remember rightly, pyramus. what would i not have given that evening to pay my sixpence like the rest of the audience, and feast my eyes upon her from some obscure corner! what would i not have given to add my quota to the applause! i could hardly sleep that night; i could hardly read or write, or eat my breakfast the next morning, for thinking of my letter and its probable effect. it never once occurred to me that my angelina might possibly find it difficult to construe horace. towards evening, i escaped again, and flew to barnard's green. it wanted nearly an hour to the time of performance; but the tuning of a violin was audible from within, and the money-taker was already there with his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. i had no courage to address that functionary; but i lingered in his sight and sighed audibly, and wandered round and round the canvas walls that hedged my divinity. presently he took his pipe out of, his mouth and his hands out of his pockets; surveyed me deliberately from head to foot, and said:-- "hollo there! aint you the party that brought a three-cornered letter here last evening!" i owned it, falteringly. he lifted a fold in the canvas, and gave me a gentle shove between the shoulders. "then you're to go in," said he, shortly. "she's there, somewhere. you're sure to find her." the canvas dropped behind me, and i found myself inside. my heart beat so fast that i could scarcely breathe. the booth was almost dark; the curtain was down; and a gentleman with striped legs was lighting the footlamps. on the front pit bench next the orchestra, discussing a plate of bread and meat and the contents of a brown jug, sat a stout man in shirt-sleeves and a woman in a cotton gown. the woman rose as i made my appearance, and asked, civilly enough, whom i pleased to want. i stammered the name of miss angelina lascelles. "miss lascelles!" she repeated. "i am miss lascelles," then, looking at me more narrowly, "i suppose," she added, "you are the little boy that brought the letter?" the little boy that brought the letter! gracious heavens! and this middle-aged woman in a cotton gown--was she the angelina of my dreams! the booth went round with me, and the lights danced before my eyes. "if you have come for an answer," she continued, "you may just say to your mr. pyramid that i am a respectable married woman, and he ought to be ashamed of himself--and, as for his letter, i never read such a heap of nonsense in my life! there, you can go out by the way you came in, and if you take my advice, you won't come back again!" how i looked, what i said, how i made my exit, whether the doorkeeper spoke to me as i passed, i have no idea to this day. i only know that i flung myself on the dewy grass under a great tree in the first field i came to, and shed tears of such shame, disappointment, and wounded pride, as my eyes had never known before. she had called me a little boy, and my letter a heap of nonsense! she was elderly--she was ignorant--she was married! i had been a fool; but that knowledge came too late, and was not consolatory. by-and-by, while i was yet sobbing and disconsolate, i heard the drumming and fifing which heralded the appearance of the _corps dramatique_ on the outer platform. i resolved to see her for the last time. i pulled my hat over my eyes, went back to the green, and mingled with the crowd outside the booth. it was growing dusk. i made my way to the foot of the ladder, and observed her narrowly. i saw that her ankles were thick, and her elbows red. the illusion was all over. the spangles had lost their lustre, and the poppies their glow. i no longer hated the harlequin, or envied the clown, or felt anything but mortification at my own folly. "miss angelina lascelles, indeed!" i said to myself, as i sauntered moodily home. "pshaw! i shouldn't wonder if her name was snooks!" chapter ii. the little chevalier. a mere anatomy, a mountebank, a threadbare juggler. _comedy of errors_. nay, then, he is a conjuror. _henry vi_. my adventure with miss lascelles did me good service, and cured me for some time, at least, of my leaning towards the tender passion. i consequently devoted myself more closely than ever to my studies--indulged in a passing mania for genealogy and heraldry--began a collection of local geological specimens, all of which i threw away at the end of the first fortnight--and took to rearing rabbits in an old tumble-down summer-house at the end of the garden. i believe that from somewhere about this time i may also date the commencement of a great epic poem in blank verse, and heaven knows how many cantos, which was to be called the columbiad. it began, i remember, with a description of the court of ferdinand and isabella, and the departure of columbus, and was intended to celebrate the discovery, colonization, and subsequent history of america. i never got beyond ten or a dozen pages of the first canto, however, and that transatlantic epic remains unfinished to this day. the great event which i have recorded in the preceding chapter took place in the early summer. it must, therefore, have been towards the close of autumn in the same year when my next important adventure befell. this time the temptation assumed a different shape. coming briskly homewards one fine frosty morning after having left a note at the vicarage, i saw a bill-sticker at work upon a line of dead wall which at that time reached from the red lion inn to the corner of pitcairn's lane. his posters were printed in enormous type, and decorated with a florid bordering in which the signs of the zodiac conspicuously figured being somewhat idly disposed, i followed the example of other passers-by, and lingered to watch the process and read the advertisement. it ran as follows:---- magic and mystery! magic and mystery! * * * * * m. le chevalier armand proudhine, (of paris) surnamed the wizard of the caucasus, has the honor to announce to the nobility and gentry of saxonholme and its vicinity, that he will, to-morrow evening (october--, --), hold his first soiree fantastique in the large room of the red lion hotel. * * * * * admission s. reserved seats s. d. _to commence at seven_. n.b.--_the performance will include a variety of new and surprising feats of legerdemain never before exhibited_. _a soirée fantastique_! what would i not give to be present at a _soirée fantastique_! i had read of the rosicrucians, of count cagliostro, and of doctor dee. i had peeped into more than one curious treatise on demonology, and i fancied there could be nothing in the world half so marvellous as that last surviving branch of the black art entitled the science of legerdemain. what if, for this once, i were to ask leave to be present at the performance? should i do so with even the remotest chance of success? it was easier to propound this momentous question than to answer it. my father, as i have already said, disapproved of public entertainments, and his prejudices were tolerably inveterate. but then, what could be more genteel than the programme, or more select than the prices? how different was an entertainment given in the large room of the red lion hotel to a three-penny wax-work, or a strolling circus on barnard's green! i had made one of the audience in that very room over and over again when the vicar read his celebrated "discourses to youth," or dr. dunks came down from grinstead to deliver an explosive lecture on chemistry; and i had always seen the reserved seats filled by the best families in the neighborhood. fully persuaded of the force of my own arguments, i made up my mind to prefer this tremendous request on the first favorable opportunity, and so hurried home, with my head full of quite other thoughts than usual. my father was sitting at the table with a mountain of books and papers before him. he looked up sharply as i entered, jerked his chair round so as to get the light at his back, put on his spectacles, and ejaculated:-- "well, sir!" this was a bad sign, and one with which i was only too familiar. nature had intended my father for a barrister. he was an adept in all the arts of intimidation, and would have conducted a cross-examination to perfection. as it was, he indulged in a good deal of amateur practice, and from the moment when he turned his back to the light and donned the inexorable spectacles, there was not a soul in the house, from myself down to the errand-boy, who was not perfectly aware of something unpleasant to follow. "well, sir!" he repeated, rapping impatiently upon the table with his knuckles. having nothing to reply to this greeting, i looked out of the window and remained silent; whereby, unfortunately. i irritated him still more. "confound you, sir!" he exclaimed, "have you nothing to say?" "nothing," i replied, doggedly. "stand there!" he said, pointing to a particular square in the pattern of the carpet. "stand there!" i obeyed. "and now, perhaps, you will have the goodness to explain what you have been about this morning; and why it should have taken you just thirty-seven minutes by the clock to accomplish a journey which a tortoise--yes, sir, a tortoise,--might have done in less than ten?" i gravely compared my watch with the clock before replying. "upon my word, sir," i said, "your tortoise would have the advantage of me." "the advantage of you! what do you mean by the advantage of you, you affected puppy?" "i had no idea," said i, provokingly, "that you were in unusual haste this morning." "haste!" shouted my father. "i never said i was in haste. i never choose to be in haste. i hate haste!" "then why..." "because you have been wasting your time and mine, sir," interrupted he. "because i will not permit you to go idling and vagabondizing about the village." my _sang froid_ was gone directly. "idling and vagabondizing!" i repeated angrily. "i have done nothing of the kind. i defy you to prove it. when have you known me forget that i am a gentleman?" "humph!" growled my father, mollified but sarcastic; "a pretty gentleman--a gentleman of sixteen!" "it is true,"' i continued, without heeding the interruption, "that i lingered for a moment to read a placard by the way; but if you will take the trouble, sir, to inquire at the rectory, you will find that i waited a quarter of an hour before i could send up your letter." my father grinned and rubbed his hands. if there was one thing in the world that aggravated him more than another, it was to find his fire opposed to ice. let him, however, succeed in igniting his adversary, and he was in a good humor directly. "come, come, basil," said he, taking off his spectacles, "i never said you were not a good lad. go to your books, boy--go to your books; and this evening i will examine you in vegetable physiology." silently, but not sullenly, i drew a chair to the table, and resumed my work. we were both satisfied, because each in his heart considered himself the victor. my father was amused at having irritated me, whereas i was content because he had, in some sort, withdrawn the expressions that annoyed me. hence we both became good-tempered, and, according to our own tacit fashion, continued during the rest of that morning to be rather more than usually sociable. hours passed thus--hours of quiet study, during which the quick travelling of a pen or the occasional turning of a page alone disturbed the silence. the warm sunlight which shone in so greenly through the vine leaves, stole, inch by inch, round the broken vases in the garden beyond, and touched their brown mosses with a golden bloom. the patient shadow on the antique sundial wound its way imperceptibly from left to right, and long slanting threads of light and shadow pierced in time between the branches of the poplars. our mornings were long, for we rose early and dined late; and while my father paid professional visits, i devoted my hours to study. it rarely happened that he could thus spend a whole day among his books. just as the clock struck four, however, there came a ring at the bell. my father settled himself obstinately in his chair. "if that's a gratis patient," said he, between his teeth, "i'll not stir. from eight to ten are their hours, confound them!" "if you please, sir," said mary, peeping in, "if you please, sir, it's a gentleman." "a stranger?" asked my father. mary nodded, put her hand to her mouth, and burst into an irrepressible giggle. "if you please, sir," she began--but could get no farther. my father was in a towering passion directly. "is the girl mad?" he shouted. "what is the meaning of this buffoonery?" "oh, sir--if you please, sir," ejaculated mary, struggling with terror and laughter together, "it's the gentleman, sir. he--he says, if you please, sir, that his name is almond pudding!" "your pardon, mademoiselle," said a plaintive voice. "armand proudhine--le chevalier armand proudhine, at your service." mary disappeared with her apron to her mouth, and subsided into distant peals of laughter, leaving the chevalier standing in the doorway. he was a very little man, with a pinched and melancholy countenance, and an eye as wistful as a dog's. his threadbare clothes, made in the fashion of a dozen years before, had been decently mended in many places. a paste pin in a faded cravat, and a jaunty cane with a pinchbeck top, betrayed that he was still somewhat of a beau. his scant gray hair was tied behind with a piece of black ribbon, and he carried his hat under his arm, after the fashion of elliston and the prince regent, as one sees them in the colored prints of fifty years ago. he advanced a step, bowed, and laid his card upon the table. "i believe," he said in his plaintive voice, and imperfect english, "that i have the honor to introduce myself to monsieur arbuthnot." "if you want me, sir," said my father, gruffly, "i am doctor arbuthnot." "and i, monsieur," said the little frenchman, laying his hand upon his heart, and bowing again--"i am the wizard of the caucasus." "the what?" exclaimed my father. "the wizard of the caucasus," replied our visitor, impressively. there was an awkward pause, during which my father looked at me and touched his forehead significantly with his forefinger; while the chevalier, embarrassed between his natural timidity and his desire to appear of importance, glanced from one face to the other, and waited for a reply. i hastened to disentangle the situation. "i think i can explain this gentleman's meaning," i said. "monsieur le chevalier will perform to-morrow evening in the large room of the red lion hotel. he is a professor of legerdemain." "of the marvellous art of legerdemain, monsieur arbuthnot," interrupted the chevalier eagerly. "prestidigitateur to the court of sachsenhausen, and successor to al hakim, the wise. it is i, monsieur, that have invent the famous _tour du pistolet;_ it is i, that have originate the great and surprising deception of the bottle; it is i whom the world does surname the wizard of the caucasus. _me voici!_" carried away by the force of his own eloquence, the chevalier fell into an attitude at the conclusion of his little speech; but remembering where he was, blushed, and bowed again. "pshaw," said my father impatiently, "the man's a conjuror." the little frenchman did not hear him. he was at that moment untying a packet which he carried in his hat, the contents whereof appeared to consist of a number of very small pink and yellow cards. selecting a couple of each color, he deposited his hat carefully upon the floor and came a few steps nearer to the table. "monsieur will give me the hope to see him, with monsieur _son fils_, at my soirée fantastique, _n'est-ce pas?_" he asked, timidly. "sir," said my father shortly, "i never encourage peripatetic mendicity." the little frenchman looked puzzled. "_comment_?" said he, and glanced to me for an explanation. "i am very sorry, monsieur," i interposed hastily; "but my father objects to public entertainments." "_ah, mon dieu!_ but not to this," cried the chevalier, raising his hands and eyes in deprecating astonishment. "not to my soirée fantastique! the art of legerdemain, monsieur, is not immoral. he is graceful--he is surprising--he is innocent; and, monsieur, he is patronized by the church; he is patronized by your amiable _curé_, monsieur le docteur brand." "oh, father," i exclaimed, "dr. brand has taken tickets!" "and pray, sir, what's that to me?" growled my father, without looking up from the book which he had ungraciously resumed. "let dr. brand make a fool of himself, if he pleases. i'm not bound to do the same." the chevalier blushed crimson--not with humility this time, but with pride. he gathered the cards into his pocket, took up his hat, and saying stiffly--"_monsieur, je vous demande pardon._"--moved towards the door. on the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with an air of faded dignity:--"young gentleman," he said, "_you_ i thank for your politeness." he seemed as if he would have said more--hesitated--became suddenly livid--put his hand to his head, and leaned for support against the wall. my father was up and beside him in an instant. we carried rather than led him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and administered the necessary restoratives. he was all but insensible for some moments. then the color came back to his lips, and he sighed heavily. "an attack of the nerves," he said, shaking his head feebly. "an attack of the nerves, messieurs." my father looked doubtful. "are you often taken in this way?" he asked, with unusual gentleness. "_mais oui_, monsieur," admitted the frenchman, reluctantly. "he does often arrive to me. not--not that he is dangerous. ah, bah! _pas du tout_!" "humph!" ejaculated my father, more doubtfully than before. "let me feel your pulse." the chevalier bowed and submitted, watching the countenance of the operator all the time with an anxiety that was not lost upon me. "do you sleep well?" asked my father, holding the fragile little wrist between his finger and thumb. "passably, monsieur." "dream much?" "ye--es, i dream." "are you subject to giddiness?" the chevalier shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasy. "_c'est vrai_" he acknowledged, more unwillingly than ever, "_j'ai des vertiges_." my father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid prescription. "there, sir," said he, "get that preparation made up, and when you next feel as you felt just now, drink a wine-glassful. i should recommend you to keep some always at hand, in case of emergency. you will find further directions on the other side." the little frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity; but was obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair. "monsieur," said he, with another of his profound bows, "i thank you infinitely. you make me too much attention; but i am grateful. and, monsieur, my little girl--my child that is far away across the sea--she thanks you also. _elle m'aime, monsieur--elle m'aime, cette pauvre petite_! what shall she do if i die?" again he raised his hand to his brow. he was unconscious of anything theatrical in the gesture. he was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wet with tears, which he made no effort to conceal. my father shuffled restlessly in his chair. "no obligation--no obligation at all," he muttered, with a touch of impatience in his voice. "and now, what about those tickets? i suppose, basil, you're dying to see all this tomfoolery?" "that i am, sir," said i, joyfully. "i should like it above all things!" the chevalier glided forward, and laid a couple of little pink cards upon my father's desk. "if," said he, timidly, "if monsieur will make me the honor to accept...." "not for the world, sir--not for the world!" interposed my father. "the boy shan't go, unless i pay for the tickets." "but, monsieur...." "nothing of the kind, sir. i cannot hear of it. what are the prices of the seats?" our little visitor looked down and was silent; but i replied for him. "the reserved seats," i whispered, "are half-a-crown each." "then i will take eight reserved," said my father, opening a drawer in his desk and bringing out a bright, new sovereign. the little frenchman started. he could hardly believe in such munificence. "when? how much?" stammered he, with a pleasant confusion of adverbs. "eight," growled my father, scarcely able to repress a smile. "eight? _mon dieu_, monsieur, how you are generous! i shall keep for you all the first row." "oblige me by doing nothing of the kind," said my father, very decisively. "it would displease me extremely." the chevalier counted out the eight little pink cards, and ranged them in a row beside my father's desk. "count them, monsieur, if you please," said he, his eyes wandering involuntarily towards the sovereign. my father did so with much gravity, and handed over the money. the chevalier consigned it, with trembling fingers, to a small canvas bag, which looked very empty, and which came from the deepest recesses of his pocket. "monsieur," said he, "my thanks are in my heart. i will not fatigue you with them. good-morning." he bowed again, for perhaps the twentieth time; lingered a moment at the threshold; and then retired, closing the door softly after him. my father rubbbed his head all over, and gave a great yawn of satisfaction. "i am so much obliged to you, sir," i said, eagerly. "what for?" "for having bought those tickets. it was very kind of you." "hold your tongue. i hate to be thanked," snarled he, and plunged back again into his books and papers. once more the studious silence in the room--once more the rustling leaf and scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still, within and without. "i beg your pardons," murmured the voice of the little chevalier. i turned, and saw him peeping through the half-open door. he looked more wistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers. my father frowned, and muttered something between his teeth. i fear it was not very complimentary to the chevalier. "one word, monsieur," pleaded the little man, edging himself round the door, "one small word!" "say it, sir, and have done with it," said my father, savagely. the chevalier hesitated. "i--i--monsieur le docteur--that is, i wish...." "confound it, sir, what do you wish?" the chevalier brushed away a tear. "_dites-moi,"_ he said with suppressed agitation. "one word--yes or no--is he dangerous?" my father's countenance softened. "my good friend," he said, gently, "we are none of us safe for even a day, or an hour; but after all, that which we call danger is merely a relative position. i have known men in a state more precarious than yours who lived to a long old age, and i see no reason to doubt that with good living, good spirits, and precaution, you stand as fair a chance as another." the little frenchman pressed his hands together in token of gratitude, whispered a broken word or two of thanks, and bowed himself out of the room. when he was fairly gone, my father flung a book at my head, and said, with more brevity than politeness:-- "boy, bolt the door." chapter iii. the events of an evening. "basil, my boy, if you are going to that place, you must take collins with you." "won't you go yourself, father?" "i! is the boy mad!" "i hope not, sir; only as you took eight reserved seats, i thought...." "you've no business to think, sir! seven of those tickets are in the fire." "for fear, then, you should fancy to burn the eighth, i'll wish you good-evening!" so away i darted, called to collins to follow me, and set off at a brisk pace towards the red lion hotel. collins was our indoor servant; a sharp, merry fellow, some ten years older than myself, who desired no better employment than to escort me upon such an occasion as the present. the audience had begun to assemble when we arrived. collins went into the shilling places, while i ensconced myself in the second row of reserved seats. i had an excellent view of the stage. there, in the middle of the platform, stood the conjuror's table--a quaint, cabalistic-looking piece of furniture with carved black legs and a deep bordering of green cloth all round the top. a gay pagoda-shaped canopy of many hues was erected overhead. a long white wand leaned up against the wall. to the right stood a bench laden with mysterious jars, glittering bowls, gilded cones, mystical globes, colored glass boxes, and other properties. to the left stood a large arm-chair covered with crimson cloth. all this was very exciting, and i waited breathlessly till the wizard should appear. he came at last; but not, surely, our dapper little visitor of yesterday! a majestic beard of ashen gray fell in patriarchal locks almost to his knees. upon his head he wore a high cap of some dark fur; upon his feet embroidered slippers; and round his waist a glittering belt patterned with hieroglyphics. a long woollen robe of chocolate and orange fell about him in heavy folds, and swept behind him, like a train. i could scarcely believe, at first, that it was the same person; but, when he spoke, despite the pomp and obscurity of his language. i recognised the plaintive voice of the little chevalier. "_messieurs et mesdames_," he began, and took up the wand to emphasize his discourse; "to read in the stars the events of the future--to transform into gold the metals inferior--to discover the composition of that elixir who, by himself, would perpetuate life, was in past ages the aim and aspiration of the natural philosopher. but they are gone, those days--they are displaced, those sciences. the alchemist and the rosicrucian are no more, and of all their race, the professor of legerdemain alone survives. ladies and gentlemen, my magic he is simple. i retain not familiars. i employ not crucible, nor furnace, nor retort. i but amuse you with my agility of hand, and for commencement i tell you that you shall be deceived as well as the wizard of the caucasus can deceive you." his voice trembled, and the slender wand shivered in his hand. was this nervousness? or was he, in accordance with the quaintness of his costume and the amplitude of his beard, enacting the feebleness of age? he advanced to the front of the platform. "three things i require," he said. "a watch, a pocket-handkerchief and a hat. is there here among my visitors any person so gracious as to lend me these trifles? i will not injure them, ladies and gentlemen. i will only pound the watch in my mortar--burn the _mouchoir_ in my lamp, and make a pudding in the _chapeau_. and, with all this, i engage to return them to their proprietors, better as new." there was a pause, and a laugh. presently a gentleman volunteered his hat, and a lady her embroidered handkerchief; but no person seemed willing to submit his watch to the pounding process. "shall nobody lend me the watch?" asked the chevalier; but in a voice so hoarse that i scarcely recognised it. a sudden thought struck me, and i rose in my place. "i shall be happy to do so," i said aloud, and made my way round to the front of the platform. at the moment when he took it from me, i spoke to him. "monsieur proudhine," i whispered, "you are ill! what can i do for you?" "nothing, _mon enfant_," he answered, in the same low tone. "i suffer; _mais il faut se résigner_." "break off the performance--retire for half an hour." "impossible. see, they already observe us!" and he drew back abruptly. there was a seat vacant in the front row. i took it, resolved at all events to watch him narrowly. not to detail too minutely the events of a performance which since that time has become sufficiently familiar, i may say that he carried out his programme with dreadful exactness, and, after appearing to burn the handkerchief to ashes and mix up a quantity of eggs and flour in the hat, proceeded very coolly to smash the works of my watch beneath his ponderous pestle. notwithstanding my faith, i began to feel seriously uncomfortable. it was a neat little silver watch of foreign workmanship--not very valuable, to be sure, but precious to me as the most precious of repeaters. "he is very tough, your watch, monsieur," said the wizard, pounding away vigorously. "he--he takes a long time ... _ah! mon dieu!_" he raised his hand to his head, uttered a faint cry, and snatched at the back of the chair for support. my first thought was that he had destroyed my watch by mistake--my second, that he was very ill indeed. scarcely knowing what i did, and quite forgetting the audience, i jumped on the platform to his aid. he shook his head, waved me away with one trembling hand, made a last effort to articulate, and fell heavily to the ground. all was confusion in an instant. everybody crowded to the stage; whilst i, with a presence of mind which afterwards surprised myself, made my way out by a side-door and ran to fetch my father. he was fortunately at home, and in less than ten minutes the chevalier was under his care. we found him laid upon a sofa in one of the sitting-rooms of the inn, pale, rigid, insensible, and surrounded by an idle crowd of lookers-on. they had taken off his cap and beard, and the landlady was endeavoring to pour some brandy down his throat; but his teeth were fast set, and his lips were blue and cold. "oh, doctor arbuthnot! doctor arbuthnot!" cried a dozen voices at once, "the conjuror is dying!" "for which reason, i suppose, you are all trying to smother him!" said my father angrily. "mistress cobbe, i beg you will not trouble yourself to pour that brandy down the man's throat. he has no more power to swallow it than my stick. basil, open the window, and help me to loosen these things about his throat. good people, all, i must request you to leave the room. this man's life is in peril, and i can do nothing while you remain. go home--go home. you will see no more conjuring to-night." my father was peremptory, and the crowd unwillingly dispersed. one by one they left the room and gathered discontentedly in the passage. when it came to the last two or three, he took them by the shoulders, closed the door upon them, and turned the key. only the landlady, and elderly woman-servant, and myself remained. the first thing my father did was to examine the pupil of the patient's eye, and lay his hand upon his heart. it still fluttered feebly, but the action of the lungs was suspended, and his hands and feet were cold as death. my father shook his head. "this man must be bled," said he, "but i have little hope of saving him." he was bled, and, though still unconscious, became less rigid they then poured a little wine down his throat, and he fell into a passive but painless condition, more inanimate than sleep, but less positive than a state of trance. a fire was then lighted, a mattress brought down, and the patient laid upon it, wrapped in many blankets. my father announced his intention of sitting up with him all night. in vain i begged for leave to share his vigil. he would hear of no such thing, but turned me out as he had turned out the others, bade me a brief "good-night," and desired me to run home as quickly as i could. at that stage of my history, to hear was to obey; so i took my way quietly through the bar of the hotel, and had just reached the door when a touch on my sleeve arrested me. it was mr. cobbe, the landlord--a portly, red-whiskered boniface of the old english type. "good-evening, mr. basil," said he. "going home, sir?" "yes, mr. cobbe," i replied. "i can be of no further use here." "well, sir, you've been of more use this evening than anybody--let alone the doctor--that i must say for you," observed mr. cobbe, approvingly. "i never see such presence o' mind in so young a gen'leman before. never, sir. have a glass of grog and a cigar, sir, before you turn out." much as i felt flattered by the supposition that i smoked (which was more than i could have done to save my life), i declined mr. cobbe's obliging offer and wished him good-night. but the landlord of the red lion was in a gossiping humor, and would not let me go. "if you won't take spirits, mr. basil," said he, "you must have a glass of negus. i couldn't let you go out without something warm--particular after the excitement you've gone through. why, bless you, sir, when they ran out and told me, i shook like a leaf--and i don't look like a very nervous subject, do i? and so sudden as it was, too, poor little gentleman!" "very sudden, indeed," i replied, mechanically. "does doctor arbuthnot think he'll get the better of it, mr. basil?" "i fear he has little hope." mr. cobbe sighed, and shook his head, and smoked in silence. "to be struck down just when he was playing such tricks as them conjuring dodges, do seem uncommon awful," said he, after a time. "what was he after at the minute?--making a pudding, wasn't he, in some gentleman's hat?" i uttered a sudden ejaculation, and set down my glass of negus untasted. till that moment i had not once thought of my watch. "oh, mr. cobbe!" i cried, "he was pounding my watch in the mortar!" "_your_ watch, mr. basil?" "yes, mine--and i have not seen it since. what can have become of it? what shall i do?" "do!" echoed the landlord, seizing a candle; "why, go and look for it, to be sure, mr. basil. that's safe enough, you may be sure!" i followed him to the room where the performance had taken place. it showed darkly and drearily by the light of one feeble candle. the benches and chairs were all in disorder. the wand lay where it had fallen from the hand of the wizard. the mortar still stood on the table, with the pestle beside it. it contained only some fragments of broken glass. mr. cobbe laughed triumphantly. "come, sir," said he, "the watch is safe enough, anyhow. mounseer only made believe to pound it up, and now all that concerns us is to find it." that was indeed all--not only all, but too much. we searched everything. we looked in all the jars and under all the moveables. we took the cover off the chair; we cleared the table; but without success. my watch had totally disappeared, and we at length decided that it must be concealed about the conjuror's person. mr. cobbe was my consoling angel. "bless you, sir," said he, "don't never be cast down. my wife shall look for the watch to-morrow morning, and i'll promise you we'll find out every pocket he has about him." "and my father--you won't tell my father?" i said, dolefully. mr. cobbe replied by a mute but expressive piece of pantomime and took me back to the bar, where the good landlady ratified all that her husband had promised in her name. the stars shone brightly as i went home, and there was no moon. the town was intensely silent, and the road intensely solitary. i met no one on my way; let myself quietly in, and stole up to my bed-room in the dark. it was already late; but i was restless and weary--too restless to sleep, and too weary to read. i could not detach myself from the impressions of the day; and i longed for the morning, that i might learn the fate of my watch, and the condition of the chevalier. at length, after some hours of wakefulness, i dropped into a profound and dreamless sleep. * * * * * chapter iv. the chevalier makes his last exit. all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances. _as you like it._ i was waked by my father's voice calling to me from the garden, and so started up with that strange and sudden sense of trouble which most of us have experienced at some time or other in our lives. "nine o'clock, basil," cried my father. "nine o'clock--come down directly, sir!" i sprang out of bed, and for some seconds could remember nothing of what had happened; but when i looked out of the window and saw my father in his dressing-gown and slippers walking up and down the sunny path with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground, it all flashed suddenly upon me. to plunge into my bath, dress, run down, and join him in the garden, was the work of but a few minutes. "good-morning, sir," i said, breathlessly. he stopped short in his walk, and looked at me from head to foot. "humph!" said he, "you have dressed quickly...." "yes, sir; i was startled to find myself so late." "so quickly," he continued, "that you have forgotten your watch." i felt my face burn. i had not a word to answer. "i suppose," said he, "you thought i should not find it out?" "i had hoped to recover it first," i replied, falteringly; "but...." "but you may make up your mind to the loss of it, sir; and serve you rightly, too," interposed my father. "i can tell you, for your satisfaction, that the man's clothes have been thoroughly examined, and that your watch has not been found. no doubt it lay somewhere on the table, and was stolen in the confusion." i hung my head. i could have wept for vexation. my father laughed sardonically. "well, master basil," he said, "the loss is yours, and yours only. you won't get another watch from me, i promise you." i retorted angrily, whereat he only laughed the more; and then we went in to breakfast. our morning meal was more unsociable than usual. i was too much annoyed to speak, and my father too preoccupied. i longed to inquire after the chevalier, but not choosing to break the silence, hurried through my breakfast that i might run round to the red lion immediately after. before we had left the table, a messenger came to say that "the conjuror was taken worse," and so my father and i hastened away together. he had passed from his trance-like sleep into a state of delirium, and when we entered the room was sitting up, pale and ghost-like, muttering to himself, and gesticulating as if in the presence of an audience. "_pas du tout_," said he fantastically, "_pas du tout, messieurs_--here is no deception. you shall see him pass from my hand to the _coffre_, and yet you shall not find how he does travel." my father smiled bitterly. "conjurer to the last!" said he. "in the face of death, what a mockery is his trade!" wandering as were his wits, he caught the last word and turned fiercely round; but there was no recognition in his eye. "trade, monsieur!" he echoed. "trade!--you shall not call him trade! do you know who i am, that you dare call him trade? _dieu des dieux! n'est-ce pas que je suis noble, moi?_ trade!--when did one of my race embrace a trade? _canaille!_ i do condescend for my reasons to take your money, but you shall not call him a trade!" exhausted by this sudden burst of passion, he fell back upon his pillow, muttering and flushed. i bent over him, and caught a scattered phrase from time to time. he was dreaming of wealth, fancying himself rich and powerful, poor wretch! and all unconscious of his condition. "you shall see my chateaux," he said, "my horses--my carriages. listen--it is the ringing of the bells. aha! _le jour viendra--le jour viendra_! conjuror! who speaks of a conjuror? i never was a conjuror! i deny it: and he lies who says it! _attendons_! is the curtain up? ah! my table--where is my table? i cannot play till i have my table. _scélérats! je suis volé! je l'ai perdu! je l'ai perdu_! ah, what shall i do? what shall i do? they have taken my table--they have taken...." he burst into tears, moaned twice or thrice, closed his eyes, and fell into a troubled sleep. the landlady sobbed. hers was a kind heart, and the little frenchman's simple courtesy had won her good-will from the first. "he had real quality manners," she said, disconsolately. "i do believe, gentlemen, that he had seen better days. poor as he was, he never disputed the price of anything; and he never spoke to me without taking off his hat." "upon my soul, mistress cobbe," said my father, "i incline to your opinion. i do think he is not what he seems." "and if i only knew where to find his friends, i shouldn't care half so much!" exclaimed the landlady. "it do seem so hard that he should die here, and not one of his own blood follow him to the grave! surely he has some one who loves him!" "there was something said the other day about a child," mused my father. "have no papers or letters been found about his person?" "none at all. why, doctor, you were here last night when we searched for master basil's watch, and you are witness that he had nothing of the kind in his possession. as to his luggage, that's only a carpet-bag and his conjuring things, and we looked through them as carefully as possible." the chevalier moaned again, and tossed his arms feebly in his sleep. "the proofs," said he. "the proofs! i can do nothing without the proofs." my father listened. the landlady shook her head. "he has been going on like that ever since you left, sir," she said pitifully; "fancying he's been robbed, and calling out about the proofs--only ten times more violent. then, again, he thinks he is going to act, and asks for his table. it's wonderful how he takes on about that trumpery table!" scarcely had she spoken the words when the chevalier opened his eyes, and, by a supreme effort, sat upright in his bed. the cold dew rose upon his brow; his lips quivered; he strove to speak, and only an inarticulate cry found utterance. my father flew to his support. "if you have anything to say," he urged earnestly, "try to say it now!" the dying man trembled convulsively, and a terrible look of despair came into his wan face. "tell--tell" ... he gasped; but his voice failed him, and he could get no further. my father laid him gently down. there came an interval of terrible suspense--a moment of sharp agony--a deep, deep sigh--and then silence. my father laid his hand gently upon my shoulder. "it is all over," he said; "and his secret, if he had one, is in closer keeping than ours. come away, boy; this is no place for you." * * * * * chapter v. in memoriam. the poor little chevalier! he died and became famous. births, deaths and marriages are the great events of a country town; the prime novelties of a country newspaper; the salt of conversation, and the soul of gossip. an individual who furnishes the community with one or other of these topics, is a benefactor to his species. to be born is much; to marry is more; to die is to confer a favor on all the old ladies of the neighborhood. they love a christening and caudle--they rejoice in a wedding and cake--but they prefer a funeral and black kid gloves. it is a tragedy played off at the expense of the few for the gratification of the many--a costly luxury, of which it is pleasanter to be the spectator than the entertainer. occurring, therefore, at a season when the supply of news was particularly scanty, the death of the little chevalier was a boon to saxonholme. the wildest reports were bandied about, and the most extraordinary fictions set on foot respecting his origin and station. he was a russian spy. he was the unfortunate son of louis xiv and marie antoinette. he was a pupil of cagliostro, and the husband of mlle. lenormand. customers flocked to the tap of the red lion as they had never flocked before, unless in election-time; and good mrs. cobbe had to repeat the story of the conjuror's illness and death till, like many other reciters, she had told it so often that she began to forget it. as for her husband, he had enough to do to serve the customers and take the money, to say nothing of showing the room, which proved a vast attraction, and remained for more than a week just as it was left on the evening of the performance, with the table, canopy and paraphernalia of wizardom still set out upon the platform. in the midst of these things arose a momentous question--what was the religion of the deceased, and where should he be buried? as in the old miracle plays we find good and bad angels contending for the souls of the dead, so on this occasion did the heads of all the saxonholme churches, chapels and meeting-houses contend for the body of the little chevalier. he was a roman catholic. he was a dissenter. he was a member of the established church. he must be buried in the new protestant cemetery. he must lie in the churchyard of the ebenezer tabernacle. he must sleep in the far-away "god's acre" of father daly's chapel, and have a cross at his head, and masses said for the repose of his soul. the controversy ran high. the reverend gentlemen convoked a meeting, quarrelled outrageously, and separated in high dudgeon without having arrived at any conclusion. whereupon arose another question, melancholy, ludicrous, perplexing, and, withal, as momentous as the first--would the little chevalier get buried at all? or was he destined to remain, like mahomet's coffin, for ever in a state of suspense? at the last, when mr. and mrs. cobbe despairingly believed that they were never to be relieved of their troublesome guest, a vestry was called, and the churchwardens brought the matter to a conclusion. when he went round with his tickets, the conjuror called first at the rectory, and solicited the patronage of doctor brand. would he have paid that compliment to the cloth had he been other than a member of that religion "by law established?" certainly not. the point was clear--could not be clearer; so orthodoxy and the new protestant cemetery carried the day. the funeral was a great event--not so far as mutes, feathers and carriages were concerned, for the chevalier left but little worldly gear, and without hard cash even the most deserving must forego "the trappings and the suits of woe;" but it was a great event, inasmuch as it celebrated the victory of the church, and the defeat of all schismatics. the rector himself, complacent and dignified, preached the funeral sermon to a crowded congregation, the following sunday. we almost forgot, in fact, that the little chevalier had any concern in the matter, and regarded it only as the triumph of orthodoxy. all was not ended, even here. for some weeks our conjuror continued to be the hero of every pulpit round about. he was cited as a shining light, denounced as a vessel of wrath, praised, pitied and calumniated according to the creed and temper of each declaimer. at length the controversy languished, died a natural death, and became "alms for oblivion." laid to rest under a young willow, in a quiet corner, with a plain stone at his head, the little frenchman was himself in course of time forgotten:-- "alas! poor yorick!" * * * * * chapter vi. polonius to laertes. years went by. i studied; outgrew my jackets; became a young man. it was time, in short, that i walked the hospitals, and passed my examination. i had spoken to my father more than once upon the subject--spoken earnestly and urgently, as one who felt the necessity and justice of his appeal. but he put me off from time to time; persisted in looking upon me as a boy long after i had become acquainted with the penalties of the razor; and counselled me to be patient, till patience was well-nigh exhausted. the result of this treatment was that i became miserable and discontented; spent whole days wandering about the woods; and degenerated into a creature half idler and half misanthrope. i had never loved the profession of medicine. i should never have chosen it had i been free to follow my own inclinations: but having diligently fitted myself to enter it with credit, i felt that my father wronged me in this delay; and i felt it perhaps all the more bitterly because my labor had been none of love. happily for me, however, he saw his error before it was too late, and repaired it generously. "basil," said he, beckoning me one morning into the consulting-room, "i want to speak to you." i obeyed sullenly, and stood leaning up against the window, with my hands in my pockets. "you've been worrying me, basil, more than enough these last few months," he said, rummaging among his papers, and speaking in a low, constrained voice. "i don't choose to be worried any longer. it is time you walked the hospitals, and--you may go." "to london, sir?" "no. i don't intend you to go to london." "to edinburgh, then, i suppose," said i, in a tone of disappointment. "nor to edinburgh. you shall go to paris." "to paris!" "yes--the french surgeons are the most skilful in the world, and chéron will do everything for you. i know no eminent man in london from whom i should choose to ask a favor; and chéron is one of my oldest friends--nay, the oldest friend i have in the world. if you have but two ounces of brains, he will make a clever man of you. under him you will study french practice; walk the hospitals of paris; acquire the language and, i hope, some of the polish of the french people. are you satisfied?" "more than satisfied, sir," i replied, eagerly. "you shall not want for money, boy; and you may start as soon as you please. is the thing settled?" "quite, as far as i am concerned." my father rubbed his head all over with both hands, took off his spectacles, and walked up and down the room. by these signs he expressed any unusual degree of satisfaction. all at once he stopped, looked me full in the face, and said:-- "understand me, basil. i require one thing in return." "if that thing be industry, sir, i think i may promise that you shall not have cause to complain," my father shook his head. "not industry," he said; "not industry alone. keep good company, my boy. keep good hours. never forget that a gentleman must look like a gentleman, dress like a gentleman, frequent the society of gentlemen. to be a mere bookworm is to be a drone in the great hive. i hate a drone--as i hate a sloven." "i understand you, father," i faltered, blushing. "i know that of late i--i have not...." my father laid his hand suddenly over my mouth. "no confessions--no apologies," he said hastily. "we have both been to blame in more respects than one, and we shall both know how to be wiser in the future. now go, and consider all that you may require for your journey." agitated, delighted, full of hope, i ran up to my own room, locked the door, and indulged in a delightful reverie. what a prospect had suddenly opened before me! what novelty! what adventure! to have visited london would have been to fulfil all my desires; but to be sent to paris was to receive a passport for fairyland! that day, for the first time in many months, i dressed myself carefully, and went down to dinner with a light heart, a cheerful face, and an unexceptionable neckcloth. as i took my place at the table, my father looked up cheerily and gave me a pleased nod of recognition. our meal passed off very silently. it was my father's maxim that no man could do more than one thing well at a time--especially at table; so we had contracted a habit which to strangers would have seemed even more unsociable than it really was, and gave to all our meals an air more penitential than convivial. but this day was, in reality, a festive occasion, and my father was disposed to be more than usually agreeable. when the cloth was removed, he flung the cellar-key at my head, and exclaimed, in a burst of unexampled good-humor:-- "basil, you dog, fetch up a bottle of the particular port!" now it is one of my theories that a man's after-dinner talk takes much of its weight, color, and variety from the quality of his wines. a generous vintage brings out generous sentiments. good fellowship, hospitality, liberal politics, and the milk of human kindness, may be uncorked simultaneously with a bottle of old madeira; while a pint of thin sauterne is productive only of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. we grow sententious on burgundy--logical on bordeaux--sentimental on cyprus--maudlin on lagrima christi--and witty on champagne. port was my father's favorite wine. it warmed his heart, cooled his temper, and made him not only conversational, but expansive. leaning back complacently in his easy-chair, with the glass upheld between his eye and the window, he discoursed to me of my journey, of my prospects in life, and of all that i should do and avoid, professionally and morally. "work," he said, "is the panacea for every sorrow--the plaster for every pain--your only universal remedy. industry, air, and exercise are our best physicians. trust to them, boy; but beware how you publish the prescription, lest you find your occupation gone. remember, if you wish to be rich, you must never seem to be poor; and as soon as you stand in need of your friends, you will find yourself with none left. be discreet of speech, and cultivate the art of silence. above all things, be truthful. hold your tongue as long as you please, but never open your lips to a lie. show no man the contents of your purse--he would either despise you for having so little, or try to relieve you of the burden of carrying so much. above all, never get into debt, and never fall in love. the first is disgrace, and the last is the devil! respect yourself, if you wish others to respect you; and bear in mind that the world takes you at your own estimate. to dress well is a duty one owes to society. the man who neglects his own appearance not only degrades himself to the level of his inferiors, but puts an affront upon his friends and acquaintances." "i trust, sir," i said in some confusion, "that i shall never incur the last reproach again." "i hope not, basil," replied my father, with a smile. "i hope not. keep your conscience clean and your boots blacked, and i have no fear of you. you are no hero, my boy, but it depends upon yourself whether you become a man of honor or a scamp; a gentleman or a clown. you have, i see, registered a good resolution to-day. keep it; and remember that pandemonium will get paved without your help. there would be no industry, boy, if there was no idleness, and all true progress begins with--reform." chapter vii. at the cheval blanc my journey, even at this distance of time, appears to me like an enchanted dream. i observed, yet scarcely remembered, the scenes through which i passed, so divided was i between the novelty of travelling and the eagerness of anticipation. provided with my letters of introduction, the sum of one hundred guineas, english, and the enthusiasm of twenty years of age, i fancied myself endowed with an immortality of wealth and happiness. the brighton coach passed through our town once a week; so i started for paris without having ever visited london, and took the route by newhaven and dieppe. having left home on tuesday morning, i reached rouen in the course of the next day but one. at rouen i stayed to dine and sleep, and so made my way to the _cheval blanc_, a grand hotel on the quay, where i was received by an aristocratic elderly waiter who sauntered out from a side office, surveyed me patronizingly, entered my name upon a card for a seat at the _table d'hote_, and, having rung a feeble little bell, sank exhausted upon a seat in the hall. "to number seventeen, marie," said this majestic personage, handing me over to a pretty little chambermaid who attended the summons. "and, marie, on thy return, my child, bring me an absinthe." we left this gentleman in a condition of ostentatious languor, and marie deposited me in a pretty room overlooking an exquisite little garden set round with beds of verbena and scarlet geranium, with a fountain sparkling in the midst. this garden was planted in what had once been the courtyard, of the building. the trees nodded and whispered, and the windows at the opposite side of the quadrangle glittered like burnished gold in the sunlight. i threw open the jalousies, plucked one of the white roses that clustered outside, and drank in with delight the sunny perfumed air that played among the leaves, and scattered the waters of the fountain. i could not long rest thus, however. i longed to be out and about; so, as it was now no more than half-past three o'clock, and two good hours of the glorious midsummer afternoon yet remained to me before the hotel dinner-hour, i took my hat, and went out along the quays and streets of this beautiful and ancient norman city. under the crumbling archways; through narrow alleys where the upper stories nearly met overhead, leaving only a bright strip of dazzling sky between; past quaint old mansions, and sculptured fountains, and stately churches hidden away in all kinds of strange forgotten nooks and corners, i wandered, wondering and unwearied. i saw the statue of jeanne d'arc; the château of diane de poitiers; the archway carved in oak where the founder of the city still, in rude effigy, presides; the museum rich in mediæval relics; the market-place crowded with fruit-sellers and flower-girls in their high norman caps. above all, i saw the rare old gothic cathedral, with its wondrous wealth of antique sculpture; its iron spire, destined, despite its traceried beauty, to everlasting incompleteness; its grass-grown buttresses, and crumbling pinnacles, and portals crowded with images of saints and kings. i went in. all was gray, shadowy, vast; dusk with the rich gloom of painted windows; and so silent that i scarcely dared disturb the echoes by my footsteps. there stood in a corner near the door a triangular iron stand stuck full of votive tapers that flickered and sputtered and guttered dismally, shedding showers of penitential grease-drops on the paved floor below; and there was a very old peasant woman on her knees before the altar. i sat down on a stone bench and fell into a long study of the stained oriel, the light o'erarching roof, and the long perspective of the pillared aisles. presently the verger came out of the vestry-room, followed by two gentlemen. he was short and plump, with a loose black gown, slender black legs, and a pointed nose--like a larger species of raven. "_bon jour, m'sieur_" croaked he, laying his head a little on one side, and surveying me with one glittering eye. "will m'sieur be pleased to see the treasury?" "the treasury!" i repeated. "what is there to be seen in the treasury?" "nothing, sir, worth one son of an englishman's money," said the taller of the gentlemen. "tinsel, paste, and dusty bones--all humbug and extortion." something in the scornful accent and the deep voice aroused the suspicions of the verger, though the words were spoken in english. "our treasury, m'sieur," croaked he, more ravenly than ever, "is rich--rich in episcopal jewels; in relics--inestimable relics. tickets two francs each." grateful, however, for the timely caution, i acknowledged my countryman's courtesy by a bow, declined the proffered investment, and went out again into the sunny streets. at five o'clock i found myself installed near the head of an immensely long dinner-table in the _salle à manger_ of the cheval blanc. the _salle à manger_ was a magnificent temple radiant with mirrors, and lustres, and panels painted in fresco. the dinner was an imposing rite, served with solemn ceremonies by ministering waiters. there were about thirty guests seated round, in august silence, most of them very smartly dressed, and nearly all english. a stout gentleman, with a little knob on the top of his bald head, a buff waistcoat, and a shirt amply frilled, sat opposite to me, flanked on either side by an elderly daughter in green silk. on my left i was supported by a thin young gentleman with fair hair, and blue glasses. to my right stood a vacant chair, the occupant of which had not yet arrived; and at the head of the table sat a spare pale man dressed all in black, who spoke to no one, kept his eyes fixed upon his plate, and was served by the waiters with especial servility. the soup came and went in profound silence. faint whispers passed to and fro with the fish. it was not till the roast made its appearance that anything like conversation broke the sacred silence of the meal. at this point the owner of the vacant chair arrived, and took his place beside me. i recognised him immediately. it was the englishman whom i had met in the cathedral. we bowed, and presently he spoke to me. in the meantime, he had every forgone item of the dinner served to him as exactly as if he had not been late at table, and sipped his soup with perfect deliberation while others were busy with the sweets. our conversation began, of course, with the weather and the place. "your first visit to rouen, i suppose?" said he. "beautiful old city, is it not? _garçon_, a pint of bordeaux-leoville." i modestly admitted that it was not only my first visit to rouen, but my first to the continent. "ah, you may go farther than rouen, and fare worse," said he. "do you sketch? no? that's a pity, for it's deliciously picturesque--though, for my own part, i am not enthusiastic about gutters and gables, and i object to a population composed exclusively of old women. i'm glad, by the way, that i preserved you from wasting your time among the atrocious lumber of that so-called treasury." "the treasury!" exclaimed my slim neighbor with the blue glasses. "beg your p--p--pardon, sir, but are you speaking of the cathedral treasury? is it worth v--v--visiting?" "singularly so," replied he to my right. "one of the rarest collections of authentic curiosities in france. they have the snuff-box of clovis, the great toe of saint helena, and the tongs with which st. dunstan took the devil by the nose." "up--p--pon my word, now, that's curious," ejaculated the thin tourist, who had an impediment in his speech. "i must p--p--put that down. dear me! the snuff-box of king clovis! i must see these relics to-morrow." "be sure you ask for the great toe of st. helena," said my right hand companion, proceeding imperturbably with his dinner. "the saint had but one leg at the period of her martyrdom, and that great toe is unique." "g--g--good gracious!" exclaimed the tourist, pulling out a gigantic note-book, and entering the fact upon the spot. "a saint with one leg--and a lady, too! wouldn't m--m--miss that for the world!" i looked round, puzzled by the gravity of my new acquaintance. "is this all true?" i whispered. "you told me the treasury was a humbug." "and so it is." "but the snuff-box of clovis, and...." "pure inventions! the man's a muff, and on muffs i have no mercy. do you stay long in rouen?" "no, i go on to paris to-morrow. i wish i could remain longer." "i am not sure that you would gain more from a long visit than from a short one. some places are like some women, charming, _en passant_, but intolerable upon close acquaintance. it is just so with rouen. the place contains no fine galleries, and no places of public entertainment; and though exquisitely picturesque, is nothing more. one cannot always be looking at old houses, and admiring old churches. you will be delighted with paris." "b--b--beautiful city," interposed the stammerer, eager to join our conversation, whenever he could catch a word of it. "i'm going to p--p--paris myself." "then, sir, i don't doubt you will do ample justice to its attractions," observed my right-hand neighbor. "from the size of your note-book, and the industry with which you accumulate useful information, i should presume that you are a conscientious observer of all that is recondite and curious." "i as--p--pire to be so," replied the other, with a blush and a bow. "i m--m--mean to exhaust p--p--paris. i'm going to write a b--b--book about it, when i get home."' my friend to the right flashed one glance of silent scorn upon the future author, drained the last glass of his bordeaux-leoville, pushed his chair impatiently back, and said:--"this place smells like a kitchen. will you come out, and have a cigar?" so we rose, took our hats, and in a few moments were strolling under the lindens on the quai de corneille. i, of course, had never smoked in my life; and, humiliating though it was, found myself obliged to decline a "prime havana," proffered in the daintiest of embroidered cigar-cases. my companion looked as if he pitied me. "you'll soon learn," said he. "a man can't live in paris without tobacco. do you stay there many weeks?" "two years, at least," i replied, registering an inward resolution to conquer the difficulties of tobacco without delay. "i am going to study medicine under an eminent french surgeon." "indeed! well, you could not go to a better school, or embrace a nobler profession. i used to think a soldier's life the grandest under heaven; but curing is a finer thing than killing, after all! what a delicious evening, is it not? if one were only in paris, now, or vienna,...." "what, oscar dalrymple!" exclaimed a voice close beside us. "i should as soon have expected to meet the great panjandrum himself!" "--with the little round button at top," added my companion, tossing away the end of his cigar, and shaking hands heartily with the new-comer. "by jove, frank, i'm glad to see you! what brings you here?" "business--confound it! and not pleasant business either. _a procés_ which my father has instituted against a great manufacturing firm here at rouen, and of which i have to bear the brunt. and you?" "and i, my dear fellow? pshaw! what should i be but an idler in search of amusement?" "is it true that you have sold out of the enniskillens?" "unquestionably. liberty is sweet; and who cares to carry a sword in time of peace? not i, at all events." while this brief greeting was going forward, i hung somewhat in the rear, and amused myself by comparing the speakers. the new-comer was rather below than above the middle height, fair-haired and boyish, with a smile full of mirth and an eye full of mischief. he looked about two years my senior. the other was much older--two or three and thirty, at the least--dark, tall, powerful, finely built; his wavy hair clipped close about his sun-burnt neck; a thick moustache of unusual length; and a chest that looked as if it would have withstood the shock of a battering-ram. without being at all handsome, there was a look of brightness, and boldness, and gallantry about him that arrested one's attention at first sight. i think i should have taken him for a soldier, had i not already gathered it from the last words of their conversation. "who is your friend?" i heard the new-comer whisper. to which the other replied:--"haven't the ghost of an idea." presently he took out his pocket-book, and handing me a card, said:-- "we are under the mutual disadvantage of all chance acquaintances. my name is dalrymple--oscar dalrymple, late of the enniskillen dragoons. my friend here is unknown to fame as mr. frank sullivan; a young gentleman who has the good fortune to be younger partner in a firm of merchant princes, and the bad taste to dislike his occupation." how i blushed as i took captain dalrymple's card, and stammered out my own name in return! i had never possessed a card in my life, nor needed one, till this moment. i rather think that captain dalrymple guessed these facts, for he shook hands with me at once, and put an end to my embarrassment by proposing that we should take a boat, and pull a mile or two up the river. the thing was no sooner said than done. there were plenty of boats below the iron bridge; so we chose one of the cleanest, and jumped into it without any kind of reference to the owner, whoever he might be. "_batelier, messieurs? batelier_?" cried a dozen men at once, rushing down to the water's edge. but dalrymple had already thrown off his coat, and seized the oars. "_batelier_, indeed!" laughed he, as with two or three powerful strokes he carried us right into the middle, of the stream. "trust an oxford man for employing any arms but his own, when a pair of sculls are in question!" * * * * * chapter viii. the island in the river. it was just eight o'clock when we started, with the twilight coming on. our course lay up the river, with a strong current setting against us; so we made but little way, and enjoyed the tranquil beauty of the evening. the sky was pale and clear, somewhat greenish overhead and deepening along the line of the horizon into amber and rose. behind us lay the town with every brown spire articulated against the sky and every vane glittering in the last glow that streamed up from the west. to our left rose a line of steep chalk cliffs, and before us lay the river, winding away through meadow lands fringed with willows and poplars, and interspersed with green islands wooded to the water's edge. presently the last flush faded, and one large planet, splendid and solitary, like the first poet of a dark century, emerged from the deepening gray. my companions were in high spirits. they jested; they laughed; they hummed scraps of songs; they had a greeting for every boat that passed. by-and-by, we came to an island with a little landing-place where a score or two of boats were moored against the alders by the water's edge. a tall flag-staff gay with streamers peeped above the tree-tops, and a cheerful sound of piping and fiddling, mingled with the hum of many voices, came and went with the passing breeze. as dalrymple rested on his oars to listen, a boat which we had outstripped some minutes before, shot past us to the landing-place, and its occupants, five in number, alighted. "bet you ten to one that's a bridal party," said mr. sullivan. "say you so? then suppose we follow, and have a look at the bride!" exclaimed his friend. "the place is a public garden." the proposition was carried unanimously, and we landed, having first tied the boat to a willow. we found the island laid out very prettily; intersected by numbers of little paths, with rustic seats here and there among the trees, and variegated lamps gleaming out amid the grass, like parti-colored glow-worms. following one of these paths, we came presently to an open space, brilliantly lighted and crowded by holiday-makers. here were refreshment stalls, and russian swings, and queer-looking merry-go-rounds, where each individual sat on a wooden horse and went gravely round and round with a stick in his hand, trying to knock off a ring from the top of a pole in the middle. here, also, was a band in a gaily decorated orchestra; a circular area roped off for dancers; a mysterious tent with a fortune-teller inside; a lottery-stall resplendent with vases and knick-knacks, which nobody was ever known to win; in short, all kinds of attractions, stale enough, no doubt, to my companions, but sufficiently novel and amusing to me. we strolled about for some time among the stalls and promenaders and amused ourselves by criticising the company, which was composed almost entirely of peasants, soldiers, artisans in blue blouses and humble tradespeople. the younger women were mostly handsome, with high norman caps, white kerchiefs and massive gold ear-rings. many, in addition to the ear-rings, wore a gold cross suspended round the neck by a piece of black velvet; and some had a brooch to match. here, sitting round a table under a tree, we came upon a family group, consisting of a little plump, bald-headed _bourgeois_ with his wife and two children--the wife stout and rosy; the children noisy and authoritative. they were discussing a dish of poached eggs and a bottle of red wine, to the music of a polka close by. "i should like to dance," said the little girl, drumming with her feet against the leg of the table, and eating an egg with her fingers. "i may dance presently with phillippe, may i not, papa?" "i won't dance," said phillippe sulkily. "i want some oysters." "oysters, _mon enfant_! i have told you twice already that no one eats oysters in july," observed his mother. "i don't care for that," said phillippe. "it's my _fête_ day, and uncle jacques said i was to have whatever i fancied; i want some oysters." "your uncle jacques did not know what an unreasonable boy you are," replied the father angrily. "if you say another word about oysters, you shall not ride in the _manège_ to-night." phillippe thrust his fists into his eyes and began to roar--so we walked away. in an arbor, a little further on, we saw two young people whispering earnestly, and conscious of no eyes but each other's. "a pair of lovers," said sullivan. "and a pair that seldom get the chance of meeting, if we may judge by their untasted omelette," replied dalrymple. "but where's the bridal party?" "oh, we shall find them presently. you seem interested." "i am. i mean to dance with the bride and make the bridegroom jealous." we laughed and passed on, peeping into every arbor, observing every group, and turning to stare at every pretty girl we met. my own aptitude in the acquisition of these arts of gallantry astonished myself. now, we passed a couple of soldiers playing at dominoes; now a noisy party round a table in the open air covered with bottles; now an arbor where half a dozen young men and three or four girls were assembled round a bowl of blazing punch. the girls were protesting they dare not drink it, but were drinking it, nevertheless, with exceeding gusto. "grisettes and _commis voyageurs!_" said dalrymple, contemptuously. "let us go and look at the dancers." we went on, and stood in the shelter of some trees near the orchestra. the players consisted of three violins, a clarionette and a big drum. the big drum was an enthusiastic performer. he belabored his instrument as heartily as if it had been his worst enemy, but with so much independence of character that he never kept the same time as his fellow-players for two minutes together. they were playing a polka for the benefit of some twelve or fifteen couples, who were dancing with all their might in the space before the orchestra. on they came, round and round and never weary, two at a time--a mechanic and a grisette, a rustic and a normandy girl, a tall soldier and a short widow, a fat tradesman and his wife, a couple of milliners assistants who preferred dancing together to not dancing at all, and so forth. "how i wish somebody would ask me, _ma mère_!" said a coquettish brunette, close by, with a sidelong glance at ourselves." "you shall dance with your brother paul, my dear, as soon as he comes," replied her mother, a stout _bourgeoise_ with a green fan. "but it is such dull work to dance with one's brother!" pouted the brunette. "if it were one's cousin, even, it would be different." mr. frank sullivan flung away his cigar, and began buttoning up his gloves. "i'll take that damsel out immediately," said he. "a girl who objects to dance with her brother deserves encouragement." so away he went with his hat inclining jauntily on one side, and, having obtained the mother's permission, whirled away with the pretty brunette into the very thickest of the throng. "there they are!" said dalrymple, suddenly. "there's the wedding party. _per bacco_! but our little bride is charming!" "and the bridegroom is a handsome specimen of rusticity." "yes--a genuine pastoral pair, like a dresden china shepherd and shepherdess. see, the girl is looking up in his face--he shakes his head. she is urging him to dance, and he refuses! never mind, _ma belle_--you shall have your valse, and corydon may be as cross as he pleases!" "don't flatter yourself that she will displease corydon to dance with your lordship!" i said, laughingly. "pshaw! she would displease fifty corydons if i chose to make her do so," said dalrymple, with a smile of conscious power. "true; but not on her wedding-day." "wedding-day or not, i beg to observe that in less than half an hour you will see me whirling along with my arm round little phillis's dainty waist. now come and see how i do it." he made his way through the crowd, and i, half curious, half abashed, went with him. the party was five in number, consisting of the bride and bridegroom, a rosy, middle-aged peasant woman, evidently the mother of the bride, and an elderly couple who looked like humble townsfolk, and were probably related to one or other of the newly-married pair. dalrymple opened the attack by stumbling against the mother, and then overwhelming her with elaborate apologies. "in these crowded places, madame," said he, in his fluent french, "one is scarcely responsible for an impoliteness. i beg ten thousand pardons, however. i hope i have not hurt you?" "_ma foi!_ no, m'sieur. it would take more than that to hurt me!" "nor injured your dress, i trust, madame?" "_ah, par exemple_! do i wear muslins or gauzes that they should not bear touching? no, no, no, m'sieur--thanking you all the same." "you are very amiable, madame, to say so." "you are very polite, m'sieur, to think so much of a trifle." "nothing is a trifle, madame, where a lady is concerned. at least, so we englishmen consider." "bah! m'sieur is not english?" "indeed, madame, i am." "_mais, mon dieu! c'est incroyable_. suzette--brother jacques--andré, do you hear this? m'sieur, here, swears that he is english, and yet he speaks french like one of ourselves! ah, what a fine thing learning is!" "i may say with truth, madame, that i never appreciate the advantages of education so highly, as when they enable me to converse with ladies who are not my own countrywomen," said dalrymple, carrying on the conversation with as much studied politeness as if his interlocutor had been a duchess. "but--excuse the observation--you are here, i imagine, upon a happy occasion?" the mother laughed, and rubbed her hands. "_dâme_! one may see that," replied she, "with one's eyes shut! yes, m'sieur,--yes--their wedding-day, the dear children--their wedding-day! they've been betrothed these two years." "the bride is very like you, madame," said dalrymple, gravely. "your younger sister, i presume?" "_ah, quel farceur_! he takes my daughter for my sister! suzette, do you hear this? m'sieur is killing me with laughter!" and the good lady chuckled, and gasped, and wiped her eyes, and dealt dalrymple a playful push between the shoulders, which would have upset the balance of any less heavy dragoon. "your daughter, madame!" said he. "allow me to congratulate you. may i also be permitted to congratulate the bride?" and with this he took off his hat to suzette and shook hands with andré, who looked not overpleased, and proceeded to introduce me as his friend monsieur basil arbuthnot, "a young english gentleman, _très distingué_" the old lady then said her name was madame roquet, and that she rented a small farm about a mile and a half from rouen; that suzette was her only child; and that she had lost her "blessed man" about eight years ago. she next introduced the elderly couple as her brother jacques robineau and his wife, and informed us that jacques was a tailor, and had a shop opposite the church of st. maclou, "_là bas_." to judge of monsieur robineau's skill by his outward appearance, i should have said that he was professionally unsuccessful, and supplied his own wardrobe from the misfits returned by his customers. he wore a waistcoat which was considerably too long for him, trousers which were considerably too short, and a green cloth coat with a high velvet collar which came up nearly to the tops of his ears. in respect of personal characteristics, monsieur robineau and his wife were the most admirable contrast imaginable. monsieur robineau was short; madame robineau was tall. monsieur robineau was as plump and rosy as a robin; madame robineau was pale and bony to behold. monsieur robineau looked the soul of good nature, ready to chirrup over his _grog-au-vin,_ to smoke a pipe with his neighbor, to cut a harmless joke or enjoy a harmless frolic, as cheerfully as any little tailor that ever lived; madame robineau, on the contrary, preserved a dreadful dignity, and looked as if she could laugh at nothing on this side of the grave. not to consider the question too curiously, i should have said, at first sight, that monsieur robineau stood in no little awe of his wife, and that madame robineau was the very head and front of their domestic establishment. it was wonderful and delightful to see how captain dalrymple placed himself on the best of terms with all these good people--how he patted robineau on the back and complimented madame, banished the cloud from andré's brow, and summoned a smile to the pretty cheek of suzette. one would have thought he had known them for years already, so thoroughly was he at home with every member of the wedding party. presently, he asked suzette to dance. she blushed scarlet, and cast a pretty appealing look at her husband and her mother. i could almost guess what she whispered to the former by the motion of her lips. "monsieur andré will, i am sure, spare madame for one gallop," said dalrymple, with that kind of courtesy which accepts no denial. it was quite another tone, quite another manner. it was no longer the persuasive suavity of one who is desirous only to please, but the politeness of a gentleman to au inferior. the cloud came back upon andré's brow, and he hesitated; but madame roquet interposed. "spare her!" she exclaimed. "_dâme_! i should think so! she has never left his arm all day. here, my child, give me your shawl while you dance, and bake care not to get too warm, for the evening air is dangerous." and so suzette took off her shawl, and andré was silenced, and dalrymple, in less than the half hour, was actually whirling away with his arm round little phillis's dainty waist. i am afraid that i proved a very indifferent _locum tenens_ for my brilliant friend, and that the good people thought me exceedingly stupid. i tried to talk to them, but the language tripped me up at every turn, and the right words never would come when they were wanted. besides, i felt uneasy without knowing exactly why. i could not keep from watching dalrymple and suzette. i could not help noticing how closely he held her; how he never ceased talking to her; and how the smiles and blushes chased each other over her pretty face. that i should have wit enough to observe these things proved that my education was progressing rapidly; but then, to be sure, i was studying under an accomplished teacher. they danced for a long time. so long, that andré became uneasy, and my available french was quite exhausted. i was heartily glad when dalrymple brought back the little bride at last, flushed and panting, and (himself as cool as a diplomatist) assisted her with her shawl and resigned her to the protection of her husband. "why hast thou danced so long with that big englishman?" murmured andré, discontentedly. "when _i_ asked thee, thou wast too tired, and now...." "and now i am so happy to be near thee again," whispered suzette. andré softened directly. "but to dance for twenty minutes...." began he. "ah, but he danced so well, and i am so fond of waltzing, andré!" the cloud gathered again, and an impatient reply was coming, when dalrymple opportunely invited the whole party to a bowl of punch in an adjoining arbor, and himself led the way with madame roquet. the arbor was vacant, a waiter was placing the chairs, and the punch was blazing in the bowl. it had evidently been ordered during one of the pauses in the dance, that it might be ready to the moment--a little attention which called forth exclamations of pleasure from both madame roquet and monsieur robineau, and touched with something like a gleam of satisfaction even the grim visage of monsieur robineau's wife. dalrymple took the head of the table, and stirred the punch into leaping tongues of blue flame till it looked like a miniature vesuvius. "what diabolical-looking stuff!" i exclaimed. "you might, to all appearance, be lucifer's own cupbearer." "a proof that it ought to be devilish good," replied dalrymple, ladling it out into the glasses. "allow me, ladies and gentlemen, to propose the health, happiness, and prosperity of the bride and bridegroom. may they never die, and may they be remembered for ever after!" we all laughed as if this was the best joke we had heard in our lives, and dalrymple filled the glasses up again. "what, in the name of all that's mischievous, can have become of sullivan?" said he to me. "i have not caught so much as a glimpse of him for the last hour." "when i last saw him, he was dancing." "yes, with a pretty little dark-eyed girl in a blue dress. by jove! that fellow will be getting into trouble if left to himself!" "but the girl has her mother with her!" "all the stronger probability of a scrimmage," replied dalrymple, sipping his punch with a covert glance of salutation at suzette. "shall i see if they are among the dancers?" "do--but make haste; for the punch is disappearing fast." i left them, and went back to the platform where the indefatigable public was now engaged in the performance of quadrilles. never, surely, were people so industrious in the pursuit of pleasure! they poussetted, bowed, curtsied, joined hands, and threaded the mysteries of every figure, as if their very lives depended on their agility. "look at jean thomas," said a young girl to her still younger companion. "he dances like an angel!" the one thus called upon to admire, looked at jean thomas, and sighed. "he never asks me, by any chance," said she, sadly, "although his mother and mine are good neighbors. i suppose i don't dance well enough--or dress well enough," she added, glancing at her friend's gay shawl and coquettish cap. "he has danced with me twice this evening," said the first speaker triumphantly; "and he danced with me twice last sunday at the jardin d'armide. elise says...." her voice dropped to a whisper, and i heard no more. it was a passing glimpse behind the curtain--a peep at one of the many dramas of real life that are being played for ever around us. here were all the elements of romance--love, admiration, vanity, envy. here was a hero in humble life--a lady-killer in his own little sphere. he dances with one, neglects another, and multiplies his conquests with all the heartlessness of a gentleman. i wandered round the platform once or twice, scrutinizing the dancers, but without success. there was no sign of sullivan, or of his partner, or of his partner's mother, the _bourgeoise_ with the green fan. i then went to the grotto of the fortune-teller, but it was full of noisy rustics; and thence to the lottery hall, where there were plenty of players, but not those of whom i was in search. "wheel of fortune, messieurs et mesdames," said the young lady behind the counter. "only fifty centimes each. all prizes, and no blanks--try your fortune, _monsieur le capitaine!_ put it once, _monsieur le capitaine_; once for yourself, and once for madame. only fifty centimes each, and the certainty of winning!" _monsieur le capitaine_ was a great, rawboned corporal, with a pretty little maid-servant on his arm. the flattery was not very delicate; but it succeeded. he threw down a franc. the wheel flew round, the papers were drawn, and the corporal won a needle-case, and the maid-servant a cigar-holder. in the midst of the laugh to which this distribution gave rise, i walked away in the direction of the refreshment stalls. here were parties supping substantially, dancers drinking orgeat and lemonade, and little knots of tradesmen and mechanics sipping beer ridiculously out of wine-glasses to an accompaniment of cakes and sweet-biscuits. still i could see no trace of mr. frank sullivan. at length i gave up the search in despair, and on my way back encountered master philippe leaning against a tree, and looking exceedingly helpless and unwell. "you ate too many eggs, philippe," said his mother. "i told you so at the time." "it--it wasn't the eggs," faltered the wretched philippe. "it was the russian swing." "and serve you rightly, too," said his father angrily. "i wish with all my heart that you had had your favorite oysters as well!" when i came back to the arbor, i found the little party immensely happy, and a fresh bowl of punch just placed upon the table. andré was sitting next to suzette, as proud as a king. madame roquet, volubly convivial, was talking to every one. madame robineau was silently disposing of all the biscuits and punch that came in her way. monsieur robineau, with his hat a little pushed back and his thumb in the arm-hole of his waistcoat, was telling a long story to which nobody listened; while dalrymple, sitting on the other side of the bride, was gallantly doing the duties of entertainer. he looked up--i shook my head, slipped back into my place, and listened to the tangled threads of conversation going on around me. "and so," said monsieur robineau, proceeding with his story, and staring down into the bottom of his empty glass, "and so i said to myself, 'robineau, _mon ami_, take care. one honest man is better than two rogues; and if thou keepest thine eyes open, the devil himself stands small chance of cheating thee!' so i buttoned up my coat--this very coat i have on now, only that i have re-lined and re-cuffed it since then, and changed the buttons for brass ones; and brass buttons for one's holiday coat, you know, look so much more _comme il faut_--and said to the landlord...." "another glass of punch, monsieur robineau," interrupted dalrymple. "thank you, m'sieur, you are very good; well, as i was saying...." "ah, bah, brother jacques!" exclaimed madame roquet, impatiently, "don't give us that old story of the miller and the gray colt, this evening! we've all heard it a hundred times already. sing us a song instead, _mon ami_!" "i shall be happy to sing, sister marie," replied monsieur robineau, with somewhat husky dignity, "when i have finished my story. you may have heard the story before. so may andré--so may suzette--so may my wife. i admit it. but these gentlemen--these gentlemen who have never heard it, and who have done me the honor...." "not to listen to a word of it," said madame robineau, sharply. "there, you are answered, husband. drink your punch, and hold your tongue." monsieur robineau waved his hand majestically, and assumed a parliamentary air. "madame robineau," he said, getting more and more husky, "be so obliging as to wait till i ask for your advice. with regard to drinking my punch, i have drunk it--" and here he again stared down into the bottom of his glass, which was again empty--"and with regard to holding my tongue, that is my business, and--and...." "monsieur robineau," said dalrymple, "allow me to offer you some more punch." "not another drop, jacques," said madame, sternly. "you have had too much already." poor monsieur robineau, who had put out his glass to be refilled, paused and looked helplessly at his wife. "_mon cher ange_,...." he began; but she shook her head inflexibly, and monsieur robineau submitted with the air of a man who knows that from the sentence of the supreme court there is no appeal. "_dâme_!" whispered madame roquet, with a confidential attack upon my ribs that gave me a pain in my side for half an hour after, "my brother has the heart of a rabbit. he gives way to her in everything--so much the worse for him. my blessed man, who was a saint of a husband, would have broken the bowl over my ears if i had dared to interfere between his glass and his mouth!" whereupon madame roquet filled her own glass and mine, and madame robineau, less indulgent to her husband than herself, followed our example. just at this moment, a confused hubbub of voices, and other sounds expressive of a _fracas_, broke out in the direction of the trees behind the orchestra. the dancers deserted their polka, the musicians stopped fiddling, the noisy supper-party in the next arbor abandoned their cold chicken and salad, and everybody ran to the scene of action. dalrymple was on his feet in a moment; but suzette held andré back with both hands and implored him to stay. "some _mauvais sujets_, no doubt, who refuse to pay the score," suggested madame roquet. "or sullivan, who has got into one of his infernal scrapes," muttered dalrymple, with a determined wrench at his moustache. "come on, anyhow, and let us see what is the matter!" so we snatched up our hats and ran out, just as monsieur robineau seized the opportunity to drink another tumbler of punch when his wife was not looking. following in the direction of the rest, we took one of the paths behind the orchestra, and came upon a noisy crowd gathered round a wooden summer-house. "it's a fight," said one. "it's a pickpocket," said another. "bah! it's only a young fellow who has been making love to a girl," exclaimed a third. we forced our way through, and there we saw mr. frank sullivan with his hat off, his arms crossed, and his back against the wall, presenting a dauntless front to the gesticulations and threats of an exceedingly enraged young man with red hair, who was abusing him furiously. the amount of temper displayed by this young man was something unparalleled. he was angry in every one of his limbs. he stamped, he shook his fist, he shook his head. the very tips of his ears looked scarlet with rage. every now and then he faced round to the spectators, and appealed to them--or to a stout woman with a green fan, who was almost as red and angry as himself, and who always rushed forward when addressed, and shook the green fan in sullivan's face. "you are an aristocrat!" stormed the young man. "a pampered, insolent aristocrat! a dog of an englishman! a _scélérat_! don't suppose you are to trample upon us for nothing! we are frenchmen, you beggarly islander--frenchmen, do you hear?" a growl of sympathetic indignation ran through the crowd, and "_à bas les aristocrats_--_à bas les anglais_!" broke out here and there. "in the devil's name, sullivan," said dalrymple, shouldering his way up to the object of these agreeable menaces, "what have you been after, to bring this storm about your ears?" "pshaw! nothing at all," replied he with a mocking laugh, and a contemptuous gesture. "i danced with a pretty girl, and treated her to champagne afterwards. her mother and brother hunted us out, and spoiled our flirtation. that's the whole story." something in the laugh and gesture--something, too, perhaps in the language which they could not understand, appeared to give the last aggravation to both of sullivan's assailants. i saw the young man raise his arm to strike--i saw dalrymple fell him with a blow that would have stunned an ox--i saw the crowd close in, heard the storm break out on every side, and, above it all, the deep, strong tones of dalrymple's voice, saying:-- "to the boat, boys! follow me." in another moment he had flung himself into the crowd, dealt one or two sounding blows to left and right, cleared a passage for himself and us, and sped away down one of the narrow walks leading to the river. presently, having taken one or two turnings, none of which seemed to lead to the spot we sought, we came upon an open space full of piled-up benches, pyramids of empty bottles, boxes, baskets, and all kinds of lumber. here we paused to listen and take breath. we had left the crowd behind us, but they were still within hearing. "by jove!" said dalrymple, "i don't know which way to go. i believe we are on the wrong side of the island." "and i believe they are after us," added sullivan, peering into the baskets. "by all that's fortunate, here are the fireworks! has anybody got a match? we'll take these with us, and go off in a blaze of triumph!" the suggestion was no sooner made than adopted. we filled our hats and pockets with crackers and catherine-wheels, piled the rest into one great heap, threw a dozen or so of lighted fusees into the midst of them, and just as the voices of our pursuers were growing momentarily louder and nearer, darted away again down a fresh turning, and saw the river gleaming at the end of it. "hurrah! here's a boat," shouted sullivan, leaping into it, and we after him. it was not our boat, but we did not care for that. ours was at the other side of the island, far enough away, down by the landing-place. just as dalrymple seized the oars, there burst forth a tremendous explosion. a column of rockets shot up into the air, and instantly the place was as light as day. then a yell of discovery broke forth, and we were seen almost as soon as we were fairly out of reach. we had secured the only boat on that side of the island, and three or four of dalrymple's powerful strokes had already carried us well into the middle of the stream. to let off our own store of fireworks--to pitch tokens of our regard to our friends on the island in the shape of blazing crackers, which fell sputtering and fizzing into the water half-way between the boat and the shore--to stand up in the stern and bow politely--finally, to row away singing "god save the queen" with all our might, were feats upon which we prided ourselves very considerably at the time, and the recollection of which afforded us infinite amusement all the way home. that evening we all supped together at the chaval blane, and of what we did or said after supper i have but a confused remembrance. i believe that i tried to smoke a cigar; and it is my impression that i made a speech, in which i swore eternal friendship to both of my new friends; but the only circumstance about which i cannot be mistaken is that i awoke next morning with the worst specimen of headache that had yet come within the limits of my experience. * * * * * chapter ix. damon and pythias. i left rouen the day after my great adventure on the river, and captain dalrymple went with me to the station. "you have my paris address upon my card," he said, as we walked to and fro upon the platform. "it's just a bachelor's den, you know--and i shall be there in about a fortnight or three weeks. come and look me up." to which i replied that i was glad to be allowed to do so, and that i should "look him up" as soon as he came home. and so, with words of cordial good-will and a hearty shake of the hand, we parted. having started late in the evening, i arrived in paris between four and five o'clock on a bright midsummer sunday morning. i was not long delayed by the customs officers, for i carried but a scant supply of luggage. having left this at an hotel, i wandered about till it should be time for breakfast. after breakfast i meant to dress and call upon dr. chéron. the morning air was clear and cool. the sun shone brilliantly, and was reflected back with dazzling vividness from long vistas of high white houses, innumerable windows, and gilded balconies. theatres, shops, cafés, and hotels not yet opened, lined the great thoroughfares. triumphal arches, columns, parks, palaces, and churches succeeded one another in apparently endless succession. i passed a lofty pillar crowned with a conqueror's statue--a palace tragic in history--a modern parthenon surrounded by columns, peopled with sculptured friezes, and approached by a flight of steps extending the whole width of the building. i went in, for the doors had just been opened, and a white-haired sacristan was preparing the seats for matin service. there were acolytes decorating the altar with fresh flowers, and early devotees on their knees before the shrine of the madonna. the gilded ornaments, the tapers winking in the morning light, the statues, the paintings, the faint clinging odors of incense, the hushed atmosphere, the devotional silence, the marble angels kneeling round the altar, all united to increase my dream of delight. i gazed and gazed again; wandered round and round; and at last, worn out with excitement and fatigue, sank into a chair in a distant corner of the church, and fell into a heavy sleep. how long it lasted i know not; but the voices of the choristers and the deep tones of the organ mingled with my dreams. when i awoke the last worshippers were departing, the music had died into silence, the wax-lights were being extinguished, and the service was ended. again i went out into the streets; but all was changed. where there had been the silence of early morning there was now the confusion of a great city. where there had been closed shutters and deserted thoroughfares, there was the bustle of life, gayety, business, and pleasure. the shops blazed with jewels and merchandise; the stonemasons were at work on the new buildings; the lemonade venders, with their gay reservoirs upon their backs, were plying a noisy trade; the bill-stickers were papering boardings and lamp-posts with variegated advertisements; the charlatan, in his gaudy chariot, was selling pencils and penknives to the accompaniment of a hand-organ; soldiers were marching to the clangor of military music; the merchant was in his counting-house, the stock-broker at the bourse, and the lounger, whose name is legion, was sitting in the open air outside his favorite café, drinking chocolate, and yawning over the _charivari_. i thought i must be dreaming. i scarcely believed the evidence of my eyes. was this sunday? was it possible that in our own little church at home--in our own little church, where we could hear the birds twittering outside in every interval of the quiet service--the old familiar faces, row beyond row, were even now upturned in reverent attention to the words of the preacher? prince bedreddin, transported in his sleep to the gates of damascus, could scarcely have opened his eyes upon a foreign city and a strange people with more incredulous amazement. i can now scarcely remember how that day of wonders went by. i only know that i rambled about as in a dream, and am vaguely conscious of having wandered through the gardens of the tuilleries; of having found the louvre open, and of losing myself among some of the upper galleries; of lying exhausted upon a bench in the champs elysées; of returning by quays lined with palaces and spanned by noble bridges; of pacing round and round the enchanted arcades of the palais royal; of wondering how and where i should find my hotel, and of deciding at last that i could go no farther without dining somehow. wearied and half stupefied, i ventured, at length, into one of the large _restaurants_ upon the boulevards. here i found spacious rooms lighted by superb chandeliers which were again reflected in mirrors that extended from floor to ceiling. rows of small tables ran round the rooms, and a double line down the centre, each laid with its snowy cloth and glittering silver. it was early when i arrived; so i passed up to the top of the room and appropriated a small table commanding a view of the great thoroughfare below. the waiters were slow to serve me; the place filled speedily; and by the time i had finished my soup, nearly all the tables were occupied. here sat a party of officers, bronzed and mustachioed; yonder a group of laughing girls; a pair of provincials; a family party, children, governess and all; a stout capitalist, solitary and self content; a quatuor of rollicking _commis-voyageurs_; an english couple, perplexed and curious. amused by the sight of so many faces, listening to the hum of voices, and watching the flying waiters bearing all kinds of mysterious dishes, i loitered over my lonely meal, and wished that this delightful whirl of novelty might last for ever. by and by a gentleman entered, walked up the whole length of the room in search of a seat, found my table occupied by only a single person, bowed politely, and drew his chair opposite mine. he was a portly man of about forty-five or fifty years of age, with a broad, calm brow; curling light hair, somewhat worn upon the temples; and large blue eyes, more keen than tender. his dress was scrupulously simple, and his hands were immaculately white. he carried an umbrella little thicker than a walking-stick, and wrote out his list of dishes with a massive gold pencil. the waiter bowed down before him as if he were an habitué of the place. it was not long before we fell into conversation. i do not remember which spoke first; but we talked of paris--or rather, i talked and he listened; for, what with the excitement and fatigue of the day, and what with the half bottle of champagne which i had magnificently ordered, i found myself gifted with a sudden flood of words, and ran on, i fear, not very discreetly. a few civil rejoinders, a smile, a bow, an assent, a question implied rather than spoken, sufficed to draw from me the particulars of my journey. i told everything, from my birthplace and education to my future plans and prospects; and the stranger, with a frosty humor twinkling about his eyes, listened politely. he was himself particularly silent; but he had the art of provoking conversation while quietly enjoying his own dinner. when this was finished, however, he leaned back in his chair, sipped his claret, and talked a little more freely. "and so," said he, in very excellent english, "you have come to paris to finish your studies. but have you no fear, young gentleman, that the attractions of so gay a city may divert your mind from graver subjects? do you think that, when every pleasure may be had for the seeking, you will be content to devote yourself to the dry details of an uninteresting profession?" "it is not an uninteresting profession," i replied. "i might perhaps have preferred the church or the law; but having embarked in the study of medicine, i shall do my best to succeed in it." the stranger smiled. "i am glad," he said, "to see you so ambitious. i do not doubt that you will become a shining light in the brotherhood of esculapius." "i hope so," i replied, boldly. "i have studied closer than most men of my age, already." he smiled again, coughed doubtfully, and insisted on filling my glass from his own bottle. "i only fear," he said, "that you will be too diffident of your own merits. now, when you call upon this doctor....what did you say was his name?" "chéron," i replied, huskily. "true, chéron. well, when you meet him for the first time you will, perhaps, be timid, hesitating, and silent. but, believe me, a young man of your remarkable abilities should be self-possessed. you ought to inspire him from the beginning with a suitable respect for your talents." "that's precisely the line i mean to take," said i, boastfully. "i'll--i'll astonish him. i'm afraid of nobody--not i!" the stranger filled my glass again. his claret must have been very strong or my head very weak, for it seemed to me, as he did so, that all the chandeliers were in motion. "upon my word," observed he, "you are a young man of infinite spirit." "and you," i replied, making an effort to bring the glass steadily to my lips, "you are a capital fellow--a clear-sighted, sensible, capital fellow. we'll be friends." he bowed, and said, somewhat coldly, "i have no doubt that we shall become better acquainted." "better acquainted, indeed!--we'll be intimate!" i ejaculated, affectionately. "i'll introduce you to dalrymple--you'll like him excessively. just the fellow to delight you." "so i should say," observed the stranger, drily. "and as for you and myself, we'll--we'll be damon and ... what's the other one's name?" "pythias," replied my new acquaintance, leaning back in his chair, and surveying me with a peculiar and very deliberate stare. "exactly so--damon and pythias! a charming arrangement." "bravo! famous! and now we'll have another bottle of wine." "not on my account, i beg," said the gentleman firmly. "my head is not so cool as yours." cool, indeed, and the room whirling round and round, like a teetotum! "oh, if you won't, i won't," said i confusedly; "but i--i could--drink my share of another bottle, i assure you, and not--feel the slightest...." "i have no doubt on that point," said my neighbor, gravely; "but our french wines are deceptive, mr. arbuthnot, and you might possibly suffer some inconvenience to-morrow. you, as a medical man, should understand the evils of dyspepsia." "dy--dy--dyspepsia be hanged," i muttered, dreamily. "tell me, friend--by the by, i forget your name. friend what?" "friend pythias," returned the stranger, drily. "you gave me the name yourself." "ay, but your real name?" he shrugged his shoulders. "one name is as good as another," said he, lightly. "let it be pythias, for the present. but you were about to ask me some question?" "about old chéron," i said, leaning both elbows on the table, and speaking very confidentially. "now tell me, have you--have you any notion of what he is like? do you--know--know anything about him?" "i have heard of him," he replied, intent for the moment on the pattern of his wine-glass. "clever?" "that is a point upon which i could not venture an opinion. you must ask some more competent judge." "come, now," said i, shaking my head, and trying to look knowing; "you--you know what i mean, well enough. is he a grim old fellow? a--a--griffin, you know! come, is he a gr--r--r--riffin?" my words had by this time acquired a distressing, self-propelling tendency, and linked themselves into compounds of twenty and thirty syllables. my _vis-à-vis_ smiled, bit his lip, then laughed a dry, short laugh. "really," he said, "i am not in a position to reply to your question; but upon the whole, i should say that dr. chéron was not quite a griffin. the species, you see, is extinct." i roared with laughter; vowed i had never heard a better joke in my life; and repeated his last words over and over, like a degraded idiot as i was. all at once a sense of deadly faintness came upon me. i turned hot and cold by turns, and lifting my hand to my head, said, or tried to say:-- "room's--'bominably--close!" "we had better go," he replied promptly. "the air will do you good. leave me to settle for our dinners, and you shall make it right with me by-and-by." he did so, and we left the room. once out in the open air i found myself unable to stand. he called a _fiacre_; almost lifted me in; took his place beside me, and asked the name of my hotel. i had forgotten it; but i knew that it was opposite the railway station, and that was enough. when we arrived, i was on the verge of insensibility. i remember that i was led up-stairs by two waiters, and that the stranger saw me to my room. then all was darkness and stupor. chapter x. the next morning. "oh, my christian ducats!" _merchant of venice_. gone!--gone!--both gone!--my new gold watch and my purse full of notes and napoleons! i rang the bell furiously. it was answered by a demure-looking waiter, with a face like a parroquet. "does monsieur please to require anything?" "require anything!" i exclaimed, in the best french i could muster. "i have been robbed!" "robbed, monsieur?" "yes, of my watch and purse!" "_tiens_! of a watch and purse?" repeated the parroquet, lifting his eyebrows with an air of well-bred surprise. "_c'est drôle."_ "droll!" i cried, furiously. "droll, you scoundrel! i'll let you know whether i think it droll! i'll complain to the authorities! i'll have the house searched! i'll--i'll...." i rang the bell again. two or three more waiters came, and the master of the hotel. they all treated my communication in the same manner--coolly; incredulously; but with unruffled politeness. "monsieur forgets," urged the master, "that he came back to the hotel last night in a state of absolute intoxication. monsieur was accompanied by a stranger, who was gentlemanly, it it true; but since monsieur acknowledges that that stranger was personally unknown to him, monsieur may well perceive it would be more reasonable if his suspicions first pointed in that direction." struck by the force of this observation, i flung myself into a chair and remained silent. "has monsieur no acquaintances in paris to whom he may apply for advice?" inquired the landlord. "none," said i, moodily; "except that i have a letter of introduction to one dr. chéron." the landlord and his waiters exchanged glances. "i would respectfully recommend monsieur to present his letter immediately," said the former. "monsieur le docteur chéron is a man of the world--a man of high reputation and sagacity. monsieur could not do better than advise with him." "call a cab for me," said i, after a long pause. "i will go." the determination cost me something. dismayed by the extent of my loss, racked with headache, languid, pale, and full of remorse for last night's folly, it needed but this humiliation to complete my misery. what! appear before my instructor for the first time with such a tale! i could have bitten my lips through with vexation. the cab was called. i saw, but would not see, the winks and nods exchanged behind my back by the grinning waiters. i flung myself into the vehicle, and soon was once more rattling through the noisy streets. but those brilliant streets had now lost all their charm for me. i admired nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, on the way. i could think only of my father's anger and the contempt of dr. chéron. presently the cab stopped before a large wooden gate with two enormous knockers. one half of this gate was opened by a servant in a sad-colored livery. i was shown across a broad courtyard, up a flight of lofty steps, and into a spacious _salon_ plainly furnished. "monsieur le docteur is at present engaged," said the servant, with an air of profound respect. "will monsieur have the goodness to be seated for a few moments." i sat down. i rose up. i examined the books upon the table, and the pictures on the walls. i wished myself "anywhere, anywhere out of the world," and more than once was on the point of stealing out of the house, jumping into my cab, and making off without seeing the doctor at all. one consideration alone prevented me. i had lost all my money, and had not even a franc left to pay the driver. presently the door again opened, the grave footman reappeared, and i heard the dreaded announcement:--"monsieur le docteur will be happy to receive monsieur in his consulting-room." i followed mechanically. we passed through a passage thickly carpeted, and paused before a green baize door. this door opened noiselessly, and i found myself in the great man's presence. "it gives me pleasure to welcome the son of my old friend john arbuthnot," said a clear, and not unfamiliar voice. i started, looked up, grew red and white, hot and cold, and had not a syllable to utter in reply. in doctor chéron, i recognised-- pythias! chapter xi. mysterious proceedings. the doctor pointed to a chair, looked at his watch, and said:-- "i hope you have had a pleasant journey. arrived this morning?" there was not the faintest gleam of recognition on his face. not a smile; not a glance; nothing but the easy politeness of a stranger to a stranger. "n--not exactly," i faltered. "yesterday morning, sir." "ah, indeed! spent the day in sight-seeing, i dare say. admire paris?" too much astonished to speak, i took refuge in a bow. "not found any lodgings yet, i presume?" asked the doctor, mending a pen very deliberately. "n--not yet, sir." "i concluded so the english do not seek apartments on sunday. you observe the day very strictly, no doubt?" blushing and confused, i stammered some incoherent words and sat twirling my hat, the very picture of remorse. "at what hotel have you put up?" he next inquired, without appearing to observe my agitation. "the--the hôtel des messageries." "good, but expensive. you must find a lodging to-day." i bowed again. "and, as your father's representative, i must take care that you procure something suitable, and are not imposed upon. my valet shall go with you." he rang the bell, and the sad-colored footman appeared on the threshold. "desire brunet to be in readiness to walk out with this gentleman," he said, briefly, and the servant retired. "brunet," he continued, addressing me again, "is faithful and sagacious. he will instruct you on certain points indispensable to a resident in paris, and will see that you are not ill-accommodated or overcharged. a young man has few wants, and i should infer that a couple of rooms in some quiet street will be all that you require?" "i--i am very grateful." he waved down my thanks with an air of cold but polite authority; took out his note-book and pencil; (i could have sworn to that massive gold pencil!) and proceeded to question me. "your age, i think," said he, "is twenty-one?" "twenty, sir." "ah--twenty. you desire to be entered upon the list of visiting students at the hotel dieu, to be free of the library and lecture-rooms, and to be admitted into my public classes?" "yes, sir." "also, to attend here in my house for private instruction." "yes, sir." he filled in a few words upon a printed form, and handed it to me with his visiting card. "you will present these, and your passport, to the secretary at the hospital," said he, "and will receive in return the requisite tickets of admission. your fees have already been paid in, and your name has been entered. you must see to this matter at once, for the _bureau_ closes at two o'clock. you will then require the rest of the day for lodging-seeking, moving, and so forth. to-morrow morning, at nine o'clock, i shall expect you here." "indeed, sir," i murmured, "i am more obliged than...." "not in the least," he interrupted, decisively; "your father's son has every claim upon me. i object to thanks. all that i require from you are habits of industry, punctuality, and respect. your father speaks well of you, and i have no doubt i shall find you all that he represents. can i do anything more for you this morning?" i hesitated; could not bring myself to utter one word of that which i had come to say; and murmured-- "nothing more, i thank you, sir." he looked at me piercingly, paused an instant, and then rang the bell. "i am about to order my carriage," he said; "and, as i am going in that direction, i will take you as far as the hôtel dieu." "but--but i have a cab at the door," i faltered, remembering, with a sinking heart, that i had not a sou to pay the driver. the servant appeared again. "let the carriage be brought round immediately, and dismiss this gentleman's cab." the man retired, and i heaved a sigh of relief. the doctor bent low over the papers on his desk, and i fancied for the moment that a faint smile flitted over his face. then he took up his hat, and pointed to the door. "now, my young friend," he said authoritatively, "we must be gone. time is gold. after you." i bowed and preceded him. his very courtesy was sterner than the displeasure of another, and i already felt towards him a greater degree of awe than i should have quite cared to confess. the carriage was waiting in the courtyard. i placed myself with my back to the horses; dr. chéron flung himself upon the opposite seat; a servant out of livery sprang up beside the coachman; the great gates were flung open; and we glided away on the easiest of springs and the softest of cushions. dr. chéron took a newspaper from his pocket, and began to read; so leaving me to my own uncomfortable reflections. and, indeed, when i came to consider my position i was almost in despair. moneyless, what was to become of me? watchless and moneyless, with a bill awaiting me at my hotel, and not a stiver in my pocket wherewith to pay it.... miserable pupil of a stern master! luckless son of a savage father! to whom could i turn for help? not certainly to dr. chéron, whom i had been ready to accuse, half an hour ago, of having stolen my watch and purse. petty larceny and dr. chéron! how ludicrously incongruous! and yet, where was my property? was the hôtel des messageries a den of thieves? and again, how was it that this same dr. chéron looked, and spoke, and acted, as if he had never seen me in his life till this morning? was i mad, or dreaming, or both? the carriage stopped and the door opened. "hôtel dieu, m'sieur," said the servant, touching his hat. dr. chéron just raised his eyes from the paper. "this is your first destination," he said. "i would advise you, on leaving here, to return to your hotel. there may be letters awaiting you. good-morning." with this he resumed his paper, the carriage rolled away, and i found myself at the hôtel dieu, with the servant out of livery standing respectfully behind me. go back to my hotel! why should i go back? letters there could be none, unless at the poste restante. i thought this a very unnecessary piece of advice, rejected it in my own mind, and so went into the hospital _bureau_, and transacted my business. when i came out again, brunet took the lead. he was an elderly man with a solemn countenance and a mysterious voice. his manner was oppressively respectful; his address diplomatic; his step stealthy as a courtier's. when we came to a crossing he bowed, stood aside, and followed me; then took the lead again; and so on, during a brisk walk of about half an hour. all at once, i found myself at the hôtel des messageries. "monsieur's hotel," said the doctor's valet, touching his hat. "you are mistaken," said i, rather impatiently. "i did not ask to be brought here. my object this morning is to look for apartments." "post in at mid-day, monsieur," he observed, gravely. "monsieur's letters may have arrived." "i expect none, thank you." "monsieur will, nevertheless, permit me to inquire," said the persevering valet, and glided in before my eyes. the thing was absurd! both master and servant insisted that i must have letters, whether i would, or no! to my amazement, however, brunet came back with a small sealed box in his hands. "no letters have arrived for monsieur," he said; "but this box was left with the porter about an hour ago." i weighed it, shook it, examined the seals, and, going into the public room, desired brunet to follow me. there i opened it. it contained a folded paper, a quantity of wadding, my purse, my roll of bank-notes, and my watch! on the paper, i read the following words:-- "learn from the events of last night the value of temperance, the wisdom of silence, and the danger of chance acquaintanceships. accept the lesson, and he by whom it is administered will forget the error." the paper dropped from my hands and fell upon the floor. the impenetrable brunet picked it up, and returned it to me. "brunet!" i ejaculated. "monsieur?" said he, interrogatively, raising his hand to his forehead by force of habit, although his hat stood beside him on the floor. there was not a shadow of meaning in his face--not a quiver to denote that he knew anything of what had passed. to judge by the stolid indifference of his manner, one might have supposed that the delivery of caskets full of watches and valuables was an event of daily occurrence in the house of dr. chéron. his coolness silenced me. i drew a long breath; hastened to put my watch in my pocket, and lock up my money in my room; and then went to the master of the hotel, and informed him of the recovery of my property. he smiled and congratulated me; but he did not seem to be in the least surprised. i fancied, some how, that matters were not quite so mysterious to him as they had been to me. i also fancied that i heard a suspicious roar of laughter as i passed out into the street. it was not long before i found such apartments as i required, piloted by brunet through some broad thoroughfares and along part of the boulevards, i came upon a cluster of narrow streets branching off through a massive stone gateway from the rue du faubourg montmartre. this little nook was called the cité bergère. the houses were white and lofty. some had courtyards, and all were decorated with pretty iron balconies and delicately-tinted venetian shutters. most of them bore the announcement--"_apartements à louer_"--suspended above the door. outside one of these houses sat two men with a little table between them. they were playing at dominoes, and wore the common blue blouse of the mechanic class. a woman stood by, paring celery, with an infant playing on the mat inside the door and a cat purring at her feet. it was a pleasant group. the men looked honest, the woman good-tempered, and the house exquisitely clean; so the diplomatic brunet went forward to negotiate, while i walked up and down outside. there were rooms to be let on the second, third and fifth floors. the fifth was too high, and the second too expensive; but the third seemed likely to suit me. the _suite_ consisted of a bed-room, dressing-room, and tiny _salon_, and was furnished with the elegant uncomfortableness characteristic of our french neighbors. here were floors shiny and carpetless; windows that objected to open, and drawers that refused to shut; mirrors all round the walls a set of hanging shelves; an ormolu time piece that struck all kinds of miscellaneous hours at unexpected times; an abundance of vases filled with faded artificial flowers; insecure chairs of white and gold; and a round table that had a way of turning over suddenly like a table in a pantomime, if you ventured to place anything on any part but the inlaid star in the centre. above all, there was a balcony big enough for a couple of chairs, and some flower-pots, overlooking the street. i was delighted with everything. in imagination i beheld my balcony already blooming with roses, and my shelves laden with books. i admired the white and gold chairs with all my heart, and saw myself reflected in half a dozen mirrors at once with an innocent pride of ownership which can only be appreciated by those who have tasted the supreme luxury of going into chambers for the first time. "shall i conclude for monsieur at twenty francs a week?" murmured the sagacious brunet. "of course," said i, laying the first week's rent upon the table. and so the thing was done, and, brimful of satisfaction, i went off to the hotel for my luggage, and moved in immediately. * * * * * chapter xii. broadcloth and civilization. allowing for my inexperience in the use of the language, i prospered better than i had expected, and found, to my satisfaction, that i was by no means behind my french fellow-students in medical knowledge. i passed through my preliminary examination with credit, and although dr. chéron was careful not to praise me too soon, i had reason to believe that he was satisfied with my progress. my life, indeed, was now wholly given up to my work. my country-breeding had made me timid, and the necessity for speaking a foreign tongue served only to increase my natural reserve; so that although i lived and studied day after day in the society of some two or three hundred young men, i yet lived as solitary a life as robinson crusoe in his island. no one sought to know me. no one took a liking for me. gay, noisy, chattering fellows that they were, they passed me by for a "dull and muddy-pated rogue;" voted me uncompanionable when i was only shy; and, doubtless, quoted me to each other as a rare specimen of the silent englishman. i lived, too, quite out of the students' colony. to me the _quartier latin_ (except as i went to and fro between the hotel dieu and the ecole de medicine) was a land unknown; and the student's life--that wonderful _vie de bohéme_ which furnishes forth half the fiction of the paris press--a condition of being, about which i had never even heard. what wonder, then, that i never arrived at dr. chéron's door five minutes behind time, never missed a lecture, never forgot an appointment? what wonder that, after dropping moodily into one or two of the theatres, i settled down quite quietly in my lodgings; gave up my days to study; sauntered about the lighted alleys of the champs elysées in the sweet spring evenings, and, going home betimes, spent an hour or two with my books, and kept almost as early hours as in my father's house at saxonholme? after i had been living thus for rather longer than three weeks, i made up my mind one sunday morning to call at dalrymple's rooms, and inquire if he had yet arrived in paris. it was about eleven o'clock when i reached the chaussée d'antin, and there learned that he was not only arrived, but at home. being by this time in possession of the luxury of a card, i sent one up, and was immediately admitted. i found breakfast still upon the table; dalrymple sitting with an open desk and cash-box before him; and, standing somewhat back, with his elbow resting on the chimney-piece, a gentleman smoking a cigar. they both looked up as i was announced, and dalrymple, welcoming me with a hearty grasp, introduced this gentleman as monsieur de simoncourt. m. de simoncourt bowed, knocked the ash from his cigar, and looked as if he wished me at the antipodes. dalrymple was really glad to see me. "i have been expecting you, arbuthnot," said he, "for the last week. if you had not soon beaten up my quarters, i should have tried, somehow, to find out yours. what have you been about all this time? where are you located? what mischief have you been perpetrating since our expedition to the _guingette_ on the river? come, you have a thousand things to tell me!" m. de simoncourt looked at his watch--a magnificent affair, decorated with a costly chain, and a profusion of pendant trifles--and threw the last-half of his cigar into the fireplace. "you must excuse me, _mon cher_" said he. "i have at least a dozen calls to make before dinner." dalrymple rose, readily enough, and took a roll of bank-notes from the cash-box. "if you are going," he said, "i may as well hand over the price of that tilbury. when will they send it home?" "to-morrow, undoubtedly." "and i am to pay fifteen hundred franks for it!" "just half its value!" observed m. de simoncourt, with a shrug of his shoulders. dalrymple smiled, counted the notes, and handed them to his friend. "fifteen hundred may be half its cost," said he; "but i doubt if i am paying much less than its full value. just see that these are right." m. de simoncourt ruffled the papers daintily over, and consigned them to his pocket-book. as he did so, i could not help observing the whiteness of his hands and the sparkle of a huge brilliant on his little finger. he was a pale, slender, olive-hued man, with very dark eyes, and glittering teeth, and a black moustache inclining superciliously upwards at each corner; somewhat too _nonchalant_, perhaps, in his manner, and somewhat too profuse in the article of jewellery; but a very elegant gentleman, nevertheless. "_bon_!" said he. "i am glad you have bought it. i would have taken it myself, had the thing happened a week or two earlier. poor duchesne! to think that he should have come to this, after all!" "i am sorry for him," said dalrymple; "but it is a case of wilful ruin. he made up his mind to go to the devil, and went accordingly. i am only surprised that the crash came no sooner." m. de simoneourt twitched at the supercilious moustache. "and you think you would not care to take the black mare with the tilbury?" said he, negligently. "no--i have a capital horse, already." "hah i--well--'tis almost a pity. the mare is a dead bargain. shouldn't wonder if i buy her, after all." "and yet you don't want her," said dalrymple. "quite true; but one must have a favorite sin, and horseflesh is mine. i shall ruin myself by it some day--_mort de ma vie!_ by the way, have you seen my chestnut in harness? no? then you will be really pleased. goes delightfully with the gray, and manages tandem to perfection. _parbleu!_ i was forgetting--do we meet to-night?" "where?" "at chardonnier's." dalrymple shook his head, and turned the key in his cash box. "not this evening," he replied. i have other engagements." "bah! and i promised to go, believing you were sure to be of the party. st. pol, i know, will be there, and de brézy also." "chardonnier's parties are charming things in their way," said dalrymple, somewhat coldly, "and no man enjoys burgundy and lansquenet more heartily than myself; but one might grow to care for nothing else, and i have no desire to fall into worse habits than those i have contracted already." m. de simoneourt laughed a dry, short laugh, and twitched again at the supercilious moustache. "i had no idea you were a philosopher," said he. "nor am i. i am a _mauvais sujet_--_mauvais_ enough, already, without seeking to become worse." "well, adieu--i will see to this affair of the tilbury, and desire them to let you have it by noon to-morrow." "a thousand thanks. i am ashamed that you have so much trouble in the matter. _au revoir_." "_au revoir_." whereupon m. de simoncourt honored me with a passing bow, and took his departure. being near the window, i saw him spring into an elegant cabriolet, and drive off with the showiest of high horses and the tiniest of tigers. he was no sooner gone than dalrymple took me by the shoulders, placed me in an easy chair, poured out a couple of glasses of hock, and said:-- "now, then, my young friend, your news or your life! out with it, every word, as you hope to be forgiven!" i had but little to tell, and for that little, found myself, as i had anticipated, heartily laughed at. my adventure at the restaurant, my unlucky meeting with dr. chéron, and the history of my interview with him next morning, delighted dalrymple beyond measure. nothing would satisfy him, after this, but to call me damon, to tease me continually about doctor pythias, and to remind me at every turn of the desirableness of arcadian friendships. "and so, damon," said he, "you go nowhere, see nothing, and know nobody. this sort of life will never do for you! i must take you out--introduce you--get you an _entrée_ into society, before i leave paris." "i should be heartily glad to visit at one or two private houses," i replied. "to spend the winter in this place without knowing a soul, would be something frightful." dalrymple looked at me half laughingly, half compassionately. "before i do it, however," said he, "you must look a little less like a savage, and more like a tame christian. you must have your hair cut, and learn to tie your cravat properly. do you possess an evening suit?" blushing to the tips of my ears, i not only confessed that i was destitute of that desirable outfit, but also that i had never yet in all my life had occasion to wear it. "i am glad of it; for now you are sure to be well fitted. your tailor, depend on it, is your great civilizer, and a well-made suit of clothes is in itself a liberal education. i'll take you to michaud--my own especial purveyor. he is a great artist. with so many yards of superfine black cloth, he will give you the tone of good society and the exterior of a gentleman. in short, he will do for you in eight or ten hours more than i could do in as many years." "pray introduce me at once to this illustrious man," i exclaimed laughingly, "and let me do him homage!" "you will have to pay heavily for the honor," said dalrymple. "of that i give you notice." "no matter. i am willing to pay heavily for the tone of good society and the exterior of a gentleman." "very good. take a book, then, or a cigar, and amuse yourself for five minutes while i write a note. that done, you may command me for as long as you please." i took the first book that came, and finding it to be a history of the horse, amused myself, instead, by observing the aspect of dalrymple's apartment. rooms are eloquent biographies. they betray at once if the owner be careless or orderly, studious or idle, vulgar or refined. flowers on the table, engravings on the walls, indicate refinement and taste; while a well-filled book-case says more in favor of its possessor than the most elaborate letter of recommendation. dalrymple's room was a monograph of himself. careless, luxurious, disorderly, crammed with all sorts of costly things, and characterized by a sort of reckless elegance, it expressed, as i interpreted it, the very history of the man. rich hangings; luxurious carpets; walls covered with paintings; cabinets of bronze and rare porcelain; a statuette of rachel beside a bust of homer; a book-case full of french novels with a sprinkling of shakespeare and horace; a stand of foreign arms; a lamp from pompeii; a silver casket full of cigars; tables piled up with newspapers, letters, pipes, riding-whips, faded bouquets, and all kinds of miscellaneous rubbish--such were my friend's surroundings; and such, had i speculated upon them beforehand, i should have expected to find them. dalrymple, in the meanwhile, despatched his letter with characteristic rapidity. his pen rushed over the paper like a dragoon charge, nor was once laid aside till both letter and address were finished. just as he was sealing it, a note was brought to him by his servant--a slender, narrow, perfumed note, written on creamy paper, and adorned on the envelope with an elaborate cypher in gold and colors. had i lived in the world of society for the last hundred seasons, i could not have interpreted the appearance of that note more sagaciously. "it is from a lady," said i to myself. then seeing dalrymple tear up his own letter immediately after reading it, and begin another, i added, still in my own mind--"and it is from the lady to whom he was writing." presently he paused, laid his pen aside, and said:-- "arbuthnot, would you like to go with me to-morrow evening to one or two _soirées_?" "can your civilizer provide me with my evening suit in time?" "he? the great michaud? why, he would equip you for this evening, if it were necessary!" "in that case, i shall be very glad." "_bon!_ i will call for you at ten o'clock; so do not forget to leave me your address." whereupon he resumed his letter. when it was written, he returned to the subject. "then i will take you to-morrow night," said he, "to a reception at madame rachel's. hers is the most beautiful house in paris. i know fifty men who would give their ears to be admitted to her _salons_." even in the wilds of saxonholme i had heard and read of the great _tragedienne_ whose wealth vied with the rothschilds, and whose diamonds might have graced a crown. i had looked forward to the probability of beholding her from afar off, if she was ever to be seen on the boards of the theatre français; but to be admitted to her presence--received in her house--introduced to her in person ... it seemed ever so much too good to be true! dalrymple smiled good-naturedly, and put my thanks aside. "it is a great sight," said he, "and nothing more. she will bow to you--she may not even speak; and she would pass you the next morning without remembering that she had ever seen you in her life. actresses are a race apart, my dear fellow, and care for no one who is neither rich nor famous." "i never imagined," said i, half annoyed, "that she would take any notice of me at all. even a bow from such a woman is an event to be remembered." "having received that bow, then," continued dalrymple, "and having enjoyed the ineffable satisfaction of returning it, you can go on with me to the house of a lady close by, who receives every monday evening. at her _soirées_ you will meet pleasant and refined people, and having been once introduced by me, you will, i have no doubt, find the house open to you for the future." "that would, indeed, be a privilege. who is this lady?" "her name," said dalrymple, with an involuntary glance at the little note upon his desk, "is madame de courcelles. she is a very charming and accomplished lady." i decided in my own mind that madame de courcelles was the writer of that note. "is she married?" was my next question. "she is a widow," replied dalrymple. "monsieur de courcelles was many years older than his wife, and held office as a cabinet minister during the greater part of the reign of louis phillippe. he has been dead these four or five years." "then she is rich?" "no--not rich; but sufficiently independent." "and handsome?" "not handsome, either; but graceful, and very fascinating." graceful, fascinating, independent, and a widow! coupling these facts with the correspondence which i believed i had detected, i grouped them into a little romance, and laid out my friend's future career as confidently as if it had depended only on myself to marry him out of hand, and make all parties happy. dalrymple sat musing for a moment, with his chin resting on his hands and his eyes fixed on the desk. then shaking back his hair as if he would shake back his thoughts with it, he started suddenly to his feet and said, laughingly:-- "now, young damon, to michaud's--to michaud's, with what speed we may! farewell to 'tempe and the vales of arcady,' and hey for civilization, and a swallow-tailed coat!" i noticed, however, that before we left the room, he put the little note tenderly away in a drawer of his desk, and locked it with a tiny gold key that hung upon his watch-chain. chapter xiii. i make my debut in society. at ten o'clock on monday evening, dalrymple called for me, and by ten o'clock, thanks to the great michaud and other men of genius, i presented a faultless exterior. my friend walked round me with a candle, and then sat down and examined me critically. "by jove!" said he, "i don't believe i should have known you! you are a living testimony to the science of tailoring. i shall call on michaud, to-morrow, and pay my tribute of admiration." "i am very uncomfortable," said i, ruefully. "uncomfortable! nonsense--michaud's customers don't know the meaning of the word." "but he has not made me a single pocket!" "and what of that? do you suppose the great michaud would spoil the fit of a masterpiece for your convenience?" "what am i to do with my pocket-handkerchief?" "michaud's customers never need pocket-handkerchiefs." "and then my trousers..." "unreasonable juvenile, what of the trousers?" "they are so tight that i dare not sit down in them." "barbarian! michaud's customers never sit down in society." "and my boots are so small that i can hardly endure them." "very becoming to the foot," said dalyrmple, with exasperating indifference. "and my collar is so stiff that it almost cuts my throat." "makes you hold your head up," said dalrymple, "and leaves you no inducement to commit suicide." i could not help laughing, despite my discomfort. "job himself never had such a comforter!" i exclaimed. "it would be a downright pleasure to quarrel with you." "put on your hat instead, and let us delay no longer," replied my friend. "my cab is waiting." so we went down, and in another moment were driving through the lighted streets. i should hardly have chosen to confess how my heart beat when, on turning an angle of the rue trudon, our cab fell into the rear of three or four other carriages, passed into a courtyard crowded with arriving and departing vehicles, and drew up before an open door, whence a broad stream of light flowed out to meet us. a couple of footmen received us in a hall lighted by torches and decorated with stands of antique armor. from the centre of this hall sprang a gothic staircase, so light, so richly sculptured, so full of niches and statues, slender columns, foliated capitals, and delicate ornamentation of every kind, that it looked a very blossoming of the stone. following dalrymple up this superb staircase and through a vestibule of carved oak, i next found myself in a room that might have been the scene of plato's symposium. here were walls painted in classic fresco; windows curtained with draperies of chocolate and amber; chairs and couches of ebony, carved in antique fashion; etruscan amphorae; vases and paterae of terracotta; exquisite lamps, statuettes and candelabra in rare green bronze; and curious parti-colored busts of philosophers and heroes, in all kinds of variegated marbles. powdered footmen serving modern coffee seemed here like anachronisms in livery. in such a room one should have been waited on by boys crowned with roses, and have partaken only of classic dishes--of venafran olives or oysters from the lucrine lake, washed down with massic, or chian, or honeyed falernian. some half-dozen gentlemen, chatting over their coffee, bowed to dalrymple when we came in. they were talking of the war in algiers, and especially of the gallantry of a certain vicomte de caylus, in whose deeds they seemed to take a more than ordinary interest. "rode single-handed right through the enemy's camp," said a bronzed, elderly man, with a short, gray beard. "and escaped without a scratch," added another, with a tiny red ribbon at his button-hole. "he comes of a gallant stock," said a third. "i remember his father at austerlitz--literally cut to pieces at the head of his squadron." "you are speaking of de caylus," said dalrymple. "what news of him from algiers?" "this--that having volunteered to carry some important despatches to head-quarters, he preferred riding by night through abd-el-kader's camp, to taking a _détour_ by the mountains," replied the first speaker. "a wild piece of boyish daring," said dalrymple, somewhat drily. "i presume he did not return by the same road?" "i should think not. it would have been certain death a second time!" "and this happened how long since?" "about a fortnight ago. but we shall soon know all particulars from himself." "from himself?" "yes, he has obtained leave of absence--is, perhaps, by this time in paris." dalrymple set down his cup untasted, and turned away. "come, arbuthnot," he said, hastily, "i must introduce you to madame rachel." we passed through a small antechamber, and into a brilliant _salon_, the very reverse of antique. here all was light and color. here were hangings of flowered chintz; fantastic divans; lounge-chairs of every conceivable shape and hue; great indian jars; richly framed drawings; stands of exotic plants; chinese cages, filled with valuable birds from distant climes; folios of engravings; and, above all, a large cabinet in marqueterie, crowded with bronzes, chinese carvings, pastille burners, fans, medals, dresden groups, sévres vases, venetian glass, asiatic idols, and all kinds of precious trifles in tortoise-shall, mother o'-pearl, malachite, onyx, lapis lazuli, jasper, ivory, and mosaic. in this room, sitting, standing, turning over engravings, or grouped here and there on sofas and divans, were some twenty-five or thirty gentlemen, all busily engaged in conversation. saluting some of these by a passing bow, my friend led the way straight through this _salon_ and into a larger one immediately beyond it. "this," he said, "is one of the most beautiful rooms in paris. look round and tell me if you recognise, among all her votaries, the divinity herself." i looked round, bewildered. "recognise!" i echoed. "i should not recognise my own father at this moment. i feel like abou hassan in the palace of the caliph." "or like christopher sly, when he wakes in the nobleman's bedchamber," said dalrymple; "though i should ask your pardon for the comparison. but see what it is to be an actress with forty-two thousand francs of salary per week. see these panels painted by muller--this chandelier by deniére, of which no copy exists--this bust of napoleon by canova--these hangings of purple and gold--this ceiling all carved and gilded, than which versailles contains nothing more elaborate. _allons donc_! have you nothing to say in admiration of so much splendor?" i shook my head. "what can i say? is this the house of an actress, or the palace of a prince? but stay--that pale woman yonder, all in white, with a plain gold circlet on her head--who is she?" "phédre herself," replied dalrymple. "follow me, and be introduced." she was sitting in a large fauteuil of purple velvet. one foot rested on a stool richly carved and gilt; one arm rested negligently on a table covered with curious foreign weapons. in her right hand she held a singular poignard, the blade of which was damascened with gold, while the handle, made of bronze and exquisitely modelled, represented a tiny human skeleton. with this ghastly toy she kept playing as she spoke, apparently unconscious of its grim significance. she was surrounded by some ten or a dozen distinguished-looking men, most of whom were profusely _décoré_. they made way courteously at our approach. dalrymple then presented me. i made my bow, was graciously received, and dropped modestly into the rear. "i began to think that captain dalrymple had forsworn paris," said rachel, still toying with the skeleton dagger. "it is surely a year since i last had this pleasure?" "nay, madame, you flatter me," said dalrymple. "i have been absent only five months." "then, you see, i have measured your absence by my loss." dalrymple bowed profoundly. rachel turned to a young man behind her chair. "monsieur le prince," said she, "do you know what is rumored in the _foyer_ of the francais? that you have offered me your hand!" "i offer you both my hands, in applause, madame, every night of your performance," replied the gentleman so addressed. she smiled and made a feint at him with the dagger. "excellent!" said she. "one is not enough for a tragedian but where is alphonse karr?" "i have been looking for him all the evening," said a tall man, with an iron-gray beard. "he told me he was coming; but authors are capricious beings--the slaves of the pen." "true; he lives by his pen--others die by it," said rachel bitterly. "by the way, has any one seen scribe's new vaudeville?" "i have," replied a bald little gentleman with a red and green ribbon in his button-hole. "and your verdict?" "the plot is not ill-conceived; but scribe is only godfather to the piece. it is almost entirely written by duverger, his _collaborateur_." "the life of a _collaborateur_," said rachel, "is one long act of self-abnegation. another takes all the honor--he all the labor. thus soldiers fall, and their generals reap the glory." "a _collaborateur_," said a cynical-looking man who had not yet spoken, "is a hackney vehicle which one hires on the road to fame, and dismisses at the end of the journey." "sometimes without paying the fare," added a gentleman who had till now been examining, weapon by weapon, all the curious poignards and pistols on the table. "but what is this singular ornament?" and he held up what appeared to be a large bone, perforated in several places. the bald little man with the red and green ribbon uttered an exclamation of surprise. "it is a tibia!" said he, examining it through his double eye-glass. "and what of that?" laughed rachel. "is it so wonderful to find one leg in a collection of arms? however, not to puzzle you, i may as well acknowledge that it was brought to me from rome by a learned italian, and is a curious antique. the romans made flutes of the leg-bones of their enemies, and this is one of them." "a melodious barbarism!" exclaimed one. "puts a 'stop,' at all events, to the enemy's flight!" said another. "almost as good as drinking out of his skull," added a third. "or as eating him, _tout de bon_," said rachel. "there must be a certain satisfaction in cannibalism," observed the cynic who had spoken before. "there are people upon whom one would sup willingly." "as, for instance, critics, who are our natural enemies," said rachel. "_c'est à dire_, if critics were not too sour to be eaten." "nay, with the sweet sauce of vengeance!" "you speak feelingly, monsieur de musset. i am almost sorry, for your sake, that cannibalism is out of fashion!" "it is one of the penalties of civilization," replied de musset, with a shrug. "besides, one would not wish to be an epicure." dalrymple, who had been listening somewhat disdainfully to this skirmish of words, here touched me on the arm and turned away. "don't you hate this sort of high-pressure talk?" he said, impatiently. "i was just thinking it so brilliant." "pshaw!--conversational fireworks--every speaker bent on eclipsing every other speaker. it's an artificial atmosphere, my dear damon--a sort of forcing-house for good things; and i hate forced witticisms, as i hate forced peas. but have you had enough of it? or has this feast of reason taken away your appetite for simpler fare?" "if you mean, am i ready to go with you to madame de courcelles'--yes." "_a la bonne heure_!" "but you are not going away without taking leave of madame rachel?" "unquestionably. leave-taking is a custom more honored in the breach than the observance." "but isn't that very impolite?" "_ingénu!_ do you know that society ignores everything disagreeable? a leave-taker sets an unpleasant example, disturbs the harmony of things, and reminds others of their watches. besides, he suggests unwelcome possibilities. perhaps he finds the party dull; or, worse still, he may be going to one that is pleasanter." by this time we were again rattling along the boulevard. the theatres were ablaze with lights. the road was full of carriages. the _trottoir_ was almost as populous as at noon. the idlers outside the _cafés_ were still eating their ices and sipping their _eau-sucré_ as though, instead of being past eleven at night, it was scarcely eleven in the morning. in a few minutes, we had once more turned aside out of the great thoroughfare, and stopped at a private house in a quiet street. a carriage driving off, a cab drawing up behind our own, open windows with drawn blinds, upon which were profiled passing shadows of the guests within, and the ringing tones of a soprano voice, accompanied by a piano, gave sufficient indication of a party, and had served to attract a little crowd of soldiers and _gamins_ about the doorway. having left our over-coats with a servant, we were ushered upstairs, and, as the song was not yet ended, slipped in unannounced and stationed ourselves just between two crowded drawing-rooms, where, sheltered by the folds of a muslin curtain, we could see all that was going on in both. i observed, at a glance, that i was now in a society altogether unlike that which i had just left. at rachel's there were present only two ladies besides herself, and those were members of her own family. here i found at least an equal proportion of both sexes. at rachel's a princely magnificence reigned. here the rooms were elegant, but simple; the paintings choice but few; the ornaments costly, but in no unnecessary profusion. "it is just the difference between taste and display," said dalrymple. "rachel is an actress, and madame de courcelles is a lady. rachel exhibits her riches as an indian chief exhibits the scalps of his victims--madame de courcelles adorns her house with no other view than to make it attractive to her friends." "as a greek girl covers her head with sequins to show the amount of her fortune, and an english girl puts a rose in her hair for grace and beauty only," said i, fancying that i had made rather a clever observation. i was therefore considerably disappointed when dalrymple merely said, "just so." the lady in the larger room here finished her song and returned to her seat, amid a shower of _bravas_. "she sings exquisitely," said i, following her with my eyes. "and so she ought," replied my friend. "she is the countess rossi, whom you may have heard of as mademoiselle sontag." "what! the celebrated sontag?" i exclaimed. "the same. and the gentleman to whom she is now speaking is no less famous a person than the author of _pelham_." i was as much delighted as a rustic at a menagerie, and dalrymple, seeing this, continued to point out one celebrity after another till i began no longer to remember which was which. thus lamartine, horace vernet, scribe, baron humboldt, miss bremer, arago, auber, and sir edwin landseer, were successively indicated, and i thought myself one of the most fortunate fellows in paris, only to be allowed to look upon them. "i suppose the spirit of lion-hunting is an original instinct," i said, presently. "call it vulgar excitement, if you will; but i must confess that to see these people, and to be able to write about them to my father, is just the most delightful thing that has happened to me since i left home." "call things by their right names, damon," said dalrymple, good-naturedly. "if you were a _parvenu_ giving a party, and wanted all these fine folks to be seen at your house, that would be lion-hunting; but being whom and what you are, it is hero-worship--a disease peculiar to the young; wholesome and inevitable, like the measles." "what have i done," said a charming voice close by, "that captain dalrymple will not even deign to look upon me?" the charming voice proceeded from the still more charming lips of an exceedingly pretty brunette in a dress of light green silk, fastened here and there with bouquets of rosebuds. plump, rosy, black-haired, bright-eyed, bewilderingly coquettish, this lady might have been about thirty years of age, and seemed by no means unconscious of her powers of fascination. "i implore a thousand pardons, madame...." began my friend. "_comment_! a thousand pardons for a single offence!" exclaimed the lady. "what an unreasonable culprit!" to which she added, quite audibly, though behind the temporary shelter of her fan:-- "who is this _beau garçon_ whom you seem to have brought with you?" i turned aside, affecting not to hear the question; but could not help listening, nevertheless. of dalrymple's reply, however, i caught but my own name. "so much the better," observed the lady. "i delight in civilizing handsome boys. introduce him." dalrymple tapped me on the arm. "madame de marignan permits me to introduce you, _mon ami_," said he. "mr. basil arbuthnot--madame de marignan." i bowed profoundly--all the more profoundly because i felt myself blushing to the eyes, and would not for the universe have been suspected of overhearing the preceding conversation; nor was my timidity alleviated when dalrymple announced his intention of going in search of madame de courcelles, and of leaving me in the care of madame de marignan. "now, damon, make the most of your opportunities," whispered he, as he passed by. "_vogue la galère_!" _vogue la galère_, indeed! as if i had anything to do with the _galère_, except to sit down in it, the most helpless of galley-slaves, and blindly submit to the gyves and chains of madame de marignan, who, regarding me as the lawful captive of her bow and spear, carried me off at once to a vacant _causeuse_ in a distant corner. to send me in search of a footstool, to make me hold her fan, to overwhelm me with questions and bewilder me with a thousand coquetries, were the immediate proceedings of madame de marignan. a consummate tactician, she succeeded, before a quarter of an hour had gone by, in putting me at my ease, and in drawing from me everything that i had to tell--all my past; all my prospects for the future; the name and condition of my father; a description of saxonholme, and the very date of my birth. then she criticized all the ladies in the room, which only drew my attention more admiringly upon herself; and she quizzed all the young men, whereby i felt indirectly flattered, without exactly knowing why; and she praised dalrymple in terms for which i could have embraced her on the spot had she been ten times less pretty, and ten times less fascinating. i was an easy victim, after all, and scarcely worth the powder and shot of an experienced _franc-tireur;_ but madame de marignan, according to her own confession, had a taste for civilizing "handsome boys," and as i may, perhaps, have come under that category a good many years ago, the little victory amused her! by the time, at all events, that dalrymple returned to tell me it was past one o'clock in the morning, and i must be introduced to the mistress of the house before leaving, my head was as completely turned as that of old time himself. "past one!" i exclaimed. "impossible! we cannot have been here half-an hour." at which neither dalrymple nor madame de marignan could forbear smiling. "i hope our acquaintance is not to end here, monsieur," said madame de marignan. "i live in the rue castellane, and am at home to my friends every wednesday evening." i bowed almost to my boots. "and to my intimates, every morning from twelve to two," she added very softly, with a dimpled smile that went straight to my heart, and set it beating like the paddle-wheels of a steamer. i stammered some incoherent thanks, bowed again, nearly upset a servant with a tray of ices, and, covered with confusion, followed dalrymple into the farther room. here i was introduced to madame de courcelles, a pale, aristocratic woman some few years younger than madame de marignan, and received a gracious invitation to all her monday receptions. but i was much less interested in madame de courcelles than i should have been a couple of hours before. i scarcely looked at her, and five minutes after i was out of her presence, could not have told whether she was fair or dark, if my life had depended on it! "what say you to walking home?" said dalrymple, as we went down stairs. "it is a superb night, and the fresh air would be delightful after these hot rooms." i assented gladly; so we dismissed the cab, and went out, arm-in-arm, along a labyrinth of quiet streets lighted by gas-lamps few and far between, and traversed only by a few homeward-bound pedestrians. emerging presently at the back of the madeleine, we paused for a moment to admire the noble building by moonlight; then struck across the marché aux fleurs and took our way along the boulevard. "are you tired, damon?" said dalrymple presently. "not in the least," i replied, with my head full of madame de marignan. "would you like to look in at an artists' club close by here, where i have the _entree?_--queer place enough, but amusing to a stranger." "yes, very much." "come along, then; but first button up your overcoat to the throat, and tie this colored scarf round your neck. see, i do the same. now take off your gloves--that's it. and give your hat the least possible inclination to the left ear. you may turn up the bottoms of your trousers, if you like--anything to look a little slangy." "is that necessary?" "indispensable--at all events in the honorable society of _les chicards."_ "_les chicards_!" i repeated. "what are they?" "it is the name of the club, and means--heaven only knows what! for greek or latin root it has none, and record of it there exists not, unless in the dictionary of argôt. and yet if you were an old parisian and had matriculated for the last dozen years at the bal de l'opéra, you would know the illustrious chicard by sight as familiarly as punch, or paul pry, or pierrot. he is a gravely comic personage with a bandage over one eye, a battered hat considerably inclining to the back of his head, a coat with a high collar and long tails, and a _tout ensemble_ indescribably seedy--something between a street preacher and a travelling showman. but here we are. take care how you come down, and mind your head." having turned aside some few minutes before into the rue st. honoré, we had thence diverged down a narrow street with a gutter running along the middle and no foot-pavements on either side. the houses seemed to be nearly all shops, some few of which, for the retailing of _charbonnerie_, stale vegetables, uninviting cooked meats, and so forth, were still open; but that before which we halted was closely shuttered up, with only a private door open at the side, lighted by a single oil-lamp. following my friend for a couple of yards along the dim passage within, i became aware of strange sounds, proceeding apparently from the bowels of the earth, and found myself at the head of a steep staircase, down which it was necessary to proceed with my body bent almost double, in consequence of the close proximity of the ceiling and the steps. at the foot of this staircase came another dim passage and another oil-lamp over a low door, at which dalrymple paused a moment before entering. the sounds which i had heard above now resolved themselves into their component parts, consisting of roars of laughter, snatches of songs, clinkings of glasses, and thumpings of bottles upon tables, to the accompaniment of a deep bass hum of conversation, all of which prepared me to find a very merry company within. chapter xiv. the honorable society of les chicards. "when a set of men find themselves agree in any particular, though never so trivial, they establish themselves into a kind of fraternity, and meet once or twice a week."--_spectator_. it was a long, low room lighted by gas, with a table reaching from end to end. round about this table, in various stages of conviviality and conversation, were seated some thirty or forty men, capped, bearded, and eccentric-looking, with all kinds of queer blouses and wonderful heads of hair. dropping into a couple of vacant chairs at the lower end of this table, we called for a bottle of chablis, lit our cigars, and fell in with the general business of the evening. at the top, dimly visible through a dense fog of tobacco smoke, sat a stout man in a green coat fastened by a belt round the waist. he was evidently the president, and, instead of a hammer, had a small bugle lying by his side, which he blew from time to time to enforce silence. somewhat perplexed by the general aspect of the club, i turned to my companion for an explanation. "is it possible," i asked, "that these amazing individuals are all artists and gentlemen?" "artists, every one," replied dalrymple; "but as to their claim to be gentlemen, i won't undertake to establish it. after all, the _chicards_ are not first-rate men." "what are they, then?" "oh, the helots of the profession--hewers of wood engravings, and drawers of water-colors, with a sprinkling of daguerreotypists, and academy students. but hush--somebody is going to sing!" and now, heralded by a convulsive flourish from the president's bugle, a young _chicard_, whose dilapidated outer man sufficiently contradicted the burthen of his song, shouted with better will than skill, a _chanson_ of beranger's, every verse of which ended with:-- "j'ai cinquante écus, j'ai cinquante écus, j'ai cinquante écus de rente!" having brought this performance to a satisfactory conclusion, the singer sat down amid great clapping of hands and clattering of glasses, and the president, with another flourish on the bugle, called upon one monsieur tourterelle. monsieur tourterelle was a tall, gaunt, swarthy personage, who appeared to have cultivated his beard at the expense of his head, since the former reached nearly to his waist, while the latter was as bare as a billiard-ball. preparing himself for the effort with a wine-glass full of raw cognac, this gentleman leaned back in his chair, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his waistcoat, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and plunged at once into a doleful ballad about one mademoiselle rosine, and a certain village _auprès de la mer_, which seemed to be in an indefinite number of verses, and amused no one but himself. in the midst of this ditty, just as the audience had begun to testify their impatience by much whispering and shuffling of feet, an elderly _chicard_, with a very bald and shiny head, was discovered to have fallen asleep in the seat next but one to my own; whereupon my nearest neighbor, a merry-looking young fellow with a profusion of rough light hair surmounted by a cap of scarlet cloth, forthwith charred a cork in one of the candles, and decorated the bald head of the sleeper with a comic countenance and a pair of huge mustachios. an uproarious burst of laughter was the immediate result, and the singer, interrupted somewhere about his th verse, subsided into offended silence. "monsieur müller is requested to favor the honorable society with a song," cried the president, as soon as the tumult had somewhat subsided. my red-capped neighbor, answering to that name, begged to be excused, on the score of having pledged his _ut de poitrine_ a week since at the mont de piété, without yet having been able to redeem it. this apology was received with laughter, hisses, and general incredulity. "but," he added, "i am willing to relate an adventure that happened to myself in rome two winters ago, if my honorable brother _chicards_ will be pleased to hear it." an immense burst of approbation from all but monsieur tourterelle and the bald sleeper, followed this announcement; and so, after a preliminary _grog au vin_, and another explosive demonstration on the part of the chairman, monsieur müller thus began:-- the student's story. "when i was in rome, i lodged in the via margutta, which, for the benefit of those who have not been there, may be described as a street of studios and stables, crossed at one end by a little roofed gallery with a single window, like a shabby 'bridge of sighs,' a gutter runs down the middle, interrupted occasionally by heaps of stable-litter; and the perspective is damaged by rows of linen suspended across the street at uncertain intervals. the houses in this agreeable thoroughfare are dingy, dilapidated, and comfortless, and all which are not in use as stables, are occupied by artists. however, it was a very jolly place, and i never was happier anywhere in my life. i had but just touched my little patrimony, and i was acquainted with plenty of pleasant fellows who used to come down to my rooms at night from the french academy where they had been studying all day. ah, what evenings those were! what suppers we used to have in from the _lepre_! what lots of orvieto we drank! and what a mountain of empty wicker bottles had to be cleared away from the little square yard with the solitary lemon-tree at the back of the house!" "come, müller--no fond memories!" cried a student in a holland blouse. "get on with the story." "ay, get on with the story!" echoed several voices. to which müller, who took advantage of the interruption to finish his _grog au vin_, deigned no reply. "well," he continued, "like a good many other fellows who, having everything to learn and nothing to do, fancy themselves great geniuses only because they are in rome, i put a grand brass plate on the door, testifying to all passers-by that mine was the studio di herr franz muller; and, having done this, i believed, of course, that my fortune was to be made out of hand. nothing came of it, however. people in search of dessoulavy's rooms knocked occasionally to ask their way, and a few english and americans dropped in from time to time to stare about them, after the free-and-easy fashion of foreigners in rome; but, for all this, i found no patrons. thus several months went by, during which i studied from the life, worked hard at the antique, and relieved the monotony of study with occasional trips to frascati, or supper parties at the café greco." "the story! the story!" interrupted a dozen impatient voices. "all in good time," said müller, with provoking indifference. "we are now coming to it." and assuming an attitude expressive of mystery, he dropped his voice, looked round the table, and proceeded:-- "it was on the last evening of the carnival. it had been raining at intervals during the day, but held up for a good hour just at dusk, as if on purpose for the _moccoli_. scarcely, however, had the guns of st. angelo thundered an end to the frolic, when the rain came down again in torrents, and put out the last tapers that yet lingered along the corso. wet, weary, and splashed from head to foot with mud and tallow, i came home about seven o'clock, having to dine and dress before going to a masked-ball in the evening. to light my stove, change my wet clothes, and make the best of a half-cold _trattore_ dinner, were my first proceedings; after which, i laid out my costume ready to put on, wrapped myself in a huge cloak, swallowed a tumbler full of hot cognac and water, and lay down in front of the fire, determined to have a sound nap and a thorough warming, before venturing out again that night. i fell asleep, of course, and never woke till roused by a tremendous peal upon the studio-bell, about two hours and a half afterwards. more dead than alive, i started to my feet. the fire had gone out in the stove; the room was in utter darkness; and the bell still pealed loud enough to raise the neighborhood. "'who's there?' i said, half-opening the door, through which the wind and rain came rushing. 'and what, in the name of ten thousand devils, do you want?" "'i want an artist,' said my visitor, in italian. 'are you one?' "'i flatter myself that i am,' replied i, still holding the door tolerably close. "'can you paint heads?' "'heads, figures, landscapes--anything,' said i, with my teeth chattering like castanets. "the stranger pushed the door open, walked in without further ceremony, closed it behind him, and said, in a low, distinct voice:-- "'could you take the portrait of a dead man?' "'of a dead man?' i stammered. 'i--i ... suppose i strike a light?' "the stranger laid his hand upon my arm. "'not till you have given me an answer,' said he. 'yes or no? remember, you will be paid well for your work.' "'well, then--yes,' i replied. "'and can you do it at once?' "'at once?' "'ay, signore, will you bring your colors, and come with me this instant--or must i seek some other painter?' "i thought of the masked-ball, and sighed; but the promise of good payment, and, above all, the peculiarity of the adventure determined me. "'nay, if it is to be done,' said i, 'one time is as good as another. let me strike a light, and i will at once pack up my colors and come with you.' "'_bene_!' said the stranger. 'but be as quick as you can, signore, for time presses.' "i was quick, you may be sure, and yet not so quick but that i found time to look at my strange visitor. he was a dark, elderly man, dressed in a suit of plain black, and might have been a clerk, or a tradesman, or a confidential servant. as soon as i was ready, he took the lead; conducted me to a carriage which was waiting at the corner of a neighboring street; took his place respectfully on the opposite seat; pulled down both the blinds, and gave the word to drive on. i never knew by what streets we went, or to what part of rome he took me; but the way seemed long and intricate. at length, we stopped and alighted. the night was pitch-dark, and still stormy. i saw before me only the outline of a large building, indistinct and gloomy, and a small open door dimly lighted-from within. hurried across the strip of narrow pavement, and shut in immediately, i had no time to identify localities--no choice, except to follow my conductor and blindly pursue the adventure to its close. having entered by a back door, we went up and down a labyrinth of staircases and passages, for the mere purpose, as it seemed, of bewildering me as much as possible--then paused before an oaken door at the end of the corridor. here my conductor signified by a gesture that i was to precede him. "it was a large, panelled chamber, richly furnished. a wood fire smouldered on the hearth--a curtained alcove to the left partly concealed a bed--a corresponding alcove to the right, fitted with altar and crucifix, served as an oratory. in the centre of the room stood a table covered with a cloth. it needed no second glance to tell me what object lay beneath that cloth, uplifting it in ghastly outline! my conductor pointed to the table, and asked if there was anything i needed. to this i replied that i must have more light and more fire, and so proceeded to disembarrass myself of my cloak, and prepare my palette. in the meantime, he threw on a log and some pine-cones, and went to fetch an additional lamp. "left alone with the body and impelled by an irresistible impulse, i rolled back the cloth and saw before me the corpse of a young man in fancy dress--a magnificent fellow cast in the very mould of strength and grace, and measuring his six feet, if an inch. the features were singularly handsome; the brow open and resolute; the hair dark, and crisp with curls. looking more closely, i saw that a lock had been lately cut from the right temple, and found one of the severed hairs upon the cheek, where it had fallen. the dress was that of a jester of the middle ages, half scarlet and half white, with a rich belt round the waist. in this belt, as if in horrible mockery of the dead, was stuck a tiny baton surmounted by a fool's cap, and hung with silver bells. looking down thus upon the body--so young, so beautiful, so evidently unprepared for death--a conviction of foul play flashed upon me with all the suddenness and certainty of revelation. here were no appearances of disease and no signs of strife. the expression was not that of a man who had fallen weapon in hand. neither, however, was it that of one who had died in the agony of poison. the longer i looked, the more mysterious it seemed; yet the more i felt assured that there was guilt at the bottom of the mystery. "while i was yet under the first confused and shuddering impression of this doubt, my guide came back with a powerful solar lamp, and, seeing me stand beside the body, said sharply:-- "'well, signore, you look as if you had never seen a dead man before in all your life!' "'i have seen plenty,' i replied, 'but never one so young, and so handsome.' "'he dropped down quite suddenly,' said he, volunteering the information, 'and died in a few minutes. 'then finding that i remained silent, added:-- "'but i am told that it is always so in cases of heart-disease.' "'i turned away without replying, and, having placed the lamp to my satisfaction, began rapidly sketching in my subject. my instructions were simple. i was to give the head only; to produce as rapid an effect with as little labor as possible; to alter nothing; to add nothing; and, above all, to be ready to leave the house before daybreak. so i set steadily to work, and my conductor, establishing himself in an easy-chair by the fire, watched my progress for some time, and then, as the night advanced, fell profoundly asleep. thus, hour after hour went by, and, absorbed in my work, i painted on, unconscious of fatigue-- might almost say with something of a morbid pleasure in the task before me. the silence within; the raving of the wind and rain without; the solemn mystery of death, and the still more solemn mystery of crime which, as i followed out train after train of wild conjectures, grew to still deeper conviction, had each and all their own gloomy fascination. was it not possible, i asked myself, by mere force of will to penetrate the secret? was it not possible to study that dead face till the springs of thought so lately stilled within the stricken brain should vibrate once more, if only for an instant, as wire vibrates to wire, and sound to sound! could i not, by long studying of the passive mouth, compel some sympathetic revelation of the last word that it uttered, though that revelation took no outward form, and were communicable to the apprehension only? pondering thus, i lost myself in a labyrinth of fantastic reveries, till the hand and the brain worked independently of each other--the one swiftly reproducing upon canvas the outer lineaments of the dead; the other laboring to retrace foregone facts of which no palpable evidence remained. thus my work progressed; thus the night waned; thus the sleeper by the fireside stirred from time to time, or moaned at intervals in his dreams. "at length, when many hours had gone by, and i began to be conscious of the first languor of sleeplessness, i heard, or fancied i heard, a light sound in the corridor without. i held my breath, and listened. as i listened, it ceased--was renewed--drew nearer--paused outside the door. involuntarily, i rose and looked round for some means of defence, in case of need. was i brought here to perpetuate the record of a crime, and was i, when my task was done, to be silenced in a dungeon, or a grave? this thought flashed upon me almost before i was conscious of the horror it involved. at the same moment, i saw the handle of the door turned slowly and cautiously--then held back--and then, after a brief pause, the door itself gradually opening." here the student paused as if overcome by the recollection of that moment, and passed his hand nervously across his brow. i took the liberty of pushing our bottle of chablis towards him, for which he thanked me with a nod and a smile, and filled his glass to the brim. "well?" cried two or three voices eagerly; my own being one of them. "the door opened--what then?" "and a lady entered," he continued. "a lady dressed in black from head to foot, with a small lamp in her hand. seeing me, she laid her finger significantly on her lip, closed the door as cautiously as she had opened it, and, with the faltering, uncertain steps of one just risen from a sick-bed, came over to where i had been sitting, and leaned for support against my chair. she was very pale, very calm, very young and beautiful, with just that look of passive despair in her face that one sees in guido's portrait of beatrice cenci. standing thus, i observed that she kept her eyes turned from the corpse, and her attention concentrated on the portrait. so several minutes passed, and neither of us spoke nor stirred. then, slowly, shudderingly, she turned, grasped me by the arm, pointed to the dead form stretched upon the table, and less with her breath than by the motion of her lips, shaped out the one word:--'_murdered_!' "stunned by this confirmation of my doubts, i could only clasp my hands in mute horror, and stare helplessly from the lady to the corpse, from the corpse to the sleeper. wildly, feverishly, with all her calmness turned to eager haste, she then bent over the body, tore open the rich doublet, turned back the shirt, and, without uttering one syllable, pointed to a tiny puncture just above the region of the heart--a spot so small, so insignificant, such a mere speck upon the marble, that but for the pale violet discoloration which spread round it like a halo, i could scarcely have believed it to be the cause of death. the wound had evidently bled inwardly, and, being inflicted with some singularly slender weapon, had closed again so completely as to leave an aperture no larger than might have been caused by the prick of a needle. while i was yet examining it, the fire fell together, and my conductor stirred uneasily in his sleep. to cover the body hastily with the cloth and resume my seat, was, with me, the instinctive work of a moment; but he was quiet again the next instant, and breathing heavily. with trembling hands, my visitor next re-closed the shirt and doublet, replaced the outer covering, and bending down till her lips almost touched my ear, whispered:-- "'you have seen it. if called upon to do so, will you swear it?' "i promised. "'you will not let yourself be intimidated by threats? nor bribed by gold? nor lured by promises? "'never, so help me heaven!' "she looked into my eyes, as if she would read my very soul; then, before i knew what she was about to do, seized my hand, and pressed it to her lip. "'i believe you,' she said. 'i believe, and i thank you. not a word to him that you have seen me'--here she pointed to the sleeper by the fire. 'he is faithful; but not to my interests alone. i dare tell you no more--at all events, not now. heaven bless and reward you. in this portrait you give me the only treasure--the only consolation of my future life!' "so saying, she took a ring from her finger, pressed it, without another word, into my unwilling hand; and, with the same passive dreary look that her face had worn on first entering took up her lamp again, and glided from the room. "how the next hour, or half hour, went by, i know not--except that i sat before the canvas like one dreaming. now and then i added a few touches; but mechanically, and, as it were, in a trance of wonder and dismay. i had, however, made such good progress before being interrupted, that when my companion woke and told me it would soon be day and i must make haste to be gone, the portrait was even more finished than i had myself hoped to make it in the time. so i packed up my colors and palette again, and, while i was doing so, observed that he not only drew the cloth once more over the features of the dead, but concealed the likeness behind the altar in the oratory, and even restored the chairs to their old positions against the wall. this done, he extinguished the solar lamp; put it out of sight; desired me once more to follow him; and led the way back along the same labyrinth of staircases and corridors by which he brought me. it was gray dawn as he hurried me into the coach. the blinds were already down--the door was instantly closed--again we seemed to be going through an infinite number of streets--again we stopped, and i found myself at the corner of the via margutta. "'alight, signore,' said the stranger, speaking for the first time since we started. 'alight--you are but a few yards from your own door. here are a hundred scudi; and all that you have now to do, is to forget your night's work, as if it had never been.' "with this he closed the carriage-door, the horses dashed on again, and, before i had time even to see if any arms were blazoned on the panels, the whole equipage had disappeared. "and here, strange to say, the adventure ended. i never was called upon for evidence. i never saw anything more of the stranger, or the lady. i never heard of any sudden death, or accident, or disappearance having taken place about that time; and i never even obtained any clue to the neighborhood of the house in which these things took place. often and often afterwards, when i was strolling by night along the streets of rome, i lingered before some old palazzo, and fancied that i recognised the gloomy outline that caught my eye in that hurried transit from the carriage to the house. often and often i paused and started, thinking that i had found at last the very side-door by which i entered. but these were mere guesses after all. perhaps that house stood in some remote quarter of the city where my footsteps never went again--perhaps in some neighboring street or piazza, where i passed it every day! at all events, the whole thing vanished like a dream, and, but for the ring and the hundred scudi, a dream i should by this time believe it to have been. the scudi, i am sorry to say, were spent within a month--the ring i have never parted from, and here it is." hereupon the student took from his finger a superb ruby set between two brilliants of inferior size, and allowed it to pass from hand to hand, all round the table. exclamations of surprise and admiration, accompanied by all sorts of conjectures and comments, broke from every lip. "the dead man was the lady's lover," said one. "that is why she wanted his portrait." "of course, and her husband had murdered him," said another. "who, then, was the man in black?" asked a third. "a servant, to be sure. she said, if you remember, that he was faithful; but not devoted to her interests alone. that meant that he would obey to the extent of procuring for her the portrait of her lover; but that he did not choose to betray his master, even though his master was a murderer." "but if so, where was the master?" said the first speaker. "is it likely that he would have neglected to conceal the body during all these hours?" "certainly. nothing more likely, if he were a man of the world, and knew how to play his game out boldly to the end. have we not been told that it was the last night of the carnival, and what better could he do, to avert suspicion, than show himself at as many balls as he could visit in the course of the evening? but really, this ring is magnificent!" "superb. the ruby alone must be worth a thousand francs." "to say nothing of the diamonds, and the setting," observed the next to whom it was handed. at length, after having gone nearly the round of the table, the ring came to a little dark, sagacious-looking man, just one seat beyond dalrymple's, who peered at it suspiciously on every side, breathed upon it, rubbed it bright again upon his coat-sleeve, and, finally, held the stones up sideways between his eyes and the light. "bah!" said he, sending it on with a contemptuous fillip of the forefinger and thumb. "glass and paste, _mon ami_. not worth five francs of anybody's money." müller, who had been eyeing him all the time with an odd smile lurking about the corners of his mouth, emptied his last drop of chablis, turned the glass over on the table, bottom upwards, and said very coolly:-- "well, i'm sorry for that; because i gave seven francs for it myself this morning, in the palais royal." "you!" "seven francs!" "bought in the palais royal!" "what does he mean?" "mean?" echoed the student, in reply to this chorus of exclamations. "i mean that i bought it this morning, and gave seven francs for it. it is not every morning of my life, let me tell you, that i have seven francs to throw away on my personal appearance." "but then the ring that the lady took from her finger?" "and the murder?" "and the servant in black?" "and the hundred scudi?" "one great invention from beginning to end, messieurs les chicards, and being got up expressly for your amusement, i hope you liked it. _garçon?_--another _grog au vin_, and sweeter than the last!" it would be difficult to say whether the chicards were most disappointed or delighted at this _dénoûment_--disappointed at its want of fact, or delighted with the story-weaving power of herr franz müller. they expressed themselves, at all events, with a tumultuous burst of applause, in the midst of which we rose and left the room. when we once more came out into the open air, the stars had disappeared and the air was heavy with the damps of approaching daybreak. fortunately, we caught an empty _fiacre_ in the next street and, as we were nearer the rue du faubourg montmartre than the chaussée d' antin, dalrymple set me down first. "adieu, damon," he said, laughingly, as we shook hands through the window. "if we don't meet before, come and dine with me next sunday at seven o'clock--and don't dream of dreadful murders, if you can help it!" i did not dream of dreadful murders. i dreamt, instead, of madame de marignan, and never woke the next morning till eleven o'clock, just two hours later than the time at which i should have presented myself at dr. chéron's. * * * * * chapter xv. what it is to be a cavaliere servente. "everye white will have its blacke, and everye sweet its sowere." _old ballad_. neither the example of oscar dalrymple nor the broadcloth of the great michaud, achieved half so much for my education as did the apprenticeship i was destined to serve to madame de marignan. having once made up her mind to civilize me, she spared no pains for the accomplishment of that end, cost what it might to herself--or me. before i had been for one week her subject, she taught me how to bow; how to pick up a pocket-handkerchief; how to present a bouquet; how to hold a fan; how to pay a compliment; how to turn over the leaves of a music-book--in short, how to obey and anticipate every imperious wish; and how to fetch and carry, like a dog. my vassalage began from the very day when i first ventured to call upon her. her house was small, but very elegant, and she received me in a delicious little room overlooking the champs elysées--a very nest of flowers, books, and birds. before i had breathed the air of that fatal boudoir for one quarter of an hour, i was as abjectly her slave as the poodle with the rose-colored collar which lay curled upon a velvet cushion at her feet. "i shall elect you my _cavaliere servente_," said she, after i had twice nervously risen to take my leave within the first half hour, and twice been desired to remain a little longer. "will you accept the office?" i thought it the greatest privilege under heaven. perhaps i said so. "the duties of the situation are onerous," added she, "and i ought not to accept your allegiance without setting them before you. in the first place, you will have to bring me every new novel of george sand, flaubert, or about, on the day of publication." "i will move heaven and earth to get them the day before, if that be all!" i exclaimed. madame de marignan nodded approvingly, and went on telling off my duties, one by one, upon her pretty fingers. "you will have to accompany me to the opera at least twice a week, on which occasions you will bring me a bouquet--camellias being my favorite flowers." "were they the flowers that bloom but once in a century," said i, with more enthusiasm than sense, "they should be yours!" madame de marignan smiled and nodded again. "when i drive in the bois, you will sometimes take a seat in my carriage, and sometimes ride beside it, like an attentive cavalier." i was just about to avow that i had no horse, when i remembered that i could borrow dalrymple's, or hire one, if necessary; so i checked myself, and bowed. "when i go to an exhibition," said madame de marignan, "it will be your business to look out the pictures in the catalogue--when i walk, you will carry my parasol--when i go into a shop, you will take care of my dog--when i embroider, you will wind off my silks, and look for my scissors--when i want amusement, you must make me laugh--and when i am sleepy, you must read to me. in short, my _cavaliere servente_ must be my shadow." "then, like your shadow, madame," said i, "his place is ever at your feet, and that is all i desire!" madame de marignan laughed outright, and showed the loveliest little double row of pearls in all the world. "admirable!" said she. "quite an elegant compliment, and worthy of an accomplished lady-killer! _allons_! you are a promising scholar." "in all that i have dared to say, madame, i am, at least, sincere," i added, abashed by the kind of praise. "sincere? of course you are sincere. who ever doubted it? nay, to blush like that is enough to spoil the finest compliment in the world. there--it is three o'clock, and at half-past i have an engagement, for which i must now make my _toilette_. come to-morrow evening to my box at the _italiens_, and so adieu. stay--being my _cavaliere_, i permit you, at parting, to kiss my hand." trembling, breathless, scarcely daring to touch it with mine, i lifted the soft little hand to my lips, stammered something which was, no doubt, sufficiently foolish, and hurried away, as if i were treading on air and breathing sunshine. all the rest of that day went by in a kind of agreeable delirium. i walked about, almost without knowledge where i went. i talked, without exactly knowing what i said. i have some recollection of marching to and fro among the side-alleys of the bois de boulogne, which at that time was really a woody park, and not a pleasure-garden--of lying under a tree, and listening to the birds overhead, and indulging myself in some idiotic romance about love, and solitude, and madame de marignan--of wandering into a _restaurant_ somewhere about seven o'clock, and sitting down to a dinner for which i had no appetite--of going back, sometime during the evening, to the rue castellane, and walking to and fro on the opposite side of the way, looking up for ever so long at the darkened windows where my divinity did not show herself--of coming back to my lodgings, weary, dusty, and not a bit more sober, somewhere about eleven o'clock at night, driven to-bed by sheer fatigue, and, even then, too much in love to go to sleep! the next day i went through my duties at dr. chéron's, and attended an afternoon lecture at the hospital; but mechanically, like one dreaming. in the evening i presented myself at the opera, where madame de marignan received me very graciously, and deigned to accept a superb bouquet for which i had paid sixteen francs. i found her surrounded by elegant men, who looked upon me as nobody, and treated me accordingly. driven to the back of the box where i could neither speak to her, nor see the stage, nor achieve even a glimpse of the house, i spent an evening which certainly fell short of my anticipations. i had, however, the gratification of seeing my bouquet thrown to grisi at the end of the second act, and was permitted the privilege of going in search of madame de marignan's carriage, while somebody else handed her downstairs, and assisted her with her cloak. a whispered word of thanks, a tiny pressure of the hand, and the words "come early to-morrow," compensated me, nevertheless, for every disappointment, and sent me home as blindly happy as ever. the next day i called upon her, according to command, and was transported to the seventh heaven by receiving permission to accompany her to a morning concert, whereby i missed two lectures, and spent ten francs. on the sunday, having hired a good horse for the occasion, i had the honor of riding beside her carriage till some better-mounted acquaintance came to usurp my place and her attention; after which i was forced to drop behind and bear the eclipse of my glory as philosophically as i could. thus day after day went by, and, for the delusive sake of madame de marignan's bright eyes, i neglected my studies, spent my money, wasted my time, and incurred the displeasure of dr. chéron. led on from folly to folly, i was perpetually buoyed up by coquetries which meant nothing, and as perpetually mortified, disappointed, and neglected. i hoped; i feared; i fretted; i lost my sleep and my appetite; i felt dissatisfied with all the world, sometimes blaming myself, and sometimes her--yet ready to excuse and forgive her at a moment's notice. a boy in experience even more than in years, i loved with a boy's headlong passion, and suffered with all a boy's acute susceptibility. i was intensely sensitive--abashed by a slight, humbled by a glance, and so easily wounded that there were often times when, seeing myself forgotten, i could with difficulty drive back the tears that kept rising to my eyes. on the other hand, i was as easily elated. a kind word, an encouraging smile, a lingering touch upon my sleeve, was enough at any time to make me forget all my foregone troubles. how often the mere gift of a flower sent me home rejoicing! how the tiniest show of preference set my heart beating! how proud i was if mine was the arm chosen to lead her to her carriage! how more than happy, if allowed for even one half-hour in the whole evening to occupy the seat beside her own! to dangle after her the whole day long--to traverse all paris on her errands--to wait upon her pleasure like a slave, and this, too, without even expecting to be thanked for my devotion, seemed the most natural thing in the world. she was capricious; but caprice became her. she was exacting; but her exactions were so coquettish and attractive, that one would not have wished her more reasonable. she was, at least, ten or twelve years my senior; but boys proverbially fall in love with women older than themselves, and this one was in all respects so charming, that i do not, even now, wonder at my infatuation. after all, there are few things under heaven more beautiful, or more touching, than a boy's first love. passionate is it as a man's--pure as a woman's--trusting as a child's--timid, through the very excess of its unselfishness--chivalrous, as though handed down direct from the days of old romance--poetical beyond the utterances of the poet. to the boy-lover, his mistress is only something less than a divinity. he believes in her truth as in his own; in her purity, as in the sun at noon. her practised arts of voice and manner are, in his eyes, the unstudied graces that spring as naturally from her beauty as the scent from the flower. single-hearted himself, it seems impossible that she whom he adores should trifle with the most sacred sentiment he has ever known. conscious of his own devotion, he cannot conceive that his wealth is poured forth in vain, and that he is but the plaything of her idle hours. yet it is so. the boy's first love is almost always misplaced; seldom rated at its true value; hardly ever productive of anything but disappointment. aspirant of the highest mysteries of the soul, he passes through the ordeal of fire and tears, happy if he keep his faith unshaken and his heart pure, for the wiser worship hereafter. we all know this; and few know it better than myself. yet, with all its suffering, which of us would choose to obliterate all record of his first romance? which of us would be without the memory of its smiles and tears, its sunshine and its clouds? not i for one. chapter xvi. a contretemps in a carriage. my slavery lasted somewhat longer than three weeks, and less than a month; and was brought, oddly enough, to an abrupt conclusion. this was how it happened. i had, as usual, attended madame de marignan one evening to the opera, and found myself, also as usual, neglected for a host of others. there was one man in particular whom i hated, and whom (perhaps because i hated him) she distinguished rather more than the rest. his name was delaroche, and he called himself monsieur le comte delaroche. most likely he was a count---i have no reason to doubt his title; but i chose to doubt it for mere spite, and because he was loud and conceited, and wore a little red and green ribbon in his button-hole. he had, besides, an offensive sense of my youth and his own superiority, which i have never forgiven to this day. on the particular occasion of which i am now speaking, this person had made his appearance in madame de marignan's box at the close of the first act, established himself in the seat behind hers, and there held the lists against all comers during the remainder of the evening. everything he said, everything he did, aggravated me. when he looked through her lorgnette, i loathed him. when he admired her fan, i longed to thrust it down his throat. when he held her bouquet to his odious nose (the bouquet that i had given her!) i felt it would have been justifiable manslaughter to take him up bodily, and pitch him over into the pit. at length the performance came to a close, and m. delaroche, having taken upon himself to arrange madame de marignan's cloak, carry madame de marignan's fan, and put madame de marignan's opera-glass into its morocco case, completed his officiousness by offering his arm and conducting her into the lobby, whilst i, outwardly indifferent but inwardly boiling, dropped behind, and consigned him silently to all the torments of the seven circles. it was an oppressive autumnal night without a star in the sky, and so still that one might have carried a lighted taper through the streets. finding it thus warm, madame de marignan proposed walking down the line of carriages, instead of waiting till her own came up; and so she and m. delaroche led the way and i followed. having found the carriage, he assisted her in, placed her fan and bouquet on the opposite seat, lingered a moment at the open door, and had the unparalleled audacity to raise her hand to his lips at parting. as for me, i stood proudly back, and lifted my hat. "_comment_!" she said, holding out her hand--the pretty, ungloved hand that had just been kissed--"is that your good night?" i bowed over the hand, i would not have touched it with my lips at that moment for all the wealth of paris. "you are coming to me to-morrow morning at twelve?" she murmured tenderly. "if madame desires it." "of course i desire it. i am going to auteuil, to look at a house for a friend--and to pignot's for some flowers--and to lubin's for some scent--and to a host of places. what should i do without you? nay, why that grave face? have i done anything to offend you?" "madame, i--i confess that--" "that you are jealous of that absurd delaroche, who is so much in love with himself that he has no place in his heart for any one else! _fi donc!_ i am ashamed of you. there--adieu, twelve to-morrow!" and with this she laughed, waved her hand, gave the signal to drive on, and left me looking after the carriage, still irritated but already half consoled. i then sauntered moodily on, thinking of my tyrant, and her caprices, and her beauty. her smile, for instance; surely it was the sweetest smile in the world--if only she were less lavish of it! then, what a delicious little hand--if mine were the only lips permitted to kiss it! why was she so charming?--or why, being so charming, need she prize the attentions of every _flaneur_ who had only enough wit to admire her? was i not a fool to believe that she cared more for my devotion than for another's! did i believe it? yes ... no ... sometimes. but then that "sometimes" was only when under the immediate influence of her presence. she fascinated me; but she would fascinate a hundred others in precisely the same way. it was true that she accepted from me more devotion, more worship, more time, more outward and visible homage than from any other. was i not her _cavaliere servente?_ did she not accept my bouquets? did she not say the other day, when i gave her that volume of tennyson, that she loved all that was english for my sake? surely, i was worse than ungrateful, when, having so much, i was still dissatisfied! why was i not the happiest fellow in paris? why ..... my meditations were here interrupted by a sudden flash of very vivid lightning, followed by a low muttering of distant thunder. i paused, and looked round. the sky was darker than ever, and though the air was singularly stagnant, i could hear among the uppermost leaves of the tall trees that stealthy rustling that generally precedes a storm. unfortunately for myself, i had not felt disposed to go home at once on leaving the theatre; but, being restless alike in mind and body, had struck down through the place vendôme and up the rue de rivoli, intending to come home by a circuitous route. at this precise moment i found myself in the middle of the place de la concorde, with cleopatra's needle towering above my head, the lamps in the champs elysées twinkling in long chains of light through the blank darkness before me, and no vehicle anywhere in sight. to be caught in a heavy shower, was not, certainly, an agreeable prospect for one who had just emerged from the opera in the thinnest of boots and the lightest of folding hats, with neither umbrella nor paletôt of proof; so, having given a hasty glance in every direction from which a cab might be expected, i took valiantly to my heels, and made straight for the madeleine. long before i had accomplished half the distance, however, another flash announced the quick coming of the tempest, and the first premonitory drops began to plash down heavily upon the pavement. still i ran on, thinking that i should find a cab in the place de la madeleine; but the place de la madeleine was empty. even the café at the corner was closed. even the omnibus office was shut up, and the red lamp above the door extinguished. what was i to do now? panting and breathless, i leaned up against a doorway, and resigned myself to fate. stay, what was that file of carriages, dimly seen through the rain which was now coming down in earnest? it was in a private street opening off at the back of the madeleine--a street in which i could remember no public stand. perhaps there was an evening party at one of the large houses lower down, and, if so, i might surely find a not wholly incorruptible cabman, who would consent for a liberal _pourboire_ to drive me home and keep his fare waiting, if need were, for one little half-hour! at all events it was worth trying for; so away i darted again, with the wind whistling about my ears, and the rain driving in my face. but my troubles were not to be so speedily ended. among the ten or fifteen equipages which i found drawn up in file, there was not one hackney vehicle. they were private carriages, and all, therefore, inaccessible. did i say inaccessible? a bold idea occurred to me. the rain was so heavy that it could scarcely be expected to last many minutes. the carriage at the very end of the line was not likely to be the first called; and, even if it were, one could spring out in a moment, if necessary. in short, the very daring of the deed was as attractive as the shelter! i made my way swiftly down the line. the last carriage was a neat little brougham, and the coachman, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his collar drawn up about his ears, was too much absorbed in taking care of himself and his horses to pay much attention to a foot-passenger. i passed boldly by--doubled back stealthily on my own steps--looked round cautiously--opened the door, and glided in. it was a delightfully comfortable little vehicle--cushioned, soft, yielding, and pervaded by a delicate perfume of eglantine. wondering who the owner might be--if she was young--if she was pretty--if she was married, or single, or a widow--i settled myself in the darkest corner of the carriage, intending only to remain there till the rain had abated. thus i fell, as fate would have it--first into a profound reverie, and then into a still profounder sleep. how long this sleep may have lasted i know not. i only remember becoming slowly conscious of a gentle movement, which, without awaking, partly roused me; of a check to that movement, which brought my thoughts suddenly to the surface; of a stream of light--of an open door--a crowded hall--a lady waiting to come out, and a little crowd of attentive beaux surrounding her! i comprehended my position in an instant, and the impossibility of extricating myself from it. to get out next the house was to brave detection; whilst at the other side i found myself blocked in by carriages. escape was now hopeless! i turned hot and cold; i shrank back; i would have gone through the bottom of the carriage, if i could. at this moment, to my horror, the footman opened the door. i gave myself up for lost, and, in a sudden access of desperation, was on the point of rushing out _coûte que coûte_, when the lady ran forward; sprang lightly in; recoiled; and uttered a little breathless cry of surprise and apprehension! "_mon dieu_, madame! what is it? are you hurt?" cried two or three of the gentlemen, running out, bareheaded, to her assistance. but, to my amazement, she unfastened her cloak, and threw it over me in such a manner as to leave me completely hidden beneath the folds. "oh, nothing, thank you!--i only caught my foot in my cloak. i am really quite ashamed to have alarmed you! a thousand thanks--good-night." and so, with something of a slight tremor in her voice, the lady drew up the window. the next instant the carriage moved on. and now, what was to be done? i blessed the accident which rendered me invisible; but, at the same time, asked myself how it was to end. should i wait till she reached her own door, and then, still feigning sleep, allow myself to be discovered? or should i take the bull by the horns, and reveal myself? if the latter, would she scream, or faint, or go into hysterics? then, again, supposing she resumed her cloak ... a cold damp broke out upon my forehead at the mere thought! all at once, just as these questions flashed across my mind, the lady drew the mantle aside, and said:-- "how imprudent of you to hide in my carriage?" i could not believe my ears. "suppose any of those people had caught sight of you ... why, it would have been all over paris to-morrow! happily, i had the presence of mind to cover you with my cloak; otherwise ... but there, monsieur, i have a great mind to be very angry with you!" it was now clear that i was mistaken for some one else. fortunately the carriage-lamps were unlit, the windows still blurred with rain, and the night intensely dark; so, feeling like a wretch reprieved on the scaffold, i shrank farther and farther into the corner, glad to favor a mistake which promised some hope of escape. "_eh bien_!" said the lady, half tenderly, half reproachfully; "have you nothing to say to me?" say to her, indeed! what could i say to her? would not my voice betray me directly? "ah," she continued, without waiting for a reply; "you are ashamed of the cruel scene of this morning! well, since you have not allowed the night to pass without seeking a reconciliation, i suppose i must forgive you!" i thought, at this point, that i could not do better than press her hand, which was exquisitely soft and small--softer and smaller than even madame de marignan's. "naughty hippolyte!" murmured my companion. "confess, now, that you were unreasonable." i sighed heavily, and caressed the little hand with both of mine. "and are you very penitent?" i expressed my penitence by another prodigious sigh, and ventured, this time, to kiss the tips of the dainty fingers. "_ciel_!" exclaimed the lady. "you have shaved off your beard! what can have induced you to do such a thing?" my beard, indeed! alas! i would have given any money for even a moustache! however, the fatal moment was come when i must speak. "_mon cher ange_," i began, trying a hoarse whisper, "i--i--the fact is--a bet--" "a bet indeed! the idea of sacrificing such a handsome beard for a mere bet! i never heard of anything so foolish. but how hoarse you are, hippolyte!" "all within the last hour," whispered i. "i was caught in the storm, just now, and ..." "and have taken cold, for my sake! alas! my poor, dear friend, why did you wait to speak to me? why did you not go home at once, and change your clothes? your sleeve, i declare, is still quite damp! hippolyte, if you fall ill, i shall never forgive myself!" i kissed her hand again. it was much pleasanter than whispering, and expressed all that was necessary. "but you have not once asked after poor bibi!" exclaimed my companion, after a momentary silence. "poor, dear bibi, who has been suffering from a martyrdom with her cough all the afternoon!" now, who the deuce was bibi? she might be a baby. or--who could tell?--she might be a poodle? on this point, however, i was left uninformed; for my unknown friend, who, luckily, seemed fond of talking and had a great deal to say, launched off into another topic immediately. "after all," said she, "i should have been wrong not to go to the party! my uncle was evidently pleased with my compliance; and it is not wise to vex one's rich uncles, if one can help it--is it, hippolyte!" i pressed her hand again. "besides, monsieur delaroche was not there. he was not even invited; so you see how far they were from laying matchmaking plots, and how groundless were all your fears and reproaches!" monsieur delaroche! could this be the delaroche of my special aversion? i pressed her hand again, more closely, more tenderly, and listened for what might come next. "well, it is all over now! and will you promise _never, never, never_ to be jealous again? then, to be jealous of such a creature as that ridiculous delaroche--a man who knows nothing--who can think and talk only of his own absurd self!--a man who has not even wit enough to see that every one laughs at him!" i was delighted. i longed to embrace her on the spot! was there ever such a charming, sensible, lively creature? "besides, the coxcomb is just now devoting himself, body and soul (such as they are!) to that insufferable little _intriguante_, madame de marignan. he is to be seen with her in every drawing-room and theatre throughout paris. for my part, i am amazed that a woman of the world should suffer herself to be compromised to that extent--especially one so experienced in these _affaires du coeur_." madame de marignan! compromised--experienced--_intriguante_! i felt as if i were choking. "to be sure, there is that poor english lad whom she drags about with her, to play propriety," continued she; "but do you suppose the world is blinded by so shallow an artifice?" "what english lad?" i asked, startled out of all sense of precaution, and desperately resolved to know the worst. "what english lad? why, hippolyte, you are more stupid than ever! i pointed him out to you the other night at the comedie française--a pale, handsome boy, of about nineteen or twenty, with brown curling hair, and very fine eyes, which were riveted on madame de marignan the whole evening. poor fellow! i cannot help pitying him." "then--then, you think she really does not love him?" i said. and this time my voice was hoarse enough, without any need of feigning. "love him! ridiculous! what does such a woman understand by love? certainly neither the sentiment nor the poetry of it! tush, hippolyte! i do not wish to be censorious; but every one knows that ever since m. de marignan has been away in algiers, that woman has had, not one devoted admirer, but a dozen; and now that her husband is coming back...." "coming back! ... her husband!" i echoed, half rising in my place, and falling back again, as if stunned. "good heavens! is she not a widow?" it was now the lady's turn to be startled. "a widow!" she repeated. "why, you know as well as i that--_dieu_! to whom i am speaking?" "madame," i said, as steadily as my agitation would let me, "i beg you not to be alarmed. i am not, it is true, the person whom you have supposed; but--nay, i implore you...." she here uttered a quick cry, and darted forward for the check-string. arresting her hand half way, respectfully but firmly, i went on:-- "how i came here, i will explain presently. i am a gentleman; and upon the word of a gentleman, madame, am innocent of any desire to offend or alarm you. can you--will you--hear me for one moment?" "i appear, sir, to have no alternative," replied she, trembling like a caged bird. "i might have left you undeceived, madame. i might have extricated myself from, this painful position undiscovered--but for some words which just escaped your lips; some words so nearly concerning the--the honor and happiness of--of.... in short, i lost my presence of mind. i now implore you to tell me if all that you have just been saying of madame de marignan is strictly true." "who are you, sir, that you should dare to surprise confidences intended for another, and by what right do you question me?" said the lady, haughtily. "by no right, madame," i replied, fairly breaking into sobs, and burying my face in my hands. "i can only appeal to your compassion. i am that englishman whom--whom...." for a moment there was silence. my companion was the first to speak. "poor boy!" she said; and her voice, now, was gentle and compassionate. "you have been rudely undeceived. did madame de marignan pass herself off upon you for a widow?" "she never named her husband to me--i believed that she was free. i fancied he had been dead for years. she knew that was my impression." "and you would have married her--actually married her?" "i--i--hardly dared to hope...." "_ciel_! it is almost beyond belief. and you never inquired into her past history?" "never. why should i?" "monsieur de marignan holds a government appointment in algiers, and has been absent more than four years. he is, i understand, expected back shortly, on leave of absence." i conquered my agitation by a supreme effort. "madame," i said, "i thank you. it now only remains for me to explain my intrusion. i can do so in half a dozen words. caught in the storm and unable to find a conveyance, i sought shelter in this carriage, which being the last on the file, offered the only refuge of which i could avail myself unobserved. while waiting for the tempest to abate, i fell asleep; and but for the chance which led you to mistake me for another, i must have been discovered when you entered the carriage." "then, finding yourself so mistaken, monsieur, would it not have been more honorable to undeceive me than to usurp a conversation which...." "madame, i dared not. i feared to alarm you--i hoped to find some means of escape, and...." "_mon dieu_! what means? how are you to escape as it is? how leave the carriage without being seen by my servants?" i had not thought of this, nor of the dilemma in which my presence must place her. "i can open the door softly," said i, "and jump out unperceived." "impossible, at the pace we are going! you would break your neck." i shook my head, and laughed bitterly. "have no fear of that, madame," i said. "those who least value their necks never happen to break them. see, i can spring out as we pass the next turning, and be out of sight in a moment." "indeed, i will not permit it. oh, dear! we have already reached the faubourg st. germain. stay--i have an idea i do you know what o'clock it is?" "i don't know how long i may have slept; but i think it must be quite three." "_bien_! the countess de blois has a ball to-night, and her visitors are sure not to disperse before four or five. my sister is there. i will send in to ask if she has yet gone home, and when the carriage stops you can slip out. here is the rue de bac, and the door of her hotel is yet surrounded with equipages." and with this, she let down a front window, desired the coachman to stop, leaned forward so as to hide me completely, and sent in her footman with the message. when the man had fairly entered the hall, she turned to me and said:-- "now, monsieur, fly! it is your only chance." "i go, madame; but before going, suffer me to assure you that i know neither your name, nor that of the person for whom you mistook me--that i have no idea of your place of residence--that i should not know you if i saw you again to-morrow--in short, that you are to me as entirely a stranger as if this adventure had never happened." "monsieur, i thank you for the assurance; but i see the servant returning. pray, begone!" i sprang out without another word, and, never once looking back, darted down a neighboring street and waited in the shadow of a doorway till i thought the carriage must be out of sight. the night was now fine, the moon was up, and the sky was full of stars. but i heeded nothing, save my own perplexed and painful thoughts. absorbed in these, i followed the course of the rue du bac till i came to the pont national. there my steps were arrested by the sight of the eddying river, the long gleaming front of the louvre, the quaint, glistening gables of the tuilleries, the far-reaching trees of the champs elysées all silvered in the soft, uncertain moonlight. it was a most calm and beautiful picture; and i stood for a long time leaning against the parapet of the bridge, and looking dreamily at the scene before me. then i heard the quarters chime from belfry to belfry all over the quiet city, and found that it was half-past three o'clock. presently a patrol of _gendarmes_ went by, and, finding that they paused and looked at me suspiciously, i turned away, and bent my steps homewards. by the time i reached the cité bergère it was past four, and the early market-carts were already rumbling along the rue du faubourg montmartre. going up wearily to my apartments, i found a note waiting for me in dalrymple's handwriting. it ran thus:-- "my dear damon:-- "do you know that it is nearly a month since i last saw you? do you know that i have called twice at your lodgings without finding you at home? i hear of you as having been constantly seen, of late, in the society of a very pretty woman of our acquaintance; but i confess that i do not desire to see you go to the devil entirely without the friendly assistance of "yours faithfully, "oscar dalrymple." i read the note twice. i could scarcely believe that i had so neglected my only friend. had i been mad? or a fool?--or both? too anxious and unhappy to sleep, and too tired to sit up, i lit my lamp, threw myself upon the bed, and there lay repenting my wasted hours, my misplaced love and my egregious folly, till morning came with its sunshine and its traffic, and found me a "wiser," if not a "better man." "half-past seven!" exclaimed i to myself, as i jumped up and plunged my head into a basin of cold water. "dr. chéron shall see me before nine this morning. i'll call on dalrymple at luncheon time; at three, i must get back for the afternoon lecture; and in the evening--in the evening, by jove! madame de marignan must be content with her adorable delaroche, for the deuce a bit of her humble servant will she ever see again!" and away i went presently along the sunny streets, humming to myself those saucy and wholesome lines of good sir walter raleigh's:-- "shall i like a hermit dwell on a rock, or in a cell, calling home the smallest part that is missing of my heart, to bestow it where i may meet a rival every day? if she undervalues me, what care i how fair she be?" chapter xvii. the widow of a minister of finance. "you are just in time, arbuthnot, to do me a service," said dalrymple, looking up from his desk as i went in, and reaching out his hand to me over a barricade of books and papers. "then i am very glad i have come," i replied. "but what confusion is this? are you going anywhere?" "yes--to perdition. there, kick that rubbish out of your way and sit down." never very orderly, dalrymple's rooms were this time in as terrible a litter as can well be conceived. the table was piled high with bills, old letters, books, cigars, gloves, card-cases, and pamphlets. the carpet was strewn with portmanteaus, hat-cases, travelling-straps, old luggage labels, railway wrappers, and the like. the chairs and sofas were laden with wearing apparel. as for dalrymple himself, he looked haggard and weary, as though the last four weeks had laid four years upon his shoulders. "you look ill," i said clearing a corner of the sofa for my own accommodation; "or _ennuyé_, which is much the same thing. what is the matter? and what can i do for you?" "the matter is that i am going abroad," said he, with his chin resting moodily in his two palms and his elbows on the table. "going abroad! where?" "i don't know-- 'anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.' it's of very little consequence whether i betake myself to the east or to the west; eat rice in the tropics, or drink train-oil at the pole." "but have you no settled projects?" "none whatever." "and don't care what becomes of you?" "not in the least." "then, in heaven's name, what has happened?" "the very thing that, three weeks ago, would have made me the happiest fellow in christendom. what are you going to do to-morrow?" "nothing, beyond my ordinary routine of medical study." "humph! could you get a whole holiday, for once?" i remembered how many i had taken of late, and felt ashamed of the readiness with which i replied:-- "oh yes! easily." "well, then, i want you to spend the day with me. it will be, perhaps, my last in paris for many a month, or even many a year. i ... pshaw! i may as well say it, and have done with it. i am going to be married." "married!" i exclaimed, in blank amazement; for it was the last thing i should have guessed. dalrymple tugged away at his moustache with both hands, as was his habit when perplexed or troubled, and nodded gloomily. "to whom?" "to madame de courcelles." "and are you not very happy?" "happy! i am the most miserable dog unhanged?" i was more at fault now than ever. "i ... judging from trifles which some would perhaps scarcely have observed," i said, hesitatingly, "i--i thought you were interested in madame de courcelles?" "interested!" cried he, pushing back his chair and springing to his feet, as if the word had stung him. "by heaven! i love that woman as i never loved in my life." "then why ..." "i'll tell you why--or, at least, i will tell you as much as i may--as i can; for the affair is hers, and not mine. she has a cousin--curse him!--to whom she was betrothed from childhood. his estates adjoined hers; family interests were concerned in their union; and the parents on both sides arranged matters. when, however, monsieur de courcelles fell in love with her--a man much older than herself, but possessed of great wealth and immense political influence--her father did not hesitate to send the cousin to the deuce and marry his daughter to the minister of finance. the cousin, it seems, was then a wild young fellow; not particularly in love with her himself; and not at all inconsolable for her loss. when, however, monsieur de courcelles was good enough to die (which he had the bad taste to do very hastily, and without making, by any means, the splendid provision for his widow which he had promised), our friend, the cousin, comes forward again. by this time he is enough man of the world to appreciate the value of land--more especially as he has sold, mortgaged, played the mischief with nearly every acre of his own. he pleads the old engagement, and, as he is pleased to call it, the old love. madame de courcelles is a young widow, very solitary, with no one to love, no object to live for, and no experience of the world. her pity is easily awaked; and the result is that she not only accepts the cousin, but lends him large sums of money; suffers the title-deeds of her estates to go into the hands of his lawyer; and is formally betrothed to him before the eyes of all paris!" "who is this man? where is he?" i asked, eagerly. "he is an officer of chasseurs, now serving with his regiment in algiers--a daring, dashing, reckless fellow; heartless and dissipated enough; but a splendid soldier. however, having committed her property to his hands, and suffered her name to be associated publicly with his, madame de courcelles, during his absence in algiers, has done me the honor to prefer me. i have the first real love of her life, and the short and long of it is, that we are to be privately married to-morrow." "and why privately?" "ah, there's the pity of it! there's the disappointment and the bitterness!" "can't madame de courcelles write and tell this man that she loves somebody else better?" "confound it! no. the fellow has her too much in his power, and, if he chose to be dishonest, could half ruin her. at all events she is afraid of him; and i ... i am as helpless as a child in the matter. if i were a rich man, i would snap my fingers at him; but how can i, with a paltry eight hundred a year, provide for that woman? pshaw! if i could but settle it with a pair of hair-triggers and twenty paces of turf, i'd leave little work for the lawyers!" "well, then, what is to be done?" "only this," replied he, striding impatiently to and fro, like a caged lion; "i must just bear with my helplessness, and leave the remedy to those who can oppose skill to skill, and lawyer to lawyer." "at all events, you marry the lady." "ay--i marry the lady; but i start to-morrow night for berlin, _en route_ for anywhere that chance may lead me." "without her?" "without her. do you suppose that i would stay in paris--her husband--and live apart from her? meet her, like an ordinary acquaintance? see others admiring her? be content to lounge in and out of her _soirées_, or ride beside her carriage now and then, as you or fifty others might do? perhaps, have even to endure the presence of de caylus himself? _merci_! any number of miles, whether of land or sea, were better than a martyrdom like that!" "de caylus!" i repeated. "where have i heard that name?" "you may have heard of it in a hundred places," replied my friend. "as i said before, the man is a gallant soldier, and does gallant things. but to return to the present question--may i depend on you to-morrow? for we must have a witness, and our witness must be both discreet and silent." "on my silence and discretion you may rely absolutely." "and you can be here by nine?" "by daybreak, if you please." "i won't tax you to that extent. nine will do quite well." "adieu, then, till nine." "adieu, and thank you." with this i left him, somewhat relieved to find that i had escaped all cross-examination on the score of madame marignan. "de caylus!" i again repeated to myself, as i took my rapid way to the hotel dieu. "de caylus! why, surely, it must have been that evening at madame de courcelles'...." and then i recollected that de caylus was the name of that officer who was said to have ridden by night, and single-handed, through the heart of the enemy's camp, somewhere in algiers. chapter xviii. a marriage not "a la mode." the marriage took place in a little out-of-the-way protestant chapel beyond the barriers, at about a quarter before ten o'clock the next morning. dalrymple and i were there first; and madame de courcelles, having, in order to avoid observation, come part of the distance in a cab and part on foot, arrived a few minutes later. she was very pale, and looked almost like a _religieuse_, with her black veil tied closely under her chin, and a dark violet dress, which might have passed for mourning. she gave her hand to dalrymple without speaking; then knelt down at the communion-table, and so remained till we had all taken our places. as for dalrymple, he had even less color than she, but held his head up haughtily, and betrayed no sign of the conflict within. it was a melancholy little chapel, dusty and neglected, full of black and white funereal tablets, and damp as a vault. we shivered as we stood about the altar; the clergyman's teeth chattered as he began the marriage service; and the echoes of our responses reverberated forlornly up among the gothic rafters overhead. even the sunbeams struggled sadly and palely down the upper windows, and the chill wind whistled in when the door was opened, bringing with it a moan of coming rain. the ceremony over, the books signed in the vestry, and the clergyman, clerk, and pew-opener duly remunerated for their services, we prepared to be gone. for a couple of moments, dalrymple and his bride stood apart in the shadow of the porch. i saw him take the hand on which he had just placed the ring, and look down upon it tenderly, wistfully--i saw him bend lower, and lower, whispering what no other ears might hear--saw their lips meet for one brief instant. then the lady's veil was lowered; she turned hastily away; and dalrymple was left standing in the doorway alone. "by heaven!" said he, grasping my hand as though he would crush it. "this is hard to bear." i but returned the pressure of his hand; for i knew not with what words to comfort him. thus we lingered for some minutes in silence, till the clergyman, having put off his surplice, passed us with a bow and went out; and the pew-opener, after pretending to polish the door-handle with her apron, and otherwise waiting about with an air of fidgety politeness, dropped a civil curtsey, and begged to remind us that the chapel must now be closed. dalrymple started and shook himself like a water-dog, as if he would so shake off "the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune." "_rex est qui metuit nihil_!" said he; "but i am a sovereign in bad circumstances, for all that. heigho! care will kill a cat. what shall we do with ourselves, old fellow, for the rest of the day?" "i hardly know. would you like to go into the country?" "nothing better. the air perhaps would exorcise some of these blue-devils." "what say you to st. germains? it looks as if it must rain before night; yet there is the forest and...." "excellent! we can do as we like, with nobody to stare at us; and i am in a horribly uncivilized frame of mind this morning." with this, we turned once more toward paris, and, jumping into the first cab that came by, were driven to the station. it happened that a train was then about to start; so we were off immediately. there were no other passengers in the carriage, so dalrymple infringed the company's mandate by lighting a cigar, and i, finding him disinclined for talk, did the same thing, and watched the passing country. flat and uninteresting at first, it consisted of a mere sandy plain, treeless, hedgeless, and imperfectly cultivated with struggling strips of corn and vegetables. by and by came a line of stunted pollards, a hamlet, and a little dreary cemetery. then the landscape improved. the straight line of the horizon broke into gentle undulations; the seine, studded with islets, wound through the meadow-land at our feet; and a lofty viaduct carried us from height to height across the eddying river. then we passed into the close green shade of a forest, which opened every here and there into long vistas, yielding glimpses of "--verdurous glooms, and winding mossy ways." through this wood the line continued to run till we reached our destination. here our first few steps brought us out upon the place, directly facing the old red and black chateau of st. germain-en-laye. leaving this and the little dull town behind us, we loitered for some time about the broad walks of the park, and then passed on into the forest. although it was neither sunday nor a fête-day, there were pleasure parties gipseying under trees--parisian cockneys riding raw-boned steeds--pony-chaises full of laughing grisettes dashing up and down the broad roads that pierce the wood in various directions--old women selling cakes and lemonade--workmen gambling with half-pence on the smooth turf by the wayside--_bonnes_, comely and important, with their little charges playing round them, and their busy fingers plying the knitting-needles as they walked--young ladies sketching trees, and prudent governesses reading novels close by; in short, all the life and variety of a favorite suburban resort on an ordinarily fine day about the beginning of autumn. leaving the frequented routes to the right, we turned into one of the many hundred tracks that diverge in every direction from the beaten roads, and wandered deeper and deeper into the green shades and solitudes of the forest. pausing, presently, to rest, dalrymple threw himself at full length on the mossy ground, with his hands clasping the back of his head, and his hat over his eyes; whilst i found a luxurious arm-chair in the gnarled roots of a lichen-tufted elm. thus we remained for a considerable time puffing away at our cigars in that sociable silence which may almost claim to be an unique privilege of masculine friendship. women cannot sit together for long without talking; men can enjoy each other's companionship for hours with scarcely the interchange of an idea. meanwhile, i watched the squirrels up in the beech-trees and the dancing of the green leaves against the sky; and thought dreamily of home, of my father, of the far past, and the possible future. i asked myself how, when my term of study came to an end, i should ever again endure the old home-life at saxonholme? how settle down for life as my father's partner, conforming myself to his prejudices, obeying all the demands of his imperious temper, and accepting for evermore the monotonous routine of a provincial practice! it was an intolerable prospect, but no less inevitable than intolerable. pondering thus, i sighed heavily, and the sigh roused dalrymple's attention. "why, damon," said he, turning over on his elbow, and pushing up his hat to the level of his eyes, "what's the matter with you?" "oh, nothing--at least, nothing new." "well, new or old, what is it? a man must be either in debt, or in love, when he sighs in that way. you look as melancholy as werter redivivus!" "i--i ought not to be melancholy, i suppose; for i was thinking of home." dalrymple's face and voice softened immediately. "poor boy!" he said, throwing away the end of his cigar, "yours is not a bright home, i fear. you told me, i think, that you had lost your mother?" "from infancy." "and you have no sisters?" "none. i am an only child." "your father, however, is living?" "yes, my father lives. he is a rough-tempered, eccentric man; misanthropic, but clever; kind enough, and generous enough, in his own strange way. still--" "still what?" --"i dread the life that lies before me! i dread the life without society, without ambition, without change--the dull house--the bounded sphere of action--the bondage.... but of what use is it to trouble you with these things?" "this use, that it does you good to tell, and me to listen. sympathy, like mercy, blesseth him that gives and him that takes; and if i cannot actually help you, i am, at all events, thankful to be taken out of myself. go on--tell me more of your prospects. have you no acquaintance at saxonholme whose society will make the place pleasant to you? no boyish friends? no pretty cousins? no first-loves, from amongst whom to choose a wife in time to come?" i shook my head sadly. "did i not tell you that my father was a misanthrope? he visits no one, unless professionally. we have no friends and no relations." "humph! that's awkward. however, it leaves you free to choose your own friends, when you go back. a medical man need never be without a visiting connection. his very profession puts a thousand opportunities in his way." "that is true; but--" "but what?" "i am not fond of the profession. i have never liked it. i would give much to relinquish it altogether." dalrymple gave utterance to a prolonged and very dismal whistle. "this," said he gravely, "is the most serious part of the business. to live in a dull place is bad enough--to live with dull people is bad enough; but to have one's thoughts perpetually occupied with an uncongenial subject, and one's energies devoted to an uncongenial pursuit, is just misery, and nothing short of it! in fact 'tis a moral injustice, and one that no man should be required to endure." "yet i must endure it." "why?" "because it is too late to do otherwise." "it is never too late to repair an evil, or an error." "unless the repairing of it involved a worse evil, or a more fatal error! no--i must not dream now of turning aside from the path that has been chosen for me. too much time and too much money have been given to the thing for that;--i must let it take its course. there's no help for it!" "but, confound it, lad! you'd better follow the fife and drum, or go before the mast, than give up your life to a profession you hate!" "hate is a strong word," i replied. "i do not actually hate it--at all events i must try to make the best of it, if only for my father's sake. his heart is set on making a physician of me, and i dare not disappoint him." dalrymple looked at me fixedly, and then fell back into his old position. "heigho!" he said, pulling his hat once more over his eyes, "i was a disobedient son. my father intended me for the church; i was expelled from college for fighting a duel before i was twenty, and then, sooner than go home disgraced, enlisted as a private soldier in a cavalry corps bound for foreign service. luckily, they found me out before the ship sailed, and made the best of a bad bargain by purchasing me a cornetcy in a dragoon regiment. i would not advise you to be disobedient, damon. my experience in that line has been bitter enough," "how so? you escaped a profession for which you were disinclined, and entered one for which you had every qualification." "ay; but think of the cursed _esclandre_--first the duel, then the expulsion, then my disappearance for two months ... my mother was in bad health at the time, too; and i, her favorite son--i--in short, the anxiety was too much for her. she--she died before i had been six weeks in the regiment. there! we won't talk of it. it's the one subject that ..." his voice faltered, and he broke off abruptly. "i wish you were going with me to berlin," said he, after a long silence which i had not attempted to interrupt. "i wish with all my heart that i were!" "and yet," he added, "i am glad on--on her account, that you remain in paris. you will call upon her sometimes, arbuthnot?" "if madame de cour.... i mean, if mrs. dalrymple will permit me." an involuntary smile flitted across his lips--the first i had seen there all the day. "she will be glad--grateful. she knows that i value you, and she has proof that i trust you. you are the only possessor of our secret." "it is as safe with me," i said, "as if i were dead, and in my grave." "i know it, old fellow. well--you will see her sometimes. you will write to me, and tell me how she is looking. if--if she were to fall ill, you would not conceal it from me? and in case of any emergency--any annoyance arising from de caylus ..." "were she my own sister," i said, earnestly, "she would not find me readier to assist or defend her. of this, dalrymple, be assured." "thank you," he said, and stretched up his hand to me. "i do believe you are true--though there are few men, and still fewer women, of whom i should like to say as much. by the way, arbuthnot, beware of that little flirt, madame de marignan. she has charming eyes, but no more heart than a vampire. besides, an entanglement with a married woman!... _cela ne se peut pas, mon cher_. you are too young to venture on such dangerous ground, and too inexperienced." i smiled--perhaps somewhat bitterly--for the wound was still fresh, and i could not help wincing when any hand came near it. "you are right," i replied. "madame de marignan is a dangerous woman; but dangerous for me no longer. however, i have paid rather dearly for my safety." and with this, i told him the whole story from beginning to end, confessing all my follies without reservation. surprised, amused, sometimes unable to repress a smile, sometimes genuinely compassionate, he heard my narrative through, accompanying it from time to time with muttered comments and ejaculations, none of which were very flattering to madame de marignan. when i had done, he sprang to his feet, laid his hand heavily upon my shoulder, and said:-- "damon, there are a great many disagreeable things in life which wise people say are good for us, and for which they tell us we ought to be grateful in proportion to our discomfort. for my own part, however, i am no optimist. i am not fond of mortifying the flesh, and the eloquence of socrates would fail to persuade me that a carbuncle was a cheerful companion, or the gout an ailment to be ardently desired. yet, for all this, i cannot say that i look upon your adventure in the light of a misfortune. you have lost time, spent money, and endured a considerable amount of aggravation; but you have, on the other hand, acquired ease of manner, facility of conversation, and just that necessary polish which fits a man for society. come! you have received a valuable lesson both in morals and manners; so farewell to madame de marignan, and let us write _pour acquit_ against the score!" willing enough to accept this cheerful view, i flourished an imaginary autograph upon the air with the end of my cane, and laughingly dismissed the subject. we then strolled back through the wood, treading the soft moss under our feet, startling the brown lizards from our path and the squirrels from the lower branches of the great trees, and, now and then, surprising a plump little green frog, which went skipping away into the long grass, like an animated emerald. coming back to the gardens, we next lingered for some time upon the terrace, admiring the superb panorama of undulating woodland and cultivated champaign, which, seen through the golden haze of afternoon, stretched out in glory to the remotest horizon. to our right stood the prison-like chateau, flinging back the sunset from its innumerable casements, and seeming to drink in the warm glow at every pore of its old, red bricks. to our left, all lighted up against the sky, rose the lofty tree-tops of the forest which we had just quitted. our shadows stretched behind us across the level terrace, like the shadows of giants. involuntarily, we dropped our voices. it would have seemed almost like profanity to speak aloud while the first influence of that scene was upon us. going on presently towards the verge of the terrace, we came upon an artist who, with his camp-stool under his arm, and his portfolio at his feet, was, like ourselves, taking a last look at the sunset before going away. as we approached, he turned and recognised us. it was herr franz müller, the story-telling student of the _chicards_ club. "good-afternoon, gentlemen," said he, lifting his red cap, and letting it fall back again a little on one side. "we do not see many such sunsets in the course of the summer." "indeed, no," replied dalrymple; "and ere long the autumn tints will be creeping over the landscape, and the whole scene will assume a different character. have you been sketching in the forest?" "no--i have been making a study of the chateau and terrace from this point, with the landscape beyond. it is for an historical subject which i have laid out for my winter's work." and with this, he good-naturedly opened his folio and took out the sketch, which was a tolerably large one, and represented the scene under much the same conditions of light as we now saw it. "i shall have a group of figures here," he said, pointing to a spot on the terrace, "and a more distant one there; with a sprinkling of dogs and, perhaps, a head or two at an open window of the chateau. i shall also add a flag flying on the turret, yonder." "a scene, i suppose, from the life of louis the thirteenth," i suggested. "no--i mean it for the exiled court of james the second," replied he. "and i shall bring in the king, and mary of modena, and the prince their son, who was afterwards the pretender." "it is a good subject," said dalrymple. "you will of course find excellent portraits of all these people at versailles; and a lively description of their court, mode of life, and so forth, if my memory serves me correctly, in the tales of anthony, count hamilton. but with all this, i dare say, you are better acquainted than i." "_parbleu!_ not i," said the student, shouldering his camp-stool as if it were a musket, and slinging his portfolio by a strap across his back; "therefore, i am all the more obliged to you for the information. my reading is neither very extensive nor very useful; and as for my library, i could pack it all into a hat-case any day, and find room for a few other trifles at the same time. here is the author i chiefly study. he is my constant companion, and, like myself, looks somewhat the worse for wear." saying which, he produced from one of his pockets a little, greasy, dog-eared volume of beranger, about the size of a small snuff-box, and began singing aloud, to a very cheerful air, a song of which a certain faithless mademoiselle lisette was the heroine, and of which the refrain was always:-- "_lisette! ma lisette, tu m'as trompé toujours; je veux, lisette, boire à nos amours_." to this accompaniment we walked back through the gardens to the railway station, where, being a quarter of an hour too soon, our companion amused himself by "chaffing," questioning, contradicting, and otherwise ingeniously tormenting the check-takers and porters of the establishment. one pompous official, in particular, became so helplessly indignant that he retired into a little office overlooking the platform, and was heard to swear fluently, all by himself, for several minutes. the time having expired and the doors being opened, we passed out with the rest of the home-going parisians, and were about to take our places, when müller, climbing like a cat to the roof-seats on the top of the second-class carriages, beckoned us to follow. "who would be shut up with ten fat people and a baby, when fresh air can be breathed, and tobacco smoked, for precisely the same fare?" asked he. "you don't mean to say that you came down to st. germains in one of the dens below?" "yes, we did," i replied; "but we had it to ourselves." "so much the worse. man is a gregarious animal, and woman also--which proves zimmerman to have been neither, and accounts for the brotherhood of _les chicards_. would you like to see how that old gentleman looks when he is angry?" "which? the one in the opposite corner?" "the same." "well, that depends on circumstances. why do you ask?" "because i'll engage to satisfy your curiosity in less than ten minutes." "oh, no, don't affront him," said i. "we shall only have a scene." "i won't affront him. i promise not to utter a syllable, either offensive or defensive." "leave him alone, then, poor devil!" "nonsense! if he chooses to be annoyed, that's his business, and not mine. now, you'll see." and müller, alert for mischief, stared fixedly at the old gentleman in the opposite corner for some minutes--then sighed--roused himself as if from a profound reverie--seized his portfolio--took out a pencil and sketch-book--mended the pencil with an elaborate show of fastidiousness and deliberation--stared again--drew a deep breath--turned somewhat aside, as if anxious to conceal his object, and began sketching rapidly. now and then he paused; stole a furtive glance over his shoulder; bit his lip; rubbed out; corrected; glanced again; and then went on rapidly as before. in the meanwhile the old gentleman, who was somewhat red and irascible, began to get seriously uncomfortable. he frowned, fidgeted, coughed, buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and jealously watched every proceeding of his tormentor. a general smile dawned upon the faces of the rest of the travellers. the priest over the way pinched his lips together, and looked down demurely. the two girls, next to the priest, tittered behind their handkerchiefs. the young man with the blue cravat sucked the top of his cane, and winked openly at his companions, both of whom were cracking nuts, and flinging the shells down the embankment. presently müller threw his head back, held the drawing off, still studiously keeping the back of it towards the rest of the passengers; looked at it with half-closed eyes; stole another exceedingly cautious glance at his victim; and then, affecting for the first time to find himself observed, made a vast show of pretending to sketch the country through which we were passing. the old gentleman could stand it no longer. "monsieur," said he, angrily. "monsieur, i will thank you not to take my portrait. i object to it. monsieur." "charming distance," said müller, addressing himself to me "wants interest, however, in the foreground. that's a picturesque tree yonder, is it not?" the old gentleman struck his umbrella sharply on the floor. "it's of no use, monsieur," he exclaimed, getting more red and excited. "you are taking my portrait, and i object to it. i know you are taking my portrait." müller looked up dreamily. "i beg your pardon, monsieur," said he. "did you speak?' "yes, monsieur. i did speak. i repeat that you shall not take my portrait." "your portrait, monsieur?" "yes, my portrait!" "but, monsieur," remonstrated the artist, with an air of mingled candor and surprise, "i never dreamed of taking your portrait!" "_sacre non_!" shouted the old gentleman, with another rap of the umbrella. "i saw you do it! everybody saw you do it!" "nay, if monsieur will but do me the honor to believe that i was simply sketching from nature, as the train...." "an impudent subterfuge, sir!" interrupted the old gentleman. "an impudent subterfuge, and nothing less!" müller drew himself up with immense dignity. "monsieur," he said, haughtily, "that is an expression which i must request you to retract. i have already assured you, on the word of a gentleman...." "a gentleman, indeed! a pretty gentleman! he takes my portrait, and...." "i have not taken your portrait, monsieur." "good heavens!" cried the old gentleman, looking round, "was ever such assurance! did not every one present see him in the act? i appeal to every one--to you, monsieur--to you, mesdames,--to you, reverend father,--did you not all see this person taking my portrait?" "nay, then, if it must come to this," said müller, "let the sketch be evidence, and let these ladies and gentlemen decide whether it is really the portrait of monsieur--and if they think it like?" saying which, he held up the book, and displayed a head, sketched, it is true, with admirable spirit and cleverness, but--the head of an ass, with a thistle in its mouth! a simultaneous explosion of mirth followed. even the priest laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and dalrymple, heavy-hearted as he was, could not help joining in the general shout. as for the old gentleman, the victim of this elaborate practical joke, he glared at us all round, swore that it was a premeditated insult from beginning to end, and, swelling with suppressed rage, flung himself back into his corner, and looked resolutely in the opposite direction. by this time we were half-way to paris, and the student, satisfied with his success, packed up his folio, brought out a great meerschaum with a snaky tube, and smoked like a factory-chimney. when we alighted, it was nearly five o'clock. "what shall we do next?" said dalrymple, pulling drearily at his moustache. "i am so deuced dull to-day that i am ashamed to ask anybody to do me the charity to dine with me--especially a _bon garçon_ like herr müller." "don't be ashamed," said the student, laughingly, "i would dine with pluto himself, if the dishes were good and my appetite as sharp as to-day." "_allons_, then! where shall we go; to the _trois frères_, or the _moulin rouge_, or the _maison dorée_?" "the _trois frères_" said müller, with the air of one who deliberates on the fate of nations, "has the disadvantage of being situated in the palais royal, where the band still continues to play at half-past five every afternoon. now, music should come on with the sweets and the champagne. it is not appropriate with soup or fish, and it distracts one's attention if injudiciously administered with the made dishes," "true. then shall we try the _moulin rouge_?" müller shook his head. "at the _moulin rouge_" said he, gravely, "one can breakfast well; but their dinners are stereotyped. for the last ten years they have not added a new dish to their _carte_; and the discovery of a new dish, says brillat savarin, is of more importance to the human race than the discovery of a new planet. no--i should not vote for the _moulin rouge_." "well, then, véfours, véry's, the café anglais?" "véfours is traditional; the café anglais is infested with english; and at véry's, which is otherwise a meritorious establishment, one's digestion is disturbed by the sight of omnivorous provincials, who drink champagne with the _rôti_, and eat melon at dessert." dalrymple laughed outright. "at this rate," said he, "we shall get no dinner at all! what is to become of us, if neither véry's, nor the _trois frères_, nor the _moulin rouge_, nor the _maison dorée_...." "_halte-là!"_ interrupted the student, theatrically; "for by my halidom, sirs, i said not a syllable in disparagement of the house yelept dorée! is it not there that we eat of the crab of bordeaux, succulent and roseate? is it not there that we drink of veuve cliquot the costly, and of that johannisberger, to which all other hocks are vinegar and water? never let it be said that franz müller, being of sound mind and body, did less than justice to the reputation of the _maison dorée_." "to the _maison dorée_, then," said dalrymple, "with what speed and appetite we may! by jove! herr franz, you are a _connoisseur_ in the matter of dining." "a man who for twenty-nine days out of every thirty pays his sixty-five centimes for two dishes at a student's restaurant in the quartier latin, knows better than most people where to go for a good dinner when he has the chance," said müller, philosophically. "the ragoûts of the temple--the _arlequins_ of the _cité_--the fried fish of the odéon arcades--the unknown hashes of the _guingettes_, and the 'funeral baked meats' of the palais royal, are all familiar to my pocket and my palate. i do not scruple to confess that in cases of desperate emergency, i have even availed myself of the advantages of _le hasard_." "_le hasard_." said i. "what is that?" "_le hasard de la fourchette_," replied the student, "is the resort of the vagabond, the _gamin_, and the _chiffonier_. it lies down by the river-side, near the halles, and consists of nothing but a shed, a fire, and a caldron. in this caldron a seething sea of oleaginous liquid conceals an infinite variety of animal and vegetable substances. the arrangements of the establishment are beautifully simple. the votary pays his five centimes and is armed by the presiding genius of the place with a huge two-pronged iron fork. this fork he plunges in once;--he may get a calf's foot, or a potato, or a sheep's head, or a carrot, or a cabbage, or nothing, as fate and the fork direct. all men are gamblers in some way or another, and _le hasard_ is a game of gastronomic chance. but from the ridiculous to the sublime, it is but a step--and while talking of _le hasard_ behold, we have arrived at the _maison dorée_." chapter xix. a dinner at the maison dorÉe and an evening party in the quartier latin. the most genial of companions was our new acquaintance, franz müller, the art-student. light-hearted, buoyant, unassuming, he gave his animal spirits full play, and was the life of our little dinner. he had more natural gayety than generally belongs to the german character, and his good-temper was inexhaustible. he enjoyed everything; he made the best of everything; he saw food for laughter in everything. he was always amused, and therefore was always amusing. above all, there was a spontaneity in his mirth which acted upon others as a perpetual stimulant. he was in short, what the french call a _bon garçon_, and the english a capital fellow; easy without assurance, comic without vulgarity, and, as sydney smith wittily hath it--"a great number of other things without a great number of other things." upon dalrymple, who had been all day silent, abstracted, and unlike his usual self, this joyous influence acted like a tonic. as entertainer, he was bound to exert himself, and the exertion did him good. he threw off his melancholy; and with the help, possibly, of somewhat more than his usual quantity of wine, entered thoroughly into the passing joyousness of the hour. what a _recherché_, luxurious extravagant little dinner it was, that evening at the maison dorée! we had a charming little room overlooking the boulevard, furnished with as much looking-glass, crimson-velvet, gilding, and arabesque painting as could be got together within the space of twelve-feet by eight. our wine came to table in a silver cooler that cellini might have wrought. our meats were served upon porcelain that would have driven palissy to despair. we had nothing that was in season, except game, and everything that was out; which, by-the-way, appears to be our modern criterion of excellence with respect to a dinner. finally, we were waited upon by the most imposing of waiters--a waiter whose imperturbable gravity was not to be shaken by any amount of provocation, and whose neckcloth alone was sufficient to qualify him for the church. how merry we were! how müller tormented that diplomatic waiter! what stories we told! what puns we made! what brilliant things we said, or fancied we said, over our chambertin and johannisberger! müller knew nothing of the substratum of sadness underlying all that jollity. he little thought how heavy dalrymple's strong heart had been that morning. he had no idea that my friend and i were to part on the morrow, for months or years, as the case might be--he to carry his unrest hither and thither through distant lands; i to remain alone in a strange city, pursuing a distasteful study, and toiling onward to a future without fascination or hope. but, as the glass seals tell us, "such is life." we are all mysteries to one another. the pleasant fellow whom i invite to dinner because he amuses me, carries a scar on his soul which it would frighten me to see; and he in turn, when he praises my claret, little dreams of the carking care that poisons it upon my palate, and robs it of all its aroma. perhaps the laughter-loving painter himself had his own little tragedy locked up in some secret corner of the heart that seemed to beat so lightly under that braided blouse of palais royal cut and quartier latin fashion! who could tell? and of what use would it be, if it were told? smiles carry one through the world more agreeably than tears, and if the skeleton is only kept decently out of sight in its own unsuspected closet, so much the better for you and me, and society at large. dinner over, and the serious waiter dismissed with the dessert and the empty bottles, we sat by the open window for a long time, sipping our coffee, smoking our cigars, and watching the busy life of the boulevard below. there the shops were all alight and the passers-by more numerous than by day. carriages were dashing along, full of opera-goers and ball-room beauties. on the pavement just under our window were seated the usual crowd of boulevard idlers, sipping their _al fresco_ absinthe, and _grog-au-vin._ in the very next room, divided from us by only a slender partition, was a noisy party of young men and girls. we could hear their bursts of merriment, the chinking of their glasses as they pledged one another, the popping of the champagne corks, and almost the very jests that passed from lip to lip. presently a band came and played at the corner of an adjoining street. all was mirth, all was life, all was amusement and dissipation both in-doors and out-of-doors, in the "care-charming" city of paris on that pleasant september night; and we, of course, were gay and noisy, like our neighbors. dalrymple and müller could scarcely be called new acquaintances. they had met some few times at the _chicards_, and also, some years before, in rome. what stories they told of artists whom they had known! what fun they made of academic dons and grave professors high in authority! what pictures they drew, of life in rome--in vienna--in paris! though we had no ladies of our party and were only three in number, i am not sure that the merry-makers in the next room laughed any louder or oftener than we! at length the clock on the mantelpiece warned us that it was already half-past nine, and that we had been three hours at dinner. it was clearly time to vary the evening's amusement in some way or other, and the only question was what next to do? should we go to a billiard-room? or to the salle valentinois? or to some of the cheap theatres on the boulevard du temple? or to the tableaux vivants? or the café des aveugles? or take a drive round by the champs elysées in an open fly? at length müller remembered that some fellow-students were giving a party that evening, and offered to introduce us. "it is up five pairs of stairs, in the quartier latin," said he; "but thoroughly jolly--all students and grisettes. they'll be delighted to see us." this admirable proposition was no sooner made than acted upon; so we started immediately, and dalrymple, who seemed to be well acquainted with the usages of student-life, proposed that we should take with us a store of sweetmeats for the ladies. "there subsists," observed he, "a mysterious elective affinity between the grisette and the chocolate bon-bon. he who can skilfully exhibit the latter, is almost certain to win the heart of the former. where the chocolate fails, however, the _marron glacé_ is an infallible specific. i recommend that we lay in a liberal supply of both weapons." "carried by acclamation," said müller. "we can buy them on our way, in the rue vivienne. a capital shop; but one that i never patronize--they give no credit." chatting thus, and laughing, we made our way across the boulevard and through a net-work of by-streets into the rue vivienne, where we laid siege to a great bon-bon shop--a gigantic depot for dyspepsia at so much per kilogramme--and there filled our pockets with sweets of every imaginable flavor and color. this done, a cab conveyed us in something less than ten minutes across the pont neuf to the quartier latin. müller's friends were three in number, and all students--one of art, one of law, and one of medicine. they lodged at the top of a dingy house near the odéon, and being very great friends and very near neighbors were giving this entertainment conjointly. their names were gustave, jules, and adrien. adrien was the artist, and lived in the garret, just over the heads of gustave and jules, which made it very convenient for a party, and placed a _suite_ of rooms at the disposal of their visitors. long before we had achieved the five pairs of stairs, we heard the sound of voices and the scraping of a violin, and on the fifth landing were received by a pretty young lady in a coquettish little cap, whom müller familiarly addressed as annette, and who piloted us into a very small bed-room which was already full of hats and coats, bonnets, shawls, and umbrellas. having added our own paletots and beavers to the general stock, and having each received a little bit of pasteboard in exchange for the same, we were shown into the ball-room by mademoiselle annette, who appeared to fill the position of hostess, usher, and general superintendent. it was a good-sized room, somewhat low in the ceiling, and brilliantly lighted with lots of tallow candles in bottles. the furniture had all been cleared out for the dancers, except a row of benches round the walls, and a chest of draws in a recess between the windows which served as a raised platform for the orchestra. the said orchestra consisted of a violin and accordion, both played by amateurs, with an occasional _obligato_ on the common comb. as for the guests, they were, as müller had already told us, all students and grisettes--the former wearing every strange variety of beard and blouse; the latter in pretty light-colored muslins and bewitching little caps, with the exception of two who wore flowers in their hair, and belonged to the opera ballet. they were in the midst of a tremendous galop when we arrived; so we stood at the door and looked on, and dalrymple flirted with mademoiselle annette. as soon as the galop was over, two of our hosts came forward to welcome us. "the duke of dalrymple and the marquis of arbuthnot--messieurs jules charpentier and gustave dubois," said müller, with the most _dégagé_ air in the world. monsieur jules, a tall young man with an enormous false nose of the regular carnival pattern, and monsieur gustave, who was short and stout, with a visible high-water mark round his throat and wrists, and curious leather mosaics in his boots, received us very cordially, and did not appear to be in the least surprised at the magnificence of the introduction. on the contrary, they shook hands with us; apologized for the absence of adrien, who was preparing the supper upstairs; and offered to find us partners for the next valse. dalrymple immediately proposed for the hand of mademoiselle annette. müller, declining adventitious aid, wandered among the ladies, making himself universally agreeable and trusting for a partner to his own unassisted efforts. for myself, i was indebted to monsieur gustave for an introduction to a very charming young lady whose name was josephine, and with whom i fell over head and ears in love without a moment's warning. she was somewhat under the middle height, slender, supple, rosy-lipped, and coquettish to distraction. her pretty mouth dimpled round with smiles at every word it uttered. her very eyes laughed. her hair, which was more adorned than concealed by a tiny muslin cap that clung by some unseen agency to the back of her head, was of a soft, warm, wavy brown, with a woof of gold threading it here and there. her voice was perhaps a little loud; her conversation rather childish; her accent such as would scarcely have passed current in the faubourg st. germain--but what of that? one would be worse than foolish to expect style and cultivation in a grisette; and had i not had enough to disgust me with both in madame de marignan? what more charming, after all, than youth, beauty, and lightheartedness? were noel and chapsal of any importance to a mouth that could not speak without such a smile as hebe might have envied? i was, at all events, in no mood to take exception to these little defects. i am not sure that i did not even regard them in the light of additional attractions. that which in another i should have called _bête_, i set down to the score of _naïveté_ in mademoiselle josephine. one is not diffident at twenty--by the way, i was now twenty-one--especially after dining at the maison dorée. mademoiselle josephine was frankness itself. before i had enjoyed the pleasure of her acquaintance for ten minutes, she told me she was an artificial florist; that her _patronne_ lived in the rue ménilmontant; that she went to her work every morning at nine, and left it every evening at eight; that she lodged _sous les toits_ at no. , rue aubry-le-boucher; that her relations lived at juvisy; and that she went to see them now and then on sundays, when the weather and her funds permitted. "is the country pretty at juvisy, mademoiselle?" i asked, by way of keeping up the conversation. "oh, m'sieur, it is a real paradise. there are trees and fields, and there is the seine close by, and a château, and a park, and a church on a hill, ... _ma foi!_ there is nothing in paris half so pretty; not even the jardin des plantes!" "and have you been there lately?" "not for eight weeks, at the very least, m'sieur. but then it costs three francs and a half for the return ticket, and since i quarrelled with emile...." "emile!" said i, quickly. "who is he?" "he is a picture-frame maker, m'sieur, and works for a great dealer in the rue du faubourg montmartre. he was my sweetheart, and he took me out somewhere every sunday, till we quarrelled." "and what did you quarrel about, mademoiselle?" my pretty partner laughed and tossed her head. "eh, _mon dieu_! he was jealous." "jealous of whom?" "of a gentleman--an artist--who wanted to paint me in one of his pictures. emile did not like me to go to his _atelier_ so often; and the gentleman gave me a shawl (such a pretty shawl!) and a canary in a lovely green and gold cage; and...." "and emile objected ?" "yes, m'sieur." "how very unreasonable!" "that's just what i said, m'sieur." "and have you never seen him since!" "oh, yes--he keeps company now with my cousin cecile, and she humors him in everything," "and the artist--what of him, mademoiselle?" "oh, i sat to him every day, till his picture was finished. _il était bien gentil_. he took me to the theatre several times, and once to a fête at versailles; but that was after emile and i had broken it off." "did you find it tiresome, sitting as a model?" "_mais, comme ci, et comme ça_! it was a beautiful dress, and became me wonderfully. to be sure, it was rather cold!" "may i ask what character you were supposed to represent, mademoiselle?" "he said it was phryne. i have no idea who she was; but i think she must have found it very uncomfortable if she always wore sandals, and went without stockings." i looked down at her little foot, and thought how pretty it must have looked in the greek sandal. i pictured her to myself in the graceful greek robe, with a chalice in her hand and her temples crowned with flowers. what a delicious phryne! and what a happy fellow praxiteles must have been! "it was a privilege, mademoiselle, to be allowed to see you in so charming a costume," i said, pressing her hand tenderly. "i envy that artist from the bottom of my heart." mademoiselle josephine smiled, and returned the pressure. "one might borrow it," said she, "for the bal de l'opéra." "ah, mademoiselle, if i dared only aspire to the honor of conducting you!" "_dame_! it is nearly four months to come!" "true, but in the meantime, mademoiselle----" "in the meantime," said the fair josephine, anticipating my hopes with all the unembarrassed straightforwardness imaginable, "i shall be delighted to improve m'sieur's acquaintance." "mademoiselle, you make me happy!" "besides, m'sieur is an englishman, and i like the english so much!" "i am delighted to hear it, mademoiselle. i hope i shall never give you cause to alter your opinion." "last galop before supper!" shouted monsieur jules through, a brass speaking-trumpet, in order to make use of which he was obliged to hold up his nose with one hand. "gentlemen, choose your partners. all couples to dance till they drop!" there were a dozen up immediately, amongst whom dalrymple and mademoiselle annette, and müller with one of the ballet ladies, were the first to start. as for josephine, she proved to be a damsel of forty-galop power. she never wanted to rest, and she never cared to leave off. she did not even look warm when it was over. i wonder to this day how it was that i did not die on the spot. when the galop was ended, we all went upstairs to monsieur adrien's garret, where monsieur adrien, who had red hair and wore glasses, received us in person, and made us welcome. here we found the supper elegantly laid out on two doors which had been taken off their hinges for the purpose; but which, being supported from beneath on divers boxes and chairs of unequal heights, presented a painfully sloping surface, thereby causing the jellies to look like leaning towers of pisa, and the spongecake (which was already professedly tipsy) to assume an air so unbecomingly convivial that it might almost have been called drunk. nobody thought of sitting down, and, if they did, there were no means of doing so; for monsieur adrien's garret was none of the largest, and, as in a small villa residence we sometimes see the whole house sacrificed to a winding staircase, so in this instance had the whole room been sacrificed to the splendor of the supper. for the inconvenience of standing, we were compensated, however, by the abundance and excellence of the fare. there were cold chickens, meat-pies, dishes of sliced ham, pyramids of little bologna sausages, huge rolls of bread a yard in length, lobster salad, and cold punch in abundance. the flirtations at supper were tremendous. in a bachelor establishment one cannot expect to find every convenience, and on this occasion the prevailing deficiencies were among the plates and glasses; so those who had been partners in the dance now became partners in other matters, eating off the same plate and drinking out of the same tumbler; but this only made it so much the merrier. by and by somebody volunteered a song, and somebody else made a speech, and then we went down again to the ball-room, and dancing recommenced. the laughter now became louder, and the legs of the guests more vigorous than ever. the orchestra, too, received an addition to its strength in the person of a gentleman who, having drunk more cold punch than was quite consistent with the preservation of his equilibrium, was still sober enough to oblige us with a spirited accompaniment on the shovel and tongs, which, with the violin and accordion, and the comb _obligato_ before mentioned, produced a startling effect, and reminded one of turkish marches, pantomime overtures, and the like barbaric music. in the midst of the first polka, however, we were interrupted by a succession of furious double knocks on the floor beneath our feet. we stopped by involuntary consent--dancers, musicians, and all. "it's our neighbor on the story below," said monsieur jules. "he objects to the dancing." "then we'll dance a little heavier, to teach him better taste," said a student, who had so little hair on his head and so much on his chin, that he looked as if his face had been turned upside down. "what is the name of the ridiculous monster?" "monsieur bobinet." "ladies and gentlemen, let us dance for the edification of monsieur bobinet! orchestra, strike up, in honor of monsieur bobinet! one, two, three, and away!" hereupon we uttered a general hurrah, and dashed off again, like a herd of young elephants. the knocking ceased, and we thought that monsieur bobinet had resigned himself to his fate, when, just as the polka ended and the dancers were promenading noisily round and round the room, the bombardment began afresh; and this time against the very door of the ball-room. "_par exemple_!" cries monsieur jules. "the enemy dares to attack us in our own lines!" "bolt the door, and let him knock till he's tired," suggested one. "open it suddenly, and deluge him with water!" cried another. "tar and feather him!" proposed a third. in the meantime, monsieur bobinet, happily ignorant of these agreeable schemes for his reception, continued to thunder away upon the outer panels, accompanying the raps with occasional loud coughs, and hems, and stampings of the feet. "hush! do nothing violent," cried müller, scenting a practical joke. "let us invite him in, and make fun of him. it will be ever so much more amusing!" and with this he drove the rest somewhat back and threw open the door, upon the outer threshold of which, with a stick in one hand and a bedroom candle in the other, and a flowered dressing-gown tied round his ample waist by a cord and tassels, stood monsieur bobinet. müller received him with a profound bow, and said:-- "monsieur bobinet, i believe?" monsieur bobinet, who was very bald, very cross, and very stout, cast an irritable glance into the room, but, seeing so many people, drew back and said:-- "yes, that is my name, monsieur. i lodge on the fourth floor...." "but pray walk in, monsieur bobinet," said müller, opening the door still wider and bowing still more profoundly. "monsieur," returned the fourth-floor lodger, "i--i only come to complain...." "whatever the occasion of this honor, monsieur," pursued the student, with increasing politeness, "we cannot suffer you to remain on the landing. pray do us the favor to walk in." "oh, walk in--pray walk in, monsieur bobinet," echoed jules, gustave, and adrien, all together. the fourth-floor lodger hesitated; took a step forward; thought, perhaps, that, since we were all so polite, he would do his best to conciliate us; and, glancing down nervously at his dressing-gown and slippers, said:-- "really, gentlemen, i should have much pleasure, but i am not prepared...." "don't mention it, monsieur bobinet," said müller. "we are delighted to receive you. allow me to disembarrass you of your candle." "and permit me," said jules, "to relieve you of your stick." "pray, monsieur bobinet, do you never dance the polka?" asked gustave. "bring monsieur bobinet a glass of cold punch," said adrien. "and a plate of lobster salad," added the bearded student. monsieur bobinet, finding the door already closed behind him, looked round nervously; but encountering only polite and smiling faces, endeavored to seem at his ease, and to put a good face upon the matter. "indeed, gentlemen, i must beg you to excuse me," said he. "i never drink at night, and i never eat suppers. i only came to request...." "nay, monsieur bobinet, we cannot suffer you to leave us without taking a glass of cold punch," pursued müller. "upon my word," began the lodger, "i dare not...." "a glass of white wine, then?" "or a cup of coffee?" "or some home-made lemonade?" monsieur bobinet cast a look of helpless longing towards the door. "if you really insist, gentlemen," said he, "i will take a cup of coffee; but indeed...." "a cup of coffee for monsieur bobinet!" shouted müller. "a large cup of coffee for monsieur bobinet!" repeated jules. "a strong cup of coffee for monsieur bobinet!" cried gustave, following up the lead of the other two. the fourth-floor lodger frowned and colored up, beginning to be suspicious of mischief. seeing this, müller hastened to apologize. "you must pardon us, monsieur bobinet," he said with the most winning amiability, "if we are all in unusually high spirits to-night. you are not aware, perhaps, that our friend monsieur jules charpentier was married this morning, and that we are here in celebration of that happy event. allow me to introduce you to the bride." and turning to one of the ballet ladies, he led her forward with exceeding gravity, and presented her to monsieur bobinet as madame charpentier. the fourth-floor lodger bowed, and went through the usual congratulations. in the meantime, some of the others had prepared a mock sofa by means of two chairs set somewhat wide apart, with a shawl thrown over the whole to conceal the space between. upon one of these chairs sat a certain young lady named louise, and upon the other mam'selle josephine. as soon as it was ready, muller, who had been only waiting for it, affected to observe for the first time that monsieur bobinet was still standing. "_mon dieu_!" he exclaimed, "has no one offered our visitor a chair? monsieur bobinet, i beg a thousand pardons. pray do us the favor to be seated. your coffee will be here immediately, and these ladies on the sofa will be delighted to make room for you." "oh yes, pray be seated, monsieur bobinet," cried the two girls. "we shall be charmed to make room for monsieur bobinet!" more than ever confused and uncomfortable, poor monsieur bobinet bowed; sat down upon the treacherous space between the two chairs; went through immediately; and presented the soles of his slippers to the company in the least picturesque manner imaginable. this involuntary performance was greeted with a shout of wild delight. "bravo, monsieur bobinet!" "_vive_ monsieur bobinet!" "three cheers for monsieur bobinet!" scarlet with rage, the fourth-floor lodger sprang to his feet and made a rush to the door; but he was hemmed in immediately. in vain he stormed; in vain he swore. we joined hands; we called for music; we danced round him; we sang; and at last, having fairly bumped and thumped and hustled him till we were tired, pushed him out on the landing, and left him to his fate. after this interlude, the mirth grew fast and furious. _valse_ succeeded _valse_, and galop followed galop, till the orchestra declared they could play no longer, and the gentleman with the shovel and tongs collapsed in a corner of the room and went to sleep with his head in the coal-scuttle. then the ballet-ladies were prevailed upon to favor us with a _pas de deux_; after which müller sang a comic song with a chorus, in which everybody joined; and then the orchestra was bribed with hot brandy-and-water, and dancing commenced again. by this time the visitors began to drop away in twos and threes, and even the fair josephine, to whom i had never ceased paying the most devoted attention, declared she could not stir another step. as for dalrymple, he had disappeared during supper, without a word of leave-taking to any one. matters being at this pass, i looked at my watch, and found that it was already half-past six o'clock; so, having bade good-night, or rather good-morning, to messieurs jules, gustave, and adrien, and having, with great difficulty, discovered my own coat and hat among the miscellaneous collection in the adjoining bed-room, i prepared to escort mademoiselle josephine to her home. "going already?" said müller, encountering us on the landing, with a roll in one hand and a bologna sausage in the other. "already! why, my dear fellow, it is nearly seven o'clock!" "_qu'importe_? come up to the supper-room and have some breakfast!" "not for the world!" "well, _chacun à son goût_. i am as hungry as a hunter." "can i not take you any part of your way?" "no, thank you. i am a quartier latinist, _pur sang_, and lodge only a street or two off. stay, here is my address. come and see me--you can't think how glad i shall be!" "indeed, i will come---and here is my card in exchange. good-night, herr müller." "good-night, marquis of arbuthnot. mademoiselle josephine, _au plaisir_." so we shook hands and parted, and i saw my innamorata home to her residence at no. , rue aubry le boucher, which opened upon the marché des innocents. she fell asleep upon my shoulder in the cab, and was only just sufficiently awake when i left her, to accept all the _marrons glacés_ that yet remained in the pockets of my paletot, and to remind me that i had promised to take her out next sunday for a drive in the country, and a dinner at the moulin rouge. the fountain in the middle of the marché was now sparkling in the sunshine like a shower of diamonds, and the business of the market was already at its height. the shops in the neighboring streets were opening fast. the "iron tongue" of st. eustache was calling the devout to early prayer. fagged as i was, i felt that a walk through the fresh air would do me good; so i dismissed the cab, and reached my lodgings just as the sleepy _concierge_ had turned out to sweep the hall, and open the establishment for the day. when i came down again two hours later, after a nap and a bath, i found a _commissionnaire_ waiting for me. "_tiens_!" said madame bouïsse (madame bouïsse was the wife of the _concierge_). "_v'la_! here is m'sieur arbuthnot." the man touched his cap, and handed me a letter. "i was told to deliver it into no hands but those of m'sieur himself," said he. the address was in dalrymple's writing. i tore the envelope open. it contained only a card, on the back of which, scrawled hastily in pencil, were the following words: "to have said good-bye would have made our parting none the lighter. by the time you decipher this hieroglyphic i shall be some miles on my way: address hôtel de russie, berlin. adieu, damon; god bless you. o.d." "how long is it since this letter was given to you?" said i, without taking my eyes from the card. the _commissionnaire_ made no reply. i repeated the question, looked up impatiently, and found that the man was already gone. chapter xx. the chateau de sainte aulaire. "mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze." my acquaintance with mademoiselle josephine progressed rapidly; although, to confess the truth, i soon found myself much less deeply in love than i had at first supposed. for this disenchantment, fate and myself were alone to blame. it was not her fault if i had invested her with a thousand imaginary perfections; nor mine if the spell was broken as soon as i discovered my mistake. too impatient to wait till sunday, i made my way on saturday afternoon to rue aubry-le-boucher. i persuaded myself that i was bound to call on her, in order to conclude our arrangements for the following day. at all events, i argued, she might forget the engagement, or believe that i had forgotten it. so i went, taking with me a magnificent bouquet, and an embroidered satin bag full of _marrons glacés_. my divinity lived, as she had told me, _sous les toits_--and _sous les toits_, up seven flights of very steep and dirty stairs, i found her. it was a large attic with a sloping roof, overlooking a bristling expanse of chimney-pots, and commanding the twin towers of notre dame. there were some colored prints of battles and shipwrecks wafered to the walls; a couple of flower-pots in the narrow space between the window-ledge and the coping outside; a dingy canary in a wire cage; a rival mechanical cuckoo in a dutch clock in the corner; a little bed with striped hangings; a rush-bottomed _prie-dieu_ chair in front of a plain black crucifix, over which drooped a faded branch of consecrated palm; and some few articles of household furniture of the humblest description. in all this there was nothing vulgar. under other circumstances i might, perhaps, have even elicited somewhat of grace and poetry from these simple materials. but conceive what it was to see them through an atmosphere of warm white steam that left an objectionable clamminess on the backs of the chairs and caused even the door-handle to burst into a tepid perspiration. conceive what it was to behold my adored one standing in the middle of the room, up to her elbows in soap-suds, washing out the very dress in which she was to appear on the morrow.... good taste defend us! could anything be more cruelly calculated to disturb the tender tenor of a lover's dreams? fancy what leander would have felt, if, after swimming across the hellespont, he had surprised hero at the washing-tub! imagine romeo's feelings, if he had scaled the orchard-walls only to find juliet helping to hang out the family linen! the worst of it was that my lovely josephine was not in the least embarrassed. she evidently regarded the washing-tub as a desirable piece of furniture, and was not even conscious that the act of "soaping in," was an unromantic occupation! such was the severity of this first blow that i pleaded an engagement, presented my offerings (how dreadfully inappropriate they seemed!), and hurried away to a lecture on _materia medica_ at the _École pratique_; that being a good, congenial, dismal entertainment for the evening! sunday came with the sunrise, and at midday, true as the clock of st. eustache, i knocked once more at the door of the _mansarde_ where my josephine dwelt. this time, my visit being anticipated, i found her dressed to receive me. she looked more fresh and charming than ever; and the lilac muslin which i had seen in the washing-tub some eighteen or twenty hours before, became her to perfection. so did her pretty green shawl, pinned closely at the throat and worn as only a french-woman would have known how to wear it. so did the white camellia and the moss-rose buds which she had taken out of my bouquet, and fastened at her waist. what i was not prepared for, however, was her cap. i had forgotten that your parisian grisette[ ] would no more dream of wearing a bonnet than of crowning her head with feathers and adorning her countenance with war-paint. it had totally escaped me that i, a bashful englishman of twenty-one, nervously sensitive to ridicule and gifted by nature with but little of the spirit of social defiance, must in broad daylight make my appearance in the streets of paris, accompanied by a bonnetless grisette! what should i do, if i met dr. chéron? or madame de courcelles? or, worse than all, madame de marignan? my obvious resource was to take her in whatever direction we should be least likely to meet any of my acquaintances. where, oh fate! might that obscurity be found which had suddenly become the dearest object of my desires? [ ] the grisette of twenty years ago, _bien entendu_. i am writing, be it remembered, of "the days of my youth." "_eh bien_, monsieur basil," said josephine, when my first compliments had been paid. "i am quite ready. where are we going?" "we shall dine, _mon cher ange_," said i, absently, "at--let me see--at...." "at the moulin rouge," interrupted she. "but that is six hours to come. in the meantime--" "in the meantime? ay, in the meantime...what a delightful day for the time of year!" "shall it be versailles?" suggested josephine. "heaven forbid!" josephine opened her large eyes. "_mon dieu!_" said she. "what is there so very dreadful in versailles?" i made no reply. i was passing all the suburbs in review before my mind's eye,--bellevue, enghien, fontenay-aux-roses, st. germains, sceaux; even fontainebleau and compiègne. the grisette pouted, and glanced at the clock. "if monsieur is as slow to start as he is to answer," said she, "we shall not get beyond the barriers to-day." at this moment, i remembered to have heard of montlhéry as a place where there was a forest and a feudal ruin; also, which was more to the purpose, as lying at least six-and-twenty miles south of paris. "my dear mademoiselle josephine," i said, "forgive me. i have planned an excursion which i am sure will please you infinitely better than a mere common-place trip to versailles. versailles, on sunday, is vulgar. you have heard, of course, of montlhéry--one of the most interesting places near paris." "i have read a romance called _the tower of montlhéry"_ said josephine. "and that tower--that historical and interesting tower--is still standing! how delightful to wander among the ruins--to recall the stirring events which caused it to be besieged in the reign of--of either louis the eleventh, or louis the fourteenth; i don't remember which, and it doesn't signify--to explore the picturesque village, and ramble through the adjoining woods of st. geneviève--to visit..." "i wonder if we shall find any donkeys to ride," interrupted josephine, upon whom my eloquence was taking the desired effect. "donkeys!" i exclaimed, drawing, i am ashamed to say, upon my imagination. "of course--hundreds of them!" "_ah, ça_! then the sooner we go the better. stay, i must just lock my door, and leave word with my neighbor on the next floor that i am gone out for the day," so she locked the door and left the message, and we started. i was fortunate enough to find a close cab at the corner of the _marché_--she would have preferred an open one, but i overruled that objection on the score of time--and before very long we were seated in the cushioned fauteuils of a first-class compartment on the orleans railway, and speeding away towards montlhéry. it was with no trifling sense of relief that i found the place really picturesque, when we arrived. we had, it is true, to put up with a comfortless drive of three or four miles in a primitive, jolting, yellow omnibus, which crawled at stated hours of the day between the town and the station; but that was a minor evil, and we made the best of it. first of all, we strolled through the village--the clean, white, sunny village, where the people were sitting outside their doors playing at dominoes, and the cocks and hens were walking about like privileged inhabitants of the market-place. then we had luncheon at the _auberge_ of the "lion d'or." then we looked in at the little church (still smelling of incense from the last service) with its curious old altar-piece and monumental brasses. then we peeped through the iron gate of the melancholy _cimetière_, which was full of black crosses and wreaths of _immortelles_. last of all, we went to see the ruin, which stood on the summit of a steep and solitary rock in the midst of a vast level plain. it proved to be a round keep of gigantic strength and height, approached by two courtyards and surrounded by the weed-grown and fragmentary traces of an extensive stronghold, nothing of which now remained save a few broken walls, three or four embrasured loopholes, an ancient well of incalculable depth, and the rusted teeth of a formidable portcullis. here we paused awhile to rest and admire the view; while josephine, pleased as a child on a holiday, flung pebbles into the well, ate sugar-plums, and amused herself with my pocket-telescope. "_regardez_!" she cried, "there is the dome of the panthéon. i am sure it is the panthéon--and to the right, far away, i see a town!--little white houses, and a steeple. and there goes a steamer on the river--and there is the railway and the railway station, and the long road by which we came in the omnibus. oh, how nice it is, monsieur basil, to look through a telescope!" "do me the favor, _ma belle_, to accept it--for my sake," said i, thankful to find her so easily entertained. i was lying in a shady angle of old wall, puffing away at a cigar, with my hat over my eyes, and the soles of my boots levelled at the view. it is difficult to smoke and make love at the same time; and i preferred the tobacco. josephine was enchanted, and thanked me in a thousand pretty, foolish phrases. she declared she saw ever so much farther and clearer with the glass, now that it was her own. she looked at me through it, and insisted that i should look at her. she picked out all sorts of marvellous objects, at all sorts of incredible distances. in short, she prattled and chattered till i forgot all about the washing-tub, and again began to think her quite charming. presently we heard wandering sounds of music among the trees at the foot of the hill--sounds as of a violin and bagpipes; now coming with the wind from the west, now dying away to the north, now bursting out afresh more merrily than ever, and leading off towards the village. "_tiens_! that must be a wedding!" said josephine, drumming with her little feet against the side of the old well on which she was sitting. "a wedding! what connection subsists, pray, between the bonds of matrimony, and a tune on the bagpipes?" "i don't know what you mean by bagpipes--i only know that when people get married in the country, they go about with the musicians playing before them. what you hear yonder is a violin and a _cornemuse_." "a _cornemuse!_" i repeated. "what's that?" "oh, country music. a thing you blow into with your mouth, and play upon with your fingers, and squeeze under your arm--like this." "then it's the same thing, _ma chère_," said i. "a bagpipes and a _cornemuse_--a _cornemuse_ and bagpipes. both of them national, popular, and frightful." "i'm so fond of music," said josephine. not wishing to object to her tastes, and believing that this observation related to the music then audible, i made no reply. "and i have never been to an opera," added she. i was still silent, though from another motive. "you will take me one night to the italiens, or the opéra comique, will you not, monsieur basil?" pursued she, determined not to lose her opportunity. i had now no resource but to promise; which i did, very reluctantly. "you would enjoy the opéra comique far more than the italiens," said i, remembering that madame de marignan had a box at the italiens, and rapidly weighing the chances for and against the possibility of recognition. "at the first they sing in french--at the last, in italian," "ah, bah! i should prefer the french," replied she, falling at once into the snare. "when shall it be--this week?" "ye--es; one evening this week." "what evening?" "well, let me see--we had better wait, and consult the advertisements." "_dame_! never mind the advertisements. let it be tuesday." "why tuesday?" "because it is soon; and because i can get away early on tuesdays if i ask leave." i had, plainly, no chance of escape. "you would not prefer to see the great military piece at the porte st. martin?" i suggested. "there are three hundred real soldiers in it, and they fire real cannon." "not i! i have been to the porte st. martin, over and over again. emile knew one of the scene-painter's assistants, and used to get tickets two or three times a month." "then it shall be the opera comique," said i, with a sigh. "and on tuesday evening next." "on tuesday evening next." at this moment the piping and fiddling broke out afresh, and josephine, who had scarcely taken the little telescope from her eye all the time, exclaimed that she saw the wedding party going through the market-place of the town. "there they are--the musicians first; the bride and bridegroom next; and eight friends, all two and two! there will be a dance, depend on it! let us go down to the town, and hear all about it! perhaps they might invite us to join them--who knows?" "but you would not dance before dinner?" "_eh, mon dieu_! i would dance before breakfast, if i had the chance. come along. if we do not make haste, we may miss them." i rose, feeling, and i daresay, looking, like a martyr; and we went down again into the town. there we inquired of the first person who seemed likely to know--he was a dapper hairdresser, standing at his shop-door with his hands in his apron pockets and a comb behind his ear--and were told that the wedding-party had just passed through the village, on their way to the chateau of saint aulaire. "the chateau of st. aulaire!" said josephine. "what are they going to do there? what is there to see?" "it is an ancient mansion, mademoiselle, much visited by strangers," replied the hairdresser with exceeding politeness. "worthy of mademoiselle's distinguished attention--and monsieur's. contains old furniture, old paintings, old china--stands in an extensive park--one of the lions of this neighborhood, mademoiselle--also monsieur." "to whom does it belong?" i asked, somewhat interested in this account. "that, monsieur, is a question difficult to answer," replied the fluent hairdresser, running his fingers through his locks and dispersing a gentle odor of rose-oil. "it was formerly the property of the ancient family of saint aulaire. the last marquis de saint aulaire, with his wife and family, were guillotined in . some say that the young heir was saved; and an individual asserting himself to be that heir did actually put forward a claim to the estate, some twenty, or five-and-twenty years ago, but lost his cause for want of sufficient proof. in the meantime, it had passed into the hands of a wealthy republican family, descended, it is said, from general dumouriez. this family held it till within the last four years, when two or three fresh claimants came forward; so that it is now the object of a lawsuit which may last till every brick of it falls to ruin, and every tree about it withers away. at present, a man and his wife have charge of the place, and visitors are permitted to see it any day between twelve and four." "i should like to see the old place," said i. "and i should like to see how the bride is dressed," said josephine, "and if the bridegroom is handsome." "well, let us go--not forgetting to thank monsieur _le perruquier_ for his polite information." monsieur _le perruquier_ fell into what dancing-masters call the first position, and bowed elaborately. "most welcome, mademoiselle--and monsieur," said he. "straight up the road--past the orchard about a quarter of a mile--old iron gates--can't miss it. good-afternoon, mademoiselle--also monsieur." following his directions, we came presently to the gates, which were rusty and broken-hinged, with traces of old gilding still showing faintly here and there upon their battered scrolls and bosses. one of them was standing open, and had evidently been standing so for years; while the other had as evidently been long closed, so that the deep grass had grown rankly all about it, and the very bolt was crusted over with a yellow lichen. between the two, an ordinary wooden hurdle had been put up, and this hurdle was opened for us by a little blue-bloused urchin in a pair of huge _sabots_, who, thinking we belonged to the bridal party, pointed up the dusky avenue, and said, with a grin:-- "_tout droit, m'sieur--ils sont passés par là!_" _par là_, "under the shade of melancholy boughs," we went accordingly. far away on either side stretched dim vistas of neglected park-land, deep with coarse grass and weeds and, where the trees stood thickest, all choked with a brambly undergrowth. after about a quarter of a mile of this dreary avenue, we came to a broad area of several acres laid out in the italian style with fountains and terraces, at the upper end of which stood the house--a feudal, _moyen-âge_ french chateau, with irregular wings, steep slated roofings, innumerable windows, and fantastic steeple-topped turrets sheeted with lead and capped with grotesque gilded weathercocks. the principal front had been repaired in the style of the renaissance and decorated with little foliated entablatures above the doors and windows; whilst a double flight of steps leading up to a grand entrance on the level of the first story, like the famous double staircase of fontainebleau, had been patched on in the very centre, to the manifest disfigurement of the building. most of the windows were shuttered up, and as we drew nearer, the general evidences of desolation became more apparent. the steps of the terraces were covered with patches of brown and golden moss. the stone urns were some of them fallen in the deep grass, and some broken. there were gaps in the rich balustrade here and there; and the two great fountains on either side of the lower terrace had long since ceased to fling up their feathery columns towards the sun. in the middle of one a broken pan, noseless and armless, turned up a stony face of mute appeal, as if imploring us to free him from the parasitic jungle of aquatic plants which flourished rankly round him in the basin. in the other, a stalwart river-god with his finger on his lip, seemed listening for the music of those waters which now scarcely stirred amid the tangled weeds that clustered at his feet. passing all these, passing also the flower-beds choked with brambles and long waving grasses, and the once quaintly-clipped myrtle and box-trees, all flinging out fantastic arms of later growth, we came to the upper terrace, which was paved in curious patterns of stars and arabesques, with stones alternately round and flat. here a good-humored, cleanly peasant woman came clattering out in her _sabots_ from a side-door, key in hand, preceded us up the double flight of steps, unlocked the great door, and admitted us. the interior, like the front, had been modernized about a hundred and fifty years before, and resembled a little formal versailles or miniature fontainebleau. dismantled halls paved with white marble; panelled ante-chambers an inch deep in dust; dismal _salons_ adorned with renaissance arabesques and huge looking-glasses, cracked and mildewed, and mended with pasted seams of blue paper; boudoirs with faded watteau panellings; corridors with painted ceilings where mythological divinities, marvellously foreshortened on a sky-blue ground, were seen surrounded by rose-colored cupids and garlanded with ribbons and flowers; innumerable bed-rooms, some containing grim catafalques of beds with gilded cornices and funereal plumes, some empty, some full of stored-up furniture fast going to decay--all these in endless number we traversed, conducted by the good-tempered _concierge_, whose heavy _sabots_ awakened ghostly echoes from floor to floor. at length, through an ante-chamber lined with a double file of grim old family portraits--some so blackened with age and dust as to be totally indistinguishable, and others bulging hideously out of their frames--we came to the library, a really noble room, lofty, panelled with walnut wood, floored with polished oak, and looking over a wide expanse of level country. long ranges of empty book-shelves fenced in with broken wire-work ran round the walls. the painted ceiling represented, as usual, the heavens and some pagan divinities. a dumb old time-piece, originally constructed to tell the months, the days of the year, and the hours, stood on a massive corner bracket near the door. long antique mirrors in heavy black frames reached from floor to ceiling between each of the windows; and in the centre of the room, piled all together and festooned with a thick drapery of cobwebs, stood a dozen or so of old carved chairs, screens, and foot-stools, rich with velvet, brocade, and gilded leather, but now looking as if a touch would crumble them to dust. over the great carved fireplace, however, hung a painting upon which my attention became riveted as soon as i entered the room--a painting yellow with age; covered with those minute cracks which are like wrinkles on the face of antique art, coated with dust, and yet so singularly attractive that, having once noticed it, i looked at nothing else. it was the half-length portrait of a young lady in the costume of the reign of louis xvi. one hand rested on a stone urn; the other was raised to her bosom, holding a thin blue scarf that seemed to flutter in the wind. her dress was of white satin, cut low and square, with a stomacher of lace and pearls. she also wore pearls in her hair, on her white arms, and on her whiter neck. thus much for the mere adjuncts; as for the face--ah, how can i ever describe that pale, perfect, tender face, with its waving brown hair and soft brown eyes, and that steadfast perpetual smile that seemed to light the eyes from within, and to dwell in the corners of the lips without parting or moving them? it was like a face seen in a dream, or the imperfect image which seems to come between us and the page when we read of imogen asleep. "who was this lady?" i asked, eagerly. the _concierge_ nodded and rubbed her hands. "aha! m'sieur," said she, "'tis the best painting in the chateau, as folks tell me. m'sieur is a connoisseur." "but do you know whose portrait it is?" "to be sure i do, m'sieur. it's the portrait of the last marquise--the one who was guillotined, poor soul, with her husband, in--let me see--in !" "what an exquisite creature! look, josephine, did you ever see anything so beautiful?" "beautiful!" repeated the grisette, with a sidelong glance at one of the mirrors. "beautiful, with such a coiffure and such a bodice! _ciel!_ how tastes differ!" "but her face, josephine!" "what of her face? i'm sure it's plain enough." "plain! good heavens! what..." but it was not worth while to argue upon it. i pulled out one of the old chairs, and so climbed near enough to dust the surface of the painting with my handkerchief. "i wish i could buy it!" i exclaimed. josephine burst into a loud laugh. "_grand dieu_!" said she, half pettishly, "if you are so much in love with it as all that, i dare say it would not be difficult!" the _concierge_ shook her head. "everything on this estate is locked up," said she. "nothing can be sold, nothing given away, nothing even repaired, till the _procès_ is ended." i sighed, and came down reluctantly from my perch. josephine was visibly impatient. she had seen the wedding-party going down one of the walks at the back of the house; and the _concierge_ was waiting to let us out. i drew her aside, and slipped a liberal gratuity into her hand. "if i were to come down here some day with a friend of mine who is a painter," i whispered, "would you have any objection, madame, to allow him to make a little sketch of that portrait?" the _concierge_ looked into her palm, and seeing the value of the coin, smiled, hesitated, put her finger to her lip, and said:-- "_ma foi_, m'sieur, i believe i have no business to allow it; but--to oblige a gentleman like you--if there was nobody about--" i nodded. we understood each other sufficiently, and no more was needed. once out of the house, medemoiselle josephine pouted, and took upon herself to be sulky--a disposition which was by no means lessened when, after traversing the park in various directions in search of the bridal company, we found that they had gone out long ago by a gate at the other side of the estate, and were by this time piping, most probably, in the adjoining parish. it was now five o'clock; so we hastened back through the village, cast a last glance at the grim old tower on its steep solitude, consigned ourselves to the yellow omnibus, and in due time were once more flying along the iron road towards paris. the rapid motion, the dignity of occupying a first-class seat, and, above all, the prospects of an excellent dinner, soon brought my fair companion round again, and by the time we reached the moulin rouge, she was all vivacity and good temper. the less i say about that dinner the better. i am humiliated when i recall all that i suffered, and all that she did. i blush even now when i remember how she blew upon her soup, put her knife in her mouth, and picked her teeth with her shawl-pin. what possessed her that she would persist in calling the waiter "monsieur?" and why, in heaven's name, need she have clapped her hands when i ordered the champagne? to say that i had no appetite--that i wished myself at the antipodes--that i longed to sink into my boots, to smother the waiter, or to do anything equally desperate and unreasonable, is to express but a tithe of the anguish i endured. i bore it, however, in silence, little dreaming what a much heavier trial was yet in store for me. chapter xxi. i fall a sacrifice to mrs. grundy. "a word with you, if you please, basil arbuthnot," said dr. chéron, "when you have finished copying those prescriptions." dr. chéron was standing with his feet firmly planted in the tiger-skin rug and his back to the fireplace. i was busy writing at the study table, and glancing anxiously from time to time at the skeleton clock upon the chimney-piece; for it was getting on fast towards five, and at half-past six i was to take josephine to the opéra comique. as perverse fortune would have it, the doctor had this afternoon given me more desk-work than usual, and i began to doubt whether i should be able to dine, dress, and reach the theatre in time if he detained me much longer. "but you need be in no haste," he added, looking at his watch. "that is to say, upon my account." i bowed nervously--i was always nervous in his presence--and tried to write faster than ever; but, feeling his cold blue eye upon me, made a blot, smeared it with my sleeve, left one word out, wrote another twice over, and was continually tripped up by my pen, which sputtered hideously and covered the page with florid passages in little round spots, which only needed tails to become crotchets and quavers. at length, just as the clock struck the hour, i finished my task and laid aside my pen. dr. chéron coughed preparatorily. "it is some time," said he, "since you have given me any news of your father. do you often hear from him?" "not very often, sir," i replied. "about once in every three weeks. he dislikes letter-writing." dr. chéron took a packet of papers from his breast-pocket, and ruffling them over, said, somewhat indifferently:-- "very true--very true. his notes are brief and few; but always to the purpose. i heard from him this morning." "indeed, sir?" "yes--here is his letter. it encloses a remittance of seventy-five pounds; fifty of which are for you. the remaining twenty-five being reserved for the defrayal of your expenses at the ecole de médecine and the ecole pratique." i was delighted. "both are made payable through my banker," continued dr. chéron, "and i am to take charge of your share till you require it; which cannot be just yet, as i understand from this letter that your father supplied you with the sum of one hundred and five pounds on leaving england." my delight went down to zero. "does my father say that i am not to have it now, sir?" i asked, hesitatingly. "he says, as i have already told you, that it is to be yours when you require it." "and if i require it very shortly, sir--in fact, if i require it now?" "you ought not to require it now," replied the doctor, with a cold, scrutinizing stare. "you ought not to have spent one hundred and five pounds in five months." i looked down in silence. i had more than spent it long since; and i had to thank madame de marignan for the facility with which it had flown. it was not to be denied that my course of lessons in practical politeness had been somewhat expensive. "how have you spent it?" asked dr. chéron, never removing his eyes from my face. i might have answered, in bouquets, opera stalls, and riding horses; in dress coats, tight boots, and white kid gloves; in new books, new music, bon-bons, cabs, perfumery, and the like inexcusable follies. but i held my tongue instead, and said nothing. dr. chéron looked again at his watch. "have you kept any entries of your expenses since you came to paris?" said he. "not with--with any regularity, sir," i replied. he took out his pencil-case and pocket-book. "let us try, then," said he, "to make an average calculation of what they might be in five months." i began to feel very uncomfortable. "i believe your father paid your travelling expenses?" i bowed affirmatively. "leaving you the clear sum of one hundred and five pounds." i bowed again. "allowing, then, for your rent--which is, i believe, twenty francs per week," said he, entering the figures as he went on, "there will be four hundred francs spent in five months. for your living, say thirty francs per week, which makes six hundred. for your clothing, seventy-five per month, which makes three hundred and seventy-five, and ought to be quite enough for a young man of moderate tastes. for your washing and firewood, perhaps forty per month, which makes two hundred--and for your incidental expenses, say fifteen per week, which makes three hundred. we thus arrive at a total of one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five francs, which, reduced to english money at the average standard of twenty-five francs to the sovereign, represents the exact sum of seventy-five pounds. do i make myself understood?" i bowed for the third time. "of the original one hundred and five pounds, we now have thirty not accounted for. may i ask how much of that surplus you have left?" "about--not more than--than a hundred and twenty francs," i replied, stripping the feathers off all the pens in succession, without knowing it. "have you any debts?" "a--a few." "tailors' bills?" "yes, sir." "what others?" "a--a couple of months' rent, i believe, sir." "is that all?" "n--not quite." dr. chéron frowned, and looked again at his watch. "be good enough, mr. arbuthnot," he said, "to spare me this amount of useless interrogation by at once stating the nature and amount of the rest." "i--i cannot positively state the amount, sir," i said, absurdly trying to get the paper-weight into my waistcoat pocket, and then putting it down in great confusion. "i--i have an account at monceau's in the rue duphot, and..." "i beg your pardon," interrupted dr. chéron: "but who is monceau?" "monceau's--monceau's livery-stables, sir." dr. chéron slightly raised his eye-brows, and entered the name. "and at lavoisier's, on the boulevard poissonnière--" "what is sold, pray, at lavoisier's?" "gloves, perfumes, hosiery, ready-made linen..." "enough--you can proceed." "i have also a bill at--at barbet's, in the passage de l'opéra." "and barbet is--?" "a--a florist!" i replied, very reluctantly. "humph!--a florist!" observed dr. chéron, again transfixing me with the cold, blue eye. "to what amount do you suppose you are indebted to monsieur barbet?" i looked down, and became utterly unintelligible. "fifty francs?" "i--i fear, more than--than--" "a hundred? a hundred and fifty? two hundred?" "about two hundred, i suppose, sir," i said desperately. "two hundred francs--that is to say, eight pounds english--to your florist! really, mr. arbuthnot, you must be singularly fond of flowers!" i looked down in silence. "have you a conservatory attached to your rooms?" the skeleton clock struck the half hour. "excuse me, sir," i said, driven now to the last extremity, "but--but i have an engagement which--in short, i will, if you please, make out a list of--of these items, ascertaining the correct amount of each; and when once paid, i will endeavor--i mean, it is my earnest desire, to--to limit my expenditure strictly to--in short, to study economy for the future. if, in the meantime, you will have the goodness to excuse me...." "one word, young man. will the fifty pounds cover your debts?" "quite, sir, i am confident." "and leave you something in hand for your current expenses?" "indeed, i fear very little." "in that case what will you do?" this was a terrible question, and one for which i could find no answer. "write to your father for another remittance--eh?" "i--upon my word, i dare not, sir," i faltered. "then you would go in debt again?" "i really fear--even with the strictest economy--i--" "be so obliging as to let me have your seat," said dr. chéron, thrusting the obnoxious note-book into his pocket and taking my place at the desk, from which he brought out a couple of cards, and a printed paper. "this ticket," said he, "admits the holder to the anatomical course for the term now beginning, and this to the lectures at the ecole pratique. both are in my gift. the first is worth two hundred francs, and the second two hundred and fifty. i ought, perhaps, in strict justice, to bestow them upon some needy and deserving individual: however, to save you from debt, or a very unpleasant alternative, i will fill them in with your name, and, when you bring me all your bills receipted, i will transfer to your account the four hundred and fifty francs which i must, otherwise, have paid for your courses out of the remittance forwarded by your father for that purpose. understand, however, that i must first have the receipts, and that i expect you, on the word of a gentleman, to commit no more follies, and to contract no more debts." "oh, sir!" i exclaimed, "how can i ever--" "no thanks, i beg," interposed dr. chéron. "prove your gratitude by your conduct; do not trouble yourself to talk about it." "indeed, sir, you may depend--" "and no promises either, if you please. i attach no kind of value to them. stay--here is my check for the fifty pounds forwarded by your father. with that sum extricate yourself from debt. you know the rest." hereupon dr. chéron replaced the cards and the printed form, double-locked his desk, and, with a slight gesture of the hand, frigidly dismissed me. i left the house quite chopfallen. i was relieved, it is true, from the incubus of debt; but then how small a figure i had cut in the eyes of dr. chéron! besides, i was small for the second time--reproved for the second time--lectured, helped, put down, and poohpoohed, for the second time! could i have peeped at myself just then through the wrong end of a telescope, i vow i could not have looked smaller in my own eyes. i had no time to dine; so i despatched a cup of coffee and a roll on my way home, and went hungry to the theatre. josephine was got up with immense splendor for this occasion; greatly to her own satisfaction and my disappointment. having hired a small private box in the least conspicuous part of the theatre, i had committed the cowardly mistake of endeavoring to transform my grisette into a woman of fashion. i had bought her a pink and white opera cloak, a pretty little fan, a pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet. with these she wore a decent white muslin dress furnished out of the limited resources of her own wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the work of her own clever fingers. thus equipped, she was far less pretty than in her coquettish little every-day cap, and looked, i regret to say, more like an _ouvrière_ than ever. aggravating above all else, however, was her own undisguised delight in her appearance. "are my flowers all right? is my dress tumbled? is the hood of my cloak in the middle of my back?" were the questions she addressed to me every moment. in the ante-room she took advantage of each mirror we passed. in the lobby i caught her trying to look at her own back. when we reached our box she pulled her chair to the very centre of it, and sat there as if she expected to be admired by the whole audience. "my dear josephine," i remonstrated, "sit back here, facing the stage. you will see much better--besides, it is your proper seat, being the only lady in the box." "ah, _mon dieu!_ then i cannot see the house--and how pretty it is! ever so much prettier than the gaiété, or the porte st. martin!" "you can see the house by peeping behind the curtain." "as if i were ashamed to be seen! _par exemple_!" "nay, as you please. i only advise you according to custom and fashion." josephine pouted, and unwillingly conceded a couple of inches. "i wish i had brought the little telescope you gave me last sunday," said she, presently. "there is a gentleman with one down there in the stalls." "a telescope at the opera--the gods forbid! here, however, is my opera-glass, if you like to use it." josephine turned it over curiously, and peeped first through one tube and then through the other. "which ought i to look through?" asked she. "both, of course." "both! how can i?" "why thus--as you look through a pair of spectacles." "_ciel!_ i can't manage that! i can never look through anything without covering up one eye with my hand." "then i think you had better be contented with your own charming eyes, _ma belle_" said i, nervously. "how do you like your bouquet?" josephine sniffed at it as if she were taking snuff, and pronounced it perfect. just then the opera began. i withdrew into the shade, and josephine was silenced for a while in admiration of the scenery and the dresses. by and by, she began to yawn. "ah, _mon dieu!_" said she, "when will they have done singing? i have not heard a word all this time." "but everything is sung, _ma chére_, in an opera." "what do you mean? is there no play?" "this is the play; only instead of speaking their words, they sing them." josephine shrugged her shoulders. "ah, bah!" said she. "how stupid! i had rather have seen the _closerie des gênets_ at the graiété, if that is to be the case the whole evening. oh, dear! there is such a pretty lady come into the opposite box, in such a beautiful blue _glacé_, trimmed with black velvet and lace!" "hush! you must not talk while they are singing!" "_tiens!_ it is no pleasure to come out and be dumb. but do just see the lady in the opposite box! she looks exactly as if she had walked out of a fashion-book." "my dear child, i don't care one pin to look at her," said i, preferring to keep as much out of sight as possible. "to admire your pretty face is enough for me." josephine squeezed my hand affectionately. "that is just as emile used to talk to me," said she. i felt by no means flattered. "_regardez done!_" said she, pulling me by the sleeve, just as i was standing up, a little behind her chair, looking at the stage. "that lady in the blue _glacé_ never takes her eyes from our box! she points us out to the gentleman who is with her--do look!" i turned my glass in the direction to which she pointed, and recognised madame de marignan! i turned hot and cold, red and white, all in one moment, and shrank back like a snail that has been touched, or a sea-anemone at the first dig of the naturalist. "does she know you?" asked josephine. "i--i--probably--that is to say--i have met her in society." "and who is the gentleman?" that was just what i was wondering. it was not delaroche. it was no one whom i had ever seen before. it was a short, fat, pale man, with a bald head, and a ribbon in his button-hole. "is he her husband?" pursued josephine. the suggestion flashed upon me like a revelation. had i not heard that m. de marignan was coming home from algiers? of course it was he. no doubt of it. a little vulgar, fat, bald man.... pshaw, just the sort of a husband that she deserved! "how she looks at me!" said josephine. i felt myself blush, so to speak, from head to foot. "good heavens! my dear girl," i exclaimed, "take your elbows off the front of the box!" josephine complied, with a pettish little grimace. "and, for mercy's sake, don't hold your head as if you feared it would tumble off!" "it is the flowers," said she. "they tickle the back of my neck, whenever i move my head. i am much more comfortable in my cap." "never mind. make the best of it, and listen to this song." it was the great tenor ballad of the evening. the house was profoundly silent; the first wandering chords of a harp were heard behind the scenes; and duprez began. in the very midst of one of his finest and tenderest _sostenuto_ passages, josephine sneezed--and such a sneeze! you might have heard it out in the lobbies. an audible titter ran round the house. i saw madame de marignan cover her face with her handkerchief, and yield to an irrepressible fit of laughter. as for the tenor, he cast a withering glance up at the box, and made a marked pause before resuming his song. merciful powers! what crime had i committed that i should be visited with such a punishment as this? "wretched girl!" i exclaimed, savagely, "what have you done?" "done, _mon ami!_" said josephine, innocently. "why, i fear i have taken cold." i groaned aloud. "taken cold!" i muttered to myself. "would to heaven you had taken prussic acid!" "_qu'est ce que c'est?"_ asked she. but it was not worth while to reply. i gave myself up to my fate. i determined to remonstrate no more. i flung myself on a seat at the back of the box, and made up my mind to bear all that might yet be in store for me. when she openly ate a stick of _sucre d'orge_ after this, i said nothing. when she applauded with both hands, i endured in silence. at length the performance came to a close and the curtain fell. madame de marignan had left before the last act, so i ran no danger of encountering her on the way out; but i was profoundly miserable, nevertheless. as for josephine, she, poor child, had not enjoyed her evening at all, and was naturally out of temper. we quarrelled tremendously in the cab, and parted without having made it up. it was all my own fault. how could i be such a fool as to suppose that, with a few shreds and patches of finery, i could make a fine lady of a grisette? * * * * * chapter xxii. high art in the quartier latin. "but, my dear fellow, what else could you have expected? you took mam'selle josephine to the _opera comique. eh bien!_ you might as well have taken an oyster up mount vesuvius. our fair friend was out of her element. _voilà tout_." "confound her and her element!" i exclaimed with a groan. "what the deuce _is_ her element--the quartier latin?" "the quartier latin is to some extent her habitat--but then mam'selle josephine belongs to a genus of which you, _cher_ monsieur arbuthnot, are deplorably ignorant--the genus grisette. the grisette from a certain point of view is the _chef-d'oeuvre_ of parisian industry; the bouquet of parisian civilization. she is indigenous to the _mansarde_ and the _pavé_--bears no transplantation--flourishes in _the première balconie_, the suburban _guingette_, and the salle valentinois; but degenerates at a higher elevation. to improve her is to spoil her. in her white cap and muslin gown, the parisian grisette is simply delicious. in a smart bonnet, a cashmere and a brougham, she is simply detestable. fine clothes vulgarize her. fine surroundings demoralize her. lodged on the sixth story, rich in the possession of a cuckoo-clock, a canary, half a dozen pots of mignonette, and some bits of cheap furniture in imitation mahogany, she has every virtue and every fault that is charming in woman--childlike gaiety; coquetry; thoughtless generosity; the readiest laugh, the readiest tear, and the warmest heart in the world. transplant her to the chaussée d'antin, instil the taste for diamonds, truffles, and veuve clicquot, and you poison her whole nature. she becomes false, cruel, greedy, prodigal of your money, parsimonious of her own--a vampire--a ghoul--the hideous thing we call in polite parlance a _fille de marbre."_ thus, with much gravity and emphasis, spoke herr franz müller, lying on his back upon a very ricketty sofa, and smoking like a steam-engine. a cup of half-cold coffee, and a bottle of rum three parts emptied stood beside him on the floor. these were the remains of his breakfast; for it was yet early in the morning of the day following my great misadventure at the opéra comique, and i had sought him out at his lodgings in the rue clovis at an hour when the quartier latin was for the most part in bed. "josephine, at all events, is not of the stuff that _filles de marbre_ are made of," i said, smiling. "perhaps not--_mais, que voulez-vous?_ we are what we are. a grisette makes a bad fine lady. a fine lady would make a still worse grisette. the archbishopric of paris is a most repectable and desirable preferment; but your humble servant, for instance, would hardly suit the place," "and the moral of this learned and perspicuous discourse?" "_tiens_! the moral, is--keep our fair friend in her place. remember that a dinner at thirty sous in the palais royal, or a fête with fireworks at mabille, will give her ten times more pleasure than the daintiest repast you could order at the maison dorée, or the choicest night of the season at either opera house. and how should it be otherwise? one must understand a thing to be able to enjoy it; and i'll be sworn mam'selle josephine was infinitely more bored last night than yourself." our conversation, or rather his monologue, was here interrupted by the ringing of the outer bell. the artist sat up, took his pipe from his lips, and looked considerably disturbed. "_mille tonnerres_!" said he in a low tone. "who can it be?... so early in the day ... not yet ten o'clock ... it is very mysterious." "it is only mysterious," said i, "as long as you don't open the door. shall i answer the bell?" "no--yes--wait a moment ... suppose it is that demon, my landlord, or that archfiend, my tailor--then you must say ... holy st. nicholas! you must say i am in bed with small-pox, or that i've broken out suddenly into homicidal delirium, and you're my keeper." "unfortunately i should not know either of your princes of darkness at first sight." "true--and it might be dupont, who owes me thirty francs, and swore by the bones of his aunt (an excellent person, who keeps an estaminet in the place st. sulpice) that he would pay me this week. _diable_! there goes the bell again." "it would perhaps be safest," i suggested, "to let m. or n. ring on till he is tired of the exercise." "but conceive the horrid possibility of letting thirty francs ring themselves out of patience! no, _mon ami_--i will dare the worst that may happen. wait here for me--i will answer the door myself," now it should be explained that müller's apartments consisted of three rooms. first, a small outer chamber which he dignified with the title of salle d'attente, but which, as it was mainly furnished with old boots, umbrellas and walking-sticks, and contained, by way of accommodation for visitors only a three-legged stool and a door-mat, would have been more fitly designated as the hall. between this salle d'attente and the den in which he slept, ate, smoked, and received his friends, lay the studio--once a stately salon, now a wilderness of litter and dilapidation. on one side you beheld three windows closely boarded up, with strips of newspaper pasted over the cracks to exclude every gleam of day. overhead yawned a huge, dusty skylight, to make way for which a fine old painted ceiling had been ruthlessly knocked away. on the walls were pinned and pasted all sorts of rough sketches and studies in color and crayon. in one corner lolled a despondent-looking lay-figure in a moth-eaten spanish cloak; in another lay a heap of plaster-casts, gigantic hands and feet, broken-nosed masks of the apollo, the laocoon, the hercules farnese, and other foreigners of distinction. upon the chimney-piece were displayed a pair of foils, a lute, a skull, an antique german drinking-mug, and several very modern empty bottles. in the middle of the room stood two large easels, a divan, a round table, and three or four chairs; while the floor was thickly strewn with empty color-tubes, bits of painting-rag, corks, cigar-ends, and all kinds of miscellaneous litter. all these things i had observed as i passed in; for this, be it remembered, was my first visit to müller in his own territory. i heard him go through the studio and close the door behind him, and then i heard him open the door upon the public staircase. presently he came back, shutting the door behind him as before. "my dear fellow," he exclaimed, breathlessly, "you have brought luck with you! what do you think? a sitter--positively, a sitter! wants to be sketched in at once--_vive la france_!" "man or woman? young or old? plain or pretty?" "elderly half-length, feminine gender--madame tapotte. they are both there, monsieur and madame excellent couple--redolent of the country--husband bucolic, adipose, auriferous--wife arrayed in all her glory, like the queen of sheba. i left them in the salle d'attente--told them i had a sitter--time immensely occupied--half-lengths furiously in demand ... _will_ you oblige me by performing the part for a few minutes, just to carry out the idea?" "what part?" "the part of sitter." "oh, with pleasure," i replied, laughing. "do with me what you please," "you don't mind? come! you are the best fellow in the world. now, if you'll sit in that arm-chair facing the light--head a little thrown back, arms folded, chin up ... capital! you don't know what an effect this will have upon the provincial mind!" "but you're not going to let them in! you have no portrait of me to be at work upon!" "my dear fellow, i've dozens of half-finished studies, any one of which will answer the purpose. _voilà_! here is the very thing." and snatching up a canvas that had been standing till now with its face to the wall, he flourished it triumphantly before my eyes, and placed it on the easel. "heavens and earth!" i exclaimed, "that's a copy of the titian in the louvre--the 'young man with the glove!'" "what of that? our tapottes will never find out the difference. by the way, i told them you were a great english milord, so please keep up the character." "i will try to do credit to the peerage." "and if you would not mind throwing in a word of english every now and then ... a little goddam, for instance.. . eh?" i laughed and shook my head. "i will pose for you as milord with all the pleasure in life," i said; "only i cannot undertake to pose for the traditional milord of the bouffes parisiens! however, i will speak some english, and, if you like, i'll know no french." "no, no--_diable_! you must know a little, or i can't exchange a word with you. but very little--the less the better. and now i'll let them in." they came; madame first--tall, buxom, large-featured, fresh-colored, radiant in flowers, lace, and palais royal jewelry; then monsieur--short, fat, bald, rosy and smiling, with a huge frill to his shirt-front and a nankeen waistcoat. müller introduced them with much ceremony and many apologies. "permit me, milord," he said, "to present monsieur and madame tapotte--monsieur and madame tapotte; milord smithfield." i rose and bowed with the gravity becoming my rank. "i have explained to milord," continued müller, addressing himself partly to the new-comers, partly to me, and chiefly to the study on the easel, "that having no second room in which to invite monsieur and madame to repose themselves, i am compelled to ask them into the studio--where, however, his lordship is so very kind as to say that they are welcome." (hereupon madame tapotte curtsied again, and monsieur ducked his bald head, and i returned their salutations with the same dignity as before.) "if monsieur and madame will be pleased to take seats, however, his lordship's sitting will be ended in about ten minutes. _mille pardons_, the face, milord, a little more to the right. thank you--thank you very much. and if you will do me the favor to look at me ... for the expression of the eye--just so--thank you! a most important point, milord, is the expression of the eye. when i say the expression, i mean the fire, the sparkle, the liquidity ... _enfin_ the expression!" here he affected to put in some touches with immense delicacy--then retreated a couple of yards, the better to contemplate his work--pursed up his mouth--ran his fingers through his hair--shaded his eyes with his hand--went back and put in another touch--again retreated--again put in a touch; and so on some three or four times successively. meanwhile monsieur and madame tapotte were fidgeting upon their chairs in respectful silence. every now and then they exchanged glances of wonder and admiration. they were evidently dying to compare my august features with my portrait, but dared not take the liberty of rising. at length the lady's curiosity could hold out no longer. "_ah, mon dieu_!" she said; "but it must be very fatiguing to sit so long in the same position. and to paint.... _oiel!_ what practice! what perseverance! what patience! _avec permission_, m'sieur..." and with this she sidled up to müller's elbow, leaving monsieur tapotte thunderstruck at her audacity. then for a moment she stood silent; but during that moment the eager, apologetic smile vanished suddenly out of her face, and was succeeded by an expression of blank disappointment. "_tiens_!" she said bluntly. "i don't see one bit of likeness." i turned hot from head to foot, but müller's serene effrontery was equal to the occasion. "i dare say not, madame," he replied, coolly. "i dare say not. this portrait is not intended to be like." madame tapotte's eyes and mouth opened simultaneously. "_comment_!" she exclaimed. "i should be extremely sorry," continued müller, loftily, "and his lordship would be extremely sorry, if there were too much resemblance." "but a--a likeness--it seems to me, should at all events be--like," stammered madame tapotte, utterly bewildered. "and if m'sieur is to paint my wife," added monsieur tapotte, who had by this time joined the group at the easel, "i--i..._dame_! it must be a good deal more like than this." müller drew himself up with an air of great dignity. "sir," he said, "if madame does me the honor to sit to me for her portrait--for her _own_ portrait, observe--i flatter myself the resemblance will be overwhelming. but you must permit me to inform you that milord smithfield is not sitting for his own portrait." the tapottes looked at each other in a state bordering on stupefaction. "his lordship," continued müller, "is sitting for the portrait of one of his illustrious ancestors--a nobleman of the period of queen elizabeth." tapotte _mari_ scratched his head, and smiled feebly. "_parbleu_!" said he, "_mais c'est bien drôle, ça_!" the artist shrugged his shoulders. "it so happens," said he, "that his lordship's gallery at smithfield castle has unhappily been more than half destroyed by fire. two centuries of family portraits reduced to ashes! terrible misfortune! only one way of repairing the loss--that is of partially repairing it. i do my best. i read the family records--i study the history of the period--his lordship sits to me daily--i endeavor to give a certain amount of family likeness; sometimes more, you observe, sometimes less ... enormous responsibility, monsieur tapotte!" "oh, enormous!" "the taste for family portraits," continued müller, still touching up the titian, "is a very natural one--and is on the increase. many gentlemen of--of somewhat recent wealth, come to me for their ancestors." "no!" "_foi d'honneur_. few persons, however, are as conscientious as his lordship in the matter of family resemblance. they mostly buy up their forefathers ready-made--adopt them, christen them, and ask no questions." monsieur and madame tapotte exchanged glances. "_tiens, mon ami_, why should we not have an ancestor or two, as well as other folks," suggested the lady, in a very audible whisper. monsieur shook his head, and muttered something about the expense. "there is no harm, at all events," urged madame, "in asking the price." "my charge for gallery portraits, madame, varies from sixty to a hundred francs," said müller. "heavens! how dear! why, my own portrait is to be only fifty." "sixty, madame, if we put in the hands and the jewelry," said müller, blandly. "_eh bien_!--sixty. but for these other things.... bah! _ils sont fierement chers_." "_pardon_, madame! the elegancies and superfluities of life are, by a just rule of political economy, expensive. it is right that they should be so; as it is right that the necessaries of life should be within the reach of the poorest. bread, for instance, is strictly necessary, and should be cheap. a great-grandfather, on the contrary, is an elegant superfluity, and may be put up at a high figure." "there is some truth in that," murmured monsieur tapotte. "besides, in the present instance, one also pays for antiquity." "_c'est juste--c'est juste_." "at the same time," continued müller, "if monsieur tapotte were to honor me with a commission for, say, half a dozen family portraits, i would endeavor to put them in at forty francs apiece--including, at that very low price, a revolutionary deputy, a beauty of the louis quinze period, and a marshal of france." "_tiens_! that's a fair offer enough," said madame. "what say you, _mon ami_?" but monsieur tapotte, being a cautious man, would say nothing hastily. he coughed, looked doubtful, declined to commit himself to an opinion, and presently drew off into a corner for the purpose of holding a whispered consultation with his wife. meanwhile müller laid aside his brushes and palette, informed me with a profound bow that my lordship had honored him by sitting as long as was strictly necessary, and requested my opinion upon the progress of the work. i praised it rapturously. you would have thought, to hear me, that for drawing, breadth, finish, color, composition, chiaroscuro, and every other merit that a painting could possess, this particular _chef-d'oeuvre_ excelled all the masterpieces of europe. müller bowed, and bowed, and bowed, like a chinaman at a visit of ceremony; he was more than proud; he was overwhelmed, _accablé_, et caetera, et caetera. the tapottes left off whispering, and listened breathlessly. "he is evidently a great painter, _not' jeune homme_!" said madame in one of her large whispers. to which monsieur replied as audibly:--"_Ça se voit, ma femme--sacre nom d'une pipe_!" "milford will do me the favor to sit again on friday?" said müller, as i took up my hat and gloves. i replied with infinite condescension that i would endeavor to do so. i then made the stiffest of stiff bows to the excellent tapottes, and, ushered to the door by müller, took my departure majestically in the character of lord smithfield. chapter xxiii. the quartier latin. the dear old quartier latin of my time--the quartier latin of balzac, of béranger, of henry murger---the quartier latin where franz müller had his studio; where messieurs gustave; jules, and adrien gave their unparalleled _soirées dansantes_; where i first met my ex-flame josephine--exists no longer. it has been improved off the face of the earth, and with it such a gay bizarre, improvident world of youth and folly as shall never again be met together on the banks of the seine. ah me! how well i remember that dingy, delightful arcadia--the rue de la vieille boucherie, narrow, noisy, crowded, with projecting upper stories and gothic pent-house roofs--the rue de la parcheminerie, unchanged since the middle ages--the rue st. jacques, steep, interminable, dilapidated; with its dingy cabarets, its brasseries, its cheap restaurants, its grimy shop windows filled with colored prints, with cooked meats, with tobacco, old books, and old clothes; its ancient colleges and hospitals, time-worn and weather-beaten, frowning down upon the busy thoroughfare and breaking the squalid line of shops; its grim old hotels swarming with lodgers, floor above floor, from the cobblers in the cellars to the grisettes in the attics! then again, the gloomy old place st. michel, its abundant fountain ever flowing, ever surrounded by water-carts and water-carriers, by women with pails, and bare-footed street urchins, and thirsty drovers drinking out of iron cups chained to the wall. and then, too, the rue de la harpe.... i close my eyes, and the strange, precipitous, picturesque, decrepit old street, with its busy, surging crowd, its street-cries, its street-music, and its indescribable union of gloom and gayety, rises from its ashes. here, grand old dilapidated mansions with shattered stone-carvings, delicate wrought-iron balconies all rust-eaten and broken, and windows in which every other pane is cracked or patched, alternate with more modern but still more ruinous houses, some leaning this way, some that, some with bulging upper stories, some with doorways sunk below the level of the pavement. yonder, gloomy and grim, stands the college of saint louis. dark alleys open off here and there from the main thoroughfare, and narrow side streets, steep as flights of steps. low sheds and open stalls cling, limpet-like, to every available nook and corner. an endless procession of trucks, wagons, water-carts, and fiacres rumbles perpetually by. here people live at their windows and in the doorways--the women talking from balcony to balcony, the men smoking, reading, playing at dominoes. here too are more cafés and cabarets, open-air stalls for the sale of fried fish, and cheap restaurants for workmen and students, where, for a sum equivalent to sevenpence half-penny english, the quartier latin regales itself upon meats and drinks of dark and enigmatical origin. close at hand is the place and college of the sorbonne--silent in the midst of noisy life, solitary in the heart of the most crowded quarter of paris. a sombre mediæval gloom pervades that ancient quadrangle; scant tufts of sickly grass grow here and there in the interstices of the pavement; the dust of centuries crust those long rows of windows never opened. a little further on is the rue des grès, narrow, crowded, picturesque, one uninterrupted perspective of bookstalls and bookshops from end to end. here the bookseller occasionally pursues a two-fold calling, and retails not only literature but a cellar of_ petit vin bleu_; and here, overnight, the thirsty student exchanges for a bottle of macon the "code civile" that he must perforce buy back again at second-hand in the morning. a little farther on, and we come to the college saint louis, once the old college narbonne; and yet a few yards more, and we are at the doors of the theatre du pantheon, once upon a time the church of st. bénoit, where the stage occupies the site of the altar, and an orchestra stall in what was once the nave, may be had for seventy-five centimes. here, too, might be seen the shop of the immortal lesage, renowned throughout the quartier for the manufacture of a certain kind of transcendental ham-patty, peculiarly beloved by student and grisette; and here, clustering within a stone's throw of each other, were to be found those famous restaurants, pompon, viot, flicoteaux, and the "boeuf enragé," where, on gala days, many an alphonse and fifine, many a théophile and cerisette, were wont to hold high feast and festival--terms sevenpence half-penny each, bread at discretion, water gratis, wine and toothpicks extra. but it was in the side streets, courts, and _impasses_ that branched off to the left and right of the main arteries, that one came upon the very heart of the old pays latin; for the rue st. jacques, the rue de la harpe, the rue des grès, narrow, steep, dilapidated though they might be, were in truth the leading thoroughfares--the boulevards, so to speak--of the student quartier. in most of the side alleys, however, some of which dated back as far, and farther, than the fifteenth century, there was no footway for passengers, and barely space for one wheeled vehicle at a time. a filthy gutter invariably flowed down the middle of the street. the pavement, as it peeped out here and there through a _moraine_ of superimposed mud and offal, was seen to consist of small oblong stones, like petrified kidney potatoes. the houses, some leaning this way, some that, with projecting upper stories and overhanging gable-roofs, nodded together overhead, leaving but a narrow strip of sky down which the sunlight strove in vain to struggle. long poles upon which were suspended old clothes hung out to air, and ragged linen to dry, stood out like tattered banners from the attic windows. here, too, every ground-floor was a shop, open, unglazed, cavernous, where the dealer lay _perdu_ in the gloom of midday, like a spider in the midst of his web, surrounded by piles of old bottles, old iron, old clothes, old furniture, or whatever else his stock in trade might consist of. of such streets--less like streets, indeed, than narrow, overhanging gorges and ravines of damp and mouldering stone--of such streets, i say, intricate, winding, ill-lighted, unventilated, pervaded by an atmosphere compounded of the fumes of fried fish, tobacco, old leather, mildew and dirt, there were hundreds in the quartier latin of my time:--streets to the last degree unattractive as places of human habitation, but rich, nevertheless, in historic associations, in picturesque detail, and in archaeological interest. such a street, for instance, was the rue du fouarre (scarcely a feature of which has been modernized to this day), where dante, when a student of theology in paris, attended the lectures of one sigebert, a learned monk of gemblours, who discoursed to his scholars in the open air, they sitting round him the while upon fresh straw strewn upon the pavement. such a street was the rue des cordiers, close adjoining the rue des grès, where rousseau lived and wrote; and the rue du dragon, where might then be seen the house of bernard palissy; and the rue des maçons, where racine lived; and the rue des marais, where adrienne lecouvreur--poor, beautiful, generous, ill-fated adrienne lecouvreur!--died. here, too, in a blind alley opening off the rue st. jacques, yet stands part of that carmelite convent in which, for thirty years, madame de la vallière expiated the solitary frailty of her life. and so at every turn! not a gloomy by-street, not a dilapidated fountain, not a grim old college façade but had its history, or its legend. here the voice of abelard thundered new truths, and rabelais jested, and petrarch discoursed with the doctors. here, in the rue de l'ancienne comédie, walked the shades of racine, of molière, of corneille, of voltaire. dear, venerable, immortal old quartier latin! thy streets were narrow, but they were the arteries through which, century after century, circulated all the wisdom and poetry, all the art, and science, and learning of france! their gloom, their squalor, their very dirt was sacred. could i have had my will, not a stone of the old place should have been touched, not a pavement widened, not a landmark effaced. then beside, yet not apart from, all that was mediæval and historic in the pays latin, ran the gay, effervescent, laughing current of the life of the _jeunessed' aujour d'hui._ here beat the very heart of that rare, that immortal, that unparalleled _vie de bohème_, the vagabond poetry of which possesses such an inexhaustible charm for even the soberest imagination. what brick and mortar idylls, what romances _au cinquième_, what joyous epithalamiums, what gay improvident _ménages_, what kisses, what laughter, what tears, what lightly-spoken and lightly-broken vows those old walls could have told of! here, apparelled in all sorts of unimaginable tailoring, in jaunty colored cap or flapped sombrero, his pipe dangling from his button-hole, his hair and beard displaying every eccentricity under heaven, the paris student, the _pays latiniste pur sang_, lived and had his being. poring over the bookstalls in the place du panthéon or the rue des grès--hurrying along towards this or that college with a huge volume under each arm, about nine o'clock in the morning--haunting the cafés at midday and the restaurants at six--swinging his legs out of upper windows and smoking in his shirt-sleeves in the summer evenings--crowding the pit of the odéon and every part of the theatre du panthéon--playing wind instruments at dead of night to the torment of his neighbors, or, in vocal mood, traversing the quartier with a society of musical friends about the small hours of the morning--getting into scuffles with the gendarmes--flirting, dancing, playing billiards and the deuce; falling in love and in debt; dividing his time between aristotle and mademoiselle mimi pinson ... here, and here only, in all his phases, at every hour of the day and night, he swarmed, ubiquitous. and here, too (a necessary sequence), flourished the fair and frail grisette. her race, alas! is now all but extinct--the race of frétillon, of francine, of lisette, musette, rosette, and all the rest of that too fascinating terminology--the race immortalized again and again by béranger, gavarni, balzac, de musset; sketched by a hundred pencils and described by a hundred pens; celebrated in all manner of metres and set to all manner of melodies; now caricatured and now canonized; now painted wholly _en noir_ and now all _couleur de rose_; yet, however often described, however skilfully analyzed, remaining for ever indescribable, and for ever defying analysis! "de tous les produits parisiens," says monsieur jules janin (himself the quintessence of everything most parisian), "le produit le plus parisien, sans contredit, c'est la grisette." true; but our epigrammatist should have gone a step farther. he should have added that the grisette _pur sang_ is to be found nowhere except in paris; and (still a step farther) nowhere in paris save between the pont neuf and the barrière d'enfer. there she reigns; there (ah! let me use the delicious present tense--let me believe that i still live in arcadia!)--there she lights up the old streets with her smile; makes the old walls ring with her laughter; flits over the crossings like a fairy; wears the most coquettish of little caps and the daintiest of little shoes; rises to her work with the dawn; keeps a pet canary; trains a nasturtium round her window; loves as heartily as she laughs, and almost as readily; owes not a sou, saves not a centime; sews on adolphe's buttons, like a good neighbor; is never so happy as when adolphe in return takes her to tivoli or the jardin turc; adores _galette, sucre d'orge_, and frederick lemaître; and looks upon a masked ball and a debardeur dress as the summit of human felicity. _vive la grisette_! shall i not follow many an illustrious example and sing my modest paean in her praise? frown not, august britannia! look not so severely askance upon my poor little heroine of the quartier latin! thinkest thou because thou art so eminently virtuous that she who has many a serviceable virtue of her own, shall be debarred from her share in this world's cakes and ale? _vive la grisette_! let us think and speak no evil of her. "elle ne tient au vice que par un rayon, et s'en éloigne par les mille autres points de la circonference sociale." the world sees only her follies, and sees them at first sight; her good qualities lie hidden in the shade. is she not busy as a bee, joyous as a lark, helpful, pitiful, unselfish, industrious, contented? how often has she not slipped her last coin into the alms-box at the hospital gate, and gone supperless to bed? how often sat up all night, after a long day's toil in a crowded work-room, to nurse victorine in the fever? how often pawned her sunday gown and shawl, to redeem that coat without which adolphe cannot appear before the examiners to-morrow morning? granted, if you will, that she has an insatiable appetite for sweets, cigarettes, and theatrical admissions--shall she not be welcome to her tastes? and is it her fault if her capacity in the way of miscellaneous refreshments partakes of the nature of the miraculous--somewhat to the inconvenience of adolphe, who has overspent his allowance? supposing even that she may now and then indulge (among friends) in a very modified can-can at the chaumière--what does that prove, except that her heels are as light as her heart, and that her early education has been somewhat neglected? but i am writing of a world that has vanished as completely as the lost pleiad. the quartier latin of my time is no more. the chaumière is no more. the grisette is fast dying out. of the rue de la harpe not a recognisable feature is left. the old place st. michel, the fountain, the theatre du panthéon, are gone as if they had never been. whole streets, i might say whole parishes, have been swept away--whole chapters of mediæval history erased for ever. well, i love to close my eyes from time to time, and evoke the dear old haunts from their ruins; to descend once more the perilous steeps of the rue st. jacques, and to thread the labyrinthine by-streets that surround the École de médecine. i see them all so plainly! i look in at the familiar print-shops--i meet many a long-forgotten face--i hear many a long-forgotten voice--i am twenty years of age and a student again! ah me! what a pleasant time, and what a land of enchantment! dingy, dilapidated, decrepit as it was, that graceless old quartier latin, believe me, was paved with roses and lighted with laughing gas. chapter xxiv. the fete at courbevoie. "_halte là_! i thought i should catch you about this time! they've been giving you unconscionable good measure to-day, though, haven't they? i thought bollinet's lecture was always over by three; and here i've been moralizing on the flight of time for more than twenty minutes." so saying, müller, having stopped me as i was coming down the steps of the hôtel dieu, linked his arm in mine, drew me into a shady angle under the lee of notre dame, and, without leaving me time to reply, went on pouring out his light, eager chatter as readily as a mountain-spring bubbles out its waters. "i thought you'd like to know about the tapottes, you see--and i was dying to tell you. i went to your rooms last night between eight and nine, and you were out; so i thought the only sure way was to come here--i know you never miss bollinet's lectures. well, as i was saying, the tapottes.... oh, _mon cher_! i am your debtor for life in that matter of milord smithfield. it has been the making of me. what do you think? tapotte is not only going to sit for a companion half-length to madame's portrait, but he has given me a commission for half-a-dozen ancestors. fancy--half-a-dozen illustrious dead-and-done tapottes! what a scope for the imagination! what a bewildering vista of _billets de banque_! i feel--ah, _mon ami_! i feel that the wildest visions of my youth are about to be realized, and that i shall see my tailor's bill receipted before i die!" "i'm delighted," said i, "that tapotte has turned up a trump card." "a trump card? say a california--a pactolus--a golden calf. nay, hath not tapotte two golden calves? is he not of the precious metal all compact? stands he not, in the amiable ripeness of his years, a living representative of the golden age? _'o bella età dell' oro_!'" and to my horror, he then and there executed a frantic _pas seul_. "gracious powers!" i exclaimed. "are you mad?" "yes--raving mad. have you any objection?" "but, my dear fellow--in the face of day--in the streets of paris! we shall get taken up by the police!" "then suppose we get out of the streets of paris? i'm tired enough, heaven knows, of cultivating the arid soil of the pavé. see, it's a glorious afternoon. let's go somewhere." "with all my heart. where?" "_ah, mon dieu! ça m'est égal_. enghien--vincennes--st. cloud--versailles ... anywhere you like. most probably there's a fête going on somewhere, if we only knew where," "can't we find out?" "oh, yes--we can drop into a café and look at the _petites affiches_; only that entails an absinthe; or we can go into the nearest omnibus bureau and see the notices on the walls, which will be cheaper." so we threaded our way along the narrow thoroughfares of the ile de la cité, and came presently to an omnibus bureau on the quai de l'horloge, overlooking the pont neuf and the river. here the first thing we saw was a flaming placard setting forth the pleasures and attractions of the great annual fête at courbevoie; a village on the banks of the seine, a mile or two beyond neuilly. "_voilà, notre affaire_!" said müller, gaily. "we can't do better than steer straight for courbevoie." saying which, he hailed a passing fiacre and bade the coachman drive to the embarcadère of the rive droite. "we shall amuse ourselves famously at courbevoie," he said, as we rattled over the stones. "we'll dine at the toison d'or--an excellent little restaurant overlooking the river; and if you're fond of angling, we can hire a punt and catch our own fish for dinner. then there will be plenty of fiddling and dancing at the guingettes and gardens in the evening. by the way, though, i've no money! that is to say, none worth speaking of--_voilà!_... one franc, one piece of fifty centimes, another of twenty centimes, and some sous. i hope your pockets are better lined than mine." "not much, i fear," i replied, pulling out my porte-monnaie, and emptying the contents into my hand. they amounted to nine francs and seventy-five centimes. "_parbleu_! we've just eleven francs and a half between us," said müller. "a modest sum-total; but we must make it as elastic as we can. let me see, there'll be a franc for the fiacre, four francs for our return tickets, four for our dinner, and two and a half to spend as we like in the fair. well, we can't commit any great extravagance with that amount of floating capital." "better turn back and go to my rooms for some more money?" i exclaimed. "i've two napoleons in my desk." "no, no--we should miss the three-fifty train, and not get another till between five and six." "but we shall have no fun if we have no money!" "i dissent entirely from that proposition, monsieur englishman. i have always had plenty of fun, and i have been short of cash since the hour of my birth. come, it shall be my proud task to-day to prove to you the pleasures of impecuniosity!" so with our eleven francs and a half we went on to the station, and took our places for courbevoie. we travelled, of course, by third class in the open wagons; and it so happened that in our compartment we had the company of three pretty little chattering grisettes, a fat countrywoman with a basket, and a quiet-looking elderly female with her niece. these last wore bonnets, and some kind of slight mourning. they belonged evidently to the small bourgeoise class, and sat very quietly in the corner of the carriage, speaking to no one. the three grisettes, however, kept up an incessant fire of small talk and squabble. "i was on this very line last sunday," said one. "i went with julie to asnières, and we were so gay! i wonder if it will be very gay at courbevoie." "_je m'en doute_," replied another, whom they called lolotte. "i came to one of the courbevoie fêtes last spring, and it was not gay at all. but then, to be sure, i was with edouard, and he is as dull as the first day in lent. where were you last sunday, adéle?" "i did not go beyond the barriers. i went to the cirque with my cousin, and we dined in the palais royal. we enjoyed ourselves so much! you know my cousin?" "ah! yes--the little fellow with the curly hair and the whiskers, who waits for you at the corner when we leave the workshop." "the same--achille." "your achille is nice-looking," said mademoiselle lolotte, with a somewhat critical air. "it is a pity he squints." "he does not squint, mam'selle." "oh, _ma chère_! i appeal to caroline." "i am not sure that he actually squints," said mam'selle caroline, speaking for the first time; "but he certainly has one eye larger than the other, and of quite a different color." "_tiens_, caroline--it seems to me that you look very closely into the eyes of young men," exclaims adèle, turning sharply upon this new assailant. "at all events you admit that caroline is right," cries lolotte, triumphantly. "i admit nothing of the kind. i say that you are both very ill-natured, and that you say what is not true. as for you, lolotte, i don't believe you ever had the chance of seeing a young man's eyes turned upon you, or you would not be so pleased with the attentions of an old one." "an _old_ one!" shrieked mam'selle lolotte. "ah, _mon dieu_! is a man old at forty-seven? monsieur durand is in the prime of life, and there isn't a girl in the quartier who would not be proud of his attentions!" "he's sixty, if an hour," said the injured adèle. "and as for you, caroline, who have never had a beau in your life...." "_ciel_! what a calumny!--i--never had a ... holy saint geneviève! why, it was only last thursday week...." here the train stopped at the asnières station, and two privates of the garde impériale got into the carriage. the horizon cleared as if by magic. the grisettes suddenly forgot their differences, and began to chat quite amicably. the soldiers twirled their mustachios, listened, smiled, and essayed to join in the conversation. in a few minutes all was mirth and flirtation. meanwhile müller was casting admiring glances on the young girl in the corner, whilst the fat countrywoman, pursing up her mouth, and watching the grisettes and soldiers, looked the image of offended virtue. "dame! madame," she said, addressing herself to the old lady in the bonnet, "girls usen't to be so forward in the days when you and i were young!" to which the old lady in the bonnet, blandly smiling, replied:-- "beautiful, for the time of year." "eh? for the time of year? dame! i don't see that the time of year has anything to do with it," exclaimed the fat countrywoman. here the young girl in the corner, blushing and smiling very sweetly, interposed with--"pardon, madame--my aunt is somewhat deaf. pray, excuse her." whereupon the old lady, watching the motion of her niece's lips, added-- "ah, yes--yes! i am a poor, deaf old woman--i don't understand what you say. talk to my little marie, here--she can answer you." "i, for one, desire nothing better than permission to talk to mademoiselle," said müller, gallantly. _"mais, monsieur_..." "mademoiselle, with madame her aunt, are going to the fête at courbevoie?" "yes, monsieur." "the river is very pretty thereabouts, and the walks through the meadows are delightful." "indeed, monsieur!" "mademoiselle does not know the place?" "no, monsieur." "ah, if i might only be permitted to act as guide! i know every foot of the ground about courbevoie." mademoiselle marie blushed again, looked down, and made no reply. "i am a painter," continued müller; "and i have sketched all the windings of the seine from neuilly to st. germains. my friend here is english--he is a student of medicine, and speaks excellent french." "what is the gentleman saying, _mon enfant_?" asked the old lady, somewhat anxiously. "monsieur says that the river is very pretty about courbevoie, _ma tante_," replied mademoiselle marie, raising her voice. "ah! ah! and what else?" "monsieur is a painter." "a painter? ah, dear me! it's an unhealthy occupation. my poor brother pierre might have been alive to this day if he had taken to any other line of business! you must take great care of your lungs, young man. you look delicate." müller laughed, shook his head, and declared at the top of his voice that he had never had a day's illness in his life. here the pretty niece again interposed. "ah, monsieur," she said, "my aunt does not understand....my--my uncle pierre was a house-painter." "a very respectable occupation, mademoiselle," replied müller, politely. "for my own part, i would sooner paint the insides of some houses than the outsides of some people." at this moment the train began to slacken pace, and the steam was let off with a demoniac shriek. "_tiens, mon enfant_," said the old lady, turning towards her niece with affectionate anxiety. "i hope you have not taken cold." the excellent soul believed that it was mademoiselle marie who sneezed. and now the train had stopped--the porters were running along the platform, shouting "courbevoie! courbevoie!"--the passengers were scrambling out _en masse_--and beyond the barrier one saw a confused crowd of _charrette_ and omnibus-drivers, touters, fruit-sellers, and idlers of every description. müller handed out the old lady and the niece; the fat countrywoman scrambled up into a kind of tumbril driven by a boy in _sabots_; the grisettes and soldiers walked off together; and the tide of holiday-makers, some on foot, some in hired vehicles, set towards the village. in the meanwhile, what with the crowd on the platform and the crowd outside the barrier, and what with the hustling and pushing at the point where the tickets were taken, we lost sight of the old lady and her niece. "what the deuce has become of _ma tante_?" exclaimed müller, looking round. but neither _ma tante_ nor mademoiselle marie were anywhere to be seen. i suggested that they must have gone on in the omnibus or taken a _charrette_, and so have passed us unperceived. "and, after all," i added, "we didn't want to enter upon an indissoluble union with them for the rest of the day. _ma tante's_ deafness is not entertaining, and _la petite_ marie has nothing to say." "_la petite_ marie is uncommonly pretty, though," said müller. "i mean to dance a quadrille with her by-and-by, i promise you." "_a la bonne heure_! we shall be sure to chance upon them again before long." we had come by this time to a group of pretty villa-residences with high garden walls and little shady side-lanes leading down to the river. then came a church and more houses; then an open place; and suddenly we found ourselves in the midst of the fair. it was just like any other of the hundred and one fêtes that take place every summer in the environs of paris. there was a merry-go-round and a greasy pole; there was a juggler who swallowed knives and ribbons; there were fortune-tellers without number; there were dining-booths, and drinking-booths, and dancing-booths; there were acrobats, organ-boys with monkeys, and savoyards with white mice; there were stalls for the sale of cakes, fruit, sweetmeats, toys, combs, cheap jewelry, glass, crockery, boots and shoes, holy-water vessels, rosaries, medals, and little colored prints of saints and martyrs; there were brass bands, and string bands, and ballad-singers everywhere; and there was an atmosphere compounded of dust, tobacco-smoke, onions, musk, and every objectionable perfume under heaven. "dine at the restaurant de l'empire, messieurs," shouted a shabby touter in a blouse, thrusting a greasy card into our faces. "three dishes, a dessert, a half-bottle, and a band of music, for one franc-fifty. the cheapest dinner in the fair!" "the cheapest dinner in the fair is at the belle gabrielle!" cried another. "we'll give you for the same money soup, fish, two dishes, a dessert, a half-bottle, and take your photograph into the bargain!" "bravo! _mon vieux_--you first poison them with your dinner, and then provide photographs for the widows and children," retorts touter number one. "that's justice, anyhow." whereupon touter number two shrieks out a torrent of abuse, and we push on, leaving them to settle their differences after their own fashion. at the next booth we are accosted by a burly fellow daubed to the eyes with red and blue paint, and dressed as an indian chief. "_entrez, entrez, messieurs et mesdames_" he cries, flourishing a war-spear some nine feet in length. "come and see the wonderful peruvian maiden of tanjore, with webbed fingers and toes, her mouth in the back of her head, and her eyes in the soles of her feet! only four sous each, and an opportunity that will never occur again!" "only fifty centimes!" shouts another public orator; "the most ingenious little machine ever invented! goes into the waistcoat pocket--is wound up every twenty-four hours--tells the day of the month, the day of the year, the age of the moon, the state of the bourse, the bank rate of discount, the quarter from which the wind is blowing, the price of new-laid eggs in paris and the provinces, the rate of mortality in the fee-jee islands, and the state of your sweetheart's affections!" a little further on, by dint of much elbowing, we made our way into a crowded booth where, for the modest consideration of two sous per head, might be seen a boneless youth and an ashantee king. the performances were half over when we went in. the boneless youth had gone through his feats of agility, and was lying on a mat in a corner of the stage, the picture of limp incapability. the ashantee monarch was just about to make his appearance. meanwhile, a little man in fleshings and a cocked hat addressed the audience. "messieurs and mesdames--i have the honor to announce that caraba radokala, king of ashantee, will next appear before you. this terrific native sovereign was taken captive by that famous dutch navigator, the mynheer van dunk, in his last voyage round the globe. van dunk, having brought his prisoner to europe in an iron cage, sold him to the english government in ; who sold him again to milord barnum, the great american philanthropist, in ; who sold him again to franconi of the cirque olympique; who finally sold him to me. at the time of his capture, caraba radokala was the most treacherous, barbarous, and sanguinary monster upon record. he had three hundred and sixty-five wives--a wife, you observe, for every day in the year. he lived exclusively upon human flesh, and consumed, when in good health, one baby per diem. his palace in ashantee was built entirely of the skulls and leg-bones of his victims. he is now, however, much less ferocious; and, though he feeds on live pigeons, rabbits, dogs, mice, and the like, he has not tasted human flesh since his captivity. he is also heavily ironed. the distinguished company need therefore entertain no apprehensions. pierre--draw the bolt, and let his majesty loose!" a savage roar was now heard, followed by a rattling of chains. then the curtains were suddenly drawn back, and the ashantee king--crowned with a feather head-dress, loaded with red and blue war-paint, and chained from ankle to ankle--bounded on the stage. seeing the audience before him, he uttered a terrific howl. the front rows were visibly agitated. several young women faintly screamed. the little man in the cocked hat rushed to the front, protesting that the ladies had no reason to be alarmed. caraba radokala, if not wantonly provoked, was now quite harmless--a little irritable, perhaps, from being waked too suddenly--would be as gentle as a lamb, if given something to eat:--"pierre, quiet his majesty with a pigeon!" pierre, a lank lad in motley, hereupon appeared with a live pigeon, which immediately escaped from his hands and perched on the top of the proscenium. caraba radokala yelled; the little man in the cocked hat raved; and pierre, in default of more pigeons, contritely reappeared with a lump of raw beef, into which his majesty ravenously dug his royal teeth. the pigeon, meanwhile, dressed its feathers and looked complacently down, as if used to the incident. "having fed, caraba radokala will now be quite gentle and good-humored," said the showman. "if any lady desires to shake hands with him, she may do so with perfect safety. will any lady embrace the opportunity?" a faint sound of tittering was heard in various parts of the booth; but no one came forward. "will _no_ lady be persuaded? well, then, is there any gentleman present who speaks ashantee?" müller gave me a dig with his elbow, and started to his feet. "yes," he replied, loudly. "i do." every head was instantly turned in our direction. the showman collapsed with astonishment. even the captive, despite his ignorance of the french tongue, looked considerably startled. "_comment_!" stammered the cocked hat. "monsieur speaks ashantee?" "fluently." "is it permitted to inquire how and when monsieur acquired this very unusual accomplishment?" "i have spoken ashantee from my infancy," replied müller, with admirable aplomb. "i was born at sea, brought up in an undiscovered island, twice kidnapped by hostile tribes before attaining the age of ten years, and have lived among savage nations all my life." a murmur of admiration ran through the audience, and müller became, for the time, an object of livelier interest than caraba radokala himself. seeing this, the indignant monarch executed a warlike _pas_, and rattled his chains fiercely. "in that case, monsieur, you had better come upon the stage, and speak to his majesty," said the showman reluctantly. "with all the pleasure in life." "but i warn you that his temper is uncertain." "bah!" said müller, working his way round through the crowd, "i'm not afraid of his temper." "as monsieur pleases--but, if monsieur offends him, _i_ will not be answerable for the consequences." "all right--give us a hand up, _mon vieux_!" and muller, having clambered upon the stage, made a bow to the audience and a salaam to his majesty. "chickahominy chowdar bang," said he, by way of opening the conversation. the ex-king of ashantee scowled, folded his arms, and maintained a haughty silence. "hic hac horum, high cockalorum," continued müller, with exceeding suavity. the captive monarch stamped impatiently, ground his teeth, but still made no reply. "monsieur had better not aggravate him," said the showman. "on the contrary--i am overwhelming him with civilities now observe--i condole with him upon his melancholy position. i inquire after his wives and children; and i remark how uncommonly well he is looking." and with this, he made another salaam, smiled persuasively, and said-- "alpha, beta, gamma, delta--chin-chin--potz tausend!--erin-go-bragh!" "borriobooloobah!" shrieked his majesty, apparently stung to desperation. "rocofoco!" retorted müller promptly. but as if this last was more than any ashantee temper could bear, caraba rodokala clenched both his fists, set his teeth hard, and charged down upon müller like a wild elephant. being met, however, by a well-planted blow between the eyes, he went down like a ninepin--picked himself up,--rushed in again, and, being forcibly seized and held back by the cocked hat, pierre of the pigeons, and a third man who came tumbling up precipitately from somewhere behind the stage, vented his fury, in a torrent of very highly civilized french oaths. "eh, _sacredieu_!" he cried, shaking his fist in müller's face, "i've not done with you yet, _diable de galérien_!" whereupon there burst forth a general roar--a roar like the "inextinguishable laughter" of olympus. "_tiens_!" said müller, "his majesty speaks french almost as well as i speak ashantee!" "_bourreau! brigand! assassin_!" shrieked his ferocity, as his friends hustled him off the stage. the curtains then fell together again; and the audience, still laughing vociferously, dispersed with cries of "vive caraba rodokala!" "kind remembrances to the queens of ashantee!" "what's the latest news from home?" "borriobooloo-bah--ah--ah!" elbowing our way out with the crowd, we now plunged once more into the press of the fair. here our old friends the dancing dogs of the champs elysées, and the familiar charlatan of the place du châtelet with his chariot and barrel-organ, transported us from ashantee to paris. next we came to a temporary shooting-gallery, adorned over the entrance with a spirited cartoon of a tyrolean sharpshooter; and then to an exhibition of cosmoramas; and presently to a weighing machine, in which a great, rosy-cheeked, laughing normandy peasant girl, with her high cap, blue skirt, massive gold cross and heavy ear-rings, was in the act of being weighed. "_tiens! mam'selle est joliment solide_!" remarks a saucy bystander, as the owner of the machine piles on weight after weight. "perhaps if i had no more brains than m'sieur, i should weigh as light!" retorts the damsel, with a toss of her high cap. "_pardon_! it is not a question of brains--it is a question of hearts," interposes an elderly exquisite in a white hat. "mam'selle has captured so many that she is completely over weighted." "twelve stone six ounces," pronounces the owner of the machine, adjusting the last weight. whereupon there is a burst of ironical applause, and the big _paysanne_, half laughing, half angry, walks off, exclaiming, "_eh bien! tant mieux_! i've no mind to be a scarecrow--_moi_!" by this time we have both had enough of the fair, and are glad to make our way out of the crowd and down to the riverside. here we find lovers strolling in pairs along the towing-path; family groups pic-nicking in the shade; boats and punts for hire, and a swimming-match just coming off, of which all that is visible are two black heads bobbing up and down along the middle of the stream. "and now, _mon ami_, what do you vote for?" asks müller. "boating or fishing? or both? or neither?" "both, if you like--but i never caught anything in my life," "the pleasure of fishing, i take it," says müller, "is not in the fish you catch, but in the fish you miss. the fish you catch is a poor little wretch, worth neither the trouble of landing, cooking, nor eating; but the fish you miss is always the finest fellow you ever saw in your life!" "_allons donc_! i know, then, which of us two will have most of the pleasure to-day," i reply, laughing. "but how about the expense?" to which müller, with a noble recklessness, answers:-- "oh, hang the expense! here, boatman! a boat _à quatre rames_, and some fishing-tackle--by the hour." now it was undoubtedly a fine sentiment this of müller's, and had we but fetched my two napoleons before starting, i should have applauded it to the echo; but when i considered that something very nearly approaching to a franc had already filtered out of our pockets in passing through the fair, and that the hour of dinner was looming somewhat indefinitely in the distance, i confess that my soul became disquieted within me. "don't forget, for heaven's sake," i said, "that we must keep something for dinner!" "my dear fellow," he replied, "i have already a tremendous appetite for dinner--that _is_ something." after this, i resigned myself to whatever might happen. we then rowed up the river for about a mile beyond courbevoie. moored our boat to a friendly willow, put our fishing-tackle together, and composed ourselves for the gentle excitement that waits upon the gudgeon and the minnow. "i haven't yet had a single nibble," said müller, when we had been sitting to our work for something less than ten minutes. "hush!" i said. "you mustn't speak, you know." "true--i had forgotten. i'll sing instead. fishes, i have been told, are fond of music. 'fanfan, je vous aimerais bien; contre vous je n'ai nul caprice; vous êtes gentil, j'en convien....'" "come, now!" i exclaimed pettishly, "this is really too bad. i had a bite--a most decided bite--and if you had only kept quiet".... "nonsense, my dear fellow! i tell you again--and i have it on the best authority--fishes like music. did you never hear of arion! have you forgotten about the syrens? believe me, your gudgeon nibbled because i sang him to the surface--just as the snakes come out for the song of the snake-charmer. i'll try again!" and with this he began:-- "jeannette est une brune qui demeure à pantin, où toute sa fortune est un petit jardin!" "well, if you go on like that, all i have to say is, that not a fish will come within half a mile of our bait," said i, with tranquil despair. "alas! _mon cher_, i am grieved to observe in your otherwise estimable character, a melancholy want of faith," replied müller "without faith, what is friendship? what is angling? what is matrimony? now, i tell you that with regard to the finny tribe, the more i charm them, the more enthusiastically they will flock to be caught. we shall have a miraculous draught in a few minutes, if you are but patient." and then he began again:-- "mimi pinson est une blonde, une blonde que l'on connaît. elle n'a qu'une robe au monde, landerirette! et qu'un bonnet." i laid aside my rod, folded my arms, and when he had done, applauded ironically. "very good," i said. "i understand the situation. we are here, at some--indeed, i may say, considering the state of our exchequer, at a considerable mutual expense; not to catch fish, but to afford herr müller an opportunity of exercising his extensive memory, and his limited baritone voice. the entertainment is not without its _agréments_, but i find it dear at the price." "_tiens_, arbuthnot! let us fish seriously. i promise not to open my lips again till you have caught something." "then, seriously, i believe you would have to be silent the whole night, and all i should catch would be the rheumatism. i am the worst angler in the world, and the most unlucky." "really and truly?" "really and truly. and you?" "as bad as yourself. if a tolerably large and energetic fish did me the honor to swallow my bait, the probability is that he would catch me. i certainly shouldn't know what to do with him." "then the present question is--what shall we do with ourselves?" "i vote that we row up as far as yonder bend in the river, just to see what lies beyond; and then back to courbevoie." "heaven only grant that by that time we shall have enough money left for dinner!" i murmured with a sigh. we rowed up the river as far as the first bend, a distance of about half a mile; and then we rowed on as far as the next bend. then we turned, and, resting on our oars, drifted slowly back with the current. the evening was indescribably brilliant and serene. the sky was cloudless, of a greenish blue, and full of light. the river was clear as glass. we could see the flaccid water-weeds swaying languidly with the current far below, and now and then a shoal of tiny fish shooting along half-way between the weeds and the surface. a rich fringe of purple iris, spear-leaved sagittarius, and tufted meadow-sweet (each blossom a bouquet on a slender thyrsus) bordered the towing-path and filled the air with perfume. here the meadows lay open to the water's edge; a little farther on, they were shut off by a close rampart of poplars and willows whose leaves, already yellowed by autumn, were now fiery in the sunset. joyous bands of gnats, like wild little intoxicated maenads, circled and hummed about our heads as we drifted slowly on; while, far away and mellowed by distance, we heard the brazen music of the fair. we were both silent. müller pulled out a small sketch-book and made a rapid study of the scene--the reach in the river; the wooded banks; the green flats traversed by long lines of stunted pollards; the church-tops and roofs of courbevoie beyond. presently a soft voice, singing, broke upon the silence. müller stopped involuntarily, pencil in hand. i held my breath, and listened. the tune was flowing and sweet; and as our boat drifted on, the words of the singer became audible. "o miroir ondoyant! je rève en te voyant harmonie et lumière, o ma rivière, o ma belle rivière! "on voit se réfléchir dans ses eaux les nuages; elle semble dormir entre les pâturages où paissent les grands boeufs et les grasses genisses. au pâtres amoureux que ses bords sont propices!" "a woman's voice," said müller. "dupont's words and music. she must be young and pretty ... where has she hidden herself?" the unseen singer, meanwhile, went on with another verse. "près des iris du bord, sous une berge haute, la carpe aux reflets d'or où le barbeau ressaute, les goujons font le guet, l'ablette qui scintille fuit le dent du brochet; au fond rampe l'anguille! "o miroir ondoyant! je rève en te voyant harmonic et lumière, o ma rivière, o ma belle rivière!" "look!" said müller. "do you not see them yonder--two women under the trees? by jupiter! it's _ma tante_ and _la petite_ marie!" saying which, he flung himself upon his oars and began pulling vigorously towards the shore. chapter xxv. that terrible mÜller. la petite marie broke off at the sound of our oars, and blushed a becoming rose-color. "will these ladies do us the honor of letting us row them back to courbevoie?" said müller, running our boat close in against the sedges, and pulling off his hat as respectfully as if they were duchesses. mademoiselle marie repeated the invitation to her aunt, who accepted it at once. "_très volontiers, très volontiers, messieurs_" she said, smiling and nodding. "we have rambled out so far--so far! and i am not as young as i was forty years ago. _ah, mon dieu_! how my old bones ache! give me thy hand, marie, and thank the gentlemen for their politeness." so mam'selle marie helped her aunt to rise, and we steadied the boat close under the bank, at a point where the interlacing roots of a couple of sallows made a kind of natural step by means of which they could easily get down. "oh, dear! dear! it will not turn over, will it, my dear young man? _ciel_! i am slipping ... ah, _dieu, merci_!--marie, _mon cher enfant_, pray be careful not to jump in, or you will upset us all!" and _ma tante_, somewhat tremulous from the ordeal of embarking, settled down in her place, while müller lifted mam'selle marie into the boat, as if she had been a child. i then took the oars, leaving him to steer; and so we pursued our way towards courbevoie. "mam'selle has of course seen the fair?" said müller, from behind the old lady's back. "no, monsieur," "no! is it possible?" "there was so much crowd, monsieur, and such a noise ... we were quite too much afraid to venture in." "would you be afraid, mam'selle, to venture with me?" "i--i do not know, monsieur." "ah, mam'selle, you might be very sure that i would take good care of you!" "_mais ... monsieur_"... "these gentlemen, i see, have been angling," said the old lady, addressing me very graciously. "have you caught many fish?" "none at all, madame!" i replied, loudly. "_tiens_! so many as that?" "_pardon_, madame," i shouted at the top of my voice. "we have caught nothing--nothing at all." _ma tante_ smiled blandly. "ah, yes," she said; "and you will have them cooked presently for dinner, _n'est-ce pas_? there is no fish so fresh, and so well-flavored, as the fish of our own catching." "will madame and mam'selle do us the honor to taste our fish and share our modest dinner?" said müller, leaning forward in his seat in the stern, and delivering his invitation close into the old lady's ear. to which _ma tante_, with a readiness of hearing for which no one would have given her credit, replied:-- "but--but monsieur is very polite--if we should not be inconveniencing these gentlemen".... "we shall be charmed, madame--we shall be honored!" "_eh bien!_ with pleasure, then--marie, my child, thank the gentlemen for their amiable invitation." i was thunderstruck. i looked at müller to see if he had suddenly gone out of his senses. mam'selle marie, however, was infinitely amused. "_fi donc!_ monsieur," she said. "you have no fish. i heard the other gentleman say so." "the other gentleman, mam'selle," replied müller, "is an englishman, and troubled with the spleen. you must not mind anything he says." troubled with the spleen! i believe myself to be as even-tempered and as ready to fall in with a joke as most men; but i should have liked at that moment to punch franz müller's head. gracious heavens! into what a position he had now brought us! what was to be done? how were we to get out of it? it was now just seven; and we had already been upon the water for more than an hour. what should we have to pay for the boat? and when we had paid for the boat, how much money should we have left to pay for the dinner? not for our own dinners--ah, no! for _ma tante's_ dinner (and _ma tante_ had a hungry eye) and for _la petite_ marie's dinner; and _la petite_ marie, plump, rosy, and well-liking, looked as if she might have a capital appetite upon occasion! should we have as much as two and a half francs? i doubted it. and then, in the absence of a miracle, what could we do with two and a half francs, if we had them? a miserable sum!--convertible, perhaps, into as much bouilli, bread and cheese, and thin country wine as might have satisfied our own hunger in a prosaic and commonplace way; but for four persons, two of them women!... and this was not the worst of it. i thought i knew müller well enough by this time to feel that he would entirely dismiss this minor consideration of ways and means; that he would order the dinner as recklessly as if we had twenty francs apiece in our pockets; and that he would not only order it, but eat it and preside at it with all the gayety and audacity in life. then would come the horrible retribution of the bill! i felt myself turn red and hot at the mere thought of it. then a dastardly idea insinuated itself into my mind. i had my return-ticket in my waistcoat-pocket:--what if i slipped away presently to the station and went back to paris by the next train, leaving my clever friend to improvise his way out of his own scrape as best he could? in the meanwhile, as i was rowing with the stream, we soon got back to courbevoie. "_are_ you mad?" i said, as, having landed the ladies, müller and i delivered up the boat to its owner. "didn't i admit it, two or three hours ago?" he replied. "i wonder you don't get tired, _mon cher_, of asking the same question so often." "four francs, fifty centimes, messieurs," said the boatman, having made fast his boat to the landing-place. "four francs, fifty centimes!" i echoed, in dismay. even müller looked aghast. "my good fellow," he said, "do you take us for coiners?" "hire of boat, two francs the hour. these gentlemen have been out nearly one hour and a half--three francs. hire of bait and fishing-tackle, one franc fifty. total, four francs and a half," replied the boatman, putting out a great brown palm. müller, who was acting as cashier and paymaster, pulled out his purse, deposited one solitary half-franc in the middle of that brown palm, and suggested that the boatman and he should toss up for the remaining four francs--or race for them--or play for them--or fight for them. the boatman, however, indignantly rejected each successive proposal, and, being paid at last, retired with a _decrescendo_ of oaths. "_tiens_!" said müller, reflectively. "we have but one franc left. one franc, two sous, and a centime. _vive la france!_" "and you have actually asked that wretched old woman and her niece to dinner!" "and i have actually solicited that excellent and admirable woman, madame marotte, relict of the late lamented jacques marotte, umbrella maker, of number one hundred and two, rue du faubourg st. denis, and her beautiful and accomplished niece, mademoiselle marie charpentier, to honor us with their company this evening. _dis-donc,_ what shall we give them for dinner?" "precisely what you invited them to, i should guess--the fish we caught this afternoon." "agreed. and what else?" "say--a dish of invisible greens, and a phoenix _à la marengo_." "you are funny, _mon cher_." "then, for fear i should become too funny--good afternoon." "what do you mean?" "i mean that i have no mind to dine first, and be kicked out of doors afterwards. it is one of those aids to digestion that i can willingly dispense with." "but if i guarantee that the dinner shall be paid for--money down!" "tra la la!" "you don't believe me? well, come and see." with this, he went up to madame marotte, who, with her niece, had sat down on a bench under a walnut-tree close by, waiting our pleasure. "would not these ladies prefer to rest here, while we seek for a suitable restaurant and order the dinner?" said müller insinuatingly. the old lady looked somewhat blank. she was not too tired to go on--thought it a pity to bring us all the way back again--would do, however, as "_ces messieurs_" pleased; and so was left sitting under the walnut-tree, reluctant and disconsolate. "_tiens! mon enfant_" i heard her say as we turned away, "suppose they don't come back again!" we had promised to be gone not longer, than twenty minutes, or at most half an hour. müller led the way straight to the _toison d' or_. i took him by the arm as we neared the gate. "steady, steady, _mon gaillard_" i said. "we don't order our dinner, you know, till we've found the money to pay for it." "true--but suppose i go in here to look for it?" "into the restaurant garden?" "precisely." chapter xxvi. the petit courier illustrÉ. the _toison d' or_ was but a modest little establishment as regarded the house, but it was surrounded on three sides by a good-sized garden overlooking the river. here, in the trellised arbors which lined the lawn on either side, those customers who preferred the open air could take their dinners, coffees, and absinthes _al fresco_. the scene when we arrived was at its gayest. there were dinners going on in every arbor; waiters running distractedly to and fro with trays and bottles; two women, one with a guitar, the other with a tamborine, singing under a tree in the middle of the garden; while in the air there reigned an exhilarating confusion of sounds and smells impossible to describe. we went in. müller paused, looked round, captured a passing waiter, and asked for monsieur le propriétaire. the waiter pointed over his shoulder towards the house, and breathlessly rushed on his way. müller at once led the way into a salon on the ground-floor looking over the garden. here we found ourselves in a large low room containing some thirty or forty tables, and fitted up after the universal restaurant pattern, with cheap-looking glasses, rows of hooks, and spittoons in due number. the air was heavy with the combined smells of many dinners, and noisy with the clatter of many tongues. behind the fruits, cigars, and liqueur bottles that decorated the _comptoir_ sat a plump, black-eyed little woman in a gorgeous cap and a red silk dress. this lady welcomed us with a bewitching smile and a gracious inclination of the head. "_ces messieurs_," she said, "will find a vacant table yonder, by the window." müller bowed majestically. "madame," he said, "i wish to see monsieur le propriétaire." the dame de comptoir looked very uneasy. "if monsieur has any complaint to make," she said, "he can make it to me." "madame, i have none." "or if it has reference to the ordering of a dinner...." müller smiled loftily. "dinner, madame," he said, with a disdainful gesture, "is but one of the accidents common to humanity. a trifle! a trifle always humiliating--sometimes inconvenient--occasionally impossible. no, madame, mine is a serious mission; a mission of the highest importance, both socially and commercially. may i beg that you will have the goodness to place my card in the hands of monsieur le propriétaire, and say that i request the honor of five minutes' interview." the little woman's eyes had all this time been getting rounder and blacker. she was evidently confounded by my friend's grandiloquence. "_ah! mon dieu! m'sieur_," she said, nervously, "my husband is in the kitchen. it is a busy day with us, you understand--but i will send for him." and she forthwith despatched a waiter for "monsieur choucru." müller seized me by the arm. "heavens!" he exclaimed, in a very audible aside, "did you hear? she is his wife! she is madame choucru?" "well, and what of that?" "what of that, indeed? _mais, mon ami_, how can you ask the question? have you no eyes? look at her! such a remarkably handsome woman--such a _tournure_--such eyes--such a figure for an illustration! only conceive the effect of madame choucru--in medallion!" "oh, magnificent!" i replied. "magnificent--in medallion." but i could not, for the life of me, imagine what he was driving at. "and it would make the fortune of the _toison d'or_" he added, solemnly. to which i replied that it would undoubtedly do so. monsieur choucru now came upon the scene; a short, rosy, round-faced little man in a white flat cap and bibbed apron--like an elderly cherub that had taken to cookery. he hung back upon the threshold, wiping his forehead, and evidently unwilling to show himself in his shirt-sleeves. "here, _mon bon_," cried madame, who was by this time crimson with gratified vanity, and in a fever of curiosity; "this way--the gentleman is waiting to speak to you!" monsieur, the cook and proprietor, shuffled his feet to and fro in the doorway, but came no nearer. "_parbleu_!" he said, "if m'sieur's business is not urgent." "it is extremely urgent, monsieur choucru," replied müller; "and, moreover, it is not so much my business as it is yours," "ah bah! if it is my business, then, it may stand over till to-morrow," replied the little man, impatiently. "to-day i have eighty dinners on hand, and with m'sieur's permission".... but müller strode to the door and caught him by the shoulder. "no, monsieur choucru," he said sternly, "i will not let you ruin yourself by putting off till to-morrow what can only be done to-day. i have come here, monsieur choucru, to offer you fame. fame and fortune, monsieur choucru!--and i will not suffer you, for the sake of a few miserable dinners, to turn your back upon the most brilliant moment of your life!" "_mais, m'sieur_--explain yourself" ... stammered the propriétaire. "you know who i am, monsieur choucru?" "no, m'sieur--not in the least." "i am müller--franz müller--landscape painter, portrait painter, historical painter, caricaturist, artist _en chef_ to the _petit courier illustré_" "_hein! m'sieur est peintre_!" "yes, monsieur choucru--and i offer you my protection." monsieur choucru scratched his ear, and smiled doubtfully. "now listen, monsieur choucru--i am here to-day in the interests of the _petit courier illustré_. i take the courbevoie fête for my subject. i sketch the river, the village, the principal features of the-scene; and on saturday my designs are in the hands of all paris. do you understand me?" "i understand that m'sieur is all this time talking to me of his own business, while mine, _là bas_, is standing still!" exclaimed the propriétaire, in an agony of impatience. "i have the honor to wish m'sieur good-day." but müller seized him again, and would not let him escape. "not so fast, monsieur choucru," he said; "not so fast! will you answer me one question before you go?" "_eh, mon dieu_! monsieur." "will you tell me, monsieur choucru, what is to prevent me from giving a view of the best restaurant in courbevoie?" madame choucru, from behind the _comptoir_, uttered a little scream. "a design in the _petit courier illustré_, i need scarcely tell you," pursued müller, with indescribable pomposity, "is in itself sufficient to make the fortune not only of an establishment, but of a neighborhood. i am about to make courbevoie the fashion. the sun of asnières, of montmorency, of enghien has set--the sun of courbevoie is about to rise. my sketches will produce an unheard-of effect. all paris will throng to your fêtes next sunday and monday--all paris, with its inexhaustible appetite for _bifteck aux pommes frites_--all paris with its unquenchable thirst for absinthe and bavarian beer! now, monsieur choucru, do you begin to understand me?" "_mais_, monsieur, i--i think...." "you think you do, monsieur choucru? very good. then will you please to answer me one more question. what is to prevent me from conferring fame, fortune, and other benefits too numerous to mention on your excellent neighbor at the corner of the place--monsieur coquille of the restaurant _croix de malte_?" monsieur choucru scratched his ear again, stared helplessly at his wife, and said nothing. madame looked grave. "are we to treat this matter on the footing of a business transaction, monsieur!" she asked, somewhat sharply. "because, if so, let monsieur at once name his price for me...." "'price,' madame!" interrupted müller, with a start of horror. "gracious powers! this to me--to franz müller of the _petit courier illustré_! 'no, madame--you mistake me--you wound me--you touch the honor of the fine arts! madame, i am incapable of selling my patronage." madame clasped her hands; raised her voice; rolled her black eyes; did everything but burst into tears. she was shocked to have offended monsieur! she was profoundly desolated! she implored a thousand pardons! and then, like a true french-woman of business, she brought back the conversation to the one important point:--since money was not in question, upon what consideration would monsieur accord his preference to the _toison d' or_ instead of to the _croix de malte_? müller bowed, laid his hand upon his heart, and said:-- "i will do it, _pour les beaux yeux de madame_." and then, in graceful recognition of the little man's rights as owner of the eyes in question, he bowed to monsieur choucru. madame was inexpressibly charmed. monsieur smiled, fidgeted, and cast longing glances towards the door. "i have eighty dinners on hand," he began again, "and if m'sieur will excuse me...." "one moment more, my dear monsieur choucru," said müller, slipping his hand affectionately through the little man's arm. "for myself, as i have already told you, i can accept nothing--but i am bound in honor not to neglect the interests of the journal i represent. you will of course wish to express your sense of the compliment paid to your house by adding your name to the subscription list of the _petit courier illustré_?" "oh, by--by all means--with pleasure," faltered the propriétaire. "for how many copies, monsieur choucru? shall we say--six?" monsieur looked at madame. madame nodded. müller took out his pocket-book, and waited, pencil in hand. "eh--_parbleu_!--let it be for six, then," said monsieur choucru, somewhat reluctantly. müller made the entry, shut up the pocket-book, and shook hands boisterously with his victim. "my dear monsieur choucru," he said, "i cannot tell you how gratifying this is to my feelings, or with what disinterested satisfaction i shall make your establishment known to the parisian public. you shall be immortalized, my dear fellow--positively immortalized!" "_bien obligé, m'sieur--bien obligé_. will you not let my wife offer you a glass of liqueure?" "liqueure, _mon cher_!" exclaimed müller, with an outburst of frank cordiality--"hang liqueure!--we'll dine with you!" "monsieur shall be heartily welcome to the best dinner the _toison d'or_ can send up; and his friend also," said madame, with her sweetest smile. "ah, madame!" "and m'sieur choucru shall make you one of his famous cheese soufflés. _tiens, mon bon_, go down and prepare a cheese soufflé for two." müller smote his forehead distractedly. "for two!" he cried. "heavens! i had forgotten my aunt and my cousin!" madame looked up inquiringly. "monsieur has forgotten something?" "two somethings, madame--two somebodies! my aunt--my excellent and admirable maternal aunt,--and my cousin. we left them sitting under a tree by the river-side, more than half an hour ago. but the fault, madame, is yours." "how, monsieur?" "yes; for in your charming society i forget the ties of family and the laws of politeness. but i hasten to fetch my forgotten relatives. with what pleasure they will share your amiable hospitality! _au revoir_, madame. in ten minutes we shall be with you again!" madame choucru looked grave. she had not bargained to entertain a party of four; yet she dared not disoblige the _petit courier illustré_. she had no time, however, to demur to the arrangement; for müller, ingeniously taking her acquiescence for granted, darted out of the room without waiting for an answer. "miserable man!" i exclaimed, as soon as we were outside the doors, "what will you do now?" "do! why, fetch my admirable maternal aunt and my interesting cousin, to be sure." "but you have raised a dinner under false pretences!" "i, _mon cher_? not a bit of it." "have you, then, really anything to do with the _petit courier illustré_?" "the editor of the _petit courier illustré_ is one of the best fellows in the world, and occasionally (when my pockets represent that vacuum which nature very properly abhors) he advances me a couple of napoleons. i wipe out the score from time to time by furnishing a design for the paper. now to-day, you see, i'm in luck. i shall pay off two obligations at once--to say nothing of monsieur choucru's six-fold subscription to the p.c., on which the publishers will allow me a douceur of thirty francs. now, confess that i'm a man of genius!" in less than a quarter of an hour we were all four established round one of madame choucru's comfortable little dining-tables, in a snug recess at the farthest end of the salon. here, being well out of reach of our hostess's black eyes, müller assumed all the airs of a liberal entertainer. he hung up _ma cousine's_ bonnet; fetched a footstool for _ma tante_; criticised the sauces; presided over the wine; cut jokes with the waiter; and pretended to have ordered every dish beforehand. the stewed kidneys with mushrooms were provided especially for madame marotte; the fricandeau was selected in honor of mam'selle marie (had he not an innate presentiment that she loved fricandeau?); and as for the soles _au gratin_, he swore, in defiance of probability and all the laws of nature, that they were the very fish we had just caught in the seine. by-and-by came monsieur choucru's famous cheese _soufflé_; and then, with a dish of fruit, four cups of coffee, and four glasses of liqueure, the banquet came to an end. as we sat at desert, müller pulled out his book and pencilled a rapid but flattering sketch of the dining-room interior, developing a perspective as long as the rue de rivoli, and a _mobilier_ at least equal in splendor to that of the _trois frères_. at sight of this _chef d'oeuvre_, madame choucru was moved almost to tears. ah, heaven! if monsieur could only figure to himself her admiration for his _beau talent_! but alas! that was impossible--as impossible as that monsieur choucru should ever repay this unheard-of obligation! müller laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed profoundly. "ah! madame," he said, "it is not to monsieur choucru that i look for repayment--it is to you." "to me, monsieur? _dieu merci! monsieur se moque de moi_!" and the dame de comptoir, intrenched behind her fruits and liqueure bottles, shot a parthian glance from under her black eye-lashes, and made believe to blush. "yes, madame, to you. i only ask permission to come again very soon, for the purpose of executing a little portrait of madame--a little portrait which, alas! _must_ fail to render adequate justice to such a multitude of charms." and with this choice compliment, müller bowed again, took his leave, bestowed a whole franc upon the astonished waiter, and departed from the _toison d'or_ in an atmosphere of glory. the fair, or rather that part of the fair where the dancers and diners most did congregate, was all ablaze with lights, and noisy with brass bands as we came out. _ma tante_, who was somewhat tired, and had been dozing for the last half hour over her coffee and liqueure, was impatient to get back to paris. the fair marie, who was not tired at all, confessed that she should enjoy a waltz above everything. while müller, who professed to be an animated time-table, swore that we were just too late for the ten minutes past ten train, and that there would be no other before eleven forty-five. so madame marotte was carried off, _bon gré, mal gré_, to a dancing-booth, where gentlemen were admitted on payment of forty centimes per head, and ladies went in free. here, despite the noise, the dust, the braying of an abominable band, the overwhelming smell of lamp-oil, and the clatter, not only of heavy walking-boots, but even of several pairs of sabots upon an uneven floor of loosely-joined planks--_ma tante_, being disposed of in a safe corner, went soundly to sleep. it was a large booth, somewhat over-full; and the company consisted mainly of parisian blue blouses, little foot-soldiers, grisettes (for there were grisettes in those days, and plenty of them), with a sprinkling of farm-boys and dairy-maids from the villages round about. we found this select society caracoling round the booth in a thundering galop, on first going in. after the galop, the conductor announced a _valse à deux temps_. the band struck up--one--two--three. away went some thirty couples--away went müller and the fair marie--and away went the chronicler of this modest biography with a pretty little girl in green boots who waltzed remarkably well, and who deserted him in the middle of the dance for a hideous little french soldier about four feet and a half high. after this rebuff (having learned, notwithstanding my friend's representations to the contrary, that a train ran from courbevoie to paris every half-hour up till midnight) i slipped away, leaving müller and _ma cousine_ in the midst of a furious flirtation, and madame marotte fast asleep in her corner. the clocks were just striking twelve as i passed under the archway leading to the cité bergère. "_tiens_!" said the fat concierge, as she gave me my key and my candle. "monsieur has perhaps been to the theatre this evening? no!--to the country--to the fête at courbevoie! ah, then, i'll be sworn that m'sieur has had plenty of fun!" but had i had plenty of fun? that was the question. that müller had had plenty of flirting and plenty of fun was a fact beyond the reach of doubt. but a flirtation, after all, unless in a one-act comedy, is not entertaining to the mere looker-on; and oh! must not those bridesmaids who sometimes accompany a happy couple in their wedding-tour, have a dreary time of it? chapter xxvii. the École de natation. it seemed to me that i had but just closed my eyes, when i was waked by a hand upon my shoulder, and a voice calling me by my name. i started up to find the early sunshine pouring in at the window, and franz müller standing by my bedside. "_tiens_!" said he. "how lovely are the slumbers of innocence! i was hesitating, _mon cher_, whether to wake or sketch you." i muttered something between a growl and a yawn, to the effect that i should have been better satisfied if he had left me alone. "you prefer everything that is basely self-indulgent, young man," replied müller, making a divan of my bed, and coolly lighting his pipe under my very nose. "contrary to all the laws of _bon-camaraderie_, you stole away last night, leaving your unprotected friend in the hands of the enemy. and for what?--for the sake of a few hours' ignominious oblivion! look at me--i have not been to bed all night, and i am as lively as a lobster in a lobster-pot." "how did you get home?" i asked, rubbing my eyes; "and when?" "i have not got home at all yet," replied my visitor. "i have come to breakfast with you first." just at this moment, the _pendule_ in the adjoining room struck six. "to breakfast!" i repeated. "at this hour?--you who never breakfast before midday!" "true, _mon cher_; but then you see there are reasons. in the first place, we danced a little too long, and missed the last train, so i was obliged to bring the dear creatures back to paris in a fiacre. in the second place, the driver was drunk, and the horse was groggy, and the fiacre was in the last stage of dilapidation. the powers below only know how many hours we were on the road; for we all fell asleep, driver included, and never woke till we found ourselves at the barrière de l'Étoile at the dawn of day." "then what have you done with madame marotte and mademoiselle marie?" "deposited them at their own door in the rue du faubourg st. denis, as was the bounden duty of a _preux chevalier_. but then, _mon cher_, i had no money; and having no money, i couldn't pay for the fiacre; so i drove on here--and here i am--and number one thousand and eleven is now at the door, waiting to be paid." "the deuce he is!" "so you see, sad as it was to disturb the slumbers of innocence, i couldn't possibly let you go on sleeping at the rate of two francs an hour." "and what is the rate at which you have waked me?" "sixteen francs the fare, and something for the driver--say twenty in all." "then, my dear fellow, just open my desk and take one of the two napoleons you will see lying inside, and dismiss number one thousand and eleven without loss of time; and then...." "a thousand thanks! and then what?" "will you accept a word of sound advice?" "depends on whether it's pleasant to follow, _caro mio_" "go home; get three or four hours' rest; and meet me in the palais royal about twelve for breakfast." "in order that you may turn round and go to sleep again in comfort? no, young man, i will do nothing of the kind. you shall get up, instead, and we'll go down to molino's." "to molino's?" "yes--don't you know molino's--the large swimming-school by the pont neuf. it's a glorious morning for a plunge in the seine." a plunge in the seine! now, given a warm bed, a chilly autumn morning, and a decided inclination to quote the words of the sluggard, and "slumber again," could any proposition be more inopportune, savage, and alarming? i shuddered; i protested; i resisted; but in vain. "i shall be up again in less time than it will take you to tell your beads, _mon gaillard_" said müller the ferocious, as, having captured my napoleon, he prepared to go down and liquidate with number one thousand and eleven. "and it's of no use to bolt me out, because i shall hammer away till you let me in, and that will wake your fellow-lodgers. so let me find you up, and ready for the fray." and then, execrating müller, and molino, and molino's bath, and molino's customers, and all molino's ancestors from the period of the deluge downwards, i reluctantly complied. the air was brisk, the sky cloudless, the sun coldly bright; and the city wore that strange, breathless, magical look so peculiar to paris at early morning. the shops were closed; the pavements deserted; the busy thoroughfares silent as the avenues of père la chaise. yet how different from the early stillness of london! london, before the world is up and stirring, looks dead, and sullen, and melancholy; but paris lies all beautiful, and bright, and mysterious, with a look as of dawning smiles upon her face; and we know that she will wake presently, like the sleeping beauty, to sudden joyousness and activity. our road lay for a little way along the boulevards, then down the rue vivienne, and through the palais royal to the quays; but long ere we came within sight of the river this magical calm had begun to break up. the shop-boys in the palais royal were already taking down the shutters--the great book-stall at the end of the galerie vitrée showed signs of wakefulness; and in the place du louvre there was already a detachment of brisk little foot-soldiers at drill. by the time we had reached the open line of the quays, the first omnibuses were on the road; the water-carriers were driving their carts and blowing their shrill little bugles; the washer-women, hard at work in their gay, oriental-looking floating kiosques, were hammering away, mallet in hand, and chattering like millions of magpies; and the early matin-bell was ringing to prayers as we passed the doors of st. germain l'auxerrois. and now we were skirting the quai de l'École, looking down upon the bath known in those days as molino's--a hugh, floating quadrangular structure, surrounded by trellised arcades and rows of dressing-rooms, with a divan, a café restaurant, and a permanent corps of cooks and hair-dressers on the establishment. for your true parisian has ever been wedded to his seine, as the venetian to his adriatic; and the École de natation was then, as now, a lounge, a reading-room, an adjunct of the clubs, and one of the great institutions of the capital. some bathers, earlier than ourselves, were already sauntering about the galleries in every variety of undress, from the simple _caleçon_ to the gaudiest version of turkish robe and algerian _kepi_. some were smoking; some reading the morning papers; some chatting in little knots; but as yet, with the exception of two or three school-boys (called, in the _argot_ of the bath, _moutards_), there were no swimmers in the water. with some of these loungers müller exchanged a nod or a few words as we passed along the platform; but shook hands cordially with a bronzed, stalwart man, dressed like a venetian gondolier in the frontispiece to a popular ballad, with white trousers, blue jacket, anchor buttons, red sash, gold ear-rings, and great silver buckles in his shoes. müller introduced this romantic-looking person to me as "monsieur barbet." "my friend, monsieur barbet," said he, "is the prince of swimming-masters. he is more at home in the water than on land, and knows more about swimming than a fish. he will calculate you the specific gravity of the heaviest german metaphysician at a glance, and is capable of floating even the works of monsieur thiers, if put to the test." "monsieur can swim?" said the master, addressing me, with a nautical scrape. "i think so," i replied. "many gentlemen think so," said monsieur barbet, "till they find themselves in the water." "and many who wish to be thought accomplished swimmers never venture into it on that account," added müller. "you would scarcely suppose," he continued, turning to me, "that there are men here--regular _habitués_ of the bath--who never go into the water, and yet give themselves all the airs of practised bathers. that tall man, for instance, with the black beard and striped _peignoir_, yonder--there's a fellow who comes once or twice a week all through the season, goes through the ceremony of undressing, smokes, gossips, criticises, is looked up to as an authority, and has never yet been seen off the platform. then there's that bald man in the white robe--his name's giroflet--a retired stockbroker. well, that fellow robes himself like an ancient roman, puts himself in classical attitudes, affects taciturnity, models himself upon brutus, and all that sort of thing; but is as careful not to get his feet wet as a cat. others, again, come simply to feed. the restaurant is one of the choicest in paris, with this advantage over véfour or the trois frères, that it is the only place where you may eat and drink of the best in hot weather, with nothing on but the briefest of _caleçons_" thus chattering, müller took me the tour of the bath, which now began to fill rapidly. we then took possession of two little dressing-rooms no bigger than sentry-boxes, and were presently in the water. the scene now became very animated. hundreds of eccentric figures crowded the galleries--some absurdly fat, some ludicrously thin; some old, some young; some bow-legged, some knock-kneed; some short, some tall; some brown, some yellow; some got up for effect in gorgeous wrappers; and all more or less hideous. "an amusing sight, isn't it?" said müller, as, having swum several times round the bath, we sat down for a few moments on one of the flights of steps leading down to the water. "it is a sight to disgust one for ever with human-kind," i replied. "and to fill one with the profoundest respect for one's tailor. after all, it's broad-cloth makes the man." "but these are not men--they are caricatures." "every man is a caricature of himself when you strip him," said müller, epigrammatically. "look at that scarecrow just opposite. he passes for an adonis, _de par le monde_." i looked and recognised the count de rivarol, a tall young man, an _élégant_ of the first water, a curled darling of society, a professed lady-killer, whom i had met many a time in attendance on madame de marignan. he now looked like a monkey:-- .... "long, and lank and brown, as in the ribb'd sea sand!" "gracious heavens!" i exclaimed, "what would become of the world, if clothes went out of fashion?" "humph!--one half of us, my dear fellow, would commit suicide." at the upper end of the bath was a semicircular platform somewhat loftier than the rest, called the amphitheatre. this, i learned, was the place of honor. here clustered the _élite_ of the swimmers; here they discussed the great principles of their art, and passed judgment on the performances of those less skilful than themselves. to the right of the amphitheatre rose a slender spiral staircase, like an openwork pillar of iron, with a tiny circular platform on the top, half surrounded by a light iron rail. this conspicuous perch, like the pillar of st. simeon stylites, was every now and then surmounted by the gaunt figure of some ambitious plunger who, after attitudinizing awhile in the pose of napoleon on the column vendôme, would join his hands above his head and take a tremendous "header" into the gulf below. when this feat was successfully performed, the _élite_ in the amphitheatre applauded graciously. and now, what with swimming, and lounging, and looking on, some two hours had slipped by, and we were both hungry and tired, müller proposed that we should breakfast at the café procope. "but why not here?" i asked, as a delicious breeze from the buffet came wafting by "like a steam of rich distilled perfumes." "because a breakfast _chez_ molino costs at least twenty-five francs per head--because i have credit at procope--because i have not a _sou_ in my pocket--and because, milord smithfield, i aspire to the honor of entertaining your lordship on the present occasion!" replied müller, punctuating each clause of his sentence with a bow. if müller had not a _sou_, i, at all events, had now only one napoleon; so the café procope carried the day. chapter xxviii. the rue de l'ancienne comÉdie and the cafÉ procope. the rue des fossés-saint-germain-des-près and the rue de l'ancienne comédie are one and the same. as the rue des fossés-saint-germain-des-près, it dates back to somewhere about the reign of philippe auguste; and as the rue de l'ancienne comèdie it takes its name and fame from the year , when the old théâtre français was opened on the th of april by the company known as moliêre's troupe--moliêre being then dead, and lully having succeeded him at the théâtre du palais royal. in the same year, , one françois procope, a sicilian, conceived the happy idea of hiring a house just opposite the new theatre, and there opening a public refreshment-room, which at once became famous, not only for the excellence of its coffee (then newly introduced into france), but also for being the favorite resort of all the wits, dramatists, and beaux of that brilliant time. here the latest epigrams were circulated, the newest scandals discussed, the bitterest literary cabals set on foot. here jean jacques brooded over his chocolate; and voltaire drank his mixed with coffee; and dorat wrote his love-letters to mademoiselle saunier; and marmontel wrote praises of mademoiselle clairon; and the marquis de biévre made puns innumerable; and duclos and mercier wrote satires, now almost forgotten; and piron recited those verses which are at once his shame and his fame; and the chevalier de st. georges gave fencing lessons to his literary friends; and lamothe, fréron, d'alembert, diderot, helvetius, and all that wonderful company of wits, philosophers, encyclopaedists, and poets, that lit up as with a dying glory the last decades of the old _régime_, met daily, nightly, to write, to recite, to squabble, to lampoon, and some times to fight. the year beheld, in the closing of the théâtre français, the extinction of a great power in the rue des fossés-saint-germain-des-près--for it was not, in fact, till the theatre was no more a theatre that the street changed its name, and became the rue de l'ancienne comédie. a new house (to be on first opening invested with the time-honored title of théâtre français, but afterwards to be known as the odéon) was now in progress of erection in the close neighborhood of the luxembourg. the actors, meanwhile, repaired to the little theatre of the tuilleries. at length, in ,[ ] the rue de l'ancienne comédie was one evening awakened from its two years' lethargy by the echo of many footfalls, the glare of many flambeaux, and the rattle of many wheels; for all paris, all the wits and critics of the café procope, all the fair shepherdesses and all the beaux seigneurs of the court of marie antoinette and louis xvi., were hastening on foot, in chairs, and in chariots, to the opening of the new house and the performance of a new play! and what a play! surely, not to consider it too curiously, a play which struck, however sportively, the key-note of the coming revolution;--a play which, for the first time, displayed society literally in a state of _bouleversement_;--a play in which the greed of the courtier, the venality of the judge, the empty glitter of the crown, were openly held up to scorn;--a play in which all the wit, audacity, and success are on the side of the _canaille_;--a play in which a lady's-maid is the heroine, and a valet canes his master, and a great nobleman is tricked, outwitted, and covered with ridicule! [ ] is the date given by m. hippolyte lucas. sainte-beuve places it two years later. this play, produced for the first time under the title of _la folle journée_, was written by one caron de beaumarchais--a man of wit, a man of letters, a man of the people, a man of nothing--and was destined to achieve immortality under its later title of _le mariage de figaro_. a few years later, and the rue de l'ancienne comédie echoed daily and nightly to the dull rumble of revolutionary tumbrils, and the heavy tramp of revolutionary mobs. danton and camille desmoulins must have passed through it habitually on their way to the revolutionary tribunal. charlotte corday (and this is a matter of history) did pass through it that bright july evening, , on her way to a certain gloomy house still to be seen in the adjoining rue de l'École de médecine, where she stabbed marat in his bath. but throughout every vicissitude of time and politics, though fashion deserted the rue de l'ancienne comédie, and actors migrated, and fresh generations of wits and philosophers succeeded each other, the café procope still held its ground and maintained its ancient reputation. the theatre (closed in less than a century) became the studio first of gros and then of gérard, and was finally occupied by a succession of restaurateurs but the café procope remained the café procope, and is the café procope to this day. the old street and all belonging to it--especially and peculiarly the café procope---was of the choicest quartier latin flavor in the time of which i write; in the pleasant, careless, impecunious days of my youth. a cheap and highly popular restaurateur named pinson rented the old theatre. a _costumier_ hung out wigs, and masks, and débardeur garments next door to the restaurateur. where the fatal tumbril used to labor past, the frequent omnibus now rattled gayly by; and the pavements trodden of old by voltaire, and beaumarchais, and charlotte corday, were thronged by a merry tide of students and grisettes. meanwhile the café procope, though no longer the resort of great wits and famous philosophers, received within its hospitable doors, and nourished with its indifferent refreshments, many a now celebrated author, painter, barrister, and statesman. it was the general rendezvous for students of all kinds--poets of the École de droit, philosophers of the École de médecine, critics of the École des beaux arts. it must however be admitted that the poetry and criticism of these future great men was somewhat too liberally perfumed with tobacco, and that into their systems of philosophy there entered a considerable element of grisette. such, at the time of my first introduction to it, was the famous café procope. chapter xxix. the philosophy of breakfast. "now this, _mon cher_," said müller, taking off his hat with a flourish to the young lady at the _comptoir_, "is the immortal café procope." i looked round, and found myself in a dingy, ordinary sort of café, in no wise differing from any other dingy, ordinary sort of café in that part of paris. the decorations were ugly enough to be modern. the ceiling was as black with gas-fumes and tobacco smoke as any other ceiling in any other estaminet in the quartier latin. the waiters looked as waiters always look before midday--sleepy, discontented, and unwashed. a few young men of the regular student type were scattered about here and there at various tables, reading, smoking, chatting, breakfasting, and reading the morning papers. in an alcove at the upper end of the second room (for there were two, one opening from the other) stood a blackened, broken-nosed, plaster bust of voltaire, upon the summit of whose august wig some irreverent customer had perched a particularly rakish-looking hat. just in front of this alcove and below the bust stood a marble-topped table, at one end of which two young men were playing dominoes to the accompaniment of the matutinal absinthe. "and this," said müller, with another flourish, "is the still more immortal table of the still more supremely immortal voltaire. here he was wont to rest his sublime elbows and sip his _demi-tasse_. here, upon this very table, he wrote that famous letter to marie antoinette that fréron stole, and in revenge for which he wrote the comedy called _l'ecossaise_; but of this admirable satire you english, who only know voltaire in his henriade and his history of charles the twelfth, have probably never heard till this moment! _eh bien_! i'm not much wiser than you--so never mind. i'll be hanged if i've ever read a line of it. anyhow, here is the table, and at this other end of it we'll have our breakfast." it was a large, old-fashioned, louis quatorze piece of furniture, the top of which, formed from a single slab of some kind of gray and yellow marble, was stained all over with the coffee, wine, and ink-splashes of many generations of customers. it looked as old--nay, older--than the house itself. the young men who were playing at dominoes looked up and nodded, as three or four others had done in the outer room when we passed through. "_bonjour, l'ami_," said the one who seemed to be winning. "hast thou chanced to see anything of martial, coming along!" "i observed a nose defiling round the corner of the rue de bussy," replied müller, "and it looked as if martial might be somewhere in the far distance, but i didn't wait to see. are you expecting him?" "confound him--yes! we've been waiting more than half an hour." "if you have invited him to breakfast," said müller, "he is sure to come." "on the contrary, he has invited us to breakfast." "ah, that alters the case," said müller, philosophically. "then he is sure _not_ to come." "garçon!" a bullet-headed, short-jacketed, long-aproned waiter, who looked as if he had not been to bed since his early youth, answered the summons, "m'sieur!" "what have you that you can especially recommend this morning?" the waiter, with that nasal volubility peculiar to his race, rapidly ran over the whole vegetable and animal creation. müller listened with polite incredulity. "nothing else?" said he, when the other stopped, apparently from want of breath. "_mais oui, m'sieur_!" and, thus stimulated, the waiter, having "exhausted worlds and then imagined new," launched forth into a second and still more impossible catalogue. müller turned to me. "the resources of this establishment, you observe," he said, very gravely, "are inexhaustible. one might have a roc's egg à la sindbad for the asking." the waiter looked puzzled, shuffled his slippered feet, and murmured something about "_oeufs sur le plat_." "unfortunately, however," continued müller, "we are but men--not fortresses provisioning for a siege. antoine, _mon enfant_, we know thee to be a fellow of incontestible veracity, and thy list is magnificent; but we will be content with a _vol-au-vent_ of fish, a _bifteck aux pommes frites_, an _omelette sucrée_, and a bottle of thy bordeaux with the yellow seal. now vanish!" the waiter, wearing an expression of intense relief, vanished accordingly. meanwhile more students had come in, and more kept coming. hats and caps cropped up rapidly wherever there were pegs to hang them on, and the talking became fast and furious. i soon found that everybody knew everybody at the café procope, and that the specialty of the establishment was dominoes--just as the specialty of the café de la régence is chess. there were games going on before long at almost every table, and groups of lookers-on gathered about those who enjoyed the reputation of being skilful players. gradually breakfast after breakfast emerged from some mysterious nether world known only to the waiters, and the war of dominoes languished. "these are all students, of course," i said presently, "and yet, though i meet a couple of hundred fellows at our hospital lectures, i don't see a face i know." "you would find some by this time, i dare say, in the other room," replied müller. "i brought you in here that you might sit at voltaire's table, and eat your steak under the shadow of voltaire's bust; but this salon is chiefly frequented by law-students--the other by medical and art students. your place, _mon chér_, as well as mine, is in the outer sanctuary." "that infernal martial!" groaned one of the domino-players at the other end of the table. "so ends the seventh game, and here we are still. _parbleu!_ horace, hasn't that absinthe given you an inconvenient amount of appetite?" "alas! my friend--don't mention it. and when the absinthe is paid for, i haven't a sou." "my own case precisely. what's to be done?" "done!" echoed horace, pathetically. "shade of apicius! inspire me...but, no--he's not listening." "hold! i have it. we'll make our wills in one another's favor, and die." "i should prefer to die when the wind is due east, and the moon at the full," said horace, contemplatively. "true--besides, there is still _la mère_ gaudissart. her cutlets are tough, but her heart is tender. she would not surely refuse to add one more breakfast to the score!" horace shook his head with an air of great despondency. "there was but one job," said he, "and he has been dead some time. the patience of _la mère_ gaudissart has long since been entirely exhausted." "i am not so sure of that. one might appeal to her feelings, you know--have a presentiment of early death--wipe away a tear... bah! it is worth the effort, anyhow." "it is a forlorn hope, my dear fellow, but, as you say, it is worth the effort. _allons donc!_ to the storming of _la mère_ gaudissart!" and with this they pushed aside the dominoes, took down their hats, nodded to müller, and went out. "there go two of the brightest fellows and most improvident scamps in the whole quartier," said my companion. "they are both studying for the bar; both under age; both younger sons of good families; and both destined, if i am not much mistaken, to rise to eminence by-and-by. horace writes for _figaro_ and the _petit journal pour rire_--théophile does _feuilleton_ work--romances, chit-chat, and political squibs--rubbish, of course; but clever rubbish, and wonderful when one considers what boys they both are, and what dissipated lives they lead. the amount of impecuniosity those fellows get through in the course of a term is something inconceivable. they have often only one decent suit between them--and sometimes not that. to-day, you see, they are at their wits' end for a breakfast. they have run their credit dry at procope and everywhere else, and are gone now to a miserable little den in the rue du paon, kept by a fat good-natured old soul called _la mère_ gaudissart. she will perhaps take compassion on their youth and inexperience, and let them have six sous worth of horsebeef soup, stale bread, and the day before yesterday's vegetables. nay, don't look so pitiful! we poor devils of the student quartier hug our bohemian life, and exalt it above every other. when we have money, we cannot find windows enough out of which to fling it--when we have none, we start upon _la chasse au diner_, and enjoy the pleasures of the chase. we revel in the extremes of fasting and feasting, and scarcely know which we prefer." "i think your friends horace and théophile are tolerably clear as to which _they_ prefer," i remarked, with a smile. "bah! they would die of _ennui_ if they had always enough to eat! think how it sharpens a man's wits if--given the time, the place, and the appetite--he has every day to find the credit for his dinners! show me a mathematical problem to compare with it as a popular educator of youth!" "but for young men of genius, like horace and théophile..." "make yourself quite easy, _mon cher_. a little privation will do them no kind of harm. they belong to that class of whom it has been said that 'they would borrow money from harpagon, and find truffles on the raft of the medusa.' but hold! we are at the end of our breakfast. what say you? shall we take our _demi-tasse_ in the next room, among our fellow-students of physic and the fine arts?" chapter xxx. a man with a history. the society of the outer salon differed essentially from the society of the inner salon at the café procope. it was noisier--it was shabbier--it was smokier. the conversation in the inner salon was of a general character on the whole, and, as one caught sentences of it here and there, seemed for the most part to relate to the literature and news of the day--to the last important paper in the revue des deux mondes, to the new drama at the odéon, or to the article on foreign politics in the _journal des débats_. but in the outer salon the talk was to the last degree shoppy, and overflowed with the argot of the studios. some few medical students were clustered, it is true, in a corner near the door; but they were so outnumbered by the artists at the upper end of the room, that these latter seemed to hold complete possession, and behaved more like the members of a recognised club than the casual customers of a café. they talked from table to table. they called the waiters by their christian names. they swaggered up and down the middle of the room with their hats on their heads, their hands in their pockets, and their pipes in their mouths, as coolly as if it were the broad walk of the luxembourg gardens. and the appearance of these gentlemen was not less remarkable than their deportment. their hair, their beards, their clothes, were of the wildest devising. they seemed one and all to have started from a central idea, that central idea being to look as unlike their fellow-men as possible; and thence to have diverged into a variety that was nothing short of infinite. each man had evidently modelled himself upon his own ideal, and no two ideals were alike. some were picturesque, some were grotesque; and some, it must be admitted, were rather dirty ideals, into the realization of which no such paltry considerations as those of soap, water, or brushes were permitted to enter. here, for instance, were roundhead crops and flowing locks of cavalier redundancy--steeple-crowned hats, and roman cloaks draped bandit-fashion--moustachios frizzed and brushed up the wrong way in the style of louis xiv.--pointed beards and slouched hats, after the manner of vandyke---patriarchal beards _à la barbarossa_--open collars, smooth chins, and long undulating locks of the raffaelle type--coats, blouses, paletots of inconceivable cut, and all kinds of unusual colors--in a word, every eccentricity of clothing, short of fancy costume, in which it was practicable for men of the nineteenth century to walk abroad and meet the light of day. we had no sooner entered this salon, taken possession of a vacant table, and called for coffee, than my companion was beset by a storm of greetings. "holà! müller, where hast thou been hiding these last few centuries, _mon gaillard?_" "_tiens!_ müller risen from the dead!" "what news from _là bas,_ old fellow?" to all which ingenious pleasantries my companion replied in kind--introducing me at the same time to two or three of the nearest speakers. one of these, a dark young man got up in the style of a byzantine christ, with straight hair parted down the middle, a bifurcated beard, and a bare throat, was called eugène droz. another--big, burly, warm-complexioned, with bright open blue eyes, curling reddish beard and moustache, slouched hat, black velvet blouse, immaculate linen, and an abundance of rings, chains, and ornaments--was made up in excellent imitation of the well-known portrait of rubens. this gentleman's name, as i presently learned, was caesar de lepany. when we came in, these two young men, droz and de lepany, were discussing, in enthusiastic but somewhat unintelligible language, the merits of a certain monsieur lemonnier, of whom, although till that moment ignorant of his name and fame, i at once perceived that he must be some celebrated _chef de cuisine_. "he will never surpass that last thing of his," said the byzantine youth. "heavens! how smooth it is! how buttery! how pulpy!" "ay--and yet with all that lusciousness of quality, he never wants piquancy," added de lepany. "i think his greens are apt to be a little raw," interposed müller, taking part in the conversation. "raw!" echoed the first speaker, indignantly. "_eh, mon dieu!_ what can you be thinking of! they are almost too hot!" "but they were not so always, eugène," said he of the rubens make-up, with an air of reluctant candor. "it must be admitted that lemonnier's greens used formerly to be a trifle--just a trifle--raw. evidently monsieur müller does not know how much he has taken to warming them up of late. even now, perhaps, his olives are a little cold." "but then, how juicy his oranges are!" exclaimed young byzantine. "true--and when you remember that he never washes--!" "ah, _sacredie!_ yes--there is the marvel!" and monsieur eugène droz held up his hands and eyes with all the reverent admiration of a true believer for a particularly dirty dervish. "who, in heaven's name, is this unclean individual who used to like his vegetables underdone, and never washes?" whispered i in müller's ear. "what--lemonnier! you don't mean to say you never heard of lemonnier?" "never, till now. is he a cook?" müller gave me a dig in the ribs that took my breath away. "_goguenard!_" said he. "lemonnier's an artist--the foremost man of the water-color school. but i wouldn't be too funny if i were you. suppose you were to burst your jocular vein--there'd be a catastrophe!" meanwhile the conversation of messieurs droz and lepany had taken a fresh turn, and attracted a little circle of listeners, among whom i observed an eccentric-looking young man with a club-foot, an enormously long neck, and a head of short, stiff, dusty hair, like the bristles of a blacking-brush. "queroulet!" said lepany, with a contemptuous flourish of his pipe. "who spoke of queroulet? bah!--a miserable plodder, destitute of ideality--a fellow who paints only what he sees, and sees only what is commonplace--a dull, narrow-souled, unimaginative handicraftsman, to whom a tree is just a tree; and a man, a man; and a straw, a straw, and nothing more!" "that's a very low-souled view to take of art, no doubt," croaked in a grating treble voice the youth with the club-foot; "but if trees and men and straws are not exactly trees and men and straws, and are not to be represented as trees and men and straws, may i inquire what else they are, and how they are to be pictorially treated?" "they must be ideally treated, monsieur valentin," replied lepany, majestically. "no doubt; but what will they be like when they are ideally treated? will they still, to the vulgar eye, be recognisable for trees and men and straws?" "i should scarcely have supposed that monsieur valentin would jest upon such a subject as a canon of the art he professes," said lepany, becoming more and more dignified. "i am not jesting," croaked monsieur valentin; "but when i hear men of your school talk so much about the ideal, i (as a realist) always want to know what they themselves understand by the phrase." "are you asking me for my definition of the ideal, monsieur valentin?" "well, if it's not giving you too much trouble--yes." lepany, who evidently relished every chance of showing off, fell into a picturesque attitude and prepared to hold forth. valentin winked at one or two of his own clique, and lit a cigar. "you ask me," began lepany, "to define the ideal--in other words, to define the indefinite, which alas! whether from a metaphysical, a philosophical, or an aesthetic point of view, is a task transcending immeasurably my circumscribed powers of expression." "gracious heavens!" whispered müller in my ear. "he must have been reared from infancy on words of five syllables!" "what shall i say?" pursued lepany. "shall i say that the ideal is, as it were, the real distilled and sublimated in the alembic of the imagination? shall i say that the ideal is an image projected by the soul of genius upon the background of the universe? that it is that dazzling, that unimaginable, that incommunicable goal towards which the suns in their orbits, the stars in their courses, the spheres with all their harmonies, have been chaotically tending since time began! ideal, say you? call it ideal, soul, mind, matter, art, eternity,... what are they all but words? what are words but the weak strivings of the fettered soul that fain would soar to those empyrean heights where truth, and art, and beauty are one and indivisible? shall i say all this..." "my dear fellow, you have said it already--you needn't say it again," interrupted valentin. "ay; but having said it--having expressed myself, perchance with some obscurity...." "with the obscurity of erebus!" said, very deliberately, a fat student in a blouse. "monsieur!" exclaimed de lepany, measuring the length and breadth of the fat student with a glance of withering scorn. the byzantine was no less indignant. "don't heed them, _mon ami_!" he cried, enthusiastically. "thy definition is sublime-eloquent!" "nay," said valentin, "we concede that monsieur de lepany is sublime; we recognise with admiration that he is eloquent; but we submit that he is wholly unintelligible." and having delivered this parting shot, the club-footed realist slipped his arm through the arm of the fat student, and went off to a distant table and a game at dominoes. then followed an outburst of offended idealism. his own clique crowded round lepany as the champion of their school. they shook hands with him. they embraced him. they fooled him to the top of his bent. presently, being not only as good-natured as he was conceited, but (rare phenomenon in the quartier latin!) a rich fellow into the bargain, de lepany called for champagne and treated his admirers all around. in the midst of the chatter and bustle which this incident occasioned, a pale, earnest-looking man of about five-and-thirty, coming past our table on his way out of the café, touched müller on the arm, bent down, and said quietly:-- "müller, will you do me a favor!" "a hundred, monsieur," replied my companion; half rising, and with an air of unusual respect and alacrity. "thanks, one will be enough. do you see that man yonder, sitting alone in the corner, with his back to the light?" "i do." "good--don't look at him again, for fear of attracting his attention. i have been trying for the last half hour to get a sketch of his head, but i think he suspected me. anyhow he moved so often, and so hid his face with his hands and the newspaper, that i was completely baffled. now it is a remarkable head--just the head i have been wanting for my marshal romero--and if, with your rapid pencil and your skill in seizing expression, you could manage this for me...." "i will do my best," said müller. "a thousand thanks. i will go now; for when i am gone he will be off his guard. you will find me in the den up to three o'clock. adieu." saying which, the stranger passed on, and went out. "that's flandrin!" said müller. "really?" i said. "flandrin! and you know him?" but in truth i only answered thus to cover my own ignorance; for i knew little at that time of modern french art, and i had never even heard the name of flandrin before. "know him!" echoed müller. "i should think so. why, i worked in his studio for nearly two years." and then he explained to me that this great painter (great even then, though as yet appreciated only in certain choice parisian circles, and not known out of france) was at work upon a grand historical subject connected with the spanish persecutions in the netherlands--the execution of egmont and horn, in short, in the great square before the hôtel de ville in brussels. "but the main point now," said müller, "is to get the sketch--and how? confound the fellow! while he keeps his back to the light and his head down like that, the thing is impossible. anyhow i can't do it without an accomplice. you must help me." "i! what can i do?" "go and sit near him--speak to him--make him look up--keep him, if possible, for a few minutes in conversation--nothing easier." "nothing easier, perhaps, if i were you; but, being only myself, few things more difficult!" "nevertheless, my dear boy, you must try, and at once. hey --presto!--away!" placed where we were, the stranger was not likely to have observed us; for we had come into the room from behind the corner in which he was sitting, and had taken our places at a table which he could not have seen without shifting his own position. so, thus peremptorily commanded, i rose; slipped quietly back into the inner salon, made a pretext of looking at the clock over the door; and came out again, as if alone and looking for a vacant seat. the table at which he had placed himself was very small--only just big enough to stand in a corner and hold a plate and a coffee-cup; but it was supposed to be large enough for two, and there were evidently two chairs belonging to it. on one of these, being alone, the stranger had placed his overcoat and a small black bag. i at once saw and seized my opportunity. "pardon, monsieur," i said, very civilly, "will you permit me to hang these things up?" he looked up, frowned, and said abruptly:-- "why, monsieur?" "that i may occupy this chair." he glanced round; saw that there was really no other vacant; swept off the bag and coat with his own hands; hung them on a peg overhead; dropped back into his former attitude, and went on reading. "i regret to have given you the trouble, monsieur," i said, hoping to pave the way to a conversation. but a little quick, impatient movement of the hand was his only reply. he did not even raise his head. he did not even lift his eyes from the paper. i called for a demi-tasse and a cigar; then took out a note-book and pencil, assumed an air of profound abstraction, and affected to become absorbed in calculations. in the meanwhile, i could not resist furtively observing the appearance of this man whom a great artist had selected as his model for one of the darkest characters of mediæval history. he was rather below than above the middle height; spare and sinewy; square in the shoulders and deep in the chest; with close-clipped hair and beard; grizzled moustache; high cheek-bones; stern impassive features, sharply cut; and deep-set restless eyes, quick and glancing as the eyes of a monkey. his face, throat, and hands were sunburnt to a deep copper-color, as if cast in bronze. his age might have been from forty-five to fifty. he wore a thread-bare frock-coat buttoned to the chin; a stiff black stock revealing no glimpse of shirt-collar; a well-worn hat pulled low over his eyes; and trousers of dark blue cloth, worn very white and shiny at the knees, and strapped tightly down over a pair of much-mended boots. the more i looked at him, the less i was surprised that flandrin should have been struck by his appearance. there was an air of stern poverty and iron resolution about the man that arrested one's attention at first sight. the words "_ancien militaire"_ were written in every furrow of his face; in every seam and on every button of his shabby clothing. that he had seen service, missed promotion, suffered unmerited neglect (or, it might be, merited disgrace), seemed also not unlikely. watching him as he sat, half turned away, half hidden by the newspaper he was reading, one elbow resting on the table, one brown, sinewy hand supporting his chin and partly concealing his mouth, i told myself that here, at all events, was a man with a history--perhaps with a very dark history. what were the secrets of his past? what had he done? what had he endured? i would give much to know. my coffee and cigar being brought, i asked for the _figaro_, and holding the paper somewhat between the stranger and myself, watched him with increasing interest. i now began to suspect that he was less interested in his own newspaper than he appeared to be, and that his profound abstraction, like my own, was assumed. an indefinable something in the turn of his head seemed to tell me that his attention was divided between whatever might be going forward in the room and what he was reading. i cannot describe what that something was; but it gave me the impression that he was always listening. when the outer door opened or shut, he stirred uneasily, and once or twice looked sharply round to see what new-comer entered the café. was he anxiously expecting some one who did not come? or was he dreading the appearance of some one whom he wished to avoid? might he not be a political refugee? might he not be a spy? "there is nothing of interest in the papers to-day, monsieur," said, making another effort to force him into conversation. he affected not to hear me. i drew my chair a little nearer, and repeated the observation. he frowned impatiently, and without looking up, replied:-- "_eh, mon dieu_, monsieur!--when there is a dearth of news!" "there need not, even so, be a dearth of wit. _figaro_ is as heavy to-day as a government leader in the _moniteur_." he shrugged his shoulders and moved slightly round, apparently to get a better light upon what he was reading, but in reality to turn still more away from me. the gesture of avoidance was so marked, that with the best will in the world, it would have been impossible for me to address him again. i therefore relapsed into silence. presently i saw a sudden change flash over him. now, in turning away from myself, he had faced round towards a narrow looking-glass panel which reflected part of the opposite side of the room; and chancing, i suppose, to lift his eyes from the paper, he had seen something that arrested his attention. his head was still bent; but i could see that his eyes were riveted upon the mirror. there was alertness in the tightening of his hand before his mouth--in the suspension of his breathing. then he rose abruptly, brushed past me as if i were not there, and crossed to where müller, sketch-book in hand, was in the very act of taking his portrait. i jumped up, almost involuntarily, and followed him. müller, with an unsuccessful effort to conceal his confusion, thrust the book into his pocket. "monsieur," said the stranger, in a low, resolute voice, "i protest against what you have been doing. you have no right to take my likeness without my permission." "pardon, monsieur, i--i beg to assure you--" stammered müller. "that you intended no offence? i am willing to suppose so. give me up the sketch, and i am content." "give up the sketch!" echoed müller. "precisely, monsieur." "nay--but if, as an artist, i have observed that which leads me to desire a--a memorandum--let us say of the pose and contour of a certain head," replied müller, recovering his self-possession, "it is not likely that i shall be disposed to part from my memorandum." "how, monsieur! you refuse?" "i am infinitely sorry, but--" "but you refuse?" "i certainly cannot comply with monsieur's request." the stranger, for all his bronzing, grew pale with rage. "do not compel me, monsieur, to say what i must think of your conduct, if you persist in this determination," he said fiercely. müller smiled, but made no reply. "you absolutely refuse to yield up the sketch?" "absolutely." "then, monsieur, _c'est une infamie_--_et vous êtes un lâche_!" but the last word had scarcely hissed past his lips before müller dashed his coffee dregs full in the stranger's face. in one second, the table was upset--blows were exchanged--müller, pinned against the wall with his adversary's hands upon his throat, was striking out with the desperation of a man whose strength is overmatched--and the whole room was in a tumult. in vain i attempted to fling myself between them. in vain the waiters rushed to and fro, imploring "ces messieurs" to interpose. in vain a stout man pushed his way through the bystanders, exclaiming angrily:-- "desist, messieurs! desist, in the name of the law! i am the proprietor of this establishment--i forbid this brawling--i will have you both arrested! messieurs, do you hear?" suddenly the flush of rage faded out of müller's face. he gasped--became livid. lepany, droz, myself, and one or two others, flew at the stranger and dragged him forcibly back. "assassin!" i cried, "would you murder him?" he flung us off, as a baited bull flings off a pack of curs. for myself, though i received only a backhanded blow on the chest, i staggered as if i had been struck with a sledgehammer. müller, half-fainting, dropped into a chair. there was a tramp and clatter at the door--a swaying and parting of the crowd. "here are the sergents de ville!" cried a trembling waiter. "he attacked me first," gasped müller. "he has half strangled me." "_qu'est ce que ça me fait_!" shouted the enraged proprietor. "you are a couple of _canaille_! you have made a scandal in my café. sergents, arrest both these gentlemen!" the police--there were two of them, with their big cocked hats on their heads and their long sabres by their sides--pushed through the circle of spectators. the first laid his hand on müller's shoulder; the second was about to lay his hand on mine, but i drew back. "which is the other?" said he, looking round. "_sacredie_!" stammered the proprietor, "he was here--there--not a moment ago!" "_diable_!" said the sergent de ville, stroking his moustache, and staring fiercely about him. "did no one see him go?" there was a chorus of exclamations--a rush to the inner salon--to the door--to the street. but the stranger was nowhere in sight; and, which was still more incomprehensible, no one had seen him go! "_mais, mon dieu_!" exclaimed the proprietor, mopping his head and face violently with his pocket-handkerchief, "was the man a ghost, that he should vanish into the air?" "_parbleu_! a ghost with muscles of iron," said müller. "talk of the strength of a madman--he has the strength of a whole lunatic asylum!" "he gave me a most confounded blow in the ribs, anyhow!" said lepany. "and nearly broke my arm," added eugène droz. "and has given me a pain in my chest for a week," said i, in chorus. "if he wasn't a ghost," observed the fat student sententiously, "he must certainly be the devil." the sergents de ville grinned. "do we, then, arrest this gentleman?" asked the taller and bigger of the two, his hand still upon my friend's shoulder. but müller laughed and shook his head. "what!" said he, "arrest a man for resisting the devil? nonsense, _mes amis_, you ought to canonize me. what says monsieur le propriétaire?" monsieur the proprietor smiled. "i am willing to let the matter drop," he replied, "on the understanding that monsieur müller was not really the first offender." "_foi d'honneur_! he insulted me--i threw some coffee in his face--he flung himself upon me like a tiger, and almost choked me, as all here witnessed. and for what? because i did him the honor to make a rough pencilling of his ugly face ... _mille tonnerres_!--the fellow has stolen my sketch-book!" chapter xxxi. fancies about faces. the sketch-book was undoubtedly gone, and the stranger had undoubtedly taken it. how he took it, and how he vanished, remained a mystery. the aspect of affairs, meanwhile, was materially changed. müller no longer stood in the position of a leniently-treated offender. he had become accuser, and plaintiff. a grave breach of the law had been committed, and he was the victim of a bold and skilful _tour de main_. the police shook their heads, twirled their moustaches, and looked wise. it was a case of premeditated assault--in short, of robbery with violence. it must be inquired into--reported, of course, at head-quarters, without loss of time. would monsieur be pleased to describe the stolen sketch-book? an oblong, green volume, secured by an elastic band; contains sketches in pencil and water-colors; value uncertain--good. and the accused ... would monsieur also be pleased to describe the person of the accused? his probable age, for instance; his height; the color of his hair, eyes, and beard? good again. lastly, monsieur's own name and address, exactly and in full. _très-bon._ it might, perhaps, be necessary for monsieur to enter a formal deposition to-morrow morning at the prefecture of police, in which case due notice would be given. whereupon he who seemed to be chief of the twain, having entered müller's replies in a greasy pocket-book of stupendous dimensions, which he seemed to wear like a cuirass under the breast of his uniform, proceeded to interrogate the proprietor and waiters. was the accused an habitual frequenter of the cafe?--no. did they remember ever to have seen him there before?--no. should they recognise him if they saw him again? to this question the answers were doubtful. one waiter thought he should recognise the man; another was not sure; and monsieur the proprietor admitted that he had himself been too angry to observe anything or anybody very minutely. finally, having made themselves of as much importance and asked as many questions as possible, the sergents de ville condescended to accept a couple of-petits verres a-piece, and then, with much lifting of cocked hats and clattering of sabres, departed. most of the students had ere this dropped off by twos and threes, and were gone to their day's work, or pleasure--to return again in equal force about five in the afternoon. of those that remained, some five or six came up when the police were gone, and began chatting about the robbery. when they learned that flandrin had desired to have a sketch of the man's head; when müller described his features, and i his obstinate reserve and semi-military air, their excitement knew no bounds. each had immediately his own conjecture to offer. he was a political spy, and therefore fearful lest his portrait should be recognised. he was a conspirator of the fieschi school. he was mazzini in person. in the midst of the discussion, a sudden recollection flashed upon me. "a clue! a clue!" i shouted triumphantly. "he left his coat and black bag hanging up in the corner!" followed by the others, i ran to the spot where i had been sitting before the affray began. but my exultation was shortlived. coat and bag, like their owner, had disappeared. müller thrust his hands into his pockets, shook his head, and whistled dismally. "i shall never see my sketch-book again, _parbleu!_" said he. "the man who could not only take it out of my breast-pocket, but also in the very teeth of the police, secure his property and escape unseen, is a master of his profession. our friends in the cocked hats have no chance against him." "and flandrin, who is expecting the sketch," said i; "what of him?" müller shrugged his shoulders. "next to being beaten," growled he, "there's nothing i hate like confessing it. however, it has to be done--so the sooner the better. would you like to come with me? you'll see his studio." i was only too glad to accompany him; for to me, as to most of us, there was ever a nameless charm in the picturesque litter of an artist's studio. müller's own studio, however, was as yet the only one i had seen. he laughed when i said this. "if your only notion of a studio is derived from that specimen," said he, "you will he agreeably surprised by the contrast. he calls his place a 'den,' but that's a metaphor. mine is a howling wilderness." arriving presently at a large house at the bottom of a courtyard in the rue vaugirard, he knocked at a small side-door bearing a tiny brass plate not much larger than a visiting-card, on which was engraved--"monsieur flandrin." the door opened by some invisible means from within, and we entered a passage dimly lighted by a painted glass door at the farther end. my companion led the way down this passage, through the door, and into a small garden containing some three or four old trees, a rustic seat, a sun-dial on an antique-looking fragment of a broken column, and a little weed-grown pond about the size of an ordinary drawing-room table, surrounded by artificial rock-work. at the farther extremity of this garden, filling the whole space from wall to wall, and occupying as much ground as must have been equal to half the original enclosure, stood a large, new, windowless building, in shape exactly like a barn, lighted from a huge skylight in the roof, and entered by a small door in one corner. i did not need to be told that this was the studio. but if the outside was like a barn, the inside was like a beautiful mediæval interior by cattermole--an interior abounding in rich and costly detail; in heavy crimson draperies, precious old italian cabinets, damascened armor, carved chairs with upright backs and twisted legs, old paintings in massive florentine frames, and strange quaint pieces of elizabethan furniture, like buffets, with open shelves full of rare and artistic things--bronzes, ivory carvings, unwieldy majolica jars, and lovely goblets of antique venetian glass laced with spiral ornaments of blue and crimson and that dark emerald green of which the secret is now lost for ever. then, besides all these things, there were great folios leaning piled against the walls, one over the other; and persian rugs of many colors lying here and there about the floor; and down in one corner i observed a heap of little models, useful, no doubt, as accessories in pictures--gondolas, frigates, foreign-looking carts, a tiny sedan chair, and the like. but the main interest of the scene concentrated itself in the unfinished picture, the hired model (a brawny fellow in a close-fitting suit of black, leaning on a huge two-handed sword), and the artist in his holland blouse, with the palette and brushes in his hand. it was a very large picture, and stood on a monster easel, somewhat towards the end of the studio. the light from above poured full upon the canvas, while beyond lay a background of shadow. much of the subject was as yet only indicated, but enough was already there to tell the tragic story and display the power of the painter. there, high above the heads of the mounted guards and the assembled spectators, rose the scaffold, hung with black. egmont, wearing a crimson tabard, a short black cloak embroidered with gold, and a hat ornamented with black and white plumes, stood in a haughty attitude, as if facing the square and the people. two other figures, apparently of an ecclesiastic and a spanish general, partly in outline, partly laid in with flat color, were placed to the right of the principal character. the headsman stood behind, leaning upon his sword. the slender spire of the hôtel de ville, surmounted by its gilded archangel glittering in the morning sun, rose high against a sky of cloudless blue; while all around was seen the well-known square with its sculptured gables and decorated façades--every roof, window, and balcony crowded with spectators. unfinished though it was, i saw at once that i was brought face to face with what would some day be a famous work of art. the figures were grandly grouped; the heads were noble; the sky was full of air; the action of the whole scene informed with life and motion. i stood admiring and silent, while müller told his tale, and flandrin paused in his work to listen. "it is horribly unlucky," said he. "i had not been able to find a portrait of romero and, _faute de mieux_, have been trying for days past to invent the right sort of head for him--of course, without success. you never saw such a heap of failures! but as for that man at the café, if providence had especially created him for my purpose, he could not have answered it better." "i believe i am as sorry as you can possibly be," said müller. "then you are very sorry indeed," replied the painter; and he looked even more disappointment than he expressed. "i'm afraid i can't do it," said müller, after a moment's silence; "but if you'll give me a pencil and a piece of paper, and credit me with the will in default of the deed, i will try to sketch the head from memory." "ah? if you can only do that! here is a drawing block--choose what pencils you prefer--or here are crayons, if you like them better." müller took the pencils and block, perched himself on the corner of a table, and began. flandrin, breathless with expectation, looked over his shoulder. even the model (in the grim character of egmont's executioner) laid aside his two-handed sword, and came round for a peep. "bravo! that's just his nose and brow," said flandrin, as müller's rapid hand flew over the paper. "yes--the likeness comes with every touch ... and the eyes, so keen and furtive. ... nay, that eyelid should be a little more depressed at the corner.... yes, yes--just so. admirable! there!--don't attempt to work it up. the least thing might mar the likeness. my dear fellow, what a service you have rendered me!" "_quatre-vingt mille diables_!" ejaculated the model, his eyes riveted upon the sketch. müller laughed and looked. "_tiens_! guichet," said he, "is that meant for a compliment?" "where did you see him?" asked the model, pointing down at the sketch. "why? do you know him?" "where did you see him, i say?" repeated guichet, impatiently. he was a rough fellow, and garnished every other sentence with an oath; but he did not mean to be uncivil. "at the café procope." "when?" "about an hour ago. but again, i repeat--do you know him?" "do i know him? _tonnerre de dieu_!" "then who and what is he?" the model stroked his beard; shook his head; declined to answer. "bah!" said he, gloomily, "i may have seen him, or i may be mistaken. 'tis not my affair." "i suspect guichet knows something against this interesting stranger," laughed flandrin. "come, guichet, out with it! we are among friends." but guichet again looked at the drawing, and again shook his head. "i'm no judge of pictures, messieurs," said he. "i'm only a poor devil of a model. how can i pretend to know a man from such a _griffonage_ as that?" and, taking up his big sword again, he retreated to his former post over against the picture. we all saw that he was resolved to say no more. flandrin, delighted with müller's sketch, put it, with many thanks and praises, carefully away in one of the great folios against the wall. "you have no idea, _mon cher_ müller," he said, "of what value it is to me. i was in despair about the thing till i saw that fellow this morning in the café; and he looked as if he had stepped out of the middle ages on purpose for me. it is quite a mediæval face--if you know what i mean by a mediæval face." "i think i do," said müller. "you mean that there was a moyen-âge type, as there was a classical type, and as there is a modern type." "just so; and therein lies the main difficulty that we historical painters have to encounter. when we cannot find portraits of our characters, we are driven to invent faces for them--and who can invent what he never sees? invention must be based on some kind of experience; and to study old portraits is not enough for our purpose, except we frankly make use of them as portraits. we cannot generalize upon them, so as to resuscitate a vanished type." "but then has it really vanished?" said müller. "and how can we know for certain that the mediæval type did actually differ from the type we see before us every day?" "by simple and direct proof--by studying the epochs of portrait painting. take holbein's heads, for instance. were not the people of his time grimmer, harder-visaged, altogether more unbeautiful than the people of ours? take petitot's and sir peter lely's. can you doubt that the characteristics of their period were entirely different? do you suppose that either race would look as we look, if resuscitated and clothed in the fashion of to-day?" "i am not at all sure that we should observe any difference," said müller, doubtfully. "and i feel sure we should observe the greatest," replied flandrin, striding up and down the studio, and speaking with great animation. "i believe, as regards the men and women of holbein's time, that their faces were more lined than ours; their eyes, as a rule, smaller--their mouths wider--their eyebrows more scanty--their ears larger--their figures more ungainly. and in like manner, i believe the men and women of the seventeenth century to have been more fleshy than either holbein's people or ourselves; to have had rounder cheeks, eyes more prominent and heavy-lidded, shorter noses, more prominent chins, and lips of a fuller and more voluptuous mould." "still we can't be certain how much of all this may be owing to the mere mannerisms of successive schools of art," urged müller, sticking manfully to his own opinion. "where will you find a more decided mannerist than holbein? and because he was the first portrait-painter of his day, was he not reproduced with all his faults of literalness and dryness by a legion of imitators? so with sir peter lely, with petitot, with vandyck, with every great artist who painted kings and queens and court beauties. then, again, a certain style of beauty becomes the rage, and-a skilful painter flatters each fair sitter in turn by bringing up her features, or her expression, or the color of her hair, as near as possible to the fashionable standard. and further, there is the dress of a period to be taken into account. think of the family likeness that pervades the flowing wigs of the courts of louis quatorze and charles the second--see what powder did a hundred years ago to equalize mankind." flandrin shook his head. "ingenious, _mon garçon_" said he; "ingenious, but unsound the cut of a fair lady's bodice never yet altered the shape of her nose; neither was it the fashion of their furred surtouts that made erasmus and sir thomas more as like as twins. what you call the 'mannerism' of holbein is only his way of looking at his fellow-creatures. he and sir antonio more were the most faithful of portrait-painters. they didn't know how to flatter. they painted exactly what they saw--no more, and no less; so that every head they have left us is a chapter in the history of the middle ages. the race--depend on't--the race was unbeautiful; and not even the picturesque dress of the period (which, according to your theory, should have helped to make the wearers of it more attractive) could soften one jot of their plainness." "i can't bring myself to believe that we were all so ugly--french, english, and germans alike--only a couple of centuries ago," said müller. "that is to say, you prefer to believe that holbein, and lucas cranach, and sir antonio more, and all their school, were mannerists. nonsense, my dear fellow--nonsense! _it is nature who is the mannerist_. she loves to turn out a certain generation after a particular pattern; and when she is tired of that pattern, she invents another. her fancies last, on the average about, a hundred years. sometimes she changes the type quite abruptly; sometimes modifies it by gentle, yet always perceptible, degrees. and who shall say what her secret processes are? education, travel, intermarriage with foreigners, the introduction of new kinds of food) the adoption of new habits, may each and all have something to do with these successive changes; but of one point at least we may be certain--and that is, that we painters are not responsible for her caprices. our mission is to interpret dame nature more or less faithfully, according to our powers; but beyond interpretation we cannot go. and now (for you know i am as full of speculations as an experimental philosopher) i will tell you another conclusion i have come to with regard to this subject; and that is that national types were less distinctive in mediæval times than in ours. the french, english, flemish, and dutch of the middle ages, as we see them in their portraits, are curiously alike in all outward characteristics. the courtiers of francis the first and their (james, and the lords and ladies of the court of henry the eighth, resemble each other as people of one nation. their features are, as it were, cast in one mould. so also with the courts of louis quatorze and charles the second. as for the regular french face of to-day, with its broad cheek-bones and high temples running far up into the hair on either side, that type does not make its appearance till close upon the advent of the reign of terror. but enough! i shall weary you with theories, and wear out the patience of our friend guichet, who is sufficiently tired already with waiting for a head that never comes to be cut off as it ought. adieu--adieu. come soon again, and see how i get on with marshal romero." thus dismissed, we took our leave and left the painter to his work. "an extraordinary man!" said müller, as we passed out again through the neglected garden and paused for a moment to look at some half-dozen fat gold and silver fish that were swimming lazily about the little pond. "a man made up of contradictions--abounding in energy, yet at the same time the dreamiest of speculators. an original thinker, too; but wanting that basis which alone makes original thinking of any permanent value." "but," said i, "he is evidently an educated man." "yes--educated as most artists are educated; but flandrin has as strong a bent for science as for art, and deserved something better. five years at a german university would have made of him one of the most remarkable men of his time. what did you think of his theory of faces?" "i know nothing of the subject, and cannot form a judgment; but it sounded as if it might be true." "yes--just that. it may be true, and it may not. if true, then for my own part i should like to pursue his theory a step further, and trace the operation of these secret processes by means of which i am, happily, such a much better-looking fellow than my great-great-great-great-grandfather of two hundred years ago. what, for instance, has the introduction of the potato done for the noses of mankind?" chatting thus, we walked back as far as the corner of the rue racine, where we parted; i to attend a lecture at the École de médecine, and müller to go home to his studio in the rue clovis. * * * * * chapter xxxii. returned with thanks. a week or two had thus gone by since the dreadful evening at the opéra comique, and all this time i had neither seen nor heard more of the fair josephine. my acquaintance with franz müller and the life of the quartier latin had, on the contrary, progressed rapidly. just as the affair of the opera had dealt a final blow to my romance _à la grisette_ on the one hand, so had the excursion to courbevoie, the visit to the École de natation, and the adventure of the café procope, fostered my intimacy with the artist on the other. we were both young, somewhat short of money, and brimful of fun. each, too, had a certain substratum of earnestness underlying the mere surface-gayety of his character. müller was enthusiastic for art; i for poetry; and both for liberty. i fear, when i look back upon them, that we talked a deal of nonsense about brutus, and the rights of man, and the noble savage, and all that sort of thing, in those hot-headed days of our youth. it was a form of political measles that the young men of that time were quite as liable to as the young men of our own; and, living as we then were in the heart of the most revolutionary city in europe, i do not well see how we could have escaped the infection. müller (who took it worse than i did, and was very rabid indeed when i first knew him) belonged just then not only to the honorable brotherhood of les chicards, but also to a small debating club that met twice a week in a private room at the back of an obscure estaminet in the rue de la harpe. the members of this club were mostly art-students, and some, like himself, chicards--generous, turbulent, high-spirited boys, with more enthusiasm than brains, and a flow of words wholly out of proportion to the bulk of their ideas. as i came to know him more intimately, i used sometimes to go there with müller, after our cheap dinner in the quartier and our evening stroll along the boulevards or the champs elysées; and i am bound to admit that i never, before or since, heard quite so much nonsense of the declamatory sort as on those memorable occasions. i did not think it nonsense then, however. i admired it with all my heart; applauded the nursery eloquence of these sucking mirabeaus and camille desmoulins as frantically as their own vanity could desire; and was even secretly chagrined that my own french was not yet fluent enough to enable me to take part in their discussions. in the meanwhile, my debts were paid; and, having dropped out of society when i fell out of love with madame de marignan, i no longer overspent my allowance. i bought no more bouquets, paid for no more opera-stalls, and hired no more prancing steeds at seven francs the hour. i bade adieu to picture-galleries, flower-shows, morning concerts, dress boots, white kid gloves, elaborate shirt-fronts, and all the vanities of the fashionable world. in a word, i renounced the faubourg st. germain for the quartier latin, and applied myself to such work and such pleasures as pertained to the locality. if, after a long day at dr. chéron's, or the hôtel dieu, or the École de médecine, i did waste a few hours now and then, i, at least, wasted them cheaply. cheaply, but oh, so pleasantly! ah me! those nights at the debating club, those evenings at the chicards, those student's balls at the chaumière, those third-class trips to versailles and fontainebleau, those one-franc pit seats at the gaîeté and the palais royal, those little suppers at pompon's and flicoteau's--how delightful they were! how joyous! how free from care! and even when we made up a party and treated the ladies (for to treat the ladies is _de rigueur_ in the code of quartier latin etiquette), how little it still cost, and what a world of merriment we had for the money! it was well for me, too, and a source of much inward satisfaction, that my love-affair with mademoiselle josephine had faded and died a natural death. we never made up that quarrel of the opéra comique, and i had not desired that we should make it up. on the contrary, i was exceedingly glad of the opportunity of withdrawing my attentions; so i wrote her a polite little note, in which i expressed my regret that our tastes were so dissimilar and our paths in life so far apart; wished her every happiness; assured her that i should ever remember her with friendly regard; and signed my name with a tremendous flourish at the bottom of the second page. with the note, however, i sent her a raised pie and a red and green shawl, of which i begged her acceptance in token of amity; and as neither of those gifts was returned, i concluded that she ate the one and wore the other, and that there was peace between us. but the scales of fortune as they go up for one, go down for another. this man's luck is balanced by that man's ruin--orestes falls sick, and pylades returns from kissingen cured of his lumbago--old croesus dies, and little miss kilmansegg comes into the world with a golden spoon in her mouth, so it fell out with franz müller and myself. as i happily steered clear of charybdis, he drifted into scylla--in other words, just as i recovered from my second attack of the tender passion, he caught the epidemic and fancied himself in love with the fair marie. i say "fancied," because his way of falling in love was so unlike my way, that i could scarcely believe it to be the same complaint. it affected neither his appetite, nor his spirits, nor his wardrobe. he made as many puns and smoked as many pipes as usual. he did not even buy a new hat. if, in fact, he had not told me himself, i should never have guessed that anything whatever was the matter with him. it came out one day when he was pressing me to go with him to a certain tea-party at madame marotte's, in the rue st. denis. "you see," said he, "it is _la petite_ marie's fête; and the party's in her honor; and they'd be so proud if we both went to it; and--and, upon my soul, i'm awfully fond of that little girl".... "of marie marotte?" he nodded. "you are not serious," i said. "i am as serious," he replied, "as a dancing dervish." and then, for i suppose i looked incredulous, he went on to justify himself. "she's very good," he said, "and very pretty. quite a madonna face, to my thinking." "you may see a dozen such madonna faces among the nurses in the luxembourg gardens, every afternoon of your life," said i. "oh, if you come to that, every woman is like every other woman, up to a certain point." "_les femmes se suivent et se ressemblent toujours_," said i, parodying a well-known apothegm. "precisely, but then they wear their rue, or cause you to wear yours, 'with a difference.' this girl, however, escapes the monotony of her sex by one or two peculiarities:--she has not a bit of art about her, nor a shred of coquetry. she is as simple and as straightforward as an arcadian. she doesn't even know when she is being made love to, or understand what you mean, when you pay her a compliment." "then she's a phenomenon--and what man in his senses would fall in love with a phenomenon?" "every man, _mon cher enfant_, who falls in love at all! the woman we worship is always a phenomenon, whether of beauty, or grace, or virtue--till we find her out; and then, probably, she becomes a phenomenon of deceit, or slovenliness, or bad temper! and now, to return to the point we started from--will you go with me to madame marotte's tea-party to-morrow evening at eight? don't say 'no,' there's a good fellow." "i'll certainly not say no, if you particularly want me to say yes," i replied, "but--" "prythee, no buts! let it be yes, and the thing is settled. so--here we are. won't you come in and smoke a pipe with me? i've a bottle of capital rhenish in the cupboard." we had met near the odéon, and, as our roads lay in the same direction, had gone on walking and talking till we came to müller's own door in the rue clovis. i accepted the invitation, and followed him in. the _portière_, a sour-looking, bent old woman with a very dirty duster tied about her head, hobbled out from her little dark den at the foot of the stairs, and handed him the key of his apartment. "_tiens_!" said she, "wait a moment--there's a parcel for you, m'sieur müller." and so, hobbling back again, she brought out a small flat brown paper-packet sealed at both ends. "ah, i see--from the emperor!" said müller. "did he bring it himself, madame duphôt, or did he send it by the archbishop of paris?" a faint grin flitted over the little old woman's withered face. "get along with you, m'sieur müller," she said. "you're always playing the _farceur_! the parcel was brought by a man who looked like a stonemason." "and nobody has called?" "nobody, except m'sieur richard." "monsieur richard's visits are always gratifying and delightful--may the _diable_ fly away with him!" said müller. "what did dear monsieur richard want to-day, madame duphôt?" "he wanted to see you, and the third-floor gentleman also--about the rent." "dear richard! what an admirable memory he has for dates! did he leave any message, madame duphôt?" the old woman looked at me, and hesitated. "he says, m'sieur müller--he says ..." "nay, this gentleman is a friend--you may speak out. what does our beloved and respected _propriétaire_ say, madame duphôt?" "he says, if you don't both of you pay up the arrears by midday on sunday next, he'll seize your goods, and turn you into the street." "ah, i always said he was the nicest man i knew!" observed müller, gravely. "anything else, madame duphôt?" "only this, monsieur müller--that if you didn't go quietly, he'd take your windows out of the frames and your doors off the hinges." "_comment_! he bade you give me that message, the miserable old son of a spider! _quatre-vingt mille plats de diables aux truffes_! take my windows out of the frames, indeed! let him try, madame duphôt--that's all--let him try!" and with this, müller, in a towering rage, led the way upstairs, muttering volleys of the most extraordinary and eccentric oaths of his own invention, and leaving the little old _portière_ grinning maliciously in the hall. "but can't you pay him?" said i. "whether i can, or can't, it seems i must," he replied, kicking open the door of his studio as viciously as if it were the corporeal frame of monsieur richard. "the only question is--how? at the present moment, i haven't five francs in the till." "nor have i more than twenty. how much is it?" "a hundred and sixty--worse luck!" "haven't the tapottes paid for any of their ancestors yet?" "confound it!--yes; they've paid for a marshal of france and a farmer general, which are all i've yet finished and sent home. but there was the washerwoman, and the _traiteur_, and the artist's colorman, and, _enfin_, the devil to pay--and the money's gone, somehow!" "i've only just cleared myself from a lot of debts," i said, ruefully, "and i daren't ask either my father or dr. chéron for an advance just at present. what is to be done?" "oh, i don't know. i must raise the money somehow. i must sell something--there's my copy of titian's 'pietro aretino.' it's worth eighty francs, if only for a sign. and there's a madonna and child after andrea del sarto, worth a fortune to any enterprising sage-femme with artistic proclivities. i'll try what nebuchadnezzar will do for me." "and who, in the name of all that's israelitish, is nebuchadnezzar?" "nebuchadnezzar, my dear arbuthnot, is a worthy shylock of my acquaintance--a gentleman well known to bohemia--one who buys and sells whatever is purchasable and saleable on the face of the globe, from a ship of war to a comic paragraph in the _charivari_. he deals in bric-à-brac, sermons, government sinecures, pugs, false hair, light literature, patent medicines, and the fine arts. he lives in the place des victoires. would you like to be introduced to him?" "immensely." "well, then, be here by eight to-morrow morning, and i'll take you with me. after nine he goes out, or is only visible to buyers. here's my bottle of rhenish--genuine assmanshauser. are you hungry?" i admitted that i was not unconscious of a sensation akin to appetite. he gazed steadfastly into the cupboard, and shook his head. "a box of sardines," he said, gloomily, "nearly empty. half a loaf, evidently disinterred from pompeii. an inch of lyons sausage, saved from the ark; the remains of a bottle of fish sauce, and a pot of currant jelly. what will you have?" i decided for the relics of pompeii and the deluge, and we sat down to discuss those curious delicacies. having no corkscrew, we knocked off the neck of the bottle, and being short of glasses, drank our wine out of teacups. "but you have never opened your parcel all this time," i said presently. "it may be full of _billets de banque_--who can tell?" "that's true," said müller; and broke the seals. "by all the gods of olympus!" he shouted, holding up a small oblong volume bound in dark green cloth. "my sketch-book!" he opened it, and a slip of paper fell out. on this slip of paper were written, in a very neat, small hand, the words, "_returned with thanks_;" but the page that contained the sketch made in the café procope was missing. * * * * * chapter xxxiii. an evening party among the petit-bourgeoisie. madame marotte, as i have already mentioned more than once, lived in the rue du faubourg st. denis; which, as all the world knows, is a prolongation of the rue st. denis--just as the rue st. denis was, in my time, a transpontine continuation of the old rue de la harpe. beginning at the place du châtelet as the rue st. denis, opening at its farther end on the boulevart st. denis and passing under the triumphal arch of louis le grand (called the porte st. denis), it there becomes first the rue du faubourg st. denis, and then the interminable grande route du st. denis which drags its slow length along all the way to the famous abbey outside paris. the rue du faubourg st. denis is a changed street now, and widens out, prim, white, and glittering, towards the new barrier and the new rond point. but in the dear old days of which i tell, it was the sloppiest, worst-paved, worst-lighted, noisiest, narrowest, and most crowded of all the great paris thoroughfares north of the seine. all the country traffic from chantilly and compiégne came lumbering this way into the city; diligences, omnibuses, wagons, fiacres, water-carts, and all kinds of vehicles thronged and blocked the street perpetually; and the sound of wheels ceased neither by night nor by day. the foot-pavements of the rue du faubourg st. denis, too, were always muddy, be the weather what it might; and the gutters were always full of stagnant pools. an ever-changing, never-failing stream of rustics from the country, workpeople from the factories of the _banlieu,_ grisettes, commercial travellers, porters, commissionaires, and _gamins_ of all ages here flowed to and fro. itinerant venders of cakes, lemonade, cocoa, chickweed, _allumettes_, pincushions, six-bladed penknives, and never-pointed pencils filled the air with their cries, and made both day and night hideous. you could not walk a dozen yards at any time without falling down a yawning cellar-trap, or being run over by a porter with a huge load upon his head, or getting splashed from head to foot by the sudden pulling-up of some cart in the gutter beside you. it was among the peculiarities of the rue du faubourg st. denis that everybody was always in a hurry, and that nobody was ever seen to look in at the shop-windows. the shops, indeed, might as well have had no windows, since there were no loungers to profit by them. every house, nevertheless, was a shop, and every shop had its window. these windows, however, were for the most part of that kind before which the passer-by rarely cares to linger; for the commerce of the rue du faubourg st. denis was of that steady, unpretending, money-making sort that despises mere shop-front attractions. grocers, stationers, corn-chandlers, printers, cutlers, leather-sellers, and such other inelegant trades, here most did congregate; and to the wearied wayfarer toiling along the dead level of this dreary pavé, it was quite a relief to come upon even an artistically-arranged _magasin de charcuterie_, with its rows of glazed tongues, mighty lyons sausages, yellow _terrines_ of strasbourg pies, fantastically shaped pickle-jars, and pyramids of silvery sardine boxes. it was at number one hundred and two in this agreeable thoroughfare that my friend's innamorata resided with her maternal aunt, the worthy relict of monsieur jacques marotte, umbrella-maker, deceased. thither, accordingly, we wended our miry way, müller and i, after dining together at one of our accustomed haunts on the evening following the events related in my last chapter. the day had been dull and drizzly, and the evening had turned out duller and more drizzly still. we had not had rain for some time, and the weather had been (as it often is in paris in october) oppressively hot; and now that the rain had come, it did not seem to cool the air at all, but rather to load it with vapors, and make the heat less endurable than before. having toiled all the way up from the rue de la harpe on the farther bank of the seine, and having forded the passage of the arch of louis le grand, we were very wet and muddy indeed, very much out of breath, and very melancholy objects to behold. "it's dreadful to think of going into any house in this condition, müller," said i, glancing down ruefully at the state of my boots, and having just received a copious spattering of mud all down the left side of my person. "what is to be done?" "we've only to go to a boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop," replied müller. "there's sure to be one close by somewhere." "a boot-cleaning and brushing-up shop!" i echoed. "what--didn't you know there were lots of them, all over paris? have you never noticed places that look like shops, with ground glass windows instead of shop-fronts, on which are painted up the words, '_cirage des bottes?_'" "never, that i can remember." "then be grateful to me for a piece of very useful information! suppose we turn down this by-street--it's mostly to the seclusion of by-streets and passages that our bashful sex retires to renovate its boots and its broadcloth." i followed him, and in the course of a few minutes we found the sort of place of which we were in search. it consisted of one large, long room, like a shop without goods, counters, or shelves. a single narrow bench ran all round the walls, raised on a sort of wooden platform about three feet in width and three feet from the ground. seated upon this bench, somewhat uncomfortably, as it seemed, with their backs against the wall, sat some ten or a dozen men and boys, each with an attendant shoeblack kneeling before him, brushing away vigorously. two or three other customers, standing up in the middle of the shop, like horses in the hands of the groom, were having their coats brushed instead of their boots. of those present, some looked like young shopmen, some were of the _ouvrier_ class, and one or two looked like respectable small tradesmen and fathers of families. the younger men were evidently smartening up for an hour or two at some cheap ball or café-concert, now that the warehouse was closed, and the day's work was over. our boots being presently brought up to the highest degree of polish, and our garments cleansed of every disfiguring speck, we paid a few sous apiece and turned out again into the streets. happily, we had not far to go. a short cut brought us into the midst of the rue de faubourg st. denis, and within a few yards of a gloomy-looking little shop with the words "_veuve marotte_" painted up over the window, and a huge red and white umbrella dangling over the door. a small boy in a shiny black apron was at that moment putting up the shutters; the windows of the front room over the shop were brightly lit from within; and a little old gentleman in goloshes and a large blue cloak with a curly collar, was just going in at the private door. we meekly followed him, and hung up our hats and overcoats, as he did, in the passage. "after you, messieurs," said the little old gentleman, skipping politely back, and flourishing his hand in the direction of the stairs. "after you!" we protested vehemently against this arrangement, and fought quite a skirmish of civilities at the foot of the stairs. "i am at home here, messieurs," said the little old gentleman, who, now that he was divested of hat, cloak, and goloshes, appeared in a flaxen _toupet_, an antiquated blue coat with brass buttons, a profusely frilled shirt, and low-cut shoes with silver buckles. "i am an old friend of the family--a friend of fifty years. i hold myself privileged to do the honors, messieurs;--a friend of fifty years may claim to have his privileges." with this he smirked, bowed, and backed against the wall, so that we were obliged to precede him. when we reached the landing, however, he (being evidently an old gentleman of uncommon politeness and agility) sprang forward, held open the door for us, and insisted on ushering us in. it was a narrow, long-shaped room, the size of the shop, with two windows looking upon the street; a tiny square of carpet in the middle of the floor; boards highly waxed and polished; a tea-table squeezed up in one corner; a somewhat ancient-looking, spindle-legged cottage piano behind the door; a mirror and an ornamental clock over the mantelpiece; and a few french lithographs, colored in imitation of crayon drawings, hanging against the walls. madame marotte, very deaf and fussy, in a cap with white ribbons, came forward to receive us. mademoiselle marie, sitting between two other young women of her own age, hung her head, and took no notice of our arrival. the rest of the party consisted of a gentleman and two old ladies. the gentleman (a plump, black-whiskered elderly cupid, with a vast expanse of shirt-front like an immense white ace of hearts, and a rose in his button-hole) was standing on the hearth-rug in a graceful attitude, with one hand resting on his hip, and the other under his coat-tails. of the two old ladies, who seemed as if expressly created by nature to serve as foils to one another, one was very fat and rosy, in a red silk gown and a kind of black velvet hat trimmed with white marabout feathers and roman pearls; while the other was tall, gaunt, and pale, with a long nose, a long upper lip, and supernaturally long yellow teeth. she wore a black gown, black cotton gloves, and a black velvet band across her forehead, fastened in the centre with a black and gold clasp containing a ghastly representation of a human eye, apparently purblind--which gave this lady the air of a serious cyclops. madame marotte was profuse of thanks, welcomes, apologies, and curtseys. it was so good of these gentlemen to come so far--and in such unpleasant weather, too! but would not these messieurs give themselves the trouble to be seated? and would they prefer tea or coffee--for both were on the table? and where was marie? marie, whose _fête_-day it was, and who should have come forward to welcome these gentlemen, and thank them for the honor of their company! thus summoned, mademoiselle marie emerged from between the two young women, and curtsied demurely. in the meanwhile, the little old gentleman who had ushered as in was bustling about the room, shaking hands with every one, and complimenting the ladies. "ah, madame desjardins," he said, addressing the stout lady in the hat, "enchanted to see you back from the sea-side!--you and your charming daughter. i do not know which looks the more young and blooming." then, turning to the grim lady in black:-- "and i am charmed to pay my homage to madame de montparnasse. i had the pleasure of being present at the brilliant _début_ of madame's gifted daughter the other evening at the private performance of the pupils of the conservatoire. mademoiselle honoria inherits the _grand air_, madame, from yourself." then, to the plump gentleman with the shirt-front:-- "and monsieur philomène!--this is indeed a privilege and a pleasure. bad weather, monsieur philomène, for the voice!" then, to the two girls:-- "mesdemoiselles--achille dorinet prostrates himself at the feet of youth, beauty, and talent! mademoiselle honoria, i salute in you the future empress of the tragic stage. mademoiselle rosalie, modesty forbids me to extol the acquired graces of even my most promising pupil; but i may be permitted to adore in you the graces of nature." while i was listening to these scraps of salutation, müller was murmuring tender nothings in the ear of the fair marie, and madame marotte was pouring out the coffee. monsieur achille dorinet, having gone the round of the company, next addressed himself to me. "permit me, monsieur," he said, bringing his heels together and punctuating his sentences with little bows, "permit me, in the absence of a master of the ceremonies, to introduce myself--achille dorinet, achille dorinet, whose name may not, perhaps, be wholly unknown to you in connection with the past glories of the classical ballet. achille dorinet, formerly _premier sujet_ of the opéra français--now principal choreographic professor at the conservatoire impériale de musique. i have had the honor, monsieur, of dancing at erfurth before their imperial majesties the emperors napoleon and alexander, and a host of minor sovereigns. those, monsieur, were the high and palmy days of the art. we performed a ballet descriptive of the siege of troy, and i undertook the part of a river god--the god scamander, _en effet_. the great ladies of the court, monsieur, were graciously pleased to admire my proportions as the god scamander. i wore a girdle of sedges, a wreath of water-lilies, and a scarf of blue and silver. i have reason to believe that the costume became me." "sir," i replied gravely, "i do not doubt it." "it is a noble art, monsieur, _l'art de la dame_" said the former _premier sujet_, with a sigh; "but it is on the decline. of the grand style of fifty years ago, only myself and tradition remain." "monsieur was, doubtless, a contemporary of vestris, the famous dancer," i said. "the illustrious vestris, monsieur," said the little old gentleman, "was, next to louis the fourteenth, the greatest of frenchmen. i am proud to own myself his disciple, as well as his contemporary." "why next to louis the fourteenth, monsieur dorinet?" i asked, keeping my countenance with difficulty. "why not next to napoleon the first, who was a still greater conqueror?" "but no dancer, monsieur!" replied the ex-god scamander, with a kind of half pirouette; "whereas the grand monarque was the finest dancer of his epoch." madame marotte had by this time supplied all her guests with tea and coffee, while monsieur philomène went round with the cakes and bread and butter. madame desjardins spread her pocket-handkerchief on her lap--a pocket-handkerchief the size of a small table-cloth. madame de montparnasse, more mindful of her gentility, removed to a corner of the tea-table, and ate her bread and butter in her black cotton gloves. "we hope we have another bachelor by-and-by," said madame marotte, addressing herself to the young ladies, who looked down and giggled. "a charming man, mesdemoiselles, and quite the gentleman--our _locataire_, m'sieur lenoir. you know him, m'sieur dorinet--pray tell these demoiselles what a charming man m'sieur lenoir is!" the little dancing-master bowed, coughed, smiled, and looked somewhat embarrassed. "monsieur lenoir is no doubt a man of much information," he said, hesitatingly; "a traveller--a reader--a gentleman--oh! yes, certainly a gentleman. but to say that he is a--a charming man ... well, perhaps the ladies are the best judges of such nice questions. what says mam'selle marie?" thus applied to, the fair marie became suddenly crimson, and had not a word to reply with. monsieur dorinet stared. the young ladies tittered. madame marotte, deaf as a post and serenely unconscious, smiled, nodded, and said "ah, yes, yes--didn't i tell you so?" "monsieur dorinet has, i fear, asked an indiscreet question," said müller, boiling over with jealousy. "i--i have not observed monsieur lenoir sufficiently to--to form an opinion," faltered marie, ready to cry with vexation. müller glared at her reproachfully, turned on his heel, and came over to where i was standing. "you saw how she blushed?" he said in a fierce whisper. "_sacredie_! i'll bet my head she's an arrant flirt. who, in the name of all the fiends, is this lodger she's been carrying on with? a lodger, too--oh! the artful puss!" at this awkward moment, monsieur dorinet, with considerable tact, asked monsieur philomène for a song; and monsieur philomène (who as i afterwards learned was a favorite tenor at fifth-rate concerts) was graciously pleased to comply. not, however, without a little preliminary coquetry, after the manner of tenors. first he feared he was hoarse; then struck a note or two on the piano, and tried his falsetto; then asked for a glass of water; and finally begged that one of the young ladies would be so amiable as to accompany him. mademoiselle honoria, inheriting rigidity from the maternal cyclops, drew herself up and declined stiffly; but the other, whom the dancing-master had called rosalie, got up directly and said she would do her best. "only," she added, blushing, "i play so badly!" monsieur philomène was provided with two copies of his song--one for the accompanyist and one for himself; then, standing well away from the piano with his face to the audience, he balanced his music in his hand, made his little professional bow, coughed, ran his fingers through his hair, and assumed an expression of tender melancholy. "one--two--three," began mdlle. rosalie, her little fat fingers staggering helplessly among the first cadenzas of the symphony. "one--two--three. one" ... monsieur philomène interrupted with a wave of the hand, as if conducting an orchestra. "pardon, mademoiselle," he said, "not quite so fast, if you please! andantino--andantino--one--two--three ... just so! a thousand thanks!" again mdlle. rosalie attacked the symphony. again monsieur philomène cleared his voice, and suffered a pensive languor to cloud his manly brow. "_revenez, revenez, beaux jours de mon enfance,_" he began, in a small, tremulous, fluty voice. "they'll have a long road to travel back, _parbleu_!" muttered müller. "_de votre aspect riant charmer ma souvenance_!" here mdlle. rosalie struck a wrong chord, became involved in hopeless difficulties, and gasped audibly. monsieur philomène darted a withering glance at her, and went on:-- "_mon coeur; mon pauvre coeur_" ... more wrong chords, and a smothered "_mille pardons_!" from mdlle. rosalie. "_mon coeur, mon pauvre coeur a la tristesse en proie, en fouillant le passé"...._ a dead stop on the part of mdlle. rosalie. _"en fouillant le passé_".... repeated the tenor, with the utmost severity of emphasis. "_mais, mon dieu_, rosalie! what are you doing?" cried madame desjardins, angrily. "why don't you go on?" mdlle. rosalie burst into a flood of tears. "i--i can't!" she sobbed. "it's so--so very difficult--and"... madame desjardins flung up her hands in despair. "_ciel_!" she cried, "and i have been paying three francs a lesson for you, mademoiselle, twice a week for the last six years!" "_mais, maman_".... "_fi done_, mademoiselle! i am ashamed of you. make a curtsey to monsieur philomène this moment, and beg his pardon; for you have spoiled his beautiful song!" but monsieur philomène would hear of no such expiation. his soul, to use his own eloquent language, recoiled from it with horror! the accompaniment, _à vrai dire_, was not easy, and _la bien aimable_ mam'selle rosalie had most kindly done her best with it. _allons donc!_--on condition that no more should be said on the subject, monsieur philomène would volunteer to sing a little unaccompanied romance of his own composition--a mere _bagatelle_; but a tribute to "_les beaux yeux de ces chères dames_!" so mam'selle rosalie wiped away her tears, and madame desjardins smoothed her ruffled feathers, and monsieur philomène warbled a plaintive little ditty in which "_coeur_" rhymed to "_peur_" and "_amours_" to "_toujours_" and "_le sort_" to "_la mort_" in quite the usual way; so giving great satisfaction to all present, but most, perhaps, to himself. and now, hospitably anxious that each of her guests should have a chance of achieving distinction, madame marotte invited mdlle. honoria to favor the company with a dramatic recitation. mdlle. honoria hesitated; exchanged glances with the cyclops; and, in order to enhance the value of her performance, began raising all kinds of difficulties. there was no stage, for instance; and there were no footlights; but m. dorinet met these objections by proposing to range all the seats at one end of the room, and to divide the stage off by a row of lighted candles. "but it is so difficult to render a dramatic scene without an interlocutor!" said the young lady. "what is it you require, _ma chère demoiselle?_" asked madame marotte. "i have no interlocutor," said mdlle. honoria. "no what, my love?" "no interlocutor," repeated mdlle. honoria, at the top of her voice. "dear! dear! what a pity! can't we send the boy for it? marie, my child, bid jacques run to madame de montparnasse's _appartement_ in the rue" ... but madame marotte's voice was lost in the confusion; for monsieur dorinet was already deep in the arrangement of the room, and we were all helping to move the furniture. as for mademoiselle's last difficulty, the little dancing-master met that by offering to read whatever was necessary to carry on the scene. and now, the stage being cleared, the audience placed, and monsieur dorinet provided with a volume of corneille, mademoiselle honoria proceeded to drape herself in an old red shawl belonging to madame marotte. the scene selected is the fifth of the fourth act of horace, where camille, meeting her only surviving brother, upbraids him with the death of curiace. mam'selle honoria, as camille, with clasped hands and tragic expression, stalks in a slow and stately manner towards the footlights. (breathless suspense of the audience.) m. dorinet, who should begin by vaunting his victory over the curiatii, stops to put on his glasses, finds it difficult to read with all the candles on the ground, and mutters something about the smallness of the type. mdlle. honoria, not to keep the audience waiting, surveys the ex-god seamander with a countenance expressive of horror; starts; and takes a turn across the stage. "_ma soeur,_" begins m. dorinet, holding the book very much on one side, so as to catch the light upon the page, "_ma soeur, voici le bras_".... "ah, heaven! my dear mademoiselle, take care of the candles!" cries madame marotte in a shrill whisper. ... "_le bras qui venge nos deux frères, le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, qui nous rend"_... here he lost his place; stammered; and recovered it with difficulty. _"qui nous rend maîtres d'albe"_.... madame marotte groans aloud in an agony of apprehension "_ah, mon dieu!_" she exclaims, gaspingly, "if they didn't flare so, it wouldn't be half so dangerous!" here m. dorinet dropped his book, and stooping to pick up the book, dropped his spectacles. "i think," said mdlle. honoria, indignantly, "we had better begin again. monsieur dorinet, pray read with the help of a candle _this_ time!" and, with an angry toss of her head, mdlle. honoria went up the stage, put on her tragedy face again, and prepared once more to stalk down to the footlights. monsieur dorinet, in the meanwhile, had snatched up a candle, readjusted his spectacles, and found his place. "_ma soeur_" he began again, holding the book close to his eyes and the candle just under his nose, and nodding vehemently with every emphasis:-- "_ma soeur, voici le bras qui venge nos deux frères, le bras qui rompt le cours de nos destins contraires, qui nous rend maîtres d'albe_" ... a piercing scream from madame marotte, a general cry on the part of the audience, and a strong smell of burning, brought the dancing-master to a sudden stop. he looked round, bewildered. "your wig! your wig's on fire!" cried every one at once. monsieur dorinet clapped his hand to his head, which was now adorned with a rapidly-spreading glory; burned his fingers; and cut a frantic caper. "save him! save him!" yelled madame marotte. but almost before the words were out of her mouth, müller, clearing the candles at a bound, had rushed to the rescue, scalped monsieur dorinet by a _tour de main_, cast the blazing wig upon the floor, and trampled out the fire. then followed a roar of "inextinguishable laughter," in which, however, neither the tragic camille nor the luckless horace joined. "heavens and earth!" murmured the little dancing-master, ruefully surveying the ruins of his blonde peruke. and then he put his hand to his head, which was as bald as an egg. in the meanwhile mdlle. honoria, who had not yet succeeded in uttering a syllable of her part, took no pains to dissemble her annoyance; and was only pacified at last by a happy proposal on the part of monsieur philomène, who suggested that "this gifted demoiselle" should be entreated to favor the society with a soliloquy. thus invited, she draped herself again, stalked down to the footlights for the third time, and in a high, shrill voice, with every variety of artificial emphasis and studied gesture, recited voltaire's famous "death of coligny," from the _henriade_. in the midst of this performance, just at that point when the assassins are described as falling upon their knees before their victim, the door of the room was softly opened, and another guest slipped in unseen behind us. slipped in, indeed, so quietly that (the backs of the audience being turned that way) no one seemed to hear, and no one looked round but myself. brief as was that glance, and all in the shade as he stood, i recognised him instantly. it was the mysterious stranger of the café procope. chapter xxxiv. my aunt's flower garden. having despatched the venerable coligny much to her own satisfaction and apparently to the satisfaction of her hearers, mdlle. honoria returned to private life; messieurs philomène and dorinet removed the footlights; the audience once more dispersed itself about the room; and madame marotte welcomed the new-comer as monsieur lenoir. "_monsieur est bien aimable_," she said, nodding and smiling, and, with tremulous hands, smoothing down the front of her black silk gown. "i had told these young ladies that we hoped for the honor of monsieur's society. will monsieur permit me to introduce him?" "with pleasure, madame marotte." and m. lenoir--white cravatted, white kid-gloved, hat in hand, perfectly well-dressed in full evening black, and wearing a small orange-colored rosette at his button-hole--bowed, glanced round the room, and, though his eyes undoubtedly took in both müller and myself, looked as if he had never seen either of us in his life. i< saw müller start, and the color fly into his face. "by heaven!" he exclaimed, "it is--it must be ... look at him, arbuthnot! if that isn't the man who stole my sketch-book, i'll eat my head!" "it _is_ the man," i replied. "i recognised him ten minutes ago, when he first came in." "you are certain?" "quite certain." "and yet--there is something different!" there _was_ something different; but, at the same time, much that was identical. there was the same strange, inscrutable look, the same bronzed complexion, the same military bearing. m. lenoir, it was true, was well, and even elegantly dressed; whereas, the stranger of the café procope bore all the outward stigmata of penury; but that was not all. there was yet "something different." the one looked like a man who had done, or suffered, a wrong in his time; who had an old quarrel with the world; and who only sought to hide himself, his poverty, and his bitter pride from the observation of his fellow men. the other stood before us dignified, _décoré_, self-possessed, a man not only of the world, but apparently no stranger to that small section of it called "the great world." in a word, the man of the café, sunken, sullen, threadbare as he was, would have been almost less out of his proper place in madame marotte's society of small trades-people and minor professionals, than was m. lenoir with his _grand air_ and his orange-colored ribbon. "it's the same man," said müller; "the same, beyond a doubt. the more i look at him, the more confident i am." "and the more i look at him," said i, "the more doubtful i get." madame marotte, meanwhile, had introduced m. lenoir to the two conservatoire pupils and their mammas; monsieur dorinet had proposed some "_petits jeux_;" and monsieur philomène was helping him to re-arrange the chairs--this time in a circle. "take your places, messieurs et mesdames--take your places!" cried monsieur dorinet, who had by this time resumed his wig, singed as it was, and shorn of its fair proportions. "what game shall we play at?" "_pied de boeuf_" "_colin maillard_" and other games were successively proposed and rejected. "we have a game in alsace called 'my aunt's flower garden'" said müller. "does any one know it?" "'my aunt's flower garden?'" repeated monsieur dorinet. "i never heard of it." "it sounds pretty," said mdlle. rosalie. "will m'sieur teach it to us, if it is not very difficult?" suggested mdlle. rosalie's mamma. "with pleasure, madame. it is not a bad game--and it is extremely easy. we will sit in a circle, if you please--the chairs as they are placed will do quite well." we were just about to take our places when madame marotte seized the opportunity to introduce müller and myself to m. lenoir. "we have met before, monsieur," said müller, pointedly. "i am ashamed to confess, monsieur, that i do not remember to have had that pleasure," replied m. lenoir, somewhat stiffly. "and yet, monsieur, it was but the other day," persisted müller. "monsieur, i can but reiterate my regret." "at the café procope." m. lenoir stared coldly, slightly shrugged his shoulders, and said, with the air of one who repudiates a discreditable charge:-- "monsieur, i do not frequent the café procope." "if monsieur müller is to teach us the game, monsieur müller must begin it!" said monsieur dorinet. "at once," replied müller, taking his place in the circle. as ill-luck would have it (the rest of us being already seated), there were but two chairs left; so that m. lenoir and müller had to sit side by side. "i begin with my left-hand neighbor," said müller, addressing himself with a bow to mdlle. rosalie; "and the circle will please to repeat after me:--'i have the four corners of my aunt's flower garden for sale-- thee, and lov'd thee, and ne'er can forget._'" mdlle. rosalie _to_ m. philomÈne.--i have the four corners of my aunt's flower garden for sale-- thee, and lov'd thee, and ne'er can forget._' m. philomÈne _to_ madame de montparnasse.--i have the four corners of my aunt's flower garden, etc., etc. madame de montparnasse _to_ m. dorinet.--i have the four corners of my aunt's flower garden, etc., etc. monsieur dorinet repeats the formula to madame desjardins; madame desjardins passes it on to me; i proclaim it at the top of my voice to madame marotte; madame marotte transfers it to mdlle. honoria; mdlle. honoria delivers it to the fair marie; the fair marie tells it to m. lenoir, and the first round is completed. müller resumes the lead :-- "_in the second grow heartsease and wild eglantine; fair exchange is no theft--for my heart, give me thine_." mdlle. rosalie _to_ m. philomÈne:-- "_in the second grow heartsease and wild eglantine; fair exchange is no theft--for my heart, give me thine_." m. philomÈne _to_ mdlle. de montparnasse:-- "_in the second grow heartsease_," &c., &c. and so on again, till the second round is done. then müller began again:-- "_in the third of these corners pale primroses grow; now tell me thy secret, and whisper it low_." mdlle. rosalie was about to repeat these lines as before; but he stopped her. "no, mademoiselle, not till you have told me the secret." "the secret, m'sieur? what secret?" "nay, mademoiselle, how can i tell that till you have told me? you must whisper something to me--something very secret, which you would not wish any one else to hear--before you repeat the lines. and when you repeat them, monsieur philomène must whisper his secret to you--and so on through the circle." mdlle. rosalie hesitated, smiled, whispered something in müller's ear, and went on with:-- "_in the third of these corners pale primroses grow; now tell me thy secret, and whisper it low_." monsieur philomène then whispered his secret to mdlle. rosalie, and so on again till it ended with m. lenoir and müller. "i don't think it is a very amusing game," said madame marotte; who, being deaf, had been left out of the last round, and found it dull. "it will be more entertaining presently, madame," shouted müller, with a malicious twinkle about his eyes. "pray observe the next lines, messieurs et mesdames, and follow my lead as before:-- '_roses bloom in the fourth; and your secret, my dear, which you whisper'd so softly just now in my ear, i repeat word for word, for the others to hear!_' mademoiselle rosalie (whose pardon i implore!) whispered to me that monsieur philomène dyed his moustache and whiskers." there was a general murmur of alarm tempered with tittering. mademoiselle rosalie was dumb with confusion. monsieur philomène's face became the color of a full-blown peony. madame de montparnasse and mdlle. honoria turned absolutely green. "_comment!_" exclaimed one or two voices. "is everything to be repeated?" "everything, messieurs et mesdames," replied müller--"everything--without reservation. i call upon mdlle. rosalie to reveal the secret of monsieur philomène." mdlle. rosalie (_with great promptitude_):--monsieur philomène whispered to me that honoria was the most disagreeable girl in paris, marie the dullest, and myself the prettiest. m. philomÈne (_in an agony of confusion_):--i beseech you, mam'selle honoria ... i entreat you, mam'selle marie, not for an instant to suppose.... mdlle. honoria (_drawing herself up and smiling acidly_):--oh, pray do not give yourself the trouble to apologize, monsieur philomène. your opinion, i assure you, is not of the least moment to either of us. is it, marie? but the fair marie only smiled good-naturedly, and said:-- "i know i am not clever. monsieur philomène is quite right; and i am not at all angry with him." "but--but, indeed, mesdemoiselles, i--i--am incapable...." stammered the luckless tenor, wiping the perspiration from his brow. "i am incapable...." "silence in the circle!" cried müller, authoritatively. "private civilities are forbidden by the rules of the game. i call monsieur philomène to order, and i demand from him the secret of madame de montparnasse." m. philomène looked even more miserable than before. "i--i ... but it is an odious position! to betray the confidence of a lady ... heavens! i cannot." "the secret!--the secret!" shouted the others, impatiently. madame de montparnasse pursed up her parchment lips, glared upon us defiantly, and said:-- "pray don't hesitate about repeating my words, m'sieur philomène. i am not ashamed of them." m. philomene (_reluctantly_):--madame de montparnasse observed to me that what she particularly disliked was a mixed society like--like the present; and that she hoped our friend madame marotte would in future be less indiscriminate in the choice of her acquaintances. muller (_with elaborate courtesy_):--we are all infinitely obliged to madame de montparnasse for her opinion of us--(i speak for the society, as leader of the circle)--and beg to assure her that we entirely coincide in her views. it rests with madame to carry on the game, and to betray the confidence of monsieur dorinet. madame de montparnasse (_with obvious satisfaction_):--monsieur dorinet told me that rosalie desjardin's legs were ill-made, and that she would never make a dancer, though she practised from now till doomsday. m. dorinet (_springing to his feet as if he had been shot_):--heavens and earth! madame de montparnasse, what have i done that you should so pervert my words? mam'selle rosalie--_ma chère elève_, believe me, i never.... "silence in the circle!" shouted müller again. m. dorinet:--but, m'sieur, in simple self-defence.... muller:--self-defence, monsieur dorinet, is contrary to the rules of the game. revenge only is permitted. revenge yourself on madame desjardins, whose secret it is your turn to tell. m. dorinet:--madame desjardins drew my attention to the toilette of madame de montparnasse. she said: "_mon dieu!_ monsieur dorinet, are you not tired of seeing la montparnasse in that everlasting old black gown? my rosalie says she is in mourning for her ugliness." madame desjardins (_laughing heartily_):--_eh bien--oui!_ i don't deny it; and rosalie's _mot_ was not bad. and now, m'sieur the englishman (_turning to me_), it is your turn to be betrayed. monsieur, whose name i cannot pronounce, said to me:--"madame, the french, _selon moi_, are the best dressed and most _spirituel_ people of europe. their very silence is witty; and if mankind were, by universal consent, to go without clothes to-morrow, they would wear the primitive costume of adam and eve more elegantly than the rest of the world, and still lead the fashion," (_a murmur of approval on the part of the company, who take the compliment entirely aux serieux_.) myself (_agreeably conscious of having achieved popularity_):--our hostess's deafness having unfortunately excluded her from this part of the game, i was honored with the confidence of mdlle. honoria, who informed me that she is to make her _début_ before long at the theatre français, and hoped that i would take tickets for the occasion. mdlle. rosalie (_satirically_):--_brava_, honoria! what a woman of business you are! mdlle. honoria (_affecting not to hear this observation_)-- "_roses bloom in the fourth, and your secret, my dear, which you whispered so softly just now in my ear, i repeat word for word for the others to hear_." marie said to me.... _tiens_! marie, don't pull my dress in that way. you shouldn't have said it, you know, if it won't bear repeating! marie said to me that she could have either monsieur müller or monsieur lenoir, by only holding up her finger--but she couldn't make up her mind which she liked best. mdlle. marie (_half crying_):--nay, honoria--how can you be so--so unkind ... so spiteful? i--i did not say i could have either m'sieur müller or... or... m. lenoir (_with great spirit and good breeding_):--whether mademoiselle used those words or not is of very little importance. the fact remains the same; and is as old as the world. beauty has but to will and to conquer. muller:--order in the circle! the game waits for mademoiselle marie. marie (_hesitatingly_):-- "_roses bloom in the fourth, and your secret_" m'sieur lenoir said that--that he admired the color of my dress, and that blue became me more than lilac. muller: (_coldly_)--_pardon_, mademoiselle, but i happened to overhear what monsieur lenoir whispered just now, and those were not his words. monsieur lenoir said, "look in"... but perhaps mademoiselle would prefer me not to repeat more? marie--(_in great confusion_):--as--as you please, m'sieur. muller:--then, mademoiselle, i will be discreet, and i will not even impose a forfeit upon you, as i might do, by the laws of the game. it is for monsieur lenoir to continue. m. lenoir:--i do not remember what monsieur müller whispered to me at the close of the last round. muller (_pointedly_):--_pardon,_ monsieur, i should have thought that scarcely possible. m. lenoir:--it was perfectly unintelligible, and therefore left no impression on my memory. muller:--permit me, then, to have the honor of assisting your memory. i said to you--"monsieur, if i believed that any modest young woman of my acquaintance was in danger of being courted by a man of doubtful character, do you know what i would do? i would hunt that man down with as little remorse as a ferret hunts down a rat in a drain." m. lenoir:--the sentiment does you honor, monsieur; but i do not see the application, muller:--vous ne le trouvez pas, monsieur? m. lenoir--(_with a cold stare, and a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulders_):--non, monsieur. here mdlle. rosalie broke in with:--"what are we to do next, m'sieur müller? are we to begin another round, or shall we start a fresh game?" to which müller replied that it must be "_selon le plaisir de ces dames_;" and put the question to the vote. but too many plain, unvarnished truths had cropped up in the course of the last round of my aunt's flower garden; and the ladies were out of humor. madame de montparnasse, frigid, cyclopian, black as erebus, found that it was time to go home; and took her leave, bristling with gentility. the tragic honoria stalked majestically after her. madame desjardins, mortally offended with m. dorinet on the score of rosalie's legs, also prepared to be gone; while m. philomène, convicted of hair-dye and _brouillé_ for ever with "the most disagreeable girl in paris," hastened to make his adieux as brief as possible. "a word in your ear, mon cher dorinet," whispered he, catching the little dancing-master by the button-hole. "isn't it the most unpleasant party you were ever at in your life?" the ex-god scamander held up his hands and eyes. "_eh, mon dieu_!" he replied. "what an evening of disasters! i have lost my best pupil and my second-best wig!" in the meanwhile, we went up like the others, and said good-night to our hostess. she, good soul! in her deafness, knew nothing about the horrors of the evening, and was profuse of her civilities. "so amiable of these gentlemen to honor her little soirée--so kind of m'sieur müller to have exerted himself to make things go off pleasantly--so sorry we would not stay half an hour longer," &c., &c. to all of which müller (with a sly grimace expressive of contrition) replied only by a profound salutation and a rapid retreat. passing m. lenoir without so much as a glance, he paused a moment before mdlle. marie who was standing near the door, and said in a tone audible only to her and myself:-- "i congratulate you, mademoiselle, on your admirable talent for intrigue. i trust, when you look in the usual place and find the promised letter, it will prove agreeable reading. j'ai l'honneur, mademoiselle, de vous saluer." i saw the girl flush crimson, then turn deadly white, and draw back as if his hand had struck her a sudden blow. the next moment we were half-way down the stairs. "what, in heaven's name, does all this mean?" i said, when we were once more in the street. "it means," replied müller fiercely, "that the man's a scoundrel, and the woman, like all other women, is false." "then the whisper you overheard" ... "was only this:--'_look in the usual place, and you will find a letter_.' not many words, _mon cher_, but confoundedly comprehensive! and i who believed that girl to be an angel of candor! i who was within an ace of falling seriously in love with her! _sacredie_! what an idiot i have been!" "forget her, my dear fellow," said i. "wipe her out of your memory (which i think will not be difficult), and leave her to her fate." he shook his head. "no," he said, gloomily, "i won't do that. i'll get to the bottom of that man's mystery; and if, as i suspect, there's that about his past life which won't bear the light of day--i'll save her, if i can." chapter xxxv. weary and far distant. twice already, in accordance with my promise to dalrymple, i had called upon madame de courcelles, and finding her out each time, had left my card, and gone away disappointed. from dalrymple himself, although i had written to him several times, i heard seldom, and always briefly. his first notes were dated from berlin, and those succeeding them from vienna. he seemed restless, bitter, dissatisfied with himself, and with the world. naturally unfit for a lounging, idle life, his active nature, now that it had to bear up against the irritation of hope deferred, chafed and fretted for work. "my sword-arm," he wrote in one of his letters, "is weary of its holiday. there are times when i long for the smell of gunpowder, and the thunder of battle. i am sick to death of churches and picture-galleries, operas, dilettantism, white-kid-glovism, and all the hollow shows and seemings of society. sometimes i regret having left the army--at others i rejoice; for, after all, in these piping times of peace, to be a soldier is to be a mere painted puppet--a thing of pipe-clay and gold bullion--an expensive scarecrow--an elegant guy fawkes--a sign, not of what is, but of what has been, and yet may be again. for my part, i care not to take the livery without the service. pshaw! will things never mend! are the good old times, and the good old international hatreds, gone by for ever? shall we never again have a thorough, seasonable, wholesome, continental war? this place (vienna) would be worth fighting for, if one had the chance. i sometimes amuse myself by planning a siege, when i ride round the fortifications, as is my custom of an afternoon." in another, after telling me that he had been reading some books of travel in egypt and central america, he said:-- "next to a military life i think that of a traveller--a genuine traveller, who turns his back upon railroads and guides--must be the most exciting and the most enviable under heaven. since reading these books, i dream of the jungle and the desert, and fancy that a buffalo-hunt must be almost as fine sport as a charge of cavalry. oh, what a weary exile this is! i feel as if the very air were stagnant around me, and i, like the accursed vessel that carried the ancient mariner,-- as idle as a painted ship, upon a painted ocean.'" sometimes, though rarely, he mentioned madame de courcelles, and then very guardedly: always as "madame de courcelles," and never as his wife. "that morning," he wrote, "comes back to me with all the vagueness of a dream--you will know what morning i mean, and why it fills so shadowy a page in the book of my memory. and it might as well have been a dream, for aught of present peace or future hope that it has brought me. i often think that i was selfish when i exacted that pledge from her. i do not see of what good it can be to either her or me, or in what sense i can be said to have gained even the power to protect and serve her. would that i were rich; or that she and i were poor together, and dwelling far away in some american wild, under the shade of primeval trees, the world forgetting; by the world forgot! i should enjoy the life of a canadian settler--so free, so rational, so manly. how happy we might be--she with her children, her garden, her books; i with my dogs, my gun, my lands! what a curse it is, this spider's web of civilization, that hems and cramps us in on every side, and from which not all the armor of common-sense is sufficient to preserve us!" sometimes he broke into a strain of forced gayety, more sad, to my thinking, than the bitterest lamentations could have been. "i wish to heaven," he said, in one of his later letters--"i wish to heaven i had no heart, and no brain! i wish i was, like some worthy people i know, a mere human zoophyte, consisting of nothing but a mouth and a stomach. only conceive how it must simplify life when once one has succeeded in making a clean sweep of all those finer emotions which harass more complicated organisms! enviable zoophytes, that live only to digest!--who would not be of the brotherhood?" in another he wrote:-- "i seem to have lived years in the last five or six weeks, and to have grown suddenly old and cynical. some french writer (i think it is alphonse karr) says, 'nothing in life is really great and good, except what is not true. man's greatest treasures are his illusions.' alas! my illusions have been dropping from me in showers of late, like withered leaves in autumn. the tree will be bare as a gallows ere long, if these rough winds keep on blowing. if only things would amuse me as of old! if there was still excitement in play, and forgetfulness in wine, and novelty in travel! but there is none--and all things alike are 'flat, stale, and unprofitable,' the truth is, damon, i want but one thing--and wanting that, lack all." here is one more extract, and it shall be the last:-- "you ask me how i pass my days--in truth, wearily enough. i rise with the dawn, but that is not very early in september; and i ride for a couple of hours before breakfast. after breakfast i play billiards in some public room, consume endless pipes, read the papers, and so on. later in the day i scowl through a picture-gallery, or a string of studios; or take a pull up the river; or start off upon a long, solitary objectless walk through miles and miles of forest. then comes dinner--the inevitable, insufferable, interminable german table-d'hôte dinner--and then there is the evening to be got through somehow! now and then i drop in at a theatre, but generally take refuge in some plebeian lust garten or beer hall, where amid clouds of tobacco-smoke, one may listen to the best part-singing and zitter-playing in europe. and so my days drag by--who but myself knows how slowly? truly, damon, there comes to every one of us, sooner or later, a time when we say of life as christopher sly said of the comedy--''tis an excellent piece of work. would 'twere done!'" chapter xxxvi. the vicomte de caylus. it was after receiving the last of these letters that i hazarded a third visit to madame de courcelles. this time, i ventured to present myself at her door about midday, and was at once ushered upstairs into a drawing-room looking out on the rue castellane. seeing her open work-table, with the empty chair and footstool beside it, i thought at the first glance that i was alone in the room, when a muttered "sacr-r-r-re! down, bijou!" made me aware of a gentleman extended at full length upon a sofa near the fireplace, and of a vicious-looking spitz crouched beneath it. the gentleman lifted his head from the sofa-cusion; stared at me; bowed carelessly; got upon his feet; and seizing the poker, lunged savagely at the fire, as if he had a spite against it, and would have put it out, if he could. this done, he yawned aloud, flung himself into the nearest easy-chair, and rang the bell. "more coals, henri," he said, imperiously; "and--stop! a bottle of seltzer-water." the servant hesitated. "i don't think, monsieur le vicomte," he said, "that madame has any seltzer-water in the house; but ..." "confound you!--you never have anything in the house at the moment one wants it," interrupted the gentleman, irritably. "i can send for some, if monsieur le vicomte desires it." "send for it, then; and remember, when i next ask for it, let there be some at hand." "yes, monsieur le vicomte." "and--henri!" "yes, monsieur le vicomte." "bid them be quick. i hate to be kept waiting!" the servant murmured his usual "yes, monsieur le vicomte," and disappeared; but with a look of such subdued dislike and impatience in his face, as would scarcely have flattered monsieur le vicomte had he chanced to surprise it. in the meantime the dog had never ceased growling; whilst i, in default of something better to do, turned over the leaves of an album, and took advantage of a neighboring mirror to scrutinize the outward appearance of this authoritative occupant of madame de courcelles' drawing-room. he was a small, pallid, slender man of about thirty-five or seven years of age, with delicate, effeminate features, and hair thickly sprinkled with gray. his fingers, white and taper as a woman's, were covered with rings. his dress was careless, but that of a gentleman. glancing at him even thus furtively, i could not help observing the worn lines about his temples, the mingled languor and irritability of his every gesture; the restless suspicion of his eye; the hard curves about his handsome mouth. "_mille tonnerres_!" said he, between his teeth "come out, bijou--come out, i say!" the dog came out unwillingly, and changed the growl to a little whine of apprehension. his master immediately dealt him a smart kick that sent him crouching to the farther corner of the room, where he hid himself under a chair. "i'll teach you to make that noise," muttered he, as he drew his chair closer to the fire, and bent over it, shiveringly. "a yelping brute, that would be all the better for hanging." having sat thus for a few moments, he seemed to grow restless again, and, pushing back his chair, rose, looked out of the window, took a turn or two across the room, and paused at length to take a book from one of the side-tables. as he did this, our eyes met in the looking-glass; whereupon he turned hastily back to the window, and stood there whistling till it occurred to him to ring the bell again. "monsieur rang?" said the footman, once more making his appearance at the door. "_mort de ma vie_! yes. the seltzer-water." "i have sent for it, monsieur le vicomte." "and it is not yet come?" "not yet, monsieur le vicomte." he muttered something to himself, and dropped back into the chair before the fire. "does madame de courcelles know that i am here?" he asked, as the servant, after lingering a moment, was about to leave the room. "i delivered monsieur le vicomte's message, and brought back madame's reply," said the man, "half an hour ago." "true--i had forgotten it. you may go." the footman closed the door noiselessly, and had no sooner done so than he was recalled by another impatient peal. "here, henri--have you told madame de courcelles that this gentleman is also waiting to see her?" "yes, monsieur le vicomte." "_eh bien_?" "and madame said she should be down in a few moments." "_sacredie_! go back, then, and inquire if...." "madame is here." as the footman moved back respectfully, madame de courcelles came into the room. she was looking perhaps somewhat paler, but, to my thinking, more charming than ever. her dark hair was gathered closely round her head in massive braids, displaying to their utmost advantage all the delicate curves of her throat and chin; while her rich morning dress, made of some dark material, and fastened at the throat by a round brooch of dead gold, fell in loose and ample folds, like the drapery of a roman matron. coming at once to meet me, she extended a cordial hand, and said:-- "i had begun to despair of ever seeing you again. why have you always come when i was out?" "madame," i said, bending low over the slender fingers, that seemed to linger kindly in my own, "i have been undeservedly unfortunate." "remember for the future," she said, "that i am always at home till midday, and after five." then, turning to her other visitor, she said:-- "_mon cousin_, allow me to present my friend. monsieur arbuthnot--monsieur le vicomte adrien de caylus." i had suspected as much already. who but he would have dared to assume these airs of insolence? who but her suitor and my friend's rival? i had disliked him at first sight, and now i detested him. whether it was that my aversion showed itself in my face, or that madame de courcelles's cordial welcome of myself annoyed him, i know not; but his bow was even cooler than my own. "i have been waiting to see you, helène," said he, looking at his watch, "for nearly three-quarters of an hour." "i sent you word, _mon cousin_, that i was finishing a letter for the foreign post," said madame de courcelles, coldly, "and that i could not come sooner." monsieur de caylus bit his lip and cast an impatient glance in my direction. "can you spare me a few moments alone, helène?" he said. "alone, _mon cousin_?" "yes, upon a matter of business." madame de courcelles sighed. "if monsieur arbuthnot will be so indulgent as to excuse me for five minutes," she replied. "this way, _mon cousin_." so saying, she lifted a dark green curtain, beneath which they passed to a farther room out of sight and hearing. they remained a long time away. so long, that i grew weary of waiting, and, having turned over all the illustrated books upon the table, and examined every painting on the walls, turned to the window, as the idler's last resource, and watched the passers-by. what endless entertainment in the life-tide of a paris street, even though but a branch from one of the greater arteries! what color--what character--what animation--what variety! every third or fourth man is a blue-bloused artisan; every tenth, a soldier in a showy uniform. then comes the grisette in her white cap; and the lemonade-vender with his fantastic pagoda, slung like a peep-show across his shoulders; and the peasant woman from normandy, with her high-crowned head-dress; and the abbé, all in black, with his shovel-hat pulled low over his eyes; and the mountebank selling pencils and lucifer-matches to the music of a hurdy-gurdy; and the gendarme, who is the terror of street urchins; and the gamin, who is the torment of the gendarme; and the water-carrier, with his cart and his cracked bugle; and the elegant ladies and gentlemen, who look in at shop windows and hire seats at two sous each in the champs elysées; and, of course, the english tourist reading "galignani's guide" as he goes along. then, perhaps, a regiment marches past with colors flying and trumpets braying; or a fantastic-looking funeral goes by, with a hearse like a four-post bed hung with black velvet and silver; or the peripatetic showman with his company of white rats establishes himself on the pavement opposite, till admonished to move on by the sergent de ville. what an ever-shifting panorama! what a kaleidoscope of color and character! what a study for the humorist, the painter, the poet! thinking thus, and watching the overflowing current as it hurried on below, i became aware of a smart cab drawn by a showy chestnut, which dashed round the corner of the street and came down the rue castellane at a pace that caused every head to turn as it went by. almost before i had time to do more than observe that it was driven by a moustachioed and lavender-kidded gentleman, it drew up before the house, and a trim tiger jumped down, and thundered at the door. at that moment, the gentleman, taking advantage of the pause to light a cigar, looked up, and i recognised the black moustache and sinister countenance of monsieur de simoncourt. "a gentleman for monsieur le vicomte," said the servant, drawing back the green curtain and opening a vista into the room beyond. "ask him to come upstairs," said the voice of de caylus from within. "i have done so, monsieur; but he prefers to wait in the cabriolet." "pshaw!--confound it!--say that i'm coming." the servant withdrew. i then heard the words "perfectly safe investment--present convenience--unexpected demand," rapidly uttered by monsieur de caylus; and then they both came back; he looked flushed and angry--she calm as ever. "then i shall call on you again to-morrow, helène," said he, plucking nervously at his glove. "you will have had time to reflect. you will see matters differently." madame courcelles shook her head. "reflection will not change my opinion," she said gently. "well, shall i send lejeune to you? he acts as solicitor to the company, and ..." "_mon cousin_" interposed the lady, "i have already given you my decision--why pursue the question further? i do not wish to see monsieur lejeune, and i have no speculative tastes whatever." monsieur de caylus, with a suppressed exclamation that sounded like a curse, rent his glove right in two, and then, as if annoyed at the self-betrayal, crushed up the fragments in his hand, and laughed uneasily. "all women are alike," he said, with an impatient shrug. "they know nothing of the world, and place no faith in those who are competent to advise them. i had given you credit, my charming cousin, for broader views." madame de courcelles smiled without replying, and caressed the little dog, which had come out from under the sofa to fondle round her. "poor bijou!" said she. "pretty bijou! do you take good care of him, _mon cousin_?" "upon my soul, not i," returned de caylus, carelessly. "lecroix feeds him, i believe, and superintends his general education." "who is lecroix?" "my valet, courier, body-guard, letter-carrier, and general _factotum_. a useful vagabond, without whom i should scarcely know my right hand from my left!" "poor bijou! i fear, then, your chance of being remembered is small indeed!" said madame de courcelles, compassionately. but monsieur le vicomte only whistled to the dog; bowed haughtily to me; kissed, with an air of easy familiarity, before which she evidently recoiled, first the hand and then the cheek of his beautiful cousin, and so left the room. the next moment i saw him spring into the cabriolet, take his place beside monsieur de simoncourt, and drive away, with bijou following at a pace that might almost have tried a greyhound. "my cousin, de caylus, has lately returned from algiers on leave of absence," said madame de courcelles, after a few moments of awkward silence, during which i had not known what to say. "you have heard of him, perhaps?" "yes, madame, i have heard of monsieur de caylus." "from captain dalrymple? "from captain dalrymple, madame; and in society." "he is a brave officer," she said, hesitatingly, "and has greatly distinguished himself in this last campaign." "so i have heard, madame." she looked at me, as if she would fain read how much or how little dalrymple had told me. "you are captain dalrymple's friend, mr. arbuthnot," she said, presently, "and i know you have his confidence. you are probably aware that my present position with regard to monsieur de caylus is not only very painful, but also very difficult." "madame, i know it." "but it is a position of which i have the command, and which no one understands so well as myself. to attempt to help me, would be to add to my embarrassments. for this reason it is well that captain dalrymple is not here. his presence just now in paris could do no good--on the contrary, would be certain to do harm. do you follow my meaning, monsieur arbuthnot?" "i understand what you say, madame; but...." "but you do not quite understand why i say it? _eh bien_, monsieur, when you write to captain dalrymple.... for you write sometimes, do you not?" "often, madame." "then, when you write, say nothing that may add to his anxieties. if you have reason at any time to suppose that i am importuned to do this or that; that i am annoyed; that i have my own battle to fight--still, for his sake as well as for mine, be silent. it _is_ my own battle, and i know how to fight it." "alas! madame...." she smiled sadly. "nay," she said, "i have more courage than you would suppose; more courage and more will. i am fully capable of bearing my own burdens; and captain dalrymple has already enough of his own. now tell me something of yourself. you are here, i think, to study medicine. are you greatly devoted to your work? have you many friends?" "i study, madame--not always very regularly; and i have one friend." "an englishman?" "no, madame--a german." "a fellow-student, i presume." "no, madame--an artist." "and you are very happy here?" "i have occupations and amusements; therefore, if to be neither idle nor dull is to be happy. i suppose i am happy." "nay," she said quickly, "be sure of it. do not doubt it. who asks more from fate courts his own destruction." "but it would be difficult, madame, to go through life without desiring something better, something higher--without ambition, for instance--without love." "ambition and love!" she repeated, smiling sadly. "there speaks the man. ambition first--the aim and end of life; love next--the pleasant adjunct to success! ah, beware of both." "but without either, life would be a desert." "life _is_ a desert," she replied, bitterly. "ambition is its mirage, ever beckoning, ever receding--love its dead sea fruit, fair without and dust within. you look surprised. you did not expect such gloomy theories from me--yet i am no cynic. i have lived; i have suffered; i am a woman--_voilà tout_. when you are a few years older, and have trodden some of the flinty ways of life, you will see the world as i see it." "it may be so, madame; but if life is indeed a desert, it is, at all events, some satisfaction to know that the dwellers in tents become enamored of their lot, and, content with what the desert has to give, desire no other. it is only the neophyte who rides after the mirage and thirsts for the dead sea apple." she smiled again. "ah!" she said, "the gifts of the desert are two-fold, and what one gets depends on what one seeks. for some the wilderness has gifts of resignation, meditation, peace; for others it has the horse, the tent, the pipe, the gun, the chase of the panther and antelope. but to go back to yourself. life, you say, would be barren without ambition and love. what is your ambition?" "nay, madame, that is more than i can tell you--more than i know myself." "your profession...." "if ever i dream dreams, madame," i interrupted quickly, "my profession has no share in them. it is a profession i do not love, and which i hope some day to abandon." "your dreams, then?" i shook my head. "vague--unsubstantial--illusory--forgotten as soon as dreamt! how can i analyze them? how can i describe them? in childhood one says--'i should like to be a soldier, and conquer the world;' or 'i should like to be a sailor, and discover new continents;' or 'i should like to be a poet, and wear a laurel wreath, like petrarch and dante;' but as one gets older and wiser (conscious, perhaps, of certain latent energies, and weary of certain present difficulties and restraints), one can only wait, as best one may, and watch for the rising of that tide whose flood leads on to fortune." with this i rose to take my leave. madame de courcelles smiled and put out her hand. "come often," she said; "and come at the hours when i am at home. i shall always be glad to see you. above all, remember my caution--not a word to captain dalrymple, either now or at any other time." "madame, you may rely upon me. one thing i ask, however, as the reward of my discretion." "and that one thing?" "permission, madame, to serve you in any capacity, however humble--in any strait where a brother might interfere, or a faithful retainer lay down his life in your service." with a sweet earnestness that made my heart beat and my cheeks glow, she thanked and promised me. "i shall look upon you henceforth," she said, "as my knight _sans peur et sans reproche_." heaven knows that not all the lessons of all the moralists that ever wrote or preached since the world began, could just then have done me half such good service as did those simple words. they came at the moment when i most needed them--when i had almost lost my taste for society, and was sliding day by day into habits of more confirmed idleness and bohemianism. they roused me. they made a man of me. they recalled me to higher aims, "purer manners, nobler laws." they clothed me, so to speak, in the _toga virilis_ of a generous devotion. they made me long to prove myself "_sans peur_," to merit the "_sans reproche."_ they marked an era in my life never to be forgotten or effaced. let it not be thought for one moment that i loved her--or fancied i loved her. no, not so far as one heart-beat would carry me; but i was proud to possess her confidence and her friendship. was she not dalrymple's wife, and had not he asked me to watch over and protect her? nay, had she not called me her knight and accepted my fealty? nothing perhaps, is so invaluable to a young man on entering life as the friendship of a pure-minded and highly-cultivated woman who, removed too far above him to be regarded with passion, is yet beautiful enough to engage his admiration; whose good opinion becomes the measure of his own self-respect; and whose confidence is a sacred trust only to be parted from with loss of life or honor. such an influence upon myself at this time was the friendship of madame de courcelles. i went out from her presence that morning morally stronger than before, and at each repetition of my visit i found her influence strengthen and increase. sometimes i met monsieur de caylus, on which occasions my stay was ever of the briefest; but i most frequently found her alone, and then our talk was of books, of art, of culture, of all those high and stirring things that alike move the sympathies of the educated woman and rouse the enthusiasm of the young man. she became interested in me; at first for dalrymple's sake, and by-and-by, however little i deserved it, for my own--and she showed that interest in many ways inexpressibly valuable to me then and thenceforth. she took pains to educate my taste; opened to me hitherto unknown avenues of study; led me to explore "fresh fields and pastures new," to which, but for her help, i might not have found my way for many a year to come. my reading, till now, had been almost wholly english or classical; she sent me to the old french literature--to the _chansons de geste_; to the metrical romances of the trouvères; to the chronicles of froissart, monstrelet, and philip de comines, and to the poets and dramatists that immediately succeeded them. these books opened a new world to me; and, having daily access to two fine public libraries, i plunged at once into a course of new and delightful reading, ranging over all that fertile tract of song and history that begins far away in the morning land of mediæval romance, and leads on, century after century, to the new era that began with the revolution. with what avidity i devoured those picturesque old chronicles--those autobiographies--those poems, and satires, and plays that i now read for the first time! what evenings i spent with st. simon, and de thou, and charlotte de bavière! how i relished voltaire! how i laughed over molière! how i revelled in montaigne! most of all, however, i loved the quaint lore of the earlier literature:-- "old legends of the monkish page, traditions of the saint and sage, tales that have the rime of age, and chronicles of eld." nor was this all. i had hitherto loved art as a child or a savage might love it, ignorantly, half-blindly, without any knowledge of its principles, its purposes, or its history. but madame de courcelles put into my hands certain books that opened my eyes to a thousand wonders unseen before. the works of vasari, nibby, winkelman and lessing, the aesthetic writings of goethe and the schlegels, awakened in me, one after the other, fresher and deeper revelations of beauty. i wandered through the galleries of the louvre like one newly gifted with sight. i haunted the venus of milo and the diane chasseresse like another pygmalion. the more i admired, the more i found to admire. the more i comprehended, the more i found there remained for me to comprehend. i recognised in art the sphinx whose enigma is never solved. i learned, for the first time, that poetry may be committed to imperishable marble, and steeped in unfading colors. by degrees, as i followed in the footsteps of great thinkers, my insight became keener and my perceptions more refined. the symbolism of art evolved itself, as it were, from below the surface; and instead of beholding in paintings and statues mere studies of outward beauty, i came to know them as exponents of thought--as efforts after ideal truth--as aspirations which, because of their divineness, can never be wholly expressed; but whose suggestiveness is more eloquent than all the eloquence of words. thus a great change came upon my life--imperceptibly at first, and by gradual degrees; but deeply and surely. to apply myself to the study of medicine became daily more difficult and more distasteful to me. the boisterous pleasures of the quartier latin lost their charm for me. day by day i gave myself up more and more passionately to the cultivation of my taste for poetry and art. i filled my little sitting-room with casts after the antique. i bought some good engravings for my walls, and hung up a copy of the madonna di san sisto above the table at which i wrote and read. all day long, wherever i might be--at the hospital, in the lecture-room, in the laboratory--i kept looking longingly forward to the quiet evening by-and-by when, with shaded lamp and curtained window, i should again take up the studies of the night before. thus new aims opened out before me, and my thoughts flowed into channels ever wider and deeper. already the first effervescence of youth seemed to have died off the surface of my life, as the "beaded bubbles" die off the surface of champagne. i had tried society, and wearied of it. i had tried bohemia, and found it almost as empty as the chaussée d'autin. and now that life which from boyhood i had ever looked upon as the happiest on earth, the life of the student, was mine. could i have devoted it wholly and undividedly to those pursuits which were fast becoming to me as the life of my life, i would not have exchanged my lot for all the wealth of the rothschilds. somewhat indolent, perhaps, by nature, indifferent to achieve, ambitious only to acquire, i asked nothing better than a life given up to the worship of all that is beautiful in art, to the acquisition of knowledge, and to the development of taste. would the time ever come when i might realize my dream? ah! who could tell? in the meanwhile ... well, in the meanwhile, here was paris--here were books, museums, galleries, schools, golden opportunities which, once past, might never come again. so i reasoned; so time went on; so i lived, plodding on by day in the École de médecine, but, when evening came, resuming my studies at the leaf turned down the night before, and, like the visionary in "the pilgrims of the rhine," taking up my dream-life at the point where i had been last awakened. * * * * * chapter xxxvii. guichet the model. to the man who lives alone and walks about with his eyes open, the mere bricks and mortar of a great city are instinct with character. buildings become to him like living creatures. the streets tell him tales. for him, the house-fronts are written over with hieroglyphics which, to the passing crowd, are either unseen or without meaning. fallen grandeur, pretentious gentility, decent poverty, the infamy that wears a brazen front, and the crime that burrows in darkness--he knows them all at a glance. the patched window, the dingy blind, the shattered doorstep, the pot of mignonette on the garret ledge, are to him as significant as the lines and wrinkles on a human face. he grows to like some houses and to dislike others, almost without knowing why--just as one grows to like or dislike certain faces in the parks and clubs. i remember now, as well as if it were yesterday, how, during the first weeks of my life in paris, i fell in love at first sight with a wee _maisonnette_ at the corner of a certain street overlooking the luxembourg gardens--a tiny little house, with soft-looking blue silk window-curtains, and cream-colored jalousies, and boxes of red and white geraniums at all the windows. i never knew who lived in that sunny little nest; i never saw a face at any of those windows; yet i used to go out of my way in the summer evenings to look at it, as one might go to look at a beautiful woman behind a stall in the market-place, or at a madonna in a shop-window. at the time about which i write, there was probably no city in europe of which the street-scenery was so interesting as that of paris. i have already described the quartier latin, joyous, fantastic, out-at-elbows; a world in itself and by itself; unlike anything else in paris or elsewhere. but there were other districts in the great city--now swept away and forgotten--as characteristic in their way as the quartier latin. there was the he de saint louis, for instance--a _campo santo_ of decayed nobility--lonely, silent, fallen upon evil days, and haunted here and there by ghosts of departed marquises and abbés of the _vieille école_. there was the debateable land to the rear of the invalides and the champ de mars. there was the faubourg st. germain, fast falling into the sere and yellow leaf, and going the way of the ile de saint louis. there was the neighborhood of the boulevart d'aulnay, and the rue de la roquette, ghastly with the trades of death; a whole quartier of monumental sculptors, makers of iron crosses, weavers of funereal chaplets, and wholesale coffin-factors. and beside and apart from all this, there were (as in all great cities) districts of evil report and obscure topography--lost islets of crime, round which flowed and circled the daily tide of paris life; flowed and circled, yet never penetrated. a dark arch here and there--the mouth of a foul alley--a riverside vista of gloom and squalor, marked the entrance to these alsatias. such an alsatia was the rue pierre lescot, the rue sans nom, and many more than i can now remember--streets into which no sane man would venture after nightfall without the escort of the police. into the border land of such a neighborhood--a certain congeries of obscure and labyrinthine streets to the rear of the old halles--i accompanied franz müller one wintry afternoon, about an hour before sunset, and perhaps some ten days after our evening in the rue du faubourg st. denis. we were bound on an expedition of discovery, and the object of our journey was to find the habitat of guichet the model. "i am determined to get to the bottom of this lenoir business," said müller, doggedly; "and if the police won't help me, i must help myself." "you have no case for the police," i replied. "so says the _chef de bureau_; but i am of the opposite opinion. however, i shall make my case out clearly enough before long. this guichet can help me, if he will. he knows lenoir, and he knows something against him; that is clear. you saw how cautious he was the other day. the difficulty will be to make him speak." "i doubt if you will succeed." "i don't, _mon cher_. but we shall see. then, again, i have another line of evidence open to me. you remember that orange-colored rosette in the fellow's button-hole?" "certainly i do." "well, now, i happen, by the merest chance, to know what that rosette means. it is the ribbon of the third order of the golden palm of mozambique--a portuguese decoration. they give it to diplomatic officials, eminent civilians, distinguished foreigners, and the like. i know a fellow who has it, and who belongs to the portuguese legation here. _eh bien!_ i went to him the other day, and asked him about our said friend--how he came by it, who he is, where he comes from, and so forth. my portuguese repeats the name--elevates his eyebrows--in short, has never heard of such a person. then he pulls down a big book from a shelf in the secretary's room--turns to a page headed 'golden palm of mozambique'--runs his finger along the list of names--shakes his head, and informs me that no lenoir is, or ever has been, received into the order. what do you say to that, now?" "it is just what i should have expected; but still it is not a ease for the police. it concerns the portuguese minister; and the portuguese minister is by no means likely to take any trouble about the matter. but why waste all this time and care? if i were you, i would let the thing drop. it is not worth the cost." müller looked grave. "i would drop it this moment," he said, "if--if it were not for the girl." "who is still less worth the cost," "i know it," he replied, impatiently. "she has a pretty, sentimental madonna face; a sweet voice; a gentle manner--_et voilà tout_. i'm not the least bit in love with her now. i might have been. i might have committed some great folly for her sake; but that danger is past, _dieu merci!_ i couldn't love a girl i couldn't trust, and that girl is a flirt. a flirt of the worst sort, too--demure, serious, conventional. no, no; my fancy for the fair marie has evaporated; but, for all that, i don't relish the thought of what her fate might be if linked for life to an unscrupulous scoundrel like lenoir. i must do what i can, my dear fellow--i must do what i can." we had by this time rounded the halles, and were threading our way through one gloomy by-street after another. the air was chill, the sky low and rainy; and already the yellow glow of an oil-lamp might be seen gleaming through the inner darkness of some of the smaller shops. meanwhile, the dusk seemed to gather at our heels, and to thicken at every step. "you are sure you know your way?" i asked presently, seeing müller look up at the name at the corner of the street. "why, yes; i think i do," he answered, doubtfully. "why not inquire of that man just ahead?" i suggested. he was a square-built, burly, shabby-looking fellow, and was striding along so fast that we had to quicken our pace in order to come up with him. all at once müller fell back, laid his hand on my arm, and said:-- "stop! it is guichet himself. let him go on, and we'll follow." so we dropped into the rear and followed him. he turned presently to the right, and preceded us down a long and horribly ill-favored street, full of mean cabarets and lodging-houses of the poorest class, where, painted in red letters on broken lamps above the doors, or printed on cards wafered against the window-panes, one saw at almost every other house, the words, "_ici on loge la nuit_." at the end of this thoroughfare our unconscious guide plunged into a still darker and fouler _impasse_, hung across from side to side with rows of dingy linen, and ornamented in the centre with a mound of decaying cabbage-leaves, potato-parings, oyster-shells, and the like. here he made for a large tumble-down house that closed the alley at the farther end, and, still followed by ourselves, went in at an open doorway, and up a public staircase dimly lighted by a flickering oil-lamp at every landing. at his own door he paused, and just as he had turned the key, müller accosted him. "is that you, guichet?" he said. "why, you are the very man i want! if i had come ten minutes sooner, i should have missed you." "is it m'sieur müller?" said guichet, bending his heavy brows and staring at us in the gloom of the landing. "ay, and with me the friend you saw the other day. so, this is your den? may we come in?" he had been standing till now with his hand on the key and the closed door at his back, evidently not intending to admit us; but thus asked, he pushed the door open, and said, somewhat ungraciously:-- "it is just that, m'sieur müller--a den; not fit for gentlemen like you. but you can go in, if you please." we did not wait for a second invitation, but went in immediately. it was a long, low, dark room, with a pale gleam of fading daylight struggling in through a tiny window at the farther end. we could see nothing at first but this gleam; and it was not till guichet had raked out the wood ashes on the hearth, and blown them into a red glow with his breath, that we could distinguish the form or position of anything in the room. then, by the flicker of the fire, we saw a low truckle-bed close under the window; a kind of bruised and battered seaman's chest in the middle of the room; a heap of firewood in one corner; a pile of old packing-cases; old sail-cloth, old iron, and all kinds of rubbish in another; a few pots and pans over the fire-place; and a dilapidated stool or two standing about the room. avoiding these latter, we set ourselves down upon the edge of the chest; while guichet, having by this time lit a piece of candle-end in a tin sconce against the wall, stood before us with folded arms, and stared at us in silence. "i want to know, guichet, if you can give me some sittings," said müller, by way of opening the conversation. "depends on when, m'sieur müller," growled the model. "well--next week, for the whole week." guichet shook his head. he was engaged to monsieur flandrin _là bas_, for the next month, from twelve to three daily, and had only his mornings and evenings to dispose of; in proof of which he pulled out a greasy note-book and showed where the agreement was formally entered. müller made a grimace of disappointment. "that man's head takes a deal of cutting off, _mon ami_," he said. "aren't you tired of playing executioner so long?" "not i, m'sieur! it's all the same to me--executioner or victim, saint or devil." müller, laughing, offered him a cigar. "you've posed for some queer characters in your time, guichet," said he. "parbleu, m'sieur!" "but you've not been a model all your life?" "perhaps not, m'sieur." "you've been a sailor once upon a time, haven't you?" the model looked up quickly. "how did you know that?" he said, frowning. "by a number of little things--by this, for instance," replied müller, kicking his heels against the sea-chest; "by certain words you make use of now and then; by the way you walk; by the way you tie your cravat. _que diable_! you look at me as if you took me for a sorcerer!" the model shook his head. "i don't understand it," he said, slowly. "nay, i could tell you more than that if i liked," said müller, with an air of mystery. "about myself?" "ay, about yourself, and others." guichet, having just lighted his cigar, forgot to put it to his lips. "what others?" he asked, with a look half of dull bewilderment and half of apprehension. müller shrugged his shoulders. "pshaw!" said he; "i know more than you think i know, guichet. there's our friend, you know--he of whom i made the head t'other day ... you remember?" the model, still looking at him, made no answer. "why didn't you say at once where you had met him, and all the rest of it, _mon vieux_? you might have been sure i should find out for myself, sooner or later." the model turned abruptly towards the fire-place, and, leaning his head against the mantel-shelf, stood with his back towards us, looking down into the fire. "you ask me why i did not tell you at once?" he said, very slowly. "ay--why not?" "why not? because--because when a man has begun to lead an honest life, and has gone on leading an honest life, as i have, for years, he is glad to put the past behind him--to forget it, and all belonging to it. how was i to guess you knew anything about--about that place _là bas_?" "and why should i not know about it?" replied müller, flashing a rapid glance at me. guichet was silent. "what if i tell you that i am particularly interested in--that place _là bas_?" "well, that may be. people used to come sometimes, i remember--artists and writers, and so on." "naturally." "but i don't remember to have ever seen you, m'sieur müller." "you did not observe me, _mon cher_--or it may have been before, or after your time." "yes, that's true," replied guichet, ponderingly. "how long ago was it, m'sieur müller?" müller glanced at me again. his game, hitherto so easy, was beginning to grow difficult. "eh, _mon dieu_!" he said, indifferently, "how can i tell? i have knocked about too much, now here, now there, in the course of my life, to remember in what particular year this or that event may have happened. i am not good at dates, and never was." "but you remember seeing me there?" "have i not said so?" guichet took a couple of turns about the room. he looked flushed and embarrassed. "there is one thing i should like to know," he said, abruptly. "where was i? what was i doing when you saw me?" müller was at fault now, for the first time. "where were you?" he repeated. "why, there--where we said just now. _là bas_." "no, no--that's not what i mean. was i .... was i in the uniform of the garde chiourme?" the color rushed into müller's face as, flashing a glance of exultation at me, he replied:-- "assuredly, _mon ami_. in that, and no other." the model drew a deep breath. "and bras de fer?" he said. "was he working in the quarries ?" "bras de fer! was that the name he went by in those days?" "ay--bras de fer--_alias_ coupe-gorge--_alias_ triphot--_alias_ lenoir--_alias_ a hundred other names. bras de fer was the one he went by at toulon--and a real devil he was in the bagnes! he escaped three times, and was twice caught and brought back again. the third time he killed one sentry, injured another for life, and got clear off. that was five years ago, and i left soon after. i suppose, if you saw him in paris the other day, he has kept clear of toulon ever since." "but was he in for life?" said müller, eagerly. "_travaux forcés à perpétuité_," replied guichet, touching his own shoulder significantly with the thumb of his right hand. müller sprang to his feet. "enough," he said. "that is all i wanted to know. guichet, _mon cher_, i am your debtor for life. we will talk about the sittings when you have more time to dispose of. adieu." "but, m'sieur müller, you won't get me into trouble!" exclaimed the model, eagerly. "you won't make any use of my words?" "why, supposing i went direct to the préfecture, what trouble could i possibly get you into, _mon ami?_" replied müller. the model looked down in silence. "you are a brave man. you do not fear the vengeance of bras de fer, or his friends?" "no, m'sieur---it's not that." "what is it, then?" "m'sieur...." "pshaw, man! speak up." "it is not that you would get me personally into trouble, m'sieur müller," said guichet, slowly. "i am no coward, i hope--a coward would make a bad garde chiourme at toulon, i fancy. and i'm not an escaped _forçat_. but--but, you see, i've worked my way into a connection here in paris, and i've made myself a good name among the artists, and ... and i hold to that good name above everything in the world." "naturally--rightly. but what has that to do with lenoir?" "ah, m'sieur müller, if you knew more about me, you would not need telling how much it has to do with him! i was not always a garde chiourme at toulon. i was promoted to it after a time, for good conduct, you know, and that sort of thing. but--but i began differently--i began by wearing the prison dress, and working in the quarries." "my good fellow," said müller, gently, "i half suspected this--i am not surprised; and i respect you for having redeemed that past in the way you have redeemed it." "thank you, m'sieur müller; but you see, redeemed or unredeemed, i'd rather be lying at the bottom of the seine than have it rise up against me now," "we are men of honor," said müller, "and your secret is safe with us." "not if you go to the préfecture and inform against bras de fer on my words," exclaimed the model, eagerly. "how can i appear against him--guichet the model--guichet the garde chiourme--guichet the _forçat?_ m'sieur müller, i could never hold my head up again. it would be the ruin of me." "you shall not appear against him, and it shall not be the ruin of you. guichet," said müller. "that i promise you. only assure me that what you have said is strictly correct--that bras de fer and lenoir are one and the same person--an escaped _forçat_, condemned for life to the galleys." "that's as true, m'sieur müller, as that god is in heaven," said the model, emphatically. "then i can prove it without your testimony--i can prove it by simply summoning any of the toulon authorities to identify him." "or by stripping his shirt off his back, and showing the brand on his left shoulder," said guichet. "there you'll find it, t.f. as large as life--and if it don't show at first, just you hit him a sharp blow with the flat of your hand, m'sieur müller, and it will start out as red and fresh as if it had been done only six months ago. _parbleu!_ i remember the day he came in, and the look in his face when the hot iron hissed into his flesh! they roar like bulls, for the most part; but he never flinched or spoke. he just turned a shade paler under the tan, and that was all." "do you remember what his crime was?" asked müller guichet shook his head. "not distinctly," he said. "i only know that he was in for a good deal, and had a lot of things proved against him on his trial. but you can find all that out for yourself, easily enough. he was tried in paris, about fourteen years ago, and it's all in print, if you only know where to look for it." "then i'll find it, if i have to wade through half the bibliothèque nationale!" said müller. "adieu, guichet--you have done me a great service, and you may be sure i will do nothing to betray you. let us shake hands upon it." the color rushed into the model's swarthy cheeks. "_comment_, m'sieur müller!" he said, hesitatingly. "you offer to shake hands with me--after what i have told you?" "ten times more willing than before, _mon ami_," said müller. "did i not tell you just now that i respected you for having redeemed that past, and shall i not give my hand where i give my respect?" the model grasped his outstretched hand with a vehemence that made müller wince again. "thank you," he said, in a low, deep voice. "thank you. death of my life! m'sieur müller, i'd go to the galleys again for you, after this--if you asked me." "agreed. only when i do ask you, it shall be to pay a visit of ceremony to monsieur bras de fer, when he is safely lodged again at toulon with a chain round his leg, and a cannon-ball at the end of it." and with this müller turned away laughingly, and i followed him down the dimly-lighted stairs. "by jove!" he said, "what a grip the fellow gave me! i'd as soon shake hands with the commendatore in don giovanni." chapter xxxviii. number two hundred and seven. müller, when he so confidently proposed to visit bras de fer in his future retirement at toulon, believed that he had only to lodge his information with the proper authorities, and see the whole affair settled out of hand. he had not taken the bureaucratic system into consideration; and he had forgotten how little positive evidence he had to offer. it was no easier then than now to inspire the official mind with either insight or decision; and the police of paris, inasmuch as they in no wise differed from the police of to-day, yesterday, or to-morrow, were slow to understand, slow to believe, and slower still to act. an escaped convict? monsieur le chef du bureau, upon whom we took the liberty of waiting the next morning, could scarcely take in the bare possibility of such a fact. an escaped convict? bah! no convict could possibly escape under the present admirable system. _comment_! he effected his escape some years ago? how many years ago? in what yard, in what ward, under what number was he entered in the official books? for what offence was he convicted? had monsieur seen him at toulon?--and was monsieur prepared to swear that lenoir and bras de fer were one and the same person? how! monsieur proposed to identify a certain individual, and yet was incapable of replying to these questions! would monsieur be pleased to state upon what grounds he undertook to denounce the said individual, and what proof he was prepared to produce in confirmation of the same? to all which official catechizing, müller, who (wanting guichet's testimony) had nothing but his intense personal conviction to put forward, could only reply that he was ready to pledge himself to the accuracy of his information; and that if monsieur the chef du bureau would be at the pains to call in any toulon official of a few years' standing, he would undoubtedly find that the person now described as calling himself lenoir, and the person commonly known in the bagnes as bras de fer, were indeed "one and the same." whereupon monsieur le chef--a pompous personage, with a bald head and a white moustache--shrugged his shoulders, smiled incredulously, had the honor to point out to monsieur that the government could by no means be at the expense of conveying an inspector from toulon to paris on so shadowy and unsupported a statement, and politely bowed us out. thus rebuffed, müller began to despair of present success; whilst i, in default of any brighter idea, proposed that he should take legal advice on the subject. so we went to a certain avocat, in a little street adjoining the École de droit, and there purchased as much wisdom as might be bought for the sum of five francs sterling. the avocat, happily, was fertile in suggestions. this, he said, was not a case for a witness. here was no question of appearing before a court. with the foregone offences of either lenoir or bras de fer, we had nothing to do; and to convict them of such offences formed no part of our plan. we only sought to show that lenoir and bras de fer were in truth "one and the same person," and we could only do so upon the authority of some third party who had seen both. now monsieur müller had seen lenoir, but not bras de fer; and guichet had seen bras de fer, but not lenoir. here, then, was the real difficulty; and here, he hoped, its obvious solution. let guichet be taken to some place where, being himself unseen, he may obtain a glimpse of lenoir. this done, he can, in a private interview of two minutes, state his conviction to monsieur the chef de bureau--_voilà tout_! if, however, the said guichet can be persuaded by no considerations either of interest or justice, then another very simple course remains open. every newly-arrived convict in every penal establishment throughout france is photographed on his entrance into the bagne, and these photographs are duly preserved for purposes of identification like the present. supposing therefore bras de fer had not escaped from toulon before the introduction of this system, his portrait would exist in the official books to this day, and might doubtless be obtained, if proper application were made through an official channel. armed with this information, and knowing that any attempt to induce guichet to move further in the matter would be useless, we then went back to the bureau, and with much difficulty succeeded in persuading m. le chef to send to toulon for the photograph. this done, we could only wait and be patient. briefly, then, we did wait and were patient--though the last condition was not easy; for even i, who was by no means disposed to sympathize with müller in his solicitude for the fair marie, could not but feel a strange contagion of excitement in this _chasse au forçat_. and so a week or ten days went by, till one memorable afternoon, when müller came rushing round to my rooms in hot haste, about an hour before the time when we usually met to go to dinner, and greeted me with-- "good news, _mon vieux_! good news! the photograph has come--and i have been to the bureau to see it--and i have identified my man--and he will be arrested to-night, as surely as that he carries t.f. on his shoulder!" "you are certain he is the same?" i said. "as certain as i am of my own face when i see it in the looking-glass." and then he went on to say that a party of soldiers were to be in readiness a couple of hours hence, in a shop commanding madame marôt's door; that he, müller, was to be there to watch with them till lenoir either came out from or went into the house; and that as soon as he pointed him out to the sergeant in command, he was to be arrested, put into a cab waiting for the purpose, and conveyed to la roquette. behold us, then, at the time prescribed, lounging in the doorway of a small shop adjoining the private entrance to madame marôt's house; our hands in our pockets; our cigars in our mouths; our whole attitude expressive of idleness and unconcern. the wintry evening has closed in rapidly. the street is bright with lamps, and busy with passers-by. the shop behind us is quite dark--so dark that not the keenest observer passing by could detect the dusky group of soldiers sitting on the counter within, or the gleaming of the musket-barrels which rest between their knees. the sergeant in command, a restless, black-eyed, intelligent little gascon, about five feet four in height, with a revolver stuck in his belt, paces impatiently to and fro, and whistles softly between his teeth. the men, four in number, whisper together from time to time, or swing their feet in silence. thus the minutes go by heavily; for it is weary work waiting in this way, uncertain how long the watch may last, and not daring to relax the vigilance of eye and ear for a single moment. it may be for an hour, or for many hours, or it may be for only a few minutes-who can tell? of lenoir's daily haunts and habits we know nothing. all we do know is that he is wont to be out all day, sometimes returning only to dress and go out again; sometimes not coming home till very late at night; sometimes absenting himself for a day and a night, or two days and two nights together. with this uncertain prospect before us, therefore, we wait and watch, and watch and wait, counting the hours as they strike, and scanning every face that gleams past in the lamplight. so the first hour goes by, and the second. ten o'clock strikes. the traffic in the street begins perceptibly to diminish. shops close here and there (madame marôt's shutters have been put up by the boy in the oilskin apron more than an hour ago), and the _chiffonnier_, sure herald of the quieter hours of the night, flits by with rake and lanthorn, observant of the gutters. the soldiers on' the counter yawn audibly from time to time; and the sergeant, who is naturally of an impatient disposition, exclaims, for the twentieth time, with an inexhaustible variety, however, in the choice of expletives:-- "_mais; nom de deux cent mille petards_! will this man of ours never come?" to which inquiry, though not directly addressed to myself, i reply, as i have already replied once or twice before, that he may come immediately, or that he may not come for hours; and that all we can do is to wait and be patient. in the midst of which explanation, müller suddenly lays his hand on my arm, makes a sign to the sergeant, and peers eagerly down the street. there is a man coming up quickly on the opposite side of the way. for myself, i could recognise no one at such a distance, especially by night; but müller's keener eye, made keener still by jealousy, identifies him at a glance. it is lenoir. he wears a frock coat closely buttoned, and comes on with a light, rapid step, suspecting nothing. the sergeant gives the word--the soldiers spring to their feet--i draw back into the gloom of the shop-and only müller remains, smoking his cigarette and lounging against the door-post. then lenoir crosses over, and müller, affecting to observe him for the first time, looks up, and without lifting his hat, says loudly:-- "_comment_! have i the honor of saluting monsieur lenoir?" whereupon lenoir, thrown off his guard by the suddenness of the address, hesitates--seems about to reply--checks himself--quickens his pace, and passes without a word. the next instant he is surrounded. the butt ends of four muskets rattle on the pavement--the sergeant's hand is on his shoulder--the sergeant's voice rings in his ear. "number two hundred and seven, you are my prisoner!" chapter xxxix. the end of bras be fer. lenoir's first impulse was to struggle in silence; then, finding escape hopeless, he folded his arms and submitted. "so, it is monsieur müller who has done me this service," he said coldly; but with a flash in his eye like the sudden glint in the eye of a cobra di capello. "i will take care not to be unmindful of the obligation." then, turning impatiently upon the sergeant:-- "have you no carriage at hand?" he said, sharply; "or do you want to collect a crowd in the street?" the cab, however, which had been waiting a few doors lower down, drove up while he was speaking. the sergeant hurried him in; the half-dozen loiterers who had already gathered about us pressed eagerly forward; two of the soldiers and the sergeant got inside; müller and i scrambled up beside the driver; word was given "to the préfecture of police;" and we drove rapidly away down the rue du faubourg st. denis, through the arch of louis quatorze, out upon the bright noisy boulevard, and on through thoroughfares as brilliant and crowded as at midday, towards the quays and the river. arrived at the quai des ortëvres, we alighted at the préfecture, and were conducted through a series of ante-rooms and corridors into the presence of the same bald-headed chef de bureau whom we had seen on each previous occasion. he looked up as we came in, pressed the spring of a small bell that stood upon his desk, and growled something in the ear of a clerk who answered the summons. "sergeant," he said, pompously, "bring the prisoner under the gas-burner." lenoir, without waiting to be brought, took a couple of steps forward, and placed himself in the light. monsieur le chef then took out his double eye-glass, and proceeded to compare lenoir's face, feature by feature, with a photograph which he took out of his pocket-book for the purpose. "are you prepared, monsieur," he said, addressing müller for the first time--"are you, i say, prepared to identify the prisoner upon oath?" "within certain limitations--yes," replied müller. "certain limitations!" exclaimed the chef, testily. "what do you mean by 'certain limitations?' here is the man whom you accuse, and here is the photograph. are you, i repeat, prepared to make your deposition before monsieur le préfet that they are one and the same person?" "i am neither more nor less prepared, monsieur," said müller, "than you are; or than monsieur le préfet, when he has the opportunity of judging. as i have already had the honor of informing you, i saw the prisoner for the first time about two months since. having reason to believe that he was living in paris under an assumed name, and wearing a decoration to which he had no right, i prosecuted certain inquiries about him. the result of those inquiries led me to conclude that he was an escaped convict from the bagnes of toulon. never having seen him at toulon, i was unable to prove this fact without assistance. you, monsieur, have furnished that assistance, and the proof is now in your hand. it only remains for monsieur le préfet and yourself to decide upon its value." "give me the photograph, monsieur marmot," said a pale little man in blue spectacles, who had come in unobserved from a door behind us, while müller was speaking. the bald-headed chef jumped up with great alacrity, bowed like a second sir pertinax, and handed over the photograph. "the peculiar difficulty of this case, monsieur le préfet" ... he began. the préfet waved his hand. "thanks, monsieur marmot," he said, "i know all the particulars of this case. you need not trouble to explain them. so this is the photograph forwarded from toulon. well--well! sergeant, strip the prisoner's shoulders." a sudden quiver shot over lenoir's face at this order, and his cheek blenched under the tan; but he neither spoke nor resisted. the next moment his coat and waistcoat were lying on the ground; his shirt, torn in the rough handling, was hanging round his loins, and he stood before us naked to the waist, lean, brown, muscular--a torso of an athlete done in bronze. we pressed round eagerly. monsieur le chef put up his double eye-glass; monsier le préfet took off his blue spectacles. "so--so," he said, pointing with the end of his glasses towards a whitish, indefinite kind of scar on lenoir's left shoulder, "here is a mark like a burn. is this the brand?" the sergeant nodded. "v'là, m'sieur le préfet!" he said, and struck the spot smartly with his open palm. instantly the smitten place turned livid, while from the midst of it, like the handwriting on the wall, the fatal letters t. f. sprang out in characters of fire. lenoir flashed a savage glance upon us, and checked the imprecation that rose to his lips. monsieur le préfet, with a little nod of satisfaction, put on his glasses again, went over to the table, took out a printed form from a certain drawer, dipped a pen in the ink, and said:-- "sergeant, you will take this order, and convey number two hundred and seven to the bicêtre, there to remain till thursday next, when he will be drafted back to toulon by the convict train, which leaves two hours after midnight. monsieur müller, the government is indebted to you for the assistance you have rendered the executive in this matter. you are probably aware that the prisoner is a notorious criminal, guilty of one proved murder, and several cases of forgery, card-sharping, and the like. the government is also indebted to monsieur marmot" (here he inclined his head to the bald-headed chef), "who has acted with his usual zeal and intelligence." monsieur marmot, murmuring profuse thanks, bowed and bowed again, and followed monsieur le préfet obsequiously to the door. on the threshold, the great little man paused, turned, and said very quietly: "you understand, sergeant, this prisoner does _not_ escape again;" and so vanished; leaving monsieur marmot still bowing in the doorway. then the sergeant hurried on lenoir's coat and waistcoat, clapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists, thrust his hat on his head, and prepared to be gone; monsieur, the bald-headed, looking on, meanwhile, with the utmost complacency, as if taking to himself all the merit of discovery and capture. "pardon, messieurs," said the serjeant, when all was ready. "pardon--but here is a fellow for whom i am responsible now, and who must be strictly looked after. i shall have to put a gendarme on the box from here to the bicêtre, instead of you two gentlemen." "all right, _mon ami_" said müller. "i suppose we should not have been admitted if we had gone with you?" "nay, i could pass you in, messieurs, if you cared to see the affair to the end, and followed in another _fiacre_." so we said we would see it to the end, and following the prisoner and his guard through all the rooms and corridors by which we had come, picked up a second cab on the quai des orfèvres, just outside the préfecture of police. it was now close upon midnight. the sky was flecked with driving clouds. the moon had just risen above the towers of notre dame. the quays were silent and deserted. the river hurried along, swirling and turbulent. the sergeant's cab led the way, and the driver, instead of turning back towards the pont neuf, followed the line of the quays along the southern bank of the ile de la cité; passing the morgue--a mass of sinister shadow; passing the hôtel dieu; traversing the parvis notre dame; and making for the long bridge, then called the pont louis philippe, which connects the two river islands with the northern half of paris. "it is a wild-looking night," said müller, as we drove under the mountainous shadow of notre dame and came out again in sight of the river. "and it is a wild business to be out upon," i added. "i wonder if this is the end of it?" the words were scarcely past my lips when the door of the cab ahead flew suddenly open, and a swift something, more like a shadow than a man, darted across the moonlight, sprang upon the parapet of the bridge, and disappeared! in an instant we were all out--all rushing to and fro--all shouting--all wild with surprise and confusion. "one man to the pont d'arcole!" thundered the sergeant, running along the perapet, revolver in hand. "one to the quai bourbon--one to the pont de la cité! watch up stream and down! the moment he shows his head above water, fire!" "but, in heaven's name, how did he escape?" exclaimed müller. "_grand dieu_! who can tell--unless he is the very devil?" cried the sergeant, distractedly. "the handcuffs were on the floor, the door was open, and he was gone in a breath! hold! what's that?" the soldier on the pont de la cité gave a shout and fired. there was a splash--a plunge--a rush to the opposite parapet. "there he goes!" "where?" "he has dived again!" "look--look yonder--between the floating bath and the bank!" the sergeant stood motionless, his revolver ready cocked--the water swirled and eddied, eddied and parted--a dark dot rose for a second to the surface! three shots fired at the same moment (one by the sergeant, two by the soldiers) rang sharply through the air, and were echoed with startling suddenness again and again from the buttressed walls of notre dame. ere the last echo had died away, or the last faint smoke-wreath had faded, two boats were pulling to the spot, and all the quays were alive with a fast-gathering crowd. the sergeant beckoned to the gendarme who had come upon the box. "bid the boatmen drag the river just here between the two bridges," he said, "and bring the body up to the préfecture." then, turning to müller and myself, "i am sorry to trouble you again, messieurs," he said, "but i must ask you to come back once more to the quai des orfèvres, to depose to the facts which have just happened." "but is the man shot, or has he escaped?" asked a breathless bystander. "both," said the sergeant, with a grim smile, replacing his revolver in his belt. "he has escaped toulon; but he has gone to the bottom of the seine with something like six ounces of lead in his skull." chapter xl the enigma of the third story. who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?--marlowe. in paris, a lodging-house (or, as they prefer to style it, a _hôtel meublé_) is a little town in itself; a beehive swarming from basement to attic; a miniature model of the great world beyond, with all its loves and hatreds, jealousies, aspirations, and struggles. like that world, it contains several grades of society, but with this difference, that those who therein occupy the loftiest position are held in the lowest estimation. thus, the fifth-floor lodgers turn up their noses at the inhabitants of the attics; while the fifth-floor is in its turn scorned by the fourth, and the fourth is despised by the third, and the third by the second, down to the magnificent dwellers on _the premier étage_, who live in majestic disdain of everybody above or beneath them, from the grisettes in the garret, to the _concierge_ who has care of the cellars. the house in which i lived in the cité bergère was, in fact, a double house, and contained no fewer than thirty tenants, some of whom had wives, children, and servants. it consisted of six floors, and each floor contained from eight to ten rooms. these were let in single chambers, or in suites, as the case might be; and on the outer doors opening round the landings were painted the names, or affixed the visiting-cards, of the dwellers within. my own third-floor neighbors were four in number. to my left lived a certain monsieur and madame lemercier, a retired couple from alsace. opposite their door, on the other side of the well staircase, dwelt one monsieur cliquot, an elderly _employé_ in some public office; next to him, signor milanesi, an italian refugee who played in the orchestra at the _variétés_ every night, was given to practising the violoncello by day, and wore as much hair about his face as a skye-terrier. lastly, in the apartment to my right, resided a lady, upon whose door was nailed a small visiting-card engraved with these words:-- mlle. hortense dufresnoy. _teacher of languages_. i had resided in the house for months before i ever beheld this mademoiselle hortense dufresnoy. when i did at last encounter her upon the stairs one dusk autumnal evening, she wore a thick black veil, and, darting past me like a bird on the wing, disappeared down the staircase in fewer moments than i take to write it. i scarcely observed her at the time. i had no more curiosity to learn whether the face under that veil was pretty or plain than i cared to know whether the veil itself was shetland or chantilly. at that time paris was yet new to me: madame de marignan's evil influence was about me; and, occupied as my time and thoughts were with unprofitable matters, i took no heed of my fellow-lodgers. save, indeed, when the groans of that much-tortured violoncello woke me in the morning to an unwelcome consciousness of the vicinity of signor milanesi, i should scarcely have remembered that i was not the only inhabitant of the third story. now, however, that i spent all my evenings in my own quiet room, i became, by imperceptible degrees, interested in the unseen inhabitant of the adjoining apartment. sometimes, when the house was so still that the very turning of the page sounded unnaturally loud, and the mere falling of a cinder startled me, i heard her in her chamber, singing softly to herself. every night i saw the light from her window streaming out over the balcony and touching the evergreens with a midnight glow. often and often, when it was so late that even i had given up study and gone to bed, i heard her reading aloud, or pacing to and fro to the measure of her own recitations. listen as i would, i could only make out that these recitations were poetical fragments--i could only distinguish a certain chanted metre, the chiming of an occasional rhyme, the rising and falling of a voice more than commonly melodious. this vague interest gave place by-and-by to active curiosity. i resolved to question madame bouïsse, the _concierge_; and as she, good soul! loved gossip not wisely, but too well, i soon knew all the little she had to tell. mademoiselle hortense, it appeared, was the enigma of the third story. she had resided in the house for more than two years. she earned her living by her labor; went out teaching all the day; sat up at night, studying and writing; had no friends; received no visitors; was as industrious as a bee, and as proud as a princess. books and flowers were her only friends, and her only luxuries. poor as she was, she was continually filling her shelves with the former, and supplying her balcony with the latter. she lived frugally, drank no wine, was singularly silent and reserved, and "like a real lady," said the fat _concierge_, "paid her rent to the minute." this, and no more, had madame bouïsse to tell. i had sought her in her own little retreat at the foot of the public staircase. it was a very wet afternoon, and under pretext of drying my boots by the fire, i stayed to make conversation and elicit what information i could. now madame bouïsse's sanctuary was a queer, dark, stuffy little cupboard devoted to many heterogeneous uses, and it "served her for parlor, kitchen, and all." in one corner stood that famous article of furniture which became "a bed by night, a chest of drawers by day." adjoining the bed was the fireplace; near the fireplace stood a corner cupboard filled with crockery and surmounted by a grand ormolu clock, singularly at variance with the rest of the articles. a table, a warming-pan, and a couple of chairs completed the furniture of the room, which, with all its contents, could scarcely have measured more than eight feet square. on a shelf inside the door stood thirty flat candlesticks; and on a row of nails just beneath them, hung two and twenty bright brass chamber-door keys--whereby an apt arithmetician might have divined that exactly two-and-twenty lodgers were out in the rain, and only eight housed comfortably within doors. "and how old should you suppose this lady to be?" i asked, leaning idly against the table whereon madame bouïsse was preparing an unsavory dish of veal and garlic. the _concierge_ shrugged her ponderous shoulders. "ah, bah, m'sieur, i am no judge of age," said she. "well--is she pretty?" "i am no judge of beauty, either," grinned madame bouïsse. "but, my dear soul," i expostulated, "you have eyes!" "yours are younger than mine, _mon enfant_," retorted the fat _concierge_; "and, as i see mam'selle hortense coming up to the door, i'd advise you to make use of them for yourself." and there, sure enough, was a tall and slender girl, dressed all in black, pausing to close up her umbrella at the threshold of the outer doorway. a porter followed her, carrying a heavy parcel. having deposited this in the passage, he touched his cap and stated his charge. the young lady took out her purse, turned over the coins, shook her head, and finally came up to madame's little sanctuary. "will you be so obliging, madame bouïsse," she said, "as to lend me a piece of ten sous? i have no small change left in my purse." how shall i describe her? if i say that she was not particularly beautiful, i do her less than justice; for she was beautiful, with a pale, grave, serious beauty, unlike the ordinary beauty of woman. but even this, her beauty of feature, and color, and form, was eclipsed and overborne by that "true beauty of the soul" which outshines all other, as the sun puts out the stars. there was in her face--or, perhaps, rather in her expression--an indefinable something that came upon me almost like a memory. had i seen that face in some forgotten dream of long ago? brown-haired was she, and pale, with a brow "as chaste ice, as pure as snow," and eyes-- "in whose orb a shadow lies, like the dusk in evening skies!" eyes lit from within, large, clear, lustrous, with a meaning in them so profound and serious that it was almost sorrowful,--like the eyes of giotto's saints and cimabue's madonnas. but i cannot describe her-- "for oh, her looks had something excellent that wants a name!" i can only look back upon her with "my mind's eye," trying to see her as i saw her then for the first time, and striving to recall my first impressions. madame bouïsse, meanwhile, searched in all the corners of her ample pockets, turned out her table-drawer, dived into the recesses of her husband's empty garments, and peeped into every ornament upon the chimney-piece; but in vain. there was no such thing as a ten-sous piece to be found. "pray, m'sieur basil," said she, "have you one?" "one what?" i ejaculated, startled out of my reverie. "why, a ten-sous piece, to be sure. don't you see that mam'selle hortense is waiting in her wet shoes, and that i have been hunting for the last five minutes, and can't find one anywhere?" blushing like a school-boy, and stammering some unintelligible excuse, i pulled out a handful of francs and half-francs, and produced the coin required. "_dame_!" said the _concierge_. "this comes of using one's eyes too well, my young monsieur. hem! i'm not so blind but that i can see as far as my neighbors." mademoiselle hortense had fortunately gone back to settle with the porter, so this observation passed unheard. the man being dismissed, she came back, carrying the parcel. it was evidently heavy, and she put it down on the nearest chair. "i fear, madame bouïsse," she said, "that i must ask you to help me with this. i am not strong enough to carry it upstairs." more alert this time, i took a step in advance, and offered my services. "will mademoiselle permit me to take it?" i said. "i am going upstairs." she hesitated. "many thanks," she said, reluctantly, "but...." "but madame bouïsse is busy," i urged, "and the _pot au feu_ will spoil if she leaves it on the fire." the fat _concierge_ nodded, and patted me on the shoulder. "let him carry the parcel, mam'selle hortense," she chuckled. "let him carry it. m'sieur is your neighbor, and neighbors should be neighborly. besides," she added, in an audible aside, "he is a _bon garçon_--an englishman--and a book-student like yourself." the young lady bent her head, civilly, but proudly. compelled, as it seemed, to accept my help, she evidently wished to show me that i must nevertheless put forward no claim to further intercourse--not even on the plea of neighborhood. i understood her, and taking up the parcel, followed her in silence to her door on the third story. here she paused and thanked me. "pray let me carry it in for you," i said. again she hesitated; but only for an instant. too well-bred not to see that a refusal would now be a discourtesy, she unlocked the door, and held it open. the first room was an ante-chamber; the second a _salon_ somewhat larger than my own, with a door to the right, leading into what i supposed would be her bedroom. at a glance, i took in all the details of her home. there was her writing-table laden with books and papers, her desk, and her pile of manuscripts. at one end of the room stood a piano doing duty as a side-board, and looking as if it were seldom opened. some water-color drawings were pinned against the walls, and a well-filled bookcase stood in a recess beside the fireplace. nothing escaped me --not even the shaded reading-lamp, nor the plain ebony time-piece, nor the bronze apollo on the bracket above the piano, nor the sword over the mantelpiece, which seemed a strange ornament in the study of a gentle lady. besides all this, there were books everywhere, heaped upon the tables, ranged on shelves, piled in corners, and scattered hither and thither in most admired disorder. it was, however, the only disorder there. i longed to linger, but dared not. having laid the parcel down upon the nearest chair, there was nothing left for me to do but to take my leave. mademoiselle dufresnoy still kept her hand upon the door. "accept my best thanks, sir," she said in english, with a pretty foreign accent, that seemed to give new music to the dear familiar tongue. "you have nothing to thank me for, mademoiselle," i replied. she smiled, proudly still, but very sweetly, and closed the door upon me. i went back to my room; it had become suddenly dark and desolate. i tried to read; but all subjects seemed alike tedious and unprofitable. i could fix my attention to nothing; and so, becoming restless, i went out again, and wandered about the dusky streets till evening fairly set in, and the shops were lighted, and the tide of passers-by began to flow faster in the direction of boulevard and theatre. the soft light of her shaded lamp streamed from her window when i came back, nor faded thence till two hours after midnight. i watched it all the long evening, stealing out from time to time upon my balcony, which adjoined her own, and welcoming the cool night air upon my brow. for i was fevered and disquieted, i knew not why, and my heart was stirred within me, strangely and sweetly. such was my first meeting with hortense dufresnoy. no incident of it has since faded from my memory. brief as it was, it had already turned all the current of my life. i had fallen in love at first sight. yes--in love; for love it was--real, passionate, earnest; a love destined to be the master-passion of all my future years. chapter xli. a chronicle about froissart. see, lucius, here's the book i sought for so! julius caesar. but all be that he was a philosophre, yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre, but all that he might of his frends hente, on bokes and on lerning he is spente. chaucer. &/ "love-in-idleness" has passed into a proverb, and lovers, somehow, are not generally supposed to be industrious. i, however, worked none the less zealously for being in love. i applied only the more closely to my studies, both medical and literary, and made better progress in both than i had made before. i was not ambitious; but i had many incentives to work. i was anxious to satisfy my father. i earnestly desired to efface every unfavorable impression from the mind of dr. chéron, and to gain, if possible, his esteem. i was proud of the friendship of madame de courcelles, and wished to prove the value that i placed upon her good opinion. above all, i had a true and passionate love of learning--not that love which leadeth on to fame; but rather that self-abandoning devotion which exchangeth willingly the world of action for the world of books, and, for an uninterrupted communion with the "souls of all that men held wise," bartereth away the society of the living. little gregarious by nature, paris had already ceased to delight me in the same way that it had delighted me at first. a "retired leisure," and the society of the woman whom i loved, grew to be the day-dream of my solitary life. and still, ever more and more plainly, it became evident to me that for the career of the student i was designed by nature. bayle, magliabecchi of florence, isaac reed, sir thomas brown, montaigne--those were the men whose lot in life i envied--those the literary anchorites in whose steps i would fain have followed. but this was not to be; so i worked on, rose early, studied late, gained experience, took out my second inscription with credit, and had the satisfaction of knowing that i was fast acquiring the good opinion of dr. chéron. thus christmas passed by, and january with its bitter winds; and february set in, bright but frosty. and still, without encouragement or nope, i went on loving hortense dufresnoy. my opportunities of seeing her were few and brief. a passing bow in the hall, or a distant "good-evening" as we passed upon the stairs, for some time made up the sum of our intercourse. gradually, however, a kind of formal acquaintance sprang up between us; an acquaintance fostered by trifles and dependent on the idlest, or what seemed the idlest, casualties. i say "seemed," for often that which to her appeared the work of chance was the result of elaborate contrivance on my part. she little knew, when i met her on the staircase, how i had been listening for the last hour to catch the echo of her step. she little dreamed when i encountered her at the corner of the street, how i had been concealed, till that moment, in the _café_ over the way, ready to dart out as soon as she appeared in sight. i would then affect either a polite unconcern, or an air of judicious surprise, or pretend not to lift my eyes at all till she was nearly past; and i think i must have been a very fair actor, for it all succeeded capitally, and i am not aware that she ever had the least suspicion of the truth. let me, however, recall one incident over which i had no control, and which did more towards promoting our intercourse than all the rest. it is a cold, bright morning in february. there is a brisk exhilaration in the air. the windows and gilded balconies sparkle in the sun, and it is pleasant to hear the frosty ring of one's boots upon the pavement. it is a fête to-day. nothing is doing in the lecture-rooms, and i have the whole day before me. meaning, therefore, to enjoy it over the fire and a book, i wisely begin it by a walk. from the cité bergère, out along the right-hand side of the boulevards, down past the front of the madeleine, across the place de la concorde, and up the champs elysées as far as the arc de triomphe; this is the route i take in going. arrived at the arch, i cross over, and come back by the same roads, but on the other side of the way. i have a motive in this. there is a certain second-hand book-shop on the opposite side of the boulevard des italiens, which draws me by a wholly irresistible attraction. had i started on that side, i should have gone no further. i should have looked, lingered, purchased, and gone home to read. but i know my weakness. i have reserved the book-shop for my return journey, and now, rewarded and triumphant, compose myself for a quiet study of its treasures. and what a book-shop it is! not only are its windows filled--not only are its walls a very perspective of learning--but square pillars of volumes are built up on either side of the door, and an immense supplementary library is erected in the open air, down all the length of a dead-wall adjoining the house. here then i pause, turning over the leaves of one volume, reading the title of another, studying the personal appearance of a third, and weighing the merits of their authors against the contents of my purse. and when i say "personal appearance," i say it advisedly; for book-hunters, are skilled lavaters in their way, and books, like men, attract or repel at first sight. thus it happens that i love a portly book, in a sober coat of calf, but hate a thin, smart volume, in a gaudy binding. the one promises to be philosophic, learnedly witty, or solidly instructive; the other is tolerably certain to be pert and shallow, and reminds me of a coxcombical lacquey in bullion and red plush. on the same principle, i respect leaves soiled and dog's-eared, but mistrust gilt edges; love an old volume better than a new; prefer a spacious book-stall to all the unpurchased stores of paternoster row; and buy every book that i possess at second-hand. nay, that it is second-hand is in itself a pass port to my favor. somebody has read it before; therefore it is readable. somebody has derived pleasure from it before; therefore i open it with a student's sympathy, and am disposed to be indulgent ere i have perused a single line. there are cases, however, in which i incline to luxury of binding. just as i had rather have my historians in old calf and my chroniclers in black letter, so do i delight to see my modern poets, the benjamins of my affections, clothed in coats of many colors. for them no moroccos are too rich, and no "toolings" too elaborate. i love to see them smiling on me from the shelves of my book-cases, as glowing and varied as the sunset through a painted oriel. standing here, then, to-day, dipping first into this work and then into that, i light upon a very curious and interesting edition of _froissart_--an edition full of quaint engravings, and printed in the obsolete spelling of two hundred years ago. the book is both a treasure and a bargain, being marked up at five and twenty francs. only those who haunt book-stalls and luxuriate in old editions can appreciate the satisfaction with which i survey "that weight of wood, with leathern coat overlaid, those ample clasps of solid metal made, the close pressed leaves unclosed for many an age, the dull red edging of the well-filled page, and the broad back, with stubborn ridges roll'd, where yet the title stands in tarnished gold!" they only can sympathize in the eagerness with which i snatch up the precious volume, the haste with which i count out the five and twenty francs, the delight with which i see the dealer's hand close on the sum, and know that the book is legally and indisputably mine! then how lovingly i embrace it under my arm, and taking advantage of my position as a purchaser, stroll leisurely round the inner warehouse, still courting that literary world which (in a library at least) always turns its back upon its worshipper! "pray, monsieur," says a gentle voice at the door, "where is that old _froissart_ that i saw outside about a quarter of an hour ago?" "just sold, madame," replies the bookseller, promptly. "oh, how unfortunate!--and i only went home for the money" exclaims the lady in a tone of real disappointment. selfishly exultant, i hug the book more closely, turn to steal a glance at my defeated rival, and recognise--mademoiselle dufresnoy. she does not see me. i am standing in the inner gloom of the shop, and she is already turning away. i follow her at a little distance; keep her in sight all the way home; let her go into the house some few seconds in advance; and then, scaling three stairs at a time, overtake her at the door of her apartment. flushed and breathless, i stand beside her with _froissart_ in my hand. "pardon, mademoiselle," i say, hurriedly, "for having involuntarily forestalled you just now. i had just bought the book you wished to purchase," she looks at me with evident surprise and some coldness; but says nothing. "and i am rejoiced to have this opportunity of transferring it to you." mademoiselle dufresnoy makes a slight but decided gesture of refusal. "i would not deprive you of it, monsieur," she says promptly, "upon any consideration." "but, mademoiselle, unless you allow me to relinquish it in your favor, i beg to assure you that i shall take the book back to the bookseller and exchange it for some other." "i cannot conceive why you should do that, monsieur." "in order, mademoiselle, that you may still have it in your power to become the purchaser." "and yet you wished to possess the book, or you would not have bought it." "i would not have bought it, mademoiselle, if i had known that i should disappoint a--a lady by doing so," i was on the point of saying, "if i had known that i should disappoint you by so doing," but hesitated, and checked myself in time. a half-mocking smile flitted across her lips. "monsieur is too self-sacrificing," she said. "had i first bought the book, i should have kept it--being a woman. reverse the case as you will, and show me any just reason why you should not do the same--being a man?" "nay, the merest by-law of courtesy..." i began, hesitatingly. "do not think me ungracious, monsieur," she interrupted, "if i hold that these so-called laws of courtesy are in truth but concessions, for the most part, from the strength of your sex to the weakness of ours." "_eh bien_, mademoiselle--what then?" "then, monsieur, may there not be some women---myself, for instance--who do not care to be treated like children?" "pardon, mademoiselle, but are you stating the case quite fairly? is it not rather that we desire not to efface the last lingering tradition of the age of chivalry--not to reduce to prose the last faint echoes of that poetry which tempered the sword of the crusader and inspired the song of the trouvère?" "were it not better that the new age created a new code and a new poetry?" said mademoiselle dufresnoy. "perhaps; but i confess i love old forms and usages, and cling to creeds outworn. above all, to that creed which in the age of powder and compliment, no less than in the age of chivalry, enjoined absolute devotion and courtesy towards women." "against mere courtesy reasonably exercised and in due season, i have nothing to say," replied mademoiselle dufresnoy; "but the half-barbarous homage of the middle ages is as little to my taste as the scarcely less barbarous refinement of the addison and georgian periods. both are alike unsound, because both have a basis of insincerity. just as there is a mock refinement more vulgar than simple vulgarity, so are there courtesies which humiliate and compliments that offend." "mademoiselle is pleased to talk in paradoxes," said i. mademoiselle unlocked her door, and turning towards me with the same half-mocking smile and the same air of raillery, said:-- "monsieur, it is written in your english histories that when john le bon was taken captive after the battle of cressy, the black prince rode bareheaded before him through the streets of london, and served him at table as the humblest of his attendants. but for all that, was john any the less a prisoner, or the black prince any the less a conqueror?" "you mean, perhaps, that you reject all courtesy based on mere ceremonial. let me then put the case of this _froissart_ more plainly--as i would have done from the first, had i dared to speak the simple truth." "and that is...?" "that it will give me more pleasure to resign the book to you, mademoiselle, than to possess it myself." mademoiselle dufresnoy colors up, looks both haughty and amused, and ends by laughing. "in truth, monsieur," she says merrily, "if your politeness threatened at first to be too universal, it ends by becoming unnecessarily particular." "say rather, mademoiselle, that you will not have the book on any terms!" i exclaim impatiently. "because you have not yet offered it to me upon any just or reasonable grounds." "well, then, bluntly and frankly, as student to student, i beg you to spare me the trouble of carrying this book back to the boulevard. yours, mademoiselle, was the first intention. you saw the book before i saw it. you would have bought it on the spot, but had to go home for the money. in common equity, it is yours. in common civility, as student to student, i offer it to you. say, is it yes or no?" "since you put it so simply and so generously, and since i believe you really wish me to accept your offer," replies mademoiselle dufresnoy, taking out her purse, "i suppose i must say--yes." and with this, she puts out her hand for the hook, and offers me in return the sum of five and twenty francs. pained at having to accept the money, pained at being offered it, seeing no way of refusing it, and feel altogether more distress than is reasonable in a man brought up to the taking of fees; i affect not to see the coin, and, bowing, move away in the direction of my own door. "pardon, monsieur," she says, "but you forget that i am in your debt." "and--and do you really insist..." she looks at me, half surprised and half offended. "if you do not take the money, monsieur, how can i take the book?" bowing, i receive the unwelcome francs in my unwilling palm. still she lingers. "i--i have not thanked you as i ought for your generosity," she says, hesitatingly. "generosity!" i repeat, glancing with some bitterness at the five and twenty francs. "true kindness, monsieur, is neither bought nor sold," says the lady, with the loveliest smile in the world, and closes her door. chapter xlii the old, old story. what thing is love, which nought can countervail? nought save itself--even such a thing is love. sir w. raleigh. my acquaintance with hortense dufresnoy progressed slowly as, ever, and not even the froissart incident went far towards promoting it. absorbed in her studies, living for the intellect only, too self-contained to know the need for sympathy, she continued to be, at all events for me, the most inaccessible of god's creatures. and yet, despite her indifference, i loved her. her pale, proud face haunted me; her voice haunted me. i thought of her sometimes till it seemed impossible she should not in some way be conscious of how my very soul was centred in her. but she knew nothing--guessed nothing--cared nothing; and the knowledge that i held no place in her life wrought in me at times till it became almost too bitter for endurance. and this was love--real, passionate, earnest; the first and last love of my heart. did i believe that i ever loved till now? ah! no; for now only i felt the god in his strength, and beheld him in his beauty. was i not blind till i had looked into her eyes and drunk of their light? was i not deaf till i had heard the music of her voice? had i ever truly lived, or breathed, or known delight till now? i never stayed to ask myself how this would end, or whither it would lead me. the mere act of loving was too sweet for questioning. what cared i for the uncertainties of the future, having hope to live upon in the present? was it not enough "to feed for aye my lamp and flames of love," and worship her till that worship became a religion and a rite? and now, longing to achieve something which should extort at least her admiration, if not her love, i wished i were a soldier, that i might win glory for her--or a poet, that i might write verses in her praise which should be deathless--or a painter, that i might spend years of my life in copying the dear perfection of her face. ah! and i would so copy it that all the world should be in love with it. not a wave of her brown hair that i would not patiently follow through all its windings. not the tender tracery of a blue vein upon her temples that i would not lovingly render through its transparent veil of skin. not a depth of her dark eyes that i would not study, "deep drinking of the infinite." alas! those eyes, so grave, so luminous, so steadfast:-- "eyes not down-dropt, not over-bright, but fed with the clear-pointed flame of chastity," --eyes wherein dwelt "thought folded over thought," what painter need ever hope to copy them? and still she never dreamed how dear she had grown to me. she never knew how the very air seemed purer to me because she breathed it. she never guessed how i watched the light from her window night after night--how i listened to every murmur in her chamber--how i watched and waited for the merest glimpse of her as she passed by--how her lightest glance hurried the pulses through my heart--how her coldest word was garnered up in the treasure-house of my memory! what cared she, though to her i had dedicated all the "book and volume of my brain;" hallowed its every page with blazonings of her name; and illuminated it, for love of her, with fair images, and holy thoughts, and forms of saints and angels "innumerable, of stains and splendid dyes as are the tiger-moth's deep damask'd wings?" ah me! her hand was never yet outstretched to undo its golden clasps--her eye had never yet deigned to rest upon its records. to her i was nothing, or less than nothing--a fellow-student, a fellow-lodger, a stranger. and yet i loved her "with a love that was more than love"--with a love dearer than life and stronger than death--a love that, day after day, struck its roots deeper and farther into my very soul, never thence to be torn up here or hereafter. chapter xliii. on a winter's evening. after a more than usually severe winter, the early spring came, crowned with rime instead of primroses. paris was intensely cold. in march the seine was still frozen, and snow lay thickly on the house-tops. quiet at all times, the little nook in which i lived became monastically still, and at night, when the great gates were closed, and the footsteps of the passers-by fell noiselessly upon the trodden snow, you might have heard a whisper from one side of the street to the other. there was to me something indescribably delightful about this silent solitude in the heart of a great city. sitting beside the fire one evening, enjoying the profound calm of the place, attending from time to time to my little coffee-pot on the hob, and slowly turning the pages of a favorite author, i luxuriate in a state of mind half idle, half studious. leaving off presently to listen to some sound which i hear, or fancy i hear, in the adjoining room, i wonder for the twentieth time whether hortense has yet returned from her long day's teaching; and so rise--open my window--and look out. yes; the light from her reading-lamp streams out at last across the snow-laden balcony. heigho! it is something even to know that she is there so near me--divided only by a thin partition! trying to comfort myself with this thought, i close the window again and return to my book, more restless and absent than before. sitting thus, with the unturned leaf lingering between my thumb and forefinger, i hear a rapid footfall on the stairs, and a musical whistle which, growing louder as it draws nearer, breaks off at my door, and is followed by a prolonged assault and battery of the outer panels. "welcome, noisiest of visitors!" i exclaim, knowing it to be müller before i even open the door. "you are quite a stranger. you have not been near me for a fortnight." "it will not be your fault, signor book-worm, if i don't become a stranger _au pied de la lettre_" replies he, cheerily. "why, man, it is close upon three weeks since you have crossed the threshold of my door. the quartier latin is aggrieved by your neglect, and the fine arts t'other side of the water languish and are forlorn." so saying, he shakes the snow from his coat like a st. bernard mastiff, perches his cap on the head of the plaster niobe that adorns my chimney-piece, and lays aside the folio which he had been carrying under his arm. i, in the meanwhile, have wheeled an easy-chair to the fire, brought out a bottle of chambertin, and piled on more wood in honor of my guest. "you can't think," said i, shaking hands with him for the second time, "how glad i am that you have come round to-night." "i quite believe it," replied he. "you must be bored to death, if these old busts are all the society you keep. _sacre nom d'une pipe_! how can a fellow keep up his conviviality by the perpetual contemplation of niobe and jupiter tonans? what do you mean by living such a life as this? have you turned trappist? shall i head a subscription to present you with a skull and an hour-glass?" "i'll have the skull made into a drinking-cup, if you do. take some wine." müller filled his glass, tasted with the air of a connoisseur, and nodded approvingly. "chambertin, by the god bacchus!" said he. "napoleon's favorite wine, and mine--evidence of the sympathy that exists between the truly great." and, draining the glass, he burst into a song in praise of french wines, beginning-- "le chambertin rend joyeux, le nuits rend infatigable, le volnay rend amoureux, le champagne rend amiable. grisons-nous, mes chers amis, l'ivresse vaut la richesse; pour moi, dès que le suis gris, je possède tout paris!" "oh hush!" said i, uneasily; "not so loud, pray!" "why not?" "the--the neighbors, you know. we cannot do as we would in the quartier latin." "nonsense, my dear fellow. you don't swear yourself to silence when you take apartments in a _hôtel meublé_! you might as well live in a penitentiary!-- 'de bouchons faisons un tas, et s'il faut avoir la goutte, au moins que ce ne soit pas pour n'avoir bu qu'une goutte!'" "nay, i implore you!" i interposed again. "the landlord ..." "hang the landlord! 'grisons-nous--'" "well, but--but there is a lady in the next room ..." müller laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. "_allons done_!" said he, "why not have told the truth at first? oh, you sly rogue! you _gaillard_! this is your seclusion, is it? this is your love of learning--this the secret of your researches into science and art! what art, pray? ovid's 'art of love,' i'll be sworn!" "laugh on, pray," i said, feeling my face and my temper growing hot; "but that lady, who is a stranger to me".... "oh--oh--oh!" cried müller. "who is a stranger to me," i repeated, "and who passes her evenings in study, must not be annoyed by noises in my room. surely, my dear fellow, you know me well enough to understand whether i am in jest or in earnest." müller laid his hand upon my sleeve. "enough--enough," he said, smiling good-naturedly. "you are right, and i will be as dumb as plato. what is the lady's name." "dufresnoy," i answered, somewhat reluctantly. "mademoiselle dufresnoy." "ay, but her christian name!" "her christian name," i faltered, more reluctant still. "i--i--" "don't say you don't know," said müller, maliciously. "it isn't worth while. after all, what does it matter? here's to her health, all the same--_à votre santé_, mademoiselle dufresnoy! what! not drink her health, though i have filled your glass on purpose?" there was no help for it, so i took the glass and drank the toast with the best grace i could. "and now, tell me," continued my companion, drawing nearer to the fire and settling himself with a confidential air that was peculiarly provoking, "what is she like? young or old? dark or fair? plain or pretty?" "old," said i, desperately. "old and ugly. fifty at the least. squints horribly." then, thinking that i had been a little too emphatic, i added:-- "but a very ladylike person, and exceedingly well-informed," müller looked at me gravely, and filled his glass again. "i think i know the lady," said he. "indeed?" "yes--by your description. you forgot to add, however, that she is gray." "to be sure--as a badger." "to say nothing of a club foot, an impediment in her speech, a voice like a raven's, and a hump like a dromedary's! ah! my dear friend, what an amazingly comic fellow you are!" and the student burst again into a peal of laughter so hearty and infectious that i could not have helped joining in it to save my life. "and now," said he, when we had laughed ourselves out of breath, "now to the object of my visit. do you remember asking me, months ago, to make you a copy of an old portrait that you had taken a fancy to in some tumble-down château near montlhéry!" "to be sure; and i have intended, over and over again, to remind you of it. did you ever take the trouble to go over there and look at it?" "look at it, indeed! i should rather think so--and here is the proof. what does your connoisseurship say to it?" say to it! good heavens! what could i say, what could i do, but flush up all suddenly with pleasure, and stare at it without power at first to utter a single word? for it was like _her_--so like that it might have been her very portrait. the features were cast in the same mould--the brow, perhaps, was a little less lofty--the smile a little less cold; but the eyes, the beautiful, lustrous, soul-lighted eyes were the same--the very same! if she were to wear an old-fashioned dress, and deck her fair neck and arms with pearls, and put powder on her hair, and stand just so, with her hand upon one of the old stone urns in the garden of that deserted château, she would seem to be standing for the portrait. well might i feel, when i first saw her, that the beauty of her face was not wholly unfamiliar to me! well might i fancy i had seen her in some dream of long ago! so this was the secret of it--and this picture was mine. mine to hang before my desk when i was at work--mine to place at my bed's foot, where i might see it on first waking--mine to worship and adore, to weave fancies and build hopes upon, and "burn out the day in idle phantasies" of passionate devotion! "well," said müller impatiently, "what do you think of it?" i looked up, like one dreaming. "think of it!" i repeated. "yes--do you think it like?" "so like that it might be her por ... i mean that it might be the original." "oh, that's satisfactory. i was afraid you were disappointed." "i was only silent from surprise and pleasure." "well, however faithful the copy maybe, you know, in these things one always misses the tone of age." "i would not have it look a day older!" i exclaimed, never lifting my eyes from the canvas. müller came and looked down at it over my shoulder. "it is an interesting head," said he. "i have a great mind to introduce it into my next year's competition picture." i started as if he had struck me. the thought was sacrilege! "for heaven's sake do no such thing!" i ejaculated. "why not?" said he, opening his eyes in astonishment. "i cannot tell you why--at least not yet; but to--to confer a very particular obligation upon me, will you waive this point?" müller rubbed his head all over with both hands, and sat down in the utmost perplexity. "upon my soul and conscience," said he, "you are the most incomprehensible fellow i ever knew in my life!" "i am. i grant it. what then? let us see, i am to give you a hundred and fifty francs for this copy ..." "i won't take it," said müller. "i mean you to accept it as a pledge of friendship and good-will." "nay, i insist on paying for it. i shall be proud to pay for it; but a hundred and fifty are not enough. let me give you three hundred, and promise me that you will not put the head into your picture!" müller laughed, and shook his own head resolutely. "i will give you both the portrait and the promise," said he; "but i won't take your money, if i know it." "but ..." "but i won't--and so, if you don't like me well enough to accept such a trifle from me, i'll e'en carry the thing home again!" and, snatching up his cap and cloak, he made a feint of putting the portrait back into the folio. "not for the world!" i exclaimed, taking possession of it without further remonstrance. "i would sooner part from all i possess. how can i ever thank you enough?" "by never thanking me at all! what little time the thing has cost me is overpaid, not only by the sight of your pleasure, but by my own satisfaction in copying it. to copy a good work is to have a lesson from the painter, though he were dead a hundred years before; and the man who painted that portrait, be he who he might, has taught me a trick or two that i never knew before. _sapristi_! see if i don't dazzle you some day with an effect of white satin and pearls against a fair skin!" "an ingenious argument; but it leaves me unconvinced, all the same. how! you are not going to run away already? here's another bottle of chambertin waiting to be opened; and it is yet quite early." "impossible! i have promised to meet a couple of men up at the prado, and have, besides, invited them afterwards to supper." "what is the prado?" "the prado! why, is it possible that i have never yet introduced you to the prado? it's one of the joiliest places in all the quartier latin--it's close to the palais de justice. you can dance there, or practise pistol-shooting, or play billiards, or sup--or anything you please. everybody smokes--ladies not excepted." "how very delightful!" "oh, magnificent! won't you come with me? i know a dozen pretty girls who will be delighted to be introduced to you." "not to-night, thank you," said i, laughing. "well, another time?" "yes, to be sure--another time." "well, good-night." "good-night, and thank you again, a thousand times over." but he would not stay to hear me thank him, and was half way down the first flight before my sentence was finished. just as i was going back into my room, and about to close the door, he called after me from the landing. "_holà, amigo_! when my picture is done, i mean to give a bachelor's supper-party--chiefly students and _chicards_. will you come?" "gladly." "adieu, then. i will let you know in time." and with this, he broke out into a fragment of beranger, gave a cheerful good-night to madame bouïsse in the hall, and was gone. and now to enjoy my picture. now to lock the door, and trim the lamp, and place it up against a pile of books, and sit down before it in silent rapture, like a devotee before the portrait of his patron saint. now i can gaze, unreproved, into those eyes, and fancy they are hers. now press my lips, unforbidden, upon that exquisite mouth, and believe it warm. ah, will her eyes ever so give back the look of love in mine? will her lips ever suffer mine to come so near? would she, if she knew the treasure i possessed, be displeased that i so worshipped it? hanging over it thus, and suffering my thoughts to stray on at their own will and pleasure, i am startled by the fall of some heavy object in the adjoining chamber. the fall is followed by a stifled cry, and then all is again silent. to unlock my door and rush to hers--to try vainly to open it--to cry "hortense! hortense! what has happened? for heaven's sake, what has happened?" is the work of but an instant. the antechamber lay between, and i remembered that she could not hear me. i ran back, knocked against the wall, and repeated:-- "what has happened? tell me what has happened?" again i listened, and in that interval of suspense heard her garments rustle along the ground, then a deep sigh, and then the words:-- "nothing serious. i have hurt my hand." "can you open the door?" there was another long silence. "i cannot," she said at length, but more faintly. "in god's name, try!" no answer. "shall i get over the balcony?" i waited another instant, heard nothing, and then, without, further hesitation, opened my own window and climbed the iron rail that separated her balcony from mine, leaving my footsteps trampled in the snow. i found her sitting on the floor, with her body bent forward and her head resting against the corner of a fallen bookcase. the scattered volumes lay all about. a half-filled portmanteau stood close by on a chair. a travelling-cloak and a passport-case lay on the table. seeing, yet scarcely noting all this, i flung myself on my knees beside her, and found that one hand and arm lay imprisoned under the bookcase. she was not insensible, but pain had deprived her of the power of speech. i raised her head tenderly, and supported it against a chair; then lifted the heavy bookcase, and, one by one, removed the volumes that had fallen upon her. alas! the white little hand all crushed and bleeding--the powerless arm--the brave mouth striving to be firm! i took the poor maimed arm, made a temporary sling for it with my cravat, and, taking her up in my arms as if she had been an infant, carried her to the sofa. then i closed the window; ran back to my own room for hot water; tore up some old handkerchiefs for bandages; and so dressed and bound her wounds--blessing (for the first time in my life) the destiny that had made me a surgeon. "are you in much pain?" i asked, when all was done. "not now--but i feel very faint," i remembered my coffee in the next room, and brought it to her. i lifted her head, and supported her with my arm while she drank it. "you are much better now," i said, when she had again lain down. "tell me how it happened." she smiled languidly. "it was not my fault," she said, "but froissart's. do you remember that froissart?" remember it! i should think so. "froissart!" i exclaimed. "why, what had he to do with it?" "only this. i usually kept him on the top of the bookcase that fell down this evening. just now, while preparing for a journey upon which i must start to-morrow morning, i thought to remove the book to a safer place; and so, instead of standing on a chair, i tried to reach up, and, reaching up, disturbed the balance of the bookcase, and brought it down." "could you not have got out of the way when you saw it falling?" "yes--but i tried to prevent it, and so was knocked down and imprisoned as you found me." "merciful heaven! it might have killed you." "that was what flashed across my mind when i saw it coming," she replied, with a faint smile. "you spoke of a journey," i said presently, turning my face away lest she should read its story too plainly; "but now, of course, you must not move for a few days." "i must travel to-morrow," she said, with quiet decision. "impossible!" "i have no alternative." "but think of the danger--the imprudence--the suffering." "danger there cannot be," she replied, with a touch of impatience in her voice. "imprudent it may possibly be; but of that i have no time to think. and as for the suffering, that concerns myself alone. there are mental pains harder to bear than the pains of the body, and the consciousness of a duty unfulfilled is one of the keenest of them. you urge in vain; i must go. and now, since it is time you bade me good-night, let me thank you for your ready help and say good-bye." "but may i do no more for you?" "nothing--unless you will have the goodness to bid madame bouïsse to come up-stairs, and finish packing my portmanteau for me." "at what hour do you start?" "at eight." "may i not go with you to the station, and see that you get a comfortable seat?" "many thanks," she replied, coldly; "but i do not go by rail, and my seat in the diligence is already taken." "you will want some one to see to your luggage--to carry your cloaks." "madame bouïsse has promised to go with me to the messageries." silenced, and perhaps a little hurt, i rose to take my leave. "i wish you a safe journey, mademoiselle," i said, "and a safe return," "and think me, at the same time, an ungrateful patient." "i did not say that." "no--but you thought so. after all, it is possible that i seem so. i am undemonstrative--unused to the amenities of life--in short, i am only half-civilized. pray, forgive me." "mademoiselle," i said, "your apology pains me. i have nothing to forgive. i will send madame bouïsse to you immediately." and with this i had almost left the room, but paused upon the threshold. "shall you be long away?" i asked, with assumed indifference. "shall i be long away?" she repeated, dreamily. "how can i tell?" then, correcting herself, "oh, not long," she added. "not long. perhaps a fortnight--perhaps a week." "once more, then, good-night." "good-night," she answered, absently; and i withdrew. i then went down, sent madame bouïsse to wait upon her, and sat up anxiously listening more than half the night. next morning, at seven, i heard madame bouïsse go in again. i dared not even go to her door to inquire how she had slept, lest i should seem too persistent; but when they left the room and went downstairs together, i flew to my window. i saw her cross the street in the gray morning. she walked feebly, and wore a large cloak, that hid the disabled arm and covered her to the feet. madame bouïsse trotted beside her with a bundle of cloaks and umbrellas; a porter followed with her little portmanteau on his shoulder. and so they passed under the archway across the trampled snow, and vanished out of sight. chapter xliv. a prescription. a week went by--a fortnight went by--and still hortense prolonged her mysterious absence. where could she be gone? was she ill? had any accident befallen her on the road? what if the wounded hand had failed to heal? what if inflammation had set in, and she were lying, even now, sick and helpless, among strangers? these terrors came back upon me at every moment, and drove me almost to despair. in vain i interrogated madame bouïsse. the good-natured _concierge_ knew no more than myself, and the little she had to tell only increased my uneasiness. hortense, it appeared, had taken two such journeys before, and had, on both occasions, started apparently at a moment's notice, and with every indication of anxiety and haste. from the first she returned after an interval of more than three weeks; from the second after about four or five days. each absence had been followed by a long season of despondency and lassitude, during which, said the _concierge_, mademoiselle scarcely spoke, or ate, or slept, but, silent and pale as a ghost, sat up later than ever with her books and papers. as for this last journey, all she knew about it was that mam'selle had had her passport regulated for foreign parts the afternoon of the day before she started. "but can you not remember in what direction the diligence was going?" i asked, again and again. "no, m'sieur--not in the least," "nor the name of the town to which her place was taken?" "i don't know that i ever heard it, m'sieur." "but at least you must have seen the address on the portmanteau?" "not i, m'sieur--i never thought of looking at it." "did she say nothing to account for the suddenness of her departure?" "nothing at all." "nor about her return either. madame bouïsse? just think a moment--surely she said something about when you might expect her back again?" "nothing, m'sieur, except, by the way--" "except what?" "_dame_! only this--as she was just going to step into the diligence, she turned back and shook hands with me--mam'selle hortense, proud as she is, is never above shaking hands with me, i can tell you, m'sieur." "no, no--i can well believe it. pray, go on!" "well, m'sieur," she shakes hands with me, and she says, "thank you, good madame bouïsse, for all your kindness to me.... hear that, m'sieur, 'good madame bouïsse,'--the dear child!" "and then--?" "bah! how impatient you are! well, then, she says (after thanking me, you observe)--'i have paid you my rent, madame bouïsse, up to the end of the present month, and if, when the time has expired, i have neither written nor returned, consider me still as your tenant. if, however, i do not come back at all, i will let you know further respecting the care of my books and other property." if she did not come back at all! oh, heaven! i had never contemplated such a possibility. i left madame bouïsse without another word, and going up to my own rooms, flung myself upon my bed, as if i were stupefied. all that night, all the next day, those words haunted me. they seemed to have burned themselves into my brain in letters of fire. dreaming, i woke up with them upon my lips; reading, they started out upon me from the page. "if i never come back at all!" at last, when the fifth day came round--the fifth day of the third week of her absence--i became so languid and desponding that i lost all power of application. even dr. chéron noticed it, and calling me in the afternoon to his private room, said:-- "basil arbuthnot, you look ill. are you working too hard?" "i don't think so, sir." "humph! are you out much at night?" "out, sir?" "yes--don't echo my words--do you go into society: frequent balls, theatres, and so forth?" "i have not done so, sir, for several months past." "what is it, then? do you read late?" "really, sir, i hardly know--up to about one or two o'clock; on the average, i believe." "let me feel your pulse." i put out my wrist, and he held it for some seconds, looking keenly at me all the time. "got anything on your mind?" he asked, after he had dropped it again. "want money, eh?" "no, sir, thank you." "home-sick?" "not in the least." "hah! want amusement. can't work perpetually--not reasonable to suppose it. there, _mon garçon_," (taking a folded paper from his pocket-book) "there's a prescription for you. make the most of it." it was a stall-ticket for the opera. too restless and unhappy to reject any chance of relief, however temporary, i accepted it, and went. i had not been to a theatre since that night with josephine, nor to the italian opera since i used to go with madame de marignan. as i went in listlessly and took my place, the lights, the noise, the multitude of faces, confused and dazzled me. presently the curtain rose, and the piece began. the opera was _i capuletti_. i do not remember who the singers were, i am not sure that i ever knew. to me they were romeo and juliet, and i was a dweller in verona. the story, the music, the scenery, took a vivid hold upon my imagination. from the moment the curtain rose, i saw only the stage, and, except that i in some sort established a dim comparison between romeo's sorrows and my own disquietude of mind, i seemed to lose all recollection of time and place, and almost of my own identity. it seemed quite natural that that ill-fated pair of lovers should go through life, love, wed, and die singing. and why not? are they not airy nothings, "born of romance, cradled in poetry, thinking other thoughts, and doing other deeds than ours?" as they live in poetry, so may they not with perfect fitness speak in song? i went home in a dream, with the melodies ringing in my ears and the story lying heavy at my heart. i passed upstairs in the dark, went over to the window, and saw, oh joy! the light--the dear, familiar, welcome, blessed light, streaming forth, as of old, from hortense's chamber window! to thank heaven that she was safe was my first impulse--to step out on the balcony, and watch the light as though it were a part of herself, was the second. i had not been there many moments when it was obscured by a passing shadow. the window opened and she came out. "good-evening," she said, in her calm, clear voice. "i heard you out here, and thought you might like to know that, thanks to your treatment in the first instance, and such care as i have been able since to give it, my hand is once more in working order." "you are kind to come out and tell me so," i said. "i had no hope of seeing you to-night. how long is it since you arrived?" "about two hours," she replied, carelessly. "and you have been nearly three weeks away!" "have i?" said she, leaning her cheek upon her hand, and looking up dreamily into the night. "i did not count the days." "that proves you passed them happily," i said; not without some secret bitterness. "happily!" she echoed. "what is happiness?" "a word that we all translate differently," i replied. "and your own reading of it?" she said, interrogatively. i hesitated. "do you inquire what is my need, individually?" i asked, "or do you want my general definition?" "the latter." "i think, then, that the first requirement of happiness is work; the second, success." she sighed. "i accept your definition," she said, "and hope that you may realize it to the full in your own experience. for myself, i have toiled and failed--sought, and found not. judge, then, how i came to leave the days uncounted." the sadness of her attitude, the melancholy import of her words, the abstraction of her manner, filled me with a vague uneasiness. "failure is often the forerunner of success," i replied, for want, perhaps, of something better to say. she shook her head drearily, and stood looking up at the sky, where, every now and then, the moon shone out fitfully between the flying clouds. "it is not the first time," she murmured, "nor will it be the last--and yet they say that god is merciful." she had forgotten my presence. these words were not spoken to me, but in answer to her own thoughts. i said nothing, but watched her upturned face. it was pale as the wan moon overhead; thinner than before she went away; and sadder--oh, how much sadder! she roused herself presently, and turning to me, said:--"i beg your pardon. i am very absent; but i am greatly fatigued. i have been travelling incessantly for two days and nights." "then i will wish you good-night at once," i said. "good-night," she replied; and went back into her room. the next morning dr. chéron smiled one of his cold smiles, and said:-- "you look better to-day, my young friend. i knew how it was with you--no worse malady, after all, than _ennui_. i shall take care to repeat the medicine from time to time." chapter xlv. under the stars. hoping, yet scarcely expecting to see her, i went out upon my balcony the next night at the same hour; but the light of her lamp was bright within, no shadow obscured it, and no window opened. so, after waiting for more than an hour, i gave her up, and returned to my work. i did this for six nights in succession. on the seventh she came. "you are fond of your balcony, fellow-student," said she. "i often hear you out here." "my room gets heated," i replied, "and my eyes weary, after several hours of hard reading; and this keen, clear air puts new life into one's brains." "yes, it is delicious," said she, looking up into the night. "how dark the space of heaven is, and, how bright are the stars! what a night for the alps! what a night to be upon some alpine height, watching the moon through a good telescope, and waiting for the sunrise!" "defer that wish for a few months," i replied smiling. "you would scarcely like switzerland in her winter robes." "nay, i prefer switzerland in winter," she said. "i passed through part of the jura about ten days ago, and saw nothing but snow. it was magnificent--like a paradise of pure marble awaiting the souls of all the sculptors of all the ages." "a fantastic idea," said i, "and spoken like an artist." "like an artist!" she repeated, musingly. "well, are not all students artists?" "not those who study the exact sciences--not the student of law or divinity--nor he who, like myself, is a student of medicine. he is the slave of fact, and art is the eden of his banishment. his imagination is for ever captive. his horizon is for ever bounded. he is fettered by routine, and paralyzed by tradition. his very ideas must put on the livery of his predecessors; for in a profession where originality of thought stands for the blackest shade of original sin, skill--mere skill--must be the end of his ambition." she looked at me, and the moonlight showed me that sad smile which her lips so often wore. "you do not love your profession," she said. "i do not, indeed." "and yet you labor zealously to acquire it--how is that?" "how is it with hundreds of others? my profession was chosen for me. i am not my own master." "but are you sure you would be happier in some other pursuit? supposing, for instance, that you were free to begin again, what career do you think you would prefer?" "i scarcely know, and i should scarcely care, so long as there was freedom of thought and speculation in it." "geology, perhaps--or astronomy," she suggested, laughingly. "merci! the bowels of the earth are too profound, and the heavens too lofty for me. i should choose some pursuit that would set the ariel of the imagination free. that is to say, i could be very happy if my life were devoted to science, but my soul echoes to the name of art." "'the artist creates--the man of science discovers," said hortense. "beware lest you fancy you would prefer the work of creation only because you lack patience to pursue the work of discovery. pardon me, if i suggest that you may, perhaps, be fitted for neither. your sphere, i fancy, is reflection--comparison--criticism. you are not made for action, or work. your taste is higher than your ambition, and you love learning better than fame. am i right?" "so right that i regret i can be read so easily." "and therefore, it may be that you would find yourself no happier with art than with science. you might even fall into deeper discouragement; for in science every onward step is at least certain gain, but in art every step is groping, and success is only another form of effort. art, in so far as it is more divine, is more unattainable, more evanescent, more unsubstantial. it needs as much patience as science, and the passionate devotion of an entire life is as nothing in comparison with the magnitude of the work. self-sacrifice, self-distrust, infinite patience, infinite disappointment--such is the lot of the artist, such the law of aspiration." "a melancholy creed." "but a true one. the divine is doomed to suffering, and under the hays of the poet lurk ever the thorns of the self-immolator." "but, amid all this record of his pains, do you render no account of his pleasures?" i asked. "you forget that he has moments of enjoyment lofty as his aims, and deep as his devotion. "i do not forget it," she said. "i know it but too well. alas! is not the catalogue of his pleasures the more melancholy record of the two? hopes which sharpen disappointment; visions which cheat while they enrapture; dreams that embitter his waking hours--fellow-student, do you envy him these?" "i do; believing that he would not forego them for a life of common-place annoyances and placid pleasures." "forego them! never. who that had once been the guest of the gods would forego the divine for the human? no--it is better to suffer than to stagnate. the artist and poet is overpaid in his brief snatches of joy. while they last, his soul sings 'at heaven's gate,' and his forehead strikes the stars." she spoke with a rare and passionate enthusiasm; sometimes pacing to and fro; sometimes pausing with upturned face-- "a dauntless muse who eyes a dreadful fate!" there was a long, long silence--she looking at the stars, i upon her face. by-and-by she came over to where i stood, and leaned upon the railing that divided our separate territories. "friend," said she, gravely, "be content. art is the sphinx, and to question her is destruction. enjoy books, pictures, music, statues--rifle the world of beauty to satiety, if satiety be possible--but there pause drink the wine; seek not to crush the grape. be happy, be useful, labor honestly upon the task that is thine, and be assured that the work will itself achieve its reward. is it nothing to relieve pain--to prolong the days of the sickly--to restore health to the suffering--to soothe the last pangs of the dying? is it nothing to be followed by the prayers and blessing of those whom you have restored to love, to fame, to the world's service? to my thinking, the physician's trade hath something god-like in it. be content. harvey's discovery was as sublime as newton's, and it were hard to say which did god's work best--shakespeare or jenner." "and you," i said, the passion that i could not conceal trembling in my voice; "and you--what are you, poet, or painter, or musician, that you know and reason of all these things?" she laughed with a sudden change of mood, and shook her head. "i am a woman," said she. "simply a woman--no more. one of the inferior sex; and, as i told you long ago, only half civilized." "you are unlike every other woman!" "possibly, because i am more useless. strange as it may seem, do you know i love art better than sewing, or gossip, or dress; and hold my liberty to be a dower more precious than either beauty or riches? and yet--i am a woman!" "the wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best!" "by no means. you are comparing me with eve; but i am not in the least like eve, i assure you. she was an excellent housewife, and, if we may believe milton, knew how to prepare 'dulcet creams,' and all sorts of paradisaical dainties for her husband's dinner. i, on the contrary, could not make a cream if adam's life depended on it." "_eh bien!_ of the theology of creams i know nothing. i only know that eve was the first and fairest of her sex, and that you are as wise as you are beautiful." "nay, that is what titania said to the ass," laughed hortense. "your compliments become equivocal, fellow-student. but hush! what hour is that?" she stood with uplifted finger. the air was keen, and over the silence of the house-tops chimed the church-clocks--two. "it is late, and cold," said she, drawing her cloak more closely round her. "not later than you usually sit up," i replied. "don't go yet. 'tis now the very witching hour of night, when churchyards yawn--" "i beg your pardon," she interrupted. "the churchyards have done yawning by this time, and, like other respectable citizens, are sound asleep. let us follow their example. good-night." "good-night," i replied, reluctantly; but almost before i had said it, she was gone. after this, as the winter wore away, and spring drew on, hortense's balcony became once more a garden, and she used to attend to her flowers every evening. she always found me on my balcony when she came out, and soon our open-air meetings became such an established fact that, instead of parting with "good-night," we said "_au revoir_--till to-morrow." at these times we talked of many things; sometimes of subjects abstract and mystical--of futurity, of death, of the spiritual life--but oftenest of art in its manifold developments. and sometimes our speculations wandered on into the late hours of the night. and yet, for all our talking and all our community of tastes, we became not one jot more intimate. i still loved in silence--she still lived in a world apart. chapter xlvi. thermopylÆ. how dreary 'tis for women to sit still on winter nights by solitary fires, and hear the nations praising them far off. aurora leigh. abolished by the national convention of , re-established in , reformed by the first napoleon in , and remodelled in on the restoration of the bourbons, the académie française, despite its changes of fortune, name, and government, is a liberal and splendid institution. it consists of forty members, whose office it is to compile the great dictionary, and to enrich, purify, and preserve the language. it assists authors in distress. it awards prizes for poetry, eloquence, and virtue; and it bestows those honors with a noble impartiality that observes no distinction of sex, rank, or party. to fill one of the forty fauteuils of the académie française is the darling ambition of every eminent frenchman of letters. there the poet, the philosopher, the historian, the man of science, sit side by side, and meet on equal ground. when a seat falls vacant, when a prize is to be awarded, when an anniversary is to be celebrated, the interest and excitement become intense. to the political, the fashionable, or the commercial world, these events are perhaps of little moment. they affect neither the bourse nor the budget. they exercise no perceptible influence on the longchamps toilettes. but to the striving author, to the rising orator, to all earnest workers in the broad fields of literature, they are serious and significant circumstances. living out of society as i now did, i knew little and cared less for these academic crises. the success of one candidate was as unimportant to me as the failure of another; and i had more than once read the crowned poem of the prize essay without even glancing at the name or the fortunate author. now it happened that, pacing to and fro under the budding acacias of the palais royal garden one sunny spring-like morning, some three or four weeks after the conversation last recorded, i was pursued by a persecuting newsvender with a hungry eye, mittened fingers, and a shrill voice, who persisted in reiterating close against my ear:-- "news of the day, m'sieur!--news of the day. frightful murder in the rue du faubourg st. antoine--state of the bourse--latest despatches from the seat of war--prize poem crowned by the académie française--news of the day, m'sieur! only forty centimes! news of the day!" i refused, however, to be interested in any of those topics, turned a deaf ear to his allurements, and peremptorily dismissed him. i then continued my walk in solitary silence. at the further extremity of the square, near the _galerie vitrée_ and close beside the little newspaper kiosk, stood a large tree since cut down, which at that time served as an advertising medium, and was daily decorated with a written placard, descriptive of the contents of the _moniteur_, the _presse_, and other leading papers. this placard was generally surrounded by a crowd of readers, and to-day the crowd of readers was more than usually dense. i seldom cared in these days for what was going on in the busy outside world; but this morning, my attention having been drawn to the subject, i amused myself, as i paced to and fro, by watching the eager faces of the little throng of idlers. presently i fell in with the rest, and found myself conning the placard on the tree. the name that met my astonished eyes on that placard was the name of hortense dufresnoy. the sentence ran thus:-- "grand biennial prize for poetry--subject: _the pass of thermopylæ_,--successful candidate, _mademoiselle hortense dufresnoy_." breathless, i read the passage twice; then, hearing at a little distance the shrill voice of the importunate newsvender, i plunged after him and stopped him, just as he came to the-- "frightful murder in the rue du faubourg saint ..." "here," said i, tapping him on the shoulder; "give me one of your papers." the man's eyes glittered. "only forty centimes, m'sieur," said he. "'tis the first i've sold to-day." he looked poor and wretched. i dropped into his hand a coin that would have purchased all his little sheaf of journals, and hurried away, not to take the change or hear his thanks. he was silent for some moments; then took up his cry at the point where he had broken off, and started away with:-- --"antoine!--state of the bourse--latest despatches from the seat of war--news of the day--only forty centimes!" i took my paper to a quiet bench near the fountain, and read the whole account. there had been eighteen anonymous poems submitted to the academy. three out of the eighteen had come under discussion; one out of the three had been warmly advocated by béranger, one by lebrun, and the third by some other academician. the poem selected by beranger was at length chosen; the sealed enclosure opened; and the name of the successful competitor found to be hortense dufresnoy. to hortense dufresnoy, therefore, the prize and crown were awarded. i read the article through, and then went home, hoping to be the first to congratulate her. timidly, and with a fast-beating heart, i rang the bell at her outer door; for we all had our bells at madame bouïsse's, and lived in our rooms as if they were little private houses. she opened the door, and, seeing me, looked surprised; for i had never before ventured to pay her a visit in her apartment. "i have come to wish you joy," said i, not venturing to cross the threshold. "to wish me joy?" "you have not seen a morning paper?" "a morning paper!" and, echoing me thus, her color changed, and a strange vague look--it might be of hope, it might be of fear--came into her face. "there is something in the _moniteur_" i went on, smiling, 'that concerns you nearly." "that concerns me?" she exclaimed. "_me_? for heaven's sake, speak plainly. i do not understand you. has--has anything been discovered?" "yes--it has been discovered at the académie française that mademoiselle hortense dufresnoy has written the best poem on thermopylæ." she drew a deep breath, pressed her hands tightly together, and murmured:-- "alas! is that all?" "all! nay--is it not enough to step at once into fame--to have been advocated by béranger--to have the poem crowned in the theatre of the académie française?" she stood silent, with drooping head and listless hands, all disappointment and despondency. presently she looked up. "where did you learn this?" she asked. i handed her the journal. "come in, fellow-student," said she, and held the door wide for me to enter. for the second time i found myself in her little _salon_, and found everything in the self-same order. "well," i said, "are you not happy?" she shook her head. "success is not happiness," she replied, smiling mournfully. "that béranger should have advocated my poem is an honor beyond price; but--but i need more than this to make me happy." and her eyes wandered, with a strange, yearning look, to the sword over the chimney-piece. seeing that look, my heart sank, and the tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. whose was the sword? for whose sake was her life so lonely and secluded? for whom was she waiting? surely here, if one could but read it aright, lay the secret of her strange and sudden journeys--here i touched unawares upon the mystery of her life! i did not speak. i shaded my face with my hand, and sat looking on the ground. then, the silence remaining unbroken, i rose, and examined the drawings on the walls. they were water-colors for the most part, and treated in a masterly but quite peculiar style. the skies were sombre, the foregrounds singularly elaborate, the color stern and forcible. angry sunsets barred by lines of purple cirrus stratus; sweeps of desolate heath bounded by jagged peaks; steep mountain passes crimson with faded ferns and half-obscured by rain-clouds; strange studies of weeds, and rivers, and lonely reaches of desolate sea-shore ... these were some of the subjects, and all were evidently by the same hand. "ah," said hortense, "you are criticizing my sketches!" "your sketches!" i exclaimed. "are these your work?" "certainly," she replied, smiling. "why not? what do you think of them?" "what do i think of them! well, i think that if you had not been a poet you ought to have been a painter. how fortunate you are in being able to express yourself so variously! are these compositions, or studies from nature?" "all studies from nature--mere records of fact. i do not presume to create--i am content humbly and from a distance to copy the changing moods of nature." "pray be your own catalogue, then, and tell me where these places are." "willingly. this coast-line with the run of breaking surf was taken on the shores of normandy, some few miles from dieppe. this sunset is a recollection of a glorious evening near frankfort, and those purple mountains in the distance are part of the taunus range. here is an old mediæval gateway at solothurn, in switzerland. this wild heath near the sea is in the neighborhood of biscay. this quaint knot of ruinous houses in a weed-grown court was sketched at bruges. do you see that milk-girl with her scarlet petticoat and flemish _faille?_ she supplied us with milk, and her dairy was up that dark archway. she stood for me several times, when i wanted a foreground figure." "you have travelled a great deal," i said. "were you long in belgium?" "yes; i lived there for some years. i was first pupil, then teacher, in a large school in brussels. i was afterwards governess in a private family in bruges. of late, however, i have preferred to live in paris, and give morning lessons. i have more liberty thus, and more leisure." "and these two little quaint bronze figures?" "hans sachs and peter vischer. i brought them from nuremberg. hans sachs, you see, wears a furred robe, and presses a book to his breast. he does not look in the least like a cobbler. peter vischer, on the contrary, wears his leather apron and carries his mallet in his hand. artist and iron-smith, he glories in his trade, and looks as sturdy a little burgher as one would wish to see." "and this statuette in green marble?" "a copy of the celebrated 'pensiero' of michel angelo--in other words, the famous sitting statue of lorenzo de medici, in the medicean chapel in florence. i had it executed for me on the spot by bazzanti." "a noble figure!" "indeed it is--a noble figure, instinct with life, and strength, and meditation. my first thought on seeing the original was that i would not for worlds be condemned to pass a night alone with it. i should every moment expect the musing hand to drop away from the stern mouth, and the eyes to turn upon me!" "these," said i, pausing at the chimney-piece, "are _souvenirs_ of switzerland. how delicately those chamois are carved out of the hard wood! they almost seem to snuff the mountain air! but here is a rapier with a hilt of ornamented steel--where did this come from?" i had purposely led up the conversation to this point. i had patiently questioned and examined for the sake of this one inquiry, and i waited her reply as if my life hung on it. her whole countenance changed. she took it down, and her eyes filled with tears. "it was my father's," she said, tenderly. "your father's!" i exclaimed, joyfully. "heaven be thanked! did you say your father's?" she looked up surprised, then smiled, and faintly blushed. "i did," she replied. "and was your father a soldier?" i asked; for the sword looked more like a sword of ceremony than a sword for service. but to this question she gave no direct reply. "it was his sword," she said, "and he had the best of all rights to wear it." with this she kissed the weapon reverently, and restored it to its place. i kissed her hand quite as reverently that day at parting, and she did not withdraw it. chapter xlvii. all about art. art's a service. aurora leigh. "god sent art, and the devil sent critics," said müller, dismally paraphrasing a popular proverb. "my picture is rejected!" "rejected!" i echoed, surprised to find him sitting on the floor, like a tailor, in front of an acre of canvas. "by whom?" "by the hanging committee." "hang the hanging committee!" "a pious prayer, my friend. would that it could be carried into execution!" "what cause do they assign?" "cause! do you suppose they trouble themselves to find one? not a bit of it. they simply scrawl a great r in chalk on the back of it, and send you a printed notice to carry it home again. what is it to them, if a poor devil has been painting his very heart and hopes out, day after day, for a whole year, upon that piece of canvas? nothing, and less than nothing--confound them!" i drew a chair before the picture, and set myself to a patient study of the details. he had chosen a difficult subject--the death of louis xi. the scene represented a spacious chamber in the castle of plessisles-tours. to the left, in a great oak chair beside the bed from which he had just risen, sat the dying king, with a rich, furred mantle loosely thrown around him. at his feet, his face buried in his hands, kneeled the dauphin. behind his chair, holding up the crucifix to enjoin silence, stood the king's confessor. a physician, a couple of councillors in scarlet robes, and a captain of archers, stood somewhat back, whispering together and watching the countenance of the dying man; while through the outer door was seen a crowd of courtiers and pages, waiting to congratulate king charles viii. it was an ambitious subject, and müller had conceived it in a grand spirit. the heads were expressive; and the textures of the velvets, tapestries, oak carvings, and so forth, had been executed with more than ordinary finish and fidelity. for all this, however, there was more of promise than of achievement in the work. the lights were scattered; the attitudes were stiff; there was too evident an attempt at effect. one could see that it was the work of a young painter, who had yet much to learn, and something of the academy to forget. "well," said müller, still sitting ruefully on the floor, "what do you think of it? am i rightly served? shall i send for a big pail of whitewash, and blot it all out?" "not for the world!" "what shall i do, then?" "do better." "but, if i have done my best already?" "still do better; and when you have done that, do better again. so genius toils higher and ever higher, and like the climber of the glacier, plants his foot where only his hand clung the moment before." "humph! but what of my picture?" "well," i said, hesitatingly, "i am no critic--" "thank heaven!" muttered müller, parenthetically. "but there is something noble in the disposition of the figures. i should say, however, that you had set to work upon too large a scale." "a question of focus," said the painter, hastily. "a mere question of focus." "how can that be, when you have finished some parts laboriously, and in others seem scarcely to have troubled yourself to cover the canvas?" "i don't know. i'm impatient, you see, and--and i think i got tired of it towards the last." "would that have been the case if you had allowed yourself but half the space?" "i'll take to enamel," exclaimed müller, with a grin of hyperbolical despair. "i'll immortalize myself in miniature. i'll paint henceforward with the aid of a microscope, and never again look at nature unless through the wrong end of a telescope!" "pshaw!--be in earnest, man, and talk sensibly! do you conceive that for every failure you are to change your style? give yourself, heart and soul, to the school in which you have begun, and make up your mind to succeed." "do you believe, then, that a man may succeed by force of will alone?" said müller, musingly. "yes, because force of will proceeds from force of character, and the two together, warp and woof, make the stuff out of which nature clothes her heroes." "oh, but i am not talking of heroes," said müller. "by heroes, i do not mean only soldiers. captain pen is as good a hero as captain sword, any day; and captain brush, to my thinking, is as fine a fellow as either." "ay; but do they come, as you would seem to imply, of the same stock?" said müller. "force of will and force of character are famous clays in which to mould a wellington or a columbus; but is not something more--at all events, something different--necessary to the modelling of a raffaelle?" "i don't fancy so. power is the first requisite of genius. give power in equal quantity to your columbus and your raffaelle, and circumstance shall decide which will achieve the new world, and which the transfiguration." "circumstance!" cried the painter, impatiently. "good heavens! do you make no account of the spontaneous tendencies of genius? is nature a mere vulgar cook, turning out men, like soups, from one common stock, with only a dash of flavoring here and there to give them variety? no--nature is a subtle chemist, and her workshop, depend on it, is stored with delicate elixirs, volatile spirits, and precious fires of genius. certain of these are kneaded with the clay of the poet, others with the clay of the painter, the astronomer, the mathematician, the legislator, the soldier. raffaelle had in him some of 'the stuff that dreams are made of.' never tell me that that same stuff, differently treated, would equally well have furnished forth an archimedes or a napoleon!" "men are what their age calls upon them to be," i replied, after a moment's consideration. "be that demand what it may, the supply is ever equal to it. centre of the most pompous and fascinating of religions, rome demanded madonnas and transfigurations, and straightway raffaelle answered to the call. the old world, overstocked with men, gold, and aristocracies, asked wider fields of enterprise, and columbus added america to the map. what is this but circumstance? had italy needed colonies, would not her men of genius have turned sailors and discoverers? had madrid been the residence of the popes, might not columbus have painted altar-pieces or designed churches?" müller, still sitting on the floor, shook his head despondingly. "i don't think it," he replied; "and i don't wish to think it. it is too material a view of genius to satisfy my imagination. i love to believe that gifts are special. i love to believe that the poet is born a poet, and the artist an artist." "hold! i believe that the poet is born a poet, and the artist an artist; but i also believe the poetry of the one and the art of the other to be only diverse manifestations of a power that is universal in its application. the artist whose lot in life it is to be a builder is none the less an artist. the poet, though engineer or soldier, is none the less a poet. there is the poetry of language, and there is also the poetry of action. so also there is the art which expresses itself by means of marble or canvas, and the art which designs a capitol, tapers a spire, or plants a pleasure-ground. nay, is not this very interfusion of gifts, this universality of uses, in itself the bond of beauty which girdles the world like a cestus? if poetry were only rhyme, and art only painting, to what an outer darkness of matter-of-fact should we be condemning nine-tenths of the creation!" müller yawned, as if he would have swallowed me and my argument together. "you are getting transcendental," said he. "i dare say your theories are all very fine and all very true; but i confess that i don't understand them. i never could find out all this poetry of bricks and mortar, railroads and cotton-factories, that people talk about so fluently now-a-days. we germans take the dreamy side of life, and are seldom at home in the practical, be it ever so highly colored and highly flavored. in our parlance, an artist is an artist, and neither a bagman nor an engine-driver." his professional pride was touched, and he said this with somewhat less than his usual _bonhomie_--almost with a shade of irritability. "come," said i, smiling, "we will not discuss a topic which we can never see from the same point of view. doing art is better than talking art; and your business now is to find a fresh subject and prepare another canvas. meanwhile cheer up, and forget all about louis xi. and the hanging committee. what say you to dining with me at the trois frères? it will do you good." "good!" cried he, springing to his feet and shaking his fist at the picture. "more good, by jupiter, than all the paint and megilp that ever was wasted! not all the fine arts of europe are worth a _poulet à la marengo_ and a bottle of old _romanée_!" so saying, he turned his picture to the wall, seized his cap, locked his door, scrawled outside with a piece of chalk,--"_summoned to the tuileries on state affairs_," and followed me, whistling, down the six flights of gloomy, ricketty, quartier-latin lodging-house stairs up which he lived and had his being. * * * * * chapter xlviii. i make myself acquainted with the impolite world and its places op unfashionable resort. müller and i dined merrily at the café of the trois frères provençaux, discussed our coffee and cigars outside the rotonde in the palais royal, and then started off in search of adventures. striking up in a north-easterly direction through a labyrinth of narrow streets, we emerged at the rue des fontaines, just in front of that famous second-hand market yclept the temple. it was saturday night, and the business of the place was at its height. we went in, and turning aside from the broad thoroughfares which intersect the market at right angles, plunged at once into a net-work of crowded side-alleys, noisy and populous as a cluster of beehives. here were bargainings, hagglings, quarrellings, elbowings, slang, low wit, laughter, abuse, cheating, and chattering enough to turn the head of a neophyte like myself. müller, however, was in his element. he took me up one row and down another, pointed out all that was curious, had a nod for every grisette, and an answer for every touter, and enjoyed the babel like one to the manner born. "buy, messieurs, buy! what will you buy?" was the question that assailed us on both sides, wherever we went. "what do you sell, _mon ami ?_" was müller's invariable reply. "what do you want, m'sieur?" "twenty thousand francs per annum, and the prettiest wife in paris," says my friend; a reply which is sure to evoke something _spirituel_, after the manner of the locality. "this is the most amusing place in paris," observes he. "like the alsatia of old london, it has its own peculiar _argot,_ and its own peculiar privileges. the activity of its commerce is amazing. if you buy a pocket-handkerchief at the first stall you come to, and leave it unprotected in your coat-pocket for five minutes, you may purchase it again at the other end of the alley before you leave. as for the resources of the market, they are inexhaustible. you may buy anything you please here, from a court suit to a cargo of old rags. in this alley (which is the aristocratic quarter), are sold old jewelry, old china, old furniture, silks that have rustled at the tuileries; fans that may have fluttered at the opera; gloves once fitted to tiny hands, and yet bearing a light soil where the rings were worn beneath; laces that may have been the property of countesses or cardinals; masquerade suits, epaulets, uniforms, furs, perfumes, artificial flowers, and all sorts of elegant superfluities, most of which have descended to the merchants of the temple through the hands of ladies-maids and valets. yonder lies the district called the 'forêt noire'--a land of unpleasing atmosphere inhabited by cobblers and clothes-menders. down to the left you see nothing but rag and bottle-shops, old iron stores, and lumber of every kind. here you find chiefly household articles, bedding, upholstery, crockery, and so forth." "what will you buy, messieurs?" continued to be the cry, as we moved along arm-in-arm, elbowing our way through the crowd, and exploring this singular scene in all directions. "what will you buy, messieurs?" shouts one salesman. "a carpet? a capital carpet, neither too large nor too small. just the size you want!" "a hat, m'sieur, better than new," cries another; "just aired by the last owner." "a coat that will fit you better than if it had been made for you?" "a pair of boots? dress-boots, dancing-boots, walking-boots, morning-boots, evening-boots, riding-boots, fishing-boots, hunting-boots. all sorts, m'sieur--all sorts!" "a cloak, m'sieur?" "a lace shawl to take home to madame?" "an umbrella, m'sieur?" "a reading lamp?" "a warming-pan?" "a pair of gloves?" "a shower bath?" "a hand organ?" "what! m'sieurs, do you buy nothing this evening? holà, antoine! monsieur keeps his hands in his pockets, for fear his money should fall out!" "bah! they've not a centime between them!" "go down the next turning and have the hole in your coat mended!" "make way there for monsieur the millionaire!" "they are ambassadors on their way to the court of persia." "_ohe! panè! panè! panè!_" thus we run the gauntlet of all the tongues in the temple, sometimes retorting, sometimes laughing and passing on, sometimes stopping to watch the issue of a dispute or the clinching of a bargain. "_dame_, now! if it were only ten francs cheaper," says a voice that strikes my ear with a sudden sense of familiarity. turning, i discover that the voice belongs to a young woman close at my elbow, and that the remark is addressed to a good-looking workman upon whose arm she is leaning. "what, josephine!" i exclaim. "_comment_! monsieur basil!" and i find myself kissed on both cheeks before i even guess what is going to happen to me. "have i not also the honor of being remembered by mademoiselle?" says müller, taking off his hat with all the politeness possible; whereupon josephine, in an ecstasy of recognition, embraces him likewise. "_mais, quel bonheur_!" cries she. "and to meet in the temple, above all places! emile, you heard me speak of monsieur basil--the gentleman who gave me that lovely shawl that i wore last sunday to the château des fleurs--_eh bien_! this is he--and here is monsieur müller, his friend. gentlemen, this is emile, my _fiancé_. we are to be married next friday week, and we are buying our furniture." the good-looking workman pulled off his cap and made his bow, and we proffered the customary congratulations. "we have bought such sweet, pretty things," continued she, rattling on with all her old volubility, "and we have hired the dearest little _appartement_ on the fourth story, in a street near the jardin des plantes. see--this looking-glass is ours; we have just bought it. and those maple chairs, and that chest of drawers with the marble top. it isn't real marble, you know; but it's ever so much better than real:--not nearly so heavy, and so beautifully carved that it's quite a work of art. then we have bought a carpet--the sweetest carpet! is it not, emile?" emile smiled, and confessed that the carpet was "_fort bien_." "and the time-piece, madame?" suggested the furniture-dealer, at whose door we were standing. "madame should really not refuse herself the time-piece." josephine shook her head. "it is too dear," said she. "pardon, madame. i am giving it away,--absolutely giving it away at the price!" josephine looked at it wistfully, and weighed her little purse. it was a very little purse, and very light. "it is so pretty!" said she. the clock was of ormolu upon a painted stand, that was surmounted by a stout little gilt cupid in a triumphal chariot, drawn by a pair of hard-working doves. "what is the price of it?" i asked. "thirty-five francs, m'sieur," replied the dealer, briskly. "say twenty-five," urged josephine. the dealer shook his head. "what if we did without the looking-glass?" whispered josephine to her _fiancé_. "after all, you know, one can live without a looking-glass; but how shall i have your dinners ready, if i don't know what o'clock it is?" "i don't really see how we are to do without a clock," admitted emile. "and that darling little cupid!" emile conceded that the cupid was irresistible. "then we decide to have the clock, and do without the looking-glass?" "yes, we decide." in the meantime i had slipped the thirty-five francs into the dealer's hand. "you must do me the favor to accept the clock as a wedding-present, mademoiselle josephine," i said. "and i hope you will favor me with an invitation to the wedding." "and me also," said müller; "and i shall hope to be allowed to offer a little sketch to adorn the walls of your new home." their delight and gratitude were almost too great. we shook hands again all round. i am not sure, indeed, that josephine did not then and there embrace us both for the second time. "and you will both come to our wedding!" cried she. "and we will spend the day at st. cloud, and have a dance in the evening; and we will invite monsieur gustave, and monsieur jules, and monsieur adrien. oh, dear! how delightful it will be!" "and you promise me the first quadrille?" said i. "and me the second?" added müller. "yes, yes--as many as you please." "then you must let us know at what time to come, and all about it; so, till friday week, adieu!" and thus, with more shaking of hands, and thanks, and good wishes, we parted company, leaving them still occupied with the gilt cupid and the furniture-broker. after the dense atmosphere of the clothes-market, it is a relief to emerge upon the boulevart du temple--the noisy, feverish, crowded boulevart du temple, with its half dozen theatres, its glare of gas, its cake-sellers, bill-sellers, lemonade-sellers, cabs, cafés, gendarmes, tumblers, grisettes, and pleasure-seekers of both sexes. here we pause awhile to applaud the performances of a company of dancing-dogs, whence we are presently drawn away by the sight of a gentleman in a _moyen-âge_ costume, who is swallowing penknives and bringing them out at his ears to the immense gratification of a large circle of bystanders. a little farther on lies the jardin turc; and here we drop in for half an hour, to restore ourselves with coffee-ices, and look on at the dancers. this done, we presently issue forth again, still in search of amusement. "have you ever been to the petit lazary?" asks my friend, as we stand at the gate of the jardin turc, hesitating which way to turn. "never; what is it?" "the most inexpensive of theatrical luxuries--an evening's entertainment of the mildest intellectual calibre, and at the lowest possible cost. here we are at the doors. come in, and complete your experience of paris life!" the petit lazary occupies the lowest round of the theatrical ladder. we pay something like sixpence half-penny or sevenpence apiece, and are inducted into the dress-circle. our appearance is greeted with a round of applause. the curtain has just fallen, and the audience have nothing better to do. müller lays his hand upon his heart, and bows profoundly, first to the gallery and next to the pit; whereupon they laugh, and leave us in peace. had we looked dignified or indignant we should probably have been hissed till the curtain rose. it is an audience in shirt-sleeves, consisting for the most part of workmen, maid-servants, soldiers, and street-urchins, with a plentiful sprinkling of pickpockets--the latter in a strictly private capacity, being present for entertainment only, without any ulterior professional views. it is a noisy _entr'acte_ enough. three vaudevilles have already been played, and while the fourth is in preparation the public amuses itself according to its own riotous will and pleasure. nuts and apple parings fly hither and thither; oranges describe perilous parabolas between the pit and the gallery; adventurous _gamins_ make daring excursions round the upper rails; dialogues maintained across the house, and quarrels supported by means of an incredible copiousness of invective, mingle in discordant chorus with all sorts of howlings, groanings, whistlings, crowings, and yelpings, above which, in shrillest treble, rise the voices of cake and apple-sellers, and the piercing cry of the hump-back who distributes "vaudevilles at five centimes apiece." in the meantime, almost distracted by the patronage that assails him in every direction, the lemonade-vendor strides hither and thither, supplying floods of nectar at two centimes the glass; while the audience, skilled in the combination of enjoyments, eats, drinks, and vociferates to its heart's content. fabulous meats, and pies of mysterious origin, are brought out from baskets and hats. pocket-handkerchiefs spread upon benches do duty as table-cloths. clasp-knives, galette, and sucre d'orge pass from hand to hand--nay, from mouth to mouth--and, in the midst of the tumult, the curtain rises. all is, in one moment, profoundly silent. the viands disappear; the lemonade-seller vanishes; the boys outside the gallery-rails clamber back to their places. the drama, in the eyes of the parisians, is almost a sacred rite, and not even the noisiest _gamin_ would raise his voice above a whisper when the curtain is up. the vaudeville that follows is, to say the least of it, a perplexing performance. it has no plot in particular. the scene is laid in a lodging-house, and the discomforts of one monsieur choufleur, an elderly gentleman in a flowered dressing-gown and a gigantic nightcap, furnish forth all the humor of the piece. what monsieur choufleur has done to deserve his discomforts, and why a certain student named charles should devote all the powers of his mind to the devising and inflicting of those discomforts, is a mystery which we, the audience, are never permitted to penetrate. enough that charles, being a youth of mischievous tastes and extensive wardrobe, assumes a series of disguises for the express purpose of tormenting monsieur choufleur, and is unaccountably rewarded in the end with the hand of monsieur choufleur's daughter; a consummation which brings down the curtain amid loud applause, and affords entire satisfaction to everybody. it is by this time close upon midnight, and, leaving the theatre with the rest of the audience, we find a light rain falling. the noisy thoroughfare is hushed to comparative quiet. the carriages that roll by are homeward bound. the waiters yawn at the doors of the cafés and survey pedestrians with a threatening aspect. the theatres are closing fast, and a row of flickering gas-lamps in front of a faded transparency which proclaims that the juvenile _tableaux vivants_ are to be seen within, denotes the only place of public amusement yet open to the curious along the whole length of the boulevart du temple. "and now, _amigo_, where shall we go?" says müller. "are you for a billiard-room or a lobster supper? or shall we beat up the quarters of some of the fellows in the quartier latin, and see what fun is afoot on the other side of the water?" "whichever you please. you are my guest to-night, and i am at your disposal." "or what say you to dropping in for an hour among the chicards?" "a capital idea--especially if you again entertain the society with a true story of events that never happened." "_allons donc_!-- 'c'était de mon temps que brillait madame grégoire. j'allais à vingt ans dans son cabaret rire et boire.' --confound this drizzle! it soaks one through and through, like a sponge. if you are no fonder of getting wet through than i am, i vote we both run for it!" with this he set off running at full speed, and i followed. the rain soon fell faster and thicker. we had no umbrellas; and being by this time in a region of back-streets, an empty fiacre was a prize not to be hoped for. coming presently to a dark archway, we took shelter and waited till the shower should pass over. it lasted longer than we had expected, and threatened to settle into a night's steady rain. müller kept his blood warm by practicing extravagant quadrille steps and singing scraps of béranger's ballads; whilst i, watching impatiently for a cab, kept peering up and down the street, and listening to every sound. presently a quick footfall echoed along the wet pavement, and the figure of a man, dimly seen by the blurred light of the street-lamps, came hurrying along the other side of the way. something in the firm free step, in the upright carriage, in the height and build of the passer-by, arrested my attention. he drew nearer. he passed under the lamp just opposite, and, as he passed, flung away the end of his cigar, which fell, hissing, into the little rain-torrent running down the middle of the street. he carried no umbrella; but his hat was pulled low, and his collar drawn up, and i could see nothing of his face. but the gesture was enough. for a moment i stood still and looked after him; then, calling to müller that i should be back presently, i darted off in pursuit. chapter xlix. the king of diamonds. the rain beat in my face and almost blinded me, the wind hustled me; the gendarme at the corner of the street looked at me suspiciously; and still i followed, and still the tall stranger strode on ahead. up one street he led me and down another, across a market-place, through an arcade, past the bourse, and into that labyrinth of small streets that lies behind the italian opera-house, and is bounded on the east by the rue de richelieu, and on the west by the rue louis le grand. here he slackened his pace, and i found myself gaming upon him for the first time. presently he came to a dead stop, and as i continued to draw nearer, i saw him take out his watch and look at it by the light of a street-lamp. this done, he began sauntering slowly backwards and forwards, as if waiting for some second person. for a moment i also paused, hesitating. what should i do?--pass him under the lamp, and try to see his face? go boldly up to him, and invent some pretence to address him, or wait in this angle of deep shade, and see what would happen next? i was deceived, of course--deceived by a merely accidental resemblance. well, then, i should have had my run for my pains, and have taken cold, most likely, into the bargain. at all events, i would speak to him. seeing me emerge from the darkness, and cross over towards the spot where he was standing, he drew aside with the air of a man upon his guard, and put his hand quickly into his breast. "i beg your pardon, monsieur," i began. "what! my dear damon!--is it you?" he interrupted, and held out both hands. i grasped them joyously. "dalrymple, is it you?" "myself, damon--_faute de mieux_." "and i have been running after you for the last two miles! what brings you to paris? why did you not let me know you were here? how long have you been back? has anything gone wrong? are you well?" "one question at a time, my arcadian, for mercy's sake!" said he. "which am i to answer?" "the last." "oh, i am well--well enough. but let us walk on a little farther while we talk." "are you waiting for any one?" i asked, seeing him look round uneasily. "yes--no--that is, i expect to see some one come past here presently. step into this doorway, and i will tell you all about it." his manner was restless, and his hand, as it pressed mine, felt hot and feverish. "i am sure you are not well," i said, following him into the gloom of a deep, old-fashioned doorway. "am i not? well, i don't know--perhaps i am not. my blood burns in my veins to-night like fire. nay, thou wilt learn nothing from my pulse, thou sucking Æsculapius! mine is a sickness not to be cured by drugs. i must let blood for it." the short, hard laugh with which he said this troubled me still more. "speak out," i said--"for heaven's sake, speak out! you have something on your mind--what is it?" "i have something on my hands," he replied, gloomily. "work. work that must be done quickly, or there will be no peace for any of us. look here, damon--if you had a wife, and another man stood before the world as her betrothed husband--if you had a wife, and another man spoke of her as his--boasted of her--behaved in the house as if it were already his own--treated her servants as though he were their master--possessed himself of her papers--extorted money from her--brought his friends, on one pretext or another, about her house--tormented her, day after day, to marry him ... what would you do to such a man as this?" "make my own marriage public at once, and set him at defiance," i replied. "ay, but...." "but what?" "that alone will not content me. i must punish him with my own hand." "he would be punished enough in the loss of the lady and her fortune." "not he! he has entangled her affairs sufficiently by this time to indemnify himself for her fortune, depend on it. and as for herself--pshaw! he does not know what love is!" "but his pride----" "but _my_ pride!" interrupted dalrymple, passionately. "what of my pride?--my wounded honor?--my outraged love? no, no, i tell you, it is not such a paltry vengeance that will satisfy me! would to heaven i had trusted only my own arm from the first! would to heaven that, instead of having anything to say to the cursed brood of the law, i had taken the viper by the throat, and brought him to my own terms, after my own fashion!" "but you have not yet told me what you are doing here?" "i am waiting to see monsieur de simoncourt." "monsieur de simoncourt!" "yes. that white house at the corner is one of his haunts,--a private gaming-house, never open till after midnight. i want to meet him accidentally, as he is going in." "what for?" "that he may take me with him. you can't get into one of these places without an introduction, you know. those who keep them are too much afraid of the police." "but do you play?" "come with me, and see. hark! do you hear nothing?" "yes, i hear a footstep. and here comes a man." "let us walk to meet him, accidentally, and seem to be talking." i took dalrymple's arm, and we strolled in the direction of the new comer. it was not de simoncourt, however, but a tall man with a grizzled beard, who crossed over, apprehensively, at our approach, but recrossed and went into the white house at the corner as soon as he thought us out of sight. "one of the gang," said dalrymple, with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "we had better go back to our doorway, and wait till the right man comes." we had not long to wait. the next arrival was he whom we sought. we strolled on, as before, and came upon him face to face. "de simoncourt, by all that's propitious!" cried dalrymple. "what--major dalrymple returned to paris!" "ay, just returned. bored to death with berlin and vienna--no place like paris, de simoncourt, go where one will!" "none, indeed. there is but one paris, and pleasure is the true profit of all who visit it." "my dear de simoncourt, i am appalled to hear you perpetrate a pun! by the way, you have met mr. basil arbuthnot at my rooms?" m. de simoncourt lifted his hat, and was graciously pleased to remember the circumstance. "and now," pursued dalrymple, "having met, what shall, we do next? have you any engagement for the small hours, de simoncourt?" "i am quite at your disposal. where were your bound for?" "anywhere--everywhere. i want excitement." "would a hand at _écarté_, or a green table, have any attraction for you?" suggested de simoncourt, falling into the trap as readily as one could have desired. "the very thing, if you know where they are to be found!" "nay, i need not take you far to find both. there is in this very street a house where money may be lost and won as easily as at the bourse. follow me." he took us to the white house at the corner, and, pressing a spring concealed in the wood-work of the lintel, rung a bell of shrill and peculiar _timbre_. the door opened immediately, and, after we had passed in, closed behind us without any visible agency. still following at the heels of m. de simoncourt, we then went up a spacious staircase dimly lighted, and, leaving our hats in an ante-room, entered unannounced into an elegant _salon_, where some twenty or thirty _habitués_ of both sexes had already commenced the business of the evening. the ladies, of whom there were not more than half-a-dozen, were all more or less painted, _passées_, and showily dressed. among the men were military stocks, ribbons, crosses, stars, and fine titles in abundance. we were evidently supposed to be in very brilliant society--brilliant, however, with a fictitious lustre that betrayed the tinsel beneath, and reminded one of a fashionable reception on the boards of the haymarket or the porte st. martin. the mistress of the house, an abundant and somewhat elderly juno in green velvet, with a profusion of jewelry on her arms and bosom, came forward to receive us. "madame de sainte amaranthe, permit me to present my friends, major dalrymple and mr. arbuthnot," said de simoncourt, imprinting a gallant kiss on the plump hand of the hostess. madame de ste. amaranthe professed herself charmed to receive any friends of m. de simoncourt; whereupon m. de simoncourt's friends were enchanted to be admitted to the privilege of madame de ste. amaranthe's acquaintance. madame de ste. amaranthe then informed us that she was the widow of a general officer who fell at austerlitz, and the daughter of a rich west india planter whom she called her _père adoré_, and to whose supposititious memory she wiped away an imaginary tear with an embroidered pocket-handkerchief. she then begged that we would make ourselves at home, and, gliding away, whispered something in de simoncourt's ear, to which he replied by a nod of intelligence. "that harpy hopes to fleece us," said dalrymple, slipping his arm through mine and drawing me towards the roulette table. "she has just told de simoncourt to take us in hand. i always suspected the fellow was a greek." "a greek?" "ay, in the figurative sense--a gentleman who lives by dexterity at cards." "and shall you play?" "by-and-by. not yet, because--" he checked himself, and looked anxiously round the room. "because what?" "tell me, arbuthnot," said he, paying no attention to my question; "do _you_ mind playing?" "i? my dear fellow, i hardly know one card from another." "but have you any objection?" "none whatever to the game; but a good deal to the penalty. i don't mind confessing to you that i ran into debt some months back, and that...." "nonsense, boy!" interrupted dalrymple, with a kindly smile. "do you suppose i want you to gamble away your money? no, no--the fact is, that i am here for a purpose, and it will not do to let my purpose be suspected. these greeks want a pigeon. will you oblige me by being that pigeon, and by allowing me to pay for your plucking?" i still hesitated. "but you will be helping me," urged he. "if you don't sit down, i must." "you would not lose so much," i expostulated. "perhaps not, if i were cool and kept my eyes open; but to-night i am _distrait_, and should be as defenceless as yourself." "in that case i will play for you with pleasure." he slipped a little pocket-book into my hand. "never stake more than five francs at a time," said he, "and you cannot ruin me. the book contains a thousand. you shall have more, if necessary; but i think that sum will last as long as i shall want you to keep playing." "a thousand francs!" i exclaimed. "why, that is forty pounds!" "if it were four hundred, and it answered my purpose," said dalrymple, between his teeth, "i should hold it money well spent!" at this moment de simoncourt came up, and apologized for having left us so long. "if you want mere amusement, major dalrymple," said he, "i suppose you will prefer _roulette_ to _écarté_!" "i will stake a few pieces presently on the green cloth," replied dalrymple, carelessly; "but, first of all, i want to initiate my young friend here. as to double _écarté_, monsieur de simoncourt, i need hardly tell you, as a man of the world, that i never play it with strangers." de simoncourt smiled, and shrugged his shoulders. "quite right," said he. "i believe that here everything is really _de bonne foi_; but where there are cards there will always be danger. for my part, i always shuffle the pack after my adversary!" with this he strolled off again, and i took a vacant chair at the long table, next to a lady, who made way for me with the most gracious smile imaginable. only the players sat; so dalrymple stood behind me and looked on. it was a green board, somewhat larger than an ordinary billiard-table, with mysterious boundaries traced here and there in yellow and red, and a cabalistic table of figures towards each end. a couple of well-dressed men sat in the centre; one to deal out the cards, and the other to pay and receive the money. the one who had the management of the cash wore a superb diamond ring, and a red and green ribbon at his button-hole. dalrymple informed me in a whisper that this noble seigneur was madame de ste. amaranthe's brother. as for the players, they all looked serious and polite enough, as ladies and gentlemen should, at their amusement. some had pieces of card, which they pricked occasionally with a pin, according to the progress of the game. some had little piles of silver, or sealed _rouleaux_, lying beside them. as for myself, i took out dalrymple's pocket-book, and laid it beside me, as if i were an experienced player and meant to break the bank. for a few minutes he stood by, and then, having given me some idea of the leading principles of the game, wandered away to observe the other players. left to myself, i played on--timidly at first; soon with more confidence; and, of course, with the novice's invariable good-fortune. my amiable neighbor drew me presently into conversation. she had a theory of chances relating to averages of color, and based upon a bewildering calculation of all the black and red cards in the pack, which she was so kind as to explain to me. i could not understand a word of it, but politeness compelled me to listen. politeness also compelled me to follow her advice when she was so obliging as to offer it, and i lost, as a matter of course. from this moment my good-luck deserted me. "courage, monsieur," said my amiable neighbour; "you have only to play long enough, and you are sure to win." in the meantime, i kept following dalrymple with my eyes, for there was something in his manner that filled me with vague uneasiness. sometimes he drew near the table and threw down a napoleon, but without heeding the game, or caring whether he won or lost. he was always looking to the door, or wandering restlessly from table to table. watching him thus, i thought how haggard he looked, and what deep channels were furrowed in his brow since that day when we lay together on the autumnal grass under the trees in the forest of st. germain. thus a long time went by, and i found by my watch that it was nearly four o'clock in the morning--also that i had lost six hundred francs out of the thousand. it seemed incredible. i could hardly believe that the time and the money had flown so fast. i rose in my seat and looked round for dalrymple; but in vain. could he be gone, leaving me here? impossible! apprehensive of i knew not what, i pushed back my chair, and left the table. the rooms were now much fuller--more stars and moustachios; more velvets and laces, and paris diamonds. fresh tables, too, had been opened for _lansquenet, baccarat_, and _écarté_. at one of these i saw m. de simoncourt. when he laid down his cards for the deal, i seized the opportunity to inquire for my friend. he pointed to a small inner room divided by a rich hanging from the farther end of the _salon_. "you will find major dalrymple in madame de ste. amaranthe's boudoir, playing with m. le vicomte de caylus," said he, courteously, and resumed his game. playing with de caylus! sitting down amicably with de caylus! i could not understand it. crowded as the rooms now were, it took me some time to thread my way across, and longer still, when i had done so, to pass the threshold of the boudoir, and obtain sight of the players. the room was very small, and filled with lookers-on. at a table under a chandelier sat de caylus and dalrymple. i could not see dalrymple's face, for his back was turned towards me; but the vicomte i recognised at once--pale, slight, refined, with the old look of dissipation and irritability, and the same restlessness of eye and hand that i had observed on first seeing him. they were evidently playing high, and each had a pile of notes and gold lying at his left hand. de caylus kept nervously crumbling a note in his fingers. dalrymple sat motionless as a man of bronze, and, except to throw down a card when it came to his turn, never stirred a finger. there was, to my thinking, something ominous in his exceeding calmness. "at what game are they, playing?" i asked a gentleman near whom i was standing. "at _écarté_," replied he, without removing his eyes from the players. knowing nothing of the game, i could only judge of its progress by the faces of those around me. a breathless silence prevailed, except when some particular subtlety in the play sent a murmur of admiration round the room. even this was hushed almost as soon as uttered. gradually the interest grew more intense, and the bystanders pressed closer. de caylus sighed impatiently, and passed his hand across his brow. it was his turn to deal. dalrymple shuffled the pack. de caylus shuffled them after him, and dealt. the falling of a pin might have been heard in the pause that followed. they had but five cards each. dalrymple played first--a queen of diamonds. de caylus played the king, and both threw down their cards. a loud murmur broke out instantaneously in every direction, and de caylus, looking excited and weary, leaned back in his chair, and called for wine. his expression was so unlike that of a victor that i thought at first he must have lost the game. "which is the winner?" i asked, eagerly. "which is the winner?" the gentleman who had replied to me before looked round with a smile of contemptuous wonder. "why, monsieur de caylus, of course," said he. "did you not see him play the king?" "i beg your pardon," i said, somewhat nettled; "but, as i said before, i do not understand the game." "_eh bien_! the englishman is counting out his money." what a changed scene it was! the circle of intent faces broken and shifting--the silence succeeded by a hundred conversations--de caylus leaning back, sipping his wine and chatting over his shoulder--the cards pushed aside, and dalrymple gravely sorting out little shining columns of napoleons, and rolls of crisp bank paper! having ranged all these before him in a row, he took out his check-book, filled in a page, tore it out and laid it with the rest. then, replacing the book in his breast-pocket, he pushed back his chair, and, looking up for the first time since the close of the game, said aloud:-- "monsieur le vicomte de caylus, i have this evening had the honor of losing the sum of twelve thousand francs to you; will you do me the favor to count this money?" m. de caylus bowed, emptied his glass, and languidly touching each little column with one dainty finger, told over his winnings as though they were scarcely worth even that amount of trouble. "six rouleaux of four hundred each," said he, "making two thousand four hundred--six notes of five hundred each, making three thousand--and an order upon rothschild for six thousand six hundred; in all, twelve thousand. thanks, monsieur ... monsieur ... forgive me for not remembering your name." dalrymple looked up with a dangerous light in his eyes, and took no notice of the apology. "it appears to me, monsieur le vicomte caylus," said he, giving the other his full title and speaking with singular distinctness, "that you hold the king very often at _écarté_." de caylus looked up with every vein on his forehead suddenly swollen and throbbing. "monsieur!" he exclaimed, hoarsely. "especially when you deal," added dalrymple, smoothing his moustache with utter _sang-froid_, and keeping his eyes still riveted upon his adversary. with an inarticulate cry like the cry of a wild beast, de caylus sprung at him, foaming with rage, and was instantly flung back against the wall, dragging with him not only the table-cloth, but all the wine, money, and cards upon it. "i will have blood for this!" he shrieked, struggling with those who rushed in between. "i will have blood! blood! blood!" stained and streaming with red wine, he looked, in his ghastly rage, as if he was already bathed in the blood he thirsted for. dalrymple drew himself to his full height, and stood looking on with folded arms and a cold smile. "i am quite ready," he said, "to give monsieur le vicomte full satisfaction." the room was by this time crowded to suffocation. i forced my way through, and laid my hand on dalrymple's arm. "you have provoked this quarrel," i said, reproachfully. "that, my dear fellow, is precisely what i came here to do," he replied. "you will have to be my second in this affair." here de simoncourt came up, and hearing the last words, drew me aside. "i act for de caylus," he whispered. "pistols, of course?" i nodded, still all bewilderment at my novel position. "your man received the first blow, so is entitled to the first shot." i nodded again. "i don't know a better place," he went on, "than bellevue. there's a famous little bit of plantation, and it is just far enough from paris to be secure. the bois is hackneyed, and the police are too much about it. "just so," i replied, vaguely. "and when shall we say? the sooner the better, it always seems to me, in these cases." "oh, certainly--the sooner the better." he looked at his watch. "it is now ten minutes to five," he said. "suppose we allow them five hours to put their papers in order, and meet at bellevue, on the terrace, at ten?" "so soon!" i exclaimed. "soon!" echoed de simoncourt. "why, under circumstances of such exceeding aggravation, most men would send for pistols and settle it across the table!" i shuddered. these niceties of honor were new to me, and i had been brought up to make little distinction between duelling and murder. "be it so, then, monsieur de simoncourt," i said. "we will meet you at bellevue, at ten." "on the terrace?" "on the terrace." we bowed and parted. dalrymple was already gone, and de caylus, still white and trembling with rage, was wiping the wine from his face and shirt. the crowd opened for me right and left as i went through the _salon_, and more than one voice whispered:-- "he is the englishman's second." i took my hat and cloak mechanically, and let myself out. it was broad daylight, and the blinding sun poured full upon my eyes as i passed into the street. "come, damon," said dalrymple, crossing over to me from the opposite side of the way. "i have just caught a cab--there it is, waiting round the corner! we've no time to lose, i'll be bound." "we are to meet them at bellevue at ten," i replied. "at ten? hurrah! then i've still five certain hours of life before me! long enough, damon, to do a world of mischief, if one were so disposed!" chapter l. the duel at bellevue. we drove straight to dalrymple's rooms, and, going in with a pass-key, went up without disturbing the _concierge_. arrived at home, my friend's first act was to open his buffetier and take out a loaf, a _paté de foie gras_, and a bottle of wine. i could not eat a morsel; but he supped (or breakfasted) with a capital appetite; insisted that i should lie down on his bed for two or three hours; and slipping into his dressing-gown, took out his desk and cash-box, and settled himself to a regular morning's work. "i hope to get a nap myself before starting," said he. "i have not many debts, and i made my will the day after i married--so i have but little to transact in the way of business. a few letters to write--a few to burn--a trifle or two to seal up and direct to one or two fellows who may like a _souvenír_,--that is the extent of my task! meanwhile, my dear boy, get what rest you can. it will never do to be shaky and pale on the field, you know." i went, believing that i should be less in his way; and, lying down in my clothes, fell into a heavy sleep, from which, after what seemed a long time, i woke suddenly with the conviction that it was just ten o'clock. to start up, look at my watch, find that it was only a quarter to seven and fall profoundly asleep again, was the work of only a few minutes. at the end of another half-hour i woke with the same dread, and with the same result; and so on twice or thrice after, till at a quarter to nine i jumped up, plunged my head into a basin of cold water, and went back to the sitting-room. i found him lying forward upon the table, fast asleep, with his head resting on his hands. some half-dozen letters lay folded and addressed beside him--one directed to his wife. a little pile of burnt paper fluttered on the hearth. his pistols were lying close by in their mahogany case, the blue and white steel relieved against the crimson-velvet lining. he slept so soundly, poor fellow, that i could with difficulty make up my mind to wake him. once roused, however, he was alert and ready in a moment, changed his coat, took out a new pair of lavender gloves, hailed a cab from the window, and bade the driver name his own fare if he got us to the terrace at bellevue by five minutes before ten. "i always like to be before my time in a matter of this kind, damon," said he. "it's shabby to be merely punctual when one has, perhaps, not more than a quarter of an hour to live. by-the-by, here are my keys. take them, in case of accident. you will find a copy of my will in my desk---the original is with my lawyer. the letters you will forward, according to the addresses; and in my cash-box you will find a paper directed to yourself." i bent my head. i would not trust myself to speak. "as for the letter to hélène--to my wife," he said, turning his face away, "will you--will you deliver that with your own hands?" "i will." "i--i have had but little time to write it," he faltered, "and i trust to you to supply the details. tell her how i made the quarrel, and how it ended. no one suspects it to be other than a _fracas_ over a game at _écarté_. no one supposes that i had any other motive, or any deeper vengeance--not even de caylus! i have not compromised her by word or deed. if i shoot him, i free her without a breath of scandal. if i fall--" his voice failed, and we were both silent for some moments we were now past the barrier, and speeding on rapidly towards the open country. high white houses with jalousies closed against the sun, and pretty maisonnettes in formal gardens, succeeded the streets and shops of suburban paris. then came a long country road bordered by poplars--by-and-by, glimpses of the seine, and scattered farms and villages far away--then sèvres and the leafy heights of bellevue overhanging the river. we crossed the bridge, and the driver, mindful of his fare, urged on his tired horse. some country folks met us presently, and a wagoner with a load of fresh hay. they all smiled and gave us "good-day" as we passed--they going to their work in the fields, and we to our work of bloodshed! shortly after this, the road began winding upwards, past the porcelain factories and through the village of sèvres; after which, having but a short distance of very steep road to climb, we desired the cabman to wait, and went up on foot. arrived at the top, where a peep of blue daylight came streaming down upon us through a green tunnel of acacias, we emerged all at once upon the terrace, and found ourselves first on the field. behind us rose a hillside of woods--before us, glassy and glittering, as if traced upon the transparent air, lay the city of palaces. domes and spires, arches and columns of triumph, softened by distance, looked as if built of the sunshine. far away on one side stretched the bois de boulogne, undulating like a sea of tender green. still farther away on the other, lay père-la-chaise--a dark hill specked with white; cypresses and tombs. at our feet, winding round a "lawny islet" and through a valley luxuriant in corn-fields and meadows, flowed the broad river, bluer than the sky. "a fine sight, damon!" said dalrymple, leaning on the parapet, and coolly lighting a cigar. "if my eyes are never to open on the day again, i am glad they should have rested for the last time on a scene of so much beauty! where is the painter who could paint it? not claude himself, though he should come back to life on purpose, and mix his colors with liquid sunlight!" "you are a queer fellow," said i, "to talk of scenery and painters at such a moment!" "not at all. things are precious according to the tenure by which we hold them. for my part, i do not know when i appreciated earth and sky so heartily as this morning. _tiens!_ here comes a carriage--our men, no doubt." "are you a good shot?" i asked anxiously. "pretty well. i can write my initials in bullet-holes on a sheet of notepaper at forty paces, or toss up half-a-crown as i ride at full gallop, and let the daylight through it as it comes down." "thank heaven!" "not so fast, my boy. de caylus is just as fine a shot, and one of the most skilful swordsmen in the french service." "ay, but the first fire is yours!" "is it? well, i suppose it is. he struck the first blow, and so--here they come." "one more word, dalrymple--did he really cheat you at _écarté?_" "upon my soul, i don't know. he did hold the king very often, and there are some queer stories told of him in vienna by the officers of the emperor's guard. at all events, this is not the first duel he has had to fight in defence of his good-fortune!" de simoncourt now coming forward, we adjourned at once to the wood behind the village. a little open glade was soon found; the ground was soon measured; the pistols were soon loaded. de caylus looked horribly pale, but it was the pallor of concentrated rage, with nothing of the craven hue in it. dalrymple, on the contrary, had neither more nor less color than usual, and puffed away at his cigar with as much indifference as if he were waiting his turn at the pit of the comédie française. both were clothed in black from head to foot, with their coats buttoned to the chin. "all is ready," said de simoncourt. "gentlemen, choose your weapons." de caylus took his pistols one by one, weighed and poised them, examined the priming, and finally, after much hesitation, decided. dalrymple took the first that came to hand. the combatants then took their places--de caylus with his hat pulled low over his eyes; dalrymple still smoking carelessly. they exchanged bows. "major dalrymple," said de simoncourt, "it is for you to fire first." "god bless you, damon!" said my friend, shaking me warmly by the hand. he then half turned aside, flung away the end of his cigar, lifted his right arm suddenly, and fired. i heard the dull thud of the ball--i saw de caylus fling up his arms and fall forward on the grass. i saw dalrymple running to his assistance. the next instant, however, the wounded man was on his knees, ghastly and bleeding, and crying for his pistol. "give it me!" he gasped--"hold me up! i--i will have his life yet! so, steady--steady!" shuddering, but not for his own danger, dalrymple stepped calmly back to his place; while de caylus, supported by his second, struggled to his feet and grasped his weapon. for a moment he once more stood upright. his eye burned; his lips contracted; he seemed to gather up all his strength for one last effort. slowly, steadily, surely, he raised his pistol--then swaying heavily back, fired, and fell again. "dead this time, sure enough," said de simoncourt, bending over him. "indeed, i fear so," replied dalrymple, in a low, grave voice. "can we do nothing to help you, monsieur de simoncourt?" "nothing, thank you. i have a carriage down the road, and must get further assistance from the village. you had better lose no time in leaving paris." "i suppose not. good-morning." "good-morning," so we lifted our hats; gathered up the pistols; hurried out of the wood and across a field, so avoiding the village; found our cab waiting where we had left it; and in less than five minutes, were rattling down the dusty hill again and hurrying towards paris. once in the cab, dalrymple began hastily pulling off his coat and waistcoat. i was startled to see his shirt-front stained with blood. "heavens!" i exclaimed, "you are not wounded?" "very slightly. de caylus was too good a shot to miss me altogether. pshaw! 'tis nothing--a mere graze--not even the bullet left in it!" "if it had been a little more to the left...." i faltered. "if he had fired one second sooner, or lived one second longer, he would have had me through the heart, as sure as there's a heaven above us!" said dalrymple. then, suddenly changing his tone, he added, laughingly-- "nonsense, damon! cheer up, and help me to tear this handkerchief into bandages. now's the time to show off your surgery, my little Æsculapius. by jupiter, life's a capital thing, after all!" * * * * * chapter li the portrait. having seen dalrymple to his lodgings and dressed his wound, which was, in truth, but a very slight one, i left him and went home, promising to return in a few hours, and help him with his packing; for we both agreed that he must leave paris that evening, come what might. it was now close upon two o'clock, and i had been out since between three and four the previous afternoon--not quite twenty-four hours, in point of actual time; but a week, a month, a year, in point of sensation! had i not seen a man die since that hour yesterday? walking homewards through the garish streets in the hot afternoon, all the strange scenes in which i had just been an actor thronged fantastically upon my memory. the joyous dinner with franz müller; the busy temple; the noisy theatre; the long chase through the wet streets at midnight; the crowded gaming-house; the sweet country drive at early morning; the quiet wood, and the dead man lying on his back, with the shadows of the leaves upon his face,--all this, in strange distinctness, came between me and the living tide of the boulevards. and now, over-tired and over-excited as i was, i remembered for the first time that i had eaten nothing since half-past five that morning. and then i also remembered that i had left müller waiting for me under the archway, without a word of explanation. i promised myself that i would write to him as soon as i got home, and in the meantime turned in at the first café to which i came and called for breakfast. but when the breakfast was brought, i could not eat it. the coffee tasted bitter to me. the meat stuck in my throat. i wanted rest more than food--rest of body and mind, and the forgetfulness of sleep! so i paid my bill, and, leaving the untasted meal, went home like a man in a dream. madame bouïsse was not in her little lodge as i passed it--neither was my key on its accustomed hook. i concluded that she was cleaning my rooms, and so, going upstairs, found my door open. hearing my own name, however, i paused involuntarily upon the threshold. "and so, as i was saying," pursued a husky voice, which i knew at once to be the property of madame bouïsse, "m'sieur basil's friend painted it on purpose for him; and i am sure if he was as good a catholic as the holy father himself, and that picture was a true portrait of our blessed lady, he could not worship it more devoutly. i believe he says his prayers to it, mam'selle! i often find it in the morning stuck up by the foot of his bed; and when he comes home of an evening to study his books and papers, it always stands on a chair just in front of his table, so that he can see it without turning his head, every time he lifts his eyes from the writing!" in the murmured reply that followed, almost inaudible though it was, my ear distinguished a tone that set my heart beating. "well, i can't tell, of course," said madame bouïsse, in answer, evidently, to the remark just made; "but if mam'selle will only take the trouble to look in the glass, and then look at the picture, she will see how like it is. for my part, i believe it to be that, and nothing else. do you suppose i don't know the symptoms? _dame!_ i have eyes, as well as my neighbors; and you may take my word for it, mam'selle, that poor young gentleman is just as much in love as ever a man was in this world!" "no more of this, if you please, madame bouïsse," said hortense, so distinctly that i could no longer be in doubt as to the speaker. i stayed to hear no more; but retreating softly down the first flight of stairs, came noisily up again, and went straight into my rooms, saying:-- "madame bouïsse, are you here?" "not only madame bouïsse, but an intruder who implores forgiveness," said hortense, with a frank smile, but a heightened color. i bowed profoundly. no need to tell her she was welcome--my face spoke for me. "it was madame bouïsse who lured me in," continued she, "to look at that painting." "_mais, oui!_ i told mam'selle you had her portrait in your sitting-room," laughed the fat _concierge,_ leaning on her broom. "i'm sure it's quite like enough to be hers, bless her sweet face!" i felt myself turn scarlet. to hide my confusion i took the picture down, and carried it to the window. "you will see it better by this light," i said, pretending to dust it with my handkerchief. "it is worth a close examination." hortense knelt down, and studied it for some moments in silence. "it must be a copy," she said, presently, more to herself than me--"it must be a copy." "it _is_ a copy," i replied. "the original is at the château de sainte aulaire, near montlhéry." "may i ask how you came by it?" "a friend of mine, who is an artist, copied it." "then it was done especially for you?" "just so." "and, no doubt, you value it?" "more than anything i possess!" then, fearing i had said too much, i added:-- "if i had not admired the original very much, i should not have wished for a copy." she shifted the position of the picture in such a manner that, standing where i did, i could no longer see her face. "then you have seen the original," she said, in a low tone. "undoubtedly--and you?" "yes, i have seen it; but not lately." there was a brief pause. "madame bouïsse thinks it so like yourself, mademoiselle," i said, timidly, "that it might almost be your portrait." "i can believe it," she answered. "it is very like my mother." her voice faltered; and, still kneeling, she dropped her face in her hands, and wept silently. madame bouïsse, in the meantime, had gone into my bedchamber, where she was sweeping and singing to herself with the door three parts closed, believing, no doubt, that she was affording me the opportunity to make a formal declaration. "alas! mademoiselle," i said, hesitatingly, "i little thought..." she rose, dashed the tears aside, and, holding out her hand to me, said, kindly-- "it is no fault of yours, fellow-student, if i remind you of the portrait, or if the portrait reminds me of one whom it resembles still more nearly. i am sorry to have troubled your kind heart with my griefs. it is not often that they rise to the surface." i raised her hand reverently to my lips. "but you are looking worn and ill yourself," she added. "is anything the matter?" "not now," i replied. "but i have been up all night, and--and i am very tired." "was this in your professional capacity?" "not exactly--and yet partly so. i have been more a looker-on than an active agent--and i have witnessed a frightful death-scene." she sighed, and shook her head. "you are not of the stuff that surgeons are made of, fellow-student," she said, kindly. "instead of prescribing for others, you need some one to prescribe for you. why, your hand is quite feverish. you should go to bed, and keep quiet for the next twelve hours." "i will lie down for a couple of hours when madame bouïsse is gone; but i must be up and out again at six." "nay, that is in three hours." "i cannot help it. it is my duty." "then i have no more to say. would you drink some lemonade, if i made it for you?" "i would drink poison, if you made it for me!" "a decidedly misplaced enthusiasm!" laughed she, and left the room. chapter lii. news from england. it was a glorious morning--first morning of the first week in the merry month of june--as i took my customary way to dr. chéron's house in the faubourg st. germain. i had seen dalrymple off by the night train the evening previous, and, refreshed by a good night's rest, had started somewhat earlier than usual, for the purpose of taking a turn in the luxembourg gardens before beginning my day's work. there the blossoming parterres, the lavish perfume from geranium-bed and acacia-blossom, and the mad singing of the little birds up among the boughs, set me longing for a holiday. i thought of saxonholme, and the sweet english woodlands round about. i thought how pleasant it would be to go home to dear old england, if only for ten days, and surprise my father in his quiet study. what if i asked dr. chéron to spare me for a fortnight? turning these things over in my mind, i left the gardens, and, arriving presently at the well-known porte cochère in the rue de mont parnasse, rang the great bell, crossed the dull courtyard, and took my usual seat at my usual desk, not nearly so well disposed for work as usual. "if you please, monsieur," said the solemn servant, making his appearance at the door, "monsieur le docteur requests your presence in his private room." i went. dr. chéron was standing on the hearth-rug, with his back to the fire, and his arms folded over his breast. an open letter, bordered broadly with black, lay upon his desk. although distant some two yards from the table, his eyes were fixed upon this paper. when i came in he looked up, pointed to a seat, but himself remained standing and silent. "basil arbuthnot," he said, after a pause of some minutes, "i have this morning received a letter from england, by the early post." "from my father, sir?" "no. from a stranger," he looked straight at me as he said this, and hesitated. "but it contains news," he added, "that--that much concerns you." there was a fixed gravity about the lines of his handsome mouth, and an unwonted embarrassment in his manner, that struck me with apprehension. "good news, i--i hope, sir," i faltered. "bad news, my young friend," said he, compassionately. "news that you must meet like a man, with fortitude--with resignation. your father--your excellent father--my honored friend--" he pointed to the letter and turned away. i rose up, sat down, rose up again, reached out a trembling hand for the letter, and read the loss that my heart had already presaged. my father was dead. well as ever in the morning, he had been struck with apoplexy in the afternoon, and died in a few hours, apparently without pain. the letter was written by our old family lawyer, and concluded with the request that dr. chéron would "break the melancholy news to mr. basil arbuthnot, who would doubtless return to england for the funeral." my tears fell one by one upon the open letter. i had loved my father tenderly in my heart. his very roughnesses and eccentricities were dear to me. i could not believe that he was gone. i could not believe that i should never hear his voice again! dr. chéron came over, and laid his hand upon my shoulder. "come," he said, "you have much to do, and must soon be on your way. the express leaves at midday. it is now ten, you have only two hours left." "my poor father!" "brunet," continued the doctor, "shall go back with you to your lodgings and help you to pack. as for money--" he took out his pocket-book and offered me a couple of notes; but i shook my head and put them from me. "i have enough money, thank you," i said. "good-bye." "good-bye," he replied, and, for the first time in all these months, shook me by the hand. "you will write to me?" i bowed my head in silence, and we parted. i found a cab at the door, and brunet on the box. i was soon at home again. home! i felt as if i had no home now, either in france or england--as if all my paris life were a brief, bright dream, and this the dreary waking. hortense was out. it was one of her busy mornings, and she would not be back till the afternoon. it was very bitter to leave without one last look--one last word. i seized pen and paper, and yielding for the first time to all the impulses of my love, wrote, without weighing my words, these few brief sentences:-- "i have had a heavy loss, hortense, and by the time you open this letter i shall be far away. my father--my dear, good father--is no more. my mother died when i was a little child. i have no brothers--no sisters--no close family ties. i am alone in the world now--quite alone. my last thought here is of you. if it seems strange to speak of love at such a moment, forgive me, for that love is now my only hope. oh, that you were here, that i might kiss your hand at parting, and know that some of your thoughts went with me! i cannot believe that you are quite indifferent to me. it seems impossible that, loving you as i love, so deeply, so earnestly, i should love in vain. when i come back i shall seek you here, where i have loved you so long. i shall look into your eyes for my answer, and read in them all the joy, or all the despair, of the life that lies before me. i had intended to get that portrait copied again for you, because you saw in it some likeness to your mother; but there has been no time, and ere you receive this letter i shall be gone. i therefore send the picture to you by the _concierge_. it is my parting gift to you. i can offer no greater proof of my love. farewell." once written, i dared not read the letter over. i thrust it under her door, and in less than five minutes was on my way to the station. * * * * * chapter liii. the fading of the rainbow. i loved a love once, fairest among women; closed are her doors on me, i must not see her-- all, all are gone, the old familiar faces. lamb. beautifully and truly, in the fourth book of the most poetical of stories, has a new world romancist described the state of a sorrowing lover. "all around him," saith he, "seemed dreamy and vague; all within him, as in a sun's eclipse. as the moon, whether visible or invisible, has power over the tides of the ocean, so the face of that lady, whether present or absent, had power over the tides of his soul, both by day and night, both waking and sleeping. in every pale face and dark eye he saw a resemblance to her; and what the day denied him in reality, the night gave him in dreams." such was, very faithfully, my own condition of mind during the interval which succeeded my departure from paris--the only difference being that longfellow's hero was rejected by the woman he loved, and sorrowing for that rejection; whilst i, neither rejected nor accepted, mourned another grief, and through the tears of that trouble, looked forward anxiously to my uncertain future. i reached saxonholme the night before my father's funeral, and remained there for ten days. i found myself, to my surprise, almost a rich man--that is to say, sufficiently independent to follow the bent of my inclinations as regarded the future. my first impulse, on learning the extent of my means, was to relinquish a career that had been from the first distasteful to me--my second was to leave the decision to hortense. to please her, to be worthy of her, to prove my devotion to her, was what i most desired upon earth. if she wished to see me useful and active in my generation, i would do my best to be so for her sake--if, on the contrary, she only cared to see me content, i would devote myself henceforth to that life of "retired leisure" that i had always coveted. could man love more honestly and heartily? one year of foreign life had wrought a marked difference in me. i had not observed it so much in paris; but here, amid old scenes and old reminiscences, i seemed to meet the image of my former self, and wondered at the change 'twixt now and then. i left home, timid, ignorant of the world and its ways, reserved, silent, almost misanthropic. i came back strengthened mentally and physically. studious as ever, i could yet contemplate an active career without positive repugnance; i knew how to meet and treat my fellow-men; i was acquainted with society in its most refined and most homely phases. i had tasted of pleasure, of disappointment, of love--of all that makes life earnest. as the time drew near when i should return to paris, grief, and hope, and that strange reluctance which would fain defer the thing it most desires, perplexed and troubled me by day and night. once again on the road, the past seemed more than ever dream-like, and paris and saxonholme became confused together in my mind, like the mingling outlines of two dissolving views. i crossed the channel this time in a thick, misting rain; pushed on straight for paris, and reached the cité bergère in the midst of a warm and glowing afternoon. the great streets were crowded with carriages and foot-passengers. the trees were in their fullest leaf. the sun poured down on pavement and awning with almost tropical intensity. i dismissed my cab at the top of the rue du faubourg montmatre, and went up to the house on foot. a flower-girl sat in the shade of the archway, tying up her flowers for the evening-sale, and i bought a cluster of white roses for hortense as i went by. madame bouïsse was sound asleep in her little sanctum; but my key hung in its old place, so i took it without disturbing her, and went up as if i had been away only a few hours. arrived at the third story, i stopped outside hortense's door and listened. all was very silent within. she was out, perhaps; or writing quietly in the farther chamber. i thought i would leave my travelling-bag in my own room, and then ring boldly for admittance. i turned the key, and found myself once again in my own familiar, pleasant student home. the books and busts were there in their accustomed places; everything was as i had left it. everything, except the picture! the picture was gone; so hortense had accepted it. three letters awaited me on the table; one from dr. chéron, written in a bold hand--a mere note of condolence: one from dalrymple, dated chamounix: the third from hortense. i knew it was from her. i knew that that small, clear, upright writing, so singularly distinct and regular, could be only hers. i had never seen it before; but my heart identified it. that letter contained my fate. i took it up, laid it down, paced backwards and forwards, and for several minutes dared not break the seal. at length i opened it. it ran thus:-- "friend and fellow-student. "i had hoped that a man such as you and a woman such as i might become true friends, discuss books and projects, give and take the lesser services of life, and yet not end by loving. in this belief, despite occasional misgivings, i have suffered our intercourse to become intimacy--our acquaintance, friendship. i see now that i was mistaken, and now, when it is, alas! too late, i reproach myself for the consequences of that mistake. "i can be nothing to you, friend. i have duties in life more sacred than marriage. i have a task to fulfil which is sterner than love, and imperative as fate. i do not say that to answer you thus costs me no pain. were there even hope, i would bid you hope; but my labor presses heavily upon me, and repeated failure has left me weary and heart-sick. "you tell me in your letter that, by the time i read it, you will be far away. it is now my turn to repeat the same words. when you come back to your rooms, mine will be empty. i shall be gone; all i ask is, that you will not attempt to seek me. "farewell. i accept your gift. perhaps i act selfishly in taking it, but a day may come when i shall justify that selfishness to you. in the meantime, once again farewell. you are my only friend, and these are the saddest words i have ever written--forget me! "hortense." i scarcely know how i felt, or what i did, on first reading this letter. i believe that i stood for a long time stone still, incapable of realizing the extent of my misfortune. by-and-by it seemed to rush upon me suddenly. i threw open my window, scaled the balcony rails, and forced my way into her rooms. her rooms! ah, by that window she used to sit--at that table she read and wrote--in that bed she slept! all around and about were scattered evidences of her presence. upon the chimney-piece lay an envelope addressed to her name--upon the floor, some fragments of torn paper and some ends of cordage! the very flowers were yet fresh upon her balcony! the sight of these things, while they confirmed my despair, thawed the ice at my heart. i kissed the envelope that she had touched, the flowers she had tended, the pillow on which her head had been wont to rest. i called wildly on her name. i threw myself on the floor in my great agony, and wept aloud. i cannot tell how long i may have lain there; but it seemed like a lifetime. long enough, at all events, to drink the bitter draught to the last drop--long enough to learn that life had now no grief in store for which i should weep again. chapter liv. treateth of many things; but chiefly of books and poets. dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, are a substantial world, both pure and good. wordsworth. there are times when this beautiful world seems to put on a mourning garb, as if sympathizing, like a gentle mother, with the grief that consumes us; when the trees shake their arms in mute sorrow, and scatter their faded leaves like ashes on our heads; when the slow rains weep down upon us, and the very clouds look cold above. then, like hamlet the dane, we take no pleasure in the life that weighs so wearily upon us, and deem "this goodly frame, the earth, a sterile promonotory; this most excellent canopy, the air, this brave, overhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors." so it was with me, in the heavy time that followed my return to paris. i had lost everything in losing her i loved. i had no aim in life. no occupation. no hope. no rest. the clouds had rolled between me and the sun, and wrapped me in their cold shadows, and all was dark about me. i felt that i could say with an old writer--"for the world, i count it, not an inn, but an hospital; and a place, not to live, but to die in." week after week i lingered in paris, hoping against hope, and always seeking her. i had a haunting conviction that she was not far off, and that, if i only had strength to persevere, i must find her. possessed by this fixed idea, i paced the sultry streets day after day throughout the burning months of june and july; lingered at dusk and early morning about the gardens of the luxembourg, and such other quiet places as she might frequent; and, heedless alike of fatigue, or heat, or tempest, traversed the dusty city over and over again from barrier to barrier, in every direction. could i but see her once more--once only! could i but listen to her sweet voice, even though it bade me an eternal farewell! could i but lay my lips for the last, last time upon her hand, and see the tender pity in her eyes, and be comforted! seeking, waiting, sorrowing thus, i grew daily weaker and paler, scarcely conscious of my own failing strength, and indifferent to all things save one. in vain dr. chéron urged me to resume my studies. in vain müller, ever cheerful and active, came continually to my lodgings, seeking to divert my thoughts into healthier channels. in vain i received letter after letter from oscar dalrymple, imploring me to follow him to switzerland, where his wife had already joined him. i shut my eyes to all alike. study had grown hateful to me; müller's cheerfulness jarred upon me; dalrymple was too happy for my companionship. liberty to pursue my weary search, peace to brood over my sorrow, were all that i now asked. i had not yet arrived at that stage when sympathy grows precious. so weeks went by, and august came, and a slow conviction of the utter hopelessness of my efforts dawned gradually upon me. she was really gone. if she had been in paris all this time pursuing her daily avocations, i must surely have found her. where should i seek her next? what should i do with life, with time, with the future? i resolved, at all events, to relinquish medicine at once, and for ever. so i wrote a brief farewell to dr. chéron and another to müller, and without seeing either again, returned abruptly to england. i will not dwell on this part of my story; enough that i settled my affairs as quickly as might be, left an old servant in care of the solitary house that had been my birthplace, and turned my back once more on saxonholme, perhaps for years--perhaps for ever; and in less than three weeks was again on my way to the continent. the spirit of restlessness was now upon me. i had no home; i had no peace; and in place of the sun there was darkness. so i went with the thorns around my brow, and the shadow of the cross upon my breast. i went to suffer--to endure,--if possible, to forget. oh, the grief of the soul which lives on in the night, and looks for no dawning! oh, the weary weight that presses down the tired eyelids, and yet leaves them sleepless! oh, the tide of alien faces, and the sickening remembrance of one, too dear, which may never be looked upon again! i carried with me the antidote to every pleasure. in the midst of crowds, i was alone. in the midst of novelty, the one thought came, and made all stale to me. like dr. donne, i dwelt with the image of my dead self at my side. thus for many, many months we journeyed together---i and my sorrow--and passed through fair and famous places, and saw the seasons change under new skies. to the quaint old flemish cities and the gothic rhine--to the plains and passes of spain--to the unfrequented valleys of the tyrol and the glacier-lands of switzerland i went, but still found not the forgetfulness i sought. as in holbein's fresco the skeleton plays his part in every scene, so my trouble stalked beside me, drank of my cup, and sat grimly at my table. it was with me in naples and among the orange groves of sorrento. it met me amid the ruins of the roman forum. it travelled with me over the blue mediterranean, and landed beside me on the shores of the cyclades. go where i would, it possessed and followed me, and brooded over my head, like the cloud that rested on the ark. thinking over this period of my life, i seem to be turning the leaves of a rich album, or wandering through a gallery of glowing landscapes, and yet all the time to be dreaming. faces grown familiar for a few days and never seen after--pictures photographed upon the memory in all their vividness--glimpses of cathedrals, of palaces, of ruins, of sunset and storm, sea and shore, flit before me for a moment, and are gone like phantasmagoria. and like phantasmagoria they impressed me at the time. nothing seemed real to me. startled, now and then, into admiration or wonder, my apathy fell from me like a garment, and my heart throbbed again as of old. but this was seldom--so seldom that i could almost count the times when it befell me. thus it was that travelling did me no permanent good. it enlarged my experience; it undoubtedly cultivated my taste; but it brought me neither rest, nor sympathy, nor consolation. on the contrary, it widened the gulf between me and my fellow-men. i formed no friendships. i kept up no correspondence. a sojourner in hotels, i became more and more withdrawn from all tender and social impulses, and almost forgot the very name of home. so strong a hold did this morbid love of self-isolation take upon me, that i left florence on one occasion, after a stay of only three days, because i had seen the names of a saxonholme family among the list of arrivals in the giornale toscano. three years went by thus--three springs--three vintages--three winters--till, weary of wandering, i began to ask myself "what next?" my old passion for books had, in the meantime, re-asserted itself, and i longed once more for quiet. i knew not that my pilgrimage was hopeless. i know that i loved her ever; that i could never forget her; that although the first pangs were past, i yet must bear "all the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, all the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!" i reasoned with myself. i resolved to be stronger--at all events, to be calmer. exhausted and world-worn, i turned in thought to my native village among the green hills, to my deserted home, and the great solitary study with its busts and bookshelves, and its vista of neglected garden. the rooms where my mother died; where my father wrote; where, as a boy, i dreamed and studied, would at least have memories for me. perhaps, silently underlying all these motives, i may at this time already have begun to entertain one other project which was not so much a motive as a hope--not so much a hope as a half-seen possibility. i had written verses from time to time all my life long, and of late they had come to me more abundantly than ever. they flowed in upon me at times like an irresistible tide; at others they ebbed away for weeks, and seemed as if gone for ever. it was a power over which i had no control, and sought to have none. i never tried to make verses; but, when the inspiration was upon me, i made them, as it were, in spite of myself. my desk was full of them in time--sonnets, scraps of songs, fragments of blank verse, attempts in all sorts of queer and rugged metres--hexameters, pentameters, alcaics, and the like; with, here and there, a dialogue out of an imaginary tragedy, or a translation from some italian or german poet. this taste grew by degrees, to be a rare and subtle pleasure to me. my rhymes became my companions, and when the interval of stagnation came, i was restless and lonely till it passed away. at length there came an hour (i was lying, i remember, on a ledge of turf on a mountain-side, overlooking one of the italian valleys of the alps), when i asked myself for the first time-- "am i also a poet?" i had never dreamed of it, never thought of it, never even hoped it, till that moment. i had scribbled on, idly, carelessly, out of what seemed a mere facile impulse, correcting nothing; seldom even reading what i had written, after it was committed to paper. i had sometimes been pleased with a melodious cadence or a happy image--sometimes amused with my own flow of thought and readiness of versification; but that i, simple basil arbuthnot, should be, after all, enriched with this splendid gift of song--was it mad presumption, or were these things proof? i knew not; but lying on the parched grass of the mountain-side, i tried the question over in my mind, this way and that, till "my heart beat in my brain," how should i come at the truth? how should i test whether this opening paradise was indeed eden, or only the mirage of my fancy--mere sunshine upon sand? we all write verses at some moment or other in our lives, even the most prosaic amongst us--some because they are happy; some because they are sad; some because the living fire of youth impels them, and they must be up and doing, let the work be what it may. "many fervent souls, strike rhyme on rhyme, who would strike steel on steel, if steel had offer'd." was this case mine? was i fancying myself a poet, only because i was an idle man, and had lost the woman i loved? to answer these questions myself was impossible. they could only be answered by the public voice, and before i dared question that oracle i had much to do. i resolved to discipline myself to the harness of rhythm. i resolved to go back to the fathers of poetry--to graduate once again in homer and dante, chaucer and shakespeare. i promised myself that, before i tried my wings in the sun, i would be my own severest critic. nay, more--that i would never try them so long as it seemed possible a fall might come of it. once come to this determination, i felt happier and more hopeful than i had felt for the last three years. i looked across the blue mists of the valley below, and up to the aerial peaks which rose, faint, and far, and glittering--mountain beyond mountain, range above range, as if painted on the thin, transparent air--and it seemed to me that they stood by, steadfast and silent, the witnesses of my resolve. "i will be strong," i said. "i will be an idler and a dreamer no longer. books have been my world. i have taken all, and given nothing. now i too will work, and work to prove that i was not unworthy of her love." going down, by-and-by, into the valley as the shadows were lengthening, i met a traveller with an open book in his hand. he was an englishman--small, sallow, wiry, and wore a gray, loose coat, with two large pockets full of books. i had met him once before at milan, and again in a steamer on lago maggiore. he was always reading. he read in the diligence--he read when he was walking--he read all through dinner at the _tables-d'-hôte_. he had a mania for reading; and, might, in fact, be said to be bound up in his own library. meeting thus on the mountain, we fell into conversation. he told me that he was on his way to geneva, that he detested continental life, and that he was only waiting the arrival of certain letters before starting for england. "but," said i, "you do not, perhaps, give continental life a trial. you are always absorbed in the pages of a book; and, as for the scenery, you appear not to observe it." "deuce take the scenery!" he exclaimed, pettishly. "i never look at it. all scenery's alike. trees, mountains, water--water, mountains, trees; the same thing over and over again, like the bits of colored glass in a kaleidoscope. i read about the scenery, and that is quite enough for me." "but no book can paint an italian lake or an alpine sunset; and when one is on the spot...." "i beg your pardon," interrupted the traveller in gray. "everything is much pleasanter and more picturesque in books than in reality--travelling especially. there are no bad smells in books. there are no long bills in books. above all, there are no mosquitoes. travelling is the greatest mistake in the world, and i am going home as fast as i can." "and henceforth, i suppose, your travels will be confined to your library," i said, smiling. "exactly so. i may say, with hazlitt, that 'food, warmth, sleep, and a book,' are all i require. with those i may make the tour of the world, and incur neither expense nor fatigue." "books, after all, are friends," i said, with a sigh. "sir," replied the traveller, waving his hand somewhat theatrically, "books are our first real friends, and our last. i have no others. i wish for no others. i rely upon no others. they are the only associates upon whom a sensible man may depend. they are always wise, and they are always witty. they never intrude upon us when we desire to be alone. they never speak ill of us behind our backs. they are never capricious, and never surly; neither are they, like some clever folks, pertinaciously silent when we most wish them to shine. did shakespeare ever refuse his best thoughts to us, or montaigne decline to be companionable? did you ever find molière dull? or lamb prosy? or scott unentertaining?" "you remind me," said i, laughing, "of the student in chaucer, who desired for his only pleasure and society, "'---at his bedde's head a'twenty bokes clothed in black and red, of aristotle and his philosophy!'" "ay," replied my new acquaintance, "but he preferred them expressly to 'robes riche, or fidel or sautrie,' whereas, i prefer them to men and women, and to aristotle and his philosophy, into the bargain!" "your own philosophy, at least, is admirable," said i. "for many a year--i might almost say for most years of my life--i have been a disciple in the same school." "sir, you cannot belong to a better. think of the convenience of always carrying half a dozen intimate friends in your pocket! good-afternoon." we had now come to a point where two paths diverged, and the reading traveller, always economical of time, opened his book where he had last turned down the leaf, and disappeared round the corner. i never saw him again; but his theory amused me, and, as trifles will sometimes do even in the gravest matters, decided me. so the result of all my hopes and reflections was, that i went back to england and to the student life that had been the dream of my youth. chapter lv. my birthday. three years of foreign travel, and five of retirement at home, brought my twenty-ninth birthday. i was still young, it is true; but how changed from that prime of early manhood when i used to play romeo at midnight to hortense upon her balcony! i looked at myself in the glass that morning, and contemplated the wearied, bronzed, and bearded face which "...seared by toil and something touched by time," now gave me back glance for glance. i looked older than my age by many years. my eyes had grown grave with a steadfast melancholy, and streaks of premature silver gleamed here and there in the still abundant hair which had been the solitary vanity of my youth. "is she also thus changed and faded?" i asked myself, as i turned away. and then i sighed to think that if we met she might not know me. for i loved her still; worshipped her; raised altars to her in the dusky chambers of my memory. my whole life was dedicated to her. my best thoughts were hers. my poems, my ambition, my hours of labor, all were hers only! i knew now that no time could change the love which had so changed me, or dim the sweet remembrance of that face which i carried for ever at my heart like an amulet. other women might be fair, but my eyes never sought them; other voices might be sweet, but my ear never listened to them; other hands might be soft, but my lips never pressed them. she was the only woman in all my world--the only star in all my night--the one eve of my ruined paradise. in a word, i loved her--loved her, i think, more dearly than before i lost her. "love is not love which alters when it alteration finds, or bends with the remover to remove: o no! it is an ever-fixed mark, that looks on tempests and is never shaken." i had that morning received by post a parcel of london papers and magazines, which, for a foolish reason of my own, i almost dreaded to open; so, putting off the evil hour, i thrust the ominous parcel into my pocket and went out to read it in some green solitude, far away among the lonely hills and tracts of furzy common that extend for miles and miles around my native place. it was a delicious autumn morning, bright and fresh and joyous as spring. the purple heather was all abloom along the slopes of the hill-sides. the golden sandcliffs glittered in the sun. the great firwoods reached away over heights and through valleys--"grand and spiritual trees," pointing ever upward with warning finger, like the apostles in the old italian pictures. now i passed a solitary farm-yard where busy laborers were piling the latest stacks; now met a group of happy children gathering wild nuts and blackberries. by-and-by, i came upon a great common, with a picturesque mill standing high against the sky. all around and about stretched a vast prospect of woodland and tufted heath, bounded far off by a range of chalk-hills speckled with farm-houses and villages, and melting towards the west into a distance faint and far, and mystic as the horizon of a turner. here i threw myself on the green turf and rested. truly, nature is a great "physician of souls." the peace of the place descended into my heart, and hushed for a while the voice of its repinings. the delicious air, the living silence of the woods, the dreamy influences of the autumnal sunshine, all alike served to lull me into a pleasant mood, neither gay nor sad, but very calm--calm enough for the purpose for which i had come. so i brought out my packet of papers, summoned all my philosophy to my aid, and met my own name upon the second page. for here was, as i had anticipated, a critique on my first volume of poems. indifference to criticism, if based upon a simple consciousness of moral right, is a noble thing. but indifference to criticism, taken in its ordinary, and especially its literary sense, is generally a very small thing, and resolves itself, for the most part, into a halting and one-sided kind of stoicism, meaning indifference to blame and ridicule, and never indifference to praise. it is very convenient to the disappointed authorling; very effective, in the established writer; but it is mere vanity at the root, and equally contemptible in both. for my part, i confess that i came to my trial as tremblingly as any poor caitiff to the fiery ordeal, and finding myself miraculously clear of the burning ploughshares, was quite as full of wonder and thankfulness at my good fortune. for i found my purposes appreciated, and my best thoughts understood; not, it is true, without some censure, but it was censure tempered so largely with encouragement that i drew hope from it, and not despondency. and then i thought of hortense, and, picturing to myself all the joy it would have been to lay these things at her feet, i turned my face to the grass, and wept like a child. then, one by one, the ghosts of my dead hopes rose out of the grave of the past and vanished "into thin air" before me; and in their place came earnest aspirations, born of the man's strong will. i resolved to use wisely the gifts that were mine--to sing well the song that had risen to my lips--to "seize the spirit of my time," and turn to noble uses the god-given weapons of the poet. so should i be worthier of her remembrance, if she yet remembered me--worthier, at all events, to remember her. thus the hours ebbed, and when i at length rose and turned my face homeward, the golden day was already bending westward. lower and lower sank the sun as the miles shortened; stiller and sweeter grew the evening air; and ever my lengthening shadow travelled before me along the dusty road--wherein i was more fortunate than the man in the german story who sold his to the devil. it was quite dusk by the time i gained the outskirts of the town, and i reflected with much contentment upon the prospect of a cosy bachelor dinner, and, after dinner, lamplight and a book. "if you please, sir," said collins, "a lady has been here." collins--the same collins who had been my father's servant when i was a boy at home--was now a grave married man, with hair fast whitening. "a lady?" i echoed. "one of my cousins, i suppose, from effingham." "no, sir," said collins. "a strange lady--a foreigner." a stranger! a foreigner! i felt myself change color. "she left her name?" i asked. "her card, sir," said collins, and handed it to me. i took it up with fingers that shook in spite of me and read:-- madlle de sainte aulaire. i dropped the card, with a sigh of profound disappointment. "at what time did this lady call, collins?" "not very long after you left the house, sir. she said she would call again. she is at the white horse." "she shall not have the trouble of coming here," i said, drawing my chair to the table. "send james up to the white horse with my compliments, and say that i will wait upon the lady in about an hour's time." collins darted away to despatch the message, and returning presently with the pale ale, uncorked it dexterously, and stood at the side-board, serenely indifferent. "and what kind of person was this--this mademoiselle de sainte aulaire, collins?" i asked, leisurely bisecting a partridge. "can't say, sir, indeed. lady kept her veil down." "humph! tall or short, collins?" "rather tall, sir." "young?" "haven't an idea, sir. voice very pleasant, though." a pleasant voice has always a certain attraction for me. hortense's voice was exquisite--rich and low, and somewhat deeper than the voices of most women. i took up the card again. mademoiselle de sainte aulaire! where had i heard that name? "she said nothing of the nature of her business, i suppose, collins?" "nothing at all, sir. dear me, sir, i beg pardon for not mentioning it before; but there's been a messenger over from the white horse, since the lady left, to know if you were yet home." "then she is in haste?" "very uncommon haste, i should say, sir," replied collins, deliberately. i pushed back the untasted dish, and rose directly. "you should have told me this before," i said, hastily. "but--but surely, sir, you will dine--" "i will wait for nothing," i interrupted. "i'll go at once. had i known the lady's business was urgent, i would not have delayed a moment." collins cast a mournful glance at the table, and sighed respect fully. before he had recovered from his amazement, i was half way to the inn. the white horse was now the leading hostelry of saxonholme. the old red lion was no more. its former host and hostess were dead; a brewery occupied its site; and the white horse was kept by a portly boniface, who had been head-waiter under the extinct dynasty. but there had been many changes in saxonholme since my boyish days, and this was one of the least among them. i was shown into the best sitting-room, preceded by a smart waiter in a white neckcloth. at a glance i took in all the bearings of the scene--the table with its untasted dessert; the shaded lamp; the closed curtains of red damask; the thoughtful figure in the easy chair. although the weather was yet warm, a fire blazed in the grate; but the windows were open behind the crimson curtains, and the evening air stole gently in. it was like stepping into a picture by gerard dow, so closed, so glowing, so rich in color. "mr. arbuthnot," said the smart waiter, flinging the door very wide open, and lingering to see what might follow. the lady rose slowly, bowed, waved her hand towards a chair at some distance from her own, and resumed her seat. the waiter reluctantly left the room. "i had not intended, sir, to give you the trouble of coming here," said mademoiselle de sainte aulaire, using her fan as a handscreen, and speaking in a low, and, as it seemed to me, a somewhat constrained voice. i could not see her face, but something in the accent made my heart leap. "pray do not name it, madam," i said. "it is nothing." she bent her head, as if thanking me, and went on:-- "i have come to this place," she said, "in order to prosecute certain inquiries which are of great importance to myself. may i ask if you are a native of saxonholme?" "i am." "were you here in the year --?" "i was." "will you give me leave to test your memory respecting some events that took place about that time?" "by all means." mademoiselle de sainte aulaire thanked me with a gesture, withdrew her chair still farther from the radius of the lamp and the tire, and said:-- "i must entreat your patience if i first weary you with one or two particulars of my family history," "madam, i listen." during the brief pause that ensued, i tried vainly to distinguish something more of her features. i could only trace the outline of a slight and graceful figure, the contour of a very slender hand, and the ample folds of a dark silk dress. at length, in a low, sweet voice, she began:-- "not to impose upon you any dull genealogical details," she said, "i will begin by telling you that the sainte aulaires are an ancient french family of bearnais extraction, and that my grandfather was the last marquis who bore the title. holding large possessions in the _comtat_ of venaissin (a district which now forms part of the department of vaucluse) and other demesnes at montlhéry, in the province of the ile de france---" "at montlhéry!" i exclaimed, suddenly recovering the lost link in my memory. "the sainte aulaires," continued the lady, without pausing to notice my interruption, "were sufficiently wealthy to keep up their social position, and to contract alliances with many of the best families in the south of france. towards the early part of the reign of louis xiii. they began to be conspicuous at court, and continued to reside in and near paris up to the period of the revolution. marshals of france, envoys, and ministers of state during a period of nearly a century and a half, the sainte aulaires had enjoyed too many honors not to be among the first of those who fell in the reign of terror. my grandfather, who, as i have already said, was the last marquis bearing the title, was seized with his wife and daughter at his château near montlhéry in the spring-time of , and carried to la force. thence, after a mock trial, they were all three conveyed to execution, and publicly guillotined on the sixth of june in the same year. do you follow me?" "perfectly." "one survivor, however, remained in the person of charles armand, prévôt de sainte aulaire, only son of the marquis, then a youth of seventeen years of age, and pursuing his studies in the seclusion of an old family seat in vaucluse. he fled into italy. in the meantime, his inheritance was confiscated; and the last representative of the race, reduced to exile and beggary, assumed another name. it were idle to attempt to map out his life through the years that followed. he wandered from land to land; lived none knew how; became a tutor, a miniature-painter, a volunteer at naples under general pepe, a teacher of languages in london, corrector of the press to a publishing house in brussels--everything or anything, in short, by which he could honorably earn his bread. during these years of toil and poverty, he married. the lady was an orphan, of scotch extraction, poor and proud as himself, and governess in a school near brussels. she died in the third year of their union, and left him with one little daughter. this child became henceforth his only care and happiness. while she was yet a mere infant, he placed her in the school where her mother had been teacher. there she remained, first as pupil, by-and-by as governess, for more than sixteen years. the child was called by an old family name that had been her grandmother's and her great-grandmother's in the high and palmy days of the sainte aulaires--hortense." "hortense!" i cried, rising from my chair. "it is not an uncommon name," said the lady. "does it surprise you?" "i--i beg your pardon, madam," i stammered, resuming my seat. "i once had a dear friend of that name. pray, go on." "for ten years the refugee contrived to keep his little hortense in the safe and pleasant shelter of her flemish home. he led a wandering life, no one knew where; and earned his money, no one knew how. travel-worn and careworn, he was prematurely aged, and at fifty might well have been mistaken for a man of sixty-five or seventy. poor and broken as he was, however, monsieur de sainte aulaire was every inch a gentleman of the old school; and his little girl was proud of him, when he came to the school to see her. this, however, was very seldom--never oftener than twice or three times in the year. when she saw him for the last time, hortense was about thirteen years of age. he looked paler, and thinner, and poorer than ever; and when he bade her farewell, it was as if under the presentiment that they might meet no more. he then told her, for the first time, something of his story, and left with her at parting a small coffer containing his decorations, a few trinkets that had been his mother's, and his sword--the badge of his nobility." the lady's voice faltered. i neither spoke nor stirred, but sat like a man of stone. then she went on again:-- "the father never came again. the child, finding herself after a certain length of time thrown upon the charity of her former instructors, was glad to become under-teacher in their school. the rest of her history may be told in a few words. from under-teacher she became head-teacher, and at eighteen passed as governess into a private family. at twenty she removed to paris, and set foot for the first time in the land of her fathers. all was now changed in france. the bourbons reigned again, and her father, had he reappeared, might have reclaimed his lost estates. she sought him far and near. she employed agents to discover him. she could not believe that he was dead. to be once again clasped in his arms--to bring him back to his native country---to see him resume his name and station--this was the bright dream of her life. to accomplish these things she labored in many ways, teaching and writing; for hortense also was proud--too proud to put forward an unsupported claim. for with her father were lost the title-deeds and papers that might have made the daughter wealthy, and she had no means of proving her identity. still she labored heartily, lived poorly, and earned enough to push her inquiries far and wide--even to journey hither and thither, whenever she fancied, alas! that a clue had been found. twice she travelled into switzerland, and once into italy, but always in vain. the exile had too well concealed, even from her, his _sobriquet_ and his calling, and hortense at last grew weary of failure. one fact, however, she succeeded in discovering, and only one--namely, that her father had, many years before, made some attempt to establish his claims to the estates, but that he had failed for want either of sufficient proof, or of means to carry on the _procés_. of even this circumstance only a meagre law-record remained, and she could succeed in learning no more. since then, a claim has been advanced by a remote branch of the sainte aulaire family, and the cause is, even now, in course of litigation." she paused, as if fatigued by so long talking; but, seeing me about to speak, prevented me with a gesture of the hand, and resumed:-- "hortense de ste. aulaire continued to live in paris for nearly five years, at the end of which time she left it to seek out the members of her mother's family. finding them kindly disposed towards her, she took up her abode amongst them in the calm seclusion of a remote scotch town. there, even there, she still hoped, still employed agents; still yearned to discover, if not her father, at least her father's grave. several years passed thus. she continued to earn a modest subsistence by her pen, till at length the death of one of those scotch relatives left her mistress of a small inheritance. money was welcome, since it enabled her to pursue her task with renewed vigor. she searched farther and deeper. a trivial circumstance eagerly followed up brought a train of other circumstances to light. she discovered that her father had assumed a certain name; she found that the bearer of this name was a wandering man, a conjuror by trade; she pursued the vague traces of his progress from town to town, from county to county, sometimes losing, sometimes regaining the scattered links. sir, he was my father--i am that hortense. i have spent my life seeking him--i have lived for this one hope. i have traced his footsteps here to saxonholme, and here the last clue fails. if you know anything--if you can remember anything---" calm and collected as she had been at first, she was trembling now, and her voice died away in sobs. the firelight fell upon her face--upon the face of my lost love! i also was profoundly agitated. "hortense," i said, "do you not know, that he who stood beside your father in his last hour, and he who so loved you years ago, are one and the same? alas! why did you not tell me these things long since?" "did _you_ stand beside my father's deathbed?" she asked brokenly. "i did." she clasped her hands over her eyes and shuddered, as if beneath the pressure of a great physical pain. "o god!" she murmured, "so many years of denial and suffering! so many years of darkness that might have been dispelled by a word!" we were both silent for a long time. then i told her all that i remembered of her father; how he came to saxonholme--how he fell ill--how he died, and was buried. it was a melancholy recital; painful for me to relate--painful for her to hear--and interrupted over and over again by questions and tears, and bursts of unavailing sorrow. "we will visit his grave to-morrow," i said, when all was told. she bent her head. "to-morrow, then," said she, "i end the pilgrimage of years." "and--and afterwards?" i faltered. "afterwards? alas! friend, when the hopes of years fall suddenly to dust and ashes, one feels as if there were no future to follow?" "it is true," i said gloomily. "i know it too well." "you know it?" she exclaimed, looking up. "i know it, hortense. there was a moment in which all the hope, and the fulness, and the glory of my life went down at a blow. have you not heard of ships that have gone to the bottom in fair weather, suddenly, with all sail set, and every hand on board?" she looked at me with a strange earnestness in her eyes, and sighed heavily. "what have you been doing all this time, fellow-student?" she asked, after a pause. the old name sounded very sweet upon her lips! "i? alas!--nothing." "but you are a surgeon, are you not?" "no. i never even went up for examination. i gave up all idea of medicine as a profession when my father died." "what are you, then?" "an idler upon the great highway--a book-dreamer--a library fixture." hortense looked at me thoughtfully, with her cheek resting on her hand. "have you done nothing but read and dream?" "not quite. i have travelled." "with what object?" "a purely personal one. i was alone and unhappy, and--" "and fancied that purposeless wandering was better for you than healthy labor. well, you have travelled, and you have read books. what more?" "nothing more, except--" "except what?" i chanced to have one of the papers in my pocket, and so drew it out, and placed it before her. "i have been a rhymer as well as a dreamer," i said, shyly. "perhaps the rhymes grew out of the dreams, as the dreams themselves grew out of something else which has been underlying my life this many a year. at all events i have hewn a few of them into shape, and trusted them to paper and type--and here is a critique which came to me this morning with some three or four others." she took the paper with a smile half of wonder, half of kindness, and, glancing quickly through it, said:-- "this is well. this is very well. i must read the book. will you lend it to me?" "i will give it to you," i replied; "if i can give you that which is already yours." "already mine?" "yes, as the poet in me, however worthless, is all and only yours! do you suppose, hortense, that i have ever ceased to love you? as my songs are born of my sorrow, so my sorrow was born of my love; and love, and sorrow, and song, such as they are, are of your making." "hush!" she said, with something of her old gay indifference. "your literary sins must not be charged upon me, fellow-student! i have enough of my own to answer for. besides, i am not going to acquit you so easily. granted that you have written a little book of poetry--what then? have you done nothing else? nothing active? nothing manly? nothing useful?" "if by usefulness and activity you mean manual labor, i certainly have neither felled a tree, nor ploughed a field, nor hammered a horse-shoe. i have lived by thought alone." "then i fear you have lived a very idle life," said hortense, smiling. "are you married?" "married!" i echoed, indignantly. "how can you ask the question?" "you are not a magistrate?" "certainly not." "in short, then, you are perfectly useless. you play no part, domestic or public. you serve neither the state nor the community. you are a mere cypher--a make-weight in the social scale--an article of no value to any one except the owner." "not even the latter, mademoiselle," i replied, bitterly. "it is long since i have ceased to value my own life." she smiled again, but her eyes this time were full of tears. "nay," said she, softly, "am i not the owner?" * * * * * great joys at first affect us like great griefs. we are stunned by them, and know not how deep they are till the night comes with its solemn stillness, and we are alone with our own hearts. then comes the season of thankfulness, and wonder and joy. then our souls rise up within us, and chant a hymn of praise; and the great vault of heaven is as the roof of a mighty cathedral studded with mosaics of golden stars, and the night winds join in with the bass of their mighty organ-pipes; and the poplars rustle, like the leaves of the hymn-books in the hands of the congregation. so it was with me that evening when i went forth into the quiet fields where the summer moon was shining, and knew that hortense was mine at last--mine now and for ever. overjoyed and restless, i wandered about for hours. i could not go home. i felt i must breathe the open air of the hills, and tread the dewy grass, and sing my hymn of praise and thanksgiving after my own fashion. at length, as the dawning light came widening up the east, i turned my steps homewards, and before the sun had risen above the farthest pine-ridge, i was sleeping the sweetest sleep that had been mine for years. the conjuror's grave was green with grass and purple with wild thyme when hortense knelt beside it, and there consummated the weary pilgrimage of half a life. the sapling willow had spread its arms above him in a pleasant canopy, leaning farther and reaching higher, year by year, "and lo! the twig to which they laid his head had now become a tree!" hortense found nothing of her father but this grave. papers and title-deeds there were none. i well remembered the anxious search made thirteen years ago, when not even a card was found to indicate the whereabouts of his friends or family. not to lose the vestige of a chance, we pushed inquiry farther; but in vain. our rector, now a very old man, remembered nothing of the wandering lecturer. mine host and hostess of the red lion were both dead. the red lion itself had disappeared, and become a thing of tradition. all was lost and forgotten; and of all her hereditary wealth, station, and honors, hortense de sainte aulaire retained nothing but her father's sword and her ancestral name. --not even the latter for many weeks, o discerning reader! for before the golden harvest was gathered in, we two were wedded. chapter lvi. bringeth this true story to an end. ye who have traced the pilgrim to the scene which is his last, if in your memories dwell a thought that once was his, if on ye swell a single recollection, not in vain he wore his sandal shoon and scallop-shell. byron. having related the story of my life as it happened, incident by incident, and brought it down to that point at which stories are wont to end, i find that i have little to add respecting others. my narrative from first to last has been purely personal. the one love of my life was hortense--the one friend of my life, oscar dalrymple. the catalogue of my acquaintances would scarcely number so many names as i have fingers on one hand. the two first are still mine; the latter, having been brought forward only in so far as they re-acted upon my feelings or modified my experiences, have become, for the most part, mere memories, and so vanish, ghost-like, from the page. franz müller is studying in rome, having carried off a prize at the ecole des beaux arts, which entitles him to three years at the villa medici, that ultima thule of the french art-student's ambition. i hear that he is as full of whim and jest as ever, and the very life of the café greco. may i some day hear his pleasant laugh again! dr. chéron, i believe, is still practising in paris; and monsieur de simoncourt, i have no doubt, continues to exercise the profession of chevalier d'industrie, with such failures and successes as are incidental to that career. as for my early _amourettes_, they have disappeared from my path as utterly as though they had never crossed it. of madame de marignan, i have neither heard, nor desired to hear, more. even josephine's pretty face is fast fading from my memory. it is ever thus with the transient passions of _our première jeunesse._ we believe in them for the moment, and waste laughter and tears, chaplets and sackcloth, upon them. presently the delusion passes; the earnest heart within us is awakened; and we know that till now we have been mere actors in "a masquerade of dreams." the chaplets were woven of artificial flowers. the funeral was a mock funeral--the banquet a stage feast of painted fruits and empty goblets! alas! we cannot undo that foolish past. we may only hope to blot it out with after records of high, and wise, and tender things. thus it is that the young man's heart is like the precious palimpsest of old. he first of all defiles it with idle anacreontics in praise of love and wine; but, erasing these by-and-by with his own pious hand, he writes it over afresh with chronicles of a pure and holy passion, and dedicates it to the fair saint of all his orisons. dalrymple and his wife are now settled in italy, having purchased a villa in the neighborhood of spezzia, where they live in great retirement. in their choice of such retirement they are influenced by more than one good reason. in the first place, the death of the vicomte de caylus was an event likely to be productive of many unpleasant consequences to one who had deprived the french government of so distinguished an officer. in the next, dalrymple is a poor man, and his wife is no longer rich; so that italy agrees with their means as well as with their tastes. lastly, they love each other so well that they never weary of their solitude, nor care to barter away their blue italian skies and solemn pine-woods for the glittering unrest of society. fascinated by dalrymple's description of his villa and the life he led in it, hortense and i made up our minds some few weeks after our marriage, to visit that part of italy--perhaps, in case we were much pleased with it, to settle there, for at least a few years. so i prepared once more to leave my father's house; this time to let it, for i knew that i should never live in it again. it took some weeks to clear the old place out. the thing was necessary; yet i felt as if it were a kind of sacrilege. to disturb the old dust upon the library-shelves and select such books as i cared to keep; to sort and destroy all kinds of hoarded papers; to ransack desks that had never been unlocked since the hands that last closed them were laid to rest for ever, constituted my share of the work. hortense superintended the rest. as for the household goods, we resolved to keep nothing, save a few old family portraits and my father's plate, some of which had descended to us through two or three centuries. while yet in this unsettled state, with the house all in confusion and the time appointed for our journey drawing nearer and nearer day by day, a strange thing happened. at the end of the garden, encroaching partly upon a corner of it, and opening into the lane that bounded it on the other side of the hedge, stood the stable belonging to the house. it had been put to no use since my father's time, and was now so thoroughly out of repair that i resolved to have it pulled down and rebuilt before letting it to strangers. in the meantime, i went down there one morning with a workman before the work of demolition was begun. we had some difficulty to get in, for the lock and hinges were rusted, and the floor within was choked with fallen rubbish. at length we forced an entrance. i thought i had never seen a more dreary interior. my father's old chaise was yet standing there, with both wheels off. the mouldy harness was dropping to pieces on the walls. the beams were festooned with cobwebs. the very ladder leading to the loft above was so rotten that i scarcely dared trust to it for a footing. having trusted to it, however, i found myself in a still more ruinous and dreary hole. the posts supporting the roof were insecure; the tiles were all displaced overhead; and the rafters showed black and bare against the sky in many places. in one corner lay a heap of mouldy straw, and at the farther end, seen dimly through the darkness, a pile of old lumber, and--by heaven! the pagoda-canopy of many colors, and the little chevalier's conjuring table! i could scarcely believe my eyes. my poor hortense! here, at last, were some relics of her father; but found in how strange a place, and by how strange a chance! i had them dragged out into the light, all mildewed and cob-webbed as they were; whereupon an army of spiders rushed out in every direction, a bat rose up, shrieking, and whirled in blind circles overhead. in a corner of the pagoda we found an empty bird's-nest. the table was small, and could be got out without much difficulty; so i helped the workman to carry it down the ladder, and sending it on before me to the house, sauntered back through the glancing shadows of the acacia-leaves, musing upon the way in which these long-forgotten things had been brought to light, and wondering how they came to be stored away in my own stable. "do you know anything about it, collins?" i said, coming up suddenly behind him in the hall. "about what, sir?" asked that respectable servant, looking round with some perplexity, as if in search of the nominative. i pointed to the table, now being carried into the dismantled dining-room. collins smiled--he had a remarkably civil, apologetic way of smiling behind his hand, as if it were a yawn or a liberty. "oh, sir," said he, "don't you remember? to be sure, you were quite a young gentleman at that time--but---" "but what?" i interrupted, impatiently. "why, sir, that table once belonged to a poor little conjuring chap who called himself almond pudding, and died...." i checked him with a gesture. "i know all that," i said, hastily. "i remember it perfectly; but how came the things into my stable?" "your respected father and my honored master, sir, had them conveyed there when the red lion was sold off," said collins, with a sidelong glance at the dining-room door. "he was of opinion, sir, that they might some day identify the poor man to his relatives, in case of inquiry." i heard the sound of a suppressed sob, and, brushing past him without another word, went in and closed the door. "my own hortense!" i said, taking her into my arms. "my wife!" pale and tearful, she lifted her face from my shoulder, and pointed to the table. "i know what it is," she faltered. "you need not tell me. my heart tells me!" i led her to a chair, and explained how and where it had been found. i even told her of the little empty nest from which the young birds had long since flown away. in this tiny incident there was something pathetic that soothed her; so, presently, when she left off weeping, we examined the table together. it was a quaint, fragile, ricketty thing, with slender twisted legs of black wood, and a cloth-covered top that had once been green, but now retained no vestige of its original color. this cloth top was covered with slender slits of various shapes and sizes, round, square, sexagonal, and so forth, which, being pressed with the finger, fell inwards and disclosed little hiding-places sunk in the well of the table; but which, as soon as the pressure was removed, flew up again by means of concealed springs, and closed as neatly as before. "this is strange," said hortense, peering into one of the recesses. "i have found something in the table! look--it is a watch!" i snatched it from her, and carried it to the window. blackened and discolored as it was, i recognised it instantly. it was my own watch--my own watch of which i was so boyishly vain years and years ago, and which i had lost so unaccountably on the night of the chevalier's performance! there were my initials engraved on the back, amid a forest of flourishes, and there on the dial was that identical little cupid with the cornucopia of flowers, which i once thought such a miracle of workmanship! alas! what a mighty march old time had stolen upon me, while that little watch was standing still! "oh, heaven!--oh, husband!" startled from my reverie more by the tone than the words, i turned and saw hortense with a packet of papers in her hand--old, yellow, dusty papers, tied together with a piece of black ribbon. "i found them there--there--there!" she faltered, pointing to a drawer in the table which i now saw for the first time. "i chanced to press that little knob, and the drawer flew out. oh, my dear father!--see, basil, here are his patents of nobility--here is the certificate of my birth--here are the title-deeds of the manor of sainte aulaire! this alone was wanted to complete our happiness!" "we will keep the table, hortense, all our lives!" i explained, when the first agitation was past. "as sacredly," replied she, "as it kept this precious secret!" * * * * * my task is done. here on my desk lies the piled-up manuscript which has been my companion through so many pleasant hours. those hours are over now. i may lay down my pen, and put aside the whispering vine-leaves from my casement, and lean out into the sweet italian afternoon, as idly as though i wore to the climate and the manner born. the world to-day is only half awake. the little white town, crouched down by the "beached margent" of the bay, winks with its glittering windows and dozes in the sunshine. the very cicalas are silent. the fishermen's barques, with their wing-like sails all folded to rest, rock lazily at anchor, like sea-birds asleep. the cork-trees nod languidly to each other; and not even yonder far-away marble peaks are more motionless than that cloud which hangs like a white banner in the sky. hush! i can almost believe that i hear the drowsy washing of the tide against the ruined tower on the beach. and this is the bay of spezzia--the lovely, treacherous bay of spezzia, where our english shelley lost his gentle life! how blue those cruel waters are to-day! bluer, by heaven! than the sky, with scarce a ripple setting to the shore. we are very happy in our remote italian home. it stands high upon a hill-side, and looks down over a slope of silvery olives to the sea. vineyard and orange grove, white town, blue bay, and amber sands lie mapped out beneath our feet. not a felucca "to spezzia bound from cape circella" can sail past without our observation. "not a sun can die, nor yet be born, unseen by dwellers at my villa." nay, from this very window, one might almost pitch an orange into the empty vettura standing in the courtyard of the croce di malta! then we have a garden--a wild, uncultured place, where figs and lemons, olives "blackening sullen ripe," and prickly aloes flourish in rank profusion, side by side; and a loggia, where we sit at twilight drinking our chianti wine and listening to the nightingales; and a study looking out on the bay through a trellis of vine-leaves, where we read and write together, surrounded by our books. here, also, just opposite my desk, hangs müller's copy of that portrait of the marquise de sainte aulaire, which i once gave to hortense, and which is now my own again. how often i pause upon the unturned page, how often lay my pen aside, to look from the painting to the dear, living face beneath it! for there she sits, day after day, my wife! my poet! with the side-light falling on her hair, and the warm sea-breezes stirring the soft folds of her dress. sometimes she lifts her eyes, those wondrous eyes, luminous from within "with the light of the rising soul"--and then we talk awhile of our work, or of our love, believing ever that "our work shall still be better for our love, and still our love be sweeter for our work." perhaps the original of that same painting in the study may yet be ours some day, with the old château in which it hangs, and all the broad lands belonging thereunto. our claim has been put forward some time now, and our lawyers are confident of success. shall we be happier, if that success is ours? can rank add one grace, or wealth one pleasure, to a life which is already so perfect? i think not, and there are moments when i almost wish that we may never have it in our power to test the question. but stay! the hours fly past. the sun is low, and the tender italian twilight will soon close in. then, when the moon rises, we shall sail out upon the bay in our own tiny felucca; or perhaps go down through the town to that white villa gleaming out above the dark tops of yonder cypresses, and spend some pleasant hours with dalrymple and his wife. they, too, are very happy; but their happiness is of an older date than ours, and tends to other ends. they have bought lands in the neighborhood, which they cultivate; and they have children whom they adore. to educate these little ones for the wide world lying beyond that blue bay and the far-off mountains, is the one joy, the one care of their lives. truly has it been said that "a happy family is but an earlier heaven." the end. none confessions of a young man by george moore introduction by floyd dell introduction these "confessions of a young man" constitute one of the most significant documents of the passionate revolt of english literature against the victorian tradition. it is significant because it reveals so clearly the sources of that revolt. it is in a sense the history of an epoch--an epoch that is just closing. it represents one of the great discoveries of english literature: a discovery that had been made from time to time before, and that is now being made anew in our own generation--the discovery of human nature. the reason why this discovery has had to be made so often is that it shocks people. they try to hush it up; and they do succeed in forgetting about it for long periods of time, and pretending that it doesn't exist. they are shocked because human nature is not at all like the pretty pictures we like to draw of ourselves. it is not so sweet, amiable and gentlemanly or ladylike as we wish to believe it. it is much more selfish, brutal and lascivious than we care to admit, and as such, both too terrible and too ridiculous to please us. the elizabethans understood human nature, and made glorious comedies and tragedies out of its inordinate crimes and cruelties, and its pathetic follies and fatuities. but people didn't like it, and they turned puritan and closed the theaters. it is true, they repented, and opened them again; but the theater had got a bad name from which it is only now beginning to recover. in the fields of poetry and fiction a more long-drawn-out contest ensued between, those who wanted to tell the truth and those who wanted to listen to pleasant fibs, the latter generally having the best of it. the contest finally settled down into the victorian compromise, which was tacitly accepted by even the best of the imaginative writers of the period. the understanding was that brutality, lust and selfishness were to be represented as being qualities only of "bad" people, plainly labelled as such. under this compromise some magnificent works were produced. but inasmuch as the compromise involved a suppression of a great and all-important fact about the human soul, it could not endure forever. the only question was, under what influences would the revolt occur? it occurred, as george moore's quite typical and naïvely illuminating confessions reveal, under french influences. something of the same sort had been happening in france, and the english rebels found exemplars of revolt ready to their need. these french rebels were of all sorts, and it was naturally the most extreme that attracted the admiration of the english malcontents. chief among these were gautier and baudelaire. gautier had written in "mademoiselle de maupin" a lyrical exaltation of the joys of the flesh: he had eloquently and unreservedly pronounced the fleshly pleasures _good_. baudelaire had gone farther: he had said that evil was beautiful, the most beautiful thing in the world--and proved it, to those who were anxious to believe it, by writing beautiful poems about every form of evil that he could think of. they were still far, it will be observed, from the sane and truly revolutionary conception of life which has begun to obtain acceptance in our day--a conception of life which traverses the old conceptions if "good" and "evil." baudelaire and gautier hardly did more than brilliantly champion the unpopular side of a foolish argument. it may seem odd to us today that such a romantic, not to say hysterical, turning-upside-down of current british morality could so deeply impress the best minds of the younger generation in england. its influence, when mixed with original genius of a high quality, produced the "poems and ballads" of swinburne. it produced also _the yellow book_, a more characteristic and less happy result. it produced a whole host of freaks and follies. but it did contain a liberating idea--the idea that human nature is a subject to be dealt with, not to be concealed and lied about. and, among others, george moore was set free--set free to write some of the sincerest fiction in our language. these "confessions" reveal him in the process of revaluing the values of life and art for himself. it was not an easy or a painless process. destined for the army, because he wasn't apparently clever enough to go in for the church or the law, he managed, with a kind of instinctive self-protection, to avoid learning enough even to be an officer. he turned first in this direction and then in that, in his efforts to escape. the race-track furnished one diversion for his unhappy energies, books of poetry another. then he met a painter who painted and loved sumptuous and beautiful blondes, whereupon art and women became the new centers of his life, and paris, where both might be indulged in, his great ambition. given permission and an allowance, he set off to study art in paris--only to find after much effort and heartache that he was a failure as an artist. there remained, however, women--and the cafés, with strange poets and personalities to be cultivated and explored. modelling himself after his newest friend, in attire, manners and morals, he lived what might have been on the whole an unprofitable and ordinary life, if he had not been able to gild it with the glamour of philosophic immoralism. finally, because everybody else was writing, he too wrote--a play. then follows a period of discovery of the newest movement in art. so impressionable is he that his stay of some years in paris causes him actually to forget how to write english prose, and when he returns to london and has to earn his living at journalism he has to learn his native tongue over again. nevertheless he has acquired a point of view--on women, on art, on life. he writes--criticism, poetry, fiction. he is obscure, ambitious, full of self-esteem, that is beginning to be soured by failure. he tries to get involved in a duel with a young nobleman, just to get himself before the public. failing in that, he lives in squalid lodgings--or so they seem to a young man who has lived in paris on a liberal allowance--and writes, writes, writes, writes ... talking to his fellow lodgers, to the stupid servant who brings him his meals, and getting the materials for future books out of them. a candid record of these incidents, interwoven with eloquent self-analysis, keen and valid criticism of books and pictures, delightful reminiscences and furious dissertations upon morality, the whole story is given a special and, for its time, a rare interest by its utter lack of conventional reticence. he never spares himself. he has undertaken quite honestly to tell the truth. he has learned from paris not to be ashamed of himself. and this, though he had not realized it, was what he had gone to paris to learn. he had put himself instinctively in the way of receiving liberalizing influences. but it was, after all, an accident that he received those influences from france. he might conceivably have stayed at home and read tolstoi or walt whitman! so indeed might the whole english literary revolt have taken its rise under different and perhaps happier influences. but it happened as it happened. and accidents are important. the accident of having to turn to france for moral support colored the whole english literary revolt. and the accident of going to paris colored vividly the superficial layers of george moore's soul. this book partly represents a flaunting of such borrowed colors. it was the fashion of the parisian diabolists to gloat over cruelty, by way of showing their superiority to christian morality. the enjoyment of others' suffering was a splendid pagan virtue. so george moore kept a pet python, and cultivated paganness by watching it devour rabbits alive. it was the result of the same accident which caused him to conclude--and to preach at some length in this book--that art is aristocratic. it was the proper pagan thing to say, as he does here--"what care i that some millions of wretched israelites died under pharaoh's lash? they died that i might have the pyramids to look on"--and other remarks even more shocking and jejune. it was this accident which made him write ineffable silliness in this and other early volumes about "virtue" and "vice," assume a man-about-town's attitude toward women, and fill pages with maudlin phrases about marble, perfumes, palm-trees, blood, lingerie, and moonlight. these were the follies of his teachers, to be faithfully imitated. if he had first heard the news that the body is good from walt whitman, or that the human soul contains lust and cruelty from tolstoi, what canticles we should have had from george moore on the subject of democracy in life and art! deeper down, george moore was already wiser than his masters. he was to write of the love-life of evelyn innes, and the common workaday tragedy of esther waters, with a tender and profound sympathy far removed from the sentiments he felt obliged to profess here. this book is a young man's attempt to be sincere. it is the story of a soul struggling to be free from british morality. it is eloquent, beautiful, and at times rather silly. it is a picture of an epoch. the result of the attempt to introduce diabolism to the english mind is well known. the island somewhat violently repudiated and denounced the whole proceedings, as might have been expected. the french influence waned, and has now almost died out. but meanwhile another rediscovery of human nature (to which the work of a later frenchman, romain rolland, has contributed its due effect) is slowly re-creating english literature. under a russian leadership less romantic than that of gautier and less "frightful" than that of baudelaire, with scientific support from freud and jung, and with some extremely able british and american lieutenants, the cause of unashamedness appears to be winning its way in literature. the george moore of these confessions stands to view as a reckless and courageous pioneer, a bad strategist but a faithful soldier, in the foolhardy, disastrous and gallant campaign of the nineties. floyd dell new york, may , . confessions of a young man chapter i my soul, so far as i understand it, has very kindly taken colour and form from the many various modes of life that self-will and an impetuous temperament have forced me to indulge in. therefore i may say that i am free from original qualities, defects, tastes, etc. what i have i acquire, or, to speak more exactly, chance bestowed, and still bestows, upon me. i came into the world apparently with a nature like a smooth sheet of wax, bearing no impress, but capable of receiving any; of being moulded into all shapes. nor am i exaggerating when i say i think that i might equally have been a pharaoh, an ostler, a pimp, an archbishop, and that in the fulfilment of the duties of each a certain measure of success would have been mine. i have felt the goad of many impulses, i have hunted many a trail; when one scent failed another was taken up, and pursued with the pertinacity of an instinct, rather than the fervour of a reasoned conviction. sometimes, it is true, there came moments of weariness, of despondency, but they were not enduring: a word spoken, a book read, or yielding to the attraction of environment, i was soon off in another direction, forgetful of past failures. intricate, indeed, was the labyrinth of my desires; all lights were followed with the same ardour, all cries were eagerly responded to: they came from the right, they came from the left, from every side. but one cry was more persistent, and as the years passed i learned to follow it with increasing vigour, and my strayings grew fewer and the way wider. i was eleven years old when i first heard and obeyed this cry, or, shall i say, echo-augury? scene: a great family coach, drawn by two powerful country horses, lumbers along a narrow irish road. the ever recurrent signs--long ranges of blue mountains, the streak of bog, the rotting cabin, the flock of plover rising from the desolate water. inside the coach there are two children. they are smart, with new jackets and neckties; their faces are pale with sleep, and the rolling of the coach makes them feel a little sick. it is seven o'clock in the morning. opposite the children are their parents, and they are talking of a novel the world is reading. did lady audley murder her husband? lady audley! what a beautiful name; and she, who is a slender, pale, fairy-like woman, killed her husband. such thoughts flash through the boy's mind; his imagination is stirred and quickened, and he begs for an explanation. the coach lumbers along, it arrives at its destination, and lady audley is forgotten in the delight of tearing down fruit trees and killing a cat. but when we returned home i took the first opportunity of stealing the novel in question. i read it eagerly, passionately, vehemently. i read its successor and its successor. i read until i came to a book called "the doctor's wife"--a lady who loved shelley and byron. there was magic, there was revelation in the name, and shelley became my soul's divinity. why did i love shelley? why was i not attracted to byron? i cannot say. shelley! oh, that crystal name, and his poetry also crystalline. i must see it, i must know him. escaping from the schoolroom, i ransacked the library, and at last my ardour was rewarded. the book--a small pocket edition in red boards, no doubt long out of print--opened at the "sensitive plant." was i disappointed? i think i had expected to understand better; but i had no difficulty in assuming that i was satisfied and delighted. and henceforth the little volume never left my pocket, and i read the dazzling stanzas by the shores of a pale green irish lake, comprehending little, and loving a great deal. byron, too, was often with me, and these poets were the ripening influence of years otherwise merely nervous and boisterous. and my poets were taken to school, because it pleased me to read "queen mab" and "cain," amid the priests and ignorance of a hateful roman catholic college. and there my poets saved me from intellectual savagery; for i was incapable at that time of learning anything. what determined and incorrigible idleness! i used to gaze fondly on a book, holding my head between my hands, and allow my thoughts to wander far into dreams and thin imaginings. neither latin, nor greek, nor french, nor history, nor english composition could i learn, unless, indeed, my curiosity or personal interest was excited,--then i made rapid strides in that branch of knowledge to which my attention was directed. a mind hitherto dark seemed suddenly to grow clear, and it remained clear and bright enough so long as passion was in me; but as it died, so the mind clouded, and recoiled to its original obtuseness. couldn't, with wouldn't, was in my case curiously involved; nor have i in this respect ever been able to correct my natural temperament. i have always remained powerless to do anything unless moved by a powerful desire. the natural end to such schooldays as mine was expulsion. i was expelled when i was sixteen, for idleness and general worthlessness. i returned to a wild country home, where i found my father engaged in training racehorses. for a nature of such intense vitality as mine, an ambition, an aspiration of some sort was necessary; and i now, as i have often done since, accepted the first ideal to hand. in this instance it was the _stable_. i was given a hunter, i rode to hounds every week, i rode gallops every morning, i read the racing calendar, stud-book, latest betting, and looked forward with enthusiasm to the day when i should be known as a successful steeplechase rider. to ride the winner of the liverpool seemed to me a final achievement and glory; and had not accident intervened, it is very possible that i might have succeeded in carrying off, if not the meditated honour, something scarcely inferior, such as--alas, _eheu fugaces!_ i cannot now recall the name of a race of the necessary value and importance. about this time my father was elected member of parliament; our home was broken up, and we went to london. but an ideal set up on its pedestal is not easily displaced, and i persevered in my love, despite the poor promises london life held out for its ultimate attainment; and surreptitiously i continued to nourish it with small bets made in a small tobacconist's. well do i remember that shop, the oily-faced, sandy-whiskered proprietor, his betting-book, the cheap cigars along the counter, the one-eyed nondescript who leaned his evening away against the counter, and was supposed to know some one who knew lord ----'s footman, and the great man often spoken of, but rarely seen--he who made "a two-'undred pound book on the derby"; and the constant coming and going of the cabmen--"half an ounce of shag, sir." i was then at a military tutor's in the euston road; for, in answer to my father's demand as to what occupation i intended to pursue, i had consented to enter the army. in my heart i knew that when it came to the point i should refuse--the idea of military discipline was very repugnant, and the possibility of an anonymous death on a battlefield could not be accepted by so self-conscious a youth, by one so full of his own personality. i said yes to my father, because the moral courage to say no was lacking, and i put my trust in the future, as well i might, for a fair prospect of idleness lay before me, and the chance of my passing any examination was, indeed, remote. in london i made the acquaintance of a great blonde man, who talked incessantly about beautiful women, and painted them sometimes larger than life, in somnolent attitudes, and luxurious tints. his studio was a welcome contrast to the spitting and betting of the tobacco shop. his pictures--doré-like improvisations, devoid of skill, and, indeed, of artistic perception, save a certain sentiment for the grand and noble--filled me with wonderment and awe. "how jolly it would be to be a painter," i once said, quite involuntarily. "why, would you like to be a painter?" he asked abruptly. i laughed, not suspecting that i had the slightest gift, as indeed was the case, but the idea remained in my mind, and soon after i began to make sketches in the streets and theatres. my attempts were not very successful, but they encouraged me to tell my father that i would go to the military tutor no more, and he allowed me to enter the kensington museum as an art student. there, of course, i learned nothing, and, from a merely art point of view, i had much better have continued my sketches in the streets; but the museum was a beautiful and beneficent influence, and one that applied marvellously well to the besetting danger of the moment; for in the galleries i met young men who spoke of other things than betting and steeplechase riding, who, i remember, it was clear to me then, looked to a higher ideal than mine, breathed a purer atmosphere of thought than i. and then the sweet, white peace of antiquity! the great, calm gaze that is not sadness nor joy, but something that we know not of, which is lost to the world for ever. "but if you want to be a painter you must go to france--france is the only school of art." i must again call attention to the phenomenon of echo-augury, that is to say, words heard in an unlooked-for quarter, that, without an appeal to our reason, impel belief. france! the word rang in my ears and gleamed in my eyes. france! all my senses sprang from sleep like a crew when the man on the look-out cries, "land ahead!" instantly i knew i should, that i must, go to france, that i would live there, that i would become as a frenchman. i knew not when nor how, but i knew i should go to france.... then my father died, and i suddenly found myself heir to considerable property--some three or four thousands a year; and then i knew that i was free to enjoy life as i pleased; no further trammels, no further need of being a soldier, of being anything but myself; eighteen, with life and france before me! but the spirit did not move me yet to leave home. i would feel the pulse of life at home before i felt it abroad. i would hire a studio. a studio--tapestries, smoke, models, conversations. but here it is difficult not to convey a false impression. i fain would show my soul in these pages, like a face in a pool of clear water; and although my studio was in truth no more than an amusement, and a means of effectually throwing over all restraint, i did not view it at all in this light. my love of art was very genuine and deep-rooted; the tobacconist's betting-book was now as nothing, and a certain botticelli in the national gallery held me in tether. and when i look back and consider the past, i am forced to admit that i might have grown up in less fortunate circumstances, for even the studio, with its dissipations--and they were many--was not unserviceable; it developed the natural man, who educates himself, who allows his mind to grow and ripen under the sun and wind of modern life, in contra-distinction to the university man, who is fed upon the dust of ages, and after a formula which has been composed to suit the requirements of the average human being. nor was my reading at this time so limited as might be expected from the foregoing. the study of shelley's poetry had led me to read pretty nearly all the english lyric poets; shelley's atheism had led me to read kant, spinoza, godwin, darwin and mill; and these, again, in their turn, introduced me to many writers and various literature. i do not think that at this time i cared much for novel reading. scott seemed to me on a par with burke's speeches; that is to say, too impersonal for my very personal taste. dickens i knew by heart, and "bleak house" i thought his greatest achievement. thackeray left no deep impression on my mind; in no way did he hold my thoughts. he was not picturesque like dickens, and i was at that time curiously eager for some adequate philosophy of life, and his social satire seemed very small beer indeed. i was really young. i hungered after great truths: "middle-march," "adam bede," "the rise and fall of rationalism," "the history of civilisation," were momentous events in my life. but i loved life better than books, and i cultivated with care the acquaintance of a neighbour who had taken the globe theatre for the purpose of producing offenbach's operas. bouquets, stalls, rings, delighted me. i was not dissipated, but i loved the abnormal. i loved to spend as much on scent and toilette knick-knacks as would keep a poor man's family in affluence for ten months; and i smiled at the fashionable sunlight in the park, the dusty cavalcades; and i loved to shock my friends by bowing to those whom i should not bow to; above all, the life of the theatres, that life of raw gaslight, whitewashed walls, of light, doggerel verse, slangy polkas and waltzes, interested me beyond legitimate measure, so curious and unreal did it seem. i lived at home, but dined daily at a fashionable restaurant; at half-past eight i was at the theatre. nodding familiarly to the doorkeeper, i passed up the long passage to the stage. afterwards supper. cremorne and the argyle rooms were my favourite haunts. my mother suffered, and expected ruin, for i took no trouble to conceal anything; i boasted of dissipations. but there was no need for fear; i was naturally endowed with a very clear sense indeed of self-preservation; i neither betted nor drank, nor contracted debts, nor a secret marriage; from a worldly point of view, i was a model young man indeed; and when i returned home about four in the morning, i watched the pale moon setting, and repeating some verses of shelley, i thought how i should go to paris when i was of age, and study painting. chapter ii at last the day came, and with several trunks and boxes full of clothes, books, and pictures, i started, accompanied by an english valet, for paris and art. we all know the great grey and melancholy gare du nord, at half-past six in the morning; and the miserable carriages, and the tall, haggard city. pale, sloppy, yellow houses; an oppressive absence of colour; a peculiar bleakness in the streets. the _ménagère_ hurries down the asphalte to market; a dreadful _garçon de café_, with a napkin tied round his throat, moves about some chairs, so decrepit and so solitary that it seems impossible to imagine a human being sitting there. where are the boulevards? where are the champs Élysées? i asked myself; and feeling bound to apologise for the appearance of the city, i explained to my valet that we were passing through some by-streets, and returned to the study of a french vocabulary. nevertheless, when the time came to formulate a demand for rooms, hot water, and a fire, i broke down, and the proprietress of the hotel, who spoke english, had to be sent for. my plans, so far as i had any, were to enter the beaux arts--cabanel's studio for preference; for i had then an intense and profound admiration for that painter's work. i did not think much of the application i was told i should have to make at the embassy; my thoughts were fixed on the master, and my one desire was to see him. to see him was easy, to speak to him was another matter, and i had to wait three weeks, until i could hold a conversation in french. how i achieved this feat i cannot say. i never opened a book, i know, nor is it agreeable to think what my language must have been like--like nothing ever heard under god's sky before, probably. it was, however, sufficient to waste a good hour of the painter's time. i told him of my artistic sympathies, what pictures i had seen of his in london, and how much pleased i was with those then in his studio. he went through the ordeal without flinching. he said he would be glad to have me as a pupil.... but life in the beaux arts is rough, coarse, and rowdy. the model sits only three times a week: the other days we worked from the plaster cast; and to be there by seven o'clock in the morning required so painful an effort of will, that i glanced in terror down the dim and grey perspective of early risings that awaited me; then, demoralised by the lassitude of sunday, i told my valet on monday morning to leave the room, that i would return to the beaux arts no more. i felt humiliated at my own weakness, for much hope had been centred in that academy; and i knew no other. day after day i walked up and down the boulevards, studying the photographs of the _salon_ pictures, and was stricken by the art of jules lefevre. true it is that i saw it was wanting in that tender grace which i am forced to admit even now, saturated though i now am with the aesthetics of different schools, is inherent in cabanel's work; but at the time i am writing of, my nature was too young and mobile to resist the conventional attractiveness of nude figures, indolent attitudes, long hair, slender hips and hands, and i accepted jules lefevre wholly and unconditionally. he hesitated, however, when i asked to be taken as a private pupil, but he wrote out the address of a studio where he gave instruction every tuesday morning. this was even more to my taste, for i had an instinctive liking for frenchmen, and was anxious to see as much of them as possible. the studio was perched high up in the passage des panoramas. there i found m. julien, a typical meridional--the large stomach, the dark eyes, crafty and watchful; the seductively mendacious manner, the sensual mind. we made friends at once--he consciously making use of me, i unconsciously making use of him. to him my forty francs, a month's subscription, were a godsend, nor were my invitations to dinner and to the theatre to be disdained. i was curious, odd, quaint. to be sure, it was a little tiresome to have to put up with a talkative person, whose knowledge of the french language had been acquired in three months, but the dinners were good. no doubt julien reasoned so; i did not reason at all. i felt this crafty, clever man of the world was necessary to me. i had never met such a man before, and all my curiosity was awake. he spoke of art and literature, of the world and the flesh; he told me of the books he had read, he narrated thrilling incidents in his own life; and the moral reflections with which he sprinkled his conversation i thought very striking. like every young man of twenty, i was on the look-out for something to set up that would do duty for an ideal. the world was to me, at this time, what a toy shop had been fifteen years before: everything was spick and span, and every illusion was set out straight and smart in new paint and gilding. but julien kept me at a distance, and the rare occasions when he favoured me with his society only served to prepare my mind for the friendship which awaited me, and which was destined to absorb some years of my life. in the studio there were some eighteen or twenty young men, and among these there were some four or five from whom i could learn; and there were also there some eight or nine young english girls. we sat round in a circle, and drew from the model. and this reversal of all the world's opinions and prejudices was to me singularly delightful; i loved the sense of unreality that the exceptionalness of our life in this studio conveyed. besides, the women themselves were young and interesting, and were, therefore, one of the charms of the place, giving, as they did, that sense of sex which is so subtle a mental pleasure, and which is, in its outward aspect, so interesting to the eye--the gowns, the hair lifted, showing the neck; the earrings, the sleeves open at the elbow. though all this was very dear to me i did not fall in love: but he who escapes a woman's dominion generally comes under the sway of some friend who ever uses a strange attractiveness, and fosters a sort of dependency that is not healthful or valid: and although i look back with undiminished delight on the friendship i contracted about this time--a friendship which permeated and added to my life--i am nevertheless forced to recognise that, however suitable it may have been in my special case, in the majority of instances it would have proved but a shipwrecking reef, on which a young man's life would have gone to pieces. what saved me was the intensity of my passion for art, and a moral revolt against any action that i thought could or would definitely compromise me in that direction. i was willing to stray a little from my path, but never further than a single step, which i could retrace when i pleased. one day i raised my eyes, and saw there was a new-comer in the studio; and, to my surprise, for he was fashionably dressed, and my experience had not led me to believe in the marriage of genius and well-cut cloth, he was painting very well indeed. his shoulders were beautiful and broad; a long neck, a tiny head, a narrow, thin face, and large eyes, full of intelligence and fascination. and although he could not have been working more than an hour, he had already sketched in his figure, and with all the surroundings--screens, lamps, stoves, etc. i was deeply interested. i asked the young lady next me if she knew who he was. she could give me no information. but at four o'clock there was a general exodus from the studio, and we adjourned to a neighbouring _café_ to drink beer. the way led through a narrow passage, and as we stooped under an archway, the young man (marshall was his name) spoke to me in english. yes, we had met before; we had exchanged a few words in so-and-so's studio--the great blonde man, whose doré-like improvisations had awakened aspiration in me. the usual reflections on the chances of life were of course made, and then followed the inevitable "will you dine with me to-night?" marshall thought the following day would suit him better, but i was very pressing. he offered to meet me at my hotel; or would i come with him to his rooms, and he would show me some pictures--some trifles he had brought up from the country? nothing would please me better. we got into a cab. then every moment revealed new qualities, new superiorities, in my new-found friend. not only was he tall, strong, handsome, and beautifully dressed, infinitely better dressed than i, but he could talk french like a native. it was only natural that he should, for he was born and had lived in brussels all his life, but the accident of birth rather stimulated than calmed my erubescent admiration. he spoke of, and he was clearly on familiar terms with, the fashionable restaurants and actresses; he stopped at a hairdresser's to have his hair curled. all this was very exciting, and a little bewildering. i was on the tiptoe of expectation to see his apartments; and, not to be utterly outdone, i alluded to my valet. his apartments were not so grand as i expected; but when he explained that he had just spent ten thousand pounds in two years, and was now living on six or seven hundred francs a month, which his mother would allow him until he had painted and had sold a certain series of pictures, which he contemplated beginning at once, my admiration increased to wonder, and i examined with awe the great fireplace which had been constructed at his orders, and admired the iron pot which hung by a chain above an artificial bivouac fire. this detail will suggest the rest of the studio--the turkey carpet, the brass harem lamps, the japanese screen, the pieces of drapery, the oak chairs covered with red utrecht velvet, the oak wardrobe that had been picked up somewhere,--a ridiculous bargain, and the inevitable bed with spiral columns. there were vases filled with foreign grasses, and palms stood in the corners of the rooms. marshall pulled out a few pictures; but he paid very little heed to my compliments; and, sitting down at the piano, with a great deal of splashing and dashing about the keys, he rattled off a waltz. "what waltz is that?" i asked. "oh, nothing; something i composed the other evening. i had a fit of the blues, and didn't go out. what do you think of it?" "i think it beautiful; did you really compose that the other evening?" at this moment a knock was heard at the door, and a beautiful english girl entered. marshall introduced me. with looks that see nothing, and words that mean nothing, an amorous woman receives the man she finds with her sweetheart. but it subsequently transpired that alice had an appointment, that she was dining out. she would, however, call in the morning, and give him a sitting for the portrait he was painting of her. i had hitherto worked very regularly and attentively at the studio, but now marshall's society was an attraction i could not resist. for the sake of his talent, which i religiously believed in, i regretted he was so idle; but his dissipation was winning, and his delight was thorough, and his gay, dashing manner made me feel happy, and his experience opened to me new avenues for enjoyment and knowledge of life. on my arrival in paris i had visited, in the company of my taciturn valet, the mabille and the valentino, and i had dined at the maison d'or by myself; but now i was taken to strange students' _cafés_, where dinners were paid for in pictures; to a mysterious place, where a _table d'hôte_ was held under a tent in a back garden; and afterwards we went in great crowds to _bullier_, the _château rouge_, or the _Élysée montmartre_. the clangour of the band, the unreal greenness of the foliage, the thronging of the dancers, and the chattering of women, whose christian names we only knew. and then the returning in open carriages rolling through the white dust beneath the immense heavy dome of the summer night, when the dusty darkness of the street is chequered by a passing glimpse of light skirt or flying feather, and the moon looms like a magic lantern out of the sky. now we seemed to live in fiacres and restaurants, and the afternoons were filled with febrile impressions. marshall had a friend in this street, and another in that. it was only necessary for him to cry "stop" to the coachman, and to run up two or three flights of stairs.... "_madame--, est-elle chez elle?_" "_oui, monsieur; si monsieur veut se donner la peine d'entrer._" and we were shown into a handsomely furnished apartment. a lady would enter hurriedly, and an animated discussion was begun. i did not know french sufficiently well to follow the conversation, but i remember it always commenced _mon cher ami_, and was plentifully sprinkled with the phrase _vous avez tort_. the ladies themselves had only just returned from constantinople or japan, and they were generally involved in mysterious lawsuits, or were busily engaged in prosecuting claims for several millions of francs against different foreign governments. and just as i had watched the chorus girls and mummers, three years ago, at the globe theatre, now, excited by a nervous curiosity, i watched this world of parisian adventurers and lights o' love. and this craving for observation of manners, this instinct for the rapid notation of gestures and words that epitomise a state of feeling, of attitudes that mirror forth the soul, declared itself a main passion; and it grew and strengthened, to the detriment of the other art still so dear to me. with the patience of a cat before a mouse-hole, i watched and listened, picking one characteristic phrase out of hours of vain chatter, interested and amused by an angry or loving glance. like the midges that fret the surface of a shadowy stream, these men and women seemed to me; and though i laughed, danced, and made merry with them, i was not of them. but with marshall it was different: they were my amusement, they were his necessary pleasure. and i knew of this distinction that made twain our lives; and i reflected deeply upon it. why could i not live without an ever-present and acute consciousness of life? why could i not love, forgetful of the harsh ticking of the clock in the perfumed silence of the chamber? and so my friend became to me a study, a subject for dissection. the general attitude of his mind and its various turns, all the apparent contradictions, and how they could be explained, classified, and reduced to one primary law, were to me a constant source of thought. our confidences knew no reserve. i say our confidences, because to obtain confidences it is often necessary to confide. all we saw, heard, read, or felt was the subject of mutual confidences: the transitory emotion that a flush of colour and a bit of perspective awakens, the blue tints that the sunsetting lends to a white dress, or the eternal verities, death and love. but, although i tested every fibre of thought and analysed every motive, i was very sincere in my friendship, and very loyal in my admiration. nor did my admiration wane when i discovered that marshall was shallow in his appreciations, superficial in his judgments, that his talents did not pierce below the surface; _il avait se grand air_; there was fascination in his very bearing, in his large, soft, colourful eyes, and a go and dash in his dissipations that carried you away. to any one observing us at this time it would have seemed that i was but a hanger-on, and a feeble imitator of marshall. i took him to my tailor's, and he advised me on the cut of my coats; he showed me how to arrange my rooms, and i strove to copy his manner of speech and his general bearing; and yet i knew very well indeed that mine was a rarer and more original nature. i was willing to learn, that was all. there was much that marshall could teach me, and i used him without shame, without stint. i used him as i have used all those with whom i have been brought into close contact. search my memory as i will, i cannot recall a case of man or woman who ever occupied any considerable part of my thoughts and did not contribute largely towards my moral or physical welfare. in other words, and in very colloquial language, i never had useless friends hanging about me. from this crude statement of a signal fact, the thoughtless reader will at once judge me rapacious, egotistical, false, fawning, mendacious. well, i may be all this and more, but not because all who have known me have rendered me eminent services. i can say that no one ever formed relationships in life with less design than myself. never have i given a thought to the advantage that might accrue from being on terms of friendship with this man and avoiding that one. "then how do you explain," cries the angry reader, "that you have never had a friend whom you did not make a profit out of? you must have had very few friends." on the contrary, i have had many friends, and of all sorts and kinds--men and women: and, i repeat, none took part in my life who did not contribute something towards my well-being. it must, of course, be understood that i make no distinction between mental and material help; and in my case the one has ever been adjuvant to the other. "pooh, pooh!" again exclaims the reader; "i for one will not believe that chance has only sent across your way the people who were required to assist you." chance! dear reader, is there such a thing as chance? do you believe in chance? do you attach any precise meaning to the word? do you employ it at haphazard, allowing it to mean what it may? chance! what a field for psychical investigation is at once opened up; how we may tear to shreds our past lives in search of--what? of the chance that made us. i think, reader, i can throw some light on the general question, by replying to your taunt: chance, or the conditions of life under which we live, sent, of course, thousands of creatures across my way who were powerless to benefit me; but then an instinct of which i knew nothing, of which i was not even conscious, withdrew me from them, and i was attracted to others. have you not seen a horse suddenly leave a corner of a field to seek pasturage further away? never could i interest myself in a book if it were not the exact diet my mind required at the time, or in the very immediate future. the mind asked, received, and digested. so much was assimilated, so much expelled; then, after a season, similar demands were made, the same processes were repeated out of sight, below consciousness, as is the case in a well-ordered stomach. shelley, who fired my youth with passion, and purified and upbore it for so long, is now to me as nothing: not a dead or faded thing, but a thing out of which i personally have drawn all the sustenance i may draw from him; and, therefore, it (that part which i did not absorb) concerns me no more. and the same with gautier. mdlle. de maupin, that godhead of flowing line, that desire not "of the moth for the star," but for such perfection of hanging arm and leaned thigh as leaves passion breathless and fain of tears, is now, if i take up the book and read, weary and ragged as a spider's web, that has hung the winter through in the dusty, forgotten corner of a forgotten room. my old rapture and my youth's delight i can regain only when i think of that part of gautier which is now incarnate in me. as i picked up books, so i picked up my friends. i read friends and books with the same passion, with the same avidity; and as i discarded my books when i had assimilated as much of them as my system required, so i discarded my friends when they ceased to be of use to me. i use the word "use" in its fullest, not in its limited and twenty-shilling sense. this reduction of the intellect to the blind unconsciousness of the lower organs will strike some as a violation of man's best beliefs, and as saying very little for the particular intellect that can be so reduced. but i am not sure these people are right. i am inclined to think that as you ascend the scale of thought to the great minds, these unaccountable impulses, mysterious resolutions, sudden, but certain knowings, falling whence, or how it is impossible to say, but falling somehow into the brain, instead of growing rarer, become more and more frequent; indeed, i think that if the really great man were to confess to the working of his mind, we should see him constantly besieged by inspirations ... inspirations! ah! how human thought only turns in a circle, and how, when we think we are on the verge of a new thought, we slip into the enunciation of some time-worn truth. but i say again, let general principles be waived; it will suffice for the interest of these pages if it be understood that brain instincts have always been, and still are, the initial and the determining powers of my being. * * * * * but the studio, where i had been working for the last three or four months so diligently, became wearisome to me, and for two reasons. first, because it deprived me of many hours of marshall's company. secondly--and the second reason was the graver--because i was beginning to regard the delineation of a nymph, or youth bathing, etc., as a very narrow channel to carry off the strong, full tide of a man's thought. for now thoughts of love and death, and the hopelessness of life, were in active fermentation within me and sought for utterance with a strange unintermittingness of appeal. i yearned merely to give direct expression to my pain. life was then in its springtide; every thought was new to me, and it would have seemed a pity to disguise even the simplest emotion in any garment when it was so beautiful in its eden-like nakedness. the creatures whom i met in the ways and by ways of parisian life, whose gestures and attitudes i devoured with my eyes, and whose souls i hungered to know, awoke in me a tense irresponsible curiosity, but that was all,--i despised, i hated them, thought them contemptible, and to select them as subjects of artistic treatment, could not then, might never, have occurred to me, had the suggestion to do so not come direct to me from the outside. at the time i am writing i lived in an old-fashioned hotel on the boulevard, which an enterprising belgian had lately bought and was endeavouring to modernise; an old-fashioned hotel, that still clung to its ancient character in the presence of half a dozen old people, who, for antediluvian reasons, continue to dine on certain well-specified days at the _table d'hôte_. fifteen years have passed away, and these old people, no doubt, have joined their ancestors; but i can see them still sitting in that _salle à manger_; the _buffets en vieux chêne_; the opulent candelabra _en style d'empire_; the waiter lighting the gas in the pale parisian evening. that white-haired man, that tall, thin, hatchet-faced american, has dined at this _table d'hôte_ for the last thirty years--he is talkative, vain, foolish, and authoritative. the clean, neatly-dressed old gentleman who sits by him, looking so much like a french gentleman, has spent a great part of his life in spain. with that piece of news, and its subsequent developments, your acquaintance with him begins and ends; the eyes, the fan, the mantilla, how it began, how it was broken off, and how it began again. opposite sits another french gentleman, with beard and bristly hair. he spent twenty years of his life in india, and he talks of his son who has been out there for the last ten, and who has just returned home. there is the italian comtesse of sixty summers, who dresses like a girl of sixteen and smokes a cigar after dinner,--if there are not too many strangers in the room. she terms a stranger any one whom she has not seen at least once before. the little fat, neckless man, with the great bald head, fringed below the ears with hair, is m. duval. he is a dramatic author--the author of a hundred and sixty plays. he does not intrude himself on your notice, but when you speak to him on literary matters he fixes a pair of tiny, sloe-like eyes on you, and talks affably of his collaborateurs. i was soon deeply interested in m. duval, and i invited him to come to the _café_ after dinner. i paid for his coffee and liqueurs, i offered him a choice cigar. he did not smoke; i did. it was, of course, inevitable that i should find out that he had not had a play produced for the last twenty years, but then the aureole of the hundred and sixty was about his poor bald head. i thought of the chances of life, he alluded to the war; and so this unpleasantness was passed over, and we entered on more genial subjects of conversation. he had written plays with everybody; his list of collaborateurs was longer than any list of lady patronesses for an english county ball; there was no literary kitchen in which he had not helped to dish up. i was at once amazed and delighted. had m. duval written his hundred and sixty plays in the seclusion of his own rooms, i should have been less surprised; it was the mystery of the _séances_ of collaboration, the rendezvous, the discussion, the illustrious company, that overwhelmed me in a rapture of wonder and respectful admiration. then came the anecdotes. they were of all sorts. here are a few specimens: he, duval, had written a one-act piece with dumas _père_; it had been refused at the français, and then it had been about, here, there, and everywhere; finally the _variétés_ had asked for some alterations, and _c'était une affaire entendue_. "i made the alterations one afternoon, and wrote to dumas, and what do you think,--by return of post i had a letter from him saying he could not consent to the production of a one-act piece, signed by him, at the _variétés_, because his son was then giving a five-act piece at the gymnase." then came a string of indecent witticisms by suzanne lagier and dejazet. they were as old as the world, but they were new to me, and i was amused and astonished. these _bon-mots_ were followed by an account of how gautier wrote his sunday feuilleton, and how he and balzac had once nearly come to blows. they had agreed to collaborate. balzac was to contribute the scenario, gautier the dialogue. one morning balzac came with the scenario of the first act. "here it is, gautier! i suppose you can let me have it back finished by to-morrow afternoon?" and the old gentleman would chirp along in this fashion till midnight. i would then accompany him to his rooms in the quartier montmartre--rooms high up on the fifth floor--where, between two pictures, supposed to be by angelica kaufmann, m. duval had written unactable plays for the last twenty years, and where he would continue to write unactable plays until god called him to a world, perhaps, of eternal cantatas, but where, by all accounts, _l'exposition de la pièce selon la formule de m. scribe_ is still unknown. how i used to enjoy these conversations! i remember how i used to stand on the pavement after having bid the old gentleman good-night, regretting i had not demanded some further explanation regarding _le mouvement romantique_, or _la façon de m. scribe de ménager la situation_. why not write a comedy? so the thought came. i had never written anything save a few ill-spelt letters; but no matter. to find a plot, that was the first thing to do. take marshall for hero and alice for heroine, surround them with the old gentlemen who dined at the _table d'hôte_, flavour with the italian countess who smoked cigars when there were not too many strangers present. after three weeks of industrious stirring, the ingredients did begin to simmer into something resembling a plot. put it upon paper. ah! there was my difficulty. i remembered suddenly that i had read "cain," "manfred," "the cenci," as poems, without ever thinking of how the dialogue looked upon paper; besides, they were in blank verse. i hadn't a notion how prose dialogue would look upon paper. shakespeare i had never opened; no instinctive want had urged me to read him. he had remained, therefore, unread, unlooked at. should i buy a copy? no; the name repelled me--as all popular names repelled me. in preference i went to the gymnase, and listened attentively to a comedy by m. dumas _fils_. but strain my imagination as i would, i could not see the spoken words in their written form. oh, for a look at the prompter's copy, the corner of which i could see when i leaned forward! at last i discovered in galignani's library a copy of leigh hunt's edition of the old dramatists, and after a month's study of congreve wycherley, vanbrugh, and farquhar, i completed a comedy in three acts, which i entitled "worldliness." it was, of course, very bad; but, if my memory serves me well, i do not think it was nearly so bad as might be imagined. no sooner was the last scene written than i started at once for london, confident i should find no difficulty in getting my play produced. chapter iii is it necessary to say that i did not find a manager to produce my play? a printer was more attainable, and the correction of proofs amused me for a while. i wrote another play; and when the hieing after theatrical managers began to lose its attractiveness my thoughts reverted to france, which always haunted me; and which now possessed me as if with the sweet and magnetic influence of home. how important my absence from paris seemed to me; and how paris rushed into my eyes!--paris--public ball-rooms, _cafés_, the models in the studio and the young girls painting, and marshall, alice, and julien. marshall!--my thoughts pointed at him through the intervening streets and the endless procession of people coming and going. "m. marshall, is he at home?" "m. marshall left here some months ago." "do you know his address?" "i'll ask my husband." "do you know m. marshall's address!" "yes, he's gone to live in the rue de douai." "what number?" "i think it is fifty-four." "thanks." "coachman, wake up; drive me to the rue de douai." but marshall was not to be found at the rue de douai; and he had left no address. there was nothing for it but to go to the studio; i should be able to obtain news of him there,--perhaps find him. but when i pulled aside the curtain, the accustomed piece of slim nakedness did not greet my eyes; only the blue apron of an old woman enveloped in a cloud of dust. "the gentlemen are not here to-day, the studio is closed; i am sweeping up." "oh, and where is m. julien?" "i cannot say, sir: perhaps at the _café_, or perhaps he is gone to the country." this was not very encouraging, and now, my enthusiasm thoroughly damped, i strolled along _le passage_, looking at the fans, the bangles and the litter of cheap trinkets that each window was filled with. on the left at the corner of the boulevard was our _café_. as i came forward the waiter moved one of the tin tables, and then i saw the fat provençal. but just as if he had seen me yesterday he said, "_tiens! c'est vous; une deme tasse? oui ... garçon, une deme tasse._" presently the conversation turned on marshall; they had not seen much of him lately. "_il parait qu'il est plus amoureux que jamais,_" julien replied sardonically. i found my friend in large furnished apartments on the ground floor in the rue duphot. the walls were stretched with blue silk, there were large mirrors and great gilt cornices. passing into the bedroom i found the young god wallowing in the finest of fine linen--in a great louis xv. bed, and there were cupids above him. "holloa! what, you back again, dayne? we thought we weren't going to see you again." "it's nearly one o'clock: get up. what's the news?" "to-day is the opening of the exposition of the impressionists. we'll have a bit of breakfast round the corner, at durant's, and we'll go on there. i hear that bedlam is nothing to it; there is a canvas there twenty feet square and in three tints: pale yellow for the sunlight, brown for the shadows, and all the rest is sky-blue. there is, i am told, a lady walking in the foreground with a ring-tailed monkey, and the tail is said to be three yards long." and so we went to jeer a group of enthusiasts that willingly forfeit all delights of the world in the hope of realising a new aestheticism; we went insolent with patent leather shoes and bright kid gloves and armed with all the jargon of the school. "_cette jambe ne porte pas;_" "_la nature ne se fait pas comme ça;_" "_on dessine par les masses; combien de têtes?_" "_sept et demi._" "_si j'avais un morceau de craie je mettrais celle-là dans un bocal, c'est un foetus,_" etc.; in a word, all that the journals of culture are pleased to term an artistic education. and then the boisterous laughter, exaggerated in the hope of giving as much pain as possible. the history of impressionist art is simple. in the beginning of this century the tradition of french art--the tradition of boucher, fragonard, and watteau--had been completely lost; having produced genius, their art died. ingres is the sublime flower of the classic art which succeeded the art of the palace and the boudoir: further than ingres it was impossible to go, and his art died. then the turners and constables came to france, and they begot troyon, and troyon begot millet, courbet, corot, and rousseau, and these in turn begot degas, pissarro, madame morizot, and guillaumin. degas is a pupil of ingres, but he applies the marvellous acuteness of drawing he learned from his master to delineating the humblest aspects of modern life. degas draws not by the masses, but by the character;--his subjects are shop-girls, ballet-girls, and washerwomen, but the qualities that endow them with immortality are precisely those which eternalise the virgins and saints of leonardo da vinci in the minds of men. you see the fat, vulgar woman in the long cloak trying on a hat in front of the pier-glass. so marvellously well are the lines of her face observed and rendered that you can tell exactly what her position in life is; you know what the furniture of her rooms is like; you know what she would say to you if she were to speak. she is as typical of the nineteenth century as fragonard's ladies are of the court of louis xv. to the right you see a picture of two shop-girls with bonnets in their hands. so accurately are the habitual movements of the heads and the hands observed that you at once realise the years of bonnet-showing and servile words that these women have lived through. we have seen degas do this before--it is a welcome repetition of a familiar note, but it is not until we turn to the set of nude figures that we find the great artist revealing any new phase of his talent. the first, in an attitude which suggests the kneeling venus, washes her thighs in a tin bath. the second, a back view, full of the malformations of forty years, of children, of hard work, stands gripping her flanks with both hands. the naked woman has become impossible in modern art; it required degas' genius to infuse new life into the worn-out theme. cynicism was the great means of eloquence of the middle ages, and with cynicism degas has rendered the nude again an artistic possibility. what mr. horsley or the british matron would say it is difficult to guess. perhaps the hideousness depicted by m. degas would frighten them more than the sensuality which they condemn in sir frederick leighton. but, be this as it may, it is certain that the great, fat, short-legged creature, who in her humble and touching ugliness passes a chemise over her lumpy shoulders, is a triumph of art. ugliness is trivial, the monstrous is terrible; velasquez knew this when he painted his dwarfs. pissarro exhibited a group of girls gathering apples in a garden--sad greys and violets beautifully harmonised. the figures seem to move as in a dream: we are on the thither side of life, in a world of quiet colour and happy aspiration. those apples will never fall from the branches, those baskets that the stooping girls are filling will never be filled: that garden is the garden of the peace that life has not for giving, but which the painter has set in an eternal dream of violet and grey. madame morizot exhibited a series of delicate fancies. here are two young girls; the sweet atmosphere folds them as with a veil; they are all summer; their dreams are limitless, their days are fading, and their ideas follow the flight of the white butterflies through the standard roses. take note, too, of the stand of fans; what delicious fancies are there--willows, balconies, gardens, and terraces. then, contrasting with these distant tendernesses, there was the vigorous painting of guillaumin. there life is rendered in violent and colourful brutality. the ladies fishing in the park, with the violet of the skies and the green of the trees descending upon them, is a _chef d'oeuvre_. nature seems to be closing about them like a tomb; and that hillside,--sunset flooding the skies with yellow and the earth with blue shadow,--is another piece of painting that will one day find a place in one of the public galleries; and the same can be said of the portrait of the woman on a background of chintz flowers. we could but utter coarse gibes and exclaim, "what could have induced him to paint such things? surely he must have seen that it was absurd. i wonder if the impressionists are in earnest or if it is only _une blague qu'on nous fait?_" then we stood and screamed at monet, that most exquisite painter of blonde light. we stood before the "turkeys," and seriously we wondered if "it was serious work,"--that _chef d'oeuvre!_ the high grass that the turkeys are gobbling is flooded with sunlight so swift and intense that for a moment the illusion is complete. "just look at the house! why, the turkeys couldn't walk in at the door. the perspective is all wrong." then followed other remarks of an educational kind; and when we came to those piercingly personal visions of railway stations by the same painter,--those rapid sensations of steel and vapour,--our laughter knew no bounds. "i say, marshall, just look at this wheel; he dipped his brush into cadmium yellow and whisked it round, that's all." nor did we understand any more renoir's rich sensualities of tone; nor did the mastery with which he achieves an absence of shadow appeal to us. you see colour and light in his pictures as you do in nature, and the child's criticism of a portrait--"why is one side of the face black?" is answered. there was a half length nude figure of a girl. how the round fresh breasts palpitate in the light! such a glorious glow of whiteness was attained never before. but we saw nothing except that the eyes were out of drawing. for art was not for us then as it is now,--a mere emotion, right or wrong only in proportion to its intensity; we believed then in the grammar of art, perspective, anatomy, and _la jambe qui porte_; and we found all this in julien's studio. a year passed; a year of art and dissipation--one part art, two parts dissipation. we mounted and descended at pleasure the rounds of society's ladder. one evening we would spend at constant's, rue de la gaieté, in the company of thieves and housebreakers; on the following evening we were dining with a duchess or a princess in the champs elysées. and we prided ourselves vastly on our versatility in using with equal facility the language of the "fence's" parlour, and that of the literary salon; on being able to appear as much at home in one as in the other. delighted at our prowess, we often whispered, "the princess, i swear, would not believe her eyes if she saw us now;" and then in terrible slang we shouted a benediction on some "crib" that was going to be broken into that evening. and we thought there was something very thrilling in leaving the rue de la gaieté, returning home to dress, and presenting our spotless selves to the _élite_. and we succeeded very well, as indeed all young men do who waltz perfectly and avoid making love to the wrong woman. but the excitement of climbing up and down the social ladder did not stave off our craving for art; and there came about this time a very decisive event in our lives. marshall's last and really _grande passion_ had come to a violent termination, and monetary difficulties forced him to turn his thoughts to painting as a means of livelihood. this decided me. i asked him to come and live with me, and to be as near our studio as possible, i took an _appartement_ in the passage des panoramas. it was not pleasant that your window should open, not to the sky, but to an unclean prospect of glass roofing; nor was it agreeable to get up at seven in the morning; and ten hours of work daily are trying to the resolution even of the best intentioned. but we had sworn to forego all pleasures for the sake of art--table d'hôtes in the rue maubeuge, french and foreign duchesses in the champs elysées, thieves in the rue de la gaieté. i was entering therefore on a duel with marshall for supremacy in an art for which, as has already been said, i possessed no qualifications. it will readily be understood how a mind like mine, so keenly alive to all impulses, and so unsupported by any moral convictions, would suffer in so keen a contest waged under such unequal and cruel conditions. it was in truth a year of great passion and great despair. defeat is bitter when it comes swiftly and conclusively, but when defeat falls by inches like the fatal pendulum in the pit, the agony is a little out of reach of words to define. it was even so. i remember the first day of my martyrdom. the clocks were striking eight; we chose our places, got into position. after the first hour, i compared my drawing with marshall's. he had, it is true, caught the movement of the figure better than i, but the character and the quality of his work was miserable. that of mine was not. i have said i possessed no artistic facility, but i did not say faculty, my drawing was never common; it was individual in feeling, it was refined. i possessed all the rarer qualities, but not that primary power without which all is valueless;--i mean the talent of the boy who can knock off a clever caricature of his schoolmaster or make a _life-like_ sketch of his favourite horse on the barn door with a piece of chalk. the following week marshall made a great deal of progress; i thought the model did not suit me, and hoped for better luck next time. that time never came, and at the end of the first month i was left toiling hopelessly in the distance. marshall's mind, though shallow, was bright, and he understood with strange ease all that was told him, and was able to put into immediate practice the methods of work inculcated by the professors. in fact, he showed himself singularly capable of education; little could be drawn out, but a great deal could be put in (using the word in its modern, not in its original sense). he showed himself intensely anxious to learn and to accept all that was said: the ideas and feelings of others ran into him like water into a bottle whose neck is suddenly stooped below the surface of the stream. he was an ideal pupil. it was marshall here, it was marshall there, and soon the studio was little but an agitation in praise of him, and his work, and anxious speculation arose as to the medals he would obtain. i continued the struggle for nine months. i was in the studio at eight in the morning; i measured my drawing; i plumbed it throughout; i sketched in, having regard to _la jambe qui porte_; i modelled _par les masses_. during breakfast i considered how i should work during the afternoon; at night i lay awake thinking of what i might do to attain a better result. but my efforts availed me nothing; it was like one who, falling, stretches his arms for help and grasps the yielding air. how terrible are the languors and yearnings of impotence! how wearing! what an aching void they leave in the heart! and all this i suffered until the burden of unachieved desire grew intolerable. i laid down my charcoal and said, "i will never draw or paint again." that vow i have kept. surrender brought relief, but my life seemed at an end. i looked upon a blank space of years desolate as a grey and sailless sea. "what shall i do?" i asked myself, and my heart was weary and hopeless. literature? my heart did not answer the question at once. i was too broken and overcome by the shock of failure; failure precise and stern, admitting of no equivocation. i strove to read: but it was impossible to sit at home almost within earshot of the studio, and with all the memories of defeat still ringing their knells in my heart. marshall's success clamoured loudly from without; every day, almost every hour of the day, i heard of the medals which he would carry off; of what lefevre thought of his drawing this week, of boulanger's opinion of his talent. i do not wish to excuse my conduct, but i cannot help saying that marshall showed me neither consideration nor pity; he did not even seem to understand that i was suffering, that my nerves had been terribly shaken, and he flaunted his superiority relentlessly in my face--his good looks, his talents, his popularity. i did not know then how little these studio successes really meant. vanity? no, it was not his vanity that maddened me; to me vanity is rarely displeasing, sometimes it is singularly attractive; but by a certain insistence and aggressiveness in the details of life he allowed me to feel that i was only a means for the moment, a serviceable thing enough, but one that would be very soon discarded and passed over. this was intolerable. i broke up my establishment. by so doing i involved my friend in grave and cruel difficulties; by this action i imperilled his future prospects. it was a dastardly action; but his presence had grown unbearable; yes, unbearable in the fullest acceptation of the word, and in ridding myself of him i felt as if a world of misery were being lifted from me. chapter iv after three months spent in a sweet seaside resort, where unoccupied men and ladies whose husbands are abroad happily congregate, i returned to paris refreshed. marshall and i were no longer on speaking terms, but i saw him daily, in a new overcoat, of a cut admirably adapted to his figure, sweeping past the fans and the jet ornaments of the passage des panoramas. the coat interested me, and i remembered that if i had not broken with him i should have been able to ask him some essential questions concerning it. of such trifles as this the sincerest friendships are made; he was as necessary to me as i to him, and after some demur on his part a reconciliation was effected. then i took an _appartement_ in one of the old houses in rue de la tour des dames, for the windows there overlooked a bit of tangled garden with a few dilapidated statues. it was marshall of course who undertook the task of furnishing, and he lavished on the rooms the fancies of an imagination that suggested the collaboration of a courtesan of high degree and a fifth-rate artist. nevertheless, our salon was a pretty resort--english cretonne of a very happy design--vine leaves, dark green and golden, broken up by many fluttering jays. the walls were stretched with this colourful cloth, and the armchairs and the couches were to match. the drawing-room was in cardinal red, hung from the middle of the ceiling and looped up to give the appearance of a tent; a faun, in terra cotta, laughed in the red gloom, and there were turkish couches and lamps. in another room you faced an altar, a buddhist temple, a statue of the apollo, and a bust of shelley. the bedrooms were made unconventual with cushioned seats and rich canopies; and in picturesque corners there were censers, great church candlesticks, and palms; then think of the smell of burning incense and wax and you will have imagined the sentiment of our apartment in rue de la tour des dames. i bought a persian cat, and a python that made a monthly meal off guinea pigs; marshall, who did not care for pets, filled his rooms with flowers--he used to sleep beneath a tree of gardenias in full bloom. we were so, henry marshall and edwin dayne, when we went to live in , rue de la tour des dames, we hoped for the rest of our lives. he was to paint, i was to write. before leaving for the seaside i had bought some volumes of hugo and de musset; but in pleasant, sunny boulogne poetry went flat, and it was not until i got into my new rooms that i began to read seriously. books are like individuals; you know at once if they are going to create a sense within the sense, to fever, to madden you in blood and brain, or if they will merely leave you indifferent, or irritable, having unpleasantly disturbed sweet intimate musings as might a draught from an open window. many are the reasons for love, but i confess i only love woman or book, when it is as a voice of conscience, never heard before, heard suddenly, a voice i am at once endearingly intimate with. this announces feminine depravities in my affections. i am feminine, morbid, perverse. but above all perverse, almost everything perverse interests, fascinates me. wordsworth is the only simple-minded man i ever loved, if that great austere mind, chill even as the cumberland year, can be called simple. but hugo is not perverse, nor even personal. reading him was like being in church with a strident-voiced preacher shouting from out of a terribly sonorous pulpit. "les orientales." an east of painted card-board, tin daggers, and a military band playing the turkish patrol in the palais royal ... the verse is grand, noble, tremendous; i liked it, i admired it, but it did not--i repeat the phrase--awake a voice of conscience within me; and even the structure of the verse was too much in the style of public buildings to please me. of "les feuilles d'automne" and "les chants du crépuscule" i remember nothing. ten lines, fifty lines of "la légende des siècles," and i always think that it is the greatest poetry i have ever read, but after a few pages i invariably put the book down and forget it. having composed more verses than any man that ever lived, hugo can only be taken in the smallest doses; if you repeat any passage to a friend across a café table, you are both appalled by the splendour of the imagery, by the thunder of the syllables. "quel dieu, quel moissonneur dans l'éternel été avait s'en allant négligemment jeté cette faucille d'or dans les champs des étoiles." but if i read an entire poem i never escape that sensation of the ennui which is inherent in the gaud and the glitter of the italian or spanish improvisatore. there never was anything french about hugo's genius. hugo was a cross between an italian improvisatore and a metaphysical german student. take another verse-- "le clair de lune bleu qui baigne l'horizon." without a "like" or an "as," by a mere statement of fact, the picture, nay more, the impression, is produced. i confess i have a weakness for the poem which this line concludes--"la fête chez thérèse;" but admirable as it is with its picture of mediaeval life, there is in it, like in all hugo's work, a sense of fabrication that dries up emotion in my heart. he shouts and raves over poor humanity, while he is gathering coppers for himself; he goes in for an all-round patronage of the almighty in a last stanza; but of the two immortalities he evidently considers his own the most durable; he does not, however, become really intolerable until he gets on the subject of little children; he sings their innocence in great bombast, but he is watching them; the poetry over, the crowd dispersed, he will appear a veritable mr. hyde. the first time i read of _une bouche d'ombre_ i was astonished, nor the second nor third repetition produced a change in my mood of mind; but sooner or later it was impossible to avoid conviction, that of the two "the rosy fingers of the dawn," although some three thousand years older was younger, truer, and more beautiful. homer's similes can never grow old; _une bouche d'ombre_ was old the first time it was said. it is the birthplace and the grave of hugo's genius. of alfred de musset i had heard a great deal. marshall and the marquise were in the habit of reading him in moments of relaxation, they had marked their favourite passages, so he came to me highly recommended. nevertheless, i made but little progress in his poetry. his modernisms were out of tune with the present strain of my aspirations, and i did not find the unexpected word and the eccentricities of expression which were, and are still, so dear to me. i am not a purist; an error of diction is very pardonable if it does not err on the side of the commonplace; the commonplace, the natural, is constitutionally abhorrent to me; and i have never been able to read with any very thorough sense of pleasure even the opening lines of "rolla," that splendid lyrical outburst. what i remember of it now are those two odious _chevilles--marchait et respirait_, and _astarté fille de l'onde amère_; nor does the fact that _amère_ rhymes with _mère_ condone the offence, although it proves that even musset felt that perhaps the richness of the rhyme might render tolerable the intolerable. and it is to my credit that the spanish love songs moved me not at all; and it was not until i read that magnificently grotesque poem "la ballade à la lune," that i could be induced to bend the knee and acknowledge musset a poet. i still read and spoke of shelley with a rapture of joy,--he was still my soul. but this craft, fashioned of mother o' pearl, with starlight at the helm and moonbeams for sails, suddenly ran on a reef and went down, not out of sight, but out of the agitation of actual life. the reef was gautier; i read "mdlle. de maupin." the reaction was as violent as it was sudden. i was weary of spiritual passion, and this great exaltation of the body above the soul at once conquered and led me captive; this plain scorn of a world as exemplified in lacerated saints and a crucified redeemer opened up to me illimitable prospects of fresh beliefs, and therefore new joys in things and new revolts against all that had come to form part and parcel of the commonalty of mankind. till now i had not even remotely suspected that a deification of flesh and fleshly desire was possible, shelley's teaching had been, while accepting the body, to dream of the soul as a star, and so preserve our ideal; but now suddenly i saw, with delightful clearness and with intoxicating conviction, that by looking without shame and accepting with love the flesh, i might raise it to as high a place and within as divine a light as even the soul had been set in. the ages were as an aureole, and i stood as if enchanted before the noble nakedness of the elder gods: not the infamous nudity that sex has preserved in this modern world, but the clean pagan nude,--a love of life and beauty, the broad fair breast of a boy, the long flanks, the head thrown back; the bold fearless gaze of venus is lovelier than the lowered glance of the virgin, and i cried with my master that the blood that flowed upon mount calvary "_ne m'a jamais baigné dans ses flots._" i will not turn to the book to find the exact words of this sublime vindication, for ten years i have not read the word that has become so inexpressibly a part of me; and shall i not refrain as mdlle. de maupin refrained, knowing well that the face of love may not be twice seen? great was my conversion. none more than i had cherished mystery and dream: my life until now had been but a mist which revealed as each cloud wreathed and went out, the red of some strange flower or some tall peak, blue and snowy and fairylike in lonely moonlight; and now so great was my conversion that the more brutal the outrage offered to my ancient ideal, the rarer and keener was my delight. i read almost without fear: "my dreams were of naked youths riding white horses through mountain passes, there were no clouds in my dreams, or if there were any, they were clouds that had been cut out as if in cardboard with a pair of scissors." i had shaken off all belief in christianity early in life, and had suffered much. shelley had replaced faith by reason, but i still suffered: but here was a new creed which proclaimed the divinity of the body, and for a long time the reconstruction of all my theories of life on a purely pagan basis occupied my whole attention. the exquisite outlines of the marvellous castle, the romantic woods, the horses moving, the lovers leaning to each other's faces enchanted me; and then the indescribably beautiful description of the performance of _as you like it_, and the supreme relief and perfect assuagement it brings to rodolph, who then sees mdlle. de maupin for the first time in woman's attire. if she were dangerously beautiful as a man, that beauty is forgotten in the rapture and praise of her unmatchable woman's loveliness. but if mdlle. de maupin was the highest peak, it was not the entire mountain. the range was long, and each summit offered to the eye a new and delightful prospect. there were the numerous tales,--tales as perfect as the world has ever seen; "la morte amoureuse," "jettatura," "une nuit de cléopâtre," etc., and then the very diamonds of the crown, "les emaux et camées," "la symphonie en blanc majeure," in which the adjective _blanc_ and _blanche_ is repeated with miraculous felicity in each stanza. and then contralto,-- "mais seulement il se transpose et passant de la forme au son, trouvant dans la métamorphose la jeune fille et le garçon." _transpose_,--a word never before used except in musical application, and now for the first time applied to material form, and with a beauty-giving touch that phidias might be proud of. i know not how i quote; such is my best memory of the stanza, and here, that is more important than the stanza itself. and that other stanza, "the châtelaine and the page;" and that other, "the doves;" and that other, "romeo and juliet," and the exquisite cadence of the line ending "_balcon_." novelists have often shown how a love passion brings misery, despair, death, and ruin upon a life, but i know of no story of the good or evil influence awakened by the chance reading of a book, the chain of consequences so far-reaching, so intensely dramatic. never shall i open these books again, but were i to live for a thousand years, their power in my soul would remain unshaken. i am what they made me. belief in humanity, pity for the poor, hatred of injustice, all that shelley gave may never have been very deep or earnest; but i did love, i did believe. gautier destroyed these illusions. he taught me that our boasted progress is but a pitfall into which the race is falling, and i learned that the correction of form is the highest ideal, and i accepted the plain, simple conscience of the pagan world as the perfect solution of the problem that had vexed me so long; i cried, "ave" to it all: lust, cruelty, slavery, and i would have held down my thumbs in the colosseum that a hundred gladiators might die and wash me free of my christian soul with their blood. the study of baudelaire aggravated the course of the disease. no longer is it the grand barbaric face of gautier; now it is the clean shaven face of the mock priest, the slow, cold eyes and the sharp, cunning sneer of the cynical libertine who will be tempted that he may better know the worthlessness of temptation. "les fleurs du mal!" beautiful flowers, beautiful in sublime decay. what great record is yours, and were hell a reality how many souls would we find wreathed with your poisonous blossoms. the village maiden goes to her faust; the children of the nineteenth century go to you, o baudelaire, and having tasted of your deadly delight all hope of repentance is vain. flowers, beautiful in your sublime decay, i press you to my lips; these northern solitudes, far from the rank parisian garden where i gathered you, are full of you, even as the sea-shell of the sea, and the sun that sets on this wild moorland evokes the magical verse:-- "un soir fait de rose et de bleu mystique nous échangerons un éclair unique comme un long sanglot tout chargé d'adieux." for months i fed on the mad and morbid literature that the enthusiasm of called into existence. the gloomy and sterile little pictures of "gaspard de la nuit," or the elaborate criminality, "les contes immoraux," laboriously invented lifeless things with creaky joints, pitiful lay figures that fall to dust as soon as the book is closed, and in the dust only the figures of the terrible ferryman and the unfortunate dora remain. "madame potiphar" cost me forty francs, and i never read more than a few pages. like a pike after minnows, i pursued the works of les jeune france along the quays and through every _passage_ in paris. the money spent was considerable, the waste of time enormous. one man's solitary work (he died very young, but he is known to have excelled all in length of his hair and the redness of his waistcoats) resisted my efforts to capture it. at last i caught sight of the precious volume in a shop on the quai voltaire. trembling i asked the price. the man looked at me earnestly and answered, "a hundred and fifty francs." no doubt it was a great deal of money, but i paid it and rushed home to read. many that had gone before had proved disappointing, and i was obliged to admit had contributed little towards my intellectual advancement; but this--this that i had heard about so long--not a queer phrase, not an outrage of any sort of kind, not even a new blasphemy, nothing, that is to say, nothing but a hundred and fifty francs. having thus rudely, and very pikelike, knocked my nose against the bottom--this book was, most assuredly, the bottom of the literature of --i came up to the surface and began to look around my contemporaries for something to read. i have remarked before on the instinctiveness of my likes and dislikes, on my susceptibility to the sound of and even to the appearance of a name upon paper. i was repelled by leconte de lisle from the first, and it was only by a very deliberate outrage to my feelings that i bought and read "les poèmes antiques," and "les poèmes barbares;" i was deceived in nothing, all i had anticipated i found--long, desolate boredom. leconte de lisle produces on me the effect of a walk through the new law courts, with a steady but not violent draught sweeping from end to end. oh, the vile old professor of rhetoric! and when i saw him the last time i was in paris, his head--a declaration of righteousness, a cross between a caesar by gerome, and an archbishop of a provincial town, set all my natural antipathy instantly on edge. hugo is often pompous, shallow, empty, unreal, but he is at least an artist, and when he thinks of the artist and forgets the prophet, as in "les chansons des rues et des bois," his juggling with the verse is magnificent, superb. "comme un geai sur l'arbre le roi se tient fier; son coeur est de marbre, son ventre est de chair. "on a pour sa nuque et son front vermeil fait une perruque avec le soleil. "il règne, il végète effroyable zéro; sur lui se projette l'ombre du bourreau. "son trône est une tombe, et sur le pavé quelque chose en tombe qu'on n'a point lavé." but how to get the first line of the last stanza into five syllables i cannot think. if ever i meet with the volume again i will look it out and see how that _rude dompteur de syllables_ managed it. but stay, _son trône est la tombe_; that makes the verse, and the generalisation would be in the "line" of hugo. hugo--how impossible it is to speak of french literature without referring to him. let these, however, be the concluding words: he thought that by saying everything, and saying everything twenty times over, he would for ever render impossible the advent of another great poet. but a work of art is valuable, and pleasurable in proportion to its rarity; one beautiful book of verses is better than twenty books of beautiful verses. this is an absolute and incontestable truth; a child can burlesque this truth--one verse is better than the whole poem: a word is better than the line; a letter is better than the word; but the truth is not thereby affected. hugo never had the good fortune to write a bad book, nor even a single bad line, so not having time to read all, the future will read none. what immortality would be gained by the destruction of one half of his magnificent works; what oblivion is secured by the publication of these posthumous volumes. to return to the leconte de lisle. see his "discours de réception." is it possible to imagine anything more absurdly arid? rhetoric of this sort, "_des vers d'or sur une écume d'airain_," and such sententious platitudes (speaking of the realists), "_les épidémies de cette nature passent, et le génie demeure._" théodore de banville. at first i thought him cold, tinged with the rhetorical ice of the leconte de lisle. he had no new creed to proclaim nor old creed to denounce, the inherent miseries of human life did not seem to touch him, and of the languors and ardours of animal or spiritual passion there are none. what is there? a pure, clear song, an instinctive, incurable and lark-like love of the song. the lily is white, and the rose is red, such knowledge of, such observation of nature is enough for the poet, and he sings and he trills, there is silver magic in every note, and the song as it ascends rings, and all the air quivers with the everwidening circle of the echoes, sighing and dying out of the ear until the last faintness is reached, and the glad rhymes clash and dash forth again on their aërial way. banville is not the poet, he is the bard. the great questions that agitate the mind of man have not troubled him, life, death, and love he only perceives as stalks whereon he may weave his glittering web of living words. whatever his moods may be, he is lyrical. his wit flies out on clear-cut, swallow-like wings as when he said, in speaking of paul alexis' book "le besoin d'aimer," "_vous avez trouvez un titre assez laid pour faire reculer les divines étoiles._" i know not what instrument to compare with his verse. i suppose i should say a flute; but it seems to me more like a marvellously toned piano. his hands pass over the keys, and he produces chopin-like music. it is now well known that french verse is not seventy years old. if it was hugo who invented french rhyme it was banville who broke up the couplet. hugo had perhaps ventured to place the pause between the adjective and its noun, but it was not until banville wrote the line, "_elle filait pensivement la blanche laine_" that the caesura received its final _coup de grâce_. this verse has been probably more imitated than any other verse in the french language. _pensivement_ was replaced by some similar four-syllable adverb, _elle tirait nonchalamment les bas de soie, etc_. it was the beginning of the end. i read the french poets of the modern school--coppée, mendès, léon diex, verlaine, josé maria heredia, mallarmé, rechepin, villiers de l'isle adam. coppée, as may be imagined, i only was capable of appreciating in his first manner, when he wrote those exquisite but purely artistic sonnets "la tulipe" and "le lys." in the latter a room decorated with daggers, armour, jewellery and china is beautifully described, and it is only in the last line that the lily which animates and gives life to the whole is introduced. but the exquisite poetic perceptivity coppée showed in his modern poems, the certainty with which he raised the commonest subject, investing it with sufficient dignity for his purpose, escaped me wholly, and i could not but turn with horror from such poems as "la nourrice" and "le petit epicier." how anyone could bring himself to acknowledge the vulgar details of our vulgar age i could not understand. the fiery glory of josé maria de heredia, on the contrary, filled me with enthusiasm--ruins and sand, shadow and silhouette of palms and pillars, negroes, crimson, swords, silence, and arabesques. as great copper pans go the clangour of the rhymes. "entre le ciel qui brûle et la mer qui moutonne, au somnolent soleil d'un midi monotone, tu songes, o guerrière, aux vieux conquistadors; et dans l'énervement des nuits chaudes et calmes, berçant ta gloire éteinte, o cité, tu t'endors sous les palmiers, au long frémissement des palmes." catulle mendès, a perfect realisation of his name, of his pale hair, of his fragile face illuminated with the idealism of a depraved woman. he takes you by the arm, by the hand, he leans towards you, his words are caresses, his fervour is delightful, and listening to him is as sweet as drinking a fair perfumed white wine. all he says is false--the book he has just read, the play he is writing, the woman who loves him,... he buys a packet of bonbons in the streets and eats them, and it is false. an exquisite artist; physically and spiritually he is art; he is the muse herself, or rather, he is one of the minions of the muse. passing from flower to flower he goes, his whole nature pulsing with butterfly voluptuousness. he has written poems as good as hugo, as good as leconte de lisle, as good as banville, as good as baudelaire, as good as gautier, as good as coppée; he never wrote an ugly line in his life, but he never wrote a line that some one of his brilliant contemporaries might not have written. he has produced good work of all kinds "et voilà tout." every generation, every country, has its catulle mendès. robert buchanan is ours, only in the adaptation scotch gruel has been substituted for perfumed white wine. no more delightful talker than mendès, no more accomplished _littérateur_, no more fluent and translucid critic. i remember the great moonlights of the _place pigale_, when, on leaving the café, he would take me by the arm, and expound hugo's or zola's last book, thinking as he spoke of the greek sophists. there were for contrast mallarmé's tuesday evenings, a few friends sitting round the hearth, the lamp on the table. i have met none whose conversation was more fruitful, but with the exception of his early verses i cannot say i ever frankly enjoyed his poetry. when i knew him he had published the celebrated "l'après midi d'un faun:" the first poem written in accordance with the theory of symbolism. but when it was given to me (this marvellous brochure furnished with strange illustrations and wonderful tassels), i thought it absurdly obscure. since then, however, it has been rendered by force of contrast with the brain-curdling enigmas the author has since published a marvel of lucidity; and were i to read it now i should appreciate its many beauties. it bears the same relation to the author's later work as _rienzi_ to _the walkyrie_. but what is symbolism? vulgarly speaking, saying the opposite to what you mean. for example, you want to say that music which is the new art, is replacing the old art, which is poetry. first symbol: a house in which there is a funeral, the pall extends over the furniture. the house is poetry, poetry is dead. second symbol: "_notre vieux grimoire_," _grimoire_ is the parchment, parchment is used for writing, therefore, _grimoire_ is the symbol for literature, "_d'où s'exaltent les milliers_," thousands of what? of letters of course. we have heard a great deal in england of browning obscurity. the "red cotton nightcap country" is child's play compared to a sonnet by a determined symbolist such as mallarmé, or better still his disciple ghil who has added to the difficulties of symbolism those of poetic instrumentation. for according to m. ghil and his organ _les ecrits pour l'art_, it would appear that the syllables of the french language evoke in us the sensations of different colours; consequently the timbre of the different instruments. the vowel _u_ corresponds to the colour yellow, and therefore to the sound of flutes. arthur rimbaud was, it is true, first in the field with these pleasant and genial theories; but m. ghil informs us that rimbaud was mistaken in many things, particularly in coupling the sound of the vowel _u_ with the colour green instead of with the colour yellow. m. ghil has corrected this very stupid blunder and many others; and his instrumentation in his last volume, "le geste ingénu," may be considered as complete and definitive. the work is dedicated to mallarmé, "père et seigneur des ors, des pierreries, et des poissons," and other works are to follow:--the six tomes of "légendes de rêves et de sangs," the innumerable tomes of "la glose," and the single tome of "la loi." and that man gustave kahn, who takes the french language as a violin, and lets the bow of his emotion run at wild will upon it producing strange acute strains, unpremeditated harmonies comparable to nothing that i know of but some hungarian rhapsody; verses of seventeen syllables interwoven with verses of eight, and even nine, masculine rhymes, seeking strange union with feminine rhymes in the middle of the line--a music sweet, subtil, and epicene; the half-note, the inflexion, but not the full tone--as "_se fondre, o souvenir, des lys âcres délices._" se penchant vers les dahlias, des paons cabrient dès rosace lunaire l'assoupissement des branches vénère son pale visage aux mourants dahlias. elle écoute au loin les brèves musiques nuit claire aux ramures d'accords, et la lassitude a bercé son corps au rhythme odorant des pures musiques. les paons out dressé la rampe occellée pour la descente de ses yeux vers le tapis de choses et de sens qui va vers l'horizon, parure vemiculée de son corps alangui en âme se tapit le flou désir molli de récits et d'encens. i laughed at these verbal eccentricities, but they were not without their effect, and that effect was a demoralising one; for in me they aggravated the fever of the unknown, and whetted my appetite for the strange, abnormal and unhealthy in art. hence all pallidities of thought and desire were eagerly welcomed, and verlaine became my poet. never shall i forget the first enchantment of "les fêtes galantes." here all is twilight. the royal magnificences of the sunset have passed, the solemn beatitude of the night is at hand but not yet here; the ways are veiled with shadow, and lit with dresses, white, that the hour has touched with blue, yellow, green, mauve, and undecided purple; the voices? strange contraltos; the forms? not those of men or women, but mystic, hybrid creatures, with hands nervous and pale, and eyes charged with eager and fitful light ... "_un soir équivoque d'automne_," ... "_les belles pendent rêveuses à nos bras_" ... and they whisper "_les mots spéciaux et tout bas_." gautier sang to his antique lyre praise of the flesh and contempt of the soul; baudelaire on a mediaeval organ chaunted his unbelief in goodness and truth and his hatred of life. but verlaine advances one step further: hate is to him as commonplace as love, unfaith as vulgar as faith. the world is merely a doll to be attired to-day in a modern ball dress, to-morrow in aureoles and stars. the virgin is a pretty thing, worth a poem, but it would be quite too silly to talk about belief or unbelief; christ in wood or plaster we have heard too much of, but christ in painted glass amid crosiers and latin terminations, is an amusing subject for poetry. and strangely enough, a withdrawing from all commerce with virtue and vice is, it would seem, a licentiousness more curiously subtle and penetrating than any other; and the licentiousness of the verse is equal to that of the emotion; every natural instinct of the language is violated, and the simple music native in french metre is replaced by falsetto notes sharp and intense. the charm is that of an odour of iris exhaled by some ideal tissues, or of a missal in a gold case, a precious relic of the pomp and ritual of an archbishop of persepolis. parsifal a vaincu les filles, leur gentil babil et la luxure amusante et sa pente vers la chair de ce garçon vierge que cela tente d'aimer des seins légers et ce gentil babil. il a vaincu la femme belle au coeur subtil etalant ces bras frais et sa gorge excitante; il a vaincu l'enfer, il rentre dans sa tente avec un lourd trophée à son bras pueril. avec la lance qui perça le flanc suprême il a guéri le roi, le voici roi lui-même, et prêtre du très-saint trésor essentiel; en robe d'or il adore, gloire et symbole, le vase pur où resplendit le sang réel, et, o ces voix d'enfants chantent dans la coupole. i know of no more perfect thing than this sonnet. the hiatus in the last line was at first a little trying, but i have learned to love it; not in baudelaire nor even in poe is there more beautiful poetry to be found. poe, unread and ill-understood in america and england, here, thou art an integral part of our artistic life. the island o' fay, silence, elionore, were the familiar spirits of an apartment beautiful with tapestry and palms; swinburne and rossetti were the english poets i read there; and in a golden bondage, i, a unit in the generation they have enslaved, clanked my fetters and trailed my golden chain. i had begun a set of stories in many various metres, to be called "roses of midnight." one of the characteristics of the volume was that daylight was banished from its pages. in the sensual lamplight of yellow boudoirs, or the wild moonlight of centenarian forests, my fantastic loves lived out their lives, died with the dawn which was supposed to be an awakening to consciousness of reality. chapter v a last hour of vivid blue and gold glare; but now the twilight sheds softly upon the darting jays, and only the little oval frames catch the fleeting beams. i go to the miniatures. amid the parliamentary faces, all strictly garrotted with many-folded handkerchiefs, there is a metal frame enchased with rubies and a few emeralds. and this _chef d'oeuvre_ of antique workmanship surrounds a sharp, shrewdish, modern face, withal pretty. fair she is and thin. she is a woman of thirty,--no,--she is the woman of thirty. balzac has written some admirable pages on this subject; my memory of them is vague and uncertain, although durable, as all memories of him must be. but that marvellous story, or rather study, has been blunted in my knowledge of this tiny face with the fine masses of hair drawn up from the neck and arranged elaborately on the crown. there is no fear of plagiary; he cannot have said all; he cannot have said what i want to say. looking at this face so mundane, so intellectually mundane, i see why a young man of refined mind--a bachelor who spends at least a pound a day on his pleasures, and in whose library are found some few volumes of modern poetry--seeks his ideal in a woman of thirty. it is clear that, by the very essence of her being, the young girl may evoke no ideal but that of home; and home is in his eyes the antithesis of freedom, desire, aspiration. he longs for mystery, deep and endless, and he is tempted with a foolish little illusion--white dresses, water colour drawings, and popular music. he dreams of pleasure, and he is offered duty; for do not think that that sylph-like waist does not suggest to him a yard of apron string, cries of children, and that most odious word, "papa." a young man of refined mind can look through the glass of the years. he has sat in the stalls, opera-glass in hand; he has met women of thirty at balls, and has sat with them beneath shadowy curtains; he knows that the world is full of beautiful women, all waiting to be loved and amused, the circles of his immediate years are filled with feminine faces, they cluster like flowers on this side and that, and they fade into garden-like spaces of colour. how many may love him? the loveliest may one day smile upon his knee! and shall he renounce all for that little creature who has just finished singing, and is handing round cups of tea? every bachelor contemplating marriage says, "i shall have to give up all for one, one." the young girl is often pretty but her prettiness is vague and uncertain, it inspires a sort of pitying admiration, but it suggests nothing; the very essence of the young girl's being is that she should have nothing to suggest, therefore the beauty of the young face fails to touch the imagination. no past lies hidden in those translucent eyes, no story of hate, disappointment, or sin. nor is there in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases in a thousand any doubt that the hand, that spends at least a pound a day in restaurants and cabs, will succeed in gathering the muslin flower if he so wills it, and by doing so he will delight every one. where, then, is the struggle? where, then, is the triumph? therefore, i say that if a young man's heart is not set on children, and tiresome dinner parties, the young girl presents to him no possible ideal. but the woman of thirty presents from the outset all that is necessary to ensnare the heart of a young man. i see her sitting in her beautiful drawing-room, all composed by, and all belonging to her. her chair is placed beneath an evergreen plant, and the long leaves lean out as if to touch her neck. the great white and red roses of the _d'aubusson_ carpet are spread enigmatically about her feline feet; a grand piano leans its melodious mouth to her; and there she sits when her visitors have left her, playing beethoven's sonatas in the dreamy firelight. the spring-tide shows but a bloom of unvarying freshness; august has languished and loved in the strength of the sun. she is stately, she is tall. what sins, what disappointments, what aspirations lie in those grey eyes, mysteriously still, and mysteriously revealed. these a young man longs to know of, they are his life. he imagines himself sitting by her, when the others have gone, holding her hand, calling on her name; sometimes she moves away and plays the moonlight sonata. letting her hands droop upon the keys she talks sadly, maybe affectionately; she speaks of the tedium of life, of its disenchantments. he knows well what she means, he has suffered as she has; but could he tell her, could she understand, that in his love reality would dissolve into a dream, all limitations would open into boundless infinity. the husband he rarely sees. sometimes a latchkey is heard about half-past six. the man is thick, strong, common; his jaws are heavy; his eyes are expressionless; there is about him the loud swagger of the _caserne_; and he suggests the inevitable question, why did she marry him?--a question that every young man of refined mind asks a thousand times by day and ten thousand times by night, asks till he is five-and-thirty, and sees that his generation has passed into middle age. why did she marry him? not the sea, nor the sky, nor the great mysterious midnight, when he opens his casement and gazes into starry space will give him answer; riddle that no oedipus will ever come to unravel; this sphinx will never throw herself from the rock into the clangour of the seagulls and waves; she will never divulge her secret; and if she is the woman and not a woman of thirty, she has forgotten. the young man shakes hands with the husband; he strives not to look embarrassed, and he talks of indifferent things--of how well he (the husband) is looking, of his amusements, his projects; and then he (the young man of refined mind) tastes of that keen and highly-seasoned delight--happiness in crime. he knows not the details of her home life, the husband is merely a dark cloud that fills one side of the picture, sometimes obliterating the sunlight; a shadowy shape that in certain moments solidifies and assumes the likeness of a rock-sculptured, imminent monster; but the shadow and the shape and the threat are magnetic, and in a sense of danger the fascination is sealed.... see the young man of refined mind in a ball room! he is leaning against the woodwork in a distant doorway, he scarcely knows what to do with himself; and he is now striving to interest himself in the conversation of a group of men twice his age. i will not say he is shunned; but neither the matrons nor the young girls make any advances towards him. the young girls looking so sweet--in the oneness of their fresh hair, flowers, dresses, and glances--are being introduced, are getting up to dance, and the hostess is looking round for partners. she sees the young man in the doorway; but she hesitates and goes to some one else; and if you asked her why, she could not tell you why she avoided him. presently the woman of thirty enters. she is in white satin and diamonds. she looks for him,--a circular glance,--and calm with possession she passes to a seat. she dances the eighth, twelfth, and fifteenth waltz with him. will he induce her to visit his rooms? will they be like mine--strange debauches of colour and turkish lamps, marshall's taste, an old cabinet, a faded pastel which embalms the memory of a pastoral century, my taste; or will it be a library,--two leather library chairs, a large escritoire, etc.? be this as it may, whether the apartments be the ruthless extravagance of artistic impulse, or the subdued taste of the student, she, the woman of thirty, shall be there by night and day: her statue is there, and even when she is sleeping safe in her husband's arms with fevered brow, he, the young man of refined mind, alone and lonely shall kneel and adore her. and should she _not_ visit his rooms? if the complex and various accidents of existence should have ruled out her life virtuously; if the many inflections of sentiment have decided against this last consummation, then she will wax to the complete, the unfathomable temptress--the lilith of old--she will never set him free, and in the end will be found about his heart "one single golden hair." she shall haunt his wife's face and words (should he seek to rid himself of her by marriage), a bitter sweet, a half-welcome enchantment; she shall consume and destroy the strength and spirit of his life, leaving it desolation, a barren landscape, burnt and faintly scented with the sea. fame and wealth shall slip like sand from him. she may be set aside for the cadence of a rhyme, for the flowing line of a limb, but when the passion of art has raged itself out, she shall return to blight the peace of the worker. a terrible malady is she, a malady the ancients knew of and called nympholepsy--a beautiful name evocative and symbolic of its ideal aspect, "the breast of the nymph in the brake." and the disease is not extinct in these modern days, nor will it ever be so long as men shall yearn for the unattainable; and the prosy bachelors who trail their ill-fated lives from their chambers to their clubs know of, and they call their malady--the woman of thirty. chapter vi a japanese dressing gown, the ideality of whose tissue delights me, some fresh honey and milk set by this couch hung with royal fringes; and having partaken of this odorous refreshment, i call to jack my great python that is crawling about after a two months' fast. i tie up a guineapig to the _tabouret_, pure louis xv., the little beast struggles and squeaks, the snake, his black, bead-like eyes are fixed, how superb are the oscillations ... now he strikes, and slowly and with what exquisite gourmandise he lubricates and swallows. marshall is at the organ in the hall, he is playing a gregorian chant, that beautiful hymn, the "vexilla regis," by saint fortunatus, the great poet of the middle ages. and, having turned over the leaves of "les fêtes gallantes," i sit down to write. my original intention was to write some thirty or forty stories varying from thirty to three hundred lines in length. the nature of these stories is easy to imagine: there was the youth who wandered by night into a witches' sabbath, and was disputed for by the witches, young and old. there was the light o' love who went into the desert to tempt the holy man; but he died as he yielded, and the arms stiffening by some miracle to iron-like rigidity, she was unable to free herself, and died of starvation, as her bondage loosened in decay. and i had increased my difficulties by adopting as part of my task the introduction of all sorts of elaborate, and in many cases extravagantly composed metres, and i had begun to feel that i was working in sand, i could make no progress, the house i was raising crumbled and fell away on every side. these stories had one merit: they were all, so far as i can remember, perfectly constructed. for the art of telling a story clearly and dramatically, _selon les procédés de m. scribe_, i had thoroughly learnt from old m. duval, the author of a hundred and sixty plays, written in collaboration with more than a hundred of the best writers of his day, including the master himself, gautier. i frequently met m. duval at breakfast at a neighbouring _café_, and our conversation turned on _l'exposition de la pièce, préparer la situation, nous aurons des larmes_, etc. one day, as i sat waiting for him, i took up the _voltaire_. it contained an article by m. zola. _naturalisme, la vérité, la science_, were repeated some half-a-dozen times. hardly able to believe my eyes, i read that you should write, with as little imagination as possible, that plot in a novel or in a play was illiterate and puerile, and that the art of m. scribe was an art of strings and wires, etc. i rose up from breakfast, ordered my coffee, and stirred the sugar, a little dizzy, like one who has received a violent blow on the head. echo-augury! words heard in an unexpected quarter, but applying marvellously well to the besetting difficulty of the moment. the reader who has followed me so far will remember the instant effect the word "shelley" had upon me in childhood, and how it called into existence a train of feeling that illuminated the vicissitudes and passions of many years, until it was finally assimilated and became part of my being; the reader will also remember how the mere mention, at a certain moment, of the word "france" awoke a vital impulse, even a sense of final ordination, and how the irrevocable message was obeyed, and how it led to the creation of a mental existence. and now for a third time i experienced the pain and joy of a sudden and inward light. naturalism, truth, the new art, above all the phrase, "the new art," impressed me as with a sudden sense of light. i was dazzled, and i vaguely understood that my "roses of midnight" were sterile eccentricities, dead flowers that could not be galvanised into any semblance of life, passionless in all their passion. i had read a few chapters of the "assommoir," as it appeared in _la république des lettres_; i had cried, "ridiculous, abominable," only because it is characteristic of me to instantly form an opinion and assume at once a violent attitude. but now i bought up the back numbers of the _voltaire_, and i looked forward to the weekly exposition of the new faith with febrile eagerness. the great zeal with which the new master continued his propaganda, and the marvellous way in which subjects the most diverse, passing events, political, social, religious, were caught up and turned into arguments for, or proof of the truth of naturalism astonished me wholly. the idea of a new art based upon science, in opposition to the art of the old world that was based on imagination, an art that should explain all things and embrace modern life in its entirety, in its endless ramifications, be, as it were, a new creed in a new civilisation, filled me with wonder, and i stood dumb before the vastness of the conception, and the towering height of the ambition. in my fevered fancy i saw a new race of writers that would arise, and with the aid of the novel would continue to a more glorious and legitimate conclusion the work that the prophets had begun; and at each development of the theory of the new art and its universal applicability, my wonder increased and my admiration choked me. if any one should be tempted to turn to the books themselves to seek an explanation of this wild ecstasy, they would find nothing--as well drink the dregs of yesterday's champagne. one is lying before me now, and as i glance through the pages listlessly i say, "only the simple crude statements of a man of powerful mind, but singularly narrow vision." still, although eager and anxious for the fray, i did not see how i was to participate in it. i was not a novelist, not yet a dramatic author, and the possibility of a naturalistic poet seemed to me not a little doubtful. i had clearly understood that the lyrical quality was to be for ever banished; there were to be no harps and lutes in our heaven, only drums; and the preservation of all the essentials of poetry, by the simple enumeration of the utensils to be found in a back kitchen, did, i could not help thinking (here it becomes necessary to whisper), sound not unlike rigmarole. i waited for the master to speak. he had declared that the republic would fall if it did not become instantly naturalistic; he would not, he could not pass over in silence so important a branch of literature as poetry, no matter how contemptible he might think it. if he could find nothing to praise, he must at least condemn. at last the expected article came. it was all that could be desired by one in my fever of mind. hugo's claims had been previously disproven, but now banville and gautier were declared to be warmed up dishes of the ancient world; baudelaire was a naturalist, but he had been spoilt by the romantic influence of his generation. _cependant_ there were indications of the naturalistic movement even in poetry. i trembled with excitement, i could not read fast enough. coppée had striven to simplify language; he had versified the street cries, _achetez la france, le soir, le rappel_; he had sought to give utterance to humble sentiments as in "le petit epicier de montrouge," the little grocer _qui cassait le sucre avec mélancolie_; richepin had boldly and frankly adopted the language of the people in all its superb crudity. all this was, however, preparatory and tentative. we are waiting for our poet, he who will sing to us fearlessly of the rude industry of dustmen and the comestible glories of the marketplaces. the subjects are to hand, the formula alone is wanting. the prospect was a dazzling one; i tried to calm myself. had i the stuff in me to win and to wear these bays, this stupendous laurel crown?--bays, laurel crown, a distinct _souvenir_ of parnassus, but there is no modern equivalent, i must strive to invent a new one, in the meantime let me think. true it is that swinburne was before me with the "romantiques." the hymn to proserpine and dolores are wonderful lyrical versions of mdlle. de maupin. in form the leper is old english, the colouring is baudelaire, but the rude industry of the dustmen and the comestible glories of the market-place shall be mine. _a bas "les roses de minuit"_! i felt the "naturalisation" of the "roses of midnight" would prove a difficult task. i soon found it an impossible one, and i laid the poems aside and commenced a volume redolent of the delights of bougival and ville d'avray. this book was to be entitled "poems of 'flesh and blood.'" "_elle mit son plus beau chapeau, son chapeau bleu_" ... and then? why, then picking up her skirt she threads her way through the crowded streets, reads the advertisements on the walls, hails the omnibus, inquires at the _concierge's_ loge, murmurs as she goes upstairs, "_que c'est haut le cinqième_," and then? why, the door opens, and she cries, "_je t'aime_." but it was the idea of the new æstheticism--the new art corresponding to modern, as ancient art corresponded to ancient life--that captivated me, that led me away, and not a substantial knowledge of the work done by the naturalists. i had read the "assommoir," and had been much impressed by its pyramid size, strength, height, and decorative grandeur, and also by the immense harmonic development of the idea; and the fugal treatment of the different scenes had seemed to me astonishingly new--the washhouse, for example: the fight motive is indicated, then follows the development of side issues, then comes the fight motive explained; it is broken off short, it flutters through a web of progressive detail, the fight motive is again taken up, and now it is worked out in all its fulness; it is worked up to _crescendo_, another side issue is introduced, and again the theme is given forth. and i marvelled greatly at the lordly, river-like roll of the narrative, sometimes widening out into lakes and shallowing meres, but never stagnating in fen or marshlands. the language, too, which i did not then recognise as the weak point, being little more than a boiling down of chateaubriand and flaubert, spiced with goncourt, delighted me with its novelty, its richness, its force. nor did i then even roughly suspect that the very qualities which set my admiration in a blaze wilder than wildfire, being precisely those that had won the victory for the romantic school forty years before, were very antagonistic to those claimed for the new art; i was deceived, as was all my generation, by a certain externality, an outer skin, a nearness, _un approchement_; in a word, by a substitution of paris for the distant and exotic backgrounds so beloved of the romantic school. i did not know then, as i do now, that art is eternal, that it is only the artist that changes, and that the two great divisions--the only possible divisions---are: those who have talent, and those who have no talent. but i do not regret my errors, my follies; it is not well to know at once of the limitations of life and things. i should be less than nothing had it not been for my enthusiasms; they were the saving clause in my life. but although i am apt to love too dearly the art of my day, and at the cost of that of other days, i did not fall into the fatal mistake of placing the realistic writers of side by side with and on the same plane of intellectual vision as the great balzac; i felt that that vast immemorial mind rose above them all, like a mountain above the highest tower. and, strange to say, it was gautier that introduced me to balzac; for mention is made in the wonderful preface to "les fleurs du mal" of seraphita: seraphita, seraphitus; which is it?--woman or man? should wilfred or mona be the possessor? a new mdlle. de maupin, with royal lily and aureole, cloud-capped mountains, great gulfs of sea-water flowing up and reflecting as in a mirror the steep cliff's side; the straight white feet are set thereon, the obscuring weft of flesh is torn, and the pure, strange soul continues its mystical exhortations. then the radiant vision, a white glory, the last outburst and manifestation, the trumpets of the apocalypse, the colour of heaven; the closing of the stupendous allegory when seraphita lies dead in the rays of the first sun of the nineteenth century. i, therefore, had begun, as it were, to read balzac backwards; instead of beginning with the plain, simple, earthly tragedy of the père goriot, i first knelt in a beautiful but distant coigne of the great world of his genius--seraphita. certain _nuances_ of soul are characteristic of certain latitudes, and what subtle instinct led him to norway in quest of this fervent soul? the instincts of genius are unfathomable; but he who has known the white northern women with their pure spiritual eyes, will aver that instinct led him aright. i have known one, one whom i used to call seraphita; coppée knew her too, and that exquisite volume, "l'exilé," so seraphita-like in the keen blond passion of its verse, was written to her, and each poem was sent to her as it was written. where is she now, that flower of northern snow, once seen for a season in paris? has she returned to her native northern solitudes, great gulfs of sea water, mountain rock, and pine? balzac's genius is in his titles as heaven is in its stars: "melmoth reconcilié," "jésus-christ en flandres," "le revers d'un grand homme," "la cousine bette." i read somewhere not very long ago, that balzac was the greatest thinker that had appeared in france since pascal. of pascal's claim to be a great thinker i confess i cannot judge. no man is greater than the age he lives in, and, therefore, to talk to us, the legitimate children of the nineteenth century, of logical proofs of the existence of god strikes us in just the same light as the logical proof of the existence of jupiter ammon. "les pensées" could appear to me only as infinitely childish; the form is no doubt superb, but tiresome and sterile to one of such modern and exotic taste as myself. still, i accept thankfully, in its sense of two hundred years, the compliment paid to balzac; but i would add that personally he seems to me to have shown greater wings of mind than any artist that ever lived. i am aware that this last statement will make many cry "fool" and hiss "shakespeare!" but i am not putting forward these criticisms axiomatically, but only as the expressions of an individual taste, and interesting so far as they reveal to the reader the different developments and the progress of my mind. it might prove a little tiresome, but it would no doubt "look well," in the sense that going to church "looks well," if i were to write in here ten pages of praise of our national bard. i must, however, resist the temptation to "look well;" a confession is interesting in proportion to the amount of truth it contains, and i will, therefore, state frankly i never derived any profit whatsoever, and very little pleasure from the reading of the great plays. the beauty of the verse! yes; he who loved shelley so well as i could not fail to hear the melody of-- "music to hear, why hearest thou music sadly sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy." is not such music as this enough? of course but i am a sensualist in literature. i may see perfectly well that this or that book is a work of genius, but if it doesn't "fetch me," it doesn't concern me, and i forget its very existence. what leaves me cold to-day will madden me to-morrow. with me literature is a question of sense, intellectual sense if you will, but sense all the same, and ruled by the same caprices--those of the flesh? now we enter on very subtle distinctions. no doubt that there is the brain-judgment and the sense-judgment of a work of art. and it will be noticed that these two forces of discrimination exist sometimes almost independently of each other, in rare and radiant instances confounded and blended in one immense and unique love. who has not been, unless perhaps some dusty old pedant, thrilled and driven to pleasure by the action of a book that penetrates to and speaks to you of your most present and most intimate emotions. this is of course pure sensualism; but to take a less marked stage. why should marlowe enchant me? why should he delight and awake enthusiasm in me, while shakespeare leaves me cold? the mind that can understand one can understand the other, but there are affinities in literature corresponding to, and very analogous to, sexual affinities--the same unreasoned attractions, the same pleasures, the same lassitudes. those we have loved most we are most indifferent to. shelley, gautier, zola, flaubert, goncourt! how i have loved you all; and now i could not, would not, read you again. how womanly, how capricious; but even a capricious woman is constant, if not faithful to her _amant de coeur_. and so with me; of those i have loved deeply there is but one that still may thrill me with the old passion, with the first ecstacy--it is balzac. upon that rock i built my church, and his great and valid talent saved me often from destruction, saved me from the shoaling waters of new aestheticisms, the putrid mud of naturalism, and the faint and sickly surf of the symbolists. thinking of him, i could not forget that it is the spirit and not the flesh that is eternal; that, as it was thought that in the first instance gave man speech, so to the end it shall still be thought that shall make speech beautiful and rememberable. the grandeur and sublimity of balzac's thoughts seem to me to rise to the loftiest heights, and his range is limitless; there is no passion he has not touched, and what is more marvellous, he has given to each in art a place equivalent to the place it occupies in nature; his intense and penetrating sympathy for human life and all that concerns it enabled him to surround the humblest subjects with awe and crown them with the light of tragedy. there are some, particularly those who are capable of understanding neither and can read but one, who will object to any comparison being drawn between the dramatist and the novelist; but i confess that i--if the inherent superiority of verse over prose, which i admit unhesitatingly, be waived--that i fail, utterly fail to see in what shakespeare is greater than balzac. the range of the poet's thought is of necessity not so wide, and his concessions must needs be greater than the novelist's. on these points we will cry quits, and come at once to the vital question--the creation. is lucien inferior to hamlet? is eugénie grandet inferior to desdemona? is her father inferior to shylock? is macbeth inferior to vautrin? can it be said that the apothecary in the "cousine bette," or the baron hulot, or the cousine bette herself is inferior to anything the brain of man has ever conceived? and it must not be forgotten that shakespeare has had three hundred years and the advantage of stage representation to impress his characters on the sluggish mind of the world; and as mental impressions are governed by the same laws of gravitation as atoms, our realisation of falstaff must of necessity be more vivid than any character in contemporary literature, although it were equally great. and so far as epigram and aphorism are concerned, and here i speak with absolute sincerity and conviction, the work of the novelist seems to me richer than that of the dramatist. who shall forget those terrible words of the poor life-weary orphan in the boarding-house? speaking of vautrin she says, "his look frightens me as if he put his hand on my dress;" and another epigram from the same book, "woman's virtue is man's greatest invention." find me anything in la rochefoucauld that goes more incisively to the truth of things. one more; here i can give the exact words: "_la gloire est le soleil des morts._" it would be easy to compile a book of sayings from balzac that would make all "maximes" and "pensées," even those of la rochefoucauld or joubert, seem trivial and shallow. balzac was the great moral influence of my life, and my reading culminated in the "comédie humaine." i no doubt fluttered through some scores of other books, of prose and verse, sipping a little honey, but he alone left any important or lasting impression upon my mind. the rest was like walnuts and wine, an agreeable aftertaste. but notwithstanding all this reading i can lay no claim to scholarship of any kind; for save life i could never learn anything correctly. i am a student only of ball rooms, bar rooms, streets, and alcoves. i have read very little; but all i read i can turn to account, and all i read i remember. to read freely, extensively, has always been my ambition, and my utter inability to study has always been to me a subject of grave inquietude,--study as contrasted with a general and haphazard gathering of ideas taken in flight. but in me the impulse is so original to frequent the haunts of men that it is irresistible, conversation is the breath of my nostrils, i watch the movement of life, and my ideas spring from it uncalled for, as buds from branches. contact with the world is in me the generating force; without it what invention i have is thin and sterile, and it grows thinner rapidly, until it dies away utterly, as it did in the composition of my unfortunate "roses of midnight." men and women, oh the strength of the living faces! conversation, oh the magic of it! it is a fabulous river of gold where the precious metal is washed up without stint for all to take, to take as much as he can carry. two old ladies discussing the peerage? much may be learned, it is gold; poets and wits, then it is fountains whose spray solidifies into jewels, and every herb and plant is begemmed with the sparkle of the diamond and the glow of the ruby. i did not go to either oxford or cambridge, but i went to the "nouvelle athènes." what is the "nouvelle athènes"? he who would know anything of my life must know something of the academy of the fine arts. not the official stupidity you read of in the daily papers, but the real french academy, the _café_. the "nouvelle athènes" is a _café_ on the place pigale. ah! the morning idlenesses and the long evenings when life was but a summer illusion, the grey moonlights on the place where we used to stand on the pavements, the shutters clanging up behind us, loath to separate, thinking of what we had left said, and how much better we might have enforced our arguments. dead and scattered are all those who used to assemble there, and those years and our home, for it was our home, live only in a few pictures and a few pages of prose. the same old story, the vanquished only are victorious; and though unacknowledged, though unknown, the influence of the "nouvelle athènes" is inveterate in the artistic thought of the nineteenth century. how magnetic, intense, and vivid are these memories of youth. with what strange, almost unnatural clearness do i see and hear,--see the white face of that _café_, the white nose of that block of houses, stretching up to the place, between two streets. i can see down the incline of those two streets, and i know what shops are there; i can hear the glass-door of the _café_ grate on the sand as i open it. i can recall the smell of every hour. in the morning that of eggs frizzling in butter, the pungent cigarette, coffee and bad cognac; at five o'clock the fragrant odour of absinthe; and soon after the steaming soup ascends from the kitchen; and as the evening advances, the mingled smells of cigarettes, coffee, and weak beer. a partition, rising a few feet or more over the hats, separates the glass front from the main body of the _café_. the usual marble tables are there, and it is there we sat and aestheticised till two o'clock in the morning. but who is that man? he whose prominent eyes flash with excitement. that is villiers de l'isle-adam. the last or the supposed last of the great family. he is telling that girl a story--that fair girl with heavy eyelids, stupid and sensual. she is, however, genuinely astonished and interested, and he is striving to play upon her ignorance. listen to him. "spain--the night is fragrant with the sea and the perfume of the orange trees, you know--a midnight of stars and dreams. now and then the silence is broken by the sentries challenging--that is all. but not in spanish but in french are the challenges given; the town is in the hands of the french; it is under martial law. but now an officer passes down a certain garden, a spaniard disguised as a french officer; from the balcony the family--one of the most noble and oldest families spain can boast of, a thousand years, long before the conquest of the moors--watches him. well then"--villiers sweeps with a white feminine hand the long hair that is falling over his face--he has half forgotten, he is a little mixed in the opening of the story, and he is striving in english to "scamp," in french to _escamoter_. "the family are watching, death if he is caught, if he fails to kill the french sentry. the cry of a bird, some vague sound attracts the sentry, he turns; all is lost. the spaniard is seized. martial law, spanish conspiracy must be put down. the french general is a man of iron." (villiers laughs, a short hesitating laugh that is characteristic of him, and continues in his abrupt, uncertain way), "man of iron; not only he declares that the spy must be beheaded, but also the entire family--a man of iron that, ha, ha; and then, no you cannot, it is impossible for you to understand the enormity of the calamity--a thousand years before the conquest by the moors, a spaniard alone could--there is no one here, ha, ha, i was forgetting--the utter extinction of a great family of the name, the oldest and noblest of all the families in spain, it is not easy to understand that, no, not easy here in the 'nouvelle athènes'--ha, ha, one must belong to a great family to understand, ha, ha. "the father beseeches; he begs that one member may be spared to continue the name--the youngest son--that is all; if he could be saved, the rest what matter; death is nothing to a spaniard; the family, the name, a thousand years of name is everything. the general is, you know, a 'man of iron.' 'yes, one member of your family shall be respited, but on one condition.' to the agonised family conditions are as nothing. but they don't know the man of iron is determined to make a terrible example, and they cry, 'any conditions.' 'he who is respited must serve as executioner to the others.' great is the doom; you understand; but after all the name must be saved. then in the family council the father goes to his youngest son and says, 'i have been a good father to you, my son; i have always been a kind father, have i not? answer me; i have never refused you anything. now you will not fail us, you will prove yourself worthy of the great name you bear. remember your great ancestor who defeated the moors, remember.'" (villiers strives to get in a little local colour, but his knowledge of spanish names and history is limited, and he in a certain sense fails.) "then the mother comes to her son and says, 'my son, i have been a good mother, i have always loved you; say you will not desert us in this hour of our great need.' then the little sister comes, and the whole family kneels down and appeals to the horror-stricken boy.... "'he will not prove himself unworthy of our name,' cries the father. 'now, my son, courage, take the axe firmly, do what i ask you, courage, strike straight.' the father's head falls into the sawdust, the blood all over the white beard; then comes the elder brother, and then another brother; and then, oh, the little sister was almost more than he could bear, and the mother had to whisper, 'remember your promise to your father, to your dead father.' the mother laid her head on the block, but he could not strike. 'be not the first coward of our name, strike; remember your promise to us all,' and her head was struck off." "and the son," the girl asks, "what became of him?" "he never was seen, save at night, walking, a solitary man, beneath the walls of his castle in granada." "and whom did he marry?" "he never married." then after a long silence some one said,-- "whose story is that?" "balzac's." at that moment the glass door of the _café_ grated upon the sanded floor, and manet entered. although by birth and by art essentially parisian, there was something in his appearance and manner of speaking that often suggested an englishman. perhaps it was his dress--his clean-cut clothes and figure. that figure! those square shoulders that swaggered as he went across a room and the thin waist; and that face, the beard and nose, satyr-like shall i say? no, for i would evoke an idea of beauty of line united to that of intellectual expression--frank words, frank passion in his convictions, loyal and simple phrases, clear as well-water, sometimes a little hard, sometimes, as they flowed away, bitter, but at the fountain head sweet and full of light. he sits next to degas, that round-shouldered man in suit of pepper and salt. there is nothing very trenchantly french about him either, except the large necktie; his eyes are small and his words are sharp, ironical, cynical. these two men are the leaders of the impressionist school. their friendship has been jarred by inevitable rivalry. "degas was painting 'semiramis' when i was painting 'modern paris,'" says manet. "manet is in despair because he cannot paint atrocious pictures like durant, and be fêted and decorated; he is an artist, not by inclination, but by force. he is as a galley slave chained to the oar," says degas. different too are their methods of work. manet paints his whole picture from nature, trusting his instinct to lead him aright through the devious labyrinth of selection. nor does his instinct ever fail him, there is a vision in his eyes which he calls nature, and which he paints unconsciously as he digests his food, thinking and declaring vehemently that the artist should not seek a synthesis, but should paint merely what he sees. this extraordinary oneness of nature and artistic vision does not exist in degas, and even his portraits are composed from drawings and notes. about midnight catulle mendès will drop in, when he has corrected his proofs. he will come with his fine paradoxes and his strained eloquence. he will lean towards you, he will take you by the arm, and his presence is a nervous pleasure. and when the _café_ is closed, when the last bock has been drunk, we shall walk about the great moonlight of the place pigale, and through the dark shadows of the streets, talking of the last book published, he hanging on to my arm, speaking in that high febrile voice of his, every phrase luminous, aerial, even as the soaring moon and the fitful clouds. duranty, an unknown stendal, will come in for an hour or so; he will talk little and go away quietly; he knows, and his whole manner shows that he knows that he is a defeated man; and if you ask him why he does not write another novel, he will say, "what's the good, it would not be read; no one read the others, and i mightn't do even as well if i tried again." paul alexis, léon diex, pissarro, cabaner, are also frequently seen in the "nouvelle athènes." cabaner! the world knows not the names of those who scorn the world: somewhere in one of the great populous churchyards of paris there is a forgotten grave, and there lies cabaner. cabaner! since the beginning there have been, till the end of time there shall be cabaners; and they shall live miserably and they shall die miserable, and shall be forgotten; and there shall never arise a novelist great enough to make live in art that eternal spirit of devotion, disinterestedness, and aspiration, which in each generation incarnates itself in one heroic soul. better than those who stepped to opulence and fame upon thee fallen thou wert; better, loftier-minded, purer; thy destiny was to fall that others might rise upon thee, thou wert one of the noble legion of the conquered; let praise be given to the conquered, for the brunt of victory lies with the conquered. child of the pavement, of strange sonnets and stranger music, i remember thee; i remember the silk shirts, the four sous of italian cheese, the roll of bread, and the glass of milk;--the streets were thy dining-room. and the five-mile walk daily to the suburban music hall where five francs were earned by playing the accompaniments of comic songs. and the wonderful room on the fifth floor, which was furnished when that celebrated heritage of two thousand francs was paid. i remember the fountain that was bought for a wardrobe, and the american organ with all the instruments of the orchestra, and the plaster casts under which the homeless ones that were never denied a refuge and a crust by thee slept. i remember all, and the buying of the life-size "venus de milo." something extraordinary would be done with it, i knew, but the result exceeded my wildest expectation. the head must needs be struck off, so that the rapture of thy admiration should be secure from all jarring reminiscence of the streets. then the wonderful story of the tenor, the pork butcher, who was heard giving out such a volume of sound that the sausages were set in motion above him; he was fed, clothed, and educated on the five francs a day earned in the music hall in the avenue de la motte piquet; and when he made his _début_ at the théâtre lyrique, thou wert in the last stage of consumption and too ill to go to hear thy pupil's success. he was immediately engaged by mapleson and taken to america. i remember thy face, cabaner; i can see it now--that long sallow face ending in a brown beard, and the hollow eyes, the meagre arms covered with a silk shirt, contrasting strangely with the rest of the dress. in all thy privation and poverty, thou didst never forego thy silk shirt. i remember the paradoxes and the aphorisms, if not the exact words, the glamour and the sentiment of a humour that was all thy own. never didst thou laugh; no, not even when in discussing how silence might be rendered in music, thou didst say, with thy extraordinary pyrenean accent, "_pour rendre le silence en music il me faudrait trois orchestres militaires._" and when i did show thee some poor verses of mine, french verses, for at this time i hated and had partly forgotten my native language-- "my dear dayne, you always write about love, the subject is nauseating." "so it is, so it is; but after all baudelaire wrote about love and lovers; his best poem...." "_c'est vrai, mais il s'agissait d'une charogne et cela relève beaucoup la chose._" i remember, too, a few stray snatches of thy extraordinary music, "music that might be considered by wagner as a little too advanced, but which liszt would not fail to understand;" also thy settings of sonnets where the _melody_ was continued uninterruptedly from the first line to the last; and that still more marvellous feat, thy setting, likewise with unbroken melody, of villon's ballade "les dames du temps jadis;" and that out-cabanering of cabaner, the putting to music of cros's "hareng saur." and why didst thou remain ever poor and unknown? because of something too much, or something too little? because of something too much! so i think, at least; thy heart was too full of too pure an ideal, too far removed from all possible contagion with the base crowd. but, cabaner, thou didst not labour in vain; thy destiny, though obscure, was a valiant and fruitful one; and, as in life, thou didst live for others so now in death thou dost live in others. thou wert in an hour of wonder and strange splendour when the last tints and lovelinesses of romance lingered in the deepening west; when out of the clear east rose with a mighty effulgence of colour and lawless light realism; when showing aloft in the dead pallor of the zenith, like a white flag fluttering faintly, symbolists and decadents appeared. never before was there so sudden a flux and conflux of artistic desire, such aspiration in the soul of man, such rage of passion, such fainting fever, such cerebral erethism. the roar and dust of the daily battle of the realists was continued under the flush of the sunset, the arms of the romantics glittered, the pale spiritual symbolists watched and waited, none knowing yet of their presence. in such an hour of artistic convulsion and renewal of thought thou wert, and thou wert a magnificent rallying point for all comers; it was thou who didst theorise our confused aspirations, and by thy holy example didst save us from all base commercialism, from all hateful prostitution; thou wert ever our high priest, and from thy high altar turned to us the white host, the ideal, the true and living god of all men. cabaner, i see you now entering the "nouvelle athènes;" you are a little tired after your long weary walk, but you lament not and you never cry out against the public that will accept neither your music nor your poetry. but though you are tired and footsore, you are ready to aestheticise till the _café_ closes; for you the homeless ones are waiting: there they are, some three or four, and you will take them to your strange room, furnished with the american organ, the fountain, and the decapitated venus, and you give them a crust each and cover them with what clothes you have; and, when clothes are lacking, with plaster casts, and though you will take but a glass of milk yourself, you will find a few sous to give them _lager_ to cool their thirsty throats. so you have ever lived--a blameless life is yours, no base thought has ever entered there, not even a woman's love; art and friends, that is all. reader, do you know of anything more angelic? if you do you are more fortunate than i have been. chapter vii the synthesis of the nouvelle athÈnes two dominant notes in my character--an original hatred of my native country, and a brutal loathing of the religion i was brought up in. all the aspects of my native country are violently disagreeable to me, and i cannot think of the place i was born in without a sensation akin to nausea. these feelings are inherent and inveterate in me. i am instinctively averse to my own countrymen; they are at once remote and repulsive; but with frenchmen i am conscious of a sense of nearness; i am one with them in their ideas and aspirations, and when i am with them, i am alive with a keen and penetrating sense of intimacy. shall i explain this by atavism? was there a french man or woman in my family some half dozen generations ago? i have not inquired. the english i love, and with a love that is foolish--mad, limitless; i love them better than the french, but i am not so near to them. dear, sweet protestant england, the red tiles of the farmhouse, the elms, the great hedgerows, and all the rich fields adorned with spreading trees, and the weald and the wold, the very words are passionately beautiful ... southern england, not the north--there is something celtic in the north,--southern england, with its quiet, steadfast faces;--a smock frock is to me one of the most delightful things in the world; it is so absolutely english. the villages clustered round the greens, the spires of the churches pointing between the elm trees.... this is congenial to me; and this is protestantism. england is protestantism, protestantism is england. protestantism is strong, clean, and westernly, catholicism is eunuch-like, dirty, and oriental.... yes, oriental; there is something even chinese about it. what made england great was protestantism, and when she ceases to be protestant she will fall.... look at the nations that have clung to catholicism, starving moonlighters and starving brigands. the protestant flag floats on every ocean breeze, the catholic banner hangs limp in the incense silence of the vatican. let us be protestant, and revere cromwell. * * * * * _garçon, un bock!_ i write to please myself, just as i order my dinner; if my books sell i cannot help it--it is an accident. but you live by writing. yes, but life is only an accident--art is eternal. * * * * * what i reproach zola with is that he has no style; there is nothing you won't find in zola from chateaubriand to the reporting in the _figaro_. he seeks immortality in an exact description of a linendraper's shop; if the shop conferred immortality it should be upon the linendraper who created the shop, and not on the novelist who described it. and his last novel "l'oeuvre," how terribly spun out, and for a franc a line in the "gil blas." not a single new or even exact observation. and that terrible phrase repeated over and over again--"la conquête de paris." what does it mean? i never knew any one who thought of conquering paris;--no one ever spoke of conquering paris except, perhaps, two or three provincials. * * * * * you must have rules in poetry, if it is only for the pleasure of breaking them, just as you must have women dressed, if it is only for the pleasure of imagining them as venuses. * * * * * fancy, a banquet was given to julien by his pupils! he made a speech in favour of lefevre, and hoped that every one there would vote for lefevre. julien was very eloquent. he spoke of _le grand art, le nu_, and lefevre's unswerving fidelity to _le nu_ ... elegance, refinement, an echo of ancient greece: and then,--what do you think? when he had exhausted all the reasons why the medal of honour should be accorded to lefevre, he said, "i ask you to remember, gentlemen, that he has a wife and eight children." is it not monstrous? * * * * * but it is you who are monstrous, you who expect to fashion the whole world in conformity with your aestheticisms ... a vain dream, and if realised it would result in an impossible world. a wife and children are the basis of existence, and it is folly to cry out because an appeal to such interests as these meet with response ... it will be so till the end of time. * * * * * and these great interests that are to continue to the end of time began two years ago, when your pictures were not praised in the _figaro_ as much as you thought they should be. * * * * * marriage--what an abomination! love--yes, but not marriage. love cannot exist in marriage, because love is an ideal; that is to say, something not quite understood--transparencies, colour, light, a sense of the unreal. but a wife--you know all about her--who her father was, who her mother was, what she thinks of you and her opinion of the neighbours over the way. where, then, is the dream, the _au delà_? there is none. i say in marriage an _au delà_ is impossible ... the endless duet of the marble and the water, the enervation of burning odours, the baptismal whiteness of women, light, ideal tissues, eyes strangely dark with kohl, names that evoke palm trees and ruins, spanish moonlight or maybe persepolis. the monosyllable which epitomises the ennui and the prose of our lives is heard not, thought not there--only the nightingale-harmony of an eternal yes. freedom limitless; the mahometan stands on the verge of the abyss, and the spaces of perfume and colour extend and invite him with the whisper of a sweet unending yes. the unknown, the unreal.... thus love is possible, there is a delusion, an _au delà_. * * * * * good heavens! and the world still believes in education, in teaching people the "grammar of art." education is fatal to any one with a spark of artistic feeling. education should be confined to clerks, and even them it drives to drink. will the world learn that we never learn anything that we did not know before? the artist, the poet, painter, musician, and novelist go straight to the food they want, guided by an unerring and ineffable instinct; to teach them is to destroy the nerve of the artistic instinct, it is fatal. but above all in painting ... "correct drawing," "solid painting." is it impossible to teach people, to force it into their heads that there is no such thing as correct drawing, and that if drawing were correct it would be wrong? solid painting; good heavens! do they suppose that there is one sort of painting that is better than all others, and that there is a receipt for making it as for making chocolate! art is not mathematics, it is individuality. it does not matter how badly you paint, so long as you don't paint badly like other people. education destroys individuality. that great studio of julien's is a sphinx, and all the poor folk that go there for artistic education are devoured. after two years they all paint and draw alike, every one; that vile execution,--they call it execution,--_la pâet, la peinture au premier coup_. i was over in england last year, and i saw some portraits by a man called richmond. they were horrible, but i liked them because they weren't like painting. stott and sargent are clever fellows enough; i like stott the best. if they had remained at home and hadn't been taught, they might have developed a personal art, but the trail of the serpent is over all they do--that vile french painting, _le morceau_, etc. stott is getting over it by degrees. he exhibited a nymph this year. i know what he meant; it was an interesting intention. i liked his little landscapes better ... simplified into nothing, into a couple of primitive tints, wonderful clearness, light. but i doubt if he will find a public to understand all that. * * * * * democratic art! art is the direct antithesis to democracy.... athens! a few thousand citizens who owned many thousand slaves, call that democracy! no! what i am speaking of is modern democracy--the mass. the mass can only appreciate simple and _naïve_ emotions, puerile prettiness, above all conventionalities. see the americans that come over here; what do they admire? is it degas or manet they admire? no, bouguereau and lefevre. what was most admired at the international exhibition?--the dirty boy. and if the medal of honour had been decided by a _plébiscite_, the dirty boy would have had an overwhelming majority. what is the literature of the people? the idiotic stories of the _petit journal_. don't talk of shakespeare, molière, and the masters; they are accepted on the authority of the centuries. if the people could understand _hamlet_, the people would not read the _petit journal_; if the people could understand michel angelo, they would not look at our bouguereau or your bouguereau, sir f. leighton. for the last hundred years we have been going rapidly towards democracy, and what is the result? the destruction of the handicrafts. that there are still good pictures painted and good poems written proves nothing, there will always be found men to sacrifice their lives for a picture or a poem. but the decorative arts which are executed in collaboration, and depend for support on the general taste of a large number, have ceased to exist. explain that if you can. i'll give you five thousand, ten thousand francs to buy a beautiful clock that is not a copy and is not ancient, and you can't do it. such a thing does not exist. look here; i was going up the staircase of the louvre the other day. they were putting up a mosaic; it was horrible; every one knows it is horrible. well, i asked who had given the order for this mosaic, and i could not find out; no one knew. an order is passed from bureau to bureau, and no one is responsible; and it will be always so in a republic, and the more republican you are the worse it will be. * * * * * the world is dying of machinery; that is the great disease, that is the plague that will sweep away and destroy civilisation; man will have to rise against it sooner or later.... capital, unpaid labour, wage-slaves, and all the rest--stuff.... look at these plates; they were painted by machinery; they are abominable. look at them. in old times plates were painted by the hand, and the supply was necessarily limited to the demand, and a china in which there was always something more or less pretty, was turned out; but now thousands, millions of plates are made more than we want, and there is a commercial crisis; the thing is inevitable. i say the great and the reasonable revolution will be when mankind rises in revolt, and smashes the machinery and restores the handicrafts. * * * * * goncourt is not an artist, notwithstanding all his affectation and outcries; he is not an artist. _il me fait l'effet_ of an old woman shrieking after immortality and striving to beat down some fragment of it with a broom. once it was a duet, now it is a solo. they wrote novels, history, plays, they collected _bric-à-brac_--they wrote about their _bric-à-brac_; they painted in water-colours, they etched--they wrote about their water-colours and etchings; they have made a will settling that the _bric-à-brac_ is to be sold at their death, and the proceeds applied to founding a prize for the best essay or novel, i forget which it is. they wrote about the prize they are going to found; they kept a diary, they wrote down everything they heard, felt, or saw, _radotage de vieille femme_; nothing must escape, not the slightest word; it might be that very word that might confer on them immortality; everything they heard, or said, must be of value, of inestimable value. a real artist does not trouble himself about immortality, about everything he hears, feels, and says; he treats ideas and sensations as so much clay wherewith to create. and then the famous collaboration; how it was talked about, written about, prayed about; and when jules died, what a subject for talk for articles; it all went into pot. hugo's vanity was titanic, goncourt's is puerile. and daudet? oh, daudet, _c'est de la bouillabaisse_. * * * * * whistler, of all artists, is the least impressionist; the idea people have of his being an impressionist only proves once again the absolute inability of the public to understand the merits or the demerits of artistic work. whistler's art is absolutely classical; he thinks of nature, but he does not see nature; he is guided by his mind, and not by his eyes; and the best of it is he says so. oh, he knows it well enough! any one who knows him must have heard him say, "painting is absolutely scientific; it is an exact science." and his work is in accord with his theory; he risks nothing, all is brought down, arranged, balanced, and made one,--a well-determined mental conception, i admire his work; i am merely showing how he is misunderstood, even by those who think they understand. does he ever seek a pose that is characteristic of the model, a pose that the model repeats oftener than any other?--never. he advances the foot, puts the hand on the hip, etc., with a view to rendering his _idea_. take his portrait of duret. did he ever see duret in dress clothes? probably not. did he ever see duret with a lady's opera cloak?--i am sure he never did. is duret in the habit of going to the theatre with ladies? no; he is a _littérateur_ who is always in men's society, rarely in ladies'. but these facts mattered nothing to whistler as they matter to degas, or to manet. whistler took duret out of his environment, dressed him up, thought out a scheme--in a word, painted his idea without concerning himself in the least with the model. mark you, i deny that i am urging any fault or flaw; i am merely contending that whistler's art is not modern art, but classic art--yes, and severely classical, far more classical than titian's or velasquez;--from an opposite pole as classical as ingres. no greek dramatist ever sought the synthesis of things more uncompromisingly than whistler. and he is right. art is not nature. art is nature digested. art is a sublime excrement. zola and goncourt cannot, or will not understand that the artistic stomach must be allowed to do its work in its own mysterious fashion. if a man is really an artist he will remember what is necessary, forget what is useless; but if he takes notes he will interrupt his artistic digestion, and the result will be a lot of little touches, inchoate and wanting in the elegant rhythm of the synthesis. * * * * * i am sick of synthetical art; we want observation direct and unreasoned. what i reproach millet with is that it is always the same thing, the same peasant, the same _sabot_, the same sentiment. you must admit that it is somewhat stereotyped. * * * * * what does that matter; what is more stereotyped than japanese art? but that does not prevent it from being always beautiful. * * * * * people talk of manet's originality; that is just what i can't see. what he has got, and what you can't take away from him, is a magnificent execution. a piece of still life by manet is the most wonderful thing in the world; vividness of colour, breadth, simplicity, and directness of touch--marvellous! * * * * * french translation is the only translation; in england you still continue to translate poetry into poetry, instead of into prose. we used to do the same, but we have long ago renounced such follies. either of two things--if the translator is a good poet, he substitutes his verse for that of the original;--i don't want his verse, i want the original;--if he is a bad poet, he gives us bad verse, which is intolerable. where the original poet put an effect of caesura, the translator puts an effect of rhyme; where the original poet puts an effect of rhyme, the translator puts an effect of caesura. take longfellow's "dante." does it give as good an idea of the original as our prose translation? is it as interesting reading? take bayard taylor's translation of "goethe." is it readable? not to any one with an ear for verse. will any one say that taylor's would be read if the original did not exist. the fragment translated by shelley is beautiful, but then it is shelley. look at swinburne's translations of villon. they are beautiful poems by swinburne, that is all; he makes villon speak of a "splendid kissing mouth." villon could not have done this unless he had read swinburne. "heine," translated by james thomson, is not different from thomson's original poems; "heine," translated by sir theodore martin, is doggerel. * * * * * but in english blank verse you can translate quite as literally as you could into prose? * * * * * i doubt it, but even so, the rhythm of the blank line would carry your mind away from that of the original. * * * * * but if you don't know the original? the rhythm of the original can be suggested in prose judiciously used; even if it isn't, your mind is at least free, whereas the english rhythm must destroy the sensation of something foreign. there is no translation except a word-for-word translation. baudelaire's translation of poe, and hugo's translation of shakespeare, are marvellous in this respect; a pun or joke that is untranslatable is explained in a note. * * * * * but that is the way young ladies translate--word for word! * * * * * no; 'tis just what they don't do; they think they are translating word for word, but they aren't. all the proper names, no matter how unpronounceable, must be rigidly adhered to; you must never transpose versts into kilometres, or roubles into francs;--i don't know what a verst is or what a rouble is, but when i see the words i am in russia. every proverb must be rendered literally, even if it doesn't make very good sense; if it doesn't make sense at all, it must be explained in a note. for example, there is a proverb in german: "_quand le cheval est sellé il faut le monter_;" in french there is a proverb: "_quand le vin est tiré il faut le boire._" well, a translator who would translate _quand le cheval_, etc., by _quand le vin_, etc., is an ass, and does not know his business. in translation, only a strictly classical language should be used; no word of slang, or even word of modern origin should be employed; the translator's aim should be never to dissipate the illusion of an exotic. if i were translating the "assommoir" into english, i should strive after a strong, flexible, but colourless language, something--what shall i say?--a sort of a modern addison. * * * * * what, don't you know the story about mendés?--when _chose_ wanted to marry his sister? _chose's_ mother, it appears, went to live with a priest. the poor fellow was dreadfully cut up; he was brokenhearted; and he went to mendés, his heart swollen with grief, determined to make a clean breast of it, let the worst come to the worst. after a great deal of beating about the bush, and apologising, he got it out. you know mendés, you can see him smiling a little; and looking at _chose_ with that white cameo face of his he said, "_avec quel meilleur homme voulez-vous que votre mère se fit? vous n'avez donc, jeune homme, aucun sentiment religieux._" * * * * * victor hugo, he is a painter on porcelain; his verse is mere decoration, long tendrils and flowers; and the same thing over and over again. * * * * * how to be happy!--not to read baudelaire and verlaine, not to enter the _nouvelle athènes_, unless perhaps to play dominoes like the _bourgeois_ over there, not to do anything that would awake a too intense consciousness of life,--to live in a sleepy country side, to have a garden to work in, to have a wife and children, to chatter quietly every evening over the details of existence. we must have the azaleas out to-morrow and thoroughly cleansed, they are devoured by insects; the tame rook has flown away; mother lost her prayer-book coming from church, she thinks it was stolen. a good, honest, well-to-do peasant, who knows nothing of politics, must be very nearly happy;--and to think there are people who would educate, who would draw these people out of the calm satisfaction of their instincts, and give them passions! the philanthropist is the nero of modern times. chapter viii extract from a letter why did you not send a letter? we have all been writing to you for the last six months, but no answer--none. had you written one word i would have saved all. the poor concierge was in despair; she said the _propriétaire_ would wait if you had only said when you were coming back, or if you only had let us know what you wished to be done. three quarters rent was due, and no news could be obtained of you, so an auction had to be called. it nearly broke my heart to see those horrid men tramping over the delicate carpets, their coarse faces set against the sweet colour of that beautiful english cretonne.... and all the while the pastel by manet, the great hat set like an aureole about the face--'the eyes deep set in crimson shadow,' 'the fan widespread across the bosom' (you see i am quoting your own words), looking down, the mistress of that little paradise of tapestry. she seemed to resent the intrusion. i looked once or twice half expecting those eyes 'deep set in crimson shadow' to fill with tears. but nothing altered her great dignity; she seemed to see all, but as a buddha she remained impenetrable.... "i was there the night before the sale. i looked through the hooks, taking notes of those i intended to buy--those which we used to read together when the snow lay high about the legs of the poor faun in _terre cuite_, that laughed amid the frosty _boulingrins_. i found a large packet of letters which i instantly destroyed. you should not be so careless; i wonder how it is that men are always careless about their letters. "the sale was announced for one o'clock. i wore a thick veil, for i did not wish to be recognised; the concierge of course knew me, but she can be depended upon. the poor old woman was in tears, so sorry was she to see all your pretty things sold up. you left owing her a hundred francs, but i have paid her; and talking of you we waited till the auctioneer arrived. everything had been pulled down; the tapestry from the walls, the picture, the two vases i gave you were on the table waiting the stroke of the hammer. and then the men, all the _marchands de meubles_ in the _quartier_, came upstairs, spitting and talking coarsely--their foul voices went through me. they stamped, spat, pulled the things about, nothing escaped them. one of them held up the japanese dressing-gown and made some horrible jokes; and the auctioneer, who was a humorist, answered, "if there are any ladies' men present, we shall have some spirited bidding." the pastel i bought, and i shall keep it and try to find some excuse to satisfy my husband, but i send you the miniature, and i hope you will not let it be sold again. there were many other things i should have liked to have bought but i did not dare--the organ that you used to play hymns on and i waltzes on, the turkish lamp which we could never agree about ... but when i saw the satin shoes which i gave you to carry the night of that adorable ball, and which you would not give back, but nailed up on the wall on either side of your bed and put matches in, i was seized with an almost invincible desire to steal them. i don't know why, _un caprice de femme_. no one but you would have ever thought of converting satin shoes into match boxes. i wore them at that delicious ball; we danced all night together, and you had an explanation with my husband (i was a little afraid for a moment, but it came out all right), and we went and sat on the balcony in the soft warm moonlight; we watched the glitter of epaulets and gas, the satin of the bodices, the whiteness of passing shoulders; we dreamed the massy darknesses of the park, the fairy light along the lawny spaces, the heavy perfume of the flowers, the pink of the camellias; and you quoted something: '_les camélias du balcon ressemblent à des désirs mourants._' it was horrid of you: but you always had a knack of rubbing one up the wrong way. then do you not remember how we danced in one room, while the servants set the other out with little tables? that supper was fascinating! i suppose it was these pleasant remembrances which made me wish for the shoes, but i could not summon up courage enough to buy them, and the horrid people were comparing me with the pastel; i suppose i did look a little mysterious with a double veil bound across my face. the shoes went with a lot of other things--and oh, to whom? "so now that pretty little retreat in the _rue de la tour des dames_ is ended for ever for you and me. we shall not see the faun in _terre cuite_ again; i was thinking of going to see him the other day, but the street is so steep; my coachman advised me to spare the horse's hind legs. i believe it is the steepest street in paris. and your luncheon parties, how i did enjoy them, and how fay did enjoy them too; and what i risked, shortsighted as i am, picking my way from the tramcar down to that out-of-the-way little street! men never appreciate the risks women run for them. but to leave my letters lying about--i cannot forgive that. when i told fay she said, 'what can you expect? i warned you against flirting with boys.' i never did before--never. "paris is now just as it was when you used to sit on the balcony and i read you browning. you never liked his poetry, and i cannot understand why. i have found a new poem which i am sure would convert you; you should be here. there are lilacs in the room and the _mont valérien_ is beautiful upon a great lemon sky, and the long avenue is merging into violet vapour. "we have already begun to think of where we shall go to this year. last year we went to p----, an enchanting place, quite rustic, but within easy distance of a casino. i had vowed not to dance, for i had been out every night during the season, but the temptation proved irresistible, and i gave way. there were two young men here, one the count of b----, the other the marquis of g----, one of the best families in france, a distant cousin of my husband. he has written a book which every one says is one of the most amusing things that has appeared for years, _c'est surtout très parisien_. he paid me great attentions, and made my husband wildly jealous. i used to go out and sit with him amid the rocks, and it was perhaps very lucky for me that he went away. we may return there this year; if so, i wish you would come and spend a month; there is an excellent hotel where you would be very comfortable. we have decided nothing as yet. the duchesse de ---- is giving a costume ball; they say it is going to be a most wonderful affair. i don't know what money is not going to be spent upon the cotillion. i have just got home a fascinating toilette. i am going as a _pierrotte_; you know, a short skirt and a little cap. the marquise gave a ball some few days ago. i danced the cotillion with l----, who, as you know, dances divinely; _il m'a fait la cour_, but it is of course no use, you know that. "the other night we went to see the _maître-forges_, a fascinating play, and i am reading the book; i don't know which i like the best. i think the play, but the book is very good too. now that is what i call a novel; and i am a judge, for i have read all novels. but i must not talk literature, or you will say something stupid. i wish you would not make foolish remarks about men that _tout-paris_ considers the cleverest. it does not matter so much with me, i know you, but then people laugh at you behind your back, and that is not nice for me. the _marquise_ was here the other day, and she said she almost wished you would not come on her 'days,' so extraordinary were the remarks you made. and by the way, the _marquise_ has written a book. i have not seen it, but i hear that it is really too _décolleté_. she is _une femme d'esprit_, but the way she affiché's herself is too much for any one. she never goes anywhere now without _le petit_ d----. it is a great pity. "and now, my dear friend, write me a nice letter, and tell me when you are coming back to paris. i am sure you cannot amuse yourself in that hateful london; the nicest thing about you was that you were really _très_ parisien. come back and take a nice apartment on the champs elysées. you might come back for the duchesse's ball. i will get an invitation for you, and will keep the cotillion for you. the idea of running away as you did, and never telling any one where you were going to. i always said you were a little cracked. and letting all your things be sold! if you had only told me! i should like so much to have had that turkish lamp. yours--" how like her that letter is;--egotistical, vain, foolish; no, not foolish--narrow, limited, but not foolish; worldly, oh, how worldly! and yet not repulsively so, for there always was in her a certain intensity of feeling that saved her from the commonplace, and gave her an inexpressible charm. yes, she is a woman who can feel, and she has lived her life and felt it very acutely, very sincerely--sincerely?... like a moth caught in a gauze curtain! well, would that preclude sincerity? sincerity seems to convey an idea of depth, and she was not very deep, that is quite certain. i never could understand her;--a little brain that span rapidly and hummed a pretty humming tune. but no, there was something more in her than that. she often said things that i thought clever, things that i did not forget, things, that i should like to put into books. but it was not brain power; it was only intensity of feeling--nervous feeling. i don't know ... perhaps.... she has lived her life ... yes, within certain limits she has lived her life. none of us do more than that. true. i remember the first time i saw her. sharp, little, and merry--a changeable little sprite. i thought she had ugly hands; so she has, and yet i forgot all about her hands before i had known her a month. it is now seven years ago. how time passes! i was very young then. what battles we have had, what quarrels! still we had good times together. she never lost sight of me, but no intrusion; far too clever for that. i never got the better of her but once ... once i did, _enfin_! she soon made up for lost ground. i wonder what the charm was. i did not think her pretty, i did not think her clever; that i know.... i never knew if she cared for me, never. there were moments when.... curious, febrile, subtle little creature, oh, infinitely subtle, subtle in everything, in her sensations subtle; i suppose that was her charm, subtleness. i never knew if she cared for me, i never knew if she hated her husband,--one never knew her,--i never knew how she would receive me. the last time i saw her ... that stupid american would take her downstairs, no getting rid of him, and i was hiding behind one of the pillars in the rue de rivoli, my hand on the cab door. however, she could not blame me that time--and all the stories she used to invent of my indiscretions; i believe she used to get them up for the sake of the excitement. she was awfully silly in some ways, once you got her into a certain line; that marriage, that title, and she used to think of it night and day. i shall never forget when she went into mourning for the count de chambord. and her tastes, oh, how bourgeois they were! that salon; the flagrantly modern clock, brass work, eight hundred francs on the boulevard st. germain, the cabinets, brass work, the rich brown carpet, and the furniture set all round the room geometrically, the great gilt mirror, the ancestral portrait, the arms and crest everywhere, and the stuffy bourgeois sense of comfort; a little grotesque no doubt;--the mechanical admiration for all that is about her, for the general atmosphere, the _figaro_, that is to say albert wolf, _l'homme le plus spirituel de paris, c'est-à-dire, dans le monde_, the success of georges ohnet and the talent of gustave doré. but with all this vulgarity of taste certain appreciations, certain ebullitions of sentiment, within the radius of sentiment certain elevations and depravities,--depravities in the legitimate sense of the word, that is to say, a revolt against the commonplace.... ha, ha, ha! how i have been dreaming. i wish i had not been awoke from my reverie, it was pleasant. the letter just read indicates, if it does not clearly tell, the changes that have taken place in my life; and it is only necessary to say that one morning, a few months ago, when my servant brought me some summer honey and a glass of milk to my bedside, she handed me an unpleasant letter. my agent's handwriting, even when i knew the envelope contained a cheque, has never quite failed to produce a sensation of repugnance in me;--so hateful is any sort of account, that i avoid as much as possible even knowing how i stand at my banker's. therefore the odour of honey and milk, so evocative of fresh flowers and fields, was spoilt that morning for me; and it was some time before i slipped on that beautiful japanese dressing-gown, which i shall never see again, and read the odious epistle. that some wretched farmers and miners should refuse to starve, that i may not be deprived of my _demi-tasse_ at _tortoni's_; that i may not be forced to leave this beautiful retreat, my cat and my python--monstrous. and these wretched creatures will find moral support in england; they will find pity! pity, that most vile of all vile virtues, has never been known to me. the great pagan world i love knew it not. now the world proposes to interrupt the terrible austere laws of nature which ordain that the weak shall be trampled upon, shall be ground into death and dust, that the strong shall be really strong,--that the strong shall be glorious, sublime. a little bourgeois comfort, a little bourgeois sense of right, cry the moderns. hither the world has been drifting since the coming of the pale socialist of galilee; and this is why i hate him, and deny his divinity. his divinity is falling, it is evanescent in sight of the goal he dreamed; again he is denied by his disciples. poor fallen god! i, who hold nought else pitiful, pity thee, thy bleeding face and hands and feet, thy hanging body; thou at least art picturesque, and in a way beautiful in the midst of the sombre mediocrity, towards which thou hast drifted for two thousand years, a flag; and in which thou shalt find thy doom as i mine, i, who will not adore thee and cannot curse thee now. for verily thy life and thy fate has been greater, stranger and more divine than any man's has been. the chosen people, the garden, the betrayal, the crucifixion, and the beautiful story, not of mary, but of magdalen. the god descending to the harlot! even the great pagan world of marble and pomp and lust and cruelty, that my soul goes out to and hails as the grandest, has not so sublime a contrast to show us as this. come to me, ye who are weak. the word went forth, the terrible disastrous word, and before it fell the ancient gods, and the vices that they represent, and which i revere, are outcast now in the world of men; the word went forth, and the world interpreted the word, blindly, ignorantly, savagely, for two thousand years, but nevertheless nearing every day the end--the end that thou in thy divine intelligence foresaw, that finds its voice to-day (enormous though the antithesis may be, i will say it) in the _pall mall gazette_. what fate has been like thine? betrayed by judas in the garden, denied by peter before the cock crew, crucified between thieves, and mourned for by a harlot, and then sent bound and bare, nothing changed, nothing altered, in thy ignominious plight, forthward in the world's van the glory and symbol of a man's new idea--pity. thy day is closing in, but the heavens are now wider aflame with thy light than ever before--thy light, which i, a pagan, standing on the last verge of the old world, declare to be darkness, the coming night of pity and justice which is imminent, which is the twentieth century. the bearers have relinquished thy cross, they leave thee in the hour of thy universal triumph, thy crown of thorns is falling, thy face is buffeted with blows, and not even a reed is placed in thy hand for sceptre; only i and mine are by thee, we who shall perish with thee, in the ruin thou hast created. injustice we worship; all that lifts us out of the miseries of life is the sublime fruit of injustice. every immortal deed was an act of fearful injustice; the world of grandeur, of triumph, of courage, of lofty aspiration, was built up on injustice. man would not be man but for injustice. hail, therefore, to the thrice glorious virtue injustice! what care i that some millions of wretched israelites died under pharaoh's lash or egypt's sun? it was well that they died that i might have the pyramids to look on, or to fill a musing hour with wonderment. is there one amongst us who would exchange them for the lives of the ignominious slaves that died? what care i that the virtue of some sixteen-year-old maiden was the price paid for ingres' _la source_? that the model died of drink and disease in the hospital, is nothing when compared with the essential that i should have _la source_, that exquisite dream of innocence, to think of till my soul is sick with delight of the painter's holy vision. nay more, the knowledge that a wrong was done--that millions of israelites died in torments, that a girl, or a thousand girls, died in the hospital for that one virginal thing, is an added pleasure which i could not afford to spare. oh, for the silence of marble courts, for the shadow of great pillars, for gold, for reticulated canopies of lilies; to see the great gladiators pass, to hear them cry the famous "ave caesar," to hold the thumb down, to see the blood flow, to fill the languid hours with the agonies of poisoned slaves! oh, for excess, for crime! i would give many lives to save one sonnet by baudelaire; for the hymn, "_a la très-chère, à la très-belle, qui remplit mon coeur de clarté_," let the first-born in every house in europe be slain; and in all sincerity i profess my readiness to decapitate all the japanese in japan and elsewhere, to save from destruction one drawing by hokee. again i say that all we deem sublime in the world's history are acts, of injustice; and it is certain that if mankind does not relinquish at once, and for ever, its vain, mad, and fatal dream of justice, the world will lapse into barbarism. england was great and glorious, because england was unjust, and england's greatest son was the personification of injustice--cromwell. but the old world of heroes is over now. the skies above us are dark with sentimentalism, the sand beneath us is shoaling fast, we are running with streaming canvas upon ruin; all ideals have gone; nothing remains to us for worship but the mass, the blind, inchoate, insatiate mass; fog and fen land before us, we shall founder in putrefying mud, creatures of the ooze and rushes about us--we, the great ship that has floated up from the antique world. oh, for the antique world, its plain passion, its plain joys in the sea, where the triton blew a plaintive blast, and the forest where the whiteness of the nymph was seen escaping! we are weary of pity, we are weary of being good; we are weary of tears and effusion, and our refuge--the british museum--is the wide sea shore and the wind of the ocean. there, there is real joy in the flesh; our statues are naked, but we are ashamed, and our nakedness is indecency: a fair, frank soul is mirrored in those fauns and nymphs; and how strangely enigmatic is the soul of the antique world, the bare, barbarous soul of beauty and of might! chapter ix but neither apollo nor buddha could help or save me. one in his exquisite balance of body, a skylark-like song of eternal beauty, stood lightly advancing; the other sat sombrously contemplating, calm as a beautiful evening. i looked for sorrow in the eyes of the pastel--the beautiful pastel that seemed to fill with a real presence the rich autumnal leaves where the jays darted and screamed. the twisted columns of the bed rose, burdened with great weight of fringes and curtains, the python devoured a guinea pig, the last i gave him; the great white cat came to me. i said all this must go, must henceforth be to me an abandoned dream, a something, not more real than a summer meditation. so be it, and, as was characteristic of me, i broke with paris suddenly, without warning anyone. i knew in my heart of hearts that i should never return, but no word was spoken, and i continued a pleasant delusion with myself; i told my _concierge_ that i would return in a month, and i left all to be sold, brutally sold by auction, as the letter i read in the last chapter charmingly and touchingly describes. not even to marshall did i confide my foreboding that paris would pass out of my life, that it would henceforth be with me a beautiful memory, but never more a practical delight. he and i were no longer living together; we had parted a second time, but this time without bitterness of any kind; he had learnt to feel that i wanted to live alone, and had moved away into the latin quarter, whither i made occasional expeditions. i accompanied him once to the old haunts, but various terms of penal servitude had scattered our friends, and i could not interest myself in the new. nor did marshall himself interest me as he had once done. to my eager taste, he had grown just a little trite. my affection for him was as deep and sincere as ever; were i to meet him now i would grasp his hand and hail him with firm, loyal friendship; but i had made friends in the nouvelle athènes who interested me passionately, and my thoughts were absorbed by and set on new ideals, which marshall had failed to find sympathy for, or even to understand. i had introduced him to degas and manet, but he had spoken of jules lefèvre and bouguereau, and generally shown himself incapable of any higher education; he could not enter where i had entered, and this was alienation. we could no longer even talk of the same people; when i spoke of a certain _marquise_, he answered with an indifferent "do you really think so?" and proceeded to drag me away from my glitter of satin to the dinginess of print dresses. it was more than alienation, it was almost separation; but he was still my friend, he was the man, and he always will be, to whom my youth, with all its aspirations, was most closely united. so i turned to say good-bye to him and to my past life. rap--rap--rap! "who's there?" "i--dayne." "i've got a model." "never mind your model. open the door. how are you? what are you painting?" "this; what do you think of it?" "it is prettily composed. i think it will come out all right. i am going to england; come to say good-bye." "going to england! what will you do in england?" "i have to go about money matters; very tiresome. i had really begun to forget there was such a place." "but you are not going to stay there?" "oh, no!" "you will be just in time to see the academy." the conversation turned on art, and we æstheticised for an hour. at last marshall said, "i am really sorry, old chap, but i must send you away; there's that model." the girl sat waiting, her pale hair hanging down her back, a very picture of discontent. "send her away." "i asked her to come out to dinner." "d----n her ... well, never mind, i must spend this last evening with you; you shall both dine with me. _je quitte paris demain matin, peut-être pour longtemps; je voudrais passer ma dernière soirée avec mon ami; alors si vous voulez bien me permettre, mademoiselle, je vous invite tous les deux à diner; nous passerons la soirée ensemble si cela vous est agréable?_" "_je veux bien, monsieur._" poor marie! marshall and i were absorbed in each other and art. it was always so. we dined in a gargotte, and afterwards we went to a students' hall; and it seems like yesterday. i can see the moon sailing through a clear sky, and on the pavement's edge marshall's beautiful, slim, manly figure, and marie's exquisite gracefulness. she was lefèvre's chloe; so every one sees her now. her end was a tragic one. she invited her friends to dinner, and with the few pence that remained she bought some boxes of matches, boiled them, and drank the water. no one knew why; some said it was love. i went to london in an exuberant necktie, a tiny hat; i wore large trousers and a capoul beard; and i looked, i believe, as unlike an englishman as a drawing by grévin. in the smoking-room of morley's hotel i met my agent, an immense nose, and a wisp of hair drawn over a bald skull. he explained, after some hesitation, that i owed him a few thousands, and that the accounts were in his portmanteau. i suggested taking them to a solicitor to have them examined. the solicitor advised me strongly to contest them. i did not take the advice, but raised some money instead, and so the matter ended so far as the immediate future was concerned. the years the most impressionable, from twenty to thirty, when the senses and the mind are the widest awake, i, the most impressionable of human beings, had spent in france, not among english residents, but among that which is the quintessence of the nation; i, not an indifferent spectator, but an enthusiast, striving heart and soul to identify himself with his environment, to shake himself free from race and language and to recreate himself as it were in the womb of a new nationality, assuming its ideals, its morals, and its modes of thought, and i had succeeded strangely well, and when i returned home england was a new country to me; i had, as it were, forgotten everything. every aspect of street and suburban garden was new to me; of the manner of life of londoners i knew nothing. this sounds incredible, but it is so; i saw, but i could realise nothing. i went into a drawing-room, but everything seemed far away--a dream, a presentment, nothing more; i was in touch with nothing; of the thoughts and feelings of those i met i could understand nothing, nor could i sympathise with them: an englishman was at that time as much out of my mental reach as an esquimaux would be now. women were nearer to me than men, and i will take this opportunity to note my observation, for i am not aware that any one else has observed that the difference between the two races is found in the men, not in the women. french and english women are psychologically very similar; the standpoint from which they, see life is the same, the same thoughts interest and amuse them; but the attitude of a frenchman's mind is absolutely opposed to that of an englishman; they stand on either side of a vast abyss, two animals different in colour, form, and temperament;--two ideas destined to remain irrevocably separate and distinct. i have heard of writing and speaking two languages equally well: this was impossible to me, and i am convinced that if i had remained two more years in france i should never have been able to identify my thoughts with the language i am now writing in, and i should have written it as an alien. as it was i only just escaped this detestable fate. and it was in the last two years, when i began to write french verse and occasional _chroniques_ in the papers, that the great damage was done. i remember very well indeed one day, while arranging an act of a play i was writing with a friend, finding suddenly to my surprise that i could think more easily and rapidly in french than in english; but with all this i did not learn french. i chattered, and i felt intensely at home in it; yes, i could write a sonnet or a ballade almost without a slip, but my prose required a good deal of alteration, for a greater command of language is required to write in prose than in verse. i found this in french and also in english. for when i returned from paris, my english terribly corrupt with french ideas and forms of thought, i could write acceptable english verse, but even ordinary newspaper prose was beyond my reach, and an attempt i made to write a novel drifted into a miserable failure; but the following poems opened to me the doors of a first-class london newspaper, and i was at once entrusted with some important critical work: the sweetness of the past as sailors watch from their prison for the faint grey line of the coasts, i look to the past re-arisen, and joys come over in hosts like the white sea birds from their roosts. i love not the indelicate present, the future's unknown to our quest, to-day is the life of the peasant, but the past is a haven of rest-- the things of the past are the best. the rose of the past is better than the rose we ravish to-day, 'tis holier, purer, and fitter to place on the shrine where we pray for the secret thoughts we obey. there are there no deceptions or changes, and there all is lovely and still; no grief nor fate that estranges, nor hope that no life can fulfil, but ethereal shelter from ill. the coarser delights of the hour tempt, and debauch, and deprave, and we joy in a poisonous flower, knowing that nothing can save our flesh from the fate of the grave. but sooner or later returning in grief to the well-loved nest, our souls filled with infinite yearning, we cry, in the past there is rest, there is peace, its joys are the best. nostalgia fair were the dreamful days of old, when in the summer's sleepy shade, beneath the beeches on the wold, the shepherds lay and gently played music to maidens, who, afraid, drew all together rapturously, their white soft hands like white leaves laid, in the old dear days of arcady. men were not then as they are now haunted and terrified by creeds, they sought not then, nor cared to know the end that as a magnet leads, nor told with austere fingers beads, nor reasoned with their grief and glee, but rioted in pleasant meads in the old dear days of arcady. the future may be wrong or right, the present is distinctly wrong, for life and love have lost delight, and bitter even is our song; and year by year grey doubt grows strong, and death is all that seems to dree. wherefore with weary hearts we long for the old dear days of arcady. envoi glories and triumphs ne'er shall cease, but men may sound the heavens and sea, one thing is lost for aye--the peace of the old dear days of arcady. and so it was that i came to settle down in a strand lodging-house, determined to devote myself to literature, and to accept the hardships of a literary life. i had been playing long enough, and now i was resolved to see what i could do in the world of work. i was anxious for proof, peremptory proof, of my capacity or incapacity. a book! no. i required an immediate answer, and journalism alone could give me that. so i reasoned in the strand lodging-house. and what led me to that house? chance, or a friend's recommendation? i forget. it was uncomfortable, hideous, and not very clean: but curious, as all things are curious when examined closely. let me tell you about my rooms. the sitting-room was a good deal longer than it was wide; it was panelled with deal, and the deal was painted a light brown; behind it there was a large bedroom: the floor was covered with a ragged carpet, and a big bed stood in the middle of the floor. but next to the sitting-room was a small bedroom which was let for ten shillings a week; and the partition wall was so thin that i could hear every movement the occupant made. this proximity was intolerable, and eventually i decided on adding ten shillings to my rent, and i became the possessor of the entire flat. in the room above me lived a pretty young woman, an actress at the savoy theatre. she had a piano, and she used to play and sing in the mornings, and in the afternoon, friends--girls from the theatre--used to come and see her; and emma, the maid-of-all-work, used to take them up their tea; and, oh! the chattering and the laughter. poor miss l----; she had only two pounds a week to live on, but she was always in high spirits except when she could not pay the hire of her piano; and i am sure that she now looks back with pleasure and thinks of those days as very happy ones. she was a tall girl, a thin figure, and she had large brown eyes; she liked young men, and she hoped that mr. gilbert would give her a line or two in his next opera. often have i come out on the landing to meet her; we used to sit on those stairs talking, long after midnight, of what?--of our landlady, of the theatre, of the most suitable ways of enjoying ourselves in life. one night she told me she was married; it was a solemn moment. i asked in a sympathetic voice why she was not living with her husband. she told me, but the reason of the separation i have forgotten in the many similar reasons for separations and partings which have since been confided to me. the landlady bitterly resented our intimacy, and i believe miss l---- was charged indirectly for her conversations with me in the bill. on the first floor there was a large sitting-room and bedroom, solitary rooms that were nearly always unlet. the landlady's parlour was on the ground floor, her bedroom was next to it, and further on was the entrance to the kitchen stairs, whence ascended mrs. s----'s brood of children, and emma, the awful servant, with tea things, many various smells, that of ham and eggs predominating. emma, i remember you--you are not to be forgotten--up at five o'clock every morning, scouring, washing, cooking, dressing those infamous children; seventeen hours at least out of the twenty-four at the beck and call of landlady, lodgers, and quarrelling children; seventeen hours at least out of the twenty-four drudging in that horrible kitchen, running up stairs with coals and breakfasts and cans of hot water; down on your knees before a grate, pulling out the cinders with those hands--can i call them hands? the lodgers sometimes threw you a kind word, but never one that recognised that you were akin to us, only the pity that might be extended to a dog. and i used to ask you all sorts of cruel questions, i was curious to know the depth of animalism you had sunk to, or rather out of which you had never been raised. and you generally answered innocently and naïvely enough. but sometimes my words were too crude, and they struck through the thick hide into the quick, into the human, and you winced a little; but this was rarely, for you were very nearly, oh, very nearly an animal: your temperament and intelligence was just that of a dog that has picked up a master, not a real master, but a makeshift master who may turn it out at any moment. dickens would sentimentalise or laugh over you; i do neither. i merely recognise you as one of the facts of civilisation. you looked--well, to be candid,--you looked neither young nor old; hard work had obliterated the delicate markings of the years, and left you in round numbers something over thirty. your hair was reddish brown, and your face wore that plain honest look that is so essentially english. the rest of you was a mass of stuffy clothes, and when you rushed up stairs i saw something that did not look like legs; a horrible rush that was of yours, a sort of cart-horse like bound. i have spoken angrily to you; i have heard others speak angrily to you, but never did that sweet face of yours, for it was a sweet face--that sweet, natural goodness that is so sublime--lose its expression of perfect and unfailing kindness. words convey little sense of the real horrors of the reality. life in your case meant this: to be born in a slum, and to leave it to work seventeen hours a day in a lodging-house; to be a londoner, but to know only the slum in which you were born and the few shops in the strand at which the landlady dealt. to know nothing of london meant in your case not to know that it was not england; england and london! you could not distinguish between them. was england an island or a mountain? you had no notion. i remember when you heard that miss l---- was going to america, you asked me, and the question was sublime: "is she going to travel all night?" you had heard people speak of travelling all night, and that was all you knew of travel or any place that was not the strand. i asked you if you went to church, and you said "no, it makes my eyes bad." i said, "but you don't read; you can't read." "no, but i have to look at the book." i asked you if you had heard of god; you hadn't; but when i pressed you on the point you suspected i was laughing at you, and you would not answer, and when i tried you again on the subject i could see that the landlady had been telling you what to say. but you had not understood, and your conscious ignorance, grown conscious within the last couple of days, was even more pitiful than your unconscious ignorance when you answered that you couldn't go to church because it made your eyes bad. it is a strange thing to know nothing; for instance, to live in london and to have no notion of the house of commons, nor indeed of the queen, except perhaps that she is a rich lady; the police--yes, you knew what a policeman was because you used to be sent to fetch one to make an organ-man or a christy minstrel move on. to know of nothing but a dark kitchen, grates, eggs and bacon, dirty children; to work seventeen hours a day and to get cheated out of your wages; to answer, when asked, why you did not get your wages or leave if you weren't paid, that you "didn't know how mrs. s---- would get on without me." this woman owed you forty pounds, i think, so i calculated it from what you told me; and yet you did not like to leave her because you did not know how she would get on without you. sublime stupidity! at this point your intelligence stopped. i remember you once spoke of a half-holiday; i questioned you, and i found your idea of a half-holiday was to take the children for a walk and buy them some sweets. i told my brother of this and he said--emma out for a half-holiday! why, you might as well give a mule a holiday. the phrase was brutal, but it was admirably descriptive of you. yes, you are a mule, there is no sense in you; you are a beast of burden, a drudge too horrible for anything but work; and i suppose, all things considered, that the fat landlady with a dozen children did well to work you seventeen hours a day, and cheat you out of your miserable wages. you had no friends; you could not have a friend unless it were some forlorn cat or dog; but you once spoke to me of your brother, who worked in a potato store, and i was astonished, and i wondered if he were as awful as you. poor emma! i shall never forget your kind heart and your unfailing good humour; you were born beautifully good as a rose is born with perfect perfume; you were as unconscious of your goodness as the rose of its perfume. and you were taken by this fat landlady as 'arry takes a rose and sticks it in his tobacco-reeking coat; and you will be thrown away, shut out of doors when health fails you, or when, overcome by base usage, you take to drink. there is no hope for you; even if you were treated better and paid your wages there would be no hope. that forty pounds even, if they were given to you, would bring you no good fortune. they would bring the idle loafer, who scorns you now as something too low for even his kisses, hanging about your heels and whispering in your ears. and his whispering would drive you mad, for your kind heart longs for kind words; and then when he had spent your money and cast you off in despair, the gin shop and the river would do the rest. providence is very wise after all, and your best destiny is your present one. we cannot add a pain, nor can we take away a pain; we may alter, but we cannot subtract nor even alleviate. but what truisms are these; who believes in philanthropy nowadays? * * * * * "come in." "oh, it is you, emma!" "are you going to dine at home to-day, sir?" "what can i have?" "well, yer can 'ave a chop or a steak." "anything else?" "yes, yer can 'ave a steak, or a chop, or--" "oh yes, i know; well then, i'll have a chop. and now tell me, emma, how is your young man? i hear you have got one, you went out with him the other night." "who told yer that?" "ah, never mind; i hear everything." "i know, from miss l----." "well, tell me, how did you meet him, who introduced him?" "i met 'im as i was a-coming from the public 'ouse with the beer for missus' dinner." "and what did he say?" "he asked me if i was engaged; i said no. and he come round down the lane that evening." "and he took you out?" "yes." "and where did you go?" "we went for a walk on the embankment." "and when is he coming for you again?" "he said he was coming last evening, but he didn't." "why didn't he?" "i dunno; i suppose because i haven't time to go out with him. so it was miss l---- that told you; well, you do 'ave chats on the stairs. i suppose you likes talking to 'er." "i like talking to everybody, emma; i like talking to you." "yes, but not as you talks to 'er; i 'ears you jes do 'ave fine times. she said this morning that she had not seen you for this last two nights--that you had forgotten 'er, and i was to tell yer." "very well, i'll come out to-night and speak to her." "and missus is so wild about it, and she daren't say nothing 'cause she thinks yer might go." * * * * * a young man in a house full of women must be almost supernaturally unpleasant if he does not occupy a great deal of their attention. certain at least it is that i was the point of interest in that house; and i found there that the practice of virtue is not so disagreeable as many young men think it. the fat landlady hovered round my doors, and i obtained perfectly fresh eggs by merely keeping her at her distance; the pretty actress, with whom i used to sympathise with on the stairs at midnight, loved me better, and our intimacy was more strange and subtle, because it was pure, and it was not quite unpleasant to know that the awful servant dreamed of me as she might of a star, or something equally unattainable; but the landlady's daughter, a nasty girl of fifteen, annoyed me with her ogling, which was a little revolting, but the rest was, and i speak quite candidly, not wholly unpleasant. it was not aristocratic, it is true, but, i repeat, it was not unpleasant, nor do i believe that any young man, however refined, would have found it unpleasant. but if i was offered a choice between a chop and steak in the evening, in the morning i had to decide between eggs and bacon and bacon and eggs. a knocking at the door, "nine o'clock, sir; 'ot water sir; what will you have for breakfast?" "what can i have?" "anything you like, sir. you can have bacon and eggs, or--" "anything else?"--pause.--"well, sir, you can have eggs and bacon, or--" "well, i'll have eggs and bacon." the streets seemed to me like rat holes, dark and wandering as chance directed, with just an occasional rift of sky, seen as if through an occasional crevice, so different from the boulevards widening out into bright space with fountains and clouds of green foliage. the modes of life were so essentially opposed. i am thinking now of intellectual rather than physical comforts. i could put up with even lodging-house food, but i found it difficult to forego the glitter and artistic enthusiasm of the café. the tavern, i had heard of the tavern. some seventy years ago the club superseded the tavern, and since then all literary intercourse has ceased in london. literary clubs have been founded, and their leather arm-chairs have begotten mr. gosse; but the tavern gave the world villon and marlowe. nor is this to be wondered at. what is wanted is enthusiasm and devil-may-careism; and the very aspect of a tavern is a snort of defiance at the hearth, the leather arm-chairs are so many salaams to it. i ask, did any one ever see a gay club room? can any one imagine such a thing? you can't have a club room without mahogany tables, you can't have mahogany tables without magazines--_longmans_, with a serial by rider haggard, the _nineteenth century_, with an article, "the rehabilitation of the pimp in modern society," by w.e. gladstone--a dulness that's a purge to good spirits, an aperient to enthusiasm; in a word, a dulness that's worth a thousand a year. you can't have a club without a waiter in red plush and silver salver in his hand; then you can't bring a lady to a club, and you have to get into a corner to talk about them. therefore i say a club is dull. as the hearth and home grew all-powerful it became impossible for the husband to tell his wife that he was going to the tavern; everyone can go to the tavern, and no place in england where everyone can go is considered respectable. this is the genesis of the club--out of the housewife by respectability. nowadays every one is respectable--jockeys, betting-men, actors, and even actresses. mrs. kendal takes her children to visit a duchess, and has naughty chorus girls to tea, and tells them of the joy of respectability. there is only one class left that is not respectable, and that will succumb before long; how the transformation will be effected i can't say, but i know an editor or two who would be glad of an article on the subject. respectability!--a suburban villa, a piano in the drawing-room, and going home to dinner. such things are no doubt very excellent, but they do not promote intensity of feeling, fervour of mind; and as art is in itself an outcry against the animality of human existence, it would be well that the life of the artist should be a practical protest against the so-called decencies of life; and he can best protest by frequenting a tavern and cutting his club. in the past the artist has always been an outcast; it is only latterly he has become domesticated, and judging by results, it is clear that if bohemianism is not a necessity it is at least an adjuvant. for if long locks and general dissoluteness were not an aid and a way to pure thought, why have they been so long his characteristics? if lovers were not necessary for the development of poet, novelist, and actress, why have they always had lovers--sappho, george eliot, george sand, rachel, sara? mrs. kendal nurses children all day and strives to play rosalind at night. what infatuation, what ridiculous endeavour! to realise the beautiful woodland passion and the idea of the transformation, a woman must have sinned, for only through sin may we learn the charm of innocence. to play rosalind a woman must have had more than one lover, and if she has been made to wait in the rain and has been beaten she will have done a great deal to qualify herself for the part. the ecstatic sara makes no pretence to virtue, she introduces her son to an english duchess, and throws over a nation for the love of richepein, she can, therefore, say as none other-- "ce n'est plus qu'une ardeur dans mes veines cachée, c'est venus tout entière à sa proie attachée." swinburne, when he dodged about london, a lively young dog, wrote "poems and ballads," and "chastelard," since he has gone to live at putney, he has contributed to the _nineteenth century_, and published an interesting little volume entitled, "a century of rondels," in which he continues his plaint about his mother the sea. respectability is sweeping the picturesque out of life; national costumes are disappearing. the kilt is going or gone in the highlands, and the smock in the southlands, even the japanese are becoming christian and respectable; in another quarter of a century silk hats and pianos will be found in every house in jeddo. too true that universal uniformity is the future of the world; and when mr. morris speaks of the democratic art to be when the world is socialistic, i ask, whence will the unfortunates draw their inspiration? to-day our plight is pitiable enough--the duke, the jockey-boy, and the artist are exactly alike; they are dressed by the same tailor, they dine at the same clubs, they swear the same oaths, they speak equally bad english, they love the same women. such a state of things is dreary enough, but what unimaginable dreariness there will be when there are neither rich nor poor, when all have been educated, when self-education has ceased. a terrible world to dream of, worse, far worse, in darkness and hopelessness than dante's lowest circle of hell. the spectre of famine, of the plague, of war, etc., are mild and gracious symbols compared with that menacing figure, universal education, with which we are threatened, which has already eunuched the genius of the last five-and-twenty years of the nineteenth century, and produced a limitless abortion in that of future time. education, i tremble before thy dreaded name. the cruelties of nero, of caligula, what were they?--a few crunched limbs in the amphitheatre; but thine, o education, are the yearning of souls sick of life, of maddening discontent, of all the fearsome and fathomless sufferings of the mind. when goethe said "more light," he said the wickedest and most infamous words that human lips ever spoke. in old days, when a people became too highly civilised the barbarians came down from the north and regenerated that nation with darkness; but now there are no more barbarians, and sooner or later i am convinced that we shall have to end the evil by summary edicts--the obstruction no doubt will be severe, the equivalents of gladstone and morley will stop at nothing to defeat the bill; but it will nevertheless be carried by patriotic conservative and unionist majorities, and it will be written in the statute book that not more than one child in a hundred shall be taught to read, and no more than one in ten thousand shall learn the piano. such will be the end of respectability, but the end is still far distant. we are now in a period of decadence growing steadily more and more acute. the old gods are falling about us, there is little left to raise our hearts and minds to, and amid the wreck and ruin of things only a snobbery is left to us, thank heaven, deeply graven in the english heart; the snob is now the ark that floats triumphant over the democratic wave; the faith of the old world reposes in his breast, and he shall proclaim it when the waters have subsided. in the meanwhile respectability, having destroyed the tavern, and created the club, continues to exercise a meretricious and enervating influence on literature. all audacity of thought and expression has been stamped out, and the conventionalities are rigorously respected. it has been said a thousand times that an art is only a reflection of a certain age; quite so, only certain ages are more interesting than others, and consequently produce better art, just as certain seasons produce better crops. we heard in the nouvelle athènes how the democratic movement, in other words, respectability, in other words, education, has extinguished the handicrafts; it was admitted that in the more individual arts--painting and poetry--men would be always found to sacrifice their lives for a picture or a poem: but no man is, after all, so immeasurably superior to the age he lives in as to be able to resist it wholly; he must draw sustenance from some quarter, and the contemplation of the past will not suffice. then the pressure on him from without is as water upon the diver; and sooner or later he grows fatigued and comes to the surface to breathe; he is as a flying-fish pursued by sharks below and cruel birds above; and he neither dives as deeply nor flies as high as his freer and stronger ancestry. a daring spirit in the nineteenth century would have been but a timid nursery soul indeed in the sixteenth. we want tumult and war to give us forgetfulness, sublime moments of peace to enjoy a kiss in; but we are expected to be home to dinner at seven, and to say and do nothing that might shock the neighbours. respectability has wound itself about society, a sort of octopus, and nowhere are you quite free from one of its horrible suckers. the power of the villa residence is supreme: art, science, politics, religion, it has transformed to suit its requirements. the villa goes to the academy, the villa goes to the theatre, and therefore the art of to-day is mildly realistic; not the great realism of idea, but the puny reality of materialism; not the deep poetry of a peter de hogue, but the meanness of a frith--not the winged realism of balzac, but the degrading naturalism of a coloured photograph. to my mind there is no sadder spectacle of artistic debauchery than a london theatre; the overfed inhabitants of the villa in the stalls hoping for gross excitement to assist them through their hesitating digestions; an ignorant mob in the pit and gallery forgetting the miseries of life in imbecile stories reeking of the sentimentality of the back stairs. were other ages as coarse and as common as ours? it is difficult to imagine elizabethan audiences as not more intelligent than those that applaud mr. pettit's plays. impossible that an audience that could sit out edward ii. could find any pleasure in such sinks of literary infamies as _in the ranks_ and _harbour lights_. artistic atrophy is benumbing us, we are losing our finer feeling for beauty, the rose is going back to the briar. i will not speak of the fine old crusted stories, ever the same, on which every drama is based, nor yet of the musty characters with which they are peopled--the miser in the old castle counting his gold by night, the dishevelled woman whom he keeps for ambiguous reasons confined in a cellar. let all this be waived. we must not quarrel with the ingredients. the miser and the old castle are as true, and not one jot more true, than the million events which go to make up the phenomena of human existence. not at these things considered separately do i take umbrage, but at the miserable use that is made of them, the vulgarity of the complications evolved from them, and the poverty of beauty in the dialogue. not the thing itself, but the idea of the thing evokes the idea. schopenhauer was right; we do not want the thing, but the idea of the thing. the thing itself is worthless; and the moral writers who embellish it with pious ornamentation are just as reprehensible as zola, who embellishes it with erotic arabesques. you want the idea drawn out of obscuring matter, this can best be done by the symbol. the symbol, or the thing itself, that is the great artistic question. in earlier ages it was the symbol; a name, a plume, sufficed to evoke the idea; now we evoke nothing, for we give everything; the imagination of the spectator is no longer called into play. in shakespeare's days to create wealth in a theatre it was only necessary to write upon a board, "a magnificent apartment in a palace." this was no doubt primitive and not a little barbarous, but it was better by far than by dint of anxious archaeology to construct the doge's palace upon the stage. by one rich pillar, by some projecting balustrade taken in conjunction with a moored gondola, we should strive to evoke the soul of the city of veronese: by the magical and unequalled selection of a subtle and unexpected feature of a thought or aspect of a landscape, and not by the up-piling of extraneous detail, are all great poetic effects achieved. "by the tideless dolorous inland sea, in a land of sand, of ruin, and gold." and, better example still, "dieu que le son du cor est triste au fond des bois," that impeccable, that only line of real poetry alfred de vigny ever wrote; and being a great poet shakespeare consciously or unconsciously observed more faithfully than any other poet these principles of art; and, as is characteristic of the present day, nowhere do we find these principles so grossly violated as in the representation of his plays. i had painful proof of this some few nights after my arrival in london. i had never seen shakespeare acted, and i went to the lyceum and there i saw that exquisite love song--for _romeo and juliet_ is no more than a love song in dialogue--tricked out in silks and carpets and illuminated building, a vulgar bawd suited to the gross passion of an ignorant public. i hated all that with the hatred of a passionate heart, and i longed for a simple stage, a few simple indications, and the simple recitation of that story of the sacrifice of the two white souls for the reconciliation of two great families. my hatred did not reach to the age of the man who played the boy-lover, but to the offensiveness with which he thrust his individuality upon me, longing to realize the poet's divine imagination: and the woman, too, i wished with my whole soul away, subtle and strange though she was, and i yearned for her part to be played by a youth as in old time: a youth cunningly disguised, would be a symbol; and my mind would be free to imagine the divine juliet of the poet, whereas i could but dream of the bright eyes and delicate mien and motion of the woman who had thrust herself between me and it. but not with symbol and subtle suggestion has the villa to do, but with such stolid, intellectual fare as corresponds to its material wants. the villa has not time to think, the villa is the working bee. the tavern is the drone. it has no boys to put to school, no neighbours to study, and is therefore a little more refined, or, should i say? depraved, in its taste. the villa in one form or other has always existed, and always will exist so long as our present social system holds together. it is the basis of life, and more important than the tavern. agreed: but that does not say that the tavern was not an excellent corrective influence to the villa, and that its disappearance has not had a vulgarising effect on artistic work of all kinds, and the club has been proved impotent to replace it, the club being no more than the correlative of the villa. let the reader trace villa through each modern feature. i will pass on at once to the circulating library, at once the symbol and glory of villaism. the subject is not unfamiliar to me; i come to it like the son to his father, like the bird to its nest. (singularly inappropriate comparison, but i am in such excellent humour to-day; humour is everything. it is said that the tiger will sometimes play with the lamb! let us play.) we have the villa well in our mind. the father who goes to the city in the morning, the grown-up girls waiting to be married, the big drawing-room where they play waltz music, and talk of dancing parties. but waltzes will not entirely suffice, nor even tennis; the girls must read. mother cannot keep a censor (it is as much as she can do to keep a cook, housemaid, and page-boy), besides the expense would be enormous, even if nothing but shilling and two-shilling novels were purchased. out of such circumstances the circulating library was hatched. the villa made known its want, and art fell on its knees. pressure was put on the publishers, and books were published at s. d.; the dirty, outside public was got rid of, and the villa paid its yearly subscription, and had nice large handsome books that none but the _élite_ could obtain, and with them a sense of being put on a footing of equality with my lady this and lady that, and certainty that nothing would come into the hands of dear kate and mary and maggie that they might not read, and all for two guineas a year. english fiction became pure, and the garlic and assafoetida with which byron, fielding, and ben jonson so liberally seasoned their works, and in spite of which, as critics say, they were geniuses, have disappeared from our literature. english fiction became pure, dirty stories were to be heard no more, were no longer procurable. but at this point human nature intervened; poor human nature! when you pinch it in in one place it bulges out in another, after the fashion of a lady's figure. human nature has from the earliest time shown a liking for dirty stories; dirty stories have formed a substantial part of every literature (i employ the words "dirty stories" in the circulating library sense); therefore a taste for dirty stories may be said to be inherent in the human animal. call it a disease if you will--an incurable disease--which, if it is driven inwards, will break out in an unexpected quarter in a new form and with redoubled virulence. this is exactly what has happened. actuated by the most laudable motives, mudie cut off our rations of dirty stories, and for forty years we were apparently the most moral people on the face of the earth. it was confidently asserted that an english woman of sixty would not read what would bring the blush of shame to the cheeks of a maiden of any other nation. but humiliation and sorrow were awaiting mudie. true it is that we still continued to subscribe to his library, true it is that we still continued to go to church, true it is that we turned our faces away when _mdlle. de maupin_ or the _assommoir_ was spoken of; to all appearance we were as good and chaste as even mudie might wish us; and no doubt he looked back upon his forty years of effort with pride; no doubt he beat his manly breast and said, "i have scorched the evil one out of the villa; the head of the serpent is crushed for evermore;" but lo, suddenly, with all the horror of an earthquake, the slumbrous law courts awoke, and the burning cinders of fornication and the blinding and suffocating smoke of adultery were poured upon and hung over the land. through the mighty columns of our newspapers the terrible lava rolled unceasing, and in the black stream the villa, with all its beautiful illusions, tumbled and disappeared. an awful and terrifying proof of the futility of human effort, that there is neither bad work nor good work to do, nothing but to await the coming of the nirvana. i have written much against the circulating library, and i have read a feeble defence or two; but i have not seen the argument that might be legitimately put forward in its favour. it seems to me this: the circulating library is conservatism, art is always conservative; the circulating library lifts the writer out of the precariousness and noise of the wild street of popular fancy into a quiet place where passion is more restrained and there is more reflection. the young and unknown writer is placed at once in a place of comparative security, and he is not forced to employ vile and degrading methods of attracting attention; the known writer, having a certain market for his work, is enabled to think more of it and less of the immediate acclamation of the crowd; but all these possible advantages are destroyed and rendered _nil_ by the veracious censorship exercised by the librarian. * * * * * there is one thing in england that is free, that is spontaneous, that reminds me of the blitheness and nationalness of the continent;--but there is nothing french about it, it is wholly and essentially english, and in its communal enjoyment and its spontaneity it is a survival of elizabethan england--i mean the music-hall; the french music-hall seems to me silly, effete, sophisticated, and lacking, not in the popularity, but in the vulgarity of an english hall--i will not say the pavilion, which is too cosmopolitan, dreary french comics are heard there--for preference let us say the royal. i shall not easily forget my first evening there, when i saw for the time a living house--the dissolute paragraphists, the elegant mashers (mark the imaginativeness of the slang), the stolid, good-humoured costers, the cheerful lights o' love, the extraordinary comics. what delightful unison of enjoyment, what unanimity of soul, what communality of wit; all knew each other, all enjoyed each other's presence; in a word, there was life. then there were no cascades of real water, nor london docks, nor offensively rich furniture, with hotel lifts down which some one will certainly be thrown, but one scene representing a street; a man comes on--not, mind you, in a real smock-frock, but in something that suggests one--and sings of how he came up to london, and was "cleaned out" by thieves. simple, you will say; yes, but better than a _fricassée_ of _faust_, garnished with hags, imps, and blue flame; better, far better than a drawing-room set at the st. james's, with an exhibition of passion by mrs. and mr. kendal; better, a million times better than the cheap popularity of wilson barrett--an elderly man posturing in a low-necked dress to some poor slut in the gallery; nor is there in the hall any affectation of language, nor that worn-out rhetoric which reminds you of a broken-winded barrel-organ playing _a, che la morte_, bad enough in prose, but when set up in blank verse awful and shocking in its more than natural deformity--but bright quips and cracks fresh from the back-yard of the slum where the linen is drying, or the "pub" where the unfortunate wife has just received a black eye that will last her a week. that inimitable artist, bessie bellwood, whose native wit is so curiously accentuated that it is sublimated, that it is no longer repellent vulgarity but art, choice and rare--see, here she comes with "what cheer, rea; rea's on the job." the sketch is slight, but is welcome and refreshing after the eternal drawing-room and mrs. kendal's cumbrous domesticity; it is curious, quaint, perverted, and are not these the _aions_ and the attributes of art? now see that perfect comedian, arthur roberts, superior to irving because he is working with living material; how trim and saucy he is! and how he evokes the soul, the brandy-and-soda soul, of the young men, delightful and elegant in black and white, who are so vociferously cheering him, "will you stand me a cab-fare, ducky, i am feeling so awfully queer?" the soul, the spirit, the entity of piccadilly circus is in the words, and the scene the comedian's eyes--each look is full of suggestion; it is irritating, it is magnetic, it is symbolic, it is art. not art, but a sign, a presentiment of an art, that may grow from the present seeds, that may rise into some stately and unpremeditated efflorescence, as the rhapsodist rose to sophocles, as the miracle play rose through peele and nash to marlowe, hence to the wondrous summer of shakespeare, to die later on in the mist and yellow and brown of the autumn of crowes and davenants. i have seen music-hall sketches, comic interludes that in their unexpectedness and naïve naturalness remind me of the comic passages in marlowe's _faustus_, i waited (i admit in vain) for some beautiful phantom to appear, and to hear an enthusiastic worshipper cry out in his agony:-- "was this the face that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of ilium? sweet helen, make me immortal with a kiss. her lips suck forth my soul; see where it flies! come, helen, come; give me my soul again. here will i dwell, for heaven is in these lips, and all is dross that is not helena." and then the astonishing change of key:-- "i will be paris, and for love of thee, instead of troy shall wurtemberg be sacked," etc. the hall is at least a protest against the wearisome stories concerning wills, misers in old castles, lost heirs, and the woeful solutions of such things--she who has been kept in the castle cellar for twenty years restored to the delights of hair-pins and a mauve dress, the _ingénue_ to the protecting arm, etc. the music-hall is a protest against mrs. kendal's marital tendernesses and the abortive platitudes of messrs. pettit and sims; the music-hall is a protest against sardou and the immense drawing-room sets, rich hangings, velvet sofas, etc., so different from the movement of the english comedy with its constant change of scene. the music-hall is a protest against the villa, the circulating library, the club, and for this the "'all" is inexpressibly dear to me. but in the interests of those illiterate institutions called theatres it is not permissible for several characters to narrate events in which there is a sequel, by means of dialogue, in a music-hall. if this vexatious restriction were removed it is possible, if it is not certain, that while some halls remained faithful to comic songs and jugglers others would gradually learn to cater for more intellectual and subtle audiences, and that out of obscurity and disorder new dramatic forms, coloured and permeated by the thought and feeling of to-day, might be definitely evolved. it is our only chance of again possessing a dramatic literature. chapter x it is said that young men of genius come to london with great poems and dramas in their pockets and find every door closed against them. chatterton's death perpetuated this legend. but when i, edward dayne, came to london in search of literary adventure, i found a ready welcome. possibly i should not have been accorded any welcome had i been anything but an ordinary person. let this be waived. i was as covered with "fads" as a distinguished foreigner with stars. naturalism i wore round my neck, romanticism was pinned over the heart, symbolism i carried like a toy revolver in my waistcoat pocket, to be used on an emergency. i do not judge whether i was charlatan or genius, i merely state that i found all--actors, managers, editors, publishers, docile and ready to listen to me. the world may be wicked, cruel, and stupid, but it is patient; on this point i will not be gainsaid, it is patient; i know what i am talking about; i maintain that the world is patient. if it were not, what would have happened? i should have been murdered by the editors of (i will suppress names), torn in pieces by the sub-editors, and devoured by the office boys. there was no wild theory which i did not assail them with, there was no strange plan for the instant extermination of the philistine, which i did not press upon them, and (here i must whisper), with a fair amount of success, not complete success i am glad to say--that would have meant for the editors a change from their arm-chairs to the benches of the union and the plank beds of holloway. the actress when she returned home from the theatre, suggested i had an enemy, a vindictive enemy, who dogged my steps; but her stage experience led her astray. i had no enemy except myself; or to put it scientifically, no enemy except the logical consequences of my past life and education, and these caused me a great and real inconvenience. french wit was in my brain, french sentiment was in my heart; of the english soul i knew nothing, and i could not remember old sympathies, it was like seeking forgotten words, and if i were writing a short story, i had to return in thought to montmartre or the champs elysées for my characters. that i should have forgotten so much in ten years seems incredible, and it will be deemed impossible by many, but that is because few are aware of how little they know of the details of life, even of their own, and are incapable of appreciating the influence of their past upon their present. the visible world is visible only to a few, the moral world is a closed book to nearly all. i was full of france, and france had to be got rid of, or pushed out of sight before i could understand england; i was like a snake striving to slough its skin. handicapped as i was with dangerous ideas, and an impossible style, defeat was inevitable. my english was rotten with french idiom; it was like an ill-built wall overpowered by huge masses of ivy; the weak foundations had given way beneath the weight of the parasite; and the ideas i sought to give expression to were green, sour, and immature as apples in august. therefore before long the leading journal that had printed two poems and some seven or eight critical articles, ceased to send me books for review, and i fell back upon obscure society papers. fortunately it was not incumbent on me to live by my pen; so i talked, and watched, and waited till i grew akin to those around me, and my thoughts blended with, and took root in my environment. i wrote a play or two, i translated a french opera, which had a run of six nights, i dramatized a novel, i wrote short stories, and i read a good deal of contemporary fiction. the first book that came under my hand was "a portrait of a lady," by henry james. each scene is developed with complete foresight and certainty of touch. what mr. james wants to do he does. i will admit that an artist may be great and limited; by one word he may light up an abyss of soul; but there must be this one magical and unique word. shakespeare gives us the word, balzac, sometimes, after pages of vain striving, gives us the word, tourgueneff gives it with miraculous certainty; but henry james, no; a hundred times he flutters about it; his whole book is one long flutter near to the one magical and unique word, but the word is not spoken; and for want of the word his characters are never resolved out of the haze of nebulae. you are on a bowing acquaintance with them; they pass you in the street, they stop and speak to you, you know how they are dressed, you watch the colour of their eyes. when i think of "a portrait of a lady," with its marvellous crowd of well-dressed people, it comes back to me precisely as an accurate memory of a fashionable soirée--the staircase with its ascending figures, the hostess smiling, the host at a little distance with his back turned; some one calls him. he turns; i can see his white kid gloves; the air is as sugar with the odour of the gardenias; there is brilliant light here; there is shadow in the further rooms; the women's feet pass to and fro beneath the stiff skirts; i call for my hat and coat; i light a cigar; i stroll up piccadilly ... a very pleasant evening; i have seen a good many people i knew; i have observed an attitude, and an earnestness of manner that proved that a heart was beating. mr. james might say, "if i have done this, i have done a great deal," and i would answer, "no doubt you are a man of great talent, great cultivation and not at all of the common herd; i place you in the very front rank, not only of novelists but of men of letters." i have read nothing of henry james's that did suggest the manner of a scholar; but why should a scholar limit himself to empty and endless sentimentalities? i will not taunt him with any of the old taunts--why does he not write complicated stories? why does he not complete his stories? let all this be waived. i will ask him only why he always avoids decisive action? why does a woman never say "i will"? why does a woman never leave the house with her lover? why does a man never kill a man? why does a man never kill himself? why is nothing ever accomplished? in real life murder, adultery, and suicide are of common occurrence; but mr. james's people live in a calm, sad, and very polite twilight of volition. suicide or adultery has happened before the story begins, suicide or adultery happens some years hence, when the characters have left the stage, but bang in front of the reader nothing happens. the suppression or maintenance of story in a novel is a matter of personal taste; some prefer character-drawing to adventures, some adventures to character-drawing; that you cannot have both at once i take to be a self-evident proposition; so when mr. lang says, "i like adventures," i say, "oh, do you?" as i might to a man who says "i like sherry," and no doubt when i say i like character-drawing, mr. lang says, "oh, do you?" as he might to a man who says, "i like port." but mr. james and i are agreed on essentials, we prefer character-drawing to adventures. one, two, or even three determining actions are not antagonistic to character-drawing, the practice of balzac, and flaubert, and thackeray prove that. is mr. james of the same mind as the poet verlaine-- "la nuance, pas la couleur, seulement la nuance, . . . . tout le reste est littérature." in connection with henry james i had often heard the name of w.d. howells. i bought some three or four of his novels. i found them pretty, very pretty, but nothing more,--a sort of ashby sterry done into very neat prose. he is vulgar, is refined as henry james; he is more domestic; girls with white dresses and virginal looks, languid mammas, mild witticisms, here, there, and everywhere; a couple of young men, one a little cynical, the other a little over-shadowed by his love, a strong, bearded man of fifty in the background; in a word, a tom robertson comedy faintly spiced with american. henry james went to france and read tourgueneff. w.d. howells stayed at home and read henry james. henry james's mind is of a higher cast and temper; i have no doubt at one time of his life henry james said, i will write the moral history of america, as tourgueneff wrote the moral history of russia--he borrowed at first hand, understanding what he was borrowing. w.d. howells borrowed at second hand, and without understanding what he was borrowing. altogether mr. james's instincts are more scholarly. although his reserve irritates me, and i often regret his concessions to the prudery of the age,--no, not of the age but of librarians,--i cannot but feel that his concessions, for i suppose i must call them concessions, are to a certain extent self-imposed, regretfully, perhaps ... somewhat in this fashion--"true, that i live in an age not very favourable to artistic production, but the art of an age is the spirit of that age; if i violate the prejudices of the age i shall miss its spirit, and an art that is not redolent of the spirit of its age is an artificial flower, perfumeless, or perfumed with the scent of flowers that bloomed three hundred years ago." plausible, ingenious, quite in the spirit of mr. james's mind; i can almost hear him reason so; nor does the argument displease me, for it is conceived in a scholarly spirit. now my conception of w.d. howells is quite different--i see him the happy father of a numerous family; the sun is shining, the girls and boys are playing on the lawn, they come trooping in to a high tea, and there is dancing in the evening. my fat landlady lent me a novel by george meredith,--"tragic comedians"; i was glad to receive it, for my admiration of his poetry, with which i was slightly acquainted, was very genuine indeed. "love in a valley" is a beautiful poem, and the "nuptials of attila," i read it in the _new quarterly review_ years ago, is very present in my mind, and it is a pleasure to recall its chanting rhythm, and lordly and sombre refrain--"make the bed for attila." i expected, therefore, one of my old passionate delights from his novels. i was disappointed, painfully disappointed. but before i say more concerning mr. meredith, i will admit at once frankly and fearlessly, that i am not a competent critic, because emotionally i do not understand him, and all except an emotional understanding is worthless in art. i do not make this admission because i am intimidated by the weight and height of the critical authority with which i am overshadowed, but from a certain sense, of which i am as distinctly conscious, viz., that the author is, how shall i put it? the french would say "quelqu'un," that expresses what i would say in english. i remember, too, that although a man may be able to understand anything, that there must be some modes of thoughts and attitudes of mind which we are so naturally antagonistic to, so entirely out of sympathy with, that we are in no true sense critics of them. such are the thoughts that come to me when i read mr. george meredith. i try to console myself with such reflections, and then i break forth, and crying passionately:--jerks, wire splintered wood. in balzac, which i know by heart, in shakespeare, which i have just begun to love, i find words deeply impregnated with the savour of life; but in george meredith there is nothing but crackjaw sentences, empty and unpleasant in the mouth as sterile nuts. i could select hundreds of phrases which mr. meredith would probably call epigrams, and i would defy anyone to say they were wise, graceful or witty. i do not know any book more tedious than "tragic comedians," more pretentious, more blatant; it struts and screams, stupid in all its gaud and absurdity as a cockatoo. more than fifty pages i could not read. how, i asked myself, could the man who wrote the "nuptials of attila" write this? but my soul returned no answer, and i listened as one in a hollow mountain side. my opinion of george meredith never ceases to puzzle me. he is of the north, i am of the south. carlyle, mr. robert browning, and george meredith are the three essentially northern writers; in them there is nothing of latin sensuality and subtlety. i took up "rhoda fleming." i found some exquisite bits of description in it, but i heartily wished them in verse, they were motives for poems; and there was some wit. i remember a passage very racy indeed, of middle-class england. antony, i think is the man's name, describes how he is interrupted at his tea; a paragraph of seven or ten lines with "i am having my tea, i am at my tea," running through it for refrain. then a description of a lodging-house dinner: "a block of bread on a lonely plate, and potatoes that looked as if they had committed suicide in their own steam." a little ponderous and stilted, but undoubtedly witty. i read on until i came to a young man who fell from his horse, or had been thrown from his horse, i never knew which, nor did i feel enough interest in the matter to make research; the young man was put to bed by his mother, and once in bed he began to talk!... four, five, six, ten pages of talk, and such talk! i can offer no opinion why mr. george meredith committed them to paper; it is not narrative, it is not witty, nor is it sentimental, nor is it profound. i read it once; my mind astonished at receiving no sensation cried out like a child at a milkless breast. i read the pages again ... did i understand? yes, i understood every sentence, but they conveyed no idea, they awoke no emotion in me; it was like sand, arid and uncomfortable. the story is surprisingly commonplace--the people in it are as lacking in subtlety as those of a drury lane melodrama. "diana of the crossways" i liked better, and had i had absolutely nothing to do i might have read it to the end. i remember a scene with a rustic--a rustic who could eat hog a solid hour--that amused me. i remember the sloppy road in the weald, and the vague outlines of the south downs seen in starlight and mist. but to come to the great question, the test by which time will judge us all--the creation of a human being, of a live thing that we have met with in life before, and meet for the first time in print, and who abides with us ever after. into what shadow has not diana floated? where are the magical glimpses of the soul? do you remember in "pères et enfants," when tourgueneff is unveiling the woman's, shall i say, affection, for bazaroff, or the interest she feels in him? and exposing at the same time the reasons why she will never marry him.... i wish i had the book by me, i have not seen it for ten years. after striving through many pages to put lucien, whom you would have loved, whom i would have loved, that divine representation of all that is young and desirable in man, before the reader, balzac puts these words in his mouth in reply to an impatient question by vautrin, who asks him what he wants, what he is sighing for, "_d'être célèbre et d'être aimé_,"--these are soul-waking words, these are shakespeare words. where in "diana of the crossways" do we find soul-evoking words like these? with tiresome repetition we are told that she is beautiful, divine; but i see her not at all, i don't know if she is dark, tall, or fair; with tiresome reiteration we are told that she is brilliant, that her conversation is like a display of fireworks, that the company is dazzled and overcome; but when she speaks the utterances are grotesque, and i say that if any one spoke to me in real life as she does in the novel, i should not doubt for an instant that i was in the company of a lunatic. the epigrams are never good, they never come within measurable distance of la rochefoucauld, balzac, or even goncourt. the admirers of mr. meredith constantly deplore their existence, admitting that they destroy all illusion of life. "when we have translated half of mr. meredith's utterances into possible human speech, then we can enjoy him," says the _pall mall gazette_. we take our pleasures differently; mine are spontaneous, and i know nothing about translating the rank smell of a nettle into the fragrance of a rose, and then enjoying it. mr. meredith's conception of life is crooked, ill-balanced, and out of tune. what remains?--a certain lustiness. you have seen a big man with square shoulders and a small head, pushing about in a crowd, he shouts and works his arms, he seems to be doing a great deal, in reality he is doing nothing; so mr. meredith appears to me, and yet i can only think of him as an artist; his habit is not slatternly, like those of such literary hodmen as mr. david christie murray, mr. besant, mr. buchanan. there is no trace of the crowd about him. i do not question his right of place, i am out of sympathy with him, that is all; and i regret that it should be so, for he is one whose love of art is pure and untainted with commercialism, and if i may praise it for nought else, i can praise it for this. i have noticed that if i buy a book because i am advised, or because i think i ought, my reading is sure to prove sterile. _il faut que cela, vient de moi_, as a woman once said to me, speaking of her caprices; a quotation, a chance word heard in an unexpected quarter. mr. hardy and mr. blackmore i read because i had heard that they were distinguished novelists; neither touched me, i might just as well have bought a daily paper; neither like nor dislike, a shrug of the shoulders--that is all. hardy seems to me to bear about the same relation to george eliot as jules breton does to millet--a vulgarisation never offensive, and executed with ability. the story of an art is always the same,... a succession of abortive but ever strengthening efforts, a moment of supreme concentration, a succession of efforts weakening the final extinction. george eliot gathered up all previous attempts, and created the english peasant; and following her peasants there came an endless crowd from devon, yorkshire, and the midland counties, and, as they came, they faded into the palest shadows until at last they appeared in red stockings, high heels and were lost in the chorus of opera. mr. hardy was the first step down. his work is what dramatic critics would call good, honest, straightforward work. it is unillumined by a ray of genius, it is slow and somewhat sodden. it reminds me of an excellent family coach--one of the old sort hung on c springs--a fat coachman on the box and a footman whose livery was made for his predecessor. in criticising mr. meredith i was out of sympathy with my author, ill at ease, angry, puzzled; but with mr. hardy i am on quite different terms, i am as familiar with him as with the old pair of trousers i put on when i sit down to write; i know all about his aims, his methods; i know what has been done in that line, and what can be done. i have heard that mr. hardy is country bred, but i should not have discovered this from his writings. they read to me more like a report, yes, a report,--a conscientious, well-done report, executed by a thoroughly efficient writer sent down by one of the daily papers. nowhere do i find selection, everything is reported, dialogues and descriptions. take for instance the long evening talk between the farm people when oak is seeking employment. it is not the absolute and literal transcript from nature after the manner of henri monier; for that it is a little too diluted with mr. hardy's brains, the edges are a little sharpened and pointed, i can see where the author has been at work filing; on the other hand, it is not synthesized--the magical word which reveals the past, and through which we divine the future--is not seized and set triumphantly as it is in "silas marner." the descriptions do not flow out of and form part of the narrative, but are wedged in, and often awkwardly. we are invited to assist at a sheep-shearing scene, or at a harvest supper, because these scenes are not to be found in the works of george eliot, because the reader is supposed to be interested in such things, because mr. hardy is anxious to show how jolly country he is. collegians, when they attempt character-drawing, create monstrosities, but a practised writer should be able to create men and women capable of moving through a certain series of situations without shocking in any violent way the most generally applicable principles of common sense. i say that a practised writer should be able to do this; that they sometimes do not is a matter which i will not now go into, suffice it for my purpose if i admit that mr. hardy can do this. in farmer oak there is nothing to object to; the conception is logical, the execution is trustworthy; he has legs, arms, and a heart; but the vital spark that should make him of our flesh and of our soul is wanting, it is dead water that the sunlight never touches. the heroine is still more dim, she is stuffy, she is like tow; the rich farmer is a figure out of any melodrama, sergeant troy nearly quickens to life; now and then the clouds are liquescent, but a real ray of light never falls. the story-tellers are no doubt right when they insist on the difficulty of telling a story. a sequence of events--it does not matter how simple or how complicated--working up to a logical close, or, shall i say, a close in which there is a sense of rhythm and inevitableness is always indicative of genius. shakespeare affords some magnificent examples, likewise balzac, likewise george eliot, likewise tourgueneff; the "oedipus" is, of course, the crowning and final achievement in the music of sequence and the massy harmonies of fate. but in contemporary english fiction i marvel, and i am repeatedly struck by the inability of writers, even of the first-class, to make an organic whole of their stories. here, i say, the course is clear, the way is obvious, but no sooner do we enter on the last chapters than the story begins to show incipient shiftiness, and soon it doubles back and turns, growing with every turn weaker like a hare before the hounds. from a certain directness of construction, from the simple means by which oak's ruin is accomplished in the opening chapters, i did not expect that the story would run hare-hearted in its close, but the moment troy told his wife that he never cared for her, i suspected something was wrong; when he went down to bathe and was carried out by the current i knew the game was up, and was prepared for anything, even for the final shooting by the rich farmer, and the marriage with oak, a conclusion which of course does not come within the range of literary criticism. "lorna doone" struck me as childishly garrulous, stupidly prolix, swollen with comments not interesting in themselves and leading to nothing. mr. hardy possesses the power of being able to shape events; he can mould them to a certain form; that he cannot breathe into them the spirit of life i have already said, but "lorna doone" reminds me of a third-rate italian opera, _la fille du régiment_, or _ernani_; it is corrupt with all the vices of the school, and it does not contain a single passage of real fervour or force to make us forget the inherent defects of the art of which it is a poor specimen. wagner made the discovery, not a very wonderful one after all when we think, that an opera had much better be melody from end to end. the realistic school following on wagner's footsteps discovered that a novel had much better be all narrative--an uninterrupted flow of narrative. description is narrative, analysis of character is narrative, dialogue is narrative; the form is ceaselessly changing, but the melody of narration is never interrupted. but the reading of "lorna doone" calls to my mind, and very vividly, an original artistic principle of which english romance writers are either strangely ignorant or neglectful, viz., that the sublimation of the _dramatis personae_ and the deeds in which they are involved must correspond, and their relationship should remain unimpaired. turner's "carthage" is nature transposed and wonderfully modified. some of the passages of light and shade there--those of the balustrade--are fugues, and there his art is allied to bach in sonority and beautiful combination. turner knew that a branch hung across the sun looked at separately was black, but he painted it light to maintain the equipoise of atmosphere. in the novel the characters are the voice, the deeds are the orchestra. but the english novelist takes 'arry and 'arriet, and without question allows them to achieve deeds; nor does he hesitate to pass them into the realms of the supernatural. such violation of the first principles of narration is never to be met with in the elder writers. achilles stands as tall as troy, merlin is as old and as wise as the world. rhythm and poetical expression are essential attributes of dramatic genius, but the original sign of race and mission is an instinctive modulation of man with the deeds he attempts or achieves. the man and the deed must be cognate and equal, and the melodic balance and blending are what first separate homer and hugo from the fabricators of singular adventures. in scott leather jerkins, swords, horses, mountains, and castles harmonise completely and fully with food, fighting, words, and vision of life; the chords are simple as handel's, but they are as perfect. lytton's work, although as vulgar as verdi's is, in much the same fashion, sustained by a natural sense of formal harmony; but all that follows is decadent,--an admixture of romance and realism, the exaggerations of hugo and the homeliness of trollope; a litter of ancient elements in a state of decomposition. the spiritual analysis of balzac equals the triumphant imagination of shakespeare, and by different roads they reach the same height of tragic awe, but when improbability, which in these days does duty for imagination, is mixed with the familiar aspects of life, the result is inchoate and rhythmless folly, i mean the regular and inevitable alternation and combination of pa and ma, and dear annie who lives at clapham, with the mountains of the moon, and the secret of eternal life; this violation of the first principles of art--that is to say, of the rhythm of feeling and proportion, is not possible in france. i ask the reader to recall what was said on the subject of the club, tavern, and villa. we have a surplus population of more than two million women, the tradition that chastity is woman's only virtue still survives, the tavern and its adjunct bohemianism have been suppressed, and the villa is omnipotent and omnipresent; tennis-playing, church on sundays, and suburban hops engender a craving for excitement for the far away, for the unknown; but the villa with its tennis-playing, church on sundays, and suburban hops will not surrender its own existence, it must take a part in the heroic deeds that happen in the mountains of the moon; it will have heroism in its own pint pot. achilles and merlin must be replaced by uncle jim and an undergraduate; and so the villa is the author of "rider haggard," "hugh conway," "robert buchanan," and the author of "the house on the marsh." i read two books by mr. christie murray, "joseph's coat" and "rainbow gold," and one by messrs. besant and rice,--"the seamy side." it is difficult to criticise such work, there is absolutely nothing to say but that it is as suited to the mental needs of the villa as the baker's loaves and the butcher's rounds of beef are to the physical. i do not think that any such literature is found in any other country. in france some three or four men produce works of art, the rest of the fiction of the country is unknown to men of letters. but "rainbow gold," i take the best of the three, is not bad as a second-rate french novel is bad; it is excellent as all that is straightforward is excellent; and it is surprising to find that work can be so good, and at the same time so devoid of artistic charm. that such a thing should be is one of the miracles of the villa. i have heard that mr. besant is an artist in the "chaplain of the fleet" and other novels, but this is not possible. the artist shows what he is going to do the moment he puts pen to paper, or brush to canvas; he improves on his first attempts, that is all; and i found "the seamy side" so very common, that i cannot believe for a moment that its author or authors could write a line that would interest me. mr. robert buchanan is a type of artist that every age produces unfailingly: catulle mendès is his counterpart in france,--but the pallid portuguese jew with his christ-like face, and his fascinating fervour is more interesting than the spectacled scotchman. both began with volumes of excellent but characterless verse, and loud outcries about the dignity of art, and both have--well ... mr. robert buchanan has collaborated with gus harris, and written the programme poetry for the vaudeville theatre; he has written a novel, the less said about which the better--he has attacked men whose shoestrings he is not fit to tie, and having failed to injure them, he retracted all he said, and launched forth into slimy benedictions. he took fielding's masterpiece, degraded it, and debased it; he wrote to the papers that fielding was a genius in spite of his coarseness, thereby inferring that he was a much greater genius since he had sojourned in this scotch house of literary ill-fame. clarville, the author of "madame angot," transformed madame marneff into a virtuous woman; but he did not write to the papers to say that balzac owed him a debt of gratitude on that account. the star of miss braddon has finally set in the obscure regions of servantgalism; ouida and rhoda broughton continue to rewrite the books they wrote ten years ago; mrs. lynn linton i have not read. the "story of an african farm" was pressed upon me. i found it sincere and youthful, disjointed but well-written; descriptions of sand-hills and ostriches sandwiched with doubts concerning a future state, and convictions regarding the moral and physical superiority of women: but of art nothing; that is to say, art as i understand it,--rhythmical sequence of events described with rhythmical sequence of phrase. i read the "story of elizabeth" by miss thackeray. it came upon me with all the fresh and fair naturalness of a garden full of lilacs and blue sky, and i thought of hardy, blackmore, murray, and besant as of great warehouses where everything might be had, and even if the article required were not in stock it could be supplied in a few days at latest. the exquisite little descriptions, full of air, colour, lightness, grace; the french life seen with such sweet english eyes; the sweet little descriptions all so gently evocative. "what a tranquil little kitchen it was, with a glimpse of the courtyard outside, and the cocks and hens, and the poplar trees waving in the sunshine, and the old woman sitting in her white cap busy at her homely work." into many wearisome pages these simple lines have since been expanded, without affecting the beauty of the original. "will dampier turned his broad back and looked out of the window. there was a moment's silence. they could hear the tinkling of bells, the whistling of the sea, the voices of the men calling to each other in the port, the sunshine streamed in; elly was standing in it, and seemed gilt with a golden background. she ought to have held a palm in her hand, poor little martyr!" there is sweet wisdom in this book, wisdom that is eternal, being simple; and near may not come the ugliness of positivism, nor the horror of pessimism, nor the profound greyness of hegelism, but merely the genial love and reverence of a beautiful-minded woman. such charms as these necessitate certain defects, i should say limitations. vital creation of character is not possible to miss thackeray, but i do not rail against beautiful water-colour indications of balconies, vases, gardens, fields, and harvesters because they have not the fervid glow and passionate force of titian's ariadne; miss thackeray cannot give us a maggie tulliver, and all the many profound modulations of that beethoven-like countryside: the pine wood and the cripple; this aunt's linen presses, and that one's economies; the boy going forth to conquer the world, the girl remaining at home to conquer herself; the mighty river holding the fate of all, playing and dallying with it for a while, and bearing it on at last to final and magnificent extinction. that sense of the inevitable which had the greek dramatists wholly, which had george eliot sufficiently, that rhythmical progression of events, rhythm and inevitableness (two words for one and the same thing) is not there. elly's golden head, the back-ground of austere french protestants, is sketched with a flowing water-colour brush, i do not know if it is true, but true or false in reality, it is true in art. but the jarring dissonance of her marriage is inadmissible; it cannot be led up to by chords no matter how ingenious, the passage, the attempts from one key to the other, is impossible; the true end is the ruin, by death or lingering life, of elly and the remorse of the mother. one of the few writers of fiction who seems to me to possess an ear for the music of events is miss margaret veley. her first novel, "for percival," although diffuse, although it occasionally flowed into by-channels and lingered in stagnating pools, was informed and held together, even at ends the most twisted and broken, by that sense of rhythmic progression which is so dear to me, and which was afterwards so splendidly developed in "damocles." pale, painted with grey and opaline tints of morning passes the grand figure of rachel conway, a victim chosen for her beauty, and crowned with flowers of sacrifice. she has not forgotten the face of the maniac, and it comes back to her in its awful lines and lights when she finds herself rich and loved by the man whom she loves. the catastrophe is a double one. now she knows she is accursed, and that her duty is to trample out her love. unborn generations cry to her. the wrath and the lamentation of the chorus of the greek singer, the intoning voices of the next-of-kin, the pathetic responses of voices far in the depths of ante-natal night, these the modern novelist, playing on an inferior instrument, may suggest, but cannot give: but here the suggestion is so perfect that we cease to yearn for the real music, as, reading from a score, we are satisfied with the flute and bassoons that play so faultlessly in soundless dots. there is neither hesitation nor doubt. rachel conway puts her dreams away, she will henceforth walk in a sad and shady path; her interests are centred in the child of the man she loves, and as she looks for a last time on the cloud of trees, glorious and waving green in the sunset that encircles her home, her sorrow swells once again to passion, and, we know, for the last time. the mechanical construction of m. scribe i had learnt from m. duval; the naturalistic school had taught me to scorn tricks, and to rely on the action of the sentiments rather than on extraneous aid for the bringing about of a _dénouement_; and i thought of all this as i read "disenchantment" by miss mabel robinson, and it occurred to me that my knowledge would prove valuable when my turn came to write a novel, for the _mise en place_, the setting forth of this story, seemed to me so loose, that much of its strength had dribbled away before it had rightly begun. but the figure of the irish politician i accept without reserve. it seems to me grand and mighty in its sorrowfulness. the tall, dark-eyed, beautiful celt, attainted in blood and brain by generations of famine and drink, alternating with the fervid sensuousness of the girl, her saxon sense of right alternating with the celt's hereditary sense of revenge, his dreamy patriotism, his facile platitudes, his acceptance of literature as a sort of bread basket, his knowledge that he is not great nor strong, and can do nothing in the world but love his country; and as he passes his thirtieth year the waxing strong of the disease, nervous disease complex and torturous; to him drink is at once life and death; an article is bread, and to calm him and collect what remains of weak, scattered thought, he must drink. the woman cannot understand that caste and race separate them; and the damp air of spent desire, and the grey and falling leaves of her illusions fill her life's sky. nor is there any hope for her until the husband unties the awful knot by suicide. i will state frankly that mr. r.l. stevenson never wrote a line that failed to delight me; but he never wrote a book. you arrive at a strangely just estimate of a writer's worth by the mere question: "what is he the author of?" for every writer whose work is destined to live is the author of one book that outshines the other, and, in popular imagination, epitomises his talent and position. what is shakespeare the author of? what is milton the author of? what is fielding the author of? what is byron the author of? what is carlyle the author of? what is thackeray the author of? what is zola the author of? what is mr. swinburne the author of? mr. stevenson is the author of shall i say, "treasure island," or what? i think of mr. stevenson as a consumptive youth weaving garlands of sad flowers with pale, weak hands, or leaning to a large plate-glass window, and scratching thereon exquisite profiles with a diamond pencil. i do not care to speak of great ideas, for i am unable to see how an idea can exist, at all events can be great out of language; an allusion to mr. stevenson's verbal expression will perhaps make my meaning clear. his periods are fresh and bright, rhythmical in sound, and perfect realizations of their sense; in reading you often think that never before was such definiteness united to such poetry of expression; every page and every sentence rings of its individuality. mr. stevenson's style is over smart, well-dressed, shall i say, like a young man walking in the burlington arcade? yes, i will say so, but, i will add, the most gentlemanly young man that ever walked in the burlington. mr. stevenson is competent to understand any thought that might be presented to him, but if he were to use it, it would instantly become neat, sharp, ornamental, light, and graceful; and it would lose all its original richness and harmony. it is not mr. stevenson's brain that prevents him from being a thinker, but his style. another thing that strikes me in thinking of stevenson (i pass over his direct indebtedness to edgar poe, and his constant appropriation of his methods), is the unsuitableness of the special characteristics of his talent to the age he lives in. he wastes in his limitations, and his talent is vented in prettinesses of style. in speaking of mr. henry james, i said that, although he had conceded much to the foolish, false, and hypocritical taste of the time, the concessions he made had in little or nothing impaired his talent. the very opposite seems to me the case with mr. stevenson. for if any man living in this end of the century needed freedom of expression for the distinct development of his genius, that man is r.l. stevenson. he who runs may read, and he with any knowledge of literature will, before i have written the words, have imagined mr. stevenson writing in the age of elizabeth or anne. turn your platitudes prettily, but write no word that could offend the chaste mind of the young girl who has spent her morning reading the colin campbell divorce case; so says the age we live in. the penny paper that may be bought everywhere, that is allowed to lie on every table, prints seven or eight columns of filth, for no reason except that the public likes to read filth; the poet and novelist must emasculate and destroy their work because.... who shall come forward and make answer? oh, vile, filthy, and hypocritical century, i at least scorn you. but this is not a course of literature but the story of the artistic development of me, edward dayne; so i will tarry no longer with mere criticism, but go direct to the book to which i owe the last temple in my soul--"marius the epicurean." well i remember when i read the opening lines, and how they came upon me sweetly as the flowing breath of a bright spring. i knew that i was awakened a fourth time, that a fourth vision of life was to be given to me. shelley had revealed to me the unimagined skies where the spirit sings of light and grace; gautier had shown me how extravagantly beautiful is the visible world and how divine is the rage of the flesh; and with balzac i had descended circle by circle into the nether world of the soul, and watched its afflictions. then there were minor awakenings. zola had enchanted me with decoration and inebriated me with theory; flaubert had astonished with the wonderful delicacy and subtlety of his workmanship; goncourt's brilliant adjectival effects had captivated me for a time, but all these impulses were crumbling into dust, these aspirations were etiolated, sickly as faces grown old in gaslight. i had not thought of the simple and unaffected joy of the heart of natural things; the colour of the open air, the many forms of the country, the birds flying,--that one making for the sea; the abandoned boat, the dwarf roses and the wild lavender; nor had i thought of the beauty of mildness in life, and how by a certain avoidance of the wilfully passionate, and the surely ugly, we may secure an aspect of temporal life which is abiding and soul-sufficing. a new dawn was in my brain, fresh and fair, full of wide temples and studious hours, and the lurking fragrance of incense; that such a vision of life was possible i had no suspicion, and it came upon me almost with the same strength, almost as intensely, as that divine song of the flesh,--mademoiselle de maupin. certainly, in my mind, these books will be always intimately associated; and when a few adventitious points of difference be forgotten, it is interesting to note how firm is the alliance, and how cognate and co-equal the sympathies on which it is based; the same glad worship of the visible world, and the same incurable belief that the beauty of material things is sufficient for all the needs of life. mr. pater can join hands with gautier in saying--_je trouve la terre aussi belle que le ciel, et je pense que la correction de la forme est la vertu_. and i too join issue; i too love the great pagan world, its bloodshed, its slaves, its injustice, its loathing of all that is feeble. but "marius the epicurean" was more to me than a mere emotional influence, precious and rare though that may be, for this book was the first in english prose i had come across that procured for me any genuine pleasure in the language itself, in the combination of words for silver or gold chime, and unconventional cadence, and for all those lurking half-meanings, and that evanescent suggestion, like the odour of dead roses, that words retain to the last of other times and elder usage. until i read "marius" the english language (english prose) was to me what french must be to the majority of english readers. i read for the sense and that was all; the language itself seemed to me coarse and plain, and awoke in me neither aesthetic emotion nor even interest. "marius" was the stepping-stone that carried me across the channel into the genius of my own tongue. the translation was not too abrupt; i found a constant and careful invocation of meaning that was a little aside of the common comprehension, and also a sweet depravity of ear for unexpected falls of phrase, and of eye for the less observed depths of colours, which although new was a sort of sequel to the education i had chosen, and a continuance of it in foreign, but not wholly unfamiliar medium, and having saturated myself with pater, the passage to de quincey was easy. he, too, was a latin in manner and in temper of mind; but he was truly english, and through him i passed to the study of the elizabethan dramatists, the real literature of my race, and washed myself clean. chapter xi thoughts in a strand lodging awful emma has undressed and put the last child away--stowed the last child away in some mysterious and unapproachable corner that none knows of but she; the fat landlady has ceased to loiter about my door, has ceased to pester me with offers of brandy and water, tea and toast, the inducements that occur to her landlady's mind; the actress from the savoy has ceased to walk up and down the street with the young man who accompanied her home from the theatre; she has ceased to linger on the doorstep talking to him, her key has grated in the lock, she has come upstairs, we have had our usual midnight conversation on the landing, she has told me her latest hopes of obtaining a part, and of the husband whom she was obliged to leave; we have bid each other good-night, she has gone up the creaky staircase. i have returned to my room, littered with ms. and queer publications; the night is hot and heavy, but now a wind is blowing from the river. i am listless and lonely.... i open a book, the first book that comes to hand ... it is _le journal des goncourts_, p. , the end of a chapter:-- "_it is really curious that it should be the four men the most free from all taint of handicraft and all base commercialism, the four pens the most entirely devoted to art, that were arraigned before the public prosecutor: baudelaire, flaubert, and ourselves._" yes it is indeed curious, and i will not spoil the piquancy of the moral by a comment. no comment would help those to see who have eyes to see, no comment would give sight to the hopelessly blind. goncourt's statement is eloquent and suggestive enough; i leave it a naked simple truth; but i would put by its side another naked simple truth. this: if in england the public prosecutor does not seek to override literature, the means of tyranny are not wanting, whether they be the tittle-tattle of the nursery or the lady's drawing-room, or the shameless combinations entered into by librarians.... in england as in france those who loved literature the most purely, who were the least mercenary in their love, were marked out for persecution, and all three were driven into exile. byron, shelley, and george moore; and swinburne, he, too, who loved literature for its own sake, was forced, amid cries of indignation and horror, to withdraw his book from the reach of a public that was rooting then amid the garbage of the yelverton divorce case. i think of these facts and think of baudelaire's prose poem, that poem in which he tells how a dog will run away howling if you hold to him a bottle of choice scent, but if you offer him some putrid morsel picked out of some gutter hole, he will sniff round it joyfully, and will seek to lick your hand for gratitude. baudelaire compared that dog to the public. baudelaire was wrong: that dog was a ----. * * * * * when i read balzac's stories of vautrin and lucien de rubempré, i often think of hadrian and the antinous. i wonder if balzac did dream of transposing the roman emperor and his favourite into modern life. it is the kind of thing that balzac would think of. no critic has ever noticed this. * * * * * sometimes, at night, when all is still, and i look out on that desolate river, i think i shall go mad with grief, with wild regret for my beautiful _appartement_ in _rue de la tour des dames_. how different is the present to the past! i hate with my whole soul this london lodging, and all that concerns it--emma, and eggs and bacon, the fat lascivious landlady and her lascivious daughter; i am sick of the sentimental actress who lives upstairs, i swear i will never go out to talk to her on the landing again. then there is failure--i can do nothing, nothing; my novel i know is worthless; my life is a weak leaf, it will flutter out of sight presently. i am sick of everything; i wish i were back in paris; i am sick of reading; i have nothing to read. flaubert bores me. what nonsense has been talked about him! impersonal! nonsense, he is the most personal writer i know. that odious pessimism! how sick i am of it, it never ceases, it is lugged in _à tout dropos_, and the little lyrical phrase with which he winds up every paragraph, how boring it is. happily, i have "a rebours" to read, that prodigious book, that beautiful mosaic. huysmans is quite right, ideas are well enough until you are twenty, afterwards only words are bearable ... a new idea, what can be more insipid--fit for members of parliament.... shall i go to bed? no.... i wish i had a volume of verlaine, or something of mallarmé's to read--mallarmé for preference. i remember huysmans speaks of mallarmé in "a rebours." in hours like these a page of huysmans is as a dose of opium, a glass of some exquisite and powerful liqueur. "the decadence of a literature irreparably attacked in its organism, weakened by the age of ideas, overworn by the excess of syntax, sensible only of the curiosity which fevers sick people, but nevertheless hastening to explain everything in its decline, desirous of repairing all the omissions of its youth, to bequeath all the most subtle souvenirs of its suffering on its deathbed, is incarnate in mallarmé in most consummate and absolute fashion.... "the poem in prose is the form, above all others, they prefer; handled by an alchemist of genius, it should contain in a state of meat the entire strength of the novel, the long analysis and the superfluous description of which it suppresses ... the adjective placed in such an ingenious and definite way, that it could not be legally dispossessed of its place, would open up such perspectives, that the reader would dream for whole weeks together on its meaning at once precise and multiple, affirm the present, reconstruct the past, divine the future of the souls of the characters revealed by the light of the unique epithet. the novel thus understood, thus condensed into one or two pages, would be a communion of thought between a magical writer and an ideal reader, a spiritual collaboration by consent between ten superior persons scattered through the universe, a delectation offered to the most refined, and accessible only to them." huysmans goes to my soul like a gold ornament of byzantine workmanship; there is in his style the yearning charm of arches, a sense of ritual, the passion of the mural, of the window. ah! in this hour of weariness for one of mallarmé's prose poems! stay, i remember i have some numbers of _la vogue_. one of the numbers contains, i know, "forgotten pages;" i will translate word for word, preserving the very rhythm, one or two of these miniature marvels of diction:-- forgotten pages "since maria left me to go to another star--which? orion, altair, or thou, green venus? i have always cherished solitude. what long days i have passed alone with my cat. by alone, i mean without a material being, and my cat is a mystical companion--a spirit. i can, therefore, say that i have passed whole days alone with my cat, and, alone with one of the last authors of the latin decadence; for since that white creature is no more, strangely and singularly i have loved all that the word _fall_ expresses. in such wise that my favourite season of the year is the last weary days of summer, which immediately precede autumn, and the hour i choose to walk in is when the sun rests before disappearing, with rays of yellow copper on the grey walls and red copper on the tiles. in the same way the literature that my soul demands--a sad voluptuousness--is the dying poetry of the last moments of rome, but before it has breathed at all the rejuvenating approach of the barbarians, or has begun to stammer the infantile latin of the first christian poetry. "i was reading, therefore, one of those dear poems (whose paint has more charm for me than the blush of youth), had plunged one hand into the fur of the pure animal, when a barrel organ sang languidly and melancholy beneath my window. it played in the great alley of poplars, whose leaves appear to me yellow, even in the spring-tide, since maria passed there with the tall candles for the last time. the instrument is the saddest, yes, truly; the piano scintillates, the violin opens the torn soul to the light, but the barrel-organ, in the twilight of remembrance, made me dream despairingly. now it murmurs an air joyously vulgar which awakens joy in the heart of the suburbs, an air old-fashioned and commonplace. why do its flourishes go to my soul, and make me weep like a romantic ballad? i listen, imbibing it slowly, and i do not throw a penny out of the window for fear of moving from my place, and seeing that the instrument is not singing itself. ii "the old saxony clock, which is slow, and which strikes thirteen amid its flowers and gods, to whom did it belong? thinkest that it came from saxony by the mail coaches of old time? "(singular shadows hang about the worn-out panes.) "and thy venetian mirror, deep as a cold fountain in its banks of gilt work; what is reflected there? ah! i am sure that more than one woman bathed there in her beauty's sin; and, perhaps, if i looked long enough, i should see a naked phantom. "wicked one, thou often sayest wicked things. "(i see the spiders' webs above the lofty windows.) "our wardrobe is very old; see how the fire reddens its sad panels! the weary curtains are as old, and the tapestry on the arm-chairs stripped of paint, and the old engravings, and all these old things. does it not seem to thee that even these blue birds are discoloured by time? "(dream not of the spiders' webs that tremble above the lofty windows.) "thou lovest all that, and that is why i live by thee. when one of my poems appeared, didst thou not desire, my sister, whose looks are full of yesterdays, the words, the grace of faded things? new objects displease thee; thee also do they frighten with their loud boldness, and thou feelest as if thou shouldest use them--a difficult thing indeed to do, for thou hast no taste for action. "come, close thy old german almanack that thou readest with attention, though it appeared more than a hundred years ago, and the kings it announces are all dead, and, lying on this antique carpet, my head leaned upon thy charitable knees, on the pale robe, oh! calm child, i will speak with thee for hours; there are no fields, and the streets are empty, i will speak to thee of our furniture. "thou art abstracted? "(the spiders' webs are shivering above the lofty windows.)" to argue about these forgotten pages would be futile. we, the "ten superior persons scattered through the universe" think these prose poems the concrete essence, the osmazome of literature, the essential oil of art, others, those in the stalls, will judge them to be the aberrations of a refined mind, distorted with hatred of the commonplace; the pit will immediately declare them to be nonsense, and will return with satisfaction to the last leading article in the daily paper. * * * * * "_j'ai fait mes adieux à ma mère et je viens pour vous faire les miens_ and other absurdities by ponson du terrail amused us many a year in france, and in later days similar bad grammar by georges ohnet has not been lost upon us, but neither ponson du terrail nor georges ohnet sought literary suffrage, such a thing could not be in france, but in england, rider haggard, whose literary atrocities are more atrocious than his accounts of slaughter, receives the attention of leading journals and writes about the revival of romance. as it is as difficult to write the worst as the best conceivable sentence, i take this one and place it for its greater glory in my less remarkable prose:-- "_as we gazed on the beauties thus revealed by good, a spirit of emulation filled our breasts, and we set to work to get ourselves up as well as we could._" a return to romance! a return to the animal, say i. * * * * * one thing that cannot be denied to the realists: a constant and intense desire to write well, to write artistically. when i think of what they have done in the matter of the use of words, of the myriad verbal effects they have discovered, of the thousand forms of composition they have created, how they have remodelled and refashioned the language in their untiring striving for intensity of expression for the very osmazome of art, i am lost in ultimate wonder and admiration. what hugo did for french verse, flaubert, goncourt, zola, and huysmans have done for french prose. no more literary school than the realists has ever existed, and i do not except even the elizabethans. and for this our failures are more interesting than the vulgar successes of our opponents; for when we fall into the sterile and distorted, it is through our noble and incurable hatred of the commonplace of all that is popular. the healthy school is played out in england; all that could be said has been said; the successors of dickens, thackeray, and george eliot have no ideal, and consequently no language; what can be more pudding than the language of mr. hardy, and he is typical of a dozen other writers, mr. besant, mr. murray, mr. crawford? the reason of this heaviness of thought and expression is that the avenues are closed, no new subject matter is introduced, the language of english fiction has therefore run stagnant. but if the realists should catch favour in england the english tongue may be saved from dissolution, for with the new subjects they would introduce, new forms of language would arise. * * * * * i wonder why murder is considered less immoral than fornication in literature? * * * * * i feel that it is almost impossible for the same ear to seize music so widely differing as milton's blank verse and hugo's alexandrines, and it seems to me especially strange that critics varying in degree from matthew arnold to the obscure paragraphist, never seem even remotely to suspect, when they passionately declare that english blank verse is a more perfect and complete poetic instrument than french alexandrines, that the imperfections which they aver are inherent in the latter exist only in their british ears, impervious to a thousand subtleties. mr. matthew arnold does not hesitate to say that the regular rhyming of the lines is monotonous. to my ear every line is different; there is as much variation in charles v.'s soliloquy as in hamlet's; but be this as it may, it is not unworthy of the inmates of hanwell for critics to inveigh against _la, rime pleine_, that which is instinctive in the language as accent in ours, that which is the very genius of the language. but the principle has been exaggerated, deformed, caricatured until some of the most modern verse is little more than a series of puns--in art as in life the charm lies in the unexpected, and it is annoying to know that the only thought of _every_ poet is to couple _les murs_ with _des fruits trop mûrs_, and that no break in the absolute richness of sound is to be hoped for. gustave kahn whose beautiful volume "les palais nomades" i have read with the keenest delight, was the first to recognise that an unfailing use of _la rime pleine_ might become cloying and satiating, and that, by avoiding it sometimes and markedly and maliciously choosing in preference a simple assonance, new and subtle music might be produced. "les palais nomades" is a really beautiful book, and it is free from all the faults that make an absolute and supreme enjoyment of great poetry an impossibility. for it is in the first place free from those pests and parasites of artistic work--ideas. of all literary qualities the creation of ideas is the most fugitive. think of the fate of an author who puts forward a new idea to-morrow in a book, in a play, in a poem. the new idea is seized upon, it becomes common property, it is dragged through newspaper articles, magazine articles, through books, it is repeated in clubs, drawing-rooms; it is bandied about the corners of streets; in a week it is wearisome, in a month it is an abomination. who has not felt a sickening feeling come over him when he hears such phrases as "to be or not to be, that is the question"? shakespeare was really great when he wrote "music to hear, why hearest thou music sadly?" not when he wrote, "the apparel oft proclaims the man." could he be freed from his ideas what a poet we should have! therefore, let those who have taken firsts at oxford devote their intolerable leisure to preparing an edition from which everything resembling an idea shall be firmly excluded. we might then shut up our marlowes and our beaumonts and resume our reading of the bard, and these witless beings would confer happiness on many, and crown themselves with truly immortal bays. see the fellows! their fingers catch at scanty wisps of hair, the lamps are burning, the long pens are poised, and idea after idea is hurled out of existence. gustave kahn took counsel of the past, and he has successfully avoided everything that even a hostile critic might be tempted to term an idea; for this i am grateful to him. nor is his volume a collection of miscellaneous verses bound together. he has chosen a certain sequence of emotions; the circumstances out of which these emotions have sprung are given in a short prose note. "les palais nomades" is therefore a novel in essence; description and analysis are eliminated, and only the moments when life grows lyrical with suffering are recorded; recorded in many varying metres conforming only to the play of the emotion, for, unlike many who, having once discovered a tune, apply it promiscuously to every subject they treat, kahn adapts his melody to the emotion he is giving expression to, with the same propriety and grace as nature distributes perfume to her flowers. for an example of magical transition of tone i turn to _intermède_. "chère apparence viens aux couchants illuminés veux-tu mieux des matins albes et calmes les soirs et les matins ont des calmes rosâtres les eaux ont des manteaux de cristal irisé et des rythmes de calmes palmes et l'air évoque de calmes musique de pâtres. * * * * * viens sous des tendelets aux fleuves souriants aux lilas pâlis des nuits d'orient aux glauques étendues à falbalas d'argent a l'oasis des baisers urgents seulement vit le voile aux seuls orients. * * * * * quel que soit le spectacle et quelle que soit la rame et quelle que soit la voix qui s'affame et brame, l'oublié du lointain des jours chatouille et serre, le lotos de l'oubli s'est fané dans mes serres, cependant tu m'aimais à jamais? adieu pour jamais." the repetitions of edgar poe seem hard and mechanical after this, so exquisite and evanescent is the rhythm, and the intonations come as sweetly and suddenly as a gust of perfume; it is as the vibration of a fairy orchestra, flute and violin disappearing in a silver mist; but the clouds break, and all the enchantment of a spring garden appears in a shaft of sudden sunlight. "l'éphémère idole, au frisson du printemps, sentant des renouveaux éclore, le guèpa de satins si lointains et d'antan rose exilés des flores! "le jardin rima ses branches de lilas; aux murs, les roses tremières; la terre étala, pour fêter les las, des divans vert lumière; "des rires ailés peuplèrent le jardin; souriants des caresses brèves, des oiseaux joyeux, jaunes, incarnadins vibrèrent aux ciels de rêve." but to the devil with literature, i am sick of it; who the deuce cares if gustave kahn writes well or badly. yesterday i met a chappie whose views of life coincide with mine. "a ripping good dinner," he says; "get a skinful of champagne inside you, go to bed when it is light, and get up when you are rested." this seems to me as concise as it is admirable; indeed there is little to add to it ... a note or two concerning women might come in, but i don't know, "a skinful of champagne" implies everything. each century has its special ideal, the ideal of the nineteenth is a young man. the seventeenth century is only woman--see the tapestries, the delightful goddesses who have discarded their hoops and heels to appear in still more delightful nakedness, the noble woods, the tall castles, with the hunters looking round; no servile archaeology chills the fancy, it is but a delightful whim; and this treatment of antiquity is the highest proof of the genius of the seventeenth century. see the fragonards--the ladies in high-peaked bodices, their little ankles showing amid the snow of the petticoats. up they go; you can almost hear their light false voices into the summer of the leaves, where loves are garlanded even as of roses. masks and arrows are everywhere, all the machinery of light and gracious days. in the watteaus the note is more pensive; there is satin and sunset, plausive gestures and reluctance--false reluctance; the guitar is tinkling, and exquisite are the notes in the languid evening; and there is the pierrot, that marvellous white animal, sensual and witty and glad, the soul of the century--ankles and epigrams everywhere, for love was not then sentimental, it was false and a little cruel; see the furniture and the polished floor, and the tapestries with whose delicate tints and decorations the high hair blends, the footstool and the heel and the calf of the leg that is withdrawn, showing in the shadows of the lace; look at the satin of the bodices, the fan outspread, the wigs so adorably false, the knee-breeches, the buckles on the shoes, how false; adorable little comedy, adorably mendacious; and how sweet it is to feast on these sweet lies, it is a divine delight to us, wearied with the hideous sincerity of newspapers. then it was the man who knelt at the woman's feet, it was the man who pleaded and the woman who acceded; but in our century the place of the man is changed, it is he who holds the fan, it is he who is besought; and if one were to dream of continuing the tradition of watteau and fragonard in the nineteenth century, he would have to take note of and meditate deeply and profoundly on this, as he sought to formulate and synthesize the erotic spirit of our age. the position of a young man in the nineteenth century is the most enviable that has ever fallen to the lot of any human creature. he is the rare bird, and is fêted, flattered, adored. the sweetest words are addressed to him, the most loving looks are poured upon him. the young man can do no wrong. every house is open to him, and the best of everything is laid before him; girls dispute the right to serve him; they come to him with cake and wine, they sit circle-wise and listen to him, and when one is fortunate to get him alone she will hang round his neck, she will propose to him, and will take his refusal kindly and without resentment. they will not let him stoop to tie up his shoe lace, but will rush and simultaneously claim the right to attend on him. to represent in a novel a girl proposing marriage to a man would be deemed unnatural, but nothing is more common; there are few young men who have not received at least a dozen offers, nay, more; it is characteristic, it has become instinctive for girls to choose, and they prefer men not to make love to them; and every young man who knows his business avoids making advances, knowing well that it will only put the girl off. in a society so constituted, what a delightful opening there is for a young man. he would have to waltz perfectly, play tennis fairly, the latest novel would suffice for literary attainments; billiards, shooting, and hunting, would not come in amiss, for he must not be considered a useless being by men; not that women are much influenced by the opinion of men in their choice of favourites, but the reflex action of the heart, although not so marked as that of the stomach, exists and must be kept in view, besides a man who would succeed with women, must succeed with men; the real lovelace is loved by all. like gravitation, love draws all things. our young man would have to be five feet eleven, or six feet, broad shoulders, light brown hair, deep eyes, soft and suggestive, broad shoulders, a thin neck, long delicate hands, a high instep. his nose should be straight, his face oval and small, he must be clean about the hips, and his movements must be naturally caressing. he comes into the ball-room, his shoulders well back, he stretches his hand to the hostess, he looks at her earnestly (it is characteristic of him to think of the hostess first, he is in her house, the house is well-furnished, and is suggestive of excellent meats and wines). he can read through the slim woman whose black hair, a-glitter with diamonds, contrasts with her white satin; an old man is talking to her, she dances with him, and she refused a young man a moment before. this is a bad sign; our lovelace knows it; there is a stout woman of thirty-five, who is looking at him, red satin bodice, doubtful taste. he looks away; a little blonde woman fixes her eyes on him, she looks as innocent as a child; instinctively our lovelace turns to his host. "who is that little blonde woman over there, the right hand corner?" he asks. "ah, that is lady ----." "will you introduce me?" "certainly." lovelace has made up his mind. then there is a young oldish girl, richly dressed; "i hear her people have a nice house in a hunting country, i will dance with her, and take the mother into supper, and, if i can get a moment, will have a pleasant talk with the father in the evening." in manner lovelace is facile and easy; he never says no, it is always yes, ask him what you will; but he only does what he has made up his mind it is his advantage to do. apparently he is an embodiment of all that is unselfish, for he knows that after he has helped himself, it is advisable to help some one else, and thereby make a friend who, on a future occasion, will be useful to him. put a violinist into a room filled with violins, and he will try every one. lovelace will put each woman aside so quietly that she is often only half aware that she has been put aside. her life is broken; she is content that it should be broken. the real genius for love lies not in getting into, but getting out of love. * * * * * i have noticed that there are times when every second woman likes you. is love, then, a magnetism which we sometimes possess and exercise unconsciously, and sometimes do not possess? chapter xii and now, hypocritical reader, i will answer the questions which have been agitating you this long while, which you have asked at every stage of this long narrative of a sinful life. shake not your head, lift not your finger, exquisitely hypocritical reader; you can deceive me in nothing. i know the baseness and unworthiness of your soul as i know the baseness and unworthiness of my own. this is a magical _tête-à-tête_, such a one as will never happen in your life again; therefore i say let us put off all customary disguise, let us be frank: you have been angrily asking, exquisitely hypocritical reader, why you have been _forced_ to read this record of sinful life; in your exquisite hypocrisy, you have said over and over again what good purpose can it serve for a man to tell us of his unworthiness unless, indeed, it is to show us how he may rise, as if on stepping stones of his dead self, to higher things, etc. you sighed, o hypocritical friend, and you threw the magazine on the wicker table, where such things lie, and you murmured something about leaving the world a little better than you found it, and you went down to dinner and lost consciousness of the world in the animal enjoyment of your stomach. i hold out my hand to you, i embrace you, you are my brother, and i say, undeceive yourself, you will leave the world no better than you found it. the pig that is being slaughtered as i write this line will leave the world better than it found it, but you will leave only a putrid carcase fit for nothing but the grave. look back upon your life, examine it, probe it, weigh it, philosophise on it, and then say, if you dare, that it has not been a very futile and foolish affair. soldier, robber, priest, atheist, courtesan, virgin, i care not what you are, if you have not brought children into the world to suffer your life has been as vain and as harmless as mine has been. i hold out my hand to you, we are brothers; but in my heart of hearts i think myself a cut above you, because i do not believe in leaving the world better than i found it; and you, exquisitely hypocritical reader, think that you are a cut above me because you say you would leave the world better than you found it. the one eternal and immutable delight of life is to think, for one reason or another, that we are better than our neighbours. this is why i wrote this book, and this is why it is affording you so much pleasure, o exquisitely hypocritical reader, my friend, my brother, because it helps you to the belief that you are not so bad after all. now to resume. the knell of my thirtieth year has sounded, in three or four years my youth will be as a faint haze on the sea, an illusive recollection; so now while standing on the last verge of the hill, i will look back on the valley i lingered in. do i regret? i neither repent nor do i regret; and a fool and a weakling i should he if i did. i know the worth and the rarity of more than fifteen years of systematic enjoyment. nature provided me with as perfect a digestive apparatus, mental and physical, as she ever turned out of her workshop; my stomach and brain are set in the most perfect equipoise possible to conceive, and up and down they went and still go with measured movement, absorbing and assimilating all that is poured into them without friction or stoppage. this book is a record of my mental digestions; but it would take another series of confessions to tell of the dinners i have eaten, the champagne i have drunk! and the suppers! seven dozen of oysters, pâté-de-foie-gras, heaps of truffles, salad, and then a walk home in the early morning, a few philosophical reflections suggested by the appearance of a belated street-sweeper, then sleep, quiet and gentle sleep. i have had the rarest and most delightful friends. ah, how i have loved my friends; the rarest wits of my generation were my boon companions; everything conspired to enable me to gratify my body and my brain; and do you think this would have been so if i had been a good man? if you do you are a fool, good intentions and bald greed go to the wall, but subtle selfishness with a dash of unscrupulousness pulls more plums out of life's pie than the seven deadly virtues. if you are a good man you want a bad one to convert; if you are a bad man you want a bad one to go out on the spree with. and you, my dear, my exquisite reader, place your hand upon your heart, tell the truth, remember this is a magical _tête-à-tête_ which will happen never again in your life, admit that you feel just a little interested in my wickedness, admit that if you ever thought you would like to know me that it is because i know a good deal that you probably don't; admit that your mouth waters when you think of rich and various pleasures that fell to my share in happy, delightful paris; admit that if this book had been an account of the pious books i had read, the churches i had been to, and the good works i had done, that you would not have bought it or borrowed it. hypocritical reader, think, had you had courage, health, and money to lead a fast life, would you not have done so? you don't know, no more do i; i have done so, and i regret nothing except that some infernal farmers and miners will not pay me what they owe me and enable me to continue the life that was once mine, and of which i was so bright an ornament. how i hate this atrocious strand lodging-house, how i long for my apartment in _rue de la tour des dames_, with all its charming adjuncts, palms and pastels, my cat, my python, my friends, blond hair and dark. it was not long before i wearied of journalism; the daily article soon grows monotonous, even when you know it will be printed, and this i did not know; my prose was very faulty, and my ideas were unsettled, i could not go to the tap and draw them off, the liquor was still fermenting; and partly because my articles were not very easily disposed of, and partly because i was weary of writing on different subjects, i turned my attention to short stories. i wrote a dozen with a view to preparing myself for a long novel. some were printed in weekly newspapers, others were returned to me from the magazines. but there was a publisher in the neighbourhood of the strand, who used to frequent a certain bar. i saw the chance, and i seized it. this worthy man conducted his business as he dressed himself, sloppily; a dear kind soul, quite witless and quite _h_-less. from long habit he would make a feeble attempt to drive a bargain, but he generally let himself in: he was, in a word, a literary stepping-stone. hundreds had made use of him. if a fashionable author asked two hundred pounds for a book out of which he would be certain to make three, it was ten to one that he would allow the chance to drift away from him; but after having refused a dozen times the work of a strand loafer whom he was in the habit of "treating," he would say, "send it in, my boy, send it in, i'll see what can be done with it." there was a long counter, and the way to be published by mr. b. was to straddle on the counter and play with a black cat. there was an irishman behind this counter who, for three pounds a week, edited the magazine, read the ms., looked after the printer and binder, kept the accounts when he had a spare moment, and entertained the visitors. i did not trouble messrs. macmillan and messrs. longman with polite requests to look at my ms., but straddled on the counter, played with the cat, joked with the irishman, was treated by mr. b., and in the natural order of things my stories went into the magazine, and were paid for. strange were the ways of this office; shakespeare might have sent in prose and poetry, but he would have gone into the wastepaper basket had he not previously straddled. for those who were in the swim this was a matter of congratulation; straddling, we would cry, "we want no blooming outsiders coming along interfering with our magazine. and you, smith, you devil, you had a twenty-page story in last month and cut me out. o'flanagan, do you mind if i send you in a couple of poems as well as my regular stuff, that will make it all square?" "i'll try to manage it; here's the governor." and looking exactly like the unfortunate mr. sedley, mr. b. used to slouch along, and he would fall into his leather armchair, the one in which he wrote the cheques. the last time i saw that chair it was standing in the street, alas! in the hands of the brokers. but conservative though we were in matters concerning "copy," though all means were taken to protect ourselves against interlopers, one who had not passed the preliminary stage of straddling would occasionally slip through our defences. i remember one especially. it was a hot summer's day, we were all on the counter, our legs swinging, when an enormous young man entered. he must have been six feet three in height. he was shown into mr. b.'s room, he asked him to read a ms., and he fled, looking very frightened. "wastepaper basket, wastepaper basket," we shouted when mr. b. handed us the roll of paper. "what an odd-looking fish he is!" said o'flanagan; "i wonder what his ms. is like." we remonstrated in vain, o'flanagan took the ms. home to read, and returned next morning convinced that he had discovered an embryo dickens. the young man was asked to call, his book was accepted, and we adjourned to the bar. a few weeks afterwards this young man took rooms in the house next to me on the ground floor. he was terribly inflated with his success, and was clearly determined to take london by storm. he had been to oxford, and to heidelberg, he drank beer and smoked long pipes, he talked of nothing else. soon, very soon, i grew conscious that he thought me a simpleton; he pooh-poohed my belief in naturalism and declined to discuss the symbolist question. he curled his long legs upon the rickety sofa and spoke of the british public as the "b.p.," and of the magazine as the "mag." there were generally tea-things and jam-pots on the table. in a little while he brought a little creature about five feet three to live with him, and when the little creature and the long creature went out together, it was like don quixote and sancho panza setting forth in quest of adventures in the land of strand. the little creature indulged in none of the loud, rasping affectation of humour that was so maddening in the long creature; the little creature was dry, hard, and sterile, and when he did join in the conversation it was like an empty nut between the teeth--dusty and bitter. he was supposed to be going in for the law, but the part of him to which he drew our attention was his knowledge of the elizabethan dramatists. he kept a pocket-book, in which he held an account of his reading. holding the pocket-book between finger and thumb, he would say, "last year i read ten plays by nash, twelve by peele, six by greene, fifteen by beaumont and fletcher, and eleven anonymous plays,--fifty-four in all." he neither praised nor blamed, he neither extolled nor criticised; he told you what he had read, and left you to draw your own conclusions. what the little creature thought of the long creature i never discovered, but with every new hour i became freshly sensible that they held me in still decreasing estimation. this, i remember, was wildly irritating to me. i knew myself infinitely superior to them; i knew the long creature's novel was worthless; i knew that i had fifty books in me immeasurably better than it, and savagely and sullenly i desired to trample upon them, to rub their noses in their feebleness; but oh, it was i who was feeble! and full of visions of a wider world i raged up and down the cold walls of impassable mental limitations. above me there was a barred window, and, but for my manacles, i would have sprung at it and torn it with my teeth. then passion was so strong in me that i could scarce refrain from jumping off the counter, stamping my feet, and slapping my friends in the face, so tepid were their enthusiasms, so thin did their understanding appear to me. the straddlers seemed inclined for a moment to take the long creature very seriously, and in the office which i had marked down for my own i saw him installed as a genius. fortunately for my life and my sanity, my interests were, about this time, attracted into other ways--ways that led into london life, and were suitable for me to tread. in a restaurant where low-necked dresses and evening clothes crushed with loud exclamations, where there was ever an odour of cigarette and brandy and soda, i was introduced to a jew of whom i had heard much, a man who had newspapers and race horses. the bright witty glances of his brown eyes at once prejudiced me in his favour, and it was not long before i knew that i had found another friend. his house was what was wanted, for it was so trenchant in character, so different to all i knew of, that i was forced to accept it, without likening it to any french memory and thereby weakening the impression. it was a house of champagne, late hours, and evening clothes, of literature and art, of passionate discussions. so this house was not so alien to me as all else i had seen in london; and perhaps the cosmopolitanism of this charming jew, his hellenism, in fact, was a sort of plank whereon i might pass and enter again into english life. i found in curzon street another "nouvelle athènes," a bohemianism of titles that went back to the conquest, a bohemianism of the ten sovereigns always jingling in the trousers pocket, of scrupulous cleanliness, of hansom cabs, of ladies' pet names; of triumphant champagne, of debts, gaslight, supper-parties, morning light, coaching; a fabulous bohemianism; a bohemianism of eternal hardupishness and eternal squandering of money,---money that rose at no discoverable well-head and flowed into a sea of boudoirs and restaurants, a sort of whirlpool of sovereigns in which we were caught, and sent eddying through music halls, bright shoulders, tresses of hair, and slang; and i joined in the adorable game of bohemianism that was played round and about piccadilly circus, with curzon street for a magnificent rallying point. after dinner a general "clear" was made in the direction of halls and theatres, a few friends would drop in about twelve, and continue their drinking till three or four; but saturday night was gala night--at half-past eleven the lords drove up in their hansoms, then a genius or two would arrive, and supper and singing went merrily until the chimney sweeps began to go by, and we took chairs and bottles into the street and entered into discussion with the policeman. twelve hours later we struggled out of our beds, and to the sound of church bells we commenced writing. the paper appeared on tuesday. our host sat in a small room off the dining-room from which he occasionally emerged to stimulate our lagging pens. but i could not learn to see life paragraphically. i longed to give a personal shape to something, and personal shape could not be achieved in a paragraph nor in an article. true it is that i longed for art, but i longed also for fame, or was it notoriety? both. i longed for fame, fame, brutal and glaring, fame that leans to notoriety. out with you, liars that you are, tell the truth, say you would sell the souls you don't believe in, or do believe in, for notoriety. i have known you attend funerals for the sake of seeing your miserable names in the paper. you, hypocritical reader, who are now turning up your eyes and murmuring "horrid young man"--examine your weakly heart, and see what divides us; i am not ashamed of my appetites, i proclaim them, what is more i gratify them; you're silent, you refrain, and you dress up natural sins in hideous garments of shame, you would sell your wretched soul for what i would not give the parings of my finger-nails for--paragraphs in a society paper. i am ashamed of nothing i have done, especially my sins, and i boldly confess that i then desired notoriety. i walked along the streets mad; i turned upon myself like a tiger. "am i going to fail again as i have failed before?" i asked myself. "will my novel prove as abortive as my paintings, my poetry, my journalism?" i looked back upon my life,--mediocrity was branded about my life. "would it be the same to the end?" i asked myself a thousand times by day, and a thousand times by night. we all want notoriety, our desire for notoriety is hideous if you will, but it is less hideous when it is proclaimed from a brazen tongue than when it hides its head in the cant of human humanitarianism. humanity be hanged! self, and after self a friend; the rest may go to the devil; and be sure that when any man is more stupidly vain and outrageously egotistic than his fellows, he will hide his hideousness in humanitarianism. victor hugo was hideous with self, and the innermost stench of the humanitarianism he vented about him is unbearable to any stomach, not excepting even mr. swinburne's, who occasionally holds his nose with one hand while he waves the censer with the other. humanity be hanged! men of inferior genius, victor hugo and mr. gladstone, take refuge in it. humanity is a pigsty, where liars, hypocrites, and the obscene in spirit congregate; it has been so since the great jew conceived it, and it will be so till the end. far better the blithe modern pagan in his white tie and evening clothes, and his facile philosophy. he says, "i don't care how the poor live; my only regret is that they live at all;" and he gives the beggar a shilling. we all want notoriety; our desires on this point, as upon others, are not noble, but the human is very despicable vermin and only tolerable when it tends to the brute, and away from the evangelical. i will tell you an anecdote which is in itself an admirable illustration of my craving for notoriety; and my anecdote will serve a double purpose,--it will bring me some of the notoriety of which i am so desirous, for you, dear, exquisitely hypocritical reader, will at once cry, "shame! could a man be so wicked as to attempt to force on a duel, so that he might make himself known through the medium of a legal murder?" you will tell your friends of this horribly unprincipled young man, and they will, of course, instantly want to know more about him. it was a gala night in curzon street, the lords were driving up in hansoms; shouts and oaths; some seated on the roofs with their legs swinging inside; the comics had arrived from the halls; there were ladies, many ladies; choruses were going merrily in the drawing-room; one man was attempting to kick the chandelier, another stood on his head on the sofa. there was a beautiful young lord there, that sort of figure that no woman can resist. there was a delightful chappie who seemed inclined to empty the mustard-pot down my neck; him i could keep in order, but the beautiful lord i saw was attempting to make a butt of me. with his impertinences i did not for a moment intend to put up; i did not know him, he was not then, as he is now, if he will allow me to say so, a friend. about three or half-past the ladies retired, and the festivities continued with unabated vigour. we had passed through various stages, not of intoxication, no one was drunk, but of jubilation; we had been jocose and rowdy, we had told stories of all kinds. the young lord and i did not "pull well together," but nothing decidedly unpleasant occurred until someone proposed to drink to the downfall of gladstone. the beautiful lord got on his legs and began a speech. politically it was sound enough, but much of it was plainly intended to turn me into ridicule. i answered sharply, working gradually up crescendo, until at last, to bring matters to a head, i said, "i don't agree with you; the land act of ' was a necessity." "anyone who thinks so must be a fool." "very possibly, but i don't allow people to address such language to me, and you must be aware that to call anyone a fool, sitting with you at table in the house of a friend, is the act of a cad." there was a lull, then a moment after he said, "i only meant politically." "and i only meant socially." he advanced a step or two and struck me across the face with his finger tips; i took up a champagne bottle, and struck him across the head and shoulders. different parties of revellers kept us apart, and we walked up and down on either side of the table swearing at each other. although i was very wrath, i had had a certain consciousness from the first that if i played my cards well i might come very well out of the quarrel; and as i walked down the street i determined to make every effort to force on a meeting. if the quarrel had been with one of the music hall singers i should have backed out of it, but i had everything to gain by pressing it. i grasped the situation at once. all the liberal press would be on my side, the conservative press would have nothing to say against me, no woman in it and a duel with a lord in it would be carrion for the society papers. but the danger? to the fear of death i do not think i was ever susceptible. i should have been afraid of a row with a music hall singer, because i should have had much to lose by rowing with him, but as matters stood i had too much to gain to consider the possibilities of danger. besides there was no need to consider. i knew very well there was no reality in it. i had broken sixteen plates consecutively at the order to fire dozens of times; and yet it was three to one against my shooting a man at twenty paces; so it was ten thousand to one against a man, who had probably only fired off a revolver half-a-dozen times in a back yard, hitting me. in the gallery you are firing at white on black, on the ground you are firing at black upon a neutral tint, a very different matter. in the gallery there is nothing to disturb you; there is not a man opposite you with a pistol in his hand. in the gallery you are calm and collected, you have risen at your ordinary hour, you are returning from a stroll through the sunlight; on the ground your nerves are altered by unusual rising, by cold air, by long expectation. it was three to one against my killing him, it was a hundred to one against his killing me. so i calculated the chances, so much as i took the trouble to calculate the chances, but in truth i thought very little of them; when i want to do anything i do not fear anything, and i sincerely wanted to shoot this young man. i did not go to bed at once, but sat in the armchair thinking. presently a cab came rattling up to the door, and one of the revellers came upstairs. he told me that everything had been arranged; i told him that i was not in the habit of allowing others to arrange my affairs for me, and went to bed. one thing, and only one thing puzzled me, who was i to ask to be my second? my old friends were scattered, they had disappeared; and among my new acquaintances i could not think of one that would do. none of the straddlers would do, that was certain; i wanted some one that could be depended upon, and whose social position was above question. among my old friends i could think of some half-dozen that would suit me perfectly, but where were they? ten years' absence scatters friends as october scatters swallows. at last my thoughts fixed themselves on one man. i took a hansom and drove to his house. i found him packing up, preparing to go abroad. this was not fortunate. i took a seat on the edge of the dining-room table, and told him i wanted him to act for me in an affair of honour. i told him the story in outline. "i suppose," he said, "it was about one or two in the morning?" "later than that," i said; "it was about seven." "my dear fellow, he struck you, and not very hard, i should imagine; you hit him with a champagne bottle, and now you want to have him out. i don't mind acting as intermediary, and settling the affair for you; he will no doubt regret he struck you, and you will regret you struck him; but really i cannot act for you, that is to say, if you are determined to force on a meeting. just think; supposing you were to shoot him, a man who has really done you no wrong." "my dear ----, i did not come here to listen to moral reflections; if you don't like to act for me, say so." i telegraphed to warwickshire to an old friend:--"can i count on you to act for me in an affair of honour?" two or three hours after the reply came. "come down here and stay with me for a few days, we'll talk it over." i ground my teeth; what was to be done? i must wire to marshall and ask him to come over; english people evidently will have nothing to do with serious duelling. "of all importance. come over at once and act for me in an affair of honour. bring the count with you; leave him at boulogne; he knows the colonel of the ----." the next day i received the following: "am burying my father; so soon as he is underground will come." was there ever such luck?... he won't be here before the end of the week. these things demand the utmost promptitude. three or four days afterwards dreadful emma told me a gentleman was upstairs taking a bath. "holloa, marshall, how are you? had a good crossing? awful good of you to come.... the poor old gentleman went off quite suddenly, i suppose?" "yes; found dead in his bed. he must have known he was dying, for he lay quite straight as the dead lie, his hands by his side ... wonderful presence of mind." "he left no money?" "not a penny; but i could manage it all right. since my success at the salon, i have been able to sell my things. i am only beginning to find out now what a success that picture was. _je t'assure, je fais l'école._"... "_tu crois ça ... on fait l'école après vingt ans de travail._" "_mon ami, je t'assure, j'ai un public qui me suit._" "_mon ami, veux-tu que je te dis ce que tu a fait; tu a fait encore une vulgarization, une jolie vulgarization, je veux bien, de la note inventée par millet; tu a ajouté la note claire inventée par manet, enfin tu suis avec talent le mouvement moderne, voilà tout._" "_parlons d'autre chose: sur la question d'art on ne s'entend jamais._" when we were excited marshall and i always dropped into french. "and now tell me," he said, "about this duel." i could not bring myself to admit, even to marshall, that i was willing to shoot a man for the sake of the notoriety it would bring me, not because i feared in him any revolt of conscience, but because i dreaded his sneers; he was known to all paris, i was an obscure something, living in an obscure lodging in london. had marshall suspected the truth he would have said pityingly, "my dear dayne, how can you be so foolish? why will you not be contented to live?" etc.... such homilies would have been maddening; he was successful, i was not; i knew there was not much in him, _un feu de paille_, no more, but what would i not have done and given for that _feu de paille_? so i was obliged to conceal my real motives for desiring a duel, and i spoke strenuously of the gravity of the insult and the necessity of retribution. but marshall was obdurate. "insult?" he said. "he hit you with his hand, you hit him with the champagne bottle; you can't have him out after that, there is nothing to avenge, you wiped out the insult yourself; if you had not struck him with the champagne bottle the case would be different." we went out to dine, we went to the theatre, and after the theatre we went home and aestheticised till three in the morning. i spoke no more of the duel, i was sick of it; luck, i saw, was against me, and i let marshall have his way. he showed his usual tact, a letter was drawn up in which my friend withdrew the blow of his hand, i withdrew the blow of the bottle, and the letter was signed by marshall and two other gentlemen. hypocritical reader, you draw your purity garments round you, you say, "how very base;" but i say unto you remember how often you have longed, if you are a soldier in her majesty's army, for war,--war that would bring every form of sorrow to a million fellow-creatures, and you longed for all this to happen, because it might bring your name into the _gazette_. hypocritical reader, think not too hardly of me; hypocritical reader, think what you like of me, your hypocrisy will alter nothing; in telling you of my vices i am only telling you of your own; hypocritical reader, in showing you my soul i am showing you your own; hypocritical reader, exquisitely hypocritical reader, you are my brother, i salute you. day passed over day: i lived in that horrible lodging; i continued to labour at my novel; it seemed an impossible task--defeat glared at me from every corner of that frouzy room. my english was so bad, so thin,--stupid colloquialisms out of joint with french idiom. i learnt unusual words and stuck them up here and there; they did not mend the style. self-reliance had been lost in past failures; i was weighed down on every side, but i struggled to bring the book somehow to a close. nothing mattered to me, but this one thing. to put an end to the landlady's cheating, and to bind myself to remain at home, i entered into an arrangement with her that she was to supply me with board and lodgings for three pounds a week, and henceforth resisting all curzon street temptations, i trudge home through november fogs, to eat a chop in a frouzy lodging-house. i studied the horrible servant as one might an insect under a microscope. "what an admirable book she would make, but what will the end be? if i only knew the end!" i had more and more difficulty in keeping the fat landlady at arm's length, and the nasty child was well beaten one day for lingering about my door. i saw poor miss l. nightly, on the stairs of this infamous house, and i never wearied of talking to her of her hopes and ambitions, of the young man she admired. she used to ask me about my novel. poor miss l.! where is she? i do not know, but i shall not forget the time when i used to listen for her footstep on the midnight stairs. often i was too despondent, when my troubles lay too heavily and darkly upon me, i let her go up to her garret without a word. despondent days and nights when i cried, shall i never pass from this lodging? shall i never be a light in that london, long, low, misshapen, that dark monumental stream flowing through the lean bridges; and what if i were a light in this umber-coloured mass,--shadows falling, barges moored midway in a monumental stream? happiness abides only in the natural affections--in a home and a sweet wife. would she whom i saw to-night marry me? how sweet she was in her simple naturalness, the joys she has known have been slight and pure, not violent and complex as mine. ah, she is not for me, i am not fit for her, i am too sullied for her lips.... were i to win her could i be dutiful, true?... "young men, young men whom i love, dear ones who have rejoiced with me, not the least of our pleasures is the virtuous woman; after excesses there is reaction, all things are good in nature, and they are foolish young men who think that sin alone should be sought for. the feast is over for me, i have eaten and drunk; i yield my place, do you eat and drink as i have; do you be young as i was. i have written it! the word is not worth erasure, if it is not true to-day it will be in two years hence; farewell! i yield my place, do you be young as i was, do you love youth as i did; remember you are the most interesting beings under heaven, for you all sacrifices will be made, you will be fêted and adored upon the condition of remaining young men. the feast is over for me, i yield my place, but i will not make this leavetaking more sorrowful than it is already by afflicting you with advice and instruction how to obtain what i have obtained. i have spoken bitterly against education, i will not strive to educate you, you will educate yourselves. dear ones, dear ones, the world is your pleasure, you can use it at your will. dear ones, i see you all about me still, i yield my place; but one more glass i will drink with you; and while drinking i would say my last word--were it possible i would be remembered by you as a young man: but i know too well that the young never realise that the old were not born old. farewell." i shivered; the cold air of morning blew in my face, i closed the window, and sitting at the table, haggard and overworn, i continued my novel. the end. online distributed proofreaders team jason a romance by justus miles forman author of "a stumbling block" "buchanan's wife" "the island of enchantment" with illustrations by w. hatherell, r.i. harper & brothers publishers new york and london mcmix copyright, . * * * * * À paris mÈre mystÉrieuse ... soeur consolatrice enchanteresse aux yeux voilÉs jÉ dÉdie ce petit roman en reconnaissance j.m.f. * * * * * contents i. ste. marie hears of a mystery and meets a dark lady ii. the ladder to the stars iii. ste. marie makes a vow, but a pair of eyes haunt him iv. old david stewart v. jason sets forth upon the great adventure vi. a brave gentleman receives a hurt, but volunteers in a good cause vii. captain stewart makes a kindly offer viii. jason meets with a misadventure and dreams a dream ix. jason goes upon a journey, and richard hartley pleads for him x. captain stewart entertains xi. a golden lady enters--the eyes again xii. the name of the lady with the eyes--evidence heaps up swiftly xiii. the voyage to colchis xiv. the walls of aea xv. a conversation at la lierre xvi. the black cat xvii. those who were left behind xviii. a conversation overheard xix. the invalid takes the air xx. the stone bench at the rond point xxi. a mist dims the shining star xxii. a settlement refused xxiii. the last arrow xxiv. the joint in the armor xxv. medea goes over to the enemy xxvi. but the fleece elects to remain xxvii. the night's work xxviii. medea's little hour xxix. the scales of injustice xxx. jason sails back to colchis--journey's end * * * * * i ste. marie hears of a mystery and meets a dark lady from ste. marie's little flat, which overlooked the gardens, they drove down the quiet rue du luxembourg, and at the place st. sulpice turned to the left. they crossed the place st. germain des prés, where lines of home-bound working-people stood waiting for places in the electric trams, and groups of students from the beaux arts or from julien's sat under the awnings of the deux magots, and so, beyond that busy square, they came into the long and peaceful stretch of the boulevard st. germain. the warm, sweet dusk gathered round them as they went, and the evening air was fresh and aromatic in their faces. there had been a little gentle shower in the late afternoon, and roadway and pavement were still damp with it. it had wet the new-grown leaves of the chestnuts and acacias that bordered the street. the scent of that living green blended with the scent of laid dust and the fragrance of the last late-clinging chestnut blossoms; it caught up a fuller, richer burden from the overflowing front of a florist's shop; it stole from open windows a savory whiff of cooking, a salt tang of wood smoke; and the soft little breeze--the breeze of coming summer--mixed all together and tossed them and bore them down the long, quiet street; and it was the breath of paris, and it shall be in your nostrils and mine, a keen agony of sweetness, so long as we may live and so wide as we may wander--because we have known it and loved it--and in the end we shall go back to breathe it when we die. the strong white horse jogged evenly along over the wooden pavement, its head down, the little bell at its neck jingling pleasantly as it went. the cocher, a torpid, purplish lump of gross flesh, pyramidal, pearlike, sat immobile in his place. the protuberant back gave him an extraordinary effect of being buttoned into his fawn-colored coat wrong side before. at intervals he jerked the reins like a large strange toy, and his strident voice said: "hé!" to the stout white horse, which paid no attention whatever. once the beast stumbled and the pearlike lump of flesh insulted it, saying: "hé! veux tu, cochon!" before the war office a little black slip of a milliner's girl dodged under the horse's head, saving herself and the huge box slung to her arm by a miracle of agility, and the cocher called her the most frightful names, without turning his head and in a perfunctory tone quite free from passion. young hartley laughed and turned to look at his companion, but ste. marie sat still in his place, his hat pulled a little down over his brows and his handsome chin buried in the folds of the white silk muffler with which for some obscure reason he had swathed his neck. "this is the first time in many years," said the englishman, "that i have known you to be silent for ten whole minutes. are you ill, or are you making up little epigrams to say at the dinner-party?" ste. marie waved a despondent glove. "i 'ave," said he, "w'at you call ze blue. papillons noirs--clouds in my soul." it was a species of jest with ste. marie--and he seemed never to tire of it--to pretend that he spoke english very brokenly. as a matter of fact, he spoke it quite as well as any englishman and without the slightest trace of accent. he had discovered a long time before this--it may have been while the two were at eton together--that it annoyed hartley very much, particularly when it was done in company and before strangers. in consequence he became on such occasions a sort of comic-paper caricature of his race, and by dint of much practice, added to a naturally alert mind, he became astonishingly ingenious in the torture of that honest but unimaginative gentleman whom he considered his best friend. he achieved the most surprising expressions by the mere literal translation of french idiom, and he could at any time bring hartley to a crimson agony by calling him "my dear "'before other men, whereas at the equivalent "mon cher" the englishman would doubtless never, as the phrase goes, have batted an eye. "ye-es," he continued, sadly, "i 'ave ze blue. i weep. weez ze tears full ze eyes. yes." he descended into english. "i think something's going to happen to me. there's calamity, or something, in the air. perhaps i'm going to die." "oh, i know what you are going to do, right enough," said the other man. "you're going to meet the most beautiful woman--girl--in the world at dinner, and of course you are going to fall in love with her." "ah, the miss benham!" said ste. marie, with a faint show of interest. "i remember now, you said that she was to be there. i had forgotten. yes, i shall be glad to meet her. one hears so much. but why am i of course going to fall in love with her?" "well, in the first place," said hartley, "you always fall in love with all pretty women as a matter of habit, and, in the second place, everybody--well, i suppose you--no one could help falling in love with her, i should think." "that's high praise to come from you," said the other. and hartley said, with a short, not very mirthful laugh: "oh, i don't pretend to be immune. we all--everybody who knows her. you'll understand presently." ste. marie turned his head a little and looked curiously at his friend, for he considered that he knew the not very expressive intonations of that young gentleman's voice rather well, and this was something unusual. he wondered what had been happening during his six months' absence from paris. "i dare say that's what i feel in the air, then," he said, after a little pause. "it's not calamity; it's love. "or maybe," he said, quaintly, "it's both. l'un n'empêche pas i'autre." and he gave an odd little shiver, as if that something in the air had suddenly blown chill upon him. they were passing the corner of the chamber of deputies, which faces the pont de la concorde. ste. marie pulled out his watch and looked at it. "eight-fifteen," said he. "what time are we asked for--eight-thirty? that means nine: it's an english house, and nobody will be on time. it's out of fashion to be prompt nowadays." "i should hardly call the marquis de saulnes english, you know," objected hartley. "well, his wife is," said the other, "and they're altogether english in manner. dinner won't be before nine. shall we get out, and walk across the bridge and up the champs-elysées? i should like to, i think. i like to walk at this time of the evening--between the daylight and the dark." hartley nodded a rather reluctant assent, and ste. marie prodded the pear-shaped cocher in the back with his stick. so they got down at the approach to the bridge, ste. marie gave the cocher a piece of two francs, and they turned away on foot. the pear-shaped one looked at the coin in his fat hand as if it were something unclean and contemptible--something to be despised. he glanced at the dial of his taximeter, which had registered one franc twenty-five, and pulled the flag up. he spat gloomily out into the street, and his purple lips moved in words. he seemed to say something like "sale diable de métier!" which, considering the fact that he had just been overpaid, appears unwarrantably pessimistic in tone. thereafter he spat again, picked up his reins and jerked them, saying: "hè, jean baptiste! uip, uip!" the unemotional white horse turned up the boulevard, trotting evenly at its steady pace, head down, the little bell at its neck jingling pleasantly as it went. it occurs to me that the white horse was probably unique. i doubt that there was another horse in paris rejoicing in that extraordinary name. but the two young men walked slowly on across the pont de la concorde. they went in silence, for hartley was thinking still of miss helen benham, and ste. marie was thinking of heaven knows what. his gloom was unaccountable unless he had really meant what he said about feeling calamity in the air. it was very unlike him to have nothing to say. midway of the bridge he stopped and turned to look out over the river, and the other man halted beside him. the dusk was thickening almost perceptibly, but it was yet far from dark. the swift river ran leaden beneath them, and the river boats, mouches and hirondelles, darted silently under the arches of the bridge, making their last trips for the day. away to the west, where their faces were turned, the sky was still faintly washed with color, lemon and dusky orange and pale thin green. a single long strip of cirrus cloud was touched with pink, a lifeless old rose, such as is popular among decorators for the silk hangings of a woman's boudoir. and black against this pallid wash of colors the tour eiffel stood high and slender and rather ghostly. by day it is an ugly thing, a preposterous iron finger upthrust by man's vanity against god's serene sky; but the haze of evening drapes it in a merciful semi-obscurity and it is beautiful. ste. marie leaned upon the parapet of the bridge, arms folded before him and eyes afar. he began to sing, à demi-voix, a little phrase out of _louise_--an invocation to paris--and the englishman stirred uneasily beside him. it seemed to hartley that to stand on a bridge, in a top-hat and evening clothes, and sing operatic airs while people passed back and forth behind you, was one of the things that are not done. he tried to imagine himself singing in the middle of westminster bridge at half-past eight of an evening, and he felt quite hot all over at the thought. it was not done at all, he said to himself. he looked a little nervously at the people who were passing, and it seemed to him that they stared at him and at the unconscious ste. marie, though in truth they did nothing of the sort. he turned back and touched his friend on the arm, saying: "i think we'd best be getting along, you know." but ste. marie was very far away, and did not hear. so then he fell to watching the man's dark and handsome face, and to thinking how little the years at eton and the year or two at oxford had set any real stamp upon him. he would never be anything but latin, in spite of his irish mother and his public school. hartley thought what a pity that was. as englishmen go, he was not illiberal, but, no more than he could have altered the color of his eyes, could he have believed that anything foreign would not be improved by becoming english. that was born in him, as it is born in most englishmen, and it was a perfectly simple and honest belief. he felt a deeper affection for this handsome and volatile young man whom all women loved, and who bade fair to spend his life at their successive feet--for he certainly had never shown the slightest desire to take up any sterner employment--he felt a deeper affection for ste. marie than for any other man he knew, but he had always wished that ste. marie were an englishman, and he had always felt a slight sense of shame over his friend's un-english ways. after a moment he touched him again on the arm, saying: "come along! we shall be late, you know. you can finish your little concert another time." "eh!" cried ste. marie. "quoi, donc?" he turned with a start. "oh yes!" said he. "yes, come along! i was mooning. allons! allons, my old!" he took hartley's arm and began to shove him along at a rapid walk. "i will moon no more," he said. "instead, you shall tell me about the wonderful miss benham whom everybody is talking about. isn't there something odd connected with the family? i vaguely recall something unusual--some mystery or misfortune or something. but first a moment! one small moment, my old. regard me that!" they had come to the end of the bridge, and the great place de la concorde lay before them. "in all the world," said ste. marie--and he spoke the truth--"there is not another such square. regard it, mon brave! bow yourself before it! it is a miracle." the great bronze lamps were alight, and they cast reflections upon the still damp pavement about them. to either side, the trees of the tuileries gardens and of the cours la reine and the champs-elysées lay in a solid black mass; in the middle, the obelisk rose slender and straight, its pointed top black against the sky; and beneath, the water of the nèreid fountains splashed and gurgled. far beyond, the gay lights of the rue royale shone in a yellow cluster; and beyond these still, the tall columns of the madeleine ended the long vista. pedestrians and cabs crept across that vast space and seemed curiously little, like black insects, and round about it all the eight cities of france sat atop their stone pedestals and looked on. ste. marie gave a little sigh of pleasure, and the two moved forward, bearing to the left, toward the champs-elysées. "and now," said he, "about these benhams. what is the thing i cannot quite recall? what has happened to them?" "i suppose," said the other man, "you mean the disappearance of miss benham's young brother a month ago--before you returned to paris. yes, that was certainly very odd--that is, it was either very odd or very commonplace. and in either case the family is terribly cut up about it. the boy's name was arthur benham, and he was rather a young fool, but not downright vicious, i should think. i never knew him at all well, but i know he spent his time chiefly at the café de paris and at the olympia and at longchamps and at henry's bar. well, he just disappeared, that is all. he dropped completely out of sight between two days, and though the family has had a small army of detectives on his trail they've not discovered the smallest clew. it's deuced odd altogether. you might think it easy to disappear like that, but it's not." "no--no," said ste. marie, thoughtfully. "no, i should fancy not. "this boy," he said, after a pause--"i think i had seen him--had him pointed out to me--before i went away. i think it was at henry's bar, where all the young americans go to drink strange beverages. i am quite sure i remember his face. a weak face, but not quite bad." and after another little pause he asked: "was there any reason why he should have gone away--any quarrel or that sort of thing?" "well," said the other man, "i rather think there was something of the sort. the boy's uncle--captain stewart--middle-aged, rather prim old party--you'll have met him, i dare say--he intimated to me one day that there had been some trivial row. you see, the lad isn't of age yet, though he is to be in a few months, and so he has had to live on an allowance doled out by his grandfather, who's the head of the house. the boy's father is dead. there's a quaint old beggar, if you like--the grandfather. he was rather a swell in the diplomatic, in his day, it seems--rather an important swell. now he's bedridden. he sits all day in bed and plays cards with his granddaughter or with a very superior valet, and talks politics with the men who come to see him. oh yes, he's a quaint old beggar. he has a great quantity of white hair and an enormous square white beard and the fiercest eyes i ever saw, i should think. everybody's frightened out of their wits of him. well, he sits up there and rules his family in good old patriarchal style, and it seems he came down a bit hard on the poor boy one day over some folly or other, and there was a row and the boy went out of the house swearing he'd be even." "ah, well, then," said ste. marie, "the matter seems simple enough. a foolish boy's foolish pique. he is staying in hiding somewhere to frighten his grandfather. when he thinks the time favorable he will come back and be wept over and forgiven." the other man walked a little way in silence. "ye-es," he said, at last. "yes, possibly. possibly you are right. that's what the grandfather thinks. it's the obvious solution. unfortunately there is more or less against it. the boy went away with--so far as can be learned--almost no money, almost none at all. and he has already been gone a month. miss benham, his sister, is sure that something has happened to him, and i'm a bit inclined to think so, too. it's all very odd. i should think he might have been kidnapped but that no demand has been made for money." "he was not," suggested ste. marie--"not the sort of young man to do anything desperate--make away with himself?" hartley laughed. "oh, lord, no!" said he. "not that sort of young man at all. he was a very normal type of rich and spoiled and somewhat foolish american boy." "rich?" inquired the other, quickly. "oh yes; they're beastly rich. young arthur is to come into something very good at his majority, i believe, from his father's estate, and the old grandfather is said to be indecently rich--rolling in it! there's another reason why the young idiot wouldn't be likely to stop away of his own accord. he wouldn't risk anything like a serious break with the old gentleman. it would mean a loss of millions to him, i dare say, for the old beggar is quite capable of cutting him off if he takes the notion. oh, it's a bad business all through." and after they had gone on a bit he said it again, shaking his head: "it's a bad business! that poor girl, you know. it's hard on her. she was fond of the young ass for some reason or other. she's very much broken up over it." "yes," said ste. marie, "it is hard for her--for all the family, of course. a bad business, as you say." he spoke absently, for he was looking ahead at something which seemed to be a motor accident. they had by this time got well up the champs-elysées and were crossing the rond point. a motor-car was drawn up alongside the curb just beyond, and a little knot of people stood about it and seemed to look at something on the ground. "i think some one has been run down," said ste. marie. "shall we have a look?" they quickened their pace and came to where the group of people stood in a circle looking upon the ground, and two gendarmes asked many questions and wrote voluminously in their little books. it appeared that a delivery boy mounted upon a tricycle cart had turned into the wrong side of the avenue and had got himself run into and overturned by a motor-car going at a moderate rate of speed. for once the sentiment of those mysterious birds of prey which flock instantaneously from nowhere round an accident, was against the victim and in favor of the frightened and gesticulating chauffeur. ste. marie turned an amused face from this voluble being to the other occupants of the patently hired car, who stood apart, adding very little to the discussion. he saw a tall and bony man with very bright blue eyes and what is sometimes called a guardsman's mustache--the drooping, walruslike ornament which dates back a good many years now. beyond this gentleman he saw a young woman in a long, gray silk coat and a motoring veil. he was aware that the tall man was staring at him rather fixedly and with a half-puzzled frown, as though he thought that they had met before and was trying to remember when, but ste. marie gave the man but a swift glance. his eyes were upon the dark face of the young woman beyond, and it seemed to him that she called aloud to him in an actual voice that rang in his ears. the young woman's very obvious beauty, he thought, had nothing to do with the matter. it seemed to him that her eyes called him. just that. something strange and very potent seemed to take sudden and almost tangible hold upon him--a charm, a spell, a magic--something unprecedented, new to his experience. he could not take his eyes from hers, and he stood staring. as before, on the pont de la concorde, hartley touched him on the arm, and abruptly the chains that had bound him were loosened. "we must be going on, you know," the englishman said, and ste. marie said, rather hurriedly: "yes, yes, to be sure! come along!" but at a little distance he turned once more to look back. the chauffeur had mounted to his place, the delivery boy was upon his feet again, little the worse for his tumble, and the knot of bystanders had begun to disperse, but it seemed to ste. marie that the young woman in the long silk coat stood quite still where she had been, and that her face was turned toward him, watching. "did you notice that girl?" said hartley, as they walked on at a brisker pace. "did you see her face? she was rather a tremendous beauty, you know, in her gypsyish fashion. yes, by jove, she was!" "did i see her?" repeated ste. marie. "yes. oh yes. she had very strange eyes. at least, i think it was the eyes. i don't know. i've never seen any eyes quite like them. very odd!" he said something more in french which hartley did not hear, and the englishman saw that he was frowning. "oh, well, i shouldn't have said there was anything strange about them," hartley said; "but they certainly were beautiful. there's no denying that. the man with her looked rather irish, i thought." they came to the etoile, and cut across it toward the avenue hoche. ste. marie glanced back once more, but the motor-car and the delivery boy and the gendarmes were gone. "what did you say?" he asked, idly. "i said the man looked irish," repeated his friend. all at once ste. marie gave a loud exclamation. "sacred thousand devils! fool that i am! dolt! why didn't i think of it before?" hartley stared at him, and ste. marie stared down the champs-elysées like one in a trance. "i say," said the englishman, "we really must be getting on, you know; we're late." and as they went along down the avenue hoche, he demanded: "why are you a dolt and whatever else it was? what struck you so suddenly?" "i remembered all at once," said ste. marie, "where i had seen that man before and with whom i last saw him. i'll tell you about it later. probably it's of no importance, though." "you're talking rather like a mild lunatic," said the other. "here we are at the house!" * * * * * ii the ladder to the stars miss benham was talking wearily to a strange, fair youth with an impediment in his speech, and was wondering why the youth had been asked to this house, where in general one was sure of meeting only interesting people, when some one spoke her name, and she turned with a little sigh of relief. it was baron de vries, the belgian first secretary of legation, an old friend of her grandfather's, a man made gentle and sweet by infinite sorrow. he bowed civilly to the fair youth and bent over the girl's hand. "it is very good," he said, "to see you again in the world. we have need of you, nous autres. madame your mother is well, i hope--and the bear?" he called old mr. stewart "the bear" in a sort of grave jest, and that fierce octogenarian rather liked it. "oh yes," the girl said, "we're all fairly well. my mother had one of her headaches to-night and so didn't come here, but she's as well as usual, and 'the bear'--yes, he's well enough physically, i should think, but he has not been quite the same since--during the past month. it has told upon him, you know. he grieves over it much more than he will admit." "yes," said baron de vries, gravely. "yes, i know." he turned about toward the fair young man, but that youth had drifted away and joined himself to another group. miss benham looked after him and gave a little exclamation of relief. "that person was rather terrible," she said. "i can't think why he is here. marian so seldom has dull people." "i believe," said the belgian, "that he is some connection of de saulnes'. that explains his presence." he lowered his voice. "you have heard no--news? they have found no trace?" "no," said she. "nothing. nothing at all. i'm rather in despair. it's all so hideously mysterious. i am sure, you know, that something has happened to him. it's--very, very hard. sometimes i think i can't bear it. but i go on. we all go on." baron de vries nodded his head strongly. "that, my dear child, is just what you must do," said he. "you must go on. that is what needs the real courage, and you have courage. i am not afraid for you. and sooner or later you will hear of him--from him. it is impossible nowadays to disappear for very long. you will hear from him." he smiled at her, his slow, grave smile that was not of mirth but of kindness and sympathy and cheer. "and if i may say so," he said, "you are doing very wisely to come out once more among your friends. you can accomplish no good by brooding at home. it is better to live one's normal life--even when it is not easy to do it. i say so who know." the girl touched baron de vries' arm for an instant with her hand--a little gesture that seemed to express thankfulness and trust and affection. "if all my friends were like you!" she said to him. and after that she drew a quick breath as if to have done with these sad matters, and she turned her eyes once more toward the broad room where the other guests stood in little groups, all talking at once, very rapidly and in loud voices. "what extraordinarily cosmopolitan affairs these dinner-parties in new paris are!" she said. "they're like diplomatic parties, only we have a better time and the men don't wear their orders. how many nationalities should you say there are in this room now?" "without stopping to consider," said baron de vries, "i say ten." they counted, and out of fourteen people there were represented nine races. "i don't see richard hartley," miss benham said. "i had an idea he was to be here. ah!" she broke off, looking toward the doorway. "here he comes now!" she said. "he's rather late. who is the spanish-looking man with him, i wonder? he's rather handsome, isn't he?" baron de vries moved a little forward to look, and exclaimed in his turn. he said: "ah, i did not know he was returned to paris. that is ste. marie." miss benham's eyes followed the spanish-looking young man as he made his way through the joyous greetings of friends toward his hostess. "so that is ste. marie!" she said, still watching him. "the famous ste. marie!" she gave a little laugh. "well, i don't wonder at the reputation he bears for--gallantry and that sort of thing. he looks the part, doesn't he?" "ye-es," admitted her friend. "yes, he is sufficiently beau garçon. but--yes--well, that is not all, by any means. you must not get the idea that ste. marie is nothing but a genial and romantic young squire-of-dames. he is much more than that. he has very fine qualities. to be sure, he appears to possess no ambition in particular, but i should be glad if he were my son. he comes of a very old house, and there is no blot upon the history of that house--nothing but faithfulness and gallantry and honor. and there is, i think, no blot upon ste. marie himself. he is fine gold." the girl turned and stared at baron de vries with some astonishment. "you speak very strongly," said she. "i have never heard you speak so strongly of any one, i think." the belgian made a little deprecatory gesture with his two hands, and he laughed. "oh, well, i like the boy. and i should hate to have you meet him for the first time under a misconception. listen, my child! when a young man is loved equally by both men and women, by both old and young, that young man is worthy of friendship and trust. everybody likes ste. marie. in a sense, that is his misfortune. the way is made too easy for him. his friends stand so thick about him that they shut off his view of the heights. to waken ambition in his soul he has need of solitude or misfortune or grief. or," said the elderly belgian, laughing gently--"or perhaps the other thing might do it best--the more obvious thing?" the girl's raised eyebrows questioned him, and when he did not answer, she said: "what thing, then?" "why, love," said baron de vries. "love, to be sure. love is said to work miracles, and i believe that to be a perfectly true saying. ah, he is coming here!" the marquise de saulnes, who was a very pretty little englishwoman with a deceptively doll-like look, approached, dragging ste. marie in her wake. she said: "my dearest dear, i give you of my best. thank me and cherish him! i believe he is to lead you to the place where food is, isn't he?" she beamed over her shoulder and departed, and miss benham found herself confronted by the spanish-looking man. her first thought was that he was not as handsome as he had seemed at a distance, but something much better. for a young man she thought his face was rather oddly weather-beaten, as if he might have been very much at sea, and it was too dark to be entirely pleasing. but she liked his eyes, which were not brown or black, as she had expected, but a very unusual dark gray--a sort of slate color. and she liked his mouth, too, while disapproving of the fierce little upturned mustache which seemed to her a bit operatic. it was her habit--and it is not an unreliable habit--to judge people by their eyes and mouths. ste. marie's mouth pleased her because the lips were neither thin nor thick, they were not drawn into an unpleasant line by unpleasant habits, they did not pout as so many latin lips do, and they had at one corner a humorous expression which she found curiously agreeable. "you are to cherish me," ste. marie said. "orders from headquarters. how does one cherish people?" the corner of his very expressive mouth twitched, and he grinned at her. miss benham did not approve of young men who began an acquaintance in this very familiar manner. she thought that there was a certain preliminary and more formal stage which ought to be got through with first, but ste, marie's grin was irresistible. in spite of herself, she found that she was laughing. "i don't quite know," she said. "it sounds rather appalling, doesn't it? marian has such an extraordinary fashion of hurling people at each other's heads! she takes my breath away at times." "ah, well," said ste. marie, "perhaps we can settle upon something when i've led you to the place where food is. and, by-the-way, what are we waiting for? are we not all here? there's an even number." he broke off with a sudden exclamation of pleasure; and when miss benham turned to look, she found that baron de vries, who had been talking to some friends, had once more come up to where she stood. she watched the greeting between the two men, and its quiet affection impressed her very much. she knew baron de vries well, and she knew that it was not his habit to show or to feel a strong liking for young and idle men. this young man must be very worth while to have won the regard of that wise old belgian. just then hartley, who had been barricaded behind a cordon of friends, came up to her in an abominable temper over his ill luck, and a few moments later the dinner procession was formed and they went in. at table miss benham found herself between ste. marie and the same strange, fair youth who had afflicted her in the drawing-room. she looked upon him now with a sort of dismayed terror, but it developed that there was nothing to fear from the fair youth. he had no attention to waste upon social amenities. he fell upon his food with a wolfish passion extraordinary to see and also--alas!--to hear. miss benham turned from him to meet ste. marie's delighted eye. "tell him for me," begged that gentleman, "that soup should be seen--not heard." but miss benham gave a little shiver of disgust. "i shall tell him nothing whatever," she said. "he's quite too dreadful, really! people shouldn't be exposed to that sort of thing. it's not only the noises. plenty of very charming and estimable germans, for example, make strange noises at table. but he behaves like a famished dog over a bone. i refuse to have anything to do with him. you must make up the loss to me, m. ste. marie. you must be as amusing as two people." she smiled across at him in her gravely questioning fashion. "i'm wondering," she said, "if i dare ask you a very personal question. i hesitate because i don't like people who presume too much upon a short acquaintance--and our acquaintance has been very, very short, hasn't it? even though we may have heard a great deal about each other beforehand. i wonder--" "oh, i should ask it if i were you!" said ste. marie, at once. "i'm an extremely good-natured person. and, besides, i quite naturally feel flattered at your taking interest enough to ask anything about me." "well," said she, "it's this: why does everybody call you just 'ste. marie'? most people are spoken of as monsieur this or that--if there isn't a more august title; but they all call you ste. marie without any monsieur. it seems rather odd." ste. marie looked puzzled. "why," he said, "i don't believe i know, just. i'd never thought of that. it's quite true, of course. they never do use a monsieur or anything, do they? how cheeky of them! i wonder why it is? i'll ask hartley." he did ask hartley later on, and hartley didn't know, either. miss benham asked some other people, who were vague about it, and in the end she became convinced that it was an odd and quite inexplicable form of something like endearment. but nobody seemed to have formulated it to himself. "the name is really 'de ste. marie,'" he went on, "and there's a title that i don't use, and a string of christian names that one never employs. my people were béarnais, and there's a heap of ruins on top of a hill in the pyrenees where they lived. it used to be ste. marie de mont-les-roses, but afterward, after the revolution, they called it ste. marie de mont perdu. my great-grandfather was killed there, but some old servants smuggled his little son away and saved him." he seemed to miss benham to say that in exactly the right manner, not in the cheap and scoffing fashion which some young men affect in speaking of ancestral fortunes or misfortunes, nor with too much solemnity. and when she allowed a little silence to occur at the end, he did not go on with his family history, but turned at once to another subject. it pleased her curiously. the fair youth at her other side continued to crouch over his food, making fierce and animal-like noises. he never spoke or seemed to wish to be spoken to, and miss benham found it easy to ignore him altogether. it occurred to her once or twice that ste. marie's other neighbor might desire an occasional word from him, but, after all, she said to herself that was his affair and beyond her control. so these two talked together through the entire dinner period, and the girl was aware that she was being much more deeply affected by the simple, magnetic charm of a man than ever before in her life. it made her a little angry, because she was unfamiliar with this sort of thing and distrusted it. she was rather a perfect type of that phenomenon before which the british and continental world stands in mingled delight and exasperation--the american unmarried young woman, the creature of extraordinary beauty and still more extraordinary poise, the virgin with the bearing and savoir-faire of a woman of the world, the fresh-cheeked girl with the calm mind of a savante and the cool judgment, in regard to men and things, of an ambassador. the european world says she is cold, and that may be true; but it is well enough known that she can love very deeply. it says that, like most queens, and for precisely the same set of reasons, she later on makes a bad mother; but it is easy to point to queens who are the best of mothers. in short, she remains an enigma, and, like all other enigmas, forever fascinating. miss benham reflected that she knew almost nothing about ste. marie save for his reputation as a carpet knight, and baron de vries' good opinion, which could not be despised. and that made her the more displeased when she realized how promptly she was surrendering to his charm. in a moment of silence she gave a sudden little laugh which seemed to express a half-angry astonishment. "what was that for?" ste. marie demanded. the girl looked at him for an instant and shook her head. "i can't tell you," said she. "that's rude, isn't it? i'm sorry. perhaps i will tell you one day, when we know each other better." but inwardly she was saying: "why, i suppose this is how they all begin--all these regiments of women who make fools of themselves about him! i suppose this is exactly what he does to them all!" it made her angry, and she tried quite unfairly to shift the anger, as it were, to ste. marie--to put him somehow in the wrong. but she was by nature very just, and she could not quite do that, particularly as it was evident that the man was using no cheap tricks. he did not try to flirt with her, and he did not attempt to pay her veiled compliments, though she was often aware that when her attention was diverted for a few moments his eyes were always upon her, and that is a compliment that few women can find it in their hearts to resent. "you say," said ste. marie, "'when we know each other better.' may one twist that into a permission to come and see you--i mean, really see you--not just leave a card at your door to-morrow by way of observing the formalities?" "yes," she said. "oh yes, one may twist it into something like that without straining it unduly, i think. my mother and i shall be very glad to see you. i'm sorry she is not here to-night to say it herself." then the hostess began to gather together her flock, and so the two had no more speech. but when the women had gone and the men were left about the dismantled table, hartley moved up beside ste. marie and shook a sad head at him. he said: "you're a very lucky being. i was quietly hoping, on the way here, that i should be the fortunate man, but you always have all the luck. i hope you're decently grateful." "mon vieux," said ste. marie, "my feet are upon the stars. no!" he shook his head as if the figure displeased him. "no, my feet are upon the ladder to the stars. grateful? what does a foolish word like grateful mean? don't talk to me. you are not worthy to trample among my magnificent thoughts. i am a god upon olympus." "you said just now," objected the other man, practically, "that your feet were on a ladder. there are no ladders from olympus to the stars." "ho!" said ste. marie. "ho! aren't there, though? there shall be ladders all over olympus, if i like. what do you know about gods and stars? i shall be a god climbing to the heavens, and i shall be an angel of light, and i shall be a miserable worm grovelling in the night here below, and i shall be a poet, and i shall be anything else i happen to think of--all of them at once, if i choose. and you shall be the tongue-tied son of perfidious albion that you are, gaping at my splendors from a fog-bank--a november fog-bank in may. who is the desiccated gentleman bearing down upon us?" * * * * * iii ste. marie makes a vow, but a pair of eyes haunt him hartley looked over his shoulder and gave a little exclamation of distaste. "it's captain stewart, miss benham's uncle," he said, lowering his voice. "i'm off. i shall abandon you to him. he's a good old soul, but he bores me." hartley nodded to the man who was approaching, and then made his way to the end of the table, where their host sat discussing aero-club matters with a group of the other men. captain stewart dropped into the vacant chair, saying: "may i recall myself to you, m. ste. marie? we met, i believe, once or twice, a couple of years ago. my name's stewart." captain stewart--the title was vaguely believed to have been borne some years before in the american service, but no one appeared to know much about it--was not an old man. he could not have been, at this time, much more than fifty, but english-speaking acquaintances often called him "old stewart," and others "ce vieux stewart." indeed, at a first glance he might have passed for anything up to sixty, for his face was a good deal more lined and wrinkled than it should have been at his age. ste. marie's adjective had been rather apt. the man had a desiccated appearance. upon examination, however, one saw that the blood was still red in his cheeks and lips, and, although his neck was thin and withered like an old man's, his brown eyes still held their fire. the hair was almost gone from the top of his large, round head, but it remained at the sides--stiff, colorless hair, with a hint of red in it. and there were red streaks in his gray mustache, which was trained outward in two loose tufts, like shaving-brushes. the mustache and the shallow chin under it gave him an odd, catlike appearance. hartley, who rather disliked the man, used to insist that he had heard him mew. ste. marie said something politely non-committal, though he did not at all remember the alleged meeting two years before, and he looked at captain stewart with a real curiosity and interest in his character as miss benham's uncle. he thought it very civil of the elder man to make these friendly advances when it was in no way incumbent upon him to do so. "i noticed," said captain stewart, "that you were placed next my niece, helen benham, at dinner. this must be the first time you two have met, is it not? i remember speaking of you to her some months ago, and i am quite sure she said that she had not met you. ah, yes, of course, you have been away from paris a great deal since she and her mother--her mother is my sister: that is to say, my half-sister--have come here to live with my father." he gave a little gentle laugh. "i take an elderly uncle's privilege," he said, "of being rather proud of helen. she is called very pretty, and she certainly has great poise." ste. marie drew a quick breath, and his eyes began to flash as they had done a few moments before when he told hartley that his feet were upon the ladder to the stars. "miss benham!" he cried. "miss benham is--" he hung poised so for a moment, searching, as it were, for words of sufficient splendor, but in the end he shook his head and the gleam faded from his eyes. he sank back in his chair, sighing. "miss benham," said he, "is extremely beautiful." and again her uncle emitted his little gentle laugh, which may have deceived hartley into believing that he had heard the man mew. the sound was as much like mewing as it was like anything else. "i am very glad," captain stewart said, "to see her come out once more into the world. she needs distraction. we--you may possibly have heard that the family is in great distress of mind over the disappearance of my young nephew. helen has suffered particularly, because she is convinced that the boy has met with foul play. i myself think it very unlikely--very unlikely indeed. the lack of motive, for one thing, and for another--ah, well, a score of reasons! but helen refuses to be comforted. it seems to me much more like a boy's prank--his idea of revenge for what he considered unjust treatment at his grandfather's hands. he was always a headstrong youngster, and he has been a bit spoiled. still, of course, the uncertainty is very trying for us all--very wearing." "of course," said ste. marie, gravely. "it is most unfortunate. ah, by-the-way!" he looked up with a sudden interest. "a rather odd thing happened," he said, "as hartley and i were coming here this evening. we walked up the champs-elysées from the concorde, and on the way hartley had been telling me of your nephew's disappearance. near the rond point we came upon a motor-car which was drawn up at the side of the street--there had been an accident of no consequence, a boy tumbled over but not hurt. well, one of the two occupants of the motor-car was a man whom i used to see about maxim's and the café de paris and the montmartre places, too, some time ago--a rather shady character whose name i've forgotten. the odd part of it all was that on the last occasion or two on which i saw your nephew he was with this man. i think it was in henry's bar. of course, it means nothing at all. your nephew doubtless knew scores of people, and this man is no more likely to have information about his present whereabouts than any of the others. still, i should have liked to ask him. i didn't remember who he was till he had gone." captain stewart shook his head sadly, frowning down upon the cigarette from which he had knocked the ash. "i am afraid poor arthur did not always choose his friends with the best of judgment," said he. "i am not squeamish, and i would not have boys kept in a glass case, but--yes, i'm afraid arthur was not always too careful." he replaced the cigarette neatly between his lips. "this man, now--this man whom you saw to-night--what sort of looking man will he have been?" "oh, a tall, lean man," said ste. marie. "a tall man with blue eyes and a heavy, old-fashioned mustache. i just can't remember the name." the smoke stood still for an instant over captain stewart's cigarette, and it seemed to ste. marie that a little contortion of anger fled across the man's face and was gone again. he stirred slightly in his chair. after a moment he said: "i fancy, from your description--i fancy i know who the man was. if it is the man i am thinking of, the name is--powers. he is, as you have said, a rather shady character, and i more than once warned my nephew against him. such people are not good companions for a boy. yes, i warned him." "powers," said ste. marie, "doesn't sound right to me, you know. i can't say the fellow's name myself, but i'm sure--that is, i think--it's not powers." "oh yes," said captain stewart, with an elderly man's half-querulous certainty. "yes, the name is powers. i remember it well. and i remember--yes, it was odd, was it not, your meeting him like that, just as you were talking of arthur? you--oh, you didn't speak to him, you say? no, no, to be sure! you didn't recognize him at once. yes, it was odd. of course, the man could have had nothing to do with poor arthur's disappearance. his only interest in the boy at any time would have been for what money arthur might have, and he carried none, or almost none, away with him when he vanished. eh, poor lad! where can he be to-night, i wonder? it's a sad business, m. ste. marie--a sad business." captain stewart fell into a sort of brooding silence, frowning down at the table before him, and twisting with his thin ringers the little liqueur glass and the coffee-cup which were there. once or twice, ste. marie thought, the frown deepened and twisted into a sort of scowl, and the man's fingers twitched on the cloth of the table; but when at last the group at the other end of the board rose and began to move towards the door, captain stewart rose also and followed them. at the door he seemed to think of something, and touched ste. marie upon the arm. "this--ah, powers," he said, in a low tone--"this man whom you saw to-night! you said he was one of two occupants of a motor-car. yes? did you by any chance recognize the other?" "oh, the other was a young woman," said ste. marie. "no, i never saw her before. she was very handsome." captain stewart said something under his breath and turned abruptly away. but an instant later he faced about once more, smiling. he said, in a man-of-the-world manner, which sat rather oddly upon him: "ah, well, we all have our little love-affairs. i dare say this shady fellow has his." and for some obscure reason ste. marie found the speech peculiarly offensive. in the drawing-room he had opportunity for no more than a word with miss benham, for hartley, enraged over his previous ill success, cut in ahead of him and manoeuvred that young lady into a corner, where he sat before her, turning a square and determined back to the world. ste. marie listlessly played bridge for a time, but his attention was not upon it, and he was glad when the others at the table settled their accounts and departed to look in at a dance somewhere. after that he talked for a little with marian de saulnes, whom he liked and who made no secret of adoring him. she complained loudly that he was in a vile temper, which was not true; he was only restless and distrait and wanted to be alone; and so, at last, he took his leave without waiting for hartley. outside, in the street, he stood for a moment, hesitating, and an expectant fiacre drew up before the house, the cocher raising an interrogative whip. in the end ste. marie shook his head and turned away on foot. it was a still, sweet night of soft airs, and a moonless, starlit sky, and the man was very fond of walking in the dark. from the etoile he walked down the champs-elysées, but presently turned toward the river. his eyes were upon the mellow stars, his feet upon the ladder thereunto. he found himself crossing the pont des invalides, and halted midway to rest and look. he laid his arms upon the bridge's parapet and turned his face outward. against it bore a little gentle breeze that smelled of the purifying water below and of the night and of green things growing. beneath him the river ran black as flowing ink, and across its troubled surface the many-colored lights of the many bridges glittered very beautifully, swirling arabesques of gold and crimson. the noises of the city--beat of hoofs upon wooden pavements, horn of train or motor-car, jingle of bell upon cab-horse--came here faintly and as if from a great distance. above the dark trees of the cours la reine the sky glowed, softly golden, reflecting the million lights of paris. ste. marie closed his eyes, and against darkness he saw the beautiful head of helen benham, the clear-cut, exquisite modelling of feature and contour, the perfection of form and color. her eyes met his eyes, and they were very serene and calm and confident. she smiled at him, and the new contours into which her face fell with the smile were more perfect than before. he watched the turn of her head, and the grace of the movement was the uttermost effortless grace one dreams that a queen should have. the heart of ste. marie quickened in him, and he would have gone down upon his knees. he was well aware that with the coming of this girl something unprecedented, wholly new to his experience, had befallen him--an awakening to a new life. he had been in love a very great many times. he was usually in love. and each time his heart had gone through the same sweet and bitter anguish, the same sleepless nights had come and gone upon him, the eternal and ever new miracle had wakened spring in his soul, had passed its summer solstice, had faded through autumnal regrets to winter's death; but through it all something within him had waited asleep. he found himself wondering dully what it was--wherein lay the great difference?--and he could not answer the question he asked. he knew only that whereas before he had loved, he now went down upon prayerful knees to worship. in a sudden poignant thrill the knightly fervor of his forefathers came upon him, and he saw a sweet and golden lady set far above him upon a throne. her clear eyes gazed afar, serene and untroubled. she sat wrapped in a sort of virginal austerity, unaware of the base passions of men. the other women whom ste. marie had--as he was pleased to term it--loved had certainly come at least half-way to meet him, and some of them had come a good deal farther than that. he could not, by the wildest flight of imagination, conceive this girl doing anything of that sort. she was to be won by trial and high endeavor, by prayer and self-purification--not captured by a warm eye-glance, a whispered word, a laughing kiss. in fancy he looked from the crowding cohorts of these others to that still, sweet figure set on high, wrapped in virginal austerity, calm in her serene perfection, and his soul abased itself before her. he knelt in an awed and worshipful adoration. so before quest or tournament or battle must those elder ste. maries--ste. maries de mont-les-roses---have knelt, each knight at the feet of his lady, each knightly soul aglow with the chaste ardor of chivalry. the man's hands tightened upon the parapet of the bridge, he lifted his face again to the shining stars where-among, as his fancy had it, she sat enthroned. exultingly he felt under his feet the rungs of the ladder, and in the darkness he swore a great oath to have done forever with blindness and grovelling, to climb and climb, forever to climb, until at last he should stand where she was--cleansed and made worthy by long endeavor--at last meet her eyes and touch her hand. it was a fine and chivalric frenzy, and ste. marie was passionately in earnest about it, but his guardian angel--indeed, fate herself--must have laughed a little in the dark, knowing what manner of man he was in less exalted hours. it was an odd freak of memory that at last recalled him to earth. every man knows that when a strong and, for the moment, unavailing effort has been made to recall something lost to mind, the memory, in some mysterious fashion, goes on working long after the attention has been elsewhere diverted, and sometimes hours afterward, or even days, produces quite suddenly and inappropriately the lost article. ste. marie had turned, with a little sigh, to take up, once more, his walk across the pont des invalides, when seemingly from nowhere, and certainly by no conscious effort, a name flashed into his mind. he said it aloud: "o'hara! o'hara! that tall, thin chap's name was o'hara, by jove! it wasn't powers at all!" he laughed a little as he remembered how very positive captain stewart had been. and then he frowned, thinking that the mistake was an odd one, since stewart had evidently known a good deal about this adventurer. captain stewart, though, ste. marie reflected, was exactly the sort to be very sure he was right about things. he had just the neat and precise and semi-scholarly personality of the man who always knows. so ste. marie dismissed the matter with another brief laugh, but a cognate matter was less easy to dismiss. the name brought with it a face--a dark and splendid face with tragic eyes that called. he walked a long way thinking about them and wondering. the eyes haunted him. it will have been reasonably evident that ste. marie was a fanciful and imaginative soul. he needed but a chance word, the sight of a face in a crowd, the glance of an eye, to begin story-building, and he would go on for hours about it and work himself up to quite a passion with his imaginings. he should have been a writer of fiction. he began forthwith to construct romances about this lady of the motor-car. he wondered why she should have been with the shady irishman--if irishman he was--o'hara, and with some anxiety he wondered what the two were to each other. captain stewart's little cynical jest came to his mind, and he was conscious of a sudden desire to kick miss benham's middle-aged uncle. the eyes haunted him. what was it they suffered? out of what misery did they call--and for what? he walked all the long way home to his little flat overlooking the luxembourg gardens, haunted by those eyes. as he climbed his stair it suddenly occurred to him that they had quite driven out of his mind the image of his beautiful lady who sat among the stars, and the realization came to him with a shock. * * * * * iv old david stewart it was miss benham's custom, upon returning home at night from dinner-parties or other entertainments, to look in for a few minutes on her grandfather before going to bed. the old gentleman, like most elderly people, slept lightly, and often sat up in bed very late into the night, reading or playing piquet with his valet. he suffered hideously at times from the malady which was killing him by degrees, but when he was free from pain the enormous recuperative power, which he had preserved to his eighty-sixth year, left him almost as vigorous and clear-minded as if he had never been ill at all. hartley's description of him had not been altogether a bad one: "a quaint old beggar... a great quantity of white hair and an enormous square white beard and the fiercest eyes i ever saw..." he was a rather "quaint old beggar," indeed! he had let his thick, white hair grow long, and it hung down over his brows in unparted locks as the ancient greeks wore their hair. he had very shaggy eyebrows, and the deep-set eyes under them gleamed from the shadow with a fierceness which was rather deceptive but none the less intimidating. he had a great beak of a nose, but the mouth below could not be seen. it was hidden by the mustache and the enormous square beard. his face was colorless, almost as white as hair and beard; there seemed to be no shadow or tint anywhere except the cavernous recesses from which the man's eyes gleamed and sparkled. altogether he was certainly "a quaint old beggar." he had, during the day and evening, a good many visitors, for the old gentleman's mind was as alert as it ever had been, and important men thought him worth consulting. the names which the admirable valet peters announced from time to time were names which meant a great deal in the official and diplomatic world of the day. but if old david felt flattered over the unusual fashion in which the great of the earth continued to come to him, he never betrayed it. indeed, it is quite probable that this view of the situation never once occurred to him. he had been thrown with the great of the earth for more than half a century, and he had learned to take it as a matter of course. on her return from the marquise de saulnes' dinner-party, miss benham went at once to her grandfather's wing of the house, which had its own street entrance, and knocked lightly at his door. she asked the admirable peters, who opened to her, "is he awake?" and being assured that he was, went into the vast chamber, dropping her cloak on a chair as she entered. david stewart was sitting up in his monumental bed behind a sort of invalid's table which stretched across his knees without touching them. he wore over his night-clothes a chinese mandarin's jacket of old red satin, wadded with down, and very gorgeously embroidered with the cloud and bat designs, and with large round panels of the imperial five-clawed dragon in gold. he had a number of these jackets--they seemed to be his one vanity in things external--and they were so made that they could be slipped about him without disturbing him in his bed, since they hung down only to the waist or thereabouts. they kept the upper part of his body, which was not covered by the bedclothes, warm, and they certainly made him a very impressive figure. he said: "ah, helen! come in! come in! sit down on the bed there and tell me what you have been doing!" he pushed aside the pack of cards which was spread out on the invalid's table before him, and with great care counted a sum of money in francs and half-francs and nickel twenty-five centime pieces. "i've won seven francs fifty from peters to-night," he said, chuckling gently. "that is a very good evening, indeed. very good! where have you been, and who were there?" "a dinner-party at the de saulnes'," said miss benham, making herself comfortable on the side of the great bed. "it's a very pleasant place. marian is, of course, a dear, and they're quite english and unceremonious. you can talk to your neighbor at dinner instead of addressing the house from a platform, as it were. french dinner-parties make me nervous." old david gave a little growling laugh. "french dinner-parties at least keep people up to the mark in the art of conversation," said he. "but that is a lost art, anyhow, nowadays, so i suppose one might as well be quite informal and have done with it. who were there?" "oh, well"--she considered, "no one, i should think, who would interest you. rather an indifferent set. pleasant people, but not inspiring. the marquis had some young relative or connection who was quite odious and made the most surprising noises over his food. i met a new man whom i think i am going to like very much, indeed. he wouldn't interest you, because he doesn't mean anything in particular, and of course he oughtn't to interest me for the same reason. he's just an idle, pleasant young man, but--he has great charm--very great charm. his name is ste. marie. baron de vries seems very fond of him, which surprised me, rather." "ste. marie!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in obvious astonishment. "ste. marie de mont perdu?" "yes," she said. "yes, that is the name, i believe. you know him, then? i wonder he didn't mention it." "i knew his father," said old david. "and his grandfather, for that matter. they're gascon, i think, or béarnais; but this boy's mother will have been irish, unless his father married again. "so you've been meeting a ste. marie, have you?--and finding that he has great charm?" the old gentleman broke into one of his growling laughs, and reached for a long black cigar, which he lighted, eying his granddaughter the while over the flaring match. "well," he said, when the cigar was drawing, "they all have had charm. i should think there has never been a ste. marie without it. they're a sort of embodiment of romance, that family. this boy's great-grandfather lost his life defending a castle against a horde of peasants in ; his grandfather was killed in the french campaign in mexico in ' --at vera cruz it was, i think; and his father died in a filibustering expedition ten years ago. i wonder what will become of the last ste. marie?" old david's eyes suddenly sharpened. "you're not going to fall in love with ste. marie and marry him, are you?" he demanded. miss benham gave a little angry laugh, but her grandfather saw the color rise in her cheeks for all that. "certainly not," she said, with great decision, "what an absurd idea! because i meet a man at a dinner-party and say i like him, must i marry him to-morrow? i meet a great many men at dinners and things, and a few of them i like. heavens!" "'methinks the lady doth protest too much,'" muttered old david into his huge beard. "i beg your pardon?" asked miss benham, politely. but he shook his head, still growling inarticulately, and began to draw enormous clouds of smoke from the long black cigar. after a time he took the cigar once more from his lips and looked thoughtfully at his granddaughter, where she sat on the edge of the vast bed, upright and beautiful, perfect in the most meticulous detail. most women when they return from a long evening out look more or less the worse for it--deadened eyes, pale cheeks, loosened coiffure tell their inevitable tale. miss benham looked as if she had just come from the hands of a very excellent maid. she looked as freshly soignée as she might have looked at eight that evening instead of at one. not a wave of her perfectly undulated hair was loosened or displaced, not a fold of the lace at her breast had departed from its perfect arrangement. "it is odd," said old david stewart, "your taking a fancy to young ste. marie. of course, it's natural, too, in a way, because you are complete opposites, i should think--that is, if this lad is like the rest of his race. what i mean is that merely attractive young men don't, as a rule, attract you." "well, no," she admitted, "they don't usually. men with brains attract me most, i think--men who are making civilization, men who are ruling the world, or at least doing important things for it. that's your fault, you know. you taught me that." the old gentleman laughed. "possibly," said he. "possibly. anyhow, that is the sort of men you like, and they like you. you're by no means a fool, helen; in fact, you're a woman with brains. you could wield great influence married to the proper sort of man." "but not to m. ste. marie," she suggested, smiling across at him. "well, no," he said. "no, not to ste. marie. it would be a mistake to marry ste. marie--if he is what the rest of his house have been. the ste. maries live a life compounded of romance and imagination and emotion. you're not emotional." "no," said miss benham, slowly and thoughtfully. it was as if the idea were new to her. "no, i'm not, i suppose. no. certainly not." "as a matter of fact," said old david, "you're by nature rather cold. i'm not sure it isn't a good thing. emotional people, i observe, are usually in hot water of some sort. when you marry you're very likely to choose with a great deal of care and some wisdom. and you're also likely to have what is called a career. i repeat that you could wield great influence in the proper environment." the girl frowned across at her grandfather reflectively. "do you mean by that," she asked, after a little silence--"do you mean that you think i am likely to be moved by sheer ambition and nothing else in arranging my life? i've never thought of myself as a very ambitious person." "let us substitute for ambition common-sense," said old david. "i think you have a great deal of common-sense for a woman--and so young a woman. how old are you by-the-way? twenty-two? yes, to be sure. i think you have great common-sense and appreciation of values. and i think you're singularly free of the emotionalism that so often plays hob with them all. people with common-sense fall in love in the right places." "i don't quite like the sound of it," said miss benham. "perhaps i am rather ambitious--i don't know. yes, perhaps. i should like to play some part in the world, i don't deny that. but--am i as cold as you say? i doubt it very much. i doubt that." "you're twenty-two," said her grandfather, "and you have seen a good deal of society in several capitals. have you ever fallen in love?" oddly, the face of ste. marie came before miss benham's eyes as if she had summoned it there. but she frowned a little and shook her head, saying: "no, i can't say that i have. but that means nothing. there's plenty of time for that. and you know," she said, after a pause--"you know i'm rather sure i could fall in love--pretty hard. i'm sure of that. perhaps i have been waiting. who knows?" "aye, who knows?" said david. he seemed all at once to lose interest in the subject, as old people often do without apparent reason, for he remained silent for a long time, puffing at the long black cigar or rolling it absently between his fingers. after awhile he laid it down in a metal dish which stood at his elbow, and folded his lean hands before him over the invalid's table. he was still so long that at last his granddaughter thought he had fallen asleep, and she began to rise from her seat, taking care to make no noise; but at that the old man stirred and put out his hand once more for the cigar. "was young richard hartley at your dinner-party?" he asked, and she said: "yes. oh yes, he was there. he and m. ste. marie came together, i believe. they are very close friends." "another idler," growled old david. "the fellow's a man of parts--and a man of family. what's he idling about here for? why isn't he in parliament, where he belongs?" "well," said the girl, "i should think it is because he is too much a man of family--as you put it. you see, he'll succeed his cousin, lord risdale, before very long, and then all his work would have been for nothing, because he'll have to take his seat in the lords. lord risdale is unmarried, you know, and a hopeless invalid. he may die any day. i think i sympathize with poor mr. hartley. it would be a pity to build up a career for one's self in the lower house, and then suddenly, in the midst of it, have to give it all up. the situation is rather paralyzing to endeavor, isn't it?" "yes, i dare say," said old david, absently. he looked up sharply. "young hartley doesn't come here as much as he used to do." "no," said miss benham, "he doesn't." she gave a little laugh. "to avoid cross-examination," she said, "i may as well admit that he asked me to marry him and i had to refuse. i'm sorry, because i like him very much, indeed." old david made an inarticulate sound which may have been meant to express surprise--or almost anything else. he had not a great range of expression. "i don't want," said he, "to seem to have gone daft on the subject of marriage, and i see no reason why you should be in any haste about it. certainly i should hate to lose you, my child, but--hartley as the next lord risdale is undoubtedly a good match. and you say you like him." the girl looked up with a sort of defiance, and her face was a little flushed. "i don't love him," she said. "i like him immensely, but i don't love him, and, after all--well, you say i'm cold, and i admit i'm more or less ambitious, but, after all--well, i just don't quite love him. i want to love the man i marry." old david stewart held up his black cigar and gazed thoughtfully at the smoke which streamed thin and blue and veil-like from its lighted end. "love!" he said, in a reflective tone. "love!" he repeated the word two or three times slowly, and he stirred a little in his bed. "i have forgotten what it is," said he. "i expect i must be very old. i have forgotten what love--that sort of love--is like. it seems very far away to me and rather unimportant. but i remember that i thought it important enough once, a century or two ago. do you know, it strikes me as rather odd that i have forgotten what love is like. it strikes me as rather pathetic." he gave a sort of uncouth grimace and stuck the black cigar once more into his mouth. "egad!" said he, mumbling indistinctly over the cigar, "how foolish love seems when you look back at it across fifty or sixty years!" miss benham rose to her feet smiling, and she came and stood near where the old man lay propped up against his pillows. she touched his cheek with her cool hand, and old david put up one of his own hands and patted it. "i'm going to bed now," said she. "i've sat here talking too long. you ought to be asleep, and so ought i." "perhaps! perhaps!" the old man said. "i don't feel sleepy, though. i dare say i shall read a little." he held her hand in his and looked up at her. "i've been talking a great deal of nonsense about marriage," said he. "put it out of your head! it's all nonsense. i don't want you to marry for a long time. i don't want to lose you." his face twisted a little, quite suddenly. "you're precious near all i have left, now," he said. the girl did not answer at once, for it seemed to her that there was nothing to say. she knew that her grandfather was thinking of the lost boy, and she knew what a bitter blow the thing had been to him. she often thought that it would kill him before his old malady could run its course. but after a moment she said, very gently: "we won't give up hope. we'll never give up hope. think! he might come home to-morrow! who knows?" "if he has stayed away of his own accord," cried out old david stewart, in a loud voice, "i'll never forgive him--not if he comes to me to-morrow on his knees! not even if he comes to me on his knees!" the girl bent over her grandfather, saying: "hush! hush! you mustn't excite yourself." but old david's gray face was working, and his eyes gleamed from their cavernous shadows with a savage fire. "if the boy is staying away out of spite," he repeated, "he need never come back to me. i won't forgive him." he beat his unemployed hand upon the table before him, and the things which lay there jumped and danced. "and if he waits until i'm dead and then comes back," said he, "he'll find he has made a mistake--a great mistake. he'll find a surprise in store for him, i can tell you that. i won't tell you what i have done, but it will be a disagreeable surprise for master arthur, you may be sure." the old gentleman fell to frowning and muttering in his choleric fashion, but the fierce glitter began to go out of his eyes and his hands ceased to tremble and clutch at the things before him. the girl was silent, because again there seemed to her to be nothing that she could say. she longed very much to plead her brother's cause, but she was sure that would only excite her grandfather, and he was growing quieter after his burst of anger. she bent down over him and kissed his cheek. "try to go to sleep," she said. "and don't torture yourself with thinking about all this. i'm as sure that poor arthur is not staying away out of spite as if he were myself. he's foolish and headstrong, but he's not spiteful, dear. try to believe that. and now i'm really going. good-night." she kissed him again and slipped out of the room. and as she closed the door she heard her grandfather pull the bell-cord which hung beside him and summoned the excellent peters from the room beyond. * * * * * v jason sets forth upon the great adventure miss benham stood at one of the long drawing-room windows of the house in the rue de l'université, and looked out between the curtains upon the rather grimy little garden, where a few not very prosperous cypresses and chestnuts stood guard over the rows of lilac shrubs and the box-bordered flower-beds and the usual moss-stained fountain. she was thinking of the events of the past month, the month which had elapsed since the evening of the de saulnes' dinner-party. they were not at all startling events; in a practical sense there were no events at all, only a quiet sequence of affairs which was about as inevitable as the night upon the day--the day upon the night again. in a word, this girl, who had considered herself very strong and very much the mistress of her feelings, found, for the first time in her life, that her strength was as nothing at all against the potent charm and magnetism of a man who had almost none of the qualities she chiefly admired in men. during the month's time she had passed from a phase of angry self-scorn through a period of bewilderment not unmixed with fear, and from that she had come into an unknown world, a land very strange to her, where old standards and judgments seemed to be valueless--a place seemingly ruled altogether by new emotions, sweet and thrilling, or full of vague terrors as her mood veered here or there. that sublimated form of guesswork which is called "woman's intuition" told her that ste. marie would come to her on this afternoon, and that something in the nature of a crisis would have to be faced. it can be proved even by poor masculine mathematics that guesswork, like other gambling ventures, is bound to succeed about half the time, and it succeeded on this occasion. even as miss benham stood at the window looking out through the curtains, m. ste. marie was announced from the doorway. she turned to meet him with a little frown of determination, for in his absence she was often very strong, indeed, and sometimes she made up and rehearsed little speeches of great dignity and decision in which she told him that he was attempting a quite hopeless thing, and, as a well-wishing friend, advised him to go away and attempt it no longer. but as ste. marie came quickly across the room toward her, the little frown wavered and at last fled from her face and another look came there. it was always so. the man's bodily presence exerted an absolute spell over her. "i have been sitting with your grandfather for half an hour," ste. marie said. and she said: "oh, i'm glad! i'm very glad! you always cheer him up. he hasn't been too cheerful or too well of late." she unnecessarily twisted a chair about, and after a moment sat down in it. and she gave a little laugh. "this friendship which has grown up between my grandfather and you," said she--"i don't understand it at all. of course, he knew your father and all that; but you two seem such very different types, i shouldn't think you would amuse each other at all. there's mr. hartley, for example. i should expect my grandfather to like him very much better than you, but he doesn't--though i fancy he approves of him much more." she laughed again, but a different laugh; and when he heard it ste. marie's eyes gleamed a little and his hands moved beside him. "i expect," said she--"i expect, you know, that he just likes you without stopping to think why--as everybody else does. i fancy it's just that. what do you think?" "oh, i?" said the man. "i--how should i know? i know it's a great privilege to be allowed to see him--such a man as that. and i know we get on wonderfully well. he doesn't condescend, as most old men do who have led important lives. we just talk as two men in a club might talk, and i tell him stories and make him laugh. oh yes, we get on wonderfully well." "oh," said she, "i've often wondered what you talk about. what did you talk about to-day?" ste. marie turned abruptly away from her and went across to one of the windows--the window where she had stood earlier, looking out upon the dingy garden. she saw him stand there, with his back turned, the head a little bent, the hands twisting together behind him, and a sudden fit of nervous shivering wrung her. every woman knows when a certain thing is going to be said to her, and usually she is prepared for it, though usually, also, she says she is not. miss benham knew what was coming now, and she was frightened, not of ste. marie, but of herself. it meant so very much to her--more than to most women at such a time. it meant, if she said yes to him, the surrender of almost all the things she had cared for and hoped for. it meant the giving up of that career which old david stewart had dwelt upon a month ago. ste. marie turned back into the room. he came a little way toward where the girl sat, and halted, and she could see that he was very pale. a sort of critical second self noticed that he was pale and was surprised, because, although men's faces often turn red, they seldom turn noticeably pale except in very great nervous crises--or in works of fiction; while women, on the contrary, may turn red and white twenty times a day, and no harm done. he raised his hands a little way from his sides in the beginning of a gesture, but they dropped again as if there was no strength in them. "i told him," said ste. marie, in a flat voice--"i told your grandfather that i--loved you more than anything in this world or in the next. i told him that my love for you had made another being of me--a new being. i told him that i wanted to come to you and to kneel at your feet, and to ask you if you could give me just a little, little hope--something to live for, a light to climb toward. that is what we talked about, your grandfather and i." "ste. marie! ste. marie!" said the girl, in a half whisper. "what did my grandfather say to you?" she asked, after a silence. ste. marie looked away. "i cannot tell you," he said. "he--was not quite sympathetic." the girl gave a little cry. "tell me what he said!" she demanded. "i must know what he said." the man's eyes pleaded with her, but she held him with her gaze, and in the end he gave in. "he said i was a damned fool," said ste. marie. and the girl, after an instant of staring, broke into a little fit of nervous, overwrought laughter, and covered her face with her hands. he threw himself upon his knees before her, and her laughter died away. an englishman or an american cannot do that. richard hartley, for example, would have looked like an idiot upon his knees, and he would have felt it. but it did not seem extravagant with ste. marie. it became him. "listen! listen!" he cried to her, but the girl checked him before he could go on. she dropped her hands from her face, and she bent a little forward over the man as he knelt there. she put out her hands and took his head for a swift instant between them, looking down into his eyes. at the touch a sudden wave of tenderness swept her--almost an engulfing wave; it almost overwhelmed her and bore her away from the land she knew. and so when she spoke her voice was not quite steady. she said: "ah, dear ste. marie! i cannot pretend to be cold toward you. you have laid a spell upon me, ste. marie. you enchant us all, somehow, don't you? i suppose i'm not so different from the others as i thought i was. and yet," she said, "he was right, you know. my grandfather was right. no, let me talk, now. i must talk for a little. i must try to tell you how it is with me--try somehow to find a way. he was right. he meant that you and i were utterly unsuited to each other, and so, in calm moments, i know we are. i know that well enough. when you're not with me, i feel very sure about it. i think of a thousand excellent reasons why you and i ought to be no more to each other than friends. do you know, i think my grandfather is a little uncanny. i think he has prophetic powers. they say very old people often have. he and i talked about you when i came home from that dinner-party at the de saulnes', a month ago--the dinner-party where you and i first met. i told him that i had met a man whom i liked very much--a man with great charm; and though i must have said the same sort of thing to him before about other men, he was quite oddly disturbed, and talked for a long time about it--about the sort of man i ought to marry and the sort i ought not to marry. it was unusual for him. he seldom says anything of that kind. yes, he is right. you see, i'm ambitious in a particular way. if i marry at all i ought to marry a man who is working hard in politics or in something of that kind. i could help him. we could do a great deal together." "i could go into politics!" cried ste. marie; but she shook her head, smiling down upon him. "no, not you, my dear. politics least of all. you could be a soldier, if you chose. you could fight as your father and your grandfather and the others of your house have done. you could lead a forlorn hope in the field. you could suffer and starve and go on fighting. you could die splendidly, but--politics, no! that wants a tougher shell than you have. and a soldier's wife! of what use to him is she?" ste. marie's face was very grave. he looked up to her, smiling. "do you set ambition before love, my queen?" he asked, and she did not answer him at once. she looked into his eyes, and she was as grave as he. "is love all?" she said, at last. "is love all? ought one to think of nothing but love when one is settling one's life forever? i wonder? i look about me, ste. marie," she said, "and in the lives of my friends--the people who seem to me to be most worth while, the people who are making the world's history for good or ill--and it seems to me that in their lives love has the second place--or the third. i wonder if one has the right to set it first. there is, of course," she said, "the merely domestic type of woman--the woman who has no thought and no interest beyond her home. i am not that type of woman. perhaps i wish i were. certainly they are the happiest. but i was brought up among--well, among important people--men of my grandfather's kind. all my training has been toward that life. have i the right, i wonder, to give it all up?" the man stirred at her feet, and she put out her hands to him quickly. "do i seem brutal?" she cried. "oh, i don't want to be! do i seem very ungenerous and wrapped up in my own side of the thing? i don't mean to be that, but--i'm not sure. i expect it's that. i'm not sure, and i think i'm a little frightened." she gave him a brief, anxious smile that was not without its tenderness. "i'm so sure," she said, "when i'm away from you. but when you're here--oh, i forget all i've thought of. you lay your spell upon me." ste. marie gave a little wordless cry of joy. he caught her two hands in his and held them against his lips. again that great wave of tenderness swept her, almost engulfing. but when it had ebbed she sank back once more in her chair, and she withdrew her hands from his clasp. "you make me forget too much," she said. "i think you make me forget everything that i ought to remember. oh, ste. marie, have i any right to think of love and happiness while this terrible mystery is upon us--while we don't know whether poor arthur is alive or dead? you've seen what it has brought my grandfather to! it is killing him. he has been much worse in the past fortnight. and my mother is hardly a ghost of herself in these days. ah, it is brutal of me to think of my own affairs--to dream of happiness at such a time." she smiled across at him very sadly. "you see what you have brought me to!" she said. ste. marie rose to his feet. if miss benham, absorbed in that warfare which raged within her, had momentarily forgotten the cloud of sorrow under which her household lay, so much the more had he, to whom the sorrow was less intimate, forgotten it. but he was ever swift to sympathy, ste. marie--as quick as a woman, and as tender. he could not thrust his love upon the girl at such a time as this. he turned a little away from her, and so remained for a moment. when he faced about again the flush had gone from his cheeks and the fire from his eyes. only tenderness was left there. "there has been no news at all this week?" he asked, and the girl shook her head. "none! none! shall we ever have news of him, i wonder? must we go on always and never know? it seems to me almost incredible that any one could disappear so completely. and yet, i dare say, many people have done it before and have been as carefully sought for. if only i could believe that he is alive! if only i could believe that!" "i believe it," said ste. marie. "ah," she said, "you say that to cheer me. you have no reason to offer." "dead bodies very seldom disappear completely," said he. "if your brother died anywhere there would be a record of the death. if he were accidentally killed there would be a record of that, too; and, of course, you are having all such records constantly searched?" "oh yes," she said. "yes, of course--at least, i suppose so. my uncle has been directing the search. of course, he would take an obvious precaution like that." "naturally," said ste. marie. "your uncle, i should say, is an unusually careful man." he paused a moment to smile. "he makes his little mistakes, though. i told you about that man o'hara, and about how sure captain stewart was that the name was powers. do you know"--ste. marie had been walking up and down the room, but he halted to face her--"do you know, i have a very strong feeling that if one could find this man o'hara, one would learn something about what became of your brother? i have no reason for thinking that, but i feel it." "oh," said the girl, doubtfully, "i hardly think that could be so. what motive could the man have for harming my brother?" "none," said ste. marie; "but he might have an excellent motive for hiding him away--kidnapping him. is that the word? yes, i know, you're going to say that no demand has been made for money, and that is where my argument--if i can call it an argument--is weak. but the fellow may be biding his time. anyhow, i should like to have five minutes alone with him. i'll tell you another thing. it's a trifle, and it may be of no consequence, but i add it to my vague and--if you like--foolish feeling, and make something out of it. i happened, some days ago, to meet at the café de paris a man who i knew used to know this o'hara. he was not, i think, a friend of his at all, but an acquaintance. i asked him what had become of o'hara, saying that i hadn't seen him in some weeks. well, this man said o'hara had gone away somewhere a couple of months ago. he didn't seem at all surprised, for it appears the irishman--if he is an irishman--is decidedly a haphazard sort of person, here to-day, gone to-morrow. no, the man wasn't surprised, but he was rather angry, because he said o'hara owed him some money. i said i thought he must be mistaken about the fellow's absence, because i'd seen him in the street within the month--on the evening of our dinner-party, you remember--but this man was very sure that i had made a mistake. he said that if o'hara had been in town he was sure to have known it. well, the point is here. your brother disappears at a certain time. at the same time this irish adventurer disappears, too, _and_ your brother was known to have frequented the irishman's company. it may be only a coincidence, but i can't help feeling that there's something in it." miss benham was sitting up straight in her chair with a little alert frown. "have you spoken of this to my uncle?" she demanded. "well--no," said ste. marie. "not the latter part of it--that is, not my having heard of o'hara's disappearance. in the first place, i learned of that only three days ago, and i have not seen captain stewart since--i rather expected to find him here to-day; and, in the second place, i was quite sure that he would only laugh. he has laughed at me two or three times for suggesting that this irishman might know something. captain stewart is--not easy to convince, you know." "i know," she said, looking away. "he's always very certain that he's right. well, perhaps he is right. who knows?" she gave a little sob. "oh!" she cried, "shall we ever have my brother back? shall we ever see him again? it is breaking my heart, ste. marie, and it is killing my grandfather and, i think, my mother, too! oh, can nothing be done?" ste. marie was walking up and down the floor before her, his hands clasped behind his back. when she had finished speaking the girl saw him halt beside one of the windows, and after a moment she saw his head go up sharply and she heard him give a sudden cry. she thought he had seen something from the window which had wrung that exclamation from him, and she asked: "what is it?" but abruptly the man turned back into the room and came across to where she sat. it seemed to her that his face had a new look--a very strange exaltation which she had never before seen there. he said: "listen! i do not know if anything can be done that has not been done already, but if there is anything i shall do it, you may be sure." "_you_, ste. marie?" she cried, in a sharp voice. "_you?_" "and why not i?" he demanded. "oh, my friend," said she, "you could do nothing! you wouldn't know where to turn, how to set to work. remember that a score of men who are skilled in this kind of thing have been searching for two months. what could you do that they haven't done?" "i do not know, my queen," said ste. marie, "but i shall do what i can. who knows? sometimes the fool who rushes in where angels have feared to tread succeeds where they have failed. oh, let me do this!" he cried out. "let me do it for both our sakes--for yours and for mine! it is for your sake most. i swear that! it is to set you at peace again, bring back the happiness you have lost. but it is for my sake, too, a little. it will be a test of me, a trial. if i can succeed here where so many have failed, if i bring back your brother to you--or, at least, discover what has become of him--i shall be able to come to you with less shame for my--unworthiness." he looked down upon her with eager, burning eyes, and, after a little, the girl rose to face him. she was very white, and she stared at him silently. "when i came to you to-day," he went on, "i knew that i had nothing to offer you but my faithful love and my life, which has been a life without value. in exchange for that i asked too much. i knew it, and you knew it, too. i know well enough what sort of man you ought to marry, and what a brilliant career you could make for yourself in the proper place--what great influence you could wield. but i asked you to give that all up, and i hadn't anything to offer in its place--nothing but love. my queen, give me a chance now to offer you more! if i can bring back your brother or news of him, i can come to you without shame and ask you to marry me, because if i can succeed in that you will know that i can succeed in other things. you will be able to trust me. you'll know that i can climb. it shall be a sort of symbol. let me go!" the girl broke into a sort of sobbing laughter. "oh, divine madman!" she cried. "are you all mad, you ste. maries, that you must be forever leading forlorn hopes? oh, how you are, after all, a ste. marie! now, at last, i know why one cannot but love you. you're the knight of old. you're chivalry come down to us. you're a ghost out of the past when men rode in armor with pure hearts seeking the great adventure. oh, my friend," she said, "be wise. give this up in time. it is a beautiful thought, and i love you for it, but it is madness--yes, yes, a sweet madness, but mad, nevertheless! what possible chance would you have of success? and think--think how failure would hurt you--and me! you must not do it, ste. marie." "failure will never hurt me, my queen," said he, "because there are no hurts in the grave, and i shall never give over searching until i succeed or until i am dead." his face was uplifted, and there was a sort of splendid fervor upon it. it was as if it shone. the girl stared at him dumbly. she began to realize that the knightly spirit of those gallant, long dead gentlemen was indeed descended upon the last of their house, that he burnt with the same pure fire which had long ago lighted them through quest and adventure, and she was a little afraid with an almost superstitious fear. she put out her hands upon the man's shoulders, and she moved a little closer to him, holding him. "oh, madness, madness!" she said, watching his face. "let me do it!" said ste. marie. and after a silence that seemed to endure for a long time, she sighed, shaking her head, and said she: "oh, my friend, there is no strength in me to stop you. i think we are both a little mad, and i know that you are very mad, but i cannot say no. you seem to have come out of another century to take up this quest. how can i prevent you? but listen to one thing. if i accept this sacrifice, if i let you give your time and your strength to this almost hopeless attempt, it must be understood that it is to be within certain limits. i will not accept any indefinite thing. you may give your efforts to trying to find trace of my brother for a month if you like, or for three months, or six, or even a year, but not for more than that. if he is not found in a year's time we shall know that--we shall know that he is dead, and that--further search is useless. i cannot say how i--oh, ste. marie, ste. marie, this is a proof of you, indeed! and i have called you idle. i have said hard things of you. it is very bitter to me to think that i have said those things." "they were true, my queen," said he, smiling. "they were quite, quite true. it is for me to prove now that they shall be true no longer." he took the girl's hand in his rather ceremoniously, and bent his head and kissed it. as he did so he was aware that she stirred, all at once, uneasily, and when he had raised his head he looked at her in question. "i thought some one was coming into the room," she explained, looking beyond him. "i thought some one started to come in between the portières yonder. it must have been a servant." "then it is understood," said ste. marie. "to bring you back your happiness, and to prove myself in some way worthy of your love, i am to devote myself with all my effort and all my strength to finding your brother or some trace of him, and until i succeed i will not see your face again, my queen." "oh, that!" she cried--"that, too?" "i will not see you," said he, "until i bring you news of him, or until my year is passed and i have failed utterly. i know what risk i run. if i fail, i lose you. that is understood, too. but if i succeed--" "then?" she said, breathing quickly. "then?" "then," said he, "i shall come to you, and i shall feel no shame in asking you to marry me, because then you will know that there is in me some little worthiness, and that in our lives together you need not be buried in obscurity--lost to the world." "i cannot find any words to say," said she. "i am feeling just now very humble and very ashamed. it seems that i haven't known you at all. oh yes, i am ashamed." the girl's face, habitually so cool and composed, was flushed with a beautiful flush, and it had softened, and it seemed to quiver between a smile and a tear. with a swift movement she leaned close to him, holding by his shoulder, and for an instant her cheek was against his. she whispered to him: "oh, find him quickly, my dear! find him quickly, and come back to me!" ste. marie began to tremble, and she stood away from him. once he looked up, but the flush was gone from miss benham's cheeks and she was pale again. she stood with her hands tight clasped over her breast. so he bowed to her very low, and turned and went out of the room and out of the house. so quickly did he move at this last that a man who had been, for some moments, standing just outside the portières of the doorway had barely time to step aside into the shadows of the dim hall. as it was, ste. marie, in a more normal moment, must have seen that the man was there; but his eyes were blind, and he saw nothing. he groped for his hat and stick as if the place were a place of gloom, and, because the footman who should have been at the door was in regions unknown, he let himself out, and so went away. then the man who stood apart in the shadows crossed the hall to a small room which was furnished as a library, but not often used. he closed the door behind him, and went to one of the windows which gave upon the street. and he stood there for a long time, drawing absurd invisible pictures upon the glass with one finger and staring thoughtfully out into the late june afternoon. * * * * * vi a brave gentleman receives a hurt, but volunteers in a good cause when ste. marie had gone, miss benham sat alone in the drawing-room for almost an hour. she had been stirred that afternoon more deeply than she thought she had ever been stirred before, and she needed time to regain that cool poise, that mental equilibrium, which was normal to her and necessary for coherent thought. she was still in a sort of fever of bewilderment and exaltation, still all aglow with the man's own high fervor; but the second self which so often sat apart from her, and looked on with critical, mocking eyes, whispered that to-morrow, the fever past, the fervor cooled, she must see the thing in its true light--a glorious lunacy born of a moment of enthusiasm. it was finely romantic of him, this mocking second self whispered to her--picturesque beyond criticism--but, setting aside the practical folly of it, could even the mood last? the girl rose to her feet with an angry exclamation. she found herself intolerable at such times as this. "if there's a heaven," she cried out, "and by chance i ever go there, i suppose i shall walk sneering through the streets and saying to myself: 'oh yes, it's pretty enough, but how absurd and unpractical!'" she passed before one of the small, narrow mirrors which were let into the walls of the room in gilt louis seize frames with candles beside them, and she turned and stared at her very beautiful reflection with a resentful wonder. "shall i always drag along so far behind him?" she said. "shall i never rise to him, save in the moods of an hour?" she began suddenly to realize what the man's going away meant--that she might not see him again for weeks, months, even a year. for was it at all likely that he could succeed in what he had undertaken? "why did i let him go?" she cried. "oh, fool, fool, to let him go!" but even as she said it she knew that she could not have held him back. she began to be afraid, not for him, but of herself. he had taught her what it might be to love. for the first time love's premonitory thrill--promise of unspeakable, uncomprehended mysteries--had wrung her, and the echo of that thrill stirred in her yet; but what might not happen in his long absence? she was afraid of that critical and analyzing power of mind which she had so long trained to attack all that came to her. what might it not work with the new thing that had come? to what pitiful shreds might it not be rent while he who only could renew it was away? she looked ahead at the weeks and months to come, and she was terribly afraid. she went out of the room and up to her grandfather's chamber and knocked there. the admirable peters, who opened to her, said that his master had not been very well, and was just then asleep, but as they spoke together in low tones the old gentleman cried, testily, from within: "well? well? who's there? who wants to see me? who is it?" miss benham went into the dim, shaded room, and when old david saw who it was he sank back upon his pillows with a pacified growl. he certainly looked ill, and he had grown thinner and whiter within the past month, and the lines in his waxlike face seemed to be deeper scored. the girl went up beside the bed and stood there a moment, after she had bent over and kissed her grandfather's cheek, stroking with her hand the absurdly gorgeous mandarin's jacket--an imperial yellow one this time. "isn't this new?" she asked. "i seem never to have seen this one before. it's quite wonderful." the old gentleman looked down at it with the pride of a little girl over her first party frock. he came as near simpering as a fierce person of eighty-six, with a square white beard, can come. "rather good--what? what?" said he. "yes, it's new. de vries sent it me. it is my best one. imperial yellow. did you notice the little show medallions with the swastika? young ste. marie was here this afternoon." he introduced the name with no pause or change of expression, as if ste. marie were a part of the decoration of the mandarin's jacket. "i told him he was a damned fool." "yes," said miss benham, "i know. he said you did. i suppose," she said, "that in a sort of very informal fashion i am engaged to him. well, no, perhaps not quite that; but he seems to consider himself engaged to me, and when he has finished something very important that he has undertaken to do he is coming to ask me definitely to marry him. no, i suppose we aren't engaged yet; at least, i'm not. but it's almost the same, because i suppose i shall accept him whether he fails or succeeds in what he is doing." "if he fails in it, whatever it may be," said old david, "he won't give you a chance to accept him; he won't come back. i know him well enough for that. he's a romantic fool, but he's a thoroughgoing fool. he plays the game." the old man looked up to his granddaughter, scowling a little. "you two are absurdly unsuited to each other," said he, "and i told ste. marie so. i suppose you think you're in love with him." "yes," said the girl, "i suppose i do." "idleness and all? you were rather severe on idleness at one time." "he isn't idle any more," said she. "he has undertaken--of his own accord--to find arthur. he has some theory about it; and he is not going to see me again until he has succeeded--or until a year is past. if he fails, i fancy he won't come back." old david gave a sudden hoarse exclamation, and his withered hands shook and stirred before him. afterward he fell to half-inarticulate muttering. "the young romantic fool!--don quixote--like all the rest of them--those ste. maries. the fool and the angels. the angels and the fool." the girl distinguished words from time to time. for the most part, he mumbled under his breath. but when he had been silent a long time, he said, suddenly: "it would be ridiculously like him to succeed." the girl gave a little sigh. "i wish i dared hope for it," said she. "i wish i dared hope for it." she had left a book that she wanted in the drawing-room, and, when presently her grandfather fell asleep in his fitful manner, she went down after it. in crossing the hall she came upon captain stewart, who was dressed for the street and had his hat and stick in his hands. he did not live in his father's house, for he had a little flat in the rue du faubourg st. honoré, but he was in and out a good deal. he paused when he saw his niece, and smiled upon her a benignant smile which she rather disliked, because she disliked benignant people. the two really saw very little of each other, though captain stewart often sat for hours together with his sister, up in a little boudoir which she had furnished in the execrable taste which to her meant comfort, while that timid and colorless lady embroidered strange tea cloths with stranger flora, and prattled about the heathen, in whom she had an academic interest. he said: "ah, my dear! it's you?" indisputably it was, and there seemed to be no use of denying it, so miss benham said nothing, but waited for the man to go on if he had more to say. "i dropped in," he continued, "to see my father, but they told me he was asleep, and so i didn't disturb him. i talked a little while with your mother instead." "i have just come from him," said miss benham. "he dozed off again as i left. still, if you had anything in particular to tell him, he'd be glad to be wakened, i fancy. there's no news?" "no," said captain stewart, sadly--"no, nothing. i do not give up hope, but i am, i confess, a little discouraged." "we are all that, i should think," said miss benham, briefly. she gave him a little nod and turned away into the drawing-room. her uncle's peculiar dry manner irritated her at times beyond bearing, and she felt that this was one of the times. she had never had any reason for doubting that he was a good and kindly soul, but she disliked him because he bored her. her mother bored her, too--the poor woman bored everybody--but the sense of filial obligation was strong enough in the girl to prevent her from acknowledging this even to herself. in regard to her uncle she had no sense of obligation whatever, except to be as civil to him as possible, and so she kept out of his way. she heard the heavy front door close, and gave a little sigh of relief. "if he had come in here and tried to talk to me," she said, "i should have screamed." * * * * * meanwhile ste. marie, a man moving in a dream, uplifted, cloud-enwrapped, made his way homeward. he walked all the long distance--that is, looking backward upon it, later, he thought he must have walked, but the half-hour was a blank to him, an indeterminate, a chaotic whirl of things and emotions. in the little flat in the rue d'assas he came upon richard hartley, who, having found the door unlocked and the master of the place absent, had sat comfortably down, with a pipe and a stack of _couriers français_, to wait. ste. marie burst into the doorway of the room where his friend sat at ease. hat, gloves, and stick fell away from him in a sort of shower. he extended his arms high in the air. his face was, as it were, luminous. the englishman regarded him morosely. he said: "you look as if somebody had died and left you money. what the devil you looking like that for?" "hé!" cried ste. marie, in a great voice. "hé, the world is mine! embrace me, my infant! sacred name of a pig, why do you sit there? embrace me!" he began to stride about the room, his head between his hands. speech lofty and ridiculous burst from him in a sort of splutter of fireworks, but the englishman sat still in his chair, and a gray, bleak look came upon him, for he began to understand. he was more or less used to these outbursts, and he bore them as patiently as he could, but though seven times out of the ten they were no more than spasms of pure joy of living, and meant, "it's a fine spring day," or "i've just seen two beautiful princesses of milliners in the street," an inner voice told him that this time it meant another thing. quite suddenly he realized that he had been waiting for this--bracing himself against its onslaught. he had not been altogether blind through the past month. ste. marie seized him and dragged him from his chair. "dance, lump of flesh! dance, sacred english rosbif that you are! sing, gros polisson! sing!" abruptly, as usual, the mania departed from him, but not the glory; his eyes shone bright and triumphant. "ah, my old," said he, "i am near the stars at last. my feet are on the top rungs of the ladder. tell me that you are glad!" the englishman drew a long breath. "i take it," said he, "that means that you're--that she has accepted you, eh?" he held out his hand. he was a brave and honest man. even in pain he was incapable of jealousy. he said: "i ought to want to murder you, but i don't. i congratulate you. you're an undeserving beggar, but so were the rest of us. it was an open field, and you've won quite honestly. my best wishes!" then at last ste. marie understood, and in a flash the glory went out of his face. he cried: "ah, mon cher ami! pig that i am to forget. pig! pig! animal!" the other man saw that tears had sprung to his eyes, and was horribly embarrassed to the very bottom of his good british soul. "yes! yes!" he said, gruffly. "quite so, quite so! no consequence!" he dragged his hands away from ste. marie's grasp, stuck them in his pockets, and turned to the window beside which he had been sitting. it looked out over the sweet green peace of the luxembourg gardens, with their winding paths and their clumps of trees and shrubbery, their flaming flower-beds, their groups of weather-stained sculpture. a youth in laborer's corduroys and an unclean beret strolled along under the high palings; one arm was about the ample waist of a woman somewhat the youth's senior, but, as ever, love was blind. the youth carolled in a high, clear voice, "vous êtes si jolie," a song of abundant sentiment, and the woman put up one hand and patted his cheek. so they strolled on and turned up into the rue vavin. ste. marie, across the room, looked at his friend's square back, and knew that in his silent way the man was suffering. a great sadness, the recoil from his trembling heights of bliss, came upon him and enveloped him. was it true that one man's joy must inevitably be another's pain? he tried to imagine himself in hartley's place, hartley in his, and he gave a little shiver. he knew that if that bouleversement were actually to take place he would be as glad for his friend's sake as poor hartley was now for his, but he knew also that the smile of congratulation would be a grimace of almost intolerable pain, and so he knew what hartley's black hour must be like. "you must forgive me," he said. "i had forgotten. i don't know why. well, yes, happiness is a very selfish state of mind, i suppose. one thinks of nothing but one's self--and one other. i--during this past month i've been in the clouds. you must forgive me." the englishman turned back into the room. ste. marie saw that his face was as completely devoid of expression as it usually was, that his hands, when he chose and lighted a cigarette, were quite steady, and he marvelled. that would have been impossible for him under such circumstances. "she has accepted you, i take it?" said hartley again. "not quite that," said he. "sit down and i'll tell you about it." so he told him about his hour with miss benham, and about what had been agreed upon between them, and about what he had undertaken to do. "apart from wishing to do everything in this world that i can do to make her happy," he said--"and she will never be at peace again until she knows the truth about her brother--apart from that, i'm purely selfish in the thing. i've got to win her respect, as well as--the rest. i want her to respect me, and she has never quite done that. i'm an idler. so are you, but you have a perfectly good excuse. i have not. i've been an idler because it suited me, because nothing turned up, and because i have enough to eat without working for my living. i know how she has felt about all that. well, she shall feel it no longer." "you're taking on a big order," said the other man. "the bigger the better," said ste. marie. "and i shall succeed in it or never see her again. i've sworn that." the odd look of exaltation that miss benham had seen in his face, the look of knightly fervor, came there again, and hartley saw it, and knew that the man was stirred by no transient whim. oddly enough he thought, as had the girl earlier in the day, of those elder ste. maries, who had taken sword and lance and gone out into a strange world--a place of unknown terrors--afire for the great adventure. and this was one of their blood. "i'm afraid you don't realize," he went on, "the difficulties you've got to face. better men than you have failed over this thing, you know." "a worse might nevertheless succeed," said ste. marie. and the other said: "yes. oh yes. and there's always luck to be considered, of course. you might stumble on some trace." he threw away his cigarette and lighted another, and he smoked it down almost to the end before he spoke. at last he said: "i want to tell you something. the reason why i want to tell it comes a little later. a few weeks before you returned to paris i asked miss benham to marry me." ste. marie looked up with a quick sympathy. "ah," said he. "i have sometimes thought--wondered. i have wondered if it went as far as that. of course, i could see that you had known her well, though you seldom go there nowadays." "yes," said hartley, "it went as far as that, but no farther. she--well, she didn't care for me--not in that way. so i stiffened my back and shut my mouth, and got used to the fact that what i'd hoped for was impossible. and now comes the reason for telling you what i've told. i want you to let me help you in what you're going to do--if you think you can, that is. remember, i--cared for her, too. i'd like to do something for her. it would never have occurred to me to do this until you thought of it, but i should like very much to lend a hand--do some of the work. d'you think you could let me in?" ste. marie stared at him in open astonishment, and, for an instant, something like dismay. "yes, yes! i know what you're thinking," said the englishman. "you'd hoped to do it all yourself. it's _your_ game. i know. well, it's your game even if you let me come in. i'm just a helper. some one to run errands. some one, perhaps, to take counsel with now and then. look at it on the practical side. two heads are certainly better than one. certainly i could be of use to you. and besides--well, i want to do something for her. i--cared, too, you see. d'you think you could take me in?" it was the man's love that made his appeal irresistible. no one could appeal to ste. marie on that score in vain. it was true that he had hoped to work alone--to win or lose alone; to stand, in this matter, quite on his own feet; but he could not deny the man who had loved her and lost her. ste. marie thrust out his hand. "you love her, too!" he said. "that is enough. we work together. i have a possibly foolish idea that if we can find a certain man we will learn something about arthur benham. i'll tell you about it." but before he could begin the door-bell jangled. * * * * * vii captain stewart makes a kindly offer ste. marie scowled. "a caller would come singularly malapropos just now," said he. "i've half a mind not to go to the door. i want to talk this thing over with you." "whoever it is," objected hartley, "has been told by the concierge that you're at home. it may not be a caller, anyhow. it may be a parcel or something. you'd best go." so ste. marie went out into the little passage, blaspheming fluently the while. the englishman heard him open the outer door of the flat. he heard him exclaim, in great surprise: "ah, captain stewart! a great pleasure! come in! come in!" and he permitted himself a little blaspheming on his own account, for the visitor, as ste. marie had said, came most malapropos, and, besides, he disliked miss benham's uncle. he heard the american say: "i have been hoping for some weeks to give myself the pleasure of calling here, and to-day such an excellent pretext presented itself that i came straightaway." hartley heard him emit his mewing little laugh, and heard him say, with the elephantine archness affected by certain dry and middle-aged gentlemen: "i come with congratulations. my niece has told me all about it. lucky young man! ah--" he reached the door of the inner room and saw richard hartley standing by the window, and he began to apologize profusely, saying that he had had no idea that ste. marie was not alone. but ste. marie said: "it doesn't in the least matter. i have no secrets from hartley. indeed, i have just been talking with him about this very thing." but for all that he looked curiously at the elder man, and it struck him as very odd that miss benham should have gone straight to her uncle and told him all this. it did not seem in the least like her, especially as he knew the two were on no terms of intimacy. he decided that she must have gone up to her grandfather's room to discuss it with that old gentleman--a reasonable enough hypothesis--and that captain stewart must have come in during the discussion. quite evidently he had wasted no time in setting out upon his errand of congratulation. "then," said captain stewart, "if i am to be good-naturedly forgiven for my stupidity, let me go on and say, in my capacity as a member of the family, that the news pleased me very much. i was glad to hear it." he shook ste. marie's hand, looking very benignant indeed, and ste. marie was quite overcome with pleasure and gratitude; it seemed to him such a very kindly act in the elder man. he produced things to smoke and drink, and captain stewart accepted a cigarette and mixed himself a rather stiff glass of absinthe--it was between five and six o'clock. "and now," said he, when he was at ease in the most comfortable of the low cane chairs, and the glass of opalescent liquor was properly curdled and set at hand--"now, having congratulated you and--ah, welcomed you, if i may put it so, as a probable future member of the family--i turn to the other feature of the affair." he had an odd trick of lowering his head and gazing benevolently upon an auditor as if over the top of spectacles. it was one of his elderly ways. he beamed now upon ste. marie in this manner, and, after a moment, turned and beamed upon richard hartley, who gazed stolidly back at him without expression. "you have determined, i hear," said he, "to join us in our search for poor arthur. good! good! i welcome you there, also." ste. marie stirred uneasily in his chair. "well," said he, "in a sense, yes. that is, i've determined to devote myself to the search, and hartley is good enough to offer to go in with me; but i think, if you don't mind--of course, i know it's very presumptuous and doubtless idiotic of us--but, if you don't mind, i think we'll work independently. you see--well, i can't quite put it into words, but it's our idea to succeed or fail quite by our own efforts. i dare say we shall fail, but it won't be for lack of trying." captain stewart looked disappointed. "oh, i think--" said he. "pardon me for saying it, but i think you're rather foolish to do that." he waved an apologetic hand. "of course, i comprehend your excellent motive. yes, as you say, you want to succeed quite on your own. but look at the practical side! you'll have to go over all the weary weeks of useless labor we have gone over. we could save you that. we have examined and followed up, and at last given over, a hundred clews that on the surface looked quite possible of success. you'll be doing that all over again. in short, my dear friend, you will merely be following along a couple of months behind us. it seems to me a pity. i sha'n't like to see you wasting your time and efforts." he dropped his eyes to the glass of pernod which stood beside him, and he took it in his hand and turned it slowly and watched the light gleam in strange pearl colors upon it. he glanced up again with a little smile which the two younger men found oddly pathetic. "i should like to see you succeed," said captain stewart. "i like to see youth and courage and high hope succeed." he said: "i am past the age of romance, though i am not so very old in years. romance has passed me by, but--i love it still. it still stirs me surprisingly when i see it in other people--young people who are simple and earnest, and who--and who are in love." he laughed gently, still turning the glass in his hand. "i am afraid you will call me a sentimentalist," he said, "and an elderly sentimentalist is, as a rule, a ridiculous person. ridiculous or not, though, i have rather set my heart on your success in this undertaking. who knows? you may succeed where we others have failed. youth has such a way of charging in and carrying all before it by assault--such a way of overleaping barriers that look unsurmountable to older eyes! youth! youth! eh, my god," said he, "to be young again, just for a little while! to feel the blood beat strong and eager! never to be tired! eh, to be like one of you youngsters! you, ste. marie, or you, hartley! there's so little left for people when youth is gone!" he bent his head again, staring down upon the glass before him, and for a while there was a silence which neither of the younger men cared to break. "don't refuse a helping hand," said captain stewart, looking up once more. "don't be over-proud. i may be able to set you upon the right path. not that i have anything definite to work upon--i haven't, alas! but each day new clews turn up. one day we shall find the real one, and that may be one that i have turned over to you to follow out. one never knows." ste. marie looked across at richard hartley, but that gentleman was blowing smoke-rings and to all outward appearance giving them his entire attention. he looked back to captain stewart, and stewart's eyes regarded him, smiling a little wistfully, he thought. ste. marie scowled out of the window at the trees of the luxembourg gardens. "i hardly know," said he. "of course, i sound a braying ass in hesitating even a moment; but, in a way, you understand, i'm so anxious to do this or to fail in it quite on my own. you're--so tremendously kind about it that i don't know what to say. i must seem very ungrateful, i know; but i'm not." "no," said the elder man, "you don't seem ungrateful at all. i understand exactly how you feel about it, and i applaud your feeling--but not your judgment. i am afraid that for the sake of a sentiment you're taking unnecessary risks of failure." for the first time richard hartley spoke. "i've an idea, you know," said he, "that it's going to be a matter chiefly of luck. one day somebody will stumble on the right trail, and that might as well be ste. marie or i as your trained detectives. if you don't mind my saying so, sir--i don't want to seem rude--your trained detectives do not seem to accomplish much in two months, do they?" captain stewart looked thoughtfully at the younger man. "no," he said, at last. "i am sorry to say they don't seem to have accomplished much--except to prove that there are a great many places poor arthur has _not_ been to and a great many people who have _not_ seen him. after all, that is something--the elimination of ground that need not be worked over again." he set down the glass from which he had been drinking. "i cannot agree with your theory," he said. "i cannot agree that such work as this is best left to an accidental solution. accidents are too rare. we have tried to go at it in as scientific a way as could be managed--by covering large areas of territory, by keeping the police everywhere on the alert, by watching the boy's old friends and searching his favorite haunts. personally, i am inclined to think that he managed to slip away to america very early in the course of events, before we began to search for him, and, of course, i am having a careful watch kept there as well as here. but no trace has appeared as yet--nothing at all trustworthy. meanwhile, i continue to hope and to work, but i grow a little discouraged. in any case, though, we shall hear of him in three months more if he is alive." "why three months?" asked ste. marie. "what do you mean by that?" "in three months," said captain stewart, "arthur will be of age, and he can demand the money left him by his father. if he is alive he will turn up for that. i have thought, from the first, that he is merely hiding somewhere until this time should be past. he--you must know that he went away very angry, after a quarrel with his grandfather? my father is not a patient man. he may have been very harsh with the boy." "ah, yes," said hartley; "but no boy, however young or angry, would be foolish enough to risk an absolute break with the man who is going to leave him a large fortune. young benham must know that his grandfather would never forgive him for staying away all this time if he stayed away of his own accord. he must know that he'd be taking tremendous risks of being cut off altogether." "and besides," added ste. marie, "it is quite possible that your father, sir, may die at any time--any hour. and he's very angry at his grandson. he may have cut him off already." captain stewart's eyes sharpened suddenly, but he dropped them to the glass in his hand. "have you any reason for thinking that?" he asked. "no," said ste. marie. "i beg your pardon. i shouldn't have said it. that is a matter which concerns your family alone. i forgot myself. the possibility occurred to me suddenly for the first time." but the elder man looked up at him with a smile. "pray don't apologize," said he. "surely we three can speak frankly together! and, frankly, i know nothing of my father's will. but i don't think he would cut poor arthur off, though he is, of course, very angry about the boy's leaving in the manner he did. no, i am sure he wouldn't cut him off. he was fond of the lad, very fond--as we all were." captain stewart glanced at his watch and rose with a little sigh. "i must be off," said he. "i have to dine out this evening, and i must get home to change. there is a cabstand near you?" he looked out of the window. "ah, yes! just at the corner of the gardens." he turned about to ste. marie, and held out his hand with a smile. he said: "you refuse to join forces with us, then? well, i'm sorry. but, for all that, i wish you luck. go your own way, and i hope you'll succeed. i honestly hope that, even though your success may show me up for an incompetent bungler." he gave a little kindly laugh, and ste. marie tried to protest. "still," said the elder man, "don't throw me over altogether. if i can help you in any way, little or big, let me know. if i can give you any hints, any advice, anything at all, i want to do it. and if you happen upon what seems to be a promising clew come and talk it over with me. oh, don't be afraid! i'll leave it to you to work out. i sha'n't spoil your game." "ah, now, that's very good of you," said ste. marie. "only you make me seem more than ever an ungrateful fool. thanks, i will come to you with my troubles if i may. i have a foolish idea that i want to follow out a little first, but doubtless i shall be running to you soon for information." the elder man's eyes sharpened again with keen interest. "an idea!" he said, quickly. "you have an idea? what--may i ask what sort of an idea?" "oh, it's nothing," declared ste. marie. "you have already laughed at it. i just want to find that man o'hara, that's all. i've a feeling that i should learn something from him." "ah!" said captain stewart, slowly. "yes, the man o'hara. there's nothing in that, i'm afraid. i've made inquiries about o'hara. it seems he left paris six months ago, saying he was off for america. an old friend of his told me that. so you must have been mistaken when you thought you saw him in the champs-elysées; and he couldn't very well have had anything to do with poor arthur. i'm afraid that idea is hardly worth following up." "perhaps not," said ste. marie. "i seem to start badly, don't i? ah, well, i'll have to come to you all the sooner, then." "you'll be welcome," promised captain stewart. "good-bye to you! good-day, hartley. come and see me, both of you. you know where i live." he took his leave then, and hartley, standing beside the window, watched him turn down the street, and at the corner get into one of the fiacres there and drive away. ste. marie laughed aloud. "there's the second time," said he, "that i've had him about o'hara. if he is as careless as that about everything, i don't wonder he hasn't found arthur benham. o'hara disappeared from paris--publicly, that is--at about the time young benham disappeared. as a matter of fact, he remains, or at least for a time remained, in the city without letting his friends know, because i made no mistake about seeing him in the champs-elysées. all that looks to me suspicious enough to be worth investigation. of course," he admitted, doubtfully--"of course, i'm no detective; but that's how it looks to me." "i don't believe stewart is any detective, either," said richard hartley. "he's altogether too cocksure. that sort of man would rather die than admit he is wrong about anything. he's a good old chap, though, isn't he? i liked him to-day better than ever before. i thought he was rather pathetic when he went on about his age." "he has a good heart," said ste. marie. "very few men under the circumstances would come here and be as decent as he was. most men would have thought i was a presumptuous ass, and would have behaved accordingly." ste. marie took a turn about the room, and his face began to light up with its new excitement and exaltation. "and to-morrow!" he cried--"to-morrow we begin! to-morrow we set out into the world and the adventure is on foot! god send it success!" he laughed across at the other man; but it was a laugh of eagerness, not of mirth. "i feel," said he, "like jason. i feel as if we were to set sail to-morrow for colchis and the golden fleece." "y-e-s," said the other man, a little dryly--"yes, perhaps. i don't want to seem critical, but isn't your figure somewhat ill chosen?" "'ill chosen'?" cried ste. marie. "what d'you mean? why ill chosen?" "i was thinking of medea," said richard hartley. * * * * * viii jason meets with a misadventure and dreams a dream so on the next day these two rode forth upon their quest, and no quest was ever undertaken with a stouter courage or with a grimmer determination to succeed. to put it fancifully, they burned their tower behind them, for to one of them, at least--to him who led--there was no going back. but, after all, they set forth under a cloud, and ste. marie took a heavy heart with him. on the evening before an odd and painful incident had befallen--a singularly unfortunate incident. it chanced that neither of the two men had a dinner engagement that evening, and so, after their old habit, they dined together. there was some wrangling over where they should go, hartley insisting upon armenonville or the madrid, in the bois, ste. marie objecting that these would be full of tourists so late in june, and urging the claims of some quiet place in the quarter, where they could talk instead of listening perforce to loud music. in the end, for no particular reason, they compromised on the little spanish restaurant in the rue helder. they went there about eight o'clock, without dressing, for it is a very quiet place which the world does not visit, and they had a sopa de yerbas, and some langostinos, which are shrimps, and a heavenly arroz, with fowl in it, and many tender, succulent strips of red pepper. they had a salad made out of a little of everything that grows green, with the true spanish oil, which has a tang and a bouquet unappreciated by the philistine; and then they had a strange pastry and some cheese and green almonds. and to make then glad, they drank a bottle of old red valdepenas, and afterward a glass each of a special manzanilla, upon which the restaurant very justly prides itself. it was a simple dinner and a little stodgy for that time of the year, but the two men were hungry and sat at table, almost alone in the upper room, for a long time, saying how good everything was, and from time to time despatching the saturnine waiter, a madrileno, for more peppers. when at last they came out into the narrow street, and thence to the thronged boulevard des italiens, it was nearly eleven o'clock. they stood for a little time in the shelter of a kiosk, looking down the boulevard to where the place de l'opéra opened wide and the lights of the café de la paix shone garish in the night. and ste. marie said: "there's a street fête in montmartre. we might drive home that way." "an excellent idea," said the other man. "the fact that montmartre lies in an opposite direction from home makes the plan all the better. and after that we might drive home through the bois. that's much farther in the wrong direction. lead on!" so they sprang into a waiting fiacre, and were dragged up the steep, stone-paved hill to the heights, where la bohême still reigns, though the glory of moulin rouge has departed and the trail of the tourist is over all. they found montmartre very much en fête. in the place blanche were two of the enormous and brilliantly lighted merry-go-rounds, which only paris knows--one furnished with stolid cattle, theatrical-looking horses, and russian sleighs; the other with the ever-popular galloping pigs. when these dreadful machines were in rotation, mechanical organs, concealed somewhere in their bowels, emitted hideous brays and shrieks which mingled with the shrieks of the ladies mounted upon the galloping pigs, and together insulted a peaceful sky. the square was filled with that extremely heterogeneous throng which the parisian street fête gathers together, but it was, for the most part, a well-dressed throng, largely recruited from the boulevards, and it was quite determined to have a very good time in the cheerful, harmless latin fashion. the two men got down from their fiacre and elbowed a way through the good-natured crowd to a place near the more popular of the merry-go-rounds. the machine was in rotation. its garish lights shone and glittered, its hidden mechanical organ blared a german waltz tune, the huge, pink-varnished pigs galloped gravely up and down as the platform upon which they were mounted whirled round and round. a little group of american trippers, sight-seeing with a guide, stood near by, and one of the group, a pretty girl with red hair, demanded plaintively of the friend upon whose arm she hung: "do you think momma would be shocked if we took a ride? wouldn't i love to!" hartley turned, laughing, from this distressed maiden to ste. marie. he was wondering, with mild amusement, why anybody should wish to do such a foolish thing; but ste. marie's eyes were fixed upon the galloping pigs, and the eyes shone with a wistful excitement. to tell the truth, it was impossible for him to look on at any form of active amusement without thirsting to join it. a joyous and carefree lady in a blue hat, who was mounted astride upon one of the pigs, hurled a paper serpentine at him and shrieked with delight when it knocked his hat off. "that's the second time she has hit me with one of those things," he said, groping about his feet for the hat. "here, stop that boy with the basket!" a vendor of the little rolls of paper ribbon was shouting his wares through the crowd. ste. marie filled his pockets with the things, and when the lady with the blue hat came round, on the next turn, lassoed her neatly about the neck and held the end of the ribbon till it broke. then he caught a fat gentleman, who was holding himself on by his steed's neck, in the ear, and the red-haired american girl laughed aloud. "when the thing stops," said ste. marie, "i'm going to take a ride--just one ride. i haven't ridden a pig for many years." hartley jeered at him, calling him an infant, but ste. marie bought more serpentines, and when the platform came to a stop clambered up to it and mounted the only unoccupied pig he could find. his friend still scoffed at him and called him names, but ste. marie tucked his long legs round the pig's neck and smiled back, and presently the machine began again to revolve. at the end of the first revolution hartley gave a shout of delight, for he saw that the lady with the blue hat had left her mount and was making her way along the platform toward where ste. marie sat hurling serpentines in the face of the world. by the next time round she had come to where he was, mounted astride behind him, and was holding herself with one very shapely arm round his neck, while with the other she rifled his pockets for ammunition. ste. marie grinned, and the public, loud in its acclaims, began to pelt the two with serpentines until they were hung with many-colored ribbons like a christmas-tree. even richard hartley was so far moved out of the self-consciousness with which his race is cursed as to buy a handful of the common missiles, and the lady in the blue hat returned his attention with skill and despatch. but as the machine began to slacken its pace, and the hideous wail and blare of the concealed organ died mercifully down, hartley saw that his friend's manner had all at once altered, that he sat leaning forward away from the enthusiastic lady with the blue hat, and that the paper serpentines had dropped from his hands. hartley thought that the rapid motion must have made him a little giddy, but presently, before the merry-go-round had quite stopped, he saw the man leap down and hurry toward him through the crowd. ste. marie's face was grave and pale. he caught hartley's arm in his hand and turned him round, crying, in a low voice: "come out of this as quickly as you can! no, in the other direction. i want to get away at once!" "what's the matter?" hartley demanded. "lady in the blue hat too friendly? well, if you're going to play this kind of game you might as well play it." "helen benham was down there in the crowd," said ste. marie. "on the opposite side from you. she was with a party of people who got out of two motor-cars to look on. they were in evening things, so they had come from dinner somewhere, i suppose. she saw me." "the devil!" said hartley, under his breath. then he gave a shout of laughter, demanding: "well, what of it? you weren't committing any crime, were you? there's no harm in riding a silly pig in a silly merry-go-round. everybody does it in these fête things." but even as he spoke he knew how extremely unfortunate the meeting was, and the laughter went out of his voice. "i'm afraid," said ste. marie, "she won't see the humor of it. good god, what a thing to happen! _you_ know well enough what she'll think of me. at five o'clock this afternoon," he said, bitterly, "i left her with a great many fine, high-sounding words about the quest i was to give my days and nights to--for her sake. i went away from her like a--knight going into battle--consecrated. i tell you, there were tears in her eyes when i went. and _now_--now, at midnight--she sees me riding a galloping pig in a street fête with a girl from the boulevards sitting on the pig with me and holding me round the neck before a thousand people. what will she think of me? what but one thing can she possibly think? oh, i know well enough! i saw her face before she turned away. and," he cried, "i can't even go to her and explain--if there's anything to explain, and i suppose there is not. i can't even go to her. i've sworn not to see her." "oh, i'll do that," said the other man. "i'll explain it to her, if any explanation's necessary. i think you'll find that she will laugh at it." but ste. marie shook his head. "no, she won't," said he. and hartley could say no more; for he knew miss benham, and he was very much afraid that she would not laugh. they found a fiacre at the side of the square and drove home at once. they were almost entirely silent all the long way, for ste. marie was buried in gloom, and the englishman, after trying once or twice to cheer him up, realized that he was best left to himself just then, and so held his tongue. but in the rue d'assas, as ste. marie was getting down--hartley kept the fiacre to go on to his rooms in the avenue de l'observatoire--he made a last attempt to lighten the man's depression. he said: "don't you be a silly ass about this! you're making much too much of it, you know. i'll go to her to-morrow or next day and explain, and she'll laugh---if she hasn't already done so. you know," he said, almost believing it himself, "you are paying her a dashed poor compliment in thinking she's so dull as to misunderstand a little thing of this kind. yes, by jove, you are!" ste. marie looked up at him, and his face, in the light of the cab lamp, showed a first faint gleam of hope. "do you think so?" he demanded. "do you really think that? maybe i am. but--oh, lord, who would understand such an idiocy? sacred imbecile that i am! why was i ever born? i ask you." he turned abruptly, and began to ring at the door, casting a brief "good-night" over his shoulder. and after a moment hartley gave it up and drove away. above, in the long, shallow front room of his flat, with the three windows overlooking the gardens, ste. marie made lights, and after much rummaging unearthed a box of cigarettes of a peculiarly delectable flavor which had been sent him by a friend in the khedivial household. he allowed himself one or two of them now and then, usually in sorrowful moments, as an especial treat; and this seemed to him to be the moment for smoking all that were left. surely his need had never been greater. in england he had, of course, learned to smoke a pipe, but pipe-smoking always remained with him a species of accomplishment; it never brought him the deep and ruminative peace with which it enfolds the anglo-saxon heart. the "vieux jacob" of old-fashioned parisian bohemia inspired in him unconcealed horror, of cigars he was suspicious because, he said, most of the unpleasant people he knew smoked cigars, so he soothed his soul with cigarettes, and he was usually to be found with one between his fingers. he lighted one of the precious egyptians, and after a first ecstatic inhalation went across to one of the long windows, which was open, and stood there with his back to the room, his face to the peaceful, fragrant night. a sudden recollection came to him of that other night a month before when he had stood on the pont des invalides with his eyes upon the stars, his feet upon the ladder thereunto. his heart gave a sudden exultant leap within him when he thought how far and high he had climbed, but after the leap it shivered and stood still when this evening's misadventure came before him. would she ever understand? he had no fear that hartley would not do his best with her. hartley was as honest and as faithful as ever a friend was in this world. he would do his best. but even then--it was the girl's inflexible nature that made the matter so dangerous. he knew that she was inflexible, and he took a curious pride in it. he admired it. so must have been those calm-eyed, ancient ladies for whom other ste. maries went out to do battle. it was well-nigh impossible to imagine them lowering their eyes to silly revelry. they could not stoop to such as that. it was beneath their high dignity. and it was beneath hers also. as for himself, he was a thing of patches. here a patch of exalted chivalry--a noble patch--there a patch of bourgeois, childlike love of fun; here a patch of melancholic asceticism, there one of something quite the reverse. a hopeless patchwork he was. must she not shrink from him when she knew? he could not quite imagine her understanding the wholly trivial and meaningless impulse that had prompted him to ride a galloping pig and cast paper serpentines at the assembled world. apart from her view of the affair, he felt no shame in it. the moment of childish gayety had been but a passing mood. it had in no way slackened his tense enthusiasm, dulled the keenness of his spirit, lowered his high flight. he knew that well enough. but he wondered if she would understand, and he could not believe it possible. the mood of exaltation in which they had parted that afternoon came to him, and then the sight of her shocked face as he had seen it in the laughing crowd in the place blanche. "what must she think of me?" he cried, aloud. "what must she think of me?" so, for an hour or more, he stood in the open window staring into the fragrant night, or tramped up and down the long room, his hands behind his back, kicking out of his way the chairs and things which impeded him, torturing himself with fears and regrets and fancies, until at last, in a calmer moment, he realized that he was working himself up into an absurd state of nerves over something which was done and could not now be helped. the man had an odd streak of fatalism in his nature--that will have come of his southern blood--and it came to him now in his need. for the work upon which he was to enter with the morrow he had need of clear wits, not scattered ones; a calm judgment, not disordered nerves. so he took himself in hand, and it would have been amazing to any one unfamiliar with the abrupt changes of the latin temperament to see how suddenly ste. marie became quiet and cool and master of himself. "it is done," he said, with a little shrug, and if his face was for a moment bitter it quickly enough became impassive. "it is done, and it cannot be undone--unless hartley can undo it. and now, revenons à nos moutons! or, at least," said he, looking at his watch--and it was between one and two--"at least, to our beds!" so he went to bed, and, so well had he recovered from his fit of excitement, he fell asleep almost at once. but for all that the jangled nerves had their revenge. he who commonly slept like the dead, without the slightest disturbance, dreamed a strange dream. it seemed to him that he stood spent and weary in a twilight place--a waste place at the foot of a high hill. at the top of the hill she sat upon a sort of throne, golden in a beam of light from heaven--serene, very beautiful, the end and crown of his weary labors. his feet were set to the ascent of the height whereon she waited, but he was withheld. from the shadows at the hill's foot a voice called to him in distress, anguish of spirit--a voice he knew; but he could not say whose voice. it besought him out of utter need, and he could not turn away from it. then from those shadows eyes looked upon him, very great and dark eyes, and they besought him, too; he did not know what they asked, but they called to him like the low voice, and he could not turn away. he looked to the far height, and with all his power he strove to set his feet toward it--the goal of long labor and desire; but the eyes and the piteous voice held him motionless--for they needed him. from this anguish he awoke trembling. and after a long time, when he was composed, he fell asleep once more, and once more he dreamed the dream. so morning found him pallid and unrefreshed. but by daylight he knew whose eyes had besought him, and he wondered and was a little afraid. * * * * * ix jason goes upon a journey, and richard hartley pleads for him it may as well be admitted at the outset that neither ste. marie nor richard hartley proved themselves to be geniuses, hitherto undeveloped, in the detective science. they entered upon their self-appointed task with a fine fervor, but, as miss benham had suggested, with no other qualifications in particular. ste. marie had a theory that, when engaged in work of this nature, you went into questionable parts of the city, ate and drank cheek by jowl with questionable people--if possible, got them drunk while you remained sober (difficult feat), and sooner or later they said things which put you on the right road to your goal, or else confessed to you that they themselves had committed the particular crime in which you were interested. he argued that this was the way it happened in books, and that surely people didn't write books about things of which they were ignorant. hartley, on the other hand, preferred the newer, or scientific, methods. you sat at home with a pipe and a whiskey-and-water--if possible, in a long dressing-gown with a cord round its middle. you reviewed all the known facts of the case, and you did mathematics about them with xs and ys and many other symbols, and in the end, by a system of elimination, you proved that a certain thing must infallibly be true. the chief difficulty for him in this was, he said, that he had been at oxford instead of at cambridge, and so the mathematics were rather beyond him. in practice, however, they combined the two methods, which was doubtless as well as if they hadn't, because for some time they accomplished nothing whatever, and so neither one was able to sneer at the other's stupidity. this is not to say that they found nothing in the way of clews. they found an embarrassment of them, and for some days went about in a fever of excitement over these; but the fever cooled when clew after clew turned out to be misleading. of course, ste. marie's first efforts were directed toward tracing the movements of the irishman o'hara, but the efforts were altogether unavailing. the man seemed to have disappeared as noiselessly and completely as had young arthur benham himself. he was unable even to settle with any definiteness the time of the man's departure from paris. some of o'hara's old acquaintances maintained that they had seen the last of him two months before, but a shifty-eyed person in rather cheaply smart clothes came up to ste. marie one evening in maxim's and said he had heard that ste. marie was making inquiries about m. o'hara. ste. marie said he was, and that it was an affair of money; whereupon the cheaply smart individual declared that m. o'hara had left paris six months before to go to the united states of america, and that he had had a picture postal-card from him, some weeks since, from new york. the informant accepted an expensive cigar and a dubonnet by way of reward, but presently departed into the night, and ste. marie was left in some discouragement, his theory badly damaged. he spoke of this encounter to richard hartley, who came on later to join him, and hartley, after an interval of silence and smoke, said: "that was a lie! the man lied!" "name of a dog, why?" demanded ste. marie; but the englishman shrugged his shoulders. "i don't know," he said. "but i believe it was a lie. the man came to you--sought you out to tell his story, didn't he? and all the others have given a different date? well, there you are! for some reason, this man or some one behind him--o'hara himself, probably--wants you to believe that o'hara is in america. i dare say he's in paris all the while." "i hope you're right," said the other. "and i mean to make sure, too. it certainly was odd, this strange being hunting me out to tell me that. i wonder, by-the-way, how he knew i'd been making inquiries about o'hara. i've questioned only two or three people, and then in the most casual way. yes, it's odd." it was about a week after this--a fruitless week, full of the alternate brightness of hope and the gloom of disappointment--that he met captain stewart, to whom he had been, more than once, on the point of appealing. he happened upon him quite by chance one morning in the rue royale. captain stewart was coming out of a shop, a very smart-looking shop, devoted, as ste. marie, with some surprise and much amusement, observed, to ladies' hats, and the price of hats must have depressed him, for he looked in an ill humor, and older and more yellow than usual. but his face altered suddenly when he saw the younger man, and he stopped and shook ste. marie's hand with every evidence of pleasure. "well met! well met!" he exclaimed. "if you are not in a hurry, come and sit down somewhere and tell me about yourself." they picked their way across the street to the terrace of the taverne royale, which was almost deserted at that hour, and sat down at one of the little tables, well back from the pavement, in a corner. "is it fair," queried captain stewart--"is it fair, as a rival investigator, to ask you what success you have had?" ste. marie laughed rather ruefully, and confessed that he had as yet no success at all. "i've just come," said he, "from pricking one bubble that promised well, and hartley is up in montmartre destroying another, i fancy. oh, well, we didn't expect it to be child's play." captain stewart raised his little glass of dry vermouth in an old-fashioned salute and drank it. "you," said he--"you were--ah, full of some idea of connecting this man, this irishman o'hara, with poor arthur's disappearance. you've found that not so promising as you went on, i take it." "well, i've been unable to trace o'hara," said ste. marie. "he seems to have disappeared as completely as your nephew. i suppose you have no clews to spare? i confess i'm out of them at the moment." "oh, i have plenty," said the elder man. "a hundred. more than i can possibly look after." he gave a little chuckling laugh. "i've been waiting for you to come to me," he said. "it was a little ungenerous, perhaps, but we all love to say, 'i told you so.' yes, i have a great quantity of clews, and of course they all seem to be of the greatest and most exciting importance. that's a way clews have." he took an envelope from an inner pocket of his coat, and sorted several folded papers which were in it. "i have here," said he, "memoranda of two--chances, shall i call them?--which seem to me very good, though, as i have already said, every clew seems good. that is the maddening, the heart-breaking, part of such an investigation. i have made these brief notes from letters received, one yesterday, one the day before, from an agent of mine who has been searching the bains de mer of the north coast. this agent writes that some one very much resembling poor arthur has been seen at dinard and also at deauville, and he urges me to come there or to send a man there at once to look into the matter. you will ask, of course, why this agent himself does not pursue the clew he has found. unfortunately, he has been called to london upon some pressing family matter of his own; he is an englishman." "why haven't you gone yourself?" asked ste. marie. but the elder man shrugged his shoulders and smiled a tired, deprecatory smile. "oh, my friend," said he, "if i should attempt personally to investigate one-half of these things, i should be compelled to divide myself into twenty parts. no, i must stay here. there must be, alas! the spider at the centre of the web. i cannot go; but if you think it worth while, i will gladly turn over the memoranda of these last clews to you. they may be the true clews, they may not. at any rate, some one must look into them. why not you and your partner--or shall i say assistant?" "why, thank you!" cried ste. marie. "a thousand thanks! of course, i shall be--we shall be glad to try this chance. on the face of it, it sounds very reasonable. your nephew, from what i remember of him, is much more apt to be in some place that is amusing, some place of gayety, than hiding away where it is merely dull, if he has his choice in the matter--that is, if he is free. and yet--" he turned and frowned thoughtfully at the elder man. "what i want to know," said he, "is how the boy is supporting himself all this time? you say he had no money, or very little, when he went away. how is he managing to live if your theory is correct--that he is staying away of his own accord? it costs a lot of money to live as he likes to live." captain stewart nodded. "oh, that," said he--"that is a question i have often proposed to myself. frankly, it's beyond me. i can only surmise that poor arthur, who had scattered a small fortune about in foolish loans, managed, before he actually disappeared (mind you, we didn't begin to look for him until a week had gone by)--managed to collect some of this money, and so went away with something in pocket. that, of course, is only a guess." "it is possible," said ste. marie, doubtfully, "but--i don't know. it is not very easy to raise money from the sort of people i imagine your nephew to have lent it to. they borrow, but they don't repay." he glanced up with a half-laughing, half-defiant air. "i can't," said he, "rid myself of a belief that the boy is here in paris, and that he is not free to come or go. it's only a feeling, but it is very strong in me. of course, i shall follow out these clews you've been so kind as to give me. i shall go to dinard and deauville, and hartley, i imagine, will go with me, but i haven't great confidence in them." captain stewart regarded him reflectively for a time, and in the end he smiled. "if you will pardon my saying it," he said, "your attitude is just a little womanlike. you put away reason for something vaguely intuitive. i always distrust intuition myself." ste. marie frowned a little and looked uncomfortable. he did not relish being called womanlike--few men do; but he was bound to admit that the elder man's criticism was more or less just. "moreover," pursued captain stewart, "you altogether ignore the point of motive--as i may have suggested to you before. there could be no possible motive, so far as i am aware, for kidnapping or detaining, or in any way harming, my nephew except the desire for money; but, as you know, he had no large sum of money with him, and no demand has been made upon us since his disappearance. i'm afraid you can't get round that." "no," said ste. marie, "i'm afraid i can't. indeed, leaving that aside--and it can't be left aside--i still have almost nothing with which to prop up my theory. i told you it was only a feeling." he took up the memoranda which captain stewart had laid upon the marble-topped table between them, and read the notes through. "please," said he, "don't think i am ungrateful for this chance. i am not. i shall do my best with it, and i hope it may turn out to be important." he gave a little wry smile. "i have all sorts of reasons," he said, "for wishing to succeed as soon as possible. you may be sure that there won't be any delays on my part. and now i must be going on. i am to meet hartley for lunch on the other side of the river, and, if we can manage it, i should like to start north this afternoon or evening." "good!" said captain stewart, smiling. "good! that is what i call true promptness. you lose no time at all. go to dinard and deauville, by all means, and look into this thing thoroughly. don't be discouraged if you meet with ill success at first. take mr. hartley with you, and do your best." he paid for the two glasses of apéritif, and ste. marie could not help observing that he left on the table a very small tip. the waiter cursed him audibly as the two walked away. "if you have returned by a week from to-morrow," he said, as they shook hands, "i should like to have you keep that evening--thursday--for me. i am having a very informal little party in my rooms. there will be two or three of the opera people there, and they will sing for us, and the others will be amusing enough. all young--all young. i like young people about me." he gave his odd little mewing chuckle. "and the ladies must be beautiful as well as young. come if you are here! i'll drop a line to mr. hartley also." he shook ste. marie's hand, and went away down the street toward the rue du faubourg st. honoré where he lived. ste. marie met hartley as he expected to do, at lunch, and they talked over the possibilities of the dinard and deauville expedition. in the end they decided that ste. marie should go alone, but that he was to telegraph, later on, if the clew looked promising. hartley had two or three investigations on foot in paris, and stayed on to complete these. also he wished, as soon as possible, to see helen benham and explain ste. marie's ride on the galloping pigs. ten days had elapsed since that evening, but miss benham had gone into the country the next day to make a visit at the de saulnes' château on the oise. so ste. marie packed a portmanteau with clothes and things, and departed by a mid-afternoon train to dinard, and toward five richard hartley walked down to the rue de i'université. he thought it just possible that miss benham might by now have returned to town, but if not he meant to have half an hour's chat with old david stewart, whom he had not seen for some weeks. at the door he learned that mademoiselle was that very day returned and was at home. so he went in to the drawing-room, reserving his visit to old david until later. he found the room divided into two camps. at one side mrs. benham conversed in melancholic monotones with two elderly french ladies who were clad in depressing black of a dowdiness surpassed only in english provincial towns. it was as if the three mourned together over the remains of some dear one who lay dead among them. hartley bowed low, with an uncontrollable shiver, and turned to the tea-table, where miss benham sat in the seat of authority, flanked by a young american lady whom he had met before, and by baron de vries, whom he had not seen since the evening of the de saulnes' dinner-party. miss benham greeted him with evident pleasure, and to his great delight remembered just how he liked his tea--three pieces of sugar and no milk. it always flatters a man when his little tastes of this sort are remembered. the four fell at once into conversation together, and the young american lady asked hartley why ste. marie was not with him. "i thought you two always went about together," she said--"were never seen apart and all that--a sort of modern damon and phidias." hartley caught baron de vries' eye, and looked away again hastily. "my--ah, phidias," said he, resisting an irritable desire to correct the lady, "got mislaid to-day. it sha'n't happen again, i promise you. he's a very busy person just now, though. he hasn't time for social dissipation. i'm the butterfly of the pair." the lady gave a sudden laugh. "he was busy enough the last time i saw him," she said, crinkling her eyelids. she turned to miss benham. "do you remember that evening we were going home from the madrid and motored round by montmartre to see the fête?" "yes," said miss benham, unsmiling, "i remember." "your friend ste. marie," said the american lady to hartley, "was distinctly the lion of the fête--at the moment we arrived, anyhow. he was riding a galloping pig and throwing those paper streamer things--what do you call them?--with both hands, and a genial lady in a blue hat was riding the same pig and helping him out. it was just like the _vie de bohème_ and the other books. i found it charming." baron de vries emitted an amused chuckle. "that was very like ste. marie," he said. "ste. marie is a very exceptional young man. he can be an angel one moment, a child playing with toys the next, and--well, a rather commonplace social favorite the third. it all comes of being romantic--imaginative. ste. marie--i know nothing about this evening of which you speak, but ste. marie is quite capable of stopping on his way to a funeral to ride a galloping pig--or on his way to his own wedding. and the pleasant part of it is," said baron de vries, "that the lad would turn up at either of these two ceremonies not a bit the worse, outside or in, for his ride." "ah, now, that's an oddly close shot," said hartley. he paused a moment, looking toward miss benham, and said: "i beg pardon! were you going to speak?" "no," said miss benham, moving the things about on the tea-table before her, and looking down at them. "no, not at all!" "you came oddly close to the truth," the man went on, turning back to baron de vries. he was speaking for helen benham's ears, and he knew she would understand that, but he did not wish to seem to be watching her. "i was with ste. marie on that evening," he said. "no, i wasn't riding a pig, but i was standing down in the crowd throwing serpentines at the people who were. and i happen to know that he--that ste. marie was on that day, that evening, more deeply concerned about something, more absolutely wrapped up in it, devoted to it, than i have ever known him to be about anything since i first knew him. the galloping pig was an incident that made, except for the moment, no impression whatever upon him." hartley nodded his head. "yes," said he, "ste. marie can be an angel one moment and a child playing with toys the next. when he sees toys he always plays with them, and he plays hard, but when he drops them they go completely out of his mind." the american lady laughed. "gracious me!" she cried. "you two are emphatic enough about him, aren't you?" "we know him," said baron de vries. hartley rose to replace his empty cup on the tea-table. miss benham did not meet his eyes, and as he moved away again she spoke to her friend about something they were going to do on the next day, so hartley went across to where baron de vries sat at a little distance, and took a place beside him on the chaise lounge. the belgian greeted him with raised eyebrows and the little, half-sad, half-humorous smile which was characteristic of him in his gentler moments. "you were defending our friend with a purpose," he said, in a low voice. "good! i am afraid he needs it--here." the younger man hesitated a moment. then he said: "i came on purpose to do that. ste. marie knows that she saw him on that confounded pig. he was half wild with distress over it, because--well, the meeting was singularly unfortunate just then. i can't explain--" "you needn't explain," said the belgian, gravely. "i know. helen told me some days ago, though she did not mention this encounter. yes, defend him with all your power, if you will. stay after we others have gone and--have it out with her. the phidias lady (i must remember that mot, by-the-way) is preparing to take her leave now, and i will follow her at once. she shall believe that i am enamoured, that i sigh for her. eh!" said he, shaking his head--and the lines in the kindly old face seemed to deepen, but in a sort of grave tenderness--"eh, so love has come to the dear lad at last! ah, of course, the hundred other affairs! yes, yes. but they were light. no seriousness in them. the ladies may have loved. he didn't--very much. this time, i'm afraid--" baron de vries paused as if he did not mean to finish his sentence, and hartley said: "you say 'afraid'! why afraid?" the belgian looked up at him reflectively. "did i say 'afraid'?" he asked. "well, perhaps it was the word i wanted. i wonder if these two are fitted for each other. i am fond of them both. i think you know that, but--she's not very flexible, this child. and she hasn't much humor. i love her, but i know those things are true. i wonder if one ought to marry ste. marie without flexibility and without humor." "if they love each other," said richard hartley, "i expect the other things don't count. do they?" baron de vries rose to his feet, for he saw that the phidias lady was going. "perhaps not," said he; "i hope not. in any case, do your best for him with helen. make her comprehend if you can. i am afraid she is unhappy over the affair." he made his adieus, and went away with the american lady, to that young person's obvious excitement. and after a moment the three ladies across the room departed also, mrs. benham explaining that she was taking her two friends up to her own sitting-room, to show them something vaguely related to the heathen. so hartley was left alone with helen benham. it was not his way to beat about the bush, and he gave battle at once. he said, standing, to say it more easily: "you know why i came here to-day? it was the first chance i've had since that--unfortunate evening. i came on ste. marie's account." miss benham said a weak "oh!" and because she was nervous and overwrought, and because the thing meant so much to her, she said, cheaply: "he owes me no apologies. he has a perfect right to act as he pleases, you know." the englishman frowned across at her. "i didn't come to make apologies," said he. "i came to explain. well, i have explained--baron de vries and i together. that's just how it happened. and that's just how ste. marie takes things. the point is that you've got to understand it. i've got to make you." the girl smiled up at him dolefully. "you look," she said, "as if you were going to beat me if necessary. you look very warlike." "i feel warlike," the man said, nodding. he said: "i'm fighting for a friend to whom you are doing, in your mind, an injustice. i know him better than you do, and i tell you you're doing him a grave injustice. you're failing altogether to understand him." "i wonder," the girl said, looking very thoughtfully down at the table before her. "i know," said he. quite suddenly she gave a little overwrought cry, and she put up her hands over her face. "oh, richard!" she said, "that day when he was here! he left me--oh, i cannot tell you at what a height he left me! it was something new and beautiful. he swept me to the clouds with him. and i might--perhaps i might have lived on there. who knows? but then that hideous evening! ah, it was too sickening: the fall back to common earth again!" "i know," said the man, gently--"i know. and _he_ knew, too. directly he'd seen you he knew how you would feel about it. i'm not pretending that it was of no consequence. it was unfortunate, of course. but the point is, it did not mean in him any slackening, any stooping, any letting go. it was a moment's incident. we went to the wretched place by accident after dinner. ste. marie saw those childish lunatics at play, and for about two minutes he played with them. the lady in the blue hat made it appear a little more extreme, and that's all." miss benham rose to her feet and moved restlessly back and forth. "oh, richard," she said, "the golden spell is broken--the enchantment he laid upon me that day. i'm not like him, you know. oh, i wish i were! i wish i were! i can't change from hour to hour. i can't rise to the clouds again after my fall to earth. it has all--become something different. don't misunderstand me!" she cried. "i don't mean that i've ceased to care for him. no, far from that! but i was in such an exalted heaven, and now i'm not there any more. perhaps he can lift me to it again. oh yes, i'm sure he can, when i see him once more; but i wanted to go on living there so happily while he was away! do you understand at all?" "i think i do," the man said, but he looked at her very curiously and a little sadly, for it was the first time he had ever seen her swept from her superb poise by any emotion, and he hardly recognized her. it was very bitter to him to realize that he could never have stirred her to this--never, under any conceivable circumstances. the girl came to him where he stood, and touched his arm with her hand. "he is waiting to hear how i feel about it all, isn't he?" she said. "he is waiting to know that i understand. will you tell him a little lie for me, richard? no, you needn't tell a lie. i will tell it. tell him that i said i understood perfectly. tell him that i was shocked for a moment, but that afterward i understood and thought no more about it. will you tell him i said that? it won't be a lie from you, because i did say it. oh, i will not grieve him or hamper him now while he is working in my cause! i'll tell him a lie rather than have him grieve." "need it be a lie?" said richard hartley. "can't you truly believe what you've said?" she shook her head slowly. "i'll try," said she, "but--my golden spell is broken and i can't mend it alone. i'm sorry." he turned with a little sigh to leave her, but miss benham followed him toward the door of the drawing-room. "you're a good friend, richard," she said, when she had come near--"you're a good friend to him." "he deserves good friends," said the young man, stoutly. "and besides," said he, "we're brothers in arms nowadays. we've enlisted together to fight for the same cause." the girl fell back with a little cry. "do you mean," she said, after a moment--"do you mean that _you_ are working with him--to find arthur?" hartley nodded. "but--" said she, stammering. "but, richard--" the man checked her. "oh, i know what i'm doing," said he. "my eyes are open. i know that i'm not--well, in the running. i work for no reward except a desire to help you and ste. marie. that's all. it pleases me to be useful." he went away with that, not waiting for an answer, and the girl stood where he had left her, staring after him. * * * * * x captain stewart entertains ste. marie returned, after three days, from dinard in a depressed and somewhat puzzled frame of mind. he had found no trace whatever of arthur benham, either at dinard or at deauville, and, what was more, he was unable to discover that any one even remotely resembling that youth had been seen at either place. the matter of identification, it seemed to him, should be a rather simple one. in the first place, the boy's appearance was not at all french, nor, for that matter, english; it was very american. also, he spoke french--so ste. marie had been told--very badly, having for the language that scornful contempt peculiar to anglo-saxons of a certain type. his speech, it seemed, was, like his appearance, ultra-american--full of strange idioms and oddly pronounced. in short, such a youth would be rather sure to be remembered by any hotel management and staff with which he might have come in contact. at first ste. marie pursued his investigations quietly and, as it were, casually; but after his initial failure he went to the managements of the various hotels and lodging-houses, and to the cafés and bathing establishments, and told them, with all frankness, a part of the truth--that he was searching for a young man whose disappearance had caused great distress to his family. he was not long in discovering that no such young man could have been either in dinard or deauville. the thing which puzzled him was that, apart from finding no trace of the missing boy, he also found no trace of captain stewart's agent--the man who had been first on the ground. no one seemed able to recollect that such a person had been making inquiries, and ste. marie began to suspect that his friend was being imposed upon. he determined to warn stewart that his agents were earning their fees too easily. so he returned to paris more than a little dejected, and sore over this waste of time and effort. he arrived by a noon train, and drove across the city in a fiacre to the rue d'assas. but as he was in the midst of unpacking his portmanteau--for he kept no servant; a woman came in once a day to "do" the rooms--the door-bell rang. it was baron de vries, and ste. marie admitted him with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure. "you passed me in the street just now," explained the belgian, "and as i was a few minutes early for a lunch engagement i followed you up." he pointed with his stick at the open bag. "ah, you have been on a journey! detective work?" ste. marie pushed his guest into a chair, gave him cigarettes, and told him about the fruitless expedition to dinard. he spoke, also, of his belief that captain stewart's agent had never really found a clew at all; and at that baron de vries nodded his gray head and said, "ah!" in a tone of some significance. afterward he smoked a little while in silence, but presently he said, as if with some hesitation: "may i be permitted to offer a word of advice?" "but surely!" cried ste. marie, kicking away the half-empty portmanteau. "why not?" "do whatever you are going to do in this matter according to your own judgment," said the elder man, "or according to mr. hartley's and your combined judgments. make your investigations without reference to our friend captain stewart." he halted there as if that were all he had meant to say, but when he saw ste. marie's raised eyebrows he frowned and went on, slowly, as if picking his words with some care. "i should be sorry," he said, "to have captain stewart at the head of any investigation of this nature in which i was deeply interested--just now, at any rate. i am afraid--it is difficult to say; i do not wish to say too much--i am afraid he is not quite the man for the position." ste. marie nodded his head with great emphasis. "ah," he cried, "that's just what i have felt, you know, all along! and it's what hartley felt, too, i'm sure. no, stewart is not the sort for a detective. he's too cocksure. he won't admit that he might possibly be wrong now and then. he's too--" "he is too much occupied with other matters," said baron de vries. ste. marie sat down on the edge of a chair. "other matters?" he demanded. "that sounds mysterious. what other matters?" "oh, there is nothing very mysterious about it," said the elder man. he frowned down at his cigarette, and brushed some fallen ash neatly from his knees. "captain stewart," said he, "is badly worried, and has been for the past year or so--badly worried over money matters and other things. he has lost enormous sums at play, as i happen to know, and he has lost still more enormous sums at auteuil and at longchamps. also, the ladies are not without their demands." ste. marie gave a shout of laughter. "comment donc!" he cried. "ce vieillard?" "ah, well," deprecated the other man. "vieillard is putting it rather high. he can't be more than fifty, i should think. to be sure, he looks older; but then, in his day, he lived a great deal in a short time. do you happen to remember olga nilssen?" "i do," said ste. marie. "i remember her very well, indeed. i was a sort of go-between in settling up that affair with morrison. morrison's people asked me to do what i could. yes, i remember her well, and with some pleasure. i felt sorry for her, you know. people didn't quite know the truth of that affair. morrison behaved very badly to her." "yes," said baron de vries, "and captain stewart has behaved very badly to her also. she is furious with rage or jealousy--or both. she goes about, i am told, threatening to kill him, and it would be rather like her to do it one day. well, i have dragged in all this scandal by way of showing you that stewart has his hands full of his own affairs just now, and so cannot give the attention he ought to give to hunting out his nephew. as you suggest, his agents may be deceiving him. i don't know. i suppose they could do it easily enough. if i were you i should set to work quite independently of him." "yes," said ste. marie, in an absent tone. "oh yes, i shall do that, you may be sure." he gave a sudden smile. "he's a queer type, this captain stewart. he begins to interest me very much. i had never suspected this side of him, though i remember now that i once saw him coming out of a milliner's shop. he looks rather an ascetic--rather donnish, don't you think? i remember that he talked to me one day quite pathetically about feeling his age and about liking young people round him. he's an odd character. fancy him mixed up in an affair with olga nilssen! or, rather, fancy her involved in an affair with him! what can she have seen in him? she's not mercenary, you know--at least, she used not to be." "ah! there," said baron de vries, "you enter upon a terra incognita. no one can say what a woman sees in this man or in that. it's beyond our ken." he rose to take his leave, and ste. marie went with him to the door. "i've been asked to a sort of party at stewart's rooms this week," ste. marie said. "i don't know whether i shall go or not. probably not. i suppose i shouldn't find olga nilssen there?" "well, no," said the belgian, laughing. "no, i hardly think so. good-bye! think over what i've told you. good-bye!" he went away down the stair, and ste. marie returned to his unpacking. nothing more of consequence occurred in the next few days. hartley had unearthed a somewhat shabby adventurer who swore to having seen the irishman o'hara in paris within a month, but it was by no means certain that this being did not merely affirm what he believed to be desired of him, and in any case the information was of no especial value, since it was o'hara's present whereabouts that was the point at issue. so it came to thursday evening. ste. marie received a note from captain stewart during the day, reminding him that he was to come to the rue du faubourg st. honoré that evening, and asking him to come early, at ten or thereabouts, so that the two could have a comfortable chat before any one else turned up. ste. marie had about decided not to go at all, but the courtesy of this special invitation from miss benham's uncle made it rather impossible for him to stay away. he tried to persuade hartley to follow him on later in the evening, but that gentleman flatly refused and went away to dine with some english friends at armenonville. so ste. marie, in a vile temper, dined quite alone at lavenue's, beside the gare montparnasse, and toward ten o'clock drove across the river to the rue du faubourg. captain stewart's flat was up five stories, at the top of the building in which it was located, and so, well above the noises of the street. ste. marie went up in the automatic lift, and at the door above his host met him in person, saying that the one servant he kept was busy making preparations in the kitchen beyond. they entered a large room, long but comparatively shallow, in shape not unlike the sitting-room in the rue d'assas, but very much bigger, and ste. marie uttered an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, for he had never before seen an interior anything like this. the room was decorated and furnished entirely in chinese and japanese articles of great age and remarkable beauty. ste. marie knew little of the hieratic art of these two countries, but he fancied that the place must be an endless delight to the expert. the general tone of the room was gold, dulled and softened by great age until it had ceased to glitter, and relieved by the dusty chinese blue and by old red faded to rose and by warm ivory tints. the great expanse of the walls was covered by a brownish-yellow cloth, coarse like burlap, and against it, round the room, hung sixteen large panels representing the sixteen rakan. they were early copies--fifteenth century, captain stewart said--of those famous originals by the chinese sung master ririomin, which have been for six hundred years or more the treasures of japan. they were mounted upon japanese brocade of blue and dull gold, framed in keyaki wood, and out of their brown, time-stained shadows the great rakan scowled or grinned or placidly gazed, grotesquely graceful masterpieces of a perished art. at the far end of the room, under a gilded canopy of intricate wood-carving, stood upon his pedestal of many-petalled lotus a great statue of amida buddha in the yogi attitude of contemplation, and at intervals against the other walls other smaller images stood or sat: buddha, in many incarnations; kwannon, goddess of mercy; jizo bosatzu hotei, pot-bellied, god of contentment; jingo-kano, god of war. in the centre of the place was a buddhist temple table, and priests' chairs, lacquered and inlaid, stood about the room. the floor was covered with chinese rugs, dull yellow with blue flowers, and over a doorway which led into another room was fixed a huge rama of chinese pierced carving, gilded, in which there were trees and rocks and little grouped figures of the hundred immortals. it, was, indeed an extraordinary room. ste. marie looked about its mellow glow with a half-comprehending wonder, and he looked at the man beside him curiously, for here was another side to this many-sided character. captain stewart smiled. "you like my museum?" he asked. "few people care much for it except, of course, those who go in for the oriental arts. most of my friends think it bizarre--too grotesque and unusual. i have tried to satisfy them by including those comfortable low divan-couches (they refuse altogether to sit in the priests' chairs), but still they are unhappy." he called his servant, who came to take ste. marie's hat and coat and returned with smoking things. "it seems entirely wonderful to me," said the younger man. "i'm not an expert at all--i don't know who the gentlemen in those sixteen panels are, for example--but it is very beautiful. i have never seen anything like it at all." he gave a little laugh. "will it sound very impertinent in me, i wonder, if i express surprise--not surprise at finding this magnificent room, but at discovering that this sort of thing is a taste and, very evidently, a serious study of yours? you--i remember your saying once with some feeling that it was youth and beauty and--well, freshness that you liked best to be surrounded by. this," said ste. marie, waving an inclusive hand, "was young so many centuries ago! it fairly breathes antiquity and death." "yes," said captain stewart, thoughtfully. "yes, that is quite true." the two had seated themselves upon one of the broad, low benches which had been built into the place to satisfy the philistine. "i find it hard to explain," he said, "because both things are passions of mine. youth--i could not exist without it. since i have it no longer in my own body, i wish to see it about me. it gives me life. it keeps my heart beating. i must have it near. and then this--antiquity and death, beautiful things made by hands dead centuries ago in an alien country! i love this, too. i didn't speak too strongly; it is a sort of passion with me--something quite beyond the collector's mania--quite beyond that. sometimes, do you know, i stay at home in the evening, and i sit here quite alone, with the lights half on, and for hours together i smoke and watch these things--the quiet, sure, patient smile of that buddha, for example. think how long he has been smiling like that, and waiting! waiting for what? there is something mysterious beyond all words in that smile of his, that fixed, crudely carved wooden smile--no, i'll be hanged if it's crude! it is beyond our modern art. the dead men carved better than we do. we couldn't manage that with such simple means. we can only reproduce what is before us. we can't carve questions--mysteries--everlasting riddles." through the pale-blue, wreathing smoke of his cigarette captain stewart gazed down the room to where eternal buddha stood and smiled eternally. and from there the man's eyes moved with slow enjoyment along the opposite wall over those who sat or stood there, over the panels of the ancient rakan, over carved lotus, and gilt contorted dragon forever in pursuit of the holy pearl. he drew a short breath which seemed to bespeak extreme contentment, the keenest height of pleasure, and he stirred a little where he sat and settled himself among the cushions. ste. marie watched him, and the expression of the man's face began to be oddly revolting. it was the face of a voluptuary in the presence of his desire. he was uncomfortable, and wished to say something to break the silence, but, as often occurs at such a time, he could think of nothing to say. so there was a brief silence between them. but presently captain stewart roused himself with an obvious effort. "here, this won't do!" said he, in a tone of whimsical apology. "this won't do, you know. i'm floating off on my hobby (and there's a mixed metaphor that would do credit to your own milesian blood!). i'm boring you to extinction, and i don't want to do that, for i'm anxious that you should come here again--and often. i should like to have you form the habit. what was it i had in mind to ask you about? ah, yes! the journey to dinard and deauville. i am afraid it turned out to be fruitless or you would have let me know." "entirely fruitless," said ste. marie. he went on to tell the elder man of his investigation, and of his certainty that no one resembling arthur benham had been at either of the two places. "it's no affair of mine, to be sure," he said, "but i rather suspect that your agent was deceiving you--pretending to have accomplished something by way of making you think he was busy." ste. marie was so sure the other would immediately disclaim this that he waited for the word, and gave a little smothered laugh when captain stewart said, promptly: "oh no! no! that is impossible. i have every confidence in that man. he is one of my best. no, you are mistaken there. i am more disappointed than you could possibly be over the failure of your efforts, but i am quite sure my man thought he had something worth working upon. by-the-way, i have received another rather curious communication--from ostend this time. i will show you the letter, and you may try your luck there if you would care to." he felt in his pockets and then rose. "i've left the thing in another coat," said he; "if you will allow me, i'll fetch it." but before he had turned away the door-bell rang and he paused. "ah, well," he said, "another time. here are some of my guests. they have come earlier than i had expected." the new arrivals were three very perfectly dressed ladies, one of them an operatic light, who chanced not to be singing that evening and whom ste. marie had met before. the two others were rather difficult of classification, but probably, he thought, ornaments of that mysterious border-land between the two worlds which seems to give shelter to so many people against whose characters nothing definite is known, but whose antecedents and connections are not made topics of conversation. the three ladies seemed to be on very friendly terms with captain stewart, and greeted him with much noisy delight. one of the unclassified two, when her host, with a glance toward ste. marie, addressed her formally, seemed inordinately amused, and laughed for a long time. within the next hour ten or a dozen other guests had arrived, and they all seemed to know one another very well, and proceeded to make themselves quite at home. ste. marie regarded them with a reflective and not over-enthusiastic eye, and he wondered a good deal why he had been asked here to meet them. he was as far from a prig or a snob as any man could very well be, and he often went to very bohemian parties which were given by his painter or musician friends, but these people seemed to him quite different. the men, with the exception of two eminent opera-singers, who quite obviously had been asked because of their voices, were the sort of men who abound at such places as ostend and monte carlo, and baden-baden in the race week. that is not to say that they were ordinary racing touts or the cheaper kind of adventurers (there was a count among them, and a marquis who had recently been divorced by his american wife), but adventurers of a sort they undoubtedly were. there was not one of them, so far as ste. marie was aware, who was received anywhere in good society, and he resented very much being compelled to meet them. naturally enough, he felt much less concern on the score of the ladies. it is an undoubted and well-nigh universal truth that men who would refuse outright to meet certain classes of their own sex show no reluctance whatever over meeting the women of a corresponding circle--that is, if the women are attractive. it is a depressing fact and inclines one to sighs and head-shakes, and some moral indignation, until the reverse truth is brought to light--namely, that women have identically the same point of view; that, while they cast looks of loathing and horror upon certain of their sisters, they will meet with pleasure any presentable man whatever his crimes or vices. ste. marie was very much puzzled over all this. it seemed to him so unnecessary that a man who really had some footing in the newer society of paris should choose to surround himself with people of this type; but as he looked on and wondered he became aware of a curious and, in the light of a past conversation, significant fact: all of the people in the room were young; all of them in their varying fashions and degrees very attractive to look upon; all full to overflowing of life and spirits and the determination to have a good time. he saw captain stewart moving among them, playing very gracefully his rôle of host, and the man seemed to have dropped twenty years from his shoulders. a miracle of rejuvenation seemed to have come upon him: his eyes were bright and eager, the color was high in his cheeks, and the dry, pedantic tone had gone from his voice. ste. marie watched him, and at last he thought he understood. it was half revolting, half pathetic, he thought, but it certainly was interesting to see. duval, the great basso of the opéra, accompanied at the piano by one of the unclassified ladies, was just finishing mephistopheles' drinking song out of _faust_ when the door-bell rang. * * * * * xi a golden lady enters--the eyes again the music of voice and piano was very loud just then, so that the little, soft, whirring sound of the electric bell reached only one or two pairs of ears in the big room. it did not reach the host certainly, and neither he nor most of the others observed the servant make his way among the groups of seated or standing people and go to the outer door, which opened upon a tiny hallway. the song came to an end, and everybody was cheering and applauding and crying "bravo!" or "bis!" or one of the other things that people shout at such times, when, as if in unexpected answer to the outburst, a lady appeared between the yellow portières and came forward a little way into the room. she was a tall lady of an extraordinary and immediately noticeable grace of movement--a lady with rather fair hair; but her eyebrows and eyelashes had been stained darker than it was their nature to be. she had the classic greek type of face--and figure, too--all but the eyes, which were long and narrow--narrow, perhaps, from a habit of going half closed; and when they were a little more than half closed they made a straight black line that turned up very slightly at the outer end with an oriental effect which went oddly in that classic face. there is a popular piece of sculpture now in the luxembourg gallery for which this lady "sat" as model to a great artist. sculptors from all over the world go there to dream over its perfect line and contour, and little schoolgirls pretend not to see it, and middle-aged maiden tourists, with red baedekers in their hands, regard it furtively and pass on, and after a while come back to look again. the lady was dressed in some very close-clinging material which was not cloth of gold, but something very like it, only much duller--something which gleamed when she stirred, but did not glitter--and over her splendid shoulders was hung an oriental scarf heavily worked with metallic gold. she made an amazing and dramatic picture in that golden room. it was as if she had known just what her surroundings would be and had dressed expressly for them. the applause ceased as suddenly as if it had been trained to break off at a signal, and the lady came forward a little way, smiling a quiet, assured smile. at each step her knee threw out the golden stuff of her gown an inch or two, and it flashed suddenly--a dull, subdued flash in the overhead light--and died and flashed again. a few of the people in the room knew who the lady was, and they looked at one another with raised eyebrows and startled faces; but the others stared at her with an eager admiration, thinking that they had seldom seen anything so beautiful or so effective. ste. marie sat forward on the edge of his chair. his eyes sparkled, and he gave a little quick sigh of pleasurable excitement. this was drama, and very good drama, too, and he suspected that it might at any moment turn into a tragedy. he saw captain stewart, who had been among a group of people half-way across the room, turn his head to look when the cries and the applause ceased so suddenly, and he saw the man's face stiffen by swift degrees, all the joyous, buoyant life gone out of it, until it was yellow and rigid like a dead man's face; and ste. marie, out of his knowledge of the relations between these two people, nodded, en connaisseur, for he knew that the man was very badly frightened. so the host of the evening hung back, staring for what must have seemed to him a long and terrible time, though in reality it was but an instant; then he came forward quickly to greet the new-comer, and if his face was still yellow-white there was nothing in his manner but the courtesy habitual with him. he took the lady's hand, and she smiled at him, but her eyes did not smile--they were hard. ste. marie, who was the nearest of the others, heard captain stewart say: "this is an unexpected pleasure, my dearest olga!" and to that the lady replied, more loudly: "yes, i returned to paris only to-day. you didn't know, of course. i heard you were entertaining this evening, and so i came, knowing that i should be welcome." "always!" said captain stewart--"always more than welcome!" he nodded to one or two of the men who stood near, and when they approached presented them. ste. marie observed that he used the lady's true name--she had, at times, found occasion to employ others--and that he politely called her "madame nilssen" instead of "mademoiselle." but at that moment the lady caught sight of ste. marie, and, crying out his name in a tone of delighted astonishment, turned away from the other men, brushing past them as if they had been furniture, and advanced holding out both her hands in greeting. "dear ste. marie!" she exclaimed. "fancy finding you here! i'm so glad! oh, i'm so very glad! take me away from these people! find a corner where we can talk. ah, there is one with a big seat! allons-y!" she addressed him for the most part in english, which she spoke perfectly--as perfectly as she spoke french and german and, presumably, her native tongue, which must have been swedish. they went to the broad, low seat, a sort of hard-cushioned bench, which stood against one of the walls, and made themselves comfortable there by the only possible means, which, owing to the width of the thing, was to sit far back with their feet stuck straight out before them. captain stewart had followed them across the room and showed a strong tendency to remain. ste. marie observed that his eyes were hard and bright and very alert, and that there were two bright spots of color in his yellow cheeks. it occurred to ste. marie that the man was afraid to leave him alone with olga nilssen, and he smiled to himself, reflecting that the lady, even if indiscreetly inclined, could tell him nothing--save in details--that he did not already know. but after a few rather awkward moments mile. nilssen waved an irritated hand. "go away!" she said to her host. "go away to your other guests! i want to talk to ste. marie. we have old times to talk over." and after hesitating awhile uneasily, captain stewart turned back into the room; but for some time thereafter ste. marie was aware that a vigilant eye was being kept upon them and that their host was by no means at his ease. when they were left alone together the girl turned to him and patted his arm affectionately. she said: "ah, but it is very good to see you again, mon cher ami! it has been so long!" she gave an abrupt frown. "what are you doing here?" she demanded. and she said an unkind thing about her fellow-guests. she called them "canaille." she said: "why are you wasting your time among these canaille? this is not a place for you. why did you come?" "i don't know," said ste. marie. he was still a little resentful, and he said so. he said: "i didn't know it was going to be like this. i came because stewart went rather out of his way to ask me. i'd known him in a very different milieu." "ah, yes!" she said, reflectively. "yes, he does go into the world also, doesn't he? but this is what he likes, you know." her lips drew back for an instant, and she said: "he is a pig-dog!" ste. marie looked at her gravely. she had used that offensive name with a little too much fierceness. her face had turned for an instant quite white, and her eyes had flashed out over the room a look that meant a great deal to any one who knew her as well as ste. marie did. he sat forward and lowered his voice. he said: "look here, olga! i'm going to be very frank for a moment. may i?" for just an instant the girl drew away from him with suspicion in her eyes, and something else, alertly defiant. then she put out her hands to his arm. "you may be what you like, dear ste. marie," she said, "and say what you like. i will take it all--and swallow it alive--good as gold. what are you going to do to me?" "i've always been fair with you, haven't i?" he urged. "i've had disagreeable things to say or do, but--you knew always that i liked you and--where my sympathies were." "always! always, mon cher!" she cried. "i trusted you always in everything. and there is no one else i trust. no one! no one!--ste. marie!" "what then?" he asked. "ste. marie," she said, "why did you never fall in love with me, as the other men did?" "i wonder!" said he. "i don't know. upon my word, i really don't know." he was so serious about it that the girl burst into a shriek of laughter. and in the end he laughed, too. "i expect it was because i liked you too well," he said, at last. "but come! we're forgetting my lecture. listen to your grandpère ste. marie! i have heard--certain things--rumors--what you will. perhaps they are foolish lies, and i hope they are. but if not, if the fear i saw in stewart's face when you came here to-night, was--not without cause, let me beg you to have a care. you're much too savage, my dear child. don't be so foolish as to--well, turn comedy into the other thing. in the first place, it's not worth while, and, in the second place, it recoils always. revenge may be sweet. i don't know. but nowadays, with police courts and all that, it entails much more subsequent annoyance than it is worth. be wise, olga!" "some things, ste. marie," said the golden lady, "are worth all the consequences that may follow them." she watched captain stewart across the room, where he stood chatting with a little group of people, and her beautiful face was as hard as marble and her eyes were as dark as a stormy night, and her mouth, for an instant, was almost like an animal's mouth--cruel and relentless. ste. marie saw, and he began to be a bit alarmed in good earnest. in his warning he had spoken rather more seriously than he felt the occasion demanded, but he began at last to wonder if the occasion was not in reality very serious, indeed. he was sure, of course, that olga nilssen had come here on this evening to annoy captain stewart in some fashion. as he put it to himself, she probably meant to "make a row," and he would not have been in the least surprised if she had made it in the beginning, upon her very dramatic entrance. nothing more calamitous than that had occurred to him. but when he saw the woman's face turned a little away and gazing fixedly at captain stewart, he began to be aware that there was tragedy very near him--or all the makings of it. mlle. nilssen turned back to him. her face was still hard, and her eyes dark and narrowed with their oddly oriental look. she bent her shoulders together for an instant and her hands moved slowly in her lap, stretching out before her in a gesture very like a cat's when it wakes from sleep and yawns and extends its claws, as if to make sure that they are still there and ready for use. "i feel a little like samson to-night," she said. "i am tired of almost everything, and i should like very much to pull the world down on top of me and kill everybody in it--except you, ste. marie, dear; except you!--and be crushed under the ruins!" "i think," said ste. marie, practically--and the speech sounded rather like one of hartley's speeches--"i think it was not quite the world that samson pulled down, but a temple--or a palace--something of that kind." "well," said the golden lady, "this place is rather like a temple--a chinese temple, with the pig-dog for high-priest." ste. marie frowned at her. "what are you going to do?" he demanded, sharply. "what did you come here to do? mischief of some kind--bien entendu--but what?" "do?" she said, looking at him with her narrowed eyes. "i? why, what should i do? nothing, of course! i merely said i should like to pull the place down. of course, i couldn't do that quite literally, now, could i? no. it is merely a mood. i'm not going to do anything." "you're not being honest with me," he said. and at that her expression changed, and she patted his arm again with a gesture that seemed to beg forgiveness. "well, then," she said, "if you must know, maybe i did come here for a purpose. i want to have it out with our friend captain stewart about something. and ste. marie, dear," she pleaded, "please, i think you'd better go home first. i don't care about these other animals, but i don't want you dragged into any row of any sort. please be a sweet ste. marie and go home. yes?" "absolutely, no!" said ste. marie. "i shall stay, and i shall try my utmost to prevent you from doing anything foolish. understand that! if you want to have rows with people, olga, for heaven's sake don't pick an occasion like this for the purpose. have your rows in private!" "i rather think i enjoy an audience," she said, with a reflective air, and ste. marie laughed aloud because he knew that the naïve speech was so very true. this lady, with her many good qualities and her bad ones--not a few, alas!--had an undeniable passion for red fire that had amused him very much on more than one past occasion. "please go home!" she said once more. but when the man only shook his head, she raised her hands a little way and dropped them again in her lap, in an odd gesture which seemed to say that she had done all she could do, and that if anything disagreeable should happen now, and he should be involved in it, it would be entirely his fault because she had warned him. then quite abruptly a mood of irresponsible gayety seemed to come upon her. she refused to have anything more to do with serious topics, and when ste. marie attempted to introduce them she laughed in his face. as she had said in the beginning she wished to do, she harked back to old days (the earlier stages of what might be termed the morrison régime), and it seemed to afford her great delight to recall the happenings of that epoch. the conversation became a dialogue of reminiscence which would have been entirely unintelligible to a third person, and was, indeed, so to captain stewart, who once came across the room, made a feeble effort to attach himself, and presently wandered away again. they unearthed from the past an exceedingly foolish song all about one "little willie" and a purple monkey climbing up a yellow stick. it was set to a well-known air from _don giovanni_, and when duval, the basso, heard them singing it he came up and insisted upon knowing what it was about. he laughed immoderately over the english words when he was told what they meant, and made ste. marie write them down for him on two visiting-cards. so they made a trio out of "little willie," the great duval inventing a bass part quite marvellous in its ingenuity, and they were compelled to sing it over and over again, until ste. marie's falsetto imitation of a tenor voice cracked and gave out altogether, since he was by nature barytone, if anything at all. the other guests had crowded round to hear the extraordinary song, and when the song was at last finished several of them remained, so that ste. marie saw he was to be allowed an uninterrupted tête-à-tête with olga nilssen no longer. he therefore drifted away, after a few moments, and went with duval and one of the other men across the room to look at some small jade objects--snuff-bottles, bracelets, buckles, and the like--which were displayed in a cabinet cleverly reconstructed out of a japanese shrine. it was perhaps ten minutes later when he looked round the place and discovered that neither mlle. nilssen nor captain stewart was to be seen. his first thought was of relief, for he said to himself that the two had sensibly gone into one of the other rooms to "have it out" in peace and quiet. but following that came the recollection of the woman's face when she had watched her host across the room. her words came back to him: "i feel a little like samson to-night.... i should like very much to pull the world down on top of me and kill everybody in it!" ste. marie thought of these things, and he began to be uncomfortable. he found himself watching the yellow-hung doorway beyond, with its intricate chinese carving of trees and rocks and little groups of immortals, and he found that unconsciously he was listening for something--he did not know what--above the chatter and laughter of the people in the room. he endured this for possibly five minutes, and all at once found that he could endure it no longer. he began to make his way quietly through the groups of people toward the curtained doorway. as he went, one of the women near by complained in a loud tone that the servant had disappeared. she wanted, it seemed, a glass of water, having already had many glasses of more interesting things. ste. marie said he would get it for her, and went on his way. he had an excuse now. he found himself in a square, dimly lighted room much smaller than the other. there was a round table in the centre, so he thought it must be stewart's dining-room. at the left a doorway opened into a place where there were lights, and at the other side was another door closed. from the room at the left there came a sound of voices, and though they were not loud, one of them, mlle. olga nilssen's voice, was hard and angry and not altogether under control. the man would seem to have been attempting to pacify her, and he would seem not to have been very successful. the first words that ste. marie was able to distinguish were from the woman. she said, in a low, fierce tone: "that is a lie, my friend! that is a lie! i know all about the road to clamart, so you needn't lie to me any longer. it's no good." she paused for just an instant there, and in the pause st. marie heard stewart give a sort of inarticulate exclamation. it seemed to express anger and it seemed also to express fear. but the woman swept on, and her voice began to be louder. she said: "i've given you your chance. you didn't deserve it, but i've given it you--and you've told me nothing but lies. well, you'll lie no more. this ends it." upon that ste. marie heard a sudden stumbling shuffle of feet and a low, hoarse cry of utter terror--a cry more animal-like than human. he heard the cry break off abruptly in something that was like a cough and a whine together, and he heard the sound of a heavy body falling with a loose rattle upon the floor. with the sound of that falling body he had already reached the doorway and torn aside the heavy portière. it was a sleeping-room he looked into, a room of medium size with two windows and an ornate bed of the empire style set sidewise against the farther wall. there were electric lights upon imitation candles which were grouped in sconces against the wall, and these were turned on, so that the room was brightly illuminated. midway between the door and the ornate empire bed captain stewart lay huddled and writhing upon the floor, and olga nilssen stood upright beside him, gazing down upon him quite calmly. in her right hand, which hung at her side, she held a little flat black automatic pistol of the type known as brownings--and they look like toys, but they are not. ste. marie sprang at her silently and caught her by the arm, twisting the automatic pistol from her grasp, and the woman made no effort whatever to resist him. she looked into his face quite frankly and unmoved, and she shook her head. "i haven't harmed him," she said. "i was going to, yes--and then myself--but he didn't give me a chance. he fell down in a fit." she nodded down toward the man who lay writhing at their feet. "i frightened him," she said, "and he fell in a fit. he's an epileptic, you know. didn't you know that? oh yes." abruptly she turned away shivering, and put up her hands over her face. and she gave an exclamation of uncontrollable repulsion. "ugh!" she cried, "it's horrible! horrible! i can't bear to look. i saw him in a fit once before--long ago--and i couldn't bear even to speak to him for a month. i thought he had been cured. he said--ah, it's horrible!" ste. marie had dropped upon his knees beside the fallen man, and mlle. nilssen said, over her shoulder: "hold his head up from the floor, if you can bear to. he might hurt it." it was not an easy thing to do, for ste. marie had the natural sense of repulsion in such matters that most people have, and this man's appearance, as olga nilssen had said, was horrible. the face was drawn hideously, and in the strong, clear light of the electrics it was a deathly yellow. the eyes were half closed, and the eyeballs turned up so that only the whites of them showed between the lids. there was froth upon the distorted mouth, and it clung to the catlike mustache and to the shallow, sunken chin beneath. but ste. marie exerted all his will power, and took the jerking, trembling head in his hands, holding it clear of the floor. "you'd better call the servant," he said. "there may be something that can be done." but the woman answered, without looking: "no, there's nothing that can be done, i believe, except to keep him from bruising himself. stimulants--that sort of thing--do more harm than good. could you get him on the bed here?" "together we might manage it," said ste. marie. "come and help!" "i can't!" she cried, nervously. "i can't--touch him. please, i can't do it." "come!" said the man, in a sharp tone. "it's no time for nerves. i don't like it, either, but it's got to be done." the woman began a half-hysterical sobbing, but after a moment she turned and came with slow feet to where stewart lay. ste. marie slipped his arms under the man's body and began to raise him from the floor. "you needn't help, after all," he said. "he's not heavy." and, indeed, under his skilfully shaped and padded clothes the man was a mere waif of a man--as unbelievably slight as if he were the victim of a wasting disease. ste. marie held the body in his arms as if it had been a child, and carried it across and laid it on the bed; but it was many months before he forgot the horror of that awful thing shaking and twitching in his hold, the head thumping hideously upon his shoulder, the arms and legs beating against him. it was the most difficult task he had ever had to perform. he laid captain stewart upon the bed and straightened the helpless limbs as best he could. "i suppose," he said, rising again--"i suppose when the man comes out of this he'll be frightfully exhausted and drop off to sleep, won't he? we'll have to--" he halted abruptly there, and for a single swift instant he felt the black and rushing sensation of one who is going to faint away. the wall behind the ornate empire bed was covered with photographs, some in frames, others left, as they had been received, upon the large squares of weird cardboard which are termed "art mounts." "come here a moment, quickly!" said ste. marie, in a sharp voice. mlle. nilssen's sobs had died down to a silent, spasmodic catching of the breath, but she was still much unnerved, and she approached the bed with obvious unwillingness, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ste. marie pointed to an unframed photograph which was fastened to the wall by thumb-tacks, and his outstretched hand shook as he pointed. beneath them the other man still writhed and tumbled in his epileptic fit. "do you know who that woman is?" demanded ste. marie, and his tone was such that olga nilssen turned slowly and stared at him. "that woman," said she, "is the reason why i wished to pull the world down upon charlie stewart and me to-night. that's who she is." ste. marie gave a sort of cry. "who is she?" he insisted. "what is her name? i--have a particularly important reason for wanting to know. i've got to know." mlle. nilssen shook her head, still staring at him. "i can't tell you that," said she. "i don't know the name. i only know that--when he met her, he--i don't know her name, but i know where she lives and where he goes every day to see her--a house with a big garden and walled park on the road to clamart. it's on the edge of the wood, not far from fort d'issy. the clamart-vanves-issy tram runs past the wall of one side of the park. that's all i know." ste. marie clasped his head with his hands. "so near to it!" he groaned, "and yet--ah!" he bent forward suddenly over the bed and spelled out the name of the photographer which was pencilled upon the brown cardboard mount. "there's still a chance," he said, "there's still one chance." he became aware that the woman was watching him curiously, and nodded to her. "it's something you don't know about," he explained. "i've got to find out who this--girl is. perhaps the photographer can help me. i used to know him." all at once his eyes sharpened. "tell me the simple truth about something!" said he. "if ever we have been friends, if you owe me any good office, tell me this: do you know anything about young arthur benham's disappearance two months ago, or about what has become of him?" again the woman shook her head. "no," said she. "nothing at all. i hadn't even heard of it. young arthur benham! i've met him once or twice. i wonder--i wonder stewart never spoke to me about his disappearance! that's very odd." "yes," said ste. marie, absently, "it is." he gave a little sigh. "i wonder about a good many things," said he. he glanced down upon the bed before them, and captain stewart lay still, save for a slight twitching of the hands. once he moved his head restlessly from side to side and said something incoherent in a weak murmur. "he's out of it," said olga nilssen. "he'll sleep now, i think. i suppose we must get rid of those people and then leave him to the care of his man. a doctor couldn't do anything for him." "yes," said ste. marie, nodding, "i'll call the servant and tell the people that stewart has been taken ill." he looked once more toward the photograph on the wall, and under his breath he said, with an odd, defiant fierceness: "i won't believe it!" but he did not explain what he wouldn't believe. he started out of the room, but, half-way, halted and turned back. he looked olga nilssen full in the eyes, saying: "it is safe to leave you here with him while i call the servant? there'll be no more--?" but the woman gave a low cry and a violent shiver with it. "you need have no fear," she said. "i've no desire now to--harm him. the--reason is gone. this has cured me. i feel as if i could never bear to see him again. oh, hurry! please hurry! i want to get away from here!" ste. marie nodded, and went out of the room. * * * * * xii the name of the lady with the eyes--evidence heaps up swiftly ste. marie drove home to the rue d'assas with his head in a whirl, and with a sense of great excitement beating somewhere within him--probably in the place where his heart ought to be. he had a curiously sure feeling that at last his feet were upon the right path. he could not have explained this to himself--indeed, there was nothing to explain, and if there had been he was in far too great an inner turmoil to manage it. it was a mere feeling--the sort of thing which he had once tried to express to captain stewart and had got laughed at for his pains. there was, in sober fact, no reason whatever why captain stewart's possession of a photograph of the beautiful lady whom ste. marie had once seen in company with o'hara should be taken as significant of anything except an appreciation of beauty on the part of miss benham's uncle--not even if, as mlle. nilssen believed, captain stewart was in love with the lady. but to ste. marie, in his whirl of reawakened excitement, the discovery loomed to the skies, and in a series of ingenious but very vague leaps of the imagination he saw himself, with the aid of this new evidence (which was no evidence at all, if he had been calm enough to realize it), victorious in his great quest: leading young arthur benham back to the arms of an ecstatic family, and kneeling at the feet of that youth's sister to claim his reward. all of which seems a rather startling flight of the imagination to have had its beginning in the sight of one photograph of a young woman. but, then, ste. marie was imaginative if he was anything. he fell to thinking of this girl whose eyes, after one sight of them, had so long haunted him. he thought of her between those two men, the hard-faced irish adventurer, and the other, stewart, strange compound of intellectual and voluptuary, and his eyes flashed in the dark and he gripped his hands together upon his knees. he said again: "i won't believe it! i won't believe it!" believe what? one wonders. he slept hardly at all: only, toward morning, falling into an uneasy doze. and in the doze he dreamed once more the dream of the dim, waste place and the hill, and the eyes and voice that called him back--because they needed him. as early as he dared, after his morning coffee, he took a fiacre and drove across the river to the boulevard de la madeleine, where he climbed a certain stair, at the foot of which were two glass cases containing photographs of, for the most part, well-known ladies of the parisian stage. at the top of the stair he entered the reception-room of a young photographer who is famous now the world over, but who, at the beginning of his career, when he had nothing but talent and no acquaintance, owed certain of his most important commissions to m. ste. marie. the man, whose name was bernstein, came forward eagerly from the studio beyond to greet his visitor, and ste. marie complimented him chaffingly upon his very sleek and prosperous appearance, and upon the new decorations of the little salon, which were, in truth, excellently well judged. but after they had talked for a little while of such matters, he said: "i want to know if you keep specimen prints of all the photographs you have made within the past few months, and, if so, i should like to see them." the young jew went to a wooden portfolio-holder which stood in a corner, and dragged it out into the light. "i have them all here," said he--"everything that i have made within the past ten or twelve months. if you will let me draw up a chair you can look them over comfortably." he glanced at his former patron with a little polite curiosity as ste. marie followed his suggestion, and began to turn over the big portfolio's contents; but he did not show any surprise nor ask questions. indeed, he guessed, to a certain extent, rather near the truth of the matter. it had happened before that young gentlemen--and old ones, too--wanted to look over his prints without offering explanations, and they generally picked out all the photographs there were of some particular lady and bought them if they could be bought. so he was by no means astonished on this occasion, and he moved about the room putting things to rights, and even went for a few moments into the studio beyond until he was recalled by a sudden exclamation from his visitor--an exclamation which had a sound of mingled delight and excitement. ste. marie held in his hands a large photograph, and he turned it toward the man who had made it. "i am going to ask you some questions," said he, "that will sound rather indiscreet and irregular, but i beg you to answer them if you can, because the matter is of great importance to a number of people. do you remember this lady?" "oh yes," said the jew, readily, "i remember her very well. i never forget people who are as beautiful as this lady was." his eyes gleamed with retrospective joy. "she was splendid!" he declared. "sumptuous! no, i cannot describe her. i have not the words. and i could not photograph her with any justice, either. she was all color: brown skin, with a dull-red stain under the cheeks, and a great mass of hair that was not black but very nearly black--except in the sun, and then there were red lights in it. she was a goddess, that lady, a queen of goddesses-- the young juno before marriage--the--" "yes," interrupted ste. marie--"yes, i see. yes, quite evidently she was beautiful; but what i wanted in particular to know was her name, if you feel that you have a right to give it to me (i remind you again that the matter is very important), and any circumstances that you can remember about her coming here: who came with her, for instance and things of that sort." the photographer looked a little disappointed at being cut off in the middle of his rhapsody, but he began turning over the leaves of an order-book which lay upon a table near by. "here is the entry," he said, after a few moments. "yes, i thought so, the date was nearly three months ago--april th. and the lady's name was mlle. coira o'hara." "what!" cried the other man, sharply. "what did you say?" "mlle. coira o'hara was the name," repeated the photographer. "i remember the occasion perfectly. the lady came here with three gentlemen--one tall, thin gentleman with an eyeglass, an englishman, i think, though he spoke very excellent french when he spoke to me. among themselves they spoke, i think, english, though i do not understand it, except a few words, such as ''ow moch?' and 'sank you' and 'rady, pleas', now.'" "yes! yes!" cried ste. marie, impatiently. and the little jew could see that he was laboring under some very strong excitement, and he wondered mildly about it, scenting a love-affair. "then," he pursued, "there was a very young man in strange clothes--a tourist, i should think, like those americans and english who come in the summer with little red books and sit on the terrace of the café de la paix." he heard his visitor draw a swift, sharp breath at that, but he hurried on before he could be interrupted. "this young man seemed to be unable to take his eyes from the lady--and small wonder! he was very much épris--very much épris, indeed. never have i seen a youth more so. ah, it was something to see, that--a thing to touch the heart!" "what did the young man look like?" demanded ste. marie. the photographer described the youth as best he could from memory, and he saw his visitor nod once or twice, and at the end he said: "yes, yes; i thought so. thank you." the jew did not know what it was the other thought, but he went on: "ah, a thing to touch the heart! such devotion as that! alas, that the lady should seem so cold to it! still, a goddess! what would you? a queen among goddesses. one would not have them laugh and make little jokes--make eyes at love-sick boys. no, indeed!" he shook his head rapidly and sighed. m. ste. marie was silent for a little space, but at length he looked up as if he had just remembered something. "and the third man?" he asked. "ah, yes, the third gentleman," said bernstein. "i had forgotten him. the third gentleman i knew well. he had often been here. it was he who brought these friends to me. he was m. le capitaine stewart. everybody knows m. le capitaine stewart--everybody in paris." again he observed that his visitor drew a little, swift, sharp breath, and that he seemed to be laboring under some excitement. however, ste. marie did not question him further, and so he went on to tell the little more he knew of the matter--how the four people had remained for an hour or more, trying many poses; how they had returned, all but the tall gentleman, three days later to see the proofs and to order certain ones to be printed (the young man paying on the spot in advance), and how the finished prints had been sent to m. le capitaine stewart's address. when he had finished, his visitor sat for a long time silent, his head bent a little, frowning upon the floor and chafing his hands together over his knees. but at last he rose rather abruptly. he said: "thank you very much, indeed. you have done me a great service. if ever i can repay it, command me. thank you!" the jew protested, smiling, that he was still too deeply in debt to m. ste. marie, and so, politely wrangling, they reached the door, and with a last expression of gratitude the visitor departed down the stair. a client came in just then for a sitting, and so the little photographer did not have an opportunity to wonder over the rather odd affair as much as he might have done. indeed, in the press of work, it slipped from his mind altogether. but down in the busy boulevard ste. marie stood hesitating on the curb. there were so many things to be done, in the light of these new developments, that he did not know what to do first. "mlle. coira o'hara!--_mademoiselle!_" the thought gave him a sudden sting of inexplicable relief and pleasure. she would be o'hara's daughter, then. and the boy, arthur benham (there was no room for doubt in the photographer's description) had seemed to be badly in love with her. this was a new development, indeed! it wanted thought, reflection, consultation with richard hartley. he signalled to a fiacre, and when it had drawn up before him sprang into it and gave richard hartley's address in the avenue de l'observatoire. but when they had gone a little way he changed his mind and gave another address, one in the boulevard de la tour maubourg. it was where mlle. olga nilssen lived. she had told him when he parted from her the evening before. on the way he fell to thinking of what he had learned from the little photographer bernstein, to setting the facts, as well as he could, in order, endeavoring to make out just how much or how little they signified by themselves or added to what he had known before. but he was in far too keen a state of excitement to review them at all calmly. as on the previous evening, they seemed to him to loom to the skies, and again he saw himself successful in his quest--victorious--triumphant. that this leap to conclusions was but a little less absurd than the first did not occur to him. he was in a fine fever of enthusiasm, and such difficulties as his eye perceived lay in a sort of vague mist to be dissipated later on, when he should sit quietly down with hartley and sift the wheat from the chaff, laying out a definite scheme of action. it occurred to him that in his interview with the photographer he had forgotten one point, and he determined to go back, later on, and ask about it. he had forgotten to inquire as to captain stewart's attitude toward the beautiful lady. young arthur benham's infatuation had filled his mind at the time, and had driven out of it what olga nilssen had told him about stewart. he found himself wondering if this point might not be one of great importance--the rivalry of the two men for o'hara's daughter. assuredly that demanded thought and investigation. he found the prettily furnished apartment in the avenue de la tour maubourg a scene of great disorder, presided over by a maid who seemed to be packing enormous quantities of garments into large trunks. the maid told him that her mistress, after a sleepless night, had departed from paris by an early train, quite alone, leaving the servant to follow on when she had telegraphed or written an address. no, mlle. nilssen had left no address at all--not even for letters or telegrams. in short, the entire proceeding was, so the exasperated woman viewed it, everything that is imbecile. ste. marie sat down on a hamper with his stick between his knees, and wrote a little note to be sent on when mlle. nilssen's whereabouts should be known. it was unfortunate, he reflected, that she should have fled away just now, but not of great importance to him, because he did not believe that he could learn very much more from her than he had learned already. moreover, he sympathized with her desire to get away from paris--as far away as possible from the man whom she had seen in so horrible a state on the evening past. he had kept the fiacre at the door, and he drove at once back to the rue d'assas. as he started to mount the stair the concierge came out of her loge to say that mr. hartley had called soon after monsieur had left the house that morning, had seemed very much disappointed on not finding monsieur, and before going away again had had himself let into monsieur's apartment with the key of the femme de ménage, and had written a note which monsieur would find là haut. ste. marie thanked the woman, and went on up to his rooms, wondering why hartley had bothered to leave a note instead of waiting or returning at lunch-time, as he usually did. he found the communication on his table and read it at once. hartley said: i have to go across the river to the bristol to see some relatives who are turning up there to-day, and who will probably keep me until evening, and then i shall have to go back there to dine. so i'm leaving a word for you about some things i discovered last evening. i met miss benham at armenonville, where i dined, and in a tête-à-tête conversation we had after dinner she let fall two facts which seem to me very important. they concern captain s. in the first place, when he told us that day, some time ago, that he knew nothing about his father's will or any changes that might have been made in it, he lied. it seems that old david, shortly after the boy's disappearance, being very angry at what he considered, and still considers, a bit of spite on the boy's part, cut young arthur benham out of his will and transferred that share to _captain s._ (miss benham learned this from the old man only yesterday). also it appears that he did this after talking the matter over with captain s., who affected unwillingness. so, as the will reads now, miss b. and captain s. stand to share equally the bulk of the old man's money, which is several millions--in dollars, of course. miss b.'s mother is to have the interest of half of both shares as long as she lives. now mark this: prior to this new arrangement, captain s. was to receive only a small legacy, on the ground that he already had a respectable fortune left him by his mother, old david's first wife (i've heard, by-the-way, that he has squandered a good share of this.) miss b. is, of course, much cut up over the injustice to the boy, but she can't protest too much, as it only excites old david. she says the old man is much weaker. you see, of course, the significance of all this. if david stewart dies, as he's likely to do, before young arthur's return, captain s. gets the money. the second fact i learned was that miss benham did not tell her uncle about her semi-engagement to you or about your volunteering to search for the boy. she thinks her grandfather must have told him. i didn't say so to her, but that is hardly possible in view of the fact that stewart came on here to your rooms very soon after you had reached them yourself. so that makes two lies for our gentle friend--and serious lies, both of them. to my mind, they point unmistakably to a certain conclusion. _captain s. has been responsible for putting his nephew out of the way_. he has either hidden him somewhere and is keeping him in confinement, or he has killed him. i wish we could talk it over to-day, but, as you see, i'm helpless. remain in to-night, and i'll come as soon as i can get rid of these confounded people of mine. one word more. be careful! miss b. is, up to this point, merely puzzled over things. she doesn't suspect her uncle of any crookedness, i'm sure. so we shall have to tread softly where she is concerned. i shall see you to-night. r.h. ste. marie read the closely written pages through twice, and he thought how like his friend it was to take the time and trouble to put what he had learned into this clear, concise form. another man would have scribbled, "important facts--tell you all about it to-night," or something of that kind. hartley must have spent a quarter of an hour over his writing. ste. marie walked up and down the room with all his strength forcing his brain to quiet, reasonable action. once he said, aloud: "yes, you're right, of course. stewart has been at the bottom of it all along." he realized that he had been for some days slowly arriving at that conclusion, and that since the night before he had been practically certain of it, though he had not yet found time to put his suspicions into logical order. hartley's letter had driven the truth concretely home to him, but he would have reached the same truth without it--though that matter of the will was of the greatest importance. it gave him a strong weapon to strike with. he halted before one of the front windows, and his eyes gazed unseeing across the street into the green shrubbery of the luxembourg gardens. the lace curtains had been left by the femme de ménage hanging straight down, and not, as usual, looped back to either side, so he could see through them with perfect ease, although he could not be seen from outside. he became aware that a man who was walking slowly up and down a path inside the high iron palings was in some way familiar to him, and his eyes sharpened. the man was inconspicuously dressed, and looked like almost any other man whom one might pass in the streets without taking any notice of him; but ste. marie knew that he had seen him often, and he wondered how and where. there was a row of lilac shrubs against the iron palings just inside and between the palings and the path, but two of the shrubs were dead and leafless, and each time the man passed this spot he came into plain view; each time, also, he directed an oblique glance toward the house opposite. presently he turned aside and sat down upon one of the public benches, where he was almost, but not quite, hidden by the intervening foliage. then at last ste. marie gave a sudden exclamation and smote his hands together. "the fellow's a spy!" he cried, aloud. "he's watching the house to see when i go out." he began to remember how he had seen the man in the street and in cafés and restaurants, and he remembered that he had once or twice thought it odd, but without any second thought of suspicion. so the fellow had been set to spy upon him, watch his goings and comings and report them to--no need of asking to whom. ste. marie stood behind his curtains and looked across into the pleasant expanse of shrubbery and greensward. he was wondering if it would be worth while to do anything. men and women went up and down the path, hurrying or slowly, at ease with the world--laborers, students, bonnes with market-baskets in their hands and long bread loaves under their arms, nurse-maids herding small children, bigger children spinning diabolo spools as they walked. a man with a pointed black beard and a soft hat passed once and returned to seat himself upon the public bench that ste. marie was watching. for some minutes he sat there idle, holding the soft felt hat upon his knees for coolness. then he turned and looked at the other occupant of the bench, and ste. marie thought he saw the other man nod, though he could not be sure whether either one spoke or not. presently the new-comer rose, put on the soft hat again, and disappeared down the path going toward the gate at the head of the rue du luxembourg. five minutes later the door-bell rang. * * * * * xiii the voyage to colchis ste. marie turned away from the window and crossed to the door. the man with the pointed beard removed his soft hat, bowed very politely, and asked if he had the honor to address m. ste. marie. "that is my name," said ste. marie. "entrez, monsieur!" he waved his visitor to a chair and stood waiting. the man with the beard bowed once more. he said: "i have not the great honor of monsieur's acquaintance, but circumstances, which i will explain later, have put it in my power--have made it a sacred duty, if i may be permitted to say the word--to place in monsieur's hands a piece of information." ste. marie smiled slightly and sat down. he said: "i listen with pleasure--and anticipation. pray go on!" "i have information," said the visitor, "of the whereabouts of m. arthur benham." ste. marie waved his hand. "i feared as much," said he. "i mean to say, i hoped so. proceed, monsieur!" "and learning," continued the other, "that m. ste. marie was conducting a search for that young gentleman, i hastened at once to place this information in his hands." "at a price," suggested his host. "at a price, to be sure." the man with the beard spread out his hands in a beautiful and eloquent gesture which well accompanied his marseillais accent. "ah, as to that!" he protested. "my circumstances--i am poor, monsieur. one must gain the livelihood. what would you? a trifle. the merest trifle." "where is arthur benham?" asked ste. marie. "in marseilles, monsieur. i saw him a week ago--six days. and, so far as i could learn, he had no intention of leaving there immediately--though it is, to be sure, hot." ste. marie laughed a laugh of genuine amusement, and the man with the pointed beard stared at him with some wonder. ste. marie rose and crossed the room to a writing-desk which stood against the opposite wall. he fumbled in a drawer of this, and returned holding in his hand a pink-and-blue note of the banque de france. he said: "monsieur--pardon! i have forgotten to ask the name--you have remarked quite truly that one must gain a livelihood. therefore, i do not presume to criticise the way in which you gain yours. sometimes one cannot choose. however, i should like to make a little bargain with you, monsieur. i know, of course, being not altogether imbecile, who sent you here with this story and why you were sent--why, also, your friend who sits upon the bench in the garden across the street follows me about and spies upon me. i know all this, and i laugh at it a little. but, monsieur, to amuse myself further, i have a desire to hear from your own lips the name of the gentleman who is your employer. amusement is almost always expensive, and so i am prepared to pay for this. i have here a note of one hundred francs. it is yours in return for the name--the _right_ name. remember, i know it already." the man with the pointed beard sprang to his feet quivering with righteous indignation. all southern frenchmen, like all other latins, are magnificent actors. he shook one clinched hand in the air, his face was pale, and his fine eyes glittered. richard hartley would have put himself promptly in an attitude of defence, but ste. marie nodded a smiling head in appreciation. he was half a southern frenchman himself. "monsieur!" cried his visitor, in a choked voice, "monsieur, have a care! you insult me! have a care, monsieur! i am dangerous! my anger, when roused, is terrible!" "i am cowed," observed ste. marie, lighting a cigarette. "i quail." "never," declaimed the gentleman from marseilles, "have i received an insult without returning blow for blow! my blood boils!" "the hundred francs, monsieur," said ste. marie, "will doubtless cool it. besides, we stray from our sheep. reflect, my friend! i have not insulted you. i have asked you a simple question. to be sure, i have said that i knew your errand here was not--not altogether sincere, but i protest, monsieur, that no blame attaches to yourself. the blame is your employer's. you have performed your mission with the greatest of honesty--the most delicate and faithful sense of honor. that is understood." the gentleman with the beard strode across to one of the windows and leaned his head upon his hand. his shoulders still heaved with emotion, but he no longer trembled. the terrible crisis bade fair to pass. then, abruptly, in the frank and open latin way, he burst into tears, and wept with copious profusion, while ste. marie smoked his cigarette and waited. when at length the marseillais turned back into the room he was calm once more, but there remained traces of storm and flood. he made a gesture of indescribable and pathetic resignation. "monsieur," he exclaimed, "you have a heart of gold--of gold, monsieur! you understand. behold us, two men of honor! monsieur," he said, "i had no choice. i was poor. i saw myself face to face with the misère. what would you? i fell. we are all weak flesh. i accepted the commission of the pig who sent me here to you." ste. marie smoothed the pink-and-blue bank-note in his hands, and the other man's eye clung to it as though he were starving and the bank-note was food. "the name?" prompted ste. marie. the gentleman from marseilles tossed up his hands. "monsieur already knows it. why should i hesitate? the name is ducrot." "what!" cried ste. marie, sharply. "what is that? ducrot?" "but naturally!" said the other man, with some wonder. "monsieur said he knew. certainly, ducrot. a little, withered man, bald on the top of the head, creases down the cheeks, a mustache like this"--he made a descriptive gesture--"a little chin. a man like an elderly cat. m. ducrot." ste. marie gave a sigh of relief. "yes, yes," said he. "ducrot is as good a name as another. the gentleman has more than one, it appears. monsieur, the hundred-franc note is yours." the gentleman from marseilles took it with a slightly trembling hand, and began to bow himself toward the door as if he feared that his host would experience a change of heart; but ste. marie checked him, saying: "one moment. i was thinking," said he, "that you would perhaps not care to present yourself to your--employer, m. ducrot, immediately--not for a few days, at least, in view of the fact that certain actions of mine will show him your mission has--well, miscarried. it would, perhaps, be well for you not to communicate with m. ducrot. he might be displeased with you." "monsieur," said the gentleman with the beard, "you speak with acumen and wisdom. i shall neglect to report myself to m. ducrot, who, i repeat, is a pig." "and," pursued ste. marie, "the individual on the bench across the street?" "it is not necessary that i meet that individual, either!" said the marseillais, hastily. "monsieur, i bid you adieu!" he bowed again, a profound, a scraping bow, and disappeared through the door. ste. marie crossed to the window and looked down upon the pavement below. he saw his late visitor emerge from the house and slip rapidly down the street toward the rue vavin. he glanced across into the gardens and the spy still sat there on his bench, but his head lay back and he slept--the sleep of the unjust. one imagined that he must be snoring, for an incredibly small urchin in a blue apron stood on the path before him and watched with the open mouth of astonishment. ste. marie turned back into the room, and began to tramp up and down as was his way in a perplexity or in any time of serious thought. he wished very much that richard hartley were there to consult with. he considered hartley to have a judicial mind--a mind to establish, out of confusion, something like logical order, and he was very well aware that he himself had not that sort of mind at all. in action he was sufficiently confident of himself, but to construct a course of action he was afraid, and he knew that a misstep now, at this critical point, might be fatal--turn success into disaster. he fell to thinking of captain stewart (alias m. ducrot) and he longed most passionately to leap into a fiacre at the corner below, to drive at a gallop across the city to the rue du faubourg st. honoré, to fall upon that smiling hypocrite in his beautiful treasure-house, to seize him by the withered throat and say: "tell me what you have done with arthur benham before i tear your head from your miserable body!" indeed, he was far from sure that this was not what it would come to, in the end, for he reflected that he had not only a tremendous accumulation of evidence with which to face captain stewart, but also a very terrible weapon to hold over his head--the threat of exposure to the old man who lay slowly dying in the rue de l'université! a few words in old david's ear, a few proofs of their truth, and the great fortune for which the son had sold his soul--if he had any left to sell--must pass forever out of his reach, like gold seen in a dream. this is what it might well come to, he said to himself. indeed, it seemed to him at that moment far the most feasible plan, for to such accusations, such demands as that, captain stewart could offer no defence. to save himself from a more complete ruin he would have to give up the boy or tell what he knew of him. but ste. marie was unwilling to risk everything on this throw without seeing richard hartley first, and hartley was not to be had until evening. he told himself that, after all, there was no immediate hurry, for he was quite sure the man would be compelled to keep to his bed for a day or two. he did not know much about epilepsy, but he knew that its paroxysms were followed by great exhaustion, and he felt sure that stewart was far too weak in body to recuperate quickly from any severe call upon his strength. he remembered how light that burden had been in his arms the night before, and then an uncontrollable shiver of disgust went over him as he remembered the sight of the horribly twisted and contorted face, felt again the shaking, thumping head as it beat against his shoulder. he wondered how much stewart knew, how much he would be able to remember of the events of the evening before, and he was at a loss there because of his unfamiliarity with epileptic seizures. of one thing, however, he was almost certain, and that was that the man could scarcely have been conscious of who were beside him when the fit was over. if he had come at all to his proper senses before the ensuing slumber of exhaustion, it must have been after mlle. nilssen and himself had gone away. upon that he fell to wondering about the spy and the gentleman from marseilles--he was a little sorry that hartley could not have seen the gentleman from marseilles--but he reflected that the two were, without doubt, acting upon old orders, and that the latter had probably been stalking him for some days before he found him at home. he looked at his watch and it was half-past twelve. there was nothing to be done, he considered, but wait--get through the day somehow; and so, presently, he went out to lunch. he went up the rue vavin to the boulevard montparnasse and down that broad thoroughfare to lavenue's, on the busy place de rennes, where the cooking is the best in all this quarter, and can, indeed, hold up its head without shame in the face of those other more widely famous restaurants across the river, frequented by the smart world and by the travelling gourmet. he went through to the inner room, which is built like a raised loggia round two sides of a little garden, and which is always cool and fresh in summer. he ordered a rather elaborate lunch, and thought that he sat a very long time at it, but when he looked again at his watch only an hour and a half had gone by. it was a quarter-past two. ste. marie was depressed. there remained almost all of the afternoon to be got through, and heaven alone could say how much of the evening, before he could have his consultation with richard hartley. he tried to think of some way of passing the time, but although he was not usually at a loss he found his mind empty of ideas. none of his common occupations recommended themselves to him. he knew that whatever he tried to do he would interrupt it with pulling out his watch every half-hour or so and cursing the time because it lagged so slowly. he went out to the terrace for coffee, very low in his mind. but half an hour later, as he sat behind his little marble-topped table, smoking and sipping a liqueur, his eyes fell upon something across the square which brought him to his feet with a sudden exclamation. one of the big electric trams that ply between the place st. germain des prés and clamart, by way of the porte de versailles and vanves, was dragging its unwieldy bulk round the turn from the rue de rennes into the boulevard. he could see the sign-board along the impériale--"clamart-st. germain des prés," with "issy" and "vanves" in brackets between. ste. marie clinked a franc upon the table and made off across the place at a run. omnibuses from batignolles and menilmontant got in his way, fiacres tried to run him down, and a motor-car in a hurry pulled up just in time to save his life, but ste. marie ran on and caught the tram before it had completed the negotiation of the long curve and gathered speed for its dash down the boulevard. he sprang upon the step, and the conductor reluctantly unfastened the chain to admit him. so he climbed up to the top and seated himself, panting. the dial high on the façade of the gare montparnasse said ten minutes to three. he had no definite plan of action. he had started off in this headlong fashion upon the spur of a moment's impulse, and because he knew where the tram was going. now, embarked, he began to wonder if he was not a fool. he knew every foot of the way to clamart, for it was a favorite half-day's excursion with him to ride there in this fashion, walk thence through the beautiful meudon wood across to the river, and from bellevue or bas-meudon take a suresnes boat back into the city. he knew, or thought he knew, just where lay the house, surrounded by garden and half-wild park, of which olga nilssen had told him; he had often wondered whose place it was as the tram rolled along the length of its high wall. but he knew, also, that he could do nothing there, single-handed and without excuse or preparation. he could not boldly ring the bell, demand speech with mile. coira o'hara, and ask her if she knew anything of the whereabouts of young arthur benham, whom a photographer had suspected of being in love with her. he certainly could not do that. and there seemed to be nothing else that--ste. marie broke off this somewhat despondent course of reasoning with a sudden little voiceless cry. for the first time it occurred to him to connect the house on the clamart road and mlle. coira o'hara and young arthur benham (it will be remembered that the man had not yet had time to arrange his suddenly acquired mass of evidence in logical order and to make deductions from it), for the first time he began to put two and two together. stewart had hidden away his nephew; this nephew was known to have been much enamoured of the girl coira o'hara; coira o'hara was said to be living--with her father, probably--in the house on the outskirts of paris, where she was visited by captain stewart. was not the inference plain enough--sufficiently reasonable? it left, without doubt, many puzzling things to be explained--perhaps too many; but ste. marie sat forward in his seat, his eyes gleaming, his face tense with excitement. "is young arthur benham in the house on the clamart road?" he said the words almost aloud, and he became aware that the fat woman with a live fowl at her feet and the butcher's boy on his other side were looking at him curiously. he realized that he was behaving in an excited manner, and so sat back and lowered his eyes. but over and over within him the words said themselves--over and over, until they made a sort of mad, foolish refrain. "is arthur benham in the house on the clamart road? is arthur benham in the house on the clamart road?" he was afraid that he would say it aloud once more, and, he tried to keep a firm hold upon himself. the tram swung into the rue de sevres, and rolled smoothly out the long, uninteresting stretch of the rue lecourbe, far out to where the houses, became scattered, where mounds and pyramids of red tiles stood alongside the factory where they had been made, where an acre of little glass hemispheres in long, straight rows winked and glistened in the afternoon sun--the forcing-beds of some market gardener; out to the porte de versailles at the city wall, where a group of customs officers sprawled at ease before their little sentry-box or loafed over to inspect an incoming tram. a bugle sounded and a drum beat from the great fosse under the wall, and a company of piou-pious, red-capped, red-trousered, shambled through their evolutions in a manner to break the heart of a british or a german drill-sergeant. then out past level fields to little vanves, with its steep streets and its old gray church, and past the splendid grounds of the lycée beyond. the fat woman got down, her live fowl shrieking protest to the movement, and the butcher's boy got down, too, so that ste. marie was left alone upon the impériale save for a snuffy old gentleman in a pot-hat who sat in a corner buried behind the day's _droits de l'homme_. ste. marie moved forward once more and laid his arms upon the iron rail before him. they were coming near. they ran past plum and apple orchards and past humble little detached villas, each with a bit of garden in front and an acacia or two at the gate-posts. but presently, on the right, the way began to be bordered by a high stone wall, very long, behind which showed the trees of a park, and among them, far back from the wall beyond a little rise of ground, the gables and chimneys of a house could be made out. the wall went on for perhaps a quarter of a mile in a straight sweep, but half-way the road swung apart from it to the left, dipped under a stone railway bridge, and so presently ended at the village of clamart. as the tram approached the beginning of that long stone wall it began to slacken speed, there was a grating noise from underneath, and presently it came to an abrupt halt. ste. marie looked over the guard-rail and saw that the driver had left his place and was kneeling in the dust beside the car peering at its underworks. the conductor strolled round to him after a moment and stood indifferently by, remarking upon the strange vicissitudes to which electrical propulsion is subject. the driver, without looking up, called his colleague a number of the most surprising and, it is to be hoped, unwarranted names, and suddenly began to burrow under the tram, wriggling his way after the manner of a serpent until nothing could be seen of him but two unrestful feet. his voice, though muffled, was still tolerably distinct. it cursed, in an unceasing staccato and with admirable ingenuity, the tram, the conductor, the sacred dog of an impediment which had got itself wedged into one of the trucks, and the world in general. ste. marie, sitting aloft, laughed for a moment, and then turned his eager eyes upon what lay across the road. the halt had taken place almost exactly at the beginning of that long stretch of park wall which ran beside the road and the tramway. from where he sat he could see the other wing which led inward from the road at something like a right angle, but was presently lost to sight because of a sparse and unkempt patch of young trees and shrubs, well-nigh choked with undergrowth, which extended for some distance from the park wall backward along the road-side toward vanves. whoever owned that stretch of land had seemingly not thought it worth while to cultivate it or to build upon it or even to clear it off. ste. marie's first thought, as his eye scanned the two long stretches of wall and looked over their tops to the trees of the park and the far-off gables and chimneys of the house, was to wonder where the entrance to the place could be, and he decided that it must be on the side opposite to the clamart tram-line. he did not know the smaller roads hereabouts, but he guessed that there must be one somewhere beyond, between the route de clamart and fort d'issy, and he was right. there is a little road between the two; it sweeps round in a long curve and ends near the tiny public garden in issy, and it is called the rue barbés. his second thought was that this unkempt patch of tree and brush offered excellent cover for any one who might wish to pass an observant hour alongside that high stone wall; for any one who might desire to cast a glance over the lie of the land, to see at closer range that house of which so little could be seen from the route de clamart, to look over the wall's coping into park and garden. the thought brought him to his feet with a leaping heart, and before he realized that he had moved he found himself in the road beside the halted tram. the conductor brushed past him, mounting to his place, and from the platform beckoned, crying out: "en voiture, monsieur! en voiture!" again something within ste. marie that was not his conscious direction acted for him, and he shook his head. the conductor gave two little blasts upon his horn, the tram wheezed and moved forward. in a moment it was on its way, swinging along at full speed toward the curve in the line that bore to the left and dipped under the railway bridge. ste. marie stood in the middle of that empty road, staring after it until it had disappeared from view. * * * * * xiv the walls of aea ste. marie had acted upon an impulse of which he was scarcely conscious at all, and when he found himself standing alone in the road and watching the clamart tram disappear under the railway bridge he called himself hard names and wondered what he was to do next. he looked before and behind him, and there was no living soul in sight. he bent his eyes again upon that unkempt patch of young trees and undergrowth, and once more the thought forced itself to his brain that it would make excellent cover for one who wished to observe a little--to reconnoitre. he knew that it was the part of wisdom to turn his back upon this place, to walk on to clamart or return to vanves and mount upon a homeward-bound tram. he knew that it was the part of folly, of madness even, to expose himself to possible discovery by some one within the walled enclosure. what though no one there were able to recognize him, still the sight of a man prowling about the walls, seeking to spy over them, might excite an alarm that would lead to all sorts of undesirable complications. dimly ste. marie realized all this, and he tried to turn his back and walk away, but the patch of little trees and shrubbery drew him with an irresistible fascination. "just a little look along that unknown wall," he said to himself, "just the briefest of all brief reconnaissances, the merest glance beyond the masking screen of wood growth, so that in case of sudden future need he might have the lie of the place clear in his mind;" for without any sound reason for it he was somehow confident that this walled house and garden were to play an important part in the rescue of arthur benham. it was once more a matter of feeling. the rather womanlike intuition which had warned him that o'hara was concerned in young benham's disappearance, and that the two were not far from paris, was again at work in him, and he trusted it as he had done before. he gave a little nod of determination, as one who, for good or ill, casts a die, and he crossed the road. there was a deep ditch, and he had to climb down into it and up its farther side, for it was too broad to be jumped. so he came into the shelter of the young poplars and elms and oaks. the underbrush caught at his clothes, and the dead leaves of past seasons crackled underfoot; but after a little space he came to somewhat clearer ground, though the saplings still stood thick about him and hid him securely. he made his way inward along the wall, keeping a short distance back from it, and he saw that after twenty or thirty yards it turned again at a very obtuse angle away from him and once more ran on in a long straight line. just beyond this angle he came upon a little wooden door thickly studded with nails. it was made to open inward, and on the outside there was no knob or handle of any kind, only a large key-hole of the simple, old-fashioned sort. slipping up near to look, ste. marie observed that the edges of the key-hole were rusty, but scratched a little through the rust with recent marks; so the door, it seemed, was sometimes used. he observed another thing. the ground near by was less encumbered with trees than at any other point, and the turf was depressed with many wheel marks--broad marks, such as are made only by the wheels of a motor-car. he followed these tracks for a little distance, and they wound in and out among the trees, and beyond the thin fringe of wood swept away in a curve toward issy, doubtless to join the road which he had already imagined to lie somewhere beyond the enclosure. beyond the more open space about this little door the young trees stood thick together again, and ste. marie pressed cautiously on. he stopped now and then to listen, and once he thought that he heard from within the sound of a woman's laugh, but he could not be sure. the slight change of direction had confused him a little, and he was uncertain as to where the house lay. the wall was twelve or fifteen feet high, and from the level of the ground he could, of course, see nothing over it but tree tops. he went on for what may have been a hundred yards, but it seemed to him very much more than that, and he came to a tall gnarled cedar-tree which stood almost against the high wall. it was half dead, but its twisted limbs were thick and strong, and by force of the tree's cramped position they had grown in strange and grotesque forms. one of them stretched across the very top of the stone wall, and with the wind's action it had scraped away the coping of tiles and bottle-glass and had made a little depression there to rest in. ste. marie looked up along this natural ladder, and temptation smote him sorely. it was so easy and so safe! there was enough foliage left upon the half-dead tree to screen him well, but whether or no it is probable that he would have yielded to the proffered lure. there seems to have been more than chance in ste. marie's movements upon this day; there seems to have been something like the hand of fate in them--as doubtless there is in most things, if one but knew. he left his hat and stick behind him, under a shrub, and he began to make his way up the half-bare branches of the gnarled cedar. they bore him well, without crack or rustle, and the way was very easy. no ladder made by man could have offered a much simpler ascent. so, mounting slowly and with care, his head came level with the top of the wall. he climbed to the next branch, a foot higher, and rested there. the drooping foliage from the upper part of the cedar-tree, which was still alive, hung down over him and cloaked him from view, but through its aromatic screen he could see as freely as through the window curtain in the rue d'assas. the house lay before him, a little to the left and perhaps a hundred yards away. it was a disappointing house to find in that great enclosure, for though it was certainly neither small nor trivial, it was as certainly far from possessing anything like grandeur. it had been in its day a respectable, unpretentious square structure of three stories, entirely without architectural beauty, but also entirely without the ornate hideousness of the modern villas along the route de clamart. now, however, the stucco was gone in great patches from its stone walls, giving them an unpleasantly diseased look, and long neglect of all decent cares had lent the place the air almost of desertion. anciently the grounds before the house had been laid out in the formal fashion with a terrace and geometrical lawns and a pool and a fountain and a rather fine, long vista between clipped larches, but the same neglect which had made shabby the stuccoed house had allowed grass and weeds to grow over the gravel paths, underbrush to spring up and to encroach upon the geometrical turf-plots, the long double row of clipped larches to flourish at will or to die or to fall prostrate and lie where they had fallen. so all the broad enclosure was a scene of heedless neglect, a riot of unrestrained and wanton growth, where should have been decorous and orderly beauty. it was a sight to bring tears to a gardener's eyes, but it had a certain untamed charm of its own, for all that. the very riot of it, the wanton prodigality of untouched natural growth, produced an effect that was by no means all disagreeable. an odd and whimsical thought came into ste. marie's mind that thus must have looked the garden and park round the castle of the sleeping beauty when the prince came to wake her. but sleeping beauties and unkempt grounds went from him in a flash when he became aware of a sound which was like the sound of voices. instinctively he drew farther back into the shelter of his aromatic screen. his eyes swept the space below him from right to left, and could see no one. so he sat very still, save for the thunderous beat of a heart which seemed to him like drum-beats when soldiers are marching, and he listened--"all ears," as the phrase goes. the sound was in truth a sound of voices. he was presently assured of that, but for some time he could not make out from which direction it came. and so he was the more startled when quite suddenly there appeared from behind a row of tall shrubs two young people moving slowly together up the untrimmed turf in the direction of the house. the two young people were mlle. coira o'hara and arthur benham, and upon the brow of this latter youth there was no sign of dungeon pallor, upon his free-moving limbs no ball and chain. there was no apparent reason why he should not hasten back to the eager arms in the rue de l'université if he chose to--unless, indeed, his undissembling attitude toward mlle. coira o'hara might serve as a reason. the young man followed at her heel with much the manner and somewhat the appearance of a small dog humbly conscious of unworthiness, but hopeful nevertheless of an occasional kind word or pat on the head. the world wheeled multi-colored and kaleidoscopic before ste. marie's eyes, and in his ears there was a rushing of great winds, but he set his teeth and clung with all the strength he had to the tree which sheltered him. his first feeling, after that initial giddiness, was anger, sheer anger, a bewildered and astonished fury. he had thought to find this poor youth in captivity, pining through prison bars for the home and the loved ones and the familiar life from which he had been ruthlessly torn. yet here he was strolling in a suburban garden with a lady--free, free as air, or so he seemed. ste. marie thought of the grim and sorrowful old man in paris who was sinking untimely into his grave because his grandson did not return to him; he thought of that timid soul--more shadow than woman--the boy's mother; he thought of helen benham's tragic eyes, and he could have beaten young arthur half to death in that moment in the righteous rage that stormed within him. but he turned his eyes from this wretched youth to the girl who walked beside, a little in advance, and the rage died in him swiftly. after all, was she not one to make any boy--or any man--forget duty, home, friends, everything? rather oddly his mind flashed back to the morning and to the words of the little photographer, bernstein. perhaps the jew had put it as well as any man could: "she was a goddess, that lady, a queen of goddesses ... the young juno before marriage...." ste. marie nodded his head. yes, she was just that. the little jew had spoken well. it could not be more fairly put--though without doubt it could have been expressed at much greater length and with a great deal more eloquence. the photographer's other words came also to his mind, the more detailed description, and again he nodded his head, for this, too, was true. "she was all color--brown skin with a dull-red stain under the cheeks, and a great mass of hair that was not black but very nearly black--except in the sun, and then there were red lights in it." it occurred to ste. marie, whimsically, that the two young people might have stepped out of the door of bernstein's studio straight into this garden, judging from their bearing each to the other. "ah, a thing to touch the heart! such devotion as that! alas, that the lady should seem so cold to it! ... still, a goddess! what would you? a queen among goddesses! ... one would not have them laugh and make little jokes.... make eyes at love-sick boys. no, indeed!" certainly mlle. coira o'hara was not making eyes at the love-sick boy who followed at her heel this afternoon. perhaps it would be going too far to say that she was cold to him, but it was very plain to see that she was bored and weary, and that she wished she might be almost anywhere else than where she was. she turned her beautiful face a little toward the wall where ste. marie lay perdu, and he could see that her eyes had the same dark fire, the same tragic look of appeal that he had seen in them before--once in the champs-elysées and again in his dreams. abruptly he became aware that while he gazed, like a man in a trance, the two young people walked on their way and were on the point of passing beyond reach of eye or ear. he made a sudden involuntary movement as if he would call them back, and for the first time his faithful hiding-place, strained beyond silent endurance, betrayed him with a loud rustle of shaken branches. ste. marie shrank back, his heart in his throat. it was too late to retreat now down the tree. the damage was already done. he saw the two young people halt and turn to look, and after a moment he saw the boy come slowly forward, staring. he heard him say: "what's up in that tree? there's something in the tree." and he heard the girl answer: "it's only birds fighting. don't bother!" but young arthur benham came on, staring up curiously until he was almost under the high wall. then ste. marie's strange madness, or the hand of fate, or whatever power it was which governed him on that day, thrust him on to the ultimate pitch of recklessness. he bent forward from his insecure perch over the wall until his head and shoulders were in plain sight, and he called down to the lad below in a loud whisper: "benham! benham!" the boy gave a sharp cry of alarm and began to back away. and after a moment ste. marie heard the cry echoed from coira o'hara. he heard her say: "be careful! be careful, arthur! come away! oh, come away quickly!" ste. marie raised his own voice to a sort of cry. he said: "wait! i tell you to wait, benham! i must have a word with you. i come from your family--from helen!" to his amazement the lad turned about and began to run toward where the girl stood waiting; and so, without a moment's hesitation, ste. marie threw himself across the top of the wall, hung for an instant by his hands, and dropped upon the soft turf. scarcely waiting to recover his balance, he stumbled forward, shouting: "wait! i tell you, wait! are you mad? wait, i say! listen to me!" vaguely, in the midst of his great excitement, he had heard a whistle sound as he dropped inside the wall. he did not know then whence the shrill call had come, but afterward he knew that coira o' hara had blown it. and now, as he ran forward toward the two who stood at a distance staring at him, he heard other steps and he slackened his pace to look. a man came running down among the black-boled trees, a strange, squat, gnomelike man whose gait was as uncouth as his dwarfish figure. he held something in his two hands as he ran, and when he came near he threw this thing with a swift movement up before him, but he did not pause in his odd, scrambling run. ste. marie felt a violent blow upon his left leg between hip and knee. he thought that somebody had crept up behind him and struck him; but as he whirled about he saw that there was no one there, and then he heard a noise and knew that the gnomelike running man had shot him. he faced about once more toward the two young people. he was very angry and he wished to say so, and very much he wished to explain why he had trespassed there, and why they had no right to shoot him as if he were some wretched thief. but he found that in some quite absurd fashion he was as if fixed to the ground. it was as if he had suddenly become of the most ponderous and incredible weight, like lead--or that other metal, not gold, which is the heaviest of all. only the metal, seemingly, was not only heavy but fiery hot, and his strength was incapable of holding it up any longer. his eyes fixed themselves in a bewildered stare upon the figure of mlle. coira o'hara; he had time to observe that she had put up her two hands over her face, then he fell down forward, his head struck something very hard, and he knew no more. * * * * * xv a conversation at la lierre captain stewart walked nervously up and down the small inner drawing-room at la lierre, his restless hands fumbling together behind him, and his eyes turning every half-minute with a sharp eagerness to the closed door. but at last, as if he were very tired, he threw himself down in a chair which stood near one of the windows, and all his tense body seemed to relax in utter exhaustion. it was not a very comfortable chair that he had sat down in, but there were no comfortable chairs in the room--nor, for that matter, in all the house. when he had taken the place, about two months before this time, he had taken it furnished, but that does not mean very much in france. no french country-houses--or town-houses, either--are in the least comfortable, by anglo-saxon standards, and that is at least one excellent reason why frenchmen spend just as little time in them as they possibly can. half the cafés in paris would promptly put up their shutters if parisian homes could all at once turn themselves into something like english or american ones. as for la lierre, it was even more dreary and bare and tomblike than other country-houses, because it was, after all, a sort of ruin, and had not been lived in for fifteen years, save by an ancient caretaker and his nearly as ancient wife. and that was, perhaps, why it could be taken on a short lease at such a very low price. the room in which captain stewart sat was behind the large drawing-room, which was always kept closed now, and it looked out by one window to the west, and by two windows to the north, over a corner of the kitchen garden and a vista of trees beyond. it was a high-ceiled room with walls bare except for two large mirrors in the empire fashion, which stared at each other across the way with dull and flaking eyes. under each of these stood a heavy gilt and ebony console with a top of chocolate-colored marble, and in the centre of the room there was a table of a like fashion to the consoles. further than this there was nothing save three chairs, upon one of which lay captain stewart's dust-coat and motoring cap and goggles. a shaft of golden light from the low sun slanted into the place through the western window from which the venetians had been pulled back, and fell across the face of the man who lay still and lax in his chair, eyes closed and chin dropped a little so that his mouth hung weakly open. he looked very ill, as, indeed, any one might look after such an attack as he had suffered on the night previous. that one long moment of deathly fear before he had fallen down in a fit had nearly killed him. all through this following day it had continued to recur until he thought he should go mad. and there was worse still. how much did olga nilssen know? and how much had she told? she had astonished and frightened him when she had said that she knew about the house on the road to clamart, for he thought he had hidden his visits to la lierre well. he wondered rather drearily how she had discovered them, and he wondered how much she knew more than she had admitted. he had a half-suspicion of something like the truth, that mlle. nilssen knew only of coira o'hara's presence here, and drew a rather natural inference. if that was all, there was no danger from her--no more, that is, than had already borne its fruit, for stewart knew well enough that ste. marie must have learned of the place from her. in any case olga nilssen had left paris--he had discovered that fact during the day--and so for the present she might be eliminated as a source of peril. the man in the chair gave a little groan and rolled his head wearily to and fro against the uncomfortable chair-back, for now he came to the real and immediate danger, and he was so very tired and ill, and his head ached so sickeningly that it was almost beyond him to bring himself face to face with it. there was the man who lay helpless upon a bed up-stairs! and there were the man's friends, who were not at all helpless or bedridden or in captivity! a wave of almost intolerable pain swept through stewart's aching head, and he gave another groan which was almost like a child's sob. but at just that moment the door which led into the central hall opened, and the irishman o'hara came into the room. captain stewart sprang to his feet to meet him, and he caught the other man by the arm in his eagerness. "how is he?" he cried out. "how is he? how badly was he hurt?" "the patient?" said o'hara. "let go my arm! hang it, man, you're pinching me! oh, he'll do well enough. he'll be fit to hobble about in a week or ten days. the bullet went clean through his leg and out again without cutting an artery. it was a sort of miracle--and a damned lucky miracle for all hands, too! if we'd had a splintered bone or a severed artery to deal with i should have had to call in a doctor. then the fellow would have talked, and there'd have been the devil to pay. as it is, i shall be able to manage well enough with my own small skill. i've dressed worse wounds than that in my time. by jove, it was a miracle, though!" a sudden little gust of rage swept him. he cried out: "that confounded fool of a gardener, that one-eyed michel, ought to be beaten to death. why couldn't he have slipped up behind this fellow and knocked him on the head, instead of shooting him from ten paces away? the benighted idiot! he came near upsetting the whole boat!" "yes," said captain stewart, with a sharp, hard breath, "he should have shot straighter or not at all." the irishman stared at him with his bright blue eyes, and after a moment he gave a short laugh. "jove, you're a bloodthirsty beggar, stewart!" said he. "that would have been a rum go, if you like! killing the fellow! all his friends down on us like hawks, and the police and all that! you can't go about killing people in the outskirts of paris, you know--at least not people with friends. and this chap looks like a gentleman, more or less, so i take it he has friends. as a matter of fact, his face is rather familiar. i think i've seen him before, somewhere. you looked at him just now through the crack of the door; do you know who he is? coira tells me he called out to arthur by name, but arthur says he never saw him before and doesn't know him at all." captain stewart shivered. it had not been a pleasant moment for him, that moment when he had looked through the crack of the door and recognized ste. marie. "yes," he said, half under his breath--"yes, i know who he is. a friend of the family." the irishman's lips puckered to a low whistle. he said: "spying, then, as i thought. he has run us to earth." and the other nodded. o'hara took a turn across the room and back. "in that case," he said, presently--"in that case, then, we must keep him prisoner here so long as we remain. that's certain." he spun round sharply with an exclamation. "look here!" he cried, in a lower tone, "how about this fellow's friends? it isn't likely he's doing his dirty work alone. how about his friends, when he doesn't turn up to-night? if they know he was coming here to spy on us; if they know where the place is; if they know, in short, what he seems to have known, we're done for. we'll have to run, get out, disappear. hang it, man, d'you understand? we're not safe here for an hour." captain stewart's hands shook a little as he gripped them together behind him, and a dew of perspiration stood out suddenly upon his forehead and cheek-bones, but his voice, when he spoke, was well under control. "it's an odd thing," said he--"another miracle, if you like--but i believe we are safe--reasonably safe. i--have reason to think that this fellow learned about la lierre only last evening from some one who left paris to-day to be gone a long time. and i also have reason to believe that the fellow has not seen the one friend who is in his confidence, since he obtained his information. by chance i met the friend, the other man, in the street this afternoon. i asked after this fellow whom we have here, and the friend said he hadn't seen him for twenty-four hours--was going to see him to-night." "by the lord!" cried the irishman, with a great laugh of relief. "what luck! what monumental luck! if all that's true, we're safe. why, man, we're as safe as a fox in his hole. the lad's friends won't have the ghost of an idea of where he's gone to.... wait, though! stop a bit! he won't have left written word behind him, eh? he won't have done that--for safety?" "i think not," said captain stewart, but he breathed hard, for he knew well enough that there lay the gravest danger. "i think not," he said again. he made a rather surprisingly accurate guess at the truth--that ste. marie had started out upon impulse, without intending more than a general reconnaissance, and therefore without leaving any word behind him. still, the shadow of danger uplifted itself before the man and he was afraid. a sudden gust of weak anger shook him like a wind. "in heaven's name," he cried, shrilly, "why didn't that one-eyed fool kill the fellow while he was about it? there's danger for us every moment while he is alive here. why didn't that shambling idiot kill him?" captain stewart's outflung hand jumped and trembled and his face was twisted into a sort of grinning snarl. he looked like an angry and wicked cat, the other man thought. "if i weren't an over-civilized fool," he said, viciously, "i'd go up-stairs and kill him now with my hands while he can't help himself. we're all too scrupulous by half." the irishman stared at him and presently broke into amazed laughter. "scrupulous!" said he. "well, yes, i'm too scrupulous to murder a man in his bed, if you like. i'm not squeamish, but--good lord!" "do you realize," demanded captain stewart, "what risks we run while that fellow is alive--knowing what he knows?" "oh yes, i realize that," said o'hara. "but i don't see why _you_ should have heart failure over it." captain stewart's pale lips drew back again in their catlike fashion. "never mind about me," he said. "but i can't help thinking you're peculiarly indifferent in the face of danger." "no, i'm not!" said the irishman, quickly. "no, i'm not. don't you run away with that idea! i merely said," he went oh--"i merely said that i'd stop short of murder. i don't set any foolish value on life--my own or any other. i've had to take life more than once, but it was in fair fight or in self-defence, and i don't regret it. it was your coldblooded joke about going up-stairs and killing this chap in his bed that put me on edge. naturally i know you didn't mean it. don't you go thinking that i'm lukewarm or that i'm indifferent to danger. i know there's danger from this lad up-stairs, and i mean to be on guard against it. he stays here under strict guard until--what we're after is accomplished--until young arthur comes of age. if there's danger," said he, "why, we know where it lies, and we can guard against it. that kind of danger is not very formidable. the dangerous dangers are the ones that you don't know about--the hidden ones." he came forward a little, and his lean face was as hard and as impassive as ever, and the bright blue eyes shone from it steady and unwinking. stewart looked up to him with a sort of peevish resentment at the man's confidence and cool poise. it was an odd reversal of their ordinary relations. for the hour the duller villain, the man who was wont to take orders and to refrain from overmuch thought or question, seemed to have become master. sheer physical exhaustion and the constant maddening pain had had their will of captain stewart. a sudden shiver wrung him so that his dry fingers rattled against the wood of the chair-arms. "all the same," he cried, "i'm afraid. i've been confident enough until now. now i'm afraid. i wish the fellow had been killed." "kill him, then!" laughed the irishman. "i won't give you up to the police." he crossed the room to the door, but halted short of it and turned about again, and he looked back very curiously at the man who sat crouched in his chair by the window. it had occurred to him several times that stewart was very unlike himself. the man was quite evidently tired and ill, and that might account for some of the nervousness, but this fierce malignity was something a little beyond o'hara's comprehension. it seemed to him that the elder man had the air of one frightened beyond the point the circumstances warranted. "are you going back to town," he asked, "or do you mean to stay the night?" "i shall stay the night," stewart said. "i'm too tired to bear the ride." he glanced up and caught the other's eyes fixed upon him. "well!" he cried, angrily. "what is it? what are you looking at me like that for? what do you want?" "i want nothing," said the irishman, a little sharply. "and i wasn't aware that i'd been looking at you in any unusual way. you're precious jumpy to-day, if you want to know.... look here!" he came back a step, frowning. "look here!" he repeated. "i don't quite make you out. are you keeping back anything? because if you are, for heaven's sake have it out here and now! we're all in this game together, and we can't afford to be anything but frank with one another. we can't afford to make reservations. it's altogether too dangerous for everybody. you're too much frightened. there's no apparent reason for being so frightened as that." captain stewart drew a long breath between closed teeth, and afterward he looked up at the younger man coldly. "we need not discuss my personal feelings, i think," said he. "they have no--no bearing on the point at issue. as you say, we are all in this thing together, and you need not fear that i shall fail to do my part, as i have done it in the past.... that's all, i believe." "oh, _as_ you like! as you like!" said the irishman, in the tone of one rebuffed. he turned again and left the room, closing the door behind him. outside on the stairs it occurred to him that he had forgotten to ask the other man what this fellow's name was--the fellow who lay wounded up-stairs. no, he had asked once, but in the interest of the conversation the question had been lost. he determined to inquire again that evening at dinner. but captain stewart, left thus alone, sank deeper in the uncomfortable chair, and his head once more stirred and sought vainly for ease against the chair's high back. the pain swept him in regular throbbing waves that were like the waves of the sea--waves which surge and crash and tear upon a beach. but between the throbs of physical pain there was something else that was always present while the waves came and went. pain and exhaustion, if they are sufficiently extreme, can well nigh paralyze mind as well as body, and for some time captain stewart wondered what this thing might be which lurked at the bottom of him still under the surges of agony. then at last he had the strength to look at it, and it was fear, cold and still and silent. he was afraid to the very depths of his soul. true, as o'hara had said, there did not seem to be any very desperate peril to face, but stewart was afraid with the gambler's unreasoning, half-superstitious fear, and that is the worst fear of all. he realized that he had been afraid of ste. marie from the beginning, and that, of course, was why he had tried to draw him into partnership with himself in his own official and wholly mythical search for arthur benham. he could have had the other man under his eye then. he could have kept him busy for months running down false scents. as it was, ste. marie's uncanny instinct about the irishman o'hara had led him true--that and what he doubtless learned from olga nilssen. if stewart had been in a condition and mood to philosophize, he would doubtless have reflected that seven-tenths of the desperate causes, both good and bad, which fail in this world, fail because they are wrecked by some woman's love or jealousy--or both. but it is unlikely that he was able just at this time to make such a reflection, though certainly he wondered how much olga nilssen had known, and how much ste. marie had had to put together out of her knowledge and any previous suspicions which he may have had. the man would have been amazed if he could have known what a mountain of information and evidence had piled itself up over his head all in twelve hours. he would have been amazed and, if possible, even more frightened than he was, but he was without question sufficiently frightened, for here was ste. marie in the very house, he had seen arthur benham, and quite obviously he knew all there was to know, or at least enough to ruin arthur benham's uncle beyond all recovery or hope of recovery--irretrievably. captain stewart tried to think what it would mean to him--failure in this desperate scheme--but he had not the strength or the courage. he shrank from the picture as one shrinks from something horrible in a bad dream. there could be no question of failure. he had to succeed at any cost, however desperate or fantastic. once more the spasm of childish, futile rage swept over him and shook him like a wind. "why couldn't the fellow have been killed by that one-eyed fool?" he cried, sobbing. "why couldn't he have been killed? he's the only one who knows--the only thing in the way. why couldn't he have keen killed?" quite suddenly captain stewart ceased to sob and shiver, and sat still in his chair, gripping the arms with white and tense fingers. his eyes began to widen, and they became fixed in a long, strange stare. he drew a deep breath. "i wonder!" he said, aloud. "i wonder, now." * * * * * xvi the black cat that providential stone or tree-root, or whatever it may have been, proved a genuine blessing in disguise to ste. marie. it gave him a splitting headache for a few hours, but it saved him a good deal of discomfort the while his bullet wound was being more or less probed and very skilfully cleansed and dressed by o'hara. for he did not regain consciousness until this surgical work was almost at its end, and then he wanted to fight the irishman for tying the bandages too tight. but when o'hara had gone away and left him alone he lay still--or as still as the smarting, burning pain in his leg and the ache in his head would let him--and stared at the wall beyond his bed, and bit by bit the events of the past hour came back to him, and he knew where he was. he cursed himself very bitterly, as he well might do, for a bungling idiot. the whole thing had been in his hands, he said, with perfect truth--arthur benham's whereabouts proved stewart's responsibility or, at the very least, complicity and the sordid motive therefor. remained--had ste. marie been a sane being instead of an impulsive fool--remained but to face stewart down in the presence of witnesses, threaten him with exposure, and so, with perfect ease, bring back the lost boy in triumph to his family. it should all have been so simple, so easy, so effortless! yet now it was ruined by a moment's rash folly, and heaven alone knew what would come of it. he remembered that he had left behind him no indication whatever of where he meant to spend the afternoon. hartley would come hurrying across town that evening to the rue d'assas, and would find no one there to receive him. he would wait and wait, and at last go home. he would come again on the next morning, and then he would begin to be alarmed and would start a second search--but with what to reckon by? nobody knew about the house on the road to clamart but mlle. olga nilssen, and she was far away. he thought of captain stewart, and he wondered if that gentleman was by any chance here in the house, or if he was still in bed in the rue du faubourg st. honoré, recovering from his epileptic fit. after that he fell once more to cursing himself and his incredible stupidity, and he could have wept for sheer bitterness of chagrin. he was still engaged in this unpleasant occupation when the door of the room opened and the irishman o'hara entered, having finished his interview with captain stewart below. he came up beside the bed and looked down not unkindly upon the man who lay there, but ste. marie scowled back at him, for he was in a good deal of pain and a vile humor. "how's the leg--_and_ the head?" asked the amateur surgeon. to do him justice, he was very skilful, indeed, through much experience. "they hurt," said ste. marie, shortly. "my head aches like the devil, and my leg burns." o'hara made a sound which was rather like a gruff laugh, and nodded. "yes, and they'll go on doing it, too," said he. "at least the leg will. your head will be all right again in a day or so. do you want anything to eat? it's near dinner-time. i suppose we can't let you starve--though you deserve it." "thanks; i want nothing," said ste. marie. "pray don't trouble about me." the other man nodded again indifferently and turned to go out of the room, but in the doorway he halted and looked back. "as we're to have the pleasure of your company for some time to come," said he, "you might suggest a name to call you by. of course i don't expect you to tell your own name--though i can learn that easily enough." "easily enough, to be sure," said the man on the bed. "ask stewart. he knows only too well." the irishman scowled. and after a moment he said: "i don't know any stewart." but at that ste. marie gave a laugh, and a tinge of red came over the irishman's cheeks. "and so, to save captain stewart the trouble," continued the wounded man, "i'll tell you my name with pleasure. i don't know why i shouldn't. it's ste. marie." "what?" cried o'hara, hoarsely. "what? say that again!" he came forward a swift step or two into the room, and he stared at the man on the bed as if he were staring at a ghost. "ste. marie?" he cried, in a whisper. "it's impossible! what are you," he demanded, "to gilles, comte de ste. marie de mont-perdu? what are you to him?" "he was my father," said the younger man; "but he is dead. he has been dead for ten years." he raised his head, with a little grimace of pain, to look curiously after the irishman, who had all at once turned away across the room and stood still beside a window with bent head. "why?" he questioned. "what about my father? why did you ask that?" o'hara did not answer at once, and he did not stir from his place by the window, but after a while he said: "i knew him.... that's all." and after another space he came back beside the bed, and once more looked down upon the young man who lay there. his face was veiled, inscrutable. it betrayed nothing. "you have a look of your father," said he. "that was what puzzled me a little. i was just saying to--i was just thinking that there was something familiar about you.... ah, well, we've all come down in the world since then. the ste. marie blood, though. who'd have thought it?" the man shook his head a little sorrowfully, but ste. marie stared up at him in frowning incomprehension. the pain had dulled him somewhat. and presently o'hara again moved toward the door. on the way he said: "i'll bring or send you something to eat--not too much. and later on i'll give you a sleeping-powder. with that head of yours you may have trouble in getting to sleep. understand, i'm doing this for your father's son, and not because you've any right yourself to consideration." ste. marie raised himself with difficulty on one elbow. "wait!" said he. "wait a moment!" and the other halted just inside the door. "you seem to have known my father," said ste. marie, "and to have respected him. for my father's sake, will you listen to me for five minutes?" "no, i won't," said the irishman, sharply. "so you may as well hold your tongue. nothing you can say to me or to any one in this house will have the slightest effect. we know what you came spying here for. we know all about it." "yes," said ste. marie, with a little sigh, and he fell back upon the pillows. "yes, i suppose you do. i was rather a fool to speak. you wouldn't all be doing what you're doing if words could affect you. i was a fool to speak." the irishman stared at him for another moment, and went out of the room, closing the door behind him. so he was left once more alone to his pain and his bitter self-reproaches and his wild and futile plans for escape. but o'hara returned in an hour or thereabout with food for him--a cup of broth and a slice of bread; and when ste. marie had eaten these the irishman looked once more to his wounded leg, and gave him a sleeping-powder dissolved in water. he lay restless and wide-eyed for an hour, and then drifted away through intermediate mists into a sleep full of horrible dreams, but it was at least relief from bodily suffering, and when he awoke in the morning his headache was almost gone. he awoke to sunshine and fresh, sweet odors and the twittering of birds. by good chance o'hara had been the last to enter the room on the evening before, and so no one had come to close the shutters or draw the blinds. the windows were open wide, and the morning breeze, very soft and aromatic, blew in and out and filled the place with sweetness. the room was a corner room, with windows that looked south and east, and the early sun slanted in and lay in golden squares across the floor. ste. marie opened his eyes with none of the dazed bewilderment that he might have expected. the events of the preceding day came back to him instantly and without shock. he put up an experimental hand, and found that his head was still very sore where he had struck it in falling, but the ache was almost gone. he tried to stir his leg, and a protesting pain shot through it. it burned dully, even when it was quiet, but the pain was not at all severe. he realized that he was to get off rather well, considering what might have happened, and he was so grateful for this that he almost forgot to be angry with himself over his monumental folly. a small bird chased by another wheeled in through the southern window and back again into free air. finally, the two settled down upon the parapet of the little shallow balcony which was there to have their disagreement out, and they talked it over with a great deal of noise and many threatening gestures and a complete loss of temper on both sides. ste. marie, from his bed, cheered them on, but there came a commotion in the ivy which draped the wall below, and the two birds fled in ignominious haste, and just in the nick of time, for when the cause of the commotion shot into view it was a large black cat, of great bodily activity and an ardent single-heartedness of aim. the black cat gazed for a moment resentfully after its vanished prey, and then composed its sleek body upon the iron rail, tail and paws tucked neatly under. ste. marie chirruped, and the cat turned yellow eyes upon him in mild astonishment, as one who should say, "who the deuce are you, and what the deuce are you doing here?" he chirruped again, and the cat, after an ostentatious yawn and stretch, came to him--beating up to windward, as it were, and making the bed in three tacks. when o'hara entered the room some time later he found his patient in a very cheerful frame of mind, and the black cat sitting on his chest purring like a dynamo and kneading like an industrious baker. "ho," said the irishman, "you seem to have found a friend!" "well, i need one friend here," argued ste. marie. "i'm in the enemy's stronghold. you needn't be alarmed; the cat can't tell me anything, and it can't help me to escape. it can only sit on me and purr. that's harmless enough." o'hara began one of his gruff laughs, but he seemed to remember himself in the middle of it and assumed an intimidating scowl instead. "how's the leg?" he demanded, shortly. "let me see it." he took off the bandages and cleansed and sprayed the wound with some antiseptic liquid that he had brought in a bottle. "there's a little fever," said he, "but that can't be avoided. you're going on very well--a good deal better than you'd any right to expect." he had to inflict not a little pain in his examination and redressing of the wound. he knew that, and once or twice he glanced up at ste. marie's face with a sort of reluctant admiration for the man who could bear so much without any sign whatever. in the end he put together his things and nodded with professional satisfaction. "you'll do well enough now for the rest of the day," he said. "i'll send up old michel to valet you. he's the gardener who shot you yesterday, and he may take it into his head to finish the job this morning. if he does i sha'n't try to stop him." "nor i," said ste. marie. "thanks very much for your trouble. an excellent surgeon was lost in you." o'hara left the room, and presently the old caretaker, one-eyed, gnomelike, shambling like a bear, sidled in and proceeded to set things to rights. he looked, ste. marie said to himself, like something in an old german drawing, or in those imitations of old drawings that one sometimes sees nowadays in _fliegende blätter_. he tried to make the strange creature talk, but michel went about his task with an air half-frightened, half-stolid, and refused to speak more than an occasional "oui" or a "bien, monsieur," in answer to orders. ste. marie asked if he might have some coffee and bread, and the old michel nodded and slipped from the room as silently as he had entered it. thereafter ste. marie trifled with the cat and got one hand well scratched for his trouble, but in five minutes there came a knocking at the door. he laughed a little. "michel grows ceremonious when it's a question of food," he said. "entrez, mon vieux!" the door opened, and ste. marie caught his breath. "michel is busy," said coira o'hara, "so i have brought your coffee." she came into the sunlit room holding the steaming bowl of café au lait before her in her two hands. over it her eyes went out to the man who lay in his bed, a long and steady and very grave look. "a goddess that lady, a queen among goddesses--" thus the little jew of the boulevard de la madeleine. ste. marie gazed back at her, and his heart was sick within him to think of the contemptible rôle fate had laid upon this girl to play: the candle to the moth, the bait to the eager, unskilled fish, the lure to charm a foolish boy. the girl's splendid beauty seemed to fill all that bright room with, as it were, a richer, subtler light. there could be no doubt of her potency. older and wiser heads than young arthur benham's might well forget the world for her. ste. marie watched, and the heartsickness within him was like a physical pain, keen and bitter. he thought of that first and only previous meeting--the single minute in the champs-elysées, when her eyes had held him, had seemed to beseech him out of some deep agony. he thought of how they had haunted him afterward both by day and by night--calling eyes--and he gave a little groan of sheer bitterness, for he realized that all this while she was laying her snares about the feet of an inexperienced boy, decoying him to his ruin. there was a name for such women, an ugly name. they were called adventuresses. the girl set the bowl which she carried down upon a table not far from the bed. "you will need a tray or something," said she. "i suppose you can sit up against your pillows? i'll bring a tray and you can hold it on your knees and eat from it." she spoke in a tone of very deliberate indifference and detachment. there seemed even to be an edge of scorn in it, but nothing could make that deep and golden voice harsh or unlovely. as the girl's extraordinary beauty had filled all the room with its light, so the sound of her voice seemed to fill it with a sumptuous and hushed resonance like a temple bell muffled in velvet. "i must bring something to eat, too," she said. "would you prefer croissants or brioches or plain bread-and-butter? you might as well have what you like." "thank you!" said ste. marie. "it doesn't matter. anything. you are most kind. you are hebe, mademoiselle, server of feasts." the girl turned her head for a moment and looked at him with some surprise. "if i am not mistaken," she said, "hebe served to gods." then she went out of the room, and ste. marie broke into a sudden delighted laugh behind her. she would seem to be a young woman with a tongue in her head. she had seized the rash opening without an instant's hesitation. the black cat, which had been cruising, after the inquisitive fashion of its kind, in far corners of the room, strolled back and looked up to the table where the bowl of coffee steamed and waited. "get out!" cried ste. marie. "va t'en, sale petit animal! go and eat birds! that's _my_ coffee. va! sauve toi! hé, voleur que tu es!" he sought for something by way of missile, but there was nothing within reach. the black cat turned its calm and yellow eyes toward him, looked back to the aromatic feast, and leaped expertly to the top of the table. ste. marie shouted and made horrible threats. he waved an impotent pillow, not daring to hurl it for fear of smashing the table's entire contents, but the black cat did not even glance toward him. it smelled the coffee, sneezed over it because it was hot, and finally proceeded to lap very daintily, pausing often to take breath or to shake its head, for cats disapprove of hot dishes, though they will partake of them at a pinch. there came a step outside the door, and the thief leaped down with some haste, yet not quite in time to escape observation. mlle. o'hara came in, breathing terrible threats. "has that wretched animal touched your coffee?" she cried. "i hope not." but ste. marie laughed weakly from his bed, and the guilty beast stood in mid-floor, brown drops beading its black chin and hanging upon its whiskers. "i did what i could, mademoiselle," said ste. marie, "but there was nothing to throw. i am sorry to be the cause of so much trouble." "it is nothing," said she. "i will bring some more coffee, only it will take ten minutes, because i shall have to make some fresh." she made as if she would smile a little in answer to him, but her face turned grave once more and she went out of the room with averted eyes. thereafter ste. marie occupied himself with watching idly the movements of the black cat, and, as he watched, something icy cold began to grow within him, a sensation more terrible than he had ever known before. he found himself shivering as if that summer day had all at once turned to january, and he found that his face was wet with a chill perspiration. when the girl at length returned she found him lying still, his face to the wall. the black cat was in her path as she crossed the room, so that she had to thrust it out of the way with her foot, and she called it names for moving with such lethargy. "here is the coffee at last," she said. "i made it fresh. and i have brought some brioches. will you sit up and have the tray on your knees?" "thank you," said ste. marie. "i do not wish anything." "you do not--" she repeated after him. "but i have made the coffee especially for you," she protested. "i thought you wanted it. i don't understand." with a sudden movement the man turned toward her a white and drawn face. "mademoiselle," he cried, "it would have been more merciful to let your gardener shoot again yesterday. much more merciful, mademoiselle." she stared at him under her straight, black brows. "what do you mean?" she demanded. "more merciful? what do you mean by that?" ste. marie stretched out a pointing finger, and the girl followed it. she gave, after a tense instant, a single, sharp scream. and upon that: "no, no! it's not true! it's not possible!" moving stiffly, she set down the bowl she carried, and the hot liquid splashed up round her wrists. for a moment she hung there, drooping, holding herself up by the strength of her hands upon the table. it was as if she had been seized with faintness. then she sprang to where the cat crouched beside a chair. she dropped upon her knees and tried to raise it in her arms, but the beast bit and scratched at her feebly, and crept away to a little distance, where it lay struggling and very unpleasant to see. "poison!" she said, in a choked, gasping whisper. "poison!" she looked once toward the man upon the bed, and she was white and shivering. "it's not true!" she cried again. "i--won't believe it! it's because the cat--was not used to coffee. because it was hot. i won't believe it! i won't believe it!" she began to sob, holding her hands over her white face. ste. marie watched her with puzzled eyes. if this was acting, it was very good acting. a little glimmer of hope began to burn in him--hope that in this last shameful thing, at least, the girl had had no part. "it's impossible," she insisted, piteously. "i tell you it's impossible. i brought the coffee myself from the kitchen. i took it from the pot there--the same pot we had all had ours from. it was never out of my sight--or, that is--i mean--" she halted there, and ste. marie saw her eyes turn slowly toward the door, and he saw a crimson flush come up over her cheeks and die away, leaving her white again. he drew a little breath of relief and gladness, for he was sure of her now. she had had no part in it. "it is nothing, mademoiselle," said he, cheerfully. "think no more of it. it is nothing." "nothing?" she cried, in a loud voice. "do you call poison nothing?" she began to shiver again very violently. "you would have drunk it!" she said, staring at him in a white agony. "but for a miracle you would have drunk it--and died!" abruptly she came beside the bed and threw herself upon her knees there. in her excitement and horror she seemed to have forgotten what they two were to each other. she caught him by the shoulders with her two hands, and the girl's violent trembling shook them both. "will you believe," she cried, "that i had nothing to do with this? will you believe me? you must believe me!" there was no acting in that moment. she was wrung with a frank anguish, an utter horror, and between her words there were hard and terrible sobs. "i believe you, mademoiselle," said the man, gently. "i believe you. pray think no more about it." he smiled up into the girl's beautiful face, though within him he was still cold and a-shiver, as even the bravest man might well be at such an escape, and after a moment she turned away again. with unsteady hands she put the new-made bowl of coffee and the brioches and other things together upon the tray and started to carry it across the room to the bed, but half-way she turned back again and set the tray down. she looked about and found an empty glass, and she poured a little of the coffee into it. ste. marie, who was watching her, gave a sudden cry. "no, no, mademoiselle, i beg you! you must not!" but the girl shook her head at him gravely over the glass. "there is no danger," she said, "but i must be sure." she drank what was in the glass, and afterward went across to one of the windows and stood there with her back to the room for a little time. in the end she returned and once more brought the breakfast-tray to the bed. ste. marie raised himself to a sitting posture and took the thing upon his knees, but his hands were shaking. "if i were not as helpless as a dead man, mademoiselle," said he, "you should not have done that. if i could have stopped you, you should not have done it, mademoiselle." a wave of color spread up under the brown skin of the girl's face, but she did not speak. she stood by for a moment to see if he was supplied with everything he needed, and when ste. marie expressed his gratitude for her pains she only bowed her head. then presently she turned away and left the room. outside the door she met some one who was approaching. ste. marie heard her break into rapid and excited speech, and he heard o'hara's voice in answer. the voice expressed astonishment and indignation and a sort of gruff horror, but the man who listened could hear only the tones, not the words that were spoken. the irishman came quickly into the room. he glanced once toward the bed where ste. marie sat eating his breakfast with apparent unconcern--there may have been a little bravado in this--and then bent over the thing which lay moving feebly beside a chair. when he rose again his face was hard and tense and his blue eyes glittered in a fashion that boded trouble for somebody. "this looks very bad for us," he said, gruffly. "i should--i should like to have you believe that neither my daughter nor i had any part in it. when i fight i fight openly, i don't use poison. not even with spies." "oh, that's all right," said ste. marie, taking an ostentatious sip of coffee. "that's understood. i know well enough who tried to poison me. if you'll just keep your friend stewart out of the kitchen i sha'n't worry about my food." the irishman's cheeks reddened with a quick flush and he dropped his eyes. but in an instant he raised them again and looked full into the eyes of the man who sat in bed. "you seem," said he, "to be laboring under a curious misapprehension. there is no stewart here, and i don't know any man of that name." ste. marie laughed. "oh, don't you?" he said. "that's my mistake then. well, if you don't know him, you ought to. you have interests in common." o'hara favored his patient with a long and frowning stare. but at the end he turned without a word and went out of the room. * * * * * xvii those who were left behind that meeting with richard hartley of which captain stewart, in the small drawing-room at la lierre, spoke to the irishman o'hara, took place at stewart's own door in the rue du faubourg st. honoré, and it must have been at just about the time when ste. marie, concealed among the branches of his cedar, looked over the wall and saw arthur benham walking with mlle. coira o'hara. hartley had lunched at durand's with his friends, whose name--though it does not at all matter here--was reeves-davis, and after lunch the four of them, major and lady reeves-davis, reeves-davis' sister, mrs. carsten, and hartley, spent an hour at a certain picture-dealer's near the madeleine. after that lady reeves-davis wanted to go in search of an antiquary's shop which was somewhere in the rue du faubourg, and she did not know just where. they went in from the rue royale, and amused themselves by looking at the attractive windows on the way. during one of their frequent halts, while the two ladies were passionately absorbed in a display of hats, and reeves-davis was making derisive comments from the rear, hartley, who was too much bored to pay attention, saw a figure which seemed to him familiar emerge from an adjacent doorway and start to cross the pavement to a large touring-car, with the top up, which stood at the curb. the man wore a dust-coat and a cap, and he moved as if he were in a hurry, but as he went he cast a quick look about him and his eye fell upon richard hartley. hartley nodded, and he thought the elder man gave a violent start; but then he looked very white and ill and might have started at anything. for an instant captain stewart made as if he would go on his way without taking notice, but he seemed to change his mind and turned back. he held out his hand with a rather wan and nervous smile, saying: "ah, hartley! it is you, then! i wasn't sure." he glanced over the other's shoulder and said, "is that our friend ste. marie with you?" "no," said richard hartley, "some english friends of mine. i haven't seen ste. marie to-day. i'm to meet him this evening. you've seen him since i have, as a matter of fact. he came to your party last night, didn't he? sorry i couldn't come. they must have tired you out, i should think. you look ill." "yes," said the other man, absently. "yes, i had an attack of--an old malady last night. i am rather stale to-day. you say you haven't seen ste. marie? no, to be sure. if you see him later on you might say that i mean to drop in on him to-morrow to make my apologies. he'll understand. good-day." so he turned away to the motor which was waiting for him, and hartley went back to his friends, wondering a little what it was that stewart had to apologize for. as for captain stewart, he must have gone at once out to la lierre. what he found there has already been set forth. it was about ten that evening when hartley, who had left his people, after dinner was over, at the marigny, reached the rue d'assas. the street door was already closed for the night, and so he had to ring for the cordon. when the door clicked open and he had closed it behind him he called out his name before crossing the court to ste. marie's stair; but as he went on his way the voice of the concierge reached him from the little loge. "m. ste. marie n'est pas là," now, the parisian concierge, as every one knows who has lived under his iron sway, is a being set apart from the rest of mankind. he has, in general, no human attributes, and certainly no human sympathy. his hand is against all the world, and the hand of all the world is against him. still, here and there among this peculiar race are to be found a very few beings who are of softer substance--men and women instead of spies and harpies. the concierge who had charge of the house wherein ste. marie dwelt was an old woman, undeniably severe upon occasion, but for the most part a kindly and even jovial soul. she must have become a concierge through some unfortunate mistake. she snapped open her little square window and stuck out into the moonlit court a dishevelled gray head. "il n'est pas là." she said again, beaming upon richard hartley, whom she liked, and, when he protested that he had a definite and important appointment with her lodger, went on to explain that ste. marie had gone out, doubtless to lunch, before one o'clock and had never returned. "he may have left word for me up-stairs," hartley said; "i'll go up and wait, if i may." so the woman got him her extra key, and he went up, let himself into the flat, and made lights there. naturally he found no word, but his own note of that morning lay spread out upon a table where ste. marie had left it, and so he knew that his friend was in possession of the two facts he had learned about stewart. he made himself comfortable with a book and some cigarettes, and settled down to wait. ste. marie out at la lierre, with a bullet-hole in his leg, was deep in a drugged sleep just then, but hartley waited for him, looking up now and then from his book with a scowl of impatience, until the little clock on the mantel said that it was one o'clock. then he went home in a very bad temper, after writing another note and leaving it on the table, to say that he would return early in the morning. but in the morning he began to be alarmed. he questioned the concierge very closely as to ste. marie's movements on the day previous, but she could tell him little, save to mention the brief visit of a man with an accent of toulouse or marseilles, and there seemed to be no one else to whom he could go. he spent the entire morning in the flat, and returned there after a hasty lunch. but at mid-afternoon he took a fiacre at the corner of the gardens and drove to the rue du faubourg st. honoré. captain stewart was at home. he was in a dressing-gown, and still looked fagged and unwell. he certainly betrayed some surprise at sight of his visitor, but he made hartley welcome at once and insisted upon having cigars and things to drink brought out for him. on the whole he presented an astonishingly normal exterior, for within him he must have been cold with fear, and in his ears a question must have rung and shouted and rung again unceasingly--"what does this fellow know? what does he know?" hartley's very presence there had a perilous look. the younger man shook his head at the servant who asked him what he wished to drink. "thanks, you're very good," he said to captain stewart, and that gentleman eyed him silently. "i can't stay but a moment. i just dropped in to ask if you'd any idea what can have become of ste. marie." "ste. marie?" said captain stewart. "what do you mean--'become of him'?" he moistened his lips to speak, but he said the words without a tremor. "well, what i meant was," said hartley, "that you'd seen him last. he was here thursday evening. did he say anything to you about going anywhere in particular the next day--yesterday? he left his rooms about noon and hasn't turned up since." captain stewart drew a short breath and sat down, abruptly, in a near-by chair, for all at once his knees had begun to tremble under him. he was conscious of a great and blissful wave of relief and well-being, and he wanted to laugh. he wanted so much to laugh that it became a torture to keep his face in repose. so ste. marie had left no word behind him, and the danger was past! with a great effort he looked up from where he sat to richard hartley, who stood anxious and frowning before him. "forgive me for sitting down," he said, "and sit down yourself, i beg. i'm still very shaky from my attack of illness. ste. marie--ste. marie has disappeared? how very extraordinary! it's like poor arthur. still--a single day! he might be anywhere for a single day, might he not? for all that, though, it's very odd. why, no. no, i don't think he said anything about going away. at least i remember nothing about it." the relief and triumph within him burst out in a sudden little chuckle of malicious fun. "i can think of only one thing," said he, "that might be of use to you. ste. marie seemed to take a very great fancy to one of the ladies here the other evening. and, i must confess, the lady seemed to return it. it had all the look of a desperate flirtation--a most desperate flirtation. they spent the evening in a corner together. you don't suppose," he said, still chuckling gently, "that ste. marie is taking a little holiday, do you? you don't suppose that the lady could account for him?" "no," said richard hartley, "i don't. and if you knew ste. marie a little better you wouldn't suppose it, either." but after a pause he said: "could you give me the--lady's name, by any chance? of course, i don't want to leave any stone unturned." and once more the other man emitted his pleased little chuckle that was so like a cat's mew. "i can give you her name," said he. "the name is mlle.---- bertrand. elise bertrand. but i regret to say i haven't the address by me. she came with some friends. i will try and get it and send it you. will that be all right?" "yes, thanks!" said richard hartley. "you're very good. and now i must be going on. i'm rather in a hurry." captain stewart protested against this great haste, and pressed the younger man to sit down and tell him more about his friend's disappearance, but hartley excused himself, repeating that he was in a great hurry, and went off. when he had gone captain stewart lay back in his chair and laughed until he was weak and ached from it, the furious, helpless laughter which comes after the sudden release from a terrible strain. he was not, as a rule, a demonstrative man, but he became aware that he would like to dance and sing, and probably he would have done both if it had not been for the servant in the next room. so there was no danger to be feared, and his terrors of the night past--he shivered a little to think of them--had been, after all, useless terrors! as for the prisoner out at la lierre, nothing was to be feared from him so long as a careful watch was kept. later on he might have to be disposed of, since both bullet and poison had failed--he scowled over that, remembering a bad quarter of an hour with o'hara early this morning--but that matter could wait. some way would present itself. he thought of the wholly gratuitous lie he had told hartley, a thing born of a moment's malice, and he laughed again. it struck him that it would be very humorous if hartley should come to suspect his friend of turning aside from his great endeavors to enter upon an affair with a lady. he dimly remembered that ste. marie's name had, from time to time, been a good deal involved in romantic histories, and he said to himself that his lie had been very well chosen, indeed, and might be expected to cause richard hartley much anguish of spirit. after that he lighted a very large cigarette, half as big as a cigar, and he lay back in his low, comfortable chair and began to think of the outcome of all this plotting and planning. as is very apt to be the case when a great danger has been escaped, he was in a mood of extreme hopefulness and confidence. vaguely he felt as if the recent happenings had set him ahead a pace toward his goal, though of course they had done nothing of the kind. the danger that would exist so long as ste. marie, who knew everything, was alive, seemed in some miraculous fashion to have dwindled to insignificance; in this rebound from fear and despair difficulties were swept away and the path was clear. the man's mind leaped to his goal, and a little shiver of prospective joy ran over him. once that goal gained he could defy the world. let eyes look askance, let tongues wag, he would be safe then--safe for all the rest of his life, and rich, rich, rich! for he was playing against a feeble old man's life. day by day he watched the low flame sink lower as the flame of an exhausted lamp sinks and flickers. it was slow, for the old man had still a little strength left, but the will to live--which was the oil in the lamp--was almost gone, and the waiting could not be long now. one day, quite suddenly, the flame would sink down to almost nothing, as at last it does in the spent lamp. it would flicker up and down rapidly for a few moments, and all at once there would be no flame there. old david would be dead, and a servant would be sent across the river in haste to the rue du faubourg st. honoré. stewart lay back in his chair and tried to imagine that it was true, that it had already happened, as happen it must before long, and once more the little shiver, which was like a shiver of voluptuous delight, ran up and down his limbs, and his breath began to come fast and hard. * * * * * but richard hartley drove at once back to the rue d'assas. he was not very much disappointed in having learned nothing from stewart, though he was thoroughly angry at that gentleman's hint about ste. marie and the unknown lady. he had gone to the rue du faubourg because, as he had said, he wished to leave no stone unturned, and, after all, he had thought it quite possible that stewart could give him some information which would be of value. hartley firmly believed the elder man to be a rascal, but of course he knew nothing definite save the two facts which he had accidentally learned from helen benham, and it had occurred to him that captain stewart might have sent ste. marie off upon another wild-goose chase such as the expedition to dinard had been. he would have been sure that the elder man had had something to do with ste. marie's disappearance if the latter had not been seen since stewart's party, but instead of that ste. marie had come home, slept, gone out the next morning, returned again, received a visitor, and gone out to lunch. it was all very puzzling and mysterious. his mind went back to the brief interview with stewart and dwelt upon it. little things which had at the time made no impression upon him began to recur and to take on significance. he remembered the elder man's odd and strained manner at the beginning, his sudden and causeless change to ease and to something that was almost like a triumphant excitement, and then his absurd story about ste. marie's flirtation with a lady. hartley thought of these things; he thought also of the fact that ste. marie had disappeared immediately after hearing grave accusations against stewart. could he have lost his head, rushed across the city at once to confront the middle-aged villain, and then--disappeared from human ken? it would have been very like him to do something rashly impulsive upon reading that note. hartley broke into a sudden laugh of sheer amusement when he realized to what a wild and improbable flight his fancy was soaring. he could not quite rid himself of a feeling that stewart was, in some mysterious fashion, responsible for his friend's vanishing, but he was unlike ste. marie: he did not trust his feelings, either good or bad, unless they were backed by excellent evidence, and he had to admit that there was not a single scrap of evidence in this instance against miss benham's uncle. the girl's name recalled him to another duty. he must tell her about ste. marie. he was by this time half-way up the boulevard st. germain, but he gave a new order, and the fiacre turned back to the rue de l'université. the footman at the door said that mademoiselle was not in the drawing-room, as it was only four o'clock, but that he thought she was in the house. so hartley sent up his name and went in to wait. miss benham came down looking a little pale and anxious. "i've been with grandfather," she explained. "he had some sort of sinking-spell last night and we were very much frightened. he's much better, but--well, he couldn't have many such spells and live. i'm afraid he grows a good deal weaker day by day now. he sees hardly any one outside the family, except baron de vries." she sat down with a little sigh of fatigue and smiled up at her visitor. "i'm glad you've come," said she. "you'll cheer me up, and i rather need it. what are you looking so solemn about, though? you won't cheer me up if you look like that." "well, you see," said hartley, "i came at this impossible hour to bring you some bad news. i'm sorry. perhaps," he modified, "bad news is putting it with too much seriousness. strange news is better. to be brief, ste. marie has disappeared--vanished into thin air. i thought you ought to know." "ste. marie!" cried the girl. "how? what do you mean--vanished? when did he vanish?" she gave a sudden exclamation of relief. "oh, he has come upon some clew or other and has rushed off to follow it. that's all. how dare you frighten me so?" "he went without luggage," said the man, shaking his head, "and he left no word of any kind behind him. he went out to lunch yesterday about noon, and, as i said, simply vanished, leaving no trace whatever behind him. i've just been to see your uncle, thinking that he might know something, but he doesn't." the girl looked up quickly. "my uncle?" she said. "why my uncle?" "well," said hartley, "you see, ste. marie went to a little party at your uncle's flat on the night before he disappeared, and i thought your uncle might have heard him say something that would throw light on his movements the next day." hartley remembered the unfortunate incident of the galloping pigs, and hurried on: "he went to the party more for the purpose of having a talk with your uncle than for any other reason, i think. i was to have gone myself, but gave it up at the eleventh hour for the cains' dinner at armenonville. well, the next morning after captain stewart's party he went out early. i called at his rooms to see him about something important that i thought he ought to know. i missed him, and so left a note for him which he got on his return and read. i found it open on his table later on. at noon he went out again, and that's all. frankly, i'm worried about him." miss benham watched the man with thoughtful eyes, and when he had finished she asked: "could you tell me what was in this note that you left for ste. marie?" hartley was by nature a very open and frank young man, and in consequence an unusually bad liar. he hesitated and looked away, and he began to turn red. "well--no," he said, after a moment--"no, i'm afraid i can't. it was something you wouldn't understand--wouldn't know about." and the girl said, "oh!" and remained for a little while silent. but at the end she looked up and met his eyes, and the man saw that she was very grave. she said: "richard, there is something that you and i have been avoiding and pretending not to see. it has gone too far now, and we've got to face it with perfect frankness. i know what was in your note to ste. marie. it was what you found out the other evening about--my uncle--the matter of the will and the other matter. he knew about the will, but he told you and ste. marie that he didn't. he said to you, also, that i had told him about my engagement and ste. marie's determination to search for arthur, and that was--a lie. i didn't tell him, and grandfather didn't tell him. he listened in the door yonder and heard it himself. i have a good reason for knowing that. and then," she said, "he tried very hard to persuade you and ste. marie to take up your search under his direction, and he partly succeeded. he sent ste. marie upon a foolish expedition to dinard, and he gave him and gave you other clews just as foolish as that one. richard, do you believe that my uncle has hidden poor arthur away somewhere or--worse than that? do you? tell me the truth!" "there is not," said hartley, "one particle of real evidence against him that i'm aware of. there's plenty of motive, if you like, but motive is not evidence." "i asked you a question," the girl said. "do you believe my uncle has been responsible for arthur's disappearance?" "yes," said richard hartley, "i'm afraid i do." "then," she said, "he has been responsible for ste. marie's disappearance also. ste. marie became dangerous to him, and so vanished. what can we do, richard? what can we do?" * * * * * xviii a conversation overheard in the upper chamber at la lierre the days dragged very slowly by, and the man who lay in bed there counted interminable hours and prayed for the coming of night with its merciful oblivion of sleep. his inaction was made bitterer by the fact that the days were days of green and gold, of breeze-stirred tree-tops without his windows, of vagrant sweet airs that stole in upon his solitude, bringing him all the warm fragrance of summer and of green things growing. he suffered little pain. there was, for the first three or four days, a dull and feverish ache in his wounded leg, but presently even that passed, and the leg hurt him only when he moved it. he thought sometimes that he would be grateful for a bit of physical anguish to make the hours pass more quickly. the other inmates of the house held aloof from him. once a day o'hara came in to see to the wound, but he maintained a well-nigh complete silence over his work, and answered questions only with a brief yes or no. sometimes he did not answer them at all. the old michel came twice daily, but this strange being had quite plainly been frightened into dumbness, and there was nothing to be got out of him. he shambled hastily about the place, his one scared eye upon the man in bed, and as soon as possible fled away, closing the door behind him. sometimes michel brought in the meals, sometimes his wife, a creature so like him that the two might well have passed for twin survivors of some unknown race; sometimes--thrice altogether in that first week--coira o'hara brought the tray, and she was as silent as the others. so ste. marie was left alone to get through the interminable days as best he might, and ever afterward the week remained in his memory as a sort of nightmare. lying idle in his bed, he evolved many surprising and fantastic schemes for escape, for getting word to the outside world of his presence here, and one by one he gave them up in disgust as their impossibility forced itself upon him. plans and schemes were useless while he lay bedridden, unfamiliar even with the house wherein he dwelt, with the garden and park that surrounded it. as for aid from any of the inmates of the place, that was to be laughed at. they were engaged together in a scheme so desperate that failure must mean utter ruin to them all. he sometimes wondered if the two servants could be bribed. avarice unmistakable gleamed from their little, glittering, ratlike eyes, but he was sure that they would sell out for no small sum, and in so far as he could remember there had been in his pockets, when he came here, not more than five or six louis. doubtless the old michel had managed to abstract those in his daily offices about the room, for ste. marie knew that the clothes hung in a closet across from his bed. he had seen them there once when the closet-door was open. any help that might come to him must come from outside--and what help was to be expected there? over and over again he reminded himself of how little richard hartley knew. he might suspect stewart of complicity in this new disappearance, but how was he to find out anything definite? how was any one to do so? it was at such times as this, when brain and nerves were strained and worn almost to breaking-point, that ste. marie had occasion to be grateful for the southern blood that was in him, the strong tinge of fatalism which is common alike to latin and to oriental. it rescued him more than once from something like nervous breakdown, calmed him suddenly, lifted his burdens from outwearied shoulders, and left him in peace to wait until some action should be possible. then, in such hours, he would fall to thinking of the girl for whose sake, in whose cause, he lay bedridden, beset with dangers. as long before, she came to him in a sort of waking vision--a being but half earthly, enthroned high above him, calm-browed, very pure, with passionless eyes that gazed into far distance and were unaware of the base things below. what would she think of him, who had sworn to be true knight to her, if she could know how he had bungled and failed? he was glad that she did not know, that if he had blundered into peril the knowledge of it could not reach her to hurt her pride. and sometimes, also, with a great sadness and pity, he thought of poor coira o'hara and of the pathetic wreck her life had fallen into. the girl was so patently fit for better things! her splendid beauty was not a cheap beauty. she was no coarse-blown, gorgeous flower, imperfect at telltale points. it was good blood that had modelled her dark perfection, good blood that had shaped her long and slim and tapering hands. "a queen among goddesses!" the words remained with him, and he knew that they were true. she might have held up her head among the greatest, this adventurer's girl; but what chance had she had? what merest ghost of a chance? he watched her on the rare occasions when she came into the room. he watched the poise of her head, her walk, the movements she made, and he said to himself that there was no woman of his acquaintance whose grace was more perfect--certainly none whose grace was so native. once he complained to her of the desperate idleness of his days, and asked her to lend him a book of some kind, a review, even a daily newspaper, though it be a week old. "i should read the very advertisements with joy," he said. she went out of the room and returned presently with an armful of books, which she laid upon the bed without comment. "in my prayers, mademoiselle," cried ste. marie, "you shall be foremost forever!" he glanced at the row of titles and looked up in sheer astonishment. "may i ask whose books these are?" he said. "they are mine," said the girl. "i caught up the ones that lay first at hand. if you don't care for any of them, i will choose others." the books were: _diana of the crossways, richard feverel,_ henri lavedan's _le duel_, maeterlinck's _pelleas et mélisande, don quixote de la mancha_, in spanish, a volume of virgil's _eclogues_, and the _life of the chevalier bayard_, by the loyal servitor. ste. marie stared at her. "do you read spanish," he demanded, "and latin, as well as french and english?" "my mother was spanish," said she. "and as for latin, i began to read it with my father when i was a child. shall i leave the books here?" ste. marie took up the _bayard_ and held it between his hands. "it is worn from much reading, mademoiselle," he said. "it is the best of all," said she. "the very best of all. i didn't know i had brought you that." she made a step toward him as if she would take the book away, and over it their eyes met and were held. in that moment it may have come to them both who she was, who so loved the knight without fear and without reproach--the daughter of art irish adventurer of ill repute--for their faces began suddenly to flush with red, and after an instant the girl turned away. "it is of no consequence," said she. "you may keep the book if you care to." and ste. marie said, very gently: "thank you, mademoiselle. i will keep it for a little while." so she went out of the room and left him alone. this was at noon on the sixth day, and, after he had swallowed hastily the lunch which had been set before him, ste. marie fell upon the books like a child upon a new box of sweets. like the child again, it was difficult for him to choose among them. he opened one and then another, gloating over them all, but in the end he chose the _bayard_, and for hours lost himself among the high deeds of the preux chevalier and his faithful friends--among whom, by the way, there was a ste. marie who died nobly for france. it was late afternoon when at last he laid the book down with a sigh and settled himself more comfortably among the pillows. the sun was not in the room at that hour, but from where he lay he could see it on the tree-tops, gold upon green. outside his south window the leaves of a chestnut which stood there quivered and rustled gently under a soft breeze. delectable odors floated in to ste. marie's nostrils, and he thought how very pleasant it would be if he were lying on the turf under the trees instead of bedridden in this upper chamber, which he had come to hate with a bitter hatred. he began to wonder if it would be possible to drag himself across the floor to that south window, and so to lie down for a while with his head in the tiny balcony beyond, his eyes turned to the blue sky. astir with the new thought, he sat up in bed and carefully swung his feet out till they hung to the floor. the wound in the left leg smarted and burned, but not too severely, and with slow pains ste. marie stood up. he almost cried out when he discovered that it could be done quite easily. he essayed to walk, and he was a little weak, but by no means helpless. he found that it gave him pain to raise his left leg in the ordinary action of walking or to bend that knee, but he could get about well enough by dragging the injured member beside him, for when it was straight it supported him without protest. he took his pillows across to the window and disposed them there, for it was a french window opening to the floor, and the level of the little balcony outside was but a few inches above the level of the room. then the desire seized him to make a tour of his prison walls. he went first to the closet where he had seen his clothes hanging, and they were still there. he felt in the pockets and withdrew his little english pigskin sovereign-purse. it had not been tampered with, and he gave an exclamation of relief over that, for he might later on have use for money. there were eight louis in it, each in its little separate compartment, and in another pocket he found a fifty-franc note and some silver. he went to the two east windows and looked out. the trees stood thick together on that side of the house, but between two of them he could see the park wall fifty yards away. he glanced down, and the side of the house was covered thick with the ivy which had given the place its name, but there was no water-pipe near, nor any other thing which seemed to offer foot or hand hold, unless, perhaps, the ivy might prove strong enough to bear a man's weight. ste. marie made a mental note to look into that when he was a little stronger, and turned back to the south window where he had disposed his pillows. the unaccustomed activity was making his wound smart and prickle, and he lay down at once with head and shoulders in the open air, and out of the warm and golden sunshine and the emerald shade the breath of summer came to him and wrapped him round with sweetness and pillowed him upon its fragrant breast. he became aware after a long time of voices below, and turned upon his elbows to look. the ivy had clambered upon and partly covered the iron grille of the little balcony, and he could observe without being seen. young arthur benham and coira o'hara had come out of the door of the house, and they stood upon the raised and paved terrace which ran the width of the façade, and seemed to hesitate as to the direction they should take. ste. marie heard the girl say: "it's cooler here in the shade of the house," and after a moment the two came along the shady terrace whose outer margin was set at intervals with stained and discolored marble nymphs upon pedestals, and between the nymphs with moss-grown stone benches. they halted before a bench upon which, earlier in the day, a rug had been spread out to dry in the sun and had been forgotten, and after a moment's further hesitation they sat down upon it. their faces were turned toward the house, and every word that they spoke mounted in that still air clear and distinct to the ears of the man above. ste. marie wriggled back into the room and sat up to consider. the thought of deliberately listening to a conversation not meant for him sent a hot flush to his cheeks. he told himself that it could not be done, and that there was an end to the matter. whatever might hang upon it, it could not be asked of him that he should stoop to dishonor. but at that the heavy and grave responsibility, which really did hang upon him and upon his actions, came before his mind's eye and loomed there mountainous. the fate of this foolish boy who was set round with thieves and adventurers--even though his eyes were open and he knew where he stood--that came to ste. marie and confronted him; and the picture of a bitter old man who was dying of grief came to him; and a mother's face; and _hers_. there could be no dishonor in the face of all this, only a duty very clear and plain. he crept back to his place, his arms folded beneath him as he lay, his eyes at the thin screen of ivy which cloaked the balcony grille. young arthur benham appeared to be giving tongue to a rather sharp attack of homesickness. it may be that long confinement within the walls of la lierre was beginning to try him somewhat. "mind you," he declared, as ste. marie's ears came once more within range--"mind you, i'm not saying that paris hasn't got its points. it has. oh yes! and so has london, and so has ostend, and so has monte carlo. verree much so! i like paris. i like the theatres and the vaudeville shows in the champs-elysées, and i like longchamps. i like the boys who hang around henry's bar. they're good sports all right, all right! but, by golly, i want to go home! put me off at the corner of forty-second street and broadway, and i'll ask no more. set me down at p.m., right there on the corner outside the knickerbocker, for that's where i would live and die." there came into the lad's somewhat strident voice a softness that was almost pathetic. "you don't know broadway, coira, do you? nix! of course not. little girl, it's the one street of all this large world. it's the equator that runs north and south instead of east and west. it's a long, bright, gay, live wire!--that's what broadway is. and i give you my word of honor, like a little man, that it--is--not--slow. no-o, indeed! when i was there last it was being called the 'gay white way.' it is not called the 'gay white way' now. it has had forty other new, good names since then, and i don't know what they are, but i do know that it is forever gay, and that the electric signs are still blazing all along the street, and the street-cars are still killing people in the good old fashion, and the news-boys are still dodging under the automobiles to sell you a _woild_ or a _choinal_ or, if it's after twelve at night, a _morning telegraph_. coira, my girl, standing on that corner after dark you can see the electric signs of fifteen theatres, not one of them more than five minutes' walk away; and just round the corner there are more. i want to go home! i want to take one large, unparalleled leap from here and come down at the corner i told you about. d'you know what i'd do? we'll say it's p.m. and beginning to get dark. i'd dive into the knickerbocker--that's the hotel that the bright and happy people go to for dinner or supper--and i'd engage a table up on the terrace. then i'd telephone to a little friend of mine whose name is doe--john doe--and in about ten minutes he'd have left the crowd he was standing in line with and he'd come galloping up, that glad to see me you'd cry to watch him. we'd go up on the terrace, where the potted palms grow, for our dinner, and the tables all around us would be full of people that would know johnnie doe and me, and they'd all make us drink drinks and tell us how glad they were to see us aboard again. and after dinner," said young arthur benham, with wide and smiling eyes--"after dinner we'd go to see one of the roof-garden shows. let me tell you they've got the marigny or the ambassadeurs or the jardin de paris beaten to a pulp--to--a--pulp! and after the show we'd slip round to the stage-door--you bet we would!--and capture the two most beautiful ladies in the world and take 'em off to supper." he wrinkled his young brow in great perplexity. "now i wonder," said he, anxiously--"i wonder where we'd go for supper. you see," he apologized, "it's two years since i left the real street, and, gee! what a lot can happen on broadway in two years! there's probably half a dozen new supper-places that i don't know anything about, and one of them's the place where the crowd goes. well, anyhow, we'd go to that place, and there'd be a band playing, and the electric fans would go round and round, and johnnie doe and i and the two most beautiful ladies would put it all over the other pikers there." young benham gave a little sigh of pleasure and excitement. "that's what i'd like to do to-night," said he, "and that's what i'll do, you can bet your sh--boots, when all this silly mess is over and i'm a free man. i'll hike back to good old broadway, and if ever you see any one trying to pry me loose from it again you can laugh yourself to death, because he'll never, never succeed. "that's where i'll go," he said, nodding, "when this waiting is over--straight back to liberty land and the bright lights. the rest of the family can stay here till they die, if they want to--and i suppose they do--_i'm_ going home as soon as i've got my money. old charlie'll manage all that for me. he'll get a lawyer to look after it, and i won't have to see anybody in the family at all. "nine more weeks shut in by stone walls!" said the boy, staring about him with a sort of bitterness. "nine weeks more!" "is it so hard as that?" asked the girl. there was no foolish coquetry in her tone. she spoke as if the words involved no personal question at all, but there was a little smile at her lips, and arthur benham turned toward her quickly and caught at her hands. "no, no!" he cried. "i didn't mean that. you know i didn't mean that. you're worth nine years' waiting. you're the best--d'you hear?--the best there is. there's nobody anywhere that can touch you. only--well, this place is getting on my nerves. it's got me worn to a frazzle. i feel like a criminal doing time." "you came very near having to do time somewhere else," said the girl. "if this m. ste. marie hadn't blundered we should have had them all round our ears, and you'd have had to run for it." "yes," the boy said, nodding gravely. "yes, that was great luck." he raised his head and looked up along the windows above him. "which is his room?" he asked, and mlle. o'hara said: "the one just overhead, but he's in bed far back from the window. he couldn't possibly hear us talking." she paused for a moment in frowning hesitation, and in the end said: "tell me about him, this ste. marie! do you know anything about him?" "no," said arthur benham, "i don't--not personally, that is. of course i've heard of him. lots of people have spoken of him to me. and the odd part of it is that they all had a good word to say. everybody seemed to like him. i got the idea that he was the best ever. i wanted to know him. i never thought he'd take on a piece of dirty work like this." "nor i," said the girl, in a low voice. "nor i." the boy looked up. "oh, you've heard of him, too, then?" said he. and she said, still in her low voice, "i--saw him once." "well," declared young benham, "it's beyond me. i give it up. you never can tell about people, can you? i guess they'll all go wrong when there's enough in it to make it worth while. that's what old charlie always says. he says most people are straight enough when there's nothing in it, but make the pot big enough and they'll all go crooked." the young man's face turned suddenly hard and old and bitter. "gee! i ought to know that well enough, oughtn't i?" he said. "i guess nobody knows that better than i do after what happened to me.... come along and take a walk in the garden, maud! i'm sick of sitting still." mlle. coira o'hara looked up with a start, as if she had not been listening, but she rose when the boy held out his hand to her, and the two went down from the terrace and moved off toward the west. ste. marie watched them until they had disappeared among the trees, and then turned on his back, staring up into the softly stirring canopy of green above him and the little rifts of bright blue sky. he did not understand at all. something mysterious had crept in where all had seemed so plain to the eye. certain words that young arthur benham had spoken repeated themselves in his mind, and he could not at once make them out. assuredly there was something mysterious here. in the first place, what did the boy mean by "dirty work"? to be sure, spying, in its usual sense, is not held to be one of the noblest of occupations, but--in such a cause as this! it was absurd, ridiculous, to call it "dirty work." and what did he mean by the words which he had used afterward? ste. marie did not quite follow the idiom about the "big enough pot," but he assumed that it referred to money. did the young fool think he was being paid for his efforts? that was ridiculous, too. the boy's face came before him as it had looked with that sudden hard and bitter expression. what did he mean by saying that no one knew the crookedness of humanity under money temptation better than he knew it after something that had happened to him? in a sense his words were doubtless very true. captain stewart--and he must have been "old charlie"; ste. marie remembered that the name was charles--o'hara, and o'hara's daughter stood excellent examples of that bit of cynicism, but obviously the boy had not spoken in that sense--certainly not before mlle. o'hara! he meant something else, then. but what--what? ste. marie rose with some difficulty to his feet and carried the pillows back to the bed whence he had taken them. he sat down upon the edge of the bed, staring in great perplexity across the room at the open window, but all at once he uttered an exclamation and smote his hands together. "that boy doesn't know!" he cried. "they're tricking him, these others!" the lad's face came once more before him, and it was a foolish and stubborn face, perhaps, but it was neither vicious nor mean. it was the face of an honest, headstrong boy who would be incapable of the cold cruelty to which all circumstances seemed to point. "they're tricking him somehow!" cried ste. marie again. "they're lying to him and making him think--" what was it they were making him think, these three conspirators? what possible thing could they make him think other than the plain truth? ste. marie shook a weary head and lay down among his pillows. he wished that he had "old charlie" in a corner of that room with his fingers round "old charlie's" wicked throat. he would soon get at the truth then; or o'hara, either, that grim and saturnine chevalier d'industrie, though o'hara would be a bad handful to manage; or--ste. marie's head dropped back with a little groan when the face of young arthur's enchantress came between him and the opposite wall of the room and her great and tragic eyes looked into his. it seemed incredible that that queen among goddesses should be what she was! * * * * * xix the invalid takes the air when o'hara, the next morning, went through the formality of looking in upon his patient, and after a taciturn nod was about to go away again, ste. marie called him back. he said, "would you mind waiting a moment?" and the irishman halted inside the door. "i made an experiment yesterday," said ste. marie, "and i find that, after a poor fashion, i can walk--that is to say, i can drag myself about a little without any great pain if i don't bend the left leg." o'hara returned to the bed and made a silent examination of the bullet wound, which, it was plain to see, was doing very well indeed. "you'll be all right in a few days," said he, "but you'll be lame for a week yet--maybe two. as a matter of fact, i've known men to march half a day with a hole in the leg worse than yours, though it probably was not quite pleasant." "i'm afraid i couldn't march very far," said ste. marie, "but i can hobble a bit. the point is, i'm going mad from confinement in this room. do you think i might be allowed to stagger about the garden for an hour, or sit there under one of the trees? i don't like to ask favors, but, so far as i can see, it could do no harm. i couldn't possibly escape, you see. i couldn't climb a fifteen-foot wall even if i had two good legs; as it is, with a leg and a half, i couldn't climb anything." the irishman looked at him sharply, and was silent for a time, as if considering. but at last he said: "of course there is no reason whatever for granting you any favors here. you're on the footing of a spy--a captured spy--and you're very lucky not to have got what you deserved instead of a trumpery flesh wound." the man's face twisted into a heavy scowl. "unfortunately," said he, "an accident has put me--put us in as unpleasant a position toward you as you had put yourself toward us. we seem to stand in the position of having tried to poison you, and--well, we owe you something for that. still, i'd meant to keep you locked up in this room so long as it was necessary to have you at la lierre." he scowled once more in an intimidating fashion at ste. marie, and it was evident that he found himself embarrassed. "and," he said, awkwardly, "i suppose i owe something to your father's son.... look here! if you're to be allowed in the garden, you must understand that it's at fixed hours and not alone. somebody will always be with you, and old michel will be on hand to shoot you down if you try to run for it or if you try to communicate with arthur benham. is that understood?" "quite," said ste. marie, gayly. "quite understood and agreed to. and many thanks for your courtesy. i sha'n't forget it. we differ rather widely on some rather important subjects, you and i, but i must confess that you're very generous, and i thank you. the old michel has my full permission to shoot at me if he sees me trying to fly over a fifteen-foot wall." "he'll shoot without asking your permission," said the irishman, grimly, "if you try that on, but i don't think you'll be apt to try it for the present--not with a crippled leg." he pulled out his watch and looked at it. "nine o'clock," said he. "if you care to begin to-day you can go out at eleven for an hour. i'll see that old michel is ready at that time." "eleven will suit me perfectly," said ste. marie. "you're very good. thanks once more!" the irishman did not seem to hear. he replaced the watch in his pocket and turned away in silence. but before he left the room he stood a moment beside one of the windows, staring out into the morning sunshine, and the other man could see that his face had once more settled into the still and melancholic gloom which was characteristic of it. ste. marie watched, and for the first time the man began to interest him as a human being. he had thought of o'hara before merely as a rather shady adventurer of a not very rare type, but he looked at the adventurer's face now and he saw that it was the face of a man of unspeakable sorrows. when o'hara looked at one, one saw only a pair of singularly keen and hard blue eyes set under a bony brow. when those eyes were turned away, the man's attention relaxed, the face became a battle-ground furrowed and scarred with wrecked pride and with bitterness and with shame and with agony. most soldiers of fortune have faces like that, for the world has used them very ill, and they have lost one precious thing after another until all are gone, and they have tasted everything that there is in life, and the flavor which remains is a very bitter flavor--dry, like ashes. it came to ste. marie, as he lay watching this man, that the story of the man's life, if he could be made to tell it, would doubtless be one of the most interesting stories in the world, as must be the tale of the adventurous career of any one who has slipped down the ladder of respectability, rung by rung, into that shadowy no-man's-land where the furtive birds of prey foregather and hatch their plots. it was plain enough that o'hara had, as the phrase goes, seen better days. without question he was a villain, but, after all, a generous villain. he had been very decent about making amends for that poisoning affair. a cheaper rascal would have behaved otherwise. ste. marie suddenly remembered what a friend of his had once said of this mysterious irishman. the two had been sitting on the terrace of a café, and as o'hara passed by ste. marie's friend pointed after him and said: "there goes some of the best blood that ever came out of ireland. see what it has fallen to!" seemingly it had fallen pretty low. he would have liked very much to know about the downward stages, but he knew that he would never hear anything of them from the man himself, for o'hara was clad, as it were, in an armor of taciturnity. he was incredibly silent. he wore mail that nothing could pierce. the irishman turned abruptly away and left the room, and ste. marie, with all the gay excitement of a little girl preparing for her first nursery party, began to get himself ready to go out. the old michel had already been there to help him bathe and shave, so that he had only to dress himself and attend to his one conspicuous vanity--the painstaking arrangement of his hair, which he wore, according to the fashion of the day, parted a little at one side and brushed almost straight back, so that it looked rather like a close-fitting and incredibly glossy skullcap. richard hartley, who was inclined to joke at his friend's grave interest in the matter, said that it reminded him of patent-leather. when he was dressed--and he found that putting on his left boot was no mean feat--ste. marie sat down in a chair by the window and lighted a cigarette. he had half an hour to wait, and so he picked up the volume of _bayard_, which coira o'hara had not yet taken away from him, and began to read in it at random. he became so absorbed that the old michel, come to summon him, took him by surprise. but it was a pleasant surprise and very welcome. he followed the old man out of the room with a heart that beat fast with eagerness. the descent of the stairs offered difficulties, for the wounded leg protested sharply against being bent more than a very little at the knee. but by the aid of michel's shoulder he made the passage in safety and so came to the lower story. at the foot of the stairs some one opened a door almost in their faces, but closed it again with great haste, and ste. marie gave a chuckle of laughter, for, though it was almost dark there, he thought he had recognized captain stewart. "so old charlie's with us to-day, is he?" he said, aloud, and michel queried: "comment, monsieur?" because ste. marie had spoken in english. they came out upon the terrace before the house, and the fresh, sweet air bore against their faces, and little flecks of live gold danced and shivered about their feet upon the moss-stained tiles. the gardener stepped back for an instant into the doorway, and reappeared bearing across his arms the short carbine with which ste. marie had already made acquaintance. the victim looked at this weapon with a laugh, and the old michel's gnomelike countenance distorted itself suddenly and a weird cackle came from it. "it is my old friend?" demanded ste. marie, and the gardener cackled once more, stroking the barrel of the weapon as if it were a faithful dog. "the same, monsieur," said he. "but she apologizes for not doing better." "beg her for me," said the young man, "to cheer up. she may get another chance." old michel's face froze into an expression of anxious and rather frightened solicitude, but he waved his arm for the prisoner to precede him, and ste. marie began to limp down across the littered and unkempt sweep of turf. behind him, at the distance of a dozen paces, he heard the shambling footfalls of his guard, but he had expected that, and it could not rob him of his swelling and exultant joy at treading once more upon green grass and looking up into blue sky. he was like a man newly released from a dungeon rather than from a sunny and by no means uncomfortable upper chamber. he would have liked to dance and sing, to run at full speed like a child until he was breathless and red in the face. instead of that he had to drag himself with slow pains and some discomfort, but his spirit ran ahead, dancing and singing, and he thought that it even halted now and then to roll on the grass. as he had observed a week before, from the top of the wall, a double row of larches led straight down away from the front of the house, making a wide and long vista interrupted half-way to its end by a rond point, in the centre of which were a pool and a fountain. the double row of trees was sadly broken now, and the trees were untrimmed and uncared for. one of them had fallen, probably in a wind-storm, and lay dead across the way. ste. marie turned aside toward the west and found himself presently among chestnuts, planted in close rows, whose tops grew in so thick a canopy above that but little sunshine came through, and there was no turf under foot, only black earth, hard-trodden, mossy here and there. from beyond, in the direction he had chanced to take, and a little toward the west, a soft morning breeze bore to him the scent of roses so constant and so sweet, despite its delicacy, that to breathe it was like an intoxication. he felt it begin to take hold upon and to sway his senses like an exquisite, an insidious wine. "the flower-gardens, michel?" he asked, over his shoulder. "they are before us?" "ahead and to the left, monsieur," said the old man, and he took up once more his slow and difficult progress. but again, before he had gone many steps, he was halted. there began to reach his ears a rich but slender strain of sound, a golden thread of melody. at first he thought that it was a 'cello or the lower notes of a violin, but presently he became aware that it was a woman singing in a half-voice without thought of what she sang--as women croon to a child, or over their work, or when they are idle and their thoughts are far wandering. the mistake was not as absurd as it may seem, for it is a fact that the voice which is called a contralto, if it is a good and clear and fairly resonant voice, sounds at a distance very much indeed like a 'cello or the lower register of a violin. and that is especially true when the voice is hushed to a half-articulate murmur. indeed, this is but one of the many strange peculiarities of that most beautiful of all human organs. the contralto can rarely express the lighter things, and it is quite impossible for it to express merriment or gayety, but it can thrill the heart as can no other sound emitted by a human throat, and it can shake the soul to its very innermost hidden deeps. it is the soft, yellow gold of singing--the wine of sound; it is mystery; it is shadowy, unknown, beautiful places; it is enchantment. ste. marie stood still and listened. the sound of low singing came from the right. without realizing that he had moved, he began to make his way in that direction, and the old michel, carbine upon arm, followed behind him. he had no doubt of the singer. he knew well who it was, for the girl's speaking voice had thrilled him long before this. he came to the eastern margin of the grove of chestnuts and found that he was beside the open rond point, where the pool lay within its stone circumference, unclean and choked with lily-pads, and the fountain--a naked lady holding aloft a shell--stood above. the rond point was not in reality round; it was an oval with its greater axis at right angles to the long, straight avenue of larches. at the two ends of the oval there were stone benches with backs, and behind these, tall shrubs grew close and overhung, so that even at noonday the spots were shaded. * * * * * xx the stone bench at the rond point mlle. coira o'hara sat alone upon the stone bench at the hither end of the rond point. with a leisurely hand she put fine stitches into a mysterious garment of white, with lace on it, and over her not too arduous toil she sang, à demi voix, a little german song all about the tender passions. ste. marie halted his dragging steps a little way off, but the girl heard him and turned to look. after that she rose hurriedly and stood as if poised for flight, but ste. marie took his hat in his hands and came forward. "if you go away, mademoiselle," said he, "if you let me drive you from your place, i shall limp across to that pool and fall in and drown myself, or i shall try to climb the wall yonder and michel will have to shoot me." he came forward another step. "if it is impossible," he said, "that you and i should stay here together for a few little moments and talk about what a beautiful day it is--if that is impossible, why then i must apologize for intruding upon you and go on my way, inexorably pursued by the would-be murderer who now stands six paces to the rear. is it impossible, mademoiselle?" said ste. marie. the girl's face was flushed with that deep and splendid understain. she looked down upon the white garment in her hand and away across the broad rond point, and in the end she looked up very gravely into the face of the man who stood leaning upon his stick before her. "i don't know," she said, in her deep voice, "what my father would wish. i did not know that you were coming into the garden this morning, or--" "or else," said ste. marie, with a little touch of bitterness in his tone--"or else you would not have been here. you would have remained in the house." he made a bow. "to-morrow, mademoiselle," said he, "and for the remainder of the days that i may be at la lierre, i shall stay in my room. you need have no fear of me." all the man's life he had been spoiled. the girl's bearing hurt him absurdly, and a little of the hurt may have betrayed itself in his face as he turned away, for she came toward him with a swift movement, saying: "no, no! wait!--i have hurt you," she said, with a sort of wondering distress. "you have let me hurt you.... and yet surely you must see,... you must realize on what terms.... do you forget that you are not among your friends... outside?... this is so very different!" "i had forgotten," said he. "incredible as it sounds, i had for a moment forgotten. will you grant me your pardon for that? and yet," he persisted, after a moment's pause--"yet, mademoiselle, consider a little! it is likely that--circumstances have so fallen that it seems i shall be here within your walls for a time, perhaps a long time. i am able to walk a little now. day by day i shall be stronger, better able to get about. is there not some way--are there hot some terms under which we could meet without embarrassment? must we forever glare at each other and pass by warily, just because we--well, hold different views about--something?" it was not a premeditated speech at all. it had never until this moment occurred to him to suggest any such arrangement with any member of the household at la lierre. at another time he would doubtless have considered it undignified, if not downright unwise, to hold intercourse of any friendly sort with this band of contemptible adventurers. the sudden impulse may have been born of his long week of almost intolerable loneliness, or it may have come of the warm exhilaration of this first breath of sweet, outdoor air, or perhaps it needed neither of these things, for the girl was very beautiful--enchantment breathed from her, and, though he knew what she was, in what despicable plot she was engaged, he was too much ste. marie to be quite indifferent to her. though he looked upon her sorrowfully and with pain and vicarious shame, he could not have denied the spell she wielded. after all, he was ste. marie. once more the girl looked up very gravely under her brows, and her eyes met the man's eyes. "i don't know," she said. "truly, i don't know. i think i should have to ask my father about it.--i wish," she said, "that we might do that. i should like it. i should like to be able to talk to some one--about the things i like--and care for. i used to talk with my father about things; but not lately. there is no one now." her eyes searched him. "would it be possible, i wonder," said she. "could we two put everything else aside--forget altogether who we are and why we are here. is that possible?" "we could only try, mademoiselle," said ste. marie. "if we found it a failure we could give it up." he broke into a little laugh. "and besides," he said, "i can't help thinking that two people ought to be with me all the time i am in the garden here--for safety's sake. i might catch the old michel napping one day, you know, throttle him, take his rifle away, and escape. if there were two, i couldn't do it." for an instant she met his laugh with an answering smile, and the smile came upon her sombre beauty like a moment of golden light upon darkness. but afterward she was grave again and thoughtful. "is it not rather foolish," she asked, "to warn us--to warn me of possibilities like that? you might quite easily do what you have said. you are putting us on our guard against you." "i meant to, mademoiselle," said ste. marie. "i meant to. consider my reasons. consider what i was pleading for!" and he gave a little laugh when the color began again to rise in the girl's cheeks. she turned away from him, shaking her head, and he thought that he had said too much and that she was offended, but after a moment the girl looked up, and when she met his eyes she laughed outright. "i cannot forever be scowling and snarling at you," said she. "it is quite too absurd. will you sit down for a little while? i don't know whether or not my father would approve, but we have met here by accident, and there can be no harm, surely, in our exchanging a few civil words. if you try to bring up forbidden topics i can simply go away; and, besides, michel stands ready to murder you if it should become necessary. i think his failure of a week ago is very heavy on his conscience." ste. marie sat down in one corner of the long stone bench, and he was very glad to do it, for his leg was beginning to cause him some discomfort. it felt hot and as if there were a very tight band round it above the knee. the relief must have been apparent in his face, for mlle. o'hara looked at him in silence for a moment, and she gave a little, troubled, anxious frown. men can be quite indifferent to suffering in each other if the suffering is not extreme, and women can be, too, but men are quite miserable in the presence of a woman who is in pain, and women, before a suffering man, while they are not miserable, are always full of a desire to do something that will help. and that might be a small, additional proof--if any more proof were necessary--that they are much the more practical of the two sexes. the girl's sharp glance seemed to assure her that ste. marie was comfortable, now that he was sitting down, for the frown went from her brows, and she began to arrange the mysterious white garment in her lap in preparation to go on with her work. ste. marie watched her for a while in a contented silence. the leaves overhead stirred under a puff of air, and a single yellow beam of sunlight came down and shivered upon the girl's dark head and played about the bundle of white over which her hands were busy. she moved aside to avoid it, but it followed her, and when she moved back it followed again and danced in her lap as if it were a live thing with a malicious sense of humor. it might have been tinker bell out of _peter pan_, only it did not jingle. mlle. o'hara uttered an exclamation of annoyance, and ste. marie laughed at her, but in a moment the leaves overhead were still again, and the sunbeam, with a sense of humor, was gone to torment some one else. still neither of the two spoke, and ste. marie continued to watch the girl bent above her sewing. he was thinking of what she had said to him when he asked her if she read spanish--that her mother had been spanish. that would account, then, for her dark eyes. it would account for the darkness of her skin, too, but not for its extraordinary clearness and delicacy, for spanish women are apt to have dull skins of an opaque texture. this was, he said to himself, an irish skin with a darker stain, and he was quite sure that he had never before seen anything at all like it. apart from coloring, she was all irish, of the type which has become famous the world over, and which in the opinion of men who have seen women in all countries, and have studied them, is the most beautiful type that exists in our time. ste. marie was dark himself, and in the ordinary nature of things he should have preferred a fair type in women. in theory, for that matter, he did prefer it, but it was impossible for him to sit near coira o'hara and watch her bent head and busy, hovering hands, and remain unstirred by her splendid beauty. he found himself wondering why one kind of loveliness more than another should exert a potent and mysterious spell by virtue of mere proximity, and when the woman who bore it was entirely passive. if this girl had been looking at him the matter would have been easy to understand, for an eye-glance is often downright hypnotic; but she was looking at the work in her hands, and, so far as could be judged, she had altogether forgotten his presence; yet the mysterious spell, the potent enchantment, breathed from her like a vapor, and he could not be insensible to it. it was like sorcery. the girl looked up so suddenly that ste. marie jumped. she said: "you are not a very talkative person. are you always as silent as this?" "no," said he, "i am not. i offer my humblest apologies. it seems as if i were not properly grateful for being allowed to sit here with you, but, to tell the truth, i was buried in thought." they had begun to talk in french, but midway of ste. marie's speech the girl glanced toward the old michel, who stood a short distance away, and so he changed to english. "in that case," she said, regarding her work with her head on one side like a bird--"in that case you might at least tell me what your thoughts were. they might be interesting." ste. marie gave a little embarrassed laugh. "i'm sorry," said he, "but i'm afraid they were too personal. i'm afraid if i told you you'd get up and go away and be frigidly polite to me when next we passed each other in the garden here. but there's no harm," he said, "in telling you one thing that occurred to me. it occurred to me that, as far as a young girl can be said to resemble an elderly woman, you bear a most remarkable resemblance to a very dear old friend of mine who lives near dublin--lady margaret craith. she's a widow, and almost all of her family are dead, i believe--i didn't know any of them--and she lives there in a huge old house with a park, quite alone with her army of servants. i go to see her whenever i'm in ireland, because she is one of the sweetest souls i have ever known." he became aware suddenly that mlle. o'hara's head was bent very low over her sewing and that her face, or as much of it as he could see, was crimson. "oh, i--i beg your pardon!" cried ste. marie. "i've done something dreadful. i don't know what it is, but i'm very, very sorry. please forgive me if you can!" "it is nothing," she said, in a low voice, and after a moment she looked up for the swiftest possible glance and down again. "that is my--aunt," she said. "only--please let us talk about something else! of course you couldn't possibly have known." "no," said ste. marie, gravely. "no, of course. you are very good to forgive me." he was silent a little while, for what the girl had told him surprised him very much indeed, and touched him, too. he remembered again the remark of his friend when o'hara had passed them on the boulevard: "there goes some of the best blood that ever came out of ireland. see what it has fallen to!" "it is a curious fact," said he, "that you and i are very close compatriots in the matter of blood--if 'compatriots' is the word. you are irish and spanish. my mother was irish and my people were béarnais, which is about as much spanish as french; and, indeed, there was a great deal of blood from across the mountains in them, for they often married spanish wives." he pulled the _bayard_ out of his pocket. "the ste. marie in here married a spanish lady, didn't he?" the girl looked up to him once more. "yes," she said. "yes, i remember. he was a brave man, monsieur. he had a great soul. and he died nobly." "well, as for that," he said, flushing a little, "the ste. maries have all died rather well." he gave a short laugh. "though i must admit," said he, "that the last of them came precious near falling below the family standard a week ago. i should think that probably none of my respected forefathers was killed in climbing over a garden-wall. autres temps, autres moeurs." he burst out laughing again at what seemed to him rather comic, but mlle. o'hara did not smile. she looked very gravely into his eyes, and there seemed to be something like sorrow in her look. ste. marie wondered at it, but after a moment it occurred to him that he was very near forbidden ground, and that doubtless the girl was trying to give him a silent warning of it. he began to turn over the leaves of the book in his hand. "you have marked a great many pages here," said he. and she said: "it is my best of all books. i read in it very often. i am so thankful for it that there are no words to say how thankful i am--how glad i am that i have such a world as that to--take refuge in sometimes when this world is a little too unbearable. it does for me now what the fairy stories did when i was little. and to think that it's true, true! to think that once there truly were men like that--sans peur et sans reproche! it makes life worth while to think that those men lived even if it was long ago." ste. marie bent his head over the little book, for he could not look at mlle. o'hara just then. it seemed to him well-nigh the most pathetic speech that he had ever heard. his heart bled for her. out of what mean shadows had the girl to turn her weary eyes upward to this sunlight of ancient heroism! "and yet, mademoiselle," said he, gently, "i think there are such men alive to-day, if only one will look for them. remember, they were not common even in bayard's time. oh yes, i think there are preux chevaliers nowadays, only perhaps they don't go about things in quite the same fashion. other times, other manners," he said again. "do you know any such men?" she demanded, facing him with shadowy eyes. and he said: "yes, i know men who are in all ways as honorable and as high-hearted as bayard was. in his place they would have acted as he did, but nowadays one has to practise heroism much less conspicuously--in the little things that few people see and that no one applauds or writes books about. it is much harder to do brave little acts than brave big ones." "yes." she agreed, slowly. "oh yes, of course." but there was no spirit in her tone, rather a sort of apathy. once more the leaves overhead swayed in the breeze, opened a tiny rift, and the little trembling ray of sunshine shot down to her where she sat. she stretched out one hand cup-wise, and the sunbeam, after a circling gyration, darted into it and lay there like a small golden bird panting, as it were, from fright. "if i were a painter," said ste. marie, "i should be in torture and anguish of soul until i had painted you sitting there on a stone bench and holding a sunbeam in your hand. i don't know what i should call the picture, but i think it would be something figurative--symbolic. can you think of a name?" coira o'hara looked up at him with a slight smile, but her eyes were gloomy and full of dark shadows. "it might be called any one of a great number of things, i should think," said she. "happiness--belief--illusion. see! the sunbeam is gone." * * * * * xxi a mist dims the shining star ste. marie remained in his room all the rest of that day, and he did not see mlle. o'hara again, for michel brought him his lunch and the old justine his dinner. for the greater part of the time he sat in bed reading, but rose now and then and moved about the room. his wound seemed to have suffered no great inconvenience from the morning's outing. if he stood or walked too long it burned somewhat, and he had the sensation of a tight band round the leg; but this passed after he had lain down for a little while, or even sat in a chair with the leg straight out before him; so he knew that he was not to be crippled very much longer, and his thoughts began to turn more and more keenly upon the matter of escape. he realized, of course, that now, since he was once more able to walk, he would be guarded with unremitting care every moment of the day, and quite possibly every moment of the night as well, though the simple bolting of his door on the outside would seem to answer the purpose save when he was out-of-doors. once he went to the two east windows and hung out of them, testing as well as he could with his hands the strength and tenacity of the ivy which covered that side of the house. he thought it seemed strong enough to give hand and foot hold without being torn loose, but he was afraid it would make an atrocious amount of noise if he should try to climb down it, and, besides, he would need two very active legs for that. at another time a fresh idea struck him, and he put it at once into action. there might be just a chance, when out one day with michel, of getting near enough to the wall which ran along the clamart road to throw something over it when the old man was not looking. in one of his pockets he had a card-case with a little pencil fitted into a loop at the edge, and in the case it was his custom to carry postage-stamps. he investigated and found pencil and stamps. of course he had nothing but cards to write upon, and they were useless. he looked about the room and went through an empty chest of drawers in vain, but at last, on some shelves in the closet where his clothes had hung, he found several large sheets of coarse white paper. the shelves were covered with it loosely for the sake of cleanliness. he abstracted one of these sheets, and cut it into squares of the ordinary note-paper size, and he sat down and wrote a brief letter to richard hartley, stating where he was, that arthur benham was there, the o'haras, and, he thought, captain stewart. he did not write the names out, but put instead the initial letters of each name, knowing that hartley would understand. he gave careful directions as to how the place was to be reached, and he asked hartley to come as soon as possible by night to that wall where he himself had made his entrance, to climb up by the cedar-tree, and to drop his answer into the thick leaves of the lilac bushes immediately beneath--an answer naming a day and hour, preferably by night, when he could return with three or four to help him, surprise the household at la lierre, and carry off young benham. ste. marie wrote this letter four times, and each of the four copies he enclosed in an awkwardly fashioned envelope, made with infinite pains so that its flaps folded in together, for he had no gum. he addressed and stamped the four envelopes, and put them all in his pocket to await the first opportunity. afterward he lay down for a while, and as, one after another, the books he had in the room failed to interest him, his thoughts began to turn back to mlle. coira o'hara and his hour with her upon the old stone bench in the garden. he realized all at once that he had been putting off this reflection as one puts off a reckoning that one a little dreads to face, and rather vaguely he realized why. the spell that the girl wielded--quite without being conscious of it; he granted her that grace--was too potent. it was dangerous, and he knew it. even imaginative and very unpractical people can be in some things surprisingly matter-of-fact, and ste. marie was matter-of-fact about this. the girl had made a mysterious and unprecedented appeal to him at his very first sight of her, long before, and ever since that time she had continued, intermittently at least, to haunt his dreams. now he was in the very house with her. it was quite possible that he might see her and speak with her every day, and he knew there was peril in that. he closed his eyes and she came to him, dark and beautiful, magnetically vital, spreading enchantment about her like a fragrance. she sat beside him on the moss-stained bench in the garden, holding out her hand cup-wise, and a sunbeam lay in the hand like a little, golden, fluttering bird. his thoughts ran back to that first morning when he had narrowly escaped death by poison. he remembered the girl's agony of fear and horror. he felt her hands once more upon his shoulders, and he was aware that his breath was coming faster and that his heart beat quickly. he got to his feet and went across to one of the windows, and he stood there for a long time frowning out into the summer day. if ever in his life, he said to himself with some deliberation, he was to need a cool and clear head, faculties unclouded and unimpaired by emotion, it was now in these next few days. much more than his own well-being depended upon him now. the fates of a whole family, and quite possibly the lives of some of them, were in his hands. he must not fail, and he must not, in any least way, falter. for enemies he had a band of desperate adventurers, and the very boy himself, the centre and reason for the whole plot, had been, in some incomprehensible way, so played upon that he, too, was against him. the man standing by the window forced himself quite deliberately to look the plain facts in the face. he compelled himself to envisage this beautiful girl with her tragic eyes for just what his reason knew her to be--an adventuress, a decoy, a lure to a callow, impressionable, foolish lad, the tool of that arch-villain stewart and of the lesser villain her father. it was like standing by and watching something lovely and pitiful vilely befouled. it turned his heart sick within him, but he held himself to the task. he brought to aid him the vision of his lady, in whose cause he was pursuing this adventure. for strength and determination he reached eye and hand to her where she sat enthroned, calm-browed, serene. for the first time since the beginning of all things his lady failed him, and ste. marie turned cold with fear. where was that splendid frenzy that had been wont to sweep him all in an instant into upper air--set his feet upon the stars? where was it? the man gave a sudden, voiceless cry of horror. the wings that had such countless times upborne him fluttered weakly near the earth and could not mount. his lady was there; through infinite space he was aware of her, but she was cold and aloof, and her eyes gazed very serenely beyond at something he could not see. he knew well enough that the fault lay somewhere within himself. she was as she had ever been, but he lacked the strength to rise to her. why? why? he searched himself with a desperate earnestness, but he could find no answer to his questioning. in himself, as in her, there had come no change. she was still to him all that she ever had been--the star of his destiny, the pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day, to guide him on his path. where, then, the fine, pure fervor that should, at thought of her, whirl him on high and make a god of him? he stood wrapped in bewilderment and despair, for he could find no answer. in plain words, in commonplace black-and-white, the man's anguish has an over-fanciful, a well-nigh absurd look, but to ste. marie the thing was very real and terrible, as real and as terrible as, to a half-starved monk in his lonely cell, the sudden failure of the customary exaltation of spirit after a night's long prayer. he went, after a time, back to the bed, and lay down there with one upflung arm across his eyes to shut out the light. he was filled with a profound dejection and a sense of hopelessness. through all the long week of his imprisonment he had been cheerful, at times even gay. however evil his case might have looked, his elastic spirits had mounted above all difficulties and cares, confident in the face of apparent defeat. now at last he lay still, bruised, as it were, and battered and weary. the flame of courage burned very low in him. from sheer exhaustion he fell after a time into a troubled sleep, but even there the enemy followed him and would not let him rest. he seemed to himself to be in a place of shadows and fears. he strained his eyes to make out above him the bright, clear star of guidance, for so long as that shone he was safe; but something had come between--cloud or mist--and his star shone dimly in fitful glimpses. * * * * * on the next morning he went out once more with the old michel into the garden. he went with a stronger heart, for the morning had renewed his courage, as bright, fresh mornings do. from the anguish of the day before he held himself carefully aloof. he kept his mind away from all thought of it, and gave his attention to the things about him. it would return, doubtless, in the slow, idle hours; he would have to face it again and yet again; he would have to contend with it; but for the present he put it out of his thoughts, for there were things to do. it was no more than human of him--and certainly it was very characteristic of ste. marie--that he should be half glad and half disappointed at not finding coira o'hara in her place at the rond point. it left him free to do what he wished to do--make a careful reconnaissance of the whole garden enclosure--but it left him empty of something he had, without conscious thought, looked forward to. his wounded leg was stronger and more flexible than on the day before; it burned and prickled less, and could be bent a little at the knee with small distress; so he led the old michel at a good pace down the length of the enclosure, past the rose-gardens, a tangle of unkempt sweetness, and so to the opposite wall. he found the gates there, very formidable-looking, made of vertical iron bars connected by cross-pieces and an ornamental scroll. they were fastened together by a heavy chain and a padlock. the lock was covered with rust, as were the gates themselves, and ste. marie observed that the lane outside upon which they gave was overgrown with turf and moss, and even with seedling shrubs; so he felt sure that this entrance was never used. the lane, he noted, swept away to the right toward issy and not toward the clamart road. he heard, as he stood there, the whir of a tram from far away at the left, a tram bound to or from clamart, and the sound brought to his mind what he wished to do. he turned about and began to make his way round the rose-gardens, which were partly enclosed by a low brick wall some two or three feet high. beyond them the trees and shrubbery were not set out in orderly rows as they were near the house, but grew at will without hindrance or care. it was like a bit of the meudon wood. he found the going more difficult here for his bad leg, but he pressed on, and in a little while saw before him that wall which skirted the clamart road. he felt in his pocket for the four sealed and stamped letters, but just then the old michel spoke behind him: "pardon, monsieur! ce n'est pas permis." "what is not permitted?" demanded ste. marie, wheeling about. "to approach that wall, monsieur," said the old man, with an incredibly gnomelike and apologetic grin. ste. marie gave an exclamation of disgust. "is it believed that i could leap over it?" he asked. "a matter of five metres? merci, non! i am not so agile. you flatter me." the old michel spread out his two gnarled hands. "pas de ma faute. i have orders, monsieur. it will be my painful duty to shoot if monsieur approaches that wall." he turned his strange head on one side and regarded ste. marie with his sharp and beadlike eye. the smile of apology still distorted his face, and he looked exactly like the punchinello in a street show. ste. marie slowly withdrew from his pocket two louis d'or and held them before him in the palm of his hand. he looked down upon them, and michel looked, too, with a gaze so intense that his solitary eye seemed to project a very little from his withered face. he was like a hypnotized old bird. "mon vieux," said ste. marie. "i am a man of honor." "sûrement! sûrement, monsieur!" said the old michel, politely, but his hypnotized gaze did not stir so much as a hair's-breadth. "Ça va sans le dire." "a man of honor," repeated ste. marie. "when i give my word i keep it. voilà! i keep it. and," said he, "i have here forty francs. two louis. a large sum. it is yours, my brave michel, for the mere trouble of turning your back just thirty seconds." "monsieur," whispered the old man, "it is impossible. he would kill me--by torture." "he will never know," said ste. marie, "for i do not mean to try to escape. i give you my word of honor that i shall not try to escape. besides, i could not climb over that wall, as you see. two louis, michel! forty francs!" the old man's hands twisted and trembled round the barrel of the carbine, and he swallowed once with some difficulty. he seemed to hesitate, but in the end he shook his head. it was as if he shook it in grief over the grave of his first-born. "it is impossible," he said again. "impossible." he tore the beadlike eye away from those two beautiful, glowing golden things, and ste. marie saw that there was nothing to be done with him just now. he slipped the money back into his pocket with a little sigh and turned away toward the rose-gardens. "ah, well," said he. "another time, perhaps. another time. and there are more louis still, mon vieux. perhaps three or four. who knows?" michel emitted a groan of extreme anguish, and they moved on. but a few moments later ste. marie gave a sudden low exclamation, and then a soundless laugh, for he caught sight of a very familiar figure seated in apparent dejection upon a fallen tree-trunk and staring across the tangled splendor of the roses. * * * * * xxii a settlement refused captain stewart had good reason to look depressed on that fresh and beautiful morning when ste. marie happened upon him beside the rose-gardens. matters had not gone well with him of late. he was ill and he was frightened, and he was much nearer than is agreeable to a complete nervous breakdown. it seemed to him that perils beset him upon every side, perils both seen and unseen. he felt like a man who is hunted in the dark, hard pressed until his strength is gone, and he can flee no farther. he imagined himself to be that man shivering in the gloom in a strange place, hiding eyes and ears lest he see or hear something from which he cannot escape. he imagined the morning light to come, very slow and cold and gray, and in it he saw round about him a silent ring of enemies, the men who had pursued him and run him down. he saw them standing there in the pale dawn, motionless, waiting for the day, and he knew that at last the chase was over and he near done for. crouching alone in the garden, with the scent of roses in his nostrils, he wondered with a great and bitter amazement at that madman--himself of only a few months ago--who had sat down deliberately, in his proper senses, to play at cards with fate, the great winner of all games. he wondered if, after all, he had been in his proper senses, for the deed now loomed before him gigantic and hideous in its criminal folly. his mind went drearily back to the beginning of it all, to the tremendous debts which had hounded him day and night, to his fear to speak of them with his father, who had never had the least mercy upon gamblers. he remembered as if it were yesterday the afternoon upon which he learned of young arthur's quarrel with his grandfather, old david's senile anger, and the boy's tempestuous exit from the house, vowing never to return. he remembered his talk with old david later on about the will, in which he learned that he was now to have arthur's share under certain conditions. he remembered how that very evening, three days after his disappearance, the lad had come secretly to the rue du faubourg st. honoré begging his uncle to take him in for a few days, and how, in a single instant that was like a lightning flash, the great idea had come to him. what gigantic and appalling madness it had all been! and yet for a time how easy of execution! for a time. now.... he gave another quick shiver, for his mind came back to what beset him and compassed him round about--perils seen and hidden. the peril seen was ever before his eyes. against the light of day it loomed a gigantic and portentous shadow, and it threatened him--the figure of ste. marie _who knew_. his reason told him that if due care were used this danger need not be too formidable, and, indeed, in his heart he rather despised ste. marie as an individual; but the man's nerve was broken, and in these days fear swept wavelike over reason and had its way with him. fear looked up to this looming, portentous shadow and saw there youth and health and strength, courage and hopefulness, and, best of all armors, a righteous cause. how was an ill and tired and wicked old man to fight against these? it became an obsession, the figure of this youth; it darkened the sun at noonday, and at night it stood beside captain stewart's bed in the darkness and watched him and waited, and the very air he breathed came chill and dark from its silent presence there. but there were perils unseen as well as seen. he felt invisible threads drawing round him, weaving closer and closer, and he dared not even try how strong they were lest they prove to be cables of steel. he was almost certain that his niece knew something or at the least suspected. as has already been pointed out, the two saw very little of each other, but on the occasions of their last few meetings it had seemed to him that the girl watched him with a strange stare, and tried always to be in her grandfather's chamber when he called to make his inquiries. once, stirred by a moment's bravado, he asked her if m. ste. marie had returned from his mysterious absence, and the girl said: "no. he has not come back yet, but i expect him soon now--with news of arthur. we shall all be very glad to see him, grandfather and richard hartley and i." it was not a very consequential speech, and, to tell the truth, it was what in the girl's own country would be termed pure "bluff," but to captain stewart it rang harsh and loud with evil significance, and he went out of that room cold at heart. what plans were they perfecting among them? what invisible nets for his feet? and there was another thing still. within the past two or three days he had become convinced that his movements were being watched--and that would be richard hartley at work, he said to himself. faces vaguely familiar began to confront him in the street, in restaurants and cafés. once he thought his rooms had been ransacked during his absence at la lierre, though his servant stoutly maintained that they had never been left unoccupied save for a half-hour's marketing. finally, on the day before this morning by the rose-gardens, he was sure that as he came out from the city in his car he was followed at a long distance by another motor. he saw it behind him after he had left the city gate, the porte de versailles, and he saw it again after he had left the main route at issy and entered the little rue barbés which led to la lierre. of course, he promptly did the only possible thing under the circumstances. he dashed on past the long stretch of wall, swung into the main avenue beyond, and continued through clamart to the meudon wood, as if he were going to st. cloud. in the labyrinth of roads and lanes there he came to a halt, and after a half-hour's wait ran slowly back to la lierre. there was no further sign of the other car, the pursuer, if so it had been, but he passed two or three men on bicycles and others walking, and what one of these might not be a spy paid to track him down? it had frightened him badly, that hour of suspense and flight, and he determined to remain at la lierre for at least a few days, and wrote to his servant in the rue du faubourg to forward his letters there under the false name by which he had hired the place. he was thinking very wearily of all these things as he sat on the fallen tree-trunk in the garden and stared unseeing across tangled ranks of roses. and after a while his thoughts, as they were wont to do, returned to ste. marie--that looming shadow which darkened the sunlight, that incubus of fear which clung to him night and day. he was so absorbed that he did not hear sounds which might otherwise have roused him. he heard nothing, saw nothing, save that which his fevered mind projected, until a voice spoke his name. he looked over his shoulder thinking that o'hara had sought him out. he turned a little on the tree-trunk to see more easily, and the image of his dread stood there a living and very literal shadow against the daylight. captain stewart's overstrained nerves were in no state to bear a sudden shock. he gave a voiceless, whispering cry and he began to tremble very violently, so that his teeth chattered. all at once he got to his feet and began to stumble away backward, but a projecting limb of the fallen tree caught him and held him fast. it must be that the man was in a sort of frenzy. he must have seen through a red mist just then, for when he found that he could not escape his hand went swiftly to his coat-pocket, and in his white and contorted face there was murder plain and unmistakable. ste. marie was too lame to spring aside or to dash upon the man across intervening obstacles and defend himself. he stood still in his place and waited. and it was characteristic of him that at that moment he felt no fear, only a fine sense of exhilaration. open danger had no terrors for him. it was secret peril that unnerved him, as in the matter of the poison a week before. captain stewart's hand fell away empty, and ste. marie laughed. "left it at the house?" said he. "you seem to have no luck, stewart. first the cat drinks the poison, and then you leave your pistol at home. dear, dear, i'm afraid you're careless." captain stewart stared at the younger man under his brows. his face was gray and he was still shivering, but the sudden agony of fear, which had been, after all, only a jangle of nerves, was gone away. he looked upon ste. marie's gay and untroubled face with a dull wonder, and he began to feel a grudging admiration for the man who could face death without even turning pale. he pulled out his watch and looked at it. "i did not know," he said, "that this was your hour out-of-doors." as a matter of fact, he had quite forgotten that the arrangement existed. when he had first heard of it he had protested vigorously, but had been overborne by o'hara with the plea that they owed their prisoner something for having come near to poisoning him, and stewart did not care to have any further attention called to that matter; it had already put a severe strain upon the relations at la lierre. "well," observed ste. marie, "i told you you were careless. that proves it. come! can't we sit down for a little chat? i haven't seen you since i was your guest at the other address--the town address. it seems to have become a habit of mine--doesn't it?--being your guest." he laughed cheerfully, but captain stewart continued to regard him without smiling. "if you imagine," said the elder man, "that this place belongs to me you are mistaken. i came here to-day to make a visit." but ste. marie sat down at one end of the tree-trunk and shook his head. "oh, come, come!" said he. "why keep up the pretence? you must know that i know all about the whole affair. why, bless you, i know it all--even to the provisions of the will. did you think i stumbled in here by accident? well, i didn't, though i don't mind admitting to you that i remained by accident." he glanced over his shoulder toward the one-eyed michel, who stood near-by, regarding the two with some alarm. captain stewart looked up sharply at the mention of the will, and he wetted his dry lips with his tongue. but after a moment's hesitation he sat down upon the tree-trunk, and he seemed to shrink a little together, when his limbs and shoulders had relaxed, so that he looked small and feeble, like a very tired old man. he remained silent for a few moments, but at last he spoke without raising his eyes. he said: "and now that you--imagine yourself to know so very much, what do you expect to do about it?" ste. marie laughed again. "ah, that would be telling!" he cried. "you see, in one way i have the advantage, though outwardly all the advantage seems to be with your side--i know all about your game. i may call it a game? yes? but you don't know mine. you don't know what i--what we may do at any moment. that's where we have the better of you." "it would seem to me," said captain stewart, wearily, "that since you are a prisoner here and very unlikely to escape, we know with great accuracy what you will do--and what you will not." "yes," admitted ste. marie, "it would seem so. it certainly would seem so. but you never can tell, can you?" and at that the elder man frowned and looked away. thereafter another brief silence fell between the two, but at its end ste. marie spoke in a new tone, a very serious tone. he said: "stewart, listen a moment!" and the other turned a sharp gaze upon him. "you mustn't forget," said ste. marie, speaking slowly as if to choose his words with care--"you mustn't forget that i am not alone in this matter. you mustn't forget that there's richard hartley--and that there are others, too. i'm a prisoner, yes. i'm helpless here for the present--perhaps, perhaps--but they are not, _and they know, stewart. they know_." captain stewart's face remained gray and still, but his hands twisted and shook upon his knees until he hid them. "i know well enough what you're waiting for," continued ste. marie. "you're waiting--you've got to wait--for arthur benham to come of age, or, better yet, for your father to die." he paused and shook his head. "it's no good. you can't hold out as long as that--not by half. we shall have won the game long before. listen to me! do you know what would occur if your father should take a serious turn for the worse to-night--or at any time? do you? well, i'll tell you. a piece of information would be given him that would make another change in that will just as quickly as a pen could write the words. that's what would happen." "that is a lie!" said captain stewart, in a dry whisper. "a lie!" and ste. marie contented himself with a slight smile by way of answer. he was by no means sure that what he had said was true, but he argued that since hartley suspected, or perhaps by this time knew so much, he would certainly not allow old david to die without doing what he could do in an effort to save young arthur's fortune from a rascal. in any event, true or false, the words had had the desired effect. captain stewart was plainly frightened by them. "may i make a suggestion?" asked the younger man. the other did not answer him, and he made it. "give it up!" said he. "you're riding for a tremendous fall, you know. we shall smash you completely in the end. it'll mean worse than ruin--much worse. give it up, now, before you're too late. help me to send for hartley and we'll take the boy back to his home. some story can be managed that will leave you out of the thing altogether, and those who know will hold their tongues. it's your last chance, stewart. i advise you to take it." captain stewart turned his gray face slowly and looked at the other man with a sort of dull and apathetic wonder. "are you mad?" he asked, in a voice which was altogether without feeling of any kind. "are you quite mad?" "on the contrary," said ste. marie, "i am quite sane, and i'm offering you a chance to save yourself before it's too late. don't misunderstand me!" he continued. "i am not urging this out of any sympathy for you. i urge it because it will bring about what i wish a little more quickly, also because it will save your family from the disgrace of your smash-up. that's why i'm making my suggestion." captain stewart was silent for a little while, but after that he got heavily to his feet. "i think you must be quite mad," said he, as before, in a voice altogether devoid of expression. "i cannot talk with madmen." he beckoned to the old michel, who stood near-by, leaning upon his carbine, and when the gardener had approached he said, "take this--prisoner back to his room!" ste. marie rose with a little sigh. he said: "i'm sorry, but you'll admit i have done my best for you. i've warned you. i sha'n't do it again. we shall smash you now, without mercy." "take him away!" cried captain stewart, in a sudden loud voice, and the old michel touched his charge upon the shoulder. so ste. marie went without further words. from a little distance he looked back, and the other man still stood by the fallen tree-trunk, bent a little, his arms hanging lax beside him, and his face, ste. marie thought, fancifully, was like the face of a man damned. * * * * * xxiii the last arrow the one birdlike eye of the old michel regarded ste. marie with a glance of mingled cunning and humor. it might have been said to twinkle. "to the east, monsieur?" inquired the old michel. "precisely!" said ste. marie. "to the east, mon vieux." it was the morning of the fourth day after that talk with captain stewart beside the rose-gardens. the two bore to the eastward, down among the trees, and presently came to the spot where a certain trespasser had once leaped down from the top of the high wall and had been shot for his pains. the old michel halted and leaned upon the barrel of his carbine. with an air of complete detachment, an air vague and aloof as of one in a revery, he gazed away over the tree-tops of the ragged park; but ste. marie went in under the row of lilac shrubs which stood close against the wall, and a passer-by might have thought the man looking for figs on thistles, for lilacs in late july. he had gone there with eagerness, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes; he emerged after some moments, moving slowly, with downcast head. "there are no lilac blooms now, monsieur," observed the old michel, and his prisoner said, in a low voice: "no, mon vieux. no. there are none." he sighed and drew a long breath. so the two stood for some time silent, ste. marie a little pale, his eyes fixed upon the ground, his hands chafing together behind him, the gardener with his one bright eye upon his charge. but in the end ste. marie sighed again and began to move away, followed by the gardener. they went across the broad park, past the double row of larches, through that space where the chestnut-trees stood in straight, close rows, and so came to the west wall which skirted the road to clamart. ste. marie felt in his pocket and withdrew the last of the four letters--the last there could be, for he had no more stamps. the others he had thrown over the wall, one each morning, beginning with the day after he had made the first attempt to bribe old michel. as he had expected, twenty-four hours of avaricious reflection had proved too much for that gnomelike being. one each day he had thrown over the wall, weighted with a pebble tucked loosely under the flap of the improvised envelope, in such a manner that it would drop but when the letter struck the ground beyond. and each following day he had gone with high hopes to the appointed place under the cedar-tree to pick figs of thistles, lilac blooms in late july. but there had been nothing there. "turn your back, michel!" said ste. marie. and the old man said, from a little distance: "it is turned, monsieur. i see nothing. monsieur throws little stories at the birds to amuse himself. it does not concern me." ste. marie slipped a pebble under the flap of the envelope and threw his letter over the wall. it went like a soaring bird, whirling horizontally, and it must have fallen far out in the middle of the road near the tramway. for the third time that morning the prisoner drew a sigh. he said, "you may turn round now, my friend," and the old michel faced him. "we have shot our last arrow," said he. "if this also fails, i think--well, i think the bon dieu will have to help us then.--michel," he inquired, "do you know how to pray?" "sacred thousand swine, no!" cried the ancient gnome, in something between astonishment and horror. "no, monsieur. 'pas mon métier, ça!" he shook his head rapidly from side to side like one of those toys in a shop-window whose heads oscillate upon a pivot. but all at once a gleam of inspiration sparkled in his lone eye. "there is the old justine!" he suggested. "toujours sur les genoux, cette imbécile là." "in that case," said ste. marie, "you might ask the lady to say one little extra prayer for--the pebble i threw at the birds just now. hein?" he withdrew from his pocket the last two louis d'or, and michel took them in a trembling hand. there remained but the note of fifty francs and some silver. "the prayer shall be said, monsieur," declared the gardener. "it shall be said. she shall pray all night or i will kill her." "thank you," said ste. marie. "you are kindness itself. a gentle soul." they turned away to retrace their steps, and michel rubbed the side of his head with a reflective air. "the old one is a madman," said he. (the "old one" meant captain stewart.) "a madman. each day he is madder, and this morning he struck me--here on the head, because i was too slow. eh! a little more of that, and--who knows? just a little more, a small little! am i a dog, to be beaten? hein? je ne le crois pas. hé!" he called captain stewart two unprintable names, and after a moment's thought he called him an animal, which is not so much of an anti-climax as it may seem, because to call anybody an animal in french is a serious matter. the gardener was working himself up into something of a quiet passion, and ste. marie said: "softly, my friend! softly!" it occurred to him that the man's resentment might be of use later on, and he said: "you speak the truth. the old one is an animal, and he is also a great rascal." but michel betrayed the makings of a philosopher. he said, with profound conviction: "monsieur, all men are great rascals. it is i who say it." and at that ste. marie had to laugh. * * * * * he had not consciously directed his feet, but without direction they led him round the corner of the rose-gardens and toward the rond point. he knew well whom he would find there. she had not failed him during the past three days. each morning he had found her in her place, and for his allotted hour--which more than once stretched itself out to nearly two hours, if he had but known--they had sat together on the stone bench, or, tiring of that, had walked under the trees beyond. long afterward ste. marie looked back upon these hours with, among other emotions, a great wonder--at himself and at her. it seemed to him then one of the strangest relationships--intimacies, for it might well be so called--that ever existed between a man and a woman, and he was amazed at the ease, the unconsciousness, with which it had come about. but during this time he did not allow himself to wonder or to examine, scarcely even to think. the hours were golden hours, unrelated, he told himself, to anything else in his life or in his interests. they were like pleasant dreams, very sweet while they endured, but to be put away and forgotten upon the waking. only in that long afterward he knew that they had not been put away, that they had been with him always, that the morning hour had remained in his thoughts all the rest of the long day, and that he had waked upon the morrow with a keen and exquisite sense of something sweet to come. it was a strange fool's paradise that the man dwelt in, and in some small, vague measure he must, even at the time, have known it, for it is certain that he deliberately held himself away from thought--realization; that he deliberately shut his eyes, held his ears lest he should hear or see. that he was not faithless to his duty has been shown. he did his utmost there, but he was for the time helpless save for efforts to communicate with richard hartley, and those efforts could consume no more than ten minutes out of the weary day. so he drifted, wilfully blind to bearings, wilfully deaf to sound of warning or peril, and he found a companionship sweeter and fuller and more perfect than he had ever before known in all his life, though that is not to say very much, because sympathetic companionships between men and women are very rare indeed, and ste. marie had never experienced anything which could fairly be called by that name. he had had, as has been related, many flirtations, and not a few so-called love-affairs, but neither of these two sorts of intimacies are of necessity true intimacies at all; men often feel varying degrees of love for women without the least true understanding or sympathy or real companionship. he was wondering, as he bore round the corner of the rose-gardens on this day, in just what mood he would find her. it seemed to him that in their brief acquaintance he had seen her in almost all the moods there are, from bitter gloom to the irrepressible gayety of a little child. he had told her once that she was like an organ, and she had laughed at him for being pretentious and high-flown, though she could upon occasion be quite high-flown enough herself for all ordinary purposes. he reached the cleared margin of the rond point, and a little cold fear stirred in him when he did not hear her singing under her breath, as she was wont to do when alone, but he went forward and she was there in her place upon the stone bench. she had been reading, but the book lay forgotten beside her and she sat idle, her head laid back against the thick stems of shrubbery which grew behind, her hands in her lap. it was a warm, still morning, with the promise of a hot afternoon, and the girl was dressed in something very thin and transparent and cool-looking, open in a little square at the throat and with sleeves which came only to her elbows. the material was pale and dull yellow, with very vaguely defined green leaves in it, and against it the girl's dark and clear skin glowed rich and warm and living, as pearls glow and seem to throb against the dead tints of the fabric upon which they are laid. she did not move when he came before her, but looked up to him gravely without stirring her head. "i didn't hear you come," said she. "you don't drag your left leg any more. you walk almost as well as if you had never been wounded." "i'm almost all right again," he answered. "i suppose i couldn't run or jump, but i certainly can walk very much like a human being. may i sit down?" mlle. o'hara put out one hand and drew the book closer to make a place for him on the stone bench, and he settled himself comfortably there, turned a little so that he was facing toward her. it was indicative of the state of intimacy into which the two had grown that they did not make polite conversation with each other, but indeed were silent for some little time after ste. marie had seated himself. it was he who spoke first. he said: "you look vaguely classical to-day. i have been trying to guess why, and i cannot. perhaps it's because your--what does one say: frock, dress, gown?--because it is cut out square at the throat." "if you mean by classical, greek," said she, "it wouldn't be square at the neck at all; it would be pointed--v-shaped. and it would be very different in other ways, too. you are not an observing person, after all." "for all that," insisted ste. marie, "you look classical. you look like some lady one reads about in greek poems--helen or iphigenia or medea or somebody." "helen had yellow hair, hadn't she?" objected mlle. o'hara. "i should think i probably look more like medea--medea in colchis before jason--" she seemed suddenly to realize that she had hit upon an unfortunate example, for she stopped in the middle of her sentence and a wave of color swept up over her throat and face. for a moment ste. marie did not understand, then he gave a low exclamation, for medea certainly had been an unhappy name. he remembered something that richard hartley had said about that lady a long time before. he made another mistake, for to lessen the moment's embarrassment he gave speech to the first thought which entered his mind. he said: "some one once remarked that you look like the young juno--before marriage. i expect it's true, too." she turned upon him swiftly. "who said that?" she demanded. "who has ever talked to you about me?" "i beg your pardon," he said. "i seem to be singularly stupid this morning. a mild lunacy. you must forgive me, if you can. to tell you what you ask would be to enter upon forbidden ground, and i mustn't do that." "still, i should like to know," said the girl, watching him with sombre eyes. "well, then," said he, "it was a little jewish photographer in the boulevard de la madeleine." and she said, "oh!" in a rather disappointed tone and looked away. "we seem to be making conversation chiefly about my personal appearance," she said, presently. "there must be other topics if one should try hard to find them. tell me stories. you told me stories yesterday; tell me more. you seem to be in a classical mood. you shall be odysseus, and i will be nausicaa, the interesting laundress. tell me about wanderings and things. have you any more islands for me?" "yes," said ste. marie, nodding at her slowly. "yes, nausicaa, i have more islands for you. the seas are full of islands. what kind do you want?" "a warm one," said the girl. "even on a hot day like this i choose a warm one, because i hate the cold." she settled herself more comfortably, with a little sigh of content that was exactly like a child's happy sigh when stories are going to be told before the fire. "i know an island," said ste. marie, "that i think you would like because it is warm and beautiful and very far away from troubles of all kinds. as well as i could make out, when i went there, nobody on the island had ever even heard of trouble. oh yes, you'd like it. the people there are brown, and they're as beautiful as their own island. they wear hibiscus flowers stuck in their hair, and they very seldom do any work." "i want to go there!" cried mlle. coira o'hara. "i want to go there now, this afternoon, at once! where is it?" "it's in the south pacific," said he, "not so very far from samoa and fiji and other groups that you will have heard about, and its name is vavau. it's one of the tongans. it's a high, volcanic island, not a flat, coral one like the southern tongans. i came to it, one evening, sailing north from nukualofa and haapai, and it looked to me like a single big mountain jutting up out of the sea, black-green against the sunset. it was very impressive. but it isn't a single mountain, it's a lot of high, broken hills covered with a tangle of vegetation and set round a narrow bay, a sort of fjord, three or four miles long, and at the inner end of this are the village and the stores of the few white traders. i'm afraid," said ste. marie, shaking his head--"i'm afraid i can't tell you about it, after all. i can't seem to find the words. you can't put into language--at least, i can't--those slow, hot, island days that are never too hot because the trades blow fresh and strong, or the island nights that are more like black velvet with pearls sewed on it than anything else. you can't describe the smell of orange groves and the look of palm-trees against the sky. you can't tell about the sweet, simple, natural hospitality of the natives. they're like little, unsuspicious children. in short," said he, "i shall have to give it up, after all, just because it's too big for me. i can only say that it's beautiful and unspeakably remote from the world, and that i think i should like to go back to vavau and stay a long time, and let the rest of the world go hang." mlle. o'hara stared across the park of la lierre with wide and shadowy eyes, and her lips trembled a little. "oh, i want to go there!" she cried again. "i want to go there--and rest--and forget everything!" she turned upon him with a sudden bitter resentment. "why do you tell me things like that?" she cried. "oh yes, i know. i asked you, but--can't you see? to hide one's self away in a place like that!" she said. "to let the sun warm you and the trade-winds blow away--all that had ever tortured you! just to rest and be at peace!" she turned her eyes to him once more. "you needn't be afraid that you have failed to make me see your island! i see it. i feel it. it doesn't need many words. i can shut my eyes and i am there. but it was a little cruel. oh, i know, i asked for it. it's like the garden of the hesperides, isn't it?" "very like it," said ste. marie, "because there are oranges--groves of them. (and they were the golden apples, i take it.) also, it is very far away from the world, and the people live in complete and careless ignorance of how the world goes on. emperors and kings die, wars come and go, but they hear only a little faint echo of it all, long afterward, and even that doesn't interest them." "i know," she said. "i understand. didn't you know i'd understand?" "yes," said he, nodding. "i suppose i did. we--feel things rather alike, i suppose. we don't have to say them all out." "i wonder," she said, in a low voice, "if i'm glad or sorry." she stared under her brows at the man beside her. "for it is very probable that when we have left la lierre you and i will never meet again. i wonder if i'm--" for some obscure reason she broke off there and turned her eyes away, and she remained without speaking for a long time. her mind, as she sat there, seemed to go back to that southern island, and to its peace and loveliness, for ste. marie, who watched her, saw a little smile come to her lips, and he saw her eyes half close and grow soft and tender as if what they saw were very sweet to her. he watched many different expressions come upon the girl's face and go again, but at last he seemed to see the old bitterness return there and struggle with something wistful and eager. "i envy you your wide wanderings," she said, presently. "oh, i envy you more than i can find any words for. your will is the wind's will. you go where your fancy leads you, and you're free--free. we have wandered, you know," said she, "my father and i. i can't remember when we ever had a home to live in. but that is--that is different--a different kind of wandering." "yes," said ste. marie. "yes, perhaps." and within himself he said, with sorrow and pity, "different, indeed!" as if at some sudden thought the girl looked up at him quickly. "did that sound regretful?" she asked. "did what i say sound--disloyal to my father? i didn't mean it to. i don't want you to think that i regret it. i don't. it has meant being with my father. wherever he has gone i have gone with him, and if anything ever has been--unpleasant, i was willing, oh, i was glad, glad to put up with it for his sake and because i could be with him. if i have made his life a little happier by sharing it, i am glad of everything. i don't regret." "and yet," said ste. marie, gently, "it must have been hard sometimes." he pictured to himself that roving existence lived among such people as o'hara must have known, and it sent a hot wave of anger and distress over him from head to foot. but the girl said: "i had my father. the rest of it didn't matter in the face of that." after a little silence she said, "m. ste. marie!" and the man said, "what is it, mademoiselle?" "you spoke the other day," she said, hesitating over her words, "about my aunt, lady margaret craith. i suppose i ought not to ask you more about her, for my father quarrelled with his people very long ago and he broke with them altogether. but--surely, it can do no harm--just for a moment--just a very little! could you tell me a little about her, m. ste. marie--what she is like and--and how she lives--and things like that?" so ste. marie told her all that he could of the old irishwoman who lived alone in her great house, and ruled with a slack irish hand, a sweet irish heart, over tenants and dependants. and when he had come to an end the girl drew a little sigh and said: "thank you. i am so glad to hear of her. i--wish everything were different, so that--i think i should love her very much if i might." "mademoiselle," said ste. marie, "will you promise me something?" she looked at him with her sombre eyes, and after a little she said: "i am afraid you must tell me first what it is. i cannot promise blindly." he said: "i want you to promise me that if anything ever should happen--any difficulty--trouble--anything to put you in the position of needing care or help or sympathy--" but she broke in upon him with a swift alarm, crying: "what do you mean? you're trying to hint at something that i don't know. what difficulty or trouble could happen to me? please tell me just what you mean." "i'm not hinting at any mystery," said ste. marie. "i don't know of anything that is going to happen to you, but--will you forgive me for saying it?--your father is, i take it, often exposed to--danger of various sorts. i'm afraid i can't quite express myself, only, if any trouble should come to you, mademoiselle, will you promise me to go to lady margaret, your aunt, and tell her who you are and let her care for you?" "there was an absolute break," she said. "complete." but the man shook his head, saying: "lady margaret won't think of that. she'll think only of you--that she can mother you, perhaps save you grief--and of herself, that in her old age she has a daughter. it would make a lonely old woman very happy, mademoiselle." the girl bent her head away from him, and ste. marie saw, for the first time since he had known her, tears in her eyes. after a long time she said: "i promise, then. but," she said, "it is very unlikely that it should ever come about--for more than one reason. very unlikely." "still, mademoiselle," said he, "i am glad you have promised. this is an uncertain world. one never can tell what will come with the to-morrows." "i can," the girl said, with a little tired smile that ste. marie did not understand. "i can tell. i can see all the to-morrows--a long, long row of them. i know just what they're going to be like--to the very end." but the man rose to his feet and looked down upon her as she sat before him. and he shook his head. "you are mistaken," he said. "pardon me, but you are mistaken. no one can see to-morrow--or the end of anything. the end may surprise you very much." "i wish it would!" cried mlle. o'hara. "oh, i wish it would!" * * * * * xxiv the joint in the armor ste. marie put down a book as o'hara came into the room and rose to meet his visitor. "i'm compelled," said the irishman, "to put you on your honor to-day if you are to go out as usual. michel has been sent on an errand, and i am busy with letters. i shall have to put you on your honor not to make any effort to escape. is that agreed to? i shall trust you altogether. you could manage to scramble over the wall somehow, i suppose, and get clean away, but i think you won't try it if you give your word." "i give my word gladly," said ste. marie. "and thanks very much. you've been uncommonly kind to me here. i--regret more than i can say that we--that we find ourselves on opposite sides, as it were. i wish we were fighting for the same cause." the irishman looked at the younger man sharply for an instant, and he made as if he would speak, but seemed to think better of it. in the end he said: "yes, quite so. quite so. of course you understand that any consideration i have used toward you has been by way of making amends for--for an unfortunate occurrence." ste. marie laughed. "the poison," said he. "yes, i know. and of course i know who was at the bottom of that. by the way, i met stewart in the garden the other day. did he tell you? he was rather nervous and tried to shoot me, but he had left his revolver at the house--at least it wasn't in his pocket when he reached for it." o'hara's hard face twitched suddenly, as if in anger, and he gave an exclamation under his breath, so the younger man inferred that "old charlie" had not spoken of their encounter. and after that the irishman once more turned a sharp, frowning glance upon his prisoner as if he were puzzled about something. but, as before, he stopped short of speech and at last turned away. "just a moment!" said the younger man. he asked: "is it fair to inquire how long i may expect to be confined here? i don't want to presume upon your good-nature too far, but if you could tell me i should be glad to know." the irishman hesitated a moment and then said:-- "i don't know why i shouldn't answer that. it can't help you, so far as i can see, to do anything that would hinder us. you'll stay until arthur benham comes of age, which will be in about two months from now." "yes," said the other. "thanks. i thought so. until young arthur comes of age and receives his patrimony--or until old david stewart dies. of course that might happen at any hour." the irishman said: "i don't quite see what--ah, yes, to be sure! yes, i see. well, i should count upon eight weeks if i were you. in eight weeks the boy will be independent of them all, and we shall go to england for the wedding." "the wedding?" cried ste. marie. "what wedding?--ah!" "arthur benham and my daughter are to be married," said o'hara, "so soon as he reaches his majority. i thought you knew that." in a very vague fashion he realized that he had expected it. and still the definite words came to him with a shock which was like a physical blow, and he turned his back with a man's natural instinct to hide his feeling. certainly that was the logical conclusion to be drawn from known premises. that was to be the o'haras' reward for their labor. to stewart the great fortune, to the o'haras a good marriage for the girl and an assured future. that was reward enough surely for a few weeks of angling and decoying and luring and lying. that was what she had meant, on the day before, by saying that she could see all the to-morrows. he realized that he must have been expecting something like this, but the thought turned him sick, nevertheless. he could not forget the girl as he had come to know her during the past week. he could not face with any calmness the thought of her as the adventuress who had lured poor arthur benham on to destruction. it was an impossible thought. he could have laughed at it in scornful anger, and yet--what else was she? he began to realize that his action in turning his back upon the other man in the middle of a conversation must look very odd, and he faced round again trying to drive from his expression the pain and distress which he knew must be there, plain to see. but he need not have troubled himself, for the other man was standing before the next window and looking out into the morning sunlight, and his hard, bony face had so altered that ste. marie stared at him with open amazement. he thought o'hara must be ill. "i want to see her married!" cried the irishman, suddenly, and it was a new voice, a voice ste. marie did not know. it shook a little with an emotion that sat uncouthly upon this grim, stern man. "i want to see her married and safe!" he said. "i want her to be rid of this damnable, roving, cheap existence. i want her to be rid of me and my rotten friends and my rotten life." he chafed his hands together before him, and his tired eyes fixed themselves upon something that he seemed to see out of the window and glared at it fiercely. "i should like," said he, "to die on the day after her wedding, and so be out of her way forever. i don't want her to have any shadows cast over her from the past. i don't want her to open closet doors and find skeletons there. i want her to be free--free to live the sort of life she was born to and has a right to." he turned sharply upon the younger man. "you've seen her!" he cried. "you've talked to her; you know her! think of that girl dragged about europe with me ever since she was a little child! think of the people she's had to know, the things she's had to see! do you wonder that i want to have her free of it all, married and safe and comfortable and in peace? do you? i tell you it has driven me as nearly mad as a man can be. but i couldn't go mad, because i had to take care of her. i couldn't even die, because she'd have been left alone without any one to look out for her. she wouldn't leave me. i could have settled her somewhere in some quiet place where she'd have been quit at least of shady, rotten people, but she wouldn't have it. she's stuck to me always, through good times and bad. she's kept my heart up when i'd have been ready to cut my throat if i'd been alone. she's been the--bravest and faithfulest--well, i--and look at her! look at her now! think of what she's had to see and know--the people she's had to live with--and look at her! has any of it stuck to her? has it cheapened her in any littlest way? no, by god! she has come through it all like a--like a sister of charity through a city slum--like an angel through the dark." the irishman broke off speaking, for his voice was beyond control, but after a moment he went on again, more calmly: "this boy, this young benham, is a fool, but he's not a mean fool. she'll make a man of him. and, married to him, she'll have the comforts that she ought to have and the care and--freedom. she'll have a chance to live the life that she has a right to, among the sort of people she has a right to know. i'm not afraid for her. she'll do her part and more. she'll hold up her head among duchesses, that girl. i'm not afraid for her." he said this last sentence over several times, standing before the window and staring out at the sun upon the tree-tops. "i'm not afraid for her.... i'm not afraid for her." he seemed to have forgotten that the younger man was in the room, for he did not look toward him again or pay him any attention for a long while. he only gazed out of the window into the fresh morning sunlight, and his face worked and quivered and his lean hands chafed restlessly together before him. but at last he seemed to realize where he was, for he turned with a sudden start and stared at ste. marie, frowning as if the younger man were some one he had never seen before. he said: "ah, yes, yes. you were wanting to go out into the garden. yes, quite so. i--i was thinking of something else. i seem to be absent-minded of late. don't let me keep you here." he seemed a little embarrassed and ill at ease, and ste. marie said: "oh, thanks. there's no hurry. however, i'll go, i think. it's after eleven. i understand that i'm on my honor not to climb over the wall or burrow under it or batter it down. that's understood. i--" he felt that he ought to say something in acknowledgment of o'hara's long speech about his daughter, but he could think of nothing to say, and, besides, the irishman seemed not to expect any comment upon his strange outburst. so, in the end, ste. marie nodded and went out of the room without further ceremony. he had been astonished almost beyond words at that sudden and unlooked-for breakdown of the other man's impregnable reserve, and dimly he realized that it must have come out of some very extraordinary nervous strain, but he himself had been in no state to give the irishman's words the attention and thought that he would have given them at another time. his mind, his whole field of mental vision, had been full of one great fact--_the girl was to be married to young arthur benham_. the thing loomed gigantic before him, and in some strange way terrifying. he could neither see nor think beyond it. o'hara's burst of confidence had reached his ears very faintly, as if from a great distance--poignant but only half-comprehended words to be reflected upon later in their own time. he stumbled down the ill-lighted stair with fixed, wide, unseeing eyes, and he said one sentence over and over aloud, as the irishman standing beside the window had said another. "she is going to be married. she is going to be married." it would seem that he must have forgotten his previous half-suspicion of the fact. it would seem to have remained, as at the first hearing, a great and appalling shock, thunderous out of a blue sky. below, in the open, his feet led him mechanically straight down under the trees, through the tangle of shrubbery beyond, and so to the wall under the cedar. arrived there, he awoke all at once to his task, and with a sort of frowning anger shook off the dream which enveloped him. his eyes sharpened and grew keen and eager. he said: "the last arrow! god send it reached home!" and so went in under the lilac shrubs. he was there longer than usual; unhampered now, he may have made a larger search, but when at last he emerged ste. marie's hands were over his face and his feet dragged slowly like an old man's feet. without knowing that he had stirred he found himself some distance away, standing still beside a chestnut-tree. a great wave of depression and fear and hopelessness swept him, and he shivered under it. he had an instant's wild panic, and mad, desperate thoughts surged upon him. he saw utter failure confronting him. he saw himself as helpless as a little child, his feeble efforts already spent for naught, and, like a little child, he was afraid. he would have rushed at that grim encircling wall and fought his way up and over it, but even as the impulse raced to his feet the momentary madness left him and he turned away. he could not do a dishonorable thing even for all he held dearest. he walked on in the direction which lay before him, but he took no heed of where he went, and mlle. coira o'hara spoke to him twice before he heard or saw her. * * * * * xxv medea goes over to the enemy they were near the east end of the rond point, in a space where fir-trees stood and the ground underfoot was covered with dry needles. "i was just on my way to--our bench beyond the fountain," said she. and ste. marie nodded, looking upon her sombrely. it seemed to him that he looked with new eyes, and after a little time, when he did not speak, but only gazed in that strange manner, the girl said: "what is it? something has happened. please tell me what it is." something like the pale foreshadow of fear came over her beautiful face and shrouded her golden voice as if it had been a veil. "your father," said ste. marie, heavily, "has just been telling me--that you are to marry young arthur benham. he has been telling me." she drew a quick breath, looking at him, but after a moment she said: "yes, it is true. you knew it before, though, didn't you? do you mean that you didn't know it before? i don't quite understand. you must have known that. what, in heaven's name, _did_ you think?" she cried, as if with a sort of anger at his dulness. the man rubbed one hand wearily across his eyes. "i--don't quite know," said he. "yes, i suppose i had thought of it. i don't know. it came to me with such a--shock! yes. oh, i don't know. i expect i didn't think at all. i--just didn't think." abruptly his eyes sharpened upon her, and he moved a step forward. "tell me the truth!" he said. "do you love this boy?" the girl's cheeks burned with a swift crimson and she set her lips together. she was on the verge of extreme anger just then, but after a little the flush died down again and the dark fire went out of her eyes. she made an odd gesture with her two hands. it seemed to express fatigue as much as anything--a great weariness. "i like him," she said. "i like him--enough, i suppose. he is good--and kind--and gentle. he will be good to me. and i shall try very, very hard, to make him happy." quite suddenly and without warning the fire of her anger burned up again. she flamed defiance in the man's face. "how dare you question me?" she cried. "what right have you to ask me questions about such a thing? you--what you are!" ste. marie bent his head. "no right, mademoiselle," said he, in a low voice. "i have no right to ask you anything--not even forgiveness. i think i am a little mad to-day. it--this news came to me suddenly. yes, i think i am a little mad." the girl stared at him and he looked back with sombre eyes. once more he was stabbed with intolerable pain to think what she was. yet in an inexplicable fashion it pleased him that she should carry out her trickery to the end with a high head. it was a little less base, done proudly. he could not have borne it otherwise. "who are you," the girl cried, in a bitter resentment, "that you should understand? what do you know of the sort of life i have led--we have led together, my father and i? oh, i don't mean that i'm ashamed of it! we have nothing to feel shame for, but you simply do not know what such a life is." though he writhed with pain, the man nodded over her. he was so glad that she could carry it through proudly, with a high hand, an erect head. she spread out her arms before him, a splendid and tragic figure. "what chance have i ever had?" she demanded. "no, i am not blaming him. i am not blaming my father. i chose to follow him. i chose it. but what chance have i had? think of the people i have lived among. would you have me marry one of them--one of those men? i'd rather die. and yet i cannot go on--forever. i am twenty now. what if my father--you yourself said yesterday--oh, i am afraid! i tell you i have lain awake at night a hundred times and shivered with cold, terrible fear of what would become of me if--if anything should happen--to my father. and so," she said, "when i met arthur benham last winter, and he--began to--he said--when he begged me to marry him.... ah, can't you see? it meant safety--safety--safety! and i liked him. i like him now--very, very much. he is a sweet boy. i--shall be happy with him--in a peaceful fashion. and my father--oh, i'll be honest with you," said she. "it was my father who decided me. he was--he is--so pathetically pleased with it. he so wants me to be safe. it's all he lives for now. i--couldn't fight against them both, arthur and my father, so i gave in. and then when arthur had to be hidden we came here with him--to wait." she became aware that the man was staring at her with something strange and terrible in his gaze, and she broke off in wonder. the air of that warm summer morning turned all at once keen and sharp about them--charged with moment. "mademoiselle!" cried ste. marie. "mademoiselle, are you telling me the truth?" for some obscure reason she was not angry. again she spread out her hands in that gesture of weariness. she said, "oh, why should i lie to you?" and the man began to tremble exceedingly. he stretched out an unsteady hand. "you--knew arthur benham last winter?" he said. "long before his--before he left his home? before that?" "he asked me to marry him last winter," said the girl. "for a long, long time i--wouldn't. but he never let me alone. he followed me everywhere. and my father--" ste. marie clapped his two hands over his face, and a groan came to her through the straining fingers. he cried, in an agony: "mademoiselle! mademoiselle!" he fell upon his knees at her feet, his head bent in what seemed to be an intolerable anguish, his hands over his hidden face. the girl heard hard-wrung, stumbling, incoherent words wrenched each with an effort out of extreme pain. "fool! fool!" the man cried, groaning. "oh, fool that i have been! worm, animal! oh, fool not to see--not to know! madman, imbecile, thing without a name!" she stood white-faced, smitten with great fear over this abasement. not the least and faintest glimmer reached her of what it meant. she stretched down a hand of protest, and it touched the man's head. as if the touch were a stroke of magic, he sprang upright before her. "now at last, mademoiselle," said he, "we two must speak plainly together. now at last i think i see clear, but i must know beyond doubt or question. oh, mademoiselle, now i think i know you for what you are, and it seems to me that nothing in this world is of consequence beside that. i have been blind, blind, blind!... tell me one thing. why did arthur benham leave his home two months ago?" "he had to leave it," she said, wondering. she did not understand yet, but she was aware that her heart was beating in loud and fast throbs, and she knew that some great mystery was to be made plain before her. her face was very white. "he had to leave it," she said again. "_you_ know as well as i. why do you ask me that? he quarrelled with his grandfather. they had often quarrelled before--over money--always over money. his grandfather is a miser, almost a madman. he tried to make arthur sign a paper releasing his inheritance--the fortune he is to inherit from his father--and when arthur wouldn't he drove him away. arthur went to his uncle--captain stewart--and captain stewart helped him to hide. he didn't dare go back because they're all against him, all his family. they'd make him give in." ste. marie gave a loud exclamation of amazement. the thing was incredible--childish. it was beyond the maddest possibilities. but even as he said the words to himself a face came before him--captain stewart's smiling and benignant face--and he understood everything. as clearly as if he had been present, he saw the angry, bewildered boy, fresh from david stewart's berating, mystified over some commonplace legal matter requiring a signature. he saw him appeal for sympathy and counsel to "old charlie," and he heard "old charlie's" reply. it was easy enough to understand now. it must have been easy enough to bring about. what absurdities could not such a man as captain stewart instil into the already prejudiced mind of that foolish lad? his thoughts turned from arthur benham to the girl before him, and that part of the mystery was clear also. she would believe whatever she was told in the absence of any reason to doubt. what did she know of old david stewart or of the benham family? it seemed to ste. marie all at once incredible that he could ever have believed ill of her--ever have doubted her honesty. it seemed to him so incredible that he could have laughed aloud in bitterness and self-disdain. but as he looked at the girl's white face and her shadowy, wondering eyes, all laughter, all bitterness, all cruel misunderstandings were swallowed up in the golden light of his joy at knowing her, in the end, for what she was. "coira! coira!" he cried, and neither of the two knew that he called her for the first time by her name. "oh, child," said he, "how they have lied to you and tricked you! i might have known, i might have seen it, but i was a blind fool. i thought--intolerable things. i might have known. they have lied to you most damnably, coira." she stared at him in a breathless silence without movement of any sort. only her face seemed to have turned a little whiter and her great eyes darker, so that they looked almost black and enormous in that still face. he told her, briefly, the truth: how young arthur had had frequent quarrels with his grandfather over his waste of money, how after one of them, not at all unlike the others, he had disappeared, and how captain stewart, in desperate need, had set afoot his plot to get the lad's greater inheritance for himself. he described for her old david stewart and the man's bitter grief, and he told her about the will, about how he had begun to suspect captain stewart, and of how he had traced the lost boy to la lierre. he told her all that he knew of the whole matter, and he knew almost all there was to know, and he did not spare himself even his misconception of the part she had played, though he softened that as best he could. midway of his story mlle. o'hara bent her head and covered her face with her hands. she did not cry out or protest or speak at all. she made no more than that one movement, and after it she stood quite still, but the sight of her, bowed and shamed, stripped of pride, as it had been of garments, was more than the man could bear. he cried her name, "coira!" and when she did not look up, he called once more upon her. he said: "coira, i cannot bear to see you stand so. look at me. ah, child, look at me! can you realize," he cried--"can you even begin to think what a great joy it is to me to know at last that you have had no part in all this? can't you see what it means to me? i can think of nothing else. coira, look up!" she raised her white face, and there were no tears upon it, but a still anguish too great to be told. it would seem never to have occurred to her to doubt the truth of his words. she said: "it is i who might have known. knowing what you have told me now, it seems impossible that i could have believed. and captain stewart--i always hated him--loathed him--distrusted him. and yet," she cried, wringing her hands, "how could i know? how could i know?" the girl's face writhed suddenly with her grief, and she stared up at ste. marie with terror in her eyes. she whispered: "my father! oh, ste. marie, my father! it is not possible. i will not believe--he cannot have done this, knowing. my father, ste. marie!" the man turned his eyes away, and she gave a sobbing cry. "has he," she said, slowly, "done even this for me? has he given--his honor, also--when everything else was--gone? has he given me his honor, too? oh," she said, "why could i not have died when i was a little child? why could i not have done that? to think that i should have lived to--bring my father to this! i wish i had died. ste. marie," she said, pleading with him. "ste. marie, do you think--my father--knew?" "let me think," said he. "let me think! is it possible that stewart has lied to you all--to one as to another? let me think!" his mind ran back over the matter, and he began to remember instances which had seemed to him odd, but to which he had attached no importance. he remembered o'hara's puzzled and uncomprehending face when he, ste. marie, had spoken of stewart's villany. he remembered the man's indignation over the affair of the poison, and his fairness in trying to make amends. he remembered other things, and his face grew lighter and he drew a great breath of relief. he said: "coira, i do not believe he knew. stewart has lied equally to you all--tricked each one of you." and at that the girl gave a cry of gladness and began to weep. as long as men and women continue to stand upon opposite sides of a great gulf--and that will be as long as they exist together in this world--just so long will men continue to be unhappy and ill at ease in the face of women's tears, even though they know vaguely that tears may mean just anything at all, and by no means always grief. ste. marie stood first upon one foot and then upon the other. he looked anxiously about him for succor. he said, "there! there!" or words to that effect, and once he touched the shoulder of the girl who stood weeping before him, and he was very miserable indeed. but quite suddenly, in the midst of his discomfort, she looked up to him, and she was smiling and flushed, so that ste. marie stared at her in utter amazement. "so now at last," said she, "i have back my bayard. and i think the rest--doesn't matter very much." "bayard?" said he, wondering. "i don't understand," he said. "then," said she, "you must just go without understanding. for i shall never, never explain." the bright flush went from her face and she turned grave once more. "what is to be done?" she asked. "what must we do now, ste. marie--i mean about arthur benham? i suppose he must be told." "either he must be told," said the man, "or he must be taken back to his home by force." he told her about the four letters which in four days he had thrown over the wall into the clamart road. "it was on the chance," he said, "that some one would pick one of them up and post it, thinking it had been dropped there by accident. what has become of them i don't know. i know only that they never reached hartley." the girl nodded thoughtfully. "yes," said she, "that was the best thing you could have done. it ought to have succeeded. of course--" she paused a moment and then nodded again. "of course," said she, "i can manage to get a letter in the post now. we'll send it to-day if you like. but i was wondering--would it be better or not to tell arthur the truth? it all depends upon how he may take it--whether or not he will believe you. he's very stubborn, and he's frightened about this break with his family, and he is quite sure that he has been badly treated. will he believe you? of course, if he does believe he could escape from here quite easily at any time, and there'd be no necessity for a rescue. what do you think?" "i think he ought to be told," said ste. marie. "if we try to carry him away by force there'll be a fight, of course, and--who knows what might happen? that we must leave for a last resort--a last desperate resort. first we must tell the boy." abruptly he gave a cry of dismay, and the girl looked up to him, staring. "but--but _you_, coira!" said he, stammering. "but _you_! i hadn't realized--i hadn't thought--it never occurred to me what this means to you." the full enormity of the thing came upon him slowly. he was asking this girl to help him in robbing her of her lover. she shook her head with a little wry smile. "do you think," said she, "that knowing what i know now i would go on with that until he has made his peace with his family? before, it was different. i thought him alone and ill-treated and hunted down. i could help him then, comfort him. now i should be--all you ever thought me if i did not send him to his grandfather." she smiled again a little mirthlessly. "if his love for me is worth anything," she said, "he will come back--but openly this time, not in hiding. then i shall know that he is--what i would have him be. otherwise--" ste. marie looked away. "but you must remember, coira," said he, "that the lad is very young and that his family--they may try--it may be hard for him. they may say that he is too young to know--ah, child, i should have thought of this!" "ste. marie," said the girl, and after a moment he turned to face her. "what shall you say to arthur's family, ste. marie," she demanded, very soberly, "when they ask you if i--if arthur should be allowed to--come back to me?" a wave of color flooded the man's face and his eyes shone. he cried: "i shall tell them, coira, that if that wretched, half-baked lad should search this wide world round, from paris on to paris again, and if he should spend a lifetime searching, he would never find the beauty and the sweetness and the tenderness and the true faith that he left behind at la lierre--nor the hundredth part of them. i should say that you are so much above him that he ought to creep to you on his knees from the rue de l'université to this garden, thanking god that you were here at the journey's end, and kissing the ground that he dragged himself over for sheer joy and gratitude. i should tell them--oh, i have no words! i could tell them so pitifully little of you! i think i should only say, 'go to her and see!' i think i should just say that." the girl turned her head away with a little sob. but afterward she faced him once more, and she looked up to him with sweet, half-shut eyes for a long time. at last she said: "for love of whom, ste. marie, did you undertake this quest--this search for arthur benham? it was not in idleness or by way of a whim. it was for love. for love of whom?" for some strange and inexplicable reason the words struck him like a blow and he stared whitely. "i came," he said, at last, and his voice was oddly flat, "for his sister's sake. for love of her." coira o'hara dropped her eyes. but presently she looked up again with a smile. she said, "god make you happy, my friend." and she turned and moved away from him up among the trees. at a little distance she turned, saying: "wait where you are. i will fetch arthur or send him to you. he must be told at once." then she went on and was lost to sight. ste. marie followed a few steps after her and halted. his face was turned by chance toward the east wall, and suddenly he gave a great cry and smothered it with his hands over his mouth. his knees bent under him, and he was weak and trembling. then he began to run. he ran with awkward steps, for his leg was not yet entirely recovered, but he ran fast, and his heart beat within him until he thought it must burst. he was making for that spot which was overhung by the half-dead cedar-tree. * * * * * xxvi but the fleece elects to remain ste. marie came under the wall breathless and shaking. what he had seen there from a distance was no longer visible, but he pressed in close among the lilac shrubs and called out in an unsteady voice. he said: "who is there? who is it?" and after a moment he called again. a hand appeared at the top of the high wall. the drooping screen of foliage was thrust aside, and he saw richard hartley's face looking down. ste. marie held himself by the strong stems of the lilacs, for once more his knees had weakened under him. "there's no one in sight," hartley said. "i can see for a long way. no one can see us or hear us." and he said: "i got your letter this morning--an hour ago. when shall we come to get you out--you and the boy? to-night?" "to-night at two," said ste. marie. he spoke in a loud whisper. "i'm to talk with arthur here in a few minutes. we must be quick. he may come at any time. i shall try to persuade him to go home willingly, but if he refuses we must take him by force. bring a couple of good men with you to-night, and see that they're armed. come in a motor and leave it just outside the wall by that small door that you passed. have you any money in your pockets? i may want to bribe the gardener." hartley searched in his pockets, and while he did so the man beneath asked: "is old david stewart alive?" "just about," hartley said. "he's very low, and he suffers a great deal, but he's quite conscious all the time. if we can fetch the boy to him it may give him a turn for the better. where is captain stewart? i had spies on his trail for some time, but he has disappeared within the past three or four days. once i followed him in his motor-car out past here, but i lost him beyond clamart." "he's here, i think," said ste. marie. "i saw him a few days ago." the man on the wall had found two notes of a hundred francs each, and he dropped them down to ste. marie's hands. also he gave him a small revolver which he had in his pocket, one of the little automatic weapons such as olga nilssen had brought to the rue du faubourg st. honoré. afterward he glanced up and said: "two people are coming out of the house. i shall have to go. at two to-night, then--and at this spot. we shall be on time." he drew back out of sight, and the other man heard the cedar-tree shake slightly as he went down it to the ground. then ste. marie turned and walked quickly back to the place where mlle. o'hara had left him. his heart was leaping with joy and exultation, for now at last he thought that the end was in sight--the end he had so long labored and hoped for. he knew that his face must be flushed and his eyes bright, and he made a strong effort to crush down these tokens of his triumph--to make his bearing seem natural and easy. he might have spared himself the pains. young arthur benham and coira o'hara came together down under the trees from the house. they walked swiftly, and the boy was a step in advance, his face white with excitement and anger. he began to speak while he was still some distance away. he cried out, in his strident young voice: "what the devil is all this silly nonsense about old charlie and lies and misunderstandings and--and all that guff?" he demanded. "what the devil is it? d'you think i'm a fool? d'you think i'm a kid? well, i'm not!" he came close to ste. marie, staring at him with an angry scowl, but his scowl twitched and wavered and his hands shook a little beside him and his breath came irregularly. he was frightened. "there is no nonsense," said ste. marie. "there is no nonsense in all this whole sorry business. but there has been a great deal of misunderstanding and a great many lies and not a little cruelty. it's time you knew the truth at last." he turned his eyes to where coira o'hara stood near-by. "how much have you told him?" he asked. and the girl said: "i told him everything, or almost. but i had to say it very quickly, and--he wouldn't believe me. i think you'd best tell him again." the boy gave a short, contemptuous laugh. "well, i don't want to hear it," said he. he was looking toward the girl. he said: "this fellow may be able to hypnotize you, all right, but not willie. little willie's wise to guys like him." and swinging about to ste. marie, he cried: "forget it! for-get it! i don't want to listen to your little song to-day. ah, you make me sick! you'd try to make me turn on old charlie, would you? why, old charlie's the only real friend i've got in the world. old charlie has always stood up for me against the whole bunch of them. forget it, george! i'm wise to your graft." ste. marie frowned, for his temper was never of the most patient, and the youth's sneering tone annoyed him. truth to tell, the tone was about all he understood, for the strange words were incomprehensible. "look here, benham," he said, sharply, "you and i have never met, i believe, but we have a good many friends in common, and i think we know something about each other. have you ever heard anything about me which would give you the right to suspect me of any dishonesty of any sort? have you?" "oh, slush!" said the boy. "anybody'll be dishonest if it's worth his while." "that happens to be untrue," ste. marie remarked, "and as you grow older you will know it. leaving my honesty out of the question if you like, i have the honor to tell you that i am, perhaps not quite formally, engaged to your sister, and it is on her account, for her sake, that i am here. you will hardly presume, i take it, to question your sister's motive in wanting you to return home? incidentally, your grandfather is so overcome by grief over your absence that he is expected to die at any time. come," said he, "i have said enough to convince you that you must listen to me. believe what you please, but listen to me for five minutes. after that i have small doubt of what you will do." the boy looked nervously from ste. marie to mlle. o'hara and back again. he thrust his unsteady hands into his pockets, but withdrew them after a moment and clasped them together behind him. "i tell you," he burst out, at last--"i tell you, it's no good your trying to knock old charlie to me. i won't stand for it. old charlie's my best friend, and i'd believe him before i'd believe anybody in the world. you've got a knife out for old charlie, that's what's the matter with you." "and your sister?" suggested ste. marie. "your mother? you'd hardly know your mother if you could see her to-day. it has pretty nearly killed her." "ah, they're all--they're all against me!" the lad cried. "they've always stood together against me. helen, too!" "you wouldn't think they were against you if you could just see them once now," said ste. marie. and arthur benham gave a sort of shamefaced sob, saying: "ah, cut it out! cut it out! go on, then, and talk, if you want to, _i_ don't care. i don't have to listen. talk, if you're pining for it." and ste. marie, as briefly as he could, told him the truth of the whole affair from the beginning, as he had told it to coira o'hara. only he laid special stress upon charles stewart's present expectations from the new will, and he assured the boy that no document his grandfather might have asked him to sign could have given away his rights in his father's fortune, since he was a minor and had no legal right to sign away anything at all even if he wished to. "if you will look back as calmly and carefully as you can," he said, "you will find that you didn't begin to suspect your grandfather of anything wrong until you had talked with captain stewart. it was your uncle's explanation of the thing that made you do that. well, remember what he had at stake--i suppose it is a matter of several millions of francs. and he needs them. his affairs are in a bad way." he told also about the pretended search which captain stewart had so long maintained, and of how he had tried to mislead the other searchers whose motives were honest. "it has been a gigantic gamble, my friend," he said, at the last. "a gigantic and desperate gamble to get the money that should be yours. you can end it by the mere trouble of climbing over that wall yonder and taking the clamart tram back to paris. as easily as that you can end it--and, if i am not mistaken, you can at the same time save an old man's life--prolong it at the very least." he took a step forward. "i beg you to go!" he said, very earnestly. "you know the whole truth now. you must see what danger you have been and are in. you must know that i am telling you the truth. i beg you to go back to paris." and from where she stood, a little aside, coira o'hara said: "i beg you, too, arthur. go back to them." the boy dropped down upon a tree-stump which was near and covered his face with his hands. the two who watched him could see that he was trembling violently. over him their eyes met and they questioned each other with a mute and anxious gravity: "what will he do?" for everything was in arthur benham's weak hands now. for a little time, which seemed hours to all who were there, the lad sat still, hiding his face, but suddenly he sprang to his feet, and once more stood staring into ste. marie's quiet eyes. "how do i know you're telling the truth?" he cried, and his voice ran up high and shrill and wavered and broke. "how do i know that? you'd tell just as smooth a story if--if you were lying--if you'd been sent here to get me back to--to what old charlie said they wanted me for." "you have only to go back to them and make sure," said ste. marie. "they can't harm you or take anything from you. if they persuaded you to sign anything--which they will not do--it would be valueless to them, because you're a minor. you know that as well as i do. go and make sure. or wait! wait!" he gave a little sharp laugh of excitement. "is captain stewart in the house?" he demanded. "call him out here. that's better still. bring your uncle here to face me without telling him what it's for, without giving him time to make up a story. then we shall see. send for him." "he's not here," said the boy "he went away an hour ago. i don't know whether he'll be back to-night or not." young arthur stared at the elder man, breathing hard. "good god!" he said, in a whisper, "if--old charlie is rotten, who in this world isn't? i--don't know what to believe." abruptly he turned with a sort of snarl upon coira o'hara. "have you been in this game, too?" he cried out. "i suppose you and your precious father and old charlie cooked it up together. what? you've been having a fine, low-comedy time laughing yourselves to death at me, haven't you? oh, lord, what a gang!" ste. marie caught the boy by the shoulder and spun him round. "that will do!" he said, sternly. "you have been a fool; don't make it worse by being a coward and a cad. mlle. o'hara knew no more of the truth than you knew. your uncle lied to you all." but the girl came and touched his arm. she said: "don't be hard with him. he is bewildered and nervous, and he doesn't know what he is saying. think how sudden it has been for him. don't be hard with him, m. ste. marie." ste. marie dropped his hand, and the lad backed a few steps away. his face was crimson. after a moment he said: "i'm sorry, coira. i didn't mean that. i didn't mean it. i beg your pardon. i'm about half dippy, i guess. i--don't know what to believe or what to think or what to do." he remained staring at her a little while in silence, and presently his eyes sharpened. he cried out: "if i should go back there--mind you, i say 'if'--d'you know what they'd do? well, i'll tell you. they'd begin to talk at me one at a time. they'd get me in a corner and cry over me, and say i was young and didn't know my mind, and that i owed them something for all that's happened, and not to bring their gray hairs in sorrow to the grave--and the long and short of it would be that they'd make me give you up." he wheeled upon ste. marie. "that's what they'd do!" he said, and his voice began to rise again shrilly. "they're three to one, and they know they can talk me into anything. _you_ know it, too!" he shook his head. "i won't go back!" he cried, wildly. "that's what will happen if i do. i don't want granddad's money. he can give it to old charlie or to a gendarme if he wants to. i'm going to have enough of my own. i won't go back, and that's all there is of it. you may be telling the truth or you may not, but i won't go." ste. marie started to speak, but the girl checked him. she moved closer to where arthur benham stood, and she said: "if your love for me, arthur, is worth having, it is worth fighting for. if it is so weak that your family can persuade you out of it, then--i don't want it at all, for it would never last. arthur, you must go back to them. i want you to go." "i won't!" the boy cried. "i won't go! i tell you they could talk me out of anything. you don't know 'em. i do. i can't stand against them. i won't go, and that settles it. besides, i'm not so sure that this fellow's telling the truth. i've known old charlie a lot longer than i have him." coira o'hara turned a despairing face over her shoulder toward ste. marie. "leave me alone with him," she begged. "perhaps i can win him over. leave us alone for a little while." ste. marie hesitated, and in the end went away and left the two together. he went farther down the park to the rond point, and crossed it to the familiar stone bench at the west side. he sat down there to wait. he was anxious and alarmed over this new obstacle, for he had the wit to see that it was a very important one. it was quite conceivable that the boy, but half-convinced, half-yielding before, would balk altogether when he realized, as evidently he did realize, what returning home might mean to him--the loss of the girl he hoped to marry. ste. marie was sufficiently wise in worldly matters to know that the boy's fear was not unfounded. he could imagine the family in the rue de l'université taking exactly the view young arthur said they would take toward an alliance with the daughter of a notorious irish adventurer. ste. marie's cheeks burned hotly with anger when the words said themselves in his brain, but he knew that there could be no doubt of the benhams' and even of old david stewart's view of the affair. they would oppose the marriage with all their strength. he tried to imagine what weight such considerations would have with him if it were he who was to marry coira o'hara, and he laughed aloud with scorn of them and with great pride in her. but the lad yonder was very young--too young; his family would be right to that extent. would he be able to stand against them? ste. marie shook his head with a sigh and gave over unprofitable wonderings, for he was still within the walls of la lierre, and so was arthur benham. and the walls were high and strong. he fell to thinking of the attempt at rescue which was to be made that night, and he began to form plans and think of necessary preparations. to be sure, coira might persuade the boy to escape during the day, and then the night attack would be unnecessary, but in case of her failure it must be prepared for. he rose to his feet and began to walk back and forth under the rows of chestnut-trees, where the earth was firm and black and mossy and there was no growth of shrubbery. he thought of that hasty interview with richard hartley and he laughed a little. it had been rather like an exchange of telegrams--reduced to the bare bones of necessary question and answer. there had been no time for conversation. his eyes caught a far-off glimpse of woman's garments, and he saw that coira o'hara and arthur benham were walking toward the house. so he went a little way after them, and waited at a point where he could see any one returning. he had not long to wait, for it seemed that the girl went only as far as the door with her fiancé and then turned back. ste. marie met her with raised eyebrows, and she shook her head. "i don't know," said she. "he is very stubborn. he is frightened and bewildered. as he said awhile ago, he doesn't know what to think or what to believe. you mustn't blame him. remember how he trusted his uncle! he's going to think it over, and i shall see him again this afternoon. perhaps, when he has had time to reflect--i don't know. i truly don't know." "he won't go to your father and make a scene?" said ste. marie, and the girl shook her head. "i made him promise not to. oh, bayard," she cried--and in his abstraction he did not notice the name she gave him--"i am afraid myself! i am horribly afraid about my father." "i am sure he did not know," said the man. "stewart lied to him." but coira o'hara shook her head, saying: "i didn't mean that. i'm afraid of what will happen when he finds out how he has been--how we have been played upon, tricked, deceived--what a light we have been placed in. you don't know, you can't even imagine, how he has set his heart on--what he wished to occur. i am afraid he will do something terrible when he knows. i am afraid he will kill captain stewart." "which," observed ste. marie, "would be an excellent solution of the problem. but of course we mustn't let it happen. what can be done?" "we mustn't let him know the truth," said the girl, "until arthur is gone and until captain stewart is gone, too. he is terrible when he's angry. we must keep the truth from him until he can do no harm. it will be bad enough even then, for i think it will break his heart." ste. marie remembered that there was something she did not know, and he told her about his interview with richard hartley and about their arrangement for the rescue--if it should be necessary--on that very night. she nodded her head over it, but for a long time after he had finished she did not speak. then she said: "i am glad, i suppose. yes, since it has to be done, i suppose i am glad that it is to come at once." she looked up at ste. marie with shadowy, inscrutable eyes. "and so, monsieur," said she, "it is at an end--all this." she made a little gesture which seemed to sweep the park and gardens. "so we go out of each other's lives as abruptly as we entered them. well--" she had continued to look at him, but she saw the man's face turn white, and she saw something come into his eyes which was like intolerable pain; then she looked away. ste. marie said her name twice, under his breath, in a sort of soundless cry, but he said no more, and after a moment she went on: "even so, i am glad that at last we know each other--for what we are.... i should have been sorry to go on thinking you ... what i thought before.... and i could not have borne it, i'm afraid, to have you think ... what you thought of me ... when i came to know.... i'm glad we understand at last." ste. marie tried to speak, but no words would come to him. he was like a man defeated and crushed, not one on the high-road to victory. but it may have been that the look of him was more eloquent than anything he could have said. and it may have been that the girl saw and understood. so the two remained there for a little while longer in silence, but at last coira o'hara said: "i must go back to the house now. there is nothing more to be done, i suppose--nothing left now but to wait for night to come. i shall see arthur this afternoon and make one last appeal to him. if that fails you must carry him off. do you know where he sleeps? it is the room corresponding to yours on the other side of the house--just across that wide landing at the top of the stairs. i will manage that the front door below shall be left unlocked. the rest you and your friends must do. if i can make any impression upon arthur i'll slip a note under your door this afternoon or this evening. perhaps, even if he decides to go, it would be best for him to wait until night and go with the rest of you. in any case, i'll let you know." she spoke rapidly, as if she were in great haste to be gone, and with averted eyes. and at the end she turned away without any word of farewell, but ste. marie started after her. he cried: "coira! coira!" and when she stopped, he said: "coira, i can't let you go like this! are we to--simply to go our different ways like this, as if we'd never met at all?" "what else?" said the girl. and there was no answer to that. their separate ways were determined for them--marked plain to see. "but afterward!" he cried. "afterward--after we have got the boy back to his home! what then?" "perhaps," she said, "he will return to me." she spoke without any show of feeling. "perhaps he will return. if not--well, i don't know. i expect my father and i will just go on as we've always gone. we're used to it, you know." after that she nodded to him and once more turned away. her face may have been a very little pale, but, as before, it betrayed no feeling of any sort. so she went up under the trees to the house, and ste. marie watched her with strained and burning eyes. when, half an hour later, he followed, he came unexpectedly upon the old michel, who had entered the park through the little wooden door in the wall, and was on his way round to the kitchen with sundry parcels of supplies. he spoke a civil "bon jour, monsieur," and ste. marie stopped him. they were out of sight from the windows. ste. marie withdrew from his pocket one of the hundred-franc notes, and the single, beadlike eye of the ancient gnome fixed upon it and seemed to shiver with a fascinated delight. "a hundred francs!" said ste. marie, unnecessarily, and the old man licked his withered lips. the tempter said: "my good michel, would you care to receive this trifling sum--a hundred francs?" the gnome made a choked, croaking sound in his throat. "it is yours," said ste. marie, "for a small service--for doing nothing at all." the beadlike eye rose to his and sharpened intelligently. "i desire only," said he, "that you should sleep well to-night, very well--without waking." "monsieur," said the old man, "i do not sleep at all. i watch. i watch monsieur's windows. monsieur o'hara watches until midnight, and i watch from then until day." "oh, i know that," said the other. "i've seen you more than once in the moonlight, but to-night, mon vieux, slumber will overcome you. exhaustion will have its way and you will sleep. you will sleep like the dead." "i dare not!" cried the gardener. "monsieur, i dare not! the old one would kill me. you do not know him. he would cut me into pieces and burn the pieces. monsieur, it is impossible." ste. marie withdrew the other hundred-franc note and held the two together in his hand. once more the gnome made his strange, croaking sound and the withered face twisted with anguish. "monsieur! monsieur!" he groaned. "i have an idea," said the tempter. "a little earth rubbed upon one side of the head--perhaps a trifling scratch to show a few drops of blood. you have been assaulted, beaten down, despite a heroic resistance, and left for dead. an hour afterward you stagger into the house a frightful object. hein?" the withered face of the old man expanded slowly into a senile grin. "monsieur," said he, with admiration in his tone, "it is magnificent. it shall be done. i sleep like the good dead--under the trees, not too near the lilacs, eh? bien, monsieur, it is done!" into his trembling claw he took the notes; he made an odd bow and shambled away about his business. ste. marie laughed and went on into the house. he counted, and there were fourteen hours to wait. fourteen hours, and at the end of them--what? his blood began to warm to the night's work. * * * * * xxvii the night's work the fourteen long hours dragged themselves by. they seemed interminable, but somehow they passed and the appointed time drew near. ste. marie spent the greater part of the afternoon reading, but twice he lay down upon the bed and tried to sleep, and once he actually dozed off for a brief space. the old michel brought his meals. he had thought it possible that coira might manage to bring the dinner-tray, as she had already done on several occasions, and so make an opportunity for informing him as to young arthur's state of mind. but she did not come, and no word came from her. so evening drew on and the dusk gathered and deepened to darkness. ste. marie walked his floor and prayed for the hours to pass. he had candles and matches, and there was even a lamp in the room, so that he could have read if he chose, but he knew that the words would have been meaningless to him, that he was incapable of abstracting his thought from the night's stern work. he began to be anxious over not having heard from mlle. o'hara. she had said that she would talk with arthur benham during the afternoon, and then slip a note under ste. marie's door. yet no word had come from her, and to the man pacing his floor in the darkness the fact took on proportions tremendous and fantastic. something had happened. the boy had broken his promise, burst out upon o'hara, or more probably upon his uncle, and the house was by the ears. coira was watched--even locked in her room. stewart had fled. a score of such terrible possibilities rushed through ste. marie's brain and tortured him. he was in a state of nervous tension that was almost unendurable, and the little noises of the night outside, a wind-stirred rustle of leaves, a bird's flutter among the branches, the sound of a cracking twig, made him start violently and catch his breath. then at his utmost need came reassurance and something like ease of mind. he heard a sound of voices at the front of the house, and sprang to his balconied window to listen. captain stewart and o'hara were walking upon the brick-paved terrace and chatting calmly over their cigars. the man above, prone upon the floor, his head pressed against the ivy-masked grille of the balcony, listened, and though he could hear their words only at intervals when they passed beneath him he knew that they spoke of trivial matters in voices free of strain or concern. he drew back with a breath of relief, and at that moment a sound across the room arrested him, a soft scraping sound such as a mouse might make. he went where it was, and a little square of paper gleamed white through the darkness just within the door. ste. marie caught it up and took it to the far side of the room away from the window. he struck a match, opened the folded paper, and a single line of writing was there: "he will go with you. wait by the door in the wall." the man nearly cried out with joy. he struck another match and looked at his watch. it was a quarter to ten. four hours left out of the fourteen. once more he lay down upon the bed and closed his eyes. he knew that he could not sleep, but he was tired from long tramping up and down the room and from the strain of over-tried nerves. from hour to hour he looked at his watch by match-light, but he did not leave the bed until half-past one. then he rose and took a long breath, and the time was at hand. he stood a little while gazing out into the night. an old moon was high overhead in a cloudless sky, and that would make the night's work both easier and more difficult, but on the whole he was glad of it. he looked to the east, toward that wall where was the little wooden door, and the way was under cover of trees and shrubbery for the whole distance save a little space beside the house. he listened, and the night was very still--no sound from the house below him, no sound anywhere save the barking of a dog from far away, and after an instant the whistle of a distant train. ste. marie turned back into the room and pulled the sheets from his bed. he rolled them, corner-wise, into a sort of rope, and knotted them together securely. then he went to one of the east windows. there was no balcony there, but, as in all french upper windows, a wood and iron bar fixed, into the stone casing at both ends, with a little grille below it. it crossed the window space a third of the distance from bottom to top. he bent one end of the improvised rope to this, made it fast, and let the other end hang out. the east side of the house was in shadow, and the rolled sheet, a vague white line, disappeared into the darkness below, but ste. marie knew that it must reach nearly to the ground. he had made use of it because he was afraid there would be too much noise if he tried to climb down the ivy. the room directly underneath was the drawing-room, and he knew that it was closed and shuttered and unoccupied both by day and by night. the only danger, he decided, was from the sleeping-room behind his own, with its windows opening close by; but, though he did not know it, he was safe there also, for the room was coira o'hara's. he felt in his pocket for the pistol, and it was ready to hand. then he buttoned his coat round him and swung himself out of the window. he held his body away from the wall with one knee and went down hand under hand. it was so quietly done that it did not even rouse the birds in the near-by trees. before he realized that he had come to the lower windows his feet touched the earth and he was free. he stood for a moment where he was, and then slipped rapidly across the open, moonlit space into the inky gloom of the trees. he made a half-circle round before the house and looked up at it. it lay gray and black and still in the night. where the moonlight was upon it, it was gray; where there was shadow, black as black velvet, and the windows were like open, dead eyes. he looked toward arthur benham's room, and there was no light, but he knew that the boy was awake and waiting there, shivering probably in the dark. he wondered where coira o'hara was, and he pictured her lying in her bed fronting the gloom with sleepless, open eyes, looking into those to-morrows which she had said she saw so well. he wondered bitterly what the to-morrows were to bring her, but he caught himself up with a stern determination and put her out of his mind. he did not dare think of her in that hour. he turned and began to make his way silently under the trees toward the appointed meeting-place. once he thought of the old michel and wondered where that gnarled and withered watch-dog had betaken himself. somewhere, within or without the house, he was asleep or pretending to sleep, and ste. marie knew that he could be trusted. the man's cupidity and his hatred of captain stewart together would make him faithful, or faithless, as one chose to look upon it. he came to that place where a row of lilac shrubs stood against the wall and a half-dead cedar stretched gnarled branches above. he was a little before his time, and he settled himself to listen and wait, his sharp ears keenly on the alert, his eyes turned toward the dark and quiet house. the little noises of the night broke upon him with exaggerated clamor. a crackling twig was a thunderous crash, a bird's sleepy stir was the sound of pursuit and disaster. a hundred times he heard the cautious approach of richard hartley's motor-car without the wall, and he fell into a panic of fear lest that machine prove unruly, break down, puncture a tire, or burst into a series of ear-splitting explosions. but at last--it seemed to him that he had waited untold hours and that the dawn must be nigh--there came an unmistakable rustling from overhead and the sound of a hard-drawn breath. the top of the wall, just at that point, was in moonlight, and a man's head appeared over it, then an arm and then a leg. hartley called down to him in a whisper, and ste. marie, from the gloom beneath, whispered a reply. he said: "the boy has promised to come with us. we sha'n't have to fight for it." richard hartley said, "thank god!" he spoke to some one outside, and then turning about let himself down to arm's-length and dropped to the ground. "thank god!" he said again. "the two men who were to have come with me didn't show up. i waited as long as i dared, and then came on with only the chauffeur. he's waiting outside by the car ready to crank up when i give the word. the car's just a few yards away, headed out for the road. how are we to get back over the wall?" ste. marie explained that arthur benham was to come out to join them at the wooden door, and doubtless would bring a key. if not, the three of them could scale fifteen feet easily enough in the way soldiers and firemen are trained to do it. he told his friend all that was necessary for the time, and they went together along the wall to the more open space beside the little door. they waited there in silence for five minutes, and once hartley, with his back toward the house, struck a match under his sheltering coat, looked to see what time it was, and found it was three minutes past two. "he ought to be here," the man growled. "i don't like waiting. good lord, you don't think he's funked it, do you? eh?" ste. marie did not answer, but he was breathing very fast and he could not keep his hands still. the dog which he had heard from his window began barking again very far away in the night, and kept it up incessantly. perhaps he was barking at the moon. "i'm going a little way toward the house," said ste. marie, at last. "we can't see the terrace from here." but before he had started they heard the sound of hurrying feet, and richard hartley began to curse under his breath. he said: "does the young idiot want to rouse the whole place? why can't he come quietly?" ste. marie began to run forward, slipping the pistol out of his pocket and holding it ready in his hand, for his quick ears told him that there was more than one pair of feet coming through the night. he went to where he could command the approach from the house and halted there, but all at once he gave a low cry and started forward again, for he saw that arthur benham and coira o'hara were running together, and that they were in desperate haste. he called out to them, and the girl cried: "go to the door in the wall! the door in the wall! oh, be quick!" he fell into step beside her, and as they ran he said, "you're going with him? you're coming with us?" the girl answered him, "no, no!" and she sprang to the little, low door and began to fit the iron key into the lock. the three men stood about her, and young arthur benham drew his breath in great, shivering gasps that were like sobs. "they heard us!" he cried, in a whisper. "they're after us. they heard us on the stairs. i--stumbled and fell. for god's sake, coira, be quick!" the girl fumbled desperately with the clumsy key, and dropped upon her knees to see the better. once she said, in a whisper: "i can't turn it. it won't turn." and at that richard hartley pushed her out of the way and lent his greater strength to the task. a sudden, loud cry came from the house, a hoarse, screeching cry in a voice which might have been either man's or woman's, but was as mad and as desperate and as horrible in that still night as the screech of a tortured animal--or of a maniac. it came again and again, and it was nearer. "oh, hurry, hurry!" said the girl. "can't you be quick? they're coming." and as she spoke the little group about the wall heard the engine of the motor-car outside start up with a staccato roar and knew that the faithful chauffeur was ready for them. "i'm getting it, i think," said richard hartley, between his teeth. "i'm getting it. turn, you beast! turn!" there was a sound of hurrying feet, and ste. marie spun about. he cried: "don't wait for me! jump into the car and go! don't wait anywhere! come back after you've left benham at home!" he began to run forward toward those running feet, and he did not know that the girl followed after him. a short distance away there was a little open space of moonlight, and in its midst, at full career, he met the irishman o'hara, a gaunt and grotesque figure in his sleeping-suit, barefooted, with empty hands. beyond him still, some one else ran, stumbling, and sobbed and uttered mad cries. ste. marie dropped his pistol to the ground and sprang upon the irishman. he caught him about the body and arms, and the two swayed and staggered under the tremendous impact. at just that moment, from behind, came the crash of the opened door and triumphant shouts. ste. marie gave a little gasp of triumph, too, and clung the harder to the man with whom he fought. he drove his head into the irishman's shoulder, and set his muscles with a grip which was like iron. he knew that it could not endure long, for the irishman was stronger than he, but the grip of a nervous man who is keyed up to a high tension is incredibly powerful for a little while. trained strength is nothing beside it. it seemed to ste. marie in this desperate moment--it cannot have been more than a minute or two at the most--that a strange and uncanny miracle befell him. it was as if he became two. soul and body, spirit and straining flesh, seemed to him to separate, to stand apart, each from the other. there was a thing of iron flesh and thews which had locked itself about an enemy and clung there madly with but one purpose, one single thought--to grip and grip, and never loosen until flesh should be torn from bones. but apart the spirit looked on with a complete detachment. it looked beyond--he must have raised his head to glance over o'hara's shoulder--saw a mad figure staggering forward in the moonlight, and knew the figure for captain stewart. it saw an upraised arm and was not afraid, for the work was almost done now. it listened and was glad, hearing the motor-car, without the walls, leap forward into the night and its puffing grow fainter and fainter with distance. it knew that the thing of strained sinews received a crashing blow upon backflung head, and that the iron muscles were slipping away from their grip, but it was still glad, for the work was done. only at the last, before red and whirling lights had obscured the view, before consciousness was dissolved in unconsciousness, came horror and agony, for the eyes saw captain stewart back away and raise the thing he had struck with, a large revolver, saw coira o'hara, a swift and flashing figure in the moonlight, throw herself upon him before he could fire, heard together a woman's scream and the roar of the pistol's explosion, and then knew no more. * * * * * xxviii medea's little hour when coira o'hara came to herself from the moment's swoon into which she had fallen, she rose to her knees and stared wildly about her. she seemed to be alone in the place, and her first thought was to wonder how long she had lain there. captain stewart had disappeared. she remembered her struggle with him to prevent him from firing at ste. marie, and she remembered her desperate agony when she realized that she could not hold him much longer. she remembered the accidental discharge of the revolver into the air; she remembered being thrown violently to the ground--and that was all. where was her father, and where was ste. marie? the first question answered itself, for as she turned her eyes toward the west she saw o'hara's tall, ungainly figure disappearing in the direction of the house. she called his name twice, but it may be that the man did not hear, for he went on without pausing and was lost to sight. the girl became aware of something which lay on the ground near her, half in and half out of the patch of silver moonlight. for some moments she stared at it uncomprehending. then she gave a sharp scream and struggled to her feet. she ran to the thing which lay there motionless and fell upon her knees beside it. it was ste. marie, his face upturned to the sky, one side of his head black and damp. stewart had not shot him, but that crashing blow with the clubbed revolver had struck him full and fair, and he was very still. for an instant the girl's strength went out of her, and she dropped lax across the body, her face upon ste. marie's breast. but after that she tore open coat and waistcoat and felt for a heart-beat. it seemed to her that she found life, and she began to believe that the man had only been stunned. once more she rose to her feet and looked about her. there was no one to lend her aid. she bent over the unconscious man and slipped her arms about him. though ste. marie was tall, he was slightly built, by no means heavy, and the girl was very strong. she found that she could carry him a little way, dragging his feet after her. when she could go no farther she laid him down and crouched over him, waiting until her strength should return. and this she did for a score of times; but each time the distance she went was shorter and her breathing came with deeper gasps and the trembling in her limbs grew more terrible. at the last she moved in a sort of fever, an evil dream of tortured body and reeling brain. but she had got ste. marie up through the park to the terrace and into the house, and with a last desperate effort she had laid him upon a couch in a certain little room which opened from the lower hall. then she fell down before him and lay still for a long time. when she came to herself again the man was stirring feebly and muttering to himself under his breath. with slow and painful steps she got across the room and pulled the bell-cord. she remained there ringing until the old justine, blinking and half-dressed, appeared with a candle in the doorway. coira told the woman to make lights, and then to bring water and a certain little bottle of aromatic salts which was in her room up-stairs. the old justine exclaimed and cried out, but the girl flew at her in a white fury, and she tottered away as fast as old legs could move once she had set alight the row of candles on the mantelshelf. then coira o'hara went back to the man who lay outstretched on the low couch, and knelt beside him, looking into his face. the man stirred, and moved his head slowly. half-articulate words came from his lips, and she made out that he was saying her name in a dull monotone--only her name, over and over again. she gave a little cry of grief and gladness, and hid her face against him as she had done once before, out in the night. the old woman returned with a jug of water, towels, and the bottle of aromatic salts. the two of them washed that stain from ste. marie's head, and found that he had received a severe bruise and that the flesh had been cut before and above the ear. "thank god," the girl said, "it is only a flesh wound! if it were a fracture he would be breathing in that horrible, loud way they always do. he's breathing naturally. he has only been stunned. you may go now," she said. "only bring a glass and some drinking-water--cold." so the old woman went away to do her errand, returned, and went away again, and the two were left together. coira held the salts-bottle to ste. marie's nostrils, and he gasped and sneezed and tried to turn his head away from it, but it brought him to his senses--and doubtless to a good deal of pain. once when he could not escape the thing he broke into a fit of weak cursing, and the girl laughed over him tenderly and let him be. very slowly ste. marie opened his eyes, and in the soft half-light the girl's face was bent above him, dark and sweet and beautiful--near, so near that her breath was warm upon his lips. he said her name again in an incredulous whisper: "coira! coira!" and she said, "i am here." but the man was in a strange border-land of half-consciousness and his ears were deaf. he said, gazing up at her: "is it--another dream?" and he tried to raise one hand from where it lay beside him, but the hand wavered and fell aslant across his body. it had not the strength yet to obey him. he said, still in his weak whisper: "oh, beautiful--and sweet--and true!" the girl gave a little sob and hid her face. "a goddess!" he whispered. "'a queen among goddesses!' that's--what the little jew said. 'a queen among goddesses. the young juno before--'" he stirred restlessly where he lay, and he complained: "my head hurts! what's the matter with my head? it hurts!" she dipped one of the towels in the basin of cold water and held it to the man's brow. the chill of it must have been grateful, for his eyes closed and he breathed a little satisfied "ah!" "it mustn't hurt to-night," said he. "to-night at two--by the little door in the garden wall. and he's coming with us. the young fool is coming with us.... so she and i go out of each other's lives.... coira!" he cried, with a sudden sharpness. "coira, i won't have it! am i going to lose you ... like this? am i going to lose you, after all ... now that we know?" he put up his hand once more, a weak and uncertain hand. it touched the girl's warm cheek and a sudden violent shiver wrung the man on the couch. his eyes sharpened and stared with something like fear. "_real!_" he cried, whispering. "real? ... not a dream?" "oh, very real, my bayard!" said she. a thought came to her, and she drew away from the couch and sat back upon her heels, looking at the man with grave and sombre eyes. in that moment she fought within herself a battle of right and wrong. "he doesn't remember," she said. "he doesn't know. he is like a little child. he knows nothing but that we two--are here together. nothing else. nothing!" his state was plain to see. he dwelt still in that vague border-land between worlds. he had brought with him no memories, and no memories followed him save those her face had wakened. within the girl a great and tender passion of love fought for possession of this little hour. "it will be all i shall ever have!" she cried, piteously. "and it cannot harm him. he won't remember it when he comes to his senses. he'll sleep again and--forget. he'll go back to _her_ and never know. and i shall never even see him again. why can't i have my little sweet hour?" once more the man cried her name, and she knelt forward and bent above him. "oh, at last, coira!" said he. "after so long! ... and i thought it was another dream!" "do you dream of me, bayard?" she asked. and he said: "from the very first. from that evening in the champs-elysées. your eyes, they've haunted me from the very first. there was a dream of you," he said, "that i had so often--but i cannot quite remember, because my head hurts. what is the matter with my head? i was--going somewhere. it was so very important that i should go, but i have forgotten where it was and why i had to go there. i remember only that you called to me--called me back--and i saw your eyes--and i couldn't go. you needed me." "ah, sorely, bayard! sorely!" cried the girl above him. "and now," said he, whispering. "now?" she said. "coira, i love you," said the man on the couch. and coira o'hara gave a single dry sob. she said: "oh, my dear love! now i wish that i might die after hearing you say that. my life, bayard, is full now. it's full of joy and gratefulness and everything that is sweet. i wish i might die before other things come to spoil it." ste. marie--or that part of him which lay at la lierre--laughed with a fine scorn, albeit very weakly. "why not live instead?" said he. "and what can come to spoil our life for us? _our life!_" he said again, in a whisper. a flash of remembrance seemed to come to him, for he smiled and said, "coira, we'll go to vavau." "anywhere!" said she. "anywhere!" "so that we go together." "yes," she said, gently, "so that we two go together." she tried with a desperate fierceness to make herself like the man before her, to put away, by sheer power of will, all memory, the knowledge of everything save what was in this little room, but it was the vainest of all vain efforts. she saw herself for a thief and a cheat--stealing, for love's sake, the mere body of the man she loved while mind and soul were absent. in her agony she almost cried out aloud as the words said themselves within her. and she denied them. she said: "his mind may be absent, but his soul is here. he loves me. it is i, not that other. can i not have my poor little hour of pretence? a little hour out of all a lifetime! shall i have nothing at all?" but the voice which had accused her said, "if he knew, would he say he loves you?" and she hid her face, for she knew that he would not--even if it were true. "coira!" whispered the man on the couch, and she raised her head. in the half darkness he could not have seen how she was suffering. her face was only a warm blur to him, vague and sweet and beautiful, with tender eyes. he said: "i think--i'm falling asleep. my head is so very, very queer! what is the matter with my head? coira, do you think i might be kissed before i go to sleep?" she gave a little cry of intolerable anguish. it seemed to her that she was being tortured beyond all reason or endurance. she felt suddenly very weak, and she was afraid that she was going to faint away. she laid her face down upon the couch where ste. marie's head lay. her cheek was against his and her hair across his eyes. the man gave a contented sigh and fell asleep. later, she rose stiffly and wearily to her feet. she stood for a little while looking down upon him. it was as if she looked upon the dead body of a lover. she seemed to say a still and white and tearless farewell to him. her little hour was done, and it had been, instead of joy, bitterness unspeakable: ashes in the mouth. then she went out of the room and closed the door. in the hall outside she stood a moment considering, and finally mounted the stairs and went to her father's door. she knocked and thought she heard a slight stirring inside, but there was no answer. she knocked twice again and called out her father's name, saying that she wished to speak to him, but still he made no reply, and after waiting a little longer she turned away. she went down-stairs again and out upon the terrace. the terrace and the lawn before it were still checkered with silver and deep black, but the moon was an hour lower in the west. a little cool breeze had sprung up, and it was sweet and grateful to her. she sat down upon one of the stone benches and leaned her head back against the trunk of a tree which stood beside it and she remained there for a long time, still and relaxed, in a sort of bodily and mental languor--an exhaustion of flesh and spirit. there came shambling footsteps upon the turf, and the old michel advanced into the moonlight from the gloom of the trees, emitting mechanical and not very realistic groans. he had been hard put to it to find any one before whom he could pour out his tale of heroism and suffering. coira o'hara looked upon him coldly, and the gnome groaned with renewed and somewhat frightened energy. "what is the matter with you?" she asked. "why are you about at this hour?" the old michel told his piteous tale with tears and passion, protesting that he had succumbed only before the combined attack of twenty armed men, and exhibiting his wounds. but the girl gave a brief and mirthless laugh. "you were bribed to tell that, i suppose," said she. "by m. ste. marie? yes, probably. well, tell it to my father to-morrow! you'd better go to bed now." the old man stared at her with open mouth for a breathless moment, and then shambled hastily away, looking over his shoulder at intervals until he was out of sight. but after that the girl still remained in her place from sheer weariness and lack of impulse to move. she fell to wondering about captain stewart and what had become of him, but she did not greatly care. she had a feeling that her world had come to its end, and she was quite indifferent about those who still peopled its ashes--or about all of them save her father. she heard the distant sound of a motor-car, and at that sat up quickly, for it might be ste. marie's friend, mr. hartley, returning from paris. the sound came nearer and ceased, but she waited for ten minutes before rapid steps approached from the east wall and hartley was before her. he cried at once: "where's ste. marie? where is he? he hasn't tried to walk into the city?" "he is asleep in the house," said the girl. "he was struck on the head and stunned. i got him into the house, and he is asleep now. of course," she said, "we could wake him, but it would probably be better to let him sleep as long as he will if it is possible. it will save him a great deal of pain, i think. he'll have a frightful headache if he's wakened now. could you come for him or send for him to-morrow--toward noon?" "why--yes, i suppose so," said richard hartley. "yes, of course, if you think that's better. could i just see him for a moment?" he stared at the girl a bit suspiciously, and coira looked back at him with a little tired smile, for she read his thought. "you want to make sure," said she. "of course! yes, come in. he's sleeping very soundly." she led the man into that dim room where ste. marie lay, and hartley's quick eye noted the basin of water and the stained towels and the little bottle of aromatic salts. he bent over his friend to see the bruise at the side of the head, and listened to the sleeper's breathing. then the two went out again to the moonlit terrace. "you must forgive me," said he, when they had come there. "you must forgive me for seeming suspicious, but--all this wretched business--and he is my closest friend--i've come to suspect everybody. i was unjust, for you helped us to get away. i beg your pardon!" the girl smiled at him again, her little, white, tired smile, and she said: "there is nothing i would not do to make amends--now that i know--the truth." "yes," said hartley, "i understand. arthur benham told me how stewart lied to you all. was it he who struck ste. marie?" she nodded. "and then tried to shoot him; but he didn't succeed in that. i wonder where he is--captain stewart?" "i have him out in the car," hartley said. "oh, he shall pay, you may be sure!--if he doesn't die and cheat us, that is. i nearly ran the car over him a few minutes ago. if it hadn't been for the moonlight i would have done for him. he was lying on his face in that lane that leads to the issy road. i don't know what is the matter with him. he's only half conscious and he's quite helpless. he looks as if he'd had a stroke of apoplexy or something. i must hurry him back to paris, i suppose, and get him under a doctor's care. i wonder what's wrong with him?" the girl shook her head, for she did not know of stewart's epileptic seizures. she thought it quite possible that he had suffered a stroke of apoplexy as hartley suggested, for she remembered the half-mad state he had been in. richard hartley stood for a time in thought. "i must get stewart back to paris at once," he said, finally. "i must get him under care and in a safe place from which he can't escape. it will want some managing. if i can get away i'll come out here again in the morning, but if not i'll send the car out with orders to wait here until ste. marie is ready to return to the city. are you sure he's all right--that he isn't badly hurt?" "i think he will be all right," she said, "save for the pain. he was only stunned." and hartley nodded. "he seems to be breathing quite naturally," said he. "that's arranged, then. the car will be here in waiting, and i shall come with it if i can. tell him when he wakes." he put out his hand to her, and the girl gave him hers very listlessly but smiling. she wished he would go and leave her alone. then in a moment more he did go, and she heard his quick steps down through the trees, and heard, a little later, the engine of the motor-car start up with a sudden loud volley of explosions. and so she was left to her solitary watch. she noticed, as she turned to go indoors, that the blackness of the night was just beginning to gray toward dawn. * * * * * xxix the scales of injustice ste. marie slept soundly until mid-morning--that it to say, about ten o'clock--and then awoke with a dull pain in his head and a sensation of extreme giddiness which became something like vertigo when he attempted to rise. however, with the aid of the old michel he got somehow up-stairs to his room and made a rather sketchy toilet. coira came to him there, and while he lay still across the bed told him about the happenings of the night after he had received his injury. she told him also that the motor was waiting for him outside the wall, and that richard hartley had sent a message by the chauffeur to say that he was very busy in paris making arrangements about stewart, who had come out of his strange state of half-insensibility only to rave in a delirium. "so," she said, "you can go now whenever you are ready. arthur is with his family, captain stewart is under guard, and your work is done. you ought to be glad--even though you are suffering pain." ste. marie looked up at her. "do i seem glad, coira?" said he. and she said: "you will be glad to-morrow--and always, i hope and pray. always! always!" the man held one hand over his aching eyes. "i have," he said, "queer half-memories. i wish i could remember distinctly." he looked up at her again. "i dropped down by the gate in the wall. when i awoke i was in a room in the house. how did that happen?" "oh," she said, turning her face away, "we got you up to the house almost at once." but ste. marie frowned thoughtfully. "'we'? who do you mean by 'we'?" "well, then, i," the girl said. "it was not difficult." "coira," cried the man, "do you mean that you carried me bodily all that long distance? _you_?" "carried or dragged," she said. "as much one as the other. it was not very difficult. i'm strong for a woman." "oh, child! child!" he cried. and he said: "i remember more. it was you who held stewart and kept him from shooting me. i heard the shot and i heard you scream. the last thought i had was that you had been killed in saving me. that's what i went out into the blank thinking." he covered his eyes again as if the memory were intolerable. but after awhile he said: "you saved my life, you know." and the girl answered him: "i had nearly taken it once before. it was i who called michel that day you came over the wall, the day you were shot. i nearly murdered you once. i owed you something. perhaps we're even now." she saw that he did not at all remember that hour in the little room--her hour of bitterness--and she was glad. she had felt sure that it would be so. for the present she did not greatly suffer, she had come to a state beyond active suffering--a chill state of dulled sensibilities. the old justine knocked at the door to ask if monsieur was going into the city soon or if she should give the chauffeur his déjeuner and tell him to wait. "are you fit to go?" coira asked. and he said, "i suppose as fit as i shall be." he got to his feet, and the things about him swam dangerously, but he could walk by using great care. the girl stood white and still, and she avoided his eyes. "it is not good-bye," said he. "i shall see you soon again--and i hope, often--often, coira." the words had a flat and foolish sound, but he could find no others. it was not easy to speak. "i suppose i must not ask to see your father?" said he. and she told him that her father had locked himself in his own room and would see no one--would not even open his door to take in food. ste. marie went to the stairs leaning upon the shoulder of the stout old justine, but before he had gone coira checked him for an instant. she said: "tell arthur, if he speaks to you about me, that what i said in the note i gave him last night i meant quite seriously. i gave him a note to read after he reached home. tell him for me that it was final. will you do that?" "yes, of course," said ste. marie. he looked at her with some wonder, because her words had been very emphatic. "yes," he said, "i will tell him. is that all?" "all but good-bye," said she. "good-bye, bayard!" she stood at the head of the stairs while he went down them. and she came after him to the landing, half-way, where the stairs turned in the opposite direction for their lower flight. when he went out of the front door he looked back, and she was standing there above him, a straight, still figure, dark against the light of the windows behind her. he went straight to the rue d'assas. he found that while he sat still in the comfortable tonneau of the motor his head was fairly normal, and the world did not swing and whirl about in that sickening fashion. but when the car lurched or bumped over an obstruction it made him giddy, and he would have fallen had he been standing. the familiar streets of the montparnasse and luxembourg quarters had for his eyes all the charm and delight of home things to the returned traveller. he felt as if he had been away for months, and he caught himself looking for changes, and it made him laugh. he was much relieved when he found that his concierge was not on watch, and that he could slip unobserved up the stairs and into his rooms. the rooms were fresh and clean, for they had been aired and tended daily. arrived there, he wrote a little note to a friend of his who was a doctor and lived in the rue notre dame des champs, asking this man to call as soon as it might be convenient. he sent the note by the chauffeur and then lay down, dressed as he was, to wait, for he could not stand or move about without a painful dizziness. the doctor came within a half-hour, examined ste. marie's bruised head, and bound it up. he gave him a dose of something with a vile taste which he said would take away the worst of the pain in a few hours, and he also gave him a sleeping-potion, and made him go to bed. "you'll be fairly fit by evening," he said. "but don't stir until then. i'll leave word below that you're not to be disturbed." so it happened that when richard hartley came dashing up an hour or two later he was not allowed to see his friend, and ste. marie slept a dreamless sleep until dark. he awoke then, refreshed but ravenous with hunger, and found that there was only a dull ache in his battered head. the dizziness and the vertigo were almost completely gone. he made lights and dressed with care. he felt like a little girl making ready for a party, it was so long--or seemed so long;--since he had put on evening clothes. then he went out, leaving at the loge of the concierge a note for hartley, to say where he might be found. he went to lavenue's and dined in solitary pomp, for it was after nine o'clock. again it seemed to him that it was months since he had done the like--sat down to a real table for a real dinner. at ten he got into a fiacre and drove to the rue de l'université. the man who admitted him said that mademoiselle was alone in the drawing-room, and he went there at once. he was dully conscious that something was very wrong, but he had suffered too much within the past few hours to be analytical, and he did not know what it was that was wrong. he should have entered that room with a swift and eager step, with shining eyes, with a high-beating heart. he went into it slowly, wrapped in a mantle of strange apathy. helen benham came forward to meet him, and took both his hands in hers. ste. marie was amazed to see that she seemed not to have altered at all--in spite of this enormous lapse of time, in spite of all that had happened in it. and yet, unaltered, she seemed to him a stranger, a charming and gracious stranger with an icily beautiful face. he wondered at her and at himself, and he was a little alarmed because he thought that he must be ill. that blow upon the head must, after all, have done something terrible to him. "ah, ste. marie!" she said, in her well-remembered voice--and again he wondered that the voice should be so high-pitched and so without color or feeling. "how glad i am," she said, "that you are safely out of it all! how you have suffered for us, ste. marie! you look white and ill. sit down, please! don't stand!" she drew him to a comfortable chair, and he sat down in it obediently. he could not think of anything to say, though he was not, as a rule, tongue-tied; but the girl did not seem to expect any answer, for she went on at once with a rather odd air of haste: "arthur is here with us, safe and sound. richard hartley brought him back from that dreadful place, and he has talked everything over with my grandfather, and it's all right. they both understand now, and there'll be no more trouble. we have had to be careful, very careful, and we have had to--well, to rearrange the facts a little so as to leave--my uncle--to leave captain stewart's name out of it. it would not do to shock my grandfather by telling him the truth. perhaps later; i don't know. that will have to be thought of. for the present we have left my uncle out of it, and put the blame entirely upon this other man. i forget his name." "the blame cannot rest there," said ste. marie, sharply. "it is not deserved, and i shall not allow it to be left so. captain stewart lied to o'hara throughout. you cannot leave the blame with an innocent man." "still," she said, "such a man!" ste. marie looked at her, frowning, and the girl turned her eyes away. she may have had the grace to be a little ashamed. "think of the difficulty we were in!" she urged. "captain stewart is my grandfather's own son. we cannot tell him now, in his weak state, that his own son is--what he is." there was reason if not justice in that, and ste. marie was forced to admit it. he said: "ah, well, for the present, then. that can be arranged later. the main point is that i've found your brother for you. i've brought him back." miss benham looked up at him and away again, and she drew a quick breath. he saw her hands move restlessly in her lap, and he was aware that for some odd reason she was very ill at ease. at last she said: "ah, but--but have you, dear ste. marie? have you?" after a brief silence she stole another swift glance at the man, and he was staring in open and frank bewilderment. she rushed into rapid speech. "ah," she cried, "don't misunderstand me! don't think that i'm brutal or ungrateful for all you've--you've suffered in trying to help us! don't think that! i can--we can never be grateful enough--never! but stop and think! yes, i know this all sounds hideous, but it's so terribly important. i shouldn't dream of saying a word of it if it weren't so important, if so much didn't depend upon it. but stop and think! was it, dear ste. marie, was it, after all, you? was it you who brought arthur to us?" the man fairly blinked at her, owl-like. he was beyond speech. "wasn't it richard?" she hurried on. "wasn't it richard hartley? ah, if i could only say it without seeming so contemptibly heartless! if only i needn't say it at all! but it must be said because of what depends upon it. think! go back to the beginning! wasn't it richard who first began to suspect my uncle? didn't he tell you or write to you what he had discovered, and so set you upon the right track? and after you had--well, just fallen into their hands, with no hope of ever escaping yourself--to say nothing of bringing arthur back--wasn't it richard who came to your rescue and brought it all to victory? oh, ste. marie, i must be just to him as well as to you! don't you see that? however grateful i may be to you for what you have done--suffered--i cannot, in justice, give you what i was to have given you, since it is, after all, richard who has saved my brother. i cannot, can i? surely you must see it. and you must see how it hurts me to have to say it. i had hoped that--you would understand--without my speaking." still the man sat in his trance of astonishment, speechless. for the first time in his life he was brought face to face with the amazing, the appalling injustice of which a woman is capable when her heart is concerned. this girl wished to believe that to richard hartley belonged the credit of rescuing her brother, and lo! she believed it. a score of juries might have decided against her, a hundred proofs controverted her decision, but she would have been deaf and blind. it is only women who accomplish miracles of reasoning like that. ste. marie took a long breath and he started to speak, but in the end shook his head and remained silent. through the whirl and din of falling skies he was yet able to see the utter futility of words. he could have adduced a hundred arguments to prove her absurdity. he could have shown her that before he ever read hartley's note he had decided upon stewart's guilt--and for much better reasons than hartley had. he could have pointed out to her that it was he, not hartley, who discovered young benham's whereabouts, that it was he who summoned hartley there, and that, as a matter of fact, hartley need not have come at all, since the boy had been persuaded to go home in any case. he thought of all these things and more, and in a moment of sheer anger at her injustice he was on the point of stating them, but he shook his head and remained silent. after all, of what use was speech? he knew that it could make no impression upon her, and he knew why. for some reason, in some way, she had turned during his absence to richard hartley, and there was nothing more to be said. there was no treachery on hartley's part. he knew that, and it never even occurred to him to blame his friend. hartley was as faithful as any one who ever lived. it seemed to be nobody's fault. it had just happened. he looked at the girl before him with a new expression, an expression of sheer curiosity. it seemed to him well-nigh incredible that any human being could be so unjust and so blind. yet he knew her to be, in other matters, one of the fairest of all women, just and tender and thoughtful and true. he knew that she prided herself upon her cool impartiality of judgment. he shook his head with a little sigh and ceased to wonder any more. it was beyond him. he became aware that he ought to say something, and he said: "yes. yes, i--see. i see what you mean. yes, hartley did all you say. i hadn't meant to rob hartley of the credit he deserves. i suppose you're right." he was possessed of a sudden longing to get away out of that room, and he rose to his feet. "if you don't mind," he said, "i think i'd better go. this is--well, it's a bit of a facer, you see. i want to think it over. perhaps to-morrow--you don't mind?" he saw a swift relief flash into miss benham's eyes, but she murmured a few words of protest that had a rather perfunctory sound. ste. marie shook his head. "thanks! i won't stay," said he. "not just now. i--think i'd better go." he had a confused realization of platitudinous adieus, of a silly formality of speech, and he found himself in the hall. once he glanced back and miss benham was standing where he had left her, looking after him with a calm and unimpassioned face. he thought that she looked rather like a very beautiful statue. the butler came to him to say that mr. stewart would be glad if he would look in before leaving the house, and so he went up-stairs and knocked at old david's door. he moved like a man in a dream, and the things about him seemed to be curiously unreal and rather far away, as they seem sometimes in a fever. he was admitted at once, and he found the old man sitting up in bed, clad in one of his incredibly gorgeous mandarin's jackets--plum-colored satin this time, with peonies--overflowing with spirits and good-humor. his grandson sat in a chair near at hand. the old man gave a shout of welcome: "ah, here's jason at last, back from colchis! welcome home to--whatever the name of the place was! welcome home!" he shook ste. marie's hand with hospitable violence, and ste. marie was astonished to see upon what a new lease of life and strength the old man seemed to have entered. there was no ingratitude or misconception here, certainly. old david quite overwhelmed his visitor with thanks and with expressions of affection. "you've saved my life among other things!" he said, in his gruff roar. "i was ready to go, but, by the lord, i'm going to stay awhile longer now! this world's a better place than i thought--a much better place." he shook a heavily waggish head. "if i didn't know," said he, "what your reward is to be for what you've done, i should be in despair over it all, because there is nothing else in the world that would be anything like adequate. you've been making sure of the reward down-stairs, i dare say? eh, what? yes?" "you mean--?" asked the younger man. and old david said: "i mean helen, of course. what else?" ste. marie was not quite himself. at another time he might have got out of the room with an evasive answer, but he spoke without thinking. he said: "oh--yes! i suppose--i suppose i ought to tell you that miss benham--well, she has changed her mind. that is to say--" "what!" shouted old david stewart, in his great voice. "what is that?" "why, it seems," said ste. marie--"it seems that i only blundered. it seems that hartley rescued your grandson, not i. and i suppose he did, you know. when you come to think of it, i suppose he did." david stewart's great white beard seemed to bristle like the ruff of an angry dog, and his eyes flashed fiercely under their shaggy brows. "do you mean to tell me that after all you've done and--and gone through, helen has thrown you over? do you mean to tell me that?" "well," argued ste. marie, uncomfortably--"well, you see, she seems to be right. i did bungle it, didn't i? it was hartley who came and pulled us out of the hole." "hartley be damned!" cried the old man, in a towering rage. and he began to pour out the most extraordinary flood of furious invective upon his granddaughter and upon richard hartley, whom he quite unjustly termed a snake-in-the-grass, and finally upon all women, past, contemporary, or still to be born. ste. marie, in fear for old david's health, tried to calm him, and the faithful valet came running from the room beyond with prayers and protestations, but nothing would check that astonishing flow of fury until it had run its full course. then the man fell back upon his pillows, crimson, panting, and exhausted, but the fierce eyes glittered still, and they boded no good for miss helen benham. "you're well rid of her!" said the old gentleman, when at last he was once more able to speak. "you're well rid of her! i congratulate you! i am ashamed and humiliated, and a great burden of obligation is shifted to me--though i assume it with pleasure--but i congratulate you. you might have found out too late what sort of a woman she is." ste. marie began to protest and to explain and to say that miss benham had been quite right in what she said, but the old gentleman only waved an impatient arm to him, and presently, when he saw the valet making signs across the bed, and saw that his host was really in a state of complete exhaustion after the outburst, he made his adieus and got away. young arthur benham, who had been sitting almost silent during the interview, followed him out of the room and closed the door behind them. for the first time ste. marie noted that the boy's face was white and strained. he pulled a crumpled square of folded paper from his pocket and shook it at the other man. "do you know what this is?" he cried. "do you know what's in this?" ste. marie shook his head, but a sudden recollection came to him. "ah," said he, "that must be the note mlle. o'hara spoke of! she asked me to tell you that she meant it--whatever it may be--quite seriously; that it was final. she didn't explain. she just said that--that you were to take it as final." the lad gave a sudden very bitter sob. "she has thrown me over!" he said. "she says i'm not to come back to her." ste. marie gave a wordless cry, and he began to tremble. "you can read it if you want to," the boy said. "perhaps you can explain it. i can't. do you want to read it?" the elder man stood staring at him whitely, and the boy repeated his words. he said, "you can read it if you want to," and at last ste. marie took the paper between stiff hands, and held it to the light. coira o'hara said, briefly, that too much was against their marriage. she mentioned his age, the certain hostility of his family, their different tastes, a number of other things. but in the end she said she had begun to realize that she did not love him as she ought to do if they were to marry. and so, the note said, finally, she gave him up to his family, she released him altogether, and she begged him not to come back to her, or to urge her to change her mind. also she made the trite but very sensible observation that he would be glad of his freedom before the year was out. ste. marie's unsteady fingers opened and the crumpled paper slipped through them to the floor. over it the man and the boy looked at each other in silence. young arthur benham's face was white, and it was strained and contorted with its first grief. but first griefs do not last very long. coira o'hara had told the truth--before the year was out the lad would be glad of his freedom. but the man's face was white also, white and still, and his eyes held a strange expression which the boy could not understand and at which he wondered. the man was trembling a little from head to foot. the boy wondered about that, too, but abruptly he cried out: "what's up? where are you going?" for ste. marie had turned all at once and was running down the stairs as fast as he could run. * * * * * xxx jason sails back to colchis.--journey's end in the hall below, ste. marie came violently into contact with and nearly overturned richard hartley, who was just giving his hat and stick to the man who had admitted him. hartley seized upon him with an exclamation of pleasure, and wheeled him round to face the light. he said: "i've been pursuing you all day. you're almost as difficult of access here in paris as you were at la lierre. how's the head?" ste. marie put up an experimental hand. he had forgotten his injury. "oh, that's all right," said he. "at least, i think so. anderson fixed me up this afternoon. but i haven't time to talk to you. i'm in a hurry. to-morrow we'll have a long chin. oh, how about stewart?" he lowered his voice, and hartley answered him in the same tone. "the man is in a delirium. heaven knows how it'll end. he may die and he may pull through. i hope he pulls through--except for the sake of the family--because then we can make him pay for what he's done. i don't want him to go scot free by dying." "nor i," said ste. marie, fiercely. "nor i. i want him to pay, too--long and slowly and hard; and if he lives i shall see that he does it, family or no family. now i must be off." ste. marie's face was shining and uplifted. the other man looked at it with a little envious sigh. "i see everything is all right," said he, "and i congratulate you. you deserve it if ever any one did." ste. marie stared for an instant, uncomprehending. then he saw. "yes," he said, gently, "everything is all right." it was plain that the englishman did not know of miss benham's decision. he was incapable of deceit. ste. marie threw an arm over his friend's shoulder and went with him a little way toward the drawing-room. "go in there," he said. "you'll find some one glad to see you, i think. and remember that i said everything is all right." he came back after he had turned away, and met hartley's puzzled frown with a smile. "if you've that motor here, may i use it?" he asked. "i want to go somewhere in a hurry." "of course," the other man said. "of course. i'll go home in a cab." so they parted, and ste. marie went out to the waiting car. on the left bank the streets are nearly empty of traffic at night, and one can make excellent time over them. ste. marie reached the porte de versailles, at the city's limits, in twenty minutes and dashed through issy five minutes later. in less than half an hour from the time he had left the rue de l'université he was under the walls of la lierre. he looked at his watch, and it was not quite half-past eleven. he tried the little door in the wall, and it was unlocked, so he passed in and closed the door behind him. inside he found that he was running, and he gave a little laugh, but of eagerness and excitement, not of mirth. there were dim lights in one or two of the upper windows, but none below, and there was no one about. he pulled at the door-bell, and after a few impatient moments pulled again and still again. then he noticed that the heavy door was ajar, and, since no one answered his ringing, he pushed the door open and went in. the lower hall was quite dark, but a very faint light came down from above through the well of the staircase. he heard dragging feet in the upper hall, and then upon one of the upper flights, for the stairs, broad below, divided at a half-way landing and continued upward in an opposite direction in two narrower flights. a voice, very faint and weary, called: "who is there? who is ringing, please?" and coira o'hara, holding a candle in her hand, came upon the stair-landing and stood gazing down into the darkness. she wore a sort of dressing-gown, a heavy white garment which hung in straight, long folds to her feet and fell away from the arm that held the candle on high. the yellow beams of light struck down across her head and face, and even at the distance the man could see how white she was and hollow-eyed and worn--a pale wraith of the splendid beauty that had walked in the garden at la lierre. "who is there, please?" she asked again. "i can't see. what is it?" "it is i, coira!" said ste. marie. and she gave a sharp cry. the arm which was holding the candle overhead shook and fell beside her as if the strength had gone out of it. the candle dropped to the floor, spluttered there for an instant and went out, but there was still a little light from the hall above. ste. marie sprang up the stairs to where the girl stood, and caught her in his arms, for she was on the verge of faintness. her head fell back away from him, and he saw her eyes through half-closed lids, her white teeth through parted lips. she was trembling--but, for that matter, so was he at the touch of her, the heavy and sweet burden in his arms. she tried to speak, and he heard a whisper: "why? why? why?" "because it is my place, coira!" said he. "because i cannot live away from you. because we belong together." the girl struggled weakly and pushed against him. once more he heard whispering words and made out that she tried to say: "go back to her! go back to her! you belong there!" but at that he laughed aloud. "i thought so, too," said he, "but she thinks otherwise. she'll have none of me, coira. it's richard hartley now. coira, can you love a jilted man? i've been jilted--thrown over--dismissed." her head came up in a flash and she stared at him, suddenly rigid and tense in his arms. "is that true?" she demanded. "yes, my love!" said he. and she began to weep, with long, comfortable sobs, her face hidden in the hollow of his shoulder. on one other occasion she had wept before him, and he had been horribly embarrassed, but he bore this present tempest without, as it were, winking. he gloried in it. he tried to say so. he tried to whisper to her, his lips pressed close to the ear that was nearest them, but he found that he had no speech. words would not come to his tongue; it trembled and faltered and was still for sheer inadequacy. rather oddly, in that his thoughts were chaos, swallowed up in the surge of feeling, a memory struck through to him of that other exaltation which had swept him to the stars. he looked upon it and was amazed because now he saw it, in clear light, for the thing it had been. he saw it for a fantasy, a self-evoked wraith of the imagination, a dizzy flight of the spirit through spirit space. he saw that it had not been love at all, and he realized how little a part helen benham had ever really played in it. a cold and still-eyed figure for him to wrap the veil of his imagination round, that was what she had been. there were times when the sweep of his upward flight had stirred her a little, wakened in her some vague response, but for the most part she had stood aside and looked on, wondering. the mist was rent away from that rainbow-painted cobweb, and at last the man saw and understood. he gave an exclamation of wonder, and the girl who loved him raised her head once more, and the two looked each into the other's eyes for a long time. they fell into hushed and broken speech. "i have loved you so long, so long," she said, "and so hopelessly! i never thought--i never believed. to think that in the end you have come to me! i cannot believe it!" "wait and see!" cried the man. "wait and see!" she shivered a little. "if it is not true i should like to die before i find out. i should like to die now, bayard, with your arms holding me up and your eyes close, close." ste. marie's arms tightened round her with a sudden fierceness. he hurt her, and she smiled up at him. their two hearts beat one against the other, and they beat very fast. "don't you understand," he cried, "that life's only just beginning--day's just dawning, coira? we've been lost in the dark. day's coming now. this is only the sunrise." "i can believe it at last," she said, "because you hold me close and you hurt me a little, and i'm glad to be hurt. and i can feel your heart beating. ah, never let me go, bayard! i should be lost in the dark again if you let me go." a sudden thought came to her, and she bent back her head to see the better. "did you speak with arthur?" and he said: "yes. he asked me to read your note, so i read it. that poor lad! i came straight to you then--straight and fast." "you knew why i did it?" she said, and ste. marie said: "now i know." "i could not have married him," said she. "i could not. i never thought i should see you again, but i loved you and i could not have married him. ah, impossible! and he'll be glad later on. you know that. it will save him any more trouble with his family, and besides--he's so very young. already, i think, he was beginning to chafe a little. i thought so more than once. oh, i'm trying to justify myself!" she cried. "i'm trying to find reasons; but you know the true reason. you know it." "i thank god for it," he said. so they stood clinging together in that dim place, and broken, whispering speech passed between them or long silences when speech was done. but at last they went down the stairs and out upon the open terrace, where the moonlight lay. "it was in the open, sweet air," the girl said, "that we came to know each other. let us walk in it now. the house smothers me." she looked up when they had passed the west corner of the façade and drew a little sigh. "i am worried about my father," said she. "he will not answer me when i call to him, and he has eaten nothing all day long. bayard, i think his heart is broken. ah, but to-morrow we shall mend it again! in the morning i shall make him let me in, and i shall tell him--what i have to tell." they turned down under the trees, where the moonlight made silver splashes about their feet, and the sweet night air bore soft against their faces. coira went a half-step in advance, her head laid back upon the shoulder of the man she loved, and his arm held her up from falling. so at last we leave them, walking there in the tender moonlight, with the breath of roses about them and their eyes turned to the coming day. it is still night and there is yet one cloud of sorrow to shadow them somewhat, for up-stairs in his locked room a man lies dead across the floor, with an empty pistol beside him--heart-broken, as the girl had feared. but where a great love is, shadows cannot last very long, not even such shadows as this. the morning must dawn--and joy cometh of a morning. so we leave them walking together in the moonlight, their faces turned toward the coming day. the end books by guy wetmore carryl _published by henry holt and company_ the transgression of andrew vane $ . _published by harper and brothers_ fables for the frivolous $ . mother goose for grown-ups $ . _published by houghton, mifflin & co._ grimm tales made gay $ . the lieutenant governor $ . zut, and other parisians $ . [illustration: guy wetmore carryl.] the transgression of andrew vane _a novel_ by guy wetmore carryl _author of "zut, and other parisians"_ [illustration] new york henry holt and company copyright, by henry holt and company _published april, _ robert drummond, printer, new york to henry holt table of contents. page prologue chapter i. mr. carnby receives a letter chapter ii. new friends and old chapter iii. the girl in red chapter iv. mother and daughter chapter v. the good and faithful servant chapter vi. a revolt suppressed chapter vii. a pledge of friendship chapter viii. a parley and a prayer chapter ix. the woman in the case chapter x. the fairy godmother chapter xi. some after-dinner conversation chapter xii. reaction chapter xiii. rhapsodie hongroise, no. chapter xiv. fate is hard--cash! chapter xv. "as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be." chapter xvi. a declaration of independence chapter xvii. a dog and his master chapter xviii. fair exchange is no robbery chapter xix. redemption chapter xx. the shadow the transgression of andrew vane for the things ye do, when your life is new, and your sin is sinned with a smile, ye shall pay full sore, ye men, though the score the fates hold back for a while: ye shall pay, at the end, for your frauded friend, for the secret your lips betray, for the lust and the lie, to the gods on high ye shall pay--ye shall pay--ye shall pay! ye shall pay ten-fold, with your heart's best gold, ah, tempted women and true! ye shall render account, to the full amount, for each beautiful thing ye do. for the youth ye yield, for the soul ye shield, for the pitiful prayers ye pray, 'tis the fancy of fate that, soon or late, ye shall pay--ye shall pay--ye shall pay! the transgression of andrew vane. prologue. for months past, she had felt that she was weakening, that the crescent wretchedness of five long years--an uninterrupted descent from level to level, on each of which the thorns of disillusion caught at, and tore from her, some shred of hope or self-respect--had done its work at last. her courage and her faith, inherited, the one from the mental, the other from the moral, vigour of a rigid and uncompromising puritan ancestry, were slipping from her. what the end was to be, she did not dare to ask; but it lay there ahead, grim and ominous, gradually taking form, through the mist of the immediate future. its very suggestion of divergence from all that was familiar to her, of being even a degree more monstrous than what she had already suffered, sickened and appalled her, who had never known a dread of mere death, but drew back with unspeakable fear before the looming of this unknown, ultimate degradation. john vane had wooed his wife with the easy confidence born of adequate position, adequate means, and more than adequate ability. four years of harvard had taught him to believe life in the little western town which had been his birthplace, to be, for a man of literary bent, a practical impossibility; and when he stepped easily from the halls of his alma mater into the offices of a boston magazine, it was a practical renunciation of his early environment, and an expression of his resolve to follow in the actual as well as the metaphorical footprints of some of the greatest figures in american literature. six months later, he announced his engagement to helen sterling, the only daughter of a pioneer in copper, whose character had long since built him up a reputation, to which, later, the five figures of his income lent an added lustre. from first to last, from the occasion of the young collegian's presentation to the reigning belle of her season to the moment when she said, "i, helen, do take thee, john"--and the rest of it--there was, by way of proving the rule, never a stumbling-block in the exceptionally smooth course of their love. they were made for each other, people said, and no one subscribed more confidently to this opinion than themselves. but--and does ever a honeymoon pass without the uneasy awakening of that latent 'but'?--helen was not a month older before she was forced to the unwilling conclusion that there was a singular, intangible something lacking in her husband's character. it was not that he was not gifted; for that, his most casual acquaintance knew him to be;--or in love with her; for of that he gave evidence almost as conclusive as would have been furnished by the ceaseless reiteration of that spoken devotion which a woman craves, without hope of receiving, from the man she loves. but things had come to him so easily, so independent of any effort of his own, that he was become the chief of optimists, imbued with the serene and confident _laisser aller_ of the clan; and, now that association was making her intimate with his methods of work, she found them to be wholly haphazard, inspired merely by the whim of the moment, unregulated by any remotest evidence of system. his performances were the meaningless flashes and snaps of chinese crackers, not the steady and purposeful, if less imposing, fire of a skilfully laid fuse, leading on to great results. his confidence in his own ability, in the certainty of his ultimate triumph, was so absolute that he was content with the minimum of endeavor, oblivious to the fact that only statues can remain thus passive with the assurance that laurel wreaths will be laid before them. he did not realize that the living must pluck their laurels for themselves. lacking the initiative which is its indispensable ally, vane nevertheless possessed all the impatience of restraint or routine characteristic of the creative faculty. a year of editorial work was sufficient to convince him that it was not possible for such a temperament as his to be trammelled by fixed hours, and strait-jacketed by observance of detail. he resigned his position, on the plea of devoting himself entirely to writing, and there ensued a period during which he sunned himself in society's favour, and received his share of flattery in return for several trifles contributed to the magazines, but created nothing worthy even of the infinitesimal effort which he made. a man had to think, to arrange, to compose, he told his wife. rome was not built in a day, and the mere manual act of transferring his thoughts to paper was a trifle, when contrasted with the process of incubation. so month after month dragged by, and little by little, as his novelty wore off, john vane dropped out of society's consideration as a literary potentiality, and came to be regarded as nothing more than one of many good-looking, agreeable men-about-town, to whom, in the matter of his wife and his worldly weal, the fates had been generous beyond the ordinary. one of the first unmistakable signs of degeneration was his now constant complaint that he was unappreciated. the average man's share of applause is in strict proportion to his deserts. in vane's case the allowance had been appreciably in excess of his due, but it was exhausted at last; and flattery is a drug which, with indulgence, becomes, a necessity. deprived of it, he grew fretful and impatient, made occasional abortive efforts at performance of the great things formerly expected of him, and talked savagely of prejudice when his manuscripts came back from the editors, accompanied by polite notes wherein the pill of non-availability was sugar-coated with reference to the pleasure of examining his work, and the regret with which it was returned. for a time he had his wife's most loyal support and sympathy. she liked to believe that what he said was true, that literary excellence counted for nothing in a commercial age, and that a man who would not conform to silly superficial standards had no chance of recognition. but helen was a woman to whom a goose was a goose, and a swan a swan, at all times, and regardless of ownership. moreover, she had been a lover of the best in literature since first she had been given the run of her father's library, and sat for entire afternoons curled into a big arm-chair, skipping the long words of thackeray or charles lamb. her critical sense, thus perfected, was now too alert to allow of any treachery to standard. intensely loyal she was, but intensely just, as well; and all her eagerness to believe her husband what he claimed to be could not blind her to the mediocrity, often the utter worthlessness, of his later work. with revelation arose, naturally, an ardent desire to aid him, and strict sincerity, which was her most admirable quality, pointed to candour as the only adequate means. with his resentment of her counsel came her first disheartening insight into the shallowness and perversity of his nature. that he could accuse her of attempting to belittle him, rank her as at one with those who misunderstood him, hurt her more keenly than if he had turned and cursed her. it was the parting of their ways, the first decisive step on the road which she was to follow wearily for five years of discouragement and disillusion. with the waning of his popularity vane renounced boston, as he had renounced his birthplace, and they moved to new york. here, for a time, he contributed listlessly to the humorous weeklies and the less pretentious magazines; but reputation of the kind he sought was not to be won by mere facility in rhyming or in writing around a dozen illustrations; and, presently, he reverted to his old complaint of prejudice and non-appreciation. then a chance acquaintance led him into speculation. where abler men failed, john vane was swept into complete disaster. in a transient panic, he was caught long of a big line of stocks, tried to average too soon, and was finally forced to let go his holdings at about the bottom of the market. it was ruin, absolute and utter; but helen almost welcomed it, in the belief that the spur of a necessity he had never known before would goad him to the achievement of better things. but the character of john vane was not the stuff whereof is made the moral phoenix. he shrivelled before the fire of defeat, and sank hopelessly into the ashes of surrender. they moved from their luxurious apartment to a cheap hotel, thence to a cheaper one, thence to a boarding-house. the backward path was strewn with unsettled bills, and loans never to be repaid. vane wrote spasmodically for the daily papers, and for such of the magazines as would still accept his work, and, on the pittance thus earned, and the generosity of helen's father, they contrived to exist, in a fashion, for something over two years. but, given the temperament of john vane, the next development was inevitable. at first helen sturdily refused to believe that a new demon had entered the hell which he was making of her life. she met him, at night, with an attempt at a smile, deliberately ignoring his unsteady gait, his sodden face, his hot, rank breath. but the evidence was plain, constant, incontestable. drink had gripped him, and she knew too well that whatever of weakness laid hand upon her husband never relinquished hold. so another year went by, the gulf between them widening and widening. finally, he struck her--and then, or the first time, that final degradation, that ominous, unknowable end of hope and self-respect, loomed, hideous and shadowy, through the fog before her. unable to interpret its significance, she told herself, nevertheless, that it was very near. they were living in kingsbridge, in a little frame house into which a man who had known her husband in his wall street days had come, in settlement of a bad debt, and which he had offered them, for charity's sake, at a paltry annual rental. the same samaritan had given vane a small position in his office, and the latter now went to and fro, between the city and its gruesome little neighbour on the harlem, taking leave of his wife with a curt, contemptuous nod, and returning, bloated and foul-breathed, to pass the evenings in a semi-stupor. the chance had been too good to be disregarded, but life under such conditions was no better than sheer existence. the cottage was one of a squat, ill-favoured row on a side street, within a stone's throw of the railway station. they had found it equipped, in a way, with cheap, yellowish furniture, worn and faded carpets, and kitchen utensils distinguished by the grime of many meals and the musty inheritance of insufficient washings. about the house there was a stale, moist smell of plaster, and the plot of turf in the little front yard was dry and discoloured, like the mats of imitation grass in the establishment of a country photographer. helen had striven to redeem the desolation of the tiny living-room with the few pictures and articles of furniture which she had contrived to save from the wreck of their former fortunes; but the attempt was not successful. the rare prints were out of place against the tawdry wall-paper, and the few pieces of sheraton and chippendale to which she had clung took on, in such surroundings, the shabbiness of what was already there. she was obliged to do her own marketing and cooking and housework, since a servant, in their straitened circumstances, was out of the question: and not the least part of her martyrdom was the purchase of scrawny yellow fowls, and vegetables of a freshness past, and their preparation in the dingy little kitchen, which left an odour of frying lard on the very clothes she wore. vane had left her, an hour before, on his way to the city; and now, as the weight of depression became intolerable, she took her hat, locked the door behind her, and started for a long walk over the hill-roads back of the town. this had lately come to be her habit. it was something to escape, even for half a day, from the dispirited little suburb, with its sallow frame houses, its patched fences, and its cinder-strewn roadways, along which lean cats slunk guiltily, and dishevelled fowls picked their way in search of food. up on the hills, the air of late november was keen and chill, and grayed with a drifting smoke-mist from distant fires of dried leaves. the brown grass was veiled here and there with thin patches of snow, stippled with faint shadows, cast by the filial oak-leaves, which cling longer than any other to the maternal bough. as helen passed, squirrels darted nimbly away to a safe distance, and then sat up to watch her, with their fore paws held coquettishly against their breasts. it was all very sane and healthy, all in wonderful contrast to her morbid life in the shadow of john vane's personality. there had been no children--a fact which, in happier hours, she had deplored, but for which she was now profoundly grateful. there are things which it is easier to bear alone. to share with another--and that other her child--the humiliation of her ill-starred association with her husband, would but have been to double the burden's weight. in her own case the period of martyrdom was well-nigh done. for his son and hers it would simply be at its beginning, tragic in its boundless possibilities of shame. as the thought came of the motherhood thus denied her, she wondered why she had been faithful to john vane. once she had believed in him, and so strong had been this faith that some shreds of it yet remained, to bind her to him through all the unspeakably humiliating days of his gradual but inevitable degradation. nor was her fidelity of the negative, meaningless kind which is strong simply because unassailed. as a woman of the world, she had, more than once, been brought into contact with men lax in their scrupulosity, but scrupulous in their laxity. she had had her temptations, her chances of escape; and the price to be paid was not exorbitant, in view of the relief to be obtained. but upon these she had resolutely turned her back, hoping against hope for the miracle which never came. even now, her father's door stood wide to her, and every instinct of reason impelled her to a separation. but vane had not only killed her love for him; he had destroyed her very taste for life itself, under any circumstances whatever. she clung to him now, not because she loved him, not because it was impossible to do without him, but because he had sapped her youth, her faith, her craving for anything short of oblivion. she stood for a long time, motionless, at a point where a little stream tinkled pleasantly over the stones beneath its first thin sheathing of ice. the trees, saving only the oaks, were bare, and stood stiffly, in close proximity, in the weird, white brilliance of _contre-lumière_; and for a few moments the barren tranquillity of the scene was indescribably restful. then the light changed, as a slow cloud crept across the sun, and, with the coming of the resultant shadow, helen, always exquisitely sensible to the moods of nature, returned suddenly to a consciousness of her extremity. it was not real, then, this negative beauty, this serene simplicity of nun-like, early winter; it was not real, her own unwonted calm! what _was_ actual, material, inevitable, was the personality of the man who dominated her life like an evil spirit, using her as his chattel, abusing her as his slave. abruptly, the whole course of their association spread itself before her, up to her last glimpse of him, that morning, shambling on his way to the miserable daily duty to which he had sunk. and this was the life which she had been so eager to share with him, the life which, in those early days, his promises had made to seem so fair! together, they were to have seen the world--the wonderful, great world, that had shone in the distance, like a promised land, from the pisgah of her girlish imaginings: london, paris, rome, the nile, greece, india, and japan. they were to have seen them all--drunk, in company, of the wine of beauty and inspiration, doubling their individual pleasures with the magic wand of mutual comprehension, as he should turn the treasures found along their enchanted way into such words as men preserve to praise, and she stand at his side, the first to read and reverence. and now? for the first time, the full splendour of the dream, the full squalor of the reality, swept down upon her. she saw him, diverted from his own ideals, and ignorant of hers, taking the initial step upon his downward way, no foot of which was ever to be retraced: drunken, debauched, impotent to write one worthy word, skulking, shamefaced and sodden, through a world of sunlight and manly endeavour, like some noisome prowler of the night, surprised, far from its lair, by the dawn of sweet young day. she was no more than a girl, and already it was too late. the blitheness of life was gone, never to return. for a moment she stood with her worn hands crushed against her face, and then she stretched her arms upward to their full length, and cried aloud, "ah, god! ah, _god_!" to the chill, clear sky of the november day. a voice at her side aroused her before she realized that she was not alone. at the sound she turned guiltily, and found herself face to face with a man she had never seen. he stood quite near, hat in hand, surveying her with cool, steel-blue eyes. in that first instant, with a perception sharpened by her mental anguish, she became suddenly as familiar with every detail of his appearance as if they had been intimates for years. he was tall and slender, and unmistakably young; and, in singular contrast to his pallid complexion, his lips, under the thin mustache, were full and red, with a strange, sensual crookedness that was half a smile and half a sneer. there was about him a curious, compellant air of mastery and self-possession, as of one sure of himself, and accustomed to control; and his first words, under their veneer of polite solicitude, were, in their total lack of surprise or idle curiosity, significant of the trained man of the world, while the quaint, foreign flavour of the title by which he addressed her was equally suggestive of the cosmopolite. "you are in distress, _madame_?" helen paused before replying. with the instinctive delicacy of her sex, she realized that in the approach of a stranger who had surprised her in a betrayal of extreme emotion there was something which she would do well to resent; and yet she was come to one of those crises which every woman knows; when the need of sympathy, even the most casual, was imperative--when, albeit at the sacrifice of conventionality, she was fain to seek support, to grasp a firm hand, to hear a friendly, though an unknown, voice. pride, her stanch ally through all the bitter hours of her despair, had weakened at this the most crucial point, and, like a frightened child, she would have run for reassurance into the arms of the veriest passer-by. "perhaps," she answered presently. "but, believe me, the expression of my feeling was purely involuntary. i thought myself alone. there are, ordinarily, few passers by this road." he had replaced his hat now, and was no longer looking at her, but down across the shelving slope of hillside, spiked with slender trees, as close-set as the bristles of a giant brush. when he spoke again, his tone had curiously assumed the existence of a relation between them, as if, instead of total strangers, they had been old acquaintances, come together at this spot, and exchanging impressions of the scene before them. "strange," he said slowly, "that you should be in distress, when nature, which always seems to me the most sympathetic of companions, is wrapped in so great repose. in my dealings with humanity, i've frequently met with misunderstanding; but never, in the attitude of nature, a lack of what i felt to be completest comprehension of my mood. she always seems to divine our difficulties, and to have some little helpful hint, some small parable, which, if we read it aright, will point out the solution of our problem, or at least serve to soothe the momentary pang. this little stream at our feet, for example: how it preaches the lesson that while we must meet with days that are cold, unsympathetic, drear, it's not only possible, but best, to preserve, under the ice in which adversity wraps our hearts, the life and laughter which friendlier suns have taught us! i wonder if that is not the secret of all human contentment--to resign oneself to the chilling touch of the wintry days of life, secure in the knowledge that summer will return, the compensation be made manifest, and the wrong turned to right." the rebuff which was on helen's lips an instant before was never spoken. it was one of those moments when the intuitive assertion of dignity and self-reliance lays down its arms before the need of comfort and companionship. she did not look at him, but in her silence there was that which encouraged him to continue. "you don't resent my speaking to you in this way?" he asked. "after all, why should you? you are a bubble on this strange, erratic stream of life, and i another. bubble does not ask bubble the reason of their meeting, at some predestined spot between source and sea. instead, they touch, perhaps to drift apart again after a moment; perhaps, as one often sees them, to unite in one larger, better, brighter bubble than either had been before. neither cares a tittle for its chance companion's previous history, or for what the other bubbles say. curiosity as to another's past is the prerogative of small-spirited man, as is also the dread of adverse criticism. now the commingling bubbles are one of nature's little parables, and my conception of ideal sympathy." his eyes were upon her now, and, strangely impelled, her own came round to meet them. "i'm not wholly sure that i get your meaning," she said, feeling that he exacted a reply. "is it that association and sympathy are merely the result of chance?" "chance is only a word that we use to express the workings of a force beyond our understanding." he stooped and picked up a little stone, weighed it momentarily in his palm, and then, reversing his hand, let it fall. "one would hardly be apt to call it chance," he added, "that, after leaving my hand, that pebble reached the ground. if we understood destiny as we understand gravitation, we should not say that our present meeting was due to chance, but rather that it was the logical outcome of a natural law." there was a long pause, during which he glanced at her more than once, with the seemingly careless but actually keenly observant air of a skilled physician studying a nervous patient. she was a little frightened, she confessed to herself, as she gathered her wits, staring at the bit of river which was visible from where they stood, and the slopes beyond. for weeks she had been prey to an apathy which was only broken, at intervals, by an outburst of passionate revolt. now, in some inexplicable fashion, the burden seemed to have slipped from her shoulders, and the feeling of depression was replaced by one of uplifting, of unreasonable exhilaration. the sensation was vaguely familiar to her, and, groping for a clue, she found its parallel in the preliminary action of ether, which she had taken a year or so before. through the growing, not unpleasurable, dizziness which came upon her thus, the man's voice made its way. "let me try to explain myself more clearly," he was saying. "something--god, or chance, or destiny, or whatever you choose to call it--led me around that last turn of the road at a moment when, if i'm not mistaken, a fellow being came to the snapping-point of self-control. i can't think our meeting without significance. i believe i was sent to help you. the question is, whether you're broad and generous and courageous enough to take for granted a formal introduction, and the gradual evolution of acquaintance into intimacy, up to the moment when you would naturally turn to me, as your most loyal friend, for sympathy. and i think you will do that." once more helen looked at him. her mind was curiously clouded, but the sensation gave her no uneasiness. instead, she felt that she was smiling. "i think you will do it," he repeated. he was holding out his hand with the confidence of one who knows it will be accepted, and, after a moment, she laid her own within it. his fingers closed firmly on hers, and, of a sudden, the world drew in about her, graying, as under the touch of fog. her last perception was of his eyes fixed full on hers with an expression of quiet amusement. "i'm faint," she murmured, "i am--faint--" when she came to herself, his eyes still held her. "in the strange, unknowable book of fate," he said, "it was written, from the beginning of time, that you and i should meet upon a dull hillside in late november, and--and that all that has been should be!" before she had time to answer, he had left her. briefly she stood, dizzy and perplexed, and then, after one great leap, her heart seemed to shudder and stand still. _she was in the sordid little living-room of the kingsbridge cottage, and outside the day was glooming into twilight!_ without power to move, she watched from the window the man who had just gone, pass down the path and through the gate, and, turning, wave a farewell, before he hurried away in the direction of the station. then she was fully aroused by the entrance of the postman, and went slowly to meet him at the door. there was only one letter, but this was directed in her husband's unsteady hand, and, as she opened it, the contents leapt at her like a blow: "helen:" "let me be as brief as you will think me brutal. when this reaches you i shall already be far at sea--with another woman. i have seen how you despised me, and i think that you know this, and that i hate you for it. i shall not ask you to forgive me, for i, too, have many things to forgive. if you had understood me, much that has happened might never have been. but what is past is past. let us bury it and have done." "john." for minutes, which seemed an eternity, helen stood, fingering the wretched sheet, and gazing straight before her with blank, unwinking eyes. then, with a rush, came remembrance, and with it a great wave of relief. before she fully comprehended her intention, she was at the gate of the cottage. but there she halted, with a nameless sense of loss and desperation. from the distance had come the yelp of a signalled locomotive, and then a dozen short, choking pants, as it dragged the reluctant train into motion. he had gone! "but he will come back!" she murmured, "and, that he may come sooner, i will write." it was only towards the end of her black, sleepless night that she remembered that she did not even know his name. late autumn slid gloomily into winter, and winter into spring, before she realized that he would never come. to her father she had written nothing of vane's desertion. for a year past, his name had not been mentioned in their letters, so the omission was no longer noted, and mr. sterling's remittances enabled her to live in material comfort. she clung to the forlorn little cottage with a vague feeling that by it alone could she be traced when he should come back for her; but took a servant, a slovenly little wench, who moved in a circumambient odour of carbolic acid, and amassed dust under beds and sofas as a miser hoards his gold. helen herself saw nothing, heeded nothing. save in the impulse which followed her reading of vane's letter, her mind was never wholly clear from the shadow which had descended upon it at the moment of that hand-grip on the hillside. hour after hour, day after day, week after week, she sat at the window, motionless, listening for the creak of the gate, the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path, which would tell her that he had returned. with spring the disillusion came, and she crept back to the shelter of her father's house, but to no change, save slow and listless surrender to the inevitable. sometimes they heard her whispering to herself, as she sat, with some book which they had brought her, unopened on her knee--odd scraps of sentences, and broken phrases, without apparent relevancy or connection. the family physician, a friend from boyhood of andrew sterling, tapped his forehead significantly at such times as these, and the hands of the two men would meet in a grasp of mutual understanding. one night in late august her child was born, and the west wind that brought a new soul to the sterling door, pausing an instant in its passing, gathered up, and in its kind arms bore away, on its pathless flight into the great unknown, the tired spirit of helen vane. chapter i. mr. carnby receives a letter. mr. and mrs. jeremy carnby furnished to the reflective observer a striking illustration of the circumstance that extremes not only meet, but, not infrequently, marry. mrs. carnby confessed to fifty, and was in reality forty-seven. as, in any event, incredulity answers "never!" when a woman makes mention of her age, she preferred that the adverb should be voiced with flattering emphasis and in her presence, rather than sarcastically and behind her back. she was nothing if not original. mrs. carnby was distinctly plain, a fact which five minutes of her company effectually deprived of all significance: her power of attraction being as forceful as that of a magnet, and similar to a magnet's in its absence of outward evidence. she was a woman of temperate but kaleidoscopic enthusiasms, who had retained enough of the atmosphere of each to render her interesting to a variety of persons. prolonged experience of the world had invested her with an admirable broad-mindedness, which caused her to tread the notoriously dangerous paths of the american colony, in which she was a constant and conspicuous figure, with the assurance of an indian fakir walking on broken glass--pleasurably appreciative of the risk, that is, while assured by consummate _savoir faire_ against cutting her feet. her _fort_ was tact. she had at one and the same time a faculty for forgetting confidences which commended her to women, and a knack of remembering them which endeared her to men. it was with the latter that she was preëminently successful. what might have been termed her masculine method was based on the broad, general principle that the adult male is most interested in the persons most interested in him, and it never failed, in its many modifications, of effect. men told her of their love-affairs, for example, with the same unquestioning assurance wherewith they intrusted their funds to a reputable banker; and were apt to remember the manner in which their confidences were received, longer than the details of the confidences themselves. and when you can listen for an hour, with every evidence of extreme interest, to a man's rhapsodies about another woman, and, at the end, send him away with a distinct recollection of the gown you wore, or the perfume on the handkerchief he picked up for you, then, dear lady, there is nothing more to be said. mr. jeremy carnby infrequently accompanied his wife to a reception or a _musicale_, somewhat as chinese idols and emperors are occasionally produced in public--as an assurance of good faith, that is, and in proof of actual existence. as it is not good form to flaunt one's marriage certificate in the faces of society, an undeniable, flesh-and-blood husband is, perhaps, the next best thing--when exhibited, of course, with that golden mean of frequency which lies between a hint of henpeck on the one side and a suggestion of neglect upon the other. mrs. carnby blazed in the social firmament of the american colony with the unwavering fixity of the polar star: jeremy appeared rarely, but with extreme regularity, like a comet of wide orbit, as evidence that the marital solar system was working smoothly and well. mrs. carnby was, and not unreasonably, proud of jeremy. they had lived twenty-five years in paris, and, to the best of her knowledge and belief, he was as yet unaware, at least in a sentimental sense, that other women so much as existed. since one cannot own the obélisque or the vénus de milo, it is assuredly something to have a husband who never turns his head on the avenue du bois, or finds a use for an opera-glass at the folies-bergère. jeremy was not amusing, still less brilliant, least of all popular; but he was preëminently loyal and unfeignedly affectionate--qualities sufficiently rare in the world in which mrs. carnby lived, and moved, and had the greater portion of her being, to recommend themselves strongly to her shrewd, uncompromising mind. in her somewhat over-furnished life he occupied a distinct niche, which one else could have filled; and in this, to her way of thinking, he was unique--as a husband. after _foie gras_ and champagne, mrs. carnby always breakfasted on american hominy, a mealy red apple, and a glass of milk. she was equally careful, however, to take the meal in company with jeremy. he was part of the treatment. the carnby _hôtel_ was one of the number in the villa dupont. one turned in through a narrow gateway, from the sordid dinginess of the rue pergolèse, and, at a stone's throw from the latter's pungent cheese and butter shops, and grimy _charbonneries_, came delightfully into the shade of chestnuts greener than those exposed to the dust of the great avenues, and to the sound of fountains plashing into basins buried in fresh turf. it was very quiet, like some charming little back street at st. germain or versailles, and the houses, with their white walls and green shutters and glass-enclosed porticos, were more like country villas than parisian _hôtels_. the gay stir of the boulevards and the avenue du bois might, to all seeming, have been a hundred kilometres distant, so still and simple was this little corner of the capital. jeremy frankly adored it. he had a great office looking out upon the place de l'opéra, and when he rose from his desk, his head aching with the reports and accounts of the mighty insurance company of which he was the european manager, and went to the window in search of distraction, it was only to have his eyes met by a dizzier hodge-podge than that of the figures he had left--the moil of _camions_, omnibuses, and cabs, threading in and out at the intersection of the six wide driveways, first up and down, and then across, as the brigadier in charge regulated the traffic with sharp trills of his whistle, which jerked up the right arms of the policemen at the crossings, as if some one had pulled the strings of so many marionettes with white batons in their hands. all this was not irritating, or even displeasing, to jeremy. he was too thorough an american, despite his long residence in paris, and too keen a business man, notwithstanding his wife's fortune, not to derive satisfaction from every evidence of human energy. the place de l'opéra appealed to the same instincts in his temperament that would have been gratified by the sight of a stop-cylinder printing-machine in action. but, not the less for that, his heart was domiciled in the _hôtel_ in the villa dupont. on a certain evening in mid-april, jeremy had elaborated his customary half-hour walk homeward with a detour by way of the boulevard malesherbes, the parc monceau, and the avenue hoche, and it was close upon six when he let himself in at his front door, and laid his derby among the shining top-hats of his wife's callers, on the table in the _antichambre_. through the half-parted curtains at the _salon_ door came scraps of conversation, both in french and english, and the pleasant tinkle of cups and saucers; and, as he passed, he had a glimpse of several well-groomed men, in white waistcoats and gaiters, sitting on the extreme edges of their chairs, with their toes turned in, their elbows on their knees, and tea-cups in their hands; and smartly-dressed women, with big hats, and their veils tucked up across their noses, nibbling at _petits fours_. he turned into his study with a feeling of satisfaction. it was incomprehensible to his mind, this seemingly universal passion for tea and sweet cakes; but if the institution was to exist under his roof at all, it was gratifying to know that, albeit the tea was the finest indian overland, and the sweet cakes from the maison gagé, it was not for these reasons alone that the th arrondissement was eager, and the th not loath, to be received at the _hôtel_ in the villa dupont. jeremy knew that his wife was the most popular woman in the colony, as to him she was the best and most beautiful in the world. before he touched the _temps_ or the half-dozen letters which lay upon his table, he leaned forward, with his elbows on the silver-mounted blotter, and his temples in his hands, and looked long at her photograph smiling at him out of its russian enamel frame. if the world, which laughed at him for his prim black neckties and his common-sense shoes, even while it respected him for his business ability, had seen him thus, it would have shared his wife's knowledge that jeremy carnby was an uncommonly good sort. he opened his letters carefully, slitting the envelopes with a slender paper-knife, and endorsing each one methodically with the date of receipt before passing on to the next. all were private and personal, his voluminous business mail being handled at his office by a secretary and two stenographers. with characteristic loyalty, jeremy wrote regularly to a score of old acquaintances and poor relations in the states, most of whom he had seen but once or twice in the twenty-five years of his exile, and read their replies with interest, often with emotion: and his own left hand knew not how many cheques had been signed, and cheering words written, by his unassuming right, in reply to the plaints and appeals of his intimates of former years. for the steady, white light of jeremy carnby's kindliness let never a glint of its brightness pass through the closely-woven bushel of his modesty. he hesitated with the last letter in his hand, reread it slowly, and then lit a cigar and sat looking fixedly at his inkstand, blowing out thin coils of smoke. so mrs. carnby found him, as she swept in, dropped into a big red-leather arm-chair, and slid smoothly into an especial variety of small talk, wherewith she was wont to smooth the business wrinkles from his forehead, and bring him into a frame of mind proper to an appreciation of the efforts of their _chef_. "if it isn't smoking a cigar at fifteen minutes before the dinner-hour!" she began, with an assumption of indignation. "really, jeremy, you're getting quite revolutionary in your ways. i think i shall tell armand that hereafter we shall begin dinner with coffee, have salad with the rüdesheimer, and take our soup in the conservatory." mr. carnby laid down his cigar. "i lit it absent-mindedly," he answered. "have they gone?" "no, of course not, stupid!" retorted his wife. "they're all out there. i told them to wait until we'd finished dinner. now, jeremy! why _will_ you ask such questions?" "it _was_ stupid of me," he admitted. "and to punish you, i shall tell you who they were," announced mrs. carnby. "i might do worse and tell you all they said. you're so--so _comfortable_, jeremy. when i'm on the point of boiling over because of the inanities of society i can always come in here and open my safety-valve, and you don't care a particle, do you, if i fill your study full of conversational steam?" jeremy smiled pleasantly. "you _nice_ person!" added his wife. "well, here goes. first, there was that stupid mrs. maitland. she told me all about her portrait. it seems benjamin-constant is painting it--and i thought the others would never come. finally, however, they did--the villemot girls and mrs. sidney kane, and a few men--daulas and de bousac and gerald kennedy and that insufferable little lister man. then madame palffy. it makes me furious every time i hear her called 'madame.' the creature was born in worcester--and do you know, jeremy, i'm positive she buys her gowns at an upholsterer's? no mere dressmaker could lend her that striking resemblance to a sofa, which is growing stronger every day! her french is too impossible. she was telling daulas about something that never happened to her on her way out to their country place, and i heard her say '_compartiment de dames soûles_' quite distinctly. i can't imagine how she contrives to know so many things that aren't so. one would suppose she'd stumble over a real, live fact now and again, if only by accident. and her husband's no better. trying to find the truth in one of his stories severely taxes one's aptitude in long division. i saw him at the hatzfeldts' _musicale_ night before last. pazzini was playing, and palffy was sound asleep in a corner, after three glasses of punch. i really felt sorry that a man with such a wife should be missing something attractive, and i was going to poke him surreptitiously with my fan, but tom radwalader said, 'better let the lying dog sleep!' he positively _is_ amusing, that radwalader man!" mrs. carnby looked up at her husband for the admiring smile which was the usual guarantee that she had amused him, but only to find jeremy's eyes once more riveted upon the inkstand, and the cigar between his thin lips again. "my dear jeremy," she said, "i'm convinced that you've not heard one syllable of my carefully prepared discourse." "my dear louisa," responded mr. carnby with unwonted readiness, "i'm convinced that i have not. the truth of the matter is," he added apologetically, "that i've received an unusual letter." "it must indeed be unusual if it can cause you to ignore my conversation," said louisa carnby. "that is perfectly true," said jeremy with conviction. his wife rose, came over to his side, and kissed him on the tip of his nose. "good my lord," she said, "i think i like your tranquil endorsement of the compliments i make for myself better than those which other men invent out of their own silly heads! am i to know what is in your unusual letter?" "why not?" asked jeremy seriously. "why not, indeed?" said mrs. carnby. "i have taken you for better or worse. there's so little 'worse' about the contract, jeremy, that i stand ready to accept such as there is in a willing spirit, even when it comes in the form of a dull letter." jeremy looked up at her with his familiar smile. "louisa," he said, "if i were twenty years of age, i should ask nothing better than the chance to marry you again." "man! but thou'rt the cozener!" exclaimed mrs. carnby. "thou'dst fair turn the head of a puir lassis. there--that'll do. go on with your letter!" "it's from andrew sterling," said jeremy. "you'll remember him, i think, in boston. he was a friend of my father's, and kept a friendly eye on me after the old gentleman's death. we've always corresponded, more or less regularly, and now he writes to say--but perhaps i'd best read you that part of his letter." "undoubtedly," put in his wife. "that is, if you can. people write so badly, nowadays." "um--um--" mumbled jeremy, skipping the introductory sentences. "ah! here we have it. mr. sterling says: 'now for the main purpose of this letter. my poor daughter's only son, andrew sterling vane, is sailing to-day on the _kaiser wilhelm der grosse_. he has been obliged to leave harvard, as his health is not robust, and i have thought that perhaps the sea-voyage and some months in paris might put him in shape--'" "_good_ lord!" broke in mrs. carnby. "imagine some months in paris by way of rest-cure!" "'and so,'" continued jeremy, "'i'm sending him over, in hopes that the change may be of benefit. he is a singular lad--sensitive in the extreme, and utterly inexperienced--and i am going to ask if, "for auld lang syne," you will be so good as to make him welcome. i don't mean, of course, that i expect you to exercise any sort of supervision. the boy must take care of himself, like all of us, but i would like to feel that, in a strange city, there is one place where he may find a hint of home." jeremy paused. "go on!" observed mrs. carnby. "there is really nothing more of importance," said her husband, "except that i've also received a note from young vane. he's at the ritz." "of course!" ejaculated mrs. carnby. "paying two louis per diem for his room, and making semi-daily trips to morgan, harjes'. they're wonderful, these tourist bank-accounts. their progress from a respectable amount to absolute zero is as inevitable as the recession of the sea from high-water mark to dead low tide--a steady withdrawal from the bank, my dear jeremy! how old might the young gentlemen be?" mr. carnby made a mental calculation. "his mother was about my own age," he said presently. "i know she and i used to go to dancing-school together. and she died in childbirth, if i remember rightly. her husband was a scamp--ran off with another woman. i never saw him. that would make the boy about twenty or twenty-one." "he will be rather good-looking," said mrs. carnby reflectively, "with a general suggestion of soap and cold water about him. he will wear preposterously heavy boots with the soles projecting all around like little piazzas, and a straw hat, and dog-skin gloves with seams like small hedges, and turned back at the wrists. they're all exactly alike, the young americans one sees over here. one would think they came by the dozen, in a box. and when he is sitting down he will be hitching at his trousers all the time, so that the only thing one remembers about him afterwards is the pattern of his stockings." "we ought to invite him to dinner," suggested jeremy. "without doubt," agreed his wife; "but to breakfast first, i think--and on sunday. one can judge a man's character so well by the way he behaves at sunday breakfast. if he fidgets, and drinks quantities of water, then he's dissipated! i don't know why saturday night is always fatal to dissipated men, but it is. if his top hat looks as if it had been brushed the wrong way, then he's religious, and has been to church. i shall go out and inspect it while you're smoking. if he does all the talking, he's an ass; and if i do it all, he's a fool." "you're a difficult critic, my dear," said jeremy. "you must remember he is only twenty or so." "to be twenty or so in appearance is a man's misfortune," replied mrs. carnby. "to be twenty or so in behaviour is his fault. i'll write to him to-night, and ask him to breakfast on sunday, _tout à fait en famille_, and we'll try him on a--you don't mind my calling you a dog, jeremy?" "not in the least," said mr. carnby. "_eh bien!_" said his wife. "we'll have him to breakfast on sunday, and try him on a dog! if he's presentable and amusing, i shall make him my exclusive property. if he's dull, i shall tell him madame palffy is a woman he should cultivate assiduously. i send her all the people who don't pass muster at my dinners. she has them next day, like warmed-over _vol-au-vents_. my funeral baked meats do coldly furnish forth her breakfast-table." "when you wish to appear most unmerciful, my dear," said jeremy, "you always pick out madame palffy; and whenever you do, i spoil the effect of what you say by thinking of--" "margery?" put in mrs. carnby. "yes, of course, that's my soft spot, jeremy. there's only one thing which margery palffy ought to be that she isn't, and that's--ahem!--an orphan." chapter ii. new friends and old. in ordinary, mrs. carnby was one of the rare mortals who succeed in disposing as well as in proposing, but there were times when there was not even a family resemblance between her plans and her performances. she had fully intended that young vane should be the only guest at her sunday breakfast, but as she came out of church that morning into the brilliant sunlight of the avenue de l'alma, she found herself face to face with the ratchetts, newly returned from monte carlo, and promptly bundled the pair of them into her victoria. furthermore, as the carriage swung round the arc, and into the avenue du bois, she suddenly espied mr. thomas radwalader, lounging, with an air of infinite boredom, down the _plage_. "there's that radwalader, thinking about himself again!" she exclaimed, digging her coachman in the small of his ample back with the point of her tulle parasol. "positively, it would be cruelty to animals not to rescue him. _arretez_, benoit!" radwalader came up languidly as the carriage stopped. "where are you going?" demanded mrs. carnby, after greetings had been exchanged. "home," answered radwalader. "i met madame palffy back there a bit, and couldn't get away for ten minutes. you know, it's shocking on the nerves, that kind of thing, so i thought i'd drop in at my quarters for a pick-me-up." "well, if i'm not a pick-you-up, i'm sure i don't know what is," said mrs. carnby. "you're to come to breakfast. you'll have to walk, though. we're three already, you see, and i don't want people to take my carriage for a _panier à salade_. i hadn't the most remote intention of asking you; but when a man tells me he's been talking for ten minutes to that palffy, i always take him in and give him a good square meal." "you're very kind," said radwalader. "are you going to play bridge afterwards? if so, i must go home for more money." "nothing of the sort!" said mrs. carnby emphatically. "there's a _protégé_ of jeremy's coming to breakfast--a bostonian, twenty years young, and over here for his health. you must all go, directly after coffee. i'm going to spend the afternoon feeding him with sweet spirits of nitre out of a spoon, and teaching him his catechism. perhaps you'd like to stay and learn yours?" "i think i know it," laughed radwalader. "if you do, it's one of your own fabrication, then--with just a single question and answer. 'what is my duty toward myself? my duty toward myself is, under all circumstances, to do exactly as i dee please.'" "if that were the case, my good woman, i should live up to my profession of faith, not only by accepting your invitation, as i mean to do, but by staying the entire afternoon." "that's very nicely said indeed," answered mrs. carnby. "_allez_, benoit!" twenty minutes later the whole party were assembled in her _salon_. carnby, caught by his wife as he was scuttling into his study, was now doing his visibly inadequate best to entertain philip ratchett, who stood gloomily before him, with his legs far apart, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the top button of his host's waistcoat. he was a typical englishman, of the variety which leans against door-jambs in the pages of _punch_, and makes unfortunate remarks beginning with "i say--" about the relatives of the stranger addressed. society bored him to the verge of extinction, but it is only fair to say that he repaid the debt with interest. he was tolerated--as many a man before and after him has been--for the sake of his wife. mrs. ratchett patronized, with equal ardour, a sewing-class which fabricated unmentionable garments of red flannel for supposedly grateful heathen, and a society for psychical research which boasted of liberal-mindedness because it was willing to admit that, at the dawn of the twentieth century, the causes of certain natural phenomena yet remained unexplained. her entire conception of life underwent a radical change whenever she read a new book, which she did at fortnightly intervals. she was thirty, clever, and frankly beautiful, hence a factor in the colony. the fifth member of the company in mrs. carnby's _salon_, mr. thomas radwalader, enjoyed the truly parisian distinction of being an impecunious bachelor who did not accept all the invitations he received. he might have been thirty-five or forty-five or fifty-five. his smooth-shaven, impassive face offered no indication whatever of his age. he was already quite gray, but, in contrast to this, his speech was tinged with a frivolity, rather pleasant than otherwise, which hinted at youth. mrs. carnby had once described him as being "dappled with knowledge," and this, in common with the majority of mrs. carnby's estimates, came admirably near to being exact. radwalader's actual fund of information was far less ample than was indicated by the facility with which he talked on any and every subject, but he was master of the science of selection. he judged others--and rightly--by himself, and went upon the often-proven theory that a polished brilliant attracts more attention than an uncut koh-i-nur. he made the superficial things of life his own, and on the rare occasions when the trend of conversation led him out of his depth, he caught at the life-belt of epigram, and had found his feet again before men better informed had finished floundering. he lived in a tiny apartment, on the safe side of nothing a year, and kept up appearances with a skill that was little short of genius. gossip passed him by, a circumstance for which he was devoutly grateful, though it was due less to chance than to management. such was the company into which mr. andrew sterling had despatched his grandson--in hopes that the change might be of benefit. as he came through the _portières_, young vane proved to tally, in the main essentials of appearance, with mrs. carnby's prophetic estimate. he was somewhat more than rather good-looking, and essentially american, with the soap-and-cold-water suggestion strongly to the fore. mrs. carnby always noted three things about a man before she spoke to him--his hands, his linen, and his eyes. in the first two andrew vane qualified immediately; in the third his hostess was forced to confess herself at a loss. in singular contrast to a complexion dark almost to swarthiness, his eyes were large and of an intense steel-blue. he met those of another squarely, not alone with the frankness characteristic of youth, but with the strange calm of confidence typical of men accustomed to the command of a battle-ship or an army corps. mrs. carnby, in ordinary the most self-possessed of women, gave, almost guiltily, before the keen, clear eyes of andrew vane. "he has no business whatever to have eyes like that, at his age," she told herself, almost angrily. "they ought to _grow_ in a man's head, after he has seen everything there is to be seen." the thought was involuntary, but it recalled to her memory where she had seen their like before. "radwalader has them," she added mentally. "_good_ lord! _radwalader_! and this child hasn't even graduated!" during the brief interval between the general introduction and the announcement of breakfast, she studied her new guest with unwonted interest. he was of the satisfactory medium height at which a man is neither contemptible nor clumsy, slight in build, but straight as an arrow, with narrow hips and a square backward fling of shoulder which spoke of resolution. "he has 'no compromise' written all over his back," said mrs. carnby to herself. "i should believe everything he told me, and not be afraid of what i told him." then she noted that he was eminently at ease. there is something out of the common about twenty that keeps its hands hanging at its sides, and its feet firmly planted, without suggesting a tailor's dummy. andrew was talking to mr. carnby about his grandfather and boston, and from the first to the last word of the short colloquy he did not once shift his position. as he stood thus, in some curious fashion consideration of his years was completely eliminated from one's thought of him. he was deferential, but in the negative manner of guest to host, rather than in the positive of youth to age; and, at the same time, he was assertive, but with the force of personality, not the conspicuity of awkwardness. he fitted into his surroundings instantly, like a wisely placed _bibelot_, but he dominated them as well. "that palffy," was mrs. carnby's final resolve, "shall get him only over my dead body." and so, unconsciously, andrew scored his first parisian triumph. for the first ten minutes of breakfast, mrs. carnby, at whose left he sat, let him designedly alone. it was her belief that men, like saddle-horses, should be given their heads in strange territory, and left to find themselves--this in contrast to the policy of her social rival, madame palffy, who boasted of being able to draw out the best there was in a new acquaintance in the first quarter-hour of conversation. in this she was probably correct, though in a sense which she did not perceive--for few good qualities survived the strain of that initial quarter-hour. but if mrs. carnby's attention appeared to be engrossed by radwalader on her right, and mrs. ratchett beyond radwalader, she kept, nevertheless, a weather eye on andrew; and when, presently, his spoon tinkled on his _bouillon_ saucer, she turned to him. "i've been watching you," she began, "to see how you would take to french oysters. it's a test i always apply to newcomers from america. if they eat only one _marennes verte_, i know at once that they approve of forty-story buildings, and are going to talk about 'getting back to god's country'; if they eat all six, i know i may venture to hint that there are advantages about living in paris, without having my head bitten off for being an expatriate." "it would seem your head is quite safe, so far as i am concerned," laughed andrew, "for i finished off my half-dozen, and thought them very good." "then you have the soul of a parisian in the body of a bostonian," affirmed mrs. carnby. "a liking for _marennes vertes_ is a survival of a previous state of existence. here's mr. radwalader, for instance, who can't abide them, even after heaven knows _how_ many years in paris." "they taste so much like two-sou pieces that, whenever i eat them, they make me feel like a frog savings-bank," said radwalader. "there you are!" cried mrs. carnby triumphantly. "that would never have arisen as an objection in the mind of any one who had known what it is to be a parisian." "or a frog savings-bank," said radwalader. "no, i suppose not. i can't seem to live down the fact that i was born in the shadow of independence hall. but i'm doing so much to make up for the bad beginnings of my present incarnation, that i shall undoubtedly be a parisian in my next. have you been here long, mr. vane?" "three days." "do you speak french?" put in mrs. carnby. "no? what a pity! you've no idea what a difference it makes." "i've only such a smattering as one gets in school and college," said andrew. "of course i didn't _know_ i was coming over here. but, after all, one seems to get on very well with english." "that's just the trouble, mr. vane," volunteered mrs. ratchett. "so many americans are content just to 'get on' over here. that isn't the cue to paris at all! it only means that you and she are on terms of bowing acquaintance. you'll never get to know her till you can talk to her in her own tongue." "or listen to her talk to you," observed radwalader. "so long as we're using the feminine gender--" "oh!" interrupted mrs. carnby. "a remark like that _does_ come with _extreme_ grace from you, i _must_ say. here," she added, turning to mrs. ratchett, and indicating radwalader with her fish-fork, "here's a man, my dear, who spent two solid hours of last monday telling me the story of his life. and it reminded me precisely of a peacock--one long, stuck-up tale with a hundred i's in it. radwalader, you're a brute!" carnby, with his eyes fixed vacantly upon a spot midway between a pepper-mill and a little dish of salted almonds, appeared to be revolving some complicated business problem in his mind; and, as his wife caught sight of him, her fish-fork swung round a quarter-circle in her fingers, like a silver weathercock, until, instead of radwalader, it indicated the point of her husband's nose. "that person," she said to andrew, "is either in trieste or buda. his company has an incapable agent in both cities, and whenever he glares at vacancy, like a hairdresser's image, i know he is in either one town or the other. with practice, i shall come to detect the shade of difference in his expression which will tell me which it is. mr. ratchett--some more of the _éperlans_?" ratchett was deeply engaged in dressing morsels of smelts in little overcoats of _sauce tartare_, assisting them carefully with his knife to scramble aboard his fork, and, having braced them there firmly with cubes of creamed potato, conveying the whole arrangement to his mouth, where he instantly secured it from escape by popping in a piece of bread upon its very heels. he looked up, as mrs. carnby spoke to him, murmured "'k you," and immediately returned to the business in hand. radwalader and mrs. ratchett had fallen foul of each other over a chance remark of his, and were now just disappearing into a fog of art discussion, from which, in his voice, an abrupt "besnard" popped, at intervals, as indignantly as a ball from a roman candle, or, in hers, the word "whistler" rolled forth with an inflection which suggested the name of a cathedral. "tell me a little about yourself," said mrs. carnby, turning again to andrew. "if it's to be about myself," he answered, "i think it's apt to be little indeed. i've been in college almost three years, but i've been kept back, more or less, by a touch of fever i picked up on a trip to cuba. it crops out every now and again, and knocks me into good-for-nothingness for a while. i'm not sure that i shall go back to harvard. you see, i want to _do_ something." "what?" demanded mrs. carnby. "i'm not sure. i'm over here in search of a hint." "and a very excellent idea, too!" said his hostess. "because, if you will keep your eyes open in the american colony, you'll see about everything which a man ought _not_ to do; and after that it should be comparatively easy to make a choice among the few things that remain." "you're not very flattering to the american colony," said andrew. "that's because i belong to it," replied mrs. carnby, "and you'll find i'm about the only woman in it, able to speak french, who will make that admission. i belong to it, and i love it--for its name. it's about as much like america as a cold veal cutlet with its gravy coagulated--if you've ever seen _that_!--is like the same thing fresh off the grill. but i don't allow any one but myself to say so!" "you're patriotic," suggested andrew. "only passively. i'm extremely doubtful as to the exact location of 'god's country,' and, even if you were to prove to my satisfaction that it lies between seattle and tampa, i'm not sure i should want to live there. america's a kind of conservatory on my estate. i don't care to sit in it continually, but, at the same time, i don't like to have other people throwing stones through the roof. but about what you want to do?" "i really haven't the most remote idea. i want it to be something worth while--something which will attract attention." "nothing does, nowadays," said mrs. carnby, "except air-ships and remarriage within two hours of divorce." "what _are_ you talking about?" asked mrs. ratchett, suddenly abandoning the argument in which it was evident that she was coming out second best. "my choice of a profession," replied andrew. "i don't want to make a mistake. but everything seems to be overcrowded." "exactly," observed radwalader. "it isn't so much a question of selecting what's right as of getting what's left. haven't you a special talent?" "i'm afraid not," said andrew. "and if you had, it wouldn't do you much good in the states," commented mrs. carnby. "nothing counts over there but money and social position. it's the only country on earth where it's less blessed to be gifted than received." "i had thought of civil engineering," said andrew. "civil engineering?" repeated mrs. carnby. "but, my dear mr. vane, _that's_ not a profession. it's only a synonym for getting on in society. we're all of us civil engineers!" she pushed back her chair as she spoke. "we'll wait for you in the _salon_," she added, "and, meanwhile, mrs. ratchett and i will think up a profession for mr. vane. jeremy, you're to give them the shortest cigars you have." "i was once in the same quandary," said radwalader to andrew, when the men were left alone, "and concluded to let time answer the question for me. you may have noticed that time is prone to reticence. so far, he has not committed himself one way or another." "i'm afraid i haven't the patience for that," said andrew. "besides, it's different in america. one _has_ to do something over there. it's almost against the law to be idle." "of course. the only remedy for that is to live in paris. you might do that. it's a profession all by itself--of faith, if nothing else. only one has need of the golden means." "i think i am a homeopathist, so far as europe is concerned," said andrew. "i'm already a little homesick for the common." "it's a bad pun," answered radwalader, "but is there anything in america but--the common?" "you can't expect me to agree with you there." "i don't. i never expect any one to agree with me. it takes all the charm out of conversation. you may remember that mark twain once said that it's a difference of opinion which makes horse-races. he should have made it human races. that would have been truer, and so, more original. but a homeopathist is only a man who has never tried allopathy. you must let me convert you by showing you something of paris. if i've any profession at all, it's that of guide." "you're very kind," said andrew, "but you mustn't let your courtesy put you to inconvenience on my account. there must be a penalty attached to knowing paris well, in the form of fellow country-men who want to be shown about." "'never a rose but has its thorn,'" quoted radwalader. "if you know paris well, you're overrun; and if you don't, you're run over. of the two, the former is the less objectionable. when we leave here, perhaps you'd like to go out to the races for a while? if you haven't been, auteuil is well worth seeing of a sunday afternoon." "i should be very glad," said andrew. "then we'll consider it agreed. i see carnby is getting to his feet. he is about to make his regular postprandial speech. it is one to be commended for its brevity." "the ladies?" suggested jeremy interrogatively. "by all means!" said radwalader, as his cigarette sizzled into the remainder of his coffee. "it's a toast to which we all respond." "by the way," said ratchett, as they moved toward the _portières_, "i was going to ask you chaps about membership in the volney." the three men gathered in a group, and andrew, seeing that they were about to speak of something in which he had no concern, passed into the _salon_. here he was surprised to find three women instead of two--still more surprised when the newcomer wheeled suddenly, and came toward him with both hands outstretched. "how do you _do_?" she said. "what a charming surprise! mrs. carnby was just speaking of you, and i've been telling her what jolly times we used to have last summer at beverly. how delightful to find you here! mrs. carnby's my dearest friend, you must know, mr. vane." "miss palffy is one of the few people to whom i always feel equal," observed mrs. carnby. "i can say the same, i'm sure," agreed andrew. "that means that you and i are to be friends as well, then," answered mrs. carnby, "because things that are equal to the same thing are bound to be equal to each other. are you going out with jeremy, margery?" "yes--our usual sunday spree, you know. he's a dear!" she bent over as she spoke and buried her nose in one of the big roses on the table. "lord, girl, but i'm glad to see you again!" said the inner voice of andrew vane. chapter iii. the girl in red. the saddling-bell was whirring for the third race as andrew and radwalader slipped in at the main entrance of auteuil, and made their way rapidly through the throng behind the _tribunes_, in the direction of the betting-booths beyond. "we'll just have time to place our bets," said radwalader, as he scanned the bulletins. "numbers two, five, six, and eleven are out. scratch them off your programme and we'll take our pick of the rest." "you'll have to advise me," answered andrew. "one couldn't very well be more ignorant of the horses than i am." "i never give advice," said radwalader, with an air of seriousness. "i used to, long ago. i went about vaccinating my friends, as it were, with counsel, but none of it ever took, or was taken--whichever way you choose to put it--so i gave it up. besides, a french race-horse is like the girl one elects to marry. the choice is purely a matter of luck, and there's no depending upon the record of previous performances. i've always thought that if _i_ had to choose a wife, i'd prefer to do it in the course of a game of blind-man's buff. the one i caught i'd keep. then the choice would at least be unprejudiced. shut your eyes, my dear vane, and stick your pencil-point through your programme. then open them and bet on the horse nearest the puncture." and he went through this little performance himself with the utmost solemnity. "it's vivandière," he added. "i shall stake a louis on vivandière." "and i, for originality's sake, shall choose mathias, with my eyes open," said andrew, laughing, as they took their places in line before the booth. "well, you couldn't do better," observed his companion. "he's a willing little beast, and not unlikely to romp home in the lead. i'd bet on him myself, except that i'm so damnably unlucky that it really wouldn't be fair to you, vane. i never back a horse but what he falls. i had ten louis up, last sunday, on a steeplechase, and the water-jump was so full of the horses i'd chosen that, upon my soul, you couldn't see the water! it was for all the world like the sunken road at waterloo after the charge of the _cuirassiers_." when they had purchased their tickets, radwalader led the way to the front of the _tribunes_, and, mounting upon the bench along the rail, turned his back upon the course, and began to survey the throng in the tiers of seats above. "this is my favourite way of introducing a newcomer to paris," he said presently. "she never appears to better advantage than when she is togged out in her sunday-go-to-race-meeting-best." with his stick he began to point out people here and there, until, from a narrow gateway to their right, the horses filed out upon the track, and they turned, resting their elbows on the railing, to watch them go by. "that's vivandière," said radwalader. "poor animal! she runs the best possible chance of breaking her neck. if the jockey so much as suspected that i'd her number in my pocket, he'd probably have taken out a policy on his life. there's mathias--the little chestnut. he looks in rattling good form. i suspect you haven't thrown away that louis." "it wouldn't be a very ruinous loss, in any event," said andrew. radwalader was choosing a cigarette from his case. "i wonder," he answered, rolling it between his fingers, "if you'd mind my asking you if you mean that? to some people it would be a consideration; to others, none whatever. it isn't conventional, or even good form, to pry into a man's finances, but we shall probably be going about together, more or less, during your stay, and in such a case i always like to know how a man stands in regard to expenses. i don't want to embarrass you by proposing things you don't feel you can afford, still less to be a clog upon you when you wish to go beyond my means." he looked up, smiling frankly. "don't misunderstand me," he added. "it's not in the least an idle curiosity. i'm an old friend of mrs. carnby's, and it would be a great pleasure to do anything to make your visit a success. but, if you'll trust me, i'd be glad to know how you propose to live. you don't think me impertinent?" "not in the least," said andrew. "i understand perfectly. it's a very sensible point of view. and i'll say candidly that my grandfather, mr. sterling, has been very generous; so that, unless i'm totally reckless, there's no reason why i shouldn't have the best of everything." he paused for a moment, and then added: "my letter of credit is for thirty thousand francs." "thank you," said radwalader. "it makes things easier. i'd forgotten for the moment your relationship to mr. sterling, or i shouldn't have needed to take the liberty of speaking as i did. i met him once in boston, i think. isn't he called the 'copper czar'?" "i believe he is," replied andrew. "but there's not much in nicknames, you know." "no, of course not," agreed his companion. "there goes the bell. for once, it's a fair start." far away, beyond the thickly-peopled stretch of the _pelouse_, a group of gaily-coloured dots went rocking rapidly to the left, vanished for an instant at the turn, and then flashed into view again in the form of jockeys standing stiffly in their stirrups, as the horses swept down the transverse stretch. people were shouting all about them, and in andrew's unaccustomed ears the blood surged and hammered madly. he was at the age when there is nothing more inspiring than such a play of life and action, under the open sky and over the close-cropped turf. the ripple of lithe muscles along the sleek flanks of the horses; the set, smooth-shaven faces of the rigid jockeys; the gleam of sunlight and colour; and the deep, crescendo voice of the multitude, swelling to thunder as the racers flew past--all these set his pulses tingling, until he, too, cried out impulsively in his excitement. it was his first horse-race, and his first glimpse of paris into the bargain. there is more than enough in the combination to set young blood aglow. "_houp! houp! houp!_" with sharp, staccato cries of encouragement, the jockeys were raising their mounts at the water-jump, over which they sailed gallantly, one after another, like great brown birds, until the very last. there was a lisp of grazed twigs, a long "a-ah!" from _pelouse_ and _pesage_ alike, a dull splash which sent the spray flying high in silver beads and then a jockey in a crimson blouse rolled heavily forward on the turf, arose, stamped his foot, and swore profusely in picturesque cockney at his mare, who had regained her feet and, with dangling rein and saddle all askew, stood looking back at him, as if uncertain whether to stop and inquire after his injuries or go on alone. abruptly deciding upon the latter as the wiser course, she set off at a leisurely gallop, to the accompaniment of shrill, sarcastic comments from the crowd, and an additional exposition of the jockey's astonishing wealth of vocabulary. "_voilà !_" sighed radwalader. "that was vivandière! what did i tell you? it's absolutely inhuman of me to bet on a horse. and look at mathias! he's twenty metres ahead of the rest, and going better every minute. you've hit it this time, vane. there's one comfort. you'll win back my louis, at all events. it's something to know that the money's not going out of the family." the crowd was already shouting "_mathias! c'est mathias qui gagne!_" as andrew bent forward to see the horses wheel again into the transverse cut. mathias was far in the lead, and seemed to gain yet more at the hurdle. the race was practically over, a thousand yards from the finish, and, as mathias flashed past the post, a winner by twenty lengths, and vivandière came ambling complacently in, at the end of the procession, with the stirrups bouncing grotesquely up and down, radwalader replaced his field-glass with a deep sigh of resignation, and the two men went back toward the bulletins to see the posting of the payments. it appeared, when the figures snapped into place, that mathias returned one hundred and ten francs, which meant a clear gain of ten louis. andrew had "hit it" in good earnest. "i think i shall adopt horse-racing as my profession," he laughed, as they cashed the ticket at the _caisse_. "let's see: forty dollars a race, six races a day, seven days to the week--two-forty--twenty-eight--fourteen--sixteen--sixteen hundred and eighty dollars a week. by jove! that's not bad, by way of a start!" "the start's the easiest part of it," observed radwalader. "even vivandière can manage that. it's the finish that counts, and the finish of horse-racing is commonly the penitentiary. it's the only profession where the hard labor comes at the end instead of at the beginning." "i think i'll hang on to what i've won, then," answered andrew. "if you've nothing better to do, perhaps you'll help me to spend part of it on a dinner to-night. you know all the best places. and now, if you don't mind, i'd like to walk about a bit, and see the people." "i accept both proposals with pleasure," said his companion. "we might dine at the tour d'argent, if you like. i haven't had one of frédéric's ducks in a little eternity." back of the _tribunes_ the crowd was greater now than it had been at the time of their arrival. there was the usual gay commingling of elaborate spring _toilettes_, brilliant parasols, white waistcoats, gloves, and gaiters, and red and blue uniforms; and, all about them, a babble of brilliant nothings. it was, as radwalader had said, paris at her best. he resumed his comments, which had been interrupted by the race, punctuating each sentence with a nod, or a few words, in french or english, to passing acquaintances, and flicking the gravel with the point of his stick. "i envy you your first impressions, my dear vane. it's an old story with me, all this, but i remember quite distinctly my first day on a french racecourse. it seemed to me the most wonderful spot on earth. i'd always lived in philadelphia, and from philadelphia to paris is something in the nature of a resurrection. for the first time in my life, i saw people in possession of something to live _for_, instead of merely something to live _on_. there wasn't so much as a wrinkle of anxiety in sight. then and there, i adopted paris as my permanent abode. you know this town is a kind of metaphorical fly-paper. when once one has settled, one stops buzzing and banging one's head against the window-screens of circumstance." "and flops over, and dies?" asked andrew. "it seems to me that's the unpleasant part about fly-paper." "i'm not sure of that," said radwalader. "i'd have to have the fly's word for it. all of us must die in one manner or another, and perhaps being suffocated by a surfeit of sugar and molasses is not the most disagreeable way. however, you are only going to browse along the edges." "there are some stunning women here," said andrew. "that's singularly _à propos_," replied radwalader. "are there any in particular whom you'd like to meet? i know about all of them." "oh, do you?" said andrew. "i hadn't noticed you bow." for a fraction of a second radwalader glanced at his companion's face. then-- "hadn't you?" he said, with a short laugh. "i'm afraid your eyes have been too busy with the women themselves to take note of my salutations." the next moment he doffed his hat ceremoniously to a little black-eyed creature with a superb triple string of pearls hanging almost to the waist of her black lace gown. "that's suzanne derval," he explained, as they passed. "she's one of the brightest women in paris." "and alone?" said andrew. "her escort," answered radwalader, with an almost imperceptible pause between the words, "is probably placing his bet. as i said before, if there's any one you want to meet--" "well, there is," replied andrew, colouring a little. "we passed a girl in red back there a bit. it's possible you know her. i'm afraid you think me a good deal of a boy." "i'm afraid you think a good deal of a girl," laughed radwalader. "no, my dear chap. or, rather, if your desire is an evidence of extreme youth, then the majority of men are fit subjects for a _crèche_. come along, and we'll try to track your scarlet siren." "we'll not have much difficulty," said andrew, as they turned. "there she is now. do you see? by the tree--in red." "oh," answered radwalader, "oh, yes. that's mirabelle tremonceau. your 'red' is _cerise_, as a matter of fact, but that's as near as the average man comes to the colour of a woman's gown." "i can't imagine one spending much time in learning such things." "anywhere but in paris, perhaps not. here the knowledge is vital. it's part of one's education--like being able to distinguish a louis quatorze chair from a louis quinze, or a fragonard from a boucher ten feet away. if you want to meet mademoiselle tremonceau, i'll be very glad to present you." "i might wait here while you ask her," suggested andrew. "eh?" said radwalader. "oh, yes--by all means." the girl was talking with an officer of _chasseurs_, on the turf, a short distance away. she was tall and slender, very pale, with magnificent violet eyes and golden-bronze hair. from the gauze _aigrettes_ on her hat to the tips of her patent-leather shoes, her costume was absolutely flawless. her gown, of cherry-coloured _crêpe de chine, pailleté_ with silver, breathed from its every fold the talismanic word "paquin," and the lalique ornament of emeralds and ruddy gold which swung at her throat by a slender chain said as plainly "charlier." there was not a dot missing from her veil, not the suggestion of a wrinkle in her white gloves, and not a displeasing note in the harmony of the whole. "there's nothing wrong about the boy's judgment," was radwalader's mental comment. "he's picked out the prettiest and best gowned woman in paris. and it couldn't be better," he added, with an odd little smile. mademoiselle tremonceau greeted him with a nod, a gloved hand, and a "_comment vas-tu?_" "_b'en, pas mal, merci_," answered radwalader. with his left hand he caressed his chin reflectively, and, as if this had been a signal--which indeed it was--the girl turned to the young _chasseur_, who was staring at the intruder out of round, resentful eyes, and dismissed him with a hint. "you've had fifteen minutes of my time, _mon cher_." then, as he retired, discomfited, she faced radwalader again, and seemed to search his face for the answer to some unspoken question. "i want to present one of my friends," he said, as if replying. "mr. andrew vane--an american who has been in paris three days. we'll have to speak english. have i your permission?" "you're strangely ceremonious of a sudden," answered mademoiselle tremonceau. "i don't seem to remember your asking permission before." "it was his suggestion," observed radwalader laconically. for a moment the girl made no reply. her questioning look had observably become more keen, and with one finger she picked at the turquoise matrix in the handle of her parasol. "well?" she said finally. "_galetteux_," said radwalader. "go softly, my friend." mademoiselle tremonceau bowed with ineffable dignity. "you have my gracious permission to present him," she said. whistling softly, as was his habit when pleased, the air of "_au clair de la lune_," radwalader observed their meeting from the corners of his eyes, and was struck, as mrs. carnby had been, by andrew's perfect repose. they spoke in english, of trivialities--paris, the weather, the crowd, and the victory of mathias--and, as the saddling-bell rang for the fifth race, all walked out together to the trackside. here radwalader left them, to place his bet, and andrew found two little wooden chairs on which they seated themselves to await his return. "you and mr. radwalader are old friends?" asked the girl. "on the contrary," said andrew, "we met for the first time only this morning." "oh! and what do you think of him?" "i find him very agreeable," said andrew; "a little cynical, perhaps, but clever--and cleverness, to twist an english saying, covers a multitude of sins." "yes, he's clever," answered mademoiselle tremonceau. "there are the horses. are you coming to tea?" she added, after a silence, as radwalader rejoined them. radwalader turned to andrew. "the poet says that opportunity has no back hair," he observed. "i think we might grasp at this forelock, don't you?" "since mademoiselle tremonceau is so kind, i should say, by all means." they watched the race in silence, and then: "i can find room for you both in the victoria," suggested the girl. "better yet!" said radwalader with alacrity, "provided vane takes the _strapontin_. the only place where i feel my age is in my knees. since you've never occupied mademoiselle tremonceau's _strapontin_, my dear vane, you can have no idea of the physical discomfort attendant upon being a little lower than an angel. think of my having won--even a _placé_! shall we go now? i abhor the crush at the end. give me a minute to cash my ticket, and then we'll look up the carriage." "do you speak french?" said mademoiselle tremonceau to andrew, as radwalader strolled off in the direction of the _caisse_. "i seem to be able to say what i want when the occasion arises," he answered, "but i much prefer english. i am trying to adjust myself to new conditions, and i need all my energy for the task, without undertaking a strange language at the same time. you can have no idea how one's first visit to paris sends preconceived notions tumbling about one's ears. so far, the eiffel tower is the only thing which looked as i expected it would. there's a surprise at every turn." "for example?" "well, for example, french women. even so far as my own town of boston we know you're beautiful, and beautifully gowned, although nothing short of personal experience can teach one to what an extent. but i've always been brought up to believe that you were so hemmed in by conventionality, so strictly watched, that a chap wasn't allowed so much as to say 'good-morning' to one of you, so long as you were unmarried, at least, except under the eyes of mothers and fathers and guardians. but it seems that it's not so at all." as he spoke, mademoiselle tremonceau's lips parted in a little smile, and as he paused, she slipped in an apparently irrelevant question. "are you married, mr. vane?" "good gracious, no!" said andrew. "i suppose i may as well confess that i'm only twenty." mademoiselle tremonceau looked off across the track to where, in the interval preceding the next race, the restless thousands circled to and fro about the betting-booths of the _pelouse_, in the manner of a multitude of ants preparing to carry off a bulky bit of carrion. then she drew her veil tight, with a charmingly feminine little _moue_ which shortened her upper lip, tilted her chin, and set her eyelids fluttering. "twenty?" she echoed. "my age precisely. _tiens! c'est plutô drôlatique ça!_ here's mr. radwalader, at last. did you get your payment? only twenty-two fifty? well, that is your other louis back, at all events. don't you want to run along after the carriage, as long as you know how? mr. vane will attend to me, i'm sure, and we'll meet you at the right of the main entrance. here's the carriage number. simon is the _brigadier_ in charge to-day. tell him it's for me, and you won't have to wait." radwalader undertook this commission with cheerfulness, although the pace at which he started toward the gate was distinctly incompatible with even the most liberal conception of "running along." evidently he was not unique in his abhorrence of the crush at the end. many were already making their way from the _pesage_, and the crowd behind the _tribunes_ was densest about the _sorties_. andrew and mademoiselle tremonceau followed him, five minutes later. "i wonder if you mind my taking your arm?" asked the girl. "i'm always a little nervous, going out." "with pleasure," said andrew, adding, as her glove touched his sleeve, "i was going to suggest it, but i don't know french etiquette as yet, and i was afraid i might be presuming." he was unconscious that, as they passed through the throng, many heads were turned, among them that of the young officer of _chasseurs_, who drew the end of his mustache between his lips, and gnawed it savagely. a perfectly appointed victoria, drawn up at the edge of the driveway, was awaiting them, with radwalader standing at the step. it was close upon seven o'clock when the two men emerged from mademoiselle tremonceau's apartments on the avenue henri martin, and, hailing a passing cab, set off for the tour d'argent. radwalader evinced no desire to talk, as they bowled across to and then down the champs elysées, and andrew was conscious of being grateful for the silence. he wanted to think. he did not wholly understand the hour and a half which had just gone by. there had been no sign of mademoiselle tremonceau's family. tea was served in a _salon_ crowded with elaborate furniture, and softly illumined by rose-shaded electric globes on bronze _appliques_. liveried servants came and went noiselessly, through tapestry curtains, and over an inlaid floor, polished to mirror-like brilliance, and strewn with mounted skins. the double _marqueterie_ tea-table gleamed with a silver samovar and candlesticks, baccarat glass, and thin, cream-coloured cups and saucers, with a crest in raised gold. here and there, huge gloire de dijon roses leaned sleepily from silver vases, and, on a little stand, a great bunch of wild violets breathed summer from a blue sèvres bowl. an indefinable atmosphere of luxury and languor pervaded the room. from the girl herself came a faint hint of some strangely sweet, but wholly unfamiliar, fragrance, which andrew had not noted in the open air. he watched her, fascinated, as her slender white hands, with their blazing jewels, went to and fro among the cups and saucers. her every movement was deliciously and suggestively feminine, as had been her tightening of her veil, an hour before, and exquisitely languid and deliberate, as if the day had been a thousand hours long instead of twenty-four. she said but little, radwalader maintaining a running thread of his half-banter, half-philosophy, with its ingenious double-meanings and contortions of the commonplace, whereby, in some fashion of his own, he contrived to simulate and stimulate conviction. andrew had found, presently, that he was growing sleepy. the abrupt change from the cool air of outer afternoon to the perfume-laden atmosphere of mademoiselle tremonceau's _salon_, the drone of radwalader's voice, the soft light, in contrast to the sunshine they had left--all contributed to his drowsiness. once, for nearly a minute, the whole room melted, as it were, into one golden-gray mist, through which silver and glass and fabrics glowed only as harmonious notes of colour, and wherein the face of his hostess seemed to float like a reflection in troubled water. then, as suddenly, every detail of his surroundings appeared to bulge at him out of the haze, and stood fixed and clear. for an instant he thought that radwalader had raised his voice. he seemed to be speaking very loudly; but, when the first nervous start had passed, andrew realized that this was his own imagining, and that neither of his companions had noticed his momentary somnolence. at the end, he had held mademoiselle tremonceau's hand for a second beyond the limit of convention. she made no motion to withdraw it, but looked him frankly in the eyes. "we've been neglecting you, haven't we?" she said. "mr. radwalader and i are such old friends, that we're inclined to selfishness, and apt to forget that our talk is not as interesting to others as to ourselves. perhaps you'll come in to tea on tuesday, about five, and i'll try to prove myself a more considerate hostess." "thank you," said andrew. "i shall be very pleased--though i suspect you are undertaking the impossible." the _fiacre_ was passing the rond point when radwalader spoke. "this is the hour when paris seems to me supremely to deserve her title of siren," he said. "in spring and summer, at least, i always try to pass it out of doors. there is a fascination for me, that never grows stale, in the coming of twilight, when the street-lamps begin to wink, and the _cafés_ are lighting up. did you ever feel softer air or see a more tenderly saffron sky? and this constant murmur of passing carriages, this hum of voices, broken, more often than anywhere else on earth, by laughter--isn't it _life_, as one never understands the word elsewhere? isn't it full of suggestion and appeal? i've never been able to analyze the charm of the champs elysées at sunset, more nearly than to say that it seems to blot out one's remembrance of everything in the world that is sordid and commonplace, and to bring boldly to the fore the significance of all that is sweet and gay. can you imagine considering the price of stocks or the drift of politics just now? i can't. i think of flowers, and burgundy in slender-stemmed glasses, and _tziganes_ playing waltz music, and women with good teeth, laughing. i smell roses and _trèfle_. i see mirrors, and candlesticks with openwork shades, silver over red, and sleek waiters bending down with bottles swathed in napkins. i hear violins and the swish of silk skirts. i taste caviar--and i _feel_--that i have underestimated providence, after all!" "there is no paris but paris, and radwalader is her prophet!" laughed andrew. "that suggests a religion," said the other, "and i suppose, all said and done, that paris _is_ my religion. how did you like mirabelle tremonceau?" "even more than i expected." "that's well--and very unusual. one almost always expects too much of a beautiful woman. beauty has this in common with an inherited fortune--that it's apt to paralyze individual effort. looking into mirrors and cutting coupons don't leave one much time for anything else. but she's exceptional. you're right in liking her, and what's more, you'll probably like her better and better as time goes on." "she asked me if i was married," said andrew. "did she?" answered radwalader. "well--are you?" "no, assuredly not." "engaged, perhaps." instead of replying, andrew glanced curiously at his companion, his lips set in a thin, straight line. radwalader met his glance fairly. "i beg your pardon, vane," he said immediately. "that was unwarranted impertinence, which you're quite justified in resenting. i'm too prone to trifling, and the remark slipped out thoughtlessly. pray consider it unsaid." "with the best will in the world," said andrew heartily. "there is nothing more admirable, i always think, than a frank apology." in the words there was a faint, curiously suggestive echo of the tone in which radwalader was wont to voice his glittering generalities. chapter iv. mother and daughter. madame raoul palffy would, in all probability, have been intensely surprised and entirely incredulous had any one informed her that hers was an irritating personality. but the fact remained. she was flagrantly complacent, and her placidity enraged one immeasurably, and goaded nervous temperaments to the verge of frenzy. tradespeople had been known to grit their teeth and swear almost audibly at her, and at least two guards upon the métropolitain had lost their positions because her leisurely manner of locomotion had moved them irresistibly to breaches of the courteous treatment enjoined upon them by the general manager's notice to the public. madame palffy was a large, florid person with a partiality for jet and crimson velvet, and whose passing, much in the manner of a frigate under full sail, was apt to be fatal to fragile ornaments standing unwarily too near to table-edges. about her there was always a suggestion of imminent explosion, due to her chronic shortness of breath, the extreme snugness of her gowns, and the fashion in which her pudgy palms, unmercifully compressed into white gloves two sizes too small, crowded desperately out of the little ovals across which the top buttons yearned toward their proper holes. harmoniously, her face was fat, and dappled all over with ruddy pink, with the eyes, nose, and mouth crowded together in the centre, as if for sociability's sake, or in fear of sliding off the smooth slopes of her cheeks and chin. her hair, with its variety of puffs and curls, appeared to have been laid out by a landscape gardener. as for raoul palffy, all that one was apt to remember about him was the fact that he had married a miss barrister of worcester. he was as completely eclipsed by this injudicious proceeding as if he had been elected vice-president of the united states. he closely resembled a frog on the point of suffocation. with a loyalty worthy of a better cause, he imbibed vast quantities of the wine of his native bordeaux, and became each year more shockingly apoplectic in appearance. out of his wife's sight, he swelled magnificently, like a red balloon, and, between ignorance and exaggeration, was hardly on bowing terms with veracity: in her presence, he was another man. it was more than anything as if some one had taken a pin to the red balloon. as a natural result of their relative assertiveness, the couple moved, for the most part, not in the french society to which monsieur palffy's connections warranted their aspiring, but in that of the colony, where his wife's pretensions and her deplorable mismanipulation of her adopted tongue were less conspicuously burlesque. after twenty years of paris, madame palffy still said _nom de plume_ and _café noir_. it was to renew acquaintance with parents so curiously contrasted that margery palffy had returned from ten years of almost continuous residence in the states. to say that she proved a surprise to them would be to do but faint justice to the mental perturbation with which they surveyed this tall, self-possessed young person, who was, in practically every particular, a total stranger. her father, with his characteristic lack of enterprise, had promptly given her up. he had neither the faculty of rendering, nor that of inspiring, affection; and this his daughter seemed, from the very outset, to understand, and tacitly to accept. they rarely met, except at dinner, and then with such a desperate lack of common interests as prevented any interchange of conversation beyond the merest commonplaces. madame palffy, on the contrary, made an earnest, if inept, attempt to fill, in her daughter's life, a place which she had long since forfeited; and, to the best of her ability, margery strove to meet her half-way. but the gap made by their years of separation was now too wide to be effectually bridged. madame palffy was artificial from the summit of her elaborate _coiffure_ to the tips of her inadequately ample shoes: her daughter, in every detail of her sound and sensible make-up, was a convincing product of all that is best, sincerest, and most wholesome in american education. the two could no more mix than oil and water. it was to mrs. carnby and her husband that margery turned for sympathy, with an instant recognition of qualities appealingly akin to her own: and these two received her with open arms. for them, three months had sufficed to render margery palffy indispensable, and the same period served to prove to the girl, not only her need of friendship, but that here lay the means of its satisfaction. as madame palffy complacently observed to mrs. carnby. "i think that margery feels that there's no place like home." and as mrs. carnby replied, with extreme relish: "i'm sure of it. it must be a most comforting conviction!" margery palffy, whose attitude toward the society to which she was a comparatively recent recruit was sufficiently indicated by her desire to be called "miss" instead of "mademoiselle," was accustomed to reserve her sunday afternoons for mr. carnby. they would go to the bois, to walk and watch the driving, or take a _bateau mouche_ to suresnes and return, or even slip out to versailles or st. germain. jeremy was a man of small enthusiasms, but he shared with his wife a profound affection, of the type which is always pathetic in the childless, for this tall, slender girl, as fresh and sweet as a ripe fig, grown on the family thistle of the palffys. an impulse, which, in the light of its results, could only be regarded as an inspiration, had prompted madame palffy to send her daughter, at the age of nine, to be educated in the states. a sound and rational school in connecticut, and ten vacations in the superbly invigorating air of the north shore under the care of a sensibly indulgent aunt, had forthwith performed a miracle. a thin, brown child, with an affected lisp, was now grown straight and tall, with an eye to measure a putt or a friend, a hand which knew the touch of a tiller and a rein, and a voice to win a dog, a child, or a man. margery palffy was very beautiful withal, with her russet-brown hair, her finely chiselled features, and her confident smile. she impressed one immediately as having arranged her hair herself--by bunching it all up together, and then giving it one inspirited twist which accomplished more than all the system in the world. some one--not her mother!--knew what kind of gown she ought to wear, but--what was more important--she knew how to wear it. one would have said that her eyes were by helleu and her nose by george du maurier. men looked to their hearts when her mouth was open, and to their consciences when it was closed--tight-closed! a laugh to make them worship her, a frown to make them despise themselves, a suggestion that she was capable of giving all she would expect from another, a somewhat stronger suggestion that she would be apt to expect a considerable deal, very clean-cut, very sane, very good form--such was margery palffy at what might be called her worst. as for margery palffy at her best, as yet even the most casual of colony gossips had never more than hinted at a love-affair. madame palffy having attended two church services, and observed with gratification that her new bonnet was far more imposing than the bonnets, old and new, of her fellow worshippers, had now sought the seclusion of her empire boudoir. she was, above all things, consistent. in this sacred spot she ventured to lay aside her society manner, but, beyond this, she made no concessions to privacy. her lounging-gown would have been presentable at a garden-party, and she devoted five minutes to rearranging her hair, before sinking massively upon the _chaise-longue_, and giving her thoughts free rein. an unusually brilliant week had drawn to a close the evening before. madame palffy's dinner-table had groaned beneath its burden of silver and chiselled glass, and her box at "louise" had presented to the auditorium such a background of white linen and vicuna as had sent poisonous darts to the hearts of a dozen ambitious and observant mothers. the reason was not far to seek. from the moment of her _début_, two months before, margery palffy had been a tremendous success. her beauty, her novelty, her shrewd wit and unfailing gaiety had swept through the colony as a sickle through corn. madame palffy smiled to herself as she reviewed the past few weeks. her daughter's had been a name to conjure with. but, almost immediately, the smile became a sigh. beneath her satisfaction in margery's triumph, the ambitious lady felt that there was something lacking--and that something was a complete understanding of the girl herself. since her return from the states, her mother had been slowly and reluctantly forced to the conviction that there was that in her nature which it was beyond one's power to grasp, and her apparent frankness and simplicity made the failure to read her doubly hard to analyze. her interest in life and the society world about her was unquestionable. fresh and unspoiled, she trod the social labyrinth undeviatingly, received the flatteries, even the open devotion, of half a hundred men with caution, and remained--herself. and madame palffy, to whom social success was a guarantee of a status so little lower than the seraphim as to make the difference unworthy of consideration, looked with growing admiration upon that of her beautiful daughter, and treasured every evidence thereof deep in her pompous heart. the difficulty lay in the fact that margery impressed not only the world in general by her dignity, but abashed her ambitious parent as well. madame palffy was content to have her daughter talk in parables, if she would, and be as impartial as justice itself, but afterwards, when the lights were out and the guests had departed, she wanted the parables explained and the preferences laid bare. and this was precisely the confidential relation which she had never been able to establish. in public she figured naturally as margery's confidant and mentor. in private she was, in reality, hardly nearer to her than was the newest of her new acquaintances. in this state of affairs madame palffy distinctly perceived all the elements of a dilemma. as was naturally to be expected, her daughter had no sooner been restored to her, than the ambitious lady's mind began to wrestle with the problem of a suitable marriage--or "alliance," as she preferred to think of it. to this intent, she had selected the vicomte de boussac, whom she was wont to call, for no apparent reason, "one of her boys." nothing was further from the vicomte's intention than a marriage _à la mode_, imbued as he was with the national predilection for marriage _au mois_, but he had a habit--had de boussac--of describing himself as _enchanté_ with whatsoever might be proposed to him by one of the opposite sex. he was _enchanté_ to meet madame's beautiful daughter, _enchanté_ to act as their escort on any and every occasion, _enchanté_, above all, at madame's disregard of conventionality, whereby he was permitted to enjoy frequent _tête-à -têtes_ with margery. but he had an eye for the boundary-line. he smiled with inimitable charm at madame palffy's transparent hints, derived considerable diversion from her daughter's society, and, throughout, behaved in a manner nothing short of exemplary. at the end of three months, during which margery's _début_ had come and gone, the wistful matchmaker was frankly in despair. a beneficent providence had begrudged madame palffy a very liberal allowance of diplomacy, and, this failing, she was now resolved upon a desperate move, nothing less than a complete revelation of her plans, and an appeal to margery for confirmation of her hopes. whenever she considered this approaching ordeal, she seemed suddenly to lose a cube-shaped section of her vital organs. just now the sensation was oppressive: for she had taken the decisive step that very morning, and requested margery to attend her at five o'clock; and, over there on the mantel, the hands of her little ormolu clock were galloping inconsiderately over the last quarter before the fatal hour. even as she glanced apprehensively at its face, the tinkle of the five strokes broke the silence, and she had barely time to secure the lavender salts from her dressing-table, when there came a tap at the door. "_entrez!_" margery had been walking, and with her entrance into the room came an indescribable suggestion of the open air. her face was radiant, and the violets at her belt, brought suddenly from the slight chill without into the warmth of her mother's boudoir, seemed to heave a perfumed sigh of relief. the girl's brown eyes, aglow with youth and health, the proud poise of her head, and her firm hands, ungloved and guiltless of rings, were all in marked contrast to the heavy woman throned upon the divan, and languidly sniffing at her salts. it was a confronting of nature and art, unmistakably to the latter's disadvantage. somehow, the hopelessness of her self-appointed task was more than ever apparent to the ambitious madame palffy. "and where do you suppose i've been?" began margery. "not to church, i know," said her mother. "i half expected to see you, but i was alone in the pew." "no, not to church. once a day is enough, surely. i've been with mr. carnby to the jardin d'acclimatation." "good gracious, my dear, what a plebeian expedition! what _were_ you doing--visiting the _serres_?" "nothing half so dignified. we were at the menagerie, feeding the monkeys with gingernuts." madame palffy simply gasped. there are some situations with which words are impotent to deal. "monkeys," continued margery, "are adorable. they are sufficiently human to be typical, and then there's the advantage that one can stare at them to one's heart's content, without being thought ill-mannered. i saw lots of our friends--mr. radwalader, for instance, as vain as life and twice as loquacious; and one haughty young creature who held himself aloof, despising the rest, and taking no pains to conceal it. that was monsieur de boussac. his manner was so unmistakable that i actually found myself bowing, as our eyes met." "margery!" "it's the solemn truth, mother; the vicomte has a dual existence." "but my dear child--the monkey-house! what _could_ jeremy carnby have been thinking of, to take you to such a place?" "he didn't. i took him." "but one never knows what one might catch there--typhoid--or--or fleas, my dear!" madame palffy shuddered, and returned to her salts. "fleas, mother? i never thought of that possibility, but if i had, it would only have been an added inducement. never having met a flea, i am sure i should enjoy the experience. you know what somebody says? 'incomparably the bravest of all the creatures of god.' and, above all things, i adore courage." here was an auspicious beginning to a serious conversation! in sheer desperation, madame palffy assumed her society manner. "margery," she said, "you're quite old enough to take care of yourself; though, to speak frankly, you have a somewhat peculiar method of doing so. let us abandon the monkeys for the present. i have something to say to you. i--i--" she hesitated for an instant, and then proceeded resolutely. "i've been thinking of you a great deal, of late, and you must forgive me if i speak unreservedly to you. it's because of my affection for you, and my deep interest in your welfare." she did not see the slight contraction of her daughter's eyebrows, and it was well for her peace of mind that she did not. it argued ill for a sympathetic reception of her carefully formulated appeal. "i'm sure, my dear mother, that it's very far from my desire to resent anything you say. why should i? has any one a better right to speak--er--unreservedly?" "i've been more than proud of you always," continued madame palffy, "_more_ than proud, my dear. you've been a great comfort to me, and, if i do say it, a wonderful success in the colony. i remember no _débutante_ in ten years who has received so much attention, and the fact that it has not spoiled you shows how worthy of it all you are. and now," she added, with an uneasy smile, "for _la grande serieux_." again that curious drawing together of miss palffy's eyebrows. "_le grand serieux?_" she repeated. she detested feeling her way in the dark, and now groped dexterously for a clue. "that's usually taken to mean something quite alien to our present conversation." "not at all," said her mother, catching at this opening, "not at _all_ alien, my dear. in fact, margery, what i want to ask you is this. er--have you ever thought of marrying?" "yes--often," said margery promptly. the two words were characteristic of their curious relations, as madame palffy realized, with a little inward sigh of despair. they answered her question fully, and they answered it not at all. "you don't understand me, perhaps," she went on. "i mean, have you ever seen--here in paris, for instance--any particular man whom it has seemed to you you might--er--love? now--there is de boussac--" "ah!" "wait a moment, my dear. let me finish. i'll not conceal from you that it has been a dear wish of mine to see you married to him. i've known him since he was a baby. he's titled, rich, very talented, and more than moderately good-looking. his position is irreproachable, and his family goes straight back indefinitely." she stopped nervously. the speech which she had mentally prepared, descriptive of de boussac's desirability, had been some ten times this length. in some fashion, margery's eyes had shorn it of verbiage, and reduced it, as it were, to its lowest terms. "but, my dear mother, this is the first inkling i've had of any such idea. i can't imagine that monsieur de boussac has ever breathed a word on the subject. don't you think the first mention should come from him? i've no reason to suppose that he cares a straw for me." "he does--i know he does," broke in madame palffy eagerly. "you're quite wrong in supposing he's never spoken of it. remember, these things are managed differently over here. you have the american idea. in paris one speaks first to the girl's parents." margery shrugged her shoulders. a kind of instinct told her that she must ask no questions if she would be told no lies. "and there's another objection," she said. "i don't _want_ to marry him. he may have money, but money isn't everything. indeed, it's entered very near the foot of my list of the things to be desired in life. as to position, my own is sufficiently good to make his immaterial. we go back indefinitely ourselves, you know; although, to be sure, i've found some things in the family records which seemed to suggest that it might have been better not to have gone back so far. last, but very far from least, i don't love him, and, in view of the fact that, if he really had the slightest feeling for me, i should, in all probability, have known of it long ago, i must say, my dear mother, that your suggestion strikes me as having all the elements of a screaming farce." at this point madame palffy applied a minute handkerchief to her eyes, and began to weep softly. "how cruelly you speak!" she moaned, "and i--i meant it all for the best." fortunately, mrs. carnby had never seen madame palffy cry. as it was, she imagined that nothing about that lady could be more irritating than her smile. but margery, under whose faultlessly-fitting jacket beat the tenderest and most considerate of hearts, was moved. she watched her mother in silence for a moment, and then went across to the divan, and, kneeling beside it, took madame palffy's available hand in hers. "i did speak cruelly," she said, "and i'm sorry. let me see if i can't put it more considerately, so that you'll understand. love is--has always been--to me the most sacred thing on earth. i've watched, as every girl must watch, for its coming, believing that its touch would transform all life. there can be, it seems to me, but one man in the world able to do that, and i'm content to wait for him, without trying to hurry the future, or aid fate or providence, whichever it may be, in the disposal of my heart. i've been glad all my life that we were not rich enough for our means to be an object. of course, poverty has barred many out from happiness, but it pleases me to think that when a man seeks me, there can be no doubt that it is for myself alone. not only that, but i've hoped that he would be poor as well, and it's been my pride that, when i searched my heart, i found that wish deep within it, without affectation, without a hint of uncertainty. i'm old-fashioned, i suppose, and out of touch with the times, but i hold the faith that was before riches or social position came into the world--i hold to love, the love of a strong man for a pure woman, the love of a good woman for an honest man! let me but start honestly, with no motive that i am ashamed to tell, no thought governing my action save reverence for those three great responsibilities--love, marriage, and motherhood, and i have no fear of what may come." as the girl was speaking, madame palffy's sobs grew fainter, and finally she forgot to dab at her eyes with the morsel of lace. she was interested. "it's this great reverence which i have for love," continued margery, "that prompted me to answer impatiently when you spoke of monsieur de boussac. you didn't mean to hurt me, of course: i know that. but, to me, it was as if you'd torn away the veil before my holy of holies, and cast out the image i had cherished there, and were thrusting a grinning golden idol in its place. i want love to come into my life freely--not to be invited to dinner, and announced by the butler. there will be no question in my mind when it has really come, no measuring of the man with a yardstick. i shall feel that he is for me, even before he asks me to be his. above all, the question must come from his lips, and the answer be for his ears alone. no man loving me as i would be loved would be content to employ an ambassador." here madame palffy came to herself, and moaned again. "i don't mean to reproach you, mother. i believe, and i'm very glad to believe, that you've always had my happiness in view. but, in the nature of things, there are many points upon which our ideas are bound to differ, and this is one. you thought it best that i should be educated in america, and you mustn't be surprised to find me american as a result. look back. do you realize that i've not spent six full months in paris since i was a little girl? now that i've come back to you, i can't readjust all my ideas in a moment. i want to please you, dear, in any way i can, but i'm an american all through, and you--well, perhaps you're more french than you realize, yourself. we must try to grow together, but in many ways it will not be easy. we must be patient with each other, dear." "i see what you mean," said madame palffy mournfully. "we're as far apart as the poles." "not quite that, i think," answered margery, with a smile, "but, in some respects, three thousand miles. let us try to remember that: it will make things easier." "it's a terrible disappointment to me," came lugubriously from the handkerchief. "i'm sorry," answered margery, "very sorry. but i'm sure that i could never love monsieur de boussac, and sure that i could never even believe in his love unless he himself should tell me of it. i think we understand each other now, mother. if i'd had any idea of this before, i might have spared you this talk. but, painful as it has been, it has, at all events, brought us nearer together. don't let us speak of it again." then madame palffy unaccountably touched her zenith. "no," she agreed, rising majestically from the divan, "no, we'll not speak of it again. it must make no change between us. i love you very dearly, margery, and i wish i could have seen you his wife, but if it cannot be, that's all there is to it. let's dress for dinner, my dear," and, bending over, she kissed the air affectionately, a half-inch from her daughter's cheek. "you're a strange girl," she added, "and i don't pretend to understand you. but choose your own husband. i shall like him for your sake." as margery left the room, madame palffy turned to the mirror, and surveyed with a sigh the ravages which this emotional half-hour had made in her appearance. for the three following days she was a mute martyr, and relished the _rôle_ immeasurably. margery, dressing for dinner, hummed softly to herself, smiling as no one of her paris friends had ever seen her smile. "'ah, moon of my delight, that knows no wane, the moon of heav'n is rising once again'"-- andrew vane had played an accompaniment to that a hundred times, in her aunt's big shore house at beverly. chapter v. the good and faithful servant. on the following thursday morning, the bell of st. germain-des-prés was striking the hour of eleven when monsieur jules vicot opened his eyes, instantly closed them again, and groaned. it was the hour which he disliked more than any other of the twenty-four, this of awakening, and from day to day it did not differ in essential details. the weather might be hot or cold, fair or foul, wet or dry--that was one thing and not important. what _was_ important--what, in the estimation of monsieur vicot, distinguished this hour so unenviably from its fellows, was the variety of distressing physical symptoms which, in his own person, inevitably accompanied it. they were symptoms long familiar to monsieur vicot--a feeling under his eyelids which appeared to indicate the presence of coarse sand; a throbbing of the heart which seemed, inexplicably, to be taking place in his throat; a dull pain at his temples and back of his ears which prompted him to hold his head sedulously balanced, lest a sudden movement to right or left occasion an acuter pang; finally, a taste on his tongue which suggested a commingling of fur, blotting-paper, and raw quinces. presently monsieur vicot opened his eyes once more and fixed them upon the window, from which, from his position, nothing was visible save sky of an intense blue. against this background a number of small reddish-brown blotches swam slowly to and fro, and among these tiny whorls of a light gray colour expanded and contracted with inconceivable rapidity. at one time these symptoms had caused him peculiar uneasiness. now he ignored them. they were less disturbing to his equanimity than the remarkable twitching of his fingers. for two years he had made a point of keeping his hands in the side pockets of his jacket, save when he found it absolutely necessary to use them. he no longer made gestures. they are desirable as aids to expression, but only when steady. the majority of men, in waking, apply themselves to consideration of the day which lies before them. it was monsieur jules vicot's custom, on the contrary, to undertake a mental review of the night which lay behind. the review was not always complete. often there were gaps, and, more frequently, he found himself completely at a loss to account for his return to his room on the _cinquième_ of , rue st. benoit, and the indisputable fact that he was in bed, with his clothes reposing, with something not unrelated to order, on the solitary chair. now, as he surveyed it, he assured himself for the thousandth time that it was not a cheerful room. abundant sunlight, the recompense of nature for six flights of stairs, was its sole redeeming virtue. for the rest, everything belonging to monsieur vicot was applied to some use entirely foreign to the original purpose for which it had been designed. an ink-stand served him as a candlestick, his chair was at once table and clothes-rack, a ramshackle sofa played the _rôle_ of bed, and a frouzy plush table-cover was his rug. an astonishing accumulation of cigarette-ends and empty bottles suggested slovenliness in the occupant. on the contrary, they stood for his economical instincts. it is not every one who knows that twenty cigarette-ends make a pipe-ful of tobacco, and that as many empty brandy-flasks may be exchanged for a full half-pint, but the knowledge, if rare, is useful. "it is a pig-pen," said monsieur jules vicot to himself, "and very appropriate at that!" then he set to work upon his matutinal review of the preceding night. his recollections were more than usually hazy. after a wretched dinner at _la petite chaise_, rendered yet more unpalatable by the proprietor's unpleasant references to certain previous repasts, as yet unpaid, came a distinct hour or so of leaning on the parapet of the quai d'orléans, in dreamy contemplation of a man clipping a black poodle on the cobblestones below; then another period, of gradually lessening clearness, in a little wine-shop on the rue de beaune; then--nothing. "well, i was drunk," reflected monsieur vicot; but again manifested his dissimilarity from the majority of men by not committing himself in respect to his intentions for the future. he arose with an air of languor, yawned, looked dubiously at one trembling hand, shook his head, and then surveyed himself in a triangular bit of looking-glass tacked against the wall. candour is oftentimes a depressing thing--particularly in a mirror. monsieur vicot's glass showed him a clean-shaven face almost devoid of colour; eyes, the blackness of which seemed to have soaked out, like water-colour through blotting-paper, into gray-blue circles on the lower lids; hair almost white; a thin nose with widely dilated nostrils; a tremulous mouth; and a weak, receding chin. it was a face which might have been handsome before becoming a document with the signatures of the seven cardinal vices written large upon it. now it was evidence which even monsieur vicot could not ignore. he leered defiantly at it, mixed himself a stiff drink of cheap brandy and water, and forthwith applied himself to his toilet. seeing the result which he presently achieved, one perceived him to be a man of a certain ability under crushing limitations. with a broken comb, a well-worn brush, which he applied, with admirable impartiality, to both his hair and his coat, a morsel of soap, and some cold water, monsieur vicot accomplished what was little short of a miracle; and when, a half-hour later, he emerged upon the rue st. benoit and turned toward the boulevard, his appearance was akin to respectability. luck and his face were against him, but incidental obstacles he contrived to overcome. he took a _mazagran_ and a roll at the deux magots, fortified himself with a package of _vertes_, and swung aboard a passing tram. at one o'clock he was sauntering down the rue de villejust, with his hands in his pockets. suddenly he stopped, looked intently for an instant at a certain window on a level with his eye, and then went on at a brisker gait. he had abruptly become cheerful, and that for no apparent reason. there is, commonly, nothing particularly enlivening in the aspect of a blue jar in an apartment window; yet that, and nothing else, was what had arrested the attention of monsieur jules vicot, and brought the tune he was whistling to his lips. mr. thomas radwalader occupied a _rez de chaussée_ on the rue de villejust, which differed from the ordinary run of paris apartments in that its doorway gave directly on the street, independent of the _loge de concierge_, and, what was more important, of the _concierges_ themselves. yet the latter held that radwalader was a gentleman of becomingly regular habits. he kept one servant, a _bonne_ on the objectively safe side of fifty, who cooked and marketed for him; maintained, throughout his quarters, a neatness which would have put the proverbial pin to shame; and, in general, ministered to his material well-being more competently than the average man-servant. that she was not likely to wear his clothes, use his razors, or pilfer his tobacco was half a bachelor's domestic problem solved at the very outset. on the debit side of the account, she pottered eternally, and was an ardent advocate of protracted conversation; but these tendencies radwalader had managed, in the course of their five years of association, to temper to a considerable degree; so that now she was as near to perfection in her particular sphere as a mere mortal is apt to be. her name was eugénie dufour, and in her opinion the entire system of mundane and material things revolved about the person of thomas radwalader. in view of his avowed love of luxury, the latter's quarters were distinguished by severe, almost military, simplicity. without exception, the rooms were carpeted, but there were no draperies either at doors or windows. the _salon_, of which the solitary window opened on the street, was louis seize in style, with straight-backed chairs, upholstered in dark-red brocade, a grand piano which had belonged to radwalader's mother, and a large print of the period, simply framed, in the exact centre of each wall-panel. there were no ornaments, save a white sèvres bust of marie antoinette on the mantel, two reading-lamps, and a few odds and ends of silver, ivory, and enamel, which had the guilty air of unavoidable gifts, rather than the easy assurance of chosen _bibelots_. some books in old bindings, a stand of music, and a tea-table with its service--and that was all. separated from this _salon_ by double doors was what had formerly been a bedroom, but which now, for want of a better name, radwalader called _la boîte_. this was his _sanctum sanctorum_, wherein one might reasonably have looked to find the confusion dear to the happy estate of bachelorhood. but here again was evident, though in a lesser degree, the austerity which characterized the _salon_. one naturally expected a litter of periodicals, pipes, and papers; but, on the contrary, the large table was almost clear, and the interior of the writing-desk, which stood open by the window, revealed only symmetrical piles of note-paper, envelopes, and blotters, and writing paraphernalia of the ordinary office variety. in the chimney-place was a brazier on a low tripod, and from this, each morning, the worthy eugénie removed a quantity of ashes--ashes which had entered the room in the form of radwalader's correspondence of the previous day. in one corner stood a small safe, and on top of this were boxes of cigars, and cigarettes of eight or ten varieties, but all arranged as methodically as the contents of the desk. the remaining wall-space was occupied by book-shelves, in which no single volume was an inch out of line. the opinion of radwalader's _concierges_ as to the regularity of his habits was seemingly based on fact. eugénie lived with her brother in the chaussée d'antin, and went to and fro every day, regardless of weather, on top of the rue taitbout-la muette tram. with characteristic regularity and promptitude, she had never once failed, during the five years of her service, to awaken her _patron_ at eight o'clock. radwalader invariably replied with a cheerful "_bien!_" and five minutes later was splashing in his bath. his coffee was served at nine, his mornings, in general, spent in _la boîte_. he took _déjeuner_ at one, and then went out, returning only to dress for dinner, which he rarely had at home. midnight found him again in _la boîte_, bending over a book or some papers at his desk. then only it was that the door of his safe stood open. in all this there was, assuredly, no evidence of aught but tastes so quiet as to savour of asceticism. but then radwalader was a man who believed in a place for everything and everything in its place. his visitors were few, save only on thursday afternoons, when he was known to be at home. then a dozen or so of men lounged in his _salon_, which was reinforced for the occasion by chairs from the other rooms, and several little tables for whiskey and tobacco. eugénie did not appear. they were served, when there was need of service, by a middle-aged man-servant with a furtive eye and a hand that trembled nervously when handling glasses and decanters; for which reason those of radwalader's guests to whom the situation was most familiar preferred to help themselves. they reproached him, when more important topics were exhausted, with the apparent decrepitude of this retainer, whose name was jules. but their host made it plain that he had good and sufficient reasons for employing him. he had grown up in his mother's family in philadelphia, said radwalader, first as page and then as butler. when the radwalader millions went by the board, jules had remained with the family through sheer loyalty, accepting but half the wages he had formerly earned. once he had even saved radwalader's life in the surf at atlantic city. later he had taken to drink, gone rapidly to pieces, and, at last, had been discharged as a hopeless case. they had given him a reference, for charity's sake, on the strength of which he had found a place as travelling valet; but once in paris, his old weakness had returned, and so he had lost his position, and never chanced upon another. then radwalader had found him stranded, begging on the boulevards, and, for the sake of the old days, had given him clothes and money, and found him occasional employment, such as this thursday service, by means of which he contrived to eke out a living, such as it was. at other times, when he was not drunk, he drove a cab for the compagnie urbaine. (this last, the most incongruous feature of radwalader's explanation, was, curiously enough, the only one which had the slightest foundation in fact!) "my best quality is gratitude," radwalader concluded. "he saved my life; so i give him such of my clothes as become unfit for publication, and pay him five francs every thursday for not being of the least assistance. i'm afraid you'll have to put up with him. it's a case of 'love me, love my dog.'" and this, under its thin veneer of cynicism, was taken as an indication of a very admirable instinct on radwalader's part, for which men admired him. they continued to make fun of jules, but, after this defence of him, they nodded to him on entering, and spoke to him by name. andrew vane joined the gathering in radwalader's rooms on the thursday following their sunday at auteuil. it was observable that, without exception, the guests were men who had done, or were going to do, something out of the ordinary. no one of them seemed to be in the present tense of achievement. they talked slowly, choosing their words with noticeable care, with an eye to their effect, and switching ever and anon in a new direction, as irresponsibly as a fly in mid-air. to andrew the atmosphere was not only that of another city, but of another world. from art to literature, from literature to music, from music to the stage, the talk drifted, punctuated with names of men and things whereof he did not remember ever to have heard. save for their air of having but just stepped out of a barber's chair, they were men of a general type familiar to him--well dressed, evenly poised. the scene might have been boston or new york, save for one thing: in all that was said, there was never the most remote hint of actual interest. the opinions were like those of more than usually brilliant schoolboys, putting into their own phraseology certain fundamental axioms. the speakers, with the sole exception of radwalader, gave the impression of being unutterably tired, and of playing with words with the unique intent of passing the time. your american has but little leisure for grammar, and less for eloquence, but in what he says there is always present the vivifying spark of vital and intimate concern. his theories are jewels in the rough, but one is conscious of the ceaseless clink-clink of the tool which is busily transforming them into fame and fortune. the men in radwalader's _salon_ were toying with gems long since cut and polished, whose sole virtue lay in the new light caught by their facets, as the result of some unexpected turn. radwalader himself went farther. he combined the confidence of the american in his future with that of the frenchman in his past. andrew had thought him cynical, but he gained by contrast with his companions. the others seemed merely to be giving thought to what they said, but he to be saying what he thought. "i'm almost remorseful at having asked you to join us this afternoon," he began, when the introductions were over. "whenever i see a man in a strange crowd, it reminds me of society's phrase at parting--'i've enjoyed _myself_ immensely!' it has the distinction of being the only polite remark which has any claim upon veracity. usually, one hasn't enjoyed anything else! of course, for the moment, you feel like a brook-trout in salt water. but it's a crowd that i think you'll like, when the grossly overestimated element of novelty wears off. let me tell you, in a word, who they are, and what they stand for. that's de boussac at the piano. he knows four major and two minor chords in every key of the gamut, and contrives to fashion, out of the six, an accompaniment for anything you may ask of him. beside him, leaning over the music, is lister. he's a would-be playwright, with a mother who has gained the nickname of the 'jail-breaker,' because she never finishes a sentence. you'll meet her some day and be amused. to the left is rafferty--who's popular because, just now, brogue happens to rhyme with vogue. then, clavercil. he thinks he's not understood, without realizing that his sole ground for dissatisfaction lies in the fact that he is. he's a fool, pure and simple, who inherited a fortune from his uncle--a bully old chap who never made a mistake in his life, and only the one i have mentioned, in his death. next, wisby--who paints things as they are not, and will be famous when the public gets educated down to him. the man helping himself to whiskey is berrith. he wrote 'the foibles of fate' in the early ' 's, and has been living ever since on the dregs of its success--a 'one-book author' with a vengeance. that's ford, by the window, with the red hair. he's a crank on aerial navigation, and says his air-ship will be the solution of the problem. i've already christened it 'eve,' with an eye to its share in another fall of man." radwalader lowered his voice. "on your right is barclay-jones. barclay was his mother's name, and when he came abroad he hyphenated it with his father's. the combination always reminds me of a rather stylish tug-boat with its towline attached to a scow on a mud-flat. the man listening to him is gerald kennedy, the singer. he hasn't advanced beyond the tommy tucker stage yet, but he's a good sort, an englishman, a friend of mrs. carnby and of the ratchetts. on my left are norrich, peake, and pfeffer, in the order named. pfeffer is the only married man in the crowd. he married in haste, and his leisure is employed to the full. he gets his pin-money from his wife, and a prick of the pin goes with every franc. norrich is on the staff of the paris _herald_. peake, like clavercil, is simply the disbursing agent of an inherited fortune." radwalader paused, lighted a cigarette, and smiled at andrew frankly. "_finis!_" he said. "do you think me very uncharitable? i hope not. it seems so much better to get men's bad qualities out of the way and done with at the start, and then to find out their good points, one by one, in a succession of pleasant surprises. it's a crowd you'll like, when once you get the point of view. you've been used to poise, and at first you won't like pose. but, after all, the difference lies only in the eye--a pun's only permissible when it tells the truth. we all pose over here. you will, yourself, if you stay long enough. it's as contagious as smallpox. and, by the way, i was talking with peake about you only yesterday. he's going to the states next week, and wants to find some one to occupy his apartment while he's away. if you're not thinking of remaining at the ritz, you couldn't do better than to take it. it's a charming little place, on the rue boissière, near the place d'iéna, perfectly furnished, and with a balcony and bath. of course, the rent's no object to him. all he wants is some one to keep it aired and clean." "it can't do any harm to ask him about it," said andrew. "to tell you the truth, i've rather been thinking of doing something of the kind." "no sooner said than done," agreed radwalader, and, leaning forward across norrich, he added: "i say, peake, move up here, will you? "i've been telling vane about your apartment," he continued, as peake drew close to them, dragging his chair by the arms, "and he seems to think he might like to have a look at it. he's over here for quite a time, you know, and he certainly couldn't be as comfortable anywhere else." "i hope you'll take the place, mr. vane," said peake. "i've always maintained that a man of my tastes had no business in the states; but it seems i have, after all. i think i told you, radwalader--my late, lamented aunt esther, you know. she threatened to leave me nothin' but her good will, and now she's popped off, saddlin' me with everythin' she had in the world." "that's what she meant by her good will, probably," observed radwalader. "p'r'aps," said peake, with a little nod. "but the c'lamity's just as great. she was a good-hearted creature, but she belonged to the black-walnut and marble-group period. her sideboard weighed a ton, and she had wax flowers in her 'parlour.' and i'm to sell _nothin'_, my good man! it's all to go to my wife! why, the very thought's enough to keep any woman from marryin' me. oh, my dear radwalader, i mourn my find, i do indeed." "but about the apartment?" suggested radwalader. "oh! well, all i can say, mr. vane, is that i'm sure you'll be comfortable. it's a modest box, at best; but it suits me, and will probably suit you. 'man wants but little here below'--a bath, sunlight, a good bed, and cleanliness--that's all. you'll find 'em at my place. radwalader'll get you a _valet de chambre_, no doubt. i'd throw mine in, if i hadn't already thrown him out. the wife of my _concierge_ is doin' for me till i go. i can't say more. two hundred francs a month. i'll be back by the first of august--i can't miss trouville, you know, radwalader--and the chances are i'll have to evict you, mr. vane. i know _i_ wouldn't leave that apartment except at the business end of a pitch-fork!" "it sounds like the very thing i want," said andrew, with a smile at the other's eloquence. "and there's actually some prospect of your getting it," drawled radwalader. "what an exceptional animal you are, vane!" "come 'round to-morrow mornin' to breakfast, both of you," said peake. "then you can have a look over the place, mr. vane, and judge for yourself. if you like it, we'll clinch a bargain on the spot." "very well," agreed andrew. "shall i stop for you, mr. radwalader?" "by all means. about twelve." "then _that's_ settled!" observed peake, with an air of profound satisfaction. "i positively must have a whiskey, radwalader. i'm quite exhausted. i haven't talked so much business in a year." for an hour the conversation was general, and presently thereafter radwalader was alone. for a time he stood by the _salon_ table, idly fingering a paper-cutter and scowling. then he stepped noiselessly to the door, listened briefly but intently, and abruptly flung it open and looked out into the _antichambre_. "not this time!" observed jules laconically, from the dining-room beyond, where he was languidly polishing wine-glasses. "i'm glad to see you profit by experience," retorted radwalader. "come here." the faithful servitor came slowly across the hallway, glanced about the empty _salon_, helped himself liberally from the whiskey decanter, swallowed the raw spirit at a gulp, and flung himself heavily into a chair. "fire away!" he remarked. "i hope it's something worth while. i don't mind saying i'm hard up." chapter vi. a revolt suppressed. "i've passed the window every day for a week," continued monsieur jules vicot, "because i hardly thought you were in earnest in your threat to throw me over, and when i saw the jar there again, this morning, i found i was quite right. you'd thought better of it--eh? you wanted to see me. it's just as well, perhaps--for both of us." there was a suggestion of defiance in his tone which contrasted curiously with the tremor of his hand, as he lit a cigarette. "i might have taken the liberty of calling on one of your thursdays, without any summons," he added, as radwalader made no reply. as he spoke, he glanced up, met the other's steady eyes, and immediately looked away again. "it doesn't do to push a partner too far," he concluded, with the hint of a whine. there was a long pause, which was evidently extremely disconcerting to monsieur vicot. he removed his cigarette from his lips several times, and as often replaced it, his hand trembling violently. radwalader never took his eyes from him, but sat, smiling slightly, with his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, and his hand raised and open. there was not a quiver in his fingers, a fact which was duly noted, as it was intended to be, by his companion. "have you lost your tongue?" demanded the latter presently, with manifest irritation. "oh, by no means, my excellent jules," answered radwalader, easily. "i was simply reflecting how i might submit a few facts for your consideration in a manner which would render a repetition of the communication unnecessary. there seems to be some misunderstanding. i think i'm not slow to appreciate another's meaning. i make bold to suppose that you desire to intimidate me?" monsieur vicot fidgeted uneasily, discarded his cigarette, lit another, shrugged his shoulders, and gripped the arms of his chair. "i think it's time we understood each other," resumed radwalader, still smiling. "it's long since we spoke of certain things--trivialities, maybe, such as forgery, theft, and blackmail--" "as to blackmail--" put in the other, with an attempt at bravado. "exactly," agreed radwalader. "you're about to say that we're in the same boat. so we are, but not--to quote the old epigram--but not with the same skulls. i'm not a fool, my good jules. you are. i walk in the bed of running streams, you in fresh-fallen snow. the inference is plain. my hold upon you is in black and white, and deposited, as you know, in my safe-deposit vault at the bank. it's as comforting as an insurance policy. in case of my sudden disappearance--" "oh, chuck it!" said vicot. "whereas your hold upon me," swerved off radwalader pleasantly, "also as you know, is as substantial as the cigarette-ash you've just flicked upon my carpet." "chuck that, too," put in vicot, sullenly. "what's the use of all this talk? you've the whip-hand, radwalader, and you know it." "_then remember it, by god!_" exclaimed the other. his assumption of smiling pleasantly was gone like a wisp of smoke. he had risen suddenly, and, with his fist clenched on the table-edge, was leaning over his companion as if he would crush him by the very force of his personality. his steel-blue eyes had hardened, and at the corners of his lips hovered a sneering smirk which suggested a panther. "then remember it," he reiterated, "and remember it for all time! what i say, i say once. after that--i act. you snivelling drunkard! you wretched, nerve-racked lump of bluff! _you_ threaten _me_? did you suppose i'd forgotten that i could have sent you to the galleys five years ago, just because i haven't mentioned the fact since then? do you imagine i can't send you there now? do you think i'd hesitate for a wink about throwing you overboard, body and soul, if i didn't find you useful? do you fancy i'm _afraid_ of you? god! what a maggot it is! look at those hands, you whelp! i've seen you grovel, and i've heard you whine, and what a man will do once he'll do again under like conditions. it's too late for you to pit your will against mine, my friend! you gave yourself away five years ago, when first i put on the thumbscrews, and i know at just which turn of them you're going to whimper again!" to all appearance, the white heat of radwalader's passion was gone as suddenly as it had come. with the last words, his face resumed its normal expression of placidity, and, before he continued, he began to pace slowly up and down the room, with his thumbs in the pockets of his trousers. vicot had made no motion, save, at the other's contemptuous reference to his hands, to fold his arms. now he sank a little farther into his chair, and, under lowered lids, his eyes slid to and fro, following his companion's march. "if you didn't understand the situation before," resumed radwalader, "it's probable that you do now. as it happens, i don't fear god, man, or devil; but even if i were as timid as a rabbit, i wouldn't fear _you_! you're a convenience, that's all--an instrument to do that part of my work which is a trifle too dirty for a gentleman's hands. so long as you do it to my satisfaction, i see fit to pay you, and pay you well; and you're free to drink like the swine you are, and go to the devil your own way. but the indispensable man doesn't exist, my good jules, and the moment you kick over the traces, out you go! i discarded you last month because i don't like people who listen at doors, even if i'm not fool enough to give them an opportunity of hearing anything. if i've chosen to call for you again, it's simply that i've work for you, and assuredly not because i'm in any fear of consequences. pray get that into your head as speedily, and keep it there as long, as possible. there are plenty of others to take your place. as for partners, you're as much mine as the coyote is the wolf's, and no more. so you've said enough on _that_ point." "what's the job?" put in vicot, as the other paused. "if you haven't forgotten certain things in the past few weeks, you know what it means when i sit close to one man and talk only to him whenever you're in the room." "never to forget his face," answered vicot, as if responding to a question in the catechism. "is it another game of shadow?" "to an extent, yes. but it will be more in the open than usual. you won't have to skulk. do you think you can accustom yourself to the change?" "get on!" said vicot impatiently. "i suppose it's the young chap?" "yes. he's to take remson peake's apartment, in all probability--or some other. and you, my excellent jules, are to be his _valet de chambre_." "humph!" commented the other, without any evidence of surprise. "and the pay?" "what's usual from him, i suppose," said radwalader, "and from me double." "say three hundred francs a month, all told?" "about that." radwalader seated himself again, and, leaning forward, continued more earnestly, making a little church and steeple of his linked fingers. "first, visitors--their names, or, if not that, their appearance, as accurately as possible. next, letters--both incoming and outgoing--particularly the latter. steam them, and take copies whenever it seems best. keep an eye especially on anything relating to--well, to women in general. if any come to the apartment, make good use of your remarkable faculty for eavesdropping, which was so lamentably misapplied here. keep your hands off his tobacco and wine. be respectful. get him to talk as much as possible, and remember what he says. stay sober--if you can. and report to me immediately if anything important turns up." "when do i begin?" "i can't tell. in a few days, probably. i'll let you know." vicot rose slowly. "what a blackguard you are, radwalader!" he said, almost admiringly. "that's not the greatest compliment i've known you to pay me," drawled radwalader. "imitation is the sincerest flattery." the other poured himself another half-glass of whiskey, set it on the table-edge, and stood looking down at it. "and i was once a gentleman!" he said. "oh, don't get maudlin," answered radwalader. "we were all of us something unprofitable once. the main fact, by your own confession, is that, as a gentleman, you couldn't make enough to keep body and soul together; and that, as a scalawag, you can turn over three hundred francs a month. the world is full of gentlemen. they're a drug on the market. but accomplished scoundrels are rare, my good vicot." "you'll have a deal to answer for one of these days, radwalader." radwalader shrugged his shoulders. "one never has to answer so long as there are no questions asked," he said flippantly. "you'd better take your tipple and go home. preaching doesn't become you in the least degree." "i want to know," said vicot slowly, taking up his glass, "what you mean to do. i've pulled many a chestnut out of the fire for you, radwalader, and if i haven't burned my fingers in doing it, i've soiled them enough, god knows. you haven't any scruple about calling me names, and i take your insults because i'd starve to death if i didn't. but i've a conscience, and it cuts me, now and again." "bank-notes make good court-plaster," observed radwalader. "yes, but there are some things which i've done that i won't do again. i don't want to be mixed up in another affair like that of young baxter. do you ever think of that morning at the morgue?" "i wasn't made to look backward," said radwalader. "providence put my eyes in the front of my head, and i know how to take a hint." "well, _i_ think of it--often," said vicot, with something like a shudder. "he repaid me in my own coin, that boy. if i shadowed him in his life, he shadows me in his death. even brandy doesn't blot him out of my mind. when i shut my eyes at night, i can see him, sitting in that ghastly chair, with his face, all purple, looking through the cloudy glass--as truly murdered by us who stood looking at him, as if we had pitched him into the lake at auteuil with our own hands!" "oh, rot!" exclaimed radwalader. "you know what that means, don't you? other men see centipedes and blue rats: you see baxter, that's all. cut off the liquor, and you won't know there ever was such a thing as a morgue. baxter was a silly ass. he tried to do things with ten thousand francs that a sane man wouldn't attempt with a hundred. i let him go his pace, and i was as surprised as the next chap when i found how short his rope was. i held his notes for double the amount he had in the beginning. did i come down on his family for them, after he chose the easiest way of evading payment? not a bit of it. i burned them." "policy," commented vicot briefly. "is the best honesty," supplemented radwalader. "he was daft on baccarat, and if he had to lose, why not to me as well as another? and a man who drowns himself for ten thousand francs isn't worth considering." he crossed to the piano, and, seating himself, let his fingers stray up and down the keyboard through a maze of curiously intermingling minor chords. then he began to hum softly, looking up, with his eyes half-closed, as if trying to recall the words. after a moment, he struck a final note, low in the bass, and, with his foot on the pedal, listened until the sound died down to silence. "i want to know what you mean to do," reiterated vicot obstinately. "well, you won't, and that's flat. the job is for you to take or leave, as you see fit. only i want yes or no, and, after that, no more talk. i'm a hard man to make angry, but you've done it once to-day, and that's once too often for your good. why, what are you thinking of, man? you've known me for five years. did you ever see me hesitate or back down? did you ever find a screw loose in my work, or so much as a scrap of paper to incriminate me? did you ever know me to leave a footprint in the mud we've been through together--or let you leave one either, for that matter? a man like you would land in mazas inside of a week, if he tinkered with business like mine, without a head like mine to guide him! look here. you've been useful to me, vicot, and, though you've been paid enough to make us quits, i'm not ungrateful to you in my own way. continue to stick by me and i'll stick by you. throw it all over, if you will, and you can go your way, with a handsome present to boot. but let me hear any more of such drivel as you've given me to-day, and, as god lives, my man, i'll smooch you off the face of the earth, as i'd smooch a green caterpillar off a page of my book! you'd be a smear of slime, my friend, and nothing more--and i'd turn the page, and go on reading!" radwalader had not raised his tone, as on the former occasion, or even risen, but his voice rasped the silence of the _salon_ like a diamond on thin glass. "is it yes, or no?" he added. vicot swallowed the spirit in his glass, and looked across at him with his eyes watering and blinking. "you know which," he said. "say it!" "it's yes," said vicot sulkily; "but if i wasn't the cur i am, i'd tell you to go to hell--you and all your works!" radwalader closed the piano gently. "if it affords you any satisfaction to hear it," he answered, rising with a yawn, "i think it likely that the injunction is entirely superfluous. we sha'n't gain anything by prolonging this interview. it's four minutes to six, and i must dress for dinner. when i want you, i'll stick the blue jar in the window. meanwhile, here's fifty francs on account. i'll get mr. vane to pay you in advance." vicot stood silent for a moment, the bill crackling as he folded it between his trembling fingers. "is that his name?" he asked. "that's his name. _au revoir._" and radwalader went to the window, flung it open, and drew a deep breath of the soft, spring-evening air. a girl was selling violets on the corner, and he beckoned to her, and bought a bunch of palmas, leaning down from the sill to take them. plunging his face into the fragrant purple mass, he dropped a two-franc piece into her hand with a gesture which bade her keep the coin. "_comme monsieur est bon!_" said the girl, smiling up at him. only one other figure was in sight, that of monsieur jules vicot, with his head bent, and his hands in his pockets, turning, at a snail's pace, into the avenue victor hugo. from him radwalader's eyes came back to the face of the flower-girl. "you were just in time," he said, with his nose among the violets. "the air was getting a little close." then he shut the window, leaving her looking up, smiling, and wrinkling her forehead at the same time, and went back into his bedroom, whistling "_au clair de la lune_." chapter vii. a pledge of friendship. the following week found andrew fairly installed _en garçon_, with a man-servant, recommended by radwalader, presiding over his boots and apparel, and a fat apple-cheeked _concierge_ preparing his favourite dishes in a fashion which suggested that all former cooks of his experience had been the veriest tyros. it had taken but a week at the ritz to disgust him with the elaborate pomposity of life at a fashionable hotel, and, in its unpretentious way, remson peake's apartment was a gem. a tiled bath, with a porcelain tub; a bedchamber in white and sage-green, with charmingly odd, splay-footed furniture of the glasgow school; a severely simple dining-room, with curtains and upholstery of heavy crimson damask; a study with furniture of _marqueterie_ mahoghany, a huge divan, and a club-fender upon which to cock one's feet; a pantry and a kitchen like a doll's--it was complete, inviting, and equipped in every detail. for andrew it had a very special charm. his whole life had been, to a great extent, subordinate to the presence and personality of his grandfather. even college had not brought him the usual accompaniment of rooms at claverly or beck, for--and it was to his credit--he had never so much as suggested leaving mr. sterling alone in the big house on beacon hill. but even an influence as kindly as this gentle, indulgent old man's may irk. now, for the first time, andrew found himself the practical master of his movements. and remson peake's apartment had the rare, almost unique, quality of disarming criticism. one had no suggestions to make. one would--given the opportunity--have done the same in every particular. and so, the faint qualms of homesickness having worn off in the course of his initial fortnight in the capital, andrew found himself supremely contented, and discovered a new charm in life at every turn. radwalader was the essence of courtesy and consideration, invariable in his good humour, tireless in his efforts to amuse and entertain the young _protégé_ of his good friend mrs. carnby. paris, he told andrew, was like a box of delicate _pastilles_, each of which should be allowed to melt slowly on the tongue: it disagreed with those who attempted to swallow the whole box of its attractions at a gulp. so they went about andrew's sight-seeing in a leisurely manner, taking the louvre and the luxembourg by half-hours, and sandwiching in a church, a monument, or a celebrated street, on the way; for it was another theory of radwalader's that a franc found on the pavement, or in the pocket of a discarded waistcoat, is more gratifying than fifty deliberately earned. "it's the things you happen on which you will enjoy," he said, "not those you go to work to find, by taking a tram or walking a mile. unpremeditated discoveries, like unpremeditated dissipations, are always the most successful. there's nothing so flat as a plan." as was to be expected, mrs. carnby was not able to monopolize andrew. mrs. ratchett took him into her good graces, and, as was usual with her where men were concerned, contrived to make him think of her between his calls. and there were many others--women characteristic of the american colony, whose husbands were never served up except with dinner. it was as mrs. carnby told him: "if a bachelor has manners, discretion, and presentable evening dress, he need never pay for a dinner in paris, so long as the colony knows of his existence. and remember this. nothing is dearer to a woman's heart than a man at five o'clock. she will excuse anything, if you'll give her a chance to remember how many lumps you take and whether it's cream or lemon. attend to your teas, my young friend, and you can do just about as you like about your _p_'s and _q_'s!" madame palffy, too, seeking whom she might entertain (which, in her case, was equivalent to devouring), collected young men as geologists collect specimens of minerals. the analogy was strengthened by her predilection for chipping off portions--the darker portions--of their characters, and handing these around for the edification of her friends. she cultivated andrew assiduously, though it was not for this reason that he dropped in so frequently at tea-time. margery, with her clean-cut beauty, appealed to him in a very special sense. they had in common many memories of the free, open-air, sane, and wind-blown life of the north shore; and now, when they idled through portions of "the persian garden," which had been the fad at beverly, it was by way of getting a whiff of sea air, and an echo of the laughter that had been. often he found himself looking at her admiringly. she had the knack of satisfying one's sense of what ought to be. her dress was almost always of a studied simplicity which depended for its effect entirely upon colour and fit, and could have been bettered in neither. not the least factor in her striking beauty was its purity, its freedom from the smallest suggestion of artificiality. she was singularly alive, admirably clear-eyed and strong, and in her fresh propriety there was always a challenge to the open air and the full light of day. she had, even in the ballroom, an indefinable hint of out-of-doors. the contrast between her personality and that of parisian women--of mirabelle tremonceau, for example--was the contrast between the clean, dull linen of a new england housekeeper and the dainty shams of an exhibition bedroom; between a physician's hands and a manicure's; between the keen, salt air of the north shore and that of a tropical island. her femininity impressed where that of others merely charmed. the majority of women are pink: margery palffy was a soft, clear cream. nevertheless, andrew seemed to feel, rather than to see, a subtle alteration in her. a few months had given her a new reserve, almost an attitude of distrust, which puzzled and eluded him. their talks at beverly had been different from these. there, they had spoken much of the future, of what they hoped and believed: here they skirted, instead of boldly boarding, serious topics, and were fallen unconsciously, but immediately, into the habit of chaffing each other over meaningless trifles. he was baffled and disconcerted by the change. there was much which he had come to say. he had rehearsed it all many times, and remembering the charming lack of constraint which had characterized all their former intercourse, to say it had seemed comparatively easy. but now he was like a man who has been recalling his fluent renderings, at school or college, of the classic texts, but, suddenly confronted with the same passages, cannot translate a word. again, the presence of her family depressed him with something of her own visible distress, humiliated him with something of her own evident shame. there was no such thing as making allowances for either monsieur or madame palffy. from the moment of one's first glimpse of them, they were hopelessly and irretrievably impossible. not that they had the faintest suspicion of this. they were supremely self-satisfied, and moved massively through life with a firm conviction that they fulfilled all requirements. madame, with her frightful french, was as complacent in a conversation with a duchess of the faubourg as was monsieur, with his feeble and flatulent observations upon subjects of which he had no knowledge, in a company of after-dinner smokers. it was impossible to exaggerate their preternatural idiocy. a bale of cotton, suddenly introduced into polite society, could have manifested no more stupendous lack of resource than they. it was only when tempted with the bait of gossip--most probably untrue--that they rose heavily to the surface of the conversation instead of floundering in its depths. half the colony detested them, all of the colony laughed at them, and none of the colony believed them. in short--they were monsieur and madame palffy. there was no more to be said. had margery been farther from him, curiously enough she would have been far more readily approached in the manner which andrew had planned. he was far from comprehending that it was her vital and intimate interest in him which showed her that he would note all the defects of the deplorable frame wherein he thus found her placed. the very fact that they had known each other under different and happier conditions forced her to assume the defensive now that other circumstances were patent to his eyes. she was intensely proud. there must be no chance for him to pity her. so, she assumed a gaiety which she was far from feeling, and sought in the by-ways of banter a refuge from the broader and more open road of surrender. on her side and on his it was a more mature case of the painful embarrassment incidental to the early stages of a children's party. they had played unrestrainedly together, as it were, but now, in the artificial light of a society strange to both of them, were stricken dumb. from the strain of this baffling position andrew sought relief in the company of mirabelle tremonceau. here was no constraint, no unuttered solemnities to come up choking into the throat. she was very beautiful, very inconsequent, very gay; but the same light _insouciance_ which in margery distressed and humiliated him, because of the unsounded deeps which lay below, attracted and amused him in mirabelle, by simple reason of its essential shallowness. she was altogether different from any woman he had ever known, but her novelty meant no more to him than a part of that charmingly sparkling and intoxicating wine of paris of which he was learning to take deep draughts. never for an instant did it alter the strength of the original purpose which had brought him from america, but it went far toward lessening the keen disappointment which margery's apparent disregard of that purpose caused him. in the latter's presence he was exquisitely sensitive to the possible significance of every word. he thought too much, and the sombre current of these reflections too often darkened the surface of conversation, turned her uneasy and unnatural, and sent him away in a fit of the blues. with mirabelle, on the contrary, he never thought at all. since he had nothing to ask of her beyond what she had already granted him--the privilege of her friendship and the fascination of her presence--he enjoyed these to the full. it was his consuming desire for another and more tender relation with margery that caused him to be blind to the promise of that which existed--almost to despise it. minutes grew into hours with unbelievable celerity in the company of mirabelle tremonceau. with something akin to intuition, all unsuspecting as he was, he said nothing of her to mrs. carnby, to margery, or even to radwalader. at the first, there was but one who could have told him whither he was tending--but thomas radwalader had all-sufficient reasons for holding his tongue. yet, back of his slight infatuation, there lay in andrew's mind a little sense of guilt. he could not have laid finger upon the quality of his indiscretion, but he felt indefinitely that all was not right. he recognized, or seemed to recognize, in mirabelle a fruit forbidden, but told himself that it was a passing episode. he was confident that the way would yet lie open for the attainment of his heart's desire, and meanwhile he would amuse himself and say nothing. your ostrich, with his silly head buried in the sand, is not the only creature that fatuously underestimates both its own desirability and the perspicacity of those interested in its movements. twice, in the afternoon, andrew had driven with mirabelle in the allée des acacias. she gave him the seat at her right, and people turned to look at the passing victoria, as they had turned and looked on the afternoon when she took his arm at the gate of auteuil. but better than driving was the time passed, daily, in her apartment on the avenue henri martin. it was on the fifth floor, running the whole width of the house, and with a broad balcony looking down upon the rows of trees below. a corner of this balcony was enclosed by gay awnings, and made garden-like by azaleas and potted palms. mademoiselle tremonceau had a great lounging chair, and a table for books and _bon-bons_, and andrew sprawled at her feet, on red cushions, with his back against the balcony rail, his hands linked behind his head, and his long legs stretched out upon a persian rug. all this was the most unexpected feature of his new life, and hence the most attractive. it was as far as possible removed from a suggestion of metropolitan existence. may was already upon them, and the air above the wide and shaded avenue was indescribably soft and sweet. the roar of the city mounted to their high coign only in a subdued murmur, as of the sea at a distance. birds came and went, twittering on the cornice above their heads. the sun soaked through andrew's serge and linen, and sent pleasurable little thrills of warmth through the muscles of his broad back. a faint perfume came to him from the roses on the table. a delicious, indefinable languor hung upon his surroundings. he was vaguely reminded of afternoons at newport and nahant--afternoons when everything smelt of new white flannel, warm leaves, and the fox-terrier blinking and quivering on his knee--when the only sounds were the whine of insects in the vines, the rasping snore of locusts in the nearest trees, and the snarl of passing carriage-wheels on a macadam driveway. he could close his eyes and remember it all, and know that what had been, was good. he could open them, and feel that what was, was better! as is always the case, when sympathy is pregnant with prophecy, andrew's acquaintance with mirabelle tremonceau had grown into friendship before he realized the change. at first he had made excuses for the frequency of his calls; but at the end of three weeks the daily visit had come, in his eyes as well as hers, to be a matter of course. so it was that three o'clock would find him upon her balcony, or in a cushioned corner of her divan; and whereas, at the outset, he had been but one of several men present, he discovered of a sudden not only that for four days had he found her alone at the accustomed hour, but that she refused herself to other callers when the _maître d'hôtel_ brought in their cards. he was not insensible to the compliment, but it was one he had experienced before. that afternoon, the _maître d'hôtel_ had not even taken his name, but ushered him directly through the _salon_ to the venetian blind at the window, and lifted this to let him pass out upon the balcony. mademoiselle tremonceau was in her great chair, with a yellow-covered novel perched, tent-like, upon her knee. she smiled as he came out, and gave him her hand. andrew bent over and kissed it, before taking his seat. it was a trick of the frenchmen he had met at mrs. carnby's--one of the things which are courtesies in paris, and impertinence elsewhere. the girl's hand lay for an instant against his lips. it was as soft as satin, and smelt faintly of orris, and her fingers closed on his with a little friendly pressure. "you were expecting me?" he asked, as he dropped upon the cushions beside her. "i'd given you up," she answered. "it's ten minutes past three." "am i as regular as that?" he laughed. "i was lunching at my friend mrs. carnby's, and we didn't get up from table till long after two. i came directly over." mirabelle looked away across the house-tops with a little frown. "what is it?" asked andrew. "anything gone wrong?" "oh no! my thoughts wouldn't be a bargain at a penny. tell me--have you seen mr. radwalader lately?" "last night. we went to the français." "you continue to like him?" "i think we should never be intimate friends. apart from the difference in our ages and opinions, there's something about him which i don't seem to get at--like shaking a gloved hand, if you know what i mean." "ye-es," said mirabelle slowly. "it's odd you should have noticed that." "but it's ungrateful of me to mention even that small objection," continued andrew. "he's been the soul of kindness, and has shown me all over paris, introduced me everywhere, and, in general, explained things. i've learned more in three weeks with him than i could have learned myself in a year. so, you see, i couldn't very well help liking him, even if i wanted to help it--which i don't. why do you ask?" for an instant mirabelle's slender hand fluttered toward him with an odd little tentative gesture, and then went back to her cheek. "i'm not sure," she answered. "perhaps only for lack of anything else to say. people have told me that they disliked mr. radwalader--that they distrusted him." "i suppose we're all of us disliked and distrusted--by somebody," said andrew. "but, so far as i'm concerned, radwalader's my friend. perhaps you don't know me well enough yet to understand that that means a great deal." "you're very loyal you mean?" suggested the girl. "i hope so--yes. i have few friends; but those i have, i care for and respect and, if necessary, defend. they can't be talked against in my presence." "i wonder," said mirabelle slowly, "if i'm one of the happy few." "decidedly!" said andrew heartily. "do you mean," she continued, "that you care for me as you care for these other friends, that you--that you respect me, and that you'd defend me--if necessary?" "decidedly, decidedly! i hope i've proved the first two, and i hope there'll never be any cause to prove the last. but if there is, you may count on me." mirabelle looked at him for a moment, and then leaned back and closed her eyes. "thank you," she said. "you don't know what that means to me." "why, how serious you are over it!" laughed andrew. "does it seem to you so very wonderful? to me it appears to be the most natural thing in the world." "ah, to _you_, perhaps," answered mirabelle. "but to me--yes, it does seem _very_ wonderful. you see--i've never had it said to me before!" chapter viii. a parley and a prayer. may was close upon the heels of june before there came a change, but one afternoon, as andrew paused in his playing, an atmosphere of new intimacy seemed to touch him. he had been alone with margery for half an hour, and something in the music--or was it only fancy?--told him that her thoughts were occupied with him. she had greeted him with a little air of weariness--but not unfriendly--and, as he took her hand, she looked at him with some indefinite question in her eyes. the impression made by this gained on him as they talked, and, more strongly, as he played. once or twice he was upon the point of turning abruptly and seeking the clue, but he had been so long perplexed, so long uncertain, that he hesitated still. if only she would give him an opening, if she would but come, as she had often come at beverly, to lean above him, humming the words of some song into which he had unconsciously drifted, then had he had the courage to turn, to grip her hands, to ask her.... "i wonder if we would, even if we could," she said. "what?" asked andrew. "how should you be expected to know? i've been a thousand miles away--thinking of omar. i mean whether we would 'shatter it to bits, and then remould it nearer to the heart's desire.'" andrew swung round on the piano-stool, slowly chafing his palms together. he did not dare trust himself to look at her. for the first time since they had met in paris, he caught an echo of the old life in her tone. "i wonder if we could, even if we would," he answered. "i think so--perhaps. whatever set you thinking about that?" "i'm sure i don't know," said margery, with a short laugh. "sometimes, in my own little way, i'm quite a philosopher! i was just thinking that if any of us were given the chance to change things--everything--shatter 'the sorry scheme of things' into bits, as omar says--we should perhaps make an equally sorry bungle of the task of reconstruction. we're always saying 'if!' but when it actually came to the point, do you suppose we'd really want anything to be different?" again that singular, appealing query in her eyes. it was the old margery at last, simple, serious, and candid. there was a responsive light in andrew's face as he replied: "some things, no doubt. i don't think i could suggest a desirable change in you--except one. will you let me tell you?" margery nodded. "it's more of a restoration than a change," continued andrew. "i'd like to see you, in every respect, precisely as you were at beverly." "and am i not? a little older, of course, and bound to be more dignified, as becomes a young woman in society; but for the rest, i'd be sorry to think you find a change in me." andrew wheeled back to the piano, and refingered a few chords. "now that you've seen the world," he said presently, "tell me what pleases you most in life." and he faced her again, smiling. "motion!" replied margery promptly. "i can't explain that, but i know it's so. motion! i don't care what kind, just so long as it shows that the world is alive and happy. i love to see things run and leap--a man, or a horse, or a dog. i love the surf, the trees in a wind; all evidences of strength, of activity, of--well, of _life_ in every and any form. not so much dancing. that always seems to me to be a forced, an artificial kind of movement, unless it's _very_ smoothly done--and you know, almost every one hops! but i could watch swimming and driving and rowing for hours, and, for that matter, any outdoor sport--racing, football, lacrosse--anything which gives one the idea that men are glad to be alive!" "how curious!" said andrew. "curious? why?" "because that's a man's point of view, not a girl's. i ask you what pleases you most in life, and i expect that you're going to say music, or flowers, or the play. instead, you cut out remorselessly everything which one naturally associates with a woman's way of amusing herself, and give me an answer which sounds as if it came from one of the lads at st. paul's. that's the way they used to talk, exactly. it was all rush, vim, get-up-and-get-out, with them. if you know what i mean, they breathed so hard and talked so fast that it always seemed to me as if they'd just come in from running in a high wind." "yes," agreed margery, with a nod. "i know. that's what i like. that's what i call the glad-to-be-alive atmosphere." there fell a little silence. andrew's fine eyes were tiptoeing from point to point of the big, over-furnished _salon_ with a kind of amazed disgust. he had not known that there were so many hideous things in the world. madame palffy worshipped at the twin altars of velvet and gilt paint. much of what now encumbered the room and smote the eye had been picked up in venice, at the time of her ponderous honeymoon with the apoplectic palffy. that was twenty years before, when the _calle_ back of the piazza were filled with those incalculable treasures of tapestry, carved wood, and ivory now in the _palazzi_ of rich venetians--if, indeed, they are not in cluny. but the palffys were as stupid as they were pompous. they moved heavily round and round the piazza, and furnished their prospective _salon_ out of the front windows of smirking charlatans. the irreparable and damning results of their selection, as andrew now surveyed them, had been modified--or, more exactly, exaggerated--by the subsequent purchases of two decades in the flamboyant bazars of the friedrichs strasse, in the "art departments" of the big shops on regent and oxford streets, and in the degenerate galleries of the palais royal. madame palffy's idea of statuary was a white marble greyhound asleep upon a cushion of red _sarrancolin_: and her taste ran to bohemian glass, to onyx vases, and to plaques with broad borders of patterned gilt, enclosing heads of simpering neapolitan girls--these last to hang upon the wall. there were spindle-legged chairs, with backs like golden harps, and seats of brocade wherein salmon-pink and turquoise-blue wrestled for supremacy; and in front of the huge mantel (logically decked with a red lambrequin) there was a velvet ottoman in the form of a mushroom, whereon when monsieur palffy sat, his resemblance to a suffocating frog became absolutely startling. the rest of the furniture was so massive as to suggest that it could have been moved to its present position by no agency less puissant than a glacier, and, for the most part, the upholstery was tufted, and so tightly stuffed that one slid about on the chairs and sofas as if they had been varnished. the room contained four times as much of everything as was appropriate or even decent, and this gave all the furnishings the air of being on exhibition and for sale. one's imagination, however, was not apt to embrace the possibility, under any conceivable circumstances, of voluntary purchase. presently andrew's eyes came back to margery. it was evident that she had been watching him: for she smiled whimsically. "well?" she suggested. "can you guess what i was thinking?" he asked, with a slightly embarrassed laugh. "in part, i imagine," said margery. "wasn't it something like this: that, as a matter of fact, i _have_ pretty well shattered my scheme of things to bits and remoulded it--and that the new arrangement is not altogether a success?" "i don't seem to see you in these surroundings," returned andrew evasively. "at beverly you seemed to 'belong': you were all of a piece with the life. here--well, it's different. that was why i asked you that question, and that was why i thought there was something about you which i wanted to see changed--or restored. you know we used to be very open with each other, very good friends in every sense of the word; but now something's come between us. i've felt it all along, and i thought perhaps it was that you'd stopped caring for the things that used to mean most to you, that new interests, and perhaps your success and the compliments that people pay you, had cut the old ties, and that you had new ideas and ideals. i've felt--i've felt, miss palffy, that i'd forfeited even the small place i had in your life. you've been holding me at a distance, haven't you? i've thought so. i asked you that question to see if i was right or wrong, and to my surprise i find that you are apparently the same as ever. you still love all that made the sympathy between us. well, then, the fault must be in me. tell me: what have i done, that you treat me almost as a stranger?" "i'm sorry, very sorry," said margery earnestly. "if i've given you any such impression, believe me, it was quite without reason or even intention. i've always looked upon you as one of my best friends. surely, i've not been holding you at a distance: that must have been a fancy of yours. you must know that you're always welcome here, that i'm always glad to see you. please believe that." but the little restraint was there! "i can't quite explain what i mean," said andrew. "you see, paris is a queer sort of place. it upsets all one's notions. there's so much that's strange and interesting and new all about us that we're apt to find the old things growing dim. i know, in my own case, that i'm wiser for these few weeks, and perhaps"--he laughed unevenly--"sadder! forgive me for thinking that it might have been the same with you. this big city is so full of fascinations of one sort or another, that one can hardly be blamed if one is distracted at the first. until i saw you that sunday at mrs. carnby's, i'd never realized what a difference a few months might make. your voice brought back--a lot! i forgot that it was all in the past, that we couldn't pick up things as they were in beverly--the sailing, the bathing, the horseback rides, the golf, and all the rest. those months had made you a woman and me a man. much that we used to do and say was done and said and finished with forever. but i _did_ hope that the spirit of the thing would remain, that we'd 'grown parallel to each other,' as mrs. carnby says, and that we'd be nearer together, instead of farther apart, for the separation. but no! it isn't a fancy on my part. there's something changed. do you remember wordsworth? 'there hath passed away a glory from the earth'--and, miss palffy, there has, there _has_! i know i'm not wrong--something's come between us, and that something is just what i've said--paris! isn't it?" "yes!" she answered, with her eyes on his. but andrew vane, the blind, did not understand. margery rose, almost with a shudder, crossed the room, and stood at the window opening upon the balcony. below, a whirling stream of cabs, bound in from longchamp, split around the island in the centre of the _place_, merged again upon the opposite side, and went rocking and rattling on, up the avenue victor hugo, toward the arc. in curious contrast to this continuous and flippant clatter, the harsh bell of st. honoré d'eylau was striking six. "i hate it!" said the girl. "i couldn't attempt to make you understand how i loathe paris, and how home-sick for america i am. here--i can't express it, but the shallowness and the insincerity and the--the immorality of these people gets into one's blood. it's all pretence, sham, and heartless, cynical impurity. at first i didn't see it--i didn't understand. i was dazzled with the lights, and the fountains, and the gaiety. i was lonely--yes: but when i remembered all there was to see and do, remembered that here is the best in art and music and what not, i thought i should be happy. but it's the beauty of a tropical swamp, mr. vane--there's poison in the air! you wouldn't think i'd feel that, would you?--but i do. it's all around me. i can't shut it out. i meet it here, there--everywhere. it sickens me. it chokes me. it's just as if something that i couldn't fight against, that was bound to conquer me in the end, struggle as i might, were trying to rob me of all my beliefs, and ideals, and trust in the honour of men and the goodness of women. i hate it! i'd give--oh, what _wouldn't_ i give!--to be back in america, on the good, clean north shore, where things--where things are _straight_!" she turned upon him suddenly, her eyes full of a strange trouble that was almost fear. "do you see?" she added. "yes," said andrew slowly. "i think i see. that's what i meant; that's how i thought you would feel. i'm sorry. you're right, of course: paris is no place for a girl--like you." "it's no place for any one who loves what's clean and decent," said margery hotly. "it's no place for a _man_! i'm not supposed to know, am i, about such things? and perhaps i don't. i couldn't tell you exactly what i mean, even if i wanted to. but i feel it here." she laid her hand upon her throat. "i feel the danger that i can't describe. it strangles me. i'm afraid. i'm afraid for its influence upon any one for whom--for whom i might care. i'm afraid for myself. it's nothing definite, you see, and that's just where it seems to me to be so dangerous. do you remember when we were reading tennyson at beverly--'the lotus eaters'?" she paused for an instant, and then, looking away from him again, recited the lines: "'for surely now our household hearths are cold: our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: and we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. or else the island princes over-bold have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings, before them of the ten years' war in troy, and our great deeds, as half-forgotten things, is there confusion in the little isle? let what is broken so remain.'" there was something in her voice more eloquent than the music of the words. andrew came forward a step, as if he would have touched her, but she looked up and met his eyes. "and you're afraid--?" he began. "i'm afraid," she answered, "that we've come to a land where it seems always afternoon; and that if we don't take heed, my friend, we may not fight a good fight, we may not keep the faith." she made an odd little weary gesture. "will you play some of the 'garden' now?" she asked. "i think i should like it. i'm just the least bit blue." andrew hesitated, but the words he wanted would not come. he turned back to the piano, fingered the music doubtfully for a moment, and then began to play. there was no need to voice the words. they both knew them well, and they fitted, as, somehow, the verse of omar has a knack of doing. "strange, is it not, that of the myriads who before us passed the door of darkness through, not one returns to tell us of the road which to discover we must travel too." "i'm glad i know you," he broke in impulsively, with his fingers on the keys. "you're a good friend." margery made no reply. "my grandfather, who's the best old chap in all the world," continued andrew, playing the following crescendo softly, "is the only other person of whom i can feel that as you make me feel it. he always calls me 'andy.' i rather like that silly little name. i wonder--" he swung round, facing her. "i think we're both of us a trifle homesick, miss palffy. i wonder if you'd mind--calling me--that?" he looked down for a second, and in that second margery palffy moistened her lips. when she spoke, it seemed to her that her voice sounded harsh and dry. "i shall be very glad, if you wish it--andy." "thank you. and i--?" "if you like--yes. after all, as you say, we're friends--and a little homesick." "thank you, margery." andrew resumed his playing, turning a few pages. "ah, love, could you and i with fate conspire to grasp the sorry scheme of things entire, would we not shatter it to bits--and then remould it nearer to the heart's desire!" behind him, the girl, unseen, unheard, was whispering a word for every chord. once, her hand went out toward the smooth, close-cropped head, bent in eager attention above the score. "ah, love!" said the music. "ah, love!" whispered margery palffy. "what a _lot_ there is in this!" exclaimed andrew, crashing into two sharps. "yes." once more, to margery, her voice seemed cold and hard. "the good old days at beverly--what?" said andrew. "yes." andrew dawdled with the _andante_. "ah, moon of my delight, that knows no wane--" "i must be going," he said, and rose to take her hand. "i wonder," he added, retaining it, "if you know that i would give the world to ask you just one question--and be certain of the answer?" "not now," said margery steadily, "not now, please. i have many things to think of. listen. i'm going down to poissy--to the carnbys', to-morrow. i know they mean to ask you over sunday; and then, my friend, you can ask me--whatever you will. no, please. good-by." from the window she watched him stroll across to the little island in the centre of the _place_, there pause to await the coming of the tram, and then, mounting to the _impériale_, light a cigarette. presently, with hee-hawing of its donkey-horn, the tram swerved into the avenue again. the girl leaned her cheek against the heavy curtain. the tram dwindled into the distance--toward the arc--toward the brilliant centre of paris--toward danger! then, in a still small voice, she prayed: "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who--who trespass against us. and lead us--lead us not into temptation: but deliver us from evil...." chapter ix. the woman in the case. in the sun-spangled stretch of shade under the acacias of the villa rossignol four drank coffee and talked of andrew vane. mrs. carnby had remained in paris three weeks beyond her usual time; first, because the weather had been no more than bearably warm; and second, because the decorator who was renovating the _salon_ of the villa had been somewhat more than bearably slow. the first of june, however, found her at poissy, and the villa rossignol once more prepared to receive and discharge a continually varying stream of guests with the regularity of a self-feeding press. there was something very admirable about the hospitality of the villa rossignol. in the first place, there were fourteen bedrooms; and in the second, a hostess who never made plans for her guests; and in the third, no fixed hour for first breakfast. people came by unexpected trains, and, finding every one out, ordered, as the sex might be, whiskey and cigarettes, or tea and a powder-box, and were served, and, in general, made themselves at home, till mrs. carnby returned from driving or canoeing. and seemingly there was always a saddle-horse at liberty in the stable, no matter how many might be riding; and a vacant corner to be found, inside or out, without regard to the number of _tête-à -têtes_ already in progress. in a word, mrs. carnby knew to perfection how _laisser aller_ and whom _laisser venir_--the which, all said and done, appear to be the qualities most admirable in an out-of-town hostess, by very reason, perhaps, of their being the least common. so, at all events, thought mrs. carnby's three guests as they took their coffee-cups from her and, sipping the first over-hot spoonfuls cautiously, shuffled a few topics of conversation, in an attempt to find one which invited elaboration. they were consumedly comfortable: for breakfast had been served on the stroke of one, with five members of the house-party absent. the remaining three were grateful for a punctuality which was not concerned with the greatest good of the greatest number. "it was so wise of you not to wait breakfast, louisa," observed mrs. ratchett, and her voice resembled as much as anything the purr of a particularly well-bred kitten. "i was as hollow as a shell an hour ago. by this time i'd infallibly have caved in." "it's nothing short of imbecile to wait for people who're out in an automobile," replied mrs. carnby. "whenever any one brings a machine down here, and takes some of my guests to ride, i have all the clocks in the house regulated, and order armand to announce breakfast and dinner on the stroke of the hour. it's only just to the sane people who may happen to be visiting me." "in the present instance," put in radwalader, "it's to be supposed that the others will have sense enough to get breakfast at the spot nearest available to that of the breakdown." "the breakdown? you take a deal for granted, radwalader," said gerald kennedy, gazing up into the shifting foliage of the acacias. "i, too, have been _en auto_," answered radwalader, "and am familiar with the inevitable feature of a run. at this moment andrew vane is in his shirt-sleeves and a pitiful perspiration, violently turning a crank and talking under his breath. or else he's flat on his back, under the car, with only his feet sticking out. can you believe otherwise, after the evidence of those five vacant chairs?" "how sensible we are, we four!" smiled mrs. ratchett. "ours is the conservatism of the lilies of the field," supplemented radwalader. "we spin not, therefore neither do we toil." "i fancy vane is regretting having left his chauffeur to breakfast in the servant's hall," said kennedy. "and i, that, if anything, vane is the better mechanician of the two," said radwalader. "the boy's aptitude is really quite astounding. he learned that machine in an hour, pivert tells me, and now knows it better than pivert himself. he's only renting it by the week, you know, but old mr. sterling will be called upon for the purchase-price, if i'm not mistaken, before he's a month older." "one might be justified in remarking," said mrs. ratchett, "that andrew vane is--er--going it--don't you think?--in a fashion little short of precipitous." "_wein--weib--gesang_," murmured kennedy, with his eyes in the trees. "i know he sings," commented mrs. carnby, "but i hadn't heard of his drinking." "or of his--oh yes i had, too!" mrs. ratchett caught herself up abruptly, with a suspicion of a blush. "some one told me he was fast going to the--er--" "cats?" suggested kennedy amiably. "gerald, you're indecent!" exclaimed mrs. carnby. "and remember, i won't listen to gossip about my guests--except madame palffy. for the moment, mr. vane's reputation is under the protection of mine." radwalader leaned back in his chair, and yawned without shame. "vane is developing, that's all," he said. "it's a thing rather to be desired than otherwise. paris does such a deal for the raw american, in the way of opening his eyes. vane is just beginning to 'learn how.' i've no doubt that in boston he ate his lettuce with sugar and vinegar, and thought it effeminate to have his nails manicured. now that he's acquiring the art of living, pray make some allowance for the crude colouring of his _exquisses_. the finished picture will be a creation of marked merit, i warrant you. i've seen a good bit of vane, and he can be trusted to take care of himself." "the question is whether he can be trusted to have other people take care of him," said mrs. ratchett viciously, looking at radwalader over the edge of her coffee-cup. "i don't think you dangerous, dear lady." "radwalader is always so unselfish," said mrs. carnby. "he escapes embarrassing situations by walking out on other people's heads." "i deserved it," laughed mrs. ratchett. "but i really wasn't thinking of you, radwalader. i heard there was a lady in the case of mr. vane." "i credit him with more originality," said radwalader. "no, believe me, the facts are no more than must be expected in a young man who has been tied to apron-strings for an appreciable number of years." "not that old mr. sterling wears aprons," observed mrs. carnby. "and not that i was referring to old mr. sterling. i had in mind the very estimable united states of america, which wash so much dirty linen in public that it would be something more than surprising if there were not a supply of particularly starchy apron-strings continually on hand--in boston in particular. vane has been taught her creed, which is to make a necessity of virtue. his daily fare has been a _rechauffé_ of worn-out fallacies. i haven't a doubt but what he's been instructed that an honest man is the noblest work of god, and i've no idea that he's ever understood till now that vice is its own reward, or how immaterial it is whether a thing is gold or not, so long as it really glitters." he turned a tiny glass of _fine_ into his coffee, and continued, stirring it thoughtfully: "what happens when you turn your stable-bred colt out to pasture for the first time? doesn't he kick up his heels and snort? assuredly. and we don't take that as an evidence, do we, that, all in good time, he won't run neck and neck with the best of them, and perhaps carry off the grand prix? i always believe in cultivating charity, if only for one comfortable quality attributed to it. let's be charitable in the case of vane. he's only kicking up his heels and snorting." "if you're going to assume the mantle of charity with the view of covering the multitude of your sins--!" suggested mrs. carnby. "we'll have to send it to the tailor's to have the tucks let out," said radwalader, with infinite good humour. "exactly, dear friend. forgive me my little sermon. you see, the physician doesn't preach, as a rule, and i'm afraid the priest is equally unapt to practise. you must pardon me my shortcomings. i can't very well be all things to all men--much less to one woman. and, while we are on this subject, it may interest you to know that vane has chosen his profession: he's going to be a novelist." "do you mean that he's going to write novels?" asked mrs. carnby. radwalader appeared to reflect. "no," he said presently. "i think i mean that he's going to be a novelist. i stand open to correction," he added, with an affected air of humility. "by no means," answered mrs. carnby. "probably i don't understand. it sounds to me a good deal like saying he's going to be a german emperor or a pope--that's all." "nevertheless, i'm quite sure that's what i mean. he has read me several chapters of a novel upon which he's at work, and i must say that they display a knowledge of women which, in a man of his years, is nothing less than remarkable." "that's not impossible," put in mrs. carnby. "i had a letter, only yesterday, from a woman who knows him, and it appears that he's as good as engaged to a very charming young american." "however," said radwalader mildly, "i think the knowledge of women displayed by vane in the chapters he was so good as to read to me is hardly such as one would expect to deduce from the fact that he is as good as engaged to a very charming young american." "his choice of a profession must be a very recent resolution," said mrs. carnby. "to be sure, until to-day, i haven't seen him in a week." "an eternity in paris," said kennedy. "extra-ordinary people, the americans! not content with securing monopolies of tramways and industrial trusts over here, they appear to control a monopoly of feminine consideration as well. i confess--though only to the acacias--that i'm in the least degree weary of the subject of mr. andrew vane. radwalader, i'll give you twenty at cannons." "done!" said radwalader, rising. "the cigars are on the corner-table in the billiard-room," observed mrs. carnby, "and the scotch is on the dining-room _buffet_, with ice and soda. don't call the servants for a half-hour, at least: it irritates them immeasurably to have their eating confused with other people's drinking." "i really don't mean it as gossip," said mrs. ratchett, as the men vanished into the house. "i'm interested in mr. vane. he seems more rational and cleaner-cut than the american cubs one sees over here as a rule; and if he's only going to go the way of the rest of them--if there's a woman in the case--" mrs. carnby shrugged her shoulders. "andrew vane has been in paris for ten weeks," she said. "i think it not improbable that paris will be in andrew vane for the rest of his natural life." "then there _is_ a woman in the case!" exclaimed mrs. ratchett. "so you say, my dear." mrs. ratchett's pointed slipper began to beat an impatient tattoo on the grass. "could anything be more ludicrous than for us two to beat about the bush in this fashion?" she broke out, after a moment. "you know perfectly what i mean, louisa--what one _always_ means, in short, by 'a woman in the case'!" "yes, of course i know," agreed mrs. carnby frankly. "the women one speaks of as being in cases are always more or less disreputable. well, there _is_ a woman in the case of our young friend--and a very engaging woman at that." "engaging appears to be a habit with mr. vane's flames," said mrs. ratchett. "it's a little hard on the one in america. and pray where did _you_ see her?--the other, i mean." "oh, here, there, and everywhere. vane made the mistake, at first, of trying to carry on his little affair _sub rosa_. people are always seen when they try not to be, you know. lately, i believe, they've been going about quite openly, so it has been almost impossible to keep track of them." "but how do you arrive at the conclusion that the lady--" "isn't respectable? i've walked up the opéra comique stairway behind her, my dear, and there was no mistaking the social grade of her petticoats. they were entirely beyond a reputable woman's means. and you're quite right. it's downright hard on the other one. she's like my own daughter--margery palffy is." "margery palffy! why, how very surprising! i thought you said the girl was in america." "no--i said 'a charming young american.' and it's really not surprising at all. my letter was from mrs. johnny barrister--madame palffy's sister-in-law, you know. she always took charge of margery during the summer vacations. they've a big house at beverly, which i've never seen, and heaps of money. that's how mr. vane met margery, i suppose: he seems to have had the run of the house. molly barrister mentioned him casually, but quite as if the engagement were a matter of course--quite as if he had come over here on purpose to see margery." "the lady with--er--the petticoats," suggested mrs. ratchett, "strikes me in the light of evidence to the contrary." "one can never tell," said mrs. carnby. "he wouldn't be the first man to drive tandem. there's apt to be a leader, you see--a high-stepping, showy thoroughbred, that attracts all the attention, and does none of the work: and then, an earnest, faithful little cob, as wheeler. after a time, a man gets tired of the frills and furbelows, sells the leader to break some other fellow's neck, and settles down. then you'll see the earnest little wheeler as much appreciated as may be, and dragging the domestic tilbury along at a rational, _bourgeois_ rate of speed. one can never tell, my dear." "all that," observed mrs. ratchett dryly, "doesn't ring true, louisa, and--what's worse--it isn't even clever. you're fond of margery palffy." "it's froth!" exclaimed mrs. carnby, "the kind of froth one sticks on the top of a horrid little pudding to conceal its disgusting lack of merit. don't ask me what i think of men, ethel. i couldn't tell you, without employing certain violent expletives, and nowadays no really original woman swears!" a distant, whirring snore, very faint at first, had grown louder as they were speaking, and now swelled into a muffled roar, as andrew's automobile lunged up the driveway, and stopped, sobbing, before the villa. mrs. carnby raised her voice, to carry across the lawn: "have you had breakfast?" andrew, turning from the automobile, waved his hand in reply. "we broke down near the pavilion henri quatre," he called. "the others had breakfast while i was making repairs. i coffeed so late that i wasn't hungry. i knew that i could hold over till tea-time." the party, five in number, came chattering toward them across the lawn. old mrs. lister led the way, followed by her son and madame palffy, whom mrs. carnby always invited to poissy for the first sunday of the season--"to get it over with," as she had been heard to say. behind were andrew and margery. jeremy was to bring palffy, de boussac, and ratchett down by the late train, and these, with kennedy, radwalader, and mrs. ratchett, completed the house-party. mrs. lister, whom radwalader had described to andrew as "the jail-breaker, because she never finishes a sentence," plunged abruptly into one of her disconnected prolations, addressing herself to mrs. carnby: "of course, we are _most_ reprehensibly late--but you see--i don't understand about these things--mr. vane said--it's so difficult to comprehend--but it was something that the gravel--or was it the dust?--at all events--and i always say that meals above _all_ things--but then accidents are simply _bound_ to occur--i do hope you didn't wait--and it was delightful--my first experience--but of course we _had_ to--there was no telling how long--though fortunately--and i'm quite fagged out, dear mrs. carnby--as i say to jack--when one is young, you know--but when one gets to fifty-four--though i don't complain--i think one should never regret--and i enjoyed the drive--or does one say ride?--it's so difficult--" she paused for breath, and madame palffy took up the tale. "it was _fas_--cinating, _fas_--cinating," she said, "and most exciting. i reached st. germain quite _en déshabille_. mr. vane kindly took margery on the front seat. mrs. lister and i sat behind, and mr. lister on the floor, with his feet on the step. it was flying." and she waved her fat hands, and sank ponderously into a chair. "my most humble apologies, mrs. carnby," said andrew. "it couldn't really be helped, and i provided my crew with sufficient nourishment to keep them alive till dinner." "you're forgiven," replied his hostess, "only don't do it again. after all," she added, looking andrew wickedly in the eye, "your crime, like dear old sir peter teazle's, carried its punishment along with it." "now i come to think of it," observed young lister vacuously, "she's his second wife, madame palffy--or _is_ she? do you know the flament-gontouts, mrs. carnby? no? they live up in the monceau quarter. she was an american, a bostonian. her maiden name was fayne--sister of clarence fayne, the painter, who married mary clemin, the daughter of anthony clemin, who used to own the parker house--" he did not appear to be addressing any one in particular, which was fortunate, as no one had ever been known to vouchsafe him the compliment of attention. he spoke with as much variety of expression as an accountant making comparisons, and invariably, as now, upon the subject of birth, marriage, and death--a hopelessly dull young man. "_he_ write plays?" said mrs. carnby, when the purpose of his presence in paris had been explained to her. "never! but he may have written the thirty-sixth chapter of genesis." "i'm afraid that's quite cold," said mrs. carnby, as, in compliance with a request, she handed andrew a cup of coffee, "but it's your own fault." "never mind," he laughed. "coffee is one of the few things which are more or less good all the way up and down the thermometer from thirty-two to two hundred and twelve." mrs. carnby looked at him critically, as he stirred, and told herself that he came up strikingly well to many standards. his hair was neither too short nor too long, he was perfectly shaved, his stock was tied to a nicety, his clothes were on friendly terms with him, his hands were excellently well-kept--and an hour before he had been tinkering with a motor!--and his teeth were even and studiously cared for. he was an aristocrat, a patrician, from his head to his heels--and it _would_ be a pity, thought mrs. carnby, to have him go the way of what mrs. ratchett had called "the rest of them"--the way of tommy clavercil, for example, whose late _affaire_ had been so crudely mismanaged that he was no longer invited to the best tables in the colony, or the way of radwalader's young acquaintance, ernest baxter, who ended up in the morgue. and then there was margery-- mrs. carnby's eyes came round to her, instantly narrowed, and dropped. there are moments when the souls of us come to their twin windows, and look out, and shout our secrets to the veriest passer-by. margery was looking at andrew vane--and mrs. carnby _saw_! "_good_ lord!" she thought. "then at least half of the story's true--and i'm afraid that's about fifty per cent. too much!" "the list of my offences isn't complete, as yet, mrs. carnby," said andrew. "i very stupidly left my camera at the pavilion. i'm afraid i shall have to go back for it." once more mrs. carnby looked at him. "i'll go with you," she said suddenly. "i haven't had a chance to see how your machine runs, as yet, and, besides, every one of these lazy people will be wanting to take a nap presently. i know them of old. i never nap myself. it's a fattening habit." "delighted to have you, i'm sure, mrs. carnby." there was the slightest trace of hesitation in andrew's voice, but mrs. carnby rose to her feet. "i may be back to tea, and i may be back to-morrow," she said to the others. "one never knows, _en automobile_." she was still frowning perplexedly, as andrew steered the automobile deftly out of the gate. "it's turned a bit windy," he said. "we didn't use the dust-cloths coming over, but there's one under the seat. what do you say--shall we have it?" he bent forward, as she nodded, and dragged the cloth from its place beneath them. something heavy rapped smartly on mrs. carnby's foot, and she looked down with a little exclamation. "what's that?" "that?" answered andrew. "why--er, that's my camera." mrs. carnby leaned back in her seat, drawing the dust-cloth smoothly over her knees. "don't you think," she said deliberately, "that you had better tell me your _real_ reason for wanting to go back to st. germain--and wanting to go back alone?" chapter x. the fairy godmother. they were mounting the steep incline of the route de poissy before andrew replied. he had been staring fixedly ahead, absorbed apparently in the business of guiding the automobile around the sharp turns of the side streets, before they struck the wide main road. it was almost as if he had not heard the remark at all; but mrs. carnby knew better. and she was one of the discerning persons who never build els on telling observations. despite the tension with which the following pause was instinct, it was andrew, not she, who first spoke. "that was a very singular speech, mrs. carnby." "_on fait ce qu'on peut_," said mrs. carnby. "you're a very singular young man, mr. vane." "i have my failings, of course," said andrew, a trifle coolly. "i'm only human, you know. we're all of us that." "unfortunately, you're _not_ 'only human' my dear young friend; you're masculine as well. and we're not all of us _that_, thank heaven!" "aren't we talking a little blindly?" suggested andrew. "yes, possibly," agreed his companion, "but some things aren't easy to say. do you remember that when one of the old prophets undertook to haul a monarch over the coals for his misdeeds, he would always begin with a parable? i think, in this instance, i shall follow the established precedent." "i was afraid you were going to begin by saying you were old enough to be my mother," retorted andrew, with a faint smile. "i always skip unimportant details," said mrs. carnby. she observed with satisfaction that, without increasing the speed at the top of the incline, andrew had turned from the direct route to st. germain into one of the forest by-roads. evidently he was in no haste to curtail the conversation. "i'm waiting," he observed presently. "where i used to spend my summers, on the south shore," said mrs. carnby, with her eyes on the interlacing foliage overhead, "it was the custom of the natives to make collections of marine trophies from the beach and the rock-pools, and work upon them sundry transformations, with an aim to alleged artistic effectiveness. they glued the smaller shells and coloured pebbles on boxes and mirror-frames; and painted landscapes on the pearl finish of the larger mussels; and tied baby-ribbon around the sea-urchin shells; and gilded the dried starfish. you know what i mean--the kind of thing that comes under the head of 'a present from north scituate' or 'souvenir of nantasket beach.' but you may, perhaps, have remarked the appearance of one and all of these objects while they were as yet where nature was pleased to put them--on the sand, that is, or in the tidal pools. do you remember the sheen of the pebbles, the soft pinks and grays of the starfish? is there anything comparable to these, in the artistic combination of all the gilt paint and baby-ribbon in the world? it seems to suggest, as a possibility, that nature knows best; and that in lacking the simple touch of sea-water they lack the one thing which ever made them beautiful at all. it opens up a whole tragedy in the phrase 'out of one's element.' that's my parable." "you'll remember," said andrew, falling in with her whim, "that the transgressing monarch rarely understood what the prophet was driving at in his parable. i, too, must follow precedent." "shall i speak plainly?" asked mrs. carnby, laying her hand for an instant on his arm. "very, please. there seems to be something rather serious back of all this." "_eh bien!_ you're a young man, andrew vane, to whom fate has been uncommonly civil. your family is rather exceptionally good, on--er--on both sides. your means are, or will be, some day, almost uncomfortably ample. you're more than passably good-looking, and you're surprisingly clever. your health is magnificent, and, finally, nature chose america as your environment." "a mixed blessing, that last!" "five words, with thomas radwalader in every letter!" said mrs. carnby. "i should think you'd find the _rôle_ of phonograph rather unsatisfying." "i thought you liked him," said andrew, flushing. "and i like the obelisk!" nodded mrs. carnby, "but that doesn't necessarily imply that i should like half a hundred tin facsimiles set up in its immediate vicinity, and making the place de la concorde look like a colossal asparagus-bed! there are only three ways in which a man can be distinguished, nowadays. he must be unimaginably rich, unspeakably immoral, or unquestionably original. you're not the first, as yet, and you've just proved that you're not the last." "i'm not the second, i hope?" mrs. carnby pursed her lips, and wrinkled her forehead. "perhaps not _unspeakably_ immoral," she said, "but immoral--yes, i think you're that. of course, there are many different conceptions of immorality, and mine may be unique. let us come back to my parable. what i mean is this. you were born with every natural good fortune, and your breeding and education secure to you every social advantage which one could possibly desire. you've been placed, like the sea-urchins or the starfish, in a situation preëminently befitting you. you're american in every detail of your sane, clean make-up, my friend, and you've been given america, the sanest, cleanest country on god's globe, in which to develop and achieve. might one ask what you're doing over here? getting a finish?--that's what it's called, isn't it? allowing yourself, that is to say, to be tied up with the baby-ribbon and decorated with the gilt paint of parisian frivolity! and when you go back--if you ever do--to live in america, what will you be? 'a souvenir of paris,' my good sir, 'a present from the invalides,' as undeniably as if somebody had lettered the words on your forehead in ornamental script, and pasted a photograph of napoleon's tomb on your shirt-bosom. that's what _i_ call immoral. i like you better as an american; i like you better with the sheen of the salt water on you; i like you better in your element, mr. andrew vane!" "i never heard anything better in the way of a sermon," said andrew, groping for an answer. "it's too true to be good," retorted mrs. carnby. "do you believe any of it?" "some, perhaps--not all. and the whole attack is a litle abrupt. what _have_ i been doing?" "nothing! you've hit upon precisely the objection. '_tekel!_--thou art weighed in the balances and art found wanting!' margery palffy is like my own daughter to me, mr. vane. she calls me her fairy godmother, you know. are you looking forward to introducing her to mirabelle tremonceau?" mrs. carnby was once more contemplating the forest foliage overhead. for the second time in fifteen minutes, her instinct for distinguishing the line which separates the boldly effective from the futilely impertinent was standing her in good stead. as a matter of fact, andrew had _not_ been weighed in the balances--but he was just about to be! the forest was all alive with the lisp of leaves, and the shifting dapple of sunlight and shadow, and, even as she waited, mrs. carnby smiled quietly to herself, in pure enjoyment of the great gothic arches of green, that seemed to thrill and shiver with delight under the warm sunlight and the fresh west wind. the forest, like the sea, has in its every mood a magnificent dignity of its own--a superb indifference to the transitory doings of man, which dwarfs human affairs to an aspect of utter triviality. the world which mrs. carnby knew, and toward which her attitude was alternately one of keen appreciation and of good-natured contempt--the world of fashion and frivolity and easy cynicism, seemed, as she contrasted it with this vast serenity, to become incomparably little. the suggestion of endurance and repose with which these shadowy reaches, opening to right and left, were eloquent, lent a curious contemptible tawdriness to the little comedy, so conceivably potential tragedy, in which she and the man beside her were playing each a part. how little difference it made, after all, if men were fools or blackguards, and women wantons or martyrs! for a moment she was sorry she had spoken. she felt that here and now she could not quarrel, or even dispute, with andrew over what he chose to do. the intrusion of intrigue and dissipation into these forest fastnesses was hideously incongruous. "there's cruelty in what you have said, but i can see that it's not wanton cruelty, and that there's kindness as well." andrew was speaking slowly, thoughtfully; almost, thought mrs. carnby to herself, as if he, too, had been touched by the softening sympathy of the forest. but she shook off the mood which had been stealing over her, as being wholly inadequate to the demand upon her fund of resource. what was needed, far from being the influence of elemental nature, was the keenest, if most worldly, diplomacy of which she was mistress. she straightened herself, and began to put on her gloves, working the fingers with the patient care of one who understood that, with a glove above all things, it is _le premier pas qui coute_. inwardly she was keying taut the strings of her self-possession. she realized that emotion would be as fatal to her purpose as would sheer frivolity. "under your words," continued andrew, "i can see that there must lie a more or less intimate knowledge of many things which we have never mentioned--many things which i did not suppose you would ever--" "find out? you really _are_ young, aren't you? why, my dear mr. vane, any given woman of average intelligence can find out whatever she chooses about any given man, provided always she hasn't the fatal handicap of being in love with him. not that i've been spying upon you, understand. it's hardly a matter of vital concern to me if you go completely to the dogs, but margery would probably give her heart's blood to hold you back. therefore, people tell _me_ all the facts, and keep _her_ in total ignorance. that's the way of the world. why, my good sir, i could probably tell you at this moment how you've spent fifty per cent. of your time for the past week, and, between them, the other women back there at the villa could account for another quarter. with gossip all things are possible." "i didn't think i was of sufficient importance to call for such strict surveillance," said andrew. "you're not! that's precisely what you must learn about the american colony. it's what things are done, not who does them, that makes four-fifths of the gabble. a man's a man, and a woman's a woman, and an intrigue's an intrigue. you could tag them exhibits a, b, and c, and the colony would find almost as much to talk about as if you gave the full names. what's not known is made up. it's necessary to find tea-table topics, and necessity is the mother of invention. you can have no idea, unless you're in the thick of the gossip, how absorbing any one person's affairs can be, when there's nothing better to talk about." she admitted frankly to herself that she was talking to gain time, giving andrew a chance to find his line of reply. it was going to be important, that reply, at least for margery palffy. mrs. carnby would undoubtedly have been at a loss to give a word-for-word rendition of the duties of a sponsor in baptism, either fairy or otherwise, according to the book of common prayer. she recollected vaguely certain references to the pomps and vanities of the world, and realized, with a little inward smile, that she was warring more earnestly against these--and the rest--in her adopted goddaughter's behalf than ever she had considered it necessary to do in her own. "as it happens," she continued, "there's been no one else to claim the centre of the stage for the past few weeks, and therefore the lime-light has been turned upon you, as being the latest novelty--and a highly enterprising one at that! i think it manifestly impossible that you could have performed all the exploits credited to you, even had you given all your time to the task, with no allowance for eating and sleeping. but i think, too, that you would be surprised to find how extremely realistic gossip can be at times, and how much that you think is known only to yourself or to a few is, in fact, the talk of half the colony. you remember dear old sir peter teazle? i seem always to be quoting him. he knew such an infinite deal, and guessed so much more. 'i leave my character behind me,' he said, in parting from the scandal-mongers. now, that's _so_ true of paris--only more. my dear andrew vane, not only do you leave your character at the tea-table you are quitting, but you'll meet it, more or less torn to shreds, at that to which you are going: and, if you were at the pains, you might find it, in a like state of demoralization, at a dozen others in the same _arrondissement_! i wish i could make you understand that. it seems to me to be so important to the conduct of life to know not only how we stand, but in what manner we fall." "as yet the charge against me seems to be a trifle indefinite," suggested andrew. "on the contrary," retorted mrs. carnby, "i mentioned the young person's name quite distinctly--the one, you know, whom you saw by chance at the pavillon henri quatre, and whom you were going back to meet." "i can't pretend to misunderstand you," began andrew, "but of course any reflection upon mademoiselle tremonceau--" "now, my dear man, _pray_ don't be comic!" burst in mrs. carnby. "that sort of thing is as grotesque in these days as the doctrine of original sin. and of all places in the world--paris! oh no! a spade's a spade here, believe me, and when one is _demi-mondaine_, like mirabelle tremonceau, one is perfectly understood. _she_ knows, and _you_ know, and _i_ know. don't let us argue over the indisputable." "i _didn't_ know, at first," said andrew gravely, "and, if i have guessed recently, you must not take that to mean that our relations have changed in the least degree. there's nothing between mademoiselle tremonceau and myself that i could not mention, mrs. carnby--absolutely nothing. but her friend i've been, and her friend i am. i'm not prepared to hear her branded as a 'moral leper' or something of the sort. how hard you are, you good women!" "i suppose," said mrs. carnby resignedly, "that when one adds two and two, the result is bound to be four. it isn't ever five or thirty-seven, by any chance, is it, just by way of variety? it's provokingly inevitable; but not more so than what a man will say under certain circumstances. do i really seem to you that kind of person? do you really imagine that i'm objecting to your _penchant_ for the little tremonceau, on the ground that her ideas of moral deportment are not all that might be desired? i hadn't thought that i gave the impression of being so desperately archaic." "but you were about to warn me--" "merely to keep that self-same eccentricity of deportment well in mind, my friend. _chacun dans sa niche_, mr. vane--the little tremonceau and you, as well as the rest of us. and hers is not the palais de glace before four o'clock, nor yet a _matinée classique_ at the français; and yours is not her victoria in the bois. don't be crude. a certain amount of privacy in the conduct of such affairs is as troublesome as a pocket-handkerchief or a bathing-suit--but quite as essential. _ne vous affichez pas._ it only shows you to be an amateur--in the american sense--and to be amateurish, nowadays, is to be grotesque. and, of course, it doesn't make any difference how innocent your relations may be. so long as mirabelle tremonceau is a figure in the calculation, there's no reason why people should not believe anything they choose." "you mentioned miss palffy," ventured andrew. "have you heard that she--that i--" "indirectly. that, frankly, is why i have taken the liberty of meddling in your affairs. it really isn't quite fair on the girl to bungle things. so long as you're going to work to gallicize yourself, pray make a thorough job of it. don't copy the frenchman's license, and neglect to imitate his discretion. i abhor half-made methods." "but miss palffy--" "is heels over head in love with you, mr. vane. that much i know. i don't ask about _your_ feelings. as a matter of fact, they haven't much bearing on the main issue, which is that i don't mean to have her disappointed in her estimate of you, for want of a friendly warning from an old woman who has seen many a young man spoil his life just because he took serious things too lightly and trivial ones too seriously." "i wonder how much of this is serious advice, mrs. carnby," said andrew suddenly, and with a perceptible ring of irritation in his voice, "and how much of it banter, with more than a suggestion of contempt. apparently you're urging me to a change of course; actually, only to a change of method. i know you can't approve of my friendship for mademoiselle tremonceau, and yet you're not asking me to give it up, but only to put it out of sight and hearing. isn't that--excuse me--but isn't it rather like trafficking with one's ideas of right and wrong? if one's doing no harm, why not go on? if one's to blame, why not pull up short?" "oh, nobody pulls up short, in these days," said mrs. carnby, "except habitual drunkards who have been pronounced incurable. one mustn't ask too much of people. it's like the servants: the old-fashioned kind used to brush the dust into a dust-pan, wrap it up in newspapers, and see that the ash-man carried it off; now they sweep it under the beds and sofas, where it can't be seen. one mustn't complain of knowing it's there, so long as it isn't actually in evidence. _autre temps autres moeurs._ it's a long cry from hester prynne to mirabelle tremonceau. besides, pulling up short all by oneself is one thing, and pulling a woman up short into the bargain is quite another. she might object, the little tremonceau." "she hasn't the shadow of a claim on me." "of course not," said mrs. carnby, wrinkling her eyes amusedly at the corners, "of course not." inwardly she added, "two and two make four!" "whereas margery--" "whereas margery," echoed mrs. carnby, "will play a part which convention has made absolutely iron-clad. she will continue to love, as she loves now, an ideal man, endowed with an almost embarrassing multiplicity of imaginary virtues; and, incidentally, will pray daily that she may become worthy of him. then, when he has sown his wild oats, perhaps he'll come to her, at his own good pleasure, and lay at her feet what he has achieved--a pleasant smattering of things generally talked about, a comprehensive intimacy with things generally _not_ talked about, a tobacco heart, and a set of nerves which make him unfit for publication three days in the week. with these somewhat insufficient materials she will proceed to build up something indefinitely resembling her original ideal. and they will be married. and they will live--hem! _haply_--ever afterwards!" andrew swung the automobile round a sharp corner with a vicious jerk, and they emerged from the shelter of the wood-road, and found themselves again upon the glaring white of the route de poissy. st. germain was not far distant. they could see the _octroi_ and the first houses through the trees. but it was toward poissy that andrew turned. "shall we go back?" he asked. "if you think the little tremonceau won't be angry at the delay," answered mrs. carnby pleasantly. "i'm fond of her," said andrew abruptly, "very." "i'm glad of that," said mrs. carnby, almost with enthusiasm. "it excuses a great deal. i confess i was afraid that you were trying to be big--to 'show off,' as the children say. after all, she's the most beautiful _cocotte_ in paris, and the most sought after. one couldn't have blamed you for being flattered. but if you're really fond of her, one can't very well do anything except be glad that it's impossible you should always be so." "why impossible?" demanded andrew. "i'm bound to confess that it seems to me to be quite within the range of likelihood that i should always be fond of her. why impossible?" "it's hard to explain--that," said mrs. carnby, "but those women don't wear. they seem to be only plated with fascination, and in time the plating wears off, and you come back to the kind with the hall-mark. i'm perfectly at ease about that. i've known too many cases of its happening. oh, i know how it all is now! the polish is absolutely dazzling, and you can't imagine that it will ever be different. that's a symptom of the earliest stages, but the disease will run its regular course." "you rather touch one on the quick, mrs. carnby. i think perhaps neither of us realizes what an extremely unusual conversation this has been." "i shouldn't call it commonplace," said mrs. carnby, "and i think you've stood it beautifully. but i want to ask you one more question. _do_ you love margery?" "with all my heart and soul and strength, mrs. carnby!" "then, my dear young friend, it's time to think what you're about. there's only one thing for you to do. the path lies open before you--and i think you'll have the courage and the good sense, to say nothing of the common decency, to follow it!" chapter xi. some after-dinner conversation. night in the garden of the villa rossignol was as night is nowhere else. the cool dusk softened the somewhat stilted formality of the flower-beds and winding walks, and mercifully blurred the uncompromising stiffness of the paved terrace, flanked by marble urns, and giving, in three broad steps, upon the lawn. at this season the air was neither warm nor chill, but so deliciously adjusted that, as it moved, its touch on the cheeks and forehead was like that of a woman's fingers. the stillness was emphasized rather than disturbed by a tiny tinkle of water, falling from ledge to ledge of a rockery hidden in the trees, and the sound, hardly less liquid, of a nightingale, rehearsing, pianissimo, snatches of the melody that midnight would hear in full. the darkness seemed to drip perfume: for the little seats and summer-houses, cunningly hidden here and there among the _bosquets_, were veritable bowers of roses, and the new grass and foliage had that fresh june smell which july, with its dust and scorching suns, so soon turns stale. the women were on the terrace now; the men inside. through the windows of the west wing, open from floor to ceiling to the soft night air, the big dining-table gleamed with linen, silver, and crystal, in not ungraceful disarray, and above it hung a thin haze of blue-gray smoke, through which the shirt-bosoms and white waistcoats of the men stood oddly out, seeming to have no relation to their owners, whose faces were cut off by the deep-red candle-shades from the light, and so from the view of those outside. now and again their laughter came out through the windows in rollicking little gusts, and immediately thereafter the haze of smoke was reinforced. "what an amusing time they always seem to have, once they're rid of us!" said mrs. ratchett, almost resentfully. "if one could be a fly, now, and perch in comfort, upside down, upon the ceiling--" "one would get a vast deal of tobacco-smoke into one's lungs," put in mrs. carnby, "and a vast store of unrepeatable anecdotes into one's memory. i really can't approve of your project, ethel, and i'm convinced that, to your particular style of beauty, it would be most unbecoming to perch--particularly upside down!" "oh, the men!" exclaimed old mrs. lister, with a kind of ecstatic wriggle. "what _do_ you suppose?--but of course we shall never know--i dare say we'd be quite shocked--but it sounds entertaining--and they say, you know, that the cleverest stories--and mr. radwalader must be an adept--if only we _could_--!" "for my part," observed madame palffy majestically, "i have no desire to overhear anything in the nature of _double entendre_." "oh, shade of larousse!" murmured mrs. carnby into her coffee-cup. "where _did_ the creature learn her french? shall we take a little walk?" she added aloud, turning to margery. "why, yes--with pleasure, mrs. carnby," answered the girl, with a quick start. her eyes had been fixed upon an indistinct form beyond the window of the dining-room, which was the person of mr. andrew vane. for a few moments they trod the winding gravel path in silence. then, as a clump of shrubbery hid the house from view, she stopped impulsively, and laid her hand on the arm of her hostess. "fairy godmother--" she began. "now, my dear girl," interrupted mrs. carnby, "don't say anything you'll be sorry for afterwards. i'm a very vain, weak, silly, gossipy old woman--but i _am_ a woman, margery, and that means that i often see things i'm not meant to see, and which i wish i hadn't. don't give me your confidence just because you feel that i may have guessed--" "i _know_ you've guessed, mrs. carnby!" broke in margery, "and, after all, it's just as well, because i must speak to some one. i feel, somehow, as if i'd lost my way, and i think i'm a little frightened. i've always been very sure of myself till now, very confident of my ability to judge what was the right thing to do, and to get on without advice. but now--it's different. i'm unhappy." mrs. carnby slid her arm across the girl's shoulders. "go on, my dear," she said. "i didn't mean that i wasn't willing to listen--only that i wouldn't like to feel that i was surprising your confidence." "first of all," said margery, "and in spite of everybody's kindness to me, i'm afraid i hate this new life, which is so different from everything i've learned to know and love. i hate all this pretence and posing which we're carrying on, day after day, among people who smirk before our faces and ridicule us behind our backs; and i'm coming to hate myself worst of all. i want my life to be better than that of a butterfly among a lot of wasps! in america i hadn't time to stop and think whether i was happy or not, and i've read somewhere that that is just what true happiness means. everything was very natural and simple over there. i used to wake up wanting to sing, and life seemed to begin all over again every morning. and then, without the least warning, came to me--what you've guessed, you know. i was sure of it at once. there was nothing said, but one feels such things, don't you think?--feels them coming, just as one feels the dawn sometimes, even while it's still quite dark? i had a little hint or two--just enough to make me confident and happier than ever. i knew there were reasons for his not speaking: i guessed at his grandfather, and a very little thought showed me that it could do no harm to wait. i wanted him to be sure, just as sure as i was. i was even content to come away and leave him. i _knew_, you see, and i saw it was only a question of time. i never doubted for a moment how it would end, and so i wasn't the least bit surprised when he came through the _salon_ door, that sunday in paris. i thought--i was _sure_ he'd come for me. i could have shouted, i was so happy, mrs. carnby! i had to turn away and pretend to be admiring some roses, i remember, because i felt that i was smiling--no, _grinning_--and just at nothing! well--" she paused, with a catch in her throat, and then went on determinedly. "i've--i've been waiting ever since. we're good friends, almost _too_ good friends, but there's something missing, something gone. i'm afraid you'll hardly understand me if i say that ever since last summer in beverly i've felt that he belonged to me--all of him--every bit. now--well, i can't feel that way any longer. it is just as if i were sharing him with somebody or something, and not getting the better or even the larger part. i've heard--well, you know how gossip goes! i've heard that there was another girl. he's been seen with her, often and often. people might have spared me, if they'd known: but of course they didn't; and so i've picked up fragments and fragments of talk, and every one has cut me like a knife. in the midst of all this, he came to me and asked me--no! he asked me nothing, but i knew what he meant. i put him off. i felt that i must have time to think. but the moment for decision has come. he may ask me again at any time. what shall i say? fairy godmother, what _shall_ i say? i _want_ to trust him! i want to stake my confidence in him against all the gossip in the world. and yet if he's only asking me because he thinks i expect it, if he really doesn't _want_ me--" "he _does_ want you!" said mrs. carnby. "i could shake you, margery. you're _so_ far off the track, and at the same time you make it so hard to show you why. let me see." she hesitated, biting her lips. "look here," she continued suddenly. "suppose you had a baby brother, for example, and you loved him better than all the world, and you knew that, in his baby way, he felt the same love for you, and you should carry him, all of a jump, into the next room, and plant him down in front of a ten-foot christmas-tree, all blazing with candles and glass balls and whatchercallems--cornucopias--would you be surprised if he hadn't any use for you for at least an hour? no, you wouldn't--not a bit of it! you'd think it quite natural. well, there you are! you are yourself, and baby brother's andrew vane, and the christmas tree's paris: and you'll just have to wait, that's all, till he's through blinking and sucking his thumb!" "oh, mrs. carnby!" said margery, laughing in spite of herself. "can't you see that, much as i am afraid of paris for my own sake, i'm more afraid of it for his?" "my dear," said mrs. carnby, with a change of tone, "nowadays one's forced to take rather a liberal view of things. there are only a few delusions left, and love's not one of them--more's the pity! the best flowers, margery--and i grant you love is one of the _very_ best--are brought to perfection by methods which it's not always pleasant to follow in detail. there's a deal of hacking and pruning and fertilizing and cross-breeding with ignobler growths to be gone through with before one obtains a satisfactory result. it's like the most inviting dishes served up by one's _chef_: if we had the dangerous curiosity to pry into all the stages of their preparation, i doubt if very many of them would stand the test and prove so tempting, after all. that's the way with a man. when he brings us his love, we have to accept it, without inquiring too closely how it has come to be. you won't think me vain if i say all men can't be jeremy carnbys? when they know _how_ to love, more often than not it's because they've learned; and as to how they _learned_, it's for our own good not to be too inquisitive. usually, my dear, it means another woman, and not a woman one would be apt to call upon, at that." "mrs. carnby!" "yes. don't be provincial, margery. i've no patience with the whitewash business. it's better at all times to look things squarely in the face, even if doing so makes--er--your eyes water! there's hardly a woman happily married to-day who hasn't been preceded, and rather profitably preceded, i venture to say, by another woman--and not a very good woman either. she's there in the background, but we have to ignore her, and by the time we notice her at all it's more than likely she has ceased to be important. she's been the method of preparing the dish, that's all, the fertilizer which has made the rose of love possible. she has taught the man what neither you nor any girl in the least like you could teach him--the things which are not worth while! we get the better part. she has burned up the chaff. we get the wheat." margery had tightly locked her hands. "fairy godmother," she said, "you don't want me to believe that, do you? you don't want me to be only the whim of a man's changed fancy, the thing on which he practises all he has learned from--from--" "i would to heaven i could _make_ a man fit for you!" answered mrs. carnby, drawing the girl close to her, "but, since i can't do that, i want you to see things in their true light, and to learn that charity begins in the same place which is called a woman's sphere, and that love, from her standpoint, is little more than forgiveness on the endless instalment plan!" "but andrew--" said margery eagerly. "andrew vane is only a man," said mrs. carnby sententiously. "he can't be made out a seraph even by the fact that you--er--" "love him," supplemented the girl brokenly. "i see what you mean. i would have given anything in the world to have saved him from this, and--it's too late, already." "nothing of the sort!" exclaimed mrs. carnby. "now's the time when he needs you most. if you couldn't win him away from any woman that ever lived, good or bad, you wouldn't be margery palffy! bless me! i must be getting back to the others, my dear. now don't take this too much to heart. it's all coming out right in the end. these things are only temporary, at worst. be brave, margery." "oh--brave!" answered margery, flinging up her chin. "yes, i shall be that. don't fear but that i shall know how to handle the situation now. and--thank you, fairy godmother. i'll wait here a few minutes, if you don't mind, and just--_think_!" as she walked toward the villa again, mrs. carnby compressed her lips. "now there's a deal of common sense in that girl," she said to herself. "she must have inherited it from her grandparents!" but, with all her shrewdness, she had never more hopelessly complicated a situation. for a time margery lingered, compelled by the need of reflection and the beauty of the night. all about her the blue-black darkness, eloquent with the breath of the roses and the fluting of the now-emboldened nightingale, sighed and turned in its sleep, as if it dreamed of pleasant things. paris, with its frivolities, its sins, its sorrows, and its snares, was like some uneasy, half-forgotten dream. the brand had touched the girl, but as yet it had no more than stung, it had not seared. the sword quivered, but the thread yet held. the merciful garment of the calm, sweet night yet smothered, like sleep before awakening, the bitterness of full reality. the moment was one of those oases in the desert of disillusion which, with the crystal clamour of falling water, the cool shade of widespread foliage, and the odour of fresh, moist earth, alone make tolerable the journey of the caravan. so it was that margery was able to speak naturally, with the knowledge of having herself well in hand, as a step crunched on the gravel near by, and andrew flung his cigarette upon the path, where it spawned in a quantity of tiny points of light, which gloomed immediately into nothingness. "how extravagant you are! surely you must know by this time that i don't mind smoke in the least. i was just about to go in." "not yet for a moment, please," said andrew. "let's come into this little arbour. there's something i want to say." he pointed, as he spoke, to a small marble-columned seat in the shrubbery, buried under a great hood of climbing rose-vines in full bloom. for an instant only the girl hesitated. then she led the way resolutely, gathering her light shawl more closely about her shoulders, with something like a shiver, despite the warmth of the still june evening. for a little they sat in silence. when andrew spoke, it was with an abruptness which told of embarrassment. "you remember, perhaps, what you said to me the other day in paris--about fighting a good fight, and keeping the faith? will you tell me just what you meant by that? it's been haunting me, lately. when you said that the influence of paris made you afraid for those--for those for whom you might care, did you mean--_me_?" he laid his hand on hers, as he asked the question, but she drew away slightly, and he straightened himself again, with a little puzzled frown. "please don't ask me to answer that," she said, after a moment. "whatever i meant, it can make no difference now." "no difference, margery? do you want me to understand that you were not in earnest--that you really didn't care?" "i haven't said that," answered the girl wearily. "i said it could make no difference now, now that the mischief's done." "i'm afraid i don't understand you," said andrew slowly. "oh, pray don't let's discuss it. i've no right to question you." "no right?" "no right at all, and, as a matter of fact, when i said that i didn't mean to. perhaps i _was_ thinking of you, in part. i'm sorry i presumed. only one doesn't like to see one's friends make fools of themselves--and that's what most men do in paris, isn't it? never mind. it's like our golf at beverly. i prefer to have you play the game, and keep your own tally." "the game?" demanded andrew. "what game? what do you mean?" "oh, the game that all men play--the game in which we have no part, of which we must not even speak or hear, we women who respect ourselves. don't let's talk of it. we're supposed to be friends, and for that reason i'll overlook what you don't absolutely force me to see. that's my part, isn't it?--to pretend i don't understand, even when i do? and i do--i _do_! i'm not cynical, but neither am i a fool. i've lived in paris only a little while, but long enough to know that when one says 'boys will be boys' it sometimes means--oh, more than putty-blowers, and coming indoors with wet feet, and pulling out the parrot's tail-feathers!" she stopped abruptly, with a perception that she was overdoing her assumption of unconcern, that she was talking wildly, that her voice had taken on an unnatural strain. "i don't understand you in the least," said andrew deliberately, "or at least i'm sure that what you seem to be saying isn't what you really mean. i can't believe that after all that has been--after all i have hoped was going to be--why, margery, i came out here--no, i came all the way from america, to ask you--" "_don't!_" margery had risen with the word, and now, leaning against one of the marble columns of the little arbour, was looking away into the gloom. "i want to believe in you," she added. "leave me that, at least. play the game, andy--play the game!" "the game--the game--the game!" exclaimed andrew. "what is all this you're saying, margery? what are you accusing me of? is it possible you don't know i love you--that i've always loved you, ever since first i saw you? i'd have asked you long ago, at beverly, but my grandfather begged me, almost commanded me, to wait. we were both so young. he wanted me to make sure. and, although i knew that i should never change, i felt he was right. i wanted you to have your chance, to come out, to see a little bit of life, before i tried to bind you to any promise. and when i heard that you were not coming back to america this year, that you _had_ come out, and were the beauty and the belle of the colony here, i knew that it was time to make a try for you, unless i was to lose you forever. so i came over here to tell you this--to ask you to marry me. and now--in heaven's name, what _is_ it, margery? what has changed you? what do you mean by all this? if there is anything i can explain--" the girl turned to him, with a little, piteous gesture. "have i asked you for an explanation?" she said. "do i need one--since i _know_? you say you'd have asked me long ago. well, then, i ask you--why didn't you? why didn't you ask me before it was too late? why didn't you ask me while yet you had something to offer me which i could have accepted gratefully--your innocence, your purity, the best of all that was in you, and to which i had a right, do you hear?--a right! why didn't you speak then, before you'd thrown all these away, sold your birthright, and become like all the rest? do you come to me _now_--now, with another woman's kisses on your lips, and god only knows what of the impurity she has taught you in your heart? do you come to me like that, and expect me to welcome you, to accept the fact that i am your second choice after a woman whose name you would not mention to me--" "margery--margery!" "do you deny it? do you deny that you were with her--when?--yesterday? oh, be true at least to _one_ thing, whatever it be--if not to the faith you owed me, if all you've been telling me is true, then to the woman you've preferred before me--to your mistress, to your mistress, andrew vane!" andrew fell back a step, putting up his hands as if to ward off a blow. "it was for this," he faltered, "that you told me to come here--to ask you anything i chose?" "you know better than that!" said margery firmly. "then mrs. carnby has been telling you--" "mrs. carnby has told me nothing except what i knew--or, rather, tried not to know--before. it isn't from her i learned. the truth has come to me bit by bit, and i've fought against it as it came, trying to believe in you to the very last." "and you think--" "yes--yes! i think--i _know_! how quick you were to refer to mrs. carnby! she knows, of course--everybody knows--even i! well, i don't want to criticise you or blame you. you've forced me into it by making me part of all this. now, all i ask of you is to respect me, to leave me out of what you choose to do in future, and not to mock the name of love with this pitiful fancy for me--a fancy so trivial and so idle that it couldn't even hold you back from transgression. i ask you to go back to her, or, if you're tired of her already, at least not to come to me. i'm different from these other women, who can laugh at such things, and gloss them over, and forget them. i demand of the man who asks me to marry him the selfsame thing that he demands of me. i demand that he shall be pure!" the girl's voice broke suddenly, and she pressed her cheek against one of the marble columns of the little arbour, battling against the insistence of her tears. "you must forgive me," she said presently. "i have no right to speak as i have done, but--if you've guessed the reason, that is part of my humiliation and my shame. will you go now? i want to be alone." "how can i?" said andrew slowly. "how can i leave you, even for an hour, while you think as you do? it would mean that all was over between us forever." "all _is_ over," answered margery, "as much over as if you or i had been dead for twenty years!" "listen to me!" exclaimed andrew hotly. "and you shall have the truth, if that's what you want. there _is_ such a woman--yes! but she is no more a part of my life than that bird out there. she has been an incident, nothing more. you had only to ask me, and i would never have seen her again. you have only to ask me now--" "ah, stop!" broke in margery. "don't make me despise you!" "_margery!_" he had stumbled forward blindly into this abortive explanation, remembering for the moment nothing but his own knowledge of the truth. now, as she checked him, a sickening sense of what his words must signify to her swept down upon him, and he covered his face with his hands. "i don't know how to put it," he murmured. "i don't know what to say." "you have said quite enough," replied margery. her voice was quite cool, quite steady now. "i have asked you once to leave me. will you please go now--at once?" andrew dropped his hands, and searched her face with his eyes. there was no trace in it of any emotion beyond a slight contempt. "do you mean," he asked, "that this is the end?" "the end?" she repeated. "the end--er--of _what_?" with that he left her. chapter xii. reaction. noon of the following day found andrew once more in the rue boissière. he had not seen margery from the moment when he had left her in the arbour. she had come in while the men were playing billiards, and gone directly to her room, pleading a headache, an excuse which was also made to cover her non-appearance in the morning. the two hours immediately following breakfast passed laboriously, the whole party hanging together with that kind of helpless attraction which characterizes the bubbles in a cup of tea. there was a general sense of relief when the big panhard purred up the driveway, and andrew, radwalader, and kennedy whirled off in it to paris. monsieur and madame palffy and the listers were to follow almost immediately by train, and mrs. carnby was talking a continuous stream of the most unmitigated gossip. "if i had stopped to think that in an hour they would all be gone," she told jeremy, that night, "i would first have screamed the general thanksgiving at the top of my lungs, and then had the vapours--whatever they may be!" it was something the same feeling which had prompted radwalader to remark, as they rolled away from the villa: "i wonder if general sherman had ever been to a house-party with the listers when he made that remark about war." then, as andrew made no reply, he relapsed into silence. he possessed that most precious gift of the gods--the knowledge of when not to talk. but it was when andrew was once more alone in his familiar quarters, and had flung himself moodily into a chair, that the full force of his situation returned upon him. in twelve hours the whole world had changed. he realized for the first time that, as a matter of fact, there had never been in his mind the shadow of a doubt that the way lay clear before him, that the attainment of his wishes had been, in his calculations, no more than a matter of time. he had relied upon margery's constancy like a mariner upon that of the north star, and it was as if that luminary had suddenly flung away from him into some new and wholly unfamiliar constellation. the man who offers his hand in friendship and is stabbed in reply is not more aghast than was he. he was bitterly hurt, bitterly resentful. he had taken mrs. carnby's reprimand as something to which, if it was not wholly deserved, he had at least laid himself open: but that was a very different matter from the scornful and passionate rebuff which he had received from margery herself. the first had almost afforded him a sense of relief. like a child who is conscious of some slight transgression, the rebuke had seemed to set things square, to wipe out his fault, and give him absolution and a chance for a fresh start. but what followed, so wholly out of proportion to his knowledge of the truth, left him only conscious of a monstrous and unpardonable injustice. complete innocence is never so jealous or so resentful as is the half-innocence in which lurks a hint of self-accusation, a suspicion of actual guilt. he had stood ready, with a kind of fierce and proud submission, to accept such blame as could be rightly laid at his door, but this very attitude of partial contrition flamed into anger the moment the scale was tipped too far in his disfavour. he did not see that the main factor in his revolt was the same as that in his acceptance of mrs. carnby's words--a sense of disloyalty, that is, to what he knew in his heart to be the true and manly course. he was very young, and moreover he had fallen, to at least an appreciable extent, from the high estate of his best ideals. conscience impelled him to accept with humility as much of censure as he conceived that he deserved, but the savage pride of youth commanded him not to yield a single foot of ground beyond that which, by his folly, he had forfeited. he had been wrong; that he was willing to acknowledge: but his punishment had fallen too suddenly and too hard. other men had done worse--infinitely worse--and had prospered. as for him, it was already too late to turn back. he was learning, albeit rebelliously, that standards of conduct are the boomerangs of the moral armament. the expert may juggle with them with comparative security; but the novice who recklessly flings them into space and then seeks to resume his hold upon them is apt to suffer a rude blow in the attempt. _facilis descensus_--but the way of retreat is choked with briers and strewn with boulders, and never wholly retraceable. essentially, andrew vane was very clean, with an instinctive revulsion from whatever savoured of animalism or sensuality. among a certain class of men at harvard he had been called, for a time, "galahad" vane; with that impulse to sneer which is irrepressible in those who resent what they find themselves forced to respect. there was something peculiarly appropriate, however, about the name thus bestowed in ridicule: for that fine sense of nicety which is a safeguard more sure than abstract principle had held him instinctively aloof from whatever was simply sordid or unclean. temptation of the baser sort, which left its furrows on the sand of natures less refined, washed harmlessly over the sturdy rock of his self-respect. the illicit was inseparably associated in his mind with vulgarity. to seek a pleasure which necessitated keeping one eye on the police and the other on one's purse smote him, even in suggestion, with a sickening sense of degradation. he passed by, with the sniff of a thoroughbred terrier, the carrion in which his fellows rolled. but it was to this very fastidiousness that mirabelle had appealed: and because she so fully satisfied it he at first misunderstood the situation utterly. it came to him clothed in a refinement, a daintiness, an atmosphere of soft lights and flowers and _savoir faire et vivre_ which spoke eloquently to all that was sensuous in his nature, and stirred nothing of what was merely sensual. that was the french of it. the national deftness which is able to make plain women beautiful, and ordinary viands delicacies, finds its parallel in the national ability to smother the first approach of impropriety in disguises infinitely varied. and mirabelle herself was more than content not to urge the issue. for the first time in her experience, she was unable to scent an ulterior motive in a man's admiration. she appreciated the simplicity of andrew's attitude, without fully comprehending its significance. back of it, no doubt, lay the as yet undeveloped progressions in a routine all too familiar: but she was grateful for the respite. but a chance word, now and again, had stirred of late the serenity of their curious relation. he put away the thought which forced itself upon him, but it returned invariably, and each time with a suggestion of more eloquent appeal. the subtle influence of paris, which undermines the bulwarks of principle and prejudice by insensible degrees, was at work. daily he heard the things which he had instinctively avoided treated as inevitable and by no means unjustified accessories of life; daily the insinuating tooth of epigrammatic banter gnawed at the stability of his former convictions; while the very offences which had always repelled him by their sordid vulgarity were now accomplished all about him, light-heartedly, to the clink of crystal glasses, the soft pulse of waltz music, the ripple of laughter, and the ring of gold. all that is most lavish and most ingenious in the imaginative power and the executive ability of man had been laid under contribution to produce the effect which now enthralled his senses. none of the ordinary restrictions and limitations of life raised a finger to check this pagan prodigality of license. economy, responsibility, and every more serious consideration stood aside from the path of sovereign pleasure. the world had given of its best with a lavish hand, for here was not only the gold to pay for, but the wit to appreciate, perfection. the labels on these cobweb-covered vintages, the dishes they enhanced, the flowers they rivalled in perfume, the music, the lights, the laughter, all spoke one language--a language forgetful of the past, heedless of the future, but eloquent as the tongue of circe of the present joy of living. these men and women were civilization's latest work--the best, in the sense of ultra-elaboration, that the experience of the ages had enabled her to accomplish. they had been prodigally dowered with the extremes of sensuous refinement; they were clothed, fed, housed, and diverted by the ultimate attainments of human invention and skill; they demanded that life should be a festival, and every detail of existence the child of a most cunning imagination and a consummate faculty of execution: and this was the spot where was given them what they asked. the goddess of luxury, in whose ears their prayers were poured, and at whose feet their gold was piled, could do no more. they had climbed the capstone of her pyramid, her sun had touched its zenith, and her last word was said! so, as andrew considered his present state, he was aware of the force of radwalader's remark that in paris a man had something for which, instead of merely something on which, to live. life took on a new aspect. in boston it had been wholesome, monotonous, gray, silver, and brown: in paris it was heady, infinitely varied, gold, purple, and rose-pink. in another of his fanciful moods, radwalader had described it as a sapiently ordered dinner: and this, too, now that his eyes were opened, andrew understood. there were the soups and solid courses--the architecture, history, and artistic associations of the great city: there were, by way of whetting the appetite, the clean little _hors d'oeuvres_, radishes, anchovies, and olives--the tea-tables of the colony, the theatres, the talks with mrs. carnby and the women of her set: but there were, as well, the wines and _sauces piquantes_--the races, the restaurants at midnight, the allée at noon, and mirabelle tremonceau! the beauty and luxury of it all continually charmed his senses; the fever of it stirred hotly in his blood. lately, he had been conscious of noticing things about mirabelle which had never been part of his analysis of another woman. to him, with one exception, a girl had been a face or a form, to be associated with, or brought back to memory by, a snatch of waltz-music, a perfume, or a particular effect of moonlight on water, or sunlight upon foliage. margery palffy was the exception, but it was not she who had taught him the faculty of observation which, of late, he had applied to her. not from her had he learned to remark details--how the skin crinkled along her nose before a laugh came and after it had gone, how her chin cut in under sharply, and then swelled softly again before it met her throat. now, for the first time, he was conscious that a woman is never wholly silent--that a whisper of lace or a lisp of silk speaks the movement that is unapparent to the eye. already he had found that her frown can be mirth-provoking, and her smile of a sadness beyond description. already he was become weatherwise in his understanding of the ripples of expression blown by the shifting winds of inner thought across her eyes. he knew when she was bored, by the barely perceptible compression of her lower lip, which told of a skilfully smothered yawn; when she was secretly amused, by the little curving line which showed for an instant on either cheek; when she was troubled or puzzled, by the tiniest contraction of her eyebrows. in his recollection dwelt such trifles as the nicking of a full instep by the edge of a slipper, the falling away of lace from a lifted wrist, the sudden swell of rounded muscles beneath the ear when the head is turned aside, and the imprint of pointed nails and the jewels of rings on the fingers of a discarded glove. if he had remembered the noses, eyes, and mouths of other women, his memory now caressed the veins in her wrists, the little wisps of hair low in her neck, the interlinking of her long lashes, the shadow from chin to ear, and the silvering touch of sunlight on the down of her averted cheek. such things had his study of her taught him. trifles, all! yet does a man ever forget that woman, through his intimacy with whom these perceptions were first born, like golden threads newly discovered in the warp and woof of some familiar fabric? and that woman was mirabelle tremonceau. so it was this--all this--paris, and her luxury, charm, and infinite, bewildering appeal--with which he had merely toyed, because, at the back of his appreciation, lay ever the thought of what margery palffy meant to him, and what he had come to ask of her! what had been his reward? because he had been neither one thing nor the other he was treated as the outcast he had not dared to be. he had no more than fingered the nettle, instead of grasping it boldly, like a man, and so--it had stung! he had relied, throughout, upon something which did not exist--the loyalty of those for whose sake he had striven to keep himself, in all essentials, clean. when he came to them, prepared to admit his little follies, they had slammed the gate of injustice in his face! of a sudden, the scene in the garden at poissy leaped back at him, and he rose and began to pace the room. they trusted hearsay, did they? they gossiped about him, each to each, among themselves? they cast him off, as he had been a pariah, without a chance to justify himself, to give them the explanation which he had been ready to offer, but they unprepared to believe? well, then, they should have their fill! he had tried to enter what he supposed was a friendly port, and had been torpedoed, raked fore and aft at the very haven's mouth, and sent about his business like the veriest privateer. but there _were_ friendly harbours! there was still radwalader--his friend! there was still mirabelle! how ready they were to believe her guilty, between whom and himself there existed nothing but a friendship wholly pure! now, the curious chivalry of youth had him firmly in its grasp--the curious, unreasoning, treacherous chivalry which has not learned to discriminate as yet, but which cloaks its own essential selfishness in a fierce allegiance to the thing of the moment, blind to all larger issues, lance in rest to tilt at windmills, hotly insistent upon the immaterial present, scornful of the future, contemptuous of the past. this girl at whom they were all so eager to cast a stone, this girl who was his friend, and whose only friend he seemed to be--was it not to her that he owed his utmost loyalty, rather than to her who had so readily rejected him upon no better pretence than that of hearsay? because others refused to grant him the confidence in his integrity which they fully owed him, was that any reason for his proving uncharitable, too?--for siding against mirabelle and with them? andrew clenched his fingers savagely. "she is my friend!" he said aloud, "my friend! as for the rest, if they want proof of my depravity, by the lord they shall have it to the full!" the tempter was very near now, glorying in the preliminary moves of vanity, his stanch ally. the bell whirred sharply, as andrew paced the _salon_ to and fro, and, a moment later, his servant tapped and entered. "well, jules?" "_une dame, monsieur_," announced vicot suavely, and then--andrew found her hand in his. there was a suggestion of challenge in her eyes as she lifted them to his, and, before she spoke, her eyebrows went up questioningly and her even white teeth nicked her lower lip. "you're not angry?" "angry?" said andrew. "why should i be? i'm surprised, perhaps: i wasn't expecting you. but angry?--no, certainly not. i'm very pleased." but, for the moment, there was no conviction in his tone. her coming smote him with a vague uneasiness. it was something new, this--something for which he found himself wholly unprepared. he seemed to divine that a significant development was imminent, and that, in some sense not fully clear, his threshold was a rubicon--which she had crossed! in the _antichambre_ monsieur vicot was scribbling his master's name and his own initials in the receipt-book of a little, domino-shaped messenger-boy. then, as young mercury went whistling down the stairs, he turned the blue missive over and over in his fingers. "i'll be damned if radwalader sees it!" he ejaculated, and thrust it in his pocket, where, for a vitally important period, it remained--forgotten! chapter xiii. rhapsodie hongroise, no. . "it was a whim, if you like," said mirabelle, a little unevenly, as she stripped off her gloves. "i hadn't seen you for four whole days, except for that little glimpse at st. germain, and i was tired, cross, and a little lonely. so i took the chance of your being back and of finding you alone and disengaged. perhaps, if you've nothing to do, you will let me stay to breakfast. i told pierre that i would send down word if he was not to wait. will you ask your man to say so?" "certainly." andrew touched the bell, gave the message, and, when jules had gone, stood for a moment by the table fingering his letters. mirabelle had removed her veil and hat, but was still at the mirror, touching the trifling disarrangement of her hair. their eyes met in reflection, and suddenly both laughed. then he went over to her side. "it's very good to see you again," he said, but with a slight trace of embarrassment in his voice. mirabelle gave his shoulder a tiny pat. "_l'ami!_" she said simply. abruptly her mood changed, and she wheeled upon him, all eager animation. "so this is your little house, great baby! you must show me everything. it's a picnic, this: we shall be two children. paris? _Ã�a n'existe pas! il n'y a que nous deux au monde!_" she perched upon the tall fender, swinging her feet, and humming a little tune. "_oh, la vie bourgeoisé!_" subtly her gaiety infected him, and he laughed again, this time without a hint of embarrassment. this was another mirabelle, a mirabelle he had not known. in some unaccountable fashion, her mood stripped her of a decade. she was, in very truth, a child, with a child's light-hearted mirth, a child's shiningly excited eyes, a child's imperious demand to be amused. they went over the apartment together, pausing for all manner of comment. she took an almost infantile delight in bringing into prim order the chaos of neckties thrown carelessly into an upper drawer; smoothed her golden-bronze hair with his silver-backed brushes; washed her hands at his basin, and flicked the shining drops of water at him from the tips of her slender fingers. she mocked the vanity indicated by a dozen pairs of patent-leathers; tested, with a feigned shudder, the keenness of his razors; simulated a furious jealousy at the discovery of a photograph of réjane upon his dressing-table; rummaged through the cups and plates and glasses in the _vitrine_; called him, whimsically, _gran'père_, _mon oncle_, and _vieux garçon_; laughed, frowned, scolded, teased, and petted; and was, in short, the incarnation of a gay, reckless, _toi-et-moi-et-vogue-la-galère_ femininity. little by little, the charm of her humour gained upon him. to the man in whose life woman has never played a thoroughly intimate part there is something indescribably alluring in her near association with the little details of commonplace existence. andrew was conscious that, in this independence which he had so lately learned to value, there had been lacking a something which was now, for the first time, supplied. a phrase occurred to him--"the better half." yes, that was it--the curious inspiration with which an interested, intimately concerned woman infects such sordid items as neckties, cups and saucers. until then, the main charm of his new manner of life had lain in its sheer independence of all save his personal inclination. now he was suddenly aware that man's completest happiness relies upon a partial subordination; upon a certain dependence upon another, if still a kindred, point of view. as he watched mirabelle come and go, as he heard her comments, as he felt the magnetism of her presence, he was smitten with a vast sense of loneliness--with a perception that, in reality, no man is sufficient unto himself. in this first flush of life, in this new enjoyment of paris the alluring, he felt the need of something more. was it margery? was it mirabelle? at the moment he could not have told which, if indeed it was either. once he risked a compliment. "how pretty you are! it makes one want to kiss you!" "don't!" she said shortly. "please don't talk like that. it spoils everything." he drew back to look at her, puzzled, but it seemed that she avoided his eyes. "not--not just now," she added. "you don't understand." almost immediately, she was laughing and chattering again. then came breakfast, and--what is rare even in paris--a breakfast perfect in its very simplicity. a bisque as smooth as velvet, _sole cardinale_ worthy of frédéric himself, a _casserole_ of chicken, with a salad of celery and peppers, burgundy tempered to an eighth of a degree, no sweets--but a compensating cup of coffee, _eau de vie de dantzic_, with its flecks of shattered sunlight gleaming oddly in the clear liquid, and cigarettes, which mirabelle refused with a _moue_ which hinted at temptation. andrew toasted her, across the table, with mock ceremony, in the gold-shot _liqueur_. "it's like your life, _l'amie_," he said, squinting at the last few drops, "smooth and sweet and all spangled with sunshine and gold." "and soon done with!" added mirabelle lightly, turning her glass upside down upon the cloth. she would have him take the largest and most comfortable chair by the window, while she chose the broad, flat sill at his feet. the glare of the sunlight was cut off from them by an awning, but its warmth came pleasurably through. a window-box of narcissus in full bloom breathed a perfume, as deadening as the juice of poppies, on the air. now and again a cab rattled sharply down the incline of cobbles to the place d'iéna, and was blotted abruptly out of hearing on the muffling driveway of the square. for the rest, the world was very still, all distinct noises of the great and restless city being merged into one indeterminate blur of sound. the curious instinct of silence, which so often gave the hours they spent together their especial character, fell upon them now. once, as if some disturbing thought had startled her, mirabelle turned suddenly and touched andrew's hand, but her own fell back before the gesture was actually complete. the light wind stirred the hair at her temples, and the long scarf of delicate liberty gauze which she had thrown across her shoulders, and he took up a corner of this and pleated it between his fingers for a time in silence. he was the first to speak. "would you care to go out--to the exposition or the bois? you'll be saying presently that you've had a stupid afternoon." mirabelle shook her head, with a faint smile, and then altered her position, drawing up her feet and linking her fingers across her knees. the change brought her close to the arm of his chair, and she looked up at him long and steadily, and then shook her head again. "no," she answered, "i shall not say that. the exposition? the bois? i suppose there _are_ such things, but i'd forgotten them. i like it here. i am happy." with that strange new understanding of his, it was not alone her smile which he noticed, but the slow, irregular fall of her eyelids, and the deepening of a tiny shadow when the lashes rested on her cheek. an atmosphere for which he was at a loss to account seemed always to envelop him when he came into this girl's presence. he was conscious of the same not unpleasant languor which had come upon him on that first afternoon in her _salon_, after the return from auteuil, but now it was not due, as then, to drowsiness. rather, it was a blotting out of every consideration save that he was with her. america, poissy, even paris, humming there below them, seemed to belong to another world, and that in which he was living for the moment, to be made up of sunlight, and silence, and perfume. "i'm almost sorry," he said presently, "that you came." the girl made no reply. a singular change, which was not movement, seemed to stiffen and straighten her. without actually altering, her position lost its grace, its ease, its assurance. staring straight away before her, her eyes forgot to wink. her whole bearing was that of an animal warned by the crackle of a trodden twig of some peril imminent and vital. "i'm sorry you felt that you _could_ come," continued andrew. "i've not had much experience of life, and it's not for me to question you. but we've been good friends. i wish it could have remained that way. young as i am, i've had disappointments--bitter ones. the people i thought i could trust--" "_andrew!_" she had never called him by his name before. at the word, a curious little thrill stirred in him, and he closed his eyes, his mouth tightening at the corners. "forgive me," he added, in a whisper. "is it possible," said mirabelle slowly, "that all this time you--_haven't known_?" "i've tried not to know," he answered. "i've tried not to listen to what people said. it has all been so different from anything like that. you've been like the girls i know in my own country, like a comrade, like a chum. i've tried to keep myself from thinking of you in any other light. i've always been glad to be with you: yes, and i'm glad to have you with me now. and yet--i know that we shall both be sorry for this. to-morrow--" "_to-morrow!_" misunderstanding, she turned to him, and slipped her hand into his. a moment she hesitated, and then bowed her face against his arm. "then you _do_ know!" she continued. "ah, my friend, i have hoped that it would not come to this." her voice had suddenly gone wistful. she was the child again, but the child hurt, penitent, and near to tears. "believe me, _l'ami_, i hoped it would not come to this. i'm so careless, andrew. i don't think--i forget. you see, we are different, _nous autres_. what are little things to other women are great things to us, and what are great things to them--" then she looked into his eyes. almost unconsciously, her fingers touched his arm. "i wish i could make you understand," she added. "even with me, there is only one thing that can justify--" she paused for a breath, with a gesture toward the open window. "it was to get away from all that that i came--to forget--to be alone with you--just we together--two children--to have something different. i'm so tired of it all, andrew--and--there has never been any one like you. i didn't think what it would mean. ah, my friend--" she sank back upon the cushion, with a little sigh. suddenly andrew's heart contracted, seemed to mount into his throat, and, repulsed, beat wildly against the bars of its prison. he felt the tremor of its pulsing in his wrists, in his temples, in his ears. he knew that he was colouring deeply. he strove to tighten his lips, but they parted in spite of him, and the breath shot through with a little hiss. then he came to himself, and saw that the girl's eyes had closed, and that her hand on the arm of the chair had gripped the silken scarf. folds of it, sharpened to the thinness of paper, came out between her fingers, and her knuckles showed like little bosses of tinted ivory through the pink flesh. what was it? the hand of a passing spirit, wholly unfamiliar, had touched him; a voice never heard before had whispered something in his ear. what was it--what was this thing which he understood and did not understand? bending slightly forward, he looked down through the ironwork railing at the street below. a solitary cab leaned maudlinly over the kerb, the driver slewed around in his seat, with his elbow on the roof, and his varnished hat on the back of his head, reading a newspaper; and the horse nodding, with his nose in a feed-bag. two children were marching resolutely, hand in hand and out of step, their nurses following, with the gay plaid ribbons of their caps flapping about their hips. the pipe of an itinerant plumber whined and squeaked unmelodiously, and the horn of a passing automobile hiccoughed in the distance. inconsequently there came to andrew the memory of a sudden awakening from a nap on the beach at newport. for a moment, everything in sight--people, houses, boats, the sand, the sunlight, and the sea--had been garbed in startling unreality, in a new, strange light. the restlessness of a curious dissatisfaction suddenly laid hold upon him, and he rose and began to pace the _salon_ once more. he would have given something to fling himself out of the chaos of conflicting thoughts which beset him, to ride, for example, five miles at a gallop, as he had been wont to do at beverly, with the wind tearing at his hair and a thoroughbred lunging between his knees. presently he became aware that mirabelle was watching him curiously, and was puzzled to find that for the first time he was not ready to meet her eyes. he seated himself at the piano, and for a moment fingered the music on the rack, without actually taking in the title--"rhapsodie hongroise, no. ." then he smiled, with a little nod as if he had been greeting an acquaintance on the street, and his hands fell upon the keys. majestically, with ponderous bass notes and a deeper comment of short, staccato chords, the rhapsodie began. it was as solemn as a dirge in its adagio movement, till the high treble began to flutter into the _motif_, and dragged it upward, with a brilliant run, into a suggestion of running water. plunging again into the bass, the music marched firmly on, varied with higher chords, until, through the monotonous throb, a bird chirped, twittered, and trilled, and cadenza followed cadenza, plashing in and over the main theme. this variation was presently gone again in a swiftly descending arpeggio, and the adagio reasserted itself, beating out across the _salon_ with the lingering quality of tolled bells, freeing itself at last by another run into the crystal sparkle of the treble, where the _motif_ was repeated, ringing with fresh vigour. the bass replied with a brief word now and again, correcting the new rendering of the air that it had taught, or patiently repeating a whole phrase. but, petulantly, the treble threw off the sombre spirit of what had gone before. again it thrilled with bird-music, and ran into the gay babble of brooks, punctuated rarely by a deeper chord, as if the water swerved round a stone, and slid, murmuring, across a level, before swinging again down a shelving reach. but, almost immediately, a new element stole in--a tremulous flutter of one note, potently suggestive of mad music to follow. faster--faster! the flutter was interrupted by a dripping of stray notes, an octave lower, dotted, presently, with a tiny tinkling above. then, without warning, the whole plunged into a mad _vivace_ movement, that galloped like a living thing, was interrupted by whimsically coupled notes, gabbling up and down, and then seemed to lengthen and bound forward as if it had been spurred. there was a thunder of chromatics--hoofs pounding on a long bridge--then the tinkle of water broke in again--right at his elbow--lingered briefly, and was gone, and the hoofs were thudding on a muffling stretch of soft road. the suggestion, at first merely a fancy, grew upon him as he played. this was the gallop of which he had felt a need! he could almost see the wiry mare snapping in the wind, smell the horse and the saddle, and hear the stirrup-leathers squeaking against his boots. in spirit, at least, he put into the music the exultation, which is near to delirium, of a ride at nightfall or at dawn. the earth, which never sighs save when falling asleep or waking, sighs then, and her breath is sweet. scents and sounds step to the roadside, and are gone again in a moment. the wind whips and whistles. and the triplicate hoof-beats pound, pound, pound out of life all that is stale, morbid, and unclean, so that it becomes a crystal dome inverted on a perfume-breathing garden, and one man whirling through space like a god, with a laugh on his lips! hurdles rushed at andrew out of the music, and he rose to them, and, clearing them, would have shouted, but that the music shouted for him. he felt the familiar shock of landing, the infinitesimal pause before the recover, and then--away, away! it was life, youth, the surge and hammer of red blood through every vein, the certainty of strength and the sovereignty of success, the ineffable wine of life, filling the cup to the brim, and splashing over into the sunlight, in drops like rubies sheathed in silver. as suddenly as it had begun, the mad, blood-stirring gallop was over. the stream tinkled and was still. the _motif_ was repeated softly, incompletely, as if regretfully, in adagio, then paraphrased in a brilliant staccato movement, which mounted, plunged madly down from treble to bass, hesitated, and whipped out of existence in a group of crashing chords. "i never knew you could play like that!" mirabelle had risen, and come across to the piano, and the words were spoken in a voice barely above a whisper. the room seemed to andrew to be closing in around him, and out of its dwindling distance floated her face, more beautiful than he had ever seen it, but very pale and with eyes wide and startled. he did not answer directly. thoughts as confused as the wisps of a dream but half recalled went racing through his brain. for an instant he strove to control himself, strove to remember, strove to forget. then, as it were, a great tide of oblivion to all but the intoxication of the moment swept down upon him. "you said," he began, "that only one thing could justify--what is it? what did you mean?" he stood up as he spoke, came quite close to her, and took her hands. "what did you mean?" he repeated. "tell me--mirabelle." as she did not speak, he took her hand and drew her toward him, with a kind of dull wonder in his eyes. what he saw in hers he had never seen in a woman's before--a mist not wholly moisture, and tenderer than tears. "mirabelle!" "_je t'aime!_" she murmured. "_je t'adore!_" she would have drawn back, but he took her in his arms. from the gold-bronze hair which touched his cheek came a faint perfume, and through the thin silk he could feel the hammer of her heart. so for a long moment he held her, with his lips on hers. it was like kissing a rose--a rose that smelt of orris. chapter xiv. fate is hard--cash! as andrew took his mail from the hand of jules one afternoon, some three weeks later, his eye was caught by a packet directed in the precise script of old mr. sterling, and this, together with a letter in the same hand, he separated from the mass of other material, and gave his immediate attention. there had grown in him a singular craving for all that could remind him of his life at home. as he slit the envelope, a draft upon his bankers came first to his hand, and he glanced at it, with a short whistle, before laying it on the desk. it was for fifteen thousand francs. mr. sterling's letter, a model of prim penmanship, ran as follows: "my dear andy: i have yours of the th inst., and am gratified to learn that paris is surpassing your expectations. although it is a city not ordinarily recommended as a sojourning-place for young men, i have seen enough of the world to know that it is not the surroundings which are significant, so much as the temperament of the individual placed among them. if you were inclined to dissipation, you would manufacture, if not find, it in a one-horse prohibition town in one of the back counties of maine: and if you were otherwise disposed, not paris itself would be competent to prove your undoing. so i am not averse to your project of remaining until christmas. i have great confidence in you. if you will look back, you will realize that i have not burdened you with advice since the days when it was necessary to warn you against over-indulgence in ice-cream, or send you away from the breakfast-table for a more effective application of the nail-brush. that has been because i have seen in you something which i believe to be a guarantee against your ever falling into any misdoing which would be a discredit to the name you bear. i mean the fine healthiness of mind which eschews by instinct whatever is 'common or unclean'. you will have your fling, as i had mine, and as it is right you should. you will learn for yourself the lessons which no one else can teach you; but i think your attitude will always be that of a gentleman. there are ways and ways of doing things--even of sowing wild oats--and among these are the way of the gentleman and the way of the fool. you have never been the latter, and i have no reason to believe you will begin now. "among the commonest formulas of parental advice is that which exhorts a young man never to do or say anything which a mother or sister could not hear: and this deserves, to my way of thinking, just about the amount of attention which it ordinarily receives. i know the type of man whom you have always chosen, and, in all likelihood, always will choose, as a friend: and if you will avoid doing anything which you would be ashamed to tell that kind of man, i shall be satisfied. "as you wish to remain in paris for some time longer, and as paris is preëminently a city where money is a _sine qua non_, i am disposed not only to approve your plan, but to make it possible of execution, with a certain degree of liberality. you should know, if you do not know already, that i have made you my heir. when i am obliged to shuffle off this mortal coil, you will come into something over eighty thousand a year. there are responsibilities attached to such an income, and not the least of them is the knowledge of the social obligation which it imposes. there is nothing more deplorable than the spectacle of a young man squandering what he can't afford to spend, unless it be that of an old one grudging what he can. while far from counselling wanton extravagance, i wish you to form those habits of generosity and open-heartedness which your position makes incumbent upon you. repay with liberality the courtesies extended to you; and keep on the credit, rather than the debit, side of the social account. take your share of the legitimate pleasures of life as well, paying as you go. "to the letter of credit given you on your departure, which provided for a possible expenditure of a thousand dollars a month for the six months of your contemplated stay, i now add a draft for fifteen thousand francs (f. , ), to cover the additional three months during which you propose to remain. in view of this, you will not think me unreasonable in foregoing the customary remittance for a much smaller sum upon your birthday. "that birthday is still somewhat more than three months distant, but a present which i had contemplated making you on the occasion, being already completed, i am forwarding it by this mail, with my best wishes and affection. it is a miniature of your mother--whom it is your greatest misfortune never to have known--painted, from a photograph, by cavigny-maupré during his recent visit to boston: and it is appropriate that you should have it at a time when you are absent--with sincere regret, as you please me by saying--from the grim old house where you have been an unspeakable comfort to, and where awaits you an affectionate welcome from, "your grandfather, "andrew sterling. "_andrew sterling vane, esq., paris, france._" "dear old man!" said andrew to himself, with a little smile of affection, before laying the letter aside. "dear, generous old man!" then he turned to the package which contained the portrait of his mother. cavigny-maupré had excelled himself in this the most recent in his long series of masterly miniatures. the tranquil and beautiful face of helen vane, as it had been before the blight of disillusion dimmed its ethereal sweetness, looked out at andrew with serene and steadfast eyes. there was no attempt at striking colouring, no trick of effect. the artist, with the instinct which never played him false, had aimed to preserve the touch of simplicity, of girlishness, which the old photograph had given him as his cue. the result was a singularly appealing beauty, which his more ambitious productions, with all their emphatic brilliancy, utterly lacked. before he could have analyzed the impulse which prompted him, andrew had touched his lips to the picture, and in the act of performing this simple homage his fine eyes grew moist. for this was his mother--the pale, gentle-eyed dream-mother he had never seen, but who had given her life for his, and who, perhaps, with the searching vision of the immortals, was watching him wistfully from beyond the immeasurably distant stars! so, at the dinner-hour, radwalader found him--sunk deep in his chair, with his eyes half-closed, and the miniature in his hand. "hello!" he said. "come in." "you look like a drawing by gibson," observed radwalader lightly, "over the title 'day dreams' or 'a face from the past,' or something of the sort. the old, old story, eh, vane? mooning over the loved one's portrait?" "not a bad guess," replied andrew, somewhat gravely, as he rose, and tendered radwalader the picture. "that was my mother," he added. "oh, i _beg_ your pardon!" exclaimed radwalader, with that ready assumption of contrition wherewith he contrived so skilfully to repair his infrequent _faux pas_. "no harm done," answered andrew. "are you engaged for dinner? i've ordered a table at armenonville, and meant to send jules over to your place to ask you, but the time has gone faster than i thought. gad! it's almost seven. i _have_ been mooning, in good earnest. will you go?" "with pleasure. i dropped in on the chance that you might have nothing to do." radwalader laid the miniature on the table. "it's a very beautiful face," he added. "i wonder if i ever saw her. it's not impossible. i remember meeting your grandfather in boston." "you'd hardly have met my mother, though. she died when i was born--twenty years ago. you'd have been quite a boy." "a boy well out of knickerbockers, then! you flatter me, vane. is it possible that you don't know i'm tottering on the ragged edge of fifty?" "one wouldn't believe it, then. come in while i brush up a bit." he led the way into the bedroom, and radwalader, following, applied himself to the consumption of a cigarette. for three weeks he had been observing andrew with a new attention. he was always quick to note symptoms, but in the present instance he found himself, to his surprise, unable to analyze them with his accustomed readiness. the change which he saw was singularly subtle, albeit as pronounced as that which a separation of years might have enabled him to perceive. it was with difficulty that he could bring himself to believe that barely a day had gone by without their meeting. it seemed impossible that andrew had not gone and come again, passing, in the interim, through some vastly significant experience. radwalader found him less open, while habited with a new assurance; less enthusiastic, while subject at times to an almost feverish gaiety; more alive to the minutest details of the new life which surrounded him, but with a tendency to scoff replacing his former merely boyish interest. there were times when radwalader would have called him unqualifiedly happy; others when there was no such thing as believing him otherwise than wretched. he was thinner, smiled less than formerly, and took for granted much which had thitherto excited his eager comment, his amusement, or his dislike. over all he wore a new reserve, a worldliness beyond his years. in all this, while there was much which radwalader did not fully understand, there was much which he had expected, much which he had deliberately planned his cards had long since been dealt and sorted. now he chanced a lead. "i was at poissy yesterday." "ah?" andrew appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, diligently towelling his head. as he looked up, his eyes, so curiously like radwalader's own, were not less coolly non-committal than they. "how is mrs. carnby?" he added. "a good bit out of patience with you, i gather," said radwalader. "you've pretty well deserted her of late, haven't you?" andrew was drying his fingers, one by one, with somewhat exaggerated attention. "one can't serve god and mammon," he observed, with that new flippancy of his. "i won't stoop to the pettiness of fencing with you, radwalader. you're not blind, i take it. you must know as well as i why i don't want to go to poissy, and why, if i did, they wouldn't care to have me." "yes," said the other, "i suppose i do. if i didn't, it wouldn't be for lack of hearing you talked about. gossip is tolerably busy with your name, these days." "gossip is rarely busy with _one_ name," retorted andrew dryly. "obviously. i didn't mean to ignore mademoiselle tremonceau: as you say, a lack of candour between us would be merely petty: but i wasn't quite sure how far you were prepared to concede me the license of a friend. these are ticklish subjects, even between intimates. i'm not inclined to meddle, but i've thought more than once of asking you if you thought the game worth while." "i make a point of not thinking about it, one way or another," said andrew. "why should i? i've youth, health, money, the sunshine, paris--and her. why should i think? it's nobody's business but my own. don't be a prig, radwalader." "god forbid!" ejaculated radwalader. "i see i've been mistaken. i had an idea that it _was_ somebody's business, other than yours--very much so, in fact. of course, if it isn't--" he stopped abruptly, and made a little signal of warning. an instant later monsieur vicot entered the room, and began to lay out andrew's evening dress. his presence was an effective check upon further conversation along the direct line they had been pursuing, and, as andrew hurried through his dressing, radwalader plunged into generalities. in another fifteen minutes vicot opened the apartment door for them, and, as they passed out, closed it and stepped into the _salon_. the first object which met his eye was the miniature of helen vane, lying, face downward, on the table where radwalader had left it. he picked it up and set it, upright, on the mantel, under the brilliant light of an electric bulb. then, idly curious, he leaned forward and stared at it. in the soft gloom of the july evening armenonville glittered and twinkled among the trees, and flung handfuls of shivered light on the wind-ruffled waters of the little lake. as they approached, they had a glimpse of tables brilliant with spotless napery and sheen of crystal and silver, and of heavy-headed roses leaning from tall and slender vases. solicitous waiters, grotesquely swaddled in their aprons, were turning every wine-glass to a ruby or a topaz with the liquid light of bourgogne or champagne. electric lights glowed pink in roses of crinkled silk. the pavilion was a veritable fairy palace, as unstable, to all appearance, and as gossamer-light as the fabric of a dream swung miraculously within a luminous haze. the table reserved for them was in an elbow of the piazza and so, a little apart from the others; and the _maître d'hôtel_ led them toward it with an air which was hardly less impressive than a _fanfare_. it was his business to remember the faces of young foreigners who thundered up at midday in twenty-horse-power panhards expressly to command a table, and incidentally to tip him a louis. moreover, there was radwalader--radwalader, who knew by his first name every _maître d'hôtel_ from lavenue's to the rat mort, and from marguery's to the pavillon bleu, called frédéric himself "_mon vieux_," and sent messages to the _chef_ at voisin's or the café riche, informing him for whom the order was to be prepared. among the things which andrew had unconsciously assimilated from radwalader, was something very nearly equalling the latter's instinct for ordering a dinner. it was that, even more than the louis or the panhard, which inspired respect in the supercilious mind of the _maître d'hôtel_. so they had caviar, sharpening the twang of their halves of lemon with a dash of tabasco; and _langouste à l'américaine_, with a hint of tarragon in the mayonnaise; venison, with a confection of ginger, marmalade, and currant jelly, which not every one gets, even for the asking, at the pavilion d'armenonville; a salad of split malaga grapes and hearts of lettuce; and a camembert cheese, taken at the flood--the which, in camembert, is of as good omen as that in the affairs of men. around them the brilliantly-illuminated tables were filled with diners. the true parisian _monde_, long since departed for aix or hombourg, had given place to the annual influx of foreigners and the lighter spirits of the half-world, men and women both. here were minds which skidded from subject to subject with the eccentricity of water-spiders on a roadside pool. the latest comedies, the latest fashions, the latest scandals--they came and went, verbal drops sliding over the acute edge of conversation, each touched with prismatic hues of humour, irony, or cynicism. the hum of chat was a patchwork of english, french, german, spanish, russian, and italian. europe was talking--talking the gossip of the day--pouring it like liquid silver into the moulds of many languages, wherefrom it took the oddest forms of epigram. here and there, members of the american colony were entertaining friends from the states, arrived that afternoon from calais, cherbourg, or le hâvre, with the odour of bilge-water yet in their nostrils, and the _terra_, misnamed _firma_, rocking unpleasantly under their senses. at an adjoining table, a huge american collegian, labouring heavily against the head-wind of many cocktails, addressed his waiter: "ziss my las' night 'n paruss, gassun. jer know w'a' i've done t' paruss? ziss w'a' i've done t' paruss." he made the gesture of one wringing a half of lemon, and casting it contemptuously aside, and looked up, proudly, for approval. later he would be tenderly removed--"a river ark on the ocean brine." but these--the transient americans--were the least significant factors in the scene. they had come to prey, and would go away to scoff. they were a grade above the herded tourists to whose understanding the colonne vendôme is an edifice closed for fear of suicides; but among them were women who would write books on paris, upon the strength of three months' residence and six letters of introduction, and men whose diligence in exhuming the most sordid evidences of metropolitan degradation would enable them to speak, thenceforward, with authority upon french depravity--the hams, tartuffes, and parkhursts of their hour. paris finds time to smile at many such. over and around them flowed the smooth current of parisian _savoir vivre_ which they could not hope to understand, still less to emulate. "i feel," said andrew slowly, "as if i had lived here all my life. do you remember telling me, that day at auteuil, that things one ordinarily disregards in america are part of one's education in paris? i've learned the truth of that. i don't think i should be apt to mistake _cerise_ for red, as things are now." "did you ever think of the irony of these _toilettes de demi-mondaine_?" asked radwalader, looking from one to another of the superb gowns at the neighbouring tables. "you know, they're society's fashions of the day after to-morrow. i wonder what our dear lady of the parc monceau, or mayfair, or fifth avenue, or back bay, or nob hill, would say if she knew the source of that trick of sleeve, or that contrast of _entre-deux_, which she fondly imagines was born in the mind of a doucet for her and her alone. it came into being, my dear vane, in a stuffy, overfurnished little apartment in one of the suburbs, as a _patron_ of questionable merit by a charming creature with more ideas than reputation, and was first worn at the little mathurins--or here--by ninon gyrianne: at a theatre where my lady would not be seen, by a woman whom she would not receive! or, if not that, la girofla stood sponsor for it at deauville or monte carlo, and was duly complimented in the _potins of gil blas_. _quelle farce, mon dieu!_" the two men were eating at the leisurely rate which is the most invaluable lesson paris teaches the american. andrew's lips curled in a little sneer. "it's all a farce," he said, "and, god knows, i'm the biggest mountebank of them all. when i look back six weeks, it's another andrew vane i see--a better one." "but not a happier one, i fancy," suggested radwalader. "why not? do you think, after all your experience, that paris brings happiness? distraction, perhaps--amusement--knowledge--but happiness? oh no!" he looked down, appearing to reflect, and then went on in another tone: "i've been meaning to have a little talk with you, radwalader, and what we were saying, back there at the apartment, seemed to open the way. i'm going to be pretty frank, and, on the score of friendship, i hope you'll be the same." radwalader nodded, narrowing his eyes. "it's about mirabelle tremonceau. believe me or not as you will, it was all innocent enough at first. she was something new in my life, something entirely new. i can't say i fell in love with her. there were reasons why that wasn't possible at the time; but i found her beautiful, amusing, and the soul of kindness. i liked her, and--well, i drifted along from day to day, without any particular plan, one way or another. it may seem incredible that i thought her like any other girl i knew, but i did. i suppose it's not an especially novel story--paris and the young american." "goliath and david," commented radwalader. "exactly--except that david won out, and i haven't. i began to hear things, but, even so, i continued to like her, and to go there. i didn't half believe what i heard, in the first place: it was all so different--the surroundings and all that--from anything i'd ever known. there wasn't a sign of anything of the sort, as far as i could see; and i was more sorry for her than anything else, when i finally caught on. i had the kind of feeling one has for a chap that's being overhazed at college. everybody was damning her, and all the time she was treating me as her friend--and nothing more. i felt that it was up to me to stick up for her, and i did--even when mrs. carnby chimed in, and told me i was acting like a fool. you see--" he hesitated, fingering his fork, and appearing to reflect. "i said i'd talk straight with you," he added, "and i will. there was only one person whose opinion made any difference to me, and i felt i could trust her all through. i dodged the question when you spoke of it, back there, but of course you were right. it _was_ somebody's business--margery palffy's. i'd been as good as engaged to her for a year--that is, _she_ knew and _i_ knew--and it never dawned upon me that she was going to think anything except--well, _that_! you see, i knew i hadn't done anything wrong, and i went to her, as bold as brass, that last night when we were all at poissy, and asked her definitely. you can imagine how i felt when she came back at me with--i don't need to tell you what she said. it was the same old business that other people had been hinting at, but it was straight from the shoulder, and showed me that she thought i was as unworthy of her as a man could well be--as unworthy of her as i am now! it was the worst kind of a facer. it drove me mad, radwalader--i want you to remember, all the time, that i didn't deserve it--and i flung away from her, with every drop of my damnable pride at the boiling-point, and came back to paris, and--to the inevitable. for three weeks i've been living in heaven--and in hell!" "in heaven," said radwalader quietly, "because of mirabelle; and in hell because of--" "that's it--because of margery palffy! try to understand me. if i thought i loved her before, i _know_ it now. if it were possible to go back--but it isn't--it's never possible to do that. it's too late, that's all there is about it." radwalader smiled easily. the cards were running his way now. "surely, you're not tied up as tight as that," he said. "you've been a trifle hot-headed, yes; but in all you've told me, there's nothing more than what a vast majority of the men you know have done, and nothing more than what a vast majority of women have forgiven and forgotten. it's never too late to mend. cut loose, my dear vane--cut loose from mirabelle, and go back to the girl you really care for. you'll have to deny a few things, of course, and swallow some humiliation; but don't get tragic over it. in affairs like this, the first course is humble-pie, but the _pièce de résistance_ is invariably fatted calf!" "cut loose from mirabelle," repeated andrew. "cut loose from mirabelle?" "obviously. there's one infallible way, my friend." radwalader raised his right hand lightly, and chafed with his thumb the tips of his first and second fingers. "money?" demanded andrew. "of course! and you may thank your stars that you're in a position to command it. many a chap has gone under because he couldn't pay the piper when the bill came in. you can; and there's no reason under heaven why you should let this matter trouble you. wait a moment!"--as andrew was about to speak--"let me explain. i'm not the sort that cuts into other people's affairs as a rule. i detest meddling, and ordinarily i don't want to be bothered with what doesn't concern me. but i like you, vane--i do, heartily. i'd be more sorry than a little to see you in trouble. what's more, i feel to a certain extent responsible, as i was the one to introduce you. well, then--suppose you leave the whole affair to me. i know the world, and especially paris, and more especially mirabelle tremonceau. leave it in my hands. even if she's ugly about it, i can probably get you out, all clear, for fifteen or twenty thousand francs, where it might cost you fifty if you undertook to engineer the thing yourself. what do you say?" "say?" repeated andrew, with a little, mirthless laugh, "why, simply that you don't understand. mirabelle wouldn't accept money from me." "oh, not money, like that," said radwalader, "not money out of a purse--'one, two, three, _and_ two make five. i think that's correct, madam, and thank _you_!' no, i grant you--probably she wouldn't. but a panhard, or a deposit at her bankers', or diamonds--that would be different." "no--no," said andrew, shaking a single finger from side to side. "you're all wrong. you don't get the situation at all. when a woman loves a man--" "love?" broke in radwalader. "piffle! leave it to me, my dear sir, and in twenty-four hours i'll prove to you that mirabelle tremonceau's spelling of the word 'love' begins with the symbol for pounds sterling!" "and margery?" faltered andrew. "i saw miss palffy at poissy," said radwalader. "she's still staying there, you know. now, if you'd told me that _she_ loved you, i'd have believed you. she was looking wretchedly, i thought." he paused for a moment, to give the words their proper effect, and then played his highest card. "did you receive a telegram from her after you left poissy?" andrew stared blankly at him, moistening his lips. "a telegram?" he said. "a telegram?" "i thought you didn't," replied radwalader, "and told her so. it seems she sent one, and was surprised you hadn't answered." "a telegram!" said andrew again. "do you realize what that means, radwalader? why, it would have made all the difference in the world! a telegram? no, of course i never received it! and i've been--i've been--" his voice broke suddenly. "my god! radwalader, but fate is hard!" "fate, in this instance," remarked radwalader, "_is_ hard--hard cash. don't let any false quixotism blind you to that, vane. i've shown you the way out. think it over, and when you're ready, come to me." he crumpled his napkin, and rose. he had played. now it was for mirabelle to trump the trick. chapter xv. "as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be." the two men separated at the porte maillot, radwalader strolling away in the direction of the métropolitain entrance with a readily fabricated excuse about a card engagement. he understood to perfection the action of moral leaven--that, once introduced as an ingredient, it must not be unduly stirred, but left, with the fair white cloth of unconcern drawn smoothly over it, to work its will at ease. to a greater extent even than mrs. carnby, he possessed the instinct for not saying too much. he left andrew to reflect upon what had passed between them, confident of its effect. andrew paused at the junction of the avenues de malakoff and de la grande armée, the confusion and glare of the great thoroughfares smiting fretfully upon his instant need of reflection, and then returned upon his tracks, seeking the cool quiet of the bois. after a short walk past the brightly lighted chalet du touring club, a by-path tempted him, and he turned aside. at once the forest closed in upon him, and the scene of a half-hour before became more than ever like a phase in some fantastic and uneasy dream. at armenonville there had been a blaze of light and a ripple of laughter, which barred out the stars of heaven as if they had never been: here was a world of stillness and of shadow, broken only by the distant music of the tziganes, and, through the interstices of tree-trunks and foliage, the intermittent gleam of bicycle and automobile lanterns on the route de la porte des sablons. the faintly pungent odour of moss rose to his nostrils, as in some deep, undiscovered retreat in a provincial preserve. the small, sweet twitter of a restless bird pricked the delicious silence like the sound of a rip in thin linen. the tziganes at armenonville were playing the "valse bleue." the air, pulsing softly through the gloom, seemed almost to speak the words: "_pourquoi ne pas m'aimer, p'isqu' tu sais que je t'ai--ai--me?_" "margery!" said andrew slowly, to himself. "margery--margery!" in the three weeks just past, he had been building a new world, a world from which his former ideals had been deliberately banished, and wherein new standards of conduct had been set. pride, recklessness, and resentment had been the triumvirate by which this moral state was governed, and he had obeyed their dictates blindly, without caring, as he had told radwalader, to think. left to itself, this might have endured indefinitely, even as the larger world, with all its codes and creeds, established by the limited experience of the men inhabiting it. but what would be effected by the abrupt entrance into society of a messenger from another planet, infinitely wiser, infinitely more advanced, was brought to pass by radwalader's words. the _status quod_ reeled on its foundations. the alternative which andrew had accepted, and which had dulled, if not actually done away with, the acuteness of his disappointment, now appeared in its true light as the veriest sham, a sedative worse than useless--enervating--stupefying--poisonous. the bare suggestion was enough. not for a moment did he doubt the significance of this message which had never reached him. it could mean but one thing--forgiveness and recall. all there had been to say upon the other count, had been said in that half-hour in the arbour. her hand had been stretched out to stay him from the precipice down which he had plunged--stretched out too late! the knowledge tore in an instant the mask from his vanity, and he stood confessed--a coward. what was it she had said? "a fancy so trivial and so idle that it could not even hold you back from transgression." and he had resented that, resented it only to furnish proof, when the actual temptation came, that it was true! he knew himself now for what he was. how scornful he had been of these accusations, how certain of himself, how small in that great loyalty of his which stood for nothing, how ready to believe himself infallible! the merest profligate of those whose follies he had despised in other days, was no weaker, in the end, than he. he looked up blindly to where the stars winked faintly through the lace-like foliage, and cursed the distant roar of paris which came dully to his ears. paris--circe! and he no better than the transformed comrades of ulysses! he was a coward--a fraud--a sham; he found himself, in this moment of bitter self-reproach, untrue even to the flimsy conception of duty which, when it put him to the test, he had debauched. he thought of mirabelle, and in thinking hated her! with all her beauty, all her perfect mimicry of breeding, all the little significant hints of colour and perfume with which she so skilfully clothed with charm whatever pertained to her, she had never struck below his ready appreciation of whatever was suggestive of refinement and eloquent of femininity. it was her novelty which had principally charmed him, but novelty is the butterfly of the sensations--the most brilliant, the shortest-lived of these emotional ephemera. mrs. carnby had struck the key-note in her cool analysis of the _demi-monde_: "these women don't wear. they seem to be only plated with fascination, and in time the plating wears off, and you come back to the kind with the hall-mark." now the scales fell from andrew's eyes, and he knew that what she had said was true. compared to margery--the margery he had loved and lost, what was this mirabelle to whom he had yielded her place? beautiful, yes! but the perception of beauty, like beauty's self, lies only skin-deep. now, with radwalader's suggestion that the way of retreat lay open, came the reaction, inevitable in such a nature as andrew vane's, from an emotion purely extrinsic. he was tired of her. the plating had worn off. suddenly he remembered that he had promised to see her that night, and, with an abrupt perception of the opportunity thus offered, he pulled himself together, and swung off rapidly toward the porte dauphine. as he walked, inhaling the fragrance of the evening air, a new sanity seemed to descend on him. he promised himself that this should be the end. however the effect was to be accomplished, he was determined to break the relation, kindly but firmly, and at whatever risk to regain, if not his self-esteem, at least his freedom. as to what should follow, he did not care--or dare--to ask. the unknown significance of the lost message soothed him like an irrational caress. was it too late? is it _ever_ "too late to mend"? he neither knew nor cared. given his freedom, he would chance the rest. fate was hard. a thought checked him. "fate is hard--cash!" "whatever i believe," he told himself, "i don't believe that." and then, in the illogical manner of man, added: "i don't care what it costs me--this is the end!" he found mirabelle in a corner of her great divan, and the room softly illumined. she wore a bewitchingly dainty lounging-gown of iridescent silk, in the folds of which peacock-blues and greens played and rippled into each other in constant com-minglings. "_embrasse-moi_," she said, looking up at him. she glanced at him curiously as he straightened himself again and dropped upon the cushions at her feet. in a woman, the manner of a kiss performs the midwife's office to the beginnings of clairvoyance. "i wonder," said andrew presently, "if you know that people are talking about us, _ma chère_?" mirabelle commented upon this intelligence with a tilt of her eyebrows. "yes," continued andrew, "it seems that our doings are become public property, and our reputations are in jeopardy." "yours, perhaps," remarked the girl. "as for mine, _mon ami, ça n'existe pas_." "_don't!_" said andrew suddenly. "please don't!" "after all," said mirabelle, "what difference? they talk, these good people, whether things are so or not. it's the women, of course. if my clothes were not _d'un chic_, they would pass me over as unworthy of consideration." "this time," said andrew, "it seems the ground of complaint is not clothes alone. i'm told that i'm _affiché_." "so you are, i suppose. you were that from the moment i took your arm at auteuil, that first afternoon. do you object? there are many who would be glad to say as much." andrew bit his lip. it was going to be harder than he had thought. he had come to say--he could not have told exactly what. his whole relation with mirabelle had come so stealthily into being, and had been distinguished by a novelty, a _goût piquant_ so subtle and alluring, that he had hardly been conscious of its development into something definite and established, until the thing was done. his thoughts went back to that afternoon, in his own apartment, three weeks before, when first he had kissed her. that had been the turning-point--the crisis when the whole wide world tipped upside down. his entire point of view had undergone an instantaneous readjustment as his lips met hers, and before him had opened the gate of a new world--a garden lavish of unfamiliar fruits and strange flowers, breathing a heavy, languid, deadening sweetness. he had entered, as one turns aside from the beaten road to explore some little vista of unprecedented beauty, with a vague convincement at the back of his brain, that the divergence was for a moment only, and that, so soon as his curiosity should be satisfied, he would turn back to the highway and go forward again, richer by an experience which it was not necessary to mention, and which would be as immaterial in its bearing upon the main issues of life, as a flower plucked and tossed aside in passing, or a tune whistled in a moment of lightheartedness. now--it was singularly hard to cut to the pith of the sensation--the gate which had opened so invitingly seemed to have closed behind him. what was still more curious, he found, of a sudden, that these fruits and flowers which had tempted him by reason of their novelty, were now as familiar, as seemingly essential, as if they had always been features of his environment. the garden itself was no longer a place wherein he walked as a transient visitor, idly inspecting, but one in which he stood as proprietor. the tendrils had climbed and clung about his feet. the moment for retreat had come, and lo! he could not move! as they talked, he grew still more conscious of the fact that this task of disentanglement which he had planned, was one beset with unexpected difficulties. mirabelle had practically disregarded the inclined plane of suggestion by which he had sought to lead up to the main issue, and, with a little air of proprietorship, had begun to map out her plans for the coming week--plans in which andrew figured as naturally, as much as a matter of course, as did her carriage or her meals or her gowns. for the first time, he realized to what an extent she had a claim upon him. for the first time, the curb replaced the snaffle. for the first time, the bit made its presence fully felt. andrew stirred uneasily. "_m'amie_," he said, "we've been much in each other's company of late--more, perhaps, than is best for either of us." "how can that be?" asked mirabelle, with a little laugh. "we love each other--_ça suffit_. it's impossible to be too much together." her voice was quite even, but that was not to say that she did not scent the approaching issue. "but people say--" began andrew. "oh, lalà ! _people say!_ what _don't_ they say, my poor friend? what won't they continue to say, however you choose to live, and whatever you choose to do? that's paris, and that's the smallest village in brittany, and everything in between, into the bargain. nowadays, one must do as one sees fit, and have the courage of one's convictions. we've chosen our way. it's too late to think of what people say. after all, it's gossip, all this, and gossip is a snake. one kills it if one can; but, in the long run, it's better to step over it and forget. what does gossip amount to? if you're seen always with your wife, it's because you can't trust her alone; if you're never seen with her, it's because you've interests elsewhere. if you spend your nights in public, you're a profligate; and if you spend them at home, you're a secret drinker. 'people say'! let them say, andrew. it can't make any difference." "our--our friendship is the talk of the american colony," said andrew, almost savagely. mirabelle looked at him suddenly, with a curious crinkling of her forehead. the issue now lay clear before her. "and you are ashamed of _that_?" she asked. she leaned back wearily, closing her eyes. "yes, of course you are," she added. "i wonder why it is that we--_nous autres_--never seem to realize what it means, all this. a little laughter, a kiss or two, and the rest, a '_je t'aime_' which means something less than nothing, and then--they speak of the women whom men abuse! what is that to being _used_--and flung aside?" "mirabelle!" "ah, don't speak to me! i know all that you're going to say--i've heard it all before! i knew it, back there a minute, when you kissed me, thinking of another woman! it's the old story--a little harder to bear this time, perhaps, because i've cared very much for you. somehow, you seemed different from other men. you were young, you were gentle, you were respectful, _mon dieu!_--respectful! i thought that it was for _me_ you cared--_me_, as you saw me here, loving and needing to be loved--not the mirabelle tremonceau who is dressed like a doll by paquin and louise--the mirabelle tremonceau of the acacias, and the palais de glace, and the café de paris. i said to myself that it had not all been in vain--the training, the care, the painstaking which have made me what i am. long since, i'd come to loathe all these, my surroundings, but, for the first time, it seemed to me that perhaps they were not a sham and an imitation and a mockery. you were a gentleman--not a _rasta_, like the others. i thought your instincts couldn't play you false, and that i saw that they prompted you to regard me, here in my own home, as a woman and a friend, not merely as a mistress and a toy. from the first, you never presumed, you never let the thought of what, at worst, i might have been to you, come forward to shame the thought of what i was, at best! i said to myself that you cared for _me_--for my mind--my heart--and that what was most to others was nothing to you. when you kissed me first--that afternoon--ah, _mon dieu_! i thought it was not the kiss of passion, but the kiss of love! at that moment you knew fully what i was--if you'd not guessed it before, but you asked for--nothing! instead you played, and your soul was in the music. i've never heard such playing. it was pure--pure--_pure!_ ah!--" she opened her eyes slowly, without looking at him. "and i was happy--happier than i've ever been: because, i said, there must still be a little something in me of all i thought i'd lost. i'd not loved you before that day. it was while we were there together that it came. i would to god you'd let me go then--let me go with the memory of a look which i'd never seen in a man's eyes before--the look which said 'respect.'" for a moment there was silence, and then mirabelle laughed shortly. "that was what i was fool enough to think--all that! _quelle idiote! nous voilà , cher ami_, at the end of the chapter. your glove is worn: you must replace it. your flower is wilted: you must have another for your lapel!" now she looked full at him, her lip curling. "it is like the moulin," she added. "_combien est-ce que tu me donnes, beau brun?_" andrew swung himself to a kneeling posture. "what are you saying?" he demanded hotly. "my god! does what has been between us mean nothing to you? have i ever suggested--have i ever said a word to justify such a monstrous thing? i--" "just now you kissed me, thinking of another woman!" exclaimed mirabelle. "did you suppose i didn't know? why, i've _loved_ you--that's how i knew! do you realize what all this meant? you could have made me good again. i would have left all this--forgotten it--blotted it out! i could have gone away quietly into the country, and lived my life out, without a regret. i could almost have been content never to see you again--never to hear from you, if i could have remembered--what once was true--that you respected me! forgive what i said just now. it was coarse--unworthy of all that has been. but you don't understand. i wish i'd not said what i did; and yet, at times, i feel that way--i mean, as if it were all the same--at the moulin rouge or here--they for an hour, i for a month, but each flung away presently, like the dregs of wine. i've laughed at the knowledge that that is how it is; always laughed--until the shadow of the thought fell on you!" she slid her cool fingers into the hand he started to raise in protest, and held it close against her cheek. "then it maddened me. you see, everything has been different with you from what it was with the others. i'd never have believed that i could care for any man as i have for you--and perhaps i shouldn't have cared for you as i have, if you'd come into my life in any other way. but you asked to be presented to me, and waited for radwalader to get my permission; you talked to me as to a young girl of your own _monde_; and if at first i didn't understand what that meant, i soon saw that it was because _you didn't know_! is it any wonder that i came to love you?--you who alone of all men yielded me the exquisite homage of respect? i dreaded the moment when the change must come--when that deference which intoxicated me like a new wine should be touched with a growing spirit of license, which from you would have been intolerable! from day to day i watched you, but even when i knew that you suspected what i was, my eyes--_mon dieu_, how keen they were!--could see no change in you--and that was the greatest surprise of all. and when, in that moment of madness, i as much as told you, and you were gentle with me, what had been love for your treatment of me became, all at once, love for just--_you_!" with an almost imperceptible pressure she drew him closer to her. as she went on speaking, her fingers touched his temples and his hair in a succession of tiny, soft caresses which were like the embryos of spoken endearments. "_mon bien aimé!_ never will you be able to comprehend what you thus came to mean to me. i have always been vain, lazy, passionately desirous of all that is softest, sweetest, most palatable in life; and these things i have had--but at what a price! then _you_ came, and with you a flash of hope! i made myself believe, i don't know what! marriage? yes, there was even that in my mind; and there was, as well, the idea of going away, as i've said, into the country, and letting the four winds and the sunlight of heaven wash and wash and wash me, through all the years of my life, until i should go out of this world as white as i came in! ah! i don't know what it was, that little flash of hope, except that it seemed to say that escape was possible, and it was to _your_ hand i clung, seeking the outlet. but that was only for one night--for just that one night! with the next day, with all the sights and sounds to which i am accustomed--the allée at noon, armenonville at tea-time, paillard's at midnight--i saw what the end must be; and, since then, i've watched, as only a woman watches, for that first little hint of its coming which only a woman sees! ah, _mon cheri_, it has come, it has come indeed! for a moment i cried out in my agony against the fate which is separating us. you must forgive me that. six weeks--a little slice of spring--and already you are tired of me. _mon amour--mon amour!_" andrew turned, and, with his forehead on her knees and his lips against her fingers, battled silently against the swelling in his throat and the hot moisture stinging his inner lids. in the warm, perfume-laden silence, both the man and the girl went back in thought to their individual as well as their associated past. for the end of each successive stage of life has this in common with the concluding moments of the whole: as with a drowning person, all preceding incidents and emotions start up in orderly array, intensified and in their proper light. so andrew, reviewing the past three weeks, was prey to a passionate regret. in this there was censure, not so much of his own weakness, as of the test which had laid it bare. in youth, reaction carries with a merciless arraignment of all which has made possible disloyalty to standard; with age, men learn to blame themselves, their own folly and frailty. in his heart of hearts, andrew impugned the girl; and when, under the impetus of her resentment, she had voiced that scathing sneer, he had almost welcomed it, as an excuse for the course he was determined to pursue. for an instant, pity and regret were swallowed up in a profound sense of indignity. in its essentials, her speech seemed no better than a touch of the brutal vulgarity which, with deliberation, he had avoided all his life. it had that very element of the sordid which had held him aloof from the student excursions from cambridge into boston--excursions so apt to end in brawls, drunken clamour, tears, and maudlin reconciliations. it was of a piece with a dispute over the finish of a game of cards, with the recriminations of an aggrieved supper companion, with the abuse of an exasperated bartender. it cut him to the quick, and, for the moment, seemed to place mirabelle on a level with the women with whom she desperately classed herself. "it is like the moulin!" as she said the words, it was as if the wand of a harlequin had touched the scene. the faint perfume of the gloire de dijon roses which he himself had sent her turned suddenly to the stale smell of the tobacco smoke which hung densely over the dancers in the red mill of montmartre; and mirabelle herself, with her angry eyes, was at one with the painted, powdered, and bedizened monstrosity whom radwalader had snubbed one evening as she paused at the table where he and andrew were sampling an atrocious _liqueur_ and watching an unlovely quadrille. but the impression passed as it had come. she was herself again, supremely beautiful, and supremely appealing in her avowal of devotion; and the element of romance which, in his mind, had always characterized their relation was intensified rather than diminished by this touch of tragedy. mirabelle rose suddenly, looking down upon him. "i understand," she said; "but there is one thing i would like to ask you. this other woman--do you love her? will all this procure you what you want?" "i don't know," faltered andrew. "perhaps not." "then why--" "oh, how can i explain to you?" he exclaimed, rising in his turn. "it's just this--i _must_ make another try, and to do that i _must_ be free! you have the right to ask--what _haven't_ you the right to ask! i'll tell you the truth--that's all i can do now. the girl i asked to marry me flung me off because--because--" "because of _me_?" she bent forward, staring at him, as if she would wring the truth from his hesitation. "yes--because of you." "and when was this? when _was_ it, i ask you? was it--_before_?" "yes." "then she had no grounds for what she said? she was wrong--she misjudged you--and then you came back to me!" "yes." "why--_why_?" "i don't know," said andrew miserably. "i owed you something. i couldn't hear you accused like that when there was no reason. you were my friend." "and so--you gave up the woman you--loved? ah, _mon dieu_!" she paused, and then her eyes blazed suddenly with such a light as he had never seen in them, and her hands went to her temples with a bewildered flutter. "it was for me," she said, "for me! and to-morrow it is to be _adieu_?" "to-morrow?" briefly they searched each other's eyes. "i mean to-night, of course," said mirabelle evenly. "andrew--there is one thing i would like to ask of you, before you go. will you--will you kiss me once--not as you have ever kissed me?" her fingers touched her forehead. "will you kiss me--here?" he advanced a step and did as she had asked, then fell back. "mirabelle--mirabelle!" "ah, don't think of me, my friend. i don't mean to be cruel--but i have--other interests. let us say good-by, and part--friends. i trust you may be happy." "mirabelle!" andrew's voice broke suddenly. "then it's good-by?" "yes," said mirabelle; and, with a little sob, he bent and kissed her hand. when he had gone, she stood irresolutely, her lips parted and her eyes very bright. then she wheeled and walked slowly toward the mantel. a photograph of thomas radwalader leaned there against a slender vase. as it met her eyes, she snatched abruptly at it, tore it into twenty pieces, and scattered the fragments in the air. chapter xvi. a declaration of independence. "he's gone for a couple of days," observed vicot bluntly, as he opened the door of andrew's apartment to radwalader, about noon of the following day. "he left a note for you. it's on his desk." "i'll come in and read it," answered radwalader, with his customary lack of manifest surprise. "it may require an answer." he pulled off his gloves in a leisurely manner, as he entered the little _salon_, and stood looking down at the note addressed to him. "perhaps," he added, "you'll save me the trouble of opening this by giving me a brief epitome of its contents." "he didn't honour me with his confidence," said vicot. "and he left the note sealed." radwalader turned the envelope, flap up. "i see you've been careful to restore it to its original condition," he remarked. "you're skilful at this kind of thing, my friend--uncommonly skilful. i fail to perceive the slightest evidence of your tampering." "then why not give me the benefit of the doubt?" demanded the other sullenly. "because, with the best will in the world, it's quite impossible to give you the benefit of something which doesn't exist. a sealed letter and a corked bottle, you see, are two things which habit has long since made it impossible to resist." "not a drop of liquor has touched my lips to-day!" exclaimed vicot. "and it's past noon!" retorted radwalader lightly. "is this a miracle of which you are informing me, or have you been taking it through a tube?" he took up the note, and seated himself deliberately in andrew's chair. vicot watched him alertly, gnawing his lip. "am i to know what it's about?" he demanded presently. "there's no conceivable reason why you should," was the answer; "but, on the other hand, there seems to be no conceivable reason why you shouldn't. only pray don't stand upon ceremony, my good jules. if you know the contents, do be kind enough to say so, and spare me the effort of useless recapitulation." "i've practically told you already. i haven't touched it." "curiously enough," said radwalader, "i believe you." he threw the note upon the table, and vicot, picking it up, scanned it eagerly. "'i've gone back,'" he read slowly, "'for another try.'" "well?" inquired radwalader pleasantly. "are you any the wiser?" "what does it mean?" asked vicot, looking down at him. "it means," said radwalader, "that the game is up." "damnation!" "my _good_ jules!" protested radwalader, "pardon the license of an old friend, who begs to suggest that your interruption is in most execrable taste!" "what are you driving at?" exclaimed vicot impatiently. "what does it mean, all this palaver? there's something back of it. you can't hoodwink me, radwalader." "far be it from me to attempt the impossible, my astute jules. quite justly, you demand what i'm driving at, and, quite frankly, i've told you. the game is up. mr. vane has outplayed us. he's managed to get out of this pretty little tangle in a fashion at once ingenious and unexpected. i confess myself beaten. he's gone back to the girl he intends to marry." radwalader paused for an instant, as a thought struck him. "and he would have gone back long ago," he added, "if he had received a certain telegram which was sent to him three weeks ago. if that particular telegram was not intercepted _en route_, it should have reached him; if that particular telegram _was_ intercepted _en route_, it should have reached _me_. well?" vicot stared at him blankly, his hand groping in his pocket. "a telegram?" he repeated, and then drew out the blue missive which had arrived, almost simultaneously with mirabelle, three weeks before. "i forgot," he stammered. "you ass!" exclaimed radwalader. "it's lucky enough for you that your carelessness didn't interfere with my plans. as it is, i don't see that it makes much difference. vane has been too sharp for us, all around. for once in my life, i've made a miscalculation. he's out of the net, right enough, and the best we can do is to abandon the chase and apply ourselves to something more profitable. i'm glad to think that, however unsatisfactory, from a financial point of view, the venture may have proved to me, at least you have not suffered--" "enough of that!" broke in vicot. "get to the point!" "why, the point is simply this. on the return of mr. vane, you will present, in due form, your resignation from his employ, and resume your careful surveillance of my window in the rue de villejust. when you shall observe it to be ornamented with a certain unpretentious blue jar, you will know that i am once more at home to you. i think i can promise you that the next case deserving of our joint attention will not be so barren of result as this one, which we are now with reluctance forced to relinquish. you might go back to driving a cab, meanwhile." "i'm to leave mr. vane's employ," said vicot, less in the tone of inquiry than in that of reflection. "i'm to leave mr. vane's employ." "quite so, my perspicacious jules." "well, then--i won't!" said jules vicot. he seated himself upon the edge of andrew's desk and folded his arms. "radwalader," he added, "many's the time i've listened to you. now it's your turn to listen to me." radwalader, following the impulse of a momentary whim, folded his arms in turn. "_mon cher confrère_," he said amusedly, "i shall listen with reverent attention to whatever you may have to say." "i know too well," continued the other, "that i can't appeal with any hope of success to your sense of pity--because you haven't any. wilfully or otherwise, you have contrived to stifle the promptings of feeling which weaken--or is it strengthen?--other men. you're trained to perfection. but there must be one thing which even you are unable to forget--i mean the time when we were young and clean, when we smiled by day as we dreamed of what lay before us, instead of shuddering by night, as now, as we dream of what lies behind." radwalader nodded. "i'm not addicted, myself, to the unpleasant habit of shuddering," he said, "but i think i know what you mean by the other part of your preamble. 'when all the world was young, lad, and all the trees were green: and every goose a swan, lad, and every lass a queen!' isn't that it? yes, i seem to remember something of the sort, and with a not unpleasurable emotion. continue, my good jules." "sometimes," said vicot, moistening his lips, "the thought of that time must come back even to you. sometimes even you, with all your callousness, must contrast what you might have been with what you are. sometimes a face, among all those we meet, must recall to you the days when better things were possible. but if you have never been thrust back thus upon your own youth, and grown sick at thought of it, i have! there's nothing more awful." "we've been over all this before," put in radwalader, with a suggestion of weariness. "you said you'd hear me out! i'm not talking religion, or even morality. i'm trying to spare you the cant to which you once objected. i don't care about the future. i'm like you in having no more dread of hell than love of heaven. no, it's not the future which hits me. but the past--! the world--the world which, long since, i ran to meet so eagerly--has made me rotten, rotten, _rotten_ to the core!" "severe," commented radwalader, "but strictly accurate. continue, my jules." "you can't make me angry, radwalader. i'm changed a good bit in these past few weeks. i've been going easy on the drink for one thing, which may account for the fact that my head has cleared, and that i see a number of things in a very different light." for an instant his eyes gleamed with a kind of eagerness. "i wish you were easier to talk to, radwalader," he added, his voice suddenly grown timorous with a hint of the old whimper. "with all your cold-bloodedness, you're the only--" "when you've anything worth saying, i'm as easy to talk to as the next man," said radwalader. "it's only when you begin to lament through your nose about the past, and remorse; and 'i remember, i remember the house where i was born,' that i'm not the pink of polite attention. i confess i can't stand that kind of thing; but, for this once, let it go. i'll hear you out." "well," continued the other, "one thing i've found out is that there is less tragedy than comedy about an old man looking back shamefacedly upon the past." "that's the first sensible thing you've said," observed radwalader. "the tragic spectacle," added vicot, "is that of the young man looking forward hopefully upon the future. now the old man and the young man i describe have been in close proximity for several weeks, and the old man has learned that his own security isn't worth much, one way or another, when compared with the young man's security." "the old man gets ten in modesty." radwalader carefully entered the mark in an imaginary report-book. "the old man sees," pursued vicot, "that a certain person whom he has been fearing is really of infinitely minor importance, after all." "_grand merci!_" "this person has been jumping out of dark corners and shouting 'boo!'--that's all. even if he should tell all he knows about the old man--but he won't, no matter what happens: that's another thing the old man has learned--it wouldn't make any difference. do you see? it wouldn't make any difference at all!" he peered at radwalader triumphantly, but the latter noted that under his folded left arm vicot's right thumb twitched ceaselessly against his sleeve. he hugged himself upon perceiving this, and nodded. "shrewd old man!" he said. "pity he didn't find all this out sooner." "well, soon or late," went on vicot, "the knowledge is his now, and it's bound to be useful--not to himself, mind you, but to the _young_ man! do you begin to see? if this person is going to hound this young man, and ruin his life as he has ruined others, it will have to be by new tricks. the old man knows all the old ones--he would recognize them in their earliest stages--he would be able to checkmate this--this person, before he had fairly made the first move!" "is that all?" inquired radwalader. "all? yes--it's all until i hear what you have to say." "oh, i'm expected to take part in the conversation, am i? i thought i was only to listen. well, then, my good jules, if you will allow me to dispense with the thin disguise of the old man and the young man and the certain person--as the phrases are becoming wearisome--suppose i were to say to you that all this is entirely without interest, so far as i'm concerned? we've fought over all this ground of my hold upon you; and you know as well as i that you're at liberty to test its efficacy whenever your courage is equal to the ordeal. we've also wasted some time upon your maunderings over your past probity, youthful innocence, and present degeneration. i'm sorry, but i can't get up the faintest gleam of enthusiasm on this subject. indeed, it bores me intolerably, and i beg you'll spare me from it in the future. as regards mr. andrew vane, whom you see fit to think in danger of being 'ruined,' i've already stated that i've no further designs upon him. altogether, my good jules, i consider that i've done no more than shamefully waste my time by giving you my undivided attention for the past ten minutes." vicot revolved these remarks in silence for a few moments, glancing up covertly once or twice from under his heavy lids, as if in hope of surprising the other in an expression indicative of some idea at variance with his words. but in each instance radwalader met his eyes with his quiet, non-committal smile. "it seems you were right," continued the latter presently, "in saying you have changed. if it pleases you to imagine that the alteration is in the nature of a great moral awakening, by all means consider it so. to my way of thinking, it's more like one of the transient panics of a louis xi., praying to the little images in his cap, and ready, the next moment, to resume his misdoing at the point where he left off. only one thing is made clear by what you've said, and that is that you're no longer fit for the kind of work i've thus far found for you. from to-day we part company." he rose slowly to his feet, and was about to move towards the door, when he was checked by a movement on the other's part. following his old habit, vicot had thrust his hands into his pockets. "that suits me," he answered. "but please to remember this. i've been cleaning and loading your weapons for you so long that i know their uses as well as yourself. i'm able to turn them effectively against you, and i'll do it if need be. i would be resigning the little hold i have upon security, perhaps; but i'd not be doing it uselessly. some men fling themselves into the sea, simply to be rid of life: others save the life of another by quietly slipping off a log that won't keep two afloat. both acts are suicide, but, somehow, there's a difference." "ah, i begin to see," said radwalader. "sidney carton all over again--eh? i, in the leading rôle of guillotine, come down upon you and chop off your head, while mr. vane goes free. 'it is a far, far better thing that i do than i have ever done,' and all that. it's a pity that mr. vane, by his own shrewdness, has already obviated the danger which threatened him, and that you no longer have the opportunity of exercising your lofty purpose." "if i could believe that!" observed vicot. "believe what?" "why, believe that the smallest part of what you've told me is true--that the game's up--that you're beaten--that mr. vane is free. but i can't. what have you often said to me?--that you never turn back, never give up. and yet, knowing you're defeated, i find you smiling, careless, ready to chuck the game and begin on something else. does that ring true? you know whether it does or not. you know whether i've any reason to trust you? no! and so i refuse to leave mr. vane's employ." "might one inquire," asked radwalader, "what you expect to gain?" "nothing," replied vicot, "which you would appreciate or even understand. i expect to gain self-respect." "_indeed!_ may i ask whose?" "if i cannot be anything myself," continued vicot, disregarding the sneer, "i can at least be of use to this boy. i can show him my life, teach him how insignificant slips are the beginnings of moral avalanches, and how bitter are the dregs when one has had the wine." "you're an authority on _that_ point, at all events," commented radwalader dryly. "but what insensate delusion is this, my eloquent, disreputable jules? what can you possibly be to him, or he to you? how can you even begin to speak to him upon this personal plane? at the first symptom of such insolent effrontery, he'd give you a week's wages in lieu of notice, and show you the door. faugh! why, man, he's your master, your employer, your--" "he's my son!" said jules vicot. chapter xvii. a dog and his master. for a long moment after this announcement, radwalader stared at the speaker curiously. vicot had straightened himself, and met his eyes with a kind of boldness which he had never shown before. "he is my son!" he repeated presently. "sit down, radwalader. you may as well hear the whole story. my name's no more vicot than yours is. it's john vane, and twenty-five years ago it was as respected as any in boston. i'd everything to live for, as the saying is, and i might have realized it all; but, except for about a year, just after i left college, i never seemed to get a grip on things. i had money--perhaps that was the trouble. everything came my way for a time, but i mixed myself up in speculation, and it wasn't long before i found myself ruined. i--i was married. my wife stuck to me, even after i began to drink, but after the liquor'd had a chance to make me about what i've been ever since you've known me, and i saw that she was beginning to despise me, i grew--or thought i grew--to hate her. we were living in a wretched little house in kingsbridge, the drink was gaining on me every day, and things got worse and worse. i expect i was brutal to her, though half the time i didn't know what i was saying. anyhow, she drew farther and farther away from me, till after a few months the fact that we were man and wife was nothing more than a hideous burlesque. she wouldn't let me touch her, she'd hardly answer when i spoke to her, and that made me furious. the conditions were intolerable, maddening: and when another woman came into my life, who flattered me and seemed fond of me and had enough money for us both, i saw a way of escape. i deserted my wife, soothing what little conscience i had left, with the thought that she'd go back to her father, be cared for, and think herself well rid of me. i sailed for liverpool with the other. that was twenty-one years ago--on thanksgiving day, . for a little, i reformed, but the old habits came back, of course, and, the first i knew, i was done by as i'd done. my--my companion left me, with a small monthly allowance and the information that this would be continued so long as i made no attempt to see her. she knew me pretty well by then, you see! and she was right. i accepted, and for fifteen years i managed to live on this pittance, drifting all over europe and turning my hand to whatever job came my way. then she died, and the allowance came to an end. i was here in paris, strapped; and it was then you caught me in what was, for me, too bold an attempt at swindling--the case of mr. rutherford, of course. you knew me for a thief and a forger, and i was fully prepared to have you turn me over to the police, when i discovered that you were no better than myself, and that your knowledge was to be used not to betray, but merely to intimidate me. you know the rest--up to the moment when you told me that i was to become the servant of mr. vane. "all this time i had never so much as heard of his existence. indirectly, i'd learned of my wife's death, but that it was because of the birth of a child--that i never knew. even when i heard the name i wasn't more than momentarily startled. it's not an uncommon one, and nothing was farther from my mind than the thought that i might have a son. but it was only a few days before i guessed. the name 'andrew' gave me the first clue. it's his grandfather's. then, when i began to probe into his letters, as you'd told me to, i soon learned the truth. and, from the moment i was sure, my mind was made up. i'd made a botch of my own life, and here i was engaged in an attempt to make a botch of his. well, then, i wouldn't. the time didn't seem right for saying anything to you. i thought i could do more good by keeping mum, and watching. if you'll look back--" and vicot's voice took on a new note of pride--"you'll find that i haven't given you a scrap of information which would tend to damage him in any way, or put him in your power." "that," observed radwalader, "appears, from my knowledge of the case, to have been simply because you didn't know anything worth telling. i thought i was going to need your services, but, as it happened, i didn't. things went very well by themselves." "but it was only last night," continued vicot, after a moment, "that i realized what this boy meant to me. after you'd gone out to dinner, i picked up what was lying on that table. i'd never seen it before. either it had just come, or else he's kept it locked up. do you remember what it was? it was that picture--there!" he flung out one hand passionately, pointing at the miniature on the mantel behind radwalader. "look! i found _that_--the picture of my wife and the mother of my son!" radwalader rose slowly, turned, walked across to the mantel, and bent forward to examine the picture. as vicot continued, the vague expression of interest on the other's face deepened to one of eager scrutiny. his eyebrows came together, as of one who strives to recollect, and then a small, sneering smile began to curl the corners of his lips. "that settled the question. as i say, i've made a rotten failure of everything, but there's one chance left! when i saw her picture, i saw my duty, and i was glad--my god! how glad i was! so now i'm resolved. you can do as you please. you can say what you will. you can flay me alive, if you like, or send me to the galleys, or ruin me in any fashion in your power. i've seen the picture of the woman i wronged, and i've seen my way to make good. from somewhere, perhaps, she'll see and understand. he's my son! do as you think best--you'll never harm him. he shall marry this girl he loves, and that without a word out of your mouth--curse you! i'm not afraid for myself. my life's over. but the sins of the fathers shall _not_ be visited upon the children! god almighty himself won't deny me this chance. and _there_ is my highest trump, master radwalader. can you take the trick?" "_yes_, by god!" exclaimed radwalader, wheeling full upon him, "and with the ace! i knew that face last night, though at the time i couldn't place it. so _that_ is the woman you deserted at kingsbridge twenty-one years ago--your wife--the mother of andrew vane! oh, don't assure me! _i_ know you're telling the truth, right enough, but i know more than that. shall i tell you? well, then, what _you_ rejected _i_ picked up; what _you_ were fool enough to desert _i_ was wise enough to appreciate. _your wife_--ho! you tell me that she wouldn't answer you when you spoke to her, that for months she wouldn't let you touch her, that your marriage was a farce. here is what _i_ tell _you_. i found no such difficulty. she answered me readily enough she took my hand before i'd known her five minutes, and everything she denied you, she gave to me! do you understand what _that_ means? it means that if the father of andrew vane is alive to-day, he's not alive in the person of jules vicot or of john vane, but in that of thomas radwalader!" he threw himself violently into the chair again, and his nervous tension snapped in a shrill laugh. as the last words left his lips, it was as if an unseen hand had snuffed out the light in the eyes of the man who had been john vane. his exaltation left him, and he braced himself rigidly against the desk, leaning far back, and staring, staring through the singular, dull film which had come across his pupils. he gave no audible evidence, until radwalader had spoken again, that he had understood or even heard. "what a witch fate is! what hands she deals! a moment since, you were nearer to having me in a tight place, jules--er--mr. vane, than you ever have been, or than you're ever likely to be again. there's just one thing against which i've never been able to secure myself, and that is the possibility of some sudden, overmastering emotion in those whom i'm forced to trust. i've never been so unfortunate as to run foul of it before, but when you were trumpeting remorse, and self-sacrifice, and atonement, and so forth, a moment ago, i confess i thought you had the odd trick. with hysteria, all things are possible, and a majority probable. if andrew vane had been in reality your son, and you'd not chosen to believe that i'd no further plans in regard to him, you might have done me an infinite deal of harm. you disturbed me--you disturbed me considerably, mr. vane. but, lo and behold! a turn of the wheel, a throw of the dice, a deal of the cards, and i am able, with extreme relish, to snap my fingers in your face--because, since he is _not_ your son, but mine, you're going to keep your mouth shut even more tightly in the future than you have in the past! if you'd not been an idiot, as well as a coward, you'd have known long ago that my hold over you hasn't been worth the paper on which it was written. my very silence about what i knew of the rutherford swindle made me an accessory after the fact. strange you didn't think of that! but now--things are very different. you'll keep your mouth shut, my dear mr. vane, because, while nothing but shame could have come to the boy by the revelation that he was your son, the shame would be multiplied a thousand-fold by the public admission that he is mine!" as he paused, the other blinked, and strove in vain for an instant before he could find his voice. "a lie!" he murmured hoarsely. "all a damned lie!" "let's see if it is," answered radwalader. "i don't deal in that dangerous commodity if i can avoid it. there never was a lie yet which it wasn't possible, sooner or later, to nail: and that in itself is enough to make me fight shy. i never take unnecessary risks. besides, in the present instance, the truth fits my needs to a nicety. so i think you'll believe what i'm going to tell you." vicot gave a short, bewildered nod, seeming to ask him to continue. "the facts, then, are these: after having disgraced, and, presumably, maltreated, the woman who had the misfortune to be your wife, you deserted her, by your own confession, and thereby, as no doubt you will concede, relinquished whatever claim you had upon her, and all right of supervision or control over what she chose to do. you left her in poverty and wretchedness--and i found her. you sought escape and consolation: she did the same. you found them in the company of another woman: she found them in the company of another man. i was so happy as to be that man. _voilà !_ it's quite simple." "lies--all lies!" broke in vicot passionately. "she was not that kind. she was a saint on earth!" "ah, you've learned to appreciate her!" "never in god's world would she have stooped to you--unless you brought deceit to bear." vicot was picking feverishly at the edge of the desk, his filmed eyes shifting and shifting in their sockets. "well, then--yes!" said radwalader. "if i'm nothing else, at least i'm loyal to the women who--er--have, as you courteously put it, stooped to me. i _did_ bring deceit to bear. i was interested in mesmerism in those days, and highly adept. when i came upon her, by merest chance, she was desperate, unstrung, and, i think, on the point of collapse. in a very natural attempt to calm her, i put forth an influence which had already been proved considerable. to my surprise she yielded completely to it, and passed, almost before i realized what i'd done, into a state of profound trance, in which i found her wholly subject to my will. up to that moment--believe me or not, as you choose--i had no ulterior motive. but when i found her walking, talking as i desired, interest led me on. i directed her back to the town--we met on a hill-road back of it--willing her to lead me to her home. i'd some thought of explaining matters to her family, but when i found that she apparently had none, when i saw the squalor and dreariness in which she lived, curiosity impelled me to question her, and from her unconscious answers i gained enough to confirm my present knowledge of who she was. then--i was but human--she was very beautiful--the circumstances--" "stop!" broke in vicot. "i understand what you're going to say." "so much the better: we're saved the necessity of going into unpleasant details. suffice it to say that what happened, happened. already, as we walked together, i'd said enough to impress my mentality upon hers, to make her mind my property, and her will subject to mine. when i left her i meant to go back, to help and uplift her, to marry her, perhaps. who knows? i was very young then and a good deal of a pedant." "so you never went back," said vicot. "you left her--_like that_!" "just as you'd left her, the same day," retorted radwalader, his complacency quite restored. "don't let's get to recriminations. i fancy it's a case of pot and kettle." "all this doesn't prove that the boy's not mine," exclaimed the other, with sudden energy. radwalader rose, came quite close to him, and said with a little sneer: "do you think it's likely? it's a question of the simplest arithmetic. vane's not yet twenty-one--and what have you told me? look back--calculate." vicot made no reply. he was peering at radwalader's face, and presently he whispered: "my god! _he's even got your eyes!_" "from the sublime to the ridiculous," said radwalader. "a moment since, you were spouting heroic sentiments, and had me so obviously at a disadvantage that i--yes, i was almost afraid of you. now we're parties to a _dénouement_ which would seem to have come from the pen of alfred capus." "what do you mean to do?" asked vicot lifelessly. "do? why, nothing. what is there to do, except to be thankful that a discerning providence has put it out of your power to injure me. the boy's mine--there can't be a doubt of it--and if you so much as open your lips on the subject, you not only disgrace yourself and me, but andrew as well, and, most of all, the memory of your wife. that's enough: i'm satisfied. sheer common-sense will show you, as it shows me, that silence is the only course. andrew believes, as does every one else, that his father is dead. we alone, of all men, know the truth--and we agree to hold our tongues." "if i could trust you!" exclaimed vicot, "but i can't--i _can't_! you've laid a trap for him--you know you have!--just as you did for the others, because he's young, and reckless, and rich! you called me in to help you, and probably the tremonceau girl as well. oh, i know how it's worked! well, that's why i must stick by him, and guard him, and see to it that he can marry the girl he wants to--" suddenly radwalader laughed. "why, what an ass it is!" he said. "look here, you mountebank! the only person who has brought andrew vane into trouble, from the very beginning of all this, is _you_! i couldn't _make_ him compromise himself: i could only set the bait. he nibbled at it, to be sure, but he was never in my power or mirabelle tremonceau's for a moment. he loved another girl. he went to her and asked her to marry him, and she refused him, but he'd no sooner left her than she thought better of it and sent for him. if that message had reached him, he would never have seen mirabelle again; but it didn't reach him, and, quite naturally, he took the next best thing. now she's his mistress, and he's just where i've wanted to have him all along. for all this, mr. vane, i have only you to thank!" "i?" repeated vicot. "what have i to do with it?" "this much: that, while you've been planning to keep him out of my power, the very thing that would have done so once and for all has been lying in your pocket. a moment ago you laid a telegram upon the table. it's still there. open it!" slowly, wonderingly, vicot tore the blue paper open and read aloud the five words which it contained: "come back to me. margery." radwalader slipped his hands into his pockets. "exactly," he said. "do you see?" "but you said, only a little while ago," stammered vicot, "that the game was up--that you wouldn't do anything more." "only by way of shutting your mouth," said radwalader coolly. "since then there've been developments. when i said that, i was, as i've already told you, anxious to get rid of you. now--well, you won't blab in any event, because the small sum of money which it will cost vane to get rid of mirabelle is nothing compared with what it would mean to him if you forced me into pitting my knowledge of his origin against your accusations of me." "and so," cried vicot furiously, "you're determined to hold this over him. you'll hound him and hound him--damn you!--till perhaps you'll drive him desperate--till you drive him to kill himself--and end up in the morgue, like young baxter--and then you'll go and look at him, staring out through the glass--and you'll smile and light a cigarette and whistle 'au clair de la lune'! you hell-hound!" he flung himself forward, as if he would have seized the other by the throat, halted suddenly as radwalader's right hand came from his pocket, and stooped, staring cross-eyed into the shining mouth of a revolver, held without a tremor six inches from his contorted face. "get back, you dog!" said radwalader; and at the words, as if he had been a dog indeed, vicot shuddered, went limp, and sank whimpering at his master's feet. "now listen to me as well as you're able," continued radwalader. "if you stir hand or foot in this matter, you're a lost man. it's no longer the old story: you know what's at stake _now_! i don't know what this madness of yours may lead you to, but i've myself to protect, and you may rest assured i'll do that, no matter at what cost. if, through some distorted and drunken idea of protecting him, you betray me, i'll hound you--since you talk of hounding--as never was a man hounded before. i'd sacrifice not only you, not only vane, not only the memory of his mother, but myself into the bargain. if i pull down all paris about my ears, i'll beat you, do you hear?--i'll beat you, my man--i'll beat you!" as he finished, vicot dragged himself to his elbows and looked up. his face was ghastly, and wet with ridiculous insensate tears. "all right, radwalader," he whined. "do as you please, only for god's sake don't let this get out. if you must have the money, get it from him, but don't ruin his life--don't let him know. i won't breathe a word--i swear i won't--and i'll do whatever else you ask of me--anything--god knows i will!" he was on his knees now, clutching at radwalader's coat. "now it's all right, isn't it?" he asked. "it's all right between us? you won't tell, and i won't tell. we understand each other, radwalader, don't we?--ha, yes, we understand each other, you and i!" "_god!_" said radwalader, flinging him off. "is it a man or a worm?" briefly he stood, looking down at the thing which writhed and whimpered before him, and then touched it curiously with his foot. a moment later, the outer door closed behind him with a sullen slam. for a long time--for five hours and more--vicot lay where he had fallen. at first he choked and sobbed, repeating fragments of his miserable appeal, but gradually even this incoherent murmur died down to silence. the long summer afternoon stole by; and from the street outside came the commingled sounds of a busy thoroughfare--the rattle of wheels, the cries of venders, the clamour of children playing: and still he lay, as motionless as one dead. it was only when the sunlight swung in horizontally through the window on the rue boissière, and the bell of a neighbouring church was striking six, that he stirred, rose, and went slowly across to stare down into the street. a cab was standing at the corner--a cab of the compagnie urbaine. suddenly vicot smiled. chapter xviii. fair exchange is no robbery. at eleven o'clock that night, the electric door-bell of radwalader's apartment gave two short staccato chirps and then a prolonged whir. at the sound he looked up sharply from his evening mail, and drew his eyebrows together in a puzzled frown. "at this hour?" he said to himself, and then, closing the doors of _la boîte_ behind him, went out to answer the summons. mirabelle entered deliberately, passing before him into the _salon_, and shredding a little note in her slender fingers. "there's no need of this now," she explained, scattering the pieces in the empty fireplace. "it was merely to ask you to call to-morrow. i'd have mailed it if i'd not found you at home." she flung back her light wrap as she spoke, disclosing a superb evening gown, and a profusion of diamonds slightly on the safe side of undue ostentation. withal, she had a nice sense of fitness in the matter of dress. it was a safety-valve not possessed by many of her _monde_, and which, at all times, guaranteed her against exploding into vulgarity. "i confess," said radwalader, "that i was surprised when i recognized your ring. of late, your visits have been so infrequent that when i'm favoured with one at this--to say the least--unconventional hour, i'm sure that its object is of some importance." mirabelle looked at him coolly, with a slightly contemptuous droop of her eyelids. "i believe that it's a characteristic of both the visits i make and those i receive," she said lazily, "that they're seldom without an object. as for the hour, i'm not to be judged by the conventionality for which you manifest so commendable--and so abrupt--a concern. we parisians are like our allies, the russians: we go by standards of time which differ from those of the rest of the world. may i sit down?" "i beg your pardon!" said radwalader. "do--by all means." mirabelle installed herself in an armchair, and her eyes were travelling to and fro about the room. something in the curious confidence of her manner, a confidence that was almost insolence, turned radwalader vaguely uneasy. he was standing with his back to her, lighting his inevitable cigarette. there was nothing in his expression to indicate enjoyment of that usually enjoyable operation. "any news?" he inquired, as the tobacco caught. "would you mind turning around?" asked mirabelle sweetly. "i dislike talking to shoulders." radwalader wheeled upon her with a bow. "you are irresistible, _ma chère_," said he. "after all, what use? i know you're clever, and you know i am. it's quite an imbecile proceeding for us to waste poses and by-plays upon each other. what _is_ the news? has the great inevitable happened?" a tiny shadow crossed her eyes at the phrase, but she answered steadily. "if by 'the great inevitable' you mean that the pleasure vehicle of mr. vane has no further accommodations for me as a passenger, then assuredly yes--the great inevitable has happened." "ah!" said radwalader reflectively. "he came last night to bid me good-by. it's the old story. there's another girl--a girl he wants to marry--and one must clear the decks before going into action." radwalader looked at her, in silence now, but with a question in his face. "you want to hear about the financial side, i suppose," she continued. "how pleasant they are, these little business conferences, how friendly, and yet--how dignified! it's a pity that there must be losses as well as gains in such a business as yours, _mon cher associé_. it would be so much more agreeable if one could always declare a dividend, instead of making an occasional assignment. in the present instance, i've no further report to make. he's tired of me, and he's given me my _congé_, and that's all there is to it." she looked down, fingering the lace on her gown, as if to dismiss the subject. "you asked him?" began radwalader. "i asked him--nothing! and i _shall_ ask him--nothing! that was what i came to tell you. i gather from your expression that it's not pleasant news. i'm sorry to disappoint you, but the truth is: i'm tired of this kind of thing. i'm going away for a little rest, and i don't care to be troubled by money matters." mirabelle was letting her contempt for the man before her grow dangerously apparent in her voice, and he winced under it, and then flushed darkly. "what rubbish is this?" he demanded, almost roughly. "is it a joke?" "oh, as far as possible from anything of the kind," retorted mirabelle. "i was never more in earnest. you wished me to engage with you in blackmailing mr. vane, and you'll probably be kind enough to remind me that i've done this kind of thing before. i don't deny it, but--" for the first time her voice broke slightly. "there are reasons," she added, "why i cannot do it now." radwalader bit his lip. for a moment his temper well-nigh claimed the upper hand, but he was shrewd enough to match this curious unconcern with something quite as non-committal. "you mean that you love him, i suppose," he observed. "love?" repeated mirabelle. "_mon dieu, monsieur!_ what right have i to love, or you to speak of it? haven't we grovelled enough in the mud outside of the cathedral? must we further degrade it, as well as ourselves, by entering and laying hands upon the very shrine?" "you love him," said radwalader, "and he's tired of you. that's regrettable. i can stand my share of the pecuniary loss, but i grieve to see you humiliated." he glanced at her, and was pleased to notice that her colour had deepened, and that her foot tapped the floor. he was at a disadvantage, he knew, until this curious, apathetic self-control should be broken down. "i can spare your sympathy," she answered. "no doubt i shall recover from my humiliation, all in good time. i'm going away, as i've said. there's the little place my father left me, and that i've told you about, back of boissy-st. leger, at the edge of the forest, and it's enough. i didn't come here to reproach you, radwalader, or to quarrel. i simply came to say what i've said, and go. i can't pretend to be sorry that i've made it impossible for you to carry out your plans, but--" "oh, _chère amie_!" broke in radwalader, with a little wave of his hand. "give yourself no uneasiness on that head, i beg of you. i had a strong hand before you compelled me to discard, but who knows whether it won't be improved by the draw? the game's never lost till it's played, you know." "_radwalader!_" mirabelle leaned forward in her chair, knitting her fingers. "do you mean that you are--going on?" "why, assuredly, my friend! you can't be so ingenuous as to suppose that my plans are necessarily changed by this change in yours. i'm sorry to lose your coöperation, of course. the thing had reached a point where it would have been easy to bring it to a prompt and successful conclusion; but, unfortunately, you've seen fit to back out at the critical moment. but, as you say, there can be no need of quarrels and reproaches on either side. you are perfectly free to do as seems best to you, but really you mustn't expect that your action binds _me_. i've spent a deal of time and thought over this business, and now i shall have to spend more--but relinquish it? why, never in the world, my friend! beautiful, attractive, and accomplished as you are, you must realize that you are not the only woman in the world." "do you mean," demanded mirabelle, "that you're going on--with another woman--to play this whole miserable business over again, until you've had your will of him? do you mean that what i've done doesn't stand for anything?" "i see no necessity for giving you an outline of my exact plans," said radwalader, "now that you've resigned from any share in them; but, if it will afford you any satisfaction, you have a tolerably accurate idea of my intentions." "listen to me!" answered mirabelle, with a last effort at calm. "i have done your bidding in the past, furthered your schemes, and taken my share of the gain. bah! why should i regret it? regret mends no breakages. it's to the future, not to the past, that i look. i've told you what i want. i want my freedom. i want to go away into the country, and to forget--everything! i don't know how long it will last, and i don't care. all i want now is peace of mind. i don't say i'll never come back to--to all this: for no doubt i shall; but for the moment, for a time, i want to be alone, and at ease. will you make it possible, radwalader?" "i? but why is it necessary to ask me that? i've said i'm sorry to lose you. you're the only woman i can absolutely trust, the only one who can hold her tongue and do as she's told. i freely forgive you this single desertion. no doubt there are particular circumstances in the case which have forced you to the course you've taken. you don't see fit to explain them, and i don't care to ask. and then it's not as if you were going away for ever. you'll come back--and shortly. paris, the bois, your diamonds, your amusements, your little _affaires_--they're as necessary to you as light or air. so, go by all means, and enjoy your vacation to your heart's content. i'll not disturb you. _au revoir, ma chère!_" "ah!" said mirabelle brokenly. "how little, with all your cleverness, you understand a woman! where she can be happy in her lover's happiness, no matter at what cost to her, she must be unhappy in his distress, no matter how free from personal suffering she herself may be! you asked me if i loved him. well, then--yes! i don't mind saying that, because you'll never understand how or why. how should you? how should you know that, to a woman, a man is not so much a personality, as the author of all the new impulses and emotions which he brings into her life? you say he's tired of me, and i answer you that i'm more than repaid by what he's taught me of truth and manliness and gentleness and respect. that's why i could give him up--because i knew that his best happiness lay apart from mine. that's why i had to desert you--because i could not be party to any plot to shame or to degrade him. what i gave, i gave freely and fully. ah, try--_try_ to understand! i've been a faithful partner to you, haven't i? you yourself say i've never broken my word or made a false move in the games we've played together. i've been loyal to you, no matter what degradation it cost me, because i knew you trusted me. at first, as you know, i didn't see what i was helping you to do. i encouraged the boys you brought to me, and cast them off when you gave the word. and afterwards, when now and again you gave me something from tiffany's, did i think?--did i know? when i found out, it was too late. i was bound to you in a way, and--well, i'll leave all that. my only point is this: i've served you faithfully, haven't i--faithfully, unflinchingly, and loyally--from first to last?" "from first to last," echoed radwalader, slowly nodding. "then," said mirabelle, with sudden passion, flinging back her head, "i ask for my reward--for my payment--for my wages. i ask of you the honour and integrity of andrew vane!" "the--" "yes!--that--that--_that_! in payment for mine, which i've sold to you. fair exchange is no robbery. i love him, do you hear? i've accepted my dismissal at his hands, but i do not choose that you should continue to plot against him, with another woman as bait, and with a spy in his rooms watching for every little slip and folly, and ready, when you say so, to post them all before the world--unless he _pays_! _dieu!_ i can imagine you, as you were with chauvigny, with little de vitzoff, with young baxter, with sir henry gore, and the rest of them! 'unfortunate, of course, but really, you see, you've been most imprudent, and every precaution must be taken to prevent the details of this affair leaking out.' _et cetera!_ 'the only safe way with these people is to buy them off.' _et cetera!_ 'if you will put yourself in my hands, i think i can manage it for ten--twenty--thirty thousand francs.' _et cetera, et cetera, et cetera! eh bien--non!_ i do not choose to have it so with the man i love. there are other fish for you to catch. let me have this one's life. that much you owe me. as you call yourself a man, pay me and let me go!" she had risen with the intensity of her appeal, and now, white with passion, radwalader flashed to his feet at her side. "by heaven, mirabelle--!" "and by heaven, monsieur radwalader! what then? are you going to threaten me? do you take me for a jules vicot, at least? do my hands tremble? do i shrink before you? ah, that might have been possible at first: for i don't deny that i've feared you at times; but now--_zut_! it's not the first time, my radwalader, that the pupil has out-stripped the master. you've taught me too much for your own good. _voyons!_ a secret is safe just so long as one person knows it, and only one. but no man is secure, from the moment when he confides to others that he's not what he pretends to be. but you?--you are different. for two years past, to my knowledge, and probably for many more, you've been building up a house of cards. it's growing very tall, monsieur radwalader, very dangerously tall. you think the foundations strong, but they weaken with every card you add. _allons!_ enough of this brawling. you know what i demand." "and if i refuse?" suggested radwalader. "if you refuse? ah, then your game is indeed ended and your house of cards blown down! for i'll make your name notorious, not only in paris, but in every capital of europe. they shall have all the details--all that vicot, as well as i, can give them. by the blood of christ, _monsieur_, if you don't promise what i ask, in three days the name of thomas radwalader, swindler, card-sharp, blackmailer, and blood-sucker, shall be the common property of the civilized world! what have i to lose, or fear, or even consider? nothing! you know that, as well as i. and i'll save the man i love from the trap you're preparing for him, even if i send myself to st. lazare!" radwalader sank back easily into his chair. "my good mirabelle," he said, "all this is very admirable as sentiment and, i must say, extraordinarily well done. it's a pity that it should be wasted upon an impossible situation. be patient with me for a moment, and i'll show you precisely why you'll neither edify the capitals of europe with an account of my private affairs nor compel me to do anything but what i choose to do in the case of mr. andrew vane. we are three in number: i, a gentleman who chooses, for reasons of his own, to keep one side of his life from the view of the general public; you, a very charming girl, most cruelly, but nevertheless conspicuously, avoided by the members of your sex who pride themselves upon respectability; and andrew vane, a young person wounded perhaps, but as yet not mortally, by the shafts of scandal. now, let us see. you desire to snatch him from the--what is it?--pit?--pitfall?--ah! trap--which i am preparing for him. how do you go about it? you first associate my name with several most unpleasant terms of reproach, and then proceed to drag the combination before the public, and say, 'here is the intimate companion of the man i love!' what does that mean? the man you love--_you_! what a happy revelation for the friends and family of andrew vane, who has been dawdling in your arms, while another woman as much as held his plighted word! i won't dwell on it. it's a subject by reference to which i've never sought to humiliate you--but you've driven me to touch upon it. believe me, my friend, if it's indeed your wish to save andrew vane from disgrace, you should devise some project more promising than a public proclamation of the fact that you've been his mistress these few weeks past. you tell me you've nothing to fear and nothing to lose. you'll add, perhaps, that the fact's already public property, but it isn't. it's public gossip, which is a very different thing. the plain fact is this: from the instant when you associate your name with his, he's ruined absolutely and irretrievably." mirabelle bent forward to look at him, almost curiously. "are you a man or a devil?" she said. "a man, _ma chère_, and, in my own way, not an unreasonable or ungrateful man. to prove that, you shall have what you ask. you can see what trumpery rant you've been talking, and you probably regret it already. once for all--and as you should have known--if threats of exposure could have effected anything, i'd have been the talk of europe long ago. please don't try it again. it's a waste of time and a trial of temper, and, to me at least, such scenes are always disagreeable. now to the main issue. i will do what you wish--on one condition." "i accept it," said mirabelle promptly. "that's rash, and i release you from the pledge. wait till you know what the condition is. as you say, there are other fish to catch, and, quite frankly, i need your aid in catching them. so you will give up your dream of rustic retirement, and remain exactly as you are, and what you are, and where you are. also, the business relations between us--" "ah, no--_no_!" "the business relations between us are to continue in force, except that on the books of the firm we shall close the account with mr. andrew vane." for an instant the little house back of boissy-st. leger hung on mirabelle's vision--the rose-garden, the wide outlook on the valley of the marne, the poplars stirred by a west wind, sweet with the breath of fontainebleau. side by side with these rose the contrasted mirage of crowded _cafés_, race-courses, and theatres, the half-contemptuous court of women-weary men, the unspeakable slavery, heartache, and humiliation of the life she had lived and which she loathed. then she looked straight into radwalader's eyes. she had no need to ask if this was final. they knew each other, these two. "there shall be no other woman to come between him and the one he wants to marry?" she asked. "no other woman." "vicot shall have no share in his life at all?" "no share." "and you will never mention what he has done--in paris--with me?" "never." there was silence between them for a moment, a silence pricked only by the strokes of midnight. "as you said, fair exchange is no robbery," suggested radwalader. "if i agree?--" "you have my word. honour among thieves!" "_soit!_" said mirabelle. "god help me--have your way!" for an instant she stood motionless, and then, with an imperious gesture, commanded his service as if she had been the empress she appeared, and he the lackey. "my cloak, _monsieur_!" chapter xix. redemption. at poissy the three weeks had worn listlessly away. margery yet remained, though the time originally set as a limit for her visit had passed. monsieur and madame palffy were staying with some friends in dresden, whom mrs. carnby had never seen, but whom, under the present circumstances, she whimsically described to jeremy as being "in danger, necessity, and tribulation." truth to tell, she had been forced to fall back upon her own invention for means of amusement. she was chafing under a sense of helplessness in a situation which she seemed totally unable to grasp, and a fierce impatience against the social conditions which make it possible for a man to shut off the women most deeply interested in him from the most significant features of his life and conduct. she had spent a half-hour in margery's room on the morning of andrew's departure, and there had heard as much as she cared to about the conversation in the arbour. upon this problem she had brought to bear all her trained powers of persuasion, and at the end had the satisfaction of bringing margery to a less intolerant attitude. the matter of inducing her to telegraph andrew a recall she had found more difficult. "i wouldn't deceive you, my dear," she said. "i'm absolutely convinced of the truth of what i say when i tell you that you've misjudged him. oh yes--i know the appearances are all against him. i thought just as you do, until i had the courage to ask him out and out about the matter; but, when i did, i soon saw that the circumstances were unusual--extraordinarily so. he's been reckless, and, if he cares for you as he pretends to, highly inconsiderate. but i believe, as firmly as i do in my own existence, that in the main essentials he's innocent. of course, he's been going around with this woman--even _he_ doesn't deny that; but the very fact that he admits it seems to me to prove that it hasn't been as bad as you suppose. one may go a long way with a woman without going too far. why, margery, i could bite my tongue off when i think what i said to you last night. just think!--i imagined i was straightening things out, and giving you your cue! instead, it appears that i was only giving you a wrong idea, and putting everything into a hideous mess. why, you didn't give him a fighting chance! you piled on him every accusation that came into your head, and then sent him off before he had a chance to explain. why didn't you ask him one straight question, if that was what you wanted to know? he'd have answered you--yes, and told you the truth! if there's one thing andrew vane is not, it's a liar. i was sure of that before i'd known him two minutes." "but there wasn't any need to ask him," broke in margery. "he said of his own accord that--that there is such a woman." "and what else?" demanded mrs. carnby. "that she wasn't any more to him than a bird that was singing near us; that he'd never see her again if i asked him." "and you sent him away after _that_! good heavens, my dear, that was the moment of all others when you should have said 'i believe you!' for he was telling you the truth--i'll stake my intelligence on it. it was the supreme evidence of his reliance upon you, the supreme test of your love. and you failed. appearances? yes, of course! and what are appearances? nothing in the world but a perpetual reminder that we're not omniscient. margery--you've got to call him back." margery made no reply. "you owe that much to him, and you owe it to me. we've both of us been in the wrong, and you must give us a chance to set things right. if you can't take him as he is, then ask him to tell you exactly what his relations have been with this woman, and act on his answer as you see fit. i can't criticise you for doing as you think right, if only you're acting on the truth; but the truth you must have! at present you're depending upon a lot of hearsay, upon the criminally thoughtless cynicism of a gossipy old woman, and on your own rash conclusions. my dear girl, you know i love you--love you better than anything in the world, except jeremy? well, then, do this for me." "very well," answered margery wearily, "but it's no use, mrs. carnby." that morning she telegraphed andrew to come back to her--and there was no reply. thereafter the subject had not been mentioned either by the girl or her hostess. for the first time there lay a little barrier of restraint between them, which mrs. carnby, with all her tact, found it impossible to pass, or even clearly to define. her customary confidence in herself stood back aghast. any further interference, she knew, might well be set down as idle meddling. she had done her best--and failed. day by day she saw margery grow paler and thinner. the old gaiety was slipping from her, flashing forth at more and more infrequent intervals, like the flame of an untended lamp, brightening more feebly, ever and anon, before it dies away. but there was nothing to be said or done. the little touches of endearment and sympathy with which women often fill the place of words, passed between them, but too often these negative interpreters of their hidden thoughts caused the girl's eyes to fill. at mrs. carnby's earnest entreaty, she prolonged her visit, and was glad of the seclusion of the villa, the long idle days, the evenings at billiards or backgammon with jeremy, and the still warm nights when, through sleepless hours, reverie had free rein. curiously enough, and despite andrew's neglect of her, her former tenderness for him returned and grew. the first passion of her resentment having passed, she was learning to make the ample and even obstinate allowances of the woman who has seen love in her grasp, and had it snatched away. at the moment of her rejection of him, there had been nothing within her range of vision but the spectre of cruel and humiliating wrong. but now a thousand little appealing reminiscences came back to woo and to persuade her. the old days at beverly; the boy-and-girl companionship wherefrom had sprung the first flower of her love; the high hopefulness of their young attitude; the bashful acknowledgment of unspoken understanding with which they parted; the long months of separation, when her unhappiness in her new surroundings was silver-shot with prescience of his coming; that coming itself, and the joyous significance of it--all these worked upon her night and day. she was learning to forget the little hints of gossip whereby she first began to doubt him, and even the terrible frankness of mrs. carnby's words, which had seemed to confirm all her worst suspicions. she felt that if only she had been given the time which now was hers, she would have been able to adjust these matters, reduce the gossip to its proper place of insignificance, and see, as now she saw, the vast and supreme importance of their love. now it was herself, not him, she blamed for his silence. she had indeed not "given him a fighting chance." she had insulted him, and, at the end, sent him about his business with a heartless sneer. mrs. carnby's words came back to her--"love is little more than forgiveness on the endless instalment plan!"--and she had not been willing to forgive him, even when perhaps there had been nothing to forgive. she would turn restlessly, watching the dawn brightening against her window. ah, kind god, what would she not forgive him now! what difference could anything that had been make, if only she could hear his voice again, and see him bending over the music of "the persian garden," and know that for all time he was hers! "each morn a thousand roses brings, you say: yes--but where leaves the rose of yesterday?" mrs. carnby was not alone in her perception of the change in margery. jeremy mentioned it, one night, as they were dressing for dinner. "i hope there's nothing gone wrong with margery, louisa." "i hope not," retorted his wife, dragging savagely on the comb. "then you've noticed?" "i've noticed--yes. it's the tremonceau woman." "the--" "the most beautiful _cocotte_ in paris, my poor jeremy. thank god, _you_ have to be _told_ these things! it's the old story, no more admirable because, this time, it's a friend of ours who's making a fool of himself. if i had my way, i'd have sign-boards stuck up at every gate of paris, with a finger pointing inward, and the inscription 'mud garden. for children only.' faugh!" "but you don't suppose--" mrs. carnby faced her husband, her hands upon her hips, assuming a kind of brazen effrontery. "i don't suppose, jeremy carnby, that a paris _cocotte_ affects the company of a rich young american for the sake of his _beaux yeux_. i don't suppose that a good-looking boy in his twenties affects the company of mirabelle tremonceau for the pleasures of her conversation. i don't suppose that the loveliest and purest girl on earth is going to survey with emotion the unspeakable folly of the man she cares for. and i don't suppose the man she cares for is likely to be any different from the majority of men, who decide upon marriage principally because they're tired of the other thing. i don't suppose _anything_ except what's logical, and natural--and perfectly disgusting!" "do you mean--vane?" asked jeremy. "yes--_bat_!" said mrs. carnby. jeremy wisely made no reply. so it was that when, at the end of the three weeks, mr. thomas radwalader came down to spend the day, he found his hostess in a fine glow of suppressed impatience. she seized the first moment when they were alone to question him. they were old friends. he never laid claim to much in the way of morality in the presence of mrs. carnby, and it is a characteristic of this attitude that the person adopting it is frequently his own worst critic, and has more credit allowed to him than he deserves. even the devil is not so black as he is painted, and if he will have the audacity to do most of the painting in question himself, he is more than likely to find that, in the opinion of others, his complexion will be comfortably free from blemishes. radwalader's smooth assumption of an indefinite kind of laxity, set at ease rather than aroused mrs. carnby's suspicions of him. "he can't be so _very_ bad," she told herself, "or he wouldn't talk so much about it." for unnecessary admissions are a sedative to gossip, just as unnecessary concealments are a stimulant. "how's mr. vane?" demanded mrs. carnby abruptly. "why, i was about to ask you," answered radwalader. "i thought he was quite a _protégé_ of yours. i've not seen much of him, myself, of late. he's made new friends, and of course i was never much more than a preliminary guide to paris. i fancy he can find his own way about, nowadays." "i'll warrant he can!" exclaimed mrs. carnby, "and into society none too good, at that!" "how so?" "oh, don't tell me you don't know what i mean! of course, you're bound to shield him. you men always do that, don't you? you put your intoxicated friends to bed, and send discreet telegrams to their wives, to say they've been called out of town on business. that's not forgery--it's friendship. and when one of you's going to the bad, the rest of you stand around and say: 'poor old chap! don't let his family suspect what _we_ know.' oh, i wasn't born yesterday, radwalader! you may as well tell me what i want to know: it isn't much. is he still trotting about with that tremonceau woman?" "now, mrs. carnby!" protested radwalader. "is that a fair question?" "perhaps not," said mrs. carnby dryly, "but you've answered it already, so never mind! let me tell you that i'm quite through with andrew vane. he didn't even have the grace to answer a telegram that margery palffy sent him, three weeks ago, asking him to come down." "three weeks ago?" repeated radwalader reflectively. "but, mrs. carnby, he was here three weeks ago. we all were--don't you remember?" "naturally i remember," said mrs. carnby impatiently, "but there were urgent reasons for his return. now, don't tell me you don't know _that_!" "know it? how _should_ i know it? vane doesn't confide his private affairs to me. do you mean that--" "i mean that margery had made a great mistake, in the course of a conversation they had on the last evening he was here--a mistake which imperilled the happiness of them both, and which it was of the utmost importance to set right. at the time, perhaps, he showed himself to be the victim of an unjust accusation; but since, he has shown himself to be a cad. if you've never known--but i'd not have believed it of you--that margery was in love with him, and that he's pretended to be in love with her, then it's time you did!" "what a pity!" observed radwalader. "i wish i'd known all this before: i might have done something. but, after all, it's just as well. it wouldn't have done for miss palffy to humiliate herself; and the little tremonceau--" "is his mistress?" put in mrs. carnby. "of course," said radwalader, with a skilful sigh. "there's no doubt whatever about that." "i'd have wagered a good bit on his innocence!" "when you wager anything on the innocence of a young man who's been the close companion of mirabelle tremonceau for six weeks or so," answered radwalader, "it's nothing less than a criminal waste of money." "then he's not only a cad," said mrs. carnby angrily, "but a liar as well; and, as i've said already, i'm through with him!" she was more than astounded when, two mornings later, a telegram was handed her at the breakfast-table. it was from andrew, and requested permission to come down at once and spend one night. "i think i'll leave you to answer that," she observed to margery, who was alone with her at table, jeremy having gone up to town by the early train. "the boy's waiting." she tossed the despatch across the table as she spoke. she was more astounded still when margery looked up at her with the first spontaneous smile which mrs. carnby had seen upon her lips for many days. "please ask him to come," she said. "oh, my dear!" exclaimed mrs. carnby, "_do_ be careful! remember how much has happened. if only you'd let me advise you!" "you've advised me once already, fairy godmother," said margery, laughing. "heaven help me, so i have!" replied her hostess. "do you mean it, margery?" "i was never more in earnest," answered the girl, turning suddenly grave again. so mrs. carnby sent the required answer. all that morning she was more puzzled than ever she had been in the whole course of her life. it was certain that the girl's mood had changed. the doubtful shadow in her eyes had given place to a clear glow of confidence, and her laugh was free from any suggestion of restraint. that in itself was curious. depression, melancholy, even resentment, were to be expected as a result of the news that andrew vane was on the point of entering her life once more. of late he had shown himself in a more unfavourable light than ever, and yet in her eyes, her smile, her light-hearted animation there was something akin to a suggestion that he had been fully exonerated from suspicion, rather than freshly and more significantly subjected to it. she was emphatically happy--and mrs. carnby could not comprehend. the thought, indeed, came to her that the explanation which andrew had denied her, these three weeks past, had been given to margery, in some fashion as yet unexplained. but this theory was wholly incompatible with his bearing when he arrived at noon. he looked wretchedly ill, and was prey to a visible embarrassment. he took her hand, but did not meet her eyes, and the credit she was beginning to accord him gave way, once more, to anger. as a result, her greeting was conspicuously cool. after dinner he and margery played billiards, while jeremy dozed, with the _temps_ over his placid face, and mrs. carnby did more to ruin a piece of embroidery than she had done to further it in the past six months. suddenly the good lady retired to her room, with a violent and fortuitous headache. she had relinquished any attempt to fathom the situation: she had frankly thrown up the sponge! "shall we take a walk in the garden?" asked andrew. when they were alone with the silence and the stars, his hand sought hers. "margery!" "andy!" "i've simply come to say good-by, my dear. you were quite right: i'm not worthy of you. i'm going back to the states as soon as i can get away. all i want you to remember is this: i've been careless--reckless--wholly at fault from the beginning to the end--but i've loved you always, my dearest--always--always! i won't go into all the miserable details. paris has made a fool of me, that's all. i'm not the first idiot to throw away his chance of happiness because of the big city over there, and i'm not the first to pay the penalty i deserve. once, perhaps, i had the right to demand something at your hands; but now i've no right to ask for anything. i ask for nothing! i've come to beg for your forgiveness, and to say good-by. will you forgive me, margery?" "i want to ask you just one question," said margery steadily. "when i accused you of--of _that_--the other night, was i right or wrong?" "wrong," said andrew vane; "but now--" suddenly she leaned toward him, stopping his speech with her soft and open palm. "i've thought of another question," she said. "do you love me--now?" "love you?" answered andrew. "ah, margery!" "then i wish to hear no more. the past is the past, do you hear? i love you! i've learned much in these few weeks. i love you, and i need you. you can't leave me now. i've been so weary for you, my love! ah, whatever there has been between us in the past, don't let anything stand between us now!" "but you don't understand," faltered andrew. "things have changed. there is much that you have to forgive me--much that i have to explain--" "as to what i have to forgive you," answered margery, "i think there is also much for you to forgive me; and as to what you have to explain--oh, explain it later, andy--explain it, if you like, when we--" "are married!" exclaimed andrew. "no! things must be made clear now. i've transgressed, my love--transgressed beyond hope of forgiveness. what would you say if you knew--?" "i know already!" answered the girl. "i know more than you think--and i forgive it all. oh, andy, _don't_ make it too hard for me! help me--won't you?" suddenly, with a realization of what all this meant, he opened his arms, as to a child, and, like a confiding child, she went into them. "i love you," she whispered. "that's all--i love you!" "my love--my love--_my love!_" said andrew. chapter xx. the shadow. your most astute strategist is the general ready, at any stage of the campaign, to authorize a complete change of plan, if the circumstances call for it, and to make for the end in view along wholly altered lines. the braddocks of warfare are those who at all hazards persist in the course at first laid out. radwalader, contrary to his custom, did not leave his apartment until mid-afternoon of the following day. he carried a valise, and stopped for a moment on the step to snuff the fresh air with appreciation. then he said "psst!" and the yellow cab which was standing at the corner of the avenue squeaked into motion and drew up at the kerb. "gare st. lazare," said radwalader briefly. he flung his valise upon the seat, climbed in after it, put one foot on the _strapontin_ to steady himself, and plunged, with a grin of amusement, into the latest number of _le rire_. he could afford a few moments of sheer frivolity: for he had just finished eight hours of careful reflection, and his plans were quite complete. the driver of the yellow cab had only grunted in reply, but he drove briskly enough, once they were under way. though the day was warm, he wore his fawn-coloured coat, with the triple cape, and had turned up the collar about his ears. his white cockaded hat, a size too large, was tipped forward over his nose, and between it and his coat-collar, in the back, showed a strip of bright red hair. for features, he had a nobbly nose, with a purple tinge, and a mustache like a red nail-brush. from time to time radwalader looked up from his reading to remark their progress, and invariably he smiled. the place de l'etoile, freshly sprinkled, and smelling refreshingly of cool wet wood; the omnibus and tramway stations, with their continual ebb and flow of passengers seeking numbers; the stupendous dignity of the arc, and the preposterous insignificance of three englishwomen staring up at it, with their mouths open, and baedekers in their hands; the fresh green of the chestnuts on the avenue de friedland; the crack of a teamster's whip, and his "_ahi! houp!_" of encouragement to the giant gray stallions, toiling up the steep incline of the faubourg st. honoré; the crowds of women at félix potin's, pinching the fat fowls, and stowing parcels away in netted bags; the "shish-shish-shish" of an infantry company shuffling at half-step toward the gateway of la pépinière; the people _terrassé_ before the restaurants on the place du hâvre--it was all very amusing, very characteristic, very _parigot_. more than ever, radwalader felt that he needed it all, that he must have it at any price, that life would not be worth living else or elsewhere. fortunately, there was no reason for a change, so long as he kept his wits. indeed his prospects were brighter now than they had ever been. once a bridal carriage whirled past him, all windows, and with a lamp at each corner, and a red-faced quartette inside; and other carriages followed, full of exultant guests, whose full-dress costumes, in this broad daylight, were, to his saxon sense, as incongruous as a welsh rabbit on a breakfast-table--all bowling across to the champs, and so away to the restaurant gillet. again, it was a glimpse of a funeral moving up to a side door of st. augustin, with an abject little band of mourners trailing along on foot, behind the black and purple car; again, nothing more than a sally between an _agent_ and a ragamuffin at a crossing--"_ouste, galopin!_" "_eh, 'spèce de balai! as-tu vu la ferme?_"--or a driver's injunction to his horse--"_tu prends donc racine, saucisse_"--or a girl's laugh, or the squawk of a tram-horn, or the cries of the _camelots_--"_voyez l'parispor! voici la pa-resse! voyez l'd-rrr-oi 'd'l'homme!_" the importance of the phenomenon was not significant. it was all paris, and thomas radwalader was very glad to be alive. when he left the yellow cab in the cour du hâvre, the driver had fifty centimes _pourboire_, though it was not like his passengers to go beyond three sous. trivial as this circumstance was, it apparently had a strangely demoralizing effect upon the driver of the yellow cab. he drew on for perhaps twenty feet, and then deliberately clambered down from his box, and followed his late _client_ to the ticket office, at the foot of the eastern stairway. here, with some ingenuity, he remarked, "_même chose_." "poissy _première_?" "_oui._" in the first-class carriage of the poissy train, a little, oblong pane of glass, above radwalader's head, enabled him, had he been so minded, to glance into the next compartment--enabled the single occupant of the next compartment, who _was_ so minded, to glance, as they started, into his. in the cour du hâvre an infuriated _agent_ apostrophized the deserted vehicle: "_sale sous-les-pieds!_ he amuses himself elsewhere, then, _ton drôle!_" the which was strictly true. as the train rumbled through the illuminated tunnel, the driver of the yellow cab did a number of things with the most surprising rapidity and decision. he threw his varnished white hat out of the window, and followed it immediately with his triple-caped overcoat. he stripped off his fawn-coloured trousers, thereby revealing the unusual circumstance that he wore two pairs--one of corduroy. the latter hurtled out into the smoky tunnel, in the wake of the hat and coat, and the climax was capped by a like disappearance of the red hair, the nail-brush mustache, and the nobbly nose. then monsieur jules vicot smoothed his workman's blouse, dragged a tam-o'-shanter from his pocket, pulled it down over his eyes, settled the scarlet handkerchief at his throat, threw himself back on the cushions, and lit a cigarette with hands that trembled excessively. at poissy radwalader alighted, and swung rapidly away, across the _place_, in the direction of the villa rossignol. at poissy the other also alighted, strolled over to the hôtel de rouen, and, in the company of a slowly consumed _matelote_ and four successive absinthes, dozed, pondered, smoked--and waited for the dark. that morning margery and andrew had told mrs. carnby. for an instant the good lady faced andrew, her eyes blazing with inquiry. he met their challenge serenely. "won't you congratulate me," he asked, smiling--"and the only girl in the world?" "the _only_ girl in the world?" demanded mrs. carnby audaciously. "yes--just that." mrs. carnby pounced upon margery. "of _course_ i congratulate you! you dear! and, as for _you_," she added, whirling upon andrew once more, "you're the luckiest man i know--except jeremy! and you've worried me almost into a decline. i thought you'd never get her--i mean, i thought she'd never get you--i don't know _what_ i mean, andrew vane! go along in, both of you, and sing about your roses and jugs of wine and nightingales and moons of delight. i can see that's all you'll be good for, from now on!" and so, shamelessly, they did--all over again, from "wake! for the sun" to "flown again, who knows!" "it's tied up in double bow-knots with our hearts, all this 'persian garden' music," said andrew. "do you remember how we used to rave over it at beverly? and i loved you even then--from the first night." standing behind him, margery touched his hair. and so evening came again, drenched in starlight and rose-perfume, and stirring rapturously to the voice of the nightingale. "i want to speak to you." radwalader touched andrew's arm as they rose from the table, and led the way directly through the open window into the garden, and, through the garden gate, into the avenue meissonier beyond. once there, he fell back a step, so that they were side by side. "let's walk toward the river," he suggested, taking andrew's arm. a single lamp swung at the archway of the railroad bridge, but along the villa walls and under the trees of the boulevard de la seine beyond, the shadows were very dark. once, as they passed a poplar, one shadow disengaged itself from the trunk, and at a distance followed them. a little ahead was the gaily illuminated terrace of l'esturgeon, overhanging the river, and crowded with people dining and talking all at once. "i saw mirabelle yesterday," observed radwalader. "it seems you're off scot-free." "did _she_ tell you that?" asked andrew in surprise. "no--only that you'd parted company for good and all. i guessed the rest. i thought you'd hardly be so foolish as not to consult me, if the question of money came up." "thank the lord, the episode was free from _that_ element of vulgarity, at all events!" exclaimed andrew. "yes, it's over. it wasn't easy, radwalader. i was surprised to find how much she thought of me. but, of course, there was nothing else to do. in any event, the thing couldn't have gone on for ever, and when i heard about that telegram, i couldn't ring down the curtain too soon. but it hurt. poor little girl! i'll always think kindly of her, radwalader, although she came near to losing me the only thing in the world that's worth while. well, we said good-by, and i came down here just on the chance that it mightn't be too late. it was a thin-enough chance, to my way of thinking, in view of the past three weeks. by gad, here was i deserving the worst kind of a wigging that ever a man got, and lo and behold, it was the prodigal son after all! mrs. carnby was the first to congratulate me. will you be the next?" "do you mean that miss palffy is going to marry you?" asked radwalader, coming to a full stop. "just that," said andrew; "though why she should, after all this--" "oh, rot!" laughed the other. "you've been no worse than other men, and so long as you've owned up--" "we'll never agree on the question of whether i deserve her or not," put in andrew. "never in the whole course of my life shall i forgive myself this folly. but we won't talk of that. the fact remains that i'm forgiven, and that she's going to marry me. oh, _gawd_!" he looked up at the sky and bit his lip. he was desperately shy of slopping over, and, for a moment, desperately near to it. presently he continued. they had rounded l'esturgeon now, and were walking along the southern side of the pont de poissy, close to the rail. radwalader's pieces were all in place for the opening of the new game. "when a chap's only been pulled out of a horrible mess by the merest chance, and when, into the bargain, he's been engaged to the one-and-only for something under twenty-four hours, he is apt to do considerable slobbering. i hope you'll give me credit for sparing you all i _might_ say, radwalader, when i confine myself to saying that i'm in luck." "and that, you most certainly are," said radwalader cheerfully. "i'm glad you're so well out of your scrape, vane, and i congratulate you heartily." a pressure of his fingers on andrew's arm lent the phrase the emphasis of a hand-shake. "miss palffy is charming--so clean and straight, and, to say nothing of her beauty, with such high standards. to be quite frank with you, i'm a bit surprised that you got off so easily. but, since you have, there's nothing to be said, except that she's a stunner, and i can understand now how much all this has meant to you. what a thing to have standing between you, eh? if mirabelle _had_ been ugly, i fancy you'd have paid her about anything she chose to ask." "if i'd been _sure_ of getting margery!" said andrew. "of course--yes. that's what i mean. with miss palffy as an object, there could scarcely be a limit to the hush-money one would put up to clear away any obstacles that might exist." "i expect not," said andrew nervously. "i couldn't lose her now--i simply couldn't. it would kill me." "i once knew of such a case," said radwalader musingly. "chap just about to marry the girl, and he found out that there was something very crooked about his birth--that he was illegitimate, in fact. the father hung on to him like an octopus and bled him like a leech. but the--er--girl never knew." "it was worth it to him," commented andrew, "if he'd have lost the girl else." "i've forgotten what he paid," said radwalader, "but i know it was pretty stiff--in the form of a regular allowance by the year." "was the chap rich?" asked andrew. he was looking down the river, and taking great breaths of the delicious night air, thrilling with the memory of margery waiting back there for him; and his part in the conversation was little more than automatic. "reasonably," said radwalader. "enough to stand the strain. curious old house, this--isn't it?" he paused, and leaned upon the railing of the bridge. "the plaster's rotten as possible," answered andrew after a moment, during which he had been hacking boyishly at it with his knife. "you know both sides of the bridge were lined with houses once," said radwalader. "picturesque it must have been! this is the only one left, and it doesn't look as if it could keep from toppling over into the river very much longer. lord! how fast the water runs down there! it's a veritable mill-race. i shouldn't care to have to swim against it." he hesitated deliberately, and then continued, with a slight change of tone: "there's something i want to tell you, vane. i didn't care to bother you with it as long as you were worrying on your own account, but now--confidence for confidence. the fact of the matter is that i need money, and need it badly." andrew pursued his hacking. "if that's all that's troubling you," he said, "i can probably make you a loan that will tide you over. i'll be very glad to, if i can. how much do you need?" a workman slouched past them, his hands in the pockets of his corduroy trousers, his tam o' shanter pulled down over his eyes. "no," said radwalader, "i don't want to borrow; i might never be able to repay. but suppose i were to give you a piece of information--a tip--that was of the very greatest importance to you, mightn't it be worth a small sum?" andrew stared at him curiously. "i don't understand," he said. "do you mean that you know something that is very important to me?" "vastly important." "and that is known to no one else?" "to one other person only." "and that you want to _sell_ to me?" "that i want to _tell_ you. you can do as you see fit about paying me for it. i think you will, but if not--" he smiled evilly, secure of the darkness. "there are other ways of utilizing it," he added. andrew chopped thoughtfully at the plaster. "i don't seem to understand what you're driving at," he said presently, "but, somehow--well, i don't like the sound of it, radwalader. of course, i know you don't mean it that way, but it sounds rather--rather unfriendly, if you'll allow me to say so. oh, _damn_ it all!" "what?" asked radwalader, surprised at the sudden exclamation. "there goes my knife. i ought to have known better than to hew at this stuff with it. i suppose that's the last i shall ever see of it--and a new one, too. why--that's queer! did you notice? there wasn't any splash." he peered over the rail. "hello!" he added, "here's a ladder--leading down." "there's a little garden down there," explained radwalader, peering over in his turn. "i remember now. it's on part of the foundations of another old house, and the chap who lives in this one grows flowers there, oddly enough, and goes up and down on the ladder. your knife's down there, somewhere. jove! but it's dark!" but andrew already had one leg across the railing, one foot on the top round of the ladder. "this is easy," he said, "and i have my match-box, too. you see--well, margery bought the knife only this morning in the bazar, and i wouldn't lose it for the world. and, by the way, radwalader, forget what i said just now, will you? it wasn't very decent." then, with a short laugh of embarrassment, he descended into the shadows. the shadows! they were very deep below there, until broken by the flicker of andrew's match. then the shadows under the doorway of the old house, up by the top of the bridge, were deeper, and--what was this?--one shadow moved--moved--drew near to the man who leaned upon the rail, whistling "au clair de la lune." "all right!" called andrew. "i have it. now we come up again." "go slow," advised radwalader. "you'll find it darker than ever, after the match. why--what--" a hand on his shoulder had spun him round, but he had no more than recognized the white face grinning into his, no more than time to comprehend the words, "you've whistled for the last time, by god!" before the steel-shod butt of a revolver crashed three times in succession on--and through--his forehead. "_once for me!_" said jules vicot, between his teeth, "_and once for my wife, and once for your son!_" he hurled radwalader from him, ran a few feet, turned at the rail to see the smitten man writhing and groping blindly on the cobbles of the driveway, and then, emptying the entire contents of the revolver in his direction, vaulted with a laugh into the swirling seine below. the guilty river caught him, hid him, hurried him away. only once he moved of his own volition, and then she laid her brown hand on his mouth and stilled him, once for all. around the wide curves of her course, he was to go, through the thrashing locks of les mureaux and notre dame de la garenne, past les andelys and pont de l'arche, and the high quays of elbeuf, and the twinkling lights of rouen, and the vineyards and the poplars and the red-roofed villages--on, on, on, to where the lights of le hâvre and honfleur wink, each to each, across the widened channel. for such was the course appointed whereby the most pitiful shadow that ever fell from poissy bridge should make its way to sea. back there was the sound of many voices and of running feet. radwalader lay with his head on andrew's arm, his eyes closed, and his breath coming in short hard gasps. the first arrivals from the town were three young englishmen, who had been dining at l'esturgeon, were on their way to the station, and outran all others at the sound of the five shots. one of them proved to be a medical student, and fell at once to making an examination, while the others held back the crowd. "how did it happen?" he asked. "what was it all about?" "god knows!" said andrew. "i'd been down the ladder there to look for a knife i'd dropped, and i was just coming up again when i heard him call out, and then a scuffle and the sound of blows, and then the firing. i think whoever shot him jumped into the river. there was a big splash just as i came up to the level of the bridge." "yes," said the other. "we heard that from the street, just as we started to run. god! how that blackguard piled it on! look here--his head's all pushed in, and he's shot in at least two places. i'm afraid the poor chap's done for. hello! he's coming to." radwalader slowly opened his eyes, and after a moment seemed striving to speak. andrew bent down, wiping away the blood. "what is it?" he asked. "is there something you want to say, dear old man?" without replying, radwalader glanced eloquently at the englishman, and, at this mute signal, the latter stepped back. "what is it?" whispered andrew. "do you want to tell us who it was?" radwalader shook his head. "is it what you were going to tell me a few minutes ago?" asked andrew, with a kind of intuition. for a full half-minute, the dying man's eyes were fixed upon the eager, solicitous face that bent so close to his--upon the earnest eyes so curiously like and yet unlike his own, upon the white teeth showing between the parted lips, upon the straight patrician nose and the smooth clear complexion. then, with a singular smile, a smile almost affectionate in its sweetness: "it's of no consequence now," he murmured. he raised one hand, and gently touched andrew on the cheek. "good-by, my boy," he added, more feebly. his head fell limply, and he shuddered once, and then was very still. a moment later, andrew laid him back upon the driveway, and covered his face. the end. [transcriber's notes: italics changed to _italics_. some inconsistent spellings and hyphenations have been retained.] transcriber's note: original spellings (and their inconsistencies) have been maintained. a few obvious printer's error have been corrected: a list of this corrections can be found at the end of the text. the stranger in france: or, a tour from devonshire to paris. illustrated by engravings in aqua tinta of sketches, taken on the spot, by john carr, esq. london: printed for j. johnson, no. , st. paul's churchyard. sold also by w. hannaford, totnes. _bryer, printer, bridge street, black friars._ . preface. the little tour which gave birth to the following remarks, was taken immediately after the exchange of the ratifications of a peace, necessary, but not inglorious to my country, after a contest unexampled in its cause, calamity, extension, vicissitudes and glory; amidst a people who, under the influence of a political change, hitherto unparallelled, were to be approached as an order of beings, exhibiting a moral and political form before but little known to themselves and to the world, in the abrupt removal of habits and sentiments which had silently and uninterruptedly taken deep root in the soil of ages. during a separation of ten years, we have received very little account of this extraordinary people, which could be relied upon. dissimilar sensations, excited by their principles and proceedings, ever partially and irregularly known, have depicted unaccording representations of them, and, in the sequel, have exhibited rather a high-coloured, fanciful delineation, than a plain and faithful resemblance of the original. many are the persons who have been thus misled. these fugitive sketches, in which an attempt is made to delineate, just as they occurred, those scenes which, to _my_ mind at least, were new and interesting, were originally penned for the private perusal of those whom i esteem; and by their persuasion they are now offered to the public eye. amongst them i must be permitted to indulge in the pride and pleasure of enumerating william hayley, esq. a name familiar and dear to every elegant and polished mind. enlightened by his emendations, and supported by the cherishing spirit of his approval, i approach, with a more subdued apprehension, the tribunal of public opinion; and to my friends i dedicate this humble result of a short relaxation from the duties of an anxious and laborious profession. if, by submitting to their wishes, i have erred, i have only to offer, that it is my first, and shall be my last offence. _totnes, august, ._ john carr. [symbol: right pointing index] the engravings which accompany this work, are of sketches made on the spot by an untutored pencil, and are introduced for the purpose of illustration only. contents. chapter i. _torr abbey.--cap of liberty.--anecdote of english prejudice.--fire ships.--southampton river.--netley abbey._ page . chapter ii. _french emigrants.--scene on the quay of southampton.--sail for havre.--aged french priest.--their respectable conduct in england.--their gratitude.--make the port of havre.--panic of the emigrants.--landing described.--hôtel de la paix.--breakfast knife.--municipality._ p. . chapter iii. _passports procured.--coins.--town of havre.--carts.--citoyen.--honfleur.--deserters.--prefect de marine.--ville de sandwich.--french farmers.--sir sydney smith.--catherine de medicis.--light houses.--rafts._ p. . chapter iv. _cheap travelling to paris.--diligences.--french postilions.--spanish postilions.--norman horses.--bolbec.--natives of caux.--ivetot.--return of religion.--santerre.--jacobin.--the mustard-pot.--national property._ p. . chapter v. _a female french fib.--military and civil procession.--madame g.--the review.--mons. l'abbé.--bridge of boats.--the quay.--exchange.--theatre.--rouen.--cathedral.--st. ouens.--prince of waldec.--maid of orleans._ p. . chapter vi. _first consul's advertisement.--something ridiculous.--eggs.--criminal military tribunal.--french female confidence.--town house.--convent of jesuits.--guillotine.--governor w----._ p. . chapter vii. _filial piety.--st. catharine's mount.--madame phillope.--general ruffin's trumpet.--generosity.--love infectious.--masons and gardeners._ p. . chapter viii. _early dinner.--mante.--frost.--duke de sully.--approach the capital.--norman barrier.--paris.--hôtel de rouen.--palais royal._ p. . chapter ix. _french reception.--voltaire.--restaurateur.--consular guard.--music.--venetian horses.--gates of the palace.--gardens of the thuilleries.--statues.--the faithful vase.--the sabine picture.--monsieur perrègaux.--marquis de chatelet.--madame perrègaux.--beaux and belles of paris._ p. . chapter x. _large dogs.--a plan for becoming quickly acquainted with paris.--pantheon.--tombs of voltaire and rousseau.--politeness of an emigrant.--the beauty of france.--beauty evanescent.--place de carousel.--infernal machine.--fouché.--seine.--washerwomen.--fisherwomen.--baths._ p. . chapter xi. _david.--place de la concorde.--l'Église de madeleine.--print-shops.--notre dame.--museum or palace of arts.--hall of statues.--laocoon.--belvidere apollo.--socrates._ p. . chapter xii. _bonaparte.--artillery.--mr. pitt.--newspapers.--archbishop of paris.--consular colours.--religion.--consular conversion.--madame bonaparte.--consular modesty.--separate beds.--a country scene.--connubial affection.--female bravery._ p. . chapter xiii. _breakfast.--warmth of french expression.--rustic eloquence.--curious cause assigned for the late extraordinary frost.--madame r----.--paul i.--tivoli.--frescati._ p. . chapter xiv. _convent of blue nuns.--duchesse de biron.--the bloody key.--courts of justice.--public library.--gobelines.--miss linwood.--garden of plants.--french accommodation.--boot cleaners.--cat and dog shearers.--monsieur s---- and family._ p. . chapter xv. _civility of a sentinel.--the hall of the legislative assembly.--british house of commons.--captain bergeret.--the temple.--sir sydney smith's escape.--colonel phillipeaux._ p. chapter xvi. _a fashionable poem.--frere rickart.--religion.--hôtel des invalides.--hall of victory.--enemies' colours.--sulky appearance of an english jack and ensign.--indecorum.--the aged captain.--military school.--champ de mars.--the garden of mousseaux._ p. . chapter xvii. _curious method of raising hay.--lucien bonaparte's hôtel.--opera.--consular box.--madame bonaparte's box.--feydeau theatre.--belle vue.--versailles.--the palace of the petit trianon.--the grounds._ p. . chapter xviii. _bonaparte's talents in finance.--garrick and the madman.--palace of the conservative senate.--process of transferring oil paintings from wood to canvas.--the dinner knife.--commodities.--hall of the national convention.--the minister talleyrand's levee._ p. . chapter xix. _the college of the deaf and dumb.--abbé sicard.--bagatelle.--police.--grand national library.--bonaparte's review.--tambour major of the consular regiment.--restoration of artillery colours._ p. . chapter xx. _abbè sieyes.--consular procession to the council chamber.-- th of august, .--celerity of mons. fouche's information.--the two lovers.--cabinet of mons. le grand.--self-prescribing physician.--bust of robespierre.--his lodgings.--corn hall.--museum of french monuments.--revolutionary agent.--lovers of married women._ p. . chapter xxi. _picturesque and mechanical theatre.--filtrating and purifying vases.--english jacobins.--a farewell.--messagerie.--malmaison.--forest of evreux.--lower normandy.--caen.--hon. t. erskine.--a ball.--the keeper of the sachristy of notre dame.--the two blind beggars.--ennui.--st. lo.--cherbourg.--england._ p. . general remarks. p. . [illustration: _torr abbey_] the stranger in france chapter i. _torr abbey.--cap of liberty.--anecdote of english prejudice.--fire ships.--southampton river.--netley abbey._ it was a circumstance, which will be memorable with me, as long as i live, and pleasant to my feelings, as often as i recur to it, that part of my intended excursion to the continent was performed in the last ship of war, which, after the formal confirmations of the peace, remained, of that vast naval armament, which, from the heights of torbay, for so many years, presented to the astonished and admiring eye, a spectacle at once of picturesque beauty, and national glory. it was the last attendant in the train of retiring war. under the charming roof of torr abbey, the residence of george cary, esq., i passed a few days, until the megæra was ready to sail for portsmouth, to be paid off, the commander of which, captain newhouse, very politely offered to convey my companion, captain w. cary, and myself, to that port. in this beautiful spot, the gallant heroes of our navy have often found the severe and perilous duties of the boisterous element alleviated by attentions, which, in their splendid and cordial display, united an elegant taste to a noble spirit of hospitality. in the harleian tracts there is a short, but rather curious account preserved of the sensation produced at the abbey on the th of november, , after the prince of orange had entered the bay with his fleet, on their passage to brixham, where he landed:-- "the prince commanded captain m---- to search the lady cary's house, at torr abbey, for arms and horses. the lady entertaining them civilly, said her husband was gone to plymouth: they brought from thence some horses, and a few arms, but gave no further disturbance to the lady or her house." throughout this embarrassing interview, the lady cary appears to have conducted herself with great temper, dignity and resolution, whilst, on the other hand, the chaplain of that day, whose opinions were not very favourable to the revolution, unlike his present amiable and enlightened successor[ ], left his lady in the midst of her perplexities, and fled. [ ] rev. john halford. in the abbey, i was much pleased with an interesting, though not very ornamental trophy of the glorious victory of aboukir. the truckle heads of the masts of the aquilon, a french ship of the line, which struck to the brave captain lewis, in that ever memorable battle, were covered with the bonnet rouge; one of these caps of liberty, surmounted with the british flag, has been committed to the care of the family, by that heroic commander, and now constitutes a temporary ornament of their dining-room. here we laid in provision for our little voyage, without, however, feeling the same apprehension, which agitated the mind of a fair damsel, in the service of a lady of rank who formerly resided in my neighbourhood, who, preparing to attend her mistress to the continent, and having heard from the jolly historians of the kitchen, that the food in france was chiefly supplied by the croaking inhabitants of the green and standing pool, contrived, very carefully, to carry over a piece of homebred pork, concealed in her workbag. early in the morning after we set sail, we passed through the needles, which saved us a very considerable circuitous sail round the southern side of the isle of wight, a passage which the late admiral macbride first successfully attempted, for vessels of war, in a ship of the line. the vessel, in which we sailed, was a fireship; a costly instrument of destruction, which has never been applied during the recent war, and only once, and that unsuccessfully, during the preceding one. we had several of them in commission, although they are confessedly of little utility in these times, and from the immense stores of combustibles with which they are charged, threaten only peril to the commander and his crew. we soon after dropped anchor, and proceeded to portsmouth, in search of a packet for havre-de-grace. in the street, our trunks were seized by the custom-house officers, whilst conveying to the inn, but after presenting our keys, and requesting immediate search and restoration, they were returned to us without further annoyance. finding that the masters of the french packets were undetermined when they should sail, we resolved upon immediately leaving this celebrated seaport, and proceeding by water to southampton, distant about twenty-four miles; where, after a very unpleasant passage, from its blowing with considerable violence soon after we left portsmouth, we arrived, in a little wherry, about twelve o'clock at night, at the vine inn, which is very conveniently situated for passengers by the packets. it will not be required of me, to attempt a minute description of the southampton river, at a time when i expected, with some reason, as i afterwards understood, to sink to the bottom of it. an observation very natural to persons in our situation occurred to me all the way, viz. that the shores seemed to be too far distant from each other, and that had there been less water, the scenery would have been more delightful; an observation which, however, the next day confirmed, when it presented the safe and tranquil appearance of a mirror. [illustration: _southampton._] finding that the packet for france was not likely to sail immediately, we hired a boat, and proceeded down the river, to view the beautiful ruins of netley abbey, in the great court of which we dined, under the shade of aged limes, and amidst the flappings of its feathered and restless tenantry. as i am no great admirer of tedious details, i shall not attempt an antiquarian history of this delightful spot. i shall leave it to more circumstantial travellers, to enumerate the genealogies of the worthies who occupied it at various eras, and to relate, like a monumental entablature, when, where, and how they lived and died; it will be sufficient to observe, that the site of this romantic abode was granted by henry viii, in , to a sir william paulet, and that after having had many merry monks for its masters, who, no doubt, performed their matutinæ laudes and nocturnæ vigiliæ with devout exactness; that it is at length in the possession of mr. dance, who has a very fine and picturesque estate on that side of the river, of which these elegant ruins constitute the chief ornament. the church still exhibits a beautiful specimen of gothic architecture, but its tottering remains will rapidly share the fate of the neighbouring pile, which time has prostrated on the earth, and covered with his thickest shade of ivy. our watermen gave us a curious description of this place, and amused us not a little with their ridiculous anacronisms. "i tell you what," said one of them, contradicting the other, "you are in the wrong, bob, indeed you are wrong, don't mislead them gentlemen, that there abbey is in the true roman style, and was built by a man they call----, but that's neither here nor there, i forget the name, however, its a fine place, and universally allowed to be very old. i frequently rows gentlefolks there, and picks up a great deal about it." on our return the tide was at its height, the sun was setting in great glory, the sky and water seemed blended in each other, the same red rich tint reigned throughout, the vessels at anchor appeared suspended in the air, the spires of the churches were tipped with the golden ray; a scene of more beauty, richness, and tranquillity i never beheld. chapter ii. _french emigrants.--scene on the quay of southampton.--sail for havre.--aged french priest.--their respectable conduct in england.--their gratitude.--make the port of havre.--panic of the emigrants.--landing described.--hotel de la paix.--breakfast knife.--municipality._ during the whole of the second day after our arrival, the town of southampton was in a bustle, occasioned by the flocking in of a great number of french emigrants, who were returning to their own country, in consequence of a mild decree, which had been passed in their favour. the scene was truly interesting, and the sentiment which it excited, delightful to the heart. a respectable curé, who dined in the same room with us at our inn, was observed to eat very little; upon being pressed to enlarge his meal, this amiable man said, with tears starting in his eyes, "alas! i have no appetite; a very short time will bring me amongst the scenes of my nativity, my youth, and my happiness, from which a remorseless revolution has parted me for these ten long years; i shall ask for those who are dear to me, and find them for ever gone. those who are left will fill my mind with the most afflicting descriptions; no, no, i cannot eat, my good sir." about noon, they had deposited their baggage upon the quay, which formed a pile of aged portmanteaus, and battered trunks. parties remained to protect them, previous to their embarkation. the sun was intensely hot, they were seated under the shade of old umbrellas, which looked as if they had been the companions of their banishment. their countenances appeared strongly marked with the pious character of resignation, over which were to be seen a sweetness, and corrected animation, which seemed to depict at once the soul's delight, of returning to its native home, planted wherever it may be, and the regret of leaving a nation, which, in the hour of flight and misery, had nobly enrolled them in the list of her own children, and had covered them with protection. to the eternal honour of these unhappy, but excellent people, be it said, that they have proved themselves worthy of being received in such a sanctuary. our country has enjoyed the benefit of their unblemished morals, and their mild, polite, and unassuming manners, and wherever destiny has placed them, they have industriously relieved the national burden of their support by diffusing the knowledge of a language, which good sense, and common interest, should long since have considered as a valuable branch of education. to those of my friends, who exercise the sacred functions of religion, as established in this country, i need not offer an apology, for paying an humble tribute of common justice to these good, and persecuted men; who, from habit, pursue a mode of worship, a little differing in form, but terminating in the same great and glorious centre. the enlightened liberality of the british clergy will unite, in paying that homage to them, which they, in my presence, have often with enthusiasm, and rapture, offered up to the purity, and sanctity of their characters. many of them informed me, that they had received the most serviceable favours from our clergy, administered with equal delicacy, and munificence. amongst these groups were some females, the wives and daughters of toulonese merchants, who left their city when lord hood abandoned that port. the politeness and attention, which were paid to them by the men, were truly pleasing. it was the good breeding of elegant habits, retaining all their softness in the midst of adversity, sweetened with the sympathy of mutual and similar sufferings. they had finished their dinner, and were drinking their favourite beverage of coffee. poor wanderers! the water was scarcely turned brown with the few grains which remained of what they had purchased for their journey. i addressed them, by telling them, that i had the happiness of being a passenger with them, in the same vessel; they said they were fortunate to have in their company one of that nation, which would be dear to them as long as they lived. a genteel middle aged woman offered to open a little parcel of fresh coffee, which they had purchased in the town for the voyage, and begged to make some for me. by her manner, she seemed to wish me to consider it, more as the humble offering of gratitude, than of politeness, or perhaps both were blended in the offer. in the afternoon, their baggage was searched by the revenue officers, who, on this occasion, exercised a liberal gentleness, which gave but little trouble, and no pain. they who brought nothing into a country but the recollection of their miseries, were not very likely to carry much out of it, but the remembrance of its generosity. at seven o'clock in the evening we were all on board, and sailed with a gentle breeze down the river: we carried with us a good stock of vegetables, which we procured fresh, from the admirable market of southampton. upon going down into the cabin, i was struck, and at first shocked, with seeing a very aged man, stretched at his length upon pillows and clothes, placed on the floor, attended by two clergymen, and some women, who, in their attentions to this apparently dying old gentleman, seemed to have forgotten their own comfortless situation, arising from so many persons being crowded in so small a space, for our numbers above and below amounted to sixty. upon inquiry, they informed me, that the person whose appearance had so affected me, had been a clergyman of great repute and esteem at havre, that he was then past the age of ninety five years, scarcely expected to survive our short voyage, but was anxious to breathe his last in his own country. they spoke of him, as a man who in other times, and in the fulness of his faculties, had often from his pulpit, struck with terror and contrition, the trembling souls of his auditors, by the force of his exalted eloquence; who had embellished the society in which he moved, with his elegant attainments; and who had relieved the unhappy, with an enlarged heart and munificent hand--a mere mass of misery, and helpless infirmities, remained of all these noble qualities! during the early part of the night, we made but little way--behind, the dark shadowy line of land faded in mist; before us, the moon spread a stream of silver light upon the sea. the soft stillness of this repose of nature was broken only by the rippling of the light wave against the head and sides of the vessel, and by the whistling of the helmsman, who, with the helm between his knees, and his arms crossed, alternately watching the compass and the sail, thus invoked the presence of the favouring breeze. leaving him, and some few of our unfortunate comrades, to whom the motion of the sea was more novel than gratifying, we descended into the steerage, (for our births in the cabin were completely occupied by females). as we were going down the ladder, the appearance of so many recumbent persons, faintly distinguishable by the light of a solitary taper, reminded us of a floating catacomb; here, crawling under a cot which contained two very corpulent priests, upon a spare cable, wrapt up in our own great coats, we resigned ourselves to rest. the next day, without having made much progress in our little voyage, we arose, and assembled round the companion, which formed our breakfast table; at dinner, we were enabled to spread a handsome table of refreshments, to which we invited all our fellow passengers who were capable of partaking of them, many of whom were preparing to take their scanty meal, removed from us at the head of the vessel. for this little act of common civility, we were afterwards abundantly repaid, by the thankfulness of all, and the serviceable attentions of some of our charming guests, when we landed; an instance of which i shall afterwards have occasion to mention. the wind slackened during the day, but in the evening it blew rather fresh, and about nine o'clock the next morning, after a night passed something in the same way as the former, we were awakened being informed that we were within in a league of havre; news by no means disagreeable, after the dead dulness of a sea calm. the appearance of the coast was high, rugged, and rocky; to use a good marine expression, it looked ironbound all along shore. to the east, upon an elevated point of land, are two noble light houses, of very beautiful construction, which i shall have occasion to describe hereafter. at some little distance, we saw considerable flights of wild ducks. the town and bason lie round the high western point from the lights, below which there is a fine pebbled beach. the quays are to the right and left within the pier, upon the latter of which there is a small round tower. it was not the intention of our packet captain to go within the pier, for the purpose of saving the port-anchorage dues, which amount to eight pounds sterling, but a government boat came off, and ordered the vessel to hawl close up to the quay, an order which was given in rather a peremptory manner. upon our turning the pier, we saw as we warped up to the quay, an immense motley crowd, flocking down to view us. a panic ran throughout our poor fellow passengers. from the noise and confusion on shore, they expected that some recent revolution had occurred, and that they were upon the point of experiencing all the calamities, which they had before fled from; they looked pale and agitated upon each other, like a timid and terrified flock of sheep, when suddenly approached by their natural enemy the wolf. it turned out, however, that mere curiosity, excited by the display of english colours, had assembled this formidable rabble, and that the order which we received from the government boat, was given for the purpose of compelling the captain to incur, and consequently to pay, the anchorage dues. in a moment we were beset by a parcel of men and boys, half naked, and in wooden shoes, who hallooing and "sacre dieuing" each other most unmercifully, began, without further ceremony, to seize upon every trunk within their reach, which they threw into their boats lying alongside. by a well-timed rap upon the knuckles of one of these marine functionaries, we prevented our luggage from sharing the same fate. it turned out, that there was a competition for carrying our trunks on shore, for the sake of an immoderate premium, which they expected to receive, and which occasioned our being assailed in this violent manner. our fellow-passengers were obliged to go on shore with these vociferous watermen, who had the impudence and inhumanity to charge them two livres each, for conveying them to the landing steps, a short distance of about fifty yards. upon their landing, we were much pleased to observe that the people offered them neither violence nor insult. they were received with a sullen silence, and a lane was made for them to pass into the town. the poor old clergyman who had survived the passage, was left on board, in the care of two benevolent persons, until he could be safely and comfortably conveyed on shore. we soon afterwards followed our fellow-passengers in the captain's boat, by which plan we afforded these extortioners a piece of salutary information, very necessary to be made known to them, that although we were english, we were not to be imposed upon. i could not help thinking it rather unworthy of our neighbours to exact from us such heavy port dues, when our english demands of a similar nature, are so very trifling. for such an import, a vessel of the republic, upon its arrival in any of the english ports, would only pay a few shillings. perhaps this difference will be equalized in some shape, by the impending commercial treaty, otherwise, a considerable partial advantage will accrue to the french from their passage packets. upon our landing, and entering the streets, i was a little struck with the appearance of the women, who were habited in a coarse red camlet jacket, with a high apron before, long flying lappets to their caps, and were mounted upon large heavy wooden shoes, upon each of which a worsted tuft was fixed, in rude imitation of a rose. the appearance and clatter of these sabots, as they are called, leave upon the mind an impression of extreme poverty and wretchedness. they are, however, more favoured than the lower order of females in scotland. upon a brisk sprightly chamber-maid entering my room one day at an inn in glasgow, i heard a sound which resembled the pattering of some web-footed bird, when in the act of climbing up the miry side of a pond. i looked down upon the feet of this bonny lassie, and found that their only covering was procured from the mud of the high street--adieu! to the tender eulogies of the pastoral reed! i have never thought of a shepherdess since with pleasure. i could not help observing the ease, dexterity, and swiftness, with which a single man conveyed all our luggage, which was very heavy, to the custom-house, and afterwards to the inn, in a wheelbarrow, which differed from ours, only in being larger, and having two elastic handles of about nine feet long. at the custom-house, notwithstanding what the english papers have said of the conduct observed here, we were very civilly treated, our boxes were only just opened, and some of our packages were not examined at all. away we had them whirled, to the hôtel de la paix, the front of which looks upon the wet-dock, and is embellished with a large board, upon which is recorded, in yellow characters, as usual, the superior advantages of this house over every other hôtel in havre. upon our arrival, we were ushered up a large dirty staircase into a lofty room, upon the first floor, all the windows of which were open, divided, as they always are in france, in the middle, like folding doors; the floor was tiled, a deal table, some common rush chairs, two very fine pier glasses, and chandeliers to correspond, composed our motley furniture. i found it to be a good specimen of french inns, in general. we were followed by our hostess, the porter, two cooks, with caps on their heads, which had once been white, and large knives in their hands, who were succeeded by two chamber-maids, all looking in the greatest hurry and confusion, and all talking together, with a velocity, and vehemence, which rendered the faculty of hearing almost a misfortune. they appeared highly delighted to see us, talked of our dress, sir sidney smith, the blockade, the noble english, the peace, and a train of etceteras. at length we obtained a little cessation, of which we immediately seized the advantage, by directing them to show us to our bedrooms, to procure abundance of water hot and cold, to get us a good breakfast as soon as possible, and to prepare a good dinner for us at four o'clock. amidst a peal of tongues, this clamorous procession retired. after we had performed our necessary ablutions, and had enjoyed the luxury of fresh linen, we sat down to some excellent coffee, accompanied with boiled milk, long, delicious rolls, and tolerably good butter, but found no knives upon the table; which, by the by, every traveller in france is presumed to carry with him: having mislaid my own, i requested the maid to bring me one. the person of this damsel, would certainly have suffered by a comparison with those fragrant flowers, to which young poets resemble their beloved mistresses; as soon as i had preferred my prayer, she very deliberately drew from her pocket a large clasp knife, which, after she had wiped on her apron, she presented to me, with a "voila monsieur." i received this dainty present, with every mark of due obligation, accompanied, at the same time, with a resolution not to use it, particularly as my companions (for we had two other english gentlemen with us) had directed her to bring some others to them. this delicate instrument was as savoury as its mistress, amongst the various fragrancies which it emitted, garlic seemed to have the mastery. about twelve o'clock we went to the hall of the municipality, to procure our passports for the interior, and found it crowded with people upon the same errand. we made our way through them into a very handsome antiroom, and thence, by a little further perseverance, into an inner room, where the mayor and his officers were seated at a large table covered with green cloth. to show what reliance is to be placed upon the communications of english newspapers, i shall mention the following circumstance: my companion had left england, without a passport, owing to the repeated assurances of both the ministerial and opposition prints, and also of a person high in administration, that none were necessary. the first question propounded to us by the secretary was, "citizens, where are your passports?" i had furnished myself with one; but upon hearing this question, i was determined not to produce it, from an apprehension that i should cover my friend, who had none, with suspicion, so we answered, that in england they were not required of frenchmen, and that we had left our country with official assurances that they would not be demanded of us here. they replied to us, by reading a decree, which rigorously required them of foreigners, entering upon the territories of the republic, and they assured us, that this regulation was at that moment reciprocal with every other power, and with england in particular. the decree of course closed the argument. we next addressed ourselves to their politeness (forgetting that the revolution had made sad inroads upon it) and requested them, as we had been misled, and had no other views of visiting the country, but those of pleasure, and improvement, that they would be pleased to grant us our passports for the interior. to this address, these high authorities, who seemed not much given to "the melting mood," after making up a physiognomy, as severe, and as _iron bound_ as their coast, laconically observed, that the laws of the republic must be enforced, that they should write to our embassador to know who we were, and that in the mean time they would make out our passports for the town, the barriers of which we were not to pass. accordingly, a little fat gentleman, in a black coat, filled up these official instruments, which were copied into their books, and both signed by us; he then commenced our "signalement," which is a regular descriptive portrait of the head of the person who has thus the honour of sitting to the municipal portrait painters of the département de la seine inferieure. this portrait is intended, as will be immediately anticipated, to afford encreased facilities to all national guards, maréchaussées, thief takers, &c. for placing in "durance vile" the unfortunate original, should he violate the laws. the signalement is added in the margin, to the passport, and also registered in the municipal records, which, from their size, appeared to contain a greater number of heads and faces, thus depicted, than any museum or gallery i ever beheld. how correct the likenesses in general are, i leave to the judgment of others, after i have informed them, that the hazle eyes of my friend were described "yeux bleu" in this masterly delineation. if the dead march in saul had been playing before us all the way, we could not have marched more gravely, or rather sulkily, to our inn. before us, we had the heavy prospect of spending about ten days in this town, not very celebrated for either beauty, or cleanliness, until the municipality could receive an account of us, from our embassador, who knew no more of us than they did. the other english gentlemen were in the same predicament. however we determined to pursue the old adage, that what is without remedy, should be without regret, and, english like, grew very merry over a good dinner, consisting of soups, and meat, and fowls, and fish, and vegetables (for such is the order of a french dinner) confectionary and a desert, accompanied with good burgundy, and excellent champaign. our misfortunes must plead our excuse, if the dinner is considered extravagant. uncle toby went to sleep when he was unhappy; we solicited consolation in another way. our signalements afforded us much diversion, which at length was a little augmented by a plan which i mentioned, as likely to furnish us with the means of our liberation. after dinner i waited upon a young gentleman who was under the care of a very respectable merchant, to whom i had the good fortune to have letters of introduction. through his means i was introduced to mons. de la m----, who received me with great politeness. in the hurry and occupations of very extensive commercial pursuits, this amiable old gentleman had found leisure to indulge himself in works of taste. his noble fortune enabled him to gratify his liberal inclinations. i found him seated in his compting-house, which, from its handsome furniture and valuable paintings, resembled an elegant cabinet. i stated the conduct of the municipality towards us, and requested his assistance. after he had shown me his apartments, a fine collection of drawings, by some of the first masters, and some more excellent paintings, we parted, with an assurance that he would immediately wait upon the mayor, who was his friend, and had no doubt but that he should in the course of the next day enable us to leave havre when and in what manner we pleased. with this agreeable piece of intelligence, i immediately returned to the inn, where it induced us to drink health and success to the friendly merchant in another bottle of champaign. chapter iii. _passports procured.--coins.--town of havre.--carts.--citoyen.--honfleur.--deserters.--prefect de marine.--ville de sandwich.--french farmers.--sir sydney smith.--catherine de medicis.--light houses.--rafts._ if havre had been a paradise, the feelings of restraint would have discoloured the magic scenery, and turned the green to one barren brown. as we could relish nothing, until we had procured our release, the first place we visited the next morning was, once more, the residence of the municipality, where we found that our worthy friend had previously arranged every thing to our wishes, and upon his signing a certificate, that we were peaceable citizens, and had no intention to overturn the republic, our passports were made out, and upon an exchange of a little snuff, and a few bows, we retired. the other two englishmen had their wishes gratified, by the same lucky incident, which had assisted us. having changed our guineas for french money, and as in future, when money is mentioned, it will be in the currency of the country, it perhaps may not be unacceptable to subjoin a table of the old, and new, and republican coins. for every guinea of full weight, which we carried over, we received twenty-four livres, or a louis d'or, which is equal to twenty shillings sterling, of course we lost one shilling upon every good guinea, and more, according to the deficiency of weight. the course of exchange and commission, with our country, i afterwards found at paris, to be one shilling and eight pence, in the pound sterling, against us, but the difference will be progressively nearer par, as the accustomed relations of commerce resume their former habits. i was surprised to find the ancient monarchical coin in chief circulation, and that of the republic, very confined. scarce a pecuniary transaction can occur, but the silent, and eloquent medallion of the unhappy monarch, seems to remind these bewildered people of _his_ fate, and _their_ past misfortunes. although the country is poor, all their payments are made in cash, this is owing to the shock given by the revolution, to individual, and consequently to paper credit. to comprehend their money, it must be known, although the french always calculate by livres, as we do by pounds sterling, that the livre is no coin, but computation. monarchical coins. gold. _s._ _d._ a louis d'or is twenty four livres french, or english. silver. a grand ecu, or six livre piece, an ecu, or three livre piece, the vingt quatre sols piece, a douze sols piece is twelve pence french, or a six sols piece is d french, or copper mixed with silver. a deux sols, or two pence french, and one penny english, is nearly the size of our sixpence, but is copper, with a white or silverish mixture, twelve of these make a vingt quatre sols piece, or one shilling english. they have also another small piece of nearly the same size and colour, but not so white, and rather thinner, which is one sol and a half, three halfpence french, or three farthings english. copper. a sol is like our halfpenny, value one penny french, or a halfpenny english, twenty-four of these make an english shilling. a deux liard piece is half a sol french, or a farthing english. a liard is a farthing french, and of the value of half a farthing english. new coin. a thirty sols piece, is a very beautiful and convenient coin, worth one shilling and three pence english, having a good impression of the late king's head on one side, and the goddess of liberty on the other; it was struck in the early part of the revolution. republican coin. silver. a fifteen sols piece is half of the above and very convenient. copper. a six liard is a bit of copper composition, such as the fine cannon are made of, and is worth three sols french, or a halfpenny, and a farthing english. a cinq centimes is worth a halfpenny and half a farthing english. the centimes are of the value of half farthings, five of which are equal to the last coin, they are very small and neat. an early knowledge of these coins, is very necessary to a stranger, on account of the dishonest advantages which french tradesmen take of their english customers. to return to my narrative: finding ourselves at liberty to pursue our route, we went from the municipality to the bureau des diligences, and secured our places in the voiture to rouen, for the next day. after this necessary arrangement, we proceeded to view the town, which is composed of long and narrow streets. the fronts of the houses, which are lofty, are deformed by the spaces between the naked intersections of the frame work being filled up with mortar, which gives them an appearance of being very heavy, and very mean. the commerce formerly carried on at havre, was very extensive. there is here also large manufactories for lace. the theatre is very spacious, well arranged, and as far as we could judge by day-light, handsomely decorated. the players did not perform during our stay. in the vegetable market place, which was much crowded, and large, we saw at this season of the year abundance of fine apples, as fresh in appearance as when they were first plucked from the tree. in our way there we were accosted by a little ragged beggar boy, who addressed himself to our compassionate dispositions, by the appellation of "très charitable citoyen," but finding we gave nothing, he immediately changed it to "mon chère très charitable monsieur." the strange uncouth expression of citoyen is generally laid aside, except amongst the immediate officers under government, in their official communications, who, however, renounce it in private, for the more civilized title of "monsieur." the principal church is a fine handsome building, and had been opened for worship, the sunday before we arrived: on that day the bell of the sabbath first sounded, during ten years of revolution, infidelity, and bloodshed!!! the royal arms are every where removed. they formerly constituted a very beautiful ornament over the door of the hotel of the present prefect, at the head of the market place, but they have been rudely beaten out by battle axes, and replaced by rude republican emblems, which every where (i speak of them as a decoration) seem to disfigure the buildings which bear them. when i made this remark, i must, however, candidly confess, that my mind very cordially accompanied my eye, and that natural sentiment mingled with the observation. the quays, piers, and arsenal are very fine, they, together with the docks, for small ships of war and merchandize, were constructed under the auspices of lewis xiv, with whom this port was a great favourite. we saw several groups of men at work in heavy chains. they were soldiers who had offended. they are dressed in _red_ jackets and trowsers, which are supposed to increase their disgrace, on account of its being the regimental colour of their old enemy, the english. when my companion, who wore his regimentals, passed them, they all moved their caps to him with great respect. the town, and consequently the commerce of rouen, was most successfully blockaded, for near four years, by british commanders, during the late war, and particularly by sir sidney smith. it was here, when endeavouring to cut out a vessel, which in point of value, and consideration was unworthy of such an exposure, that this great hero, and distinguished being was made a prisoner of war. the inhabitants, who never speak of him, but with emotions of terror, consider this event as the rash result of a wager conceived over wine. those who know the character of sir sidney, will not impute to him such an act of _idle_ temerity. no doubt he considered the object, as included in his duty, and it is only to be lamented, that during two lingering years of rigorous, and cruel confinement, in the dungeons of the unhappy sovereign, his country was bereaved of the assistances of her immortal champion, who, in a future season, upon the shores of acre, so nobly filled up the gloomy chasm of suspended services, by exploits, which to be believed, must not be _adequately_ described, and who revenged, by an act of unrivalled glory, the long endurance of sufferings, and indignities hateful to the magnanimous spirit of modern warfare, and unknown to it, until displayed within the walls of a prussian dungeon[ ]. [ ] the cruel imprisonment of la fayette is alluded to. i shall hereafter have occasion to mention this extraordinary character, when i speak of his escape from the temple, the real circumstances attending which are but little known, and which i received from an authority upon which the reader may rely. this town is not unknown to history. at the celebrated siege of it, in the time of catharine de medicis, that execrable princess, distinguished herself by her personal intrepidity. it is said, that she landed here, in a galley, bearing the device of the sun, with these words in greek, "i bring light, and fine weather"--a motto which ill corresponded with her conduct. with great courage, such as seldom associates with cruel, and ferocious tyrants, she here on horseback, at the head of her army, exposed herself to the fire of the cannon, like the most veteran soldiers, and betrayed no symptoms of fear, although the bullets flew about her in all directions. when desired by the duke of guise, and the constable de montmorenci not to expose her person so much, the brave, but sanguinary catharine replied, "have i not more to lose than you, and do you think i have not as much courage?" the walk, through la ville de sandwiche, to the light houses, which are about two miles from havre, is very pleasing. the path lay through flax and clover fields. in this part of the country, the farmers practise an excellent plan of rural economy, which is also used in dorsetshire, and some few other counties, of confining their cattle by a string to a spot of pasture, until they have completely cleared it. [illustration: _light-house at havre_] upon the hill, ascending to the cliffs, are several very elegant chateaus and gardens, belonging to the principal inhabitants of the town. monsieur b----, the prefect de marine, has a beautiful residence here. we were accidentally stopping at his gate, which was open, to view the enchanting prospects, which it presented to us, when the polite owner observed us, and with that amiableness, and civility, which still distinguish the descendants of the ancient families of rank in france, of which he is one, requested us to enter, and walked with us round his grounds, which were disposed with great taste. he afterwards conducted us to his elegant house, and gave us dried fruit, and excellent burgundy, after which we walked round the village to the light houses. from him we learnt, that the farmers here, as in england, were very respectable, and had amassed considerable wealth during the war. the approach to the light houses, through a row of elms, is very pleasant; they stand upon an immense high perpendicular cliff, and are lofty square buildings, composed of fine light brown free stone, the entrance is handsome, over which there is a good room, containing four high windows, and a lodging room for the people, who have the care of the light, the glass chamber of which we reached, after ascending to a considerable height, by a curious spiral stone stair case. the lantern is composed, of ninety immense reflecting lamps, which are capable of being raised or depressed with great ease by means of an iron windlass. this large lustre, is surrounded with plates of the thickest french glass, fixed in squares of iron, and discharges a prodigious light, in dark nights. a furnace of coal, was formerly used, but this has been judiciously superseded by the present invention. round the lantern, is a gallery with an iron balustrade, the view from this elevation upon the beach, the entrance of the seine, honfleur (where our henry iii is said to have fought the french armies, and to have distinguished himself by his valour) the distant hills of lower normandy, and the ocean, is truly grand. it brought to my mind that beautiful description of shakspeare-- ------------------the murmuring surge that on th' unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, cannot be heard so high: i'll look no more, lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight topple down headlong. we did not visit the other tower, as it was uniform with this. the woman who has the charge of the light, was very good humoured, and very talkative, she seemed delighted to show us every thing, and said she preferred seeing englishmen _in_ her tower as friends, to the view she frequently had of them _from_ it as enemies, alluding to the long, and masterly blockade of this port by a squadron of english frigates. she carried us to her little museum, as she called it, where she had arranged, very neatly, a considerable collection of fossils, shells, and petrefactions. here she showed us with great animation, two british cannon balls, which during the blockade, had very nearly rendered her husband and herself, as cold and as silent as any of the petrefactions in her collection. in this little cabinet was her bed, where amidst the war of winds and waves, she told us she slept as sound as a _consul_. in the basins of havre, we saw several rafts, once so much talked of, constructed for the real, or ostensible purpose of conveying the invading legions of france, to the shores of great britain. i expected to have seen an immense floating platform, but the vessels which we saw, were made like brigs of an unusual breadth, with two low masts. the sincerity of this project has been much disputed, but that the french government expended considerable sums upon the scheme, i have no doubt. i must not omit to mention, the admirable mode, which they have here, and in most parts of france, of constructing their carts. they are placed upon very high wheels, the load is generally arranged so as to create an equipoise, and is raised by an axle, fastened near the shafts. i was informed by a merchant, that a single horse can draw with ease thirty-six hundred weight, in one of these carts. these animals have a formidable appearance, owing to a strange custom which the french have, of covering the collar, with an entire sheep's skin, which gives them the appearance of having an enormous shaggy mane. at night, we settled our bills which amounted to forty livres each. a considerable charge in this country, but we had lived well, and had not thought it worth our while, on account of the probable shortness of our stay, to bargain for our lodging, and board, a plan generally proper to be used by those, who mean to remain for some length of time, in any place in france. [illustration: _paris diligence._] chapter iv. _cheap travelling to paris.--diligences.--french postilions.--spanish postilions.--norman horses.--bolbec.--natives of caux.--ivetot.--return of religion.--santerre.--jacobin.--the mustard-pot.--national property._ before i proceed on my journey, i must beg leave to present a very cheap mode of travelling to paris, from havre, to those who have more time at their command than i had. it was given to me by a respectable gentleman, and an old traveller. _sols._ from havre to honfleur, by the passage-boat from honfleur to pontaudemar, by land from pontaudemar to labouille from labouille to rouen, by water from rouen to rolleboise, by land from rolleboise to pontoise, by water from pontoise to paris, by land this progress, however, is tedious and uncertain. at day-break we seated ourselves in the diligence. all the carriages of this description have the appearance of being the result of the earliest efforts in the art of coach building. a more uncouth clumsy machine can scarcely be imagined. in the front is a cabriolet fixed to the body of the coach, for the accommodation of three passengers, who are protected from the rain above, by the projecting roof of the coach, and in front by two heavy curtains of leather, well oiled, and smelling somewhat offensively, fastened to the roof. the inside, which is capacious, and lofty, and will hold six people with great comfort, is lined with leather padded, and surrounded with little pockets, in which the travellers deposit their bread, snuff, night caps, and pocket handkerchiefs, which generally enjoy each others company in the same delicate depositary. from the roof depends a large net work, which is generally crouded with hats, swords, and band boxes, the whole is convenient, and when all parties are seated and arranged, the accommodations are by no means unpleasant. upon the roof, on the outside, is the imperial, which is generally filled with six or seven persons more, and a heap of luggage, which latter also occupies the basket, and generally presents a pile, half as high again as the coach, which is secured by ropes and chains, tightened by a large iron windlass, which also constitutes another appendage of this moving mass. the body of the carriage rests upon large thongs of leather, fastened to heavy blocks of wood, instead of springs, and the whole is drawn by seven horses. the three first are fastened to the cross bar, the rest are in pairs, all in rope harness and tackling. the near horse of the three first, is mounted by the postilion, in his great jack boots, which are always placed, with much ceremony, like two tubs, on the right side of his rosinante, just before he ascends. these curious protectors of his legs, are composed of wood, and iron hoops, softened within by stuffing, and give him all the dignity of riding in a pair of upright portmanteaus. with a long lash whip in his hand, a dirty night cap and an old cocked hat upon his head, hallooing alternately "à gauche, à droit," and a few occasional sacre dieus, which seem always properly applied, and perfectly understood, the merry postilion drives along his cattle. i must not fail to do justice to the scientific skill with which he manages on horseback, his long and heavy coach whip; with this commanding instrument, he can reanimate by a touch, each halting muscle of his lagging animals, can cut off an annoying fly, and with the loud cracking of its thong, he announces, upon his entrance into a town, the approach of his heavy, and clattering cavalcade. each of these diligences is provided with a conducteur, who rides upon the imperial, and is responsible throughout the journey, for the comfort of the passengers and safety of the luggage. for his trouble the passenger pays him only thirty sols for himself, and fifteen more for the different postillions, to be divided amongst them, for these the donor is thanked with a low bow, and many "bien obligés," in the name of himself and his contented comrades. our companions proved to be some of our old friends the emigrants, who had thrown aside their marine dishabille, and displayed the appearance of gentlemen. we were much pleased with again meeting each other. their conversation upon the road was very interesting, it was filled with sincere regret for the afflictions of their country, and with expressions of love and gratitude towards the english. they told us many little tales of politeness, and humanity which they had received from my countrymen in the various towns, where their destiny had placed them. one displayed, with amiable pride, a snuff box, which he had received as a parting token of esteem, another a pocket book, and each was the bearer of some little affectionate proof of merit, good conduct, or friendship. one of these gentlemen, the abbè de l'h----, whose face was full of expression, tinctured with much grief, and attendant indisposition, with a manner, and in a tone, which were truly affecting, concluded a little narrative of some kindness which he had received, by saying, "if the english and my country are not friends, it shall not be for want of my prayers. i fled from france without tears, for the preservation of my life, but when i left england, i confess it, i could not help shedding some." they did not disgrace the generous abbè--such a nation was worthy of such feelings. our horses were of the norman breed, small, stout, short, and full of spirit, and to the honour of those who have the care of them, in excellent condition. i was surprised to see these little animals running away with our cumbrous machine, at the rate of six or seven miles an hour. we traced the desolating hand of the revolution as soon as we ascended the first hill. our road lay through a charming country. upon the sides of its acclivities, surrounded by the most romantic scenery of woods and corn fields, we saw ruined convents, and roofless village churches, through the shattered casements of which the wind had free admission. we breakfasted at a neat town called bolbec, seven leagues from havre, where we had excellent coffee, butter, and rolls. all the household of our inn looked clean, happy, and sprightly. this is the principal town of the province of caux, the women of which dress their heads in a very peculiar, and in my humble opinion, unbecoming manner. i made a hasty sketch of one of them who entered the yard of the inn with apples for sale. [illustration: _a woman of the province of caux in normandy._] such a promontory of cap and lace i never before beheld. she had been at a village marriage that morning, and was bedecked in all her finery. the people of this province are industrious and rich, and consequently respectable. at the theatre at rouen i afterwards saw, in one of the front boxes, a lady from this country, dressed after its fashion; the effect was so singular that it immediately induced me to distinguish her, from the rest of the audience, but her appearance seemed to excite no curiosity with any other person. our breakfast cost us each fifteen sous, to which may be added two sols more, for the maids, who waited upon us with cheerful smiles, and habited in the full cushvois costume, and which also entitled us to kisses and curtsies. i beg leave to oppose our breakfast charge to the rumours which prevailed in england, that this part of france was then in a state of famine. from this town, the road was beautifully lined with beech, chesnut, and apple trees. the rich yellow of the rape seed which overspread the surface of many of the fields on each side, was very animating to the eye. from this vegetable the country people express oil, and of the pulp of it make cakes, which the norman horses will fatten upon. we had an early dinner at ivetot, five leagues distant from bolbec. in ancient periods this miserable town was once the capital of a separate kingdom. in our dining room were three beds, or rather we dined in the bed room. i use the former expression out of compliment to the pride of our little host, who replied with some loftiness to one of our companions, who, upon entering the room, and seeing so many accommodations for repose, exclaimed, with the sharpness of appetite, "my good host, we want to eat, and not to sleep;" "gentlemen," said our mortified little maitre d'hôtel, "this chamber is the dining room, and it is thought a very good one." from its appearance i should have believed him, had he sworn that it was the state room of the palace of this ancient principality, of which this wretched town was once the capital. it reminded me of an anecdote related by an ancient english lady of fashion, when she first paid her respects to james i, soon after his accession to the crown of england. she mentions in her memoir, that his royal drawing room was so very dirty, that after the levee she was obliged to recur to her comb for relief. in plain truth, james i and his court were lousy. our master of the house was both cook and waiter. at dinner, amongst several other dishes, we had some stewed beef, i requested to be favoured with a little mustard, our host very solemnly replied, "i am very sorry, citizen, but i have none, if you had been fortunate enough to have been here about three weeks since, you might have had some." it was more than i wished, so i ate my beef very contentedly without it. with our desert we had a species of cake called brioche, composed of egg, flour, and water; it is in high estimation in france. it was in this town _only_ that i saw a specimen of that forlorn wretchedness and importunity, which have been said to constitute the general nuisance of this country. in the shop of a brazier here, was exposed, a new leaden crucifix, about two feet and a half high, for sale; it had been cast preparatory to the reinauguration of the archbishop of rouen, which was to take place upon the next sunday week, in the great cathedral of that city. in consequence of the restoration of religion, the beggars, who have in general considerable cleverness, and know how to turn new circumstances to advantage, had just learnt a fresh mode of soliciting money, by repeating the lord's prayer in french and latin. we were treated with this sort of importunate piety for near a mile, after we left ivetot. i have before mentioned, that the barbarous jargon of the revolution is rapidly passing away. it is only here and there, that its slimy track remains. the time is not very distant when frenchmen wished to be known by the name of jacobins; it is now become an appellation of reproach, even amongst the surviving aborigines of the revolution. as an instance of it, a naval officer of rank and intelligence, who joined us at ivetot, informed us, that he had occasion, upon some matters of business, to meet santerre a few days before; that inhuman and vulgar revolutionist, who commanded the national guards when they surrounded the scaffold during the execution of their monarch. in the course of their conversation, santerre, speaking of a third person, exclaimed, "i cannot bear that man; he is a jacobin." let all true revolutionary republicans cry out, bravo! at this. this miscreant lives unnoticed, in a little village near paris, upon a slender income, which he has made in trade, not in the _trade of blood_; for it appears that robespierre was not a very liberal patron of his servants. he kept his blood-hounds lean, and keen, and poorly fed them with the rankest offal. after a dusty journey, through a very rich and picturesque country, of near eighty miles, we entered the beautiful boulevards[ ] of rouen, about seven o'clock in the evening, which embowered us from the sun. their shade was delicious. i think them finer than those of paris. the noble elms, which compose them in four stately rows, are all nearly of the same height. judge of my surprise--upon our rapidly turning the corner of a street, as we entered the city, i suddenly found coach, horses and all, in the aisle of an ancient catholic church. the gates were closed upon us, and in a moment from the busy buzzing of the streets, we were translated into the silence of shattered tombs, and the gloom of cloisters: the only light which shone upon us, issued through fragments of stained glass, and the apertures which were formerly filled with it. [ ] environs of a town, planted with stately trees. my surprise, however, was soon quieted, by being informed, that this church, having devolved to the nation as its property, by force of a revolutionary decree, had been afterwards sold for stables, to one of the owners of the rouen diligences. an old unsaleable cabriolet occupied the place of the altar; and the horses were very quietly eating their oats in the sacristy!! at the bureau, we paid twelve livres and a half for our places and luggage from havre to this town. [illustration: _rouen, from mount st. catherine._] chapter v. _a female french fib.--military and civil procession.--madame g.--the review.--mons. l'abbé.--bridge of boats.--the quay.--exchange.--theatre.--rouen.--cathedral.--st. ouens.--prince of waldec.--maid of orleans._ having collected together all our luggage, and seen it safely lodged in a porter's wheelbarrow, captain c. and i bade adieu to our fellow travellers, and to these solemn and unsuitable habitations of ostlers and horses, and proceeded through several narrow streets, lined with lofty houses, the shops of which were all open, and the shopkeepers, chiefly women, looked respectable and sprightly, with gay bouquets in their bosoms, to the hôtel de l'europe; it is a fine inn, to which we had been recommended at havre, kept by madame f----, who, with much politeness, and many captivating movements, dressed à-la-grec, with immense golden earrings, approached us, and gave us a little piece of information, not very pleasant to travellers somewhat discoloured by the dust of a long and sultry day's journey, who wanted comfortable rooms, fresh linen, a little coffee, and a good night's repose: her information was, that her house was completely full, but that she would send to an upholsterer to fit up two beds for us, in a very neat room, which she had just papered and furnished, opposite to the porter's lodge (all the great inns and respectable townhouses in france have great gates, and a porter's lodge, at the entrance.) as we wished to have three rooms, we told her, we were friends of messrs. g----, (the principal merchants of rouen). she said, they were very amiable men, and were pleased to _send all their friends to her house_ (a little french fib of madame f----'s, by the by, as will appear hereafter); and she was truly sorry that she could not accommodate us better. we looked into the room, which also looked into the street, was exposed to all its noise, and very small. so we made our bows to madame f----, and proceeded with our wheelbarrow to the hôtel de poitiers--a rival house. it is situated in the beautiful boulevards, which i have mentioned, and is part of a row of fine stonebuilt houses. upon our ringing the bell, madame p---- presented herself. we told her, we were just arrived at rouen, that we had the honour of being known to messrs. g----, and should be happy to be placed under her roof, and wished to have two lodging rooms and a sitting room to ourselves. madame p----, who possessed that sort of good and generous heart, which nature, for its better preservation, had lodged in a comfortable envelope of comely plumpness, observed, that messrs. g---- were gentlemen of great respectability, were her patrons, and always _sent their_ friends to _her_ house (a point upon which these rival dames were at issue, but the truth was with madame p----); that she would do all in her power to make us happy; but at present, on account of her house being very crowded, she could only offer us two bedrooms. we were too tired to think of any further peregrinations of discovery; so we entered our bed-rooms, which, like most of the chambers in france, had brick floors without any carpetting; they were, however, clean; and, after ordering a good fire in one of them (for the sudden and unusual frost, which, in the beginning of summer, committed so much ravage throughout europe, commenced the day we had first the honour of seeing madame p----); and, after enjoying those comforts which weary wanderers require, we mounted our lofty beds, and went to rest. the next day we presented our letter, and ourselves, to madame g----, the amiable mother of the gentlemen i have mentioned. she received us with great politeness, and immediately arranged a dinner party for us, for that day. it being rather early in the morning, we were admitted into her chamber, a common custom of receiving early visits in france. about eleven o'clock we saw a splendid procession of all the military and civil authorities to the hôtel[ ] of the prefect, which was opposite to our inn. [ ] hôtel, in france, means either an inn, or private house of consequence. the object of this cavalcade was to congratulate the archbishop of rouen (who was then upon a visit to the prefect, until his own palace was ready to receive him) on his elevation to the see. this spectacle displayed the interference of god, in thus making the former enemies of his worship pay homage to his ministers, after a long reign of atheism and persecution. about twelve o'clock, which is the hour of parade throughout the republic, we went to the champ de mars, and saw a review of the th regiment of chasseurs, under the command of generals st. hiliare and ruffin, who, as well as the regiment, had particularly distinguished themselves at marengo. the men were richly appointed, and in general well mounted. they all wore mustachios. they were just arrived from amiens, where, as a mark of honour, they had been quartered during the negotiation. the officers were superbly attired. st. hiliare is a young man, and in person much resembles his patron and friend, the first consul; and, they say, in abilities also. some of the horses were of a dissimilar size and colour, which had a bad effect; but i was informed, upon making the remark, that they had lost many in battle, and had not had time properly to replace them. they were all strong and fiery, and went through their evolutions with surprising swiftness. at dinner our party was very agreeable. next to me sat a little abbè, who appeared to be in years, but full of vivacity, and seemed to be much esteemed by every person present. during the _time of terrour_ (as the french emphatically call the gloomy reign of robespierre) the blood of this good man, who, from his wealth, piety, and munificence, possessed considerable influence in rouen, was sought after with keen pursuit. madame g---- was the saviour of his life, by concealing him, previous to her own imprisonment, for two years, in different cellars, under her house, which she rendered as warm and as comfortable as circumstances, and the nature of the concealment, would allow. in one of these cells of humane secresy, this worthy man has often eaten his solitary and agitated meal, whilst the soldiers of the tyrant, who were quartered upon his protectress, were carousing in the kitchen immediately above him. soon after our coffee, which, in this country, immediately succeeds the dinner, we went to view the bridge of boats, so celebrated in history. this curious structure was contrived by an augustine friar named michael bougeois, it is composed of timber, regularly paved, in squares which contain the stories, and is [ ] feet in length; it commences from the middle of the quay of rouen, and reaches over to the fauxbourg of st. sever, and carries on the communication with the country which lies south of the city. it was begun in the year , below it are the ruins of the fine bridge of arches, built by the empress maud, daughter of henry i of england. this ingenious fabric rests upon immense barges, which rise and fall with the flowing and subsiding of the tide. when vessels have occasion to pass it, a portion of the platform sufficient to admit their passage is raised, and rolled over the other part. in the winter, when any danger is apprehended from the large flakes of ice, which float down the river, the whole is taken to pieces in an hour. the expense of keeping it in repair is estimated at livres, or pounds sterling per annum, and is defrayed by government, it being the highroad to picardy. upon the whole, although this bridge is so much admired, i must confess it appeared to me a heavy performance, unsuitable to the wealth, and splendour of the city of rouen, and below the taste and ingenuity of modern times. a handsome light stone structure, with a centre arch covered with a drawbridge, for the passage of vessels of considerable burden, or a lofty flying iron bridge, would be less expensive, more safe, and much more ornamental. [ ] the french feet are to the english as to . the view from this bridge up the seine, upon the islands below mount st. catharine, is quite enchanting. upon the quay, although it was sunday, a vast number of people were dancing, drinking, and attending shows and lotteries. here were people of various nations, parading up and down in the habits and dresses of their respective countries, which produced quite the effect of a masquerade. the river seine is so deep at this place, that ships of three hundred tons burden are moored close to the quay, and make a very fine appearance. the exchange for the merchants is parallel with the centre of the quay, and is a long paved building of about feet in length, open at top, having a handsome iron balustrade, and seats towards the seine, and a high stone wall towards the town. over all the great gates of the city, is written, in large characters, "liberty, equality, humanity, fraternity or death:" the last two words have been painted over, but are still faintly legible. in the evening we went to the french opera, which was very crowded. the boxes were adorned with genteel people, and many beautiful young women. the theatre is very large, elegant, and handsome, and the players were good. i was struck with the ridiculous antics, and gestures of the chef in the orchestra, a man whose office it is to beat time to the musicians. in the municipality box which was in the centre, lined with green silk, and gold, were two fine young women who appeared to be ladies of fashion, and consequence; they were dressed after the antique, in an attire which, for lightness, and scantiness i never saw equalled, till i saw it surpassed at paris. they appeared to be clothed only in jewels, and a little muslin, very gracefully disposed, the latter, to borrow a beautiful expression, had the appearance of "woven air."--from emotions of gratitude, for the captivating display which they made, i could not help offering a few fervent wishes, that the light of the next day might find them preserved from the dreaded consequences of a very bitter cold night. rouen, upon the whole, is a fine city, very large, and populous. it was formerly the capital of the kingdom of normandy. it stands upon a plain, screened on three sides, by high, and picturesque mountains. it is near two leagues in compass, exclusive of the fauxbourgs of st. severs, cauchoise, bouveul, st. hiliare, martainville and beauvisme. its commerce was very celebrated, and is returning with great rapidity. most of the fine buildings in this city, and its environs are anglo-norman antiquities, and were founded by the english before they left normandy. the cathedral is a grand, and awful pile of gothic architecture, built by our william the conqueror. it has two towers, one of which, is surmounted by a wooden spire covered with lead, and is of the prodigious height of french feet, the other is feet high. the additional wooden spire, and the inequality of the towers produce rather an unfavourable effect. during the revolution, this august edifice was converted into a sulphur and gunpowder manufactory, by which impious prostitution, the pillars are defaced, and broken, and the whole is blackened, and dingy. the costly cenotaphs of white marble, enriched with valuable ornaments containing the hearts of our henry iii, and richard i, kings of england, and dukes of normandy, which were formerly placed on each side of the grand altarpiece, were removed during the revolution. the altarpiece is very fine. grand preparations were making for the inauguration of the archbishop, which was to take place the following sunday. there were not many people at mass; those who were present, appeared to be chiefly composed of old women, and young children. over the charity box fastened to one of the pillars was a board upon which was written in large letters "hospices reconnoissance et prospérité à l'homme généreux et sensible." i saw few people affected by this benedictory appeal. i next visited the church of st. ouens, which is not so large as the cathedral, but surpasses that, and every other sacred edifice i ever beheld, in point of elegance. this graceful pile, has also had its share of sufferings, during the reign of revolutionary barbarism. its chaste, and elegant pillars, have been violated by the smoke of sulphur and wood; and in many places, present to the distressed eye, chasms, produced by massy forges, which were erected against them, for casting ball. the costly railing of brass, gilt, which half surrounded the altar, has been torn up, and melted into cannon. the large circular stained window over the entrance called la rose du portail is very beautiful, and wholly unimpaired. the organs in all the churches are broken and useless. they experienced this fate, in consequence of their having been considered as fanatical instruments during the time of terrour. the fine organ of st. ouens is in this predicament, and will require much cost to repair it[ ]. [ ] the ornaments of the churches of england experienced a similar fate from the commissioners of the long parliament, in . i cannot help admiring the good sense which in all the churches of france is displayed, by placing the organ upon a gallery over the grand entrance, by which the spectator has an uninterrupted view, and commands the whole length of the interior building. in the english cathedrals, it is always placed midway between the choir and church, by which, this desired effect is lost.--st. ouens is now open for worship. in spite of all the devastations of atheistic vandalism, this exquisite building, like the holy cause to which it is consecrated, having withstood the assailing storm, and elevating its meek, but magnificent head above its enemies, is mildly ready to receive them into her bosom, still disfigured with the traces of blind and barbarous ferocity. behind the altar, i met the celebrated prince of waldec. he, who possessed of royal honours, and ample domains, revolted in the day of battle, from his imperial master, and joined the victorious and pursuing foe. i beheld him in a shaded corner of one of the cloisters of st. ouens, in poor attire, with an old umbrella under his arm, scantily provided for, and scarcely noticed by his _new_ friends. a melancholy, but just example of the rewards due to treachery and desertion. i have described these churches only generally, it cannot be expected of me to enter into an elaborate history of them, or of any other public edifices. the detail, if attempted, might prove dull, and is altogether incompatible with the limited time, and nature of my excursion. after we left st. ouens, we visited the square aux vaux, where the celebrated heroine of lorrain, joan d'arc, commonly called the maid of orleans was cruelly burnt at the stake, for a pretended sorceress, but in fact to gratify the barbarous revenge of the duke of bedford, the then regent of france; because after signal successes, she conducted her sovereign, charles, in safety, to rheims, where he was crowned, and obtained decisive victories over the english arms. we here saw the statue erected by the french, to the memory of this remarkable woman, which as an object of sculpture seems to possess very little worthy of notice. chapter vi. _first consul's advertisement.--something ridiculous.--eggs.--criminal military tribunal.--french female confidence.--town house.--convent of jesuits.--guillotine.--governor w----._ upon looking up against the corner wall of a street, surrounded by particoloured advertisements of quack medicines, wonderful cures, new invented essences, judgments of cassation, rewards for robbers, and bills of the opera, i beheld bonaparte's address to the people of france, to elect him first consul for life. i took it for granted that the spanish proverb of "tell me with whom you are, and i will tell you what you are," was not to be applied in this instance, on account of the company in which the _consular application_, by a mere fortuitous coincidence, happened to be placed. a circumstance occurred at this time, respecting this election, which was rather ridiculous, and excited considerable mirth at paris. upon the first appearance of the election book of the first consul, in one of the departments, some wag, instead of subscribing his name, immediately under the title of the page, "shall napoleone bonaparte be first consul for life?" wrote the following words, "i can't tell." this trifling affair affords rather a favourable impression of the mildness of that government, which could inspire sufficient confidence to hazard such a stroke of pleasantry. it reached mal maison with great speed, but is said to have occasioned no other sensation there, than a little merriment. carnot's bold negative was a little talked of, but as it was solitary, it was considered harmless. to the love of finery which the french still retain to a certain degree, i could alone attribute the gay appearance of the eggs in the market, upon which had been bestowed a very smart stain of lilac colour. the effect was so singular that i could not help noting it down. on the third day after our arrival in this city, we attended the trial of a man who belonged to one of the banditti which infest the country round this city. the court was held in the hall of the ancient parliament house, and was composed of three civil judges (one of whom presided) three military judges, and two citizens. the arrangements of the court, which was crowded, were excellent, and afforded uninterrupted accommodations to all its members, by separate doors and passages allotted to each, and also to the people, who were permitted to occupy the large area in front, which gradually rose from the last seats of the persons belonging to the court, and enabled every spectator to have a perfect view of the whole. appropriate moral mottoes were inscribed in characters of gold, upon the walls. the judges wore long laced bands, and robes of black, lined with light blue silk, with scarfs of blue and silver fringe, and sat upon an elevated semicircular bench, raised upon a flight of steps, placed in a large alcove, lined with tapestry. the secretaries, and subordinate officers were seated below them. on the left the prisoner was placed, without irons, in the custody of two gendarmes, formerly called maréchaussées, who had their long swords drawn. these soldiers have a very military appearance, and are a fine, and valuable body of men. i fear the respectable impression which i would wish to convey of them will suffer, when i inform my reader, that they are servants of the police, and answer to our bow-street runners. the swiftness with which they pursue, and apprehend offenders, is surprising. we were received with politeness, and conducted to a convenient place for hearing, and seeing all that passed. the accusateur general who sat on the left, wore a costume similar to that of the judges, without the scarf. he opened the trial by relating the circumstances, and declaiming upon the enormity of the offence, by which it appeared that the prisoner stood charged with robbery, accompanied with breach of hospitality; which, in that country, be the amount of the plunder ever so trifling, is at present capital. the address of the public accuser was very florid, and vehement, and attended by violent gestures, occasionally graceful. the pleaders of normandy are considered as the most eloquent men in france, i have heard several of them, but they appear to me, to be too impassioned. their motions in speaking frequently look like madness. he ransacked his language to furnish himself with reproachful epithets against the miserable wretch by the side of him, who with his hands in his bosom appeared to listen to him, with great sang froid. the witnesses who were kept separate, previous to their giving their evidence, were numerous, and proved many robberies against him, attended with aggravated breaches of hospitality. the court entered into proofs of offences committed by the prisoner at different times, and upon different persons. the women who gave their testimony, exhibited a striking distinction between the timidity of english females, confronting the many eyes of a crowded court of justice, and the calm self possession with which the french ladies here delivered their unperturbed testimony. the charges were clearly proved, and the prisoner was called upon for his defence. undismayed, and with all the practised hardihood of an old bailey felon, he calmly declared, that he purchased the pile of booty produced in the court, for sums of money, the amount of which, he did not then know, of persons he could not name, and in places which he did not remember. he had no advocate. the subject was next resumed, and closed by the official orator who opened it. the court retired, and the criminal was reconducted to the prison behind the hall. after an absence of about twenty minutes, a bell rang to announce the return of the judges, the prisoner entered now, escorted by a file of national guards, to hear his fate. the court then resumed its sitting. the president addressed the unhappy man, very briefly, recapitulated his offences, and read the decree of the republic upon them, by which he doomed him to lose his head at four o'clock that afternoon. it was then ten minutes past one!! the face of this wretched being presented a fine subject for the pencil. his countenance was dark, marked, and melancholy; over it was spread the sallow tint of long imprisonment. his beard was unshorn, and he displayed an indifference to his fate, which not a little surprised me. he immediately retired, and upon his return to his cell, a priest was sent for to prepare him for his doom. at present, in the provinces, all criminal offences are tried before military tribunals, qualified, as i have described this to be, by a mixture of civil judges and bourgeois. it is one of the peculiar characteristics of such tribunals, to order immediate punishment after conviction. in the present instance, the fate of the offender was well known, for his crimes were many, and manifest, and as the interval allowed by military courts between the sentence, and its fulfilment, is so very short, the administrators of the law had postponed his trial for five months from the period of his commitment, for the purpose of affording him an indulgent procrastination. this mode, although arising from merciful motives, is, i am aware, open to objection; but it would be unfair to comment upon laws, which prevailed in times of revolution, and are permitted only to operate, until the fine fabric of french criminal jurisprudence, which is now constructing, shall be presented to the people. to the honour of our country, and one of the greatest ornaments of the british bar, the honourable t. erskine, in the year , furnished the french, with some of these great principles of criminal law, which it was impossible to perfect during the long æra of convulsion, and instability which followed, and which will constitute a considerable part of that great, and humane code, which is about to be bestowed upon the nation, and which will, no doubt, prove to be one of the greatest blessings, which human wisdom can confer upon human weakness. its foundation is nearly similar to that of our own. the great and enlightened genius whose name i have mentioned, has provided that the contumacy of _one_ juryman shall not be able to force the opinion of the rest. after the court had broken up, i visited the town house, which, before the revolution, was the monastery of the benedictines, who, from what appeared of the remains of their establishment, must have been magnificently lodged, and well deserved during their existence, to bear the name of the blessed. the two grand staircases are very fine, and there is a noble garden behind. upon entering the vestibule of the council chamber, formerly the refectory, i thought i was going behind the scenes of a theatre. it was nearly filled with allegorical banners, pasteboard and canvas arches of triumph, altars, emblems of liberty, and despotism, and all the scenic decorations suitable to the frenzied orgies of a republican fête. thank god! they appeared to be tolerably well covered with dust and cobwebs. at the end of this noble room, seated upon a high pedestal, was the goddess of liberty, beautifully executed in marble. "look at that sanguinary prostitute," cried mons. g----, to me, pointing to the statue, "for years have we had liberty and bloodshed, _thank heaven!_ we are now no longer _free_." upon which, he wrote his name in the first consul's book, which was here lying open, upon a table, for the purpose of receiving the suffrages of the department. the laconic irony, and manner of the speaker, afforded me a tolerably good display of the nature of the blessings conferred upon the french, by their late political philosophy. from this place i proceeded to the ci-devant convent of the jesuits, built by one of the munificent dukes de bourbon. it is a magnificent oblong stone building. in the centre of the court was a tree of liberty, which, like almost all the other trees, dedicated to that goddess, which i saw, looked blighted, and sickly. i mention it as a fact, without alluding to any political sentiment whatever. it is a remark in frequent use in france, that the caps of liberty are without heads, and the trees of liberty without root. the poplar has been selected from all the other trees of the forest, for this distinguished honour, from a whimsical synonymy of its name with that of the people. in french, the poplar is called peuplier, and the word peuple signifies people. this fine building is now converted into an university of learning, and the fine arts. from the number of the students, i should suppose the fashionable fervour of study had not as yet reached rouen. the professor of philosophy, with great politeness sent a young man to show me the museum of pictures, for which purpose the church of the jesuits, is at present used. there are several paintings in it, the only fine one, was a dying jesus by vandyke, which was exquisite. upon my expressing my admiration, a young student near me said "oui monsieur c'est très jolie." this misapplied remark, from an easy and natural combination of sound, could not fail of seeming a little singular as applied to such a subject, but every thing that pleases in france is très jolie. from this painting, i was, by importunity, led to view the other parts of the collection, which were composed of large pictures, by french masters; and so natural is local prejudice, every where, that i was almost held down, before the works of the _best artists of rouen_, upon which, as i am at liberty _here_, i shall beg to make no comment. in the students' room, below, were some paintings curious, and valuable only, from their great antiquity, and a few good copies by the pupils. a picture was pointed out to me as a very fine thing, the subject was a fat little cherub, with a full flowing wig, fiddling to st. francis, who from his gloomy appearance seemed not to possess half the musical genius of a dancing bear. upon my return through the market place, i beheld the miserable wretch, at whose trial i was present in the morning, led out to execution. he was seated upon the bottom of a cart, stripped above to his shirt, which was folded back, his arms were pinioned close behind, and his hair was closely cropped, to prevent the stroke of the fatal knife from being impeded. a priest was seated in a chair beside him. as the object of my excursion was to contemplate the manners of the people, i summoned resolution to view this gloomy and painful spectacle, which seemed to excite but little sensation in the market place, where its petty traffic and concerns proceeded with their accustomed activity, and the women at their stalls, which extended to the foot of the scaffold, appeared to be impressed only with the solicitude of selling their vegetables to the highest bidder. a small body of the national guards, and a few boys and idlers surrounded the fatal spot. the guillotine, painted red, was placed upon a scaffold, of about five feet high. as soon as the criminal ascended the upper step which led to it he mounted, by the direction of the executioner, a little board, like a shutter, raised upright to receive him, to which he was strapped, turned down flat, and run into a small ring of iron half opened and made to admit the neck, the top part of which was then closed upon it, a black leather curtain was placed before the head, from which a valve depended, which communicated to a tub, placed under the scaffold to receive the blood, the executioner then touched a long thin iron rod, connected with the top of the instrument, and in a moment the axe descended, which was in the form of a square, cut diagonally, heavily charged with lead. the executioner and his assistants placed the body in a shell, half filled with saw dust, which was almost completely stained over with the brown blood of former executions; they then picked up the head, from a bag into which it had fallen, within the curtain, and having placed it in the same gloomy depository, lowered the whole down to the sextons, who covering it with a pall bore it off to the place of burial. the velocity of this mode of execution can alone recommend it. the pangs of death are passed almost in the same moment, which presents to the terrified eye of the sufferer the frightful apparatus of his disgraceful dissolution. it is a dreary subject to discuss; but surely it is a matter of deep regret, that in england, criminals doomed to die, from the uncertain and lingering nature of their annihilation, are seen writhing in the convulsions of death during a period dreadful to think of. it is said, that at the late memorable execution of an african governor for murder, the miserable delinquent was beheld for _fifteen minutes_ struggling with the torments of his untimely fate! the guillotine is far preferable to the savage mode, formerly used in france, of breaking the criminal upon the wheel, and leaving him afterwards to perish in the most poignant agonies. as i have alluded to the fate of governor w----, i will conclude this chapter by relating an anecdote of the terror and infatuation of guilt, displayed in the conduct of this wretched man, in the _presence_ of a friend of mine, from whom i received it--a few years before he suffered, fatigued with life, and pursued by poverty, and the frightful remembrance of his offences, then almost forgotten by the world, he left the south of france for calais, with an intention of passing over to england, to offer himself up to its laws, not without the cherished hope that a lapse of twenty years had swept away all evidence of his guilt. at the time of his arrival at this port town, the hotel in which madame h---- was waiting for a packet to dover was very crowded--the landlord requested of her, that she would be pleased to permit two gentlemen, who were going to england, to take some refreshment in her room; these persons proved to be the unfortunate brooks, a king's messenger, charged with important dispatches to his court, and governor w----. the latter was dressed like a decayed gentleman, and bore about him all the indications of his extreme condition. they had not been seated at the table long, before the latter informed the former, with evident marks of perturbation, that his name was w----, that having been charged in england with offences, which, if true, subjected him to heavy punishment, he was anxious to place himself at the disposal of its laws, and requested of him, as he was an english messenger, that he would consider him as his prisoner, and take charge of him. the messenger, who was much surprised by the application told him, that he could not upon such a representation take him into custody, unless he had an order from the duke of portland's office to that effect, and that in order to obtain it, it would be proper for him to write his name, that it might be compared with his hand writing in the office of the secretary at war, which he offered to carry over with him. governor w---- still pressed him to take him into custody, the messenger more strongly declined it, by informing him that he was the bearer of dispatches of great importance to his court, that he must immediately cross the channel, and should hazard a passage, although the weather looked lowering, in an open boat, as no packets had arrived, and that consequently it was altogether impossible to take him over, but again requested him to write his name, for the purpose already mentioned; the governor consented, pens and paper were brought, but the hand of the murderer shook so dreadfully, that he could _not write it_, and in an agony of mind, bordering upon frenzy, he rushed out of the room, and immediately left the town. the messenger entered the boat, and set sail; a storm quickly followed, _the boat sunk in sight of the pier_, and all on board but one of the watermen, perished!!! the great disposer of human destiny, in vindication of his eternal justice, rescued the life of this infatuated delinquent from the waves, and from a sudden death, to resign him to the public and merited doom of the laws. chapter vii. _filial piety.--st. catharine's mount.--madame phillope.--general ruffin's trumpet.--generosity.--love infectious.--masons and gardeners._ i have before had occasion to mention the humane conduct of madame g---- towards the persecuted abbè; she soon afterwards, with the principal ladies of the city, fell under the displeasure of robespierre, and his agents. their only crime was wealth, honourably acquired. a committee, composed of the most worthless people of rouen, was formed, who, in the name of, and for the use of the nation, seized upon the valuable stock of messrs. g----, who were natives of france. in one night, by torchlight, their extensive warehouses were sacked, and all their stores were forcibly sold in the public marketplace to the best bidder: the plundered merchants were paid the amount of the sale in assignats, in a paper currency which then bore an enormous discount, and shortly afterwards retained only the value of the paper upon which the national note was written. in short, in a few hours an honourable family, nobly allied, were despoiled of property to the amount of , _l._ sterling. other merchants shared the same fate. this act of robbery was followed by an act of cruelty. madame g----, the mother, who was born in england, and who married a french gentleman of large fortune, whom she survived, of a delicate frame and advanced in years, was committed to prison, where, with many other female sufferers, she was closely confined for eleven months, during which time she was compelled to endure all sorts of privations. after the committee of rapine had settled their black account, and had remitted the guilty balance to their employers, the latter, in a letter of "friendly collusion, and fraudulent familiarity," after passing a few revolutionary jokes upon what had occurred, observed that the g----s seemed to bleed very freely, and that as it was likely they must have credit with many persons to a large amount, directed their obedient and active banditti to order these devoted gentlemen to draw, and to deliver to them, their draughts upon all such persons who stood indebted to their extensive concern. in the words of a celebrated orator[ ], "though they had shaken the tree till nothing remained upon the leafless branches, yet a new flight was on the wing, to watch the first buddings of its prosperity, and to nip every hope of future foliage and fruit." [ ] vide sheridan's oration against hastings upon the begum charge. the g----s expected this visit, and, by an ingenious, and justified expedient, prevented their perdition from becoming decisive. soon after the gates of the prison were closed upon madame g----, her eldest son, a man of commanding person, and eloquent address, in defiance of every friendly, and of every affectionate entreaty, flew to paris. it was in the evening of the last winter which beheld its snows crimsoned with revolutionary carnage, when he presented himself, undismayed, before that committee, whose horrible nature will be better described by merely relating the names of its members, then sitting, than by the most animated and elaborate delineations of all its deadly deeds of rapine and of blood. at a table, covered with green cloth, shabbily lighted, in one of the committee rooms of the national assembly, were seated robespierre, collot d'herbois, carnot, and david. they were occupied in filling up the lists for the _permanent_ guillotine, erected very near them, in la place de la revolution, which the executioners were then clearing of its gore, and preparing for the next day's butchery. in this devoted capital more blood had, during that day, streamed upon the scaffold, than on any one day during the revolution. the terrified inhabitants, in darkness, in remote recesses of their desolate houses, were silently offering up a prayer to the great god of mercy to release them, in a way most suitable to his wisdom, from such scenes of deep dismay, and remorseless slaughter. robespierre, as usual, was dressed with great neatness and gayety; the _savage_ was generally _scented_, whilst his associates were habited, en jacobin, in the squalid, filthy fashion of that era of the revolution, in the dress of blackguards. mr. g---- bowed, and addressed them very respectfully. "i am come, citizens, before you," said this amiable son, "to implore the release of my mother; she is pining in the prison of rouen, without having committed any offence; she is in years; and if her confinement continues, her children whose fortunes have been placed at the disposal of the national exigencies, will have to lament her death; grant the prayer of her son, restore, i conjure you, by all the rights of nature, restore her to her afflicted family." robespierre looked obliquely at him, and with his accustomed sharpness, interrupted him from proceeding further, by exclaiming, "what right have _you_ to appear before us, miscreant? you are an agent of pitt and cobourg (the then common phrase of reproach) you shall be sent to the guillotine--why are you not at the frontiers?" monsieur g----, unappalled, replied, "give me my mother, and i will be there to morrow, i am ready instantly to spill my blood, if it must be the price of _her_ discharge." robespierre, whose savage soul was occasionally moved by sights of heroic virtue, seemed impressed by this brave and unusual address. he paused, and after whispering a few words to his associates, wrote the discharge, and handing it over to a soldier, for the successful petitioner, he fiercely told him to retire. mr. g---- instantly set out for rouen, where, after a long, and severe journey, he arrived, exhausted with fatigue, and agitation of mind; without refreshment, this excellent man flew to the gates of the prison, which contained his mother, and presented the discharge to the gaoler, who drily, with a brutal grin, informed him, that a trick had been played off upon him, that he had just received a counter order, which he held in his hand, and refused to release her!!! it turned out, that immediately after mr. g---- had left the committee room, the relenting disposition, which he had momentarily awakened in the barbarous breast of robespierre, had subsided. the generous sentiment was of a short, and sickly growth, and withered under the gloomy, fatal shade of his sanguinary nature. a chasseur had been dispatched with the counterorder, who passed the exulting, but deluded g---- on the road. a short time after this, and a few days before madame g----, and her unhappy companions were to have perished on the scaffold, the gates of their prison flew open, the world was released from a monster--robespierre was no more. this interesting recital i received from one of the amiable sufferers, in our way to st. catharine's mount. the story afforded a melancholy contrast to the rich and cheerful scenes about us. from the attic story of a lofty house, built under this celebrated cliff, we ascended that part of it, which, upon the road to paris, is only accessible in this manner. when we reached the top, the prospect was indeed superb; on one side we traced for miles, the romantic meanders of the seine, every where forming little islands of poplars; before us, melting away in the horizon, were the blue mountains of lower normandy; at their feet, a variegated display of meadows, forests, corn fields, and vineyards; immediately below us, the city of rouen, and its beautiful suburbs. this delicious, and expanded prospect, we enjoyed upon a seat erected near a little oratory, which is built upon the top of the mountain, resting, at one end, upon the pedestal of a cross, which, in the times of the revolution, had been shattered and overturned. from this place, before dinner, we proceeded to la montagne; a wild and hilly country, lying opposite to st. catharine's. here we were overtaken by a storm, upon which, a curé, who had observed us from his little cottage, not far distant, and who had been very lately reinstated in the cure of the church, in the neighbouring village, came out to us, with an umbrella, and invited us to dinner. upon our return to our inn, to dress, we were annoyed by a nuisance which had before frequently assailed us. i knew a man, who in a moment of ill humour, vented rather a revengeful wish that the next neighbour of his enemy might have a child, who was fond of a _whistle_ and a _drum_! a more insufferable nuisance was destined for us; the person who lodged in the next room to mine, was a beginner (and a dull one too) upon the _trumpet_. it was general ruffin, whom i have mentioned before, forcing from this brazen tube, sounds which certainly would have set a kennel of hounds in a cry of agony, and were almost calculated to disturb the repose of the dead. general ruffin, in all other respects, was a very polite, and indeed a very _quiet_ young man, and a brave warrior; but in the display of his passion for music, i fear he mistook either his talent or his instrument. at one time we thought of inviting him to dine with us, that we might have a little respite, but after debating the matter well over, we conceived that to entertain an italian hero, as he ought to be received by those who admire valour even in an enemy, was purchasing silence at a very advanced price, so we submitted to the evil with that resignation which generally follows the incurable absence of a remedy. we now addressed ourselves to madame p----, to know how long the general had learned the trumpet, and whether his leisure hours were generally occupied in this way. madame p. was, strange to tell, not very able to afford us much information upon the subject. she was under the influence of love. the natural tranquillity of her disposition, was improved by the prospect of connubial happiness, which, although a widow, and touching the frontier of her eight and thirtieth year, she shortly expected to receive from the son of a neighbouring architect, who was then a minor. in this blissful frame of mind, our fair hostess scarcely knew when the trumpet of general r---- sounded. her soul was in harmony with all the world, and it was not in the power of the demon of discord, nor even of this annoying brazen tube, to disturb her. madame p---- well deserved to be blessed with such equanimity, and if _she_ liked it, with such a lover, for she was a generous and good creature. a gentleman to whom i was afterwards introduced, when the revolution began to grow hot, fled with his lady and his children into a foreign country, where, upon the relics of a shattered fortune he remained, until things wore a better aspect, and enabled him, with a prospect of safety, to return to his native country. in better times, upon his annual visits to a noble chateau, and large estates which he once possessed in this part of normandy, he was accustomed to stop at the hôtel de poitiers. his equipage was then splendid, and suitable to his affluent circumstances. upon his return to france, this gentleman, harassed by losses, and fatigued by sickness, arrived with his accomplished lady, and their elegant children, in a hired cabriole, at the gate of madame p----. as soon as their name was announced, the grateful hostess presented herself before them, and kissing the children, burst into tears of joy; when she had recovered herself, she addressed her old patron, by expressing her hopes, that he had amended his fortune abroad, and was now returning to enjoy himself in tranquillity at home. "alas! my good madame p----," said this worthy gentleman, "we left our country, as you know, to save our lives, we have subsisted upon the remains of our fortune ever since, and have sustained heavy and cruel losses; we have been taken prisoners upon our passage, and are now returning to our home, if any is left to us, to solicit some reparation for our sufferings. times are altered, madame p----, you must not now consider me as formerly, when i expended the gifts of providence in a manner which i hope was not altogether unworthy of the bounty which showered them upon me, we must bow down to such dispensations, you see i am candid with you; we are fatigued, and want refreshment, give us, my good landlady, a little plain dinner, such as is suitable to our present condition." madame p---- was so much affected, that she could make no reply, and left the room. immediately all the kitchen was in a bustle, every pot and pan were placed in instant requisition, the chamber-maids were sent to the neighbouring confectioners for cakes, and the porter was dispatched all over the city for the choicest fruits. in a short time a noble dinner was served up to this unfortunate family, followed by confectionary, fruits, and burgundy. when the repast was over, mons. o---- ordered his bill, and his cabriole to be got ready. madame p----entered, and in the most amiable manner requested him, as she had exceeded his orders, to consider the dinner as a little acknowledgement of her sense of his past favours; money, though earnestly pressed upon her, she would not receive. the whole of this interesting party were moved to tears, by this little act of nature and generosity. when they entered their carriage, they found in it bouquets of flowers, and boxes of cakes for the little children. no doubt madame p----moved lighter that day, than she ever did in her life, and perhaps found the remembrance of her conduct upon the occasion almost as exquisite as the hours of love, which she appeared most happily to enjoy, when we had the honour of being under her roof. monsieur o---- could not help exhibiting much feeling, when he related this little event to me. i must not fail to mention that all the house seemed, for the moment, infected with the happy disease of the mistress. general ruffin's valet de chambre was in love with dorothée, our chamber-maid; the porter was pining for a little black eyed grisette, who sold prints and pastry, in a stall opposite; and the ostler was eternally quarrelling with the chef de cuisine, who repelled him from the kitchen, which, in the person of the assistant cook, a plump rosy norman girl, contained all the treasure of his soul--love and negligence reigned throughout the household. we rang the bells, and sacre dieu'd, but all in vain, we suffered great inconvenience, _but who could be angry?_ in the course of our walks, and conversations, with the workmen, whom we met, we found that most of the masons, and gardeners of rouen, had fought in the memorable, bloody, and decisive battle of marengo, at which it appears that a great part of the military of france, within four or five hundred miles of the capital, were present. the change they presented was worthy of observation; we saw men sun-browned in campaigns, and enured to all the ferocity of war, at the sound of peace assuming all the tranquil habits of ingenious industry, or rustic simplicity. some of them were occupied in forming the shapeless stone into graceful embellishments for elegant houses, and others in disposing, with botanic taste, the fragrant parterre. after spending four very delightful days in this agreeable city, i bade adieu to my very worthy companion, captain w. c----, whose intention it was to spend some time here, and those friends, from whom i had received great attention and hospitalities, and wishing the amiable madame p---- many happy years, and receiving from her the same assurances of civility, about seven o'clock in the evening i seated myself in the diligence for paris, and in a comfortable corner of it, after we had passed the pavé, resigned myself to sleep. chapter viii. _early dinner.--mante.--frost.--duke de sully.--approach the capital.--norman barrier.--paris.--hôtel de rouen.--palais royal._ at day break, the appearance of the country in all directions was delightful. the faint eastern blush of early morn, threw a mild, refreshing light over the moist and dew-dripping scenery. the spirit of our immortal bard, awaking from the bosom of nature, seemed to exclaim-- ------------look love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds, in yonder east; night's candles are burnt out; and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. about eight o'clock in the morning, we arrived at mante, a picturesque town, built upon a fertile mountain, at the base of which the seine flowed along, rippling against its many islands of beautiful poplars. at this hour, upon our alighting at the inn, we found a regular dinner ready, consisting of soups, meats, fowls, and confectionary. to the no small surprise of the host, i expressed a wish to have some breakfast, and at length, after much difficulty, procured some coffee and rolls. the rest of the party, with great composure, tucked their napkins in the buttonholes of their waistcoats, and applied themselves to the good things before them, with very active address. what a happy race of people! ready for every thing, and at all times; they scarcely know the meaning of inconvenience. in the midst of difficulty, they find accommodation; with them, every thing seems in harmony. after paying thirty sols for my repast, a charge which announced our approach to the capital, i walked on, and made my way to the bridge over another winding of the seine, at the bottom of the town; which is a light, and elegant structure. the houses along the sides of the river are handsome, and delightfully situated. the principal church is a fine gothic building, but is rapidly hastening to decay; some of its pinnacles are destroyed, and all its windows broken in. a small chapel, in the street opposite, which had an appearance of considerable elegance, was converted into a slaughter-house. embosomed in woods, on the other side of the bridge, is a fine chateau, formerly belonging to the count d'adhemar; here, while enjoying the enchanting prospect about me, i heard the jingling approach of our heavy diligence, in which, having reseated myself, we proceeded upon a fine high road, through thick rows of walnut, cherry, mulberry, and apple trees, for several miles, on each side of which, were vineyards, upon whose promising vintage, the frost had committed sad devastation. for a vast extent, they appeared blackened and burnt up. it was said that france sustained a loss of two millions sterling, by this unusual visitation. in the course of our journey, i experienced in the conduct of one of our two female companions, an occurrence, allied to that, which is related by sterne, of madame de rambouillet, by which he very justly illustrates the happy ease, with which the french ladies prevent themselves from ever suffering by inconvenient notions of delicacy. a few miles from mante, on the borders of the seine, we passed one of the venerable chateaus of the celebrated duke de sully, the faithful, able, and upright minister, of henry iv of france, one of those great geniuses, who only at distant æras of time, are permitted to shine out amongst the race of men. historians unite in observing that the duke performed all the duties of an active and upright minister, under a master, who exercised all the offices of a great and good king; after whose unhappy fate, this excellent man retired from the busy scenes of the world, and covered with time and honours expired in the eighty-second year of his age in the year , at his castle of villebon. the house is plain, and large. the grounds are disposed after the fashion of ancient times. as we approached the capital, the country looked very rich and luxuriant. we passed through the forest of st. germains, where there is a noble palace, built upon a lofty mountain. the forest abounds with game, and formerly afforded the delights of the chase to the royal nimrods of france. its numerous green alleys are between two and three miles long, and in the form of radii unite in a centre. the forest and park extend to the barrier, through which, we immediately entered the town of st. germains, distant from paris about twelve miles, which is a large and populous place, and in former periods, during the royal residence, was rich and flourishing, but having participated in the blessings of the revolution, presents an appearance of considerable poverty, and squalid decay. here we changed horses for the last post, and ran down a fine, broad paved, royal road through rows of stately elms, upon an inclined plane, until the distant, and wide, but clear display of majestic domes, awful towers, and lofty spires, informed us that we approached the capital. i could not help comparing them with their cloud-capped brethren of london, over whose dim-discovered heads, a floating mass of unhealthy smoke, for ever suspends its heavy length of gloom. our carriage stopped at the norman barrier, which is the grand entrance to paris, and here presents a magnificent prospect to the eye. the barrier is formed of two very large, and noble military stone lodges, having porticoes, on all sides, supported by massy doric pillars. these buildings were given to the nation, by the national assembly in the year , and are separated from each other, by a range of iron gates, adorned with republican emblems. upon a gentle declivity; through quadruple rows of elms, at the distance of a mile and a half, the gigantic statues of la place de la concorde (ci-devant, de la revolution) appear; beyond which, the gardens, and the palace of the thuilleries, upon the centre tower of which, the tricoloured flag was waving, form the back scene of this splendid spectacle. before we entered la place de la concorde, we passed on each side of us, the beautiful, and favourite walks of the parisians, called les champs elysées, and afterwards, on our left, the elegant palace of the garde-meuble; where we entered the streets of paris, and soon afterwards alighted at the bureau of the diligences; from which place, i took a fiacre (a hackney coach) and about six o'clock in the evening presented myself to the _mistress_ of the hôtel de rouen, for the women of france generally transact all the masculine duties of the house. to this hotel i was recommended by messrs. g----, upon mentioning whose name, i was very politely shown up to a suite of pleasant apartments, consisting of an antiroom, bedroom, and dressing-room, the two latter were charmingly situated, the windows of which, looked out upon an agreeable garden belonging to the palace of the louvre. for these rooms i paid the moderate price of three livres a day. here, after enjoying those comforts which travellers after long journies, require, and a good dinner into the bargain, about nine o'clock at night i sallied out to the palais royal, a superb palace built by the late duke d'orleans, who when he was erecting it, publickly boasted, that he would make it one of the greatest brothels in europe, in which prediction he succeeded, to the full consummation of his abominable wishes. this palace is now the property of the nation. the grand entrance is from the rue st. honorè, a long street, something resembling the piccadilly of london, but destitute, like all the other streets of paris, of that ample breadth, and paved footway, for the accommodation of pedestrian passengers, which give such a decided superiority to the streets of the capital of england. after passing through two noble courts, i entered the piazza, of this amazing pile; which is built of stone, upon arches, supported by corinthian pilasters. its form is an oblong square, with gardens, and walks in the centre. the whole is considered to be, about one thousand four hundred feet long, and three hundred feet broad. the finest shops of paris for jewellery, watches, clocks, mantuamakers, restaurateurs[ ], china, magazines, &c., form the back of the piazza, which on all the sides, of this immense fabric, affords a very fine promenade. these shops once made a part of the speculation, of their mercenary, and abandoned master, to whom they each paid a rent after the rate of two or three hundred pounds sterling per annum. this place presents a scene of profligate voluptuousness, not to be equalled upon any spot in europe. women of character are almost afraid to appear here at noon day; and a stranger would conceive, that at night, he saw before him, one third of the beauty of paris. [ ] restaurateur is now universally used instead of traiteur. under the roof of this palace are two theatres, museums of curiosities, the tribunate, gaming houses, billiard rooms, buillotte clubs, ball rooms, &c., all opening into the gardens, the windows of which threw, from their numerous lamps, and lustres, a stream of gay and gaudy light upon the walks below, and afforded the appearance of a perpetual illumination. at the bottom was a large pavilion, finely illuminated, in which were groups of people regaling themselves with lemonade, and ices. upon this spot, in the early part of the revolution, the celebrated camille desmoulins used to declaim against the abuses of the old government, to all the idle and disaffected of paris. it is said that the liveries of the duc d'orleans gave birth to the republican colours, which used to be displayed in the hats of his auditors, who in point of respectability resembled the motley reformers of chalk farm. from the carousing rooms under ground, the ear was filled with the sounds of music, and the buzzing of crowds; in short, such a scene of midnight revelry and dissipation i never before beheld. upon my return to my hôtel, i was a little surprised to find the streets of this gay city so meanly lighted. lamps placed at gloomy distances from each other, suspended by cords, from lofty poles, furnish the only means of directing the footsteps of the nocturnal wanderer. chapter ix. _french reception.--voltaire.--restaurateur.--consular guard.--music.--venetian horses.--gates of the palace.--gardens of the thuilleries.--statues.--the faithful vase.--the sabine picture.--monsieur perrègaux.--marquis de chatelet.--madame perrègaux.--beaux and belles of paris._ i forgot, in my last chapter, to mention that i paid for my place, and luggage in the diligence, from rouen to paris, a distance of ninety miles, twenty-three livres and eighteen sols. the next morning after my arrival, and a good night's repose in a sopha bed, constructed after the french fashion, which was very lofty, and handsome, and very comfortable, i waited upon my accomplished friend, madame h----, in the rue florentine. i had the honour of knowing her when in england, from very early years; i found her with her elegant and accomplished daughter, in a suite of large rooms, very handsomely furnished after the _antique_, which gives to the present fashionable furniture of france, its form and character. these rooms composed a floor of a noble stone built house, which contained several other families; such is the customary mode of being lodged in the capital. she received me in the most charming manner, and had expected me for some days, previous to my arrival, and was that evening going to her country house at passi, a few miles from paris, whither she pressed me to accompany her, but i declined it, on account of the short time which i had before me to spend in paris. madame h---- was not only a beauty, but a woman of wit and learning, and had accordingly admitted voltaire amongst the number of her household gods; the arch old cynic, with his deathlike sarcastic face, admirably represented, by a small whole length porcelain statue, occupied the centre of her chimney piece. upon finding that i was disposed to remain in town, she recommended me to a restaurateur, in the gardens of the thuilleries, one of the first eating houses in paris, for society, and entertainment, to the master of which she sent her servant, with my name, to inform him, that she had recommended an english gentleman of her acquaintance to his house, and requested that an english servant in his service might attend to me, when i dined there. this was a little valuable civility, truly french. this house has been lately built under the auspices of the first consul, from a design, approved of by his own exquisite taste; he has permitted the entrance to open into the gardens of the consular palace. the whole is from a model of one of the little palaces of the herculaneum, it is upon a small scale, built of a fine white stone, it contains a centre, with a portico, supported by doric pillars, and two long wings. the front is upon the terrace of the gardens, and commands an enchanting view of all its beautiful walks and statues. on the ground floor the house is divided into three long and spacious apartments, opening into each other through centre arches, and which are redoubled upon the view by immense pier glasses at each end. the first room is for dinner parties, the next for ices, and the third for coffee. in the middle is a flying staircase, lined on each side with orange trees, which ascends into a suite of upper dinner rooms, all of which are admirably painted after the taste of the herculaneum, and are almost lined with costly pier glasses. my fair countrywomen would perhaps be a little surprised to be told, that elegant women, of the first respectability, superbly dressed for the promenade, dine here with their friends in the public room, a custom which renders the scene delightful, and removes from it the accustomed impressions of grossness. upon entering, the guest is presented with a dinner chart, handsomely printed, enumerating the different dishes provided for that day, with their respective prices affixed. all the people who frequent this place are considered highly respectable. the visitor is furnished with ice for his water decanters, with the best attendance at dinner, and with all the english and foreign newspapers. i always dined here when i was not engaged. after parting from madame h----, who intended returning to town the next day, i went to see the consular guard relieved at the thuilleries. about five companies of this distinguished regiment assemble in the gardens, exactly at five minutes before twelve o'clock, and, preceded by their fine band of music, march through the hall of the palace, and form the line in the grand court yard before it, where they are joined by a squadron of horse. their uniform is blue, with broad white facings. the consular guard were in a little disgrace, and were not permitted to do the entire duty of the palace at this time, nor during several succeeding days, as a mark of the first consul's displeasure, which had been excited by some unguarded expression of the common men, respecting his conduct, and which, to the jealous ear of a new created and untried authority, sounded like the tone of disaffection. only the cavalry were allowed to mount guard, the infantry were, provisionally, superseded by a detachment from a fine regiment of hussars. on account of the shortness of this parade, which is always dismissed precisely at ten minutes past twelve o'clock, it is not much attended. the band is very fine, they had a turkish military instrument, which i never heard before, and was used instead of triangles. it was in the shape of four canopies, like the roofs of chinese temples, one above another, lessening as they ascended, made of thin plates of brass, and fringed with very little brass bells, it was supported by a sliding rod which dropped into a handle, out of which, when it was intended to be sounded, it was suddenly jerked by the musician, and produced a good effect with the other instruments. the tambour major is remarked for his noble appearance, and for the proportions of his person, which is very handsome: his full dress uniform on the grand parade is the most splendid thing, i ever beheld. the corps of pioneers who precede the regiment, have a singular appearance. these men are rather above six feet high, and proportionably made, they wear fierce mustachios, and long black beards, lofty bear skin caps, broad white leathern aprons, which almost touch their chins, and over their shoulders carry enormous hatchets. their strange costume seemed to unite the dissimilar characters of high priest, and warrior. they looked like _military magi_. the common men made a very martial appearance. their officers wore english riding boots, which had an unmilitary effect. paris at present exhibits all the appearances of a city in a state of siege. the consular palace resembles a line of magnificent barracks, at the balconies, and upon the terraces of which, soldiers are every where to be seen lounging. this palace is partitioned between the first and second consuls, the third principal magistrate resides in a palace near the louvre, opposite to the thuilleries. the four colossal brazen horses, called the venetian horses, which have been brought from venice, are mounted upon lofty pedestals, on each side of the gates of the grand court yard of the palace. when the roman emperor constantine founded constantinople, he attached these exquisite statues to the chariot of the sun in the hippodromus, or circus, and when that capital was taken possession of by the venetian and french crusading armies, in , the venetians obtained possession of them, amongst many other inestimable curiosities, and placed these horses in four niches over the great door of the church of st. marco. respecting their previous history, authors very much differ; some assert that they were cast by the great statuary lysippus, in alexander's time, others that they were raised over the triumphal arch of augustus, others of nero, and thence removed to the triumphal arch of constantine, from which he carried them to his own capital. they are said to be composed of bronze and gold, which much resembles the famous composition of the corinthian brass. although these statues are of an enormous size, they are too diminutive for the vast pile of building which they adorn. the same remark applies to the entrance gates, of massy iron, which have just been raised by the directions of the first consul. the tricolour flag, mounted upon the centre dome of the palace, is also too small. from the court yard i entered the gardens, which are very beautiful, and about seven o'clock in the evening, form one of the favourite and fashionable walks of the parisians. they are disposed in regular promenades, in which are many fine casts from the ancient statues, which adorn the hall of antiques, and on each side are noble orange trees, which grow in vast moveable cases; many of these exotics are twenty feet high. until lately many of the antiques were placed here, but bonaparte, with his accustomed judgment and veneration for the arts, has had them removed into the grand national collection, and has supplied their places by these beautiful copies, amongst which i particularly distinguished those of hippomanes, and atalanta, for the beauty of their proportions, and the exquisite elucidation of their story. here are also some fine basins of water, in the middle of which are jets d'eau. the gravel walks of the gardens are watered every morning in hot weather, and centinels are stationed at every avenue, to preserve order: no person is admitted who is the carrier of a parcel, however small. here are groups of people to be seen, every morning, reading the prints of the day, in the refreshing coolness of the shade. for the use of a chair in the gardens, of which there are some hundreds, the proprietor is thankful for the smallest coin of the republic. at the bottom of the steps, leading to the terrace, in front of the palace, are some beautiful vases, of an immense size, which are raised about twelve feet from the ground: in one of them, which was pointed out to me, an unpopular and persecuted parisian saved nearly all his property, during the revolution. a short time before the massacre of the th of august, , when the domiciliary visits became frequent and keen, this man, during a dark night, stole, unobserved by the guards, into the garden, with a bag under his arm, containing almost all his treasure; he made his way to the vase, which, from the palace, is on the right hand, next to the feuillans, and, after some difficulty, committed the whole to the capacious bosom of the faithful depositary: this done, he retreated in safety; and when the time of terrour was passed, fearful that he should not be able to raise his bag from the deep bottom of the urn without a discovery, which might have rendered the circumstance suspicious, and perhaps hazardous to him, he presented himself before the minister of the police, verified the narrative of the facts, and was placed in the quiet possession of his property, which in this manner had remained undisturbed during all that frightful period. from the gardens i went to the exhibition of david's celebrated painting of the suspension of the battle between the sabines and the romans, produced by the wives of the latter rushing, with their children in their arms, between the approaching warriors. david is deservedly considered as the first living artist in france, and this splendid picture is worthy of his pencil. it is upon an immense scale. all the figures (of which there are many) are as large as life. the principal female raising her terrified infant, and the two chief combatants, are inimitable. i was informed, by good authority, that the court of russia had offered _l._ sterling for it, an unexampled price for any modern painting! but that david, who is very rich, felt a reluctance in parting with it, to the emperor, on account of the climate of russia being unfavourable to colour. from this beautiful painting, i went to pay my respects to mons. o----, who resided at the further end of paris, upon whom i had a letter of credit. upon my arriving at his hotel, i was informed by the porter that his master was at his chateau, about ten miles in the country, with his family, where he lay extremely ill. this news rendered it necessary for me to leave paris for a day and a night at least. from mons. o---- i went to mr. perregaux, the rich banker and legislator, to whom i had letters of introduction. he lives in the rue mont blanc, a street, the place of residence of the principal bankers, and is next door neighbour to his rival mons. r----, whose lady has occasioned some little conversation. mons. p----'s hotel is very superb. his chief clerks occupy rooms elegantly fitted up, and decorated with fine paintings. he received me in a very handsome manner, in a beautiful little cabinet, adorned with some excellent, and costly paintings. after many polite expressions from him, i laughingly informed him of the dilemma in which i was placed by the unexpected absence of mons. o----; upon which mons. p---- in the most friendly manner told me that the letters which i had brought were from persons whom he highly esteemed; and that mr. o---- was also his friend; that as it might prove inconvenient for me to wait upon him in the country, he begged to have the pleasure of furnishing me with whatever money i wanted, upon my own draughts. i felt this act of politeness and liberality very forcibly, which i of course declined, as i wished not only to take up what money i wanted in a regular manner, but i was desirous of seeing mr. o----, who was represented to me as a very amiable man, and his family as elegant and accomplished. i was much charmed with the generous conduct of mons. p----, from whom i afterwards received great attentions, and who is much beloved by the english. i felt it a pleasurable duty not to confine the knowledge of such an act of liberality to the spot where it was so handsomely manifested. the sessions of the legislative assembly had closed the day before my arrival, a circumstance i much regretted, as through his means i should have been enabled to have attended their sittings. the bankers of france are immensely rich, and almost command the treasury of the nation. mons. p----, with the well-timed, silent submission of the flexible reed, in the fable, has survived the revolutionary storm, which by a good, but guiltless policy, has passed over him, without leaving one stain upon his honourable character, and has operated, like the slime of the egyptian inundation, only to fructify, and increase his fortunes. he once however narrowly escaped. in the time of robespierre, the marquis de chatelet, a few nights before his execution, attempted to corrupt his guards, and told them, if they would release him, mons. p---- would give them a draft to any amount which they might choose then to name. the centinels rejected the bribe, and informed their sanguinary employer of the offer, who had the books of mons. p---- investigated: he was in no shape concerned in the attempted escape; but hearing, with extraordinary swiftness, that the marquis, whose banker he had been, and to whom an inconsiderable balance was then due, had implicated him in this manner, he instantly with dexterity, removed the page which contained the last account of the unhappy nobleman, and also his own destiny, and thus saved his life. mons. p---- is a widower; his daughter, an only child, is married to a wealthy general, a man of great bravery, and beloved by bonaparte. i dined this day at the restaurateur's in the thuilleries, and found the effect of madame h----'s charming civility to me. there were some beautiful women present, dressed after the antique, a fashion successfully introduced by david. this extraordinary genius was desirous of dressing the beaux of paris after the same model; but they politely declined it, alleging that if mons. david would at the same time create another climate, warmer, and more regular for them, they would then submit the matter to a committee of fashion. the women, though said, in point of corporal sufferance, to be able to endure less than men, were enchanted with the design of the artist, and, without approaching a single degree nearer to the sun, unmindful of colds, consumptions, and death, have assumed a dress, if such it can be called, the airiness of which to the eye of fancy, looked like the mist of incense, undulating over a display of beauty and symmetry, only to be rivalled by those exquisite models of grecian taste which first furnished them with these new ideas of personal decoration. the french ladies every morning anoint their heads with the antique oil, scented; their sidelocks are formed into small circles, which just touch the bosom; and the hair behind is rolled into a rose, by which they produce a perfect copy of the ancient bust. chapter x. _large dogs.--a plan for becoming quickly acquainted with paris.--pantheon.--tombs of voltaire and rousseau.--politeness of an emigrant.--the beauty of france.--beauty evanescent.--place de carousel.--infernal machine.--fouché.--seine.--washerwomen.--fisherwomen.--baths._ in the streets of paris, i every where saw an unusual number of very large, fierce looking dogs, partaking of the breed of the newfoundland, and british bulldog. during the time of terrour, these brave and faithful animals were in much request, and are said to have given the alarm of danger, and saved, in several instances, the lives and property of their masters, by their accustomed fidelity. upon my arrival in this great capital, i was of course desirous of becoming acquainted with its leading features as soon as possible, for the purpose of being enabled to explore my way to any part of it, without a guide. the scheme which i thought of, for this purpose, answered my wishes, and therefore i may presume to submit it to others. on the second day after my arrival, i purchased a map of paris, hired a fiacre, and drove to the pantheon. upon the top gallery which surmounts its lofty and magnificent dome, i made a survey of the city, which lay below me, like the chart with which i compared it. the clouds passed swiftly over my head, and from the shape of the dome, impressed me with an idea of moving in the air, upon the top, instead of the bottom of a balloon. i easily attained my object, by tracing the churches, the temple, the abbey, the palaces, large buildings, and the course and islands of the river, after which i seldom had occasion to retrace my steps, when i was roving about, unaccompanied. on account of no coal being used in paris, the prospect was perfectly clear, and the air is consequently salubrious. the pantheon, or church of st. genevieve, is a magnificent building from the designs of mons. soufflet, one of the first architects of france: it was intended to be the rival of the st. paul's of london; but, though a very noble edifice, it must fail of exciting any emotions of jealousy amongst the admirers of that national building. it is a magnificent pile, and when completed, is destined to be the principal place of worship, and is at present the mausoleum of the deceased great men of france. upon the entablature over the portico is written, in immense characters, "aux grands hommes--la patrie reconnoisante." parallel with the grand entrance, are colossal statues, representing the virtues imputed to a republic. soon after the completion of the inner dome, about two years since, one of the main supporting pillars was crushed in several places by the pressure. the defective column has been removed, and until it can be replaced, its proportion of weight is sustained by a most ingenious and complicated wooden structure. upon the spot where the altar is to be erected, i saw another goddess of liberty, with her usual appendages carved in wood, and painted, and raised by the order of robespierre, for a grand revolutionary fête, which he intended to have given, in this church, upon the very day in which he perished. the interior dome is covered with two larger ones, each of which is supported by separate pillars, and pilasters, and the whole is constructed of stone only. the interior of the lower dome is covered with the most beautiful carvings in stone. the peristyle, or circular colonnade round the lower part of the exterior of the dome, is very fine, but i must confess, i do not like an ancient fashion which the french have just revived in their construction of these pillars, of making the thickest part of the column a little below the centre, and lessening in size to the base. under this immense fabric are spacious vaults, well lighted; supported by doric pillars, the depositaries of the illustrious dead of france. at present there are only two personages whose relics are honoured with this gloomy distinction. rousseau and voltaire very quietly repose by the side of each other. their remains are contained in two separate tombs, which are constructed of wood, and are embellished with various inscriptions. hamlet's remark over the grave of ophelia, strongly occurred to me. "where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? not one now to mock your own grinning? quite chapfallen?" at either end of the tomb of jean jacques, are two hands, darting out of the gates of death, supporting lighted torches, and below, (it is a little singular) are inscriptions illustrating the _peaceful_, and benevolent virtues of the enclosed defunct! peace to their manes! may they enjoy more repose, than that troubled world which their extraordinary, yet different talents seemed equally destined to embellish and to embroil, though it would be difficult to name any two modern writers, who have expressed, with more eloquence, a cordial love of peace, and a zealous desire to promote the interests of humanity!! the church of st. genevieve is entirely composed of stone and iron, of the latter very little is used. it has already cost the nation very near two millions sterling. as i was returning from the pantheon, i was addressed by one of our emigrant companions, to whom i have before alluded. he had just arrived in paris, intended staying about a month, and then returning to toulon. he warmly made me an offer of his services, and during my stay here, sent every morning to know if he should attend me as a friendly guide, to conduct me to any place which i might wish to see, or to prevent me from suffering any imposition from tradesmen. his attentions to me were always agreeable, and sometimes serviceable, and strongly impressed upon my mind, the policy, as well as the pleasure, of treating every being with civility, even where first appearances are not favourable, and where an expectation of meeting the party again is not probable. in the course of the day i was introduced to madame b----, who resides, by permission of the first consul, in a suite of elegant apartments in the louvre, which have been granted to her on account of her merits and genius, and also in consideration of the losses which she has sustained by the revolution. in her study she presented me to mademoiselle t----, the then celebrated beauty of paris; her portrait by david, had afforded much conversation in the fashionable circles; she was then copying, with great taste, from the antique, which is generally the morning's occupation of the french ladies of fashion. she is certainly a very handsome young woman: but i think if the painter of france was to visit a certain western county of england, he would discover as many attractions for the display of his admirable pencil, as were at this time to be found in the study of madame b----. when we left her, madame b----asked me what i thought of her; i candidly made the above remark to her, "ah!" said she, "you should have seen her about a month since, she was then the prettiest creature in all france;" how so, has she suffered from indisposition? "oh no," replied madame b----, smilingly, "but a _month_, you know, makes a considerable difference upon the face of beauty." i was much obliged to madame b---- for the remark, which is greatly within an observation which i have frequently made, on the evanescent nature of youthful beauty. madame b----'s calculations of the given progress of decay, were eighteen times more swift than mine. the subject of our conversation, and the busts by which we were surrounded, naturally led us to talk of the french ladies, and they reminded us, though _slightly_, of their present _dress_. madame b----entered into a particular account of the decorations of a lady of fashion in france. i have not patience enough to enumerate them here, except that the wife of a fournisseur will not hesitate paying from three to four hundred pounds for a cachemire shawl, nor from four to five hundred pounds for a laced gown, nor a much larger sum for diamonds cut like pearls, and threaded. in this costly manner, does the ingenuity of art, and the prodigality of wealth do homage to the elegance of nature. the entrance to madame b----'s apartments seemed at first, a little singular and unsuitable, but i soon found that it was no unusual circumstance, after groping through dirty passages, and up filthy staircases to enter a noble hall and splendid rooms. upon leaving madame b---- i passed the place de carousel, and saw the ruins of the houses, which suffered by the explosion of the infernal machine, which afforded so much conversation in the world at the time, by which the first consul was intended to have been destroyed in his way to the national institute of music. this affair has been somewhat involved in mystery. it is now well known that monsieur fouché, at the head of the police, was acquainted with this conspiracy from its first conception, and by his vigilant agents, was informed of the daily progress made in the construction of this destructive instrument, of the plan of which he had even a copy. the conspirators proceeded with perfect confidence, and as they thought with perfect security. three days before it was quite completed, and ready for its fell purpose, from some surprise or dread of detection, they changed their place of meeting, and in one night removed the machine from the spot where it had been usually deposited. the penetrating eye of the police lost sight of them. fouché, and his followers exercised their unrivalled talents for pursuit and discovery to no purpose. the baffled minister then waited upon bonaparte, to whom he had regularly imparted the result of every day's information respecting it, and told him that he could no longer trace the traiterous instrument of his assassination, and requested him, as he knew it must be completed by this time, not to go to any public places, until he had regained a knowledge of it. bonaparte replied, that fear only made cowards, and conspirators brave, and that he had unalterably determined to go with his accustomed equipage to the national concert that very evening. at the usual hour the first consul set off undismayed from the thuilleries, a description of the machine, which was made to resemble a water cask, being first given to the coachman, servants, and guards. as they proceeded, the advance guard passed it unobserved, but the coachman discovered it just as the consular carriage was on a parallel with it; instantly the dexterous and faithful charioteer lashed his horses into full speed, and turned the corner of the rue marcem. in one moment after, the terrible machine exploded, and covered the street with ruins. the thunder of its discharge shook the houses of paris, and was heard at a considerable distance in the country. the first consul arrived in safety at the hall of music, and with every appearance of perfect tranquillity, entered his box amidst the acclamations of the crowded multitude. the range of buildings which was shattered by the explosion, has long offended the eye of taste, and presented a gloomy, and very inconvenient obstruction to the grand entrance of the palace. bonaparte, with his usual judgment, which converts every event into some good, immediately after this affair, purchased the houses which were damaged, and the whole of this scene of ruins and rubbish is removing with all possible expedition, to the great improvement of this grand approach. whilst i was strolling along the banks of the seine, i could not help remarking that it would suffer much by a comparison with the thames, so finely described by sir john denham-- though deep, yet clear, though gentle yet not dull: strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. the seine is narrow, and very dirty; its waters, which are finely filtrated when drawn from the fountains of paris, produce an aperient effect upon strangers, who are generally cautioned not to drink much of them at a time. the tide does not reach further than several miles below paris; to this cause i can alone attribute, though perhaps the reason is insufficient, that the river is never rendered gay by the passing, and repassing of beautiful pleasure boats, to the delights of which the parisians seem total strangers. its shores are sadly disfigured by a number of black, gloomy, and unwieldy sheds, which are erected upon barges, for the accommodation of the washerwomen, who, by their mode of washing, which is, by rubbing the linen in the river water, and beating it with large flat pieces of wood, resembling battledores, until the dirt, and generally a portion of the linen retire together, make a noise very similar to that of shipwrights caulking a vessel. this is an abominable nuisance, and renders the view up the river, from the centre of the pont de la concorde, the most complete mélange of filth and finery, meanness and magnificence i ever beheld. whilst i am speaking of these valuable, but noisy dames, i must mention that their services are chiefly confined to strangers, and the humbler class of parisians. the genteel families of france are annoyed by the unpleasant domestic occurrence of washing, when in town only once, and when in the country only twice in the course of the year. their magazines of clothes are of course immense, for the reception and arrangement of which several rooms in their houses are always allotted. it is the intention of the first consul gradually to unkennel this clattering race of females, when it can be done with safety. to force them to the tub, and to put them into the suds too suddenly, might, from their influence amongst the lower classes of citizens, be followed by consequences not very congenial to the repose of the government. to show of what importance the ladies of the lower class in paris are, i shall relate a little anecdote of bonaparte, in which he is considered to have exhibited as much bravery as he ever displayed in the field of battle. the poissardes, whose name alone will awaken some emotion in the mind of the reader, from its horrible union with the barbarous massacres which discoloured the capital with blood during the revolution, have been from time immemorial accustomed, upon any great and fortunate event, to send a deputation of their sisterhood to the kings and ministers of france, and since the revolution to the various rulers of the republic, to ofter their congratulations, accompanied by a large bouquet of flowers. upon the elevation of bonaparte to the supreme authority of france, according to custom, they sent a select number from their body to present him with their good wishes, and usual fragrant donation. the first consul sternly received them, and after rejecting their nosegay, fiercely told them to retire, and in future to attend to their husbands, their children, and their fisheries, and never more to attempt an interference in matters relating to the state. upon which he ordered the pages in waiting to close the door upon them. he thought no doubt that "omnium manibus res humanæ egent: paucorum capita sufficiunt."--"human affairs require the hands of all, whilst the heads of few are sufficient." these formidable dames, so celebrated for their ferocity, retired chagrined and chapfallen from the presence of the imperious consul, and have not attempted to force either their congratulations, or their bouquets upon any of the public functionaries since that period. such a repulse as this, offered to a body of people, more formidable from their influence than the lazzaroni of naples, would in all human probability have cost any one of the kings of france his crown. i received this anecdote from the brother of one of the ministers of france to whom this country is much indebted. before the high daring of bonaparte, every difficulty seems to droop, and die. near the pont de la concorde is a handsome, and ornamental building, which is erected upon barges, and contains near three hundred cold and tepid baths, for men and women. it is surrounded by a wooden terrace, which forms an agreeable walk upon the water, and is decorated with shrubs, orange trees, and flowers, on each side. this place is very grateful in a climate which, in summer, is intensely warm. there are other public baths, but this is chiefly resorted to by people of respectability. the price is very moderate, thirty sols. chapter xi. _david.--place de la concorde.--l'Église de madeleine.--print-shops.--notre dame.--museum or palace of arts.--hall of statues.--laocoon.--belvidere apollo.--socrates._ during my stay in paris i visited the gallery of david. this celebrated artist has amassed a fortune of upwards of two hundred thousand pounds, and is permitted by his great patron, and friend bonaparte, to occupy the corner wing of the old palace, from which every other man of genius and science, who was entitled to reside there, has been removed to other places, in order to make room for the reception of the grand national library, which the first consul intends to have deposited there. his apartments are very magnificent, and furnished in that taste, which he has, by the influence of his fame, and his elegance of design, so widely, and successfully diffused. whilst i was seated in his rooms, i could not help fancying myself a contemporary of the most tasteful times of greece. tunics and robes were carelessly but gracefully thrown over the antique chairs, which were surrounded by elegant statues, and ancient libraries, so disposed, as to perfect the classical illusion. i found david in his garden, putting in the back ground of a painting. he wore a dirty robe, and an old hat. his eyes are dark and penetrating, and beam with the lustre of genius. his collection of paintings and statues, and many of his own studies, afforded a perfect banquet. he was then occupied in drawing a fine portrait of bonaparte. the presence of david covered the gratification with gloom. before me, in the bosom of that art, which is said, with her divine associates, to soften the souls of men, i beheld the remorseless judge of his sovereign, the destroyer of his brethren in art, and the enthusiast and confidential friend of robespierre. david's political life is too well known. during the late scenes of horror, he was asked by an acquaintance, how many heads had fallen upon the scaffold that day, to which he is said coolly to have replied, "_only one hundred and twenty!!_ the heads of twenty thousand more must fall before the great work of philosophy can be accomplished." it is related of him, that during the reign of the mountain, he carried his portfolio to the front of the scaffold, to catch the last emotions of expiring nature, from the victims of his revolutionary rage. he directed and presided at the splendid funeral solemnities of lepelletier, who was assassinated by paris, in which his taste and intimate knowledge of the ceremonies of the ancients, on similar occasions, were eminently displayed. farewell, david! when years have rolled away, and time has mellowed the works of thy sublime pencil, mayst thou be remembered only as _their_ creator; may thy fame repose herself upon the tableau of the dying socrates, and the miraculous passage of the alpine hero, may the ensanguined records of thy political frenzy, moulder away, and may science, who knew not blood till thou wert known, whose pure, and hallowed inspirations have made men happier, and better, till thou wert born, implore for thee forgiveness, and whilst, with rapture she points to the immortal images of thy divine genius, may she cover with an impenetrable pall, the pale, and shuddering, and bleeding victims of thy sanguinary soul! the great abilities of this man, have alone enabled him to survive the revolution, which, strange to relate, has, throughout its ravages, preserved a veneration for science, and, in general, protected her distinguished followers. bonaparte, who possesses great taste "that instinct superior to study, surer than reasoning, and more rapid than reflection," entertains the greatest admiration for the genius of david, and always consults him in the arrangement of his paintings and statues. all the costumes of government have been designed by this artist. david is not without his adherents. he has many pupils, the sons of respectable, and some of them, of noble families residing in different parts of europe. they are said to be much attached to him, and have formed themselves into a military corps, for the purpose of occasionally doing honour to him, and were lately on the point of revenging an insult which had been offered to his person, in a manner, which, if perpetrated, would have required the interest of their master to have saved them from the scaffold. but neither the gracious protection of consular favour, nor the splendour of unrivalled abilities, can restore their polluted possessor, to the affections and endearments of social intercourse. humanity has drawn a _sable circle_ round him. he leads the life of a proscribed exile, in the very centre of the gayest city in europe. in the gloomy shade of unchosen seclusion, he passes his ungladdened hours, in the hope of covering his guilt with his glory, and of presenting to posterity, by the energies of his unequalled genius, some atonement for the havoc, and ruin of that political hurricane, of which he directed the fury, and befriended the desolations, against every contemporary object that nature had endeared, and virtue consecrated. after leaving the gallery of david, i visited la place de la concorde. this ill fated spot, from its spaciousness, and beauty of situation, has always been the theatre of the great fêtes of the nation, as well as the scene of its greatest calamities. when the nuptials of the late king and queen were celebrated, the magnificent fireworks, shows, and illuminations which followed, were here displayed. during the exhibition, a numerous banditti, from normandy, broke in upon the vast assemblage of spectators: owing to the confusion which followed, and the fall of some of the scaffolding, the supporters of which were sawed through by these wretches, the disorder became dreadful, and universal; many were crushed to death, and some hundreds of the people, whilst endeavouring to make their escape, were stabbed, and robbed. the king and queen, as a mark of their deep regret, ordered the dead to be entombed in the new burial ground of l'Église de madeleine, then erecting at the entrance of the boulevard des italiens, in the neighbourhood of the palace, under the immediate inspection and patronage of the sovereign. this building was never finished, and still presents to the eye, a naked pile of lofty walls and columns. alas! the gloomy auguries which followed this fatal spectacle, were too truly realized. on _that_ spot perished the monarch and his queen, and the flower of the french nobility, and many of the virtuous and enlightened men of france, and in _this_ cemetery, their unhonoured remains were thrown, amidst heaps of headless victims, into promiscuous graves of unslacked lime! how inscrutable are the ways of destiny! this spot, which, from its enchanting scenery, is calculated only to recall, or to inspire the most tender, and generous, and elegant sentiments, which has been the favoured resort of so many kings, and the scene of every gorgeous spectacle, was doomed to become the human shambles of the brave and good, and the golgotha of the guillotine! in the centre, is an oblong square railing, which encloses the exact spot where formerly stood that instrument of death, which was voted permanent by its remorseless employers. a temporary model in wood, of a lofty superb monument, two hundred feet high, intended to be erected in honour of bonaparte and the battle of marengo, was raised in this place, for his approval, but from policy or modesty, he declined this distinguished mark of public approbation. i was a little surprised to observe, in the windows of the principal print shops, prints exposed to sale, representing the late king, in his full robes of state, under which was written, le restaurateur de la liberté, (an equivoque, no doubt) and the parting interview between that unhappy sovereign and his queen and family in the temple, upon the morning of his execution. this little circumstance will show the confidence which the present rulers feel in the strength and security of the present government; for such representations are certainly calculated to excite feelings, and to restore impressions which might prove a little hazardous to both, were they less powerfully supported. i was also one morning a little surprised, by hearing from my window, the exhilarating song of "rule britannia" played upon a hand organ; upon looking down into the street, i beheld a savoyard very composedly turning the handle of his musical machine, as he moved along, and a french officer humming the tune after him. both were, no doubt, ignorant of the nationality of the song, though not of the truth of its sentiment. in the course of one of my morning walks, i went to the metropolitan abbey of notre dame, which is situated at the end of a large island in the seine, which forms a part of paris, and is filled with long narrow streets. it is a fine gothic pile, but in my humble opinion, much inferior to our westminster abbey, and to the great churches of rouen. from this building i visited, with a large party, the celebrated museum, or palace of the arts, which i afterwards generally frequented every other day. this inestimable collection contains one thousand and thirty paintings, which are considered to be the chefs d'oeuvre of the great ancient masters, and is a treasury of human art and genius, unknown to the most renowned of former ages, and far surpassing every other institution of the same nature, in the present times. the first apartment is about the size of the exhibition room of somerset house, and lighted as that is, from above. it contains several exquisite paintings, which have been presented to bonaparte by the princes, and rulers of those states which have been either subdued by his arms, or have cultivated his alliance. the parisians call this apartment bonaparte's nosegay. the most costly pictures in the room, are from the gallery of the grand duke of tuscany. amongst so many works, all exquisite and beautiful, it is almost temerity to attempt to select, but if i might be permitted to name those which pleased me most, i should particularize the ecce homo, by cigoli ludovico cardi. the breast of the mild and benevolent saviour, striped with the bruises of recent punishment, and his heavenly countenance, benignly looking forgiveness upon his executioners, are beautifully delineated. l'annonciation, by gentileschi, in which the divine look of the angel, the graceful plumage of his wings, and the drapery of the virgin, are incomparable. la sagesse chassant les vices, which is a very ancient and curious painting, by andrea mantegna, in which the figure of idleness, without arms, is wonderfully conceived. les noces de cana, by paul veronese, which is considered to be the best of his works. it is the largest painting i ever beheld. the figures which are seated at the banquet, are chiefly the portraits of contemporary royal personages of different nations. from this room we passed into the gallery of the louvre. i cannot adequately describe the first impressions which were awakened, upon my first entering it, and contemplating such a galaxy of art and genius. this room is one thousand two hundred feet long, and is lined with the finest paintings of the french, flemish, and italian schools, and is divided by a curious double painting upon slate, placed upon a pedestal in the middle of the room, which represents the front and back view of the same figures. the first division of this hall contains the finest works of le brun, many of which are upon an immense scale. l'hyver ou le deluge, by poussin, is truly sublime, but is unfortunately placed in a bad light. there are also some beautiful marine paintings, by verney. les religieuses, by philipe de champagne, is justly celebrated for the principal figure of the dying nun. vue de chevet d'une eglise, by emanuel de witte, is an exquisite little cabinet picture, in which the effect of a ray of light shining through a painted window, upon a column, is inimitable, and the perspective is very fine. there are here also some of the finest works of wouvermans, and a charming picture by teniers. la vierge, l'enfant jesus, la madeleine, et st. jerome, by antoine allegri correge, is considered to be a picture of great beauty and value. there are also some glorious paintings by reubens. i have thus briefly selected these pictures from the rest, hoping, at the same time, that it will not be inferred that those which i have not named, of which it would be impossible to offer a description without filling a bulky volume, are inferior to the works which i have presumed to mention. the recording pen must rival that matchless pencil, which has thus adorned the walls of the museum, before it can do justice to such a magnificent collection. this exhibition is public three days in the week, and at other times is open to students and to strangers, upon their producing their passports. on public days, all descriptions of persons are here to be seen. the contemplation of such a mixture is not altogether uninteresting. the sun-browned rugged plebeian, whose mind, by the influence of an unexampled political change, has been long alienated from all the noble feelings which religion and humanity inspire, is here seen, with his arms rudely folded over his breast, softening into pity, before the struggling and sinking sufferers of a deluged world, or silently imbibing from the divine resigned countenance of the crucified saviour, a hope of unperishable bliss, beyond the grave. who will condemn a policy by which ignorance becomes enlightened, profligacy penitent, and which, as by stealth, imparts to the relenting bosom of ferocity the subdued, and social dispositions of _true_ fraternity? to amuse, may be necessary to the present government of france, but surely to supplant the wild abandoned principles of a barbarous revolution, with _new_ impressions, created by an unreserved display of the finest and most persuasive images of resigned suffering, heroic virtue, or elegant beauty, cannot be deemed unworthy of the ruler of a great people. at this place, as well as at all the other national exhibitions, no money for admission is required or expected. no person is admitted with a stick, and guards attend to preserve the pictures from injury, and the exhibition from riot. the gallery of the louvre is at present, unfortunately, badly lighted throughout, owing to the light issuing chiefly on one side, from long windows. this inconvenience, however, is soon to be remedied; by observing the same manner of lighting, as in the adjoining apartment. from the museum, we descended into la salle des antiques, which contains all the treasury of grecian and roman statuary. the first object to which we hastened, was the statue of laocoon, for so many ages, and by so many writers admired and celebrated. this superb specimen of grecian sculpture, is supposed to be the united production of polydorus, athenodorus, and agesander, but its great antiquity renders its history somewhat dubious. in the beginning of the sixteenth century it was discovered at rome amongst the ruins of the palace of titus, and deposited in the farnese palace, whence it has been removed to paris, by the orders of bonaparte, after the conquest of italy. it represents laocoon, the priest of apollo and neptune, and his two sons writhing in the folds of two hideous serpents. the reader will remember the beautiful lines of virgil upon the subject, "----------------et primum parva duorum corpora natorum serpens amplexus uterque implicat, et miseros morsu depascitur artus. post, ipsum auxilio subeuntem ac tela ferentem corripiunt, spirisque ligant ingentibus: et jam bis medium amplexi, bis collo squamea circum terga dati, superant capite et cervicibus altis. ille simul manibus tendit divellere nodos--" or, in the english habit which dryden has given them, "and first around the tender boys they wind, then with their sharpen'd fangs, their limbs and bodies grind. the wretched father, running to their aid, with pious haste, but vain, they next invade: twice round his waist the winding volumes roll'd, and twice about his gasping throat they fold. the priest, thus doubly chok'd, their crests divide, and tow'ring o'er his head in triumphs ride. with both his hands he labours at the knots--" pliny mentions this statue as the admiration of the age in which he flourished. i fear that i shall be guilty of a sort of profanation when i remark, that the figures of the two sons of laocoon appear to exhibit rather more marks of maturity, and strength of muscle than are natural to their size, and to the supposed tenderness of their age. it is, however, a glorious work of art. we next beheld the belvidere apollo. this statue, in my humble opinion, surpasses every other in the collection. all the divinity of a god beams through this unrivalled perfection of form. it is impossible to impart the impressions which it inspires. the rivetted beholder is ready to exclaim, with adam, when he first discerns the approach of raphael, "--------------behold what glorious shape comes this way moving: seems another morn, risen on mid-noon; some great behest from heav'n." the imagination cannot form such an union of grace and strength. during my stay in paris, i frequently visited this distinguished statue, and discovered fresh subjects of amazement, and admiration as often as i gazed upon it. one of its remarkable beauties, is its exquisite expression of motion. its aerial appearance perpetually excites the idea of its being unstationary, and unsupported. as it would be a rash, and vain attempt to give a complete description of this matchless image, i must, reluctantly, leave it, to inform my reader, that on the other side of the hall are the original diana (which is wonderfully fine) and several very beautiful venuses. the venus de medicis is not here. there are also some fine whole length statues of roman magistrates, in their curule chairs. in the temple of the muses, are exquisite busts of homer and socrates. pliny informs us that the ancient world possessed no original bust of the former. that of the latter seems to have been chisseled to represent the celebrated athenian before he had obtained his philosophical triumph over those vices, which a distinguished physiognomist of his time once imputed to him from the character of his features. chapter xii. _bonaparte.--artillery.--mr. pitt--newspapers.--archbishop of paris.--consular colours.--religion.--consular conversion.--madame bonaparte.--consular modesty.--separate beds.--a country scene.--connubial affection.--female bravery._ a little anecdote is related of bonaparte, which unfolded the bold, and daring character of this extraordinary man in early life: when he was about fifteen years of age, and a cadet in the military school at paris--by the by, the small distance between this seminary and his present palace, and the swiftness of his elevation, afford a curious coincidence--in the vast plain of the champ de mars, the court, and the parisians were assembled to witness the ascent of a balloon. bonaparte made his way through the crowd, and unperceived, entered the inner fence, which contained the apparatus for inflating the silken globe. it was then very nearly filled, and restrained from its flight by the last cord only. the young cadet requested the aeronaut to permit him to mount the car with him; which request was immediately refused, from an apprehension that the feelings of the boy might embarrass the experiment. bonaparte is reported to have exclaimed, "i am young, it is true, but i neither fear the powers of earth, nor of air," and sternly added, "will you let me ascend?" the aeronaut, a little offended at his obtrusion, sharply replied, "no, sir, i will not; i beg that you will retire." upon which the little enraged officer, drew a small sabre, which he wore with his uniform, instantly cut the balloon in several places, and destroyed the curious apparatus, which the aeronaut had constructed, with infinite labour and ingenuity, for the purpose of trying the possibility of aerial navigation. paris was almost unpeopled this day, to view the spectacle. the disappointment of the populace, which was said to have exceeded seven hundred thousand persons, became violent and universal. the king sent to know the reason of the tumult, when the story was related to him, the good humoured monarch laughed heartily, and said, "upon my word that impetuous boy, will make a brave officer."--the devoted king little thought that he was speaking of his successor.--the young offender was put under arrest, and confined for four days. this man is certainly the phenomenon of the present times. it is a circumstance worthy of remark, that the artillery has furnished france with most of its present distinguished heroes, who have also been bred up in the same military school with bonaparte. a short time before my arrival at paris, this great genius, who displays a perfect knowledge of mankind, and particularly of the people over whom he rules, discovered that the parisians, from a familiarity with his person, and from his lady and his family having occasionally joined in their parties of amusement, began to lose that degree of awe and respect for him, which he so well knows how to appreciate, as well as to inspire. in consequence of this, he gradually retired from every circle of fashion, and was at this period, almost as inaccessible as a chinese emperor. the same line of conduct was also adopted by the principal officers of government. he resided almost wholly at mal maison, except on state days, when only those strangers were permitted to be introduced to him, who had satisfired the ambassadors of their respective nations, that they had been previously presented at their own courts. if bonaparte is spared from the stroke of the assassin, or the prætorian caprice of the army, for any length of time, he will have it in his power to augment the services which he has already afforded to the republic, by rebuilding the political edifice of france, with many meliorations, for which some materials may be collected from her own ruins, and some from the tried and approved constitutions of other countries. if his ambition will permit him to discharge this great undertaking faithfully, in a manner uniform with that glory which he has acquired in the field, and influenced only by the noble desire of giving rational liberty, and practicable happiness to the people over whom he sways, they will in return, without jealousy or regret, behold the being to whose wisdom and moderation they will be thus indebted, led to the highest seat amongst them--they will confer those sanctions upon his well merited distinction, without which all authority is but disastrous usurpation--a comet's blaze, flaming in a _night of dismay_, and _setting in gloom_. the dignity of such a legislator will be self-maintained, and lasting. upon him, the grateful french will confer those unforced, unpurchased suffrages, which will _prevent_ that fate, which, in their absence, the subtilty of policy, the fascinations of address, the charm of corruption, and even the terror of the bayonet can only _postpone_.--yes, bonaparte! millions of suffering beings, raising themselves from the dust, in which a barbarous revolution has prostrated them, look up to thee for liberty, protection, and repose. they _will_ not look to thee in vain. the retiring storm still flashing its lessening flame, and rolling its distant thunders will teach thee, _were it necessary_, not to force them to remeasure their vengeance by their wrongs. in paris, the achievements of the first consul are not much talked of, so true is the old adage, that no man is a hero to his own domestic. the beauties of a colossal statue, must be contemplated at a distance. the french at present work, walk, eat, drink, and sleep in tranquillity, and what is of more consequence to them, they dance in security, to which may be added, that their taxes are neither very heavy, nor oppressive. in every party which i entered, i found the late minister of great britain was the prevailing subject of curiosity. i was overpowered with questions respecting this great man, which in their minute detail, extended to ascertain what was the colour of his eye, the shape of his nose, and whether in a morning he wore hussar boots, or shoes. this little circumstance could not fail of proving pleasant to an englishman. they informed me, that throughout the war, they regularly read in their own diurnal prints, our parliamentary debates, and the general outline of most of our political schemes, which were furnished by people in the pay of the french government, who resided in england notwithstanding the severity of the legislative, and the vigilance of the executive authorities. whilst i am mentioning the subject of newspaper intercourse, i cannot help lamenting, that since the renewal of national friendship, the public prints of both countries are not more under the influence of cordiality and good humour. the liberty of the press is the palladium of reason, the distributor of light and learning, the public and undismayed assertor of interdicted truth. it is the body and the _honour guard_ of civil and political liberty. where the laws halt with dread, the freedom of the press advances, and with the subtle activity of conscience, penetrates the fortified recesses and writes its _fearful sentence on the palace wall_ of recoiling tyrants. as an englishman, my expiring sigh should be breathed for its preservation; but as an admirer of social repose and national liberality, i regret to see its noble energies engaged in the degrading service of fretful spleen, and ungenerous animadversion. when the horizon is no longer blackened with the smoke of the battle, it is unworthy of two mighty empires to carry on an ignoble war of words. if peace is their wish, let them manifest the great and enlightened sentiment in all its purity, and disdain to irritate each other by acts of petulant and provoking recrimination. a short time preceding my arrival in france, bonaparte had rendered himself very popular amongst the constitutional clergy, by a well timed compliment to the metropolitan archbishop. the first consul gave a grand dinner to this dignified prelate, and to several of his brethren. after the entertainment, bonaparte addressed the archbishop by observing, that as he had given directions for the repairing of the archiepiscopal palace, he should very much like to take a ride in the archbishop's carriage, to see the progress which the workmen had made. the prelate bowed to the first consul, and informed him that he had no carriage, otherwise he should be much flattered by conducting him thither. bonaparte good humouredly said, "how can that be? your coach has been waiting at the gate this half hour," and immediately led the venerable archbishop down the steps of the thuilleries, where he found a plain handsome carriage, with a valuable pair of horses, and a coachman, and footmen dressed in the livery which bonaparte had just before informed him would be allotted to him, when his establishment was completed. the whole was a present from the private purse of the first consul. upon their arrival at the palace, the archbishop was agreeably surprised by finding that the most minute, and liberal attention had been paid to his comfort and accommodation. the clergy seem to be in favour with bonaparte. when he assisted in the last spring at the inauguration of the archbishop of paris, in the metropolitan church of notre dame, and gave to the restoration of religion "all the circumstance of pomp" and military parade, he was desirous of having the colours of his regiment consecrated by the holy prelate, and submitted his wishes to his soldiers. a few days afterwards, a deputation waited upon their general in chief, with this reply, "our banners have already been consecrated by the blood of our enemies at marengo; the benediction of a priest cannot render them more sacred in our eyes, nor more animating in the time of battle." bonaparte prudently submitted himself to their prætorian resolution, and the consular colours remain to this hour in the same _unchristianlike_ condition, as when they first waved at the head of their victorious legions. this anecdote will in some degree prove a fact which, notwithstanding the counter reports of english newspapers, i found every where confirmed, that although religion is _new_ to the french, yet that the novelty has at present but little charm for them. i had frequent opportunity of making this remark, as well in the capital as in the departments of the republic through which i passed. in paris, the sabbath can only be considered as a day of dissipation to the lovers of gayety, and a day of unusual profit to the man of trade. here, it is true, upon particular festival days, considerable bodies of people are to be seen in the act of worship, but curiosity, and the love of show assemble them together, if it was otherwise their attendance would be more numerous and regular. the first consul does not seem to possess much fashionable influence over the french in matters of religion, otherwise, as he has the credit of attending mass, with very pious punctuality, in his private chapel at mal maison, it might be rather expected, that devotion would become a little more familiar to the people. upon another subject, the _profession_ of the chief magistrate has been equally unfortunate. to the few ladies who are admitted into his social circles, he has declared himself an enemy to that dress, or undress (i am puzzled to know what to call it) which his friend, david, has, so successfully, recommended, for the purpose of displaying, with the least possible restraint, the fine proportions of the female form. madame bonaparte, who is considered to be in as good a state of subordination to her _young_ husband, as the consular regiment is to their _young_ general, contrives to exhibit her elegant person to great advantage; by adopting a judicious and graceful medium of dress, by which she tastefully avoids a load of decoration, which repels the eye by too dense a covering, and that questionable airiness of ornament which, by its gracious and unrestrained display, deprives the imagination of more than half its pleasures. bonaparte is said not to be indifferent to those affections which do honour to the breast which cherishes them, nor to the morals of the people whom he governs. it is well known that in france, in the house of a new fashionable couple, _separate chambers_ are always reserved for the _faithful_ pair, which after the solemnities of marriage very seldom remain long unoccupied. the first consul considers such separations as unfriendly to morals. a few months since, by a well timed display of assumed ignorance, he endeavoured to give fashion to a sentiment which may in time reduce the number of these _family accommodations_. the noble palace of st. cloud was at this time preparing for him; the principal architect requested of him to point out in what part of the palace he would wish to have his separate sleeping room. "i do not know what you mean," said the young imperial philosopher, "crimes only divide the husband from his wife. make as many bed rooms as you please, but only _one_ for me and madame bonaparte." i must now quit the dazzling splendour of imperial virtues for the more tranquil, but not less fascinating appearance of retired and modest merit. it was in the afternoon of one of the finest days in june, when madame o----, with her nephew, a very amiable young man, called in their carriage and took me to the chateau of her husband, to whom i had letters of introduction. after passing through a charming country for nine miles, adorned on each side with gardens and country houses, we arrived at the pleasant village of la reine. as soon as we entered it, the sight of the carriage, and of their benefactress, seemed to enliven the faces of the villagers, who were seated in picturesque groupes at the doors of their cottages. such animated looks were not lighted up by curiosity, for they had seen madame o---- a thousand and a thousand times, but because they had seldom seen her without experiencing some endearing proof of her bountiful heart. we left the village to the right, and proceeded through a private road, lined with stately walnut trees, of nearly a mile in length, which led to monsieur o----'s. it was evening; the sky was cloudless, the sun was setting in great glory, and covered the face of this romantic country with the richest glow. near the gate of a shrubbery i beheld a very handsome boy, whose appearance at once bespoke him to be the son of a gentleman, the animated smile of madame o----, immediately convinced me that it was her son; "see," said the delighted mother, "it is my little gardener;" the little graceful rustic had a small spade in his hand, which he threw down, and ran to us. we alighted at the entrance of the garden, into which we entered, under a beautiful covered treillage, lined with jessamine and honeysuckles. at the end were two elegant young women, waiting, with delight, to receive their mother, from whom they had been separated only a few hours. with this charming family i entered the house, which was handsome but plain. the hospitable owner rose from his sofa, and, after embracing his elegant lady with great affection, he received me with all the expressions and warmth of a long friendship. soon afterwards his servant (a faithful indian) entered, and spread upon the table, madeira, burgundy, and dried fruits. it was intensely hot: the great window at the end of the room in which we were sitting, opened into the gardens, which appeared to be very beautiful, and abounded with nightingales, which were then most sweetly singing. "they are my little musicians," said monsieur o----, "we have made a pleasant bargain together, i give them crumbs of bread and my bowers to range in, and they give me this charming music every evening." monsieur o---- was an invalide, the revolution, poignant vexations, heavy losses, and a painful separation from his native country, for the preservation of his life, and that of his family, had undermined his health. grief had made sad inroads upon a delicate constitution. it was his good fortune to be the husband of one of the finest, and most amiable women in france, and the father of an affectionate, beautiful, and accomplished family. his circumstances had been once splendid; they were then respectable, but he had passed through events which threatened his _all_. those sufferings which generous souls sustain for the sake of others, not for themselves, had alone destroyed the resemblance which once existed between this excellent man and his admirable portrait, which, at the further end of the room, presented the healthy glow, and fine proportions of manly beauty. he expressed to me, in the most charming manner, his regret, that indisposition confined him to the country, and prevented him from receiving me in paris suitable to his own wishes, and to those claims which i had upon his attentions, by the letters of introduction which i had brought to him; but added, that he should furnish me with letters to some of his friends in town, who would be happy to supply his absence, and to make paris agreeable to me. monsieur o---- was as good as his word. this amiable gentleman possessed a countenance of great genius, and a mind full of intelligence. after an elegant supper, when his lady and daughters had withdrawn, he entered into a very interesting account of his country, of the revolution, and of his flight for the salvation of himself and family. a tolerably good opinion may be formed of the devastation which have been produced by the late republican government, by the following circumstance, which monsieur o---- assured me, on the word of a man of honour, was correct. his section in paris was composed of one thousand three hundred persons, of rank and fortune, of whom only five had escaped the slaughter of the guillotine!! madame o---- and her charming family, seemed wholly to occupy his heart and affections. he spoke of his lady with all the tender eulogium of a young lover. their union was entirely from attachment, and had been resisted on the part of madame o----, when he first addressed her, only because her fortune was humble, compared with his. he informed me, and i must not suppress the story, that in the time of blood, this amiable woman, who is remarkable for the delicacy of her mind, and for the beauty and majesty of her person, displayed a degree of coolness and courage, which, in the field of battle, would have covered the hero with laurels. one evening, a short period before the family left france, a party of those murderers, who were sent for by robespierre, from the frontiers which divide france from italy, and who were by that archfiend employed in all the butcheries, and massacres of paris, entered the peaceful village of la reine, in search of monsieur o----. his lady saw them advancing, and anticipating their errand, had just time to give her husband intelligence of their approach, who left his chateau by a back door, and secreted himself in the house of a neighbour. madame o----, with perfect composure, went out to meet them, and received them in the most gracious manner. they sternly demanded mons. o----, she informed them that he had left the country, and after engaging them in conversation, she conducted them into her drawing room, and regaled them with her best wines, and made her servants attend upon them with unusual deference and ceremony. their appearance was altogether horrible, they wore leather aprons, which were sprinkled all over with blood, they had large horse pistols in their belts, and a dirk and sabre by their sides. their looks were full of ferocity, and they spoke a harsh dissonant patois language. over their cups, they talked about the bloody business of that day's occupation, in the course of which they drew out their dirks, and wiped from their handles, clots of blood and hair. madame o---- sat with them, undismayed by their frightful deportment. after drinking several bottles of champaign and burgundy, these savages began to grow good humoured, and seemed to be completely fascinated by the amiable and unembarrassed, and hospitable behaviour of their fair landlady. after carousing till midnight, they pressed her to retire, observing that they had been received so handsomely that they were convinced monsieur o---- had been misrepresented, and was no enemy to the _good cause_; they added that they found the wines excellent, and after drinking two or three bottles more, they would leave the house, without causing her any reason to regret their admission. madame o----, with all the appearance of perfect tranquillity and confidence in their promises, wished her unwelcome visitors a good night, and after visiting her children in their rooms, she threw herself upon her bed, with a loaded pistol in each hand, and, overwhelmed with suppressed agony and agitation, she _soundly_ slept till she was called by her servants, two hours after these wretches had left the house. he related also another instance of that resolution which is not unfrequently exhibited by women, when those generous affections, for which they are so justly celebrated, are menaced with danger. about the same period, two of the children of monsieur o---- were in paris at school: a rumour had reached him, that the teachers of the seminary in which they were placed, had offended the government, and were likely to be butchered, and that the carnage which was expected to take place, might, in its undistinguishing fury, extend to the pupils. immediately upon receiving this intelligence, monsieur o---- ordered his carriage, for the purpose of proceeding to town. madame o---- implored of him to permit her to accompany him; in vain did he beseech her to remain at home; the picture of danger which he painted, only rendered her more determined. she mounted the carriage, and seated herself by the side of her husband. when they reached paris, they were stopped in the middle of the street st. honoré, by the massacre of a large number of prisoners who had just been taken out of a church which had been converted into a prison. their ears were pierced with screams. many of the miserable victims were cut down, clinging to the windows of their carriage. during the dreadful delays which they suffered in passing through this street, madame o---- discovered no sensations of alarm, but stedfastly fixed her eyes upon the back of the coach box, to avoid, as much as possible, observing the butcheries which were perpetrating on each side of her. had she been observed to close her eyes, or to set back in the carriage, she would have excited a suspicion, which, no doubt, would have proved fatal to her. at length she reached the school which contained her children, where she found the rumour which they had received was without foundation; she calmly conducted them to the carriage, and during their gloomy return through paris, betrayed no emotions; but as soon as they had passed the barrier, and were once more in safety upon the road to their peaceful chateau, the exulting mother, in an agony of joy, pressed her children to her bosom, and in a state of mind wrought up to frenzy, arrived at her own house, in convulsions of ghastly laughter. monsieur o---- never spoke of this charming woman, without exhibiting the strongest emotions of regard. he said, that in sickness she suffered no one to attend upon him but herself, that in all his afflictions she had supported him, and that she mitigated the deep melancholy which the sufferings of his country, and his own privations, had fixed upon him, by the well-timed sallies of her elegant fancy, or by the charms of her various accomplishments. i found myself a gainer in the article of delight, by leaving the gayest metropolis that europe can present to a traveller, for the sake of visiting such a family. chapter xiii. _breakfast.--warmth of french expression.--rustic eloquence.--curious cause assigned for the late extraordinary frost.--madame r----.--paul i.--tivoli.--frescati._ in the morning we breakfasted in the drawing room, in which the murderous myrmidons of robespierre had been regaled. it was beautifully situated. its windows looked into a grove which monsieur o---- had formed of valuable american shrubs. his youngest daughter, a beautiful little girl of about five years of age, rather hastily entered the room with a pair of tame wood pigeons in her hands, which, in her eagerness to bring to her father, she had too forcibly pressed, who very gently told her, it was cruel to hurt her little favourites, more particularly as they were a species of bird which was remarkable for its unoffending innocence. the little creature burst into tears, "my little harriet, why do you weep?" said her father, kissing her white forehead, and pressing her to him. "why do you rebuke me?" said the little sufferer, "when you know i love you so much that i could kiss your naked heart." i mention this circumstance, to show how early in life, the french children imbibe the most charming expressions, by which their more mature conversation is rendered so peculiarly captivating. during our repast, a circumstance occurred, which produced an unusual vivacity amongst all the party, and afforded a specimen of the talent and pleasantry of the french country people. the gardener entered, with the paper, and letters of the day. amongst them, was a letter which had been opened, appeared very much disordered, and ought to have been received upon the preceding day. monsieur o----seemed much displeased, and called upon his man to explain the matter. the gardener, who possessed a countenance which beamed with animation and good humour, made a low bow, and without appearing to be, in the least degree, disconcerted, proceeded to unfold the affair, with the most playful ingenuity. he stated that the dairy maid was very pretty, that she made every body in love with her, and was very much in love herself, that she was accustomed to receive a great number of billet doux, which, on account of her education having been very far below her incomparable merits, she was not able to understand, without the assistance of nicolene, the groom, who was her confident, and amanuensis; that on the day before, he gave her the letter in question, with directions to carry it to his master, that under the influence of that thoughtful absence which is said to attend the advanced stages of the tender passion, she soon afterwards conceived that it was no other than a customary homage from one of her many admirers, upon which she committed the supposed depositary of tender sighs and brittle vows, to the warm custody of her glowing bosom, than which, the gardener, (who at this moment saw his master's eyes were engaged by the _sullied_ appearance of the letter) declared that nothing was fairer; he again proceeded, by observing, that in the course of the preceding evening, as she was stooping to adjust her stool in the meadow, the cow kicked, and the epistle tumbled into the milk pail; that she afterwards dried it by the kitchen fire, and gave it, for the reasons before assigned, to her confidential friend to explain to her, who soon discovered it to be a letter of business, addressed to his master, instead of an impassioned love ditty for the tender marie; that, finally, all the principals concerned in this unhappy affair were overwhelmed with distress, on account of the sad disaster, and that the kitchen had lost all its vivacity ever since. no advocate could have pleaded more eloquently. all the family, from its chief, to little harriet, whose tears were not yet dried, were in a continued fit of laughing. the gardener, whose face very largely partook of the gaiety which he had so successfully excited, was commissioned, by his amiable master, to tell the distressed dairy maid, that love always carried his pardon in his hand for all his offences, and that he cheerfully forgave her, but directed the gardener, to prevent a recurrence of similar accidents, not again to trust her with his letters until the tender disease was radically removed. the rustic orator gracefully bowed; and left us to finish our breakfast with increased good humour, and to carry forgiveness and consolation to poor marie and all her condoling friends in the kitchen. before we had completed our repast, a little deformed elderly lady made her appearance, whose religion had been shaken by the revolution, into a crazy and gloomy superstition. she had scarcely seated herself, before she began a very rapid and voluble comment upon the change of the times, and the devastations which the late extraordinary frost had committed upon the vineyards of france, which she positively asserted, with the confidence which only the arrival of her tutelar saint with the intelligence ought to have inspired, was sent as an _appropriate_ judgment upon the republic, to punish it, for suffering the ladies of paris to go so thinly clothed. monsieur o---- heard her very patiently throughout, and then observed, that the ways of heaven were inscrutable, that human ingenuity was baffled, in attempting to draw inferences from its visitations, and that it did not appear to him at least, that an offence which was assuredly calculated to inspire sensations of warmth and tenderness, was _appropriately_ punished by a chastisement of an _opposite_ tendency, to which he added, that some moralists who indulged in an endeavour to connect causes and effects, might think it rather incompatible with their notions of eternal equity, to endeavour to clothe the ladies, by stripping the land to nakedness--here the old lady could not help smiling. her amicable adversary pursued the advantage which his pleasantry had produced, by informing her, that prognostications had been for a long period discountenanced, and that formerly when the ancient augurs, after the ceremonies of their successful illusions were over, met each other by accident in the street, impressed by the ridiculous remembrance of their impositions, they could not help laughing in each other's faces. madame v----laughed too; upon which monsieur o----, very good humouredly told her, that as a soothsayer, she certainly would not have smiled, unless she intended to retire for ever from the office. previous to my taking leave of monsieur o----and his charming family, we walked in the gardens, where our conversation turned upon the extraordinary genius, who in the character of first consul of the french, unites a force, and extent of sway unknown to the kings of france, from their first appearance, to the final extinction of monarchy. he told me that he had the honour of knowing him with intimacy from his youth, and extolled, with high eulogy, his splendid abilities, and the great services which he had rendered france. he also related several amiable anecdotes of the minister talleyrand, who, when in america, had lived with him a considerable time under the same roof. at length the cabriolet, which was to bear me from this little paradise, approached the gate, and the moment arrived when i was to part with one of the most charming families to be found in the bosom of the republic. as monsieur o---- pressed me by one hand, and placed that of his little harriet in my other, a tear of exquisite tenderness rolled down his cheek, it seemed to express that we should never meet again on this side the grave. excellent being! if it must be so, if wasting and unsparing sickness is destined to tear thee ere long from those who delight thine eye, and soothe thine heart in the midst of its sorrows, may the angel of peace smile upon thee in thy last moments, and bear thy mild and generous, and patient spirit, to the realms of eternal repose! adieu! dear family of la reine. upon my return to paris, i proceeded to the hotel of monsieur r----. curiosity led me to view the house, and the celebrated bed of his lady, who was then in london. the little vanities and eccentricities of this elegant and hospitable woman, will find immediate forgiveness, when it is known that she is now very young, and was married, when a spoiled child of the age of fourteen, to her present husband. she is one of david's most enthusiastic admirers, and has carried the rage for grecian undress, to an extremity, which, even in the capital, left her without a follower. in the public walks of the champs elysées, she one evening presented herself in a dress which almost rivalled the robes of paradise; the parisians, who are remarkable for their politeness to women, and are not remarkable for scrupulous sentiments of delicacy, were so displeased with her appearance, that they made a lane to the entrance for her, and expelled the modern eve from the elysian fields, not with a "flaming sword of wrath," but with hisses softly uttered, and by gentle tokens of polite disapprobation. she tells her friends, that her cabinet is crowded with letters of the most impassioned love, from persons of the first fame, distinction, and opulence. in her parties, when conversation begins to pause, she introduces some of these melting epistles, which she is said to read with a bewitching pathos, and never fails to close the fond recital by expressions of the tenderest pity for the sufferings of their ill-starred authors. she has declared, that some of her lovers equal the belvidere apollo in beauty, but that she never has yet seen that being, who was perfect enough to be entitled to the possession of her affections. do not smile. madame ris a disciple of diana, even slander pays incessant homage to her chastity. rumour has whispered, in every corner of paris, that her husband is only admitted to the honour of supplying the finances of her splendid and costly establishment. madame r---- has not yet produced any of the beautiful and eloquent arguments of cornelia, to disprove the strange assertion. her chamber, which constitutes one of the sights of paris, and which, after what has been just mentioned, may be justly considered, in or out of france, as a great curiosity, is fitted up in a style of considerable taste, and even magnificence. the bed upon which this charming statue reposes, is a superb sofa, raised upon a pedestal, the ascent to which is by a flight of cedar steps, on each side are altars, on which are placed herculaneum vases of flowers, and a large antique lamp of gold; the back of the bed is formed by an immense pier glass, and the curtains, which are of the most costly muslin, festooned with golden tassels, descend in beautiful drapery from a floral crown of gold. it is said that the late emperor of russia, after the laborious and successful diplomatic intrigues of messrs. talleyrand and sieyes, and a certain lady, became enamoured, by description, with the immaculate goddess of mont blanc, and that he sent confidential commissioners to paris, to report her daily dress, and to order copies of her furniture. the story may be believed, when the hero of it was well known to be fully qualified for one of the deepest dungeons of a madhouse. i hope, for the sake of society, and the repose of the world, that the rest of madame r----'s admirers have not united to their passion the bewildered imagination, which fatally distinguished, and finally closed the career of her imperial lover. mr. r---- is very polite to the english, and his letters ensure the greatest attention wherever they are produced. from mont blanc i proceeded to the hotel de caramand, the residence of the british ambassador, to whom i had a letter of introduction, from a particular friend of his, and who received me with great politeness. his apartments were handsome, and looked into some beautiful gardens. amongst the english, who were at this time in paris, a little prejudice existed against the representative of the british monarch, from a reason, which within the jurisdiction of the lord mayor of london and of most corporate towns in england, will be considered to carry considerable weight. the envoy did not celebrate the late birthday of his sovereign by a jolly, and convivial dinner. the fact was, mr. m----, who by the sudden return of mr. j----, became unexpectedly invested with the dignity of an ambassador, was in constant expectation of being recalled, to make room for the intended appointment of lord w---- to the consular court, in consequence of which, he had not prepared for the display of those splendid hospitalities, which, on such occasions, always distinguish the table of a british house of embassy. on a sunday evening, i went with a party to tivoli, a favourite place of amusement with the parisians. at the entrance we found, as at all the public places, a guard of horse, and foot. the admission is twenty sols. the evening was very fine. we passed immense crowds of people, who were flocking to the same place. amongst them were many elegant, well dressed women, wholly unattended by gentlemen, a circumstance by no means unusual in paris. this place seemed to be raised by the magic touch of enchantment. we entered upon gravelled walks, which were cut through little winding, and intersecting hillocks of box; those which formed the sides were surmounted by orange trees, which presented a beautiful colonnade; immediately after we had passed them, we entered an elegant treillage of honeysuckles, roses, and eglantine, which formed the grand entrance to the garden. here a most animated scene of festivity opened upon us. on one side were rope dancers, people riding at the ring, groups of persons playing at shuttlecock, which seemed to be the favourite, and i may add, the most ridiculous diversion; on the other side, were dancers, tumblers, mountebanks, and parties, all with gay countenances, seated in little bowers enjoying lemonade, and ices. in the centre as we advanced, were about three hundred people, who were dancing the favourite waltz. this dance was brought from germany, where, _from its nature_, the partners are always engaged lovers; but the french, who think that nothing can be blamable which is susceptible of elegance, have introduced the german dance, without adhering to the german regulation. the attitudes of the waltz are very graceful, but they would not altogether accord with english female notions of delicacy. at a late fashionable parisian ball, a gentleman present was requested by the lady of the house, to waltz with a friend of hers, who was without a partner. the person of this neglected fair, was a little inclined to the meagre. the gallant, without the least embarrassment, declined, observing, "ah! ma chere madame qu'exigez vous de moi, ne savez vous pas qu'elle n'a point de sein?" in the middle of the platform of the dancers, a very fine full band was playing. at the end of this raised stage, a very capacious indian marquee was erected, which was beautifully illuminated with variegated lamps, and under its broad canopy, a large concourse of people was seated, some were enjoying conversation, some were playing at buillotte, drinking coffee, &c.; behind this building, was a noble corinthian temple, from the doors of which, were covered trellis walks, leading to spacious gardens, which were formed to display the different tastes of the english, french, and dutch nations, whose respective names they bore. these gardens are intersected by little canals, upon which several persons were amusing themselves with the diversion of canoe racing. the whole was illuminated by large patent reflecting lamps, which shed a lustre almost as brilliant as the day. a few english were present, amongst them were the duchess of cumberland, and a few other ladies. these gardens, previous to the revolution, were the property of a wealthy minister of france, who, it is said, expended near one hundred thousand pounds sterling, in bringing them to perfection, which he just saw accomplished, when he closed his eyes upon the scaffold. the nation became their next proprietor, who sold them for a large sum of money to their present owners. from this place we went to frescati, which is the promenade of the first beauty, and fashion of paris, who generally assemble about half past ten o'clock, after the opera is concluded. no admission money is required, but singular as it may seem, no improper intruder has yet appeared, a circumstance which may be accounted for by the awe which well bred society ever maintains over vulgarity. frescati is situated in the italian boulevard; was formerly the residence of a nobleman of large fortune, and has also undergone the usual transition of revolutionary confiscation. the streets leading to it were filled with carriages. after ascending a flight of steps, from a handsome court yard, we entered a beautiful hall, which was lined with pier glasses, and decorated with festoons of artificial flowers, at the end of it was a fine statue of venus de medicis. on one side of this image was an arch, which led into a suite of six magnificent apartments, which were superbly gilt, painted, and also covered with pier glasses, and lustres of fine diamond cut glass, which latter, looked like so many little glittering cascades. each room was in a blaze of light, and filled with parties, who were taking ices, or drinking coffee. each room communicated with the others, by arches, or folding doors of mirrors. the garden is small, but very tastefully disposed. it is composed of three walks, which are lined with orange and acacia trees, and vases of roses. at the end is a tower mounted on a rock, temples, and rustic bridges; and on each side of the walks, are little labyrinth bowers. on the side next to the boulevard, is a terrace which commands the whole scene, is lined on each side with beautiful vases of flowers, and is terminated at each end by alcoves, which are lined with mirrors. here in the course of an hour, the astonished, and admiring stranger may see near three thousand females of the first beauty and distinction in paris, whose cheeks are no longer disfigured by the corrosion of rouge, and who, by their symmetry and grace, would induce him to believe, that the loveliest figures of greece, in her proudest era, were revived, and moving before him. chapter xiv. _convent of blue nuns.--duchesse de biron.--the bloody key.--courts of justice.--public library.--gobelines.--miss linwood.--garden of plants.--french accommodation.--boot cleaners.--cat and dog shearers.--monsieur s---- and family._ the english convent, or as it is called, the convent of blue nuns, in the rue de st. victoire, is the only establishment of the kind, which throughout the republic, has survived the revolution. to what cause its exclusive protection is attributable, is not, i believe correctly known. but though this spot of sacred seclusion, has escaped the final stroke of extermination, it has sustained an ample share of the general desolation. during the time of terrour, it was converted into the crowded prison of the female nobility, who were here confined, and afterwards dragged from its cloisters, and butchered by the guillotine, or the daggers of assassins. i had a letter of introduction to mrs. s----, one of the sisterhood, a lady of distinguished family in england. i found her in the refectory. a dignified dejection overspread her countenance, and her figure seemed much emaciated by the scenes of horrour through which she had passed. she informed me, that when the nuns were in a state of arrestation by the order of robespierre, the convent was so crowded with prisoners, that they were obliged to eat their wretched meals in three different divisions. the places of the unhappy beings who were led off to execution, were immediately filled by fresh victims. amongst those who suffered, was the beautiful young duchesse de biron, said to be one of the loveliest women of the french court. her fate was singular, and horrible. one morning, two of the assistant executioners came into one of the rooms, and called upon the female citizen biron to come forward, meaning the old duchesse de biron, the mother, who was here immured with her daughter; some one said, which of them do you require? the hell-hounds replied, "our order was for one only, but as there are two, we will have both, that there may be no errour." the mother and daughter were taken away, locked senseless in each others arms. when the cart which carried them arrived at the foot of the scaffold, the chief executioner looked at his paper, which contained a list of his victims, and saw the name of only one biron; the assistants informed him that they found two of that name in the convent, and to prevent mistake, they had brought both. the principal, with perfect sang froid, said it was all well, wrote with a pencil the article "les" before the name biron, to which he added an s, and immediately beheaded both!!! mrs. s---- led me to the chapel, to show me the havoc which the unspairing impious hands of the revolution had there produced. she put into my hand an immense massy key to open the door of the choir. "that key," said she, "was made for the master-key of the convent, by the order of robespierre. in the time of terrour, our gaoler wore it at his belt. a thousand times has my soul sunk within me, when it loudly pushed the bolt of the lock aside. when the door opened, it was either a signal to prepare for instant death to some of those who were within, or for the gloomy purpose of admitting new victims." when we entered the chapel, my surprise and abhorrence were equally excited. the windows were beaten through, the hangings were flapping in the wind, the altar was shattered in pieces and prostrate, the pavement was every where torn up, and the caves of the dead were still yawning upon us. from their solemn and hallowed depths, the mouldering relics of the departed had been raised, by torch light, and heaped in frightful piles of unfinished decay against the walls, for the purpose of converting the lead, which contained these wretched fragments of mortality, into balls for the musketry of the revolution. the gardens behind the chapel must have been once very pleasant, but they then had the appearance of a wilderness. the painful uncertainty of many years, had occasioned the neglect and ruin in which i saw them. some of the nuns were reading upon shattered seats, under overgrown bowers, and others were walking in the melancholy shade of neglected avenues. the effect of the whole was gloomy and sorrowful, and fully confirmed the melancholy recital which i received from mrs. s----. bonaparte, it is said, intends to confirm to these nuns their present residence, by an act of government. upon leaving the convent i visited the seats of cassation, and justice, in the architectural arrangement of which, i saw but little worthy of minute notice, except the perfect accommodation which pervades all the french buildings, which are appropriated to the administration of the laws. the hall of the first cassation, or grand court of appeal, is very fine. the judges wear elegant costumes, and were, as well as the advocates, seated upon chairs, which were constructed to imitate the seats of roman magistracy, and had a good effect. i was informed that the whole of the ornamental arrangement was designed by david. from the courts of justice, i went to the second national library, which is very noble and large, and has a valuable collection of books. several students were arranged with great silence and decorum, at long tables. in one apartment is a very large, and ingenious model of rome in a glass case, and another of a frigate. upon leaving the library i proceeded to the gobelins, so called from one gobel, a noted dyer at rheims, who settled here in the reign of francis i. this beautiful manufactory has a crowd of visitors every day. upon the walls of the galleries the tapestry is suspended, which exhibits very exquisite copies of various historical paintings, of which there are some very costly and beautiful specimens. the artists work behind the frame, where the original from which they copy is placed. the whole is a very expensive national establishment, much of its production is preserved for presents to foreign princes, and some of it is disposed of by public sale. upon the comparison between the works of the gobelins and the beautiful works of miss linwood, i could not help feeling a little degree of pride to observe that my ingenious countrywoman did not appear to suffer by it. too much praise cannot be bestowed upon the tasteful paintings of her exquisite needle. this elegant minded woman has manifested by her charming exhibition, that great genius is not always separated from great labour, and unwearied perseverance. from the gobelins i visited the garden of plants, which is considered to be the largest, and most valuable botanical collection in europe, and was founded by the celebrated buffon. the garden is laid out into noble walks, and beds containing the rarest plants from all parts of the world, each of which is neatly labelled for the use of the students. on the right of the entrance is a park containing all sorts of deer, and on the left are vast hothouses and greenhouses; in the centre, enclosed in iron lattice work, is a large pond for the reception of foreign aquatic animals, very near which is a large octagon experimental beehive, about ten feet high, and at the end, near the banks of the seine, is a fine menagerie, in which, amongst other beasts, there are some noble lions. many of the animals have separate houses, and gardens to range in. adjoining is the park of the elephant. this stupendous animal, from the ample space in which he moves, is seen to great advantage, and is considered to be the largest of his species in europe. near the entrance, on the right, is the museum of natural curiosities, the collection of which is very valuable, and admirably arranged. there is here a fine giraffe, or camelopard, of an amazing height, stuffed. this surprising animal is a native of ethiopia, and some other parts of africa, and has scarcely ever been seen in europe. from the garden of plants, i made all possible dispatch to madame c----'s, in the boulevard italien, where i was engaged to dinner. upon crossing the pont neuf, where there are a number of little stalls erected, the owners of which advertise upon little boards, which are raised upon poles, that they possess extraordinary talents for shearing dogs and cats; i could not help stopping and laughing most heartily to observe the following address to the public from one of these canine and grimalkin functionaries: "monin, tondit et coupe les chiens la chatte et sa femme---- vat en ville." which runs in this ridiculous manner in english: "monin shears and cuts dogs and cats and his wife---- goes on errands." as i had no time to return to my hotel to dress, i was initiated into a mode of expeditiously equipping myself, by a young friend who was with me, to which i was before a stranger, and which shows in the most trifling matters, that the french are good adepts in expedition and accommodation. in passing through the palais royal, we entered the little shop of a boot cleaner. in a moment i was mounted upon a dirty sopha, to which i ascended by steps, and from which i had a complete commanding view of the concourse of gay people, who are always passing and repassing in this idle place; the paper of the day, stretched upon a little wooden frame was placed in my hand, each foot was fixed upon an iron anvil, one man brushed off the dirt, and another put on a shining blacking, a third brushed my clothes, and a fourth presented a basin of water and towel to me. the whole of this comfortable operation lasted about four minutes. my dirty valets made me a low bow for four sols, which, poor as the recompense was, exceeded their expectations by three pieces of that petty coin. in the evening, i had the happiness of being introduced to monsieur s----. under his noble and hospitable roof, amidst his affectionate, beautiful, and accomplished family, and in the select circle of his elegant and enlightened society, i passed many happy hours. monsieur s---- was of a noble family, and previous to the revolution was one of the fermiers generaux, and possessed a very noble fortune. in discharging the duties of his distinguished and lucrative office, he conciliated the affections of every one, who had the good fortune to be comprehended within the compass of his honourable authority, and when the revolution stripped him of it, it found his integrity without a stain, except what, in the bewildered interpretation of republican fury, adhered to him from his connection with the old established order of things. in the general, and undistinguishing cry for blood, which yelled from the remorseless assassins of robespierre, this admirable man was consigned to a dungeon, and doomed to the scaffold. two hours before he was to suffer, the remembrance of the noble victim, and of a series of favours, of kindness, and of generosity, flashed, with momentary but irresistible compunction, upon the mind of one of his sanguinary judges, who, suspending the bloody proceedings which then occupied the court, implored the compassion of his fell associates. he pleaded until he had obtained his discharge, and then at once forgetting the emotions of mercy, which had inspired his tongue with the most persuasive eloquence, he very composedly resumed the functions of his cruel occupation, and consigned to the fatal instrument of revolutionary slaughter, other beings, whose virtues were less renowned, or less fortunate in their sphere of operation. monsieur s---- had reached his sixty-eighth year, but seemed to possess all the vivacity and health of youth. his lady was a very amiable, and enlightened woman. their family consisted of a son, and three daughters, all of them handsome, and very highly accomplished. the eldest, madame e----, excelled in music; the second, madame b----, in poetry and the classics; and the youngest, mademoiselle delphine, in drawing and singing. i shall, perhaps, be pardoned for introducing a little impromptu compliment, which the pure, and unassuming merits of the youngest of the family, drew from my pen, in consequence of the conversation one evening, turning upon the indecorum of the tunic dress, amongst the elegantes of paris. to mademoiselle d.s. whilst art array'd in _tunic_ robe, tries over fashion's gaudy globe, to hold resistless force, thy merits shall impede her course, for grace and nature gain in thee, a chaste, decisive victory. from the general wreck of property monsieur s---- has been fortunate enough to save a considerable portion of his former fortune. a similar favourable circumstance has, in general, rewarded the fortitude and constancy of those who, in the political storm, refused to seek a dastard safety by flight. influenced by the reputation of the integrity, talents, and experience of monsieur s----, the first consul has deservedly placed him at the head of the national accounts, which he manages with great advantage, and honour to the government. i was pressed to make this charming house my home. upon a noble terrace, which communicated with the drawing room, and commanded a view of all the gayety, and fashion of the italien boulevard, which moved below us, in the circle of some of the most charming people of paris, we used to enjoy the refreshing coolness of the evening, the graceful unpremeditated dance, or the sounds of enchanting music. in this happy spot all parties assembled. those who had been divided by the ferocity of politics, here met in amiable intercourse. i have in the same room observed, the once pursuing republican conqueror, in social converse with the captive vendeean general, who had submitted to his prowess, and to the government. the sword was not merely sheathed--it was _concealed_ in flowers. to please, and to be pleased; to charm, and to enlighten, by interchanges of pleasantry, and politeness, and talents, and acquirements, seemed alone to occupy the generous minds of this charming society. the remembrance of the hours which i passed under this roof, will afford my mind delight, as long as the faculty of memory remains, or until high honour, and munificent hospitality have lost their value, and genius and beauty, purity and elegance have no longer any attractions. chapter xv. _civility of a sentinel.--the hall of the legislative assembly.--british house of commons.--captain bergevet.--the temple.--sir sydney smith's escape.--colonel phillipeaux._ one morning, as i was entering the grand court of the hall of the legislative assembly, i was stopped by a sentry. i told him i was an englishman. he politely begged my pardon, and requested me to pass, and called one of the housekeepers to show me the apartments. this magnificent pile is in the fauxbourg st. germain, and was formerly the palace of the bourbons. after passing through a suite of splendid apartments, i entered, through lofty folding doors, into the hall, where the legislators assemble. it is a very spacious semicircular room, and much resembles, in its arrangements the appearance of a splendid theatre before the stage. the ascent to the seat of the president is by a flight of light marble steps; the facing of his bureau is composed of the most costly marble, richly carved. on each side of the president's chair are seats for the secretaries; and immediately below them is the tribune, into which the orator ascends to address the house. on each side of the seat of the president are antique statues of eminent patriots and orators, which are placed in niches in the wall. under the tribune, upon the centre of the floor, is the altar of the country, upon which, in marble, is represented the book of the laws, resting upon branches of olive. behind it, upon semicircular seats, the legislators sit, at the back of whom are the boxes of the embassadors, and officers of state, and immediately above them, within a colonnade of corinthian pillars, the public are admitted. round the upper part of the cornice, a beautiful festoon of lilac coloured cloth, looped up with rich tassels, is suspended, for the purpose of correcting the vibration of the voice. the whole is very superb, and has cost the nation an immense sum of money. the principal housekeeper asked me "whether our speakers had such a place to declaim in," i told him, "that we had very _great_ orators in england, but that they were content to speak in very little places." he laughed, and observed, "that frenchmen never talked to so much advantage as when their eye was pleased." this man i found had been formerly one of the door keepers of the national assembly, and was present when, after having been impeached by billaud, panis, and their colleagues, tallien discharged the pistol at robespierre, whom he helped to support, until the monster was finally dispatched by the guillotine, on the memorable th of thermidor. the french are amazingly fond of finery and stage effect. the solicitude which always first manifested itself after any political change in the course of the revolution, was the external decoration of each new puppet who, arrayed in the brief authority of the fleeting moment, was permitted to "play his fantastic tricks before high heaven." the poor battered ark of government was left overturned, under the protection of an escort of assassins, in the ensanguined mud, upon the reeking bodies of its former, headless, bearers, until its new supporters had adjusted the rival pretensions of silk and satin, and had consulted the pattern book of the laceman in the choice of their embroidery. on one side of the arch which leads into the antiroom of the legislative assembly, are suspended patterns and designs for tickets of admission to the sitting, elegantly framed, and near the same place, in a long gallery which leads to the dressing-rooms of the legislators, are boxes which contain the senatorial robes of the members. the meetings of our house of commons would inspire more awe, and veneration, if more attention was paid to decorum, and external decoration. a dignified and manly magnificence would not be unsuitable to the proceedings of the sanctuary of british laws, and the seat of unrivalled eloquence. what would a perfumed french legislator say, accustomed to rise in the rustling of embroidered silks, and gracefully holding in his hand, a cap of soft and showy plumes, to address himself to alabaster statues, glittering lustres, grecian chairs, festoons of drapery, and an audience of beings tricked out as fine as himself, were he to be suddenly transported into a poor and paltry room, meanly lighted, badly ventilated, and inconveniently arranged, and to be told that, in that spot, the representatives of the first nation in the world, legislated for her subjects? what would he say, were he to see and hear in the mean attire of jockeys and mechanics, such orators as greece and rome never saw or heard in the days of their most exalted glory; unfolding with the penetration of a subordinate providence, the machinations of a dark and deep conspiracy, erecting elaborate laws to shelter the good, against the enemies of repose, or hurling the thunder of their eloquence against the common foes of their country. the astonished frenchman would very likely say, "i always thought that the english were a strange set of beings, but they now exceed the powers of my comprehension, they can elicit wit in the midst of gloom, and can say such things in a plain unbrushed coat of _blue_ cloth, as all the robes, plumes, and finery of the republic, in her gaudy halls of deliberation, cannot inspire." from the legislative assembly i went to pay my respects to the gallant captain bergeret, to whom i had letters of introduction. it will be immediately remembered, that this distinguished hero, in the virginie, displayed the most undaunted courage, when she was engaged by sir edward pellew, in the indefatigable, to whose superior prowess and naval knowledge, he was obliged to strike the tricolour flag. his bravery and integrity have justly entitled him to the admiration and lasting friendship of his noble conqueror, and to the esteem of the british nation. when sir sidney smith was confined in the temple, and captain bergeret a prisoner in england, the latter was sent to france upon his parole, to endeavour to effect the exchange of sir sidney. the french government, which was then under the direction of some of the basest and meanest of her tyrants, refused to listen to the proposal; and at the same time resisted the return of their own countryman. the gallant bergeret was resolved to preserve his word of honour unsullied, or to perish in the attempt. finding all his efforts to obtain the liberation of the illustrious captive unavailing, menaced with death if he departed, and invited by promised command and promotion if he remained, he contrived to quit his own country by stealth, and returned a voluntary exile to his generous and confiding conquerors. from captain b----'s hotel i went to the temple, so celebrated in the gloomy history of the revolution. it stands in the rue du temple, in the fauxbourg of that name. the entrance is handsome, and does not much impress the idea of the approach to a place of such confinement. over the gates is a pole, supporting a dirty and tattered bonnet rouge, of which species of republican decoration there are very few now to be seen in paris. the door was opened to me by the principal gaoler, whose predecessor had been dismissed on account of his imputed connivance in the escape of sir sidney smith. his appearance seemed fully to qualify him for his savage office, and to insure his superiors against all future apprehension, of a remission of duty by any act of humanity, feeling, or commiseration. he told me, that he could not permit me to advance beyond the lodge, on account of a peremptory order which he had just received from government. from this place i had a full command of the walk and prison, the latter of which is situated in the centre of the walls. he pointed out to me the window of the room in which the royal sufferers languished. as the story of sir sidney smith's escape from this prison has been involved in some ambiguity, a short recital of it will, perhaps, not prove uninteresting. after several months had rolled away, since the gates of his prison had first closed upon the british hero, he observed that a lady who lived in an upper apartment on the opposite side of the street, seemed frequently to look towards that part of the prison in which he was confined. as often as he observed her, he played some tender air upon his flute, by which, and by imitating every motion which she made, he at length succeeded in fixing her attention upon him, and had the happiness of remarking that she occasionally observed him with a glass. one morning when he saw that she was looking attentively upon him in this manner, he tore a blank leaf from an old mass book which was lying in his cell, and with the soot of the chimney, contrived, by his finger, to describe upon it, in a large character, the letter a, which he held to the window to be viewed by his fair sympathizing observer. after gazing upon it for some little time, she nodded, to show that she understood what he meant, sir sidney then touched the top of the first bar of the grating of his window, which he wished her to consider as the representative of the letter a, the second b, and so on, until he had formed, from the top of the bars, a corresponding number of letters; and by touching the middle, and bottom parts of them, upon a line with each other, he easily, after having inculcated the first impression of his wishes, completed a telegraphic alphabet. the process of communication was, from its nature, very slow, but sir sidney had the happiness of observing, upon forming the first word, that this excellent being, who beamed before him like a guardian angel, seemed completely to comprehend it, which she expressed by an assenting movement of the head. frequently obliged to desist from this tacit and tedious intercourse, from the dread of exciting the curiosity of the gaolers, or his fellow prisoners, who were permitted to walk before his window, sir sidney occupied several days in communicating to his unknown friend, his name and quality, and imploring her to procure some unsuspected royalist of consequence and address sufficient for the undertaking, to effect his escape; in the achievement of which he assured her, upon his word of honour, that whatever cost might be incurred, would be amply reimbursed, and that the bounty and gratitude of his country would nobly remunerate those who had the talent, and bravery to accomplish it. by the same means he enabled her to draw confidential and accredited bills, for considerable sums of money, for the promotion of the scheme, which she applied with the most perfect integrity. colonel phelipeaux was at this time at paris; a military man of rank, and a secret royalist, most devoutly attached to the fortunes of the exiled family of france, and to those who supported their cause. he had been long endeavouring to bring to maturity, a plan for facilitating their restoration, but which the loyal adherent, from a series of untoward and uncontrollable circumstances, began to despair of accomplishing. the lovely deliverer of sir sidney, applied to this distinguished character, to whom she was known, and stated the singular correspondence which had taken place between herself and the heroic captive in the temple. phelipeaux, who was acquainted with the fame of sir sidney, and chagrined at the failure of his former favourite scheme, embraced the present project with a sort of prophetic enthusiasm, by which he hoped to restore, to the british nation, one of her greatest heroes, who, by his skill and valour, might once more impress the common enemy with dismay, augment the glory of his country, and cover himself with the laurels of future victory. intelligent, active, cool, daring, and insinuating, colonel phelipeaux immediately applied himself to bring to maturity, a plan at once suitable to his genius, and interesting to his wishes. to those whom it was necessary to employ upon the occasion, he contrived to unite one of the clerks of the minister of the police, who forged his signature with exact imitation, to an order for removing the body of sir sidney, from the temple to the prison of the conciergerie: after this was accomplished, on the day after that on which the inspector of gaols was to visit the temple and conciergerie, a ceremony, which is performed once a month in paris, two gentlemen of tried courage and address, who were previously instructed by colonel phelipeaux, disguised as officers of the marechaussee, presented themselves in a fiacre at the temple, and demanded the delivery of sir sidney, at the same time showing the forged order for his removal. this the gaoler attentively perused and examined, as well as the minister's signature. soon after the register of the prison informed sir sidney of the order of the directory, upon hearing which, he at first appeared to be a little disconcerted, upon which the pseudoofficers gave him every assurance of the honour and mild intentions of the government towards him, sir sidney seemed more reconciled, packed up his clothes, took leave of his fellow prisoners, and distributed little tokens of his gratitude to those servants of the prison, from whom he had experienced indulgencies. upon the eve of their departure, the register observed, that four of the prison guard should accompany them. this arrangement menaced the whole plan with immediate dissolution. the officers, without betraying the least emotion, acquiesced in the propriety of the measure, and gave orders for the men to be called out, when, as if recollecting the rank and honour of their illustrious prisoner, one of them addressed sir sidney, by saying, "citizen, you are a brave officer, give us your parole, and there is no occasion for an escort." sir sidney replied, that he would pledge his faith, as an officer, to accompany them, without resistance, wherever they chose to conduct him. not a look or movement betrayed the intention of the party. every thing was cool, well-timed, and natural. they entered a fiacre, which, as is usual, was brought for the purpose of removing him, in which he found changes of clothes, false passports, and money. the coach moved with an accustomed pace, to the faubourg st. germain, where they alighted, and parted in different directions. sir sidney met colonel phelipeaux at the appointed spot of rendezvous. the project was so ably planned and conducted, that no one but the party concerned was acquainted with the escape, until near a month had elapsed, when the inspector paid his next periodical visit. what pen can describe the sensations of two such men as sir sidney and phelipeaux, when they first beheld each other in safety? heaven befriended the generous and gallant exploit. sir sidney and his noble friend, reached the french coast wholly unsuspected, and committing themselves to their god, and to the protective genius of brave men, put to sea in an open boat, and were soon afterwards discovered by an english cruising frigate, and brought in safety to the british shores. the gallant phelipeaux soon afterwards accompanied sir sidney in the tigre to acre, where, overwhelmed by the fatigue of that extraordinary campaign, in which he supported a distinguished part, and the noxious influence of a sultry climate, operating upon a delicate frame, he expired in the arms of his illustrious friend, who attended him to his grave, and shed the tears of gratitude and friendship over his honoured and lamented obsequies. but ere the dying phelipeaux closed his eyes, he received the rewards of his generous enterprise. he beheld the repulsed legions of the republic, flying before the british banners, and the irresistible prowess of his valiant companion; he beheld the distinguished being, whom he had thus rescued from a dungeon, and impending destruction, by an act of almost romantic heroism, covered with the unparticipated glory, of having overpowered a leader, who, renowned, and long accustomed to conquest, saw, for the first time, his _invincible troops_ give way; who, inflamed to desperation, deemed the perilous exposure of his person necessary, to rally them to the contest, over bridges of their slaughtered comrades, but who at length was obliged to retire from the field of battle, and to leave to the heroic sir sidney, the exclusive exultation of announcing to his grateful and elated country, that he had fought, and vanquished the laurelled conqueror of italy, and the bold invader of egypt. sir sidney has no vices to conceal behind his spreading and imperishable laurels. his public character is before the approving world. that peace which his sword has accelerated, has afforded us an undisturbed opportunity of admiring his achievements in the field, and of contemplating his conduct in the retired avenues of private life, in which his deportment is without a stain. in him there is every thing to applaud, and nothing to forgive. yet thus glorious in public, and thus unsullied in private, the conqueror of bonaparte, and the saviour of the east, owes the honours, _which he adorns_, to foreign and distant powers. to the _grateful_ government of his own country, he is indebted for an ungracious paltry annuity, inadequate to the display of ordinary consequence, and wholly unequal to the suitable support of that dignity, which ought for ever to distinguish such a being from the mass of mankind. the enemies of sir sidney, for envy furnishes every great man with his quota of such indirect eulogists, if they should honour these pages with a perusal, may, perchance, endeavour to trace the approving warmth with which i have spoken of him, to the enthusiasm of a friendship dazzled, and undiscriminating; but i beg to assure them, that the fame of sir sidney is better known to me than his person, and that his noble qualities have alone excited the humble tribute which is here offered to one, for whom delighted nature, in the language of our immortal bard, "--------------------------------might stand up, and say to all the world, this _is_ a man----" chapter xvi. _a fashionable poem.--frere richart.--religion.--hôtel des invalides.--hall of victory.--enemies' colours.--sulky appearance of an english jack and ensign.--indecorum.--the aged captain.--military school.--champ de mars.--the garden of mousseaux._ the conversation whilst i was at paris, was much engaged by a poem, describing the genius and progress of christianity written in imitation of the style of ossian, which excited very considerable curiosity. from the remarks of some shrewd acquaintances of mine, who had perused the work, i learnt that the principles of the poem seemed strongly tinctured with the bewildered fancies of a disordered mind, conveyed in very heavy _prosaic_ blank verse. "it was the madness of poetry, without the inspiration." this composition may be considered as a curiosity, from other reasons than those which mere criticism affords. the poem was bad, the readers were many. the subject was sacred, the author a reputed atheist, and the profits which it produced exceeded two thousand pounds sterling. the fortunate writer relieved himself from the jaws of famine by this strange incomprehensible eulogy on the charms and advancement of christianity, which has been received in paris, with a sort of fashionable frenzy. another pseudobard has announced his intention very shortly of issuing from the press, a work which he conceives will be more saleable and a greater favourite with the public, in which he intends ironically to combat the doctrine of the trinity, by gravely resembling it to the deity taking snuff between two looking glasses, so that when he sneezes, two resemblances of him are seen to sneeze also, and yet that there are not three sneezers, but one sneezer. some other outlines of this work were imparted to me at paris, but the pen turns with disgust and detestation, from such low and nauseous profanation. i have only condescended to mention the composition, and the last anecdote, to show how much the world is deluded, by the received opinion that the french are become a new race of exemplary devotees. the recoil from atheism to enthusiasm, is not unusual, but the french in general have not, as yet, experienced this change. that they are susceptible of extraordinary transitions, their history and revolution have sufficiently manifested. in the journal de paris, written in the reigns of charles vi and vii, is preserved rather a curious account of the velocity with which religious zeal has, in former periods, been excited. "on the th day of april, ," says the journal, "the duke of burgundy came to paris, with a very fine body of knights and esquires; and eight days afterwards there came to paris, a cordelier, by name frere richart, a man of great prudence, very knowing in prayer, a giver of good doctrine to edify his neighbour, and was so successful, that he who had not seen him, was bursting with envy against those who had. he was but one day in paris, without preaching. he began his sermon about five o'clock in the morning, and continued preaching till ten or eleven o'clock, and there were always between five and six thousand persons to hear him preach. this cordelier preached on st. mark's day, attended by the like number of persons, and on their return from his sermon, the people of paris were so turned, and moved to devotion, that in three or four hours time, there were more than one hundred fires lighted, in which they burnt their chess boards, their back gammon tables, and their packs of cards." to this sort of fanaticism, the parisians are unquestionably not arrived. a more eloquent man than the frere richart, must appear amongst them, before such meliorations as are recorded in the paris journal, can be effected in the dissolute and uncontrolled habits of that gay and voluptuous city. i do not mean, from any previous remark which i have made, to infer that there are not many good and very pious people in france, and it has been a favourable circumstance to the ancient religion of france, that the revolution never attempted any reform in it, or to substitute another mode of worship. that great political change in the ebullition of its fury, prostrated the altars of the old church, without raising others of a new, or improved construction. it presented a hideous rebellion against the glorious author of all good, and declared an indiscriminate war of extermination against his ministers and followers, and every principle of the gospel and morality. every form of faith, every mode of adoration, fell indiscriminately under the proscriptions of its unsparing wrath. the towering abbey and humble oratory, were alike swept away in the general tornado, and mingled their ruins together. but the race of the good were not all expelled from this scene of havoc and outrage. the voice of piety still found a passage to her god. the silent prayer pierced through the compact covering of the dungeon, and ascended to heaven. within the embowering unsearchable recesses of the soul, far beyond the reach of revolutionary persecution, the pure unappalled spirit of devotion erected her viewless temple, in secret magnificence, sublime, and unassailable! the child who had never heard the bell of the sabbath sound, who had never beheld the solemn ceremonies of authorized adoration, was told that those awful and splendid piles, which filled his eyes with wonder, and his mind with instinctive reverence, were raised for other purposes than those of becoming auxiliary to the ferocity of war. that genius and taste, and toil and cost, had not thus expended their unrivalled powers, and lavished their munificent resources, in erecting _gothic_ magazines of gunpowder, and _saxon_ sheds for the accommodation of atheistic fabricators of revolutionary cannon balls. the young observer in private, and by stealth imbibed, from parental precept or example, the sentiment of a national religion, suppressed, not extinguished, or in the gloomy absence of all indications of it, remained unsolicited by any rival mode of worship to bestow his apostacy upon an alien creed. thus the minds of the rising generation, who were engaged in favour of the catholic persuasion, during the frightful period of its long denunciation, by stolen, secluded and unfinished displays of its spirit and form, contemplated its return with animated elation, or beheld its approach, unimpressed with those doubts or prejudices which religious, as well as secular competitions, very frequently excite; in that auspicious hour, when the policy, if not the piety of a powerful government, restored it to the french people. the subject is highly interesting; but i must resign it to abler pens for more ample discussion. i was much gratified by being presented to the celebrated philosopher mons. charles, by madame s----. he has a suite of noble apartments in the louvre, which have been bestowed upon him by the government, as a grateful reward for his having presented to the nation his magnificent collection of philosophical apparatus. he has also, in consideration of his ability and experience, been constituted the principal lecturer on philosophy. in these rooms his valuable and costly donation is arranged. in the centre of the dome of the first apartment, called the hall of electricity, is suspended the car of the first balloon which was inflated with inflammable air, in which he and his brother ascended in the afternoon of the st of december, , in which they continued in the air for an hour and three quarters; and after they had descended, mons. c----rose alone to the astonishing height of , feet. in the same room are immense electrical machines and batteries, some of which had been presented to him by madame s----. in this room, amongst many other fanciful figures, which are used for the purpose of enlivening the solemnity of a philosophical lecture by exciting sentiments of innocent gayety, was a little cupid. the tiny god, with his arrow in his hand, was insulated upon a throne of glass, and was charged with that electric fluid which not a little resembles the subtle spirit of his nature. the youngest daughter of madame s----, who accompanied us, was requested to touch it. in a moment it discharged its penetrating spark--"oh! how that little god has alarmed me!" said the recoiling fair one, whose youthful countenance surprise had imbued with new beauties; "but yet," said she, recovering herself, "_he does not hurt_." this little sally may be considered as a specimen of that playful sprightliness which is so much the characteristic of the french female. in the centre of another room, dedicated to optics, as we entered, we saw a beautiful nosegay in a vase, which appeared to be composed of the rarest flowers. i approached it with an intention of inhaling its fragrance, when, lo! my hand passed through it. it was an exquisite optical illusion. "ah!" said my elegant and moralising companion, madame s----, smiling, "of such flowers has happiness composed _her_ wreath: it is thus she gladdens with it the eye of hope; but the hand of expectation can never grasp it." the graceful moral deserves a more lasting record than it will find in these few and perishable pages. in the other rooms are all sorts of apparatus for trying experiments in the various branches of that department of science, over which mons. c---- so ably presides. the merit of mons. c---- has no rival but in his modesty. considering the rank and estimation which he bears in the republic, his external appearance is singularly unassuming. i have been with him in the gardens of the thuilleries, when they were thronged with the fashion and gayety of paris, where he has appeared in a suit of plain brown cloth, an old round hat with a little national cockade in it, under which he presented a countenance full of character, talent and animation. in this homely puritan garb, he excited more respectful curiosity, wherever he moved, than some generals who paraded before us in dresses upon which the tailor and embroiderer had long laboured, and who added to their stature by laced hats entirely filled with gaudy buoyant plumes. from mons. charles we went to the church of st. rocque, in the rue st. honorè. as we entered, the effect of a fine painting of our saviour crucified, upon which the sun was shining with great glory, placed at the extremity of the church, and seen through several lessening arches of faint, increasing shade, was very grand. this church has been more than once the scene of revolutionary carnage. its elegant front is much disfigured, and the doors are perforated, in a great number of places, by the ball of cannon and the shot of musketry. mass was performing in the church; but we saw only few worshippers, and those were chiefly old women and little girls. from st. rocque we proceeded to the hôtel des invalides, the chapel and dome of which are so justly celebrated. the front is inferior to the military hospital at chelsea, to which it bears some resemblance. the chapel is converted into the hall of victory, in which, with great taste, are suspended, under descriptive medallions, the banners of the enemies of the republic, which have been taken during the late war, the numbers of which are immense. the same decoration adorns the pilasters and gallery at the vast, magnificent dome at the end of the hall. my eye was naturally occupied, immediately after we had entered, in searching amongst the most _battered_ of the banners, for the british colours: at last i discovered the jack and ensign of an english man of war, pierced with shot-holes, and blackened with smoke, looking very sulky, and indignantly, amongst the finery, and tawdry tatters of italian and turkish standards. in the course of this pursuit, i caught the intelligent eye of madame s----. she immediately assigned to my search the proper motive. "ah!" said she, laughingly, and patting me on the arm with her fan, "we are, as you see, my dear englishman, very vain; and you are very proud." a stranger to the late calamitous war, unable to marshal in his mind the enemies of the republic, might here, with a glance of his eye, whilst contemplating this poor result of devastation, enumerate the foes of france, and appreciate the facilities or difficulties of the victory. in observing, amidst this gaudy show of captive colours, only two hardworn banners of their rival enemy, he would draw a conclusion too flattering and familiar to an english ear, to render it necessary to be recorded here. upon the shattered standards of austria he would confer the meed of merited applause for heroic, although unprevailing bravery. to the banners of prussia he would say, "i know not whether principle or policy, or treachery, or corruption, deterred you from the field--your looks exhibit no proofs of sincere resistance--however, you never belonged to cowards." the neapolitan ensign might excite such sentiments as these: "you appear for a short time to have faced the battle--you were unfortunate, and soon retired." to the gaudy drapeaus of the italian and turkish legions, which every where present the appearance of belonging to the wardrobe of a pantomimic hero, he would observe, "the scent of the battle has not perfumed you; its smoke has not sullied your shining, silky sides. ye appear in numbers, but display no marks of having waved before a brave, united and energetic band." in this manner might he trace the various fate of the war. upon several of the staffs only two or three shreds of colours are to be seen adhering. these are chiefly austrian. on each side of the chapel are large, and some of them valuable paintings, by the french masters, representing the conquests of the french armies at different eras. it is a matter not unworthy of observation, that although the revolution with a keen, and savage eye, explored too successfully, almost every vestige of a royal tendency, the beautiful pavement under the dome of the invalides has escaped destruction. the fleur de lis, surmounted by the crown of france, still retains its original place, in this elegant and costly marble flooring. the statues of the saints have been removed; and their places are supplied by the new order of revolutionary deities; but the names of the ancient figures have not been erased from the pedestals of the new ones: to which omission the spectator is indebted for a smile when contemplating the statue of equality, he reads, immediately below his feet, "_st. louis_." there is here a costly monument erected to the memory of the brave marshal turenne, who was killed by a cannon ball in . in my humble opinion, it is too much in the false taste of french statuary. a groupe of weeping angels surround the recumbent hero, in the attitudes of operatic figurantes, in whose faces, and forms, the artist has attempted, too laboriously and artificially, to delineate the expressions of graceful grief. on each side of the vast arch which divides the dome from the chapel, are raised the tablets of military honour, on which, in characters of gold, the names of those soldiers are recorded who have distinguished themselves for their achievements in the late war. as we were contemplating a painting upon a very large scale, in which, amongst other figures, is an uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having very attentively beheld it with her glass for some time, observed to her party, that there was a great deal of indecorum in the picture. madame s---- very shrewdly whispered in my ear, that the indecorum was in the remark. when we were just leaving the chapel, we overheard a sun-browned soldier, who had lost both his legs, observe to his companion, to whom he was explaining the colours, pointing to the banners of the turkish cavalry, the tops of whose staffs were surmounted with horses' tails, "look at those ribbands; they are not worthy of being worn when won." this military hospital is capable of accommodating , soldiers. the bedrooms, kitchens, refectory and outoffices are very capacious, and, what is rather unusual in france, clean and comfortable. the day before we were there, the first consul paid a visit to its veteran inhabitants. amongst them, he recognised an old, and very brave soldier, whose exploits were the frequent theme of his aged comrades. the young general told him that he should die a captain, took him in his carriage to dine with him at mal maison, presented him with a medallion of honour, and conferred upon him the rank of a captain, in one of the most distinguished regiments. from this place we went to the military school adjoining, in which bonaparte received the rudiments of that education which was destined to form the foundation of his future glory. the building is large and handsome, and is, from a very natural sentiment, in high favour with the first consul. there is nothing in it particular to describe. the grounds and gardens are very spacious and fine. in the front of the military school is the celebrated champ de mars, which is an immense flat space of ground. on each side are rising terraces of earth, and double rows of trees; and at the further end, the river seine flows. on days of great national celebrations, this vast plain is surrounded with gobelins tapestry, statues, and triumphal arches. after contemplating these objects of public curiosity, we returned to mons. s---- to dinner, where we met a large party of very pleasant people. amongst them i was pleased with meeting a near relative of an able and upright minister of the republic, to whose unwearied labours the world is not a little indebted for the enjoyments of its present repose. after dinner we drove to the beautiful garden of mousseau, formerly the property of the duc d'orleans. it is laid out with great taste, and delights the eye with the most romantic specimens of improved rural beauty. it was originally designed by its detestable owner for other purposes than those of affording to a vast and crowded city the innocent delights and recreations of retired and tasteful scenery. in the gloom of its groves, all sorts of horrible profanations were practised by this monster and his midnight crew, at the head of whom was legendre the butcher. every rank recess of prostitute pollution in paris was ransacked to furnish materials for the celebration of their impure and impious orgies. the ode to atheism, and the song of blasphemy, were succeeded by the applauding yells of drunkenness and obscenity. at the time we visited this garden it belonged to the nation, and was open, on certain days, to well-dressed people. a few days afterwards, it was presented, as a mark of national esteem, to cambaceres, the second consul. here we rambled till the evening. the sun was setting. the nightingales were singing in great numbers. not a cloud to be seen. a breeze, blowing through a plantation of roses, refreshed us with its coolness and fragrance. in a sequestered part of this beautiful ground, under the embowering shades of acacia trees, upon the ruins of a little temple, we seated ourselves, and were regaled by some charming italian duets, which were sung by madame s---- and her lovely daughter, with the most enchanting pathos. i hope i shall be pardoned for introducing some lines which were written upon our return, by an enthusiastic admirer of merit and music. to mademoiselle d. s----. in mousseau's sweet arcadian dale, fair delphine pours the plaintive strain; she charms the list'ning nightingale, and seems th' enchantress of the plain. blest be those lips, to music dear! sweet songstress! never may they move but with such sounds to soothe the ear, and melt the yielding heart to love! may sorrow never bid them pour from the torn heart one suffering sigh, but be thy life a fragrant flow'r, blooming beneath a cloudless sky. chapter xvii. _curious method of raising hay.--lucien bonaparte's hôtel.--opera.--consular box.--madame bonaparte's box.--feydeau theatre.--belle vue.--versailles.--the palace of the petit trianon.--the grounds._ the people of paris, who keep horses in stables at the back of their houses, have a singular mode of keeping their hay in the lofts of their dwelling houses. at the top of a spacious and elegant hotel, is to be seen a projecting crane in the act of raising loads of winter provision for the stable. when i first saw this strange process, my surprise would scarcely have been increased, had i beheld the horse ascending after the hay. i must not forget to offer some little description of the opera, where, during my stay, through the politeness of madame h----, i had free access to a private box. this spacious and splendid theatre is lighted from above by an immense circular lustre of patent lamps. the form of this brilliant light is in the antique taste, and it is said to have cost two thousand pounds sterling. the effect which it produces in the body of the theatre, and upon the scenery, is admirable. it prevents the sight from being divided, and distracted by girandoles. this establishment is upon so vast a scale, that government, which is the proprietor, is always a loser upon balancing the receipts and disbursements of each night. the stage and its machinery have for many years occupied a great number of the subordinate classes of people, who, if not employed in this manner, would in all probability become burdensome, and unpleasant to the government. to this circumstance is attributable the superiority of the machinery, and scenery, over every other theatre which i ever saw. in the english theatres, my eye has often been offended at the representations of the internal parts of houses, in which not a chair, or table is introduced, for the purpose of carrying on the ingenious deception. upon the stage of the french opera, every scene has its appropriate furniture, and distinctive appendages, which are always produced as soon as the scene drops, by numerous attendants. from this attention to the minute circumstances of the drama, the illusion becomes enchanting. the orchestra is very fine, and is composed of ninety eminent musicians. the corps de ballet consists of between eighty and ninety fine dancers, of whom monsieur deshayes is the principal. his movements are more graceful, his agility more surprising, and his step more light, firm, and elastic, than those of any dancer whom i have ever seen. he is very justly considered to be the first in europe. the first consul has a private box here, on one side of which, a lofty, hollow, decorative column rises, the flutes of which are open, and through which he views, [printing unclear: unseen,] the audience and performers. the beholder might be almost inclined to think that this surprising man had borrowed from our immortal bard, his notions of exciting the impression of dignity, by a rare, and well timed display of his person. "thus did i keep my person fresh, and new; my presence like a robe pontifical, ne'er seen but wondered at: and so my state seldom, but sumptuous shewed, like a feast and won by rareness such solemnity." madame bonaparte's box is on the left side of the stage, over the door, in which the hapless queen has frequently displayed her beautiful person to the enraptured audience. the feydeau theatre is very elegant; and on account of its excellent arrangements, good performers, and exquisite machinery, is much resorted to, and is in general preferred to the fourteen other dramatic spectacles which, in this dissipated city, almost every night present their tribute of pleasure to the gay, and delighted parisians. a frenchman once observed to me, that a sunday in london was horrible, on account of there being no playhouses open at night! the decorum and good manners which are even still observed in all the french places of public amusement, are very impressive, and agreeable. horse and foot soldiers are stationed at the avenues, to keep them clear, to prevent depredation, and to quell the first indications of popular commotion. i was much gratified by an excursion to versailles, which had been some time planned by the charming family of the s----'s. we set off early in the morning, in one of the government carriages, and after a delightful ride, through a very rich, and luxuriant country, of about twelve miles, the vast, and magnificent palace of versailles, opened upon our view, at the end of a street nearly two miles long, lined on each side with noble hotels, and gardens. it was on a sunday, the day on which the palace is opened to the public. on the road, we passed several hundreds of persons in carriages, cabrioles, or walking; all with merry faces, in showy clothes, and adorned with bouquets, on their route to this spot of favourite delight. about four miles from paris we saw belle vue, formerly the residence of mesdames; soon afterwards we passed the noble palace, and park of st. cloud, which was preparing for the reception of the first consul. at the entrance of the village of st. cloud, on the left, after we had passed the bridge, we saw a very pretty house, and grounds, belonging to a tanner, who had amassed considerable wealth by a discovery of tanning leather in twenty-four hours, so as to render it fit for the currier. whether he possesses this faculty or not, i cannot from my own experience say, but i can venture to affirm, that the leather of france is very bad. in the village is a very noble porcelain manufactory, which unfortunately we had not time to inspect. whilst our horses were refreshing themselves with a little water, we were beset by the agents of the different hotels, and restaurateurs of versailles, who presented us with little cards, announcing in a very pompous manner the superiority of their employers accommodations. the stables of versailles, to the right, and left, are from the designs of mansart, in the form of a crescent, and have the appearance of princely residences. here the late king kept in the greatest style six hundred of the finest horses. on the left of the grand gateway, is a military lodge for the accommodation of cavalry. it represents in shape, an immense turkish marquee. after we had passed the pallisades of the first court, we more distinctly saw this amazing pile of irregular buildings, which consists of the old castle, the new palaces, the houses of the ministers of state, and servants, two opera houses, the chapel, military schools, museums, and the manufactory of arms, the whole of which are now consolidated, and form one palace. the beautiful pavement of black and white marble in the court yards, is much defaced, and their fountains are totally destroyed. the first place we visited was the manufactory of small arms; the resident workmen in which exceed two thousand men. here we saw all the ingenious process of constructing the musket, pistol, and sabre, of which there are an immense collection; and also several carbines, and swords of honour, intended as presents from the first consul to officers and soldiers of distinguished merit. from the manufactory of small arms, we returned to the grand court, and entered a suite of rooms, which contain the relics of the former valuable cabinet of curiosities. several of those which we saw, were worthy of attention. from these rooms, we passed to the late king's private opera house, which surpasses in magnificence, and costly decoration, every thing of the kind i ever beheld. the facing of the whole of the inside is of carved wood, richly gilt. the dome is beautifully painted. upon the scenery of the stage being removed, and temporary columns, and galleries raised; all of which can be effected in twenty-four hours, that part of the theatre presents a counterpart of the other, and the whole forms a most splendid oblong ball room, very deservedly considered to be the finest in europe: it used to be illuminated by ten thousand wax lights. the concert rooms, and retiring apartments are also very beautiful. from the opera, we visited the chapel, which is very fine, and costly, in which there are many large, and valuable paintings. after leaving this deserted place of royal worship, we passed through the halls of plenty, venus, mars, mercury, apollo, and the hall of the billiard table, finely painted by houasse, le brun, champagne, and other eminent artists, to the grand gallery, which is seventy-two yards long, and fourteen broad, and has seventeen lofty windows on one side, which look into the gardens, and seventeen immense pier glasses on the opposite side to correspond. in this gallery, the kings of france were accustomed to receive ambassadors, and ministers of state. we next entered the bedroom of the late queen and beheld the door, which, on the night of the th of october, , the frantic, and sanguinary mob, headed by the infamous legendre, burst open, for the purpose of dispatching her with daggers, in her bed, on that frightful night, which preceded the return of the royal family to paris, under the protection of the marquis de la fayette, through an enraged multitude, which extended itself from versailles to paris. the miserable queen saved herself by escaping into an adjoining apartment. her bed was pierced through and through with poignards. the door is nailed up, but the marks of that horrible outrage still remain. in this, and in the adjoining chambers, are some very beautiful and valuable paintings. i must not omit to mention, although the sentiment which it inspires is not very pleasant, the representation of the capture of an english frigate, by la bayonne, a french corvette, after a desperate engagement, in which victory for once decided in favour of the enemy, who opposed, on this occasion, an inferior force. this is a picture of infinite merit, and possesses a novelty of arrangement, and strength of colouring, which i never saw equalled in any other naval representation. the subject seldom admits of much variety. the french, of course, are very much pleased with it. there are here also some curious old clocks. it was in one of these apartments, that prior, the celebrated poet, when secretary to the earl of portland, who was appointed ambassador to the french court, in the year , made the following memorable answer. one of the french king's household was showing the bard the royal apartments and curiosities of this palace, and particularly pointed out to his notice, the paintings of le brun, now removed to the museum of the arts, in which the victories of lewis the xivth are described, and asked him, whether the actions of king william were to be seen in his palace? no, sir, replied the loyal wit, "the monuments of my master's glory are to be seen every where but in his own house." through the interest of monsieur s---- we were admitted into a private room below stairs, in which several portraits of the late royal family have been preserved from destruction, during the late revolution. that which represents the queen and her young family, is very fine, and displays all the bewitching beauty and vivacity of that lovely and unfortunate personage. into this room no one was admitted with us. here is a very curious piece of mechanism: it is a painting, containing two hundred little figures, in the act of enjoying the various pleasures of rural sport, which are separated from the back ground of the picture, and are set in motion by springs; and admirably imitate all the movements natural to their different occupations. a fisherman throws in his line, and draws up a little fish, a regular chase is displayed, and a nuptial procession appears, in which little figures, riding in tiny carriages, nod to the spectators. there are also many other curious figures. it is glazed and framed, and at a distance, when its motion has ceased, it has the appearance of a tolerably good painting. we next quitted the palace, and entered upon the grand terrace, from which it makes the finest appearance. this enormous pile of building is here united by a centre, and corresponding wings, of great extent and magnificence. from this elevated spot, the beholder contemplates the different waterworks, walks, and gardens, which cover several miles. the orangery is a beautiful specimen of tuscan architecture, designed by le maitre, and finished by mansart. it is filled with lofty orange trees in full bearing; many of which, in their tubs, measure from twenty to thirty feet high. amongst them is an orange tree which is upwards of four hundred years old. the cascades, fountains, and jets d'eau, are too numerous to admit of minute description. they are all very fine, and are supplied by prodigious engines across the seine, at marli, about three miles distant. the trianon is a little marble palace, of much beauty, and embellished with the richest decoration. it stands at the end of the great lake, in front of the palace; and was, by its late royal owners, considered as a summer house to the gardens of versailles. the whole of this vast building and its grounds, were improved and beautified by lewis xivth, for the well known purpose of impressing his subjects, and particularly his courtiers, with the highest opinion of his greatness, and the lowest of their comparative littleness. amongst the lords of his court he easily effected his wishes, by accommodating them in a manner unsuitable to their dignity. [illustration: _ruins of the queen's farm-house in the petit trianon._] after being astonished at such a display of gorgeous magnificence, i approached, with increased delight, the enchanting little palace and grounds of the late queen, distant from versailles about two miles, called the petit trianon, to which she very justly gave the appellation of her "little palace of taste." here, fatigued with the splendours of royalty, she threw aside all its appearances, and gave herself up to the elegant pleasures of rural life. it is a princely establishment in miniature. it consists of a small palace, a chapel, an opera house, out offices and stables, a little park, and pleasure grounds; the latter of which are still charming, although the fascinating eye, and tasteful hand of their lovely but too volatile mistress, no longer pervade, cherish and direct their growth and beauty. by that reverse of fortune, which the revolution has familiarized, the petit trianon is let out by the government to a restaurateur. all the rooms but one in this house were preoccupied, on the day of our visit, in consequence of which we were obliged to dine in the former little bed room of the queen, where, like the idalian goddess, she used to sleep in a suspended basket of roses. the apertures in the ceiling and wainscot, to which the elegant furniture of this little room of repose had once adhered, are still visible. after dinner we hastened through our coffee, and proceeded to the gardens. after winding through gravelled walks, embowered by the most exquisite and costly shrubs, we entered the elegant temple of cupid, from which the little favourite of mankind had been unwillingly, and rudely expelled, as appeared by the fragments of his pedestal. thy wrongs little god! shall be revenged by thy fair friend pity. those who treated thee thus, shall suffer in their turn, and she shall not console them! from this temple we passed through the most romantic avenues, to a range of rural buildings, called the queen's farm, the dairy, the mill, and the woodmens cottages; which, during the queen's residence at the petit trianon, were occupied by the most elegant and accomplished young noblemen of the court. in front of them, a lake terminated on one side by a rustic tower, spreads itself. these buildings are much neglected, and are falling into rapid ruin. in other times, when neatness and order reigned throughout this elysian scenery, and gracefully spread its luxuriant beauties at the feet of its former captivating owner, upon the mirror of that lake, now filled with reeds and sedges, in elegant little pleasure boats, the illustrious party was accustomed to enjoy the freshness of the evening, to fill the surrounding groves with the melody of the song, which was faintly answered by the tender flute, whose musician was concealed in that rustic tower, whose graceful base the honeysuckle and eglantine no longer encircle, and whose winding access, once decorated with flowers of the richest beauty and perfume, is now overgrown with moss, decayed, and falling piecemeal to the ground. near the farm, in corresponding pleasure grounds, the miller's house particularly impressed us with delight. all its characteristics were elegantly observed. a rivulet still runs on one side of it, which formerly used to turn a little wheel to complete the illusion. the apartments, which must have been once enchanting, now present nothing but gaping beams, broken ceilings, and shattered casements. the wainscots of its little cabinets, exhibit only a tablet, upon which are rudely penciled, the motley initials, love verses, and memorandums of its various visitors. the shade of the ivy, which, upon all occasions, seems destined to perform the last offices to the departing monuments of human ingenuity, has here exercised its gloomy function. whilst we were roving about, we were obliged to take refuge from a thunder storm, in what appeared to us a mere barn; upon our entering it, we found it to be an elegant little ball room, much disfigured, and greened over by damp and neglect. in other parts of this _petit paradis_, are caves of artificial rock, which have been formed at an immense expense, in which were formerly beds of moss, and through which clear streams of water glided, belvidere temples, and scattered cottages, each differing from its neighbour in character, but all according in taste and beauty. the opera house, which stands alone, is a miniature of the splendid one in the palace of versailles. the sylvan ball room, is an oblong square, lined with beautiful treillages, surmounted with vases of flowers. the top is open. when the queen gave her balls here, the ground was covered by a temporary flooring, and the whole was brilliantly lighted. as we passed by the palace, we saw, in the queen's little library, several persons walking. could the enchanting beauty of austria, and the once incensed idol of the gay, and the gallant, arise from her untimely tomb, and behold her most sacred recesses of delight, thus rudely exposed, and converted into scenes of low, and holiday festivity, the temples which she designed, defaced, their statues overthrown, her walks overgrown and entangled, the clear mirror of the winding lake, upon the placid surface of which once shone the reflected form of the belvidere, and the retreats of elegant taste covered with the reedy greenness of the standing pool, and all the _fairy fabric_ of her graceful fancy, thus dissolving in decay; the devoted hapless marie would add another sigh to the many which her aching heart has already heaved! it would be a very desirable thing if bonaparte would make this his country palace instead of st. cloud. upon our return, as we approached paris, the illuminated bridges of the seine looked very beautiful, and we were much pleased with some fireworks, which had a singular effect upon the water. in the evening, we had some music at monsieur s----'s, where we were joined by general marescot, a brave and distinguished officer, much esteemed by bonaparte. he informed us that he was on the point of setting out to view and report the condition of all the maritime fortifications in the republic. "you must go with me as my aide-de-camp," said the general to mademoiselle d----. "i am not fierce enough for a soldier," replied the fair one, with a bewitching smile. "well then," observed the sun-browned general, "should the war ever be renewed, you shall attend me to charm away its calamities." madame s----, like a true french mother, was delighted with the little compliment, and presenting her snuff box to the gallant marescot, she said, "thank you, my dear general, the brave always think generously of the fair." chapter xviii. _bonaparte's talents in finance.--garrick and the madman.--palace of the conservative senate.--process of transferring oil paintings from wood to canvas.--the dinner knife.--commodities.--hall of the national convention.--the minister talleyrand's levee._ the first consul is said to add to his other extraordinary powers, an acute and comprehensive knowledge of finance. monsieur s---- informed me, that whenever he waited upon him in his official capacity, with the national accounts, he displayed an acquaintance with the most complicated statements, which seemed intuitive. he exhibits the same talents in philosophy, and in matters which are foreign to those vast objects of public employ, which have raised him to his present height of glory, and which in general preclude the subordinate enjoyment of elegant study. those acquirements, which providence in its wisdom has thinly scattered amongst mankind, and which seldom ripen to full maturity, although cherished by the most propitious advantages, and by the unreposing labours of a long, and blissful existence, spread their rich abundance, in the may morning of life, before this extraordinary being, who in the commencement of that very revolution, upon the ruins of which he has stepped to supreme authority, was a beardless stripling. from the great performers upon the public stage of life, our conversation, one evening, at madame s----'s, by a natural transition, embraced a review of the wonderful talents, which have at various times adorned the lesser drama of the theatre. madame s---- made some judicious remarks upon the french players of distinction, to all of whom she imputed a manner, and enunciation which have been imbibed in a school, in which nature has not been permitted to preside. their tragedy, she said, was inflated with too much pomp, and their elegant comedy suffered by too volatile an airiness. she bestowed upon our immortal garrick, the most decided preference, and superiority to any actor whom she had ever seen. the opportunity which she had of judging of his powers, was short, and singular, but fully enabled her to form a decisive opinion. when garrick visited paris for the last time, she was just married. this celebrated actor had letters of introduction to monsieur s----. at a large party, which monsieur s---- formed for the purpose of doing honour to his distinguished visitor, he exhibited several specimens of his unrivalled talents. amongst others, he represented in dumb show, by the wonderful powers of his expressive countenance, the feelings of a father, who in looking over a lofty balcony with his only child in his arms, by accident dropped it. the disaster drove the unhappy parent mad. garrick had visited him in his cell; where the miserable maniac was accustomed, several times in the course of the day, to exhibit all those looks and attitudes which he had displayed at the balcony[ ]. on a sudden he would bend himself forward, as if looking from a window into the street, with his arms folded as if they embraced a child, then he would start back, and appear as if he had lost something, search the room round and round, run again forward, as to the railing of a window, look down, and beat his forehead, as if he had beheld his infant bleeding, and breathless upon the pavement. garrick's imitation was exquisite. the feelings of his beholders were wrought up to horror. the tears, and consternation of a gay fashionable french party, were applauses more flattering to the british roscius, than the thunder of that acclamation, which, in the crowded theatre, followed the flash of his fiery eye, or the close of his appalling speech. [ ] the cause which induced garrick to visit this unhappy person was, it is said, to render the representation of his king lear more perfect. the english drama, however, has not escaped the animadversions of a french critic, whose taste and liberality are not very congenial with those of my charming, and generous friend. "their tragedies," he says, (speaking of the english) "it is true, though interesting, and replete with beauties, are nevertheless dramatic monsters, half _butchery_, and half _farce_. grotesque characters, and extravagant pleasantry constitute the chief part of their comedies. in one of them, (not named) the devil enters sneezing, and somebody says to the devil, _god bless you_. they are not, however, all of this stamp. they have _even some_ in very good taste." yes, monsieur dourx, i agree with you, i think we have _some_ in very good taste. i know not in what dramatic work the facetious frenchman has discovered the introduction of his satanic majesty under the influence of a cold, and receiving, as he enters, the usual deprecation on such occasions. i rather suspect that the adventures of punch, and his fickle lady, who are always attended by a dancing demon, have afforded the materials for this sapient observation. in the course of one of my morning rambles in paris, i visited the ruins of the celebrated bastille, of which prison, only the arsenal, some fragments of its massy walls, and two or three dungeons remain. the volcanic vengeance of the people, has swept away this mighty fabric, which the revolting mind of republican liberty denounced as the frightful den of despotism, upon the approach to which no marks of returning footsteps were imprinted, whilst, in her mad career, she converted every private dwelling in the metropolis into a revolutionary prison: so much for popular consistency! in the mutations of time, to what different purposes are the same places applied! where the consuming martyr expired[ ], the unwieldy prize hog is exposed to sale; and the modern parisian derives the sources of warmth and comfort, from a place, the very name of which, once _chilled_ the circulation of his blood. the site of the bastille is now a magazine of wood, which supplies the city with fuel. [ ] smithfield. every lover of pure liberty must leap with delight upon the disincumbered earth, where once stood that gloomy abode of "broken hearts," and reflect upon the sufferings of the wretched latude, and the various victims of capricious pique, or prostitute resentment. it was here that, in the beautiful lines of cowper, the hopeless prisoner was doomed "to fly for refuge from distracting thought to such amusements as ingenious woe contrives, hard shifting, and without her tools-- to read, engraven on the mouldy walls, in stagg'ring types, his predecessor's tale, a sad memorial, and subjoin his own-- to turn purveyor to an overgorg'd and bloated spider, till the pamper'd pest is made familiar, watches his approach, comes at his call, and serves him for a friend--" the cells of the bastille were constantly filled, during the syren reign of la pompadour over the gloomy affections of lewis the xvth. the overthrow of this dungeon has not rendered state prisons out of fashion in the republic, although it has mitigated the severity of their internal government. the towers of the temple, look down upon the prostrate ruins of the bastille. from this memorable spot of ground, i went to the observatory. in the rooms, which open upon an artificial terrace, were some prodigious astronomical apparatus. a very ingenious frame was then constructing, for elevating, or depressing the astronomer, and the telescope at the same time, by an easy, and simple process of machinery. the observatory is a noble building, and contains libraries, students rooms, and apartments for the various artificers, and machinists who are occupied in fabricating the apparatus, and instruments necessary to the science of astronomy. from the exterior of the dome, there is a fine view of the city, suburbs, and country. from the observatory, i visited the conservative senate, formerly the palace of the luxembourg. the back of this beautiful building is in the rue de vaugirand, in the fauxbourg of st. germains. the gardens of this noble pile, are receiving great improvement, and alteration, from designs which have been approved of by the first consul, who in his wise policy, intends that they shall, in time, rival those of the thuilleries, for the purpose of affording an elegant, and fashionable promenade to the people who reside in this part of the capital, who are considerably removed from the beautiful walks which adorn the consular palace. here i saw the hall of deliberation, in which the conservative senate assembles. it is nothing more than a large, handsome drawing-room, in which are placed, upon rising platforms, sixty armed chairs, for so many members, the chair of the president, and the tribune. this magnificent palace is repairing, and fitting up for the residence, and accommodation of its members. i was introduced to the artist who has the care of the gallery here, and who, with his assistants, was very busily occupied in a process for removing the oil colours of a painting from wood, and transferring them to canvas. he received me with great politeness, and explained to me the mode of doing it, in which there appeared to be more toil, nicety, and steadiness required, than ingenuity. the painting is laid upon a cloth stretched upon a marble slab, and the wood behind is shaved off until nothing but the picture, like a flat cake, or rather a sheet of goldbeater's skin, remains, a piece of canvas coated with a cement is then placed upon it, to which it adheres, and presents all the appearance of having been originally painted upon it. the pictures from the subject of st. bruno, were then undergoing this operation. the apartments in which these people were at work, presented very convincing indications of the mutability of human ambition. this palace was allotted to the celebrated council of five hundred. during their ephemeral reign, these very rooms were designed for their halls of audience, and levees, the rich mouldings, and cornices of which were half gilt, and covered with silver paper to preserve them: the poor council were never indulged in a house warming. the pictures, which were collected by henry iv, and deposited in the gallery there, which bears his name, are said to be valuable. i did not see them, on account of their having been removed into store rooms during the repairs of the palace. it was late when i left the luxembourg, and somewhat exhausted for want of refreshment, i determined upon dining at the first restaurateur's which i could meet with, instead of going to the gardens of the thuilleries. to find such an accommodation in paris, is no difficult thing. a stranger would naturally suppose, from the frequency with which the words caffé, limonade, and restaurateur present themselves to the eye, that three parts of the inhabitants had turned their talents to the valuable study of relieving the cravings of an empty stomach. i had not moved three yards down the rue de tournon, before, on my left, i saw the welcome board which, in large golden characters, announced the very best entertainment within. at this moment, the celebrated picture of the banquet in the louvre, could scarcely have afforded me more delight. i had an excellent dinner, wine, and fruit for four livres. in the course of my repast, i begged that a knife, might be permitted to aid the services of a three pronged silver fork, which graced my plate on the left. after rather a laborious search, my wishes were gratified by an instrument, which certainly was entitled to the name of one, but was assuredly not the handsomest of its species. whether there had been any dispute between the handle, and the blade, i know not, but there were very evident appearances of an approaching separation. not wishing to augment the rupture, between two personages so necessary to each others service, and to those who were to be benefitted by it, i begged of my fair hostess, who, with two pretty girls (her daughters), were picking the stalks from some strawberries, which were intended for my desert, at the other end of the room, that she would favour me with another knife. the maitresse d'hôtel, who had a pair of fine dark expressive eyes, very archly said, "why would you wish to change it, sir? it is an english one." it certainly looked like one; no compliment could be neater. whether i gave it too great a latitude of interpretation, i will not pretend to say, but it led me into such a train of happy _comparative thinking_, that i ate my dinner with it very comfortably, without saying another word. i have since thought, that the maitresse d'hôtel had not another knife in her house, but what was in use. in france, i have before had occasion to remark, that fanciful notions of excessive delicacy, are not permitted to interfere with comfort, and convenience. amongst these people, every thing turns upon the principle of accommodation. to this motive i attribute the frequent exhibition, over the doors of respectable looking houses, in the fashionable walks, and in different parts of paris, of the following characters, "commodités pour hommes, et femmes." an english prude would start to read these words. i mention this circumstance, for the purpose of communicating some idea of the people, convinced, as i well am, that it is only by detail, that we can become acquainted with the peculiar characteristics of any community. i very often passed by the ci-devant hall of the national convention; in which the hapless king and queen were doomed to the scaffold, where murder was legitimated, religion denounced, and the grave declared to be the bed of _eternal repose_. in vindication of the ways of eternal justice, even upon earth, this polluted pile is participating the fate of its devoted members. those walls which once resounded with the florid, heightened declamation of republican visionaries, the most worthless, imposing, and desperate of mankind, are prevented, for a short time, by a few crazy props, from covering the earth below with their dust and ruins. the famed temple of the goddess of liberty, is not tenantable enough to cover the babel deity from the peltings of the midnight storm. where is now the enthusiastic gironde, where the volcanic mountain, the fiery, and eloquent mirabeau, the wily brissot, the atheistic lequinios, the remorseless marat, the bloody st. just, and the chief of the deplumed and fallen legions of equality? all is desolate and silent. the gaping planks of the guillotine are imbued with their last traces. the haunt of the banditti is uncovered. the revolution has preyed upon her own children, and metaphysical murderers have perished by the daggers of speculative republicans. about two years since this place was converted into a ménagerie. the cave, and the wilderness, the desert, and the jungle, presented to the eye of the beholder, representative successors of those savages who, with more powers and more ferocity, were once enclosed within the same den. from the remembrance of such miscreants, i turn, with increased satisfaction, to the traces of approaching civilization, which mark the career of the present government, in which the want of suitable splendour no longer repels the approach and friendship of those nations which once shuddered at the idea of coming into contact with the infected rags of visionary fraternity. some indications of this change i saw pourtrayed at the levee of monsieur talleyrand, the minister of foreign relations, when i had the honour of being presented to that able and celebrated politician by mr. b. the hotel of talleyrand is very superb. we entered the court yard through two lines of about twenty carriages in waiting. under the portico, were several turks seated, who formed a part of the suite of the turkish embassador, who had just arrived, and was then closetted with monsieur t----. we passed through several noble apartments, preceded by servants, to a magnificent levee room, in which we met most of the foreign embassadors who were then at the consular court. after waiting some time, the folding doors of the cabinet opened, the turkish embassy came out, making their grand salams, followed by talleyrand, in his rich costume of embroidered scarlet, his hair full dressed, and a shining sabre by his side. in his person, he is small and thin, his face is "pale and penetrating." he always looks obliquely, his small quick eyes and features, very legibly express mildness, wit, and subtilty. his right leg appears contracted. his address is insinuating. as the spirit of aggrandizement, which is said to have actuated the public and private conduct of monsieur t----has been so much talked of, it may, perhaps, excite some surprise, when it is mentioned that several persons who know him well, some of whom esteem him, and with some of whom he is not a favourite, declare, notwithstanding the anecdotes related of x y, and monsieur beaucoup d'argent, in the american prints, that they consider him to be a man, whose mind is raised above the influence of corruption. monsieur t----may be classed amongst the rarest curiosities in the revolutionary cabinet. allied by an illustrious ancestry to the bourbons, and a royalist from his birth, he was, with unusual celerity, invested with the episcopal robe and crosier[ ]. during the temporary triumph of the abstract rights of man, over the practicable rights of reason, he moved with the boisterous cavalcade, with more caution than enthusiasm. upon the celebrated national recognition of the sovereignty of man's _will_, in the champs de mars, the politic minister, adorned in snowy robes, and tricolor ribands, presided at the altar of the republic as its high priest, and bestowed his patriarchal benedictions upon the standard of france, and the banners of her departments. [ ] monsieur talleyrand is ex-bishop of autun. some time afterwards, in the shape of a secret unaccredited negotiator, he was discovered in the metropolis of england, and immediately transferred, upon the spread wings of the alien bill, to his own shores. since that period, after having dissociated and neutralized the most formidable foes of his country, by the subtle stratagems of his consummate diplomacy, we beheld him as the successor of la croix, armed with the powers, and clothed in the gaudy costume of the minister of foreign relations. in the _polished babel_ of the antichamber of this extraordinary man, i have beheld the starred and glittering representatives of the most distinguished princes of the earth waiting for hours, with exemplary resignation, contemplating themselves, in all their positions, in his reduplicating mirrors, or examining the splendour and exquisite ingenuity of his time pieces, until the silver sound of his little bell announced, that the invoked and lagging moment of ministerial leisure was arrived. it is certain that few people possess the valuable qualities of imperturbable calmness and self possession, more than monsieur t----. balanced by these amiable and valuable qualities, he has been enabled to ride the political whirlwind, and in the diplomatic cabinet, to collect some advantage from the prejudices or passions of all who approached him. the caution and cunning of t---- have succeeded, where the sword and impetuous spirit of bonaparte would have been unavailing. the splendour of his apartments, and of many of the personages present, displayed a very courtlike appearance, and inclined a stranger, like myself, to think, that nothing of the old government was missing, but the expatriated family of france. chapter xix. _the college of the deaf and dumb.--abbé sicard.--bagatelle.--police.--grand national library.--bonaparte's review.--tambour major of the consular regiment.--restoration of artillery colours._ i had long anticipated the delight which i expected to derive from the interesting public lecture of the abbé sicard, and the examination of his pupils. this amiable and enlightened man presides over an institution which endears his name to humanity, and confers unfading honour upon the nation which cherishes it by its protection and munificence. my reader will immediately conclude that i allude to the college of the deaf and dumb. by the genius and perseverance of the late abbé charles michael de l'epée, and his present amiable successor, a race of fellow beings, denied by a privation of hearing, of the powers of utterance, insulated in the midst of multitudes bearing their own image, and cut off from the participation, within sight, of all the endearing intercourses of social life, are restored, as it were, to the blessings of complete existence. the glorious labours of these philanthropists, in no very distant ages, would have conferred upon them, the reputation and honours of beings invested with superhuman influence. by making those faculties which are bestowed, auxiliary to those which are denied, the deaf are taught to hear, and the dumb to speak. a silent representative language, in which the eye officiates for the ear, and communicates the charms of science, and the delights of common intercourse to the mind, with the velocity, facility, and certainty of sound, has been presented to these imperfect children of nature. the plan of the abbé, i believe, is before the world. it cannot be expected, in a fugitive sketch like the present, to attempt an elaborate detail of it. some little idea of its rudiments may, perhaps, be imparted, by a plain description of what passed on the examination day, when i had the happiness of being present. on the morning of the exhibition, the streets leading to the college were lined with carriages, for humanity has here made a convert of fashion, and directed her wavering mind to objects from which she cannot retire, without ample and consoling gratification. upon the lawn, in front of the college, were groups of the pupils, enjoying those sports and exercises which are followed by other children, to whom providence has been more bountiful. some of their recreations required calculation, and i observed that their intercourse with each other appeared to be easy, swift, and intelligible. they made some convulsive movements with their mouths, in the course of their communication, which, at first, had rather an unpleasant effect. in the cloister i addressed myself to a genteel looking youth, who did not appear to belong to the college, and requested him to shew me the way to the theatre, in which the lecture was to be delivered. i found he took no notice of me. one of the assistants of the abbé, who was standing near me, informed me, he was deaf and dumb, and made two or three signs, too swift for me to discriminate; the silent youth bowed, took me by the hand, led me into the theatre, and, with the greatest politeness, procured me an excellent seat. the room was very crowded, and in the course of a quarter of an hour after i had entered, every avenue leading to it was completely filled with genteel company. the benches of the auditors of the lecture, displayed great beauty and fashion, a stage, or tribune, appeared in front, behind was a large inclined slate, in a frame, about eight feet high, by six long. on each side of the stage the scholars were placed, and behind the spectators was a fine bust of the founder of the institution, the admirable de l'epée. the abbé sicard mounted the tribune, and delivered his lecture with very pleasing address, in the course of which he frequently excited great applause. the subject of it was an analysis of the language of the deaf and dumb, interspersed with several curious experiments upon, and anecdotes of his pupils. the examination of the scholars next followed. the communication which has been opened to them in this singular manner, is by the _philosophy of grammar_. the denotation of the tenses is effected by appropriate signs. the hand thrown over the shoulder, expressed the past, when extended, like the attitude of inviting, it denoted the future, and the finger inverted upon the breast, indicated the present tense. a single sign communicated a word, and frequently a sentence. a singular instance of the first occurred. a gentleman amongst the spectators, who appeared to be acquainted with the art of the abbé, was requested to make a sign, to the pupil then under examination, the moment it was made, the scholar chalked upon the slate, in a fine swift flowing hand, "une homme." the pupil erred; the gentleman renewed the sign; when he immediately wrote, "une personne," to the astonishment of every person present. this circumstance is a strong instance of the powers of discrimination, of which this curious communication is susceptible. some of the spectators requested the abbé to describe, by signs, several sentences which they repeated from memory, or read from authors, which were immediately understood by the pupils, and penciled upon the slate. the lecture and examination lasted about three hours. upon the close of this interesting exhibition, a silent sympathy reigned throughout the spectators. every face beamed with satisfaction. a tear was seen trembling in the eyes of many present. after a momentary pause, the hall rang with acclamations. elegant women pressed forward in the crowd, to present some little token of their delighted feelings to the children protected by this institution. it was a spectacle, in which genius was observed assisting humanity, and nature in a suffusion of gratitude, weeping over the hallowed and propitious endeavours of the good, the generous, and the enlightened. well might the elegant and eloquent kotzebue select from such a spot, a subject for his pathetic pen, and give to the british roscius of the present day[ ], the power of enriching its drama, by a fresh display of his unrivalled abilities. the exhibition of the deaf and dumb will never be eradicated from my mind. the tears which were shed on that day, seemed almost sufficient to wipe away the recollection of those times, in which misery experienced no mitigation; when every one trembling for himself, had no unabsorbed sensation of consoling pity to bestow upon the unfortunate. those times are gone--may their absence be eternal! this institution is made serviceable to the state. a pupil of the college is one of the chief clerks of the national lottery office, in which he distinguishes himself by his talents, his calculation, and upright deportment. [ ] mr. kemble brought out the pathetic play of deaf and dumb, in which he sustains the character of the abbé de l'epée with admirable effect. whilst the subject is before me, i beg leave to mention a curious circumstance which was related by a very ingenious and honourable man, in a party where i happened to be present, to prove the truth and agreement of nature, in her association of ideas. a blind man was asked by him, to what sound he resembled the sensation produced by touching a piece of red cloth, he immediately replied, to the sound of a trumpet. a pupil of the college of the deaf and dumb, who could faintly hear a loud noise, if applied close to his ear, was asked, to what colour he could compare the sound of a trumpet, he said, it always excited in his mind, the remembrance of scarlet cloth[ ]. two pupils, male and female, of the same college, who had been placed near cannon, when discharged, without being susceptible of the sound, were one day taken by their humane tutor, into a room where the harmonica was playing; a musical instrument, which is said to have a powerful influence over the nerves. he asked them by signs, if they felt any sensation. they replied in the negative. he then placed the hand of the girl upon the instrument, whilst it was playing, and repeated the question, she answered, that she felt a new pleasure enter the ends of her fingers, pass up her arms, and penetrate her heart. [ ] the first experiment is well known. it is also noticed in locke upon the human understanding. the same experiment was tried upon her companion, who seemed to be sensible of similar sensations of delight, but less acutely felt. the emotions of sympathy are, perhaps, more forcibly excited by music than by any other cause. an illustrious example of its effect is introduced into boerhaave's academical lectures on the diseases of the nerves, published by van eems. theodosius the great, by levying an excessive tribute, inflamed the minds of the people of antioch against him, who prostrated his statues, and slew his ambassadors. upon coolly reflecting on what they had done, and remembering the stern and ruthless nature of their sovereign, they sent deputies to implore his clemency and forgiveness. the tyrant received them, without making any reply. his chief minister lamenting the condition of these unhappy people, resolved upon an expedient to move the soul of his offended prince to mercy. he accordingly instructed the youths whose office it was to entertain the emperor with music during dinner, to perform an affecting and pathetic piece of music, composed for the purpose. the plaintive sounds soon began to operate. the emperor, unconscious of the cause, bedewed his cup with tears, and when the singers artfully proceeded to describe the sufferings of the people of antioch, their imperial master could no longer contain himself, but, moved by their pathos, although unaccustomed to forgive, revoked his vengeance, and restored the terrified offenders to his royal favour. madame e----, who is considered the first dilettante mistress of music in paris, related to me, an experiment which she once tried upon a young woman who was totally deaf and dumb. madame e---- fastened a silk thread about her mouth, and rested the other end upon her piano forte, upon which she played a pathetic air. her visitor soon appeared much affected, and at length burst into tears. when she recovered, she wrote down upon a piece of paper, that she had experienced a delight, which she could not express, and that it had forced her to weep. i must reluctantly retire from this pleasing subject, by wishing that the abbé may long enjoy a series of blissful years, and that his noble endeavours, "manifesting the enlightened times in which we live," may meet with that philanthropic success, which, to _his_ generous mind, will be its most desired reward _here_; assured, as he is, of being crowned with those unfading remunerations which are promised to the good _hereafter_. [illustration: _bagatelle in the bois de boulogne._] i one day dined at bagatelle, which is about four miles from paris, in the bois du bologne, the parisian hyde park, in which the fashionable equestrian, upon his norman hunter, --------------------------"with heel insidiously aside, provokes the canter which he seems to chide." the duellist also, in the covert windings of this vast wood, seeks reparation for the trifling wrong, and bleeds himself, or slaughters his antagonist. bagatelle was formerly the elegant little palace of the count d'artois. the gardens and grounds belonging to it, are beautifully disposed. what a contrast to the gloomy shades of holyrood house, in which the royal fugitive, and his wretched followers, have found an asylum! the building and gardens are in the taste of the petit trianon, but inferior to it. as usual, it is the residence of cooks, and scullions, tenants of the government, who treat their visitors with good dinners, and excellent wine, and take good care to make them pay handsomely for their faultless fare. returning to my hotel rather late at night, i passed through the champs elisees, which, at this hour, seemed to be in all its glory. every "alley green," was filled with whispering lovers. on all sides the sounds of festivity, of music, and dancing, regaled the ear. the weather was very sultry, and being a little fatigued with rather a long walk, i entered through a trellis palisade into a capacious pavilion, where i refreshed myself with lemonade. here i found a large bourgeois party enjoying themselves, after the labours of the day, with the waltz, and their favourite beverage, lemonade. a stranger is always surprised at beholding the grace, and activity, which even the lowest orders of people in france, display in dancing. whiskered corporals, in thick dirty boots, and young tradesmen, in long great coats, led off their respective femmes de chambre and grisettes, with an elegance, which is not to be surpassed in the jewelled birth night ball room. nothing could exceed the sprightly carelessness, and gay indifference which reigned throughout. the music in this place, as in every other of a similar description, was excellent. the french police, notwithstanding the invidious rumours which have been circulated to its prejudice, is the constant subject of admiration with every candid foreigner, who is enabled under the shelter of its protection, to perambulate in safety every part of paris, and its suburbs, although badly lighted, at that hour of the night, which in england, seldom fails to expose the unwary wanderer to the pistol of the prowling ruffian. an enlightened friend of mine, very shrewdly observed, that the english police seems to direct its powers, and consideration more to the apprehension of the robber, than to the prevention of the robbery. in no country is the _art_ of thief catching carried higher, than in england. in france, the police is in the highest state of respectability, and unites force to vigilance. the depredator who is fortunate enough to escape the former, is seldom able to elude the latter. the grand national library of paris, is highly deserving of a visit, and is considered to be the first of its kind in europe. in one of the rooms is a museum of antiques. the whole is about to be removed to the old palace. in one of the wings of this noble collection, are the two celebrated great globes, which rest upon the ground, and rise through the flooring of the first story, where there is a railing round them. these globes i should suppose to be about eighteen feet high. from the grand national library, i went with a party to the military review of all the regiments in paris, and its suburbs by the first consul, in the place de carousel, within the gates, and railing which he has raised for this purpose. we were introduced into the apartments of general duroc, the governor of the palace, which were upon the ground floor of the thuilleries, and which afforded us an uninterrupted view of the whole of this superb military spectacle. a little before twelve o'clock, all the regiments of horse and foot, amounting to about men, had formed the line, when the consular regiment entered, preceded by their fine band, and the tambour major, who was dressed in great magnificence. this man is remarked in paris for his symmetry and manly beauty. the cream-coloured charger of bonaparte, upon which, "labouring for destiny, he has often made dreadful way in the field of battle," next passed us, led by grooms in splendid liveries of green and gold, to the grand entrance. as the clock struck twelve, the first consul, surrounded by a chosen body of the consular guard, appeared and mounted. he immediately rode off in full speed, to the gate nearest to the gallery of the louvre, followed by his favourite generals, superbly attired, mounted upon chargers very richly caparisoned. my eye, aided by a good opera-glass, was fixed upon the first consul. i beheld before me a man whose renown is sounded through the remotest regions of the earth, and whose exploits have been united by the worshippers of favoured heroism to the conqueror of darius. his features are small and meagre. his countenance is melancholy, cold and desperate. his nose is aquiline. his eyes are dark, fiery, and full of genius. his hair, which he wears cropped and without powder, is black. his figure is small, but very muscular. he wore a blue coat, with broad white facings and golden epaulets (the uniform of his regiment) a small cocked hat, in which was a little national cockade. in his hand he carried a small riding whip. his boots were made in the fashion of english riding boots, which i have before condemned on account of their being destitute of military appearance. the reason why they are preferred by the french officers is on account of the top leather not soiling the knees of the pantaloons when in the act of putting one leg over the other. bonaparte rode through the lines. his beautiful charger seemed conscious of the glory of his rider, and bore him through the ranks with a commanding and majestic pace. the colours of one of the regiments was stationed close under the window, where i had the good fortune of being placed. here the hero stopped, and saluted them. at this time i was close to him, and had the pleasure of completely gratifying that curiosity of beholding the persons of distinguished men, which is so natural to all of us. a few minutes after bonaparte had passed, i saw a procession, the history of which i did not understand at the time, but which fully explained its general purport. about two years since, one of the regiments of artillery revolted in battle. bonaparte in anger deprived them of their colours, and suspended them, covered with crape, amongst the captive banners of the enemy, in the hall of victory. the regiment, affected by the disgrace, were determined to recover the lost esteem of their general and their country, or perish to the last man. when any desperate enterprise was to be performed, they volunteered their services, and by this magnanimous compunction covered their shame with laurels, and became the boast and pride of the republican legions. this day was fixed upon for the restoration of their ensigns. they were marched up under a guard of honour, and presented to the first consul, who took the black drapery from their staves, tore it in pieces, threw it on the ground, and drove his charger indignantly over it. the regenerated banners were then restored to the regiment, with a short and suitable address. i faintly heard this laconic speech, but not distinctly enough to offer any criticism upon the eloquence of the speaker. this exhibition had its intended effect, and displayed the genius of this extraordinary man, who, with unerring acuteness, knows so well to give to every public occurrence that dramatic hue and interest which are so gratifying to the minds of the people over whom he presides. after this ceremony, the several regiments, preceded by their bands of music, marched before him in open order, and dropped their colours as they passed. the flying artillery and cavalry left the parade in full gallop, and made a terrific noise upon the pavement. each field-piece was drawn by six horses, upon a carriage with large wheels. here the review closed. "farewell, the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, the spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, the royal banner, and all quality, pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war." bonaparte returned to the palace, where he held a splendid levee, at which the new turkish embassy was introduced. in the evening i saw bonaparte and his lady at the opera, where he was received with respect, but without any clamorous acclamation. madame bonaparte appears to be older than the first consul. she is an elegant woman, and is said to conduct herself in her high station with becoming dignity and prudence. chapter xx. _abbè sieyes.--consular procession to the council chamber.-- th of august, .--celerity of mons. fouche's information.--the two lovers.--cabinet of mons. le grand--self-prescribing physician.--bust of robespierre.--his lodgings.--corn hall.--museum of french monuments.--revolutionary agent.--lovers of married women._ a neat remark was made upon the abbè sieyes, to whose prolific mind the revolution and all its changes have been imputed. this extraordinary man has a noble house in the champs elisées, and is said to have the best cook in paris. as a party in which i was, were passing his hotel, a near relation of the abbè, who happened to be with us, commented upon the great services which the cloistered fabricator of constitutions had afforded to france, and adverted to his house and establishment as an unsuitable reward for his labours. a gentleman, who was intimate with the abbè, but was no great admirer of his morals, said, "i think, my dear madam, the abbè ought to be very well satisfied with his destiny; and i would advise him to live as long as he can in the champs elisées; for when he shall happen to experience that mysterious transition to which we are all hastening, i think the chances will be against his finding good accommodations in any other elysium." as i was passing one morning through the hall of the thuilleries, the great door of the council chamber was opened, and the second and third consuls, preceded and followed by their suite in full costume, _marched_ with great pomp to business, to the roll of a drum. this singular procession from one part of the house to the other, had a ridiculous effect, and naturally reminded me of the fustian pageantry which, upon the stage, attends the entries and exits of the kings and queens of the drama. i have often been surprised to find that the injuries which the cornice of the entrance, and the capitals of the columns in the hall of the thuilleries, have sustained from the ball of cannon, during the horrible massacre of the th of august, , have never been repaired. every vestige of that day of dismay and slaughter ought for ever to be effaced; instead of which, some labour has been exercised to perpetuate its remembrance. under the largest chasms which have been made by the shot is painted, in strong characters, that gloomy date. in the evening of that day of devastation, from which france may date all her sufferings, a friend of mine went into the court-yard of the thuilleries, where the review is now held, for the purpose of endeavouring to recognise, amongst the dead, any of his acquaintances. in the course of this shocking search, he declared to me, that he counted no less than eight hundred bodies of swiss and french, who had perished in that frightful contest between an infatuated people and an irresolute sovereign. i will not dilate upon this painful subject, but dismiss it in the words of the holy and resigned descendant of nahor, "let that day be darkness; let not god regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it; let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it." i have before had occasion to notice the promptitude and activity of the french police, under the penetrating eye of mons. fouche. no one can escape the vigilance of this man and his emissaries. an emigrant of respectability assured me, that when he and a friend of his waited upon him for their passports to enable them to quit paris for the south of france, he surprised them by relating to them the names of the towns, the streets, and of the people with whom they had lodged, at various times, during their emigration in england. whilst i was at paris, an affair happened very near the hotel in which i lodged, which in its sequel displayed that high spirit and sensibility which appear to form the presiding features in the french character, to which may be attributed all the excesses which have stained, and all the glory which has embellished it. a lady of fortune, and her only daughter, an elegant and lovely young woman, resided in the fauxbourg st. germain. a young man of merit and accomplishments, but unaided by the powerful pretensions of suitable fortune, cherished a passion for the young lady, to whom he had frequent access, on account of his being distantly related to her. his affection was requited with return; and before the parent suspected the attachment, the lovers were solemnly engaged. the indications of pure love are generally too unguarded to escape the keen, observing eye of a cold, mercenary mother. she charged her daughter with her fondness, and forbade her distracted lover the house. to close up every avenue of hope, she withdrew with her wretched child into italy, where they remained for two years; at the expiration of which, the mother had arranged for her daughter a match more congenial to her own pride and avarice, with an elderly gentleman, who had considerable fortune and property in the vicinity of bourdeaux. every necessary preparation was made for this cruel union, which it was determined should be celebrated in paris, to which city they returned for that purpose. two days before the marriage was intended to take place, the young lover, wrought up to frenzy by the intelligence of the approaching nuptials, contrived, by bribing the porter whilst the mother was at the opera with her intended son-in-law, to reach the room of the beloved being from whom he was about to be separated for ever. emaciated by grief, she presented the mere spectre of what she was when he last left her. as soon as he entered the room, he fell senseless at her feet, from which state he was roused by the loud fits of her frightful maniac laughter. she stared upon him, like one bewildered. he clasped her with one hand, and with the other drew from his pocket a vial containing double distilled laurel water: he pressed it to her lips, until she had swallowed half of its contents; the remainder he drank himself.--the drug of death soon began to operate.--clasped in each other's arms, pale and expiring, they reviewed their hard fate, and, in faint and lessening sentences, implored of the great god of mercy, that he would pardon them for what they had done, and that he would receive their spirits into his regions of eternal repose; that he would be pleased, in his divine goodness, to forgive the misjudging severity which had driven them to despair, and would support the unconscious author of it, under the heavy afflictions which their disastrous deaths would occasion. they had scarcely finished their prayer, when they heard footsteps approaching the room. madame r----, who had been indisposed at the opera, returned home before its conclusion, with the intended bridegroom. the young man awoke, as it were, from his deadly drowsiness, and, exerting his last strength, pulled from his breast a dagger, stabbed the expiring being, upon whom he doated, to the heart; and, falling upon her body, gave himself several mortal wounds. the door opened; the frantic mother appeared. all the house was in an instant alarmed; and the fatal explanation which furnished the materials of this short and sad recital, was taken from the lips of the dying lover, who had scarcely finished it before he breathed his last. two days afterwards, the story was hawked about the streets. from this painful narrative, in which the french impetuosity is strongly depicted, i must turn to mention my visit to mons. le g----, who lives in the rue florentine, and is considered to be one of the first architects in france; in which are many monuments of his taste and elegance. it is a curious circumstance that all artists exercise their talents more successfully for their patrons than for themselves. whether it is the hope of a more substantial reward than that of mere self-complacency, which usually excites the mind to its happiest exertions, i will not pretend to determine; but the point seems to be in some degree settled by the conduct of a celebrated bath physician, of whom it is related, that, happening once to suffer under a malady from which as his skill had frequently relieved others, he determined to prescribe for himself. the recipe at first had not the desired effect. the doctor was surprised. at last he recollected that he had not feed himself. upon making this discovery, he drew the strings of his purse, and with his left hand placed a guinea in his right, and then prescribed. the story concludes by informing its readers, that the prescription succeeded, and the doctor recovered.--in adorning the front of his own hôtel, mons. le g----, in my very humble opinion, has not exhibited his accustomed powers. in a small confined court-yard he has attempted to give to a private dwelling the appearance of one of those vast temples of which he became enamoured when at athens. the roof is supported by two massy fluted pilastres, which in size are calculated to bear the burthen of some prodigious dome. the muscular powers of hercules seem to be here exercised in raising a grasshopper from the ground. the genius of mons. le g----, unlike the world's charity, does not begin at home, but seems more disposed to display its most successful energies abroad. his roof, however, contains such a monument of his goodness and generosity, that i must not pass it over. this distinguished architect is one of those unfortunate beings who have been decreed to taste the bitterness, very soon after the sweets of matrimony. upon discovering the infidelity of his lady, who is very pretty and prepossessing, the distracted husband immediately sought a divorce from the laws of his country. this affair happened a very short time before the revolution afforded unusual acceleration and facilities to the wishes of parties, who, under similar circumstances, wished to get rid of each other as soon as possible. the then "law's delay" afforded some cause of vexation to mons. le g----, who was deeply injured. before his suit had passed through its last forms, the father of his wife, who at the time of their marriage lived in great affluence, became a bankrupt. in the vortex of his failure, all the means of supporting his family were swallowed up. the generous le g----, disdaining to expose to want and ignominy the woman who had once been dear to him, would proceed no further. she is still his wife; she bears his name, is maintained by him, and in a separate suite of apartments lives under the same roof with him. but mons. and madame le g---- have had no intercourse whatever with each other for eleven years. if in the gallery or in the hall they meet by accident, they pass without the interchange of a word. this painful and difficult arrangement has now lost a considerable portion of its misery, by having become familiar to the unfortunate couple. in the valuable and curious cabinet of mons. le g----, i found out, behind several other casts, a bust of robespierre, which was taken of him, a short period before he fell. a tyrant, whose offences look white, contrasted with the deep delinquency of the oppressor of france, is said to be indebted more to his character, than to nature, for the representation of that deformity of person which appears in shakspeare's portrait of him, when he puts this soliloquy in his lips:-- "i that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, cheated of feature, by dissembling nature, deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time, into the breathing world, scarce half made up; and that so lamely and unfashionably, that dogs bark at me, as i halt by them." history, enraged at the review of the insatiable crimes of robespierre, has already bestowed upon him a fanciful physiognomy, which she has composed of features which rather correspond with the ferocity of his soul, than with his real countenance. from the appearance of this bust, which is an authentic remblance of him, his face must have been rather handsome. his features were small, and his countenance must have strongly expressed animation, penetration and subtlety. this bust is a real curiosity. it is very likely that not another is now to be found, mons. le g---- is permitted to preserve it, without reproach on account of his art. i can safely say, he does not retain it from any emotions of veneration for the original. it is worthy of being placed between the heads of caligula and nero. very near the residence of mons. le g---- is the house in which robespierre lodged. it is at the end of the rue florentine, in the rue st. honore, at a wax chandler's. this man is too much celebrated, not to render every thing which relates to him curious. the front windows of his former lodgings look towards the place de la concorde, on the right of which his prime minister, the permanent guillotine, was quartered. robespierre, who, like the revolting angel, before the world's formation, appears to have preferred the sceptre of hell and chaos, to the allegiance of order and social happiness, will descend to posterity with no common attributes of distinction and preeminence. his mind was fully suited to its labours, which, in their wide sphere of mischief, required more genius to direct them than was bestowed upon the worst of the tyrants of rome, and a spirit of evil which, with its "broad circumference" of guilt, was calculated to darken the disk of their less expanded enormity. from robespierre's lodgings, curiosity led me to visit the building in which the jacobin club held their pandemonium. it is a noble edifice, and once belonged to the order of jacobins. near this church stands the beautiful fabric of the corn hall of paris, designed by monsieur le grand. the dome of the bank of england is in the same style, but inferior, in point of lightness and elegance. that of the corn hall resembles a vast concavity of glass. in this noble building the millers deposit their corn for sale. its deep and lofty arches and area, were nearly filled with sacks, containing that grain which is precious to all nations, but to none more than the french; to a frenchman, bread is most emphatically the staff of life. he consumes more of it at one meal than an englishman does at four. in france, the little comparative quantity of bread which the english consume, is considered to form a part of their national character. before i left paris, i was requested to visit a very curious and interesting exhibition, the museum of french monuments; for the reception of which, the ancient convent of the monks of the order of les petits augustines, is appropriated. this national institution is intended to exhibit the progress of monumental taste in france, for several centuries past, the specimens of which have chiefly been collected from st. denis, which formerly was the burial place of the monarchs of france, and from other churches. [illustration: _museum of french monuments._] it will be remembered by the reader, that in the year , henriot, a vulgar and furious republican, proposed setting off for the former church, at the head of the sans culottes, to destroy all these curious and valuable relics, "to strike," as he said, "the tyrants in their tombs," but was prevented by some other republicans of influence, who had not parted with their veneration for works of taste, from this impious and impotent outrage. in the first hall, which is very large, and impresses a similar awe to that which is generally felt upon entering a cathedral, are the tombs of the twelfth century. amongst them i chiefly distinguished that of henry ii, upon which are three beautiful mourning figures, supporting a cup, containing his heart. in the second hall, are the monuments of the thirteenth century, most of them are very fine; that of lewis the xiith and his queen, is well worthy of notice. i did not find much to gratify me in the hall of the fourteenth century. in that of the fifteenth century are several noble tombs, and beautiful windows of stained glass. in the hall of the sixteenth century is a fine statue of henry the ivth, by franchville, which is considered to be an admirable likeness of that wonderful man. in the hall of the seventeenth century, is a noble figure, representing religion, by girardon. in the cloisters are several curious statues, stained glass windows, and tesselated pavement. there is here also a good bust of alexis peron, with this singular epitaph, ci git qui ne fut rien, pas même académicien. in the square garden within the cloisters, are several ancient urns, and tombs. amongst them is the vase which contains the ashes, if any remain, of abelard and heloise, which has been removed from the paraclete to the museum. it is covered with the graceful shade of an acacia tree, which seems to wave proudly over its celebrated deposit. upon approaching this treasurable antique, all those feelings rushed in upon me, which the beautiful, and affecting narrative of those disastrous lovers, by pope, has often excited in me. the melancholy heloise seemed to breathe from her tomb here, "if ever chance two wandering lovers brings, o'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, and drink the falling tear each other sheds: then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd, oh! may we never love, as these have lov'd." national guards are stationed in every apartment of the museum, and present rather an unaccording appearance, amidst the peaceful solemnity of the surrounding objects. this exhibition is not yet completed, but, in its present condition, is very interesting. some hints, not altogether useless, may be collected from it. in england, our churches are charnel houses. the pews of the congregation are raised upon foundations of putrefaction. for six days and nights the temple of devotion is filled with the pestilent vapours of the dead, and on the seventh they are absorbed by the living. surely it is high time to subdue prejudices, which endanger health without promoting piety. the scotch never bury in their churches, and their burial places are upon the confines of their towns. the eye of adoration is filled with a pensive pleasure, in observing itself surrounded with the endeavours of taste and ingenuity, to lift the remembrance of the great and good beyond the grave, in that very spot where the frailty of our nature is so often inculcated. such a display, in such a place, is rational, suitable, and admonitory. the silent tomb becomes auxiliary to the eloquence of the pulpit. but the custom which converts the place of worship into a catacomb, can afford but a mistaken consolation to posthumous pride, and must, in some degree, contaminate the atmosphere which is contained within its walls. one evening as i was passing through the boulevard italien, in company with a gentleman from toulon, we met a tall, dark, hollow eyed, ferocious looking man, of whom he related the following story. immediately after the evacuation of toulon by the english, all the principal toulonese citizens were ordered to repair to the market place; where they were surrounded by a great military force. this man who, for his offences, had been committed to prison, was liberated by the french agents, in consequence of his undertaking to select those of the inhabitants who had in any manner favoured the capitulation of the town, or who had shown any hospitality to the english, whilst they were in possession of it. the miscreant passed before the citizens, who were drawn out in lines, amounting to near three thousand. amongst whom he pointed out about one thousand four hundred persons to the fury of the government; without any other evidence, or further examination, they were all immediately adjudged to be shot. for this purpose a suitable number of soldiers were drawn out. the unhappy victims were marched up to their destruction, upon the quay, in sets of three hundred, and butchered. the carnage was dreadful. in the last of these unfortunate groups, were two gentlemen of great respectability, who received no wound from the fire, but, to preserve themselves, dropped with the rest, and exhibited all the appearances of having participated in the general fate. this execution took place in the evening: immediately after its close, the soldiers, fatigued, and sick with cold-blooded slaughter, marched back to their quarters, without examining whether every person upon whom they had fired, had fallen a victim to the murderous bullet. soon after the soldiers had retired, the women of toulon, allured by plunder, proceeded to the fatal spot. mounted upon the bodies of the fallen, they stripped the dead, and dying. the night was stormy. the moon, emerging from dark clouds, occasionally, shed its pale lustre upon this horrible scene. when the plunderers had abandoned their prey, during an interval of deep darkness, in the dead of the night, when all was silent, unconscious of each other's intentions, the two citizens who had escaped the general carnage, disencumbered themselves from the dead, under whom they were buried; chilled and naked, in an agony of mind not to be described, they, at the same moment, attempted to escape. in their agitation, they rushed against each other. expressions of terror and surprise, dropped from each of them. "oh! god! it is my father!" said one, "my son, my son, my son," exclaimed the other, clasping him in his arms. they were father and son, who had thus miraculously escaped, and met in this extraordinary manner. the person from whom i received this account, informed me, that he knew these gentlemen very well, and that they had been resettled in toulon about two years. the wretch who had thus directed the ruthless vengeance of a revolutionary banditti, against the breasts of his fellow citizens, was, at this time, in paris, soliciting, from the present government, from a total misconception of its nature, those remunerations which had been promised, but never realized by his barbarous employers. i need scarcely add, that although he had been in the capital several months, he had not been able to gain access to the minister's secretary. the time of terror was over--the murderer's occupation was gone--the guillotine, with unsatiated hunger, after having gorged the food which was thrown to it, had devoured its feeder. i must leave it to the ingenuity of my reader, to connect the observation with which i shall close this chapter, with the preceding story, for i am only enabled to do so, by observing, that an impressive instance of the subject of it, occurred immediately after my mind had been harrowed up, by the narrative which i have just related. the married women of france feel no compunctious visitings of conscience, in cherishing about them a circle of lovers, amongst whom their husbands are _merely_ more favoured than the rest. i hope i shall not be considered as an apologist, for an indulgence which, in france, excites no jealousy in _one_, and no surprise amongst the many, when i declare, that i confidently believe, in most instances, it commences, and guiltlessly terminates in the love of admiration. i know, and visited in paris, a most lovely and accomplished young woman, who had been married about two years. she admitted the visits of men, whom she knew were passionately fond of her. sometimes she received them in the presence, and sometimes in the absence of her husband, as accident, not arrangement, directed. they approached her with all the agitation and tenderness of the most ardent lovers. amongst the number, was a certain celebrated orator. this man was her abject slave. a glance from her expressive eye raised him to the summit of bliss, or rendered his night sleepless. the complacent husband of madame g----regarded these men as his most beloved friends, because they enlarged the happiness of his wife; and, strange as it may appear, i believe that he had as little cause to complain as othello, and therefore never permitted his repose to be disturbed by those suspicions which preyed upon the vitals of the hapless moor. the french benedict might truly exclaim, "--------------------'tis not to make me jealous, to say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well; where virtue is, these are more virtuous; nor from my own weak merits will i draw the smallest fear, or doubt of her revolt." chapter xxi. _picturesque and mechanical theatre.--filtrating and purifying vases.--english jacobins.--a farewell.--messagerie.--mal maison.--forest of evreux.--lower normandy.--caen.--hon. t. erskine.--a ball.--the keeper of the sachristy of notre dame.--the two blind beggars.--ennui.--st. lo.--cherbourg.--england._ i visited, one evening, a very beautiful exhibition, which i think worthy of being noticed; it was the picturesque and mechanical theatre. the company present were select and genteel. the room and stage were upon a small scale; the former was very elegantly fitted up. the spectacle consisted of scenery and appropriate little moving figures. the first scene was a view of a wood in early morning, every object looked blue, fresh, and dewy. the gradations of light, until the approach of meridian day, were admirably represented. serpents were seen crawling in the grass. a little sportsman entered with his fowling-piece, and imitated all the movements natural to his pursuit; a tiny wild duck rose from a lake, and flew before him. he pointed his gun, changed his situation, pointed it again, and fired. the bird dropped; he threw it over his shoulders, fastened to his gun, and retired. waggons, drawn by horses about four inches high, passed along; groups of peasantry followed, exquisitely imitating all the indications of life. amongst several other scenes was a beautiful view of the bay of naples, and the great bridge; over which little horses, with their riders, passed in the various paces of walking, trotting and galloping. all the minutiæ of nature were attended to. the ear was beguiled with the patting of the horses' hoofs upon the pavement; and some of the little animals reared, and ran before the others. there were also some charming little sea-pieces, in which the vessels sailed with their heads towards the spectators, and manoeuvred in a surprising manner. the whole concluded with a storm and shipwreck. sailors were seen floating in the water, then sinking in the surge. one of them rose again and reached a rock. boats put off to his relief, and perished in the attempt. the little figure was seen displaying the greatest agonies. the storm subsided; tiny persons appeared upon the top of a projecting cliff, near a watch tower, and lowered a rope to the little sufferer below, which he caught, and, after ascending to some height by it, overwhelmed with fatigue, lost his hold. after recovering from the fall, he renewed his efforts, and at length reached the top in safety, amidst the acclamations of the spectators, who, moved by this enchanting little illusion, took much interest in the apparent distress of the scene. upon quitting the theatre, we found a real storm without. the lightning flamed upon us from every quarter, and was succeeded by loud peals of thunder. whilst we were contemplating the tempest from the balcony of madame s----, a ball of fire fell very near us, and filled the room with a sulphureous stench. a servant soon afterwards entered, almost breathless, to inform his mistress, madame r----, who was of the party, that the fire-ball had penetrated her house, which was close adjoining, without having effected any injury. madame r---- laughed heartily, and observed, "well, it is very droll that the lightning should make so free with my house when i am not at home." this little sprightly remark dispersed the gloom which had overshadowed most of the ladies present. all the large houses in paris are well protected against the perilous effect of electric fluid, by conductors, which are very judiciously disposed. an invention has lately made its appearance in paris, which is as full of utility as it is of genius. a house has been lately opened for the sale of filtrating and purifying vases, to which the ingenious constructor has given the most elegant etruscan shapes. they are capable of refining the most fetid and corrupt water, by a process which, in its operation, lasts about four minutes. the principle is the same as in nature. the foul water is thrown into the vase, where it passes through various strata of earth, which are compressed in a series of little apartments, which retain its offensive particles, and from which it issues as clear and as sweet as rock water. this discovery will prove of infinite consequence to families who reside in the maritime parts of holland, and to many inland towns in france, where the water is frequently very bad. i most cordially hope that the inventor will meet with the remuneration which is due to his humane philosophy. after having experienced a most cordial display of kindnesses and hospitalities, i prepared to return to my own country, "that precious stone set in the silver sea." i had to part with those who, in the short space of one fleeting month, had, by their endearing and flattering attentions, rivetted themselves to my affections, with the force of a long, and frequent, and cherished intercourse, who, in a country where i expected to feel the comfortless sensations of a foreigner, made me forget that i was even a _stranger_. amongst those who excited a considerable share of my regret upon parting, were the elegant and charming family of the s----s. as i was preparing to take my leave, madame s---- said, "you must not forget us because a few waves divide our countries." "if he will lend me his pocket-book," said one of her lovely daughters, "i will try and see if my pencil will not preserve us in his memory, at least for a little time." i presented it to her, and in a few minutes she made an elegant little sketch, which she called "the affectionate mother." amiable young artist! may time, propitious to the happiness of some generous being, who is worthy of such an associate, hail thee with the blissful appellation! and may the graceful discharge of those refined and affecting duties which flow from connubial love, entitle thee, too much esteemed to be envied, to the name of the modern cornelia! several englishmen, whilst i was at paris, met with very vexatious delays in procuring their passports to enable them to leave it, from a mistaken course of application. instead of applying to m. fouche, or any other municipal officer, i would recommend them to procure their passport from their own embassador, and send it to the office of mons. talleyrand for his endorsement; by which means they will be enabled to quit the republic in two or three days after their application. having previously determined to return by the way of lower normandy, upon the beauty and luxuriance of which i had heard much eulogy, about half past five o'clock in the morning of the st of prairial, i left my hotel, and proceeded to the messagerie, from which the diligences, all of which are under the control of the nation, set out. the morning was very beautiful. i was much entertained before i mounted that cumbrous vehicle, which was to roll me a little nearer to my own coast, by viewing the numerous groups of travellers and their friends, who surrounded the different carriages as the horses were tackling to them. in different directions of my eye, i saw about thirty men kissing each other. the women in france never think their prerogatives infringed by this anti-anglo mode of salutation. some shed tears at parting; but the cheek down which they trickled never lost its colour or vivacity. all were animated; every eye looked bright; there was a gayety in their very grief. "bon voyage, bon voyage--dieu vous benisse, dieu vous benisse," reiterated on all sides from sprightly faces, stretched out of the window frames of the massy machine, as it rattled through the gates of the yard, to the incessant crackings of the postilion's long lash. i soon afterwards found myself seated in the diligence for cherbourg, in company with two ladies, and three gentlemen, who were all polite and pleasing. in the cabriole, forward, was a french captain in the army, who had been in tippoo's service at the time of the surrender of seringapatam. he looked abominably dirty in his travelling habiliments; but that, in france, is now no just indication of inferiority or vulgarity. we passed by the place de la concorde, upon the statues and buildings of which, and the gardens of the thuilleries, the fresh and early sun shone most beautifully. my merry, but feeling fellow travellers, waving their hands, addressed a short apostrophe to these suburb objects, and exclaimed, "adieu ma tres jolie ville--ah! tres jolie ville adieu." for near three miles after leaving the barrier, we passed through plantations of roses, which supply the markets of paris with that beautiful flower, which, transferred thence, adorn the toilets, the vases, and the bosoms of the fair parisians, and form the favourite bouquets of the petite maitres; on each side of the road were cherry trees, in full bearing, which presented a very charming appearance. we soon reached the water works of marli, which supply the jets d'eau of versailles. they are upon a vast scale, and appear to be very curious. a little further on we passed mal maison, the country, and chief residence of the first consul and his family. it is an ancient house, embosomed in beautiful woods and gardens. at the entrance are large military lodges, for the accommodation of a squadron of the consular cavalry, who mount guard when their general is here. [illustration: _malmaison._] at st. germain's we breakfasted, upon pork cutlets, excellent bread, wine, and cherries, for twenty sols, or ten pence english. at mante we had an excellent dinner, of several dishes, for thirty sols, or one shilling and three pence english. soon after we had passed mante, we left the higher norman road, and entered a country extremely picturesque and rich. we were conducted through the forest of evreux, by an escort of chasseurs. this vast tract of land is infested by an immense banditti, who live in large excavations in the earth, similar to the subterranean apartments of the celebrated robbers, in whose service gil blas was rather reluctantly enrolled, and generally assail the traveller, with a force which would render common resistance perilous, and unavailing. this forest, in the course of the year, furnishes considerable employ for the guillotine of caen, where the tribunal of justice is seated. the appearance of our guards was terrific enough to appal such valiant souls, as once animated the frames of _prince hal_, and his merry friend _ned poins_. they wore roman helmets, from which descended, to the bottom of their backs, an immense tail, of thick black horsehair, their uniform was light green, and looked rather shabby. we passed the forest without any molestation, and supped at the town of evreux, which is very pleasant, where we halted for about four hours. as we were afterwards proceeding, i prepared myself to enjoy a little sleep, and as i reclined for this purpose with my hat over my face, in a corner of the carriage, i overheard one of my fellow travellers observe to the other, "the englishman is sleeping," to which he replied, "no, he is not sleeping, he is only thinking, it is the character of his nation." the french cannot bear the least appearance of thought; they have a saying, "un homme qui rit ne sera jamais dangereux." the next morning we breakfasted at lisieux, an ancient town, in which are the remains of a fine convent, which formerly belonged to the order of the capuchins. for four or five miles before we approached the town, the laughing and animated faces of groups of peasantry, all in their jubilee dresses, the old mounted upon asses, and the young walking by the sides of them, hastening to the town, announced to us, that a fair, and merry making was to be held there, on that day. lisieux was quite in a bustle. about six o'clock in the evening of the same day, we arrived at caen, the capital of lower normandy. my fare to this city from paris, amounted to thirty livres, including my luggage. i had not completed my dinner at the hôtel de la place, before an english servant entered my room, to inform me, that his mistress, mrs. p----, who, with her daughters, and another young lady, had the rooms over mine, presented her compliments to me, and requested me to take my coffee with them that evening. i must confess i was at first a little surprised at the message, for the english are not very remarkable for politeness and attention to one another in a foreign country. [illustration: _caen._] after i had finished my desert, i made my bow to mrs. p----, and her family, who proved to be very pleasant, and accomplished people, and were making the tour of france with english servants. they had been in caen near three weeks, where they had a large acquaintance of the first respectability. this unexpected introduction became additionally agreeable, upon my discovery at the messagerie, that the diligence for cherbourg would not proceed, till three days from the time of my arrival. the next morning i rambled with my new friends about the city, which is large, and handsome, and is watered by the river orne. it is much celebrated for its lace trade; on that day i dined with mrs. p----, and a french party, and was regaled with an english dinner, cooked, and served up by her own servants. the filth of the french kitchen is too well known, to make it necessary for me to say how delicious such a dinner was. the french admit themselves that their cooks are destitute of cleanliness. the convent of the benedictines, which is converted into the palace of the prefect, is a noble building. the gardens belonging to it are well arranged. the promenade called de la cour is very charming, from which the city is seen to great advantage. the water of the orne is rather nauseous, but is not considered unwholesome. the palais de justice is a fine modern structure. in its courts of law, i had again an opportunity of hearing the forensic elocution of normandy. the gestures, and vehemence of the orators here, as at rouen, appeared to me to be tinctured with the extravagance of frenzy. but perhaps my ears, and eyes have been rendered somewhat too fastidious by having been frequently banqueted with the grace, animation, and commanding eloquence of the unrivalled advocate of the british bar; who, when he retires from the laborious duties of the crowded, and admiring forum, where his acute sagacity has so often unfolded the dark compact involutions of human obliquity, where his wit and fancy have covered with the choicest flowers, the dreary barrenness of technical pleading; will leave behind him that lasting, and honourable respect and remembrance, which faculties so extensively beneficial, must ever excite in the minds of men who have been instructed, delighted, and benefited by their splendid, and prosperous display. in this city was pointed out to me, the house in which the celebrated charlotte corday resided, who, by her poniard, delivered france of the monster, marat, on sunday, the th of july, . there is some coincidence in the crimes, and fate of caligula and marat, both perished by the avengers of their country, whilst in the act of approaching their baths. posterity will embalm, with its grateful remembrance, the patriotic heroism of this great, and distinguished female, and in her own firm, and eloquent language, will say of her, "that crime begets disgrace, and not the scaffold." on the evening after my arrival at caen, i was invited to an elegant ball, which was given by the lady of the paymaster general of the district, in one of the government houses. i had before witnessed the dancing of the higher orders of people in paris, and from this reason was not surprised in contemplating the exquisite grace which was here displayed. the party consisted of near eighty persons. amongst them were the judges of the district, and the principal officers quartered in the city, and its neighbourhood, the latter were attired in superb military dresses. amongst the ladies were several beautiful, well dressed young women, who exhibited their persons to great advantage. the grave, and elderly part of the company played at buillotte, which is at present the favourite french game. in france to please and to be pleased, seem to be the two presiding principles in all their meetings. an elegant young officer, who had distinguished himself at the battle of marengo, observing that the musicians appeared to be a little fatigued, by the contribution of their exhilarating services towards the festivity of the evening, supplied their room, whilst they refreshed themselves, and struck up an english country dance on one of the violins. the party attempted to dance it, but to show how arbitrary habit is, in the attempt, all those powers of grace, which they had before so beautifully displayed, retired as if influenced by the magic of some unpropitious spirit. amongst the party, was a little girl, about nine years old, who was dressed in the highest style of fashion, and looked like a fashionable milliner's doll. this little spoiled child was accustomed to spend an hour at her toilette every morning, and to be tricked out in all the ephemeral decoration of the haut ton. this little coquette already looked out for admiration, and its foolish mother expressed the greatest satisfaction, when any one, out of politeness to her, paid attentions to the pert premature nursling. our entertainment concluded with a handsome supper, and we parted, highly delighted, at the dawn of day. nothing could be more flattering, than the attentions which, as an englishman, i received from every one present. after a few hours repose, i went with a large party to the church of notre dame; in which there is a very fine altar piece. the keeper of the sachristy, who was a very arch-looking little fellow, in spite of the solemnity of the place in which we were, made us all smile (even a young lady who was going to be confessed for the first time the next day, lost a considerable proportion of her gravity) by informing us, that during the time of terror he had run off with the virgin mary, pointing to the image, and that to prevent the detection of robespierre's agents, he had concealed her in his bed for three years. nothing could exceed his joy in having saved her from the hatchet, or the flames, from which impending fate, she was restored to her former situation in this church; and was, when we saw her, by the extravagance of her sprightly, and ardent protector, dressed in a white muslin gown, spotted with silver; a little bouquet of artificial flowers graced her bosom, and her wig was finely curled, and powdered. the figure in her arms, which was intended to represent the infant jesus, was dressed in a style equally unsuitable; his hair was also curled, and powdered, and a small cocked hat placed upon his head. our delighted guide, whose eyes sparkled with self-complacency, asked us if we had ever seen a prettier virgin mary, or one dressed more handsomely. we were all much amused by the quaintness of this man's conduct, although i am confident he had no intention of exciting unbecoming sensations, for in saving this image, he had exposed his life. from notre dame, we went to the abbaye aux hommes, built by william the conqueror. it is a large lofty plain pile of building. the spires are well proportioned, and very high. the pillars in the choir are, in my humble opinion, too massy. preparations were here making for the celebration of the great festival called the feast of god. we presented to one of the priests, who, in the sachristy, was adorning the cradle of our saviour's image with flowers, some very fine moss roses, which in france are very rare, which he received with great politeness. this festival before the revolution was always superbly celebrated. it was then renewed for the first time since the proscription of religion, during which, all the costly habits of the priests, and rich vessels used in the ceremonies of the church have been stolen, sold, or melted down. near the altar, which has been shattered by the axe of the revolution, is the vault of the norman conqueror. upon our return to our hotel, we saw a considerable crowd assembled near the bridge leading to de la cour. upon inquiring into the cause of this assemblage, we found it was owing to a curious rencounter between two blind beggars, who, in total darkness, had been waging an uncertain battle for near six minutes. it appeared that one of them had for several months, enjoyed quiet possession of the bridge, which happened to be a great thoroughfare, and had during that time, by an undisputed display of his calamity, contrived to pick up a comfortable recompense for it; that within a few days preceding this novel fracas, another mendicant, who had equal claims to compassion, allured by the repute of his success, had deserted a less frequented part of the city, and had presented himself at the other corner of the same bridge, where by a more masterly selection of moving phrases, he soon not only divided, but monopolized the eleemosynary revenues of this post of wretchedness. the original possessor naturally grew jealous. even beggars "can bear no brother near the throne." inflamed with jealousy, he silently moved towards his rival, by the sound of whose voice, which was then sending forth some of its most affecting, and purse-drawing strains, he was enabled to determine whether his arm was within reach of the head of his competitor, which circumstance, having with due nicety ascertained, he clenched his fist, which in weight, size, and firmness, was not much surpassed by the hard, and ponderous paw of a full-grown tiger, and with all the force of that propulsion, which a formidable set of muscles afforded, he felled his rival to the ground, and not knowing that he was fallen, discharged many other blows, which only served to disturb the tranquillity of the air. the recumbent hero, whose head was framed for enterprises of this nature, soon recovered from the assault, and, after many unavailing efforts in the dark, at length succeeded in opening one of the vessels of the broad nose of his brawny assailant, whose blood, enriched by good living, streamed out most copiously. in this condition we saw these orbless combatants, who were speedily separated from each other. some of the crowd were endeavouring to form a treaty of pacification between them, whether they succeeded i know not, for we were obliged to leave the bridge of battle, before these important points were arranged, to join a pleasant party at mons. st. j----'s, an opulent banker at caen, to whom i had letters of introduction from mons. r----, the banker of paris. after spending the short time, during which i was detained at caen, very pleasantly, i resumed my seat in the diligence for cherbourg, in which i found a very agreeable woman, her two daughters, two canary birds, a cat, and her kitten, who were, i found, to be my companions all the way. after we left caen, the roads became very bad. our ponderous machine, frequently rolled from one side to the other, and with many alarming creakings, threatened us with a heavy, and perilous overthrow. at length we arrived at bayeux, where we dined, at the house of a friend of my fair fellow traveller, to which she invited me with a tone of welcome, and good wishes, which overpowered all resistance. we sat down to an excellent dinner, at which was produced the usual favourite french dish of cold turbot, and raw artichokes. after our repast, a fine young woman, the daughter of the lady of the house, in a very obliging, but rather grave manner, poured out a tumbler full of some delicious potent liqueur, which, to my no small surprise, she presented me with; upon my only tasting it, and returning it, she appeared to be equally surprised, and confused. her mother, observing our mutual embarrassment, informed me, that in france it was understood that the english were troubled with the ennui, or tristesse de coeur, and that they drank large draughts of wine and spirits to expel the gloomy malady. i softened this opinion of our common character, as well as i could, for, i fear, without offering considerable outrage to truth, i could not wholly have denied it. after dinner, we walked to the cathedral, which is a noble gothic pile, and, upon our return, found the diligence in waiting for us. my companions were attended to the door of the carriage by their hospitable friends, between whom several kisses were interchanged. i took an opportunity, just before i mounted the step, of stealing one of these tokens of regard from the fair young damsel who had so courteously offered me the liqueur, at the same time telling her, that in england, a kiss was always considered as the best remedy for the tristesse de coeur.--away trotted our little norman steeds; and, notwithstanding they had come all the way from caen, they soon carried us over the hills on this side of bayeux. the eye communicated delight to the heart, whilst it contemplated the vast extent of corn fields, which in this fertile province undulated on all sides of us, in waves of yellow exuberance, over which, embosomed in trees, at short distances, peeped the peaceful and picturesque abode of the prosperous cottage farmer. the prospect afforded an impressive contrast to the impolitic agricultural system, which has lately obtained in england, by which cottage farms are consolidated into ample domains of monopoly, and a baneful preference is given in favour of the rearing of cattle, to the vital and bountiful labours of the plough. a celebrated writer, who well knew in what the real wealth of a nation consisted, has observed, that he who could make two ears of corn grow upon a spot of ground, where only one grew before, would deserve better of mankind than the whole race of politicians. the high roads of normandy are unnecessarily broad; hence considerable portions of land remain uncultivated. a spacious road, like every thing which is vast, excites an impression of grandeur; but in this prolific department, the facilities of travelling, and the dignity of the country, might be consulted with less waste. this prodigality is perhaps attributable to the highways in france having shared but little of its legislative attention; and accommodation appears to have been sought rather by a lavish allotment of space, than by a judicious formation, and frequent repair. the inns along the road are very poor, although over the door of almost every little cottage is written, in large characters, "bon cidre de victoire." there are also no regular post-horses to be met with. the country, on all sides of us, was very mountainous and luxuriant, and much resembled the southern parts of devonshire. about seven o'clock in the evening of the same day, we arrived at st. lo, which is, without exception, the cleanest and most charming, romantic little town, i saw in france. it is fortified, and stands upon the top of a mountain, at whose base is expanded a luxuriant scenery of woods and villages, through which the riviere de ville winds in beautiful meanders. the inhabitants of this town appeared to be rich and genteel. in the evening i supped at the table d'hôte, where there were several pleasant people. at this town we slept, and set off, the next morning, very early, for valogne, where we dined; and in the evening, after passing a considerable extent of rich meadow land, and descending a very steep hill, the freshness of the sea air announced to us our near approach to cherbourg, where, at the hôtel d'angleterre, i was soon afterwards landed. for my place and luggage to this place i paid twenty-four livres. my expenses upon the road were very reasonable. here i had the good fortune to find a packet which intended to sail to england in two days, the master of which asked me only one guinea for my passage in the cabin, provisions included. however, thinking that the kitchen of a french vessel might, if possible, be more uncleanly than the kitchen of a french inn, i resolved upon providing my own refreshments for the little voyage. [illustration: _cherbourg_] cherbourg is a poor and dirty town. after having heard so much of its costly works and fortifications for the protection of its harbour, my surprise was not little, upon finding the place so miserable. it is defended by three great forts, which are erected upon rocks in the sea. the centre one is about three miles off from shore, and is garrisoned by men. at a distance, this fort looks like a vast floating battery. upon a line with it, but divided by a distance sufficient for the admission of shipping, commences the celebrated, stupendous wall, which has been erected since the failure of the cones. it is just visible at low water. this surprising work is six miles in length, and three hundred french feet in breadth, and is composed of massy stones and masonry, which have been sunk for the purpose, and which are now cemented, by sea weed, their own weight and cohesion, into one immense mass of rock. upon this wall a chain of forts is intended to be erected, as soon as the finances of government will admit of it. the expenses which have already been incurred, in constructing this wonderful fabric, have, it is said, exceeded two millions sterling. these costly protective barriers can only be considered as so many monuments, erected by the french to the superior genius and prowess of the british navy. whilst i was waiting for the packet's sailing, i received great civilities from mons. c----, the banker and american consul at cherbourg, to whom i had letters from mons. r----. i rode, the second evening after my arrival, to his country house, which was about nine miles from the town. our road to it lay over a prolific and mountainous country. from a high point of land, as we passed along, we saw the islands of guernsey, jersey and alderney, which made a beautiful appearance upon the sea. upon our return, by another road, i was much pleased with a group of little cottages, which were embosomed in a beautiful wood, through which there was an opening to the sea, which the sinking sun had then overspread with the richest lustre. as we entered this scene of rustic repose, the angelus bell of the little village church rang; and a short time afterwards, as we approached it, a number of villagers came out from the porch, with their mass-books in their hands, their countenances beaming with happiness and illuminated by the sinking sun, which shone full upon them. the charms of this simple scene arrested our progress for a short time. under some spreading limes, upon a sloping lawn, the cheerful cottagers closed the evening with dancing to the sounds of one of the sweetest flagelets i ever heard, which was alternately played by several performers, who relieved each other. in france, every man is a musician. goldsmith's charming picture of his auburn, in its happier times, recurred to me:-- "when toil remitting, lends its turn to play, and all the village train, from labour free, led up their sports beneath the spreading tree." the cross roads of france are very bad; but, to my surprise, although we never could have had a worse specimen of them than what this excursion presented to us, yet the norman hunter upon which i was mounted, carried me over the deepest ruts, and abrupt hillocks, without showing the least symptom of infirmity which so much prevails amongst his brethren of the devonshire breed. the norman horses are remarkable for lifting their feet high, and the safety and ease with which they carry their riders. in the morning of the day in which the packet was to sail, a favourable breeze sprung up; and, after undergoing the usual search of the revenue officers, in the execution of which they behaved with much civility, i embarked, and bade adieu to continental ground. the vessel had the appearance of being freighted with hot bread, with which the deck was covered from one end to the other. this immense collection of smoking loaves was intended for the supply of six men, and one woman, during a passage which we expected to accomplish in thirty hours, or less! the faithful associate of our young captain, to whom she had just been married, either from motives of fondness or distrust, resolved upon sharing with him the perils of the ocean. the sea-sufferings of this constant creature, and the resignation with which she endured them, sufficiently manifested the strength of her affections; for she was obliged to keep below all the time, and could afford but very little assistance in reducing the prodigious depot of bread which we had on board. credulous mariners describe a species of the fair sex (i believe the only one) who appear to much advantage upon the briny wave; but the nature of our commander's lady not happening to be amphibious, she gave such unequivocal proofs of being out of her proper element, that my wishes for shore increased upon me every minute. during our passage, i could not help contrasting the habits of the english with the french sailors. the british tar thinks his allowance of salt beef scarcely digestible without a copious libation of ardent spirits, whilst the gallic mariner is satisfied with a little meagre soup, an immoderate share of bread, and a beverage of water, poor cider, or spiritless wine. at length, after a passage of a day and a night, in which we experienced the vicissitudes of a stiff breeze, and a dead calm, we beheld ----"that pale, that white-fac'd shore, whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides, and coops from other lands her islanders, that water-walled bulwark, still secure and confident from foreign purposes." after passing another tedious night on board, owing to our being becalmed within the needles, i stepped upon the same landing stone from which i first embarked for a country, where, in the centre of proscriptions, instability and desolation, those arts which are said to flourish only in the regions of repose, have, by their vigour and unrivalled bloom, excited the wonder and admiration of surrounding nations; where peace, by her sudden and cherished reappearance, is calling forth all the virtues from their hiding places, to aid in effacing the corroding stains of a barbarous revolution, and in restoring the moral and social character to its pristine polish, rank and estimation. general remarks. the fact seems at first singular. two of the greatest nations under heaven, whose shores almost touch, and, if ancient tales be true, were once unsevered, call the natives of each other foreigners. jealousy, competition, and consequent warfare, have, for ages, produced an artificial distance and separation, much wider, and more impassable, than nature ever intended, by the division which she has framed; hence, whilst the unassisted eye of the islander can, from his own shores, with "unwet feet," behold the natural barrier of his continental neighbour, he knows but little more of his real character and habits, than of those of beings, who are more distantly removed from him, by many degrees of the great circle. the events which have happened in france for the last eleven years, have rendered this separation more severe, and during that long and gloomy interval, have wholly changed the national character. those who once occupied the higher class in the ascending scale of society, and who have survived the revolution without leaving their country, are no longer able to display the taste and munificence which once distinguished them. in the capital, those who formerly were accustomed to have their court yards nightly filled with carriages, and their staircases lined with lacqueys, are now scarcely able to occupy one third of their noble abodes. they cannot even enjoy the common observances of friendship, and hospitality, without pausing, and resorting to calculation. a new race of beings called the "nouveaux enrichés," whose services have been chiefly auxiliary to the war, at present absorb the visible wealth of the nation. amongst them are many respectable persons. the lower orders of the people have been taught, by restless visionaries, to consider the destinations of providence, which had before, by an imperceptible gradation of social colouring, united the russet brown to the magisterial purple, as usurpations over those natural rights which have been impressed without illustration, and magnified by a mischievous mystery. in the fierce pursuit of these imaginary immunities, which they had been taught to believe had been long withheld, they abruptly renounced all deference and decorum, as perilous indications of the fallacy of their indefinable pretensions, and were not a little encouraged by the disastrous desertion of their superiors, who fled at the first alarm. in short, the revolution has, in general, made the higher orders poor, and dispirited, and the lower barbarous, and insolent, whilst a third class has sprung up, with the silence and suddenness of an exhalation, higher than both, without participating in the original character of either, in which the principles of computation, and the vanity of wealth, are at awkward variance. until lately, the ancient french and the modern french were antipodes, but they are now converging, under a government, which, in point of security, and even of mildness, has no resemblance, since the first departure from the ancient establishments. the french, like the libertine son, after having plunged in riot and excesses, subdued by wretchedness, are returning to order and civilization. unhappy people, their tears have almost washed away their offences--they have suffered to their heart's core. who will not pity them to see their change, and hear their tales of misery? yet, strange to relate, in the midst of their sighs and sufferings, they recount, with enthusiasm, the exploits of those very men, whose heroic ambition has trampled upon their best hopes, and proudest prosperity. dazzled by the brilliancy of the spreading flame, they forget that their own abode is involved in its desolation, and augments the gloomy grandeur of the scene. to this cause may, perhaps, be traced that singular union of grief and gayety, which affords rather an impressive contrast to the more solemn consistency of english sadness. the terrible experiment which they have tried, has, throughout, presented a ferocious contest for power, which has only served to deteriorate their condition, sap their vigour, and render them too feeble either to continue the contest, or to reach the frontier of their former character. in this condition they have been found by a man who, with the precedent of history in one hand, and the sabre in the other, has, unstained with the crimes of cromwell, possessed himself of the sovereignty; and, like augustus, without the propensities which shaded his early life, preserved the _name_ of a republic, whilst he well knows that a decisive and irresistible authority can alone reunite a people so vast and distracted; who, in the pursuit of a fatal phantom, have been inured to change, and long alienated from subordination. i would not wish such a government to be perpetual, but if it be conducted with wisdom and justice, i will not hesitate to declare, that i think it will ultimately prove as favourable to the happiness, as it has been propitious to the glory of the french. a government which breathes a martial spirit under a thin appearance of civil polity, presents but a barren subject to the consideration of the inquirer. when the sabre is changed into the sceptre, the science of legislation is short, simple, and decisive. its energies are neither entangled in abstract distinctions, nor much impeded by the accustomed delays of deliberation. from the magnitude of the present ruling establishment in france, and the judicious distribution of its powers, and confidence, the physical strength can scarcely be said to reside in the _governed_. a great portion of the population participates in the character of the government. the bayonet is perpetually flashing before the eye. the remark may appear a little ludicrous, but in the capital almost every man who is not _near sighted_ is a soldier, and every soldier of the republic considers himself as a subordinate minister of state. in short the whole political fabric is a refined system of knight's service. seven centuries are rolled back, and from the gloom of time behold the crested spirit of the norman hero advance, "with beaver up," and nod his sable plumes, in grim approval of the novel, gay, and gaudy feodality. if such an expectation may be entertained, that time will replace the ancient family on the throne, i am far from believing that it can offer much consolation to the illustrious wanderer, who as yet, has only tasted of the name of sovereignty. if the old royalty is ever restored, it is my opinion, and i offer it with becoming deference, that, from personal hatred to the present titular monarch, and the dread of retaliation by a lineal revival of monarchy, the crown will be placed upon the brows of one of the _collateral_ branches of the expatriated family. the prince de condé is the only member of that august house, of whom the french speak with esteem, and approbation. the treasury of the french is, as may be expected, not overflowing, but its resources must speedily become ample. the necessities of the state, or rather the peculations of its former factious leaders, addressed themselves immediately to the purses of the people, by a summary process completely predatory. circuitous exaction has been, till lately, long discarded. the present rulers have not yet had sufficient time to digest, and perfect a financial system, by which the establishments of the country may be supported by indirect, and unoffending taxation. wisdom and genius must long, and ardently labour, before the ruins, and rubbish of the revolution can be removed. every effort hitherto made to raise the deciduous credit of the republic has been masterly, and forcibly bespeaks the public hope, and confidence in favour of every future measure. the armies of the republic are immense; they have hitherto been paid, and maintained by the countries which they have subdued; their exigencies, unless they are employed, will in future form an embarrassing subject of consideration in the approaching system of finance. this mighty body of men, who are very moderately paid, are united by the remembrance of their glory, and the proud consideration that they constitute a powerful part of the government; an impression which every french soldier cherishes. they also derive some pride, even from their discipline: a military delinquent is not subject to ignoble punishment; if he offend, he suffers as a soldier. imprisonment, or death, alone displaces him from the ranks. he is not cut down fainting, and covered with the ignominious wounds of the dissecting scourge, and sent to languish in the reeking wards of hospitals. in reviewing the present condition of france, the liberal mind will contemplate many events with pleasure, and will suspend its final judgment, until wisdom, and genius shall repose from their labours, and shall proclaim to the people, "behold the work is done." it has been observed, that in reviewing the late war, two of the precepts of the celebrated author of "the prince," will hereafter be enshrined in the judgments of politicians, and will be as closely adhered to, as they have been boldly disregarded by that great man, who, till lately, has long presided over the british councils. machiavel has asserted, that no country ought to declare war with a nation which, at the time, is in a state of internal commotion; and that, in the prosecution of a war, the refugees of a belligerent power ought not to be confidentially trusted by the opposite nation which receives them. upon violating the former, those heterogeneous parties, which, if left to themselves, will always embarrass the operations of their government, become united by a common cause; and by offending against the latter clause of this cautionary code, a perilous confidence is placed in the triumph of gratitude, and private pique, over that great love which nature plants and warmly cherishes in the breast of every man, for his country. in extenuation of a departure from these political maxims it may be urged, that the french excited the war, and that in the pursuit of it, they displayed a _compound_ spirit, which machiavel might well think problematical, for whilst that country never averted its eye from the common enemy, it never ceased to groan under the inflictions of unremitting factions. rather less can be said in palliation of the fatal confidence, which was placed by the english government in some of the french emigrants. i have mentioned these unhappy people in the aggregate, with the respect which i think they deserve. to be protected, and not to betray, was all that could in fairness, and with safety be expected from them; it was hazarding too much to put swords in their hands, and send them to their own shores to plunge them in the breasts of their own countrymen: in such an enterprise ------------------"the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." the brave have not frequently wept over such a victim as sombrieul. whether the experiment of repelling those machinations which warred against all established order, and all sanctioned usage, by a novel, and unnatural opposition, is attributable to any other cause, than that of a misjudging principle, must be decided by him, whose mighty hand suspended the balance of the battle, and whose eye can, at a glance, pierce through the labyrinth of human obliquity, however compact, shaded, or concealed. if the late minister is chargeable with a prolongation of the war, if he is responsible for having misplaced his confidence, and if brave men have perished by the fatal delusion, he will find some, if not ample consolation, in reflecting, that by his vigilance, and vigour, he has saved his country from the miseries of a revolutionary frenzy, which has rendered, even our enemies, the objects of our sympathy, and compassion. such is the narrowness of our nature, that we know not how adequately to appreciate our preservation from an _intercepted_ evil: it is indistinctly seen, like a distant object. the calamity must _touch_ before its powers and magnitude can be estimated. the flames of the neighbouring pile, must stop at our very doors, before our gratitude becomes animated with its highest energies. if providence were to unfold to us all the horrours which we have escaped; if all the blood which would have followed the assassin's dagger were to roll in reeking streams before us; if the full display of irreligion, flight, massacre, confiscation, imprisonment and famine, which would have graced a revolutionary triumph in these realms, were to be unbarred to our view, how should we recoil from the ghastly spectacle! with what emotions of admiration and esteem should we bend before the man, whose illumined mind and dignified resolution protected us from such fell perdition, and confined the ravages of the "bellowing storm" within its own barrier. the dazzling and perilous claims of the rights of man in the abstract, have had a long and ample discussion before the sanguinary tribunals of another country; and the loud decree of an indignant and insulted world has pronounced their eternal doom. other contests may arise; but the powers of a prophet are not necessary to assert, that such rights will form no part of their provocation. in france, i was repeatedly asked my opinion of the probable stability of the peace. the question was always addressed in this rather curious shape: "thank god, we have peace! _will your_ country let us enjoy it?"--my answer was, "you may be assured of it; for it will not cease to be prepared for war." alas! the restless spirit of ambition seldom long delights in repose. the peaceful virtues, under whose influence nations flourish and mankind rejoice, possess no lasting captivations for the hero. the draught of conquest maddens his brain, and excites an insatiable thirst for fresh atchievements--he "looks into the clouds, scorning the base degrees by which he did ascend"---- may that extraordinary being in whose hands the fate of millions is deposited reverse the gloomy picture, and restore to a country long wasted by revolutions, and warfare, and languishing in the midst of the monuments of her glory, the benign blessings of enduring tranquillity. but if this hope prove fruitless, if all the countries of continental europe are destined to be compressed into one empire, if their devoted princes are doomed to adorn the triumphs of the chief of that mighty republic, which now towers above the surrounding nations of the earth, like the pyramid of the desert, what have we to fear even though the ocean which divides us should become the _soldiers_ element? when an enlightened frenchman is asked what he thinks of his government, his answer is, "we want repose." for this alone, a stranger to the recent occurrences of the world would think he had toiled, just as valetudinarians take exercise for the purpose of securing sleep. even those who have profited of eleven years of desolation, are ready to acknowledge that war is not pastime, and that a familiarity with its horrours does not lessen them. the soldier, drooping under the weight of booty, pants for the refreshing shades of his native village, and for the hour which is to restore him to his alienated family. i am satisfied, that both in france and england, one desire pervades all classes of people, that two nations, so brave, and so worthy of reciprocal esteem, may at last grow wise and virtuous enough to abstain from those ebullitions of furious hostility which have stained so many centuries with blood. peace is the gem with which europe has embellished her fair but palpitating bosom; and may disappointment and dishonour be the lot of that ambitious and impolitic being who endeavours or who wishes to pluck it from her! finis. errata. _page_ , _l._ , _for_ lewis, _read_ louis. , , _for_ english, _read_ own. ibid. , _for_ import, _read_ impost. , , _for_ bleu, _read_ bleus. , , _for_ stories, _read_ stones. , , _for_ entered now, _read_ reentered. , , _for_ perpetual, _read_ vast. , , _for_ profession, _read_ will. , , _for_ the, _read_ his. , , _for_ france, _read_ the country. , , _for_ at, _read_ of. , , _for_ hardworn, _read_ hardwon. , chap. xviii, for _commodities_, _read_ _commodités_. , _l._ , _for_ heightened, _read_ high toned. , , _for_ is, _read_ was. , ult. _after_ to, _add_ those of. , , _for_ remblance, _read_ resemblance. directions to the binder for placing the plates. place torr abbey facing page southampton light-house at havre paris diligence woman of caux rouen ruins in the petit trianon bagatelle in the bois de boulogne museum of french monuments malmaison caen cherbourg bryer, printer, bridge street, black friars. transcriber's note: list of corrections: p. indispostion = > indisposition p. surprsie = > surprise p. terruor = > terrour p. recal = > recall p. musuem = > museum p. cieling = > ceiling p. scarely = > scarcely proofreading team. html version by al haines. yvette by henri rene guy de maupassant contents i. the initiation of saval ii. bougival and love iii. enlightenment iv. from emotion to philosophy chapter i. the initiation of saval as they were leaving the cafe riche, jean de servigny said to leon saval: "if you don't object, let us walk. the weather is too fine to take a cab." his friend answered: "i would like nothing better." jean replied: "it is hardly eleven o'clock. we shall arrive much before midnight, so let us go slowly." a restless crowd was moving along the boulevard, that throng peculiar to summer nights, drinking, chatting, and flowing like a river, filled with a sense of comfort and joy. here and there a cafe threw a flood of light upon a knot of patrons drinking at little tables on the sidewalk, which were covered with bottles and glasses, hindering the passing of the hurrying multitude. on the pavement the cabs with their red, blue, or green lights dashed by, showing for a second, in the glimmer, the thin shadow of the horse, the raised profile of the coachman, and the dark box of the carriage. the cabs of the urbaine company made clear and rapid spots when their yellow panels were struck by the light. the two friends walked with slow steps, cigars in their mouths, in evening dress and overcoats on their arms, with a flower in their buttonholes, and their hats a trifle on one side, as men will carelessly wear them sometimes, after they have dined well and the air is mild. they had been linked together since their college days by a close, devoted, and firm affection. jean de servigny, small, slender, a trifle bald, rather frail, with elegance of mien, curled mustache, bright eyes, and fine lips, was a man who seemed born and bred upon the boulevard. he was tireless in spite of his languid air, strong in spite of his pallor, one of those slight parisians to whom gymnastic exercise, fencing, cold shower and hot baths give a nervous, artificial strength. he was known by his marriage as well as by his wit, his fortune, his connections, and by that sociability, amiability, and fashionable gallantry peculiar to certain men. a true parisian, furthermore, light, sceptical, changeable, captivating, energetic, and irresolute, capable of everything and of nothing; selfish by principle and generous on occasion, he lived moderately upon his income, and amused himself with hygiene. indifferent and passionate, he gave himself rein and drew back constantly, impelled by conflicting instincts, yielding to all, and then obeying, in the end, his own shrewd man-about-town judgment, whose weather-vane logic consisted in following the wind and drawing profit from circumstances without taking the trouble to originate them. his companion, leon saval, rich also, was one of those superb and colossal figures who make women turn around in the streets to look at them. he gave the idea of a statue turned into a man, a type of a race, like those sculptured forms which are sent to the salons. too handsome, too tall, too big, too strong, he sinned a little from the excess of everything, the excess of his qualities. he had on hand countless affairs of passion. as they reached the vaudeville theater, he asked: "have you warned that lady that you are going to take me to her house to see her?" servigny began to laugh: "forewarn the marquise obardi! do you warn an omnibus driver that you shall enter his stage at the corner of the boulevard?" saval, a little perplexed, inquired: "what sort of person is this lady?" his friend replied: "an upstart, a charming hussy, who came from no one knows where, who made her appearance one day, nobody knows how, among the adventuresses of paris, knowing perfectly well how to take care of herself. besides, what difference does it make to us? they say that her real name, her maiden name--for she still has every claim to the title of maiden except that of innocence--is octavia bardin, from which she constructs the name obardi by prefixing the first letter of her first name and dropping the last letter of the last name." "moreover, she is a lovable woman, and you, from your physique, are inevitably bound to become her lover. hercules is not introduced into messalina's home without making some disturbance. nevertheless i make bold to add that if there is free entrance to this house, just as there is in bazaars, you are not exactly compelled to buy what is for sale. love and cards are on the programme, but nobody compels you to take up with either. and the exit is as free as the entrance." "she settled down in the etoile district, a suspicious neighborhood, three years ago, and opened her drawing-room to that froth of the continents which comes to paris to practice its various formidable and criminal talents." "i don't remember just how i went to her house. i went as we all go, because there is card playing, because the women are compliant, and the men dishonest. i love that social mob of buccaneers with decorations of all sorts of orders, all titled, and all entirely unknown at their embassies, except to the spies. they are always dragging in the subject of honor, quoting the list of their ancestors on the slightest provocation, and telling the story of their life at every opportunity, braggarts, liars, sharpers, dangerous as their cards, false as their names, brave because they have to be, like the assassins who can not pluck their victims except by exposing their own lives. in a word, it is the aristocracy of the bagnio." "i like them. they are interesting to fathom and to know, amusing to listen to, often witty, never commonplace as the ordinary french guests. their women are always pretty, with a little flavor of foreign knavery, with the mystery of their past existence, half of which, perhaps, spent in a house of correction. they generally have fine eyes and glorious hair, the true physique of the profession, an intoxicating grace, a seductiveness which drives men to folly, an unwholesome, irresistible charm! they conquer like the highwaymen of old. they are rapacious creatures; true birds of prey. i like them, too." "the marquise obardi is one of the type of these elegant good-for-nothings. ripe and pretty, with a feline charm, you can see that she is vicious to the marrow. everybody has a good time at her house, with cards, dancing, and suppers; in fact there is everything which goes to make up the pleasures of fashionable society life." "have you ever been or are you now her lover?" leon saval asked. "i have not been her lover, i am not now, and i never shall be. i only go to the house to see her daughter." "ah! she has a daughter, then?" "a daughter! a marvel, my dear man. she is the principal attraction of the den to-day. tall, magnificent, just ripe, eighteen years old, as fair as her mother is dark, always merry, always ready for an entertainment, always laughing, and ready to dance like mad. who will be the lucky man, to capture her, or who has already done so? nobody can tell that. she has ten of us in her train, all hoping." "such a daughter in the hands of a woman like the marquise is a fortune. and they play the game together, the two charmers. no one knows just what they are planning. perhaps they are waiting for a better bargain than i should prove. but i tell you that i shall close the bargain if i ever get a chance." "that girl yvette absolutely baffles me, moreover. she is a mystery. if she is not the most complete monster of astuteness and perversity that i have ever seen, she certainly is the most marvelous phenomenon of innocence that can be imagined. she lives in that atmosphere of infamy with a calm and triumphing ease which is either wonderfully profligate or entirely artless. strange scion of an adventuress, cast upon the muck-heap of that set, like a magnificent plant nurtured upon corruption, or rather like the daughter of some noble race, of some great artist, or of some grand lord, of some prince or dethroned king, tossed some evening into her mother's arms, nobody can make out what she is nor what she thinks. but you are going to see her." saval began to laugh and said: "you are in love with her." "no. i am on the list, which is not precisely the same thing. i will introduce you to my most serious rivals. but the chances are in my favor. i am in the lead, and some little distinction is shown to me." "you are in love," saval repeated. "no. she disquiets me, seduces and disturbs me, attracts and frightens me away. i mistrust her as i would a trap, and i long for her as i long for a sherbet when i am thirsty. i yield to her charm, and i only approach her with the apprehension that i would feel concerning a man who was known to be a skillful thief. to her presence i have an irrational impulse toward belief in her possible purity and a very reasonable mistrust of her not less probable trickery. i feel myself in contact with an abnormal being, beyond the pale of natural laws, an exquisite or detestable creature--i don't know which." for the third time saval said: "i tell you that you are in love. you speak of her with the magniloquence of a poet and the feeling of a troubadour. come, search your heart, and confess." servigny walked a few steps without answering. then he replied: "that is possible, after all. in any case, she fills my mind almost continually. yes, perhaps i am in love. i dream about her too much. i think of her when i am asleep and when i awake--that is surely a grave indication. her face follows me, accompanies me ceaselessly, ever before me, around me, with me. is this love, this physical infatuation? her features are so stamped upon my vision that i see her the moment i shut my eyes. my heart beats quickly every time i look at her, i don't deny it." "so i am in love with her, but in a queer fashion. i have the strongest desire for her, and yet the idea of making her my wife would seem to me a folly, a piece of stupidity, a monstrous thing: and i have a little fear of her, as well, the fear which a bird feels over which a hawk is hovering." "and again i am jealous of her, jealous of all of which i am ignorant in her incomprehensible heart. i am always wondering: 'is she a charming youngster or a wretched jade?' she says things that would make an army shudder; but so does a parrot. she is at times so indiscreet and yet modest that i am forced to believe in her spotless purity, and again so incredibly artless that i must suspect that she has never been chaste. she allures me, excites me, like a woman of a certain category, and at the same time acts like an impeccable virgin. she seems to love me and yet makes fun of me; she deports herself in public as if she were my mistress and treats me in private as if i were her brother or footman." "there are times when i fancy that she has as many lovers as her mother. and at other times i imagine that she suspects absolutely nothing of that sort of life, you understand. furthermore, she is a great novel reader. i am at present, while awaiting something better, her book purveyor. she calls me her 'librarian.' every week the new book store sends her, on my orders, everything new that has appeared, and i believe that she reads everything at random. it must make a strange sort of mixture in her head." "that kind of literary hasty-pudding accounts perhaps for some of the girl's peculiar ways. when a young woman looks at existence through the medium of fifteen thousand novels, she must see it in a strange light, and construct queer ideas about matters and things in general. as for me, i am waiting. it is certain at any rate that i never have had for any other woman the devotion which i have had for her. and still it is quite certain that i shall never marry her. so if she has had numbers, i shall swell the number. and if she has not, i shall take the first ticket, just as i would do for a street car." "the case is very simple. of course, she will never marry. who in the world would marry the marquise obardi's daughter, the child of octavia bardin? nobody, for a thousand reasons. where would they ever find a husband for her? in society? never. the mother's house is a sort of liberty-hall whose patronage is attracted by the daughter. girls don't get married under those conditions." "would she find a husband among the trades-people? still less would that be possible. and besides the marquise is not the woman to make a bad bargain; she will give yvette only to a man of high position, and that man she will never discover." "then perhaps she will look among the common people. still less likely. there is no solution of the problem, then. this young lady belongs neither to society, nor to the tradesmen's class, nor to the common people, and she can never enter any of these ranks by marriage." "she belongs through her mother, her birth, her education, her inheritance, her manners, and her customs, to the vortex of the most rapid life of paris. she can never escape it, save by becoming a nun, which is not at all probable with her manners and tastes. she has only one possible career, a life of pleasure. she will come to it sooner or later, if indeed she has not already begun to tread its primrose path. she cannot escape her fate. from being a young girl she will take the inevitable step, quite simply. and i would like to be the pivot of this transformation." "i am waiting. there are many lovers. you will see among them a frenchman, monsieur de belvigne; a russian, called prince kravalow, and an italian, chevalier valreali, who have all announced their candidacies and who are consequently maneuvering to the best of their ability. in addition to these there are several freebooters of less importance. the marquise waits and watches. but i think that she has views about me. she knows that i am very rich, and she makes less of the others." "her drawing-room is, moreover, the most astounding that i know of, in such, exhibitions. you even meet very decent men there, like ourselves. as for the women, she has culled the best there is from the basket of pickpockets. nobody knows where she found them. it is a set apart from bohemia, apart from everything. she has had one inspiration showing genius, and that is the knack of selecting especially those adventuresses who have children, generally girls. so that a fool might believe that in her house he was among respectable women!" they had reached the avenue of the champs-elysees. a gentle breeze softly stirred the leaves and touched the faces of passers-by, like the breaths of a giant fan, waving somewhere in the sky. silent shadows wandered beneath the trees; others, on benches, made a dark spot. and these shadows spoke very low, as if they were telling each other important or shameful secrets. "you can't imagine what a collection of fictitious titles are met in this lair," said servigny, "by the way, i shall present you by the name of count saval; plain saval would not do at all." "oh, no, indeed!" cried his friend; "i would not have anyone think me capable of borrowing a title, even for an evening, even among those people. ah, no!" servigny began to laugh. "how stupid you are! why, in that set they call me the duke de servigny. i don't know how nor why. but at any rate the duke de servigny i am and shall remain, without complaining or protesting. it does not worry me. i should have no footing there whatever without a title." but saval would not be convinced. "well, you are of rank, and so you may remain. but, as for me, no. i shall be the only common person in the drawing-room. so much the worse, or, so much the better. it will be my mark of distinction and superiority." servigny was obstinate. "i tell you that it is not possible. why, it would almost seem monstrous. you would have the effect of a ragman at a meeting of emperors. let me do as i like. i shall introduce you as the vice-roi du 'haut-mississippi,' and no one will be at all astonished. when a man takes on greatness, he can't take too much." "once more, no, i do not wish it." "very well, have your way. but, in fact, i am very foolish to try to convince you. i defy you to get in without some one giving you a title, just as they give a bunch of violets to the ladies at the entrance to certain stores." they turned to the right in the rue de barrie, mounted one flight of stairs in a fine modern house, and gave their overcoats and canes into the hands of four servants in knee-breeches. a warm odor, as of a festival assembly, filled the air, an odor of flowers, perfumes, and women; and a composed and continuous murmur came from the adjoining rooms, which were filled with people. a kind of master of ceremonies, tall, erect, wide of girth, serious, his face framed in white whiskers, approached the newcomers, asking with a short and haughty bow: "whom shall i announce?" "monsieur saval," servigny replied. then with a loud voice, the man opening the door cried out to the crowd of guests: "monsieur the duke de servigny." "monsieur the baron saval." the first drawing-room was filled with women. the first thing which attracted attention was the display of bare shoulders, above a flood of brilliant gowns. the mistress of the house who stood talking with three friends, turned and came forward with a majestic step, with grace in her mien and a smile on her lips. her forehead was narrow and very low, and was covered with a mass of glossy black hair, encroaching a little upon the temples. she was tall, a trifle too large, a little too stout, over ripe, but very pretty, with a heavy, warm, potent beauty. beneath that mass of hair, full of dreams and smiles, rendering her mysteriously captivating, were enormous black eyes. her nose was a little narrow, her mouth large and infinitely seductive, made to speak and to conquer. her greatest charm was in her voice. it came from that mouth as water from a spring, so natural, so light, so well modulated, so clear, that there was a physical pleasure in listening to it. it was a joy for the ear to hear the flexible words flow with the grace of a babbling brook, and it was a joy for the eyes to see those pretty lips, a trifle too red, open as the words rippled forth. she gave one hand to servigny, who kissed it, and dropping her fan on its little gold chain, she gave the other to saval, saying to him: "you are welcome, baron, all the duke's friends are at home here." then she fixed her brilliant eyes upon the colossus who had just been introduced to her. she had just the slightest down on her upper lip, a suspicion of a mustache, which seemed darker when she spoke. there was a pleasant odor about her, pervading, intoxicating, some perfume of america or of the indies. other people came in, marquesses, counts or princes. she said to servigny, with the graciousness of a mother: "you will find my daughter in the other parlor. have a good time, gentlemen, the house is yours." and she left them to go to those who had come later, throwing at saval that smiling and fleeting glance which women use to show that they are pleased. servigny grasped his friend's arm. "i will pilot you," said he. "in this parlor where we now are, women, the temples of the fleshly, fresh or otherwise. bargains as good as new, even better, for sale or on lease. at the right, gaming, the temple of money. you understand all about that. at the lower end, dancing, the temple of innocence, the sanctuary, the market for young girls. they are shown off there in every light. even legitimate marriages are tolerated. it is the future, the hope, of our evenings. and the most curious part of this museum of moral diseases are these young girls whose souls are out of joint, just like the limbs of the little clowns born of mountebanks. come and look at them." he bowed, right and left, courteously, a compliment on his lips, sweeping each low-gowned woman whom he knew with the look of an expert. the musicians, at the end of the second parlor, were playing a waltz; and the two friends stopped at the door to look at them. a score of couples were whirling-the men with a serious expression, and the women with a fixed smile on their lips. they displayed a good deal of shoulder, like their mothers; and the bodices of some were only held in place by a slender ribbon, disclosing at times more than is generally shown. suddenly from the end of the room a tall girl darted forward, gliding through the crowd, brushing against the dancers, and holding her long train in her left hand. she ran with quick little steps as women do in crowds, and called out: "ah! how is muscade? how do you do, muscade?" her features wore an expression of the bloom of life, the illumination of happiness. her white flesh seemed to shine, the golden-white flesh which goes with red hair. the mass of her tresses, twisted on her head, fiery, flaming locks, nestled against her supple neck, which was still a little thin. she seemed to move just as her mother was made to speak, so natural, noble, and simple were her gestures. a person felt a moral joy and physical pleasure in seeing her walk, stir about, bend her head, or lift her arm. "ah! muscade, how do you do, muscade?" she repeated. servigny shook her hand violently, as he would a man's, and said: "mademoiselle yvette, my friend, baron saval." "good evening, monsieur. are you always as tall as that?" servigny replied in that bantering tone which he always used with her, in order to conceal his mistrust and his uncertainty: "no, mam'zelle. he has put on his greatest dimensions to please your mother, who loves a colossus." and the young girl remarked with a comic seriousness: "very well but when you come to see me you must diminish a little if you please. i prefer the medium height. now muscade has just the proportions which i like." and she gave her hand to the newcomer. then she asked: "do you dance, muscade? come, let us waltz." without replying, with a quick movement, passionately, servigny clasped her waist and they disappeared with the fury of a whirlwind. they danced more rapidly than any of the others, whirled and whirled, and turned madly, so close together that they seemed but one, and with the form erect, the legs almost motionless, as if some invisible mechanism, concealed beneath their feet, caused them to twirl. they appeared tireless. the other dancers stopped from time to time. they still danced on, alone. they seemed not to know where they were nor what they were doing, as if, they had gone far away from the ball, in an ecstasy. the musicians continued to play, with their looks fixed upon this mad couple; all the guests gazed at them, and when finally they did stop dancing, everyone applauded them. she was a little flushed, with strange eyes, ardent and timid, less daring than a moment before, troubled eyes, blue, yet with a pupil so black that they seemed hardly natural. servigny appeared giddy. he leaned against a door to regain his composure. "you have no head, my poor muscade, i am steadier than you," said yvette to servigny. he smiled nervously, and devoured her with a look. his animal feelings revealed themselves in his eyes and in the curl of his lips. she stood beside him looking down, and her bosom rose and fell in short gasps as he looked at her. then she said softly: "really, there are times when you are like a tiger about to spring upon his prey. come, give me your arm, and let us find your friend." silently he offered her his arm and they went down the long drawing-room together. saval was not alone, for the marquise obardi had rejoined him. she conversed with him on ordinary and fashionable subjects with a seductiveness in her tones which intoxicated him. and, looking at her with his mental eye, it seemed to him that her lips, uttered words far different from those which they formed. when she saw servigny her face immediately lighted up, and turning toward him she said: "you know, my dear duke, that i have just leased a villa at bougival for two months, and i count upon your coming to see me there, and upon your friend also. listen. we take possession next monday, and shall expect both of you to dinner the following saturday. we shall keep you over sunday." perfectly serene and tranquil yvette smiled, saying with a decision which swept away hesitation on his part: "of course muscade will come to dinner on saturday. we have only to ask him, for he and i intend to commit a lot of follies in the country." he thought he divined the birth of a promise in her smile, and in her voice he heard what he thought was invitation. then the marquise turned her big, black eyes upon saval: "and you will, of course, come, baron?" with a smile that forbade doubt, he bent toward her, saying, "i shall be only too charmed, madame." then yvette murmured with malice that was either naive or traitorous: "we will set all the world by the ears down there, won't we, muscade, and make my regiment of admirers fairly mad." and with a look, she pointed out a group of men who were looking at them from a little distance. said servigny to her: "as many follies as you may please, mam'zelle." in speaking to yvette, servigny never used the word "mademoiselle," by reason of his close and long intimacy with her. then saval asked: "why does mademoiselle always call my friend servigny 'muscade'?" yvette assumed a very frank air and said: "i will tell you: it is because he always slips through my hands. now i think i have him, and then i find i have not." the marquise, with her eyes upon saval, arid evidently preoccupied, said in a careless tone: "you children are very funny." but yvette bridled up: "i do not intend to be funny; i am simply frank. muscade pleases me, and is always deserting me, and that is what annoys me." servigny bowed profoundly, saying: "i will never leave you any more, mam'zelle, neither day nor night." she made a gesture of horror: "my goodness! no--what do you mean? you are all right during the day, but at night you might embarrass me." with an air of impertinence he asked: "and why?" yvette responded calmly and audaciously, "because you would not look well en deshabille." the marquise, without appearing at all disturbed, said: "what extraordinary subjects for conversation. one would think that you were not at all ignorant of such things." and servigny jokingly added: "that is also my opinion, marquise." yvette turned her eyes upon him, and in a haughty, yet wounded, tone said: "you are becoming very vulgar--just as you have been several times lately." and turning quickly she appealed to an individual standing by: "chevalier, come and defend me from insult." a thin, brown man, with an easy carriage, came forward. "who is the culprit?" said he, with a constrained smile. yvette pointed out servigny with a nod of her head: "there he is, but i like him better than i do you, because he is less of a bore." the chevalier valreali bowed: "i do what i can, mademoiselle. i may have less ability, but not less devotion." a gentleman came forward, tall and stout, with gray whiskers, saying in loud tones: "mademoiselle yvette, i am your most devoted slave." yvette cried: "ah, monsieur de belvigne." then turning toward saval, she introduced him. "my last adorer--big, fat, rich, and stupid. those are the kind i like. a veritable drum-major--but of the table d'hote. but see, you are still bigger than he. how shall i nickname you? good! i have it. i shall call you 'm. colossus of rhodes, junior,' from the colossus who certainly was your father. but you two ought to have very interesting things to say to each other up there, above the heads of us all--so, by-bye." and she left them quickly, going to the orchestra to make the musicians strike up a quadrille. madame obardi seemed preoccupied. in a soft voice she said to servigny: "you are always teasing her. you will warp her character and bring out many bad traits." servigny replies: "why, haven't you finished her education?" she appeared not to understand, and continued talking in a friendly way. but she noticed a solemn looking man, wearing a perfect constellation of crosses and orders, standing near her, and she ran to him: "ah prince, prince, what good fortune!" servigny took saval's arm and drew him away: "that is the latest serious suitor, prince kravalow. isn't she superb?" "to my mind they are both superb. the mother would suffice for me perfectly," answered saval. servigny nodded and said: "at your disposal, my dear boy." the dancers elbowed them aside, as they were forming for a quadrille. "now let us go and see the sharpers," said servigny. and they entered the gambling-room. around each table stood a group of men, looking on. there was very little conversation. at times the clink of gold coins, tossed upon the green cloth or hastily seized, added its sound to the murmur of the players, just as if the money was putting in its word among the human voices. all the men were decorated with various orders, and odd ribbons, and they all wore the same severe expression, with different countenances. the especially distinguishing feature was the beard. the stiff american with his horseshoe, the haughty englishman with his fan-beard open on his breast, the spaniard with his black fleece reaching to the eyes, the roman with that huge mustache which italy copied from victor emmanuel, the austrian with his whiskers and shaved chin, a russian general whose lip seemed armed with two twisted lances, and a frenchman with a dainty mustache, displayed the fancies of all the barbers in the world. "you won't join the game?" asked servigny. "no, shall you?" "not now. if you are ready to go, we will come back some quieter day. there are too many people here to-day, and we can't do anything." "well, let us go." and they disappeared behind a door-curtain into the hall. as soon as they were in the street servigny asked: "well, what do you think of it?" "it certainly is interesting, but i fancy the women's side of it more than the men's." "indeed! those women are the best of the tribe for us. don't you find that you breathe the odor of love among them, just as you scent the perfumes at a hairdresser's?" "really such houses are the place for one to go. and what experts, my dear fellow! what artists! have you ever eaten bakers' cakes? they look well, but they amount to nothing. the man who bakes them only knows how to make bread. well! the love of a woman in ordinary society always reminds me of these bake-shop trifles, while the love you find at houses like the marquise obardi's, don't you see, is the real sweetmeat. oh! they know how to make cakes, these charming pastry-cooks. only you pay five sous, at their shops, for what costs two sous elsewhere." "who is the master of the house just now?" asked saval. servigny shrugged his shoulders, signifying his ignorance. "i don't know, the latest one known was an english peer, but he left three months ago. at present she must live off the common herd, or the gambling, perhaps, and on the gamblers, for she has her caprices. but tell me, it is understood that we dine with her on saturday at bougival, is it not? people are more free in the country, and i shall succeed in finding out what ideas yvette has in her head!" "i should like nothing better," replied saval. "i have nothing to do that day." passing down through the champs-elysees, under the steps they disturbed a couple making love on one of the benches, and servigny muttered: "what foolishness and what a serious matter at the same time! how commonplace and amusing love is, always the same and always different! and the beggar who gives his sweetheart twenty sous gets as much return as i would for ten thousand francs from some obardi, no younger and no less stupid perhaps than this nondescript. what nonsense!" he said nothing for a few minutes; then he began again: "all the same, it would be good to become yvette's first lover. oh! for that i would give--" he did not add what he would give, and saval said good night to him as they reached the corner of the rue royale. chapter ii. bougival and love they had set the table on the veranda which overlooked the river. the printemps villa, leased by the marquise obardi, was halfway up this hill, just at the corner of the seine, which turned before the garden wall, flowing toward marly. opposite the residence, the island of croissy formed a horizon of tall trees, a mass of verdure, and they could see a long stretch of the big river as far as the floating cafe of la grenouillere hidden beneath the foliage. the evening fell, one of those calm evenings at the waterside, full of color yet soft, one of those peaceful evenings which produces a sensation of pleasure. no breath of air stirred the branches, no shiver of wind ruffled the smooth clear surface of the seine. it was not too warm, it was mild--good weather to live in. the grateful coolness of the banks of the seine rose toward a serene sky. the sun disappeared behind the trees to shine on other lands, and one seemed to absorb the serenity of the already sleeping earth, to inhale, in the peace of space, the life of the infinite. as they left the drawing-room to seat themselves at the table everyone was joyous. a softened gaiety filled their hearts, they felt that it would be so delightful to dine there in the country, with that great river and that twilight for a setting, breathing that pure and fragrant air. the marquise had taken saval's arm, and yvette, servigny's. the four were alone by themselves. the two women seemed entirely different persons from what they were at paris, especially yvette. she talked but little, and seemed languid and grave. saval, hardly recognizing her in this frame of mind, asked her: "what is the matter, mademoiselle? i find you changed since last week. you have become quite a serious person." "it is the country that does that for me," she replied. "i am not the same, i feel queer; besides i am never two days alike. to-day i have the air of a mad woman, and to-morrow shall be as grave as an elegy. i change with the weather, i don't know why. you see, i am capable of anything, according to the moment. there are days when i would like to kill people,--not animals, i would never kill animals,--but people, yes, and other days when i weep at a mere thing. a lot of different ideas pass through my head. it depends, too, a good deal on how i get up. every morning, on waking, i can tell just what i shall be in the evening. perhaps it is our dreams that settle it for us, and it depends on the book i have just read." she was clad in a white flannel suit which delicately enveloped her in the floating softness of the material. her bodice, with full folds, suggested, without displaying and without restraining, her free chest, which was firm and already ripe. and her superb neck emerged from a froth of soft lace, bending with gentle movements, fairer than her gown, a pilaster of flesh, bearing the heavy mass of her golden hair. servigny looked at her for a long time: "you are adorable this evening, mam'zelle," said he, "i wish i could always see you like this." "don't make a declaration, muscade. i should take it seriously, and that might cost you dear." the marquise seemed happy, very happy. all in black, richly dressed in a plain gown which showed her strong, full lines, a bit of red at the bodice, a cincture of red carnations falling from her waist like a chain, and fastened at the hips, and a red rose in her dark hair, she carried in all her person something fervid,--in that simple costume, in those flowers which seemed to bleed, in her look, in her slow speech, in her peculiar gestures. saval, too, appeared serious and absorbed. from time to time he stroked his pointed beard, trimmed in the fashion of henri iii., and seemed to be meditating on the most profound subjects. nobody spoke for several minutes. then as they were serving the trout, servigny remarked: "silence is a good thing, at times. people are often nearer to each other when they are keeping still than when they are talking. isn't that so, marquise?" she turned a little toward him and answered: "it is quite true. it is so sweet to think together about agreeable things." she raised her warm glance toward saval, and they continued for some seconds looking into each other's eyes. a slight, almost inaudible movement took place beneath the table. servigny resumed: "mam'zelle yvette, you will make me believe that you are in love if you keep on being as good as that. now, with whom could you be in love? let us think together, if you will; i put aside the army of vulgar sighers. i'll only take the principal ones. is it prince kravalow?" at this name yvette awoke: "my poor muscade, can you think of such a thing? why, the prince has the air of a russian in a wax-figure museum, who has won medals in a hairdressing competition." "good! we'll drop the prince. but you have noticed the viscount pierre de belvigne?" this time she began to laugh, and asked: "can you imagine me hanging to the neck of 'raisine'?" she nicknamed him according to the day, raisine, malvoisie, [footnote: preserved grapes and pears, malmsey,--a poor wine.] argenteuil, for she gave everybody nicknames. and she would murmur to his face: "my dear little pierre," or "my divine pedro, darling pierrot, give your bow-wow's head to your dear little girl, who wants to kiss it." "scratch out number two. there still remains the chevalier valreali whom the marquise seems to favor," continued servigny. yvette regained all her gaiety: "'teardrop'? why he weeps like a magdalene. he goes to all the first-class funerals. i imagine myself dead every time he looks at me." "that settles the third. so the lightning will strike baron saval, here." "monsieur the colossus of rhodes, junior? no. he is too strong. it would seem to me as if i were in love with the triumphal arch of l'etoile." "then mam'zelle, it is beyond doubt that you are in love with me, for i am the only one of your adorers of whom we have not yet spoken. i left myself for the last through modesty and through discretion. it remains for me to thank you." she replied with happy grace: "in love with you, muscade? ah! no. i like you, but i don't love you. wait--i--i don't want to discourage you. i don't love you--yet. you have a chance--perhaps. persevere, muscade, be devoted, ardent, submissive, full of little attentions and considerations, docile to my slightest caprices, ready for anything to please me, and we shall see--later." "but, mam'zelle, i would rather furnish all you demand afterward than beforehand, if it be the same to you." she asked with an artless air: "after what, muscade?" "after you have shown me that you love me, by jove!" "well, act as if i loved you, and believe it, if you wish." "but you--" "be quiet, muscade; enough on the subject." the sun had sunk behind the island, but the whole sky still flamed like a fire, and the peaceful water of the river seemed changed to blood. the reflections from the horizon reddened houses, objects, and persons. the scarlet rose in the marquise's hair had the appearance of a splash of purple fallen from the clouds upon her head. as yvette looked on from her end, the marquise rested, as if by carelessness, her bare hand upon saval's hand; but the young girl made a motion and the marquise withdrew her hand with a quick gesture, pretending to readjust something in the folds of her corsage. servigny, who was looking at them, said: "if you like, mam'zelle, we will take a walk on the island after dinner." "oh, yes! that will be delightful. we will go all alone, won't we, muscade?" "yes, all alone, mam'zelle!" the vast silence of the horizon, the sleepy tranquillity of the evening captured heart, body, and voice. there are peaceful, chosen hours when it becomes almost impossible to talk. the servants waited on them noiselessly. the firmamental conflagration faded away, and the soft night spread its shadows over the earth. "are you going to stay long in this place?" asked saval. and the marquise answered, dwelling on each word: "yes, as long as i am happy." as it was too dark to see, lamps were brought. they cast upon the table a strange, pale gleam beneath the great obscurity of space; and very soon a shower of gnats fell upon the tablecloth--the tiny gnats which immolate themselves by passing over the glass chimneys, and, with wings and legs scorched, powder the table linen, dishes, and cups with a kind of gray and hopping dust. they swallowed them in the wine, they ate them in the sauces, they saw them moving on the bread, and had their faces and hands tickled by the countless swarm of these tiny insects. they were continually compelled to throw away the beverages, to cover the plates, and while eating to shield the food with infinite precautions. it amused yvette. servigny took care to shelter what she bore to her mouth, to guard her glass, to hold his handkerchief stretched out over her head like a roof. but the marquise, disgusted, became nervous, and the end of the dinner came quickly. yvette, who had not forgotten servigny's proposition, said to him: "now we'll go to the island." her mother cautioned her in a languid tone: "don't be late, above all things. we will escort you to the ferry." and they started in couples, the young girl and her admirer walking in front, on the road to the shore. they heard, behind them, the marquise and saval speaking very rapidly in low tones. all was dark, with a thick, inky darkness. but the sky swarmed with grains of fire, and seemed to sow them in the river, for the black water was flecked with stars. the frogs were croaking monotonously upon the bank, and numerous nightingales were uttering their low, sweet song in the calm and peaceful air. yvette suddenly said: "gracious! they are not walking behind us any more, where are they?" and she called out: "mamma!" no voice replied. the young girl resumed: "at any rate, they can't be far away, for i heard them just now." servigny murmured: "they must have gone back. your mother was cold, perhaps." and he drew her along. before them a light gleamed. it was the tavern of martinet, restaurant-keeper and fisherman. at their call a man came out of the house, and they got into a large boat which was moored among the weeds of the shore. the ferryman took his oars, and the unwieldy barge, as it advanced, disturbed the sleeping stars upon the water and set them into a mad dance, which gradually calmed down after they had passed. they touched the other shore and disembarked beneath the great trees. a cool freshness of damp earth permeated the air under the lofty and clustered branches, where there seemed to be as many nightingales as there were leaves. a distant piano began to play a popular waltz. servigny took yvette's arm and very gently slipped his hand around her waist and gave her a slight hug. "what are you thinking about?" he said. "i? about nothing at all. i am very happy!" "then you don't love me?" "oh, yes, muscade, i love you, i love you a great deal; only leave me alone. it is too beautiful here to listen to your nonsense." he drew her toward him, although she tried, by little pushes, to extricate herself, and through her soft flannel gown he felt the warmth of her flesh. he stammered: "yvette!" "well, what?" "i do love you!" "but you are not in earnest, muscade." "oh, yes i am. i have loved you for a long time." she continually kept trying to separate herself from him, trying to release the arm crushed between their bodies. they walked with difficulty, trammeled by this bond and by these movements, and went zigzagging along like drunken folk. he knew not what to say to her, feeling that he could not talk to a young girl as he would to a woman. he was perplexed, thinking what he ought to do, wondering if she consented or did not understand, and curbing his spirit to find just the right, tender, and decisive words. he kept saying every second: "yvette! speak! yvette!" then, suddenly, risking all, he kissed her on the cheek. she gave a little start aside, and said with a vexed air: "oh! you are absurd. are you going to let me alone?" the tone of her voice did not at all reveal her thoughts nor her wishes; and, not seeing her too angry, he applied his lips to the beginning of her neck, just beneath the golden hair, that charming spot which he had so often coveted. then she made great efforts to free herself. but he held her strongly, and placing his other hand on her shoulder, he compelled her to turn her head toward him and gave her a fond, passionate kiss, squarely on the mouth. she slipped from his arms by a quick undulation of the body, and, free from his grasp, she disappeared into the darkness with a great swishing of skirts, like the whir of a bird as it flies away. he stood motionless a moment, surprised by her suppleness and her disappearance, then hearing nothing, he called gently: "yvette!" she did not reply. he began to walk forward, peering through the shadows, looking in the underbrush for the white spot her dress should make. all was dark. he cried out more loudly: "mam'zelle yvette! mam'zelle yvette!" nothing stirred. he stopped and listened. the whole island was still; there was scarcely a rustle of leaves over his head. the frogs alone continued their deep croakings on the shores. then he wandered from thicket to thicket, going where the banks were steep and bushy and returning to places where they were flat and bare as a dead man's arm. he proceeded until he was opposite bougival and reached the establishment of la grenouillere, groping the clumps of trees, calling out continually: "mam'zelle yvette, where are you? answer. it is ridiculous! come, answer! don't keep me hunting like this." a distant clock began to strike. he counted the hours: twelve. he had been searching through the island for two hours. then he thought that perhaps she had gone home; and he went back very anxiously, this time by way of the bridge. a servant dozing on a chair was waiting in the hall. servigny awakened him and asked: "is it long since mademoiselle yvette came home? i left her at the foot of the place because i had a call to make." and the valet replied: "oh! yes, monsieur, mademoiselle came in before ten o'clock." he proceeded to his room and went to bed. but he could not close his eyes. that stolen kiss had stirred him to the soul. he kept wondering what she thought and what she knew. how pretty and attractive she was! his desires, somewhat wearied by the life he led, by all his procession of sweethearts, by all his explorations in the kingdom of love, awoke before this singular child, so fresh, irritating, and inexplicable. he heard one o'clock strike, then two. he could not sleep at all. he was warm, he felt his heart beat and his temples throb, and he rose to open the window. a breath of fresh air came in, which he inhaled deeply. the thick darkness was silent, black, motionless. but suddenly he perceived before him, in the shadows of the garden, a shining point; it seemed a little red coal. "well, a cigar!" he said to himself. "it must be saval," and he called softly: "leon!" "is it you, jean?" "yes. wait. i'll come down." he dressed, went out, and rejoining his friend who was smoking astride an iron chair, inquired: "what are you doing here at this hour?" "i am resting," saval replied. and he began to laugh. servigny pressed his hand: "my compliments, my dear fellow. and as for me, i--am making a fool of myself." "you mean--" "i mean that--yvette and her mother do not resemble each other." "what has happened? tell me." servigny recounted his attempts and their failure. then he resumed: "decidedly, that little girl worries me. fancy my not being able to sleep! what a queer thing a girl is! she appears to be as simple as anything, and yet you know nothing about her. a woman who has lived and loved, who knows life, can be quickly understood. but when it comes to a young virgin, on the contrary, no one can guess anything about her. at heart i begin to think that she is making sport of me." saval tilted his chair. he said, very slowly: "take care, my dear fellow, she will lead you to marriage. remember those other illustrious examples. it was just by this same process that mademoiselle de montijo, who was at least of good family, became empress. don't play napoleon." servigny murmured: "as for that, fear nothing. i am neither a simpleton nor an emperor. a man must be either one or the other to make such a move as that. but tell me, are you sleepy?" "not a bit." "will you take a walk along the river?" "gladly." they opened the iron gate and began to walk along the river bank toward marly. it was the quiet hour which precedes dawn, the hour of deep sleep, of complete rest, of profound peacefulness. even the gentle sounds of the night were hushed. the nightingales sang no longer; the frogs had finished their hubbub; some kind of an animal only, probably a bird, was making somewhere a kind of sawing sound, feeble, monotonous, and regular as a machine. servigny, who had moments of poetry, and of philosophy too, suddenly remarked: "now this girl completely puzzles me. in arithmetic, one and one make two. in love one and one ought to make one but they make two just the same. have you ever felt that? that need of absorbing a woman in yourself or disappearing in her? i am not speaking of the animal embrace, but of that moral and mental eagerness to be but one with a being, to open to her all one's heart and soul, and to fathom her thoughts to the depths." "and yet you can never lay bare all the fluctuations of her wishes, desires, and opinions. you can never guess, even slightly, all the unknown currents, all the mystery of a soul that seems so near, a soul hidden behind two eyes that look at you, clear as water, transparent as if there were nothing beneath a soul which talks to you by a beloved mouth, which seems your very own, so greatly do you desire it; a soul which throws you by words its thoughts, one by one, and which, nevertheless, remains further away from you than those stars are from each other, and more impenetrable. isn't it queer, all that?" "i don't, ask so much," saval rejoined. "i don't look behind the eyes. i care little for the contents, but much for the vessel." and servigny replied: "what a singular person yvette is! how will she receive me this morning?" as they reached the works at marly they perceived that the sky was brightening. the cocks began to crow in the poultry-yards. a bird twittered in a park at the left, ceaselessly reiterating a tender little theme. "it is time to go back," said saval. they returned, and as servigny entered his room, he saw the horizon all pink through his open windows. then he shut the blinds, drew the thick, heavy curtains, went back to bed and fell asleep. he dreamed of yvette all through his slumber. an odd noise awoke him. he sat on the side of the bed and listened, but heard nothing further. then suddenly there was a crackling against the blinds, like falling hail. he jumped from the bed, ran to the window, opened it, and saw yvette standing in the path and throwing handfuls of gravel at his face. she was clad in pink, with a wide-brimmed straw hat ornamented with a mousquetaire plume, and was laughing mischievously. "well! muscade, are you asleep? what could you have been doing all night to make you wake so late? have you been seeking adventures, my poor muscade?" he was dazzled by the bright daylight striking him full in the eyes, still overwhelmed with fatigue, and surprised at the jesting tranquillity of the young girl. "i'll be down in a second, mam'zelle," he answered. "just time to splash my face with water, and i will join you." "hurry," she cried, "it is ten o'clock, and besides i have a great plan to unfold to you, a plot we are going to concoct. you know that we breakfast at eleven." he found her seated on a bench, with a book in her lap, some novel or other. she took his arm in a familiar and friendly way, with a frank and gay manner, as if nothing had happened the night before, and drew him toward the end of the garden. "this is my plan," she said. "we will disobey mamma, and you shall take me presently to la grenouillere restaurant. i want to see it. mamma says that decent women cannot go to the place. now it is all the same to me whether persons can go there or cannot. you'll take me, won't you, muscade? and we will have a great time--with the boatmen." she exhaled a delicious fragrance, although he could not exactly define just what light and vague odor enveloped her. it was not one of those heavy perfumes of her mother, but a discreet breath in which he fancied he could detect a suspicion of iris powder, and perhaps a suggestion of vervain. whence emanated that indiscernible perfume? from her dress, her hair, or her skin? he puzzled over this, and as he was speaking very close to her, he received full in the face her fresh breath, which seemed to him just as delicious to inhale. then he thought that this evasive perfume which he was trying to recognize was perhaps only evoked by her charming eyes, and was merely a sort of deceptive emanation of her young and alluring grace. "that is agreed, isn't it, muscade? as it will be very warm after breakfast, mamma will not go out. she always feels the heat very much. we will leave her with your friend, and you shall take me. they will think that we have gone into the forest. if you knew how much it will amuse me to see la grenouillere!" they reached the iron gate opposite the seine. a flood of sunshine fell upon the slumberous, shining river. a slight heat-mist rose from it, a sort of haze of evaporated water, which spread over the surface of the stream a faint gleaming vapor. from time to time, boats passed by, a quick yawl or a heavy passage boat, and short or long whistles could be heard, those of the trains which every sunday poured the citizens of paris into the suburbs, and those of the steamboats signaling their approach to pass the locks at marly. but a tiny bell sounded. breakfast was announced, and they went back into the house. the repast was a silent one. a heavy july noon overwhelmed the earth, and oppressed humanity. the heat seemed thick, and paralyzed both mind and body. the sluggish words would not leave the lips, and all motion seemed laborious, as if the air had become a resisting medium, difficult to traverse. only yvette, although silent, seemed animated and nervous with impatience. as soon as they had finished the last course she said: "if we were to go for a walk in the forest, it would be deliciously cool under the trees." the marquise murmured with a listless air: "are you mad? does anyone go out in such weather?" and the young girl, delighted, rejoined: "oh, well! we will leave the baron to keep you company. muscade and i will climb the hill and sit on the grass and read." and turning toward servigny she asked: "that is understood?" "at your service, mam'zelle," he replied. yvette ran to get her hat. the marquise shrugged her shoulders with a sigh. "she certainly is mad." she said. then with an indolence in her amorous and lazy gestures, she gave her pretty white hand to the baron, who kissed it softly. yvette and servigny started. they went along the river, crossed the bridge and went on to the island, and then seated themselves on the bank, beneath the willows, for it was too soon to go to la grenouillere. the young girl at once drew a book from her pocket and smilingly said: "muscade, you are going to read to me." and she handed him the volume. he made a motion as if of fright. "i, mam'zelle? i don't know how to read!" she replied with gravity: "come, no excuses, no objections; you are a fine suitor, you! all for nothing, is that it? is that your motto?" he took the book, opened it, and was astonished. it was a treatise on entomology. a history of ants by an english author. and as he remained inert, believing that he was making sport of her, she said with impatience: "well, read!" "is it a wager, or just a simple fad?" he asked. "no, my dear. i saw that book in a shop. they told me that it was the best authority on ants and i thought that it would be interesting to learn about the life of these little insects while you see them running over the grass; so read, if you please." she stretched herself flat upon the grass, her elbows resting upon the ground, her head between her hands, her eyes fixed upon the ground. he began to read as follows: "the anthropoid apes are undoubtedly the animals which approach nearest to man by their anatomical structure, but if we consider the habits of the ants, their organization into societies, their vast communities, the houses and roads that they construct, their custom of domesticating animals, and sometimes even of making slaves of them, we are compelled to admit that they have the right to claim a place near to man in the scale of intelligence." he continued in a monotonous voice, stopping from time to time to ask: "isn't that enough?" she shook her head, and having caught an ant on the end of a severed blade of grass, she amused herself by making it go from one end to the other of the sprig, which she tipped up whenever the insect reached one of the ends. she listened with mute and contented attention to all the wonderful details of the life of these frail creatures: their subterranean homes; the manner in which they seize, shut up, and feed plant-lice to drink the sweet milk which they secrete, as we keep cows in our barns; their custom of domesticating little blind insects which clean the anthills, and of going to war to capture slaves who will take care of their victors with such tender solicitude that the latter even lose the habit of feeding themselves. and little by little, as if a maternal tenderness had sprung up in her heart for the poor insect which was so tiny and so intelligent, yvette made it climb on her finger, looking at it with a moved expression, almost wanting to embrace it. and as servigny read of the way in which they live in communities, and play games of strength and skill among themselves, the young girl grew enthusiastic and sought to kiss the insect which escaped her and began to crawl over her face. then she uttered a piercing cry, as if she had been threatened by a terrible danger, and with frantic gestures tried to brush it off her face. with a loud laugh servigny caught it near her tresses and imprinted on the spot where he had seized it a long kiss without yvette withdrawing her forehead. then she exclaimed as she rose: "that is better than a novel. now let us go to la grenouillere." they reached that part of the island which is set out as a park and shaded with great trees. couples were strolling beneath the lofty foliage along the seine, where the boats were gliding by. the boats were filled with young people, working-girls and their sweethearts, the latter in their shirt-sleeves, with coats on their arms, tall hats tipped back, and a jaded look. there were tradesmen with their families, the women dressed in their best and the children flocking like little chicks about their parents. a distant, continuous sound of voices, a heavy, scolding clamor announced the proximity of the establishment so dear to the boatmen. suddenly they saw it. it was a huge boat, roofed over, moored to the bank. on board were many men and women drinking at tables, or else standing up, shouting, singing, bandying words, dancing, capering, to the sound of a piano which was groaning--out of tune and rattling as an old kettle. two tall, russet-haired, half-tipsy girls, with red lips, were talking coarsely. others were dancing madly with young fellows half clad, dressed like jockeys, in linen trousers and colored caps. the odors of a crowd and of rice-powder were noticeable. the drinkers around the tables were swallowing white, red, yellow, and green liquids, and vociferating at the top of their lungs, feeling as it were, the necessity of making a noise, a brutal need of having their ears and brains filled with uproar. now and then a swimmer, standing on the roof, dived into the water, splashing the nearest guests, who yelled like savages. on the stream passed the flotillas of light craft, long, slender wherries, swiftly rowed by bare-armed oarsmen, whose muscles played beneath their bronzed skin. the women in the boats, in blue or red flannel skirts, with umbrellas, red or blue, opened over their heads and gleaming under the burning sun, leaned back in their chairs at the stern of the boats, and seemed almost to float upon the water, in motionless and slumberous pose. the heavier boats proceeded slowly, crowded with people. a collegian, wanting to show off, rowed like a windmill against all the other boats, bringing the curses of their oarsmen down upon his head, and disappearing in dismay after almost drowning two swimmers, followed by the shouts of the crowd thronging in the great floating cafe. yvette, radiantly happy, taking servigny's arm, went into the midst of this noisy mob. she seemed to enjoy the crowding, and stared at the girls with a calm and gracious glance. "look at that one, muscade," she said. "what pretty hair she has! they seem to be having such fun!" as the pianist, a boatman dressed in red with a huge straw hat, began a waltz, yvette grasped her companion and they danced so long and madly that everybody looked at them. the guests, standing on the tables, kept time with their feet; others threw glasses, and the musician, seeming to go mad, struck the ivory keys with great bangs; swaying his whole body and swinging his head covered with that immense hat. suddenly he stopped and, slipping to the deck, lay flat, beneath his head-gear, as if dead with fatigue. a loud laugh arose and everybody applauded. four friends rushed forward, as they do in cases of accident, and lifting up their comrade, they carried him by his four limbs, after carefully placing his great hat on his stomach. a joker following them intoned the "de profundis," and a procession formed and threaded the paths of the island, guests and strollers and everyone they met falling into line. yvette darted forward, delighted, laughing with her whole heart, chatting with everybody, stirred by the movement and the noise. the young men gazed at her, crowded against her, seeming to devour her with their glances; and servigny began to fear lest the adventure should terminate badly. the procession still kept on its way; hastening its step; for the four bearers had taken a quick pace, followed by the yelling crowd. but suddenly, they turned toward the shore, stopped short as they reached the bank, swung their comrade for a moment, and then, all four acting together, flung him into the river. a great shout of joy rang out from all mouths, while the poor pianist, bewildered, paddled, swore, coughed, and spluttered, and though sticking in the mud managed to get to the shore. his hat which floated down the stream was picked up by a boat. yvette danced with joy, clapping and repeating: "oh! muscade, what fun! what fun!" servigny looked on, having become serious, a little disturbed, a little chilled to see her so much at her ease in this common place. a sort of instinct revolted in him, that instinct of the proper, which a well-born man always preserves even when he casts himself loose, that instinct which avoids too common familiarities and too degrading contacts. astonished, he muttered to himself: "egad! then you are at home here, are you?" and he wanted to speak familiarly to her, as a man does to certain women the first time he meets them. he no longer distinguished her from the russet-haired, hoarse-voiced creatures who brushed against them. the language of the crowd was not at all choice, but nobody seemed shocked or surprised. yvette did not even appear to notice it. "muscade, i want to go in bathing," she said. "we'll go into the river together." "at your service," said he. they went to the bath-office to get bathing-suits. she was ready the first, and stood on the bank waiting for him, smiling on everyone who looked at her. then side by side they went into the luke-warm water. she swam with pleasure, with intoxication, caressed by the wave, throbbing with a sensual delight, raising herself at each stroke as if she were going to spring from the water. he followed her with difficulty, breathless, and vexed to feel himself mediocre at the sport. but she slackened her pace, and then, turning over suddenly, she floated, with her arms folded and her eyes wide open to the blue sky. he observed, thus stretched out on the surface of the river, the undulating lines of her form, her firm neck and shoulders, her slightly submerged hips, and bare ankles, gleaming in the water, and the tiny foot that emerged. he saw her thus exhibiting herself, as if she were doing it on purpose, to lure him on, or again to make sport of him. and he began to long for her with a passionate ardor and an exasperating impatience. suddenly she turned, looked at him, and burst into laughter. "you have a fine head," she said. he was annoyed at this bantering, possessed with the anger of a baffled lover. then yielding brusquely to a half felt desire for retaliation, a desire to avenge himself, to wound her, he said: "well, does this sort of life suit you?" she asked with an artless air: "what do you mean?" "oh, come, don't make game of me. you know well enough what i mean!" "no, i don't, on my word of honor." "oh, let us stop this comedy! will you or will you not?" "i do not understand you." "you are not as stupid as all that; besides i told you last night." "told me what? i have forgotten!" "that i love you." "you?" "yes." "what nonsense!" "i swear it." "then prove it." "that is all i ask." "what is?" "to prove it." "well, do so." "but you did not say so last night." "you did not ask anything." "what absurdity!" "and besides it is not to me to whom you should make your proposition." "to whom, then?" "why, to mamma, of course." he burst into laughter. "to your mother. no, that is too much!" she had suddenly become very grave, and looking him straight in the eyes, said: "listen, muscade, if you really love me enough to marry me, speak to mamma first, and i will answer you afterward." he thought she was still making sport of him, and angrily replied: "mam'zelle, you must be taking me for somebody else." she kept looking at him with her soft, clear eyes. she hesitated and then said: "i don't understand you at all." then he answered quickly with somewhat of ill nature in his voice: "come now, yvette, let us cease this absurd comedy, which has already lasted too long. you are playing the part of a simple little girl, and the role does not fit you at all, believe me. you know perfectly well that there can be no question of marriage between us, but merely of love. i have told you that i love you. it is the truth. i repeat, i love you. don't pretend any longer not to understand me, and don't treat me as if i were a fool." they were face to face, treading water, merely moving their hands a little, to steady themselves. she was still for a moment, as if she could not make out the meaning of his words, then she suddenly blushed up to the roots of her hair. her whole face grew purple from her neck to her ears, which became almost violet, and without answering a word she fled toward the shore, swimming with all her strength with hasty strokes. he could not keep up with her and panted with fatigue as he followed. he saw her leave the water, pick up her cloak, and go to her dressing-room without looking back. it took him a long time to dress, very much perplexed as to what he ought to do, puzzled over what he should say to her, and wondering whether he ought to excuse himself or persevere. when he was ready, she had gone away all alone. he went back slowly, anxious and disturbed. the marquise was strolling, on saval's arm, in the circular path around the lawn. as she observed servigny, she said, with that careless air which she had maintained since the night before. "i told you not to go out in such hot weather. and now yvette has come back almost with a sun stroke. she has gone to lie down. she was as red as a poppy, the poor child, and she has a frightful headache. you must have been walking in the full sunlight, or you must have done something foolish. you are as unreasonable as she." the young girl did not come down to dinner. when they wanted to send her up something to eat she called through the door that she was not hungry, for she had shut herself in, and she begged that they would leave her undisturbed. the two young men left by the ten o'clock train, promising to return the following thursday, and the marquise seated herself at the open window to dream, hearing in the distance the orchestra of the boatmen's ball, with its sprightly music, in the deep and solemn silence of the night. swayed by love as a person is moved by a fondness for horses or boating, she was subject to sudden tendernesses which crept over her like a disease. these passions took possession of her suddenly, penetrated her entire being, maddened her, enervated or overwhelmed her, in measure as they were of an exalted, violent, dramatic, or sentimental character. she was one of those women who are created to love and to be loved. starting from a very low station in life, she had risen in her adventurous career, acting instinctively, with inborn cleverness, accepting money and kisses, naturally, without distinguishing between them, employing her extraordinary ability in an unthinking and simple fashion. from all her experiences she had never known either a genuine tenderness or a great repulsion. she had had various friends, for she had to live, as in traveling a person eats at many tables. but occasionally her heart took fire, and she really fell in love, which state lasted for some weeks or months, according to conditions. these were the delicious moments of her life, for she loved with all her soul. she cast herself upon love as a person throws himself into the river to drown himself, and let herself be carried away, ready to die, if need be, intoxicated, maddened, infinitely happy. she imagined each time that she never had experienced anything like such an attachment, and she would have been greatly astonished if some one had told her of how many men she had dreamed whole nights through, looking at the stars. saval had captivated her, body and soul. she dreamed of him, lulled by his face and his memory, in the calm exaltation of consummated love, of present and certain happiness. a sound behind her made her turn around. yvette had just entered, still in her daytime dress, but pale, with eyes glittering, as sometimes is the case after some great fatigue. she leaned on the sill of the open window, facing her mother. "i want to speak to you," she said. the marquise looked at her in astonishment. she loved her like an egotistical mother, proud of her beauty, as a person is proud of a fortune, too pretty still herself to become jealous, too indifferent to plan the schemes with which they charged her, too clever, nevertheless, not to have full consciousness of her daughter's value. "i am listening, my child," she said; "what is it?" yvette gave her a piercing look, as if to read the depths of her soul and to seize all the sensations which her words might awake. "it is this. something strange has just happened." "what can it be?" "monsieur de servigny has told me that he loves me." the marquise, disturbed, waited a moment, and, as yvette said nothing more, she asked: "how did he tell you that? explain yourself!" then the young girl, sitting at her mother's feet, in a coaxing attitude common with her, and clasping her hands, added: "he asked me to marry him." madame obardi made a sudden gesture of stupefaction and cried: "servigny! why! you are crazy!" yvette had not taken her eyes off her mother's face, watching her thoughts and her surprise. she asked with a serious voice: "why am i crazy? why should not monsieur de servigny marry me?" the marquise, embarrassed, stammered: "you are mistaken, it is not possible. you either did not hear or did not understand. monsieur de servigny is too rich for you, and too much of a parisian to marry." yvette rose softly. she added: "but if he loves me as he says he does, mamma?" her mother replied, with some impatience: "i thought you big enough and wise enough not to have such ideas. servigny is a man-about-town and an egotist. he will never marry anyone but a woman of his set and his fortune. if he asked you in marriage, it is only that he wants--" the marquise, incapable of expressing her meaning, was silent for a moment, then continued: "come now, leave me alone and go to bed." and the young girl, as if she had learned what she sought to find out, answered in a docile voice: "yes, mamma!" she kissed her mother on the forehead and withdrew with a calm step. as she reached the door, the marquise called out: "and your sunstroke?" she said. "i did not have one at all. it was that which caused everything." the marquise added: "we will not speak of it again. only don't stay alone with him for some time from now, and be very sure that he will never marry you, do you understand, and that he merely means to--compromise you." she could not find better words to express her thought. yvette went to her room. madame obardi began to dream. living for years in an opulent and loving repose, she had carefully put aside all reflections which might annoy or sadden her. never had she been willing to ask herself the question.--what would become of yvette? it would be soon enough to think about the difficulties when they arrived. she well knew, from her experience, that her daughter could not marry a man who was rich and of good society, excepting by a totally improbable chance, by one of those surprises of love which place adventuresses on thrones. she had not considered it, furthermore, being too much occupied with herself to make any plans which did not directly concern herself. yvette would do as her mother, undoubtedly. she would lead a gay life. why not? but the marquise had never dared ask when, or how. that would all come about in time. and now her daughter, all of a sudden, without warning, had asked one of those questions which could not be answered, forcing her to take an attitude in an affair, so delicate, so dangerous in every respect, and so disturbing to the conscience which a woman is expected to show in matters concerning her daughter. sometimes nodding but never asleep, she had too much natural astuteness to be deceived a minute about servigny's intentions, for she knew men by experience, and especially men of that set. so at the first words uttered by yvette, she had cried almost in spite of herself: "servigny, marry you? you are crazy!" how had he come to employ that old method, he, that sharp man of the world? what would he do now? and she, the young girl, how should she warn her more clearly and even forbid her, for she might make great mistakes. would anyone have believed that this big girl had remained so artless, so ill informed, so guileless? and the marquise, greatly perplexed and already wearied with her reflections, endeavored to make up her mind what to do without finding a solution of the problem, for the situation seemed to her very embarrassing. worn out with this worry, she thought: "i will watch them more clearly, i will act according to circumstances. if necessary, i will speak to servigny, who is sharp and will take a hint." she did not think out what she should say to him, nor what he would answer, nor what sort of an understanding could be established between them, but happy at being relieved of this care without having had to make a decision, she resumed her dreams of the handsome saval, and turning toward that misty light which hovers over paris, she threw kisses with both hands toward the great city, rapid kisses which she tossed into the darkness, one after the other, without counting; and, very low, as if she were talking to saval still, she murmured: "i love you, i love you!" chapter iii. enlightenment yvette, also, could not sleep. like her mother, she leaned upon the sill of the open window, and tears, her first bitter tears, filled her eyes. up to this time she had lived, had grown up, in the heedless and serene confidence of happy youth. why should she have dreamed, reflected, puzzled? why should she not have been a young girl, like all other young girls? why should a doubt, a fear, or painful suspicion have come to her? she seemed posted on all topics because she had a way of talking on all subjects, because she had taken the tone, demeanor, and words of the people who lived around her. but she really knew no more than a little girl raised in a convent; her audacities of speech came from her memory, from that unconscious faculty of imitation and assimilation which women possess, and not from a mind instructed and emboldened. she spoke of love as the son of a painter or a musician would, at the age of ten or twelve years, speak of painting or music. she knew or rather suspected very well what sort of mystery this word concealed;--too many jokes had been whispered before her, for her innocence not to be a trifle enlightened,--but how could she have drawn the conclusion from all this, that all families did not resemble hers? they kissed her mother's hand with the semblance of respect; all their friends had titles; they all were rich or seemed to be so; they all spoke familiarly of the princes of the royal line. two sons of kings had even come often, in the evening, to the marquise's house. how should she have known? and, then, she was naturally artless. she did not estimate or sum up people as her mother, did. she lived tranquilly, too joyous in her life to worry herself about what might appear suspicious to creatures more calm, thoughtful, reserved, less cordial, and sunny. but now, all at once, servigny, by a few words, the brutality of which she felt without understanding them, awakened in her a sudden disquietude, unreasoning at first, but which grew into a tormenting apprehension. she had fled home, had escaped like a wounded animal, wounded in fact most deeply by those words which she ceaselessly repeated to get all their sense and bearing: "you know very well that there can be no question of marriage between us--but only of love." what did he mean? and why this insult? was she then in ignorance of something, some secret, some shame? she was the only one ignorant of it, no doubt. but what could she do? she was frightened, startled, as a person is when he discovers some hidden infamy, some treason of a beloved friend, one of those heart-disasters which crush. she dreamed, reflected, puzzled, wept, consumed by fears and suspicions. then her joyous young soul reassuring itself, she began to plan an adventure, to imagine an abnormal and dramatic situation, founded on the recollections of all the poetical romances she had read. she recalled all the moving catastrophes, or sad and touching stories; she jumbled them together, and concocted a story of her own with which she interpreted the half-understood mystery which enveloped her life. she was no longer cast down. she dreamed, she lifted veils, she imagined unlikely complications, a thousand singular, terrible things, seductive, nevertheless, by their very strangeness. could she be, by chance, the natural daughter of a prince? had her poor mother, betrayed and deserted, made marquise by some king, perhaps king victor emmanuel, been obliged to take flight before the anger of the family? was she not rather a child abandoned by its relations, who were noble and illustrious, the fruit of a clandestine love, taken in by the marquise, who had adopted and brought her up? still other suppositions passed through her mind. she accepted or rejected them according to the dictates of her fancy. she was moved to pity over her own case, happy at the bottom of her heart, and sad also, taking a sort of satisfaction in becoming a sort of a heroine of a book who must: assume a noble attitude, worthy of herself. she laid out the part she must play, according to events at which she guessed. she vaguely outlined this role, like one of scribe's or of george sand's. it should be endued with devotion, self-abnegation, greatness of soul, tenderness; and fine words. her pliant nature almost rejoiced in this new attitude. she pondered almost till evening what she should do, wondering how she should manage to wrest the truth from the marquise. and when night came, favorable to tragic situations, she had thought out a simple and subtile trick to obtain what she wanted: it was, brusquely, to say that servigny had asked for her hand in marriage. at this news, madame obardi, taken by surprise, would certainly let a word escape her lips, a cry which would throw light into the mind of her daughter. and yvette had accomplished her plan. she expected an explosion of astonishment, an expansion of love, a confidence full of gestures and tears. but, instead of this, her mother, without appearing stupefied or grieved, had only seemed bored; and from the constrained, discontented, and worried tone in which she had replied, the young girl, in whom there suddenly awaked all the astuteness, keenness, and sharpness of a woman, understanding that she must not insist, that the mystery was of another nature, that it would be painful to her to learn it, and that she must puzzle it out all alone, had gone back to her room, her heart oppressed, her soul in distress, possessed now with the apprehensions of a real misfortune, without knowing exactly either whence or why this emotion came to her. so she wept, leaning at the window. she wept long, not dreaming of anything now, not seeking to discover anything more, and little by little, weariness overcoming her, she closed her eyes. she dozed for a few minutes, with that deep sleep of people who are tired out and have not the energy to undress and go to bed, that heavy sleep, broken by dreams, when the head nods upon the breast. she did not go to bed until the first break of day, when the cold of the morning, chilling her, compelled her to leave the window. the next day and the day after, she maintained a reserved and melancholy attitude. her thoughts were busy; she was learning to spy out, to guess at conclusions, to reason. a light, still vague, seemed to illumine men and things around her in a new manner; she began to entertain suspicions against all, against everything that she had believed, against her mother. she imagined all sorts of things during these two days. she considered all the possibilities, taking the most extreme resolutions with the suddenness of her changeable and unrestrained nature. wednesday she hit upon a plan, an entire schedule of conduct and a system of spying. she rose thursday morning with the resolve to be very sharp and armed against everybody. she determined even to take for her motto these two words: "myself alone," and she pondered for more than an hour how she should arrange them to produce a good effect engraved about her crest, on her writing paper. saval and servigny arrived at ten o'clock. the young girl gave her hand with reserve, without embarrassment, and in a tone, familiar though grave, she said: "good morning, muscade, are you well?" "good morning, mam'zelle, fairly, thanks, and you?" he was watching her. "what comedy will she play me," he said to himself. the marquise having taken saval's arm, he took yvette's, and they began to stroll about the lawn, appearing and disappearing every minute, behind the clumps of trees. yvette walked with a thoughtful air, looking at the gravel of the pathway, appearing hardly to hear what her companion said and scarcely answering him. suddenly she asked: "are you truly my friend, muscade?" "why, of course, mam'zelle." "but truly, truly, now?" "absolutely your friend, mam'zelle, body and soul." "even enough of a friend not to lie to me once, just once?" "even twice, if necessary." "even enough to tell me the absolute, exact truth?" "yes, mam'zelle." "well, what do you think, way down in your heart, of the prince of kravalow?" "ah, the devil!" "you see that you are already preparing to lie." "not at all, but i am seeking the words, the proper words. great heavens, prince kravalow is a russian, who speaks russian, who was born in russia, who has perhaps had a passport to come to france, and about whom there is nothing false but his name and title." she looked him in the eyes: "you mean that he is--?" "an adventurer, mam'zelle." "thank you, and chevalier valreali is no better?" "you have hit it." "and monsieur de belvigne?" "with him it is a different thing. he is of provincial society, honorable up to a certain point, but only a little scorched from having lived too rapidly." "and you?" "i am what they call a butterfly, a man of good family, who had intelligence and who has squandered it in making phrases, who had good health and who has injured it by dissipation, who had some worth perhaps and who has scattered it by doing nothing. there is left to me a certain knowledge of life, a complete absence of prejudice, a large contempt for mankind, including women, a very deep sentiment of the uselessness of my acts and a vast tolerance for the mob." "nevertheless, at times, i can be frank, and i am even capable of affection, as you could see, if you would. with these defects and qualities i place myself at your orders, mam'zelle, morally and physically, to do what you please with me." she did not laugh; she listened, weighing his words and his intentions; then she resumed: "what do you think of the countess de lammy?" he replied, vivaciously: "you will permit me not to give my opinion about the women." "about none of them?" "about none of them." "then you must have a bad opinion of them all. come, think; won't you make a single exception?" he sneered with that insolent air which he generally wore; and with that brutal audacity which he used as a weapon, he said: "present company is always excepted." she blushed a little, but calmly asked: "well, what do you think of me?" "you want me to tell. well, so be it. i think you are a young person of good sense, and practicalness, or if you prefer, of good practical sense, who knows very well how to arrange her pastime, to amuse people, to hide her views, to lay her snares, and who, without hurrying, awaits events." "is that all?" she asked. "that's all." then she said with a serious earnestness: "i shall make you change that opinion, muscade." then she joined her mother, who was proceeding with short steps, her head down, with that manner assumed in talking very low, while walking, of very intimate and very sweet things. as she advanced she drew shapes in the sand, letters perhaps, with the point of her sunshade, and she spoke, without looking at saval, long, softly, leaning on his arm, pressed against him. yvette suddenly fixed her eyes upon her, and a suspicion, rather a feeling than a doubt, passed through her mind as a shadow of a cloud driven by the wind passes over the ground. the bell rang for breakfast. it was silent and almost gloomy. there was a storm in the air. great solid clouds rested upon the horizon, mute and heavy, but charged with a tempest. as soon as they had taken their coffee on the terrace, the marquise asked: "well, darling, are you going to take a walk today with your friend servigny? it is a good time to enjoy the coolness under the trees." yvette gave her a quick glance. "no, mamma, i am not going out to-day." the marquise appeared annoyed, and insisted. "oh, go and take a stroll, my child, it is excellent for you." then yvette distinctly said: "no, mamma, i shall stay in the house to-day, and you know very well why, because i told you the other evening." madame obardi gave it no further thought, preoccupied with the thought of remaining alone with saval. she blushed and was annoyed, disturbed on her own account, not knowing how she could find a free hour or two. she stammered: "it is true. i was not thinking of it. i don't know where my head is." and yvette taking up some embroidery, which she called "the public safety," and at which she worked five or six times a year, on dull days, seated herself on a low chair near her mother, while the two young men, astride folding-chairs, smoked their cigars. the hours passed in a languid conversation. the marquise fidgety, cast longing glances at saval, seeking some pretext, some means, of getting rid of her daughter. she finally realized that she would not succeed, and not knowing what ruse to employ, she said to servigny: "you know, my dear duke, that i am going to keep you both this evening. to-morrow we shall breakfast at the fournaise restaurant, at chaton." he understood, smiled, and bowed: "i am at your orders, marquise." the day wore on slowly and painfully under the threatenings of the storm. the hour for dinner gradually approached. the heavy sky was filled with slow and heavy clouds. there was not a breath of air stirring. the evening meal was silent, too. an oppression, an embarrassment, a sort of vague fear, seemed to make the two men and the two women mute. when the covers were removed, they sat long upon the terrace; only speaking at long intervals. night fell, a sultry night. suddenly the horizon was torn by an immense flash of lightning, which illumined with a dazzling and wan light the four faces shrouded in darkness. then a far-off sound, heavy and feeble, like the rumbling of a carriage upon a bridge, passed over the earth; and it seemed that the heat of the atmosphere increased, that the air suddenly became more oppressive, and the silence of the evening deeper. yvette rose. "i am going to bed," she said, "the storm makes me ill." and she offered her brow to the marquise, gave her hand to the two young men, and withdrew. as her room was just above the terrace, the leaves of a great chestnut-tree growing before the door soon gleamed with a green hue, and servigny kept his eyes fixed on this pale light in the foliage, in which at times he thought he saw a shadow pass. but suddenly the light went out. madame obardi gave a great sigh. "my daughter has gone to bed," she said. servigny rose, saying: "i am going to do as much, marquise, if you will permit me." he kissed the hand she held out to him and disappeared in turn. she was left alone with saval, in the night. in a moment she was clasped in his arms. then, although he tried to prevent her, she kneeled before him murmuring: "i want to see you by the lightning flashes." but yvette, her candle snuffed out, had returned to her balcony, barefoot, gliding like a shadow, and she listened, consumed by an unhappy and confused suspicion. she could not see, as she was above them, on the roof of the terrace. she heard nothing but a murmur of voices, and her heart beat so fast that she could actually hear its throbbing. a window closed on the floor above her. servigny, then, must have just gone up to his room. her mother was alone with the other man. a second flash of lightning, clearing the sky; lighted up for a second all the landscape she knew so well, with a startling and sinister gleam, and she saw the great river, with the color of melted lead, as a river appears in dreams in fantastic scenes. just then a voice below her uttered the words: "i love you!" and she heard nothing more. a strange shudder passed over her body, and her soul shivered in frightful distress. a heavy, infinite silence, which seemed eternal, hung over the world. she could no longer breathe, her breast oppressed by something unknown and horrible. another flash of lightning illumined space, lighting up the horizon for an instant, then another almost immediately came, followed by still others. and the voice, which she had already heard, repeated more loudly: "oh! how i love you! how i love you!" and yvette recognized the voice; it was her mother's. a large drop of warm rain fell upon her brow, and a slight and almost imperceptible motion ran through the leaves, the quivering of the rain which was now beginning. then a noise came from afar, a confused sound, like that of the wind in the branches: it was the deluge descending in sheets on earth and river and trees. in a few minutes the water poured about her, covering her, drenching her like a shower-bath. she did not move, thinking only of what was happening on the terrace. she heard them get up and go to their rooms. doors were closed within the house; and the young girl, yielding to an irresistible desire to learn what was going on, a desire which maddened and tortured her, glided downstairs, softly opened the outer door, and, crossing the lawn under the furious downpour, ran and hid in a clump of trees, to look at the windows. only one window was lighted, her mother's. and suddenly two shadows appeared in the luminous square, two shadows, side by side. then distracted, without reflection, without knowing what she was doing, she screamed with all her might, in a shrill voice: "mamma!" as a person would cry out to warn people in danger of death. her desperate cry was lost in the noise of the rain, but the couple separated, disturbed. and one of the shadows disappeared, while the other tried to discover something, peering through the darkness of the garden. fearing to be surprised, or to meet her mother at that moment, yvette rushed back to the house, ran upstairs, dripping wet, and shut herself in her room, resolved to open her door to no one. without taking, off her streaming dress, which clung to her form, she fell on her knees, with clasped hands, in her distress imploring some superhuman protection, the mysterious aid of heaven, the unknown support which a person seeks in hours of tears and despair. the great lightning flashes threw for an instant their livid reflections into her room, and she saw herself in the mirror of her wardrobe, with her wet and disheveled hair, looking so strange that she did not recognize herself. she remained there so long that the storm abated without her perceiving it. the rain ceased, a light filled the sky, still obscured with clouds, and a mild, balmy, delicious freshness, a freshness of grass and wet leaves, came in through the open window. yvette rose, took off her wet, cold garments, without thinking what she was doing, and went to bed. she stared with fixed eyes at the dawning day. then she wept again, and then she began to think. her mother! a lover! what a shame! she had read so many books in which women, even mothers, had overstepped the bounds of propriety, to regain their honor at the pages of the climax, that she was not astonished beyond measure at finding herself enveloped in a drama similar to all those of her reading. the violence of her first grief, the cruel shock of surprise, had already worn off a little, in the confused remembrance of analogous situations. her mind had rambled among such tragic adventures, painted by the novel-writers, that the horrible discovery seemed, little by little, like the natural continuation of some serial story, begun the evening before. she said to herself: "i will save my mother." and almost reassured by this heroic resolution, she felt herself strengthened, ready at once for the devotion and the struggle. she reflected on the means which must be employed. a single one seemed good, which was quite in keeping with her romantic nature. and she rehearsed the interview which she should have with the marquise, as an actor rehearses the scene which he is going to play. the sun had risen. the servants were stirring about the house. the chambermaid came with the chocolate. yvette put the tray on the table and said: "you will say to my mother that i am not well, that i am going to stay in bed until those gentlemen leave, that i could not sleep last night, and that i do not want to be disturbed because i am going to try to rest." the servant, surprised, looked at the wet dress, which had fallen like a rag on the carpet. "so mademoiselle has been out?" she said. "yes, i went out for a walk in the rain to refresh myself." the maid picked up the skirts, stockings, and wet shoes; then she went away carrying on her arm, with fastidious precautions, these garments, soaked as the clothes of a drowned person. and yvette waited, well knowing that her mother would come to her. the marquise entered, having jumped from her bed at the first words of the chambermaid, for a suspicion had possessed her, heart since that cry: "mamma!" heard in the dark. "what is the matter?" she said. yvette looked at her and stammered: "i--i--" then overpowered by a sudden and terrible emotion, she began to choke. the marquise, astonished, again asked: "what in the world is the matter with you?" then, forgetting all her plans and prepared phrases, the young girl hid her face in both hands and stammered: "oh! mamma! oh! mamma!" madame obardi stood by the bed, too much affected thoroughly to understand, but guessing almost everything, with that subtile instinct whence she derived her strength. as yvette could not speak, choked with tears, her mother, worn out finally and feeling some fearful explanation coming, brusquely asked: "come, will you tell me what the matter is?" yvette could hardly utter the words: "oh! last night--i saw--your window." the marquise, very pale; said: "well? what of it?" her daughter repeated, still sobbing: "oh! mamma! oh! mamma!" madame obardi, whose fear and embarrassment turned to anger, shrugged her shoulders and turned to go. "i really believe that you are crazy. when this ends, you will let me know." but the young girl, suddenly took her hands from her face, which was streaming with tears. "no, listen, i must speak to you, listen. you must promise me--we must both go, away, very far off, into the country, and we must live like the country people; and no one must know what has become of us. say you will, mamma; i beg you, i implore you; will you?" the marquise, confused, stood in the middle of the room. she had in her veins the irascible blood of the common people. then a sense of shame, a mother's modesty, mingled with a vague sentiment of fear and the exasperation of a passionate woman whose love is threatened, and she shuddered, ready to ask for pardon, or to yield to some violence. "i don't understand you," she said. yvette replied: "i saw you, mamma, last night. you cannot--if you knew--we will both go away. i will love you so much that you will forget--" madame obardi said in a trembling voice: "listen, my daughter, there are some things which you do not yet understand. well, don't forget--don't forget-that i forbid you ever to speak to me about those things." but the young girl, brusquely taking the role of savior which she had imposed upon herself, rejoined: "no, mamma, i am no longer a child, and i have the right to know. i know that we receive persons of bad repute, adventurers, and i know that, on that account, people do not respect us. i know more. well, it must not be, any longer, do you hear? i do not wish it. we will go away: you will sell your jewels; we will work, if need be, and we will live as honest women, somewhere very far away. and if i can marry, so much the better." she answered: "you are crazy. you will do me the favor to rise and come down to breakfast with all the rest." "no, mamma. there is some one whom i shall never see again, you understand me. i want him to leave, or i shall leave. you shall choose between him and me." she was sitting up in bed, and she raised her voice, speaking as they do on the stage, playing, finally, the drama which she had dreamed, almost forgetting her grief in the effort to fulfill her mission. the marquise, stupefied, again repeated: "you are crazy--" not finding anything else to say. yvette replied with a theatrical energy: "no, mamma, that man shall leave the house, or i shall go myself, for i will not weaken." "and where will you go? what will you do?" "i do not know, it matters little--i want you to be an honest woman." these words which recurred, aroused in the marquise a perfect fury, and she cried: "be silent. i do not permit you to talk to me like that. i am as good as anybody else, do you understand? i lead a certain sort of life, it is true, and i am proud of it; the 'honest women' are not as good as i am." yvette, astonished, looked at her, and stammered: "oh! mamma!" but the marquise, carried away with excitement, continued: "yes, i lead a certain life--what of it? otherwise you would be a cook, as i was once, and earn thirty sous a day. you would be washing dishes, and your mistress would send you to market--do you understand--and she would turn you out if you loitered, just as you loiter, now because i am--because i lead this life. listen. when a person is only a nursemaid, a poor girl, with fifty francs saved up, she must know how to manage, if she does not want to starve to death; and there are not two ways for us, there are not two ways, do you understand, when we are servants. we cannot make our fortune with official positions, nor with stockjobbing tricks. we have only one way--only one way." she struck her breast as a penitent at the confessional, and flushed and excited, coming toward the bed, she continued: "so much the worse. a pretty girl must live or suffer--she has no choice!" then returning to her former idea: "much they deny themselves, your 'honest women.' they are worse, because nothing compels them. they have money to live on and amuse themselves, and they choose vicious lives of their own accord. they are the bad ones in reality." she was standing near the bed of the distracted yvette, who wanted to cry out "help," to escape. yvette wept aloud, like children who are whipped. the marquise was silent and looked at her daughter, and, seeing her overwhelmed with despair, felt, herself, the pangs of grief, remorse, tenderness, and pity, and throwing herself upon the bed with open arms, she also began to sob and stammered: "my poor little girl, my poor little girl, if you knew, how you were hurting me." and they wept together, a long while. then the marquise, in whom grief could not long endure, softly rose, and gently said: "come, darling, it is unavoidable; what would you have? nothing can be changed now. we must take life as it comes to us." yvette continued to weep. the blow had been too harsh and too unexpected to permit her to reflect and to recover at once. her mother resumed: "now, get up and come down to breakfast, so that no one will notice anything." the young girl shook her head as if to say, "no," without being able to speak. then she said, with a slow voice full of sobs: "no, mamma, you know what i said, i won't alter my determination. i shall not leave my room till they have gone. i never want to see one of those people again, never, never. if they come back, you will see no more of me." the marquise had dried her eyes, and wearied with emotion, she murmured: "come, reflect, be reasonable." then, after a moment's silence: "yes, you had better rest this morning. i will come up to see you this afternoon." and having kissed her daughter on the forehead, she went to dress herself, already calmed. yvette, as soon as her mother had disappeared, rose, and ran to bolt the door, to be alone, all alone; then she began to think. the chambermaid knocked about eleven o'clock, and asked through the door: "madame the marquise wants to know if mademoiselle wishes anything, and what she will take for her breakfast." yvette answered: "i am not hungry, i only ask not to be disturbed." and she remained in bed, just as if she had been ill. toward three o'clock, some one knocked again. she asked: "who is there?" it was her mother's voice which replied: "it is i, darling, i have come to see how you are." she hesitated what she should do. she opened the door, and then went back to bed. the marquise approached, and, speaking in low tones, as people do to a convalescent, said: "well, are you better? won't you eat an egg?" "no, thanks, nothing at all." madame obardi sat down near the bed. they remained without saying anything, then, finally, as her daughter stayed quiet, with her hands inert upon the bedclothes, she asked: "don't you intend to get up?" yvette answered: "yes, pretty soon." then in a grave and slow tone she said: "i have thought a great deal, mamma, and this--this is my resolution. the past is the past, let us speak no more of it. but the future shall be different or i know what is left for me to do. now, let us say no more about it." the marquise, who thought the explanation finished, felt her impatience gaining a little. it was too much. this big goose of a girl ought to have known about things long ago. but she did not say anything in reply, only repeating: "you are going to get up?" "yes, i am ready." then her mother became maid for her, bringing her stockings, her corset, and her skirts. then she kissed her. "will you take a walk before dinner?" "yes, mamma." and they took a stroll along the water, speaking only of commonplace things. chapter iv. from emotion to philosophy the following day, early in the morning, yvette went out alone to the place where servigny had read her the history of the ants. she said to herself: "i am not going away from this spot without having formed a resolution." before her, at her feet, the water flowed rapidly, filled with large bubbles which passed in silent flight with deep whirlings. she already had summed up the points of the situation and the means of extricating herself from it. what should she do if her mother would not accept the conditions which she had imposed, would not renounce her present way of living, her set of visitors--everything and go and hide with her in a distant land? she might go alone, take flight, but where, and how? what would she live on? by working? at what? to whom should she apply to find work? and, then, the dull and humble life of working-women, daughters of the people, seemed a little disgraceful, unworthy of her. she thought of becoming a governess, like young girls in novels, and of becoming loved by the son of the house, and then marrying him. but to accomplish that she must have been of good birth, so that, when the exasperated father should approach her with having stolen his son's love, she might say in a proud voice: "my name is yvette obardi." she could not do this. and then, even that would have been a trite and threadbare method. the convent was not worth much more. besides, she felt no vocation for a religious life, having only an intermittent and fleeting piety. no one would save her by marrying her, being what she was! no aid was acceptable from a man, no possible issue, no definite resource. and then she wished to do something energetic and really great and strong, which should serve as an example: so she resolved upon death. she decided upon this step suddenly, but tranquilly, as if it were a journey, without reflecting, without looking at death, without understanding that it is the end without recommencement, the departure without return, the eternal farewell to earth and to this life. she immediately settled on this extreme measure, with the lightness of young and excited souls, and she thought of the means which she would employ. but they all seemed to her painful and hazardous, and, furthermore, required a violence of action which repelled her. she quickly abandoned the poniard and revolver, which might wound only, blind her or disfigure her, and which demanded a practiced and steady hand. she decided against the rope; it was so common, the poor man's way of suicide, ridiculous and ugly; and against water because she knew how to swim so poison remained--but which kind? almost all of them cause suffering and incite vomitings. she did not want either of these things. then she thought of chloroform, having read in a newspaper how a young woman had managed to asphyxiate herself by this process. and she felt at once a sort of joy in her resolution, an inner pride, a sensation of bravery. people should see what she was, and what she was worth. she returned to bougival and went to a druggist, from whom she asked a little chloroform for a tooth which was aching. the man, who knew her, gave her a tiny bottle of the narcotic. then she set out on foot for croissy, where she procured a second phial of poison. she obtained a third at chaton, a fourth at ruril, and got home late for breakfast. as she was very hungry after this long walk, she ate heartily with the pleasurable appetite of people who have taken exercise. her mother, happy to see her so hungry, and now feeling tranquil herself, said to her as they left the table: "all our friends are coming to spend sunday with us. i have invited the prince, the chevalier, and monsieur de belvigne." yvette turned a little pale, but did not reply. she went out almost immediately, reached the railway station, and took a ticket for paris. and during all the afternoon, she went from druggist to druggist, buying from each one a few drops of chloroform. she came back in the evening with her pockets full of little bottles. she began the same system on the following day, and by chance found a chemist who gave her, at one stroke, a quarter of a liter. she did not go out on saturday; it was a lowering and sultry day; she passed it entirely on the terrace, stretched on a long wicker-chair. she thought of almost nothing, very resolute and very calm. she put on the next morning, a blue costume which was very becoming to her, wishing to look well. then looking at herself in the glass, she suddenly said: "to-morrow, i shall be dead." and a peculiar shudder passed over her body. "dead! i shall speak no more, think no more, no one will see me more, and i shall never see anything again." and she gazed attentively at her countenance, as if she had never observed it, examining especially her eyes, discovering a thousand things in herself, a secret character in her physiognomy which she had not known before, astonished to see herself, as if she had opposite her a strange person, a new friend. she said to herself: "it is i, in the mirror, there. how queer it is to look at oneself. but without the mirror we would never know ourselves. everybody else would know how we look, and we ourselves would know nothing." she placed the heavy braids of her thick hair over her breast, following with her glance all her gestures, all her poses, and all her movements. "how pretty i am!" she thought. "tomorrow i shall be dead, there, upon my bed." she looked at her bed, and seemed to see herself stretched out, white as the sheets. dead! in a week she would be nothing but dust, to dust returned! a horrible anguish oppressed her heart. the bright sunlight fell in floods upon the fields, and the soft morning air came in at the window. she sat down thinking of it. death! it was as if the world was going to disappear from her; but no, since nothing would be changed in the world, not even her bedroom. yes, her room would remain just the same, with the same bed, the same chairs, the same toilette articles, but she would be forever gone, and no one would be sorry, except her mother, perhaps. people would say: "how pretty she was! that little yvette," and nothing more. and as she looked at her arm leaning on the arm of her chair, she thought again, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. and again a great shudder of horror ran over her whole body, and she did not know how she could disappear without the whole earth being blotted out, so much it seemed to her that she was a part of everything, of the fields, of the air, of the sunshine, of life itself. there were bursts of laughter in the garden, a great noise of voices and of calls, the bustling gaiety of country house parties, and she recognized the sonorous tones of m. de belvigne, singing: "i am underneath thy window, oh, deign to show thy face." she rose, without reflecting, and looked out. they all applauded. they were all five there, with two gentlemen whom she did not know. she brusquely withdrew, annoyed by the thought that these men had come to amuse themselves at her mother's house, as at a public place. the bell sounded for breakfast. "i will show them how to die," she said. she went downstairs with a firm step, with something of the resolution of the christian martyrs going into the circus, where the lions awaited them. she pressed their hands, smiling in an affable but rather haughty manner. servigny asked her: "are you less cross to-day, mam'zelle?" she answered in a severe and peculiar tone: "today, i am going to commit follies. i am in my paris mood, look out!" then turning toward monsieur de belvigne, she said: "you shall be my escort, my little malmsey. i will take you all after breakfast to the fete at marly." there was, in fact, a fete at marly. they introduced the two newcomers to her, the comte de tamine and the marquis de briquetot. during the meal, she said nothing further, strengthening herself to be gay in the afternoon, so that no one should guess anything,--so that they should be all the more astonished, and should say: "who would have thought it? she seemed so happy, so contented! what does take place in those heads?" she forced herself not to think of the evening, the chosen hour, when they should all be upon the terrace. she drank as much wine as she could stand, to nerve herself, and two little glasses of brandy, and she was flushed as she left the table, a little bewildered, heated in body and mind. it seemed to her that she was strengthened now, and resolved for everything. "let us start!" she cried. she took monsieur de belvigne's arm and set the pace for the others. "come, you shall form my battalion, servigny. i choose you as sergeant; you will keep outside the ranks, on the right. you will make the foreign guard march in front--the two exotics, the prince, and the chevalier--and in the rear the two recruits who have enlisted to-day. come!" they started. and servigny began to imitate the trumpet, while the two newcomers made believe to beat the drum. monsieur de belvigne, a little confused, said in a low tone: "mademoiselle yvette, be reasonable, you will compromise yourself." she answered: "it is you whom i am compromising, raisine. as for me, i don't care much about it. to-morrow it will not occur. so much the worse for you: you ought not to go out with girls like me." they went through bougival to the amazement of the passers-by. all turned to look at them; the citizens came to their doors; the travelers on the little railway which runs from ruril to marly jeered at them. the men on the platforms cried: "to the water with them!" yvette marched with a military step, holding belvigne by the arm, as a prisoner is led. she did not laugh; upon her features sat a pale seriousness, a sort of sinister calm. servigny interrupted his trumpet blasts only to shout orders. the prince and the chevalier were greatly amused, finding all this very funny and in good taste. the two recruits drummed away continually. when they arrived at the fete, they made a sensation. girls applauded; young men jeered, and a stout gentleman with his wife on his arm said enviously: "there are some people who are full of fun." yvette saw the wooden horses and compelled belvigne to mount at her right, while her squad scrambled upon the whirling beasts behind. when the time was up she refused to dismount, constraining her escort to take several more rides on the back of these children's animals, to the great delight of the public, who shouted jokes at them. monsieur de belvigne was livid and dizzy when he got off. then she began to wander among the booths. she forced all her men to get weighed among a crowd of spectators. she made them buy ridiculous toys which they had to carry in their hands. the prince and the chevalier began to think the joke was being carried too far. servigny and the drummers, alone, did not seem to be discouraged. they finally came to the end of the place. then she gazed at her followers in a peculiar manner, with a shy and mischievous glance, and a strange fancy came to her mind. she drew them up on the bank of the river. "let the one who loves me the most jump into the water," she said. nobody leaped. a mob gathered behind them. women in white aprons looked on in stupor. two troopers, in red breeches, laughed loudly. she repeated: "then there is not one of you capable of jumping into the water at my desire?" servigny murmured: "oh, yes, there is," and leaped feet foremost into the river. his plunge cast a splash over as far as yvette's feet. a murmur of astonishment and gaiety arose in the crowd. then the young girl picked up from the ground a little piece of wood, and throwing it into the stream: "fetch it," she cried. the young man began to swim, and seizing the floating stick in his mouth, like a dog, he brought it ashore, and then climbing the bank he kneeled on one knee to present it. yvette took it. "you are handsome," said she, and with a friendly stroke, she caressed his hair. a stout woman indignantly exclaimed: "are such things possible!" another woman said: "can people amuse themselves like that!" a man remarked: "i would not take a plunge for that sort of a girl." she again took belvigne's arm, exclaiming in his face: "you are a goose, my friend; you don't know what you missed." they now returned. she cast vexed looks on the passers-by. "how stupid all these people seem," she said. then raising her eyes to the countenance of her companion, she added: "you, too, like all the rest." m. de belvigne bowed. turning around she saw that the prince and the chevalier had disappeared. servigny, dejected and dripping, ceased playing on the trumpet, and walked with a gloomy air at the side of the two wearied young men, who also had stopped the drum playing. she began to laugh dryly, saying: "you seem to have had enough; nevertheless, that is what you call having a good time, isn't it? you came for that; i have given you your money's worth." then she walked on, saying nothing further; and suddenly belvigne perceived that she was weeping. astounded, he inquired: "what is the matter?" she murmured: "let me alone, it does not concern you." but he insisted, like a fool: "oh, mademoiselle, come, what is the matter, has anyone annoyed you?" she repeated impatiently: "will you keep still?" then suddenly, no longer able to resist the despairing sorrow which drowned her heart, she began to sob so violently, that she could no longer walk. she covered her face with her hands, panting for breath, choked by the violence of her despair. belvigne stood still at her side, quite bewildered, repeating: "i don't understand this at all." but servigny brusquely came forward: "let us go home, mam'zelle, so that people may not see you weeping in the street. why do you perpetrate follies like that when they only make you sad?" and taking her arm he drew her forward. but as soon as they reached the iron gate of the villa she began to run, crossed the garden, and went upstairs, and shut herself in her room. she did not appear again until the dinner hour, very pale and serious. servigny had bought from a country storekeeper a workingman's costume, with velvet pantaloons, a flowered waistcoat and a blouse, and he adopted the local dialect. yvette was in a hurry for them to finish, feeling her courage ebbing. as soon as the coffee was served she went to her room again. she heard the merry voices beneath her window. the chevalier was making equivocal jokes, foreign witticisms, vulgar and clumsy. she listened, in despair. servigny, just a bit tipsy, was imitating the common workingman, calling the marquise "the missus." and all of a sudden he said to saval: "well, boss?" that caused a general laugh. then yvette decided. she first took a sheet of paper and wrote: "bougival, sunday, nine o'clock in the evening. "i die so that i may not become a kept woman. "yvette." then in a postscript: "adieu, my dear mother, pardon." she sealed the envelope, and addressed it to the marquise obardi. then she rolled her long chair near the window, drew a little table within reach of her hand, and placed upon it the big bottle of chloroform beside a handful of wadding. a great rose-tree covered with flowers, climbing as high as her window, exhaled in the night a soft and gentle perfume, in light breaths; and she stood for a moment enjoying it. the moon, in its first quarter, was floating in the dark sky, a little ragged at the left, and veiled at times by slight mists. yvette thought: "i am going to die!" and her heart, swollen with sobs, nearly bursting, almost suffocated her. she felt in her a need of asking mercy from some one, of being saved, of being loved. the voice of servigny aroused her. he was telling an improper story, which was constantly interrupted by bursts of laughter. the marquise herself laughed louder than the others. "there is nobody like him for telling that sort of thing," she said, laughing. yvette took the bottle, uncorked it, and poured a little of the liquid on the cotton. a strong, sweet, strange odor arose; and as she brought the piece of cotton to her lips, the fumes entered her throat and made her cough. then shutting her mouth, she began to inhale it. she took in long breaths of this deadly vapor, closing her eyes, and forcing herself to stifle in her mind all thoughts, so that she might not reflect, that she might know nothing more. it seemed to her at first that her chest was growing larger, was expanding, and that her soul, recently heavy and burdened with grief, was becoming light, light, as if the weight which overwhelmed her was lifted, wafted away. something lively and agreeable penetrated even to the extremities of her limbs, even to the tips of her toes and fingers and entered her flesh, a sort of dreamy intoxication, of soft fever. she saw that the cotton was dry, and she was astonished that she was not already dead. her senses seemed more acute, more subtle, more alert. she heard the lowest whisper on the terrace. prince kravalow was telling how he had killed an austrian general in a duel. then, further off, in the fields, she heard the noise of the night, the occasional barkings of a dog, the short cry of the frogs, the almost imperceptible rustling of the leaves. she took the bottle again, and saturated once more the little piece of wadding; then she began to breathe in the fumes again. for a few moments she felt nothing; then that soft and soothing feeling of comfort which she had experienced before enveloped her. twice she poured more chloroform upon the cotton, eager now for that physical and mental sensation, that dreamy torpor, which bewildered her soul. it seemed to her that she had no more bones, flesh, legs, or arms. the drug had gently taken all these away from her, without her perceiving it. the chloroform had drawn away her body, leaving her only her mind, more awakened, more active, larger, and more free than she had ever felt it. she recalled a thousand forgotten things, little details of her childhood, trifles which had given her pleasure. endowed suddenly with an awakened agility, her mind leaped to the most diverse ideas, ran through a thousand adventures, wandered in the past, and lost itself in the hoped-for events of the future. and her lively and careless thoughts had a sensuous charm: she experienced a divine pleasure in dreaming thus. she still heard the voices, but she could no longer distinguish the words, which to her seemed to have a different meaning. she was in a kind of strange and changing fairyland. she was on a great boat which floated through a beautiful country, all covered with flowers. she saw people on the shore, and these people spoke very loudly; then she was again on land, without asking how, and servigny, clad as a prince, came to seek her, to take her to a bull-fight. the streets were filled with passers-by, who were talking, and she heard conversations which did not astonish her, as if she had known the people, for through her dreamy intoxication, she still heard her mother's friends laughing and talking on the terrace. then everything became vague. then she awakened, deliciously benumbed, and she could hardly remember what had happened. so, she was not yet dead. but she felt so calm, in such a state of physical comfort, that she was not in haste to finish with it--she wanted to make this exquisite drowsiness last forever. she breathed slowly and looked at the moon, opposite her, above the trees. something had changed in her spirit. she no longer thought as she had done just now. the chloroform quieting her body and her soul had calmed her grief and lulled her desire to die. why should she not live? why should she not be loved? why should she not lead a happy life? everything appeared possible to her now, and easy and certain. everything in life was sweet, everything was charming. but as she wished to dream on still, she poured more of the dream-water on the cotton and began to breathe it in again, stopping at times, so as not to absorb too much of it and die. she looked at the moon and saw in it a face, a woman's face. she began to scorn the country in the fanciful intoxication of the drug. that face swung in the sky; then it sang, it sang with a well-known voice the alleluia of love. it was the marquise, who had come in and seated herself at the piano. yvette had wings now. she was flying through a clear night, above the wood and streams. she was flying with delight, opening and closing her wings, borne by the wind as by a caress. she moved in the air, which kissed her skin, and she went so fast, so fast, that she had no time to see anything beneath her, and she found herself seated on the bank of a pond with a line in her hand; she was fishing. something pulled on the cord, and when she drew it out of the water, it bore a magnificent pearl necklace, which she had longed for some time ago. she was not at all astonished at this deed, and she looked at servigny, who had come to her side--she knew not how. he was fishing also, and drew out of the river a wooden horse. then she had anew the feeling of awaking, and she heard some one calling down stairs. her mother had said: "put out the candle." then servigny's voice rose, clear and jesting: "put out your candle, mam'zelle yvette." and all took up the chorus: "mam'zelle yvette, put out your candle." she again poured chloroform on the cotton, but, as she did not want to die, she placed it far enough from her face to breathe the fresh air, while nevertheless her room was filled with the asphyxiating odor of the narcotic, for she knew that some one was coming, and taking a suitable posture, a pose of the dead, she waited. the marquise said: "i am a little uneasy! that foolish child has gone to sleep leaving the light on her table. i will send clemence to put it out, and to shut the balcony window, which is wide open." and soon the maid rapped on the door calling: "mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" after a moment's silence, she repeated: "mademoiselle, madame the marquise begs you to put out your candle and shut the window." clemence waited a little, then knocked louder, and cried: "mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" as yvette did not reply, the servant went away and reported to the marquise: "mademoiselle must have gone to sleep, her door is bolted, and i could not awaken her." madame obardi murmured: "but she must not stay like that," then, at the suggestion of servigny, they all gathered under the window, shouting in chorus: "hip! hip! hurrah! mam'zelle yvette." their clamor rose in the calm night, through the transparent air beneath the moon, over the sleeping country; and they heard it die away in the distance like the sound of a disappearing train. as yvette did not answer the marquise said: "i only hope that nothing has happened. i am beginning to be afraid." then servigny, plucking red roses from a big rosebush trained along the wall and buds not yet opened, began to throw them into the room through the window. at the first rose that fell at her side, yvette started and almost cried out. others fell upon her dress, others upon her hair, while others going over her head fell upon the bed, covering it with a rain of flowers. the marquise, in a choking voice, cried: "come, yvette, answer." then servigny declared: "truly this is not natural; i am going to climb up by the balcony." but the chevalier grew indignant. "now, let me do it," he said. "it is a great favor i ask; it is too good a means, and too good a time to obtain a rendezvous." all the rest, who thought the young girl was joking, cried: "we protest! he shall not climb up." but the marquise, disturbed, repeated: "and yet some one must go and see." the prince exclaimed with a dramatic gesture: "she favors the duke, we are betrayed." "let us toss a coin to see who shall go up," said the chevalier. he took a five-franc piece from his pocket, and began with the prince. "tail," said he. it was head. the prince tossed the coin in his turn saying to saval: "call, monsieur." saval called "head." it was tail. the prince then gave all the others a chance, and they all lost. servigny, who was standing opposite him, exclaimed in his insolent way: "parbleu! he is cheating!" the russian put his hand on his heart and held out the gold piece to his rival, saying: "toss it yourself, my dear duke." servigny took it and spinning it up, said: "head." it was tail. he bowed and pointing to the pillar of the balcony said: "climb up, prince." but the prince looked about him with a disturbed air. "what are you looking for?" asked the chevalier. "well,--i--would--like--a ladder." a general laugh followed. saval, advancing, said: "we will help you." he lifted him in his arms, as strong as those of hercules, telling him: "now climb to that balcony." the prince immediately clung to it, and, saval letting him go, he swung there, suspended in the air, moving his legs in empty space. then servigny, seeing his struggling legs which sought a resting place, pulled them downward with all his strength; the hands lost their grip and the prince fell in a heap on monsieur de belvigne, who was coming to aid him. "whose turn next?" asked servigny. no one claimed the privilege. "come, belvigne, courage!" "thank you, my dear boy, i am thinking of my bones." "come, chevalier, you must be used to scaling walls." "i give my place to you, my dear duke." "ha, ha, that is just what i expected." servigny, with a keen eye, turned to the pillar. then with a leap, clinging to the balcony, he drew himself up like a gymnast and climbed over the balustrade. all the spectators, gazing at him, applauded. but he immediately reappeared, calling: "come, quick! come, quick! yvette is unconscious." the marquise uttered a loud cry, and rushed for the stairs. the young girl, her eyes closed, pretended to be dead. her mother entered distracted, and threw her self upon her. "tell me what is the matter with her, what is the matter with her?" servigny picked up the bottle of chloroform which had fallen upon the floor. "she has drugged herself," said he. he placed his ear to her heart; then he added: "but she is not dead; we can resuscitate her. have you any ammonia?" the maid, bewildered, repeated: "any what, monsieur?" "any smelling-salts." "yes, monsieur." "bring them at once, and leave the door open to make a draft of air." the marquise, on her knees, was sobbing: "yvette! yvette, my daughter, my daughter, listen, answer me, yvette, my child. oh, my god! my god! what has she done?" the men, frightened, moved about without speaking, bringing water, towels, glasses, and vinegar. some one said: "she ought to be undressed." and the marquise, who had lost her head, tried to undress her daughter; but did not know what she was doing. her hands trembled and faltered, and she groaned: "i cannot,--i cannot--" the maid had come back bringing a druggist's bottle which servigny opened and from which he poured out half upon a handkerchief. then he applied it to yvette's nose, causing her to choke. "good, she breathes," said he. "it will be nothing." and he bathed her temples, cheeks, and neck with the pungent liquid. then he made a sign to the maid to unlace the girl, and when she had nothing more on than a skirt over her chemise, he raised her in his arms and carried her to the bed, quivering, moved by the odor and contact of her flesh. then she was placed in bed. he arose very pale. "she will come to herself," he said, "it is nothing." for he had heard her breathe in a continuous and regular way. but seeing all the men with their eyes fixed on yvette in bed, he was seized with a jealous irritation, and advanced toward them. "gentlemen," he said, "there are too many of us in this room; be kind enough to leave us alone,--monsieur saval and me--with the marquise." he spoke in a tone which was dry and full of authority. madame obardi had grasped her lover, and with her head uplifted toward him she cried to him: "save her, oh, save her!" but servigny turning around saw a letter on the table. he seized it with a rapid movement, and read the address. he understood and thought: "perhaps it would be better if the marquise should not know of this," and tearing open the envelope, he devoured at a glance the two lines it contained: "i die so that i may not become a kept woman." "yvette." "adieu, my dear mother, pardon." "the devil!" he thought, "this calls for reflection." and he hid the letter in his pocket. then he approached the bed, and immediately the thought came to him that the young girl had regained consciousness but that she dared not show it, from shame, from humiliation, and from fear of questioning. the marquise had fallen on her knees now, and was weeping, her head on the foot of the bed. suddenly she exclaimed: "a doctor, we must have a doctor!" but servigny, who had just said something in a low tone to saval, replied to her: "no, it is all over. come, go out a minute, just a minute, and i promise you that she will kiss you when you come back." and the baron, taking madame obardi by the arm, led her from the room. then servigny, sitting-by the bed, took yvette's hand and said: "mam'zelle, listen to me." she did not answer. she felt so well, so soft and warm in bed, that she would have liked never to move, never to speak, and to live like that forever. an infinite comfort had encompassed her, a comfort the like of which she had never experienced. the mild night air coming in by velvety breaths touched her temples in an exquisite almost imperceptible way. it was a caress like a kiss of the wind, like the soft and refreshing breath of a fan made of all the leaves of the trees and of all the shadows of the night, of the mist of rivers, and of all the flowers too, for the roses tossed up from below into her room and upon her bed, and the roses climbing at her balcony, mingled their heavy perfume with the healthful savor of the evening breeze. she drank in this air which was so good, her eyes closed, her heart reposing in the yet pervading intoxication of the drug, and she had no longer at all the desire to die, but a strong, imperious wish to live, to be happy--no matter how--to be loved, yes, to be loved. servigny repeated: "mam'zelle yvette, listen to me." and she decided to open her eyes. he continued, as he saw her reviving: "come! come! what does this nonsense mean?" she murmured: "my poor muscade, i was so unhappy." he squeezed her hand: "and that led you into a pretty scrape! come, you must promise me not to try it again." she did not reply, but nodded her head slightly with an almost imperceptible smile. he drew from his pocket the letter which he had found on the table: "had i better show this to your mother?" she shook her head, no. he knew not what more to say for the situation seemed to him without an outlet. so he murmured: "my dear child, everyone has hard things to bear. i understand your sorrow and i promise you--" she stammered: "you are good." they were silent. he looked at her. she had in her glance something of tenderness, of weakness; and suddenly she raised both her arms, as if she would draw him to her; he bent over her, feeling that she called him, and their lips met. for a long time they remained thus, their eyes closed. but, knowing that he would lose his head, he drew away. she smiled at him now, most tenderly; and, with both her hands clinging to his shoulders, she held him. "i am going to call your mother," he said. she murmured: "just a second more. i am so happy." then after a silence, she said in a tone so low that it could scarcely be heard: "will you love me very much? tell me!" he kneeled beside her bed, and kissing the hand she had given him, said: "i adore you." but some one was walking near the door. he arose with a bound, and called in his ordinary voice, which seemed nevertheless a little ironical: "you may come in. it is all right now." the marquise threw herself on her daughter, with both arms open, and clasped her frantically, covering her countenance with tears, while servigny with radiant soul and quivering body went out upon the balcony to breathe the fresh air of the night, humming to himself the old couplet: "a woman changeth oft her mind: yet fools still trust in womankind." transcribed from the macmillan and co. edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk. proofing by andy mclauchan and david stapleton. a bundle of letters by henry james chapter i from miss miranda mope, in paris, to mrs. abraham c. mope, at bangor, maine. september th, . my dear mother--i have kept you posted as far as tuesday week last, and, although my letter will not have reached you yet, i will begin another before my news accumulates too much. i am glad you show my letters round in the family, for i like them all to know what i am doing, and i can't write to every one, though i try to answer all reasonable expectations. but there are a great many unreasonable ones, as i suppose you know--not yours, dear mother, for i am bound to say that you never required of me more than was natural. you see you are reaping your reward: i write to you before i write to any one else. there is one thing, i hope--that you don't show any of my letters to william platt. if he wants to see any of my letters, he knows the right way to go to work. i wouldn't have him see one of these letters, written for circulation in the family, for anything in the world. if he wants one for himself, he has got to write to me first. let him write to me first, and then i will see about answering him. you can show him this if you like; but if you show him anything more, i will never write to you again. i told you in my last about my farewell to england, my crossing the channel, and my first impressions of paris. i have thought a great deal about that lovely england since i left it, and all the famous historic scenes i visited; but i have come to the conclusion that it is not a country in which i should care to reside. the position of woman does not seem to me at all satisfactory, and that is a point, you know, on which i feel very strongly. it seems to me that in england they play a very faded-out part, and those with whom i conversed had a kind of depressed and humiliated tone; a little dull, tame look, as if they were used to being snubbed and bullied, which made me want to give them a good shaking. there are a great many people--and a great many things, too--over here that i should like to perform that operation upon. i should like to shake the starch out of some of them, and the dust out of the others. i know fifty girls in bangor that come much more up to my notion of the stand a truly noble woman should take, than those young ladies in england. but they had a most lovely way of speaking (in england), and the men are _remarkably handsome_. (you can show this to william platt, if you like.) i gave you my first impressions of paris, which quite came up to my expectations, much as i had heard and read about it. the objects of interest are extremely numerous, and the climate is remarkably cheerful and sunny. i should say the position of woman here was considerably higher, though by no means coming up to the american standard. the manners of the people are in some respects extremely peculiar, and i feel at last that i am indeed in _foreign parts_. it is, however, a truly elegant city (very superior to new york), and i have spent a great deal of time in visiting the various monuments and palaces. i won't give you an account of all my wanderings, though i have been most indefatigable; for i am keeping, as i told you before, a most _exhaustive_ journal, which i will allow you the _privilege_ of reading on my return to bangor. i am getting on remarkably well, and i must say i am sometimes surprised at my universal good fortune. it only shows what a little energy and common-sense will accomplish. i have discovered none of these objections to a young lady travelling in europe by herself of which we heard so much before i left, and i don't expect i ever shall, for i certainly don't mean to look for them. i know what i want, and i always manage to get it. i have received a great deal of politeness--some of it really most pressing, and i have experienced no drawbacks whatever. i have made a great many pleasant acquaintances in travelling round (both ladies and gentlemen), and had a great many most interesting talks. i have collected a great deal of information, for which i refer you to my journal. i assure you my journal is going to be a splendid thing. i do just exactly as i do in bangor, and i find i do perfectly right; and at any rate, i don't care if i don't. i didn't come to europe to lead a merely conventional life; i could do that at bangor. you know i never _would_ do it at bangor, so it isn't likely i am going to make myself miserable over here. so long as i accomplish what i desire, and make my money hold out, i shall regard the thing as a success. sometimes i feel rather lonely, especially in the evening; but i generally manage to interest myself in something or in some one. in the evening i usually read up about the objects of interest i have visited during the day, or i post up my journal. sometimes i go to the theatre; or else i play the piano in the public parlour. the public parlour at the hotel isn't much; but the piano is better than that fearful old thing at the sebago house. sometimes i go downstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books--a french lady, who is remarkably polite. she is very pretty, and always wears a black dress, with the most beautiful fit; she speaks a little english; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse with the americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. she has given me a great deal of information about the position of woman in france, and much of it is very encouraging. but she has told me at the same time some things that i should not like to write to you (i am hesitating even about putting them into my journal), especially if my letters are to be handed round in the family. i assure you they appear to talk about things here that we never think of mentioning at bangor, or even of thinking about. she seems to think she can tell me everything, because i told her i was travelling for general culture. well, i _do_ want to know so much that it seems sometimes as if i wanted to know everything; and yet there are some things that i think i don't want to know. but, as a general thing, everything is intensely interesting; i don't mean only everything that this french lady tells me, but everything i see and hear for myself. i feel really as if i should gain all i desire. i meet a great many americans, who, as a general thing, i must say, are not as polite to me as the people over here. the people over here--especially the gentlemen--are much more what i should call _attentive_. i don't know whether americans are more _sincere_; i haven't yet made up my mind about that. the only drawback i experience is when americans sometimes express surprise that i should be travelling round alone; so you see it doesn't come from europeans. i always have my answer ready; "for general culture, to acquire the languages, and to see europe for myself;" and that generally seems to satisfy them. dear mother, my money holds out very well, and it _is_ real interesting. chapter ii from the same to the same. september th. since i last wrote to you i have left that hotel, and come to live in a french family. it's a kind of boarding-house combined with a kind of school; only it's not like an american hoarding-house, nor like an american school either. there are four or five people here that have come to learn the language--not to take lessons, but to have an opportunity for conversation. i was very glad to come to such a place, for i had begun to realise that i was not making much progress with the french. it seemed to me that i should feel ashamed to have spent two months in paris, and not to have acquired more insight into the language. i had always heard so much of french conversation, and i found i was having no more opportunity to practise it than if i had remained at bangor. in fact, i used to hear a great deal more at bangor, from those french canadians that came down to cut the ice, than i saw i should ever hear at that hotel. the lady that kept the books seemed to want so much to talk to me in english (for the sake of practice, too, i suppose), that i couldn't bear to let her know i didn't like it. the chambermaid was irish, and all the waiters were german, so that i never heard a word of french spoken. i suppose you might hear a great deal in the shops; only, as i don't buy anything--i prefer to spend my money for purposes of culture--i don't have that advantage. i have been thinking some of taking a teacher, but i am well acquainted with the grammar already, and teachers always keep you bothering over the verbs. i was a good deal troubled, for i felt as if i didn't want to go away without having, at least, got a general idea of french conversation. the theatre gives you a good deal of insight, and as i told you in my last, i go a good deal to places of amusement. i find no difficulty whatever in going to such places alone, and am always treated with the politeness which, as i told you before, i encounter everywhere. i see plenty of other ladies alone (mostly french), and they generally seem to be enjoying themselves as much as i. but at the theatre every one talks so fast that i can scarcely make out what they say; and, besides, there are a great many vulgar expressions which it is unnecessary to learn. but it was the theatre, nevertheless, that put me on the track. the very next day after i wrote to you last i went to the palais royal, which is one of the principal theatres in paris. it is very small, but it is very celebrated, and in my guide-book it is marked with _two stars_, which is a sign of importance attached only to _first-class_ objects of interest. but after i had been there half an hour i found i couldn't understand a single word of the play, they gabbled it off so fast, and they made use of such peculiar expressions. i felt a good deal disappointed and troubled--i was afraid i shouldn't gain all i had come for. but while i was thinking it over--thinking what i _should_ do--i heard two gentlemen talking behind me. it was between the acts, and i couldn't help listening to what they said. they were talking english, but i guess they were americans. "well," said one of them, "it all depends on what you are after. i'm french; that's what i'm after." "well," said the other, "i'm after art." "well," said the first, "i'm after art too; but i'm after french most." then, dear mother, i am sorry to say the second one swore a little. he said, "oh, damn french!" "no, i won't damn french," said his friend. "i'll acquire it--that's what i'll do with it. i'll go right into a family." "what family'll you go into?" "into some french family. that's the only way to do--to go to some place where you can talk. if you're after art, you want to stick to the galleries; you want to go right through the louvre, room by room; you want to take a room a day, or something of that sort. but, if you want to acquire french, the thing is to look out for a family. there are lots of french families here that take you to board and teach you. my second cousin--that young lady i told you about--she got in with a crowd like that, and they booked her right up in three months. they just took her right in and they talked to her. that's what they do to you; they set you right down and they talk _at_ you. you've got to understand them; you can't help yourself. that family my cousin was with has moved away somewhere, or i should try and get in with them. they were very smart people, that family; after she left, my cousin corresponded with them in french. but i mean to find some other crowd, if it takes a lot of trouble!" i listened to all this with great interest, and when he spoke about his cousin i was on the point of turning around to ask him the address of the family that she was with; but the next moment he said they had moved away; so i sat still. the other gentleman, however, didn't seem to be affected in the same way as i was. "well," he said, "you may follow up that if you like; i mean to follow up the pictures. i don't believe there is ever going to be any considerable demand in the united states for french; but i can promise you that in about ten years there'll be a big demand for art! and it won't be temporary either." that remark may be very true, but i don't care anything about the demand; i want to know french for its own sake. i don't want to think i have been all this while without having gained an insight . . . the very next day, i asked the lady who kept the books at the hotel whether she knew of any family that could take me to board and give me the benefit of their conversation. she instantly threw up her hands, with several little shrill cries (in their french way, you know), and told me that her dearest friend kept a regular place of that kind. if she had known i was looking out for such a place she would have told me before; she had not spoken of it herself, because she didn't wish to injure the hotel by being the cause of my going away. she told me this was a charming family, who had often received american ladies (and others as well) who wished to follow up the language, and she was sure i should be delighted with them. so she gave me their address, and offered to go with me to introduce me. but i was in such a hurry that i went off by myself; and i had no trouble in finding these good people. they were delighted to receive me, and i was very much pleased with what i saw of them. they seemed to have plenty of conversation, and there will be no trouble about that. i came here to stay about three days ago, and by this time i have seen a great deal of them. the price of board struck me as rather high; but i must remember that a quantity of conversation is thrown in. i have a very pretty little room--without any carpet, but with seven mirrors, two clocks, and five curtains. i was rather disappointed after i arrived to find that there are several other americans here for the same purpose as myself. at least there are three americans and two english people; and also a german gentleman. i am afraid, therefore, our conversation will be rather mixed, but i have not yet time to judge. i try to talk with madame de maisonrouge all i can (she is the lady of the house, and the _real_ family consists only of herself and her two daughters). they are all most elegant, interesting women, and i am sure we shall become intimate friends. i will write you more about them in my next. tell william platt i don't care what he does. chapter iii from miss violet ray, in paris, to miss agnes rich, in new york. september st. we had hardly got here when father received a telegram saying he would have to come right back to new york. it was for something about his business--i don't know exactly what; you know i never understand those things, never want to. we had just got settled at the hotel, in some charming rooms, and mother and i, as you may imagine, were greatly annoyed. father is extremely fussy, as you know, and his first idea, as soon as he found he should have to go back, was that we should go back with him. he declared he would never leave us in paris alone, and that we must return and come out again. i don't know what he thought would happen to us; i suppose he thought we should be too extravagant. it's father's theory that we are always running up bills, whereas a little observation would show him that we wear the same old _rags_ for months. but father has no observation; he has nothing but theories. mother and i, however, have, fortunately, a great deal of _practice_, and we succeeded in making him understand that we wouldn't budge from paris, and that we would rather be chopped into small pieces than cross that dreadful ocean again. so, at last, he decided to go back alone, and to leave us here for three months. but, to show you how fussy he is, he refused to let us stay at the hotel, and insisted that we should go into a _family_. i don't know what put such an idea into his head, unless it was some advertisement that he saw in one of the american papers that are published here. there are families here who receive american and english people to live with them, under the pretence of teaching them french. you may imagine what people they are--i mean the families themselves. but the americans who choose this peculiar manner of seeing paris must be actually just as bad. mother and i were horrified, and declared that main force should not remove us from the hotel. but father has a way of arriving at his ends which is more efficient than violence. he worries and fusses; he "nags," as we used to say at school; and, when mother and i are quite worn out, his triumph is assured. mother is usually worn out more easily than i, and she ends by siding with father; so that, at last, when they combine their forces against poor little me, i have to succumb. you should have heard the way father went on about this "family" plan; he talked to every one he saw about it; he used to go round to the banker's and talk to the people there--the people in the post-office; he used to try and exchange ideas about it with the waiters at the hotel. he said it would be more safe, more respectable, more economical; that i should perfect my french; that mother would learn how a french household is conducted; that he should feel more easy, and five hundred reasons more. they were none of them good, but that made no difference. it's all humbug, his talking about economy, when every one knows that business in america has completely recovered, that the prostration is all over, and that immense fortunes are being made. we have been economising for the last five years, and i supposed we came abroad to reap the benefits of it. as for my french, it is quite as perfect as i want it to be. (i assure you i am often surprised at my own fluency, and, when i get a little more practice in the genders and the idioms, i shall do very well in this respect.) to make a long story short, however, father carried his point, as usual; mother basely deserted me at the last moment, and, after holding out alone for three days, i told them to do with me what they pleased! father lost three steamers in succession by remaining in paris to argue with me. you know he is like the schoolmaster in goldsmith's "deserted village"--"e'en though vanquished, he would argue still." he and mother went to look at some seventeen families (they had got the addresses somewhere), while i retired to my sofa, and would have nothing to do with it. at last they made arrangements, and i was transported to the establishment from which i now write you. i write you from the bosom of a parisian menage--from the depths of a second-rate boarding-house. father only left paris after he had seen us what he calls comfortably settled here, and had informed madame de maisonrouge (the mistress of the establishment--the head of the "family") that he wished my french pronunciation especially attended to. the pronunciation, as it happens, is just what i am most at home in; if he had said my genders or my idioms there would have been some sense. but poor father has no tact, and this defect is especially marked since he has been in europe. he will be absent, however, for three months, and mother and i shall breathe more freely; the situation will be less intense. i must confess that we breathe more freely than i expected, in this place, where we have been for about a week. i was sure, before we came, that it would prove to be an establishment of the _lowest description_; but i must say that, in this respect, i am agreeably disappointed. the french are so clever that they know even how to manage a place of this kind. of course it is very disagreeable to live with strangers, but as, after all, if i were not staying with madame de maisonrouge i should not be living in the faubourg st. germain, i don't know that from the point of view of exclusiveness it is any great loss to be here. our rooms are very prettily arranged, and the table is remarkably good. mamma thinks the whole thing--the place and the people, the manners and customs--very amusing; but mamma is very easily amused. as for me, you know, all that i ask is to be let alone, and not to have people's society forced upon me. i have never wanted for society of my own choosing, and, so long as i retain possession of my faculties, i don't suppose i ever shall. as i said, however, the place is very well managed, and i succeed in doing as i please, which, you know, is my most cherished pursuit. madame de maisonrouge has a great deal of tact--much more than poor father. she is what they call here a belle femme, which means that she is a tall, ugly woman, with style. she dresses very well, and has a great deal of talk; but, though she is a very good imitation of a lady, i never see her behind the dinner-table, in the evening, smiling and bowing, as the people come in, and looking all the while at the dishes and the servants, without thinking of a _dame de comptoir_ blooming in a corner of a shop or a restaurant. i am sure that, in spite of her fine name, she was once a _dame de comptoir_. i am also sure that, in spite of her smiles and the pretty things she says to every one, she hates us all, and would like to murder us. she is a hard, clever frenchwoman, who would like to amuse herself and enjoy her paris, and she must be bored to death at passing all her time in the midst of stupid english people who mumble broken french at her. some day she will poison the soup or the _vin rouge_; but i hope that will not be until after mother and i shall have left her. she has two daughters, who, except that one is decidedly pretty, are meagre imitations of herself. the "family," for the rest, consists altogether of our beloved compatriots, and of still more beloved englanders. there is an englishman here, with his sister, and they seem to be rather nice people. he is remarkably handsome, but excessively affected and patronising, especially to us americans; and i hope to have a chance of biting his head off before long. the sister is very pretty, and, apparently, very nice; but, in costume, she is britannia incarnate. there is a very pleasant little frenchman--when they are nice they are charming--and a german doctor, a big blonde man, who looks like a great white bull; and two americans, besides mother and me. one of them is a young man from boston,--an aesthetic young man, who talks about its being "a real corot day," etc., and a young woman--a girl, a female, i don't know what to call her--from vermont, or minnesota, or some such place. this young woman is the most extraordinary specimen of artless yankeeism that i ever encountered; she is really too horrible. i have been three times to clementine about your underskirt, etc. chapter iv from louis leverett, in paris, to harvard tremont, in boston. september th. my dear harvard--i have carried out my plan, of which i gave you a hint in my last, and i only regret that i should not have done it before. it is human nature, after all, that is the most interesting thing in the world, and it only reveals itself to the truly earnest seeker. there is a want of earnestness in that life of hotels and railroad trains, which so many of our countrymen are content to lead in this strange old world, and i was distressed to find how far i, myself; had been led along the dusty, beaten track. i had, however, constantly wanted to turn aside into more unfrequented ways; to plunge beneath the surface and see what i should discover. but the opportunity had always been missing; somehow, i never meet those opportunities that we hear about and read about--the things that happen to people in novels and biographies. and yet i am always on the watch to take advantage of any opening that may present itself; i am always looking out for experiences, for sensations--i might almost say for adventures. the great thing is to _live_, you know--to feel, to be conscious of one's possibilities; not to pass through life mechanically and insensibly, like a letter through the post-office. there are times, my dear harvard, when i feel as if i were really capable of everything--capable _de tout_, as they say here--of the greatest excesses as well as the greatest heroism. oh, to be able to say that one has lived--_qu'on a vecu_, as they say here--that idea exercises an indefinable attraction for me. you will, perhaps, reply, it is easy to say it; but the thing is to make people believe you! and, then, i don't want any second-hand, spurious sensations; i want the knowledge that leaves a trace--that leaves strange scars and stains and reveries behind it! but i am afraid i shock you, perhaps even frighten you. if you repeat my remarks to any of the west cedar street circle, be sure you tone them down as your discretion will suggest. for yourself; you will know that i have always had an intense desire to see something of _real french life_. you are acquainted with my great sympathy with the french; with my natural tendency to enter into the french way of looking at life. i sympathise with the artistic temperament; i remember you used sometimes to hint to me that you thought my own temperament too artistic. i don't think that in boston there is any real sympathy with the artistic temperament; we tend to make everything a matter of right and wrong. and in boston one can't _live--on ne peut pas vivre_, as they say here. i don't mean one can't reside--for a great many people manage that; but one can't live aesthetically--i may almost venture to say, sensuously. this is why i have always been so much drawn to the french, who are so aesthetic, so sensuous. i am so sorry that theophile gautier has passed away; i should have liked so much to go and see him, and tell him all that i owe him. he was living when i was here before; but, you know, at that time i was travelling with the johnsons, who are not aesthetic, and who used to make me feel rather ashamed of my artistic temperament. if i had gone to see the great apostle of beauty, i should have had to go clandestinely--_en cachette_, as they say here; and that is not my nature; i like to do everything frankly, freely, _naivement, au grand jour_. that is the great thing--to be free, to be frank, to be _naif_. doesn't matthew arnold say that somewhere--or is it swinburne, or pater? when i was with the johnsons everything was superficial; and, as regards life, everything was brought down to the question of right and wrong. they were too didactic; art should never be didactic; and what is life but an art? pater has said that so well, somewhere. with the johnsons i am afraid i lost many opportunities; the tone was gray and cottony, i might almost say woolly. but now, as i tell you, i have determined to take right hold for myself; to look right into european life, and judge it without johnsonian prejudices. i have taken up my residence in a french family, in a real parisian house. you see i have the courage of my opinions; i don't shrink from carrying out my theory that the great thing is to _live_. you know i have always been intensely interested in balzac, who never shrank from the reality, and whose almost _lurid_ pictures of parisian life have often haunted me in my wanderings through the old wicked-looking streets on the other side of the river. i am only sorry that my new friends--my french family--do not live in the old city--_au coeur du vieux paris_, as they say here. they live only in the boulevard haussman, which is less picturesque; but in spite of this they have a great deal of the balzac tone. madame de maisonrouge belongs to one of the oldest and proudest families in france; but she has had reverses which have compelled her to open an establishment in which a limited number of travellers, who are weary of the beaten track, who have the sense of local colour--she explains it herself; she expresses it so well--in short, to open a sort of boarding-house. i don't see why i should not, after all, use that expression, for it is the correlative of the term _pension bourgeoise_, employed by balzac in the _pere goriot_. do you remember the _pension bourgeoise_ of madame vauquer _nee_ de conflans? but this establishment is not at all like that: and indeed it is not at all _bourgeois_; there is something distinguished, something aristocratic, about it. the pension vauquer was dark, brown, sordid, _graisseuse_; but this is in quite a different tone, with high, clear, lightly-draped windows, tender, subtle, almost morbid, colours, and furniture in elegant, studied, reed-like lines. madame de maisonrouge reminds me of madame hulot--do you remember "la belle madame hulot?"--in _les barents pauvres_. she has a great charm; a little artificial, a little fatigued, with a little suggestion of hidden things in her life; but i have always been sensitive to the charm of fatigue, of duplicity. i am rather disappointed, i confess, in the society i find here; it is not so local, so characteristic, as i could have desired. indeed, to tell the truth, it is not local at all; but, on the other hand, it is cosmopolitan, and there is a great advantage in that. we are french, we are english, we are american, we are german; and, i believe, there are some russians and hungarians expected. i am much interested in the study of national types; in comparing, contrasting, seizing the strong points, the weak points, the point of view of each. it is interesting to shift one's point of view--to enter into strange, exotic ways of looking at life. the american types here are not, i am sorry to say, so interesting as they might be, and, excepting myself; are exclusively feminine. we are _thin_, my dear harvard; we are pale, we are sharp. there is something meagre about us; our line is wanting in roundness, our composition in richness. we lack temperament; we don't know how to live; _nous ne savons pas vivre_, as they say here. the american temperament is represented (putting myself aside, and i often think that my temperament is not at all american) by a young girl and her mother, and another young girl without her mother--without her mother or any attendant or appendage whatever. these young girls are rather curious types; they have a certain interest, they have a certain grace, but they are disappointing too; they don't go far; they don't keep all they promise; they don't satisfy the imagination. they are cold, slim, sexless; the physique is not generous, not abundant; it is only the drapery, the skirts and furbelows (that is, i mean in the young lady who has her mother) that are abundant. they are very different: one of them all elegance, all expensiveness, with an air of high fashion, from new york; the other a plain, pure, clear-eyed, straight-waisted, straight-stepping maiden from the heart of new england. and yet they are very much alike too--more alike than they would care to think themselves for they eye each other with cold, mistrustful, deprecating looks. they are both specimens of the emancipated young american girl--practical, positive, passionless, subtle, and knowing, as you please, either too much or too little. and yet, as i say, they have a certain stamp, a certain grace; i like to talk with them, to study them. the fair new yorker is, sometimes, very amusing; she asks me if every one in boston talks like me--if every one is as "intellectual" as your poor correspondent. she is for ever throwing boston up at me; i can't get rid of boston. the other one rubs it into me too; but in a different way; she seems to feel about it as a good mahommedan feels toward mecca, and regards it as a kind of focus of light for the whole human race. poor little boston, what nonsense is talked in thy name! but this new england maiden is, in her way, a strange type: she is travelling all over europe alone--"to see it," she says, "for herself." for herself! what can that stiff slim self of hers do with such sights, such visions! she looks at everything, goes everywhere, passes her way, with her clear quiet eyes wide open; skirting the edge of obscene abysses without suspecting them; pushing through brambles without tearing her robe; exciting, without knowing it, the most injurious suspicions; and always holding her course, passionless, stainless, fearless, charmless! it is a little figure in which, after all, if you can get the right point of view, there is something rather striking. by way of contrast, there is a lovely english girl, with eyes as shy as violets, and a voice as sweet! she has a sweet gainsborough head, and a great gainsborough hat, with a mighty plume in front of it, which makes a shadow over her quiet english eyes. then she has a sage-green robe, "mystic, wonderful," all embroidered with subtle devices and flowers, and birds of tender tint; very straight and tight in front, and adorned behind, along the spine, with large, strange, iridescent buttons. the revival of taste, of the sense of beauty, in england, interests me deeply; what is there in a simple row of spinal buttons to make one dream--to _donnor a rever_, as they say here? i think that a great aesthetic renascence is at hand, and that a great light will be kindled in england, for all the world to see. there are spirits there that i should like to commune with; i think they would understand me. this gracious english maiden, with her clinging robes, her amulets and girdles, with something quaint and angular in her step, her carriage something mediaeval and gothic, in the details of her person and dress, this lovely evelyn vane (isn't it a beautiful name?) is deeply, delightfully picturesque. she is much a woman--elle _est bien femme_, as they say here; simpler, softer, rounder, richer than the young girls i spoke of just now. not much talk--a great, sweet silence. then the violet eye--the very eye itself seems to blush; the great shadowy hat, making the brow so quiet; the strange, clinging, clutching, pictured raiment! as i say, it is a very gracious, tender type. she has her brother with her, who is a beautiful, fair-haired, gray-eyed young englishman. he is purely objective; and he, too, is very plastic. chapter v from miranda hope to her mother. september th. you must not be frightened at not hearing from me oftener; it is not because i am in any trouble, but because i am getting on so well. if i were in any trouble i don't think i should write to you; i should just keep quiet and see it through myself. but that is not the case at present and, if i don't write to you, it is because i am so deeply interested over here that i don't seem to find time. it was a real providence that brought me to this house, where, in spite of all obstacles, i am able to do much good work. i wonder how i find the time for all i do; but when i think that i have only got a year in europe, i feel as if i wouldn't sacrifice a single hour. the obstacles i refer to are the disadvantages i have in learning french, there being so many persons around me speaking english, and that, as you may say, in the very bosom of a french family. it seems as if you heard english everywhere; but i certainly didn't expect to find it in a place like this. i am not discouraged, however, and i talk french all i can, even with the other english boarders. then i have a lesson every day from miss maisonrouge (the elder daughter of the lady of the house), and french conversation every evening in the salon, from eight to eleven, with madame herself, and some friends of hers that often come in. her cousin, mr. verdier, a young french gentleman, is fortunately staying with her, and i make a point of talking with him as much as possible. i have _extra private lessons_ from him, and i often go out to walk with him. some night, soon, he is to accompany me to the opera. we have also a most interesting plan of visiting all the galleries in paris together. like most of the french, he converses with great fluency, and i feel as if i should really gain from him. he is remarkably handsome, and extremely polite--paying a great many compliments, which, i am afraid, are not always _sincere_. when i return to bangor i will tell you some of the things he has said to me. i think you will consider them extremely curious, and very beautiful _in their way_. the conversation in the parlour (from eight to eleven) is often remarkably brilliant, and i often wish that you, or some of the bangor folks, could be there to enjoy it. even though you couldn't understand it i think you would like to hear the way they go on; they seem to express so much. i sometimes think that at bangor they don't express enough (but it seems as if over there, there was less to express). it seems as if; at bangor, there were things that folks never _tried_ to say; but here, i have learned from studying french that you have no idea what you _can_ say, before you try. at bangor they seem to give it up beforehand; they don't make any effort. (i don't say this in the least for william platt, _in particular_.) i am sure i don't know what they will think of me when i get back. it seems as if; over here, i had learned to come out with everything. i suppose they will think i am not sincere; but isn't it more sincere to come out with things than to conceal them? i have become very good friends with every one in the house--that is (you see, i _am_ sincere), with _almost_ every one. it is the most interesting circle i ever was in. there's a girl here, an american, that i don't like so much as the rest; but that is only because she won't let me. i should like to like her, ever so much, because she is most lovely and most attractive; but she doesn't seem to want to know me or to like me. she comes from new york, and she is remarkably pretty, with beautiful eyes and the most delicate features; she is also remarkably elegant--in this respect would bear comparison with any one i have seen over here. but it seems as if she didn't want to recognise me or associate with me; as if she wanted to make a difference between us. it is like people they call "haughty" in books. i have never seen any one like that before--any one that wanted to make a difference; and at first i was right down interested, she seemed to me so like a proud young lady in a novel. i kept saying to myself all day, "haughty, haughty," and i wished she would keep on so. but she did keep on; she kept on too long; and then i began to feel hurt. i couldn't think what i have done, and i can't think yet. it's as if she had got some idea about me, or had heard some one say something. if some girls should behave like that i shouldn't make any account of it; but this one is so refined, and looks as if she might be so interesting if i once got to know her, that i think about it a good deal. i am bound to find out what her reason is--for of course she has got some reason; i am right down curious to know. i went up to her to ask her the day before yesterday; i thought that was the best way. i told her i wanted to know her better, and would like to come and see her in her room--they tell me she has got a lovely room--and that if she had heard anything against me, perhaps she would tell me when i came. but she was more distant than ever, and she just turned it off; said that she had never heard me mentioned, and that her room was too small to receive visitors. i suppose she spoke the truth, but i am sure she has got some reason, all the same. she has got some idea, and i am bound to find out before i go, if i have to ask everybody in the house. i _am_ right down curious. i wonder if she doesn't think me refined--or if she had ever heard anything against bangor? i can't think it is that. don't you remember when clara barnard went to visit new york, three years ago, how much attention she received? and you know clara _is_ bangor, to the soles of her shoes. ask william platt--so long as he isn't a native--if he doesn't consider clara barnard refined. apropos, as they say here, of refinement, there is another american in the house--a gentleman from boston--who is just crowded with it. his name is mr. louis leverett (such a beautiful name, i think), and he is about thirty years old. he is rather small, and he looks pretty sick; he suffers from some affection of the liver. but his conversation is remarkably interesting, and i delight to listen to him--he has such beautiful ideas. i feel as if it were hardly right, not being in french; but, fortunately, he uses a great many french expressions. it's in a different style from the conversation of mr. verdier--not so complimentary, but more intellectual. he is intensely fond of pictures, and has given me a great many ideas about them which i should never have gained without him; i shouldn't have known where to look for such ideas. he thinks everything of pictures; he thinks we don't make near enough of them. they seem to make a good deal of them here; but i couldn't help telling him the other day that in bangor i really don't think we do. if i had any money to spend i would buy some and take them back, to hang up. mr. leverett says it would do them good--not the pictures, but the bangor folks. he thinks everything of the french, too, and says we don't make nearly enough of _them_. i couldn't help telling him the other day that at any rate they make enough of themselves. but it is very interesting to hear him go on about the french, and it is so much gain to me, so long as that is what i came for. i talk to him as much as i dare about boston, but i do feel as if this were right down wrong--a stolen pleasure. i can get all the boston culture i want when i go back, if i carry out my plan, my happy vision, of going there to reside. i ought to direct all my efforts to european culture now, and keep boston to finish off. but it seems as if i couldn't help taking a peep now and then, in advance--with a bostonian. i don't know when i may meet one again; but if there are many others like mr. leverett there, i shall be certain not to want when i carry out my dream. he is just as full of culture as he can live. but it seems strange how many different sorts there are. there are two of the english who i suppose are very cultivated too; but it doesn't seem as if i could enter into theirs so easily, though i try all i can. i do love their way of speaking, and sometimes i feel almost as if it would be right to give up trying to learn french, and just try to learn to speak our own tongue as these english speak it. it isn't the things they say so much, though these are often rather curious, but it is in the way they pronounce, and the sweetness of their voice. it seems as if they must _try_ a good deal to talk like that; but these english that are here don't seem to try at all, either to speak or do anything else. they are a young lady and her brother. i believe they belong to some noble family. i have had a good deal of intercourse with them, because i have felt more free to talk to them than to the americans--on account of the language. it seems as if in talking with them i was almost learning a new one. i never supposed, when i left bangor, that i was coming to europe to learn _english_! if i do learn it, i don't think you will understand me when i get back, and i don't think you'll like it much. i should be a good deal criticised if i spoke like that at bangor. however, i verily believe bangor is the most critical place on earth; i have seen nothing like it over here. tell them all i have come to the conclusion that they are _a great deal too fastidious_. but i was speaking about this english young lady and her brother. i wish i could put them before you. she is lovely to look at; she seems so modest and retiring. in spite of this, however, she dresses in a way that attracts great attention, as i couldn't help noticing when one day i went out to walk with her. she was ever so much looked at; but she didn't seem to notice it, until at last i couldn't help calling attention to it. mr. leverett thinks everything of it; he calls it the "costume of the future." i should call it rather the costume of the past--you know the english have such an attachment to the past. i said this the other day to madame do maisonrouge--that miss vane dressed in the costume of the past. _de l'an passe, vous voulez dire_? said madame, with her little french laugh (you can get william platt to translate this, he used to tell me he knew so much french). you know i told you, in writing some time ago, that i had tried to get some insight into the position of woman in england, and, being here with miss vane, it has seemed to me to be a good opportunity to get a little more. i have asked her a great deal about it; but she doesn't seem able to give me much information. the first time i asked her she told me the position of a lady depended upon the rank of her father, her eldest brother, her husband, etc. she told me her own position was very good, because her father was some relation--i forget what--to a lord. she thinks everything of this; and that proves to me that the position of woman in her country cannot be satisfactory; because, if it were, it wouldn't depend upon that of your relations, even your nearest. i don't know much about lords, and it does try my patience (though she is just as sweet as she can live) to hear her talk as if it were a matter of course that i should. i feel as if it were right to ask her as often as i can if she doesn't consider every one equal; but she always says she doesn't, and she confesses that she doesn't think she is equal to "lady something-or-other," who is the wife of that relation of her father. i try and persuade her all i can that she is; but it seems as if she didn't want to be persuaded; and when i ask her if lady so-and-so is of the same opinion (that miss vane isn't her equal), she looks so soft and pretty with her eyes, and says, "of course she is!" when i tell her that this is right down bad for lady so-and-so, it seems as if she wouldn't believe me, and the only answer she will make is that lady so-and-so is "extremely nice." i don't believe she is nice at all; if she were nice, she wouldn't have such ideas as that. i tell miss vane that at bangor we think such ideas vulgar; but then she looks as though she had never heard of bangor. i often want to shake her, though she _is_ so sweet. if she isn't angry with the people who make her feel that way, i am angry for her. i am angry with her brother too, for she is evidently very much afraid of him, and this gives me some further insight into the subject. she thinks everything of her brother, and thinks it natural that she should be afraid of him, not only physically (for this _is_ natural, as he is enormously tall and strong, and has very big fists), but morally and intellectually. she seems unable, however, to take in any argument, and she makes me realise what i have often heard--that if you are timid nothing will reason you out of it. mr. vane, also (the brother), seems to have the same prejudices, and when i tell him, as i often think it right to do, that his sister is not his subordinate, even if she does think so, but his equal, and, perhaps in some respects his superior, and that if my brother, in bangor, were to treat me as he treates this poor young girl, who has not spirit enough to see the question in its true light, there would be an indignation, meeting of the citizens to protest against such an outrage to the sanctity of womanhood--when i tell him all this, at breakfast or dinner, he bursts out laughing so loud that all the plates clatter on the table. but at such a time as this there is always one person who seems interested in what i say--a german gentleman, a professor, who sits next to me at dinner, and whom i must tell you more about another time. he is very learned, and has a great desire for information; he appreciates a great many of my remarks, and after dinner, in the salon, he often comes to me to ask me questions about them. i have to think a little, sometimes, to know what i did say, or what i do think. he takes you right up where you left off; and he is almost as fond of discussing things as william platt is. he is splendidly educated, in the german style, and he told me the other day that he was an "intellectual broom." well, if he is, he sweeps clean; i told him that. after he has been talking to me i feel as if i hadn't got a speck of dust left in my mind anywhere. it's a most delightful feeling. he says he's an observer; and i am sure there is plenty over here to observe. but i have told you enough for to-day. i don't know how much longer i shall stay here; i am getting on so fast that it sometimes seems as if i shouldn't need all the time i have laid out. i suppose your cold weather has promptly begun, as usual; it sometimes makes me envy you. the fall weather here is very dull and damp, and i feel very much as if i should like to be braced up. chapter vi from miss evelyn vane, in paris, to the lady augusta fleming, at brighton. paris, september th. dear lady augusta--i am afraid i shall not be able to come to you on january th, as you kindly proposed at homburg. i am so very, very sorry; it is a great disappointment to me. but i have just heard that it has been settled that mamma and the children are coming abroad for a part of the winter, and mamma wishes me to go with them to hyeres, where georgina has been ordered for her lungs. she has not been at all well these three months, and now that the damp weather has begun she is very poorly indeed; so that last week papa decided to have a consultation, and he and mamma went with her up to town and saw some three or four doctors. they all of them ordered the south of france, but they didn't agree about the place; so that mamma herself decided for hyeres, because it is the most economical. i believe it is very dull, but i hope it will do georgina good. i am afraid, however, that nothing will do her good until she consents to take more care of herself; i am afraid she is very wild and wilful, and mamma tells me that all this month it has taken papa's positive orders to make her stop in-doors. she is very cross (mamma writes me) about coming abroad, and doesn't seem at all to mind the expense that papa has been put to--talks very ill-naturedly about losing the hunting, etc. she expected to begin to hunt in december, and wants to know whether anybody keeps hounds at hyeres. fancy a girl wanting to follow the hounds when her lungs are so bad! but i daresay that when she gets there she will he glad enough to keep quiet, as they say that the heat is intense. it may cure georgina, but i am sure it will make the rest of us very ill. mamma, however, is only going to bring mary and gus and fred and adelaide abroad with her; the others will remain at kingscote until february (about the d), when they will go to eastbourne for a month with miss turnover, the new governess, who has turned out such a very nice person. she is going to take miss travers, who has been with us so long, but who is only qualified for the younger children, to hyeres, and i believe some of the kingscote servants. she has perfect confidence in miss t.; it is only a pity she has such an odd name. mamma thought of asking her if she would mind taking another when she came; but papa thought she might object. lady battledown makes all her governesses take the same name; she gives pounds more a year for the purpose. i forget what it is she calls them; i think it's johnson (which to me always suggests a lady's maid). governesses shouldn't have too pretty a name; they shouldn't have a nicer name than the family. i suppose you heard from the desmonds that i did not go back to england with them. when it began to be talked about that georgina should be taken abroad, mamma wrote to me that i had better stop in paris for a month with harold, so that she could pick me up on their way to hyeres. it saves the expense of my journey to kingscote and back, and gives me the opportunity to "finish" a little in french. you know harold came here six weeks ago, to get up his french for those dreadful examinations that he has to pass so soon. he came to live with some french people that take in young men (and others) for this purpose; it's a kind of coaching place, only kept by women. mamma had heard it was very nice; so she wrote to me that i was to come and stop here with harold. the desmonds brought me and made the arrangement, or the bargain, or whatever you call it. poor harold was naturally not at all pleased; but he has been very kind, and has treated me like an angel. he is getting on beautifully with his french; for though i don't think the place is so good as papa supposed, yet harold is so immensely clever that he can scarcely help learning. i am afraid i learn much less, but, fortunately, i have not to pass an examination--except if mamma takes it into her head to examine me. but she will have so much to think of with georgina that i hope this won't occur to her. if it does, i shall be, as harold says, in a dreadful funk. this is not such a nice place for a girl as for a young man, and the desmonds thought it _exceedingly odd_ that mamma should wish me to come here. as mrs. desmond said, it is because she is so very unconventional. but you know paris is so very amusing, and if only harold remains good- natured about it, i shall be content to wait for the caravan (that's what he calls mamma and the children). the person who keeps the establishment, or whatever they call it, is rather odd, and _exceedingly foreign_; but she is wonderfully civil, and is perpetually sending to my door to see if i want anything. the servants are not at all like english servants, and come bursting in, the footman (they have only one) and the maids alike, at all sorts of hours, in the _most sudden way_. then when one rings, it is half an hour before they come. all this is very uncomfortable, and i daresay it will be worse at hyeres. there, however, fortunately, we shall have our own people. there are some very odd americans here, who keep throwing harold into fits of laughter. one is a dreadful little man who is always sitting over the fire, and talking about the colour of the sky. i don't believe he ever saw the sky except through the window--pane. the other day he took hold of my frock (that green one you thought so nice at homburg) and told me that it reminded him of the texture of the devonshire turf. and then he talked for half an hour about the devonshire turf; which i thought such a very extraordinary subject. harold says he is mad. it is very strange to be living in this way with people one doesn't know. i mean that one doesn't know as one knows them in england. the other americans (beside the madman) are two girls, about my own age, one of whom is rather nice. she has a mother; but the mother is always sitting in her bedroom, which seems so very odd. i should like mamma to ask them to kingscote, but i am afraid mamma wouldn't like the mother, who is rather vulgar. the other girl is rather vulgar too, and is travelling about quite alone. i think she is a kind of schoolmistress; but the other girl (i mean the nicer one, with the mother) tells me she is more respectable than she seems. she has, however, the most extraordinary opinions--wishes to do away with the aristocracy, thinks it wrong that arthur should have kingscote when papa dies, etc. i don't see what it signifies to her that poor arthur should come into the property, which will be so delightful--except for papa dying. but harold says she is mad. he chaffs her tremendously about her radicalism, and he is so immensely clever that she can't answer him, though she is rather clever too. there is also a frenchman, a nephew, or cousin, or something, of the person of the house, who is extremely nasty; and a german professor, or doctor, who eats with his knife and is a great bore. i am so very sorry about giving up my visit. i am afraid you will never ask me again. chapter vii from leon verdier, in paris, to prosper gobain, at lille. september th. my dear prosper--it is a long time since i have given you of my news, and i don't know what puts it into my head to-night to recall myself to your affectionate memory. i suppose it is that when we are happy the mind reverts instinctively to those with whom formerly we shared our exaltations and depressions, and _je t'eu ai trop dit, dans le bon temps, mon gros prosper_, and you always listened to me too imperturbably, with your pipe in your mouth, your waistcoat unbuttoned, for me not to feel that i can count upon your sympathy to-day. _nous en sommes nous flanquees des confidences_--in those happy days when my first thought in seeing an adventure _poindre a l'horizon_ was of the pleasure i should have in relating it to the great prosper. as i tell thee, i am happy; decidedly, i am happy, and from this affirmation i fancy you can construct the rest. shall i help thee a little? take three adorable girls . . . three, my good prosper--the mystic number--neither more nor less. take them and place thy insatiable little leon in the midst of them! is the situation sufficiently indicated, and do you apprehend the motives of my felicity? you expected, perhaps, i was going to tell you that i had made my fortune, or that the uncle blondeau had at last decided to return into the breast of nature, after having constituted me his universal legatee. but i needn't remind you that women are always for something in the happiness of him who writes to thee--for something in his happiness, and for a good deal more in his misery. but don't let me talk of misery now; time enough when it comes; _ces demoiselles_ have gone to join the serried ranks of their amiable predecessors. excuse me--i comprehend your impatience. i will tell you of whom _ces demoiselles_ consist. you have heard me speak of my _cousine_ de maisonrouge, that grande _belle femme_, who, after having married, _en secondes_ noces--there had been, to tell the truth, some irregularity about her first union--a venerable relic of the old noblesse of poitou, was left, by the death of her husband, complicated by the indulgence of expensive tastes on an income of , francs, on the pavement of paris, with two little demons of daughters to bring up in the path of virtue. she managed to bring them up; my little cousins are rigidly virtuous. if you ask me how she managed it, i can't tell you; it's no business of mine, and, _a fortiori_ none of yours. she is now fifty years old (she confesses to thirty-seven), and her daughters, whom she has never been able to marry, are respectively twenty-seven and twenty-three (they confess to twenty and to seventeen). three years ago she had the thrice-blessed idea of opening a sort of _pension_ for the entertainment and instruction of the blundering barbarians who come to paris in the hope of picking up a few stray particles of the language of voltaire--or of zola. the idea _lui a porte bonheur_; the shop does a very good business. until within a few months ago it was carried on by my cousins alone; but lately the need of a few extensions and embellishments has caused itself to be felt. my cousin has undertaken them, regardless of expense; she has asked me to come and stay with her--board and lodging gratis--and keep an eye on the grammatical eccentricities of her _pensionnaires_. i am the extension, my good prosper; i am the embellishment! i live for nothing, and i straighten up the accent of the prettiest english lips. the english lips are not all pretty, heaven knows, but enough of them are so to make it a gaining bargain for me. just now, as i told you, i am in daily conversation with three separate pairs. the owner of one of them has private lessons; she pays extra. my cousin doesn't give me a sou of the money; but i make bold, nevertheless, to say that my trouble is remunerated. but i am well, very well, with the proprietors of the two other pairs. one of them is a little anglaise, of about twenty--a little _figure de keepsake_; the most adorable miss that you ever, or at least that i ever beheld. she is decorated all over with beads and bracelets and embroidered dandelions; but her principal decoration consists of the softest little gray eyes in the world, which rest upon you with a profundity of confidence--a confidence that i really feel some compunction in betraying. she has a tint as white as this sheet of paper, except just in the middle of each cheek, where it passes into the purest and most transparent, most liquid, carmine. occasionally this rosy fluid overflows into the rest of her face--by which i mean that she blushes--as softly as the mark of your breath on the window-pane. like every anglaise, she is rather pinched and prim in public; but it is very easy to see that when no one is looking _elle ne demande qu'a se laisser aller_! whenever she wants it i am always there, and i have given her to understand that she can count upon me. i have reason to believe that she appreciates the assurance, though i am bound in honesty to confess that with her the situation is a little less advanced than with the others. _que voulez-vous_? the english are heavy, and the anglaises move slowly, that's all. the movement, however, is perceptible, and once this fact is established i can let the pottage simmer. i can give her time to arrive, for i am over-well occupied with her _concurrentes_. _celles-ci_ don't keep me waiting, _par exemple_! these young ladies are americans, and you know that it is the national character to move fast. "all right--go ahead!" (i am learning a great deal of english, or, rather, a great deal of american.) they go ahead at a rate that sometimes makes it difficult for me to keep up. one of them is prettier than the other; but this hatter (the one that takes the private lessons) is really _une file prodigieuse_. _ah, par exemple, elle brule ses vais-seux cella-la_! she threw herself into my arms the very first day, and i almost owed her a grudge for having deprived me of that pleasure of gradation, of carrying the defences, one by one, which is almost as great as that of entering the place. would you believe that at the end of exactly twelve minutes she gave me a rendezvous? it is true it was in the galerie d'apollon, at the louvre; but that was respectable for a beginning, and since then we have had them by the dozen; i have ceased to keep the account. _non, c'est une file qui me depasse_. the little one (she has a mother somewhere, out of sight, shut up in a closet or a trunk) is a good deal prettier, and, perhaps, on that account _elle y met plus de facons_. she doesn't knock about paris with me by the hour; she contents herself with long interviews in the _petit salon_, with the curtains half-drawn, beginning at about three o'clock, when every one is _a la promenade_. she is admirable, this little one; a little too thin, the bones rather accentuated, but the detail, on the whole, most satisfactory. and you can say anything to her. she takes the trouble to appear not to understand, but her conduct, half an hour afterwards, reassures you completely--oh, completely! however, it is the tall one, the one of the private lessons, that is the most remarkable. these private lessons, my good prosper, are the most brilliant invention of the age, and a real stroke of genius on the part of miss miranda! they also take place in the _petit salon_, but with the doors tightly closed, and with explicit directions to every one in the house that we are not to be disturbed. and we are not, my good prosper; we are not! not a sound, not a shadow, interrupts our felicity. my _cousine_ is really admirable; the shop deserves to succeed. miss miranda is tall and rather flat; she is too pale; she hasn't the adorable _rougeurs_ of the little anglaise. but she has bright, keen, inquisitive eyes, superb teeth, a nose modelled by a sculptor, and a way of holding up her head and looking every one in the face, which is the most finished piece of impertinence i ever beheld. she is making the _tour du monde_ entirely alone, without even a soubrette to carry the ensign, for the purpose of seeing for herself _a quoi s'en tenir sur les hommes et les choses--on les hommes_ particularly. _dis donc_, prosper, it must be a _drole de pays_ over there, where young persons animated by this ardent curiosity are manufactured! if we should turn the tables, some day, thou and i, and go over and see it for ourselves. it is as well that we should go and find them _chez elles_, as that they should come out here after us. _dis donc, mon gras prosper_ . . . chapter viii from dr. rudolf staub, in paris, to dr. julius hirsch, at gottingen. my dear brother in science--i resume my hasty notes, of which i sent you the first instalment some weeks ago. i mentioned then that i intended to leave my hotel, not finding it sufficiently local and national. it was kept by a pomeranian, and the waiters, without exception, were from the fatherland. i fancied myself at berlin, unter den linden, and i reflected that, having taken the serious step of visiting the head-quarters of the gallic genius, i should try and project myself; as much as possible, into the circumstances which are in part the consequence and in part the cause of its irrepressible activity. it seemed to me that there could be no well-grounded knowledge without this preliminary operation of placing myself in relations, as slightly as possible modified by elements proceeding from a different combination of causes, with the spontaneous home-life of the country. i accordingly engaged a room in the house of a lady of pure french extraction and education, who supplements the shortcomings of an income insufficient to the ever-growing demands of the parisian system of sense- gratification, by providing food and lodging for a limited number of distinguished strangers. i should have preferred to have my room alone in the house, and to take my meals in a brewery, of very good appearance, which i speedily discovered in the same street; but this arrangement, though very lucidly proposed by myself; was not acceptable to the mistress of the establishment (a woman with a mathematical head), and i have consoled myself for the extra expense by fixing my thoughts upon the opportunity that conformity to the customs of the house gives me of studying the table-manners of my companions, and of observing the french nature at a peculiarly physiological moment, the moment when the satisfaction of the _taste_, which is the governing quality in its composition, produces a kind of exhalation, an intellectual transpiration, which, though light and perhaps invisible to a superficial spectator, is nevertheless appreciable by a properly adjusted instrument. i have adjusted my instrument very satisfactorily (i mean the one i carry in my good square german head), and i am not afraid of losing a single drop of this valuable fluid, as it condenses itself upon the plate of my observation. a prepared surface is what i need, and i have prepared my surface. unfortunately here, also, i find the individual native in the minority. there are only four french persons in the house--the individuals concerned in its management, three of whom are women, and one a man. this preponderance of the feminine element is, however, in itself characteristic, as i need not remind you what an abnormally--developed part this sex has played in french history. the remaining figure is apparently that of a man, but i hesitate to classify him so superficially. he appears to me less human than simian, and whenever i hear him talk i seem to myself to have paused in the street to listen to the shrill clatter of a hand-organ, to which the gambols of a hairy _homunculus_ form an accompaniment. i mentioned to you before that my expectation of rough usage, in consequence of my german nationality, had proved completely unfounded. no one seems to know or to care what my nationality is, and i am treated, on the contrary, with the civility which is the portion of every traveller who pays the bill without scanning the items too narrowly. this, i confess, has been something of a surprise to me, and i have not yet made up my mind as to the fundamental cause of the anomaly. my determination to take up my abode in a french interior was largely dictated by the supposition that i should be substantially disagreeable to its inmates. i wished to observe the different forms taken by the irritation that i should naturally produce; for it is under the influence of irritation that the french character most completely expresses itself. my presence, however, does not appear to operate as a stimulus, and in this respect i am materially disappointed. they treat me as they treat every one else; whereas, in order to be treated differently, i was resigned in advance to be treated worse. i have not, as i say, fully explained to myself this logical contradiction; but this is the explanation to which i tend. the french are so exclusively occupied with the idea of themselves, that in spite of the very definite image the german personality presented to them by the war of , they have at present no distinct apprehension of its existence. they are not very sure that there are any germans; they have already forgotten the convincing proofs of the fact that were presented to them nine years ago. a german was something disagreeable, which they determined to keep out of their conception of things. i therefore think that we are wrong to govern ourselves upon the hypothesis of the _revanche_; the french nature is too shallow for that large and powerful plant to bloom in it. the english-speaking specimens, too, i have not been willing to neglect the opportunity to examine; and among these i have paid special attention to the american varieties, of which i find here several singular examples. the two most remarkable are a young man who presents all the characteristics of a period of national decadence; reminding me strongly of some diminutive hellenised roman of the third century. he is an illustration of the period of culture in which the faculty of appreciation has obtained such a preponderance over that of production that the latter sinks into a kind of rank sterility, and the mental condition becomes analogous to that of a malarious bog. i learn from him that there is an immense number of americans exactly resembling him, and that the city of boston, indeed, is almost exclusively composed of them. (he communicated this fact very proudly, as if it were greatly to the credit of his native country; little perceiving the truly sinister impression it made upon me.) what strikes one in it is that it is a phenomenon to the best of my knowledge--and you know what my knowledge is--unprecedented and unique in the history of mankind; the arrival of a nation at an ultimate stage of evolution without having passed through the mediate one; the passage of the fruit, in other words, from crudity to rottenness, without the interposition of a period of useful (and ornamental) ripeness. with the americans, indeed, the crudity and the rottenness are identical and simultaneous; it is impossible to say, as in the conversation of this deplorable young man, which is one and which is the other; they are inextricably mingled. i prefer the talk of the french _homunculus_; it is at least more amusing. it is interesting in this manner to perceive, so largely developed, the germs of extinction in the so-called powerful anglo-saxon family. i find them in almost as recognisable a form in a young woman from the state of maine, in the province of new england, with whom i have had a good deal of conversation. she differs somewhat from the young man i just mentioned, in that the faculty of production, of action, is, in her, less inanimate; she has more of the freshness and vigour that we suppose to belong to a young civilisation. but unfortunately she produces nothing but evil, and her tastes and habits are similarly those of a roman lady of the lower empire. she makes no secret of them, and has, in fact, elaborated a complete system of licentious behaviour. as the opportunities she finds in her own country do not satisfy her, she has come to europe "to try," as she says, "for herself." it is the doctrine of universal experience professed with a cynicism that is really most extraordinary, and which, presenting itself in a young woman of considerable education, appears to me to be the judgment of a society. another observation which pushes me to the same induction--that of the premature vitiation of the american population--is the attitude of the americans whom i have before me with regard to each other. there is another young lady here, who is less abnormally developed than the one i have just described, but who yet bears the stamp of this peculiar combination of incompleteness and effeteness. these three persons look with the greatest mistrust and aversion upon each other; and each has repeatedly taken me apart and assured me, secretly, that he or she only is the real, the genuine, the typical american. a type that has lost itself before it has been fixed--what can you look for from this? add to this that there are two young englanders in the house, who hate all the americans in a lump, making between them none of the distinctions and favourable comparisons which they insist upon, and you will, i think, hold me warranted in believing that, between precipitate decay and internecine enmities, the english-speaking family is destined to consume itself; and that with its decline the prospect of general pervasiveness, to which i alluded above, will brighten for the deep-lunged children of the fatherland! chapter ix miranda hope to her mother. october d dear mother--i am off in a day or two to visit some new country; i haven't yet decided which. i have satisfied myself with regard to france, and obtained a good knowledge of the language. i have enjoyed my visit to madame de maisonrouge deeply, and feel as if i were leaving a circle of real friends. everything has gone on beautifully up to the end, and every one has been as kind and attentive as if i were their own sister, especially mr. verdier, the french gentleman, from whom i have gained more than i ever expected (in six weeks), and with whom i have promised to correspond. so you can imagine me dashing off the most correct french letters; and, if you don't believe it, i will keep the rough draft to show you when i go back. the german gentleman is also more interesting, the more you know him; it seems sometimes as if i could fairly drink in his ideas. i have found out why the young lady from new york doesn't like me! it is because i said one day at dinner that i admired to go to the louvre. well, when i first came, it seemed as if i _did_ admire everything! tell william platt his letter has come. i knew he would have to write, and i was bound i would make him! i haven't decided what country i will visit yet; it seems as if there were so many to choose from. but i shall take care to pick out a good one, and to meet plenty of fresh experiences. dearest mother, my money holds out, and it _is_ most interesting! every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. the usage of "nephew" to mean nephew or neice and "man" to mean man or woman has not been altered. some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text. (note of etext transcriber.) _the library of french fiction_ edited by barnet j. beyer two banks of the seine (les deux rives) by fernand vandÉrem _translated by_ george raffalovich [illustration: colophon] new york e. p. dutton & company fifth avenue copyright by e.p. dutton & company _all rights reserved_ _printed in the united states of america_ prefatory note _two banks of the seine_, by fernand vandérem, belongs to the class of literature immortalized by alphonse daudet. in it we catch the slightly ironic but good-natured tone familiar to those who have read _sapho_; and we perceive the author applying objective psychology to life--parisian life. for m. vandérem is not only gallic, but vitally parisian. his attitude towards men and women is sophisticated; but his art is always fresh and true. he is a realist who does not disdain to make use of romance when it suits his purpose. _two banks of the seine_ is an interesting story wherein the life of the latin quarter and that of the upper classes are brought into sharp contrast. this supplies the author with ample material suitable to his peculiar bent. he handles his material with clear vision, often with delicate sympathy, and never without humor. the men and women in the book are sketched with a sure pen, and are put and kept in motion by a firm hand. they are made to move about briskly before us and to speak with the accents of life. like all great novelists, m. vandérem is more interested in character and human relationships than in plot. his book is not so much a novel in the ordinary sense as a comedy of manners. our author knows his parisian well. he has studied him in the home and in the street; at work and at play. few contemporary novelists afford us a clearer insight into the workings of the mind of the elusive parisian, or a more intimate knowledge of his temperament. m. vandérem has written a number of novels besides _two banks of the seine_; it is sufficient to mention here his _charlie_ and his _la victime_, works of unusual merit. barnet j. beyer. th february, . contents chapter i. chapter ii. chapter iii. chapter iv. chapter v. chapter vi. chapter vii. chapter viii. chapter ix. chapter x. chapter xi. chapter xii. chapter xiii. chapter xiv. chapter xv. chapter xvi. chapter xvii. chapter xviii. chapter xix. two banks of the seine chapter i the carriage stopped at the gate of the collège de france; mme. chambannes alighted briskly. she did not take the trouble to close the door and, swinging her muff, hurried through the somber courtyard, where three pigeons wandered in the security that silence and solitude ensured them. through the panes of the glass door m. pageot, first usher of the collège, watched her approach, his thick mustache slightly lifted in a smile of sympathy. "another one!" he thought, remembering all the fashionable ladies whom he had seen come in during the last hour. this one, moreover, was very dainty. her small, fine, although bold, face, her astrakhan jacket and purple velvet toque with border of astrakhan to match, the curls of which mingled with her own brown hair, an aigrette of white feathers perched on the side, reminded him, reverence apart and minus the whiskers, of an old lithograph which hung above his bed, _murat, future king of naples, at the battle of eylau_. it was therefore with an eager hand that he opened the door for her. "what is it you wish, madame?" "if you please, where is the lecture on egyptology?" "m. raindal's lecture? there, you are facing the hall." she was rushing forward when m. pageot held her back with a calm gesture. "it is useless, madame! the hall is full, overcrowded.... moreover, you will not miss much, for it will be over in five minutes...." "thank you," acknowledged mme. chambannes, regretfully, adding, after a pause, "did you happen to see a tall, fair lady in a blue costume ... with a strapped jacket?" pageot tried to recollect. "see her? see her?... why, surely i saw her; but, madame, there are so many of them! upon my word, i do not remember having seen so many people at an opening lecture during the whole fifteen years that i have been an usher of the collège...." carelessly he straightened his light nickel chain, and added in the competent tone of one who knew, "i suppose they came on account of his book on cleopatra...." mme. chambannes nodded assent. at that moment the doors of the lecture hall swung back under the pressure of the departing audience and the huge hall suddenly resounded with a church-like sonorousness. "here, perhaps, is your friend in blue," said pageot, indicating a lady who was one of the first to come out. mme. chambannes hurried to stop mme. de marquesse, who exclaimed: "you!... well, i cannot say you are early! yet i only came here to please you!" "a letter i was expecting from gerald," apologized her friend. "i'll tell you about it later.... i was quite upset, i assure you.... well, tell me, was it at least all right inside there? was it worth the trouble?... did he speak of cleopatra?... was he very shocking?" mme. de marquesse assumed a roguish expression. "i don't know.... you are asking too much.... i am like the little girl in the play.... i saw nothing, i heard nothing.... standing, with rows of men in front of me and the smell of perspiration!... i won't be caught again.... or else i shall send my footman to book my seats in good time...." "how dreadful!" "oh, well, it might have been worse," replied mme. de marquesse protectively.... "goodness gracious! what a child you are, little zozé! here or elsewhere you will meet m. raindal again.... there is nothing lost.... and all this because m. de meuze turned your head with his blarney!..." "this has nothing to do with m. de meuze!" "with whom, then?... is it gerald?... if it isn't the father, then it must be the son.... do you really think that notorieties carry any weight with him?... how naïve you are!" "why not!" demanded mme. chambannes sarcastically. "with such ideas, in three months i shall succeed in having a salon like the pums or the silberschmidts.... thank you!... my system is not so absurd.... i know what i am doing!" then she added more cordially, "shall we watch them come out?" "if you like," replied mme. de marquesse. and they stood at one side in the narrow passage through which the audience filed out. it was obviously a public meant for show, a delegation of that brilliant civic guard with which paris keeps its successful glories surrounded. there were people from the literary salons, the "large circulation revues," the conservative periodicals that have none but authentic illustrations after the title-page; there were academicians, famous as well as obscure, thinkers, men with dreamy minds and men with reflective ones, jugglers of ideas, men who dug up questions and men who solved problems. there were the established mistresses of the tables where discussion takes place, plus their lively retinue of little women, little men, little young men, little old men, the whole flight of those who prattle, cackle, and giggle on the heights of art as sparrows do on the branches of trees; there were pretty faces, dull with powder, peeping out of soft sable collars; inquisitive silhouettes with military mustaches; voices that were disciplined in the practice of the correct phrase; brows that were furrowed by years of study or the persistent search for the witty word; smiles, furs, and whiffs of perfume. they called to each other; they bowed to each other; they exchanged the opinions they had or even those they were going to have--all this before the amazed eyes of a few outsiders who spoke their names in low, respectful voices. mme. chambannes seemed especially delighted with the spectacle. she had never been seriously tempted to belong to this élite. fate had directed her aims elsewhere, towards a simpler, a more human and tender object; and thither, despite contrary appearances, all her actions tended. but to witness the gossip, the coquetries and friendly encounters of those well-known people who were so often mentioned in the society columns, afforded her a naïve delight, a joy of the eye and of the mind which gave her miniature face quite a serious look of attention. suddenly she made an involuntary movement of surprise and touched mme. de marquesse. "do look at this one!" her glance indicated a poorly clad girl who was coming towards them, in a jacket of green cloth with marten revers which seemed even more worn than the dusty tulle bonnet pinned awry on her head. the girl, who had the haughty gait and the somewhat bitter, aggressive expression which fatigue, pride, and masculine worries often give to women of science, gave the two women an almost hostile look as she passed them, and approached the usher. "pageot, has my father come out?" she asked in a tone of authority. the usher quickly removed his skull cap. "no, mademoiselle.... shall i tell him that mademoiselle...." "thank you, pageot.... you will please tell him that i am waiting for him outside, near the gate...." "very well, mademoiselle!" and the usher ran to open the door for her. "do you know who she is?" he added mysteriously, as he turned back to mme. chambannes. "you don't know?... it is mlle. thérèse raindal, m. raindal's daughter!" * * * * * outside, mlle. raindal began to pace back and forth in front of the ancient gate, walking briskly up and down the pavement, her neck shrunk in her shoulders and her shoulders hunched forward like those of a sentry struggling against the cold. at intervals she would stop and throw a searching glance towards the steps at the end of the courtyard. through the window could be seen the meditative face of pageot, which had at that distance and in the thick ochreous air of that dark november afternoon, almost the complexion of a yellow-fever patient. but as m. raindal was not yet in sight, thérèse took up her sentry walk again, her elbows close to her body, her hands crossed inside her plush muff. gradually, as she paced back and forth, the line of her lips, almost as thin as a thread of rose silk, paled and all but vanished in a pouting expression. she was thinking of the approaching evening ordeal, the forced introduction which had been arranged for her at the house of m. lemeunier de saulvard, of the department of moral sciences,--an introduction to an unknown man who would be presented to her at a dance, a "possible husband," the man who would have a right to her kisses, to her flesh, and would thereafter spend all his nights beside her. one more to reject! the ninth one in ten years! "a young savant of the greatest merit," saulvard had written; "one of our rising hopes in assyriology, m. pierre boerzell...." m. boerzell! m. boerzell! she repeated the harsh, barbarous name. well, that "hope" would be no less sadly handicapped in the matter of good looks than the others before him! probably something like the podgy little man carrying a barrister's case who was coming in her direction on the other side of the street! instinctively she stopped to take a good look at the passer-by, her lips wickedly pursed and her eye aflame as at the sight of prey. then, with lips relaxed in a disdainful smile, she turned about, and shrugging her shoulders, murmured: "yes, probably one of that type!" she was suffering. as the wind bit her face, it seemed to her that something icy was gripping her heart. she remembered that other one--the man she had once lost--the runaway and defaulting fiancé, albert dastarac. ten years had passed since then, but there were still nights when, in her maidenly dreams, she fancied that she felt his maddening embraces and the lingering fragrance of his lips. who could have foreseen that the young _agrégé_ of history would prove so perfidious? that wheedling southerner, that seductive _albârt_, as his deep bass voice sounded his name! he was so caressing, so passionate; the director of the normal school had praised him so much! even now while she waited outside the gate in that icy mist, thérèse raindal could not believe in the actuality of that past betrayal; she could not explain it to herself or even understand it. images, daily called back to her memory, were so familiar and recent! she fancied she was beside albârt in her father's drawing-room in the rue notre-dame-des-champs. once more she saw his impudent profile, like that of a classical bandit, his splendid frame, his straight legs, his huge brown eyes with scarcely any white to be seen, and the fine black mustache which he curled with his tapering fingers, coppered by the use of tobacco. how he had made love to her during those eight days of their engagement! she was flat-chested; her mouth was bloodless, small, and narrowed as if drawn together by a cord; her complexion was dulled by that greenish tan which one acquires when shut away from the sun, amidst dusty books, in over-heated libraries or in the feverish air of lecture halls. albârt seemed to notice none of all those defects of which she was more conscious than anyone else and which often made her secretly unhappy. he saw nothing but her charms. he was always enraptured with her pale, straight nose chiselled like an antique, with her fierce gray eyes crowned with black velvet,--like those of minerva, he would say,--with the massive coils of her brown hair, which he wanted to take down and bathe his face in. and the tenderness of his words matched his ability to flatter. ceaselessly, ardently, and without reason, he called her, as in an invocation or a prayer, "_oh, ma theresoun! oh, ma chato!_" for her he sang slow provençal songs, mournful as the tunes played by distant hunting-horns, which mme. raindal, who was also from the south, accompanied as best she could on the piano, quiveringly singing the chorus with him. or, when he was alone with the young girl, he would sit at her feet on a stool of blue satin while she talked about the future,--how she would regulate the hours of his work, help him in his career, and push him on to the highest attainments. then suddenly, wildly, he would throw himself upon her and press her in his arms murmuring, "_ma theresoun!_" the stone-like biceps of his arm would roll against her flesh, his scented mustache would be close to her face, his fragrant lips meet hers, and she would throw back her head, her eyelids closed, with a longing to yield, to let the sweet balm of his kisses permeate all her being. then one morning an embarrassed letter had come from albârt. family matters compelled him to put off the wedding and to leave at once for st. gaudens, his native town. the young gentleman apologized, whined, protesting his sorrow. three weeks later, m. raindal had taken his daughter to the luxembourg, as one would lead a convalescent to take a little rest in the spring air of the gardens; there thérèse saw her fiancé, the spruce and lively dastarac, with a young girl on his arm, a short, thin, sickly creature, the third daughter of m. gaussine, professor of the sumarian language at the sorbonne, who was walking behind them. "come along, child," murmured m. raindal, trying to lead his daughter away. "yes, they are to be married. i only heard of it yesterday!... maître gaussine has a reputation for getting good positions for his sons-in-law.... this is what must have attracted our rascal.... come on, i'll explain to you...." but she had stood still, unable to move, although she could hardly keep from screaming aloud in her pain. she had been on the verge of fainting. what an outrageous memory! then came the ghastly days in her room, still impregnated with the rogue's perfume,--the long hours of day dreams, when she had taken her vows of renunciation, swearing henceforth to devote herself to a life of study as others are driven by despair into religion! in spite of her work, however, and of the long years that had passed since then, she had been unable to dismiss from her mind, no matter how much learning she had crowded it with, the tenacious image of the charming albârt, who, notwithstanding the offices of his father-in-law, was said to be buried miles away from paris, in an obscure lycée of provence. thérèse was still dazzled by the memory of his caresses, as were those mortals of antiquity whom a god had loved. he remained her mourned husband, the masterful lord of her secret life; and when they wanted to marry her, to give her to another man, it was always he who came between, who took her back, resurrecting in her austere frame his theresoun of old, his captivated theresoun. invisible to all others, but present to her, he would seem to be there, hand on hip, his knee bent in that swaggering attitude of bravado, murmuring with sneering lips, "but look, _ma chato_, look, compare us!... is it possible ... after me?" it was true; how could she stoop--betray him! and so in a few brusque words the new suitor was always dismissed. "so you don't want him, child?" m. raindal would ask pitifully, only to be met with a refusal so sharp and angry, and like a blow that it left him dazed, reduced him to silence, and effectively prevented any further argument. * * * * * "well, dear, are we ready?... i was delayed by a newspaper man, a reporter who interviewed me on cleopatra, the english in egypt ... and i don't know what.... tell me, you did not feel too impatient?" thérèse started on hearing the jovial voice of her father. "no, no, i was thinking; i was working, walking up and down." "good! i am glad of it...." and as one does to a friend or a colleague, he took her arm and rapidly led her towards the boulevard st. michel. people turned to look as they passed, puzzled by the strange couple: this officer of the légion d'honneur, an old gentleman with a white beard, and a girl who looked like a school teacher, walking arm in arm tenderly. some attempted a guess; some instinctively smiled, moved by vague sympathetic ideas. sometimes students who knew the master by sight purposely stared at him to win a glance for themselves, or even, moved by respect, saluted him. m. raindal perceived this homage only confusedly. he was now concentrating all his attention on questioning thérèse to ascertain her exact opinion of his opening lecture. was she satisfied? had it gone well? it was not too long? and the peroration, what had she thought that? had he done right in dismissing those loungers and snobs who had dared to invade his lecture hall, his own quiet little chapel? "oh, yes!" thérèse replied. "although i might say you were a little too severe and scornful." "never enough so!... it may be good for the sorbonne to have all those fine ladies and their tame cats.... but as for us, we want none but workers, true apprentices...." then he digressed into a diffuse commentary on the duties, the dignity, and the aim of the collège de france. science! le collège de france! there lay his faith, his church, and he had no other! thérèse knew by heart the order and the verses of these fiery litanies, and let him proceed without interruption. "never mind, child," he concluded, out of breath. "they have had their warning. i think we shall not see them again.... moreover, this affluence has its reasons.... it is another miracle of our _cleopatra_." "oh, _our_ cleopatra!" thérèse protested. "yes, yes, ours. i maintain the word...." following the natural bent which leads one to talk of oneself, he recalled the phases of his disconcerting triumph: fame that had come in a night, the whole press, the reviews, and the salons working together to make him famous; five thousand copies sold in three weeks; articles every night, every morning ... everywhere--those papers which fell into line later proving more ardent than the first ones, thus seeking in the fervor of their adhesion an excuse for the shame of their delay; letters, interviews, requests for articles, portraits and autographs. success, in one word,--that imperial investiture, with its long, endless offerings, delirious praetorians, and even the intolerant enthusiasm that forces the jealous to wait, which paris sometimes gives to its elect. and to whom did m. raindal owe it all? who had suggested to him the subject of this book three years ago? who had thought of a _life of cleopatra_, written from the national egyptian point of view, and deriving its inspiration from indigenous documents and the popular sentiments of the period? and then who had helped him to the very end, faithfully seconded him in the heavy task? who had classified the material, copied the papyri, transcribed the inscriptions, and read the proofs over and over, one by one, with the exception of the latin notes? who had.... "but, i say, where are you leading me now!" he exclaimed, abandoning the tone of friendly custody which he had assumed in reciting his eulogy of her. thérèse smiled tenderly. "there you are, father; that's what you get for exaggerating.... one forgets everything, one doesn't know where one is any more.... i am leading you to the _bon marché_, where i am going to buy gloves for to-night...." "ah, yes, the dance!" m. raindal sighed, as if he had already received the customary blow of a refusal. then he went on: "well, no! i must leave you.... i am going to climb up to your uncle cyprien's; i want to inquire how his rheumatism is to-day and whether he is coming to dine with us to-night...." before the church of st. germain-des-prés, they stopped in the midst of the melancholy crowd standing about the street-car office and shook hands firmly, like two comrades. "au revoir, dear, i'll see you a little later." "au revoir, father." thérèse crossed the street, while m. raindal gathered up his leather case, which was slipping from his elbow, and slowly and with deliberation, as if weighed down by his thoughts, ventured into the rue bonaparte. chapter ii m. cyprien raindal lived on the sixth floor of an old house that stood at the corner of the rue vavin and the rue d'assas, in an apartment made up of two large rooms, the windows of which gave him a limitless vista over the yoke-elm trees of the luxemburg. he was a thick-set, sanguine man, about forty-five years old, and wore his hair close-cropped, like soldiers in the african colonies. by temperament he was irritable and rebellious. as early as his elder brother had secured him a place in the ministry of industry, from which, however, had it not been for the same powerful intervention of eusèbe raindal, he would several times have been dismissed. born at the unfortunate period of their father's life, when m. raindal had been put out of the university for being an accomplice of barbès and was reduced to coaching at two francs a lesson, it seemed as if the son had inherited a taste for political opposition. he had detested in turn each government which his functions compelled him to serve, the second empire, m. thiers, the seize-mai, and the subsequent rule of "opportunism." finally, in , when the trunks of general boulanger were seized, a card bearing cyprien's name was found therein upon which he had written the cordial exhortation, "bravo, general! forward! the whole country stands with you!" cyprien raindal was on the eve of being promoted; but called to the office of the minister, his lips already shaping words of gratitude, he received instead the notification of his dismissal. the blow struck him as he was breathing the very spirit of peace; it was like an unexpected insult, like a blow upon the cheek that had been offered for a kiss. murmuring threats and words of rage, he had returned to his desk, and then had rushed out to order new visiting-cards, on which appeared under his name, _ancien sous-chef de bureau au ministère de l'industrie_, and one of these he had himself nailed up on the door of his apartment. but his vengeance had stopped there. the official mind within him forbade his persisting in what was almost the usurpation of a title, and he finally decided to burn the rest of the deceptive cards. moreover, in spite of the affair, his brother was endeavoring to secure him the benefit of his pension,--three thousand francs, without which he would have been plunged into the most undignified misery. he waited, holding himself in check for a few weeks, and only began to express himself with freedom when his pension had been officially liquidated. when that was done, however, the fury of his opinions and the violence of his language burst forth terribly, like explosives that have been too long compressed. thirty years of exasperation, hitherto repressed by the necessity of existing and the fear of his superiors, rushed out through his lips in avalanches that seemed to be inexhaustible. he wished at first to reduce his hatred to a formula, to justify his discontent with some sort of principles, and he inclined towards socialism. unfortunately, however, he was lost in questions of capital and wages; statistics bored him and political economy upset him with its systems, which were always either unstable or denied by rival experts. by taste, if not by conviction, he was bourgeois; by education he was, like his brother, non-religious; by force of habit he was a waster of red-tape. what he needed was a more human and less subversive doctrine, theories easy to master, morality rather than figures, and sentiment rather than deduction. thus, gradually and by himself, he had built up a social creed which allowed him elbow room, as would a suit of clothes made to order. firmly persuaded that he was the victim of injustice, he longed to see justice enthroned. the punishment of evildoers, the death or exile of the thieves, a general return to honest life and the crushing of iniquity--these he wished to see in the first place. later? well, one would see about the rest. let the people obtain that much purification, and they would settle the remainder in the best way possible. m. raindal, junior, was not one of those swaggering dreamers who promise to destroy and rebuild society as if it were the hut of a road-mender. he knew how powerful was tradition, how necessary the family, and he appreciated the indispensable charm of freedom. before doing away with that, let frenchmen think about clearing the country from the vermin that infested it. if the chance offered itself, uncle cyprien would not refuse his help. he declared himself ready to go with them any day that the "comrades" would proceed en masse to seize in their own mansions the prevaricators, the jews, and the pillars of the church whose coalition kept down france as with a three-pronged fork. it was his own comparison, and he repeated it readily with much bragging about getting his head broken and breaking the heads of many others. his reading of the newspapers of the opposition had thoroughly fitted him for a place in the ranks of those sincere justice-lovers whom the death of the rebel general had left without a head but not without a hope. instinctively he turned towards the pamphleteers who denounced the enemies of the weak or supported the victims against their oppressors. by a curious anomaly he had in turn discovered within himself all the hatreds, no matter how incongruous, with which these masters stirred up the flames. rochefort had helped him to find in his heart the hatred of all politicians; with paul bert or his disciples he had discerned in himself a hatred for the priests and all devout catholics; with drumont, hatred for jews and exotics. he was always reading the articles and the books of these pamphleteers and could quote whole passages from memory. his conversation showed this; it was discordant with the most diverse insults. the words _chequard_ (grafter), _repu_ (bloated), _panamist_ (one compromised in the panama scandals), _calotin_ (priest-ridden), _cafard_ (canting rascal), _ratichon_ (bigot), joined to those of _youtre_ (jew), _youpin_ (jew), or _rasta_ (short for _rastaquouère_ and meaning an exotic mongrel or levantine) vibrated all at once like the "sustained bass" of his indignations. his virulence when he discussed sociology in the presence of strangers was a cause of deep grievance to his family. when he heard the bell of his apartment he jumped from the little green rep-covered couch where he was dozing and, slightly limping and holding his back with one hand, he opened the door. a smile lit his face the moment he recognized m. raindal. "i am very glad to see you!" exclaimed cyprien, after the two brothers had kissed as usual. "come this way.... i had so many things to read to you...." "and how are you?" asked m. raindal, as he followed him. "how do you feel now? are you coming to dine to-night?" "why, yes, indeed; i shall certainly come." and, entering the room in which he used to receive, cyprien affectionately laid his hand on his brother's shoulder and said, "now, sit down and listen to this." hastily he began a search among the newspapers which littered his couch. they were unfolded, crumpled or piled up so that only odd letters from their large titles could be seen. all those scattered newspapers were a sick man's debauch, a fond indulgence--a luxury, a treat he offered himself when he was kept at home by rheumatism. otherwise he only read the papers at the café or at the brasserie, and in small doses--perhaps two or three aggressive sheets, which gave a delightful sensation of warmth to his brain after lunch, as the small glass of cognac he usually took burned his throat. when at last he had sorted them and found the three which he sought he flourished them with a rattling noise. "here is something!" he said. "rich and delightful!... enough to amuse me and to make you swell with pride.... first of all, of course, what amuses me...." he read the first article in victorious tones. in discreet but pitiless terms the writer announced as imminent the arrest of a senator, an ex-minister and deputy, well-known for his intrigues, his accommodating complacency towards the banking interests and his clerical tendencies; and the government was congratulated for that forthcoming show of energy. "you see," uncle cyprien said, when he had finished reading, "i don't know who it is.... i thought about it for hours.... i couldn't find the name ... and yet, i must admit the news caused me to pass a very pleasant day.... it is high time that all those scoundrels were swept out.... one more in jail! i score one!..." he smiled at his own merriment and added, with his two hands on his knees: "well, what do you think about it? it is getting serious! all these rotten gatherings are bursting open!" m. raindal hesitated. he wished to avoid controversy or, at least, to adjourn it and to thrash the matter out only after his brother had read the other articles. trained by his profession and by personal inclination to consider things through the immensity of time, in the infinite span of past and future centuries, he was not so much indifferent to his own time as disdainful of it. whenever his brother goaded him into discussing politics he felt more scared and ill at ease than if he had had to argue upon a matter of taboo with a savage chief of polynesia in the latter's own language. "of course! to be sure!..." he declared. "we are living in a troubled period.... there are many abuses.... how can it be helped?... concussion is the plague of democracies.... polybius said so...." "ah, leave me alone with your polybius!" uncle cyprien interrupted, shaking his head as if to disentangle himself from his brother's aphorisms. "why not simply tell me that we are governed by rogues?... it will be truer and quicker...." then he felt somewhat ashamed of having thus chided his illustrious elder brother whom he worshiped in the depths of his tormented soul. "oh, well, don't get angry.... it's your fault, after all.... you get on my nerves with your vague, high-sounding sentences.... see, to earn my forgiveness ... the portrait of m. eusèbe raindal, the man of the day, the family's standard, the glory of the french egyptology, with the history of his life from the most remote times to our own days! tara! tara! ta-ta-ta-ta!..." he gave his brother the second newspaper and marched round the room sounding through his rounded fingers a triumphal march, as in the days gone by, at the office, he had celebrated the success of some colleague. m. raindal's eyes stared at the paper which his long-sightedness compelled him to hold at arm's length. yes, that coarse-printed, ill-reproduced portrait, that was himself, his own strong nose, his white beard and benevolent face--a true senator's face, as uncle cyprien assured him. below his biography were spread out dates and yet more dates, all the titles of his books, one after the other, giving no more inkling of his life, his ideas, the joys and sorrows of his manhood than the milestones on the road or the posts at the crossings give one any idea of the places one goes through. to him, however, these dry figures and words were as alive as his own human flesh. his lips trembled in a nervous smile. vanity overflowed from his heart to his face. he blushed with shame as if he felt directed towards him the stares of the crowd which, this very day, was looking at his features. however, his innate sense of propriety caused him to collect himself, and he said calmly: "entirely correct! i am much obliged to you. i'll carry it home...." he rose to take his leave. a gesture from cyprien caused him to resume his seat. "wait! wait!... that's not all. now comes the unpleasant part!... you are insulted in the _fléau_, a filthy rag written by _calotins_ and read by all the rich jews.... here, listen to this!... it is awful!" cyprien began to read in a voice that trembled with sarcasm but even more with anger: academic indiscretions the commission that is to bestow the vital-gerbert prize of fifteen thousand francs upon the best history book of the year will shortly meet at the french academy. if one is to believe the rumors, the fight will be a hot one as there are several candidates. we are assured that one of them is m. eusèbe raindal, of the institute, the author of that _life of cleopatra_ which a certain section of the press has much boomed within the last month. m. raindal's candidacy, however, meets with serious opposition in academic circles. several members consider the success of his book to be largely due to the obscene details which abound in it and which have attracted a special class of readers. without desiring in any way to prejudice this delicate controversy, we are nevertheless compelled to admit that this book is one of the most immoral productions which have for a long time been published by a member of the institute. the footnotes especially, although written in latin, show signs of a revolting indecency. the author may claim in his defense that he has merely translated egyptian pamphlets of the period and that, moreover, he has translated them only into latin. it is nevertheless a fact that, wittingly or otherwise, he has given publicity to a mass of veritable filth. we know that history has its rights and the historian his duties. but m. raindal will have some difficulty in establishing that it was his duty as a historian to show us cleopatra coughing out disgusting words in the most abject surrenders of her love-making or going one better in the shameless expressions of debauchery than a female nero. we think it is for other works, that treat of wider questions, and from a social and lofty point of view, that the academic prizes should be reserved. the "immortals" of the academy must decide whether we are right or wrong. to prove our contention they have this year only the difficulty of selection. cyprien kneaded the paper into a ball and threw it on the floor. "well," he concluded, "a pretty savage attack!... it has no importance whatsoever since, as i told you, only jews read this letter.... however, if you were to authorize me, i should be very glad to go and pull the ears of the sneak who let his pen...." m. raindal's face had grown pale with suffering as his brother had proceeded with his reading. he lifted his hand with a philosophical gesture and murmured in a voice that he had not yet steadied: "no use.... these are the little come-backs of fame.... and then, i know the source!" "who?" "i am sure that it was inspired, if not written, by my colleague and competitor saulvard.... lemeunier de saulvard, of the sciences morales.... i recognize his hand.... he wants the prize for his _history of the freed men in the roman empire_.... i am in his way.... he gets someone to vilify me.... it is a classical method.... one can only be sorry for the wretch and smile...." m. raindal gave a painful smile, but his throat was obstructed by that rage, like bitter gall, which one feels under patent injustice. he spat out the word: "obscene!" he paused awhile, then, his voice relieved, he repeated: "obscene!... no, i had never heard that in the course of my career; yet i have seen much jealousy, smallness of mind and calumny among members of my profession.... if you knew what sewers run under what is called the pure regions of science!... and the filth that is poured down in them! obscene!... after a career like mine!... the scoundrels!" he laughed disdainfully. "ha! ha!... to call a man obscene who led an almost pure, blameless youth!... a man who has worked twelve hours a day for the last forty years.... it is all they have found.... see! i am laughing!... it is too amusing! it is too funny for words!" his brother cyprien remained silent so as to allow full swing to this revolt, the vehemence of which was a delight to his own instincts. he pressed his brother's hand. "that's right! that's the way to speak.... i can see you are a true raindal. you do not like to be goaded.... you kick.... that's right! i hope when you meet that person...." "i am seeing him to-night," m. raindal said, putting a sudden damper on his eagerness. "to-night?" the ex-official muttered with surprise. "how?... where?..." "at his house.... he is giving a dance...." "and you are going?" "well, yes!... a marriage for thérèse.... a young man, a young savant, is to be introduced to us." cyprien laid a hand on the polished dome of his head and said dreamily: "ah! ah! a match for my nephew." (he always called thérèse his nephew because of her masculine ways.) "good! that is a reason.... well, i have an idea that my nephew will not accept that young savant.... however, you are right; one has to see.... but be cautious! your saulvard seems to me utterly worthless ... and i would not be inclined to trust anything that came from that quarter...." m. raindal rose to his feet. "don't worry. i shall look out.... besides, you are wrong.... when his ambitions are not concerned saulvard is not such a bad fellow...." cyprien whistled incredulously: "phew!... that may be.... well, see you later ... seven o'clock." and he accompanied his brother to the top of the steps. the lamp-posts were lit outside when m. raindal reached his home in the rue notre-dame-des-champs. rapidly he put on his brown smoking-jacket and his felt slippers, and passed quietly through the dark hall towards his study. two large rectangular oak tables, face to face as in a bank, almost filled the room. thérèse was sitting at one of them, writing by the light of an oil lamp. the green cardboard shade threw back on her the crude light which her bowed forehead reflected in spots. "already at work!" m. raindal exclaimed. he took her head between his two hands as one does with a little girl and kissed her with a recrudescent selfish tenderness, with that need for a closer contact which those who are dear to us inspire after we have suffered from the wickedness of others. she released herself with a smile, and said gently: "let me alone, father!... i am reading the proofs of your article for _la revue_. they are coming for them at . . you can see that there is no time to lose." "quite right! i obey," m. raindal said. he sat facing her at the other table and took up some papers on which he began to make notes. everything was dark about the room with the exception of a few golden threads shining in the texture of the gold curtains and the thin yellow circle which the lamp threw on the ceiling. the only sounds were the somewhat halting breathing of m. raindal, the crackling of the coke in the fireplace, and now and then a neighboring bell giving out at long intervals a few isolated, mournful sounds. suddenly the master exclaimed: "what about your mother?... has she come home yet?" "no," thérèse replied, "but she will not be long.... she cannot be much longer." and without ceasing to write, she added with a slight touch of sarcasm: "it seemed to me.... no, i ought not to tell you.... well, since i have begun, let it go!... i thought before i came in that i saw mother entering the church of st. germain-des-prés!" "again!" m. raindal murmured with a tone of commiseration.... "that is at least the second time since this morning.... it is deplorable!" thérèse smiled and looked at her father. "what can you expect?... it makes her happy and soothes her!" m. raindal made a melancholy grimace. he, a philosophical and contemptuous atheist, whose only faith was in science, whom religious faith, even on the part of his friends, irritated as a proof of lack of understanding--had he not done everything he could in the past to bring to his wife that calm happiness which he enjoyed? if mme. raindal had not forgotten, she better than anyone else could testify to the patience and abnegation with which he had done so!... it had been an unpleasant surprise. mlle. desjannières was so gay and merry, so childish, despite her twenty years; her father, a marseilles barrister, who had chanced to seek his fortune in egypt, was such a brilliant talker, such a good fellow, a singer of such catchy tunes! no one could have suspected the secret fervor at work in the mind of the girl. well, m. raindal had not minded because he was in love with his fiancée. he would take care of her, cure her of it! on the very day that had followed their wedding in alexandria, and later in paris where they had settled, he had begun the cure and pursued it methodically. every day he had discussed it with his wife for hours, preached to her and reasoned with her. she had lent herself willingly to the régime and tried in her tenderness to surmount her fears. after three months, one morning, she threw herself on her knees before her husband, weeping and crying for mercy. she begged him to put a stop to the martyrdom, to let her return to the confessional. in presence of her affliction, m. raindal had been compelled to agree. she was moved by a superhuman force, an unconquerable fear, the dread of the punishments which follow sin. an old provençal maid, a kind of domestic dante, had inoculated her when she was quite young with the germs of the sickness. in the evenings she had described to her, as if she had been there herself, the lurid sights, the burning horrors, the eternal pangs which torment the sinners in the lands of hell, the pains of damnation, the torments of the senses, the howls, the moans, the diabolical contortions. and as the child grew up, her soul became gradually narrower at the flame of those tales, more sensitive, more fearful of sins. the slightest of them weighed upon her as an irremissible fault, a thorny burden that choked her heart. she must needs at once rush to a priest, unload before his indulgence that weight of anguish which was heavier than a load of lead. often as she emerged from a sanctuary she was halted by a scruple, by the semblance of a neglect which brought her hastily back to implore once more the help of the priest as he left the sacred enclosure. and since her marriage, for the last thirty-two years, she had been living thus, forever urged toward churches by new torments of her conscience, hiding her terrors when at home, unable to dominate them when outside, dreading the sarcasm of her family and weeping over their damnation. "her happiness! her peace of mind!" m. raindal was grunting as he wrote.... "if only she had had the energy to trust me with them." * * * * * just then the doorbell rang hurriedly twice. "hark!" the master said. "here comes your mother.... i am anxious to hear what she has to say...." mme. raindal stood on the threshold. a long quilted silk cape, lined with minever and slightly worn about the shoulders, encased her form. all out of breath, she panted: "wait!" her hand went under the cape and lay over her heart to suppress its beating. she explained: "i climbed the stairs too fast." "sit down! rest yourself!" m. raindal said calmly. "no, no! it is passed! i feel better!" she unhooked her cape and went to kiss her husband, then her daughter. her cheeks carried the frost of the wind outside; they were cold as a window pane; she was still panting as she bent over each of them. "where have you been, to return so late?" m. raindal inquired, without lifting his eyes from his work. she protested. "so late!... but it is not 'so late'!... it is not more than . .... i went to guerbois, to order a pie for to-night.... cyprien's coming to dinner, isn't he?" "oh, yes ... cyprien's coming." she did not dwell on the matter. she was choking with a new fear; she had almost sinned by telling an untruth. she poked the red lumps of coke and lowered the wick of the smoking lamp. then, feeling the weight of the silence which was pregnant with irony and with suspicion perhaps, she left the room, her cheeks now suddenly aflame, her breast heavy with sighs. thérèse and her father simultaneously raised their heads and exchanged a knowing smile. "did you hear that?... her pie?..." he shrugged his shoulders quite discouraged. the young girl murmured with compassion: "poor mother!... she is so kind!..." chapter iii at about a quarter to six, uncle cyprien went to his small dark kitchenette to polish his shoes before going out. he intended to go to the klapproth brasserie in the rue vavin to join his old friend, johann schleifmann, and talk for an hour with him while drinking an _apéritif_. people who knew the younger m. raindal's antisemitism were surprised at his intimacy with that galician jew. but when he was asked about it, cyprien showed not the slightest embarrassment. far from it! he eyed his inquirer from head to foot, shrugged his shoulders and then informed him--if he cared to know--that schleifmann was the best man in the world. he had associated with him for ten years and never had had any cause to complain of him. these inquiries, moreover, seemed to him futile, because, he could vouch for it, schleifmann, although a jew, was as "much of an anti-semite as you or i." cyprien voiced an exaggeration when he said this, or at least, he was misinterpreting his friend's feelings. schleifmann could not be classified among those cautious jews who deny their jewry through fear of prejudice, or because they cringe before the majority, or through worldly or professional self-interest. his anti-semitism, on the contrary, was made up of sheer love for his race and atavistic pride. if he appeared anti-semitic, it must have been in the fashion of a jeremiah, an isaiah or an amos. in sooth, the bitter spirit of the ancient prophets animated his heart. he cursed the men of his religion merely because they were shirking the destinies of israel and let themselves be corrupted by trifling vanities instead of ruling the world by the influence of thought. this semitic pride had even been the cause of all the difficulties of his adventurous life. he was a doctor of philosophy of lemberg university who early in life had neglected the ancient mosaic law in order to embrace the more recent creed which was spreading over the world--socialism. according to him, the jews had been the initiators of that new faith as they had been of the other one. karl marx and lassalle were to him the modern messengers of jehovah upon earth, sent to bring forth the new gospel and the economic religion of the future. he considered their books as almost holy and rejoiced at seeing once more the divine jewish supremacy asserted by their writings. he was affiliated with the principal socialist groups of the city and carried on an active propaganda in the poor districts. three months in a fortress and ten years' exile put a sudden stop to his zeal, if not to his convictions. while in prison he had carefully thought out the place where he would seek asylum on leaving. life would be very painful to him in austria or in germany, where he would be watched by the police and exposed to the attacks of the anti-semites. he decided upon a temporary stay in france where he went towards the end of . he thought he would make a living by teaching german, philosophy or the natural sciences. warm letters of introduction had been given him by viennese jews to their relatives and fellow-jews of paris. thus he rapidly obtained a certain amount of patronage which placed him beyond want and even earned him comfort. soon, however, and of his own free will, schleifmann was to lose that comfort owing to an idealistic ambition and a mania to put his ideas into effect and to bring the jews back to their hereditary duties. he had noticed in eastern europe the contagious progress of anti-semitism and was deeply convinced that the anti-jewish microbe would pursue its unrelenting march westward, successively invading france, england, the new world and finally the whole of christendom. this tendency must be resisted, fought and destroyed. as to the means of doing it, schleifmann had a very clear theory, which he claimed to have derived from the very sources of the purest judaism. it was simple. all that was needed was for the wealthy jews to return to the traditions of their race whose almost divine mission was to supply the nations with moral examples, their brains with ideas and their hearts with a religion. to accomplish this purpose they were to repudiate their past errors, leave the worldly and clerical society where they grew soft at the expense of their dignity, return to the fold of democracy whence they had sprung, employ their rare abilities in the defense of the weak, the triumph of the right, and enforce victory against injustice. finally, keeping back nothing but a personal income, in no case to exceed ten thousand francs, they were to give up all their acquired riches, the whole of which would be used in national, popular or colonizing schemes. such, in brief, were the main practical means by which schleifmann intended to secure the salvation and glory of the lord's chosen people. after a few months in paris, he thought the moment was favorable for him to lay his daring plan of regeneration before the parents of his pupils, the clergy and the notables of jewry. his illusions of success were short-lived. the jews of high finance had recently fought the first round with the catholics. some said they had been helped by the cabinet. others, that they had enjoyed the secret approval of a government which had long been in sympathy with the jewish cause. others again, more conservative in their estimate, claimed that the jews enjoyed the "non-official sympathy" of the administration to which the revolt of the wealthy catholic families caused much anxiety. in fine, whether supported or alone, the jews had won and now they were blinded by the enthusiasm of their victory. never had their conceited arrogance been more insane nor their trust in the efficacy of the law more dense. schleifmann was everywhere repulsed. the rabbis were afraid that he might place them in a difficult position with high finance, whose members were all powerful in the consistory; they begged him not to persist in his dangerous utopias. the rich and the half-rich dismissed him with a few dry words or with scornful jesting. very few cared to enter into discussion with him. they would give a fatherly pat to the obstinate galician and ask him whether it was really himself, m. schleifmann, a wise and learned man, who prattled such nonsense. anti-semitism! that was all very well in germanic lands, or in slavic countries where--they had to say it, but with no desire to offend him personally--the jews were ... well, he knew well enough what! but in france, in the land of all the liberties, on the beautiful soil of france, the mother of revolutions and of the sublime declaration of the rights of man, never, never, never at all, he ought to know, would anti-semitism flourish. thereupon they would burst out laughing and offer him a cigar. these unfortunate rebuffs were not the only punishment met by schleifmann. many parents became alarmed at his theories and withdrew their children from his care. he was left with barely a third of his patrons, making just enough to live on, or rather enough not to perish of want. the wreck was thorough, but he faced it with courage. in order to prepare for such possible contingencies as sickness, he sold all his furniture, all his books but a hundred odd volumes which he termed indispensable. he kept his bible, the _imitation_ of á kempis, goethe, spinoza, shakespeare, mendelssohn, renan, taine, victor hugo's poetical works and the writings of socialist leaders. then he took a large, well-lighted room on the sixth floor of a house in the rue de fleurus and waited, while reading, for fortune and humanity to change. three whole years passed by and he was beginning to doubt his own prophetic acumen when, suddenly, the events occurred that restored to him his faith. despite what he had been told, anti-semitism was beginning to germinate and blossom in the beautiful land of france. it had come through the fertilizing agency of the envy and resentments of some, of the clumsiness and the extortions of others. the ardent crop was growing daily in spite of regulations and legal fences, in spite of the laws and the proclaimed rights of man. johann schleifmann was joyfully complacent at first, then deeply sorrowful. he followed the affair, always divided between these opposite feelings. he deplored the cruel, partial attacks levelled at his co-religionists; but he could not free himself from a certain feeling of pride that he had predicted them. the more unfairly they were abused, the more his anger rose against them. fools! poor wretches! had they but been willing! when the social columns told of their magnificent garden-parties, of their deer-and fox-hunting and of their _raouts_, he sneered wickedly, yet with sadness. he repeated the words aloud in a sarcastic tone or uttered them as so many curses: "garden-parties! _raouts!_ fox-hunting!..." yes, they could "receive" and "dance" and "ride out." those fellows were making the most of it! he was carried away, indignant, at the thought that so much money was stupidly thrown away, when, had they with a kind hand but given a portion of it to the people, it would have served a generous cause and settled and repaired everything. it was about that time that he had become acquainted with m. cyprien raindal at the brasserie klapproth where they both took their meals. they had liked each other from the first words they had exchanged. they were mutually attracted. their nationalities were different, their religions antagonistic, their temperaments divergent but they found out that they shared the same grudges and detested the same castes. curiosity also helped to foster their association. schleifmann was to uncle cyprien a real mine of exceptional documents upon which he could feed his hatreds, and schleifmann saw in him an unregarded specimen of the enemies of his race. moreover, they cherished in secret their own plans concerning each other. the galician wanted to convert his friend to the theories of karl marx; while the younger m. raindal had sworn to himself that he would convert the exiled philosopher from his internationalistic views. above all other motives, poverty united them, that poverty which kneads all the lowly into an identical paste, merges them into one family, transforms them into brothers and allies--age, origin or any other obstacle notwithstanding. hence, they had hardly spent a day during the past ten years without meeting outside or visiting each other in their respective garrets. * * * * * cyprien raindal was ready and opened his door to go out. he fell back a step, surprised on seeing johann schleifmann himself, preparing to ring. "you!" "surely, it is i!..." schleifmann replied in a voice which the constant use of the hebrew language had rendered somewhat nasal and slow. "i did not see you yesterday and so i came to ascertain whether you were not ill...." "oh, it is nothing at all; a mere touch of rheumatism, my wretched rheumatism.... come in, come in, please," the younger m. raindal added, removing his own hat. "it seems as if we had not chatted for ages!" he closed the door and pulled his old friend johann by the sleeve. schleifmann replied with a smile. "yes, let us talk! as a matter of fact, i have brought you the surprise which i mentioned the other day.... here, enjoy yourself!..." he threw on the table a book bound in reddish linen, on the back of which was printed in black letters: _year book of french finance_. while cyprien examined the volume, schleifmann half-stretched himself on the couch, following a sarcastic trend of ideas. his was the type of the eastern jew, a kalmuk face with a wax-like complexion, a flat nose, turned up at the tip and with broad nostrils and small, yellowish eyes that shone with malice. his gray hair and beard were crisp and curly like wool; to correct his shortsightedness, he wore large gold-rimmed spectacles, the supreme elegance of teutonic university men. suddenly he exclaimed in his usual slow, dragging voice: "there are enough names in there!... jews, moslems, christians, yes, and goyim, too.... names from all countries and all religions.... it is to these names that the whole wealth of the land belongs.... they are all the names of those who fleece and grind us; you understand, my dear raindal?... one of these names at the bottom of a paper is better than a cartridge of dynamite under a house.... it makes the millions dance as oranges fly from the hands of a juggler.... but, god be praised! my friend, this will not last forever!..." "ah! you are clever, schleifmann!" the younger m. raindal murmured, throwing an inquisitive glance at the galician over the book he held open in his hand. "we know your game!... you want to egg me on again to your socialism.... well, no.... it's not to be done! i stand for freedom ... and for property ... and for the whole system of our filthy society, provided, however, people are honest. yes, to be sure! otherwise, pan, pan! to the wall with the grafters!..." schleifmann protested mildly, asserting that his remarks were disinterested. then he came closer to cyprien, who had laid the book on the table, the better to consult it. he guided his friend's search among the terrible complications of interdependent banks, boards of administration, committees, sub-committees and other mysterious groups bent upon conquest. gradually, the younger m. raindal waxed excited as he read. when he saw the same name figure on two, three, four boards, he exclaimed in distress like a man who is being assaulted. his jocular anger was especially excited by the names that bore the signs of hebraic descent. "another one!" he would throw at schleifmann. "so it seems! but is it my fault?" the galician replied sadly. again they took up their reading. to see their backs, their elbows closely touching, one might have fancied that they were two good little boys greedily perusing some picture-book or a fascinating volume of adventures. suddenly cyprien straightened up and struck his rounded forehead. "by the way, schleifmann," he asked, "do you happen to know a certain lemeunier de saulvard?" "member of the institute of france?" "yes, himself." did schleifmann know him? of course, he did. none better. as a matter of fact, saulvard banked at the stummerwitz bank and the galician had heard the stummerwitzes mention him more than once. he was teaching german to their children, or rather he was perfecting them in the use of that tongue; for they had learned the rudiments of it from their maternal grandfather, born in stuttgart, and their paternal grandfather, born in cologne. rapidly in a hundred lashing words, saulvard was sized up. a man, it might be said without injustice, who was not much of a catholic, that saulvard!... a third-rate savant, a most mediocre intellect, an anemic writer, moreover a sycophant and a greedy intriguer. he had made use of his relations with high finance to enter the institute, and then of his title of academician to join the boards of companies. one had but to consult the year-book. (and cyprien feverishly turned the pages again.) he was there in three different places, as member of three well-remunerated, although discredited, boards. as to his wife.... "probably a bigot?" raindal the younger asked. no, she was not a bigot;--she was a shameless hussy. schleifmann, usually better informed, did not know the names of her several lovers, but he could give him two at all events, asserting in a symbolic and summary sense, that she had sinned with gods and devils. she was vain, moreover, an inveterate snob, painted and powdered way down to her waist, a back-biter, whose stomach troubles had ruined her disposition.... raindal could stand it no longer. he was choking. "excuse me, schleifmann," he said, laying a friendly hand on the galician's shoulder. "i forgot the time.... i am dining with my brother who is going to a dance to-night at the house of precisely this scoundrel.... i am very glad to be so thoroughly informed.... i assure you, yes, quite satisfied.... you don't mind, do you? i have barely enough time! i must run away.... are you coming?" at the bottom of the stairs he parted hurriedly from his friend. a deep longing urged him to reach the flat in the rue notre-dame-des-champs, there to unload on his indolent brother the mass of filth with which schleifmann had liberally filled him. * * * * * not without apprehension did m. raindal watch the arrival of his brother, having earlier in the day found that it was one of his talkative days. he anticipated a fresh outbreak of hostilities and controversies and that ill-disposed him beforehand. he received his brother with marked coldness, and carelessly held out his hand in order to forestall any new attempt. "just a minute! i am finishing an urgent piece of work.... if you'd like to wait for me in the drawing-room, the ladies are there...." when uncle cyprien had gone he congratulated himself upon his firmness. as a matter of fact, he had always intensely disliked discussing any subject with his brother. it was as in the tourneys of old, which were open to none but knights. before he would oppose a man in a discussion, that man had to be his peer, a gallant champion of his own caste, of his own intellectual rank, and one who practiced without flinching the noble art of tilting with ideas. with other men, eusèbe raindal avoided the contest; he turned tail in courteous agreement or even, if necessary, shammed sudden deafness. his self-satisfaction increased at the dinner-table. never had uncle cyprien proved so gay, so affable or so little inclined to quarrel. he teased thérèse about her "forthcoming marriage," repeatedly addressed her as "mamzelle my nephew" or informed brigitte, the young, ruddy-faced maid from brittany, that, _sapristi!_ it would soon be her turn. thérèse readily put up with his somewhat vulgar facetiousness. she tolerated much from her uncle, because she guessed at all the real tenderness hidden beneath his intolerance and his rabid abuse. mme. raindal herself secretly admired her brother-in-law. she was grateful for the fact that he hated the jews, whom she saw as the abhorred tormentors of the saviour. she condoned his blasphemies concerning the priests because of his aversion towards the deicide race. her small, round face with its soft, pale cheeks reddened with a sudden flush of pride when he praised her pie. she laughed at all his remarks to the end of the meal, although she often missed his real point. for politeness' sake, m. raindal smiled with her. when they had drunk their coffee, he returned to his study with cyprien while the two women retired to dress. left alone, they remained for a while in silent meditation. the master of the house, his feet drawn towards the red glow of the fire, dozed with his eyes half-closed, in that perfect coil of peacefulness that one feels in the company of a trusted friend. uncle cyprien lighted his heavy cherry-wood pipe from the vosges mountains and paced the room, blowing his smoke out in strong puffs. he was preparing to let out his exterminating ammunition, all those deadly revelations which he had been holding back for the last two hours in sheer refinement of pleasure. brutally, he sent forth the first volley. "by the way! your chap of this evening, he is a nice bird!" the effect was that of the alarm gun calling forth the soldier asleep in his tent. m. raindal shivered with emotion and asked angrily. "what? whom do you mean?" "your saulvard, of course!... yes, i have some fine lines on him.... that gentlemen may well boast of them!" one after the other, all the munitions piled up by schleifmann followed in rapid succession. "you surprise me very much!" m. raindal muttered. "i admit that i do not know saulvard very much.... i never had any but professional relations with him.... yet, i never heard it said.... your friend schleifmann must be exaggerating...." his brother cyprien smiled shyly at this evasion but did not reply at once. he emptied his pipe in an ash tray. after a while, he broke the silence. "tell me ... where does this saulvard live?" the query made m. raindal restless in his chair. he foresaw how grave was the reply he would have to give and tried to equivocate: "why, really, i don't know.... it is the first time we are going there.... thérèse has the invitation; she will be able to tell you...." "you don't know!" cyprien replied, aggressively sarcastic. "go on! i am willing to grant you may not know the number of the house; but surely you know the name of the street; you must at least know in what district it is!" m. raindal hid his uneasiness and pretended deeply to search into his memory. "it seems to me," he replied at length, "that he lives in the avenue kléber.... yes, that's it, avenue kléber." "of course! i would have laid a bet on it!" uncle cyprien said victoriously. thereupon the dreaded storm burst upon the master in a tumult of abuse and imprecations. cyprien had effectively found the opportunity once more to air his theory of the "two banks" and he hurled it out with a crash. as a matter of fact, it was not altogether his own. the galician had supplied the idea and cyprien had but added the eloquent developments and the vigor of his lungs. but they had so often recited it to each other, chiseled it together and together enlarged upon it that they no longer discerned their particular share in the collaboration, and each of them claimed the authorship, whenever the other happened to be absent. according to them, paris was composed of two cities, absolutely distinct in population, ways of life and customs. the river seine divided these two enemy cities. on its two banks, sion the venerable faced gomorrah. sion, the left bank, that was, stood for the home of virtue, science and faith. her people were chaste, modest and diligent; they had preserved, in poverty and toil, the honest and decent national traditions. there the men were pure and the women beyond reproach. the whole inheritance of the ancestors--loyalty, devotion and high-mindedness were transmitted from fathers to sons, sheltered from the corruption of money and the shameful example of the foreigners. in sooth, it was the holy city. gomorrah, the right bank, was the region of vice, license and dishonesty. it was the hunting-ground of all the cosmopolitan riff-raff, all the shifty hordes of exotics who had gradually foregathered and silently slipped into france after the war of . they formed a nomadic, rascally and thievish multitude, without principles, country or morals and were united solely by their greed for gold or a thirst for coarse pleasures. gambling in stocks had filled their coffers and criminal transactions paid for their fatuous homes. the women were no better than the men; the adultery of the former flourished by the side of the swindling of the latter. whole districts, and some of the finest, had become their domicile. chaillot, monceau, malesherbes and the roule bowed at their orders and their money. there were long rows of hotels all filled with _rastaquouères_, and houses which the jews had conquered from top to bottom, occupying every floor. semites from frankfort fraternized there with adventurers from the new world, shady americans with dubious orientals. and the whole country was sucked dry in the service of that impudent mob which gave its orders in doubtful french. the right bank--it was the cursed city! cyprien always drew great effects and lengthy orations from these descriptions and parallels; he used them also as a sort of touchstone by which to appreciate people. if one lived on the left bank of the river, he was at once entitled to cyprien's sympathies. but if one dwelt on the right bank, in a rich neighborhood, cyprien was at once wary of him, and would only make amends later after his title to respect had been established. m. raindal had labored hard to point out how such a theory was psychologically doubtful and topographically inexact; but his brother persisted in it because it was simple, violent, and corroborated his passions. especially this evening when he had been rested by two days' silence and stimulated by schleifmann's call, he was riding his hobby all around m. raindal with an increasing air of challenge and daring. "yes," he shouted at his brother, stamping the carpet, "you are blind.... you know nothing, you see nothing.... you live in your corner, buried among your mummies and your old books.... you have never been further than the bridge of the saints-pères.... you are duped and exploited; you are a child--a kid, as schleifmann says. why don't you go for a walk some day through those places i am telling you about?... talk, ask, find out.... you will see.... in that world, in those houses, abominable deeds are performed and all manner of foulness!" the voiceless patience of m. raindal was worn out. he risked one of those defenses which he had used before in the course of that polemic when the returns had at length become regular and mechanical as in a stage duel: "yet you are not alleging that the whole virtue of paris has found asylum in our district!... i shall never be tired of repeating it to you: on the other side of the water are to be found many people that belong to decent society, and even to the aristocracy, people who have left the faubourg to go and live in the new sections, the champs elysées, for instance.... well! those people--you are not going to tell me that they...." cyprien sneered with commiseration and took up the gauntlet. "ha! ha! i am not going to tell you?... of course, i am going to tell you!..." and tell he did. he jumped from digression to digression, slashing right and left, forward and back, twirling his ideas about and knocking heads down everywhere in the craze of a wholesale assault. one after the other, the degenerated aristocracy, the jews, the grafters and the priests fell under his blows. he reinforced himself with quotations from his favorite masters and these excited him as a war cry. m. raindal kept his peace for a moment, but feeling that his silence was perhaps even more exasperating to his adversary than mild retorts, he turned on the tap of conciliatory generalities. they oozed from his lips in amorphous, unfinished sentences, in small, intermittent streams, similar to the colorless and limpid dribble that runs along the chin of a baby; or else they suddenly dried up under the wind of invective. "the plague of democracies.... a necessary evil.... this m. rochefort is truly clever.... experience teaches us.... m. drumont is not lacking in spirit.... one of the vices of the plutocratic régime.... it is not a new thing to see financiers and revenue farmers.... i do not deny that m. schleifmann is a very distinguished thinker.... we have come to a turning point of history...." thérèse came in and interrupted him, for her uncle cyprien instinctively lowered his voice when he saw her. the shy evasions of m. raindal increased his assurance; but he dreaded sarcastic remarks or the sharp retorts of "mademoiselle his nephew." "well, what is happening?" thérèse asked sweetly.... "uncle, i bet you are teasing my poor father again? "hum! not at all!" uncle cyprien replied shame-facedly.... "not at all, we were merely talking.... you understand, one warms up, one gets excited...." thérèse pouted derisively. "yes, yes, i know, you warm up, you get excited.... i heard you from my room...." she turned to m. raindal. "come on, father, it is eleven.... mother is ready.... go and dress...." alone with her uncle, she walked to the fireplace to straighten in front of the mirror her hair which she had disarranged here and there when inserting her flowers. she wore white carnations--in memory of _albârt_. their spreading whiteness enlivened her face. her neck seemed by reflection less sallow and more delicate in the pink muslin frame of her corsage. artlessly she smiled at herself, surprised to find herself thus dainty, attractive, almost pretty. as a matter of fact, she did have that ethereal iridescence of beauty which the unusual splendor of a party dress projects at once upon women. it is an ephemeral charm, light as a pastel, which fades away, evaporates in the heat and the jealousy of a ball; but at home it encourages the most homely. for one instant in the solitude of her own room, in front of her own mirror, a woman finds herself beautiful enough, too beautiful--and she is willing to go, and does, in fact, go. her uncle cyprien, in a friendly mood, observed her little coquettish ways: "well, my nephew? and so we are going to make merry in the merry world?" "oh, prodigiously," thérèse replied with a sigh. "we must enjoy ourselves in this world.... there will always be people to enjoy themselves.... always there will be a frivolous and depraved society.... if they did not make merry on the other side of the river, they would do it here.... it is the rule and you cannot alter it...." uncle cyprien brushed back with his hand his hair which was so close-trimmed that is crackled with a ruffling noise under his fingers. he murmured disdainfully: "philosophy! philosophy!... you know, my dear nephew, that we do not argue, you and i, ... you are too strong and too sure of yourself. there, i don't mind admitting it, you make me feel ill at ease!" m. raindal returned, followed by his wife, her form hidden in her long cape. she wore in her hair an old mauve aigrette, the barbs of which were limp and spread out like a worn-out paint-brush. "well, are we ready?" the master of the house asked, looking at his brother. "yes, we'll all go down together. come along!" a cab was waiting outside. brigitte gave the driver's number to m. raindal. the family sat closely huddled in the back seat. uncle cyprien closed the door on them and shouted as the carriage began to move: "good luck! a pleasant evening, nephew!" he gave a friendly pinch to the chin of brigitte, who stood stupidly smiling. "good night, my girl.... go and dream of a fiancé!" he turned up the collar of his coat and took the rue vavin. in the fever of his triumph at every step he flourished his thick cornel stick as if it had been a gory mace. chapter iv the ball given by m. and mme. lemeunier de saulvard (of the institute) "in their apartment" in the avenue kléber, on the occasion of the engagement of their niece, mlle. genevieve de saulvard, to m. brisset de saffry de lamorneraie, lieutenant of the st hussars, had attracted a large assembly of guests. the army, the fine arts, literature, science, the upper bourgeoisie, men of learning, club-men, men of finance and men of the drawing-room--the full contingent of their acquaintances filled their apartment after o'clock. all the guests, for lack of any other common ground, were at least agreed on the subject of the party and voted it a success. as a matter of fact, the saulvards deserved the praise, for they had shown themselves far from niggardly. the buffet was sumptuous, covered with silver plate, viands and piles of sandwiches, ices, sweet-smelling drinks and spread here and there with dishes of frozen fruit in large pale pink or green rings like dull-colored silk plaques. and everywhere there were flowers, in bushes, baskets and garlands. rows of white chrysanthemums concealed the upper parts of the windows with their intricate strands, and chains of delicate winter roses climbed along the chandeliers, whence fell through the crystal the calm, intense glow of the electric lights. the orchestra was made up of gypsies in red coats with heavy gold braidings. they formed a sort of barbaric guard of honor in front of the piano. in the interval between the dances people stopped to watch them cleaning their strange instruments as if they were wild men in a camp. they began to play their sensuous airs. one couple rose, then two, then three. then all at once the reflections made by the lights upon the empty shiny floor disappeared under the mixed crowd of dancers. mothers smiled. old savants dreamily beat the rhythm with their feet; the heads of young women were bent backwards and their eyes shone in enamored glances. the enervating beatitude of that music caused them all to tremble for an instant in spite of themselves with the same pleasure that drew them together. at those moments one might have imagined himself witnessing one of those gatherings where people of the same set are fused in joyous intimacy and with the feeling of being secure among themselves. but the illusion disappeared with the last note. it was like refractory liquids which, as soon as one ceases to beat them together, separate and naturally resume their own color and their own place. the whirlwind of the dancers was broken up; close embraces ceased and steady glances turned away. instinctively everyone fell back among his own set, returned to his caste. once more between hostile groups the floor in the center of the room stretched out under the lights a desert of frightening barrenness. there were but a few daring young men from the great clubs who ventured on it; gerald de meuze, tommy barbier, patrice de vernaise, saint-pons and the little prince of tavarande; they had committed themselves at the urgent entreaty of mme. de saulvard. there were also some brother officers of the fiancé, in sky-blue coats and red trousers with light bands, most of them titled or bearing those bourgeois names which, while not noble, announced at least an ancient worth and a duly established family. they walked round the drawing-rooms alone, or by twos, seemingly meditative, supporting their bent elbows with one hand and curling their mustaches with the other. they examined the women, one by one, studiously, as if these had been cattle at a fair. with their heavy, disdainful eyelids, one could hardly tell whether they were purposely shrinking their eyes to the dimensions of that small world or whether they were perhaps tormented by a persistent and rebellious desire to sneeze. saulvard had vainly attempted at first to merge the other elements of the assembly. he had had to give it up in the face of resistance. thus high finance and great industry and their satellites formed a compact clan in the right-hand corner of the first drawing-room. they laughed, cackled and chattered, and were sufficient unto themselves; the minute a stranger dared to break in, seeking a chair or a little more elbow room, in short, the slightest opening, this group assumed dark countenances. they had a welcome for none but the representatives of the aristocracy. the latter, however, were massed a little away from them; they formed a small élite, had closed their ranks after the necessary greetings, and henceforth affected to ignore their jovial neighbors, reserving for each other their cordiality and their smiles. apart from a few noblemen whom the smell of blood or the need for financial advice moved to approach the other clan, the aristocratic group remained effectively faithful to its principles of separatism and its arrogant virtuosity. the academicians also kept their distance. the five sections of the institute kept to their circle but did not fraternize. they hardly even exchanged brief amenities or passed chairs to each other in order to avoid any promiscuity with the academy of medicine--intruders who were signaled to all by a volatile smell of iodoform or phenol brought in their clothing. the literary men and their wives had constituted a close circle with the groups of painters and musicians. but even that brought forth constraint or reciprocal animosity. the result was that saulvard, who stood on duty near the door, assumed more and more the air of a guardian of a public dancing hall, or the controller of a casino who checked the entrance of the subscribers and jollied equally all his diverse classes of patrons. he was short and bald; his yellow face was framed by two short white whiskers--the face of a japanese turned butler; he smiled ceaselessly, bowed and straightened himself up again; he hopped on his high pointed heels as if waiting, or thanking for, a tip. he murmured, following them five or six steps, appropriate flatteries to all his invited guests, as soon as they reached the doorstep. his glances wandered round, discreet and confidential. from afar one might have thought that he was showing the newcomers the way to the cloakroom. as soon as the raindal family appeared, he nimbly rose to meet them. "ah, my dear colleague!... what joy!... i was almost despairing...." his two hands caught that of m. raindal and he went on: "i have not seen you since your success!... what a triumph!... what a beautiful book!... madame.... mademoiselle...." he bowed, then, standing on tiptoe so as to reach the ear of m. raindal, he whispered: "you know, our young man is here ... a charming fellow. he will attract your daughter very much.... no escape.... _fata volunt_.... this way, please, come, my dear colleague, and i shall bring you that phenix...." by an instinctive pressure on the shoulder he shunted raindal towards a corner of the drawing-room where the section of the inscriptions had disposed its trenches. a few chairs were left unoccupied in the first and second rows. m. and mme. raindal settled down behind and thérèse sat in front of them between the two daughters of one of her father's colleagues. they were thin and small, like the raw-boned hectic teams that draw the paris public cabs. they conversed, but furtively inspected the girl's dress. thérèse looked up when she heard the voice of saulvard who was making his reappearance, followed by a young man of very short stature. "my dear friend, dear master," he called over the heads of the girls, "allow me to introduce one of our young confrères, whose name you surely know: m. pierre boerzell...." each of the two savants mumbled courteous expressions which the other could not catch. then saulvard added: "m. pierre boerzell ... mlle. raindal." the young man bowed awkwardly. the orchestra was preluding with the slow harmonies of a waltz. he murmured: "mademoiselle, will you give me the pleasure of this waltz?" sympathetically thérèse refused. "no, monsieur, thank you.... i don't dance ... but if you wish ... we might, as one says, i believe, talk it...." boerzell stammered a grateful acceptance. the two "hackney horses" had started immediately for the waltz. he took one of the chairs they had left empty by the side of thérèse. the conversation, which she had cleverly directed at once towards scientific matters, became cordial and almost familiar. he was not handsome. his chest was narrow, his nose short; his cheeks were bloated and flabby, almost falling over a suspicion of a beard. his eyelids were heavy from night work. his eyes, however, behind the thick glasses of his pince-nez, shone with a kind and tender light. when he talked, his voice had those caressing and particular inflections of intellectual people who enjoy having their words sound like true coin; and while he spoke his gestures became more alert and vivacious; his arms relaxed as he grew less embarrassed. m. raindal out of curiosity soon brought his chair forward and took part in the discussion of the two young people. they were flirting over the interpretation of a tri-lingual inscription recently discovered in mesopotamia. thérèse was defending her interpretation with that professional assurance, that man's voice, which she always assumed in the course of scientific discussions. "ah, monsieur!" boerzell exclaimed in discouragement. "mademoiselle is very strong; she knows much more than i.... she has beaten me...." smilingly m. raindal agreed. "well, you are not the first!... often i myself...." the waltz had finished and the two cab horses were coming back to their stand which the young savant had to leave. he asked thérèse: "would you allow me to take you to the buffet with madame, your mother?" "with pleasure, monsieur! will you come, mother?" mme. raindal took boerzell's arm and thérèse followed behind, going towards the buffet through the crowd of dancers who were returning to their seats. m. raindal watched them go. he was sitting in his favorite position: his elbows were pressed against his sides, his forearms up, and his hands hung limp at the end of his wrists like the paws of a "begging" dog. from his seat through the wide open door he could see without effort into the dining-room. he perceived the back of his wife; she was bent over the elaborate table hastily making her choice. against the high chimney covered with white blossoms thérèse stood with boerzell; they were sipping out of their spoons a pink fruit-like ice; they stopped at times and looked at each other laughingly, chatting, their heads close together, like life-long friends. if only she could make up her mind! if she would accept that young man!... no, that would be too fine!... and yet, who knew!... the ebb and flow of contradictory thoughts caused m. raindal's lips to stretch in softened smiles or to purse in bitter grimaces. then his colleagues approached and began to congratulate him upon his new book. more of them joined the first ones. a small, applauding group surrounded m. raindal and hid his daughter from his sight. the last comers tipped their heads to one side, straining their ears to catch the master's replies. "you are very good...." "i am ashamed, really...." "be sure that on my side...." the complimenters vied with each other in outbidding and protested their sincerity in extravagant praise. at length the enthusiasm came to an end. they became silent and listened to m. raindal, who was recalling memories of his youth and the misery of his early efforts. suddenly the purring voice of saulvard caused the ranks of the audience to open. "pardon, gentlemen! pardon!" with one hand bent like the prow of a boat, he was making a path for a dark-haired young woman who hung on his arm; he came to a stop near m. raindal. "my dear friend.... will you help me satisfy the wishes of one of your lady admirers who is longing to make your acquaintance?... m. eusèbe raindal ... mme. georges chambannes...." m. raindal rose and bowed, one hand resting on the back of his chair. "madame, i am delighted...." mme. chambannes protested. "it is i, on the contrary, monsieur...." they stood facing each other in distress as if, in spite of their mutual good will, they did not know what to say. shyly m. raindal glanced at the young woman. her little eagle face was softened by light brown eyes with a languorous expression; the waves of her black hair, brushed in classic style back towards her neck, concealed in its rich coils something savage and willful. at length she spoke again in halting sentences, the words often lacking the precision which she might have desired. "yes, monsieur, i greatly admire your book.... it is a charming book, a great masterpiece.... i cannot say how much i was charmed with it, and how much amused.... ah! it must be so interesting to write books like that.... and the style is so delightful, so pleasant to read!..." "well, i must leave you!" m. saulvard interrupted, as he blinked his slanting eyes.... "my guests.... excuse me!..." he disappeared leaving them alone, as the members of the little group had discreetly vanished one by one. after a glance of mutual agreement m. raindal and the young woman sat down to continue their conversation. but he noticed the pale blue satin dress of mme. chambannes so close to the black cloth of his trousers that instinctively he withdrew slightly to one side. smilingly she piled up her compliments. then the discomfort which the master habitually felt when conversing with people of inferior culture--ignorant people, men or women of society--was increased by the embarrassment he felt at being so close to the low-cut dress of his admirer. despite himself his glances were fastened to it and followed her full and easy curves. it seemed to him that an invisible force compelled his eyes to look at that skin, dull and diaphanous like a piece of fine china, at those perfumed breasts that rose and fell quietly against the ruffles of the opening without needing its support for their young firmness. distractedly, all out of place, with sudden flights of thought, he answered the exclamations and multiple queries of mme. chambannes. and while he tried to listen to her he was comparing her to one of cleopatra's attendants, one of those dainty greek slaves whose saucy prettiness provided a setting for the queen of egypt, as nymphs around a goddess. nevertheless the lady's flow of praise was ceasing. her smooth little brow, framed by the two flat curls, was furrowed by a searching frown. she found no more chapters or passages in which to plant her "so charming" and her "so pretty" like equal good marks of alternate colors. suddenly her graceful face smiled again and her wide nostrils palpitated with mischief. she teased m. raindal with the challenge that he could not guess her last reason for liking his book so much. the master pretended to search. finally he declared with modesty: "i don't know." "well, think a moment," commanded mme. chambannes familiarly, rolling her r's. m. raindal was not trying to find the answer but thought to himself. "she is very attractive but somewhat silly!" what he said aloud, imitating her tone, was: "no, i really can't think what it is." then she resigned herself and voiced her secret, her final surprise, and indeed her pretext for further acquaintanceship, her supreme bait. well! precisely, next winter, she intended to travel with her husband, to go to cairo, alexandria and the nile. m. raindal's book had come in most handy, at the precise moment when she was beginning to study the egyptian antiquities in view of that expected trip and naturally.... "my dear lady," a guttural voice interrupted them. "forgive me.... would you be kind enough to introduce me to monsieur...." "why, of course!" then she made the presentations. "monsieur le marquis de meuze ... one of our best friends ... and one who adores your book." he was a powerful old man with a majestic waistband and an aristocratic carriage. his white whiskers and curled up white mustache gave him the air of an austrian general, for his was one of those heads which one readily fancies wearing a gold-braided cocked hat ornamented with a panache of green feathers. at the time of the financial smash of , he had suffered from an attack of facial paralysis which had deprived him of the use of his left eyelid. it hung gray and lifeless and hid three quarters of his eye--this infirmity completed, like a glorious wound, his resemblance to an old warrior. he multiplied protests of admiration. then, following the immutable rule which prompts most people to conclude their compliments with an apology, he broached the true cause that had brought him to the master. he had once possessed a collection of cameos, a quite remarkable and exceptional collection. (as to the quality of the different pieces of which it had been composed, m. raindal could consult several of his colleagues: the count de lastreins, of the academy of inscriptions; baron grollet, unattached member of the beaux arts, or the viscount de sernhac, of the académie française, all good friends or old comrades of the marquis.) well, one of the gems of that collection had been a cameo of cleopatra. alas! m. de meuze had had to part with it, following financial losses. but he knew where it had gone; into the hands of a jewish stock broker, a m. stralhaus, and, if m. raindal so desired, the marquis fancied that he could obtain permission to examine that piece. the master neither accepted nor refused. the conversation circled around the art of cameo-making, with a few comments on the closely-related subject of numismatics, of which the marquis was not altogether ignorant. out of her element mme. chambannes piped softly at intervals her "very prettys" and "very charmings." m. chambannes, a tall, fair-haired man, with a faded complexion, a weak eye and fine and scanty hair, had joined her in the meantime. his thick cylindrical mustache was like a hinged cover, so closely did it fit his lips. taken as a whole, his tired appearance might have been either that of a flabby scoundrel or of a pleasant young man worn out by his excesses. all three surrounded m. raindal, who replied to their chatter with assenting but weary smiles. he would have reproached himself had he rebuffed ever so slightly strangers who were so courteous for all their stupidity. nevertheless, after a while he grew impatient with this strained politeness, the end of which he could not foresee. he was now equally bored by that old marquis with his verbose chatter, which was worthy of a second-hand dealer, his stories about cameos, sales, and bargains, and his quotations from catalogues. at last reinforcements arrived to rescue him. mme. raindal returned with thérèse and boerzell. then began new introductions. immediately mme. chambannes briefly repeated her compliments. mme. raindal, blushing continually, stammered replies that were like so many apologies. thérèse observed in silence; her virile glance judged it all mercilessly. then mme. chambannes asked what their receiving day was and if she might have permission to call. there came a period of quiet when they merely talked for the sake of talking, of the ball, the orchestra and the dances. of a sudden mme. chambannes called the marquis. "m. de meuze...." "madame?" "a little secret. will you permit me, ladies?" behind her spread-out fan she whispered a few words to m. de meuze, who listened, bent towards her, his eyebrows arched in deep attention. "do you think so?... i don't know whether he will.... well, i shall take a chance!" he stepped uncertainly towards the next room, holding aloft his proud field-marshal's head and searching the groups with his one small green eye. at the door of the buffet he promptly turned to one side, his hand stretched out like a hook to catch someone who was walking away from him. thérèse could distinguish nothing but the square shoulders and the brown neck above the shining white collar of the tall young man whom the marquis had caught. no doubt m. de meuze must be asking something absurd and impracticable, for she could see that brown neck shaken in indignant denials; the young man was apparently asserting that they were mad or playing a trick upon him.... but suddenly she saw the neck assent and the tall man turned right about, shrugging his shoulders. the heart of thérèse was suddenly twisted like a wounded serpent. it was almost albârt. an older albârt, more refined, more fashionable, of a superior class, but himself: the same big eyes of the color of a dark agate, the same black mustache with its impertinent tips, the same swaying of the body over two straight legs. he was coming towards her preceded by the marquis, his eyes awake as if to reconnoitre from afar and see what enemy it was against whom he was led. thérèse bent her head down; her back was strained against her chair; she was gathered upon herself with fright. no longer did she see her parents nor the chambannes, nor boerzell, nor the couples that were beginning to dance, nor the people near her, nor those beyond. she saw nothing but the long patent leather shoes, the long narrow feet of the young man, and they were coming nearer, nearer still. when they were quite close to her the marquis effaced himself and bowed. "mademoiselle, may i introduce my son, m. gerald de meuze...." the young count was slightly swaying before her. "mademoiselle, will you please grant me the end of this dance?" unconsciously, in the tone of a schoolgirl, thérèse replied: "monsieur, i cannot dance.... i do not know how." "what does it matter? it all depends on your partner...." he gave mme. chambannes a quick wink, either friendly or ironical, as if he were winning a bet. "no danger, mademoiselle, i guarantee the waltz...." sharply, in a sudden need to see him well, to take in all his features, thérèse looked at him fixedly. she could not resist. perspiration ran down her back. she was dominated by the desire to be in those arms, as once she had been in others so very much like them. she rose shortly, her voice almost harsh in spite of the smile with which she tried to correct it, and said: "very well, monsieur, let us try." gerald put one arm round her and they began to whirl. at the first steps she stumbled out of ignorance and fear of losing the rhythm. then he lifted her as if she were a child and carried her off gently among the dancers. her feet no longer touched the floor. couples brushed lightly against her. she had the impression of sliding in rhythms upon clouds with a robust lover. she closed her eyes. voluptuous sobs choked her throat. he thought she was out of breath and stopped. "well, mademoiselle.... what did i say?... it goes beautifully...." thérèse approved with a nod; her thin lips were pale with pleasure. the count went on paternally: "dancing is like swimming!... you must throw yourself blindly into it.... music pushes you along like waves.... then, after that, you have nothing to do but let yourself go...." in order to avoid an impolite silence he continued his theory and his comparisons. thérèse gave him only half answers, in indistinct monosyllables. she was regaining control of herself as she did upon awaking from those guilty dreams when albârt sometimes came in the night so gently to press her. what! she, thérèse raindal, giving way as if she were a perverse child, a boarding-school girl, in the arms of this insipid male! she was disgusted with herself. in order to hide her chagrin she applied herself to watching the leader of the gypsies, a big, olive-skinned man who played with serious expression. the long movements of his bow tore from his violin these panting melodies and his fat scarlet-coated chest swayed with the effort; he had the listening eye and his eyelids trembled. thérèse envied his bestiality and the unthinking joy which animated that man's dark face. why was she not like that, a thoughtless brute, without subtlety, one who lived only by his senses, which supported him even in his art?... a movement from gerald brought her back. "do we start again?..." she was still hoping she might refuse and, constraining herself, murmured: "but, monsieur, the dance is nearly over!" "all the more reason.... one more round." he had said this without enthusiasm and already his eyes turned to the place where he had to bring her back. a sudden fear seized her. she saw herself duly thanked, sitting down again, weaned for the rest of the evening from these rediscovered delights. in a surge of stronger desire she said resolutely: "well, yes, one more round." he fell back with her among the dancing couples. his stretched arm gave the beat in an imperceptible palpitation; at each of these soft passes thérèse felt the floor giving way under them. unwittingly she fastened herself to gerald, squeezed herself in his embrace. at this contact the whole past flew back to her in brutal jerks that maddened her. she wanted to make a last appeal to her reasoning powers, to her dignity, to that mlle. raindal that she was. but she was dazed, ravished. she ceased to struggle and, her eyes once more closed, abandoned herself as a woman who gives in with dread and frenzy. gerald guessed nothing at all of this confusion. he smiled at his comrades. his scornful glances called upon them to witness what a "wall-flower," what a "package," what a "wood-basket" he had to steer around. another great idea they had had, his father and zozé!... moreover that young child was pulling all the skin off his shoulder with her bony fingers that clung to him to save her from falling. ah! well! this was really too much! a feverish pinching gripped his shoulder. as he bent down to see if by chance the little one was not losing her head, he had to hold thérèse back with his two arms. she had fainted, white and stiff as a corpse. "this is the last drop! just my luck!..." he swung her rapidly towards the hall, jostling a little the people who were in his way. he set her upon a bench against a wall and ran out to warn the family. in a twinkle the raindals, the chambannes, boerzell and the marquis jumped to their feet and rushed with him to thérèse. mme. chambannes pulled out of her pocket a gold bottle of salts, the top of which was a shining ruby; almost on her knees she brought it to the young girl's nostrils, but thérèse made no movement. only a faint sad moan escaped from her parted lips which showed her uneven teeth. they bathed her temples with fresh water but this brought no result either. as one goes to requisition the firemen on duty, saulvard had marched straight to the corner where the academy of medicine was encamped in order to find a doctor. one came, put his ear to the moist skin of thérèse and gave his diagnosis. "the girl is choking.... you must loosen her dress!" at last she opened her eyes in mme. saulvard's room, where her mother and mme. chambannes had taken her. at once her glance fell with stupefaction upon her opened dress. then she recognized mme. chambannes bending over her in the pose of a guardian angel, and her mother praying beside her as if she were at the bedside of someone on the point of death. she turned her head away. she saw again all the details of her accident, the unavoidable intoxication that had made her lose her head and her ridiculous fall in the middle of a dance. what a double insult to her pride! she wanted to plunge into nothingness, to destroy with her own body the memory of it all. revolt caused her to choke and suddenly she burst into tears. "that's right! that's right! cry! quiet your nerves!" mme. chambannes encouraged her. this vulgar solicitude merely exasperated thérèse. she mastered herself suddenly, stood up, and in a rage began to fasten her dress again. in the mirror she shunned the eyes of her mother and of mme. chambannes. a growing anger put fresh speed into her fingers. yes! they might well look at her! she had indeed the look of a woman who had just fainted. she could not have jumped up in worse disorder and less command of herself had a man seen her thus undressed and disheveled. her eyes shone bigger; her eyelids showed a dark shadow as if she had spent a sleepless night. perspiration had laid oily tints on the wings of her nostrils and marked her powdered cheeks with greasy lines. her bunch of carnations had fallen down; there was a deep gap in her hair, just over her forehead, like a dark-edged wound. in her haste she had hooked her corsage awry and the gauze gaped over her breast, a loose, transparent cord. "poor girl!" mme. chambannes risked.... "do you feel better?" thérèse coldly replied: "much better, madame, thank you." she turned to her mother and asked in a tone of command: "well, mother, are we going?" "just as you say, dear," mme. raindal replied. they went to the anteroom where the men were waiting. as she came in sight, gerald rushed forward to inquire and boerzell imitated him. but thérèse, with intentional oversight, hurried towards the cloakroom. when she came back, leaning on her father's arm, they were gone. stupefied, m. raindal, his satin hat curled under his arm, supported her wearily. mme. raindal closed the cortège, her back bent under her cape as if she had been an aged servant. saulvard escorted them to the top of the stairs. "it is the heat, that damned heat!" he repeated petulantly. bending his little form over the ebony banisters, he shouted: "to-morrow, i shall send for news.... it will be nothing, i hope, my dear colleague!" * * * * * in the cab that took them home m. raindal had sat opposite them, leaving the back seat to his wife and daughter. for a long time they were silent. dreamily they gazed through the windows dimmed by the steam, watching the black streets and the gas street-lamps with their yellow flames flattened in fanshape. sitting sideways the master lost his balance at every jump of the wheels. he had to catch himself up with the help of the strap that hung in front of the windows; the hard leather cut his hands and the wooden door hurt his bones. a heavier jolt threw him against his daughter. thérèse exclaimed impatiently: "father, you are very uncomfortable. come and sit here between us." "no," m. raindal replied, "not at all.... don't you move.... well, how are you getting on?" "very well, father, thank you." silence fell again and once more thérèse sat motionless. through the semi-darkness m. raindal contemplated her pouting profile behind which, no doubt, lurked sorrowful thoughts. he mustered all his energy and gently asked: "well, dear?" she repeated, "well, what, father?" a pause. then m. raindal spoke. "well, this young man.... at the dance." thérèse started; she looked at him fiercely and replied with bravado: "what young man?" "this m. boerzell!" a sigh of relief escaped her. oh, only that one.... poor fellow, she had forgotten him so! she smiled, and her voice firmly uttered: "no, father, never!" m. raindal insisted. "why? you seemed to like him...." "yes, to talk to, perhaps ... but that's all." "and so you don't want him?... you have thought it over well? let me know at least...." "you know since i told you.... i don't want him." she grabbed her father's hand and tenderly bent towards him, offering her cheek. m. raindal kissed her and grunted: "as you like. i have no right to compel you." then cunningly, to make sure, he added, without releasing her hand: "to be sure, he is not such a good-looking man as the other one." he paused, feeling the contraction in his daughter's hand. "yes, the other one.... your dancer.... what was his name?... this m. de meuze...." sharply thérèse pulled her hand back and said with vexation: "oh, father, don't make any comparison, please.... m. boerzell does not appeal to me.... i refuse him.... that's enough.... i think i am old enough, am i not?" the master did not reply. there was no doubt about it. it was that tall man, that sort of worldly dastarac, who had spoiled everything and ruined the prospects of little boerzell owing to that advantageous height of his. a lost attempt! m. raindal became absorbed in self-recriminations. nothing more was heard but the noise of the wheels on the pavement and the vibrations of the carriage windows in their frames. thérèse, her head bent back, was apparently dozing, and so was mme. raindal in her corner. but she was not asleep. a remorseful torture, more atrocious than a nightmare, kept her eyes awake under their lids. with anguish she was estimating the number of hours that would stretch before the next morning, the blessed moment when she could confess her recent sins in the peace of the church. had she not, prompted by thirst, or led into temptation, helped herself three times to iced coffee and twice to _marquise au champagne_, without counting a number of _petits-fours_ and other dainties? chapter v it was past eleven o'clock and mme. chambannes had almost finished dressing when someone knocked at her door. her maid opened it just enough to allow one arm to pass in, holding a special delivery letter, while a voice proclaimed: "telegram for madame." "give it to me ... quick!" mme. chambannes said. her maid was fastening her dress, but left it and hurried to take the message. mme. chambannes tore it open with trembling fingers and read rapidly, glancing hurriedly at the lines: tuesday morning, a. m. my dear little zozé: i am sure i don't know what i could have been thinking of at the dance last night when i told you we would lunch together in our little nest. i pledged myself to the mathays a week ago. thank heaven, i remembered it in time. we shall make up for this. forgive my carelessness; till to-day at . in haste, all the kisses of your old g. quietly she folded the note and laid it on the wash-stand. then she selected two small pearl-headed pins and carefully pinned them on her broad-winged cravat. she found it growing too hard for her to repress her feelings, however, and there was a catch in her voice as she murmured: "leave these things, anna! bring me my pink negligé...." "madame, then, is not going out?" the maid protested, in feigned surprise. mme. chambannes threw her corsage on a chair and feverishly began to unfasten her skirt. "no! i am not going out." "will madame lunch here? shall i call the cook?" "yes.... no...." zozé stammered out. "tell her to prepare lunch for me ... whatever she has...." "very well, madame." a moment later she returned holding on her arm a long soft gown with pink ribbons. mme. chambannes slipped into it; while she fastened the ribbons she ordered dryly: "go now!" anna disappeared. mme. chambannes dropped into a little cretonne-covered armchair. * * * * * they were not to lunch together. it was certain, definite, irrevocable. between her and that mathay woman gerald had not even hesitated. yet he must have foreseen how it would hurt her, and what poignant disappointment he would cause her by breaking his promise at the last moment. wretch! she conjured up a picture of him, sitting at the dining table beside the countess, that small fair-haired woman with her turned-up nose, her childish, impudent, saucy face. he was making himself pleasant, prattling pretty nonsense, fashioning his glances to hers and using his big eyes to offer himself. the lunch was perhaps ending, they were going into the hall to drink their coffee! who knew? mathay might be going out, leaving them alone, like the great fool of a husband he was! well, then, what would happen? did they not all know that young giddy countess? she had no name for being a stronghold, the capitol!... oh! what infamy! what an abject situation! mme. chambannes would have liked to snatch out her own heart and hurl it through the window, far, far away. her nails caught at her gown where it was beating against the armor of her corset. her mind dwelt on reprisals, as it did whenever she saw gerald's treason as an accomplished fact. yes! she would have revenge! she would do as he did; she would give herself to another, to anyone of the many who made love to her. names of men began to surge in her mind, with proper settings. there was the studio of mazuccio, the little sculptor, the flat of burzig or that of pums, the husband of her friend flora. they were all eager to welcome her; all would receive her as a queen who condescended to offer herself. she would cry out from the door: "here i am! take me!" and they would fall on their knees, stammering their thanks with tears of happiness. these flattering visions quieted her. she walked to her dressing-room, trying to fix upon her choice. to whom would she appeal? they were equally repugnant to her. as she imagined herself in the arms of any of them, a shiver of repulsion caused her to shake her head. phew! she would require too much courage for her spite to make her lower herself to that extent! moreover, it might be that none of them was free. she would then risk a polite refusal! no ... everything was against it ... and she admitted sadly to herself that, besides, she never could go through with it! she fell back into her armchair. her muscles pained her as if she had been walking all day. she took up the note from the marble. as she read it again, every word in it seemed an insult or a lie. tears rushed to her eyes. sorrow took the place of rage. how nasty, how cold and pitiless gerald was sometimes! she wished for the near presence of some mothering friend who could understand and pity her, in whom she could confide and who would weep with her. yet she had none! alas, neither flora pums, nor rose silberschmidt, nor germaine de marquesse, her friends with whom she had followed the lessons of levannier, nor her kind aunt panhias had a soul that was lofty and charitable enough! zozé's pride revolted at the very idea of their concealed joy or their coarse comforting words. she fell to sobbing again. an impression rose in her that she was stranded on a desert island. she would have readily welcomed death. in such dramatic moments she felt forlorn, very much the "little mouzarkhi girl," quite alone and alien, this unfortunate mme. chambannes, for all her french name and parisian education! she was only a poor exotic flower, planted near the surface of an alien land and the short roots she had taken gave way at the slightest storm as if they were mere threads! there was no help for her in her distress! she had not even the solace of a trust in heaven, of a refuge in god, since she had been brought up without any religion. when she wanted to pray, there came back to her nothing but a short, strange prayer, one that her kind aunt panhias used to make her repeat every night when she was a child, kneeling down in her nightdress by the side of her bed. unconsciously she now repeated it. "be blessed, o my god! "help me to be good, to work well, to satisfy father, mother, my aunt and my uncle and not to let father be ruined on the stock exchange to-morrow. amen!" the last words brought a smile to her lips. she remembered her father, dead these seven years, her good old father, at once so strangely kind and so dishonest. he had been a type, that mouzarkhi. his origin had remained obscure and inexplicable to his intimates, to his own countrymen as much as to the others. he had, one day, landed in paris from aleppo, without knowing anyone, with no references, no patrons of any kind. in six months he had gained, on 'change, one of the most powerful situations any broker could secure there. of course, people said that he gambled and gained more by his coups than through his commissions. but he enjoyed the benefit of the respectful indulgence which, in such circles, is readily bestowed upon lucky gamblers. nor did he hide his speculations. he had sworn to stop, to give up all work, as soon as he reached the million mark. he was on the eve of touching it when he met with his first smash. his liabilities amounted to twice his assets. he disappeared discreetly for a few weeks. then he came back. he was active, cordial, and ingenuous and rapidly built himself up a new credit and a new clientele. his activities had now assumed a nobler aim, that of paying his debts. during the next two years he was most regular in paying sums on account. at the end of that time, there was left only an amount of , francs for him to pay. he lost patience, however, gambled once more to liberate himself faster, and thus he met his second "smash." ill-luck did not break him. once more he took up his traffic, leading a merry, easy-going life, working, paying off, speculating, being "hammered," springing up again like a light, strong balloon. he did not, however, survive his sixth smash. that time he had fallen from too high a flight, from a fictitious fortune of at least two millions down to nothing. he died of apoplexy, right on 'change, insolvent, of course, but leaving the reputation of a very sympathetic fellow and of a highly gifted financier. he had, nevertheless, as a good father should, assured beforehand the future of his family. first of all, when mme. mouzarkhi had died a few years after their arrival in paris, he had called his brother-in-law, m. panhias, and his wife, and entrusted them with the bringing up of little zozé. where had they come from? from aleppo, ghazir or stambul? were they greeks, jews, turks or maronites? nobody had been able to find out, since the panhias had proved as reserved concerning their origin as m. mouzarkhi himself. both had an undefinable accent which suggested all in one the spanish, the hungarian and the moldo-vallach languages. panhias, modest and reserved, acted as confidential clerk in his brother-in-law's business house. mme. panhias watched with faithful care over the education of the little girl; she took her to her lessons during the day and sat up with her in the evenings, while the father went to the theater or elsewhere. she was large, pleasant and, by fits, communicative. through her, people learned that the panhias had not been seriously affected by the débâcle of their relation and that they still had, despite their losses, about , a year. upon the other points, she had preserved the silence which was a traditional virtue of the family. again, m. mouzarkhi had had the foresight to give his daughter a husband, a year before taking his final jump. the affair, which had been broached by one of his bourse colleagues, had not been settled without difficulties. they were cautious on both sides. inquiring agencies had been consulted and forwarded particulars that induced certain fears. they gave m. mouzarkhi the character of a man personally popular among his colleagues but with a credit that was doubtful and often weak. as to george chambannes, the son of a little doctor in the province of berri, himself an ex-student of the École centrale, they made him out to be an engineer of talent, industrious and daring, but one who had, so far, achieved nothing and who sought his way through dubious enterprises. they had, however, debated the matter on both sides, each side feeling that too much precaution would be out of place. a compromise was struck, on the ground of future expectations, of respective faith in better times to come. finally the negotiations came to a successful issue. zozé, who had but one wish--marriage which would free her from the panhias guardianship and assure her liberty, showed her willingness from her first meeting with young chambannes. he was, moreover, good-looking and smart and had caressing, winning ways. he did not insist upon a church wedding when m. mouzarkhi, who was anxious to preserve neutrality--or was it his incognito?--in religious matters, declared it would be contrary to his principles, as an "old republican" and a positivist. in truth, zozé would have had to exhibit a baptismal certificate; m. mouzarkhi had neglected to provide her with one; the need to obtain one now would further delay the marriage. thus they were married at the city hall. the whole of the petite bourse flocked to the place; there were even a few persons from the haute banque, among whose numbers m. mouzarkhi counted, if no friends, at least some admirers. the evening came and the young couple settled down in a pretty mansion on the rue de prony, a wedding present from the financier. to the house he had added a capital of , francs in order to help the engineer find that road to success which he was seeking. george chambannes found nothing at all, but he spent the whole amount in the course of the next two years and heavily mortgaged the mansion. nor did he cut down expenses. quite the contrary. he kept them up and even increased them, by means of gambling, secret expedients and unsavory manipulations. gossips said that he was in receipt of money from some generous old ladies, whose names were quoted. these rumors found few incredulous listeners, because chambannes was handsome, a spendthrift, and with no visible profession or resources. discredit is like glory; it has its own legends which everyone, out of spite or stupidity, wishes to credit. zozé was not alarmed at his spending his nights in gambling houses, leaving his own bed untouched, or at his seeming peevish. she had never known what financial embarrassment meant, even during the unlucky periods of her father's career. to pocket sums of money and, when these were squandered, to ask for, and receive more, seemed to her to be woman's natural functions. only a refusal, a reproach or a check upon her luxurious ways could have worried her. but george never was stingy. it was only after she heard from a friend that george was running after women that she modified her existence. the change was hardly perceptible; it took place without scenes or noise. she took a lover. the latter was a relation of hers whom she deemed her cousin. his name was demetrius vassipoulo. he had not been more than eighteen months in paris, was quite young--just turned three and twenty--and sported a thin brown mustache that seemed drawn with a pencil; yet demetrius was already racing up on the footsteps of his uncle mouzarkhi. his future was already being discounted "on 'change," as if it had been a state loan; he would surely make a colossal fortune or suffer a far-echoing bankruptcy. all day he ran through paris, reclining in his carriage, which was hired by the month. his languid arm lay on the folded hood, like that of a rich capitalist stretching himself out. the brass on the harness and the horse's bell signaled his arrival and sparkled in the sunshine, his ensigns of triumph. zozé loved him three months. he had the hot passion of an animal and the ingenuousness of a savage. he amused her and she told of his ardor to two or three intimate friends who drew comparisons with their own lovers. she initiated him into the attractions of social life, covering his candor with the web of established customs, just as his tailor dressed him according to fashion. however, she was tired of demetrius after three months. she kept him for another two, out of kindness, she thought, albeit it was really out of caution and, perhaps unwittingly, because she had not found a better. the moment she fancied that she had discovered the matchless lover, she wasted no time in breaking with the youthful financier. she gave as a pretext that her husband had been warned and that she had to safeguard her honor. demetrius wept bitterly and roared out his sorrow in words so harsh sounding that one might have thought it the cry of a stricken lion. zozé felt remorseful during a whole week. at night she imagined herself hearing again his unintelligible cries. she dreamt of wild animals threatening her. her new lover reproached her with being gloomy and sighing without cause. her grief was not really eased until she saw demetrius one night at the _noveau cirque_. he was in evening dress, with a white bow and carnations in his buttonhole; leaning on the front seat of a private box, by the side of a fat blonde girl, he was blowing his smoke in the faces of the clowns. henceforth she felt no qualms; lastours, her new lover, had no further cause to complain. he dealt in paintings in a little house in the rue d'offémont. he was dark and bald, with the beard of a minion, a brutal mouth and the hands of a street-porter. he held an advantageous place in the syndicate of those painter-dealers whom the paris of the _parvenus_ freely provides with both a living and notoriety. he frequented assiduously the fashionable drawing-rooms of the smart set, mixed with the élite of clubs and art circles, dressed like a sportsman, was as funny as a low comedian and carried about him a vague perfume of something beyond, an aristocratic vapor which seemed to float above his square shoulders. listening to him, zozé felt nearer the world of fashion. he was to her the higher step on the social ladder; merely to see that step was as good as believing she was on it and she clung to it with delight. she admired, as if they stood for the finest wit, his studio gossip, his prankish school ditties and the obscenity of his conversation. he had but to say a word and she laughed outright; she rushed to satisfy his slightest whim; in three months chambannes took three paintings off his hands. nevertheless lastours soon abused his privilege. she dreamed of nothing else but the satisfaction of his desires and yet he treated her like a servant, ill-treated her when he was in bad humor; he even ordered the gentle zozé, after their meetings, to fasten his boots for him. such insolence, daily renewed, exasperated the unhappy woman and acted upon her love as water upon flames. she was fresh, loving and of a pleasant disposition; why should she be denied that happiness of the heart which fell to the lot of so many other women less beautiful than she was? in moments of passing intuition, zozé gave herself the melancholy reply: they were often less beautiful, that was true, but they were parisiennes; they were well read and resolute; they operated upon their native soil, while she was a little mouzarkhi, blindly floating at the whim of her instincts, groping and stranded more than any girl lost on alien soil!... the next day, with renewed hope, she would go back to lastours! when she ceased to love him, she wanted to avenge the outrages he had piled upon her. following a banal, instinctive strategy, she gave herself to one of his friends--also a painter and one of lastours' competitors--by the name of montiers, who lived two doors further down the street. this man was fat and red-headed and concealed his nature even less than the other had done. he was more ambitious and greedy for money than lastours and entertained not the least intention of wasting his time with women. it was business before anything else with him. for the sake of a prospective sale, a meeting with a client or a patron's call, he would dismiss zozé or put off her visit without hesitation. once he had kept her, frozen and crazy with fear, shut up for a whole hour in the dark closet used by his models to disrobe in, because some rich american had chanced to turn up at the studio during her visit. when the american had departed, montiers walked about the room so elated by his successful transaction that he forgot to deliver his prisoner. he only opened the door when he heard her cries; and when he opened it he smiled, seeing only the humorous side of the affair, while zozé wept for vexation and grief. after six weeks such treatment she was thoroughly disgusted with montiers, and with fashionable painters, and indeed--or so she thought--with adventurous _affaires_ in general. who would have thought that these men, who were outwardly so courteous, so much made of and so much petted by the most beautiful women, could prove themselves so mean upon intimacy? why should she keep up these casual liaisons, expose herself to such insults which lacked even the excuse of accompanying tenderness; why seek happiness in love instead of waiting for it? what, moreover, did she lack in order to be the most envied young woman? george was spending more nights at home: he showed himself more courteous and took her frequently to dances and plays. on her last birthday he had hired a carriage by the month for her. his affairs were at last taking a better turn. he was gradually paying off his bills and the interest due on the mortgage. zozé had a vague idea that he was consulting engineer to a large mining company owning mines in bosnia. a sort of indian summer of affection brought her suddenly nearer to her husband. she boasted of it to her friends and declared that the age of folly had passed for her. in order to fill the vacancy left by her lovers, she threw herself with ardor into the pleasures of the mind. mercilessly, without choice or respite, she read every new book her bookseller offered her. memoirs, fiction, poetry and travel books merely whetted her appetite. "i am devouring them!" she would say. and in point of fact, that was precisely what she did; she swallowed and engulfed her readings; she digested nothing, retained nothing. she became a subscriber to lectures, delighted in old songs and waxed enthusiastic over new ones. she went to concerts on sundays and dreamt in music of her past liaisons. the only branch of intellectual pleasure she neglected was painting; she never went to the salon, out of spite for the painters. however, no light of understanding pierced through this chaos of contrary studies. mme. chambannes was surprised that, having learned so much, she had not acquired more assurance. her opinions ran away from her call, like so many flies. she stammered whenever she had to express a personal view. and, in the end, the joys of the intellect bored her.... her memories of the next two years were misty.... what had she been doing during those two years? she remembered that george had received the légion d'honneur on the th of july. but the rest, her furious hunt for the perfect lover whom her heart and her senses called for in spite of herself--what was there left of it? was it not withered, pressed tight at the back of her brain by weightier and more urgent affairs? two anemic shadows re-appeared at her conjuring, standing in a dim, gray light: herself invariably one of them; while the other was this one or that one, names and features forgotten, or confusedly mixed up under the stamp of time. there had been flirtations at dances, some mild drives in closed carriages, unfinished kisses, mere sketches of self-giving, several vain attempts to reach the ideal and many false hopes and shattered illusions. how could she have felt any affection for those men, those german bank clerks, those exotic, dumpy fellows, more elaborately dressed than gentlemen should be and more caddish than the worst bounders could be! had she given herself to them? perhaps she had. to one or two of them, or to none at all? in sooth, she was not at all positive about it. later, when she gravely swore to gerald that she had never had but one lover, her conscious fib put that bungling little mouzarkhi girl only two out of reckoning! her search was not guided solely by mere animality. she longed secretly for an ideal lover. her day dreams accentuated one feature after the other of his exquisite portrait. but the imagination of many women acts as their body does. it can reproduce but not create. that of mme. chambannes, impregnated by the reading of fashionable novels, was acting on a given formula. she imagined the expected hero with a large blonde beard, melancholy eyes wherein passed at times the moist shadow of an old sorrow; he would also have an income of , or , francs and a name which, if not a noble one, belonged at least to the smart and wealthy bourgeoisie. he would have bitterly suffered at the hands of women, of one especially, a treacherous actress, in love with deceit, notoriety and money. unwittingly, mme. chambannes allowed her mind to dwell on this last point.... the disillusioned lover to come would lift his upper lip in a contraction that showed what bitter experiences he had undergone. from his lips would surge blasphemies against the perfidious sex, man's enemy. thereupon mme. chambannes would tenderly stop the anathemas with her kisses; she would lay that sorrowful head upon her breast and bring smiles back to those defiant lips. if necessary, and he wished it, she would go away with him. they would then become exiles on a small english island, far from the wicked world, and stay for hours together sitting alone on the sands of the seashore, hand in hand, indefinitely contemplating the changing play of the waves or the ships returning home. why did this hero fail to arrive? she had made everything ready to receive him, even to follow him; down to an imaginary list of dresses and things which she would hurriedly pile up in a wicker trunk held by yellow straps and covered on the outside with a shining piece of black cowhide! he tarried on his way, but he did arrive. he was of the stay-at-home variety, selfish, titled, a libertine, he wore no beard, he had no languorous airs and no spite against anyone. nevertheless mme. chambannes adored him from the very first. his name was gerald de meuze, son of the marquis de meuze, of the poitou branch of the meuzes. george had known him at college and later lost sight of him. the introduction occurred at one of the auteuil races. it was a quiet thursday, almost an intimate spring meeting. it proved decisive. george, out of pride or his passion for gambling, soon left them alone to look after his bets, and gerald stuck close to mme. chambannes. he walked her out before the reserved seats, escorted her to the paddock, lost his way with her behind the buildings on the broad green expanses which were deserted by the public whenever a new race began. a strong odor of hay, damp and sharp as a sea air-laden breeze, entered their lungs. mme. chambannes could hardly speak for happiness. a new ecstasy caused her breasts to tremble under her light silk blouse. she walked with her head bent forward, her eyes aimlessly watching the tips of her shiny patent leather shoes sliding on the grass. at last the longed-for lover had come! she had got hold of him! no power could have dissuaded her! she laughed nervously at all the remarks of gerald, thinking that, when she looked at him she was replying to him; she thought she was losing her mind; the handle of her saffron sunshade trembled against her shoulder. the little mouzarkhi girl would have felt even more intoxicated had she heard what was being said of her in the exclusive club members' tribune, among the friends of the young count. they were asking each other, with sly winks, who that pretty little woman was gerald was keeping so close to. not one of them knew. a professional? no, she could not be that. probably a little woman from some sunny, hot land, whom that rascal de meuze made feel warmer still, in order to tease the baroness.... why, yes ... the baroness mussan ... from whom he had parted ... it was over ... didn't you know?... oh, not more than a fortnight.... just the same, this one was a jolly, good-looking creature! and the success of zozé was no less real in the ladies' tribune. of course, the good ladies did not spare her the contemptuous tone which they used indiscriminately when passing judgment upon all women who were not of their caste: demi-mondaines, actresses or plain bourgeoises. yet, apart from that disdain, their verdict was a favorable one. they found the strange woman nice, her dress a good fit and gerald a man of taste. several maliciously inquired about zozé's name of the baroness who, to save her face, joined the others in praising her. yet, mme. chambannes perceived nothing of this exciting triumph. how could she discern it? she saw no one in the whole crowd but gerald, her true mate, her lover to be. she walked on, with evasive glances, like a happy bride advancing to the altar on her wedding day. she was almost there when the races were over. gerald had begged her, had pressed her as if he were already her master. he wanted to see her again, to possess her, the very next day. she remembered his ardent voice when, on leaving her, he had dared to whisper in the midst of the crowd, within george's own hearing: "why won't you to-morrow? oh! please, don't refuse me!" nevertheless, she had refused, with a slow movement of her head, while her eyes turned up as if plunging into despair. she had to resist, to oppose this man with as much coldness and as much caution as he was deserving of her love; she had to make him gain her instead of abandoning herself to him. a voice within her dictated this unusual reserve to mme. chambannes; she heeded it like the voice of duty, being persuaded that her delays were safeguarding the future. she gave in only after a siege of three weeks, at the moment when he had grown discouraged and was on the verge of renouncing his intentions. during that period, she had thought deeply and found out what she wanted, with that superhuman cunning which women often show in order to arm and defend their threatened passion. she now knew everything about gerald. he had led an idle, discontented life since the time of the financial smash of , when, in a fit of juvenile anger, he had resigned his commission in the _ th cuirassiers_. from the disaster his father had saved him a yearly income of about , francs. she learned also the names of the people of his set; heard of many of his liaisons, without names this time, all about the last one ... with the baroness; she was told of his antipathy for a world wherein his reduced circumstances no longer allowed him to figure as he wished. upon this information, she had rapidly drawn her plans. two methods were possible in order to keep gerald a prisoner. either she could rise and enter, with his help, the haughty circles of his peers, where he would find no difficulty in introducing and imposing her. she could thus know of all his movements, easily keep an eve on him and fend off any possible danger. or else she could take advantage of his weariness, gently lead him away from this set of which he affected to be tired and afford him, in her own house, a home that would be brighter, easier and more novel. in the first case, a thousand obstacles stood before her. there would be innumerable petty deeds to perpetrate in the midst of much uncertainty, delay and humiliation. a short while back, george's candidacy had been "adjourned" in two sporting clubs. the committees of those clubs, more rigorous in their verdicts than a council of ministers, had successively denied the white balls of their assent to a man upon whom the government had bestowed the guarantee of the cross of honor. she would therefore expose herself to a rebuff, on this hostile ground, where she would be on an inferior footing. mme. chambannes chose the second method. a few months proved sufficient for her to transform her life, organize receptions and assume regular visiting days. she convened her most attractive friends, some of gerald's comrades, men of letters, musicians and even artists, when she had conquered her own repugnance for them. thus, gradually she established for his evenings, as a supplement to their afternoon meetings elsewhere, a composite but sympathetic salon, a place for simple enjoyment where both men and women could come, without putting on any airs and without afterthoughts, with the sole intention of meeting each other and the firm desire to have a pleasant time. mme. chambannes was near her goal. gerald was captivated, attracted and firmly held; he surrendered to his lady, swore fealty, faithfulness and lasting love--and made zozé's house his own. he reigned therein, an all-powerful despot, coaxed by the husband, flattered by the visitors, servilely obeyed by mme. chambannes who rejoiced in, and was thankful for, the love at last acquired and conquered, the love unique forever, and more than legitimate, since it was even romantic and glorious!... then came one evening when the young count brought in his father. the marquis de meuze was charmed with his "daughter-in-law," as he nicknamed zozé to his own soul. he came again, of his own accord, having found the place attractive, the women pretty and the cooking excellent.... yet, what struggles, what efforts she had made before she achieved victory! every day she still had to use her craft and stratagems in order to keep her nobleman, to keep the thieves off and take care of the competition. * * * * * mme. chambannes thought of these things and gave a deep sigh. she stared aimlessly at the iridescent foam that the sugar sent up to the top of her coffee cup. suddenly the sullen voice of anna called her back to her reflections. "is madame going out? may i get madame's clothes ready?" mme. chambannes was stupefied. "what is the time?" she asked. "almost two o'clock, madame." two! why, she had left her room, gone to lunch, eaten and drunk and sat there all that time, not knowing what she was doing, her mind wandering far away, on the obscure paths of the past! sleepily, she replied: "yes, i am going out.... give me my blue dress.... my astrakhan coat...." she went wearily to the window and lifted the curtains. a heavy white mist hung low between the houses. it seemed as if a smoke was rising from everything, from the trees in the park, at the end of her street, from the street pavement and from the asphalt on the sidewalks; even men and horses that passed by threw it out of their nostrils in thick, parallel clouds. far, far above, the sun gave out a pale light, like a lamp in a room where men have smoked much. such a cold, funereal day was a good day for lovemaking, was it not? mme. chambannes dreamt. to love gerald, all kinds of weather seemed propitious to her, as the lower classes think all days are good for drinking. where was her _raldo_ now, he of the great, wide, beloved eyes? how she detested the unworthy wretch!... what were they talking about at the mathays', in the drawing-room darkened by the fog? naïvely, she let the curtains down again, as if she feared to see. once more sobs came to her throat! well, she must forgot, get some distraction, take a walk until four! where could she go? she raked her mind for names; she thought of visits to pay, of dressmakers and modistes. then all at once she skipped and beat her hands with a childish gesture. of course! she had decided on the previous day to invite m. raindal to her house, to make of him a super, if not a star, at her receptions, a noted and venerable pillar of her salon; why should she waste time, why not seize the opportunity? tuesday was mme. raindal's day. again, there was their daughter's accident; to go there and inquire about her--why, these were all pretexts that no one could suspect. she must not lose an instant! she ran to her room. ten minutes later, her muff under her arm, she was fastening her gloves outside the house, waiting for the cab she had sent for. chapter vi the cab passed slowly through the parc monceau, and proceeded faster through the champs elysées towards the boulevard saint germain. mme. chambannes sat huddled up in the left-hand corner; her feet pressed on the hot water bottle, scorching her soles on the white metal; rocked by the motions of the carriage, she all but closed her eyes. she opened them for an instant on entering the boulevard saint germain, looking out to peep at the rue de bourgogne where gerald lived with the marquis; then she dozed off again. she preferred not to think, to let herself remain benumbed with sleepiness. yet, when the cab left the rue de rennes and turned into the rue notre-dame-des-champs, mme. chambannes instinctively straightened herself up, as does a traveler at a change of scenery. the street was deserted and lined with long, austere buildings. were they colleges, seminaries or convents? mme. chambannes did not know. most of them had black iron bars that stretched their dark stems against daylight and the noise from outside. here and there she noticed a few houses that had none and were not quite so high as the others. beyond them, the bare heads of the trees spread their leafless branches. she could guess at courtyards behind, immense gardens and discreet paths where people walked and meditated. in her own district of the plaine monceau, there were streets that mme. chambannes had thought no less mournful. on some afternoons, even during the week, they gave an impression of sunday calm and the houses seemed empty of people, as if all had gone to the center, to the gayety of the boulevards. yet here the aspect was a different one; the quietness was less idle and seemed to vibrate with thought. she felt that there were crowds behind these strong walls, all busy with pious or cherished occupations: a silent activity, zeal, ambition and faith, and disciplined passions. at moments a hidden bell sent a deep note into the air. without much understanding, mme. chambannes felt a little shiver of surprise. she imagined a multitude of monks and nuns dwelling in these buildings. they knelt down and prayed, in long black or gray rows. the dark sanctuaries softened their silhouettes and the smoke of incense twisted its curls above their heads. she had a sudden curiosity to be among them, to learn their prayers and share their ecstasies. especially she wished to go in and see. her driver had to knock at the window to warn her that they had reached the house. the concierge was an old woman with catarrh. she told her where m. raindal's apartment was: at the end of the path, on the fifth floor, and the door on the right. she paused a little while before pulling the cord of the bell. she wanted to look about her. opposite stood the wall of the next house on the other side of the path. but to her right, she saw gardens, uneven houses, a whole panorama of strange roofs, separated by streets or a purple mixture of trees. a perfume of _pot-au-feu_ escaped from the door of the raindal family. she rang at last and was ushered into the drawing-room by brigitte. mme. raindal, dressed in black silk, was chatting with two elderly ladies whose dresses showed no care for the fashions of the day. she hesitated on seeing zozé, then recognized her and went to her. "i came to inquire about the young patient," mme. chambannes said, as she sat in the dark-red plush arm-chair which mme. raindal offered her. "thérèse! she is quite well again.... she is working with her father.... you shall see her very shortly.... how kind of you to...." mme. chambannes thanked her with a smile. mme. boudois, one of the two visitors, the wife of a professor at the sorbonne, exclaimed: "poor child!... has she been ill?" "not much, thank heaven!" mme. raindal replied. "a mere indisposition while she was dancing at the saulvards last night...." the other lady, mme. lebercq, the wife of the famous mathematician, inquired: "dizziness, was it?" "yes, i suppose so," mme. raindal replied. mme. boudois confirmed these presumptions. there was her husband, for instance; god knew he had his sea-legs and sailed up and down the seas every summer, at langrune, in a fisherman's boat. well, her husband never could waltz; he felt giddy at once. on the other hand, mme. lebercq was no sailor but had been able to bear dancing without inconvenience when she was young. a silence followed and mme. chambannes began again: "the party was charming, was it not?" "delightful!" mme. raindal admitted. mme. boudois and mme. lebercq asked for details, and received them. but at the turning point of a sentence, the conversation was directed toward another subject. mme. boudois spoke of the forthcoming festivities of advent. she advised mme. raindal to attend some of the benedictions of the host at saint-jacques-du-haut-pas, where the noël _o_ would be sung with rare brilliancy. mme. raindal rather preferred those of saint-Étienne-du-mont. the discussion grew quite heated. mme. lebercq, who was not devout, remained silent. mme. chambannes, ill at ease at this talk of things that were mysteries to her, examined the pattern of the red and black carpet around which the arm-chairs were disposed. she took advantage of a pause for breath and asked: "would it be indiscreet to disturb the master and your daughter?... i would be so glad to say how do you do to them!" "of course not! quite the contrary.... they will be delighted." she knocked at a side door. "what is it?" the voice of m. raindal grunted. "a visitor!" she made way for the younger woman. thérèse lifted her head at the sound and rose from the table at the same time as her father. "it is mme. chambannes who comes to inquire after you, dear," mme. raindal explained. thérèse, whose lips were already pursed with vexation, attempted a smile. "oh, you are too kind, dear madame.... it was not worth it...." m. raindal joined his grateful protestations to those of his daughter. mme. raindal excused herself and returned to her visitors. as on the previous day, at the ball, when he had been introduced to zozé, the master stood still, embarrassed. at length he said: "won't you sit down, please?" she took a chair and said: "how gay your study is!... how light!" "oh, we don't lack daylight here!" m. raindal replied. "the room has quite a good light." mme. chambannes continued: "you were working?... i interrupted you...." "with the most agreeable of possible surprises," m. raindal answered, with a wave of his hand. the conversation dragged on. thérèse wore a persistent frown, said little and was absorbed in drawing lines on a sheet of paper. mme. chambannes' visit roused her indignation. why had that woman come? what more did she want? what right had she to disturb them with her prattling, her childish queries and her very presence which brought back the memories of the previous evening, the shame of that accursed party? "your windows look out on gardens, do they not?" mme. chambannes asked. "upon gardens and our whole paris! we have a marvelous view from here!" he replied. she walked with him to the window. at last the sun had burst through the clouds and scattered the fog. below them was all m. raindal's paris, the whole of the religious, studious and simple-minded paris, stretching out its stiff endless stone buildings in a milky light. the tops of certain edifices rose high above the level of the others. to the right was the square tower of saint-jacques-du-haut-pas, then the immense dome of the pantheon, then a thin, fine point--the spire of the sorbonne. further to the left rose the shining sphere of the cupola of the missions and at the end a truncated pyramid upon which floated a tiny, discolored flag: the palace of the louvre. between these, the houses sketched in the air the irregular lines of their roofs. the thin-hooded chimneys bristled in compact ranks, like reversed bayonets. at the back was a deep hollow space, indicating avenues and a park; it was the luxemburg, but it could not be seen. m. raindal complacently commented upon this panorama. mme. chambannes gushed over it all, finding everything either charming or pretty. when he had finished, he pointed out the garden next to their house. "it is the garden of the _visitandine_ sisters of notre-dame-du-saint-rosaire.... see, there are two of our neighbors out for a walk!" mme. chambannes bent forward to look at them. they walked one behind the other around the enclosure of brown earth. they held chaplets in their hands that were red with cold, and let the beads slip one by one. their bonnets were bent down and hid their faces. one of them, thin and light, seemed young; the other was stouter and appeared old. both had the square, unshapely waist which the bands of their aprons mark on the corsetless flesh of nuns. mme. chambannes examined them in silence for a few seconds, but thought it wiser not to ask what it was these holy sisters were doing with their rosaries. she turned round and, perceiving a glass case set up against the wall, near the window, exclaimed. "oh, the pretty things! what charming little mummies!... they seem to be asleep standing up...." she pointed out the middle shelf where peacock blue, pale green and white china statuettes stood in rows. all wore the egyptian headdress that fell down on their shoulders like manes. their eyes were black lines above squat noses which were in several cases worn out at the tip. there were inscriptions all down their bodies even to the feet, which were swollen like those of gouty people. some had their arms crossed in front. others showed only their hands as if they had bathing gowns on. the sand of the desert had stuck to many of them, leaving upon them the mark of its centuries-old atoms. m. raindal explained the use of those statues. they had been placed in the tombs in order to help the dead in their labors in the other life. he then gave mme. chambannes the names of the divinities on the shelf above: hathor the cow-headed, jackal-headed anubis, hawk-headed horus, osiris, the god of the netherworld, with his huge tiara; thueris, a frightful idol with the head of a hippopotamus and a woman's breast, who was, it was thought, consecrated to motherhood or to preserving people from ill-luck. the master spoke of them all tenderly and volubly as if he had imagined them and made them himself with his own hands. well, had he not created them? had he not given them life when he tore them one by one from the nothingness of the sands or the depths of the tombs? the scarabs of colored stones were also, every one of them, his own discoveries. he had put a pin through them and laid them side by side on white grooves as one does with a collection of real insects. near these scarabs there was a case in which had been thrown three heavy gold rings, their bezels engraved with hieroglyphics, which had doubtless been worn on the dry, yellow fingers of imperious pharaohs. "all these things are terribly old, are they not?" mme. chambannes asked. "it depends," m. raindal replied. "on an average, they date back , perhaps or years!" "really!... and if i went to egypt, next year ... i could find some like these?..." "it is possible ... if one digs deep enough.... the desert is chock full of them!" "how interesting!" the young woman murmured dreamily. behind her, thérèse stamped the floor with impatience. she started when she heard mme. chambannes proceed: "and now, my dear master, i have a small favor to ask of you.... are you free in a fortnight, on december th?" "well, madame!..." m. raindal stammered, trying hard to guess, in spite of his poor eyesight, the meaning of the grimaces thérèse was making at him. "because, if you were free, you would do me great honor and give me much pleasure if you would dine with me at my house." m. raindal bowed. "hm! hm!... certainly, madame.... i can ask mme. raindal.... at least, i do not think she is engaged for that evening...." he turned to his daughter. "is it not so, dear? your mother has not, so far as i know...." thérèse cut his sentence short with the brutal admission: "no, father, we are free!" she felt her hand tremble on the glass case where it lay. anything, anything, just so she could get rid of that woman! so that she would go away, back to her tall coxcomb, that gerald whose mistress she must surely be! later they could get out of the engagement. let her only go! not to see her any more in the room, not to hear her voice any more, no longer to breathe in her perfume, like that of gerald, heavy! they returned to the drawing-room. mme. raindal, surprised, accepted at once. the whole family saw zozé off at the door. even thérèse followed them. when mme. chambannes reached the stairs and looked up for a last parting word, it was the girl's challenging glance that met her last one. * * * * * "a peculiar look!" mme. chambannes thought in the cab that took her away. it was a look that held both admiration and a little envy, such as the poor give when they watch the beautiful women going into the opera.... well, this little raindal girl was strange! her cab passed the bridge of la concorde and entered the champs Élysées. zozé could not refrain from making eyes at the first well-dressed young man she passed. at last she was back in her own element, on her own soil, in her own district. once before, she had had a similar impression; it was when she had returned from abroad and saw, on crossing the frontier, the first french customs inspector. as she returned now to the right bank of the river, she found everything different from the place she had just left. clothes, faces and gait--it was all different. the cold seemed less bitter, less cruel to her cheeks. men walked down the avenue, comfortable, peaceful, covered with soft fur coats. women passed in rapid victorias, their faces a smile in the midst of furs; children played and ran among the trees. everywhere the pleasures of summer were carried on in spite of the hostile winter. rich people met rich people, all well dressed, quite _au courant_ of the latest thing, among connoisseurs, in their own sets. zozé shut her eyes tight in an attempt to visualize again the rue notre-dame-des-champs, so far away, in the provinces as it were, gray and flat as a stereopticon view.... her mental comparisons were cut short when she heard the Élysée clock strike four. what! already! she would be late! what would gerald say? fortunately she was almost there. yet it was not fast enough for zozé who, with her feet propped up against the back seat of the cab, pushed the hot water can with her two feet, as if to help the horse along. at length, the cab came to a stop in rue d'aguesseau, before a quiet-looking house. carelessly, she settled her fare, ran madly up one flight and entered the apartment, all out of breath. gerald was there. he was dozing on the divan of the dressing room. his arms were folded around his head, making a dark setting for it. the obscurity of the corner where he lay further heightened his peaceful expression. mme. chambannes contemplated him tenderly. poor little raldo! how beautiful he was in his sleep! emboldened, she whispered: "are you asleep? are you asleep, darling?" without opening his eyes, gerald replied: "no, i am not asleep but i am affecting a deep sleep!..." "why?" zozé asked smilingly. "because," he replied in the same way, "you are late, madame, and i detest that kind of joke." he rose to kiss her. she returned his caress with effusion and asked saucily: "guess where i have been!" "i take orders from no one!" gerald replied. "well, i have been to see père raindal!" "the kangaroo!" surprised, zozé opened her eyes wide. "the kangaroo!" "why, of course!" gerald said. "didn't you notice the way he held his arms and his hands? a regular kangaroo! all he lacks is the pocket in front, and little ones inside." zozé laughed. then she gave him a humorous account of her visit, described the furniture, the carpet, the hangings; she told of the smelling pot-au-feu; she gave an imitation of mme. raindal, of mme. boudois and of mme. lebercq, all in the hope of amusing gerald. the young man had a certain amount of natural acrobatic talent, although he had not appeared in amateur circus performances. while he listened to zozé he stretched his limbs by walking round the room on his hands, his legs bent back and his feet hanging over his neck. when she had finished her story, he turned a somersault, slipped his arms behind his knees and, in that uncomfortable position, took a few frog-like jumps. then he straightened himself up smartly and asked: "well then, are you going to engage this mummy merchant?" "why not; do you mind?" zozé ventured, somewhat frightened. "i!" gerald replied. "no, not at all!... all tastes exist in nature!... you already have a novelist, three artists, two musicians and an _abbé_.... the kangaroo will complete your collection.... i congratulate you!" he bowed with an affected grand manner and declared, as he pointed to the next room. "you are at home here, dear madame." zozé obeyed him, throwing him as she passed a passionate look. gerald joined her after a few minutes. while he lit the candles on the mantelpiece, mme. chambannes lay silent, looking up to the ceiling, with a sudden serious expression. she had a fleeting vision of the two nuns who were walking in the cold, in the grassless garden, with their chaplets in their hands. that brought her a sensation of shame. confusedly, an idea came to her mind, showing her another life, as good and even probably better than her own, a life devoted to other aims than to go to bed every afternoon, with candles lit. but gerald approached and asked imperiously. "what are we thinking about?" suddenly, like a child caught doing a forbidden thing, zozé assumed again her happy, lover-like expression. "we are thinking.... we are thinking that we adore you, wicked raldo, who made me feel so miserable this morning." she stretched out her arms in a gesture of surrender and appeal. gerald slipped into her embrace, coaxing her in naughty whispers. chapter vii thérèse had never worked so hard as she did during the following days. it was her own way to cure herself, her one infallible medicine whenever her "crises of remembrances" as she termed them, returned to haunt her. she punished her brain with a surfeit of study, as devout people tame their rebellious flesh by means of pious exercises. for weeks at a stretch, she only left her father's study to go to one of the libraries. the moment she came back, she fell to work again. she started once more immediately after dinner and worked until she felt too sleepy to continue. and the next morning she started again. the remedy had seldom failed to bring prompt relief. her effervescence calmed down gradually under the icy blast of accumulated knowledge. she was so tired that her desires weakened; the immense drama of the history of humanity helped her to hold as futile her little sentimental regrets. these lofty thoughts brought forth a supreme breath of pride and dried the inner tears which her heart persisted in distilling. caught up once more by discipline, like a refractory horse brought back to the shafts, she assumed once more her customary existence; her soul was quieted and joyless but also too weary to attempt another revolt. an excess of scruples even caused her this time to make no attempt whatsoever to avoid the chambannes dinner. her relapse had been so serious, so sudden and so childish that she stood in need of punishment. she wanted to meet again, face to face, that handsome m. de meuze, in order to prove to herself by a defiance of the danger how foolish she had been. her bravery, however, much resembled the confidence inspired by an underestimated adversary. she no longer stood in dread of gerald because she thought him the lover of mme. chambannes and he shared in her mind the contempt she felt towards the young woman. but was it really contempt? thérèse was too proud to admit a feeling of jealousy towards this little brainless creature. the only feeling she avowed was one of pity. she delighted in remembering the ill-chosen expressions and the bad grammar which characterized the conversation of dainty mme. chambannes. and gerald himself, how futile his words were! his voice was that of a debauchee, an oily drawl, with accents that were imperious but carried no authority; he seemed to be in the habit of giving orders to no one but maîtres d'hôtel and loose women. the two of them made a pretty pair, a nicely matched couple! the day of the dinner party seemed to her a long time coming, so much did she long at once to challenge them both, to hold them under the hostile coldness of her gray eyes.... several times, m. raindal had to drag her away from her work at night. she always grumbled before she allowed herself to be persuaded. he chided her gently and took her arm to lead her to her bedroom. they walked together along the dark passage. everything was quiet in the house. sometimes they paused, smilingly listening to mme. raindal, whose snores reached them through the closed doors. then m. raindal kissed his daughter and retired, feeling his way about in the dark. "poor girl!" he thought in mingled admiration and tenderness. had he but known! had he but guessed at the struggles and the anguish of her masculine soul! had he but heard the "poor father!" with which his daughter expressed to herself pity for his lack of understanding!... the weeks passed rapidly and the day came at last when they were going to dine with the chambannes. shortly after seven, thérèse was putting on the heavy dark coat she wore when she went out in evening dress, when she heard a sudden outburst of discussion in the hall and someone knocked at her door. "come in!" she said. her father entered in his shirt sleeves. his white tie hung unfastened over his waistcoat. "do you know what is happening?" he exclaimed. "your mother now thinks we have been too ready to accept this invitation of mme. chambannes; she says that we should have tried to find out more about her.... find out!... find out what, i ask you, and where?... all this because of a dinner that has no importance!... she wants us to put it off now, five minutes before we are due to leave the house. what can one do? i ask you! especially i fancy that you yourself did not take greatly to the lady?..." "phew!" thérèse said doubtfully. "you can guess where she gets such ideas," m. raindal went on, as he paced the room. "she gets them from those fellows! from the vestry!... oh, she didn't deny it long.... and i have warned her that the next time they have the audacity to...." he did not finish his sentence. mme. raindal entered the room, her corsage unfastened: "hush!" she whispered. "someone has rung the bell. thérèse, go and open the door, dear! brigitte has run down to get a cab." "very well, mother." thérèse went to open the door and was surprised to find her uncle cyprien, who was wiping his shoes on the yellow mat in the dark hall. "good evening, nephew!" he exclaimed merrily. then he noticed that thérèse had her cloak on and wore white gloves. "oh! you are going out! and i came to share your dinner.... what bad luck!" he walked in. thérèse replied with constraint. they had said nothing to him about the chambannes dinner party, for fear of his criticism. "yes, uncle, we are dining out." hearing his brother's voice, the master came out of the room. he exchanged the customary greetings and said, to fend off any query: "you are unlucky.... we are not dining here.... can you come to-morrow?" "of course!" replied uncle cyprien. after a pause he added: "hm! is it indiscreet to ask where you are dining?" thérèse dared no longer to deny. "we are going to the rue de prony, to mme. chambannes', a lady whom we met at the dance at the saulvard's." "chambannes! how do you spell it?" cyprien asked, with a suspicious grimace. thérèse spelled it out for him. the younger m. raindal frowned. "chambannes, chambannes!" he repeated, as if he were testing the sound of a name with which his ear was not familiar. finally he gave it up. "well, au revoir!" he said, "till to-morrow!" he shook hands with them and walked down the stairs, still muttering to himself, "chambannes, chambannes!" in spite of its general aspect, the name sounded vaguely jewish to him. then, he reflected, everybody knew how cunning jews were in disguising their original names and changing them into french names. they called themselves duval, durand or dubourg and hid under those gallic, roman or frankish syllables, names bestowed on the mount of sinai, and uncle cyprien boasted of an exceptionally good scent when it came to unearthing such deceptions. he had not even admitted the purity of his own family name until after a thorough search in the libraries. the moment he reached the street, therefore, he hurried towards the brasserie klapproth where schleifmann could, he felt sure, throw some light on his suspicions. * * * * * "how late you are!" the galician exclaimed, as he started to enjoy a plateful of roast veal and jelly. uncle cyprien sat beside him and studied the bill of fare. "yes!" he said. "i am late; i wanted to dine with my brother ... but they are dining out, at mme. chambannes'." "rue de prony?" schleifmann asked. "then you know the lady?" cyprien inquired. "oh! very little.... she is charming.... i meet her sometimes at the house of one of my pupils' parents, young pums, the son of m. pums, assistant manager of the bank of galicia." "well, i never ..." cyprien exclaimed. "i even knew that your brother was to dine there.... mme. chambannes invited mme. pums and gave her the names of the other guests.... she seems to think a great deal of your brother." "you knew it and you said nothing of it to me?" said raindal, with a reproachful glance. schleifmann repressed a smile. "well, no! _you_ said nothing about it.... i assumed that your brother had not told you ... out of discretion, you understand?" cyprien became thoughtful. "listen, schleifmann.... tell me the truth!... what kind of people are these chambannes?... are they all right?" schleifmann pretended to have some trouble in swallowing the last mouthful, in order to gain time for thinking. of course, he could not tell a falsehood to his friend. but why, on the other hand, should he further excite this savage ill-will, ever ready to spring up; why should he help to stir up family troubles? he chose to answer with harmless fibs and did it with studied indifference. "well!... i couldn't say.... the husband seemed to me a somewhat colorless person.... he is an engineer and specializes in mining affairs, i believe.... the woman is pretty, smart and pleasant.... besides, as i told you, i hardly know them." cyprien was not eating. he bit his mustache; then suddenly he burst out, as if a spring had been released: "they are jews, are they not?" "i am not sure!" schleifmann replied. "the husband comes from the berri, where jews have not, as a rule, colonized very much.... his wife appears rather of the semitic type ... but so refined, so very mixed, that i dare not affirm...." "yet, their name!" cyprien insisted. "their name!" the galician replied, feeling his philologist's pride provoked. "actually, there is nothing to prevent it from being a frenchified jewish name.... chambannes might well be derived from rhâm-bâhal, or from the corrupted rhâm-bâhan, which means, if my recollections are correct, something like _high-idol_, a _lofty idol_...." "rhâm-bâhan!" uncle cyprien repeated complacently.... "rhâm-bâhan!... of course ... that's what it is.... i thought to myself...." the admissions made by schleifmann had whetted his appetite and, his mouth full of food, he insinuated: "it seems to me you spoke a little while ago of a list of guests who would be there...." "yes, yes," schleifmann said evasively. "well, who are they?" cyprien insisted. the galician shifted uneasily. "i have not a very clear recollection of them.... i assure you.... i have forgotten." "i don't believe it, schleifmann! try to remember; there is no hurry." the temptation proved too strong for his friend. he could not miss such an occasion to air his rancor; he could not refrain from flaying the whole dubious clique of men who had in the past refused him a hearing. he began to feel that he lacked the strength to resist his inclination. he began, mildly at first, a few points at a time, throwing his venom upon those he hated least. "very well," he said. "let's see!... to-night there will be m. givonne, an artist who paints fans and dancing tambourines for society balls and sells anything he likes to the americans.... hm!... m. mazuccio, a little italian sculptor who spends his time telling how the women whose busts he has made are fashioned below the waist...." "a pretty lot!" cyprien encouraged him. "m. herschstein," schleifmann went on, more vigorously, "that excellent herschstein.... ho, ho! here is one i recommend to your notice.... a patriarch's gray beard, fat cheeks, the head of a pleasant grandfather, as good as gold.... this does not prevent him from being one of the heads of the black band.... you know, the clan of german financiers who daily speculate against the french bonds.... ah! many legends, many lies are told concerning the jews.... but, alas, this is not an invention; the foul black band does exist! and it is on the cards that your comrade schleifmann will be one of those, when the people take a fancy, on the first day of the riots, to go and find out, under their very noses, what they are brewing in that corner!" "good man!" m. raindal said with emotion. "m. herschstein, then ... and madame ... a tall, lanky woman with a narrow mind, who thinks she can wipe out these crimes by throwing money to all the poor people and contributing to charitable works...." schleifmann hit the table with his fist. "charity! the damned fool. it's charity she'll get on the day when her rascally husband has had us all expelled from here!" "hush, hush! calm yourself, schleifmann!" uncle cyprien whispered. he knew now he could rely on the galician, as one could trust a roaring, flaming fire. "calm yourself, my friend!... who else, did you say?" "m. de marquesse!..." schleifmann continued. "another pretty fellow!... a consulting engineer.... adviser! ha, ha! legal adviser, i have no doubt!... already two societies which he "advised" have ended before a magistrate.... but he gets on just the same!... people say that his wife helps him.... not that she is good-looking ... a head like a horse.... but men are so stupid in that set.... for the sake of an aristocratic name, my dear friend, they would entertain a mare." "how delightful!" cyprien remarked, his lips twisted in a disgusted pout. "then there is my countryman pums, a dark little man with a black mustache, the face of a gypsy, and his wife, a small red-headed woman.... but she is pretty, this one! plump, with a turned-up nose ... regular painter's meat!" "what's that?" cyprien asked. "yes, it is my name for these ladies, because of their inclination towards artists.... any painter has but to stoop down to pick them up, like a 'rag and bones' man in a heap of rubbish." "and so you think that mme. chambannes herself...." schleifmann stopped him quickly. "no, no! not at all.... quite the contrary!" he added maliciously: "mme. chambannes leads a regular life, absolutely regular...." thereupon he took up the normal thread of his ideas: "let us go back to our people.... the marquis de meuze and his son, the comte de meuze." "ah!" said m. raindal with irony.... "sham nobility, are they?" "no, true.... they are very friendly with the chambannes.... by the way, you would like the old marquis very much.... i have been assured that he shared your horror for the jews, who nearly ruined him at the time of the panic...." the flame of his anger was abating. he gave a few more names, but without commenting upon them: jean bunel, the novelist; m. burzig, a young broker; m. silberschmidt and his wife. he became silent and cyprien asked: "is that all?" "yes, absolutely," schleifmann replied, as he took off his gold-rimmed spectacles to wipe the glasses, tarnished by the perspiration caused by his excitement. m. raindal the younger assumed a jocular expression. "one more question, please!" "i am listening," schleifmann said. cyprien came closer to him and asked engagingly: "of course, they are all prussians?" "no, my dear raindal," the galician replied. "they are all french, or--and it is all one--naturalized frenchmen.... since the war.... the little pums is their veteran.... he has been french since , this little pums.... well i remember how proud he was of it when he came back to lemberg, at his next annual visit.... he ran from house to house, to his friends, to his relations, showing everywhere his naturalization papers.... anyone might have thought he was showing the diploma of a degree...." "it is one!" remarked cyprien. "yes, yes, all are naturalized french citizens," schleifmann continued, "with the exception of burzig whom i was forgetting.... it is not his fault, however.... he owes that to his father.... they have the mania for change in that family. the grandfather was born in mayence and became an american. good! the father came to paris and turned into a frenchman.... pouf! it was not enough!... he made an englishman of his son to save him from military service.... i tell you, these damned burzigs are never satisfied!" he laughed, a sneer on his lips. "if the jews of france had red blood in their veins, i can assure you that they would have thrown out all these tourists! you, the true frenchmen, should have made life so unbearable, so hard for them that...." "what about yourself, schleifmann?" raindal asked. "are you not going to be naturalized also?" the galician gave a melancholy smile. "i, my good friend?... at my age!... what is the use? fate made me a man without a country and a man without a country i must remain.... i am plain m. schleifmann, a citizen of humanity, as someone said...." "that is all very well!" cyprien objected. "but what would happen to you if war broke out?" "war!" schleifmann murmured dreamily.... "first of all, shall i see it?... then i am very old, my dear raindal; i would make a poor kind of a soldier.... i am sorry.... however much i do detest war and the imbecile reasons for which nations massacre each other, i would have liked nevertheless to serve france, the least stupid of all nations, after all, and the most generous i have ever known...." "phew! you could make yourself useful in other ways," m. raindal said. "true!..." schleifmann said in a low voice, as if he were addressing his own soul. "in , the commune came!" but cyprien missed the tragic retort. he was already lost in joyful thoughts of the morrow. he imagined with glee how stupefied his brother would be when he heard: "well! how is old herschstein! and that charming mme. pums?... and the honorable m. burzig!..." he laughed so loudly that he apologized to schleifmann. "forgive me, i was thinking of something so funny.... ha, ha! it is wonderful!" he felt moved to show his gratitude: "here, schleifmann, you will not refuse a glass of kirchenwasser?... garçon, kirchenwasser and two glasses, two big ones, customers' glasses, you know!..." the waiter returned with a bottle protected by a cover of twisted straw. cyprien poured two big drinks and lifted his glass to touch that of his friend. "to humanity, schleifmann!" he said courteously. "to france!" the galician replied, and they toasted. * * * * * at the same time, the raindal family were making their entry into the salon of mme. chambannes. zozé stepped out rapidly to meet them. she wore a loose dress of pink silk with subdued flowered-work. it gave her the silhouette of a spanish princess. chambannes followed her; he was perhaps smiling under the mystery of his huge blonde mustache. then began the series of introductions. ladies first: little mme. pums, in a tight-fitting black robe with gold spangles, which made her plump face appear even fresher, whiter by contrast and gave added zest to her red hair; mme. de marquesse, a tall blonde with a horsy jaw, whose mauve crêpe dress showed, revealed about the hips, the massive bones of a republic or a liberty; mme. silberschmidt, a thin dark woman with the face of a sick hen; mme. herschstein, more angular and haughty in her white satin corsage than a lady of ancient lineage. then came the men, one by one, as they happened. they bowed low; all gave deferential yet curious looks; all shook hands eagerly and yet with shyness; they spoke in respectful but unfinished sentences, as one does in the presence of a foreign potentate with whose etiquette and language one is not very well acquainted. pums, the dean of the naturalized ones, was introduced last. small, neat, yellow-faced, dressed with sober correctness--what struck one most in his physiognomy was not his viennese stockbroker type, nor his thick black mustache, nor the gray about his temples; it was the projection of his two big light chocolate eyes, so keen in seeing things, so ingenuous and so languorous that, but for a flicker of sly archness at the bottom of them, one might have thought them the eyes of a good little boy surprised at seeing so many people. he spoke a decent french, with not more than the suspicion of a teutonic accent: a french that was, like himself, naturalized. he was the only one who succeeded in reaching the end of his compliment. m. raindal had no time to thank him; they were passing into the dining-room. mme. chambannes sat between the master and the marquis de meuze. her husband faced her, with mme. raindal to his right and mme. de marquesse on the left. the neighbors of thérèse were gerald and mazuccio; the latter a sort of brown faun, who droned his s's with the fury of a venetian mosquito. the rest of the company sat round the table, at seats marked by cards bearing their names. the soup was served in attentive silence. they were obviously waiting for the master to say something important and unusual; the ladies were especially anxious to hear m. raindal whom they imagined, after his _life of cleopatra_, to be a famous raconteur who would surely deliver some "stiff ones" during the dinner. they were soon undeceived. he was really not very amusing, this m. raindal, nor very original, with his fat, flabby neck, his hands that hung loose, his manners of an ill at ease ex-prefect--and his almost inaudible voice. moreover, they were not missing much. details on the climate of egypt, the means of transportation, the favorable time of the year for traveling in that region--i ask you, wouldn't baedeker or the joanne guide give one as much? soon, m. raindal had but two left to listen to him, the marquis and mme. chambannes who was never tired of asking questions. to tell the truth, he did not feel in the mood. it was not that he felt intimidated by mme. chambannes' fervent glances, or the caressing roll of her _r_'s which made her voice softly imperious. on the contrary, he was grateful to her for not wearing a lower dress; he found her most graceful in that corsage which barely showed a modest opening and exposed a small square of skin with her fine neck free from jewelry. the surrounding sumptuousness embarrassed him much more than the tender glances of the young woman. he had written a whole chapter on the pomp of cleopatra; he had not winced at the gems, the gold, the incense and all the sumptuousness of the inimitable life; but he now remained as one dazed before the reality of a magnificence that was much inferior to it. the profusion of flowers running in garlands all over the table, the light shining in the cut glass, the dainty silver, the shining elegance of the guests were to him as so many sharp points of brilliancy that caught his eye and his thoughts. he was, moreover, further distracted by a noise that resembled the purring of an engine, the _schh_, the _harrh_, the _horrh_ and the _pff_ which were now fusing from the group of the silberschmidts, the herschsteins and the pums, who were massed on one side of the table. they had evidently made themselves at home; their tongues wagged, they used their native language, which sounded like a gargle. the french language? why, that was a dialect for official use, good enough when one had to be polite, for social life.... but why should they place such a check upon themselves when they talked business, when it came to serious or intimate matters? how could they do it, anyhow? was not this native language of theirs which sprang to their lips with a naïve instinctive vigor stronger than anything else, stronger than any decree or any oath of allegiance? you should have seen the jeering wink that accompanied pums' inquiries concerning the _krankheit_ (illness) of the sultan and the no less knowing look in the eyes of herschstein when he replied. that indisposition of the sultan had proved devilishly successful; it was herschstein's idea, had been sent from paris to vienna, re-telegraphed from vienna to paris, and had upset the bourse throughout the afternoon. turkish stocks had tumbled down, francs, francs, francs at a time and the panic had spread to the french rent! result: about , francs for each of the active members of the black band and a paltry , for pums, who was only an ally, a sort of honorary accomplice. however, he was not dissatisfied with his share and even wished to pay back herschstein who explained to him the new plans of the bank of galicia concerning certain gold mines. that scheme consisted in forming a syndicate which would be named an investigating society and would glean from the market the least suspicious mining bonds. moreover, it was an easy operation; they had first only to depreciate these values by means of alarming news and then send them soaring up to the highest point by means of optimistic news. the art of the market at its infancy! the infallible process. young burzig who, being a british subject, had been ceaselessly flirting in english with pretty mme. pums, brusquely returned to the german of his family in order to take part in the discussion and the projects of the group. they were discussing with de marquesse what bonds they could choose, what mines would be drained in the course of the operation. english or dutch names, more blazing than tiaras, were quoted: the pink star of south africa, the transvaal sun, the source of the carbuncles.... suddenly there were signs of restlessness in the one little green eye of the marquis de meuze. it rolled, turned and trembled in its orbit like a fishing cork. he tried hard to take in what was being said. what! there was no mistake about it this time! they were talking about gold mines at the end of the table. quite so.... gold mines! _nom d'un bon homme! nom d'un chien!_ how could he listen to these gentlemen without being discourteous to the other one, that m. raindal with his damned stories about mummies and mariette bey?... the marquis tried vainly to follow both conversations and his face became purple in the attempt. he could only hear a few words of the one that was carried on further from him: _fontein_ ... _rand_ ... _chartered_ ... _cecil rhodes_ ... _de beers_ ... _claim_ ... and their technical syllables further pricked his curiosity. well, it was no small matter to him! , francs engaged on the mining market. " , " the marquis repeated to himself; did it not give him a right to a certain amount of anxiety? and it seemed that it was in answer to him that he heard the voice of pums in a half silence. "_ya! gewiss.... ich glaube das die red-diamond...._" _the red-diamond--fontein!..._ why, that was the favorite mine of the marquis, his most beloved stock, "his little red diamond," as he called it victoriously! this time m. de meuze could no longer contain himself. brutally he turned right about and addressed the financiers: "excuse me, m. pums, you have just mentioned the _red diamond_, i believe? would it be indiscreet to ask what you were saying about it?" "not at all, marquis," pums replied, for he always felt honored when m. de meuze consulted him. and out of regard for the aged nobleman, the sizing up of the different mining stocks was carried on in french. however, m. raindal had not noticed this desertion. it was some time already since he had been speaking for zozé's benefit alone; he felt that a gradual mist of sympathy isolated them together from the rest of the party. he thought to himself, charmed and perhaps also emboldened by the mixture of wines he had been drinking: "i was right.... one of cleopatra's followers!... a little greek girl.... a true little greek!" then he went on: "one day the fellahs refused to carry our luggage on board; mariette bey rushed upon them, revolver in hand...." zozé exclaimed, amazed by his tales. she was not lacking in good will or respect for philosophical maxims; she only relaxed her zeal when she could not understand. at such time her eyes wandered, innocently settling in turn upon each of the guests, in an impersonal and almost mechanical need for tenderness which she still preserved from her past quests. the little pums rushed forward; his eyelids quivered; he was like a gymnast anxious to catch his trapeze. poor fellow, he was so much in love! gerald's reply was a cordial grimace, made with his nose or his mouth or his cheeks, and zozé understood him: "yes, of course, it is quite understood, we two are lovers!" but mlle. raindal, alas, seemed less satisfied. poor girl! gerald and mazuccio--they were leaving her shamelessly alone. one inclined his face towards the flat chest of germaine de marquesse and almost touched her; the other's face was aflame; he had turned entirely to one side, close to that lascivious hen, mme. silberschmidt! what a gap there was on each side of the poor girl! no, it was really not nice for them to treat her in this fashion as if she were a governess. thereupon mme. chambannes would look again into m. raindal's eyes. that had the same effect upon him as if someone had poured something hot inside him, and he became quite red. his eyes blinked with pleasure. he coughed to gather himself together again and lifted his head, unconsciously awaiting the next soulful look, or else he admired zozé's profile; it was so neat, so delicate under her gathered hair which was caught behind by a tiny bow of pearls. and as he went on with his anecdotes, he repeated to himself: "a true little greek!... a little greek girl from the islands." suddenly the true little greek became restless on her chair; her face showed suspicion; she looked hard towards mlle. raindal who was half-hidden from her behind a bunch of mauve orchids set up in the middle of the table. well! what was amusing the girl so? what was it that brought to the corners of her mouth this set, oldish smile like a wrinkle? what was the meaning of the contemptuous glances and the commiserating attitude with which she scrutinized all the guests one after the other! "upon my word," mme. chambannes thought, "one might think she was looking at savages or niggers!" but a new thought came to her. "oh, well! the poor girl is annoyed!... i can well understand it!..." mme. chambannes called gerald in friendly words, to bring him back to his duties. they were serving the finger bowls. it was too late, after all! she would see to it next time! she pressed her nails into the translucent slice of lemon which floated on the surface of the water. she pushed back her chair with slow discretion and everybody rose. "mademoiselle!" gerald said, offering his arm to thérèse. the young girl laid her hand on it but avoided his eyes, disdainfully turning her head away. they walked to the drawing-room without a word. gerald multiplied his courteous, deferential attitudes; he drew in his chest and gave all the signs of a well-bred man of the world who knew that he was at fault and exonerated himself silently. he escorted her to mme. raindal and softly withdrew his arm. "mademoiselle!" he bowed with much ceremony and directed his steps towards the smoking-room. thérèse could not prevent herself from watching him. the balancing of his tall frame on his bent legs gave him the relieved, weary gait of a man who has just come down from his horse, or of one who has accomplished an imposed task. outside the smoking-room he took mazuccio familiarly by the shoulders to make him pass in front; she heard them still laughing behind the old tapestry portière--a mysterious throaty laugh which even at a distance had an obscene sound. "well, dear?" m. raindal murmured, as he approached in short and somewhat heavy steps. "how was the dinner?" "excellent," thérèse replied coldly, and sat down to the right of her mother. "i am delighted that we came...." "that is what i thought," m. raindal continued softly, mistaking his daughter's tone. "this mme. chambannes entertains people in the most perfect fashion.... now ... you agree that i was right not to let myself be stopped by certain prejudices, certain preconceived ideas!..." this allusion caused mme. raindal to blush suddenly, but thérèse, a sneer on her lips, whispered: "why, surely, father, i told you.... these people improve very much on closer acquaintance...." m. raindal turned round. mme. chambannes was calling him away to offer him some coffee. at the other end of the drawing-room little mme. pums and tall mme. de marquesse were holding each other by the waist and exchanged joyful secrets concerning the use they had made of their afternoon. their outward contrast brought out all the more the best points of each. one guessed that they shared the same tastes and the same aptitudes, everything they needed to take part in full agreement in some party of four, especially with two pleasant men of corresponding height. still linked together they marched through the room. mme. de marquesse pulled aside the curtain of the smoking-room; joyful exclamations greeted the graceful pair. they went in altogether and the shouts increased. these gentlemen were not ungrateful. the conversation dragged until their return. mme. chambannes tried to make small talk with thérèse and mme. raindal, while mme. herschstein paid compliments to the master. but the subjects of conversation were getting scarce. she remarked on the late hours of modern dinners and gave out some prognostications concerning the forthcoming winter; and then zozé began to feel ill at ease. great heavens! what could she talk about? dresses! she must not think of it! poor women, they were rather "trussed up!" theaters? they had admitted that they had not been to one for two years. zozé tried; she groped for ideas; the gray eyes of thérèse looked sternly into hers and put her further out of countenance. she was very intelligent perhaps, this mlle. raindal, but she was not easy to get on with.... "no go in her," as gerald would declare. zozé was on the verge of forgiving him his brutal silence during the dinner. at last the men returned, with the exception of the marquis, whose apologies george chambannes offered to m. raindal. as a rule, that was the hour for smutty stories. they would go by twos to whisper in the dark corners; the old people usually remained in sight in the center of the room, peacefully discussing aloud their money matters or their infirmities. the presence of the raindal family probably made the guests feel ill at ease, for they did not attempt their usual customary maneuver. two of them only, givonne the painter of tambourines, and little mme. pums, who had been last in leaving the smoking-room, dared to maintain the tradition. they settled down in a window corner. with the exact expression of an english commercial traveler it seemed, at a distance, as if givonne was praising to mme. pums some article which, he promised, would give her complete satisfaction. m. raindal examined them for a moment with a mechanical benevolence. but he felt his eyelids becoming heavy. the abundant meal or the efforts to recall his memories which he had made during the dinner made him feel very tired. to avoid speaking he made free use of affable smiles. the entrance of jean bunel, whom mme. chambannes brought towards him, gave him a pretext to rise. "m. jean bunel, whose beautiful novels i'm sure you have read," zozé said in presenting him. "to be sure.... delighted, my dear confrère!" said m. raindal warmly, as he pressed the hand of bunel, whose name he was nevertheless hearing for the first time. he was a young man with a fine brown beard; rapidly he turned out an admiring sentence, as pointed and pretty as a candy cone. m. raindal thanked him with a bow, and made a sign to mme. raindal and thérèse, who rose at the same time. "you are not going already?" mme. chambannes asked, exaggerating her regret. m. raindal mumbled some excuse and they all walked together towards the hall. a wave of relief passed over the guests. it was not one old maid but three who were disappearing through that door! a feeling of frolic was in the air; they all felt a need to let out foolish remarks and to fall back into their habits. yet they still held themselves in hand, out of the respect which notoriety inspires in the minds of uncultured people. when mme. chambannes returned, she found them all silent. "well, you are not very gay here," she exclaimed, and added after a pause: "what do you think of him?" "oh, your little friend is charming!" said gerald, in the midst of an explosion of laughter. pums encouraged by this success tried also to say something very funny, but jean bunel declared in commanding tones: "his is nothing less than one of the most remarkable minds of the day!" "_n'est-ce pas?_" zozé murmured. "yes," bunel went on, moved as much by a generous impulse of solidarity as by a malicious delight in contradicting a clubman.... "yes, without comparing him to taine or renan, i think that within the last few years the science of history has produced no more vigorous brain nor a purer stylist...." "really?" pums exclaimed, suddenly brought round to another view. as a matter of fact, the only reproach which he had for m. raindal was that he spoke too low. silberschmidt agreed with him. mme. herschstein, to whom the master had listened, affirmed that m. raindal was one of the most interesting of men. mme. pums thought he had a very expressive face. givonne was called down for voicing a criticism of mme. raindal's dress. did such things count? the change was so decisive and so general that zozé felt much pity for her little raldo. poor darling! what a snubbing! she walked to the fireplace where he stood, his elbows resting on the marble of the mantelpiece. when she came quite close to him she murmured in a passionate whisper the query which had kept her throat dry for the last three hours: "do you love me?" free from spite, the count instantly affirmed that he did. chapter viii the clock of the collège de france sharply struck three. a little door hidden in the gray wall was opened and m. raindal entered. he sat behind his large white table, facing his usual audience of eight who waited, pen in hands, ready to take notes. he took a few manuscript sheets from his portfolio and began simply: "we concluded, in our last lesson before the new year, the study of the oblatory paintings which have been found in the mastabas of abu-roash. from the same point of view we shall begin to-day the study of the mastabas of dahshour. the paintings contained in this necropolis afford to the historian perhaps more interesting insights than those of abu-roash. we find there particulars concerning the private and industrial life of the egyptians, which may well be considered unique. i, therefore, call your particular attention to this lecture and those that will follow...." m. raindal paused and consulted his notes: "the chief painting in the mastabas of dahshour is that which was preserved in the tomb of a rich trader of that period, one of those important merchants whose caravans carried on the traffic with lybia and the syrian coast. it was first brought to public notice by brugsch; then it formed the subject of two detailed communications from my young and eminent confrère, m. maspero; these appeared in the _annales du musée de boulack_; and the _revue d'egyptologie_. the name of this trader was rhanofirnotpou...." m. raindal rose from his seat and quickly rubbed the blackboard behind him. a little cloud of white chalk, light as smoke, floated about his sleeve. "rha-no-fir-not-pou!..." he spelled out, as he wrote the hieroglyphics of the word upon the board. he had scarcely finished when the padded door was pushed forward and fell back again noisily. insidious emanations of iris perfume sharply passed through the room. a lady entered, and with a rustle of silk, sat down behind the students. in spite of himself, and as if compelled by the odor, m. raindal turned round anxiously. yes, it was she, it was the pretty little mme. chambannes! he was so upset that on coming back to his place he could do nothing but repeat his first sentence concerning the defunct rhanofirnotpou. " ...one of those important merchants, as i said, one of those rich traders whose caravans...." mme. chambannes! mme. chambannes at his lecture, in a blue skirt, a white veil and her otter fur coat! who could have expected such foolishness, such a childish caprice? and now she was making little signs at him as one does to friends in a theater from box to box: "how do you do, m. raindal. how do you do, how do you do," the head of mme. chambannes kept on saying. she desisted, at last, when she noticed that the master's face remained impassive despite her politeness. moreover, the coldness of m. raindal was not her only cause for disappointment. to begin with, she did not understand anything of this story about the paintings of the late rhanofirnotpou. what! paintings in a tomb! the great trader must have been an original character! and then she was astonished by the setting. she had thought that she would enter a grandiose amphitheater, with the audience crowding on the tiers built of oak and varnished by age. below she had imagined a huge chair as high as that of a judge, and flanked by two ushers with silver chains. in the chair, m. raindal in a crimson red velvet robe bordered with ermine.... m. raindal discoursing, playing with his braided bonnet, drinking sugar and water and interrupted at every word by his enthusiastic audience.... what a disillusion! what a contrast to the realities! who could have imagined this narrow hall with dirty gray walls, those two imitation bronze busts--plato and epictetus--perching like chinese pottery upon two pedestals of imitation stone, this coarse white wood bench that resembled a kitchen table, and rush-bottom chairs piled up on one side near the washed-out plato as in an old furniture storeroom. zozé felt almost the same imperceptible melancholy which the spectacle of misery inspires in worthy people. she sought distraction in a successive inspection of the backs and of the necks of the eight students. two were already bald. three showed between the shoulders the shining line which the hard back of the omnibus pressed into the cloth. the coat of another was faded. towards the end of the table, to the left was one with a brown mane--oh, what a wolf's head!--he surely did not squander his money at the hairdresser's!... she was full of pity for these brave young men. she wished she could give them advice about their clothes, and if necessary help them with her purse. a scraping of chairs brought her back from her charitable dreams. the lecture was finished. m. raindal had disappeared. but where? through the wall, no doubt. and not even a sign of applause! zozé was dumfounded. she stood up, cramped from having sat so long, and followed the students who were passing out. some made way for her. none of them stared at her. and those who walked ahead did not turn round to look. she found them discreet and well-bred but somewhat shy. she paced the huge vestibule, sounding her heels on the tiles for the sake of hearing the echo. ten minutes passed; she was freezing with cold. she was going to ask pageot when m. raindal came forth from the shadows, his portfolio under his arm. he repressed an angry gesture and assumed a smile as he advanced towards her. "what! you here, dear madame!" he exclaimed hypocritically. "did you not recognize me? i heard your lecture.... i did not understand everything, but it was very interesting!" m. raindal sought an excuse in his poor eyesight and asked more anxiously: "well, my dear lady, what can i do for you? what is it you wish? to what fortunate hazard do i owe your presence here?" fortunate hazard! no, not at all fortunate. yet, she could not reply: "gerald has once more played me one of his tricks and put me and my caresses off for two hours.... that is why, having nothing to do, and out of sheer boredom, i came here to see what one of your lectures was like, and perhaps, also, to arrange a little dinner party!" what she said was this, accompanied by a child-like smile: "no hazard at all, dear master!... i wanted to hear you, that is all.... when it was over, i waited for you, so as to shake your hand...." "you are too kind, a thousand times ... really!..." m. raindal murmured distractedly. he darted frightened glances to right and left as they walked out. when they reached the street, and he saw mme. chambannes' own carriage waiting, he was unable to dominate a desire to run away. he took off his hat. "good-by, dear madame.... i hope soon to meet you again.... please give my compliments to m. chambannes." zozé protested. "what, master! don't you want me to drive you home?... in such weather!" with a quizzical frown she showed him the sidewalk which the thawing temperature had apparently coated with syrupy iced coffee. the master declined. from outside her coupé, zozé insisted, beating the leather of the cushions as if she were calling a little dog. m. raindal lost all his composure. if the students, or some of his colleagues were to see him in this ludicrous position! fear carried the day. he sat beside mme. chambannes. "that's better. it would have been silly to refuse," zozé said, and she lowered the front window to give the address to her coachman. when she closed it again, m. raindal noticed with relief that all the panes were covered with steam. protected from sight by the opaque glass, he began to feel more at ease. he smiled at mme. chambannes, who was smiling at him. the carriage rolled rapidly over the carpet of yellow snow. a soft warmth came from the hot water can; the pleasant scent of morocco leather blended with that of violets. m. raindal sighed with comfort and, waking up, said paternally, to try to blot out the rudeness of his attempted leave-taking: "it appears then, dear madame, that the lecture did not bore you too much?" "quite the contrary! moreover, i firmly hope that, next time...." "what next time?" "i mean the next lecture i attend," zozé corrected, "and those after...." m. raindal darkened. "are you thinking of coming again?" "perhaps!... why not?... are you angry?..." "not at all, dear madame, not at all!" he could say no more. he was paralyzed with stupefaction. so! she wanted to come every monday, to attend all his lectures, publicly to compromise him, turn him into a laughing-stock for the whole collège, the scientific world and perhaps the whole press! he fancied that he heard the voice of cyprien: "ah ha!... it appears that mme. rhâm-bâhan"--the younger raindal never used any other name for mme. chambannes--"it appears that mme. rhâm-bâhan takes to egyptology.... bravo! charming! delightful!" then would follow the sly irony of his colleagues, the jealous jests, the allusions, the scandal! no, no! m. raindal was not going to risk such a misadventure as had often wrecked the careers of many of his illustrious colleagues, because of the fancies of a lady who was, he did not deny it, graceful, attractive and sympathetic, but nevertheless frivolous and devoid of reflective power. he declared firmly: "listen, my dear lady.... i have enough esteem for you to tell you the truth.... well, it seems to me that you are not in a position to derive any benefit from my teaching.... the collège de france is a sort of seminary ... a seed-plot as it were, destined to form young savants ... you understand? the essential aim of the collège de france is to...." "yes, yes!" zozé interrupted sadly.... "yes, my dear master, i can see that my presence is not welcome to you.... but how can i learn for my trip to egypt, next winter?... what can i do?... what can i do?" she hung on to her old project of "preparing for her trip"; she clung to it with an alluring obstinacy which was gradually getting on m. raindal's nerves. phew! let her "prepare" as best she could! he moved away from her and, in his impatience, let fall his portfolio. mme. chambannes caught it deftly: "poor m. raindal!" she said, giving him one of the sidelong looks that were her natural way of looking at people.... "i am boring you, am i not?" he blushed for his brusqueness. "not at all! i am trying to think of some way in which i can help you with your studies, with your preparatory reading...." zozé frowned with attention. suddenly, a joyful flicker swiftly passed over her caressing eyes. "i ... i have an idea," she insinuated; "an idea which has just occurred to me." "what is it?" "but it is so indiscreet!" "never mind!... tell me!" m. raindal urged, feeling that his indulgence was once more wearing out. "no, i shall never dare!" she still hesitated, her eyes plunged into his. she decided to speak at last, when the carriage stopped at the door of his house. there it was: she wished, if it were not too much trouble, that the master would agree to come to the rue de prony, once a week, on thursdays, or at least twice a month, not to give her lessons--no, zozé would never bring herself to risk so impudent a request--but to talk to her, simply, as a friend, to guide her in her studies, to indicate to her what she should read.... "you understand.... i know that it is very indiscreet.... yet, if you would ... it would make me so happy!... won't you, dear master?" gently she laid her white-gloved hand on the master's knee, in a familiar gesture that had no touch of second-thought coquetry, as she had touched the knee of a kind grandfather--of her uncle panhias, for instance, when she was asking a favor. m. raindal was intimidated and dared not move away. on seeing this slight, elegant creature bent before him in such an ingenuous and humbly craving attitude, he felt pleasantly troubled and mistook that feeling for regret, for tenderness. "hm!... madame!" he murmured, assuming again a pleasant voice.... "it would grieve me very much to displease you.... nevertheless, you must realize that my obligations ... my work...." "oh! i know, i know!" zozé said with feigned resignation. time passed. raindal looked through the steam, at the soft silhouettes of the passers-by, unable to make up his mind to bid her good-night. suddenly he started, as if a shooting pain had passed through him. "what is it, dear master?" zozé asked in a solicitous tone. "nothing, nothing, my dear lady!" oh! almost nothing--he had merely recognized at the end of the street certain swaggering shoulders, a certain martial gait, merely uncle cyprien who was walking straight to the carriage, flourishing his thick reddish cornel stick. m. raindal envied for a minute the distant shelter of the late rhanofirnotpou. why was he not in the deepest part of the _hypogee_, in the dark serdab, in the cement-sealed partition, instead of finding himself in a cage that seemed suddenly all windows, with a young and pretty woman who harassed him with her prayers! "don't you really want to, dear master?... nothing like set dates.... i promise you.... you could fix the hours, the days...." "i am trying to find, i am trying!" he replied mechanically, while attentively watching the rapid march of the enemy. uncle cyprien was coming nearer; his features became more distinct; he reached the carriage. as he passed, he gave the turn-out a contemptuous and yet mistrustful glance and walked up the alley. unconsciously m. raindal heaved a sigh of relief. he put his hand out to mme. chambannes. "good-by, dear madame.... i shall think about it; i'll let you know." zozé pouted with disappointment. "and i was in hopes you would give me your answer now!" m. raindal passed a hand over his eyes, to sweep a painful vision away--that of his brother who might be coming down again, meeting him as he came out of the carriage and thereby acquiring a pretext for interminable sarcasm.... the savant murmured hurriedly: "very well then, madame, very well.... i shall come this week...." "how kind of you.... how about thursday? next thursday at ...." "yes, thursday at o'clock." "you don't know how sweet you are." she grasped his hand and looked at him with an expression of radiant gratefulness. but m. raindal's fingers were slipping out. "oh! excuse me!" she exclaimed.... "you are in a hurry.... till thursday, then, o'clock!... i am counting on you, dear master...." m. raindal closed her door and saluted awkwardly. the carriage started. a "good-night! good-by!" caused him to turn round again. he saw zozé's little white glove making a parting friendly signal from the window of her coupé. * * * * * m. raindal put off confiding the tale of this meeting to thérèse from day to day, until thursday arrived; it was as if he dreaded to bear her criticism. phew! he knew well enough the objections she would make: his position among european savants, his academic standing, the ridiculous situation he risked finding himself in when engaged in so vague a task of popular instruction. he was even less anxious to hear the not unfair remarks of his daughter since the idea of going again to mme. chambannes was not repugnant to him, although he did not go so far as to admit it to himself. once out of the hallowed atmosphere of the collège, and saved from his brother cyprien, he had begun to reproach himself for having so sharply rebuked his attractive admirer. poor child! should he not, on the contrary, find it touching, the case of this futile young person who was seized with a sudden passion for knowledge? did it not afford him matter for observation, a subject most highly fascinating for a man of thought? why, here was a chance for a thorough study of a personality! his mind recalled the picturesque attitude of her profile--a little suppliant--the tiny hand on his knee: "don't you want to come, dear-r master-r!" to be sure, he wanted to go! certainly, he was going! if for no other reason, he would go for sheer selfishness, out of a savant's curiosity. and mlle. thérèse--he thought, almost snappishly--well, it would be quite soon enough if he informed her after the lessons had begun! thus came the thursday morning, and m. raindal had not betrayed the mystery of his appointment. he felt, therefore, somewhat ill at ease when thérèse entered the study about . how unfortunate! precisely at that hour he was busy packing books for mme. chambannes! however, he did not lose countenance, but exclaimed gaily: "hello! here you are, dear!" she submitted to his kiss, then touched two of the large volumes he had piled up on the table. "what is it, father?... maspero.... ebers!... are you beginning to lend books?..." "no!" m. raindal declared, stiffening against his uneasiness. "these are books i am going to send to mme. chambannes." "to mme. chambannes!" thérèse replied, dumfounded. "well, yes...." he then related all the episodes of the previous monday, with the exception, however, of the decisive appearance of uncle cyprien. thérèse listened quietly. when he had finished, she looked up. her thin lips met in sarcastic contraction. anger was gathering under her heavy frown. she asked him: "are you going?" "well, since i promised her!... i shall go two or three thursdays.... the most elementary courtesy requires it.... later, i shall see whether i should continue or not." "very good, father!" she replied, disguising with difficulty the trembling she felt in her voice. "just as you say.... you may be sure i would not presume to give you my advice...." "but if i were to ask you for it?" m. raindal said pluckily. she burst out. "if you were to ask me, i would tell you that this mme. chambannes is a little fool, that her set is extremely frivolous, that those you are taking up with will bring you nothing but unpleasantness and affronts.... i would tell you.... but, no, father, my respect commands me to be silent." the tips of her fingers rose and fell on her crossed arms, like two palpitating wings. "oh, ho! we are getting excited!" m. raindal replied, as if he felt jocular. "phew! if i remember rightly, little girl, you were not so severe on the evening of the ball.... do you recollect, after dinner?..." thérèse could not repress a shrug. "what, father! didn't you understand that i meant it to be sarcastic, that those people were hateful to me, that they were revolting to me?... haven't you sized them up yourself?... all that uncle cyprien tells us is mere childishness in presence of the truth.... race, blood, nationality--there is much more than these! they are people of a species different from ours, do you hear me, father? all of them, germans, prussians, french, english, italians or what not, they belong to one and the same band, to one tribe, and one that will never be ours.... to think that you, a man in your position.... because this little fool flattered you, coaxed you!" these last words caused a sharp contraction of his mouth. "allow me," he said. "no, no, you must allow me, child.... you are wandering.... you forget somewhat whom you are addressing.... and you must admit that i have the right, with my ripe experience, to tell you that i am perhaps quite as good a judge of people as you are.... you must admit also that, up to the present, i have led my life in a way that gives neither you nor me any cause for blushing. am i not right?" instead of replying, thérèse affected to glance through the pages of a book. he went on, more softly: "believe me, my dear!... you should leave these and other theories to your excellent uncle cyprien.... tell me that you do not like mme. chambannes; that her company inspires you with repulsion and mistrust.... have no fear! if your impressions are justified, i shall be the first to notice it and to regulate my attitude accordingly.... but give up at least this attempt to delude yourself or me; do not transform your personal animosities into social views.... this would be unworthy of you, of your culture, of your intellectual position.... and when all is said, you know it yourself!" he smiled and gave her a look of appeal. "come, give me a kiss!" the girl approached and offered her forehead. m. raindal laid a long kiss upon it and pressed her firmly in his arms. "huh lah! let's laugh!" the master exhorted her, for the face of thérèse, although now calm, remained inert and dreamy. her lips parted in an oblique smile. "very good! perfect!" m. raindal said, exaggerating the satisfaction he derived from her incomplete grin. lunch was a silent affair. m. raindal avoided his daughter's eyes. he was secretly relieved when he heard that she was going to the library after lunch. he did not ask what she was going for; he preferred her to be away when he left. towards o'clock, he donned a smooth frock-coat and took up a pair of new gloves, whose gray skin stuck to his flesh. he hurried, for fear of missing the omnibus. but he noticed, on reaching the street, that the sidewalk was muddy. he called a cab. chapter ix mme. chambannes was waiting for him in the smoking-room, which had been arranged as a study. in the center stood a large table, on a dark red carpet. there was an english crystal inkstand, bought for the occasion, oriental cigarettes in a cup, a note-book bound in morocco and gold, and on each side of the table, an empire armchair. to the iris perfume emanating from zozé was added an aroma of incense which pervaded the house, even to the hall. mme. chambannes took m. raindal's hat and gloves, which he hesitated to deposit on the table. they sat facing each other and the lesson began. first of all, m. raindal dictated a list of books which zozé was to get. mme. chambannes wrote rapidly, her lips moving a little. the pale rose of the electric lamp left the top of her hair in the shadow; but her clear-cut oval face remained in full light. powder, spread with a light hand, covered her flesh so artfully that it seemed a natural velvet. rays of light skimmed it without being reflected, and they touched likewise the soft, thin silk of her afternoon dress. the shades were pale, its pattern indistinct, being covered with a quantity of creamy lace. the white tone of it gave to her face a revived brilliancy of early morning purity. she seemed hardly dressed at all under the ample folds of her robe and as fresh as if she had just emerged from her bath. she looked up whenever m. raindal paused. her watching eyes spread an overflowing tenderness around the master. m. raindal coughed to cover his discomfort; he brought his forearms and hanging hands closer to his frame and seemed anxious to withdraw further back. when he had dictated his list, zozé asked him: "and now?" "now, well, you will have to work, dear lady, and to learn to work alone! in spite of my eagerness to help you, you must realize that there will be weeks when...." zozé interrupted him. "i know, my dear master, i know.... they will not be lessons; ... we shall have our little talks ... friendly advice, when you can, when you are free...." m. raindal nodded his approval and drew towards himself one of the large volumes of ebers's work on egypt. he turned the pages and pushed the volume towards zozé whenever he found an illustration or when he had to give an explanation. she bent over the table. the soft curls of her hair sometimes lightly tickled the forehead of m. raindal. quickly, he would fall back; and his anxiety amused her. she soon felt ashamed of herself for teasing him and said abruptly: "oh! we are very uncomfortable!... will you allow me, dear master, to sit beside you?" "of course, dear lady!" nevertheless, they had barely taken up again the study of the engravings when m. raindal deplored his ready willingness. zozé's perfume, now so close to him, made him feel dizzy with its effluvia. whenever she bent down, the light texture of her floating dress released a stronger whiff. but it was no longer iris or violet; it was a sweet, warm odor like the scent of fruit, the live perfume of her flesh, married to that of the scent. and m. raindal's comments became muddled. of course, he knew that a chosen few possessed the gift of radiating a delightful fragrance through their epidermis. several personages of antiquity were thus favored; there was, notably cleopatra, according to a papyrus found at boulaq, and quoted by m. raindal in his book; plutarch was no less precise concerning the skin of alexander. but, in recollecting these facts, and other similar instances, the master was but increasing the confusion of his ideas. he vainly groped for words. each time that the perfume struck his nostrils, he pinched them shyly, as if they were threatened with a poisonous gas. he often remained speechless before a picture, unable to complete his interpretation of it. absentmindedly, he dreamed of alexander's skin and the flesh of cleopatra; he wished also that zozé would not keep her gilded armchair so close to his. "one word, may i say one tiny word, if i am not disturbing you?" mme. de marquesse it was who made this appeal; she merely slipped between the hanging portières her profile with its powerful chin and the one white-gloved hand that held the curtain back. "come in, dear!" mme. chambannes said. the two women kissed each other. m. raindal saluted mme. de marquesse, and casually noticed that she wore a blue coat and skirt, black-braided and with a girth about the hips like a riding-habit. they begged his permission and retired to the next drawing-room. m. raindal sighed deeply. now that he found himself in calm solitude he suddenly lost all his anxiety. his impression was one of hidden pleasure, danger overcome and flattering mystery. in this new mood, he would even have thought it not unpleasant if his colleagues of the academy had seen him in this luxurious room and near two such charming persons who treated him with so much respect. he was standing before the mirror, smoothing down his beard, his lower jaw brought forward, when the ladies returned. mme. de marquesse wished to go. zozé gracefully stood in her way, her arms stretched across the portière in a sarah bernhardt attitude. "no! not yet!... am i not right, dear master? mme. de marquesse cannot go like this?" m. raindal agreed silently. zozé rang the bell and had port wine and biscuits brought in. the latter had a taste of vanilla for which m. raindal showed great partiality. mme. chambannes wrote down for him the address of the confectioner who sold them. mme. de marquesse pretended to know a better brand. each of the two praised her own dealer. the port wine had enlivened them--and, laughingly, forefingers stretched out, they taxed each other with appalling cases of _gourmandise_. they called upon the master to act as referee but he gallantly declined. the argument made him laugh--and also the port wine, for he had drunk two glasses in quick succession, and his temples were warming up. "well, we are forgetting our work!" zozé exclaimed suddenly. before m. raindal had time to word a reply, the curtain was once more drawn aside. a bald, corpulent ecclesiastic, who seemed to be in his fifties and wore a broad smile under his broad spectacles, advanced slowly into the room. "ah! it is you, my dear abbé!" zozé exclaimed in a tone which showed so much sincere surprise that it was hard to guess whether the priest's visit had been planned beforehand or brought about by mere hazard. she introduced the men to each other: "m. l'abbé touronde, director of the villedouillet orphanage, our neighbor in the country and one of our best friends ... m. raindal...." the master bowed with the ceremonious affectation he always showed in order to dissimulate his aversion towards those of the cloth. respectfully, the abbé asked, with a slight southern accent: "m. raindal, the author of the _life of cleopatra_?" "quite so!" zozé confirmed. the abbé touronde congratulated him profusely. he was not acquainted with the book itself, but had read enough accounts of it in the newspapers, to speak of it freely. he praised the master upon some particular chapters. m. raindal thanked him with modest gestures of his hand as if he were fending off the compliments. but the abbé went on, in a slightly droning voice. the book appealed to him all the more because he was no stranger to its subject matter. he had once studied egyptian history thoroughly for a brochure he was preparing concerning the sect of the united coptic church. he had, moreover, published in the _annals of christian archeology_, two articles dealing with the hagiographs of the thebaid. m. raindal confessed he had not read them; and the abbé volunteered "if it were not too indiscreet" to send the issues of the periodical that contained them. his head was oval yet chubby, all flesh, as it were, but for a crown of brown hair around his baldness. m. raindal thought he had a good-natured smile. gradually the master thawed out. he imparted to the abbé some picturesque details concerning the thebaid which, from professional instinct, he had explored. the priest listened studiously, showed him deference and solemnly nodded from the back of his head. zozé took advantage of a pause to ask: "you will stay for dinner, m. l'abbé?" "well, yes, madame," he replied without hesitation, his round cheeks distended in a cordial smile. "yes, surely, if you will have me!" "and you, dear master?" zozé pursued. "will you join the party?" "oh, it is impossible, dear lady," m. raindal sighed. "i am expected.... believe me, i am very sorry...." he ceased abruptly as chambannes entered, wearily caressing his thick hinge-like mustache. everyone stood up. he shook hands with m. raindal and asked, patting zozé's neck, as one might do to a school-girl: "well, how did the lesson go, my dear sir?... are you satisfied with your pupil?" "very much gratified, monsieur ... an excellent beginning." "oh, we have not accomplished very much!" zozé said. "but you are coming next thursday!... thursday, i shall forbid the door.... i shall be at home to no one.... you promise to come, don't you, dear master?" m. raindal promised. zozé and germaine went with him into the drawing-room and the latter left with him. they shook hands as they parted, mme. de marquesse pulling his arm so sharply that he felt a cramp in the shoulder. he looked at his watch under a lamp-post. it was a quarter to seven. "sapristi!" he murmured, horrified. and once more he hailed a cab. * * * * * the boldness of fear moved him to anticipate irony or unwelcome queries by an affectation of jovial talkativeness. in a light vein, he told of his visit as if it had been a séance at the institute or a lecture at the collège de france. he multiplied the details, described the dresses and even gave an imitation of the abbé's southern accent. thérèse affected to be interested and replied with good humor; she seemed to have forgotten the morning's quarrel. mme. raindal was silent. why should she protest? why should she wish to dissuade her husband from this fatal intercourse with people devoid of religion? did she not know that he was irrevocably damned, marked beforehand, because of his own atheism, for eternal torments? she remembered, moreover, the master's anger at the occasion of the chambannes' dinner party: it was still alive in her mind and closed her mouth with wise caution. she only allowed herself a frown when m. raindal gave a parody of the abbé; her pained expression made thérèse laugh so much that her father began to have his suspicions concerning her good-natured remarks. this gayety of hers, this sweetness--were they truly frank? was not thérèse laughing at him? m. raindal examined her furtively; then, waxing cautious, brusquely cut short his narrative. he was more reserved the next thursday. he barely mentioned his visit to the rue de prony more than to transmit zozé's compliments to the ladies; and the following thursday, he said nothing at all. on the fourth thursday, towards half past six, a telegram-card from m. raindal was received in the rue notre-dame-des-champs. he asked his family not to expect him, as he was detained by the gracious entreaties of mme. chambannes. under his signature, zozé had written in her large handwriting: _approved_. to be quite frank, when m. raindal had left home that day, he was not altogether unaware that he would not return for dinner, since he had, on his last visit, almost promised to be the guest of his pupil for the following thursday. nevertheless, he had done his best beforehand to consider this escapade as if it were to be an impromptu, which he had no cause to expect. it was thérèse who opened the message. she read it, shrugged her shoulders and threw it into the fire. "what is it?" mme. raindal asked, coming in at that moment. thérèse replied sarcastically. "a telegram from father who is staying over there to dinner!" over there! at these words the two women instinctively exchanged glances. then, at once, seeing her mother's alarmed expression, thérèse bent down over her notes. what was the use of saying more? they had never had any possible communion of the spirit; they had never formed against m. raindal one of those little jocular alliances of the kind that amused the master and his daughter at the expense of mme. raindal! bah! she must needs perforce resign herself to a solitary enjoyment--alone as usual, alone as she was everywhere--of the humorous side of this adventure! "so, he is dining there?" the old lady repeated disconsolately. "yes, mother; as i told you!" thérèse replied impatiently. "and you think he will go there every thursday?" "i don't know." in the same vexed tone, mme. raindal went on: "oh! mon dieu, mon dieu!... i do hope these chambannes will bring him into no danger!... tell me, you ... don't you think you could say something to him?... "say _what_ to him?" "tell him ... tell him ... to take care, for instance, not to entangle himself too deeply.... dear, you know better than i do how to speak to him.... you are ... you are better friends!" with this veiled reproach the old lady complained unwittingly of her isolation, of her life-long relegation with her god, and her fears moved the heart of thérèse. "listen!" she said more affectionately.... "listen to me, mother! i assure you that there is as yet no danger.... therefore, don't worry before there is any need to.... and if you'll believe me, let us meet father with pleasant faces; we mustn't tease him.... i know him; we would only succeed in pushing him still deeper into the intimacy of those people." "and later?..." "later?... we shall see. we shall discuss it together and find out what is best under the circumstances." "then you are willing that i should talk with you now and then about...." she hesitated. "well ... of this ... of this affair?" thérèse rose to kiss her mother and held her tightly. "of course, dear mother!... you are so funny!... why not?" a tear rolled down the cheek of mme. raindal. "i don't know.... you have such a wicked air, you and your father ... sometimes, each at your desk, with never a word for me when i come in.... upon my word i am afraid of you both!" and she left, taking short, weary steps, to warn brigitte in time. at the same time, mme. chambannes, to please m. raindal, was giving him the names of her guests. "i assure you, dear master; it will be absolutely among ourselves.... my uncle and aunt panhias, our friend, young m. de meuze, and perhaps the abbé touronde...." she had hardly said his name when the latter entered the smoking-room. he evinced great pleasure at meeting m. raindal. behind his spectacles, his eyes shone with joy. zozé started them in conversation and ran out to dress. "yes," m. raindal said politely, "your articles seemed to me excellent, well thought out, replete with learning.... i am surprised--should i admit it?--that with this obvious gift for science, you have not made a, what shall i say? a more voluminous, more considerable literary output...." "oh, dear master, you are too indulgent, too ... too kind!..." the abbé stammered, his voice quivering with satisfaction. he then justified himself eloquently for his lack of literary production. could anyone rightly charge him with being lazy? no, his sterility was due to other causes. first of all, there was the orphanage which required his assiduous, daily care, care of all sorts, financial as well as moral, literary as much as administrative. then, there were his enemies, his numberless enemies who, had he published more works, would not have failed to discover in that fact a new motive for calumny, as they found some in every act of his, even the most virtuous, even the most innocent! for there was no doubt about it, the abbé was, alas, the most calumniated priest of seine-et-oise. all the parties hated him! they all rivaled in ill-using him, in bringing him into discredit. under the pretext that he was sought for at the neighboring châteaux--that of mme. chambannes, for instance, the château des frettes--the radicals of the region accused him before the prefect of carrying on a reactionary propaganda. on the other hand, anonymous denunciations poured in at the bishop's palace, and they bore the clerical hall-mark. they asserted that the abbé touronde compromised daily--here the abbé's voice was lowered and became confidential--the supereminent dignity of his cloth in worldly frivolity and association with heretics. "heretics!" the priest repeated with indignation. "hah! can i pick and choose? can i ask the donors for their regular baptism certificate? should i decline the money of the israelites who help me bring up my children?... poor little things! were it not for them, heaven knows that the world, mundane frivolities, would not see much of me...." he paused suddenly, as if he had heard the voice of his own conscience: "yes, yes, bastien touronde, you would still go there, because you enjoy good dinners, the sight of pretty women, luxury and comfort, and also because in the midst of this society, which knows little of dogmas, you are aware that your presence among the temptations causes much less scandal than it would elsewhere...." and the abbé's lips whispered softly, as they did on his visits to the bishop, when monseigneur blamed him for his worldly behavior: "non culpabiliter! non culpabiliter!" "i beg your pardon?" said m. raindal, who had listened only with half an ear to these long complaints. the abbé touronde started. "i was thinking of these bad men, dear master. in my own mind i was abusing them.... you know, we of the south, we are warm-blooded and our tongue is not always sufficiently christian!..." the return of mme. chambannes, followed by her uncle and aunt panhias, brought the dialogue to an end. the introductions were made. panhias was in evening clothes with a black tie. his head hung down, like that of a thinker, but the expression was that of a gray-headed bookkeeper. his gait, the way he stood and the folds of his bearded face showed the fatigue of one of those office clerks to whom money has come too late. mme. panhias, on the other hand, seemed optimistic and jovial. she wore a brown silk dress tightly stretched around her ample shape. she rolled her _r_'s more than mme. chambannes did, and only a connoisseur could have perceived the oriental in her, through her semi-spanish, semi-south-american accent. a few minutes later gerald and, behind him, george chambannes entered the smoking-room. both were in evening dress. instinctively m. raindal lowered his eyes to examine his own frock coat. the butler announced that madame was served and the party went into the dining-room. the dinner was cordial and merry. m. raindal felt no longer the shyness and the self-consciousness of an unwelcome stranger which had made him stiff at first. from so much intercourse with the chambannes, he had become familiar with the names of their relations, the ways of the house and the tastes of the guests. in consequence, there were very few conversations in which he now hesitated to take his share owing to discretion, fear of a faux-pas or ignorance of the subject. nothing seemed to trouble him any more. the ogling and the perfume of mme. chambannes now proved to be nothing more than stimulants to his ready tongue. they addressed each other as comrades, with a slight touch of fatherly superiority on the part of m. raindal and of willing submissiveness on that of mme. chambannes. even chambannes made use, when he spoke to the master, of such turns of speech as were reserved as a rule for old friends. how different from the first dinner, when m. raindal had felt himself so awkward and slow in recovering his heartiness. when uncle panhias admitted, absent-mindedly or under the effect of the wines, that smyrna was his native town, the master almost congratulated him! smyrna, the pearl of tonia, was an exquisite city; its greek name meant myrrh or incense, the perfume beloved of the gods. he never stopped until dessert was served, praising the city, supporting his theory with anecdotes and historical reminiscences. aunt panhias thanked him with enthusiastic replies that were to each of his sentences as the rolling of a drum. when they went to the smoking-room, zozé asked m. raindal's leave to light a cigarette. then, by slow degrees, she went over to gerald. he had let himself fall down on the divan and was sending spirals of smoke to the ceiling through his pouting lips. she sat beside him and asked coaxingly: "what are you making a face for?" he did not reply at first but, after a while, he grunted. "is this kangaroo going to be here often?" zozé suppressed a smile. "i don't know! i hope you are not jealous." gerald sneered contemptuously. "jealous!... well.... no!... but he does bore me somewhat!... your little friend is too fond of hearing himself talk." he rose and joined chambannes, who was pouring himself a glass of brandy in front of the liqueur cabinet. m. raindal was unconsciously gratified when he saw their conversation ended. he was taking careful stock of "young m. de meuze," as zozé had termed him; young gerald was in the light of a lamp over which he bent in order to relight his cigar. well, he was not so very young, in spite of appearances! the light now revealed at the corners of his eyes, of his lips and of his nostrils, through his still firm, youthful face, undefined lineaments, the colorless signs of forthcoming lines; and the veins were beginning to stand out on his temples. this put m. raindal in good humor, a feeling that confused him, since he had pretentions to generosity and magnanimity. was it any reason, because m. de meuze did not bestow admiring glances upon him, because the man's face had worn a constant expression of bored peevishness, to rejoice in these signs of the fatal decrepitude which advancing years.... mme. chambannes interrupted him in the midst of this return to fairness. "tell me, dear master!... what about our great visit to the louvre?" alas, they must give up the idea of it for this week, as they had had to the previous weeks for a month, the "great" visit had been put off from week to week. zozé's every day was taken up. they finally decided to wait and settle upon the date at the next lesson. the conversation turned to less serious subjects. aunt panhias, as if she were relieved from a professional secret, let herself go on the subject of smyrna. fearing to fall asleep, m. raindal withdrew at eleven. downstairs, mme. chambannes asked him to invite the ladies on her behalf; would they join him and come to dinner on the forthcoming thursday? he thanked her profusely but, once he was in the street, he could not repress the annoyance which this difficult mission caused him. "what an idea!" he said to himself.... "ah, yes, how easy _that_ will be!" he delayed risking the attack for three days; and as soon as he ventured to broach it, the two sharp refusals cut his words short. a rush of blood colored his brow. of course they agreed; their joint refusal was only a concerted maneuver, a deceitful manifestation of disapproval. he retorted scornfully: "very well! as you please!... nevertheless, i have no intention of being a party to your fancies!... i give you warning; i shall go alone...." neither of them took up his challenge. he renewed it on the thursday morning but obtained no further reply. his anger prompted him to leave the house at three, an hour earlier than usual. he had donned his evening clothes and, because his dress tie showed in the opening of his overcoat, a few gazers turned round to look at him. this increased his displeasure. he hurried on and arrived half-an-hour too soon. conversely, and quite against her custom, mme. chambannes was half-an-hour late. he waited a whole hour in the smoking-room while daylight gradually faded. the servants had forgotten to turn on the lights. m. raindal, daring neither to ring for them, nor to tamper with the electric lamps, remained in darkness. bitter and violent ideas harassed him. why were thérèse and mme. raindal embittered against the chambannes? what was it they had on their minds against these people? what did they say of him when he was away? his fury was exasperated by the venomous sting of these queries. "you here, in the dark, dear master!... is it possible? i am late, am i not?... do you forgive me?" at the same time that he heard her affectionate voice, the room was flooded with light. mme. chambannes came in, muff in hand, her veil drawn up above her eyebrows. her dainty little nose was pink at the tip, owing to the cold weather outside--or perhaps to the recent caresses. she renewed her apologies and threw on a chair her sable coat and her flowery hat, in which two hatpins vibrated an instant. then she declared: "do you know, master.... i have an idea, a new combination.... let me tell it quickly!... at five o'clock, we are forever being disturbed.... first it is one; then it is another who drops in and, between you and me, we do nothing of any value...." m. raindal's face was serene once more; he nodded his benevolent approval. "well, then, here is my idea.... we could fix the hour of the lesson for six.... we'd work from six to seven ... and you'd stay to dinner every thursday.... are you willing?" m. raindal had a rapid vision of thérèse, with the sarcastic smile, and the contemptuous tightening of her thin lips with which she would receive the news of this new arrangement. a longing came over him to defy her, to have his revenge on her and to reduce her silent irony with an audacious coup. he coughed, seemed to debate with himself, and finally said in a clear voice: "well, yes, that suits me.... it is agreed, dear madame!" but a remnant of caution made him add: "unless, of course, anything unforeseen occurs, unless there is some major impediment." mme. chambannes pouted reproachfully. "oh, dear master, it is very wrong to lay down conditions!... are you not free, absolutely free?... do you think that your little pupil would wish to encroach upon your occupations?" "your little pupil!"... how sweetly she had said that! m. raindal was moved and apologized for himself; then he apologized equally for the ladies. zozé did not seem offended by their defection. had she not gained something that would console her? she was saving one hour for her dressmakers, for social calls and for gerald, and this without losing the master's friendship. only within herself, she thought: "oh! this mlle. raindal is getting on my nerves." * * * * * from that day, m. raindal was the guest of the chambannes every thursday. towards five o'clock he slipped on his evening clothes or a frock-coat, according to his inclination, since zozé had left him free to dress as he pleased. he then hailed a cab and arrived in the rue de prony at six. he stopped on his way usually at a florist and bought two or three large roses, some orchids, a very large bunch of violets or early lilac and offered them to mme. chambannes, whom he knew to be very fond of rare flowers. she thanked him chidingly, placed the flowers in a vase or, if they were short, kept them in her hand. then the lesson would begin. it was usually regulated according to certain points raised haphazard by mme. chambannes. the master replied with ingenuity, illustrating the past with facts from contemporary life, smoothing it over, thinning it down to the precise dimensions of his little pupil's brains. zozé smelled the flowers as she listened to him, or arched her eyebrows in order to accentuate her zeal. gradually, however, the teaching turned into a chat. egypt, its chronology, mysteries and hieroglyphics were put aside. mme. chambannes confided to the master her amusements of the past few days or bits of social gossip, or she sketched for his benefit the character of some of her chief women friends. m. raindal had no curious details to give of his own daily life and went back to the hard times of his youth. zozé expressed much pity for him because he had greatly suffered from want and opened her tender eyes wide when he told her of certain privations he had undergone. sometimes--and this with a persistence which was only worn out one day to reappear the next--she begged m. raindal to translate the footnotes of his _life of cleopatra_ for her. invariably the master refused, alleging that if he did, mme. chambannes would be the first to regret his compliance. moreover, the greater number of the words belonged to what was termed low latin and were untranslatable. he felt strangely oppressed when, one night, after dinner, the abbé touronde called him aside and informed him that mme. chambannes had almost succeeded in becoming acquainted with the meaning of the forbidden annotations. "would you believe it? the day before yesterday, she asked me if there existed a dictionary of low-latin! i replied, 'yes, madame; there is the dictionary of du cange.' ... 'well, my dear abbé, please be so kind as to buy it for me!'... i smelled an evil temptation and replied, with some readiness of wit, i may well say: 'alas, madame! it is no longer on sale.... it has been out of print these forty years.' later she admitted that she wanted it to translate your notes. you will agree that but for me...." m. raindal warmly pressed the hand of the cautious ecclesiastic. apart from the abbé touronde, and in accordance with the particular desire of the master, mme. chambannes invited only her near relatives on thursdays, such as her uncle and aunt panhias or the marquis de meuze, who had solicited the favor of being a guest at those select dinners. gerald was afraid of being bored and scarcely ever attended them. zozé took pride in this constant abstention, taking it for a symptom of a jealousy she had never hoped to arouse. who could have foretold that these conversations, sprung from an idle caprice, a fortuitous inspiration, were to serve, one day, as reprisals against the perpetual coquetry of the young count! moreover, these were harmless reprisals and allowed gerald, at the most, to take lessons from an old lady!... is there no equality in love, and are not the rights of the one an exact replica of the rights of the other? zozé, at least, firmly held to this view. it made her more attached to m. raindal. he was an ally, as it were, a show accomplice; when her friends asked her, in gerald's presence, if her flirtation with her "old savant" still endured, she defended herself with malicious smiles, with a "how silly you are!" or a "leave me alone!" which revealed her joy at the coincidence. how m. raldo must rage, how much more he must now love her!... had not caution held her back, she would, at those moments, have kissed him for sheer gratefulness. again, the exclusive intimacy with which m. raindal honored her brought her daily flattering comments. the rumor of it spread among her guests. people talked about it. they questioned mme. chambannes touching the master's habits, as if they had been those of a savage she had miraculously tamed. many women thought this friendship a suspicious one, this craze for learning incomprehensible, this preference on the part of the master unaccountable, and they protested that "there must surely be something behind all this." others said of zozé that she was mad, and disparaged m. raindal's personal appearance. the most faithful pleaded and recalled the irreproachable tenderness of the young woman for gerald. but these arguments left marquesse shrugging his shoulders and herschstein humming a hunting air, with this much to add to their skepticism, that the master had twice already declined the pleasure of appearing at their tables. these stories were good enough for women! facts were still facts. let the chambannes pride themselves upon monopolizing père raindal; nothing was more natural. but to come and tell them that the old man came there for the sake of science, for the love of art, oh! dear no, not to herschstein or marquesse! this much, and no more, did they concede to the defense, that they did not specify what the nature of the flirtation was, or its limits.... and yet, one does see such strange things in life! it seemed therefore best to these equitable men to remain on the ground of suppositions and to render no decision. zozé was made acquainted with this gossip by mme. pums. she replied proudly that she was "above such horrid things." she now neglected the abbé touronde, who was still the cherished hostage of her set, every member of which vied with the others in pampering him, as if his black robe had been a flag of guaranty and safeguard. she bestowed upon m. raindal all the delicate attentions and the kind deference she had once shown to the conciliating ecclesiastic. she presented the master, on his birthday, with a gorgeous scarf-pin made up of a turquoise scarab mounted in pale gold. she had thought of this gift as much to please him as in the hope of getting him to give up the narrow black ribbands which he wore as a rule. her attempt met with success. on the following thursday m. raindal wore a wide, dark blue satin scarf enriched in its center with the pale blue turquoise pin. "you are wearing a very pretty tie!" zozé remarked during the dinner. m. raindal's features assumed a modest expression. "do you think so?..." he asked. however, he cared nothing for fashion. he dressed according to the ideas of his tailor--a little tailor of the rue de vaugirard, whose client he had been for thirty years. "you are wrong!" zozé remarked. "good tailors are not more expensive than bad ones.... why don't you go to blacks, my husband's tailor?" chambannes agreed with her. m. panhias joined them; the master gave in and made an appointment with george to go and order a suit from blacks. the tailor was obsequious at first, when chambannes mentioned the name of m. raindal of the institute; he became peremptory and sharp when it came to selecting the material. the master was dashed and dared not oppose him. it was even worse when it came to trying on. m. raindal did not want any silk facings to his frock-coat. blacks wished to force him. m. raindal lost his patience and rebelled. he did not want any facings and he was not going to have any. blacks bowed with a hypocritical grimace, admitting that every client had his own taste. when, however, the suit was delivered and m. raindal opened the folds of his new frock-coat, the silk facings struck his eyes with their shining triangles. the master softly complained of this impudence to his friends the chambannes. both laughed exceedingly and said that blacks was right. m. raindal was softened by their gayety and fell in with their opinion. henceforth, zozé did not hesitate to advise him in the matter of his wardrobe. he obeyed readily, owing alike to his desire to please her and to a craving for refinement which secretly tormented him. but these accumulated expenses had made a hole in his budget. he increased his deficit every week with such things as cabs, flowers and gloves, and, of course, with such heavier expenses as the order to blacks. the académie had finally given him the vital-gerbert prize, and this helped him out just on time. he invested only francs of the , he received and reserved the balance for unforeseen expenses and pocket money. at any other time of his life, he would have blushed thus to frustrate his family. but duty is a burden that is best borne by all the parties together. and m. raindal certainly found a pretext for his egotism in the attitude of his family. it was not that a state of warfare had been openly declared. far from it; faithful to their compact, the two women multiplied their concessions in order to preserve the old harmony. thanks to their efforts, the household had never seemed freer from discord. they vied with each other as to who should most skillfully avoid any allusion, contradiction or motive for disagreement. the master, on his side, fearful of their sarcastic comments, preserved silence concerning his weekly dinners. it had come to this, that the name of chambannes was never uttered, unless it became necessary; even then, the women wrapped up its syllables with a light intonation, as one rolls explosives in cotton-wool. whenever m. raindal formulated unexpected theories upon the public usefulness of luxury, the dangers of puritanism, or the social advantages of pleasure, thérèse discussed them with him without the slightest bitterness, as if they were matters of economics which bore no relation whatsoever to their daily life. as an additional precaution, she had persuaded cyprien to renounce his usual jesting comments concerning mme. rhâm-bâhan. the younger raindal now kept his sallies for his usual audience of one, schleifmann. nevertheless, in spite of this outward appearance of calm and good entente, the master had no longer the feeling of peace and confidence he had felt in his home. he guessed every action and word of his to be spied upon, jeered at and censured either aloud or in low voices. he could hardly contain his anger against this secret, impalpable, yet ever awake, hostility which continuously dogged his movements. while dreading its outbreak, there were nevertheless days when he could not help wishing for an open dispute, a straightforward attack, a solid and clear-cut family altercation, when each one could cry out his grievances and defend his own cause. let them attack him; let them but ask a question and he would know how to exonerate himself! what harm was he doing, anyhow? was he running from salon to salon, as did so many of his colleagues? had he taken advantage of his triumph to break into the little literary bastilles which were the final goal of so many paltry ambitions? had he not, on the contrary, declined, one after another, all the invitations given him, by mme. pums, by mme. herschstein, by mme. de marquesse, even by ladies of higher social status whom he could name if called upon? had he not a score of times discreetly urged his wife and daughter to pay the call they owed the chambannes? was he not ready to take them to the rue de prony as often as they could wish? did he manifest any spite, as so many others might do, for all the deceptions and for the bitterness which mme. raindal's uneasy religiosity had scattered between them? did he play the part of a bad husband, a bad father, a frivolous and dissipated man?... well then, what was it they reproached him with? why was he compelled to suspect his own family as he had to suspect his own sworn enemies? there was that wretch of a saulvard, for instance, who carried the rancor of his defeat to the point of declining three successive invitations of mme. chambannes.... the entanglement of his worries, added to the silence he imposed upon himself, made him feel disgusted with his own house, his home and everything that he had until then considered as happiness and quiet. he proved his own innocence to himself so often that doubts came to him at times. he asked himself whether his friendship with young mme. chambannes was not such as might cause him some prejudice in the scientific world, whether it might not be more seemly for him to allow more time to pass between his visits, and whether his regularity might not be affording the evil-minded an opening. at once a rebellion which he attributed to pride moved him to smile at such scruples. he derived from his reflections a new energy for the indulgence of his inclination. throughout the week, he lost no opportunity, whether at the dining-table or elsewhere, to flay the ridicule of pedantry, the hypocrisy of austere people, a whole mass of foibles and of anonymous characters, upon whom, with no less good grounds, mme. raindal, thérèse and uncle cyprien might have bestowed their own names as well. thus came the thursday, and he made his exit with a provocative, almost bellicose, banging of all the doors in succession. he reached the chambannes' house, from the very hall a warm smell of incense caressed him as a first greeting of welcome, and his resentment vanished. here everyone smiled at him and showed an eagerness to please him, from firmin, the butler, who took his overcoat and affectionately inquired about his health, to the abbé touronde, to aunt panhias and even the indolent chambannes himself! upstairs, zozé came out to meet him and gave him her hand to kiss. and, during four good hours, m. raindal forgot his vexations, his family troubles, his little pangs of the past week. only when it was time for him to go did he remember them. when eleven o'clock came, he had an impression of melancholy, of an ended happiness, like a boy who must return to college. zozé always accompanied him to the hall, saw to it that he covered himself well, told him not to catch cold. as the end of the winter was in sight, she murmured to her husband, once the door was closed: "poor old fellow!... all the same, it is a long way to go for a man of his age.... i am glad that spring is coming back." whenever the weather permitted it, m. raindal returned on foot, for the sake of the exercise. the road seemed a long one to him but, as he neared the rue notre-dame-des-champs, he slackened his pace and his steps became less regular. it was as if he wished to delay the moment of regaining his home. at last he climbed the waxed steps of his staircase; they slipped from under his feet. the walls were as cold as a cellar; they were painted to imitate marble, and the candle threw a gigantic shadow on them. m. raindal opened the door. smells of cooking and washing soda caught him at the throat. he crossed the little apartment on tiptoe; the silk lining of his frock-coat rustled against his legs as a last echo of the elegances he had left behind. the mediocrity of his lodging was all the more apparent to him. what poor furniture, what a lack of comfort after the luxury, the ease and all the delicate things which abounded in the rue de prony! m. raindal gave a deep sigh and slipped between the sheets, near mme. raindal, who snored imperturbably in a twin bed.... often he left the light on and lay there dreaming, retracing the evening; and his nostalgia vanished as his memories revived. it returned the next day at the sight of thérèse in her coarse morning garb, that common, dark dressing-gown which was so different from the soft gowns of mme. chambannes. ah! m. raindal understood the severity of the girl towards his little pupil. envy, alas; of course, it was envy! a jealousy that was incapable of discerning anything in mme. chambannes beyond the gaps in her learning and her intellectual poverty--as if erudition meant everything in a woman; as if beauty, elegance, the art of attracting did not also rank among the precious gifts and the powerful faculties. his discovery exalted him to such a point that he felt himself caught in a sudden rush of compassion, instead of mentally reproaching her for the physical disgrace she had suffered which had for some time unwittingly ill-disposed him toward her. he ran to thérèse and ardently kissed her forehead. she kissed him in return on the cheek, in an attempt at tenderness. but her body was bent back and gave the instant lie to the smile on her lips. there had passed between them an intangible sorcery which prevented their hearts from opening as of old, forbade confidence and precluded the solidarity which had united them as co-workers for so many years.... they went back to their work, resenting their powerlessness to commune with one another again, mutually embittered by the failure of their attempt, cursing each other inwardly for the wrongs which each laid at the other's door. the week started anew in this state of apparent harmony that was heavy with discord. * * * * * one night in early march, as mild as a summer night, m. raindal, returning home from the chambannes', saw a light in his daughter's room. this made him anxious, for the hour was late; he knocked at the door and entered almost at the same time. thérèse was sobbing in her pillow; she had not undressed but lay on her uncovered bed. m. raindal rushed forward to help her up, but she did not wait for him. she looked up and rubbed the tears from her eyes. he inquired, still holding her in his arms: "what is the matter, dearest?... were you crying? what is the trouble?" she released herself with a brusque movement of her shoulders: "nothing, father! thanks.... it is nothing.... leave me alone, please!" "then you do not need me?" m. raindal murmured in surprise. "no, no, i assure you.... go away.... i tell you it is nothing at all.... just my nerves!..." he dared not insist, for fear of exasperating her; he retired and shut the door behind him with particular care, as if he had left a sick-room. nerves!... hm!... a woman's excuse, a veil of sickness with which they cover up the secret of their anger. what could be the matter with thérèse? what was it that caused her such great pain? remorse insinuated: "if it were you! suppose your thursday visits, your obstinacy were the cause of it!" m. raindal resolved to probe this to the very bottom, to question thérèse the very next morning. but the next day passed without his following up his intention. she was not thinking about it any more. why should he torment the poor child with questions? again, it was possible that she had told him the truth. it might have been nerves, after all. chapter x nerves, that sort of "nerves" had been the trouble with mlle. raindal for a whole week, as they were each year at the coming of the new season. when, one evening, a gust of warm breeze swept through the icy air, the breath of advancing spring, her customary seriousness turned to melancholy; and she waited for the inevitable trial of which this perverse breath was the herald. the universal magic which at that time threw all human beings into confusion always struck her with special vigor. neither her learning, her reason nor her virile will-power could protect her. she fell a languid prey to aimless fancies, which because of this very confusion, allowed full play to the dreams of a chastity suddenly in revolt. she passed from the most childish transports of tenderness to the most fanciful flights of imagination. tears of emotion came to her eyes; sometimes she burst into sobs; the perfume of a flower, the tunes of the street-organ below, or a beggar singing an old-fashioned romance in the street caused her heart to be overfilled with sadness and gave her an instinctive desire to lean her head on some robust shoulder. the times of her weakness were precisely those when her hatred for mme. chambannes was strongest and when she was most intolerant towards her father. their behavior seemed to her more revolting, more absurd, more ludicrous than at other times. she found her consolation in mistaking for contempt the jealousy which their happiness at being together roused in her. the acute consciousness of her own lack of attractiveness and of her isolation led her to formulating wishes all of which were impossible. ah! were she but beautiful; were she simply one of those seductive women over whom a few men disputed among one another and who could choose! that she could be a woman, in short, excite desires, repulse assaults, lead the warring life of her sex instead of turning white in an unnatural existence, busy with mental work and the distractions of the learned!... yet, lacking the needed charms, how could she change her life? how could she try to please with her bony hands, discolored eyes and thin lips which had pleased but once and then not more than for eight days? in her discouragement, she reached a point when she felt jealous of the street girls she met passing the boulevard saint michel, the grisettes. there were times when she would have readily given up everything, her knowledge, her honor and that of her family. she remembered also that there had been women, famous for their wit but too ugly to be loved, who had indulged in clandestine debauchery; and she secretly read over again with a sensual shivering the historians of scandals who related such facts. sometimes, when she returned home at dusk, she heard a man's footsteps following her. what would he do? was he going to address her? although she was sure she would defend herself, yet she felt almost a vain hope that he would.... one evening, in the rue de rennes, she was emboldened to turn round: she saw an old gentleman of m. raindal's age who smiled at her with knowing grimaces. she hurried away, stumbling, full of rage, deception and disgust with herself. she found no peace until the day was ended and she slipped into her bedsheets after blowing out her candle. there was to her no more delicious moment than this one. she lay on her back and let the tide of sleep gently come up to her. her limbs became paralyzed; her thoughts ran into each other; she had a feeling that her body was leaving her and the darkness of night favored this reassuring mirage. because she no longer saw her own homeliness, mlle. raindal gained more audacity. her soul at last freed and naked, as it were, bravely soared away on the wings of love. whom, then, did she invoke in her adorations? albârt? another man? sleep carried her away before she could be definite, and during the hours that followed, she stretched herself out, panting in the midst of strange dreams which were forgotten the next morning. but she measured the nothingness of her days according to the feverish fullness of her nights. she was tortured throughout the mornings with the anxieties that affect old age. when would it all end? had the valor of her heart, of her reason and of her mind forever vanished? or would her sorrow gradually wear itself out, as it had done before, for lack of remedies and relief?... these queries filled her with anguish. she held her pillow tight against herself and crushed her lips in it, for fear they might hear her through the door, as on the occasion when m. raindal had found her sobbing. * * * * * one afternoon, at the bibliothèque nationale, she was standing before an oak desk, examining the huge folio of the _corpus inscriptionum aegyptiacarum_, when a shadow suddenly passed over the pages. she looked up and recognized boerzell, the dismissed suitor, the young assyriologist of the saulvard party. facing her, leaning on the other slope of the desk, he greeted her smilingly. "how do you do, mademoiselle!" he asked. his affectionate eyes blinked behind the crystal of his glasses. "hm! it seems to me that you indulge in very frivolous reading!" "don't i?" thérèse said, and returned his smile.... "this is nothing to what i have been asking for?" "what was it?" she gave him the titles of the books she was awaiting. boerzell pretended to be indignant and exclaimed that it was sheer robbery and usurpation. were women now going to meddle with such studies! they talked for a few minutes, in their idyllic attitude, over the desk which was to them as a flowery gate. at length, thérèse exclaimed: "well, au revoir, monsieur.... they are bringing me my books.... the time for gossiping is past.... i must return to my seat...." boerzell had a huge volume under his arm. he bowed and said: "i hope that we shall soon meet again, mademoiselle!" "so do i, monsieur!" instinctively she watched him walk away, between the rows of readers bent over their tasks. without knowing why, she found him less awkward than at the ball, less unpleasant and like one transfigured. he walked calmly, dropping "a good-day" here and there, pausing for a handshake, delayed an instant for a quick exchange of words; in this favorable atmosphere, he was served by his very disadvantages, by his tousled hair, his ill-cut beard, the shiny cloth of his coat and his careless silhouette which showed that he was a champion of ideas. he benefited from the temporary beauty which comes from ease and authority enjoyed in appropriate surroundings. he was handsome like a high official in his office at the ministry, handsome like an adjutant at the gate of a military barracks. "well! the poor fellow is not so bad!" thérèse murmured as she returned to her seat. then she fell to work and completely forgot him. when she came out, however, going to the checkroom, she heard the voice of boerzell behind her. "yes, it is i, mademoiselle!... will you allow me to accompany you?... i believe we are neighbors.... i live at the end of the rue de rennes." mlle. raindal hesitated. it was not that she questioned the propriety of his offer. she had long since disdained petty prejudices that affected such cases; for old maids are as deposed sovereigns who free themselves from etiquette once they have lost their power. on the other hand, she was weighing the point whether boerzell's company would not bore her before they reached the rue de rennes. finally she gave her reply: "yes, surely!... i shall be very pleased.... let's go together...." it was drizzling outside. the streets were shiny; in the narrow rue richelieu, horses were slipping; they all trotted sidewise as if a strong wind were arching their croups. a few passers-by opened their umbrellas. boerzell imitated them in order to protect thérèse. he was bumped into at every step; the ends of the whalebones made lines against the grain of his silk hat. at times they were parted by a pressure from those who walked in opposite direction. thérèse turned round, looking for the young savant; and she distinguished him, as he smiled over the heads of people, holding his umbrella as high as he could and shaking it to signal to her. they began to converse with some sequence only after they had passed the door of the carrousel. as on the first evening, at the ball, the talk assumed at once a professional turn. but boerzell it was who now directed the game. he led the conversation towards the notorieties of science; and he gave out his opinion of each of them, in insidious terms. most of the time, it proved to be sarcastic and disrespectful. he withdrew in one word the commendation he had given in another, mingled restrictions and praise, stinging comments and soft words; even his voice, at once coaxing and clever, the smile of his lips or his eyes with which he softened every expression that was too bitter, his choice of expressions, the turn of his sentences--all these seemed to suggest a proud old master, but had the added zest of youth. every now and then, thérèse could not refrain from glancing at him. what! had he, then, out of calculation, concealed his strength on the evening of the dance; had he affected shyness in order to attract without scaring her? had he wished to flatter her pride as a savante by allowing himself to be defeated and conquered by her? or had he been troubled by the surroundings? be that as it may, she was enjoying herself. this young man was not a fool, nor was he mediocre, nor yet servile. she listened so attentively that she did not notice that they had passed over the seine. they climbed the rue des saints pères, where drivers of entangled carriages abused each other. at times an omnibus rocked noisily, and hit the stone curb with its trembling wheels. mlle. raindal and boerzell huddled close to the shops. then the terrible machine having passed them, they went on again. now it was boerzell who asked questions, inquiring of the girl's studies, and mlle. raindal readily answered, gave him the time-table of her work and the rules of her studies. when they turned the corner of the boulevard st. germain, boerzell suddenly sighed: "what a pity!" he murmured. "what?" thérèse asked. the drizzle had ceased and he closed his umbrella. "nothing, mademoiselle.... or rather, yes.... it is a pity that i do not please you more.... oh! i had guessed that much at the saulvard ball, even without the help of the silence you preserved afterwards.... i could see it in your eyes when you left.... and yet, believe me if you like, the more i talk to you, mademoiselle, the more i am convinced that we would have made an excellent couple." this declaration was so unexpected that thérèse could not repress a sudden laughing exclamation. "we?" she said. "yes, we, quite so, we!..." boerzell went on, with a pouting movement of his lips which gave a touch of puerility to his bearded childlike face.... "it is useless, is it not, between people of our type, to play a comedy?... they introduced us to each other in order to have us marry. well, suppose, mademoiselle, that i had pleased you, at that ball...." he paused to look at her. "you must understand what this word 'please' means. of course, i did not hope that you would fall in love with me on the spot.... no.... thus, you ... you pleased me; that is to say, you inspired me with a deep sympathy.... i thought to myself: 'here is a worthy lady, one of strong intelligence, a wife such as i would like mine to be, a companion and a friend in whom i could confide, whose advice i could seek, without any fear of meeting with silliness or indifference....' well, let us suppose that you had thought likewise about it, that would have been enough.... we would have been married and i should be happy." thérèse remained silent. "but, there we are!" boerzell went on, in a grumbling tone.... "you did not think this way.... i do not please you enough.... or, to be more exact, i displease you too much.... yet, allow me to say it without any fatuousness, i am surprised.... if i may judge from our two conversations, we would, intellectually speaking, hit it off very well.... upon people, and upon things, we almost share the same opinions.... our lives are cut along the same lines, and occupied with similar studies.... our tastes and aptitudes agree.... there remains my physical appearance! it is obviously on this ground that you dislike me, and it is precisely such weakness of judgment which surprises me, coming from you.... ah! if you were one of those little coquettes ... a brainless little woman, one of those worldly dolls...." "but, monsieur!..." thérèse protested smilingly. boerzell interrupted her, gradually more excited. "if you please, mademoiselle, allow me to finish.... if, as i say, you were one of those fashionable women without culture, without nobility of character, and as choke-full of prejudices as a stuffed goose is with chestnuts, i would not be surprised.... i know well what my faults are, and all that i lack in order to attract a little woman of this class.... but you, a person of your quality, that you should look upon marriage as these others do, that marriage should be in your estimation a sudden stroke of lightning, a confused heart, an irresistible passion, a handsome man with a mustache and the whole clap-trap of romance, i assure you, i cannot get over it! and when i think that we very likely are made for each other, when i think that we met, by an extraordinary chance, that we could form an intelligent sensible, clear-sighted union, and that we are not doing it, see, that almost rouses me to anger!" he struck the pavement with his umbrella. "are you through?" thérèse asked anxiously. "yes, mademoiselle!" he replied distractedly. but he recanted at once. "there is but one case in which your repugnance would appear to me logical and justified, worthy of you, in a word!... that would be if, by chance, you loved another man...." mlle. raindal suddenly darkened. the lord of her existence surged again before her; albârt, with his impudent smartness, his big, horse-like eyes and his ironical lips. thérèse took in the young savant with a disdainful look and replied, her voice lowered by a sudden sadness: "i love no one, monsieur!... or, if you prefer, i am in love with a memory...." "a memory!" boerzell stuttered, all out of countenance.... "ah, very good!... that is another thing.... i crave your pardon, mademoiselle." the silk of his hat was turned back; his thick lips, like those of a sea-god, were rounded into a ball and he wore such a disappointed, baffled and childish look that, despite the gravity of the circumstance, thérèse found it difficult not to smile. "you see, monsieur!" she said heartily, "you were mistaken, if not as to my intentions, at least concerning the root of my feelings.... to prove to you that i find pleasure in your society, i ask you, if you care to, to come every now and then to see us on sundays, as a colleague, as a friend; and i should be delighted...." "thank you, mademoiselle," boerzell said without enthusiasm. "certainly, i shall come on sundays.... now it is unfortunate, however, that you have such ... do not take offense ... such accepted ideas, the ideas of everybody on the subject of marriage!... the dictates of the heart and love count, i admit, for much ... but they are not the only feelings in life!... besides love, there exist sentiments of affinity, of sympathy and mutual consideration which can establish very strong links between two human beings who are all independent and superior." he noticed the darkening brow of thérèse. "well, i do not intend to importune you any further, mademoiselle.... that would be poor return for your kind invitation.... if, then, you will permit it, i say, 'until next sunday.'" "until next sunday!" thérèse turned into the rue notre-dame-des-champs. halting words called her back. "it is i again, mademoiselle!" boerzell said, running up to her.... "there was one last word i forgot to say.... it is possible that you have suspected an interested motive...." with a gesture of the hand, thérèse denied that she had. "it does not matter!" boerzell retorted. "i would not, for anything in the world, be mistaken for one of the young gentlemen who seek a fine marriage, a useful marriage.... moreover, you should consult m. raindal.... he will tell you himself that my scientific life is, to use the current expression, all marked out.... my professors like me and help me.... my competitors are few and are, most of them, but second-rate men.... from the École des hautes Études, i am therefore bound to enter the sorbonne or the collège de france, and thence, i hope, the institute.... a marriage with you would certainly not have been unhelpful.... nevertheless, without this marriage my career, happiness apart, will be the same.... this was what i wished to say.... you will agree with me that, for the sake of our future friendship, these details have their importance!" "they might have perhaps, if i had doubted you...." "phew!" the young savant said with skepticism. "you say this.... you are polite.... it remains a fact that one cannot be too cautious in such matters.... but i am delaying you, excuse me.... until sunday, mademoiselle...." "that is agreed!" said thérèse, in a tone that already showed comradeship. when she entered the study where m. raindal sat talking with her uncle cyprien, the latter welcomed her with a volley of compliments: "pristi! my nephew!... how well we are looking! and such shining eyes! gayety all over your face! i could swear that you have not spent an altogether boring afternoon!" "so it looks!" m. raindal approved shyly. "well, it may be so ..." thérèse replied.... "guess whom i met? little boerzell. you remember him, father? the would-be fiancé at the saulvard party.... a very strange young man; he has a whole series of theories and systems which amused me.... i am still laughing now.... well, i asked him to visit us ... and he will probably come next sunday!" "you did quite right, dear!" m. raindal asserted, as much in order to conciliate thérèse as because of a mania he had to praise his inferiors.... "m. boerzell is a young man with a rare future.... everybody at the académie holds him in high esteem.... it was only yesterday that someone was telling me...." "what about you, uncle?" thérèse interrupted. "it is my turn to ask you questions! can you tell me what you are doing here, on a week day, a wednesday, and at the sacred hour of the apéritif!" "to begin with," the younger m. raindal objected ... "it is not more than half past five.... the apéritif lasts normally until half past seven.... i have therefore, mademoiselle, two good solid hours, if you please.... now, you want to know why i am here. hah, nephew, this rouses your curiosity! well, i came to ask your father to take me to mme. chambannes." thérèse bit her lips to repress a smile. "yes," uncle cyprien continued, rubbing his close-cropped hair. "it was an idea that occurred to me ... a matter of curiosity!..." "and i was telling your uncle," m. raindal put in rapidly, and without looking at thérèse, "that i was quite ready to take him there, whenever he wished...." "why not to-morrow, thursday?" uncle cyprien inquired. m. raindal hid under a short laugh a sigh that came to his lips. "hm! hm! to-morrow, that is rather sudden.... i must have time to inform mme. chambannes.... especially since her husband left last night on a journey." "ah! on a journey!... where to?..." cyprien asked. "to bosnia, i believe." "bosnia!... ah, really, to bosnia!" the younger raindal repeated, in order to memorize this particularity or to discover therein a piece of probable evidence. he said resolutely: "well, write at once to mme. chambannes.... two lines, two simple lines.... i shall drop your letter in the box when i go.... she will have it the first thing to-morrow morning ... and if she does not want me...." "oh! very well!" m. raindal said coldly, as he took up his pen. but he added, before writing a word: "nevertheless, i give you fair warning.... you may perhaps meet at mme. chambannes' house some people who are not to your taste...." "who may they be?" "i don't know for certain.... let me see, there may be the abbé touronde, a friend of the family...." this revelation caused uncle cyprien to forget himself. what! madame rhâm-bâhan had an abbé, a curé, a black-robed one! ah! that was really pretty good! what morals! what a century! what a muddle! and uncle cyprien laughed outright. he only calmed down when thérèse gave him a severe look to remind him of his promises. "i am laughing," he declared, "i am laughing, because ... you understand...." he gave up the explanation. "i laughed without malice.... you may rest assured that if i meet the abbé tour... tour what?--well, never mind!--i shall make myself agreeable ... most agreeable.... go on, write, my dear fellow!" thérèse was exhausted. a mad impulse to laugh was overcoming her. under the pretext of going to look for a pamphlet, she went to her room and ran to her armchair, bursting out in guffaws. "poor father!... what a woeful face! and my uncle wants to join the band now!... ah! life is really funny!" she was in a jocular mood, ready to find everything amusing and grotesque; at heart, she had an impression of being at last cured and delivered from the crisis. she had a spontaneous feeling of gratitude for boerzell. was it not to a certain extent to this worthy young man that she owed this miracle? had he not consoled her, distracted her, as if she had been a weeping child, with the sparkle of his conjugal thesis, the unusualness of his speeches and the insistent warmth of his voice? but for him, for that blend of comic and sound reason which emanated from his person and which now survived their conversation, she would probably still be desperately fighting the fever of evil, and exhausting herself in the dangerous nightmares of her unsatisfied desires. could she have been, but for boerzell, even amused by the worldly ambitions of her uncle, or by his sly waggery, or by anything at all? poor boerzell! she could never bring herself to accept him, to overcome the repulsion which his bearded old schoolboy's face inspired in her. nevertheless, who knew but that he might help her in the hours of her distress, might become a friend, a faithful comrade who would render her solitude less mournful, less forsaken? she walked up and down her room, working herself up with such hopes. brigitte had to knock twice at the door before she could inform her that dinner was served. chapter xi "his brother ... m. raindal's brother!" mme. chambannes murmured dreamily, leaning on the edge of her bed. her lace-edged pillow made a soft frame for her scattered curls. distractedly she gathered together the rest of her mail. there was an advertisement of a perfume house, a modiste's bill which she thrust aside with a disgusted pout, two newspapers and, under them, a closed letter-card. it was a strange card; the address was written in awkward capitals falling over each other--the suspicious appearance of an anonymous letter! zozé tore it open slowly. sensations of weakness vibrated along her arms. she read the following lines, traced on the gray paper in characters similar to those on the outside: _should you have nothing better to do some morning, pass, towards o'clock, the rue godot-de mauroi, in the neighborhood of number bis; you will once more ascertain that the friends of our lady-friends are our friends._ she fell back, one hand over her heart as if to shield a wound; she had not a doubt, felt no hope. she remained motionless at first, her eyes closed; then she began to stammer indistinctly. "oh!... oh!... oh! mon dieu!... the wicked people! what an atrocious wickedness!" a burning sensation was in her heart, and every query she invented, every possibility seemed a new burn that made her wound deeper. they were denouncing gerald, of course; but the woman, the mean wretch, the unknown betrayer--who could she be? zozé called to her mind in turn the names of all her friends but she could not lay the guilt on any special one. all seemed equally suspicious to her. gerald had indulged in equivocal flirtations and familiar gestures with them all in turn; in each of them she now successively thought, according to her memories, that she held the accomplice. then came the names of others who seemed more guilty, flora pums after germaine de marquesse, rose silberschmidt after flora pums. in the end she was altogether confused, the accumulation of equivalent proofs and contradictory presumptions. she made an attempt at finding a clue by seeking to guess at the name of the writer. names surged to her mind, names of men who desired her and who might have been capable of wishing to destroy her happiness: pums, burzig, mazuccio. it would surprise her were this infamous action to come from either of these. she realized how easily she suspected them all, men and women, and a sudden bitter grimace caused her lips to contract. phew! in what company of cads and harlots was she living then, since none of them could be free from her mistrust, since she had not once been afraid of wrongly accusing any of them? this sudden clearsight passed, however, like lightning and was clouded at once by her foaming anger. the little mouzarkhi had no time for philosophy! she exaggerated the tone of her insults, like one in the delirium caused by disillusion; she had no love left, no tenderness, no illusion for anyone but gerald, her beloved gerald whom she was perhaps going to lose forever! tears veiled her eyes. with anguish she visualized through their mist the inconceivable parting scene! she thought of herself, in the rue d'aguesseau, on the threshold of the apartment, after the final explanation. she was turning back for a last glance at him. she came back once more to kiss him!... oh, no, no! she did not want to see him any more; and a rushing terror caused her to draw the light linen sheet over her face. convulsive sobs shook her sinuous form, which was plainly discernible under this burial-sheet. suddenly she heard the clock on her mantelpiece striking ten and, with a more violent start, she threw back the coverings, jumped out of bed and rang nervously. "quick! hot water in the dressing-room.... my tailored costume of brown cloth.... my black coat!..." she said to the maid who came in at her call. "what corset?" "i don't know! any one!... hurry up, that is all, hurry up, hurry up!" "does madame want a carriage?" "yes, that's it! a closed carriage ... or, rather, no! no carriage.... hurry up!" a bellicose haste speeded her on. she must be ready in time. she was rushing towards this supreme torture: to surprise the guilty ones as if it were a matchless joy; her nostrils vibrated, a savage smile lurked in the corner of her lips and her eyes shone with eagerness. she was out at a quarter of eleven. she walked up the rue de prony and crossed the parc monceau. a gardener was removing the narrow sheathes of straw from round the exotic trees. the budding foliage spaced their masses which still admitted daylight; it had not lost its very pale green tints; a fresh perfume rolled softly on the breeze. the contrast of this riot of the elements saddened zozé. she opened her sunshade, for the sun was already hot; as she walked she uttered long regretful whispers as if she were never again to see these graceful lawns nor breathe the balmy air. she made an effort to stiffen herself against the softening reverie and called a passing closed cab: "listen carefully," she ordered the driver. "we are going to the rue gaudot-de mauroi.... when i knock on the glass, you are to stop ... not to move again.... you will keep your seat and wait.... if i knock twice, you are to start again, slowly.... if i knock three times, you start at a trot.... do you understand?" "yes, madame!" the driver said paternally. he was fat and wore a moustache; the mystery of the affair and her young captain's tone amused him. "very well then, start!... there will be a good tip for you!" the carriage went down the avenue de messine. as she approached the point of attack, zozé saw her ardor weakening. she felt as if she were choking under heavy blows on her chest; then she fancied that her heart had become a poor little bird, and a brutal hand squeezed it. she kept her eyes closed, so as not to count the houses which were passing too fast. a sudden motion caused her to open them again. the carriage turned into the rue godot-de mauroi. zozé was barely in time to knock on the window pane. the driver stopped outside no. . from there, she could see diagonally no. _bis_, an old house, whose gray façade merged into similar ones. but, above the door, two yellow signs proclaimed that small apartments were to let. "here it is!" thought zozé with a distressful sigh. she looked at her watch and saw that it was five minutes after eleven. she put up the windows so as to hide her face behind their mock transparency. she huddled in the left-hand corner, aggressively facing no. _bis_ and began to look. a quarter of an hour passed. green-vegetable-hawkers cried their wares and pushed their heavy barrows in the silent, half-deserted street. at intervals, the cab-horse shook himself with a bored shiver that rocked the shafts; or the driver made a movement which set the harness rustling and the wood creaking. zozé perceived these noises no more clearly than she noticed the neighboring shop, the passers-by who paused to look at her or the saddler opposite, whose face was bent down over his work behind a glass window. invisible blinkers kept her eyes fastened ahead, as did the anxious attention which kept her body stiff, toward the small square of stones where the lovers would appear. what were they saying now to each other, in what abject caresses were they swooning, on what floor were they, near which of these windows? her memories helped her somewhat to visualize gerald. but the woman escaped her. she guessed all of the perfidy, her waist, her nakedness, her breast and her arms, she could see everything but the head, all but the face! she was as one struggling in one of those terrible nightmares, when the features of one of the participants are dissolved and vanish as soon as one attempts to distinguish them. a nearby clock announced the half hour. the delay of the two accomplices exasperated zozé even more than their betrayal. unconsciously, she called them forth in a vehement, and silent prayer: "come! come on! hasten!" as one calls belated friends to an urgent appointment. a sudden idea upset her. the letter might have lied! she might be the victim of a hoax! but no joy came in the wake of this idea. she could not accept its plausibility. her suspicions had wandered in every direction, and now she could not force them back. it was as if they scented their prey and were anxious for the imminent running down of the quarry. again, she consulted her watch. "quarter of twelve! very well.... at twelve, i'll go in and ask the concierge!..." then she looked up again; her head fell back tragically. there, in front of the arch of no. _bis_, a woman, dressed in a gray serge costume, was calling a cab; in spite of the white veil she wore, the thick, flowery embroidery, zozé recognized a well-known profile, a plane-like jaw, her friend, her best friend, germaine de marquesse herself! now the carriage opposite started. it almost touched the wheels of her own. the hood was down and, under it, germaine was arched in a resolute pose, one hand stretched on each end of her sunshade which lay across her knees. the wretch! it was indeed she! and she was not taking any notice of anything, this germaine, so blinded was she with satisfaction!... oh! the little mouzarkhi never could have believed that the pleasure of surprising _these two_ could be so heavy with sorrow! she almost fainted, seized with sudden cowardice, as would a woman on the operating table, at the first contact of the steel. what would the second hurt be, if the first one left her feeling so terribly rent? but she had no time to change her mind; gerald appeared outside the accursed house. he was in morning dress, a black cape, a blue suit with a bunch of flesh-colored carnations that "the other one" herself had no doubt pinned on the lapel of his coat. zozé looked intently at him, her eyes dilated with horror and love. he glanced right and left, as if hesitating. then he set out, in his usual lolling gait, towards the rue des mathurins; he carried his walking-stick under his arm; his shoulders were bent forward and his hands curled, shell-like, to light a cigarette. maddened, zozé forgot the agreed signals. she pulled the window down and shouted to the driver: "go!" the horse started at a slow trot. madame chambannes knocked frantically on the glass pane and, without waiting for the carriage to stop, jumped to the pavement. the sound of the cab stopping caused gerald to turn round. he saw the young woman and paled with uneasiness. yet, he constrained himself to say with a heavy smile: "what! is it you!..." zozé pointed to the cab and its open door: "get in!" she commanded, harshly. "you wish me to get in? what a funny tone of voice you are using!" stammered gerald, again attempting a smile. "i tell you to get in!" repeated zozé, herself astounded at her audacity. "come on, get in!... i am not afraid of anything, neither of people nor of scandal.... i want you to get in!" a band of young working girls going out to lunch looked at them and nudged each other. "very well!" said gerald, embarrassed.... "all the same!... you must admit that you have a strange way of...." "enough! we shall talk by and by." and, while the young count settled himself in the carriage, she told the driver. "drive where you like!... to the bois.... go towards the bois." they started out. both were seasoned navigators of paris, experts in the ways of carriage driving; they pulled down the blinds. then zozé cried out: "well?" then her energy left her and she burst into tears. "what is the matter?... what is it?... i assure you i do not understand!" gerald murmured hypocritically, as he stretched out his arm to hold her. she avoided him with a brusque movement. "do not touch me!... you make me sick.... do stop your stupid lies.... i saw germaine.... do you understand now?" gerald's silence caused her rage to break out: "how shameful! what an ignominious affair!... with one of my own friends, with the one i loved best! bah! you are just as worthless!... you are two bandits, two blackguards! it was natural that you should take to each other...." gerald attempted to come closer. "come, come, my little zozé, mon petit zozo.... don't cry.... this has no importance at all.... yes, it is true ... and it is not nice.... but it was even more stupid than wicked.... look here, if the rules that govern decent society allowed me to speak openly...." "well, what then?" said zozé, without repulsing him. "no!" said gerald. "it would be disgusting.... you yourself could not wish it.... be sure, nevertheless, that to-day was the first time and that, at once, on leaving ... do you know what i was saying to myself just now when you jumped on me?... i was telling myself that it was the first and also the last time...." "will you swear it to me?" asked zozé, with a passion that gave her face, which was convulsed with rage, even a stranger look. "i do!" gerald replied. she examined him tenderly, laying her two hands on his shoulders, then pushed him back far from her with an angry thrust: "i don't believe you.... you lie.... you have a woman's eyes!" she began to cry again. in the half light which came through the blinds, as at the rehearsal of a play, near his mistress who moaned as if she were in the last act of a melodrama, gerald began to feel too weary to justify himself. "come, my little zozé, mon petit zozo!" he still murmured from time to time, mechanically, to put himself in countenance. nevertheless, the scene lasted too long; it was getting on his nerves. the proud nobleman confusedly rebelled under the lover's anxiety. zozé's brusque way had really hurt his feelings. he, gerald de meuze, allowing himself to be bullied by a mere mme. chambannes? no matter how docile, no matter what a charming pal zozé was, he was beginning almost to regret the women of his own caste. of course, among them there were a few _amoureuses_, a few sentimentalists, notorious sticklers who were known as such. but one was duly warned and only ventured into an affair with open eyes! on the other hand, what agreeable natures these people had; how easy and merry they were; and how well they understood life! ah! neither the young chitré, for instance, nor mme. de baugy, nor even that plump cherub, mme. torcieux, would have made so much noise for such a banal little trick! they would have pouted a while; they might have left him. but there would have been neither scandal nor sobs. two or three sharp words at first--then a firm handshake, to make it up or to part, and that would have been all. for they knew what a man was, what a flirtation or an adventure meant. they were women of the world!... suddenly, between two jolts, zozé asked in a tone of stupefaction. "oh! raldo.... how could you?... how?... how?..." how could he! poor little one, what exquisite things she said! he repressed a smile, then, softened at once by the candor of her query, he replied: "i'll tell you later ... some day, when i am absolutely sure that it can no longer hurt you...." "some day?... what day?" zozé exclaimed haughtily.... "do you suppose that i shall ever see you again?... don't you feel that it is all over?" he drew her close to him. "so, then, don't you love me any more?" zozé panted, unable to answer. tears ran down her cheeks which were contracted by a spasm of pain. "of course you love me, since you cry!" gerald said, caressing her. and he went on, with more assurance. "listen, my little zozé.... of course, to meet you again now, at once, to-morrow or the next day, that could only bring about more scenes, sadness ... painful interviews.... you need rest and reflection.... you must have time ... to forgive me.... oh! i am not a brute, be sure that i guess what you are feeling.... here is what i suggest.... i was to leave next week for poitou, to visit my aunt at cambres.... well, i am going to advance my departure.... i shall leave this very night.... i'll stay at cambres until the end of the month and write to you as often as you like.... and when i come back, everything will be forgotten, i give you my word on it.... tell me, does this suit you?" with each jolt mme. chambannes let her head dreamily bump upon gerald's shoulder. the young man repeated: "answer me, my little zozé.... does this suit you?" "yes, yes!" mme. chambannes said meditatively. "i have an idea, too...." "tell me, my poor zozé!..." "i should be bored in paris.... i should be too sad without you.... so, i am going to recuperate at the frettes, until you return.... when i get home, i am going to pack my trunks and i shall leave by the o'clock express." "alone?" "no! i am going to mobilize my aunt panhias!..." "that's right! an excellent idea." there came a pause. she felt throughout her body a lifting sensation of beatitude, a feeling of being rescued, which prevented her from speaking. she nestled quite close to gerald, with an outpouring of avowal which was stronger than her will, and sighed languorously: "oh, my little raldo! how good it is to have kept you!" it was o'clock before she returned home. chapter xii mme. chambannes had not been gone one hour when a cab stopped outside her house. the two mm. raindal stepped out. in order to avoid any insidious remark from his brother, the master had donned an old frock-coat. uncle cyprien, on the contrary, had dressed himself in his best clothes, a tail-coat, the tails of which still showed the folds which a long stay in the cupboard had given them, a pair of gray check trousers and red dogskin gloves. he was close-shaved and had replaced his thick cornel-wood stick with a thin rush cane with a gold handle and two brown silk tassels inherited from m. raindal his father. firmin the butler opened the door for them; he was so surprised that he fell back a few steps. he was, moreover, dressed to go out, with a suit of english check and a felt hat. "what! m. raindal!" he exclaimed, as he removed his hat. "but madame is not here.... she left an hour ago for the frettes ... and i am joining her to-morrow morning.... did not madame warn monsieur?" uncle cyprien was biting his mustache to suppress a laugh that he felt coming. "no, madame said nothing to me," m. raindal kept on repeating jerkily.... "it's extraordinary. i hope at least there is nothing serious?" "i don't think so, monsieur," the man replied. "madame made up her mind suddenly about o'clock.... i ran out to mme. panhias and she came at once to help madame pack.... they left with anna, the maid, as i told you, not an hour ago. should monsieur wish to write a note i could give the letter to madame to-morrow morning...." m. raindal reflected. such offhandedness left him dumfounded; and there came to his soul an ill-defined impression of anguish, of strange sorrow. at last he replied: "no, thank you!... i shall write from home.... where did you say madame went?" "to the frettes, the château des frettes, at villedouillet, seine-et-oise.... will monsieur remember it?" "certainly.... thank you." when the door was closed the master glanced at his brother and said, with an attempt at banter: "well, my poor friend.... for your first visit you are not in luck!" cyprien nodded and spread his arms in a gesture of assent; then he straightened suddenly and remarked: "how does it seem to you? your madame chambannes doesn't appear to be any more polite than she should!" the master was on the point of answering when two carriages which came from opposite directions stopped at the same time in front of the house. the abbé touronde came out of the first and the marquis de meuze out of the other. the two men were informed of the circumstances by m. raindal and manifested great surprise. neither of them had been warned; they all ventured many conjectures as to the possible reason for this strange lack of courtesy. m. de meuze especially showed himself very shocked. he had difficulty in not cursing gerald. what! a fellow whom he had seen that very morning, who surely knew all about it and had not said a word to his father! really, this was going beyond all bounds of secretiveness! "what's to be done?" he declared. "there is only one thing left for us to do and that is for each one of us to return home.... are you going down to paris, m. raindal?" "yes, certainly," the master replied. "pardon me, i was forgetting.... i must introduce my brother, whom i had brought particularly to meet mme. chambannes." all the men took off their hats, uncle cyprien purposely accentuating his salute to the abbé touronde. together they began to walk towards the centre, the master and the abbé walking first and m. de meuze behind with uncle cyprien. nevertheless, m. raindal only casually followed the words of the priest who had started on his favorite subject, the origin and dogma of the sect of the united copts. the brutal departure of mme. chambannes had agitated his nerves beyond his control. what struck him as a lack of courtesy towards her other guests he construed as a real lack of friendship, in so far as he himself was concerned. again, the adventure concealed a mystery which he wished he could fathom. what was the meaning of this hurried flight, this forgetfulness of all social obligations? what drama or what caprice had thus unexpectedly sent mme. chambannes out of paris? and a certain irritation gradually oppressed him; it was not, of course, jealousy--the mere idea of it made m. raindal laugh cynically--but it resembled disappointment, disillusion, something, in fine, that was very much like a pained surprise in his heart. he lifted his hat to wipe from his forehead a few beads of perspiration. "you must excuse me!" uncle cyprien exclaimed to the marquis, after having made an unsuccessful jeering comment upon the abbé touronde. "i prefer to be frank.... it is stronger than i.... i don't like priests!..." and seeing that the marquis remained cold and had completely closed his gray eyelids, he added rapidly: "on the other hand, i am willing to admit that i don't like the jews any better." thereupon they very soon proved to be in agreement. m. de meuze told him briefly of his misfortune on the stock exchange. cyprien reciprocated with the history of his dismissal and a short account of his theory of the two banks of the river. the marquis approved smilingly and both concluded that those of the right bank were after all a most deplorable tribe. they were, nevertheless, the marquis added, gentlemen who must be carefully handled and who remained, no matter what one might do, the lords of the financial market.... ah, in , at the time of the _timbale_, people had been very thoughtless. they had attacked these jews without learning their tactics, without suspecting what their ammunition consisted of, without taking any precaution against their _ruses de guerre_; and they had been defeated, most thoroughly beaten. how could one fight more able adversaries than oneself? by divining their plans, locating all their batteries, regulating one's fire by theirs, and finally rectifying the parabola according to the ambient resistance which was apparent there; such as perfidious information, the mass attacks from the syndicates, the liquidation maneuvers, false news or any other strategical piece of duplicity. such was now the only scientific way in which men of the world were operating on the bourse. "thus, as for myself," the marquis continued, giving up his military comparisons, "i am deep in the gold mines at present.... well, you will perhaps think that i risked myself blindly in this.... not at all.... the chance of relations brought me into touch with some of those worthy gentlemen, precisely at the chambannes, and i can assure you that i made no bones about acting upon their particulars.... certainly not!... and, by the way, i did not find their tips unremunerative...." "what, you trust those gentry?" the younger m. raindal asked with disappointment. "yet i have been assured that many of them are not very trustworthy...." "who told you this?" "one of my friends, johann schleifmann, one of their co-religionists, and, i may add, one of the best of men!" "your friend exaggerates, monsieur," the marquis said gently. "of course, i would not trust them all.... there are some of them whom i shall not name and whom i am more afraid of than of the plague.... nevertheless, take, for instance, to mention but one, m. pums, the director of the bank of galicia. here is a man who has been advising me for six months and without any cause for regret.... i could not swear that i do not lose every now and then ... but when i balance my accounts, i find that my operations result in profits, i may say important profits.... please note also that this cost me neither trouble nor a proof of servility.... pums has no desire save to oblige me.... he is not one of those viziers of high finance who make you pay for their advice at the rate of sixty humiliations to a hundred per cent.... my m. pums is a novice! one can have him for a handshake." the marquis laughed at his own ingenious comparison. then he went on. "as for you, monsieur, of course you have nothing to do with such deviltries!" "no fear," cyprien exclaimed. "i have invested the wretched twenty thousand francs which i had scraped sou by sou out of my poor salary in railway stock. this brings me about three per cent.... it is very little, i grant you, but it is safe and, with the help of my pension, allows me to make both ends meet.... i speculate! no, never in my life!... then again, what would be the use? i don't need it!" the marquis fell to dreaming. he was seized with an impulse of democratic sympathy towards the fiery little official. the latter was too poor to cause the haughty nobleman to fear any unpleasant familiarity. the very distance that stood between them brought them together. he said suddenly in a sententious tone: "who knows, perhaps you are wrong! there are at present opportunities for a man to make a fortune in mines ... and when i see rogues and fools who become rich over night and the next moment i meet an honest man like yourself who takes no advantage of the opportunity, i feel tempted to cry out to him: 'go on, go ahead! do not lose this opportunity!... an opportunity which can be met but two or three times in the course of a century--why, surely it is worth it.'" "do you think it? do you think so?" uncle cyprien repeated; he was still skeptical but already shaken in his resolves. the marquis went on with that mania for preaching charity in which fortunate gamblers take delight. "after all, what is the prospect so far as you are concerned? there is really no question of making a fortune. at the most it is a matter of bettering yourself, of gaining the means to treat yourself to a little luxury and a little comfort.... ah, if i were you ... but enough of this.... i don't want to influence you.... whenever you feel like it, m. raindal, come to see me.... i live at rue de bourgogne at the corner of the place de palais bourbon." they caught up with the master and the abbé, who had stopped at the corner of the pont de la concorde. they took leave of each other. when the two brothers were left alone m. raindal asked: "will you come to dine with us?" cyprien did not hear him; he was dreamily contemplating the peach velvet patches splashed on the discolored horizon by the setting sun. "i am asking you if you are coming to dine?" m. raindal repeated. "what! what's that?" cyprien started. "shall i dine with you?... no, thank you.... schleifmann is waiting for me at the brasserie.... i can't disappoint him." the little green omnibus of the panthéon-courcelles was slowly climbing up the street; he shook his brother's hand rapidly. "au revoir.... one of these evenings!" he climbed on top. as he turned into the boulevard st. germain m. raindal caught sight of him; he was still waving his supple gold-headed stick in a friendly gesture. * * * * * "hello! good evening, my dear friend," said schleifmann, when cyprien settled down at the table next to his own.... "have you seen the young person?" "no, my dear friend ... but i saw one of your enemies." he related the inexplicable flight of mme. chambannes, his walk with the marquis and the talk about gold mines and asked him, when he had finished: "well, my dear schleifmann, what do you say?" "about what?" "why, this story about the mines, of course!..." schleifmann's little eyes shone fiercely and he passed his hand through his curly hair. "i say that it is another dirty deal by means of which the jews of the bourse will again take in a large amount of money for themselves and raise up more hatred against those of their own race.... that is all i have to say about your mines!" raindal, the younger, repressed an impatient gesture. "sapristi, schleifmann! please try to understand me.... i am not asking you about the jews but about myself.... tell me, yes or no, do you think that i should take a risk?" the galician's face took on an expression of pity. "you, my dear raindal? you cannot be serious!... you, a _goy_ (gentile), and an honest fellow, as well, you have got it into your head to have dealings with those big bears?... but they will eat you, my friend; they will chew you up as if you were a mutton chop!..." "in short," said uncle cyprien with resentment, "you are opposed to this project!..." schleifmann sneered and shrugged his shoulders. "but your project doesn't exist, it's pure folly.... do as you please.... but i beg you never to tell me a word of this ludicrous piece of madness." cyprien remained silent, choked by anger. he resented as much the galician's disdainful tone as the tenacity with which he dampened the sparkling hopes of riches which the marquis had lit before him. his anti-semitic convictions were now directed, for the first time in ten years, against schleifmann. in the stubbornness of his old comrade he discovered much less a proof of friendship than a characteristic of the jewish pride of which his most favorite authors quoted monstrous examples! cyprien remained taciturn throughout the evening, recalling to himself all their names. in these conditions the meeting soon languished and the two friends parted coldly an hour sooner than usual. the next day m. raindal, the younger, proved unable to resist the itching he felt to know the quotations on the financial market. he bought an evening paper and took refuge in the luxemburg in order to read the reports in peace. but he was unused to them and found the transversal lines, the perpendicular columns, the quotations of "to-day" and those of "yesterday" perplexingly confusing. it was only after ten minutes of effort that he discovered the place where the "advance" was given. everywhere on the gold mines it was considerable and almost general, showing differences of fifteen, twenty, thirty and even fifty francs. the stocks sold up in the same way on the next day and the day after. uncle cyprien made a mental calculation of the amounts which he would have already pocketed but for that mule of a schleifmann. the dinners at the brasserie daily showed more signs of these accumulated grudges. at last, on the fifth day, m. raindal could contain himself no longer. at half-past twelve he went home to dress and half-an-hour later stepped out of a cab in the rue de bourgogne in front of m. de meuze's door. the marquis in a brown coat and with a pipe in his mouth was still at his dining-table when cyprien was ushered in. "how do you do, my dear m. raindal!" he exclaimed, as he pushed his chair back. "i am delighted to see you. i am receiving you without any ceremony.... you will have coffee with me, won't you? a cigar?" he added, holding out a box of fat havanas. "if you please," the ex-official replied. there was a pause during which m. raindal gravely lit his cigar, the red and gold paper band of which he had not dared to remove. he was, moreover, affected by the majestic aspect of the dining-room. the ceilings were as high as those of a museum gallery; the windows were enormous. on all the walls hung old tapestries with fading scenes, emphasized at intervals by antique chiseled copper ornaments. m. de meuze himself, despite his brown coat and his big meerschaum pipe, well fitted into the atmosphere of high elegance which the surrounding objects gave to the room. "well, m. raindal, what is your news?" he said between two puffs. "well, monsieur le marquis! nothing of importance!" cyprien replied with embarrassment. m. de meuze stared at him out of his piercing little green eye. "i wager you came to talk business with me." cyprien grinned but did not deny it. "ah ha!" the marquis exclaimed victoriously. "what did i say?... i felt that at once.... i have but one eye but i can see as well as if i had two...." coquettishly he caressed the white wings of his whiskers and, going to the window, lifted up a curtain. "do you see? you must admit that for a first-floor apartment, mine enjoys a fine view.... the house of our lords is in full sight...." through the white-barred windows cyprien saw the place de palais bourbon and in front of the ancient door a little soldier dreaming near his sentry box, holding his rifle at attention. cyprien said sneeringly: "ah! it is there that our lords of the cheque-book dwell." "yes, m. raindal, right there ... the door facing us! this window will be worth much on the first day of the riots.... but we are gossiping. i was forgetting the object of your visit.... what was it?... you came for the mines, didn't you?" cyprien agreed that this was the case. he had come under the seal of secrecy--for, of course, no one, not even his brother, should know of his attempt--and after serious consideration. "quite so," the marquis interrupted. "i guessed as much.... will you please come this way.... we shall be more at ease to talk." they passed into the other room, a vast cabinet furnished in eastern style with scimitars and carbines inlaid with mother-of-pearl in panoplies. he went on: "so you wish to join the party? nothing easier.... i am going to write to m. pums now and, unless you inform him to the contrary, you must go and see him to-morrow about three at the bank of galicia, rue vivienne.... will this do?..." he sat down at his huge table and added, while he wrote the note: "but, take care, no foolishness! be cautious. the time is favorable.... but you must foresee the débâcle, the inevitable unfortunate débâcle which always occurs with speculative stocks?... oh, we are not there yet.... but you must keep your eyes open.... don't lose your head! you had better bother pums ten times before you give an order ... and at the slightest break, you must sell at once, sell without paying any heed to anything! do you hear?" cyprien thanked him profusely and gave his solemn promise. once in the street, he walked briskly towards the champs elysées. the sky had freshened and showed a radiant spring gayety. the faces of the women he met seemed more beautiful and uncle cyprien bestowed gallant looks at them. he sat in a chair facing the carriages which passed in the splendid avenue. a hopeful joy dilated his whole being. how sweet it would be if he could open his soul about this with someone! what a pity that schleifmann proved so intractable! once more m. raindal was carried away by the bitterest reflections against him. * * * * * and the next day he presented his card at the bank of galicia and was received at once. m. pums at once assured him of his sympathy. the friendship of m. de meuze and the fact that he was m. raindal's brother was a double recommendation and one too great for m. pums not to feel very much disposed to help his visitor. "by the way," exclaimed cyprien, "i should be indebted to you if you would say nothing of this to my brother.... he might become alarmed and imagine that i have fallen a prey to the passion of gambling and such nonsense.... i prefer...." "there is no need to insist," m. pums declared. "in business discretion is the rule.... moreover, it is quite enough that you should ask me...." he explained to cyprien the mechanism of buying and selling stock. he would put his visitor in touch with a broker, m. talloire, the bank's own agent, that of the marquis and of a quantity of other personages and respectable houses. m. talloire would open an account for m. raindal, who would then have nothing else to do but give his orders. "hm! hm!" cyprien remarked, blinking. "shall i have to go to this talloire myself?... it is very unpleasant." m. pums smiled cordially. "oh, it is not indispensable.... if you wish it, we can assume the responsibility of transmitting your orders in this way...." while he analyzed the process that would have to be followed, the ex-official was speaking to his own soul. he liked little m. pums. it would be really impossible to meet a more courteous and obliging man. as for that jewish appearance which cyprien had expected to notice in him, the professor's brother was compelled to admit that pums did not show any sign of it. his big chocolate-colored eyes, yellow skin and black mustache gave him the head of a creole, a spaniard, a turk or a rich kirghiz. even the very slight accent seemed to cyprien quite different from what might be expected from a naturalized "prussian." "i thank you," he said, when the other had concluded. "and now, one question, please! how much shall i risk? is five thousand enough?" "anything you like, monsieur. twenty thousand francs or ten sous, according to your fancy.... you understand very well that i am treating you as a friend and not as a client.... i am only sorry for one thing, that you did not come a fortnight sooner.... with five thousands francs that i could have placed for you a week ago, a straight profit of three thousand francs would have fallen into your pocket at the settlement on the th...." "three thousand francs," uncle cyprien repeated sadly. "well, it's too late!... don't let's think of it!... and since five thousand francs seem enough to you, please be so good as to buy me five thousand francs' worth of mining stock...." "which ones, monsieur?" pums inquired gravely. "there are hundreds of them." "i don't know," murmured uncle cyprien. "you must advise me!... do for me as you would for the marquis!" pums gave him a list of mining stocks which the bank of galicia and its affiliated houses were backing on the markets. cyprien was confused by this enumeration and decided according to the prettiness or the strangeness of the names. he selected the "pink star of south africa," the "fountain of the red diamond," the "source of carbuncles," the "pummigan and kraft," and the "deemerhuis and haarblinck," the names of which pums obligingly translated for his benefit. he then rose, apologizing for having claimed so much precious time. the banker retorted that he was only too glad and went as far as the outside corridor to see his visitor off. he hoped to see him again in a week at the time of the settlement, since they would have to talk it over again. "what a charming man!" uncle cyprien thought, when the door was closed behind him. he spent the following week in a fever of pleasant anxiety. the stocks were rising. but he feared he had made a mistake. he was afraid of having exaggerated the profits which, according to his calculations, were already in the neighborhood of two thousand francs. this spoiled his happiness every night. consequently he felt a sudden emotion when, on the morning of the th, as he was leaving his house to go to the brasserie, the concierge handed him a yellow envelope with the heading of the talloire house. what did this long envelope contain? supposing he had miscalculated? if, instead of the expected profits, it were to tell him of losses? he walked to the high door of the house and tore the envelope open when he was behind it. it contained only a single sheet of paper, striped zebra-like with columns, figures, abbreviated words, and the trembling of his hands further increased the chaos. two trade expressions caught his eye, on the left: dr.; on the right: cr. above these he read: m. cyprien raindal _his account in settlement of april with m. talloire, broker, rue de choiseul._ "hm! i must be cool! do i win or do i lose?" the uncle murmured, while his eyes scanned the page. he noticed at last a little gathering of figures in a corner, with, next to the word _total_, the mention: _creditor_: fr. "seven thousand, seven hundred francs!" he muttered, his heart beating fast against his ribs. "from i take out the i put in.... there remains ! two thousand, seven hundred francs profit! there must be some mistake.... and yet i must be right; whoever receives, he owes; whoever owes, he receives.... i am the creditor.... i win." yet a doubt lurked in his mind, despite this certainty. he wanted to free himself from it at once, to know, and it was nothing but the fear of importuning the agent that prevented him from rushing to the rue de choiseul. this distressful feeling was met with a sudden remembrance of the marquis' advice, "to bother pums ten times rather than one." the solution was clear, since pums himself had offered his services beforehand. uncle cyprien jumped into a cab. all the way, in order to prop up his own faith, he repeated in rhythmic time: "who receives owes!... who owes receives!... nevertheless, this axiom did not altogether reassure him. only the jovial reception pums gave him restored cyprien's serenity. "well!" the banker exclaimed, when he saw his protégé. "it seems to me that we have no cause to complain.... if my calculations are right, m. raindal, you have made about francs!" silently, raindal pushed his paper forward. "here you are!" "ah!" exclaimed pums, as he looked at the figures. "two thousand, seven hundred francs profit!... you are going well for a beginner!... bravo! congratulations! of course, it goes without saying that you are keeping your position?" "i beg your pardon?" m. raindal asked, with an anxious expression. "i mean to say that i take it you will leave your profit on the same securities." cyprien thought a while, then asked very meekly: "could i not draw some of it out?" "anything you like! this money belongs to you. you are its lord and master.... don't be afraid.... name your figure!" "seven hundred francs!" cyprien said resolutely. "i draw seven hundred out, i leave seven thousand in.... this leaves a round sum, does it not?" then he added in a less assured voice, "can i cash it here?" "hm!" pums replied. "it is not very regular.... well, since it is for you, for a friend!... just sign this power for me to cash at talloire's.... i am going to give you a check which you need only to present at our cashier's office...." cyprien signed it. "and we retain your confidence?" m. pums asked as he rose. "you still wish me to direct your orders?" "what! are you laughing at me, m. pums?" cyprien replied. "my confidence.... my gratitude, you should say ... my deep gratitude! buy me, if you please, the same stocks, or buy me any other that you think more advisable.... i am convinced that you are acting for my best interests.... au revoir, monsieur, and thank you again!" when he reached the street he turned instinctively towards the bourse. the seven -franc notes which they had given him formed a little hard protuberance in his inside pocket, and he laid his hand on it at every step. he was filled with schemes of generous bounty. he paused a little while to contemplate the tumult of the bourse, the shouting crowd that was perhaps to make him richer again soon. entering the nearest tobacco shop he asked for special brand cigars and was shown several kinds. he sniffed them in expert fashion and, by squeezing them in the middle, made them crackle against his ear. finally he bought a box at one franc apiece and added two packets of american cigarettes to this purchase. but when he went out, he caught sight of a pipe merchant's window near the shop and still on the place de la bourse. supported with invisible props or laid in luxurious cases, with stems that were brutally straight and stems with serpentine curves, meerschaum and briar pipes mingled their white and brown colors. gold and silver rings encircled amber cigar cases; all of them, in their velvet cases, had the air of fine jewels destined for princely lips. cyprien looked at them and shook his head. all at once a look of satisfaction shone in his eyes. what if he were to buy one of those pipes, a nice, fat meerschaum, like that of the marquis, for his old comrade schleifmann of whom, their dispute notwithstanding, he was very fond! and he entered the shop. his selection proved to be so long, so careful an affair that it was past . by the clock of the brasserie klapproth when m. raindal arrived. "a little present for you, my dear schleifmann!" he said, sitting down to the left of the galician. "a little present which i have been considering for a long time.... take it ... yes, open it; it is for you!" slowly schleifmann opened the parcel. "a pipe!" he exclaimed, as he played with the case. "quite so, and a pipe de luxe! the result of six months' savings in cigarettes, my dear friend!" the pipe represented a mermaid, whose double twisted tail curled around the stem as far as the amber mouthpiece and whose seductive head had been hollowed for the bowl. schleifmann could not conceal his admiration. "it is marvelous ... colossal, colossal!" he repeated, using the german expression which to him signified supreme enthusiasm.... "i am going to smoke it now.... waiter, matches!" uncle cyprien watched the preparations for the inauguration with a glorious and softened feeling. "exquisite!" schleifmann declared, after two whiffs. "a child could smoke it.... you are very kind, my dear cyprien." he took up the case and examined the lining, a coat of dark red plush with the maker's name stamped in gold letters. brusquely, he knocked on the table with his fist. "raindal!" he shouted. "look me in the eyes!" "here!" the ex-official replied, looking furtively at his friend, his face slantwise. "you are gambling at the bourse, my friend!" "i!" said uncle cyprien, in shocked rebellion. "yes, you! this address tells me everything: place de la bourse! you are gambling on the mines!... have a care, raindal! this is an adventure which may cost a great deal more than you imagine!" he replaced the pipe in its case with a gesture of renunciation. "you make me tired, schleifmann!" grumbled cyprien. "you upset me considerably.... what! i take the trouble to buy you a pipe, to choose it as if for myself! and this is all i get for it: words of ill-omen!... well, yes; there.... i have gambled.... i have even won.... i won seven hundred francs.... but it is fi-ni-shed, all finished! to-day i stopped everything.... are you satisfied, you silly?" "finished!" the galician sneered. "i do not believe a word of it, my dear fellow.... begun, yes.... but finished, after such a profit! you take me for a fool, raindal!" cyprien made a haughty grimace. "as you like! don't believe me! i cannot compel you to believe me.... very well, then.... i am still gambling.... i gamble until i am all out of breath.... quite so.... and you are leaving me my pipe?... you couldn't do anything pleasanter!" unwittingly, schleifmann glanced with regret at the plump siren which, lying on her side, seemed as if asleep. "there! i don't want to upset you, my dear cyprien!... nevertheless, i am shamed to take your pipe.... i ought not to.... it isn't right." "don't be so fussy," said raindal, with an air of affection. "take it back quickly ... since as i tell you i'm not gambling any more!" "the lord be praised, if you are telling the truth!" schleifmann murmured, as he lit his pipe. the conversation once more became friendly. from time to time, schleifmann exhaled between two puffs: "delicious.... colossal!" uncle cyprien thought that his deception had succeeded and ventured in a careless tone: "ah, by the way! while i think of it!... you realize that, because of this little affair, i owe a certain courtesy to the marquis de meuze.... would it hurt your feelings to lunch here with him?" "between you and me, i wouldn't care to," the galician grunted after a pause. "why not? oh! i can guess.... the marquis's opinions! well, first of all, if there is nothing else to stop you, you may rest assured.... i have already told him you were a good jew." "my dear friend, i wish you would not use that expression!" schleifmann said nervously. "have i not taught you that there are no bad jews? at the most, it can only be said that there are degenerate jews...." "besides," cyprien went on, "the marquis seemed to me very much calmed down on this subject! if you knew all the kind things he said concerning several of your co-religionists!" "it was one of two things," schleifmann said dryly. "either he was laughing at you or he is a bad catholic." "he! he adores the curés!" "he may adore the curés," the galician retorted, in the same tone. "but, as a good catholic, he cannot love the jews.... catholic religion means universal religion.... so long as there remains one heretic on the globe, the crusade remains open.... wriggle out of this if you can!... and is it not natural? religions thrive on fanaticism alone and perish through tolerance alone." "so, you approve of the saint bartholomew, the inquisition, and the dragonnades?" exclaimed cyprien, whose bourgeois background was shocked by the sharpness of these aphorisms. "as of the terror!" schleifmann replied. "or rather i do not approve of them, but i can explain their existence.... such events are political measures which happen to be useful to a party.... you cannot sow the seeds of such beliefs on dry soil, by means of reasoning; they germinate only in blood and blossom only through fear." "accordingly, if the revolution were to come back, you would, if necessary, have my head cut off!" "who knows?" schleifmann replied, with a half sarcastic smile. "if you had become too rich!" although he relished a jest of this nature very little, m. raindal affected to be amused. "all right, schleifmann! in advance of getting my head chopped off, you already seem to be pulling my leg, old man. i have told you, and i repeat it, the marquis no longer harbors any appreciable intolerance. going, going, going! do you refuse to lunch with him?" "well, i am willing," the galician replied contemptuously. "but later, say in a year, i shall be more precise and name the day; it shall be on the day that follows the smash up of the mines.... yes, on that day, i shall be delighted to converse with your friend the marquis about the jews and tolerance." cyprien shrugged his shoulders. "one cannot be serious for a minute with you.... oh, well! let's drop it. you refuse to join us; we can eat without you!" schleifmann did not reply, but busied himself with stuffing the head of his mermaid. "what about your brother?" he asked suddenly. "what does your brother think of all this?" "my brother? don't talk to me about him! he bores me perhaps even more than you do, my dear man! i don't know what is the matter with him this last fortnight.... but i should not be so very much surprised if someone were to tell me that the departure of mme. rhâm-bâhan is at the bottom of it.... you should see his temper!... and his face! in short, he is not to be spoken to." cyprien added confidentially: "and not a word, please, about this mining business, in case you happen to meet him! there would be everlasting sermons and warnings!" schleifmann promised to keep the secret. uncle cyprien lifted up one hand in a gesture of disgust. "my brother! ah! la! la! he is a bore, regular bore, these days!" chapter xiii for once uncle cyprien had not exaggerated. ever since the day of their disappointment in the rue de prony, m. raindal had been unable to rid himself of a feeling of hostility whenever he saw his brother; either because the sight of uncle cyprien recalled an unpleasant memory or because the master feared his brother's questions. at each visit he showed him a more bitter coldness. the departure of mme. chambannes had dealt m. raindal's heart a blow from which it was still throbbing. of course, a week later he had received a few lines from zozé, in which she apologized for her discourteous flight; she had had some small anxieties which she could no doubt explain in person the next time they met. but the very vagueness of this postponement caused the master as much impatience as if the young woman had kept back every particular concerning her flight. little anxieties! surely they were not caused by chambannes who was still away, and far from paris. by whom then, and of what sort were they? money troubles? a very unlikely hypothesis. family troubles? no, since the only relation mme. chambannes had, had gone with her to les frettes. love troubles? m. raindal vehemently repulsed this latter solution which, in reality, excited his anger more than his incredulity. whenever the idea of it came within the horizon of his dreams, he bent all his effort towards its destruction as if it were an absurd nightmare. love troubles, mme. chambannes! the master's friendship rebelled against such a foolish calumny. coquettish, frivolous, childish--she might be that; but in love, his little pupil, never! not to him could they come with such inventions, to him who knew her well, who had been studying her and judging her for nearly four months. the only young man who was in a position to court her, the tall gerald de meuze, hardly seemed with those languid ways and that tired expression of his, the hero who was at all likely to captivate such a vivacious, sprightly nature. at the most only a robust officer, an ardent young poet or an illustrious musician might have a faint chance, not to seduce her, but perhaps to trouble her thoughts. not without a secret feeling of relief, m. raindal admitted to himself that there was no such favored one about mme. chambannes. nevertheless, as he came to these conclusions a melancholy feeling suddenly brought him down from the heights again. he remembered his arrival in the rue de prony, the empty house and the outrageous treatment accorded him. how little she must have cared for him to have forgotten him so! how very low and precarious must be his place in her affections and her thoughts. how much he had over-estimated the influence and the attraction which he exercised upon her. he resolved for the sake of his dignity not to answer her letter, but every day that passed without bringing him news shook the proud resolution. where was she? how did she spend her days and her evenings? why did she not call him to her? he would sometime lift himself up out of his misery by some sudden flight of vanity. he swore that he would never again condescend to take any notice of such trifling inquiries which proved so humiliating for a superior mind like his. he was close to the precipitous regions where floats the pure breeze of eternity; but he did not remain very long making plans alone on those calm heights. after a little while the light image of zozé soared up to join him and he would sigh as he saw her again. a sudden clearness of sight revealed to him how strongly attached he was to his little pupil. he shrugged his shoulders, recalled his grievances against mme. chambannes and attempted to disdain her. the effort was vain. he wished to feel contempt and resentment, but she inspired him with nothing but regret. in the midst of his disquietude he found no solace but in work on the new book which he was preparing: a book, as he told thérèse, which might possibly share the success of the previous one.... i say no more now.... i am waiting for the idea to ripen.... you will see.... it is not bad.... again he paced his study, his hands behind his back, his head bent forward as if it were reaching out towards the runaway flock of his ideas. the provisional title of the book was: _the idlers of ancient egypt._ it would be a moral study supported by historical documents rather than a work of erudition. m. raindal proposed to establish by means of examples that their great social moving force was the search after pleasure and especially the so-called gallant pleasures: the whole effort of human labor tended towards woman and her conquest. the refinements, especially, and all the arts often owed to her their birth and always their prosperity. it was for woman that the stones were set in gold, the silks embroidered and all the melodies resounded. m. raindal meditated upon these developments so much that he had more than once fallen a prey to fever and headaches. at his call, the facts jumped out of their cells and rushed to line themselves in battle array as if they were well disciplined little soldiers. there was notably one chapter--chapter vi--on _love and gallantry in ancient egypt_ based on the religious legends, the toilet paraphernalia and the popular stories which had been discovered, and of which the master already possessed the main line and almost every paragraph. there were days, however, when he conceived certain scruples concerning the value of his idea. would not people charge him with pursuing the same attempt at scandal which his last book had inaugurated? would they not reproach him with lingering purposely in immoral episodes? did he even possess the gift, the necessary competency to fathom the prodigious problems of sentiment? the first two queries m. raindal rejected wholly in the name of the contempt which a lofty soul owes to insinuations that are prompted by jealousy. the third one seemed to him more delicate a subject and more likely to give rise to controversies. he delighted in discussing it with boerzell, who never failed to come every sunday to pay the permitted call in the rue notre-dame-des-champs. "sincerely, m. boerzell," he asked, "do you think that a man needs to have been a libertine to properly appreciate the subtleties of sentiment? do you believe, in short, that to speak competently of love it is necessary that a man should be a specialist in it, a professional, a practitioner, as it were?" "oh, master!" boerzell replied cautiously, "that's a complex question.... i must say it's one i haven't considered...." "don't you think," continued m. raindal, "that a multitude of sentiments exist which one appreciates all the better for not having felt them oneself?" "that is incontestable!" boerzell answered. "you observe that in this matter one is able to retain a freshness of impression, a preciseness of view which prove to be of the highest value in scientific analyses.... one is not blinded either by vanity or by the intervention of personal recollections.... the mind retains, intact, its impartiality, its penetration, and the calm which is indispensable for regular observations...." "surely, master!" boerzell admitted. "nevertheless don't you fear that a certain coldness might result from this procedure?" "not at all, my dear sir!" m. raindal protested. "what is essential is that one should love the idea of the subject with which one deals, love love, if it is of love that one is writing.... the warmth of sympathy warms everything.... our works are like our children. only those which we do not love as we conceive them are cold and unsatisfying." slowly he went back to his study, while boerzell smiled at thérèse. in the course of their frequent conversations, the young savant had obtained little fragmentary confidences which left him no doubts concerning the worldly indiscretions of the master. on the fourth sunday, m. raindal did not come to the drawing-room. he had gone out, ostensibly to visit the director of the collège, but in reality to go to make sure that his little pupil had not returned to her house without giving him warning. the sight of the closed shutters destroyed his hopes. nevertheless he rang the bell repeatedly, but no answer came. yet the first days of may had arrived! when would she come back? he walked slowly along the half-deserted streets. everything he saw brought him some painful recollection. how often he had passed these places, with his soul and eyes still softened by mme. chambannes' sweetness! what a change now? how forsaken he was! to rid himself of such sorrowful thoughts or to oppose them by a physical denial from his own lips, he smiled all the way at the little girls and the little boys in their sunday clothes, whom their parents lazily dragged by the hand. when the master returned home, boerzell had not gone yet but was still chatting with thérèse. near them, mme. raindal was reading a pious book. the master attempted to appear in a merry mood. the recent misfortune of one of his colleagues whose trust had been abused by forgers served him as a pretext to scoff at the learned. after all, what was the value of brute science if it was not animated by the spirit? what would his next work be, for instance, if m. raindal did not prop it up with general and human considerations? boerzell agreed completely and by a clever digression he brought the conversation back to the social rôle of love. the master took the bait eagerly. his nerves were voluptuously relaxed by this pleasant contest of dialectics against so subtle an adversary. the night fell before he had ended his discourse. "you will dine with us, won't you, m. boerzell?" he said, when brigitte came to light the lamp. he only let the young man go at eleven o'clock, dazed by the contest and so tired that he could only stammer. but this melancholy seized him again as soon as he was alone with his daughter. he hardly said good-night and rushed to his bed as if toward a distraction, an asylum of forgetfulness. the next morning he did not rise until half past eight. there was nothing from mme. chambannes in his mail. peevishly, he was splashing water over his face, when brigitte suddenly entered. "a telegram for monsieur...." "my glasses. give me my glasses, i tell you!" he felt a commotion within himself as he recognized on the blue paper the writing of mme. chambannes. he opened the express letter and read: sunday evening. my dear master: i am back at last. i am anxious to see you again. why not take advantage of the fact that the tradesmen and my friends will still be leaving me alone to make our great visit to the louvre to-morrow morning? unless i hear from you, therefore, let it be to-morrow morning at nine-thirty in the place du carrousel, in front of the pavilion de sully. how pleasantit will be to meet again! your little pupil, z. chambannes. instinctively m. raindal consulted the clock which marked nine o'clock and he rushed to the door. "brigitte!" he shouted in the passage.... "brigitte, my frock coat.... the new one.... my patent leather shoes.... my hat.... hurry up, my good girl." "what is the matter, father?" said thérèse, who had come out at the disturbance. m. raindal regretted having shouted so loudly; he was now compelled to tell the truth. "oh! it's mme. chambannes!" he replied, scratching his neck under his beard. "she has made an appointment for . for me to take her to the louvre.... i have no time to waste, as you can see." he noticed a smile on the girl's face and asked: "what are you laughing at?" "i am not laughing!" thérèse replied, having recovered her composure. m. raindal was upset. "yes, you are laughing! you can't deny it.... go on; speak.... what were you laughing at?" "do you really want to know, father?... very well! it is because to-day is monday, and the museum is closed...." "i had forgotten.... yet it is true enough!... but i cannot keep her waiting...." it suddenly dawned upon him that he was being suspected of telling an untruth. he held out the special delivery and said, "you can look for yourself! the day and the hour are set down.... 'to-morrow morning at . .'" haughtily, thérèse brushed the paper aside. "oh, it is quite unnecessary, father!" "yes, yes! i want you to look at it...." she threw a swift glance at the paper and handed it back to m. raindal: "you are right!... hurry up!..." "all right! i am much obliged to you!" he grumbled. he recollected himself only when he reached the pavilion de sully. ten o'clock was just striking at the big clock above the pink columns of the door. m. raindal sighed with relief. he was on time and that made him forget his anger at thérèse. the vast place stretched out before him. it was shaded and deserted in the lofty frame of its several illustrious palaces. in the distance, the open space of the tuileries seemed to be a region of light without end, whose white reflection made the sky paler. a warm breeze came from it and at intervals bent down the green grass of the neighboring gardens. the master took a deep breath. he loved this milky and delightful aroma of the morning air in the spring. and his soul was gradually harmonizing itself with the lofty quiet of the scene. he walked up and down in front of the peristyle, glancing at his light gloves which he was fastening. the approach of a carriage made him look up, and he saw at one of the high windows of the colbert pavilion two clerks of the finance ministry who were watching him smilingly. their inspection did not hurt his feelings. he imagined to himself the surprised admiration which the young men would feel when mme. chambannes arrived. yes, of course! he was waiting for a lady! and what a lady! these two gentlemen had probably never seen in their life one so elegant and so special! an open carriage was coming towards the pavilion de sully by the avenue on the left. the master rushed over just in time to help mme. chambannes out. she had on a dark blue costume with a shot-silk blouse which sparkled at the opening of her short jacket. she placed her little white gloved hand in that of m. raindal and gave him a candid little laugh of greeting and thankfulness. "well, dear master," she said, when she had paid her driver, "you are not too angry with me, are you? were you very indignant at your little pupil?..." m. raindal blinked under the tender glance which pervaded him. he had grown unaccustomed to it. "not at all, dear lady!..." he stammered. "above all things i am delighted to see you again.... is m. chambannes well?" "quite.... he came back last night.... by the way, he asked me to invite you to the opera to-night.... they are giving "samson and delilah" and "the korringane." we have a box on the second tier.... you will come, won't you?" "oh! madame...." "yes, yes, you will come.... i want you to!" she looked about her inquiringly and noticed the plate with big gold letters over the peristyle: "it is here, isn't it?" "alas! it's impossible to-day, dear madame!..." the master exclaimed, and zozé assumed an expression of displeasure. "for the one time that i'm free, how vexing!... what shall we do, then?" "i don't know, madame!... whatever you like!" distractedly he glanced at the circular little open spaces where the leaves of the trees rustled in the breeze. one could not see inside them. the very access to them seemed forbidden by the thick foliage pressed against the gates. they were like two gallant theatrical property gardens, put there by mistake or merely temporarily. the master thought, "this would be perfect!" and he pointed to the nearer of these little gardens. "would you like to go in there for a little chat before we part?" "it is a good idea!" mme. chambannes said. "these lovely squares are delightful." the garden consisted of a tiny little lawn surrounded by four green benches carved to imitate the antique. they sat on one of them opposite the pavilion denon. in front of the latter a row of statues was placed at regular intervals, isolated and alike in their equalizing marble costumes. no other eyes but their lifeless ones looked upon the square. "there's no crowd here!" mme. chambannes remarked. then she pointed to the statues with her sunshade, and added: "and to think that you will be like this one day, dear master!" "nothing is less assured, madame," m. raindal replied modestly. "but i, where shall i be then?" zozé went on gravely. "o, what ugly thoughts!... was it your stay at les frettes which made you so gloomy?" "no, it was not that, since, to tell the truth, zozé had enjoyed herself very much there. nature and solitude had made her feel better; had helped her to recuperate from paris! for, in truth, what woman was there who did not sometimes grow weary of paris? what woman does not in the end become satiated with visits, gossip, theaters, dress-makers, and the whole worldly surfeit of activity?... the country, with one or two good friends, like m. raindal for instance, the rest, the fresh air cure, such seemed to be for the present mme. chambannes' ideal dream. and if she had returned, it was because...." "excuse me," the master interrupted. "why did you leave?... perhaps i am indiscreet in reminding you of your promise...." "no, not at all...." she had her two elbows on her knees in a pose of meditation and was digging the sand with the point of her sunshade. "i left because i had troubles.... a friend in whom i had faith and who betrayed me shamefully." "ah!... i am very sorry for you!" said he. she looked up to the heavens in a melancholy ecstasy. a dewy languor appeared about her eyelashes. she was transfigured by sorrow. in her little starched collar which was so modern and masculine, her features assumed, in her affliction, the air of a perverse holiness. "and so you had a great deal of trouble?" m. raindal said again, without taking his eyes off her. "oh yes, a great deal!" "my poor friend!" murmured the master, whose voice was altered. "you will allow me to call you this?" mme. chambannes nodded. "i don't want to ask you any more about your departure!" he continued. "i have hurt you unwittingly, and it would be inexcusable if i were to insist ... but, in future, if ever you are unhappy, i beg of you, do treat me as a friend, confide in me. you need not give me any details; just tell me that you are suffering, and i shall do my very best to lighten your burden, to find distractions for you.... i have so much affection for you...." "thank you!" she said, somewhat surprised at the urgent tone he was using. "thank you.... how kind you are, dear master." she had half turned towards him and looked at him with one of her most fervent smiles. bottomless depths yawned in her eyes. her whole face trembled in coquettish sauciness. m. raindal thought that a flame was piercing his temples. he was carried away by delirium. with a shy briskness he seized mme. chambannes' hand: and, in a frantic kiss, his lips pressed upon it the avowal of love which they had not dared to utter. "oh! be careful!" mme. chambannes said, as she moved away from him. "of what?" the master asked awkwardly. his forehead was wet with the perspiration of anguish. to give himself countenance he tried to laugh but he repressed it at once, perplexed and disconcerted by the young woman's expression. she looked severe yet showed no anger. she expressed modest alarm rather than resentment. her eyes remained dark in spite of a sarcastic twinkle which contracted the corners. what was she going to do? would she be indignant, would she forgive or smile? she rose and in a calm voice in which faintly trembled an ironical echo, said: "good-by, dear master. i must go home.... will you see me to a cab, please?" m. raindal gave her hand an imperceptible pressure and replied, while his eyes wandered towards the statues on the colonnade. "with pleasure, dear madame." she passed first through the narrow doorway of the gate. m. raindal followed her, absentmindedly playing with his gloves. as soon as she was seated and the wheels began to move, he recovered enough daring to glance at her. she looked her usual self once more; her eyes were again tender and challenging. "by the way, we meet to-night!" said she. "do not forget, dear master, box no. ...." as soon as she was out of the carrousel she was unable to remain serious any longer. she smiled so openly and intensely that a street urchin imitated her and cried out: "bon dieu, how funny it is!..." yes, surely, it was funny. père raindal in love! who could have thought it possible? what a kiss he had given her, a kiss like a blow, it was so brutal and bashful at the same time! poor man!... what a pity that she had broken away from that nasty germaine! how they would have made merry together over this little story. the memory of her perfidious friend caused mme. chambannes' face to darken again. she lost her pleasant mood until after lunch, when she told her aunt panhias of her interview. "be careful, child!" that voluminous lady urged. "at that age, it is sometimes very dangerous!" "for whom?" asked zozé. "not for you, of course!" mme. chambannes expelled a cloud of smoke from her cigarette: "have no fear. i shall be careful.... who knows? perhaps i was mistaken!" "perhaps!" her aunt replied skeptically. zozé said nothing. once more she saw the garden of the louvre and the ardent and timorous expression of m. raindal. if only gerald had been there, hidden somewhere among the bushes! she was delighted with this idea of semi-reprisals. she smoked two more cigarettes as she imagined successively the burlesque and the pathetic sides of the scene. * * * * * that evening the opera exhibited one of those spring gatherings where, in a sparkle of light, precious tones and uncovered shoulders--all the public display of luxury and beauty, of wealth and aristocracy which had apparently been a thing of the past, came to life again. as soon as zozé came in, many opera glasses from clubmen and first tier boxes were leveled upon her. for she had advanced in caste the little mouzarkhi girl. they were now putting down to her credit the two years of her liaison. if this did not create for her a link of relationship with the surrounding fashionable élite, at least it was a victory to her credit, a successful campaign which made the distance appear smaller. she was no longer the little exotic, unknown person concerning whom they had once inquired in an almost contemptuous tone. she was almost one of themselves, the little chambannes woman, who had captured and kept young de meuze for two whole years; and under the mask of their glasses, which hid half their faces, their lips formed smiles of good will towards her. then there was the presence of the old gentleman who sat next to zozé in the front of the box; this piqued their curiosity. they had to wait for the interval in order to find out who he was. in the meantime, the hope of the young philistines appeared at the back of the stage. delilah led, her black hair overloaded with flowers and multicolored jewels. they were singing in an enraptured voice a sensuous love chorus: "beau-té, don du ciel, prin-temps de nos jours, doux char-me des yeux, es-poir des amours, pé-ne-tre les coeurs, ver-se dans les a-mes, tes dou-ces flam-mes! aimons, mes soeurs, ai-aimons tou-jours!" m. raindal stiffened himself at the sharp shiver which ran down his back. instinctively he looked at the audience. the silence had become graver and more vibrant. a voluptuous tide mounted from the orchestra to the boxes along with the languorous music. savage lights shone in the eyes of some of the women; breasts were panting; the heavy artillery of the opera glasses was firing glances at full speed. almost everyone in the audience, men and women, after a long day of hypocrisy, acknowledged themselves at last lovers, moved by the cynical suggestiveness of the chorus. the master was absorbed in making comparisons. he remembered other evenings he had spent at the opera with thérèse and mme. raindal, in boxes offered them by the ministry, during the summer or on the occasion of some séance of the sociétés savantes. what a transformation--not to say what progress--had taken place since then in his mind! how many social phenomena at that time had been still inaccessible to him, as if they had been matters of indifference or had not existed at all! that was his explanation for his yawns in the past, for the feeling of boredom and almost discomfort which he had felt at those performances. he had lacked so many elements necessary to appreciate their harmonies! to-day, on the other hand.... he looked back towards the audience. all the seats were occupied. the ballet of the priestesses of dagon was beginning and a libertine gayety now relaxed all faces in accordance with the merry grace of the dancers. mentally m. raindal took note of the change. how many shades there were in the aristocratic depravity of the assembly! how many tiny degrees there were between their previous seriousness and their present joviality! he marked the beat of the fast oriental rhythm which regulated the steps of the dancers, and at the same time he furtively examined mme. chambannes, his dear friend, as he did not yet dare openly to call her. a slight uncertain smile hovered on her fine little face which reverie had rendered motionless. at times, however, she would seize her glasses and aim them at a box or a row of seats; then, when her inspection was over, she would throw a sort of compensating glance at m. raindal. when the curtain went down she took refuge with the master in the tiny salon which formed a kind of boudoir behind. chambannes stood behind them. he gave very little attention to the words of m. raindal, who was describing, with reference to the most recent discoveries of the exegetists, the rites and the ins and outs of the cult of dagon. moreover, the curtain rose again before the master had finished. the scenery represented a garden with a green bench in the foreground and to the right the villa of delights where the crime was to be accomplished. when delilah sat down on the bench surrounded with shrubs and samson, panting with love, let himself fall there beside her, m. raindal could not refrain from casting a sly glance of allusion towards zozé. while affecting not to have noticed it, mme. chambannes pleasantly accentuated with a smile the dreamy look on her face. the master thanked her with a little friendly cough. oh! had he been so very much at fault this morning? considering it calmly and at a distance, he did not regret that mad kiss, that indiscreet caress which had been at least open enough to deserve respect. why should he try any longer to hide those sentiments of his which were so sincere? why affect indifference, when it was the very reverse which mme. chambannes inspired him with?... love? oh, no. but a certain tenderness, a certain affection, which although it was not exclusively paternal, nevertheless did not go beyond the limits authorized by the difference in age between a very young woman and a man of advanced years. what was the use of concealing by subterfuge and illusory lies, the liveliness of this inclination? was not history full of such examples? without mentioning ruth and boaz, whose romance it seemed had had a bourgeois ending, could he not mention a great number of masters who had most absolutely fallen in love with their disciples, men or women, in spite of the unlikeness of their minds and the difference in their ages? what was there, for instance, in common between the mind of a socrates and that of an alcibiades?... the sweet melody which delilah murmured to samson followed just in time to draw the master away from such risky comparisons. the play was approaching its climax. at the fall of the curtain the philistine soldiery silently surrounded the little house where the betrayed hero slept. m. raindal recited softly to himself the never-to-be-forgotten stanza: "une lutte éternelle, en tout temps, en tout lieu, se livre sur la terre, en présence de dieu, entre la bonté d'homme et la ruse de femme...." he went on with it, and mme. chambannes declared the lines very pretty. she wished to know the name of the author. "it is from vigny, madame!" said m. raindal, as he joined her in the little salon at the back of the box. chambannes went out. they remained alone. m. raindal asked himself whether it would do to repeat his kiss of the morning, if only to signify to mme. chambannes that his new intentions persisted. but finding himself still slightly irresolute, he thought it best to remain on the safe ground of literary conversation. just as he was beginning to tell of the tragic love affair between de vigny and mme. dorval, however, the door was suddenly pushed open. a tall dark man stood at the entrance of the box. m. raindal saw nothing at first but his black moustache and his big laughing eyes. "ah, m. de meuze!... come in!" mme. chambannes exclaimed, with ready ease. nevertheless she blushed, and between her eyelashes came such a caressing, joyous, submissive look directed toward gerald that m. raindal felt suddenly hurt. he wanted to join their conversation, criticize the players and praise the music. but the words refused to come at his bidding. a sudden rush of ill humor flooded his inspiration. he got up. "are you going out, dear master?" zozé asked. "oh, just for one minute to stretch myself and get some fresh air." he had unwittingly banged the door. he wandered aimlessly along the passages until he came to the loggias of the staircase. "you!" chambannes exclaimed, as he came forward to meet him. m. raindal replied dully: "yes, it was too warm in that little room.... i left your wife with m. de meuze, junior, or rather, if you prefer, the son...." chambannes did not seem surprised by this revelation. m. raindal thought him somewhat stupid. they returned together at the first ring of the bell announcing the end of the interval. zozé was alone in the box. she received the master with a radiant smile of welcome. "had a good walk?" "not bad!" said m. raindal, who felt disarmed by so much charm. nevertheless, he preserved a gloomy aspect during the whole of the third act. he kept on thinking of gerald. that young man he had never regarded very sympathetically. he was vague and a coxcomb and the impertinent expressions his face assumed were in no wise justified by his very poor intelligence, banal opinions, and remarkable ignorance of literature: in fact, there was nothing about him that could appeal to m. raindal. and then--the master hung tenaciously to this memory--physically did he not recall to mind the image of dastarac, that scoundrel of a dastarac? had he not been the cause of the failure of the excellent boerzell, at the saulvard party? there was no doubt about it. it was from this that had sprung his first feeling of antipathy. it was futile to seek any further! consequently, m. raindal did not attempt it. he did not try very hard to follow the direction of zozé's glances as she scanned the huge hall. it would have been a hard task to follow them and to discover the place that she was especially seeking. her glances were so uncertain and so fugitive; they spread their tenderness over so many people and so much space! the master made one or two fruitless attempts and then gave it up. he merely asked her in a careless tone: "where does m. de meuze sit?" "m. de meuze?... in the orchestra, i think.... but i believe he is no longer there.... he was going to spend the rest of the evening with some friends...." "ah! very good!" said m. raindal nonchalantly. "i was asking, you know, simply because...." to be sure, zozé knew! she bit her lips not to smile. so! her aunt panhias had not been so far wrong. she must be careful. * * * * * the evening ended without any further difficulty. m. raindal had enjoyed the final ballet very much; and the steps of the _sabotière_ had made him enthusiastic. when he returned home he went to his study. before retiring for the night he wished to set down a few moral observations which had come to him in the course of the evening. they all had a bearing upon the rôle of woman as a social motive, and they would find their place in chapter vi. when he had written the last words, m. raindal gathered up the sheets. there were no less than six large pages covered with small handwriting and without a correction. chapter xiv the thursday lessons had started again. although they had not altogether banished egypt, that subject was suffering from a gradual disgrace. as a rule mme. chambannes had failed to read the prescribed books. or else a stray word sent them both into a friendly gossip concerning the little happenings of the day: a new dress of zozé's, which the master declared to his taste, her account of a dance or a play, and subjects that were even more trivial. once they had run away from the arid regions of science, neither of the two found enough courage to return there. by common consent, they avoided the paths of conversation which might have led them back. it was only towards the end that mme. chambannes would exclaim: "well!... another fine lesson!... if it goes on like this, i shall know a lot at the end of the year!... ah! what a deplorable professor you are!..." m. raindal smiled. then, if he had not already abused that license, he seized zozé's hand and ardently pressed his lips against it. wisely, she allowed him but two or three such tender outbursts at each lesson. yet in her heart she was flattered. it amused her to see this famous, white-haired, man bending over her with love. his white hair contrasted with his skin and made it look pinker, and she found this play of color neat and pleasant to her eyes. on the third thursday she inquired about cyprien. why did not m. raindal introduce his brother to her? she was quite anxious to meet him. the master replied evasively: "oh, my dear friend!"--as he called her now when they were alone and in the intimacy of their lessons--"my brother is a good fellow.... yet i doubt very much whether you could get on together.... his temperament is brusque; he is an extremist, an absurd man.... again, i noticed from certain signs that your absence of a month ago displeased him.... i prefer, therefore, not to risk myself in explanation of which i do not foresee any favorable results...." "just as you say!" replied zozé, who had only insisted out of politeness. m. raindal nevertheless had almost spoken the truth. uncle cyprien had never omitted, during the last few weeks, any occasion to flay, _en passant,_ the discourteous ways of mme. rhâm-bâhan. systematically, resolutely, and in spite of everything, he was doing his best to prevent his brother from urging an introduction. to go and hobnob with the chambannes and their friends, that would be the last straw! to go there, where he would have to meet pums, the marquis, perhaps talloire, who would stupidly come and pat him on the shoulder, compromise him and denounce him with their accomplice-like cordiality, so that m. raindal would learn of his dealings at the bourse, his speculating in gold mines! no, thank you! he preferred to lie, to resort to the very worst stratagems, such as simulated spite, false laughter and fictitious anger, rather than fall into this hornet's nest! therefore, he seized the slightest pretext to deliver his imprecations. "a woman of the world, mme. rhâm-bâhan? a woman of the world, this person who had bolted without warning and left people waiting for her, without giving them a word of apology! a woman of the world, this person who had gone away, no one knew where! a woman of the world, this person...." "oh please! leave me alone!" m. raindal interrupted, unable to stand it any more. "i am not asking you to let me take you there, am i?" "you should add that you are very wise not to do so!" uncle cyprien retorted, delighted with the success of his tactics. however, apart from the little tricks which he was compelled to employ for fear of being censured, for fear of his brother and schleifmann, he had never been happier. he very seldom went to the bourse; on the other hand, he now operated without any help, dealing directly with talloire. he enjoyed the feverish pleasure of giving his own orders, following their varying fortunes and taking his profit and placing it elsewhere. several inspirations stood behind him; there was the advice of his friend pums, some secret intuitions of his own, and the advice of a special sheet, the "lingot," for which he had taken a three months' subscription. good luck had a share in it, and in time the total of his profits reached the neat sum of , francs. he had no more than , francs to make now; that is to say, according to the least optimistic calculations, not more than four months to speculate. then! ah, then, with these one hundred thousand francs in his pocket, uncle cyprien would discard his mask, break with talloire, put a stop to the game and openly declare his profits. but until then, _motus_, silence, caution and mystery, in short as much hypocrisy as they wished! accordingly, the very choice cigars which m. raindal smoked at the brasserie were, according to him, a present from the marquis. "yes, my dear schleifmann!" he asserted, "i found the box waiting for me when i came home." it must have been a huge box, a trunk almost, if one could judge from the number of havanas which it kept on supplying. and it was the same thing about the tricycle which the ex-official had not been able to resist purchasing: perhaps schleifmann thought that it was the result of further speculation? that was a very serious mistake! it had been paid for with the remains of his seven hundred francs profit, that tricycle.... huh! that shut him up effectively, the moralist!... or else cyprien opposed a stoic reply to the inquiries of his brother, his niece, and his sister-in-law: "where did i find the money to buy this machine, you wish to know? with my savings on cigarettes, my good friends!... what do you suppose? when you wish one thing you have to do without another. it is extremely simple." he had added to these purchases that of a soft brown felt hat, the broad wings of which gave to his close-cropped head somewhat of a cromwellian aspect. thus he could be seen every day with his sombrero, his trousers gathered at the ankles, riding up and down the city on his tricycle, even when he had no further to go than the rue de fleurus to see schleifmann, the rue vavin to get to klapproth's, or the rue notre-dame-des-champs to see his brother. to such short trips, however, he preferred a ride to the bois, especially on sundays, for there he was not troubled by his anxiety concerning the stock market. he would go out about ten o'clock, following the boulevard st. germain, the place de la concorde, and the avenue des champs Élysées. he wore red gloves and carried a cigar between his teeth. he pedaled with delight, bending over his front wheel, drinking in the sweet morning breeze that rushed against his cheeks. then, as he approached the arc de triomphe, he straightened up, slowed down his pace and rectified his position. the avenue du bois stretched before him, as far as he could see, the ample magnificence of its sidewalks and gardens. in the atmosphere there was already a certain heat which gave a feeling of ripeness and of summer. under the chestnut trees near the entrance, a crowd of pretty women in light dresses chatted, standing, or sitting down with elegant gentlemen. from the distance, officers and young men approached at a canter and slowed down as they passed out of the riding track. their horses shook themselves, stretched their necks and, if pulled back, scratched the hard ground under them. or there would be a light-colored coach entering the avenue, pulled by four imposing horses. one could see light dresses on top of it, flowery hats, graceful women who smiled, and men with dissipated faces. behind them in a smart herald-like attitude, his elbow lifted high and his body bent backward, a lackey would draw out of a long brass instrument raucous and triumphant appeals. one might think it the gorgeous chariot of youth and pleasure. uncle cyprien was thrilled by this spectacle and the noise that went with it. his eyes, his lungs, and his ears drunk in the intoxication of the orgy of colors, perfumes and sounds; in spite of himself he derived from it a sensation of supreme enchantment. he rushed after the fascinating coach, caught up with it, ran alongside of it and in front of it, swelling with pride, despite the speed which caught his breath. he passed through the gate, rode slowly under the shady trees, and stopped at a café to drink an _apéritif_. it was not until the lunch hour that he returned, still by the avenue du bois. sometimes on his way back he noticed among the passers-by an old gentleman with a white beard in the company of a young woman. "sapristi!" he thought. "my brother and mme. rhâm-bâhan, very likely.... i must be careful!... i must hurry out of this." he affected to close his eyes as if blinded by the dust, and rushed between the carriages like one pursued. it was a superfluous precaution; an imaginary peril! m. raindal had also taken good care to look the other way. these sunday morning outings were mme. chambannes' own idea. she had discovered this clever way of publicly showing her friendship with the master. and although this exhibition took place only one or two sundays a month, zozé derived much gratification for her vanity from it. smiles and sarcastic grins which she noticed as she passed only increased her satisfaction. "you may laugh, my friends," she thought to herself, "you may joke, but, nevertheless, you envy me very much!" most of the time chambannes or her uncle panhias joined the couple for the sake of appearances. at other times, gerald, either on foot or on his bicycle, came and stopped a while to exchange a few words with them. despite the unpleasantness of such meetings, m. raindal was far from disliking his sunday walks. they brought relief to his week and with the reflection of their splendor seemed to illuminate the gloomy stagnation of the days that followed until he came again for his thursday visits. they were like a supplementary holiday to him, a semi-monthly festival, and had it not been that he dreaded his family, he would have come every sunday. besides, what documents, what precious observations he was able to accumulate there, for use in his book! these refined young men and attractive women--were they not the living representatives of the voluptuous élite which persisted through the centuries? did they not constitute the sacred battalion of pleasure which, at every period of history, led the chorus of elegance, issued the decrees of fashion, and dominated society by means of their charm, grace, and beauty? it needed but a simple effort of transposition for him to discern in them the coquettes and the men about town who had been the contemporaries of rameses or king tuthmosis! thus, in the course of his walks, m. raindal took good care not to forget his severe duties as a historian. whenever he was not looking at mme. chambannes, he was transposing and gathering in his memory a thousand significant details. the ladies caught his attention more than the men. he sought the eternal in their enticing gestures and their alluring glances; he did not find it there, but, nevertheless, drew satisfaction from them. he had passed several of them so often that they were clear in his memory. whenever he recognized their silhouettes at a distance, he prepared himself to stare at them. his new gloves, which he held in his hand against the knob of his stick, spread their fingers like the stiff petals of a lotus flower. his blue cheviot coat, gray trousers, black felt hat, his button of an officer of the _légion d'honneur,_ and his beard, silvery and well-kept, gave him the appearance of a manufacturer grown old in the midst of wealth, of a rich conservative faithful to his sound principles. towards twelve o'clock they went back to the rue de prony. luncheon was a long affair. the blinds were pulled down and allowed only a yellowish light to filter through. flowers placed on the table exhaled their harmonious fragrance. and when, moreover, chambannes lit his cigar and zozé the turkish tobacco of her cigarette, the whole atmosphere fulfilled the overwhelming desire for a siesta which the master felt in the semi-darkness. his eyes were burnt by the sun and his legs tired by his walk; he struggled between his desire to look at his pupil a little longer and the weight of sleepiness which pulled his eyelids down. on the verge of giving way, he would rise and take his leave. as soon as he was out, however, his heart was tormented by regret. he reproached himself sharply for his stupid drowsiness, for having wasted those sweet moments by his physical slackness. it would not have taken much to make him go back on the pretense of having forgotten something or to make an inquiry. but what inquiry? self-consciousness and shame prevented him from going back. he went on his way with an increasing petulance. no sooner had he reached his home, in the rue notre-dame-des-champs, than his exasperated bitterness turned to hatred. what an unlovely district! what tomb-like buildings! as soon as his lease ran out, they would see! he certainly would not renew it. through the door of his apartment sounds came to him of conversation and laughter. thérèse was in the drawing-room with boerzell, who still came regularly every sunday. once, as he came in, m. raindal heard the name of dastarac pronounced. "what!" he said, in surprise. "are you speaking of that wretch?" thérèse replied: "yes, surely, we were speaking of dastarac.... i have told m. boerzell all about it.... i have nothing to hide...." "of course not!" the master assented. "and do you know what monsieur was telling me?... that he has turned out very badly--our dastarac.... there is a story of very unsavory debts, embezzlement, and false securities. in short, he has been put out of the university and compelled to run away to belgium.... m. boerzell will explain this to you better than i could." the young savant told all the details of the affair. "well!... a pretty gentleman!..." exclaimed the young girl in a tone of burning contempt when boerzell had finished. "nothing surprises me from that fellow!" declared m. raindal. "just the same, we owe m. gaussine a fine debt of gratitude!" he did not complain that day of the length of the hours. comforting thoughts occupied him until dinner-time. so far he had never dared, under any circumstances, to sound thérèse concerning the visits of boerzell. he stood in fear of reprisals and oft-repeated conventional inquiries concerning the chambannes' household. however, now that dastarac seemed to be annihilated, crushed as it were, to the disgust of thérèse herself, why should not the sympathy which he noticed existed between the young people follow its normal course? why should they not, from being comrades, become husband and wife? and then, besides the joy of getting his daughter married, what an opportunity for the master, and what a liberation! no one would remain as a witness of his outings but mme. raindal who, entirely occupied with her religious duties, was an easy-going woman totally without severity, provided her faith was not interfered with. no longer any control; no more watch set on him; no further need to invent new lies or preserve silence! m. raindal promised himself that he would keep his eye on this affair with caution and diplomacy so as not to spoil it. yet an oft-recurrent anxiety seized him again after dinner. he was thinking of the summer and the forthcoming vacation, those three months which he would, doubtless, have to spend far away from mme. chambannes. as he recollected his impatience, his recent fears during one single month of privation, he felt a sudden sensation of choking anguish. where would she go? to what seashore or mountain resort? how many miles away would she be? and with whom? he had discreetly put these questions in the course of many lessons given to his little pupil. she had replied vaguely. she affected not to have made up her mind yet and to be still hesitating between les frettes, the seaside, switzerland or some watering-place. she would decide on her choice at the time of a certain trip which george was shortly to make to bosnia. she sighed as she said that. a melancholy shadow veiled the tenderness of her eyes. she turned the conversation to another subject. his dear little friend!... who knew but that some torment similar to his own oppressed her gentle little soul? who knew but that she also was afflicted by the idea of the approaching separation?... m. raindal was not so far lacking in modesty that he imagined himself alone the subject of all her possible regrets. however, he did not abandon the idea that perhaps he could claim a share of them. and he was quite right, too. it was indeed true that mme. chambannes darkened whenever the master questioned her. but the baseness of raldo was the only cause of her sorrow. this problem of their summer vacation was now debated at each of their meetings. gerald, whose treachery had only strengthened his despotism, clung to a project of settling down at deauville with his father for the month of august. there were invitations, "de la jolie femme," pigeon shooting, polo playing, and racing--in short, everything called him there. against the attraction of so many pleasures, mme. chambannes' silent tears made no more impression than drops of rain on a window-pane. "you can come there," he told her. "i shan't prevent you from coming!" she shrugged her shoulders. could she not foresee the torments she would have to endure at deauville, without friends, without relations, and separated from her lover!... could she not in advance see herself separated from raldo and the set which he frequented by that impalpable barrier, more efficient than an iron railing, which everywhere surrounded the flock of good society? she would be exposed to the snobbish glances of those women, the insulting echoes of their joy, the spectacle of their flirtations, and the social humiliation which can only be measured at close range.... zozé, for the sake of her love, and to safeguard her passion, preferred a thousand times to go into retreat and abandon it for a time. these sacrifices pierced her heart beforehand. she took to crying silently, weeping intermittent tears after holding them back too long, and, between kisses, in the middle of an embrace, they would unexpectedly wet the cheeks of her raldo. how could she be revenged on him, how reply to his pitiless selfishness? ah! zozé was at last beginning to find out that there is no equality in love. otherwise, would she not have punished the recent treachery of gerald with an immediate betrayal? that was continuing now; would she not reply with some barbarous plan, say, to choose for her holiday some place where one or the other of the men who were in love with her happened to be going? there was dieppe, for instance, where givonne was going, bagneres, where pums was to take a cure, or dinard, where burzig, as an authentic englishman, had taken a little villa. none of these reprisals satisfied her. she soon convinced herself that gerald would not be disturbed by any of these. what, therefore, was the use of her going to those fashionable resorts which, owing to their similarity, would forever carry her dreams back to deauville? would it not be much better for her to go and hide at les frettes, to seek slumber for her mind and forgetfulness in that peaceful spot, to plunge herself into the emptiness of country life till her wicked raldo came back? she chose this solution in the first days of july. gerald promised that he would join her there at the beginning of september, which was the time set for chambannes' return from bosnia. zozé was to leave on the th with her aunt and uncle panhias. moreover, she would not be left altogether alone, since the abbé touronde was in the neighborhood and the herschsteins and silberschmidts also. "and, after all," gerald remarked, "a month is only four weeks.... and four weeks are very quickly over." mme. chambannes agreed. his nonchalance brought a grimace of contempt and a tremor to her lips, but her pride made her attempt to smile. then came the following thursday when, without saying anything about gerald, she informed m. raindal of her preparations. "ah!" he stammered, blinking, his eyes so full of sorrow and so imploring that zozé felt at once moved by it.... "ah! you are going to les frettes?... oh, very well ...!" "what about you, dear master?" said she. "what will you do with your summer?" "i?" he tried to remember, but his mind would not work. at last it came back to him, and he replied: "i?... we?... we are going to langrune, as we do every year.... how long are you going to stay at les frettes?" "oh, a month, two months perhaps, maybe three.... it all depends on george's business." "three months!" repeated m. raindal, whose mind had been struck by the cruelest of the three figures given. and he added with sincerity: "it pains me very much, my dear friend!" at the same time he had seized mme. chambannes' hand and greedily pressed his lips upon it. she sighed with pity. poor père raindal! how heavy his heart must be! she thought to herself, "am i wicked!... yes, i am to him what gerald is to me, that's all!" then, at the thought of the latter's name, a fresh idea struck her. after all, why not?... it would be a very innocent revenge, a companionship and a relaxation which were as good as any. and so, with a little smile, she asked, as she drew away gently from under the lips of m. raindal the hand which she had forgotten: "listen, dear master, what would you say about spending a few weeks at les frettes?... would that upset your habits too much?" m. raindal contracted his forehead. "i?... no! not at all!" he said, with the sensation of a comforting river bathing his heart. "but, there is my wife, and my daughter." "why, they would come, too!" "do you think so?" the master asked doubtfully. "of course, unless they refused, unless they have reasons to decline." m. raindal remained silent for a time. his face showed his discomfort. he rebelled against the need of denouncing his domestic tormentors. at length he exclaimed: "reasons! why, they have none ... not the slightest!... yet you know them a little.... my daughter is a savage; my wife is a bigot.... one is always on the watch in the presence of such people. anyhow, my dear friend, i shall try, and you may guess what zeal and strength of affections...." this eloquent peroration seemed to give him a sort of justification for kissing zozé's hand once more. the enthusiasm of his promise bolstered up his hopes throughout the evening. besides, he had never, as yet, faced the contest straightforwardly. he had rather avoided it, postponed it by means of patience and cunning. who knew what might not come out of an open battle, if he let loose the whole mass of those grievances and desires which he had repressed for so many months! chapter xv the next morning, however, he waited until the end of the lunch to try the first assault. as brigitte served the coffee, he said: "children! i have an invitation to transmit to you.... if you do not like it, you are quite at liberty to decline!... but, first of all, i beg you, please listen to me to the end...." while he spoke, with lowered head and unconsciously scratching with his nails the oil-cloth on the table, mme. raindal darted horrified glances at her daughter. thérèse replied to them with a reassuring mimicry of her lips and eyelids. when m. raindal had finished, she said in a very even tone, without any suggestion either of anger or fear: "mme. chambannes is very kind, father.... nevertheless, so far as i am concerned, i find her invitation unacceptable. and i should be very much surprised if mother did not agree with me!" "oh, quite!" mme. raindal approved, with a nod. "may i ask what your reasons are?" the master asked, in a tone which he tried to make appear unctuous. "my reason, and i am only giving you my own," thérèse said with a similar air, "is this, that mme. chambannes, be it said without offense, is no company for us." the master still held himself in hand: "what do you mean?" thérèse replied: "it seems to me clear enough...." m. raindal got up and walked around the table breaking a toothpick into shreds in his hands. "very well! i promised you that i would leave you free.... you are free.... i do not go back on it...." then he raised his voice and went on. "nevertheless, _sapristi!_ it is impossible for me to put up with your insinuations.... mme. chambannes is a lady for whom i profess the greatest sympathy, and i am not afraid of acknowledging it, the most lively regard. i can not allow such abominable and unfounded charges to pass unchallenged." he mastered himself with a supreme effort and added, a little more gently: "i beg you both, you and your mother, to speak out frankly.... what is it you have against mme. chambannes?" silence fell upon them. brigitte, frightened in this atmosphere which she felt was heavy with the spirit of contention, had promptly dashed back to the kitchen. on both sides, they were holding their fury in leash, holding back the words of abuse which rebelled, ready to spring. "well!" the master insisted. "i am waiting for your explanations ... for yours, thérèse, since your mother does not answer me." mlle. raindal replied seriously: "father, it is well understood, is it not, that we have no intention of hurting you, nor of commenting upon your friendships, that we are only speaking for your own good and for our own?..." the master grew impatient: "yes, yes, go on!" "very well, then! i assure you that mme. chambannes is not a woman with whom we can have anything to do, especially not a woman whose hospitality we could possibly accept.... do you wish me to dot my i's?" "do so! don't be afraid...." "we can't go and live with a woman who amuses herself with a lover almost publicly...." m. raindal nearly choked. he drew in a deep breath: "a lover," he exclaimed, "who?... and who told you." "nobody! my own eyes told me. i had but to look and see.... moreover, it seemed to me that her friends were all of the same caliber.... i could not, at any price, associate with such women!" "your eyes!" m. raindal said, following his own idea. "and, according to your eyes, what is the name of the young man in question?" thérèse replied: "i have said enough.... i shall not add a single word...." the master threw a glance of defiance and hatred at his daughter and then shrugged his shoulders, saying: "i am sorry for you.... your unworthy calumnies have not even the excuse of good faith, of being the result of an error.... you are the victim of personal spite.... you resent mme. chambannes' beauty and her charm.... you are an envious girl and a fool!" "my dear!" begged mme. raindal. "leave him alone, mother!" thérèse said, her fingers trembling on the edge of her plate. "father does not know what he is saying any more.... all i wish is that he were as clear-sighted as other people, that he could perceive the abyss of ridicule towards which he is rushing, and dragging us with him, too." m. raindal, exasperated, struck the table with his fist, and called his wife to witness: "do you hear how she dares to treat me?... she has lost her reason.... she is mad...." "am i mad!" thérèse exclaimed. she ran out to her room and returned almost immediately, throwing three newspapers on the table. "if i am mad, i am not the only one.... read this! i take it that they are not all mad, those who write for these sheets...." her trembling hands pointed to certain paragraphs on the open pages which had been marked with a pencil. with a gesture of contempt, m. raindal snatched at the nearest of the three, and read: "who said that women were no longer interested in history? surely not our old friend la crois-chammerilles, who told me yesterday the following anecdote: "'for the last six months, one of our prettiest exotics has been taken up with ancient history. and every week, one of our most noted savants comes to her house to give her lessons. "'as to the period of history of which he teaches her, and as to the name of the illustrious professor, seek them in the neighborhood of the institute and remember also one of the greatest literary successes of last autumn. "'ancient history--old story!'" m. raindal gave one push and the other two newspapers fell to the floor. "do you dare to soil me with such infamy?" he stamped with his heels on the papers: "there, that's what i think of your filthy rags!... pshaw! to think that my daughter, my own daughter, collects this filth, and in my own home constitutes herself the auxiliary of my enemies!" he fell back on his chair. thérèse rushed to him: "father, father!" she implored, kneeling down beside him, "forgive me.... you have misunderstood me.... i failed in showing you proper regard, i was not careful enough ... but you know that i love you, that i am quite incapable of wishing to cause you any pain." m. raindal looked at her with a softened glance. she insisted: "kiss me ... forgive me my quickness of temper.... i swear to you...." gently he forced her to her feet and set her on his knees as if she were a little child: "all is forgotten.... i forgive you.... there, don't cry, it's over.... it is of no importance." her voice checked by sobs, she went on: "i swear to you, father ... it was for your own good...." "what good?" said m. raindal, and his arms relaxed their embrace. thérèse replied diffidently: "the good of your reputation, of your name.... you do not realize, father. you are blinded by your friendship.... but you are on the way to compromise both...." m. raindal jumped roughly to his feet and replied sarcastically: "so, i compromise you.... i am bringing dishonor upon you?... upon your name? it is quite true.... that's it, for the last thirty-five years, i have practically worked for nothing else but that.... ha! ha!... it is pure truth!" he grew very excited and began again to walk around the table. "yes, you are very much to be pitied for having so compromising, as you say, a husband and father!... a man who has piled up turpitude upon turpitude, whose life is but one mass of madness and debauchery.... a man...." thérèse interrupted him: "there, you are getting angry again, father.... you are jeering at us.... you misinterpret my words intentionally.... what i said, and i maintain my position, was that you could not but hurt yourself by preserving this intimacy with mme. chambannes.... i told you so because it was my duty, and because the time had come ... and nothing will prevent me from saying it again...." m. raindal stopped and crossed his arms over his chest. his glance challenged in turn his wife and thérèse. "well, now," said he, "what is it you want?... i should think it was time to explain yourselves!... you wish me not to go to les frettes?" "that, to begin with!" mlle. raindal replied firmly. "to begin with!... the words are pleasant sounding in themselves, but i am willing to oblige you!... let the 'to begin with' pass.... and then, after that?..." "then," the young girl said, "we would like you, without breaking with mme. chambannes, to decrease the number of those regular calls, those fixed dinners of yours, because, rightly or wrongly, people are talking and gossiping about it...." "and where is it that they talk, if you please?" "everywhere!... at the college, at the institute, among your colleagues, and even in the newspapers...." the master smiled bitterly. "ah, you are well informed!... it is probably m. boerzell who...." "he and everyone else, father.... he and all the allusions, the wicked words with which people delight in wounding us, among our relations, our acquaintances, when we pay or are being paid visits...." m. raindal retorted with a broadside of noisy sarcasm: "evidently the danger is more serious than i thought. one must not neglect the warnings of so many kind earnest people. one must be cautious and put the brake on.... from now on, i place myself in your hands.... you yourselves will regulate the days and the hours of my visits in the rue de prony.... if necessary, brigitte can take me there and bring me back. i am so weak, so inexperienced, so childish!" he went on in that tone for several minutes. by a phenomenon of auto-suggestion, the whole of his late-come virility was in a state of excitement and increasing revolt against this control, the details and the episodes of which he was himself creating. every point raised was like a new sting that goaded him further, and poured into his veins a quick, warm poison which over-heated his sufferings with its own energy. he saw himself deprived in future, and forever, of mme. chambannes, forever interned far away from her, a prey to the worst torments of separation and perhaps of jealousy. for, supposing that thérèse had spoken the truth!... a sudden anguish whipped his heart. his imaginary regrets almost reached a paroxysm. he changed his tone suddenly, and in a voice that was hurried and hollow, and which sounded the revolt, he said: "enough of this jest!... it is quite enough.... oh! i know, for a long while i have had some idea of all the wicked thoughts and shameful suspicions which you were piling up against me!... your plots, your sneers, your confabulations, and even your silence, which was more insidious than all the rest--none of those things has escaped me!... if, a minute ago, when you opened your souls to me, i showed some surprise, it was due less to the unexpectedness of it than to disgust.... really, i did not believe that i could find so much mud and villainy in them.... pshaw! let it be so!... i know neither what your inspiration is, nor what your idea is based on, and i don't wish to know.... but what i do wish and what i insist upon henceforth is that i shall be master in my home and free outside of it. what i want and insist upon is an end to your hypocritical grimaces, your aggressive silence, and all those sly maneuvers that are only an imitation of docility and shock me more than your insults of a little while ago.... finally, i want confidence, esteem, and the respect to which i am entitled by my age, by a continuous life of steady work, and i may even say to have no false modesty, by my rank and my own worth.... if i cannot obtain these, we shall give up our life in common, since it would be unbearable for all of us to continue it.... this is clear, is it not?... i shall not come back to this point.... and to begin, this very day, i have the honor to inform you that, with or without you, i shall go and spend a month at les frettes.... you may consult with each other, make up your minds.... you have ample time, for mme. chambannes is not going for ten days.... however, until then, not a word on the subject, not a remark.... i will tolerate none. yes, or no. i will not put up with more." he walked towards his study, adding, as he placed his hand on the door-knob: "i don't conceal from myself how regrettable such a situation is. you have no one else to blame for it but your two selves, and your secret hostility towards me.... everything has an ending, even patience.... and for the last six months, you have strangely overtaxed mine!" he disappeared. then, as if he wished to barricade himself against any attempt at conciliation, his key turned twice in the key-hole. m. raindal had locked himself up. "well, my poor child!" mme. raindal whispered, her eyes shining with tears. either because she was afraid of being heard or because she instinctively imitated the hollow voice of her father, thérèse replied quietly: "what can i say, mother!... it is lamentable.... i didn't think that the evil had gone so far.... our intervention has come too late!" "i know it, dear," the old lady sighed. thérèse remained silent, leaning on the table, in an attitude of angry reverie. "what is to become of us?" mme. raindal went on, in a kind tone. "if we shut our eyes, that wicked woman will take him away from us. if we cross him, he will leave us. and we are alone, absolutely alone, without anyone to advise us and defend us...." "possibly not!" the young girl replied, looking up. "have you anyone in mind?" "yes, uncle cyprien.... i don't see anyone else who can scare father.... i am going there now, at once.... i shall work him up, rouse him to white heat.... and, i should be very disappointed if, with such heavy artillery, we could not overcome the resistance of father!" the comparison made mme. raindal smile in spite of her tears: "if you hope to succeed with him, go there now, dear! alas! we have no time to waste!" thérèse bent over her and kissed her: "don't cry, dear mother!... courage!... i have an idea that we have not lost yet!..." "may god hear you, my poor dearest!" murmured mme. raindal, rolling her eyes with a prayerful expression towards the ceiling. * * * * * her uncle cyprien's door was ajar when thérèse reached the sixth floor. she knocked, asking at the same time: "may i come in?" "come in, come in!" from the passage an odor of kerosene was already perceptible. uncle cyprien sat on a stool, a towel across his knees, cleaning his tricycle, which stood wheels up and saddle down, like an overturned carriage. "it's you, nephew!" he said, speaking through a corner of his mouth, the other being obstructed by an enormous cigar.... "take a chair.... you'll excuse me, won't you? when i clean my machine, i get all mixed up if i stop in the middle of it.... have you found a chair? very good.... well, i must say, i didn't expect you!... nothing unpleasant, i hope?... your father is not ill, is he?..." thérèse replied: "ill? that wouldn't be so serious in comparison!" "sapristi!" uncle cyprien exclaimed, opening his eyes wide. "you frighten me! worse than being ill, what is it? good god, what can it be?..." "i'm going to tell you, uncle, but i need all your devotion and all your attention...." "they are yours, nephew!... i am listening while i work ... or i work while i listen.... for you, my ears, and my eyes for my machine!... but, be quick, because you frighten me with your solemn face." while his niece spoke, accordingly, m. raindal, the younger never once looked up from his work. he rubbed and polished and oiled; his hands ran among the oil-cans, black rags, greasy bits of flannel, screwdrivers, and wrenches; at first sight, one might have thought him a sheep-shearer practising his art upon a tricycle. "unfortunate!" he merely murmured at intervals, his head still bent down. "very unfortunate!... most unfortunate!..." nevertheless, he was making up his mind very coolly, under the cover of his busy appearance. although his losses were small, they had, during the previous week, reached the total of his profits. the liquidation of the last eight days showed no profit, and this was almost a loss for a speculator who was, like himself, accustomed to profits. moreover, other mining stocks had undergone violent fluctuations. the market showed signs of a need for caution, if not for alarm. business slowed down and the fall had affected several stocks which had until then risen daily. this consideration gave food for thought to uncle cyprien. was it really a favorable time to take sides against his brother, to urge openly the necessity of a break with mme. chambannes? did he not risk, if he took such a decided attitude, alienating the powerful sympathies which he enjoyed with the opposite camp--that is to say, the chambannes and the whole band behind them, the pums, the de meuzes, and the talloires, in short all his friends of the bourse, and all his advisers? the point deserved to be settled only after proper consideration. "it was then," thérèse concluded, "that the idea came to me to seek your help.... no one but you can save us, because you are the only one who has sufficient authority over father to pull him away from the dangerous path in which he goes deeper every day." "unfortunate! most unfortunate!" m. raindal, the younger, repeated. there was a pause. uncle cyprien was busy dropping oil from a little can into one of the oil-holes. "you aren't saying anything, uncle!" thérèse went on, disconcerted by his reserve.... "why don't you speak?... you share our opinion, don't you?... surely this scandal must cease.... we must tear father away from those people!" "fuff! nephew," said uncle cyprien, as he rose, folded his stool and put his tricycle on its wheels again.... "you asked my advice, didn't you, my sincere and friendly advice?... i shall give it to you with brutal frankness.... my own advice is that this affair is exceedingly delicate.... of course, your father's behavior seems to me unfortunate, and even deplorable; i would give anything to have him change.... but between that and going to a man of his age, a man of your father's standing, and saying to him: 'my friend, i forbid you to go to mme. so-and-so any more ... and henceforth you shall not go ... '--between this and that, there is a difference!" "and so you refuse to reason with him, to have a serious talk with him!" mlle. raindal said, pushing back her hair. "i don't refuse," the ex-official corrected her. "i am merely explaining the difficulties, almost the impossibility of the mission which you wish me to undertake.... moreover, your father is not so easy to get on with; he is quite likely to send me about my business and to tell me that his affairs are no concern of mine.... and after that, there would be nothing left for me to do but to pack my things and break with him!" he seized the handle-bar of his tricycle and led the machine around the room to watch the result of his cleaning operations. then he added: "to resume, you understand me, don't you?... i don't refuse.... i only lay the problem before you.... do you think in your soul and conscience that i stand any chance of success?... if so, this is just the time to put my hat on and go to him.... otherwise, it would be better for me not to expose myself to an unnecessary rebuke just for the sake of doing it.... think it over!" "it is all thought over, uncle!" thérèse replied, suppressing a contemptuous smile.... "i am beginning to agree with you.... it is more seemly that you should not figure in this unpleasant affair...." m. raindal threw a suspicious glance at his niece. "oh-ho! mademoiselle, we are peeved, it seems, ... i am still at your disposal.... but, take my advice, don't get excited, ... consider this question calmly.... and i'll bet you anything you like against a box of cigars that, before two days are past, you will be admitting that your wicked old uncle was right!" he took her in his arms and kissed her forehead. "besides, who said that this infatuation would last?... your father lost his temper because you opposed him, and the raindals have a perfect horror of being contradicted.... we are like milk soup!... it falls down as soon as it is removed from the fire.... if you were to come to me this evening and tell me that everything is settled and that your father is going to langrune with you, why! i would not be so very much surprised!..." they reached the hall. thérèse gave his hand a slight touch. "oh, what a cotton-hand!" m. raindal protested. "will you please shake hands better than that!" thérèse obeyed him. "all right!" he approved. "that's better! au revoir, nephew ... and no spite, either, please." thérèse went down holding herself on the banisters. her legs almost gave way under her. her ideas were confused in an overwhelming impression of defeat and powerlessness. when she reached the outside door, she stopped, hesitating. she did not try even to define her sensation of isolation, nor to elucidate the gross defection of her uncle. she felt stupefied, paralyzed, and forever vanquished. she walked slowly towards the rue notre-dame-des-champs. the passers-by looked at her, surprised by her disordered appearance, staring eyes, and expression of hidden sorrow. love-trouble?... with those yellow cotton gloves, that faded alpaca dress, and that straw hat bought at a bargain-counter--and moreover, not pretty herself! no! rather a discharged governess.... without taking any notice of their glances, without even seeing them, she walked close to the walls, as if she needed a support in case she were to lose consciousness. suddenly she came to the rue vavin, and a vision, a man's name brought her to a sharp stop: boerzell. why, yes! there was the supreme resource, the supreme protector against the threatening catastrophe, against the ruin which threatened to strike her home very shortly! a ray of hope enlivened her face, worn out by anguish. she hastened. five minutes later she was in the rue de rennes in front of pierre boerzell's door. hearing the bell, he came to the door himself. he was in his shirtsleeves, and without a collar, because of the heat; his plump white neck showing freely above his shirt. he gave a surprised exclamation on recognizing thérèse, and quickly smoothed his hair down: "you, mademoiselle!... i hope there is nothing wrong?" thérèse smiled with difficulty. "no, m. boerzell!... a service, a piece of advice i have come to seek from you." "will you allow me, mademoiselle?... let me show you in...." as soon as they were in the front room, which was his study--a tiny little room, where books and pamphlets covered the table, the chairs, and the divan--he apologized for the exiguity of the place: "you see!... i am very much limited as to space here ... and there are even more books in my room.... i shall have to move one of these days!" hastily he cleared the divan and said: "please sit down, mademoiselle.... what is it?" at the same time he hurried to his room. he came back very shortly, having fixed his collar and tie and donned a coat. "there!... i am at your service.... what can i do for you, mademoiselle?..." with a thousand reticences, thérèse took up her narrative. boerzell followed her attentively, nodding his concern at intervals. but the selfish welcome which her uncle had given her roused him to an expression of indignation: "that is too much!... really, it is disgusting!" "yet, it is the case!" thérèse said. "you knew some of our anxieties already before this morning's scene. now you know everything!... i came to you as a trusted friend.... i have absolute faith in your discretion, your judgment, and your affection.... answer me straightforwardly.... what would you do in our place?" boerzell lifted his arms in a gesture of despair: "ah! mademoiselle!... you will tell me that i am choosing a very bad moment to reproach you ... yet you must agree that, had you been more indulgent and merciful, we should not find ourselves in such a distressing position to-day!..." "how is that?" thérèse asked. "well! i kept my promise, i kept it religiously.... i never spoke of marriage to you.... many chances offered themselves to me for doing so.... i took advantage of none of them.... i was counting on your own heart to release me some day from my oath.... the more i came into your intimacy, and the more my hopes were strengthened.... well! i deplore my patience.... i am sorry for my faithfulness.... if i had overcome them, i may presume that we would be married by now ... and once i were your husband, i could take a part in your family dissensions, i could discuss matters with m. raindal; i might have persuaded him, caused him to change.... but to-day, as things are, what can i do? nothing ... nothing, even less than nothing!... at my first words, m. raindal would show me the door. ah! mademoiselle, here you have a case, alas! a very painful one, where this marriage which you scorned so much might have proved of use to you!" he walked up and down the room, knocking against the table and the chairs, which he put back in place each time. thérèse murmured: "outside this marriage, do you see any other solution?" "no, mademoiselle!" boerzell replied feverishly.... "i am neither related nor allied to you.... i have no hold on your father." he sighed deeply: "and to think that i would throw myself into the fire for your sake! i would sacrifice everything for you, anything that you might ask me to--and see now to what i am reduced!... to sending you away as if you were a beggar, a stranger come to beg from me!... i have not even the consolation of giving you my advice left.... your father is the master.... you have nothing to do but to bow, and to let him go if he so wishes." thérèse was worn out; her head leaning against the back of the divan, she began to cry in her handkerchief. "and now you are crying!" pursued boerzell. "and i am compelled to let you cry.... if i only dared to come close to you and to take your hands in mine without your permission, i would at once become hateful to you.... a friend, yes, but a friend with whom one keeps one's distance, and whom one would treat as the very opposite of a gentleman if he made the slightest show of love!" "no, m. boerzell!..." thérèse stammered between two sobs. "you are exaggerating.... it is true that i have been hard to you.... but i like you very much ... very much more than i did." he paused to look at her. she eyed him with sympathy in her gray eyes, which were full of tears. with an unconscious movement of tenderness, she stretched out her hand to him. he fell back a step, he was so surprised; then he seized thérèse's hand and, without kneeling down, without any such demonstration usually made by a lover who has just been accepted, he said in a halting voice which betrayed the intensity of his emotion: "what! mademoiselle!... am i mistaken? do i understand the meaning of your words? you might be willing, you are consenting?" "i don't know," sighed mlle. raindal, oppressed by discouragement, and withal touched by his anxiety. "later, perhaps.... i shall see...." "oh, thank you!" boerzell exclaimed, as he pressed the feverish hand of his visitor ardently. "thank you, mademoiselle.... you will see.... you will see how much i shall try to make you happy and contented...." he looked at her kindly, with little shivers of gratefulness running along the corners of his temples. but suddenly his face darkened and he gently let go the young lady's hand: "and yet, no.... that would be to take advantage of your present state ... of your disturbed condition. i refuse a consent which i could extort from you in the midst of your sorrow and your tears.... our marriage can only be accomplished through your own free will, and in the complete mastery of yourself. later, as you say ... later, when you have recovered your calm and your clear sight, if you still hold the same sentiments toward me, you know what happiness you will give me, if you accept and become my wife.... until then, i seek nothing from you but your friendship.... we are not heroes of novels nor fools nor madmen.... our union must not be brought about by a subterfuge, by some surprise, or by a lack of reflection that might carry us away.... i would rather renounce you forever than to know i had conquered you by such vulgar means.... in the days to come, whatever may happen, i can assure you that neither you nor i will regret our wisdom of to-day. am i not right, mademoiselle?" he stood in front of thérèse and sought his answer in her eyes. she endured his persistent look for a long time, then replied in melancholy accents: "you are the very incarnation of common sense!... you are the best and most loyal of friends.... just as you say!... let us wait.... that, as a matter of fact, is more worthy of such old wise people as you and i.... nevertheless, i would like to show you my gratitude. i don't want to leave you now, after the words that have passed between us, without giving you some proof of my friendship...." "that is quite easy, mademoiselle!" boerzell replied quietly. "in what way?" "allow me, whatever happens, whether m. raindal goes there or not--to accompany you at langrune. this vacation of yours which was to separate us was a cause of serious pain to me.... more than once, i was on the verge of asking your leave to come.... i delayed my prayer for fear of displeasing you.... i am bolder now.... tell me, may i?" thereupon mlle. raindal stretched out her hand once more: "what a thing to ask! m. boerzell! i shall be delighted!..." he felt bold enough this time for a kiss of thanksgiving. thérèse thoughtlessly complained of being thirsty. he ran out to his room and came back with a tray. in an instant he had prepared a glass of sugar and water in which he poured a few drops of rum. "a bachelor's home, a savant's home!" he grumbled jestingly, as he stirred the mixture.... "no cordial ... no smelling salts ... nothing that is needed for receiving ladies!" he corrected himself at once: "pshaw!... there, i am again alluding to marriage.... i had forgotten that my promise was on again...." thérèse drank greedily, her eyes smiling at him. the clock struck three and she started. "i was forgetting my poor mother!... good-by.... thank you again with all my heart!... till next sunday then? perhaps we shall have good news!..." "it is my dearest wish, mademoiselle!" boerzell replied skeptically. he leaned out of his window to watch her go. she walked with a virile and well-balanced step; she made her way among the passers-by holding her head somewhat haughtily as only those women do who have a consciousness of their own charm, or a pride in their thoughts. boerzell felt instinctively that it was no longer a young girl who was walking away from him: it was rather a sort of leader, a mother by right of intellect--the true head of the raindal family. she turned into the next street and was no longer visible to him.... he closed the window. he felt his breast swelling in a glorious satisfaction. their behavior, the cordial chastity of their interview seemed to him to stamp them out as people who were far from being vulgar. "we have been very chic!" he summarized, falling back into his student dialect. then he sat down at his table once more, his eyes dreamy, as if he were voicing a wish: "if she only would!" he murmured.... "what a companion for me! what a wife!... she is a man ... a man in the finest meaning of the word!" chapter xvi m. raindal reached the station fifteen minutes before the departure of the train which was to take him to les frettes. he paced the platform, thinking. most of the carriages were empty. on the deserted platform he saw not a porter, not a truck; it stretched out, an endless carpet of asphalt. the glass roof refracted a dark, heavy heat. it was that hour of semi-rest, between the end of morning and the beginning of afternoon, when everything seems to be dozing in the railway stations, apart from the engines, the men, the wagons and the goods. m. raindal walked with his head down, his hands clasped behind his back, his big white panama hat set slightly at the back of his head. one by one he recalled the previous days, the painful ten days' siege from which he had come out at last victorious, although confused, worn-out and wounded. at times he sighed at the thought of it. the week had surely been a painful one! twenty meals of sulky silence, shifty glances and contrite looks! in between, never a word; a speechless war of resistances which clashed without coming to a close contact; a strained parody of ease in the midst of utter discomfort. then, on the eve of his departure, one hour before the women were to leave for langrune, the last battle had been fought: thérèse and mme. raindal had abdicated all pride, affectionately begged m. raindal to follow them, and attempted to give him a supreme counsel. a little more and he would have given way. his refusals were softened; the chains of his promise were breaking apart. a careless admission on the part of thérèse had changed the issue of the battle. "well, i admit it, father!" she had said in answer to the master's charge. "we might, after all, have shown ourselves less openly hostile to mme. chambannes, less cold perhaps when you described her receptions to us." that admission had moved him to a new resentment, bringing back an angry memory of all their previous malice. "ha! you acknowledge it now!" he exclaimed. "now that you see me firm in my decision, now that you realize the extent of your faults.... and you wish me to add to those one more discourtesy, you want me to break my word to mme. chambannes who is waiting for me.... too late! you should have thought of all this sooner." he had gone on mumbling indistinct and vindictive recriminations. intimate arguments supported him. what if he were to listen to these two women--would it not mean that the same thing would have to be gone through again on his return? no, they stood in need of a little lesson, of an exemplary warning!... brigitte had closed the debate when she came in to announce the arrival of the carriage from the station. they had exchanged icy kisses from the tips of their lips, with hurried promises to write every week and to meet again in september. the door had banged. the sound of heavy wheels came from the street. m. raindal had been left alone, delivered, saved from going to langrune. * * * * * still walking up and down, the master sighed. he had now no great illusion concerning the seriousness of that parting. how many _ménages_ survived such outbursts! the malice of outsiders took a share in them and exasperated the disagreements. grievances were sharpened by distance and were sharper on return; when people met again, they were almost enemies. why! should he have submitted to the tyranny which his wife and daughter tried to impose upon him? should he have sacrificed a precious sympathy, an exceptional friendship, to their envy and prejudice? ought he to have blindly bent himself to their orders, as if he were repenting of some guilt, instead of opposing them with the firmness of his innocence? "passengers for mantes, maisons--lafitte, poissy, villedouillet, les mureaux, take your seats!" proclaimed a guard. m. raindal climbed into a carriage. an old attendant closed the door after him. the master noticed in the man a likeness to uncle cyprien. he grunted: "another one who will not bother me any more!" he settled in a corner of the carriage, took off his hat, his relaxed frame all ready for a doze. the thought of cyprien kept him awake a few minutes. he had, until the last minutes, dreaded his brother's lectures, anathemas and curses. but no such outbursts had come. on the eve of his departure, cyprien had dined with them and expressed no violent opinion whatsoever on hearing from the master's own lips of the dual vacation which was to split the family. all he had done was to risk a harmless jest: "so then, my friends, you are to be bifurcated! bah! if it suits your taste.... it does rest one, after seeing each other all the year round." he had seemed almost ill at ease, kept his eyes on his plate and only reassumed his good humor when they had left the table.... a queer fellow, cyprien, a foamy brain, any suspicion on his part was out of the question. this contemptuous judgment fully satisfied the master. he gradually fell into slumber and did not wake up until he reached villedouillet station. mme. chambannes was on the platform, wearing a dress of batiste, embroidered with pink flowers, and white kid shoes. she waved to him with her sunshade, then followed the train until it came to a stop. standing at the entrance of his carriage, she smiled at the master as he climbed down the stiff steps. "so your wife and daughter did not want to come?" she asked maliciously, after the first words of greetings had been exchanged. "no, my dear friend! i could not persuade them.... besides, i didn't insist very much.... the sea air is very good for thérèse." "they must hate me! you must admit it!" m. raindal blushed and affected to chuckle. "well, well! i would not like to say that this departure took place without some objections on both sides.... these two women have their own views ... and i have mine.... you know, they don't always coincide." then he added more boastfully: "however, they are in the habit of respecting my will and, after all, the parting was better than i had feared, despite the regrettable scene which i mentioned briefly to you in paris.... at all events, here i am.... isn't that the only thing that matters?" there was a pause. zozé, a sarcastic and thoughtful expression on her face, stood outside the station. a yellow-painted governess carriage, with a bay pony, its mane close-clipped, stood against the curb. firmin, who stood at the head of the pony, discreetly greeted the master. "here, firmin!" said mme. chambannes. "keep m. raindal's check.... you will look after his luggage and bring it along in the trap i ordered from the livery man." she settled herself in the carriage, sitting sidewise, facing the tail of the horse. she took up the reins. the master sat opposite her. zozé caressed the flanks of the pony with a light touch of her whip. the carriage ran down the inclined station-yard, pitching at the shock of the uneven stones. a few lookers-on stood on the edge of the pavement and smiled half-jeeringly as they watched it go. * * * * * in less than fifteen minutes the carriage entered the graveled avenue which led to the front steps of les frettes. trees made a frame on each side of it; suddenly the house appeared. it was a large modern building with white walls broken at two or three windows by brown blinds. there was a wide lawn in front with beds of roses, dahlias and mixed phlox in the corners. behind, the park began at once. it was dark, thick-leaved, endless apparently, and ran for a long distance alongside the state road separated from it by a wall. right and left of the house, more trees linked their branches, hiding the country beyond, forming a thick enclosure as far as the back of the building, around another lawn which was like a little field and contained a tennis court with the net hanging slack. to "enjoy the view," as mme. chambannes said, one had to go up to the second floor. "your room is on that floor, dear master, and on the side looking right over the tennis lawn.... a superb view, as you will see." m. raindal followed her up the stairs, which were filled with an odor of iris. zozé pushed the window open. a great gust of soft wind entered. the master leaned on the balcony and for a long time contemplated the scenery. beyond the trees began the immensity of the apparently limitless lower plain. the villages with their belfries seemed like so many topographic points marked, as on a map, with childish signs. to the left, the little hills opposite curved their slopes in a chess-board effect of yellow, brown and green vegetation. at the bottom one could not see but one could guess the presence of the seine river, a loop of which sparkled like a pruning-hook. "isn't it pretty?" said mme. chambannes who, with her plump elbow, touched that of the master on the railing of the balcony. "very beautiful!" declared the master. and he murmured, turning his glance to zozé: "i am very happy, my dear friend, very happy to be near you!" she thanked him with a candid smile on her profile. in this full light, the clearness of her complexion was enlivened. it showed subtle shades finely superposed in a diaphanous blend. the light of day penetrated her batiste blouse and a pale rose reflection breathed under the material. m. raindal was enumerating all these charms to himself. unwittingly, he was little by little pressing his elbow against that of the young woman. he was even going to seize the hand of his little pupil--always a perilous operation which he never risked unless moved by a sudden audacious impulse--but the door was unexpectedly opened. aunt panhias entered, escorted by a servant who carried m. raindal's trunk on his shoulder. from that time, until the next morning, the master and zozé were never alone. when the trunk was opened, visits began: mme. herschstein, mme. silberschmidt, with one of her cousins from breslau, and, at five, the abbé touronde. they all gathered at that time, in the shelter of a shady glade which opened on the park, not far from the entrance and on the side of the main path. it was surrounded with lime trees and forest trees not yet grown to their full height. in the center of this circular space stood a mushroom-shaped stone table. tea was brought in, with cakes and iced fruit in champagne which zozé served with a small gilt ladle. the women sat in comfortable reed armchairs which presented this inconvenience, however, that they squeaked under the weight of people who were too heavy. m. raindal preferred a strong rocking-chair, the balancing of which amused him. the conversation was kept up, light and easy, until the return of uncle panhias who came back from paris about . . the abbé touronde, as he left, secured the master's promise that he would come and visit his orphanage in the course of the week. when the dinner was finished, m. raindal asked leave to retire. he was, he said, tired out by this first day of settling down. mme. chambannes encouraged him to go and rest. he inspected his room, however, before going to bed. everything had been arranged with a perfect refinement of country elegance: from the furniture of ash-wood with copper handles to the bed and window curtains of english cretonne and the sachets of lavender scattered about the drawers and on the shelves of the mirrored wardrobe. the bedclothes smelt of iris, a coarser iris, but more wholesome than that personally used by zozé. m. raindal sniffed persistently at this unusual scent which bathed his body; then he blew out his candle. he was going to sleep. the sound of footsteps above caused him to open his eyes in spite of the utter darkness about him. who was it? his little pupil, his dear friend? what a flattering and rare pleasure it was to sleep under the same roof with her! the master tossed about several times in his bed. a thousand tempestuous and uncertain images showed zozé to him. he sighed and grew impatient in this captivating sleeplessness. the fresh air, very likely, the stimulation of the fresh air! at last, he made up his mind about it. lying on his back, he contemplated, without resisting them, the procession of his feverish reveries. they were beginning to assume a more distinct shape than was altogether seemly when fortunately sleep came and swept them all away. * * * * * the next morning, about ten, mme. chambannes proposed a ride to the master. they left the house, with anselme, the coachman, who sat, despite the bumps of the road, stiff and respectful, in the corner of the little carriage, near the case destined for umbrellas. the morning was clear and fresh, of that august freshness, still cool between the previous day's heat and that of the coming hours, but a summer freshness all the same, reassuring and with no chilly signs of any forthcoming cold spell. zozé drove with high hands, her eyes free, turning aside according to the conversation, while the pony trotted with all its speed, swinging his back. twenty minutes later, they reached the road which climbed under trees towards the tiny forest of verneuil. instinctively, the pony slowed its pace. huge horse-flies scattered under its feet, others stuck greedily to its neck and its fat shiny flanks. the wood showed a diversity of the most harmonious colors. broken by daylight here and there, it would seem all white with rows of slender silver birches. further on were spaces that were wholly pink, invaded by the wild briar. a dark mass of pines dominated everything, clarified only by the growth of the young, light green, pine-needles. the wind had scattered many of the older ones and they lay drying in the dust. on returning, they stopped by the side of the road which cut the wood. anselme spread out a rug on the ground, and the master sat there with mme. chambannes. zozé apologized for taking out her cigarette-case. in the country, etiquette might be relaxed, might it not? and then they were in a little wood where they could meet no one. hardly had she said this when two young cyclists appeared. they were pedaling in a leisurely way, side by side. at once, m. raindal angrily recalled his intolerant brother cyprien. the two young men winked slyly at each other, indicating zozé. "pretty!" the nearer of the two said distinctly. this familiar remark further provoked m. raindal. "cad!" he said, when the two cyclists had passed on. "why?" asked zozé, blowing out her smoke. "one must not take offense for so little, in the country." those three words constituted her favorite motto at les frettes, a permanent justification for all the fantasies of dress and behavior which her gloom and her idleness invented. she took advantage of it, the next morning, to dispense with anselme's services for their ride. the coachman's presence had obviously paralyzed m. raindal. "a very good idea!" the master said approvingly, as soon as they had started. "besides he was of no use at all, that fellow." thereupon he seized his little pupil's hand so brusquely and violently that notpou--such was the almost egyptian-sounding name which mme. chambannes had bestowed upon her pony--shied with fear, under the pain from his suddenly pulled bit. "you must keep quiet, dear master?" zozé chided, as she brought the animal back to its pace. "you are scaring notpou.... you'll have us tipped over!" "it was such a long time!" m. raindal stammered. she smiled indulgently. suddenly emboldened, the master asked, in the absent-minded tone he used on such occasions: "and the messrs. de meuze?... did you have any news from them?" mme. chambannes replied, making an effort to repress the blood she felt rushing to her face: "none!... i believe that they are at deauville until the end of the month, as i told you last week.... they were to arrive there the day before i left paris." m. raindal, his hands hanging, directed a studious look at her. "in that case, they are not coming here?" "not that i know of, during august," zozé replied, having almost conquered her blush. "after that, it will be the shooting season.... so ... you see!" "quite!" the master murmured, while in his heart he ragingly abused thérèse. ah! how he wished she were here, for an instant only, so that she could hear this! that was the way people made accusations and spread calumny, without proofs, acting upon suspicions and uncertain jealousies! "a woman who publicly gave herself a lover!" m. raindal repeated to himself. publicly! a lover! where?... at deauville, perhaps! (for, gradually, the master had narrowed down his suspicions and centered their watchfulness upon the head of gerald, the only young man, after all, whom mme. chambannes saw frequently.) yes! at deauville, fifty leagues from les frettes, neglecting his love affair for a month and even more! a fine lover indeed!... how mean and unfair people were! he let out a contemptuous laugh. "are you laughing, dear master?" mme. chambannes inquired. "i am laughing," he replied between two kisses, "i am laughing at the wickedness, or more exactly at the stupidity of mankind!" * * * * * the daily schedule soon became regular. whenever the heat did not prevent it, the morning was spent in driving. they eschewed the fashionable places beyond poissy, in the neighborhood of saint germain. they preferred to follow the course of the seine, driving towards poutoise or even mantes, an uneven, hilly and often imposing region which attracted the master, as it had mme. chambannes. there the wind rolled its ample currents over plateaux and hills, carrying a strong taste reminiscent of the sea. sometimes, at the top of a shut-in road that climbed under the shady trees, an unexpected perspective disclosed enormous expanses, forests, cross-roads, the breadth of the river, a big village, oxen in a field, vine on a hill-side, in short, the whole unexpected complexity of the provincial countryside, far from paris and its suburbs. the master and mme. chambannes would leave about nine and not return until time for lunch. some days, in order to prevent idle gossip, they took the abbé touronde with them. m. raindal and the priest occupied one seat and zozé, who was driving, the other. one thursday, the three of them went as far as mantes, where the master wished to purchase a pair of brown shoes; their arrival caused a sensation. the strange carriage, the piquant attractiveness of mme. chambannes, m. raindal's white hair and the black robe of the abbé impressed the curious with their cumulative effect. in front of the bootmaker's shop, urchins surrounded the carriage. neighboring shopkeepers came out on their steps and passed jocular comments. this affair and the popular emotion it caused were summed up in a short anonymous paragraph in the _petit impartial de seine-et-oise_. although names were not given no one could mistake the meaning of the allusions, from the heading, _suzanne_, to the bitterness of the writer towards "certain ecclesiastics, friends of the orphans" who were paying for the abbé touronde's holidays. as a result of this unlucky experience mme. chambannes henceforth avoided the towns. these drives, moreover, were less of a pleasure than a mere pastime between the hours when she read gerald's letters--when any came--and those when she wrote to him. every day, after lunch, she shut herself up, to write him long pages, cleverly composed so as to stimulate his inert tenderness and his somnolent jealousy. in the meantime, m. raindal, who had gone up, seemingly to work, enjoyed a nap on the floor above or imitated his hostess by writing a few words to his family. it would have made a piquant comparison to put their two letters side by side. zozé purposely blackened her own character, multiplied the questionable details, the recital of episodes where her coquetry won her admiration, the masculine homage, the fervent glances of m. raindal, of the abbé, of a passer-by, of all the men. the master, on the contrary, exhausted all examples in order to whitewash her of everything suspicious, to establish her child-like candor, her virtue and undoubted purity. they did not meet again until nearly four o'clock. then, according to the temperature, they remained in the garden or made visits in the neighborhood, either to the abbé touronde, whose little orphans m. raindal inspected twice, the herschsteins, or the silberschmidts. never did the time lag for the master, unless it were when zozé left him alone with her aunt panhias, having herself to call somewhere in the village, give orders, or change her dress. his only compensation was that he could talk about his little pupil. he confided to mme. panhias his own observations concerning the changing moods of zozé. some mornings she seemed a prey to utter weariness, without any notable event justifying these fits of sadness. to what could he attribute them? mme. panhias, who had secretly noted the coincidence of such crises with the non-arrival of letters bearing the deauville post-mark, replied evasively: "it is her _natourre_ to be like this! how can it be helped?" "it may be so!" m. raindal approved. "quite so!... a dreamy nature!... a nature essentially melancholy!" and he promised himself to neglect nothing that could bring distraction to his little pupil. he even consented to play tennis with her, one afternoon, for fear of disappointing her. zozé was on one side, m. raindal and aunt panhias together on the other. rather because he was all out of breath than for fear of compromising his own dignity, the master gave it up after a few minutes. his success in that game had been mediocre. moved by a feeling of self-denial, zozé did not repeat the attempt. she also meant to show solicitude. she was sorry for poor m. raindal's family worries, of which he had given her a few significant illustrations. whenever the master opened a letter from langrune in front of her, she never failed to inquire whether his ladies showed less malice. "phew!... icy.... always ice-like!... inquiries as to my health.... news of their own.... compliments for you.... kisses.... hardly ten lines.... read for yourself!" she scanned the page, remembering gerald's letters--notes whose laconism hardly exceeded that of the master's relatives. "yes, dear master!" she sighed.... "as you say, humanity is very stupid!" on such days, out of pity for his sorrows which were so similar to her own, she was less rigorous towards the furtive kisses with which m. raindal sought out her hands, gloved or bare, on every possible occasion. she racked her brains to order delicate dishes which she knew would please him. then, the dinner ended, if he did not fall asleep, she read to him in the drawing-room--a newspaper or a volume of history. she read timidly, doing her best, with incorrect intonations, little girl's errors which almost melted the master's heart. or else--height of delights--she accepted his arm for a walk in the garden, along the lawn, in front of the terrace. when the sky was cloudy, m. raindal, under the veil of obscurity, daringly kissed the young woman's hand. once he almost risked a nearer kiss, on her neck, taking advantage of the half-décolleté evening dress which mme. chambannes wore. but, on the verge of executing the movement, he was seized with such a fear that he stopped dead on the spot. "are you ill, dear master?" zozé asked. "no!" he replied, starting again. "i was listening to the wind in the branches!" when he reached his room after these nocturnal frolics, he had difficulty in going to sleep. reflections bubbled in him in foaming cascades. he counted up the number of kisses mme. chambannes had tolerated since the morning: one in the verneuil wood, another in the park before lunch, another in the afternoon, in zozé's own room, where he had gone on the pretext of asking for a book, a fifth and even a sixth one in the evening, below the terrace.... he modestly admitted to himself that these were childish calculations and not devoid of vanity! but what weight have metaphysical considerations against the overwhelming reality of our joys? the latter know no other limit than the variations of our feelings. if they reach exaltation, we should not dismiss their enthusiasm with contempt; if they fall or diminish, what philosophy can lift them up again? thus m. raindal meditated, with a growing scorn for speculative pleasures. he often reached a state of extreme frankness, in the course of those solemn examinations, when his naked soul spoke to his mind, as a wife to her husband. it was quite true! m. raindal did not attempt to deny it; he was slightly in love with his pretty little pupil. at her approach, he felt himself blush; he felt those emotions and internal flutterings which, according to general opinion, are signs of infatuation. to be sure, it was a harmless love, a flame that could not scorch, the last radiation of his heart! what danger did he run in rejoicing at those crepuscular lights which life, in a last act of kindness, sometimes kindles again on the road that leads to the grave? what wrong did he do when he drew from those illicit kisses a sensation of renewed youth, a continuous denial given to the fatal decline of his years? these grave thoughts saddened him. he deplored being so old; he regretted that he had not known his dear friend mme. chambannes sooner. again, not to mention the forthcoming departure which would separate him from the young woman, how many hours near her had fate in store for him?... under a rush of bitterness, he would sit down to write to thérèse, to attempt a new project. august was drawing to an end. m. raindal, from words mme. chambannes let fall, was inclined to conclude that a prolongation of his visit would please his hostess. in the course of many chats, she had seemed to indicate that the arrival of the two ladies in september would not be unwelcome to her. what did these latter say to that? would they join the master, instead of returning to paris, during those "days of intense heat" which threatened to persist? m. raindal did not intend to force their hands. nevertheless, he was of the opinion that their ill-humor had lasted too long, and it did not seem right that they should a second time refuse such cordial advances. he went to bed revived by the hope one acquires through the mere voicing of one's desires. and, the next day, when he saw zozé again, all smiling and fresh in a light morning gown, like a nymph of dawn, the last vapors of his melancholy fled away. "where are you going, dear master?" she cried merrily from her window. he looked up and made friendly signals to her with his hand. "i am going to the stables to take some sugar to notpou.... after that i shall go to the post-office to mail a letter to my family!" "hurry up, dear master! i shall be ready in half an hour." he looked back, five steps away, placing his hands above his eyes. she was still smiling, leaning on the balcony. the wide sleeves of her gown had slipped apart and showed the white flesh of her arm, folded on the balustrade. "if only those women agree to come!" thought m. raindal, as he walked towards the stables. one morning, as he returned from mailing the fourth letter to them in one week--three having been left unanswered--he caught up with the village postman on whose route the château was. "a letter for you, monsieur!" the man said as he saluted. the master slowed down. it was a letter from langrune. the raindal ladies admitted that he was right in his remarks concerning the heat. consequently, they would delay their departure and not return to paris until about september th. of les frettes, of mme. chambannes, not a word was said. "fools!" the master murmured with disappointment. but his satisfaction was stronger. after all, this gave him the desired postponement, the right to remain at les frettes. who knew but that the two women, had they been coming, would have made him uncomfortable with their humiliating surveillance! as to their coldness, their hidden enmity, he would see them on his return, and subdue them, cost what it might! he walked so fast that he met the postman coming out of the door of the château. in the middle of the terrace, the stone balustrade of which ran all round the house, zozé sat dreaming in a wicker armchair. in front of her some opened letters lay on a little table beside the tea tray. "anything new, dear master?" she asked. "the postman told me he had given you a letter.... was it from your family?" m. raindal stammered confused explanations. "well, then, when will you be leaving?" asked zozé calmly. he looked at her with a somewhat disappointed expression. "eh! i am not going, _mon amie_.... since you are willing, i shall be happy to stay." he glanced to the left, then to the right, and seized zozé's hand, bending over her. "i, too, have some great news now!" the young woman declared, suppressing a gesture of enervation while m. raindal completed a heavy kiss. "first of all, i have a telegram from george. he is coming back on september st, monday ... in three days!" "ah!" m. raindal said carelessly. "good! how is he!" "very well! you may read his telegram.... and then...." "and then?" the master repeated, oppressed with anxiety. "then? well, i have received a letter from the messrs. de meuze who inform me that they are coming to spend a week at les frettes." m. raindal's lips twisted. he attempted an emphatic objection: "but you assured me...." "yes, that they would open the shooting season.... they are going to do that, in the poitou, where it doesn't open until the th." "that is different!" murmured the master in a tone of defeat. "when do they arrive?" "monday, also!" the master drew in his breath and asked, in a firmer voice: "the same day as your husband?" "yes!" zozé replied, watching him from the corner of one eye. "that is to say, george will arrive at nine. uncle panhias will meet him at the gare du nord, and he cannot be here before eleven. the messrs. de meuze arrive in the afternoon.... after all, george will be here a few hours later!" "that's right; a few hours later!" m. raindal repeated, at all hazard. he laid a hand upon his forehead, complaining of a sudden headache. the sun, no doubt ... or his haste in returning. "with your permission, i shall not go out this morning!" he said. "i prefer to rest." smiling, mme. chambannes watched him depart. then a sudden sulkiness brought down the corners of her lips. after all, there was nothing for her to laugh at. everything was taking an ugly turn. the master had taken seriously her banal words of courtesy to him and the regrets which, in a moment of anger, she had formulated concerning gerald. old raindal was going to "stick to" les frettes for another fortnight! thereupon, george was coming back from bosnia! the marquis and his son arriving at the same time--as agreed. she had no hope that raldo would agree to hurry their arrival! barely one evening to see each other again, find each other again! and this, besides, would have to be before old raindal, who was already sulky and would keep his eye on them! what ill-luck, what complications and difficulties! during the three days that followed, mme. chambannes apologized for being in a sad mood. she did not feel very well and her nerves ached. m. raindal affected to be sorry and full of goodwill. he, at most, risked a kiss or two, to keep himself in countenance. but he was not feeling very gay himself. courteously, uncle panhias accused him of that fact. the master feigned surprise. no, really, he had no reason whatsoever for being sad; and to prove his care-free state, he chuckled, beating his chest: "ha ha! i not gay! ha ha! why should i not feel gay? ha!" gerald's image passed, more clearly, before his mind; the master's little laugh stopped dead, as if broken in two by a sudden shock. chapter xvii on monday evening, after dinner, the company went to the drawing-room to take coffee. zozé was christening a pale blue muslin dress, the low cut of which revealed her neck, encircled with a double row of pearls. the marquis was in evening dress and white bow; gerald, in a dinner-jacket, wore a tea rose in his button-hole. an air of festivity seemed to emanate from them both. the tall french windows of the room were opened; they led straight out onto the terrace that surrounded the house. through the space between their two sides could be seen the lawn, the flower beds and the thick mass of the trees of the park. the day was, as it were, retiring with regret. its lingering gray light seemed to dispute with the night, in the air, over the warm charm of the end of the evening. "a beautiful evening!" said m. de meuze, who was smoking a cigar on the balcony. seated at the back of the drawing-room, facing the window, m. raindal was reading the paper near a lamp. mme. chambannes and gerald were chatting in the left-hand corner, on a little cretonne divan. aunt panhias passed the coffee cups, grumbling the while against her husband who had insisted on staying until after dessert. had anyone ever heard of such absurd stubbornness! when one had to meet somebody, was it not the least one could do to give up his dessert? and she pestered zozé to find out about the hour of the trains, calculate the delays due to transfers and decide whether uncle panhias would arrive on time. m. de meuze came in again and interrupted her complaints. "please excuse me, ladies," he said. "the journey has tired me out.... i am going to put my old body to bed!" he went towards m. raindal to shake hands with him. "hush!" he whispered, turning back to the young people. "science is asleep.... peace to his rest!... good night, dear madame!" zozé gave him a friendly nod. "oh, that's nothing!" aunt panhias declared, in a hushed voice. "our good m. raindal is caught with that almost every night!" she went out with the marquis, having a score of orders to give for the comfort of the new guests, for chambannes' return, and for the dispatching of the carriage. "alone at last!" gerald murmured softly, in a tone of banter. "not so loud, my darling!" implored zozé, as she pressed his hand. "why?... he is asleep!" zozé, without releasing the hand of her raldo, frowned as she examined m. raindal. then she rose and pulled the young man after her. "come! let us go on the terrace.... i shall feel safer." then she sighed: "oh! my own raldo! what a bore that he stayed!... and you know.... we have him here for another fortnight!" "yes, you told me! well! if he is in our way, we'll lead him a chase, the old kangaroo!... it can't be very hard to do that." they were leaning on the white stone balustrade. with extreme caution, m. raindal opened his eyes. from where he was, he had only a side view of mme. chambannes, her vase-like pale blue dress, her fine profile turned to the right.... that was so, no doubt, because she was speaking to gerald whom he guessed was very close to her, elbow to elbow, as he himself had leaned over, up above, in the lighted room, on the day of his arrival! he held his breath back in order to try to hear them. he could distinguish nothing but a gentle melody of confused voices, a cascade of softened syllables, whose meaning was broken by the invisible partitions of the air. at times, the young woman's profile shook or plunged into the darkness. the conversation was cut short by a dead stop. m. raindal, his hands stuck to his armchair, contemplated with a feeling of distress the pale dress, the headless trunk of his little pupil. why did she bend so? for what mystery did she incline her whispering, laughing lips? suddenly, a tall shadow passed behind mme. chambannes; gerald's silhouette, even his rose and his moustache showing distinctly. nimble steps went down the front steps. the pebbles of the paths in the garden squeaked. now, there came, at intervals, a low voice in a monologue. her head immobile, mme. chambannes seemed to listen to him; her finger before her face made gestures of refusal. forgetting all caution, m. raindal opened his eyes very wide. zozé's brusquely turning about caused him to close them again, but barely in time. what was happening? she came into the drawing-room, looked for something--hearing a rustling of silk and lace, m. raindal assumed that it was a scarf--then went out again on tip-toes, turning round an instant as she reached the french windows.... then he heard her heels on the steps and on the gravel of the path. "this is going rather far!" the master murmured, as he rose and stretched himself. he listened. everything was silent outside. where had she run away? yes, to the garden, to walk with young gerald.... but if they were walking, how could he explain the silence? had they, by any chance, gone beyond the customary limit, as far as the lawn, perhaps even beyond that? an unlikely liberty! yet m. raindal wanted to make sure of it. in his turn he came to lean on the white stone balustrade. in disorderly bounds his heart beat against his ribs, and this continuous hammering extended to his left arm like a hollow internal alarm-bell. his eyes scanned the garden. the silence persisted under a sky covered with stars. a faint bluish light revealed every part where bushes, trees or other opaque obstacles had not resisted their fragile rays. thus, the lawn showed in all its outlines, even to its slight slope and the flower beds. the path that edged it also sketched out clearly its coils of gravel. the darkness began only beyond that path, at the high wall of the lime trees, which scattered the perfume of their late blooms far through the damp atmosphere. as a rule, m. raindal delighted in that sugary perfume. he would inhale it greedily with mouth wide open and nostrils palpitating. but now, all his body, with the exception of his eyes, was petrified with anguish. he had no strength, no life, no consciousness but for the one aim, to scan the shadows, to search the darkness with his greedy eyes, his eyes that longed to see. no one on the lawn; no one in the path ... not a sound on the gravel! then they were hiding in the park, the wretches! the master took no time to answer this terrible query. he straightened himself brusquely; like an automaton, whose very stiffness is unsteady, he went down the steps. in two strides he was on the lawn; the soft earth deadened the sound of his feet. he gave a sardonic chuckle, a kind of victorious cough. at least, moving this way, on this soft ground, he would not be heard coming.... oh!... where was he going in his infatuated march? what could he do, or say, what could he imagine, in case he were to meet them at the turning of a path? he had scarcely thought of that; a savage sorrow was burning him, ceaselessly, and urged him forward like an animal maddened by fire. he felt nothing, neither the perfume of the lime-trees, nor the freshness of the grass which wet his ankles, nor the hateful aspect of his own pursuit, the shamefulness of his cunning! he was approaching ... he reached the park, he was going to see! he ventured into the thickest part of the wood. the carpet of dead leaves exhaled slowly towards him its pungent odor of eternal and ever renewed decay. supple branches cut his face. roots rose under his feet. he went on, his eyes half closed for fear of thorns; perspiration dripped from his forehead; his hands were stretched forward to feel his way through the darkness and foliage. he stopped suddenly. from the left, from the place where he thought were the glade of the lime-trees, the spaced trees, the mushroom-like stone table and the wicker chairs, a murmur arose, a sort of duet of violent and languorous voices. they ceased an instant, then renewed their murmur. he had an impression that his heart was shrinking, vanishing out of his body. he paused a minute, because his legs gave way under him.... then he took up his march again, panting, bent in two like a gorilla, his hands almost touching the ground. as he crawled nearer, the voices became more distinct. suddenly, he almost fainted. now he perceived everything, even the familiar sound of those voices. it was an exchange of invocations so shameless, of apostrophes at once so bestial and so tender that he was utterly stupefied. ah! only queen cleopatra, perhaps, could have ever fallen to that depth of shamelessness!... m. raindal did not have the courage to look, to see. a panicky rage swept him away. he felt a frantic need to run, to escape the tortures of that infernal wood. he rushed out in a mad, furious race, now fearless of making a noise, not caring whether he betrayed himself or not, smashing the branches that stood in his way, taking his revenge on the bushes, sweating, galloping with the noise of big game running under wood before the dogs. out of breath, he stumbled onto the lawn, and the dahlias received him. he rose quickly, his knees heavy with damp earth. he took up his march again, at a more moderate pace but yet hastily. he did not run but his legs nervously set a fast pace, finding relief in that hurried gait. when he reached the steps, he brushed his clothes with his sleeve, instinctively. a remnant of clear sight made him dread aunt panhias, her curiosity and possible inquiries. the drawing-room, however, proved to be still empty. the master rushed to the hall and swiftly climbed the stairs.... at last he was in his room. with a far resounding kick he closed his door. his trembling hand turned the key twice in the keyhole. he fell, exhausted, on the edge of his big bed, which had already been prepared for the night. his lassitude did not calm him. a boiling anger surged in his veins. his hands made gestures of destruction. he would have liked to hold mme. chambannes, to break her as he had the branches in her park, to crush and annihilate her. his little pupil! his little pupil! was it she? was it those candid lips that had uttered such abominable words. at the memory of each word, he felt a new blade piercing his heart.... no! his judgment was prejudiced and rebelled against so much infamy; his memory must be lying!... his little pupil!... his dear friend! simultaneously, he united the basest insults with these terms of endearment. he evoked thérèse, recalling to his mind her hatred for zozé, and wishing that she were near him now so that they could hate the guilty one together. ah! thérèse had not been wrong about the shallowness of this mme. chambannes, her depravity and her mediocrity. in one meeting, she had appreciated her better, fathomed her and sentenced her more accurately than he had done in a hundred meetings. for she, thérèse, did not love her, while he, alas did! "yes! i loved her; i love her still!" he murmured fervently, as if to deny in that remorseful admission all the puny disguises, all the artifices of prudery which had sheltered a passion that was without courage. the sound of shutters being closed and footsteps coming up interrupted his meditations. he hoped that mme. chambannes would come in to ask him how he was. what should he say in reply? should he fall at her knees, pitifully stammering words of love? or should he repulse her with a scornful reply? he did not have to choose, because zozé did not come to him. instead of her coming, the echoes of the park took up once more in the mind of the master their vile, diabolical concert, the duet of their ravished accents. oh! what atrocious, what repugnant words! m. raindal compared them with the latin footnotes of his book. at a distance of twenty centuries, they were almost the same words, the same follies as those which cleopatra, in her worst ecstasies had stimulated in her lover, antony the rough soldier! by means of what miracle of universal and immutable perversity had this infamous vocabulary been shamefully transmitted from the queen of egypt to the master's little friend? how many amorous couples must have repeated and preserved it, from generation to generation! then, suddenly, a clear intuition rose through the discard of those historical parallels. m. raindal understood; he explained to himself at last the work of his little pupil ... his professor rather, his little teacher who had, from the first day, little by little, taught him the meaning of a refined existence, material enjoyment, the tangible reality of all those terms which he had in the past carelessly used in the written sentences of his books, as the symbolical pieces of a lifeless chessboard!... pleasure, love, luxury, elegance, ardor of the senses, beauty, grace, passion, tenderness--these had been to him as so many inert syllables, until mme. chambannes brought them to life for him. and the last lesson, the end of this apprenticeship--had it not been completed just now, out there among the high trees where, perhaps, she might still be, enraptured, and forgetting him in the arms of another man!... the hitherto unknown torture with which this vision inflicted him brought an exclamation of horror to his lips. he rose from his bed, blinking. he beat the air with his fists in a sudden threat. for a few minutes, he lost the thread of his meditations. he crumbled down, quite exhausted, in a cretonne armchair; in his mind he was living again his whole career, the succession of those virtuous years whose righteousness had once exalted his pride. how dull and trivial that narrow little path which he had walked at the cost of so much hardship and so many efforts seemed now! it reminded him of one of those out of the way side-paths which one walked, on holidays, to avoid the joy of others.... near that vision, he dimly perceived, as in an ancient print, the noisy kermesse of life, singing groups, bouquets, drunken orgies, women with men, the furious exuberance of the mob of revelry.... meanwhile he was pursuing, apart, his own road and that step by step, seeing only the next day's march when one was completed, applying his efforts merely not to deviate from this path, his zeal not to be diverted.... what cared he whether they enjoyed themselves and lived on the other side? was he not aware with scientific certainty how vain and vulgar were the pleasures which satisfy the mob? did he not know that they left nothing but disgust behind them, to what sottishness they brought one down, and finally what a very small thing was woman (_mulier_) in comparison with a superior mind?... woman--he had really known but one, his own. apart from a few indiscretions during his life as a student, indiscretions that were forgotten as soon as committed, he remembered his life as a young man, his four years spent in the desert under mariette bey, his imperturbable chastity, that precocious contempt for love which caused even the "great bey" to tease him. when his comrades left the cantonment and went to the nearest town to see the dancing bayaderes or spend a night's leave with some native girl, m. raindal had, as a rule, discovered some pretext not to join them, some special work to be finished, a papyrus to be deciphered or a sudden indisposition. "sapristi! raindal, you must rub the rust off yourself, my dear fellow!" the great bey declared, in that sarcastic voice of his. "you will end by making us believe that you have a liaison with a mummy!" the young savant would laugh, promise to follow his companions, but recant at the last minute. the bayaderes bored him. since then, apart from his wife, no one! not one adventure, not one memory, no graceful image, none of those dear phantoms whose one particular beauty--her hands, her smile, her finesse in love-making or the sweetness of her eyes--flatters one, with its secret companionship, till death. here he was now, hoary and disfigured by age, unable to attract anyone, panting with love at the time when pleasure should be given up, enamored of a young woman who loved another! what a punishment! what agony! how long would it last? how long would it remain to show him the joys he had missed, thanks to pedantic vainglory and proud self-confidence? he walked to the chimney. standing before the mirror, he twisted his features in stranger grimaces to convince himself even more that his decrepitude was beyond hope. ah! yes indeed, he had a pretty complexion, fine teeth and wrinkles, puffed skin and a nice flabby face, everything in short which he needed to seduce a young woman! the wheels of a carriage crunched the gravel of the path. he heard voices raised in appeals and much laughter. george had arrived. m. raindal had a sudden desire to go down. he would allege the return of chambannes and the wish to welcome his host; then he could see zozé once more. his hand was on the handle of the door, but a scruple of pride kept him back. no, that would be too cowardly! he stayed upstairs. he heard doors being closed. silence again fell over the house. m. raindal felt as if his heart had been stabbed again. he was thinking about the husband who was with his wife now.... his shoulders shook in a nasty sneer. phew! he was not jealous of that unfortunate chambannes! really, there was nothing to envy him for! to be the husband of a brainless little fool, a worthless creature who, a minute ago.... he did not finish his thought. his eyes were bloodshot; brutal curses rushed to his lips; he was choking. m. raindal opened the window. the night was cooler. on the distant plain, trains passed at intervals, winding their coils of yellow lights on the horizon. some roosters in the neighborhood, deceived by the false paleness of the sky, sent to each other, through space, their dauntless greetings, to which dogs howled in reply. m. raindal gravely contemplated the blue stars. each was to him a sun with satellites gravitating round it. he asked himself how many sorrows, identical with his own, must be making men moan at that same moment, on those obscure planets. he reasoned, made calculations, intoxicating himself with lofty thoughts. he invoked human sorrow, the sufferings of the worlds, the universal complaint--the conventional pity, the lip-charity, the egotistic and hypocritically tender hygiene, all the declamatory remedies which books teach to alleviate personal sorrows. but he derived no solace from them. poor thinker, poor master, poor man! yes, he could indeed call to his help the spectacle of the heavens, the astronomers and the philosophers; he could call on newton, laplace, kant and hegel! he could swell himself up and make himself feel greater! the fact remained that he still harbored within his own breast an atom of flesh which was more sensitive and real than all those vaunted infinites which were powerless alike to cure him and to dominate him. what was there left to him in this overwhelming catastrophe? his family? he had, in the last year, lost even the desire to cherish them. his work? he hated the results of it, its lying mirage, its evil routine. he closed the window, renouncing the stars. he sat on his bed once more and began to cry. ended were his illusions! gone his old man's fatuity! he would leave the next day. he would not be a witness of _their_ humiliating amours. never again would he see his dear little pupil. and he wept.... it was at last a sincere sorrow, without evil spite, without any parody of vanity, a humble sorrow which acknowledged itself and loved its tears! in this m. raindal found peace and finally sleep. on the morrow, however, when he went down to the garden about ten o'clock, a sudden commotion reopened his secret wound. "yes, monsieur, madame has gone out," firmin assured him. "she has gone out for a drive with m. de meuze." "which one?" m. raindal almost shouted. "with m. le marquis.... m. le comte and monsieur are still in their rooms." "ah! very good!" m. raindal said, recovering his ease. he sat in a rocking-chair, in the shadow of the terrace and affected to be engrossed in reading the paper. but his set eyes were not on the lines. an internal passion was following other ideas, other words, the little parting speech, a few mysterious and firm sentences in which he would announce his intention to leave. he had mastered the greater part of it when the close-cut mane of notpou emerged from between the trees. from the carriage, the marquis gave a cordial salute to m. raindal. oh! there had been no delay! no hesitation! the master was thoroughly ousted, deprived of his power! even gerald's father, this old marquis, had taken his little pupil away from him; even of him he felt jealous! go! he must go as soon as possible! his own suffering necessitated this prompt sacrifice. the master rose to his feet. he was watching for mme. chambannes' first glance, for her fatigued expression and the lowering of her eyes with which she would undoubtedly greet him. zozé's physiognomy disappointed him. she walked up to him, smiling as usual, her eyes free and easy under her veil, raised up, like a headband, level with her eyebrows. she offered him her white-gloved hand without constraint, as she had the day before, as on the previous morning, as if neither the night, nor gerald, the scene in the park, as if none of those shameful things had come between them! he gave her hand a timid pressure and sat back in the rocking-chair. "will you allow me to say a few words to you, dear madame?" he asked, looking at his brown leather shoes. "with pleasure!" mme. chambannes answered deliberately, as she pulled an armchair beside that of the master. she sat down and caressed the master with one of her warm looks: "i am listening, dear master.... have you any trouble? not from your family, i trust?" still smiling, she took her gloves off. then she lifted her arms, like two graceful handles on each side of her face, and with difficulty pulled out the long pin which held her sailor hat. "you are mistaken!" stammered m. raindal, his eyes still unresponsive. "it is precisely of langrune that...." his hands hanging loose, his wrists contracted. the ingenuous air of mme. chambannes revolted him as a last challenge to his credulity. "well?" asked the young woman. he dared to stare at her. what! those lips were still fresh after so much defilement! no trace of it had polluted the clearness of her eyes. not even a shudder; not a blush! did lies then wash out everything in their foul waters? a renewed anger roused m. raindal. his caution was shaken. the prepared words vanished. looking straight at her, his hands grasping the armchair as if better to spring, he declared roughly: "i am going!" "you are going!" zozé exclaimed, in a tone of well-simulated wonder. m. raindal recollected somewhat the words that had to be used. "excuse my rudeness, my bad temper.... i received this morning from langrune such a pressing letter that i must give in to the ladies' wish.... they claim me over there and i am going.... rest assured that i am very sorry!" there was a pause. zozé thought it out. now that she was sure he was leaving, why should she not preserve her assumed innocence, the persistence of which could but draw off his suspicions? it was with an imperceptible smile that she said: "i believe you, dear master, although you surprise me." "i ... surprise you, dear madame?" m. raindal asked sullenly, his heart beating more rapidly. "you see, i was downstairs this morning when the postman came.... he gave me all the mail and there was no letter for you!" m. raindal preserved a challenging silence, disdaining to clear himself, not denying his deception. "come, dear master!" zozé went on gently. "since there was no letter, what is it that makes you leave us? has anyone upset you? have we hurt your feelings unwittingly? please, tell me who it is, i beg you." her eyes looked all around, as if she were trying to discover the culprit, the naughty, wicked unknown one who had upset her dear master. m. raindal watched her for an instant, his lips convulsed with disgust. "who? tell me who it is!" he repeated to himself. this was really too much of an imposture, altogether too impudent! he pushed back his armchair. his jaws were parted, ready to bite, ready to let out the whole burden of questions, outrages, reproach. but, in a supreme effort, he mastered himself. he paced up and down before zozé, in a short space of ten feet, and said in a voice broken by his fury: "do not ask me anything, dear madame! nothing ... it would be useless!... i must go and i am going.... i can say no more to you.... i do not know if you understand me, and i wish that you would not.... yes, i wish that with all my soul!... alas, on the contrary, i am very much afraid that you have understood...." "but, dear master!" zozé protested. "all right, dear madame!... you do not understand me?... all the better.... you will later, when you think it over.... the only thing i ask you is that you should avoid any struggle for me.... lend yourself to my little stratagem: you know, the letter received ... the letter which i did _not_ receive.... because my resolution is irrevocable.... i shall leave this afternoon.... to remain here one single day would be humiliating to me.... i cannot!... i cannot!" he was choking. zozé rose to her feet and caught his hand, which he made no attempt to withdraw. "i do not understand you, dear master.... you are free.... i have no right to detain you.... but i beg your pardon if i have offended you!" she said with emotion, not more than half of which was feigned. m. raindal turned his head away. he did not wish her to see his eyes, which were full of tears. he released his own hand from hers and pretended to be examining the lawn, the park, the clouds. "i thank you, dear madame.... i have nothing to forgive you!" he said, coughing as if he wished to force back a new rush of tears which made his voice hoarse. "i shall leave this afternoon by the five o'clock train.... do not bother about me.... please only let me have firmin.... he will help me pack my things.... hm! hm! hm!" he kept on coughing and then became melancholy. "hm! hm!... when i am gone, when i am no longer here, i hope that you will think sometimes of your dear...." he corrected himself,--"of your old master who, on his part, even from afar, will not forget you...." the solemnity of this promise completed his confusion. hurriedly, as if stricken with a sudden indisposition, he ran into the drawing-room, then through the hall and up the stairs. zozé ran behind him, chirping, in her softest, tenderest intonation: "dear master!... dear master!... and in paris.... in paris ... we shall meet again, shan't we?" he only replied when he was at the top of the stairs, his voice clear once more, intending to leave no doubt, afterward, in the minds of those in the house: "to be sure, dear madame.... i shall transmit your message to my daughter.... besides, we can talk about it again at lunch, before i go." * * * * * as soon as he reached paris, m. raindal informed himself of the trains for langrune. there were two: an evening one which arrived there in the night, another one in the morning which would reach langrune in the afternoon. to inform his family of his arrival by telegram would alarm them. he chose not to leave until the next morning, and to spend the night at the nearest hotel. slowly he walked towards the station yard, where the setting sun distilled a mist of gold. an endless procession of people passed him, on the pavement and under the arcades. it was the departure of the suburban workers who returned at night to the open fields, and of the smarter population of the villas of the seine-et-oise region. first came clerks marching briskly, by twos and in step, their hats on the backs of their heads because of the heat; then the bourgeois, who held carefully beyond the reach of shocks their packages of dainties tied with red strings; young women in light dresses with white gloves like those zozé wore; well-groomed men who stood up in their open cabs, to jump out more quickly.... all of them were going towards a place of rest, perhaps towards love, to the peace of the country, the beautiful night under the trees, to the priceless happiness which m. raindal had just deserted. the master's sadness and weariness were increased by this. he sat down on the terrace of a near-by café and ordered an absinthe. his eyes burned, for he had wept again in the train, careless of all pride, unable to resist his pain. zozé had fallen in with his wishes by not accompanying him to the station. the parting had been public, before aunt panhias, the marquis de meuze, gerald and chambannes all gathered together. the master had purposely come down late in order to shorten the cruel instant. vain calculation! he had had to wait fully five minutes on the steps, before them all, to smile, speak and answer questions.... what a martyrdom it had been! if only he had been able to kiss zozé's hand, to kiss it with fire, with intoxication, as before ... to take a last taste of that forsaken delight!... but they were looking! it had been, instead, a cold and superficial kiss on the fingers of his little pupil, and it had seemed to him that his very lips were surprised! well, these torments had been slight, compared to those that would soon follow! to-morrow he would be at langrune, miles and miles away, compelled to explain his return, a prisoner of his family, exiled on a gloomy seashore! to-morrow, he would be once more mme. raindal's husband, mlle. raindal's father, _m. raindal, of the institute_, an austere old savant, with no one to make his life pleasant, with no clandestine friendship, no little pupil, no secret distraction, apart from his books--books to write, books to read, books to review!... "books, books, always books!" he murmured, in a sickened tone. and a thought intrigued him; it was to stay in paris and find some means of avoiding langrune. the clock of the station struck seven. he paid the waiter and walked towards the boulevards. where could he dine? he remembered the name of a restaurant, in the place de la madeleine, the cooking of which chambannes and the marquis had often praised before him. he sauntered in that direction. the room was still half empty. he ordered a choice dinner, with such dishes as zozé preferred, a bottle of _saint-estephe_ and a bottle of frappé champagne which was placed before him in a silver vase. his absinthe encouraged him to these libations. since he had drunk it, he felt livelier and less sad. he ate abundantly and applied himself to drinking. his ideas became lighter and seemed to penetrate one another. it was a pleasant confusion, and made him giggle at times. towards the end of the dinner, he conceived the project of a drama, a myth in dialogue form, which would be entitled _hercules_. he would show vice, under the guise of a woman--who in the master's mind resembled zozé exactly--entering the house of the now aged hero. and the latter would lament, would weep over his departed youth, and would implore the gods to give it back to him.... the drama developed according to this theme, in lofty axioms and lyrical plaints. this was a much more likely conception than that which represented hercules choosing, in the prime of his youth, between vice and virtue. did such a choice offer itself in real life? of course not; one walked on with the one, misunderstanding the other, and vice versa. what libertine did not some day regret the hours spent in debauchery? what man of intellect did not deplore, at some fatal moment, the fact that he had lived in ignorance of the forbidden pleasures? rare were the men, who, by divine grace, mixed the practice of both in a fair proportion.... there would be, besides, in his myth, avenging blank verses against vice, against mme. chambannes! m. raindal rose and shook the crumbs off his waistcoat. in a shaky hand he took his felt hat and walking-stick which the headwaiter handed him. then, his eyes somewhat cloudy, he walked up the boulevards. darkness had fallen. the merry crowd of nocturnal walkers rubbed elbows on the pavement. a late summer breath bent the tips of the withering chestnut trees. m. raindal once more thought of zozé, of the lime-trees and the park. a thousand seductive images zigzagged under his burning cranium. he felt like embracing, hugging, loving someone. when he passed the door of the olympia, the posters attracted him. he saw women in tights, equilibrists and a young person in a low-neck dress, standing in the middle of a group of trained dogs. above the posters the name of the establishment, made up of red electric bulbs, scintillated in ruby-colored letters. girls went in, alone or by twos. through the half-open swinging doors came confused whiffs of lively music. m. raindal hesitated. then, with a gesture as quick as a pickpocket's, he tore from his button-hole his button of an officer of the légion d'honneur. he marched straight to the ticket-office, then disappeared inside. chapter xviii the next morning, towards eleven, mlle. clara laneret, better known in night cabarets by her nickname of _l'irlandaise_, bent over the banister of her staircase to watch someone go down. "eh, monsieur!" she exclaimed suddenly, discreetly recalling him. "you will come again, won't you?" the "monsieur"--that is to say, m. eusèbe raindal, member of the institute of france, officer of the légion d'honneur, author of the _life of cleopatra_ and of several other important books--the "monsieur" replied in a weak voice, rendered even more hollow by the distance of the steps: "yes, yes, certainly, i shall come back!..." what a disgrace! what turpitude! he had followed that brunette girl, missed his train, lost his self-respect altogether! ah! if his family, if zozé were to see him on that sordid staircase running out, pursued by the tenderness of clara l'irlandaise!... and now, where was he to go? what could he do till the hour of his train? he stopped on the edge of the pavement, trying to read on the high enameled plate, the name of the street--rue d'ams ... rue d'amsterdam--which he had forgotten. his head was heavy, his tongue pasty and he longed to resume his sleep. "i might go and see cyprien," he thought, stiffening himself against slumber. he called a cab. but when he reached the house in the rue d'assas, uncle cyprien had gone out on his tricycle. "not three minutes ago," the concierge assured him. in fact, two hundred meters away, in the rue de fleurus, cyprien was at that very moment stopping before the house where johan schleifmann lived. he put his tricycle--his "beast" as he would have said--under the arch and asked the concierge to keep an eye on it; then he began to climb the stairs. "have you come to fetch me for lunch, my friend?" schleifmann asked, when he had opened the door to him. "one minute, please! i'll put my frockcoat on and go with you!" they walked into the study, a light, spacious, garret, the red tiles of which were half covered with two straw mats. m. raindal the younger's expression was both amused and ceremonious. he sat in an old armchair and declared, as, with a stage gesture, he took off his wide, brown sombrero: "no, my friend, i have not come to fetch you.... i have come to talk to you...." "what has happened?" asked schleifmann. "this has happened, my dear fellow, that ... that i am presenting to you a man who is done for, absolutely done for!" and he added, while the galician lifted his arms in a gesture of surprise. "yes, schleifmann! i have gambled in gold mines and i have lost...." "i was sure of it!" the galician exclaimed, stamping angrily on the red tiles. "how much have you lost?" "one hundred and ten thousand francs, my dear friend!... yes, there is no need for you to open your eyes so wide.... i said it: one hundred and ten thousand francs!... at the last settlement, on the th, i had only lost fifty thousand francs.... thanks to the help of m. de meuze, who had written to his friend m. pums, the father of your pupil, i made arrangements with talloire, my stockbroker--for i have a stockbroker, is it comical enough, eh! i, a stockbroker!--i made arrangements with talloire, i say, for him to carry me over; in other words, an operation which allowed me a delay for settling up and permitted me to gamble again.... you know?... good!... i gambled again.... the smash came, more terrible than ever, organized by the whole black band.... i was stubborn; i gave orders right and left.... result: sixty thousand francs added to my losses!" "oh, my poor raindal, my poor friend!" the galician murmured, shaking his head. "that is not all!" uncle cyprien added. "i have asked to be carried over again.... nothing doing! pums did not receive me, and talloire kicked me out.... i wrote to the marquis, who is holidaying at deauville; no reply!... therefore, this afternoon, unless i have paid up, i shall be 'executed' at the bourse, and, this evening, i shall execute myself at home!... tell me, schleifmann, am i done for or am i not?" the galician took a turn round the room, with his usual dragging gait, grumbling: "devilish idiot! devilish idiot!" then he asked brusquely. "what about your pension, raindal?... you could perhaps borrow on that?" "child!" exclaimed m. raindal, the younger, paternally. "do you think that i have waited for you to think of that? guess what i have been offered for my pension by the usurers: fifteen thousand francs, fifteen paltry thousand francs, not a damned sou more!" the galician thought. then after a time he said: "listen, raindal!... i have put five thousand francs by.... with your fifteen thousand, that would give you twenty.... do you want them?" cyprien came over to press his hand. "you are a very good friend, schleifmann," he said.... "i am very grateful to you.... that _would_ give me twenty, yes, that is to say, a little less than twenty per cent, enough to make arrangements which would cause some men to call me an honest man, and others--a thief. but after that, my friend! after that, how should i exist? i would not have a penny, not a sou.... i would need to look for a job and, what is more difficult, to find one.... no, you see, i would never have the patience.... i prefer to end it at once!" "you are speaking foolishly!" schleifmann protested. "to end it!... why should you?... what a lazy rent-holder you are!... devil take it, you could work!" "work!" grunted cyprien.... "i would work if i were given work to do!... a man of my age, who has been hammered on 'change.... you know, that is not precisely a good recommendation!" schleifmann scratched his thick gray hair, thinking fast. at length, he asked: "come, my dear cyprien!... i have an idea.... supposing you were allowed to carry over, would you be able to re-establish your finances?" "i can promise nothing!" cyprien replied. "but there would be a chance.... this crash will not last.... people affirm on all sides that it is due to a maneuver of the black band.... before the end of this fortnight, everything may be changed.... at all events, if one has to blow up, it would be finer to have fought to the end...." "and, of course, you would gamble again?" "no, schleifmann! i would not gamble again.... i would maintain my position, as they say ... my splendid position, and i would wait for things to turn up!" "will you swear it to me on the head of your niece, mlle. thérèse?" "i don't like this oath idea very much!... well, let it be so!... i swear it, upon the head of my nephew.... but why all these preambles and questions?" "well, here is my idea!" schleifmann said solemnly. "where is m. pums at this hour?" uncle cyprien consulted his watch. "noon!... he must be at the bourse." "very good! i am going to see him.... i shall attempt to get him to have you carried over.... he is not a bad fellow.... at the time of my affair of the reforms, you remember, cyprien, don't you, he was one of those who received me with the least roughness. again, he left me his son as a pupil, his overdressed gummy son.... well, i have some hopes.... what do you say?" "all right! if i am carried over!" cyprien said skeptically. "let me go down, then.... a cab, quick!... huf! huf!" downstairs, cyprien asked the concierge to take his "beast" back to the rue d'assas, and the two old friends climbed into an open carriage. they were silent for a few minutes; then m. raindal said with sarcasm. "the one time in my life that i have had anything to do with the jews, you must admit, my dear schleifmann, has brought me no luck!" "and m. de meuze?" the galician replied aggressively. "m. de meuze who led you to this, is _he_ a jew?" "no, that's true enough," cyprien admitted. "he is not a jew.... but he is judaized, which comes to the same thing." "and i, a jew, who always told you not to touch that dirty business, how about me?" "you! that's different! you are a good jew!" cyprien interrupted. as usual, when he heard that remark, schleifmann could not dissimulate an angry gesture. m. raindal regretted his lack of tact and attempted to turn the matter; he gave a mass of minute directions and topographic particulars touching the plan of the bourse and the place where pums was to be found. "by the way," he added, "take care of the clerks' pranks! true, they will probably not be very much in a mood for joking to-day.... nevertheless, be careful of their funny tricks! the first day i myself, went to the bourse, why, they slipped a paper arrow under the collar of my coat; on it was written in large letters the word: _topper!_... i know that it has no importance.... just the same, it is sometimes very annoying at the moment!" the carriage stopped before the gate of the monument. "i shall wait for you here!" raindal shouted after the galician as he walked away. "good luck for us both, and courage, my dear friend!" up above, under the colonnade, or top of the steps, was the mournful bourse of the days of _débâcle_. not a laugh, not a chat, no outburst of merry voices. the faces were ghastly pale; the bravest attempted a joke, twitching their features in lying smiles which were more hideous than grimaces. over that lugubrious silence came the vociferations of the agents, the outbidding downward, the monotonous shouts of the sales, sales at any price. they were all selling. an unfortunate mistake led the galician right into the midst of the agents who were dealing with the gold mines. politely he removed his hat and stood before a fair young man who had ceased shouting. "excuse me, monsieur," he said. "will you be good enough to tell me where i can find m. pums?" the other looked at him, dumfounded.... m. pums, on such a day, at such a time! as if he had nothing else to do! wait, wait a bit, old man, they are going to give it to you; they'll show you m. pums!... and, of a sudden, on a wink from the blonde young man, with repeated shouts of "m. pums! m. pums!" a frantic rush sent the unfortunate schleifmann forward. "m. pums! m. pums!" the galician passed from hand to hand, from group to group, thrown from _gold_ to _cash_, from _cash_ to _gold_, from _gold_ to _values_, from _values_ to _external_, from _external_ to _turkish_. all of them, despite the tragic hour, despite the anguish of that day's operations, sought relief for their nerves in that brutal game, relaxed their hearts and arms by molesting the old intruder.... "m. pums! m. pums!" he landed in a corner of the circular hall; his gold-rimmed spectacles all awry, his hat thrown on the floor in a final cuff. a little messenger, in a bottle-green livery, took pity on his distress. "here, monsieur!" he said, picking up schleifmann's hat. "you want m. pums!... i work at the bank.... m. pums is at his office, rue vivienne." "thank you, youngster!" the galician stammered. "thanks very much, my boy!" slowly, looking back at every step for fear of a treacherous blow, and polishing his poor hat with his sleeve, he walked down the steps. * * * * * the hall of the bank was crowded with solicitors when the galician entered. there were agents, bucket-shop brokers, financial go-betweens of all kinds, some seated, their eyes on their shoes, in a defeated attitude, others standing talking by groups in corners or near the windows, with the measured accents one uses in the room of the dying. alone, the usher in green livery, seated behind his oak rostrum, seemed indifferent to the cares of those about him and read placidly the serial story in the _petit journal_. he barely moved his eyelids to decipher the card which schleifmann pushed before him and fell back to his paper, saying, "very good, monsieur.... please take a seat!" "i do not want a seat!" said schleifmann, who was holding himself in hand. "i am asking you to take my card to m. pums, and at once, do you hear?" "impossible, sir.... _monsieur le sous-directeur_ is attending a conference. he has given orders that no one should come in until he rings...." then he added, pointing to the gathered agents and brokers: "besides, all these gentlemen here are ahead of you." "i don't know whether these gentlemen ..." and here the galician's voice became more haughty, "are ahead of me.... but i ask you once more to hand my card.... you will tell m. pums that it is a serious matter, that a man's life is in danger." the usher stared impudently at schleifmann. that dramatic language, that silk hat brushed away, that tie all in disorder, and that foreign accent--some poor devil, some jewish beggar, no doubt. he did not even condescend to answer and took up his reading again. "i say, did you hear me?" stammered schleifmann, incensed by so much insolence. "yes or no, are you going to take my card in?" "when m. pums rings, sir!" the usher reiterated, curling his mustache, his body still bent towards the paper. "i cannot go before he does." "you cannot!" schleifmann almost shouted. "very good! we shall see...." he walked towards a tall door painted brown which he supposed to be that of pums' office. "where are you going?" the usher asked, barring his advance with outstretched arms. the galician gave a sharp push of his shoulders and threw the man aside. "i go where it pleases me! get out of here, damn you!" some of the dealers hurried to the call of the usher and surrounded schleifmann, questioning him. their intervention completed the galician's exasperation. he had a sudden vision of the recent scene, a jostling mob, fists shaken, ugly faces. all that might be coming again! his voice became threatening. "what are you butting into this for?... we are not at the bourse here! leave me alone; the first man who lays a hand on me i will kick in the stomach!" "what! you, schleifmann!" said pums, who opened his door when he heard the fracas. "is it you, talking about kicking people in the stomach?" the galician took off his hat and said in lower tones: "yes, ... it was i, m. pums.... they wanted to prevent me from seeing you.... and it is an urgent matter. as i was telling that ill-bred usher, it is a matter of a man's life!" "but, at the present moment ..." the assistant director protested. "when a man's life is at stake, there is no such thing as a moment, m. pums! believe me.... let me speak with you. some day, you will thank me for this!" "all right!" said pums, darting a sly wink of apology and connivance at the agents. schleifmann followed him in and closed the door behind him. pums sat at his desk of purple ebony; schleifmann opposite him, his back to the door. he laid his hat on the table. "i shall be brief, m. pums," he began. "in a word, as i told you, it is a matter of a man's life.... this man--i shall not conceal his name any longer--is my best friend, m. cyprien raindal, brother of m. raindal of the institute.... his situation you know already.... if he does not pay up, he is smashed.... and, i may add, if he is smashed, he will kill himself.... i came to ask you to have his account carried over...." "i would do it with pleasure, m. schleifmann...." pums murmured in german, preferring to use that tongue in delicate transactions. "allow me!" schleifmann retorted, also in german and because of an analogous preference. "allow me! i am not through yet.... you will ask me what interest you have in saving my friend cyprien.... i will tell you.... it is a sacred interest, it is the interest of your own race, of your family, of your children, of your grandchildren, of your great-grandchildren...." "sorry to interrupt you!" said m. pums, drumming his desk impatiently. "we are right in the middle of a panic.... i have twenty persons to see.... i beg you; you promised me to be brief ... be so!" "i shall!" said schleifmann. and he started an interminable discourse. his thesis was that pums, who had guided cyprien in his first speculations, owed him support at the hour of his failure. what, at the most, would this help which would be rather moral support cost him? not more than a risk, a mere signature. even if he were to lose the sum which he would thus endorse, would he be thereby impoverished, incommoded in his train of life, he whose actual fortune was estimated at three millions or more? on the other hand, what a glory for israel, what a noble tradition in the family, what a magnanimous example attached to the name of pums, this legend would become as it passed from lip to lip: a rich israelite, generously saving from misery, from suicide, a little ex-official, a christian, lured to his ruin by a taste for lucre and by gambling!... such acts, as they multiplied, would do more for the jews than a thousand gifts to the poor, a thousand sanitary foundations celebrated by the press with much din of praise. such acts would carry further than charity. for they would have originated from a higher source, from humanity, from justice itself.... the galician ended at last. pums looked up with a slight jerk and leaned back in his armchair. "my dear m. schleifmann," he announced in a doctoral tone, "i pay homage to your intentions; you are an excellent man but, allow me to say it, you understand nothing of business...." a quick blinking of his eyelids accentuated all that was unfavorable in that verdict in m. pum's estimation. he then went on: "no, nothing, absolutely nothing.... for instance, you imagine that you know what your friend's situation is? you don't know the first word of it. if m. cyprien raindal had listened to me, if he had been satisfied to follow my advice, his losses would be insignificant, about like those of the marquis de meuze, his protector, seven, eight, perhaps ten thousand francs at the most.... but your friend wished to show his cleverness.... he followed his own ideas. _il s'est enfilé_, as we say in the slang of the bourse.... and, to-day, he faces the result.... whose fault is it? mine or his, tell me?" "m. pums," the stubborn galician replied. "i did not come here to talk business to you.... you are right, i know nothing about it.... i came as a jew and a friend to talk _heart_ to you, to talk justice, to enlist your aid for this brave fellow of whom i am very fond.... if you do not give it, it will be a pity and it will be very sad, because he will die of it!" "very regrettable," pums said, "but not certain.... and then, frankly, m. schleifmann, think it over.... you are asking too much! he is not a relation, this m. cyprien raindal, not a friend, at best an acquaintance.... to help him, to be obliging to him--why, it seems to me that i would not begrudge my time.... but in order to save him, i should have to assume his liability in my own name.... i have no choice between the means.... the panic is general.... no one at all is allowed to carry over his account. the bank of england itself refuses to allow it.... and, according to you, i should personally pledge myself for one hundred and ten thousand francs on behalf of a man i have seen three times in my life?... no, that is not reasonable.... at every séance of the bourse, there would be ten like him to save.... my fortune would not be sufficient...." he grew more animated, stamping around the table, his thumbs in the shoulder-holes of his waistcoat. "and why should i do this? in order that people should speak well of the jews, burn incense before israel.... go on! i don't care a rap for the jews.... i have no prejudices.... every man for himself.... let them look after their affairs.... i have no hundred and ten thousand francs to throw out of the window like this!" he came to a stop before schleifmann. "bah! do you imagine that i am making anything out of this mining business?... i am caught like the others.... i am losing huge sums, the very eyes out of my head." involuntarily his big round eyeballs showed, in their self-denouncing projection, that he had not lost everything yet. schleifmann at least did not seem altogether convinced, for he answered pums, insinuatingly: "yet, the fall is instigated by the black band.... and the black band--they are your friends!" "my friends?" repeated pums, suddenly all abashed. then he recovered his self-control and added: "oh, yes! nice friends! you may speak of them.... wretches!... imbeciles!... men who stupidly lead the market to ruin, who know nothing but the rise and fall of stocks! ah! clever work!... i congratulate them!" schleifmann did not give up the thread of his arguments. "nevertheless, these imbeciles, these wretches, you will see them again, to-morrow, or the next day...." "what are you talking about?" pums exclaimed, to mask his hesitation.... "shall i see them again?... well, yes, i presume so.... but i guarantee you that i shall tell them what i think. at this moment, see, if i had one of them handy...." "_alzo! wie gehts!_" a cordial voice cried out in german behind schleifmann. pums did not finish his sentence. he had taken on a sinister pallor; his chocolate-colored eyeballs were even more haggard and prominent, as if they were on the point of jumping out of their sockets. schleifmann turned round and recognized herschstein. the head of the black band entered by a side door, his hat on his head, smiling, without knocking, as if he were at home, as master; brilliantine shone in silvery eddies in his patriarchal gray beard. when he caught sight of schleifmann, he recoiled prudently; his venerable face took on a different expression and he murmured modestly: "ah! you are busy!" pums, who was diligently sorting some papers, did not reply. schleifmann examined them both in turn, a flame of contempt in his eyes. "eh, m. pums!" he commanded sarcastically. "i am waiting.... here is one of them.... go ahead!... let him know what you think of it.... tell him! ha! you have forgotten! patience, m. herschstein.... it will come.... m. pums has a heartload to let out for you!... he is trying to find.... sit down!" "what does this mean?" herschstein asked, icily. "i shall explain, my dear friend!" stammered pums. "we were talking of m. raindal's brother, who is losing on the mines.... m. schleifmann is joking...." "am i joking!" the galician said, smashing his fist on the table so violently that the ink came out of the inkstand. "truly, here is ground for joking indeed!" he eyed them both. "so! you are in league!... so, 'it goes!'... you, m. pums, you make up a pair with m. herschstein.... and you, m. herschstein, you come to give account!... congratulations! it must have been a fine massacre!... write it down, m. pums. i shall dictate: profits of september nd: m. cyprien raindal, one hundred and ten thousand francs.... hah! m. pums, how much of that do you get? ten thousand? fifteen thousand?" he chuckled, then suddenly his face fell under an intolerable sadness. "malediction!" he groaned, prowling about the room. "malediction and misery!... yes, ever since sinai, there has been the same eternal misunderstanding!... god gives his people supreme intelligence and his people prostitute it to the basest works, and then god exacts vengeance because his people ignore him! it is the whole history of israel, all their unhappiness.... malediction! malediction!... when shall this cease?... you are not a fool, m. pums, nor you either, m. herschstein!... but you believe, don't you, that the lord has given you this power of mind so that you can manipulate the markets, and pile up gold.... madmen that you are! i see the hand of the lord over you!... it was because they had betrayed his law that your ancestors went to babylon, to nineveh and to egypt! and for the same reason, you will have to go elsewhere!" he stretched out his arm towards mysterious far distant places. "yes! the lord will make you sleep under tents once more and, with you, there may be some who are innocent, meek and lowly ones, toilers ... unless, beforehand, they all break away from you!" "enough, m. schleifmann!" dryly declared herschstein, who was gradually recovering his arrogance. "enough of your jeremiads! we know your ideas.... you are an anti-semite, a renegade! it is well known!" schleifmann lifted his arms again and looked up at the ceiling. "a renegade!" he repeated, "anti-semite!... adonaï! adonaï! hearest thou what this man is saying to me?" "moreover," added pums who, like herschstein, had recovered his ease, "moreover, when it comes to people being expelled, you might very well be before we are, m. schleifmann! for we are french, we ... while you...." a frantic laugh cut him short. schleifmann exploded with bitter merriment, a prey to a fit of wild hilarity. "french! you french!" he exclaimed, between two sobs of laughter. "but you are neither french, nor german, nor austrians, nor anything at all--least of all jews!... your jewry oppresses you under your clothing.... it oppresses you in drawing-rooms, in clubs, everywhere you go! it makes you itch, like a haircloth.... you wear it without good grace, without good nature, without pride! you only acknowledge it with regret.... it makes you pale!... you are unacquainted with its most elementary dogmas.... and, were it not that you fear it might hurt you in your business, i wager that, to-morrow morning, you would all seek to be naturalized as catholics!" "we do not argue with possessed people!" cried herschstein, whose forehead and cheeks were striped with livid lines. "with whom do you argue, if you please?" schleifmann vociferated. "with dross like yourself? for i tell you, in the words of ezekiel: 'you are all dross, all dross of brass, of lead, of iron; you are all dross of silver.... and the lord shall precipitate you in the crucible to melt you under the breath of his anger!'" he had given the hebrew text. now he gave it in german, and it was such a volley of harsh, thundering syllables that pums began to take fright. what would the agents and the clerks in the hall nearby think of this noise? he decided to try audacity and said haltingly: "that will do, m. schleifmann!... enough scandal!... i ask you to retire.... shut up and get out, or damn it all, i will call the police!" "ah! that would complete the day!" schleifmann exclaimed. "no! but do it; do it, so that i can laugh a little more!... have me removed to the police station for a religious brawl!... have me arrested!... jeremiah was arrested twice.... hamasiah also and micah as well, and many others.... it is natural.... no, i stay right here, if only just to see it happen! the police!... ha! ha!" "he is mad, raving mad!" pums murmured, his face convulsed. "not at all," herschstein said in an attempt at irony. "you haven't got it right.... he is a prophet, my friend, a great prophet!" "alas, no, m. herschstein!" the galician retorted simply. "i am too old; i have passed the age.... i regret it.... until the social question is settled for everyone in a scientific fashion, as my master karl marx wished it, it would do you no harm to find, on saturday at the synagogue, instead of your rabbis who flatter you, a sort of sophonia who would say to you: 'lament! ye dwellers in the market-place! all who traffic shall be....'" again the avalanche of hebrew and german poured forth. pums, his nerves overtaxed, closed his ears. herschstein contracted his hand upon his moses-like beard. then a light of hope came to his anxious eyes. he had found an objection. "what about the christians?" he said victoriously. "don't the christians traffic?" "it is no concern of ours what the christians do!" schleifmann thundered, cutting the space with a broad forbidding gesture. "they have their god to punish them and socialism to reduce them!... but you ... you are the people of the lord!... you owe a spontaneous example to the others! you must be _better_!... enjoy less and suffer more!... such is your destiny! your difficult glory!... they are unique in the world! you can only avoid them by meeting worse sufferings! you are the people of the lord!" messrs. pums and herschstein would have readily deprived themselves of belonging to that people! to show the example to the others, they! why they, more than the others? no, this time, upon their honor, they failed to understand. and that rain of quotations, that prophetic storm which was still raging! better leave the place to him, better find some pretext for a flight. pums winked rapidly to warn herschstein and then said deliberately: "you came to sign those papers, didn't you?" "yes!" herschstein replied, winking back at him. "well, then, will you come this way?..." he opened a door at the back and kept his hand on the handle, pluckily protecting the retreat of his ally. "i leave you here, m. schleifmann!" he said. "the exit is opposite.... as to your lessons to my son, there is no need for you to trouble about them any more. send me your bill and we shall end it there.... _au plaisir!_" schleifmann, stupefied by this flight, stood still, with his mouth open. he racked his mind for a biting word, for a last deadly venomous apostrophe! then he came close to the door through which pums had disappeared. "you are the chosen people of the lord!" he clamored frantically. he went back into the hall, threw a challenging look at the usher and, recollecting the anxiety of his friend cyprien, hurried down the steps. "well?" m. raindal asked, with a suppliant movement of his jaw. "nothing!" schleifmann replied. "nothing!... the scoundrel would not do a thing!" "i could have sworn to it!" uncle cyprien sighed, sliding down despairingly. schleifmann sat beside him in the carriage and asked, "where shall i drive you, my dear raindal? to the brasserie?" "no, schleifmann! i am not hungry.... better take me home!" they started. the galician narrated his interview. uncle cyprien listened in silence, his body crumpled up, his eyes dull, his face rigid. schleifmann was still relating when they reached the pont des saints-pères. "and i am not telling you a quarter of it, my friend!" the galician concluded, still in the fever of his epopee. "i am forgetting some of it!... true, i did not obtain anything!... true, i lost a pupil!... but i have told them what i thought of them!" "you may have told them what you thought of them, my friend," cyprien remarked judiciously. "but that does not prevent my being done for, the most undone of all men!" he made a motion as if to stride out of the carriage. schleifmann pulled him back. "ho! cyprien! what's the matter?" "i feel very much like chucking myself into the seine.... it is right here, under my very nose.... it would save me a trip!" the galician shrugged his shoulders philosophically. "don't be foolish, raindal!... be serious, my dear fellow! your brother is not your brother for nothing!... he'll pull you out of it! he will arrange this affair!" "if he arranges it as you have done, be it said without reproach, schleifmann, i am sorry for my creditors!" raindal retorted calmly. he said not another word until they reached the rue d'assas. but while schleifmann paid the driver, cyprien felt a sudden sensation of weakness. "schleifmann!" he called out. "i am coming!" the galician replied. there was a dull sound. a brown sombrero rolled into the gutter. m. raindal had sunk, bent in two, on the pavement, all his nerves relaxed, his limbs flabby--a bundle of lifeless flesh with a face of chalk-like pallor. * * * * * near the bed where they had laid cyprien, still inanimate, schleifmann wrote feverishly. "here!" he told the concierge, who was finishing putting the patient's clothes in order, "when you go to the drug-store, you will please send this telegram to m. eusèbe raindal, the brother of m. raindal." "m. eusèbe raindal!" the concierge protested. "but he is in paris, monsieur!... he called this morning, just after m. cyprien had gone, and he told me to inform his brother that he would come again this afternoon." "ah!" said schleifmann, surprised. "very well, then; no telegram.... go straight to the rue notre-dame-des-champs! listen, don't frighten the poor man.... tell him that his brother is ill." "yes, yes! monsieur may rest assured.... i'll tell him that as he ought to be told." nevertheless, m. raindal was stammering with emotion when, half an hour later, he entered the room. "what? what?" he asked, forgetting to salute schleifmann. "cyprien is ill ... gravely?" "you can see for yourself, monsieur!" the galician replied. "a stroke!... he fell in the street. my own physician, doctor chesnard, has just been here and suggests that it is an embolism. he is coming again to-night. cyprien had gambled in mining stock and lost enormous sums." he added more details. the master interrupted him with distressed exclamations. "is it possible!... had i but known!... oh! poor fellow!... poor fellow!... why did he hide it from me?" when schleifmann had told him all, there were a few minutes of mutual embarrassment. the two men had at no time felt any affinity for each other. schleifmann considered m. raindal a narrow-minded man, timorous and dried up with erudition. he did not deny the merit of the master's works but reproached him with keeping out of the great contemporary problems. m. raindal, on the other hand, had always disliked schleifmann, whom he charged with stimulating the subversive instincts of his brother. now, compelled to sympathize over a pious duty, they both would have liked to destroy those ancient grievances which their loyalty blushed to keep back. m. raindal was the first to be emboldened enough to fib. he spoke most cordially. "m. schleifmann! circumstances have been such that we have not become fast friends.... but i knew your affection for my poor cyprien; i knew the wide range of your culture, the reliability of your character; you may be sure that i have always felt the most earnest esteem for you." the galician replied with tactful praise of m. raindal's books. the discomfort disappeared. it vanished altogether when the concierge came back with drugs, mustard plasters and leeches. both busied themselves nursing the patient; they had no leisure until the evening. at the approach of night, uncle cyprien awoke from his torpor. he opened his eyes and looked absently about the room. gradually he appeared to remember. "ah, yes!" he murmured. "the bourse! the smash!" he tried to stretch himself. a resistance on his left side caused him to frown. he felt his left shoulder with his right hand, which remained free. "ah! i am paralyzed, somewhere there.... that's nice!" he grunted. again he inspected the room with the same infant-like stare of his mobile, toneless eyes. the presence of schleifmann and his brother, who were watching him at the foot of the bed, caused him a momentary perplexity. who were those men? he hesitated, having the impression that he knew them without being able to call them by name. "eusèbe ..." he uttered at last. "sch ... schleifmann!" m. raindal went forward, stretching out his hand. uncle cyprien smiled sadly and said in a hoarse voice, stammering a little: "heh! what a state they have put me in, these fellows!... i fell on the pavement.... did schleifmann explain to you?" "yes, my dear, fellow! don't get yourself tired!" "and the money?" the ex-official went on. "did schleifmann tell you that, too? do you know that i owe one hundred and ten thousand francs. a nice thing for a raindal!... to die leaving one hundred and ten thousand francs' debts! if poor father had seen such a thing!" "hush, reassure yourself!" the master said. "first of all, you seem to me on the road to recovery...." in reply cyprien touched his dead shoulder. "as to your debts!" the master added. "i will make them my affair. i have saved ninety thousand francs and i give them up to you without much regret.... my salary and what i get for my books and articles will amply suffice for all of us to live on and even to pay, a little each year, the unpaid balance.... well, i hope that your mind is relieved." "yes, thanks! i thank you!" cyprien replied distractedly, the leeches and the mustard plasters pricking him terribly. then he forced himself to add: "just the same, poor eusèbe.... i have very often teased you, worried you! how many jokes have i not played upon you? but if i had been told that i would ruin you one day, i, uncle cyprien, with my hundred francs a month, my board at the brasserie and my garret at five hundred francs a year, well!... no, no! it is incredible! to think that all this happened because, because...." his impotent thoughts wandered through the complications of his adventure; then he went on after a pause: "yes, because ... because, to annoy you, i wished to go to that mme. rhâm-bâhan and there met the ... the marquis ... the marquis de...." he moved his eyelids, but a weight seemed to dominate them. he fell asleep again, with an uneven breathing, sometimes imperceptible, sometimes snoring and galloping like the wind on a log fire. his cheeks became purple. his throat rattled with a scraping noise. congestion was beginning. on his return, dr. chesnard assumed a face of ill-omen. he made a new prescription and ordered more violent revulsives. as he was leaving, m. raindal suggested for the next day a consultation with dr. gombauld, his colleague of the academy of medicine. "well, monsieur!" dr. chesnard said contemptuously, shaking his small, bald, gray head.... "i am only a district doctor and have no ambition. i shall speak to you quite frankly. gombauld or no gombauld--it will make little difference. an embolism is an embolism. there are not ten thousand treatments for such a case. there is only one, and it is that which i have indicated.... of course, if a consultation appeals to you, i see no inconvenience in having it." the meeting was fixed for noon. they arranged a bed with a mattress and blankets in the front room, on the green rep couch. every other hour the galician, after watching the patient, went to stretch out upon it. m. raindal could not sleep. when his regret for his little pupil did not torment him, it was remorse, scruples of his conscience, the need to absolve himself. the halting words of cyprien rang in his ears, like the repercussion of an endless echo. "all this because i wanted to go to that mme. rhâm-bâhan and met there the ... the marquis!" surely that was false reasoning! a childish conception of the relation between cause and effect! but the particle of truth which perfumes every error nevertheless spread its venomous aroma in m. raindal's soul. evidently, he was not responsible for the mortal accident which had struck his brother. had he been informed in time, he would have made the hardest sacrifices in order to tear the poor fellow away from the wheels of stock-gambling. yet, who knew if, but for his intervention, for this fatal love which held him, who knew if uncle cyprien would have ever met "the ... the marquis?" who could say but that this love, guilty already of so many faults against sane morality and the sentiments due to others, had not its share also--small but real--in the present calamity? m. raindal continued to sigh about it. he was wet with perspiration. at last, fatigue got the better of insomnia. he only awoke at eight, to open the door to thérèse and mme. raindal. behind them, the bearded head of young boerzell saluted him. summoned by telegram, the women had traveled all night. their hair in disorder, their faces sprinkled with coal dust, where drying tears had traced white lines, expressed better than their voices the anguish of their night journey. m. raindal kissed them both with an unusual effusion of tenderness, then led them, himself in tears, to the room of uncle cyprien. the latter was still sleeping, his sleep alternately tumultuous and lethargic; his skin was more purple and blacker in places than the day before, at the beginning of the crisis. mme. raindal knelt down beside the bed, her hands crossed. they waited for the doctors, commenting on the drama. the doctors came precisely at noon. the consultation was short. dr. gombauld approved his colleague's prescriptions. for the rest, he refused to foretell: nature would decide. "what did i tell you?" dr. chesnard said contemptuously, on reaching the door. and he promised to return in the course of the evening. when he did return, the only result of his visit was that their alarm was increased. the physician left, refusing to give an opinion as to the issue of the night. an hour later, delirium took possession of uncle cyprien. at first, there were nothing but vague exclamations, inarticulate complaints. but they soon became more precise. he named people, insulted certain enemies, all the immemorial enemies of uncle cyprien, the whole troop of grafters, _youpins_, _calotins_ and _rastas_! it was as if they were dancing with triumphant laughter a satanic round about his cot, breaking his chest with heavy boots, at times, for he took on attitudes of defense or of fear as if he were under the iron shoes of a horse. to exercise this evil rout, he tired his lungs with words of abuse, with insults taken from the vocabulary of his favorite author. his forefinger threatened; his fist hammered the empty space. suddenly, it seemed that the saraband was scattered. by a chance turn of his memory, one preponderating image effaced the malice of the others: the image of an illustrious statesman, of a minister renowned for his fight against boulangism. that legendary figure appeared before the bed and, without bending, it reached uncle cyprien with the hands that completed its enormous arms. "oh! oh!..." m. raindal, the younger, roared out in terror. "here is the old pirate now!... oh! those arms!... what arms he has!... will you go away, old pirate! will you let go of me!" the imaginary grasp was stronger than his cries. in vain he put his hands to his throat. he was choking. he fell back in a coma. he stayed in it all the evening, all night. the family waited in the next room and took turns watching the patient with schleifmann, boerzell and a medical student sent by dr. gombauld. at eleven, when the women and schleifmann had fallen asleep on couches and chairs, m. raindal signaled with his eyes for the young savant to come to him. "my dear m. boerzell," the master whispered softly, "thérèse has told me everything this afternoon.... it seems that, while at langrune, you came to an agreement. for my part, i am very glad of it.... but you know what disaster has befallen us.... without speaking of poor cyprien, it is complete ruin for us, and thérèse will have neither dowry nor expectations of any kind. i wanted formally to warn you, knowing by experience what are the expenses of a _ménage_, ... children to be brought up, expenses...." "i am very much obliged to you for your sincerity, dear master!" boerzell interrupted him, in the same tone. "however, these sad events have not modified my intentions towards mlle. thérèse...." he paused, ever careful of measure, of truth and exactness, then added: "i shall not go so far as to tell you that i am indifferent to these money considerations.... on the contrary, it is certain that a dowry and some expectations would have been a precious help to my wife's comfort and the education of our children.... but our marriage can easily take place without this help. i feel that i am full of energy, and the prospect of a little more mediocre work is not enough to move the young and vigorous man i feel myself to be.... therefore, i maintain my request, dear master!" schleifmann left the room to join the medical student. m. raindal and the young savant shook hands affectionately; then, each on a chair, their chins in their hands, they fell gradually asleep. towards dawn, the interne woke them all up. the agony had begun. it proved a long one. uncle cyprien's insurgent soul rebelled against death as it had rebelled against life. choked by blood, he wished to breathe, to live still; his well arm repulsed the asphyxia with an imperative gesture which seemed to express his indignation. finally he lost his breath. he distended his purple face, his twisted lips in a supreme effort and fell back, defeated, immobile, delivered. mme. raindal threw herself on her knees and prayed with abundant tears. schleifmann, one elbow resting on the marble mantel-piece, his hands over his eyes, quietly chanted some hebraic words. thérèse sobbed on her father's shoulders. the interne opened the window and pushed back the shutters through which there already came some golden rays. with the fresh splendor of the morning brightness an outburst of chirping penetrated the room. it was the sparrows of the luxembourg which sang merrily on the branches, unwittingly chirping a last good-by to their old friend, cyprien raindal. chapter xix on the morning of the burial, thérèse was in her room, busy sorting papers they had found in her uncle's room, when brigitte knocked at the door. "a lady, mademoiselle!" the maid said. "mme. chambannes, i think." a frown appeared on mlle. raindal's velvety eyebrows. "did you tell her that monsieur and madame had gone out?" "yes, mademoiselle! but she said that she would like to see mademoiselle. she is in the drawing-room." "very well, i'll go!" thérèse replied. she threw a rapid glance in the mirror, to examine her dress and her hair, as a woman does on marching to a decisive encounter. her stiff crêpe collar like the neckpiece of a suit of armor kept her head more erect and made her physiognomy more aggressive and severe. the corners of her thin lips arched in an aggressive smile. ah! mme. chambannes wishes to see her! well, all right! she would see her and hear her too! she was going to have her wishes, that lady, and perhaps more than that. thérèse opened the door of the drawing-room. mme. chambannes, in a black dress, black gloves and a black hat, rose slowly. each made a ceremonious salute, from the back of the neck, with an accompaniment of watching looks and glances which already felt each other in the semi-anticipation of a contest. thérèse opened the door of the drawing-room, to take a seat. mme. chambannes murmured hesitatingly! "i wished to tell m. raindal how sorry we were about his loss." "thank you, madame!" thérèse said, dryly. "my father is at the chapel.... i shall transmit your condolences to him, as soon as he comes home." she fell back into silence. mme. chambannes went on, more timidly: "we learned all about it through one of our common friends, the marquis de meuze.... your uncle was not very old, was he?" "forty-two, madame." "still young!" zozé remarked, urged to exaggeration by the fierce looks of thérèse. she walked towards the door, but stopped halfway: "will you be kind enough to tell m. raindal that i shall come to visit him to-morrow?" icily thérèse replied. "do not take this trouble, madame.... my father will not receive." "not even his intimate friends?" "no, madame!... his intentions are formal.... there will be no exception for anyone." "not even for me?" zozé insisted, with a mock sweetness that was really a challenge. her languorous eyes seemed to smile, to elaborate on the question: "i, you know, i, mme. chambannes; i who took him away from you.... your father; i who hold him, who make him do what i want." the provocation caused thérèse to become very pale. "not even for you, madame!" she said with self-restraint.... "father has decided to keep very strict mourning and i trust that no one will attempt to make him change his mind." "so then, you will prevent him from seeing his friends?" thérèse's trembling fingers were opening and shutting on the back of an armchair. "we shall not prevent him from doing anything at all, madame.... i am surprised to hear _you_ using such expressions.... you must have learned in the last six months that our wishes are of little importance against those of my father...." "what do you mean, mademoiselle?" zozé said, with that impertinent phlegm which is often the only resource of worldly women when engaged in a discussion. "i mean," thérèse replied haltingly. "i mean to say, or rather you are compelling me to say that, for the last six months, you have taken my father away from us, you have led him away, engaged him in a grotesque _affaire_, the details and aim of which i know nothing of, but the worry of which has never ceased horribly to torment my mother and myself...." "but, mademois...." "oh! if you please, madame!" thérèse interrupted firmly. "you have sought an explanation. allow me to finish.... yes, you found it quite natural to disunite us, to monopolize this poor man, to drag him in your train, out of vainglory, out of i know not what vain fantasy and without any excuse.... to-day, this catastrophe brings him back to us.... you should find it natural that we should protect him and that, seeing him rescued, we do not wish to lose him again. was it due to my uncle's death or to other emotions with which i am unacquainted that my father seemed, on our return, very weary and much aged. he who is usually so courageous in the hours of sorrow, weeps at every opportunity, he has sudden fits of heavy sobs, like a child.... he needs quiet and a well-regulated, peaceful life. gradually he will return to his family and to his work, and you to your pleasures, which his absence will not appreciably diminish, i should think." zozé blushed imperceptibly under the bantering tone of thérèse's last words. mlle. raindal took advantage of her confusion and added: "leave him to us now, madame! i assure you, it will be better thus.... it will be both straightforward and charitable!" they studied each other in silence for a while and the scorn in their glances seemed a mutual reflection. "not at her best in mourning dress, this mlle. raindal!" mme. chambannes thought to herself. thérèse saw nothing on the charming face but signs of baseness and stupidity. the sound of a key slipped in the keyhole caused them both to lower their eyelids. "will you excuse me, madame?" thérèse said, with a curt nod. without pausing for an answer she walked to the hall, closed the door of the room and whispered in a short enervated voice, while m. raindal put down his gloves and walking-stick: "father, mme. chambannes is here!" "where? where did you say?" m. raindal stammered, his forehead purple. "in the drawing-room!" thérèse replied, eyeing him sharply. "do you wish to see her?" "ah! it would be only decent, it seems to me.... what do you think?" he sought anxiously in his daughter's eyes a permission, an approval. "if you like, father!" thérèse said less sharply. "very well, then!" the master concluded, but he did not budge. an involuntary look in his eyes begged the girl to go away, not to remain treacherously on watch behind the door. she understood his distrust. why oppose him, why upset him in the course of this test whose issue, favorable or not, would at all events be significant. she gave him a friendly look and said: "au revoir! i am going back to my room!" he entered the drawing-room, closing the door behind him after having made sure that the hall was really empty. "my dear master!" zozé murmured tenderly, as she advanced towards him. at the same time, either as a last maneuver to avoid defeat, or from an impulse of filial compassion, she threw herself in his arms. he did not resist. he pressed her against his chest, kissed her haphazard, on her cheeks, on the hair of the neck, sobbing, stammering, not knowing any more what it was he was crying over, his lost brother or his destroyed happiness. "_ma chère amie! ma chère amie!_" he faltered, without tiring of tasting the hitherto unknown joy of holding her in his arms. she released herself from his embrace which she considered too long and, after the first words of sympathy, asked him quietly: "is it true, my dear master, what mlle. thérèse has just told me?" "what was that?" m. raindal said, mopping his eyes. "that you do not want to see me again, that you want to break away from us?" the master did not reply. once more he burst into tears. "why don't you want to?" zozé insisted, as she sat near him on a low stool. "because...." m. raindal sobbed out, unable to finish. "because of what?" zozé asked, helping him as if he were a schoolboy balking at a confession. "speak frankly to me.... am i not your friend?" he contemplated her greedily, with shining eyes where his tears had caused the many little red veins to show more vividly. his words were exhaled rather than spoken: "because my affection for you has taken a turn ... an unfortunate turn, alas an excessive turn, i might even say a guilty turn...." she tried to evince surprise despite the calm of her face. "how, so, dear master?" "yes, yes!" he pursued more distinctly, as if relieved by the admission.... "you know it well enough, my dear friend.... you have known it since the day of my departure from les frettes, you remember?" he collected his thoughts and shook his head. "is it not sad and ridiculous at my age, eh?... at my age!... old and decrepit as i am!... bah! it is not your fault.... i bear you no grudge.... but, i beg of you, don't come here again.... leave me alone.... let me cure myself, if i can!... it will be more charitable!" almost the same words that thérèse had used, an instant before and, indeed, almost the same tone! mme. chambannes, who was, at bottom, not heartless, felt herself thoroughly upset. "good-by, then, dear master!" she sighed, and offered her hand to m. raindal. "good-by, my dear friend!" said the master, whose face was twisted with pain. passionately he pressed to his lips her little black-gloved hand, truly a hand of funerals and eternal parting. "good-by, good-by, since you wish it!" mme. chambannes repeated. "no, i do not _wish_ it!" m. raindal specified. "i _must_ wish it!" she passed out, disappeared on the stairs, with her cadenced gait that the master so much admired. "it was necessary!" he said aloud, when the door was closed. returning to his room, he evoked famous parting scenes, historic adieux: titus and berenice, the _dimisit invitus_ ... and also louis xiv and marie mancini. then suddenly his strength betrayed him. despair, held back by his literary memories, rose to his throat in tears. he collapsed on a chair, his handkerchief over his eyes. "i shall not see her again," he whispered dramatically. "i shall never see her again, ... never ... never!" * * * * * he did, nevertheless, see her again, a few hours later, at the cimetière montparnasse, while a delegate of the atheists' association pronounced the eulogy of uncle cyprien, in front of the gaping tomb. there were not many people, owing to the season, few women especially. all those who had come wore black, but the black garments of zozé among theirs seemed like a queen's dress. her grace, her smartness were still triumphant in mourning. her fine small face, paler than usual near the dark material, had a pleasant seriousness which would have made the master smile, had he not wept so much. his dull glances went successively from zozé to the grave and from the grave to zozé, while his tears ran confusedly for both. the delegate, on concluding his speech, laid on the marble a vast crown of red goldilocks. the family lined up with schleifmann in a little side alley and the audience passed on file, murmuring their condolences. m. raindal, without seeing anyone, pressed the hands of all, those of the indifferent like those of zozé, chambannes, the marquis, even gerald and the abbé touronde, who was somewhat ill at ease among so many free-thinkers. then the procession ceased. all walked to the entrance gate. schleifmann lingered behind, prowling about the grave of his friend cyprien. once free from onlookers, he gave two twenty-sou pieces to one of the grave-diggers. then, after the rite of israel, scratching the ground of a nearby tomb-garden, he three times threw a handful of earth and gravel across the sepulture. the pebbles resounded on the wood of the coffin. in reply, the galician murmured a hebrew verse. his eyes looked up to the heavens. their fervent glance seemed to desire to pierce the mystery of the clouds, into the inaccessible region of destinies. he no longer cursed. he was merely seeking a reply. why did the lord tolerate such iniquitous ruins? by what formidable designs did he associate his people with the accomplishment of such misdeeds? when would he at last raise up in his temple, among his priests, someone, with a free and daring voice--to remind the jews, the proudest and the meekest, of the solemn trust of purity and justice which they once received at the foot of sinai? no sign answered these silent queries. the clouds pursued their peaceful promenade on the blue background of the sky. schleifmann dragged his weary feet to the gate. in the curly locks of his gray beard his lips unconsciously mumbled: "cyprien!... cyprien!..." he remembered the good times spent at klapproth's, the progressive building up of the old theory of the two banks of the river.... a most uncertain, a most contestable theory, if one liked--but a theory which, nevertheless, contained a small portion of the truth! then, how valiantly he would utter it, poor cyprien! with what gayety, what fire, what conviction, and what presentiment perhaps! now, alas, there would be no more cyprien! henceforth, schleifmann, my dear fellow, you will remain a poor lonely soul, vowed to your books, your deserted garret and your friendless brasseries! the eyes of the galician were full of big tears. as he reached the gate of the cemetery, he stopped short and stood gravely on the threshold. outside, in front of the door, two carriages faced each other, against the pavement. in the first, a private coupé with sober harness, were settled zozé, chambannes and gerald, all three. into the other--a black undertaker's carriage--young boerzell was climbing beside the raindal family. the drivers started simultaneously. the two carriages turned in opposite directions, one going back to the elegance of the right bank, the other driving again into the studious district of the left bank. schleifmann followed them both alternately with his glance. ah! if his good old cyprien had been there to see that! gradually, the carriages grew dim at the two ends of the boulevard. he could hardly distinguish their vanishing silhouettes, one massive and without reflection, like a block of black crêpe, the other smart and light under the sparkle of a new coat of varnish. schleifmann smiled with melancholy pride. the end. * * * * * typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: inquity=> iniquity {pg } salvard=> saulvard {pg } postion=> position {pg } hazzard=> hazard {pg } writen=> written {pg } zozè=> zozé {pg } boerzel=> boerzell {pg } randal=> raindal {pg } cyrien=> cyprien {pg } one to great=> one too great {pg } castastrophe=> catastrophe {pg } althought=> although {pg } abbè touronde=> abbé touronde {pg } the pony showed its pace=> the pony slowed its pace {pg } schleifman=> schleifmann {pg } (scans generously made available by the internet archive - cornell university library to tell you the truth by leonard merrick hodder & stoughton limited london contents i mademoiselle ma mÈre ii aribaud's two wives iii that villain her father iv the statue v the celebrity at home vi picq plays the hero vii a flat to spare viii a portrait of a coward ix the boom x pilar naranjo xi the girl who was tired of love xii in the year of our lord xiii a pot of pansies xiv floromond and frisonnette i mademoiselle ma mÈre she was born in chauville-le-vieux. her mother gave piano lessons at the local lycée de jeunes filles, and her father had been "professeur de violon" at the little conservatoire. music was her destiny. as a hollow-eyed, stunted child, who should have been romping in the unfrequented park, she had been doomed to hours of piano practice in the stuffy salon, where during eight months of the year a window was never opened for longer than it took to shake out the rug. her name was marie lamande. she had accepted her fate passively. if it had not been scales and exercises that made a prisoner of her, she recognised that it would have been fractions, or zoology. in france, schools actually educate, but few children have a childhood. on the first day of a term, when the wan girls reassemble, they sometimes ask one another--curious to hear what novelty the "holidays" may have yielded, amid the home work--"did you have a little promenade during the _vacances_?" because its lycée was widely known, english and american families came to stay in chauville--the english pupils discovering what it was to be taught with enthusiasm--and marie knew french girls who had been initiated into the pleasures of tea-parties. open-mouthed, she heard that the extravagant anglaise or américaine must have spent at least five or six francs on the cakes. but all the foreigners successively grew tired of inviting french children whose astonished mothers sent them trooping as often as they were asked, and, in no case, gave an invitation in return, and marie herself never had the good luck to be asked. like her parents, she had been intended for the groove of tuition, and in due course tuition became her lot. but she was a gifted pianist, and ambitious; she dreamed of glory. some years after she had been left alone, when her age was twenty-seven, she dared to escape from the melancholy town that she had grown to execrate. a slight little woman, without influence or knowledge of life, she aspired to conquer paris. she attacked it with a sum sufficient to keep her for twelve months. her arrival at once frightened and enraptured her. in chauville, at eight o'clock in the evening, a few of the shopkeepers had sat before their doorways, in the dark, a while; at nine, their crude streets were as vacant as the boulevards of the professional and independent classes, whose covert homes signified, even in the daytime, visitors will be prosecuted. behind the shutters of long avenues were over sixty thousand persons--most of them heroically hard-working--of a race that the pleasure-seeking english called "frivolous," content with no semblance of entertainment but the ill-patronised performances provided by a gloomy theatre, which was unbarred on only two days in the week. paris, spirited and sparkling, in the tourist regions, took her breath away. music called to her imperiously. she sat, squeezed among crowds, at the recitals of celebrities; and came out prayerful, to wonder: "will crowds ever applaud _me_?" but after the first few days she reduced her expenses, and her allowance for concert-going was strict. she found a lodging now in the rue honoré-chevalier, and sought engagements for soirées d'art and matinées artistiques, writing to many people who made no reply, and crossing the bridge to appeal in person to many others, who were inaccessible, or rude. among the few letters of introduction that she had brought from chauville, one served its purpose. madame herbelin, the directrice of the lycée, always kindly disposed towards her, had recommended her to an acquaintance as a teacher. thanks to this, she earned five francs each thursday by a lesson. when nine alarming weeks had slipped away she gained an interview with a fat man who had much knowledge, and who was interested in hearing himself talk. he said to her: "mademoiselle, it is a question of finances. to rise in the musical world you must give concerts, and to give concerts you must have money. also, you must have the goodwill of pupils in a position to collect an audience for you, otherwise your concerts will be a heavier loss still. further, you must have the usual paragraphs and critiques: 'triumph! triumph! what genius is possessed by this divine artist, whose enchanting gifts revolutionise paris! mademoiselle lamande is, without question, the virtuosa the most _spirituelle_, the most _troublante_ of our epoch.' these things do not cost a great deal in the paris newspapers, but, naturally, they have to be paid for." she told him: "i am a poor woman, and the only pupil that i have here is a child in montparnasse." the fat man, groaning comically, volunteered to "see what he could do." he forgot her after five minutes. practising, in the feeble lamplight of the attic, she used to wait, through the long evenings, for the postman and news that never came. "for me?" she would call over the banisters. "nothing, mademoiselle!" then, back to the hired pleyel, that barely left space for her to wash. inexorable technique, cascades of brilliance, while her heart was breaking. after she shut the piano, the dim light looked dimmer. the narrow street was silent. only, in the distance sometimes, was the jog-trot of a cab-horse and the minor jangle of its bell. her siege of paris made no progress. companionship came to her when ten months had gone. a young widow drifted to the house, and now and then, on the stairs, they met. one day they found themselves seated at the same table, in a little crémerie close by, and over their oeufs-sur-le-plat they talked. as they walked home together, the widow said: "i always leave my door open to hear you play." the answer was, "won't you come into my room instead?" madame branthonne was a gentlewoman, employed in the bernstein school of languages. she was so free-handed with her sous, so generous in the matter of brioche and chocolate, that marie thought she must be comparatively rich. but madame branthonne was not rich; and when marie knew her well it transpired that she remitted every month, out of her slender salary, for the maintenance of a baby son in amiens. "how you must miss him! how old is he?" "only eleven weeks. miss him? mon dieu! but i had to leave him, or we should both have starved; if i had brought him with me, who would have looked after him all day while i was out? besides, in this work, there is no telling how long one may remain in any city--i might be packed off to some other branch of the concern to-morrow." "really?" "oh yes; one never knows. last week one of oar professors was sent at a day's notice to russia. what a life! of course, one need not consent to go, but it is never prudent to refuse. you used to make me cry in there for my baby, when you played the piano. the poor little soul is called 'paul,' after his father; he is with a person who used to be my servant; she is married now, and has a little business, a dairy. i know she is good to him, but imagine how i suffer--in less than a year i have lost my husband and my child. alors, vrai! what an egotist i am! how go your own affairs? still no luck?" in the garden of the luxembourg on sundays, the two lonely women sauntered under the chestnut-trees and talked of their sorrows and their hopes. the hopes of the widow were centred upon the lotteries _de bienfaisance_, which had lured a louis from her time and again. she was emerging from a period of enforced discretion, and she asked: "what do you say to our buying a ticket between us?" the present lottery had neared its end; only one drawing remained, and the price of tickets was accordingly much reduced. the friends bought their microscopic chance for five francs each. the prizes that were dangled varied between a mite and a fortune; and now, in the murky lamplight of the garret, the pianist saw visions. rebuffed, intimidated, she had suddenly a prospect; chimerical as the prospect was, she might gain the means to buy a hearing for her art! for the woman seeking recognition, opportunity. for the woman divided from her child, a home. every night they spoke of it. often while the lamp burnt low, and a horse-bell jangled sadly, they laughed together in a castle-in-the-air. but those brats from the _assistance publique_, who blindly dispensed destinies at the drawing, dipped their red hands upon the wrong numbers. "as usual! i am sorry i proposed it to you. it is an imbecility to waste one's earnings in such a fashion--one might as well toss money in the seine. well, i have had enough! i have finished. i am determined never to gamble any more," cried madame branthonne, who had made the same resolve a dozen times. marie said less. but her disappointment was black; it was only now that she knew how vivid had been her hope. and in the meanwhile her little hoard had dwindled terribly, and she was seeking other pupils. "what if you get them--you will be no nearer to renown? in chauville you have a living waiting for you--why wear out shoe-leather to find bread in paris? poverty in paris is no sweeter than poverty elsewhere." "if i go back to chauville, it means the end," she answered. "i shall never have anything to look forward to there--never, to the day of my death. year after year i shall sit teaching exercises and little pieces to schoolgirls who will never play. the girls will escape, and marry, but _i_ shall sit teaching the same exercises and little pieces to their children. here, if i can hold out, if only i can hold out long enough, i may batter my way up. i want to get on--i've a right to get on. you don't suppose that no one has ever made a career who couldn't pay for it?" "no," sighed her confidante; "i don't suppose it's so bad as that--men do help one sometimes." but in her heart she felt, "you aren't the kind of woman that men do things for." and, to a stranger, even pupils at five francs an hour proved hard to find. a pianist of talent--and she couldn't earn a living in paris, even by elementary lessons. it was one of those cases which the uninitiated call "improbable," and which are happening all the time. yet it fell to madame branthonne to quit paris first. when marie lamande could no longer sleep at night, or slept only to see the desolation of chauville in her dreams, the teacher of french was required to go to one of the london branches of the school. it occurred abruptly; the news and the good-bye were almost simultaneous. a new proclamation of millions to be won, aggrandised "_par arrêté ministériel_," was blazoned across the pages of the newspapers; and, on impulse, the woman who was "determined never to gamble any more" left a louis with the other, to buy a ticket for her. "you know you can't spare it," urged marie. "i wouldn't, if i were you!" momentarily the widow hesitated; and then she gave a shrug. "oh, of course, i'm an idiot," she exclaimed. "but what else have i got to hope for? yes, get it and send it to me!" early in the journey she vacillated again. but her instructions were not revoked, because soon afterwards no more than a third of the train remained on the rails, and madame branthonne was among the victims killed. her aghast friend heard of the catastrophe twelve hours later than multitudes for whom it had no personal interest. dazed, she wondered whether the ex-servant in amiens would see the name of "branthonne" in the list of the dead, and what would become of the baby now. she had a confused notion that she ought to communicate with the woman, but she was ignorant of the address. she went hysterically to the head office of the school, where the manager undertook to make inquiries at the amiens branch. when the sickness of horror passed, her thoughts reverted to the ticket that she had been enjoined to buy; and on the way to fulfil the duty, it was as if the dead woman, as she had seen her last, with her hat and coat on, were close to her again. "what name?" inquired the clerk in the big bank. "lamande," she answered--and asked herself afterwards if it would have been more businesslike to say "branthonne." but it didn't seem to matter. the point that perplexed her was, in whose charge ought the ticket to be? it belonged to the baby now, and its possibilities extended through the year. "série no. , billet no. , ." ought she to post it confidingly to the dairy-keeper when she learnt where she lived? the question persisted, as she tramped the streets despondently--as daily she drew nearer to defeat. she had discontinued to hire a piano. everywhere she was humbled with the same reply, banished with the same gestures, maddened by the same callous unconcern. paris was brutal! she dropped in her purse the last louis that protracted hope. when this was gone, there would be left nothing but the price of her journey to chauville and despair. in the first drawing of the lottery, a few days later, the ticket won a prize of twelve thousand francs. in a crumpled copy of _le petit journal_, in the crémerie, she read of the drawing, by chance--not having remembered for what date it was announced. and she took a copy of the paper home with her--having forgotten the number of the ticket that she had bought. and when the revelation came to her, there was, blent with her thanksgiving for the child's sake, the human, bitter consciousness that, had she rashly suggested it, half the chance might have been hers. she might have stood here to-night on the threshold of success. so simple it would have been! the knowledge was a taunt. she felt that fate had robbed and derided her; she felt poor, as she had never felt poor before.... the thought floated across her mind impersonally. it brought no shock, because it did not present itself as a temptation, even the faintest; it was just as if she had been recognising what somebody in a tale might do. without purpose, without questioning why the thought fascinated her, she sat seeing how easily she could steal the money. the ticket was on the table; there was nothing to show that she hadn't any right to it--she had merely to claim the prize. there would be a fort-night's delay, at least, before she got it. well, she could eke out the sum that was put by for her fare. she imagined her sensations on the morning that she walked from the bank with notes for twelve thousand francs in her pocket. if her pocket were picked! yielding even more intently to the thought, she perceived that the proper course would be to open an account before she left.... it wouldn't be twelve thousand francs--a substantial sum would be deducted for _les droits des pauvres._ but it would be enough--the price of power! the thought leapt further. she saw herself, gorgeously gowned, on a platform--heard the very piece that she was playing, the plaudits that came thundering; she trembled in the emotion of a visionary fame. recalling her, there sounded, in the dark emptiness again, the minor jangle of a cab-horse bell. then she understood. it had been no idle supposition, the thought that mastered her. "_o divine vierge marie_!" she wailed on her knees, and knew that she wanted to be a thief. through the night, through the morrow, through every waking moment, a voice was saying to her: "you _won't_ be robbing a child; you can do for it all that she did--every month, just the same thing. long before the child is old enough to need so large a sum you will be in a position to give it to him. what will he have lost? nothing. you are terrified by the semblance of a sin; it is not a sin really. dare it, dare it, be bold!" nothing could quell the voice. it was whispering while she prayed. and the crashing of orchestras could not drown it, when she fled to music for relief. she learnt that the woman in amiens was called gaillard, and had a shop in the rue puteaux. but now she shrank from writing to her--she didn't know how she meant to act. once, in desperation, she did begin a letter, an avowal of the prize that had been drawn; but she hesitated again. there was an evening when, with steps that wavered, like a woman enfeebled by illness, she packed her things to return to chauville.... she sat wide-eyed, staring at the trunk. when she had dragged the things frantically out, she wrote to amiens, making herself responsible for the monthly payments. "all that his mother did _i_ will do!" she wrote, feeling less criminal for the phrase. and then one morning, tortured, she caught the express to the town to see that all was well. the place was small and poor; and though the baby looked well cared for, and the young woman and her husband seemed kind, the visit was horrible to her. next day she spent some of the stolen money on a baby's bonnet and pelisse. and as the quality of the gift suggested means, she received, before the date for her second remittance, a scrawl declaring that the cost of provisions had risen dreadfully, and asking for twenty francs a month more. "rÉcital donnÉ par mademoiselle marie lamande." a blue-and-white poster, with her name staring paris in the face. the time came when she saw one on a wall, and stopped, thrilling at it in the rain. a week afterwards she saw one on a wall again, and passed it with a sigh, remembering the half-empty salle, and the cheques that she had drawn. "patience, mademoiselle, patience. an artist does not arrive in a day; one must persevere." there were plenty of persons to give her encouragement now that it might be advantageous to them. but the expense of her début was a warning, and she proceeded slowly. though they made her feel very shy and cowardly, she did not succumb to the arguments of vehement people who offered "opportunities the most exceptional" at a big price, and whose attitudes of amazement implied that she must be brainless to decline. she did not waste money in bettering her abode. she did not, when she had given a recital again, continue to imagine that the prize had provided a sum abundant for her purpose. the knowledge obsessed her that she owed this money, that one day she was to repay it. for a year she told herself, "the road is harder than i thought, but i shall reach the end of it in time!" during the second year she struggled in a panic, while the money was melting, melting without result. to adventure a concert meant such wearisome, such overwhelming preparation. and within a week it was as if it had never been--she was again forgotten. but she saw a little chorus-girl, who had done something more than ordinarily immodest, launch herself into celebrity in a night. at last, when she realised that she had wrecked her peace of mind for nothing, when to cross the bridge was to eye the river longingly, she knew that she wasn't free to find oblivion like that. restitution to the child would be impossible, but it was her destiny to support him. she wrote to madame herbelin, in chauville, appealing for influence to regain the footing that she had kicked away. her bent face was wet and ugly as she detailed the story of her failure; she foresaw the greetings, tactful, but galling, of acquaintances, the half-veiled satisfaction of other music-mistresses in the town. the reply that reached her made it evident that to recover the position would be a slow process. and her means to wait were limited. hitherto the acknowledgments from amiens had varied but slightly: "the remittance had come; the baby was well," or "the baby had had some infantile ailment, and was better." now, a partially illegible letter informed her suddenly that the little business was to be given up. circumstances compelled the woman to take a situation again, and she could not keep the orphan in her care. it was explained that "mademoiselle should arrange to remove him in a month's time." already stricken, she was stupefied by this news. it seemed to her the last blow that could be dealt. what was to be done? she marvelled that she had not contemplated the contingency. she had not contemplated it--at most, she had given it a passing glance. she had questioned, agonised, whether she could manage to maintain the payments regularly; she had asked herself what lay before her when the child was older and his needs increased; she had wondered, conscience-racked, how she was to bear her life; but for this new responsibility, hurled on her when she was broken, she had been unprepared. "remove him?" to what? she wasn't remaining in paris; was she blindly to answer some advertisement before she left and leave a baby behind her here, helpless in hands that might misuse him? she shuddered. no; now that he would be at the mercy of a stranger, the place must be near enough for her to visit it--often and unexpectedly. she must find a place near chauville. but could she do it? however secretly she arranged, wasn't it sure to be known? what was she to say? it was a misfortune that she had written to madame herbelin too fully to be able to assert now that she had married. what was she to say? and who would credit what she said? hourly, the craven in her faltered that there were hundreds of honest homes in paris where he would be gently treated, where he would be as safe as he had been in amiens. and always her better self cried out: "but you'd desert him without knowing that the home you had found was one of them!" for three weeks she cowered at the crossways. she did not love the little child that she had wronged, as she bore him back with her to chauville. the journey was long, and he clung to her, whimpering, and she caressed him, white-faced and abject; but there was no love for him in her heart. the dusk, when they arrived, was welcome. she led him down the station steps, her head sunk low. in the street he cried to be carried, and she picked him up--submissive to her burden. she had had to sacrifice her reputation, or the child--and mademoiselle lamande returned to her native town with a baby in her arms. she had booked to the gare du marché, the station in the poorest quarter. a porter followed, trundling the luggage over the cobbles. in a narrow bed, under a skylight, the child and anxiety allowed her little sleep. before she could begin her search for work, it was imperative that she should find someone to shelter him, if only during the day; and in the morning she questioned a servant who was sweeping the stairs. the girl looked as if she had been picked from a dust-bin, and clothed from a rag-bag, but, compared with english girls of her class, she had brilliant intelligence. she thought it probable that the woman at the épicerie across the road might be accommodating. the woman at the épicerie was unable to arrange, but she suggested a concierge of her acquaintance "là bas." "là bas" proved to be remote. chauville had not changed. as of old, the door of the Église ste. clothilde was lost in its vast frame of funeral black; as of old, the insistent bell was dinning for the dead. the population was still concealed, except where a cortege of priests, and acolytes, and mourners wound their slow way with another coffin to the cemetery, chauville's most animated spot. as a makeshift, the concierge sufficed. to gain an interview with madame herbelin strained patience. but after the applicant had sat for a long while, with her feet on the sawdust of the salle d'attente, where an officer, and a marquise drooped resignedly, madame la directrice told her: "it is a sad pity that you left the town." marie could not remember that the busy woman said anything more valuable. there was, however, another occasion. this time the lady said: "mademoiselle, i knew you when you were a little girl, and i knew your parents, and i have regretted, more than you may suppose, that it was not in my power to offer you an appointment at the lycée, in your emergency. but i have recently heard something about you that is very grave--something that i trust is not true." "madame," said marie, trembling, "i can guess what you have heard, and it is _not_ true. only this is true--i have placed a child with a concierge in the rue lecomte and go to see it there. it is the orphan of a woman who was my friend in paris, a widow--we lived together." madame herbelin did not speak. "madame branthonne was killed in a railway accident, going to england," marie went on; "she was a teacher in the bernstein school. her baby had been left in amiens, with a woman called gaillard. a few weeks ago the woman wrote to me that she was going away, and was unable to keep the child any longer. i couldn't abandon it to the _assistance publique_." "where is she now, this madame gaillard?" inquired the directrice coldly. "i do not know," said marie. and then, recognising the lameness of the reply, she burst forth into a torrent of details to corroborate the story. her voice, more than the details, carried conviction to the listener. after a long pause she said: "mademoiselle, i believe you have done a generous thing." the thief winced. "but it was an imprudent thing, a thing that you could not afford to do. i do not speak of your intention to maintain the child--may le bon dieu aid you in the endeavour! but you did wrong to bring it to chauville. you should not expose yourself to calumny. i counsel you most earnestly to place the child somewhere else without delay." "madame, it is my duty to have him under my own eyes," she urged. "apart from me, he might be starved, beaten, corrupted--my friend's boy might be reared as an apache. how could i know? i should risk it all. it would be inhuman of me." "i think you over-estimate the dangers," sighed madame herbelin. "in fine, if you put the boy away from you, it is possible he may suffer. but if you keep him near you, it is certain _you_ will suffer. i cannot say more." "_i_ must suffer," answered marie. a permanent home for him, not far from the rue lecomte, was found at a bonneterie, whose humble little window contained communion caps, and the announcement "piqures à la machine." to have had him in her lodging would have cost her less. but this child that dishonoured her must be covert from the jeunes filles that she hoped would come there; and if she had to give lessons out, she could not leave him there alone. she did have to give lessons out. it was a descent for her here to go to the pupils' houses, but she was compelled to do it. and something bitterer--she was compelled to accept a lowered fee, and affect to be unconscious why a reduction was proposed. to obtain the services of a "belle musicienne" for a trifle, there were a few mothers who engaged her, and replied to questioning relatives that she was a "slandered woman." but to her they did not say that she was slandered, and their hard eyes were an insult. she gave a lesson twice a week for twenty francs a month now, mademoiselle marie lamande, who had advertised recitals in paris, and she went short of food, to meet the charges at the bonneterie. the boy seemed to be amply nourished, and the remembrance sustained her on the days when she was dinnerless. god! for a chance to get away, to be free of this place, where it was an ordeal to tread the streets. when she could afford to buy a postage stamp she applied for salaried work in some distant school. once it looked as if the child were not to live; and as she sat, obeying orders, through one endless night, she knew, before she fainted from exhaustion, that if he died, her own escape from chauville would be made by the same road. but he recovered--thanks partially to her--and her duty still had to be done. he recovered, and, as time passed, began to talk like other children on the doorsteps. she recalled the refinement of his mother, and the little child in a black blouse, shrilling kitchen french, avenged himself unknowingly. "as often as we ever meet, when the boy i robbed is a poor, big, common man," she thought, "every note of his voice will be a chastisement!" before she accomplished her release, she bore in chauville-le-vieux a three-years' martyrdom. madame herbelin had consented to testify to her abilities, and she went far away, to a school at ivry-st.-hilaire. she had pleaded that, in the letter of recommendation, she might be referred to as "madame" lamande, but this entreaty the directrice would not grant. "mademoiselle," she said, "i cannot do it for you; and if you are wise, there is no need. remember what i told you when you returned, and be guided by me this time. do not repeat there the blunder that you made here. leave the child where he is; you have tested the person and you know she is honest. occasionally, once a year, you can afford to come and see him. if you take him with you, you will not gain much by your removal. of course, at ivry-st.-hilaire your parentage is unknown and there is nothing to hinder you from inventing a relationship; but it isn't worth the trouble--believe me, you would be suspected just the same. make the most of this opportunity; go unencumbered--do not live your whole life in shadow for the sake of an ideal." but her conscience would not allow her to see him only once a year, nor to leave him to play on the doorstep, and attend the École communale. in view of a constant salary, she already foresaw herself alleviating his plight. she was resigned to live her life in shadow, that she might yield a little sunshine to him. so, when she had sacrificed herself again, madame la directrice thought: "she is strangely devoted to the child. i wonder if i was wrong to befriend her--perhaps she is a bad woman, after all!" she did not venture to take the boy with her, however. she was more than three months at ivry before her furtive arrangements for him were concluded. then she placed him with priests twenty miles distant from her, in the etablissement des frères eudoxie at maison-verte. small as the annual charges were, they were vast in relation to her salary. till she succeeded, by slow degrees, in obtaining a few private pupils, her self-denial was severe. but the little chap was in better hands now. and the woman had procured a respite from disdain. a tinge of colour crept back into her cheeks, and she faced the world less fearfully. by and by, when she could afford the fare, she went to the institution sometimes, on a sunday, and walked with him in the cour, and noted that gradually his speech improved. as she could afford the fare but seldom, the intervals were long. paul looked forward to her rare visits. some of the boys had visitors more frequently than he, pale women who came to walk beside them in the cour; and the boastful shout of "ma mère!" was often humiliating to paul. he had been taught to call her "mademoiselle," but one sunday, the child, in a triumphant cry, found his own name for her: "_mademoiselle ma mère est venue!_" after that, he called her always "mademoiselle ma mère"; and, divining something of the little wistful heart, mademoiselle did not reprove him. at ivry-st.-hilaire a thing strange and bewildering happened. for the first time in her life a man sought her society; for the first time in her life she was happier for talking to a man. two moments were prodigious to her--a moment after she had heard herself laughing merrily; a moment when she realised why she had just plucked out a grey hair. when they were alone together one day the man said to her: "now that i have made a practice in the town at last, i am rooted here--and ivry isn't amusing. if a woman were to marry me she would have to live here always. i tell you this because i love you." it was as if god had wrought another miracle. "i can't understand it," she whispered truly. then the man laughed and took her in his arms, and it seemed to her that she had never known what it was to be tired. when he let her go and she came back to the world, her sin was staring at her. and now the voice that decoyed her before was clamouring: "if you degrade yourself in his sight you'll lose him." her lover appeared to her no less a hero because, under his imposing presence, he was a cur, and the thing that she feared would revolt him was her dishonesty. not on that day, nor on the next, but after many resolutions to do right had melted into terrors, she forced him to listen; and it seemed to her that she was dying while she spoke. "i stole," she moaned, her face covered. "pauvrette!" he exclaimed tenderly. when she dared to look, he was smiling. the relief and gratitude in her soul were so infinite that she wanted to kneel at his feet. but when she sobbed out the story of her later struggles and told him how she was devoting her life to the child, his brow grew dark. "that, of course, would have to be changed," he said. "changed?" she stammered. "obviously, best beloved. one must consider public opinion. these journeys to maison-verte are mad; they must cease. you have not been fair to yourself; and now, more than ever, you need to reflect that----" "but," she broke in, frightened, "you don't understand. it is not a mere question of my going to maison-verte; he will not be there always--he will grow up, and his future will be my care. my responsibility goes on. oh, i know--you need not tell me--that you have thoroughly the right to refuse, but--but i have no right to alter. since i have seen that i could never hope to give back what i took, i have seen that he was my charge for life." "mon dieu!" he said, "you exaggerate quixotically. to give back what you took? remember what you have already done!" "counted in francs," she pleaded, "i have done very little. it has been difficult to do, that's all." presently, when he perceived that, on this one point, the little weak woman was inflexible, the man made a beautiful speech, declaring that she was worth more than the opinion of ivry-st.-hilaire, and of all france. he said that nothing mattered to him but their "divine love." he looked more heroic still, and his eyes were moist with the nobility of the sentiments that he was delivering. but as he sat in the principal café of the town by and by, among the stacks of swords in the corners, and the elite of the military and civil circles, clearing their throats vociferously on to the floor, he knew that a few days hence he meant to deliver a second lie about the "supplications of his family and his duty as a son." had her debt been paid, he would have held her absolved from yielding so much as another thought to the boy, and he could have afforded to pay the debt, but it did not even enter his mind to commit such a madness. yet, in his fashion, he loved her. the "chivalry" of offering marriage to a woman without a _dot_ had proved it. it would have been kinder to her not to leave her in a fool's paradise; she was to suffer more intensely because of that. "some of the facts, sufficient to explain the position, i have confided to my mother," he told her. "she is very old, and the honour of the family is very dear to her. i entreat you, in her name. the boy shall remain in this institution, or be placed in some other. they will teach him a trade. when the time comes for him to earn his living he will be no worse off than the other _gosses_ there. be guided by me. i assure you, you are morbidly sensitive. there is no reason why you should ever meet him again. my adored one, our happiness is in your hands. give the child up!" "i cannot," she repeated hopelessly. and then, all of a sudden, the imposing presence vanished and she saw the puny man--more clearly than he had ever seen himself. "it begins to be plain why you 'cannot,'" he hissed. "zut, tell your yarn about your 'theft' to somebody greener. for _me_ it's too thin!... but why should we part, ducky? the matter could be arranged." when he had demonstrated his intelligence in this way, without advantage, the man went down the garden path, out of her life--and for an hour she sat sightless, and ageing years. the birds in the garden were making a cruel noise. she felt that she had grown too old during the afternoon to bear the shrillness of the birds. when was it that she had had the arrogance to pull out a grey hair? * * * * * her love-story was over; but the drear routine continued--the thrift, the drudgery, the clandestine journeys to the boy. if, when she saw him next, he felt that she was colder to him, she did not mean to be so. never had she striven quite so wearily to be tender. it was insensibly that she ceased to recall him as a burden. had time's touches been more swift she would have marvelled at the mystery of the thing. but the weight of life was lifted very slowly, and the burden bid fair to be consoling before she realised that the load was less. as the months wore by, and term succeeded term, the boy evoked an interest in the loneliness. duty no longer took her to him--it was affection; to amuse him now was not a task--their playtime had become her single pleasure. from this child, the woman who had had no childhood, captured gleams of youth--the virgin who was for ever celibate, caught glimpses of maternity. "in the _vacances_, paul, i'll come and stay at maison-verte," she used to say, "and we'll have picnics in the park!" when the _trimestre_ was over and she studied his report, her smile was proud. once when she went, he rushed to meet her with a prize. "mademoiselle ma mère, look, look!" he halloed. and the virgin's arms were flung about him and she hugged him like a mother. as a mother she marked his progress, year by year; as a mother, mourning his barren prospects and craving to advance them, she beat her breast that she had made him penniless. it was as a mother that, by parsimonies, protracted and implacable, she garnered the means at last to better his condition. by this time her hair was all grey, and the schoolboy's voice was breaking. on the day that she was strong enough, she meant to confess to him and see his love turn to contempt. but the day when she was strong enough wouldn't come. when he was sixteen she had said: "i shall tell him in a year from now!" when he was seventeen she had wept: "god couldn't mind his loving me for a year more!" "mademoiselle," he would say--for he was a young man and had dropped the other name--"i don't know why you have been so good to me." and she would answer: "your mother and i were friends, dearest." only that. "you work too hard," he would declare, "ever so much too hard; you're always tired. you know, you weren't ambitious enough--that was your great mistake. you shouldn't have gone in for teaching; you ought to have played at concerts--you might have been no end of a swell. play something to me now, will you? what used my mother to say about your playing?" "she said once that it made her cry for her baby, paul. what do _you_ think of when i play?" but he was shy of admitting what he thought of, because he thought of noble deeds, and his ideal woman, and of the ecstasy it would be to see his name on the cover of a book--and he was doomed to be a clerk. yet when the clerk chafed in his bonds, and the conceit of authorship was too mighty to be bridled, it was to her that he first revealed a manuscript. it was she, trembling, who was his first critic. "your good women are all perfect," she told him, "and your bad women have never a good impulse. we aren't like that." but she was never too weary to talk about the tales; and when they began to wander among august journals that refused them, she used to pray, before the crucifix in her bedroom, that the hearts of editors might be moved. now she meant to confess to him before he entered on his military service. the parting was so bitter that she failed at the last moment. he went far from her. the years of his service were a much greater hardship to her than to him. during the first week she stinted her own diet to send a _bon de poste_ to ameliorate his food; but he wouldn't keep the money. in the avenues of ivry, never did she see the pitifully garbed conscripts being drilled without picturing the conscript who was dear to her, garbed like that--and closing her eyes with the pain. and when he was free to return, the meeting was so sweet that she was a coward once more. he was a clerk for a long time, but his dissatisfaction would have been longer still without her. she it was who took to the _echo d'ivry-st.-hilaire_ the article that paved his way to journalism. there was a day of sovereignty when he was offered an ill-paid post on that undistinguished paper. how victoriously he twirled his moustache! how proudly, through her spectacles, she watched him do it! oh, of course he wouldn't be content to stick for ever on the ivry _echo_, not he! he was going to write great novels just the same. incipiently the women of his stories lived now, but he was still very young. she said to him at this stage: "you put your girls in a drawing-room, but they come from a tavern." and, abashed and wondering, he saw that poor mademoiselle knew more of girlhood than a literary man had learnt. he was an artist, or he would not have seen. because he was an artist he probed his questions deep. because she loved him she did not flinch. to him she voiced truths that she had shrunk from owning to herself. thoughts that had frightened her, and thoughts that she had deemed too sacred to be uttered, she brought forth for his guidance. her innocence and her knowledge she yielded to him, her vanities and her regrets. she bared the holiest secrets of her sterile life and stripped her soul, that he might make his books of it. but always there remained the one secret that she could not tell. after he had begun to get on--when he was a journalist in paris--she had a terrible grief. she had travelled to paris to see him, and he declined to admit her. he declined to admit her because he knew what she had come to say, and, under heaven, there was nothing to him so precious as an idol that he had made out of a spiritual profile and some vices. the ivry editor had told her it was rumoured that the woman talked of marrying paul, and mademoiselle had written imploring letters to him without avail. "he must be the best judge of his own mind," he had answered, "and of the true nature of the woman he loved." then, distraught, she had made the journey, and been turned from the door with a servant's transparent he. the tumult of the modern traffic confused her--the failing little figure was jostled by the crowd. she went, deafened, through remembered gates, to a bench, and sat there, feeling stunned. the bench was in the garden of the luxembourg, where it seemed to her that in another life she had walked beside his mother. she had to save him. when her mind cleared, she thought only of that. since it was impossible to plead to paul, she must plead to the woman. she would find out where she lived; she would say in imagining herself in the presence of such a woman, she was as timorous as a child. she would say--what? the wildness of the notion overwhelmed her. suddenly she felt that she could say nothing, that she would be tongue-tied, a sight for ridicule. but she must save paul! she was two days in paris before she obtained the address; and she was no less amazing to the wanton than was the wanton to the spinster. from different worlds they marvelled at each other across a hearthrug. she said: "he is not my son, but he is as dear to me as if he were; indeed, the sons of many women are far less to them, i think, than he to me. i worked for him when he was a baby. since he has been a man, he has meant the only interest in my life; it has been a wretched failure of a life--the one hope left in it is to see him succeed. madame, his career is in your hands. i entreat you to be merciful--i beg it of you on my knees. i don't pretend to judge your feelings for him, but if you care for him really and deeply, do what you know is right for the man you love--make a memory for yourself that you'll be proud of. you're beautiful now, and young, and you don't take some things very earnestly, but one day, when you're older and memories are all you've got, a noble remembrance will be sweet. you'll say to yourself: '_i_ saved a man from ruining his future, _i_ saved a woman from breaking her heart.'" after her curiosity in the alien was exhausted, the beauty rang the bell, and said: "what kind of a fool are you to have imagined i should give up a man i liked, because a stranger asked me to? it's about the silliest idea i ever heard of." and then she herself did something sillier. she told paul what had happened, mimicking the suppliant's sorrow, and jeering at her prayer. the man read into the scene the pathos that the jeerer missed, and he saw that the woman he had idealised lacked the grace of pity. later, when success came to him, there was no domestic tragedy darkening the home behind it, and he had owed to mademoiselle a timely rent in the veil of his illusion. she was teaching at ivry still when his success came. for weeks she had known by his letters, and the papers, that his new book had made a reputation for him, but one morning she heard that it was "making him rich." the hard times were over for them both, he wrote. there was to be no more labour for her, no more loneliness; they were to live together in a little appartement in passy. she was to rest, "with flowers in the window, and her hands in her lap--he was coming to carry her away." the letter quivered as she read it, and she put it down, in fright. the secret that had smouldered while she toiled for him, while she worked to keep herself, flared menace now that he proposed to keep her. she dared not accept her comfort of his ignorance. she saw herself as a cheat who had hidden her sin, a hypocrite who had taken gratitude to which she had no claim. now he must be told. the confession that had terrorised her all her life could be escaped no longer; the day of her calvary was here. at every step in the street she shuddered, though it was not till evening that he was due. she clasped him, crying with pride and fear, when he strode in. he rattled gaily of things triumphant, things too difficult to-day for her to understand. she thanked god that it was twilight and he couldn't clearly see her face. she crept away from him and bowed her head. the young man looked forward. the old woman looked back. in the twilight her confession came at last--in the twilight, his reverent knowledge of his boundless debt. "but i have loved you," she sobbed. "at the beginning you were my punishment, but then i loved you!" "you have borne want for me, and contempt. i have taken your youth from you, and your happiness and your strength." he went to her, and knelt, and kissed the trembling hands. "how _i_ love _you_," he cried, "mademoiselle ma mère!" ii aribaud's two wives in the bois, one day, i met madame aribaud. by madame "aribaud" i mean the wife of a very popular dramatist, and i call them aribaud because it wouldn't do to mention their real name. i like meeting madame aribaud when i am in paris. it refreshes me, not only because she isn't preceded by a gust of scent, and doesn't daub her mouth clown red, like so many parisiennes, but because she is so cheerful. she diffuses cheerfulness. she sat beaming at her little son, while he scattered crumbs for the birds, and she informed me--it was in --that he was in the latest fashion, having a nurse from england to give him the real english pronunciation, though as yet he was hardly a linguist. and the nurse said, "i tell madam we must be pietient with 'im; we can't expect 'im to talk like i do hall at once." also the lady informed me that they had finished arranging their new house, and that on the morrow i must go there to déjeuner. very readily i went, and they showed me the "english nursery," and an american contrivance that she had presented to her husband for his dressing-room--"_comme ils sont pratiques, les américains_!"--and an antique or two that she had picked up for his study; and, not least, she showed us both some croquettes de pommes that looked ethereal and--i have never tasted croquettes de pommes like madame aribaud's! i always say she is the most domesticated of pretty women, and her husband the most pampered of good fellows. playgoers who know him merely by his comedies, in which married people get on together so badly up to the fourth act, might be surprised to see inside his villa. only when he and i were lounging in the study afterwards--my hostess was in the little garden, pretending to be a horse--i said to him, as the boy's shouts came up to us through the open window, "doesn't the child disturb you out there when you're busy?" my friend nodded. "sometimes," he acknowledged, "he disturbs me. what would you have? he must play, and the 'garden' is too diminutive for him to go far away in it. it makes me think of what dumas père said when he paid a visit to his son's chalet in the suburbs--'open your dining-room window and give your garden some air!' once or twice i have wondered whether i should work in a front room, instead, but to tell you the truth, i always come to the conclusion that i like the noise. believe me, a dramatist may suffer from worse drawbacks than a child's laughter." he blew smoke thoughtfully, and added, "i had a wife who was childless." now, though i knew maurice aribaud very well indeed, i had never heard that this was his second marriage, and i suppose i stared. "yes," he said again, "i had a wife who was childless." and then, with many pauses, he told me a lot that i had not suspected about his life, and though i can't pretend to remember his precise words, or the exact order in which details were forthcoming, i am going to quote him as well as i can. * * * * * "i had not two louis to knock together when i met her--and i wasn't so very young. i had been writing for the theatre for years, and had begun to despair of ever seeing anything produced. to complete my misery, i had no companionship, if one excepts books--no friend who wrote, or aspired to write, no acquaintance who did not draw his screw from a billet as humdrum as my own. i was a clerk in the magasins du louvre, and though of course the other men in the office talked about plays--in france everybody is interested in plays; in england, i hear, you are interested only in the players--none of them was so congenial that i was tempted to announce my ambitions to him. i used to think how exciting it must be to know authors and artists, even though they were obscure and out-at-elbows. every night, as i walked home and passed the windows of a bohemian café i used to look at it wistfully. i envied the fiercest disappointments of the habitues inside, for they were at least professionals of sorts; they moved on a different planet from myself. once in a blue moon i found the resolution to enter, pushing the door open timidly, like a provincial venturing into paillard's. i suppose i had a vague hope that something might happen, something that would yield confidences, perhaps a comrade for life. but i sat in the place embarrassed, with the air of an intruder, and came out feeling even lonelier than when i went in. "one windy, wet day i was at the mont-de-piété to redeem my watch. i had pawned it two or three weeks before, because i had seen a second-hand copy of a book that i wanted very much and couldn't afford at the moment. i will not inquire whether you have ever pawned anything in paris, yourself, but if you haven't, you may not know the formalities of the _dégagement_. ah, you have pawned things only in london. "well, after you have paid the principal and the interest, you are given a numbered ticket, and then you go into a large room and take your choice among uncomfortable benches, and wait your turn. it is something like cashing a cheque at the head office of the crédit lyonnais, only at the mont-de-piété the people on the benches sit waiting for the most disparate articles. on one side of you, there may be a fashionably dressed woman who rises to receive a jewel-case--and on the other, some piteous creature who clutches at a bundle. the goods and chattels descend in consignments, and when one consignment has been distributed, the interval before the next comes down threatens to be endless. the officials behind the counter converse in undertones, and you meanwhile have nothing livelier to do than listen to the rain and wonder how hard-up your neighbour may be. "that day, however, i did not chafe at the delay. there was a young girl there whose face caught and held my attention almost immediately. not only was her prettiness remarkable--her expression was astonishing. she looked happy. yes, in the gaunt room, among the damp, dismal crowd, relieving the tedium by a heavy sigh or an occasional shuffling of their shoes, this fair-haired, neat, innocent little girl looked happy. smiles hovered about her lips, and her eyes sparkled with contentment. i tried to conjecture the reason for her delight, what treasured possession she was about to regain. a trinket? no, something indefinable in her bearing forbade me to think it was a trinket. my imagination ranged over a dozen possible pledges, without finding one to harmonise with her. ridiculous as it sounds, i could picture nothing so appropriate for her to recover as a canary, which should fly, singing, to her finger. every time a number was called, curiosity made me hope that her turn had come. the latest load that had been delivered was almost exhausted. only three packages remained. another call, and she got up at last! the package was a bulky one. i craned my neck. it was a typewriter. "quite five minutes more lagged by before i got my watch, and when i crossed the courtyard i had no expectation of seeing her again; but no sooner had i passed through the gate than i discovered her in trouble. she had been trying to carry the typewriter and an open umbrella, and now the umbrella had blown inside out, and she had put the typewriter on the pavement. "in such a situation it was not difficult for me to speak. "i picked the thing up for her. she thanked me, and made another ineffectual attempt to depart. i offered my help. she demurred. i insisted. we made for her tram together--and tram after tram was full. it had been raining for several hours and paris was a lake of mud. in the end i trudged beside her through the swimming streets, carrying her typewriter all the way to the step of her lodging. so began my courtship. "she was as solitary as i; her father's death had left her quite alone. he had been old, and very poor. blind, too. but his work had been done up to the last, my little sweetheart guiding him to the houses--he had earned a living as a piano-tuner. in sèvres she had an aunt, his sister-in-law; but though the woman boasted a respectable business and was fairly well-to-do, she had come foward with nothing more substantial than advice, and the orphan had had only her typewriter to keep the wolf from the door. her struggles in paris with a typewriter! she had been forced to pawn it every time she lost a situation. but every time she saved enough to recapture it she felt prosperous again. her own machine meant 'luxuries.' with her own machine she could afford a plant to put in her attic window, and a rosebud for her breast. "she loved flowers, and she often wore them, tucked in her bodice, after the magasins du louvre closed--the lonely clerk used to hurry to meet the little typist on her way home. yet she told me once that her love for them had come very late; for years the sight of all flowers had saddened her. she had been born on that melancholy boulevard that leads to the cemetery of père la chaise, that quarter of it where one sees, exposed for